Wifey Material: Anna Kendrick

TJ said on Facebook today that he'd fight any of us to get close to her. Little does he know he'd get sniped the second I thought he stood any chance of stopping me from getting next to Anna.



If I were to do a Rat Pack Vegas weekend like the Ciroc ad I never get tired of, Anna would be on the women's team. Some of my friends would be there too, of course. Probably. Maybe. But Anna would definitely be in there. Who doesn't want to toast a glass with her while cutting up at Caesars at 4 a.m.?

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 6

Here we are again: Year Six for the DSTDT write up. As I have each of the past five years, I hereby present you with a series of drunken addendums and cloudy-brained contemplations by my blotto friends and me. It’s a magical time of year, indeed.

Yet again I’ve had to trim the fat and only use the best of the best quotes. I may not capture every single funny utterance by my friends and me in my notes, but the fact that I get as much as I do speaks volumes about the volumes we speak. And drink. As always, each of these comments is as real as the person that thought it prudent to give voice to it. Most are from this past year, but some are older; how they escaped my net before now is a mystery…though I’m guessing I forgot because I was drunk.

• As we watched last year’s Super Bowl, those of us gathered at Armo’s house worked to polish off every bottle of beer and liquor on hand. And Alex, as usual, was doing her share of the heavy lifting. By halftime, she was in the zone. She stared through the TV, entranced by Destiny Child’s performance. From my right I heard her say, “I lo__ __c.” Between my attention being elsewhere and the music from the show overpowering her voice, I suspected I didn’t quite hear her correctly.
  
  Me: “…What?”
  Alex: “I love TLC!”
  
  
• Armo’s residence is a popular site for misguided commentary, since the amount of alcohol you’ll inevitably consume during your visit is going to mercilessly twist you. One random night last spring, as he and I discussed criticisms of The Hangover Part II, I eloquently and emphatically drove my point home by saying, “…You know? Don’t break what’s fixin’…”
  
  
• One morning in the spring of 2012, Belle had a blackout night. The kind of blackout night my friends and I have, where you last remember talking to a former coworker at a bar and then wakeup butt naked in Swag’s house. You know, normal stuff.
  
  On a Saturday night last June, a few of us sat on Swag’s back porch drinking and politicking, and the topic of that night came up. And when one of us asked just what had happened between her and that former coworker, Belle took the floor: “I wasn’t sore the next day, so I figured nothing happened. But then I found a condom on the floor, soooo…” As all of us doubled over in laughter, she added, “…and that’s not a good sign!”
  
  
• A wise man once said, “Steel sharpen steel.” And when a crazy bastard like Pakistanimal—who’s accustomed to being louder and more audacious than anyone else in the bar—is wowed by an astonishing quip, some serious steel has been sharpened.
  
  One night in July he and I toured a few of Shadyside’s drinkeries, eventually finding ourselves at our beloved Shady Grove. One of my favorite bartenders, “Spice,” was behind the bar; she’s easy on the eyes, good with conversation, and packed with the energy of a Sisqo backup dancer. It was Pak’s first time meeting her, and she quickly left an impression. He had put a couple of bucks worth of songs on the jukebox, and when “Call Me, Maybe” came on I quickly cursed at him. [There’s a history to this particular song that’s really only known to my close friends and I; trust me, he did it to be a dick, not because he likes the song.] Spice, however, began, dancing to the beat, exclaiming as she mixed a drink, “Ooh! He’s making my vagina move with this song!”
  
  
• Late one night last spring, I got a phone call from Hollywood, whom I hadn’t heard from in about a year. As we caught up on the happenings in each other’s lives, our conversation drifted to a crazy chick he’d recently met. I asked about her age, but he seemed to know as much as I did. "You can't really tell how old she is, because her face is weathered. …She could be 35, she could be 25."
  
  
• My Lil Sis From Anotha Motha (TD) is a fan of the ladies. Especially when they’re hot, and especially when she’s drunk (it runs in the family). So getting her really drunk and taking her to a strip club is a formula for entertainment success. Earlier this month, that formula was put to use, as a night of drinking in the South Side somehow found TD and others downtown at Blush. Not long after they got there, a beautiful blonde dancer caught her eye. TD decided to ask for a lap dance, and was allll charm. “I want you,” she told the dancer. “I want you…privately.”
  
  
• Dupa is shocking. He prides himself on it. But he’s even more so for those who don’t know him, because they underestimate his attention to detail. The guy can spot a penny on a bar floor and formulate a comment about you picking it up with your butt cheeks while you’re still a mile down the road from said bar.
  
  One night in early 2010 we were partying at Hofbrauhaus with a large group of friends, including Yum, who was in a short denim miniskirt and looking, well…yum. She was sitting on a bench in the entryway at the end of the night, as we awaited a cab to take us back to the hotel. Dupa, lit like a rocket, walked through said entryway with his eyes on the door, when he stopped, pointed in Yum’s direction and said, “What’s up, leopard?” The immediate change of her face to flush red told me what my homie already knew: she was wearing leopard-print panties.
  
  
• Sometimes you don’t need to be blessed with hawklike vision. Sometimes you just have to look straight ahead. At Swag’s birthday party this past August, I was having a one-on-one convo with T.C. when he momentarily lost all train of thought mid-sentence.
  
  T.C.: “So then I, I…*staring off* Jesus.”
  Me: “What? What’s wrong?”
  T.C.: “Nah, it’s just…I never noticed how big TD’s rack is before.”
  
  
• From our early days in college until he got locked down by the gal who would eventually wear his ring and have his children, my homie BBB joyfully carried the reputation of being an unabashed coozehound. And there was zero shame to his game. He was the perfect wingman, because half the time he’d go after the big ugly ones even when he wasn’t wingmanning. Just because.
  
  One Friday night in early 2002, we found ourselves at Bar Pittsburgh drinking and carousing, as per usual. Our buddy Firewater eventually met a random gal of atrocious morality, and BBB dutifully swooped in to occupy her friend. The ladies invited them back to their apartment at the end of the night, and—being the odd man out—I drove BBB’s car to my mom’s house, where I was living at the time. The next day I had somewhere to be, and Mom had to leave for a hair appointment, so she put BBB’s keys in an envelope taped to the front door of the house. Upon opening up the envelope, he also found a handwritten note from my sainted mother: “How fat was she?”
  
  
• Dupa took a trip to China to start 2014, beginning with an NYE party overlooking Victoria Harbor in Hong Kong. Most people faced with a 20-hour flight would have paced their alcoholic intake, realizing the difference between a marathon and a sprint. But not Dupa. He was three sheets to the wind before boarding started. I’m not sure that the flight crew knew what they were in for when they got out of bed that morning.
  
  Hot Flight Attendant: “Drink before we take off?”
  Dupa: “You're delicious.”
  Hot Flight Attendant: *doesn't break stare*
  Dupa: “So... Coke Zero and Bourbon then?”

I Love the Smell of Jager in the Morning

...no, really, I don't. Ever. But they say that you can't taste the Jager found in the Wake-Up Call, so I'm game to try one the next time I'm in Minneapolis.

(okay, it's really just about the candied bacon)

Social Drinking Excellence: Michelle Rodriguez

This being a Rummy post is purely due to TJ's laziness.

He found this first. He could write, if he bothered to try anymore (#shotsfired). And he absolutely loves M-Rod, meaning this was meant to be a "Wifey Material" post if ever he was to post one.

But instead he's left it to me. I don't really care one way or the other about Rodriguez (she seems cool, but never wowed me physically). Which means she's getting straight clowned in this post. (Just remember it's your own fault, TJ.)

From Deadspin:

The Knicks' 89-85 victory over the Pistons last night was less a basketball game than a war of attrition waged by two armies that can't shoot straight. So what's a celebrity like Michelle Rodriguez supposed to do while sitting courtside at such a miserable sporting event? Get shitfaced, obviously.

The New York Post, which has its own gallery of photos of Rodriguez, reports that the actress spent most of the night boozing and vapin' on an e-cig, which is never a bad way to spend an evening.

Start the clock...

1. Even though I may not be as big a fan of M-Rod as TJ, I obviously still consider her an attractive woman. But her drunk...is an ugly drunk. Madonne. She looks like a homeless man. A homeless man taking a shit. A homeless man taking a shit on all you love and cherish.
2. I've been badly drunk when in the presence of a ladyfriend before, but those ladyfriends were never Victoria's Secret models. All I'm saying is, if Michelle still holds any traction with Cara, her tongue game must be exquisite.
3. ...Respect.
4. If you're a cop giving her a breathalyzer test, does the device read "point-ohhh yeahhhhh"...

5. There may not be a celeb who's built up more of a "Fuck you, I do what I want" persona on a smaller resume. Rodriguez has had some good roles, but anymore she's really just another Fast & the Furious cartoon character. The whole "rebel without a cause" shtick works better when the person invoking it has the star power for it all not to matter. To put it in perspective, Rodriguez's I'm-drunk-and-fuck-you behavior is like Geno Smith smacking Giselle Bundchen's ass in front of Tom Brady at a Pro Bowl presser.
6. Not that I'm a fan of Brady. Or Giselle. Or the Pro Bowl.
7. The e-cigs kind of undercut that whole gangsta demeanor, don't they? You're basically saying you're as tough as Stephen Dorff.
8. You know, looking back, I'm really off base here. Obviously Michelle uses a strap-on, not her tongue.
9. ...Respect.
10. Based on the fact that she seems so nonplussed throughout all of the photos from this night, can we assume that Cara Delevingne might be the more likely sexual deviant here? It's easy to picture Michelle as a "top," but given her state and Cara seemingly being okay with it, is it possible that Rodriguez awoke in the middle of the night with her, uh...ahem...face being used as a hippity-hop?
    

M-Rod, here's your Rummy. There's a recent picture of TJ included, so your personal security and the local police can be properly prepared.

Merry New Beer!

I’ve hated Christmas since I was old enough to know why to hate Christmas (about 23, for those of you still not quite there yet). This time around, it was New Year’s Eve before I realized how little hating of the holidays I’d done.

Don’t misunderstand—I wasn’t happy about it being Christmas; I just didn’t pay attention to the same raw nerves that typically get exposed this time of year. Work has sought to absolutely destroy me over the last few months, and as a result I’ve been largely numb to all that was going on around me. [I legitimately thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown one day, but that’s for a blog I’ll inevitably write and recite as part of a group therapy session.] The obvious negatives of such a situation aside, the positive is that Christmas was blandly tolerable. One might say mildly enjoyable, even, if for no other reason than it forced my company to let me stay at home for a few days. Yay work misery!

I certainly didn’t get to relax as much at the end of December as I used to, back when I worked for a company that gave us paid holidays from Christmas Eve through New Years. But old friends being in town and a few nights where you don’t have to set the alarm clock mean booze is going to be poured. And if booze is going to be poured, well then…something, something, me waking up in weird places.


Monday, December 23rd
Once upon a time, I tried to bring rise to a new tradition called Christmas Eve Eve. It went strong for about four years before fading in ‘12. But it’s not dead yet.

Dupa, home from Houston for Christmas, gathered several of us that night for dinner at Church Brew Works. Six young professionals ate, drank, and became increasingly louder and more profane, to the point that I could feel the families seated near us cringe each time one of our voices built towards its crescendo. After dinner most of us went to our respective homes to decompress—including me. I honestly thought Christmas Eve Eve’s tradition had entered oblivion. Turns out, I just wasn’t believing in it hard enough.

TD and Canada believed, though. An hour after I had come home, I began receiving picture texts from the two of them. Awesome, drunken images of Lil Sis and various people with their eyes narrowed paper thin, chucking peace signs and grabbing breasts at Sloppy Joe’s. I’ve never been prouder of family who aren’t really family but are really family.

A week later, Canada gave all of us his postscript to that night: TD and Boy Toy dropped him off in front of his house around midnight (he’d managed to spend $80 at a dive bar where a mixed drink costs about $4, so you can go ahead and calibrate your expectations to how this ends). They watched him open his front door and walk into the crib before they left. Nevertheless, around 4 a.m. Canada awoke…lying in the bushes in front of the house.


Tuesday, December 24th
TD, Boy Toy, and TJ joined my cousin, her husband and I for dinner at my mother’s house. Bottles of wine and Heineken marched in full and rolled out empty. The guests marched in empty and rolled out full. Mom has never been one to half-ass it in the kitchen, and we feasted on a delicious home cooked ham dinner (TD ate fish) with all the fixins’. Also, a giant cake shaped like the Grinch’s head that TJ brought (it’s tradition; the last couple of years have seen cakes shaped like Santa and Rudolph).

When I got back to Shadyside that night, I stopped at William Penn Tavern to catch up with Mo-Fo and Jed. It was the first time in over two years that I’d seen Mo-Fo, who lives in North Carolina. As we caught up over draughts, a steady stream of familiar faces from around the neighborhood rolled in for drinks and holiday cheer beer. It wasn’t a night of loose women and drunken episodes, but instead a chance to catch up on each other’s tales of loose women and drunken episodes. You need those nights. When stress melts away and all that’s left is laughter and community.


Wednesday, December 25th
Christmas Day. Spiked eggnog with my mom while opening gifts. Wine with dinner. Sometimes things don’t change simply because they ain’t broke.

For those wondering (and since I’ve catalogued my alcohol-related gifts in the past): A bottle of Bulleit 10 Year Bourbon from my Lil Sis, a bottle of Glenfiddich Nadurra from my manager, an On the Rock Glass and bottle of Makers from Armo, and a bottle of Chivas Regal 12 from my mom. The quantity of booze gifts may be going down, but the rising quality is more than making up for it.


Thursday, December 26th
I fought the system by calling in sick instead of going into the office. Never mind that I legitimately needed it because I was too exhausted to function when I awoke that morning, or that I still put in about four or five hours of work from my dining room table…Viva La Revolucion!

That night T.C., Hurley, Mo-Fo, and Jed convinced me to venture over to Grove for the second half of Pitt’s bowl game. I began drinking Manhattans, and then…well, the next-to-last entry in this post happened. The most irreversibly shlammered I’d been in some time, I barely remember being at Cain’s. I do recall sitting down and ordering a beer. Then I awoke on Hurley’s couch.


Friday, December 27th
If you’ve gotta spend half of a day at work drunk, and the other half viciously hungover, I recommend doing it on a Friday when none of the executives are in the building. Thank god I have the kind of cool-as-hell manager who found my ever-deteriorating state hilarious and not wage-garnering-ous. I spent my Friday night at home, thank you very much.


Saturday, December 28th
Esq and Shock hosted the annual holiday reunion of some of our closest friends at my homie’s big, beautiful “lawyer’s house” (think it was my mom who coined that term) in the far northern suburbs of the city. Chief, Tank, Mrs. Tank (Katie), Finn, Genoa, BBB, Tony, and others gathered to drink the booze, catch up, and reminisce on the good ol’ days. All of the college stories about the girls we did or didn’t bag, the fights, the Federales, the masturbating roommates—all of it played like a classic movie marathon, one after the other.

Some in the crowd, like the ladies and the suddenly urbane Chief, drank wine. I, on the other hand, eased into the night by drinking bottles of Miller Lite. By around midnight we’d killed off two cases, and it was time for some beer pong in the three-car garage (once Esq had backed out one of the “his-and-hers” Escalades). That’s when the Beast Light came out—W&J waters run deep. By 4:30 a.m. I was passed out in one of the guest rooms.


Sunday, December 29th
I awoke the next morning to Chief passed out on the floor of the room. “I was so mad when I got up there and found out you’d beaten me to it,” he told me before we each headed home that day, “that I decided to sleep on the floor out of spite, even though I knew there were 50 open couches in this house.”


Monday, December 30th
…What am I, an animal? I laid low and stayed dry. Bitches.


Tuesday, December 31st
The main event. The Academy Awards of Drinking. The Blotto Super Bowl. I prepped like any professional does: by shoving a McDonald’s Extra Value Meal down my throat and showing up on TD and Boy Toy’s doorstep around 8 p.m. with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in my hand.

There was beer pong in the garage, of which I took part in for a while, Armo and I hardly making a dent in the night’s competition. There was lively, drunken conversation in the kitchen, of which I took a LOT of parts in. There was a game of Spades in the dining room with Joel, TJ, and Affliction, of which I cheated in (…was totally playing “Asshole” in my mind for the first hand or two). There was the ball drop, punctuated by about 10 different bottles of champagne being popped in a living room filled with 20 people and zero cups—straight chuggin’, homie.

Shannon provided my New Year’s kiss; Mo Paddle provided my New Year’s style via comically-oversized sunglasses; Lil Sis provided my New Year’s ego by pointing out that we were the only two drinking real champagne (she had her own bottle of Clicquot); and one of Boy Toy’s best friends provided my New Year’s comedy by passing out on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. And the host himself provided the New Year’s drama, getting into a fight with Under The Porch (UTP) that spilled out into the front yard, and resulted in me shoving Toy and TD back into their house and others shoving UTP into the backseat of a car headed away from the scene. (By the way…we’re all adults.) Toy found out a couple of days later that he had broken a couple of his ribs in the commotion. And, for some reason, the people who removed UTP were mad at TD the next morning for him being at their place. (…Adults.)


Wednesday, January 1st

Tradition is tradition. pic.twitter.com/bT6pc7GmDD
— The D.E.F.I. (@CS_Defi) January 1, 2014

Of the two couches in TD’s living room, I awoke on the smaller one. Of course. “Toilet Napper” had taken the larger couch the night before. But when I awoke, it was unoccupied. I moved over, stretched out, and began drifting back to sleep in the growing 8 a.m. sunshine. I soon felt someone shake my leg. It was Napper.

Him: “Ah, dude, I was sleeping there. I just got up to go to the bathroom.”
Me: “Yeah…that sucks.” *rolls over and goes back to sleep*

A couple of hours later I finally headed home, with a quick stop at Shannon’s along the way to help her with her Irish family’s tradition (a dark-haired man must come into her home and receive a shot of whiskey and one dollar at the start of each year, before she’s allowed to cross her threshold). The whiskey provided cover fire against hangover laying siege to my head, giving me the chance to retreat to the safety of my couch and five more glorious hours of slumber.

Sometimes you need a holiday from the holidays.

Nothing Was the Same...After Beer Hockey

I mean, whatever negative thing you already think about Drake, the worst is that he's likely a Maple Leafs fan. And that shit's unforgivable.

Creatures of Habit

My cousin gets all the credit for finding this list: "23 Weird Things That Everyone Does While Drunk". We've all seen lists like this before, but I'll give Chelsea Fagan credit for being incredibly accurate with hers.

I mean, you know, accurate for other people. I don't do any of this stu—

10. Getting on Gchat and striking up an incredibly emotional conversation with whoever happens to be online at that time.

*screams*

*deletes Gchat*

Wifey Material: Emma Thompson

Love has no age limits. Especially when a woman is this gangsta about enjoying her martini.



When I grow up, I want me a wife as thorough as Emma.