International Futbol Champ Rojilio Galban wishes you a safe and festive New Years

 

GOOOOAAAALLLLL!!!!

Bitchy Siri Wayfinder

"Siri, where the fuck is Johnny's Fried Chicken Shack?" 

 Danny barked the request into the vacant space in front of his head. He stared out the windshield at a line of tail lights, one hand on the the steering wheel. 

In the other, he held his phone horizontally pointed at his mouth so that the sound waves of his voice could more easily penetrate the tiny holes he assumed were the device's microphone.
 

"In 1.5 miles, pray to your creator and take the left at the next intersection. It doesn't look good."

"Come again?"

"Estimated travel time is 7 minutes, 30 seconds if you're lucky, but you might not make it at all," Siri added.

Siri's voice was interrupted by a sudden rustle, a sudden clunk.

"Fuck, I dropped the phone," Danny snapped. "Hold on, which left?"

In the passenger seat, Jenny extended her neck to look over her knees at the floor pan. "I didn't hear what Siri said. Where'd it fall?" Jenny asked.

"Goddammit, it's wedged behind the seat!" Danny snapped.

Jenny unbuckled her seat belt, wrestled her large handbag to her feet, and blew away the fuzzy strands of her puffy coat that tickled her face. She twisted her torso between the bucket seats to retrieve the phone. Danny leaned to his left to let her through.

"Siri, which left?" he yelled.

 "You missed it, just like I knew you would, Siri said, voice muffled. Let's try this again."

"You know I don't eat meat, Danny!" Jenny snapped, still rummaging in the back.

Danny rolled his eyes. 

"Siri, what's near here?" he said.

"She likes that gluten-free place you hate... Ancho's Diner. That's probably your only option at this point."

"Oh, I like that place!" Jenny said, ass, skirt and high heels obscuring the rear view mirror.

Danny did hate that place. Bland flavors that somehow gave him heartburn and made him gassy.

"How do I find it?" he said.

"What's the point? You'll just get into an argument with the waiter. Jenny will embarrass you by getting drunk and exposing her privates, and then you'll wipe vomit out of her hair with a paper napkin like you did at that hipster Argentinian bistro last month."

Jenny twisted in the rear view mirror to glare at Danny. 

"Oh shit, Danny! I forgot about that. I never found my debit card that night."

The traffic broke and the tail lights extinguished, replaced with the hopeful sensation of escape. 

"Siri-ously sick of this shit, Siri," Danny said.  He smiled to himself at his undiscovered cleverness.

"In a half mile, take the 20th Street on ramp," Siri said.  "Merge into the left lane and accelerate to 100 miles per hour. Next, open the driver-side door and jump from the vehicle."

 

 

 

'Best of Blog' series: the past still makes me laugh

Must have been springtime:

 

A thesaurus prevailed upon an editor, and smote him, and slew him.

DATELINE: Calvary Over Arvada

HEADLINE: Way The Fuck Up There

SUBHEAD:  Sucking Dry That Thesaurus Udder

By: Hugo Winterhalter -- Divine Equine and 'Au Contraire Debonair' Layabout

---

Correct technique is deliberate, but hasty. Correct technique is also supple and stiff -- but not in a pleasant way.

Correct technique is liquid among stone, but also stone that pounds smaller stones into dust. The correct technique of The Way will refrain from from this stone-bullying, unless stone-cold assholes provoke an unstoppable layage of waste. 

Mark my words: it will refrain -- until it won't. 

The Way is patient, sympathetic, bold, violent, humble as fuck, and soaked in humility. 

Humility compels:

A)    a readiness,

B)    a willingness,

3)    an ableness,

--> to put an abrupt, brutal stop to a thoughtless affront -- should the need exist for sudden, brutal anticlimax. 

[Humility prefers a humble, passive voice, but speaks actively when called to action.]

 

The Way and I will mete out justice with a white-hot rage that quickly fades to a gentle background warmth that could regress a colicky infant to profound slumber. The rage of The Way and I is like the 'rage' of the Big Bang. It's the 'rage' that begat the ‘noise’ part of the ‘signal-to-noise' ratio; the 'rage' that bathes modern electromagnetic equipment in soothing ripples of cross-channel static.

The wisdom of The Way guides me.

It’s a calm, relaxing wisdom, sleeping on a winter sidewalk beneath a dumpster blanket, undisturbed by a flickering neon light near a vomit-soaked gutter. It’s a wisdom awoken by the drunken footsteps of irreverent revelers assailing the unremembered glory of a previous generation while offending the unrealized hopes of the next generation.

The wisdom that guides me is sick of this shit. You can take that to the bank.

Those revelers should be careful. They might might bear witness to their own demise when they witness my wise fists smashing into their unwise faces. Their smashed and surprised faces will express sadness and despair at their sudden, unfortunate, and remarkably bloody turn of fortune.

Thankfully, should that happen, The Way will compel me to stop just before I ruin everything. I will have precious time to calmly whisper to the leader of this band of misfits: ‘I believe you have made a terrible mistake, and I wish you the opportunity to amend your mistaken ways.’

It’s a message that will awaken the better angles of his/her/their conscience such that he/she/they will assess the poor decisions made by him/her/them.

Amends will be made.

Forgiveness will be begged.

In the end, the desire to practice and promote The Way will become self-evident. Those irreverent revelers will be transformed into reverent revelers who will extol The Way.

And they will declare in active voice: “We honor you as our only true master.” 

That is the path of The Way. 

-- Other pathways are false ways.

-- False ways are always counterfeit waypoints on the byways to righteous ways until they get their asses kicked by the True Way.

-- Do. Not. Fuck. With... The Way. 

 

 

Results from the 2021 Annual Artisan Cocktail Mixology Championship

 

Third Place:

Title: The Blootered Accountant

Mixologist: Danny 'The Comptroller of Pleasure' Jenkins

Flavor Profile: Archival manila envelopes

Second Place:

Title: The Butt Knuckle

Mixologist: 'Double Eddie' Haskell

Flavor Profile   Iron filings suspended in ethyl 

 

First Place: 

Title: Sweat Pants on the Couch 

Mixologist:  Micky 'Hot Below the Knees' Kinecki

Flavor Profile:  Graham Crackers and Milk

 

Third Place Winner from the Annual Artisan Cocktail Mixology Championship

 

 

Title: The Blootered Accountant

Mixologist: Danny 'The Comptroller of Pleasure' Jenkins 

Flavor Profile: Archival manila envelopes

Recipe: 

One bottle clear liquor

One shot glass

Tears.

Second Place winner from the annual Artisan Coctail Mixology Championship

 

Title: Butt Knuckle

Mixologist: 'Double Eddie' Haskell

Flavor Profile   Iron filings suspended in ethyl

Recipe: 

1) In the nearest clean or dirty glass of any size, 

Crush one pack of unfiltered smokes,

2) Take that bitch muthafucker out back and let him have it,

3) Fill the glass with the nearest bottle of whatever.

4) Add a twist of any available drug

5) Get after it.

First Place winner from the annual Artisan Coctail Mixology Championship

 

Title: Sweat Pants on the Couch 

Mixologist:  Micky 'Hot Below the Knees' Kinecki

Flavor Profile:  Graham Crackers and Milk

Recipe: 

In a highball glass, pour three fingers of room-temperature skim milk

One shot gin

One shot grain alcohol

One shot bourbon

One shot whiskey

One shot vodka

One shot moonshine

Another shot of bourbon

Three splashes of vinegar

Splash orange bitters 

One cup vermouth

One tablespoon brown sugar

One tablespoon black molasses

One teaspoon baking soda

Pinch of lye

One Graham Cracker

Chaser glass of milk