Jake: I sent my brother-in-law the screaming dad mp3. His reply was: “Man, I miss New England. It has been a long time since someone’s dad called me a cunt.”
Me: I am incorporating that into my verbal arsenal when I have a son. I will call him Mary, Cinderella, ballerina and cunt. Every once and awhile I will call him son, just so he does not commit suicide.
Jake: I am going to stick with “Boy” mostly. “Hey boy, get me a beer” or “Hey boy, mix daddy a martini. And do not cock it up like you did last time.”
Me: Good times.
Thanks to Jake and the good people over at Joyent, the MB is humming like an old lady in line for the early bird special at Country Buffet. Over the weekend, I spent a good chunk of time drinking, working on freelance activities and setting up Broz Design.
On a related note: It took over an hour to cancel my web hosting service. After attempting to close the account online (due to errors on their end I was not able to), I had to call customer support. I was placed on hold and transferred between departments for almost an hour until I finally reached a competent customer service associate. She apologized for the run around and for Yahoo! not contacting me when their rates dropped. She then refunded my last two payments and made a humorous and deprecating remark regarding her current employer. In short, Yahoo Web Hosting (except for the capable customer service associate Julie) sucks the sweat off of a dead donkey’s balls.
Much like a keg of PBR in a university fraternity house or Paris Hilton on an aircraft carrier full of cocaine, I am tapped. I just do not have it today (“it” referring to the creative magic that makes me money and causes the ladies undergarments to moisten). While searching for inspiration that was non-porn related, I found a video of the best hockey fight I have ever witnessed. Then Jake sends over Jam On It by Newcleus. Any moment now I expect Turbo to bust out the storage room and do the electric worm past my cubicle. Things are starting to look up.
Christmas came and went like my first college girlfriend; happy and magical in the beginning but quickly degenerating into a miserable coma-like limbo where my emotions froze and my body metabolized alcohol with the efficiency of a Nazi general. I made out with holiday gifts like two groping teenagers in a PG-13 movie. Aside from a pile of clothing and art supplies, I received high-ticket items from my lady (digital camera) and the parents (barbecue grill) and a most excellent scotch sampler from Jake (as I type this I am enjoying a nice glass of Oban). Posts in the next few weeks will be scant as I knock out a freelance gig, sexify the MB for 2005, snowshoe, play in a hockey tournament, polish off a scotch sampler and generally enjoy my time off from work. Peace on earth and all that shit. And fuck you, tsunamis.
Today in Colorado, the wind is as strong as a three-hundred pound bull dyke high on angel dust being chased by the police. Jake has volunteered his comments section for your best blowing metaphors. My lady’s Dad (an engineer working on the Rocky Flats Closure Project) informed us that the site is on lock down and all work has been suspended indefinitely due to dangerous gusts that have shattered windows and made a general mess of things.
Jake: Breakaway glass.
Me: We need to get some of that breakaway glass. Then you can come over to my cubicle and say you do not like my designs and I will smash a bottle on the table and say, “Now I got to cut you.”
Jake: Yes. We could get in a fight in the parking lot and throw whiskey bottles at each other.
Me: That would be awesome. We would have to make a scene in the office first. “You fucked my sister!”
Jake: “How was I supposed to know she was a stripper?”
Me: “Fuck you!”
Jake: “I was asleep anyway!”
Me: *flings a salad plate
Jake: *plate explodes against the wall
Me: “Outside, bitch!”
Jake: We will probably need some fake blood, too.
Jake: Giant squids.
Me: The giant squids are taking over.
Jake: Yes. I have long thought that tentacles were the only things that might trump thumbs.
Me: Regardless, we still have the larger brain.
Jake: Yeah. But you give the same brain to a species with thumbs and to a species with tentacles and the tentacles just might be more useful than thumbs.
Me: Agreed. Squids could definitely hold more weapons with their tentacles. This is assuming of course, that they become amphibious, run aground and grow giant brains.
Jake: Right. I mean, they could spread just one tentacle over an entire keyboard. In order to compete with that, we would have to type with our fingers, wrist and elbow.
Me: Can they control sectional elements of their tentacles? Like in the instance of typing?
Jake: I think so. A tentacle is not sectional though. I think it is just a big bunch of muscle.
Me: So they cannot type?
Jake: I think they could.
Me: I am not sure. I am going to need to see a cross section of a tentacle in order to determine.
Jake: Here you go.
Me: That settles it. The squids can type.
Congratulations to Jake and Heather who exchanged nuptials over the weekend. I was bestowed the honor of best man and spent the weekend drinking with Bostonians (hearing “Fucking Jeetah” and “This yeah the Sawks are gonna win it,” on numerous occasions), viewing schizophrenic artwork, discussing the many uses for Marshmallow Fluff and watching Neal dance like a homosexual club kid full of horse tranquilizers to “Mambo Number 5.”
A weekend of heavy drinking caused me a Sunday morning hangover that could rival a Kennedys (minus a sex assault and driving a bitch into a lake). The recap:
Friday. I attend the Great American Beer Festival at the Denver Convention Center. The Great American Beer Festival works as such: assorted beer brewers from all over the United States set up keg stations in a large convention hall. Attendees are given an empty one-ounce glass upon entry. Assorted brewers pour beer into the one-ounce glasses. Attendees shoot glasses of beer. This process is repeated for four hours. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. I run into two sisters I went to high school with who are both wearing cowboy hats and have the following exchange:
“Courtney, how is everything going?”
“How is your sister doing?”
“Ask her. She is standing right next to me.”
The evening degenerates into immature drunkenness. A member of our group throws a road cone into a public parking lot for no apparent reason and hits a car. A large man in a jumpsuit passing by proclaims, “Hey man, that ain’t cool” to which the cone thrower replies, “Keep on walking, Devo.” The cone thrower later orders a $20 sampler platter at Old Chicagos, eats most of it and then smears the remainder of it onto the gentleman next to him. The evening concludes with our heavily intoxicated group standing outside of Old Chicagos waiting for our ride where a Ford Explorer with twenty two inch rims is urinated on, a foreign cab driver is yelled at for not using his mirrors and a biker riding down the sidewalk is kicked and told to buy a handlebar bell to alert pedestrians that he is coming through. The biker proceeds to ring his handlebar bell when he reaches the end of the block.
Saturday. Jake‘s bachelor party starts off at a Westminster dive bar called On The Rox. A meth addict shooting pool gives Jake marital advice. We consume $5 pitchers of beer and watered down whiskey. Our group becomes intoxicated quickly. Unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. Jake attempts to sing “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, but ends up talking through most of the song as our group heckles him unmerciful. We proceed to the Brunswick Zone where we bowl three games, smoke cheap cigars and drink numerous buckets of Coronas. After our games, we retire to the bowling alley lounge where unbeknownst to us it is Karaoke night. The evening concludes with a drunk hairbag singing Karaoke to Slayer’s “Seasons in the Abyss,” Jake’s fiance cleaning puke out of her car, drinking a nightcap poured by a fat bartender in a sports bra with a large tattoo on her breast and me calling an Asian coworker “Spanish” while I dominate him in air hockey.
Jake knows of my adoration for women’s tennis (more specifically, of my adoration for Maria Sharapova). Today, as I ate lunch from home, he calls.
Jake: Turn it to ESPN.
Jake: Just do it.
I turn the channel to see Maria Sharapova, adorned in her little skirt, grunting, moaning and serving heat to Japan’s Ai Sugiyama at Wimbledon. In a well-played tennis match, Sharapova won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1. She will now face Lindsay Davenport in the semifinals. It is moments such as these that reinforce why I am friends with Jake.