Archive for the ‘Drinking’ Category


It also helps if you’re a size four and have lots of disposible income

June 20, 2011

So Redbook had this recent tidbit called “5 Outfits Guys Secretly Hope You’ll Wear,” and seeing how I wasn’t consulted on the matter I decided to check their work, with some help from the other guys I know who also weren’t consulted by the Redbook people.  And we decided to do this while drinking heavily.

First one they list: Unbaggy sweats and a touch-me tee.

“They make unbaggy sweatpants?”  says Mikka, who dates Samurai Cathy who is always in one of them samurai kimonos with a couple blades by her side.  With that in mind and his previous fandom of anime, we fully admit that his opinion may be a little off..  “They must be expensive because I’ve never seen a girl wear a flattering pair of sweatpants.  Especially if it has something stupid printed across the ass like Juicy or Hottie or Your Ad Here.”

And indeed unbaggy sweatpants are expensive because the pictured model in the Redbook article is wearing a pair listed at $49.50.  And they don’t do anything special either, like wick the moisture from your sweaty vagina or anything like that. Under Armor should get on that.

“And the touch-me tee is really just the off-the-shoulder look from Flashdance,”  says Anonymous Doug, whose only interest in women’s fashion is so he can spot the girls in the bar with the lowest self-esteem because they’re easy to bang .  “Just go the full-nine and get the legwarmers and the leotard, just as long as you don’t violate the weight limit for the leotard.  You can actually hear the spandex begging for death when you fit 100 pounds of ass in a 50-pound one-piece.”

“I think the sweatpants were chosen for easy access,”  I say.  “Get your pinky a bit stinky, as it were.  Hell, shove both arms down there.  Shit, I’ve seen some sweatpants that will let a whole other person climb in there.”

We’ll skip the second item on the Redbook list, Simply Sexy Dresses, because of the lack of description and imagination and go straight to the third item: Jeans and a white tank.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the big fashion test for a woman,”  says Mikka,  “Can she rock a white top and jeans?  If she can’t, there’s a good chance she’s not going to look good in anything.  Even nothing.”

“Remember to wear a belt,”  says Anonymous Doug.  “Because that belt buckle is like a door knocker to the cooter.  A welcoming door knocker, not one of those scary ones at some gothic haunted house.”

“And don’t wear fucking flip-flops with your jeans,”  I say.  “It’s not sassy.  It’s an admission that you don’t know how to dress yourself.  Your pedicure sucks. Wear some damn shoes.”

After another round of drinks that we probably shouldn’t have had, we moved on to the next item that Redbook’s cadre of male opinionators has listed: “A pencil skirt and classic heels,” which the article translates into “sexy librarian.”

“I haven’t been in many libraries in my time, but I’m pretty sure the sexy librarian is about as real as Wonder Woman,”  says Mikka.  “Sexy office professional I’ll buy, but sexy librarian?  They’re just making that up.”

“I don’t think some of the girls I banged could pull off a pencil skirt,”  says Anonymous Doug with a regretful sigh.  “Maybe one of those fat Sharpie Magic Marker skirts.  Sometimes Last Call doesn’t work out so well, fellas…”

“Just no pantyhose with the dress,okay?”  I say.  “Pantyhose is just silly.  And they’re hard to get down when you have to use the bathroom.”

After receiving odd stares from my colleagues, I inform them that it was in the context of a Halloween party when I had a slimmer, more girlish figure.  And I was not going to shave my legs.  I buy the next round of drinks.

And the last item on the Redbook list is “pretty undies,” which we think is a cop-out.

“Yeah, I thought this was just about things women would wear in public,”  says Mikka.  “If that was the case, forget all the other items.  Here’s your Top Five Fantasy Outfit List: kinky Catholic schoolgirl, French maid, Wonder Woman, sexy cheerleader, and naughty nurse with an honorable mention to the samurai kimono my current girlfriend wears.   Happy shopping ladies.”

Note: Because we are consistent bastards, we would like to point out that Top Five Fantasy List is the exact same list from this post almost two years ago, save for the honorable mention. 

“All hot bras and panties are to guys is a nice-looking obstacle to the promised land,”  says Anonymous Doug.  “Hey, nice lace bra.  They’re separating me from your tits.  Ditch the fancy nipple covers, put on the dog collar and ballgag and let’s get to work, all right?  The sun’s coming up soon and I don’t want to see what you look like in the daylight.”

“When it doubt, ladies, go with boots,”  I say.  “They go pretty much with anything.  It’s a high-percentage play.  Do the math.”

So we give the article a passing “C” on the strength of getting the jeans/white shirt combo right.  But we want to see a better effort next time, Redbook.  We don’t tolerate average-ness here at the Failure.


Tact… good taste… a Jedi craves not these things

May 4, 2010

“Today is Star Wars Day,”  I say as we drink at the bar.

“Okay,”  says Mikka, whose enthusiasm for Star Wars died with the prequels.  This is why he has not said the punny line “May the 4th be with you.” 

“Today is also the anniversary of the Kent State shootings,”  I say.

“Okay,”  says Mikka, who only knows about that event because of the Crosby Stills Nash and Young song “Ohio.” 

“Do you think we can find some people who would do a Star Wars-themed reenactment of the Kent State shootings?”  I say.   “You know, like a bunch of stormtroopers walking on a college campus shooting Jedi Knights or rebel soldiers.”

“Tin soldiers and Vader’s coming…”  says Mikka.  “This summer I hear the drummin’, four dead on Coruscant.”

“Can we also do a 9/11 reenactment using X-Wings crashing into the World Trade Center?”  I say. 

Mikka tells the bartender not to serve me anymore.  I think he’s just jealous he didn’t think of reenacting atrocities with Star Wars intellectual property first.  But like I always say:  If you’re going to go, might as well go all the way.


Zero to Awkward in Three Seconds

May 14, 2008

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.



A National Tragedy Never Tasted So Good!

January 30, 2008

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.


This summer I hear the drummin’… four dead in


Open up a can of Blazing Sword

October 15, 2007

“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.… defender of the universe.


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

May 21, 2007

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?!

May 17, 2007

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

April 2, 2007

“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

November 21, 2006

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

October 7, 2006

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.

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