Alcohol and Athletics

I read a beer article today. I read a fitness article today. Where it went wrong was that they were one in the same. Look, as a former college athlete and a person of sound mind I know that drinking beer, especially in excessive amounts, is counteractive to having that hot summer bod you’ve been striving for. Even my own impressive beer consumption has led to a not so impressive guttural increase – which is also why I now like to mix in the vodka and sodas between workouts.

I'll Take Ten, Please

The aforementioned article states that they took their editors and ten beers for a blind taste test with the goal of selecting the best low calorie beer. The problem from the very start of their mission was that the ten beers they tested were the shittiest of shit beers: Coors Light, Miller Lite, Heineken Light and so on. This is similar to figuring out who is the smartest in a room of retards. I honestly shouldn’t have continued with the article when I saw who they crowned as light beer numero uno – Bud Light. One editor actually made the comment of, “It’s what a beer should taste like.” I was so angered by this statement that I plan on acquiring her whereabouts so that I can pour battery acid on her tongue. The runner up was Sam Adams Light. Their remarks about this one: “We loved the nutty, complex flavors.” You would like nuts…

I could go on about why I hate every ounce of text that is now embedded into the interweb and my now pure distain for those who contributed to it, but I’m fairly certain that one or more veins in my head might burst. Maybe I’ll just send them a case of O’Doul’s dosed in kerosene with box of matches and a fill-in-the-blank suicide note since they clearly should never write a single word of anything about anything else ever again.

May Your Taste Buds and Souls Burn, Fitness Wenches

Must Be March

Until recently, I was completely unaware of how busy March can be. You have St. Patrick’s Day, filled with those who feel the need to drink shitty beer tainted further with green food coloring. They drink in honor of the patron saint of Ireland, a man that they have no connection to or clue about, until they spew ectoplasm on their four leaf clover laden lawns. I also have not-so-fond memories of kids pinching me when my pre-adolescent Alzheimer’s would kick in and cause me to forget to wear something green. This would then lead to me getting into a considerable amount of trouble for swiftly knocking my accoster in the head with my hand or whatever object I happen to be holding. Obviously the second official color of St. Patrick’s Day is blackandblue.

Nothing About This is Appealing

Then there’s March Madness. Those who have no interest or knowledge in college basketball all of a sudden become Xerox versions of Dick Vitale – a person who I can’t stand… baby. Everyone runs around going “Did you fill out your bracket!? Did you fill out your bracket!?!” Yes, I filled every blank with “piss off.” I really think I have a shot at winning the pool this year!

However, most importantly amongst my friends, it is also March Mustache. They refuse to bring a blade to their upper lip and race to see who can produce the ultimate ‘stache. Beards are not allowed, even if they just happen to be connected to the mother load of a mustache. And, not to be left out or outdone, a small group of us ladies are now sporting mustache necklaces. A curly tipped, handlebar mustache hangs around our necks which can snuggly be placed below our noses when the time sees fit – which is all the time. If that were not enough, the end of the month brings “Stache Bash!” This will be a fuzzy-faced, drunken debacle where the whiskered winner shall be crowned.

Burt Likey the Mustache

So, all in all, there’s a lot going on in March. I feel as though it may be a little much and should all be consolidated into one act on one day. Maybe something like: Drunk Mustachioed Irish Basketball Players Who Pinch Children While They Fill Out Brackets of Beards Day.

Yeah, that works.

As if there weren't enough to keep track of, here are a few other holidays that take place in March:

3 – If Pets Had Thumbs Day

7 – National Crown Roast of Pork Day

14 – Learn About Butterflies Day

20 – Extraterrestrial Abductions Day

28 – Something on a Stick Day

31 – Bunsen Burner Day

If you're interested in joining the ranks of my closest lady friends, check out this link for a mustache necklaces like the ones we're wearing.
MUSTACHE STYLE!

Long Overdue Beer Update

BEER #1

I’m a fan of vanilla. It’s typically a flavor I pair with my coffees. Well, that and various alcoholic upgrades. It only makes sense that I would enjoy it when mixed with one of my other favorite beverages – beer! So, on this particular day it was Breckenridge’s Vanilla Porter. It was brought to me in a bottle with a label that contained the bolded words “REMARKABLE” and “PARKTAKABLE.” I was sold immediately. When poured, it was a solid dark brown with just shy of an inch of creamy, off-white head. Oooo, pretty.

The smell: malt and vanilla – SCORE.

The taste: maybe I got too excited about the vanilla. It wasn’t exactly on the forefront. The malt was, but the vanilla was too subtle for me. I wasn’t looking for a sugar rush, but it just wasn’t as prevalent as I would have wanted. Still, the feel was smooth and drinkable. All in all, it was a solid vanilla porter for those who don’t want to be bowled over with an excessive vanilla flavor.

BEER #2

I had a Black n Tan. That means Bass and Guinness. It was delicious, as usual. Here's a picture of an alpaca.

BEER #3

Doppelbock, doppelbock, dobbelbock. Now you say it. Fun, huh? That was the main reason for trying the Gordon Biersch Winter Bock. I pointed at it and said, "I will have this doppelbock." When brought I politely thanked her for my doppelbock and then went into my usual tasting process.

Since doppelbocks are typically very heavy beers, it's no shocker that it pours dark and a little on the thick side - insert joke that goes along the lines of "That's how I like my women." The G.B. Winter Bock did have a slight red/cherry hue to it. Smelling it led way to a lot of malt and a subtle sweetness. The taste was bold and malty with hints of dark fruit and maybe a little caramel. I was slightly surprised how much I liked it. DOPPELBOCK.

I lift my glass to you as I continue on my journey. Cheers, mates.

HomeSlice.

I have decided that upon crossing the county state line to my home town, I am sucked back into time. But not in that Pleasantville sort of time travel where everything is black and white, people say things like “Golly!” and “Gee whiz!” or morals are held in the highest regard. That would be far too apparent and, therefore, easier to adjust to. No, this trip back is roughly 3-5 years. That may not seem like a long time, but considering how quickly things are changing in the world around us – it is. Imagine, if you will, just a few things that were happening and popular in 2006.

• Nelly and Paul Wall were flashing their platinum dentures in their hit song “Grillz.” James Blunt whined till your ears bled in “You’re Beautiful.” And, who can forget T-Pain’s ode to his favorite female occupation, “I’m In Love with a Stripper.”

• Penguins sung and danced to find a mate in “Happy Feet,” a movie with disturbingly sexual undertones.

• Television super star Don Knotts left this earth for that random film cameo in the sky (Triple bonus points if you instantly got the Pleasantville connection).

• An asteroid narrowly misses colliding with the Earth by coming within 268,624 miles of us. Shockingly, not huge news. Although, I see it rather noteworthy.

• And I, at any given point in time, could be found passed out in my college dorm room shower due to a little game I liked to call “Binge Drinking.”

In Panama City, however, everything seems to be all screwy. They recently got their first Starbucks.* I wish I could have been there to see that. I picture a pack of quizzical rednecks slowly approaching the building. The hordes warily sniff at it like an abandoned animal that is skeptical of a free meal. My last venture in gave me a good laugh as I stood behind a lady ranting how she just wanted a medium coffee. The poor teenage girl behind the counter was exasperated as she repeatedly tried to explain that a tall was, indeed, a medium. Too soon, Panama City, too soon.

The movie selection is always a bit off. With so little to do, I wanted to catch a movie I had already seen “up north,” but was sadden to hear that it was not playing. Not only was it not playing, but it wouldn’t be playing at all. Apparently a scene in the movie was dubbed “unfit for the general public.” The culprit was a graphic and salacious love scene between two women. They clearly did not poll males between the ages of 16 and 35. Or lesbians. Because there are lots of those there. LOTS.

Continuing on that idea, I am also accustomed to a multitude of churches that are accepting of all people without second thought to color, origin, sexual orientation and all those others labels that Christianity is supposed to overlook. Of course, that is not the case in my beloved home town. Instead, I am in awe of the giant-mega Pentecostal church. I’ve seen Jesus Camp enough times, and this place down right scares me. It also reminds me of a special I saw years ago where those Christian crazies taunted snakes with the idea that Jesus would make sure they were left unharmed. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to pray to Paul Bunyan and then poke a sleeping bear. Also, with such a gargantuan church, I picture snakes in such epic sizes similar to the one Harry Potter slayed. Or Ice Cube in Anaconda. Either way, I will not be converting to Panama City Pentecostal for fear of multitudes of giants snakes, among other things.

Despite a strange time machine-esqe feel at times, a plethora of backwoods inhabitants and a lack of what I can only describe as “culture,” there are a few pluses to this place I called home. What Panama City, Florida does have is a beautiful beach, the ability to purchase alcohol 24/7, a Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum and a Spring Break that hosted MTV during my high school days which has left me wondering why I’m both still alive and without a criminal record. So, maybe the place isn’t that bad. Maybe it all works out in the end. But, as I like to tell people whose faces are filled with surprise when I tell them where I’m from: It’s a great place to visit, but I can’t believe I lived there.

*I must make note, that since writing this two more have sprung up. I’m sure Panama Citians bursting are with double mocha-café-latte-frap excitement.

Bob Ross Kind of Green

I stare at my slumping basil plant with a look of forlorn. How I long to have a green thumb. It could be any shade of green, really. I’m not looking for something bright and vivid that would indicate that I could single-handedly save the diminishing rain forests of the world.

I would take a dull, muted, muddy green that says, “Hey! Water and soil good! Bugs and frost bad!” Instead, my thumb has a sad, crying face that is void of any color that could possibly resemble that of vegetation.

Three basil plants have ceased their days of photosynthesis at my hands. The first was a large, flourishing beauty. It was a gift and I loved it. I loved how it made the apartment smell. I loved cooking with it. I loved how it made me feel so Emeril-like. BAM! Basil! But then, one day, thinking that it needed some sun, I left it outside overnight – in the middle of a frigid winter. The sun from that day didn’t save it from the frost of that night. Like a scantily dressed hooker in a New York alley way, it froze to death. Deader than dead.

Basil plant number two. I clutched a tiny packet of seeds from Target as though they would help me wash my hands of the murder I had brutally performed. However, they barely peeked from the soil in the pink solo cups in which I had planted them. DVDs and Legos = things to buy at Target. Seeds from the $1 Spot = Things you should completely overlook. I would have had more luck by planting a Snickers in hopes of sprouting a candy tree.

Basil plant number three. A full grown plant from the grocery store – minus a little pot for its bare roots. I took it out of its wrapping and set it in one of my bourbon glasses with a little water. I had full intention of buying soil and giving it some tender, sweet lovin’. However, I was distracted by various shiny objects, bright lights, video games and liquor. My once hearty aromatic shrank and shriveled into yet another failure. I’m fairly certain that all Italian herbs tremble at my very name – I am the Anti-Christ of gardening.

Sadly, even a cactus is currently gasping for its last breath. Lately, I’ve contemplated going for a Chia Pet. I do enjoy how they make everything look like a tribute to the late, great Bob Ross.

Childhood Racism

I love cartoons. There are about three genres of television that I watch on a regular basis: the news, history shows and cartoons. Since I feel that cartoons have been in my life longer than the other two, I’m naturally going to be slightly biased. Hey, if you’re going to watch Fox News then I’m going to watch Nickelodeon. Don’t judge me lest I break your remote control.

I do wish they made cartoons the way they used to. I hate those kinds of statements because they’re the ones that I used to roll my eyes at when I was a kid. Now, I am enlightened and slightly aged like the finest of wines. I’m not that classy though, so let’s switch that to bourbon. Bourbon and cartoons – my God, I’m sophisticated.

But seriously, cartoons now are for pussies. Where’s the racism? Where’s the violence? Why the fuck is everything Japanese-esqe? Awful, just awful. Old Looney Toons cartoons where the best. I used to have VHS tapes of the old WWII shows. Daffy as Hitler. Bugs Bunny, along with the little gremlins, unknowingly aiding the destruction of U.S. fighter planes. Stereotypes left and right that took on the Jews, Germans, Japanese, Blacks and more. They actually did a jazz remake of Snow White with the characters in black face. Now, before you gasp and scold me for finding this offensive material funny – historians often defend this cartoon as one of the best ever made. After all, it reflects the cultural differences of the early part of the 20^th century to now. History folks, history.

De Sebben?! Your lack of shame brings me laughs.

Where are these cartoons now? – cancelled. Locked in a vault or stored within the Ark of the Covenant. Can you believe that they stopped showing Speedy Gonzales cartoons because it offended Mexicans? I am Mexican and I loved him! No one can take a joke these days. I’m willing to bet that if I took a picture of a Mexican eating a taco and posted it on the internet I would have the racism card slapped in my face faster than my mom could finish that taco.

Okay, so let’s remove the racism for a moment. Looney Toons still had others flaws. My biggest issue: Taz the Tasmanian Devil. He looks absolutely nothing like the little devil from Tasmania. Bugs Bunny clearly looks like a rabbit. Porky Pig is undoubtedly a pig. Foghorn Leghorn is a giant rooster – although, unlike those previously stated, his name does not reflect his animal origin (this also annoys me). But Taz looks nothing like the real life animal he is meant to represent.

Perhaps there is a reason behind this. If there is, I might actually know the answer. It may be because a real honest- to-goodness Tasmanian devil is fucking atrocious. A Tasmanian devil seems to be the strange hybrid of a dog, a cat and a rat. That is a trifecta of natural enemies. God does have a sense of humor. The sound they make is a blood-curling screech. And, I have read, they smell “pungent” which is nice way of saying “smells like shit.” The best they could do with the cartoon representation is have him spin around like a drunkard who has discovered Crystal Meth, give him a caveman-like speech impediment and have him drool like a geriatric on the way out the door. Taz the Tasmanian Devil is a failure in my eyes.

Maybe Taz just had a lot of work done.

So, the moral of this story is that I can deal with racism as a form of humor. However, a poor exemplification of a member of the animal kingdom – I’m out folks. Oh, you think there’s something wrong with my point of view? Fine. Then keep taking your kids to Disney World, you anti-Semite and tell Mr. Gibson I said shalom.

The right writer for the job.

I got a "job." The quotations will drop as soon as I get the tax forms to fill out. Then it becomes a JOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB. See how much more intense that is?


It's a little copy writing gig for a small company based out of Pittsburgh. I was skeptical at first:

1) Because it's in Pittsburgh and I don't trust a town that is represented by professional athlete known for multiple attempts at rape/sexual assault. I make sure I put the multiple in there because if I didn't I'm sure I would have to steer clear of most major U.S. cities.

and

2) They specifically asked me to NOT send in my resume. Instead, they wanted a creative "cover letter" that would catch their attention.

I was almost offended by that request. So, the subject of my email stated how I didn't want to send them my resume anyway. I continued on in the body of my email/cover letter how I was impressed with my resume and they didn't deserve to read it. I also told them that my degree hung on my wall like the head of a prized woodland creature. That statement is false and misleading for two reasons- my degree is NOT hanging because I can't afford to frame it and I hate hunting.

Apparently they liked the abuse I dished them because they hired me. This is when I realized that the company was run by women, because women love that tough love shit. I can say this without being sexist because I'm a woman... and I'm kidding of course. Kind of.

Now, the interesting stuff. My first assignment is to re-write multiple pages of a hunting website. Again I mention, I don't hunt. Of course I started off taking the subject matter very seriously. However, that's not the kind of writer I am. So, on a tirade I started writing things like:

Welcome to -----------.com. WE HELP YOU KILL SHIT. WE HELP YOU KILL SHIT DEAD.

THAT DEER YOU HATE- FUCKIN' KILL IT! WE'LL HELP YOU DO IT!

QUAIL?? WE'LL SELL YOU A SHOT GUN TO BLOW THE FEATHER FUCKER UP!!!!!!!!!

BIG HORN SHEEP?? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT ON IT'S HEAD?? BLOW IT OFF!!!

BEAR???? Nah. Those are too big. You're on your own there, buddy.



I don't think that's what they want, though. I may have some editing to do.
And maybe I should stop drinking so much coffee/tea/crack.