Respect Authority

Here’s the burning question of the moment: are flaming shots really necessary? Drinking 151 feels like dousing your throat with napalm as it is.

Despite what Renaissance Faires may have tried to convince you as a child, breathing fire… not actually that awesome. I mean, in addition to the fact that you’ll end up working at a Renaissance Faire.

Nonetheless, after you dress those third degree burns, bro, you’re sure going to need a beer. And that’s what Tipsy Tuesday is all about! For the post-collegiate readers, remember how easy it used to be to justify drinking every night of the week before words like “responsibilities”, “maturity”, and “alcoholism” reared their ugly heads?

Shit, today’s Cinco De Mayo too, and god knows we have to celebrate every culture’s various holidays by drinking mass quantities of watered-down beer out of plastic cups. See you at the bottom.

Well… it’s basically a Thursday :\

Dearest Aaron,

Hello, old friend. It is with refreshingly cold sentiments that I write to you now. It’s been a while since we’ve last talked. Like maybe 16 hours. Do you miss me yet? My subtle citrus tones… my touch of spice… my dash of coriander? By the way, I know you have no idea what coriander even is — but I also know you miss it anyway. I know, because this is the bottle of Blue Moon you left in the fridge speaking, and you have so much of me inside of you that we now have a mindmeld — it’s like E.T., only I’m a totally inanimate liquid and this is probably just the onset of alcoholic hallucinosis.

I miss you too, buddy. I miss you slowly dipping your orange wedge into my mouth, heck, I even miss when you start getting a little sloppy and cram one that’s just a little too big down my neck with your thumb. And I know you love throwing me back up at 4 AM, too — it’s like we get to hang out all over again! Come on, it’s all part of the fun. Read More ›

The author at press time.

It is currently 9:43 PM on Sunday, and as of this time, I have fucking had it.

I’m sick of waking up on Sundays pregnant with an unborn brick taking up residence in my stomach. I don’t know who is responsible for this, but every Sunday, I awake to find there’s been what feels like a large brick, a bag of potting soil, or an inflated balloon pumped full of lead implanted in my stomach. It’s annoying, inconvenient, and most of all, inconsiderate, and to whoever is responsible, you need to know that I’ve really had enough.

It’s already torturous getting up on Sundays, after passing out the night before sometime after drinking 15 beers and eating an entire sausage pizza at 3:45 in the morning, without having five pounds of concrete setting in your intestinal tract. Hell, I was still hungover on Saturday night from the bottle and a half of wine I drank on Friday.

And all that General Tso’s chicken at 2 AM sure seemed to have some unique after-effects… You know, they really shouldn’t let you order that dish past 10 PM. Read More ›

All of these stories about suspended Cowboys cornerback Adam “Pacman” Jones potentially going into rehab would be a lot funnier if they were just about Pacman. 

I always thought that yellow motherfucker was eating too much, I just didn’t think he had a, you know, “problem.”

[Pacman checks into rehab]