Intoxication

Sparks To Lose Sizzle Come Next Yizzle

Posted on by sgottahurt

2008 was a tough year for everyone.  It was especially tough on the “malternative” nation.  A few months back, MillerCoors announcing they were canning Zima (no, not taking out of bottles and putting into aluminum… they’re scrapping it altogether).

The plan was to push Sparks in its place, but assholes across America had other ideas (from AP):

MillerCoors agreed to remove caffeine, taurine, guarana and ginseng from Sparks and not produce caffeinated alcohol beverages in the future…in a deal with 13 states and the city of San Francisco, who had contended the drink targeted young drinkers.

The company must also eliminate all references in advertising to caffeinated formulations and not promote Sparks as a mixer for caffeinated drinks. It will remove the plus and minus symbols — which evoke a battery — found on the blue and orange cans for the product. The company also agrees not to use batteries, rockets, lightning bolts, or the terms “powered by” or “ignite” in marketing the new formulation.

The MillerCoors settlement… includes the attorneys general of Arizona, California, Connecticut, Idaho, Illinois, Iowa, Maine, Maryland, Mississippi, New Mexico, Ohio and Oklahoma and the city attorney of San Francisco.

“It’s a devil’s brew of a product because it combines caffeine with alcohol,” (Steve Gardner, litigation director for public advocacy group the Center for Science in the Public Interest) said.

If Sparks is the devil’s brew, what are Jaeger Bombs?  Rum and Cokes?  Hell, what’s a Long Island Iced Latte?  (Okay, that last one doesn’t exist, but I’d try it.)

All of this is like a version of “Field of Dreams.”  In that movie, “If you build it, they will come.”  In this situation, it’s “If you change the formula, they’ll just find something else.”  Stupid.

I believe Carles of Hipster Runoff puts it best:

Sparks was more than just a drink. It was truly a BRAND. It was more than ‘just another product.’ When I think of Sparks, I think of a lifestyle. I think of good times. I can honestly not think of another beverage with a brand stronger than SPARKS. After a night of Sparks, I could not fall asleep. My heart felt like it wanted to burst of out my chest. My tongue would be orange the next day. Another memory of the previous night–I would look in the mirror, stick out my tongue and smile…

Save one can. Hide it somewhere–this is now your forbidden fruit. In the next few years, something will go wrong or you will feel down. Treat yourself to the sweet nectar that is Sparks…

Honestly. I would give anything for one more SPARKS vomit.

You have until January 10th to get the old-school Sparks.

Mommy, I want one!

Mommy, I want one!

Drunken Recollection… Misunderstandings, Winter Wear, Big Noses, And A Song About Monkeys

Posted on by sgottahurt

After having bee trapped in my home for the last sixty hours (57.5 of which were probably spent on the couch) due to a snow storm, I finally ventured out last night.  Grant it, my car got stuck in the driveway, but I still managed to head out to one of my old dives.

While there, my friend, Jay, and I watched football highlights and waxed poetic about the old days in the joint.  We talked about whether the Lions would fail us and actually win a game.  And we laughed at the amateurs playing in a televised poker tournament (one woman named Ellen had no poker face, but she was kicking aces!)

On the ride back to the neighborhood, a conversation came up about Under Armour.  Don’t know how, but it proabably had to do with insulated clothing in the cold.  He brought up how they have cold weather lines and hot weather lines.  I wondered if I should invest in the hot weather line when I play soccer, yada yada.  The part that made me laugh was when Jay described the technology they use.

“Wicket,” I thought he said first.

“Like the Ewok?” I asked.

“Wicked,” he repeated.

“Like the porn company?” I wondered.

We didn’t get to me mishearing Wiccan, and I think we decided on Wicket (I can’t find anything about this on their site or Wiki page), but it reminded me of one of my all time favorite comedy scenes in a movie.  It’s from “Roxanne.”

It’s subtle – sure.  But I love misheard-based humor.  Here’s the lyrics for a song I wrote when I had a band named Monkey Spank Monkey Do that eventually became oddcookie.  (This sight was thatclose to having the original band name, but I was afraid of what type of people might visit).  We never did much as a band anyway.  Sorry I’m not attaching the music.  Whatever you make up in your head will probably be better anyway.

Simianuff

That day that you told me
You didn’t want to see me
Anymore I just didn’t know

I wanted to ask you why
You didn’t even start to cry
Up and out you gave this reply:

You never simianuff, you never simianuff, you never simianuff

After that I had went on home
My mind so far it had been blown
Away by your rationale

I wanted to ask what you
Meant by saying “simianuff”
But I didn’t want to piss you off

So in turn I became primate
And bought myself a monkey suit
Bananas and “Tree Climbing Monthly”

I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough

I started hanging around you
Quite often literally
Being my new simian self

You acted like I was
Insane, was what you called me
I only did what I was told

So you said, “I’ll see you around”
Mumbled something under your breath
I haven’t ever seen you since

You never see me enough, you never see me enough, you never see me enough
You’re never seein’ me enough, you never simian enough, you never simianuff…
Oh fuck…

(P.S. I must also have a fascination with monkeys.)

Drunken Recollection… I Have No Idea What I Recollected

Posted on by sgottahurt

I’m going to let everyone in on a little secret about the mysterious workings behind this blog.  I wake up at the crack of dawn everyday (I just love beating the sun) and walk to my corner gas station to pick up a local paper.  Sure, I could have the delivery boy bring it, but the exercise keeps the ol’ pumper pumping (besides, I leave the paper boy a tip every Christmas as if I subscribed to help make up for his losses).  As I mill through the ink print to discover what’s going on in this world, I pour myself some whole grain cereal and organic milk, with a side of orange juice and toast (I use real butter to lather my heated wheat treat – it’s my only vice!)  I even slice up bananas and strawberries to put on top, like in the commercials.  After immediately washing the dishes and separating my recyclables, I ready the tub for a nice bubble bath and who am I kidding… I barely wake up on time to get to work at 10:30ish.  I should be there at 9!  This is the case due to the habit of my evening imbibing of carbonated, fermented brown water.

While at the draft tap establishments, conversations erupt, and often I’m reminded of something clever to write about, and I make a note in my cell phone.  Usually, I can translate.  Most times, I find messages like this:

  1. dancing caveman jukebox
  2. baby jacket
  3. think straw when see
  4. deli 25 bux
  5. whoprvirgins baby coat
  6. mr. wizard
  7. getn away w murdr
  8. angus young black
  9. martha quinn med woman
  10. kidbits

There are other notes of which I do remember, and will be inevitable posts, but these strike little or no chord.  Or I remember having a drunken laugh about them, such as 3, 8, and 9.  I believe 3 refers to how when I see a straw in somebody else’s drink at the table, I move toward my drink as though it also has a straw (I don’t drink beer with a straw anymore… not since I got rid of my “Cast Away” Halloween costume beard… although at times I have joined many straws so I wouldn’t have to pick up my mug).  8 and 9 were common mix-ups I have about AC/DC’s lead singer and the old MTV VJ.

1 and 4 were going to be big to-do’s, but I really had no fodder.  I cannot stand the dancing Geico caveman on digital jukeboxes, and I love how you don’t have to sign credit card statements on things less than $25.  I have no idea what the “deli” has to do with anything.  Much like number 7 – that one scares me because I’m 100% clueless about it.

2 and 5 repeated the theme of those stupid small coats that the ladies wear nowadays.  I wanted to bring up how pointless and stupid and trendy they are – much like Uggs boots.  I don’t know why I jotted down the Burger King website in conjunction with the jacket, though.

6 and 10 probably had to do with the same chit chat about childhood TV science shows.  I don’t know “Mr. Wizard,” per se, but “Kidbits” taught me how to make a chair out of three baseball bats (I also believe the demonstration was with knives or forks… I’m leaning toward knives though) and how to poke a straw through a potato. 

In closing, here’s “Kidbits” theme:

Drunken Recollection… Douchbag Machines

Posted on by sgottahurt

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

I hate this thing.  I really do.

I wish I never set my eyes upon it.  I’ll go one better and wish my friends’ eyes had never set upon it, because they’re the facilitators of the addiction.

Meet Punch!  Or BoxClub… or Boxing… or whatever version the bar has.  They’re all over the place, like a drunk girl on me (I wish).  And they have been for awhile, but I’ve managed to keep my distance from what I designated as the Douchebag Machine.  The higher the number you can hit on the dangling nutsack, the bigger the nutsack you are.

Or so I used to pretend.  Now it’s almost like a Holy Grail when I step into a gin joint.  Whomever spots it first begins the murmurs – “Did you see?  Did you see?”  And every unit is different.  Ssome bags are soft, some are hard.  Some respond well to running at it and others don’t. 

So am I a douchebag for playing?  Nope.  And neither are my friends.

But everyone else still is.

Drunken Recollection… Palm Reading At Strip Clubs

Posted on by sgottahurt

Ah, the universal question… why do I get so philosophical when I get drunk?  (Okay, it may not be universal to you, but it certainly is to me.)  Is it that maybe I’m always so deeply lost in thought, that the suppression of ideas spill out when my tongue’s been freed by liquid courage?  Or do I talk out my ass and sell the shit out of my bullshit?

Whatever the answer, the fact that remains is this: why am I doing this when I’m at the strip club local ballet?

Now before you go getting all judgmentallyish on me, know that I’m going to blame it on my friends.  I’m always going to say they dragged me there.  It’s besides the point that they actually did have to drag me there the first time I went (I was still a very, very devout Catholic back then), but nowadays there’s a little less arm twisting (it’s usually bribery that gets me).  So anyhoohah, to my point – what was my point?

A couple of my friends recently happened upon a local ballerina establishment.  (Actually, it was the night of my Sober Recollection… that was the next stop I could not be bribed into.)  One of them later recounted to me that one of the ladies claimed to be a palm reader.  He swore she got his name, his occupation, and a few other things right, to which I decried “balogna” (would “baloney” have had more of a visual impact?)  I figured our other friend had to give her a heads-up because I don’t believe palm reading works that way (if at all).

This story he told me while at a different joint (oh yeah, this was where I was going).  It lead me to ponder (okay it’s not quite philosophizing, but I do that a lot as well) about what I would like to have happen if I ever got my palm read.  I would be so excited if the reader started looking over my lines, and then immediately stood up and backed away.  “Go!  You must leave!  Now!”  The reader’s voice would crack as they cowered into the corner, crying.  Man, that would give me the biggest smile.

Another scenario I always daydream about is more of a prank.  I need to find a good recording of screaming demons so that I could call my friends and when they answered, I’d just play the burning in fire and brimstone response.

I also pretend I’m Wolverine or John McClane when I’m in my hallways at work.  Man, this post went off rail… must be because of this beer I’m palm reading.

Palm reading is fundamental.

Palm reading is fundamental.

Sober Recollection… For A Change…

Posted on by sgottahurt

The towel with which he wiped his face left this image

The towel with which he wiped his face left this image

As the wise and sage-like Gary Busey once said, “Son of a bitch everything’s real,” I too spent my eve teetotaling, and realized there is much to learn while the mind is clean and the thoughts are clear.  Namely, I have to write in a pretentious tone, and make use of odd phrasings and word choices. 

Fuck that.  Here’s some things I learned the night I decided not to drink and still hit four bars.  (Maybe that’s how I lasted for four bars… I can get sleepy when I do the brew.)  (Image from Drawastar)

Chapter One – Buffalo Wild Wings

  • Sarcasm doesn’t work in text messages.  I knew this was the case with emails, but for some reason that didn’t translate in my brain.  Basically, I hurt sumbuwy’s feewings.
  • Edith Bunker was the first TV character to experience menopause, and not Maude.  Who knew that Norman Lear spread the wealth of taboo around?  (FYI: Maude was the first to have an abortion.)
  • “Rolling Stone” magazine changed its size.  They went smaller and quite frankly it looks wrong.

Chapter Two – One Under Bar and Grill

  • Paying cover for a band sucks when you show up right before their set ends, and the group decides to leave before the next set starts because the overall scene is lame.  Even if it’s $3.  And even though you didn’t pay it (thanks Doctor J).
  • The Trivia Jockey from my usual Wednesday stop hits this bar after leaving the other bar.  Not a big deal.  Just if I was a couple pillow cases to the wind I wouldn’t have noticed.
  • Everybody knows a dude that looks like Al Pacino.

Chapter Three – Kickers Complex (I just learned that’s what it’s called!)

  • It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by bartenders.
  • You never want to hear a man sing Sara Bareilles’ “Love Song.”  Not even in an ironic way.  Trust me.
  • This song is supposedly popular, although I’ve never heard of it. 
    I know it’s country, but I’m familiar with the biggies.  This one?  I never even heard of its name.  Also, the two dudes singing David Allen Coe no favors.
  • Karaoke in an empty bar sucks.

Chapter Four – Plymouth Roadhouse

  • It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by the bartender and the waitress.
  • When big screen projection TV’s are on their last legs, they look like crooked bootleg DVD’s of movies, minus people walking in front.
  • In theory, nobody knows shit about what’s going to happen to the Big Three Automakers.  The proof (as if you need it) is in the fact that everybody heard and knows something different.  Some of my favorite speculations: Ford will be picking up Jeep from GM, Chrysler will go bye-bye, GM will absorb Chrysler’s minivan division and make Dodge Ram their only truck, and Ford will get bought out by the Chinese but will keep the family name as part of the agreement.
  • And in closing, I learned that what Cerebus did in securing Chrysler was a lot like what Richard Gere’s character did in “Pretty Woman.”  They both bought a product at a reduced cost solely to strip it down and liquidate it for profit.  In essence – treat it like a whore (a regular one though… not Julia Roberts).

JusWondering… Are They Trying To Kill My Brain?

Posted on by sgottahurt

I’m going on Day 20 of a major bender (I should be on a colonel bender by the end of the year, and an admiral bender by the end of January).   My brain has been paying the price, and as a byproduct, so has my writing.  (It’s all trivia’s fault!  But don’t worry – we got into the tournament… as if you cared.)

The follwing videos help my mental state in no way.

Do not watch this in its entirety.

In My Brain While Sleeping… My Job As A David E. Kelley Show

Posted on by sgottahurt

fyvushfinkel

The second job I ever had was at a medical center for a major hospital (my first job was at a toy store).  I worked there just over six years, and the staff saw me through two graduations and a move from Detroit to L.A.  In this dream, I had returned to the facility (which no longer exists in real-life).  It was in the same location but major remodeling updates had occurred, such as having wood floors throughout, an updated kitchen, and forest green walls with better than average art hanging on them.

I remember walking through as if it was filmed, and it felt like a David E. Kelley show (“Boston Legal,” “Ally McBeal,” the awesome “Chicago Hope,” “Picket Fences,” “L.A. Law,” home sex movies with wife Michelle Pfeiffer).

I was the generic perspective guy through whom the viewers relate.  I kept checking out the new looking digs, expecting a big homecoming, trying to run into people that might have remembered me.  I saw a few doctors and medical assistants I knew, but they were busy heading between rooms.  Otherwise, through the back hallways, I encountered new faces that were basically upgrades of people that came before.

The show jumped into action once I reached the front desk where I worked as a customer service rep.  My uncles, Fred and Richard, were doctors for some reason, and Danny Glover (pictured below) was a special guest star.

The scene went like this: Doctor Uncle Fred brought me the billing sheet for one of his patients.  The patient had a co-pay of $5 which my uncle knocked down to $3.  Doctor Uncle Richard stepped in to pay the remainder, to help the guy out.  I guess he was an old friend of the pair that had fallen on hard times.  The man also had his two moppet sons with him.

Danny Glover, a fellow CSR, took issue with it.  “I don’t care if it’s hard times or not!  You have to do what you must!  You stop buying the fancy things you don’t need.  You make bread instead of going out and buying it.  You fish instead of going on vacation!”  After the patient left, someone informed Danny that the man lived in a car with his sons.

Cut to: Fyvush Finkel (pictured above – a Kelley recurring player).  He’s an older doctor that’s just been told his wife of 50 years is leaving him when we meet him.  Also, she’s stolen all his belongings and money.  He clutches a forest green wall in disbelief.  The hallway he’s in seem to converge and narrow as he stumbles down it toward his office.

Cut to: me at the front desk trying to remember how to do things.  When I was there before, it was all on paper.  Now everything was digital.  A patient came in that had a specimen to deliver with a message.  As I looked for the old forms we took messages on, the patient revealed the specimen was anthrax.

Then I woke up.  The end.

INGREDIENTS: Late night Taco Bell run, for sure.

danny_glover

Drunken Recollection… Boxing My Head

Posted on by sgottahurt

R U serious?

R U serious?

I’ve put ideas out into the collective unconscious before, only to have them robbed and bastardized without any input from me.  Joe Piscopo’s stinker, “Dead Heat?”  Mine first (“Harry Cadaver”).   JCVD’s “Timecop?”  I had the idea two years earlier with the same title (this one I’ll forgive because it’s not that creative).  Eddie Murphy in Eddie Murphy in “Meet Dave?”  I originally thought “Osmosis Jones” plucked my idea of having Robin Williams inside of Bill Murray’s spaceship body, but “Meet Dave” robbed us both (“The Neuron Conquest”).  Even He-Man stole (or borrowed liberally) a character I entered into a contest.  Their Snout Spout was my Elephantom.

Then I saw this commercial for Flagstar bank yesterday at the bar.  I guess it premiered in this year’s Super Bowl, but since that game was so good (Giants spanked the ButtPats), I probably hit the can during the ads and missed  it.

This reminded me of a story I wrote in high school and submitted to our literary journal called the Curio.  No wonder I never dated.

B O X I N G   Y O U R   H E A D

 

     I feel deviated like a septum.  Separated, apart from what it seems I should be a part of.  Not fitting in, a circle in a world of squares.  Here I, Lucas Pendleton, sit at the counter of Sigmund’s Soda Shop, and I watch my peers across the way, celebrating and playing by the jukebox.  And I can’t be with them.  I’ve tended to put my head in the proverbial box for years.  So now’s the time to consider it for real.

     Here’s a napkin and… here’s a pencil.  I need to write this down or I’ll forget.  If I did put a box on my head – cardboard being the only choice – it would need to have strategically placed eyeholes so I wouldn’t stumble through life (I do enough without a cube around my head). 

     As for eating, I would feed my mouth through the opening in the bottom.  I wouldn’t need to talk with anyone.  The only thing anyone cares about is your name, if even that, and I can have that printed across my forehead.  If no one was asking that question anymore, I wouldn’t need earholes.  There, the designs are finished.  And I’ll never remove my perfect separator for any reason.

     Rain.  It’s raining outside now.  I need to compensate for the dampening spirit that falls from time to time.  I’ll draw a little umbrella that could be attached to the top.

     Look at them standing over there.  Not a care about my plans of seclusion.  Will they be sorry, not at all.

They don’t know me anyway.  That’s so clear.

     Clear.  I see clear because of my contacts.  How will I remove them?  I’ll get corrective surgery done on my eyes.  That’s easy.

     What’s another problem?

     Hygiene.  Well, I’ll deal with that as it comes along.

     Sleeping comfort.  I’ll pad the walls.

     Television, movies, and music.  How can I enjoy if I can’t hear?  I’ll add earholes to the design, very small ones.

     A sneeze, I just heard a sneeze.  What if my nose runs, or I sneeze?  That could get messy.  But only I’d know, and only I-I-d–achooo!

     “God bless you.”

     –Care.  Did someone say that to me, or the other guy?  Maybe I’ll respond… just in case… to be polite.  “Thanks.”  See, it wasn’t–

     “You’re welcome.”

     Well, it’s a female voice, coming from behind me.  Should I look?  Or did the other fellow say thanks at the same time I did.  I’ll say another thing to check.  “That’s nice.  Thanks.”  Stupid, stupid…

     “Really?  You think so?”

     It’s gotta be me.  I’m gonna look.  I grabbed the counter and hand over hand I turned around to see a woman standing behind me, beautiful as could be.  She wore splashy hued shoes and a colorful box-pattern dress.  Her flowing brown hair came down past her shoulders from beneath the box she wore on her head.  I couldn’t believe it, I was in love.

     “Whatcha doing?” she asked me as she tried to peak at my napkin.  I just looked at her eyes shining through the sufficiently cut eyeholes.

     I sighed in response to her question.  She approached me, and I then noticed the earholes she had made.  Her cute ears were exposed enough to easily hear me as well as the other man sneeze, yet she chose to ask God to bless me!

     “A box, huh?  That umbrella idea will never work.  Believe me.  Oh, believe me.”

     She pointed out my flaws in design, and I didn’t care!  She tilted her head to me and smiled.  She cut out a space for her mouth… and her gorgeous smile.

     “Why do you need a box on your head, anyway?”

     “I’m thinking the same thing!” I said.  I hope she thought I meant her.  She brushed her right hand through the top of her flowing brown hair.  I didn’t even notice the top and back portion of the box were missing.

     “I mean, you’re attractive.”

     “As well as are you.”  I saw her cute nose wrinkle when I complimented her.

     “And after all, you thanked me… twice.”  She laughed an uplifting laugh.  “Quit designing that box for your head.  It’s a waste of time.  Come on and dance with me.”  Her smooth rosy cheeks lifted because of her smile.  I could see her entire face.  Her entire head. 

     She took my hand and did that twinkle thing with her eye.  There was no box on this woman’s head.

     With my free hand I crumbled the napkin.  There was no box on this man’s head either.

     I threw the napkin in a trash can – a trash can in which, as I was informed later, contained several wet pieces of cut cardboard… and a broken umbrella.  

In My Brain While Sleeping… I May Have A Drinking Problem

Posted on by sgottahurt

I’m almost as hooked on the snooze bar as I am the booze bar, but as of late, I have not recalled many of my dreams.  This morning – a whopper, a flopper, and a doozy.

SCENARIO UNO

Do not go Freudian on me.

Do not go Freudian on me.

I was the eldest lad in a family of seafarers.  The brood’s Papa was a maritime cop, and he must have had it hard (who wants to have any job that begins with maritime?).  Every night it seemed Mama would wait for him to get home to serve dinner, and every night he’d be late (you’d think Mama would have learned).  I remember working on a crossword puzzle in a magazine.  I also recall the entire decor looking retro 70’s, or maybe it took place in the 70’s.  (Hello “Life on Mars.”)  Anyway, when Papa would get home, the first thing he’d do was pour a glass of whiskey on the rocks.  Then he’d dunk a banana in it.  He called it the Cop-a-Cabanana.

SCENARIO DOS

Hot chocolate chips!

Hot chocolate chips!

I don’t drink coffee.  As I’ve stated before, my cup of tea is Mountain Dew.  In my brain, I must live for Starbucks.  For some reason, while in line to get my iced mochachino espressosaurus rex, the announcement was made that Starbucks was being bought out.  That this shocked me in the dream shocks me now.  The reason for the buyout: too many people that bought their coffee were losing their jobs, and thus poor Starbucks was going down.  The purchaser: Mrs. Field’s Cookies.  They also bought out Arby’s for who-know-why.  My question was, “How could Mrs. Field’s succeed where Starbucks failed?”  The answer: No matter what, everyone eats cookies.

SCENARIO TRES

I couldn

No Photoshopping here.

This was by far one of the most disturbing – not in content, but in juxtaposition of content.  Stitch (the alien experiment to the left) was boozing it up and chomping down cigars faster than George Burns, Bill Clinton, and Monica Lewinsky put together.  (He kind of reminded me of the smoking chimp.)  And that’s fine.  It’s well within Stitch’s personality.  But to note: this dream was in cartoon form, and this is where things spiraled into time for me to wake up.   Across the room, Stitch spotted an inflatable doll.  He stumbled towards it, placed his head between its legs, and bit.  Pop! 

Needless to say, I had it enough with the snooze bar. 

…We’ll see about the regular bar.

INGREDIENTS: Cajun chicken sandwich, soggy bar fries, and mucho de boozo.