As all of you unquestionably know—both because you have read everything I’ve ever written and because you’ve attempted to murder yourself while reading everything I’ve written due to your realization that you have devoted so much time to digesting and comprehending my rather shallow and fairly obvious life observations that you’ve therefore been force to neglect your family, your health, your dog, and anything or anyone that has ever loved you—I tend to write really, really, really, ridiculous long blog posts that are, at their very core, about absolutely nothing of value or consequence whatsoever. Yeah, I admit it: I write super lengthy and pedantic posts. And, no matter what you may think of my writing mannerisms or style, I am not apologizing for it.
Dear Readers,
As all of you unquestionably know—both because you have read everything I’ve ever written and because you’ve attempted to murder yourself while reading everything I’ve written due to your realization that you have devoted so much time to digesting and comprehending my rather shallow and fairly obvious life observations that you’ve therefore been force to neglect your family, your health, your dog, and anything or anyone that has ever loved you—I tend to write really, really, really, ridiculous long blog posts that are, at their very core, about absolutely nothing of value or consequence whatsoever. Yeah, I admit it: I write super lengthy and pedantic posts. And, no matter what you may think of my writing mannerisms or style, I am not apologizing for it.
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Dear Readers,
As all of us should know—both because all 7 of you are the exact same age as me, meaning that you share a birthday with luminaries such as Harry Potter and Wesley Snipes, and because you all have the exact same amount of money as I do, meaning that your credit card was once declined at a TGI Fridays while you were trying to buy a woman a Pink Punk Cosmo and you, rightfully, gave up ever attempting to speak to another human being in public ever again—the rapper 50 Cent is one baller ace M’F’er. That’s why you can find him in the club with a bottle full of bub. That’s why he made a trillion dollars off of Vitamin Water even though no one, to my knowledge, has made the decision to physically purchase a bottle of Vitamin Water ever. That’s why 50 Cent’s body is legitimately 100% muscle even though he eats nothing but donuts and freshly churned cow butter. 50 Cent’s digestive system turns jelly donuts and butter into Muscle Milk. 50 Cent is, functionally speaking, the perfect human being. Dear Readers,
As all of you assuredly know—more than likely due to the fact that I share every thought I’ve ever had with each of you on the Internet via some format that will one day assure that I will never, ever get hired by a Chick-Fil-A franchise anywhere in the world—there are a lot of things I hate. Racism. Vegetables. Mondays. Old people. Young people. In-shape people. Jump ropes (not the activity, the object). Denim. Murderers. Paper. Rodents. Sobriety. Myself, clearly. Anything that was invented on this Earth before July 4, 1776 (sorry Jesus). Running. I hate running first. I hate running last. I hate running most of all. The entire activity, moving fast not because you need to be somewhere quickly but because, I don’t know, God gave you the ability to move fairly rapidly on your feet and by choosing not to do so you are basically slapping said God in the face I guess, just makes no sense to me. Hey I have a free 5 hours on a Sunday, how should I spend it? Eating copious amounts of bean burritos? Sleeping for 19 hours of the day instead of the Sunday usual of 14? Watching NCIS: Los Angeles and wondering why there is so much naval related crime in and around the Getty Art Museum? Or run for 26.2 miles while every neuron in your brain tells you that they would be having more fun if you decided to murder yourself? Dear Readers
As all of you should unequivocally know—primarily because you share my views on everything in the world and prove that support by retweeting every single word I have ever shared about Extreme Weight Loss Home Edition on the Interwebs—Stan Kroenke is my least favorite person on Earth. This is a hard thing to put into context because Stan Kroenke is not, in the grand scheme of things, the worst man alive. This is a difficult thought to quantify because Stan Kroenke is far from the most evil human in existence. This is a impossible opinion to visually prove because, in spite of the obvious toupee that he probably doesn’t even bother to wear to Major League Lacrosse games, Stan Kroenke is not the ugliest fellow that I have ever laid eyes on. Even Stan Kroenke’s suits, while they do look like they were crafted by an 87-year-old blind man with severe Parkinson’s disease, would not be the most horrendous thing showcased on this season of Project Runway. Dear Readers,
As all of you know unequivocally and without fail—both because of everything I have written ever and because of the billboard I just put up in suburban Kansas City showcasing the caption “farts smell a lot more like Michael Jordan cologne 248 miles to the East…”—St. Louis, aka the New Rome, is, in my opinion and therefore Jesus’ as well, the greatest place on the face of the Earth. St. Louis is my home. St. Louis is my passion. St. Louis is, to quote the talented and never ever criticized late night host Joe Buck, the quintessential American City. St. Louis is, to paraphrase Barrack Obama in a speech he is constantly making to me in my sleep, society’s last, best, and only hope. The first time I ever went to the Kentucky Derby I was 10-years-old and had no concept of what, exactly, horse racing was. I had never been to the track. I had never, to my knowledge, seen the Run for the Roses on TV. The litany of names that fill the centuries old lexicon of the sport--Secretariat, Whirlaway, Citation, Seattle Slew, Affirmed, Cigar, Man O’ War, Seabiscuit—were all meaningless to me. Horse racing was a sport pursued in a different era. Horse racing was a sport that was lost on me. I did not, could not, understand the beauty imbedded in a four-legged animal cruising around a dirt track with an elegance and grace that will be forever unmatched on this Earth. I did not, could not, understand the joy that could be obtained by watching a horse gallop around the final turn with an effortlessness and ease that let’s you know that this, that what you are watching, is exactly what this creature is meant to be doing, that this, that what you are watching, is exactly the reason that this creature exists in the first place.
Dear Readers,
As all of you unquestionably know—first and foremost due to the fact that all of you follow every single portion of my Facebook activity with such great focus and attention that in the sequel to the Social Network I will be a prominent character portrayed by the professional wrestler Kane—I am in favor of the proposed St. Louis Riverfront Stadium Project. I have twisted and shaped my words in the most poetic way possible in order to buttress support for it. I have factually demeaned other cities in order to rally approval around it. I have called a certain St. Joseph, MO area State Senator’s office every single day for the past week threatening to permanently ruin each and every Johnny-on-the-Spot in his district until he unblocks me from Twitter and once again allows me to tell him how much of an idiot he is. I want the new Riverfront Stadium. I need it. I have to have it. It is the only way that I can get drunk and weep out of pure, unadulterated joy in the year 2025 in front of my as of yet to be born son as I show him exactly what a true man is; as I prove to him exactly what a true man always will be Dear Readers,
As all of you unquestionably know—and by all of you I mean all of you, considering that this very blog is one of three Internet websites accessible in North Korea, along with a YouTube knock off that shows various videos of Kim Jong Un shooting holes in one on every different hole at Augusta National and a porn site that proves that Kim Jong Un does, in fact, debunk stereotypes by having the biggest penis in the world—I, your almost fearless, outside of the terror that I hold for that squirrel trapped in a heating vent that is inevitably planning to one day break out and chew my face off like it is a Breakfast Crunch Wrap Supreme, leader love St. Louis. I, the Sack, consider St. Louis to undeniably be the greatest city on Earth. Dear Readers,
As all of you should surely know—primarily due to the fact that all of you are either 18-49 year-old women or, in an equally likely turn of events, people that think exactly 18-49 year-old women given that the aforementioned demographic is the only one from which this blog can derive any sort of a readership—today is a national holiday for fair-minded and well informed Americans all over this great country of yours. What day is today in the grand lexicon of our national celebrations you sloppy-brained and uninformed Americans out there may be asking? 5/12ths Christmas? Dead white male jubilee day? The commemoration of all the Dutch immigrants who went on to do whatever it is that people of Dutch heritage do in our modern civilization? Cell used cars or own bicycle shops maybe? Is there a stereotype to be had here? It’s about the future of our region. It’s about how we are perceived. It’s about no longer accepting the notion that our assets can just dissolve in front of us and leave. We need to fight for what is rightfully ours.
-Dave Peacock, Co-Chair St. Louis Stadium Task Force How do you write an ode? How do you put your affections into words? How do you communicate the incommunicable sentiments that fill your heart? How do you express the intangible ideals that are inherent in your blood and guts and yet some how, some way, for some reason, cannot be shared with the world? Love. Longing. Dedication. Belief. Most of all belief. Why do we believe in things that we cannot see or touch? Why do we believe that the way that we we see the future is also the way that it is actually going to play out, that our version of the forthcoming is also the one that is eventually going to come true? How do you quantify belief? How do you realize promise? How can you tell if your vision is worth following through on? Standing here, on the Western banks of the Mississippi River, under the Gateway Arch, I am struck by the paradox fundamentally imbedded into these deep-rooted thoughts, I am taken aback by contradiction present in these unanswered questions. Measuring the immeasurable is not an easy task anywhere; measuring the immeasurable is an impossible undertaking here, right here, right up against the edges of our nation’s most traveled thoroughfare. On one side nothing. Isolation. Decay. The broken down asphalt of emptiness; the broken down asphalt of what could have been; the broken down asphalt of what, seemingly, will never be. |
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