Turning 21

Sorry I haven't been in touch recently, you know how it is.... But, as with all good relationships we must bury our resentment deep, deep inside and press on like nothing has happened! So many tales to tell and so little time before my boss comes back. Where to begin catching you up? Oh I know, how about a few good drinking stories from last summer, including my 21st birthday!

My 21st birthday went about as you would expect it to, no one, including myself, was surprised with the way things turned out. My old buddies from high-school came back into town for the festivities, and we had assembled a merry bunch by that Friday night. We started out in my friend's garage, a place that took us all back to the days of drinking Smirnoff Ice and acting drunk because we needed to look cool. But this time, I was force fed Jagermeister, the drink of every winning team! After some awkward knee bend dancing and more shots we were ready to go to the bar. When I say the bar, I mean THE BAR in my town. We show up, the youngest and most attractive people there by far, and I start getting shots of whiskey placed in front of me. So, of course, I drank them ("I ain't no queer!"). At some point the night gets hazy for me, and the rest of what I'm going to tell you was reported to me the next day by my accomplices:

-I told the bartender that I loved him and that we were going to be best friends from then on.

-I made sure to emphasize the fact that the other people in the bar were "really, really sad looking" to my friends, who made sure to tell me that everyone in the place could hear me insulting them.

-I saw a poster for an upcoming stand-up comedian, demanded to see the owner of the bar, and screamed in his face "I'm funnier than that mother fucker! I'm hilarious, hire me!"

-I had to be helped out of the bar by my newfound friend the bartender, got into the front seat of my friend's car and subsequently threw up something described as "gravy" out the window all over the side of her vehicle. This apparently took place in front of a 24 hour burger place and I got some applause from the other customers inside.

-I rode home with the upper half of my body hanging out of the car's window, occasionally making sounds that did not resemble any known language.

-I threw up in my back yard, tried to get a bottle of water from my garage and fell into some of my dad's tools, told my friends that no, they were not welcome to any of MY water, and then left a note for my parents on the kitchen that read: "Throw Up In Yard. Love"

-I then spent the next 2 hours shaking and sweating in my underwear on my bathroom floor, occasionally dry heaving while my two friends who had stayed with me decided it would be worth getting my laptop and putting me on Chat Roulette for a while.

The next morning I woke in my bed acting as little spoon for one of my male friends and felt like I'd just had a stroke. I spent the majority of the day on the couch watching the Simpsons and fighting off my dog who wanted to kiss my mouth.

But I had to summon a form of superhuman strength from the depths of my spirit, because we were all going to Nashville that night for round 2.

We checked into our hotel and had a few beers, a few shots, and then went to get Mexican food and margaritas. We caught a cab downtown and searched out a promising bar. We chose a fine establishment on 2nd Ave that looked like it would be in a scene from one of the Blade movies, people obviously out to drown their sorrows in neon colored shooters and dance the night away with people who looked like they wanted to hurt you, real bad. Perfect for us! We ended up on the roof, having drinks and admiring the bums interacting down by the river ("Look a hobo farm!"). At some point we went to the karaoke room and two of our party proceeded to perform a rendition of "Baby Got Back" that included about half the lyrics spoken in monotone and the rest just shouting obscenities into the microphone, one of which included pointing at me and announcing "He's got a big ding-dong!". We saw security gathering at the back of the room and decided it'd be a good time to get some fresh air. And fresh air we got, on our hour and a half walk to the strip club we'd seen on the cab ride from the hotel. The place was, apparently, BYOB so we stopped at a gas station and purchased a few 40's of Olde English. The strip club was... well, a strip club. We got my youngest friend his first lap dance, the white protestant's bar mitzvah. I got acquainted with some of the strippers outside in the smoking area while we weighed the pro's and con's of breast augmentation, and the merits of stripping over going to school. We also bumped into a kid we'd all known in high-school, talk about a coincidence, and we all had a good laugh together when one of the minority strippers fell off the stage and got a drink spilled all over her by one of the bouncers while he tried to catch her. At that point, we headed back to the hotel, about $80 poorer myself.

Along the way we:

-threw rocks at a Charles Schwab Investment firm for "ruining the economy".

-almost got thrown out of a Q'doba for drinking the hot sauce.

-gave serious consideration to what it would take to burn down Vanderbilt University.

-stole a road cone.

By the time we got back to the room it was time for wrestling, which, as it usually does, ended with someone getting hurt and all of us smoking cigarettes on the balcony as the sun came up. After a heated argument about who was going to have to sleep in the bed with our friend who is notorious for pissing himself when drunk, I decided to man up and take one for the team.

The next morning we enjoyed a nice brunch at the McDonald's across the street and then it was time to hit the old dusty trail back home.

And that's the story of how I became an adult. Until next time:

Keep those nips frosty.

Colonel Sanders: Destroyer of Dreams

You can tell exactly what he's thinking: "I need some goddamn chicken...." Haven't we all been there though?

After waking up today with a terrible terrible whiskey hangover, complete with crudely drawn penis on my left hand and the phrase "suck it" on my right, I decided to go to KFC for lunch, and was subsequently bet that I couldn't eat their new Double Down sandwich (I won). For those of you who haven't heard of this soon to be mythic piece of American culture, it is quite possibly the most unhealthy sandwich this side of Uranus, consisting of two pieces of chicken breast serving as the buns surrounding several pieces of greasy bacon, slices of processed cheese, and some sort of yellow sauce that just reeks of carcinogens. About halfway through this monster, staring at the group of hispanics who were the only other people sad enough to be seen at KFC in broad daylight, I found myself questioning a lot about my life, choices I've made along the way, the culture I live in, my personal health, etc. I mean, honestly, this "sandwich" which is specifically designed to slowly murder whoever eats it, had to go through multiple levels of research and development, upper level approval, marketing strategy meetings to make it to the streets. Who was the first executive at KFC to hear this idea and go "Fucking genius! Make a sandwich out of pure meat! Get right on that, the American people need to experience this!" Somehow Colonel Sanders is reaching out from beyond the grave to make people ashamed of taking their shirts off (number 1 reason your pool party invitations are declined. That and the fact that they secretly resent you). But in reality, it's not the executives at KFC that are to blame, it's all the fat lazy morons, like me, who see this being advertised and think, "Hell yes, that is a grand idea". It's like blaming the drug dealers for the crystal meth problem: the real problem is the mongrel who likes inhaling battery acid.

Michelle Obama, talk about jungle fever, has launched a campaign as first lady to combat childhood obesity in our country by getting kids to eat healthier and exercise more. Fat chance (if you laugh at that joke please go away). First of all, when has anyone ever given a shit about what the first lady does or says? She says nice things that everyone agrees with and then poses with athletic little assholes in a show of support. So what? Saying you want to make people skinnier looking is like supporting the campaign to stop rape. Who is going to disagree with you? Also, when is that ever going to work? The battle against fat kids has been going on for centuries, and to no avail, fat people show up throughout history wherever you look. Henry the VIII, bloated piece of shit who ate too much mutton. President Taft, he didn't do much politically but I'm fairly certain he invented the cheeseburger. Gordon Brown, too much fish and chips. No matter how hard you try to eradicate it, there will always be that one kid in the class who is just a bit too uncoordinated to be good at ball sports, will inevitably have his self-confidence crushed by his peers, and will turn to cartoons and eating to cope with his developing rage problems. Eating your feelings has been around since eating and feelings were invented. The earliest humanoid women would eat an extra helping of mastadon when their mate was out looking for other mates, which would inevitably make her feel less pretty and then she would eat more mastadon, the beginning of a terrible cycle. No person in the history of people has ever been content to eat just fruit, staying trim and sexy. A form of excess sugar and lard will always squeeze its way in there (ye olde twinkie). So as I sit here through a terrible bout of the meat sweats, having just completed one of the single fattest acts known to man, I say to Michelle Obama that her plan will fail. In her effort to end childhood obesity, she will be coming up against the likes of me, who once ate the Taco Bell grande meal (10 tacos) in one sitting to earn 2 dollars (I was weeping by the 9th) and who rarely enjoys physical activity. But more importantly, she will have to combat an old white racist man from the state of Kentucky who has been dead for more than 30 years. We can hear you laughing and breathing heavily from the grave Colonel, you fat fuck.

The English Major

It's another month, dear reader, and one of my favorite: May. April showers will now start paying off and bringing May flowers, inspiring all of those hippy pussies and various forms of sexually repressed young men and women to try their hand at poetry. Community colleges and local bookstores will then collect these mediocre attempts at rhyming and publish them in their annual poetry and creative writing collections, wastes of paper that will go unread except by those who knew the right person to get something in and get their nut by seeing their name in print (ever notice that guy breathing really hard at the library printer? He's not masturbating, he's a published author!). All of this springtime creativity brings me to one of my favorite topics in all of academia, the English major. Why do I feel entitled spend an entire blog post ranting and raving about them? Because, sadly, I am one.

Coming up in school, several things became apparent. 1.) I had no aptitude whatsoever for math and science. When you're still using your fingers for simple subtraction problems in a high school algebra class, you have to accept the fact that you will not be going to space with NASA in this life. 2.) I was not good at sports. Besides denying you a career as a professional athlete, this is typically an indicator that you will not become skilled in hand to hand combat, which is the real reason for having sports, and therefore will not be of much use in the Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Secret Service, CIA, FBI, NSA, NASA (aliens), police, or any of the inherently violent professions that are really cool. 3.) I could read. 4.) I was "sensitive". This category is typically judged by the number of times you cry silently into your pillow a week after school/masturbating, and the number of female "friends" you have that have not and never will touch your genitals, but have figured out that you will give them attention in a laughably non-threatening way. Put all of this together, and what do you get? A liberal arts college English major!

Now I could go into a great number of instances where I proved my weak constitution with flying colors (the rednecks at the truck stop referring to me lovingly as a "story faggot"), but instead I believe the best way to demonstrate just how true all of the stereotypes are, I will tell you about a classmate of mine. As in most college level English classes, the ratio of girls to guys is about 20: 3, two of which will inevitably be homosexuals and best friends with all of the girls as well as the professor. In one particular class I happened to have a young fellow who fit the following description: curly, black unkempt hair; heavy, heavy amounts of chest, arm, and facial hair which typically reflected his mood; a morbidly pale complexion, except for his cheeks which were perpetually flushed; black, thick framed glasses; typically wearing the same exact clothes every time you saw him, either an incredibly tight graphic t-shirt or a paper thin button down shirt that looked like someone had died in it before he wore it, cargo shorts or dirty jeans, and Birkenstock sandals. His voice was an unpleasant mumble with the vaguest hint of a recently conquered speech impediment and a demeanor that told of missed sexual opportunities. Now I say all of this not out of meanness, he's a comrade in literature; but I only give you all of this detail because it helps to illuminate two memorable incidents from this semester.

Story number one: There's really not much to this one, basically he came to class one day and smelled bad. I was sitting in the back of an American literature class when he rushed into the room exactly fourteen seconds late to class. No big deal, but it had obviously pushed him close to the brink. He sat down in front of me and furiously tried to copy down syllable that came from the professor's mouth. I continued drawing my mechanized dragon that I had been working on all week and didn't think anything else about it. All of a sudden, my nostrils were assaulted by what can only be described as sour trash rubbed in wet yak pussy. I made a gagging noise that interrupted the class and had to do the classic shirt over the mouth and nose trick. Within a few seconds the horror passes, luckily, and I was able to resume breathing. But after a few more minutes, the putrid stink of a deceased hobo came wafting back my way. Looking around for the cause of the evil, I quickly discovered that the smell came when a gentle spring breeze came in through the open window, swept across this unwashed nerd, and then came plowing into my face. I also noticed about that time that he was sweating profusely, the back hair sticking up from his shirt was thoroughly matted. My guess was that he had stayed up the majority of the night working on the latest installment in his ongoing fantasy novel, and had woken up too late to shower before class, thus excreting all of the Mountain Dew and beef jerky from the night before through his pores. There was a point during the next hour of torture that I honestly contemplated killing myself, between his stink and listening to another slob ramble about how "postmodern" she thought the story was.

Story number two: for our last class of the semester our professor invited us to his house for refreshments while we watched the last few people give their final presentations. I showed up first to my surprise, and had to make small talk with my professor about the weather while hoping he wouldn't notice that I was high and praying that more people would show up soon. Finally enough of our class arrived that we could take our seats in his living room and begin the presentations. But right before we were to begin, in bursts smelly kid. I'd seen that he had chosen the paper thin button down and shorts for this fancy occasion. But I also noticed that he was absolutely soaked through, the shirt now more like a suggestively see through stripper's garment, revealing his once again matted chest hair. It had been raining most of the day so no one though much of it at first until the professor asked, "Oh, is it raining still?" To which the boy responded, through heavy breaths, "No." Apparently, possessing a GPS device, but no form of modern transportation and not enough social skills to ask for a ride, he had decided upon the most obvious course: running the 4 and 1/2 miles from campus to the professor's house while holding the GPS for directions, which, because of the near 90% humidity caused him to become nauseatingly soaked with sweat before arriving at the home. I shuddered a little. But, thankfully, he was the first one to present! And I have honestly never seen anything like it. What started off as a vague examination of commercialism in a short story that he muttered off unintelligibly while staring intently down at a crumpled piece of notebook paper turned slowly into one of the greatest tirades against capitalism that I have ever witnessed. Well, at least one of the funniest. As he spoke, he managed to catch his breath, he grew more impassioned, he grew more bold, he spoke more forcefully, he gestured wildly with his hands about the room. He went on for a good ten minutes, ranting and raving against the evils of a capitalist society, all the while still sweating profusely and not noticing that his nipples were clearly visible through his now invisibly wet shirt. He finally drew to an incoherent close, coming down off of his high, and whimpered something about the need for all of us to see the truth all around us. The room sat in complete silence, stunned by what we had just witnessed, not sure how to react. A slow clap was established and as he took his seat I definitely saw his lip quiver just ever so slightly. The class continued, and we all moved on (aka stared at the monumental set of boobs on the girl with the lisp) and most people forgot about what we had just witnessed. But not I. For me, the whole incident was a much needed reminder of the incredible service the English major serves in our institutions of learning. It provides an outlet for the energies and attentions of the most deranged, maladjusted, self-aggrandizing weaklings of our society; people who would otherwise be carving dolls of their mother out of bars of soap or shooting John Lennon. So next time you're in an English classroom, just take a look around and realize that all of those unstable people, back in colonial times, would be living out in the woods hoping for you to get lost and ask for directions so they could show you their manifesto and undergarment collection... and would probably then rape you. Just be glad we give them something to do now.

Let Daddy Freight Train Tell You a Story Children!

Let me start off with a TRUE story that has recently come to my attention before I get into my own crap. It'd be better if you sit on my knee. You sure? It really would be better. Fine. Now then:
Once upon a time there was a retarded boy living in Texas. He lived on his own in an assisted living community, had a nice job wiping tables at the local Burger King, and had his family close by to check on him a couple of times a week. One day his mother received a phone call from her son, and he excitedly told her that he had something important to tell her. Having gone through this routine of dealing with her son's highly overactive imagination, the mother said patiently "Okay what is it this time?" He proceeded to tell her that he had, just that afternoon, captured a "chocolate dwarf" and that he needed her to come look at it. Knowing that this meant he had probably sculpted another humanoid figure out of his melted Snicker's bar and spent all afternoon playing with it in the park, she said that she was busy that day but would come by tomorrow. She got to the boy's house in the late afternoon, parked her car in the usual spot and rang the doorbell to her son's apartment. No answer. She knocked and called out his name. No answer still. Becoming worried she used her key to unlock the door and went inside. There she found all of the apartment's furniture piled up against one of the closet doors, apparently barricading it shut. Shit, she thought, I'm going to have to clean up whatever kind of mess he's made in there (still assuming the Snicker's man theory to be the case). She quickly moved all of the furniture back to its proper place and set the room back in order. Finally, she opened the closet door, broom in hand, to find... a black midget bound and gagged lying on the floor surrounded by half melted skittles. Apparently her son had not been kidding when he said that he had "captured" a chocolate dwarf, (who turned out to be a U.S. Census employee going door to door) and had attempted to keep him alive for a day and a half by slipping him skittles underneath the door. I wonder if at some point in the long hot hours on the closet floor, if that man had to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die there, bound and gagged in a mentally handicapped man's closet? Not that I'm planning on dying a noble or heroic death (trying to unwrap a cupcake while driving most likely), but that would have been about as inglorious a way to go that you could find. As the great Satchmo once said, "What a wonderful world".

Now to my crap. I'm guessing that some of you are curious about the name I put into the title of this post. Let me explain. My fraternity held its annual spring formal in Hilton Head, North Carolina last weekend, staying both Friday and Saturday nights. The whole setup involves the guys awkwardly asking a girl they think will look hot in a low cut dress, and then if the girl accepts, because she wants a free trip to the beach with minimal sexual commitment, then she is in charge of supplying the booze and snacks for the weekend, usually presented in some sort of cooler. Two couples typically share a cheap hotel room, and the fraternity usually gets one floor all to themselves and subsequently ruins the weekend of any poor soul who happens to be within a one mile radius. My car arrived early on Friday evening and began taking shots of tequila and Jack Daniels to get the night going. Gradually all of the other couples started arriving and the partying ensued. For dinner we ordered pizza from a local shop, a large "hot sausage" at my vehement request. At dark a bunch of us "dudes" went down to the pool and played the classic "throw me a ball while I jump in the pool" game. Unfortunately, there was a young family with their baby in the shallow end, trying to enjoy a family trip and after tempting the fates one too many times an errant football landed square between the mother's fleshy shoulders with a satisfying "schlap!" We all apologized profusely, offered to leave the pool until we annoyed them enough to leave themselves, and then laughed about the whole thing. Eventually our posse stumbled over to the beach and proceeded to hold what would appear to the average human as a heathen orgy festival celebrating our great moon god "Moon." We splashed around the water and hugged and told each other how much we loved each other and how "no, really, man, we really have, you know, a connection or something! I fucking love you dude!" So sweet. Somehow we wound up back in our beds and passed out for the night. A group of the guys got up at 830 to go golfing, but I could not be persuaded to join because I don't know how to play golf (maybe because I haven't come to resent my wife and kids and job yet?). So instead I awoke still drunk at 10 a.m., threw on a tank top and some flip flops and went to breakfast at a local diner with all of the ladies, where we received a lot of dirty looks from the locals. I think it had something to do with my tank top, or the fact that I kept referring to the girls as "my bitches". The day was spent frolicking at the pool, once again we ran off a young family trying to enjoy an afternoon at the pool. Goddamn squatters. At some point the conversation turned to my intense snoring habits the night before, which was likened to a freight train. I then dubbed myself "Daddy Freight Train" and refused to answer to any other name for the rest of the trip. Glad I didn't have to name myself "Night Terror Willy," like in middle school. The actual formal itself was held a lovely restaurant and bar in the area, complete with steak dinners and open bar. Bad idea. At some point I was standing outside breathing heavily to try and not throw up my nice steak dinner after a shot when the crowd moved to the dance floor. Jello shots, ice luge, body shots, and a Sublime cover band. What more could a white kid ask for? The night included getting into a fight with my date where she wielded the band's didgeridoo mistaking it for a big stick and trying to beat me to death with it. I told 2 or 4 girls that I thought they were "buutifal" and tried to make out with their face, but to no avail. But I'm 87% sure that someone grabbed my dick at some point so it wasn't a complete loss. The night ended with my room yelling at me to shut up as they tried to go to sleep while I howled the repeated question "Kelly!! Where's our baby??" No one we know is named Kelly. At the next fraternity meeting it was revealed that we did not get our security deposit back because a couple of guests witnessed one of our brothers engaged in "sexual activity" on the balcony of the room, but no one knew who. I decided to fess up and told them that I had indeed masturbated on the porch both nights, but turned out they meant sexual activity with a girl, not alone and sad. That's what you get for trying to be the hero these days I guess.

Still only replying to:
Daddy Freight Train

Radio Deserves a Slow, Embarrassing Death

Kenny Chesney: a penis with higher brain function

Earthlings:

We don't need to dance around the facts here, we are all too aware of them: popular music today is awful. And not just the stereotypical, every young generation complains about popular music kind of awful, but straight up ear rape awful. All one has to do is turn on the radio for a few mintues, or turn on MTV for an hour or so, or watch the Grammy's to get numerous examples of the kind of douchebags we allow to make and sell "music." Each genre has its retard. Country music: Rascall Flatts and Kenny Chesney tie for who I would like to see beaten to death more. Rock: Nickelback deserves to spend the rest of their lives in a gulag for the kinds of songs they've come out with ("You look so much cuter with something in you mouth"- actual lyric). Rap: well... I hesitate to pick out anyone in particular to threaten for fear of appearing racist. Pop/Techno: not that I actually give a shit about this music that you hear when groups of adolescent white girls get together to drink, but three particular artists deserve mention. Lady Gaga and Kesha. Lady Gaga does have catchy melodies, but her lyrics (if they include words) make about as much sense as my religious sermons after a few tabs of acid. But you get the point. And I'll be honest, she dresses too flamboyant for the costume director of Blade Runner. Taylor Swift: I don't have that much of a problem with her music, but when she gets some nicer tits I will be inclined to care more. And finally Kesha. Who knew making songs about being a drunk cunt would get you famous? I've got a few ex's who should get into the biz! Honestly, if you were to see the girl who did all the things that Kesha claims to do in her song "Tik Tok" you would probably point and laugh at her from across the bar as she stumbled around screaming at everyone about how pretty she was, broke a heel trying to dance seductively but ended up looking like she was being tasered, threw up in her purse, and then passed out on the bar with a nip showing, which you would subsequently get a picture of on your iPhone and save for blackmail/masturbatory purposes. And by the way, how does taking the letter "c" out of the words tick tock make it in any way more artistic or cool? Bottom line, popular music today is filled with hand humping morons and drunk chicks with daddy issues and sexual addictions. Both of those categories serve their purposes in the world, especially the latter for me, but in no way shape or form should their rantings be recorded and then sold to the public as art. And why the fuck is Britney Spears still making music? I think that after you have shaved your head and flashed your genitals in public more than twice you should be subjected to electroshock therapy and kept sedated for the remainder of your life.

Kesha: "Yuu dont wanna make out wif mee?? Well fuck youuu myster!" as she throws up in her hands.

Luckily there is hope.

Surprisingly, the state of Kentucky has offered three promising artists in the rock and rap genres. Nappy Roots is a rap group from Bowling Green, Kentucky that make delightful beats and rhymes about growing up poor in the country that all can relate to. My personal favorite song is "Ballin' on a Budget" but they have many others. In rock, My Morning Jacket of Louisville is a master of the alternative sound and should be followed closely. Also from Bowling Green is the band Cage the Elephant ("Ain't No Rest for the Wicked") who have a harder, but inspired groove. I highly recommend all 3. In country music, the revolution has begun and it is led by the son of legendary Waylon Jennings. His name is Shooter Jennings, and his first three albums (Put the O' Back in Country, Electric Rodeo, and the Wolf) are destined to become classics. But his latest album, Black Ribbons, simply brings a tear to the eye of any human. It's an incredible blending of country/psychadelic-rock/ and even some hip-hop inspired beats. It's the future and it's sexy. Also if you don't know about the Black Keys or the White Stripes, the two Jesus Christs of Blues music, I pity your backward ways. If it was not for his last album, I would include John Mayer in this group. I know it sounds gay, but the guy can really play blues guitar and he has the potential to be incredible. But someone really needs to kick him in the nuts and take away his twitter acount. Honestly, how could you break up with Jennifer Aniston? The majority of my life has been spent in pursuit of the missing link... between my penis and her vagina.

Human history will always be filled with musical antichrists (see: Jimmy Buffet/drunk white trash) but today seems darker than most times. It's time for us to take back our ears' right to drive in the car or go out to a party and not have the likes of Kesha and Kenny Chesney putting their music inside them without their permission. Because the last thing I need in my life is more alcoholic nymphomaniacs and wanna-be cowboys that got made fun as children. I handle both of those categories just fine by myself.

European Airports Need a Sharp Flick in Testicles

-The Icelandic Volcano (A Sissies' Excuse)

My Learned Friends,

Today has served as a reminder for a lot of us, here in the U.S, but particularly those Americans abroad in Europe. We have been reminded of the inadequacies of socialist Europe and that it takes more than tea drinking sissies and surrender eating cheese monkeys (look it up seriously) to run a continent while watching Europe's airports completely shut down. According to my sources, a volcano in Iceland erupted, spewing volcanic ash into the sky and creating a severe danger for airplanes, which the Europeans read as an unconquerable challenge and quickly surrendered to nature by grounding all flights. Nothing about this situation makes sense to a true blue blooded American. Several factors show through and reveal this as nothing but evidence of Europe's collective laziness: 1.) the volcano erupted in ICELAND. Any liquid hot magma that was ejaculated from the earth would have been promptly cooled having just come into contact with a LAND made of ICE. At the most, this would produce a slight amount of smoke. Don't believe me? Put a cigarette out on an ice cube. Anyone who can't operate a mechanical means of transportation through a dense cloud of smoke sure didn't learn to drive where I did. 2.) As we all know, when mother nature presents you with a test of will/skill, you don't back down and give into her demands; you give her a swift kick to the ovaries and remind her who she works for. This volcano eruption was nothing more than a midterm exam on your resolve Europe, and guess what? You failed! Better get back to your community college status in international relations and let the kids who can drink and still pass tests do the leading. Some countries could do well to take a lesson from their former colonies on how any situation can be muscled through with enough fossil fuel and elbow grease. 3.) we invented the airplane, so trust us we know under what conditions they are capable of being flown (and volcano smoke is definitely one of them).

To be quite honest, all of this weakness seems to stem from a far greater cultural concern: sports. If European men played more manly sports maybe they would be stronger, more courageous specimens of the human race. They're big thing is soccer: who the fuck can't play that? Everyone from starving Africans to my five year old cousins can kick a ball into a big net. Cricket: I don't know who you boys got to teach you baseball but they must have been high because it is all kinds of messed up. Rugby: I almost feel bad that you were too poor to afford your football pads and rule book but the fact that you continue to show up for games is just pathetic. I guess this is the kind of shit for population you can expect when you give out free healthcare, not allowing natural selection to strengthen your members.
This whole fiasco has reminded me of my experience with British airports last fall. I was studying abroad in England and a good ginger friend of mine and I decided to take a trip to Dublin, Ireland. Our flight from London's Gatwick airport was early on Saturday morning, so rather than get up with the sun and take the 4 hour train ride down that morning, we went the night before so we could sleep at the airport and simply walk right onto our flight. On the train ride down we finished a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey, and found ourselves laughing and imitating our best English accents for the second half of the ride. Upon reaching London, we met up with a friend of mine who was studying in the city near Liverpool station. We had a few hours to kill before the last train so we asked a homeless man for directions to the nearest pub (hey, if anyone's going to know where to get a cheap drink...) We were directed the Ten Bells pub, where we consumed 3 or 4 pints of Strongbow cider (Smirnoff Ice but gayer) and were even treated to a magic performance by what I presumed was my first gypsy out on the street. We managed to grab the last train to the airport, and settled back for a quick nap. Unfortunately we didn't get to sleep because an middle aged Iranian man plopped himself down beside us and staring straight ahead started a conversation with "So... You're Americans?" We listened as he slurred his way through an explanation of why Iran and America should get along (they shouldn't) and how much he loved Lincoln Park's music (it sucks). Just when I was sure he would rape us, he realized that he had missed his station, and quickly jumped up and darted off the platform. We finally made it to the airport around 1:30 in the morning and quickly proceeded to purchase a bottle of screwtop white wine each to gain back our buzz and try to forget about the Iranian man. Between sitting on the curb outside smoking cigarettes and realizing that the most comfortable chairs in the place were in the lounge of a deserted coffee shop, we finished our wine. While families eagerly awaited the return of their loved ones with bleary eyes and other passengers tried to get a few hours of sleep, two obnoxious Americans were pulling on bottles of cheap wine and laughing at everyone who walked by loudly. At some point my friend disappeared for what seemed like forever, and then suddenly reappeared riding on the back of a luggage cart toting several large cans of beer. At some point we migrated to food court filled with people attempting to sleep and proceeded to get into a shouting physical altercation over which character from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia we were (if you don't know this show, please stop reading my blog). Around 4 in the morning we both passed out on the floor outside of the Burger King in the food area. My friend woke up thirty minutes later, threw up violently in a bathroom, called his ex-girlfriend from his international phone and proceeded to scream that if she didn't break up with her new boyfriend and get back together with him he would "cut that pussy's throat and then cut my own throat!". The flight the next morning was one of the worst hangover experiences of my life, and throughout the trip I was silently praying that we would crash to get rid of my headache.
What's the moral of this story? Acting the way we were, my friend and I should have been promptly collected by security and taken to a dark hidden prison for waterboarding procedures. But only in European airports can one act like a drunken silver back gorilla without consequence. So this latest example of European inadequacy doesn't come as a surprise. If they couldn't handle me after mixing Jack Daniels, Strongbow cider, white wine, and cheap beer then they definitely weren't going to handle an Icelandic volcano.

Sports: They're Not for Pussies

Well it's that most American time of year once again: baseball season! Like all good white middle class American males, I'm watching my team religiously and dying a little bit inside with every loss (usually due to forces well outside of my control, but one of these days my telepathic skills will help us win I swear) and getting worked up emotionally over a sport more than I do about most of my personal life. I honestly can't explain to you why I spend so much time watching other people do something on TV that I completely sucked at myself as a youngster (kind of like porno I guess?), but I do it anyway so shut up.
Being bad at sports when you were a kid, where I'm from, was like being born with a club foot or a terrible, terrible snaggle tooth; everyone, even your extended family, accepted the fact that you were destined to a life of mediocrity and that the only way to prepare you for the hard life ahead of you was to break your spirit through poorly constructed jokes and shame. Of course I was forced to try everything in hopes of finding something I was good at. Basketball: I was a short, chubby white kid so what the fuck was I doing on the court? My only lasting memory of playing on a middle school team was running down the court ahead of the ball after we got a rebound and while imagining the crowd cheering after my layup being smacked in the back of the head with the pass I was not looking for. I ate the floor pretty cleanly and bore a nice floor burn on my face for the rest of the week (Hey floorface! was the chant) Football: I spent the majority of the season laying on my back for one reason or another and could never quite get rid of the smell of yak pussy that was rubbed into my chin by my mildewed chin strap. Soccer: During an indoor practice in the gym during highscool I was playing on the skins team for a game and while running towards the goal my scottish, eurotrash coach beamed a nice strike square into the middle of my back which made a sound like a porkchop being thrown against a brick wall and I let out a yelp that sounded like an infant being given a titty twister and subsequently collapsed in a fleshy heap for the next few minutes. Baseball: after striking out, which happened a lot, I would normally sit alone in the corner of the dugout having a sort of rage seizure and mumbling curses at myself, which to say the least did not help my chances at a starting position or for making the lifelong sports friendships that I'd heard so much about.
So, after a childhood filled with miserable, demoralizing sports experiences and many a drunken Christmas lecture from one of my uncles about how no woman would want to marry a "chubby faggot" and that no one would hire me unless I "proved to them that I had some big, big balls" why in the name of Vishnu do I still watch/ enjoy sports? Because I'm an American goddamnit and that's what we do! Sure, maybe it is kind of like listening to rap music to make myself/others think I'm really not racist, but guess what? It's really hard to tell the difference between an actual winner and a pretend one who just happns to know a lot about actual winners... unless, of course, you really do have to play.

New York City: A Magical Place!

I'm from a pretty small Southern town. I graduated from high school with 16 people who I'd known since kindergarten, my family has lived there for generations, you know everyone you pass on the street, blah blah blah. So when I found out my freshman roomate in college was from New York City I was ecstatic about the prospect of going to visit the "Big Apple." You know, seeing all the sites, eating hot dogs in Central Park (my fantasy), and being in the middle of all that hustle and bustle. Well the summer after freshman year I got my chance, and it was... interesting. My roomate lived in Brooklyn and the first night I was there his family took me to a pizza parlor that I'm pretty sure was owned by an organized crime family. Either that or they all just enjoyed wearing matching track suits with gold jewlery and had the biggest hands I've ever seen. Since my college is littered with kids from around NYC, the next night we all met up at a bar in Manhattan that was notorious for not carding. Being 19, I was thrilled to pay 5 bucks for a beer (Heineken Light, all right!). We all stayed until about 3 in the morning, after I had succesfully gotten hammered drunk, given my cell phone number and email address to a 35 year old black woman who continued to call and email me for a month after, and then had an intense conversation with an Irish construction worker about how much we loved titties. At this point one of our friends had passed out on the bar and we had to carry him out of the bar, down the street, convince him when he came to that we were his friends, and then drag him down the steps into the subway to catch the last train back to Brooklyn. On our way down the stair we had to avoid a scraggly looking guy wearing a filthy wife beater and baggy jeans who was passed out and sprawled in the middle of the stairs. After a few minutes of waiting on the filthy wooden benches, and keeping an eye on the scariest looking black man I'd ever seen, we began to wonder what kind of night they guy had had to wind up passed out on a subway platform. Pretty soon we were daring each other to go over and poke him and then sprint back behind one of the columns giggling like school girls. The ante was upped and we tried to take the best picture of him with us posing in the background, which then turned into a nice picture of me with my arm around his shoulders smiling and giving a big thumbs up. He smelled terrible and felt kind of clammy but who was I to talk? I was drunk. Finally our train arrived and we waited for the crowd of people to get off before we could stumble on board. One of the first women to get off the train happened to be a nurse from a local hospital with a conscience still in tact, who attempted to wake the man up and get him off of the stairs. We watched with grins on our faces to see the guy's reaction to being woken up after such a rough night. Suddenly the woman turned around and shouted "Call and ambulance! This man's cold!" Turns out our subway buddy was a crack head who had OD'd about 6 hours before. We deleted the pictures and still get uncomfortable near trains.

On another trip to New York City, I got to meet one of my all-time biggest heroes: stand-up comedian Dave Attell! If you're unfamiliar with Mr. Attell's work, then you're a cunt. His live album "Skanks for the Memories" is the I-Ching of comedy albums, and broke my humor cherry at the ripe old age of 13 (which is probably why I'm writing a blog at 20....).

His combination of life's vulgarities and sexually embarrassing anecdotes would delight any churchgoer's heart. But back to the story. My buddy managed to get 2 tickets to see him perform at Caroline's on Broadway, a very famous comedy venue in the heart of Times Square. We first went to the same bar from before and got nice and toasty. We then raced down Broadway with our dinner (a street vendor hot dog in each hand) and made it to the club just in time. We were seated near the back of the club, which happened to be right next to the back door where the performers would watch each other's sets. It was here I got my first glimpse of the glory of Dave Attell. Too star struck/drunk for words, my friend managed to ask for an autograph on a napkin, which I still treasure to this day. Dave's set was incredible, smut and laughs all the way through. The only negative point was one extremely drunk man who thought that he was just as funny as Dave and that he had the right to stand up and tell him so. Here's a tip for you if you ever go to see a stand up comic: don't heckle them! These people make their living by making fun of people and, trust me, you have enough wrong with your physical appearance for them to make you sit back down with tear in your eyes quicker than you can say "Attention Whore." After the show I was standing near the bar waiting for my friend to come out of the bathroom, where he claims he witnessed the said heckler being told by a group of burly fellows that he was a "pussy-ass piece of shit" and that he should "keep his fucking mouth shut next time." Everyone hates a heckler. Spotting my friend I waved to him from across the crowd. Fortunately, Dave Attell is a short little bastard and he was standing between us and misinterpreted my wave a signal to talk to him. So he walked over and asked me "Hey buddy, how ya doin?" What I had planned to say (Hi Mr. Attell, I'm a huge fan!) came out a bit skewed (Hey! You! I... uh.... Hey!) He shook my hand, patted me on the back and told me to come back anytime. "Yep!" was my erudite response. New York really is a magical place, more stories from my time there to come.

About out of time kids, plenty of money and bitches to get tonight.

As always,

Send me naked pics!

The Post-Easter Come Down

Dear Electronic Cry For Attention Online Diary,
I hate blogs. Or I thought I did. I'd always refused to take part in them because I pictured bloggers as nerdy, overweight white kids who sucked at sports and were prevented from communicating to others face to face because of their speech impediments. Then I realized that that was me! (minus the speech impediment) So I figured I'd give this blogging thing a shot, and if nothing else could provide you, dear diary, with few chuckles at my expense. Because, trust me, being a redneck from Kentucky in a college full of rich Northern kids as well as a generally hopeful and kind person in a world full of douche-bags provides plenty of awkward and entertaining moments. Plus I'll try to throw in a few music/movie/comedy tips along the way.

Okay, enough with introductions, let's get down to some stories. The season of Easter has come and gone once again, and once again I'm still going to hell. I didn't get the chance to mark the occasion by going to church and stuffing my face with Peeps until I threw up pink, like most years. Instead I went to a fraternity buddy's beach house on an island off the coast of South Carolina to attend his family's annual lobster boil. Nothing says death and resurrection like shell fish! The night of the party I was blackout drunk on margaritas before the sun had even thought about setting, and proceeded to take individual party guests off to the side of conversations and let them know how fucked up I was in a whisper for the rest of the night. Somewhere in the evening I spotted a lovely young lass from across the party and thought I'd stroll over and introduce myself. Turns out she was in the 8th grade... but I swear she looked like a 9th grader to me at the time, so it's not all my bad. We didn't get to chat too long because her mom saw me slurring compliments at her daughter (those jeanzz make yerr butt look niccce!) and quickly rushed over to cock-block. I don't blame her, there's nothing more frightening than witnessing me hitting on your daughter... or son (another story). So after that blew up in my face I decided to go outside and sprawl in a hammock, screaming at anyone who walked by to get me another beer. The night ended with me passing out face down on a screened in porch, waking up in the middle of the night because I was convinced that a deer was on the porch with me and trying to chase it down, and then passing back out into a sweaty slumber until noon the next day.
The next day on the beach my fraternity buddies and I tried to pick up some girls walking past us by telling them they could use our pool (aka the people who lived across the street and weren't there that weekend) and that we had a boat. Only after swimming in the pool did they tell us that they all had boyfriends who were down the beach. But they also made the mistake of telling us where they were staying on the island (probably because they are the inferior sex). So that night, after many many beers, we loaded up my friend's John Deere Gator with a cooler of beer and all the fireworks we had purchased on the drive down, which we then proceeded to set off on the girls with boyfriends porch and then speed off into the night laughing hysterically, and then we'd drive back five minutes later and do it again. After an hour or so we realized we were running low on beer and still hadn't been able to lure their males into a show of physical prowess on the front lawn. Suddenly one of my "bros" announced that he had to take a dump, and we all realized the genius of the plan before us. Like a drunken ninja my friend snuck up to their porch, dropped his swimsuit, and laid a sizable brick right in front of their door. And again we sped away laughing hysterically. But we weren't quite finished with our revenge. I happened to remember a prank from my younger years that I'd played with a friend on a girl who'd dumped him involving human feces and an M-80 firecracker, and told my buddies that we had to race back to complete the prank. Sneaking up to the porch like two drunken ninjas, but cooler ones than the first, two of us crept back up to the porch. There lay the brown grenade before us, in all its boyish glory. I quickly convinced my intoxicated friend that he should be the one to stick the firework in the poop (cuz that's gross) and that I would light it. As soon as the fuse was sparked we raced down the steps, my friend falling and twisting his ankle in the process, and I had to army carry him out of the yard screaming "Bring the Gator!!!" and as we heard the explosion and splatter behind us we sped off into the night laughing once again. We sure showed those bitches. Bet they won't have boyfriends now.
And thus ends the story of the second time in my life I have exploded human fecal matter with a firework.

Well that's about the time and humiliation I can provide for myself today. But check back in once in a while for more wacky anecdotes/morally questionable behavior. Till then:

Peace, Love, and all that other stuff that doesn't exist.