Monday, January 26, 2015

The Rape Shack is a Little Old Place We Can Write Together...

In case you're wondering, today's post really doesn't have anything to do with the writing process. It's actually a personal story of terror and hilarity that happened to the two of us a few years back. It was when we found ourselves invited to an upscale "writers' retreat" in the Colorado mountains. Little did we know it was nothing more than a secluded rape dungeon hosted by a nutcase.

You see, we were promised an exquisite getaway in the mountains: a retreat where we would be able to do nothing but write in the serene harmony of nature, eat the finest of foods, and mingle with some of the writing industry's most premier professionals.

Well, scratch that, because everything was the exact opposite as it had been described. Yes, we were asked to buy weed for the agents. No, it wasn't legal then, and no, we didn't get any. Or even know how, for that matter.

And yes (weed aside), rather than send industry professionals, we got such brilliant agents as Eddie, seen above, who was younger than we were, talked like Keanu Reeves with a learning disability, and rather than network with other agents or prospective clients, he spent his entire retreat in the hot tub being mesmerized by all the bubbles. True story.

But at least we could relax, right? Enjoy that sweet mountain air as we lounged in a beautiful cabin and worked on the next great American novel in peaceful solitude?

Wrong. The retreat started almost immediately by turning us into taxi drivers.

The first day of the 'retreat' was spent taxiing the out of staters from the airport to the retreat, which was almost 3 hours away. With our own cars. And no gas money. You know, this from the people who paid good money to be there and were supposed to be relaxing.

And so, since the retreat hostess didn't have any kind of shuttle service and apparently no one from out of state rents cars anymore, guests were guilt tripped into making airport runs all day long just so that the retreat could actually commence.

And the fun didn't stop there. Other guests were constantly made to do chores around the cabin. Now, don't get either of us wrong; we love helping out, and will often aid with setting up, washing dishes, and general clean up during a conference or retreat just to be helpful, but when we saw the president of our local writing club on her hands and knees scrubbing an agent's piss, shit, and vomit stained toilet from drinking too much the night before (way to go, Eddie)... well, that kinda drew the line.

But indentured servitude aside, did we mention the hostess kept trying to rape us?

Let us paint a picture for you. A picture not rooted in kindness but in brutal honesty. The hostess was a drunken, heavyset woman (with a mustache) that looked kind of like if you put a wig on a walrus and stuffed her in mom jeans. And it wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't spent the entire retreat trying to feed us both drinks and get us alone so as to make the unwanted sex with us.

The first night was easy enough to evade her, but the second night she was much drunker. Much more grabby. And she was overflowing with passive aggressive "I'm just lonely and need a friend to talk to, that's all" bullshit.

And so when everyone else went to bed and she cornered us, she begged one of us to just hang out with her and talk to her. And like the valiant friend that he is, Brandon stepped up to the plate and did this.

Which left Bryan to fend for himself. And as soon as the two were alone, the hostess tried to rush in and kiss Bryan. But thanks to his ninja reflexes, he bent in angles he never even knew himself capable of just to evade her walrussy bristles.

At which point he told her to leave him alone and went off to bed. He retired to a room that he shared with Brandon, and got into the bottom bunk of the bunk bed that was stationed there.

He thought that was the end of it. Alas, it was not.

At 3 in the morning, this woman crawled into our room, drunk out of her mind, and insisted again that Bryan do her. She did this while in nothing but a bra and granny panties, and was trying to drunkenly whisper, even though it was obnoxiously loud.

Even though Bryan told her no, she insisted she was just lonely, and after sobbing quietly, she fell, literally, into Bryan's bed and proceeded to pass out.

The worst part? And we're not kidding here, the absolute worst part of this whole thing? She then proceeded to snore like a dying wolverine and simultaneously rip ass like an intestinal machine gun.

Anyone who thinks women are dainty flowers that lightly sigh while they sleep has never heard this lady sawing logs with her face and blowing bubbles with her ass. It was truly one of the most disgusting things Bryan has ever experienced, and he spent the night sleeping under the bed, the same way his cat does when she gets scared of the vacuum.

Eventually the hostess woke up and drunkenly dragged herself to bed when she noticed Bryan was gone. And in the morning, without a second thought, we both packed up our things and officially fled the worst retreat we'd ever been to in our lives. And while we can laugh about it now, we were pretty damn pissed about it at the time.

Now, before we get any comments asking this - because there always are - yes, this is a 100% true story, down to the all-night machine gun farts. So what made us think to tell this story? Well, Ms. Hostess, who apparently still has our e-mail addresses, wrote to tell us that she was hosting another retreat soon and was hoping we'd attend. And as previous attendees, she asked if we could do her the favor of writing her a testimonial...

So consider this post our motherfucking testimonial.

Cheers and drop the mic,
Brandon and Bryan

Beer: Nothing can wash away the image of that lady in her skidmarked skivvies
Music: The death throes of innocence

Monday, January 19, 2015

To Bean or Not to Bean: The Plight of the Gringo Mexican

Some of you may not know, but the co-creators of this blog are both lifelong sufferers of an identical, uncommon disease. No, it's not alcoholic liver failure. Nor is it feline leukemia. No, you see, for all of their youngish lives Bryan and Brandon have lived with a severe psychological identity crisis, stemming from the fact that they are each half Mexican. But if you look at them, you'll see that they don't look Mexican at all. They both just look like a couple of whiteboys.

So what's the problem, you say? It's the best of both worlds, right? Tacos AND burgers? Hip shaking rhythm AND white privilege? A green card AND a credit card? What's to bitch about? Well, let us tell you, it's not all that easy being a bleached tortilla. And here's why.

When you grow up in a largely uneducated farm town that's roughly 50% white folks and 50% brown folks, you learn pretty quickly that racism is easily accessible on both ends of the spectrum. And rather than serving as a happy medium that everyone on both sides can learn from, the result is that everybody hates you, at least a little bit.

But really, it's weird not quite fitting in to either "group." We're not very hip on Mexican culture, but for being as pale as paper, we both suck at being white people. We think Starbucks coffee is awful, and that Taco Bell is neither Mexican food nor is it actual food. You won't catch us dead in cardigan sweaters or polo shirts. And we didn't think Friends was funny... at all.

In other words, we are the worst white guys ever.

Sorry, guys, but our skin color betrays us. Tennis is boring, neither of us have ever baked a tuna casserole, and we both agree that Iggy Azalea sucks major ass.

But alas, that doesn't mean we're any better at being Mexican. No, in fact, we're pretty shitty Mexicans, too. Instead of tanning into bronze gods, we awkwardly burn until we look like blister-covered lobsters. We both love spicy foods, but neither of us have the intestinal fortitude to handle it, and even the medium-est of salsas is enough to make us feel like we got punched in the stomach by God himself.

And worst of all? We can't speak a word of Spanish.

In other words, we suck at this whole "race" and "culture" thing, but at least we have our own club, chock full of spicy hot enchiladas and American craft beer, simultaneously broadcasting hockey and Mexican weather forecasts. And for us, it's pretty damn awesome.

We're sure we can't be alone. Does anyone else suck at their own culture? Does your skin color betray you?

Cheers and stay classy, es├ęs,

Music: Juan Mayer
Beer: Lagunitas

Monday, January 12, 2015

I, Cat Lady

Hey, guys - Bryan here - and I have a confession for you all today. I hope you're sitting down for this. If not... stop standing at your computer. It looks stupid.

So here it is. I am not what I appear to be. No, I'm not two midgets standing on top of each other in a raincoat. I'm actually a crazy cat lady disguised as a young (ish) dude. See, ever since the tender age of 10, my parents and I have had a habit of taking in stray and unwanted cats that were dumped off in our neighborhood. And during all those years I lived with my parents, we took in a grand total of 11, one of which is still alive and well in my parents' backyard.

I thought I escaped the cat lady life, but just like the thug life, it follows me wherever I go. Once I moved out and got married, the wife and I adopted a cat of our own, one that had been burned in a fire (she looks fine now) and took years of patience to get her to trust people again.

Yes, I'm a glutton for punishment.

And yet, it seems that still wasn't enough, because I've added one more to my number of ridiculously adopted creatures, and further cemented myself as this century's Doctor Dolittle. I've befriended hawks, I've taken in baby snails, and as of last week, I've taken in a bengal. The housecat, not the tiger or the football team, but don't tell her that. She's convinced that she's a linebacker of a tiger trapped in a 2.8 lb body.

This wee one was originally a (very stupid) Christmas present for a small child. See, apparently the family bought this cat - which was the result of crossbreeding a housecat with an Asian leopard, mind you - thinking it was just going to sit there like a cute little doll and never do anything.

So, no kidding, they gave her up... just three days after Christmas. Three damn days, and she was already kicked to the curb and listed on Craiglist. So like the closeted cat lady that I am, I took her in. She's feisty, she's clumsy, and she's very affectionate, and I genuinely can't understand why anyone would give her up. Then again, I can't understand why anyone would give up any animal like that.

Which brings us to the topic of today's post (sorry, it's not endless pictures of the new cat being goofy... this is a comedy blog, after all, and not the entire rest of the Internet). There are some people who have to give up their pets for genuine reasons - health, moving, aggressive behavior, what have you - and then there are the assholes who abandon their animals because of stupid, selfish reasons. And taking in our new cat reminded me of a time, long ago, when I may or may not have made a child explode into tears because of the latter.

Once upon a time (6 years ago) I was in line at the grocery store, and the woman in front of me was buying kitten stuff with her son - litter box, tiny collar, kitten food, etc. So the cashier said...

And without flinching, the little boy said...

The boy, who couldn't have been more than 6-7, said this like it was just the most normal thing in the world; the cat turns 2 years old, and you get rid of it. And even though the cashier looked like this...

And behind them, I looked like this...

...Mom just kept rattling on and on about how exciting it was to get rid of their "old" cat and replace it with a new kitten that would invariably grow up to receive the same treatment.

I don't know which made me angrier, the woman's indifference to throwing away a perfectly healthy young cat, or the way her kid had just come to accept this as a regular part of life, but either way, I saw red. And without thinking twice, I said something equally fucked up to the little boy.

And then, I made sure to stare the mom in the eyes as I said...

The kid... went absolutely ballistic. I mean, we're talking about that ugly cry that involves a river of snot.

He started bawling, and asking his mother a slew of questions like where she was going to take him and if he'd ever see her again, and she stared daggers at me while she dragged him and her new purchases away.

I have no idea what happened after that, but I'd like to think that what I said still comes up in mom's therapy sessions to this day.

And while it probably wasn't the best way to handle the situation, I don't regret it, either. I can only hope that those two felt, even just for that one moment, the same pain their cats feel when they're ripped out of their home and dumped off at the pound like yesterday's garbage.

So ultimately, even if I'm destined to be a damn cat lady, I look forward to giving my new cat the happy life she deserves. One where she will always be loved, and will always be treated with patience, and will never be cast aside once she gets too big and too old to be considered 'cute.'

Her name is Gemma, because she's a badass bitch like Katey Sagal on Sons of Anarchy

She looks like this right before she does her impersonation of an Alien facehugger

Even my cat facepalms my stupid decisions

Gemma's dad (20 lbs), captured here in between eating Labradors

I look forward to never accomplishing anything at my computer ever again

Cheers and stay classy, fellow cat ladies,
Bryan (and Brandon)

Beer: Lagunitas Pils
Music: Porcupine Tree