So here's the most upsetting thing that my drunk ass mind can come up with right now:
So I hate hot dogs, usually. They disgust me. But right now, my alcohol addled brain is fucking FOCUSED on hot dogs like you wouldn't believe. We did have a pack in the fridge. Unopened and everything. But I just looked for them, mouth already watering in anticipation of that Ball Park goodness... and nothing. No hot dogs. I'm so pissed. Instead I have to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Adam's Cheap-ass Booze Revue, Whiskey edition.
Welcome to another installment of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. In our previous episodes, you may remember I sampled Boxer lager, a beer that costs $13.99 for 36 cans, or to put that in perspective, less than 40 cents per 12 ounces, including the aluminum to make the can said 12 ounces comes in. Tonight, I indulge in Beam's Eight Star Kentucky Whiskey- A Blend. Quoted straight from the label. Blended and bottled by the Clear Spring Distilling Co., this 80 proof whiskey is $4.99 for a 375 ml bottle. As always, I have my trusty emergency vomit expulsion repository system nearby(or EVER system for short), as well as a six pack of Rolling Rock beer for chasing purposes. Due to the relatively tasteless nature of Rolling Rock coupled with its low 4.6% alcohol content insures that my observations on the Beam's whiskey shall remain mostly untainted.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
Monday, October 3, 2011
My second follower on Twitter is a porn bot, and other (semi) related stories.
So Twitter is turning out to be pretty alright. It's kinda like Facebook for people with short attention spans. I think one of the things I love about it is that practically nobody even knows I have one, leaving me the freedom to throw every single asinine thought that passes through my head onto the internet for the enjoyment of strangers. Much to my surprise, a day or two after setting up my account, I got myself a follower in the form of Brian Russell, who makes a webcomic called The Underfold. Just now, I got a second follower. The title should tell the rest of that story for me.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
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