September 29, 2005
How Many Beers: Rocket Jones Edition
Back by popular demand-- another edition of How Many Beers?
In the hot seat today is Ted from Rocket Jones. Let’s see just how sick he is:
As they appear today
Madonna - I was a big Cyndi Lauper fan. I never could stand Madonna. Just because of who she is, it would take a bottle of good tequila, but I'd want someone I trust there to make sure I wore two or three condoms. Who knows? I might inspire her next children's book: "Having Sex Without Really Feeling It."
Good choice. Personally, I could never get past the hairy armpits in that old Playboy spread. Cyndi Lauper goes on the next list.
Diane Sawyer - After Madonna? Hell, a six-pack of malt liquor will do it. I'll make her forget that little troll Moreley Safer. I bet that smokey voice gets real sexy in the right circumstances, and if I'm feeling particularly kinky, I'll squint and pretend she's Martha Stewart.
Oho! Methinks Ted likes to bed down old broads. Squinting Martha, huh?
Stevie Nicks (30 years has taken a serious toll) - She's still a rock goddess, and when you start up high, even downhill ain't half bad. She's blind, right? That improves my chances right there. Hell, I'm beginning to think this is really possible. Four shots apiece, but if she calls me Mick I swear in the morning I'll kiss her goodbye and hold the window open for her.
Blind? That’s news to me, but I don’t exactly keep up. Four shots ain’t much for someone that looks like Norma Desmond. I’m going to have to start graduating these questions, i.e., It’s 3:00 pm and you masturbated around 8:00am. Stevie walks in and grabs your crotch but she has real bad breath…
Sally Struthers - only on hallucinagens, and only if I can call her "Cartman". On second thought, those two conditions, and I'll just sit back and watch shank do her at his bachelor party. Better have a bottle of ouzo for the wedding boy, he's gonna need it.
Well, that’s the safe answer, but I think I’d do her for the same reason I’d do Barbara Streisand—because a good old-fashioned horse humpin’ might set them straight. It’s your civic duty.
As they appeared in the 70s
Sally Struthers - only two things would've kept me from tapping her sober: her annoying voice and the way she acted. If I can't duct tape her mouth shut, then I demand that she whisper "Oooh yeah, daddy" in my ear. "All In The Family" fer sure. A couple of boilermakers.
Hard to believe, but before she became a manatee that broad was hot.
Alice, the maid from The Brady Bunch - We'd work on a bottle of rotgut bourbon shot for shot, and then when she was semi-concious I'd let Tiger have at it. PETA would throw a fit, but you just can't make those people happy.
A wise choice, my friend. No amount of booze is enough to tag Alice. If you said something like three beers I would have had to submit this to Drudge. “Man Admits He Would Make Sweet Love to Alice.” He’d have to get the flashing lights out.
Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days - in a heartbeat. You could tell she was a wild one in the bedroom. Perhaps after a scotch, neat, just to fan the fires a bit.
Good answer. I’ve always wanted to tag her. Rumor has it that Potsie gave her oral in his trailer and she cracked a vertebrae in his neck. Actually, I just made that up, but so want it to be true.
Florida from Good Times - *whistle* Here, Tiger! *whistle* C'mere boy. Seriously though, at least a full keg. Dropped from six feet, onto my head. Please.
Shit, Ted. You let me down on this one. She seemed like a real nice lady and all. Three beers for me.
As they appeared in the 50s
Barbara Billingsley (Mrs. Cleaver) - Two martini's, more for her benefit, to loosen her up a bit. Good looking, but I'd imagine sex with her would be kinda like her prototypical television housewifery: technically perfect but a little sterile. I'd want her on the floor begging to be broken. Better make it four martini's and pass me the ping pong paddle.
Ah. Now the picture’s becoming clearer. Four martinis and you’d get the funk out. Could Eddie Haskell watch?
Aunt Bea from Mayberry - She dated Fatty Arbuckle you know. There's not enough alcohol on the planet. Oh wait. There might be pie, right? Ok, a pint of whatever white lightning Otis is drinking, and then maybe if I squint and pretend that I'm Tiger...
This one was kind of a throw away, but I had to gamble. On the off chance you said yes in any way, shape or form, we’d forever be known as the blog who found a guy that wanted to tag Aunt Bea. I so wanted that.
Well, let’s give a big round of applause to Ted for being a good sport.
Final Pervert Rating: 5 out of 10
September 28, 2005
How Many Beers: Special Female Guest Edition
Welcome back to another edition of How Many Beers? This week is our first ever female version and our guest is Jennifer of the fine blog Jennifer’s History and Stuff.
Let’s get right to it.
1. Tommy Lee--Tommy's not bad looking once you clean him up, and he IS impressively endowed. However, I'm pretty sure he'd smell like an ashtray, and who knows what kind of diseases I'd get. A fifth of Jack and a latex body suit.
Wow. Tommy Lee is blown out of the water. Let’s try a different tact.
2. Steve Buscemi--Steve's goofy looking and a little creepy sometimes. Which means he's probably good in the sack. Two mixed drinks and a shot.
Incredible! Buscemi scores with two drinks and a shot. That’s not far from sober, folks.
3. Anthony Hopkins--is old. And looks distressingly like Hannibal Lecter. But he does have a British accent, and I likes them foreign accents. Six mixed drinks.
I’m kind of relieved here. Less than six drinks would have upset me.
4. Liv Tyler--She looks like her dad, and that's in her favor. But she's a little too delicate for my picky go-gay tastes. A fifth of anything and a couple shots of Tequila.
I tried to slip one past the goalie but no score. Too delicate…[mental note].
5. John Goodman--John is a big, big guy. I bet you thought I'd need a lot for him. You'd be wrong. I've mentioned before that I love John Goodman. Three mixed drinks.
Another score for an unlikely candidate. Three drinks and the big man doing the wave. Folks, this is top-notch blogging.
6. Jack Black--The lucid, Tenacious D Jack Black, or the drugged-out, looney red carpet Jack Black? Either way, let's say a fifth of Jose and a shower.
Okay, no heavy fetish. Again, I’m very relieved.
7. Al Pacino (the current scary, over-acting incarnation)--"Say hello to my little friends." That's not something you want running through your head when you're about to say hello to his little friends. Know what I mean? Two fifths of whatever I could lay my hands on.
More relief. I was worried about this one. Looks like crazy guys are out for Jen.
8. Bruce Springsteen--Bruce, God bless him, looks like an ashtray. And the faces he makes would be really distracting. A fifth of Jim and a dark room.
No real surprise here. He always looks like he’s got a mousetrap on his balls with the faces he makes normally.
9. Tom Hanks--Everybody loves Tom Hanks. If he was single, I'd do him sober.
Really? He’s kind of old, no? No matter, everybody gets one freebee.
10. Denise Richards--Now, I admire your tenacity in trying to make me go gay, and this is a much better option than Liv Tyler, but...Angelina Jolie is the one I'd go gay for in a heartbeat. Those lips, those eyes. Stone cold sober for Angie. And I'd bring my camcorder. She already has the handcuffs.
Holy shit. I almost don’t know what to say. Is there any woman in America who would not go gay for Angelina Jolie? God damn it’s hot in here.
Bonus Question. Chandler Bing--Monica said he was the best she ever had, even when it was early in the relationship. That is a nice endorsement for Chandler. But the constant jokes? If I met Chandler in a bar, it'd take a few to overcome his personality. Four mixed drinks.
Good. He doesn’t deserve you. Angelina and I, well…we’ll take good care of you.
You know, sometimes I think of Jen as a delicate flower, and other times I think of her throwing a drink in my face and saying, “Take your pants off now! Before I change my mind!” I really like them both.
Well, that’s it for this round of How Many Beers. I’m just going to sit here until I can safely stand up.
Housekeeping
We’re currently in the process of assembling a few more guest editions of “How Many Beers?”
If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.
Thanks in advance.
If you ever really want to know just how clean your bathroom is, the best way is to become violently ill.
Of all the different symptoms, by far the worst is vomiting. I can keep my sense of humor up during coughing fits, sinus infections, stomach cramps, etc.—Hell, some of my best material has come from having severe diarrhea. But vomiting? That changes everything.
You know it’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. I’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds it’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.
The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”
And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. It’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time you’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. I’m sorry, it’s a fact.
Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.
There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash you’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someone’s fucking murdering them in there. I’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.
Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”
Yes. Shut the fuck up. I’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like it’s my final hour for Christ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? I’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!
The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. I’m not one to take things too far.
September 12, 2005
Logic
If all elephants are large, and some elephants are pink, are all pink elephants large?
The answer, of course, is yes.
Let’s try another one.
If Sean Penn roams New Orleans in a sinking johnboat with his photographer and press people, does that make him a flaming asshole?
And if, on top of that, he ‘comes ashore’ and roams the streets carrying a loaded shotgun like a wild buccaneer, does that upgrade his status to “one incredibly fucked-up individual nearing the level of political omnipresence only previously held by Bono”?
Yes. Yes, it does.
Does he look bat-shit crazy or what?
h/t: Drudge
Exhibit A
I’ve been around the block a few times, but never in my life have I seen someone get handed their ass more completely. Sweet Jesus!
Here’s a tip for you…
If you drink twelve bottles of Stella Artois and play high stakes poker with these guys you will lose your money. I speak from experience. My old lady did better than I did and I consider myself semi-pro.
It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.
At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.
Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.
“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.
Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.
Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.
“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”
I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.
“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”
The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.
“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.
The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.
Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadn’t had a meal so we figured we’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kid’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldn’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.
“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”
“What?”
“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”
And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.
We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. There’s no getting rid of it.
Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes aren’t fucking flammable.
September 07, 2005
How Many Beers—Special Guest Edition
I conned Jim from Snooze Button Dreams into playing a round of How Many Beers. Let’s see how he’s done:
1. The fat chick from Facts of Life
Natalie from Facts of Life? Hell, she’s just a cleverly disguised hottie. I’ll say three beers, just to loosen things up. But I’d be thinking about “Tootie” while I nailed her.
Damn…That’s at least six pack for me. Maybe if I just got back from a nudie bar...
2. Miss Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies
Miss Hathaway would depend. Are we talking the scarecrow from the TV show or Lily Tomlin from the movie? [We’re talking about the scarecrow—ed.] I’d bang Lily in a minute just so I could brag through the rest of my life that I screwed Eunice. The other one scares me. And she looks all dry. We’d definitely need several hours of tequila shots and a well placed tube of KY.
But you’d do it. See for yourselves ladies, there may be a sliding scale, but so far nothing’s off the chart.
3. Penny Marshall
Penny Marshall…hmmm… I don’t think that’s possible. Her balls would get in the way.
I stand corrected. There is a point where Jim draws the line. I’d probably do it if I was assured she wouldn’t speak during the event. That voice…uhhh.
4. Chelsea Clinton
Chelsea Clinton? Are you kidding? Have you seen a picture of her lately? Hot damn, she’s taggable as hell! Zero beers required for Chelsea.
A new precedent! He’s willing to tag this one stone-cold sober. Folks, this is dramatic, ground- breaking blogging. I’m on the edge of my seat for this next one…
5. Oprah Winfrey
Oprah Winfrey would require three consecutive keg stands. But I’d be thinking about “Tootie” while I nailed her.
Interesting…I might have to start asking about more specific sexual acts in the future.
6. Julia Louis-Dreyfus
Julia Louis-Dreyfus would have to be taken stone cold sober. You need to keep your reflexes about you to avoid cutting yourself on that razor sharp nose.
Yeah, I’d probably do this sober too. Shit, that’s what the dimmer switch is for. Again, I’d have to be assured of no talking.
7. Margaret Cho
Margaret Cho. Margaret Cho. Cho Cho Cho. The ticket to ride that train costs a six pack with a Viagra shooter plus bloodletting to the point of unconsciousness.
I’m with you there, brother. I was thinking black tar heroin.
8. Ethel from I Love Lucy
Ethel was a fiery thing. High spirits, tight dresses, nice tits and a cushiony backside. But she was used to resisting the advances of young, strapping, hot men with voices like silver. I’d probably need to get her seriously trashed on highballs before I got into her panties.
Holy cow. I’m not sure I’d go there, but if I did, it would have to be something special. Like the inverted buck-crab, or the fourth posture of the perfumed garden. You know, so I’d have a good story to tell later.
Well, there we have it, folks. Let’s have a big round of applause for Jim, he’s been a great guest, if not a little disturbing. Next up, we’ll ask the ladies.
How many beers?
Even if I was strip-club drunk—and watching porn—there’s just no way I’d tag Greta van Susteren. Everybody needs to draw the line somewhere.
I’m happy to announce that How Many Beers will be a regular feature of this blog going forward.
September 06, 2005
Labor Day Weekend
Day 1: Waited all day for the cable guy, afraid even to go in the shower in case he came. As usual, he showed up with five minutes to spare in the six hour window I was quoted. During the six hour wait I ate an entire package of Oreos. When he finally did show up he was clueless and no help whatsoever. I offered him a can of Coke and he was visibly angry that I didn’t have diet. Day one completely wasted.
Day 2: Woke up with a pounding headache. Bought a new home theater system and spent seven hours trying to hook it up. Two more trips to the store for extra cables that cost almost as much as the system. One trip to the liquor store that was well worth it. Went to a Mexican themed party and ate a lot of shit with ground beef, rice and beans. Hosts put on a home video of their latest vacation and turned off all the lights. I debated making a scene about the video and the banality of all participants. Choose to leave quietly instead without saying good bye. Took my bottle and slammed the door loudly. By 9:00PM was in safe harbor on my couch.
Day 3: Woke up with the running shits. Spent another five hours trying to hook up the home theater system, in between running to the shitter and lying on the couch moaning. Watched hazy TV and steamed over hours lost setting up home theater incorrectly. Had insomnia and debated the value of my life for several hours.
End report.
September 02, 2005
The Dream
I had the dream about the horseshoe crabs again last night.
I haven’t seen a horseshoe crab, living or dead, in at least fifteen years. The horseshoe crab, for those ignorant of such creatures, is basically a great big 300 million year old sea spider with a hard shell and a scary underbelly. The more educated amongst you [cough] might know them by the name Limulus Polyphemus.
The dream is always the same. I’m at the beach in my trunks, standing at the waters edge. I am precariously balanced on one leg, standing upon the hard back of one of these critters. My opposite leg is bent at the knee and raised, like Ralph Macchio in the crane stance. When I look toward the incoming breakers, ten of thousands of these creatures are emerging from the sea and are headed directly for me. Every few seconds a wave breaks at my feet, washing over my crabby footstool and threatening my fragile balance. As more crabs emerge toward me, threatening whatever menace they harbor, the closest specimens flip themselves over to expose their devilish looking underside, the part that I’m afraid of.
I always wake up as I lose my balance and fall into crabs.
I have no idea what significance this dream has in relation to my life. My childhood experience with these creatures was limited to picking them up by the tail and whacking other unsuspecting children in the back as hard as I could. They’ve got some weight to them and a big crab could easily send a twelve year old to the ground if you swung hard enough. I remain puzzled and disturbed, even at this late hour of the day.
Martial Law
It seems there’s a key element missing from the martial law in New Orleans. You can’t declare martial law when there’s no actual martial aspect. That’s the key element. It’s like calling out “Bingo!” when you haven’t actually filled your card.
“Storm victims were raped and beaten, fights and fires broke out, corpses lay out in the open, and rescue helicopters and law enforcement officers were shot at as flooded-out New Orleans descended into anarchy Thursday.”
I don’t know how many hours it’s been since this catastrophe started but it looks like they're edging closer to Lord of the Flies every day.
Rape? All I can say is that I’ve never seen a more comprehensive advertisement for gun ownership in my life. The scariest part of this whole thing is how many days have gone by with no law and order.
I’ve never been a moving to Montana kind of guy, but seeing how the government (at every level) has handled this fiasco I might have to do a re-think. What if this was dirty bomb? It’s become quite clear that in times of desperation you should be prepared to protect your family because no one will do it for you.
And while most of us are civilized people who respect our neighbors and our community, it’s clear that not all of our society has reached that plateau. We obviously have members of society who are parasites, void of all decency and human compassion. Animals who would take advantage of a desperate situation and prey on others at levels beyond comprehension.
I can’t help but think what would happen if a small nuke went off somewhere in America. Right now I’m wondering what the response time would be if we were invaded by a hoard of Canadian coin collectors, and if they’d be able to take several states before FEMA, the Feds and Barney Fife collaborated on a plan to stop the carnage.
I know that among the cops and guardsmen on the scene there are probably many fine men, heroes even, who are going above and beyond their duty. I know there are citizens who are helping their neighbors. Good men standing tall. But I’m not too impressed with the people running the show.
I fully realize that the media is showcasing the bad news. But if you’re one of those people who believe that when a catastrophe strikes in America, 10,000 navy seals led by John Rambo will immediately swoop from the sky carry your ass to a nice cozy B & B with fluffy pillows--you’re delusional.
More:
• Police snipers were stationed on the roof of their precinct, trying to protect it from armed miscreants roaming seemingly at will.
• "They have quite a few people running around here with guns," he said. "You got these young teenage boys running around up here raping these girls."
• Charity Hospital, one of several facilities attempting to evacuate patients, was forced to halt the effort after coming under sniper fire.
Convinced yet?