Fuck it, Let’s do This

The Packer’s game is under rain delay, I’m listening to the single greatest song in the history of music (Animal (Fuck like a Beast) by W.A.S.P) let’s make a random end of the week post.

My freshman year of college I took an intro Spanish class (having never taken Spanish) thinking it was going to be a fun and easy credit course. I took German in high school, because as we all know, this is indeed the language of the future. I would’ve never taken this language if I would’ve known it would cause all my friends to call me a Nazi for four years.

I arrived at collegiate intro Spanish and to my surprise, the instructor was speaking Spanish… like fluently. I immediately assumed I was in the wrong course. Here’s how the first ten minutes of class went:

Instructor: “Spanish words, Spanish words, Spanish words.”

ME: “Bro, I don’t speak Spanish, that’s why I’m here.”

Instructor: “Angry Spanish words.”

I dropped the class next day. Turns out I registered for some class way beyond my comprehension, I found the right class and joined the other plebeians in our idiotic enjoyment of new languages.

Fast forward to finals time, in this class we had to do outside class activities, like take a salsa class, or fuck a Spanish girl, you know, extra shit. The kid that sat next me (let’s call him Ken) we decided we were going to show our appreciation for Spanish the best way we knew how, drink Jose Cuervo and watch Spanish movies. Here’s how that went:

“Hey professor, Ken and I have an idea for our final project.”

“Great! What were you two thinking?”

“Can we get drunk on Cuervo and watch Spanish movies?” I was expecting an immediate no from the professor, but to my surprise he was actually thinking about it.

“Is this really what you want to do?” he asked.

“Honestly, yeah.” I said expecting him to throw us out of class.

“Well boys… I won’t give you an A, but if that’s what you want to do, I will give you both a grade.” At this point I’m almost certain Ken had six heart attacks.

So, we went home, got obliterated on Cuervo and wrote two of the most beautiful research papers on “Y Tu Mama Tambien” the world had ever known, and guess what, we both got a C+. I’ve never been more proud of myself.

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Fuck Your Wedding

I can’t think of a time I have been less motivated to do anything. It’s unfortunate, but I must push through the melancholy and write something, anything at this point.

First off, let me apologize to anyone that listened to my fantasy football advice and started Derek Carr tonight, I really though he was going to go off, but we all make mistakes.

I went to a wedding last night and it was just the worst. I’m not anti-marriage (I’m married myself), but I am anti-wedding the whole institution is so stupid I hate it more than any reasonable person should. My wedding cost me $120 and that was the cost of the marriage license. Most people hear this and immediately say: “Your wife was okay with this?!” to which I respond: “Uhh, yeah. I proposed in a Target parking lot, nothing is worse than that.”

This may sound like a joke, but it’s all sadly true. My wife has been through a tremendous deal with me as a spouse. Essentially, we woke up one morning, and I said: “Want to get married today?” she agreed, and here we are. Best decision I ever made.

My wife is an angel and I’m an idiot, and to us the wedding was never about extravagance or some posh bullshit, it’s about love, and we have plenty of that.

My point is, expensive weddings are dumb and you’re dumb if you have one. I got married in a free suit and I’ve know my wife since we were 7 years old. Marriage is about love, fuck your wedding. Unless you have an open bar. If you have an open bar please invite me and have a hotel nearby.

They’re Like, Super Cute

Everyday I wonder why Josh is my best friend. He was the best man in my wedding, I once watched him buy a prostitute at a casino, and he and I have been through enough stupid scenarios to fill several poorly written books. And yet, I never stop wondering how he and I ever became friends.

Some background info. I have always considered myself a “city boy.” I grew up in Baltimore, and later relocated to the Midwest for school, which is where I met Josh. Josh grew up in rural Minnesota on a farm, the first time we met he was wearing camouflage and overalls. He looked like an extra in Duck Dynasty. We somehow decided to sit next to each other in our college communications class and we immediately connected, if he was a woman, we’d be married by now. I feel comfortable saying this, because I know he’s never going to read this and I’m using a fake name for him.

Naturally, as all friendships do, we argue about everything (especially being from very different backgrounds). However, the biggest thing he and I continue to argue about is masculinity. I grew up in Baltimore, not exactly a safe place to live, and being in an urban neighborhood, there’s this belief that you always need to be “hard.” I never believed in this philosophy. I’m a tough man, but I have never felt the need to show the world that I’m a man. Whereas Josh feels obligated to let everyone that happens to cross his path know that he does indeed have a penis.

I could write a thesis about the very notion of masculinity, but I want to focus on one specific thing: dogs. Yes, dogs. Why dogs? Because dogs are the truest judges of character and are the people we all deserve (I love all animals but until they make domesticated elephants I’m focusing specifically on dogs). I’ve had two dogs in my life as an adult man on my own: I bought a pug when I moved off the college, and I later bought a Pomeranian so they could be friends. When people see me walking my two toy dogs around town, almost always just like clockwork, some dude is going to stop and say something along the lines of:

“Your girlfriend makes you walk her dogs?”

“Nope they’re both mine,” I say with the utmost pride.

This is where Josh comes in, as my friend it is his social obligation to make fun of me, we do with each other, it’s a cornerstone of friendship. He still to this day makes fun of me for owning two toy dogs. Being a country boy (READ hillbilly) Josh feels a man must own a manly dog, like a pit bull OR A WOLF! And I think he’s a dumb hillbilly. I love my tiny dogs, especially now in their old age (the pug is 11 and the Pomeranian is 13) and I think it’s moronic that I’m less of a man because I bought small dogs. Masculinity is a funny thing, Josh is truly a good man that has many skills that I certainly do not possess, but this notion that men need to be tough all the time is insane. I’m not saying we need to be writing poems about our feelings and crying about sad internet videos, but for fuck sake if I want to own a small dog, I’m going to own a small dog mother fucker.

In my opinion, if you’re not comfortable enough with your own masculinity to own a small dog or do something that isn’t considered “manly” that makes you a bitch. You can bet the damn house every time Josh stays with me I find him on my couch holding my dogs. All dogs are great, I don’t want to get on a soapbox, but seriously, dogs are awesome if you don’t have one but want to get one, do it. I thank God everyday for my two dogs.

Share your thoughts on this. Do we need to be “hard” at all times or are those of us that are comfortable enough to step outside the standard ideals of masculinity better off? Let’s talk about it. I love you all.

Mistakes Were Made (Part One)

I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that I love to drink (I’m almost always drunk when I write something for this blog. Hence the litany of typos that I refuse to change even after I sober up because I don’t care and no one reads these devil words that closely anyway).

I’m pretty sure I’ve consumed just about every type of alcohol available, and if you’re like me (an alcoholic) then you have probably made some drink combinations that were vile and could peel the paint off a boat, but you probably also finished said drink only to have some sort of negative consequences. This is one of my favorite times.

(Frat story approaching just FYI)

So two of my brothers, Ken and Adam (neither of their real names), were going on simultaneous trips and I had a rule at our house, if you go to another state you have to bring back a local beer (I’m a huge fan of cool local brews if you’ve never read my yelp page which I highly recommend). Instead of beer, they both brought me something much better. Ken brought Everclear (the real stuff not that cheap garbage they sell in Minnesota) and Adam brought a bottle of absinthe (I’m assuming not legit absinthe that makes you hallucinate and shit but it was still pretty damn cool.) Naturally, my reaction was like when I’d wake up on Christmas morning and my parents had stayed awake all night to build some giant elaborate toy or structure for my siblings and I. Alcohol is adult Christmas. God bless my parents and God bless my former housemates.

First thing I did was rip the cap off the Everclear and pour shots (because I’m a sadist.) Now, regular vodka is bad enough to do shots with but Everclear should not be allowed on store shelves, this shit serves no purpose except to make large batch death brew for an awful party. Ken and Adam immediately refused the shots but being the housemaster (and much larger) I made them. They both wretched at the smell and nearly died from the taste while I couldn’t control my violent laughter.

“Let’s try the absinthe!” I shouted like a viking warlord thirsty for blood. They both responded with pained groans but ultimately agreed.

Absinthe is so cool. It came with this medieval spoon and it’s fucking green! It looks like something from a science fiction movie. I pulled the cork out and started to pour a drink for myself.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” ┬áKen said hesitantly.

“Yeah he’s right bro,” Adam chimed in, “You have to use that spoon and pour it over sugar.”

“Sugar?!” I yell/ask.

“Yeah bro, sugar.”

“Well fuck that! I’m on Atkins!” I yelled as I continued to pour the absinthe into the nearest vessel by me. (SIDE NOTE: I was not on Atkins and I have no idea what Atkins is even to this day).

The green liquid smelled awful,for those that don’t know, absinthe has a very distinct black liquorice flavor, but that didn’t stop me from downing the green substance in one painful swallow.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Adam said.

“Fuck you, it’s the best idea,”I’m such a clever drunk.

Adam then proceeded to place a sugar cube on the fancy spoon and pour the absinthe over it into another glass and it became clear! Fucking clear! This stuff is so cool. It tasted much better with the sugar. I was proven wrong once again.

END OF PART ONE.

Deal with it. Part two will be out shortly. I didn’t want to write one long alcohol saga so I made a multi part epic. Enjoy this while I sleep off my hangover.

 

After School Special

“Come on man, you’re going to love it I promise,” Jake said while holding a marijuana pipe in his hand.

I had never done anything beyond having too much to drink so this was quite a new experience for me despite being in my twenties. The idea of drugs still seemed scary and dangerous as all those teachers in grade school had made it seem. Indeed, I was a truly ignorant child.

“I swear, you’re going to love it,” Jake assured once more as he handed me his pipe.

“I don’t even know what to do,” I said both honestly and ashamed at my inexperience.

“It’s easy, just put your thumb over the hole on the side, light the top, and take a big inhale. It’s just that easy.” I did just as he instructed.

As the smoke traveled through my mouth down my throat it felt as if a thousand very sharp knives were stabbing my esophagus. I coughed instantly and Jake began laughing hysterically.

“That was really good,” he said, the pride beaming from his eyes knowing he had taken my narcotics virginity.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said with a big grin on his face.

We jumped in his hot rod and began cruising down country roads taking rips off his pipe. I felt like I was the coolest person in the universe.

I wish I could say we got into all sorts of drug addled shenanigans or got arrested and make this a cautionary tale, but we didn’t. We drove around, smoked pot, went home and watched a television documentary about super volcanoes. At some point in the night I switched to alcohol and passed out on the couch. I woke up the next morning to find Jake sleeping in the bath tub. Apparently he finished our vodka and thought the tub was a safe place to sleep. Moral of the story, drugs are fun.

Please Don’t.

This is another story from my fraternity years.

Do any of you have a friend (or friends perhaps?) that are absolutely clueless? I certainly do. His name is Matt (not his real name) and Matt is a nice guy, but he’s about as intelligent as a wet rock.

I was throwing a party many years ago and I invited one of best friends and personal adviser Sarah (also not her real name). A little background on Sarah, she was about five feet tall, if not shorter, and she was very very very pretty, like crazy beautiful. She always took great care of herself and dressed to the nines, HOWEVER Sarah was also a lesbian. TWIST RIGHT?! And when I say lesbian, I’m not talking about some college girl that’s a “casual lesbian” and makes out with her friends after one too many tequila shots. I’m talking about the fact Sarah has (probably) fucked more girls than me, and I’m a human petri dish.

SIDE NOTE: Guys, if you want to get laid beyond all belief, like so much your dick’s going to fall off, have a girl as your wing man, trust me. Ladies, what makes you more comfortable: another girl or some sweaty dude named Chad?? I rest my case.

ANYWAY: flash forward to my party featuring clueless Matt and very gay Sarah. Sarah looks amazing and Matt, well, looks like Matt. Matt sees Sarah across the room and instantly falls in love with her.

“Dude, who’s that?” Matt asks me.

“Oh, that’s my friend Sarah. She fucking awesome.” I say very casually.

“Have you ever, you know… done stuff?” Matt asks very seriously while I attempt to stifle my laughter.

“No. No we have not.” I say with a straight face.

“Do you mind if I ask her out?”

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: A CONUNDRUM.

Do I tell Matt about Sarah being crazy gay, or do I let him off his normally short and quiet leash and experience the sweet satisfaction of life?

“Fuck no dude, go for it,” I say. Looking back on it… I have no regrets.

Matt approaches Sarah and starts talking to her, and surprisingly it’s going very well. It’s natural, it’s fun, I’m in the background praying Sarah doesn’t kick this guy’s ass for asking her out.

Matt finally makes his move: “Would you want to go out sometime?” His face was so pure and innocent, and Sarah starts to laugh which makes me laugh HARD.

“I’m really sorry man,” Sarah starts, “But I’m gay.” Matt looks like he’s never heard that word before.

“So… is that a no?” Matt responds. In a fit of hysterical laughter I drag Matt away before he got his ass kicked by a small woman.

Welp, I Tried

I try so hard not to talk about people I don’t like or disagree with. The sheer fact of acknowledging someone that’s an idiot is only feeding their ego and placating their most ridiculous of life choices. BUT there is one recent occurrence that is so asinine, I feel obligated to hop on my computer and type an article that dozens of people might scroll past.

READER BEWARE this is ultimately going to be a sports installment.

For those that follow the world of athleticals such as myself, there is a man that has shoved his way to the forefront of obnoxious loud mouths, Lavar Ball, the father of the VERY talented basketball players the Ball brothers. Mr. Ball has taken it upon himself, like most celebrity parents, to manage his children’s’ professional careers, and shocker, it’s not going well.

The eldest son, Lonzo, was turned away by EVERY major shoe company because of his father’s insane demands. As a result, the father made his own shoe for his son and is asking for A LOT of money. This is so stupid it hurts my soul. Lonzo, if you don’t feel safe at home, please contact the authorities, because your father is killing your career before you’ve even had the opportunity to HAVE a career.

The patriarch of this family is a sociopath looking for a reality TV show, and has no idea how badly he is destroying his own children’s careers. I apologize for the article rife with personal opinions I promise, this will never happen again.