"Volume XX"

Being that this blog is creatively named Volume 20, one would expect some sort of magnificent masterpiece, most likely involving streamers, fireworks, and chicks in bikinis dancing seductively across the screen. This blog has none of that. What it does have is asinine ruminations about gay ice skaters, meteorologists, and cell demise. Wait, there's some chicks...

Happy Reading...

People are always saying, “oh that Robert, he sure has a taste for fine dining,” like it is some sort of miraculous trait. Everyone has a taste for fine dining; we just choose not to spend sixty bucks on a taco we can buy for three bucks at Taco Bell.

I don’t have great disdain for weathermen, but I wish they wouldn’t try and confuse us with their devious weather reporting. For example they’ll say “Today will be 62 degrees but it feels like 67." Granted, I’m no meteorologist, but if it feels like 67, wouldn’t that make the temperature, gee I don’t know – 67? This is like when my friend Tony tells me he is buying a house for $200k but it is worth $400k. If your thermometer says 67, then just save us the discombobulating condescension and tell us it will also feel like 67.

I’d imagine the best part about becoming a figure skater if you’re a guy would be avoiding the awkwardly painful conversation with your Dad explaining to him you are a homosexual; he just puts two and two together.

People are always saying, “stop drinking, you’re going to kill brain cells.” If I was a brain cell and I’m going to die anyway I think I’d want to go by means of some sort of intoxication, perhaps at the hands of a hot new microbrew? Or, getting vaporized due to a peyote trip - now that’s how I’d want to go.

It’s a pretty good indication your spelling skills are going downhill, when the Microsoft Word spell checker, which has access to over twenty million English words, doesn’t even bring up the word you are trying for as an option.

You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Not Your Father's Koozie"

This week's blog brings us to really not much of a blog at all. Pissed off? Want to stop reading? (Go ahead you're probably one of two people actually reading anyway). Do you feel like you've just spent $14 on a movie ticket only to sit down in the theater on a small village of melted sour patch kids, and then realized you've accidentally chosen the edited version of Black Swan, the one without the lesbian scene?

This week's blog is a far-from-wonderful marketing write-up that never actually was published anywhere. With that said, that didn't stop the staff here at Depths of Debauchery from posting it. When you're finished, a two-hour movie about ballet won't seem so bad after all...

Whether it was in the back alley of a neighborhood 7-11, in your Uncle’s moldy basement, or on the streets of Compton playing Craps, everyone remembers their first forty ounces of malt beverage bliss. My first experience was out on a marsh in Marin County on a frosty winter night. Granted, at that location there were no surly homeless lads harassing me for loose change, no basement dwelling rodents, nor the looming threat of a semi-automatic weapon being discharged in my direction, but there were tiny marsh frogs, and let me tell you - they can be pretty menacing. The real concern, however were the arctic temperatures, and with each sip of my Ranier Ice beverage, my fingers became less like the moving devices I was used to and more like elongated ice cubes. Had the “40ozcozy,” the brilliant invention described in this blog been created before that night, the looming threat of frostbite would have been replaced by pure 40oz drinking enjoyment.

For those of you who have not used a standard beer koozie, you’ve probably been in a coma, spent too much time at the library or possibly are just a normal god-faring respectable individual, so good for you. (Buy yourself a round of Shirley Temples). If you do however fall into one of the aforementioned categories, the concept is simple; your can or bottle fits snuggly inside a neoprene jacket, keeping the frosty coldness inside, and your hands warm on the outside. The first step is to find a koozie that you like – maybe it’s a tattooed college logo on your koozie that tickles your fancy, or perhaps a creative design fitting your personality is more your desire, or more likely - whatever koozie happens to be in the vicinity at the time of drunken need. When done, you simply deposit your empty solider in the trash and plop a new one into your koozie, making it the only drinking accessory to witness to your lifetime BAC level, which for most of us is around 8,771.9.

While many stay at home drinkers, such as Dads and Grandfathers have found much enjoyment sitting in their rocking chairs drinking beer in their koozies, it left the 40ozounce drinkers all alone to ponder; what about me? I too, want to keep the frosty coldness inside and my hands un-frostbitten on the outside. Where did I go wrong?

Luckily, on a frigid night in Berkeley, this brilliant invention was created, joining together the koozie and 40oz in a harmonious matrimony of intoxication.

Nothing tastes so good when it hit your lips, (other than about two hundred other beverages, but let’s be honest we don’t drink them for the taste), than a 40oz, but there are several flaws to the engineering. I think any gang member who still has his teeth, and still speaks a dialect somewhat resembling English will attest; unless you have the throat of a pelican, it is extremely difficult to consume a 40ozoz at rapid speed, therefore keeping it cold the whole time is virtually impossible. And on a frosty night in the hood, (or nearby marshland) frozen fingers are essentially a guarantee. The “40ozcozy,” puts an end to this inebriating conundrum.

How does it all work, one might ask? Like for example, how am I ever going to fit my Olde English 40oz into my rag-tag Oklahoma Sooners koozie? Isn’t it going to be like the time my 14-yr old, 300lb cousin Pablo squeezed into my t-ball jersey when I was seven?

The answer, my friends is http://www.40cozy.com They have a plethora of koozies to choose from, all that fit perfectly around your malt beverage of choice. (All the hip kids are buying one).

They even come equipped with with a handle, so in your drunken stupor you can easily hold onto your malt beverage, or strap onto yourself in case you decide to fall asleep standing up, like the drunkard pictured… (pole and denim outfit sold separately)

You can read all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XIX"

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This week’s edition may leave you scratching your head in disbelief, leaving you only to ponder; if only I hadn’t opened up my e-mail and wasted yet again, another nine minutes of my life maybe I could’ve made something of my day. Well, don’t fret folks; the pictures below sort of speak for themselves and are symbolic of what many dedicated readers are experiencing from reading. I think you’ll be amazed by the splendorous transition shown here.

Joey, now an avid reader, before reading depths of debauchery blog

Scroll down to see this mind-blowing transformation...

Joey after reading Depths of Debauchery Blog

I think the before and after pictures speak for themselves. And now to the write up...

WHY is it that every time a celebrity dies, regardless of the cause of death, they always have cocaine in their system?

“We lost a great actor today, and yes she did have cocaine, muscle relaxers, and Opium in her system –

Chancey McGuilicutty is in the field with this breaking news…”

“Thanks Rick- Adina Swenson most notably known for her work in the movie Fluffy Elephants passed away Tuesday afternoon. She was ejected from a speeding dune buggy, landed in a pool of rabid alligators, got out, and then after stepping on a land mine was thrown into an uninhabited cave where she spent the last four months alone, without access to the outside world. An autopsy did confirm, however, she coincidentally did have Cocaine in her system, despite all medical theories which have proven cocaine clears the system in just several days.”

WHENEVER I try to update software on my Iphone, ITunes spits back, “An Unknown Error Has Occurred.” Listen Steve Jobs; if you don’t know what the error is how do you figure I can trouble shoot this blanket error statement? You created an IPod the size of a peanut with a touch screen, but yet, you can’t throw me some sort of IT bone here, so I at least know where to start? Alright let’s see here, let me start with the power button – yep that works. Space bar? Check. Six-hundred and fifty-two hours later...ok, the L key seems to be working. Stay focused… ok next possibility…

THIS weekend I'll be heading up to Lake Tahoe and like usual I checked the weather report since there were reports of snow. Chance of snow on the report? 100%. 100%? Seriously? The Donner Party was only facing a 90% chance of snow and they ending up eating one another - you're telling me there isn't a speck of doubt that it isn't going to snow? Man these meteorologists are getting cocky...

WHAT kind of drugs do you have to be on to read these encrypted letters at the end of like a ticket purchase to prevent mass scalping. It will say:

‘You’re almost done! Just enter the phrase below within the next 12 seconds to complete your order’

The box will be a phrase using letters never previously combined anywhere in the English language like pedi kat gurustermeir Johnson xasderanyx. Then as if that’s not enough it’s in 3-D or blurred out by psychedelic colors, rendering it completely unreadable. Luckily they do give you an option to change the letters to something else, usually which is less readable that the first one. What algorithm-solving ticket thieves ruined it for the rest of the population that we have to endure this torture when buying Backstreet Boys tickets?

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

"Super Bowl Blues" Part III

Here is part III and the final snippet of this mini-series of blogs. You can read, yup you guessed it, part II and part I at: stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com

And now to the write up...

Feb 13^th- 27^th

Carnival of the Deer Man

Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy

This epic saga between a grown man dressed up in a deer outfit and a holy man acting as a saint is probably more than enough to make Bambi’s ancestors shutter in their thickets. The regular man, morphed into an impervious, antlered brute, comes down from the hills to wreak havoc among herds of cattle until confronted by a saintly figure wearing a fairy hat. The holy man succeeds where the cattle could not, by summoning a nearby hunter who blows softly into the antlered beast’s ear that in turn destroys the sins and evils of the past year. It makes perfect sense. Check your TV guide for times and channel, but if anyone on the show asks you to drink the kool-aid, please refrain, at least until your neighbor Pablo blows softly in your ear while wearing only a sock over his privates.

By this point of the lackluster sports month, most of you will be having visions of bracketology dancing in your heads, but before you completely slip back into the normal sports routine, there is one more event that you should start thinking about. It requires preparation.

July 11th

Wife Carrying Championships

Sonkajärvi, Finland

With roots dating back to the early 1800’s, when men actually did sneak into neighboring towns and carry fellow mates’ wives off into the night, instead of present day when they just sneak into strip joints and hand over their debit cards, and pretend their cell phone lost reception, this humorous yet competitive event, which grossed 500 million viewers last year, is entering its 16th year in Finland. Men must carry their wives a tumultuous 253.5 meters over sand, grass, gravel and water hazards, stopping only to throw back the “wife carrying drink,” at special checkpoints. Before the barbarian in you tries to pull a fast one and buy that sixteen year old, sixty-five pound exchange student from down the street a one-way ticket to Finland to claim your victory, you should know these two simple rules.

1. “The wife to be carried may be your own, the neighbour’s or you may have found her farther afield; (no idea what this means, I’m guessing this just trumps the aforementioned rules, exchange student ahoy!) She must, however, be over 17 years of age (drats, there goes that idea). The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.”

I will not pretend to know how skinny one’s wife would have to be to break the 49 kilo threshold, however according to Johnny Depp in the movie, “Blow,” 49 kilos would make for one hellavua good time, so I’m assuming it’s a lot…

2. “If a contestant drops his wife that couple will be fined 15 seconds per drop.” (After a swift kick in the groin from your angry wife, a 15 second penalty won’t seem so bad.)

If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names Jordy Nelson, Hines Ward, and Aaron Rodgers will soon only be a figment of your imagination. On the other hand, you may wake up in a cold sweat after antlered deer men, fighting camels and bare-bottomed Japanese dudes visit you in your dreams…

Se e you on the other side…

Check out all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Super Bowl Blues" Part II

Welcome to Part II... if you'd like to read part I you can find it at: http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

And now to the write up...

Feb 19^th

Hog Calling Contest

Weatherford, Oklahoma

Hog calling, a true American pastime, combines excellent hog communication skills with a pureadoration for swine. You need to become one with the hog in order to succeed in the sport. "I do eat pork. But not if I know the hog,” said former champion Roxanne Ward in a 1996 interview with the Weatherford Daily News. “I will go to the store to buy pork chops. But I don't eat my friends.”

Hey Roxanne, it’s not that the Hogs can’t hear you; they just are sick of listening to your nagging, which is why they aren’t responding to your hog calls… Check your local listings

Feb 23^rd

Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength

County of Kyoto, Japan

This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes. The cakes, weighing up to 150 kilo-grams for men and 90 kilo-grams for women are hardly the Quaker rice cakes packed with bursting flavors, most of us are accustomed to. Don’t forget to pre-program the TIVO.

Sometime in February

Camel Wrestling Festival

Seljuk, Turkey

This inhumane testosterone-releasing event pairing man versus camel gives the men as well as the camels a healthy outlet to alleviate stress and release tension in front of 17,000 screaming fans.

According to the website, “The referee and ropers watch carefully that the camel abides by the strictestof wrestling codes, and fans cheer the brave camel that is victorious.”

If the camel doesn’t abide by the codes, the camel still wins since, well, it is a wild camel that can probably maim any bystander or opponent it wishes. The last man or camel that remains standing or doesn’t get flagged for eye gauging is deemed the winner. Contact your satellite provider for dates and times.

Check back tomorrow for the final piece of this discombobulating puzzle of sportacular bliss.

You can read Part I of this saga and all blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Super Bowl Blues" Part I

The last remnants of hardened cheese and bean dip have been extracted from couch cushions and floorboards deposited there by drunken Super Bowl XLV guests.

The very last drop of beer has long been siphoned from the keg, and even the guy passed out in your urinal has gone home.

You’ve analyzed, re-created, spliced, diced and argued every aspect of the big game over and over, from blown calls to commercials at the office water cooler with everyone from Frank in accounting to Ingrid the cleaning lady.

“Did you see the one with the ape and the cornbread?” You ask.

“Yeah Steve. We saw that, we’ve already talked about it…””

“Back and to the front. Back and to the front,” you feverishly exclaim to Ingrid time and time again, in a flurry of Kevin Costner, JFK-like arguments regarding the hit on Ben Roethlisberger that caused the pick six at the hands of Green Bay’s Nick Collins.

There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.

Football is over.

Your addiction that has consumed you for the past five months each and every Sunday has vanished like a phantom in the night. You must quit cold turkey, and there is no football patch in sight.

To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season means the return of their loved ones on Sundays. Calls like “Wes Welker over the middle,” will now be drowned out and replaced by “Do these jeans make me look fat?”

Your Sundays are now filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Kohl’s and Express.

You find yourself wandering the streets with your lazy boy on rollers and bowl of pretzels in hand, looking for any football you can find, stopping in front of teenagers playing pick-up games in the street.

Your capricious moods are affecting everyone around you.

You have a problem.

There is no Major League Baseball, NBA Playoffs, or March Madness to catch you when you come spiraling down from your NFL high, jittery and feeling like a useless piece of jelly. If you think that you can simply coast until March 17th, the start of the NCAA tournament, you might as well apply for afrequent buyer card at Bed Bath & Beyond right now, because you are not going to make it.

Before you break out in ghastly hives due to withdrawals, I have conjured up just the right prescription for your ailment. This hodgepodge of sporting events is just the elixir you need to lead you up to Dick Vitale and friends.

These events are not embellished, for they need no embellishing. If you’re committed to the healingprocess, they should not be missed. (Unless of course Pottery Barn is running a sale on oven mitts).

Feb 14^th & 15^th

Westmininster Dog Show

New York City, New York

New York City, New York: Taking place at Madison Square Garden, the Westminster Dog Show is the Super Bowl of dog shows. (We’ve yet to find the NFC Championships of Dog Shows, because simply,I don’t think there are any). These stunning canine athletes will send chills down your spine with their determination and spirit. If you’re not able to sneak away from your Valentine’s Day dinner to catch these astounding pups then you’re truly missing pure sporting elegance and doggy debauchery.

Feb 15^th

Inazawa's Naked Festival

Inazawa City, Japan

Bare-bottomed men ages 23-43 crowd the streets of Inazawa City (pictured below), in hopes of touching another naked man to ensure good luck for the upcoming year.

A naked man is chosen before the event, and then besieged by 9000 men in loincloths all desperate to ensure their luck for the year. (Stop me if this sounds like your last keg party).

If touching a naked man brings good luck, then I think it is safe to say more men in San Francisco’s Castro District should be playing more lottery tickets… Search your On Demand for channel and time, but check to see if your roommate has any new lucky acquisition such as a genie or a pot of gold before placing clean hands on the remote control…

Check back tomorrow for part II of this blistering tale. Or you can always read and subscribe to all blogs (all the hip kids are doing it) at: http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/

"Volume XVIII"

Welcome to another edition of the blog. I hope you enjoy the illogical, randomness, and if you don't, may you be awoken from your sleep by an un-showered, and naked Rosie O'Donnell doing bikram yoga in your bedroom.

Has anyone else been able to resist the larger beer at restaurant chains? I fall for the trick of choosing between the 16 ounce beer for $7 and the 24 ounce for $7.50 every time. This is alcoholic entrapment. Darn that Applebee’s.

How do these camera men get these crazy shots in pornography movies? Sure there are some great angles, but where the heck is the guy setting up, under the dude’s genitalia? Could there be a worse camera gig? How do you get started in this? Perhaps you get your start filming training videos for Proctology seminars?

Aren’t we going a little bit too far with our hamburger meat and treatment of these cows? Sure, I want every cow in the world to live a life of luxury just like the next farm animal-aficionado, but things are getting a bit out of hoof. The back of these meat packages now look more like Cow-Facebook profiles instead of showing nutritional facts.

“Bessie was fed the finest grass, and grazed only during the hours of 3 to 4pm after the sun had dipped magnificently beyond the hills. She spent her mornings relaxing in a hammock, listening to Yanni, and only rose to reapply her moisturizer, or take a dip in the cool, calm cow pool. She enjoyed playing backgammon, taking long walks on the farm, and was always a great listener…”

It might as well read, “If you’re reading this, you are a carnivorous a-hole.” I usually opt for chicken at that point. Foster Farms doesn’t make me feel as bad about myself…

And grass fed burgers? Haven’t these cows always been grass fed? I’ve seen about 10,000 cows in my lifetime and not a single one was eating Sour Patch Kids, or in line for the Seafood buffet. Cows eat grass, period. Is it necessary to advertise the obvious? Is there a world out there where cows are living as hobos in alleys, like maybe in Harlem, helping themselves to extra helpings of Chicken Parmesan? I do find some satisfaction knowing that the cow wasn’t ingesting motor oil or something, so a simple disclaimer, like “hey this cow did not eat radioactive plankton,” or something would suffice for me.

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)

"Volume XVII"

Today’s Blog takes us to the world of random, useless thoughts, which is probably just what you are looking for, but likely not.

I hope I never get to the point where I start tucking my collared shirt into my jeans, while sporting a phone belt clip topped off white running shoes. Have these guys just completely given up on life or do they just have no one at home to stop them? If they do have a lady at home, what delusional woman is letting them leave the house like this? These guys might as well grow themselves a Mom Butt while they’re at it because I feel that might be their next step.

How did it come to be that horses are the primary animal used for glue? Was some mad scientist at Elmers experimenting with different animals or did he nail horse on the first shot? I’m just imagining them sitting around their beakers and Petri dishes … Hey Jim - pretty sure we could make white out from a wildebeest¸ let me see just add the citric acid, carry the one, add the two…nope not it. Hmm… you know what, I have a hunch for the glue though; quick -hand me that vile with Seabiscuit’s spleen…

Men have walked on the moon, I have an Google Earth app on my phone that allows me to view every inch of our planet with a few clicks, and I can instantaneously have a text message conversation with a person in Madagascar, but yet for some preposterous reason, a Bar back working behind the bar, can’t figure out how to pour a pint of beer. I’m completely sold on the fact that this position at local watering holes was created solely to make us patrons feel like we are taking it in the rear. Sure I like clean glasses as much as the next guy, but I also like clean glasses full of beer.

It usually goes something like this:

Me: Hi, I’ll take a Stella please.

Bar back grunts, yawns, grabs his junk, and then motions in the direction of an overworked bartender on the other end of the bar. He then scrupulously wipes down the counter, like he is Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel.

Me: Since you’re behind the bar, which means you work here, how about a Stella? It is right there in front of you.

Bar Back grunts again, then looks at me like he’s killed several before just for hinting at the idea. Then he proceeds to methodically wipe down the counter as slow as humanly possible.

Me: I can hold the glass, you can just pull that lever right there. It really will just take a second, I mean you have the beer and at least one good arm, and I have a glass awaiting a beverage.

The Bar Back becomes extremely agitated, offended that I’ve insulted what he’s perceived as an imperative role at the bar, while he feverishly wipes down the counter yet again.

Me: Alright well, how about I just stand here and look like an idiot, man that counter looks amazing.

You can read that as well as all my blogs at http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/ (all the hip kids are doing it)