I am thankful that I know how to tell a joke and know a lot of them. I can’t stand when some dunce tries to tell me a joke and it takes the person ten fucking years to spit it out. And then they screw it up and have to start over again and again. As they drone on through what seems like an eternal hell, you are praying that the punch line is funny. But it never is and you already knew it anyway.
I am thankful my parents taught me manners and for the people who appreciate them. However, I swear to god, if I hold the door for some ignorant asshole one more time and they forget to say, “Thank You,” I will put them in a blender and push frappe’!
I am thankful for cameras on cell phones. When I am out drinking and get a girl’s phone number I always can snap a picture of what they look like so the next day I know whether to call them or not. However, women I meet have snapped my photo and they haven’t called me back. Bummer!
I am thankful that I am not a one upper. You know that type of person. Whatever you have done, they have done it better. If you drink 7-Up, they drink 8-up. If you said you have dated some beautiful women, they say that they have dated models that have walked the runways in France. (Oh, and the one upper is a fucking troglodyte.) If you say you saw Springsteen front row, they say they actually jumped up on stage and instead of getting thrown off, Clarence gave them his tambourine and they jammed with the E-Street Band! You all know the type of asshole I am talking about, unless you are that asshole. If that is the case I am sorry you have to read my blog, because you probably have published a 600 page, Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
I am thankful I have never wanted to be a mime. Well, I was a tap dancing mime for awhile and I was good. So good, you couldn’t hear my feet! Who becomes a mime anyway? How fucked up do you have to be to wear white make up on your face, a beret, a red scarf, a striped shirt and have Shields and Yarnell posters on your wall?
I am thankful that I know how to give a compliment and enjoy doing it. I would hate to be the guy who gives a compliment and it comes across insincere, perverted, creepy or like you are just trying to get down someone’s pants! Of course if the latter happens because of the compliments, I am not going to complain!
I am thankful that I have never been the new annoying person at any job I have worked. I am usually quiet when I start and once I get to know my co-workers I let them see my funny side. I can’t stand that asshole that is always “on” and thinks he knows everything. He needs to be popular even though he never has been and never will be. Oh, FYI, “We don’t give a fuck how it was done at your other job. So go into the corner, put a rope around your neck and I will come over and kick the chair out. Thank you, jerk off!”
I am thankful that I have a good sense of humor and it allows me to get away with saying things that other people can’t. It is a great feeling to tell someone who is an asshole that they are an asshole to their face and follow that up with the line, “I’m just joking,” which even though you aren’t, it seems like you are. It is even better when that asshole laughs and buys you a drink. “Thanks, for the beer. Asshole!”
I am thankful that I can be a dick, but I know I can be a dick. Because when that happens and you admit being a dick, then people don’t really think you are that much of a dick because you admitted it. I would hate to be the person who can be a dick, but doesn’t think they are a dick. When that happens you are then perceived of being even a bigger dick then you are!
A serious note. I am thankful for, well one thing, spell check and the green lines that show up if you wrote the sentence wrong. (Because grammatically, I am a fucking moron!) Actually, I am thankful for my friends and family and being able to express myself. I am thankful for those who read my blog, because without you, I couldn’t get gratification that my writing makes you laugh. So, happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Politics of Drinking - Part 2
Stealing booze from your parents was another effective method. When you did this, you had to make sure your parents didn’t put a mark on the bottle. This was the sure way of getting caught. And if they did put a little line to where the meniscus of whiskey was, you had to replace it with water. One thing I learned about this. Never steal booze from the freezer. I had a friend who replaced his depleted parent’s vodka with water. When they decided to make a martini, the bottle had frozen, so in essence they had a Stoli popsicle.
A disgusting part of the stealing method was that we would just mix up any type of booze. My method was I would grab an almost empty salad dressing container and pour it out. (Remember those things? It was a glass carafe that people would add a seasoning packet and then add Oil and Vinegar and wallah, Italian dressing!) After it was emptied, I would wash it out and then proceed to my parent’s Liquor Cabinet. Then I would just start adding booze to it. I would be very careful I didn’t take too much from one bottle and get snagged. Vodka, Run, Vermouth, Gin, Whiskey, whatever there was, would be poured in there. Sure it tasted like shit, but who cares it was Friday night and me and my High School pals were going to get a buzz on.
Sidebar. When I was in college there was a guy we called Big Fat, Frat Matt. Man could this guy party. His nickname did almost get me my assed kicked one night. A bunch of us went to a club in town and I wasn’t wearing my glasses. (I didn’t like the frames anymore. I looked like an older version of Ralphy from the movie, “A Christmas Story.) So from a distance I see the bouncer and he appears to be Matt. So I’m yelling, “Big Fat, Frat, Matt!” Well it wasn’t him and I had to talk my way out of that situation, which wasn’t easy. How do you explain to a guy that you look like his friend who you call fat? I think I told the guy he was in much better shape and had way more definition then Matt. Anyway this guy Matt was at a party one night and he was wasted. He had done shrooms and smoked some hash and was feeling no pain. So we decided to make him a drink. The thing is the drink was a Vodka and Italian Dressing on the rocks. I think he would have drank it but we were laughing so hard when he was about to take a sip that we blew it. That would have been classic if he had downed it and more classic if he liked the taste of it
To be continued...
A disgusting part of the stealing method was that we would just mix up any type of booze. My method was I would grab an almost empty salad dressing container and pour it out. (Remember those things? It was a glass carafe that people would add a seasoning packet and then add Oil and Vinegar and wallah, Italian dressing!) After it was emptied, I would wash it out and then proceed to my parent’s Liquor Cabinet. Then I would just start adding booze to it. I would be very careful I didn’t take too much from one bottle and get snagged. Vodka, Run, Vermouth, Gin, Whiskey, whatever there was, would be poured in there. Sure it tasted like shit, but who cares it was Friday night and me and my High School pals were going to get a buzz on.
Sidebar. When I was in college there was a guy we called Big Fat, Frat Matt. Man could this guy party. His nickname did almost get me my assed kicked one night. A bunch of us went to a club in town and I wasn’t wearing my glasses. (I didn’t like the frames anymore. I looked like an older version of Ralphy from the movie, “A Christmas Story.) So from a distance I see the bouncer and he appears to be Matt. So I’m yelling, “Big Fat, Frat, Matt!” Well it wasn’t him and I had to talk my way out of that situation, which wasn’t easy. How do you explain to a guy that you look like his friend who you call fat? I think I told the guy he was in much better shape and had way more definition then Matt. Anyway this guy Matt was at a party one night and he was wasted. He had done shrooms and smoked some hash and was feeling no pain. So we decided to make him a drink. The thing is the drink was a Vodka and Italian Dressing on the rocks. I think he would have drank it but we were laughing so hard when he was about to take a sip that we blew it. That would have been classic if he had downed it and more classic if he liked the taste of it
To be continued...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Politics of Drinking - Part 1
Well, let us put it this way. I am a drinker. And I’m a very good drinker. You know how when a professional athlete ends his career and they retire his number? When I stop drinking, they will retire my liver and it will be at my favorite bar in a glass jar filled with formaldehyde. When I drink with my friends it is an event. One of my buddy’s wife said, “You guys drink until the cows come home.” And she was right. Because when the cows got there, we made White Russians! (Oh and people who say, “You can have fun without drinking,” are full of shit!
I started drinking in high school. (Wouldn’t have it been fucked up if I said I started drinking when I was four years old? Could you imagine a hammered four year old raising hell? Driving like a madman, actually it would be a madkid, on his Big Wheel and trying to nail his baby sitter? I would like to see that kid on one of those bullshit reality shows like Super Nanny, and watch him just fuck with her!)
High school drinking was when we were amateurs in the art of partying. We were just glad to have alcohol, because it was hard to get, so we just slammed it and never really enjoyed it. The extents we would go to trying to get some booze was crazy. If you were lucky you had a big brother or big sister who would buy it for you. But of course this would always be accompanied by the speech of, “If you get caught, don’t tell Mom and Dad I bought it for you, ok?”
One of the worst ways was the “Hanging in the Liquor Store Parking Lot Method.” My friends and I would stand about 8 cars lengths away from the store. Then we would scope out people as they walked in to get there booze. We had to make sure the person looked cool, but not untrustworthy cool. (Because that was the asshole would steal your money and not deliver your goods.) Finally we would get the courage up to approach some one and ask them if they would buy some alcohol for us. This was always a hassle because you couldn’t go in a group, because that would look too shady and look too obvious. So it would usually come down to rock, paper, scissors for who would be the person who pulled it off. When you had to be the one, you would always worry that you may approach an undercover cop and then you would be arrested and be totally fucked! (Which when you think about it, how many undercover police officers are cruising parking lots to bust teens trying to buy booze?) Anyway, it would usually take a few rejections, but finally some nice soul would hook it up. (It was so awkward asking people to buy it because it made you feel like a derelict. Oh and we always prayed that we wouldn’t be seen by one of our parent’s friends in the parking lot.) And of course the person who did the deed would always say, “If you get caught, you didn’t get it from me.”
To be continued...
I started drinking in high school. (Wouldn’t have it been fucked up if I said I started drinking when I was four years old? Could you imagine a hammered four year old raising hell? Driving like a madman, actually it would be a madkid, on his Big Wheel and trying to nail his baby sitter? I would like to see that kid on one of those bullshit reality shows like Super Nanny, and watch him just fuck with her!)
High school drinking was when we were amateurs in the art of partying. We were just glad to have alcohol, because it was hard to get, so we just slammed it and never really enjoyed it. The extents we would go to trying to get some booze was crazy. If you were lucky you had a big brother or big sister who would buy it for you. But of course this would always be accompanied by the speech of, “If you get caught, don’t tell Mom and Dad I bought it for you, ok?”
One of the worst ways was the “Hanging in the Liquor Store Parking Lot Method.” My friends and I would stand about 8 cars lengths away from the store. Then we would scope out people as they walked in to get there booze. We had to make sure the person looked cool, but not untrustworthy cool. (Because that was the asshole would steal your money and not deliver your goods.) Finally we would get the courage up to approach some one and ask them if they would buy some alcohol for us. This was always a hassle because you couldn’t go in a group, because that would look too shady and look too obvious. So it would usually come down to rock, paper, scissors for who would be the person who pulled it off. When you had to be the one, you would always worry that you may approach an undercover cop and then you would be arrested and be totally fucked! (Which when you think about it, how many undercover police officers are cruising parking lots to bust teens trying to buy booze?) Anyway, it would usually take a few rejections, but finally some nice soul would hook it up. (It was so awkward asking people to buy it because it made you feel like a derelict. Oh and we always prayed that we wouldn’t be seen by one of our parent’s friends in the parking lot.) And of course the person who did the deed would always say, “If you get caught, you didn’t get it from me.”
To be continued...
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