July's Douchebag Of The Month

I’ve been running a little behind lately. But just because I’m a little slower at getting to it, please don’t be confused and think that this award smells any less of the aroma of douchebaggery. This award because I waited so long, will be shared this month.

First and foremost, I need to bid a bitter farewell to Bennigan’s. I knew some of the staff there, and they undeniably had the best happy hour specials in the suburb I work. When I found out about their closing, I happened to have just been there the day before. I was like someone who had a friend die, but had seen them recently. My reaction: “WHAT, BENNEGINS CLOSED?! I JUST SAW ‘EM YESTERDAY… LOOKED FINE!!!!!” So, #1 douchebag of July goes to the assholes (Metromedia Restaurant Group) that filed for bankruptcy. Way to cowboy up and try to get through it. Oh wait, you actually took the coward’s way out.

The second part of this illustrious honor goes to Kid Rock. He has sodomized one of my favorite Lynyrd Skynrd songs. If the majority of the band was alive, I’ll am more than positive they would rain hot fury down upon his greasy, scumbucket ass, that would be akin to napalm on a Vietnamese village. Why doesn’t he take a shit atop Jim Morrison of the Door’s grave while he’s insulting iconic music legends? I mean, if he had even a moderate amount of talent (for music, not for railing bleach blonde hepatitis whores), it wouldn’t be so fucking offensive. Like when Stone Temple Pilots did “Dancing Days” by Led Zepplin, granted it wasn’t as good as the original, but at least it wasn’t insulting the taste of music listeners. But you, Kid Rock, you have honed the craft of douchfulness, and it stabs at my eardrums with every note I listen to that you have spat forth... And it's for that that you get the heavy crown placed upon your do-rag adorned head.

And They Shall Call Me "FRANK"

Friday I went to the Eagle with Bill, met up with Craig and Luther and some of the others. I had the fortune of discovering the gay man group, Bearforce1, which if you know what a Bear (see #5) is, you can get my amusement of watching these guys dance around in pastel shirts, then water while singing jauntily. I managed to meet the ONE straight there. Going around, like I usually do, I asked this cute guy that if I had a dick, would he suck it... To which he replied NO, because he was straight. He thought it was funny and understood how I might think a guy in a gay bar would be homosexual. Guess those drink specials of 3-for-1's really draw 'em out.

We also figured out my gay name. Luther said something about me talking to more guys in the bar than even the gay guys do. And I'm like: "HELL YEAH, I'D MAKE A GREAT GUY DUDE!" so of course then we needed to figure out a name; at the same time, Craig and I came up with "Frank".

Saturday was divine. Sunday I made guinness pork chops (because all of my yumgasm marinades and sauces had dripped on the grill), we had enough smoke to blow into the next door neighbor's house. The fire alarm went off and two fire trucks came. WHEE!


I once again had a quality weekend with some gays, but Timmy (who went to Bismark Pride, a wholly different experience than Mpls Pride), had adventures that eclipse mine. Just a big field of gays, camping, getting drunk and having queertastic weekend. They were even selling "jock on a stick," which as you might have imagined is a neon jockstrap, on a stick, tied in the back so it's tighter. Once you have that, what other article of clothing do you really need?

The family that gets intoxicated together, stays together

I think because I lived in Florida until I was 21, it made my trip down there less like a vacation and more like a revisiting of my former life. Needless to say, it was more than a little overwhelming to attempt to see all of my friends and family in such a short window of time. Being related to me, of course my family is awesome, and decided to help me out by throwing a little shindig on the 5th. My dad blackened fish, Auntie Cougar had a well-stocked bar, and my grandma just tried to not be offended when she heard us using copious profanity in everyday conversations.

I also got to meet my Dad’s new girlfriend. Keeping in mind that the last time I saw him with a woman, it was my mom… things were bound to be weird anyway, much less that his lady friend happens to be a lunatic. This is not just my opinion, this is something he and many others who have met her share. But she’s hot, and kind of looks like Rachel Ray… A Rachel Ray that would slit your throat in your sleep if she’s pissed off enough. Also, because she’s a lunatic, her 12 year old son is a little fucked up in the head. Like, for example, he saw my dad playing grab-ass with her in the pool, and he flipped out. So there’s Tequila Mockingbird, drunkenly trying to console this kid and to get him to stop crying. Obviously, that was not the highlight of the evening.

I saw friends from high school, we chased each other through my grandma’s orange groves, and set off fireworks. Fortunately, nothing exploded or caught on fire like the night before. That might have been more than a little embarrassing, seeing as how there were two firemen present at the party. Both of them said they would’ve without a doubt been able to put out a fire no matter how intoxicated. This is a subject of debate and disagreement.

Ostriches, Camels, and a Fiesta

As much as I need to get to part III of my Florida hijinks, this weekend had some serious badassery that I must first address. Friday I went over to the gays, where we made homo punch (cherry limeade, sprite, lots o vodka, and maraschino cherries) that resulted in a quest for cherries later that night. I can honestly say it was the first time I ever went into a liquor store and did not buy any alcoholic beverages. Later, when the fount of homo punch ran dry, we busted into the cheap champagne, and even convinced the Jimmy John’s bicycle delivery guy to drink a glass quick.

Somehow we ended up at Brother’s, which is a club/bar, but more of a club than a bar. Not knowing I’d be going out, I was wearing a sublime shirt and jeans, which had me looking like a hippy. Timmy was rockin’ the 70’s porn start look, complete with chops and “my name is earl” mustache. When we were dancing I heard someone remark “OHhh shiiiitttt, HIPPY GIRL CAN DANCE!”

Saturday Leslie and Skoalface had their annual fiesta. They had a kickass party favor, a beaded necklace with a shot glass on it. Joep was sitting next to the keg and kept filling up his little cup. We played boozy-badminton, which required us to keep holding onto our margaritas AT ALL TIMES. Landon and I left early, and because his date was cut short (he showed up 25 min. late, with hickeys from Fri’s date, and already drunk), he came with me to Chammps to watch MMA affliction, but I was too drunk to try to get jello wrestling scheduled with the midget bartender.

Sunday #skark went to Canterbury, which in the epitome of awesomeness was hosting Ostrich and Camel races instead of just the usual horsies. Ostrich races were fail (they ended so quickly.. it was like the premature ejaculation of racing), but camel races made up for them. We had some side betting going on after we saw two different chicks wearing tacky sequin purses as to if we would see a third. Instead of just seeing a third, we saw two more. No accounting for taste I guess. I busted ass from a wet spot on the floor inside, but like a pro managed to keep my drink upright and not spill the entirety of it. I still wish we had been able to steal ostriches and race them down Hiawatha ave against the light rail.

Blowing Shit Up

Last night started out with a bang, when I found out on the way to bowling you aren’t supposed to text while going 15 miles over the speed limit. But since I don’t look gross, the cop was nice and was like “instead of a ticket, I’m going to give you a stern talking to.” Well thanks; boy O boy did I learn my lesson! Like most #skark events, the night ended with drama, and amazingly enough I was not at the center of it this time. It was a nice departure.

Anyway, so back to my Florida trip, on the 4th of July I saw my dad and some of the firemen I grew up with at his station. Then my bestest friend since middle school, Gay Mike aka Poodles, threw a party at his apartment. With fireworks, pharmaceuticals, booze, and enough homosexuals to fill up a Pier 1 we had a blast, literally. We aren’t sure if the apt place turned the sprinklers on because of the commotion we were making or if was on a timer, but either way we were angrier than a stripper with a C section. Maybe they should’ve kept the sprinklers on and then we wouldn’t have blown a hole in the chair. Oops!




Here is that day’s slideshow. Next week I’ll have more Florida adventures in awesomeness.

Fake Fog & Ribs the second time around

I got back from Florida last week, but as soon as I returned it was Skark Skarey movie night, complete with dry ice to make fog and some extra that I stuck in a punch bowl with berry limeade and vodka to carbonate it. It somehow turned into Skark night swimming in the pool during a thunder storm (yes, I know, but at least we weren’t holding golf clubs high in the air). Disregard my arm looking fat, it's really not like that in real life.

Then on Saturday I had the gays (Timmy and Bill) over for bbq and a couple pitchers of mojitos, then subsequent walking around my front lawn with champagne flutes full of pink champagne. At some point one of us had the grand idea to bake a cake (this might have been fueled by Timmy’s bearings of high quality greenery) at 1 am. So we walk down to the gas station, buying our cake mix and the gas station attendant who had already seen us in there a couple times that day was like “really, REALLY now? Baking a cake in the middle of the night?” Nevertheless, chocolate cake with strawberry frosting and oreos on top never tasted so good.

The trip went awesomely, and eventually I’ll get to all of my stories with corresponding pictures. I went to Busch Gardens, and it turns out it’s not a good idea to eat a hearty meal of ribs and French fries and then go on Kumba twice in a row (yay, we had platinum passes that let us skip to the head of the line and go twice on all the rides)… the three people behind me that were covered in my rib-french fry vomit also figured out it was a bad idea. Hell, I’m just glad I didn’t throw up on my friends or family. That wouldn’t have been cool at all. Notice I'm wearing two different pairs of sunglasses; fucking gwazi stole the first pair (as well as almost thieving a shoe). To recoup the loss, I stole a replacement pair from the gift shop

She who Stands Where I Stood

In the last post I alluded to us moving. I’ve moved so much in the past year, I feel like a gypsy (only I take showers and smell better). Anyway, Landon and moved in next door with Jason this weekend. It's a bigger place, roughly the same price, and has off-street parking; that’s overall the largest win, cause when you live somewhere that everyone else wants to live, it’s a bitch to park. Granted, Landon and I still park on the street whenever convenient, because fuck everyone… we’ve had to walk a block or so to get home before, why should we make it easier for other people?

We were actually thinking of just throwing shit out of Landon’s window or rigging up a pulley system, since his old window was directly beside the new place. That way we would avoid the gazillion flights of stairs. OHhh how these stairs have memories of drinkety drunk times before!

Anyway, one of the things I wont miss about the old place is the plumbing. Because our building was one of the oldest in Uptown, it had some bad news bears where that was concerned. For example, you needed to hold down the handle on the toilet, but not hold it down too long. And the sink was vile; not only was it rusty (no, Maintenance, painting it will not fix the problem), it had two handles AND faucets for a cold and hot side of your face during a wash.

One of the cool things that came with the house next door, is Invader Zim, Jason's cat. He's one of the most awesome cats ever. He looks drunk here.

Thanks to those who helped us move. It was invaluable; yeah we had like two months notice and it was next door, but when it got down to the wire it was still like "OH SWEET MOSES, WE NEED TO GET OUR STUFF OUT!!!!" We were considering leaving a doubledecker for the next tenants (they dont check the toliet tank when doing move-out checkups!), but opted not to.

Chuck Norris got moved behind the pool table upstairs. Hopefully he’ll improve our game. Also, between the three of us, we now have four mini fridges. Can't ever really have enough of those. Anyway, you folks have a good week. I’m rolling into Florida for the week like a hurricane.