Unstable Ego

Eyeballing

I really love teenagers sometimes.  They come up with the greatest ideas.  Take the latest youtube craze, vodka eyeballing.  According to Fox News:

Hundreds of online videos that originated in the U.K. show teens pouring vodka directly into their eyes, straight from the bottle.

This is fucking fantastic.  Why not? Apparently, the activity carries with it the risk of permanent blindness, but you get to be a total badass! And if you go blind eyeballing vodka, what a great story to tell your grandkids someday. Plus, the ladies love a guy who blinds himself in a drinking game.  Trust me on that one. They love that kind of commitment.

I'm going to start doing this immediately.  Plus, why stop with vodka.  What else can we squirt in our eyes? How about turpentine? Could call it "eyehuffing". Bleach maybe? Could call it "shineballing".

This is great.  Fuck the eyeballs - how about a full on vodka enema?

I gotta get a youtube account.

Question of the Day

Is Lord Vader gonna have to force choke a bitch? 

Drunk On Bacon

My loyal subjects, I have made an important discovery. 

I was at Churchkey on Sunday, trying to drink myself into an deep enough oblivion so I wouldn't have to kick my own ass for hanging out in hipster bars, when I noticed that one of the selections on their ever-rotating list of draft beers was described as "meaty". 

Being your work-a-day meat obsessed pirate, I naturally asked myself, "what the fuck does that mean?" Could they possibly mean it tastes like meat? "No way", I said to myself, "that's madness.  Too good to be true. They must just mean it's thick and rich or something."

Now, as the king of the blended steak smoothy, I'm no stranger to a meaty beverage, but to think that someone could combine my rampant alcoholism with my insatiable need for hickory smoked bacon seemed too insane to be believed.  I mean, this isn't a Disney movie after all - it's the real world. 

Obviously, I ordered the beer, which happened to be Pennsylvania's Victory Brewing Company's Scarlet Fire. 

As soon as it arrived in front of me, and its rich aroma hit my discerning nose, I knew the sky had cracked open and God himself had passed down this beer to my bartender's steady hand, and thus to me.  It SMELLED like Bacon.  It TASTED like bacon! Seriously people, do you have any idea how drunk I could get on a beer that tastes like bacon??????

And that's not even the best part.  This is a whole genre of beer! Rauchbier, or Smoked Beer has been a tradition of that sausage-obsessed people, the Germans, since the 1500's.  Beer Advocate has this to say:

The Rauchbier style is an old German beer style, its origins go back to the 1500's and to the district of Franconia and the town of Bamberg. It's typically of dark colour and has similarities of the Oktoberfestbier. Green malts are literally dried over an open fire of beech wood, imparting a unique smokiness ("rauch" is German for smoke), the usage of which produces beers of an acquired taste. Imagine a smokiness so robust, so assertive, that it tastes of spiced, smoked meat.

Yes, fuckers, imagine that. 

Now that I know this exists, I'm not drinking anything that doesn't taste like bacon anymore.

It used to be a metaphor when I would say shit like, "I'm drunk on bacon", but no more.  Now when I'm drunk on bacon I'm also just plain fucking hammered.

Cardiac Arrest

You know, romance is so hard these days.  You meet a nice gal and you want to impress her with a fun  and romantic first date, but modern women are too sophisticated for your average elegant dinner or night at the theater.  They've been there, done that.  They yawn and sigh professionally. 

But I've discovered the most romantic and overlooked date location in DC:

That's right.  That's Sibley Memorial Hospital.  Sure, at Sibley you can get top notch medical care with little to no wait times, but you can also find love. 

Walk into the lobby and you'll find yourself greeted by a player piano serenade and warm, inviting lighting.  It's a perfect place to have a pre-dinner cocktail made from a vending machine soda and whatever mix of liquors currently resides in your hip flask.  Conversation going well? Ask her to dance.  There's space right outside the gift shop.  Hey, doesn't she look lovely tonight? Get her a teddy bear. 

Then, as the night progresses, lead her downstairs to the Windows Cafe, which is the finest hospital cafeteria ever built.  Feast on reasonably priced entrees that change daily.  I can vouch for their stuffed chicken breast slathered in gravy and the baked cod.  Squeeze a little lemon on that cod and taste the rich subtleties of flavor that rise to the surface.  Sample the sushi or salad bars.  Grab a slice of pizza or deli sandwhich.  Get some ice cream or a soda to share.  Be romantic - only get one straw. 

Then, when the meal is over be a gentleman and carry her tray to the conveyor belt.  Take her hand and lead her to the elevator.  Don't forget to grab a Jumbo Honey Bun from the vending machine for later.  She'll be glassy-eyed with desire at this point.  Take her for one more twirl in front of the player piano and kiss her leaning over the shockingly classy information desk. 

You may need to call the nurse.  Your lady will be in cardiac arrest. Flatlined by love.

Sibley.  Romance. Tonight is your night, Bro. 

A Beer and a Shot

I don't know about you guys, but 8 out of 10 times when I want to shoot someone, I'm both drunk and in a bar, so I've been really excited to read lately how several intrepid legislatures in progressive states like Virginia, Tennessee and Georgia, have been working hard alongside the altruistic NRA to make it legal for people to carry concealed firearms into their favorite watering holes. 

I mean, you never know when someone is going to disrespect your woman or step on your new snakeskin boots.  Sometimes, someone will just look at your wrong and you just shake your head and slur to yourself, "Motherfugger, IschwearI'llfuggin'killyou, jush you wait." And now you won't have to wait, or even worse, be forced to resort to such kitsch as a broken bottle, barstool to the head, or barbaric fisticuffs.  I mean, this is the 21st century, and we are stylish vigilantes!

But, let's look at this another way, because, like Gandhi, I don't always want to shoot every motherfucker in the room.  For those who worry that allowing people to carry firearms into bars, airports, schools, dentist offices, churches, funeral parlors, petting zoos, nursing homes or PTA meetings will turn society into a violent, lawless pandemonium like the wild west, let me be the first to tell you that the old west wasn't nearly violent enough.  It's all talk. Even infamous Tombstone, Arizona had strict gun laws demanding that folk surrender their firearms.   And that was the problem! In fact, it was these fascist, anti-american, anti-gun laws that led to the legendary gunfight at the O.K. Corral.  If that's not an argument for letting people carry guns wherever and whenever the fuck they want I don't know what is.  They don't call 'em peacekeepers for nothing.  Yahoo!

So, either way.  If you're pro shooting people in bars or con, you still need to support this important legislation, because when I'm half in the bag, slurring, stumbling, angry and ready to shoot someone, if you try to take my gun away, it might just be you! 

Actually, I don't really give a fuck because when I go to bars I take my claymore and then you know you're shit out of luck! 

Radiohead Sucks

For a long time now, I've been hearing about how great Radiohead's music is.  I hear a lot of words tossed around: brilliant, challenging, intellectual, symphonic, post-modern...blah, blah, blah.

Well, kids, I'm here to tell you it's a sham.  Radiohead sucks.  I remember first hearing them when I was a teenager.  They've always been a pretty whiny band, which is annoying in and of itself ("I wish I was special, you're so fucking special, but I'm a creep"), but over the years they've devolved into something even worse: monumentally pretentious. 

Call me old-fashioned but what I want out of music is something that sounds good and possibly lets me in on a feeling or truth that I hadn't perceived before.  I like to be friends with music, not have in kick me in the balls and try and rape me with a metal corncob. Music can be sad, it can be happy, it can have as its only object the causation of dancing, it can challenge me, make me think, make me cry or laugh - but it shouldn't be shrouded in layers of obfuscation and be the sound equivalent of a cynical temper tantrum.  It shouldn't want to make me bleed. It has to be tuneful and honest, and frankly it really should be about girls.  Bu above all it needs to have the hot blood of humanity pumping through its every beat!! That's key.

Sadly, Radiohead, who certainly could use their powers for good, seems to feel that music should actually annoy you.  It's like a performance art fist to the face.  I don't need the same jarring electronic sound forced into my ears while Thom Yorke screams at me in falsetto about obscure paranoid garbage.  I'll say it again: listening to Radiohead is like being raped by a robot with a metallic corncob. It's painful and alienating.

You know who would like Radiohead?  Hamlet.  That's right, Hamlet.  He'd love it.  Radiohead's music is moody, narcissistic, paranoid, cynical, insane and grating.  It's relentless in its navel gazing.  In fact, let's look at the uncanny similarity right here:

 

Let's look at what Radiohead and Hamlet think about a variety of topics:

1) Radiohead:  

She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love

But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run

And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out 

Hamlet:

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world. 

2) Radiohead:
 

Fitter, happier, more productive,
comfortable,
not drinking too much,
regular exercise at the gym
(3 days a week),
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries,
at ease,
eating well
(no more microwave dinners and saturated fats),
a patient better driver,
a safer car
(baby smiling in back seat),
sleeping well
(no bad dreams),
no paranoia,
careful to all animals...calm,
fitter,
healthier and more productive
a pig in a cage on antibiotics.

Hamlet:

I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

3) Radiohead:

Flies are buzzing round my head
Vultures circling the dead
Picking up every last crumb
The big fish eat the little ones
The big fish eat the little ones
Not my problem, give me some

Hamlet:

Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all; believe none of us.

 

You see? Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure Radiohead are serious artists and probably even smoke cloves, just as Hamlet is a great play and Shakespeare a genius...however, Hamlet himself is kind of a dick and I wouldn't want to have to be friends with the guy.  And Radiohead sucks and I wouldn't want to have to listen to them.

Radiohead makes cold, alienating, robot-music and I fucking hate it.

 

Slush Puppies!

Okay, is there anything better than a Slush Puppie? I really don't think so.  It's been long ages since I've had one, but yesterday, at the latest Wailing Wall of the DC hipster crowd, The Cap City Diner, I encountered one of the long lost loves of my life: The Blue Rasberry flavored Slush Puppie!!!!!

There it is.  Look at it.  My nipples get hard just from the picture. My god.  THIS is what the ancient texts refer to as Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.  This was the source of strength given to the mighty gods of Olympus, this was what nourished the Israelites during their long, weary desert wanderings.  This is truly that manna from heaven.  The infintely dense ball of matter that began the universe exploded in neon blue and tasted like rasberries. 

From Slush Puppies we came and unto Slush Puppies we shall return.

Over the centuries, the Slush Puppie has taken many forms, but it's holy status cannot be questioned. God resides in that crushed ice and Love flows through that syrup.

As I said, I had one yesterday and have already gained a host of superpowers:

1) Due to the intense sugar content, I can now vibrate through solid matter, like a chihuahua.  

2) Though I no longer need to sleep, when I choose to do so, I dream of rafting on a river of crushed ice and bright blue, rasberry flavored syrup and I witness in the sky the melding of the teachings of Buddha, Vishnu, Allah, Jesus, Zeus, Luther, Joseph Smith and L. Ron Hubbard. The truth is revealed unto me.

3) I can travel in time and space to any Slush Puppie stand in the world.  Utica Zoo circa 1986, here I come!

4) I no longer need to eat solid foods.  I exist now on flavored syrups and ice alone. 

5) I have never been stronger, or sweeter.  My blood is almost entirely sugar now. 

Slush Puppies are my destiny and they are yours too.  When I am King of America, my house coat of arms will be Sable A Puppie Slushed Azur. 

DC Statehood, Guns and Lapdances

I never thought it was possible to actually SAVE money by going to a strip club, but that was before I went out to the ones in Washington, DC, our sexually dysfunctional nation's capital. What a god awful experience. As it turned out, I would have spent way more money at literally any other bar or restaurant in the entire city.  This is due to several related factors:

1) The girls are unattractive and at times strangely hairy. On several occasions, I wanted to kick them in the hairy nuts, which I felt certain dangled between their cottage cheese thighs.

2) The girls are unfriendly and can't seem to change a ten dollar bill.

3) NO LAP DANCES!

It's that third item that is at the root of the problem.  I don't get it.  I don't get the economics of it on a fundamental level.  How the fuck do these girls make any money? Are they seriously working for the measly tips they get for their crappy dancing? And believe me, the dancing is piss poor.  And what would you expect? If you are hot and have any talent at all, I'd assume you work in Baltimore where anything goes. 

So, we've got a perfect storm of erection-snuffing misery going on in these shitboxes, like Archibald's on K St. where I sadly found myself on Friday night. You've got horrible girls with no good, very bad attitudes and egregiously bad taste in lingerie with absolutely no incentive to be friendly and treat you nice, since you can't buy a dance anyway. So you don't even get that special feeling you're supposed to get from a strip club: namely, that you are an attractive and sexually desirable man instead of a seedy, voyeuristic man-child. 

Waste. Of. Time.

It's unfair to both the dancers and the poor slobs who attend them.  What we've got here is a classic lose-lose situation engineered by the District of Colombia's boneheaded government.  I mean, seriously, the district's gun laws are in danger of getting slapped down but not our lapdancing restrictions? What the fuck sense does that make? Where's the outcry over this set of crappy puritanical sex laws? I can't believe I'll be able to buy a semi-automatic weapon but not pay a woman to sit on my lap and grind! I guess there's a sort of logic to the whole thing.  At least when I'm bored out of my mind at the strip clubs, I can shoot myself in the face.

But, I've come up with a plan, a perfect solution, because I'm a political genius.  For some time now, the good citizens of DC have been trying to wrangle from Congress the right to equal representation and voting privileges in our national legislature - DC Statehood, in effect.  It never works because republicans hate DC and they keep trying to tie voting rights to unrelated and controversial action items, such as an easing of DC gun laws.  However, what if we tied a DC Statehood bill with both a total forced relaxation of the district's gun laws AND a rescindment of the regulations against lap dancing! That way, DC gets to vote so democrats gain that seat, the gun people get to once again walk the streets of the nation's capital with that swagger that can only come from being armed to the teeth and the lap dance people get to enjoy the tawdry thrill of a good, fleshy grind after a hard day's work. Now THAT is coalition building.

Brilliant! Statehood, guns and lapdances. Hee Haw! 

Gold Cup

Belinda Carlisle once told me that Heaven could be a place on earth, but I never took her seriously until I went to Virginia's vaunted Gold Cup Races and came face to face with the finest collection of sundresses this pirate has ever witnessed. I've sailed the seven seas and visited every famed sensual paradise to be found in myth, legend or Fodor's, and I have never seen so many bare shoulders. I think there was a horse race going on too.  Now I hate horses and enjoy watching them brutally whipped around a track as much as the next guy, and the roots of this event are surely in these hallowed equestrian traditions, but Gold Cup, as it turns out, is only incidentally a race.

In truth it is an all out frat party complete with beer pong, slap the bag, an ocean of puke and overflowing port-o-potties baking in the hot Virginia sun.  There were also an inordinate amount of guys in pink shirts and popped collars.  And everyone you meet is drunker than the last person.  Even the guy who was supposedly taking bets on the races was apparently too drunk to function! Contemplate that for a moment: you can't bet on this race because the bookie is passed out in his bright red hummer. Amazing.

But I digress. Oh the sundresses! OH MY FUCKING GOD!  There was nowhere near enough material in all the clothing sported by these fancy ladies put together to cover more than 58.626% of the red hot girlflesh assembled at this backwoods shitshow.  Seriously, these girls were so hot they made me feel self-conscious about chewing tobacco.  I calculated with extreme precision that I wanted to have sex with 89.658% of them. Such a high ratio has not been achieved outside of a strip club since GW Spring Fling 1996.

The event's website says this about suggested outfits for ladies: "Ladies attire ranges from sundresses, wedge high heels*, and extravagant hats to slacks and a nice top." Sundresses - Check.  Heels - unsure, most of the ladies were barefoot about five seconds after arrival.  Slacks? I saw no pants of any kind. Hats - Check.  Nice top?  I think they meant tube top. 

I love tube tops. 

So, essentially you drink until you puke, shamelessly ogle fancy, fancy ladies in poses ranging from coy to exhibitionist and every now and then watch a horse ride by.  It's decadent and perfect and it has inspired this pirate to heights of lyricism: 

The Sundress - An Original Poem

Bare your shoulders and run through the grass,

Barefoot lady,

I will chase you.

You are a naiad among boars,

In this realm of drunks,

But among these sots I am besotted,

With your skin, your bare neck your mocking laugh.

Walk with me now in these endless green fields,

Among the horses, proud and fleet.

I will regale you, sing you a song,

a tune you ladies like - turn around bright eyes.

Give me your hand, your heart,

Leave your sundress in the sun,

And step into the shadows with me.

I really, really like sundresses.