Friday, January 30, 2009

Three Coins

1. After cracking open that wine and cleaning up all of the splatters on my desk (there are stains like, all over my bulletin board. I've got this glorious picture of Burt Ward and Adam West up there and now it's all speckled. Lame.) me and the Smooth Criminal had a glass (and by "a" I mean "several" and by "glass" I mean "dixie cup"), but we did not finish the bottle. Luckily, it occurred to us that we might get in trouble if we left an open, half empty (half full?) bottle of Chianti sitting on my desk with a cork floating sheepishly around within.

So I resolved to take the wine home. Grabbed a rubber glove from the cleaning supplies, wrapped it around the mouth of the bottle and rubberbanded the fuck out of it. I now had a to-go container. Take that, bus.

2. So I get home, change into some comfy pants and start making dinner and finishing that bottle, when MoLinder comes home all pissy, so I let her take my car to go buy booze.

3. While she is pulling out of my rock star parallel parking spot, some jackass backs into the Honda and fucks up my bumper.

4. Fucker drives away. White truck, silver bumper, license plate begins with X. This is all of the information we have. If anyone sees this truck, anywhere, Chicago, Spain, Florida, I don't give a shit, teach that fucker a lesson. Carry around a towel, so you can wrap your fist in it before you punch through his fucking driver's side window.

5. MoLinder buys me a couple of 25 oz Trois Pistoles to make up for it, because she knows it's like, my favorite. Kind of a cliche favorite, I know, but fuck you, it tastes like someone bottled up laughter and fear and called it a beer.

6. We get fucking hammered and watch Max Payne, which was really, really not that good, but I really don't care because I love all things Wahlberg.

7. If anyone has any quarters, I call dibbs, because I really need to do laundry.

8. Oh, and I was asked to write a review for Ask And Ye Shall Receive, if anyone wants to check it out. The links within the review are all screwy though, I think.


Thursday, January 29, 2009

Agent Provocateur

The Top Five Honchos of the office are at some lame retreat today where they like, talk about the future of the organization and do trust falls and stuff, so the rest of us were like, "Wooooooo, partay."

Or you know, me and my neighboring co-worker, the Smooth Criminal, were like, "That bottle of wine has been sitting there since Christmas, and we are totally going to drink it."

However, we have no wine opener, so I spent five minutes trying to shove the cork into the bottle with my thumb. And then there was this popping sound, and then there was Chianti all over my computer screen. And the wall. And the ceiling. And like, every single piece of paper on my desk.

So then there was rummaging through cabinets for proper cleaning products, and do you know how hard it is getting red wine off of the wall?

I totally wore a pink shirt today, though, so yeah. One disaster, fucking thwarted.

And then everyone else, you know, those silly girls that had never heard of Kurt Vonnegut were all, "Oh, you're so bad, I can't believe you're drinking at work. I refuse to partake in such uncouth behavior" fucking blah blah blah. I'm like, "Seriously? Have some wine."

Apparently, the good-and-evil-shoulders of my coworkers are far, um...gooder than mine.

Whatever. Wusses.


Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Mad World

Can anyone explain why I've had goddamn Tears For Fears constantly running through my head for the past two weeks?

And if anyone says fucking Donnie Darko I will find the old workroom of HG Wells (I don't care what anyone says, The Time Machine is totally autobiographical), steal his time machine, traverse to your father's thirteenth birthday and castrate him, so that way neither you nor your comment will exist via the most commonly-accepted theories regarding the space-time continuum. Predestination paradox, bitches.

Extrapolate that.

(Let it be known that I have no ill feelings towards Donnie Darko, other than the fact that I was at a bar about a month ago that happened to have two movies playing, one of which was Donnie Darko, and the second was a movie whose title I couldn't remember, so I asked like every single person in the bar, "Hey, what movie is that? The one that is not Donnie Darko?" and pointed to the television that was not playing Donnie Darko, and every single fucking person told me it was goddamn Donnie Darko. I was about ready to go all fucking Donnie Darko on everyone.)


Out and Back Again, and Do You Remember September?

Earlier tonight I went out, and I was home by eleven. I've been sitting here drinking wine ever since and feel kinda drunk.

Shock and awe, yes. I know. There was a band, led by a friend, and they're really a very mediocre band in the most literal sense of mediocre. To use the input of Gyna, they're all watered down pop punk and then even moreso.

It's very frustrating, because this friend of mine, who is technically more of a long-time acquaintance, has another band that is somewhat novel, but far superior in sound and lyrics, and they just don't try to get that shit on the radio* when they fucking should because it's way better than this crap ass common sound they're trying to push right now.

End rant.

So me, Gyna, and Phil headed over there, and I was bored. Thank god for Gyna, because we got it into our head that it was time for some serious B and E, and although our sights were originally on the snazzy ass video camera all alone recording in the corner, that proved to be too hard to steal, so we stole a lamp instead. Fuck you, Double Door.

And because I can't get this conversation out of my head every single time I speak with someone new, which MoLinder the Roommate and I had back in September, here is a memory which I recorded but never posted:

Me: Man, I fucking hate it when I'm talking to someone and they pretend they care at first and then just don't give a shit about what I'm saying. And then they like, give me that smile that says, "Okay, crazy. I shall turn away slowly." What, are they better than me? Fucking hipsters. Sorry I don't wear skinny jeans and flats and shoot heroin up my vagina and wander around praising horrible beers and name-dropping Murakami and talking about how overrated Che is. Am I not indie enough? Shut the fuck up.

You just have to stop being a goddamn Lion all the time.

Me: But--

MoLinder: No, don't be a whore. You can't just run up to people and be all, "Story time, raaaahhhhrrrr."

Me: What the hell do you know? [Pause] Crazy cat lady.

[under her breath] You're becoming one too.

Me: Ahhh, balls.


Of course, the radio is still for sell outs. But seriously, dude, you are living off of the royalties of your first band that peaked in 2000, and have never held a job. We all know you want to be a rock star. Do it with style and originality.

End asterisk rant.


Tuesday, January 27, 2009

All Clear.

I am completely incapable of writing letters at work today. I'm supposed to be drafting this entirely new acknowledgement letter for donors, and my boss wants me to use a specific quote that I just cannot logically justify, and I'm getting very frustrated, and thinking stupid ass thoughts, so I'm drafting one letter on here to clear out my head of all the fucking asinine things I can't put in an official document to our constituents.

There is a saying based off of an old Greek proverb that says, "The true meaning of life is to plant trees under whose shade one does not expect to sit." In classrooms across the city, your generosity is providing shade to countless deserving students.

Shade that protects them from the unruly rays of the vicious sun, from our deteriorating ozone layer, preventing otherwise inevitable skin cancer. Your donation of $XXX is like SPF 137, saving children from a killer burn and multiple malignant moles (plus one for alliteration).

And those Greeks know all about the sun, hence the proverb, because it's always turned on over there. Undoubtedly they further pushed their solar agenda through Ovid and Homer, the Grecian Lucas and Spielberg, who continually illustrated that if you get too close to the sun, Zeus will fucking kill you (see Phaethon, Icarus).

But this is Chicago, not Philadelphia, so it's been gloomy for days. There's no point of pushing kids into the shade.

And Superman draws strength from the sun, and that one Roman emperor guy wrote that whole like, love-porn sonnet about the gentle caress of sunlight, and its licks of inspiration and warmth. Like I said, fucking Superman. The sun makes shit grow, man.

Keeping children in the shade is like the metaphorical equivalent of shrouding them in ignorance, encouraging them to stay indoors and shelter themselves from the frustrations of the world. That is not our goal, here at this organization. We're about growth, and educating future leaders.

So let me use a different quote, goddammit.

God, my writing lately is just fucking awful. Okay, go away now, I got all that out. Back to work.


Monday, January 26, 2009

Pie Fight 2009

So it looks like within the next couple of weeks a bunch of us are going to attempt an entry into the Guinness Book of World Records for the largest cream-pie fight in the world.

Oddly enough, there are several categories of Pie Fights: cream, custard, and cherry.

Yeah. Cream.

I figure if I can get like, 40 people to get drunk on a train with me to celebrate my birthday, rounding up 150 for a world-class pie fight shouldn't be too hard.

Pie Fight 2009, bitches.


Thursday, January 22, 2009

The Definitive Home Jersey

At the keen age of eleven my family took a vacation to El Rancho Stevens, a kitschy kickin' dude ranch in Gaylord, Michigan. That's right. Sink it.

Other than the fact that some genius befitted this place with a superior moniker, El Rancho Stevens was excellent. Ponies, canoes, swimming, poker games, fucking tetherball...easily my favorite family vacation spot.

But the coolest thing about El Rancho Stevens wasn't just being completely captivated by a Tennessee Walking horse named Babe or eating bacon every morning or the ranch-wide nightly Ghost in the Graveyard game or participating in their "Dudeo Rodeo," or you know, fucking tetherball. You see, at El Rancho Stevens, I obtained the best sweatshirt ever.

It's been through a lot, my sweatshirt. I wore it all throughout junior high, where I was probably ruthlessly mocked. Then in high school I became all unsure and self-conscious, pulled in the sleeves and reversed it, afraid to be labeled because of the imprint galloping across my chest.

Once I hit up college I decided to see if I would get the stares for wearing it, and instead my friends shook their heads and laughed. "You are such a fucking dork," they'd say. I still turned it inside out sometimes, when I was particularly lonely and ashamed of the illustration.

Then came "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" and "Flight of the Conchords." All of a sudden, my sweatshirt is now the coolest thing anyone has ever seen.

It's amazing, really, how the tables have turned, how easily television shows can change a cultural perspective. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could have recognized my sweatshirt's awesomosity having never seen the show. But the fact of the matter is, whereas before I would get, "I cannot believe you are wearing that, you are such a fucking dork," the comments have turned into, "That is the most incredible thing I have ever seen in my life. Where did you get that?"

El Rancho Stevens, bitches.

This sweatshirt is peerless, nearly perfectly rendered and loveworn in all the right places. When my eyes glance downward at the label on the corner, I remember, fondly, those days at El Rancho Stevens, and how graciously this sweatshirt epitomized my personal essence and evolution, from adolescence to, like, second adolescence. My gothic shield of arms, my home jersey, my Sunday driver, devoted to my character until I've passed from this world into the next.

And etched upon my tombstone, instead of the usual years, the adopted measurement with which we limit our life, or even my name, given to that which cannot be summed, I choose this permanence, this last effort at eccentricity, my personal glow within the murk and the gloom--

"On a field, sable,
rearing-palimino-stallion-engulfed-in-wicked-ass-lightning, pink."



Edit: I was going to wear it for the picture, but I decided against it. Boobs fuck up the silk screen. Booyah.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

What What.

Lately I've developed a dragging, crippling addiction to mahfuckin Crunchy Jalapeno Cheddar Cheetos. They blow my goddamn mind, I swear, and you can tell because they're officially prefaced by the verbal austerity of mahfuckin, a word I use in those rare instances of snack food seriousness, like when I'm talking about mahfuckin Cool Ranch or mahfuckin peanut butter Twix.

Or mahfuckin' stroganoff (what what), which, as I've just demonstrated, receives the automatic what what parenthetic follow-up. This can be best explained with the following consistent exchange:

Me, Drunk: Who wants mahfuckin' stroganoff?

Everyone At My Apartment, Drunk: What what.

And then I rip open that packet of instant mahfuckin stroganoff (what what), add butter and milk and water and cook the crap out of it (which defeats the point of "instant"), and everyone sits around eating it and talking with their mouth full while we watch either Trailer Park Boys, Venture Brothers, or Coupling, depending on whoever is over.

And that's mahfuckin (what what).


Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Parents Are Fucktards

Out of all of the people I'm forced to speak to throughout the day, parents are by far and away the fucking worst.

Parents are the most demanding, unappreciative, disagreeable, deluded individuals on the planet. In every other aspect of their lives they could be acute, inspiring individuals with superhero powers and lives full of WIN, where they save hundreds of Dalmatian puppies from rich old ladies scouting for coats and stuff.

But as parents, you are all fucktards.

Your children are perfect, and you call to tell me so and demand money. Because she made the honor role once, and this other time she scored a goal in Park District soccer, and he babysits his neighbors for free, and he made a styrofoam solar system mobile that was more creative than all the other styrofoam solar system mobiles in class.

Eventually, during this swindling cataloging of the fascinating mediocrity of your child, I cut you off so you shut the hell up, because I'm sure your son is a wonderful child, but you're asking for a financial assistance at a school we don't support. We only give money to Chicago inner-city schools.

Oh, you knew that.

So you read our website. Good for you…but your son does not want to go to an inner-city school since you live in the suburbs.

That’s fine. I’ll sit here and snicker while you contemplate the weight of your words. You gotta lotta nerve, calling an organization that specializes in giving money to low-funded schools within Chicago's city limits and demanding we cut checks and dish out money to your individual family, while you are aware of our single requirement for assistance (attend one of our schools) and refuse to meet it.

But your son is the steadfast exception to every rule and gospel. I get it.

Then I apologize for being so short with you, because I know you truly believe you are Almighty, but I have this exact same conversation multiple times a day from parents in similar situations and mindsets. You are not unique. You are just like every other parent.

Good luck. That's the best I can give you


Sunday, January 18, 2009


I tend to wander when I go somewhere new. Poking things, touching things that shouldn't be touched, asking questions about everything, sitting down where no one should sit. Once I saw a six-fingered man and I followed him for blocks. Is he a prodigal typist? Does he play the harp? Where does he buy gloves?

Then I get in conversations with strangers, long ones, about the most pointless shit ever, like the personal preference of ladders and step stools (this old man in Germany was carrying a ladder, and "ladder" auf Deutsch is "Strichleiter," and I wanted to use my mad German skillz, so I walked up to him and said, "Ihre Strichleiter ist schwach" because I thought that meant "your ladder is sturdy" but it means "your ladder is limp" and he laughed and corrected me and then we spoke in English, because my German is awful, and we talked about ladders for awhile, and he told me about how he was heading over to this elementary school to fix some windows. This elementary school happened to be directly next to some Nazi bunkers that had been converted into a torture museum and haunted house, and me, Muffy, and Sean totally went there and it kicked soooo much ass).

Tangent, what what. I'm so not even trying to be witty today.

Basically, I'm going on this New Orleans trip at the end of March for some volunteering and exploring. Never been there before.

So people, pretty pretty please, give me suggestions on neat shit to do there. Other than, you know, getting really really drunk.


PS: Fucking YES. WE. CAN.


Friday, January 16, 2009

The Drastic Mistake of This City

As whole, I think superstitions are bullshit. But I've got my own little irrational notions that I've proved in my head with very unstable, unscientific methods. Basically, it involves a certain conviction of opinion: once you solidify an idea, and then doubt it for a second, luck wills that worry into existence.

You know what I mean. I completely jinx things. Something along the lines of, "Dude, I need a Dr. Pepper like how Bush needs to be pelted with shoes. Pull over at that Taco Bell."

Then whoever is driving says, "Do they have Dr. Pepper there?"

"Of course they do, Pepsi products, man." And then I fear, for a fraction, that they won't. Inevitably, that fear becomes reality, and I'm informed that this is the only Taco Bell that does not carry Dr. Pepper.

It's like when you meet a guy who can keep up with whatever Who's on First? routine you're pitching that day, and instead of introducing you to his girlfriend as "this hilarious girl," he actually seems single, and interested in you. And then Gyna yells "make out" several times, as if we're in college, and it doesn't scare him away.

So you later tell Gyna, "That guy is frakkin' awesome. Seriously, he dominates. And honestly? I think he actually likes me," but then it hits you, "But he prolly doesn't."

"Oh, shut the fuck up and just go back there and talk to him," Gyna whines, "and MAKE OUT." So you meander back over to him, and sho' nuff, he starts asking you probing, relationship-seeking questions *about one of your Hot Friends.

So what I'm trying to say is this: Fuck you, Chicago, and all of your peoples.

Because the weekend after Christmas, it was sixty goddamn degrees outside. And collectively, the citizens of Chicago woke up, smiled, and thought, "I cannot believe how warm it is. I am so glad it's not cold today. Oh, please don't get much colder. I am optimistic that our remaining winter weather situation will mirror these current atmospheric conditions. This is crazy awesome. But it prolly won't last..."

And the gods of luck heard this sincere cry of sanctity and surprise and said, "Well, let's give them another incredulous kick in the balls" and spent the next three weeks mustering up this insane cold-as-balls front to throw over the city.

So that's why, today, in this fine city, it is NEGATIVE NINETEEN DEGREES WITH A NEGATIVE FORTY WIND CHILL.

I have places to walk today, man. And I like the cold. Not this, though.

Yeah. Like I said. Fuck you, Chicago. Never do that shit again.


*This is a very common tactic that dudes employ, befriending me, so when they go after the Hot Friends, I encourage the hook up. Don't think I don't know, you dickheads. Of course, the problem with this is, after so many occurrences I'm completely jaded, and I automatically assume all guys want one of the Hot Friends and throw up an instant emotional shield, thereby thoroughly blocking any chance I had with someone who actually wants to talk to me.


Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Concerning Nerding Out For The Remainder Of The Month And Other Very Uninteresting Updates

Well, now that last week is finally over (seriously? thank god) it's that time of year where I have nothing to do for three weeks. Which is perfect, because I'm broke after this weekend and that whole spectacular shots-for-everyone production.

Detox January is an excellent idea, don't you think? Time to catch up on Netflix, and Battlestar Galactica starts on Friday, and then Dollhouse in a couple of weeks, and then Watchmen comes out, and all I really want to do for a little while is just completely nerd out.

Besides, I have to pay rent and then wait for my next paycheck before I can afford the bars and hang out with the cool kids anyway (you know the ones I'm talking about - the beautiful ones, who are loved by men and don't watch shows that take place on spaceships), so until then, sober fun and designated driving.

Ready for something you don't care about but I'm saying anyway? I need a new pair of shoes for work. God fucking dammit, I hate buying shoes. I can't ever afford what I want and end up buying some that are ugly as fuck, but cheap and functional. This is also why I hate dresses, coats, pants, and you know...fucking clothing.

Finally, inspiration to conceivably, perchance, maybe someday get in better shape: living in a thread-free nudist colony, and never torture myself over stupidhead clothes again. Ever. I should take up yoga.

We all know that is never going to happen, so I guess I'm going to Village Discount this week.

And three weeks from now, you know. Birthday season starts up again at the end of February, and then the train trip to New Orleans for volunteering (you know that the entire time I'm on that train I'm going to be singing "Midnight Train to Nola" and annoying the crap out of everyone).

And I've got like, all these things I'm supposed to sew on Unofficial Back Order.

Maybe I could make myself a pair of shoes out of like, an old leather coat and ripped tire rubber. Does anyone know of a vacant apprenticeship with their local cobbler? Perhaps a Danish one with a bisexual son who writes depressingly fanciful children's stories about mermaids and match girls and dreams of being a famous soprano? No?

Crap. I have no future.


Monday, January 12, 2009

Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo: A Modest Beginning

If you've ever taken the Metra all over the Chicagoland area, you'd know that nearly every single stop is accompanied by a bar. Years ago, after sharp surveillance, Drunk Dave said to MSM one day, "We need to just like, you know, fuckin' just go to like, all of 'em," and then he swept his hand for emphasis, knocked over his beer, and ordered a round of Rumplemintz for everyone who witnessed the faux pas.

MSM is a little gossip queen, and the following Sunday morning we were drinking at Orazio's, and she told a Smith Sister and I about Drunk Dave's plan.

"Well, we have to do this," I said. "I don't think we have a choice."

"I'm pretty sure this is the greatest idea ever, except for that one time you made beer cubes," the Smith Sister pointed out.

"Yes," I solemnly agreed, "My beer cubes were a huge success." I took a sip of my drink and pondered. "What should we call it?"

MSM lit a cigarette. "We don't have to call it anything, we just have to go to a bar, drink, get on the train, drink, get off the train, go to a bar, drink, and repeat until we can't see anymore."

"No, we have to call it something. I like Naming Things."

Within moments, we were silent and gazing upwards in contemplation, until the Smith Sister broke the silence. "Wait. Okay, I got it. What sound do trains make?"

I did the best train horn I'm capable of replicating, but I'm no Michael Winslow.

"Well, yeah," Smith Sister humored me. "But I was thinking more like, 'chooooo choooooo'."

So I did more train sounds, because I was all stuck on calling it a train sound and then giving it a symbol, like Prince.

"No, like, chugga chugga chooo chooo-" Smith Sister corrected me.

"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can--"

They both ignored me, and MSM turned to the Smith Sister. "Oh-oh-oh...and what do you do with beer?"

"Chug it."

I "WAIT! I know! Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, a big fucking television. Choose the best fucking train crawl ever."

"Ross, we don't need to go too abstract here."

"Bu you know? From Trains-"

"Shut up, yes, I know. Focus. Think."


After like, fifteen more tries they got me to stop quoting movies about trains and describing my love for Shining Time Station and we settled on a name.

The word has spread, and what began as a fifteen person pub crawl has since escalated into a forty-person extravaganza of excellence. Any man that gets left behind? Stays behind.


Next one's in May. Everyone is invited.


Concerning P4C6

Well, birthday celebration aside, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6 was of course, a train wreck.

The Recap:

birthday girls: 2 (me and MoLinder)

bars attended: 3

bars that kicked us out: 1

trains ridden: 3

trains that nearly kicked us off: 3

times Muffy argued with an authority figure and doesn't remember it: 9

hospital trips: 1

men left behind: 0 (booyah.)

bars that gave us our own room because we are rowdy as fuck: 1

largest round of shots I purchased: 11 ("Give me nine shots of whiskey. No, ten. No, nine. No, fuck it, just empty the bottle. Eleven!")

strangers that offered to take me to Ireland on Tuesday: 1

times we sang "happy birthday" to me and MoLinder: 5

egg rolls I tried to eat: 1.5

old childhood next-door neighbors that I randomly ran into when I was good and plotzed and probably should have been embarrassed because they're friends with my parents but I wasn't and I make them by me a shot: 2

people that drove that had no business driving after twelve hours of drinking: 1 (you dumbass, no driving after P4C7, promise?)

times Gyna yelled, "MAKE OUT" at someone for no reason: 147

people who purchased a pair of boots while on the pub crawl because their feet were cold: 1

stolen beer bong thingers that are not technically a beer bong and more like a three-liter graduated cylinder with a valve release but were nonetheless stolen goods that were once full of beer: 1

secret guests that made me squeak with surprise, which is weird, because I don't have a high voice at all: 5

people I drunk dialed: 2

fights I got into: 1.5

times I cried: 1

text messages I couldn't finish because my thumbs de-evolve into unopposable appendeges when I drink too much: 7

largest gathering of P4C6 participants simultaneously at a bar: 36

total number of people who love me and MoLinder and came out for our birthdays because I fucking dominate and threatened people until they gave in and reluctantly showed up but had a good time anyway: 41

So yeah. Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6? Excellent.


Saturday, January 10, 2009


I am getting sick and tired of all the people coming up to me and knocking on Faux Stiles.

Obviously, they don't understand. Stiles is not a man, per say. There is no "original" or "faux" in the land of Stiles. He is not merely a character in the Teen Wolf series. Stiles is a way of life.

Without Stiles, would we have ironic slogan t-shirts? Would we go surfing on top of our vans? Would we sunbathe indoors atop blow-up alligators to the glint of tin-foiled Monopoly boards? Would we be as offended when bitches refer to us as "dogs" when we randomly get all anthropomorphically hormonal while waltzing with hot co-eds?

Without Stiles, would we ever truly be able to encourage the wolf within ourselves?

Nay, I tell you. NAY. Stiles would chant, "All you gotta do is be the wolf, and I'll take care of the rest."

Stiles brings out the lively, shady lycanthrope in all of us. And then, if we're weak enough to submit to the beast (and we are), Stiles is the man to ground us, to help us actualize the honorable side of the wolf, the useful, good-natured, fun-loving side. The side that lets us sing "Do You Love Me" at college parties and inspires synchronized group dances. The side that montages to Oingo Boingo.

Let's pull in another movie. Imagine you're a werewolf, specifically the guy from the second season of Twin Peaks, whose name I do not remember. Gary Busey and a paraplegic Corey Haim are threatening you around town with a silver bullet. You only have one eye, because Gary Busey was all drunk and shot a rocket at your head.

If Stiles were there, he would flat out call you a jerk, talk you down from your crazed wolf state, help you ride off into the sunset in the headmaster's corvette, and then fire a "What are you looking at, Dicknose?" when Haim wheels by with his shotgun, oblivious to your smooth getaway. Stiles can fucking do anything.

But you have no Stiles to save your ass, and instead you're shot in the other eye by a snotty kid in a wheelchair. Fucking Coreys.

What would have happened to Jason Bateman in Teen Wolf Too if he had no Stiles at his side, regardless of whether he was Original or Faux? Could you imagine that disastrous hypothetical boxing match, where Bateman claws and bites his opponent to death instead of winning honestly and getting a lot of free popcorn from his adoring fans?

Granted, Stiles wanted the wolf to come out that time (man, inconsistency is a harlot). So it could also be argued that Stiles is the worst friend ever and has no concern for your well-being unless it profits himself, but fuck that. Stiles cares.

Whatever, my point is, Stiles is a man to be celebrated and revered. For shame, all you anti-Stileses. For shame.

To the Whores: you guys are all my Stileses. You ruin my life, call me a jerk, and then make it better.

I need to go to bed now, because the Stella is nearly gone and I have Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo tomorrow. Or today. Shit.


Friday, January 9, 2009


Everyone who doesn't know me in real life and doesn't give a shit about this has to deal with it for one more day, because Schmee is last, but certainly not least. She's got a lot to say. Most likely because out of all of my friends, we've probably had the most adventures together.

By the way, there is a higher probability of me giving up drinking than finding pictures of Schmee, "The Homewrecker," where she is (a) not hugging someone (b) not making "sex face" or (c) not hammered.

LYLAS! (yeah, we do that. Shut up.) Here's what she's got to say (and like I said, there is a lot):

I’ve decided to follow Ammo’s lead and do a list of Top However Many Memories I Can Think Of Involving Rassles. Well, that’s how it’s going to start at least. Chances are this blog will be all over the place. Deal with it.


1.  The time we drove around for hours smoking cigarettes to “Freebird” and then changing the lyrics to make up our own song about cigarettes. It went something like…"Man, I neeeeed a ciga- reeeeeee-eeeeeeeette. OhhhhOh ciga-reeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeette" Don’t lie. You all just tried to sing it in your head and it was magical….

2.  The time we sang “Tiny Dancer” at the Bullpen and we made up dance moves. Then we realized the song is about 10 minutes long and we looked like idiots. Lame.

3.  The time the Bullpen got raided because there was a wet t-shirt contest (which Emi won even with a blue t-shirt on. What a hooker.)  and I had to hide in the bathroom because I wasn’t 21 yet. Rassles brought me beer and talked to me over the stall until the cops had cleared out. That’s when I knew I had a true friend…   

4.  The time Fraya and I showed up at The Shithole (Rassles’ house her senior year of college…name is self explanatory) after about 14 hours of drinking (damn, the OZO’s and their Octoberfest) desperately needing help from Rassles because I had taken a nasty spill (YEAH parentheses) and hit my head on the curb. Instead of helping me she broke out the video camera and got footage of me trying to have a conversation with the tomato in my Wendy’s hamburger. Could we say life-ruiner???

5.  The time we had a massive flippy cup tournament at The Shithole, filled with team chanting and everything. The sad part is that nobody can remember whose team won because we were all so hammered. It was definitely either mine or Rassles’ team though.

6.  The morning/afternoon after the flippy cup tournament when we tried to solve The Mystery of the Inflatable Snowman. Afkjls;dfklaskdl. That deserves a blog all to itself. Git er done Ross.

7.  Later that same day when I got home and checked my messages I had one from Rassles that said, verbatim, “I was fuckin HAMMERED last night. HAM—MURRED. I puked. And it looked like thousand island dressing…

8.  Another one of the many times Rassles’ broke out the video camera was after a drunken night at the Bullpen when everyone that was at the bar came back to The Shithole (Are we noticing a pattern here?) and people started taking turns sledding down the stairs in a laundry basket….Classic.

9.  One of our many movie nights, which were basically just an excuse for us not to do homework, she brought over the movie Secretary insisting that it would be great because she loves James Spader. So we watched it, blushing and laughing awkwardly throughout. “Cream potatoes! Four peas! ….edward!!!”

10. The time Rassles came back to Augie for my 21st birthday and she recorded every drink/shot I had on a piece of cardboard from a Coors light box. And when I puked after the 20th one (first and only time I’ve ever puked from drinking and only the second time I’ve ever puked in my life. I know, I rule.) we went back to Bobbay’s house where I was forced to take a hit of weed as my 21st “drink/shot”. Then we proceeded to watch the “you got a fuckin dart in your neck!” part from Old School about 10 times…while laughing uncontrollably of course. I feel tired.

11. The countless hours we spent with the Animal Book taking the quiz for ourselves, and for others, over and over and over again. And the fact that she still talks to me even though I’m a sea lion who supposedly “has conversations that lack substance and logical grounding.”  ARH,ARH,ARH. Life ruined again.



One of the first times Rassles ever went to Live Band Karaoke she was with Emi. Sadly, I was not there. But I did get quite the phone call from a pissed off Rassles in the middle of the night. The conversation went a little like this….

SCHMEE - What the hell happened? Why are you so mad?

RASSLES - Fucking Emi makes me come out to fuckin live band with her and then leaves me in the fuckin corner by myself all night while she makes out with some fuckin random girl.

(keep in mind, these are the days before Emi was a full blown lez. As far as we knew she still dated dudes but just made out with our lesbian friend Kate from time to time. Oh how things have changed…)

SCHMEE -  Well that’s interes—

RASSLES - (Interrupting) It’s fucking bullshit!  I had to sit there while every dude at the bar came up to me asking if they were my friends and what their deal was. And the---

(M.E. steals the phone from her)

M.E. - (wasted) Duuuude. This girl was HOT. She was SO hot. And oh my god SUCH a good kisser.

SCHMEE - Nice job, M.E. Work it.

RASSLES - (from the background) Whatever the girl didn't even have a fucking bra on. I fucking hate you, M.E.

Who was the random girl, you ask? Well, it was our soon to be Whore Captain...Captain Ammo herself. And so began the debauchery that is LBK. It was an era that consisted of theme nights, good singing, bad singing, whore chants, LOTS of liquor, and blacking out. I would try and list some good memories but they were all pretty damn good. Well, that, and the fact that all the blacking out would make for quite a few holes in the stories...Damn those soco lime shots.


There was a period of time where Rassles, M.E., and I took our karaoke obsession to a whole new level by finding almost every dive bar in the burbs that had karaoke and pretty much becoming regulars. I mean, we actually drove around with the Karaoke Nite Life newspaper in our cars in case we absolutely needed karaoke and it was an off night at our regular bars. Talk about obsessed. Anyway, this is the time period in which some of these memories took place.

The many times we went to Rory's and got free pitchers and shots until after the bar time because the owner was obsessed with me, almost to a creepy degree. He had a girlfriend of course, because this was when I was an unintentional Homewrecker. Oh, and Rassles bought him a hat he wanted once which got us even more free booze. Sweet. In the end we found out they shut the bar down because he was arrested for sexually assaulting some chick after hours. What a classy establishment that was.

The time we went to a bar in the middle of nowhere because M.E. wanted to enter the karaoke rap contest. I sang my first song, tripped over the microphone cord and fell off the stage. a;ljks;kdjf "I'm gonna start calling you the One Beer Wonder...hehe" (Quote from the douchebag DJ that was in love with Rassles and comments like that being the reason she wanted nothing to do with him).

Then me and Rassles ended up at some random dude's apartment (Rassles kept calling him Beaches so we never figured out his real name) where we smoked a bunch of pot and watch Vanilla Sky. At about 7 in the morning we got a taste for McDonald's breakfast and had to eat our food in front of a bunch of people wearing business suits who were on the way to work. Gotta love going out on weekdays. That was probably the weirdest night of my life...

All the nights doing karaoke at Where Else? cuz Where Else? would we go?

Being in love with the old man who sang Sinatra at Sponge Reef.


The time you slept over at my house in my sister's room and when I woke up you were watching Hook and playing with Tarot cards, hung over as hell.

The time we left Goldies (bar that sells dollar PBR's and lets you play old school Nintendo...Best. Bar. Ever.) and you baffed black bile in your hand...And then stared at it for about 2 minutes before cleaning it off on your shirt. Stop drinking whiskey!

Every Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo. Especially the first one where Miles Long did magic tricks and pulled a gerbil out of your boobs. HAH. Everyone better be coming to PCCCC 6 on Saturday!

The time we dominated at flippy cup. Which time do you ask? You're right. I should be more specific because we always dominate. the time when Flips McGee and the Cup Killers got 3rd place out of 40 teams in Chicago, and got everybody at McFaddens to chant, "Bull-shit" because we so obviously won that round. That referee was a dumb bitch.

All the nights we made stroganoff and watched Coupling. "Ohhh, Jeffrey..."

All the times we've dominated the jukebox and made people listen to Chicago and Foreigner.

The time we dressed up as the Ghostbusters for Halloween and you made awesome proton packs for us out of Carson Pirie Scott boxes. And then, you had a giant pink care bear tell you that "he's hit a girl before and he'd do it again." All because we kicked his ass in flippy cup.

Alright, I'm gonna cut myself off right there because this is becoming the longest blog on earth. I've been slaving over it for 3 days. And now I have to go back and edit the shit out of it to make sure I'm satisfied. This is why I do not blog. It stresses me out. And I feel like I'm doing homework.

In closing, I would just like to say thank you, Rassles. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for introducing me to my boyfriend, and Orazio's, and The Can, and Neighbors, and all of your Ville friends. And thank you for not getting mad that I hang out with all those people, all those places more than you do. Oh wait, you do get mad about that. Most of all, thank you for being you, because without you, I would not be the person I am today. I hope you think your present is blog-tastic and you have a Happy Biffy Baffy Birthday.




Thursday, January 8, 2009


I totally didn't go into work today, because I am sick as fuck, and it's far more important for me to rest up and be healthy for Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo on Saturday than it is for me to, like, work and stuff.

So I got lucky with making people write things about me, because I don't have to put any work into blogging. Just cut and paste, beeotch.

Today I'd like to welcome M.E. to the stage, "The Pink Bat." One of my oldest and dearest, humble and modest and completely and totally full of herself. And for some reason, with better game than like, anyone I've ever met. Be careful. This one is long, because M.E. doesn't only love me, but she loves herself.

Happy Birthday!!! Smooches!!!

I have known Rassles for almost 10 years now in many different capacities. She is one of my best friends that I met freshman year in college and has always supported me and somehow manages to tell me things about myself before I even have the chance to realize them. Rassles underestimates herself and the inspiration she offers to me and others around us. She has always been the one to document our friends' shenanigans, whether it's with a video camera, pictures, or her blog. That's why I feel so compelled to return the favor by adding to her birthday blog with a recap of memories of '08 with Rassles. I love you, Rassles!

1) We started off 2008 with the infamous Pub Chugga Choo Choo, the most insane day-long commitment to drinking and debauchery. Ross is a genius because she came up with the idea and keeps the tradition going every few months. I swear if she applied the intricate planning and detail that go into this event to her career, she could easily run her own company. And anyone who combines our friends with a train and a pub crawl is brave. It brings all of our friends together--it's the one party where both city and suburban folk come together and can truly have a good time. I'm not sure if it's the ridiculous amounts of alcohol or the novelty of riding the train all day with 30 friends or all of the possibilities that seem to present themselves throughout the day. Whatever it is, the pub chugga chugga choo choo is magical.

2) In my opinion, the most surprising thing Rassles did this year was to get a tattoo, a comic she used to draw as a kid. I just never thought I'd see the day and I expected more build up to it. If I ever pictured her with a tattoo, I would've never picture it to be on her forearm. But that's just how it happened...she showed up at my house one day, rolled up her sleeve and was like, "dude, Debbie gave me a tattoo last night."

3) Rassles was great for putting up with me as I went through a painful breakup this summer. Even though she dealt with my endless agony for a few months straight, she always lent a helpful ear when I needed it. It all came to a climax the night when she blacked out and yelled at me for about an hour about how stupid I was being and how my ex was even stupider. I think she even told me she wanted to slap me.

4) As if I don't hate American Girl dolls enough, I think the most terrifying moment of 2008 for me was seeing Rassles and two of my friends dressed as the American Girl dolls while holding their respective twin dolls. It gave me the heebie jeebies.

5) One of my favorite nights with Rassles this year was when we went to see NKOTB. I offered her my free ticket because I knew she didn't have any money and even more importantly, I knew she wouldn't be afraid to act like a kid with me. We definitely turned into a couple of schoolgirls that night. I witnessed her nearly faint when we saw Donnie sing his solo. Later that night, we met a guy named Kevin at a dive bar and by some stroke of fate, drank a bottle of wine with him until the wee hours of the morning while he told us his life story.

6) I brought her to Ben Folds, another free ticket I thought she could use. The show was a lot tamer than his normal live stuff, and Rassles left really pissed off because all she saw were lame couples making out all night. For a second, I thought she might join the angry hipster fight we saw outside the show. She just wanted to dance the whole night away, but there was no dancing in sight.

7) I'm surprisingly still friends with her even though we had a bit of a falling out this summer. She was supposed to bring our blankets for camping but didn't. All I had to sleep with was a tarp. Ross is very reliable for things like bringing the best bloody mary ingredients in town, but then sometimes forgets essentials like blankets. She ruins my life.

8) Rassles helped me get through some of my most boring days at the office by getting me addicted to Typeracer, an online game where you compete to see who can type a paragraph fastest. I never thought that typing alone could make me sweat. I am secretly competitive, as I'm learning Rassles and most of our friends are too, so this game was perfect.

9) I went through a phase of suggesting off the wall part-time jobs for Rassles because I knew she was looking for some extra cash. I suggested some jobs I was finding on Craigslist for movie reviewers and store promotions and other things but best of all, sent her a link for porn reviewers. After she was seriously considering it and she was telling people she reviewed porn for a living, we found out it was just another stupid moneymaking scam. Lame! I really had envisioned her getting a lot of free porn and all the whores gathering to drink beers on a regular basis to watch the awful titles that she was working on that week.

10) When the whole porn reviewing thing fell through, my next idea was for her to take a stab at being a standup comedian. After sitting through some painful open mic performances, I knew Rassles would have what it takes to be better than any of the acts I had seen. That dream kind of died when I tried to introduce her to open mic standup night. The problem was, the bar ended it the week before without me knowing...I still think standup comedy would be a great fit for Rassles. Her naughty laugh alone would captivate the audience. Or even if she just got up there and read her daily blog out loud, she would definitely steal the spotlight.


Wednesday, January 7, 2009


You know what's some bullshit? Getting old. I am sick as fuck right now, and instead of drinking it away last night I bought some cough medicine and went to bed. 

At least I got someone else to write again for me today. I've been downing Robitussin all morning, and I'm gettin' a little woozy.

Everyone, I would like to introduce Gyna, the "BFF." Just you know, read what she wrote and leave me to my Tussin.

Alrighty then- Happy Birthday and here is your blog present. You better not edit this all to make me sound lame. Also I demand a hot photo of me.

Rassles Blog Take 96

What is so daunting about this task is not the judgment about my writing skills (you can all suck it) but the mere fact that I don't want to fuck it up and just try to sum up the awesomeness with a bad story. No one wants to read a bad story- especially in stranger blog form (I now hope that you do have strangers reading this otherwise, maybe it won't be so bad!).

But back to the task at hand, all Rassles, all the time. First things first- I love that we went to the same college at the same time and didn't know each other and never hung out. I think that was nature's way of saving our lives because there could have been some scary consequences. Meh. I think we made up for it in the past couple of years.

Once I made the wise decision to finally come to live band, I was well on my way to what became my sole purpose in this life- writing a blog entry for you. From that first night on, I was hooked. I hated all karaoke experiences prior to that night- but since it was Dead Icon night and there was good singing to a band, it made all the difference in the world. You then were the driving force to get me out on the stage to sing in front of people. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, but now I just inflict pain on those that listen to my brazenness. We sang Under Pressure which was kinda bad. Then we tried it again weeks later and it was still bad- we should really work on that song.

The next couple of awesome karaoke stories that I thought about telling were all fuzzy, drunken stories of yelling out car windows for cheeseburgers and falling down and exposing body parts and kissing weird boys while waiting for some fried mushrooms (don't believe me? i am sure there are some photos somewhere around here...)

Image Hosted by

Lap dance from that one guy- remember him? he was ... interesting

Image Hosted by

Oooh tower

Image Hosted by

Told you people fell- at least I was nice and helping someone up

Image Hosted by

Flippy cup action

Image Hosted by

See ultimately when I sat down to finally write this (yay for procrastination!) I didn't want to go sappy, so I stopped watching Little Women for writing advice. I tried to then review photos from the past few years and most of them were either too embarrassing to look at or I noticed how young we looked and that scared me more.

What I saw in those photos were how awesome we were together and how much awesomeness you have brought to the city. And while most of those times seem like ages ago, we at least sometimes get to ride the bus home after work together- and that is cool for many reasons mostly because it is where excellent schemes are hatched. I love that you bring along adventure when you come to hang out, except for when it is a bad adventure. I mean I guess what I discovered most is that when I start stories about you, it always comes out as an inside joke- you had to be there to experience it. So instead of coming up with my top ten Rassles stories and make everyone jealous of our lives, I am going to give you some advice- which you should heed since I am like almost a month older than you are.

Rassles, there are some things I want you to tackle in your 28th year and there are many things I hope for you to experience as well. I hope that we get to do more tarot readings for each other as I think that is fun times. I also hope that the crazy psychic lady was right and you do fall in love this year (and if the other night was that guy, then jackpot!). I also hope that when you fall in love that he takes you to the opera and makes you fall in love by translating the song into english and you get all sappy and make out (hehehe I so did not turn off Little Women- suckers). I almost hope that you lose your contact again on a stage and do that weird, swimming search dance. I hope you throw that Teen Wolf party because I want to make a shirt for it. I hope that there are more camping trips in the future. I also hope that you seriously think about making a goal to write a book because I am pretty sure people would want to read it cause you are funny and not an asshole. Also, I hope you dance (couldn't resist as usual from the lame, obvious joke).

Thanks again for not being a lame-ass friend!

Oh and HOLLA!!


Tuesday, January 6, 2009


First order of business: It is my birthday.

Second order of business: Work is lame.

Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.

Image Hosted by

She fucking loves it.

And now, without further ado...her words about me:

Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.

It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:

The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series

So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!

PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies

Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!

She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?

Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.

She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")

my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.

she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.

oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.

I think I might win this one.

Happy Birthday!


Sunday, January 4, 2009


After a surprisingly sober fun night at Ian's Party last night (it's wierd that I have readers that won't just know what I'm referring to by dropping Ian's Party, so I feel obliged to link such things so I don't have to elaborate), I've decided to spend all day drinking in honor of my upcoming birthday. I have also decided to be the annoying girl with the Hannukah birthday (eight crazy nights) because I have every right to be.

And I've officially accepted that I will never join the twenty-seven club.

All that aside, I have no stories, because I don't feel like it, but here's another tidbit from another one of The Whores, Ammo, "The Captain."

Image Hosted by

And this is how she feels about me:

Here is a list for my favorite list maker! Happy Birthday, Ross! (These are in no particular order, except how I am remembering them)...

p.s. I am not drunk.

1. When she broke her glasses in two pieces, she went to Starbucks. Realizing she cannot see the menu, she monocled with one lens to order a coffee. Priceless.

2. Her drunk voicemails are the best. I never thought I'd listen to an inebriated train of thought and be thoroughly entertained.

3. She taught me how to make White Russians. Now I can finally drink milk! Thanks Ross!

4. Her turkey man mass text will be one of the most epic moments I have ever had standing outside Petco checking my cell phone.

5. She is the only one that can sing a song that was meant for two people to sing. Both male and female parts and make that shit work.

6. She has a contagious laugh. You cannot be human if you don't laugh with her.

7. Her blogging is comparable to eating White Castle. You crave it, generally are drunk when you consume it, and usually feel ashamed afterwords for giving in.

8. She can make a cold night outside The Hidden Cove a lot more tolerable, with a cigarette that is.

9. She is one of the most generous, kindest and smartest people I can say is one of my friends.

10. She is the only one I can text, "I have beer", or "Let's get fucked up" and will be over in about an hour.

11. She recently taught me that wearing long sleeved sweaters, getting drunk and having your period all at the same time is a bad idea. Never thought of it!!

12. I never get tired of her dropping F-bombs in "Total Eclipse of the Heart".

13. She managed to play off Jackie Brown for Tarantino Night...and it worked.

14. She makes me feel less ashamed of saying "Fuck" or "Fucking" in every/every other sentence.

15. Her gin story makes me feel like I should cut back on the Bombay.

16. She is an interdimensional traveler, which can be helpful.

17. Feckin. That's it.

I hope this made your day. I wish you many interdimensional travels for your pub chugga choo choo! Once again I am a tool for working and missing it.

Happy Birthday!!!



Saturday, January 3, 2009

Little Red

In honor of my birthday, which is coming up in three days, I'm having The Whores write little snippets on the fly about me for my blog.

In case you were unaware, and you probably are, some of my friends and I call ourselves The Whores. We all bonded over being obsessed with live band karaoke (as if you haven't yet gleaned that I'm completely engrossed in it) and that escalated into obscene, overpowering friendships where we constantly embarass, esteem, and enliven each other.

We used to spend all of our time at a certain bar, and some douchebag put up a post on Craigslist's missed connections one day about us.  This post was from "the MAN at the bar" (Mothers) to "the whores" that were setting back the standards of womanhood by getting drunk and being unladylike in general.   Which is amazing. You know what it's like when you get seven bold personalities together, people who are completely unafraid as long as they're with each other? That's what it's like. I don't know if I know of any group of women that are as intelligent, independent, hilarious, and in control as The Whores.  Well, when you're out of control on purpose, you're still in control, right?

The ridiculous part about that?  He was hitting on us all night and we kept shooting him down, which is why he was so angry.  Also, he neglected to mention that not a single one of us hooked up with anyone at the bar, and that we were with a bunch of dudes, too. 

Image Hosted by

They better not care that I'm putting a picture of us up here. I tried to pick a cleaner one, even though this was nearly two years ago (on Rabbit Night) and M.E. is dressed up like a vibrator. I was going to be Bunnicula, but I just completely failed. And Jesus, my hair is long.

Image Hosted by

The following was written by Xtine (Little Red) former roommate and lead singer of a band currently on hiatus that I horribly, sloppily played in a couple years ago. She does a mean "Jolene" and an even better "Run to the Hills," but her best songs are the ones that she wrote herself.

Ross has what would be characterized to some as a "naughty laugh." And by "some" I mean everyone, but especially British guys who have no shot. The day Rahm Emanuel got posted I texted her saying she must be in love, first because he's hot, and second because nobody is happier to know you have her in mind than Ross. This is in part because she is an accredited life ruiner and wants to control your mind, but that's usually not bad because it means she will get you hooked on Heroes or something equally awesome. Best roomie ever, worst pool partner ever, bag/costume-maker extraordinaire, Bo Peep, big big boobies, and she can do a mean Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Oh, and she's kinesthetic. What more?


Friday, January 2, 2009

Top Ten

1. Instead of just hanging out and getting drunk at the Kalinas' house, Humboldt Gong put me to work again and had me host live band karaoke out in the suburbs.

2. Some hammered glittery girl wanted me to help her sing her songs, which is fine, but unfortunate and embarrassing for me, because it meant that everyone in the bar learned that I know all the words to "Folsom Prison Blues" and "Just a Girl." Seriously, representing Johnny Cash Come Latelies and No Doubt? For shame. I'm too fucking elite for that.

3. Then some people mustered up sixty bucks to have the band play "Mustang Sally" to bring in the New Year, which is fine with me because I don't care what you say, I love that song and I'll sing the fuck out of it (this totally falls within my rights as an elitist). The band (Eli) is being all Johnny Lee Hooker about it (Hooker banned the song from his bar in San Francisco) after an overexposure to blues rock from serving at whatever Chicago blues bar for however long.

I'm granting myself the freedom to be sloppy and long-winded today because it hurts behind my eyes and my elbows are all fucky. Frakkin' two-day hangovers.

4. People start calling the bar around 1:45 asking for me, wondering when I'm gonna hit up the Kalinas' party. They avoid my cell phone, and call the bar at least four times, yelling into the phone, "GET THE DJ. THE ONE ANNOUNCING THE SONGS. SHE'S PROBABLY SINGING 99 RED BALLOONS. AUF DEUTSCH! WHY ISN'T SHE HERE YET?"

5. I leave the bar eventually and head over to the party, where Schmee has already taken off all of her clothes and settled into bed, which is crap because I wanted to get drunk as balls, so me and Phil tried to get her naked ass to hang and failed miserably.

6. Kalina starts force-feeding me Jager (fucker) because I'm not drunk enough. I can't do Jager bombs, because Red Bull and all other forms of energy drink ruin my life. Except for Five Hour, but I am never doing shots of Jager and Five Hour again. Fucking horrible.

7. Drinking, laughing, fun. Drunk Dave gets slurry and yells at me for like ten minutes, all, "Do you love him? You love him. I can fucking tell. You're my woman, and you love him." It was funny at first, and I played along, but he started getting pissed off and serious after awhile. I had to shove him into a chair and calm him down, like, "Fucking Dave, I have no idea what you're talking about. Chill. And I ain't your woman. Have a cigarette, call your girlfriend, and shut up. No, Dave, you light the other end. Goddammit, lemme do it. Here. No, don't hit that, pot makes you puke and we don't have any buckets."

8. Mrs. Kalina (I never call her that, but it's funny because it makes her sound old instead of like, my age) adamantly separates Phil and I at bedtime (about 6AM. I can't hang anymore, man. I was exhausted). She was all ushering people into bedrooms, being a good little married hostess living a big house with her husband and his hammered friends, saying sing-songy things like, "Okay, Phil's in here," while she grabs my shoulders and steers me around, "so you have to sleep in this room. Would you like some water? No, honey, go in this room. Right over here. Don't forget to take off your shoes! Yes, you're sleeping in here. Go to bed. We are not opening another bottle of Jager. Good night, Ross."

9. Am woken up circa 1 PM by jumpy and snuggly MSM, who is still drinking, and Phil, who yells at me for not spooning.

10. It is decided that the first day of the New Year will be "no pants day," which was much funnier when everyone was drunk and now sounds kind of lame.

11. Leftovers are sometimes the best part of a holiday, and NYE leftovers are the greatest of all, because instead of turkey or baby carrots, it's the dregs of thirty bottles of champagne. We hand out mimosas to everyone (all six of us that are left), while I concoct a battalion of bloody marys for the troops. No one can beat my bloody marys, man. Ask around.

12. Drunk Dave returns to the party from an afternoon of drinking at The Can (bar). He has yet to sleep, after leaving the party in a cab, walking his dog, taking a cab back to the party, drinking, taking a cab to The Can, drinking, taking a cab home to get his truck, and driving back to the Kalinas' place with a friend, Drunk Ethan. Smart man, that Drunk Dave

13. While we all sit inside and feel sorry for ourselves and moan about hurt elbows and new bruises, Drunk Dave takes off his pants, sits in the garage, tries to do solitary keg stands and mumbles to himself.

14. Drunk Ethan calls his mom so she can come get him, and passes out while she is on speakerphone, yelling and trying to wake him up and to find out where her son is.

15. Ethan's mom shows up, and Dave still has no pants. "Where are your pants, Dave?" And Dave growls, "Right here" and points to a crumpled mess of clothes on the floor. Then he walks over to Ethan, throws him over his shoulder in a sad attempt to carry him out to his mother's car, but Dave's too hammered and drops Ethan on his head, gets all embarrassed and heads back to the garage like a depressed Charlie Brown.

16. Kalina says, "How much you guys wanna bet Dave's gonna piss himself?"

17. Drunk Dave comes back inside the house to tell us that the keg is dry. And to show us that he pissed himself.

18. It is funny.

19. I have to stop drinking, because it hurts behind my eyes (I'm saying it again, because it really fucking hurt) and I know that I've got a forty five minute drive back home.

20. Drunk Dave provides unending entertainment. Schmee calls out dance moves at random, which Dave attempts and fails at over and over again. The Mashed Potato. The Watusi. The Worm (that's just Dave humping the carpet).

21. During the four hours after I stop drinking, we consume large quantities of this delicious concoction of corned beef and cream cheese with like, onions and heaven mixed in and balled up into a giant beef ball. It is excellent on Triscuits and makes your breath smell awful, but goes well with Bloody Marys and beer.

22. I have one final beer after the four hour hiatus and the courage to leave. Also, me and Schmee dominate Catch Phrase.

Happy New Year, everyone. I know this was long, and I don't care.

Quote of the day: Are these stories real? In reference to things that did not necessarily happen yesterday, but the time when Dainon found the naked crackheads asleep in his backyard. And when Schmee got drunk and high, wasn't allowed to drive home, then convinced herself people had kidnapped her so she snuck out of the house and ran into a church looking for help, and ended up talking to a crisis counselor at the hospital at three in morning, and when asked to explain her behavior, she said, "I don't know, man, I've just been watching a lot of 24."