Saturday saw the send off for my buddy Wil who is walking the Earth for the next six months to a year. He will return home whenever his money or his transsexual hooker sugar daddy connections dry up (literally). We procured a limo for his last evening in the city and took a dive bar tour of Denver in style. Some highlights:
The limo was compliments of one of my work clients who hooked us up with an amazing deal. He gave us a two week old Mercedes Benz limo for the night and stocked it with complimentary beer, gin, whiskey and champagne. The whip was so new that the stereo could only play CDs as the sound system was like the Death Star in Return Of The Jedi and not yet fully operational. We only brought one CD between the seven of us. Said CD was a shitty local techno band and ended up being fired from the limo window by night’s end.
Number of individuals in our group that ordered bacon: 2.
Number of individuals that asked the waitress to “Look away” as he attempted to pick up and eat a strip of bacon that fell of the floor: 1.
The Hilltop, my favorite college-era haunt, did not fail to disappoint (except for the omission of “Ballad Of The Green Berets” from the jukebox which was the traditional way to close all drinking benders back in the day). While walking into the bar a guy came out yelling “Who needs some blow? Some meth? Some X?” While sitting at the bar some troll-looking kid was attempting to start a fight with the a gentleman three times his size. The bartender encouraged smoking after asking if we were cops and than proceeded to light up and “fuck the anti-smoking laws.”
Changing the name of a strip club from Cheerleaders to The Player’s Club does not make your joint instantly classier. You still have to wash the vomit and sweaty ass from the carpet.
Number of individuals in our group that had their wife pick them up from The Player’s Club: 1.
Number of individuals in our group that lost an electronic device sometime during the night: 2.
Number of individuals in our group that were called by the limo company with the whereabouts of their lost electronic device: 1.
Be sure to rubber up in the jungle, Wil. Once you establish your white warlord presence in Belize, we will be down to slaughter cattle with machetes in front of the locals as a lesson not to cross you. In short, be safe and enjoy your adventures.
The future wife and I got the hell out of town for an alpine sports adventure weekend in Summit County. After a six mile snowshoe hike on Friday, we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day like an old-married couple; drinking two Kiltlifters and inhaling bacon-wrapped Filet Mignon at Pug Ryan’s then falling asleep before ten thirty watching reruns of Murder She Wrote. On Saturday we skied Breckenridge expecting spring break and weekend crowds only to be surprised by a dead resort due to local weather professionals prematurely calling for an immense spring storm. It is back to work in a few hours unless the city shuts down due to a blizzard (it could happen again, you know).
Carrot Top is shredded. Regardless if he is cut out of wood or not, he is still a closeted homosexual. He is wearing scary man mascara, for the love of baby Jesus.
An Australian model could face a maximum of 15 years in an Indonesian prison for being caught with ecstasy. Based on her picture, I would pay to see her in an Indonesian prison reality show. The program may only air for two hourlong episodes but it would be the best thing to happen to television since the moon landing.
For the Easter holiday my family convened at my aunt and uncles to dine on some cooked pig, play board games where the end result is global domination and hear my dad tell my brother-in-law to bite his ball sack at the dinner table. Speaking of pigs, my coworker is giving me a few pounds of fresh Polish sausage that her parents are sending her from Chicago. Her and her husband do not dig on the swine so they are giving it to me. I may boil that shit up and slap it on a bun with some sauerkraut and mustard. I may cut it up and throw it in with my scrambled eggs. I may even attempt to flatten it out into strips and fry it. Mmmmmm. Bacon Polish sausage.
Colorado is buried from the biggest snow storm to hit the state in 20 years. Work has been canceled for the past two days. I have killed time reading, watching television, playing Tenchu: Wrath of Heaven and redesigning a website. Last night, I was in the midst of posting new material to the MB, and my power went out (thank you, expensive surge protector). Sitting in the dark for a few hours, I realized two things:
I need to save working files on my computer more often.
Trapped in your house during a blizzard would be the best time to have diarrhea.
This morning I woke up, made a delicious plate of eggs and bacon and dug myself out. I started with my patio, which had been buried the night before (I shoveled this area off three times the day before). Next, I cleared the snow from behind my garage so I could back my car out. Finally, I made a path from my front door to the walkway. My neighborhood is a winter wonderland and it is still snowing.
Bacon is an amazing greasy and crispy treat that makes life worth living. I love eating bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, bacon strips and steaks wrapped in bacon. Apparently, Jesus and PETA do not want me to eat bacon. I urge PETA to quit influencing the Lord in order to make one feel guilty about their bacon consumption. PETA should eat their bean sprouts and tofu, help the asexual panda copulate, finger-bang a vegan and save the world in silence and peace. I did not get to the top of the food chain to gnaw on grass, leaves and berries. Our species has survived eons on this planet by jabbing a giant, meaty animal with a spear and eating the fuck out of it. I understand PETA’s stance; they want animals to be treated with dignity and respect. Until humans start treating each other that way, however, cows are baseball mitts and pigs are lunch.