With our stomachs full of barbecue and cheap domestic beer, we made our way to the southernmost area of your backyard to throw horseshoes this Monday last. We defeated the Chili Dog and Nebraska Sally four times in a five game set. I urge you to revisit the exhilaration of our matches in your mind, recalling how we were hurling the shoes with pinpoint accuracy and standing on a cloud amongst the horseshoe gods. Now, envision feeling these thrills all summer long; the faint clanging sounds of horseshoes finding their mark, the soft flame of Tiki torches and citronella candles flickering along the border of the pit, the drunken banter of gentlemen poking fun of their opponents penis sizes and abnormal birth defects, the classic rock anthems being played loudly from outdoor speakers and most importantly, the beer; the endless cans of cold beer wet with condensation that we suckle from like swaddling babes from their mother’s teat. I understand that your wife wants a garden where we throw the horseshoes. May I remind you that the most successful marriages are those in which couples make compromises (may I also remind you that I was the best man at your wedding, perhaps the most important day of your life, entrusted with the safekeeping of your betrothed’s ring, delivering an emotional toast at the reception and holding a handful of cash during the dollar dance without stealing any of it) and in which case I have a compromise for you and your wife. Plant her garden in between the stakes, while we raise the back of the horseshoe pit up with landscaping boxes and fill said boxes with sands from the various deserts of Asia Minor. I will gladly help with any labor that becomes of this endeavor because we need this horseshoe pit. We deserve this horseshoe pit.
Christ it is hot in this office. I bet one of those skinny bitches turned up the thermostat again. They are always cold. It could be 102 degrees outside and they put on a sweater because it is “chilly out.” Whenever one of them says, “I think it feels fine in here” it means that it is 15 degrees hotter than it should be. We need to crank up the air conditioning. I want it so cold in this place that we could hang slabs of beef from the rafters.
My Fourth of July holiday was spent drinking Mexican beer, smoking Puerto Rican vanilla-soaked cigars, watching fireworks that were made in China explode in the night sky and eating the German barbecue treat bratwurst. God bless America.
After taking most of the summer off like the Colorado Rockies, I have come back to the world wide web, more cut, more shredded than Rocky Balboa did to face Clubber Lang for the second time in Rocky III. In case you are Ray Charles and have not noticed the sexy site overhaul, The MB has a new look that is bound to make you question fundamental web designing truths. I hope you enjoy it.
In my absence, I have been ridiculed and ostracized due to my flight to free agency in my roller hockey league. A young punk named Mark thought it was wise to open his ballwasher and question my actions. Not only are you unaware of the situation as to why I left the Slashing Hyena Organization, Mark, your claims are unwarranted and untrue (especially the part about me being a star athlete). Keep in mind, my friend, that if I had not the left the club, there would not be an open spot on the roster for you to fill, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. That being said, I intend to destroy you and eat your face when we meet out there on the rink. Then, in the manner of a true hockey player, we will get drunk on cheap beer when the smoke has cleared and you are putting your arms back into their sockets.
Speaking of eating bitches, I give you Big Lurch.