This looks like a case for Ice T

So I wrote about this guy
earlier, as it turns out he's kind of a fixture downtown. In fact, for
over a year he's been standing at Daley Plaza, stoic like a Buckingham Palace guard, with the "stop raping my wife" sign.

I went looking for some info on this guy because I felt that any
accusations of rape should be investigated, and since the special
victims unit was busy when I called, It was up to me. (Ice T
said: "You gotta take this one yourself, dog! Straight-up, these people
depending on you, got it? dont you let the man rape nobody!")

As it turns
out, this man is crazy (not Ice, well maybe him too, but the sign guy).
While I thought there was a chance that an FBI agent named Chris Saviano
could be up at the top of the Daley building continually raping this
poor man's wife non-stop for the past year, while the mayor, dressed as
Mussolini, having canceled all personal appearances, laughs manically.

Nope. crazy. Turns out Farhad Khoiee-Abbasi
(rape-sign guy) lost his job, was going through a divorce, decided to
be his own lawyer and cracked up a bit. He blames his troubles on a FBI
agent who's existence has not been confirmed.

You can read a little more about him in this article: Middle Eastern Chicago Immigrant Protests FBI for Ruining His Marriage

Just another crazo...too bad, i thought this one was the real thing.

Ok, next up. I ran into queen of england downtown. She's black, a dude, and tried to sell me crack... but i think she's the real deal.

This is where I shop!

So, If you've seen this I'm sorry, its a little old. But if not, you're welcome.

Peace and free love... Priceless

Okay that was a really bad joke, but i heard of a anarchistic scheme this weekend that i think we should discuss ["We"? I'm such a tool]
This plan originated with a Greer, which wouldn't surprise you if you know these three brothers; Columbia residents and great guys who in conversation will bring up peak oil, Django Reinheart, or NPR (National Petroleum Radio). So I'm not sure which brother had the idea, maybe one of them can tell more about it, but the general plan is to get a group of about 40 people and start a commune, living off the "grid" in tents or huts, what. washing your clothes against rocks, raising naked babies, making things out of hemp, having drum circles, smoking a lot of glaucoma medicine, what have you.

Here's where VISA comes in. To afford this utopian life style one person maxes out their card to get the supplies needed for the community that year. This person, now with several thousands of dollars of debt breaks all ties to the outside world. Without a phone and address (since there's no 1 Commune Court or Ghanja Ave) the reasoning is that this person becomes untraceable and avoids debt collectors.

Then each year when you are running low on granola another person buys up to their limit, the commune gets new Phish albums and everyone rejoices, being unphased by the detriment this has to their credit score. "Man, credit scores were created buy the three imperial banks that own everything to keep the social classes in line as they continue right on raping mother nature!" and to some extent this is true, credit scores are arbitrary numbers use to determine who gets a loans and who much more someone has to pay in interest ("How am I gonna get a new car? Thanks JD!") The worse your score the more likely it is for you to stay in poverty

So, i'm sure there are some technical problems to be work out of the plan (like how anarchist are going to get a credit line over $5), but sense so many people go into debt already, why not hurt the system while we do it? Lets all be dirty stinking hippies together!

I'm charging head long in to the rough waters of the blog-o-sphere!

Anyone (if anyone) reading this knows I'm not the blogging type, the type to read blogs, or even string words together to form coherent sentences dare paragraphs even. But i think i'm losing touch with a lot of you (imaginary "readers"). plus i'm bored at my temp job and have time to fill...so

I know i'm slow at catching on with popular technology; cell phones, myspace, indoor plumbing. but i guess i'll give it a shot, if nothing else i'll put pictures up.

shell games and pissed pants on the L, on top of that the mayor rapes my wife

I'm working at a temp job down town. I'm a receptionist at a company that owns mobile home parks around the country. So my day consists of sitting around playing spider solitare and answer calls that start like "my neighbor's a registered sex offender and he's renting rooms out to vagrants..." or "Yeah, the garage on my double wide's leakin!..."

The nice thing about it is that i can walk around downtown on my lunch hour. I love the activity and the architecture, plus the view on the river is great. there is this one guy at case plaza who has been standing outside each day for at least a month. He looks respectable, wears a full suit, has a briefcase. and a large well typed and designed sign, that reads "Mayor Daley, Stop Raping My Wife!" I want to ask him about it, but i'm worried he'll tell me and that it wont live up to what i think it is.

The job might last up to 8 more weeks so its given me a lot of time to look for other jobs, apply, get calls back, get my hopes up, and then not get called back after the interviews.

As for the subject line, the train ride home is pretty entertaining sometimes. Yesterday a guy squeezed past me to take the seat next to mine. Looks at me, then looks at his pants. laughs. "Stores don't let you use the bathrooms no more" smiles. I take my book and decide my legs aren't that tired afterall, and stand against the door rather than sit next to old Mr. Pee-pants, he doesn't seem hurt by this, though.

Then this guy sitting down near me starts talking loudly, some spiel he's proclaiming to the cubs fans around him (they're headed up to Wrigley). I don't hear what he's saying, gotten good at tuning them out, showing not even the least bit of acknowledgement of their existence. People either want money or to tell you about their god, or both.

So now I look down and he's got this shell game on his lamp, they're not shells though, they're pepsi caps with a pea under one. Know how this works? he spins them around, you guess which one, some how he cheats and you lose money. So he's asking (more demanding that someone tells him what cap its under. after some time the guy across from him picks and the shell game guy gives him a 100 from this wad he's got. The guy who guessed is terrified of the money and what it means he's gotten himself into.

Now shell guy is shouting "Okay buddy! put up 100, match it match it. its that easy" it being clear this guy wants him to put up a hundred of his own dollars on the game, the cubs fan shoves back the money with embarrassment. Now this couple, dress in cubs jerseys, they say "oh yeah man, i want some of the action" they actually say that. conveniently the already have a wad of their own cash out. and they start playing, but they lose. the guy with the game takes their money, gives them a dirty look and moves on. meanwhile they dont seem to mind loosing the cash.

so the cubbies get off at the ballpark, no one having bet, all get off but the couple. I'm still reading and now these too, this shell guy and another guy i didn't even see are yelling. He's saying "what the fuck! you shit for brains" yelling at them for not picking right, this being their part, in getting the naive cubs-tourist to play. They push and shout all, right under me, but i dont exist because i've got a book.

finally they move to the next car, i sit down and of course this guy who's been quiet until now, patiently waiting for his turn to sell crazy, tells the car how hot hells gonna be. I think, save it for winter, buddy, then i'll be interested.