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.

Suck It Losers (Part Seven)

That’s right Part seven. Deal with it. Lets keep this train rolling. I took a handful of muscle relaxers and I’m going to try and finish this before the darkness envelopes me and i have to wake up in the morning for work.

Grandpa Caramel Anthony is going to the Thunder. I like Caramel just as much as the next person but it has a nasty tendency to stick to my teeth, but Carmelo Anthony can only stick to being a mediocre basketball talent eternally forced to play for teams that will never make it beyond the first round of the playoffs. The man has modeled his career as a terrible Kobe impersonator if Kobe had no talent (and no rape accusations).

Carmelo is good, there’s no doubt about that, but I’m not sure how wheelchair accessible the State of Oklahoma is to accommodate his octogenarian needs, as the leagues oldest living basketball player.

Carmelo, you’re old, just stay outside, take a couple shots when you’re lucky enough to get a pass from the legendary Russell Westbrook, and be grateful your bitter old man bones even graced an NBA court. Try not to hurt yourself. Much love, The Viridian Reader. Enjoy your chocolate pudding in the old folks home.

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.

Free Form Writing Odyssey

I’m not proud of how many tries it took me to type “odyssey” before I got it right (right click is for quitters).

I just tried to make stir fry and it sucked, so now I’m going to make a post with no purpose and no comprehensible plan. It may come as a surprise to many that I actually put quite a bit of thought into these posts, but this one I’m just going to swing for the fences and hope for the best (much like Aaron Judge, suck it Yankees fans!)

I had a birthday this week. Many consider me young but I have the mentality of a 75 year old man so this may as well be a death sentence. I should clarify, I’m not one of these “anti-birthday” people that hate their birthdays, but to me I often forget about my own birthday until someone reminds me, and I then I say “Oh yeah, neat,” and then I go to work.

Birthdays can be fun, but I often have more fun at other people’s birthdays than my own, but this last week was perfect, I stayed at home, grilled some steaks, enjoyed a moderately priced bourbon, and went to bed after watching a baseball game, fucking perfect. To some, this may sound boring, but this what I love. If I am blessed enough to have a pleasant afterlife every day will be like this.

However, my wife LOVES her birthday, like to an extreme level. She could be actively murdering someone and would say: “But it’s my birthday!” and then I’d allow her to return to her murder. And that’s fine with me because I like celebrating her birthday with her. This year I brought her to a concert, we had dinner after, and stayed in a gorgeous hotel in downtown Minneapolis, another great evening, but very different from my own.

I’m going to be honest, I have no clue where I’m going with this post, I just wanted to write some shit. We’re working on a huge merger at work and that’s all I can think about, but I love doing this so I need to write something to distract myself. Our next post will be better I promise.

How do you like to spend your birthday? Do you like simplicity like myself, or are your a flashy individual much like my wife? Let me know, let’s talk about it.

Fight or Flight

Welp, it’s that time of year again. Once Labor Day’s over you autumn crazed fucks start celebrating the fall. Seriously, why are you all so bat shit insane over fucking sweaters and warm drinks? Football’s cool and everything but you people lose your dicks over autumn. I heard the two girls from my office (from the Arby’s story, can’t remember the name, bonus points if you can find it and tell me the name of my own story) they were already talking about haunted houses and hayrides.

I try to not involve myself with their idiotic conversations for fear of becoming even dumber than I already am, but the entire time I was sitting at my desk biting my tongue trying to ignore them. Why are haunted houses a thing? I understand it’s fun to be scared, but I have never once been scared by a haunted house, there’s no element of fear with a sixteen year old in a rubber mask.

Every year my wife and I go to a very popular haunted house in our state with some friends and every year I absolutely hate it. They all cower behind me as I shove my way past frightened idiots and cheap decorations jumping our from around corners. The big finale to the experience is a maze that has a gentleman running around with a chainsaw trying to “kill” you while you search for the exit. Last year, my wife and I found the exit and the chainsaw man jumped from behind a corner and my wife completely froze, by this point I was completely aggravated and wanted this experience to be over and this jackass was preventing me from leaving so I did the only thing I could think of, I elbowed him in the face. As he fell to the ground I grabbed my wife’s wrist, yelled “Come on!” and we left. As we’re leaving all I could hear is “What the hell man?” from the chainsaw guy as he grabbed his face.

I thank God everyday that I avoided assault charges, not my proudest moment (I’m a little proud of this story) but in the end I managed to elbow a grown man in the face and avoid jail.

Happy Whatever Day!

As I just posted on our Twitter page (follow us BTW) I love these ambiguous holidays because I don’t have to work and I can celebrate alone.

I have no clue what the history of Labor Day is, but I love this holiday because to me it represents an opportunity to do absolutely nothing for no apparent reason (which I do every other day, but now I get to have an excuse).

You people can keep Christmas and Thanksgiving, I’d rather be at home watching television and day drinking.

Seriously though, if anyone knows the history of this holiday please let me know, I’m too lazy and drunk to do an internet search.

Am I a Prostitute?

EDIT: forgot a title yesterday. My bad.

Last week on our post “I’ve Got Problems Man,” I talked about the time I dated a stripper, and since then I’ve gotten a couple questions from my friends that saw the post and instantly became curious about my sex life. This is never a touchy subject for me, which is pretty obvious considering I share these details with strangers on the internet, but one thing that became abundantly clear, after speaking with my inner circle, there’s a lot of animosity towards sex workers.

Perhaps my friends are just awful people (sorry guys) but they did not find my post as charming as I had initially expected. This bothers me because dammit haven’t we all done some shit that, in one way or another, is at least a little fucked up? Why the fuck should I judge a stripper? Even though Roxie from my last post stole from me and tried to kill me, this doesn’t mean I now judge all strippers (seriously though, read that post if you haven’t already).

We all do dumb shit, I was once paid for sex, not necessarily in a traditional sense, but I had sex with a woman and was given cab fare for a ride across town, does that make me a prostitute? And if so, am I now a worse person because I accepted dirty sex money? (Not my proudest moment, but I had to get home).

I was a senior in college and by this point I did everything in my power to avoid house parties because they are the absolute worst thing that has ever existed. Hundreds of underage people violating all fire regulations just to rub against strangers and drink too much; although, I too enjoy drinking too much and rubbing against people, but at this point I was a grown ass man and could do this legally in a bar, and the frat house of Delta Chi Who Gives a Fuck as not an ideal location for me to be.

I went with a friend of mine because he assured me: “It’s going to be awesome bro!” It was indeed, not awesome bro.

I hated everything almost immediately upon arrival. People were pissing in the alley, girls were crying, and dudes were fighting in the front yard, all the signs of a garbage evening. BUT I am a supportive friend and I was bound and determined to make the best of a bad situation. I had a few drinks, had some good conversation, and after about an hour I was looking for the nearest object to hang myself on. Then, through a slight clearing in the crowd, I saw her, Karen (not her real name).

Karen, was interesting, she stood out from everyone at this horrible gathering (mostly because she was about six feet tall and looked twenty years older than everyone, seriously, I’m fairly certain this was someone’s mom that came along to the party. To this day, I don’t know why she was there or how old she really was. “Karen” if you ever read this, how old are you and WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING THERE?!)

I walked over, not drunk but charmingly seductive, and began with some general conversation:

“This place sucks right?” She laughs, (I’m in).

“You here with anyone?” I ask.

“I came with some friends, but I don’t know where they went,” she responds.

“You’re too beautiful to stand alone, let’s go outside and talk,” SIDE NOTE: This line will most likely reoccur throughout A LOT of stories because I used it all the fucking time. For some reason, drunk girls love it so I kept it in my rotation. Karen naturally obliged and we went outside and talked, without talking. I grabbed her hand and lead her through the crowd of miscreant youth, and the second we stepped outside I put my arm around her waist and made my move. We made out in the front yard for what felt like an eternity.

“Come back to my place,” I said.

“My place is better,” she responded. I assumed she was correct because my apartment was horrible and my roommates were the worst.

We caught a cab and arrived at a home so beautiful I wasn’t even aware houses this nice existed in Minnesota. I thanked the cab driver profusely as she paid. We strolled to the front door and the second we stepped inside she attacked me. I was completely thrown, she became a newly freed monster. Within seconds my back was on her bed and she was on top of me. We made love for what felt like an eternity. We laid next to one another in a steaming pile of passion and exhaustion for about ten minutes before she said the words I’ll never forget:

“What time are you going to leave?”

Apparently I’m not that good. I changed and left immediately, but not before I had the most humiliating conversation of my life:

“I can leave now, but I don’t even know where I am.”

“You’re at *address*.”

“I live in the East Village.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, well that’s too bad. Listen, there’s forty dollars in my purse on the chair over there. Use that for a cab.”

“Alright.” I got dressed, walked a couple blocks, caught a cab, and rode home.

I woke up he next morning with nothing but regret and dirty clothes. So, you tell me am I bad person?