2/11/2009
Fiiiiiiinaaaaallllllly
We have found what could be the democratic Joe the Plumber... Julio the Idiot that Works at McDonalds!
Just sit down, kid. You're embarrassing, well, America. Want better benefits? Join the Navy.
Just sit down, kid. You're embarrassing, well, America. Want better benefits? Join the Navy.
Labels: Recruiting idiots for the Navy, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
1/06/2009
Where We Are Headed
The more and more I hear about the economic stimulus plan the incoming presidential administration is waiting to adopt, the more I think someone high up reads my blog.
Just legalize pot and get it over with, Big O.
Seriously, this old idea string sounds realistic now, no?
Just legalize pot and get it over with, Big O.
Seriously, this old idea string sounds realistic now, no?
Labels: politicking, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
10/19/2008
Where I Stand
Since I don't honestly agree with either candidate for president on all of the issues (although, were I to hire only one of them to run my life for the next four years, Obama would win 99% of the time, hence the adamant endorsement), this is the platform I would run on if I wasn't a 28 years old, alcoholic, budhatholic, non college graduate, moral derelict, long haired asshole who might just fucking curse too god damn fucking much. Yes, this is my plan for running for Presidency:
Al Fritz: A New Beginning
(Welcome to Thunderdome, bitches! Prepare for rape!)
I have only one word to describe how America was founded. What this country fought for to gain it's independence and beat back the oppressive, rapists arms of the tyranny. And the creepy, pretty rapist arms of the Brits. One, as the pig latins would say, owrday: Tariffs.
We are going to impose a whole lot of them on anything coming in, and anything going out. 30% for the next three years. Don't like it? Buy American, sell American. Are we going to be isolationists now? Kind of, at least for the next three years, until we fix this country, not another one.
A flat tax for all incomes. 35% the first year, 40% the next three years. Don't like it? Leave. Less people to take care of makes it an easier job to do. Enjoy the capitalist country of your choosing (a list which is slimming down here). We look forward to you coming back in four years when the country is back to where it should be.
Get the government into business. The business of providing jobs: Jobs building roads, running power plants, maintaining and strengthening the power and telecommunications infrastructure, and making cars. Yes, cars. More on that later.
Our roads freaking suck. The one thing that I took away from driving around Kuwait is that good roads feel like you are driving on pillows. Our roads feel like you are driving on terrible fucking roads.
Get the nation off of oil (and not just foreign oil, all oil. Sure, you can still buy gas if you want to drive your truck muddin' for fun, but it will be oil that has been taxed the fuck out of -- and it's oil which we have still taxed the shit out of, because getting the fuck out of it stilllll wasn't enough -- and it will cost around $20 a gallon. Buy it if you want to, but you will do so with the realization that your "hobby" of muddin' is fucking moronic) by the end of my first term and, consequently, get the military out of the Middle East.
Speaking of: A bigger, more effective military. We train for cold weather in Canada and hot weather in Mexico. Three new MEUs and three new carriers will float the world, at all times, ready to strike. A bigger, better Army and a bigger, better Air Force. A stealth in the air at all times.
Although, since we have left Mecca, the terrorists probably wont have beef with us any longer and the world will be a bit safer.
Marijuana, you're now legal. And taxed. 30%.
Gays, go get married in any courthouse you like. File joint taxes, adopt kids, do everything that straight couples can do. You're now legally married. Try not to get divorced as much as us, though. I'll leave it up to your churches to decide whether or not God approves of your union.
Roe v Wade, my position is clear. As the great twentieth century politicizer Kang once said "Abortions for some, miniature American flags for others."
I actually really like Obama's health care plan and fake Military style-ish draft for free college in exchange for community service (I think he might have stolen that one from me, actually). Those stay.
Teachers, your salary now starts off at 60K a year, topping off at 90K; a raise of one grand every year you stay in the profession, not to exceed thirty years. If your class fails to meet testing standards -- which will be high and independent in every school district, free of nationwide standardized testing -- you lose 10K. The first time it happens. 20K the second in five years. Fail three times in eight years, you're fired.
Strengthen our infrastructure: highways, electric, etc. We've got a big crush of electricity about to hit our grid, and cars to hit the high and/or bigh ways.
An expanded railway system to help get some semis off the highways. And expanded commuter systems to get cars off of the streets.
A nuclear plant per state. Windmills, windmills, windmills. Your roof is now covered in solar panels and powers your house. We, the gov, paid for it. You're welcome and the warranty runs out on it when I leave office in a few years.
Free e-cars for everyone at the end of year three of my presidency (Don't think we can do it? We put a fucking man on the moon forty god damn years ago. We have built an e-car. And it's driving around motherfucking MARS!) Your e-car warranty covers it through my presidency at your local Ford-GM-Chrysler dealership.
Speaking of putting a man on the moon and a car on Mars, NASA, you're out of business for a few years. If we can scrap the space program for three years while we rebuild our nations bridges and get the United States military out of the global cross hairs, so be it. Sorry, Neptune.
Maybe you're worried that you'll lose your home or small business because of these tax hikes. You won't. Because my predecessor went all socialist his last few months in office and we own these motherfucking banks. We ain't foreclosing, brother. Can't make your payments? Go down to the local Secretary of the Interior office and sit down with a rep. Show him how much you make monthly and we will hash out a payment plan that you can afford. It's better off than the bank foreclosing your property for thirty cents on the dollar. Lets really bailout you, Joe Sixpack/Plumber.
And all of you good hardworking people that have been paying your 200K mortgage off at 6.8%, lets bail you out too. Come on down and we will refinance you at 5.5. Why? Because we can. We own the fucking banks. We just bailed out billions and billions of dollars to companies which ran themselves into the ground and were rewarded for their incompetence. We can afford to shave 15 grand off of your house. Besides, it's not worth what you bought it for anyway, six months ago.
What happens after three years of my Presidency? Either the nation is on the upswing and they vote me back in or it is not and they do not. But, I'd be willing to bet it will be looking good.
Good enough that in years five through eight of my presidency, we still have a flat tax. Of motherfucking 18%.
Because we no longer need to pay for protecting oil halfway around the world. We have new, safer roads. New cars (which Detroit won't mind upgrading for you, of course). Better transportation. New jobs fixing solar panels and windmills and down at the local plant and blah blah blah. A better, non being shot at military. Better schools. The same health care (is it really that bad now? I've had gov health care. It sucks and you don't want it.) More affordable homes. And less dumb ass missions to Mars.
And who is the VP? Television's Richard Moll, of course! Every time I do something ridiculous, "Bull" slaps his head, hilarity ensues, and I get off scott free. This VP selection is so easy, I kind of expect Sarah Palin to come up with a catch phrase like "Nah-Uh, Sista, he dih-int!" to use whenever Biden makes a guffaw or McCain throws a zinger just for comedic effect.
Yes, your taxes will be high for the next four years, but we will restore this great nation of ours and make it awesome.
Or, just go the opposite route. Either way, really.
Al Fritz: A New Beginning
(Welcome to Thunderdome, bitches! Prepare for rape!)
I have only one word to describe how America was founded. What this country fought for to gain it's independence and beat back the oppressive, rapists arms of the tyranny. And the creepy, pretty rapist arms of the Brits. One, as the pig latins would say, owrday: Tariffs.
We are going to impose a whole lot of them on anything coming in, and anything going out. 30% for the next three years. Don't like it? Buy American, sell American. Are we going to be isolationists now? Kind of, at least for the next three years, until we fix this country, not another one.
A flat tax for all incomes. 35% the first year, 40% the next three years. Don't like it? Leave. Less people to take care of makes it an easier job to do. Enjoy the capitalist country of your choosing (a list which is slimming down here). We look forward to you coming back in four years when the country is back to where it should be.
Get the government into business. The business of providing jobs: Jobs building roads, running power plants, maintaining and strengthening the power and telecommunications infrastructure, and making cars. Yes, cars. More on that later.
Our roads freaking suck. The one thing that I took away from driving around Kuwait is that good roads feel like you are driving on pillows. Our roads feel like you are driving on terrible fucking roads.
Get the nation off of oil (and not just foreign oil, all oil. Sure, you can still buy gas if you want to drive your truck muddin' for fun, but it will be oil that has been taxed the fuck out of -- and it's oil which we have still taxed the shit out of, because getting the fuck out of it stilllll wasn't enough -- and it will cost around $20 a gallon. Buy it if you want to, but you will do so with the realization that your "hobby" of muddin' is fucking moronic) by the end of my first term and, consequently, get the military out of the Middle East.
Speaking of: A bigger, more effective military. We train for cold weather in Canada and hot weather in Mexico. Three new MEUs and three new carriers will float the world, at all times, ready to strike. A bigger, better Army and a bigger, better Air Force. A stealth in the air at all times.
Although, since we have left Mecca, the terrorists probably wont have beef with us any longer and the world will be a bit safer.
Marijuana, you're now legal. And taxed. 30%.
Gays, go get married in any courthouse you like. File joint taxes, adopt kids, do everything that straight couples can do. You're now legally married. Try not to get divorced as much as us, though. I'll leave it up to your churches to decide whether or not God approves of your union.
Roe v Wade, my position is clear. As the great twentieth century politicizer Kang once said "Abortions for some, miniature American flags for others."
I actually really like Obama's health care plan and fake Military style-ish draft for free college in exchange for community service (I think he might have stolen that one from me, actually). Those stay.
Teachers, your salary now starts off at 60K a year, topping off at 90K; a raise of one grand every year you stay in the profession, not to exceed thirty years. If your class fails to meet testing standards -- which will be high and independent in every school district, free of nationwide standardized testing -- you lose 10K. The first time it happens. 20K the second in five years. Fail three times in eight years, you're fired.
Strengthen our infrastructure: highways, electric, etc. We've got a big crush of electricity about to hit our grid, and cars to hit the high and/or bigh ways.
An expanded railway system to help get some semis off the highways. And expanded commuter systems to get cars off of the streets.
A nuclear plant per state. Windmills, windmills, windmills. Your roof is now covered in solar panels and powers your house. We, the gov, paid for it. You're welcome and the warranty runs out on it when I leave office in a few years.
Free e-cars for everyone at the end of year three of my presidency (Don't think we can do it? We put a fucking man on the moon forty god damn years ago. We have built an e-car. And it's driving around motherfucking MARS!) Your e-car warranty covers it through my presidency at your local Ford-GM-Chrysler dealership.
Speaking of putting a man on the moon and a car on Mars, NASA, you're out of business for a few years. If we can scrap the space program for three years while we rebuild our nations bridges and get the United States military out of the global cross hairs, so be it. Sorry, Neptune.
Maybe you're worried that you'll lose your home or small business because of these tax hikes. You won't. Because my predecessor went all socialist his last few months in office and we own these motherfucking banks. We ain't foreclosing, brother. Can't make your payments? Go down to the local Secretary of the Interior office and sit down with a rep. Show him how much you make monthly and we will hash out a payment plan that you can afford. It's better off than the bank foreclosing your property for thirty cents on the dollar. Lets really bailout you, Joe Sixpack/Plumber.
And all of you good hardworking people that have been paying your 200K mortgage off at 6.8%, lets bail you out too. Come on down and we will refinance you at 5.5. Why? Because we can. We own the fucking banks. We just bailed out billions and billions of dollars to companies which ran themselves into the ground and were rewarded for their incompetence. We can afford to shave 15 grand off of your house. Besides, it's not worth what you bought it for anyway, six months ago.
What happens after three years of my Presidency? Either the nation is on the upswing and they vote me back in or it is not and they do not. But, I'd be willing to bet it will be looking good.
Good enough that in years five through eight of my presidency, we still have a flat tax. Of motherfucking 18%.
Because we no longer need to pay for protecting oil halfway around the world. We have new, safer roads. New cars (which Detroit won't mind upgrading for you, of course). Better transportation. New jobs fixing solar panels and windmills and down at the local plant and blah blah blah. A better, non being shot at military. Better schools. The same health care (is it really that bad now? I've had gov health care. It sucks and you don't want it.) More affordable homes. And less dumb ass missions to Mars.
And who is the VP? Television's Richard Moll, of course! Every time I do something ridiculous, "Bull" slaps his head, hilarity ensues, and I get off scott free. This VP selection is so easy, I kind of expect Sarah Palin to come up with a catch phrase like "Nah-Uh, Sista, he dih-int!" to use whenever Biden makes a guffaw or McCain throws a zinger just for comedic effect.
Yes, your taxes will be high for the next four years, but we will restore this great nation of ours and make it awesome.
Or, just go the opposite route. Either way, really.
Labels: Bull, If I Ruled the World, politicking, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
10/17/2008
Mo Propmendments 2008
Two and a half weeks until the elections are over and I can stop thinking about politics and go back to obsessing on how the Cardinals can acquire an actual shortstop this offseason and why I can't teach my dog to talk like Brian Griffin (I can get him to talk like Gilbert Gottfried, and good god is that annoying).
I do wish there was a Senatorial election in Missouri this cycle, mainly so I could vote against Claire McCaskill for voting for the "bailout" after she said she wouldn't if it included any pork, but also because a filibuster-proof Senate (which is possible) to go along with a Democratic White House is way too much power for a group that, were they to be a baseball team, would probably be the Cubs. I mean, these guys can fuck up anything.
Anyhoo, on to the local offices:
On to the props!
[have a fantastic fall weekend, everybody. invest in chimineas!]
I do wish there was a Senatorial election in Missouri this cycle, mainly so I could vote against Claire McCaskill for voting for the "bailout" after she said she wouldn't if it included any pork, but also because a filibuster-proof Senate (which is possible) to go along with a Democratic White House is way too much power for a group that, were they to be a baseball team, would probably be the Cubs. I mean, these guys can fuck up anything.
Anyhoo, on to the local offices:
- For Lt. Governor of Missouri, which is a job that nobody knows what they do (I think it envolves driving a boat) The FYC endorses Peter Kinder (R) over Sam Page (D), because Kinder watches the History Channel and Page's favorite TV show is Scrubs. Scrubs sucks. (Yeah, Gallo, I said it.)
- For Governor of Missouri, we take the focus away from TV and head to the library to find out what kind of books these two guys which I don't like read. And with that info, the endorsement goes to: Jay Nixon (D) over Ken Hulshof (R). Why? Nixon's favorite author is Stephen Ambrose, Hulshof is a John Grisham fan. That one is a slam dunk. Also, Hulshof is annoying to spell.
On to the props!
- Proposition A would like to repeal a cap on gambling losses, which has crippled the hilarious gambling loss story industry for years, and increase the casino tax one percentile. A vote for Yes shall be wagered.
- Prop B would make it easier for the elderly to get care inside their home instead of having to move into a nursing home. You would think that after struggling through the Great Depression, WW2, the Korean War, the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam, and the last thirty years, the old would be able to just suck it up and move into a home (my grandparents moved into a retirement home this year and it's like they're living at an all inclusive resort. Color me jealous.), but they won't. They're all "I want my dignity!" as apple sauce dribbles down their shirt and why does it smell like gold bond powder in the kitchen? Whatever, I'll vote Yes.
- Prop C would require, and I quote (hence the quotations):
"[I]nvestor-owned electric utilities to generate or purchase electricity from renewable energy sources such as solar, wind, biomass (including ethanol) and hydropower. The required renewable energy sources must equal the following percentages of retail sales:
2% by 2011
5% by 2014
10% by 2018
15% by 2021."
Initially, this seems like something I could get behind. But then I realize it's not nearly as aggressive as I would like it to be. And where the fuck is nuclear? Nice try, but No.
- Amendment 1 is the most important amendment on the ballot, obviously, because it's first. It is also first in: Retardation. Amendment one would like to make English the official language of Missouri, which would hurt half of the business done at the local Home Depot and 80% of the soccer played around St Louis. Have you ever talked to a heated up Serb? Good luck telling him to speak English. Because he can't even understand what your saying. Vote: No! Or, in Spanish: ¡No!
- I honestly don't understand Amendment 4 (Bonds? Formulas? Geography?) so I'll probably just ask the old black women that will inevitably be working at the polling place how I should vote. Verdict: Ask the black lady.
[have a fantastic fall weekend, everybody. invest in chimineas!]
Labels: I used the word because a lot, Local Politickin, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
10/13/2008
I Am White.
I realized during dinner yesterday that The Wife and I officially are the people this guy has been writing about.
Really white things I did Sunday:
1. Grabbed donuts and coffee at the local donut shop.
2. Drove my Honda to work.
3. Thought about my dog (The Wife took him to a pumpkin patch).
4. Came home from work, read the Sunday paper (excellent endorsement article, by the by).
5. Drove my other Honda to the local Obama office to get a yard sign*
6. Had a very nice sushi dinner at the local sushi spot.
7. Enjoyed an evening of wine, Iron Chef America, Non-Cardinals baseball playoffs, Entourage, and I am Trying to Break Your Heart on the basement couch with the dog and Wife.
On the whiteness scale of one to ten, I think my Sunday came in at an 8.5. A trip to REI/Whole Foods, wearing some North Face stuff, or tossing the Frisbee at the park would have gotten me a ten, but I had to put in seven hours at the ol' air base. Which, I guess, is pretty white too.
My god I've gotten lame in my advanced years.
*I absolutely loathe yard signs, but the neighbor has a McCain/Palin one and we just have to keep up with the Jones.**
**His last name isn't Jones, it's just a saying.***
***Actually, I don't know what his last name is. Maybe it is Jones?
Really white things I did Sunday:
1. Grabbed donuts and coffee at the local donut shop.
2. Drove my Honda to work.
3. Thought about my dog (The Wife took him to a pumpkin patch).
4. Came home from work, read the Sunday paper (excellent endorsement article, by the by).
5. Drove my other Honda to the local Obama office to get a yard sign*
6. Had a very nice sushi dinner at the local sushi spot.
7. Enjoyed an evening of wine, Iron Chef America, Non-Cardinals baseball playoffs, Entourage, and I am Trying to Break Your Heart on the basement couch with the dog and Wife.
On the whiteness scale of one to ten, I think my Sunday came in at an 8.5. A trip to REI/Whole Foods, wearing some North Face stuff, or tossing the Frisbee at the park would have gotten me a ten, but I had to put in seven hours at the ol' air base. Which, I guess, is pretty white too.
My god I've gotten lame in my advanced years.
*I absolutely loathe yard signs, but the neighbor has a McCain/Palin one and we just have to keep up with the Jones.**
**His last name isn't Jones, it's just a saying.***
***Actually, I don't know what his last name is. Maybe it is Jones?
Labels: Lame, Sterotypical Whiteness, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
8/01/2008
The Man Who Made Mike Nadel More Famous
Yesterday morn, after pursing my hometown's local rag, I forwarded this bizzare column about Erin Andrews whoring it up (or something) in the Cubs locker room to The Big Lead which morphed into this post on Deadspin, then this on TBL, and these on the internets, and this interview with Nadel on Deadspin.
Honestly, I've always liked Erin Andrews (who, while attractive, isn't any hotter than a lot of broads you see at bars these days) (yes, I still say "broads". I also wear fedoras.) (And I also say "these days", making me apparently 68 years old) and she takes too much shit just because she's attractive. howerver, flitting around (whatever the fuck "flitting" means) the Cubs clubhouse is beyond strange, and I figured TBL would like to hear about it. Since I'm one of twelve people who actually reads a paper Nadel writes for, I figured I'd be the only one to spread the message on this weird, weird topic.
(Honestly: "At one point, she placed her hand suggestively on Soriano's left bicep."? How'd this guy even get through junior high?)
The column originally penned didn't come across to me as jealous as it did to some others. It had legs but ended up falling flat on it's face, ending as well as a Joel Pinerio start.
Nadels' not a bad columnist, he's just not funny. When he tries to be, it doesn't translate and makes for a sad trombone.
So, in conclusion, I need to stop reading random papers and forwarding articles before I kill what Al Gore invented. Also, I need to write more on this here digital toilet. And Erin Andrews showing it off in the Cubs locker room kind of pisses me off as a Cardinals fan. What, Braden Looper doesn't do it for you? The guys got an eight inch cock... around.
Honestly, I've always liked Erin Andrews (who, while attractive, isn't any hotter than a lot of broads you see at bars these days) (yes, I still say "broads". I also wear fedoras.) (And I also say "these days", making me apparently 68 years old) and she takes too much shit just because she's attractive. howerver, flitting around (whatever the fuck "flitting" means) the Cubs clubhouse is beyond strange, and I figured TBL would like to hear about it. Since I'm one of twelve people who actually reads a paper Nadel writes for, I figured I'd be the only one to spread the message on this weird, weird topic.
(Honestly: "At one point, she placed her hand suggestively on Soriano's left bicep."? How'd this guy even get through junior high?)
The column originally penned didn't come across to me as jealous as it did to some others. It had legs but ended up falling flat on it's face, ending as well as a Joel Pinerio start.
Nadels' not a bad columnist, he's just not funny. When he tries to be, it doesn't translate and makes for a sad trombone.
So, in conclusion, I need to stop reading random papers and forwarding articles before I kill what Al Gore invented. Also, I need to write more on this here digital toilet. And Erin Andrews showing it off in the Cubs locker room kind of pisses me off as a Cardinals fan. What, Braden Looper doesn't do it for you? The guys got an eight inch cock... around.
Labels: Links, Mike Nadel Still Sucks, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
6/24/2008
Retro Summer '08
I had a theory which I debuted to skeptic ears at a rocking Summer Solstice bbq Saturday evening:
Summer 2008: Retro Summer!
Everything that has already happened and is about to happen in this glorious, messed up, wicked summer of 2008 already happened before, while my friends and I were all between the ages of nine and sixteen. Cases in point:
There are other similarities out there, I'm sure. Drop 'em off below if you got 'em.
(Yes, all of this giddy, god forsaken, fascinating optimism is probably because this is the best I have felt this late into the summer about a Cardinals team since Ought Five and feeling good about the old hometown nine by the time air conditioner weather makes not just for a great summer, but for a great outlook all around. In fact, I'm going to go look at my 1992 Score box set and giggle.)
Summer 2008: Retro Summer!
Everything that has already happened and is about to happen in this glorious, messed up, wicked summer of 2008 already happened before, while my friends and I were all between the ages of nine and sixteen. Cases in point:
- Indiana Jones and Batman both having box office smashes. You throw a Dick Tracy into the mix and you've got the scuttlebutt of my entire 4th grade year summed up there.
- Floods. Somebody get Gregg Jeffries putting up a 142 OPS+ for the 87-75 Cardinals, and it's 1993 in a nutshell.
- Olympics. Who will be this years Shannon Miller? Hopefully nobody since me being attracted to a 15 year old now will get me locked up in federal pound you in the ass prison.
- Presidential Elections!! Yay! It's an old white guy against America's first (actual) black president!
- Gatorade flavored gum. It's out there somewhere, I just know it.
- I'd be willing to bet dollars to tasty Donut Drive-In Donuts that we'll be having a 1995 style heat wave, and I will ride it out with nothing but sleeveless t-s and ice cold iced fucking tea.
There are other similarities out there, I'm sure. Drop 'em off below if you got 'em.
(Yes, all of this giddy, god forsaken, fascinating optimism is probably because this is the best I have felt this late into the summer about a Cardinals team since Ought Five and feeling good about the old hometown nine by the time air conditioner weather makes not just for a great summer, but for a great outlook all around. In fact, I'm going to go look at my 1992 Score box set and giggle.)
Labels: More Burbs Refrences Please, Retro Summer, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
6/20/2008
Made me giggle
6/14/2008
The Uglysuit
These guys opened for iron & wine at the Pageant last night... Pretty good stuff. I talked briefly to one of their three guitarists (who do these guys think they are, The Outlaws?) and figured I should recommend them to you, one of the nine people whom still read this rag, since most of the people who share my sense of dick jokes humor also share my sense of music.
So, um... check them out, jerk.
So, um... check them out, jerk.
Labels: Music, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
5/30/2008
Bloggy Mc Blogs
Two new blogs to check out while you listen to Kicking Television on itunes and remember just how awesome Wilco's shows at the Pageant were two weeks back and wonder why they don't just play there every night (they'd sell out, no?).
The Rebirth of Slack. Cause you can't keep a nigga down. Even when a "nigga" is a white jew from Lawn Gisland who loves Phish, soccer, and cock, Ace Cowboy is back to rock your god damn muther fucing socks off with racist jokes and half formed opinions. Keep us entertained this summer, Ace.
New Cards blog at the RFT: The Rundown written by the fantastic writer known at VEB as El Rojo De Baron, Aaron Schafer. I'll lie and say that I'm not at all jealous that I'm not the one writing about the Cards at the RFT (I am a two time winner of "local blog 'o the week" there and I do bother their editor every year that the Cards are in the post season that he should get me free tickets to the playoff games and let me write "Man On The Street" columns), but Aaron is approx a 9,000 times better writer than myself, so his new blog serves the general public in a much better manner than anything I would have written (knock knock jokes and crude drawings of a half naked -- bottom half, yes -- Dave McKay).
Anyhoo... check 'em out.
[and have a great late spring summer. try the schafly pilsner.]
The Rebirth of Slack. Cause you can't keep a nigga down. Even when a "nigga" is a white jew from Lawn Gisland who loves Phish, soccer, and cock, Ace Cowboy is back to rock your god damn muther fucing socks off with racist jokes and half formed opinions. Keep us entertained this summer, Ace.
New Cards blog at the RFT: The Rundown written by the fantastic writer known at VEB as El Rojo De Baron, Aaron Schafer. I'll lie and say that I'm not at all jealous that I'm not the one writing about the Cards at the RFT (I am a two time winner of "local blog 'o the week" there and I do bother their editor every year that the Cards are in the post season that he should get me free tickets to the playoff games and let me write "Man On The Street" columns), but Aaron is approx a 9,000 times better writer than myself, so his new blog serves the general public in a much better manner than anything I would have written (knock knock jokes and crude drawings of a half naked -- bottom half, yes -- Dave McKay).
Anyhoo... check 'em out.
[and have a great late spring summer. try the schafly pilsner.]
Labels: Links, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
5/27/2008
Hey World
Meet Yadi Fritz.
He enjoys lying on the floor, laying on the floor, and napping. He also seems to enjoy hamburgers, walks, and (if I have anything to say about it) will soon enjoy watching his name sake pick off baserunners.
Also, he kind of looks like real Yadi, what with the man-liner and everything:
Labels: Little Yadier Molina Fritz Esq, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
5/07/2008
Harumph
Following a weekend in Atlanta that made me puke and/or poop in and/or above four states and two time zones on our flight back Sunday afternoon, The wife and I closed on our new house Monday. You know what that means: Moving Week.
I woke up this morning at eight and immediately starting piling shit into the CRV. Four trips and five hours later, I was more than fucking wiped. And our apartment is maybe 1/4 empty. Sweet. Then I got to drive into work [where I did randomly run across long time friend of the show Rob who works for the man out in Cali and apparently does not trust my agency (nor should he -- they employ me)which was a sudden, random, and kind of awesome encounter, in the whole scope of the universe type thing (and this is the second time in a year this has happened -- he met a friend of mine from Peoria in a bar around this time last year through mutual friends)]. So, long fucking day.
But you know what makes it better? Whiskey and packing for tomorrow's move, listening to this:
And I've got a few projects lined up for the new house in the next month or two that I am super pumped about... I'll update on here accordingly, 'cause God only knows, if the people want updates on Al Fritz's home improvement projects, he will God damn give them to them.
(PS. This hot Redbirds start has me flustered. they're ten games over /500 on siete de mayo and the only ones not playing over their heads are Pujols and Ludwick -- whom one could argue is overperforming, but I believe in deeply -- starnge, awesome, great team so far. Looks to be a great 08 summer in the lou.)
I woke up this morning at eight and immediately starting piling shit into the CRV. Four trips and five hours later, I was more than fucking wiped. And our apartment is maybe 1/4 empty. Sweet. Then I got to drive into work [where I did randomly run across long time friend of the show Rob who works for the man out in Cali and apparently does not trust my agency (nor should he -- they employ me)which was a sudden, random, and kind of awesome encounter, in the whole scope of the universe type thing (and this is the second time in a year this has happened -- he met a friend of mine from Peoria in a bar around this time last year through mutual friends)]. So, long fucking day.
But you know what makes it better? Whiskey and packing for tomorrow's move, listening to this:
And I've got a few projects lined up for the new house in the next month or two that I am super pumped about... I'll update on here accordingly, 'cause God only knows, if the people want updates on Al Fritz's home improvement projects, he will God damn give them to them.
(PS. This hot Redbirds start has me flustered. they're ten games over /500 on siete de mayo and the only ones not playing over their heads are Pujols and Ludwick -- whom one could argue is overperforming, but I believe in deeply -- starnge, awesome, great team so far. Looks to be a great 08 summer in the lou.)
Labels: Moving sucks, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
4/24/2008
I Don't Even Know Me Anymore
I have no idea why I still have this blog. It's more than apparent that I am updating as infrequently as possible; what's ol' Al been up to you ask? Well, since I last regularly posted, I've gone back to working for el governmento --in a capacity which I actually enjoy, meaning that for the first time since I worked at the neighborhood Thompson Food Basket back in '97, I am getting paid to do something which I like and that every day is no longer the worst day of my life (it got to the point at my last job that I would think to myself, driving in, that I wouldn't mind getting in a car accident. That was the time to get out. And to get some xanax) -- The Wife and I have bought a house, we're a few weeks away from getting a dog, and I may or may not have a man crush on Brian Barton. So, as you can see, stuff has happened; just not a lot.
The main problem with keeping up on this blog thing is the new job. My last job left me with, out of seven hours in the office, six and a half hours of downtime a day (seriously). The new gig allows me about half an hour of brain off time per day. And if I'm not on my toes, from time to time there is a distinct possibility that someone might die, which is a hell of a lot more motivating (and at the end of the day, gratifying) than working just hard enough to not be hassled or fired.
So what becomes of the FYC as Al enters this summer (and possible beyond) of adulthood, responsibilities, and drunkenness (I haven;t changed that must)?
I don't know. I hope to post more often, albeit probably short thoughts, but we shall see.
Until then, watch this:
The main problem with keeping up on this blog thing is the new job. My last job left me with, out of seven hours in the office, six and a half hours of downtime a day (seriously). The new gig allows me about half an hour of brain off time per day. And if I'm not on my toes, from time to time there is a distinct possibility that someone might die, which is a hell of a lot more motivating (and at the end of the day, gratifying) than working just hard enough to not be hassled or fired.
So what becomes of the FYC as Al enters this summer (and possible beyond) of adulthood, responsibilities, and drunkenness (I haven;t changed that must)?
I don't know. I hope to post more often, albeit probably short thoughts, but we shall see.
Until then, watch this:
Labels: alduthood stinks, Giving up the blog, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
1/29/2008
Well This is Just Insane
12/07/2007
I Should Have Been Born in 1870
Via a link from The Sportsfrog, I cyber stumbled across a piece from 1898 up for auction at the Robert Edwards Auction House. It was issued by the National League and is entitled "Special Instructions To Players."
I'll let the REA blog describe it further:
"Reading this document started out very drab for a sentence or two, but then quickly got our attention as the language used became very unexpected for an official Major League baseball document, let alone one devoted to demanding players not use "any indecent or obscene word, sentence, or expression." It turned "blue," and, well, got "bluer."
This piece is ironic as it provides many examples of exactly the kind of "brutal language" that was being outlawed. In fact, it is so over the top that at first we thought it was some type of a joke. But as we examined the paper, found that this language did exist in the 1890s, considered that general rowdiness and the use of obscene language by players were big issues in baseball in this era, and noted that the accompanying items were all from the same era, we soon realized that that this was not a joke at all.
This was actually a fascinating and historically significant baseball document, distributed to National League players, that captures an aspect of professional baseball from the rough-and-tumble single-League 1890s era that is not well documented. Granted, in terms of language, it is also the most offensive official Major League baseball document that we have ever seen.
That makes it all the more amusing to us, but we also recognize that maybe this is a piece that isn't for the entire family. Truck drivers, yes, sailors, yes, ballplayers in the 1890s, obviously yes. But probably not everyone."
The entire document can be viewed here, with it broken down into two sections for easier foul language reading top and bottom.
The document begins with (and was apparently inspired by) the following anecdote:
"In a contest between two leading clubs during the championship season of 1897, the stands being crowded with patrons of the game, a gentleman occupying a seat in the front row near the players bench asked one of the visiting players who was going to pitch for them. The player made no reply. He then asked a second time. The gentleman, his wife who sat with him, and others of both sexes, within hearing distance, were outraged upon hearing the player reply in a loud, brutal tone, 'Oh, go fuck yourself.'"
That is fucking awesome.
Other outlawed phrases included: "You cock-sucking son of a bitch", "You prick eating bastard", "You cunt lapping dog," and a litany of others.
Just thought one or two other of my fellow baseball history dorks might find it interesting.
And, of course, I'd be remiss not to include a link to the most informative video on Olde Tyme Baseball ever produced.
(Also, if Rolen thought La Russa's letter was too rough, imagine if TLR would have said: "A dog must have fucked your mother when she made you." Olde Tymes sound awesome.)
[have a great winterly weekend, boys and girls. enjoy the x-mas parties and pugilistic exhibitions.]
Labels: Based Balls, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
12/06/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Six and Seven: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
Tito likes to drink.
Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.
(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)
The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.
That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."
Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:
"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."
Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.
The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)
We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.
We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."
Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.
Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*
Tuesday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.
The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.
When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.
The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:
In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.
Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**
*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.
**Ditto.
Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.
(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)
The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.
That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."
Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:
"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."
Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.
The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)
We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.
We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."
Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.
Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*
Tuesday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.
The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.
When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.
The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:
In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.
Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**
*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.
**Ditto.
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
12/02/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Four and Five: A Wedding and a Hangover
A day, Saturday, my wedding day, in pictures -- many thanks to Matt, Jaquie (who apparently doesn't like being referred to as a coked out lesbian on the internet; my bad, Jaq), and a perhaps bisexual Spaniard who followed us around for an hour, making us pose in very odd manors, until I was near punching him in the eye and he left us alone.
The Groom:
A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:
The dudes:
During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:
Fists of victory:
The happy couple:
The wedding party:
Ever'body:
(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)
White people dancing:
Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:
From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.
From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.
And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.
Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.
That's really all I remember.
Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
The Groom:
A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:
The dudes:
During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:
Fists of victory:
The happy couple:
The wedding party:
Ever'body:
(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)
White people dancing:
Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:
From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.
From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.
And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.
Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.
That's really all I remember.
Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, pics, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/29/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Two & Three: Pot, Kool Aid Man, and a Belly Flop Competition
Two great things we learned Thursday morning:
1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and
2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")
Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.
Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.
Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.
"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.
"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."
"Fine. Lets do it."
We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.
And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.
Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.
Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.
While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.
And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.
Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.
On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.
Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.
I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.
Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).
And participate Josh did.
He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.
But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.
His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.
After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.
The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."
I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.
As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.
Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath
1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and
2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")
Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.
Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.
Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.
"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.
"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."
"Fine. Lets do it."
We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.
And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.
Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.
Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.
While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.
And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.
Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.
On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.
Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.
I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.
Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).
And participate Josh did.
He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.
But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.
His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.
After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.
The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."
I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.
As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.
Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/27/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Day One: Fun in a Fountain
I woke up around midnight Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning to The Wife banging around in our other bedroom, trying to weigh luggage or something. I really don't know what the hell she was doing, but it was loud. And annoying. She couldn't sleep and was doing counter-productive last minute packing. We had a taxi coming at 4:30 to take us to the airport and if she didn't get any sleep (I had been assed out for about four hours at this point), she'd have been a big bowl of suck traveling.
After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.
I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.
From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.
I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.
Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)
We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.
And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.
Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.
After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.
I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.
From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.
I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.
Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.
And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.
Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/09/2007
It's Fakesgiving Time
The Lady Friend and I now have a tradition of being out of the country for Thanksgiving the last two years in a row -- which seems odd to me as Thanksgiving Week in Peoria was my favorite week of the year for about five years running; things change, people move, etc. -- however, we established last year the holiday of Fakesgiving the Sunday before we hopped our flight. I grilled up a spiced turkey breast, she did up some potatoes mashed style, we had some wine and all was well.
And, based on precedent, that means two days from now, this Sunday, is Fakesgiving.
This year, since even more folks will be joining us outside the borders this Thanksgiving, we decided to up the Fakesgiving festivities. It will be a real, huge Thanksgiving style meal, but on a fake day. Fakesgiving, indeed.
This will be my first attempt at roasting a whole, twenty pound bird (wish me luck) (I'm really fucking sick of that bird taking up half of my fridge for the last week. Thaw already!), and we've got a menu of potatoes, stuffing, salad, berries cranned, casserole, jello, and pumpkin trifle to go along with it.
That may sound like a lot of food (and it is), but we've got twenty or so feisty Fakesgiving-ers coming over. Top times and a heck of a way to end the last weekend of The Lady Friend and I's singlehood.
Enjoy yourselves a nice Fakesgiving, too, will ya? It's turkey, it's wine, it's friends and family, it's football; why not do this twice a year from now on?
[enjoy veterans day and the marine corps birthday, too, kids. america, fuck yeah! and go illni.]
And, based on precedent, that means two days from now, this Sunday, is Fakesgiving.
This year, since even more folks will be joining us outside the borders this Thanksgiving, we decided to up the Fakesgiving festivities. It will be a real, huge Thanksgiving style meal, but on a fake day. Fakesgiving, indeed.
This will be my first attempt at roasting a whole, twenty pound bird (wish me luck) (I'm really fucking sick of that bird taking up half of my fridge for the last week. Thaw already!), and we've got a menu of potatoes, stuffing, salad, berries cranned, casserole, jello, and pumpkin trifle to go along with it.
That may sound like a lot of food (and it is), but we've got twenty or so feisty Fakesgiving-ers coming over. Top times and a heck of a way to end the last weekend of The Lady Friend and I's singlehood.
Enjoy yourselves a nice Fakesgiving, too, will ya? It's turkey, it's wine, it's friends and family, it's football; why not do this twice a year from now on?
[enjoy veterans day and the marine corps birthday, too, kids. america, fuck yeah! and go illni.]
Labels: Fakesgiving, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
