Monday, April 28, 2014

The Drunken Haunted House Voyage of Doom...and Drunkenness

It was a dark and stormy night, long long ago in the time of last Tuesday. The two of us were planning to tour the Upslope Brewery in Boulder, but after 2 hours of enthusiastic pre-drinking our plan was derailed, because we discovered the truth behind Upslope and its awesome craft beers.

What we (literally) stumbled upon was not a brewery; rather, it was an abandoned maze of mystery machines, run by the ghosts of men and women who had died long, long ago but still continued to brew... BEYOND THE GRAVE.

We fearlessly entered their lair, and the beer-brewing ghosts were none too pleased with our invading their haunted factory.

The haunted brewery was also full of mysterious items that we can only assume were once used for medieval torture.

We saw things that neither of us can rationally explain. We drank the ghost of beer that once was. Brandon experienced the demonic possession that is beer goggles and almost made out with an empty keg. And Bryan, well, he hit his head really, really hard and saw the light at the end of the beer bottle.

At that point we were informed that we weren't actually experiencing a "haunting," we were experiencing "massive drunkenness." Apparently blurred vision can make everyone look like a ghost, even the nice girl who was kind enough to take us on a tour of the brewery and put up with our shenanigans.

(If anything, that's a testament to the strength and awesomeness of Upslope's beer)

But really, though, the two of us enjoyed a very nice tour of the Upslope Brewing facility in Boulder this week, and we'd like to thank Bethany Lovato for not only inviting us down for a tour but for agreeing to be made into a classily tasteful cartoon character.*

*Please don't sue us. We don't know what 'classily tasteful' even means, but if anything, Jesus is pretty classy, right?

So, beer fans, get out there and grab yourself a draft of Upslope if you can. They brew godly nectar in a myriad of styles, and are kind enough to can it for the masses. Either the craft lager or the IPA is our particular favorite but they've got a lot of great brews all around.

And no, they didn't pay us to say any of this. We sought them out and asked them for a private tour just because we like their beer that much.

...Or rather, this much.

What's your favorite beer?

Cheers and stay classy, folks,

Beer: Upslope Thai IPA
Music: Metz

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,

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,

Beer: Upslope IPA
Music: Valerie June