Monday, January 31, 2011

Dunce-worthy (Part One)

            Every once in a while, I visit my fiancé at work, and read a book to the roomful of jabbering nostril-miners that she oversees. No, she’s not a loony chaser at the local nuthouse; she teaches Second Grade. Read a more in-depth post about me lurking around elementary school’s here. So, today’s post is inspired by that Pokemon-addled warzone known as the Second Grade. I realized that a classroom full of kids is really just a midget version of adult society, and that those adorable little stereotypes we all have at the age of eight are warning signs to the type of social derelict we will ultimately become. So, what are the stereotypes? I counted ten…

Teacher’s Pet – Whether he/she is kissing ass in a classroom or a boardroom, this person is the world’s prison bitch. He is such a suck-up that his ability to tongue siphon a turd is better than any store-bought enema. Possible futures include: Vomitous politician, lifelong office middle-management, intensive extra-credit seeker (Professors may be smart, but many need help understanding the logistics of the blumpkin).

The Class Clown - Revered for his keen implementation of the armpit fart and his exceedingly high tolerance for Ritalyn, the Class Clown is the all-around funny man. Once puberty hits, if this fellow isn’t also highly charming, his dumbfuckery will slowly slide him into the frontrunner position for loserdom. Possible futures include: late-night television host, car salesman, high-school weed peddler, that hilarious dude who jerks off the mayonnaise bottle in-between cooking orders at Applebee’s.

The Bully – Nothing highlights the concept of sharing better than the communal distribution of pain from an abused child. If this heavy-handed young scamp doesn’t expire in prison, or by cirrhosis of the liver, chances are that he will do well for himself. Possible futures include: Corporate executive, steroid-denying professional athlete, Los Angeles police officer, six-pack wife puncher, the heap of dead meat in Drivers Education Road Rage Photo#31484.

            The Geek – Glasses, halitosis, and/or a speech impediment usually demarcate this unfortunate RPG player. His future holds poor spinal posture and excessive amounts of ass time in front of a computer terminal. Possible futures include: Billionaire software designer, lifelong virgin, fervent Star Trek/Star Wars debater, writer. Or he will be bitten by a radioactive cockroach and spend his nights fighting crime in a spandex onesie.

            The Weirdo – As his status as a social oddity grows to be embraced, he will slowly trade his Twilight books and goth make-up for girl jeans and flannel, to epitomize the unsuccessful hipster stab at counter-culture. Possible futures include: intellectualizing the virtues of mocha vs. macchiato, pasty-faced and bearded vato look-alike.
           
That’s it for now. To be concluded on Wednesday…

Remedially yours,

-brandon



Music: Warren Zevon
Beer: Honker’s Ale

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Neighbor Wars

          As Brandon nurses his hangover, I find myself in a different kind of struggle... a struggle that involves some very intolerable neighbors.
           I believe it was the Dalai Lama that said: "We should not seek revenge on those who have committed crimes against us, or reply to their crimes with other crimes. We should reflect that by the law of karma, they are in danger of lowly and miserable lives to come, and that our duty to them, as to every being, is to help them to rise towards Nirvana, rather than let them sink to lower levels of rebirth."
          To which I say... fuck that.
          The family next door has always hated us, and a few days ago, we found out why. They want to buy our townhouse. No, our townhouse is not and has never been for sale, and no, this fact does not seem important to our dear neighbors.
           See, this family, who likes to play the ever popular suburbian game of oneupsmanship, has saved a small fortune to invest in OUR townhouse when they presumably evict us, by yelling at us, belittling us, calling the police on us, and by waking up at 6 in the morning and revving the engine on their crappy little wannabe kit car with no mufflers to wake us up. Their ultimate plan, once we're gone, is to knock down the walls in between, form some sort of retarded townhouse castle, and be the kings of suburbia.
          I wish I was joking.
          So this weekend I'm spending some time plotting my neighborly revenge. Any and all suggestions are welcome, preferably the legal kind, to help me exact this revenge... because I am not selling my house, I'm not going to be fucked with, and there's only room for 1 king in this goddamn castle.
          Oh, and if you want to read more about my asshole neighbors/crappy neighborhood, read my first ever blog post, which gives you a good idea of the dumbfuckery we deal with on a daily basis.

-Bryan

Mood: Irritated
Beer: Sam Adams
Shower: Not quite as hot as my boiling blood

"La la la I can't hear common sense from up here" - the neighbor

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The Sound of Silence

It’s one of those mornings. You know, the gin-and-beer fallout kind, where you wake up with a tuning fork inside your skull and your mouth tastes like the tooth fairy took a shit in it during the night. Yeah, one of those. Not to bitch, though. It was a fair trade. A morning of pain for a night of pleasure kind of thing. Like herpes. But last week was a hell of a week, and despite the headache, I’d do it all over again in a second.

So, instead of spending the rest of my Saturday in a coma, I crawled out of bed and headed to a café. It’s the perfect place to nurse a hangover. Not only because I can drown the beer beast in caffeine, but because I can do so in silence. Even in a room occupied by over a dozen people at any given time, this place is more blissfully silent than a mime orgy. Every face is currently jacked into a laptop or iPhone screen, with its owner impervious to the nuisance of actual human interaction. And today I’m thankful for it.

Let’s be honest. Why would I go to all the trouble of making physical contact with people who are five feet away from me when I can talk to you fine folks all around the world without even straining my tongue muscles? It hurts my head less. Score one for technology? Right? With that, I bid you all a groovy weekend. Funnier words coming from me on Monday, when I explain the importance of Second Grade, and the likelihood that your first crush wound up becoming a prostitute. 

-Brandon

Music: Stone Temple Pilots

Friday, January 28, 2011

How To Enjoy a Beer in the Shower

So our good friend Das Auto posed a great question yesterday in the comments section.

"As much as I would like to entertain the notion of drinking a beer in the shower, I'm a bit skeptical of this concept.

First of all, the issue of temperature is a rather prominent concern of mine. I need my beer *ice* cold for the purpose of maximum enjoyment of the beverage, but I need my shower absurdly hot to enjoy being pelted with water. I could see the conflicting temperatures being problematic.

Second of all, where do I put the beer? My bathroom doesn't seem designed for this type of activity. The soap dish is awkwardly shaped, and the side of the shower is too narrow. Putting it on the bathroom counter would work in a pinch, but then I'd have to exit the shower to retrieve it when I want a sip. This would cause me to get the floor all wet! I don't feel inclined to hold the beer while showering because this decreases my self-cleaning efficiency drastically, not to mention the heat-transfer I mentioned earlier.

So as you can see, I'm having difficulty figuring this out. How does one properly drink a beer in the shower?"

This is a fantastic question. Regardless of whether we’re celebrating an achievement or drowning out our sorrows, nothing's worse than a warm, soggy beer. So here are some thoughts on how each of us knocks back a cold one in the shower. 

Brandon
I’ll spare the specifics on the routine scrubbing of my manly bits (an arduous job, I’ll attest to), and focus on my personal strategy for enjoying a shower beer.
Personally, I prefer to park my beer next to the shampoo, as it provides a nice splash barrier, or beericade, just in case things get a little out of control with my loofah. Yes, I have a loofah. Kiss my well-Irish Spring-ed ass.
There’s no real strategy here. I try my best not to fill the bottle with tap water. But, alas, I’m in a shower. It happens. I sip, I get clean, and I get the hell out. Especially considering the pitiful amount of hot water available to me.
As always, Safety First.
If I was feeling particularly reckless, I’d probably pack a sippy cup. Who cares if I look like an overgrown, drunken toddler? It’s either that, or foray into the land of aluminum, but I’m just not a big fan of canned beer. But, if I had a feeble grip, or was prone to hydronarcolepsy, I guess there wouldn’t be much choice. However, suffering from either of those, I’d say my most pertinent worry would be to avoid prison showers.

Bryan
            My usage is best explained with pictures (no naked shower pictures, ladies, sorry).

The shower caddy:
                Don't drink the Head and Shoulders, k? That shit burns.
            Brandon brought up a good point in utilizing the shower caddy. However, it must be a fairly big shower caddy. (There are good prices at Target for the perfect caddy.) Big enough, anyway, to not seep shower water into your precious, precious beer. We're drinking Sam Adams, not Keystone Light (the water of beers). No water allowed.

Great, you might as well be drinking a Coors Light with all of that water drowning out your beer. Never do this.
                Also, depending on how drunk you are, you run the risk of drinking your shampoo or soap. Always Shower Responsibly.
                Speaking of soap,don't forget the soap dish. This is an equally terrible place to put your beer.
This thing already makes you look like an asshole when you try to reach for your soap and the bar just slips off. You want the same thing happening to your beer? This sweet liquid of the gods is for your mouth, not for the drain. Never put your beer here either.

So where can you put your beer? Well, unless you want to wash yourself with one hand, you have to be creative. If you don't care about looking classless, which might already apply if you're drinking in the shower, there's the infamous beer on the toilet trick.

What? You're not drinking OUT of the toilet. You're just using it as a big porcelain coaster. As long as you don't lick the bottom of the bottle like a retard, you're going to be fine.

             Ultimately, how you shower with a beer depends completely on your bathroom/shower setup, which is entirely unique. So while I can't give Das Auto a definitive answer, I can say that creativity goes a long way. Especially if you want to reach for a really, really cold beer, but don't want it to get warmed up by your hot shower. How do I do it? I accomplish this by utilizing what makes us different from the animals, the ability to make and use tools.

  The ever classy cardboard box stand, with an empty Kleenex box full of ice. Judge all you want, but the beer stays cold, and my shower stays nice and toasty warm.

So, how else would you guys shower with your beer, and what's your alcoholic drink of choice (shower or otherwise)?

Mood: Accomplished
Music: Stevie Wonder (Bryan) The Rolling Stones (Brandon)
Shower: Tasty as hell

Warning: We are both idiots, and wholeheartedly admit this. Do not attempt to drink in the shower without first consulting your doctor, or some other legal shit  that keeps us off the hook if you hurt your dumb ass. Basically, we're not held liable for any awful mishap you have if you attempt this.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Thought of the Day

As Bryan fights the evil/mythical unemployment monster, who's trying to screw him over, and Brandon fights whatever Brandon fights (Anorexia? Poverty? Bear sharks?) the two of us leave but a small posting today, brought to you by a beer we both enjoy, Dos Equis Amber.



So if you haven't yet, grab your favorite brew, hop into a warm shower, and soak up the joy of knowing that while you're not the most interesting man (or woman) in the world, at least there's not much harm you can do to another person while drunk in the shower. Now, yourself on the other hand...

Cheers,

Bryan and Brandon

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Douchey McDoucherton

            So your good friend Bryan probably isn’t welcomed in Advance Auto Parts anymore.
            No, this isn’t a story that involves gratuitous nudity (or is it?) or shoplifting, this was just me trying to get a new battery for my baby today. I don’t talk about this much, but I have 3 cars, in addition to the one my fiancé has (which I now claim partial ownership of, since I took over maintenance). I like to be modest about the whole thing. Unemployed? Yes. Bad with money? No. When I’m not driving my getaway car, I also have a Mustang GT I got myself for a birthday present 2 years ago as homage to my dad, who had one of these bad boys in Wimbledon White when he was younger.

             “I have over 400 horsepower when my battery works. When it doesn’t… closer to zero.”   >:(

            So I went to start it today and the battery was dead. I tried to jump it with my Audi, but no luck still. The battery’s only 2 years old, so I hopped on over to Advance Auto Parts to swap it out under warranty.
            Easy, right? Of-fucking-course not.
            The old guy behind the counter tests the battery and says that it has absolutely no juice in it, but might hold a charge. I said it won’t; I tried. He says he’ll grab me a new one, but first he’ll look up my warranty info. Unfortunately, he can’t find my information in the computer. He even scans my old, beatup receipt from 2 years ago, and there’s nothing. He needs help from the manager, who’s over in the corner talking with someone else.
            So bring in the douchey manager. Yeah, you know the type. Mid 20’s, spiked hair, soul patch that screams, “See, I have a tiny muff of facial hair, take me seriously in life.” He’s over 6 feet tall and lucky if he weighs 120 lbs, and is 99% likely to wear man panties aka whitey tighties and pick his nose when people aren’t looking.
            So our first introduction is him asking me about the battery. “It’s toast,” I say. “Won’t hold a charge.” His professional estimate dickish assumption is that I don’t take care of my car well enough, and he doubts the battery is bad. Meanwhile I’m holding my tongue, because I just want my (goddamned) free battery.
            He then marches back to the battery testing machine, rips the paper report out, and says to the old guy who’s been helping me, “What the hell? This isn’t a dead battery. It just has no charge. I bet you ANYTHING if I hooked this up to a trickle charger it would be 100% fine.”
            The old man, who’s embarrassed by this, says that he knew this. And I say, “Actually, I charged it with my other car and it still wouldn’t start up afterwards.”
            Douchey McDoucherton is now typing furiously on the computer, trying to look up my receipt, using the same methods the old guy did. Apparently he thinks that by typing in the exact same thing, he'll get different results. I already hate him. I bet he goes home and masturbates to animal porn.
             "Oh, well there's your answer," he says, about me jump starting my Mustang with another car. "You NEVER do that. Ever."
             He's still pecking at the computer, not looking at me at all.
             After some awkward silence, I ask, "Uhhh, okay, so what was I supposed to do instead?"
             He rolls his eyes, which are still locked on the computer, and says, "You hook it up to a soft charger and charge it gently for a little bit. It's common sense."
            Common sense my asshole. I want to use my jiu jitsu and put him in a triangle choke until his eyes pop like bubblewrap... but first, my (goddamn motherfucking) battery.
            Finally! -- I get my receipt and my free battery, aka my chance to speak. Even now I'm not looking at being terribly dickish, but I'm not going to be walked all over.
            "For future reference, the smugness wasn't appreciated. I've never had a problem jumping a car and I don't think a 'soft charger' really is common sense."
            He rolls his eyes yet again and says, "Well maybe you should learn more about cars."
            So let me preface this by saying that what I said was pompous, arrogant, and equally dickish. But before you judge, just remember that every single one of you have done this at one point in your life; that moment when you're in a verbal fight with, well, anyone, and both of you are really upset, and you want to be the one to take it to the next level. You just want to say the most barbarically hurtful thing you can. You know what I'm talking about, that moment in the fight where you tell your spouse that you faked liking their burnt lasagna. Where you tell your best friend his girlfriend was a whore before she met him. Where you tell your mom she was a shitty parent. Don't pretend you don't know about this.
            So as I'm walking toward the door, cradling the battery in my elbows, I scour my brain for the most dickish thing I can say and lay down this little gem.
            "So what's it like knowing that I own 4 cars worth more than you make in a year? Or maybe 2 years? Is that what it's like to be at the bottom? You act like cocky shit, but guess what dipshit, you're the manager of an auto parts store. Congratu-fucking-lations, you failed at life."
             And as I leave, cradling the battery in my elbows, I give the classic slow, sarcastic clap. He's saying something about me getting the fuck out, but I don't care.
             I've won. Oh, and I guess I need to find another parts store. Totally worth it, though.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Avenged
Beer: None yet, but need one badly
Shower: Great for washing off this smug sense of self satisfaction

                    (click for sarcastic, slow animation)

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

An Occasion for Pants

            Today, I’m proud of myself. And not just for the usual reasons. Not simply because I remembered to put on underwear, or happened not to strangle myself while flossing. And even though I didn’t eat paint chips, get pancaked by a bus, or succumb to the Freudian urge to fondle myself in public either, still I couldn’t be more self-satisfied. No, today I reached above and beyond the mere call of living and managed to do something useful with myself. Today I made good words. No, not these ones. I wrote my first words of fiction in almost a month, and it feels fucking great.
I know what you’re thinking. Congratulations, jackass, you’re a writer, or at least one of the millions of people who wear the crusty nametag. Nonetheless, today, I’m king of the world and couldn’t feel like more of a pimp if I were sporting a fur-trimmed pink suit and Bedazzled platform shoes, and standing next to Rick Moranis for contrast.  
In the spirit of feeling good… a crappy picture to illustrate why most writers shouldn’t draw. Are you listening, Frank Miller? Enjoy.
It seems like we’ve been getting a lot of e-love from our readers lately. And, if there’s one good thing about e-love, it’s that you can’t catch syphilis from it, unless you’re pretty damn creative, or have a habit of watching scheisse porn at the public library. Today in particular we got the LOL Award from the always awesome Blah Coo Coo Blah. She's a great blogger and you should visit her page, otherwise she might exact Mormon Boyz porn Photoshop revenge on you. Ouch.


Anyhow, listen up and don’t drop the soap, because Bryan and I have decided to share a little love of our own. We’d like to give a shout out to our friend Kirk Farber, whose first novel, Postcards From a Dead Girl (groovy title, no?) was released in 2010 by the good folks at Harper Perennial. If you get a chance, I recommend dropping by your local book dispensary and nabbing a copy, because it’s a great book. Kirk’s okay too. Check him out at his Website, his Blog, and his Amazon.com page.

From Left: Blog co-drinkers (not co-showerers) Brandon and Bryan…and Kirk.

Cheers,

-brandon

Music: Hurt, Goodbye to the Machine
Beer: Honker’s Ale, miraculously turned into Stella Artois

Monday, January 24, 2011

The Assistant (an Erotic Thriller)


 Like Jason Statham in the Transporter, who’s a a big, burly, buff martial artist who kicks ass, breaks necks, and screams around town in his black Audi, I, too... drive a black Audi.
So when I was called upon to drive around a rich executive’s pretty young assistant, I gladly accepted. 

                               "I don't see any documents, but I think I see my Rolex."
 
"When does the job start?" I asked.
"Now," said the voice on the other end of the line, right as the phone clicked and I got an earful of dialtone.
The girl was in the trunk. Don’t ask me why, but girls are always stored in trunks. I keep mine in a basement because it’s darker and harder to escape (modern cars have that stupid trunk release from the inside that makes it easy to get out, complete with hilarious diagram), but whatever. She clambered up into the passenger seat, none too happy to be there.
“You need to drive, now,” she instructed, in a Russian or Polish or maybe Ukrainian accent. I would have asked her which one, but they always seem so damned hurt over that, like I should CLEARLY know the difference between a Russian woman and a Polish woman and a Ukrainian woman and a woman from the southern tip of Uzbekistan.
Anyways.
“We’re being pursued,” she told me, calmly, eyes darting back over her shoulder with great urgency. “We’re being chased by Russian mobsters that want my father, who is a major political figure, dead, and me, his unnaturally hot daughter (considering he’s an ugly old man) is wanted dead also. Naturally, my father’s henchmen paired me up with you, an attractive driver in my same generic age range who will be more likely to sexually connect with me at the end of this. Oh, also… we need to go to King Soopers for some Lucky Charms and frozen breakfast burritos for your brother in law.”
You said a mouthful, sister.
I slammed the car into first gear, the turbo gave a not-so-manly whistle, and we zipped off to King Soopers.
Sure enough, they were waiting for me in the breakfast aisle—four Russian goons with foreheads like canyon walls and eyebrows thicker and furrier than Robin Williams armhair. They were ugly motherfuckers, and they were mad at me for wanting to bring their sworn enemy some food. With five, yeah five big muscleheads between me and Lucky the Leprechaun, I took off my Armani jacket, handed it to the assistant, and stepped into action (can’t dirty up the jacket).
The first goon was fed a hearty meal of knuckle sandwich, which sent him into a bargain bin of knock off cereals. The second one I kicked in the junk so hard his testicles exploded.
Clean up on aisle three, bitches.
The third and the fourth were more work, because they each grabbed an arm of my button up shirt and pulled with all of their might. Apparently the buttons on my $200 shirt are of poor quality, because they ripped and the shirt came clean off, exposing the glistening, well oiled muscles beneath. This always happens to me. WTF? I need higher quality shirts.
I guess you could say that that day I dressed.... to kill.
The two remaining goons, of the six that had showed up (yes, six), were twins, and I’ll be damned if those two didn’t both look like Louie Anderson; they were fat, gap-toothed, pedophile looking motherfuckers with greasy hair and grating, nasally voices that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and they both came at me hard as the first Louie Anderson said to me, “You’re mine, bitch.”
I delivered to the two of them a single roundhouse kick so deadly it's currently being studied as a way to fuel rocket ships by NASA, and sent their now dead bodies into a coffin of Crunchberries. I felt sorry for the poor sap who was going to have to clean this mess up.
Later, in the car, the assistant wanted to thank me.
"I want to make love to you," she said, in a sultry tone that would have been more sultry if she didn't have that weird eastern European accent, the one that makes everything sound like a hard consonant. It was like getting seduced by Hitler. "But I am betrothed to be married on this day next week, to the evil warlord my dad is in business with, even though I want nothing to do with him."
"Oh, that's cool," I told her. "I'm engaged, and my fiance's pretty damn hot. Plus, tonight is taco night, and I don't want to be late for tacos."
And so we made our getaway in the black Audi, back to her boss to drop off the goods, and go figure, he was mad that it took so long. We both figured it was best to keep our mouths shut, but if only he knew the lengths we went through to get that sugary marshmallow cereal.
If only he knew.
Mmmm, taco night.


Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Exhausted from all that ass kicking
Beer: Sam Adams Noble Pils
Shower: How do you get the blood of dead Russians out of your hair? Asking for a friend.


 The author's car, between ass kickings, when it's running (which is not often, goddamn Germans)

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Us? Busy? Who Knew?


Today we've got a special treat for you. It's the A Beer for the Shower take on one of our favorite old nursery rhymes. We call it Jack and Jill (and Zombies). Enjoy.



Jack and Jill went to the still,
To fetch a pail of liquor.
Jack got drunk and suddenly thunk
How much he’d like to stick ‘er.




Jack grabbed his sister and tried to kiss her
But fell in a vat of whiskey
Poor Jack drowned in an ocean of Crown
Proving incest is always quite risky




Jill staggered home feeling very alone
But the man in the vat wasn’t gone
Dead Jack climbed out and staggered about
Feeling hungry for brains to om nom nom




Jack did search, and home he did lurch,
Seeking out Jill’s sweet noggin;
She was in bed, with her big tasty head,
Snoring like lumberjacks loggin'.



 When Jack came in how he did grin
For a brain parfait from his mademoiselle,
But Jill’s shotgun blast to his undead ass
Blew zombie Jack straight to hell.


THE END

There you have it. An instant classic with which to put the kids to bed. Remember children, no matter how drunk you may be, it's always handy to keep a twelve gauge Remington under your pillow in case of the zombie apocalypse. Oh, and don't feel up your siblings.

In other non-incest related news, we'll soon be launching a Kickstarter campaign to help fund production of A Beer for the Shower: The Animated Series, because apparently a high quality animated series takes more than $18.32 (our bank accounts. Combined) to make happen. We're really looking forward to it, and will keep you posted when the campaign goes live. Lots of fun prizes up for grabs. "Slave-labor Brandon" may or may not be one of them.

Cheers and stay classy, friends,

B&B

Beer: Breckenridge Vanilla Porter
Music: Tedeschi Trucks Band

- Old Post -

 Today's post is a shortie but a goodie subpar...ie. Both of us have been extremely busy (I know, who knew?) but as a tease, I can assure you that I have a great story coming soon. For you see, my soon to be brother in law is in town, the retardedly rich one, and as he has no car, I'm officially his chauffeur. Because he's also the type to work on his computer programs until he goes unconscious, I am proud to say that today I (no joke) bought this 32 year old man a box of Lucky Charms in the hopes that he would actually feed himself. Apparently it worked. He's an interesting cat with a lot of enemies (and a big ass bodyguard to prove it), so my job as driver has been, well, interesting as hell.
           What I've told you so far is genuinely real. The story to come... well, there's probably going to be pirates and ninjas and deadly female Russian spies with boobs so big they qualify as weapons. But what else is an overactive imagination supposed to do when I've been driving to Qdoba and King Soopers all day?
            Also, as my last thought, I imagine that one of these days I'm going to encounter something absolutely magnificient that's 100% real... and you guys are never going to believe a bit of it.
            But fuck it. This is too much fun.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Friday, January 21, 2011

Who Dropped The Ice-9?

           
When it was just past noon today I glanced at the porch thermometer, its needle pointing to the zero degree (F) mark like an indignant middle finger (I’d be indignant if I had to work outdoors in this shit too). And it got me to thinking…blankets are awesome. Yep, that’s it. Welcome to the cotton poly-blended platitudes of my existence. Actually, it made me stop and realize why my damned heating bill is so expensive.

            My apartment building was erected somewhere toward the early end of the last century, and stays about as warm inside as an Eskimo whorehouse. Which I guess isn’t a problem if you’re used to shagging in a parka and can make your own polar-bear-skin Trojans. This guy, however, needs to find a way to make his apartment feel a little less like an igloo. And yes, I know igloos are actually warm inside, but just roll with it eh? Maybe I just don’t like the whole ice-block motif. Bad feng shui or something.

So, in that spirit, what other techniques do folks use to regularly battle the elements? Here are a couple others that came to mind:
1.  Trash can fire – This method is tried and true for the boxcar crowd. It does the double duty of taking out the garbage and providing a nice open flame for heating up a can of pork ’n beans. Its genius is in its simplicity. Trash goes in, fire comes out. Sadly, if I tried to use this in my apartment, I’d be dead in five minutes from smoke inhalation.

2. Animal skins – Since the hockey team here in Chicago has the flattering head of the Redman for a mascot, I assume that Native Americans formerly resided in this lakeside icebox (before all that silly genocide business). And if there’s anything I learned from Dances With Wolves, it’s that bear pelt never goes out of style, and that you can never trust a guy with a mohawk and an axe, especially if he says he’s a barber. Sure, there’s not much wildlife in the city these days, but I suppose I could skin a few gorillas in the Lincoln Park Zoo. Or maybe a few dozen of the ten thousand Pit Bulls in my neighborhood. Furry wallpaper would be fun, and functionally insulating.
           
            Since my fingers are going numb punching keys, those are the only ones I could come up with offhand. Does anybody else have any good ideas?

Cheers,
-brandon



Beer: Green Line (Goose Island)
Music: Manchester Orchestra
Shower: Like getting a golden shower from Frosty the Snowman

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Papa’s Got a Brand New Suit


            As evident by yesterday’s post, I’ve never been one for good style. Minus the mullet, which I ditched in favor of some ‘trendy’ bed-head hairstyle that’s just my way of never combing my hair, 20 years have passed and I still don’t have a clue what to buy myself for clothes.
            For that, I either turn to Meli, or pretty much any guy that looks like this.
            Or maybe Meli's brother. Her brother has a great sense of style. He’s also gay, but he doesn’t look anything like that fruitball above, and he was once my size. Now on some bodybuilding kick (kill it with fire, kill it with fire), he’s gone from a S/M to a L/XL, and has also left behind a lot of clothes, as we recently discovered while cleaning out our storage room.
            So imagine my excitement when I see a big, tall cardboard box labeled ‘old clothes.’ My first thought: rocket ship! ... My second thought: hey, some cool new clothes! Meli’s brother isn’t going to miss them. He’s a big ass musclehead now (kill it with fire, seriously, kill it with fire).
            First, I pull out a few nice dress shirts and some polos. Score! Some new pants after that. Cool! I even get a new leather jacket. Beautiful! Put on this baby, and I’m only a soul patch away from looking like this douchebag (okay maybe I won’t keep the leather jacket).
            But then I pull it out: a big, stupid looking black bag that really just looks like a bodybag with a hanger on it. It reads 'Armani' on the top.
            “What is this, an Armani bag?” I ask Meli, with a laugh.
            “Yeah,” she tells me. “Of course it is.”
            I’m about to throw it away, when she stops me. “Don’t you want to look inside?”
            I think, why would I want to look inside? And then she tells me.
            “The bag is to hold a suit, you know. There’s probably a suit inside.”
            My expression.
            Inside: a full, custom tailored Armani suit. What’s more, it fits like a glove, which means that it won’t even come close to fitting Meli’s brother, who now looks like this (why can’t it be killed with fire? Is it immune to fire? Oh God I think it has 4 boobs. It’s like it has boobs on TOP of boobs).
            So I present to you, my friends, quite possibly the world’s first grungy, unemployed blogger... with an Armani suit.

 
                                 (Note my Super Mario Bros. belt buckle, for full effect)

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: In disbelief
Beer: Amstel
Shower: Gonna need one if I’m gonna James Bond up some shit later  

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

A Cringe-Worthy Look Into the Past

            Now that Brandon is back from fighting the Morlocks, we both wanted to take a moment to let you guys get to know more about the real us. Some people have been having confusion over who’s who, as we both trade off posting, so here’s an earnest attempt to distinguish the two of us. Firstly, a lot of people have implied that we’re brothers.

                                           (Bryan, left, Brandon, on the right)
           
No, we are not brothers. We are not even Eskimo brothers. Our brotherhood is purely metaphorical, as I, Bryan, have known Brandon since we were in elementary school. That's a long time, right? So for today, let’s take a trip back way back to ~1990, when mullets were king and cassette tapes were just fucking ‘radical.’
            I’ll start.


             Ah, look at that little goober. Yep, that’s me (Bryan) at the tender age of “5”, or “6”, or “fuck it, just kill it with fire.” No, ol’ Billy Ray wasn’t my hero, but my parents, who I’ve deduced are both sick, sick people, thought this hairstyle would be a great choice for me. In my defense, I didn’t look as bad as this ass-kicking magnet, but still… whoever gave my dad a pair of scissors should be sent to the electric chair.
            Look at how fucking happy I was. Was it the greasy rat tail? Was it the oversized Mickey Mouse sweater? Who knows. All I know is that looking at that, I’m surprised I’m sitting here blogging and didn’t devote my life to pushing over cows, spitting into buckets, and eating paint chips. Where’s the square-brimmed John Deere hat? Where’s the PBR and the appearance on Maury?
By some miracle I managed to turn out half way decent, and I’d like to think I’ve made a lot of progress in life. Like, back in the time that picture was taken I was sitting around in my pajamas, laughing at poop jokes, playing Dig Dug on my Nintendo, and today, I sit here unemployed, in my underwear, laughing at poop jokes, playing Dig Dug on my Nintendo…
But at least I don’t have a fucking mullet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hullo peoples. Brandon here. And I’m starting to have my doubts about this blast from the past nonsense now that I’m rooting through old photos. Judging by the evidence, while every kid has an awkward phase, mine spanned the entire decade between age six and sixteen. Looking at that picture of wee Bryan in a mullet almost makes it worthwhile for me posting the following. Almost.


I dub this epic snapshot “Nerdy Harry Potter on Holiday.”  
And I officially vote my eight-year-old ass off the island. First off, what am I doing…making kissy faces at the camera? I choose to believe that I was envisioning a partially nude 90's swimsuit model on the other end of that camera, and not an elderly family member.
The glasses, sadly, I have no excuse for. I just thought tiger-print brown plastic was awesome. Good call, right?
So, you may ask, what the hell was I doing, anyway? While the sunken cheeks, the forest, and canteen may lead you to believe I was some sort of pasty-faced refugee from The Lord of the Flies, it was nothing so exciting. Just a weekend camping trip. But from the look of it, at least I was well prepared for the outing. Besides the canteen and the forty pound pack I recall lugging around, you can clearly see my emergency whistle, which successfully kept me from getting lost…or raped by a bear.
And, yes that is an Orlando Magic t-shirt. Leave it to the scrawny white kid to pick the worst team in basketball to flaunt in public.
Well, we hope you’ve enjoyed this little glimpse into the dark nether regions of posterity. And, after looking at these two socially awkward little goons, hopefully now you have a better understanding of the literary misfits that became of them.

Cheers and stay classy, friends,

Brandon and Bryan


Music: The Fratellis (I'm listening to them too, how gay --Bryan)
Beer: Amber Bock (Bryan)
Mood: Eager to fly off to Hogwarts (Brandon)
Shower: Just the perfect way to wash out my greasy ass mullet (Bryan)

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

How Brandon Got Food Poisoning

So, there I was, mostly inebriated and walking home with a box of Chicago’s best pizza. I’d almost made it to my building when a scabby green arm reached out of a storm drain, jerked me into a snowy face-plant, and heinously snatched my sausage and spinach pie.
Armed only with my hip flask and my grumbling stomach, I dove into the gutter drain to rescue my dinner from certain subterranean doom. I chased the thief down narrowing sewer tunnels, oblivious to the many rats and Cleveland Steamers mashed underfoot. Finally, I caught up to him and tackled the mutant bastard. It took a minute to register that his extra appendages weren’t just a figment of my Jack Daniels-soaked brain. Four arms, six eyes, one pizza: nope, definitely a mutant. He may have had two more fists to swing, but even that wasn’t enough to match the strength of a drunk with the munchies. I whooped his ass and reclaimed my heavenly dinner, only to be subsequently trapped by his friends.
From what I could understand of their jibber jabber, the pizza thief was King of the mutant people. And apparently His Highness took particular offense to having each of his thieving hands stuffed into one of his own bodily orifices. I know, he deserved it, right? Touchy folks, those mutant bastards. My choices were slim; I wasn’t sure I could fight my way out. There were a lot of them. At least, there appeared to be a lot of them, what with all the excess arms and legs. Radiation is a bitch. So, I was made to do underground battle with their fiercest warrior, Testocles, the man with twenty-one balls. Unfortunately for him, it’s not easy to hide such a large sack of nuts, and I dropped that mo-fo with a swift Judo chop. Hai-ya, bee-yotch!
After the mutant smackdown, I came home, kicked back, and chomped on some pizza. As a result of eating sewer food, I’m pretty sure I got food poisoning. And that’s why I’ve been gone from the blog for three days.
It may have all been a hallucination, but, there you have it. Thanks to Bryan for keeping the blog updated, and for all of his sympathies. Fucker.
Also, in regards to Bryan’s last post, for those of you wondering exactly who the hell MLK is, and why he has his own holiday…good question. I looked it up. According to Wikipedia, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was some kind of rabble rouser here in the States, who is now annually famous for giving Americans a day off of work. Woo hoo! Kidding. He was a civil rights leader who did a lot for social equality. And who knows, if the world doesn’t nuke the shit out of itself within the next few decades, his Dream may actually gain some real traction.

Cheers!

-brandon

Music: The Kooks
Beer: Honker’s Ale (Goose Island)

Monday, January 17, 2011

Have a Gay MLK Day

            Happy MLK day, everyone, or to us unemployed, Happy Why Is Everyone Off Today? Oh, Right, MLK Day, No I’m Not Racist I Just Don’t Look At My Calendar That Much, I’m Not From the South and I Vote Democrat So Back The Fuck Off… Day.
            (Which is a lot easier to just say as MLK Day)
            I’d also like to take a moment to thank the very awesome Kara Hoag for bestowing upon Brandon and I the Stylish Blog Award, which is a huge honor simply because as I sit here in my unemployment uniform, I can’t imagine why on God’s green earth she would relate ‘Stylish’ and ‘me’ in the same sentence. But regardless, thank you so much, Kara, and if you get a chance, check her out. She’s got a great blog and I’m not just saying that out of obligation.


            Apparently when accepting this award, you have to give out 3 secrets to the essence of being yourself, which kinda sounds like payback for yesterday’s post. So here goes.

1. Writing. On days that I don’t write, I’m unpleasant to be around. On days that I do write… I’m still unpleasant to be around. So maybe there’s not really a correlation here, and I’m not sure what I was originally getting at.

2. Alcohol. Whether it’s the cheap stuff or the fancy stuff, nothing helps me unwind like a good drink. I like to try everything just once. In fact, I have always wanted to try moonshine, and I don’t care if it tastes like paint thinner. It’s all about the experience. My drink of choice: Johnnie Walker Black and Coke. As the old adage goes, I like my whiskey like I like my women—12 years old and mixed up with Coke.

3. Physical activity. Some people are content to amorphously melt into the fibers of their couch, but I like to run, and lift weights, and do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Jiu Jitsu, btw, has a bad rap for being a ‘gay’ sport. But I ask you, what’s so ‘gay’ about wrestling with another guy, bending each other's legs in awkward positions, trying to pin him down until he submits to you?

Shit. Nevermind.

Anyways, Brandon’s still out sick today, so wish him a speedy recovery so he can get back to writing and get back to blogging, aka take a huge weight off of my shoulders.

Blogging is serious business! What’s your guys’ secret to being interesting every single day? I’m lucky if I’m interesting on a weekly basis.

Till next time,
Bryan

Mood: Gay (not what it sounds like)
Beer: On hold while I enjoy the taste of my good friend Johnnie (not what it sounds like)
Shower: Much needed after a long day of grabbing dudes (...goddammit)


  

Sunday, January 16, 2011

The 4 Keys to Being Brandon

            Hey guys. Today’s post will be a little short because I'm feeling kinda sick, so I'm just going to simply call this the 4 essential key points of what it is to be Brandon.

Point number 1

After a long, hard day at work, there’s really nothing more satisfying than coming home to my apartment, curling up around the fireplace, and doing a lethal amount of meth.

Point number 2

I don’t have to drink my own urine. I just do. All that black tar heroin really dries out my mouth.

Point number 3

I’ve often asked myself, Brandon, are you happy with the female sex? And to answer that honestly, I don’t know. I’ve often thought of switching teams. I experimented a lot in college with an elderly gentleman named Murray, and he taught me a lot about life. And love. And forced intercourse. To this day I can’t watch Grumpy Old Men without sporting an erection. Walter Matthau had some amazing jowls.

Point number 4 (and the most important point of all)

Brandon is out sick today… and Bryan, well, he’s a sick bastard. So he posted this in Brandon’s honor.

Filling in for Brandon,
(and stay classy, folks)
Bryan

Brandon’s Mood: Sick (and possibly embarrassed)
Brandon’s Music: Taylor Swift
Brandon’s Shower: Lonely without Murray :(


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