Day of Rage III

Let's see how it goes this year. Lurid details to follow...

Fuck The Commies

Commie subterfuge.

These automated spam attacks have gone on long enough, proving yet again how the acts of just a few can ruin a good time for everybody. So thanks, Commies, comments have been disabled. Not that comments and reader feedback were a big part of this blog anyway. Still, it annoys me to see those shit-languages written all over my drunken posts. Fuck off losers. I've got too much work and drinking to do to keep cleaning up your shit.

Nine millimeters of Luger

Let me just say I don't care for these electronic cigarettes. Not because I think those who use the insipid things are trying to skirt the smoking laws, rather I have found every single person who is using them in a bar setting to be a screaming douche.

I'm no smoking prude. In fact, among non-smokers you will find me the most pro-cancer stick. I lament the passing of smoking sections on planes and trains, and you will still see me frequent 21 and over bars that still allow smoking. This is America, and you should be able to kill your body however you please.

So last night I am downtown, and this older fellow was indulging in this tripe. He finagled his way to the center of his table, overpowering conversation and gesturing like a madman with his stupid damn stick. It lacks the couth and class of a pipe, sir. Worse, when your friends attempted to get your attention you would quickly pull your tiny Freudian cockstitute to your mouth and exhale a small amount of vapor into said friend's face. Feh. They really need to kick your ass.

Look, if the droat-wearing girls can stand outside in scarves and hideous boots to smoke during the cold January nights then you can too. I recognize that everyone probably doesn't engage in this low-level visual cocktardery when they activate their e cigarette. I beseech someone to step up and lead these misguided souls.

Self-Immolation: In which I single-handedly destroy credibility

Specifically, by providing an exceptional rant for the ages...courtesy of serial guest Atlas. See, he's provided me with a metric shit ton of this:

So I am providing an opening for a bit of rage, directed with tremendous vigor at this bird, made relevant by today's passing of the actress that portrayed Rose's latter years during this sentimental 90's shit:

Buckle up:

This is the reason...

that I can't stand the Tennessee Titans Houston Oilers. Just look at that ugly shit - worn by the head coach and entire coaching staff no less. Simply awful. Where is Bum Phillips and Dan Pastorini? Earl Campbell? It wouldn't matter, I hated the Oilers then almost as much as I do now. I need a drink to calm my nerve.

Death take me quickly

Mother of God. Fox Sports, what hath thou wrought? It's bad enough that the shithole lizards won the national title, but must you seek out this stereotype for the public? Look, we all enjoy the now famous pictures of Husker and Buckeye children tearing up, but this is just in poor taste.

A pox upon thy house.

Some things that suck

Damn you Knoxville. Splash pads and fountains may play well with the average dolt of a citizen that blindly looks at parks and greenways on face value as signs of culture. Meanwhile, those of us with a basic understanding of filth and disease shake our heads in disgust. Since this sign was clearly a post-poop afterthought, no one in a position of authority dared think that degenerate parents would allow their Hellish drop to prance about non-treated water in diapers. Just fucking awful.



Damn you Fulmer. A common refrain these days in Big Orange Country, made all the more relevant given the lackluster victory over a lackluster opponent. The collapse of the college football season means ill tempers and a social epidemic of drinking away one's sorrows. Though we here believe in 'drinking our way through it' as described last week, it would be pleasant to have a reason to celebrate. Instead, the evenings following a UT game are not the festive events like they were during my college days. Saturday night was like a leper colony sans the hope.



Damn you wine hangover. Look, since the dawn of civilization and grape-stomping, people have grappled with the dehydrated headaches of drinking too much vino. Following last week's WOTW festival on the river, my head was pounding like a full-on artillery barrage. I've been to three of these things and nothing goes totally right for me. As an event, it's a great deal of fun. A varied selection of wine and food from local and regional vendors, plus its for charity so you can fool yourself that you are part of something better than swilling wine on Friday(which you would be doing anyway, drunkie).



Damn you Cleveland Browns fans.

Mother of God, look at this asshole. While I endorse pelting non-performers with rotten vegetables and C-cell batteries(similar damage to D batteries, but lighter) I cannot help wanting to become the biggest shill and program homer when faced with the likes of this 'fan'

Damn you local schmucks. While walking through the World's Fair Park Saturday I once again lamented the lack of a rocking bar in the former L&N. When I was a boy, it was the first place I really can remember people getting plastered. I wanted to be one of those patrons and eagerly looked forward to drinking there on my eighteenth birthday. Two things prevented me from doing so: The utterly capricious decision to bump the drinking age to twenty-one, and the asshole jerks that seem to have their fingers in everything. Sure, nothing escaped the financial turmoil after 82 down there, but gradually business and life has returned to the Park, be it in the Sunsphere or Convention Center. The meddling historic assholes and nebulous power players in this town can't agree on what to do with the place. It's a shame. Sitting on that enclosed patio looking over the Park would be a capital locale for casual boozing.

Come down to the Brewer's Jam this weekend and see if you agree about the L&N. Failing that, you can at least get some sweet beer action. That, at least, will not suck.

Rooked!

Why so serious?

Well so far this Autumn has been steaming load of manure. Apart from my awesome rocking birthday, things are going down the rabbit hole in a hurry. Let's review some of the local and indeed, national woes that are getting on my nerves.

First, the Vols are sucking major balls. The completely inept play is a reflection of the coaching staff's baffling stubborness to adapt to the 21st century game. Special teams have been awful(offal) for years. The Vols have given up seven TD's on returns since 2005. Despite reassurance from the staff those problems will be addressed, it never has been. There is no discipline on the field, particularly on offense and the defense is dreadful on third down. Couple these on-field issues with the UTAD's moronic handling of the head coach's contract in Summer and the fan base is in uproar:

Mass hysteria. Cats and dogs living together, as Dr. Venkman has stated.

Also locally, despite oil dropping to a relatively low 90-something a barrel, gas here is as scarce as in Max's post nuclear Australia. Look for bikers, assless chaps, and a dramatic shortage of blowers for muscle cars. This was my morning commute:

Whimsical, no?

Nationally speaking, the body politic reels in the bitter taste of rescues and bailouts of rich assholes and morons that don't understand interest rates and sub-prime lending. Even now, our fearless dolts debate a bill that will give 700 thousand million dollars of our money to these pricks. So, we have economic crises to deal with...plus Ivan and his rusting arsenal rattling his Cossack swords, high energy costs, Lindsay and SamRo, and the always evident threat of alien invasion without the necessary weaponry to repel the ravenous hordes:

Truly these are interesting times, or so the fortune cookie has told me.

Anyhoo, one might ask if there is anything good going on right now. The answer gentle reader is yes. Oktoberfest. Let us all channel the goodwill and drinking karma from Munich...

In short, the authors here believe in one simple and salient truth: When the shit hits the fan, you DRINK YOUR WAY THROUGH IT.

Upon further review

In keeping with Mackey's relevant and timely post about the home opener...I must conclude that he is dead on about the misery that is the 12:30 kickoff. It's a forgone conclusion that the UTAD doesn't care about the common fan...subjecting the home folks to a miserable late summer kickoff with a subpar team and dolt for a coach is to be expected. (side note to Mike Hamilton...maybe we should have played UAB at home before going out west? Keep that in mind next time, you oaf)

Still, having attended more games than most over my 36 years, I have adapted in the past to such an immoderate time. You do get up early and tie on one...and truly, pre-noon drinks are to be relished and enjoyed. Usually Mackey and I are on top of our smartass selves, heckling and cursing every little thing that offends us:

This year's opener felt like a trip to the dentist, sans gas. The lack of energy and indeed...the availability of IPA is a recipe for lethargy and malaise. Instead of hardcore boozing and mockery of UAB fans, homer Vol idiots, and trips to either the Strip or Downtown for post game tomfoolery we watched some other games on the measty television. We hit Nama for some kick ass sushi and modest drinks at Downtown Grill and Brewery. So thanks for the fun and games UTAD...

You put two complete drunken rowdy assholes to sleep.

You took too much, too much

Thank you Dr. Gonzo, I'll take it from here.

This is what is currently pissing me off: The proliferation of flavored Stolis at the bar...Hell, at ANY bar these days.

Okay Ivan, enough is enough. Since you red bastards are dead set on starting a new cold war(how did the last one work out for you destitute fucks?) let me send some words back your way across the Fulda Gap. I realize that vodka has long been your backwards nation's one contribution to this world but if I might invoke some symbolism from Catherine, this shit is more than we can chew. Or drink.

Yeah, Stoli was much cooler when I was younger...I mean my junior and senior years of high school were tepid encounters with Popov and Smirnoff right after first period. Occasionally we would find ourselves knocking back Absolut or Stoli on the lake during the latter months of the year, and Stoli was the counterculture choice to the relatively chic' Absolut during those halycon days. It was a clear choice for college...until that fateful day when I realized I could quaff bourbon and whiskey with impunity.

I admit, vodka related items slipped my mind. Oh sure, I remember the debut of Skyy...or the first time I saw Belvedere and Grey Goose on the shelves at 640...the claims of filtered Svedka being almost as good. I even have vague memories of when Absolut first introduced Peppar and the much despised Citron.

Now, it is all you can fucking do at a bar to see anything other than the ubiquitous Stoli family lined from one end to the other. Jesus, is there really this much need for slightly flavored esoteric vodka? Have we completely lost our ability to make a drink in the standard way?

I'd like to line these fucking things up against a wall.

An Open Letter-

to the wretched androgyne wading amongst us last night at the pub. Oh, is it a boy or a girl? How clever. How very 1990's Imperial Drag.

Look, you would repulse me enough based upon your mannish attire, worn in such a way to obscure any potential mammaroid sightings. Your walk is indicative of the chain-wallet crowd, and your fake tan is baffling given it is summer and you could obtain some shade via natural means. Most stunning at all is your choice of hairstyle, known to all as the Horn of Aggression. Get a load of these examples:
















Sweet merciful Jesus. Death take me quickly. You realize, sexless man-woman, that this particular abortion of style has unsophisticated roots long documented in cave drawings?
Get the message? No? I will elaborate further, you shame yourself and worse yet everyone around you as every bar patron is forced to contend with your personal choice. The beer tastes flatter, and no one knows which bathroom you are going to use. It's extremely poor form.

If being compared to a Cro-Magnon, Neatherthal, or Australopithecines doesn't motivate you to change, allow me to also point out you resemble the douchebags of Jersey or Long Island. I mean, we've all seen these cliched pics circulating around Al Gore's internet for years now, but since you didn't get the memo:


I weep for the future. Until nuclear artillery is an option, please stay the F out of my bar.

I rail at thee, mix-n-match six pack

For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.-- Kipling

Indulge me for just a moment. Yes, the reader may wonder what I have against the seemingly innocent practice of mix and matching one's six pack...but I say now that this practice is godless, deceitful, and most likely communist. Soviet even.

I was at the local food jobber over the weekend. Being a man, I of course went to the beer section where I notice a patron with the bland white cardboard container indicative of this egalitarian practice. Now this place for years posted signs imploring us citizens to refrain from the college era prank/rookage of repackaging Newcastles into a Miller Lite six packs which could save the crafty ( if morally flexible) student upwards of five bucks. This is a young man's game, and should be abandoned upon getting a decent occupation. I note with irony the fact that said grocery store now encourages their state sanctioned mixing...complete with a nice surcharge(ie fucking) for the shopper.

Back to the patron. I scowled at his effete purchase...wondering if he was getting some Tiger Lagers from Singapore, or perhaps some Abita. Instead, this asshole had two Miller Chills and what appeared to be some Hefe Weizen trash, plus two malt piss from Smirnoff.

Juno's cunt, have you lost your mind sir?

This is part of the problem...anyone weak enough with a pathological need to sample some beers should man up and buy a six pack of the brew. You don't like Stella Artois after one bottle? Tough shit fairy, drink the other five now and learn your lesson. That's not to say one can't go into a proper bar and try new beers or drinks...but that is the time and place for proper

experimentation, not sitting on your well explored sofa nancing about which low carb trash you want to drink next. Hell, I would have had more respect had this consumer loaded up his custom six pack with heavy hitters like Red Hook, Duck-Rabbit, or any of the fifty Sam Adams that gets thrust on the American public. Bud Lime/Chill? Awful.

To take single beers and turn them into some sort of heterogeneous experiment is wrong. You rob the beer of its strength when you remove it from its fellows...and cheapen your buzz in the process. To sum up: if purchasing a single beer is your goal, find a nice 40(they like it
with the word 'dawg' because it makes them feel like they're friends with the product) and proceed to the gutter...otherwise, purchase your beer as prominent thinkers always have: six, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four, pony keg, keg in that order.

Save that douchebag crap for the Smirnoff Ice drinkers.

Expectation and Frustration

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Sundown 2.0- The Contrarian View

On the heels of Mackey's post regarding Sundown minutia, I feel compelled to add some thoughts on this once-relevant activity.

Sundown in the City has been hashed out on many local blogs and message boards, and a variety of viewpoints and opinions have surfaced. Too many kids, we should welcome the kids, not enough places to get a drink, too much drinking, etc. and so forth throughout perpetuity.

Allow me to give the more or less official view of Sundown from the bloggers here:

It now sucks.

A little background is necessary. The authors here break the year down into boozing seasons and Sundown was the proverbial spring of drinking, just as it coincides with the onset of the common Springtime. It's a time to shake off the doldrums of winter, see old friends that come out of hibernation, watch some cool regional and nationally renown bands, end up at the patio of the Downtown Grill and Brewery. Rinse and repeat. Up until a few years ago, the crowd seemed a friendly mixture of powerdrinkers and sophisticated music fans co-existing in a fun atmosphere. Now, it's a draconian exercise in KPD and the city's desire to regulate their responsibility and fun. Also you can't swing a cat without hitting drunkass teenagers and students. (hypocrisy disclaimer-while the authors were once punkass underage drinkers ourselves, we were much much cooler than the chumps and chumpettes that do so now, so suck it!)

Mackey has alluded to the rules regarding bottled water and paying for the 'privilege' to drink in addition to the product itself. Absurd. I can understand the mentality of these events even if I don't agree with them. Just like Rossini, the powers that be want you to have to complete Heraklean labors to just get a fucking beer. Stand in line for a wristband, stand in line for a ticket, stand in line for a beer. It all takes precious time that frankly we don't have in a mass of peeps.

While the lineups in years past have been great(Drive-By Truckers, Gin Blossoms to name a couple) and this year is no exception, the crowd has simply outgrown the venue. It's a hot sticky concrete canyon and is hotter than balls. It makes my friends that live downtown miserable simply by virtue of having thousands of folks in their grill.

I can understand the great passion that many people have for Sundown, even now...and respect that viewpoint. But for the professional drunkard, eschew the show, find a barstool and hunker the fuck down.

Go piss up a rope, Aerosmith

So...Steven Tyler checks into rehab. Again. Let's see...sixty years old, positive Hep test, incredible hypocrite douche. Yep, that sums it up.

Allow me to expound on my interest in this seemingly sad story: His Lordship hates Aerosmith. Not all of it, in fact everything up to and including Toys in the Attic is pretty sharp. However, during the late 80's this once relevant band started going down the proverbial toilet. Pink? Love in an Elevator? That goddamn song and video with Alicia Silverstone?

All shit. Complete drek from a band that should have gracefully bowed out and partied it up in private. You've noticed that while this is not primarily a music blog, we do have some heated conversations about music from time to time. Mackey and King Randal's neverending struggle over Van Halen and The Police is the most well known. Most everyone has a conventionally popular band that they hate. His Lordship knows people that cannot abide AC/DC, Boston, The Eagles and so forth. It's cool.

I listen to ESPN 1180 AM most of the day in my office. Apart from the excessive "Don't trespass on the railroad" commercial tragedies, the most repetitive bit of patter is Joe Perry and Douchebag Tyler lecturing us about the ills of drinking and driving for those faggots at RADD. The hubris on these fucking guys. You live a lifestyle of profligate drinking for decades and now you lecture me? Eat a bowl of dick, hypocrites...good luck getting cured off the Wild Turkey or vikes or whatever the hell it is you pack up your ass for jollies, Tyler.


:::UPDATE:::

This is rich. Now, Tyler is saying a foot injury is the reason for his rehab. What an ass.

Bar Peeve 1.0

Kids in the damn bar.

Okay, first let me say that I have never had a saintly tongue. Nor does anyone associated with this online tub of shiesse (just to be clear though Mackey and King Randal are far worse with their profanity) for that matter. It is said that profanity is the inevitable linguistic crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker. Then again, PJ O'Rourke counters with the assertion that profanity enlivens otherwise bland opinions.

We tend to congregate with the latter school of thought.

Having said all this, allow his Lordship the time to rail on his number one bar pisser-offer: Children in the damn bar. Look, we all know that responsible parents can toss back a few(many) and that they still can be good parents. For what it is worth, procreation is recognized as essential by the collective authors here. However, those of us lucky enough or unlucky enough not to have kids(depending on what fucking school you come from) will tell you that the barfly lifestyle is conducive and compatible most with not having the little shits around.

When I am knee deep in blood and whiskey, the last thing I am thinking about when I rant on for hours is the little bastard running around the foosball table after nine bells. Get his or her ass out of there if you don't want him or her hearing about: pussy, cock, bitch, whore, bastard, fuckface, fucker, fucking fucker, whore/prick of doom, asshole, prick of the year, and countless references to what is known to the hip kids on Al Gores internet as "butt secks"

Seriously, do you expect me to tone down my hatred/rage/joy/mirth by keeping a firing solution on your hellish drop all night? Get fucking real. Take them home before DCS gets a slurred phone call from the bar. One more thing, the little rat bastard needs some exercise.

The World's Biggest Jackass Is...Me.

The weekend was a total washout. I managed to almost obliterate my liver and egaged in multiple forms of douchebaggery. I would like to apologize to anyone who had the misfortune of crossing paths with me this weekend. The only thing worse than a jackass is a drunk jackass. This weekend I was "that guy." Nobody wants to be "that guy." On the bright side, apparently Drinking War Games have been set up and teams are joining the fray at a rapid pace.

Just An Idea

This may not fly with some, but here we go. Have you ever seen those commercials where a sad lady, man or couple is sitting there wondering what their kid would be like (while kids playing, smiling and having fun flash on the screen) if they hadn't had that abortion? Well I want to see the commercial where the sad parent is sitting there looking like shit (with their kid going crazy in the back ground) as they wonder what it would have been like if they would have had that abortion; flash to couple driving off in their boat, or having a nice relaxing night by the fire that looks like it could lead to more. Come on pro choice people get to it I know I would laugh.

Memo to the mosquitoes...

that have eaten me up this week at the pool and lake. If there is any solace to being a buffet for family Culicidae, it's that my alcohol stream was so robust that any blood taken must have killed you little bastards. Fuck off.