And the Winner of the Unaplogetic Scumbag Award is…

Todd Stroger!


Congratulations Todd, you have worked hard to win this award- Previously known as the “Dick Cheney Grant”- and we are happy to take a few minutes and admire your scumbaggery.


It’s not easy to rise to the top of Illinois Political Scum.  There was a long list of candidates for this honor, but you just wanted it more.  Some people thought that Blagovich would win it, but it was decided that he was too dumb to be considered unapologetic.  Your frequent accusations of racism when being questioned about your sketchy behavior finally blew Blago out of the running.


Also of note: your exploitation of your father’s illness and death, your strong support of nepotism, and your kick-ass idea to raise sales tax to 11%.  Nothing draws consumers to a county like one of the highest sales taxes in the country! We were impressed to learn that you began your career as an investment banker, and like to reflect on what kind of incentives would lead a man to leave investing for the lucrative tide pool of local government.


We hope you enjoy the benefits of being a winner of the Unapologetic Scumbag Award.  Although without any pesky morals or ethics, we know you’ll go really far in politics with or without this prestigious award.


An added bonus is a reservation just for you and previous award winners at the best lunch table in the Cook County Jail.  We know that you’ll enjoy your career leading up to your final destination, and we’ll enjoy watching you get there.

You’re Getting Your Self-Consciousness All Over Me

Calling yourself self-conscious is just a nice way to tell people you are judgmental.  It might not be obvious unless you’ve watched as much TV as I have, but it makes a lot of sense.  You are nervous about the way you look or sound because you think that people are carefully tracking your progress- like you do with other people.


  I don’t mean this in a mean way, but people actually don’t care that much about you.  Don’t think of it as a bad thing, think of it as liberating.  Are you wearing one brown sock and one black sock?  No one will notice!  Tell a lame joke at a cocktail party?  No one was really listening!  Sure, there are a few people around you who are noting your flaws, but you deserve it because you are a probably a hypercritical freak.


  You probably haven’t made the connection before because you were busy sneering at fat people and calculating the cost of your upcoming plastic surgeries.  You would enjoy life so much more if you stopped freaking about about what people think of you and just be cool.  No one said it’s easy, but wouldn’t you rather be the naked guy in the locker room than the guy comparing himself to the naked guy in the locker room?


  I don’t want to turn this into something about me, but the truth is that your self-consciousness is making me uncomfortable.  I feel like you’re forcing me to stare at your bald spot or your scab.  I don’t want to see that shit!


  People should go out of their way not to make me upset in any way.

Willing to Help

Dear Poor Lucky Me,
I have noticed that people who tell us what the weather will be- formerly known as the “weatherman”, now the “weatherperson”- is very often a moderately attractive woman with ill-fitting clothes.


It is hard for me to pay attention to the weather when I am starring at blazers whose buttons are bulging and skirts that bunch up over a poochy stomach. I keep thinking that maybe its just one day of a bad wardrobe choice, but no, it’s consistently bad.


I have a friend who does not dress very well and I am considering encouraging her to go to weatherperson school and major in meteorology or something like it.


If the weatherperson is a man, he is inevitably kind of douchy looking, not someone you would ever want to have a beer with.


Maybe this is a regional problem. I saw a weather person in Florida who was so sexy looking, the only thing she was missing was a pole.


Anyway, I just thought I would ask you if I should write or email the individual stations to critique their weatherpeople. Do you think this would help?


Signed, Curious


Dear Curious,
Local news teams are the freak shows of modern America. After the 1970′s when circus freak shows became socially unacceptable, people clamored for another group to stare and jeer at. So local news teams had a nationwide meeting and decided to fill in the gap. That’s why they have teeth so white that you can’t look directly at them, and hard hair do’s. The weather people are often the show’s main attraction- like Zip the Pinhead or Lobster Boy.


Poor fashion sense is just the tip of the ice berg. They can also have annoying accents, robot-like mannerisms, and indeterminable genitals. Most of them look like Barbie dolls “down there” trust me.


I think your input would be very helpful. Entertainers like to hear from their fans, especially when there is constructive criticism to be doled out. I emailed Paris Hilton several times about her dumb whorishness and behold- you rarely ever hear about her anymore. Well, I think she still has a television show but that doesn’t prove anything anymore.


Sincerely, Poor Lucky Me

A Really Great Thing

Something wonderful has happened. 


Something so delightful, so entertaining, so fascinating that I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same. 


Have you already guessed?  It’s the Real Housewives of New Jersey! 


You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you?  Life is so funny.  Once in a while, when you’re really feeling hopeless and blue, the universe will deliver onto you a sliver of immeasurable joy.  Like the Real Housewives of New Jersey. 


I know what you’re thinking: That show is awful; it reinforces stereotypes about women and the Italian American community.  It makes people have unrealistic hopes and dreams about their own futures.  All of that is true, but still.  Don’t you find comfort in watching caricatures of Italian American women talk about their hobbies (getting mani/pedis), their mottos (Happy wife, happy life) and their sometimes-dangerous insistence on always telling it like it is? 


It doesn’t appear as if these people have ever watched a news channel or read a book, and that’s just fine by me.  I think it’s possible that human evolution is progressing more along the lines of a bell curve.  We got so far using our brains to invent the modern world and cure diseases that we are now taking on more attributes of primates.  People on reality TV can’t worry about feeding the hungry- they’ve got grooming rituals to preform!  Breast implants and jewelry are not going to buy themselves for god’s sake. 


Besides, someone has to stimulate the economy.  We should commend our brothers and sisters who have the courage to buy $12,000 couches.  It’s not easy to spend money like that when so many people in this country are out of work and losing their homes.  Well, it makes it a little easier if you don’t give a shit about others. 


I say bravo, Bravo!  Thank you for reminding us that people like the Real Housewives of New Jersey are alive and well and getting their nails done.  Again.

Ex-Fatty Not Flattered

Dear Poor Lucky Me,
I recently lost a good amount of weight, and if I do say so myself, I look pretty hot. My problem is what to say to the complete social morons who, when they see me, say “My god, you’ve lost A TONOFWEIGHT!!!”


I suppose they think I will be flattered by their comments, but I silently think “Did hey really think that I needed to lose a TONOFWEIGHT???”


I have tried laughing it off and just changing the subject, but nothing seems to work.


Please, help.




Skinny Now


Dear Skinny Now,


I know it sounds like these people are just giving you clumsy compliments, but they are actually telling you that they are insanely jealous. Most asshole behavior is due to jealousy.


I know this because so many people are jealous of me so they say rude things like “Why don’t you ever get to work on time” and “Why are you drinking scotch out of a milk carton during this meeting” and “You have dog poo on your shoe and have walked all around my office and ground it into the carpet.”




I’m sure you didn’t have a ton of weight to lose and I’m sure you look lovely. Instead of changing the subject, why don’t you say “I know you could lose weight too, if you just try! Do you want some tips?” Then smile sweetly. Or laugh maniacally.




Poor Lucky Me

Cash-For-Clunkers Bill?

I like reading the news, but due to my impressively short attention span I can’t always make sense of the more complicated reports. For instance, during my taco lunch, I read the following headline: “Obama, law makers agree on cash for clunkers bill”


I put down my taco.


“Gosh” I thought “that headline makes it sound like the government is going to give cash incentives for people to turn in their fuel-inefficient cars for new ones.”  But that couldn’t be, so I thought I’d try to read the whole article.


Before I go on, I want to explain something to you people.  I love Obama too, ok?  I voted for him, I went to the rally at Grant Park on election night and held hands and swayed and cried with strangers.  I felt like this country was going to be ok because we beat the freaks. 


But I’m not amnesic about the American political system.  I know that if Obama was truly a golden boy with nothing to hide, he wouldn’t have made it so high up in the Democratic party.  Politicians aren’t created in a vacuum; they have to claw their way to the top like everyone else.


All that being said, I’ve become incredibly cynical about this god damn stupid bail out.  Mostly I don’t understand it, also I’ve been really bored lately and like having something reliable to bitch about, and finally I just don’t trust that in the end the rich people won’t still be wicked rich and regular people won’t still dream about being slutty enough to audition for the Rock of Love Bus.


I was able to read several paragraphs of the Cash For Clunkers article.  It seems that the government is planning to offer $4500 vouchers for people to trade in their old cars for new fuel efficient cars.


Am I dumber than I thought, or is this a major set up up for unintended consequences?  The plan is for people to basically throw their old cars in the garbage and go into further debt to buy shiny new ones?  I like shiny things too, I just don’t understand what will happen if this plan works and we’re left with countless old cars?  Do they go in a dumpster, or are they made into faux coral reefs?


Look I don’t claim to know very much, but I think it’s safe to say that throwing away your old stuff and buying new stuff isn’t going to help the environment, isn’t going to help your credit rating, and probably won’t do much to prop up what is obviously a drowning industry. 


I can’t offer any ideas, but I’ve got the lion’s share of swear words to describe this stimulus package f*ckery. Not that I really understand very much of it.  But I really hope I’m wrong, and that Cash for Clunkers is a great idea.

My Hobby: Part One

Worrying is one of my many hobbies and something I feel gives me an interesting edge on my peers. I may not be able to accomplish a lot due to my paralyzing anxiety, but I am capable of obsessively examining every angle of every problem.


I also enjoy worrying about how mundane and superficial my worries are. Despite a carefully cultivated projection of joy and generosity, I can’t always stop myself from waking up in the middle of the night panting and sweating over whether or not I paid my credit card bill on time.


Today I read an interesting article about how to increase your blog traffic:


Since this is one of my current big worries, I decided to be proactive and try some of the advice. I thought that using my hilarious observations I could easily write abut Google (#32 on the list). I decided that setting a reasonable goal would help the worry that sometimes feels like a prosthetic leg has been strapped to my hip and I’m required to use the third leg with complete grace and ease anytime I go out in public. So I sat down at my desk and started writing about Google.


Google changes their logo all the time- my brother pointed that out. Google somehow reads my emails and puts relevant ads on the sides- my paranoia pointed that out. What else. What else. Google changed the internet – er, well it was like the first um, god this is embarrassing because I watched this whole show called The Internet and it described exactly how Google really did something important.


Now I’m worrying. Is writing an essay about Google when I can’t hobble together three sentence that don’t sound like they were written by a chicken at a typewriter going to make me sound dumb? Or worse; will I sound like someone who thinks they’re of slightly above average intelligence but their SAT scores wouldn’t back them up.


Now I’ve worrying very much. Do I sound old for referencing the SAT’s? Do kids take that anymore? Do only old people refer to young people as kids? Does the tee-shirt I just bought with a silk screen of a fork look like I’m trying too hard? Will it end up in the back of my drawer with my too tight band shirts from Lollapalooza ’94?


Now I’m worrying very very very very much. How dare I give a shit about how my fork shirt will make me look when am so lucky to have been born in America in and am encouraged but not forced to vote in Democratic elections and not have to worry about dressing up anymore to go to my fine job?


I’m not writing anymore, but I am obsessing. It feels like a lot of work to fret this much. I should lie on my couch for a few minutes, maybe watch a couple of Simpson episodes to calm myself down. I wonder if there are pickles left in the fridge.

The Improv Class

After a decade of consideration, I finally signed up for an improv class. At first I had to act real cool- like I didn’t care if I’d be funny or not. That way if I wasn’t any good it wouldn’t be a big deal.


The first few classes I didn’t exactly suck, but I definitely felt like a monkey at a wine tasting. I guess that’s not that extraordinary, since I spend most of my life feeling like I’m a monkey at one event or another, and any minute someone’s going to tap my furred shoulder and thank me for wearing a diaper but politely request that I leave because all the guests have figured out that while I share much of their DNA I’m not entirely of the same species.


It was the last class of level A that I got a laugh. It was a big laugh, a crowd-goes-wild laugh, a head swelling, chest puffing high on life laugh. And suddenly I felt something stirring deep inside me. A little egg that had been incubating in my guts for years was hatching. I knew that I was going to stop acting like I didn’t care, and start taking this shit real serious.


From that point on I poured all my self esteem into a three hour class on Sunday afternoons. I sobbed in the shower before each class then felt more alive between 3pm and 6pm than I ever have in my life. My classmates were supportive and encouraging. They complimented my scenes even when I thought I had blown it. I trusted their opinions and ached for their laughs and approval.


But an unexpected change has come over me. I bought into it. It’s like I watched the same infomercial over and over again until I bought Sham Wows for me and all my friends. I believed that I was funny, and talented. And that belief took on a life of it’s own. I could no longer sit quietly in a group of people- sipping vodka and zoning out. I was now an Improv Actor and was infinitely more interesting than whoever I was with.


Oh, did you think you had a funny story about your job? Why don’t you give me the outline, and I’ll retell it and sprinkle in some fart jokes and a Yul Brenner impersonation. Or better yet, why don’t you just quiet down and let me tell several funny stories about my job. That way we all know for sure we’ll be entertained. Oh, did you want to run our weekly team meeting at work? Ok fine, but I hope you’re prepared for my hilarious snide comments and spot-on sound effects throughout. Why don’t you just ditch the power point presentation, and I’ll tell the story about the time I didn’t wear underwear to work and split my pants. Trust me, it kills every time.


The Improv Affect has left me like a wild animal. Or to revisit a metaphor; I’m still a monkey at a wine tasting, but I have torn off my diaper and am crapping on the fois grois. I’m swinging from the chandelier and hooting. I’m not trying to be disruptive, I’m just trying to entertain you. And me. Mostly me though, because I get bored easily. And I secretly think I’m funnier than you.

Sunday, May 3rd Announcement

Dear Fans, Devotees, Stalkers, Rivals, and Friends,


Our editorial team asks for your patience while Poor Lucky Me undergoes some format changes. We hope that you’ll give us your feedback either by commenting or by emailing us:


Some people say “You can’t please all the people all the time” but here at Poor Lucky Me we think that’s loser talk. We strive to please you all, all of the time. We hope that you’ll share things that you like with your friends, and criticize thoroughly what you hate.


Questions are always welcomed and will be answered with regularity. Suggestions are also welcomed and will either be acted upon or made fun of if they make us feel insecure about our own ideas.


We look forward to growing, and hope that you enjoy the journey with us.


With great love and respect,
Poor Lucky Me

Friday, May 1st

An Open Letter the the Swine Flu

Dear Swine Flu,

You think you’re so tough don’t you.  You’ve got everyone in a panic- not taking the subway, wearing those nurse masks, staying home from school…it must be quite a thrill for you.  But I’m not falling for it.

Two months ago I got the regular flu.  It wasn’t the kind of thing where you have a cold but tell your boss its the flu so they’ll have more sympathy; this was the Influenza.  I sweated and groaned on my couch for three days.  I cursed the heavens and asked forgiveness.  With my last ounce strength I cracked open my window and called for my mama.  She never came, but when my fever broke I knew I was going to make it out alive.

When I peeled my pajamas off my scummy body I felt like I was the champion of the world.  Influenza and I had a vicious cage match and I won.  He had to crawl out of my apartment bloodied and bruised and searching for a weaker victim.  I laughed like a villain as the flu crawled out my front door and into the hallway, hiding under the door of the nice Indian guy who lives across the hall.

I bet you didn’t count of that, did you Swine Flu?  You didn’t count on people like me, who kicked your cousin’s ass and sent him packing.  I travelled to hell and back with nary a sunburn.  I’m not afraid of you just because you’ve got a fancy name and travelled here from Mexico.  I’ve caught scarier things in Mexico than a damn flu.

So don’t count on me washing my hands or covering my mouth when I cough.  Don’t expect me to rush to the doctor if my nose runs; I’ll wipe it on my sleeve and keep right on going.  I might stay home from work a few days, but that’s unrelated to you (even if I invoke your name to do so).  I hope you enjoy your reign of terror while it lasts, because humans are going to have the last laugh.


Poor Lucky Me

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...