*Contains Recycled Content (Part 1)

5 Jun

“They’ll never stop The Simpsons!
Have no fears, we’ve got stories for years, like,
Marge becomes a robot!
Maybe Moe gets a cell phone,
Has Bart ever owned a bear, or,
How ’bout a crazy wedding?
Where something happens, and do do do do do do.
Sorry for the clip show!”

-The Simpsons, Gump Roast

Ah, the clip show: the most hated of all sitcom tropes. And why? Because they slap a couple of minutes of new footage together making you think you’re in for a fun new adventure, but no — OH no. Because then the, “Remember that one time?” bullshit starts and suddenly, you’re watching clips of episodes you already saw. It’s even worse than it sounds. Inevitably, the premise for reminiscing is wafer fucking thin and characters flashback to shit they weren’t even a part of. Hell, Saved By the Bell did a clip show where the characters flashed back to other characters’ DREAM SEQUENCES. The following clip isn’t related to that, but it never isn’t hilarious:

Fuck a clip show is I suppose the salient point to take away from the preceding paragraph….which brings me to this post, well, series of posts. This is the blog equivalent of a clip show as most of this material was previously presented on Facebook. That said, I have like eight Facebook friends and at least five of them are Russian spambots trying to get all my personal info by promising to enlarge my penis with cutting edge drugs, and then have sex with said penis after they’ve properly huge-ified it.

It’s just a matter of time is what I’m saying.

And for my Facebook friends that aren’t spam, I’m assuming they don’t read my posts anyway so this will be new to them if they break down and decide to read it. So basically, it’s going to be like a clip show filled with clips from shows no one has seen. Fuck it, I’m just going to call it new material. This will help you hate me less and enjoy it more. Sound good? Let’s get to it!

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If you needed additional confirmation that I’m a complete idiot, here’s an unedited conversation I had earlier with a female coworker. Enjoy!

Me: I’m supposed to go play trivia tonight. What are you up to?

Her: Not much. I need to stop and pick up some titty glitter on the way home.

Me: That’s awesome. Where do you even get something like that, the stripper warehouse?

Her: What? No! The grocery store!

Me: The grocery store? What aisle?

Her: With the cat food!

Me: Well that doesn’t even make any sense.

Her: Of course it does! Wait, what do you think I said?

Me: Uh, you tell me.

Her: KITTY LITTER.

Me: Oh! God I’m dumb. I thought you said, “titty glitter.”

Her: (stares at me blinking for a few seconds, then laughs uncontrollably for several minutes at my stupidity) If you find out where you can buy that, let me know.

Me: I swear I’ve seen it before…

Her: “Titty glitter (laughs again, pats me on the head).” Stay pretty.

Me: (turns redder than the devil’s dick) I need a drink.

On the plus side, I may have invented a new product.

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Every time I asked Siri to call someone today, she dialed the wrong number. I got angry and told her to fuck off, to which she replied, “That’s not nice.” I apologized and she told me it was okay. It was then that I realized this is the healthiest and most honest relationship I have in my life. Don’t change, Siri.

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Pet peeve of the day: the phrase, “peel and eat shrimp.” When I eat steamed shrimp, there’s an expectation that I will have to remove an annoying shell (and those weird little shrimp feet) as part of the process, unless I’m 6 and my mom is peeling them for me. Nothing is lost by dropping the “peel and eat” qualifier and simply calling them, “shrimp.” More vexing, there are no peel and eat bananas, peel and eat oranges, peel and eat crabs, or peel and eat 7-11 burritos. Generally, when something we wish to eat has a peel that is tough, bitter, hard, or plastic, we remove it prior to eating. Can we please stop the madness?

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A coworker was explaining her morning routine to me yesterday and why she always comes in late. I was good until she said, “I brushed all of my teeth,” then she totally lost me. What an odd thing to say. If she had said, “I brushed my teeth,” I’m still on board; continue this fascinating tale. But she threw in that damn “all” and I got fixated on it. Are there people who only brush a few teeth at a time? If you’re really running late do you just hit the top row, maybe the canines? I mean, if she had a gold tooth or something that required some kind of extra attention, you know, a good buffing or something to make it sparkle, I’d get why you might skip brushing that one if in a rush. That’s a goddamn chore. But no gold, just regular-ass teeth in her face. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I brushed all of my teeth this morning too except for my back left molar. That asshole knows what he did.” Instead, I sat there thinking these idiotic thoughts that I’m sharing with you now and then laughed when she finished her story. Not for nothing – she laughed too; I’m not a psycho who just randomly laughs when people are talking. Anyway, I have no idea what she said and I really hope she doesn’t read this.

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Don’t grieve for yesterday, it’s over. Don’t wait for tomorrow, it never comes. Do something amazing today. Like, I don’t know, go out and get turnt on cough syrup or something. Maybe wear goggles and a snorkel to work and sincerely ask people to start calling you Jacques Cousteau. Slather yourself in marshmallow fluff and reenact the final 2 minutes of Ghostbusters. Use your imagination.

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This is easily the most terrifying thing I’ve ever read: 107 MILLION SPIDERS. 107 million. Motherfucking spiders. Just hanging out together. In Baltimore. Did you know spiders formed gangs? I didn’t. I thought they were loners, rebels who occasionally wore 8-armed leather jackets while raising hell in the insect kingdom. But I guess they can hunt in packs and form dens like tiny, but somehow far more frightening, goddamn wolves or whatever. This is something I didn’t need to know. The only thing that could make this worse is if an army of clowns plucked handfuls of spiders from the nest and hurled them at passersby.

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Can we please stop throwing around the phrase, “to die for,” as a descriptor for foods that taste super good? Because unless you’re willing to actually lay down your life for that plate of chili fries you’re just a liar. A dirty fucking liar.

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Due to more stringent truth in advertising laws, ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ is changing its name to ‘I Can Totally Believe It’s Not Butter Because Whereas Actual Butter Is Delicious, This Shit Tastes Like Melted Crayons, Plastic, And Ass.’

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After we watched a news segment on Twitter, I had the following conversation with my mom:

Mom: So what is Twitter, is it email?

Me: What? No, it’s not email.

Mom: Well then what is it?

Me: I don’t know if I can explain Twitter to you. It’s a social network.

Mom: But what is it? I’ve never seen a Twitter. How do you do one?

Me: You…you don’t ‘do a Twitter.’ You go to the site, compose a tweet, and send it.

Mom: To who?

Me: I don’t know, everyone? I have followers.

Mom: People follow you? Do you know these people?

Me: A couple of them.

Mom: Only a couple? Is your name on it?

Me: Yes.

Mom: So just ANYBODY can see your Twitter? People you don’t even know? Is that safe?

Me: I…what?

Mom: How do you even know who to send it to?

Me: Because it’s like email, mom. It’s exactly like email.

Mom: Seems stupid to me.

Me: It kind of is.

This is the abridged version. The actual conversation went on for about 10 minutes and also touched on Facebook and Instagram. Nothing was resolved.

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Maybe it’s just me, but I think the creepiest couplet from any children’s song has got to be, “He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake.” That’s disturbing, right? As a kid, I used to imagine Santa standing over me, his face ruddy with the wintry chill or, more likely, cheap booze, mere inches from my own as he listens to me breathe and watches me sleep while cutting himself with a dull knife. He hopes I’ll wake up so he can absorb my life force and leave a soulless, desiccated husk where I used to be. I never got much sleep on Christmas Eve is what I’m saying, all thanks to that terrifying song.

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Ferrari is now sending me targeted ads on Facebook. Fucking Ferrari. Would I like to own a Ferrari? Hell yeah, but I’m not Magnum P.I.; I’m just poor white trash from Gardenville. The only Ferrari I can afford is those foldable Ferrari sunglasses they used to sell on the Ocean City boardwalk for $5 with the massive lenses that made you look like some sort of futuristic insect with vision problems. And even that’s kind of a splurge. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t have $100k+ in disposable income to spend on a car I’d be terrified to drive because you just know some totes jell hater would key it the second I parked it somewhere. Now I’m both mad at imaginary people for keying my fictional Ferrari and sad that I’m not Magnum P.I. Thanks for making me feel bad about myself, Ferrari

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Coffee is good, commercials are not. Sometimes these two concepts team up and really do some damage. Case in point: Folgers coffee commercials. You’ve seen them: someone wakes up early in the morning and brews a heaping pot of Folgers and someone sleeping smells it and wakes up with an orgasmic smile on his/her face as if beautiful angels had gently nudged them from slumber. They drink from their coffee mugs while gripping them with two hands – just like no one you’ve ever known or want to know – then you’re hit with the slogan: “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” I hate waking up in the morning with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, so it’s hard for me to find the silver lining that I might call “the best part.” Coffee is more of a necessity for me than it is a luxury. Drinking it in the morning greatly reduces the likelihood of me engaging in knife fights with coworkers. But if you fill my cup with Folgers, rest assured we’re going to have issues. Folgers tastes like hot sewage. It is the coffee of auto repair shops, of hospital waiting rooms, and of nursing and funeral homes. If you’re drinking Folgers you are in a miserable place and all but guaranteed to be dealing with annoyance at best and, quite possibly, death. Ultimately, calling Folgers “the best part of waking up” is like saying “the best part of torture is having your balls electrocuted.” So there you go, Folgers, I’ve devised a new, honest slogan for you – “Folgers: the coffee equivalent of genital electrocution.”

 

 

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4 Things I Learned at the GNR Concert

4 Jul

GNR

“’Cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me

Old pictures that I’ll always see

Time just fades the pages

In my book of memories”

-“Yesterdays,” Guns N’ Fucking Roses

In case you’ve been living under a rock, Guns N’ Roses’ original lineup reunited (well, mostly…Steven Adler and Izzy Stradlin aren’t onboard) and started touring again after a 23 year breakup. Dubbed the “Not In This Lifetime” tour (based on what Axl Rose had previously said about the possibility of ever reuniting with Slash), they’ve only played a few dates so far. They kicked off the tour in Detroit, then hit FedEx Field in Landover, MD, which is where I saw them last week. Let me tell you something: they rocked my balls off. Like completely. I went in with balls and left with none. I think it happened during Slash ripping through The Godfather theme or maybe it was Axl screeching through Nightrain that did it. Doesn’t matter — they’re gone and it was totally worth it. And I learned a few things, like…

4. Sometimes You Can Go Home Again.

Generally speaking, when people say “you can’t go home again” they mean that the awesome things you remember from your youth will totally suck just like the biggest set of swinging, unwashed donkey balls when you experience them again once you’re older. That’s how I interpret it anyway. For just about everything – movies, video games, toys, music, Jean-Claude Van Damme (okay, not him; if anything his awesomeness ages like the finest bottle of wine…which he then dragon kicks into oblivion) – this holds true. So how would a reformed band that used to rule the world fair 23 years after breaking up? The answer: balls-fucking-tastic. They rocked the shit out of FedEx Field (and my balls; see above) for over two and a half hours. It was high-energy and pure fan service (you can check out the setlist here if you don’t believe me). Oh, and they showed up on time! And Axl seemed genuinely happy to be there! And his voice sounded awesome! I have no idea how he’s still belting it out at his age, but it was quite a thing to behold. Slash and Duff were amazing and the three newer members of the band tore it up as well.

The band had a bit of a reputation for starting ridiculously late or ending ridiculously early (and hating each other, but not anymore!). So maybe I could go home again in this case because my expectations were actually quite low going in.

3. Not Nearly Enough People Have Seen PCU.

I’d be willing to bet a bunch of you (the really cool ones with the most attractive genitals) know exactly where I’m going with this:

If you couldn’t spare 9 seconds to watch that clip (I get it, you’re totes busy), it’s a classic scene with Jeremy Piven and Jon Favreau. Favreau is going to a concert and Piven notices the shirt he’s wearing, then utters this all-time quote: “What is this? You’re gonna wear this to the show? You’re gonna wear the shirt of the band you’re gonna go see? Don’t be that guy.” I saw hundreds of people in GN’R. Shirts. Possibly thousands. Most weren’t even wearing some beat up joint that they were using to wax the car until the band reunited. No. Most people were wearing shit they bought ONSITE. That means they wore something else to the event, dropped $45 on a shiny, new tee, and changed into it so that the rest of us knew they were there to support the band. Thanks for that. That’s the kind of mentality used by five-year-olds the world over when they get a new pair of shoes that they just have to wear out of the store. Guys, you wear the concert tee AFTER the show so that people are forced to ask you about it and then learn that, “Yeah, I went to the GNR show. What of it?” Your friends will be properly awed and SO jealous, which is the whole point of going to events like this in the first place.

I’m not even going to get into the raging cock weasels who showed up dressed as Axl or Slash because the savage beatings I assume they received were probably punishment enough.

BTW, if you haven’t seen PCU, read this article. It lays out why it’s still relevant 21 years (now 22. Wait…that can’t be right. Wasn’t it just 1996 a few months ago? I am so fucking sick of Time Wizards making years last for only days now. It’s also possible that I’m old as fuck. Unrelated, I wish all these damn kids would get off my goddamn lawn. Motherless bastards) and why you need to watch it…you know, after you’re finished reading and sharing this post with every living being you know.

2. Without Hyperbole, I Can Say Cell Phones Will Be the Death of Humanity.

Take pictures, I don’t mind. Recording every second of everything you do? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY DO YOU DO THIS??? You know you’re never going to watch it again. Be honest. The only reason you’re recording it is so you can inspire Instagram/FaceBook/Twitter envy from your followers.

“Look at me! I’m out doing cool shit! Aren’t you jel? You’re totes fucking jel, right? Please validate me! I’m cool, right? I matter. I do matter? Oh sweet Jesus, what is the point of it all? Every breath we take brings us simply one breath closer to the always looming specter of death!! Life is but a grand farce.”

I’ve been to multiple fireworks nights at Camden Yards and saw that many people, rather than watching and enjoying said fireworks, recorded that shit on their phones. They recorded fireworks. On their phones. To ostensibly watch later.

Motherfucking fireworks.

Instead of watching them filtered through a tiny-ass screen maybe, you know, just fucking look up! Ever watched fireworks on TV? Pointless bullshit. They’re kind of meant to be experienced in person with the naked eye.

Pro tip: life is happening all around you — experience that shit! You don’t need to record it on a four inch screen so you can later show your relatives and distant acquaintances what a fucking whirlwind of an amazing life you lead. And you don’t need to record every waking second of your existence. You’re not a journalist nor a documentarian, so stop it.

1. Other People Are Just the Absolute Fucking Worst

For as much as I enjoyed the concert, this is the biggest takeaway from it: I cannot stand to be in the presence of other people. I mentioned the cellphones in the previous entry. Just about every single human in front of me recorded the show for long periods of time. This meant I had to try to see the band around extended arms and tiny screens shining light into my face. It was beyond obnoxious.

The eight-foot tall gentleman directly in front of me was apparently part snake as he shimmied from side to side from the opening bars of “It’s So Easy” to the closing chords of “Paradise City.” He blocked my view to the right, then the left. Right, left, right, left, ri…STAND FUCKING STILL AND BOB YOUR HEAD UP AND DOWN LIKE A NORMAL FUCKING PERSON, YOU SLITHERING ASSHOLE!! I paid extra for field seats only to spend most of the concert standing in the aisle in attempt to see.

Add to that people bumping into to me for the duration of the show and the ridiculous traffic trying to get out of there and I have to wonder why I ever go out in public at all. Good time, though.

PSA

23 Mar

“Knowing is half the battle.”

-Roadblock, ranking member of elite military force, G.I. Joe

“I’m so excited! I’m so excited! I’m so…scared!!”

-Jessica Spano after taking one too many caffeine pills on a very special episode of Saved by the Bell

Hello again, Gentle Reader. Time for one of my patented, long-form blog posts! I can feel your excitement; how it nourishes me. As you regulars are well aware, I’m kind of obsessed with the 1980s. And why not? It was a radical, super-awesome, amazing decade. The technology, the fashions, the casual cocaine use – none of it has been surpassed. I know this because I spent a bit of time in the ‘80s. Granted, there were a few oddities to be found in the decade (I cannot for the life of me explain all the goddamn neon colors), but there is one particularly curious nugget of nostalgia on which I’d like to focus today: the ‘80s obsession with the PSA.

“What does PSA mean?” you may be asking yourself if you’re a caveman – sorry, caveperson – frozen in ice millennia ago and recently thawed out. If so, let me be the first to welcome you to the wonders of the 21st century! Those big metal birds in the sky are called “airplanes” and we use them to travel. Those round-footed animals speeding right towards you are called “cars” and are also used for transportation. Please don’t hurl spears at them; they’re not food. Don’t worry, you’ll adjust and soon be bitching about the ridiculously slow speeds at which the entirety of humanity’s knowledge is delivered to your mobile device like the rest of us.

A PSA is a Public Service Announcement; basically a commercial for how dope it is to look both way before crossing the street or how totally bogus it is to burn to death in a fire because your parents didn’t replace the batteries in the smoke detector. And sure, they were pretty prevalent throughout the ‘90s as well and they’re still around today, but the ‘80s, man. That was the golden age of the PSA. There were so many that they clearly ran out of useful topics to cover. To wit, I present to you quite possibly the dumbest PSA of not just the ‘80s, but all time:

Did you watch it? If you did, I apologize because…

I’ve just sucked 30 seconds of your life away.

Rugen

For those of you who didn’t watch it, here’s the rundown: Louis the Lifeguard is apparently a dwarf who lives on a dining room table in some David Lynchian nightmare of anthropomorphic, fully cooked foodstuffs. Though prepared for human consumption after having been either plucked from the earth or lain by chickens, they remain quite alive and bizarrely cheery.

That is until one of them starts to drown.

No need to fear though, Louis is on that shit. He sees a potato screaming for help as it sinks oh so slowly in a quagmire of sour cream and plucks it from certain doom. Then the purpose of the PSA kicks in as he sings the following:

Don’t drown your food!/In mayo or ketchup or goop./Yuck!/It’s no fun to eat what you can’t even see, so don’t drown your food!!!

There’s a lot to mentally unpack here. Again, the food is alive, but can apparently die if you douse it in condiments. The food WANTS to die, but only by your mouth and then only if you munch it in its purest, most unadulterated — hell I’ll just come out and say it — bare-ass naked form. It’s all very cult-like

More to the point, the sole reason this thing even exists is to keep kids from using condiments. It has no higher purpose. Not don’t smoke, don’t use drugs, don’t talk to strangers, but, “Hey fuckers, consider eating those fries sans ketchup.”

And is this really a path worth walking? To children, vegetables taste like the bitter remnants of their most terrifying nightmares sprinkled with dirt. Getting them to ingest them under any circumstances is a minor miracle. And let’s be honest: that doesn’t change much in adulthood, does it? Vegetables still taste terrible even to mature and refined taste buds; the only difference is that we eat them because we know we have to. Whenever someone says something like, “Have you tasted these Brussels sprouts? OMG! They’re so good!” I want to slap that person in the face and let him know that I know he’s a filthy liar and/or living in denial. Because I’ve tried the Brussels sprouts and they taste like they were dropped from the sulfuric butthole of some wretched, demonic hell-beast that itself was shat from the darkest, most putrid depths of the underworld. Besides, it’s not like adults ever practice what we preach to children. Have you ever seen someone eat a plain salad? No, you haven’t and if you ever did, you would assume that person to be insane and you would not be wrong.

Just look at this bullshit.

Just look at this bullshit.

Salads are terrible without meat, croutons, bacon bits, and some kind of dressing. So if a kid wants to slather some sour cream or ranch, ketchup or mayo on those vile, earthen abominations to make them slightly more palatable, who the fuck is anyone – especially Louis the fucking lifeguard –  to tell them otherwise? Fuck that guy.

That’s only the most egregious example of the commercial length PSA from the ’80s. Go to YouTube and search “’80s PSA” if you want to torture yourself by watching more, but there was another more insidious way in which the ’80s abused the PSA: the “Very Special Episode.” This was a PSA disguised as a sitcom so when you tuned in expecting laughs, you instead got the bait and switch treatment. The results were always traumatizing or at the very least uncomfortable and unsettling. You weren’t an ‘80s show until you had your own Very Special Episode. Whether it was Dudley getting groped by Gordon Jump on Diff’rent Strokes, Arnold and Kimberly getting kidnapped on Diff’rent Strokes, or Sam getting kidnapped on…Diff’rent Strokes (What the fuck, Diff’rent Strokes???), there was no shortage of ways to traumatize ‘80s kids to, ostensibly, make us aware of danger and thus safer because of it. Need examples other than Diff’rent Strokes? No problem: the above quoted Saved by the Bell was about the dangers of abusing “drugs” (in quotes because fucking caffeine pills are not drugs); Family Ties did an episode featuring an alcoholic Tom Hanks(!) getting drunk and wailing on Alex; Punky Brewster did an episode about Punky’s bestie getting locked in a discarded refrigerator and nearly suffocating; DJ had an eating disorder in an episode of Full House; Wesley got fondled on Mr. Belvedere; Mike got offered coke (the drug, not the sugary beverage) on Growing Pains; and, for the love of God, Steve Urkel rapped about gun control on an episode of Family Matters. Oh, and then there’s the time Kimberly suffered from bulimia on — Jesus Christ — Diff’rent Strokes.

This man should not be allowed to care for children.

This man should not be allowed to care for children.

I say all that to lead into my very own PSA. That’s right, this entire rant was a deception. I Keyser Söze’d you. Don’t be mad; my intentions are noble. Please tamp down your hatred and read on.

If you have a landline (and if you’re a Comcast subscriber they practically force it upon you), you’ve no doubt received or will receive a call from Microsoft or Google. These fine folks will inform you that your computer is in distress and sending out error messages and virus alerts in a desperate attempt to keep its poor head above water. How do they know this? They’re Microsoft and Google; they know everything. All you have to do is give them access to your computer and that pesky credit card number you have and they’ll happily steal all your money, files, and personal data for you. You didn’t want that stuff anyway, right?

I’ve researched this scam quite a bit because I get at least eight of these calls per day. Oh, and you cellphone only people sitting up there in your ivory towers, uh, whittling ivory or whatever and silently judging the rest of us? Yeah, they’ve started calling cellphone numbers too.

So what can you do? Well, apparently no one in authority is doing anything about this because they can’t be bothered to give a single fuck. I can only assume there must be some kind of fuck shortage for which they’re preparing.

“Whatevs, I’ll just block the number,” you say. “Ha!” I retort back because my wit is that razor sharp. Block one number, a new one pops up. They’re like Hydra in that way. Now personally, I like to answer the phone and pretend I’m both hard of hearing AND touching myself. That really makes them mad, which makes me happy because I draw my power from the bitterness of others.

I could just chalk this up as a mild annoyance, but they’re ripping people off — mostly older, vulnerable people. That makes them the worst type of parasite there is (yes, even worse than that one that swims up your peehole and makes its home there). In addition, I’ve read that they often say very inappropriate and vulgar things when asked to stop calling. This will not stand.

I implore all of you to mercilessly fuck with these people when they inevitably call you. Not all of you have the time that I do to alternately shout, “WHAT?” and moan in ecstasy to torment them, so I recommend picking up a police whistle or an air horn. When they go into their routine, blow it right in their ear. If enough of us start doing that, the calls will stop. We can do this!

Marriage Equality: Now What?

28 Jun

“Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethew today.”

-that priest from The Princess Bride

“If you liked it, well then by golly, you should have placed a ring on it.”

-from the first draft of ‘Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)’ by Dame Beyoncé Knowles

June 26, 2015 — a date which will live in infamy…wait, no, that’s December 7, 1941. June 26, 2015 is a date which will live in…what’s the opposite of infamy? Famy? Famosity? Fuck it, I’ll consult my Roget’s later and get back to you. The important thing to know about this date is that it was the date that the Supreme Court recognized the legality of same sex/gender marriage throughout the United States. Of course, seeing as you’re reading this on the internet, you have already been inundated with news about this for the last 24 hours or so. If this is the first time you’ve used the internet and mine is the first site upon which you’ve stumbled, hi! Did you know there is porn on the internet? Lots of it. Go ahead and check it out. Maybe bookmark this site and come back and read this in six months when you’re ready to look at something other than free boobies.

As I see it, the Court’s decision left people feeling one of three ways: super stoked, super bummed, or totally indifferent. If you’re super stoked it’s probably because:

  • You’re gay or you are the family or friend of someone who is gay and relieved to be recognized as a human being entitled to the same civil rights as everyone else…even though such recognition is long overdue. Seeing how some of us are still not over the whole Greedo shooting first debacle (seriously George? You can’t let us have a Han who is a loveable rogue who only acts in his own best interests when we first meet him? That’s why his saving Luke at the end is such a powerful moment! It’s called a character arc, goddamnit!!), I’m actualy kind of surprised it happened this fast;
  • You’re a divorce attorney or wedding planner pitching a raging money-boner (and it’s lasted way longer than four hours now. You should probably seek medical attention) at the thought of all those potential new clients; or
  • You had a sizeable wager riding on the outcome.

If you’re super bummed, it’s probably because:

  • You’re a homophobe or religious type who just can’t stand the thought of people with matching genitals settling down even though it affects you personally about as much as a mosquito farting in a tornado. Do you people just hate pairs? Do you wear mismatched mittens and socks? Are you secretly all Batman villains? Help me understand;
  • You’re a hipster douchebag who was a fan of gay marriage before it was cool and now that everyone else is onboard, “it’s just so, like, played out, man. Lame. And rainbows? Yeah, they’re cool…if you’re eight!” Man, that fictional hipster guy I just invented is a total asshole. Take your wispy-mustached, porkpie-hatted, skinny jeans-wearing ass to the vintage record store or something and leave us alone; or
  • You had a sizeable wager riding on the outcome.

If you’re totally indifferent…I have nothing to say to you. You should probably just take another bong hit and munch down on some Cheetos or Funyuns or something. Pro tip: get yourself a big bowl and mix a bag of Cheetos and Funyuns together for a tasty treat I like to call ‘Cheetuns.’ You’ll find that eating them is like having a flavor tiger maul each of your taste buds into death’s sweet embrace. Go now; there is nothing more for you here. You can thank me later.

As for the rest of you, here is a handy list of dos and don’ts to help you figure out how to act now that same sex marriage is the law of the land.

Do:

High five. A lot. This goes for both gay people and friends of gay people. High fiving is the ultimate in underrated celebration. Indulge in it!

Don’t:

Panic. I know for many opponents of marriage equality this decision will be the final straw that unleashes the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They’ve been sitting in the green room sipping coffee and making awkward, weather-based small talk just waiting for their cue, and now they have it. Let me set your mind at ease:  if Zayn leaving One Direction wasn’t enough to set them in motion, you’ve got nothing to worry about.

Do:

Gloat. Go ahead, you’ve earned it. When the Orioles win the World Series I will be an insufferable prick about it for months. As a straight Caucasian with a penis, that’s about as good as it gets for me. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s liked to be denied a fundamental right for nonsensical reasons and then suddenly have it given to me. That’s probably as good as least 10 World Series, right? As this is not something I can really wrap my head around, I’m just going to shut up now.

Don’t:

Misunderstand. The Supreme Court’s decision does not DEMAND an end to opposite sex marriage. Gay militias will not be coming to your home to make you divorce your spouse and marry someone of the same gender. Of course, if you want to do that, you have the option now.

Do:

Be cool. If you’re happy about this decision, you should definitely gloat (see above), but within reason. Have some AMAZING parades and rallies, but try not to overdo it. Actually, you know what? Fuck it; overdo the shit out of it! You can get married now! You too can experience the hassle of wedding planning, in-laws that don’t think you’re good enough for their son/daughter, the soul-crushing ennui of just going through the motions for the kids, and, hopefully for most of you, the joy of spending a lifetime committed to the person you love.

Don’t:

Be a dick. You’re angry. You wanted the Supreme Court to invalidate gay marriage and it didn’t. Be gracious in defeat. I’m not saying to let go of your anger, but refocus it. There are plenty of worthwhile causes to be angry about. Hunger is shitty. Get angry about that. Ditto homelessness. How about getting angry that they won’t greenlight a sequel to the Firefly movie despite there being literally an entire universe of possibilities worth exploring? The point is, there are worthy causes that need your support and, yes, your anger.

Do:

Be happy. Regardless of where you fall on this admittedly divisive issue, life is good and worth living. It can be shitty at times and we don’t always get what we want, but it sure as fuck beats the alternative.

Don’t: Call it ‘gay marriage’ anymore. It’s just ‘marriage’ now.

And that’s the way it should be.

Spider, Man

28 Jan

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly; Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.”

-Mary Howitt

“You gotta be fucking kidding.”

-Palmer (to MacReady after Norris’s detached head sprouted eyes & spider legs and scurried away in The Thing)

This was not a blog post I was expecting to write, but something happened recently that turned my world upside down. It was so traumatizing that I feel the only way I can cope with the horror I experienced is to share the tale with you, Gentle Reader.  It seems like it happened only yesterday…possibly because it did in fact happen yesterday.

Spiders (from the Latin, AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! KILL-ITKILL-IT!!!!) and I have a rather tenuous relationship.  It all started when I was a wee lad of 7. I was outside at twilight catching fireflies and possibly breakdancing and solving a Rubik’s Cube while singing Pac-Man Fever (it was so the goddamn ‘80s).

The '80s was basically this all the time. Those were simpler days.

The ’80s were basically this all day every day. They were simpler times.

As the day’s last light slowly faded and twilight became dusk, I saw a large spider descending from a tree on a gossamer thread. As I was in my firefly nabbing reverie and coming down from a pretty decent Coke high (That’s Coke, not coke. Although you’d be forgiven for making that mistake. I mean, sure I was 7, but it was the ’80s), I thought to myself, “You know what? I think I’ll grab the fuck outta that spider.”

You see where this is going. Spiders bite shit. That is the one and only thing that they do. Well, that and look and act terrifying.

WHY GOD?? WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THIS?!?

WHY GOD?? WHY WOULD YOU MAKE THIS?!?

So why did I grab it? I have no idea. Spider-Man has always been my favorite superhero, so maybe I was thinking super powers?

Naturally, the spider bit my hand and I dropped the black-hearted son of a bitch in an instant. Did it imbue me with any super powers you ask? Hell yeah it did! It gave me the power to scream super loud, secrete saline solution from my eyes, and bolt into the house calling for my mother. Apparently, only radioactive spiders dole out the awesome super powers.

On that day I declared a vendetta against all spiders. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best reason for a vendetta. It’s not like a spider killed my best friend in a knife fight, but it still pissed me off.

See, spiders are assholes. They lurk in the darkness waiting for unsuspecting prey to stumble into their invisible asshole trap. Then they stab it with devil teeth and turn it into the equivalent of the worst Jamba Juice smoothie ever…well, other than wheat grass. That’s just liquid evil.

Pictured: Devil juice

Pictured: concentrated Beelzebub

And have you ever wandered into a spider web? It’s a fucking nightmare. The threads melt right into your skin; you can’t get it off of you. I freak right the fuck out whenever I do. One minute I’m walking through air, the next, some horrible cotton candy-like fuckery is upon me and suddenly the world is ending. My brain immediately starts screaming, “What about the spider??? I don’t see the spider! He might’ve been in the web! He could be walking on my body or nesting in my hair!! STOP DROP AND ROLL!! STOP DROP AND ROLL!!!”

Spiders are seriously creepy and they like to hide. In things, it turns out. And that brings us (finally) to yesterday.

I’m a pretty oblivious motherfucker in my day to day life, but I’m truly unaware of my surroundings in the morning. Mornings and I don’t get along. I need about a gallon of coffee before me and Morning can even be in the same room.

The alarm sounded. Enraged, I stumbled out of bed, took a shower, and dressed for work.

I then sat on the bed, miserable, needing only to put on my shoes before I could leave the house. I put the left on with no issues, but as I eased my foot into the right shoe, something was…off. There was something in there up by the toe. Something soft.

It was the damndest thing. My mind didn’t know how to process it so it broke and I became two people. I had the following conversation in my head in the span of about 1/8,000th of a second. (I’ve helpfully labeled my two selves, Me and Brain. I have no idea who is who.)

Me: The fuck am I stepping on?

Brain: I don’t know, sock lint? Fuck it, jam your foot in there.

Me: I don’t know, man. Feels a lot bigger than sock lint. Even if that’s all it is, I need to shake it out or it’s going to drive me insane as the day wears on.

Brain: Okay, so it’s bigger than sock lint. It’s probably a cotton ball or some such bullshit. Jam your foot in there.

Me: Cotton ball? Even more reason for me to remove my foot and…holy shit – did it just move??

Brain: Are you fucking stupid? Cotton isn’t sentient or motile. Jam your fucking foot in there now!

Me: Fuck you, Brain, it did move! Evacuate the foot now!!

Brain: Fine you big baby. You’ll see: it’s a cotton ball.

I yanked my foot out of the shoe, turned it over and shook it as hard as I could. It hit the floor with an audible *PLOP*: a massive wolf spider. It looked like a racquetball with legs. You could’ve put a small saddle on its back and had a guinea pig ride it. (Can guinea pigs be trained to ride spiders like rodeo cowboys? Because that would be awesome.)  My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Every ray of light in the universe felt like it was flooding my skull. I used all of my new superhuman eyesight to stare in abject horror at the beast. It was blacker than a crude oil spill in Dracula’s asshole at midnight and hairier than Ron Jeremy’s back and the Wolf Man’s ass cheeks combined.

Dark and fuzzy are the pertinent descriptors to take from this.

Dark and fuzzy are the pertinent descriptors to take from this.

My mind fused itself into a single consciousness once more as if it knew it was going to need full power for all the screaming. And so I screamed. And I screamed. Then for a change of pace, I screamed some more. I cursed at the spider, called him a dickhole, and demanded that he return to Satan’s ass from whence he was shat. These were hurtful things. If the spider’s self-esteem was damaged by my tirade, he didn’t show it. He just sat there and took it. What a seriously cool motherfucker. If John Shaft was a spider, this spider would give him wedgies for being such a dork.

Shit. Is my audience too young to get a Shaft reference? Do I even have an audience? Well just in case I do have an audience and they’re in that precious under-65 demographic, you kids just go ahead and picture someone really cool. Who do you guys think is cool, Neil Diamond? It’s Neil Diamond, right? Okay, so this was the Neil Diamond of spiders. Better? Moving on.

You're welcome, ladies.

You’re welcome, ladies.

I almost felt bad about raising my shoe and slamming it down upon his back with the force of a car hitting a brick wall at 300 MPH. Cool spider didn’t survive; my shoe was all right though.

I know what you unwashed hippies out there are thinking: “Why couldn’t you catch and release him, man. What’d he ever do to you? You think it’s cool committing hate crimes on Mother Nature like that, you fucking fascist?” To you I only say this: it touched my foot, man. What would you have done? Somehow I went to work, shattered. I don’t know that I’ll ever be right again. And sorry for calling some of you unwashed hippies. I’m just all out of sorts.

Prior to this, here was the list of the top three things that scared the living shit out of me in order of scariest to least scary:

  1. Mean ghosts (‘cause some ghosts are actually pretty chill and nice)
  2. Tall things (buildings from which I can plummet to my death, mainly)
  3. Motherfucking clowns (because obviously)

The updated list (as of yesterday morning):

  1. Shoes stuffed with spiders
  2. Mean ghosts
  3. Tall things

Shoes brimming with spiders shot right to the top of the charts. I don’t even think Thriller hit number one that fast. I didn’t think it would ever be possible to knock clowns off the charts, but here we are. And then there’s this bit of nightmare fuel:

This is a clown spider. Somewhere, a sadistic God is laughing manically.

This is a clown spider. Somewhere, a sadistic God is laughing manically.

There are no words. Fuck spiders, man. Just fuck them.

The Drunk Knight Rises

28 Oct

“With great power comes great responsibility. This is my gift, my curse.”

-Peter Parker

“My advice to you is to start drinking heavily.”

-Bluto Blutarsky

See? I told you it would only be a week and I got it posted in five days! Can’t believe you doubted me like that. I won’t even dick around on the intro. If you didn’t read parts one or two, well you’ll probably be confused. Of course, you could read this part first and then work your way back like Memento. Damn it. The story is probably better that way. Oh well. Let’s just finish this bitch.

An Unfortunate Incident, a Hero Rises From the Ashes

Now that I was good and tight, I was ready to interact with the partygoers. I approached (well, staggered over to) my coworker, Kyle. Kyle was (and remains) a HUGE professional wrestling fan. He liked (and still likes) to reenact fake moves as performed by his favorite wrestlers (Your Ric Flairs, your Hulk Hogans, your Doink the Clowns). Now Kyle was five years older than me (probably still is) which would mean he was…20 at the time? 25? Shit, can we get those Sucks at Math ribbons made up already? However old he was I believed (and still do) that he was too old to be a fan of professional wrestling. I stopped watching at 10 when I found out that shit was rigged.

On second thought, looks pretty real to me.

On second thought, maybe it’s TOO real.

I slurred something at him, God only knows what, and we began to fake rassle. What does that entail, you ask? Basically, you just kind of fake slap and punch each other. Yes, it is that stupid. In the course of these fake maneuvers where we weren’t making actual contact with each other, a fake shove got away from Kyle and he ever so gently kissed my chest with his palm.

Now at my level of inebriation that gentle push was tantamount to getting dragon kicked in the sternum by Bruce fucking Lee. My body responded in kind as I went flying right into the grill. I took it out and landed flat on my back on the concrete patio. Hot meats that had been searing only precious seconds ago rained down on my face and chest like grisly hail from an abattoir. I sat up, dazed. Literally everyone at the party was gaping at me. I offered a weak, drunken laugh then suddenly cold water was splashing all over my body. I looked for the source and saw my coworker, Zoe, dousing me with a hose. “The fuck…?” I managed to mumble and then I saw the smoke. The white-hot coals from the grill had landed on my ankle and smoldered there. This is either the most or the least ironic thing that has ever happened in recorded history: I had lied to gain entry to the party and now my pants were quite literally on fire. And here I thought that phrase was just a hackneyed children’s rhyme.

Too on the nose?

Too on the nose?

Once I was completely extinguished, people began to ask me if I was all right. Like most drunks, I was totally fine with nary a scratch on me. I stood up, soaked from head to toe and the laughter began. A better, more sober man may have decided perhaps it was time to leave as dignity had already hightailed it out of there hours ago. Not this guy. I brushed off my near immolation and stuck around for a while. Eventually Ben insisted we needed to go and he drove me home in my mom’s car. I guess he walked home? I have no idea. So concerned was I for his wellbeing that I never even thought to ask.

The Aftermath

After a night spent getting intimately acquainted with the family toilet, telling it all my secrets, sharing a meal with it, I awoke on the floor of the bathroom to a pair of very pissed off parents and a large railroad spike in my brain. How did that get there? Sure I couldn’t see it, but I sure as fuck could feel it. It felt like my entire body was packed with fiberglass insulation and my throat was drier than Anne Coulter’s lady business. Good God! I have never felt such thirst in my life. Needed a drink. My parents followed me into the kitchen and reminded me as I drank the coldest, most refreshing bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale I’ve ever had in my life that I was due at work in 30 minutes. I laughed, each chuckle setting off a throbbing sonic boom in my head. Surely they were joking. They were not. Going to work severely hungover was phase one of my looming punishment. Well played, parental units. Well played indeed.

I protested, but at 17 my parents still held dominion over me. I dragged my ass into work, my only goal for the day to remain vertical or at least slanted, but upright. As soon as I arrived, I noticed people smirking at me and whispering when I walked by. Apparently, word had gotten out. You’d think a group of coworkers would be able to keep the story of an inebriated high schooler drunkenly setting himself on fire to themselves, but nope. People continued looking at me and giggling behind their hands. It really threw off my grocery bagging game. Eventually my manager (Julius? Yeah, let’s call him Julius) approached me. A smug smile firmly planted on his face, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Heard you went to Liam’s party last night.” I felt my face flush redder than a baboon’s fiery butthole. “Yeah.” His smile widened. “Have a good time?” A small crowd of grinning cashiers had surrounded us. “Um, it was okay. Hey, I think it’s my break time.” At this point, I thought for sure I was getting fired. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “So you’re like some kind of superhero. I mean, you don’t have the best superpower, but lighting yourself on fire with charcoal briquettes without getting hurt is kind of impressive. You just need a name. How about…Grillman?” Grillman. Seriously dude, you couldn’t call me something cool like THE PHOENIX? I mean, I did rise from the ashes, goddamnit. But no, fucking Grillman: the name I would never be able to live down. The cashiers laughed and quickly spread the word that I was no longer Mike or Michael or even Baron Von Sexmuffin (Alas, no one has ever called me Baron Von Sexmuffin. *SIGH*).

Thousands of dollars wasted on tee shirts.

Even with thousands of dollars invested in tee shirts.

I was to be known henceforth as Grillman. By 10:30 that Sunday morning, everyone was referring to me as such. By late afternoon, people who weren’t even scheduled to work that day were coming in and asking me about the night before and my groovy new nickname. I went from mortified, to irritated, to eventually just bending over and taking it. There are worse nicknames, right? Still, man – THE PHOENIX. How badass would that have been? It wasn’t to be. To this day people still call me Grillman. And whenever they call me that in front of someone I’ve never met before I have to tell the fucking story again like some white trash version of the Ancient Mariner. Fuck. There was one perk though: from that day forward, I got invited to ALL the parties. Even the really sweet ones held at the bowling alley. Jealous? Fuck yeah, you are.

A Hero’s Legacy

I swore an oath that day on Neptune’s violently salty ballsack to never make an ass of myself in public again, an oath I was able to keep for nearly five consecutive days. Now I simply accept the fact that making an ass out of myself is a big part of who I am. However, I choose my spots carefully. I’m never going to pull a Will Ferrell in Old School and be the only guy streaking through the quad. [Quick aside: though I appreciate Mr. Ferrell’s dedication to getting bare-ass naked for that scene, I’ve always found a man dressed in a half-shirt, knee high black socks, and nothing else to be an underrated hilarious image. I don’t know why more comedies don’t show that to us. You listening, Hollywood? Get on that shit.]

And there you have it. A fateful mixture of cheap vodka, a wrestling superfan, and hot coals – an ordinary man becomes a superman.  It was my radioactive spider bite, my gamma bomb, my sex with a sentient dolphin (or whatever the fuck Aquaman’s origin story is). I didn’t ask for this power, but now I am forever cursed to prowl the fringes of society. And so I lurk in the shadows. Watching. Until I am needed. Until I am called upon.

To paraphrase one Commissioner James Gordon:

“Because he’s the lush Baltimore deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we’ll mock him. Because he can take it. Because he’s not our drunkard. He’s a silent boozer, a watchful barfly. A Drunk Knight.”

The Drunk Knight

23 Oct

“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

-Hunter S. Thompson

Well, after the longest “one week” delay in the history of everything I’m back to finish my story! Excited? You should be and you are. That’s why I love you, gentle reader, that’s why I love you.

Before I dive back into my tale, perhaps a quick recap is in order. For I well know not a single one of you remembers the first part nor will reread it. Bastards. Sorry, that was mean. I only hurt because I love too much. The recap:

•Using my super-rad twin powers of deceit and shamelessness, I hitched my wagon to my oblivious coworker, Ben, in order to attend a college graduation party to which I was not invited.

For This Guy. You Buying That?

For this guy. You buying that?

• I picked up Ben and tried to coerce him into scoring me cheap booze from a shady liquor store.

•He refused, forcing me to do the deed myself.

•I succeeded in getting a bottle of floor varnish masquerading as vodka (along with some orange juice) and we headed to the party.

•I wasted many, many words establishing the story laid out in the above four bullets. It’s okay because words are my soldiers and they died honorable deaths. If that previous statement made any sense whatsoever it would almost be poetic.

Anyway, without any further ado (wait, is it “ado” or “to do”? I‘d Google it, but I know that would open up a three hour rabbit hole that would somehow end with me drooling and glassy eyed reading plot synopses on Wikipedia of every third season episode of Three’s Company, and having no idea how I got there. Did I mention I have the attention span of a coked-up mole rat? Have you ever seen a mole rat? They look mental as fuck. In short, I really need a fact checker/editor.), let’s continue the story.

"I failed 4th grade three times. What of it?

“Yeah, I dropped out of 3rd grade. What of it?

Arrival

By the time we got to the party I was panicked. Not being invited, I envisioned the guest of honor, Liam, dropkicking me in the balls for showing up to his party uninvited. That or maybe he’d just ask me to leave. Either way, I’d be mortified (and possibly have a heaping helping of ball pain to boot). Ben and I walked to the door and rang the bell. I steeled myself for the worst: “What if Liam saw us coming up the walk and grabbed a pot full of boiling water to hurl in my face when he opens the door? Man that would eat all the dicks.” In my mind, that was a plausible scenario. After a brief eternity, the door swung open. Standing there was one of Liam’s relatives. Sweet relief! This guy had no idea I wasn’t invited. Now if I could somehow avoid Liam for the rest of the night…

Naturally as soon as we entered, Liam appeared and walked over to us. He was drunk and seemed really happy to see us. There were no questions like, “What the fuck are you doing here?” or “Why haven’t my trained attack bees stung you to death?” thrown in my general direction. Didn’t matter, my nerves were still rattling around. He shook Ben’s hand, then mine at which point I blurted out, “Hey man good to see you. Congratulations! I got you a gift and left it on the gift table. I hope you like it. Thanks for having me!” We had been in the house for approximately 18 seconds. I had no gift, only a brown bag stuffed with shitty vodka and off-brand orange juice. And there was no gift table. As my brain fired a sarcastic “Seriously?” at itself, Liam grinned and said, “Thanks, man! You didn’t have to do that!” Yep, Liam was hammered. Lucky me! I was in and it was about to be on. Time to get boozy.

Party Like a Rock Star: Courtney Love Style

Feeling like a complete fucking idiot for that whole gift table comment and also feeling quite awkward for essentially being a party crasher, I tried to find a quiet corner to myself. That’s what people do at social events, right? Isolate themselves and pound hard liquor? I said hi to the people from work that I knew, went into the backyard, grabbed a red Solo cup (because of course), and poured myself a drink.

At 17, it’s safe to say I had no idea how to drink. You’d think it would be intuitive: pour liquid into round hole in face. Swallow. Repeat. But I had never mixed a drink before. All I knew was I needed to get that low-rent vodka in my body, STAT.  So I started pouring 50-50 drinks – that’s half vodka, half OJ for those of you who, like me, struggle with math. (We really need a ribbon to raise awareness for Sucks at Math. Maybe something in plaid? That always struck me as a confused color. Plaid it is.) I pounded the first drink. Nothing. Well, other than my throat and stomach experiencing a vaguely ‘on fire’ sensation. Clearly I needed to up the alcohol to juice ratio. I went up to 75% vodka (I think. Sucks at Math, remember?). It was harsher than tabasco sauce on a paper cut, but I got it down. Now I felt something, but I wasn’t sure if that something was just drunkenness or the fact that I realized right at that very moment that I was suddenly the most charming motherfucker at this party.

Ladies...

Ladies…

I went from wallflower to social butterfly in about 15 seconds. Still, I didn’t think I was drunk yet. At this point, I started pouring full glasses of vodka with a hint, a whisper, a soupcon of orange juice. OJ was now a delivery system for shitty vodka and, before I knew it, I had killed the fifth. I can’t tell you how long that took, maybe one hour, maybe two, but rest assured that I was dangerously intoxicated at this point, or what doctors refer to as “So Fucked Up.” I can’t recommend pounding a fifth of vodka at any age, but it was an especially poor choice for a 17-year-old with minimal drinking experience. Surely this would not end well.

You didn’t expect this to be three parts, did you, but here we are. The thrilling conclusion, including the event that changed my life, arrives next week. Seriously. What? Don’t give me that look. I swear, it’s already written.

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