Month: February 2012

I did a show last weekend put on by my buddy Matt Horn.  The bar was a nice little place and the staff was very cool.  The owner showed us the stage, which had hanging chains all around, ala a sex dungeon.  Not that I know anything about that.  He then exclaimed, “I should probably mop up the floor!”  He ran to the back and grabbed a mop.  As he cleaned up, he said, “We had some girls in here last night wrestling in whipped cream.  It’s a little sticky.”  I was torn between being turned on and vomiting, but it was quite the interesting statement.

These fine patriots allowed smoking in the bar, which is very nostalgic and flips off the do-gooders in our society, which I like.  The drawback is that holy shit, do you stink when you leave.  Kinda forgot about that part.  I’m pretty convinced also that hangovers are worse when breathing smoke all night.  I’m sure it could be proved, if any scientists wanted to waste money trying to prove it.

My Dad grew up outside Pittsburgh, so he taught (brainwashed) me to root for the Steelers.  If they’re in the big game, I treat the game and my social interaction like I have TB and watch it alone, or with him.  Quarantined from the ancillary bullshit.  Other than that, I don’t care.

When it’s whomever vs. whatever, I just drink and bash the commercials.  Enough with the investment baby, I can’t take Danica “getting frisky” – we all know you’re not getting naked.  You or that tranny from Biggest Loser.  Shut up.  Oh, and Pepsi?  I’m drinking Coke now – your commercials are retarded.  Lower jaw man pushing the Pepsi through the combine course.  That’s delicious.

Here’s what you need to know.  The nat’l anthem will be bastardized.  The halftime show will have a neon green flag crops while some band from a generation ago “rocks it!”  The commercials will let you down.  The game?  One in three chance to be a blowout on the epic scale of a Soviet weightlifter getting a prolapsed asshole from squatting 750 lbs.  Me?  I’ll drink, bet on squares, and pray the Steelers get an offensive line so I can enjoy next year.  Eat Doritos, robots.  Frito Lay says so.

Yet another open mike last night.  There is a workshop beforehand where newbies ply their material to make sure they’re not going to rip their pants off and do cartwheels.  Yet, they find a way to entertain me endlessly.  I watched a brand newb go up pre-show and do a bit.  “I don’t drink, b/c I hate to puke.  Plus, I can crank one out (he acted out the “crank out”) and sit in it.”  He went on, but my brain shut off.

My good pal Dan, a professional comic, opined afterwards.  “You lost me.  How does not drinking relate to what followed?”  To my endless enjoyment, he explained – “Well, see…I don’t drink…b/c I love to “crank one out” (he then paused to make sure it sunk in and once again did the jerk off hand motion) then sit in it.”  At this point, I was taking a pull of my delicious beer and I ejaculated a laugh that made me gag on the Bud Select.  I began to choke, when the manager of the open mike, laughing, slapped me on the back – “Are you OK?”  Yes, just enjoying the detailed breakdown by dumbass.  Dan’s point wasn’t what is the order of the lines, it was how the blue hell do you bring up not drinking and wind up sitting in your spooge?  The fact that he didn’t get that and broke it down made my Wednesday.  See what you miss behind the scenes?

I took my woman to a casino last weekend and it was nice.  Instead of a non-smoking room, they gave us a smoking room, but at least they compensated me by giving me a 0% discount.  Oh wait, that’s not compensation at all.  I, of course, won almost $200 because I am a man that operates with great skill on the periphery of society’s morality and rules.  I was downing beers like my throat was on fire, winning money, and engaging in general debauchery – it was great.

The next morning I decided we should enjoy a sit down meal right there at the casino.  My stomach was stretched from the previous night’s alcohol to the size of a waterbed, so I was starving.  As I sat down, a little hungover, my eyes drifted to the perfect treat – the Cajun Meatloaf Tower.  Spicy for the hangover, the gravy soaked meat and mashed potatoes beckoned me like a Siren’s song.  Oh the joy!  I went after the treat like a drowning man goes for a breath of air.  About 2/3 of the way through (the nacho appetizer didn’t help), I realized the Faustian deal was souring and the devil was about to collect.

I was full, but functional for about three hours.  Then the Cajun Meatloaf Tower overran my digestive system like the Huns storming the gates of Rome.  Painful cramps nearly brought me to my knees as I prayed for my girlfriend to suddenly have a desire to go for a walk or shop for the next two hours…or days at that point.  I held it all in until the skiing commenced, then finally achieved sweet release as I crop dusted snow boarding teens and old verterans of the slopes alike.  I am pretty sure any pregnant women in the area were induced into labor by the invasive, creeping fog and small mammals curled up and died instantly.  It was so bad, I had a hard time drinking, because my stomach would resist any more calories until the evil and merciless meatloaf tower had its way raping and pillaging my bowels.

It has been days, but I still can feel the pain.  The screams still echo of the mountain sides in Pennsylvania.  Remember this children, when you kneel down to pray at night – ask God to bless your family, forgive your sins, and keep you from the temptation of the soulless Cajun Meatloaf Tower.  Amen.