Oh, the six demon bag!

Jack Burton: Terrific, a six-demon bag. Sensational. What's in it, Egg?

Egg Shen: Wind, fire, all that kind of thing!

Once upon a time there were Three Storms.

They had rotten attitudes. They would smash marketplaces and livestock all over the Chinese sector. You know, shake down immigrants in steamy streets cloaked in perpetual night...break windows in the local dry cleaner that didn't pay protection and so on. This sort of shit:

Well, la de da. Appearances notwithstanding they put on quite the show. This one in particular had a mean streak. Alas, all good things must come to an end. Where are they now?

Rain ended up moving a few subdivisions over from me apparently. I go over for yard/deck drinkin' from time to time. Not many henchmen end up in surburbia.

Fun fact: Rain can drink his weight in beer.

Hilarious

September 4 @ 9:28 in particular rings true...and the old fart clearly hates Jim Beam.


http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays

Move the Hell away from the damn bar, shitheads

Christ, was I pissed off last Friday. I've struggled back and forth with the decision to call out the bar where this disgrace occurred. For now, I've opted against it since to smear the business would be somewhat unfair based upon the utter douchebaggery of their patrons...even if the establishment could do more to discourage the bastard practice of standing around a crowded bar after you've received your beverages.

Most decent people know that once you've gotten your drink, you need to allow the patron behind you to belly up to the bar. Unfortunately, with the utter pussification of this nation in the last two decades, someone hasn't been getting the memo...and worse, sentinels of good drinking habits haven't been taking the offenders to the side for a quick word or asswhipping.

No longer.

So I say to you, dipshit college aged turd that wouldn't move after ordering complicated drinks: Fuck you. This little spike-haired bastard further broke good conduct by sticking his arm through my group to fist bump another of his shitface friends. Poor fucking form. I pray to a just deity that your car was keyed and filled with the stench of catpiss and vomit.

I say to you, blondish whore with her whore friends that ordered mind erasers. First, bitch, when the bar is packed you either buy beer or two-part cocktails. Mind erasers? Are you fucking high? Then you and your little collection of STDs had the hard tits to slurp them through the goddamn straw right there. In a circle. In a crowd of thirsty people. You apparently didn't see baleful stares of the staff boring holes in the back of your peroxide hair.(your roots were black as night, harridan)...at least the one poor guy tagging along with your hellish drop had the decency to look around as if expecting to get smashed with a pint glass.

Awful, goddamn awful. I blame your upbringing. You all should take poison and get fucked.

The Kiffman Cometh

Okay, okay, I realize the picture above is of Monte Kiffin not Lane...the boy-man who will soon be announced as the twenty-first head football coach at the University of Tennessee. Still, the authors here are quite excited that the new regime will replace 3rd and Chavis with one of the sharpest defensive knives in the drawer. Out with the wretched Mustang package and in with the Cover-2:

During DfV, we here have examined the early implications of the new staff, and while Lane Kiffin was not our first choice, he certainly wasn't the worst potential coach. His assistant coaches will be his strength, and that is something that the outgoing staff was woefully lacking. Some of the Fulllllllmer dead enders will cling (see: Stockholm Syndrome, trauma bonding) to the inbred notions of keeping the defensive staff intact, but those folks are fooling themselves. While John Chavis and staff were quite able on 1st and 2nd downs, they were positively criminal in their schemes for 3rd down. It is tiresome for the defense to play well for two downs only to give up the conversion and repeat the awful scene. It tires out the line(thin during recent years) and causes all the usual detriments when your team is on the short end of the TOP stick. You exhaust your athletes, and let's be honest without Eric Berry and the opportunistic secondary this year's defensive stats look much worse. John Chavis is a good enough coordinator to find suitable employment elsewhere. Best wishes.

The offensive staff needs to get the Hell out of here. That's the worst shit I have seen in my life, and I played on some rotten offenses. Nuff said.

I realize that some on you might wonder why we give attention to football so much here on what is primarily a boozing blog. Well, while it would be a filthy and odious lie to say that this season drove us to drink, it certainly caused a dangerous spike in drinking to the point of catatonia and throwing up. Who among you can think of InCrompetent without wanting to knock back seven Patron shots, two double Makers, six IPAs, and a single Lowenbrau?

That's what I thought.

Drinking for Vengeance

Ah...with the passing of Drinksgiving into the ash heap of history, we welcome the coming of another of our smaller seasons known as Drinking for Vengeance. DfV always starts the Saturday following Turkey Day and runs for about a week. Fueled by the noxious sobriety of family members, this small precedent to Whiskey Season gets the blood up and purges the body's various humours of well...humor. It is not a time of mirth but determination.

We start this DfV with a home game...the merciful end to a rotten football season and the swan song for Phil Fulmer. The contest itself is inconsequential, and I suspect that both teams will flop about in a proverbial holocaust on offense. We will be attending to insure that Fulllllllmer does in fact, leave.

Well, time to get this shitstorm rolling. A nice drop of wine to set me up for the day is the first order of business...

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.

Gotterdammerung

Setting: Early Saturday morning...Mackey's couch. I'm alive, at least on some immoderate level. Allow me to show you as best I can what was going on inside my skull:

Get the idea? I swear Mad Max and The Lord Humongous were chasing each other in what once was a reasonably active mind. All motor control, gone. Attempts to rise...utterly fucked. Well, seems like it must be the sixth of September.

You see, I rarely lose memories or blackout. Believe me, that's not always a good thing. I've seen shit that'll turn you white with febrile confusion. As for most of my birthday, as Mackey has recounted, I put on a drinking clinic before succumbing to unconsciousness. The truly great part of a real nasty birthday tear is the hostility your friends really have for you. Oh sure, it's great fun...till you see furtive giggles as one "friend" slinks off to a far bartender. Said sumbitch or third-rate tart won't comeback with a stout bourbon. No, those hours are passed by and by (along with respectability). Instead, Patron rears its nasty sombrero. Jager hunts. The bow legged woman demands an audience. Any number of drinks that end with -zee's and -drops follow at a pretanatural pace. The Valkyries were definitely choosers of the slain that night.

Feh. I'm glad this sort of power-drinking only comes round once a year. Always nice to have it around Labor Day and the start of football season...makes the transition into Drinksgiving that much easier. Still, the hangover was impressive and defied description. It was a definite badge of honor.

Many thanks to all those for their well wishes and I salute the drinking buddies from Friday night. I won't forget it, you bastards. Heaven help the next one of you with a reason to celebrate.

Opprobrium

Ahh...so how did you all wind down your weekend, or even just late Sunday evening? Perhaps sipping a zinfandel or braiding hair?

Heh heh heh