Thursday, March 20, 2014

I'm here to tell ya...

When I started this common hobby of blogging, I knew the possibility of a 'dry spell' was possible.  It can be a let down when you go to check your favorite blog, only to find the latest post was two weeks ago - say whaaa?  However, it isn't writer's block.  I'll admit that once I kick off my work shoes, the last thing I want to look at is a blinding computer screen.  Additionally, life unexpectedly gets in the way but I promise I'll do my best to keep you all laughing and hopefully coming back for more nonsense.

So, last weekend after the restaurant gig, we moseyed on over to a frequented bar that I don't frequent often 'cause it's loud and the crowd is something less than desirable.  I have a good idea of what I'm getting into when I walk across the parking lot and Zack Galifianakis' clone busts out of the door, pulling his fat girlfriend behind him while slurring at me "you're gonna get lucky tonight - there's a lot of dick in there!''  Thanks, Zack.

 A couple of shots later, I've forgotten the sense of loss I felt when I paid $7.00 to gain access to this sausage fiesta.  What kind of cover charge is that anyway - is Nickelback in there?  The drinks have been flowin' and I'm feeling a case of 'Barcolepsy' coming on - it's been a long day and all I want to do is get some decent shuteye.

Soon enough, the group begins to coordinate the location of a late night meal.  Survey says: Double T Diner.  Food? What?  OK, I'm awake (sort of).  I haven't been to this place in 10 years, so I wasn't opposed to an intoxicated trip down memory lane.  Late night diners are always a show; sub-par food and top notch entertainment.  Of course, it's 2 am and you're drunk so anything you eat IS a five star meal - nothing less. 

The waitress sashays over and flops down an Atlas in front of everyone, at least that's what I thought it was until I realized it was a MENU.  If I wanted to read an encyclopedia, I would've gone to the library.  My brain is not wired for sound decisions at this hour; I really just wanted to tell Olga or whatever her name was to pick something and surprise me, but instead, I pulled a copycat move and said 'I'll have what she's having' while motioning to the friend sitting next to me.

And what's with the disclaimer sized print?  I'll be sure to bring one of these next time.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014


With all of the snow behind us, (hopefully) I got to thinking about another major threat to all of mankind (especially women): TOOLS.  I'm not talking about the kind you buy at Sears, either.

Ladies, we've all had the 'pleasure' of knowing at least one; actually, consider yourself lucky if you don't have to count any higher.  Chances are, you've probably dated Mr. Craftsman - it's typically a brief, forgettable relationship because let's face it, your bathroom sink had more personality.  We tend to hang out with these types of men boys when we are bored and need a distraction; they don't need one because they are already too fixated on themselves – usually in front of the mirror with a phone.

Soon enough, the unfortunate experience with this individual ends once the Red Flag Express runs you over with no warning (toot, toot!)  Despite the time you feel was wasted, you're 200% relieved that you don't have to float upstream in a douche canoe anymore.  Great success!

So, without further ado, I'm going to get down to the NITTY gritty here.  Just when you think you've made the great escape from this loser, he pops up in your phone out of nowhere like a zit during puberty. You hear the 'bling' of your text tone, look down and see a message from Tim the Toolman chillin' on deck.  You hesitantly slide your finger across the screen to not reveal a generic message, but an unsolicited PICTURE of his body part(s).

Just this past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend of mine when she showed me a text she had just received (as seen below) with the following caption: 'what do you think of that?'

What do I think?  Personally, I'd rather lick the bottom of a trash can.  Is this supposed be enticing?  In this case, the only thing that was turned on was the light bulb in our heads reminding us even more of what an arrogant asshole you are.  Stop thinking that women want to see your NON-REQUESTED muscles; if I feel like looking at some, I'll turn on 'The Notebook'. 

Sup, Ryan?