Pirates, Toliet Sandwiches, and Amazon Women

Friday wasn’t really notable, but Saturday night more than made up for it. Went out with my boys, The Novice (my “project”, as he needs assistance getting laid), Landon (his room mate), and Camaroon. Before we met up with Camaroon in downtown (he was at the insufferable Bella Notte, with its pretentious crowd, and expensive drinks), we stopped at Liquor Lyles in Uptown. Everyone knows the phrase “man’s man” well, this place was a “bar’s bar”. It has two happy hours, one in the afternoon and then another one at night, and is filled to the brim with used up stripper types and full blown alcoholics. Buuuuut, they have two for one specials, with extra potent drinks. I also met the first of three pirates there. He wasn’t dressed up like a pirate to be funny, like the second one I met who was part of a bachelorette party, I think he was just a little “off”. Notice the anchor prison-style tattoo on his cheek.

At Bella Notte, the only really interesting thing that happened was the population of Amazon Women. I’m kind of tall for a chick, almost 5’10”, and these broads had to be 6 foot. Like, they were so ginormous, I would not have been surprised to see William Shatner beaming down to their planet.

We stayed the remainder of the night at The Local, a great irish pub. I managed to piss off the bartender, which sucked because he made me a Cran-Vodka that was redder than the blood of a Scotsman. Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought my flask to top it off with, so I regulated myself to getting drinks from the other side of the bar.

I almost got into a fight with some douchebag playing the piano. He kept playing the same John Lennon song, “Imagine”, which I like, but not 11 times in a row. I told him I would rather suck off an AIDS patient than hear that goddamn song again. He then challenged me to play, and I knew I was drunk enough I should not accept that challenge. The Novice’s piano talents rival, if not exceed mine, and so he tried to defend my honor and accept the challenge, and the Dbag was not letting him play. I threatened to punch him in the throat, and although I was with four guys, the PianoDouche was with a bunch of friends too, so Camaroon wisely tried to simmer me down.

After bar close, we went to Jimmy Johns, for some boozed up sandwich action. Granted, I didn’t expect the employees to be friendly, but they were downright rude. I know it sucks to work at a sandwich place in downtown after bar close, and deal with a bunch of drunks, but there’s no need to be an asshole about it. Somehow half of my sandwich fell on the ground, so I took it with me to the restroom, and arranged it (artfully, I thought) upon the toilet. If they were happy about their station in life, I doubt they were when they came in later to clean the bathrooms and saw this:


Sunday, when I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I invested in getting drunk the night before, I found a dollar with “I’ve got enough cum in my eye to know I don’t like it” scrawled in my handwriting. I don’t recall the conversation that inspired me to write that, but I can only imagine the curiosity of the person who receives that dollar down the road.

A special congratulations goes out to Camaroon for bagging a Cougar.

Putting out the fire

So I totally remembered why I stopped smoking weed this weekend. In college, I was one of those students that went to class high, did homework high, studied high, took the test high and got high grades. But eventually, I stopped. While moving, I found my water bong, and mentioning this to a friend, my friend gave me a present. All this past week, I was having a helluva time, enjoying my present, and I kept telling Landon, “Jesus-tap-dancin-Christ, why did I ever stop chonging down? This is GREAAAAAT!!”

Positive evidence for not stopping was when on Friday, I got ready for all you can eat FREE shrimp at Stella’s by having some herbal essence. We walked down, and I will say this, there was an ugly, middle aged, overweight woman (reeking of liquid butter and overall dissatisfaction with her life) who was standing by the bowl of fried shrimp, just shoveling shit on her plate, and then she gave me a bunch of shit when I tried to get some with the other set of grabbers. Fucking greedy bitch, BUuuut because I was a little more chilled out than usual I just smiled and was patient. I could’ve punched her in the throat like I did the last chick that fucked with me, but I did have plans later that night and I did not want to go to jail.

This positive was negated by when on the way back home, Landon warned me about this huge patch of ice, but there was this girl walking towards us with this tacky skirt (the best way to describe it is if someone ate a clown wig and then threw it up in the shape of paisleys), and because she was large, there was so much more skirt to appreciate so I was entranced. Next thing I know, I’m looking up at Landon from the ground. My knee instantly turned black/blue. Looks hot, doesn’t it?


More to remind me why I quit smoking was when I was looking at my hair, and noticed a silver hair (oddly enough, it’s straight too), and then I got paranoid (hmm, wonder why?) that I was aging overly fast. Landon thought it was hilarious, because he started going silver when he was 19. I made him come with me to Liquor Lyles that afternoon for some two-for-one’s, to make the pain lessen. I ended up forgetting my card at the bar and even though we went back and I got it, it legitimately sucked. I could deal with losing my keys and my phone around the apartment, but that’s just too much.

So there you have it… I think I’m tapping out of any greenery, and I’m taking ginko bilboa to offset any short term memory loss so I don’t forget this time.

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.