LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:

Bierstick.com is the ONLY place to buy the World’s Fastest Drinking Device, the Bierstick, directly from the company that created it!

If you haven’t heard…

The Bierstick is a syringe-like contraption (with a mouthpiece instead of a needle) that enables the fastest user-controlled beer consumption known to man (24 oz. of beer in 1.97 seconds is the fastest we’ve witnessed personally).

Made from FDA approved materials, the Bierstick holds up to 24 ounces, yet it is discreet enough to fit in a backpack.

And now, a letter from the inventor of the Bierstick (US Patent No. D593,801 S):

Dear Safe, Adult-Minded Party Animals:

Hi, my name is Ben Mattke. I’m 24 years old. I am a writer, entrepreneur and inventor of the Bierstick. In the midst of my college days at the University of Minnesota, I, along with my two co-conspirators, invented the Bierstick.

We launched Bierstick.com in June 2008 to sell solely the Bierstick ($24.95 + S&H), and it’s accessories. Each Bierstick comes with a set of two o-rings and a mouthpiece, and from time-to-time, mouthpieces may disappear or o-rings may need to be replaced. So, we offer sets of Four Replacement O-rings (you only need two at a time), ($1.00 + S&H). We also offer Replacement Mouthpieces ($5.95 + S&H).

Now, almost four years later, we have sold nearly 10,000 units throughout the U.S. and to numerous countries around the world, despite a very limited budget with no advertising expenses. I’d like to thank all of the loyal Bierstick users and promoters. You know who you are better than I do, but believe me, we do appreciate every Bierstick that is sold and every person who gives it a good name by using it responsibly.

Now, a few things on a more intimate Bierstick level (Bierstick owners, you’ll understand better than others, especially if you’ve sent me one of the emails):

Make sure you read the instructions before using your Bierstick. It’s very simple, but I feel like I receive too many emails asking questions that are answered on the instruction card that comes inside each Bierstick.

The instructions are quick and easy. All you have to do is…

1) Slide the o-rings to their slots and lubricate them with an edible lubricant (vegetable oil spray works great).

2) Hold on to the darn mouthpiece when you’re slamming your beer. It is a friction-fit mouthpiece; obviously if you shove the plunger against the wall without holding on to the mouthpiece, it’s going to fly off, giving you an impromtu beer shower.

3) After using the Bierstick, even the next morning, do the freaking dishes! Too many Party Animals need to learn how to keep their kitchens clean, and that includes washing shot glasses, rinsing red Solo cups (to reuse them for beer pong, of course), and finally, washing and rinsing the Bierstick! It takes nearly a week in most conditions for mold to start growing on the beer inside a Bierstick, so to all of the mold complaints: You’re lazy. Stop it.

Also, I have heard about quite a bit of Bierstick theft going around. Everyone, please stop stealing Biersticks. Instead, kindly go to Bierstick.com and make me smile when your order pops up on my iPhone!

Well, that’s all I have for now. Let’s keep the Biersticks flowing.

Oh, and please… We’re not in high school. Drink responsibly.

Thank you,

Ben Mattke

Co-Inventor of the Bierstick

Chief Executive Manager

Bier Gear, LLC.

ben@bierstick.com

Gentlemen,

With a majority of my first week at work done, I have finally been able to pull myself away from Board of Directors meetings to share this gem of a story with all of you. Let me preface the story with a little about my ex-roommate, [Redacted] a.k.a. “Biggie” or “Smalls.” Biggie is about 6’5” – 340lbs and a horrendously lazy, high-school football washout. Biggie likes to eat, drink and drink some more – especially when none of the food or booze is his. Now, I like to keep a healthy stock of top-shelf liquor around just in case of a small world war and to avoid at all costs any journey into the dreaded Sconnie territory that has produced the likes of [Redacted] and many other degenerates.

Moving forward, I had a handle of Ketel One in our main room kegerator and came home from work one day to find about half of the bottle missing. I assumed this was PJ, which was fine because we had a pre-established agreement regarding booze and he can afford it. However, he said that the bottle looked more depleted than he remembered and that he had seen “Smalls” drinking shots from the bottle the night before. Now, take into account, that I already had to step up and give “Smalls” a “sit-down talk” about not stealing liquor, being less fat and overall just trying to keep himself under control. This was after Smalls had started drinking daily, alone in his room and unbeknownst to any of the other roommates. So, we would see Biggie come out of his room have a few drinks and proceed straight to blackout mode. Terrifying. But what was even more concerning, was we saw how much he was drinking outside of his room and knew that there was no way he could blackout off so little liquor – something was up.

Back to the light handle of Ketel One. I immediately assumed Biggie was up to his old tricks (thieving liquor) and proceeded to kick down his door (he was in class and no one was in the room at the time, but I like kicking down doors for effect) and look in his mini-fridge. Sure enough, I see two water bottles in the small freezer section filled to the brim with a “clear liquid.” I was upset and it was on.

Biggie got home and I immediately confronted him. He denied stealing any of my vodka, so I inquired with him about the water bottles in his fridge. He knew he was fucked. He said, “Oh so is that what you are all upset about?” – my response? “No [Biggie], I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”

Flash forward two days ahead and we’re at Walgreens – it’s time to teach Biggie a lesson. I purchased two bottles equaling roughly 750ml of clear, tasteless, odorless laxative. In addition to this I also purchased some red food coloring, just in case. The next venue was the liquor store. The cheapest, shittiest most horrific red liquor that we could find was 100 proof Karkov Raspberry vodka, which just happened to be red. Upon arriving at home, I dumped out half of the handle of Karkov and filled the remainder of the bottle with clear laxative and some food coloring. I mixed the bottle up, and bam – looked like it was right off the shelf and there’s no way the big dumb animal was going to tell the difference.

The tricky part was getting Biggie to believe that someone had just “left their booze at the house” – so PJ steps in and says that his roommate just moved out and had left this Karkov. Biggie, considering that PJ and myself have some self-respect we have no interest in drinking Karkov, happily obliges and takes the bottle with an enormous shit-eating grin on his face – the game was on.

Biggie wanted to sit downstairs and play some cards as he started to HEAVILY lay into the bottle of Karkov. The card game began around 7:00pm – Biggie continued to drink hard through the game and past midnight with seemingly no problem. Then, all of the sudden, I saw a look of horror appear on his face as he urgently stated he had to run to the “little boys room.”

As we hear groaning from the bathroom, Biggie emerges and states that he “must have eaten something” that upset his stomach earlier and, of course, we all agreed. Now at this point I was rather drunk, so PJ and I offered to take Biggie to both White Castle and Hardee’s and let him unleash on the dollar menu – all on us of course. He ended up getting two Thickburgers with fries and a crave case from White Castle. I could have felt bad at this point, knowing completely the consequences of these actions – but I have little respect for idiotic behavior of this magnitude. Biggie finishes all the food before we return to the house and he is “READY TO FINISH THE BOTTLE!”

Roughly thirty minutes later, Biggie shit his pants. I’m not talking a little prairie dogging action; I’m talking a log of human feces came out of his asshole and was smushed all over his pants. He screamed with terror, “Oh my god, I think something is wrong with me!” as he ran down the hall to the bathroom. Shit streamed down both pant legs as he attempted to make it into the bathroom.

After about 45 minutes, PJ knocked on the bathroom door to check on the schmuck.

Biggie: “Call the doctor. I think I might have malaria. There’s shit everywhere and it won’t stop! I’m covered in shit what should I do?”

PJ: “Wow, man. I have no idea/ I guess just stay on the toilet and let your system clear out. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Biggie: “Good idea. I will try and wait it out.”

So the dumbass stayed on the toilet for two more hours wailing away in agony as his organs flushed out everything in his system – I think he was full-on screaming at one point.

Finally, we convince Biggie it’s time to go to bed because he has a paper and a test the next day. We get him in bed and within 20 minutes – he completely shit his bed. Glorious.

So, Biggie went back to the toilet where he proceeded to sleep – pants and boxers down to his ankles - from 2 am to 11am the next day. He had to skip his classes because he was shitting into the evening of the following day. He e-mailed his professors that he potentially had “malaria” and has had hemorrhaging diarrhea for the past 12 hours. Needless to say, I don’t believe the professors gave him any “shit” about the absences.

Moral of the story – don’t fuck with me when I haven’t been drinking yet.

Cheers,

Art

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So she takes out this cardboard box filled with cute little homemade cards and a stash of these “coupons” that we used to make for her for almost every gift-giving occasion.

The coupons were for things like taking out the trash, doing the dishes, laundry, etc.

As I shuffled through about 20 of these coupons, one of them caught my eye. It had been given to her by my sister when she was about 12 years old.

Merry Christmas, Mommy!

I just about died.

I was at the bar last Tuesday night for Cinco de Mayo. The bars themselves were nothing special, but that didn’t take away from my undeniable ability to intoxicate myself beyond belief. Somewhere between the many fuzzy memories I have from that night, I somehow manage to have a distinct recollection of a conversation I had with a girl whom, in light of the previous post, we’ll refer to as Kansas City, or KC. It went something like this (I cleaned it up to get just the main points of the conversation across; I’m not trying to explain to everyone how slurred and obnoxious my speech becomes when I’m near black-out):

ME: I didn’t know there was a photo shoot here tonight.

KC: We always take tons of pictures at the bar. We have to remember it somehow!

Her friend sees us talking and immediately decides we all have to take a picture together.

ME: You don’t want me in your pictures. You’ll have no idea who I am tomorrow.

KC: That’s why they invented names. What’s yours?

ME: Ben Mattke, and you?

KC: Kansas City. I’ll add you on Facebook tomorrow so I can tag you in the pictures.

ME: Are you even allowed to do that? Isn’t there some kind of three day rule so you don’t seem too desperate?

KC: What?

ME: You meet a random guy at the bar and exchange names. If he requests your friendship right away the next morning, do you immediately think something of it?

KC: I mean, I guess I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess you’re right. I’d definitely think, “Whoa, buddy”.

ME: What happens if he waits a long time, like a week or more?

KC: I’d probably think he either just ran across my name or my picture or something and remembered me, or, I guess yeah that he was horny one night looking for a piece of ass.

ME: Exactly, so when would it be okay for him to friend you without giving out any bad signals?

KC: You’re good. I guess 3 days and I wouldn’t really think anything of it.

About then I got pulled back to the bar for more tequila shots with my buddy and a girl I found out later was Kansas City’s twin sister.

This is my question: Really? At first, I was half-kidding, assuming my comment was just a dumbass theory almost identical to the “Three Day Rule” as defined on Urban Dictionary: “A rule used by douchebag guys who think that waiting three days after a date to call means that the girl will want them more, when really it just pisses them off.” I never thought she’d so readily agree with me. Do most girls really think like this, or was she just another dumb broad at the bar? Anyone have any thoughts? Please shed some light on this with a comment.

When describing the fairer sex, we men often summarize appeal with a simple digit: “She’s an 8.” Some of us that are more daring venture to use decimal places: “No, she’s an 8.2.” We proceed to argue about our ratings and why we chose our respective numbers.

There needs to be a system that factors in body, “nailability”, and face. This system is affectionately called the “Area Code System.”

The first digit is regarding the body and is on a scale of 1-9, 9 being the best. The second digit, regarding “nailability”, is treated as “true or false” and is consequently either a 0 or 1, 1 being “nailable.” The final digit is in respect to face, and is also chosen on a 1-9 scale, 9 being the best.

The beauty of the Area Code System is that it addresses both objective (face, body) and subjective (nailability) factors.

Let’s do a couple examples:

Oprah Winfrey

This woman’s weight has fluctuated more than the public opinion of George W. Bush, but I’ll be damned if her face isn’t almost average. Oh ya, she’s also rich as hell, so I’d let her bone-spoon feed me caviar for the rest of our lives.

Oprah is a 214. Or for the geographically talented, a Dallas.

Nicole Kidman

From a purely objective standpoint, she has a nice body (albeit pale) and face. She could fool you into a bang session, unless of course you’ve seen one of her deplorable movies or know her romantic history. Any woman who would accept Tom Cruise’s seed has a screw loose. And I’m not knocking Tom Cruise as an actor; he’s just a classic weirdo.

708. Or an Oak Brook.

And for the ladies, I’ll even analyze a guy:

David Duchovny.

Ah, the elusive 919, or a Raleigh. And if you don’t believe me, watch Californication. But make sure to put a towel down first, ladies.

Well, that’s all I have time for today. Sound off about the Area Code System. If you know one that’s better, keep it to yourself.

“Excuse me ma’am, but you have a little ketchup on your lip.”

“Hey, um, you’ve got that grandpa-mouth thing going on; you know the little white stuff in the corners of your mouth. Yeah, you probably want to take care of that.”

We’ve all been in a position where we’re not sure whether to tell someone if they have something embarrassing affecting their appearance, and often we’ve doubted that the action we decided to take was the right one.

So, I’m golfing today and the beer bitch comes over, very hot. She’s wearing these little white shorts that no doubt has most of the golfers on the course at least half-staff during their entire round (Rosie Jones’ included).

Rosie Jones, lesbian

Anyway, I order my usual 16 oz. aluminum Bud Light, she gives it to me, I pay her, and she proceeds to sit down in her cart to count my change. As she reaches out to hand it to me, she spreads her legs just right, and I catch a full on shot of her luscious, shaved vag. Awesome, I know. She has no idea what I have just seen, even though I was standing there in awe just staring for about three seconds. I tip her, she leaves, and I tell the other three in my group what I have just witnessed. Immediately, one of them, who we’ll call Bruce, says, “Well, did you tell her?”

I, along with the rest of the group, am baffled that Bruce thought I would even consider telling her. Well, according to him, it’s standard practice to tell someone in that situation.

Apparently he was working out at Gold’s Gym once when an old guy wearing some disgustingly short shorts was pumping out a few reps on the bench press. Midway through his set, he shifted a little and one of his testicles popped fully out of the bottom of his loincloth. Bruce, being very forward by nature, leaned in close to the guy and whispered, “Excuse me sir, but your balls are showing.”

According to Bruce, the man was very appreciative, thanking him for the heads up.

I explained to Bruce that yes, in his situation it was the right decision to tell the man, because, honestly, who at a Gold’s Gym, or anywhere for that matter, wants to see some old dude’s wrinkly ballsack protruding from his Stocktons?

John Stockton

Telling Grandpa saved a lot of people from that lasting, nightmarish image ingraining itself in their long-term memories. It was a public service.

I continued to explain that in my situation, it would be a slap in the face of the male race to tell her. Who knows how many men and box-munching ladies left the golf course today in a great mood not because they made a few birdies and chipped in on #10 for eagle (Ahem), but solely because they were graced with this glorious serendipity.

You should’ve seen this honey pot.