Bring Back Pantsing!

Bring Back Pantsing!

I’ve recently de-activated my Facebook account.

It’s a great platform to promote your BS but also there is the unmistakable aura of that dweeby kid Mark Zuckerburg that pervades with a woke wand from Weenerville.

I would sometimes get kicked off Facebook for remarks I would make about super stars like Dylan Mulvaney and his ilk, but when you get right down to it, the place just gave me the creeps.

I’ve since delved more into “X, formerly known as Twitter, for my social media buzz.  Something about Elon Musk also scares me but in a weird science fiction movie kinda way.

Of course back in my day we had policies in place for folks like Mr. Zuckerberg. I’m sure as a youth, his arrogant demeanor could have used some social conditioning.

In my old neighborhood, the south side of Chicago, we would see a guy with that kind of attitude and say, “That guy needs to get pantsed!”

Rep. Adam Kinzinger, R-Ill., gets emotional as he speaks before the House select committee hearing on the Jan. 6 attack on Capitol Hill in Washington, Tuesday, July 27, 2021. (Chip Somodevilla/Pool via AP)

Take a look at former congressman Adam Kinzinger. I know almost nothing about this guy, except he loves to call Trump the Boogie Man. He’s an extremely annoying  little twit who juts out his chin and  pouts like he’s going to start crying any minute.

I apologize Adam, for generalizing you into a category of whippersnappish arrogance, but you are the Poster Boy for Pantsing.  Those were my exact words first time I saw him grimacing on TV as he called for impeaching President Trump. “This guy needs to be pantsed….like twenty years ago.” And because of that he has honed his skills as an arrogant whiner and now is a correspondent for CNN. Yeah like they needed a white Don Lemon!

“Pantsing” someone involved two or three guys grabbing a dorky guy, holding him down, removing his shoes and pants and his undies, and then releasing him into the world bottomless, while his pants would be thrown over a power line or atop the backboard of the basketball courts. Certainly in retrospect it sounds cruel, but it was also a great tool for humiliating and enlightening the occasional pain-in- the-arse twits who got on our nerves.

And in most cases it had the desired effect. The Pants victim would run around with their balls and weenie exposed to the world while everybody pointed and laughed. Next time you met them they wouldn’t act so “pimpy”.  They’d turn the corner on their personality disorders and turn out to be okay guys. They just needed to get “pantsed!”

Certainly I got pantsed myself. Ha! Plenty of times. Usually by my brothers.

When you’re the youngest of six boys, there’s going to be some hazing hi-jinks tormenting your little brother.  So don’t blame me, blame my brothers!

My brother Willie was ten years older than me and he  was one sick individual, but also very funny in his cruel intentions. Of course it wasn’t funny until it was someone else.

Willie had invented something called the “PeePaTouche”, which involved him, assisted by my brother Johnny, (aka Bobo), grabbing me spread eagle from each side and then another brother would throw a dictionary at your groin.

 I don’t think I ever endured the entire “PeePaTouche” procedure, before squirming away from my brothers. But just hearing Wille scream across the living room, “PeePaTouche Mike, get the dictionary!”, was enough to get me to jump/escape  out our front room  window.

When I was in eighth grade we were hanging out at the local public school: Kellogg, named for Kate Star Kellogg, a feisty suffragette and educator who died in 1925. I remember their principal was Miss Dooney, she looked like Mamie Van Doren after a rough night. Anyway Kellogg was usually off-limits to us kids from Christ the King parochial school across the street from Kellogg. But for some odd reason, (maybe a holy day of obligation?), there was a group of CK guys shooting baskets over at  Kellogg after school that day.

We were surrounded by Prods, our slang for Protestants. As far as we were concerned they were foreigners, Godless WASPS buzzing around the exterior of our Catholic education. We didn’t think much of it until a kid from Kellogg rode his bike by us on the basket-ball court and yelled “Feckin’ Catholics, Get Lost!”

We immediately huddled up and said, “Let’s pants that guy!”

We managed to wrangle the kid off his bike, and quickly yanked off his dungarees while he screeched like the squirrel he was.  Some older Prod guys stepped in, but when we told them what the kid said, they encouraged the continuation of the ceremonial pantsing. So, getting pantsed was a good lesson for mouthy buttholes.

Watching politics these days I see so many candidates who were obviously never pantsed and the result is the bravado of a noid.  

Guys like former Trump attorney and “confidante” Michael Cohen. Immigration boss Mayorkas should have been pantsed repeatedly starting around the age of 11. Anthony Blinken? Please pants him, but it’s too late now. See that’s the thing, these dude wipes needed to be pansted in their youth, when they could have applied the lesson they learned. But society today alas, would frown on pantsing.

Hey, you know who else needs to get pantsed? Rachel Maddow!

Probably cuz she’s always wearing pants. Too late though, to straighten her out!

You wanna save the world? Bring back “pantsing”.

-30-

Regrets, I’ve had a few

I’m celebrating my 75th birthday next Saturday Dec. 16th.  So let me pause to reflect on my wonderful life indeed and wonder how in the world I’m still alive.

Knock wood, no disease despite a profligate lifestyle and unconscious disregard for the feelings of others.

I’ve been very lucky, yes I will count my blessings, including:

My wife, the lovely Mary Carney, the most gorgeous gal on Broadway when we met in New York almost fifty years ago in a production of Shakespeare’s ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. My twin sons Bill and Paddy, continue to amaze me and make me laugh. My grandkids Charlotte and. Mikey, love them to pieces.

And of course my friends, who have been pals with me through thick and thin. Yeats said, “Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.”

However, I also give thanks for all the Houli-haters in my world, and there are plenty, some I don’t even know about I’m sure.

Most of you know the “Houli-haters” club as that group of ugly, fat chicks who are repulsed by my talent, good looks, and unfailing optimism. And all I can say girls is “Mea culpa, chubettes.”

And while the Houli-haters club is not exclusively female, it might as well be ‘cuz you HH members of the opposite sex are just left wing weenies pretending to be men.

If it weren’t for you I would have croaked a long time ago I’m sure. But your unceasing hatred of me is actually what keeps me going, fuels my ferocious wit and brings me to my knees in church in repentance of my many sins.  So thanks!

So, in no particular order, I’d like to say thanks and beg your pardon.

To the many drunk Mt. Greenwood folks who came to my Hibernian radio show one night a couple of summers ago in the beer garden of the Cork n’ Kerry, when we featured the brother of a fallen female Chicago police officer on the show. Sure I was shocked when the crowd turned ugly and went batshit when you did not get  your “free” pizza and proceeded to get in my face, video tape me and my crew eating OUR pizza, spread all kinds of BS stories of my actions that night, called our sponsors to dump our show, and basically ran us out of the pub that night with your misplaced aggression and vilified our show on Facebook the next morning with your lies in an incident that will forever be known as “Pizza-Gate”, I can only say thanks. That evening will always be one of the high points of my career!

To the kind folks at the Siskel Film Center, where I founded our Annual Irish American Movie Hooley, (the only Irish American film festival in the world), I particularly want to thank your transexual  box office manager, who came to meet me at the loading dock that afternoon when I was dropping off programs for our big weekend. I’ve got my car parked in the alley off State Street and this guy, (he had to be about six feet, 250lbs), comes out with a hand truck wearing a fecking dress! I burst out laughing and immediately thought of Milton Berle.  But Uncle Milty was appalled at my mirth and the next thing I know he/she has alerted the powers-that-be at the Art Institute and Siskel brass to what an insensitive lout I am and next thing I know they are threatening to shut down my film festival cuz I laughed at a man in a dress!

To the costume designer of Sam Shepard’s play TOOTH OF CRIME at Goodman theatre in 1974 who insisted that the satin pants designed for my character of “Galactic Jack”  must be worn “commando”, thanks. I’ll never forget squatting on the stage on opening night in the middle of my act and the seam of those same satin pants split right up the middle and my family jewels plopped right into view as the audience snickered row by row as my testicles made their Chicago professional theatrical debut.

Oh I’m sure there are other regrets I can’t recall but it’s the bumps in the road that make life interesting and yes, they keep me going.

So next weekend I’m inviting everybody to celebrate with me on Sat. Dec. 16th at Barney Callaghan’s Irish Pub, 10618 S. Western from 4-8PM, where we will once again celebrate our Irish culture with Balladeer Liam Durkin, international sensation Irish fiddler Cathryn Cowell, Pipes and Drums of the Emerald Society of the Chicago Police Dept., Irish dancers Michalene Donnelly, Maggie Olk, Jack Bullington and Tadgh Spillane as well as other shenanigans, a free Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey raffle and surprise guests!

Houli-haters please stay home.

For the rest, please join us, all proceeds benefit Hibernian Media, and your suggested tax-deductible donation of fifty bucks will get you in, but we’ll take whatever we can get.

You’ll meet some Chicago All-Stars and I’ll keep my pants on, promise!

Thanks and God bless!

There will be pizza.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

St. Patrick’s Day 2022

The other night Saint Patrick was snoozing in heaven after falling asleep watching the TV show “The First 48” when the GOD PHONE next to his couch began insistently buzzing off its hook.

St. Patrick stirred from his slumber and eyeballed the red phone, which hadn’t rung in many years. He mumbled to himself, “Uh oh, something huge must be happening in Ireland!”

He picked up the receiver and faked alertness, “Helloooo!”

He heard the voice of Our Lord Jesus Christ bellow into his ear, “Pat, get over to my office immediately! We gotta talk!”

“Yes Lord, I will be there in a jiffy!”

God sounded angry and let him know it. “Don’t give me this jiffy crap, I want to see you NOW!”

Patrick hustled off the couch and made his way down the hallway to God’s office. His mind was racing, trying to guess what it was all about. Ireland has had many troubles over the years and just lately, within the last half century anyway, had joined the “woke” culture and been gradually turning away from the Catholic Church and electing some very strange leaders. On top of that the whole world has been upended with this goofy pandemic and this guy Putin was itching to blow up everything.

He bolted into God’s outer office and smiled at the gorgeous receptionist. “He’s waiting for you Patrick, so go right in.”

God had his back to him as he gazed out the heavenly window, “Have a seat Pat. We have a situation we need to discuss.”

What is it, Lord? Is it Belfast? Dublin? Trouble in the Dáil Éireann, Oireachtas or Stormont?

God spun around in his chair and dropped a copy of the Chicago Tribune on his desk as his eyes met Patrick’s. “It’s on the southside of Chicago!”

Patrick sat down gingerly and picked up the paper. “Well, there are plenty of Irish on the south side, lots of Southside Irish Catholics. But come on Lord, the Tribune?  You already know everything, why be reading that malarkey?”

God folded his hands under his chin and peered at Patrick. “Just read the story, about Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot, read what it says.”

Patrick took out his reading glasses and started scanning the page, mumbling as he read along until he finally said, “A lawsuit against the city by a former Park District attorney alleges that Mayor Lori Lightfoot berated staff in obscene terms over Columbus statue, told them “My dick is bigger than yours and the Italians, I have the biggest dick in Chicago.”

God grinned at Patrick. “Ain’t that something?”

He then leaned forward and asked, “And what exactly is happening in Chicago next week?”

Patrick gulped. “Oh eh, The St. Patrick’s Day Parade?”

God chuckled, “Yes keep going, what else, more specifically?”

Patrick squeaked out his answer, “The Southside Irish St. Patrick’s Day Parade…which has been canceled the last two years…is returning on Western Avenue Sunday March 13th.”

Jesus laughed, “Jackpot! So, you have the mayor of Chicago claiming to have the “biggest dick in Chicago” marching in a parade through the 19th Ward, a very heavily Irish neighborhood, as you well know, and what do you think those southside hooligans are going to do when she walks her big swingin’ schwanz down Western Avenue?”

Patrick burst out laughing. “Lord that sound like a party to me!”

Jesus laughed with him, “Gee, do you think there might be some ‘shenanigans’ by the crowd at the parade that day? Maybe some signs calling her out? Some cat calls, hoots, and hollers and as your Irish like to say, “great craic” when big dick Lori strolls the avenue.”

Both now were rolling with laughter as God stood up and walked to the bar in his office. He smiled at Patrick, “The Irish are the greatest race I’ve ever created and this weekend we’re going to celebrate with music, dancing, and the great culture of the Irish, especially on the southside of Chicago, where all my favorite people come from as we laugh and cheer for this total doofus of a mayor. Pat, how about a pint?”

They clinked their glasses and laughed as Jesus said, ‘Slainte! To the Southside Irish of Chicago!”

St. Patrick took a big gulp of his porter and laughed, “We gotta invite Columbus to this too!

 

 

With Apologies to Finley Peter Dunne

The other night in a dream I was visited by the ghost of my ancient Irish mythological grandfather, Ferocious Frank O’Hooligan.
Frank was a Chicago cop, born in Kilrush, County Clare, Ireland back in 1939. Ferocious Frank O’Hooligan, was the seventh son of Finbar and Mary O’Hooligan. The family emigrated to Chicago in 1946 where Finbar opened a tavern on 79th Street, not far from Sheehy’s Funeral Home and Riley’s Trick Shop.
As a seventh son of a seventh son, Frank O’Hooligan was also blessed with the ancient Druid powers bestowed on the few favored of our race. Those powers came in handy at critical moments in his life.

Ferocious Frank was always a good man for a pint.

Once in 1963 while waiting in line to cash out his Christmas club account at the bank at 71st and Jeffrey, a pair of masked bandits entered with shotguns and demanded everyone empty their pockets and screamed for the tellers to hand over all the cash.
Frank used his Druid powers to magically turn the bad guys into braying donkeys and the guns dropped from their scrambling hooves as the alarm was sounded.
Stunned witnesses couldn’t remember exactly what happened that day but all were thankful that the off-duty Irish rookie cop had saved the day.
In my dream, Ferocious Frank appeared to me on the next stool at the Cork & Kerry Irish Pub in Bridgeport as we quaffed pints. He called me by my nickname as we discussed our beloved city of Chicago.
“Mr. Hooley! What’s this Lightfoot fella up to with the police?” he barked.
I told him, she’s not a fella, but just a diminutive lady with a little man’s complex.
Frank was upset, “Word is that this Mayor Lightfoot called the cops of Chicago, “cowards”
Well, many of the coppers have no faith in her Superintendent of Police, David Brown, and have voiced their feelings about him, and she said they are “cowards” according to the Sun-Times.
O’Hooligan scoffed, “Is she daft?”
Well, yeah kinda.
“How in the hell did she get elected?”
It’s a long story grandpa.
“And what’s all this blather about ‘defunding the police’”?
Yeah, it’s happening across the country, progressives want to replace the police with social workers to solve crime.
Ferocious Frank laughed, “Social workers? Do youse call a social worker when somebody is raping your daughter? Or stickin’ a gun in your face to hijack your car? And who the hell are these ‘progressives’ yer talkin’ about?”
Good government types who are hellbent on destroying the status quo, up is down, black is white, women are men, and men are eunuchs, and we’re all racists. We call them ‘goo-goos’!
“Goo-Goos is it? Dirty stinkin’ blagguards is more like it!”
Yeah, things are outta control, they’ve issued no days off for the cops, making them work round the clock, and when they do make a pinch, the scumbag walks out of the station five minutes later, on his own recognizance.
Murders and shootings are at an all-time high in the city, the violence is so bad in The Loop, and folks are so scared, it’s like a ghost town. Roving gangs of whacked out marauders have been descending on the stores and cleaning ‘em out of fur coats, clothes, tv sets, looting is practically legal.
“Bejazus! What does Mayor Napoleon say about ‘dat?”
She says the stores should have hired their own private security guards.
“It’s a nightmare! My Chicago has given way to the tossers and blagguards! This would never be happening if Mayor Richard J.Daley was still running things!”
Yeah, a couple ‘shoot to kill’ orders might straighten the whole mess out. But he’s dead and we are stuck with this little tyrant who thinks everything is just jake. The Loop is a cesspool, almost empty because of all the violence.
“But why Mr. Hooley? Why piss off the police? Those are the LAST guys any mayor should want to fight with, they’re the only line that stands against the evil feens of this world!”
Things are different now grandpa, we’re living in a world gone mad.
“Ah bejazus Mr. Hooley, yer startin’ to depress me with all this talk of ‘defund the police’, goo-goos, and your murderin’ midget mayor!”
Say I meant to ask you grandpa, do you ever see Mayor Daley up there in heaven?
“Uh ho, did I say I went to heaven, me boyo?”
I just assumed.
“Assume your sister!”
Well grandpa, there is one ray of sunshine in Chicago lately.

“Ah that’s better me bucko, tell me something good is happenin’ now in my windy city, what is it?”

Chicago’s 2022 St. Patrick’s Day Parade Queen Kelley Leyden CPD.

The Queen of this year’s St. Patrick’s Day parade is a young Irish American cop, a darlin’ young female police officer named Kelley Leyden.
“Now that’s worth comin’ up here to hear. Good to see the Plumbers Local 130 is still doing good things for our city. God bless her, long may she reign!

Break out the Bobble-heads!

Rob Holt, AKA “Cane Guy”

Chicago White Sox Director of Public Relations, Sheena Quinn, hit a home run this week with the announcement of their latest bobble head, “Cane-Guy”. This is the best news since the announcement of Minnie Minoso finally being inducted into Baseball Hall of Fame.

“Cane-Guy” is Northbrook’s Rob Holt, the rabid septuagenarian White Sox fan who put the zammo on the Houston Astros pitchers in the later innings of the Sox only win in the ALDS play-offs last October. Our Sox were down 3-1 when “Cane-guy” went to work, hexing 16 batters to strike out and delivering a final 12-6 triumph for our Southsiders.

With a “something wicked this way comes” expression, Holt cast his spell; waving his cane eerily like the wizard he is from his front row seats behind home plate. It worked, if only for that one game but Holt and the TV cameras had created a sensation.

“Cane-guy” became the talk of the town, a beloved bewitcher caught on camera electrifying the crowd and earning the Sox a victory that night. Holt was invited back for the next game but alas the magic could not last, and the Astros went on to later lose the World Series to Atlanta in five games.

Some “scientists” have claimed that Cane guy needs to work on his aim, insisting the fates misinterpreted Cane Guy’s evil eye and transported it to the Travis Scott audience at Astro World last November 5th, resulting in a mass stampede that killed eight audience members and effectively ended Scott’s career as a rapper.

Bringing “Cane-Guy” back as a bobble head is brilliant PR amid our winter malaise, especially since the White Sox convention has been canceled due to Covid.

Sure hope Cane guy is back next season but let’s keep an eye out for other bobble head opportunities.

We didn’t have bobble head dolls for kids when I was a lad. Oh, sure we had GI Joe and J Fred Muggs but when this precocious pre-teenager asked for an anatomically correct Barbie doll, mom smacked me in the mouth.

My seven-year-old grandson Mikey isn’t so much into bobble heads as he is into action figures, with a decidedly horror film bent. This Christmas he assembled a rogue’s gallery of these characters including Chucky, Leatherface, Freddy Krueger from Friday the 13th, and Ghostface from Scream.

I first learned of his propensity for horror characters one day when Mikey and I were picking up some cheap milk at Aldi and the fat weirdo behind us in line had a “Pennywise” t-shirt and a creepy pedophile grin for my grandson when Mikey recognized the character on his shirt. Yikes.

Those action figure collectibles run about forty bucks a piece so we’re trying to wean the kid off Horror movie heroes.

With our city murder rate climbing daily and the bubbling cauldron of violence, poverty, Covid mania, and media hysteria, maybe it’s time for a Mayor Lori Lightfoot Bobble head doll.

A Lori Lightfoot bobble head in Chicago could cause quite a profitable little niche for our city treasury in this time of need. Of course, our politicians would be jumping on that to grease the wheels for bobble head contracts, just like the red-light cameras we’ve grown to hate, spewing indictments all along the way.

A Lightfoot bobble head in your rear window could be the perfect signal to anybody thinking about pulling you over, whether cops or car jackers.

I know the Lori Lightfoot bobblehead would be the perfect gift for my friend, FOP President John Catanzara. He’d be sticking pins in that for sure.

But of all the future bobble head inspirations I guess the best would have to be the 2021 Jusslie Smollet bobble head. Kids could have fun staging the fake racial hate crime, and maybe even bring in brothers Abimbola and Olabinjo Osundairo as they pretend to jump Jussie on Lower Wacker and throw a noose around his scrawny neck.

Action figure Jussie.

We could even create a Kim Foxx bobble head to come in at the end to try and get him off!

The piece de resistance would be to bring in Cane Guy at the end to zap them all with his White Sox Mojo.

Don’t Get Raunered!

Stop this weasel on election day! Take a Republican ballot and vote Jeanne Ives!

Sometimes we find ourselves in the midst of a firestorm and wonder which way to turn.

I’m excited about the candidacy of Jeanne Ives for Governor in the upcoming Republican primary on March 20th. She’s the only pro-life candidate in the race and is bringing a breath of honesty and grace to the millionaire pinball machine that make up our only other options. That’s why I organized a little party on March 5th at Reilly’s Daughter called “Irish for Ives”.

Last week I was invited to a luncheon at the Union League Club to meet Jeanne once again. My last visit to the Union League Club was about ten years ago when I was interviewed for membership.

I didn’t make the cut, somebody blackballed me. To quote from my book, Hooliganism: I’m not naïve enough to think I haven’t made enemies over the years. I’m an outspoken chronicler of hypocrisy and absurdity and I take pride in that. But which of my attributes can take the blame for my blackballing?

 I discussed this with my lovely wife and she reeled off a litany of my character traits that could have led to my ostracism. “Well, maybe it was because you always paid your bill late at the CAA. They could have said you’re a deadbeat…or a lush…or maybe it was… your fatness…you’re very crude…your clothes don’t fit…or the way you eat like a slob…or…” That’s quite enough, I said, I get the picture.

 Long story short, those anti-Catholic poseurs didn’t want me in their club. And yet there I was last week looking over my shoulder for those patrician fakers.

I got there early because I wanted to distribute some postcards and posters for the Irish for Ives event. At the coat check counter I encountered the same disdain as I had years earlier. “You can’t leave any literature here sir.”

I gathered up my stuff in umbrage and turned to my left to discover my old friend Rusty O’Toole checking his coat. He glanced at my posters incredulously, “Houli, are you a Republican?”

I am, and proud of it, been a Republican since 1985 when my old pal George Ryan helped me get a job after busting out in Gotham. It was easy, there was no initiation ceremony and no interview and they have never tried to blackball me like those jerks at The Union League Club.

But Rusty O’Toole was offended. If I wanted to waste another breath talking to him I would have told him how the Democratic party abandoned me when they embraced abortion on demand, homosexual marriage, transsexualism, and the suppression of Christianity in our schools, institutions, and supposedly free press.

But I really didn’t have time to debate this tool. His third cousin was once Attorney General and Rusty had been playing off that connection for over thirty years.

I asked the concierge the location of our event and headed to the elevator. Once again Rusty O’Toole approached me with his Union League pals, “What would your ancestors say if they knew you’d become a Republican?”

“Feck off!” I said, and headed for another elevator. Rusty was now playing the “Irish card”, and it really ticked me off.

What would my ancestors say? I thought about that. Well my ancestors were all Catholic when they came to this country. This was long before legalized abortion and the church has consistently denounced it as the very personification of evil. It was then, and still is considered the taking of a human life, murder.

Generations of Irish Americans have voted Democratic ever since the famine days, and when the progressive wing of the party took over in the late 1970’s, they kept right on doing it. I blame the Kennedys. Teddy sold his soul to the devil.

That night I had a dream. My great, great grandfather, Ferocious Frank O’Hooligan, from Kilrush, County Clare, Ireland, slid onto the stool next to me at the bar. He’s been in heaven for over a century and wanted to know how I was doing.

It was my connection to Frank that the Irish government considered when granting me citizenship a few years ago and I thanked him for that. His son, Frank Jr., was an Iron Worker in Chicago who fell to his death from a building in 1915, leaving my father an orphan at 11. My dad toughed it out with his two older policeman brothers, went on to great success, married my mom and fathered six sons and one girl, of which I am the youngest.

I had plenty to tell Ferocious Frank, but the words of Rusty O’Toole haunted me, “What will you say to your ancestors?”

So I ordered us both a pint and a shot of Irish whiskey and blurted it out, “Grandpa, I’ve been a Republican since 1985.”

He sipped his drink and smiled, “We don’t have politics in heaven, that’s why they call it heaven.”

I explained our “motley insurgency” to elect Jeanne Ives, and why I always take a Republican ballot by going over some of the sordid history of our country: the secularization of our society, the promotion of deviant lifestyles over the rest, the surrender to government in solving every problem, how our unions were infected with this disease and embraced it, forcing members to choose between the state or their religious beliefs, career politicians who lined their pockets while pretending to help the poor, political correctness destroying comedy for a generation, a mainstream media trying to shape the will of the American people with “fake news”, and…well you know the story.

Grandpa’s jaw was practically hitting the floor. “Rusty O’Toole, did you say? I knew his ancestors. I think somebody pissed in his gene pool! They took inbreeding to new heights. His family tree looks like a telephone pole.”

So what should I do, Grandpa?

“It’s obvious, lad. Jeanne Ives is our last chance! The only other candidates are left wing wacko billionaires! You’ve got to encourage all your friends to cross over, take a Republican ballot in the primary and vote for her before it’s too late!”

But he has tons of dough, Grandpa! He’s spreading lies about her in mailings and on TV and radio, some people are actually starting to believe Rauner’s bullshit!

Ferocious Frank O’Hooligan, drained his glass and slammed it on the bar.

“Don’t get Raunered! All he’s got is a checkbook, all Jeanne has is the truth. Who do you trust?”

And then he was gone. Maybe I can get him to show up at Reilly’s Daughter on Monday, March 5th for IRISH FOR IVES. Please join us, the craic will be mighty!

Houli’s 69th Birthday!

Censored Photo of Baby Houli getting a bath!

Today is my 69th birthday! These days a proclamation like that could get me into trouble. But it’s legit, I was born on December 16, 1948.

Soixante-neuf is how it’s pronounced in French, and the mere mention of that number has triggered wry smiles and raised eyebrows going all the way back to the Kama Sutra.

But I won’t dwell on that, not much anyway. It’s just another reminder that I’m an old fart, albeit an old fart with a helluva lot of going on. I did come across that old baby picture you see above of “Baby Houli”. Yeah, that was taken when the gal next door, Fiona, used to come over and help my mom with the kids. She used to give me a lot of special attention as the youngest of the seven kids.

My brothers tell me Fiona came over a lot and that I was her favorite…especially at bath time!

But enough of that ribaldry, I’d just like to say that I’m proud of my 69 years so far, in spite of the fact that I look like Santa Claus after he shaved. I’ve been married to a saint for almost 40 years, have two great sons, a lovely daughter-in-law and two rambunctious grandchildren who I love more than anything.  As a writer, actor, producer, journalist, radio personality, film festival founder, and flim-flam man I’m also doing okay with a career in show biz of almost 50 years.

Some folks say I’m shameless and it’s true. I’m a shameless self-promoter, but I’ve had to survive on my wits alone, unlike certain friends in the 19th Ward with three government pensions. You know who you are!

And while we’re on the subject of self-promotion, I feel compelled to plug my upcoming book signings of NOTHIN’S ON THE SQUARE. I’ll be at The Curragh Irish Pub this Sunday Dec. 17th from 4-7PM at 6705 N. Northwest Hwy in Edison Park, also at Fitzgerald’s Sidebar, 6615 Roosevelt Rd. in Berwyn on Thursday night Dec. 21st from 9-11PM with the band “Over the Side”, and for you last minute shoppers I’ll be at Mollie’s Public House 31 Forest in Riverside on Saturday, Dec. 23rd from 4-7PM. Would love to see you all and share Christmas cheer.

Speaking of Christmas, here’s my message for all of you. The other night on the street in Berwyn, (where I am the Baron), I was stopped by a Christmas angel and she asked me for dough, but I said no.

Mike Courtney, musician and owner of The Twisted Shamrock, invited me to join him and his band for a last minute bash to sell my book and share the stage with them at Fitzgerald’s this coming week. It would be another opportunity to pick up a few bucks so I leapt at it.

So Mike and I were standing in front of my building in Berwyn, as I gave him some posters for the gig. Caught up in our animated conversation we suddenly felt the presence of another in our midst on that cold December night.

A young woman stood just a few feet from us in the night looking cold. She looked tired and scared and was bundled up in a parka and pajama bottoms. “Can I help you?”, I asked, and then she went into her pitch, just got out of the hospital, got bad news, etc. could either of us spare a couple bucks? It was a familiar spiel and at first seemed like a scam so we declined.

But as she walked away I looked at her again and remembered that it was Christmas. The blessed mother was probably just about her age on a cold December night over two thousand years ago, and had been turned away with her husband Joseph as they searched for a place to give birth to the baby Jesus. As she drifted off into the darkness I immediately regretted not helping her. Later at home in bed I was haunted by her face and wished I could take that moment back. I said a prayer for that kid and vowed to help every panhandler I saw in the future. The next day I thought of her as one after another unfortunate souls hit me up in the car at streetlights all along Ogden Avenue. I handed over plenty of cash but the image of that young lady continues to haunt me.

So let’s never forget the message of every Christmas season and the good news Jesus brought with him when he told us to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, and clothe the naked.

It’s a time of rejoicing, so reach into your pocket and spread the cheer to all who need it and especially remember “Baby Houli” when you clothe the naked!

Merry Christmas everybody!

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Nothin’s on the Square

NEW BOOK PROVES POLITICS “AIN’T BEANBAG”

“NOTHIN’S ON THE SQUARE: 82 DAYS ON THE MAYORAL CAMPAIGN TRAIL, MAKING HISTORY IN CHICAGO 2015”

NOW AVAILABLE ONLINE AND WITH SELECTED RETAILERS.

Chicago, IL – July 30, 2017- Wanna know what really went on behind closed doors during the 2015 Campaign? Here it is, in all its ugly and hilarious glory. Chicagoland radio personality Mike Houlihan, former features columnist for the Chicago Sun-Times and The Irish American News, documents a behind-the-scenes look at the race for a new mayor.

Nothin’s on the Square tells the story of 82 days on the 2015 mayoral campaign trail, making history in Chicago with Chuy Garcia vs. Rahm Emanuel. “Nothin’s on the Square,” published by Abbeyfeale Press, is now available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and other selected retailers.

Take a peek at the bare-knuckled back room brinkmanship and back-stabbing brew that propels Houlihan and company along the Chicago campaign trail, from empty candidate forums to boisterous corned beef bashes to the full Monty of both of Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day Parades. Setting the scene with daily murder and mayhem stats from the bloody streets of the ghetto, Houlihan peels off the days of the calendar to expose history in the making, as upstart candidate Jesus “Chuy” Garcia clashes with millionaire mayor Rahm Emanuel, the evil incumbent burning through money to protect his ass and toss opponents in front of the bus. Like sausage and politics, it ain’t pretty, but this diary exposes the “warts and all” of a seldom seen world of local ward heelers in hand-to-hand combat in the trenches, with all the macabre humor and sensational characters that will forever define “Chicago politics”.

Rick Kogan of Chicago Tribune/WGN Radio calls it “A deep dive into the wicked and wacky world of Chicago politics with a man who knows the score. An incisive, rollicking, intimate trip.”

About Mike Houlihan

Mike Houlihan, former features columnist for the Chicago Sun-Times, has just finished a 20-year run as columnist for The Irish American News. He’s Chairman of Hibernian Transmedia, a public charity dedicated to Irish and Irish American culture. He began his career over 44 years ago acting with The American Shakespeare Festival in Stratford, CT performed on Broadway, Off-Broadway, on TV, and in indie features and major motion pictures. He’s also author of anthologies, “Hooliganism Stories” and “More Hooliganism Stories.” His adventures “Goin’ East on Ashland” came to life onstage in Chicago for six years running and his favorite Chicago Commandments are “Only Suckers Beef,” “Never Make Bail Under a Viaduct”, and now “Nothin’s on the Square”!

Book Launch: Tues, Aug. 22nd, 2017 at Cork & Kerry, 10614 S Western Ave, Chicago, 7:30PM. Thurs. Aug. 24th, Irish American Heritage Center, 4626 North Knox, Chicago, 7:30PM;

Mon. Aug. 28th, Beverly Art Center, 2407 W. 111th St, Chicago.7PM

Tues. Aug 29th, Duffy’s Tavern, 7513 W. Madison, Forest Park, Il. 7:30PM,

Houli will read from the book, and sign and sell copies of the book for a measly $14.95! Now available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and other selected retailers. Limited Edition signed copies available at https://abbeyfealepress.com/

March 2013 column from Irish American News

Photo courtesy of Dean Battaglia

Photo courtesy of Dean Battaglia

 

Hooliganism

By

Mike Houlihan

Believe it or not, some people don’t like St. Patrick’s Day.

Jewish New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg had to apologize a few years back for making some wise cracks about “drunken Irish” on the holy day. And who can forget the late Princess Margaret’s comment back in 1979 when she told Chicago Mayor Jane Byrne, “the Irish are pigs”, right after the IRA had blasted Lord Mountbatten’s ass to kingdom come.

But other than a few malcontents, we Irish are universally loved all over the world.

How could we not be? We’re the most brilliant, handsome, and joyful race on earth.

Everybody wants to be Irish; including a certain half-black, Hawaiian who claims roots in Moneygall, County Offally, known to many as BO.

Well who can blame him? Being Irish is hip, especially this month.

This is when the Irish Diaspora flexes her muscles and shows the world how ethnic pride is done. Those poofs in the “Gay Pride” parade got nothing on us and we don’t have to take off our clothes and simulate sodomy with the fire hydrants either.

Here in Chicago we celebrate our pride in being Irish all year round.  It’s why you’re reading this story right now you gorgeous people!

And our St. Patrick’s Day festivities began this year exactly two months before the holy day when a thousand rosy faces toasted new Local 130 Business Manager Jim Coyne at the annual Plumbers Hall St. Patrick’s Day Parade corned beef and cabbage fundraiser dinner.

Coyne has lined up Notre Dame Football Coach Brian Kelly as Grand Marshall of the Parade, kicking off on Columbus Drive on Saturday March 16th. There are also rumors that Fighting Irish football legend Manti Te’o’s girlfriend might make an appearance at the parade, so keep an eye on those Irish Faeries on the floats.

Chicago’s love affair with the Irish continued in February, once again at Plumber’s Hall, when 30 judges crowned Bridget Fitzgerald Queen of the 2013 St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Her coronation was preceded by a magnificent speech by outgoing Queen Sara Marie Collins as she bid her subjects adieu.

As one of those judges I can attest to the validity of the election. In spite of Cook County’s reputation and the many text messages, emails, and jokes about bribes being flung my way, nobody was on the take.

How can we be so sure the election was legit? Because Skinny Sheahan was in Florida that day folks.

While Skinny was sun bathing his name was dragged through the mud by many at the fundraiser on Feb. 15th for the Southside Irish St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Bourbon Street was packed with revelers but everybody kept asking me the whereabouts of my radio co-host from The Skinny & Houli Show. “Don’t worry”, I told them, “He’ll be back just in time to dunk his skinny little arse into Lake Michigan for the Special Olympics Polar Plunge!” That’s Sunday March 3rd so come on out to North Avenue Beach to watch him shiver for a great cause.

March Madness won’t be complete of course without the Southside Irish Parade on Sunday March 10th, which triumphantly returned last year after much hard work by Skinny and the SSIP Committee. Everybody is anticipating a very sober and family oriented celebration once again, especially since 19th Ward Alderman Matt O’Shea’s issued his shoot-to-kill edict for anyone seen practicing hooliganism in the public way.

If you’re looking for even more culture this month check out “The Women of Ireland” at The Rialto Square Theatre in Joliet on Thursday March 7th and my favorite Irish band, The Saw Doctors, at The Vic on March 22nd. Very proud to be associated with both shows.

And on Wednesday March 13th at 8:15PM, The European Union Film Festival will present the world premiere of OUR IRISH COUSINS at the Gene Siskel Film Center, 164 North State Street in Chicago. It could be the most significant Irish film of all time, so you ain’t gonna want to miss that!

Still starved for Irish culture? Check out FREECRAIC.COM, and sate your desire for entertainment, gossip, and giggles this month and every month as we break the stories nobody else will talk about, but everybody wants to know.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day and God Bless all you gorgeous people!

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