Photo by poolski
It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon and I’m anxiously awaiting my meeting with yet another disgruntled customer in the tragic pose I always find myself in before these weekly disasters: hunched over a bar, staring into a pretentious beer I can’t afford, wondering how I got here and how much this is going to hurt. While one hand swirls suds, the other is clenched and desperately in need of a cigarette. Alas, there will be no smoking. Heaven forbid I pollute my lungs while my blood pressure’s rising and the brews break down my brain cells. Read more…
Photo by Sylvar
You know, these days, I can remember strolling down stairs one fine hung over Sunday morning at the ripe old age of nineteen. Being a college sophomore and, well, Irish, I did what any fine young lad should do the night before: got shit housed.
I remember hearing my sister who was a few years out of college ramble on about how she had just been promoted, but work had gotten, “kind of depressing”. I sat there grilling about six pieces of toast thinking to myself “ I stuff bread in my stomach it will somehow absorb the alcohol and take the sharp pains out of my frigging head,” but, besides that, thinking to myself, “what the hell is this chick babbling on about? She majored in economics, what did she think she was gonna be? Indiana Fricken Jones?” Read more…
Photo by rollingrck
“25 grand is simply not enough money for me to get shot dead in some ghetto. I will call ‘em back when they raise the starting salary back to a living wage.”
This is what I told my mother when I was fresh out of college, waiting tables for cash and a 3.30 an hour paycheck at a local greasy spoon and pretending to apply for jobs post-college. I was twisting in the wind, failing to land publishing positions and uninterested in selling insurance, knives, or the Yellow Pages (yes, people still do that). I had just taken the NYPD test because I figured it provided an opportunity to ward off my parent’s exhortations that I make a career decision pronto. I simply wasn’t into it. As far as I was concerned, waiting tables and drinking Negro Modelos on the public beach at 3 o’clock in the afternoon after a day shift was all I needed in life, until I decided to write the next classic American novel. After all, it worked for Kerouac and Thompson. Read more…
Photo byDoug88888
Dear Julia,
I am sorry I made everything so awkward the other night when we were watching Rock of Love Bus and you were laughing and I tried to kiss you and then pretended like it was nothing before I kinda ran outta your house crying. I am kinda kooky like that sometimes…lol…
I understand and am totally cool with the fact that you don’t want to date me. Your friendship is as valuable to me as it is to you, and I sincerely mean that. Although it will be very difficult for me to sweep aside the way I feel about you Read more…
Photo by Hugh_Jack@ss
Believe it or not, writing for a humor website leaves me with a little bit of free time, which is why I spend upwards of 100 hours per week watching television. I’ve always been a “watch TV for the commercials” kind of guy, and I’ve noticed that lots of commercials are highlighting their products in terms of the current recession. From E-Trade to Domino’s, it seems that reminding people how hopelessly fucked their nest eggs are is a surefire way to make some sales, despite the fact that Domino’s has nothing to do with bailouts.
This could mean that we’ll be seeing all sorts of zany industries and markets relating their products to our current financial shit storm. I’ve written up some commercial transcripts, to give you an idea of what this might look like…
Read more…
Photo by Katie Tegtmeyer
All guys are assholes. Wait; comment if you’ve heard this one before.
Now, if we (as men) are to assume, for the sake of argument, that all guys, are indeed assholes, is it ok if we just kinda accept that and roll with it? Like, “ok, fair enough, but only because we don’t respect women because you’re all idiots”. Would that be a fair trade off? Because I’m kinda willing to negotiate an armistice in the battle of the sexes here. Read more…
Photo by Grenade
You know, a few years back, I used to write what I called The Hangover Update, a random posting sent to various friends that enlightened all about the current state of my brain and rectum after a night of spirits. Consequently, when the film The Hangover came out, everyone felt the need to contact me first and tell me how hilarious it is so we could compare favorite parts. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to see it. Everyone repeatedly seems disappointed. I’m not sure why.
It’s not that I doubt its inevitable hilariousness or the endless amounts of quotes I’m sure to expect, but rather, I just didn’t have the same initial level of excitement. See, movies are supposed to have a certain level of escapism. Which is why I like James Bond movies. That is some over the top stuff I can’t even dream of living. For most people, this is true. With The Hangover, for me, not so much. I’ll get around to seeing it, but man, I’ve lived it. Ya’ll act like I’ve never woke up in a room at a place I don’t really know wondering who the guy passed out on the couch with the funions is. Read more…
Photo by amerune
Awhile back I had one of the most surreal experiences of my life. Being a life long Bruins fan, and the fact that they managed to make it past the first round of the playoffs, I decided I needed to see at least one playoff game before I die. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that little thing called a ticket hold me back.
After spending hours at work failing to convince my alleged “diehard friends” to accompany me, I decided to fly solo and figure it out. Roughly twenty minutes before the puck dropped, I found myself without a ticket amongst scalpers willing to split up pairs.
I did what any diehard fan would do. I went to the infamous Penalty Box across from “the gahden”. Probably one of the few cash only bars left in Boston and the last refuge of the real fans. The ones who can actually name players behind Orr, Neely, and Bourqe. Gottta love a place where the door to the bathroom stall ends approximately ten inches above where the toilet seat sits. Women’s room too, but that’s part of another story.
Read more…
Photo by Alex E. Proimos
I’m 27 and I spent the better part of my life in an upper middle class home surrounded by the rich and middle class alike. So it was with much chagrin that I embarked on this project known as adulthood, bill paying, and technology sales.
I had spent the first several years of my post-college freedom having a pretend college isn’t over pity party and I was left without the all important safety net. I had traded a foundation for booze, bud, and adventure. Read more…
Photo by doug88888
As I write this on the computer in my parent’s basement, still drunk from last night’s wedding, I have to wonder, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? The events of the last twenty four hours are not quite clear. It’s a little hazy. It started with me strolling into work, hungover.
You see, I recently moved. To avoid further shenanigans that have occurred over the last five years, I moved into a rather large apartment that was specifically not, “a party house”. We all agreed. Turns out, our definition of “a non party house” simply means not inviting thirty people from the bar. Instead, we rather quietly all drink together. It’s been less than a week and we have ten milk crates of empties we’re saving to recycle and buy toilet paper. Two roommates killed six thirty racks of PBR in six days. At this rate, we’ll pay the rent instead. Read more…
