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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Here’s the current schedule:

Dec. 22nd - Triple Rock Social Club - Minneapolis, MN

Dec. 26th - House of Bricks - Des Moines, IA

Dec. 28th - Pros Bar - Vermillian, SD

Jan. 4th - Bill & Dees Lounge - Norman, OK

Jan. 5th - Club Moustache - Kansas City, MO

Jan. 7th - The Rock and Roll Bar - Hutchinson, KS

Jan. 10th - Elbo Room - Chicago, IL

Jan. 12th - The Frequency - Madison, WI

Jan. 13th - The House of Rock - Eau Claire, WI

Jan. 14th - Bamboo Betty’s - Circle Pines, MN

Keep checking back here at the BierBuzz at bierstick.com and check out the band on MySpace and Facebook for more updates!

Here are the updated tour dates!

December 22nd — Triple Rock Social Club — Minneapolis, MN (CD Release Party)

December 26th — The House of Bricks — Des Moines, IA

January 5th — Club Moustache — Kansas City, MO

January 7th — The Rock and Roll Bar — Hutchinson, KS

January 12th — The Frequency — Madison, WI

January 13th — The House of Rock — Eau Claire, WI

Check out the band here: Peter and the Twins (Myspace)

We will continue to post updates here and on the Bierstick Facebook page!

Bierstick is sponsoring Peter and the Twins, a Minneapolis alternative-rock band with punk and folk influences on their Midwest tour beginning in Minneapolis December 22nd and ending January 16th.

Check them out at www.myspace.com/peterandthetwins

The band name is just too perfect.

The Bierstick Tour Kick-Off Show/Peter and the Twins CD Release Party will take place December 22nd at Triple Rock Social Club in Minneapolis. Doors open at 7 pm.

The tour will continue in Des Moines, Iowa on December 26th at House of Bricks.

We will be posting the rest of the tour dates and venues in the coming week or two.

Updates and details of the tour will be posted here and on the Bierstick Facebook page in the coming weeks.

We will be providing deals and/or free covers to anyone willing to help promote the shows.

Throughout the tour we’ll be giving away Biersticks and other Bierstick merch, so I urge everyone in the cities we’ll be passing through to show up, enjoy a great rock show, and party the night away!

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.

“Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick. I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

Nothing could make my penis go flaccid faster than hearing a woman refer to it as a “disco stick.” Proper nicknames may be any of the following examples:

Lightening Rod, The Hammer, The Beast, Python, etc.

Ms. Gaga, I would love to play a “Love Game” with you: it’s called “erotic asphyxiation,” but you are the only one who is going to get choked.

From “So What” by Pink

“The waiter just took my table and gave it to Jessica Simps” AND

“Check my flow *bizarre grunt noise*”

Jessica Simps? Seriously? Say it with me now: Jessica SimpsON. Good! Lazy bitch.

And I’m going to assume that since Pink is a woman and clearly cannot rap, she is referring to her period when asking the listener to “check my flow.” I politely decline. I would rather not be face-to-gaping hole with her saber-toothed snatch.

From “You’re so Vain” by Carly Simon

“You‘re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you”

Correct me if I’m wrong Carly, but presumably you wrote this song about a certain person, and you wanted to express to this individual that they are indeed, vain. At what point does the subject of the song change? Who is the song actually about? Is there a person literally named “You” somewhere? No, there isn’t, because the words would then need to be “You is so vain, I bet You thinks this song is about you.” In such a case, You wouldn’t be vain because You believes the song is about someone else. Well I have have something to say to you Mrs. Simon:

“You’re so dumb, I bet you think this post is about one of your songs.”

What’s that? You don’t get it? Well that’s because this post is about one of your songs and how it makes no fucking sense.

From “Battlefield” by Jordin Sparks

“Why does love always feel like a battlefield?”

Such a deep lyric. Especially coming from a nineteen-year-old girl with no combat experience.

I might need to add to this list, but I’m out of time.

]]> http://www.bierstick.com/blog/index.php/2009/07/terrible-song-lyrics/feed/ http://www.bierstick.com/blog/index.php/2009/07/this-never-gets-old/ http://www.bierstick.com/blog/index.php/2009/07/this-never-gets-old/#comments Sun, 19 Jul 2009 03:01:25 +0000 Ben Mattke http://www.bierstick.com/blog/index.php/2009/07/this-never-gets-old/

Like, literally.

Terminator Salvation

This dude needs to save this kid so the kid can go back in time and nail the dude’s mom, thereby conceiving the dude, so the dude can grow up and save his father and the world from machines with the help of a former cold-blooded killer.

Transformers

Vehicles turn into alien machines made up of 10 times the amount of metal used in the original vehicle to fight other massive alien machines over a cosmic Rubik’s cube called an AllSpark–not to be confused with AllSport.

AllSpark : Alien Energy Source

AllSport : Human Energy Source

Revolutionary Road (Also known as Worst Fucking Film Ever Made)

Two individuals, a male and a female, with very high opinions of themselves and their “potential” are completely insatiable regarding any detail in life and the female whines about everything imaginable until she whacks herself trying to abort her unborn child.

Benjamin Button

This guy is born as a tiny old man and progresses and regresses in size and mental capacity to become a tiny baby within a normal lifespan. At no point does he feel suicidal.

The Taking of Pelham 123

A “brillliant,” former Wall Street working, sociopath and his team hijack a subway train to instill fear and effect market gold prices all while offering some sort of twisted therapy to Denzel Washington (no matter who he portrays, all you can see is Denzel Washington). Innocent travelers are murdered in front of other travelers, but apparently the witnesses are unaffected by traumatic events and throw a small party when the train comes to a halt just in the nick of time.

“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.