Posts Tagged ‘drunk’

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I hit my liver with a Category Five Beericane

September 1, 2011

We got hit with Hurricane Irene here at the Failure this past weekend.  Nothing damaged, nothing flooded, no power outages at my place.  Mainly I used it as an excuse to drink alone and not get dressed for an entire weekend, which is how many of my weekends go anyway but at least this time I could say in defense “Hey, what else should I have done?  There was a frickin’ hurricane going on out there.”

Sure, I could have thrown a hurricane party, or gone to a hurricane party at someone else place, and not have drank alone. And yes, bad weather parties are fun… until the power goes out, which during a hurricane would be for an extended, unknowable time. Hours? Days? Whatever.  Problems arise in a blackout. The beer gets warm because the fridge isn’t working. The initial charm of being in the dark quickly fades when you realize you can’t do much of anything in the dark, except maybe screw, but if you had someone to screw you’d have stayed home with them in the first place (note: look out for the Hurricane Irene babies in late May of 2012). Board games by candlelight get old very fast when you have to strain your eyes to read whether that Chance card says you go to Boardwalk or pay 200 bucks in income tax.  Time progresses and people start getting on each other’s nerves big time, unable to alleviate that inevitable proximity tension by going somewhere else because there’s a hurricane outside. Testy words are exchanged, maybe someone gets punched, and friendship schisms develop, all because of one hurricane party.

Note: This happened to Avonia the Wiccan Pimp in her early Wiccan days. She and her first coven had a hurricane party/ritual, a spiritually fulfilling and fun time until highway flooding stranded the coven at their high priestess’s house. By the time the roads were open again, Avonia had bitch-slapped two covenmates hard enough to draw blood, leading to her expulsion from the coven.

Some might say it’s not wise to get drunk during a hurricane, as it’s better to keep your wits about you during a time of disaster.  But it’s not like you have to drive anywhere, it’s a hurricane.  In fact, being drunk will give you extra protection against the urge to drive during a hurricane. Drunk drivers are always on their way home. You’re already home.  And everyone on the news is telling you to stay indoors, stay at home, just hang tight and ride the storm out.  What better way to do that than to get blitzed on pumpkin ale or box wine or some other bottle of liquor that you were saving for some special occasion that will never come?

Note: Being high might increase your chances of driving during a hurricane because you’ll want something for the munchies, something you will invariably not have in your house at the time, and you’ll wander outside in the storm to be one with nature. Then you drown or get impaled by a tree branch.

But what if there’s a flood or a tree comes through your window?  What are you doing to about that sober?  If you have to evacuate the area, the disaster crews come by to get you out of there because the last thing your local government wants is for people leaving their houses en masse  and not knowing where to go.  And if you’re sober when you’re being evacuated, you’re a lot more panicked than when you’re drunk. Unless you’ve been drinking gin or tequila because that’s like drinking the Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde serum.

And another thing: it makes much more sense to stock up on booze (and bags of ice and a cooler) for a hurricane than what everyone else usually stocks up on: milk and eggs. When the power goes, are you going to start chugging milk from your non-functioning fridge?  Going to make a whole lot of  scrambled eggs over a pile of burning furniture because your stove doesn’t work?

The only person who didn’t spend the hurricane indoors was Tag Larkin, who was outside fighting the hurricane. Tag Larkin says he made the hurricane run away with his fists of fury and his heroic nudity. That doesn’t sound right, but I don’t have the meteorological background to dispute Tag Larkin’s claim.

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The Joy of Doing Stuff Other Than Cooking

June 21, 2011

Here at Renal Failure we’re not necessarily known for a lot of things.  One of them is tact, another is cooking well.  So we decided to remedy this issue by scouring the Internet for help with our lack of cooking skills.

Tina the Lesbian has found a cooking show that she finds adorable… My Drunk Kitchen.

“I don’t care if she’s straight, I’m smitten with this lady,”  says Tina the Lesbian.  And we take it that Tina also doesn’t care that she doesn’t learn anything about cooking during this program either.

But just when we were about to abort this project, Tag Larkin comes through in the clutch with EPIC MEAL TIME!

“Tag Larkin only cooks epic meals!”  says Tag Larkin.  “Tag Larkin demands decadent banquets of ridiculously crafted, heart-exploding meals wrought forth from the bowels of madness!  Every bite a holocaust, every belch an affirmation of food chain dominance!”

Unfortunately none of us are rich enough to afford that much bacon, but we can afford to get drunk, and that’s the most important thing when your life is empty.

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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.

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Treachery at $3.50 a box: Part Three

February 7, 2011

It’s two in the afternoon and Marlie has just woken up from her previous day of drinking whiskey out of a coffee pot, spooning out cat food into a dish for her husband Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, probably bringing out the sparkly stick for Bernie to chase, and generally wandering around drunk.  Maybe there was an Irish soccer or rugby match on the teley, we’re not quite sure.  The point is, Marlie is awake and hungover and is not in the mood to see Ninja Vicki in her kitchen.

“Te feck ye want, ye blonde pajama-wearin’ cunt?”  Marlie mutters, being all Irish as she shuffles into the kitchen, her bathrobe pulled tight around her because she hasn’t had any whiskey yet today to keep the winter chill away.

“Where are the Peanut Butter Patties?”  Ninja Vicki says, her finger tapping the sheath of her sword.   “Just tell me where they are, and I’ll take them off your hands and be gone.”

“Ye’ll be gan’ right feckin’ naw, ya cunt-flap,”  Marlie growls as she takes down a fresh bottle of Jamison’s from the top of the fridge and pours it into a coffee pot.  “I’m within spittin’ distance a’ bein’ sober an’ I feckin’ dan’t care far it.  And I certainly dan’t care far dumb cuntfaces bein’ in me kitchen… sober or pissed.”

“Just give me the cookies and I’ll go,”  Ninja Vicki says.

“Are ya the daftest cunt ta ever perfarm cuntery?”  Marlie says.  “An’less they start makin’ biscuits that are full of feckin’ whiskey, I dan’t give a shite or a bollock or a tit about any gahdamn cookies.”

Ninja Vicki scrunches her nose.  “Wait… so you didn’t buy all of the Peanut Butter Patties in town off a girl scout?”

“Girl Scouts dan’t cam’ ta are door anymore, ya cunty shite,”  Marlie says.   “Nat since Bearnie hit one with a missile two years ago.”

Ninja Vicki scratches her chin under her mask.   “So who else would buy all the Peanut Butter Patties whilst wearing a robe?”

“I dan’t kna, but if’n ye dan’t leave my feckin’ house I’m ganna cunt punt ye inta next week,”  Marlie responds.

Ninja Vicki climbs out the window, because ninjas never use doors, and wanders out to the street to think of her next move.  “Who else owns a robe and would buy all of the Peanut Butter Patties?”

So Ninja Vicki comes to my house, knowing that I also like Peanut Butter Patties and that I own a robe.  And she finds there’s a note taped to my door, addressed to Ninja Vicki, not written by me, instructing her to go to a certain address in town where her Peanut Butter Patties are located.   A trap?  Perhaps.  But Ninja Vicki will march through Hell’s asshole itself for Peanut Butter Patties.

To be concluded…

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