Zero to Awkward in Three Seconds

It’s last call, and as the lights come up in the bar, I get the stupid notion to try to be profound.

“You know, I think if they sung the Carmina Burana in English, it wouldn’t be as cool,” I say.

“I think Melanie makes me do her in the ass just so she doesn’t have to look at me while we fuck,” says Anonymous Doug.

*blink* *blink*

“Who is Melanie?” I ask.

“I don’t even think she knows who she truly is,” says Anonymous Doug.

“Well, whoever she is, she’s shallow and likes anal,” I say.

“And she cries when she comes too,” says Anonymous Doug. “They ain’t happy tears either. It’s like a family member died or something. No idea what that’s about.”

*blink* *blink*

Well, this evening has taken a turn for the… well, I’m not sure what to call it but it scares me.

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A National Tragedy Never Tasted So Good!

For my birthday on Monday (Jan. 28), a member of my pub quiz team made me a cake. No, not a Naughty Cake. A Space Shuttle Challenger cake!

And it was Sacrilicious!

No word yet on whether my friend is going to start a business of making birthday cakes out of national tragedies, but I do know a girl whose birthday is Pearl Harbor Day, and she’s going to need a cake.

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This summer I hear the drummin’… four dead in Humor-blogs.com

Open up a can of Blazing Sword

“So Molson is owned by Coors,” I say.

“Right, the company’s known as Molson Coors Brewing Company,” says Anonymous Doug.

“And now Molson Coors is going to buy Miller,” I say.

“Making them MillerCoors, right,” says Anonymous Doug. “They’re merging to fight Anheuser-Busch, who makes Budweiser.”

“So it’s Molson/Coors/Miller vs. Bud,” I say.

“Well Bud might buy InBev, which makes Stella Artois and Beck’s to pad themselves,” says Anonymous Doug.

“All these mergers… it’s like Voltron, except with breweries,” I say.

“And the sad thing is that even with their combined brewing powers, their beer will still suck,” says Anonymous Doug.

“Great… shitty Voltron,” I say. “But this new company will never be as cool as Diageo. They make Guinness, Harp, Red Stripe, and Smithwick’s.”

“And they put out Bailey’s Irish Creme, Captain Morgan Rum, Smirnoff Vodka, Tanqueray Gin, Johnny Walker whisky, and Cuervo Tequila,” says Anonymous Doug.

“That’s like the true Voltron of hard liquor right there,” I say.

And to properly toast to the Voltron of hard liquor, we asked Captain Pat to mix all those liquors in a giant bucket for us. First one to vomit has to pay for the bucket.

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We thought it was named after that actress on “Dallas”

We’re celebrating Victoria Day here.  We know it’s a Canadian holiday and we’re not based in Canada, but that didn’t stop us from doing it last year.

But this year we’re doing it bigger now that we have a devoted Canadian fanbase to insult.  But instead of celebrating Victoria Day like Christmas, we’re celebrating it like St. Patrick’s Day.  Except we’re celebrating the Canadians instead of the Irish.

“Drink to the queen, boys!” I yell as raise our glasses of… say, what the hell are we drinking?

“Yukon Jack!” answers Anonymous Doug.   Tastes likes acid and madness.  Apparently we’ve finished all the Molson in the bar.  Well, the Bass-to-Bass didn’t have that much Molson to begin with, plus we’ve been drinking there since noon.

We’re also watching the Stanley Cup finals on TV at the bar too, and Mikka is wearing his Jari Kurri Edmonton Oilers jersey in support, even though Edmonton didn’t make the playoffs this year.  But we are rooting for the Ottawa Senators because in their first season in the league they lost 70 games.  That makes them “The People’s Champions.” And they’re the only Canada-based team left in the playoffs.

“I don’t think we’re being Canadian enough,” says Mikka.  “I’m just not feeling it.”

“Let’s dump 10 bucks into the jukebox and just have it play Rush all night,” I say.

“Not Canadian enough,” says Anonymous Doug.  “If we’re going to do this right, we have to go all the way.”

“You mean…?” says Mikka.

“Socialized medicine,” we all say at the same time.

This brings us to Doctor Fireman’s office at 11pm.  He’s gone home for the day, so we let ourselves in through the window and raided his trial-size prescription medicine cabinet.  We spent the rest night ripped off Cialis and Zyrtec, watching SCTV, and converting things to metric.

Next year for Victoria Day we’ll have to hit up a Tim Horton’s after a Crown Royal bender.

Who wants to play some motherfucking Plinko?!

It’s Thursday down at the Bass-to-Bass, and that means half-off all formaldehyde margaritas. And I love me some tequila and embalming fluid, and so does Anonymous Doug and Bernie the half-cyborg cat.

“So you want to be the new host of The Price is Right?” Anonymous Doug says to me. We’re about three drinks in at this point when I declare this intention.

“Hells yeah,” I say. “Bob Barker’s leaving in like a couple weeks, and no one’s been named as the replacement host yet. I’ve been waiting years for this opportunity.”

“God damn Bob Barker!” yells Bernie the half-cyborg cat after lapping up the last of his margarita from his salt-rimmed bowl. “Have your pets spayed or neutered… fuck you! I like my balls and I’m gonna keep them, you genocidal prick.”

“I don’t think you’ve got the proper credentials to host the Price is Right,” says Anonymous Doug.

“I most certainly do,” I say. “I know how the Pricing Games work, I keep a hundred dollar bill in my pocket at all times for women to reach in and grab, and I have my own Plinko stick for when one of the chips get stuck.”

“If I went on television and told everyone to help control the human population, have your dumb-ass children spayed or neutered, they’d never let me back on,” says Bernie.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not Price is Right material,” says Anonymous Doug to me. “You hate people, and hating people only worked for Anne Robinson on The Weakest Link. The Price is Right is light and happy and cheerful… everything that you are not.”

“Well, maybe I can take the show in a whole new direction,” I say. “I can’t be more personable or friendly than Bob Barker, but I sure as El Santo can be a whole lot nastier and creepier.”

“And the worst part is he says all this spaying and neutering stuff is supposed to help the feline population,” says Bernie. “That’s wife-batterer logic, sir! And I for one will not stand for it.”

“I think there’s a better choice for host of the Price is Right,” says Anonymous Doug. “Someone who can be creepy and charming at the same time.”

I know who it is. “It’s Christopher Walken, isn’t it?”

“Barker beat up Adam Sandler in that movie as a ruse to win my confidence,” says Bernie. “But I know what he’s up to. He can’t fool me.”

“See, Walken would start the show by coming out and dancing, and everyone would be happy and cheering,” says Anonymous Doug, “but then once the game starts, things get creepy.”

This is where I break out my awful Christopher Walken impression, which I’m fortunate doesn’t carry over into print.  “The price of the armoir… is 645 dollars.  You win… Bertha.  Now, come up here…  come closer… we’re going to play… Super Ball.”

“Bob Barker thinks he can hide from me after 35 years of telling people to neuter my kind?” Bernie says.  “Bullshit.  His ass is mine.”

“Only Christopher Walken can make the Price is Right watchable once Bob Barker leaves,” says Anonymous Doug.

“And it would keep him from showing up in really bad movies, like Kangaroo Jack and Gigli,” I say.  “I say we have one or two more drinks, then we get to writing letters to CBS.”

“And then we take down Bob Barker once and for all!” says Bernie.

Instead we ended up having six more drinks and defacing a library with our bodily fluids.  But we won’t say which fluids we used.

Get married now and we’ll throw in free anytime sex minutes at no charge

“So I’m talking to my parents again,” says Ninja Vicki as we sit at the bar in the Bass to Bass for Indifferent Hour. It’s not Happy Hour. It’s not UnHappy Hour. It’s like purgatory, except with two dollar drafts and half-off mozarella sticks.

“That’s good,” I say.

“All they have to do is not talk about how I’m not married or dating and we’ll be fine,” says Ninja Vicki. “I give it two months before mom slips and says something about setting me up with a nice boy from the choir, or some crap about settling down.”

“You can’t train parents,” I say. “They’re old, they’re set in their ways, they can’t learn new behaviors. Or so I’m told. I don’t have parents, being grown in a lab and all.”

“Bernie the half-cyborg cat says you have parents and they’re nice people,” says Ninja Vicki.

“Bernie is a god damn liar,” I reply. “Anyway, I’m not sure why people are so hung up on marriage.”

I see Captain Pat behind the bar and flag him down. “Hey Captain Pat. You’re a married man. What’s the big deal with marriage?”

“Well, for starters, I can have sex anytime I want with my wife,” says Captain Pat.

“Really?” I say. “Anytime?”

“Even if she’s not in the mood or even willing?” asks Ninja Vicki.

“Look, Phyllis Schlafly says “By getting married, the woman has consented to sex, and I don’t think you can call it rape,” says Captain Pat. “So, that means I get to have sex with my wife whenever I want.”

“Captain Pat, do you even know who Phylls Schlafly is?” asks Ninja Vicki.

“Not at all,” says Captain Pat. “But she’s obviously a chick, and if chick is saying stuff like that, then it must be true. I mean, I don’t utilize that particular perk in my marriage, but it’s good to know it’s there.”

“Wow, I didn’t think I could dislike the thought of getting married even more than I did, but you’ve just changed all that, Captain Pat,” says Ninja Vicki.

“Captain Pat, you just can’t heed the words of every crazy person yelling stuff in public forums,” I say.

“Why? I listen to you,” says Captain Pat.

Damn, he’s got me there.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to take important advice from people you know nothing about,” says Ninja Vicki.

“But I’m Catholic,” says Captain Pat.

Damn, he’s got her there. I guess you don’t get to own a fisherman’s themed bar without having some mental agility.

Today’s Special… starring the senior senator from Mississippi

I’m down at the Bass-to-Bass to refresh my novel-writing skills with a rousing pitcher of vodka and Windex when I see two familiar faces at the bar.

“Hey, it’s Michael ‘Kramer’ Richards and Mel ‘Not Kramer’ Gibson!” I say aloud. “Why so bummed, guys?”

Then I remember. “Oh yeah… kinda lost your god damn minds for a moment and yelled a bunch of awful shit in public and ruined your lives.”

Then suddenly the door to the Bass-to-Bass gets kicked open and this old white guy wearing Cross-Colors and an Africa medallion comes busting into the bar. And he’s got those Dwayne Wayne flip-up sunglasses on his glasses.

“Hey, I recognize that steady head of hair,” I say. “You’re Trent Lott.”

“Shit yeah dog!” says the senator with his deep southern drawl. “Where my schnegros at?”

He then goes over to Kramer and Gibson and puts his arms around them.

“Man, don’t let this shit get you down, my honkeys!” Trent Lott says. “Cracka, four years ago I told a bunch of people that we’d have been better off electing a guy whose platform was to keep blacks separated from whites, and now look where I am. Number two guy in the Senate. I’m almost back where I was before.”

Gibson and Kramer seemed to feel a bit better.

“That’s right, they voted me motherfuckin’ Minority Whip!” Trent Lott says. “That’s my title. Minority Whip. I’m from the last state in the Union to outlaw slavery, I say on tape that a segregationalist president would have solved all our problems, and no one thinks it’s a damn bit odd that my title is now Minority Whip. Look what four years did for me, and imagine what it can do for you.”

Then Trent Lott bought a forty of Old English 800 and jumped in an Escalade driven by Redman.

“We need to pick up my daishiki at the dry cleaners,” I heard him say as he got in and the doves started spinning.

Man, Trent Lott is the flyest peckerwood I’ve ever seen in my life.

Investments for the Approaching Mad Max Future

The other night, while over a couple bottles of box wine and drain cleaner, we were speculating what sort of currency will be used in the post-nuclear apocalyptic future.

Our consensus was that the most valuable commodity now will still be the most valuable commodity after the nuclear holocaust: hot blonde white women.

After the mushroom clouds subside, Hugh Hefner will be the richest man on Earth. Or Psycho Dave will be if he successfully implements his hot blonde white woman basement stockpiling investment plan before Armageddon hits. They don’t offer that at Smith Barney or Merrill Lynch.

Bull Session 6

“I finished a book yesterday,” I say to Anonymous Doug.

“Yeah, I jerked off in a book once too,” says Anonymous Doug. “Felt good, didn’t it?”

“No, I said I finished a book, not finished in a book,” I say.

“Oh,” says Anonymous Doug, going back to looking at his beer.

“Anonymous Doug, which book did you jerk off in?” I ask.

“‘A Separate Peace,’” says Anonymous Doug.

“Any reason why?” I ask.

Anonymous Doug just shrugs.

Bull Session 5

“I think I figured out the perfect murder,” I say as I throw my third dart, and take a commanding lead in our game of 501.

“Oh yeah?” says Anonymous Doug, getting ready to throw as I collect my darts off the board.

“Okay, first you get the victim really, really drunk,” I say. “To the point where they’ll do anything because you tell them to.”

“That’s a lot of booze right there,” says Anonymous Doug, throwing his first dart. “And maybe some low-grade hypnotism as well.”

“Then you instruct your victim to tell a Danny Faulkner joke and point that son of a bitch in the direction of the nearest police precinct,” I say.

“There are Danny Faulkner jokes?” says Anonymous Doug, throwing his second dart.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure some sociopathic shit has come up with a couple,” I say. “Look, as long as I don’t come up with the joke myself I’m not the asshole.”

“Fair enough,” says Anonymous Doug.

“So after the victim recites the joke in a place full of cops, the victim will get beaten to death by the cops, and they will make sure that no one finds the body,” I say.

“Pretty slick getting the cops involved in your perfect murder,” says Anonymous Doug, throwing his last dart. “However, your plan is flawed. It’s contingent on a highly inebriated person being able to memorize and recite a joke.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem,” I say, getting ready to throw. “Oh well, better throw it back into the think tank for more research.”

“Could you also seal that think tank up with concrete and sink it in the ocean?” says Anonymous Doug.