That’s It! I Hereby Challenge Peter Cetera To A Fistfight.

I fucking knew I shouldn’t have gone into the office today. After yesterday’s debacle, I knew that I was taking a big chance by going to work, but they’re kind of funny about people actually showing up and, you know, doing shit, and I didn’t think it was very likely that they’d accept a Chicago song as a valid excuse for missing work. So I went in, put on some headphones, and repeatedly jammed the polar opposite of Chicago: a song called Check My Brain, which is loud, and awesome, and has a riff that sounds like Alice in Chains mowing the lawn drunk.

Things were going pretty well for a while, and I’d almost forgotten that just 24 hours earlier I’d wanted to light Peter Cetera’s fucking eyelids on fire when all of a sudden I heard it again: That fucking voice.

You’re the meaning in my life
You’re the inspiration
Someone stick it to my wife
I’m incapable of insemination

I have to admit, I may have got those lyrics wrong because I think I fucking blacked out with rage when I heard that goddamn song come on. Really? Workers can be subjected to Peter Cetera on two consecutive days and no one goes to fucking jail? I thought people were goddamn accountable for their actions in this fucking country! That’s what the judge keeps telling me, anyway.

So fuck this, I hereby challenge Peter Cetera to a fistfight. Now you may be thinking to yourself, “Why don’t you beat up the disc jockey that played the music, or the kidnap the owner of the radio station? Peter Cetera wrote those songs ages ago. He didn’t do anything to you.” That’s a good point. Allow me to counter it with the following, airtight logic:

Fuck you.

Look, if I go all psycho and start burning death threats in the lawns of local disc jockeys, the cops are gonna take notice, and I don’t know about you, but I dabble in human trafficking, and by “dabble in”, I mean I do it a lot. So it won’t do to have the cops poking around my house. (Before you get your panties in a wad over the human trafficking, relax: I merely kidnap Liam Neeson’s daughter and sell her back to him. I’ve done it sixteen times already! Three more and he gets her back for free!)

"Honey, listen to me. You're going to be taken." <br> "I <b>know</b>, dad! This happens every goddamn week!"

“Honey, listen to me. You’re going to be taken.”
“I know, dad! This happens every goddamn week!”

But if I punch Peter Cetera in the fucking face, it’s not going to be a big deal. Assuming you could find a cop willing to arrest me, and assuming the DA felt like prosecuting me, here’s how the trial would go.

Prosecutor: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are here today because of the man you see sitting at the defendant’s table. The state alleges, and will in fact prove that he did, willfully and with extreme malice aforethought, punch Peter Cetera in the…

Jury: Not Guilty!

Judge: I hereby pronounce the defendant our greatest national treasure. Release the groupies!

So as you can see, there’s a huge upside to fighting Peter Cetera, and virtually no downside. Don’t believe me? Check out this Facebook page, Chicago Peter Cetera Era:

One person likes this. And if you don’t count Peter Cetera, that’s… (gets out calculator) …like fucking no one! Who’s going to complain? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to sucker punch him (although I reserve the right to do this if he records music again in violation of numerous UN resolutions). It’ll be an even fight. We’ll square off, I’ll punch him in the ovaries, he’ll weep softly into a bouquet of posies, and everyone will be better off because of it.

So, yeah, I’m going to fight Peter Cetera. Kenny Loggins, you have been put on notice.