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 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.
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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…
Photo by Foxtongue
In honor of my successful avoidance of the dating scene, it’s time to reminisce upon some of my classic fuck ups over the years. Once again, the events here actually occurred, but the name of the girls will be left out to spare her any embarrassment so that she can safely deny ever dating me.
From time to time, someone I’ll come across will ask that always-intriguing question, “Why are you single?” Well, besides being an asshole and lacking any fashion sense, I have less game than a Jamaican bobsled team.
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Photo by pusgums
Well, apparently Part 1, despite its overwhelmingly successful response, was unsuccessful in landing me a pad. You’d think people would be a little more caring to a guy whose current neighbors consist of an eighteen year old girl that runs her boyfriend(s?) over about once every other week and an old drunk that pretty much routinely bangs every party gal in a one mile radius in the back of his Caddy. I’m guessing his wife knows, just doesn’t give a shit. When I jog past her and she waves, somehow I feel an urge to get the fuck outta there and run Forrest run. Read more…
Photo by Lovelee Dae
Another monday, another kick in the fricken nuts.
Trying to make my peace with the fact that this, like all mondays, royally sucked. I drove home through an extra half hour of stop and go traffic, only to take five minutes to park when I got to my place. This is primarily because the fucking Yeti that lives across from me needed a whole five minutes to waddle her giant ass across the street. There I sat, my car idling, burning off more gas as her two cheeks ebb and flow against each other with the biggest series of retreats and advances since D-day. At $2.79+ a gallon, that bitch owes me at least an ice coffee. And I know she likes Dunks.
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Photo by jimwhimpey
So, I’ve pretty much been rocking out with food poisoning for the last day and a half, and it’s been moderately awful. Needless to say, I needed a break at work today.
Mondays are typically awful, but Monday after two consecutive nights of drinking past 3am is a little more like a volunteer proctology job at a sex offender facility. Suddenly my weekend dietary schedule of consuming nothing but beer, vodka, and whiskey until a Sunday afternoon filled with buffalo chicken and eggs didn’t seem like such a great idea. So I went to my safe haven.
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