Category Archives: drinking

More Like the Blowlympics

So my woman decided to write a post about how hating the Olympics doesn’t mean you aren’t patriotic, and since I haven’t felt very inspired to write anything for a few years or so, I figured I’d like to get in on that. Despite the fact that Torontonians apparently feel not supporting the Olympics is unpatriotic, I don’t know anyone around here who likes them. True, most of my friends are alcoholics, criminals, and white trash, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t a legitimate representation of everyone in America. Let’s quickly review the basics shall we?

1) The Olympics are boring. Watching them is like watching reruns of CSPAN. I would rather do chores around the house wearing a suit of fiberglass insulation than watch the Olympics. I would rather listen to Rosanne and Fran Drescher argue about yesterday’s episode of the View than watch the Olympics.

2) Almost all Olympic sports, challenging as they may be, are not spectator sports. Everyone knows figure skating sucks. Ski jumping may be scary, but if you see one jump you’ve pretty much got the idea. If you’re a dick like me and you enjoy people wrecking badly, it almost never happens. (Too soon for a luger pun?) Even the relatively exciting sports of BMX or Karate are still way lamer than watching a non-Olympic version like the X-Games or the UFC.

3) What the hell is bandy? I realize I live in a warm climate and ice sports aren’t popular, but seriously? The same thing goes for basque pelota, korfball, and boules. I may be an ignorant American, but I would argue that sports shouldn’t even be considered for a world tournament unless they are popular in more than two countries. What’s next, life saving? Oh wait, that’s an Olympic sport too. Being a lifeguard is NOT a sport, I don’t care how many boobs were on Bay Watch.

So now that I have irrefutably proven that the Olympics generally blow, let’s move on to how that applies to me being patriotic. Let me first start by explaining that I’m not patriotic in the traditional sense of actually being loyal to my country. Here are just a few things I hate about America: everyone who runs it, guidos, Fox News, people who insist America is the best country in the world without knowing anything about the world, the fact that Top Gear is filmed somewhere else, and public service announcements. (Seriously, shut up Hollywood)

However, this doesn’t mean there aren’t a ton of great things that have come out of America that I enjoy taking credit for when talking to foreigners. So if you think I’m unpatriotic, well fuck you. Here’s a list of amazing shit I or someone related to me probably were responsible for.

Look at this guy!

Grizzly Adams: He tamed fucking bears. I can only assume he settled for grizzly bears in the absence of wild dragons. Also he owned one of the coolest coat-beard combos in the history of mankind.

Rock and Roll: While the debate over who technically invented rock and roll is one that will never be agreed upon, (see Beatles vs Elvis if you’re an idiot) the fact remains that America has contributed a lot to Rock and Roll over the years. And while lots of my favorite bands are not home grown, a whole lot of them are. Skynyrd, Aerosmith, Van Halen, Metallica, Motley Crue, Guns N’ Roses, Disturbed, Green Day, Sublime, 311, Rage Against the Machine; the list goes on and on but I’m tired of copying crap from Wikipedia. The point is that without downplaying the contribution of the rest of the world, we’ve done some face melting rocking over the years.

The Ultimate Fighting Championship: I don’t give a flying crap where martial arts come from, the UFC is a great American institution. I was always bored with sports (like the Olympics) and never enjoyed playing or watching any until I experienced mixed martial arts in an octagon fence/cage. If you haven’t seen it and have a penis, please fix one or the other. That crap is the shit. Who doesn’t like insane men willingly (or unwillingly) jumping in a cage and beating the life blood out of each other? Pussies, that’s who, and pussies stink.

Suck it world.

Man on the Moon: Face it, it was a race, to the moon, and we won. I don’t care if the USSR cloned a dinosaur/minotaur beast and puts a damn army of them on the moon, we still got a man there first, and that’s damn cool. Next race, put a man on the sun. If any country can beat us there Niel Armstrong will look like Pauly Shore if he hadn’t made Biodome. (You know that shit was funny, don’t even lie. Unless you never smoked weed, and then it probably wasn’t funny, but that’s your own fault not his)

Porn: After a lengthy break from blogging I’m back to report the ol’ USA produces more porn than any other country on earth. (I didn’t happen across any provable facts during my break, so sue me) If Faith up there can’t give you a few great reasons why porn is awesome, then I sure as hell can’t explain it in a way you will understand. If that is the case think of it like physics, and then just understand I’m pretty much Einstein when it comes to this topic. (That’s why I’m on the internet instead of out there in real life somewhere.)

Anheuser-Bush: The number one seller of beer on the planet. Sure there are a lot of other companies and countries that make much better beer, but that doesn’t change a thing. They actually are the king of beers. For all you beer snobs out there, there’s a reason such watery swill is dominating the planet. Poor people like drinking too, and for the price they actually deliver a good quality beverage. Also a little known fact about Budweiser for all you Heineken fans out there: if you accidentally leave a Budweiser under your car seat in the middle of the dog days of summer for three days and it doesn’t explode from the heat, it tastes exactly like Heineken. It’s probably not safe to drink, but I did once and it was delicious once I got it chilled down.

As you can see America has a lot of great things I enjoy, unfortunately none of them are on the Olympics. While it is true that one great thing about our country is that everyone except the Tea Party people usually make room for other folks to enjoy things they don’t support, the fact remains that the Olympic Games are exactly like the state of the union address, no matter how important it’s supposed to be, it’s still not as good as the regularly scheduled programming. That’s what highlight reels are for.

The Carport of Babel

There are times in a mans life where he takes on a task, nay, a mighty quest. This arduous undertaking consumes him, pushing him to his limits in the ultimate attempt to make himself a legend among men. A hero of sorts. And almost without fail, in the real world at least, men underestimate how impossibly fucking hard this task will be once it’s started and there’s no turning back.

My quest is building a place to live. My brother and I decided to close in his carport making it into a new laundry room and a large bedroom for me to live in, and after I move a new living room or possibly game room for their house. We looked at this old carport and said to ourselves, we know how to measure and cut things. We like using power tools. We’ve both worked construction and maintenance jobs for many years. This should be well within the comfortable bounds of our almost limitless knowledge of how to make things. So with our spirits high and our giant hairy balls swinging low, we started tearing shit apart and building walls. As it turns out, we only half way know how to build a house. And we most certainly don’t know how to build a house to government standards.

You see what happened was, we forgot one very important factor when evaluating our personal skills. Both of us have built a lot of crap, and learned a lot of things, but every job we’ve ever had has been some jack-of-all-trades bullshit, where the main focus was on *ahem* jerry-rigging the living hell out of whatever we were fixing. So I can guarantee I can build a functional house that never leaks or falls over, but when it comes to making sure the town of Garner building inspectors agree about my methods, well, that’s a whole different slice of pie now isn’t it.

But who needs professional or expert knowledge, we decided to wing it anyway, and have been met with nothing but trouble ever since. We spent an entire day moving the top of one exterior wall one inch so it would match up properly with the preexisting trim wood. We’ve found unbelievable things wrong with the house. A large section of the roof had the rafters completely unattached, possibly from a large limb falling on it. One corner of the carport was held up by nothing but a four by four, gravity, and paint. Seriously, we jacked it up to build a wall, and the post fell out, not attached in any way to either the roof, or the small cement wall it was sitting on. One man with a sledgehammer, or say, a CAR, could have collapsed the end of the house. And yet our inspection fails because we accidentally used 3/8ths inch bolts instead of half inch bolts. Suck a dick inspector man, you know good and well that wall wasn’t going anywhere. (shakey fist with extra !!!!!!!)

So anyway. Nobody besides us gives a crap about the details of our work. Let me just say that we’ve pretty much all been busting our collective asses in the middle of a very muggy summer to try and get this project done, and though our balls are still just as huge as ever, our spirits are all sinking a little lower as the weeks go by. We’ll get this bastard built eventually, but for now nobody has much energy for things like, oh, blogging regularly. Even my first love, pornography, has been seeing less of me lately. Oh yeah, and the woman too, don’t forget the woman!

(By the way it’s very hard to focus on writing when your woman is sitting next to your rough draft on the computer screen, deep throating a popsicle. Who am I kidding, I didn’t even try splitting my attention.)

So screw it, this is what it looks like.

This was the corner being frighteningly held up by one single 4x4 with no screws or nails whatsoever.

This was the corner being frighteningly held up by one single 4x4 with no screws or nails whatsoever.

No one was injured in my tool rage.

No one was injured in my tool rage.

This is called labor fuel, which weve been consuming in large quantities. Because, you know, power tools and alcohol are never a bad thing to mix.

This is called labor fuel, which we've been consuming in large quantities. Because, you know, power tools and alcohol are never a bad thing to mix.

This would be our former exterior wall, also the location of the rafters holding up the ceiling that were completely unattached.

This would be our former exterior wall, also the location of the rafters holding up the ceiling that were completely unattached.

You can only immagine how packed it is now that we also brought down everything in our attic to instal a new HVAC system.

You can only immagine how packed it is now that we also brought down everything in our attic to instal a new HVAC system.

Getting close to done. ON THE OUTSIDE! Mwahahahaha!

Getting close to done. ON THE OUTSIDE! Mwahahahaha!

After working it is necessary to cover your head with a liquor bag, and make your best preggers tummy.

After working it is necessary to cover your head with a liquor bag, and make your best preggers tummy.

I Have the Body of a Greek God

Well, to be fair, I would only really have the body of one of the lesser Greek gods. Maybe an alcoholic god, in poor physical shape, who smokes too much and makes poor diet and lifestyle choices.

So what happened was, I was sitting at work on Tuesday, chillin’ like normal, watching Domino during our lunch hour. (fucking brilliant movie in case you haven’t seen it. Get off your vag-lips and go rent that shit right now, you will thank me) I heated up some Jimmy Deans sausage biscuit thingy, and a Tombstone personal pizza, downed an energy drink, a can of Mountain Dew, and two tums, ate half a bag of chips, two oatmeal creme cookie sandwiches, a zebra cake, and a double pack of peanut butter wafer bars. Shortly after Keira Knightley tells Lucy Liu that she’ll be dreaming of her pussy when she goes to bed alone that night, I began to feel a little ill. Actually, I was fairly hung over already, so my general state of health started at a level normal people might call “sick”, but I was getting some red alert signals from my digestive track that shouted for attention over the background noise of my throbbing head and mild nausea.

I managed to make it to the good bathroom before my lunch made a hasty exit. I’ve hurled in the “bad bathroom” before, and let me tell you, there aren’t a whole lot of things less pleasant that sticking your bare hands in a sink full of vomit because the drain doesn’t really drain worth a fuck. The good bathroom on the other hand, you could ralph gravel in that sumbitch and it wouldn’t overflow.

So I watched my lunch disappear down the drain in roughly the order I had eaten it, except reversed. Yeah, that’s definitely pizza, and yup, there’s some sausage, and that would appear to be a fairly well mixed up witches brew of junk foods. But it was the last guest in my post lunch party that threw me for a loop. Blood. I couldn’t say for sure exactly what had happened the night before, but I could fairly certainly remember never eating any blood. And yet, there it was, gleaming up at me smugly from it’s crimson pool, as if taking some twisted pleasure in knowing it was completely screwing up my plans for the day.

Now for those of you who don’t know me, namely all of you, I hate doctors. It’s not that I dislike them as people, because they are usually very pleasant and intelligent as far as humans go, but I just hate having to go see them. Partly it’s cause I don’t like feeling like a pussy, and everyone knows real men never need medical attention. And partly it’s because I know that eventually, some doctor somewhere is going to walk into a room, force me to put on a “gown” and stick his finger up my ass, and with my luck I’ll get a boner and then I’ll be gay, and I’ll be damned if a little blood puke is going to turn me gay.

My coworkers on the other hand have no problem going to the doctor, and after throwing up some more, and beginning to get dizzy, they convinced me I should probably seek some kind of medical attention rather than finish out the work day. I was already dreading it. The waiting rooms. The long forms. The throngs of overweight, sickly, rapidly breeding minorities who while legally created equal are still a total pain in the ass when in public. Other peoples kids. Why was this happening to me? Was God punishing me for one day becoming gay when a doctor fingered my ass? Can he even punish people in advance? I figured if George Bush could do it, I wouldn’t put it past Jesus. My proactive hell sentence was about to start.

I had my insurance information faxed down from headquarters, stopped by the ATM, and drove up to the Urgent Care center. After waiting in line, I got up to the counter and this very nice, elderly black woman asked me what she could help me with. By now my head was spinning so bad I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over, and I was fighting back wave after wave of nausea. I began to weakly mumble, “I am not sure if I should be here or go to the hospital but I just …”

“IM SORRY SUGAR, BUT i CAN’T HEAR VERY WELL, YOU GONNA HAVE TO SPEAK UP, TELL ME IN THIS EAR!” she said. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know if I should be here, or go straight to the hospital. I just threw up a belly full of blood, and I’m very disoriented. Can you handle this or not?

“OH LAWD!” she said, “COME ON AROUND HERE SWEET HEART AND SIT YOURSELF DOWN IN THAT THERE CHAIR. WE GONNA CALL YOU UP AN AMBULANCE, YOU DON’T NEED TO BE DRIVING AROUND LIKE THIS. COME ON BACK HERE. DOCTOR, COME OVER HERE AND CHECK THIS BOY OUT, HE SAYS HE’S BEEN VOMITING BLOOD. LORD HAVE MERCY.”

That was followed by twenty minutes or so of questioning and blood pressure checks, and various other general medical pokes and prods. Before I knew it I was buckled into a stretcher and being loaded in the back of an ambulance by a freakishly short lady with a dyke hair cut, and a super hot young girl who made me a little nervous even through my gagging and vertigo. Thankfully she was the driver, because if there’s one thing I hate more than medical attention while I’m sick, it’s adding on sexual intimidation to the whole pile.

So it was me and the middle aged lesbian and her student, (who was male) and they prepped me with several more blood pressure tests, some electric sensors glued to my chest, and a big fat needle. Up to this point I had been hoping to get through this without having a metal tube shoved in my body. I mean I’m not exactly scared of needles in quite the same way that I may react to spider that get on me unexpectedly, but they just give me the willies. In fact, it didn’t really hurt at all going in. The pain was really more afterwards when she rammed this fucking needle/tube around the inside of my arm for a while trying to get some blood to come out. Turns out she hit some kind of valve in my arm, and while her second try was much more successful, the first stabbing left me with a big ass track mark running down my bow-pit like some kind of junkie.

When we got to the hospital, she told me she had to rip off the four wires that were attached to my chest and stomach, and the best way to do so, in her medical opinion, was to rip it off like a bandaid. She was legitimately freaked out having to do this, which puzzled me somewhat because I felt almost no discomfort, unlike the needle in my bow-pit which was now taped to my arm for no apparent reason, and stabbed me internally every time I bent or straightened my arm.

But anyway long story short they gave me a doggy bag, ushered me in my wheelchair through the paperwork process, (at that point I still couldn’t walk without stumbling from dizziness) and plopped me in front of the TV where I could watch Dwayne Johnson completely destroy the credibility of the Rundown and Walking Tall as he starred in the Game Plan. About the time that all the special features and extra footage for Apollo 13 were finishing I got called back to triage, but not to see a doctor, just to make sure I wasn’t getting worse. By the time Freaky Friday was wrapping up and Dennis the Menace was starting I was told that I could see a doctor soon, maybe, if nobody else’s condition got worse. When I first got there, I was told by a security guard that there was absolutely NO SMOKING anywhere on hospital premises. By midnight I wasn’t even walking ten feet from the front door to smoke. I was sick, and I had been there for over ten hours with a fucking needle in my arm, and if they gave me one ounce of shit for smoking after the day I had, they would be thanking their god of choice that they had done so while at a hospital.

When I did get back to a room to be examined, the nurse told me to take off all my clothes, and put on the hospital gown. You know the ones, the light blue floral pattern gowns that kind of tie in the back, but still leave you entire ass hanging out. So of course I did, checking the room for any signs of lubricant or vaseline, suspiciously eyeing anyone who walked past the slits in the curtains. And at long last a doctor did come to see me. He checked my breathing. He poked around my stomach for a few seconds. We chatted briefly, clarifying some of the account from the paperwork he had, and then he informed me that I would just need a few blood tests and assuming they turned out fine I could be on my way.

I was frankly relieved that there would be no fingers going into anyone’s bung holes that evening. As he left I asked him if I could throw some drawers back on to cover up, and he suggested I just stay how i was until they had finished the blood tests. Suddenly my brief wave of relief vanished, replaced only with a sharp dread. Where exactly would they be drawing blood from that required me to leave my pants off? Surely no place good. I was feeling much better by then, I could probably still survive if I made a mad dash for the safety of the lobby. Surely the guards would understand and not charge me with public nudity.

Well as it turns out they only had to stick me in my arm, and I was allowed to put my clothes back on. The only problem was that they had not used the needle I had been stuck with in the ambulance ride. No sir, that needle was completely useless, and had only been stabbing me in my arm for twelve hours because nobody really knew if I might need one like it or not. A fucking precautionary needle, as if I would need immediate intravenous attention and would not have the two seconds it takes for a nurse to poke me on demand. And on top of that, I now had both arms taped up with needles in my bow-pits. I’m not sure if I can convey the mental image of what a man looks like trying to put on his clothing when both his arms are fairly immobile. The pants weren’t such a problem. Hell, even my shoes and socks went on pretty easily.

My shirts on the other hand proved to be a bit more problematic. By then my curtain was open, and I was clearly visible from a large section of the hospital. I held my wife beater over my head and slowly but determinedly wriggled into it like a crippled snake climbing into a condom. After a lengthy and exhausting bout with futility I managed somehow to get it on in approximately the right location on my body. Next came my button up work uniform. I got one arm in and held it high over my head while trying to turn my left arm behind my body to find the arm hole. But try as I might, no arm hole was to be found. In fact, after closer inspection I discovered the sleeve was inside out. But on top of that I looked up to see no less than five nurses snickering in amusement as I desperately tried to get my shirt on without stabbing myself. I jerked around for a second or two longer, looking I’m sure like a retard at a rave, until I finally gave up in shame.

So anyway, all that to find out I have gastritis, or something along those lines, and my stomach and throat has eroded the lining that protects them from my digestive acids. Life’s a bitch I guess, but overall it seems like a fairly small problem with a fairly easy solution. And the best part is, I made it through the entire fiasco without losing my flaming heterosexuality. And that my friends is something I will cheers to. (except I am not supposed to drink much anymore, or smoke much, or eat spicy or greasy food or caffeine. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See you all in hell)

Terrifica: a real life super bitch

I was recently reading an article about a bunch of real life super heroes, or rather, a bunch of jack-asses with too much spare time and a grip on reality akin to my own grip on sobriety. Mostly you find very similar guys who although clearly weirder than the average bear, honestly just want to do a little good in the world, whether that be returning dropped purses, cutting through the cops tire clamps to free the sufferers of a police state, or assisting with the alleged busting up of unspecified illegal gambling dens. Cool stuff, more power to them, rock on, and all that jazz.

Unfortunately there are bound to be a few disappointments to the crime fighting community. I thought “The Big O” was a disappointment when I found out his super power was in fact not giving women tons and tons of free orgasms, but rather just a bunch of Dudley Dooright bullshit. However, I had no idea how truly misguided a super human could be until I read about Terrifica.

Everyone who hates sex dresses like a drag queen, duh.

Everyone who hates sex dresses like a drag queen, duh.

Terrifica derives her name not from being terrific, but rather from the greek word terriblos, meaning terrible, and fica meaning fecal matter. Her super power is being a crusty bitter bitch and running around in bars like a lunatic trying her best to stop people from hooking up. That’s right, this woman has devoted her life to making sure other people have as little casual sex as possible. Can you say C.U.N.T? Look I understand that a lot of women walk around like two dollar whores in clubs shaking their vagina left and right, then get all pissy and bleedy when some guy assumes they are loose, buys them a bunch of alcohol, listens to them blather on about Twilight and how crazy the receptionist at work is, dances to a bunch of chick music for a while, drives them home, tricks them into getting naked and laying down on their back, and then like some treacherous poon robber makes some fierce sex to their baby boxes without thinking about what their fickle fleeting emotional whims might be the next morning. I really do understand ladies. But just because you’ve had a devastating break up or two does not mean that you should try to stop everyone else from making the sexuals. Get over it, SRSLY!

What Terrifica needs to do is stay home and focus on not being used again. She can just stay in her little apartment with her fifty cats and keep her sweet ass nice and safe from all those horrible men out there, and likewise, I’m sure they won’t mind too much either. But no, apparently somewhere along the line while she was crying to herself and eating ice cream, thinking about how much she hated those mean old meanies who didn’t fulfill her idiotic fantasies of how every man should be a prince charming and love only her, and she doesn’t share any responsibility for her relationships being poorly matched, somewhere in there spandex sounded like a good idea. Really? WTF mate?

The following is a quote from a NYMag.com article I read spicifically about her. “On a recent Saturday night in Park Slope, Terrifica bursts through the door of a bar called Commonwealth. She is resplendent in red spandex, scarlet boots, and red plastic overcoat. She wears no cape or mask—tonight is an “undercover” operation. She makes a beeline to a dark corner where a couple looks poised to canoodle. After speaking to them quietly, she opens her utility belt—referring to it as a fanny pack will not endear you to Terrifica—and gives them a pair of gold lamé fortune cards. When Terrifica moves on to another couple, I ask what happened. “She asked if we were going to hook up tonight,” says Lauren, a 24-year-old painter. (“We’re just good friends,” interjects her buddy Justin.) “She offered us a condom and said that if I was going to be tricked into having sex, at least it should be safe.”

Dear Terrificunt: if you ever read this, please go fuck yourself. In fact, that’s possibly the best advise I have ever given anyone. Your new super power should be fucking yourself, and you should change your name to Vibratica or Erotica or Clitica or something. And instead of being the ultimate cock block, you should spend some time giving people sex toys and sensual lotions and buying rounds for bars and slipping date rape drugs into everyones drink so everyone gets laid! Seriously, if you are that hung up on your exes, please, for the love of God, go get laid. Tell you what, me and Emerald will get you drunk and love you up something crazy, as our personal favor to the world. (I haven’t actually cleared this with Em yet, but go ahead and call me, I’m sure we can work something out) You know you want it, come and get it sugar tits, just don’t expect us to call you back, or use protection.

Id use her! Shawing!

I'd use her! Shawing!

They Live (mostly just me actually)

Yeah wow, so I really am still alive, and I do remember the password to get on my account. Not that I have teeming throngs of people waiting with baited breath for my next post or anything, but I really do enjoy having a bit of a creative outlet here, and honestly my life has just been too damn crazy lately to clear my schedule for blog posting. For instance, I got sentenced to jail. From now till April will be spending my weekends in the Johnston county jail. Hoorah, I can’t fucking wait. Cause nothing says rest and relaxation from work like spending all your time in ball stench filled room with fifty ignorant, racist black men who watch nothing but BET while you slowly starve to death. But hell, I could deal with the black supremacist homeys, the shitty child sized portions, and the extreme boredom, if only they would give me a fuckin pillow. I think that’s the worst part.

I’m kidding of course, the worst part is clearly the homeys. So anyway my sometimes clear weekends when I got most of my blogging done are now all full, so I guess I better stick to short, sweet posts for the time being. I have this really huge involved post I am working on about how our government has failed us in every way, and it involves actually researching stuff and might be several posts long, but I’m too tired to work on that right now, and every time I do I get really riled up and end up not sleeping well cause I’m too pissed about how much our leaders and system suck. So how about an update? Of course you care, who doesn’t love life stories?

First, a story that the judge who sentenced me actually shared with the court while they were finishing up everything. (I heard this all because the entire court was about the size of two bedrooms, and I was the only person in it) This is his year off from visiting with his family for thanksgiving, but every other year they get twenty seven people and all pile into one beach house on the outer banks for the weekend. Well of course all the normal family drama ensues. One year his chauvinist nephew was four wheeling on the beach and got his trucks tires stuck in the sand. Well, his oldest daughter, who’s a bit of a know it all, told him to let some of the air out and just drive his truck out. He insisted that would damage his truck so he called some towers to get him out. After paying them two hundred dollars they let the air out of his tires and drove it out of the ruts. Today’s moral is actually not to listen to women about truck problems, but rather how to get your truck out of the sand for cheap.

So anyway, my own Thanksgiving was not so family oriented. Actually I just spent a few hours with my extended family for a lunch and then left, although I did have one noteworthy moment. One of my youngest cousins (I don’t know how old he would be, I guess about three feet old) walked up to me while I was taking a smoke break and just kind of stopped and stared at me from about one and a half feet from where I was sitting. (my cousins are kind of creepy, imagine children of the corn mixed with the Flanders) After asking him what it was that he wanted, he kindly informed me that his older sister was supposed to be a twin but “the other one” died. I’m not really sure why that was important, but I actually found learning the news from a child much less painful than all the hemming and hawing and bullshit I would have had to endure had one of the “adults” told me. I thanked him and he happily went on his way to eat some pie. Good to know my family is still white trash, happy holidays to you too kid.

Speaking of white trash, how about some pictures from the last month or three!

Me and my buddy put this up on his kids wall over the Thanksgiving holiday. It was the centerpiece of a total UNC tarheel makeover for the room. Frankly, we are awesome.

Me and my buddy put this up on his kids wall over the Thanksgiving holiday. It was the centerpiece of a total UNC tarheel makeover for the room. Frankly, we are awesome.

Sami finally found the scat at Bensons mule days.

Sami finally found the scat at Benson's mule days.

So what happened was, we were drinking, and I had just bought Em a rebel flag bikini at mule days, and we were drinking, and somehow this seemed like a good idea. (ps - drinking)

So what happened was, we were drinking, and I had just bought Em a rebel flag bikini at mule days, and we were drinking, and somehow this seemed like a good idea. (ps - drinking)

Look out for Sami, she will cut you.Look out for Sami, she will cut you.
We have kitties at work now!

We have kitties at work now!

Actually this might need more than just a caption. See we had a family of feral cats living under a freight box at work, and our tree hugger secretary offered to pay us twenty bucks if we caught the kittens. And after her husband told her she wasn’t allowed to bring any more animals home, they somehow because shop kitties. The one walking right up to the camera, presumably to find it’s breathing holes and clog them with hair while it tries to eat, is named Joe. We named him after an idiot who works with us, who always begs for food, because this cat was dumb enough to get caught twice in one day for a free meal. And since Joe is an uber-christian, I named the other one Mr. Crowley, because I thought it would be funny for Joe to live with a famous occultist. In real life, Joe did not find this very amusing, but we assume this is just because one of the side effects of his terminal religion is a complete lack of humor about one’s self.

This is my dad grinding up some venison he brought back from a hunting trip. Notice he saved the hearts to cook separate.

This is my dad grinding up some venison he brought back from a hunting trip. Notice he saved the hearts to cook separate.

So I know Im from the south and I should probably know this for sure, but I believe this is a sheeps vagina.

So I know I'm from the south and I should probably know this for sure, but I believe this is a sheep's vagina.

And on that note I will save the rest of my 2008 State Fair pics and Halloween pics for a later post so I can just throw some crap together without any actual writing skills (skills in this case really just means effort)  involved. Christmas is like, tomorrow and shit, so if I don’t have time to get back here for a while, have fun getting drunk on eggnog and buying shit for Santa to give to Jesus or whatever you believe in. Unless of course you practice kwanzaa, in which case, go to hell you fucking poser.

“Fishing” on Topsail Island

Well me and my buddies from work decided we needed to take a guys trip out to the beach to go fishing. We planned it for two months, got everything set up, and before you knew it the day had come to get ready. My good buddy Kenny who had taken me fishing on the Neuse river a little while ago (here) would be driving us, but since he’s married with children now, we couldn’t drink at his house. Everyone else decided that was lame as shit, so we all went out to my boss’s trailer in Smithfield. For those of you not familiar with the Johnston county area, that’s what you might call the ass end of nowhere.

I had driven my scooter to work that morning with one hand, carrying my biggest cooler in my left hand out to my side the whole way, cause I hadn’t really planned any better way to get a giant cooler to work on a scooter. That worked out well for me though cause all I had to tote out to the country on my death machine that evening was a folding chair, a case of beer, and a bag of clothes and supplies for the weekend. (which still left me looking a lot like a pack mule)

Now you have to understand, the ride from Garner to the back side of Smithfield on a scooter that only goes 30-35 mph is a long, bumpy, and hazardous one. The winding country roads, especially on a Friday afternoon, are filled with angry, potential drunk rednecks in a big hurry to get home and have fun. (it’s a fun county) But this means I have to straddle the side of the road for dear life the whole way there. Often I found myself attempting to ride the six inches between the painted line and the edge of the pavement, my feet being rhythmicly slapped by the tall grass, occasionally dodging stray tree limbs and dead possums. But with the prize of a weekend of booze and bars, bikinis and surf, I kept on the hour long ride until I found myself barreling down a rutted dirt path winding between trailers and a pond, and finally pulled up to Drew’s house.

Now Lee, the oldest guy on the trip, was already well lit, and was polishing off his first twelve pack of the evening. I got to meet Drew’s retarded brother, his little baby grandchild, and a fair number of his woman’s family, who were visiting from West Virginia. Let me tell you, those are some wide open broads, cause every one from the youngest who was about my age, all the way up to the ancient grandmother who had to be pushin seventy five, all cussed like sailors, had filthy minds, and actually had more sass and attitude than I do. Let me assure you it is very rare to find one, let alone four or five women, who can give my motor mouth and vulgarity a run for it’s money, but these kick ass bitches left me in the dust wondering what had just happened. But I will tell you more about them some other time. They invited me out to their family reunion to meet the whole clan, so hopefully I’ll have some really badass stories to share with you then.

But two cases of beer later, Lee, Drew, and myself were all drunk as hell and hit the sack around midnight or so. Dark and early at four fifteen Kenny came a knockin’ on the door, wraslin’ us all out of our deep sleeps, and we packed up his truck, loaded in, and hit the highways headed for Topsail Island. Of course Lee and Drew, the old men, wanted to go back to sleep, and Kenny and I were ready to party like it was 1999! So he threw on some old David Allen Co. and some Johnny Rebel and blasted it as loud as it would go until they finally woke up about half way there.

We got to the Jolly Roger Hotel and Pier around six thirty, before the sun was up yet, and we couldn’t check in till around noon, so we packed our crap in the cab and hit the pier for some good old fashioned Man vs Nature. Beer’s were cracked, lines were cast, and we settled in for the less intense part of the trip. A front was moving in so we didn’t get much sun, but the wind whipped the ocean spray up past us and the smells of a thousand fish and fish ghosts wafted in the breeze.

Lee onthe left, Drew on the right (with his queer juice)
Lee on the left, Drew on the right (with his queer juice)
The Jolly Roger pier just before dawn.

The Jolly Roger pier just before dawn.

I rock so hard it hurts. Also, I didnt realize that glow in the dark skeletons shirts were not as cool as camo when you are fishing. My bad.

I rock so hard it hurts. Also, I didn't realize that glow in the dark skeletons shirts were not as cool as camo when you are fishing. My bad. Apparently real fisherman wear camo shirts and hats to hide from the fish.

Well it turns out there are not only no fish in the ocean, but there are also hardly any women on the beach. It was rather disappointing. Later that evening as I was laying in the motel bed I described it, “that was fishing kind of like this is getting laid. I was in the right place but nothing was going on.” In fact, there were hardly any seagulls either. In fact I see more seagulls in the Walmart parking lot on a regular basis than there were on that beach. Bad bad Leroy Brown caught the biggest fish of the day.

Were gonna need a smaller boat.

We're gonna need a smaller boat.

Under the pier, Topsail, NC.

Under the pier, Topsail, NC.

So drew and I ended up getting wicked hungover, and took a nap while Kenny fished and Lee drank. But we all woke up around seven to go out drinking for real this time. It’s kind of weird meeting your girlfriend on your blog because it kind of makes you edit your stories so as not to get in trouble. But this was an especially wild night and I think it needs to be told. (Don’t be mad baby, I can’t help it that I attract fun) There was a little grill and bar across the road, which also happened to be the only bar on the island. We had stopped in for some lunch because the sign said they had the best pizza on the island. Surprisingly they sure did, it was some of the best food I have ever slid down my gullet. I had some pizza and later a steak and cheese sub, and both were incredible.

So we rolled up in the bar side of this joint to check it out. There were two pool tables, a jukebok, two tables and a bar. It was a fairly typical ocean side dive bar. No AC, no fans, just a bunch of open windows around a dimly lit room full of smoke with a few sad looking old people hanging around as if waiting for Jesus to take them, and a crabby, overweight, college age bartender. The sign on the door said it was raggae night, but at the moment it was library-in-the-vatican quiet in there. That immediately went as soon as we walked in.

Now you know me, I get a little wild from time to time, as evidenced by my legal record. Well Kenny and Drew both worked as bartenders in that honkytonk I went to. Drew and Lee are both bikers. Lee’s a crazy alcoholic who was already almost blacked out by this point. And every single one of us is looking to cause as much ruckus and mayhem as possible that night. Kenny jumps on the jukebox and throws on a bunch of Disturbed, and a variety of eighties metal. Drew grabs a pool table and racks up, and we all get started playing some pool.

Well Kenny is an amazing pool player, and Drew plays in tournaments every week, and Lee picked up at least a respectable amount of skill over his many many years on this earth, but I however suck realy bad at pool. I mean I don’t just suck a little, I suck so bad it creates a breeze in the room. I really enjoy playing pool, but I’m terrible and I know it. That’s no problem though, because they used me to make them look a little less badass, and as people started trickling slowly into this sad little bar they began fleecing them for all they were worth. Within an hour we had a table full of mixed drinks bough in lost games, and we were all well on our way to hedonistic debauchery.

With the exception of a few of the braver and younger men, everyone else in the bar was huddled as far away from our table as possible. It was almost comical. We were shouting and cheersing and singing at the top of our lungs, jumping around like wild men. We must have been the liveliest thing that has hit that town since hurrican Fran. A few hippies came in to check out the raggae, saw us, heard the metal, and promptly left.

Now by now Lee was rip roaring drunk off his ass. If he hadn’t been holding on to that table he probably would have fallen off the planet. So Kenny comes up to me and tells me, “HEY MAN, I THINK LEE HAS AN ADMIRER!” Confused I look around as to who has been paying Lee any attention. “CHECK OUT THAT OLD MAN AT THE BAR, THE ONE WEARING JIM DANGLE SHORTS. EVERY TIME LEE GOES TO DANCING HE GETS A BIG ASS SMILE ON HIS FACE AND STARTS DANCING TOO.” I broke out laughing, cause I had seen this fag sitting up there by the bar, and had found him comical enough already, but that took the cake. Well to make matters worse, a few minutes later Lee called me over. “JOSH! JOSH! COME HERE MAN. HEY, HEY … UH HEY CHECK THIS OUT MAN. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU KNOW THIS BUT THER ARE SOME DUDES WHO LIKE DUDES IN HERE MAN! NO KIDDING, I JUST HAD TWO OF THEM COME UP TO ME IN THE LAST FIFTEEN MINUTES.” To say I laughed would be an understatement. I had to go to the bathroom cause I laughed so hard. And by the way, apparently dive bars at the beach carry single ply toilet paper that is rough enough to literally cut your cornhole, so watch you self if you end up there.

Shortly before the raggae mon came out, this crazy bitch named Esch walked into the bar. Earlier at lunch she had been with her boyfriend, but now she was alone, and drunker than all hell. I saw the shark fins pop up around the bar, along to the theme of Jaws. Drew just happened to be right next to the stool she plopped down at. Now Drew may be a little rough around the edges, but that man is a huge charmer and no woman can resist him, it’s insane. Skip ahead two minutes and the wildest woman at the beach is playing pool with the wildest dudes at the beach.

I wasnt allowed to take many pictures during this part of the trip.

I wasn't allowed to take many pictures during this part of the trip.

She was on a team with Drew against me and Kenny. (cause I was apparently the closest thing to a bitch team mate for Kenny, insert my sincere laughter here) The testosterone started flowing, plenty of shit was talked, and before long, this bitch had her titties out distracting Kenny so he would stop kicking their ass. All the old people at the bar started getting pissed cause we were helping her get drunk and they all thought she was preggers. She was in fact not with child, she just had a little belly and a shirt that was poofy around the mid section, but we thought it was funny as hell. So she keeps getting wilder and wilder, and we keep thinking it’s funnier and funnier. She was (we think) pissed at her man and out to have some revenge, so she was trying her damndest to hook up with Kenny or Drew, neither one of whom wanted to bang her. They just wanted to have some fun, and didn’t give a fuck about her.

Lee on the other hand, who is 52 and single, and drunk, saw a twenty something hottie who wanted some action and began spitting his best game. In case you were wondering, his best game was horrible and offensive, but this chick was too drunk and stupid to care. Somehow it came out that one of the guys with us had a shaved dick, and at the top of her lungs Esch yelled, “drop your pants! If you shave I will suck your dick right now!” This was the second time in the evening the law was called on us. The bartender told us all to simmer down and stop making trouble. Esch started kissing random guys. I went outside to try and avoid getting arrested if they showed up again, and that was when Lee spit out this fucking gem. “Bitch, you better take four days, cause I will K. I. L. L. kill you. I won’t even bother unless you have four fucking days for me to fuck you to death.”

At this point the old women at the bar pulled the chick outside to get her away from us, and we all went back to the table to ask Lee what the fuck he was thinking exactly when he decided to communicate threats. We began gathering our shit up to leave, and Lee walked back over to Esch and the two old cock blockers with her and said, and I quote, “I’ve been with three women before, you could be the next three if you want. I’ll stick my dick in all three of your mouths!”

We dragged him out of the bar, stuck him in the hotel room, and told him if he left we would kick his ass. We hopped a taxi and headed to the next closest pair of bars. They sucked. We left and went back around closing time. Apparently the only fun to be had was in the deadest bar I’ve ever been in. We left for home the next morning and stopped for breakfast, some supplies, and then hit a tourist trap. What can I say, any building that has a giant gator on the front is cool with me.

I loves teh gatorz.

I loves teh gatorz.

I wish I knew how they made this, cause it rocks.

I wish I knew how they made this, cause it rocks.

I got a ton of things I shouldn’t have. By the time I left I had a slingshot, a pirate flag, a beer bong, two real gator heads, and a drivers liscence that says I’m Jesus. All in all a wild time was had by all, no one ended up arrested, or in the hospital, or cheated on their women, so I think it was a good trip. I’ve got some great stories about bosses being fired, upcoming halloween, and plenty of mayhem and madness, but for now I’m off to Mule Days in Benson, which is kind of like the redneck mardi gras around these parts. Tell me about your crazy stories from the beach, I’d love to hear some more.

The New World Order Games

So you know that one topic every blogger everywhere has complained about at least once? I know you do, the dreaded “too busy to blog for a while” syndrome. I gots it. Or I has’d it, whatever, I’m not an English major OK? I’ve had a wicked case of real life distractions keeping me busy. And not even cool ones like partying a lot over the Labor day weekend (sike) but more like really ass-chappy ones such as working overitime way too much and keeping up with one’s own personal responsibilities like laundry, cleaning, studies, and porn. Although the porn wasn’t really ass-chappy for me so much as all those lovely ladies in the adult entertainment industry.

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I'll take some of that vice now Mrs. Palin

Sadly enough, even having been retardedly busy, and not being able to be the total web addict, stat-whore, ass-sitter-onner I’ve dreamt of being since those days of yore when I was supposed to be paying attention in Sunday school, I’ve still had time to get really annoyed with everything going on in the world. I’m not even talking about politics people. (Although I will say that milf from Alaska who looks like Tina Fey needs to seriously think of running for Vice President of my balls, cause even if she’s spitting out retards she’s still hot as hell, and if this wasn’t already a run on sentence wildly out of control I’d fit in some oval office joke, but you get my drift) The thing that’s been giving me nervous ticks every time I turn on the television is the friggin Olympics.

With their retarded costumes, five dumb circles printed on everything, and idiotic location. Grrrrrrrrrrr! I hate the Olympics. OK, hate is a strong word. I find the Olympics boring as hell and irrelevant, and wish they would stop taking over every channel on television and the entire internet once every two years. I mean they are over and they’re still all over everything. Could they not find a shittier place to hold them than Beijing? Was Chernobyl taken? What about Skull island? On second thought, that would kind of rock, but that’s not the point. China sucks, there, I said it. Nobody moves to China, cause it’s a shitty place to live. It’s smoggy, and evil empirey, and chock full of SARS, and bird flu, and three foot women shouting the shrillest language on earth at the top of their lungs as if completely incapable of comprehending inside voices with their eastern logic. That’s why there are Chinese food restaurants on every block in the Western world, because anyone with any skill whatsoever gets out as soon as they can.

Any skill that is besides training their twelve year old daughters to flip around like fruity ninjas with hula hoops and jump ropes. (and making our toys of course) Good lord, I had to watch about thirty minutes of one of those gymnastics events where they randomly bust moves around this big ass padded square holding random objects. I mean throwing a hula hoop up to the ceiling and catching it is cool, but I did that in friggin middle school, albiet poorly, and I just don’t consider it a real sport. I’m sorry. It’s not. Not even if you’re wearing a flamboyant onesie with feathers and scale-looking-sequin patterns.

This is a circus act, not a sport.

This is a circus act, not a sport.

Many of the events weren’t actually sports in my opinion. Anything with a judge for instance. Jumping real far or high, that’s a sport. Running or swimming real fast is a sport. I would say fighting is a sport, but I don’t like judges to be involved in who wins. Hurling things real far, meh, alright I’ll give it to you. lifting heavy things, sure. But not twirling ribbons or swinging around on bars. That’s bull shit. Diving is total crap. Water polo is a sport, but it’s so dumb that nobody cares. Simply being difficult doesn’t make something an Olympic event in my opinion.

So I got to thinking, what should be in the Olympics. What would I want to see. I mean, surely if we’re going to include dumb shit that’s judged on opinion, then we can come up with more interesting events than gymnastics! Here’s how the Olympics would go down if I were in charge:

First of all hold them somewhere cooler, like Vegas, or Amsterdam. Or have them all in a haunted mental hospital, like the one they filmed the House on Haunted Hill in. (the remake) Second, less retarded unitards, more topless ladies! And not the Chinese twelve year olds or those hairy, mannish, fanged boner killers from Eastern Europe. I’m thinking more along the lines of at least the women’s volleyball teams. I mean that sport is already basically Olympic camel toe. And if we can’t find super hot chicks to play on the teams, then they have to bring buxom, morally bankrupt college coeds from their respective countries to act as ring girls for each event. While I’m on it, Olympic pole dancing sounds pretty cool. Or take it one step farther and have Olympic kegels and Olympic bukake.

In the Olympics, you get pumped full of Astroglide, and these are made of lead.

In the Olympics, you get pumped full of Astroglide, and these are made of lead.

Beer should be a main focus of the games. Nothing brings a bunch of random strangers from all over the world together quite like booze. Beer pong would be an obvious choice, as well as quarters, chugging, keg stands, and bar top wet t-shirt contests. In fact, a lot of games would be a lot cooler if a certain chemical level were manditory before every event. I’m talking drunken bowling, beer chugging track relays, and drunken javelin. Make that javelin catching. Or how about an even where you have to get really high and watch Grandma’s Boy without laughing. Greco Roman wrestling is way too homoerotic, let’s change that to alligator wrestling and thumb wrestling.

There should be some sort of giant robot fights, although Japan would clearly be the winner. It would just be cool to see what kind of crazy shit they can build when they put their minds to it. And in the same veign of violent sports, in celebration if China shitting all over that hippie country witht he llama, there should be Olympic protestor ass-kicking. (that would be professional MMA fighters kicking protesters asses, not the other way around) Perhaps even cage fighting with bears, or gorillas, or midgets. In fact, take all the protestors, not just from the Olympics but in general, and have them all duke it out gladiator style in melee death matches with animals and robots and boobie traps all combined. There would be no medals, but I think everyone would win that event.

Competitive eating should be in the Olympics. I know it’s horribly gluttonous and disgusting, but I love it. In fact, there should be an Olympic comittee to have an entire series of new games designed for the seven deadly sins. Sloth would be challenging to make interesting for viewers, but lust would totally make up for it. (back to my competitive bukake idea) Wrath could be a demolition derby, I enjoy those. Maybe with monster trucks instead of normal junked cars. Greed could just be reruns of the price is right. (with Drew, not Bob, he sucked and annoyed me with his stupid microphone) Envy could just be the rest of the world player hating America like they already do. (oooooooh! Snap! Sick burn!) (not really) So we would lose Envy, but clearly win in Pride. (Too bad jack-assery or political ineptitude aren’t cardinal sins, we’re pretty good a those too)

Like this but with fireworks for the crowd to shoot at the arena.

Like this but with fireworks for the crowd to shoot at the arena.

And then at the end everyone would just build a fake city and film it being blown up along side a montage of the best looking women from around the world dancing to Girls, Girls, Girls by Motley Crue, cause what’s cooler than TNT with T&A. Now that could be on every channel without pissing me off. USA baby! Bring on the pointless global regionalism!

PS – Go to hell Wheaties, you taste like shit.