There’s a right place and a right time for everything. If you’re not in the right place, perhaps it’s not the right time to do something. For example if you’re at Denny’s or IHOP, it is NOT the right time to order steak (the same applies to shellfish). If you’re not in South Florida, perhaps it’s not the best time for authentic Cuban cuisine. The lesson I recently learned all too well is that if you’re in Lakeland, FL, home to cattle, anti-Semites, Publix and the lightning capital of the United States, it is NOT the right time for a burrito from Moe’s Southwest Grill.

Lakeland is neither south nor west. I should’ve seen the warning signs when the sign for Moe Mondays said six dollars and not five. Despite this, I walked in anyway and ordered my usual choice of Tex-Mex comestibles. Not 10 minutes later on the drive home did it hit me.

Uh oh. Soft rumbling. Sweaty brow. Pedal to the medal. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain.

I finally got home and bolted towards the commode. Once inside, pants go around the ankles and I go to sit down. As if this pain wasn’t enough punishment, I farted on the way down, so as I’m sitting on my porcelain throne, my head is at the same level where my ass was mere seconds before. Now, not only is what I’ve just been poisoned with making a loud and painful exit, but my head is stuck in a smelly cloud of insult to this injury.

I learned my lesson. Take heed. This shit sucks.

Pun intended.

“Yes We Can” market the shit out of the Obama bandwagon.

It’s your body’s smoke detector. Yes, there may not be a raging inferno, but if you don’t get your ass out soon you’re gonna get burned.

I can’t imagine anyone who has tasted an alcoholic beverage that has not gotten this bodily function. It’s not like you need to drink the heavy stuff to get it. I’ll admit, a night of binging Smirnoff Ice has triggered this natural response. But for those who haven’t, I will explain.

When you’ve had a lot to drink, but not completely obliterated, your saliva glands go bat shit crazy. They start tweaking out. It’s like Niagra Falls, but not as refreshing. Your mouth cavity fills of liquid faster than a Jonas Brother Groupie’s. What are you to do?

This is the only case where spitting is acceptable.

Get that shit out! If you try to swallow it, you will choke. (Side note, this is actually how Bon Scott died)

It will look like nothing you have ever seen leave your body. Scientists have classified it as having 10W-30 viscosity. It will not, however, lubricate your engine. No innuendo there.

At the time of this writing, the author has not tried to use it as “lady-lube.

After a good seven or eight flushes, you’ll feel one of two things. You will either be able to drink again, or you are about to dump your stomach contents off of a balcony–then continue drinking. Be prepared for both scenarios. With self determination, the former will happen.

Why do I tell you this? Is it a PSA for my young readers? No.

I have mastered the art of the watery spits and like Jesus Christ, I must preach to my lambs.

So next time you experience this phenomenon, remember my lecture.

Stop, Spit, Drink. That’s what (s)he said.

I feel like my life has become a variation of that movie, “Dune,” where instead of being in a war over spice, we’re fighting over toilet paper.  That’s right, TP.

A woman is a harbinger of there being no more damn toilet paper in the house.  If a woman goes into a bathroom, she’s definitely wiping something in there.  

A woman has more damp crevasses than a riverbed.

But seriously folks, when we buy toilet paper, we have to buy the biggest bulk package available or we’ll just be there the next day buying some more.

I take a dump once every three days and even then I’m only using a few squares.  When my female roommate, we’ll call her “Joanna”, uses the bathroom, she’s using enough TP to make me a paper mache model of herself.

She’s  singlehandedly responsible for the deforestation of several South American rainforests. 

Faced with this crisis, I called the one man who I turn to in a moment of despair, my father.  He knew immediately what kind of plight I was in since he’s lived with a woman for 25 years.  He informed me that he just doesn’t wipe and has gone the hose route.

Hit me with a spray, dad.

The Orlando weather was sunny and beautiful. People were grilling up some hot dogs, girls were strapping on their bikinis (thank Christ), and the alcohol was flowing.  I mean reaaaaaalllly flowing.

Something needs to be said: I’m not an alcoholic.  If drinking were baseball I’d be Ichiro Suzuki.  Everybody expects me to lead the league in hitting and I also pack a lot of power in my small frame.

The weekend, needless to say, turned into a shit-storm.  I basically binged on alcohol for two days, ate very little food, and got very little sleep.

However, the events of the weekend are not important right now.  Maybe I’ll reveal them later, as soon as I review some video tapes.

The point of THIS post is to tell you that I decided to go on a little hiatus for a week after I woke up that Monday morning with the Liquid Death.

I got through the week with some trouble, but nothing too bad.  Just the usual withdrawals one can expect from being denied something that normally courses through your body with relative frequency.  However there was one little side-effect that I didn’t expect to happen: my tolerance is shit now.

I mean I don’t think I could put an 18-year old girl under the table in my current condition, just trust me on that one.

Last night I was introduced to what could be my new favorite thing in the world…once I get back to form.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Loaded Corona.

Step 1: Drink a Corona past the neck.

Step 2: Pour Bacardi Limon into the Corona bottle.

Step 3: Drink.

Step 4: Take off all your clothes and make a bad decision.

Only problem was, I never made it to step four.  I found myself drunk after the first one, smashed after the second one, and completely depressed and sleepy after the third one.

If that’s not the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard, picture Santa Claus deciding to go on TrimSpa and losing all his fat.  It’s just not right.  It’s not complete.

I’m going to have to ween myself back to the top.  Until then, I feel like I’m just going to be boring people to death.

Stop crying before I punch you in the temple, Lando!

They really are a great couple, which makes me angry. When I see them I think “Will I ever find true love and happiness?” I know the answer is no, so I always ask my friend Johnny Walker for reassurance. Anyways, invitations roll around and I decide to go. A former contributor from here was the best man, and current contributor Dennis flew down from New York to be there.

Keep in mind some of the variables that are in play for this wedding. (A) This is the first wedding in our group of friends, (B) I haven’t seen Dennis is six months,  (C) the wedding is at a hotel on the beach, and (D) it’s open bar.

These are the very important lessons I learned:

1. Do not bring a heavy drinker as your date. Two things will happen. You will get red wine spilled on your only suit and you will lose your date sometime during the night (that is both physically and mentally lose them). Mine ended up in the Atlantic Ocean at 4am because she had to pee. She walked there from the lobby of our hotel.

2. Do not drink heavily at the reception. Open bar is not a challenge, it’s a luxury. I realized that when I suddenly was overcome with the “water-spits” during a cigarette break. My bakers-dozen of seven and sevens were fighting back. Even though I’m always up for a challenge, I don’t think I could have cleanly upchucked in a three piece suit.

3. Be ready to dance. There’s no escaping it. It’s like the DJ has a quota he has to meet or he’s never going to get his bald-headed ass another gig again. And he will stop at nothing to make sure you Electric Slide or Cupid Shuffle. (Sidenote, much bigger fan of the former than the latter) Remember, there is a lot of movement in dancing, so if you’ve disregarded #2, you’re fucked.

4. Dennis gets what he wants. He said he was going to fuck a bridesmaid, and he nails the maid of honor. Way to go above and beyond.

5. Never swim in the hotel pool the day after. Refer to #4.

6. Everyone’s clothes will come off. It’s just a matter of where. Weddings are a cesspool of lonely, horny people that have been drinking and grinding all night. You’re going to hook up with someone, unless you disregard #1 like I did.

My next wedding will be better off. I hope you learned something from my mistakes, and at your next wedding it’s you who is nailing the maid of honor.

UPDATE

Found the below picture in the hundreds of tagged photos from the wedding. This must have been taken before noon. Dennis was drinking as well, he just thinks that if we don’t photograph it, it doesn’t exist.

Pre-Wedding Cocktails

But that’s ok, because this ole wordpress thingy is free! And we actually know how to use it! Our previous content management software was, for lack of a better word, shitty. But this one seems pretty straight forward.

Look for the same caliber of articles on here. I’m trying to get some of the old posts back up, but of course I’ve lost them.

Also, if you would like to contribute, look for the link at the top of the page.  My e-mail info is in there.

Anyways, welcome back. Hope your day is full of shits and giggles.