Me: Thanks for the Xmas card.
Tanya: You are welcome.
Me: I teared up a little because it was so nice.
Tanya: Teared up on the inside, right? Because tearing up on the outside would make you gay.
Me: Yes. I bury all my emotions deep inside because otherwise I would be gay. I would rather drink through my emotional issues and kill a kid in a crosswalk DUI style then talk about my feelings.
Tanya: Sounds like the manly thing to do.
Me: Indeed.

Labels: broz design, drinking, gay, im convos, tanya, xmas

I must own this book and pass on its wisdom to the boy. Here are some of my favorites maxims with comments directed at my infant son as if he were an adult with the ability to reason:

• Surround Yourself With Smart People. You are who you hang out with. Your friends will expect you to do what they are doing alongside them. Smart people expect you to be intelligent and well read. Drug addicts expect you to pass the Guns N' Roses coke mirror you won at the carnival balloon-dart game after snorting a line.
• It Is Not A Gang Without The Cool Girl. Be sure to always have at least one cool girl in your inner-circle of friends (bonus if she is hot). She can provide invaluable feminine perspective and is bound to bring around other cool girls. You may even marry her someday.
  
• Ask Your Mother To Dance. There is no better way to make your mother's night then taking her for a spin around the dance floor and acting like it is fun and not a chore. You will do this and you will like it.
  
• Do Not Get All Fancy About Your Beer Or Coffee. Coffee? Black. Beer? Yes, please. It is as simple as that.
  
• Do Not Have A Girlfriend In College. Think of all the awesome shenanigans you can get into while attending college. Now think about doing them while maintaining a steady relationship with an average looking girl that you met in the first week of your freshman year.
• Never Sit Down On A Ball Field. Take A Knee. You do not sit down on a sports field unless you are severed at the torso and have no legs. Even then, you still take a stump.
• Always Meet Your Date At The Door. Do not be the dickhead honking the horn in the driveway. Go up to the door and ring the bell. Doing this affords you the opportunity to open the car door for her as well. Double the points, my son.
  
• Yes Ma'am. No Sir. No Exceptions. People that are older than you are always sir or ma'am. Even if your friends parents tell you to call them by name you still call them sir or ma'am.
  
• Try To Lose The Adverbs. Nothing illustrates how weak your vocabulary is more than an adverb. You are not very tired. You are exhausted. You are not extremely happy. You are ecstatic.
• Keep Your Word. Even the over-consumption of liquor does not excuse you from this one. If you tell someone you will do something, you do it.
• If You Are Good At Something, Never Do It For Free. Excluding sex, masturbating and murder.
• Walk It Off. This philosophy that can be applied to many situations including electrocution, being on fire and venereal diseases.
• Never Be Afraid To Ask Out The Best Looking Girl In The Room. Be fearless. What is the worst that can happen? She says no and you call her a lesbian? You are still in the same position you were in when you walked into the room.
• You Do Not Get To Choose Your Own Nickname. You are luckier than most as you have a sweet last name that can be shortened to "Broz" or "Brozo." Even so, you do not ask anyone to call you this. They must do it of their own accord.
  

Labels: books, coffee, college, drinking, liquor, sports, the boy, wife

I have to give credit where credit is due: this kid has a fantastic idea for a Halloween costume. He does not need a double amputee to pull it off, however. Roll behind a Kohl's and look for some discarded mannequin parts in the dumpsters. Piece together a torso and some arms and legs. Pick up some gold spray paint and you have yourself a rudimentary (yet light) C3P0. Imagine the logistics of having a double amputee strapped to your back all night. What happens if you (or the amputee) has to take a shit? Even without legs I am assuming a double amputee weighs 75 pounds (if not more). That is a lot of weight to be huffing around sober let alone with your veins pumping Jack Daniels. What if there is a slut dressed as Slave Leia at the party? Are you prepared for that menage-a-trois?

I think my idea for a Halloween costume is better than what this kid is attempting to pull of, anyway. Me as the "host body" and my infant son strapped to my mid-section as the alien Kuato from the movie Total Recall. I may have to hold out until next year for when the boy is talking so he can quip "Open your mind" upon presentation.

Labels: drinking, geekery, halloween, movies, pop culture, the boy, tomfoolery

The wife and I braved freezing temperatures last night to watch game three of the National League Divisional Series in a four and a half hour affair that left our extremities numb. 50,000 faithful at Coors Field were in attendance, an impressive number considering the cold. Some highlights:

• The Rockies organization once again fucked up some form of the post-season. The game started at ten after eight. We arrived at the gates at ten 'till eight, happy we would be catching the first pitch. We waited outside Coors Field for forty five minutes in the cold. No announcements as to why tickets were not being taken. No signage explaining why there was a delay. Chants of "Let Us In," almost degenerate into an angry mob poised to rush the gates and get into the game. My sweet wife even mentioned to me how easy it would be to get away with kidney-punching Phillies fan in the mayhem.
  
• By the time we get to our seats, it is the bottom of the second inning and the Rockies are up 2-1. Fucking Rockies organization. I almost do not enjoy my Rockies Dog and refreshing beer(s).
  
• Our section is fun early on; good fans, good spirits and an overall good vibe. This situation changes as sobriety slips away and is replaced with stupidity. Once polite Phillies fans sitting a few sections below us become raging assholes and start picking fights. One of the fans is a fat white guy who has long dreadlocks. Insults are hurled his way. "Cut your hair, white Bob Marley, " and, "Got any weed?" and my personal favorite (because I said it), "Go home to your bottle of shampoo, hairbag."
  
• The couple in the row below us are stoned out of their mind. Through out the game, the guy eats slices of salami he has smuggled into the game via his coat pocket. No Ziploc. No brown bag. Literally eating slices of salami from his coat pocket.
• The girl below us dances like she is at a rave every time music comes on. Her balance is so off I remark to the wife, "That girl is going to take a spill." Within minutes of my comment, it happens. The crowd is on its feet after Carlos Gonzalez belts a solo shot to right field and the girl takes a head plant into the seats below her, flips over another row, lands on her head again and somehow manages to finish the maneuver with her ass in a seat four rows down. She looks confused, disoriented and possibly concussed. Her boyfriend expresses no concern and casually takes another slice of salami from his coat pocket.
• We decide to head out in the bottom of the ninth as our infant son it at his grandparents and probably needs sleep. It kills us both considering Brad Lidge has been a nightmare closing ball games this season. By the time we arrive at the the car, the Rockies have lost 6-5, unable to cash in two walks.

Upon further reflection, I should have kidney-punched a Phillies fan to make my night more enjoyable. Especially the fat one with dreadlocks.

Labels: colorado, denver, drinking, drugs, l-i-v-i-n, sports, wife

My mom called this morning to inform me that the boy was exposed to some form of a coughing disease a few weekends ago at her house (my young nephew being the little monkey from Outbreak in this scenario). I told my mom that this weekend the boy was exposed to the drunken stupidity of my sixteenth annual fantasy football draft, his dad repeatedly calling the Rockies a "bunch of dirty ball sacks" for getting swept in San Francisco and the assorted programming of the History Channel including Gangland and one very disappointing show about prison tattoos that mostly focused on the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas. She said I should get him get him "checked out" just to be safe.

Labels: disease, drinking, family, pop culture, sg crew, sports, tattoos, the boy

My response to the well-compiled Tomato Nation 25 and Over list:

1. Remember to write thank-you notes. The written word is a lost art and most youngsters under age 25 think texting 'THX PLAYA' does the trick. Taking the time to send off a stamped, hand-written note (especially after a job interview) shows that you are considerate and not a serial killer.
2. Do not invite yourself to stay with friends when you travel anymore. Being as I have a deep aversion to inconvenience (both for myself and those around me), this has never been a problem for me. I would much rather crash at a hotel even if family/friends are close by.
3. Do not expect friends to help you move anymore. I only expect my friends to help me move things if they stayed at my house due to a bout of excessive drinking the night before. Asking someone to help you move a roll-top desk with a crippling hangover should not be an issue if said someone yacked in your sink twelve hours earlier.
4. Develop a physical awareness of your surroundings. I pride myself on assessing my surroundings and acting accordingly. Alcohol often kills this one for me.
   
5. Be on time. I generally show up on time to most events. If I am late to anything longer than thirty minutes, I will blame my infant child who cannot speak.
6. Have enough money. Nothing pisses me off more than somebody who never brings money out in card or cash from. You did not leave your wallet at home. You are just a cheap bastard.
   
7. Know how to calculate the tip. It is not difficult to multiply the bill by two to get the 20% tip equivalent. If you do not have the mental capacity to calculate a tip without the aid of a calculator or cell phone, eating out is probably the least of your worries.
8. Do not share the crazy dream you had last night with anyone but your mental wellness professional. Depends on what the dream is about and what your intentions are by sharing said dream. A sex dream with the intention of getting yourself laid? Absolutely. Murdering all you co-workers with a machine gun during a casual Friday with the intention of getting a raise? Probably not.
   
9. Learn to walk in heels. Only applies to me if I patronize an East German sex club.
10. Have at least one good dress-up outfit. Before the wife cleaned me up, taught me how to dress and expanded my wardrobe, I owned only one suit at the behest of my mother. It was my all-purpose suit that saw many weddings, funerals and job interviews. I could sometimes tell the last time I wore it by reaching in the inner-coat pocket and finding an old event program.
11. Do as invitations ask you. I am usually not formally invited to anything and if I am the wife handles all the RSVP-ing and gifting. It is better this way.
    
12. Know how. Sadly I think most people 25 and under grew up with every convenience afforded to them and would perish in the wilderness after being given a knife and a water source. Problem solving is lost on a generation that did not have to solve any problems because their parents were afraid if they failed it would crush there delicate sensibilities. I like to think I know enough about enough to be dangerous.
    
13. Don't use your friends. This should be on an age 5 and over list. You should never use your friends unless they have an awesome surround-sound system.
    
14. Have something to talk about besides college or your job. As the many people in my life can attest, I have plenty to talk about besides college and my job.
15. Give and receive favors graciously. As my Dad said while scolding me after an excessive sports celebration in my youth, "Act like you have been there before."
16. Drinking until you throw up is no longer properly a point of pride. It depends on how good the scotch is.
17. Have a real trash receptacle, real Kleenex, and, if you smoke, a real ashtray. Toilet paper serves multiple purposes (in my opinion); nose blowing and ass-wiping. If you smoke? You will be dead before me. That and you should properly dispose of your butts. My yard is not that place.
    
18. Universal quiet hours do in fact apply to you. Working from home I keep weird hours and I keep the volume down during the quiet hours without even realizing it.
19. Take care of yourself. Workout a few times. Take a shower every other day. Do not eat Taco Bell three times a week. Repeat.
20. Rudeness is not a signifier of your importance. It is when you are from California.
    

Labels: career, dad, drinking, family, gluttony, sex, stupidity, wife

The wife and I are officially prepared for our spawn to make its grand entrance into this world. The nursery is littered with the spoils of numerous baby showers, bathed in gender-neutral tones and is decorated with a ridiculous amount of monkeys. We have registered with the hospital and have taken assorted labor preparation classes. I have read two great books (Punk Rock Dad and Babywise) that have given me honest perspectives on fatherhood and read half of one terrible book (The Expectant Father) before throwing it across the bedroom and calling the author a "new-age queer." All we need now is the living, goddamn baby (the wife is due on April 3). In an effort to celebrate the last few weeks of our baby-free couplehood, the wife and I are spending this Saturday night at the Brown Palace Hotel for a romantic, in-city getaway. It is there where we will renew our love affair and my wife will get her pregnant lady bubble bath on while I drain cocktails at the Ship Tavern and watch opening weekend of the NCAA college basketball tournament.

Labels: babies, denver, drinking, sports, wife

Last Monday my boss and I had a Come-To-Jesus chat regarding my complete lack of enthusiasm for my current position. While I informed him my lack of passion did not hinder me from going through the motions (just ask my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named), I did acknowledge that I was completely burnt out. Many factors led to my burnout; frequent late paychecks, a complete lack of any tangible project process (i.e. massive undertakings were given one line explanations like "Client Center back-end development: 36 hours"), lack of established deadlines and milestones (other than early 2008 or late 2008), non-payment of contractors/vendors and a general malaise regarding client/vendor relationships. I was issued an ultimatum to decide by that Friday whether or not I wanted to stay with the company. When Friday rolled around, I quit, packed up all my shit and went over to DJ's house to get drunk and play poker (in a rare Ex-Data Slaughterhouse Employees Game victory, I took home $60). After a tumultuous career path over the past three years, I am finally growing some balls and committing full-time to Broz Design. I have already nabbed two and a half retainer clients (the other half happening once I get off my ass and draw up a contract) that will pay me more all while working less and living the pants-free dream. My pregnant wife is thankfully awesome and supportive of my pursuits and deserves a new Lexus once I start rolling in the dough. It is either that or we will be selling our unborn child on the Mexican black market to make ends meet. Wish me luck either way.

Labels: babies, broz design, career, data slaughterhouse, dj, drinking, pants-free, poker, she who, taxi dev, wife

Update: Cafe Press has their panties in a twist over my Obama Jesus illustration and has temporarily taken the store items down while we haggle over their content usage policy via email.

As of post time and last night's presidential debate, I am still undecided on who to cast my vote for come November. My opinion of McCain has changed little over the past few months (still an old war dog) and while I like the idea of Obama (the man, not the Messiah), his rabid, cult-ish following makes me not want to vote for him. Case and point: while out knocking back a million beers a few Fridays ago with Johnny Ballgame, an intoxicated young woman approached us at the bar and asked for matches to light her cigarette(s). I handed her a pack from the bar ashtray and idle banter soon segued into "Who are you guys voting for?" which segued into her Barack Obama recruitment routine. She informed us shortly thereafter she had been canvasing the area neighborhood on a grassroots campaign to recruit Independent voters to vote Obama. Annoyed at the fact she broke cardinal drinking rule #2 (no politics) and ruined the excellent buzz I had going, I decided to push her buttons. What followed was an eloquent verbal tirade on my part extolling the virtues of one Ralph Nader and concluding with, "I think that is who Jesus would vote for if he were alive today." The young woman blinked, took a drag of her fifth cigarette, pointed her finger at me and quipped, "Fuck Jesus! What did he ever do for this world?! Vote Obama!" and then stormed off. This cute story inspired me to create the Obama Jesus campaign. Do my unborn child a favor and buy as much Obama Jesus gear as humanely possible. Daddy needs to buy some Pampers.

Labels: america, babies, drinking, history, johnny ballgame, politics

• An online video collection of every It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia episode (in my opinion, the greatest show on television). I recommend starting with The Gang Finds A Dumpster Baby.
• The end of Iceland? When your country's currency is valued just above Zimbabwes then you have some serious problems. I hope Iceland has more viable exports than just a batshit crazy musician and volcanic ash to pull them out of their current economic crunch.
• A man rides an adult-sized tricycle intoxicated. Hijinks ensue.
  

Labels: drinking, history, link goodness, politics, pop culture, tomfoolery

Flying on 9/11 may not be the smartest thing I have ever done (then again neither was this. Or this. Or this), but, as the rabid Carolina Hurricanes fan sitting next to me on the plane said yesterday "If we do not fly on 9/11 then the fucking terrorists win." Preach on, guy who loves Rod Brind Amour, preach on (note to Perez: 'Canes fan was a former Philadelphia Flyers fan which almost made me stop talking to him until I asked him why he stopped rooting for the Flyers. His response, "Because my wife and I have been living in Raleigh for the past seven years and, well, fuck the Flyers"). Sitting in the CLT, here are some highlights from my recent business trip to North Carolina:

• North Carolina is green and lush. I mean really green and lush. I guess I am too used to the yellow-brown hue Colorado is covered in year-round. There are a plethora of pine tress in the greater Raleigh-Durham area, too. I was not aware the Carolinas were so friendly to the coniferous tree family.
• Various topics discussed with our client that was not related to his website: Carolina Panthers football, the point spread on the UNC-Rutgers game, Indian hotel investors, hairy pussy, bald pussy, Viagra and wine.
• Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had nothing to do with design or development: their T1 connection.
• Various topics discussed with our client related to his website that had to do with design or development: none.
• I enjoyed a ridiculous meal at a five-star resort called Herons. I gorged myself on a tremendous meal of sea bass, hush puppies, numerous expensive glasses of wine and sweet potato pie.
• How many times our client's partner urged me to "beat my children with a strap" upon telling him that my wife was pregnant: 3.
• How many times our client's partner passed on the restaurant valet service even though it was free: 2.
• The next time I will be to invited fly to Raleigh and "talk about the website": 6 months.

Labels: 9/11, career, colorado, drinking, gluttony, hockey, perez, perversion, sports, travels, vajayjay

The first trimester has been a breeze for me thus far. The wife on the other hand, has been experiencing severe exhaustion, hormonal mood swings, headaches, that hungover morning feeling minus the enjoyment of a night consuming numerous gin and tonics and ravenous hunger. Non-pregnant wife has always been a small eater, happily subsisting for weeks on nothing but ice chips and lettuce. Pregnant wife on the other hand, can put away the grub. Thus far her predominant pregnancy craving has been tacos. We actually rolled to Taco Bell late one night because "Momma had a hankerin'" (the wife last made a Run For The Border during her junior year of college a decade ago). Last week after our first doctor's appointment, we spent over $30 dollars at Little Anitas on just tacos. I pride myself on my taco consumption and plan on matching the pregnant wife's totals anytime she sends me to an area taco stand during the wee hours of the morning. This is a sacrifice I am willing to make on behalf of my unborn child. I think this is the definition of unconditional love.

Labels: babies, drinking, l-i-v-i-n, pregnancy, tacos, wife

Friday. The wife and I attend the 2008 Punk Rocks show at Red Rocks. The band lineup includes NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Bouncing Souls, Street Dogs and young Denver skate punks Frontside Five (the Circle Jerks are a no-show). I soon recognize how old I am when I breeze through beer lines in mere minutes. I soon learn that new punk kids like smoking weed way more than old punk kids. NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Bouncing Souls are still awesome. The Street Dogs are the opposites of awesome due to an hour and a half set and a fifteen minute dissertation on who the Ramones are and why they are so important to punk music. The only way to make their set less cliche would have be for the lead singer to not remove his shirt before his Ramones tribute song only to reveal a strategically planned Ramones shirt underneath. I conclude that six hour concerts and $7 beers are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.

Saturday. Enter the annual neighborhood pool luau. We represent a respectable drinking crew and my next door neighbor's classic rock cover band melts faces. Our HOA is awesome because they allow (tolerate) my next door neighbor to wheel an ice-cold keg over to the pool to serve free beer. I soon realize that inflatable monkeys cannot sustain the belly-flop weight of a grown man from a diving board. Post-luau we torch a fire in the backyard pit and the wife provides ingredients for 'smores. Three people fall asleep in their chairs. I conclude that staying up late and drinking until intoxication two nights in a row is not nearly as fun in my thirties as it was in my twenties.

Sunday. My annual fantasy football draft goes down in the living room. Being as this is the fifteenth year of my league's existence and the same team owners have been in said league for the past six years, I expect the draft to take no more than two hours. Four hours and eight cases of beer later, the draft concludes after much humor, animosity and stupidity (this sums up my fantasy football league perfectly: upon the draft's conclusion one team owner loudly proclaimed, "I have to get going. I am late for marriage counseling.") Steak, potatoes and a gigantic apple pie from Costco are then decimated in less than twenty minutes. I conclude that sports gambling and NFL football viewing are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.

Labels: chili dog, denver, drinking, drugs, glory days, kaye, l-i-v-i-n, music, sg crew, sports, the greens, weekend that was, wife

Two years ago today you foolishly took my hand in marriage. During that time, I have been unemployed twice (1, 2), made the neighbors suspect I was beating you when yelling "You dirty bitch!" at the computer while designing a website, bulged a disc, come home late countless nights from post-hockey drinking benders, continued my subscription to numerous smut magazines, remained dutifully absent from all Monday night plans during the fall/winter to drink with my Fantasy Football buddies, run down a couch on the highway and have never let you hold the television remote in my presence. In short, you are still the amazing, accepting and funny person that I fell in love with. I appreciate you more with each passing day and I love you like Extreme; More Than Words. Happy second anniversary, honey. It is the cotton anniversary so let us pick up some righteous sheets that make it feel as if we were sleeping atop a marshmallow cloud. Or we can save our money and just get a giant box of maxi pads. Those commercials make them look like giant stingrays swimming. Just saying.

Labels: drinking, feelings, hockey, l-i-v-i-n, open letter, sg crew, wedding, wife

• Hannah Montana penis candy.
• "Raised to be tough" guy also not raised to lose drinking contests.
• Some scientists are claiming that for the first time in human history, the North Pole will be free of ice of this summer. If we can retroactively measure the North Pole ice pack back through Prehistory, then we should be able to stop Tila Tequila.
  

Labels: drinking, link goodness, music, pop culture, science, stupidity

Friday. The wife and I attend a homemade rib bonanza at Team Muff's house where we drain shitty Mexican beer and play a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit 90s Edition. Proof that we have all turned into our parents: we began questioning the "correctness" of card answers and commenting on how staying up until 11:30 seemed "late."

Saturday. The wife and I attend a barbecue at DJs which we learn upon walking into his house is actually his birthday party. The wife gets angry at me for not knowing it was his birthday (even though it was on the Evite) and I explain to her that knowing when your guy friends birthday is is totally gay, and if I bought a gift for him we would have to move in together and begin re-decorating his house in the finest tapestries and velvets. I down a homemade chili beer that I regret four hours later, eat some swine and watch some UFC fighting. The wife and I decided to duck out early to get some sleep. When we arrive back at home, Team Hofkamp stops over with a twelve pack of shitty Mexican beer and cigarettes. We hang out in our backyard for an hour until my neighbor invites us over the fence to share in his raging backyard chimenea fire and more shitty Mexican beers and cigarettes. Four hours and eight beers later, we go to bed.

Sunday. The wife and I walk over to the movie multiplex to catch the new Indiana Jones joint. On the way, we stop to view the recently dedicated (but unfinished) Armed Forces Tribute Garden. We grab a burger and some Lumpy Dogs at the Rock Bottom Brewery before watching yet another abortion written by George Lucas. Why do you hate me George Lucas? Aliens and UFOs? Shia LaBeouf as some sort of 1950s hood with a Pompadour and switchblade swinging on vines with monkeys? Next thing you know, you will be telling me that the force is some kind of blood disorder. Oh. Right.

Monday. The wife, myself and 52,000 other people run the Bolder Boulder under the cover of cool mist and fog. My back (almost fully healed from the bulged disc) feels great and I finish in just over an hour. We retire to the homestead for a much needed shower and nap. Later we attend two more Memorial Day barbecues that feel like autumn barbecues due to the inclement weather. I play ping pong. I play foosball. I play 3-square with a beer in my hand. I go to sleep wishing I celebrated three day weekends more often.

Labels: chili dog, dj, drinking, family, food, gluttony, health, kaye, l-i-v-i-n, movies, pop culture, the greens, weekend that was, wife

A recipe for Guinness ice cream. Before that tattooed freak Jake turned the wife and I on to Guinness Floats (two scoops of vanilla ice cream and one pint of Guinness Stout) at the Exchange Tavern one hazy evening, I would have cringed at the thought of a Guinness-based ice cream. Now all I have to say is, "Fuck yes."

Labels: decadence, drinking, jake, wife

Saturday saw the send off for my buddy Wil who is walking the Earth for the next six months to a year. He will return home whenever his money or his transsexual hooker sugar daddy connections dry up (literally). We procured a limo for his last evening in the city and took a dive bar tour of Denver in style. Some highlights:

• The limo was compliments of one of my work clients who hooked us up with an amazing deal. He gave us a two week old Mercedes Benz limo for the night and stocked it with complimentary beer, gin, whiskey and champagne. The whip was so new that the stereo could only play CDs as the sound system was like the Death Star in Return Of The Jedi and not yet fully operational. We only brought one CD between the seven of us. Said CD was a shitty local techno band and ended up being fired from the limo window by night's end.
• At My Brother's Bar, they have bacon listed as a menu item.
• Number of individuals in our group that ordered bacon: 2.
• Number of individuals that asked the waitress to "Look away" as he attempted to pick up and eat a strip of bacon that fell of the floor: 1.
• The Hilltop, my favorite college-era haunt, did not fail to disappoint (except for the omission of "Ballad Of The Green Berets" from the jukebox which was the traditional way to close all drinking benders back in the day). While walking into the bar a guy came out yelling "Who needs some blow? Some meth? Some X?" While sitting at the bar some troll-looking kid was attempting to start a fight with the a gentleman three times his size. The bartender encouraged smoking after asking if we were cops and than proceeded to light up and "fuck the anti-smoking laws."
• Changing the name of a strip club from Cheerleaders to The Player's Club does not make your joint instantly classier. You still have to wash the vomit and sweaty ass from the carpet.
• Number of individuals in our group that had their wife pick them up from The Player's Club: 1.
• Number of individuals in our group that lost an electronic device sometime during the night: 2.
• Number of individuals in our group that were called by the limo company with the whereabouts of their lost electronic device: 1.

Be sure to rubber up in the jungle, Wil. Once you establish your white warlord presence in Belize, we will be down to slaughter cattle with machetes in front of the locals as a lesson not to cross you. In short, be safe and enjoy your adventures.

Labels: bacon, decadence, denver, dj, drinking, drugs, ez, jake, wil

• Friends Made: Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller who bet $1000 a hand at Pai Gow.
  
• Enemies Made: a black stripper from the Spearmint Rhino and a fat pit boss named Bill.
• Best Quote From Dave: "Right now I have more alcohol in me than sense."
• Best Quote From Erik: "When I see you again I will buy you $100 in bourbon."
• Seen In Abundance: Wisconsin fans, hooker trading cards and fake boobs.
• Seen In Scarcity: Street sweepers, museums and my judgment.
• New Coined Marketing Slogan To Be Sold To The Las Vegas Chamber Of Commerce: Welcome to the Sex Ashtray.
• Gambling Maxims Proven Correct: Never hit on 13, respect the sixes and a "push" is a win.
• Gambling Maxims Proven Wrong: No craps game goes seven straight rolls without making the point.
• Best Casino Game: Pai Gow, which is Chinese for Slow Money Bleed Super Happy Fun Drink Time.
  
• Worst Casino Game: Money Drop, or as it is more popularly known "Let It Ride."
• Best Run: Six and a half hours at a Pai Gow table on $40 that yielded countless free drinks, death threats from dealers named Gene, screams of free Hooters calendars and chicken wings, continual verbal assaults directed towards a fat pit boss named Bill and eventually, free Hooters T-shirts and shot glasses that Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller charged to his room.
• Worst Run: Ten minutes at a craps table that took $100.
• Best Eats: Steaks at Mon Ami Gabi and Bailey's ice cream shakes.
• Worst Eats: My bag of Fritos and pack of Starbursts for dinner and Will's infamous "last breakfast" from Nathan's which consisted of a chili dog, a handful of soggy crinkle fries and twelve over-cooked chicken wings.
  
• Best Sports Bet: Wil for putting it on UNLV to cover the spread versus Wisconsin.
• Worst Sports Bet: Me for putting $20 on the Colorado Avalanche to win the 2008 Stanley Cup.
• Years On My Life That The Trip Took Off : Two.

Labels: dj, drinking, ez, gambling, tomfoolery, vegas, wil

Friday, June 29. My daunting three-day trial on the unemployment line ended when I was offered an Art Director position immediately after a two-hour interview. I accepted the offer and start this Friday. The people seem great and of the non-douchebag variety, the pay is solid and my skill set should grow exponentially. That night our neighbors extended an impromptu invite "for a drink" over the fence. We ended up staying for six hours, helped drink their cooler dry, gorged ourselves on barbecue spare ribs and watched their 13-year-old daughter's recent European vacation slides.

Saturday, June 30. With the wives at a baby shower talking about their uteruses, I stuffed an amazing basket of fish and chips down my cake chute and drained numerous Coors Light pitchers at Clancys with CH, Tyler and Fateh. Aside from the poor patio location and a bad wait staff that included a red-haired meth skank that kept forgetting our orders and a chubby blond girl with a giant snake tattoo, good times were had by all. That night we ate a late sushi dinner and took in 1408 with Team Sutton. It was refreshing to watch a movie in a theater since we have not done so since the Korean War.

Sunday, July 1. The wife and I celebrated our one-year anniversary. We walked around our deserted wedding venue in the 100-degree heat sipping on blended coffee drinks, ate heaping plates of steamed mussels and took in back-to-back movies thanks to my criminal wife who snuck me into Ratatouille in the confusion of the exiting Rise Of The Silver Surfer crowd. It was refreshing to watch movies in a theater since we have not done so since Saturday, June 30, 2007.

Labels: career, drinking, sg crew, unemployment, weekend that was, wife

The wife and I threw a housewarming party on Saturday night, inviting our friends and family over to destroy all the hard work we put into the place over the past few months. Some highlights:

• Japanese Whiskey is a great housewarming gift and a fun treat for Grandma.
• My four-year-old nephew held court over the fire of a citronella candle waxing philosophical to numerous adults on Star Wars, baseball, war and gladiators.
• Johnny Ballgame rolled up in a new truck named "The Licorice Whip." New is a relative term as said truck is an early 80s Chevy Half-Ton with visible fire damage and more miles on it than 50-year-old stripper. Jake reported that it died twice during the convenience store cigarette run. The convenience store is a quarter mile from the house.
• My neighbor Kevin (who I have talked to three times) walked into the house grabbed a cup from our kitchen and poured himself a keg beer. He than greeted us and proceeded to hang out for the next six hours.
• A pack of youngsters found kitty's second confirmed kill in our backyard. That brings the body count to two in less than one week.
  
• Most decadent housewarming gift: 80+ ounces of Grey Goose vodka.
• Number of partygoers that threatened to Top Shelf one of the bathrooms: 2.
• Number of partygoers that requested Journey's Greatest Hits for a musical selection: 7.
• Number of partygoers that had to be called a cab at 3 AM due to someone "taking their keys": 2.
• Number of partygoers that drank the bottle of rum they brought as a housewarming gift: 2.
• Approximate time on Sunday that my hangover wore off and I was able to able to stand up without getting lightheaded: 4 PM.

Labels: drinking, kitty, the greens, tomfoolery, weekend that was, wife

Tonight the wife and I will be attending the Gwen Stefani concert at the Pepsi Center and joining throngs of anorexic sorority sisters whacked out on Dexatrim, underage girls adorned in midriff shirts and flaming homosexual men badly singing, "This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!" I bought her the tickets for Valentines Day after scoring a sweet deal on StubHub that will put us in the fifteenth row. This should be a close enough to turn the wife into a blubbering mess of drunken fan girl as well as fill my masturbatory database for a solid year after catching shots of dew and early morning fur from the Pussycat Dolls.

Post-Concert Update: A Gwen Stefani fan demographic I completely overlooked yesterday: lesbians. Namely, hardcore, golf coaching, femullet sporting, hardware store lesbians. We were lucky enough to sit next to a fun couple that fit into this aforementioned classification. Not only were they friendly, half drunk and had a great sense of humor; they enjoyed making out during most of Gwen's ballads. I was saddened to learn the Pussycat Dolls were not opening (I was fed misinformation) and instead had to listen to the verbal abortion that is Lady Sovereign. Akon took the stage next and was solid all around save for the ten minutes he gave the mic to some Beyonce-wannabe hack signed to his label that sucked the life out of the crowd. Akon sang about the ghetto and being in love with strippers and made countless inquires to the female audience members while taking off a shirt saying, "Ladies are you ready for this?" Eventually he got rid of the shirt all together and informed us it was alright to do so because he goes to the gym and gets "his fitness right." Gwen took the stage amid the piercing shrieks of thousands of middle school girls and proceeded to dominate the set. She was at her best when the show antics were at a minimum (she had a troupe of break dancers and Japanese girls doing all sorts of shit behind her) and did one song in the middle of the crowd (much to delight of the folks sitting in general admission). She accidentally called Colorado "Utah" in the middle of a song, but she made up for it by mocking herself for the slip up afterward and displaying her naked, shredded midriff and scantily-covered "mom" boobs for the rest of the night. Overall I would say it was a great performance. Walking out of the venue we ran into my best friend growing up and his girlfriend (he also bought her the tickets for Valentines Day) and we decided to stop into Brooklyn's for "a drink." After downing six beers each we then headed home.

Labels: denver, drinking, l-i-v-i-n, lesbians, music, pop culture, wife

During the height of my binge drinking days I could drain things down my gullet that would curl the stomach of a goat; straight whiskey, Irish Car Bombs, Natty Light and tequilas that do not even deserved to be named. I was blessed/cursed with an abnormally high metabolism and a steel stomach that allowed me to absorb alcohol faster than your average frat boy. Enter this past Saturday. The wife and I watched some Roller Derby with Jake and crew downing numerous tall boys of PBR in the process. I came home to spend a good clip on the toilet cursing the PBR and saddened that my once iron constitution is now broken.

Labels: drinking, jake, poop, tomfoolery, wife

The wife and I spent the weekend gallivanting around Boise, Idaho and visiting with family. Some highlights:

• Taking your intermediate level skiing wife down a run called Widowmaker first thing in the morning does not help her psychologically for the rest of the day. It just scares the bejesus out of her.
• My wife's grandfather, aged 97, to me regarding the Boise State Fiesta Bowl victory: "It was the best thing to ever happen to this town."
• A hotel room sink packed with ice can hold a twelve pack of Alaskan Amber nicely.
• My wife's grandfather, aged 97, to the jabbering ladies on stage during Robbie Burns Night: "Get on with it!"
• Haggis and Scottish shortbread cookies make for a fine meal.
• If the United Nations would only listen to heavily intoxicated, foul-mouthed artists and German citizens working towards Ph.D.'s in brain cancer research than this world would be a much better place.
• I was recognized as "That guy from the parade" twice in the same night. Once next to the urinal in the men's bathroom at the Bittercreek Alehouse and once outside the Bittercreek Alehouse by a throng of intoxicated college girls.

Labels: boise, drinking, family, idaho, l-i-v-i-n, sports, travels, wife

The wife and I spent the Christian New Year within stumbling distance from the house by slogging it to a party in a foot and half of ice, slush and snow with a backpack full of booze. We welcomed in 2007 with burnt pizza, shots of Jack Daniels, warm Squirt chasers and countless games of Guitar Hero (Kaye and I rocked in 2007 with a head-to-head ax battle of Cheap Trick's "Surrender" neither of us caring that it was past midnight). On New Year's Day we invited the in-laws over to watch the Fiesta Bowl in High Definition and eat sweetened swine. Three native Idahoans were in the house as Boise State upset Oklahoma in overtime to go undefeated on the season and wreak havoc on BCS voting. Swept up in the heat of the win, famed running back and crochet master knitter Ian Johnson proposed to his girlfriend. In other news, Jessica Alba throws a football in a bikini.

Labels: drinking, geekery, kaye, l-i-v-i-n, new years, pop culture, sports, tomfoolery, wife

Last night I took the wife up to Creekside Cellars for her 30th birthday. We sat in the wine cellar all up on the romance-ambiance tip as a marvelous spread of assorted meats, cheeses, olives and wines were laid before us. My old friend Tim runs the joint and we spent the evening killing glasses of wine and discussing the intricacies of wine production, basic chemistry, The Satanic Bible, high school shenanigans and String theory. The highlight of the evening came when Tim tapped a decade worth of wine barrels for us to sample with a turkey baster. If you are ever in downtown Evergreen, I recommend the place for a great night out (be sure to pick up a bottle of the 2003 Robusto. Trust me). If you play your cards right on a winter's night, you will even be able to play some drunken pond hockey on the lake afterwards.

Labels: birthday, colorado, drinking, l-i-v-i-n, wife, wine

My third week of unemployment will include two web design job interviews; one in the heart of downtown Denver which is a block off the 16th Street Mall and the city's main bus depot (I'm all about the public transportation) and one a few blocks away from Govnr's Park which has amazing happy hour beers and a Slider Basket that would make Wimpy cry (the Won Ton Juans are equally as glorious). Keep your fingers crossed that one of these interviews will pan out before my severance runs dry and we will be subsisting only on a meager public school teacher's income. The wife has yet to wear tattered clothing and babble incomprehensible phrases while standing over a barrel fire, but I can assure you that that time is nigh, my friends. Onto an unemployed artist's browser history:

• An anti-NCAA Hazing website where images of basketball chicks wearing blindfolds and sombreros while drinking from a beer bong and snorting things off the floor live.
• Nate Dogg makes a Wolverine costume for Halloween. Hijinks and homoerotic posing ensue.
• The unluckiest man alive.
• Wedding cake in the form of the Great A'Tuin.
• A guy who loves his Starbucks a little too much.
• Jimmy Dean chocolate chip pancakes and sausage; on a stick. I just threw up in my mouth a little.
• Colorado Avalanche season preview.

Labels: career, comics, drinking, food, geekery, hockey, link goodness, sports, unemployment, wife

Other stuff that fuels binge drinking in the West besides boredom:

• Soul-crushing employers.
• Fantasy football drafts.
• Buying in a seller's market and selling in a buyer's market.
• A donated garage refrigerator reserved exclusively for meat, alcohol and assorted citrus fruits that can be chopped up and put in alcohol.
• Five weeks of vacation time that needs be used up by January 1, 2007.
• Mark Husson's sparse blog posting schedule.
• Your mom.

Labels: /mark, data slaughterhouse, drinking

The Chinese have opened the world's first anger bar. Patrons can smash glasses, rant and even hit specially trained employees all while sucking down Tsingtaos. Denver's version of the anger bar occurs every weekend during last call in LoDo. Drunken fools spill out into the streets simultaneously and start shit with each other because they were first in line for a $2 burrito being sold out of a cooler. Or because your fraternity is better than that other homo's fraternity. Or because you were looking at a guy's shivering slut girlfriend in a mini-skirt, tube top and high heels and it's thirteen degrees below zero outside.

Labels: colorado, drinking, fighting, tomfoolery

On Friday, Mel Gibson was touched for a DUI and spouted off at arresting officers with an anti-Semitic, obscenity-laden tirade that would have made Heinrich Himmler blush. Gibson concluded the outburst by calling one female officer "sugar tits." Well done, Mel. You just surpassed Ed Belfour for "Best Arrested Famous Person Intoxicated Shenanigans" (when Eddie was playing goal for the Dallas Stars police were called to a hotel room occupied by him and a women afraid of his drunkenness. He attempted to bribe the arresting officers with a billion dollars to let him walk). No report on whether or not Mel was sporting his excellent Saddam-In-Exile beard at the time of arrest.

Labels: drinking, history, hockey, pop culture, tomfoolery

Tomorrow, after a sixteen month engagement, I will officially be ruining my life. Immediately following my nuptials, the wife and I will be honeymooning at the Rendezvous Resort on the rum and banana rich island of St. Lucia. There will be drinking, eating, swimming, snorkeling, archery, dancing and a general malaise about life for the week. The MB will be on hiatus until I return in mid-July with a wife, a tan, a shaved head and a perpetual hangover.

Labels: drinking, honeymoon, l-i-v-i-n, wedding, wife

In a few hours, the debauchery that is my bachelor party will begin. I have been drinking water and eating horrible, greasy foods all morning in the attempts of proliferating a preemptive strike against the alcohol I will consume in the next twelve hours. Go Karts will be driven and crashed, wild game such as buffalo, elk and quail will be eaten, liquor will be drunk and my cousin, fresh off a plane from Kuwait, may end up either in detox or in traction.

Labels: drinking, tomfoolery, wedding

Summer is nearly upon us and that means I will be fielding middle of the day phone calls at work from the future wife and listening to her describe her naps by the pool in vivid detail. The future wife is a teacher and has her summers off. Damn her. Onward to Alice Cooper's School's Out link goodness:

• A special Special Education teacher.
• "Let's have a feel of that ass. Mmmmm. That's nice. Now go outside and fetch me some Happy Teacher Water."
• Bottled ketchup: public school's newest menace.

Labels: drinking, link goodness, perversion, summer, wife

• This is your brain on drugs.
• 24 beers a day for 8 years.
• According to a new theory, modern humans are descendants of inbred chimpanzees. This makes what I see on Cops make much more sense.

Labels: drinking, drugs, link goodness, science

Jake just strolled into my office with a belated Christmas gift; The Modern Drunkard, which gives me a reason to drink every day. Thanks for enabling me, Jake. I admire your immense liquor cabinet.

Labels: drinking, jake, tomfoolery

It may be Wednesday but I just now recovered from this past weekend. After treating my liver to a host of pollutants for three straight days, my body was pleased to remind me that it is not 21 years old anymore. On Friday, I went to the Great American Beer Festival with the usual cast of characters, minus one future brother-in-law who came down with sore ovaries stayed home (click here for some hot Flickr action). On Saturday, I went bar hopping with a large group of rowdy and intoxicated family members to celebrate my cousin's impending nuptials. On Sunday, I attended the System of a Down concert at Pepsi Center with my future brother-in-law (who miraculously recovered from his sore ovaries) and friends, where two cases of beer and a can of Skoal Bandits were killed and an annoying fat guy in glasses who quoted Plato was almost killed.

Labels: bro-in-law, denver, drinking, hangover, music, weekend that was

• 1000 years of power, chain mail armor and a broadsword apparently are not enough to combat a tazer.
• Quote of the day: "A waitress is no longer allowed to wander around a beer garden with a plunging neckline. I would not want to enter a beer garden under these conditions."
• Tommy Lee is glad he chose alcohol over Pamela Anderson. Quote of the day number two: "I did not want to give up drinking because I believe I can have moderation in my life." Wise words from a man who once overdosed on heroin and shot up with Jack Daniels.

Labels: boobs, crazy, drinking, link goodness, pop culture

• Red Scare comic book propaganda from the 1960s. Especially enjoyable is the letter from J. Edgar Hoover to the kids.
• A man sues for the right to be drunk on private property.
• Pro Skateboarder Danny Way jumps across the Great Wall Of China becoming the first person to clear the wall without motorized aid.

Labels: cold war, comics, drinking, link goodness, sports

I have heard many urban legends on how to pass a breathalyzer test while intoxicated. My favorite came from a friend in high school who was convinced that sucking on a penny after a night of hard drinking would magically erase the alcohol on your breath (it is a suburban thing, holmes, you would not understand). Whenever he was leaving a party befuddled, he would pop a penny in his mouth, start sucking on it and confidently strut out to his car to drive home. Unfortunately, he was never pulled over so his theory was never tested. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been stuffing his own feces in his mouth in an attempt to foil the test.

Labels: a-town, drinking, stupidity, tomfoolery

A study recently concluded that the homeless and unemployed prefer and abuse malt liquor. Yeah. No shit.

Labels: drinking, homeless

Arvada, Colorado is the place where I grew up, attended school, played little league baseball, rode my bike to the swimming pool during the summer and went to Cub Scout meetings. It is also the place where I developed a penchant for whiskey, made a living on girls with low self-esteem and watched alcohol-fueled punks fight almost every weekend. It is the same place where Silvia Johnson, self-proclaimed "cool mom," just got busted for providing teenagers with drugs, booze and sexual favors.

Yeah. That is my hometown.

Labels: a-town, bad parents, childhood, colorado, drinking, drugs, silvia johnson

Christmas came and went like my first college girlfriend; happy and magical in the beginning but quickly degenerating into a miserable coma-like limbo where my emotions froze and my body metabolized alcohol with the efficiency of a Nazi general. I made out with holiday gifts like two groping teenagers in a PG-13 movie. Aside from a pile of clothing and art supplies, I received high-ticket items from my lady (digital camera) and the parents (barbecue grill) and a most excellent scotch sampler from Jake (as I type this I am enjoying a nice glass of Oban). Posts in the next few weeks will be scant as I knock out a freelance gig, sexify the MB for 2005, snowshoe, play in a hockey tournament, polish off a scotch sampler and generally enjoy my time off from work. Peace on earth and all that shit. And fuck you, tsunamis.

Labels: drinking, hockey, jake, wife, xmas

My boss just gave me a bottle of Greg Norman Estates Shiraz 2002 for the holidays. I am assuming the Shark makes a pretty mean wine despite his colossal chokes in major tournaments. When it comes to wine I honestly do not know what is good and what is not (my experiences are limited to thumb hole jugs of Riunite and the assorted boxed blends of Franzia). It is time to break out the good glasses, honey. Daddy is bringing home some Christmas wine.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, drinking, sports, wife, xmas

It all starts when the Boulder police department is called in to break up a large block party due to rampant underage drinking (a party in which the City of Boulder gave permits for). Party-goers become angry because their Constitutional right to free assembly has been violated. This is not the moment to think rationally. The time is nigh for angry mob justice. Tip over a car and light it on fire. Throw missiles at authority figures and drunken revelers. Get tazed, tear gassed and shot with rubber bullets. The next day, after being bailed out of jail by your parents, read a dissertation on the evening news about excessive police brutality.

Labels: boulder, college, colorado, drinking

A weekend of heavy drinking caused me a Sunday morning hangover that could rival a Kennedys (minus a sex assault and driving a bitch into a lake). The recap:

Friday. I attend the Great American Beer Festival at the Denver Convention Center. The Great American Beer Fest works as such: assorted beer brewers from all over the United States set up keg stations in a large convention hall. Attendees are given an empty one-ounce glass upon entry. Assorted brewers pour beer into the one-ounce glasses. Attendees shoot glasses of beer. This process is repeated for four hours. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. I run into two sisters I went to high school with who are both wearing cowboy hats and have the following exchange:

"Courtney, how is everything going?"
"Good, Matt."
"How is your sister doing?"
"Ask her. She is standing right next to me."

The evening degenerates into immature drunkenness. A member of our group throws a road cone into a public parking lot for no apparent reason and hits a car. A large man in a jumpsuit passing by proclaims, "Hey man, that ain't cool" to which the cone thrower replies, "Keep on walking, Devo." The cone thrower later orders a $20 sampler platter at Old Chicagos, eats most of it and then smears the remainder of it onto the gentleman next to him. The evening concludes with our heavily intoxicated group standing outside of Old Chicagos waiting for our ride where a Ford Explorer with twenty two inch rims is urinated on, a foreign cab driver is yelled at for not using his mirrors and a biker riding down the sidewalk is kicked and told to buy a handlebar bell to alert pedestrians that he is coming through. The biker proceeds to ring his handlebar bell when he reaches the end of the block.

Saturday. Jake's bachelor party starts off at a Westminster dive bar called On The Rox. A meth addict shooting pool gives Jake marital advice. We consume $5 pitchers of beer and watered down whiskey. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. Unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. Jake attempts to sing "What's Going On" by Marvin Gaye, but ends up talking through most of the song as our group heckles him unmerciful. We proceed to the Brunswick Zone where we bowl three games, smoke cheap cigars and drink numerous buckets of Coronas. After our games, we retire to the bowling alley lounge where unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. The evening concludes with a drunk hairbag singing Karaoke to Slayer's "Seasons in the Abyss," Jake's fiance cleaning puke out of her car, drinking a nightcap poured by a fat bartender in a sports bra with a large tattoo on her breast and me calling an Asian coworker "Spanish" while I dominate him in air hockey.

Labels: denver, drinking, jake, l-i-v-i-n, pop culture, tomfoolery, weekend that was

Over the weekend I celebrated my ten year high school reunion. Festivities spanned the entire weekend, capping off with an adult prom on Saturday evening. I chose only to subject my lady and I to the Friday night homecoming game and post-homecoming game drinks with former classmates. Here is a breakdown of said evening:

• Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight gain: Three.
• Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight loss: One.
• Number of former classmates who had to, "Go get something out of their car" then came back smelling like marijuana: Three.
• Number of former classmates who had just "Gotten something out of their car" that thought my lady went to our high school and graduated with us: One.
• Number of former classmates I had to convince that this website was not pornography: Three.
• Number of former classmates that look like Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan: One.
• Number of former classmates that look like Lou Ferrigno: One.
• Number of former classmates that were wearing a trendy GAP-style stripped shirt: Five.
• Number of former classmates that are working in real estate: Four.
• Number of former classmates that are working in real estate that got pissed I did not use them to sell my town home: Three.
• Number of former classmates I told, "My lady is only in it for the dick" to: Two.
• Number of former classmates I told "You did not like me because I am white" to: One.
• Number of former classmates I gave my business card to: Twelve.
• Number of former classmates I gave my business card to that I expect to hear from: Zero.
• Number of years I hope to see the majority of my former classmates in: Ten.

Labels: a-town, drinking, glory days, l-i-v-i-n, wife

Lately it seems like a fraternity in Colorado is more like a funeral home (CU and CSU). I think there should be a class in college called Drinking 101 that teaches kids the subtle nuances of alcohol consumption. Here a few topics that should to be on the syllabus:

• When you have lost feeling in your extremities and are blacking out, it is time to put the bottle of schnapps down.
• If you are a young, attractive female you should not drink nor hang out at a frat house. These places are havens for date rape, alcohol poisoning and disease. It would be much cleaner and safer to drink in a construction site port-o-potty with a used dildo.
• Under no circumstances should you participate in any shenanigans with somebody that has passed out; this especially includes placing your testicles on somebody's face and taking a picture. It is called karma and she is a cruel bitch.

Labels: college, colorado, death, drinking

This summer I have been busier than your mother's digestive tract post all-you-can-eat special at the Sizzler. Not only have I been moonlighting as a freelance web designer, my lady and I moved in together after spending two and a half months painting and tiling our town home. Thankfully, our good friend/neighbor works for Coors and brought over many cases of free beer to placate my laboring ass while I was up to my tits in tile mortar. So, my apologies that I have not been diligent in finding links regarding chicken fucking and adolescent impalement.

Labels: diy, drinking, l-i-v-i-n, the fairways, wife

• An angry, sexually frustrated chimpanzee in a Chinese zoo has taken to smoking cigarettes and spitting on people.
• A very intoxicated man and his friend drive home from the bar. The very intoxicated man smashes into a telephone pole and decapitates his friend. The very intoxicated man drives home twelve miles with a headless corpse in the passenger seat, parks the truck in the driveway and passes out in blood soaked clothing. (Disturbing aside: Four people sent me this link today).
• Crazy tirades from the imprisoned Bobby Fischer the former American former world chess champion.

Labels: crazy, death, drinking, link goodness, monkeys, pop culture

With our stomachs full of barbecue and cheap domestic beer, we made our way to the southernmost area of your backyard to throw horseshoes this Monday last. We defeated the Chili Dog and Nebraska Sally four times in a five game set. I urge you to revisit the exhilaration of our matches in your mind, recalling how we were hurling the shoes with pinpoint accuracy and standing on a cloud amongst the horseshoe gods. Now, envision feeling these thrills all summer long; the faint clanging sounds of horseshoes finding their mark, the soft flame of Tiki torches and citronella candles flickering along the border of the pit, the drunken banter of gentlemen poking fun of their opponents penis sizes and abnormal birth defects, the classic rock anthems being played loudly from outdoor speakers and most importantly, the beer; the endless cans of cold beer wet with condensation that we suckle from like swaddling babes from their mother's teat. I understand that your wife wants a garden where we throw the horseshoes. May I remind you that the most successful marriages are those in which couples make compromises (may I also remind you that I was the best man at your wedding, perhaps the most important day of your life, entrusted with the safekeeping of your betrothed's ring, delivering an emotional toast at the reception and holding a handful of cash during the dollar dance without stealing any of it) and in which case I have a compromise for you and your wife. Plant her garden in between the stakes, while we raise the back of the horseshoe pit up with landscaping boxes and fill said boxes with sands from the various deserts of Asia Minor. I will gladly help with any labor that becomes of this endeavor because we need this horseshoe pit. We deserve this horseshoe pit.

Labels: chili dog, drinking, nels, open letter, summer

My lady and I spent most our Fourth of July holiday in Steamboat Springs. It was the first time I had seen Steamboat Springs in the summer time and sober (the last time I was there it was 14 degrees, I was blasted out of my skull and cruising down Howelsen Hill on a crude sledding device at obscene speeds). We also engaged in water park revelries with family members, ate some barbecue and threw some 'shoes. It was a relaxing way to celebrate the signing of the Declaration Independence. Added bonus: watching some skinny Asian freak inhale four times his body weight in hot dogs.

Labels: drinking, family, l-i-v-i-n, nels, wife

I am a public urinating menace. My patented move in high school was the "piss walk" where I would whip it out, amble side-saddle and relieve myself on the move. I am all about multi-tasking. And taking leaks on trees, bushes, lawn ornaments, car doors, truck tires, off of balconies, off of bridges, off the top of houseboats, in lakes, in rivers, in goldfish ponds and in shampoo bottles. Unfortunately various authority figures do not share the same affinity as me for public urination. One evening outside of Fiddlers Green Amphitheatre for example, my friends and I were draining Fosters oil cans in the parking lot in an effort to enter the concert venue intoxicated (who we were seeing that evening escapes me as most of the concerts I attended in my 20s all blur together in a glorious miasma of noise pollution and overly-priced, watered-down domestic beer). As we walk to our seats, I decide to take a piss on a nearby chain link fence behind some pine trees (the line for the men's room had a long a line). As I begin relieving myself a sawed off rent-a-cop emerges from the shadows and tells me in his best authoritative voice, "Zip it up, punk." I taunt him as I continue urinating saying, "I would probably have a Napoleon complex too if I did not graduate from the police academy." Thankfully, he did not have a registered firearm.

Labels: colorado, drinking, glory days, tomfoolery

My weekend was quiet and uneventful. I played some softball, drank some beer, sold 1970s style furniture at a garage sale, did some freelance web design and watched a crazy bastard demolish the town of Granby, Colorado with a customized bulldozer.

Labels: crazy, drinking, weekend that was

At the zenith of my barhopping years, I made some bad decisions. Decisions like exchanging phone numbers with seemingly attractive females before the harsh lighting of last call came on to reveal that they had eye patches and an Adam's apple. I think the worst decisions I made were purchasing and eating the $2 burritos from the vendors on the street corners of LoDo. The end result was always me passing those intestinal claymores through my whiskey soaked GI tract hours later in a sweaty, hungover heap atop the toilet, questioning the ingredients of said burritos and praying to every deity I could remember from my religious studies class during my sophomore year of college. I never would have guessed those gut bombs had people in them.

On a related burrito note: Taco Bell has just introduced its new shrapnel burrito.

Labels: burritos, college, denver, drinking, hangover

Americans like to do peculiar things in their backyards. Like build monorails. Or wrestle. A few years ago during a moment of drunken weakness I purchased The Best of Backyard Wrestling on video (It was not offered on DVD). It was late, Southern Comfort was wearing off and I wanted to see some rednecks body slamming each other onto stained mattresses covered with barbed wire and hitting one another in the head with metal trashcans. After having the tape in my possession for five months, I loaned it to my Pakistani friend (who at the time was applying for American citizenship) and have not seen it since.

Labels: drinking, pop culture, sg crew

Joe Namath's drunken shenanigans on national television made him re-think some things about his life. Things like slurring "I want to kiss you" twice in two minutes to sideline reporter Suzy Kolber who was only asking his opinion about quarterback Chad Pennington.

Labels: drinking, pop culture, sports

I was involved in an uncomfortable situation in the company break room this morning. I was making a vat of cocoa (and when I say vat, I am not fucking around. I swooped up a Brew Keg from 7-11 that holds fifty-five ounces of hot liquid. On a cold bitch of a morning like this, it holds me together like steel) when a fellow employee walks in. I have my back turned to him, so I ask him how his holiday was (being as I had the past two weeks off). We engage in lighthearted banter and I turn to look at him and immediately notice that his eye is swollen shut. Needless to say, I was taken aback. He notices the look of horror on my face and acts as if I offended him and walks away. Well excuse me, Mr.Sensitive but your fucking eye is swollen shut. Should I act like I did not notice? Christ.

Upon further reflection I was then reminded of an even more uncomfortable social situation I experienced. I was out barhopping in lower downtown Denver. I consumed many spirits and was feeling loose but focused. Our group eventually made its way to a dance club, which was peculiar because nobody in our group liked to dance. We waded through a sea of sweaty young people contorting their bodies to shitty house music and bellied up to the bar. After a shot or four, I decided to hit the dance floor and fuck some shit up. Nobody joins me; not even the women in our group. So there I am, drunk, alone and swaying on the dance floor. I feel somebody rubbing on my ass. I glance back and notice an attractive female smiling at me. We proceed to engage in what the kids call "bumping and grinding" for almost an hour nary saying a word to each other. Finally, I become parched and invite the young lady to the bar offering to buy her a drink. She informs me that her and her friends are getting ready to leave but thanks me anyway. I ask her if I can get her number and take her out sometime. She smiles and then reaches in her purse for a pen. She hands it to me and I write her number down on a cocktail napkin. I reach out to shake her other hand (now keep in mind its dark in this club and I am totally obliterated so my powers of observation are skewed) and instead I grab a stump. She did not have a fucking hand. I jump back, completely surprised and utter, "Holy shit! Where is your fucking hand?!" She stares at me for what seems like an eternity and then says, "You are an asshole." Good times.

Labels: college, data slaughterhouse, denver, drinking

Joe Namath, Hall of Fame NFL quarterback for the New York Jets was in attendance for the Jets-Patriots game this past Monday night. Sideline reporter Suzy Kolber caught up with Broadway Joe sometime between his eleventh and twelfth drink.

Labels: drinking, sports

Drinking contests are not a good idea. Someone always ends up vomiting. Or dying.

Labels: death, drinking, tomfoolery

This subway ride is boring. I need to do something to spice it up. I know what I will do. I will open this door and climb on top of this bitch and ride it the rest of the way home. It will be like surfing. This is going to be so cool. My friends are going to remember this for the rest of their lives.

Labels: death, drinking

"I had been drinking a little bit that night. And they pretty much wanted to try it, like kids always do."

Labels: drinking, quote of the day, stupidity

Christian Slater has a hot wife who happens to be a tornado of crazy. I have had numerous experiences with juicy psycho girls (thankfully, I completed my tour of the crazy bitch circuit in college) and here are two of the best:

• During my freshman year of college I was dating a girl I will call Skank Bait. Skank Bait and I dated for a few weeks, during which time, she asked me if I would be her date to the autumn formal dance. Not only do I hate formal dances, I hated most of the kids I went to college with (they were children of privilege who looked down upon crusty, blue collar kids like me who took advantage of the free tuition benefit given to children of the university's employees). I had yet to have familiar relations with Skank Bait, so I assumed my attendance at this event would be the deal closer. Skank Bait invited a male friend of hers from Colorado State to be a date for her roommate. Skank Bait failed to inform me and her roommate that she was currently involved in a serious relationship with said male friend from Colorado State. Only the voices in her head and her psychiatrist know why she invited us both to the formal (my guess is it was an inability to trust brought on by emotionally abusive parents which caused her hurt people before they hurt her, but I digress). Skank Bait's roommate and I quickly sized up the affair, so we got drunk at the bar and ignored Skank Bait and her male friend from Colorado State most of the evening. Skank Bait's roommate and I decided to leave. Skank Bait sees us getting on the elevator, runs over to me, grabs my wrist and starts raising her voice and making a scene in the lobby of the hotel. I remove her filthy meat hook from my forearm and she screams, "Don't you ever fucking touch me!" At this point, male friend from Colorado State enters the fray getting in my face and saying, "Get your hands off of my girlfriend!" He proceeds to put up his dukes in preparation for fisticuffs. I laugh at him as the elevator doors close. The highlight of the evening comes on the walk back to the car as Skank Bait's roommate and I smoke cigarettes with a pack of drag queens on the 16th Street Mall that tell me I look "decent" in a tie. I never talk to Skank Bait again and Skank Bait's roommate gets a single dorm room shortly thereafter.
• During my senior year of college I ran into a girl I will call Dishrag Whore while shopping at the local mall. I had been fond of Dishrag Whore's fantastic body ever since I ogled it for an entire semester during a statistics class, so we exchanged numbers and decided to meet for drinks sometime. The next night Dishrag Whore calls me and we met up for beers at a local watering hole. Things end up going extremely well and the night ends with us hitting skins in a sweaty heap of meaningless joy atop her bed. Post-coitus, Dishrag Whore breaks down and cries for reasons known only to the voices in her head and her psychiatrist (my guess is our sexual encounter triggered a latent memory buried deep within her subconscious regarding sexual abuse at the hands of a friend or family member, but I digress). I never see Dishrag Whore again, but for the next two months, she calls me to discuss the following topics:
• Why she liked to drink a pint of vodka over the course of a day.
• If I knew of any good places she could score some blow.
• Why she would have sex with Jesus if he were alive today.
• If I would be interested in a three-way with her and her fat friend.

Labels: 16th street mall, college, colorado, crazy, denver, drinking

Saturday night my lady and I attended Nels and Kerry's third annual pumpkin carving party. It was her first experience combining gourds, stabbing implements and hard alcohol. My pumpkin was voted best in party (The design on my jack-o-lantern can be seen at most truck stops across America). I was finished carving in fifteen minutes and left to drink hot cider laced with rum* while my lady worked her ass off implementing a creative idea she read about in a home living magazine. Many jack-o-lanterns looked far better than my own, but my victory is proof positive of one indisputable fact: sex sells.

* Hot cider and rum are a lethal combination. One has difficulty tasting rum in hot cider, so after drinking five or six cups, inebriation hits you like a pimp who has not received his cut of the money. At one point, I filled a standard twelve ounce plastic cup half full of rum and half full of cider. I gave the drink to my lady, who at the time was completely sober. She took one sip and said, "Did you put any rum in this? I do not taste anything." Needless to say, we stumbled home from the party as if we had been drinking at a mixer at the Kennedy compound.

Labels: drinking, halloween, nels, pumpkins, wife

Back during my hardcore boozing days, I drank at some pretty rough joints around the Denver metro area. Many of those hellholes were similar to this. Thankfully, the older I have become, the more I value my life and would rather drink my own urine from a rusty oil pan at home than patronize any of the places I wasted time at during my early twenties.

Labels: denver, drinking

Last night, I drank $2 Coors products with my Fantasy Football compatriots at a local watering hole. Humorous events unfolded. Here are some highlights from the evening:

• I mention to Tyler, the David Blaine lover, that the British were planning a flash-mob event underneath his stunt over the Thames. I proclaim that Blaine is just a poor man's Harry Houdini. Tyler proclaims, "Fuck you and the limeys," and begins a staunch defense of the man he no doubt wants to experience sexual intercourse with. Just like every other Monday night, the entire table ridicules Tyler immediately after he opens his mouth.
• The bar has televisions displaying numerous sporting events. Last night, Monday Night Football, game four of the ALCS and WWE Raw were on simultaneously. At one point during WWE action, Stone Cold Steve Austin offers his wrestling rival's old lady a beer. She refuses said beer. Stone Cold persists. She finally sips the beer and it disgusts her. Upset by the turn of events, Stone Cold grabs her by the nape of the neck and power bombs her tee-totaling ass to the canvas. A great lesson can be learned from this and that is if your bitch does not like beer, than you should power bomb her.
  
• Conversation turns to Denver Bronco running back Clinton Portis. Wife of CH cracks off a slew of comments about the man. He is an idiot. She saw him at a bar once and he ordered a glass of White Zinfandel. She delivers the big funny when she utters, "His goatee looks like a goddamn pussy on his face." (Wife of CH is a master of random comments. She once said of identical twin NFL athletes Tiki and Ronde Barber: "Tiki is more attractive because he has caramel skin." During a Monday Night game between Denver and St. Louis (and after drinking an excessive amount of wine) she called Kurt Warner's wife, "A fucking dyke" and summed up the pathetic Denver Bronco defensive performance with the simple comment, "Bitches").

Labels: ch, drinking, sg crew, sports, tomfoolery, tyler

Friday. It is my birthday so I take the day off. I wake up, make some scrambled eggs and bacon and watch Clash of the Titans on the digital cable. My sort of lady and I play nine holes of golf. My sort of lady gives me clothes and candles that smell like pumpkin musk. We crack a Michelob Ultra and toast to my 28th year. After killing three Michelob Ultras each, My sort of lady and I realize that Michelob Ultras go down very smooth. My sort of lady departs to get ready for birthday festivities at Old Chicago. Kaye, Aaron and Johnny Ballgame stop by to check out the town home improvements. We leave for the pub where I drink the night away with family and friends, consuming only two shots (thanks to Monica and an old high school friend Rachel). For the first time in three years of birthday celebrations, I do not wind up face down in some skeezy parking lot in downtown Denver dry heaving on a tree.

Saturday. My sort of lady and I drive to Redstone (20 miles outside of Glenwood Springs) to attend the wedding of a childhood friend she has not talked to in six months. I soon find out why my sort of lady does not talk to aforementioned friend (the term bourgeois princess comes to mind.) Together, we know a total of three people at the wedding. We sit at our table and drink ourselves half blind. I begin to spin yarns to the gullible and uppity wedding guests. My best story begins when someone at the table asks me, "How long have you and your wife been together?" I reply "Six long years," and then proceed to tell them how we met on the frozen sea ice of Antarctica where we were both studying botany and the psychoactive effects of blue-green algae on the human brain. I am sure to include my harrowing smack addiction and how my wife supported me through the dark times when I brought home filthy drug addicts to fuck and spike the vein with in our basement. I conclude the story with, "I am going to get a drink, anybody want one?" (I told you I am good at weddings.) My sort of lady and I dance. On the drive back to Denver, my sort of lady falls asleep somewhere near Glenwood Springs. She wakes up when I nudge her pulling into our town home complex. She stretches and proclaims, "That drive was so short." I drove three hours in solitude.

Sunday. My sort of lady and I go for an early morning run as a pre-emptive strike against the assault our digestive tracts will face during the birthday celebration at my parents house. We arrive at my folks shortly after one in the afternoon and are presented with heaping plates of food. On the menu is stuffed shells (shell pasta filled with ricotta cheese and covered in homemade spaghetti sauce) and peach pie. My sisters get me candles that smell like vanilla musk, a candle holder (I begin to think the women in my life called forth a candle conspiracy for my 28th year) and a gift certificate to Old Navy. My parents float me duckets and two books: Ortho's Home Improvement Encyclopedia and Techniques of the Great Masters of Art. We then head back to my sort of lady's house and I fix her screen door and hang some mirrors on her walls. I play in a late hockey game and receive my first ever game misconduct penalty (Mark recounts the event here). Much like Claude Lemieux after boarding Kris Draper in 1996 and destroying his face, I stand by the hit.

Labels: /mark, birthday, chili dog, colorado, drinking, hockey, johnny ballgame, kaye, mons, the fairways, weekend that was, wife

Friday. I work until three in the afternoon until I notice that myself, Neal and Brandon seem to be the only people left in the office. I give myself the rest of the day off. At home, I order Chinese food, drain four Newcastles and paint the fucking walls. My sort of lady calls me on her way home from the final Bronco Pre-Season game. Talk gets serious.* We hang out anyway, agreeing to avoid relationship conversation for the evening.

Saturday. My sort of lady wakes up early because she has stuff to do. I leave her house and walk home and we agree to meet up later as I need her to help me purchase new bedding and towels. She is the shopping queen and I hate shopping (read: I am willing to pay $80 for a set of sheets at one store as opposed to shopping at many stores and finding the same sheets for $40.) I paint the fucking walls. In between painting the fucking walls, my sort of lady takes me to numerous linens and bedding stores. I purchase new linens and bedding. My sort of lady and I head downtown to meet friends for birthday drinks. We consume numerous whiskeys, vodka tonics and eat $9 steaks. The birthday girl informs us she wants to go to the Diamond Cabaret. We comply with her request where my sort of lady and I consume many beers and I smoke a $10 cigar that tastes like filthy assholes. We stuff dollar bills into stripper's panties.

Sunday. My sort of lady wakes up early again. After she leaves and I spend twenty minutes staring out my bedroom window at the rain as I told the boys I play hockey with that I would meet them for practice at an outdoor rink at nine o'clock. I roll over and go back to bed. My brother-in-law picks me up and we proceed to our fantasy football draft. I have been competing in the same fantasy football league for ten years. Every year, we sit in the same basement, tell the same jokes, drink assorted Coors products and draft fourth string NFL players thinking we got a "sleeper." I get home and paint the fucking walls half drunk.

Monday. I sleep in. I work out. I buy groceries. I eat a pork chop for dinner. My sort of lady and I rent a movie. Talk gets serious* again. We laugh at ourselves and go to bed.

* My sort of lady and I are currently "hanging out." The relationship dynamic has progressed into something neither one of us expected. I like my sort of lady. My sort of lady likes me. I am interested in pursuing things further. Taking risks, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, is something I am willing to do. I figure it is best to try it and realize it does not work, then not try it at all. Relationship situations are like combat; you either get out of your foxhole alive and return home the conquering hero grateful for every day thereafter or you wind up getting shredded by machine gun bullets, laying on a field of battle with your intestines in your hands being comforted by a fat soldier named Murph telling him things like "I am so cold" and "I wanna go home now" before you die. Thankfully, my sort of lady does not use war analogies like me to describe her feelings.

Labels: bro-in-law, denver, drinking, feelings, hockey, l-i-v-i-n, sg crew, sports, strippers, weekend that was, wife