Items of note:
The Book of Mormon (score!)
Popcorn
1 “Do Not Disturb” sign (a record low)
Answers to your questions on Monday, and maybe Tuesday too. And also possibly Wednesday.
Archive for the 'travel' Category
Hey did you see the head Italian child-raper was in DC yesterday? Yeah, it was totally awesome how all of his douchebag followers filled the city with their idiocy on the same day I had to drive to a meeting in Alexandria.
Actually, it was partially my fault. I should have given a wide berth to all the cars I saw that had bumper stickers that said, “God is my copilot” or “God is my pilot” or “Apparently God is a fucking douchebag of a driver and I’m a lobotomized asshole who will do anything a highly edited and poorly translated book of fairy tales tells me to do because I clearly have no idea how to fucking operate an automobile and neither does my pie-in-the-sky deity-of-choice”.
I really should have avoided every one of those goddamned be-Jesus-fished hate-moblies because the little magnetic fish pretty much acted as a warning sign for “watch out because I’m merging without signaling or checking my rear view” or “Der, what’s a steering wheel? Why isn’t Jeebus driving for me? I’m hungry. I need a new diaper. I wish I was watching Steve Wilkos right now.” or “I’m driving 5 miles per hour on the highway because I’m a fucking douchebag cocksmoker child-rapist-forgiving shitfuck dick-spinning turd-swallower and traffic scares me”.
So yeah, if you couldn’t tell by my tone, it was pretty much 40 miles of concentrated awesomeness on the way to DC. I finally got to my meeting, 30 minutes late because of those holy-roller nipple-twisters, and then later on the day looked like it might even be salvageable as the temperature increased to mild summer temperature ranges.
And when we jumped on 395 to head home we weren’t faced with nearly the volume of purified idiotic assholery that we had to steer through on our way down…
because they were all waiting for us on 295 north.
I swear, my next car is going to be a tank with a giant drill on the front so I can bore my way over or through those malevolent fuckwads who think it’s just fucking SUPER to get on the road during rush hour so they can see their high-grand-eagle do a cross burning at the local stadium, and my fucking death car of Righteous Fucking Justice Dispatched DailyTM will have an articulated arm with a branding iron on the end of it so I can stamp all the cheese-dicks in the middle of their fucking foreheads with the words “I’m a shitty fucking douchebag numbnuts dumbfuck of a driver and you should punch me in the nuts or ovaries right fucking now because I deserve it for being a fucking asshole and you should sterilize me too,” and I’ll have a quadraphonic sound system mounted on the roof constantly repeating “You are a shitty driver. Kill yourself” and I’ll be able to focus that shit at those fucks and turn the fucker all the way to 11 and watch the blood trickle out of their ears as for ONCE I am able to make my way down the road unimpeded.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m really phoning it in this week. You wanna fight about it? Anyway, before all this craziness with my family, my brother and our respective wives took a trip along the Mason Dixon Wine Trail and found, surprisingly, that all wine made in this area isn’t complete and utter cat piss, and is, sometimes, in fact, preferable to standard “drinkin’ wine on a Tuesday night” wines like Yellow Tail, for example. Wow, that last sentence looks like it just got tea-bagged by the comma monster. Whatever, if we weren’t supposed to use them they never would have been invented. Here’s a transitional sentence!
At some point during our trip through the Pennsylvanian hinterlands we started getting hungry and decided to stop in a tiny town comprised of a grocery store, Rite Aid, Italian restaurant, and tattoo parlor. Having consumed something on the order of all the wine in Pennsylvania, we opted for a modest 42″ pizza and two baskets of fried bric-a-brac. We’re still not exactly sure what we ate, but we think we might have had fried zucchini, fried cauliflower, and deep fried chicken fried steak fries, all slathered in a healthy coating of ranch dressing, of course.
The service was nice and prompt, and our waitress was nothing if not extremely friendly and attentive, but the menus left a little something to be desired.
You can see them below, but you really need to click through to flickr to see them full-sized in all their majesty. I imagine the restaurant owner, having spent a few hours working on the menus, sent for one of the town elders to review his work and instead got a barely literate sixth grade dropout. I’ve only looked at the menus twice, and each time I’ve found new stuff to laugh at, so I’m sure there are still some gems in there that I’m overlooking. Lemme know what you find that I missed.
Hi, this is Anonymous Coworker and I’m not available to write this blog. I’ll be out of the intertubes from Friday, January 11th, until Wednesday, January 23rd. If you need to read a blog immediately, please go check somewhere else on the information superhighwebs. If you’re the other 99.9% of the internet population and you’re looking for boobies, you can find some here. (Vote for Dizzy Von Damn: 3rd column across, 8th row down.)
Any comments left between now and January 23rd will be replied to on or after January 23rd. Any comments requesting immediate action before January 23rd will have their email addresses forwarded to Chris Hansen with “Here’s a pervert for you” in the subject line.
The Mrs. and I decided on a lark to head out the greatest bar in the history of bars the other night, and though the friends we called just couldn’t be bothered to meet us there on a whim and given only a few moments notice at the height of the holiday weekend, we still had a pretty good time. Well, we had a pretty good time, but it was the kind of good time that you can’t really plan because of how unintentional it was.
When we showed up the bar was relatively empty. There were maybe eight other people there aside from the two of us. The loudest were four snooty-looking douchebags across the bar from us. Dressed in clothes like they had just come from the symphony, they were drinking weird mixed drinks and talking loudly and deprecatingly about what I would generally consider my life. It’s hard to explain exactly, but they just expressed a disdain for all the things people in the middle class can do and can’t do on a regular basis. They made fun of food like casseroles made with condensed cream of mushroom soup. They suggested that we could all stand to learn a bit about the world and should spend our money on vacations to faraway lands as opposed to spending it on other things. Yeah. Just generally dickweeds.
They grew progressively drunker, and when one ordered an Irish coffee for the four of them to share, I knew it was all over. At J. Patrick’s Irish coffee is pretty much just a big cup of hot liquor. It’s also delicious, so it wasn’t long before they were all shouting “This is the best Irish coffee I’ve ever had! We’ll take four of these!” I was joking with Mrs. ACW that the frigid WASPy blond in the middle was definitely going to go home ready to bone the bejeesus out of her companion… and then vomit all over his 900 thread count sheets. Then I’m sure their maid would be forced to clean it all up.
I was eagerly looking forward to the loud suggestion from one of the men that they should swap women for the night, and of course the ensuing slap-fight/cashmere tornado would brighten my soul for years to come, but my attention was drawn to an EVEN BIGGER group of douchebags, if you can believe it. Just as Mrs. ACW and I were having a conversation about her style of dress, and I was explaining that she was “preppy-lite” at times, a slew of yuppies walked in and provided the perfect counterpoint. “That’s preppy,” I said, and our attention drifted from the inebriated foursome.
The bar had gotten more crowded, and in the meantime the band had set up and started playing. The yuppies settled at the end of the bar so we couldn’t hear them very well, but it wasn’t long before Joe, the owner/bartender, wandered down to the beer taps we were sitting in front of and while pouring a Guinness leaned over the bar and said, “That fella at the end of the bar is a real proctol orifice.”
Not sure that I had heard him correctly, I turned my head, leaned in, and said, “What?” He repeated himself, “A proctol orifice. Think about it.” He gathered his Guinness and headed back to the group at the end of the bar; we now knew them familiarly as “assholes”.
A few moments later anther bartender set a shot glass down in front of us, upside-down, and said that the assholes were buying a round for the bar. This may seem like a nice gesture, but it was clear that they were more interested in showing everybody that they had the money to buy a round than they were in creating camaraderie. And even though their dick-measuring charade was clear, we’re not the type of people to turn down drinks, so we each ordered another drink. The guy next to us was even more ballsy, and asked what the limit was. Upon hearing none he asked for Middleton’s, a rare Irish whiskey that Joe only serves on special occasions, and he never charges for it. However, the bartender rebuffed him, so he ordered two other whiskies: one for himself, and one for his wife who wasn’t drinking.
In the meantime they had requested that the band play happy birthday for the eldest douchebag of the group, and when they were done somebody shouted, “Now maybe Joe will get you some whiskey!” With that, the new-money blond that had come in with the assholes shouted “Tullamore Dew!” Of course. Of course she would want the most mass-produced “top-shelf” Irish Whiskey. It’s like when you were 16 and thought Jack Daniels was the be-all-end-all of booze. Of course when Joe brought down Middleton’s instead they were all fawning over the cedar box it came in and trying to figure out how many bottles they would have to buy to impress their friends. The blond stuck the bottle in front of a young yuppie woman sitting next to her. The young yuppie was chain-holding cigarettes. I’ve never seen anyone not smoke so many cigarettes in one sitting. I’m pretty sure the only puff she took is when she would light them, and then just sit and ash them into the ashtray on the bar. She was almost literally burning money. I’m sure her trust-fund is one roll-over from her torching hundreds and this is how she consoles herself in the meantime.
While they were ogling the whiskey and not-smoking cigarettes Joe came back down to our taps and I told him that they did indeed seem like proctol orifices, and I told him that my high-school English teacher would have said that they “didn’t know their derrière from an excavation in terra firma.” He laughed and walked away. Then he came back and said, “I like that,” before walking away again.
As they got drunk they got even more unbearable. The birthday douche had ordered a whiskey on ice, and when I walked past them to go to the bathroom I caught snippets of them talking about their boats. Mrs. ACW and I contemplated beating them to death with our pint glasses, but then decided against it lest their families buy them gold-plated coffins filled with diamonds.
Mrs. ACW and I headed out of the bar shortly afterward, but not before I suggested that if Mrs. ACW didn’t shut up I would “punch you in your head.” Mrs. ACW, being hard of hearing, and looking for a fight, thought I said, “I punch you head!” so she wrote it down on a bar napkin and laughed like crazy. Not one to be outdone, I took the bar napkin from her and told her I would blog that she said, “I eat poop sandwiches every morning for breakfast.” Then she threw a hissy fit and we went home.
All in all, a good night.
1) This weekend Mrs. ACW and I went to New York and caught some horrendous colds. And when you’re in the Finger Lakes in New York and the only thing to do is wine tasting, you have many conversations that sound like this:
“What did you think of that merlot?”
“I’m not drinkin’ any fuckin’ merlot!”
“Okay, we’re not in Sideways. What did you think of the merlot?”
“It tasted like wine.”
“Did you like it?”
“I don’t know! It tastes like alcoholic water to me! I can’t taste anything!”
“… so… how much do you want to buy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a case?”
2) We ran in to some school teachers from that area who were doing what school teachers do best: getting drunk off their asses. (Mrs. ACW is a school teacher, see Fantastic Four #38. -Ed) While they bummed some fire off our group, they also struck up a drunken conversation about something not very interesting. Two of the teachers broke off and had their own very serious, very slurred conversation about future careers and how they, even though they weren’t close friends, both thought the other was really really really awesome. Seriously. Like really. Really awesome. Seriously.
Later, I literally bumped into one of the more drunken ones, and she spilled beer all over my arm. She had been stumbling along, careening from one shoulder to another in the crowd in a desperate attempt to keep moving forward with simultaneously remaining some semblance of upright. When she got to me her pitcher of beer was nearly horizontal and she was spilling eight bucks worth of microbrewed goodness all over the ground and my arm. Being the cynical, angry, dickhead that I am I looked her square in the eyes and mumbled, “Excuse me” before going in search of a napkin.
3) At one of our wine tastings I noticed Andrew Dan-Jumbo on the far side of the wine bar. I asked Mrs. ACW if she recognized the guy in sunglasses on the far side of the bar, and when she asked if she should, I said “yes”. I told her I’d tell her who it was once we got outside.
He seemed to be enjoying relative anonymity, as I don’t think I saw a single person fawning over him or bothering him in the slightest. Once we got outside I told her, and the other folks we were with, who it was, and they all exclaimed, “Oh yeah! I knew I recognized him from somewhere!” I explained that I didn’t want to say who it was while we were inside because he looked like he was having a good time and it didn’t want it to be ruined by some undersexed house-frau overhearing me say, “Andrew Dan-Jumbo is over there.” before leaping off her tasting stool and asking him if he wants to see her special way of uncorking a wine bottle.
w0-motherfucking-0t! My promotion FINALLY came through and I got a 6.5% pay increase! That’s more than DOUBLE what I was expecting to get! So when my boss was like, “Does this look okay to you?” I was all like, “Fuck yes it’s okay! Do you know how many extra blow-jobs I can now buy with this kind of cheese? One! One extra blow-job! And a whole snow-drift of coke too!”
I know some of you are lawyers and doctors and assistant crack-whores, and a 6.5% increase isn’t very much to you, but to me it means that I don’t have to choose between eating and getting my diabetes medicine. Wait, no. That’s not right. 6.5% means that I don’t have to choose between super-sizing or not. I’m gonna super-size that bitch every TIME from now on. You KNOW I gots to get extra bacon in my milkshake, for reals.
Anyway, there is some weirdness to all this. First of all, it took them since April to process the paperwork for my promotion, so who knows how long it’s going to take them to get the extra cash into my check. On the upside though, it doesn’t really matter how long it takes them because they’ll be retro-ing the cash back to July 1, so for a couple of checks I should be making fat dough.
Well, I’m out. Finger Lakes all weekend, bitches. I’m going to try to get my BAC to 6.5% to celebrate, but you and me, we’re going to party when I get back, so start calling the stripper. I’m sure your mom’s not too busy.
