Monday, August 29, 2011

Goodwill Games

Here's an interesting article from The Huffington Post: "Seven Drinking Games from Around the World".
If there's one activity that's ubiquitous around [most of] the globe, it's drinking. Whether it's throwing back shots of vodka or sharing a cold one at a pub, imbibing in the local brew is a surefire way to get in touch with a local culture, or to .

Of course, there are drinking habits that vary from place to place, drinking games being no exception. Below, watch and learn seven different drinking games from different parts of the globe. So, next time you're three sheets to the wind in Tokyo, and someone proposes a game of Ping Pong Pang, you'll have the good sense not to join if you're already too smashed from Saki Bombs.
These are definitely worth checking out. And if the next time you're in the UK you get "penny'd", don't come crying to us.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Taking it to the Head

I was reading through the most recent issue of Playboy [Yes, I actually read the articles, too; just what kind of horndog do you take me for? ...Wait, don't answer that], when a letter to the "Playboy Advisor" caught my eye. You know I love a good beer, but this is one particular microbrew that I can honestly say I haven't tried...yet:
My girlfriend and I like to drink beer during sex. While kissing, I might pass her a mouthful of beer or vice versa. Before going down on her I take a gulp, place my lips around her pussy and force the beer into her. She says she likes the cooling and filling sensation. The beer comes back to me, twofold it seems, and sometimes I share it with her. We do this often. She has had no ill effects, but could this alcohol douche cause problems? We would hate to give it up, but I love her too much to chance hurting her.—C.W., Orlando, Florida
I've had a lot of sex that involved beer, but nothing like this. The Advisor's response was to exercise a "pint of caution", as there are many harmful side effects that can result from C.W.'s love games, for both her and him—including the potential for causing an embolism by blowing into his girlfriend like he's inflating an inner tube.

Maybe I'll just stick to drinking shots out of women's cleavage.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Social Drinking Excellence: Rev. Julian Medina

It's been a while since I've done one of these, so I'm going big.

After allegedly showing up drunk to a baptism on Saturday at All Hallows Catholic Church in Sacramento, Calif., Rev. Julian Medina was been suspended by the Catholic Diocese of Sacramento, according to a report by Fox 40 News.

The 64-year-old was scheduled to baptize 15 children in front of about 150 people, but instead showed up one hour late, slurred his words and had to be carried out of the church after falling over, CBS 17 Sacramento reports. A worker had to call in a deacon to perform the sacrament.

*cracks knuckles*

Okay, here we go:
  • How did Medina get so wasted by 11 a.m.? I've done it a few times, but there was always a beach, green beer, or tailgating involved. Unless...
  • Can you tailgate a baptism? I mean, I wouldn't think you could. But then again, my crew and I just tailgated at an airport last month, so who's to say a baptism is off limits?
  • A baptism is off limits. I agree it's a boring, trite, outdated and antiquated ceremony, which is just the sort of thing alcohol was put on the Earth to help us endure. But kids are involved, and nothing is a bigger drunkblock than rugrats—ask anyone who used to have a life but now has kids instead. Even TJ, who was once one of the top two boozehounds in the world (I'll let you guess who the other one is), and who typically only gets custody of his tyke on weekends, has placed a ban on bottles of anything stronger than Ocean Spray entering his home. And Medina is 64, so it's not like this is his first rodeo. He has to know when parishioners are going to raise issue with him bonging the communal wine and when they might let it slide. (Say, like, during one of those marathon wedding ceremonies that you Catholics are so fond of... Seriously what's that all about? Don't you know there are shots to woo and bridesmaids to take? *thinking...*)
  • Okay, obvious comment coming in 3... 2... 1...
    A catholic priest, scheduled for an appointment with 15 kids and a tub of water, shows up drunk. *pause* He knew the parents were going to be there, right? He didn't just think his assistant had booked him a Saturday morning key party, did he?
Funky Cold Medina, your Rummy Award is in the mail. Toast a glass to it and say 50 hail marys to absolve all day drinking sins.

Purity of Creation

Slick little ad by the folks at Smirnoff, featuring Pharrell.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Wifey Material: "Jenn"

This is from the Facebook event page set up by a friend for her house party next month. No pictures this time, to protect anonymity. But trust me, she's a cutie. Unfortunately for every guy who's not her boyfriend, she's also taken.

So Jesus might hang glide, but so would we…if we were drunk enough. But what wouldn’t Jesus do? I’m pretty sure He wouldn’t hook a pink hose up to a utility sink, run it through a window and out to the backyard for a slip ‘n slide on a tarp…but we will. He wouldn’t do a keg stand, because everyone would see up his robe…but [L] did (she just puts on men’s boxer’s first). He wouldn’t slam his finger in a door, break it, the.n wait 8 hours to realize a hospital, stitches, and minor surgery should be involved…but EJ did. Jesus wouldn’t create a Team page for himself on Facebook…but [C] did (p.s. You should all go on there and “like” it). Jesus wouldn’t fall off a table drunk at his own house trying to climb through a window, and then require a Tetanus shot for preventative measures…but RJ did. And I happen to know for a fact that Jesus wore underwear at all times….[O] and [TD] don’t. Jesus did all of the wonderful things he did out of the goodness of his heart because he was selfless, not because he craved attention…like [B] does. You guys smelling what I’m stepping in? Jesus wouldn’t do all those crazy, f*cked up things, because he put us on this Earth to do them for him. Duh. And even better, he made us all friends, so we could enjoy these shenanigans together.

The party’s at my house, September 10th. Bring whatever you want. Bring whoever you want. Just don’t bring anyone I think is a whore or a douche. See ya then!
Bless her heart.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Hard Drink May Get Woman Hard Time

From The Huffington Post:
Police in Boise arrested 35-year-old Victoria Hill for allegedly shoplifting a single can of Steel Reserve lager from a grocery on Aug. 11 and charged her with felony burglary, a count that carries a hefty prison sentence of as long as 10 years, The Idaho Statesman reports.

...If found guilty of felony burglary charges for the $1.50 beverage, Hill could be sentenced to no less than one year in prison and a maximum of 10 years, according to the news agency.
Imagine if she had tried to steal a good beer? No one should be given 10 years in prison for stealing one beer. They should, however, be given 10 years in prison for having such horrible taste in beer.

National Rum Day

Today is National Rum Day. And, strangely, I knew nothing of this until TJ emailed me earlier this afternoon. I really need to have a calendar made that denotes all of these tragically-overlooked days of reverance. How is anyone who drinks rum supposed to remember when the day comes around to celebrate rum?

And, of course, I don't have any rum at home. And I'm low-dough until Friday. So, to celebrate, I'm granting everyone a special exemption from the Rummy Award today. It only makes sense. Just make sure the daring 3 a.m. grocery store break-in and ensuing low speed police chase are the work of rum, and not something like tequila or bourbon. Then all bets are off.

Now if only Rosario Dawson would show up at my place with a bottle of DonQ...

Monday, August 15, 2011

Making Records & Breaking Records


VIBE's own Datwon Thomas was partying it up last night at Club Liv in Miami, where bossman Jay-Z was throwing an epic Watch The Throne release party. Hov went all out, setting a new club record for the biggest bar tab. It was reported, Jigga shelled out a whopping $250K on Ace of Spade champagne.

"After several rounds of regular bottles of Ace of Spade, Jay-z ordered the 15 liter #BOSS $100K," tweeted promotor Purple with an accompanying TwitPic of the giant bottle in its golden carrier.
Datwon also took video of the champagne bottles as they "bring 'em out, bring 'em out."

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Furry Safari

I think they thought I was kidding.

When asked, in the weeks and days leading up to the Anthrocon 2011 conference in Pittsburgh, what time would I be going downtown to watch the furries, I replied, “I don’t know…11 [a.m.]? 11:30?” The friend or coworker asking would usually chuckle and then proceed on with the conversation. Sometimes, though, he or she would pause to utter an expression of trepidation. Those were the precious few people who really know me, and who realized I wasn’t fucking around.

Two years ago, my friends and I had a life-changing experience. It was a balmy Thursday night in July, and—spurred by The Ex—we’d gathered at Bossa Nova for caipirinhas, mojitos, and salsa dancing. Then, overwhelmed by the first two and bored with the latter, a casual and spontaneous suggestion was made: Anthrocon was in town—we should go look at furries. Up to that point, furries were a nearly mythical subculture to me. My closest encounter with one had been watching Drama help a squirrel find a nut on “Entourage”. But, by the end of that night, we’d had so much fun that we knew furry hunting would be an annual event.

Last year we designated the Friday of the conference to be our day of safari. I met up with Dupa and “Hostess”, an old friend of his from high school, at Tonic Bar & Grill for a late lunch at around 2:30. Tonic is Furry Ground Zero; located on the corner of Liberty Avenue and 10th Street, it sits directly across 10th from the Westin Hotel, which more or less becomes a kennel the weekend of Anthrocon. All of us having taken a half-day off from our respective employments, we grabbed a spot in Tonic’s sidewalk seating and spent hours watching the herds pass, occasionally stopping one or more of them to take pictures with us. Throughout the rest of the day we were joined by just about every one of our brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, some of whom carried the party on through the night.

How can you possibly improve upon that type of impressive showing? Well…you start three hours earlier the next time.

I was the first to arrive at Tonic on Furry Friday this year, and I locked down a large table right at the corner while I awaited my comrades. Hostess was there within minutes, and after another ten Dupa was pulling up in a cab. All of us soon had mojitos, plates of food, and cameras with the safeties off in front of us.

Over the next couple of hours we drank and ate—and drank some more—while mingling with furries, fellow gawkers, and random friends who happened upon us as they walked to or from their lunch break destinations. Chappy eventually became the fourth member of our party, pulling up a chair after calling off work for the afternoon. Armo, too, made a similar executive decision to forego work for a seat in the eye of the furricane. TK, who worked in a building adjacent to the Westin, made frequent visits. He had recently decided to move to Tampa, and was now finishing off the first of his final two weeks in town. His senioritis had kicked in, and although he was to spend his remaining time with the company training his replacement, he found himself distracted by the warm weather, cold beers, and furry fun going on outside his skyscraper window. And so, about once every hour, we found TK strolling across the street in our direction, looking for a few sips of Corona and some fun.

Early on, Dupa made it known to us that he had set a goal for this year’s event: He wanted his picture taken lying across the outstretched arms of three or more furries. In other words, the ultimate leisure pose. When a group of four furries dressed as various cats and dogs stopped for us to take photos, Dupa’s face lit up with the anticipation of a dream coming true. That gleeful smile soon turned to a disappointed smirk when the pack of critters denied his pose request, claiming that the lack of grip in their hands paws would make it too difficult to hold him. Not much later, however, our friend struck gold: three more furries (also dressed as various animated canines) stopped for pictures, and they happily agreed to his pose idea. Dupa beamed in ecstasy as he laid awkwardly in their arms while our cameras clicked.

Last year, a large group of furries (as well as a mix of civilians) gathered in front of the Westin to play vuvuzelas in tribute to the ongoing World Cup. This, in turn, caused me to exclaim, “The furries have vuvuzelas! THE FURRIES HAVE VUVUZELAS!!!” as I sprinted through traffic and fumbled with my camera phone. This year, another demonstration of sorts took place. A long, white stretch Chrysler 300 limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and out climbed five or six furries. I regret not heading over to get to know these particular fur-lovers better. They could have been the key to me pulling a Johnny Drama.

Now, I think I speak for the rest of the guys in my crew when I say that sex with a furry isn’t very high up on the ol’ bucket list. But if the opportunity—and a reasonably attractive female furry—presents itself, I’m certainly game. TK had been approached by a furry earlier in the week; she even went so far as to say, “You would be hitting on me if you could see what I look like under this costume” (when he asked if he knew her, she quickly walked away without an answer). And then, for the first time in our furry-hunting years (that we know of), we actually happened upon a woman worth consideration. A small fox (irony noted), running with a pack of plain-clothed handlers, sat down at a table near ours. When the costume head came off [remember, this was late June in Pittsburgh; temps hovered in the mid 80s with a healthy dose of humidity for much of the afternoon, which isn’t very kind to those wearing large, heavy, fur-covered outfits], we found a cute, petite girl in her mid-to-late 20s wiping sweat from her face and matted-down hair. But, at the risk of disappointing my dear readers, I have to report that none of us actually played “Tony” to this Anthrocon “Maria”. We all just admired from a distance, too wrapped up in the numerous platonic attractions going on around us.

When one furry wandered near our table, holding a staff and dressed as a creature that resembled a lion with horns, we snapped several pictures. Later, a heavyset guy in civilian clothing came strolling past, carrying a bag from a nearby sandwich shop and the same staff with which the lion had been walking. When asked, he confirmed that he was, indeed, the same person. I inquired about the lavish costume, and he revealed that it cost him about $3000. And the maker, a specialist in Boston, had undercharged him. “She probably could have asked for about $5000 for a costume like that.” “Lionel” (heh…) had brought another costume designed by the same woman with him to the conference as well. In all, he had brought four different getups for the weekend. He assured us that, after he had gone inside and eaten his dinner, he would be back as one of the other three characters.

The weather, though, soon prohibited that. As bad as heat and high humidity are for furries, the inevitable result—a summer rain shower—isn’t any better. It also doesn’t work for civilians on safari, watching from uncovered sidewalk seating. Our posse (which now included Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, TD, and her sister, “Green Pants”, among others) moved inside Tonic, to the upstairs bar and lounge area.

It was now after 5 pm, and downtown office-dwellers, fresh from the workweek, began pouring into the bar. A large percentage of those people were coworkers of Dupa and TK; had my brain not been on a Corona-and-furry high, I would have recognized this as a bad sign. Among the thousands of local men and women in that particular corporation’s employ, is one person who is guaranteed to suck the fun out of my Furry Safari: The Ex. In the nearly two years since our breakup, we’ve taken careful measures to avoid running into each other—at least I have; some of hers have been described as more “stalker” than “dodger”.

I was sitting at the bar talking to TK, when I saw a look come over his face as he stared towards the top of the stairwell behind me. He leaned over to me and said, “It just got bad.” Sure enough, as I glanced past him, I saw a familiar head of brown hair bounce by on its way to a table across the room. My reaction, in true Neil McCauley style, was to immediately turn and head downstairs.

All of ten seconds after I’d stopped in the downstairs bar to take a deep breath and consider my exit strategy, TD came chugging downstairs to my aid. “I couldn’t understand why you left—then I saw her!” After a few minutes of kvetching, I once again located my testicles and went back upstairs. Once there, I posted up at the bar with my back turned to The Ex’s side of the room, did a shot of American Honey with TD and Green Pants, and then gathered our crew and moved the party to August Henry’s.

Despite the last-chopper-out-of-Saigon-like retreat from Tonic, we had actually been planning on heading to August Henry’s (just not quite so early). The decision had been made hours earlier, when we learned that they would be hosting “Furrioke”—a.k.a. karaoke featuring furries. We found a table and ordered ourselves some dinner, and I fought off a newfound paranoia that made me look around every few minutes to see if we’d been followed. Tony soon joined us, and started tossing back beers and shots to catch up. Unfortunately, hardly any furries were there, making my daydreams of watching someone dressed as a wolf sing “Life is a Highway” feel somewhat unrealistic.

After a seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom, Dupa admitted to us that he’d thrown up in a urinal. And he was still rocked. Every experienced drinker knows that—sometimes—vomiting will clear your mind, freeing you up for another few hours of boozing. That didn't happen for Dupa, and he fully understood the gravity of that fact. He bid us adieu, walked outside, and caught a cab home.

And it wasn’t even dark outside yet.

The rest of the night came at me fast and furiously. Swag, TD, Tony, Mitch, and I eventually found our way over to Rumshakers, where our standard fare of beers and shots took on a much more sinister tone after a full day of drinking. A blackout had finally taken hold of me, and I was more than happy to relinquish command of the ship. My next clear thought came as I strolled along Grant Street alone—I was downtown again. After sleeping off some more of my drunk in my parked car, I came home and flopped onto my bed like I was shielding friends from a grenade. When I awoke the next morning, I was a little surprised there wasn’t a squirrel costume on the floor next to my bed.

There’s always next year.