In other news, I’m sure most of you have heard about Daunte Culpepper’s faux pas with the paralyzed high school football player. In case you missed it, our favorite Minny mental defective ungifted $75,000 in diamond necklaces from some random paralyzed kid – one was the No. 11 and the other was a large pepper…for Culpepper.
I know it makes little sense for some professional athlete to just hand over $75,000 in bling just because you asked him to but what in the hell was Culpepper thinking? Does the kid really need this crap around his neck? He can’t even move his bloody arms!
I’m just spitballing here but maybe an additional 20 pounds of rock is compounding the issue… Nice moves, Daunte. But we probably can’t blame him. He’s functionally retarded.
Throwing to No. 84 = good. Throwing to non-purple men = bad. Run to the big yellow posts at end of the field = good. Getting tackled by non-purple men = bad. I think Culpepper actually needed his necklaces back.
I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say that his address is engraved on the opposite side. If he gets lost or has any struggles getting on the short bus, he can turn to the bling. Let’s face it, when you take the helmet and the jersey away, it tends to cloud the issue for some of these guys. “Ah, No. 11… That’s me!” “Pepper… that’s for me!”
There ya go, Daunte! There ya go, buddy! And is all of this really surprising to any of you? He’s a wondertard, but the public is hampered by the fact that we don’t see him without his helmet very often… which may be by design. Just look at him here. Is that guy REALLY aware of what’s going on? If I had to guess, someone told him to put on his helmet; it’s time to finger paint.
So how many of you deadbeats actually watched the State of the Union Address? … I thought so I’ll admit, I didn’t watch the first time around; I was too busy watching Sky Captain, BUT I caught a repeat late last night. I’m not a big fan of the Address. In principle, I think it’s great, but I’d really prefer the President to just sit down at his desk with some cameras and give his speech rather than watch Congress do the stand up, sit down, fight fight fight routine after every good soundbite (which happens once every 22 seconds it seems).
I want to hear what the President has to say – no more, no less. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could really do without the partisan cheers and boos and standing and sitting; the scowls of Chappaquidick and Nancy Pelosi; and the look of orgasmic glee from Rick Santorum at the sound of marriage legislation.
I understand the importance of addressing Congress with this speech but in my world, they would sit there silently (gagged and tied down) rather than engage in braindead aerobic exercise. The cameras would focus on the President (and the Grumpy Old Men sitting behind him) and occasionally on the individuals that the President chooses to recognize during his speech (clapping is permitted for them).
Addresses set the tone as well as the agenda for an administration’s term and in 2002, we were given the “axis of evil” and the drumbeats of war. We all know what followed. This time, the domestic agenda (primarily Social Security) was the focus. The speech wasn’t a blueprint for reform, nor was it expected to be, as I understand.
Plans and changes were never espoused but the President gave us explanations, reassurances, options, and the news that SS is on a crash course to bankruptcy. This revelation elicited some boos from the crowd, but why?
If I’m not mistaken, President Clinton said similar things in his 1999 Address and no one uttered a sound. According to the Congressional Budget Office, the system will begin paying out more than it takes in around 2020 and be bankrupt by 2042.
I took bankrupt to mean that it’ll be unable to continue in its desired form, not totally bereft of funds. So basically when we all retire (except for you, kindly older readers), we’re toast. At least the AARP crowd is okay. I’m also somewhat impressed – the President nailed his colours to the mast on this one… The chances of reform hinge on his ability to change the political landscape to make Democratic opposition unsustainable. Fat chance.
In addition to the domestic matters, the President promised a more diplomatic America; he stressed soft power, hinted at multilateralism, and reiterated that the rhetoric of his inaugural hymn of praise to liberty was not just windy aspiration but a guide to our foreign policy. Highlights and goals as the President saw them:
Confirmation of a tilt from unilateralism? Possibly. It was tough (though sometimes idealistic) rhetoric. But it sounded good if it can all come to pass. Another plus is that this is the first time the President sounded like the leader of the free world from beginning to end and wasn’t standing in the middle of ground zero.. but maybe we should thank his speech writer for that. I’m no political pundit by any means, but as a random person with dual citizenship and an unusual place in the world, I was pleased.
** It’s very possible that I made this post simply so I could do something with the above picture… Sorry. **
If you’re looking for true prestige and relaxation, the United Arab Emirates invites you to their reef-like, ejaculating penis island:
Proba provides a close-up view from 600 kilometres away in space of the massive artificial Palm Island Jumeirah, currently taking shape in the Gulf of Arabia just off Dubai.
Designed as a prestige residential and relaxation area, the reef-like complex is built in the shape of a palm tree: it has a 17-frond crown around which is arranged a crescent, the back of which serves as a breakwater. The crown is connected to the mainland by a 300-metre bridge. Owners are due to begin occupying their properties by the end of 2005.
The Jumeirah has been built from 80 million cubic metres of land dredged from the United Arab Emirates’ Jebel Ali port, whose approaches are being deepened to 17 metres. The Palm, Jumeirah is the first of three Palm Island projects now taking shape. Swiftly following it are the Palm Jebel Ali and the newest and largest Palm Deira. Together the three Palms are set to extend the country’s coastline by around 200 kilometres. This 7 December 2004 image was taken by Proba’s High-Resolution Camera (HRC), which acquires black and white 25-km square images to a resolution of five metres.
Now that’s choice.
From the Complete Fanny Files, I give you this:
MILWAUKEE (AP) – A student whose vacation plans were spoiled has sued to end summer homework in Wisconsin, claiming it creates an unfair workload and unnecessary stress.
Peer Larson, 17, had lined up a dream camp counsellor job last June, but honours pre-calculus homework turned his summer into a headache. “It didn’t completely ruin my summer, but it did give me a lot of undue stress both at home and at work,” the high school junior said Thursday. “I just didn’t have the energy or the time for it.”
Larson and his father sued in Milwaukee County Circuit Court seeking the end of summer homework across the state. They argue that homework shouldn’t be required after the 180-day school year is over.
Undue stress? Pardon me if I don’t get it here but which of this clot’s fundamental rights was violated? I don’t recall being bummed out as legitimate grounds for a law suit. God forbid this kid be forced to work a couple math problems over the summer, as I can only imagine how taxing random summer prepatory work PRE-calculus can be. It seems to me that a bloke enrolled in pre-calculus is on a college-prep course, and, as such, is preparing himself for a life of hard work, sacrifice, and a helluva lot more calculus problmes. I guess being forced to pull out the Ti-89 2 times a week in exchange for missing the Kum-bay-ya and s’mores at the fantasy camp was too much a sacrifice for Young Larson. Very impressive.
After this bullshit claim is dismissed, someone should sue his parents.. And it shouldn’t only be this poor educational institution that has had the misfortune of trying to educate this boob with voluntary honors classes but the town as well, simply for the fact that Ma and Pa Larson produced a whining, arse-faced bugger that has done nothing but shame them in the act of wasting everyone’s time.
Mateo Geiger, link provider
I generally do my best to avoid human contact if at all possible. If I had my way, I’d be on a mountain top in Big Sky country, living in a technologically advanced home somewhere between the Unabomber’s shack and Coeur d’Alene territory. Is there a reason for it? Yeah, I’d say so. i mean, I’m not some anti-establishment crazy with a manifesto but I don’t know if I should be classified as a loner either… I’m happiest when enjoying a busy solitude, but I don’t go out of my way to avoid the company of others (not always). It’s probably best to say that I’m a societal misfit mentally unprepared to share the world with the rest of its inhabitants… or something of that nature.
For those of you that don’t know me too well, I’m not a big fan of people… I arrived here a lifelong introvert nearly void of true social skills and little desire to acquire any. However, over time, I grew into a reluctant extrovert and can now navigate my way through our social scene with relative ease. But being social doesn’t make me any less of a misanthrope. Let me be clear – it’s not that I possess some kind of hatred for mankind or anything… One on one, I really enjoy talking to other people – observing life and laughing about it with them, expressing my views and listening to theirs, and all that other interactive crap. But unless I’m on my 8th Guinness and 5th shot, I simple dislike people when they’re all bunched up in one place. On those rare occasions that I’m coerced into becoming part of a crowd while the sun is still up and the kegs aren’t tapped, there is one activity on which I can rely to make the experience more palatable: mocking others.
The grocery store is probably the best place for this… you get to walk around with a cart for as long as you wish, watching people as you go, ridiculing them in your mind, and at the end of the day, no one is the wiser. “That girl isn’t watching me pick my nose… she’s looking at brownie mix.” If I’m heading to the store, I take a moment to mentally prepare myself for all the observations I’ll have to do once inside… so many flaws on so many people – it’s a hater’s dream. Oh stop it – I’m exaggerating – I’m not picking everyone apart. It takes a discerning eye to spot the true gems, but I usually cop out and focus on the people that cough on me or make small talk in line. And what’s so wrong with that? I’m sure most of you will agree that observing people (though disconcerting) can be a fun, fascinating experience. Much to my initial amusement, this was the day that every malcontent, half-wit, weirdo, miscreant, and goof ball within 50 square miles was here. How do I know that? It’s a simplistic formula. Examine the ratio of tattoos and less teeth to people. [Factoring in the sightings of black lipstick/eyeliner/eyeshadow, acid washed jeans, and mullets can lead to more accurate results]
In any case, I visited the store to pick up Doritos, shredded cheese, Coke, and other supplies, as Boy and I had plans for a nachos and movie night. My ineptitude in grocery stores usually guarantees that I’m there for about an hour, so I try to carve a little space for it into my afternoon. This day was no different. Though I saw many amusing individuals, I couldn’t help but notice 8 mothers, each saddling 4+ children under 6 years old. They were peppered throughout the store but the similarities were uncanny. Each mother carried the same disheveled, chain smoking, Natty Light drinking appearance.. I wasn’t surprised by this nor was it amusing.. What struck me was the fact that each of these ladies had children. There is a man (or men) out there that each managed to either charm or trap… this man found her at least attractive enough to do his business… and worst, this man found it completely unnecessary locate a condom, opting instead to go bareback. Having passed the 7th mother/litter of this variety, I stopped cold in my tracks pondering the madness when I smelled a strange combination of gas, Valvoline, and antifreeze…
Sterling Marlin racing jacket, no front teeth, and a mullet with a 2 foot party in the back (revealed as he took off his Budweiser cap). I immediately craved Skoal and fishsticks. Though the mother had a baby of a rather surly disposition on her hip [I'm convinced this baby was completely aware of what was to come in life and was only too pissed that he lacked the verbal skills to express his discontent], Captain Skoal squeezed her butt and slid his tongue out. She did the same… Suddenly their tongues, spastic and determined, played about each other in midair.. sliding, probing, oh God stop it!! Before I could vomit, the Nicotine Avenger, pulled her closer (smashing baby) and fully enveloped her face with his lips. I felt a cold chill run up my spine and had the urge to turn and run, but I realized that there was no where I could go. You see, they were making out in front of the Doritos – the only item I needed. I could interrupt them but that would mean getting close and exposing myself to potential infections and viruses. I’m too much of a germophobe for that. Or I could leave the aisle, meaning their unkempt love would win! Instead, I focused on Jerry Seinfeld’s Theory of Datability. It posits that only 5% of the world’s population is actually datable…ETOH is responsible for the rest. I’ve long agreed with that assessment… until now. Though I only spotted a couple hundred people in Meijer that day, I think it was a perfectly reasonable sample size to conclude that the rate of undatability is closer to 98%. Overreaction? Possibly. But had you been witness to the mass outpouring of filthy, sexual weirdness as I, you too would have been scared bloody shitless and would have gone running back to your privacy cocoon.
Check on me around the first thaw. I might be ready to come back out by then.
Whitney believes the children are our future. If we teach them well and let them lead the way, we can show them all the beauty they possess inside. That’s deep, Whit… I’m right with ya. … too bad your daughter wasn’t born when you were singing “The Greatest Love of All”… she would have developed before you became a crackhead. I’m just spitballing here but it seems to me that the children becoming our future really depends on how well we can teach them and that’s not something we’re doing all that well. Sure, there are thousands of brainiacs out there leaving their high schools behind for elite colleges and prosperous lives but what about the hundreds of thousands of functionally illiterate and uneducated entering the world each year? [No, this is not a rabidly partisan post] It’s clear to everyone that the wasteland that is the American public school system has been made so by the corrupt, hidebound education monopoly that supports her. The problems are too many to list but I think it’s fair to say that the bulk of America’s children are consigned to worthless education and even the better public schools are substandard when compared to those of industrialized nations. One of you is reading this right now and is yelling back, “That’s easy to say. What’s YOUR solution, smart ass?” Yeah, you caught me. I don’t have one… but it seems that neither does anyone else (translation: I don’t buy No Child Left Behind as “the answer” though it’s a start) but there may be hope…
Enter David Stern and the NBA. I’m sure you’ve all heard about Read to Achieve. According to NBA.com, “The NBA’s Read to Achieve program is a year-round campaign to help young people develop a life-long love for reading and encourage adults to read regularly to children.”
Let’s think about this for a moment, shall we?
This is an education program… an education program that charges NBA players, men who have achieved in spite of literacy, with reading to the local youth in pre-arranged events across the nation. The irony of this is spinning me out. Half of these guys can’t speak English, let alone read. I have friends in the NBA and with the exception of a couple, they’re stand-up guys… but I’m a cynic at heart. From alleged rapists and domestic abusers to potheads and thugs, the NBA has acquired an image that’s pretty tough to shake. I’m tempted to believe that given the constant PR disaster that is the NBA, Commissioner Stern had to develop something positive that fans could point to and say, “See, these guys aren’t so bad.” “Photo-op publicity ploy? No way.” “The players are making a sincere, honest effort to throw down some wisdom to the youth of this great nation.” If the league wants to prove to the masses that its players are socially conscious Care Bears eager to raise awareness, ehhh… I might I buy it… but when I look at some of the “reading” advocates, I feel the bitter smacks of Irony, as the NBA hypes these paragons of individuals that haven’t benefited from reading in any way, shape, or form.
The opener for R2A (that’s my own acronym!) in 2002 was Yao Ming. Now maybe I don’t have all of my information correct but the only English he knew in at this point in time was, “Can I write a check?” We all remember that Visa Check Card commercial where Yao gets to New York, has checks but no ID, wants a souvenier and the only English the poor guy knows is that phrase and how to say his own bloody name. Maybe they located some Houston-area Chinese kids to come to the program and learn about literacy… at least that would make sense. But if they didn’t, well, I hope Yao’s translator has a great story voice – otherwise, these kids got the shaft. … Carmelo Anthony is the man-boy that after one year at ‘Cuse said, “I don’t want to make it sound bad but there’s really nothing more I could get out of college.” Thanks for your input, ‘Melo. That’s a great statement for the kids. … Lebron James and Kevin Garnett. I’m sorry for being such a bitch here but do you really think these guys read? I’ve heard Kevin Garnett speak multiple times and he may very well be functionally retarded. Skipping college was likely in his best interest because my toddler nephew strings words together more eloquently than Kevin.
I’m not saying that someone with freakish talent should be forced to languish in collegiate basketball when they have the opportunity to see their greatest dreams come to fruition. But let’s not lead “the future” astray here – these guys don’t need to be READING to anybody. In fact, someone should be reading to them! I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Read to Achieve has helped boost the league’s literacy rate.
How about lessons on the issues with which NBA players have practical experience? Avoiding Indictments with Allen Iverson; Jason Kidd & Restoring One’s Image After Beating Your Wife; Ron Artest: Anger Management and CD Promotion; Chris Webber styling with Perjury, Obstruction of Justice, and Me. Stick with what you know, fellas. Reading aint it.
I know this is a stretch but maybe Read to Achieve is a cover for a No Books, Just Hoops campaign. Why has Keith Van Horn’s game become softer than Charmin? Because he reads! When Damon Stoudamire sits down with a group of youngins, I seriously doubt they’re thinking, “I can read and be smart just like Damon.” That’s just what David Stern wants us to believe. It’s more along the lines of, “Screw reading and c
ursive and all that bullshit. I can get blazed and play hoops all day just like Damon!” If Kobe read to kids (before Colorado), I’d buy that. If Pat Garrity read to kids, I’d buy that. Emeka Okafor, Tim Duncan, Grant Hill… where are these guys? Why aren’t they reading to the children? Oh, I’m sorry – they have to make way for Johnny Phonic’s photo-op.
Now all this said, I recognize that this program has achieved some very positive things for communities across the country. I’m not knocking that… only the representatives of choice.
Option 1: Mad green, groupies, L’Oreal Styling Gel commercials
Option 2: BCS, groupies, 2 Heismans
The poor guy has expressed a severe amount of difficulty in making a decision. I can’t say I blame him because I’m sure that’s a real toughie. Were I a man, this would be a seriously taxing decision! Of course, there’s the whole money issue but all things being equal, it’s gotta be tough when a football player has to make a decision on where he’ll be able to scoop up a higher percentage of the cat. NFL… USC… USC… NFL… Song girls or groupies… Cheerleaders or MILFS…Bay Area Women or LA Women. It’s enough to make ya dizzy! And I’m sure it’s worn him out. The poor thing. He goes to class and awaiting him are 8 girls – all bleached blondes with C-cups, new nose jobs, and 26 inch waists, their legs quivering as they itch to be at his beck and call. “If I stay another year, we can make history.” But then it’s a rainy day in LA and he heads out to lunch. Where are the girls? They’re not on campus, they’re not in the streets – well, no one but the Rainy Day Women, at least. And that’s when it hits him… it’s time to really consider the NFL. Norm Chow could be gone to the Ravens.. The quality of the Song Girls has diminished in the last couple of years. Is there any part of Troy that he’s yet to conquer? When one has the opportunity to move to a higher level, it is incumbent upon that individual to do so. Life is about challenges… it’s about tackling adversity. The harder you try to meet and beat those challenges, the more you strive to rise to the occasion, the more one gets out of life. To settle for another year at USC is cowardice** AND (oh yes, there’s an “and”) lunacy. Onward and upward, Mr. Leinart.
**Disclaimer – I don’t think he’s a coward. I was just being a jerk. He’s a great player, I know this. Al Davis, Please draft him. I can’t survive another Kerry Collins season.
If there are pictures of you out there like this, you’d damn well better win the National Championship.
New Year’s Eve/early NYDay has turned out to be yet another period of great confusion and temporary panic in my life. Seeming as this occurs about once a week, perhaps I’m just sticking to routine…
Things started innocently enough. I called my boyfriend to wish him a happy new year and all of those things. He told me that he wished he could kiss me at midnight, which cued the inevitable gush of warm-fuzzies and giddiness that you don’t want to read about. The moment, however, was quickly squashed, as my brain got involved and injected thoughts of indifference:
Me: Why do people have to kiss at midnight on New Years?
Boy: It’s tradition
Me: Well it’s a dumb tradition
Boy: Why do people kiss goodbye?
Me: Why do people kiss before sex?
Boy: … We don’t….
Yikes. The words, almost palpable, hung like winter in the air. What the hell just went wrong?? Should I apologize? Suddenly, my man was the posterboy for the romantically scorned… melancholy and resigned. But his punk ass fooled me for only a second. This is Boy we’re talking about. He’ll not trick me into regret. After sharing a couple laughs, my night marched on.
[fast-forward 7 hours]
Around 3:00 am my cousins, friends, and I left my house and headed to Oliver’s for go-cart racing… [alcohol + go-carts = responsibility]. After an hour and a half or so, frostbite began to set in, and we went inside only to discover our parents still whooping it up in front of the tv.
I rarely have a chance to see my parents, or those of my friends, gettin down with the powwow but I suppose New Year’s is as good a time as any. I don’t know if you’ve ever encountered 20 sets of English parents lit up on Guinness, Bucks Fizz (mimosa to you patriots), and various Beefeater mixes but I’ll be honest, I was quite frightened.. at least initially. Not because they were mashed, mind you. We’re English. Most of us would rather get wankered than eat… though I may be one of the few exceptions. My fear was locked in the possibility that I’d witness kissing or some other untoward activity that parents should reserve for closed doors. Interestingly enough, our presence seemed to frighten them far more than they did us, as I heard someone’s father shout, “Oh bugger! It’s the bloody children! Run Awaaayy!!” [--> parents] A mild panic ensued. Leaders of business and industry (and their wives) scuttled about, colliding with one another as they darted to the four corners of the room. For what reason, I don’t know, but I had a sneaking suspicion that this worked on their own parents at some point in the 1970s. Only my parents, unfazed by our presence, remained in the center of the room. My dad invited us to join them in watching Jay Leno and we all took a seat. Soon enough the other mature adults returned to the festivities (a courageous move).
At 5 am our time, New York rocked in the New Year and after a minute of watching celebration both in the City and on the Leno set, we heard something almost magical… or sad… “Ladies and gentlemen……. MOTLEY CRUE!!” Bloated and disgraceful, Vince Neil roused even the most tired of the adults and with him they shouted, “GIRRRRRRRRLS GIRRRRRLS GIRLS!!!!” Luckily they only lasted one chorus before flipping to the Dickless Rockin Eve on ABC.
We watched for a few minutes before Billy Idol entered stage left. Though Idol has lost his baby face, he has managed to maintain his 3 moves: the smirk, the split legs, and the classic, rockin fist pump. I considered making a comment but before I could, my uncle came stumbling back in the room, yelling expletives at the tv. As he got closer, his comments became more clear. “YOUUUUUU bloody yob! You slept with myyyyy sista!! I’ll have your bloody skull I will!!” And on and on. “I won’t forget March 1981 blast you! … Bloody bastard.” At first, I found this quite amusing. My aunt slept with Billy Idol… it really doesn’t get more hilarious. But then the eyes of these adults turned to me. “March of 1981…. didn’t you just have a birthday 3 days ago?” I said nothing. “Yes, yes, she did. That’s 9 months.” These dimbulbs couldn’t possibly believe- “And she’s the only blonde in their entire family. The ONLY one.” “I’ve always found that quite odd.” “Odd indeed. And she has quite a sneer.” “Yes, quite.” I looked at my parents for help but their mouths were hanging open – they had nothing. Could it be?
No way… right? Soon enough, adults began hurling empties at my mother (not real empties, you loons), laughing at her for consorting with this faux punk rocker. I felt ill. I tried to escape to a nearby loo, only to spot my aunt slinking away in the background. AH-HA!!! It was SHE that so freely shagged poseurs and punks alike in the early 80s! I pointed at her and opened my mouth, fully intending to out her to anyone that would listen. But she beat me to it and told on herself:-( They were together at Sussex, she said… Before he dropped out and she transferred to Cambridge. A one-weekend affair. But no one seemed to care. Throwing empties at my defenseless mother was far more amusing for as much as my features and personality favor my father, no one has ever been able to explain my hair. Even with monthly visits to the hair salon to un-albino myself, I remain the lightest of hair color in my line. In the midst of my aunt’s confession, someone flipped to MTV. Holiday fun with Snoop Dogg. Delightful. To further add to my shame, I heard my father jump in to the flow with Snoop *With so much drama in the LBC it’s kinda hard bein’ Snoop D-O double G, But I.. somehow, some way, keep comin’ up with funky-ass shit like every single day… May I kick a little somethin’ for the G’s and make a few billions as I breeze through, Two in the mornin’ and the party’s still jumpin’ ’cause my mama ain’t home.* He was met with mass praise. “Bloody ‘ell mate. You know this song?” “I have daughters and young seamen! I’m hip!” … I don’t think that came out the way Daddy intended. As wowed as I was that he actually knew these lyrics, I was equally saddened by the fact that at least a few of these daffy bastards would go home thinking that I was sired in a passionate moment with Billy Idol. *Rollin’ down the street smokin’ endo sippin’ on gin n juice* Cue my uncle, who’s already done enough damage: *LAID BACK, MATE!! with your mind on your money and your money on your bloody mind!!!* The adults cheered again. I left the room for home and my cousins followed. I have to say, this end result proved itself to be the most anticlimactic happening since Randy Johnson’s upcoming deal with the Yankees.
Since waking up the next morning, I’ve been to London, caught some flu-like disease, missed the Arsenal-Charlton match (a 3-1 victory for the Gooners, by the way) as a result of said disease, and have been pathetically laying about ever since… ugh.
And so it goes… New Years 2004. Ah well. I hope yours was just as enjoyable. Cheers!
So it’s New Year’s Eve (just barely). I suppose the appropriate thing to do is engage in the ritual of reflection and contemplation. Good times, life lessons, the plethora of New Year’s resolutions that any naughty girl like myself is bound to need… that’s sounds like a rip’em good time! Too bad I haven’t any egg nog… we could coze up by the fire, crack some walnuts, and rehash 2004.
BUT NO! I refuse to celebrate the 52nd anniversary of Dick Clark’s life as an android (hey, we all know he’s been dead since ’52) in such a manner.
I thought about lodging some complaints against the army of confetti-throwing jacklegs that are primed to invade the world’s streets and pubs this Eve. You lightweight tourists, I mock you… well, sort of. I don’t begrudge anyone having a good time, whether it’s for one day of the year or the 365th. New Year’s always has a crazy feel to it. Its debaucherous energy seeps through the walls.. it raps at the windows.. revelrous perversions burst forth at the slightest provocation. And I’m the type of person that thrives in this raucous environment, feeding off the chaos and disorder, the madness, the passion….
But not on New Year’s.
There is something unnerving about scores of individuals full of untapped, drunken energy too dubious to be messed with prowling the streets until sunrise. Though my feelings aren’t any different toward people who behave this way 4 days out of 7 – myself and my friends included – December 31st simply scares the hell out of me, as wide-eyed revelers travel down intoxication’s golden road. I’ll keep my distance, thanks.
But for you crawlers heading out to get buttered up, here are 5 less-obvious tips:
1. That “liquor before beer” talk is bull if you add carbonation
2. Drinks at body temp makes you drunk faster. Make sure that shot of Jaeger is cold
3. Take a Flintstone or a Centrum… a hit of vitamins is always good for business
4. Getting on your cell and drunk-dialing people is NOT cool… especially when you’re calling me
5. Bring a towel along… you never know when you’ll have to hitch a ride
Cheers all. Take care of yourselves out there and Happy New Year.