Monday, April 21, 2014

Cub Scout Dropout

When we were younger, we wanted to be cub scouts so badly. We wanted to go camping, and hiking, and shooting. We wanted to learn how to build fires and survive in the wild. We wanted to be the Bear Grylls of our generation.

So we both signed up for cub scouts, and we... lasted a whole three months before we quit, thanks to this guy.


Yes, that's right kids, long before Pharrell was wearing that big stupid hat it was the headgear of choice of the scoutmaster, aka the leader of the cub scouts. And Scoutmaster Steve was a huge buzzkill.

You see, we wanted to dive right into the rugged manliness of picking your teeth with tree branches or starting fires with your bare hands or making a bear skin rug with a live bear.


Unfortunately for us, Scoutmaster Steve had something else in mind.









For weeks at a time each "cub scout meeting" was nothing more than a seminar on how to not be a little snot. There was no hiking, or camping, or wrestling mountain lions. No, there was only learning how to be a polite young man. It was like charm school, but for wee little nerds wearing neckerchiefs and short shorts.

We were promised camping and hiking in the future, though, so long as we learned how to be responsible young men and so long as we helped raise money for camping. How would we raise money, you ask? We were forced to do this by selling... wait for it... the ever lucrative and desirable commodity of stale packing peanuts, aka the Boy Scouts popcorn.



We were the laughing stock of the girl scouts and their delicious cookies. And you can bet that not only did we not sell a damn thing, but we got so many doors slammed in our little faces.

Yet after suffering through this, somehow, someway Scoutmaster Steve finally allowed us to go camping...

And it was awful.








And so we quit, having never learned how to piss off the side of a mountain or arm wrestle a buck or fly majestically on the wings of a bald eagle.

...But we can still spot a green-winged Teal from a mile away and differentiate a siltstone from a sandstone like you would not fucking believe.

Anyone else ever in the Boy Scouts/Girl Scouts? Was it as lousy and boring as our experience?

Cheers and stay wild, friends,
B&B

Music: Canon Blue
Beer: Lagunitas Little Sumpin'






Monday, April 14, 2014

Pro Wrestling: The Manliest Sport in the World

Every sport wants to be the manliest sport. Not to be sexist, but that's just the way it is, was, and always will be. From the bloody times of the gladiators to the invention of ro-sham-bo, men have been trying to outman one another for centuries. Whether it's ice hockey, Russian roulette, or women's softball, every game of sport throughout history has tried to proclaim itself as the ballsiest display of manly might. But there can be only one king:


That's right. Professional wrestling is the manliest sport in history. So manly, in fact, that its outcome can actually bring a grown man to tears, be they tears of heartbreak or tears of joy.




So today we're gonna show you why pro wrestling is the manliest sport ever, and why wrestlers are the straightest, manliest fucking bunch of men you've ever laid eyes on.

Don't believe us?

Well, would it be unmanly to shave your entire body, thus enhancing all of those menacing muscles?


And what about a thick coat of bronze, aka the spray tan? Is that not the manliest way to transform oneself into a living god?


And that's just scratching the surface. A wrestler's manliness goes far beyond his hot bod. If you want that extra touch of manly awesomeness, you've got to have long, silky hair that flows like a horse's mane as you prance ever so elegantly around the ring.

Maybe he's born with it, maybe it's WRASTLIN!

And guyliner. You need SO MUCH GUYLINER.


And don't forget the outfit. Pads and helmets are for pussies. So are clothes. You need a thong small enough to make a stripper blush, so you can properly display the bulge. Bring focus to it. Don't be afraid to wear pink or purple, either. That REALLY brings focus to the entire package.


But a wrestler can't just look awesome. Nah, that's only half the battle. They've got to wrestle good, too, which means an arsenal of manly moves, like the piledriver, where you grab your opponent, put their junk in your face (and your face in their junk), and then slam them down between your legs.


Is your heterosexuality tingling? Mine sure is, and it feels good!

Or don't forget the Powerbomb. Only the most sexually secure beefcake can take his opponent, pull them up so their legs are hooked over his shoulders and their junk is right in his face, then slam them down into the mat. And thank god their bulge is there to cushion his delicate face!


Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to be on the receiving end of that?

But this epic war is not over yet. Not by a long shot. You see, after about thirty solid minutes of grabbing and throwing and light slapping, the finale to every fight is the pinning down of your opponent's sweaty body until they submit to your throbbing will.


Now tell us that's not the most badass way for two straight men to settle their differences.

So there you have it, the manliest sport in the whole world. Which means to all you haters, you'd better think twice before you badmouth professional wrestling, because the last thing you want is to face the wrath of an angry wrestling superstar's oiled up, shaven muscles all up in your junk.

Any wrastlin' fans here?

Cheers and stay beefy, folks,
~B&B

Beer: Upslope IPA
Music: Valerie June


Monday, April 7, 2014

Faded Glory Part II: Prom Night Fight Club

In case you missed it because you're new here or too good to read all of our posts or were injecting your last good vein with Mexican black tar heroin, we're reliving a few memories from high school. Last week was Bryan's invitation to prom from a very kooky Mormon girl, and this week... well, this week is prom.

Prom was held at a magically tacky place called Ocean Journey, which was essentially an aquarium/zoo that held all kinds of sealife/wildlife including sharks, otters, and even tigers.

Because nothing quite says prom like a pack of drunken teenagers yelling at wildlife.


As mentioned in the previous installment, Brandon went with the 2002 Colorado women's bodybuilding champion. If anything, because she was really good at opening pickle jars.


Bryan, meanwhile, took a girl that we'll call Ellen. Bryan and Ellen were having a fun time at prom until Ellen spotted her ex boyfriend, who pulled her aside for a very inconspicuous whispering session.






Whispering that seemed to be all about Bryan.


So Bryan grabbed his date a cup of punch (and himself a cup of mental bleach to wash away that lovely image she painted, and yes, she did say all of that) because he figured it was over. It was not; far from it. The ex boyfriend kept talking smack about Bryan to his date, and Bryan was getting quite annoyed by it, if anything because Ellen wasn't doing anything to stop him.




And so Bryan, who had spent the entire night enduring this annoying and disrespectful whispering, channeled his inner gentleman and made a request of his date.


LOL just kidding, he actually said this...


So Ellen decided to finally do something about it. She was going to pull the ex boyfriend aside and tell him to knock it off. Off she went, to defend his honor. And there Bryan stood. And waited. And waited.

10 minutes later, he got tired and decided to see what was taking so long.

It was this.


It seemed they had gone off to a back corner to eat each other's faces, in a public display of groping and making out so brutal that I'm sure one of them chipped a tooth.

Some people in this situation might have been sad. Heartbroken, even. But Bryan had already had a miserable night, and just wanted to be rid of the awful girl and her not-so-ex boyfriend. He also knew that neither Ellen nor her ex had a car, so he hit her where it hurt and told her he was leaving, and they could both have fun walking home together.

Ellen, who claimed that she had just tripped and fallen into his mouth (achoo!), started bawling and simultaneously making that awful "somebody farted" face. We only wish we could capture the true ugliness of this expression. This is the closest we can muster.

ugly cry face

The ex boyfriend, meanwhile, was just mad that his new tongue-hockey buddy was crying. So he did something really stupid. He took a swing at Bryan. And this happened.








...Okay, so it wasn't nearly that cool.

The guy swung, missed by a mile, and started stumbling off balance. Essentially, he tripped. And yes, Bryan could have just let the guy fall and make a fool of himself, but Bryan has what we in the medical industry call a "temper," so he grabbed Mr. Ex Boyfriend by the back of the head as he staggered off balance and guided his face directly into the wall, where his nose burst like a tomato thrown against pavement.

The girl left in tears. So did the ex boyfriend, with a freshly broken nose. And Bryan? Well, he learned two things. First, that prom is vastly overrated. And two, that bitches be trippin'. Figuratively and literally.

How was your high school prom? Couldn't have been any worse than Bryan's, right?

Cheers and stay classy, friends,
B&B

(And a big thank you to the amazingly hilarious and awesome Robyn Engel who reminded me of this great story not too long ago. I mentioned it on her blog and she actually e-mailed me to ask, "Wait, that really happened?"

Yes. It did. High school... good fucking riddance)

Music: Porcupine Tree
Beer: Upslope Craft Lager

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