Superbad Penis Clip

From iwatchstuff.com



"You know what kind of foods are shaped like dicks? The best kind!"
"I, er, dunno ... thats really messed up."

Memories?

I started this blog a little over a year ago with the epic, “Cinco de Wasted.” I thought, “hmm, how about I treat my reader with a recollection of one of my wild nights this school year?” Then I got to thinking, and remembering, and struggling to conjure up a specific memory from the past year. Yeah, I remember certain moments, dragging BLT back from Sahara, waking up in the upstairs bathroom in the boys house, I think on new years but don't trust me, and I also remember both of the Halloween parties; vaguely. However, none of these memories seem to string together. A memory from Halloween links to a memory of forties, which leads to the pimps and ho’s party, which ends with me passing out on a couch, probably because every single occasion, it was the same people, that or you know, the brain cell killing properties of alcohol.

I try to solve this problem by taking pictures, however that doesn’t work. It usually leads to me forgetting I have a camera, or taking pictures of the wall. I mean I take pictures like these …



But what I remember is this … Yeah there was no difference in the last picture, but then again, looking at an impending hangover is a whole lot worse than looking back on a hangover.


What am I trying to say here …

Girl on Girl Action

From nigoro.jp via Geekologie




"A game based entirely on slapping women in the face probably shouldn't be this fun."

The New Look

Snazzy ain't it?

I Only Drink When I'm Working

This guy has my dream job.

This is Zane Lamprey, his job is to drink. Zane is the host of Three Sheets* on the HD channel Mojo (Gotta love the future). In the show he travels from country to country eating local cuisine, drinking local alcohol, maybe learning about the alcohol, and finally sampling the local hangover cure in the morning. Who wouldn't want this job? Authentic Guinness in Ireland, DonQ rum in Puerto Rico and Soju in south Korea, this guy is on a perpetual spring break, and on top of that, getting paid for it.

What exactly is the appeal of the show? Unlike other shows, this guy actually drinks. He gets red, he stumbles over, he urinates in public then he passes out. This isn't a, lets teach about alcohol then sample it a bit, this guy is on a mission, to get plastered in every country. Plus, the show itself is a drinking game, from imdb.com:

Three Sheets is the first television show to be produced as a drinking game. When Zane drinks, you drink. First person to see the monkey makes someone else finish their drink. And when Zane talks about his friend, Steve McKenna, it's a social (everyone drinks).

____________________________
* Three sheets gets its name from the saying "Three Sheets to the Wind." which means completely utterly drunk. It comes from sailing terms when a drunk sailor would leave the three sails flapping in the wind rather than tying them down. Exciting, isnt it.

Moving Out

We all know it is true, packing sucks, especially packing a whole apartment up. I’ve spent the past four hours packing up the past semester into neat boxes labeled Xerocopy, Williamsburg Plus international Paper and Willcopy Ultra. To the casual onlooker it would look like I enjoy paper, a lot. Sadly, there is no paper in these boxes, no smooth white surfaces of writing perfection waiting for the right pen to come along to burst the virginal white bubble they present themselves as, begging for the cold drip of ink to stain their perfect façade and turning them into the dirty dirty girl they are, lifting her skirt to flash the absence of an undergarment, slowly licking her lips and taunting him with her eyes. He makes his way over to her; pulling at his tie, sweat beading off his forehead like the fresh dew on a summer morning. He positions himself over her, eyes focused on her alabaster white skin. He can’t take it anymore, the stiffening in his trousers is too much, he pulls out his mighty sword, clicks it and writes, “Pick up milk.”

In the boxes are the remnants of the past year. Halloween costumes, pencils, pens, folders, hangers, ties, shirts, shot glasses, bottle caps, posters and clocks fill the innards of the boxes clearly designated for paper. Its like filling a void in ones life, except the void is a box, and instead of filling it with ice cream or alcohol, its filled with papers and pens.

RAMZ was a nice place to live. Clean, relatively quiet, nice security guards and free utilities. If it wasn’t school housing, and if it didn't have a tragically slow elevator, I would have stayed here. However, I decided to move into an apartment, my first apartment I may add, and it is bitchin’. Two floors, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, an entrance room and a nice kitchen complete with a counter we can turn into a bar. I know I’m paying a lot for this place, but the price in comparison to the quality of the living space and the location of it, more than makes up for the pricey rent and lack of included utilities, except water and sewage. The allure of off-campus living promises a whole lot more than living in student housing. For one, parties. I know I won’t be holding and huge parties, we are on the second floor right next to the landlord, but just the fact I can have people over, whenever I’d like to and I wouldn’t have to sign them in and, lets face it, “good times” are to be consumed. Also, I am even closer to campus than I ever was living in the dorms.

So, in just 3 weeks, I will be in my new apartment. Excited? Of course I am.

Kills Germs

Its almost 1 in the morning and I’m getting ready for bed. I’m almost done with my nightly routine, putting the finishing touches, when I get that sinking feeling again. My stomach drops and my brain swells and I stare at myself in the mirror. I can’t remember if I spat out my mouthwash. My eyes grow wide and I slowly descend into madness.

The feeling is along the lines of, “did I forget to lock the door?” or “did I turn the stove off?” or “What if my laptop explodes?” (All, sadly, are questions I’ve asked myself). However, you realize too late. You’ve past the point of no return and all you can do is console yourself, “of course the door is locked” “I didn’t use the stove, why would it be on?” “it’s fine, it’ll go to sleep in like, 30 minutes”, and hope you don’t come back home to keyboard keys all over your floor and a smoky pile of what used to be a laptop on your desk.

It sucks really, getting that feeling. I search the sink for evidence, replay my actions and then determine, yes, I did spit out my mouthwash hoping that I don't end up throwing up in 30 seconds.

Malaise

Stuck in the doldrums of summer I’ve spent my days waking up at 1 in the afternoon, eating cereal while watching the travel channel, debating on running, then finally deciding its too hot, and finally sleeping sometime around 2 or 3 in the morning. It’s all well and good, for an extended weekend. It’s like I’m stuck in a perpetual Saturday. Yeah, I’ve been to the beach a couple times to break up the monotony and to the movies, yet its still pretty boring, probably due to the lack of friend to friend communication. There’s a reason my battery lasts so long on my phone, I never use it. Oh, well. At least June is finally over. Hopefully July will be more eventful.

On the other hand, hot dogs and fireworks are pretty cool.

Easily Pleased

The fact that you read this sentence makes me smile.

Do Yourself a Favor: Beleive in True Love

"My legs might not work, but my heart still does."

3AM: Mark

3AM, wandering down Main Street. Drunken people meander down the streets, gleefully shouting at the night sky. Couple shots of tequila in me: one, two, five, I lost count. I had a couple of glasses of some other mystery drink, laced, probably not, hopefully not. It snows slightly, but I’m not wearing a jacket; I don't even know where it is; car, bar, house? Hands in my pockets, short sleeves don't help that much in February weather. I’m starting to get cold, need shelter, too far from my apartment though, too drunk to get there anyways. Going home alone, again, no friends; ditched me at the bar, no date, no one would want to anyways; and the feeling of self-loathing sinks in. The internal fights, the external pacifist. I hated myself for being what I am. Then again, what else do I have? Don't know, don't care, just want to get home. Stop at the corner of main and 14th street, lean up against the frigid light post; sure wish I had my jacket right now. The man next to me, I think I know him, Short brown hair, tuft of a goatee, gaudy college class ring, Eric from accounting. I seem to always see him bent over, bent over a computer, bent over the curb vomiting his night up, some people just cant hold their liquor. We work at an advertising firm, I rather be a writer though. I should be writing now. Slowly I sober up on this cold light post, should have crossed the street 3 lights ago, but I can’t stop staring at Eric, bent over, vomiting. I wonder why he drinks. Everyone has a reason.

You’ll find the best and the worst of people on this street at 3AM, when the bars and clubs get out. “The Mile” they call it, go from one bar to another in a few steps, then to a club a street over. I finally cross 14th, Eric is still on the corner, receiving some aid from his friend, wingman, lover? Don’t know, never really asked him, he never asked me. I pass by closed restaurants, 24-hour diners, bars and clubs at last call. It seems like the whole city is out here, drunk, or at least helping someone drunk. Yet I’m walking alone.

A gaggle of girls walk past me, the lead one looks like some cheap porn star. Short skirt, shirt, hair, peroxide blonde. Tits, definitely fake. She grabs some guy walking past and shoves her tongue down his throat. He looks like a frat guy, a “Real World/Road Rules” type of guy. The guy yells something and slaps hands with his friends. To have no inhibitions, that's what alcohol does. To be free, that's what I needed.

I step into one of the 24-hour diners. Its quiet and lit well, they seem to understand that drunken people don't like bright lights here; and it’s clean, I like clean. I grab a free seat at the counter and put my head down. I should go home, sleep there, but the counter is cool, and the diner is warm, and I just don't want to think anymore.

“Hey, you ok? You know what you need?” who’s talking to me, and how do they know what I need? “Apple pie, a la mode.”

What I needed was an aspirin and a bloody Mary, or maybe a handful of Valium and a liter of Dewar’s.

Do Yourself a Favor: Exercise

Do Yourself a Favor: Go See "Children of Men"

"Do Yourself a Favor," is a new segment I'm trying out. This time around I suggest seeing "Children of Men."


The combination of Clive Owen's impressive acting and Alfonzo Cuaron's stunning vision makes this film one to see. The engrossing cinematography and the realistic, well, realization of the future makes the film that much more beleivable. Although some criticize the film to be nothing more than a thinly veiled leftist propaganda film, like some said V for Vendetta was, I see it more as a cautionary tale. It examines human nature in a world where the end is inevitable, where suicide kits are advertised on television, and "Men act without the sound of children's laughter" as said in the film. Haunting, realistic, and at times poignant, "Children of Men" deserves all the accolades it has received, depite the detractors.