*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
As usual some random thoughts of incoherent babble...
Is it possible to get an oil change without the mechanic suggesting everything needs repair on your vehicle? “Looks like you need a deliberator rod…” How about you just change the oil? This would like going to the Doctor to treat your poison oak and he breaks out the rubber glove and proclaims you need a new pancreas. And it’s always something to reek fear into you, like your battery could go dead any day, or your tires are about to fly off and kill a family of six. It is never something like, hey the volume button on your radio could use some repair should take a few minutes and I’ll do it for free, no problem guy.
Is it any wonder that a guy can go out to a bar and tell any Kate, Mary, or Deliah that they are a famous athlete since girls have no clue who these guys are? Girls never remember the guy’s name after, just that they supposedly were famous. “So what was his name,” I always ask and the answer is always, “I can’t remember but he plays for the Indians, and he wants me to come to his beach house.” Really? It didn’t cross your mind that this is baseball season and Cleveland is in Boston right now and we are in San Francisco?
If I’m ever to find myself naked in the locker room, it is usually for a split second and only because most gyms don’t allow full workout gear while in the shower, otherwise I‘d be in the shower stall fully clothed. And even for the exhibitionist in you, I guess I could condone walking to the shower naked as long as a towel is nearby, but what I don’t support is guys who go out of their way to be naked, like they‘ll walk over to blow their nose naked when a full rack of towels are available for use. And shaving naked? Is this really necessary? Are these guys working out for so long that they’re developing a five o’clock shadow? Here’s an idea - shave at home before work every morning. There shouldn’t be any reason you need to shave after a workout, but if you do, how about you wrap a towel around your junk at the very least.
Why do Californians always think that people from outside California automatically know each other ? I recently introduced my cousin who was visiting, to a random guy at a bar who eagerly asked, “you’re from Connecticut, huh? My buddy lives in Canton, (Ohio) - Rico, you know him?” Uh…yeah… actually all non-Californians live in the same tribe, some of us gatherers, some hunters, but basically over 4,000 miles everyone pretty much knows one another. Its like a small town except not at all…A girl I know from Michigan recently got an “Ann Arbor, huh? My cousin lives in Rhode Island.” Right… We’ve got some intelligent people in my state.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
"Volume XII"
*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
Lets jump right into it...
Is there any more of a dream profession in the gay community than a proctologist? Isn’t this like the straight guys’ version of a gynecologist, looking at females all day? This would be the only way for a straight guy to simulate the uncomfortable feeling a woman receives at her gynecologist checkups. “…Hi Randy, how long as it been since your last check up? Now if you can just spread your cheeks for me, we’ll be able to get to the route of the problem - will only take a sec…” “…Uh…Doc, was that a zipper I just heard?”
If there are straight proctologists, it can’t be very conducive to Happy Hours at the sports bar with your buddies outside of the medical world. “Yeah I’ll take a Stella, and the breadsticks, hey Bill you should have seen how red this guy’s rectum was today - hey look at that! Interception for Touchdown…now I was saying…”
...After watching some snippets from a recent Oakland Raiders tailgate this past Monday night, I’ve come to the conclusion they are the only team in the NFL whose tailgaters outside the park could actually kick the ass of the actual team inside the park...
...Ok Daughtry, we get it, you can sing. Enough already...
...School is back in session bringing us to yet another year of homework, books and Number 2 pencils. “Make sure it’s Number 2,” I used to hear my teacher bark before a big test, causing me to frantically check every pencil at the campus bookstore just to make sure I didn‘t use the wrong kind. For years we‘ve stressed over finding the right pencil, when in reality is there anything out there not a Number 2 pencil? I have to be honest, I’ve never seen one that wasn’t, but yet I’ve sweated through shirts and yanked hair out in frantic fear before a test. I think there are two kinds of pencils - Number 2, and then everything else that is feared not be a Number 2, but really is just an unmarked Number 2, likely covered over by a Black Sabbath or Broncos logo. If I only put as much thought and effort into my schoolwork and not the types of pencils I wouldn’t be writing this worthless blog for free…
Can it just be assumed that any girls that go to the University of South Carolina are pretty easy? You’ve got to figure that if a girl goes to a school with a cock as its mascot has got to have one thing on her mind… (any non sports fan or church goer reading this, it is the South Carolina Gamecocks)
Lets jump right into it...
Is there any more of a dream profession in the gay community than a proctologist? Isn’t this like the straight guys’ version of a gynecologist, looking at females all day? This would be the only way for a straight guy to simulate the uncomfortable feeling a woman receives at her gynecologist checkups. “…Hi Randy, how long as it been since your last check up? Now if you can just spread your cheeks for me, we’ll be able to get to the route of the problem - will only take a sec…” “…Uh…Doc, was that a zipper I just heard?”
If there are straight proctologists, it can’t be very conducive to Happy Hours at the sports bar with your buddies outside of the medical world. “Yeah I’ll take a Stella, and the breadsticks, hey Bill you should have seen how red this guy’s rectum was today - hey look at that! Interception for Touchdown…now I was saying…”
...After watching some snippets from a recent Oakland Raiders tailgate this past Monday night, I’ve come to the conclusion they are the only team in the NFL whose tailgaters outside the park could actually kick the ass of the actual team inside the park...
...Ok Daughtry, we get it, you can sing. Enough already...
...School is back in session bringing us to yet another year of homework, books and Number 2 pencils. “Make sure it’s Number 2,” I used to hear my teacher bark before a big test, causing me to frantically check every pencil at the campus bookstore just to make sure I didn‘t use the wrong kind. For years we‘ve stressed over finding the right pencil, when in reality is there anything out there not a Number 2 pencil? I have to be honest, I’ve never seen one that wasn’t, but yet I’ve sweated through shirts and yanked hair out in frantic fear before a test. I think there are two kinds of pencils - Number 2, and then everything else that is feared not be a Number 2, but really is just an unmarked Number 2, likely covered over by a Black Sabbath or Broncos logo. If I only put as much thought and effort into my schoolwork and not the types of pencils I wouldn’t be writing this worthless blog for free…
Can it just be assumed that any girls that go to the University of South Carolina are pretty easy? You’ve got to figure that if a girl goes to a school with a cock as its mascot has got to have one thing on her mind… (any non sports fan or church goer reading this, it is the South Carolina Gamecocks)
Monday, September 21, 2009
"Volume XI"
*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
Thanks for taking the time to read, and for the four of you who read this (no I didn't have anything to do with blocking every other website on your computer forcing you to read), I apologize for the lack of writing. I've written quite a lot of material so the blogs will come more consistently.
And now to the blog...
I like to title this first snippet "The Whale Pervert"
For anyone looking to take the family on a nice day trip whale watching has always been a anticipatory event with a lot of promise but not much delivery, (kind of like when my friend Tony takes a girl out on date). As embarrassing as the dinner conversation may be with him, nothing is quite as embarrassing as answering a question from an inquisitive youngster curious about the ocean world. Grey Whale, I get it, Whale Shark, ok makes sense, even Killer, while harsh still checks out, but Sperm whale? Really? What perverted, bestialist, homosexual, marine biologist, came up with this one? What’s next? “Folks, if you look quick over the starboard you’ll see an Ejaculating Seahorse…” I can see the Sperm Whale marine biologist naming seminar now... "Johnson...watch yourself...remember the mess you got us in with Humpback? I still can't walk to my gym locker without thinking in fear about those sodomizing threat letters we got...
There is a KFC/Taco Bell near my house and it officially gets my approval as the best late night food spot ever created. However, while I find great ingenuity in fried chicken and Nachos Bel Grande as a satisfying late night meal, could there be a worse food combination for late night, drunken, gang violence in African-American / Mexican areas? This would be like serving Matzah Balls and Palestinian food at the same location and hoping for the best…
Coffee is a sure fire way to put an end to a fun evening out. At a wedding, dinner party, Barmitzfa, or wherever, the night could be going great; alcohol is flowing, people are having fun and then the kiss of death arrives; the busser with a coffee pot, like the Grim Reaper with his sickle. He or she may offer an amiable, pleasant inquisition, like “would you like cream with that?” But really they are saying, “you’ve had enough you drunken bastard, now drink this, sober up, and take a hike so I can have my way with the coat rack girl…”
Every Playboy centerfold profile always lists their guy turn ons as sweet, confident and a Sense of Humor is a MUST. Is anyone buying this? If this really was the case I would’ve dated forty Centerfolds by now, because that basically describes me, so why am I dating the homeless lady who hangs outside of 7-11?
If anyone out there is named Timmy, you have the lucky benefit of easily exceeding everyone’s’ life expectations for you. Throughout history it was always little Timmy who drowned in the bathtub, was attacked by a praying mantis, or was picked last on his T-Ball team. Basically, if you turn out anything better than a case of Polio or Jaundice you’re pretty much deemed a life success.
Til next time...
Thanks for taking the time to read, and for the four of you who read this (no I didn't have anything to do with blocking every other website on your computer forcing you to read), I apologize for the lack of writing. I've written quite a lot of material so the blogs will come more consistently.
And now to the blog...
I like to title this first snippet "The Whale Pervert"
For anyone looking to take the family on a nice day trip whale watching has always been a anticipatory event with a lot of promise but not much delivery, (kind of like when my friend Tony takes a girl out on date). As embarrassing as the dinner conversation may be with him, nothing is quite as embarrassing as answering a question from an inquisitive youngster curious about the ocean world. Grey Whale, I get it, Whale Shark, ok makes sense, even Killer, while harsh still checks out, but Sperm whale? Really? What perverted, bestialist, homosexual, marine biologist, came up with this one? What’s next? “Folks, if you look quick over the starboard you’ll see an Ejaculating Seahorse…” I can see the Sperm Whale marine biologist naming seminar now... "Johnson...watch yourself...remember the mess you got us in with Humpback? I still can't walk to my gym locker without thinking in fear about those sodomizing threat letters we got...
There is a KFC/Taco Bell near my house and it officially gets my approval as the best late night food spot ever created. However, while I find great ingenuity in fried chicken and Nachos Bel Grande as a satisfying late night meal, could there be a worse food combination for late night, drunken, gang violence in African-American / Mexican areas? This would be like serving Matzah Balls and Palestinian food at the same location and hoping for the best…
Coffee is a sure fire way to put an end to a fun evening out. At a wedding, dinner party, Barmitzfa, or wherever, the night could be going great; alcohol is flowing, people are having fun and then the kiss of death arrives; the busser with a coffee pot, like the Grim Reaper with his sickle. He or she may offer an amiable, pleasant inquisition, like “would you like cream with that?” But really they are saying, “you’ve had enough you drunken bastard, now drink this, sober up, and take a hike so I can have my way with the coat rack girl…”
Every Playboy centerfold profile always lists their guy turn ons as sweet, confident and a Sense of Humor is a MUST. Is anyone buying this? If this really was the case I would’ve dated forty Centerfolds by now, because that basically describes me, so why am I dating the homeless lady who hangs outside of 7-11?
If anyone out there is named Timmy, you have the lucky benefit of easily exceeding everyone’s’ life expectations for you. Throughout history it was always little Timmy who drowned in the bathtub, was attacked by a praying mantis, or was picked last on his T-Ball team. Basically, if you turn out anything better than a case of Polio or Jaundice you’re pretty much deemed a life success.
Til next time...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
"Wait a Second - Are you Working?"
After another brief hiatus, the blog is back, yet just as boring as ever. Today's recipe calls for two cups of ridiculousness and three dashes of lunacy bringing you another real tale, instead of blabbering randomness as usual. This story is a real adventure with names not being changed to reveal and embarrass the guilty. I hope you enjoy.
And now to the blog entry...
It really was a day and night no different than most - it started with a round of golf and a couple of vodka-tonics and ended with a couple of African-American hookers - you know the usual. (Well ok maybe not so normal, I usually drink Vodka-Cranberry).
After a long day of drinks, golf, bars, and pizza, my friend George and I were left on the streets of San Francisco , without a ride and running short on cash for a cab home. Neither of us were entirely sure how it happened, but one minute we were on Broadway Street finishing up our late night food and the next minute, we were in the back of a Chrysler with two black women on the way back to George’s house. "We'll Pick You Up," had worked so well for Enterprise Rental Car in the past, but before this night, it had yet to be tested by any working girls hoping to join the catchy marketing slogan and sex solicitation in prostitution ingenuity matrimony. Unaware of any sign for alarm, like an antelope looking for a drink of water in an alligator infested swamp, we unsuspectingly leaned down for a drink of water, (malt liquor in this case).
Some may claim the first sign of trouble was the two of us looking for a ride on a street littered with strip clubs and brothels, but I personally pinpoint that moment when the driver of the car broke open an Old English forty and started passing it to us in the backseat, while at the same time describing her line of work; a stripper at Centerfolds. (Or “dancer” as she called it)…
Once we arrived back at George’s pad everyone got settled in and I promptly started to fall asleep against a wall. It was a long day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Both of the girls were frankly scaring me and in my drunken state were barely a “6,” which means they were probably a “3,“ sober. The only one that was mildly not unattractive, but yet not attractive in any civilization’s scoring system, was dressed in scantily clad lingerie stockings. Again, this should have been a sign, but neither of us had yet to put two and two together.
I tried to pretend I was asleep as the lesser attractive of the two started her barrage of Barbara Walters-esk questions.
“So what do you do,” she asked, trying to rouse me from my slumber.
“What do you mean, like for work?” I asked, not even close to wanting to go into my profession which involves selling babies‘umbilical cords. Generally explaining sober to a Harvard Bimolecular engineer is difficult enough, so I wasn’t about to try and explain it to a stripper intoxicated.
“What do you do for fun,” she replied.
For fun I thought? Who is this chick a representative from Match.com? Are we going to plan a trip to Yosemite together? Please make her stop and let me sleep for love of god I thought…
“Uh, not sure, basket weaving, backgammon, collecting old stamps, cow tipping, I don’t know, what do you do,” I responded sarcastically.
She didn’t like that answer.
It was about this point that George got up to use the bathroom and left me alone with the two girls, and it quickly became more uncomfortable than bending over to pick up a dropped cell phone at a George Michael concert.
I could no longer pretend I was sleeping and was forced to converse with the girls. Instead of answering a long list of questions as expected they somehow managed to turn on some music and request that I dance for them with my shirt off. I’m not sure if it was the larger girl’s hair weave or the full mustache of the other that scared me into agreeing to this nonsensical request, but for some reason, nearing unconsciousness, I agreed.
Just as I was in the process of stripping off my shirt, George came out of the bathroom with a look of disgust on his face.
“Steve! What the hell are you doing?”
Yeah…what in God's name am I doing, I thought to myself, as a waive of embarrassment and discombobulation came over me.
I sat back down humiliated and attempted to again affix myself to the wall as pass out.
“So what are we going to do tonight,” the grotesque one quizzed, after the recent events calmed down, while nervously looking at the other as if to gain her support.
It is three in the morning and I’ve been drinking since 11am, I thought to myself. What does this chick want to do, find a local petting zoo or circus to attend? I’m going to sleep, that’s what I’m doing tonight, I thought.
“Uh, not really sure, I think this is pretty much it, it has been a pretty long day,” I responded as I tried to find a comfortable spot on my wall to fall asleep, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone.
She didn’t seem very happy with the response and started to get restless.
Should I have suggested a game of Jenga? Parcheesi? These girls weren’t getting the clue.
It was at that point that George seemed to catch on to what I had obviously blatantly misread.
“Wait a second…are you girls working?”
Working I thought? Like working where? Conducting research studies on alcoholics trying to pass out at 3am to see how they would respond to a stripper wearing lace pants asking them annoying questions? Working how?
“Like working, working…?” George asked again.
The girls nervously looked at each other….
“Well yeah,” we thought you knew.
All of a sudden it hit me - Mother of God...we were sitting with two prostitutes.
I immediately began to panic.
I had previously watched some show on Mojo about some story where guys didn’t pay the hookers and one of them lost a kidney or was found days later beheaded in an aquarium somewhere or something. I know my liver is probably fairly destroyed, or maybe even considered a handicapped liver by some medical scoring charts, however I wasn’t about to lose it over a couple of unpaid prostitutes. (In an alley in Tijuana is how I always had pictured it).
My panic became frantic as I anticipated a loud knock at the door and some three-hundred pound gorilla hooker pimp crashing through George’s front door to beat George and me to a bloody pulp.
Wait a second I thought…the girls didn’t even do anything for us, so we should be ok right? Then I remembered I had attempted to dance for them. Crap! What’s the going rate for that I thought to myself...I remembered I had about ten bucks left in my wallet, hoping that should about cover it and put an end to this nightmare.
I was too engaged in my thoughts of horror to notice George motioning in my direction explaining that he was out of cash and I was the one with the money. Both girls glared at me waiting for some sort of explanation for the situation.
I froze.
“I uh…” was all I could stammer. All I could do was picture myself hung upside down by the seat of my pants by a 400-lb beast of a hooker pimp.
Was it outside the realm of possibility that George and I could pull a couple of ugly girls back to his place I thought? I mean, we don’t look like that big of losers, do we? (For those reading, don’t answer that question, at least not on Twitter, MySpace or use as your Facebook status update).
Luckily the girls all of a sudden developed a soft spot for us, or maybe more likely realized that they still had time to salvage a Craig’s List hooker request to make up for lost time with a couple of penniless invalids like George and me.
“This happens to us all the time,” the larger girl whined, looking to us for some direction as if they wanted a customer service survey filled out on how they could improve their business model.
Uh…yeah? Randomly throwing a couple of guys in your car, then asking them what they do for fun while they’re falling asleep hasn’t been working for you? I’m shocked…
How about…
“Hi I’m Trixie Diamond and this Busty Cox, and we are hookers, two-hundred per hour…”
That would generally get the point across ladies.
Then again, George and I were on a street littered with strip clubs and one was dressed in lace pants and did say she was a stripper. I guess that should have spelled it out for us, I'm sorry we don't get out much…
The girls took off and ultimately we got a free ride home and an interesting story. Unfortunately since they then knew his address he had to sleep with one eye open for the next few months, fearful of the nasty hooker pimp…
As the car pulled out of the driveway, I felt a sense of relief come over me. For a second there was a moment of silence as their car sped off as we individually tried to comprehend the events that had unfolded.
Just as the car's lights faded around the corner, George turned to me and frantically exclaimed, “Wait- we didn’t even ask them how much…!”
And now to the blog entry...
It really was a day and night no different than most - it started with a round of golf and a couple of vodka-tonics and ended with a couple of African-American hookers - you know the usual. (Well ok maybe not so normal, I usually drink Vodka-Cranberry).
After a long day of drinks, golf, bars, and pizza, my friend George and I were left on the streets of San Francisco , without a ride and running short on cash for a cab home. Neither of us were entirely sure how it happened, but one minute we were on Broadway Street finishing up our late night food and the next minute, we were in the back of a Chrysler with two black women on the way back to George’s house. "We'll Pick You Up," had worked so well for Enterprise Rental Car in the past, but before this night, it had yet to be tested by any working girls hoping to join the catchy marketing slogan and sex solicitation in prostitution ingenuity matrimony. Unaware of any sign for alarm, like an antelope looking for a drink of water in an alligator infested swamp, we unsuspectingly leaned down for a drink of water, (malt liquor in this case).
Some may claim the first sign of trouble was the two of us looking for a ride on a street littered with strip clubs and brothels, but I personally pinpoint that moment when the driver of the car broke open an Old English forty and started passing it to us in the backseat, while at the same time describing her line of work; a stripper at Centerfolds. (Or “dancer” as she called it)…
Once we arrived back at George’s pad everyone got settled in and I promptly started to fall asleep against a wall. It was a long day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Both of the girls were frankly scaring me and in my drunken state were barely a “6,” which means they were probably a “3,“ sober. The only one that was mildly not unattractive, but yet not attractive in any civilization’s scoring system, was dressed in scantily clad lingerie stockings. Again, this should have been a sign, but neither of us had yet to put two and two together.
I tried to pretend I was asleep as the lesser attractive of the two started her barrage of Barbara Walters-esk questions.
“So what do you do,” she asked, trying to rouse me from my slumber.
“What do you mean, like for work?” I asked, not even close to wanting to go into my profession which involves selling babies‘umbilical cords. Generally explaining sober to a Harvard Bimolecular engineer is difficult enough, so I wasn’t about to try and explain it to a stripper intoxicated.
“What do you do for fun,” she replied.
For fun I thought? Who is this chick a representative from Match.com? Are we going to plan a trip to Yosemite together? Please make her stop and let me sleep for love of god I thought…
“Uh, not sure, basket weaving, backgammon, collecting old stamps, cow tipping, I don’t know, what do you do,” I responded sarcastically.
She didn’t like that answer.
It was about this point that George got up to use the bathroom and left me alone with the two girls, and it quickly became more uncomfortable than bending over to pick up a dropped cell phone at a George Michael concert.
I could no longer pretend I was sleeping and was forced to converse with the girls. Instead of answering a long list of questions as expected they somehow managed to turn on some music and request that I dance for them with my shirt off. I’m not sure if it was the larger girl’s hair weave or the full mustache of the other that scared me into agreeing to this nonsensical request, but for some reason, nearing unconsciousness, I agreed.
Just as I was in the process of stripping off my shirt, George came out of the bathroom with a look of disgust on his face.
“Steve! What the hell are you doing?”
Yeah…what in God's name am I doing, I thought to myself, as a waive of embarrassment and discombobulation came over me.
I sat back down humiliated and attempted to again affix myself to the wall as pass out.
“So what are we going to do tonight,” the grotesque one quizzed, after the recent events calmed down, while nervously looking at the other as if to gain her support.
It is three in the morning and I’ve been drinking since 11am, I thought to myself. What does this chick want to do, find a local petting zoo or circus to attend? I’m going to sleep, that’s what I’m doing tonight, I thought.
“Uh, not really sure, I think this is pretty much it, it has been a pretty long day,” I responded as I tried to find a comfortable spot on my wall to fall asleep, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone.
She didn’t seem very happy with the response and started to get restless.
Should I have suggested a game of Jenga? Parcheesi? These girls weren’t getting the clue.
It was at that point that George seemed to catch on to what I had obviously blatantly misread.
“Wait a second…are you girls working?”
Working I thought? Like working where? Conducting research studies on alcoholics trying to pass out at 3am to see how they would respond to a stripper wearing lace pants asking them annoying questions? Working how?
“Like working, working…?” George asked again.
The girls nervously looked at each other….
“Well yeah,” we thought you knew.
All of a sudden it hit me - Mother of God...we were sitting with two prostitutes.
I immediately began to panic.
I had previously watched some show on Mojo about some story where guys didn’t pay the hookers and one of them lost a kidney or was found days later beheaded in an aquarium somewhere or something. I know my liver is probably fairly destroyed, or maybe even considered a handicapped liver by some medical scoring charts, however I wasn’t about to lose it over a couple of unpaid prostitutes. (In an alley in Tijuana is how I always had pictured it).
My panic became frantic as I anticipated a loud knock at the door and some three-hundred pound gorilla hooker pimp crashing through George’s front door to beat George and me to a bloody pulp.
Wait a second I thought…the girls didn’t even do anything for us, so we should be ok right? Then I remembered I had attempted to dance for them. Crap! What’s the going rate for that I thought to myself...I remembered I had about ten bucks left in my wallet, hoping that should about cover it and put an end to this nightmare.
I was too engaged in my thoughts of horror to notice George motioning in my direction explaining that he was out of cash and I was the one with the money. Both girls glared at me waiting for some sort of explanation for the situation.
I froze.
“I uh…” was all I could stammer. All I could do was picture myself hung upside down by the seat of my pants by a 400-lb beast of a hooker pimp.
Was it outside the realm of possibility that George and I could pull a couple of ugly girls back to his place I thought? I mean, we don’t look like that big of losers, do we? (For those reading, don’t answer that question, at least not on Twitter, MySpace or use as your Facebook status update).
Luckily the girls all of a sudden developed a soft spot for us, or maybe more likely realized that they still had time to salvage a Craig’s List hooker request to make up for lost time with a couple of penniless invalids like George and me.
“This happens to us all the time,” the larger girl whined, looking to us for some direction as if they wanted a customer service survey filled out on how they could improve their business model.
Uh…yeah? Randomly throwing a couple of guys in your car, then asking them what they do for fun while they’re falling asleep hasn’t been working for you? I’m shocked…
How about…
“Hi I’m Trixie Diamond and this Busty Cox, and we are hookers, two-hundred per hour…”
That would generally get the point across ladies.
Then again, George and I were on a street littered with strip clubs and one was dressed in lace pants and did say she was a stripper. I guess that should have spelled it out for us, I'm sorry we don't get out much…
The girls took off and ultimately we got a free ride home and an interesting story. Unfortunately since they then knew his address he had to sleep with one eye open for the next few months, fearful of the nasty hooker pimp…
As the car pulled out of the driveway, I felt a sense of relief come over me. For a second there was a moment of silence as their car sped off as we individually tried to comprehend the events that had unfolded.
Just as the car's lights faded around the corner, George turned to me and frantically exclaimed, “Wait- we didn’t even ask them how much…!”
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
"Shenanigans Volume X"
*YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
Welcome to the blog…lets jump right into it shall we?
“The Drug Dealer Survey”
The other day at work I overheard my co-worker placing a call to his drug dealer for a refill of his green addiction. It wasn’t the fact that he was placing an order while at work that shocked me; it was his customer survey-like complaint that his last order had been “a little too dry.” I don’t partake in the world of marijuana, but I don’t need to be an avid smoker to know there has got to be a code of some sort that says you don’t complain to your drug dealer, right? And too dry? Isn’t it a dried bush in the first place? Wouldn’t that be like calling a tub of bath water too wet? You’ve got to figure the last thing the guy cares about is how some guy who spends $20 a month on your product feels about the customer service he’s been receiving. If I’m wrong and someone reading this has received a blocked call from your dealer about the time you’re sitting down to dinner, a few weeks after your last purchase of PCP, then slap me silly and tell me I’m screwed six ways til Tuesday, but until then…A little dry? “You’ll get nothing and like it or how about a break your legs, you whining, complaining son of a…” would have been my response. Maybe he was hoping for a “Wow, thank you so much for your input. My head weed pimp Tommy “The Killer” Soprano really values you taking the time to fill out our customer service survey and for your troubles you’ll receive a fresh bunt cake. We feel so sorry about your last order that we will refund your money and give you the next three pounds free…”
“Screwed At The Pump”
CAN there be any explanation of why a gas station pump will ask you if you want your receipt before you start pumping your gas other than the fact that gas tycoons are completely and utterly trying to screw you in advance once they realize you will have absolutely no record of your fill up? Is it not enough for them to charge a gazillion* dollars for gas in the first place at the price offered? I can just see the them at their mansions now – “Lets see, hot off the wire …what’s this…a non-receipter out in Tallahassee - Dennis, that means 17 cents more for each of us. Call up the strippers and this time order the special…” The worst part is that they strategically place that question right after the car wash question… “Would you like a $24.99 car wash…?" You’re, of course, emphatically pressing the ‘No’ button and then the “Do you want your receipt,” question pops up but you’ve already pressed the button simultaneously. You’re left receipt-less and even more painful - the feeling like you’re taking one in the…
*For those reading studying for an upcoming spelling bee, this is not a word…
“Reaching the Un-reachable”
I’ve come to realize that it is completely impossible these days to be unreachable. In the past a messenger pigeon could have gotten caught in a crosswind and blown unsuspectingly into a skeet shooting range, the pony express could have run astray into a ditch or the post man could have had a few too many at his local pub and lost your mail. Unfortunately in today’s world of email, text, blackberry messaging, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Evite and god knows what else, it is impossible to use any excuse such as – “Sorry I never got the invitation, otherwise I would have totally made it.” That sort of un-rsvp is now rebutted with - “Really? I sent you an Evite, cross-referenced with your Facebook profile, re-coordinated it with your bb messenger and emailed you.” You’re then left with a look of agonizing perplexion; “Right…ok you got me – I drank a few too many and passed out by the pool – I’m sorry I missed your Grandmother’s funeral dude, my bad.” For the last few weeks I’ve had nine e-mails, three Evites, six Facebook invites and a 13-year old pimply faced singing telegramist (not a word) proposition me on my doorstep, all with the goal to entice me to attend an upcoming Fraternity Alumni weekend. Even if I had responded to a single one (which of course, I didn’t), I still would have needed to respond “no” to six other places as well. Would it be too much to ask to maybe use just one of these means of communication to invite someone somewhere? If they don’t respond, all statistical analysis show that likely it probably just means they’re not interested. Or perhaps, a telephone call might suffice? “Hey Steve, party next weekend, want to come?” “Sorry I can’t.” Ok done – you move on. That saves everyone about thirty minutes simply due to log-on time into your various online accounts to rsvp that you’re not coming. And can someone tell me again why I need to rsvp to something that I’m not going to? Isn’t the idea of an rsvp to announce you ARE showing up? Those who don’t rsvp, usually are giving the ever so important clue that they’re not making it. Then, as if its not enough that the other 47 guests see that you are a deadbeat and missing the event, you have to give a reason why you’re not making it as well, so everyone on the thing can see you’re lying through your teeth. “That is funny-Steve’s rsvp noted that he would be chasing antelope in Sudan on Sunday and couldn’t make it but I saw him passed out in his sundae at McDonalds in San Francisco, just last night…hmm…Something sounds fishy to me…” From now on, my reason will be that I’m not going because I don’t want to have to give a reason why I’m not going! How about that? Oh wait…that would mean I just fell victim to their tricks and gave a reason…Damn…
Welcome to the blog…lets jump right into it shall we?
“The Drug Dealer Survey”
The other day at work I overheard my co-worker placing a call to his drug dealer for a refill of his green addiction. It wasn’t the fact that he was placing an order while at work that shocked me; it was his customer survey-like complaint that his last order had been “a little too dry.” I don’t partake in the world of marijuana, but I don’t need to be an avid smoker to know there has got to be a code of some sort that says you don’t complain to your drug dealer, right? And too dry? Isn’t it a dried bush in the first place? Wouldn’t that be like calling a tub of bath water too wet? You’ve got to figure the last thing the guy cares about is how some guy who spends $20 a month on your product feels about the customer service he’s been receiving. If I’m wrong and someone reading this has received a blocked call from your dealer about the time you’re sitting down to dinner, a few weeks after your last purchase of PCP, then slap me silly and tell me I’m screwed six ways til Tuesday, but until then…A little dry? “You’ll get nothing and like it or how about a break your legs, you whining, complaining son of a…” would have been my response. Maybe he was hoping for a “Wow, thank you so much for your input. My head weed pimp Tommy “The Killer” Soprano really values you taking the time to fill out our customer service survey and for your troubles you’ll receive a fresh bunt cake. We feel so sorry about your last order that we will refund your money and give you the next three pounds free…”
“Screwed At The Pump”
CAN there be any explanation of why a gas station pump will ask you if you want your receipt before you start pumping your gas other than the fact that gas tycoons are completely and utterly trying to screw you in advance once they realize you will have absolutely no record of your fill up? Is it not enough for them to charge a gazillion* dollars for gas in the first place at the price offered? I can just see the them at their mansions now – “Lets see, hot off the wire …what’s this…a non-receipter out in Tallahassee - Dennis, that means 17 cents more for each of us. Call up the strippers and this time order the special…” The worst part is that they strategically place that question right after the car wash question… “Would you like a $24.99 car wash…?" You’re, of course, emphatically pressing the ‘No’ button and then the “Do you want your receipt,” question pops up but you’ve already pressed the button simultaneously. You’re left receipt-less and even more painful - the feeling like you’re taking one in the…
*For those reading studying for an upcoming spelling bee, this is not a word…
“Reaching the Un-reachable”
I’ve come to realize that it is completely impossible these days to be unreachable. In the past a messenger pigeon could have gotten caught in a crosswind and blown unsuspectingly into a skeet shooting range, the pony express could have run astray into a ditch or the post man could have had a few too many at his local pub and lost your mail. Unfortunately in today’s world of email, text, blackberry messaging, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Evite and god knows what else, it is impossible to use any excuse such as – “Sorry I never got the invitation, otherwise I would have totally made it.” That sort of un-rsvp is now rebutted with - “Really? I sent you an Evite, cross-referenced with your Facebook profile, re-coordinated it with your bb messenger and emailed you.” You’re then left with a look of agonizing perplexion; “Right…ok you got me – I drank a few too many and passed out by the pool – I’m sorry I missed your Grandmother’s funeral dude, my bad.” For the last few weeks I’ve had nine e-mails, three Evites, six Facebook invites and a 13-year old pimply faced singing telegramist (not a word) proposition me on my doorstep, all with the goal to entice me to attend an upcoming Fraternity Alumni weekend. Even if I had responded to a single one (which of course, I didn’t), I still would have needed to respond “no” to six other places as well. Would it be too much to ask to maybe use just one of these means of communication to invite someone somewhere? If they don’t respond, all statistical analysis show that likely it probably just means they’re not interested. Or perhaps, a telephone call might suffice? “Hey Steve, party next weekend, want to come?” “Sorry I can’t.” Ok done – you move on. That saves everyone about thirty minutes simply due to log-on time into your various online accounts to rsvp that you’re not coming. And can someone tell me again why I need to rsvp to something that I’m not going to? Isn’t the idea of an rsvp to announce you ARE showing up? Those who don’t rsvp, usually are giving the ever so important clue that they’re not making it. Then, as if its not enough that the other 47 guests see that you are a deadbeat and missing the event, you have to give a reason why you’re not making it as well, so everyone on the thing can see you’re lying through your teeth. “That is funny-Steve’s rsvp noted that he would be chasing antelope in Sudan on Sunday and couldn’t make it but I saw him passed out in his sundae at McDonalds in San Francisco, just last night…hmm…Something sounds fishy to me…” From now on, my reason will be that I’m not going because I don’t want to have to give a reason why I’m not going! How about that? Oh wait…that would mean I just fell victim to their tricks and gave a reason…Damn…
Thursday, May 7, 2009
"Shenanigans Volume IX"
Since it is Friday and no one will be getting any work done at the office, you might as well take five, ten, forty-five minutes to stretch out and read my blog over and over…With that, I present to you the latest comical creation fresh out of the uninspired, un-innovative, and un-edited oven piping hot with wit and nonsensical ingenuity complimented by a gazillion grammatical errors… (Gazillion is a word? Seriously? Or did my spell check drink too many Jaeger Bombs last night? Why is it not catching it? Screw it lets run with it…)
YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
BEFORE the blog gets started, I think now would be a good time to admit that I’m feeling a slight addiction to Christian rock surfacing. Granted, I’m not shouting the lyrics to my favorite God-saving jingle ebulliently from a mountain top, but humming modestly from the driver’s seat of my truck, in my opinion, is sign enough for alarm. What can I say? The songs are positive and catchy; don’t act like you haven’t caught yourself touched by the enchanted musical hands of God singing blissfully like a canary… I think that is actually how they initially get you – first they suck you in with the beguiling, goose bump-initiating music, causing you to obliviously ignore any reason to panic, and then the next thing you know you’re dawning a cloak in some field in Texas drinking Kool-aid and chanting that the sun sucks… I’ve seen it a hundred times… “What was that? Yes oh great one, yes I will slaughter a live Koala as sacrifice and then grow a mullet to prove my commitment, whatever you say, I’m humbled to be your servant…”
A Shenanigans look at gyms…
“…as tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man…”
I’ve never actually read my 24-hour Fitness gym contract, but I’m pretty if I did the small print would read that whenever I return to my locker after my workout, there will always be a three-hundred pound, hairy behemoth bending over naked in front of my locker, thus creating a blockade of despicable grotesqueness barricading my belongings. I swear it could be 3am with not a soul in the place when I choose my locker, but sure enough when I’m done, the one other dude in the whole gym is right next to my locker, stretching in tight white underwear. (Is it necessary to stretch while in tighty whities, one might ask themselves? I too used to have this thought until I saw an eighty-nine year old man stretch naked. After that I didn’t question the underwear stretch). This usually leads to the awkward… “You need to get in here,” the guy will non-credulously ask, as he removes his underwear in mid conversation, which is about the time I usually start to black out. As tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man.” I always try to remain stolid and cool and I figure if I say, “man,” that proves I’m completely unaffected by the awkwardness, when in reality I want to scream out - “for the love of god! No I don’t want to get in there, I don’t even want to be in here, when I picked out my locker no one was around, and now I’ve got your package an arm’s length away…Mama!” I mean seriously, what else would bring me all the way to the back row of lockers to the only locker with a lock on it - past hoards of naked, showering men, the smelly bathroom, and some weirdo drying his privates with the hand blower? “No buddy I don’t need to get in there, I’m actually in a traveling circus and I’m scouting out the next location for the bearded lady to jungle raccoons, or nope I just like to hang out in the back of men’s locker rooms, the smell is invigorating, or oh snap, I thought this was elliptical machine, drats, guess I was wrong, well…see ya later…” I mean really? Yes I need to get in there!! Son of a…
Then of course once you actually retrieve your belongings you’re forced to change right next to the guy, otherwise you look suspicious. For some homoerotic reason, hundreds of years ago some caveman made it acceptable for naked men to change together and ever since then we’ve been following suit, forced to simply accept the awkwardness without any cries for help or to question. If you don’t participate, men think you are some homosexual, emotionally uncomfortable around naked men. Makes perfect sense…
Once you’ve collected your belongings and awkwardly began to change, there always seems to be some completely naked guy, who emerges stealthily out of what you previously thought was a completely empty shower. Before he puts on any clothes feels the need to tell a joke or a story; usually about some girl he banged back in college. Personally I don’t think it is too much to ask for some guy to throw on a towel before starting in on his tale of uncomfortable debauchery; I mean really, how am I supposed to follow a story when, once again, some guy’s package is an arm’s length away. All I can think about it how I want to be somewhere else – like anywhere else, for example at the dentist getting a major root canal done while a midget is pulling off my toenails one by one. And furthermore, if you’re nailing chicks, why in God’s name are you practically to second base with me in the locker room - standing there, again, with your package an arm’s length away…
Shenanigans look at Mexican Food…
“…but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! …”
In the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, I’ve come to the conclusion that going out to eat at a Mexican restaurant is really no different than ordering a sixty-cent taco from Taco Bell. Seafood, Italian food, Chinese food, heck even Viking food can always be improved, but no matter how many ways you fold it a burrito is a burrito. You can only maximize chicken, beans, cheese and sour cream so far before you reach a food innovation plateau. Sure, there are different types of burritos, whether it be a crispy taco, enchilada, or whatever, but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! I’m not fooled – I’m not, I’ll be honest. I think its time someone said something. Many generations have tried, but ultimately after hundreds of years with each generation really putting their heads together and getting nowhere, we’ve ultimately witnessed absolutely no evolution in the world of Mexican food. Whose to blame one might ask? The answer, my friends is the burrito-eating people of this world. We continue to spend $15.95, plus tax and tip on the same burrito we could have purchased at El Pollo Loco for $3. In fact I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised that I’m being served that $3 burrito and paying $15.95, and wouldn’t know the difference. I’d sit there and happily eat it either way to be perfectly honest, while this burrito evolution implosion manifests in Mexican restaurants everywhere. In order to feel like I’m even getting a bargain at a restaurant I’ll usually eat about three baskets of chips and then stare trancelike at the tortilla-making machine for several hours hoping to somehow get my money’s worth. Throw a few $6 imported Pacificos, which coincidentally are brewed in Chicago, and I might as well have ordered the surf and turf at Benihana’s for the same price. Again, these are the things that keep me up at night…
May your weekend be pure drinking bliss...
Cheers,
Steve
YOU CAN READ ALL MY BLOGS AND ADD YOURSELF TO THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST (all the hip kids are doing it...) @ http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
BEFORE the blog gets started, I think now would be a good time to admit that I’m feeling a slight addiction to Christian rock surfacing. Granted, I’m not shouting the lyrics to my favorite God-saving jingle ebulliently from a mountain top, but humming modestly from the driver’s seat of my truck, in my opinion, is sign enough for alarm. What can I say? The songs are positive and catchy; don’t act like you haven’t caught yourself touched by the enchanted musical hands of God singing blissfully like a canary… I think that is actually how they initially get you – first they suck you in with the beguiling, goose bump-initiating music, causing you to obliviously ignore any reason to panic, and then the next thing you know you’re dawning a cloak in some field in Texas drinking Kool-aid and chanting that the sun sucks… I’ve seen it a hundred times… “What was that? Yes oh great one, yes I will slaughter a live Koala as sacrifice and then grow a mullet to prove my commitment, whatever you say, I’m humbled to be your servant…”
A Shenanigans look at gyms…
“…as tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man…”
I’ve never actually read my 24-hour Fitness gym contract, but I’m pretty if I did the small print would read that whenever I return to my locker after my workout, there will always be a three-hundred pound, hairy behemoth bending over naked in front of my locker, thus creating a blockade of despicable grotesqueness barricading my belongings. I swear it could be 3am with not a soul in the place when I choose my locker, but sure enough when I’m done, the one other dude in the whole gym is right next to my locker, stretching in tight white underwear. (Is it necessary to stretch while in tighty whities, one might ask themselves? I too used to have this thought until I saw an eighty-nine year old man stretch naked. After that I didn’t question the underwear stretch). This usually leads to the awkward… “You need to get in here,” the guy will non-credulously ask, as he removes his underwear in mid conversation, which is about the time I usually start to black out. As tough as a straight man can respond with some guy’s package flopping less than an arm’s length away, I timorously muster, “uh yeah, uh right there, thanks man.” I always try to remain stolid and cool and I figure if I say, “man,” that proves I’m completely unaffected by the awkwardness, when in reality I want to scream out - “for the love of god! No I don’t want to get in there, I don’t even want to be in here, when I picked out my locker no one was around, and now I’ve got your package an arm’s length away…Mama!” I mean seriously, what else would bring me all the way to the back row of lockers to the only locker with a lock on it - past hoards of naked, showering men, the smelly bathroom, and some weirdo drying his privates with the hand blower? “No buddy I don’t need to get in there, I’m actually in a traveling circus and I’m scouting out the next location for the bearded lady to jungle raccoons, or nope I just like to hang out in the back of men’s locker rooms, the smell is invigorating, or oh snap, I thought this was elliptical machine, drats, guess I was wrong, well…see ya later…” I mean really? Yes I need to get in there!! Son of a…
Then of course once you actually retrieve your belongings you’re forced to change right next to the guy, otherwise you look suspicious. For some homoerotic reason, hundreds of years ago some caveman made it acceptable for naked men to change together and ever since then we’ve been following suit, forced to simply accept the awkwardness without any cries for help or to question. If you don’t participate, men think you are some homosexual, emotionally uncomfortable around naked men. Makes perfect sense…
Once you’ve collected your belongings and awkwardly began to change, there always seems to be some completely naked guy, who emerges stealthily out of what you previously thought was a completely empty shower. Before he puts on any clothes feels the need to tell a joke or a story; usually about some girl he banged back in college. Personally I don’t think it is too much to ask for some guy to throw on a towel before starting in on his tale of uncomfortable debauchery; I mean really, how am I supposed to follow a story when, once again, some guy’s package is an arm’s length away. All I can think about it how I want to be somewhere else – like anywhere else, for example at the dentist getting a major root canal done while a midget is pulling off my toenails one by one. And furthermore, if you’re nailing chicks, why in God’s name are you practically to second base with me in the locker room - standing there, again, with your package an arm’s length away…
Shenanigans look at Mexican Food…
“…but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! …”
In the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, I’ve come to the conclusion that going out to eat at a Mexican restaurant is really no different than ordering a sixty-cent taco from Taco Bell. Seafood, Italian food, Chinese food, heck even Viking food can always be improved, but no matter how many ways you fold it a burrito is a burrito. You can only maximize chicken, beans, cheese and sour cream so far before you reach a food innovation plateau. Sure, there are different types of burritos, whether it be a crispy taco, enchilada, or whatever, but at the end of the day, they are all just wolves dressed in tostada clothing – another burrito! I’m not fooled – I’m not, I’ll be honest. I think its time someone said something. Many generations have tried, but ultimately after hundreds of years with each generation really putting their heads together and getting nowhere, we’ve ultimately witnessed absolutely no evolution in the world of Mexican food. Whose to blame one might ask? The answer, my friends is the burrito-eating people of this world. We continue to spend $15.95, plus tax and tip on the same burrito we could have purchased at El Pollo Loco for $3. In fact I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised that I’m being served that $3 burrito and paying $15.95, and wouldn’t know the difference. I’d sit there and happily eat it either way to be perfectly honest, while this burrito evolution implosion manifests in Mexican restaurants everywhere. In order to feel like I’m even getting a bargain at a restaurant I’ll usually eat about three baskets of chips and then stare trancelike at the tortilla-making machine for several hours hoping to somehow get my money’s worth. Throw a few $6 imported Pacificos, which coincidentally are brewed in Chicago, and I might as well have ordered the surf and turf at Benihana’s for the same price. Again, these are the things that keep me up at night…
May your weekend be pure drinking bliss...
Cheers,
Steve
Thursday, April 23, 2009
"The Latex Castaway"
Again, my apologies for not submitting many blogs lately. Without further hesitation I grant you the honor of reading my blog once again…as usual instead of enjoying the blog you will probably be thinking about all the productive things you could be doing instead of reading this…
**And for those reading on Facebook, you can read all my past blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/
And now to the reading…
…Wow Sheila you were a real hit tonight…hmm…what should I do this condom…wait, I know…I think I saw an elementary school playground about six miles back. I’ll just drive out there and leave it on that see saw…that seems like a good place…”
Thursday, April 16, 2009
"Happy Hour Magazine - Portopong Write-up"
To all my blog fans (yes I am talking to the one of you...) my deepest apologies that I haven't submitted any entries lately. The good news or bad news for most woman and children is that I am back and have some in the works. Just because I haven't written, does not mean the most ridiculous stories aren't occurrring in my life. They are just simmering in my blackberry notepad, waiting feverishly for Tom Hanks from "Da Vinci Code," to come and decipher the drunken cryptic jibberish I've inputted while most likely intoxicated. While my new blogs are still cooking in my computer oven, here is the latest piece I wrote for Happy Hour Magazine. You can read all my blogs there directly @ http://www.happyhourmagonline.com/Happyhour-Blogs/ - you can go on there and input comments it appears, but I clicked on the link until my finger was rubbed raw and got nowhere... more Shenangians blogs to follow shortly...
By StevePublished 04/13/2009
Portopong in the pool
For any beer drinker with an infatuation for pounding beers and a burning desire for fierce competition, the game formerly known as Beer Pong is an excellent way to spend an afternoon of innovative drinking inebriation. The game has drawn the attention of thousands of drinkers everywhere, unwilling to stand for drinking mediocrity. The origin of the game dates back to the 1980’s, but in the last several years this pastime, which essentially guarantees intoxication to each player participating, has hit mainstream faster than Britney Spear's crotch shots to the Internet.
The idea of getting smashed while also competing in a sport is something most drinkers and athletes rarely get to do without the looming threat of an errantly thrown baseball to the groin, a spiked volleyball to the head, or a stray shuttlecock to the eye as they are looking in another direction. Beer pong not only eliminates all threats of potential injury but also provides a day of pure drinking bliss and the thrill of potential victory.
This is all fine and dandy for those who like to enjoy their pastime on land, but where does this leave the amphibious drinkers one might ask? Until recently, they were left out, forced to watch their peers have the time of their lives as they dejectedly floated down rivers, unhappily lounged on pool rafts or pouted in hot tubs left to wonder…If only they could just keep the red cups from floating away they too could enjoy…
Just at the point where salvation seemed impossible, the glorious Portopong was created and instantly one’s beer pong addiction and desire for water was joined together in joyous drinking innovation matrimony.
This brilliant invention can be blown up and used anywhere for splendiferous fun without getting out of the water. It works great for pools, lakes, over tables while camping or even for those of you who get the beer pong itch when walking by small ponds on the side of the road. It is easy to blow up to use and easy to deflate and store away for those non rainy days when you get the urge for some swimming and beer pong debauchery.
The best part about the Portopong is that when you’ve had a few too many, you can also pass out on it, making this the only drinking apparatus to also double as a bed!
One can pick up this inflatable ingenuity at www.portopong.com for just around $50 and it comes in a variety of colors. (Obese man with grotesque, hairy beer gut (pictured), sold separately). I guarantee it will improve your beer pong experience.
By StevePublished 04/13/2009
Portopong in the pool
For any beer drinker with an infatuation for pounding beers and a burning desire for fierce competition, the game formerly known as Beer Pong is an excellent way to spend an afternoon of innovative drinking inebriation. The game has drawn the attention of thousands of drinkers everywhere, unwilling to stand for drinking mediocrity. The origin of the game dates back to the 1980’s, but in the last several years this pastime, which essentially guarantees intoxication to each player participating, has hit mainstream faster than Britney Spear's crotch shots to the Internet.
The idea of getting smashed while also competing in a sport is something most drinkers and athletes rarely get to do without the looming threat of an errantly thrown baseball to the groin, a spiked volleyball to the head, or a stray shuttlecock to the eye as they are looking in another direction. Beer pong not only eliminates all threats of potential injury but also provides a day of pure drinking bliss and the thrill of potential victory.
This is all fine and dandy for those who like to enjoy their pastime on land, but where does this leave the amphibious drinkers one might ask? Until recently, they were left out, forced to watch their peers have the time of their lives as they dejectedly floated down rivers, unhappily lounged on pool rafts or pouted in hot tubs left to wonder…If only they could just keep the red cups from floating away they too could enjoy…
Just at the point where salvation seemed impossible, the glorious Portopong was created and instantly one’s beer pong addiction and desire for water was joined together in joyous drinking innovation matrimony.
This brilliant invention can be blown up and used anywhere for splendiferous fun without getting out of the water. It works great for pools, lakes, over tables while camping or even for those of you who get the beer pong itch when walking by small ponds on the side of the road. It is easy to blow up to use and easy to deflate and store away for those non rainy days when you get the urge for some swimming and beer pong debauchery.
The best part about the Portopong is that when you’ve had a few too many, you can also pass out on it, making this the only drinking apparatus to also double as a bed!
One can pick up this inflatable ingenuity at www.portopong.com for just around $50 and it comes in a variety of colors. (Obese man with grotesque, hairy beer gut (pictured), sold separately). I guarantee it will improve your beer pong experience.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)