Here's to swimmin with bowlegged women.

Well, it's been a fuckin long time since I sat down and actually felt a blog in me. To be honest, at this point, I still don’t. There have been a few times that I really felt one in the moment, but I wasn’t near a computer and didn’t want to stop the party. So basically this is going to be a recap blog. What the fuck I’ve been up to in the last month and a half. Well, shortly after my last blog post my brother, my buddy Joe, another buddy James and I all went on a cruise. 6 days to Grand Cayman and Cozumel. Let me start by saying there was another group of four that we met last year that was going on the trip too, and they, like us, can be a bit rowdy. I wish I had pictures from the trip, but alas I do not. Anyhow, the first day I’m up near front of the boat getting drunk with a couple of the ladies as we’re leaving port and I see that waiters on this deck have these foam hats that are the color and shape of the carnival cruise ship smoke stack. I wanted one like I had never wanted anything else in my life. So, I enlisted the help of the girls to distract one of the waiters with their breasts so I could abscond with his headgear. Little did know that Indonesia is where ninjas truly learned their skills… this motherfucker had me blocked, a drink in my hand, my empty on the tray and told me he would get me a new hat before I even knew what had happened. So he comes back with a brand new hat and my receipt so I can sign for it. Fucker already had my sail and sign number and charged me for the damned thing. Goddamn ninja shit. So… long story about the hat short, I rocked it all week. I was THAT guy. So many people on that boat have pictures of me in their photo albums and pictures of them in my pimp ass hat. I’m fucking famous.

So back to the rowdy part. By dinner on the first day one of our crew had partaken of the spirits a weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee bit too much. At dinner she proceeded to try to start a “DEEEETROIT BASKET-BALL!” chant. We were all diving over each other to try to silence her. At one point she threw a fork with a piece of chicken on it at my brother. We are embarrassed as hell, but, we’ve all been there, or were going to be there at some point on this trip. That night, I… was drunk. Not falling down drunk, but, loud knocking shit over, almost upturned a poker table while a game was going on because I was trying to fuck with James while he was playing kind of drunk. I was rockin’ out “up in da club” with my pimp hat. And I was belligerent. Fast forward to the next morning/early afternoon, James was getting his drink on with the girls on the back of the boat. They all left to go do some girly things or to have lesbian sex (not entirely out of the question with them) so James and I rocked up into the cigar lounge. After buying me some drinks and telling me, much to my objection, that he was gonna cover my tab, he decided to buy a bunch of other people some drinks. And some shots. And some cigars. Then my brother comes up and he does the same. I keep trying to tell him he’s too drunk, and he’s gonna regret this in the morning and he keeps telling me to shut up and then orders me another martini. Hard to argue with someone that persuasive. So about an hour or so goes by and ol’ James (now nicknamed WowWow) is having a hard time staying upright. At some point he said something incoherent in any language and put his head on the bar. I was happy just to let him sleep, and as we’re on a cruise ship, they don’t care. Let him sleep at the bar. Now, I have never seen this happen before. Ever. He, while sleeping (passed out) managed to slide off his bar stool. I have seen people fall off before, but I have never seen someone who is completely faced actually fall off and stay down without so much as an attempt to wake. Again, I was content to let him lay there for a minute while I finished my drink, then I’d wrestle him down to his room. We got him down there, and he told us to take his card and use it the rest of the night. We told him no. Then he told his roommate. He said yes. While we’re not THAT big of assholes, we did put everyone’s dinner drinks on his card. Not enough to be mean, but just enough to let it sink in to keep your cash (or cashesque) close when you’re drunk. That night was Bree’s turn to get crocked. I don’t remember much, but she was done for pretty early and may have been taking her clothes off. May not have been, but may have been. The next day was Grand Cayman so nothing big during the day. But that night my brother decided to start a fight in the dance club. I had stepped out to take a piss for two minutes, and I come back to people filing out of the club. I walk through the doors and my brother comes running out to try to start more shit. I pretty much just threw him over my shoulder and dragged him away. At some point he escaped and I caught him. I attempted to get him back down to the room, but he bolted on me. He’s kinda spry and made it down an entire flight of stairs in about 2 strides and was off like a shot. I decided late night pizza was calling my name. I finally get back down to the room and he’s in there yelling. And I mean YELLING. I throw open the door and he’s on his goddamned cell phone with his girlfriend. WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING OCEAN and he’s on his phone!? At the rates he ended up paying, he fucking deserved it. The next day was Cozumel.

Ok, Mexicans now how to throw a party. I walked down the strip taking those Mexican shop owners for all the free tequila they were worth, and all the dollar beers they had. Then I went to Carlos N’ Charlie’s. they had yards of frozen drinks. I chose the “Dirty Monkey”, which if I remember correctly was tequila (maybe vodka), kahlua, and 99 bananas all blended to frozeny goodness. While they were $15, they did have several 2 for one specials which made them that much tastier. Now, if you’ve never been to Cozumel, I suggest that when you do, you jump your ass in a conga line. At certain points around the conga line there are waiters and waitresses waiting to pour tequila down your throat. Then there’s some dude walking around with a glass bladder thing that looks vaguely like the inner workings of a cock. It has some kind of wine in it. They pour it down your gullet for free. I don’t remember leaving Carlos N’ Charlie’s, in fact, I only have a slight recollection of learning a new way to get street vendors to ignore you: tip #1 be falling down drunk. Tip #2 be more demanding than they are. Tip #3 these should be the only words coming out of your mouth, in drunken loud yelling voice, “NECISSITO MUCHO GRANDE MARIACHI SOMBRERO!” when they try to sell you a regular sombrero you must resist and demand, “NO! MARIACHI!” seriously, they will hide from you. I bought some tequila at the duty free on my way to the boat and poured it in a water bottle. A clear water bottle. With dark tequila. Brown, dark tequila. I was passing it around in the line waiting to get back on the boat, and people were laughing at me cuz I was yelling something about something. I was trying to take bets on my ability to get that on the boat. Well, when I finally walked through security, with my brown water they didn’t even try to stop me. I turned around in a not so quiet drunk whisper told all the people behind me that I had in fact “smuggled my tequila on board”. They laughed, security laughed, and still they let me keep it. the dining room was empty that night. I ordered 1 of everything and ate very little of anything. I went to the room and passed out at 7ish. Woke up at 930 and went out for more. White Russians were about all I could handle. I had the mad tequila shakes, and I was trying to drink them into submission. Other than all that, it was pretty much run of the mill nothing to see here type stuff. Cuz that’s how we do. Anyhow, I’ll finish filling you in, with another post or two. But that’s the highlights of the cruise. Ahh the islands… they really are something.

I am not a man...

Well, I am. And a fairly imposing one I've been told. HOWEVER, in the world of drinking I am lacking a certain... I don't know what. Though, really, I do know what. I am a man unable to chug. There, I said it. It’s out in the open. I stand before you a naked drunkard completely weak in that regard. I HAVE THE GAG REFLEX OF A 12 YEAR OLD GIRL. However, I have a mouth with a volume just shy of 6 ounces. So in times of need I can impress by downing half a bottle into my mouth, and then taking three swallows to end it all. But I cannot chug. period. People hand me their beers at closing and while I cannot “slam” them traditionally, I can drink them with a quickness. Tonight my manhood was called into question when, at last call, I was given two bottle of “the champagne of beers” to finish. I did this handily, though, they were looking for something in the 8 second area. I CANNOT do this. In order for me to drink that fast I would need the cruel tutelage of Pei Mei. I cannot. This is a fault. One I wish to work on. It is my only downfall as a Major League Drinker. Volume? Check. Drunken Skill games? Check. Trash talk? Check. Power hour champion? Please bitch, I used to century club before the bar! Oh… check. ANYHOW! Wow, tonight is the attack of the caps lock key. I cannot chug, no bonging, no slamming, waterfalls are lost on me, and steal cups (beer pong baseball) are not my forte. This is my weakness. Judge me not.

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Ok, anyone faint of heart, or weak of stomach need not read past the upcoming period ---->. So, last night, I got drunk after work, at work on homemade wine. It was made in the style of bathtub Pinot Grigio that happens to be 30% alcohol. An old friend and I damaged a gallon, handily. So I get home, change in to my shorts that I wear when I am unsure if anyone (read: my brother and his trailer slut) is coming home and don’t need my cock flopping in the breeze if they walk in (I may be fat, but I love to nude up). So I decide to check my e-mails and the like and start farting like it’s my job. I love it when this happens as I get to try to stink myself out of my own chair. So, I lift my leg to fart and push so as to make some noise off the leather chair when it happens. No warning, no prior fart with a knock on the back door saying, “hey fatty! Got some liquid here wanting out!” no quick heating sensation that causes all assholes to slam shut, no nothing. The only thing alerting me to the fact that I just evacuated my bowels into my shorts was the sensation of volume growth between the cheeks and the liquid squeak (picture squeezing a water bottle till there’s nothing left type of squeak) I heard. We’re talking no warning, unprovoked, no chatter, no intel, no foreshadowing or allusion, and if there was it was all mishandled type of shart. This was the 9-11 of sharts. When I finally hit the toilette I could picture people running from the stream of liquishits flowing from my ass. So after a careful, yet thought provoking amount of time I decided to shower. Just as I’m about to finish up and jump out, I a quivering, a rumbling, hell a booming voice from the heavens that says I’m not done yet. So… yeah… I hunch over in the shower and let the second tower fall. Oddly enough, not a solid chunk in the bunch to get caught up in the drain. SO, why do I share this with you all? Well, aside from the fact I find it funny as fuck, I now what you would call “gun shy”. I have to carefully mete out my farts. To monitor them and even carefully expel them. The old adage rings true: once bitten, twice shy ( oh great white, when will you cease to be a guiding force in the universe?). Anyhow, I suggest to you dear reader, should you find yourself in this position, do not blog about it. As I am sure I will wake in the morning (read as: afternoon) and slap my forehead in amazement that I thought this would be a good blog post. Hehehehehehehe.

uhh...

Waitress: how was everything?
Me:(to waitress at checkout) great. how you doin?
Waitress: (blushing) good, and you?
Me: great. hey, do you like fat guys? cuz, ya know, i'm a fat guy.
Waitress: (still blushing) i didn't notice.
A.1: (in a really loud whisper) "SHE'S LYING".
Me: (not whispering at all) I KNOW SHE'S LYING! I'M HUGE!
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Me: (to A1) i need you to be my conscience tonight.
A.1: I'm too drunk
Me: thank you, I was hoping you'd say that.
A.2: I'll be your conscience.
Me: No thanks, I'm good with my conscience being hammered.
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Me: (waving to strangers (read: drunk chicks) in the diner) (now walking by them) Hey, how's it goin? (to hot girl's friend) how about you? how you doin?
Both Girls: (smiling uncomfortably) (giggle) Fine... you?
A.1: Did you know those girls?
Me: Nope. Not at all. But I think I made them uncomfortable. heh.
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Me: (after being hit with a mustard laden fry square betwixt the eyes) Wow, nice toss. that was perfect.
MC: Thanks dude, but you deserved it. you said I was a girl.
Me: no, I said you ran like a girl. either way, nice toss.
A.1: Most guys would get pissed after getting hit in the eye with a mustard fry. you just say, "good toss".
Me: yeah...
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end of the night "paper, rock, scissors" score: MC=3 Me=1. yeah, I had to do a shot glass of franks red hot, a two second spray of mustard, and snort a line of sugar (i know, but we were drunk). but he ended up drinking some crazy grape jelly/water/frank's red hot/mustard/A-1/sugar mix when I unleashed my upset (up to that point I was 0 for 3). Yeah, good times last night. good times.

if any of this makes sense in the morning... i will be happy. please post all spelling/grammar corrections to: gofuckyourself@i'm_drunk_and_you're_not.com

on a similar note

so, in the same vein as my last post, and semi inspired by the question posed by my Aussie heart throb Steph, i have a confession to make. This past week, I have become a complacent whacker. Every day this week I have had the urge to snap one off, but at the same time, just didn't feel like it. I have had to talk myself into jerking off only to suddenly have to urinate, or some other form of something or other that would make me lose the urge. I have never wanted to jerk off so bad, and yet not want to, in the same thought so bad in my life. Why does the thought of having so much fun with myself make me so... ... bored? Any ladies out there in blog land want to make a fat man happy for a night? dear god this is sad...

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and some links

Ahh, if only they'd have seen the inherent evil in pee wee. (trailer mash up)

chuck woolery loves your gay last name and he WILL call you out on it.

spank bank.

Sometimes I wonder what my exes/former lovers/hook ups would think if they knew that in times of need, when I dig into the spank bank, I think of them. earlier this week, I dug far into the spank bank I had to actually pat myself on the back when I successfully remembered everything in detail. I have to thank my genes for being blessed with a photographic memory. not the kind you see in movies, however, the real kind. the kind where your mind makes snapshots of every moment and you can examine every detail ad infinitum/ad nauseam. the curve of every girls ass, the slope of every girls breast, the angle of their jaw, their scent. all these things, are things I rely on lately. my porn has become stale, and i've found that a couple happy thoughts about bygone women can have an amazing effect. and this is what started me to thinking, "what if they knew I was slappin ham to their memory". I like to think that if they dated/liked/did me, they'd expect nothing less. thoughts?

I'm baaaaaack!

So I’ve been on hiatus for a while. It’s not my fault. I’ve had a lot of drinking and a lot of drinking to do. But this blog post hits close to home for me. I used to frequent a certain bar. And when I say frequent, I mean from the time I turned 21 in 2000, till sometime this past fall/late summer. This bar was my “home” bar when I was in Michigan. I loved the bar, and the employees and other patrons loved me. I stopped going for a couple of reasons; the main one being I had a DUI in November ’04 and most of my friends moved away so it was difficult to find a ride up to the bar which was out of the way for most people. The second reason being, there was too much drama being brought into the bar. I like my bars drama free. Which is why I love my new “home” bar, which has always been a “home” bar to me, I just didn’t go there as often. The drama is not there, unless you ask for it.

Anyhow, enough of the crap, I went back into the first bar tonight for the first time since Rev’s birthday, and I cannot figure out how we ever had so much fun in that place. On Rev’s birthday we all hated the place and swore it to damnation. The service was shit, the drinks were shit, the ambiance was shit. Tonight we went there for the simple fact my bar was closed. I have never, ever, in my life of bar hopping seen the atmosphere of a bar change so drastically in so short a time. It used to be a hole in the wall bar. Nice place, no real regulars except the flies at the bar. Then came us: Rev, Navy and I. We had a lot of fun, drank a lot, whatever. There was a lot of karaoke, A LOT OF KARAOKE. Used to be a solid mix of people in there too, not too much of one trash or another. Now, all trash, all country. There was some asshole hosting karaoke tonight that was trying to so hard to be Larry the Cable guy he actually had a SFX box with Larry drops on it. He was part Mexican which meant he got to tell recirculated Carlos Mencia hack lines all night. See, if charisma and personality were a fruit bearing tree, this guy would have been the low hanging loose stemmed fruit that blew off in a mild mid may gust and thus left to rot on the ground amongst the worms and shrews. He actually cleared most of the bar out, aside from his friends by 12:30. Which actually brings me to my next point: apparently you can no longer enjoy yourself there unless you’re in a clique with someone who works there. Otherwise you’re just a peon, not worthy of the shitty service and inattentiveness of the bar maids. Basically, I’m just done with the place. I wanted to go back to make sure my time in December was just a fluke, but I was assured, it was not. Besides, the girls at my new bar are much nicer, much younger, much hotter, and much more fat drunk guy friendly. So I really shouldn’t be mad, but I guess the old saying is right; you can never go home again. Fuck em. Here’s to me.

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and now, a link:

15 of the greatest "oh shit!" moments on film. while there are far more than 15, I do like this list.

Grease and a pointy stick

So last night was fun times. I recently joined a Tuesday night dart league simply for something to do on tuesday nights. Much like my bowling league, this is really just a drinking league. You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think drinking while doing either is a wise decision. You can do a lot of damage with a bowling ball and three darts. I'm not talking about these silly "soft tip" darts, I'm talking heavy as shit, sharpened before each game steel tips. I mean, really, someone get's drunk and angry in either "sport" and shit can go bad quick. Anyhow, on a side note, my dart league is a travelling league. This is actually kinda rad cuz we get to schlep around to other bars I wouldn't necessarily go to for no other reason than I didn't know they were there. Last night were in Royal Oak. This matters not, it was the trip out to the Oak that made me happy. As many of you know, I love pirates. Tis true matey. But the only thing I love as much as pirates are spies. On the way out I saw a spy shop. This made me very happy. Just as I was announcing my happiness... ANOTHER SPY STORE! I was like a kid in a titty bar. I was too excited to speak and had too many ideas to be coherent. I had decided that we needed to go to the spy stores, get all the equipment we need (including rope) and break into a consulate just because we could. I had but one mandate, I was to be the one to crawl through the ventilation ducts no matter how better suited the other three were for the job. let's just say I was with three very skinny people ranging in height from 5'2"-6'. It was then pointed out that the only way I'm making it through the vents is with about 30lbs of grease and being poked with a sharp stick. Bastards, using logic and spacial relations and physics and shit. It was then suggested we break into the spy shop, which I shot down since, well you need the spy gear to circumvent the spy shop's spy shit. Of course I stated my desire to be a pirate spy, or spy pirate, whichever sounded better. I was told this is not a viable career. I explained the only reason they thought so was because no one has ever heard of it, because in order to be a pirate spy, you have to be the best at both. And one had never been caught. But they exist my friends. They exist.

Anyhow, the moral of this whole story (Chud, there is no way to derive a moral from this) is that when you return to your home bar and have a "few" more beers, and some shots with the owner and win a couple of games people start to do stupid shit. For example, throwing darts at people's feet. While this is generally accepted practice during a dart game you are usually aiming away from the foot. She was aiming AT feet. No big deal. Then... it happened. In my defense, I had 9 darts and the previous 8 were beautifully grouped and just close enough to make you make you wince. then, I threw the 9th dart.



Woops. Guess I should've stopped at 8.

Call the FDA, and the Nobel committee, I've discovered a miracle.

Well, not really. My shit ass shoulder has been hurting like a mofo all day and I've been thinking about cutting it off. However I have managed to get it from being a serious distraction type of pain, to a dull, almost forgettable yet irksome ache. How have I achieved such success you ask? simple: 4 motrin (safer on a heavy drinker's liver), a 40 and 1/2 of Labatt Blue, and some Ben Gay. Yeah, you too could something something. Sorry, not really in the mindset to blog right now. I think the Motrin and the Blue are mixing with the Ben Gay smell to fuck with my head. I kinda like it. So, now you get some links. both, are EXTREMELY worth watching.
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Mr. Belding, Tony Romo, an 80's cover band, and Journey's "don't stop believin'" for the record, Tony Romo can carry a tune better than I. Think about THAT next time I suggest Karaoke.

French Military + Shoulder fired anti tank missile + Murphy = I think it might behoove you to surrender.

Unhealthy?

Is it bad that I have a seriously unhealthy obsession with Marlee Matlin? I don't know what it is. It could be the deaf slur, her serious hotness, or the ability to swear at her at her in anger with my back turned to her and have her be none the wiser... I just don't know. All I do know is that when I hear her name I look, and watch. In fact I actually watched an episode of Extreme Makeover Home Edition just because she was on it. I can't stand the show. the show is tripe, drivel, and feelgood crap based on some intangible that allows someone to be given a leg up over someone else as deserving though neither is willing to work for it. ANYHOW, back to Marlee. I actually took ASL for a semester in college just in case I got the chance to pick Marlee up at the bar. You know, I could sign her my name and "where is the bathroom" and she'd swoon. I. Need. Help. 

Attention everyone!

I have solved all the world's problems. no need to continue to argue or debate. apparently all you need is nuclear power, wave power technology, a re-education of global politics to the proletariat, the dissolution of the UAW and a predominantly libertarian viewpoint. also, jack bauer has to be allowed to act with complete autonomy. cuz, let's face it. in the clutch when he's yelling "WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME" you get that warm blanket feeling.

anyhow, the other night for superbowl sunday i ended up at a friend's house. she was having a couple friends over and one of these wonderful friends felt that she owed it to me to shake hands with my penis. let me tell you that in no uncertain terms, i enjoyed this greatly. so, since i have nothing else to add to this, you get pictures of shit we wrote on the local bar while it is undergoing renovations.


awww, amanda hearts me, and i heart her.


what's this? i heart julie? whatever will amanda think? shhh... don't tell either.


yeah, i was too drunk to write that, so thanks to erika for doing so.


hehehehehe, yeah, i kinda do.


kinda out of focus, but it says "rob d has a huge p". while this is fiction, i will accept it as fact.

 
originally i had written "Rob & Pussy" in a heart. Jen decided that my well spaced writing deserved some fucking with, so a "t" was added before the "y" and she turned the P into an R, yeah...


FUCK RUSSTY! russty:pussy as mapplethorpe:straight

damn you russty!!!