Move it or Lose it

Yesterday I had the distinct displeasure of moving. In general, this is not a fun task, but it was worsened by the fact it had been a warmer 40 degrees during the weekend, so the snow had melted, and then Tuesday it was 30 below, so that froze up to make a slippery spots of bust-your-ass-death on the sidewalks. I guess this is why people don’t move in the winter; in Fla this was never an issue. But, as Calvin Crustitron says, moving is like having sex for money; it sucks bad for a half hour, but then it’s over.

Despite me moving on the worst day of the year, this was a good thing. I had been sharing an apartment with randoms from craigslist, and it wasn’t a big deal because I was never around. But once my situation changed with Lawyerman, it actually mattered, and I found out what scum merchants I was living with. For example, I’m pretty sure the obese gay man I live with was peeing on the shower curtain; it sure as hell smelled like it. At the same time my situation changed, The Novice was going to be moving out of the apartment he and Landon shared, so I offered to take the room.


Luckily, I was only moving from one end of Uptown to the next (and actually, a better part, within walking distance to more bars), still this required a truck. After a desperate search, Calvin Crustitron had a friend who had one AND would help me move (I accused Landon of purposely being out of town on business so he wouldn’t be forced to participate). Still not anticipating the move in the frigid cold (we even had some arctic wind action), I cowboyed up, took two shots of ketel one and put on my long johns. Calvin’s friend was built like a spider monkey, sort of short but with a ton of upper body strength, formerly in the navy. Awesomely enough, Calvin’s friend not only works for the price of a bottle of Captain Morgan, but he’s also my neighbor and will be throwing a party this weekend. We are hoping to hook up Landon with one of the girls that lives in his house. Not only did I get help moving, but I gained a new drinking buddy.

The operation was overall successful, no thanks to the douchebag in my building who stole my (umm, well actually Landon’s) large can of mushrooms we were using to prop the door open. I hope that assbag gets botchelism. Also, I figured out why it was so fucking cold in the apartment on Monday. The Novice left the windows open. Dude, what the fuck? But at least he left us with his Spanish whorehouse curtains. Christ, I don’t know what we would’ve done without those.

Buffet of Ignorance

Discrimination is one of the lamest forms of douchebaggery. While reading the MN Atheist newsletter, I came across a story about the owner of Q.Cumbers Restaurant losing business because he was an atheist. I decided to check out this place to see if maybe there wasn’t other reasons why he lost people’s business. It was not your typical buffet; with a 50 foot salad bar, and signs all over the place that said “no preservatives” or “no msg” and many vegetarian friendly dishes, it was not only healthy but delFUCKINlicious. Q.Cumber’s totally took the fatass factor out of buffet dining, with no fried food, and replacing ice cream with frozen yogurt. The “no waste” signs are also a fantastic idea, reminding people not to be greedy bastards, and only get what they are going to actually eat.


About the only way I would stop patronizing a food establishment is if I found pubes in their food or found out there was cat meat in my low mein. But to stop eating at a place simply because of the owner’s religious preferences is just asstarded. Unless those religious preferences include sacrificing babies or not washing their hands after using the bathroom, there is no excuse. And this owner of the restaurant, Mickey McCabe, is actually a nice guy. The second time I went there, he was there bussing tables, which is more the norm for a small diner, however this is a much larger place, where you wouldn’t expect to see that . I talked to him, told him I read the article about him. He was a very down to earth guy and he stopped what he was doing to talk to me for about 10 minutes. He said he had been receiving a bit of hate mail since the story.

It’s sad when people are so wrapped up in religion (or the lack thereof) that they can’t enjoy good, healthy food. Maybe they deserve the greasy, artery clogging, bland food of Old Country Buffet as punishment for their ignorance. I know most of you who read this aren’t from Minnesota, but if you do happen to stop into town, check Q.Cumbers out.


On a lighter note, today is Calvin Crustitron’s 24th birthday. I owe you a beer, you whacky sonofabitch.

I'm Cripplicious Baby!

This weekend was chock full of some surprise hilarity. Keeping in mind I had been drinking throughout the movie Cloverfield beforehand (those people who bitch about the movie making them motion sick need to STFU, because I saw it while intoxicated and felt just dandy), and then before going to the bar we did some more pre-drinking, the 4 block walk to Old Chicago was certainly a drunken one. Awesomely enough, we saw a crutch in the trash; I’m still curious about the back story… did someone drink enough they didn’t feel the pain anymore? Did someone get mad and take someone else’s crutch away? Were they just using it to get pity from bar whores and it wasn’t as effective as they thought? Ohhhh the possibilities! Of course I decide to take it out of the trash and comically hobble around with it, screaming and moaning about how I hurt my leg in ‘Nam.


Notice the look of pain upon my face. Eventually that wasn’t as funny, and I had been hobbling for close to a block now. I’m like “fuck this!” and lean my crutch against the passenger window of an SUV. About that time Landon notices that there’s a guy in the driver side of the SUV who doesn’t look real amused. We both are like “OHHHHH SHIT, RUNNNNNNNN!!!” luckily Old Chicago was super close. I can only imagine what people watching thought about it. Chick on a crutch, leans crutch against car, then starts running.

I almost wish the crutch had still been around when we were trying to walk back. I had so much I thought I might pass out in the booth. Landon, being the understanding douche he is was like “DRINK IT!!! DON’T WASTE BOOZE…” of course I somehow managed. Fortunately, the waiter we had that night has a thing for me, so he makes our personal pizza slightly wrong so then we get a free one.

One last thing to add from this weekend; saw this painted on top of the hood of a Saturn. WTF? a blue llama?

Darwinism as it Relates to Meth Addicts

While walking from home to various bars, I encounter meth heads from time to time. It can be -17 degrees, and there’s some meth head that is wild-eyed and looking not just warm, but downright toasty, begging for money. Despite the poison they put into their bodies, they still persevere, going without sleep for days and needing no sustenance; hell, if you can cook it up in a bathroom, why wouldn’t it be a healthy to ingest? Anyway, this got me to thinking, what if we isolated meth heads on an island?

Yes, I understand this is not the line of thinking most people have when coming into contact with meth heads, but then again I don’t exactly think like average people. Back to my original idea, if we put together a colony of meth-heads (what, it’s not like they were being productive members of society anyway… well, except for the truck drivers), I think some serious Darwinism would occur. After 10 generations, they would probably develop into beaver-like creatures, all of their other teeth falling out except the front ones, and develop super jaws from grinding their teeth. Instead of wood, they would build their dams out of light bulbs and old pipes.


Other animals and even humans have adapted to fit their surroundings, based upon their needs, which makes me think meth heads could evolve to be more like beavers. My main point is, with the way meth heads will give up everything to have their precious meth, what makes anyone think that they would stop just because they are on an island?

What I Will Admit To

I’ll admit we started pre-drinking with a box of wine (hey, the two dollar rails at Old Chicago didn’t start until 10). I’ll admit that even though it was more expensive than Franzia (it was totally top-shelf!!!), it is still wine in a box and therefore NOT CLASSY. I’ll admit we pre-drank more than we should have because we were walking. I’ll admit right away, karaoke is not my friend (there are many things I do very well, singing is NOT one of them).


ll admit that there are different kinds of people who do karaoke. There is the drunken frat boys that sing hilarious songs to entertain their friends (last night, my favorite was the “humpty hump”). There is the fat girl singing love songs to her gay best friend. I’ll admit that even sadder than that, is the people who arrive at 6 and drink diet coke all night, hoping that some record producer will see them and offer them a 7 million dollar contract. The people who run karaoke at Old Chicago are those kind, singing with their whole hearts, to drown out the pain of failure.

I’ll admit to heckling the guy who looked like he had F.B.A. that sang “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, but not the hot chick singing “Let’s Give Them Something To Talk About” (oh, and did I want to give her something to talk about!!). I’ll admit that I let Landon talk me into signing up to sing, even though I have NO business singing anywhere but in the car (and even then sometimes I need to crank up the volume so I can’t hear myself). I’ll admit that by the time they got to me, I was solidly wasted (hey, it was like an hour and two drinks more). I’ll admit that my choice in song was horrible, and I chose it because Calvin Crustitron and I had heard it on the way to lunch earlier that day and it was stuck in my head (I should’ve went with DIO, because at least I could scream it and sound moderately better). I’ll admit I was not surprised when Landon reneged on coming up there to be my backup dancer. I’ll admit that partially through the song I’m like “ok, I’m not singing this part” and kept to the chorus.

I’ll admit to not feeling so well this morning. I’ll admit to not looking as hot at work. I’ll admit to wearing cleavage to offset my ickyness. I’ll admit that I will probably still sing karaoke again.

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginnings End

This weekend stuff ended with Lawyerman. I almost didn’t mention it, because I like to keep personal shit that isn't amusing out of the blog, but I think I would be remiss in not saying something. It was overall the best for everyone, but even so, when these things happen, it’s not all lollipops and rainbows. Some people deal with it by listening to Shania Twain and diving headfirst into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Instead, I planned to go to the monster truck rally, get drunk and scream at the loud trucks. Despite living in the south until I was 21, I had never been to one. Unfortunately, Calvin Crustitron’s second job got in the way, which was a bit of a bummer, because I knew going to a place where having all of your real teeth and a high school diploma was not average would have totally cheered me up.


Instead, I went to Renegades with my friend Amy, Tonya and Angie. Our friend’s band, Undone, was playing there (they are about to do a 17 state tour, so if they come near you, SEE THEM!). Even if I didn’t personally know the guys, I would still listen to their music because they write it themselves and it’s entirely quality. We hung out at the merch table, and I tried to convince their manager Dave that he should totally manage me, but I ONLY sing Lynyrd Skynyrd after bar close at Denny’s; he said he was up for the challenge.

Radomly, Professor Beer, Milfgasm and some other people I know from their parties showed up after their wine party. Neither of us knew the other would be there, so it was a definite pleasant surprise. One of the best things Renegades has going for it, is it has this regular that is a crazy dancer. And I don’t mean just a bad dancer, but like Woodstock-too-much-acid-swinging-her-hair-around-dancer. That night she hadn’t been dancing, but instead rubbing her ass on some old biker, so Milfgasm and co took it upon them to drag her out on the dance floor so she could entertain the rest of us.

Granted, it wasn’t monster trucks and mullets, but dancing with friends (and a weird old hippy) and seeing the boys from Undone was just what I needed. Oh, and welcome back Billy, one of the owners of Renegades… You were in Boston too long!

Rock n Roll Hootchie Koo

I have some weekend shenanigans I could post about, but honestly, I’m a little too drained to do get into that until tomorrow. So, I’ll do what I usually do when I get like this, and do a meme. It’s the junk food of blogging. Anyway, Preposterous Ponderings had an interesting meme about making your very own album cover, here are the specifics if you legitimately want to do the meme.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ Thethird picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together.

We've already established that I am indeed lazy, and especially so today because it's colder than Old Man Winter's scrote, and I am slightly hungover. Also, thanks to Eric I have no need to make a cover, because this is perfect.

Coming to a Job Fair Near You!!

Like many people, I have a legitimate job. However, as I was looking at this, and thinking how much I didn’t want to actually work today, I thought maybe I should consider changing professions. One in particular that interests me (because of the likelihood of making much money with minimal work) is Snake Oil Salesmen. And with the intrawebs and infomercials, I could be much more effective with my peddling of useless crap.

The key is making people think they NEEEEEED it. This product does a perfect job of that, convincing dumb bastards if they buy it, they won’t die during germ warfare. And because it’s from Sam’s Club, you can buy a pack of 20, so that will totally make it actually effective. Folks, if there is legitimate germ warfare, I have some bad news, a UV light wand won’t save you; it will just make you look like some wizardy douchebag.


One of the biggest secrets of the Snake Oil sales is quantity. Billy Mays, that bearded asshole that yells at you about cleaning products, knows this. Granted, two of shit is still shit, he will scream at you, like a televangelist on PCP, that if you call RIGHT NOW he will throw in FREE OF CHARGE a third bottle of super-bleach. But I think, other than the free-shit-with-your-purchase concept, he also employs white trash guilt, implying your house can’t possibly be clean since you don’t have his products. I have no qualms guilting people into buying my snake oil.


Going along with that same line of thought, convincing people that their life can be completely changed by a product will make it sell like crazy. The Secret is a prime example of this. Do you have a crappy job, sleep alone at night and get treated like ass by everyone? Well if you THINK strong enough thoughts, you can attract real events to change. I have a strong thought that this is bullshit; it must make it so. Weight loss drugs employ the same concept. No magic beans will peel off the weight, do some cardio and eat some fucking salads.

Naming is also important when selling a worthless product. One of my favorites is Nads (fuck, I was shocked nads.com wasn't already taken for a gay porn site). Now, like most people when I hear the word “nads” I think testicles. This shit is green and removes your unwanted hair. I had a friend in high school who used this snake oil, and not only did the majority of her hair not come off of her bikini area, but her cooch had all of these red angry bumps that looked much like The Herp. That’s hot. I don’t want those kind of nads anywhere near my crotch.

For more snake oil action, go here.

Cheers! It's my hundredth post!

I didn't post during the day like I normally do, partially because I was legitimately working (it happens even to the best of us sometimes) and I didn't just want to post some random shit, because HEY it's motherfucking special... #100!

So, I took a look at my email inbox, and after sifting through unrequested dick pics and pleas for the posting of my tits, I decided to answer some reader questions.

Q: Are you really like this in real life?
A: Yes, to some extent. I do tone it down at work and other places where decorum is required, but I'm pretty much a whole bag of chaos. Hell, this weekend at the bar, I forget what I was saying, but some guy was like "damn girl, you have enough balls to play rochambeau" I took it as a compliment, and said I would play as long as I could go first. Anyway, at the very least, I am always entertaining. I have some bartenders who let me drink free because of this quality. and my killer rack.


Q: What is your biggest fear?
A: Squid. I saw this show recently about these huge goddamn squid that seriously fuck people up. They have hooks on their tentacles and are legitimate bad times. Granted I live in MN now, but still. Who knows when they will Darwin their asses some legs and get up on shore to spray you in the face with ink.

Q: What are your visions for the future?
A: Having my liver regrown like scientists did for a rat heart. They even got it to beat, so they *Should* be able to get my new liver to filter out booze. Ted Velvet suggested in a comment to me, that I should get a new liver and then put the old one in a glass jar to take out drinking with me. That would be one hell of an ice breaker at the bar.

Q:What are some of your favorite things?
A: raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens. HAHAHAHA! Only kidding. I love being unintentionally correct. It makes the victory all that more satisfying. Like for example, when I was playing scrabble a couple months ago, and pulling words out of my ass. I got challenged, only to find out that the word was real. WELL FUCK ME IN THE ASS AND CALL ME JANET! Of course I played it off with the obligatory : " I told you so! How dare you question my mad word skillz?!"

Q: Do you believe in magic?
A: Absolutely; A bar tab. It magically makes douchebag attributes go away and allows me to continue talking to some pompous, self-important, vapid idiot. At least until I remember I brought my flask.

So there you have it folks. I didn't actually know how people would recieve me when I started this, but apparently I am as well liked as a slutty girl on prom night. To thank everyone, I am posting below the recipe of what is in my martini shaker. Also, feel free to ask me more questions you are burning to know the answer for.

Mockingbird Appletini

• 2 parts Apple Pucker
• 2 parts kettel one
• 2 parts Motts apple juice

shake it up with three ice cubes (hey your burning calories to offset the incredible amount of sugar!) and garnish with a marachino cherry

Singing Whores

One of the reasons I like HBO programming is because of the copious nudity. Even if the show sucks, there ARE naked people (unless it is in this case, then it is just troubling) to make my investment of time pay off. Anyway, one of my favorite shows is Cathouse, which is about a whore house in Las Vegas. Half the time, the best part of the show is the comedic value.


For example, there is this horny, tattooed midget. Anyone who reads this blog on any semi-regular basis, knows of my affection for them, and my aspirations to wrestle one in lime jello (hell, do a search, about 6 posts will pop up). I love that they are catering to every fancy at that whore house; it’s really the embodiment of the American dream, all of that equal opportunity action. Although, they definitely need to let this one prosty go, she has more bags under her eyes than in all of JFK airport. Unless some sickass wants to fuck the wrinkles under her eyes, I think she is pretty much tapped out in the whore dept. For her, it’s time to hang up the hooker boots and marry one of her less skeezy johns or go to tech. college to learn how to do acrylic nails.

Most of the guys that go to the Cathouse are going there to do the things and get the things done to them their wife won’t do. One guy was especially creative, and made up his own game. He got three hookers to play a ring toss game with rings of varying size around his wang (listen up ladies, if your bow-chicka-bow-wow is stale in the sack, maybe making it more like an Olympic sport could fix that). Hell, it was impressive that he got three hookers, but I guess if you’re going to pay for ass, it might as well be out of the ordinary. It reminds me of the story I heard about David Lee Roth, when he went on David Letterman after getting caught with 5 hookers. He said something to the effect of: “Between you and me, I would’ve probably only screwed the one, while the others played cards in the corner. It’s pathetic when someone hears about you being with a prostitute, but when it’s 5 prostitutes, it’s impressive… Like, hey, that guy’s cool!”

Rating high on the 'not cool' scale, is the “Cathouse Musical” they have been pimping out. Seems like a really bad idea. There are enough “dumb whores” doing musicals without having actual dumb whores prancing around on stage covered in sequins and feathers. Hey, how about stopping the goddamn singing and take off your clothes. I don’t go to an accountant to hear them sing; no, they are providing me a service. Know your role.

Rites Of Passage

I heard about something very disconcerting this week. In Eden Prairie, one the Twin Cities’ suburbs, the high school administrators have reprimanded, and in some cases suspended over 100 students from sports and athletic activities after Facebook pics of them partying like rock stars. The most disturbing aspect of the whole story was that administrators were surfing Facebook, viewing pictures of the young, nubile, taught flesh their students had. That seems more than a little creepy. And then they were printing them out? What, to review them in the privacy of the bathroom while they beat off?

Fortunately, there wasn’t any Facebook or Myspace available back in my day (which wasn’t all that long ago, I graduated in 2002). High School boozing it up is a rite of passage, and if anything the people I’ve noticed that had issues with alcohol consumption in an unhealthy manner later in life we re the ones that DIDN’T drink in high school. What boggles my mind is that this was all going on after hours. It would be one thing if the students were drunk at school, but they weren’t. Hell, they should reward the students for being able to separate their personal lives from their scholastic lives. It’s when drinking encroaches and affects your home/professional (and when you’re a student, school IS your job) is when it is a problem.


Suspending students from their athletic or other extracurricular activities because they were drinking is probably the most asinine way to deal with it. Now they will be more inclined to drink because they don’t have anything else to do after school. Great job Eden Prairie! You’re fortunate I already gave out this January’s Douchebag of The Month award.

If I Vote For Him, Do I Get An Insulin Discount?

So while looking at coverage of the New Hampshire primaries, that had clips debates and speeches, I noticed something interesting: the people that the contestants had behind them. Yes, I said ‘contestants’ because that IS indeed what they are; the only thing that separates it from a pageant is the lack of swimsuit contest, and maybe that would be a good addition. Anyway, everyone has been going on about Chuck Norris being behind Huckabee in every shot, but what McCain done to balance that is even more hilarious. WILFRED BRIMLEY!

At least with Chuck Norris, Huckabee is trying to get my generation interested (we have an unhealthy preoccupation with Chuck and his super human abilities). McCain is basically saying he doesn’t give a rats ass if the whippersnappers vote for him. No one my age even knows who the hell Wilfred Brimley is, other than that pompous bastard on the Liberty Medical commercials. The picture we have of him in our minds is him sitting his obese ass upon some poor horse, talking about how he gets his diabetes (he pronounces it DIA-BEAT-US) meds from Liberty Medical.


Oh right, he was in the Civil War movies… you know how popular that movie was with my generation; we TIVO-d the shit out of it. How could John McCain think that Wilfred Brimley is his ‘answer to Chuck Norris’? Yeah, that’s like pitting Steve McQueen against Andy Dick. I could understand if John McCain had McGuyver, at least he’s pretty kickass and my generation could relate to him (if he can build a bomb with a paperclip, stick of chewing gum, and cigarette filter, he could save the campaign with his mullet and smooth fragment sentences). As it is, if I was a republican (perish the thought!) I would vote for Huckabee JUST BECAUSE of Chuck Norris. My generation is superficial like that.

Whoever told John McCain Wilfred Brimley was a good idea must have not checked into popular culture since 1960, but even then, was he EVER a sensation among the youth? If I was 80, then this would totally get me on board with the McCain campaign. As it is, this is the political turn-on equivalent of genital warts for anyone under 40.

Ya Wanna' Fight About it?

You’re reading this, so obviously you spend some time on the interwebs. Lately, I’ve noticed that some people seem to be taking it entirely too seriously. They are becoming upset because they feel snubbed or disrespected. I have some news for everyone: IT IS THE FUCKING INTERNET! This is the place where people can anonymously be the assholes that they tone down in real life. Sometimes they won’t even have a good reason to be a dick, but because of whatever random reason they are. Malach's Youtube battle, (where a stupid broad with too much time on her hands gets riled up over something insignificant) is a prime example, and there are certainly other's.


Hell, look at this guy, he screwed someone over about some shoes, and he got owned in the worst way. To summarize, they posted a craigslist ad for 'all night dicksucking' (complete with real phone/address), ordered 60 dollars worth of pizza to be delivered, filled out information for army recruiters to visit because he’s “highly interested in joining the army” (but his parents needed convincing), sent a satellite picture of where he lives to the INS people (also saying they have seen him selling pot to children under the age of 9) and my personal favorite: made FBI most wanted posters saying he was a sexual predator and child pornographer. Now THAT is an electronic snipe!

When our internet lives eclipse our “real” lives, that’s where problems arise. Hell, I’m even guilty of spending too much time on the intraweb, and when I couldn’t have full access to it while in Wisc, I was jonesing like a crack whore in rehab. Granted, Wisconsin is a mostly miserable place even WITH the internets, but no one should let any one thing be that important. Unless it is porn.

A Birthday And A New Kind of Double Fisting

Saturday night was my friend Sarah’s 25th birthday celebration. I wasn’t planning on getting shitfaced because I still was recovering from Friday night’s shenanigans. However, as many of you know, when it’s someone’s birthday free shots are everywhere. We started off the night at Tom Reid’s, a hockey bar that has the GREATEST drink special (two for one’s from when the puck drops until the puck stops), which also contributed to my change in attitude about how drunk I was actually going to get.

The waitress was a sullen bitch (which was reflected in her poor tip, here’s a tip: “Don’t be a dick!”), who waited entirely too long to check on us. We had figured since it wasn’t that crowded, it would be like Burger King, where we had it ‘our way’, and got drinks quicker. Not so. She was also not amused at the Guinness chugging race between Carey and Joe. It’s a bar, these things will happen. It’s probably for the best that I had brought out my cell phone flask for its maiden voyage.

We stayed at Tom Reids until after the game, but then hit up the Halftime Rec at midnight, since it is within walking distance (we like to plan ahead) to Sarah and Joe’s house. One of the unique things about the Halftime Rec, is it has this stump where you can buy nails and then see who can get their nail all the way into the stump first, only using the pointy end of the hammer. It’s good times, but upon reflection, maybe it isn’t the brightest idea to give drunks hammers to play with.


As the night wore on, I stopped being so stealth with my cell phone flask action, and made many “long distance calls” with it. I even double fisted in a BRAND SPANKIN’ new way, with a pitcher of Guinness and my mixed drink. By the time we left at bar close, Sarah thought she locked her keys in her car, and we set off to walk back to her house. I didn’t have a jacket, but the gut full of booze kept me warm.

All night I had been trying to get some drunken sledding happening for after bar close, going on about how it was promised in the invite email. Looking back, it was probably for the best no one would go along with it because the park by her house is super steep, we were ueber drunk, and the snow was melting, which would’ve made it even slippery. Also, since we didn’t have a sled, we would’ve needed to go hobo sledding, in a cardboard box. Probably not real safe. Joe and his friends were playing guitar hero and drinking Michael Collins whiskey. I had already drank so much that I still felt drunk until 3pm the next day, so I instead passed out. Happy Birthday Sarah!

Holy Asscrackers, It's TWO TEQUILA'S!

Friday night was interesting. When I first heard about the St Patrick's Day warm-up at Whisky Junction, I was more than enthusiastic. I am 100% Irish, and celebrate it like the Jews do Hanukkah, with multiple days of festivities (and face it, one can never really fully be warmed up for St. Paddy's Day).

Anyway, I decided to to go this, even though it was in a dicey part of town. When we got there, they were handing out free Killians because it was the owner of the bar's birthday . I'm not a huge beer fan, but I wont turn down free booze. I'm a pragmatist like that. Unfortunately, other than a shittyIrish band, that had an asshole PROUDLY playing a recorder straight out of third grade, it had none of good times I look for in my St. Patricks day celebration. Adding to the atmosphere of mcdoucheyness, was the fact that everyone there was boring, old, and homely. Not a winning combination We were shocked they charged a cover for this; hell, they should be paying us for improving the place with our presence.

So we decided to walk to a bar nearby, The Cabooze. Even the name inspires interest. It was there that I met my fat twin. Seriously, she looked exactly like me, but 45 lbs heavier. At least now I know I would still be sorta' cute if I hardcore packed on the pounds.



The band playing was a cross between Linkin' Park and keep-your-fucking-day-job. But, being drunk we danced anyway. That's when the trouble started (I blame the dude in the band wearing a Cosby sweater, that forced me to follow him when he got offstage to tell him he was pimping out that Cosby sweater pretty good for a white guy). There was this cute little blonde chick that INSISTED on grinding me. Being the polite person I am, I obliged. Once the making out started, her boyfriend got pissed and dragged her away. She of course came back, and then there was the inevitable groping. He looked like he wanted to hit me. Good thing I had the Puppetmaster with me (I call him that because of how he was holding me up at times because of my extreme inebriation), who is not a shrimpy guy like blonde chick's boyfriend. Hey, it's not my fault your inadequacies make your girlfriend want to dyke out.

The Puppetmaster could tell I was one drink away from FUBAR and made me go to Taco Bell to get some burritos to soak it up. I will admit to to not feeling my best the next day.

The Ballad of Batman

I’ve said it before, but I will say it again, I don’t like telling second hand stories. This one is actually third hand, which makes me even lamer, but it’s such a funny story that it is worth the high douche factor.

I heard it from a guy that works as a vacation facilitator; he takes out different companies, usually on a cruise for the people to blow off a little steam. This time he took out a group of accountants, on a cruise to Brazil, where they stayed in Brazil for a day and then went back. On the trip back, this guy we will call Frank noticed one of the accountants looked absolutely miserable. Being as it was his job to make sure these people were having a good time, he kept asking “Chuck” what was wrong, because on the way to Brazil, this guy had been in great spirits.

Finally, Chuck says “ok, but you need to promise not to tell anyone.” Anytime someone says that as a preface to a story, you know it’s going to be quality. After Frank’s copious assurances, Chuck tells him that he met a woman in Brazil, and they started drinking and really hitting it off. Frank’s coworker’s start listening at this point.

Chuck: yeah, she was hot, and before I knew it she wanted to go back to her hotel room.
Frank: that sounds like good times.
Chuck: it was. We made out, and drank more, and then she started taking off her clothes.
Coworkers: and then you saw her dick, right?
Chuck: no, she didn’t have a dick. She was all women.
Coworkers: niiiiice. So then what was the problem.
Chuck (with a heavy sigh): well, she asked if she could tie me up, and I let her.

Side Note- obviously this whore was fucking amazing looking if she can get some guy she met in a bar, in a foreign country to let her tie him up.

Frank: oh, she stole your wallet, right? Don’t feel bad, this happens all of the time.
Chuck (with a look of pure, unadulterated misery): no, I wish she had just stolen my wallet. After she ties me up, she says she needs to go freshen up in the bathroom. I was slightly suspicious, but I ignored it. She didn’t come out of the bathroom. A guy dressed as Batman did.
Coworkers: OH SHIT!
Chuck (almost in tears): I didn’t know you could be ass raped while laying on your back!


Well, I guess Chuck learned a valuable lesson about the mechanics of the butt-fuck. Now, he will have post traumatic stress whenever he sees Batmen commercials and paraphernalia. What may be worse, is being known at work as the guy who got an sodomized by a guy with a cape (I bet they sing that Batman theme song whenever he walks by)… it totally trumps doing something embarrassing while drunk at the office holiday party.

So, the moral of the story is, don’t let strange whores tie you up and yes, you CAN get analy raped while lying on your back.

New Year's Bullshit

I didn’t do a New Year’s post on the 1st (partially because I was hungover and hating life) and I didn’t do one yesterday because I was in a foul mood (hence the wrathful post about that assbag Bret Michaels). This is because I almost died like 6 times on the way to work. My defroster decided it wasn’t going to go into the new year with me. It’s pretty hard to drive when you can’t see out of your windshield. Although, I will say this, nothing wakes you up in the morning like a few brisk brushes with death. I’ll admit to getting a “survivor’s high” from it, so it wasn’t completely a poor experience.

I’ve put some of my resolutions around on other peoples’ blogs, but here are some that I feel need sharing:

1. I’m not going to be ok with people touching my fucking hair anymore. It happened today again at Target, some random person just came up and started petting me like a cat. Normally I politely smile and disengage the hand, but today I went off and said to the portly man: “How would you feel if I came up and started rubbing your belly for good luck like Buddha?” Seriously, I don’t know what is on their hands. He could’ve just picked his nose or went to the bathroom without washing his hands. I don’t want that shit in my nicely manicured hair. The red curly hair is the rarest hair type, and Auntie Cougar (who has similar hair) gets the same thing, but NO MORE.
   
2. I’m not watching Dr. Phil drunk again. He has the same eyes as Dr. Kevorkian, and I get nightmares afterwards about him yelling at me and then trying to convince me in that loud southern voice of his (you would think that mustache would muffle his voice, but it doesn’t) to commit suicide.

3. I will listen to my “pangs of cuntcience” more often. You know, it’s that feeling one gets when they think they might have did something cunt-like.

These three resolutions seem doable . People who act like they are going to change their habits or lifestyle drastically because of the new year, rarely ever do. So let's all be reasonable. No one is going to lose 5o lbs, quit smoking crack, or any other crazy shit I see posted. Don't agree? Well prove me wrong.

Douchebag of the Month

I always have the hardest time figuring out whom to give my Douchebag of the Month award to. The holiday season has more douchebaggery than strippers have abortions, so this month especially difficult to choose. However, after being bombarded with advertisements for this during transit, a time when I am already angry and screaming at motorists that I will “break their fucking legs”, I was able to make my decision.


Many of you have had the misfortune of watching VH1’s “Rock of Love,” a crappy reality show that even causes even atheists start praying the writer’s strike ends. This do-rag wearing assbag brought his pathetic show to Minneapolis, where not only he wants to have a concert, he wanted to “meet” someone. So the local radio station had a contest between the local cougars where someone could win to hang out with him in his van. WTF?! I don’t want to hear this audible abomination sing, much less hang out with him. Bret Michaels is so irrelevant, he has been washed up since before I was born.


It still boggles my mind that people WANTED to be with him. Yes, I understand they were attention whores, making up for Daddy going to the gas station to get cigarettes and never coming back. But Judas H. Priest; I would rather have sex with three other people who also probably have STD’s than fuck Bret Michaels.

So congratulations Bret Michaels, you win because you have brought your inherent douchyness to me at a local level. There's going to be a season 2, and I wish him the best of luck finding his next skell. I’m sure you will be very happy freezing warts off each other’s genitals.