Alright, it’s official…

… i am not allowed to drink coffee anymore at all. 

ok, let me start out by telling everyone who doesn’t know that i am a recoving/-ed blow-fiend.  (just now i was looking for pics to post right here but decided against it.  such pics are a bad idea.  ganga pics are one thing, but straws, razor blades…  i don’t think so.)  anyway, about my addiction — it wasn’t a long one — really just about 2 years, that’s it.  not that long at all.  but it was bad.  i don’t know if i believe the hype about “addictive personalities” or any of that, but i really liked the chizzzowder for serious. 

here’s a short sidebar.  ok, so i just came downstairs in 1420 a, and i’m trying to keep it together.  everything’s fine, and then all of a sudden, i start tasting this awful (at least it was awful at the time) drip going down the back of my throat.  i was all like, “dude, i think this shit is fucked up.  i’m getting this bad taste down my throat.”  sir stoney of stonesylvania starts busting out laughing and, between his already clenched teeth says, “you’ll learn to love it.”  and i did.

 so that’s the sidebar.  i liked it alright.  spent lots of money, 80 bucks at a time, til i had none left.  anyway, it’s been about a year and change, and i’m clean as a whistle.  all that shit is behind me except for the guilty feeling i get anytime i’m still awake when the birds are already chirping.  anyway, it’s done now.

so… back to the story… i’m about to switch jobs and i was at a meeting this morning with this guy who wants to give me some money to write this big paper.  so he says, “you want a cup of coffee?”  i said, “no thanks, it makes me a little nervous.”  he said, “come on, i just got this new kind.  you’ll like it.”  so what am i going to do?  offend this guy who wants to give me green green money by turning down his delicious coffee?!  no.  that’s not me.  i don’t make waves like that on purpose.  so i says, “sure, i’ll have a small cup.” 

so i’m chilling on it, sipping and blowing.  it was actually alright.  then, about half-way down the cup it starts. 

my teeth start to clench.  immediately i recognize the sensation.  it’s the same ole blow feeling.  and i start thinking… worst!  then, right on cue, comes the motor mouth.  my achilles heel.  i don’t know dick about this damn project the guy’s talking about, but right then i was a motherfucking expert.  i knew more about this shit than anything in the world, and i was going to talk about it.  (in retrospect, i don’t think this bothered anyone.  in fact, i think they were impressed with my caffeine-induced confidence.)  so, this is where it begins to get really strange.  the whole time, i knew what was going on.  the coffee had gotten into my system, and i was getting the placebo effects of a fat-ass rail up my schnoz.  just the same, right after i started talking, i started sniffling.  you’ve all been there.  it happens — but not with coffee!  anyway, i’m sitting there in a pretty important meeting with clenched teeth, sweating, hunched back, talking a mile a minute, sniffling like david crosby.  i am ashamed of this, bigtime, and because of that, i am never drinking coffee again.  i am not allowed.  ever.

this is my message to you little boys and girls out there.  never do drugs, because you’ll never be able to drink coffee again at all.

or maybe that’s just me.

moral of the story — drug users can get good jobs.  i got the job this afternoon, even though i was a skiiiiiid up wreck at my “interview.”

unrelated final thought.  braves are poised to burn past the mets.  roughty, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye!  🙂

Rubber Matches, Growing Up, Other Reflections and another Roll Call

the first category tag i clicked was worthless friday, cuz that’s what i’m in.  it’s fantastic.  finally some time to interact with the tech-junkies, alcoholics and weed-fiends who read this link-laden, anti-american, diaperlicious bloghole. 

has anybody noticed that politics are continuing to play a large role in our blog?!  i can’t believe that shit.  if you knew, (and most of you do), the authors, you’d be as surprised as me.  four years in the burg, and we never talked about it.  now it’s all over everything.  i think that comes along with growing older.  things we never cared about before are starting to look more and more important.  we’re all realizing our global citizenship, and i think it’s pretty encouraging.  now all we have to do is change the minds of all the fuckos in general society *(see stoney’s note about the a&f models on the airplane… these are the dipshits to whom i’m referring.) 

on another very different topic, there’s this issue going on in the baseball world.  my boy john smoltz won his 200th career decision last night.  i don’t need to remind any of you who the braves defeated.  i don’t need to tell you that they beat the metropolitans.  further, i don’t need to explain to any of you that this win brough the braves record against the mets to 6 wins and 3 losses on the season.  no, i don’t need to mention any of these things.  why am i talking about it then?  to hurt your sensitive yankee feelings?  no.  to rub salt into your still-smarting wounds from last october?  of course not.  well, i’ll tell you why.  the braves are currently recruiting new fans, and if you all have been converted over the past few days, just let me know, and i’ll be happy to provide a letter of recommendation.  no guarantees, but it’s at least a 50-50 they’ll accept you.  last night’s prodigious victory over the hated mets was a rubber match.  “what is a rubber match?” all of you except the sport-savvy roughty might be asking yourselves.  again, i’ll explain it for you.  in a 3-game series, if each team wins one of the first two games, game three is the rubber match.  in a 7-game series that’s tied at three games each, game seven is the rubber match.  check out this helpful wiki article on the topic.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubber_match

what’s the point of this discussion? it’s not just to make fun of the sucky mets.  in fact, i want to bring it back to politics.  since i’ve been old enough to think about politics, there have been two presidents.  (during bush the elder’s administration, i didn’t understand anything at all about it.)  these presidents have been billy clinton and george dubya bush — a democrat and a republican.  in 2008, we’ll have the rubber match between these two political powerhouses.  as in sports, this rubber match will play a big role on the way our generation will be viewed.  will our generation be defined by the shitty republicans or the shitty democrats?  lord only knows.  i got a guess, but it’s just that — a guess.  so i won’t even mention it here.  in a baseball rubber match, all we can do is drink beer and root for our own version of the good guys.  last night, my team won, and i was happy.  roughty’s team lost, and i’m sure he drowned on his tears.  in politics, however, we can play the game and get involved.  we can be the shortstop who turns the double play, or we can be the asshole who lets the ball roll right between his legs.  (by the by, what team was he on again?  hahaha.)  either way, in politics, we don’t have to sit on the sidelines.  we can cast our votes and join in the action, right?  here’s the other big difference.  if i make a throwing error, and the winning run scores for the other team, the game is over and i immediately know who won.  if i hit the walk-off homer, it’s conclusive.  i’m the big winner.  with politics, it’s not so cut and dry.  i might cast my vote and be all happy for a couple years after my selected puppet wins.  then, out of nowhere, he blows some country off the map, and my walk-off homer turns into a “you-blew-it” game ending error. that’s why, when this year’s political rubber match comes along, i’ll be drinking beer and watching from the sidelines.  the punchline of this discourse — do yourself a favor and don’t vote.  vote for your favorite amer. idol.  vote for which of the stars dances best.  vote for the best apple pie you ate at the county fair.  don’t vote for the president.  you’ll invariably be sorry!

thus ends the politics of this post.

i’m still going to school.  it still sucks.  i also work at a school.  that, too, is no good.  i am trying to learn about the material required for my degree, but all i keep learning about is that everybody only cares about money.  the only question my peers and superiors ask themselves is, “how can i make the most money off this situation?”  it’s sad to think that this is the world we’re trying to earn membership into.  maybe the solution is to drop out and move to an island and try to grow coconuts for food and decorative brassieres.  my ridiculous boss’s boss’s boss’s boss volunteered me today to take part in some terrible task around the office.  my autonomy is non-existant.  i don’t decide what i do at all.  they tell me what to do, and i do it.  it’s bad for one’s psychology.  you’ve all been there.  i guess the right thing to do is just grin and bear it until retirement… in like 60 years.  one more thing about work, i had to make a presentation yesterday to a room full of suits.  i wore a rainbow colored (ambiguously androgenous) plaid shirt untucked and my oldest, rattiest pants.  i gave a great presentation.  (probably because dank wasn’t there flicking his damned zippo to distract me.)  after this, i got an email from my boss’s boss who told me that i should have dressed nicer.  this is a big old problem in our society.  why in the world do people still judge you based on the clothes you wear?  i’ll tell you.  it’s because they’re terrible idiots who don’t know any better.  and these are the people who i’m scrambling to compete with as a peer…  sad.

well, mr dank nuggets is in, so let the fun begin.  in honor of him, i’m taking this opportunity to post yet another savage roll call.  feast your eyes on the following collection:

most savage cartoon character:  Monterey Jack — he’ll whip your ass and then console you in a lovely aussie accent.

honorable mention:  Nermal — fresh off the boat from abu dhabi

least savage cartoon character:  Rita and Runt — an ill-fated space-filler in an otherwise exceptional show

most savage world leader:  Queen of Jordan — rules with an iron fist and a lovely pair of jumblies

honorable mention:  Stalin — (translation of caption:  respect the moustache.  fear the moustache.  obey the moustache.)

least savage world leader:  Jacques Chirac (someone either just snuck up him, or he was presented with a lovely quiche.)

most savage cereal mascot:  Sonny (cocoa puffs) — this guy has “junkie” written all over his face

honorable mention:  Andy Milonakis (fruity pebbles)

least savage ceareal mascot:  Tony (frosted flakes) — why don’t you find a gayer bandana.  we’re not all convinced you’re a homo yet.

most savage car model of all times:  AMC Eagle (no competition)

honorable mention:  El Camino (the original cross-over vehicle)

least savage car model of all times:  ford tempo (my first car)

most savage blogger:  suityourself (no photo available)

least savage blogger:  you (look in the mirror and recognize your inferiority.)

finally, most savage drugs:  steriods

least savage drugs:  whipits (you’ll freeze your lungs)

Eight Year Veteran C Bob Hallen to Retire though Slotted to Start?

The suspect photos of Brady Quinn enjoying a little too much man-petting in a mysteriously unpopped pink polo shirt, have raised questions of the Cleveland Browns Organization itself. 

After moving into the starting center position after another player suffered a herniated disc (?), Hallen quickly announced his retirement. 

Is there an issue in the Browns’ locker room? 

Grundle Thunder

Before I begin, I have reached a new level of slack-dom. I am now getting paid, that’s right people, paid, to do other work while I’m at work already!

Yesterday, I was sitting at work in the afternoon, busting my ass to get the fuck out of here ASAP. I was sweating on my neck, my hands, my legs, and….my balls.

Let me take a step back. I don’t necessarily shower every day. Sometimes, I don’t shower for two days. Yesterday was one of those days, where I was carrying some funk from a couple days before.

This is like a recipe, I’m going to lay out all the flavors and mix them up at the end.

I believe that the nastiest part of the human body is the infamous grundle. Chode, taint, sandbar, call it what you will. Only men have grundles, women have vaginas in that same place, which is an entirely different digression I’m not going to get into. Anyway, the infamous grundle is a hot spot for sweat, bacteria, rubbage, and guess what else? That’s right, the deep nasty funk. If you are a man that has been through puberty, and you have spent all day mowing the grass, playing sports or sitting on a barstool for a couple of hours, then you have created one of the dankest, skankiest smells that can emanate from a human being. Call it musk, call it whatever. I call it, “Grundle Thunder.”

So yesterday I’m at work, literally busting my balls to fucking get out of here. Guess what? The AC got fucked up in my building or something, so I was sweating like a motherfucker. My shirt was all fucked up (dirty, wrinkled, smelly) too, but I was wearing a sweater. I often use sweaters as a cover for my disgusting shirts, or if I’m wearing a short sleeve shirt, to cover up my tattoos. So there I was, hunching over the computer, typing furiously about bullshit that I don’t care about, wiping my sweaty palms on my dirty pants so I could stop thinking about the fact that my fingers were greasy and kept slipping off the keys and mouse when I was typing.

Let me inventory my clothes for you (the recipe):

Sweater– unwashed for a few weeks, bright red, dog hairs on it, etc. My cleanest piece of clothing.

Collared striped shirt– maybe 2 or 3rd wear, I’m not sure. Extremely wrinkled, possible stains, hidden beneath sweater.

Stain-free Dockers, light khaki color– funny how my “stain free” pants have more stains on them than any other shit I own. Should say “Stain saver”. Worn since Friday before (4th day), wrinkled, pushing the envelope on smell factor. The button is gone, so I’m wearing them unbuttoned with a belt.

Hanes boxer-briefs – 2nd day of usage. the light cotton material takes on flimsy and tearable qualities after the first day. Not to mention that this article of clothing had already been through 1 full day of grundle and ball rubbing.

Blue socks– 2nd day of usage, my feet smell real bad, my socks smell worse.

Leather shoes– worn countless times without socks, disgusting and crunchy with sweat and morning dew.

The smell starts with the socks. It creeps up my pants, up to the grundle area. So at this point, moving from down to up, I have sweaty socks, dirty leather smell, and then grundle/dirty underwear smell. The Grundle Thunder is born. I forgot to mention that my deodorant (speed stick) is spotty at best.

So the Grundle Thunder is born, and I’m working. I’m really grossed out at myself by this point as it is, and then this happens: I lean forward real fast, and the cloud of Grundle Thunder moves from between my legs, up my shirt, picks up dirty shirt and B.O. mixture, and then hits me right in the fucking nose. Try it.

Lean back in your chair, then hunch over real fast like you’re looking at a computer. When you do it right, the trapped air in your belly region will shoot up out of the top of your shirt. The sweater is key because of the insulation factor. The air only has one place to go: straight up.

What does my brand of Grundle Thunder smell like? Let me TRY to describe it to you. Rotten cantelopes, old spaghetti and meatballs, moldy bread (yeast essence), rubber, mold, extreme body odor, let me go back and say ALL types of rotten fruit, not just canteloupes.

The shoes and socks are an important, yet often overlooked aspect of the GT….its like the old Jesus parable….how are you going to build a solid foundation for your Grundle Thunder, using clean socks? It just doesn’t work like that. With practice, and consistent dirtiness, I believe that all men can create their own brand of Grundle Thunder, which, by the way, is a powerful aphrodisiac, a scientific fact taken for granted by most tribal nations.

As GOB Bluth would say, “I appreciate your time.”

(Editor Note: Lady T came up with the name Grundle Thunder, not me. I’m a phoney.)

Lookout, summer is coming

With the summer months approaching, I am becoming increasingly anxious.  Not because the urge to go swim with my deep-sea friends is torturing me, or because long days basking in the sun allure me.  It’s just too damn hot, and I don’t like it.  Let’s get one thing straight from the beginning; the sun and I are not friends.  In fact, it is the longest running battle of savagery I know; me vs. the sun.

SAVAGE:

NON-SAVAGE:

 

We Irish are blessed with a myriad of superpowers.  However, our kryptonite is ironically the very thing that gives Superman his powers, our asshole yellow sun.  The blood of an Irishman is too thick for these grueling summer days.  That is why we have to drink so much; it thins our blood so we can more aptly blend with the non-superhuman.  After 23 years of being absolutely miserable three months out of the year, I have a gripe with Mr. Sun. 

The increasing temperature produces a strange phenomenon.  This monster of a beast is known as “Swamp Ass”.  Swamp Ass is a cruel fate for the glandular inferior.  Behold: 

Scary.  Especially if you have an ass that large, Swamp Ass is the last stigma you want to befall you.  It is basically a neon sign reading, “Hey ladies, stinking fat ass over here.”  If you are trying to run any game, whether it is with some ladies, a business deal, or swindling the idiot down the block, Swamp Ass is an instant kill. 

This is why the business suit standard is black; this color can counteract the evils of Swamp Ass.  However, do not fret when Swamp Ass strikes.  You should be glad your glands are working correctly; they are cooling your fat ass.  So, if you come across a stuck up bitch who gives you lip about your Swamp Ass, just give her some wisdom from Kevin James, “I’m just a delicious piece of man meat, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.” 

Sunburn is more wickedness unleashed by that nefarious ball of gas.  My superpowers decline exponentially when the sun is bombarding me.  I was walking home from work the other day, and it was a reasonable 75, yet the UV index was at some unnatural level.  I could actually feel my skin getting hotter and burning.  I had to race home like a vampire on the Summer Solstice.  (For all you retards, that’s the longest day of the year.  Hence, that day has the most sun exposure.  Eh, I don’t know why I waste my talent on you.) 

I had a dream (nightmare?) the other night about me being at the beach for a day, next thing I knew, I woke up with sunburn.  I’m not worried about the sun though, because I’m going to live forever, or die trying. 

There are however, activities that I love so much that I will venture outdoors and brave the ills of the sun.  Topping that list is the most savage game; horseshoes.  Horseshoes is probably the only thing I enjoy about the summer.  In Williamsburg, our cul-de-sac would coordinate days off with our respective places of business just to play guilt free shoes.  The first stake would be planted around noon, and the games would last until the final rays waned on the horizon.  Horseshoes cannot be played with less than a case of beer.  This is a tailored made drinking game.  Any game where you throw around heavy, possibly life-threatening objects must be coupled with massive consumption of beer.