The Power Hour got us all pretty hammered. Then, as per usual, people started to say and do ridiculous drunken things. Again, the audio recorder was brilliant and fucking hilarious. Here are the highlights from the shitshow:
~~~
Emily: I'm slightly disturbed at what's going on. I think people are taking out their balls again. It seems to be a habit among you and your friends.
Joe: ...I learned from the best.
~~~
Joe: Shit, man, Harry's leaving. This sucks. Emily's going to the bathroom. This sucks. Close the doors!
~~~
Joe: What do you have to say to the recorder?
Maureen: I love Joe?
Joe: That's stupid.
~~~
Nick: There comes a time in a young man's life when he realizes, fuck, where am I going? And for Joe, this is where it's going.
Dave: I agree.
~~~
Kristin: I have to say, I've had a wonderful time, and it was great to see you. I'm gonna come... to your school sometime.
Joe: I'm going to assume you were the one drinking, not Harry.
Kristin: Yes.
~~~
Harry: Um... Joe is the man, I have so many great memories with him, and I cannot wait for summer, and it's gonna be awesome.
Joe: Let me kiss your hand. [kisses hand] Now you do it.
Kristin: Kiss his hand?
Joe: There ya go. Role-reversal, role-reversal. [To Harry] No, don't kiss her hand! If women want to get out of the kitchen they gotta kiss our hands! My grandmom got her license just for the insurance! She never drove a car in her fucking life! Now kiss Harry's hand, or else you'll be good for nothing but baby-making and kitchen... cooking.
~~~
Kyle: I have a quote for this right now. There are good people that do stupid things. Smart people outsmart each other, then themselves. It means don't try to hard because you'll just fuck yourself over.
Joe: I thought it meant drink.
~~~
Joe: Say something smart.
Mandy: I don't have anything to say.
~~~
Mandy: I hate everyone in this room.
Mary: I love Joe's cock!
Mandy: Ew.
~~~
Mary: It's obvious. The Village kids, the Fox Chase kids, the Rockledge kids are some of the coolest kids you'll ever meet.
Joe: Yo, fuck the Village.
Mary: Fuck Rockledge equals Joe. Fuck Joe!
Katie: I don't live in Village or Rockledge but I'm still cool, I'm a McCool.
Joe: Yo, fuck Wyndmoor.
~~~
Katie: What do you think of my boyfriend?
Joe: I like him. What would you think if I had anal sex with him?
Katie: I would mind.
Joe: Why?
Katie: Because that's gay.
~~~
Emily: Say something? Hi... I'm not from Pennsylvania, woo!
~~~
Mary: This music sucks! Boys like you are not dime a dozen. You boys are at least a quarter each.
~~~
Joe: Nick Talbot and Nick G****** are the same fucking person. [To Nick] Yo, he knows about you, dude!
~~~
Joe: There's Ed McG****, you know him.
Emily: Do I?
Joe: Yeah, you met him tonight. Big oafy dude?
~~~
Emily: My cat is old.
Joe: Is it fat or skinny?
Emily: It's muscular.
Joe: Muscular? Cats aren't muscular!
~~~
Kev: I wanna say something smart. I think you should have a baby grand piano in your room.
~~~
Joe: Let me finish this beer, take a piss, and then I'll sit next to you.
Emily: ...Okay?
~~~
Dave: Are me and Mary C****** gonna hook up? Who knows.
Mary: What is your response to that, Dave?
Dave: Well....
Joe: No comment.
Dave: No comment.
~~~
Shane: I go out with Katie McCool. Ya know what? I hope I get accepted by all your friends.
Joe: You already are. You walked in, you're already accepted.
~~~
Shane: Katie is like... Katie.
~~~
Joe: I'm peeing in front of everyone.
Dave: I'm gonna record Joe peeing. Yo, he's aiming his penis away from where I was pointing it.
~~~
Dave: This is Dave N***** reporting from Joe's yard. He's like the 400th person to piss here, maybe more.
Joe: 405. 400 pints of piss in this yard. Wait, wait, look at my yard. Look at all the yellow grass.
Dave: And the funny part is he's not even 21 yet. I'm 21 and I still piss back here.
~~~
Kev: I hate to cut you off, but I have to take a piss.
Joe: Go in that bush. That bush should die anyway. I hate that bush.
~~~
Joe: It's steaming! It's steaming off the bush!
Kev: On the tape recorder!
~~~
Kev: I just want people to know... that we were the original Burholme members. I want to thank... I'm having a party at my house. In my basement.
~~~
Joe: Did you drop the L-bomb yet?
Jim: A little bit.
Joe: What do you mean, "a little bit"?
Jim: Yeah, I drop the L-bomb.
Joe: Comfortable with that?
Jim: Yeah.
Joe: That's awesome man. If you would've said "no" I would've said "Fuck you man, stop it." Because that shit's important!
~~~
Joe: Were you flashing lights?
Mom: Oh, Mom Mom is sleeping in your room. I meant to turn off this light... but I turned off your light. So I wasn't flashing it for youse for anything. The light wasn't... on.
[Editor's note: We were both drunk, that's why it's funny.]
~~~
Joe: Okay, so you ever see Say Anything? About three years ago, it was a random Saturday morning, it was On Demand... I started drinking... And like, Lloyd Dobler said something that I've been thinking about for a while, his emo friends are saying like, "You're gonna get hurt, don't do it, don't do it!" and he's like, "I wanna get hurt!" and that's like... I have not understanded that for the longest fucking time. At first, my thought, "Wow, I've never been hurt. Maybe I should be hurt." And then I was hurt, no then I get hurt, ya know, my ex-girlfriend hooked up with my roommate or whatever, whatever, fuck that, it's worth it. So was like, I don't want to get hurt. But then! But then, I thought, ya know, you try it out with a chick, and she hurts you, that's one more step closer you are to, ya know, the girl you were meant to be with. So, why not? Why not try? You might get hurt... you might get hurt.... So I'm saying, Lloyd Dobler is telling me to follow my instincts.
Emily: I really have to go.
~~~
Joe: Fuck you. Fuck you.
Mandy: Get that thing away.
Joe: Fuck you. Mandy Bee, fuck you.
Mandy: I hate you.
Joe: Yeah, that's right.
~~~
Nick: There's things I love about Joe. One is the hair, two is the sideburns. Three is the eyebrows. Yes. These all have to do with types of hair.
Kev: Four, I cannot wait to listen to this.
Nick: Five! Five. This is not Nick speaking. Kev jacked my list. Kevin jacked my list. And for that, you have a bottle shoved up your nostril.
Kev: Six, Joe is pissing on his own house. To which, I love the shit when he does this, man. My god. When this motherfucker throws a party, he pees on his house and shows everyone his wiener. What a guy. Brrrrrt.
Nick: Number six, because I am so horribly... Seven? Number seven I'm told, I have learned, do not want to, let me state that right now... so horribly learned that Joe has a very small, very tiny penis. It's not impressive by any means, um, I would implore him to keep it away at all times. It's not long, it's short.
Joe: It's somewhat thick when erect.
Nick: It's a grower, not a shower.
Joe: Exactly. Ex-girlfriends have explained it as... ex-girlfriends have described it as, uh, a lot of girth.
Nick: "Girth"?
Joe: Do you agree?
Nick: ...I don't know. But if I were to assume, I would say, no, I do not agree.
Joe: When erect.
Nick: I imagine they have described it as... passable. Or, satiable. Not quite enough to please, but enough to get 'em through the day.
Joe: Ex-girlfriends have described it as, "Is that it? Really? That, that's it?"
~~~
Joe: What's your parting words?
Mandy: Love you.
Joe: That's your parting words?
Mandy: Yeah.
Joe: Say something different. How do you respond to your nickname, "Hepatitis Bee?"
Mandy: Um... the love that you, that you take, has to be equal to the love you make.
Joe: Okay John Lennon.
Dave: I'm Mandy B** and I love hepatitis B because I have it. Okay Heppy! Heppy is so much better.
~~~
Everyone: Shane! Shaaaaane!
~~~
Jim: I love the shots to me tonight. I'm glad I'm entertainment to everybody.
Joe: Everybody fucked up my last shot.
Kev: Everyone's looking forward to Kev C***** parties!
~~~
Joe: Wait! Who got the Honorary Load of the Ward... I mean Load of the Night?
Jim: Probably me. I have to yak every time I drink.
Joe: There's no excuse. Your brother has a legitimate excuse, every time he plays sports he bleeds or whatever, and every time you drink, you puke? That's stupid.
Jim: Every time I eat I puke.
Joe: Why?
Jim: I'm going to the doctor...
Joe: Bulimic! Bulimic! What do you say?
Jim: Amen.
Joe: You're bulimic then. If you're legitimately bulimic, just tell us now, we'll help you through it.
Jim: I'm. Legitimate. Bulimic. And Kyle has sex with RED PEOPLE!
Joe: Okay, don't lie when you say you're bulimic. If you're really bulimic, your throat's being killed by the acid from your stomach.
~~~
Kev: So, like, what happens when I poop in your mouth? And it's like, really steamy?
~~~
Mary: Put it on the blog, bro, put it on the blog!
Maryrose: Mary's story was a bunch of bullshit.
Joe: Mary, I was told your story was bullshit.
Mary: I'll bull your shit. I'll shit your fucking bull, bitch. I'll like it.
~~~
Mary: John, you are so good at telling stories. Tell one.
John: I don't have any stories.
Mary: Start with the rabbit and the bear.
John: ...Am I a Native American?
~~~
Mike: Puke on Your Birthday. A novel concept. Many people have documented their travels, their experiences. Notably: Hunter S. Thompson—Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, drug use, you know, sexual endeavors, whatever—but never has such a group of young talented writers, in such a candid, and... presented it for the world to see, what really happens in Northeast Philadelphia.
Kyle: Who farted?!
~~~
Kev: I'm gonna make a note of this. Time is 2:27 [Editor's note: it was 12:27]. Joe, I hope you remember this point, I will play it right now, I pray that you put this on Puke on Your Birthday. Because this moment, 2:27, on March 8th, March 8th is the day, two years ago, it's 12:27, my best friend, you all know, my dog Murphy, passed away, two years ago. And I miss... wish that you can put this on Puke on Your Birthday, my only wish, Murph was very special to me. Thank you very much.
~~~
Joe: Mandy just texted me. I love Mandy Bee, probably my best friend, but... I'm not gonna text her back.
~~~
Joe: I'm at a good point in my life. My friends are here, and we're all fucked up, and I'm fucked up as well. But I cannot deny that they are great friends, regardless of our inebriation. I've felt this for a few days now. Yesterday morning during my trial, many people came to support me. Some to speak, some to just be there for support. And, and everyone went around and introduced themselves as "Friend of Joe," I... I was crying. I was crying. I couldn't show it in court, but there was tears coming down my face. And that's because, it was one of the first times—in recent memory—that I truly, truly appreciated my friends. And everyone here is in the same boat. They appreciate me. And... honestly, I wouldn't give this up for anything. For anything! The cops come here right now, bust the shit out of this, throw my ass in jail, and I would have a smile on my face, because, people that are in this room now, are my best friends. My best fucking friends. And, I would not do anything to fucking change that. I really fucking wouldn't. It's great fucking people, and, honestly, I'm kinda an atheist if I wasn't then I would say, God, God has fucking blessed me with these friends. There's nothing more I can say. My life is defined as good friends having my back. So, if you're reading this, and you're dead—if I'm dead I mean—and ya know, you are one of these friends I'm describing now, I really want to thank you, you really kept me going. Really fucking kept me going. Thank you.
~~~
Mike: I hope this monologue is transcribed the way I say. When I think about this party, um, and the whole idea of spring break, I look back at the idea of a "reunion." And, ya know, a reunion in its essence is a taking back of what has happened before, but that's not what really what's going on right now. Like, think of it this way. Right now, we have a Katie and a Kyle with no sexual tension. Katie happy with a new boyfriends and Kyle, happy with a new girlfriend. We've got a Burholme, ya know, a band that hasn't played in a really long time and that's okay because we have a drummer who's going to the fucking A-10, we have a guitarist that's playing in a cover band, and we have a bassist who hasn't played the bass in two years and he's just getting drunk and going to work. Shit. On top of all this we have, ya know, the Lafayette Reunion. Ya know, we have probably like seven people here. Me, Joe, Kyle—not Kyle—me, Joe, Dave, Kev, Mandy, Nick, Maryrose...
Joe: Ed's sister.
Mike: Anna McG****, but that doesn't really count. But what it comes down to is the summer after senior year was me, Joe, Dave, Matt McC*****, and Nick, ya know, all waiting tables, Joe DiM*****, Tina N*****, Maryrose, maybe a little bit Christina L*****, Romeo, Charlene, Sharon, Eric... so, right now, like, I know Joe probably did some nostalgic shit about how this is a reunion of some sorts, but really it's not.
Joe: I forget what I said.
Mike: This is the evolution. Ya know? Dave's graduating. Next year I'm gonna be out of this fucking country for the first fucking time. Joe's still gonna be doing the same thing he always does. It's intimidating, but this year's, like, ya know, one more step forward. So we'll see what happens, and, dear readers, hopefully Joe doesn't tinge the fucking post with his emo nostalgia for the fact of Junior Year of high school.
Joe: No purpose, no subscript will be added. Just exactly what was said.
Mike: Therefore—
Nick: I love vaginas. Wrapped around my penis.
Dave: I came in halfway through Mike's speech, and I'm pretty sure he covered everything that I wanna say.
Nick: My dick is hard.
Dave: Okay, everyone here's joking and stuff, but I wanna say, all I wanna say is, ya know, may be sensitive or whatever, but I'm here with my best friends having a good time. It's a great thing. No seriously, that's all that matters at life. Me and Mike, all our life we've been singing songs and Puke on Your Birthday, my friends come first, that's a part of life. Ya know what, it's true, it's a part of life. Yeah, I figured that out a couple of years ago and it's been that way ever since. It's like just one of millions... nothing special I gotta say, but that's all I had to say about my friends. They come first.
Nick: Dave, I agree, but I'd like to add: Ladies, fair readers of PoYB, I am now single, and I'm looking for types of Js. Um, I will not take an HJ, because a handjob is like a women's basketball game, they shouldn't be doing it. It's also like a minor league baseball game. Because you pay the extra ten bucks and you see a real show. Okay, so HJs, we settled that. BJs, gladly accepted. VJs...
Joe: ZJs? There's no such thing as a ZJ.
Nick: There is such thing as a VJ. It's called a "vagina job." Where you wrap your labia around my penis and you move it up and down. I might move it up and down.
Dave: I would love that.
Joe: You almost had a child!
Nick: Also, if it makes a difference, my penis has been described as "satiable," the perfect size, I'm told that the one vein has very strong veining, um, honestly, my dick is like a vibrator, it shakes and rattles and rolls. And, uh, it is my first time in over seven year. I started having sex at the tender age of seven, I took a thirteen year hiatus, and began again when I was 20, only to take another hiatus until today, where I am speaking to you. So any type of J you want, any type of J. The last time I got laid I was 20. I'm in a terrible drought dude, it sucks. I'm done.
Dave: Ya know what, fuck it. My turn. Nick G****** gives his single speech and now here's Dave N***** giving his single speech. Um, yeah, Dave N***** is also single. He's looking for a couple job's if you will. HJs, Nick said it pretty much perfect, I don't deal with them. BJs are very acceptable, VJs, vagina jobs, are very accepted too. Um, I'm a nice guy. At the same time, ya know what, I love the vag, I love girls, if you have the stuff, the stuff my cock goes on, go right ahead, so yeah, if you have the stuff to give a vagina job, or if you wanna fuck me, I'm so down. I love sex. Sex, sex, sex. I wanna take my dick when it's hard and put me in you, I'm so down. Nick said it better then I can, so I'll just give you the... the whole thing, I'm hard, I'm gonna put it in ya, and you better enjoy it. So, I'll pass it on to Mike. Dave N*****'s single, peace out girl scout.
Mike: Well, one thing is for certain at Puke on your birthday dot blogspot dot com. We are not politically correct. Let's enumerate the ways. First of all, we all have college education. Let's enumerate the ways that we are in... Jesus. Jesus fucking Mary, that is incorrect. We do! Ya know, it's not about— [a girl screams]. Dave N*****'s genitals are flopping up and down in the manner of a lead zeppelin.
Joe: Everyone has to leave in 20 minutes.
Mike: Um, to put this plainly, Dave N***** of Rockledge, Pennsylvania—actually, no, Northeast Pennsylvania, ya know, part of Philadelphia region, his penis was... flopping up and down with this movement of the trampoline. It wasn't impressive. It... it was almost scary. But, you have to admire a person with that kind of spunk, because, ya know what, at the end of the day Puke on Your Birthday, political correctness is just a fad. Who fucking cares?
Dave: Um, can I cut in real quick. Puke on Your Birthday, hello. Um, Mike was right, my penis wasn't impressive, but ya know what? At the same it's not embarrassing I'm just there, it's like, if I'm like naked next to some other dude, it wouldn't be comparative. You wouldn't be like, oh wow he's huge! But you wouldn't be like, oh wow he's small. So I guess Mike is right there with Nick, but honestly girls, let me put that hard shit inside you.
Mike: If it gets hard, it's a dick.
Dave: Yeah, if it gets hard it's a dick. I'll put that shit inside you.
Mike: Only the first three inches of the vagina even have sensory, ya know, perceptions, so ya know.
Dave: I'm trying to finish. You have me inside you.
Mike: Dave just finished.
Dave: It's called... euphoria.
Mike: You call me premature, I just call it ecstasy. Alright, yeah, he jizzed in his pants. So, um, I guess the point of this entire blog is, is pretty much pointing out the fact that we may have a college education, at varying degrees, we also drink a lot of alcohol, which alters your ability to make judgement. At the end of the day... what we really are... is... poets. We witness our surroundings, we react to them, we are ultimately the masters of our time. We see what others do not see because we approach the world with a critical eye, and with that critical eye, we describe what it is like to come up, in a somewhat suburban neighborhood, Northeast Philadelphia, ya know what? We don't complain about our surroundings. We didn't come up hard. Ya know? We didn't have to struggle. but ya know what, we make the best of what we have. And ultimately, ultimately, our story, here on PoYB is not a story about economics, or struggle, or money, or fame, or fashion, or intimacy. Our story is a story of humanity. It is a core of people who come together, and realize the positivity they have, because we are social creatures. At Puke on Your Birthday is a place where we come together and express how we feel about each other. Good night.
Joe: What if this whole thing was not recorded at all?
Mike: Then we're fucked.
Joe: I'd kill myself.
Mike: I just gave a really cheesy outro. A really corny outro. There's no doubt about it.
Joe: If it was like, "Joe loves penis," that's not going on our blog.
Mike: I gave a really cheesy monologue.
Joe: Then it'll be on our blog. Cheese. American cheese. I'm bringing a pound of it back to school. Oh yeah. I don't even want to eat this cheese, I just want to fuck it.
Mike: From the drummer of Burholme to the guitarist of Burholme, and singer-songwriter, and lead man, and frontman...
Joe: And cock!
Mike: Lead cocksucker.
Joe: No, no, you don't suck cock. Cock sucks you. You're the cocksuckee.
Mike: Okay. Miss that shit. I have a little bit at school but, ya know.
Joe: I mean, everybody's gonna miss what they had in the past. It's all a part of growing up. Fucking blows. Like when we hang out on breaks.
Mike: If only Kev C***** played bass though. The things I would do to him... as a bassist.
Joe: It's gonna be a long day transcribing this shit.
Mike: What Mass you going to? [laughter]
Sunday, March 8, 2009
An Hour of Power
Power Hour. Every minute, take a shot of beer. Sounds simple, but it gets quite sloppy.
Most people, when they do a power hour, they make a "Power Hour Mix" and drink when the song changes. Not in the great Northeast. We have a timekeeper, and every minute, before the shot, someone makes the toast.
Last night, a brilliant idea was proposed that we record each inebriated toast and put it up here on PoYB. Let the madness begin.
Toasts
1. Joe: "To my parents, for turning a blind eye."
2. Kev: "Here's to my sister getting the fuck out of my house. Now we can have parties at my house!"
3. Jim: "Here's to everyone being reunited." (Dave: "I was gonna say that you fuck!")
4. Dave: "Here's to the world champs starting up in 29 days!"
5. Kyle: "Here's to Alan Wendell having a heart." (Everyone else: "Hopefully!")
6. Kev: "Here's to a big fuck you to the Eagles GM." (Ed: "What's with all the sports? I don't care! I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who you're talking about.")
7. Mike: "To Dave N***** graduating this year. I don't know what you're gonna do with a real job."
8. Mandy: "To Officer Kev C*****." (Mike: "Arrest me!" Kev: "I'll have a gun.")
9. Mike: "To whoever throws up first." (Everyone else: "Joe!")
10. Joe: "Here's to Basils 249. Hopefully I'll be allowed back."
11. Jim: "Here's to the man in red—Mr. Moses!"
12. Joe: "Here's to.... Jim C**** deserves a toast. Here's to Jim C****. For providing endless entertainment." (Mike: "For making money at Jim's expense.")
13. Dave: "Here's to the Buffalo Bills for being dumb and signing T.O. to a one year deal. (Ed: "I hate sports.")
14. Mandy: "To.... the... Laf!"
15. Mike: "To a book that I think Kev C***** will read." (Joe: "Kev's best call ever... and it was all downhill from there.")
16. Joe: "Here's to... yeah, here's to blogging." (Various people: "Fucking Puke on Your Birthday!")
17. Mike: "To Frank F******!"
18. Kyle: "Here's to illegal substances." (Jim: "My cock!")
19. Kev: "Here's to all of our friends keeping in touch through college."
20. Mike: "Toast to Joe's pool opening soon. Naked pool party."
21. [Someone]: "Here's to Max's house." (Everyone: "Brrrrrrrt.")
22. [Someone]: "To Pres!" (Andrew: "I will not drink to that.")
23. Joe: "Here's to bad haircuts... but I still love it."
24. Harry: "To St. Patty's Day!" (Joe: "This year I'm not getting written up.")
25. Kev: "To Brianna being timekeeper, and to Mike and Bri's kids." [Editor's note: I think that's what was said, the sound quality is real fucking bad.]
26. Kyle: "To most recent fallen officer, right by school."
27. Joe: "Here's to Degrassi." (Everyone else: "NO!" Kev: "Homo!")
28. Joe: "Here's to uh... yea, the dude from Joseph's that chased Harry in his car and almost ran him over." (Mike: "May his immortal memory live on.")
29. Maureen: "To Jim's manhood." (Someone: "Or lack thereof.")
30. Kev: "Some of you know my late dog, Murph. Tomorrow is the two year anniversary of her death. She was a great dog."
31. Dave: "My cat, diagnosed with intestinal cancer, we're putting her down next week." (Ed: "Let's have a fun toast next.")
32. Mandy: "To the women of our Northeast group. We hold all of you together." (Various boys: "Yo, fuck you!!")
33. Jim: "To all the places Joe's banned in Fox Chase. Hopefully he'll be allowed back in."
34. Joe: "Here's to the guys at Dunkin' Donuts. May they find solace in the fact that I don't go near their store."
35. [No one gave a toast this minute. I blame Mandy. —Editor]
36. Andrew: "To Jim C**** being Jim C****. He was a celebrity when he walked in the door."
37. Jim: "To drinking!" Mary: "To fucking..." Joe: "No! Here's to 'Hepatitis B**'."
38. Andrew: "Here's to us making a lot of mistakes."
39. Mike: "Here's to Joe sitting down and growing up." [Editor's note: I think?]
40. Joe: "Here's to me getting absolutely obliterated at Harry's wedding. Pregame at my house. Hurricanes. The bachelor party is gonna be nuts. No offense Kristin."
41. Mike: "10/21. To a day when I will hopefully not being in this country."
42. Someone: "Here's to Katie McC***, and her new boyfriend." (Mike: "Here's to Kyle P****.")
43. Harry: "Here's to the summer, and the days at the shore."
44. Joe: "Here's to Mike, Animal House, and parties. (Mary: "And to hair!")
45. Joe: "Here's to Mike's barber."
46. Joe: "Here's to... small bladders."
47. Kev: "Here's to Joe missing a minute." (Mike: "No one remind him. At the end we'll be like, Joe you didn't do a power hour.")
48. Kev: "Here's to Joe's puke face!"
49. [Editor's note: No toast this minute because I had a bad puke face on and everyone was making fun of me.]
50. Someone: "Here's to ten more."
51. Mandy: "To... uh... odd numbers." (Andrew: "Hello, tape recorder. Joe is gonna puke!")
52. Joe: "To untwisting the knot in my stomach."
53. Andrew: "To Jeremy K****." (Joe: "No, we already did grade school!" Dave: "To hardcore shows!" Joe: "To getting punched in the face when you are trying to enjoy yourself.")
54. Jim: "Here's to Back to the Future I, II, AND III."
55. Kyle: "To all the crazy shit we do in life, it doesn't matter... it's just life."
56. Dave: "Here's to Claire... you don't know her. She's in London. Six months pregnant with my child." (Everyone else: "[silence]" Then, Kev: "Dave's got a baby!")
57. Kyle: "Here's to Dave not having a child. Thank God!"
58. Kev: "Here's to Brendan C****. What a hardass."
59. Mike: "In the words of Mike, 'Those were the day, yeah life was good then, but the fact of the matter is, they're never coming back again, so live your life kid, live your life. And drink up.'"
60. Harry: "To the city of Philadelphia [Editor's note: and something else but Kyle said something into the mic and I couldn't hear]."
61. Joe: "So, I'm reading the Watchmen—I love big blue cock—I just finished a chapter. The big blue dick and his ex-girlfriend are on Mars discussing human life. Anyway, the whole point of this chapter is that, ya know, your father has millions and millions of sperm, and only one of them is gonna reach the egg. No listen! Only one sperm is gonna turn into you. The fact that a given person grew up who they were because one sperm out of millions and millions of sperm reached the egg is a miracle. How many people are in this room? Listen, I'm being dead fucking serious. Everyone is a miracle because of this. All I'm saying that all of us here, together, the fact that we're all together, we're all miracles. And it, like, compounds miracles. So here's to miracles."
What a night! What a good time!
I will transcribe quotes from the rest of the night eventually, because they are fucking hilarious.
Most people, when they do a power hour, they make a "Power Hour Mix" and drink when the song changes. Not in the great Northeast. We have a timekeeper, and every minute, before the shot, someone makes the toast.
Last night, a brilliant idea was proposed that we record each inebriated toast and put it up here on PoYB. Let the madness begin.
Toasts
1. Joe: "To my parents, for turning a blind eye."
2. Kev: "Here's to my sister getting the fuck out of my house. Now we can have parties at my house!"
3. Jim: "Here's to everyone being reunited." (Dave: "I was gonna say that you fuck!")
4. Dave: "Here's to the world champs starting up in 29 days!"
5. Kyle: "Here's to Alan Wendell having a heart." (Everyone else: "Hopefully!")
6. Kev: "Here's to a big fuck you to the Eagles GM." (Ed: "What's with all the sports? I don't care! I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who you're talking about.")
7. Mike: "To Dave N***** graduating this year. I don't know what you're gonna do with a real job."
8. Mandy: "To Officer Kev C*****." (Mike: "Arrest me!" Kev: "I'll have a gun.")
9. Mike: "To whoever throws up first." (Everyone else: "Joe!")
10. Joe: "Here's to Basils 249. Hopefully I'll be allowed back."
11. Jim: "Here's to the man in red—Mr. Moses!"
12. Joe: "Here's to.... Jim C**** deserves a toast. Here's to Jim C****. For providing endless entertainment." (Mike: "For making money at Jim's expense.")
13. Dave: "Here's to the Buffalo Bills for being dumb and signing T.O. to a one year deal. (Ed: "I hate sports.")
14. Mandy: "To.... the... Laf!"
15. Mike: "To a book that I think Kev C***** will read." (Joe: "Kev's best call ever... and it was all downhill from there.")
16. Joe: "Here's to... yeah, here's to blogging." (Various people: "Fucking Puke on Your Birthday!")
17. Mike: "To Frank F******!"
18. Kyle: "Here's to illegal substances." (Jim: "My cock!")
19. Kev: "Here's to all of our friends keeping in touch through college."
20. Mike: "Toast to Joe's pool opening soon. Naked pool party."
21. [Someone]: "Here's to Max's house." (Everyone: "Brrrrrrrt.")
22. [Someone]: "To Pres!" (Andrew: "I will not drink to that.")
23. Joe: "Here's to bad haircuts... but I still love it."
24. Harry: "To St. Patty's Day!" (Joe: "This year I'm not getting written up.")
25. Kev: "To Brianna being timekeeper, and to Mike and Bri's kids." [Editor's note: I think that's what was said, the sound quality is real fucking bad.]
26. Kyle: "To most recent fallen officer, right by school."
27. Joe: "Here's to Degrassi." (Everyone else: "NO!" Kev: "Homo!")
28. Joe: "Here's to uh... yea, the dude from Joseph's that chased Harry in his car and almost ran him over." (Mike: "May his immortal memory live on.")
29. Maureen: "To Jim's manhood." (Someone: "Or lack thereof.")
30. Kev: "Some of you know my late dog, Murph. Tomorrow is the two year anniversary of her death. She was a great dog."
31. Dave: "My cat, diagnosed with intestinal cancer, we're putting her down next week." (Ed: "Let's have a fun toast next.")
32. Mandy: "To the women of our Northeast group. We hold all of you together." (Various boys: "Yo, fuck you!!")
33. Jim: "To all the places Joe's banned in Fox Chase. Hopefully he'll be allowed back in."
34. Joe: "Here's to the guys at Dunkin' Donuts. May they find solace in the fact that I don't go near their store."
35. [No one gave a toast this minute. I blame Mandy. —Editor]
36. Andrew: "To Jim C**** being Jim C****. He was a celebrity when he walked in the door."
37. Jim: "To drinking!" Mary: "To fucking..." Joe: "No! Here's to 'Hepatitis B**'."
38. Andrew: "Here's to us making a lot of mistakes."
39. Mike: "Here's to Joe sitting down and growing up." [Editor's note: I think?]
40. Joe: "Here's to me getting absolutely obliterated at Harry's wedding. Pregame at my house. Hurricanes. The bachelor party is gonna be nuts. No offense Kristin."
41. Mike: "10/21. To a day when I will hopefully not being in this country."
42. Someone: "Here's to Katie McC***, and her new boyfriend." (Mike: "Here's to Kyle P****.")
43. Harry: "Here's to the summer, and the days at the shore."
44. Joe: "Here's to Mike, Animal House, and parties. (Mary: "And to hair!")
45. Joe: "Here's to Mike's barber."
46. Joe: "Here's to... small bladders."
47. Kev: "Here's to Joe missing a minute." (Mike: "No one remind him. At the end we'll be like, Joe you didn't do a power hour.")
48. Kev: "Here's to Joe's puke face!"
49. [Editor's note: No toast this minute because I had a bad puke face on and everyone was making fun of me.]
50. Someone: "Here's to ten more."
51. Mandy: "To... uh... odd numbers." (Andrew: "Hello, tape recorder. Joe is gonna puke!")
52. Joe: "To untwisting the knot in my stomach."
53. Andrew: "To Jeremy K****." (Joe: "No, we already did grade school!" Dave: "To hardcore shows!" Joe: "To getting punched in the face when you are trying to enjoy yourself.")
54. Jim: "Here's to Back to the Future I, II, AND III."
55. Kyle: "To all the crazy shit we do in life, it doesn't matter... it's just life."
56. Dave: "Here's to Claire... you don't know her. She's in London. Six months pregnant with my child." (Everyone else: "[silence]" Then, Kev: "Dave's got a baby!")
57. Kyle: "Here's to Dave not having a child. Thank God!"
58. Kev: "Here's to Brendan C****. What a hardass."
59. Mike: "In the words of Mike, 'Those were the day, yeah life was good then, but the fact of the matter is, they're never coming back again, so live your life kid, live your life. And drink up.'"
60. Harry: "To the city of Philadelphia [Editor's note: and something else but Kyle said something into the mic and I couldn't hear]."
61. Joe: "So, I'm reading the Watchmen—I love big blue cock—I just finished a chapter. The big blue dick and his ex-girlfriend are on Mars discussing human life. Anyway, the whole point of this chapter is that, ya know, your father has millions and millions of sperm, and only one of them is gonna reach the egg. No listen! Only one sperm is gonna turn into you. The fact that a given person grew up who they were because one sperm out of millions and millions of sperm reached the egg is a miracle. How many people are in this room? Listen, I'm being dead fucking serious. Everyone is a miracle because of this. All I'm saying that all of us here, together, the fact that we're all together, we're all miracles. And it, like, compounds miracles. So here's to miracles."
What a night! What a good time!
I will transcribe quotes from the rest of the night eventually, because they are fucking hilarious.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Playing God
What makes us who are? I look at my friends, and besides taking to heart their personalities—which could so aptly be described as intricately capable of overturning the hardships that attack our everyday lives—I of course notice their personal traits. When I look at Nick, I see arm veins and a frame that makes even me look fat rather than thin (sorry Nick). When I look at Joe, I see a tall guy, cuddling a beer in his arms with a sarcastic smile that wins over even the most blunt-stricken minds. Most of my friends have dark hair and dark eyes which were naturally given to them, and make them who they are.
What if these traits weren’t natural, but chosen by the people who produce you? From the minute you reluctantly leave the womb, your parents generally dictate your every move until you reach a noticeable maturity to maintain a respectable lifestyle. What if they could even dictate your physical traits? I’m not talking about their authority to stop you from getting your lip pierced or dying your hair purple. I talking about them taking away from you your very first possession—your natural looks.
In what could be the most groundbreaking and controversial human study of the 21st century, it is found that in six months we may be able to choose the physical traits, such as hair and eye color, of our embryos. My ears were negatively graced with the news this morning while I was in a bath towel admiring my personal traits—go figure. But I digress. Despite my supporting spirit for stem-cell research, noting the good that could come from it, I will tell you, my audience, that I flat out disagree with the concept of “building” our children. This is not Build-A-Bear at Willow Grove Mall, nor is this Madden Football for PlayStation where we make superhuman wide receivers. This is life. This is over 2000 years of humans prospering with traits that were given to us by nature (and for those of you who believe—God).
We read history books and are overtaken with passionate abhorrence at the acts of the Nazis, which could be characterized as Satan-driven. The killing of millions of innocent people for the achievement of the Aryan race (which in my opinion is nothing special—I’m sticking to my brunettes). These were times of torturous experiments where human beings were turned into science projects. Did you know they tried harnessing bear sperm with a human being’s eggs to create a superhuman? Yeah... it didn’t work. Did you know they sewed horse legs onto some people? That didn’t work either.
Now, I don’t mean to be boundless here with callous graphics. Don’t get me wrong, I acknowledge that the people who are working vehemently to achieve such a supermodern concept mean good and no evil at all, but in the end it’s all the same. We want to play God. It’s not easy. Remember playing "house" when you were younger? You sipped imaginary tea and said to your friend, "How was your day, honey?" Not once, as a naive eight-year-old whose dreams were flooded with ice cream and Nickelodeon, did you ever say to your friend, "Our house is being foreclosed and I’m getting laid off next week." Maybe I’m wrong, maybe playing God will be easy for these superhuman geniuses that make even Einstein seem like Peter Griffin—okay, maybe not that far. But I have a feeling that things are going to ghastly wrong with this entire concept. It can’t be this easy.
Am I deviating from normal human capacity for being so fervidly overtaken by the news this morning? Am I too detached from progressiveness? I own an iPod, keep a TV in my room, and buy new and unique condoms, so I don’t think detachment from "today" is the case. Now, as I walk across campus with my headphones, I take notice of myself through every window I pass. Every chance I get to see my reflection, I appreciate it. It is who I am. Biologically, I’m a Caucasian male with an olive complexion, brown eyes, and brown hair. But to myself and my friends, I’m a tall guy with longish hair, a comically big nose, and dego greasy skin—and I love every second of it. This is who I am. It’s mine, and mine to keep.
This is who we are. It’s ours, and ours to keep. What we choose to do with it is our choice.
I always told people that my first tattoo will be the name of my first born child and his/her birthday written in cursive on the left side of my chest. Then every child I have after that will follow. The beauty of having kids is the concept of unconditional love no matter how that child is built, and I feel as if that will be deprived with this new finding.
Wake up tomorrow morning, look in the mirror, and decide for yourself.
Yours Truly,
Dave
What if these traits weren’t natural, but chosen by the people who produce you? From the minute you reluctantly leave the womb, your parents generally dictate your every move until you reach a noticeable maturity to maintain a respectable lifestyle. What if they could even dictate your physical traits? I’m not talking about their authority to stop you from getting your lip pierced or dying your hair purple. I talking about them taking away from you your very first possession—your natural looks.
In what could be the most groundbreaking and controversial human study of the 21st century, it is found that in six months we may be able to choose the physical traits, such as hair and eye color, of our embryos. My ears were negatively graced with the news this morning while I was in a bath towel admiring my personal traits—go figure. But I digress. Despite my supporting spirit for stem-cell research, noting the good that could come from it, I will tell you, my audience, that I flat out disagree with the concept of “building” our children. This is not Build-A-Bear at Willow Grove Mall, nor is this Madden Football for PlayStation where we make superhuman wide receivers. This is life. This is over 2000 years of humans prospering with traits that were given to us by nature (and for those of you who believe—God).
We read history books and are overtaken with passionate abhorrence at the acts of the Nazis, which could be characterized as Satan-driven. The killing of millions of innocent people for the achievement of the Aryan race (which in my opinion is nothing special—I’m sticking to my brunettes). These were times of torturous experiments where human beings were turned into science projects. Did you know they tried harnessing bear sperm with a human being’s eggs to create a superhuman? Yeah... it didn’t work. Did you know they sewed horse legs onto some people? That didn’t work either.
Now, I don’t mean to be boundless here with callous graphics. Don’t get me wrong, I acknowledge that the people who are working vehemently to achieve such a supermodern concept mean good and no evil at all, but in the end it’s all the same. We want to play God. It’s not easy. Remember playing "house" when you were younger? You sipped imaginary tea and said to your friend, "How was your day, honey?" Not once, as a naive eight-year-old whose dreams were flooded with ice cream and Nickelodeon, did you ever say to your friend, "Our house is being foreclosed and I’m getting laid off next week." Maybe I’m wrong, maybe playing God will be easy for these superhuman geniuses that make even Einstein seem like Peter Griffin—okay, maybe not that far. But I have a feeling that things are going to ghastly wrong with this entire concept. It can’t be this easy.
Am I deviating from normal human capacity for being so fervidly overtaken by the news this morning? Am I too detached from progressiveness? I own an iPod, keep a TV in my room, and buy new and unique condoms, so I don’t think detachment from "today" is the case. Now, as I walk across campus with my headphones, I take notice of myself through every window I pass. Every chance I get to see my reflection, I appreciate it. It is who I am. Biologically, I’m a Caucasian male with an olive complexion, brown eyes, and brown hair. But to myself and my friends, I’m a tall guy with longish hair, a comically big nose, and dego greasy skin—and I love every second of it. This is who I am. It’s mine, and mine to keep.
This is who we are. It’s ours, and ours to keep. What we choose to do with it is our choice.
I always told people that my first tattoo will be the name of my first born child and his/her birthday written in cursive on the left side of my chest. Then every child I have after that will follow. The beauty of having kids is the concept of unconditional love no matter how that child is built, and I feel as if that will be deprived with this new finding.
Wake up tomorrow morning, look in the mirror, and decide for yourself.
Yours Truly,
Dave
Monday, March 2, 2009
Living in Filth
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| the motto of a Deferred-Suspension-filled room |
Reasons we have the grossest quad in the dorms, as of March 2, 2009:
SECTION A: The Sleeping Room
1) The pink carpet has never been vacuumed and has dirt all over it.
2) Every dresser has a mountain of trash and dirty clothes on top of it.
3) Dirty clothes are also all over the floor, especially Mike's, who has done laundry twice this semester so far, even though it is now midterm week.
4) There are food wrappers on my and Kyle's desks, along with cig wrappers and old red cups.
5) My bed smells like shit, literally, after a weeks worth of sickness and drinking and pissing the bed. I washed the sheets after pissing the bed, but the odor remains.
6) Socks on top of the printer? Also, socks everywhere.
7) There are strange black spots on the floor?
8) So many towels and other random assortment of clothes populate the top shelf.
9) Don't even ask what's under the bed.
10) Condom wrappers.
SECTION B: The 4-Door Room
11) The sink is a filthy brown and yellow.
12) There's a weird blue-stained tupperware container on the counter that's been there for weeks.
13) The powdered iced tea mix container sits there unopened.
14) Dirty protein shake containers litter the counter as well.
15) Old newspapers are all over the floor.
16) Also, odd bottles and cans.
17) A big box of empty bottles, mostly alcoholic, sits unnoticed.
18) The mini-fridge has a big brown stain all over the inside. I think that's from the Chinese food that sat in there for months.
19) The welcome mat used to be tan-colored, but is now practically black, and no longer sticks to the floor.
20) Signs fall off the wall and instead of getting picked up, they are trampled on for months.
21) Wrapping paper on the floor? Don't ask why.
22) There's a bra on a parking cone, and no one knows whose it is.
23) Condom wrappers.
SECTION C: The Bathroom
24) Toothbrushes all touch each other in the used solo cup they're stored in.
25) Another red cup filled with water has been sitting there for a while and it's starting to turn green.
26) I don't know why this happens, but a two-inch layer of toothpaste covers the toothpaste container perpetually.
27) Hair trims—pubic or otherwise—are all over the floor.
28) The carpet is just disgusting, and that's the first thing your feet touch after a shower.
29) Speaking of shower, the floor is black.
30) And there's soap scum on everything.
31) And there's Kool-Aid mix on the curtain...?
32) Boxers and socks are always on the floor.
33) The toilet area is filled with used toilet paper rolls.
34) The rim of the toilet is brown with vomit stains from two weeks ago.
35) Mike never fucking flushes.
36) The floor around the toilet looks like the floor of a jungle.
37) Porn magazines have been sitting next to the toilet all year, I can't imagine how much filth stains them.
38) The bathroom clean-up schedule is only up to "Week 8"... and we've lived here since August.
39) Condom wrappers.
SECTION D: The Party Room
40) Peanut shells all over the table.
41) Empty malt liquor forty bottle, everywhere.
42) A tray of clean cups have been on the coffee table since they were cleaned four weeks ago, and are thus no longer clean.
43) A Phillies towel has been on the floor this whole semester, and it's brown with what I hope to god is not a poop stain.
44) Underwear tacked to the wall...?
45) The couch reeks of grime. Too many people have slept, sat, or sexed on it.
46) Empty beer boxes everywhere.
47) Clothes are everywhere, and no one even lives in that room.
48) Used tissues. So fucking gross.
49) The carpet needs a vacuum.
50) There's a big bag of trash no one seems to want to touch in the middle of the floor.
51) A loaf of bread rests on the full-sized fridge, and it's stale as a rock.
52) There's food in a crate, and the crate is on the floor in a dusty corner.
53) The room smells like tuna all the time because apparently Kyle loves tuna.
54) Mike brought tacos one day and now there's a bag of rotten taco toppings in the fridge.
55) A pumpkin has been perched on the windowsill since October, and is obviously now rotten and falling apart.
56) Condom wrappers.
So, my quad is almost impossible to live in. Yet, with an impending ban from university housing hanging over my head, I know that I'll really, really miss 249 if I'm forced to leave, dirt and grime and tuna smell and used tissues and all.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Call PETA
I've recently come to a startling realization.
Mario is an animal abuser. What kind of sick fuck repeatedly punches his pet in the head? Click the pictures for evidence.
1)
2)
3)
4)
Mario is a dick.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Minesweeper
I work at the library during the school year, and, as one might expect, I don't really do much. In my infinite boredom, sometimes I'll listen to music, read a book, or peruse the interwebs. However, most of the countless hours I log at ol' Connelly, I spend playing Minesweeper.
Perhaps you've heard of it, since it was a computer game that came standard with many editions of Windows leading up to just recently. If you've never heard of it, that's okay too. Basically it involved a lot of clicking your mouse. When you click a square on a grid, a number appears in the square. That number represents how many "mines" that block is touching. So, if a 2 pops up, that means the square is touching 2 other squares with a mine, and 6 other squares that have another number. The point is to not click the mines, or else you'll lose. It's a game that's easy to learn and hard to master.
Well, after spending all my time behind the check-out counter playing the damn thing, I've gotten pretty close to mastering it. My personal record was set today, and I gotta say, it made the whole minimum wage thing totally worth it.
So yes, this whole post was in essence a way for me to brag about my achievement. Does anyone else play this game? And if so, what is your record time for "expert" mode?
(P.S. The word record for expert mode is 37 seconds by this dude Dion Tiu. My 201 seconds pales in comparison.)
Monday, February 23, 2009
"Restoring the Roar"?!
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| above: my life, 2006-2007 |
"Don't try to fix what isn't broken."
These are words to live by in every aspect of one's life. Yes, even when it comes to drinking cheap beer.
The Lion Brewery was founded in 1905, but more importantly, my friends and I started drinking its titular Lionshead Pilsner approximately the summer of 2006. It was definitely the cheapest beer at our one and only Krewstown Beer Distributor—at one point dipping as low as $9.99 per case—and it tasted pretty decent for the price!
It had the lo-fi appearance of a cheap, working-class beer: faded white/brown label, drab brown and gold-colored caps, and shitty boxes that were always falling apart or torn up, printed with an ugly, red, medieval-looking logo. It looked like something you'd see in a picture on an alcoholic uncle's photo collage hung in a musty rec room basement, But we took pride in it, because it didn't try to be fancy like your Lites and your Buds. It was what it was.
Best of all were the little puzzles under the caps. We spent practically the entirety of high school trying to figure out those motherfuckers. For instance, what the hell could a picture of a iron bell weight, an arrow point to a back, and a fucking wooden chair mean? But we figured them all out, both under the noise of an intoxicating evening and the haze of a brutal hangover (when you find a dozen caps in your pants pocket the next morning). It got to the point that when I was in college, people were amazed that I didn't even have to look at the cap to figure out what the solution was.
Natural Light kind of took hold of my life in freshman year, unfortunately, because there was no easy way to sneak the loud clanking Lionshead bottles into the dorms. But I still ran into it every once in a while at an upperclassmen party or during a visit to fancy-schmancy UPenn. Even more so, I still kept Lionshead close to my heart.
Humble reader, a grave thing has happened, indeed. Lionshead just had to go and change everything. They had to act all "new" and "cool." They had to destroy themselves.
First of all, the design is moderately but crucially different. No more does it feature a fading red logo on a white box, or a weird tan label under a weird gold and brown cap. Replacing it is a "slick" new logo, complete with "badass" looking lion, and red/blue caps. Worse still is what's printed on the caps: new puzzles. Uh oh.
I remember wanting new puzzles when I mastered the old ones. But be careful what you wish for, dear reader—these new ones are fucking terrible, and that makes me sad. An egregious example is a picture of a calendar, with an arrow pointing to Friday, and then "the 13th" simply written out as is. My six-year-old cousin could fucking figure that one out.
I feel as if I have been married to some woman for three years, and then she gets a terrible, terrible haircut. I'd still love her, of course but something is just... off. Same thing with my beloved Lionshead. I still enjoy the taste, and I'll still probably choose it over, say, a case of Milwaukee's Best. But nevertheless, it feels wrong. This is not the same beer I grew up on all those summers ago.
 |
| THE END OF AN ERA |
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Appeasing the gods.
So as I bustled through another busy Tuesday, I decided to count my blessing a little bit.
Positive energy is good, right? I began to make a list of things little things that make life great.
From this, I realized a hilarious coincidence (ahem, suck on that JMK): a lot of life’s sweetest thing begin with my very favorite letter.
Books. Beer. Bagels. Bass guitar. Bangers. The Beatles. Boobs. Bogies. Boys. Bailey’s. Bed.
One can certainly argue that the word "bad" begins with this letter, but let's be honest with ourselves here: sometimes bad can be so good.
And of course, there’s B**. Which completely solidifies this theory.
Feel free to add your own.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
What a Beautiful Day
Yesterday, February 10th, 2009, was my birthday. I'm sure some of you were oblivious to that fact while the rest of you only snapped out of oblivion because Facebook threw it up on your home page right above the "People You May Know" box. For the record, I think it should be the "People You Do Know but Don't Want to Associate Yourself With" because there's a reason I haven't added Kathy Green. I don't fucking know that bitch, and if I did, I forgot about her because she's worthless to me.
Sorry for that sidebar, back to my birthday. It wasn't just any birthday, it was special. Being that I was expelled from my mother's birthing canal in 1988, the beautiful Tuesday fresh in everybody else's memory (yet hazy at best in mine) marked my 21st birthday.
::Pause for the sake of my rejoicing readers::
It was everything I hoped it could be at points, and just like any other day at others. Going to the bar was cool, but I'm not really stoked to spend a lot of money so I won't be going that often in the future. The whole legality of the affair was pretty cool. No consequences at all associated with me drinking.
The coolest part of the day, to me, however, was going to the beer distributor. I've been to one before, with my dad or something, but this time was different. Shelves and shelves filled with all different types of alcohol. Ones with pretty labels, ones with black labels. Ones with names we all know, ones with names I can't even pronounce. I'd compare it to being nine years old and going to a candy store, one with every candy. The best part about it is that I can buy any of them, all of them. Maybe one day I'll start in one of the six-pack aisles and just grab a different one every time.
In closing, youthful readers, turning 21 isn't really all it's cracked up to be. It is, however, everything you hope it to be.
P.S. Yes, I'm a little drunk right now.
P.P.S. I don't envy youse's youthiness.
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| Kathy Green? Google Images seems to think so. |
Sorry for that sidebar, back to my birthday. It wasn't just any birthday, it was special. Being that I was expelled from my mother's birthing canal in 1988, the beautiful Tuesday fresh in everybody else's memory (yet hazy at best in mine) marked my 21st birthday.
::Pause for the sake of my rejoicing readers::
It was everything I hoped it could be at points, and just like any other day at others. Going to the bar was cool, but I'm not really stoked to spend a lot of money so I won't be going that often in the future. The whole legality of the affair was pretty cool. No consequences at all associated with me drinking.
The coolest part of the day, to me, however, was going to the beer distributor. I've been to one before, with my dad or something, but this time was different. Shelves and shelves filled with all different types of alcohol. Ones with pretty labels, ones with black labels. Ones with names we all know, ones with names I can't even pronounce. I'd compare it to being nine years old and going to a candy store, one with every candy. The best part about it is that I can buy any of them, all of them. Maybe one day I'll start in one of the six-pack aisles and just grab a different one every time.
In closing, youthful readers, turning 21 isn't really all it's cracked up to be. It is, however, everything you hope it to be.
P.S. Yes, I'm a little drunk right now.
P.P.S. I don't envy youse's youthiness.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Recent Tragic Events
Written by Craig Wright
Directed by Tom Reing
Description:
It is September 12, 2001: the setting is the Minneapolis apartment of Waverly (Hannah), a young advertising executive. Soon to venture on a blind date amidst the television news coverage of the September 11th attacks, Wavely becomes preoccupied when she discovers that her twin sister, Wendy, a student in New York, has not been heard from. Waverly reassures herself that Wendy had no reason to be at the World Trade Center. As the evening unfolds, Waverly and her blind date, Andrew (Bryon), an airport bookstore manager, realize that they are connected by a succession of bizarre coincidences. As Waverly awaits word on Wendy, the date is complicated by visits from her crazed-musician neighbor, Ron (Joe), and his girlfriend, Nancy (Pam W.), and a startling visit from Waverly's great aunt, Joyce Carol Oates—played by a sock puppet (also Pam).
A LA SALLE UNIVERSITY PRODUCTION
THE DAN RODDEN THEATER
February 13, 14 at 8 PM
February 15 at 2 PM
$9 General Admission, but $5 for Students.
All money earned through this production will be donated to the Twin Towers Orphans Fund, so I don't feel bad forcing you to come to this show.
Hope you can make it!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Fucking Juicy Campus
They say that any publicity is good publicity. It's sad, but it's true. So, I've restrained myself from writing about this wretched subject until now. Now that it's gone. Hopefully, it's gone forever, because I really, really fucking despised it.
Juicy Campus.
What it was, in case you didn't know (and it's better if you didn't): Juicy Campus was a website where people could anonymously post anything they wanted on a forum. Each college had their own specific site for its students.
JC was a site for gossiping, basically. Terrible, terrible gossip. I can't begin to tell you some of the horrific things that were said on this fucking website. Some of my closest friends were attacked in ways that want me very much to find the assholes that say these things and punch 'em square in the face.
I, for instance, had a whole topic thread devoted to me. Apparently, I was a "raging homo," had "pubes on my head," and "gave blumpkins to African Americans in the Olney bathrooms." I can laugh at myself—these things are stupid and at least a little funny. However, other people had far, far worse things said about them, and that shit was not funny by any means. It pained me to look at this site.
I don't know what it was that made people think that they could make up lies and post them for the whole internet to see without any consequence. Didn't they know that people would be hurt by this? If you have a problem with someone, say it to their face, don't be a fucking coward and post it anonymously.
I know I'm sounding preachy, but really, the whole thing just got under my skin a great deal. Eventually I stopped going on the damn site. It wasn't worth it.
And the worst part is, you can't even talk about it. No open forum about how to fix this problem existed. It couldn't. Like I said, any publicity is good publicity. Our school newspaper wrote an article about it, saying how it was a horrible website, but all that did was help Juicy Campus grow even more. You can't even talk to your friends about it, because then they'll get curious and go on it as well. The only thing that could be done was to try to ignore it.
But! The glorious day has arrived! Juicy Campus has ridden itself from this earth, hopefully forever!
Apparently, the owners of the website can no longer keep up with the expenses. Let this prove once and for all that money cannot be made at other people's misery.
So, Juicy Campus, I bid ye farewell. May you rot in hell for all eternity. Life will be much better without you.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Fucking Wikipedia
Maybe I think too highly of myself—in fact, this is most definitely the case—but I feel like this humble little blog my friends and I have created here, it's starting to have a life of its own. It deserves something special. It deserves its own little place in scrolls of history, so that generations from now, people can look back and say, wow, look at this neat little blog a few drunk kids started.
You know what? Puke on Your Birthday needs its own page on Wikipedia.
Now I know what you are saying: It'll never work. And right now, it's not working, true. I attempted to created a Wikipage. Check it out (I'm proud of this):
You know what? Puke on Your Birthday needs its own page on Wikipedia.
Now I know what you are saying: It'll never work. And right now, it's not working, true. I attempted to created a Wikipage. Check it out (I'm proud of this):
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| (click both halves) |
It perfectly encapsulates what we are about here at PoYB, right? Right?
Apparently, not everyone thinks so! The very first fucking time I tried to get on our new page on Wikipedia, this little fucker popped up:
Acroterion, you little fucking turd, how can you not understand that PoYB needs its own Wikipage? Do you not appreciate the magnitude of this blog's importance? It looks like he doesn't have much appreciation for anything. Look at all the shit this motherfucker had deleted in just ONE DAY:
Acroterion claims to be "an architect." I don't see an architect when I see that name. Do you know who I see? I see a demolisher. A demolisher of dreams. I see the Chief of Police. I see the judge who sentenced me to community service. I see Mufasa the RA. I see every parent that has lectured us or broken up a house party. I see all the people that are trying to keep us down.
Well, ya know what? We're not gonna take it anymore!
Martin Luther King Jr. started small. He started by boycotting the buses. We need to start small too, because we are not going to eradicate prejudice against underage drinkers all at once. We need to start off small.
So, I tell you, I urge you, humble reader, let's right the good fight. Let's get this Wikipedia page up for good!
Type up your own version of a Puke on Your Birthday Wikipage, capture a picture of it (by pressing the "PrtScn" key on the keyboard and pasting it on Paint or Word), and send it to me. Let's do this many, many times and show that motherfucker Acroterion what's good. Pity the fool who messes with Puke on Your Birthday.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Fucking Snow Day
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| above: freedom? let's hope! |
Ah... It's every kids dream. This is what we pray for every winter, all winter long. There are few events in our dull quotidian lives that can elicit such joyous emotions so early in the morning. Yes, the almighty Snow Day.
It starts with the weather report on the television. Some goon will show up on Channel 3, 6, or 10 with a special WEATHER ALERT. He or she will be standing on the side of the road, overlooking the dry and frigid streets, warning us of the impending "Storm of the Century."
Most of us are jaded and won't believe a word of it; we all know the weathermen on TV just love the hype and can't accurately predict snowstorms. Nevertheless, some gullible part deep inside of us will be fooled anyway, and will be tuned into the six o'clock news, when the top story is frightened mothers buying like fourteen loaves of bread and six gallons of milk, as if they'll really be snowed in for a week. Every once in a while, they'll have a manly looking man at the Home Depot buying a new shovel, because you need a new shovel for every snowstorm, apparently.
And then we wait.
We await with bated breath, we school children. We keep peering out the window, searching for those first few precious snowflakes. We get on our knees and pray that the streets are cold enough so that the snow will land and stay frozen on them. We turn our pajamas inside out in time-honored ritual to persuade Mother Nature, perhaps to put her in a good mood so she'll return the favor.
Sleep doesn't really come throughout the night. One eye may be closed and restful, but one eye is always on that frosty bedroom window, cherishing the white clouds in the sky.
The morning is the most nerve racking part of the whole ordeal—and the most exciting. You awake, well before your alarm shrieks. You are short of breath. You start to perspire a little. It's like Christmas morning... but did Santa come with gifts? You await the word.
Two could happen. Let's discuss the dreadful, but more likely, scenario first:
1) You father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says with a horribly satisfied grin, "Schools are open." And you clench your fists and raise them to heavens and ask WHY, WHY?! It's all been vain, all the inside-out pajamas and stocking of milk and polishing of shovels and the neglecting of homework. No matter how many times you listen to KYW, no matter how many times you listen for that school number that will give you freedom, it's of no use. All of it is gone, and you sigh, and slowly get up and go about your routine.
But every once in a while, God smiles upon thee. Sometimes life is good:
2) Your father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says, with no malice, but really no emotion at all, he states, "schools are closed." Your heart fucking SOARS, and you hop up and rip open the curtains. It's a fucking winter wonderland out there. The early morning dusk is stark fucking white, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You fall back into bed with a satisfying crash, and your eyes fold and your body is still because in your mind you are already dreaming of the great times you'll be having that day—sledding, snowball fights, maybe a little day drinking. And NO FUCKING SCHOOL. There is no greater gift, no feeling is better than this. Fucking freedom.
So let's get ready for this. As I look out my window right now and the snow is falling steadily, albeit a bit thinly, I can do nothing but pray that the weatherman was right. Getting my hopes up? Probably. But if and when I awake, and my school's web portal tells me I can go back to bed, it'll all be worth it.
Remember: wear your pajamas inside out. Please. For me. For you. For all of us. Please, for a Snow Day. Please.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Fucking Super Bowl XLIII
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| above: trash |
Today is the Super Bowl, and no one seems to care. Why should we?
The Super Bowl is the fancy name for the NFL's championship game, pitting the winning teams of both the NFC and the AFC against each other in a battle for the Vince Lombardi Trophy. This year, the big game features the Arizona Cardinals versus the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Some people are saying that the Cardinals should win because they beat us (the Eagles) and it's always nice to root for the team that beat you—"at least it wasn't all in vain," and so on. Some people are saying the Steelers should win because they are from Pennsylvania and at least someone from this state should hold that trophy high. I say fuck both of those options.
The Eagles are not in the Super Bowl, again. They came so close, and then Eagles fans were cockteased yet again. How is it that the defense is so fucking solid all year and then when it matters they allow some second-rate NFL team to literally run us all over the field? How?! Fuck it, just fuck it.
My point is that the Eagles are the only football team that matters. A true Eagles fanatic would not claim to be rooting for another team simply because the Eagles are not in that game. If you are a true fan, you will be bitter and resigned like I am now, and actively root against both the Cardinals AND the Steelers. Say it, on record: both teams can go fuck themselves forever.
As a consequence of the Eagles' perennial failure, the Super Bowl doesn't really matter to me this year. It never has, really—except in 2004—but this year especially. I think we are all just numb to the fact that the Eagles are always going to come up just a little bit short.
So play your halftime show, Bruce Springsteen. Show your $40 million commercials, Bud Light. Talk out of your ass, Joe Buck. Throw that hail mary again, Kurt Warner, you fucking old man. Friends and family, gather around the TV, eat your hot wings and drink your beer, all 100 million of you who are going to be watching the game. Try to enjoy it. Because I won't.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Confessions of a Former Wrestling Fan
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| above: a former life |
I received a drunk text the other day from a friend up at Penn State. I'm not even sure he meant to send it to me, to be honest, because it didn't really make sense without context. It said, "We're doing the Royal Rumble fucking live tonight!" And with that little text (and a recent movie involving the same topic), I started to remember a whole other life I used to lead.
I used to be a huge wrestling fan.
Damn! It's been a while since I even thought about my wrestling fandom. I kind of miss all of it, honestly. There'd be a group of about twelve of us in grade school that followed it religiously. We'd come in every Tuesday morning and talk about what happened on Raw Is War, and every Friday morning what happened on Smackdown. It was like some kind of mini-society.
There were other traditions as well. One that I held near and dear to my heart was when one of us would step up and rent a Pay-Per-View. Usually that'd occur in the summer since Sunday nights were otherwise school nights and they were on too late. Every year, my mother would let me rent SummerSlam, the annual wrestling event in August. And we weren't allowed to wrestle each other until the last bell rang; then we'd go nuts and pretend we were in the ring (though it was my basement) and inevitably someone would walk away with a bloody nose.
The actual program was something incredibly fun to watch. I was always a big fan of the specialty matches, like Hell in a Cell, or Casket Matches. But any match could be exciting. I remember the epic showdown between Steve Austin and the Rock, particularly. That feud, involving Vince McMahon as well, was so built up so well, over the course of months. There were other particularly fond matches I can think of as well: when Al Snow decided that he'd defend his Hardcore Championship anywhere, any time; The Rock vs. Mankind in an Empty Arena match during halftime of the Super Bowl; the food fight the entire roster of wrestlers had on Thanksgiving; pretty much any match Kurt Angle was in.
I vehemently defended the WWE against all accusations of being "fake." I don't know how many times I put up this argument: Well, of course they aren't actually wrestling, but it's all a form of entertainment. Does anyone ever accuse The O.C. or Seinfeld of being fake? No. But they are, aren't they? And does that detract from their entertainment value? No. I enjoyed WWE, not because I thought it was "real" or even "despite" the fact that it was "fake." I enjoyed it because it was fun to watch.
Wrestling was great to me growing up. It was a big part of my life for probably five years. As I grew older, I became somewhat tired of the storylines they were presenting, and I just kind of... grew out of it.
I even tried reading about some of the current events that have happened in the wrestling world recently (the aforementioned Royal Rumble). Most of the wrestlers' names I had never heard of, and the ones I did—Triple H, the Undertaker—were the ones I always fucking hated when I watched them. All good things come to an end, it seems.
But I still look back at all those good times I had because of WWE. They will always be fondly remembered.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Interview with John Lennon!
John Lennon died on December 8th, 1980. He was shot in the back four times by a man named Mark David Chapman. At approximately 11:15, he was pronounced dead at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York. John Lennon will always be remembered for his world-altering work with the most acclaimed and influential rock group in history (the Beatles), his decade of great solo musicianship, and his promoting a message of peace and joy to the whole world over.
BUT!
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, and thanks too to a group of people that thought it would be wise to put words into John Lennon's mouth and bastardize his name, I was able to sit down with John for a few posthumous words.
If you want to have your own conversation with AI John Lennon, then click HERE. Otherwise, continue below to see my conversation with the non-living legend.
Joe: Hello!
John: What's your name, son?
Joe: Hi John, my name is Joe.
John: Hello Joe. Here come the reporters. I hope you're not disappointed.
Joe: Well, I wouldn't think so! I am speaking to THE John Lennon, after all.
John: That's interesting.
Joe: I know. Especially because you are... uh... ya know... dead, and all.
John: How do you know?
Joe: Christ, John, you were shot four times in the back. Mark David Chapman shot you. He says that Holden Caulfield did it, which should give you a sense of how stable he was. I don't think Holden could bring himself to kill a man. He's too self-deprecating.
John: Psst! (You've got to sell, sell, sell) [John provides a link to an online music journal.]
Joe: You never were one for shameless promotion. What gives?
John: I should say so.
Joe: You should say so what? Are you high?
John: Why do you think I'm high?
Joe: Well, for one, you're John Lennon. Didn't the Beatles, like, get high all the time? If not, then explain to me what the fuck Magical Mystery Tour is. Secondly, you are talking nonsense, shit that only someone stoned out of their brains would say.
John: Maybe something interesting will happen.
Joe: Are you even listening to me, dude?
John: I am not having a press conference, Joe.
Joe: Good thing too. Last time you did you claimed you were bigger than Jesus Christ himself. My pastor didn't like that one bit.
John: Thanks for the compliment. Well, thank you for that.
Joe: That wasn't a compliment. Fuck it, whatever. So, let's ask another question. Who, in your opinion, broke up the Beatles?
John: Where? Dead man, cold hand, jumped out the bedroom window.
Joe: HEY! I said, who broke up the Beatles?
John: You've got my full attention. What have you heard?
Joe: "Full attention." Right. Anyway, I heard it was that chick Yoko.
John: We're a twenty-four-hour couple.
Joe: Dude, you were whipped! Paul, George, and Ringo were probably fed up with it, and that broke up the Beatles. Admit it!
John: It's all over the place.
Joe: Just say it. Yoko broke you guys up. Stop avoiding the question.
John: Tell me a story, Joe.
Joe: You're a dick. I'll tell you a story: Fuck Yoko!
John: Yes.
Joe: Oh, I get it. You actually do fuck Yoko. Ha. You probably do the "That's what she said" jokes all the time, don't you?
John: Well, you know, Stevie Wonder wrote about his kid, didn't he?
Joe: You're still making no sense, but I don't care, because that just reminded me. Was "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" really about a picture your kid drew in school, or were you just tripping balls?
John: I understand.
Joe: You understand what?
John: I haven't a clue. I just knew it was slipping away.
Joe: Maybe you shouldn't have rolled such a fat blunt.
John: Psst! (I'm selling a product, so I'm back again) [John again provides the link he did before.]
Joe: Dude, you aren't that good at selling things. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to sell me an album that has you and Yoko butt-naked on the cover. Haha! Who ever heard of such a thing?
John: Very Alice in Wonderland.
Joe: That album cover couldn't have been LESS like Alice in Wonderland.
John: Makes sense to me.
Joe: Sigh... so, uh, do you like Paul?
John: Only in the mornings.
Joe: What happens at night?
John: I have no idea. I've never thought about that.
Joe: Are you telling me that all those years you spent together, the scene in Mersey at dank clubs, your rise to stardom in sold out crowds, your famous TV special with Ed Sullivan, the late-night recording sessions with George Martin, all the plane rides, all the days and weeks and months and years you spent with him, you did NOT ONCE think about if you liked Paul after the sun went down?
John: I couldn't even get Two Virgins out on Apple.
Joe: John, we already talked about that. I feel like I should be on one of those anti-marijuana commercials. "This is what happens when you try to interview John Lennon high."
John: Huh?
Joe: Nevermind.
John: Oh well thanks for trying to explain it to me anyway.
Joe: We have time for one last question, and then I'm going to go try to forget about how I blew the biggest interview of my life and made a fool of myself in front of John Lennon. I'm probably going to hang myself, actually.
John: You get used to it, believe me.
Joe: That's right, I forgot, you're dead already.
John: Perhaps.
Joe: When I do actually die, what Beatles song should I play in the background?
John: I haven't a clue... "Six Months"?
Joe: I've never heard of that song.
John: The layers of the onion. That's what it's all about.
Joe: Are you giving me a clue? Should I play "Glass Onion"? Is that it?
John: We're not agreed on it.
Joe: You know what, fuck you John, I'm just gonna play a Rolling Stones song instead.
John: Well thank you for that, Joe.
Joe: Any time.
John: I really couldn't say for sure.
Monday, January 12, 2009
My Friend Rose
[Mandy, Mike, Dave—I apologize in advanced because you've already heard me talk about the topic of this post ad nauseam. Which makes it silly that I'm writing about it, since barely anyone else reads PoYB besides us four. Regardless, it's something to write about, so I'll persist.]
You may have read about my favorite resident at the Lafayette Redeemer, Rose, in a previous post. In case you missed it, here she is:
I try to talk to Rose for at least five or ten minutes at the end of every day's dinner. She's a crazy ol' lady, and I love it. She'll talk about the strangest things, like about her vitamins, or about how her daughter has a cat with lots of fur. And she'll talk about the same things every day.
There's one thing, though, that she doesn't talk about often. I've only heard her talk about it twice in our friendship. That is, she sees people that don't exist.
See, most people just assume she's crazy, but she actually has a legitimate disease called Charles Bonnet Syndrome. It's not that her mind is particularly messed up, it's her eyes. The blind spots in her eyes are turning into other things when she sees. Instead of blind spots that your eyes are supposed to have, she sees little people. Children and young men. And they don't exist. Consider the following conversation we had:
Obviously, this is not normal. It's very clear that these children are figments. Children whom you don't know can't just show up at your apartment and sleep under your bed, for christ's sake!
I feel terrible for old Rosie. I can't imagine having little strange children in my room all the time, just silently watching me as I do the dishes, read a book, or type on this blog. That's gotta be creepy as hell.
What's worse is that for Rose, it's not creepy. It's normal. She sees nothing strange with little children being in her apartment as she sleeps. She doesn't question it when a short redheaded man allegedly steals her purse. To her, these visions are a reality.
And there's no cure for Charles Bonnet Syndrome. I guess all I can do is continue to have conversations with her and be her friend, because at least the children go away for the five minutes we spend together every day.
You may have read about my favorite resident at the Lafayette Redeemer, Rose, in a previous post. In case you missed it, here she is:
I try to talk to Rose for at least five or ten minutes at the end of every day's dinner. She's a crazy ol' lady, and I love it. She'll talk about the strangest things, like about her vitamins, or about how her daughter has a cat with lots of fur. And she'll talk about the same things every day.
There's one thing, though, that she doesn't talk about often. I've only heard her talk about it twice in our friendship. That is, she sees people that don't exist.
See, most people just assume she's crazy, but she actually has a legitimate disease called Charles Bonnet Syndrome. It's not that her mind is particularly messed up, it's her eyes. The blind spots in her eyes are turning into other things when she sees. Instead of blind spots that your eyes are supposed to have, she sees little people. Children and young men. And they don't exist. Consider the following conversation we had:
Rose: I'm not doing so well today.
Joe: Why not, Rose?
Rose: Well, someone stole my purse. My daughter just gave me a new purse, and someone stole it.
Joe: Rose, I'm so sorry! Do you know who took it?
Rose: Why yes! I know exactly what he looks like too. He's kind of small, has reddish-tan hair. He looks young. He comes to my apartment sometimes.
Joe: How did he get in?
Rose: I don't know. Sometimes he is just there. I heard him opening up my husband's old wooden chest, and I saw him run out of the apartment with my purse!
Joe: You should really tell someone that this man was in your apartment.
Rose: Well, people are in there all the time. Little children come. They stay late at night sometimes. I don't know, I guess their parents drop them off. They don't speak. They don't eat either, I tried feeding them unsalted pretzels. They sleep under my bed. These little children.
Joe: ....
Obviously, this is not normal. It's very clear that these children are figments. Children whom you don't know can't just show up at your apartment and sleep under your bed, for christ's sake!
I feel terrible for old Rosie. I can't imagine having little strange children in my room all the time, just silently watching me as I do the dishes, read a book, or type on this blog. That's gotta be creepy as hell.
What's worse is that for Rose, it's not creepy. It's normal. She sees nothing strange with little children being in her apartment as she sleeps. She doesn't question it when a short redheaded man allegedly steals her purse. To her, these visions are a reality.
And there's no cure for Charles Bonnet Syndrome. I guess all I can do is continue to have conversations with her and be her friend, because at least the children go away for the five minutes we spend together every day.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Extreme Top Five Home Edition!
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| I fucking love Microsoft Paint |
This winter break is soon coming to an end. I'm about to move out—again. There will be some things I miss about this humble abode, but there are some things that make me regret that I left Basil's 249 in the first place. Cue the Top Five!
Top Five Reasons I Like Living at Home
5. The fridge is always fully stocked with good food. For instance, there is always porkroll. You can't get porkroll at La Salle. Also, there are things like milk and cheese, and I don't have to pay for them, and I can use them any time I'd like. I took these amenities for granted before college.
4. I have a job that I actually enjoy. The Lafayette Redeemer is incredible. The La Salle Connelly Library is... not.
3. I don't have to do my own laundry. That means I have fresh clothes every four days, not every [insert time when I feel like doing laundry here].
2. The hand soaps my mother buys are fucking incredible. Some days my hands smell like Black Raspberry Vanilla. Other days I get a whiff of Cherry Blossom. On lucky days I'll use my personal favorite, Midnight Pomegranate. In Basil's 249, my hands just smell like Natty.
1. Access to a car. That means if I wanna go somewhere, I have a legitimate means of transportation other than walking.
4. I have a job that I actually enjoy. The Lafayette Redeemer is incredible. The La Salle Connelly Library is... not.
3. I don't have to do my own laundry. That means I have fresh clothes every four days, not every [insert time when I feel like doing laundry here].
2. The hand soaps my mother buys are fucking incredible. Some days my hands smell like Black Raspberry Vanilla. Other days I get a whiff of Cherry Blossom. On lucky days I'll use my personal favorite, Midnight Pomegranate. In Basil's 249, my hands just smell like Natty.
1. Access to a car. That means if I wanna go somewhere, I have a legitimate means of transportation other than walking.
Top Five Reasons I Hate Living at Home
5. I sleep in every goddamn day, and I waste away most of my afternoon. The days become shorter when you live like that, so if you're trying to live life to the fullest, it's no way to live at all.
4. If I want to throw a party, then, well, I need ask permission. And the answer is "No." Only a few people. And there's no fridge to stock with beer. In other words: it's a hassle. At Basil's 249, the sky is the limit as far as partying is concerned.
3. I don't fit in my own fucking bed here in my Rockledge bedroom. If that isn't a reason to hate living at home, I don't know what is.
2. I'm always alone here. I wake up, I'm alone. I eat breakfast, I'm alone. I come back at night, I sit here alone for hours. I miss having the company of others to count on.
1. Mike and Kyle never bitched at me to clean up my room or pick up my clothes or to stop drinking every night. And I hate being bitched at.
4. If I want to throw a party, then, well, I need ask permission. And the answer is "No." Only a few people. And there's no fridge to stock with beer. In other words: it's a hassle. At Basil's 249, the sky is the limit as far as partying is concerned.
3. I don't fit in my own fucking bed here in my Rockledge bedroom. If that isn't a reason to hate living at home, I don't know what is.
2. I'm always alone here. I wake up, I'm alone. I eat breakfast, I'm alone. I come back at night, I sit here alone for hours. I miss having the company of others to count on.
1. Mike and Kyle never bitched at me to clean up my room or pick up my clothes or to stop drinking every night. And I hate being bitched at.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Map, Part I
The town we live in, it's just swell, ain't it? It should be preserved in some way. Way back in June on PoYB, Mike suggested a bunch of pictures that showed all our favorite spots in this town, and I think that's a great idea. However, that's his thing. I, on the other hand, want to draw a map, a huge fucking map, depicting everywhere that we hang out, everywhere that something happened, everywhere that is special to me.
I actually did this one day about five years ago, and recently found it in a drawer:
(Click to enlarge!)
As you can see, this is somewhat of a rough draft.
First of all, I did not take it very seriously. I was young, naive. I'm sorry. But honestly, was the smiley face over Rising Sun Ave really necessary? How did that even get there? Is that some kind of rug on that side street of Cottman? And did I just give up on one section and write "Not Important"?
Secondly, and more importantly, this map would look much different today—even if it did still have that big tear down the middle. I'm talking about the five years that have passed since I made it. My world has since expanded and changed. The places I considered important then are not so important anymore. I've traveled farther away then a few blocks from Five Points. The landscape has changed, both on the earth and in my weekend.
So, my goal for 2009 is to draw a map, a legitimate map, maybe six pages big, that depicts my world as I see it. It's not going to be to scale according to measurements. It's going to be to scale according to how important it is to me. And hopefully, this time there won't be random faces and rugs and cross outs all over it. Look for it exclusively here on PoYB sometime this summer.
I actually did this one day about five years ago, and recently found it in a drawer:
(Click to enlarge!)
As you can see, this is somewhat of a rough draft.
First of all, I did not take it very seriously. I was young, naive. I'm sorry. But honestly, was the smiley face over Rising Sun Ave really necessary? How did that even get there? Is that some kind of rug on that side street of Cottman? And did I just give up on one section and write "Not Important"?
Secondly, and more importantly, this map would look much different today—even if it did still have that big tear down the middle. I'm talking about the five years that have passed since I made it. My world has since expanded and changed. The places I considered important then are not so important anymore. I've traveled farther away then a few blocks from Five Points. The landscape has changed, both on the earth and in my weekend.
So, my goal for 2009 is to draw a map, a legitimate map, maybe six pages big, that depicts my world as I see it. It's not going to be to scale according to measurements. It's going to be to scale according to how important it is to me. And hopefully, this time there won't be random faces and rugs and cross outs all over it. Look for it exclusively here on PoYB sometime this summer.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Laf
You read a lot about the legendary "Lafayette Redeemer" on this site. Ya know, the retirement home in NE Philly? After all, most of our contributors either currently work on the waitstaff or have for a period of time in the past. The great group of waiters and waitresses we have come to work every day is only half of what makes "The Laf" so special. The other half? Our much beloved old folks.
If you don't work at this place, but you are friends with me or my coworkers, you are probably already tired of hearing the multitude of stories involving these treasured old-timers. But due my newly discovered ability to upload phone pictures onto the computer (and an equally new ability to clandestinely and somewhat creepily take pictures of senior citizens), we are now able to put faces to the names for you. Here are a few of my favorite (or least favorite) old folks:
"The Turban Lady"
I'm not sure you can appreciate the beauty of this picture if you don't know this lady. She normally wears a big ol' turban, but for some godawful reason, on Thanksgiving she wore a wig. She looks like Elvis Presley past her prime. This woman treats waiters like dirt, so I don't feel bad making fun of her.
Seal "Stanky" Sanky
Rumored to be sister to the landlord from Three's Company, though this is unconfirmed and certainly not why we love Stanky here. She talks as if she's riding a bull, about to fall off: "I-I-I'll have a-a-a Cr-Cranberry JUICE!" It's like a stutter but higher pitched (ask me to do an impression in person, I'm not going it justice here). And Seal holds the distinction of being the first resident to fart in my face. Congrats, Seal.
"The Seagull"
Come on, now. She looks like a Seagull, and talks like one too (if seagulls could talk). That is her only distinction, really.
Eugene
Epstein
Known her southern drawl and her drink preference. Thus, expect the first thing she says to be "I'll hah-ev a tall V Aye-et gee-youse." Also know for her photographic memory and terrible hearing. So, whenever I ask her a question, she'll simply say my name a few times because she's proud she can still remember. I.e. "How was your dinner?" "Joseph. Your name's Joseph!" "Yes, it is, but how was your dinner?" "You're not David, you're Joseph!"
"Claw Lady"
Known for her signature parting phrase: "Have a good one!" with the "good" being pronounced like it rhymes with "food." She's called "Claw Lady" because when she waves goodbye, she only uses two fingers, which looks like a claw.
"Ben Franklin"
Rose
If you don't work at this place, but you are friends with me or my coworkers, you are probably already tired of hearing the multitude of stories involving these treasured old-timers. But due my newly discovered ability to upload phone pictures onto the computer (and an equally new ability to clandestinely and somewhat creepily take pictures of senior citizens), we are now able to put faces to the names for you. Here are a few of my favorite (or least favorite) old folks:
"The Turban Lady"
I'm not sure you can appreciate the beauty of this picture if you don't know this lady. She normally wears a big ol' turban, but for some godawful reason, on Thanksgiving she wore a wig. She looks like Elvis Presley past her prime. This woman treats waiters like dirt, so I don't feel bad making fun of her.
Seal "Stanky" Sanky
Rumored to be sister to the landlord from Three's Company, though this is unconfirmed and certainly not why we love Stanky here. She talks as if she's riding a bull, about to fall off: "I-I-I'll have a-a-a Cr-Cranberry JUICE!" It's like a stutter but higher pitched (ask me to do an impression in person, I'm not going it justice here). And Seal holds the distinction of being the first resident to fart in my face. Congrats, Seal.
"The Seagull"
Come on, now. She looks like a Seagull, and talks like one too (if seagulls could talk). That is her only distinction, really.
Eugene
Used to be grumpy; we think he used to drink a lot but has since cut back, and is now sober and in good spirits. Known for coming to his apartment door without pants on when our very own Dave delivered a tray. Dave refuses to speak of the incident, or how well-endowed Eugene is.
Epstein
Known her southern drawl and her drink preference. Thus, expect the first thing she says to be "I'll hah-ev a tall V Aye-et gee-youse." Also know for her photographic memory and terrible hearing. So, whenever I ask her a question, she'll simply say my name a few times because she's proud she can still remember. I.e. "How was your dinner?" "Joseph. Your name's Joseph!" "Yes, it is, but how was your dinner?" "You're not David, you're Joseph!"
"Claw Lady"
Known for her signature parting phrase: "Have a good one!" with the "good" being pronounced like it rhymes with "food." She's called "Claw Lady" because when she waves goodbye, she only uses two fingers, which looks like a claw.
"Ben Franklin"
Because she looks like Ben Franklin.
Rose
My favorite! My absolute hands-down favorite resident. I always make time to go over and sit with her for at least ten minutes a day. She's the nicest lady in the world, even if she is a little crazy. We tend to have the same conversations every day—she must forget a lot—so I know a lot of weird stuff about her, like her breakfast routine and how her daughter is a school nurse. She even gave me a graduation card, which was the best thing a resident has ever done for me. I hope Rose lives forever.
There are many residents from the Laf that I don't have a picture of that I wish I did.
Some aren't quite kooky enough, and have good vision, so they'd probably notice if I took a picture and get mad. These residents include Abe, who writes poems and never shuts up, Mr. Goldberg, who takes forever to finish his meal but is a decent human being, Mary, who is just plain crazy, and Mrs. Fierstein, who can be such a bitch but definitely has a soft side somewhere.
Some are just plain dicks and don't deserve to have a picture taken, like Fat Joe, who is a pompous asshole, the Abominable Snowman, who threw up on his plate and lied about it, and the Wife-Beater, who beats his wife and left her a wreck of a woman.
Some I just never got around to taking a picture of. There's Nate, Celeste, Mrs. Doubtfire, The grandmom from Happy Gilmore, the Jaffeys, the Weinsteins, the smelly dude from A1, the lady who always orders Russian dressing, the chick with the nose plug, the dude who steals the lemons, Goldie, Dr. Cox, the muppet with the beard, Regina, Leonard, the Golden Girls, Marsellus Wallace, the naked mole rat, and countless others.
Some moved out, and I miss them dearly.
Some are deceased, and I miss them even more. Rest in Peace Ben, Harry, Etta, and Sylvia, and all the other innumerable past residents.
Yes, a workplace is only as good as the people in it. The waiters are great, but the real joy is working with such amazing (and sometimes not amazing) old folk. I hope they've enjoyed me as much as I've enjoyed serving them, making fun of them, spending hours and hours a week with them, and becoming friends with them.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
My Life, via the Sunday Comics
I have a terrible habit. Sometimes, when I'm drunk like I am now, I make inane comparisons of my life to entertainment media. For instance, I'll be mangled out of my skull, watching a movie, and I'll feel the need to compare everything in my life to the events in the movie. Or, I'll be going through a rough time, and I'll put my iPod on shuffle, and it will seem like every fucking song is giving me advice on how to act. I'm sitting here, right now, more inebriated than I should be, and I'm reading the comics section of the Inquirer, of all goddamn things. I'm being a drunken idiot again, and I'm thinking that the comics are talking to me. They are describing my life. This cannot be true, and yet somehow it is.
I'm such a bitch. So is Lucky Eddie. Granted, Haggard probably considers Eddie a great friend, and Eddie surely appreciates all the shit Haggard has done for him, but really, Eddie, your a bitch for doing such a menial task for Haggard. Sometimes I feel this way when I'm making the long walk/drive to the beer store in order to get my friends drunk.
But who am I kidding? I fucking love my friends. Sometimes, like Snoopy, I forget how much I can love and rely on them. But, just as the comic points out, they'll come sledding out of no where and I'll appreciate them all over again.
Christ, this is the story of my life. The only part I cannot completely relate to is how Fred claims it was "a night to remember." Sometimes I just simply don't remember.
This is the Laf to a T. There is no productivity to speak of at the Lafayette Redeemer, and the bosses don't help the situation. Thank goodness we all have a great time every fucking day, productivity be damned.
This sentiment rings true in so many levels. I'm all about sappy shit like "bringing in the new year," etc. But the fact of the matter is that we are all still the same. Nothing has changed. We are all going to be the same people we were on December 31, 2008, and we are going to make the same decisions—as well as the same mistakes.
One of my New Year's resolutions was to not let girls control every little goddamn decision I make. This comic, however, accurately depicts just how impossible my resolution is. Women have a power over us men that I will never understand, never enjoy, never accept, but will always follow.
I fucking hate Mutts, but that goddamn cat thinks the way I wish I could think. There he is, freezing his little kitten ass off, and in the blanket of snow, he somehow finds the time to appreciate every little snowflake that falls upon him. Shit's deep.
This is the worst of them all. This comic, ol' Beetle Bailey, is the type of shit that haunts me. It's scary because such a self-realization is so relatable. Who wants to give up what they have, just to settle down? I'd be a terrible, terrible husband, just like I've been a terrible, terrible boyfriend in the past. It's crazy because the last six boxes accurately sum up every relationship I've ever had. And the fact that Sarge can smile in that last box sends shivers down my spine. He's right, I'll never be a good husband. I'll never be appreciated by anyone. I'll never amount to anything. Never before has so much pessimism been displayed in one lousy comic strip. But I guess that's what happens when you read the comics drunk.
I'm such a bitch. So is Lucky Eddie. Granted, Haggard probably considers Eddie a great friend, and Eddie surely appreciates all the shit Haggard has done for him, but really, Eddie, your a bitch for doing such a menial task for Haggard. Sometimes I feel this way when I'm making the long walk/drive to the beer store in order to get my friends drunk.
But who am I kidding? I fucking love my friends. Sometimes, like Snoopy, I forget how much I can love and rely on them. But, just as the comic points out, they'll come sledding out of no where and I'll appreciate them all over again.
Christ, this is the story of my life. The only part I cannot completely relate to is how Fred claims it was "a night to remember." Sometimes I just simply don't remember.
This is the Laf to a T. There is no productivity to speak of at the Lafayette Redeemer, and the bosses don't help the situation. Thank goodness we all have a great time every fucking day, productivity be damned.
This sentiment rings true in so many levels. I'm all about sappy shit like "bringing in the new year," etc. But the fact of the matter is that we are all still the same. Nothing has changed. We are all going to be the same people we were on December 31, 2008, and we are going to make the same decisions—as well as the same mistakes.
One of my New Year's resolutions was to not let girls control every little goddamn decision I make. This comic, however, accurately depicts just how impossible my resolution is. Women have a power over us men that I will never understand, never enjoy, never accept, but will always follow.
I fucking hate Mutts, but that goddamn cat thinks the way I wish I could think. There he is, freezing his little kitten ass off, and in the blanket of snow, he somehow finds the time to appreciate every little snowflake that falls upon him. Shit's deep.
This is the worst of them all. This comic, ol' Beetle Bailey, is the type of shit that haunts me. It's scary because such a self-realization is so relatable. Who wants to give up what they have, just to settle down? I'd be a terrible, terrible husband, just like I've been a terrible, terrible boyfriend in the past. It's crazy because the last six boxes accurately sum up every relationship I've ever had. And the fact that Sarge can smile in that last box sends shivers down my spine. He's right, I'll never be a good husband. I'll never be appreciated by anyone. I'll never amount to anything. Never before has so much pessimism been displayed in one lousy comic strip. But I guess that's what happens when you read the comics drunk.
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