The Epic Road Trip of Epic Awesomeness

          So as this is posted (thanks to the automatic posting feature on Blogger) and very likely as you read this, Brandon and I will be in a car, making our way from Chicago to Denver. It's an 18 hour road trip, with a stop in Lincoln, Nebraska. Now, I know what you're thinking, epic road trip, right? Something like this?

2 HOURS LATER...

          And... it ultimately ends in our epic, fiery deaths. Now, cool as that sounds, road trips are never like that. Especially not ones that pass through Nebraska. No, this is pretty much how things are going to go down...

       

         Sadly, both end in our fiery deaths. Reality is much less epic, though. Anyway, pray for our safe journey and we'll see you back here on Thursday. In the meanwhile, you can also follow us on Twitter where we'll be tweeting about our road trip live. Till then... fuck Nebraska. No, really.

-Bryan and Brandon

Beer: Not unless we want a DUI
Music: 18 hours of Glee-related show-tunes (actually, if we listened to this, I'd steer the car off a fucking cliff myself)

Dollar Menu Time Travel

       A while back our friend Mark over at The Rambling Person asked for suggestions for a short story to write, and being the jackasses we are, we came up with a premise so ridiculous that Mark dared us to write it instead. Not one to back down from a challenge, we accepted. Our suggestion:

 

And thus, we give you Dollar Menu Time Travel:

          

            There once was a nice young hippie fellow named Jeff. Aside from his occasional dalliance with mind-altering substances, Jeff was a fairly level-headed guy. He lived in Boulder, Colorado with his soul partner Delilah, and played his bongo drums for money as a professional street musician. Delilah would dance along too, interpreting with her boisterous gyrations his rhythmic hammering of the drums.

Jeff was actually a fairly terrible drummer.

But, then again, Delilah was deaf. So the show still always wound up being pretty entertaining.

One day, while Jeff pounded the skins on a sidewalk corner and Delilah did her best interpretation of a spastic epileptic, a passerby tossed a small package into the milk jug which was currently doubling as the ‘tip jar.’ Since there weren’t any bills in there to cushion the fall, it landed with a plop.

Jeff stopped playing and plucked the package out while his ladyfriend continued to wiggle around in her many flowery skirts.

“Hey, cool,” he proclaimed, tugging at her skirt. “Look at what the Universe just gave to us, Delilah. It’s a taco.”

No sooner had he peeled back the paper wrapper than was there a terrible shriek. The taco leaped to its feet (yes, feet!) and clutched the wrapper like a woman who’d just spotted a peeping tom in the window. “The nerve of you, sir! I’ll have you know, just because my meat is hanging out, this isn’t a free show.” The taco quickly folded the square of paper into a little pair of shorts.

Jeff furrowed his brow, stroked his scraggly beard. Had he not just smoked an entire half pound of skanky ditchweed, he probably would have wondered how it was possible that he’d just been chastised by a walking, talking taco. However, his lone current thought was much simpler.

“Lookit those tiny little pants! Look at that, Delilah. Have you ever seen pants so small?”

Delilah twirled and swirled onward.

The taco crossed its arms (yes, arms!) and scowled. “You were going to…to eat me, weren’t you? You monster. I’ve got a date tonight.” The taco rubbed its lettuce, considering the foolish hippie. “I know just what to do with you.” He snapped his crispy little fingers and all of a sudden the trio was sitting in the middle of a cobblestone road in 16^th century London.

“Welcome to London, you ravenous jerk!” the taco said.

“Wow,” Jeff said, amazed. “London? I’ve never been to New England before.”

“No, you fool. This is London in the year of 1563. There is no New England, yet!”

Jeff stared at the taco blankly as a man in a top hat and coattails skirted them with a hankie over his mouth.

The taco’s tomatoes reddened. “We are in the past, you dimwit! As in, no fast food, no television, no automobiles.”

“Yes!” Jeff shouted, as he dodged a horse-drawn carriage. “A city with no ozone-killing cars! Man, New England is awesome.” He turned to step right in a pile of horseshit. He looked down at his foot, sniffed it, and grinned. “Hey, cool. There’s all sorts of fertilizer here too.”

Delilah continued to pirouette. She’d already long-since figured out that Jeff was no longer playing music, but didn’t really much care, as dancing was her life.

“No!” the taco screamed, now irate. “This is not New England! And you are not supposed to be enjoying it! This country is being ravaged by an outbreak of the plague, for God’s sake. And what are you doing? You’re sniffing shit, that’s what you’re doing.”

Jeff put down his moccasin and stared at the pissed off taco for a long moment. “Hey, Delilah. Check it out. A taco!”

“You, you unhand me you vile beast!” But the taco’s cries were muffled as its crunchy skull (yes, a taco skull!) was mashed up between Jeff’s teeth and swallowed.

“Mmm…that’s a mighty fine taco, baby.” He offered half of the remaining taco corpse to Delilah with a grin. “Here, have some.”

Delilah stopped moving for the first time that hour to inspect the snack. She leaned down to sniff at it and frowned at Jeff, waggling a finger. She pointed to the taco meat, which was green and rancid. Unfortunately, Jeff had been too high to realize that his time-traveling taco was unfit for human consumption. The meat, unbeknownst to Jeff, was also plague-ridden rat meat. Which was kind of a bummer, because Jeff’s stomach was starting to feel a little queasy.

He ran off to find something to barf in while Delilah shrugged, spun on her toes, and began to dance once again. This time, using a mix between Salsa and ghetto booty shaking, she used her rhythm to interpret what an utter fucking fool her now dying boyfriend was.

A gentleman with a cane strolled past and dropped a penny in the tip jar. And that man... was Leonardo da Vinci.

Cheers,

-Brandon (and Bryan)

Beer: Breckenridge Ballpark Brown

Music: Darrick Thompson

My Wife is ADHD Hitler

        So last week my wife turned into Hitler. I know what you're thinking, and no, this isn't me griping about how terrible she is and announcing our divorce. No, she'll probably divorce me AFTER reading this, but as of right now, things are good.
        It all started honestly enough, with a new meal. Now as some of you may or may not know, I fancy myself a pretty good cook. Well, last week I made some shrimp stuffed manicotti and used a new sauce that we'd always wanted to try. Apparently, my wife is allergic to this sauce.
        It gave her a huge rash above her lip, in the exact shape of a Hitler mustache.
        Don't believe me? Well, she was nice enough to let me capture it.

        Oh yes, it was funny. And oh yes, did I give her shit for it. But during those 3 days of constant comedy gold, I found her changing, mentally. Like, as if she was actually channeling Hitler himself. First, she started exhibiting racist tendencies.

          No, wait, that's not racist. I don't know a single white person that understands Tyler Perry's humor. Or Mexican person, in my wife's case.

          However... she also started waving to people a lot, which seemed to send off the wrong message to her coworkers.

         (Side note: if you're going to smuggle out office food, never put donuts in your pants. That brown stain that will imminently soak through the back of your shorts will definitely send the wrong message)

          But perhaps worst of all, it was rubbing off on me. I found MYSELF getting Hitler-ish tendencies.

          Like, my wife has ADHD, which is already like talking to a broken iPod on shuffle...

This is pretty much every conversation I've ever had with my wife, to a T.

           ...And with her short attention span, she kept leaving her shoes all over the place for me to trip over...

           ...Leading me to a very angry proclamation... which may have been taken out of context.

          But my wife didn't care. No, her ADHD was in full swing by now.

           It's like she couldn't concentrate at all. So I tried to find a camp where she could learn about concentrating. But apparently they don't have one of those around here, which is really sad... because sometimes I really just want to send my wife to a concentration camp.

           Her ADHD just makes me so angry, I could crawl up into an oven and die.

         Another side note: to all the vegetarians that won't eat meat because of how the animals suffer, don't forget that potatoes are people too. You know that whistling they make in the oven when they get really hot? That's just how they scream. Think about that next time you bite into one, savage.

           So what's the point of this post, you may ask, aside from some tasteless Hitler jokes? Well, let me tell you, the point was that I had to give my wife shit for having a rash shaped like a Hitler mustache. And you know what? I can't grow mustaches, which is so lame. It's probably just bad genes. Great, I already have a hole in my jeans. These things are practically brand new. Man, Brand New is a great band. I love The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me. I know, let's go bungee jumping!

-Bryan

           (Also, worry not, now that the stache is gone, the wife is back to her nice, sweet, normal self)