YOU'RE HUGE BRO
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday:
As the air conditioner blasts cold air up my moisturized legs, I look down at my red dress and think "What the hell am I doing again?"
I throw my mother's SUV into park and bite my bottom lip. I flip the visor mirror down one last time to screw in my fake smile as I exit the vehicle. I drag my feet behind my mother and sister, trying to strain my memory all the way back to last year when I first attended this charity banquet.
Now, my mother is NOT mother theresa, but her gay, african american co-worker just might be. Every year, instead of getting us Christmas gifts, he buys us a seat at the Elijah's Promise Dinner: A Fight to Stop Homelessness and Hunger. So the three of us throw on fancy dresses, strap on smiles, and attend.
I am tired, sweaty, hung over, and in no mood to save the world. My mother's friends are seated at two tables. My mom and sister put their stuff down and I take a seat at the other table, since all the seats at theirs are conveniently taken. I look up and smile, realizing I'm the only white girl at the table. No big, shit like that doesn't intimidate me. Besides, I'm friendly enough. I extend my hand to the 30ish year old man next to me.
"Hi, I'm Whitney, it's lovely to meet you."
"WHAT'S GOOD, I'M CHICKEN."
"Chicken?"
"YEA, CHICKEN. SPEAK A WHICH, IMMA GET SOME."
...exit Chicken.
I stare in disbelief as Chicken saunters off, shake my head back to reality, and introduce myself to the other people at the table. When Chicken returns (with a plate full of chicken) I notice that his shirt is unbuttoned almost to the middle of his chest, revealing ridiculously sculpted muscles, maybe appropriate for DJai's in Belmar, but not for a charity banquet.
I excuse myself from the table, on the hunt to find the nearest bar, while at the same time, making sure to glare at my mother and sister. They smirk back. I hate them.
I find an empty bar station in the back corner of the ballroom and eye up the bartender. He looks like he doesn't want to be here, so we already have one thing in common.
"Can I get you something, miss?"
"You can get me out of here." I smile, so he knows I'm only semi-serious.
"How about I make you a drink strong enough to make you think you're in outer space?"
Where have you been all my life, I think to myself. I nod my head in agreement.
I walk back over to my table with my space camp drink in hand, realizing I haven't paid for it. I turn around quickly, making eye contact with the bartender who just winks and waves me on. My day is getting better.
I sit quietly, listening to Chicken talk about the BP Oil spill, how the NBA has gone to hell, and how he doesn't get what happens at the dry cleaners. I clap when someone wins the 50/50. I smile when an ex-homeless person gets up and gives a speech about how Elijah's Promise saved her life. See Jane pretend to be an upstanding citizen.
I get up to get another space camp drink, only to realize my new favorite bartender has been replaced by a 40 year old platinum blond. She must have sensed my disappointment.
"Oh honey, don't you worry, Jeremy's just outside having a cigarette. He'll be back in soon."
"Oh... no, it's not big deal, I'll just take a vodka tonic."
"Ha, okay sure. You know he's been staring at you. You with that gentleman on your left? The one in the pink button down?"
...fucking Chicken.
"Nope, he's just an acquaintance."
"Well, why don't you go on out and say hello to Jeremy. And don't tell him I said to do so! This one's on the house."
I convince myself that I could use the fresh air anyway, and walk out onto a patio, overlooking a giant green lawn, big enough to be a golf course. I see Jeremy leaning over the rock banister, staring out, looking emo. I don't really do emo. I turn around and walk back inside, graciously taking my seat next to Chicken.
The banquet ended, and this time I boarded the back seat of the SUV, letting my mom drive down the parkway.
As she started to tell me that I drink too much, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Audaces fortuna iuvat,
Whit
I throw my mother's SUV into park and bite my bottom lip. I flip the visor mirror down one last time to screw in my fake smile as I exit the vehicle. I drag my feet behind my mother and sister, trying to strain my memory all the way back to last year when I first attended this charity banquet.
Now, my mother is NOT mother theresa, but her gay, african american co-worker just might be. Every year, instead of getting us Christmas gifts, he buys us a seat at the Elijah's Promise Dinner: A Fight to Stop Homelessness and Hunger. So the three of us throw on fancy dresses, strap on smiles, and attend.
I am tired, sweaty, hung over, and in no mood to save the world. My mother's friends are seated at two tables. My mom and sister put their stuff down and I take a seat at the other table, since all the seats at theirs are conveniently taken. I look up and smile, realizing I'm the only white girl at the table. No big, shit like that doesn't intimidate me. Besides, I'm friendly enough. I extend my hand to the 30ish year old man next to me.
"Hi, I'm Whitney, it's lovely to meet you."
"WHAT'S GOOD, I'M CHICKEN."
"Chicken?"
"YEA, CHICKEN. SPEAK A WHICH, IMMA GET SOME."
...exit Chicken.
I stare in disbelief as Chicken saunters off, shake my head back to reality, and introduce myself to the other people at the table. When Chicken returns (with a plate full of chicken) I notice that his shirt is unbuttoned almost to the middle of his chest, revealing ridiculously sculpted muscles, maybe appropriate for DJai's in Belmar, but not for a charity banquet.
I excuse myself from the table, on the hunt to find the nearest bar, while at the same time, making sure to glare at my mother and sister. They smirk back. I hate them.
I find an empty bar station in the back corner of the ballroom and eye up the bartender. He looks like he doesn't want to be here, so we already have one thing in common.
"Can I get you something, miss?"
"You can get me out of here." I smile, so he knows I'm only semi-serious.
"How about I make you a drink strong enough to make you think you're in outer space?"
Where have you been all my life, I think to myself. I nod my head in agreement.
I walk back over to my table with my space camp drink in hand, realizing I haven't paid for it. I turn around quickly, making eye contact with the bartender who just winks and waves me on. My day is getting better.
I sit quietly, listening to Chicken talk about the BP Oil spill, how the NBA has gone to hell, and how he doesn't get what happens at the dry cleaners. I clap when someone wins the 50/50. I smile when an ex-homeless person gets up and gives a speech about how Elijah's Promise saved her life. See Jane pretend to be an upstanding citizen.
I get up to get another space camp drink, only to realize my new favorite bartender has been replaced by a 40 year old platinum blond. She must have sensed my disappointment.
"Oh honey, don't you worry, Jeremy's just outside having a cigarette. He'll be back in soon."
"Oh... no, it's not big deal, I'll just take a vodka tonic."
"Ha, okay sure. You know he's been staring at you. You with that gentleman on your left? The one in the pink button down?"
...fucking Chicken.
"Nope, he's just an acquaintance."
"Well, why don't you go on out and say hello to Jeremy. And don't tell him I said to do so! This one's on the house."
I convince myself that I could use the fresh air anyway, and walk out onto a patio, overlooking a giant green lawn, big enough to be a golf course. I see Jeremy leaning over the rock banister, staring out, looking emo. I don't really do emo. I turn around and walk back inside, graciously taking my seat next to Chicken.
The banquet ended, and this time I boarded the back seat of the SUV, letting my mom drive down the parkway.
As she started to tell me that I drink too much, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Audaces fortuna iuvat,
Whit
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Worst Recordings Ever Part Deux
So now it is my turn to show you the worst recordings ever.
This first one was introduced to me by a friend.
Apparently she saw them live at a festival
and someone had a sign that just said "Stop it"
I Understand that sign now.
Analysis: Seriously? "LET'S GET FUCKED UP!" This pseudo rap with what sounds like the synth from theme song of Beverly Hills Cop is fucking garbage. I hope when they get knocked up and don't realize it (Forget-me-now anyone?) I hope they drink more "Alcohol" and it affects their kids (too harsh?)
*Edit They were on tour with BrokeNCYDE, like misery, shit loves company, like the company of other shit.
And this next one....oh this next one.
Going on the theme of just complete and total idiocy
I Present to you I C Muthafuckin' P
This song takes the cake on complete and utter lack of thought or reason.
Excerpt: "Fire Water Air and Dirt, Fucking Magnets how do they work?
And I don't want to talk to a scientist, Muthafuckas lying and getting me pissed"
Where do I even begin?
Well just like almost a decade ago with Alanis Morissette's "Ironic"
Nothing in this song is a fucking "Miracle".
Not one thing.
In fact they are everyday things.
And they don't want to learn about it because it takes away the mystery of it all.
Except it could actually make one appreciate more.
But they don't intend to do that so...
COME ON Y'ALL TO THE DARK CARNIVAL WHERE NORMAL EVERYDAY THINGS WILL ASTOUND THE SHIT OUTTA YA!
-Reese
Monday, June 21, 2010
Don't make me say, FINE, they finally are on a "mission from god"
Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Well, in a highly surprising move the 
wouldn't you?
-Reese
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Anticipate This, Bitches.
May 2009:
I am wasted at Bar Anticipation in Belmar (fuck that, Lake Como is not a town, it's a fucking lake.) I am about 80 miller lights into the night and am rocking the truck out in the middle of the dance floor. My friend, Bryan, has been doing loops around me while I dance, making sure the monsters perched at the bar enjoying their gin & tonics can't get close enough to swoop in and dance with me.
Bryan missed one.
I am approached by a man in a pink polo. He introduces himself as Doug and asks if he can dance with me. "FUCK YEA, I DON'T GIVE A FUCKKKK," I eloquently reply, as he takes me hand and we begin to "waltz."
When the song is over, Bryan begins to drag me away, whispering in my ear, "Whitney, you're being a dumb ass, this dude is not sexy, let's make moves." But Doug swoops in once again, asking me for my phone number. I give it to him.
8am-11:30am, the next morning:
I have received 15 text messages from Doug, asking me "what is up?" or "sup?" or "you awake?"
Holy shit. Bryan was right. This dude is nuts.
I strain to remember what he looks like, but the cheap beer has taken over my memory, and all I can remember is his pink polo. Whatever. No big.
June 15th, 2010:
Standing with my group of friends, fully inebriated, I admire the Bar A bouncer standing on the stairs who I've boned a couple times. "Dude, I FUCKEDDDD him," I brag to my friends.
"Whit. We know. Congrats. Have another beer," they sarcastically reply.
I take their advice, and while I sip my miller, my bouncer boyfriend turns around and winks at me. We fought earlier in the day. I wanna spend more time fucking. He spends all his time working, so he suggested I give him a blow job at the bar. I refused his offer, sassily and relatively irritated. Come on, I do have some standards. He winks because he knows I can't stay mad at him.
My focus drifts passed the bouncer and I make eye contact with a man in a blue polo. He walks up the stairs, passing the bouncer and slides next to me.
"Hey. Wanna do a shot?"
I contemplate the idea in my mind; if I have a shot now, I can probably run to the bathroom afterwards and puke it up, come back, and keep drinking.
"Game," I reply.
Dude grabs my hand, leading me down the stairs and over toward the nearest bar. Wait, what am I doing again? Who is this guy?
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Doug."
Suddenly, I have a moment of clarity. I remember the pink polo, and a fog is lifted, and I can see his face. It's him. This isn't just any Doug. This is fucking DOUG.
"Oh christ," I utter, as I let go of his hand while his back is turned, and RUN back to my group of friends.
The bouncer is pissed. I forgot he was even there. He's watched the entire thing.
"HIDE ME," I scream to my friends.
Doug approaches the staircase, and Bouncer blocks his way.
Fuck. Yes.
The two exchange words in an epic transaction of alpha male dominance. Bouncer comes out on top. Doug walks away with his tail between his legs, off to drink another gin & tonic and find his next dance floor victim.
Bouncer turns around and glares at me. He's defended my honor, but not happily. I'm too drunk to give a fuck. I drunk text Bouncer 80x more than I should have, leave the bar, walk to a convenience store, and steal a King-Size Reese's. I sit outside on the curb, feasting in defeat.
I walk home and sleep naked.
Hello, my name is Whitney St. Paul, and I am a train wreck.
I am wasted at Bar Anticipation in Belmar (fuck that, Lake Como is not a town, it's a fucking lake.) I am about 80 miller lights into the night and am rocking the truck out in the middle of the dance floor. My friend, Bryan, has been doing loops around me while I dance, making sure the monsters perched at the bar enjoying their gin & tonics can't get close enough to swoop in and dance with me.
Bryan missed one.
I am approached by a man in a pink polo. He introduces himself as Doug and asks if he can dance with me. "FUCK YEA, I DON'T GIVE A FUCKKKK," I eloquently reply, as he takes me hand and we begin to "waltz."
When the song is over, Bryan begins to drag me away, whispering in my ear, "Whitney, you're being a dumb ass, this dude is not sexy, let's make moves." But Doug swoops in once again, asking me for my phone number. I give it to him.
8am-11:30am, the next morning:
I have received 15 text messages from Doug, asking me "what is up?" or "sup?" or "you awake?"
Holy shit. Bryan was right. This dude is nuts.
I strain to remember what he looks like, but the cheap beer has taken over my memory, and all I can remember is his pink polo. Whatever. No big.
June 15th, 2010:
Standing with my group of friends, fully inebriated, I admire the Bar A bouncer standing on the stairs who I've boned a couple times. "Dude, I FUCKEDDDD him," I brag to my friends.
"Whit. We know. Congrats. Have another beer," they sarcastically reply.
I take their advice, and while I sip my miller, my bouncer boyfriend turns around and winks at me. We fought earlier in the day. I wanna spend more time fucking. He spends all his time working, so he suggested I give him a blow job at the bar. I refused his offer, sassily and relatively irritated. Come on, I do have some standards. He winks because he knows I can't stay mad at him.
My focus drifts passed the bouncer and I make eye contact with a man in a blue polo. He walks up the stairs, passing the bouncer and slides next to me.
"Hey. Wanna do a shot?"
I contemplate the idea in my mind; if I have a shot now, I can probably run to the bathroom afterwards and puke it up, come back, and keep drinking.
"Game," I reply.
Dude grabs my hand, leading me down the stairs and over toward the nearest bar. Wait, what am I doing again? Who is this guy?
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Doug."
Suddenly, I have a moment of clarity. I remember the pink polo, and a fog is lifted, and I can see his face. It's him. This isn't just any Doug. This is fucking DOUG.
"Oh christ," I utter, as I let go of his hand while his back is turned, and RUN back to my group of friends.
The bouncer is pissed. I forgot he was even there. He's watched the entire thing.
"HIDE ME," I scream to my friends.
Doug approaches the staircase, and Bouncer blocks his way.
Fuck. Yes.
The two exchange words in an epic transaction of alpha male dominance. Bouncer comes out on top. Doug walks away with his tail between his legs, off to drink another gin & tonic and find his next dance floor victim.
Bouncer turns around and glares at me. He's defended my honor, but not happily. I'm too drunk to give a fuck. I drunk text Bouncer 80x more than I should have, leave the bar, walk to a convenience store, and steal a King-Size Reese's. I sit outside on the curb, feasting in defeat.
I walk home and sleep naked.
Hello, my name is Whitney St. Paul, and I am a train wreck.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A New Weekly Series!!!
The Worst Recordings Ever: The Series.
Analysis: This sounds like someone literally took an autotuner into an abortion clinic. "Let's get messy girls" What the fuck are you talking about? I wish abortion was retroactive so we could handle this band properly.
Analysis: I think I found her drug of choice.
Here's a picture
This is a Ke$ha song. Enough said.
Friday, June 11, 2010
womp womp
Some guy that I purposely bit in the face has started texting me again.
Did I mention I BIT THE DUDE IN THE FACE?
Oh, I guess not.
Trying to drop zeros and get with heroes is a hell of a lot harder than it looks.
Trust me.
-Whit
Did I mention I BIT THE DUDE IN THE FACE?
Oh, I guess not.
Trying to drop zeros and get with heroes is a hell of a lot harder than it looks.
Trust me.
-Whit
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
BP Was supposed to have a dry run but it looks like blew their load and now they have a mess on their and our hands.
Have you been under a rock tarball lately? If so, you might have missed that BP has done a marketing ploy to get their name in all the headlines. So far it has been going swimmingly... For them not for anyone in the Gulf of Mexico. (But with crappy water in Mexico already, does this cancel it out and make it ok to drink?) They have had a bit of controversy with this and some people are upset, even fictional characters are pissed. Below are just some of them who may have a few words with BP.
-Reese
(Via Geekologie)
Winvestigative Journalism
There's a lot of writing to be done on this, but I'll do it in the morning.Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
riddles, roofies, and ring leaders
The other night I went out to a bar with some friends to celebrate some one's birthday. A staple in our group of friends who could not attend that night sent me a text:
"You have one hour to solve this riddle. If you can't solve it, you need to go up to the creepiest guy in the bar, buy him a drink, and do a toast in my honor. Do you accept this challenge?"
Psh, of course I accepted, mother truckers.
The Riddle:
The person who makes it does not know the person who uses it. The person who sells it does not know the person who uses it. The person who buys it does not buy it for themselves. The user does not know that they are using it.
The Correct Answer? Coffin.
My Answer? Roofies.
He accepted my answer.
But...
After everyone left....
I went up to the guy who my friends deemed "creepiest dude in the bar." I bought him a drink. He bought me a drink. I gave him my phone number.
....whoops???
Audaces fortuna iuvat,
-Whit
"You have one hour to solve this riddle. If you can't solve it, you need to go up to the creepiest guy in the bar, buy him a drink, and do a toast in my honor. Do you accept this challenge?"
Psh, of course I accepted, mother truckers.
The Riddle:
The person who makes it does not know the person who uses it. The person who sells it does not know the person who uses it. The person who buys it does not buy it for themselves. The user does not know that they are using it.
The Correct Answer? Coffin.
My Answer? Roofies.
He accepted my answer.
But...
After everyone left....
I went up to the guy who my friends deemed "creepiest dude in the bar." I bought him a drink. He bought me a drink. I gave him my phone number.
....whoops???
Audaces fortuna iuvat,
-Whit
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Still the Greatest Line in Cinematic History.
I know this is four years later, but if you can find a single line thats better, post it.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
MDW? LOLZZZZ
I remember the first time I laid eyes on this video around four years ago...simply LOVED it. Still funny? Yep.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
