Filling the streets with my noise

It was another big weekend. Somehow despite moving next door into Jason's house (I'll get to that soon), I still managed to have more good times than Target has mentally handicapped people working for them (seriously, have you noticed that too?). Friday night Landon and I walked down to Stella's for the first shift of happy hour, where we had to fight to keep our stools from being stolen by this Asian chick with a face like an old leather purse. Later Landon's large breasted lady friend (they were at least thrice as big as mine), Calvin Crustitron, and his friend Tony that was visiting from Cali joined us out.

I still cant quite put my finger on why, but I didn't think Tony was gay. Landon thought it might be an act, cause he thought Tony was hitting on Tits McGee. I saw one of the gays, Hector, on the street while walking to the bar, and I refuse to believe it's a coincidence that we had just been playing the penis game. After Bar Abaleine and the Drink, we went to Burrito loco, where I was impressed when the staff chased after some assbag that stole the tip jar. On the way back home, Calvin Crustitron and I got in a stupid argument that left us screaming profanity at each other all the way down Hennepin. Nothing but class.

Sat. I still managed to have time to make blue, green, and purple jello shots to go with the red, orange, and yellow ones Melissa made for the Pride party. What better way to celebrate that with a spectrum of fruity booze?! Hmm, maybe perhaps the rainbow cape from the AIDS benefit party?

I wore it around Loring park for the En Vogue concert. It did well to hide the Guinness in my back pockets. Then onto the 19 bar, where we were trying to figure out if I looked more like a homosexual Batman or the gay grim reaper (we were thinking in place of a scythe, perhaps a large purple dildo instead).

Surprisingly enough, the employees at the gas station we went into were less amused with the cape and the stream of colorful people coming celebrating pride. I think of any gas station for me to be in with a cape, the Super America was the most appropriate. I still don't see what the problem was. For all they know I could've been a super hero; "Butt Genie to the rescue; NO MOAR TACKY DECOR FOR YOOOooooou!!!"

Robocop, Tater Tots, and a Recipe

My bad about the weekend recap taking so long to get out, but this week I'm in the middle of moving and also getting ready to go to Fla next week, not to mention I left my camera at Craig's house when I was drunk (shockingly enough!).

Friday I first met the gays at The Eagle, where I saw a lesbian that looked like Harry Potter, a black midget (no, he dissapeared in the crowd before I could pick him up and sprint away with him), and a Pirate that spit a lot when he talked.

After that was a bbq at Bill Skark's house. I brought some ribs that were so awesomely marinated, they ripped a hole in the universal curtain of "awesome." Amy and I were considering running through the sprinklers scantily clad on the golf course he lives in , but unfortunately 1. weren't paying attention the first time the sprinklers turned on 2. were taking a 2 hr "nap" the second time they came on.

After the nap at 6 am we ate some leftover ribs and drank more rasp. lemonade-vodka and watched Robocop. Somewhere during the movie we toook another nap, and woke up ready for Uptown Bar tater tots and screwdrivers/bloody mary's. Helluva way to start your Saturday!

Sunday it was Craig's birthday, and the gays threw an a fanfuckingtastic party, despite the intermittant rain. But hey, I look great in a wet t shirt anyway. We were solidly entertained by the ghetto couple across the street having a domestic dispute. She locked him out, but then kept opening the door to throw a handful of ice at him. Their reconcillation after 15 min took away our amusement.

I made Mojito Jello shots; last time I made them, you greedy bastards wanted my recipe. Here it is in all of it's glory. If the steam doesnt burn your eyes, you're doing it wrong.

Mockingbird Mojito Jello Shotz

• Boil ALMOST a cup of water, the rest of the cup being taken up by lime juice and mint extract (dont use real mint leaves, when they boil they turn brown and look like dogshit)


• Add a package of lime jello and 2 tablespoons of sugar. STIR of course


• Turn off heat and add 1 cup of light rum.

YOU'RE IN BUSINESS CHAMP! (watch out, they sneak up on you like a paternity suit)

Ahoy, Failboat!

While I wait to get pictures back from this weekend's shenanigans, I will take the time to call out some fail of epic proportions. Apparently pirates took four European tourists hostage and are now hiding in the hills of Las Qoray.

First of all, European tourists are not the ones to take as hostages. They arent sure whether they are French or German, but come on... Both countries dont give as big of a rat's ass as America does about it's citizens being . So if you want to be a successful captor, you would aim to snag some American tourists. That's where the real booty is!

Most importantly, you cannot be a pirate and hide on land. The whole thing about being a pirate is you STAY IN THE WATER... 'a life at sea', not 'a life at sea until people are chasing me'. NO GET BACK IN YOUR FUCKING BOAT!! Bunch of pussies, that's what they are. Unless they are hunting down ninjas on land (which is a difficult endeavor to begin with) or have run out of rum, their asses should be in the water, fighting off whomever is after them.

Thirdly, snagging a tourist vessel that has run out of gas seems to take away from their pirate cred. Everyone knows you are supposed to go after merchant ships so their is more shit to steal. And a boat that has run out of gas? You dont even need cannons to take it down. LAAAaaaaaame!!! I didnt see anything in the pirate laws against this stuff, but it still doesnt seem quite right.



Main point: It's not the hokey pokey, you dont put your left foot in and take your left foot out; if you are going to be a pirate, DONT HALF ASS IT.

Remembering Memorial Day...

So, I had a blast on Memorial Day, but unfortunately, I didnt quite remember all of it. Thanks to Chelsea, I now have pictures to forever memorialize the after-party with the gays. Notice the progression of the evening. I still dont know when I managed to lose my shoe, but the falling down does explain the rug burn I woke up with on my elbow. Have a good weekend folks!

June's Douchebag of The Month

Once again, I’m singing that same song that goes a little something like this: “do-doo-doooouchebaaaaag, oh how you make me want to smaaaack you with a mesh bag of piiiiineaaaaaaaappples… dooo do douchebaaags!” June’s winner of the fail-waste sweepstakes is psychics.

The immediate cause for me awarding this to them is that there is one occupying prime space in between my house and one of my favorite bars, Liquor Lyles. It’s a great bar, but if you go there, and things suck, there’s no other options except to walk four blocks to Lyndale, where Mortimer’s and Rudolph’s are located. It really is a serious investment. Anyway, if they ran the psychics out of there like they did in the good ol’ days (with pitchforks and lighted torches, of course), it’s totally big enough to have a decent sized food-drink establishment. I wonder, since they are psychics, if they would know beforehand that someone was going to throw a brick through their fucking window?

And going along with that line of thought, how come Miss Cleo didn’t know she was going to be sued and tap out before any of that started? OH WAIT, BECAUSE SHE WASN’T REALLY A PSYCHIC! I would be hard pressed to find someone who could prove to me that they were REALLY a psychic; most are just able to give semi-decent guesses based on people’s voices and the information they are given.

Maybe the sad sacks of shit that call those psychic hotlines deserve to get ripped off. Kind of like a dumbass tax. In this case, maybe it’s the callers of those hotlines that rank higher on the douchetitude scale. I’ve said this before in different posts, to think that the universe will magically fix life problems is idiotic and that energy would be better spent trying to improve the things that one does not like about their lives. Hope in one hand, douche in the other.

No Title Can Possibly Do This Justice

Saturday Lego's friends from Iowa came over (sure as hell beats drowning in their flooded state!), so we showed them St Paul. Keeping in mind they had read me and heard stories about me, but I'm not sure ANYTHING can really ever prepare a person for me. I think they assumed it was mostly exaggeration surrounding me; hmmm not quite!

Anyway, first stop was the Liffey, where the boys were attacked by a group of cougars out for a bachelorette thing. Too bad none of them were hot and were trying entirely too hard to be "naughty." It was sad really, and they smelled of Oil of Olay anti-wrinkle cream and barely surviving hopes.

On another disturbing note, we saw this guy with his gym-teacher-with-balls-hanging-out-of-his-short-shorts.

Awesomely enough, we found someone had left a flowery, frilly umbrella underneath the bar. So, on the walk to the McGoverns, I twirled it around like Mary Poppins and had a blast with it. Here is Andy and I with it, WHEeeeee! This was before I hit a pole with it and it broke. Oops.


At McGovern's, there was some Coldplay-ish band playing. Which of course made me feel compelled to start yelling "PLAaaaaaay SLAYER!!!;" those two bands couldn't possibly more dissimilar, so as you can imagine, they did not play any Slayer for me, however, they did keep telling me they would in a couple songs.

After saving some random girl with HUGE cans (seriously, I shit you not.. they mine look small) from having to dance with this gross old man, we started dancing, which somehow lead to making out. Funny how that happened. Her girlfriend was not amused, Legos and his friends were delighted. Sorry about the poor quality of pictures. All four of the boys have promised to ALWAYS carry digital cameras on them, instead of relying solely on blackberries.

Trainwreck Friday- Choo Choo BITCHES!

Landon came home on Friday, kicking my bed to wake me up for Stella’s 2-for-1’s (or as he calls them, “4-for-2’s”). I was still trying to recover from Thursday’s Skark Bowling that included but was not limited to:

• a crying jag


• Pecan Pie for Pope's Birthday that I made with Jim Beam


• Pantsless Bowling


• Piggyback Bowling (one person gets on another's back and bowls

After Stella’s and then Old Chicago, we got up on Jason’s roof with a bottle of Dr. Mcgillicuddy’s (hey, it has “Doctor” on the bottle, so that means it’s good for you, right?), and Invader Zim the cat to yell at people down below. For example, the 30 year old pizza guy got a “IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU WANTED TO BE DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?!” We knew it was time to get off the roof when a bird shit on Landon’s pant leg and he started screaming he was going to throw shit back at it.

The arab from the gas station across the street had recommended the 5 hr energy supplement, so we split it up into shot glasses to prepare for what we like to call “long distance drinking.” We met up with a birthday crowd that Jason knew at Nye’s in downtown Minneapolis, and came to the conclusion that as amusing as the polka band was, that was not the side of the bar to be on, because they poured Guinness in pure failure fashion. By this time, Landon (who had been pulling on the McGillicuddys harder than we had) was hiccupping).

We still aren’t quite sure how this happened, but we got kicked out of the cab on the way to Brits. We are good natured drunks and were agreeing with something the foreign cab driver said. Whatever. Fuck him and the border he snuck in on. At Brits I saw Jesus on the rooftop. He bought me a drink, so I assume I’m going to heaven now. We ended up back at Green Mill, who took our arguing with each other as a cue not to serve us. WTF?! We’ve been way more belligerent than that before.

Some people just don’t know how to take a joke.

A Brave New World (of drinking)

While reading the news today, I literally got a little wet when I saw this story. See, when a person lives in a place that is colder than an Eskimo’s dick for the majority of the year, they tend to drink at home considerably more than those who live in more accommodating climates. This is not the case for me, as I go out frequently. Anyway, the idea of a delivery beer man still appeals to me. Especially if he was hot (I can see the pornos now, “what would you like for a tip, Mr BeerMan?”)

It’s a fairly reasonably priced service too, but unfortunately with the raising of gas prices, that will change. This is also a fanfuckingtastic idea because with beer being delivered, there is less of a chance of DUI’s, and other bad times that can come with non-professional (AKA non-home) drinking.

There should be more places doing this. Granted, the area they are doing it in, Duluth, is a shitty, barren, funless place, BUT I think even in the cities it would still do well. They could even have the delivery truck play fun music like ice cream trucks do. I’m thinking it could be Bare Naked Ladies “Alcohol” song or maybe “Drunken Lullabies" by Flogging Molly (see video down below). Either way, I could see a parade of big-gutted men following the beer truck down the street like the pied piper.

Office Retardation

So today I had probably the most asnine staff meeting ever. Though this meeting wasn’t directed at anything I had done or said, I was still silghtly irritated (and not just because it took away from valuable time I could’ve been plucking my eyebrows or online shopping for sex toys). We work in a small office, that’s deadline-driven, thus tensions run high. Backstabbing bullshit is out of control, because people cant just confront people face to face... Seriously, GROW THE FUCK UP.
Which brings me to my main issue… when did people lose their spine and become unable to deal with even the most minimal conflicts? Are we that weak as a society we have resorted to being confrontationally crippled? I think all of this touchy-feely-we-should-tread-lightly has ruined us and made us mealy-mouthed milk-toast hollow shells. Not everyone will always like everyone else. And especially in an office setting where you have a group of people thrown together who otherwise would want nothing to do with each other, it wont always be cotton candy and rainbows.

What’s the point of this post? Basically to tell everyone to cowboy up and grow a thicker skin because conflict is inevitable and avoiding confrontation wont make it go away, but instead let it simmer like a stew of bitter resentment. So if you are sick of the office douchebag peeing in the coffee pot or the office bitch telling everyone you smell like a hobo behind your back, SAY SOMETHING. Or sabotage their car. Do something, because if you do nothing, you’ll just tweak out one day and come into the office shooting.

Grand Ol' Weekend!

Just as I figured out an angry midget is a harbinger of bad times, when Landon and I saw two midgets in the post office, we knew it would be a doubly fun weekend. It actually translated into two opportunities for public intoxication. After post office on Saturday, we went to The Felafel King's buffet. If the Burger King guy is so fucking creepy, the Felafel King must be even more disturbin, but instead have a turban with a crown over it and smell like curry and old shoes. But the place was fantastic. It had a bunch of Mexican guys working at it who kept threatening to kick each other's asses. Felafel King fight club? Hmmm.. I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT!!

The first opportunity to get publicly hammered was a filthy tease. They blocked off a solid couple of streets a few blocks from us on calhoun square for the Beerfest. Too bad it was $28 to get in. JUST FOR SAMPLES!! Unless it comes from a mason jar, it'll take more than a sample to rattle my cage...

Anyway, Saturday wasn't such a lucky day for some folk... It started hailing like a sonofabitch (probably the forces of the universe in a rage about the cost of Beerfest...), and I had the distinct pleasure of laughing at some people running down a Hennepin while I was nice and cozy in my apartment, with my drink. THE FIRST of my "FUN IN THE SUN" summer drink recipes I will bestow upon you:

Tropical Mockingbird

• Pineapple soaked for at least two days in light rum and another day frozen
• Tropicana Orange Juice (it's from the town in Fla I'm from. Don't settle for that concentrate OJ Bullshit)
• More of that light rum good times

Unfortunately, time flies when you're having rum, so next thing I know it's Sunday and time for Grand Ol Day. No intraweb definition can give you the full picture of the awesomeness of this event. Thousands of people, drinking on Grand St. in St. Paul, for miles. Jugglers, Bands, Beer Gardens (those are for suckers), fried food on a stick, crafts, lawn parties, and GENERAL RUNNING AMOK!!! For this, I filled a camelbak with Red Bull, Blue gatorade, and vodka. I was like a tranny, trying to remember to tuck my hose in; I doubt the law would've been enthusiastic about the booze I lovingly carried upon my back.

After a shit ton of food and liquor (we had arrived already tanked, properly ready for the festivities), and walking down the miles of Grand St. the celebration stretched for, Landon and I started feeling ill, sun burnt (turns out a Ginger like me should probably slather on some sunscreen), and blisters... sooo, we decided it was time to roll out. We felt like the goddamn jews wandering around for 40 years trying to find Landon's car on Summit. We tried waiting for the shuttle bus, and had a pine cone throwing fight before eventually giving up and just walking it. I almost vomited in some of the nicest lawns in St Paul. I did see this house. WTF? Teddy bears in all the windows??