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.