Aaaaaand we’re back. After a two week stint in OKLA, I have returned to the promise land of Texas where I can finally bask in the presence of pretentious arrogance once more. Don’t worry Texas, your douchebags are much bigger than those growing up in Oklahoma. The incredible lack of young men driving BMW 3-series coupes up there was highly unnerving. Every time I saw one I impulsively pulled up next to it with my middle finger in the air just so I could reaffirm my status as alpha male by outrunning it when the light turned green. But to my
surprise dismay, the BMW’s in Oklahoma are operated by women. Very young attractive women at that. I was caught off guard and completely out of my element. I know that had Bartles been riding shotgun he would have used his favorite “Oh what, did you just win an LPGA event?” line that comes standard when passing a dick-operated-beemer in Uptown. If I would have done this on my voyage, the likely response would have been, “Yes I did win, I shot five under.” Them bitches can golf up north….
The southern charm that I once radiated before moving to Tejas has clearly been replaced with cockiness, arrogance, and a keen sense of fuck-off. I was rather humbled by my visit. I did manage to make it to three OKC Thunder games in a week including the first win over the Mavs. It was amazing. I am a die hard Thunder fan and I love talking shit to opposing fans. The fact that these fans were from Texas is just icing on the nipp..errr cake. It ranked up there with trash talking/beating the hell out of UT in the Red River Rivalry. Bliss.
Speaking of rabid fans. I happend across something this morning that immediately brought two things to gross realization. 1) The Dallas Cowboys might truly be America’s team. 2) America is so thoroughly engrained with white trash that the Dallas Cowboys’ fans have become poster-children. Observe…
Tune in next week for the Los Angeles Dodgers gunshot wound gallery, followed by pictures of Toronto Maple Leafs’ picture contest of fans’ frozen balls.
I could see if this tatto competition were hosted by a local dive bar, strip club, tattoo parlor, or waffle house….but ESPN and the Dallas Cowboys marketing team? As tempting as it is to get Troy Aikman’s mug inked on my ass cheek and share it with the world via social media, I have been able to restrain such urges by using what little bit of dignity I have left.
In other news. You know when people start going on off on some story or rant and then there really is no climax to the whole thing? Doesn’t that just piss you off? Well this is one of those.
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As much as I hate politics, politicians, and the dirty dirty games that are played in the U.S. Government, I would have to say I hate the “Radical Political Activists” even more. Organizations such as PETA have chapped my ass for a number of years. I’m all about treating animals with respect, but nothing feels quite like a pair of croc belly boots when you’re strutting around uptown… And I really don’t care how the crocodile was “harvested”. The people trying to change what is wrong in this world may have the best of intentions, but they seem to be the most close-minded S.O.B’s arounds.
For instance, These guys. Apparently a young man was shot in Florida recently for wearing a hoodie or something. Well, the Brady brigade seems to believe that this was the fault of these 40 men. I’ll not get into the case mentioned as I have my own opinions that will remain offline until a decision has been reached.
Back to the Brady Bunch. I know that if I were some young, nimble-minded, empty vessel, registered voting teenager that I once was, I would probably be easily swayed by groups such as le group de Bradys. Taking gun rights away from U.S. citizens would mean that U.S. citizens wouldn’t have the right to own guns. If U.S. citizens didn’t have the right to own guns, crime would be minimized to rape, battery, theft, assault, arson, sodomy, fraud, larceny, blackmail, embezzlement, douchebaggery, pedophilia, mormonism, fake-tanning, and speeding (a Utopia of sorts). But nobody would die from a bullet, because guns would be illegal. I know that I would sleep better knowing the drug dealer that lived next to me didn’t have a gun.
Hell, why stop at guns. The Battling Brady Boys should also extend their outreach to cocaine, meth, marijuana, ecstasy, crank, and heroine. If those were made illegal then we would still have our beloved celebrities like Whitney Houston around. If drugs were outlawed, street gangs and drug dealers would go legit, kids would do better in school, and imprisonment rates would go down. It is SO SIMPLE. Make drugs illegal and people won’t use drugs!…… OH, wait.
We found a place that is actually worth recommending. Capitol Pub on Henderson. Now, Bartles and I blessed Capitol Pub with our presence on a Thursday night after visiting a Food Truck powwow across the street so we were definitely a touch more chipper than usual.
Where to begin? In the beginning….. there was a decent crowd around. We were able to get seats at the bar next to a couple of guys enjoying dark foreign beer, exotic shots, and slamming Rumple after each. Geeze! Rumple? Really? What happened to just hitting each other in the nuts? As minty fresh as their breath was, I’d rather chug Listerine. Moving on. There were a few girls at the bar with and without their beaus, along with a good smoking crowd on the patio.
After a couple of Fireman’s 4’s, Bartles noticed that the clientele was densely female. It appeared to be some sort of “girls night” rally that we were unprepared for. We chose to play it cool in the beginning and see where the night would take us.
The bartenders at Capitol Pub are the rare breed of friendly/smart-assed/attractive/hardworking folk that make people want to come back. In our quest for a bar to become “regulars” at, Capitol Pub is in the lead because of this. They have a great beer selection both on tap and in the coolers. I’ve never had the food there, but it can’t be any worse than Stan’s or Black Friar. There was a TV covering the Masters and Bubba Watson in all of his glorious Bubbaness.
As the night went on, more and more gaggles of girls showed up with the occasional Brotourage coming and going. I didn’t feel as threatened by outbursts of Testosterone or mainstream-hating-hipsters as I usually do in dimly lit bars. I consider this a successful evening.
If I had to bitch about something, which I do; it would be the price of the beer. Fat Tire is a whopping $4.75 for a can. Maybe I should have just had Rumple on the rocks.
My goodness we’ve found another.
Thursday night. Jake’s Burgers on Henderson. Alone in the corner. There he was. As the fog slowly lifted around him, The percussion section started the beat. A smooth bass line joined in. Cue the guitar and strobe lights. Bartles and I had to hold back the massive herds of young women from getting to this man, and let me tell you….. they were feisty. For a second I even caught myself gravitating towards his muscular awesomeness.
This young spotted dick is one of the prime examples I pictured in my head when I started the blog. Gelled faux-hawk, a tight T-shirt that expressed his inner anger, muscles out the ass (figuratively speaking…I think), and thick leather straps to harness the artificially increased levels of testosterone in his arms. This dick gets bonus point for the System of a Down ringtone that kept going off though. I wanted to walk up to him and yell “AFFLICTION!!!!” and head-but him (standard bro greeting), but Bartles reminded me I’m a fragile being so I continued analyses of our subject from a safe distance.
At first I thought he was waiting on someone. Wrong. Ok, well maybe he’s trying to get with the cute, scantly clad bartender. Nope. Maybe he’s depressed or had a rough week and just wants a beer. Psshh, preposterous. It is difficult to believe that this guy was alone as I thought every Affliction shirt came with two used virgins. For all I know, he could have been your average Joe just enjoying a
beer frozen margarita in a friendly bar, but in my judgmental defense he looked like he could roundhouse kick Shaq while rocking a Stevie Ray Vaughan solo.
I don’t have a problem with muscular guys who can wear tight fitting shirts and not expose a voluptuous set of moobs, but the leather straps were a bit much. Maybe he was a gladiator and used them to fend off enemy swords from slicing his wrists.
The point: Even if you’re a nice mellow gentleman, dressing like a UFC wannabe is not portraying that. When I say you should just put on a front in public, this is not what I was talking about. He should have done what I do and wear the angry garb at home while watching reruns of The Ultimate Fighter and playing loud heavy rock music. My neighbors think I’m a badass by the way.
Don’t be a dick.
Oh Stan’s. I’ve heard from many that this is place to go to watch the game. Darts, pool table, shuffleboard, TV’s, and two bars (sometimes). So why not pay a visit on a random Saturday night?
In a group of four, we decided to hike on over to Lower Greenville and chill at the sports bar. The crowd was mello for the most part, when you ignore the two douche bags inspecting the legitimacy of the felt on the pool table. “What kind of felt is this? Is it regulation felt?”…..“I don’t know, its red felt. Rack em’ bitch.” Thanks to my buddy Joe, we sent them to check the legitimacy of their billiards game as it wasn’t regulation quality.
Cold beer, friendly(ish) competition on the pool table, good conversation; “Hey, lets get some bar food. We’re having a great time.” Just when you think the night is going your way and there isn’t much that can mess it up, a plate of over fried shit shows up on the bar in front of you. I know I know, its bar food. What can you really expect? Well I for one, expected minuscule traces of flavor in my deep fried regret, but I suppose that is asking quite a bit from a place with water dripping from the ceiling and a box fan to cool the place down. All together, we ordered: Fried pickles, hot wings, and fried mac & cheese. I realize that from what you just read, you are judging me like a Sunday morning Theta, but please be gentle for a moment. It is very hard to describe the food that was served to us. It met all previously agreed upon bar food standards: Fried, greasy, and unhealthy. However, it did not meet the national standard of Consumable Goods. When four intoxicated twenty-somethings don’t finish one of three orders of bar food, it should be a wake up call. It tasted like what I imagine deep fried dirty cardboard would be…..with ranch. I considered taking shots of ranch dressing to apologize to my digestive system for just raping it.
So, go to Stan’s, watch the game, drink some beer, play some pool, dodge some water droplets coming from the ceiling, and have a jolly time. DO NOT EAT THE FOOD. Perhaps a real entree would have been a touch more enjoyable, but I cannot be held accountable for these assumptions.
Side note: The Scary Bathroom Score was a 7.64
The arrival of warm weather and longer days can only mean one thing. Pool time. This weekend I took the opportunity to christen the pool at my apartment. With a solid showing of guests and alcohol, I can tell that we are in for a good summer. Living at an apartment with a beautiful pool, I understand that I am responsible for sharing the experience with as many people as possible. Apparently my neighbor understands this well. One of my fellow residents decided to bring his buddy from Chicago down to the pool for some Sunday-funday interaction. Let us just say that were overly-blessed with his presence.
Q: What do you get when you take a young, athletic, single, male from Chicago and add an audience of bikini clad young women and an abundance of alcohol?
A: The most obnoxious motherfucker in the world.
At first, this guy was very social and had no problem talking to anyone around who was willing to listen. Being the cordial southern gentleman that I am, I obliged and decided small talk with a stranger could be interesting. Oops. It didn’t take long to realize that this guy was more full of himself than Chad Ochocinco-Johnson. He was polite enough to speak with such volume as to overbear the other twenty or so people around and the music that was playing in the background. I’m sure everyone else felt that they had a new best friend. I know I did. Telling the stories of his many travels around the world, this guy certainly lives it up by partying with Russian mobsters and models and such.
He made it a point to let us all know that he had run a 12 mile race the previous day as well. My only response, “Oh cool. Well I chain smoked.” I don’t think I would run 12 miles if I was….. running.
My puffy chested friend was tolerable to most until he did two things.
1. He used profanity around children who were in the pool.
2. He verbally insulted country music.
This did not sit well with me. I wanted to grab my acoustic guitar and instantly wrap it around his Pizza loving, Wrigley Field going, shit eating grin. I will have you know that I refrained from doing so. You don’t come to Texas and insult the lifestyle that is country music. He also added, “Southerners are nice people, but most of them are too stupid to even realize if they are being insulted.” I politely thanked him for the compliment.
The point is this. Don’t be a dick. This was guy was entirely too loud, annoying, and cocky to put up with on a lovely Sunday afternoon at the pool, so I did what everyone else had already figured out (enter case O’ beer). It became an entertaining game of “what will ejaculate out of this asshole’s mouth next.” A Monday hangover and glowing sunburn later, I’m glad I was able to experience this self centered prick in all of his glory, if for no other reason than to feel better about my quiet, pasty-white, slightly pudgy self.
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So, Monday night I was briefly overcome with this feeling of satisfaction with life. After living as a bachelor (away from my parents) for six years, I think I am finally starting to get the hang of it.
Whilst making egg salad, grilled chicken, and spaghetti do divide up into lunch-size portions for the week, I tuned into my favorite Monday night (football offseason) television program, The Voice. Yes, The Voice. How could you not love this show? Anyhoo… listening to abstract renditions of great music tracks went along perfectly with the Emeril Lagasee-esque circus taking place in my kitchen. After neatly separating the food into individual tupperware containters, I sat on the couch for the final musical performance of the evening. The song: Faithfully by Journey, The room: dimly lit, The candle: burning, The result: tears. WTF!!! I’m not emotionally vulnerable to a reality TV show! I could see it maybe if Journey were actually performing the song, but no!
“Ok, get yourself together man. You need to do something to relax and take your mind off of the heartfelt performance you just witnessed on the television. Just relax. Bubble Bath… Yes, a bubble bath will make everything ok.”
As I lay in the sudsy tub of bliss, testosterone walked in and slapped me right in the freshly exfoliated face. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
I dried off, put some clothes on (only because the blinds were open) and turned on Spike TV. “Ok, this is better. I should do some sort of exercise to regain my manhood so I can go to bed with dignity.”
I moved the coffee table, stretched my arms and legs and proceeded to engage in a quick session of
yoga power lifting. Ahhh. Now I feel (and smell) absolutely delightful. Time for bed.
“No one can ever know about what took place here this evening. No one.”
I confess to these sin….errr…. peculiarities to make a point. If you are a bachelor or bachelorette, and find yourself doing things you wouldn’t dare share with the world; you’re starting to get the hang of it. Do whatever you want behind closed doors, but be sure to put on a front when in public. Nobody likes a sobbing, sensitive, lavender-scented Nancy boy. All we really care about is who you pretend to be.