Posts Tagged ‘drinking’

Sweet Anonymity

Posted: August 20, 2014 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , ,

Saturday, I was gifted a ticket to see Young Frankenstein down at the Erie Playhouse.  First things first, the stage adaptation was a skull-popping homage to the Mel Brooks classic.  There was one part of the show that was completely out of place.  It wasn’t the song, nor the dance, nor the fact that it wasn’t the cast from the movie…  no…  it was in fucking color.  Otherwise, fantastic highlight to a fulfilling evening– but you’re right, I started my entry with a tangent.

I lamented recently how I have become a forced hermit due to both location and recognition.  Conditions since that post have not changed, in fact– I’ve actually leveraged my small-town “hey, that’s the mail man” flavor of notoriety (it’s as palatable as a bowl of chalk) to get out of a traffic ticket.  To clarify, when the cop asked me if I knew that my inspection was up two weeks ago, I nearly shit a brick and explained that I drive my car maybe once a week.  I didn’t even get a written warning– yet we’re on tangent/win number two.

You’ll have that shit when you write a post over the course of a couple days.

I know, people, I know, you wanna know what the fuck I'm on about...

As everyone has already said: GET ON WITH IT!

So, I’m not sure how much of a faux pas this is– but my friends and I are the kind of people who pregame a stage performance.  Some people bring booze to the movies, some pre-game sporting events, and some others pre-game the bar–  oh wait, I’m all of those.  Anyway, I also happen to be one of those who will also pregame an off Broadway show.  I’m not talking dropping a few shots before stepping out the door– TeeJ and I got old-school shitty shitty tanked tanked.  That’s been our modus operandii since forever, but I digress a third time.

Yes, he drove, because I was– as I vaguely remember telling him– “incompetent at life.”  So what does he do?  He takes me to fucking Erie Days— a place crawling with body-armored bacon and the vulgar masses.  Mind you, when I lived in Erie– I avoided this spectacle of fail like a fat kid avoids celery.  Yet here I was, smack in the middle of a rather large clusterfuck of people.  I had not previously realized that he was taking me straight out of retirement– and throwing me back into the way we used to roll when it came time to go out.  He is still in practice, whereas I am not (which only added to my level of intoxication).  However, that was where it happened.  I rediscovered what it felt like to vanish into a crowd– a complete unknown.

Believe you me, there’s a certain joy that can be felt when you can be completely obliterated– and nobody has a fucking clue, because nobody cares to pay any damn attention to you.  It’s a beautiful thing to be able to effectively disappear.

Or... is this a metaphor?

Yeah, I had an idea for an image break…

I didn’t have to give a rat’s ass about who I stumbled into, literally or otherwise.  There wasn’t going to be some random neighborhood kid striking up a conversation– oh yeah, that shit happens sorta regularly since I walk to work.  There was no chance of some silver hair asking me work-related questions when it’s clearly inappropriate.  By the way: office hours, people, learn to fucking respect them.

Most importantly, there was no way some douche canoe was going to start the gossip chain because I wasn’t acting like me.  News flash, me at work is most definitely not me.  It’s in my best interest to maintain that inflexible distinction, and for one blessed evening– there was no chance of that facade being in danger because I decided to enjoy being unconscionably blitzed.

… and then the motherfucker took me to the theater– where it turns out he’s one of those theater-famous people.  Getting in the joint, grabbing the tickets, and getting to our seats took almost twenty minutes.  I made it thankfully to my chair, buzz solidly intact– still just another smirking face in the crowd waiting to laugh his ass off at Young Frankenstein.

I seriously need to get out of the public sector.



I’m sitting here, minding my own damn business, and my brain decides to take a little walk down Random Thought Boulevard.  I know, this is fucked up territory, so check it out.  My brain knows full well that this street’s poorly paved, overrun with seriously weird shit, and ultimately tees off on an Escher kind of level.  If that whole train of thought derailed on you, welcome to how my randomized brain works.  Now, throw being a little loaded on top of that.

This isn't half as weird as my day.  I saw a legit MCI phone bill today in the mail.

About to load your mind with fuck in three. two. one.

Back to being loaded, I’m sitting on my ass like a lazy pile of waste and surfing the same stupid pages I do every night.  I hop onto LinkedIn because I wasn’t kidding about that waste bit– and I hit this article.  I breezed through it until I happened to hit the last paragraph.  For those of you who aren’t going to waste your time on the unimportant sections of the article, here’s the part that blew my mind into the back of the fucking auditorium.

Remember that partitioning our lives and identities is a trap. When we segment and partition our lives into work life, home life, sporting life, community-service life, etc., we deny a truth that often our greatest strength comes from integrating all the different and diverse network interactions, and ideas into a unified and integrated whole. After all, the etymology of Integrity is from the Latin integer, meaning wholeness, or the unit of one.

Ready for the record scratch?  I deliberately taught myself to be very good at partitioning my life and personality, as well as tailoring the experience to the people I’m around.  It’s goddamn automatic for me.  If this assjack is right, I must be some kind of fucking sociopath.  Right?

I am either too wasted for this.... or not wasted enough.

Some of you shit your pants. Now see why I shat mine.

Let’s see, do I slip from situation to situation pretty seamlessly?  Yup.  Do I tend to curb parts of my personality depending on whose company I’m in?  That’s a big yup.  Is this precisely the kind of segmentation that Mr. Probably-not-PhD’d-in-This says is contrary to being a unified and integrated whole?  Damn skippy.  Does it change the fact that I have more integrity than most people?  Nope.  Guess that classifies me as more of a high-functioning sociopath… but still, I have to look at the facts.

Very little affects me.  I’m a shameless narcissist.  I have about as many “segments” to my personality as most chicks have shoes.  See where I started thinking too much?  I tend to relate to strangers more on a causality level than an empathetic one.  For example, I don’t punch stupid people because I’m too pretty for jail.  If something does somehow get to me, it’s like getting hit in the soul with a C-4 wrapped baseball bat.  I’m easily bored, yet easily obsessed.

Then I realized something else–
— I have no reason to trust a goddamn word that this goofy-looking motivational speaker has written.  It’s perfectly alright to compartmentalize, especially if you’re good at it.  Bottom line?  Always be yourself, but don’t fucking show your hand to everyone at the goddamn table.

… or I could just be a sociopath trying to justify himself.  (Which would actually defeat the clinical diagnosis, since justification is irrelevant to a true case.  Flawless victory for the powers of sarcasm!)


Since you asked…

Posted: June 8, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Show of hands here, how many people cook without recipes because [reason]?  Doesn’t it make you want to slap the corpse of Julia Child every time some method cook asks for your recipes?  Well, wind up a flying 540 pimpslap of doom– I’m writing this one down right as I’m eating it (read: while I have any Goddamn recollection what I did).  I realize indulging such requests is like feeding a mogwai after midnight– but fuck it.

So first up, get shitfaced.  The rest of this will make more sense after your intoxicant of choice.

I give you–  Coconut Fried Rice.  So yeah, get back to step one then go get the following shit:

Coconut oil
2 tiny boiler onions
2 cooked chicken breasts (I’ll explain in a minute)
3 bell peppers (red, yellow, orange)
2 cups of rice (dry)
2/3 of a decent sized eggplant

Fuck you, the melanzana is perfect because I’ve been on this whole fusion kick lately.  Either that or I was just wasted–had it handy– and it seemed like a fucking great idea– which it totally is.  Now quit questioning the smashed savant and get the rice started.  Make sure you throw in a good heaping tablespoon of coconut oil with the now-cooking rice.  While that’s going, you get to play with sharp objects.  If you can’t figure out what to do at this point, especially seeing the picture below, I can’t help you.  Just make sure you keep the chicken separate from the rest of the stuff because this is a total throw-together meal and timing is possibly crucial.  I have no idea.

Because I can, that's why.

It’s creations like this that make it worth Cortana’s while to let me get loaded whenever the mood strikes.

Now, once you’ve got your prep work done– redo your shitface while another good scoop of coconut oil heats up on the stove.  Oh, by the way, if you didn’t already assume that you need a big-ass saucepan for this– well you’ve probably realized it by this stage.  Toss in onions.  Wait till translucent, toss in everything else besides the chicken.  Sizzle the Hell out of those for awhile.

Now, we get to the chicken.  Why is it cooked before?  Because I’m on a diet kick, trying to lose ~20lbs before my last Mudder.  Yeah, I said “last”– but that’s another rant entirely.  At this point, I dumped some Parrot Bay into the saucepan because…  I really have no damn clue, because it turned out not to do shit.  Skip that, or don’t, it’s your choice at this stage.  Stir in the cooked rice with another big blob of coconut oil.

Sizzle, some more then toss in a quick blupp (yes, that’s a technical term) of soy sauce.  That’s it.  Too easy to make, and holy shit… it turned out even better than I’d anticipated.  I didn’t do the math on this, but I believe this is pretty freaking healthy too.

If I were a hashtagging kinda guy, I’d probably throw in something like dontneednostinkinrecipes…. or couldbehealthy… or maybe smashedchef.  However, this is a blog, I’m too verbose for twitter, and I’m not a douchecanoe.

In other news, if you’re a fan of this whole quasi-healthy eating kick, check out my kid sister’s blog.


It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, why in the Nine Levels of Dante’s Infernal Pit do I have to be everyone’s frigging neighbor?  Seriously, I understand the mechanics of how this happened— but it doesn’t mean I like it any the more.  I always valued my anonymity, my ability to meld into a crowd and vanish, but Jesus Hydrophobic Christ on a tugboat– I never realized how much I’d miss it once it’s gone.

Believe you me, it hasn’t just gone full Houdini–  it’s even worse.  I’ve seemed to go full-on Fred fucking Rogers.

Fuck off, neighbor!

Look at that crooked middle finger! It almost seems appropriate with that benevolent Jimmy Carter grin…

Yes indeedy, at first it was an insidious change…  once in awhile stumbling over one of my boxholders at Wegmans, or someone’d recognize me on the random happenstance that I went out for a drink…  but I quickly realized that it didn’t stop there.  I have learned quite quickly that I can’t go anywhere in this general area without someone recognizing me.

This is the point where I invoke the almighty holy-shit-time-out-4th-wall-breaking-power-of-Zack-Morris.

I no longer can be out in public shitfaced, because I have suddenly become the antithesis of the guy nobody saw sober.  Instead of being sober and surprising everyone– now people know sober me…. and worse off, sober and stressed to the point of bad puns at work me.  This will not fucking do.  What in the Lovecraftian concept of fuck is wrong with this picture besides… I don’t know… everything?!

No, today it all came to a head while I was walking home for lunch…  one of the local kids (and damned in Hell if I know what the little ginger’s name is) waved and called me by name.  Yeah, I know, real cute– right?  Oh no, the rest of the kids apparently now know me too.

Ladies 'n' Gentlemen, Mr. Jon Stewart.

Yeah, my reaction too.

So yeah, I guess that just cements the fact that I’ve been installed as a fixture in the community…  I can no longer get shitfaced where I live, nor near where I live, nor go out in public after the fact…  because hey— the last thing I want to deal with is someone who knows me from work trying to talk shop while I’m endeavoring to enjoy a proper buzz and mind my own goddamn business.

Son… of a bitch.
I miss being a ghost, one rarely if never recognized nor seen around my old home town.


Fuck all kinds of duck.
… and people wonder why I prefer to drink at home for more than just cost-effectiveness and lack of DUI’s.


Fine! I give in!

Posted: February 7, 2014 in Humor
Tags: , , ,

There have been several individuals that have repeatedly accosted me over my supposed “secret recipe book.”  No matter how much I repeat myself, they don’t get the point: recipes are for bakers and sober people.  As you all know, I am neither.

That said, it took a request from one of my wife’s coworkers (and the fact that going this extra mile may, in fact, help me land a job with them) to get me to write this down.  By “write this down,” I meant take a large portion of my “mental health day,” get bombed, and pretend like I have any goddamn idea how to write a recipe down…  so your results may vary.

Just go with it.

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh… it’s the best I could Google. Bear with me, and enjoy the ride.

Tropical Chili

Seeing how there is no recipe for what I’m doing (as I truthfully never know precisely what I’m doing at any given time for any culinary task)–  I’m just going to write it out as I go as a set of guidelines/steps to follow…  in drunkenese.

Stuff you need

  • 2lbs of ground turkey (yeah, it’s one of those chili concoctions)
  • Chili Powder
  • Paprika
  • One small/mediumish onion
  • Garlic
  • 2 12oz cans mango
  • 1 20oz can pineapple tidbits  (yes, I said “can,” don’t judge me)
  • 1 12oz can diced tomato (obviously, if you were going to a competition, you modify this to use fresh)
  • Dry navy beans  (if you don’t have time for that shit, any canned variety will work—except black beans.  Too much flavor.)
  • 1 12oz can corn, drained
  • 3-4 medium poblanos
  • 2-3 big bell peppers (red, yellow, orange… NOT green)
  • Cinnamon
  • Crushed red pepper
  • Season salt

Optional stuff

  • Corn starch
  • Brown sugar
  • Stupidly hot peppers

Start off with a big ass crock pot.  I’m not talking those pansy two quart size ones, I’m talking a crock pot.  Obviously you can do this on the stove in a large kettle, but I’m doing this the slackinese way.  Rinse a little under a pound of beans and throw them in the crock.  Yes, this is like the second time I’ve ever used my kitchen scale, but I digress.  Turn it to high, add mango and pineapple juice.  You can throw in the can of diced tomato at this time.

Grab a knife.  Dice up all peppers, and make sure you’re wearing gloves.  I know, this is a big “no shit” moment, but I’ve burned my corneas three times (all three followed immediately by “dammit, should have known better.”)  Seriously, just scrubbing your hands with dish detergent won’t cut it.  Add those to the crock pot.  Toss in a decent amount of chili powder and paprika.  Add a little crushed red.  Don’t go nuts with it, there’s time for that later.

Alright, next up!  Grab your handy dandy food processor.  Don’t have one?  This next part is gonna suck for you.  Finely dice the onion and garlic.  Figure the amount of garlic you’re gonna clean and dice should be about 1/3 the amount of onion you have.  This isn’t a weight nor a volume call here– it’s called eyeball measurement.  Sure, I guess you could substitute dried/powdered onion/garlic—but that’s kind of the difference between slackinese and outright lazy.  Don’t be lazy.

Add a “blupp” of olive oil to a large pan, or decently sized kettle.  Yes, that’s a technical measurement.  Combine ground turkey with the finely chopped onion/garlic combo, then toss in a lot of chili powder and paprika.  Think it’s enough?  It’s not, because you’ll add more while browning the meat.  Also add a little bit of cinnamon.  Here’s the stage where you’d add firepower to it in the form of Habanero peppers, or crushed red, or Serrano/Thai chilis (thereby creating Tropic Thunder).  Do not use Jalapenos, their tartness will throw it off.   Also add in some season salt to taste.

Combine the entire contents of the pan with what’s in the crock pot.  Also, add in the pineapple tidbits.  Slice the mango, and add that.  Drained corn?  Yup.  Stir it up, throw a lid on the summbitch, and walk the hell away.

Total time elapsed:  I have no damn idea.

It really doesn’t matter.  I’m halfway drunk and you’re not.

Now, you’re probably wondering if there’s another way to do this if you don’t have all damn day to wait for slackinese magic to occur.  Sure—you substitute the dry beans for canned (drained, obviously), and you brown the meat with the peppers.  Add beans, fruit, juice, and tomato after the turkey’s sufficiently browned.

But wait, you’re a tree hugger that doesn’t eat tasty animals!  Well this recipe was originally executed on some Lenten Friday, and instead of turkey—try a shitload of quinoa… and triple the amount of beans.  You also have to really know your spices.  No, I don’t remember what I did; I wing it every time I’m in front of my stove.

Anyway.  Leave the crock pot alone for a couple hours, but you might want to give it a stir around hour 2-3.  Or not.  That’s the beauty of a crock pot.  About an hour before you’re ready to eat, make sure you have a stir and a taste test.  Too hot?  Add some brown sugar—very sparingly.  Test and stir.  Too weak?  Add some cayenne, Tabasco, whatever extra firepower you have handy.  Too much liquid?  Dust in some cornstarch to thicken it up.  This is also the point to test the beans, since they’re going to take the longest to cook.

Your concoction should be done within 4-5 hours.  Again, none of this is exact—so you will need to tweak it towards the end.

In other words, if you need an exact recipe to make something edible—this is not a project for you.
However, if you even have the faintest idea of what to do in a kitchen—this is easier than pie.

… it absolutely has to be, because I can’t make a pie.


A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, there was a cadre of ageless demigods of debauchery… and they were localized in a quasi-remote corner of Pennsyltucky because unleashing them anywhere else would have caused riotous libations on a Roman scale.  We several, we proud remnants of that unforgotten era dust off our war faces from time to time– just because people need to remember why nobody ever gave us all indefinite full rides to our alma mater.


Scrap that.

If Edinboro wanted to alleviate their enrollment issues, they’d make us all tenured professors of toxicology, sarcasm, and general awesomeness.  Their *ahem* myopically landmark-oriented budgeting follies will be left for another day.  You can’t put a name on a reputation.  Unless, of course, you are the fucking reputation.

Dionysus was proud of him that night, for he kicked off the shoes while still asleep--  because he couldn't cross his legs.  True story.

Some of you understand this image, and others do not. If you do not, close the window now and kindly fuck off– because the rest of this article is not for you.

Cortana and I were at Dearborn Hall no more than 15 minutes before I ran into someone from yesterbeers past.  I really can’t remember her name, and no she didn’t remember me from some naked shenanigans.  As it turns out, it was from an errant beer pong running riot from 2010.  That was secondary to the recognition of the shirts I wore.  Firstly, congratulations to the Iota Delta chapter of Delta Zeta for having this year’s queen.  Damned if I have any idea who she is, but fuck it–  I know she can’t roll like the girls who made me proud to wear the shirt.  Now, noticing that I was just getting revved up (probably around 11:30ish on Friday), and having been given a situationally epic offer by one of my sisters… well… the games really began, and my body remembered how to switch on the drunkopilot.

Now, the details are intentionally blank here because I have a job that might frown upon my revelries…  however, I’ll leave it here:  muscle memory is the shit.  I triumphantly acquired John’s, made it back to the dorms, and still had the presence of mind to want to break a ukulele off in some douche’s ass.  Yes, there’s a story in here somewhere, but Cortana tells it better…  It ended with her saying something about, “that motherfucking ukulele” and I wrapped my belt around my fist like I was going to be tough or something.

She shook her head, scoffing something along the lines of, “Are you serious?” and continued to enjoy the bevvy of legendary snackage.  Considering that it’s freaking John’s— and I damn near fell over while trying to be all Johnny Badass– I ceded the point and apparently went to bed.

Believe you me, even though the body remembered how to party like a 23 year old (and did so in classic form), apparently it forgot how to shrug that shit off.  Did I mention that I did a fuzzy recollection of my drunken wanderings and clocked over 11 fucking miles during the weekend?  Welcome to my level, bitches, I full-out Mudder-ed Homecoming.

That, however, wasn’t the high point.  The high point was watching some broad get a fucking DUI on goddamn Ontario St.  Those of you who are unfamiliar for that which is Edinboro will not get the joke– but you have to be ten kinds of retarded, five kinds of drunk, and twenty shades of unlucky to get nailed there.

This wouldn't have saved her.  Dumbass.

All of Edinboro would have been a huge-ass “checkpoint.” All weekend, all I could do was smell bacon– even when knocking back shotskies.

Seriously, how fucking stupid can you be to drive during Edinboro HoCo?   You can’t go five minutes without seeing a different cop car during the daytime— and we lucky bunch got to drink on the porch of my buddy’s place with front row seats.  Oh yeah, we can drink in public, flout open container laws in front of the po-po, but we’re not stupid enough to grab keys…

… unless, of course, it was to pop the trunk bar and do shots– in plain sight– on a “dry campus.”

All this talk of classic awesomeness reminds me of how I can’t wait for OHNO IV:  Title Yet to be Decided.


Some of you may notice a foreboding stillness in the air, like the world itself unconsciously gasped and forgot to exhale.  Verily, ‘tis that fabled time of year, where once legendary livers are brought out of mothballs to again crack errant walnuts with reckless abandon.  A time, if you will, where freshmen shall cry out to the gods and goddesses of old, “Are you not entertained?!”

… and we shall whisper in pitiless reply, “No.”

Do work!!!

Sound the vetted war cry of old! “TO THE BARS!!!!”

This year is going to be unlike the blurred litany of the past decade, because for the first time… my chapter of TKE will no longer be there.  Missing will be the beer pong tournaments and afterparties, and gone will be the guaranteed amusement brought by watching hammered undergrads vainly attempt to keep up.  I won’t be introduced to a new class of pledges who, upon mention of my name, need forklifts to pick up their jaws before they can say, “Oh shit… you’re him.”

If you will all join me in a reverent moment of internet silence.
Seriously, close the other window with the porn.
I can hear that shit.
This is a serious moment here.
Show some fucking respect.

Thank you.

Now while I’m on this wistful nostalgic kick, this year will make up for the amalgamated fuckpile of fail that was HC2012.  I can’t even spell it out completely, it was so… lame.  I blame the old job, which kept me from a two day running riot, but not this year.  Hell no.  Not only has my awesome boss arranged for me to be off, I’m also getting paid to get fucked-in-half shitfaced with the old guard.

Pile on top of that guaranteed wasted weekend this little fact: we’re staying in the dorms, because enrollment is down to the point where campus is renting them out on the cheap to alumni.  That’s right, no driving.

This is the best worst idea ever… or worst best… something like that, jury’s still out.

Karen Allen... what happened to you?

I’m sure Cortana’s thought this MANY times… especially when I get this giddy over going full booztafarian….

Some of you already see the spray paint on the walls… because relieving professional lushes of their driving responsibilities equals one thing— there’s gonna be a gagglefuck of thirty-somethings pretending to be undergrads.  Who is going to turn down drinks when they can crawl back to the dorms as in days of yore?  If this wasn’t a call to party harder than the last homecoming before I met Cortana— there’s another ace in the hole.

Not only will I have my usual war party of TKE brothers and other collected awesome, this year is special.  My girls will be there—that’s right—the ladies who taught me the true meaning of “drink while you think” will be in attendance.  Not only will my generation of ladies be there (don’t judge us, we rule), they’ll be doing this thing in force.  That’s right, this is a Delta Zeta year.  Awwwww Delta!  Awwwww Zeta!  If I could jump up and down in text form, I would be right about… now….

Did I also mention that most of them, as well as the usual suspects, are staying in the dorms too?  Did I also forget to mention that the infamous “trunk bar” is not only requested—but open to party?

This can only end one way…