Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Hot Dog, We Have A Wiener

After a long, arduous decision process, we here at TCS have sorted through the many impressive entries that were received for our 1st Annual Chicago Sometimes Blog Post Contest.

Let it first be said that every single entry we received was thoroughly enjoyable, and if any of our readers would like to see the following 3 of our favorite entries, either e-mail us at, or get in touch with one of our writers in any way you'd like.

Our consolation posts were (in no particular order):
The Deadly Side of Winter Safety by Sean Newlin
Winter Grounds - The Meaning of Life by David Wilson
Christmas Tree Robbery by Maria Pisani

Three great, great posts. Hit us up, and they'll be sent right to your internet-door.

And now the moment you've all been waiting for--I hope you're all imagining the America's Funniest Home Video stage with the spotlights making a venn diagram and the snare drum going off--our winner: Kevin Connors with "'Twas the Night Before Christmas, Chicago."


'Twas the Night Before Christmas, Chicago

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

The children were whispering, “I hate Jerry Krause!”

And out on the streets, there wasn’t a scare

‘Cept for Pat Kane who screams, “I paid the fare!”

But back home we wonder what could possibly go wrong

Then we realized who sings this song

Some country artist, or maybe two, or three

Either way, I wouldn’t go see them, not even for free

Finally you decide that it’s time for bed

"Jesus, this scotch is hurting my head"

The house is all set, waiting for St. Nick

But it doesn’t matter ‘cause this Bears team makes you sick

As your head hits the pillow, you sigh with some grief

This Jerry Angelo, he’s quite the thief

But all of a sudden, you hear a crash up above!

You jump to your feet, like it’s your first love

You sprint out the house and look to the sky

And ask yourself, "Who is that guy?"

It looks like some French dude from the IOC

Enraged you yell “Daley and Chicago will shit on your city!”

He scampers away, attempting to hide

But you know he’ll get caught, out on the west side

Back in your bed, you begin to dream

It's the 1990's, and oh what a Bulls team!

"On, Michael! On, Scottie, On Dennis and Toni!"

"And Luc! And Ron! And Phil ain't no phony!"

The night trickles on as you catch some rest

All curled up, in your very own nest

Off in the distance, the skyline glows with pride

Somewhere there’s Matt Forte, shuffling side to side

And then again you wake to a clatter

You run downstairs, not knowing the matter

And there you see him, dusting off his shoe

“Oh my, Santa, is that really you?”

His suit, his beard, they do not seem fake

Damnit, why’d I eat the cookies? What a mistake!

“Yes, son, and I’m happy to say that you made the list

I am here tonight to grant your Christmas wish”

“But Santa," you say, "how could you know?

This city’s sports pain is much more than just show”

“Don’t worry young lad, I know you’re all tired

That’s why tomorrow Lovie AND Vinny'll be fired!”

With that he stood and returned to his sleigh

And then he and his reindeer went on their way

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”


Kevin Connors

OH p.s. Tom Glass submitted a ridiculously awesome banner that we will be switching to in the new year. It is a sick work of art that will become an everyday part of the blog.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Christmas Comedy Classic


As many of you are aware, we here at the Sometimes are givers. Not like the creepy giver from The Giver who gave the gift of color tv’s – or was that hot Pleasantville Reese Witherspoon? – but more like the Tim Allen in The Santa Clause. Granted, there’s no contract written on a little 3 x 5 note card forcing us to do this, we were just feeling the spirit.

And in said spirit, let me unveil the following short blog post:

Readers, you’ve been extremely kind to us these past ten months – what with your constant clicking and all around internet buffoonery – and we think it’s time to re-gift the nice.

Thus, we’re announcing: The 1st Annual Chicago Sometimes Blog Post Contest
(The announcement was so important that we had to use both the gaudy italics And the bold).

So here’s the gist of it:

- Readers can submit 1 piece of individual or collaborative work
- It can be on any subject matter whatsoever, just keep in mind that
the winning post will be unveiled on December 23rd, 2009 (2 weeks
from today)
- Illustrations are not required, but are encouraged
- Anyone can apply – you do not need to personally know the TCS staff
- All drafts must be in by December 16th, 2009 (1 week from today)
- Writers and finalists will be notified of their status, and of edits,
secretly (to make it way more suspicious)

If no one ends up responding to this, we'll be really, really sad. But for the record, we've already had 3 separate threats for people that want to write.

That’s pretty much it guys – Merry early Christmas to all!
Tapan Jones + Mike Bogart

p.s. Tapan Jones just graduated college today, thus proving that the black man can make it out the ghetto.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Thanksgiving for the Restivus

Since both of the blog's authors' Thanksgiving breaks start in the middle of the week, we figured we'd split this post. The first will half will be by Tapan Jones, and the second by Mike Bogart.


I don't think I've ever seen a black person go shopping on Black Friday. This coming from a self-proclaimed seasoned vet, having made the transition from the Canadian Boxing Day (December 26th) to Black Friday seamlessly.

Regardless of the city I'm in, I almost always never see my brothas or sistas getting their shop on. (Don't worry, I asked the black community's permission before typing like this - plus, everyone knows I <3>

Here are the numbers that I've compiled from Toronto, Chicago, and New York, all jumbled together in the same data set -- so you know it's super scientific:
33% Latino
27% Indian
14% Asian
11% White (eastern Europe)
8% White (western Europe)
7% Hill people

Given all of our ingrained stereotypes about the aforementioned groups of people, and our love for bouncy words, I hereby propose that Black Friday be changed to Frugal as Fuck Friday.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Tapan Jones


Ever since I was a little tamale, I've wondered to myself: "What do they eat for Thanksgiving in Mexico?" I figured maybe they had a little chalupa action going on, maybe a Mexican pizza with cranberry sauce stuffed in the crust. But then, as I matured from tamale to enchilada to gordita, I realized just how stupid I had been. They have turkeys in Mexico!

You see, turkeys, as birds of prey, are indigenous to areas throughout North America and Mexico. Birds of prey are the ones that we prey on as omnivores, so we call them birds of prey. And they eat that kind of stuff in Mexico like in chicken tacos, except they call them pollo tacos. So anyways, by my logic, if they have chickens there, they must have turkeys, because birds of prey travel in packs. And who doesn't love a nice buttered up turkey on Thanksgiving! Yes, even Mexicans love them.

In conclusion, if you see a Mexican-looking guy tomorrow, just give him a little gobble noise and nod. You know what's up.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Wild Wild Midwest

The concept of Cowboys and Indians really confused the hell out of me as a kid. As many of you know, I’m an Indian man. While it is true that my people also got shot at by whitey, our whitey had an accent, sang songs about a bridge falling down, falling down, falling down, and consistently used sarcasm as a defense mechanism. So you can see why I didn’t realize that in America, people were also hating.

Once things got cleared up, and I started reading at a 3rd grade level at the very early age of 10, I found out the Cowboys were shooting up and jailing Indians of a different variety. Relieved, this news started a causal chain of thought. Here’s how it went (I’ll use the infinity sign for chain links):

Indians (heavily scented) ∞∞∞ Indians (depressive alcoholics) ∞∞∞ Cowboys ∞∞∞ Wild West ∞∞∞ Prostitutes ∞∞∞ Reasonable Prices ∞∞∞ The South ∞∞∞ Country Music Awards

Now don’t worry, I’m not here to make any claim that Indian people invented country music, but I mean, the proof is right up there. It’s math.

With this in mind, and a nonexistent acoustic guitar in hand, I realized something. If it’s in my lineage, doggone it, I am positive that I can write a country song. So without further ado, let’s make the magic happen.

Years of that 3rd grade observational skill, and the innate formula deriving ability of Indian people, have made picking out the ingredients in a country song very easy. Here’s what you need references to:
- A truck (the real American vehicle, I tell you what)
- Beer or whiskey (none of that “liberal pussy” shit)
- Freedom (these colors don’t run! (mostly because they’re colors, without feet))
- Being Cheated On (how could you Rose McCoy?! You were my sister!)
- The old days (when I was a high school football god)
- Your dog (preferably one named after an old love who cheated on you)

I realize that by posting these six criteria, I stand to lose the country industry a lot of money, because now everyone can make a song – right? Of course not! This is still music, and it requires a lot of heart, soul, dedication, and time. Speaking of doing things without any of those, this is an actual conversation I had with my fellow blog co-writer, posted verbatim.

mike: your dog
me: named betsy
mike: yeah
me: "ole betsy lou, she treats me right. never drinks, or steals, or fights. she's more of a buddy than a pup - hey bartender, fill this cup!"
mike: hahahah
me: "ole betsy lou. down by the riiiiiver. ole betsy lou, hangin out in my truck"
mike: absolutely
me: thats the whole song
i just wrote a country song
the first thing was verse 1, the second thing was the chorus
it's like mad libs with a very limited word bank

So there you have it folks, go forth on this Veteran’s Day (by the way, to any active or former people of duty, you have more balls than I have sarcasm – thank you guys very much), and make your country proud by putting on your favorite cowboy hat and shooting up some Indian lyrics.

Go ahead, make my day,
Tapan Jones

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Jingle All the Way... To Hell

So I was riding this one train the other day. While I'm walking out of the station, humming to myself nonchalantly, I notice this middle-aged guy with a crew cut and a Hitler 'stache trailing me from a distance. I sneak a glance over my shoulder and just before he takes cover behind a pillar, I see that he's wearing these ridiculous horn-rimmed John Lennon sunglasses and I'm like, oh gosh, the Jackal is after me. As I intiated evasive manuevers, I realized that if I didn't have an unnatural love for Sidney Poitier movies, the Jackal would have undoubtedly offed me and I would have died while humming "The Bedding Experts, where--" BAM. Bullet in the brain.

Think: how many minutes of your free time are spent singing commercial jingles to yourself? Really think about it hard. I'm afraid that many (read: all) of you will find that this surreptitious singing goes on in the brain in much that same way that the process of determining that you'll never be friends with someone based solely on looking at them for two seconds does. You don't even realize your brain is working at the time, but its actually doing very important things back there without your permission. Think about this next time you're craving some baby back ribs. There's a reason.

Now think: how sad would it be to die singing a commercial jingle? If they showed the killcams of regular human deaths at funerals, like I clearly believe they should, how embarrassed would your family be? "Jimmy died doing what he loved... whispering 'at the Red House.'"

This isn't the only problem with dying in the middle of singing a commercial jingle. You would NEVER know the end to that song. You think they have commercials in Heaven!? TV there is like On Demand for every show ever made. They don't have commercials. First of all, you would never need a magical chammois or a colon cleanser or one of those blenders that can chop up cell phones. You're in Heaven with a capital H. And even if you did want one, just for sentimental value, you could just say "I want 46 Snuggies" and you'd have forty six Snuggies in your lap, stat. Fuck commercials, that's why you repented. IT WAS WORTH IT.

And don't think that you can just wish to know the end to the jingle and it'll be granted. God has standards, people. He must protect his house! Dying without finishing a jingle is akin to being waterboarded for all eternity. How long can you exist with the ending to that commerical on the tip of your tongue? Don't think there's an easy button, either. You can't commit suicide once you're dead. You're stuck with that shit for the rest of existence.

BTW, it's "where dreams come truuuuuuuue!"

Yours in Christ,

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Cool Academy: 2006 Edition

7:45 a.m. used to be a very significant time. It was the reason that I set my alarm clock to 6:45 every morning, you know, because you have to account for the three snooze rule. It was the time from which I would always count back 9 hours and try to figure out the precise second I was supposed to fall asleep.

So Mr. Jones, you may ask me, why was this time so important? Well you see, polite question asker, this was the time that the high school day started, 5 days a week, most weeks August through December – January through May. (Just as an aside, how’s that for interesting hyphen use?) Anyway, thinking back on this magical time, I started discussing something interesting with my fellow Sometimes cohort.

We decided that we could only make generalizations about the time we were actually in high school, so for that reason, I give you: What it took to be cool in high school from 2002 to 2006.

Alright let’s get to the heart of the matter. Before going in to specifics, let me just say that in retrospect, a lot of kids met the following criteria, so give yourselves a nice pat on the back. No really. I’ll wait for a second while you do it. I wonder if right handed people and left handed people pat themselves on opposite sides of the back, or if I’m just thinking of British people. Anyway, that’s more than enough time, let’s get to the action:

1) Chewing Gum

This is the very first thing on the list, and it immediately falls into the whole square-rectangle debate. Sure, not all kids who chewed gum were cool, but you better believe that all cool kids chewed gum. To be cool, this was absolutely a non-issue. You bust out a piece of then-still-new Orbit and flash your status to the crowd. Interestingly, studies that I invented show this as right around the time when everybody realized that Juicy Fruit was 5 for 25 cents for a reason, which showed that just as with any status symbol, the more you spent on your gum, the fresher you and your breath were.

2) Texting
Text messaging has pretty much entered the everyday lives of the vast majority of the American high school public. You have to remember though, this is the early 2000s we’re talking about. This was like having AIM in 4th grade and actually choosing to have your friends call you prairiebabie88 – only the cool kids did it. Girls hid it by laying their purses open on their desk, guys used the hoodie technique. The bottom line was, if you texted in high school, you were a somebody, you coulda been a contender.

3) Not giving a hell about passing period
Even with the allotted 6 minute time frame to get from point A to point B, if you lingered by the lockers and talked to a girl – especially about another girl – you had arrived. Hell, if you did anything that caused you to walk into your next class even a minute late, notebook in hand pressed against your forearm, to your punctual classmates, for that brief moment in time, you were a cool kid.

4) Drinking
This is the absolut end all criterion. Literally, it is the single most important key to being popular in high school. If at any point during your high school career you consumed alcohol in any vain, fuggedaboutit, you’re golden. If I teach my kid anything, it’ll be the lesson that drinking in high school makes you a cool kid. Even if you weren’t part of the Zack Morris-esque group of kids, if you drank in high school, you shared a common, cross-clique bond with your fellow cool kid brethren. So hold your head high in that regard.

Again, I think it’s best to restate that these particular set of traits can only be vouched for in the era when Michael Vick was the best thing to happen to Madden, and girls thought jeans without pockets in the back were fashionable. So let this post be a bit of nostalgia for you fine folk, and let you carry you over till the end of your week. Oh and if you didn’t meet any of the requirements, you can always try out for the math team. Seriously, those kids were champions at Naperville North.

Hope you dugg it kiddies,

Tapan Jones

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The Seventh Sense: Neo Without a Cause

Sometimes I think to myself, "Why, God?" But then a kitten walks by and I have to go pet it because they're just so cute when they're little! And other times, mostly when I'm petting the kittens, I think, "Why, God, did you make these kittens so irresistible?" But this is such a stupid question. I think it's pretty obvious that God made kittens cute because if they weren't cute, no one would house and feed them and they would all die, because if there's one thing a kitten is bad at, it's bloodsport. Can you imagine a kitten in Running Man? Maybe it could hide for a while in one of the dumpsters or something because it's real little, but there's no way it would ever successfully run to its freedom without being stomped by Buzzsaw. He's great.

This inevitably gets me thinking about a lot of things, because let's face it, I'm a thinker. Like the statue, I'm always curled up in this position, just thinking and thinking until my head darn near explodes. In addition to being a thinker, I also watch lots of movies. I like The Matrix, and I like M. Night Shylamalam's work, and Jimmy Dean is pretty much my favorite actor (and sausage). Those guys make me think.

Anyways, during one of those thinking sessions, I got to thinking about my favorite movie, The Matrix. If you've never seen it, it's about this man named Neo who is actually a robot, but he doesn't know it yet. Neo's just living his life, riding motorcycles and knife-fighting, when all of a sudden he meets a little boy. The boy claims that he can see robots, and I guess no one else can see them or something. So Neo and the boy become fast friends (it's kinda creepy in a molestation sort of way) , except there's one catch: the boy and this black dude are competing for Neo's attention, and the black dude wants him to take some pills. Neo's kinda standoffish about the whole thing, like "Why should I do what you tell me?" and he storms out of the house with the boy and they ride his motorcycle into the sunset.

So at that point you're thinking, wow, that Neo is pretty rebellious. But then, once Neo and the boy run out of gas, the boy drops a bomb and he goes "Neo, you're a robot." So Neo drops to his knees and he's all "NOOOOOO!" and the camera zooms out real dramatic to show that Neo's in a desert by himself. Then he runs away back to the black dude and leaves the boy who betrayed him in the dust, like a total conformist. Then Neo goes, "I understand now," and he takes the blue pill, I think, or maybe the red. I don't think it matters because it's obvious that the black dude just wants to get Neo hooked, either way. Then out of nowhere Neo goes on this big-ass trip with dojos and all these green numbers all over the place and he thinks he can fly. It's obvious that he's really high. And then I fell asleep but at the end of the movie he flies away wearing this big cape, which must mean that he's like a super-upgraded robot now or something.

Anyways, I think it's pretty obvious that the moral of The Matrix is that really, in your life, who can you trust? If you can't trust innocent young boys, and you can't trust drug dealers, then really, what's the point?

Yours in Christ,

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Mirror, Mirror on the Facebook Wall

As autumn’s leaves prepare to blanket our roads, and the days begin to cool, the authors of the blog are reminded of something Mark Twain once said: “fuckin’ summer’s gone.”

That’s right folks. Fuckin’ summer’s gone.

But let us not dwell on the passing of this season, because it has been the first to expose a certain phenomenon previously unknown to billions. With the Facebook Empire being used to stay in touch with old friends, shamelessly promote blog posts, and to create mini-farms of meaningless 32 bit carrots, our love affair with the website has revealed a new concern of catastrophic proportions. The following is truth:

Girls are a lot better looking on Facebook than we remember them being in real life.

I mean, really. She did not used to be hot. You mean to tell me in the three years that we’ve been going to different schools that all the women I knew suddenly decided it was time to put on really fashionable clothes and take 45 degree angle pictures of themselves from 3 feet away? This appears to be the case.

This initial jolt of surprise sure to come to any male, ages little bro to mid-life crisis, is not pure. You see, it is a trick. These women have not in fact become supermodels – they have learned to use technology to their advantage.

Allow me to explain.

There are three factors that have led to this “computahotness,” (term patent pending). The first is directly caused by Facebook. The option to de-tag pictures has created a process we’re calling “technological selection.” By only allowing friends and cohorts to view pictures that show one in a favorable light, one creates a mental image totally built on a partial truth. It’s like going to Dunkin’ Donuts and seeing a chocolate sprinkled donut from the side, making the purchase, and then realizing the other side is actually coconut. Ew.

The second such issue has been previously mentioned. A wise man – that’s you K Kwon – once told an author of this blog, “Hmm… I don’t know. Seems like she knows what angles she looks good at.” Taking this observation under consideration, the authors found that many girls do in fact take many, many pictures from THE EXACT same angle. Like the sweet spot on a baseball bat, they’ve figured out the exact trigonometric requirements that present them in the hottest lies. Outrageous!

Finally, women are appearing more attractive on the internets for a reason that has nothing to do with us fellas. Did you know that all women hate each other? That shit is the truth. They may have friends with whom they get along famously, but there’s a deep, underlying Melrose Place thing going on (I’m assuming--who the hell remembers what happened on Melrose Place? But damnit all if there’s going to be a Gossip Girl reference on the Sometimes). As it turns out, women are engaged in a civil gender war in which they don’t want to leak any compromising information to the enemy. They stay protected by presenting themselves favorably in pictures on the internet and in person at box socials. Again, this shit is the truth. This is the first reporting The Chicago Sometimes has ever done, so we’re not going to risk it on a lie.

So there you have it. The next time you see the picture of a 6 looking like a solid 8.3, just remember, there’s a good chance of hijinx taking place – And that 7 8 9.

Poke you later kiddies,
Tapan Jones

Monday, July 27, 2009

Our Children are Doomed

So I was watching KEWLopolis on CBS last weekend, when it occurred to me that KEWLopolis really sucks. First, there's this show "Dinosquad," in which a bunch of high school stereotypes can morph into dinosaurs in order to save the world from this other guy who's actually a 65 million-year-old anthropomorphic velociraptor and the CEO of a Fortune 500 company called Raptor Dyne. Then there's something all too literally called "Sushi Pack": "Four pieces of sushi and a wad of wasabi jolted to life--doing what's right to protect the citizens of Wharf City!"

But here's the catch: these pieces of salmon egg sushi, crab sushi, tuna sushi, octopus sushi, and wasabi operate out of a donut shop that their best friend, Ben, owns. If ever there was a delicious combo, it was sushi and donuts. Why don't any of the characters actually look like sushi? Why is the octopus wearing an eye patch?

If I cut random pages out of a dictionary, threw them in a hat, let my dog shit in the hat, pulled out the five shittiest pages, blindfolded myself, and pointed to 22 random words, those 22 words combined into a sentence couldn't possibly make a worse concept for a show than "Four pieces of sushi and a wad of wasabi jolted to life--doing what's right to protect the citizens of Wharf City!"

Childrens' shows today are an insult to children. Back in what I believe to be the Golden Age of childrens' programming, shows like: Ren and Stimpy, the Rugrats, Recess, Hey Arnold, and Doug presided over our hearts and minds with a now-legendary style and grace. In an effort to show just how horrible kids' shows are these days, I'm pitting what I believe to be the worst of the worst from my day against their analogous (and actually popular) shows of today. Guess who wins.

Gullah Gullah Island vs. The Backyardigans

Gullah Gullah Island starred some inexplicably Jamaican folk living on an island off the coast of South Carolina. It indoctrinated me and, presumably, the tens of twenties of other kids who watched it, into the stereotype that all people living on islands are Jamaican. Don't remember it? There was also a giant, talking, yellow frog named Binyah Binyah that they kept locked out in the backyard because seriously, IT'S A GIANT, TALKING FROG. If I wasn't seven years old in 1995, I would've been scared out of my fucking mind of that show.

However, this thing called "The Backyardigans" might be worse. My premilinary research indicates that the show is about some kids who may or may not be dinosaurs having pseudo-adventures fueled by "imagination power" in their shared backyard. Aside from the fact that it stars communist dinosaurs who are clearly huffing glue, this show sucks because the names of the kids are Pablo, Tyrone, Uniqua, Tasha, and Austin. Uniqua? That name insults me both as a black man and as an individual. I hold this show singularly responsible for the recent rash of horrible baby names like Skylar and Taryn and Jaden.

ADVANTAGE: Gullah Gullah Island

My Little Pony vs. Horseland

Now I wasn't the type of kid that ever watched My Little Pony, but I know that several of my female colleagues enjoyed the show. That's what they tell me. I've never seen it. However, I do know that there were like a million of those little toy ponies with the hair that you could comb into almost any style you could dream up in your horribly confused five-year-old mind. Actually, I'm not sure those were My Little Ponies.

In any case, that pony in the background is surfing on a fucking rainbow. It's gonna be hard to top that, Horseland. Plus, this pony in the foreground is clearly willing to do almost anything for money. Awesome.

Horseland, on the other hand, is a show geared toward your serious business 7-year-old pony enthusiast. It's on KEWLopolis, and it sucks. Normal kids' shows feature crazy adventures and outlandish situations and characters, but Horseland stars a bunch of waspy bitches going to a ranch, riding horses, and enterting them into competitions. If I'm gonna waste my valuable Saturday morning watching cartoons, I'd watch crime-fighting sushi over Country Club 101 one hundred times out of one hundred and one.

Advantage: My Little Pony

As you can see, the shows from my era won 2-0. This proves, without a doubt, that every kids' show made after 2000 is terrible. I rest my case.


Tuesday, July 7, 2009

A Tip For Everyone

Just a heads up folks, this post is not about Michael Jackson. It’s not about his singing, his dancing, or his rocky road (ice cream method) with children. This post is about something that I’ve had it up to internet-here with.

There’s been an ever increasing trend among every single person I know to start becoming awful at taking compliments, and it’s manifesting itself in the worst god damn way. What’s troubling about this, is that most of you know me to be your future angry-man-in-hover-rocking-chair yelling at children about how things were “in my day, you lousy ingrates,” which is fine, because that’s exactly how I’ve tried to fashion the events in my life leading up to that glorious moment. So if I give you a compliment, or make a comment in regards to something you’ve accomplished, just tip your hat to me and say “why thank you, oh kind sir.”

Do not reply in the following manner. Don’t look down and to your left, slightly furrow your brow, lift one side of your mouth, wait 2 seconds, and say in the most dickway possible “…Not really.”

Hey asshole, I’m being nice! I even bought you the hat so you could tip it at me! You never once said thank you, you son of a bitch.

Perfect example. A buddy of mine, who will soon hereafter figure out I’m speaking of him, (yes Ryan), and proceed to bitch at me until eventually working his go to move of “you know what? Tapan? You know what?” told me a story. So one long, very fucking uneventful tale later, the man lets me know that he made one hell of a drive in order to go see this fine lookin’ miss thang. Upon hearing that, I replied in a pride-filled voice by saying, “Damn dude, nice, that’s one hell of a drive.” And that little slut not-really’d me.

What does that accomplish? Not-really’ers of the world, you’re actually asking people to apologize for a compliment? Motherfuckers what the fuck?

On that note I make a plea to all of you. End this madness. Too many people are getting AIDS from your attitude, and really, no one wants AIDS from your attitude. At least the unprotected sex has it’s momentary

pleasure, you’re just rubbing people the wrong way.

So tomorrow when you wake up and hear a compliment, look that person right in the eyes and do the hat tip. Not wearing a hat? Feel free to dig through your neighborhood lost and found, you’d be amazed at the number of “repeat-threepeat” hats people have had the audacity to lose over the last 11 years.

Until next tim…. Oh actually.

For those of you wondering why this post took so long, it’s because Mike Bogart is a selfish man that ignores you folks, and would sooner burn down an orphanage than meet a blog deadline. God, what an asshole.

And now, until next time b’s and g’s (you can figure out which letter is male and which one is female on your own time, it’ll be a fun little game). ,

Tapan Jones

Friday, June 5, 2009

超 級 愉 快 的 意 想 不 到 blog 崗 位

Super Happy Fantastic Blog Post!!

Asia is a pretty big place, and it’s the band that gave us the timeless classic “Heat of the Moment.” You know, “it was the heeeeeeeeeeat of the moment.”

Anyway, Asian people have been on the mind lately. In my constant efforts to observe the Asian people - see: weird British hunter following the Geico gecko – I think I may have stumbled across a few universal truths. Sure, the three things I’ve found can be argued, but if you want to argue them, go to hell. I don’t have the time. My Asian brethren have taught me the newly invented (probably Japanese) technique of efficiency. Hai!

Alright, time for the truths three. At this point, loyalists are probably asking themselves, “What, already? This whole damn blog is fluff and he’s already cutting to the chase? What a hack.” Be calm my friends, tai chi it out for a second and then come back to read these.


Number 1) You always see Asian girls dating all types of guys, but you barely ever see an Asian guy with anyone besides an Asian girl.

This observation falls under the square-rectangle category. We’re led to believe a couple things right off the bat. For one, to all the male readers, your dreams of one day hooking up with that fine Asian girl that draws Pokémon (still!) can be actualized, just be persistent and remember that they probably like guys with red hats with a white front and a green L on it. Not to be too specific or anything. But the other thing this observation hints at is the following: most Asian guys are bona fide Oedipus-following racists. Well probably not to that degree, but I tried to be dramatic enough that you’d be forced to read this sentence. But to continue, they’ve seen the successes of their forefathers and how bad ass every single one of their mothers is at cooking shit up in a matter of seconds, and they refuse to lower the bar for the white girl whose idea of authentic meals must involve a phone call to Kentucky Grilled Chicken. So to that I say, Asian guys, either lower your standards, or white girls up your game and figure lo-mein the fuck out.

Number 2) The Japanese don’t have a sufficient general knowledge of insects.

I can understand how this observation might bug you. (hold for laughter….)(….) and go. But look, it’s simple logic. The Japanese went all crazy during WW2 right? They were all about stirring things up and screaming banzai at the top of their lungs. They were so crazy that they figured they’d coin a term for the legitimate strategy of suicide bombing shit with their fighter pilots. However, if they knew what the average 3rd grader does, it would have been so much clearer that said term should have been “Kamikabee.” Fuckin, bees have been doing that shit since their existence, sting and die. Get with the program.

Number 3) EVERY single Asian male owns at least 1 shirt that just says the word ADIDAS and nothing else.

This one is so true I don’t have to back it up with photo evidence.


And on that note, let it be known that the authors of this blog love our Asians, and are saying so to save ourselves from the eventual Chinese take-over of the world.

So to part using something only Asians would understand,

No QQ guys, gg,

Tapan and Mike

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

V-Power: Magnificent, or Just Awesome?

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Three years ago this past week, a company called V-Power Donuts was conceived, among other things, in a classroom at Naperville North High School. V-Power found its relatively inauspicious origins, which hardly forebade the mammoth economic impact it would later have on the school, in the hands of one V Kuznetsov, pictured at left, its CEO and namesake. V's emminently humanitarian vision was to bring the deserving, hungry young minds of Naperville North better doughnuts at a better price than what state budgetary constraints mandated they should have--a worthy endeavor, indeed.

Patton, Hannibal, even Sun Tzu himself would have marveled at V's plan to make his vision a reality. As Sun Tzu said, "What enables the wise sovereign and the good general to strike and conquer, and achieve things beyond the reach of ordinary men, is FOREKNOWLEDGE." Oh, V had foreknowledge alright. In fact, he might even have been called something of a double agent. V was a former employee of Dunkin' Donuts.

With the inside track on the Big Business doughnut world, V was able to put together a business plan far superior to that of Naperville North's vaunted in-house cafeteria food provider, Sodexho. The key pieces to V's plan were his four wonderkid Vice Presidents: Tapan Jani (Marketing), Mike Bogart (Operations), Yannick Kwan (Finance), and Ryan McNamara (Human Resources). With this powerhouse team of business mogul prodigies, there was no way V-Power could fail. And fail, it did not.

When the Fab Five, as they later came to be known, presented their business plan, their teacher, Carliss Harris, wept silent tears of joy. V-Power's biggest rival, some guys selling gum or something, gave a standing ovation. Local rapscalian Bardia Farzad even congratulated the Five on a job well done, the highest compliment of his on record. V-Power's business plan was not just a business plan, it was a heavenly work of art. It represented the raw, iconoclastic, uncensored vision of its founders, constantly contradicting itself, repeating ideas, and using poor grammar to great rhetorical effect. In short, V-Power took the world by storm. And, quite frankly, how could all this praise not have been piled on?

The reverberations of V-Power's groundbreaking Statement of Purpose ("Our purpose as a company is to make a profit by purchasing donuts at $3.50 a dozen, and selling them at a higher price to make a profit") are still felt in the halls of Naperville North to this day, and their landmark assessment of the key features of their product ("Our product, donuts, is not like any other product from student run companies. Its main characteristics that shape our day to day operations are: donuts spoil after about a day; donuts require ample storage space; donuts need to kept sanitary; donuts have to be ordered every day"), quoted for your reading pleasure in all its original glory, is still the gold standard by which student-run companies evaluate their products today.

As we'll see, each of the V-Power VP's had their own style.

Tapan Jani, pictured to the left, was the head of Marketing. Below is a slide from the Marketing Team's portion of the business plan presentation (entitled "V-Power: And the Survery Says") that changed the lives of so many. It depicts the results of the market research led by Tapan Jani, who was supported by his crack team of analysts--Iris Chen and Ryan Ronayne.

As you all can see, Tapan was one of the innovators of the now-standard practice of veiling the unimportance of superfluous market research in an ambiguous, unclear manner, using nebulous pie charts and unlabeled data sets. Not until Freddie Mac would the world see business being done on quite this high a level again.

This next slide shows Tapan's implementation of the ingenious technique of asking leading yes-or-no questions that he already knows the answer to. Only the best court-appointed trial lawyers have been able to master this technique, and even then, few do it as poetically as Tapan does here. Additionally, the question that he asks reaches inspiring new heights of vaguery:

Are we to interpret this as asking whether the customer gets too much doughnut for their dollar? Or is the "too much" simply a reiteration of the "too high" theme? I'll never know, but what I do know is that Tapan's confusing poll questions did wonders in helping V-Power delude its customers.

Along with their flawless research, the Marketing team also drew up some shrewd advertising campaigns. Instead of paying what they deemed to be ridiculous royalties that come with using copyrighted material, the team decided that the most cost-effective, least energy-intensive method of advertising would be to use material that other people had already created without permission. Thus, Homer Simpson, that time-honored magnate of doughnut fetishism, became the new spokesman for V-Power Donuts.

But Tapan wasn't the only one making waves. Over on the Operations side of things, Mike Bogart (left), along with his team consisting of the consummate hard-worker Mark Jaris and the ever-professional Nicole Nanneti, were blazing a trail that few, if any, had ever previously blazed. One such trail was their treatment of the sensitive issue of handling cash, again quoted in all its original glory for your reading pleasure:

"Cash Handling: All cash is to be kept in the provided cash box, bills in one stack but organized by value, and coins in a plastic bag. If we are running out of change,"

In an impressive feat of diplomacy, and, might I mention, an earth-shattering example of Postmodernism, or "Weird for the sake of weird" for the layperson, Mike decided to cleave his declaration of the cash handling policy in half, and leave the other half completely out of the final plan. In one fell swoop, Mike tactfully avoided the sticky area of employee theft altogether, and also made the cash handling policy, in two words, sublimely vague. It was so vague and unclear that no one could possibly be reprimanded for mishandling the cash. Postmodern, indeed.

Equally important, and less overtly controversial, though it did have its moments, was Mike's policy on "handling customers":

"Handling Customers: employees are never to be mean to customers. Try to be as nice as possible, but do not go beyond your jurisdiction without management approval. Most customer suggestions are valuable input, and should be recorded and mentioned to management. Use common sense, and provide the best customer service you can! Smile!"

In his ominous requirement for "management approval," Mike, with subtle, almost Freudian nuance, effectively asserts the dominance of the Fab Five over the affairs of V-Power. They ruled with an iron fist, but it was an iron fist that went disguised as puppies and ducklings until it punched you in the face. Further, on a somewhat contrary note, Mike again goes against the conventional "customer is always right" wisdom, noting that "most customer suggestions are valuable." This flies in the face of conventional economics going all the way back to Ray Kroc, and it just goes to show that if nothing else, the Operations portion of the business plan illuminated the eccentric nature of the Fab Five, a nature that is inherent to geniuses the world over.

Yannick Kwan, or Y2K, as he was known during his Fab Five days, headed up the Finance Department, which also housed esteemed mathematicians Kat Yoh and Jon Talarek. What the Finance Department lacked in substance, they made up for in brevity. They were the ultimate minimalists, epitomizing (in a successful attempt at irony) the buttoned-down, number-crunching, ultimately soulless world of finance. Here is a sample from their "Projected Income Statement":

"After selling for 11 days, we have made a total of $369.46 from sales from selling doughnuts at the prices of $0.50 per doughnut or $5 per dozen. We have also spent $14.70 on Napkins for our customers and $10.00 on a Jamba Juice gift card which is part of our promotional campaign with the winner receiving this gift card."

Yannick had inside information on the failed attempt to trademark the word "napkin" as a brand name before the general public did, so he capitalized it here, prematurely (and, ultimately, embarrassingly) honoring his good friends at Solo. Yannick also defied verb tense, ironically (he was a master of irony) creating tension between the tenses.

Finally, there was the Human Resources Department, headed by VP Ryan McNamara (left), who was supported by the all-world cast of Matt Kerr and Annette Vacval. Macky, a term of endearment for McNamara that was popular with the shareholders, oversaw the creation of the V-Power Bylaws, as well as the Code of Conduct. Ironically (Macky was also an ironic genius), Article 6 of the Bylaws states:

"Article 6 - Product: Our CEO will go to Dunkin' Donuts every morning for a new batch of donuts for the day. The dozens of donuts will be paid with the company profits. During the selling period, the sellers will be handling the product safely, making sure that none of the product is stolen."

Here, Macky (with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek) equates net profits with gross revenue, stating that V-Power would buy their products using their profits. Of course, what the astute reader will pick up on is that the profits a company makes are determined only after their expenses have been factored into the equation. Macky pushed the ironic envelope to the brink, highlighting what he believed to be the sorry state of the business world today. He was a passionate man, and he pointed out unequivocally that some people in business today really don't know the difference between revenue and profit.

Macky also draws a chilling portrait of the stark contrast between supply and demand with his economical (pun intended) use of prepositions. In the first sentence of Article 6 (which has come to be known in religious circles as the "Doomsday Article"), Macky uses three prepositions, lulling readers into a false sense of security. They believe that they have all the prepositions they could ever need, but in the next two sentences combined, there are only three total prepositions. Macky even leaves out a "for" where there should have been one in the second sentence, just to reinforce his idea that no one can get complacent, that everyone must be constantly vigilant. Macky was, undoubtedly, the philosopher-warrior of the group.

The renown that the Fab Five and their business plan has received over the years is largely based on their groundbreaking work in the fields of vagueness and irony. The plan is regarded not only as the superlative business plan of the 21st century, but also as a bold, shocking statement against the efficiency, clarity, and overall effectiveness of contemporary business models. No doubt, it will soon take its rightful place amongst the greatest works of all time in the canon of Western literature.

And how was all of this planning actually applied on Judgment Day, you ask?


In the end, each employee of V-Power made a 1400% increase on their capital investment. Yes, I said 1400%. Those are Berkshire Hathaway numbers. And that's not even taking into account the well-deserved bonuses that each VP paid out to himself. Truly, V-Power Donuts was a sight that the world had never seen before, and one that it will likely never have the pleasure of seeing again.

May 8th is the symbolic inauguration day of V-Power, as the real day that they launched doughnut operations has been lost to the annals of history. We ask you, loyal TCS readers, in honor of the landmark achievements of V-Power Donuts, to celebrate every May 8th as National V-Power Appreciation Day.

Please, go out, buy a donut, and think of V-Power while you eat it. Thank you, and goodnight.

Tapan + Mike

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

With the First Pick: Mel "The Vampire" Kiper

Those familiar with the authors of TCS are often surprised that more sports-related materials are not discussed in its pages. "What? The biggest Chicago sports fans I know don't blog about Chicago sports? I am confused and outraged."

So to you, the three out of our six total readers, we offer up a quick little post on the upcoming NFL draft. It's been brought to our attention that Mel Kiper, Jr., ESPN's draft expert extraordinaire, looks exactly like a vampire. And you know what? We totally agree.

Not just that, but we've made a little observation of our own. That's right, we've noticed that this man looks directly related to the character of Clem from that timeless gem of a film: Joe Dirt. Observe the hair.

So this April 25th, when you're kicking back watching each selection go by exactly as Mel predicted, just realize that some vampires can see the future.

Peace out homeboys and girls,

Mike + Tapan

Thursday, April 16, 2009

It's just as much myinal as it is urinal

Ladies in the house, say yeah. And then realize that it’s going to be difficult for you to relate to the rest of this blog post. To our male readers, this piece is in regards to a place we hold, and mark, as private--the public restroom.

To those unaware, there is a set of unspoken rules that hold true in the men’s room. Here are a few: 1) If all the urinals are available, pick the one furthest from the door. 2) If there are people using some urinals, try to make it a rule of thumb to have at least a urinal's-worth of separation between yourself and someone else. 3) If every other urinal is in use, and you’re not in any rush to get anywhere, wait for one to free up.

Now, I don’t remember being taught any of these rules by my father, elder brother, or any friends, and I don’t think many of you have ever been formally educated on the matter either – it’s just something we know. These rules may seem superficially homophobic, but I assure you, that is not the driving force.

The ideas of privacy and comfort reign supreme for American men. As a man, I would like to pee as privately as possible in a movie theater without having to become a “stall guy,” which is another issue unto itself. Rituals such as timing the duration and properly aiming the projectile become jeopardized when another person is right next to you hindering your confidence.

Anyway I say all this because I’ve discovered something. Middle-aged white men, mostly those 50 and above, have this feeling that they can only use a urinal if they’re standing two feet away from it.

I mean what the hell.

There’s no feeling of seclusion here at all anymore, it’s an open calling card for creepiness. They’re no different than the guy who looks over your shoulder when you’re typing an e-mail, other than that they have their cock out simultaneously. Think about that – e-mail guy having his dick out.

So I beg you, middle-aged white man, Especially at Union Station, take those two steps closer to the white porcelain receptacle, not just so you can feel more comfortable, but literally for the good of your fellow man.

Once this issue is resolved we can tackle the equally heinous crime of the dudes who spit in the urinal when they’re done. What the fuck, guy.

Take it easy homeblows,


p.s. Good luck to ye mighty b-hawks and b-ulls

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Verdict

As a writing team, we've come to a decision in regards to the Binghamton job opportunity.

The feedback we received from our readers resulted in a 50/50 split. Considering this, and the impact it would have on our family, friends, and prospective careers, we've decided...that we April Fools'd you pretty good.

Later bitches,
Tapan + Mike

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Faces for Radio, Or: We're Ugly

Listeners, we have news.

Okay, so, unbeknownst to our fan base, one week ago, Tapan received a Facebook message from a friend of his (big ups Alyssa) whose dad read this blog and wanted to talk to us. Alright, that's cool. We didn't know what it was about, but what the hell, let's talk to the guy.

So he emails us, and as it turns out, he works at Binghamton University, and he'd like to speak to us about an "opportunity."

Basically what the guy, Mr. Christopher Sherman (probably esquire), told us was that he liked our writing style and wanted to see if it would translate to radio.

This is where you fine folks come in. He's asked us to visit the campus for an interview this summer. Essentially, the meeting would just be to do a couple of radio test spots and introduce us to the WHRW-FM 90.5 crew. Based on that, he would decide whether or not to extend an offer.

The general idea of the show would be in the likeness of PTI. We mention this because Tony Kornheiser is of Binghamton University fame, and Mr. Sherman is a huge fan of their program. We were told that sports would not be our main focus, but instead we'd be riffing about news topics, and occasionally invite guests to the program.

So to you, the loyal readers of The Chicago Sometimes, we ask this. Do you think we should consider the interview/job opportunity? It would require transfers on both our parts, but it could open a few doors. Maybe Wilbon would drop by. Wilbon!

If anyone feels like helping us out with the decision, here are a couple of links to the school's general website and the station's:,

We'll be mulling this over for a couple weeks, so in the meantime, let us know why we would or would not be successful as radio talk show hosts (i.e., whether or not we should be taking this seriously).

Go Bearcats!
Tapan + Mike

Thursday, March 12, 2009

F--- You Willis Group Holdings

The following post is written expressing both authors’ opinions.
There is no time for a metaphoric introduction here, as the urgency of the message takes priority over all else.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have awful news. The Sears Tower is set to be officially renamed The Willis Tower during the summer of 2009.

News that when heard, caused one co-author to literally storm out of a building of academic learning, and proceed to lay a profanity laced rant upon any bystanders. The other was at a total and complete loss for words. If you or any part of you is from Chicago, both reactions were not only acceptable, but justified.
This is an outrage beyond outrages. The Sears Tower is the single most iconic association to the legendary city of Chicago, Illinois. People the world over see the monument as a symbol of all that rises from this great town. To take an image of such greatness and defile it is more than a total act of disrespect, it is downright criminal.
""Having our name associated with Chicago's most iconic structure underscores our commitment to this great city, and recognizes Chicago's importance as a major financial hub and international business center," said Joseph Plumeri, chairman of Willis Group Holdings."
The Willis Group, hear us now. We do not give a mother fuck about your “commitment” to this great city. If you were at all committed, you would have some sort of admiration for its inhabitants. This is the equivalent of us coming to your fine city and changing one of your most historic landmarks to the Allstate Bridge. You want that? Huh? HUH? Not even Geico. That’s how little we think of you on this darkest of days.
The root of this problem lies in the age old premise of envy. Specifically, tower envy. Yeah, you’ve got Big Ben. First of all, you would feel exactly as we do right now if the name were changed to Big Asshole. But that aside, “big” Ben stands at 316 feet tall in the city of London. The Sears Tower is 1,450 feet tall. It’s almost five times as tall. You know what this is? It’s the Willis Group finding no other resort but to take 35 figurative Extenze in hope of more respect. That shit doesn’t work, no matter what washed up porn star is trying to convince you of it.
Chicago will not be robbed of this, and to everyone reading this blog, join us in preserving the identity of this monument by only referring to it as The Sears Tower for the rest of your lives, the lives of your children, and your children’s children.
In closing,

The Chicago Sometimes

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Sloan Me Some Love

Alright, this post is not to give outrageously useful life advice (see: previous, then freak out at how much I just blew your mind). It is not to tell you about what dog to bet on in the eight race – for the record, Run Dixie Run SUCKS. This post is a statement of fact.

Sloan McQuewick is the most perfect damn woman to ever grace the Earth with her goddess-like presence.

And I know what some of you are saying. “Tapan, she’s not real.” Or “Tapan, even if she was real, you’d never have a shot with her.”

To you I say “You sons of bitches! I wish you the worst and hope you never experience real love, be it from your wife, husband, or children. Never talk to me again you assdick!”

With that out of the way, for those of you who are unaware, Sloan is a character played by the fine-as-hell Emmanuelle Chriqui on the kickass HBO show Entourage. To be perfectly clear with the fact that I’m stating, I am not in love with Emmanuelle – I’m sure she’s a swell gal – but I have incurably fallen for Sloan.

This is the kind of love where at any given moment in my life, be it tomorrow (please whatever God in heaven there is, let it be tomorrow), or 25 years into my marriage, if Sloan walked into the room and said “Tapan, I’m finally here,” I would end my marriage right then and there and walk out the door with her. For those of you who think that’s too drastic, my wife was kind of a bitch anyway, and if my kids can’t understand my decision, I screwed up raising them.

Let’s get into the details of my fact. What does Sloan bring to the table that would make a (straight, non pedophilic) priest tell Jesus himself that he’s hanging it up? I think a list is in order.

1)      So. God. Damn. Hot. This woman can make anything, from the most elegant of night gowns to a wife beater and sweat pants look like the greatest conquests in fashion history. She just pulls it off.

2)      She is so damn nice. There is hardly a situation that she’s in where she doesn’t make you feel happy to be breathing the morning air. But don’t get me wrong, she can be coy, witty, and playful in appropriate circumstances.

3)      She is so damn rich. Now normally, this would be a higher priority for my financial well being – as many of you know, my life dreams center around the fact that I can marry wealthy. But you shouldn’t feel bad, because it’s not Sloan’s money, it’s her dad Terrence’s, and he’s a pretty big douchebag.

4)      She is so damn accessible. If fucking E, a guy who chooses to go by one letter professionally, can land this fox, so can I. Get it? I.

Alright, now I know many of you out there are in agreement with this statement, and as a further piece of proof, I leave you with the following website.

Let us all pray on a daily basis that someday this dream will become a reality, and the fact will have personal resonance.

Take it easy homies,