the one with shoes

November 30, 2010

So there was that one time I was perusing the internets

(did you know they have that on computers now?)

and came across this:

Photobucket

Yep. Facebook and twitter shoes from Adidas. Say whaaaaat?

Well say it I’ll wait. No really say it!

I’ll take your word that you said it. Now as ridiculous as the shoes are they are kind of sweet. Anyshoes it got me thinking what would be more entertaining? What other web themed shoes could there be? So I came up with some stuff.

(Yeah you got to deal with my horrid paint shop stuff. The fact that it is so horribly done is the best part. I know it looks like a blind epileptic angry chicken did it. All for you people.)

First up: The Youporn.com shoe.

Photobucket

and then the 2 girls 1 cup shoe:

Photobucket

Advertisements

Excuse me maam: Virginia Style

November 9, 2010

Photobucket

Yep. It already happened again. This time it took place in the lovely mountains of Virginia. The Three Shillelaghs were up there on our traditional trek. The last time we were up there a brewery was being built. This year it had been up and running for a while.

Everywhere I go I like to try a local beer. So we immediately made plans to head up to The Devil’s Backbone Brewery and Restaurant. After a beautiful and relaxing morning we headed out. We stopped at an awesome place named Graves where I chased down that elusive Choco Taco! Yeah!

Photobucket

We headed up the mountain—Blue Ridge Parkway. This is also a tradition. We do enjoy our traditions, you may have noticed. Anyhoo we get up there and park. There be some optimal picture taking area. The area is beautiful and pics to come—maybe.

Oh come now (That’s what she said!) stop your whining this is another kind of post.

The day was nice. The sky bright blue and had a few puffy white cotton balls floating around in it. It wasn’t too chilly down below (TWSS!) but up on the mountain it was nippy. We enjoyed the view and snapped pictures before heading back down

Devils Backbone had a pretty full parking lot. The restaurant was no different. The sun was slowly creeping down as was the temp. There was an option given to us. Wait for who knows how long to sit inside or have dinner on the patio. It was a nice patio and a nice view too.

It was cold though. The patio did have heat. It consisted of a very lovely fireplace, two hanging heaters and then two moveable heaters. They also offered blankets. The wifey enjoyed the fireplace because she was right next to it. I was to the side/behind of it and Pelvic Joann was across the table of it. The two hanging heaters only helped the tables they were above. Those were the prime seats. The moveable heaters were not on.

In their fairness we didn’t ask about why. Eventually (as we neared the end of dinner) one was turned on and brought over to us. I sat with my hoodie on and up. The ladies took advantage of the blankets.
They were the cause of the post. I mean the blankets not the ladies. Dinner consisted of delicious meatloaf (kat), coffee braised steak (me) and the bone smoker platter (hahaha) for Pelvy. They had bread pudding for dessert.

During the meal some woman sat at the prime table in front of the fireplace AND under a heater. They eventually left and were replaced by some raucous men probably in their 50’s. I made eye contact (my face and beard clearly showing) several times. They were fans of really bad jokes and ribbing one another with even worse jokes.

As we left the ladies left the blankets on their chair. One dude tried to stop them I think. I vaguely remember hearing “hey” as I made it to their table. My front was facing them before turning my back to scoot between their table and the fireplace. My hoodie still up and my hair tucked into it. I get this tug on my arm.

“Miss. I think you ladies left some…oh never mind.”

I turned to face him at this point. Now either he noticed the blankets weren’t ours or that I had a beard and was clearly not a lady. I kept going and he turned back to his table of mid life crisesers.


Excuse me maam: Game time

November 1, 2010

First go check out the latest Monday’s Maniac over at The B Movie Brigade.

Photobucket

Yep. I get called “miss”, “maam” or “her/she” so often that I’ve turned it into a reoccurring segment here. Hooray for easy peasy posts to bore you with. Because if jimi is one thing she’s lazy

Damn. I mean he. Crap. Moving on.

The Cheap Seats is littered with posts about being called a girl. Sift through em if you like.
No? Yeah I feel ya, I was too lazy to get em for you too. Oh well. Hooray lazy. What was the point of this again? I mean other than me wanting to make a stick figure have my head on it.

(Horribly done by the way) Oh there he goes with the parenthesis again. What are those suppose to be an aside or something?

Notice the prominent beard?

Don’t worry nobody else does either. The Rizza, the pole smoker and yours truly had just walked into the crowded lobby area of the Q. She (The Rizza) went off to the “you have a purse so need to be checked out line. We being men went to the quick lanes.

A side note: The Q (Quicken Loans Arena—where the Cavs, Monsters and Gladiators play) and its staff appear to enjoy holding me up. Almost every single time (or actually whenever I attend with the Rizza) they’ve found another reason to slow me down. The pens in my pocket, my belt buckle, a notebook and etc etc.

This night was no different. In terms of holding us up I mean. I walked self assuredly (but with a manly brisk walk!) to the ticket scanner.

“Good evening my dear.” Ticket in one hand pointed at the scanner and keys in my other hand for the security to see as I pass through the detector. I left all pens and belt buckles at home. Success!

Scan.
Blrrrrrp.
Scan.
Blrrrp.
“Hmm.” She pulls the ticket into her hand. Scan.
Blrrrrp.
Scan some more.

“I knew I should have brought my personal ticket scanner.” Flash my hairy smile. Her face does not brighten however. “Damnit Jimi did you flash the grimace again instead of the smile?” I thought as she pointed over to the side.

“I’m going to need you to stand off to the side over there sir.” And then she was already on to the next customer.

Soon a squirrely looking guy walked over to her and she talked to him and pointed over at me. “Could you see him please sir.”

“For you anything.” I walked over. He smiled. I smiled (perhaps grimaced?) and the dance began. He took the ticket. He used his big boss ticket scanning scanner and of course our old buddy

Blrrrrp.

Yeah, so he looked at the ticket some more. He scanned it again. Nothing but blrrrp. He looked up into my face and presumably my hypnotizing dark brown eyes. He chuckled.

“HMMM.” A stronger version of their go to answer. He read the ticket and then ripped the bottom part of and handed it back to me.

“Well okay that was fun.”

He looked up at me from the scanner and then tapped “Florence” which is probably not her name but I don’t really care.

“Okay you can go on and let her through now. She’s good to go.”

I tugged my beard once. I tugged a second time. He stood there. She stood there. “Well thank you Flo.” I said as I passed through her line one last time.


The one with Vodka and hate

October 18, 2010

The night progressed as every other night fueled by free vodka would. This is to say much quicker than normal. It started with me not going and then somehow ending up on a bar stool drinking Finlandia next to the two people I’m always drinking with.

On my left there was an open seat and the bar was occupied by my star wars bag which I instinctively held anytime someone, not refilling my empty glass came near. The bartenders were nice, attentive and generous with the vodka. I made two new friends that evening.

Finlandia Tangerine and Finlandia Mango.

Mr. Grapefruit wasn’t too bad either. We only met through other acquaintances though.

There were shots. Plenty of them actually. I know that the number of shots I had was plenty because the guy in the bathroom told me so. Me and the nice warmth slowly filling my head made our way to the bathroom. I pushed the door open with what felt an inappropriate amount of surrealism. It swung open too easily and with a force that bolstered my ego. The music the DJ refused to let die faded just a bit. My thoughts were once again free.

“I am superman” I thought! Shook my head strongly no, not superman he is a douche nozzle.

“Why would you choose Superman?” damn you thoughts and your warm blanket of vodka. First you choose my arch enemy and then you try to overthrow my mind and accuse me of the horrible crime you in fact committed.

“Did I ask that out loud?” Damn.

Oh man did I ask the Superman question out loud? No I couldn’t have, because surely if I had there would be someone in here to hear it. Of course there was nobody in there with me. It was just me, my rebellious thoughts, the Finlandia and the sticker of someone’s face inside the urinal.

The room was one step from the bathrooms with one weak light bulb swinging from a chain you see in horror movies. The walls sported the typical bar restroom graffiti. What would we do if there weren’t any drunken sentences scrawled on the walls? The thing that always gives me pause (and did yet again that night) is the words carved into the mirrors. This act would involve effort. Said “artist” would have to crawl up in some instances and at the very least leaning over an endlessly wet sink. Plus the work it has to take to cut into it.
I stood in there soaking the entire room up. Not that there was much. Said mirror with all sorts of meaningless things etched into it. A pink flyer leaned on the side wall like a drunk. I kicked open the stall door and I’m still not sure why.

Nothing of note.

Just a bit of toilet paper looped lovingly over the handle. Suddenly the stall was filled with sex. I could see the shoed foot pushing up against where the stall and its door connected. It pumped. The leg bent and lengthened. Her dress pulled up and tucked with a neatness not matching what was happening.
I was writing a poem starring into the stall at bar on Coventry. Was this actually happening? My notebook was out and I was scribbling away. I heard the music start to get loud and turned. The poem would have to wait. I stepped up to the sink and slid my notebook into my bag. It thumped in against my leg and a line screamed out.

“Hey buddy nice night huh?” That was the dumbest line I ever heard.

“Deep in thought?” the intruder continued. He was wearing skinny jeans and a “Killers” shirt. Over this he wore a button up shirt, unbuttoned and yet somehow still tucked in. I explained off that I was lost in a poem. He nodded and grunted an approving-esque sound.

“Hey we shared a shot together didn’t we?”As I dried my hands he made his way over. His eyes were brown and he wore beat up Adidas. I knew he’d be the guy banging the girl in my poem. He’d let her pay for the shots and then fuck her talentlessly in the one dirty bathroom stall of a men’s room. She’d have to finish herself in the parking lot after the two minute warrior was long gone. I hated him. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted out of here. I wanted my glass refilled, and the warmth in my head to burn brightly instead.
The free vodka hour was over though.

“Uhm yeah I think the whole bar got shots.” I said.

“Right. Who was the girl that did it?” He shifted. I really hoped he wasn’t getting any that night.

“The bartender?”

“She bought them?” It was a gargley voice. It was as if each letter poured out of his throat. Did he whisper wet nothings into her ear as he used her? Surely she’d vomit all over his checkered shirt?

“Well the bar bought them.” I hate you. “The girls on the other side of the bar asked for them and the bartender included us all.” I hope yours was poisoned!

“Oh.” He washed his hands with a violence that was almost pretty. Water splashed the floor, the mirror and him. “I only got one shot. What about you?”

“4.” I felt the warmth being taken over by the coldness in my chest. I would not write the poem if he was portrayed in a good light. Muse be damned.

“That’s plenty.” He wiped his fucking hands on his jeans. “Don’t you think?”

“I could always use more.”

I pulled my ninja turtle stocking cap down tight around my head. I’d trap the disdain inside there if I could.


The one with the Mount Everest of poo

September 16, 2010

Today is Thursday and you know what that means. Well yes it does mean Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia returns. That was a mean thing of you to point out. I mean I can’t compete with Sunny. Why even bother?

It also means it’s time for another TMI Thursday. I know I know you can hardly contain your excitement. It’s been a while (not really) and technically I should begin some of the chronicling the Key West roadie.

But it is our first Thursday back and well when I told Pelvic Joann and the wifey the story they were thoroughly grossed out.

So I’m back. I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack in the saddle again.

So as I was thinking about what joke to make about Steven Tyler (drugs and alcohol being too easy) something hit me. This freaked me out because there’s nobody else here.

Heyoooooooooo!

I was going to go with how he resembles a (wide mouth) vase when he sings and doll up some vase with hair and scarves but that seemed like too much work.

Lazy ftw!

As I looked at pictures of Mr. Tyler there was a joke that wanted to come out but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Because of the restraining order it has out on me. Heyoooooooooooo!
(What?)

He looked awful familiar to me—but who? And then I figured it out:

Photobucket

Am I right? He is so creepy.

Anybeautyandthebeastjokes I should probably move on. This TMI Thursday took places on the Three Shillelagh’s Hunt for the Key Master Tour (2010)

(Uhm what other year would it be?)

Sorry I digressed yet again. (I do that a lot.)

I’m writing this as we make our way into the rainy Florida night (10:33pm) on the final leg of the trip (to Key West). As we do we are listening to Katy Perry so yeah there might be some more digressing.

(Roar)

(See.)

We decided it was best to stop at a gas station and fill up the tank right before truly hitting the way to Key West. The rain was slowly coming down as we headed into the store to stock up on some drinks and what not. We bought a couple big pineapple (there were no big peach like in GA) to mix with the pinnacle whip vodka.

As Pelvy and I paid for our stuff the wife grabbed the key to the bathroom (it was outside) and took care of the diet Pepsi max she drank on the drive. I figured after I paid I’d head on over to the crapper and drain the lizard (make a sissy—take that wife!) My turn finally came and as I waited for it to be approved I felt the annoying (and often terrible) rumblings.

This did not bode well.

I mean the stomach rumblings and grumblings at a crappy looking Florida gas station late at night. Unfortunately it wasn’t going to be up for discussion. It wasn’t urgent or anything but I didn’t want to start a 3 or so hour drive with the need to film The Hunt for the Brown October.

I paid grabbed the grubby looking keys and handed off my purchases to the wifey. I made my way to the bathroom and switched the lights on. There was trash (empty candy wrappers and soda cans) on the floor. The rain from outside (or at least what I hope was mostly rain) had tracked in and made the floor very slippery.

One step in and I almost fell.

Woah.

2nd step inside as the door closes and yet another slip. This time I almost fell. I mean one foot came way up and I had to grab onto the sink to stop from falling. This is the time that my head went down near (not too near thankfully) to the toilet. Of course I was not too happy with what I saw. In the watery grave was a hill of poop and brown tinted toilet paper. It was high.

Some dick head didn’t flush this I thought to myself. Well just flush it first.

Oh.

There wasn’t even a handle. Or any other discernable way to flush either. Whatever. I can probably hold it. Maybe just take care of the pee part.

I peed.
I thought maybe I’d save someone else by destroying the fortress of poo and tp. The water in the bowl muddied a bit but otherwise the hill did not change. Washed my hands grabbed the key and made my way out.

Slip.

And as I caught myself for the 3rd time there was another slip. This one of the insides variety and it became apparent that it’d be best to take care of the filming of the sequel to the Hunt for the Red October right then and there.

Someone call Alec Baldwin!

I looked back in to the toilet. I sighed and decided that sitting down (the seat amazingly looked pretty clean) was not really an option. The hill of poop looked dangerously close to where the butt would rest. So I hovered and let go.

And let go some more.

And a little bit more.

Then I wiped and looked down.

Photobucket

If it was a math equation it would look like this: pre poo + jimi poo = poo hill over the brim.

Yes kiddies that picture isn’t exaggerating all that much. The poop reached a bit over the top of the bowl. I washed my hands, returned the keys and jumped in the car.

Of course I told them right away. The Katy Perry was momentarily replaced by a chorus of disgust by the ladies. I knew I had a tmi post for when I returned.

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine


The one with the guy who thought he was smooth

August 28, 2010

No it’s not me. I know I’m not smooth.

At least not 100 % of the time.

The following takes place at the Lou Barlow and the Missing Men show at the Grog Shop. It really has nothing to do with the show itself. That post will come later. The story is about a guy. A guy who clearly thinks he is smooth with women but most clearly is not. He was as generic normal looking as the next college guy hitting up a show at the grog shop.

(I’m pretty sure he practices fist pumping in the mirror.)

AnyJerseyShoreReference I was in the men’s bathroom when I first encountered the tool young man—oh who am I kidding he was a tool. I was at one of the three urinals making a sissy (ha take that wife!) and there was another guy at another one.

Side note: The grog means bathroom is set up so that there are 2 urinals on one wall and a 3rd directly on the opposite wall. Here crappy drawing to confuse and horrify you:

Photobucket

So keep that horrible paint shop chicken scratch in mind. So Douche O’Tool saunters on into the bathroom. There is a guy washing his hands and (as said before) two urinals being used. I’m at urinal A and there is a skinny dude at Urinal C. Now the quarters are close but unless you are precious (bad form peter) or fat bastard you can get in there easily. You know in and to the urinal without you know touching another dude and becoming gay because of it. He says:

O’Tool: Woah! A line in here what is this the woman’s room?

(No line not sure what he was talking about.)

O’Tool: I’m not going to that urinal and that guy is at the sink or I’d pee there.

At this point someone comes in and O’Tool says to him:

O’Tool: You see that chicks tits?

Guy: No, who?

O’Tool: Some chick out there.

So now I go to wash my hands and he runs to the urinal and pees. As I finish and leave he zips ups and hurriedly squeezes past me. As he does a girl is rounding the corner to go to the ladies room. She is wearing a cool Dinosaur Jr. Tee:

Photobucket

He stops her as she reaches the door.

O’Tool: That’s a dope shirt.

Chick: Thanks.

O’Tool: That’s a shirt that says “date me” all over it.

Chick: No thanks.

(She pushes door open.)

O’Tool: Hey mebbe we can xchange digits?

Chick: I don’t know about that.

O’Tool: Oh. You want me to wait out here?

(She goes inside the bathroom)

Yeah that actually happened. And yes I actually stopped to listen to this—pretending that I was texting someone—because I knew O’Tool wouldn’t let me down.

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine


The one where I sell Land Sharks

August 27, 2010

So today I was going to discuss some stuff that was depressing/stressing me, but you don’t want that gloom on your friday do you?

Oh as long as it’s my suffering you are on board?

(Jerks.)

Anybadstart I was going to until something faboo occured. A friend from high school chatted me up on aim. I know who uses aim anymore?

Oh wait I do. God you guys are mean.

(cyber bullying is wrong!)

She immed me and well she has always been slightly awkward to talk with. Well from the get go I pretty much decided I’d get some stress relief out of this convo. So I present to you one of the reasons it probably sucks to know/interact with me in any way.

Friend from school: HI.
Me: Oh my god your caps just broke my eyes!
F: What??
Me: I’m sorry I can’t see what you said because my eyes are broken now. Press 2.
F: Why?
Me: I see you didn’t press 2. I still can’t see though.
F: Why can’t you be serious?
Me: Because I was born a preemie.
F: You were? I didn’t know that.
Me: Oh I sent a memo out from the incubator, check your spam folder.
F: Liar.
Me: Burnt orange crayon.
F: What the heck?
Me: You called me a name so I called you a name.
F: Oh. How have you been?
Me: Still trying to get over the trauma of being a preemie.
F: lol. Sorry.
Me: Sorry doesn’t bring back my lost buddies. I saw em die man.
F: Anyway, I’m finishing up school…
Me: You don’t know you weren’t there.
F: Okay….what about school?
Me: They don’t let preemies in schools.
F: I have on semester left and then I dunno what I do.
Me: You stop going.
F: No. One more semester.
Me: No after you finish you stop going.
F: Yeah and find my job.
Me: Check in the last pair of pants you wore.
F: For?
Me: For your lost job?
F: I didn’t lose it.
Me: I can’t deal with your propaganda.
F: What?
Me: Nothing….
F: What is your job?
Me: Don’t spy on me.
F: What?
Me: You say that a lot.
F: You say weird things.
Me: You say things like a burnt orange crayon.
F: I don’t know what that means.
Me: Preemie slang.
F: Oh.
F: What is your job?
Me: Land Shark.
F: I don’t know what that is….
Me: I sell em.
F: What?
Me: Land Sharks. Door to door.
F: I don’t get it.
Me: No money no sharkie.
F: But what is it?
Me: Of the land variety. You see that Saturday night sketch with the guy in a shark suit?
F: Yeah I think…
Me: Well I sell people guys in sharks suits to go around and you know say “Land Shark”
F: Why?
Me: My preemie officer says I need money.
F: Who?
Me: Top men.
F: o….
Me: *ding dong* “Land shark here”
F: Okay…
Me: No you don’t answer the door he’ll eat you.
F: Who?
Me: Whoever the hell you paid me to give you in a land shark.
F: Oh…they come to the door?
Me: well it won’t work if they don’t. Then you wait till they say “united way collecting money for the needy” or you know some such thing and you open the door.
F: What do they give me?
Me: They eat you.
F: Funny.
Me: I think you lied about seeing it. Pay me for the Land shark now.
F: Maybe I didn’t
Me: No shark if you don’t hand over the bark.
F: What?
Me: “Land shark”
F: Phone…
Me: That’s not my name!
F: On phone.
F: BRB.
Me: My eyeeeeeeeeees. They shattered again!

I hope you enjoy your Friday and weekend bishes!

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to TwitterAdd to TechnoratiAdd to Yahoo BuzzAdd to Newsvine


%d bloggers like this: