Tag Archives | feeling mental

Heavy Sighs & Returns

Well, we’re back from Indiana, and I’m hitting the ground running like a freshly excreted dog turd onto a frosty spring lawn.

The four-day trip into America’s heartland of COVID negligence for a soccer tournament was better than I thought (in that it happened at all) and just as bad as I thought (aforementioned negligence, combined with COVID fuckedupedness and guilt).

I’ll explain a bit.

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The Chronicles of Meh

My newfound custom of getting up early continued on Sunday, and with that, I got a shit ton of stuff done, including baking some crispy, crunchy toasted homemade muffin bread and installing an Ortleib bag bracket on the Fattishson (The Roscoe’s current name before it becomes a 29er in the future). 

Then I decided to ride.

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Mindbender and Me


“Here, take this. It’s a mixture of horse placenta, baby spit, and the toenail of a sodomized goat, manufactured in the basement of a New Jersey pharmaceutical company/suburban home.”


“Will it slow my metabolism down even further and cause me to gain even more weight like all the other shit has?”


“No, no, it was weight neutral in trials; it will just help with your want to leave the house. And who knows, it might even get you back on your bike or in the woods with your camera. Trade: Phenodihydrochloride benzelex. Street: The embalmer”


“Balls. I’ll swallow it and run a mile.”

Me grabs handful of colorful pills and shoves them down his throat.


“Not those pills, THESE pills, those are my M&Ms, you stupid nipple. By the way, you still owe your $30 copay from our last session.”

Me proceeds to write a check with milk chocolate—now freed from its hard, colorful candy shell— smeared across his chubby face.


“What’s today’s date again?”2


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Blinded by The Light

“Blinded by the light,
Woke up like a douche1 in the middle of the night.”

— Blinded by The Light, by Manfred Mann’s Earth Band

After days, nay weeks, of being a morbidly obese, mentally drained housebound hermit, I ventured out into the world on Friday morning for a snowshoe at the Forest Hill Nature Area. Hooray for being a functioning adult.

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Winter Continues

There’s really nothing like waking up to a fresh February snowstorm. Coffee tastes a bit better, breakfast is just a little more relaxing, and the urge to angrily shit on the floor like a caged ape and throw it at the first person that walks in front of the house is just a tad more indomitable.

If you think that throwing feecus is adjectivally extreme, just be glad I didn’t venture into the messy masturbatory world of caged primates and/or their evolutionary cousin, the overweight housebound adult male human in winter hibernation mode, AKA Auto-erotic-hibernation.1

That was probably more weather-inspired poo and goo talk than you or anyone other than me wanted. I digress.

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Lumbered Questions

Greetings, fellow Soilers, today I bring you Reader Mail!

Why? Because I got nothing else to talk about. Yeah, I could talk more about bikes and parts like I did in the last post, but in reality, the (higher-end) retail bike biz might not even be a thing in a few months, given 2020’s perfect shit storm of COVID, factories moving due to Trump tariffs, and unforeseen consumer demand. Not to sound like a fucking QAnon Qonspiracy Qook, but if you want a bike and it’s in stock, BUY IT NOW!! Same with parts.

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25 Minutes of Heck

1,500 seconds worth of first world semi-problems

Monday was Monday, but it could have been Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday. Yes, I know, it’s been discussed ad nauseam; that’s just how COVID life be. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck, but sometimes things—like 46.9% of all Americans—suck.

Tuesday, on the other hand, well, Tuesday can go fuck itself. All it took was 25 minutes for me to want to go back to bed and or start cracking beers.

Minute 1

I stop by Wifey’s office in the former Chamber of Farts, where she lets me know that B is off school due to icy road conditions. Apparently, we had freezing rain overnight, and the roads are way too treacherous for the teachers to get to their virtual classrooms located in their actual classrooms at the school.

Minute 5

I mix up a shitty cup of coffee and then somehow get the dogs outside and off of the deck that is coated in a glaze of slippy ice.

Minute 7

A morning dump sneaks up on me like a sniper deep in the shit behind enemy lines; there were many casualties.

Minute 11

I go out to the garage to open up the giant tub of Ice Meltz® I bought recently. I removed the hard plastic tab as instructed, but I can’t get the lid off. To quote my father, “well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

My thumbs and I fight with it for a few minutes before busting out the right tools for the job; a tree pruner and a hammer. Next time I’ll get medieval on it with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch, Marsellus Wallace style.

Minute 15

I spread some “salt” on the Cul-De-Sac-Shack’s driveway before taking an extra cup inside to access the front sidewalk without having to walk on the icy driveway.

Minute 16

The dogs let me know they want morning treats with crying and growling. I supply the treats, and they both shun them for some reason. Fucking stupid dogs! I love them, but some days!!! 

[shakes fist at the sky]

Minute 20

I grab my big red cup of Ice Meltz® and head out on the front porch—Lola excitedly follows me outside soon as she hears the front door open. Not wanting her out while I’m spreading probably not all that pet-friendly ice melt, I try to get her back inside. She is not cooperating.

I frustratedly sit my cup of Ice Meltz® down on the porch and reach down to try and get her in. 

Minute 21

Somehow, in the span of fewer than sixty seconds, I seem to forget my purpose for being outside, step down onto the ice-covered cement porch step, and slide right off the porch and onto the sidewalk and snow-covered front yard.

Being a long-time expert at embarrassing myself, I quickly do a scan around the “sac’ to see if anyone was outside, and then laugh and raise my arms in victory as if I meant to do it, just in case any neighbors saw from their windows. They might be looking out their windows thinking that I am a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, but at least they’ll know I’m a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch and can still laugh at being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch. 

Minute 22

Lola runs right into the house. It seems all I need to do to get her inside is throw my ass off the front porch and into the front yard.

Minute 23

I go inside and shake off the snow and assess any injuries. My shoulder and hip took the brunt of the fall, and I was helped a bit by the snow in the front yard, but I have no doubt that I’ll still bruise due to the blood thinners in my system. For now, I’m just happy I didn’t hit my head or fall entirely on the icy cement.

Minute 24

I finish the job I set out to do and go inside, fighting back the urge to weep at the slap-stick idiocy that has followed me around for 49.5 years.

Minute 25

I revisit Wifey in her office to relay the story, get some sympathy, and apologize for being the sort of man that can’t open plastic containers of salt correctly or provide proper treats for our dogs. I also apologize for being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, and even though I can, and do, laugh at myself, somedays I just want to go back to bed and start over later.


Tan, Maskless, and Fascist

Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following post contains a large dose of my opinion and some large quantities of venom. I am on a journey to free myself of that stuff, but this week I just don’t have it (Thanks Trump). Don’t read it if you don’t like that shit. There are no photos, ’cause I ain’t got none today.

— Management

Cliff’s Stupid Notes Version of This Post:

  1. I’m fighting off the return of “a mood.”
  2. People are the worst.
  3. Being tan in Michigan during January makes you look like a freak.
  4. I have a lot of diarrhea (that’s actually not in the post, but I figured I would share it, just because).
  5. I’m pretty much an asshole.
  6. Popeye liked his elbows sucked (I assume).
  7. Things will get better, probably. But maybe not.
  8. Let’s get loaded.

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2021, Mariah, & Chumbawamba

Unrelated Soiled Chamois file photo.

I know we’re only 4 days in, but so far, 2021 feels like I just stepped in a big hairy pile of spilled dog bowl water while making my way through a dark kitchen for my first cup of morning coffee.

One day into 2021, I found out that one of my close relatives had just tested positive for COVID (they’re reportedly doing well), and apparently, my family (sans Wifey, B, and myself) thought that it was a good idea to gather together on Christmas Eve, even though it was strongly suggested by the medical community that they don’t (they reportedly tested negative).

APPLICABLE SIDE NOTE: I highly recommend listing to Episode 9, Fire at The Beverly Hills Supper Club, from the podcast Cautionary Tales by Tim Harford. It really shows the dangers of what digging in and eschewing words of warning can do.

Two days later, we found out some BFFs also contracted and became ill with the virus and are just about to exit quarantine. That was followed by me going for groceries a few hours later and seeing close to 10 people selfishly deciding that they didn’t need to wear a mask.

[insert heavy sigh and head-shaking here]

I shouldn’t hate on 2021; I mean, it hasn’t had the best start, but it has a lot of pressure on its shoulders.

I can see ’21 sitting in its dressing room on New Year’s Eve as some guy no one has ever heard of, and a bloated and crazy Mariah Carey count down the last minutes of 2020. It’s nervously rocking back and forth, dividing its attention between making sure it has all the months in order, gawking at Mariah Carey’s massive fake boobs on the nearby monitor, and muttering, “don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020… .”

Then, as the guy no one ever heard of, Mariah, and her two boobs count down the final seconds of 2020, ’21 stands up, waits for the cue, heads towards the stage, and promptly trips and lands face-first on the floor at the feet of the guy no one ever heard of and Mariah Carey. Well, at least it assumes it’s Mariah Carey; from its perspective on the floor, all it sees is massive under boob ensconced in a sparkly dress and a whole lot of craziness.

2021 will be just fine; it just had a wonky start. It will stand up, dust itself off, push the guy no one ever heard of out of the way, take in one last view of Mariah’s two friends, hand her a card for a good therapist, and start the year as best as it can.

2021 doesn’t want to be compared to 2020 and will confidently point out that the issues I talked of above were technically 2020 problems. I get that, so I am willing to give ’21 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.

I will not be making any resolutions, plans, or goals for 2021. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t mean that in an I give up, bitter fatalist sort of way, but rather in a Chumbawamba, get knocked down, get up again, sort of way. I am merely accepting that I can’t control what other people say or do, and much of what happens in life is out of my control; all I can control is how I react. And I got this.


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