Dear Readers,
As surely all of you know, both because I've written about it and your parents--if they went to public school--almost certainly don't have a job, the American economy hasn't always been at its best lately.  In fact the economic downturn in this country has been so severe that it's even effected once untouchable corporations such as Arby's, Amtrack, Pet's Mart, and Dunder Mifflin-Scranton (which has been just terrible lately). The damage has been so devastating that only two industries have been able to emerge unscathed from the financial rubble...Porn and Booze.

Now I want elaborate on the porn aspect, because my mother raised me never to talk, write blogs or Tweet about naked ladies (or the things weird people do to themselves while looking at them), which is a rule I have stead fastly followed for the entirety of my life.  No, I am here to talk about the other economic staple of our great nation, whether the economy is booming like the roaring 1930's (hey wait a second...) or in the dumps like the great recession of the late-1990's.  I'm here to talk about booze.

And more importantly the establishments that rake in incredible profits selling us booze.  Look we all know that we can roll up to the local corner store, buy 6 40's OE for like 14 cents, go do heroin with some AIDS infested homeless dudes in the alley, bang an AIDS infested homeless prostitute (for like -4 cents) in the dumpster, and have the times of our lives.  That's a given. 

So what is it about bars that makes us want to pay $5 for a drink instead of 2.3 cents?  What is it that makes us want to use clean needles doing heroin in a bar's swanky bathroom, instead of sharing and caring about our homeless brothers in the alley?  What is it that makes us want to hit on, and get denied by, clean chicks who think that women can accomplish something instead of getting our AIDS on with a hood-rat hoe while making 4 cents in the process?

What is it about bars that makes them so god damn magical? I already know...which is why I am the one writing this blog post in the first place. That's the only way it would make sense.  I'm pretty sure.

Fast Eddie is a God Damn Speed Demon
This past Saturday I visited Fast Eddie's Bon Air in gorgeous Alton, Illinois (aka the most prosperous metropolis in the state), and while I was there I noticed something...that this bar was the greatest place in the whole, wide world. Now let me tell you what Fast Eddie's has that makes it better than every other bar despite the fact that much of what I'm gonna tell you that Fast Eddie's got are the same things that almost every other bar has. Whatever.

Drunk 50-Year-Old Sluts: Look, nothing gets the blood flowing like a pack of way too tan and way too drunk cougars who are on the prowl for an overweight 24-year-old with no source of income, an below-averaged size penis and mild acne. So you all may be asking--what makes cougars so great? Well, 1-They can't get pregnant, cause of science and everything (yeah...fuck you science), 2-They realize that they are a 50-year-old who is smashed in the middle of the afternoon so they do not even pretend to have a sense of dignity or self-worth, 3-They have more money than me, and 4-They can also afford roofies...and they aren't afraid to use them. 

Now, I don't remember interacting with any cougars on Saturday, but I know they were there...and that they were gently rubbing my cock and balls through my J-Crew chinos. I woke up with a couple of fake nails stuck in my fly doesn't take the detectives from CSI: Des Moines to prove that last point.

29 Cent Shrimp: Look, everyone knows that fresh seafood is probably the greatest food in the entire world. It's better than peanut butter.  It's better than raccoon meat. It's better than anything than Tyrone Biggums has even eaten. It's not better than fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cake, pudding, Jello, butter, Ramen noodles, turtle or dove. Wait...what?

And what better place to get fresh scrimp than in Alton, Illinois, which just happens to sit on the banks of the cleaniest stretch of freshwater north of Peru?  A sewer maybe?  But no one is selling fresh sewer scrimp for 29 cents a pop...I can promise you that.

Sports: It's common knowledge that bars are a great place to watch sports. That's why Buffalo Wild Wings corporate slogan is: Beer, Sports, and thousands of pounds of honored Native-American bison wings literally cut off of thousands of honored Native-American bison. Wait, you say that Buffalo wings don't actually come from a buffalo? I'm calling bullshit on that one.

And there may not be a better place to watch sports than Fast Eddies.  There are TVs. There are hundreds of drunken fans.  There are 6-year-old college basketball geniuses who fully understand the stylistic difference between "run and gun" and "bangin in the paint" (see youtube video below). In fact Fast Eddies was Rasheed Wallace's favorite place to scarf down Mississippi River shrimp when he was high as shit. It's also the place where Ryan Braun got herpes. I'm about 94% sure on that last part.

You Don't Have to Be Politically Correct: What you say you like to yell racist and offensive things at the top of your lungs for the all world to hear? Then Fast Eddies is your place. How do I know this? Well first my friend Ted called some chick a "c-word" and everyone laughed at her...which was deserved in my book. That chick was acting exactly like what she was called so...why should anyone be offended.

Then some small, Asian man sitting in a school desk and yelled that I was gayyyy at the top of his lungs (not that there's anything wrong with that). Once again everyone laughed.  Once again no one was offended...cause everyone knew it was true. Wait, I wasn't true? Shit...I really need to quit drinking a case Busch Lights before I write this thing.

The Bathroom Here is Nuts: I think that's pretty self explanitory. It is where Ryan Braun got those herpes after all...

Patrick Swayze is the Bouncer: True story, and perhaps the greatest aspect of any bar in history. I personally saw Patrick Swayze do this to someone. Wait...Patrick Swayze killed a guy? He should probably lay low for a while.

Hold the phone...I thought Patrick Swayze was dead? Naw bro, anyone who has ever seen Ghost knows...that Patrick Swayze can never really die. Duh.

Yeah Patrick Swayze really is dead so...everything I just wrote is kind of f'ed up.  RIP dude. You're my hero.

This post is garbage.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since March 23 is +288 (242-inbox, 213-sent, 17 from females) so...I am still a P-I-M-P on my smart phone dogg. Also I am up to 249 Twitter followers so...hey-yo. Let's get it.

I also have a couple of big ups to extend in this edition of the blog.  First to Chuck, Katie, Teddy, Ted, Will and a bunch of other people for going to Fast Eddie's with are the kind of guys dreams are made of.  Second to Ace...bless your heart for showing me this week's youtube vid. You are a gentleman and have a genourously sized weiner (hear that chias?).  And finally to two of more most loyal fans, JJ and Danny Boy, your constant support keeps me afloat in these trying cultural times. I owe you $69 of compensation (with interest) which I plan to pay off by December 15, 2081.

Back next week with something probably just as mediocre and uninspired. Yay six-year-olds!

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"

Dear Readers,
As all of you St. Patty's Day 2012 has already come and gone.  That's right, the holiday which commenorates St. Patrick's fictional banishment of the fictional snakes that were terrorizing very real and very poor Irish people is now in all of our rearview mirrors.  St. Patrick the man is dead, as is St. Patrick the holiday. Well, at least for the next 360 days or so.

And I for one am devastated. Now the Sack is not now, nor ever has been, Irish.  My grandparent's weren't detained at Ellis Island for having lice.  My home nation's livlihood is not completely wiped out when Lays decides to buy 7 less potatoes this fiscal year than they did in 1902.  I do not have one single relative who serves on the Boston Police Force.

However, there is one characteristic which I proudly share with my Irish brethern. And no, it's not an undying love for the color Green (they say that geniuses pick green. If that's true then I can tell you one thing...Irish people didn't pick their own color). You see both me and my Irish homeys truly love one thing, and one thing only...alcohol.

So inventing a fictional holiday about a person who did fiction things just so you can have an excuse to black out, urinate in public, and throw empty Jameson bottles at homeless people?  That's right up my alley. 

So way to go Irish people, I salute you.  You may not be smart...but through your stupidity you've convinced everyone else not to be smart either.  Even if it's just on March 17th.

Was this racist? Naw, Irish people are technically white so...not making fun of them would have been racist. Yeah...that makes sense.

Sack Gets a Little Irish In Him
So what happened on the one day in 2012 where Irish people and my own passion most intimately come together?  Well let's take a look at my March 17th.  And remember any references to drunkeness, drug abuse, sexual activity, human trafficiking, tooth brush shanking people in a Joilet prison, and me ever speaking to women have been greatly exaggerated.  Or something like that...

Saturday, March 17th
7:52 A.M.-I wake up and laying in my bed with me is my good buddy Jimbo...who just happens to be wearing only his tighty whities.  I just happen to have a erection.  I reach over, and just happen to feel my snerk sauce (aka the lube I use for uh, doing stuff to myself) laying in the bed between us.  My butthole just happens to feel like it had about 47% of a Subway footlong tuna sub shoved in it repeatedly.  Do you guys get the subtle hints I am making towards homosexual sex acts (not that there's anything wrong with that) here yet? No?

8:13 A.M.-Jimbo pours his first drink, which consists of Jameson, Ginger-Ale and five 5 hour energys.  Jim's now got 25 hours hours of energy. By 9:13 A.M. tomorrow his heart will burst and he will end up like that giant bug man in the original Men In Black. Hey there are worse ways to go out than swallowing Tommy Lee Jones and having him plant an explosive inside your vital organs I always say...

8:29 A.M.-We've been to McDonald's breakfast. I've eaten a steak, egg & cheese bagel, 2 breakfast burriots, 6 hash browns, copious amounts of sausage biscuits, and a Lilo & Stitch toy outta some little douchy kid's happy meal. So let's just say...that my heart is a lot closer to exploding then Jimmy's is.

8:33 A.M.-My friend D-Boi has arrived, and yes...he is a ginger. If I had a gun with 2 bullets and I was in a room with any ginger, Osama Bin Laden and Hitler...I'd shoot the ginger twice. Osama and Hitler are already dead I'm pretty sure so...

8:49 A.M.-We are already a couple Jameson drinks deep when my friend Ace shows up on his killer bike (it's a Schwin I think).  He quickly shows us our new secret handshake which includes several high-fives, black flips, exposed genitals, some sort of Asian style dildo and a prostitute's vagina (probably the one John Edwards bangs every other Wednesday).  Hey smell my finger...through the computer. It's pretty rank huh?

8:50 A.M.-Watching the new Footloose. Hey...there are no black people in Footloose.

8:55-11 A.M.-I was drankin...but I wasn't mf'in driving. Everyone knows that everything besides driving is completely legal if you are drunk.  Anybody got any heroin or a pirated video of Game of Thrones?

11:02 A.M.-My "friend" Tyler shows up. Kid is about as cool as a kid that you hate and aren't afraid to say it to his face. Kinda like a less famous version of someone famous that no one likes and makes fun of to his face. Who am I thinking of? Joey Fatone maybe?

11:09 A.M.-Me, Corey, Jimbo, D-Boi, and Seal get in a van cab which takes us north to wrigley. Everyone in the car is openly drinking Jameson. At one point we open both of the sliding doors in the van and are yelling out at people on the street.  I spit tobacco juice out the window and it lands on some clown who is JOGGING without chugging liquor or wearing green on St. Patrick's Day. He deserved it in my book...aka the bible and/or Tim Tebow's autobiography.

11:59 A.M.-We're at Mullen's bar where me, Jimbo and Corey have been playing a virascious game of Golden Tee. We're tied, and I'm on the 18th fairway. Do I lay up? No. I go for the green...and hit it in the water. Then I do it again, and again, and again, and again. Someday I'll be a hero, cause no one remembers major champions...they remember qualifiers who lose them like idiots cause they are dumb as a rock. Hey wait a second...

12:00 P.M.-The game tells me that I've reached my stroke limit before I ever make the green. Hold on...this isn't how it happened in the movie. Kevin son of a bitch.

12:55 P.M.-I get my bar tab and it's something like $155. Do I have the money? No. But I do have an undershirt worn by screen legend Anthony Quinn.  I am not sure who that is so...I run away without paying.

1:33 P.M.-By now we've gotten to Kirkwood and I walk up to the bar to get a drink. As I order I notice a yet-to-be-served plate of food sitting in front of me. So I do what any good American citizen would...I shove tater tots into any and every crevice of my body.

1:38 P.M.-Some lady walks up to the bar to complain cause she hasn't gotten her tater tots yet. I fart...and a tater tot pops out right into her mouth. Wow...that was pretty f'in gross.

2:34 P.M.-I walk out into the alley to take a piss. Next thing I know I was rubbing white powder into my gums with some homeless guy so I don't get addicted to the ridiculous amounts of it that I am also snorting. Turns out it was baking I obviously shoot the homeless man for lying to me.  Hey this is a society...and rules are rules.

3:38 P.M.-We are back at my apartment and one of my neighbors on the ground floor of my building is hosting a bachelorette party. So what do we do? Throw glass bottles down at them from my 3rd floor balcony. Uncalled for? Maybe. Possibly deadly? No doubt. But hey, nothing spices up a bachelorette party like being bombarded with shards of glass you guys.

4:12 P.M.-I walk downstairs to try and make piece with the bachelorette party.  Next thing I know I am being mobbed by 22 pretty unattractive chicks in their mid-to-upper 30's. It's pretty sexual and violent. By this point I am really starting to miss Jimbo and our boner, lube sleepy time.

4:27 P.M.-I look up at our balcony where Jimbo is standing in his tighty whities, his package gently kissed by the fading sun. A Christ like figure glistening in the twilight, exposing the entirety of himself to his admirers below.  A man ready to lead. A group of bachelorettes ready to follow. A penis and 2 balls jammed into stitched white cotton...ready for their time in sun.  A moment, and a set of genitals, perfectly captured and frozen in time forever...

And people say that I can't write beautiful prose about cocks and balls.

7:03 P.M.-By this time my apartment has become a revolving door, tons of people coming and going. Noah, Ream, Jeff, Emily, Hort...some homeless guy trying to sell me baking soda with a bloody bullet wound. What happened?  Who banged who?  Why does my finger still smell weird?  You tell me?

7:45 P.M.-Jimbo, Ream, Ace and I have started a game where Jimmy flips his athletic sandals off his feet and sends them flying towards your ballsack at warp speed.  It's a lot of fun. Approved for ages 9-84.

8:12 P.M.-I walk into the living room where I see Jimbo squating, his ass, cock and balls sticking out of the window. Ace is holding his handing, rubbing his head and saying "Let it out Jimmer...let it out." I look outside and see two fairly large brown projectiles falling from the sky and smashing into a pile of mush on the concrete below. That's right ladies and gents...Jimbo took a shit out of the window in my 3rd story apartment. That's just how we roll.

8:42 P.M.-We are outside and started playing a game where we stand on the four corners of an intersection and play catch with a handle of whiskey. If you catch the whiskey take a pull.  If you drop the whiskey, pour it in your pants. Approved for ages 6-139.

8:46 P.M.-Jimbo flips his athletic sandal into the air. It lands on a girls face.  Like Jan Brady, her nose is devastated...and she will never be as pretty as her sister. Oh wait that happened to Marcia? Oh well...she'll still always be hotter than Jan. Not sure this chick can say the same.

9:31 P.M.-Ace's cock has turned bright red due to its repeated athletic sandal attacks. I'm aroused. Wait...what?

9:38 P.M.-Jimbo nails some chick in the ass with his sandal.  This chick, cause she hates fun and has a brain that uses, uh--female logic--can't understand that we are playing a game and gets very offended.  She grabs the sandal and starts spanking Jimbo. Hey lay off lady...that's is my butt.

10:12 P.M.-Somehow me, Jimbo, Ace and Ream end up walking somewhere in Wrigley when Ream decides to chase some guy on a bicycle. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that it was Dupree you know...from the hit film You, Me and Dupree.

10:15 P.M.-Dupree has come back down the street and gotten in Ream's face. Ream, as any logical 5'2", 128 lbs. Mexican would, decides that fighting is his best option.  Next thing I know these guys are wrestling in some dude's front yard. If only I had some KY jelly and a referee's shirt.

10:16 P.M.-Some guy comes out on his porch and tells us his alarm is gonna go off if we don't stop, xo Jimbo grabs Dupree...and chokes that mother f'er out. Literally like the guy can't breathe.  His face is turning purple. But Jimbo won't let go, instead constantly asking the guy if "he's done." Hey can't be too safe when you are choking out an Owen Wilson character on some dude's front yard while his alarm is sounding. That's the first lesson every child learns. I think it's on Sesame Street or Barney or Downtown Abbey or some shit.

11:02 P.M.-We're walking down Clark Street, and there's apparently been some type of horrible accident.  The streets are blocked off.  People are openly having sex and sticking other people with AIDS infested heroin needles.  Some dude slit a guy's throat and drank his blood. 

11:03 P.M.-Turns out they were actually just shooting the new film Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. I'm gonna be in da movies bitch!!!

11:26 P.M.-Ace, Jimbo and I are riding in a cab and once again yelling out to the people in the streets.  At one point a hot chick walks by and Jimbo yells "Hey you're the movie" as the cab speeds off. I've never seen someone so offended in my entire life.

11:56 P.M.-We are struck at a stop light when we see the hot chick sprinting towards the cab and yelling that she is gonna murder Jimbo at the top of her lungs. She came out of now where...and must ran like 20 miles.

Sunday, March 18th
1:02 A.M.-We've been drankin at Kincades for a while when Jimmy sees a guy walking around with a WCW Championship belt. Turns out this guy has no job and no money, but still manage to scrounge up the $600 necessary to buy this authentic belt by suckin' dicks and selling encyclopedias (the two lowest jobs in the world).  That's that's being a true American like my boy...HACKSAW JIM DUGGAN

1:19 A.M.-Someone tweets me, saying that I look like a dracula (see youtube video below). Wait like a cartoon Dracula? Is it my teeth? Or my hairline? It's my hairline? Got it. Thank you.

9:13 A.M.-Jimbo's 25 hours are up. His heart explodes. Now I need to get to work on recreating the plot of Men In Black 3 (skippin MIB 2 for obvious reasons) in real life. Only got 364 days to make it happen...

Text Updates and Big Ups
My text message score since March 9th is a staggering +672 (540-inbox, 467-sent, 55 from females), which represents the most chicks I've sent dick pics too who still text me back in the history of my life. Also my Twitter popularity score has slightly increased to 246 followers so...looks like I am taking over the social media world one penis pic at a time.

The only big ups I have to extend in this edition of the blog go to Corey, Ace, D-Boi, Seal, Ream, Hort, Jeff, Noah and of course Jimbo for helping me get into all of the exciting escapades I detailed above. The rest of you...pick yo' games up if you want a mention.  No one does though so...

Back next week with a look at something slightly less offensive to Irish people (but still offensive enough).

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"

Dear Readers,
As approximately half of you (giving myself way more women readership than I have in reality) strippers are the economic/sexual lifeline for every red-blooded/red-meat-consuming American male. And how do you know this? Well 1-It's a time as old as time and 2-I already told you, using Harry Potter characters of course to illustrate my point. That should be all the GD proof you need that strippers matter to guys everywhere way more than wives, girlfriends, mothers, boyfriends (not that there's anything wrong with that) or Many Moore style teenagers who are dying from cancer and need to shotgun a wedding so they bang while still having Christ love them before they die. By now, that's simply a stone, cold fact that cannot be argued against.  So sorry to all ladies out there who currently have their clothes on.

But, how do American males reach this comfort level with naked females dancing on a pole?  How do they end up forsaking all their morals and virtues and the women who love them for a topless lady bouncing her breasteses in their face while dancing to "Cherry Pie?" How do they come to the conclusion that they can only find love by tossing dollar bills on a herpes infested stage?

Well the answer ladies and gentleman certainly isn't as easy as the question. Maybe it's an innate trait embedded into man's DNA, like a love for Tim Allen or the inability to remove their Internet porn from their online history.  Or, maybe it's learned behavior, like learning how to poop in the toilet instead of your pullups or that being sober is much lamerer than--not being sober. 

However, whatever the reason, we all know that there comes a point and time where every boy learns that being a man isn't about learning to take responsibility for your actions or treat others not too shittily or even having a son of your own one day and making sure that he likes sports (and doesn't care who knows).  No, being a man is about one thing and one thing only.

Titties in your face. And that my friends is clearly a stone, cold fact.  A fact that cannot be argued against...unless you hate America or something.  And you don't want to buy that guy do you?  I didn't think so...

The Titty Bar Life Cycle
By now I've gone so far into my life cycle series that I am not sure where I am or what I am writing about, so...what else is new right? Anyways I do know that this edition of the series is focusing on strippers so...let's just take a look at what I am going to write about strippers shall we? Yeah, I probably lost y'all by this point so...I am going to keep using words like "y'all" to see if anyone notices.

Stage 1: Conception-Look it's no secret that every great man is exposed to a strip club while they are a fetus. Whether your mom herself is a stripper (preferable) or a patron, you first strip club experience will actually occur while she is pregnant with you. No OBGYN would be doing his job correctly if he didn't make sure of this because 1-Glitter is suprisingly very healthy and 2-Fetus' that are exposed to high levels of STD radiation, which are found primarily in strip clubs, state universities and public high schools, actually become immune to gential warts. Just ask Heathcliff Huxtable.

Stage 2: Poppin Dat Cherry-There's a first time for everything, and during that first are going to cum pretty quick. Truer words have never been typed in a sub-par, humor-based Internet blog. Whether it's masturbating, hand jobs, blow jobs, foot jobs, sex, anal, shaking hands with a hot milf, or watching Showtime after 10 P.M...this axiom always holds true. Trust me, I know.

And it certainly applies to strip clubs visits and lap dances. Now, if you are lucky your father will take you to the titty bar and buying you more than a few Jim Beams by the time you outgrow dressing up as Sponge Bob Square Pants for Cinco de Mayo. However if your parents believe in God, then you may have to wait until after the government says it's OK to buy a ticket to a Rated R movie without parental supervision. Either way that cherry needs to be popped. And you won't need to buy a dance to "Free Bird" to make that happen...if you know what I'm saying. I hope that reference is still culturally relevant...even though I am not old enough to get it myself.

Stage 3: Subject of a T-Pain Song-When you are a young, hot shot who is comparing strippers to the chicks at your high are going to fall in them with them. It's going to happen.  I mean why do you think George Washington didn't marry Martha until he was like 20 or something?

But don't worry kids.  Just like the wooden-teethed father of our country showed us...chopping down cherry trees is pretty fun. Oh yeah...and stripper love will pass. You just need to remember that 1-Being a man is about having no feelings or emotions (unless you are watching Brian's Song or Marley and Me). Going to the strip club is strictly business just like raising a family, and 2-They work in customer service, so it's a stripper's job to make you think that they like you.  They don't. They just want money...which is the god damn American way.

Stage 4: Makin' It Rain-Everybody knows that money makes the world go round. So, if you want respect in this world, you either got to make a bunch of it or make everyone else think that you do.  And, as far as I know, there are only five ways to show the world how rich you are. 1-Buy an MLS or WNBA team, just cause you can. 2-Drive a German car that isn't a Jetta. 3-Wear suits with stripes on them. 4-Yell at people on your cell phone a lot to make it seem like they are beneath you, and 5-Walk into a strip club and toss around $1 bills like they grow on trees.

So the second cheapest way to show the world how rich and successful you are? Spending $40 at a strip club. Yeah WNBA teams sell for like $35, but then you'll probably end up owning the Charlotte Sting or something so...I'm gonna stick with the makin' it rain option.  And I'm assuming you will too.

Stage 5: Corrupt Downfall-All great men fall from grace at some point and time. Donald Trump. Richard Nixon. That little kid from Different Strokes. Lindsay Lohan. It's pretty much inevitable that if you reach the top of the summit in life, then you are going to get drunk at a strip club and fall off.  It's just human nature.

So prepare yourself. After all if Burt Reynolds can rise from being a successful porno director, to a stripper addicted Congressman, before getting killed by Ving Rhames...then it can happen to anybody. Well not the porno director thing, but you get what I am saying.  You're going to fall off the horse.  It's going to happen at a strip club.  And there's not a damn thing you can do about...besides enjoying the ride as much as you can before it all comes crashing down.

Stage 6: Homeless Guy Sneaking In for the Breakfast Buffet-Everybody who's anybody knows that strip clubs has the best breakfast buffets in the world.  Bacon.  Sausage.  Ham.  All served to you in the cleaninest, healthiest environment for eating pork products this side of the slaughterhouse. It just doesn't get any better than that.

However, we also live in a capitalist society which means that this orgasmic mix of pork and female nudity comes with a price...about $12.95 depending on your local market. Unfortunately this also means that once you suffer your strip club downfall and end up paying other homeless women half eaten cans of corn to undress in the nearest dumpster just to get your fix, that you'll be unable to afford to eat, or watch strippers, or to eat and watch strippers.  That being said this is still America so, where there's a will--there's a way. You're just gonna have to Creep, Creep in order to find it.  But don't worry as a homeless guy who enjoys the breakfast buffet at "The Naked Girl Barn" (and is literally a barn) in Joliet, Illinois every Tuesday I am living proof...that anything is possible. You just can't lose hope.  Don't ever lose hope.

Stage 7: Stripper Hospice-Which brings me to the end. By this point you'll be an old, broken down man (probably around 45 or so) who will need machines just to eat or breathe. You will defecate in your trousers without knowing it.  Seeing the Wednesday afternoon shift at the strip club will no longer cause you to scrub you're eyes with softsoap.  Basically, by this point you'll be ready.  Ready to see the light (or probably eternal fire) that will be waiting for you in the after life.

And also by this point, your primary goal will be to become as comfortable as possible.  For most people this means spending your 40's paying a nurse to move into your house and take care of you. For us enlightened few it will mean moving into the strip club and paying a nurse (or really a stripper dressed like a nurse) to take care of us while our eyes soak in all the glory that we have taken for granted for all these years. Croaking in the middle of the lap dance, while previously giving the stripper distinct instructions to finish the song even if she ends up riding a dead guy? Now that's what I call going out with a bang.

I wish I could say this isn't how I saw it ending for me, but in a lot of's exactly how I drew it up.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since March 1st is +402 (230-inbox, 177-sent, 29 from females) which really shows and represents my ever growin' swag. I loves dem ladies...and they be textin me too. My Twitter popularity score is also holding kinda steady at 237 followers least I ain't movin backwards.

I don't really have any big ups to extend in this edition of the blog, except to say to my homies Hort, Fieck, Matty and Ace...thanks for inspiring me in the nude bar in Indiana. You guys did it!

Back next week with something more female appropriate.  But, before anyone calls me sexist, watch the video below...and know that I just wanna do something special--for all the ladies in the world.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"

Dear Readers,
As all of you should have known, a beautiful mix of God, Science and good old fashioned semi-logical calender adjustment has just given each and every one of us an extra chance to live, learn and accomplish something meaningful.  A chance, maybe, to do something we've never done before.  To experience something new.  To live like a God damn champion.

I am of course talking about Leap Day and that beautiful extra 24 hours we get every 4 years to remind us all that we are alive--that our dreams really can come true.  Because that extra day, that additional opportunity to see the sun come up and then set so awesomely that it rocks our socks off, is the kind of rare occasion that should almost force us all to celebrate our lives.  To seize the mother f'in day.  To party like your Shia LaBeouf and you just saved the world from super scientifically advanced robots, who surprisingly still have a heart, and get to go home and bang a British, Victoria Secret model who is just slightly worse at acting than Tara Reid.

And that's the real beauty of Leap Day...nothing counts.  It's like a trip to Vegas on steroids.  So you wanna pound Jim Beam and squirt until you end up puking all over a cab's interior and still ask the chick in there with you if she wants to bang?  Go for it.  You wanna Ric Flair chop a little kid in a McDonald's play pen because you don't like the way his smog little face is eyeing you?  No problem.  You end up having sex dreams about another man, even though that always subconsciously means that you are attracted to penises and want to leave your wife and kids to go live in a San Francisco train station (not that there's anything wrong with that)?  Well, it doesn't mean that on Leap Day. 

Look, sometimes a gay sex dream is just a gay sex dream.  And it just so happens that each and every one of those times happens to fall on a certain extra February day every 4 years.

Because that's Leap Day mother f'ers.  So save your gayest sex dreams for Februrary 29th, then release...and just hope that you get them all out of your system by midnight (unless you don't want to...not that there's anything wrong with that).

Leap Day Bucket List
Yes, as I kinda told you above, the Sack may have spent this leap day getting hammered drunk on Americaritas (Jim Beam and Squirt sucka), pukin all over chicks in cabs (that actually wasn't me but I heard about someone I was with doing it counts), and convincing a bunch of college seniors that I was an Investment Banker who could give them all jobs even though I was wearing a pair of corduroys with 9 holes in them while being blacked out drunk at 2 A.M. on a Wednesday night.  So...that was pretty awesome.  Now, you are all probably asking, "Hey can you top that."  Well let me tell you.

Figuring that I have approximately 20 years left on Earth before I 1-die of a massive heart attack after eating 26 Steak, Egg & Cheese bagels from McDonald's in one sitting, 2-Am murdered by a pack of rats while sleeping in their dumpster, or 3-Get stabbed in a prison shower after one of my fellow minority inmates reads this blog, that means that I have approximately 5 leap days left to do whatever the hell I want without it counting.  Let's take a look at some early sketches of my future leap day plans.

Feb 29, 2016: "Hookers & AIDS...& Hookers With AIDS"-Next leap day is gonna be sick yo'.  Look we all know that the Sack is a virgin who has never, ever touched/looked at/talked to a woman before on my life...and I am damn proud of it.  If Tim Tebow can go on dinner dates with Taylor Swift without getting play...than I sure as hell can too.  Well not go on dates with Taylor Swift, I don't think anyway, get what I'm saying.  I'm as clean and pure and virtuous as they come, and since that's really the only thing going for me...I will forever refuse to give that up.

But, as I've said 9 or 67 times already, nothing that happens on Leap Day counts.  So, if I really want to experience something new and original...I am going to have to buy a hooker.  And not just any hooker either.  The dirtiest, weirdest looking, most disgusting, HIV positive piece of poon that I can find at the soup kitchen.  Why you ask?  Well 1-she is the cheapest, and although nothing you do on Leap Day counts, you are curiously not refunded for all the money you spend come March 1st, and 2-She already has AIDS know she'll do the most stuff.  And since Feb 29th provides every non HIV+ person a Magic Johnson like immunity to AIDS...what do I have to lose?  Nothing.  What do I have to gain?  Well...a gentleman never kisses and tells.  But sex.  I can gain sex.  Jackpot.

Feb 29, 2020:  "Black Tar Heroin"-Like sex, drug abuse is another thing that Sack has never experiment with.  I was brought up never to drink alcohol (not even rum raisin ice cream), although every now and then I do enjoy a few shots...of wheat grass.  Haha, oh that David Spade kills me.  But, seriously I have never tried drugs because I am a decent, American who pays almost no taxes and believes in law and order...and I ain't talking about the TV show (although I do believe in that to...but I digress).

But if hit Mark Wahlberg films like The Basketball Diaries and Boogie Nights have taught me one thing, it's that doing drugs looks like a lot of fun (Oh, and that people will pay to watch you jerk off. How do I get that job?).  And Leap Day provides me with the perfect opportunity to find out for myself.  And I am going for the most beast drug of them all...because the Sack ain't no bitch.  Besides it's Leap Day's not like I can get addicted to it anyways.  Drug Problems are for March 1st.

Feb 29, 2024: "Getting Shot Out of a Cannon"-Do you ever wonder why it is that only midgets get shot out of cannons?  I mean what if only black actors or women or Jeremy Lin was getting shot out of cannons, while full grown white dudes were just sitting there and laughing their nuts off?  Yeah sure, if any of those things were happening I'd buy a ticket and probably some popcorn and watch it all day long. But, does that make it right?

No, in fact it probably makes it slightly racist. Which is why, in my never ending quest to end racism in every way shape and form in our society, I propose that I will be shot out of a cannon on Leap Day 2024.  Why am I waiting so long?  Well first I am giving technology time to allow for the invention of a cannon that can shoot a 6'5", 420 lbs. male (my projected 2024 weight until this stunt gets me so famous that I appear on the Biggest Loser Season 30).  Second I am giving the History Channel roughly 12 years to promote this event as a lead into to the premier of season 38 of Ultimate Jousting...middle school kids edition.  Should be a digital cable ratings banaza there son!!

Feb 29, 2028: "Swimming with Jaws"-By this point I will be 40 years old and hopefully overcoming my crushing alcoholism/black tar heroin addiction (Oh wait I am only doing that on Leap Day so...scratch that) enough to be able to adopt a few of Brad Pitt and Angelina Joelie's grand kids.  And nothing is more family friendly than taking small children into the Ocean to swim with dolphins and sting rays and stuff right?

Wrong.  As all of you know I learn all of my life lessons by making very astute observations/assumptions based upon fictional characters and their behavior in fictional movies/TV shows.  And one assumption I have made through films like Jaws and Deep Blue Sea is that sharks are way cooler and more family friendly than their other sea creature counterparts.  Besides I'm not Sam Jackson so...I've pretty sure the sharks won't bother me.  And if they do, it's Leap Day so...I can't die anyways.  Nothing counts remember?

Feb 29, 2032: "Prius Soup Kitchen"-By this point I will almost certainly be back on the sauce/black tar heroin sauce so...I will definitely be homeless again.  And what's the coolest thing to do if you are homeless?  Meet up with Dirty Mike and the boys in a detective's Prius and have a gigantic orgy while a mama racoon gives birth on the floor.  And with everyone's built in Leap Day AIDS immunity...this is a god damn given.  Duh.

By the way do you know what it's called when a bunch of homeless people have an orgy in a Prius?  We call it a Soup Kitchen.  And it's even more awesome than it sounds...from what I hear.  I won't know for about 16 more years...or something like that.

So there you have it ladies and Leap Day bucket list.  Maybe I'll try that Soup Kitchen thing out tonight.  Not for my own pleasure or anything, just cause, you know...for research and stuff.  So...who has a Prius I could have access too?  Anybody?  Anybody?  Bueller?

Text Updates and Big Ups
My text messaging popularity score since February 24th is an incredible +234 (189-inbox, 145-sent, 1 from a female) and yes once again that female was my mom so...clearly that whole never touching/talking to chicks thing was 100% accurate.  Also my Twitter popularity score has seen a slight uptick to 237 followers so...thanks robots for making me more popular on the internet machine.

I also have a couple of big ups to extend in this edition of the blog.  First, to every girl who I have ever come in contact with...thanks for not texting me and therefore allowing me to prove my sexual innocence/purity.  Also to my the random Toronto Bluejays player in the youtube video below...thanks for making me laugh and helping me forget about our brewing tension with Canada for a second. War may be coming soon, but for now at least we can all laugh at you...and hopefully not with you ever.  Finally to my boy JJ Leonard thanks for your continuing text message support.  You are a true scholar...and kind of a gentleman.

Back next week with, dare I say, a third trip to the Chicago Suburbs?  Only time will tell.  But God...I hope not.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"