Happy Find… F— You, Penguin

If I was Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry, and I said to someone, “Go ahead… make my day,” and they pulled out their mobile phone with TripleDoubleU access (carefully) to show me this site, I’d let them go (y’know, because they made my day).

The site?  Fuck You, Penguin.  The reason why?  See below.

Now I know it’s from another blogging community, and believe me, I’m not cheating on you my beloved WordPress.  But I believe it is part of my duty to go out and explore, and return like Uncle Traveling Matt with news of my discoveries.  It’s similar to how Detroit has better access to Canadian music, then shares it with the rest of the U.S.  (As a Canadian may say, “Sore-y aboot Nickelback, eh?“)

SIDENOTE: On St. Patrick’s Day, the radio station Mix 96.7 was giving away an Elmo DVD to the first caller that could name the biggest movie star to ever come out of Ireland.  Two people in row answered Mel Gibson.  (There’s so many things wrong in just two sentences.)

But I digress… back to Fuck You, Penguin.  (Not to be confused with my other Happy Find, Fuck Yeah! Ryan Gosling!)

Some samples:

In regard to this, the Baudet de Poitou Donkey, and there only being four hundred of them, FUP said:

baudet-donkey

"You better find a mate and start knocking boots, Donkey, so you can start sprouting up like American Apparels. I don't understand how you can be such prudes, seeing as you are French. What, are you saving yourself for the right donkey?"

 Then there’s his tirade at a Porcupine in a tree:

"Very clever, Porcupine. You want me to catch you, don't you? You might have cute little teeth and a furry belly, but you've got giant quills all over your back, and if I come any closer, I'm going to be in a world of pain unmatched even by what your little porcupine paws are doing to me."
“Very clever, Porcupine. You want me to catch you, don’t you? You might have cute little teeth and a furry belly, but you’ve got giant quills all over your back, and if I come any closer, I’m going to be in a world of pain unmatched even by what your little porcupine paws are doing to me.”

I think the stuff is funny as shit poop.  (Ever notice how most words double-o’s are funny for some reason?  Poop, boobs, food… okay maybe just poop and boobs).  You may not.  And if you don’t, I’ll just call you a penguin.

Giving Blood And Having A Blast! (Or A Least A Cookie)

I had a mini-adventure of sorts last week when I donated blood.  Actually, it was boring as usual – I had to turn it into an adventure of sorts.

Upon arrival, I was greeted by a man in a wheelchair with his assistant, a Golden Retriever.  I’m all for volunteers of all kinds and equal opportunity, but should a dog be where I’m about to give blood?

They make you read these pamphlets before you can sign in.  I had just sa down when I stood with a question.  The gentleman behind the counter asked if I had finished, when it was impossible for me to have read anything.  Does this mean no one reads the pamphlet except me?

I arrived at the right time between rushes and was sent to the verification room (I guess that’s what it’s called).  On the survey, they ask if you’ve been outside the country.  Last August, I visited Europe.  The nurse/tech asked where I had been.  I answered England, France, and Belgium.  She asked if there was anyplace else.  I told her no.  I had been to Amsterdam, and though I was a “good boy” while there, I didn’t want to raise any flags on my donation when I know it can be used.  They check it anyway, don’t they?

When I arrived at the bench I would be resting for awhile, I overheard two of the nurse/techs talking about the clock which ran in military time.

Lady One: I can’t ever figure out the time when it’s like that.

Lady Two: Just remember that 13:00 is 1:00pm and count up from that.

These are the people about to stick a needle in me?

Speaking of needles stuck in me, as I was bleeding, I noticed a bubble near the top of the tube sticking out of my arm.  Hello?  Should an air pocket be that close to my vein?  Can’t I die if it decides to move against the current like a salmon, and entire my body?

Guys will do anything to get laid.

Guys will do anything to get laid.

Two things made me laugh while I stared out the window and bled. 

1) There was a product by AeroMed called Magnum Plus.   I thought they were latex gloves (turns out they’re nitrile), and therefore chuckle worthy. 

Um... I think I'm not going to touch this one.
Um… I think I’m not going to touch this one.

 2) They had St. Patrick’s Day decorations everywhere.  The Red Cross takes after my own heart!  (Literally!)

Afterward, I was pleased as punch that they had Chips Ahoy! cookies for me to snack on.  The volunteer stocking the tables joined me and we discussed the 73 year old guy who played college basketball.  She gave me another sticker to go along with the nametag the front counter guy gave me.

My blood type is B-negative, and my outlook on life might be negative, but for some weird reason that day – I had fun!

I wanna be like Ken Mink!

I wanna be like Ken Mink!

(SIDENOTE: Immediately prior donating my blood, I tried out for the role of the Wizard in a local theater version of “The Wizard of Oz.”  Stay tuned, as I may write more on that later.)

InASense, Lost… What Is It With Kids These Days

When I was just a wee lad back in the day (I’m prepping for St. Paddy’s), it was awful fun for the adults give kids a sip of beer and watch their reactions.  I’m the oldest boy of all the cousins on my father’s side, and for quite awhile I was the only boy (my brother broke the streak when I was nine… there were nine girls and me… ever notice how the more girls there are, the higher the octave of screeching goes?)

What I’m getting at is it wasn’t uncommon for my elders to make me the butt of the joke.  Some might have thought it would encourage drinking, but I never took a sip of alcohol (not counting my relatives’ pranks) until I turned 19 and could legally do so in Canada.  My other tendencies in alluded-to innocence: I was more interested in Nintendo than IN-tendo (if you catch my innuendo), smoking was a disgusting habit my parents had and I swore I would never have, and drugs… well, I’d stick only to any of the natural kind.

But nowadays, you have 13 year olds becoming fathers

…parents pulling new tricks on their kids for laughs (and filming it and putting it on YouTube… “Thanks Dad… what are you, like, thirteen, or something?”)…

…or teaching their kids to be pretty good at smoking.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

more about “Everybody Freak Out About This Toddle…“, posted with vodpod

 

I guess you could always over indulge your child and baby them so they can become insulated and protected from the rest of the world (read: spoiled), that they never have to deal with R|E|A|L|I|T|Y.  Heaven forbid someone take their Cloudsong

Happy Find… I’m Ready For My St. Patrick’s Day Extravaganza

Oh glorious day!

Last night, between my basketball game and my soccer game (minimal blisters this time in case anyone worried), I stopped at a local bar chain called Bailey’s.  I arrived at 10:30pm and ordered myself a Guinness (the best beer to drink before playing soccer in case anyone wondered).

I found out that starting at 11pm, there was to be special pricing on the heavy brew (I pretend it’s a melted malt shake).  I also found out if you stood up and read a toast, you would get a long sleeve Guinness shirt, and this:

guinness-hat

Unfortunately, I was to be leaving at 11pm to for football, so my buddy, Rodney, opted to do to give the toast on behalf of me.

Little did he know, he would be the only one to volunteer and actually do it.  (Another guy stood up to join him, but said little to nothing.)  He had to get the entire bar’s attention and read the pre-written cheer.

When we returned, he gave me both the shirt and hat, and for that I’m eternally (or least until St. Patrick’s Day) grateful.

A toast to Rodney!  Sláinte!

Drunken Recollection… Drinking Math Still Sucks

Math is fun (yeah, right).  And as I’ve mentioned before, drinking math is not.

So today, I’m just going to lay out some basic numbers when it comes to me and my imbibing.

  • Number of miles that I’m able to handle a hangover: 21.44
  • Maximum number of hours I can handle working: 6.5
  • Maximum number of hours I can handle drinking: 8
  • Percentage of beer left in bottle before I order next bottle: 50
  • Number of days per week I’m at the bar: 4
  • Number of days per weekend I’m at the bar: 1
  • Average time I should stay at each bar on St. Patrick’s Day: 2
  • Amount of bars I would like to visit on St. Patrick’s Day: 6
  • Amount of bars I will actually visit on St. Patrick’s Day: 3, tops

Also, here’s a chart I made based on many experiences:

Dmitri Martin eat your Taco Bell heart out!

Demetri Martin eat your Cheesy Double Beef Burrito out!

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Long Shots, Free Shots, And Snapshots

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this tale is includes everything – intrigue, comedy, romance, adventure, tragedy… at least the way I remember it does…

Saint Patrick’s Day is one for the textbooks, here in Detroit, and over in Chicago…  maybe some places in New York City, and definitely over in Ireland (or wherever in the world an Irishman may own a pub).  But this story doesn’t take place on St. P Day.  It happens a few days before, but in the spirit of the inebriated hullabaloo, it may have well been.

It was the first trivia tournament my team and I partook in.  It was hosted in the day by a night club I had not previously visited, and we were all pretty nervous going in.  We drove in one car and had the intention of letting Uncle Chris worry about getting us home since he is wont to be a teetotaler.  A few drink specials and missed trivia questions later, we were many sheets to the wind, and came the closest we ever will to winning the grand prize of $1000.  (More importantly, we were thisclose to each getting a mini-fridge.)  All we would have had to do was bet zero points, but I digress.

As per usual on any trivia night, all the other teams up and left, except for the first place team, and another team we befriended through the season.  All the TJ’s (trivia jockeys) were still there, and soon enough, the owner of the trivia company was buying everyone shots.

Flashes of highlights:

  • Intrigue!  We played trivia…  We could have won…  Mini-fridges!
  • Comedy!  A team of Miller Lite marketers descended upon the place, adorned in their green belly shirts and skirts.  The day was turning to night, so the night club atmosphere was developing.  A thought popped in my head and I lead a friend from the other team over to the gathering of emerald ladies.  “Excuse me,” I began, “my friend Richie would like to take a picture with you all.”  He was embarrassed, but he stood there like a champ as the bevy of beauties surrounded him on the short staircase.  I backed up, and took another step back, sizing the photo op up.  I raised my fingers and mimicked a camera.  “Click,” I said as I pantomimed pressing a button.  The liquor squad did not like that one bit and they scattered from his side.  His jaw dropped.  One of those departing chimed, “Did you get a good mental picture?”  No, but I got a good laugh.  (I wish I said something about having a photographic memory.)
  • Romance!  I know the Cupid Shuffle, and I did not know that I knew it.
  • Adventure!  I got sick and managed to stop myself twice, but one time I couldn’t, and it ended up under the table.  I proceeded to leave, and got sick again immediately upon reaching the cold air, a few more times.  I found Uncle Chris waiting outdoors as well.  He was equally as sick as I.  We tried to head to the sports bar next door to get some food, but it was too hot in there.  So we walked to Aunt Venessa and Jess’ home.  About 4 to 5 miles away.  In about 4º to 5º weather (it probably wasn’t that cold, but for literary purposes, it works).
  • Tragedy!  Chris is a drunk klepto (did I not mention the drink specials and free shots?), but he doesn’t take anything other than glasses from bars.  He had one in each of his cargo pants’ side pockets – one from the night club and one from the sports bar.  On the long walk, we passed a taxicab company and knocked on the window.  They told us to call, but neither of us had our phone.  During the trek, he stumbled and fell a few times, and didn’t break the glasses somehow.  Yet upon reaching the park next to the final destination of home, he removed the glasses to look at them, and somehow dropped and broke them.

Okay, it’s not an altogether classic story, but it left me with some good mental pictures!

MORAL OF THE STORY: Always carry a spare roll of film for your brain.