Bachelor Series: The Wild Wardrobe

So lets get back to the bachelor series. What was once a vision of grandeur – ie: a series on the typical life of a bachelor has resulted in only one post – ie: the bachelor six pack of eats. Today’s challenge – the bachelor wardrobe:

One caveat before we get started. I am not stylish in the least bit. Never have I admitted to being stylish either. But on the whole, I don’t think many bachelors claim to be. So lets go over a typical week on bachelor wardrobe:

Monday morning – crawl out of whatever you sleep in. This could be scrubs, old lacrosse shorts, a 20 year old t-shirt or commando. I really hope the commando crowd washes there sheets a lot. Now its time to mosey on over to the closet. Gotta go to work and not look like and ass. Pants – check. Shirt – check. Do they match? No? Now repeat that process like 5 times and you have a real outfit. Since its Monday you have all of your top shirts back from the dry cleaner. You look snazzy….until your sleeves are rolled up 15 minutes into the workday

Monday night – get home. Your shirt is most likely wrinkled and gets tossed into the magical dry cleaner pile. Bachelors just don’t wash their shirts – its like us actually caring about the Sex & the City movie coming up. Pants are way more expensive to dry clean so you use criteria to judge them. No blatant discolorations or stains or funky odors and you are good to go. Let’s also say you exercise on a daily basis (in a dream world) you toss on some gym clothes and off you go.

Repeat this process Tuesday and Wednesday and you don’t have anything too exciting.

Thursday – yea that’s right. You saved your one “cool” or “stylish” shirt because its happy hour time after work. The hot new girl in marketing is really going to notice you in your awesome shirt when you are packed into a bar with 80 other dudes wearing the same shirt. Either way you wear it, it gets spilled on, and the dry cleaner has to give the special cleaning.

Friday – casual Friday at work means jeans and a dress shirt or polo. If you don’t work at a place that has casual Friday then your job sucks, you need to quit and find something cool to do like lifeguarding. On Friday, I adopt the Zach Morris (Saved by the Bell for you dopes living under a rock) code of dressing, mixed in with a little Don Johnson from Miami Vice. Nice jeans, dress shirt and a blazer. If it’s the spring or summer you sub in a polo in some pastel type color. Now that’s as stylish as I get.

Friday night – if you are a real booze hound you go out straight from work and can pull off the Zach Morris look and translate it into going out clothes. If not, you will look like a jackass wearing a suite and tie at a tiki bar at 1:00AM on a Friday. Now Friday night and Saturday night are essentially the same going out process that is drastically different from when girls get ready. Lets say you are meeting a group at 11:00PM at a bar.

- 8-10:30: watch local sports team and drink some beer
- 10:30: realize you have to go out that night and contemplate getting dressed
- 10:37: you need a beer and might as well get dressed up to go out. You grab whatever jeans are easily within your grasp and make some attempt at style by grabbing a dress shirt to go with it. Dress shirts go well all year long so its easy. Walk out into the living room and unless your roommate friends tell you that you look horrible or some other disparaging remark you are good to go…
- 10:45: slam another beer and head out
- 12:30: girl gives you a complement on your striped shirt which is almost identical to half the shirts other guys are wearing in the bar…she must really want to sleep with you…oh yea

Saturday day – wake up, possibly hungover, and really hungry. This is where guys really differentiate themselves. You are going to bum around for a while, the clothing choice here is crucial. It can be trackpants, shorts or scrubs, but always a hoodie or old-tshirt.

Sunday day – same as Saturday, unless its football season and then you gear up for the game.

Week is over and you repeat the cycle. After re-reading this post, I found it as amusing as having 4 wisdom teeth pulled, but then realized this was educational for you the reader and me as well. Writing this down shows how little the average bachelor actually thinks about what they wear during the week. There are obvious exceptions to the rule, but we are nowhere near as OCD as women, but women also have all sorts of clothes that I don’t get.

Finally – jeans and a t-shirt rock – that’s all. Stay tuned for a riveting blog about penguins…

Brrrr….Beer

Welcome Spring! - Part II

…on to the much anticipated Part II of the series. I have the Mets game (they are down 3-1 to the Cubs) blasting in my headphones and typing furiously at work like I am going to town on a memo. So lets talk a little bit about bar patios.
The weather is warmer. Clothes are getting shed. That familiar squeaking of flip flops reverberates everywhere. Spring is here. Just as spring is signaled by some digging through their closets for spring clothes, bars embrace a different ritual. Instead of freeing breasts and legs for the world to see, they open their restaurant to the street. Those giant bay windows in the front crack open and tables are thrown out on the sidewalk. Now as always, you are asking – “DP what do I care about restaurant patios for?” Excellent question, but allow me lecture on the importance of bar patios.

Bar patios are awesome. If you are lucky enough to grab a table on a nice Thursday, Friday or Saturday you have the ultimate seat to the most revered hobby of all NYC’ers – people watching. That’s right – people watching. You sit there and silently or out load, judge everyone who walks by. In my case (and for almost every other mid 20’s guy) judging is strictly based on a physical attributes. Yes, as a group we are extremely shallow, but you should expect absolutely nothing less. And combined with the spring clothing choices of women you could not get a better scenario. But for you nerds out there, here is the mathematical formula to break down these awesome nights:

Sunny 70 degree weather + bar patio – leaving work earlier x alcohol = the ultimate objectification of women as they walk by.

In some cases, and more probable as the night goes on, people watching turns into a distorted beauty pageant. As the beer flows like water and the sun sets, women watching isn’t enough to quench the unending thirsts of hungry men. The hobby now escalates into a new game. As women walk by numbers are shouted out or conferred upon to the group. If a woman is a 4 or 5, it is muttered quietly to the group. If she is in the 8-10 range it is shouted as a compliment. After a couple more rounds, all numbers, regardless of value, are shouted – because everyone in the group is drunk. But there is a way to win this game. Think of it as the way you earned gold stars back in 1st grade for coloring in the lines. But instead of coloring in the lines you are trying to pick up women as they walk by. Here is how you score it:

Get a girl to stop and talk to you – 1 star
Get told off by a girl – 2 stars
Waitress is so amused by your game you get a free round – 3 stars
You get drunk enough to hold up napkins with #’s rating each girl – 4 stars
Get a hot girl to come in and sit down – 5 stars
Get two hot girls to come in – 6 stars
Twins(need I say more) – 7 stars
Recruit other tables to play the game – 8 stars
Take home a girl from you picked – 9 stars
And the 10 star, ultimate, superlegendary point-achieving accomplishment only achieved once in history:

A Swedish volleyball team is on a tour of NYC and they happen to walk by your particular bar as you drink outside. Despite the language barrier you manage to communicated that all the girls in the group are 8’s or higher. These girls so flattered come into the restaurant and drink with you for the rest of the night. All single guys go home with a Swedish girl because they find your American “accent” charming. You are instantly recognized as the greatest contributor to the history of mankind and proclaimed ultimate winner of the bar patio game known simple as “Numbers & Stars”

Brrr….Beer

Welcome SpringI - Part I

Ok folks, I have wrapped up my Master’s thesis or at least wrote enough for them to let me graduate. In summary, and thanks to Microsoft Word counter, I wrote in the neighborhood of 65 pages and over 14,000 words. Yet not one line of that monstrosity contains the creativity and sheer joy of blogging. Without further ado, back to it…

So for most of you, the weather has warmed up in the last week or two. Spring is here, although a bit late and as schizo as Britney Spears – its here. And with spring come two great seasonal changes. Bar patios and skin. Let me elaborate as always…

Winter can be a bitch some years. This particular year’s had to be one of the shittiest winters on date. Not because we had a lot of snow. This winter lasted from November until the first weeks of April. It was cold, miserable and cloudy. As a polar bear you would expect I love the cold weather – and I do. But this winter was a giant tease – more so than Becky who wouldn’t put out on prom night despite the Banker’s club you were slipping in her drinks all night long (ohhh!). This winter, it only got really cold for a few days. You know the days when your nuts freeze off if you are outside for more than 5 minutes. I love that in the winter. The other part of winter that makes it great is snow. If you don’t like snow then you are fucking diabolical and I will have my friends the Penguins take care of you. We have like 3 days of snow this year and no real big snow storm. But I digress…

Mother Nature has finally won the battle and freed us from the grips of that cranky old bastard – Father winter. And with the warm, chocolate-cookie type embrace of Mother Nature and spring comes warm weather. All it takes is that one Thursday or Friday where the sun is blazing in the sky and the temperature rock climbs up the thermometer higher than Stallone in Cliff Hanger (great movie). With this first unofficial day of spring all those working men and women in their 20’s go diving into their closets for the long-forgotten spring wear. For men this equals golf shirts and khakis – maybe linen pants for those ultra trendy guys. But who cares about them. This blog makes it a point to objectify women at least once per blog. As my fashion knowledge is limited to jeans and t-shirts I don’t know what the hell the names are of the spring clothes that women wear, but their awesomeness should be lauded.

After a long winter of sweaters, funky pants and long skirts there is a glorious reemergence of breasts and legs. Its like they fought hard, avoided getting shanked in the shower, bribed the parole board and have broken out of prison. And their release could not signal spring any better. Its like women forgot they had breasts and nice legs which get them things in life. It I had those abilities I would dress skimpy all year long. Either way, the increased skimpiness of women due to skirts, halter tops and any other piece of clothing that uses the same amount of cloth as a dish towel is f’ing great. This shift in fashion makes every man happier. Even though 99.8% of the guys won’t have a chance with these women, they know that the regular stream of eye candy is back and they have gotten their golden ticket back to the Willy Wonka factory.

Just figured I would share some favorite examples to the women out there:
- Anything that shows cleavage – that’s a no brainer
- Skirts – don’t you want to show off your legs?
- Jean shorts – you instantly get idolized a Daisy Duke
- Halter tops – its hilarious that you insist on wearing these because you have to readjust yourself every 10.2 seconds. Guys don’t wear pants that restrict our “boys” do we?
- The ultimate trifecta – stiletto heels, short skirt, and a halter top

Part II – Bar patios – coming tomorrow because Sportscenter is on

Brr….beer

Are you really that perverse DP?

Ok - I had announced it before, but I think I need to send out a little reminder note to everyone because I know you have been thinking lately:

"Drunk Polar Bear - you have become one dirty, perverse son-of-a-bitch lately. Fish Taco, Ace, Mother Teresa of Hooking Up, and Chesty??? This shit is revolting!"

Ok - so I have another contributor to this little blog and he is 837.4x more peverse than the normal human being. However, his stories are legendary, and if you can get around the occasional gross sexual reference they are quite amusing. He is Looty and although you have to scroll down to the bottom of each story to see if its him, maybe that keeps you on your toes...

My absence from regual blogging (due to a Master's thesis) will end tonight with a brand new post for you...

Your artic friend,
The Drunken Polar Bear

PS: Marissa Miller picture - a little something to brighten your day..

Tacos, Anyone?

Alright everybody. Does everyone remember the story from a while ago about the girl who I used to work with who blew me and it took me forever to get her dirty puss juice smell off my fingers? I will refer to her from here on out as Fish Taco.

So Fish Taco calls me out of the blue on Friday night. I haven't spoken to her since she gobbled my load. I knew immediately that she was definitely going to blow me again, possibly going to fuck me. So we make plans to meet up. I hang up the phone and I proceed to jack off twice. I do this for two reasons.............

1. If I only get a blow job out of the deal, the pleasure will last longer for myself and she will have to suffer longer.

2. If by chance we do fuck, I will put on a performance.

So we meet at this lamo place. It's basically like the Mexican version of TGIFriday's or the Olive Garden. I'm embarrassed to be there in case I might see someone I know.

As we might recall, Fish Taco doesn't look good anymore. But she does have a "go get 'em!" spirit going for her. I order one of the larger beers to dull any last senses that remain with my body. It comes in a giant goblet which was fitting, for me. As we start talking, of course every word out of my mouth is a terrible, totally lame, dirty joke and she eats it all up.

Fish Taco: "You're trouble, you know that?"
Me: "Yes."
Fish Taco: "But that's why I called you."

Yes, I know. It's like the bad writing of a soap opera that's been on 15 years too long.

Fish Taco: "So where are we going to have sex?"
Me: "Ummm....I don't know."
Fish Taco: "I want to sleep over your place but you live with your parents."
Me: "Yes, I do. I don't know if mommy would enjoy witnessing that the next morning."
Fish Taco: "I don't want to have sex in the car. Can we get a hotel room?!?!?"
Me: "Whatever. I'm really not too concerned with it."

Fast Forward........at this point we've met up with AT and Sensor at this dive bar by their houses. The whole night she's telling us that she just broke up with her boyfriend of three years the other day. This is obviously going to be a lay up.

Shortly thereafter, she's juggling my balls and jerking me off under the table. Me likey. Sensor spots it and starts to laugh and make faces at me when she's not looking. At one point, she turns away and he starts doing the Arsenio Hall fist pump.

AT sends me a text message: Your fly is open

Yeah, obviously. How does he notice my fly open but not the girl's arm inside of it moving around?

She goes to get another round. He tells me my fly is open. Sensor explains to him that she's playing with my cock and balls. We all laugh. She comes back with beers. We finish them. They know what's about to go down and tell us that they're getting up early in the morning and have to go. We leave.

As we get to the parking lot, Fish Taco's desperate meter has skyrocketed off the charts.

Like a little girl leaving the carnival, begging daddy to go on the ferris wheel one more time, her eyes light up and she grabs the sleeve of my shirt, nodding 'yes' as she asks me, "OMG! Can we please get a hotel room?!?!?".

Now we all know I love a pathetic girl more than the next guy but this is just downright pitiful.

We get in the car and her face is lunging at mine like a fucking asteroid at mach speed. I can't avoid it at this point. She's making out just like Tall Chick does...trying to rip your face off with their lips. You'd swear these chicks didn't fucking eat if you saw them make out but didn't see their bodies. I pull my penis out to divert her from my lips. She feasts on it for a good 10 minutes. But she keeps stopping to talk about getting a hotel room. This is obviously something she's never done and she's very excited about it. I picture her telling all of her gross friends the next day over lunch that "WE TOTALLY GOT A HOTEL ROOM!", thinking that it might sound all Sex and the Cityish.

I tell her to keep sucking. She tells me I'll have to wait cuz she wants to get a room and finish. I tell her fine but to stop off at the gas station because I need a case of beer.

We get to a gas station. I pick up a case of Coors Light bottles and some more rubbers (I only had two and figured I'd need more since the two jack off sesh's). We go to the hotel which was right next door. She puts the room on her plastic. I only have $40 on me at that point so I tell her that we'll stop at an ATM the next morning and pay for half of the room (The room was $220 + tax).

We get up to the room. I crack a beer. She tells me that she'd like to drink and have a cigarette before we fuck because she's really nervous and hasn't slept with anyone but her boyfriend in the last three years. After I stop picturing what kind of a tool this guy is I tell her that's fine by me. I needed to get a little drunker anyway. Yet as we both agree to this, she continues to make out like a hyena and pushes me on the bed.

Me: "I thought you wanted to drink more."
Fish Taco: "I do." [While slobbering all over me]
Me: "Okay, well let's have some more beers."
Fish Taco: "Let's go in the bathroom so I can smoke a cigarette, there's a smoke detector in here."

I grab another beer so I can start some double fisting. Head into the bathroom. She lights up her cigarette and I grab a seat on the toilet.

Fish Taco: "You're not going to shit, are you?"
Me: "Ummm......no."

I take my johnson out of the slit in my boxers. She gets on her knees and starts feasting on it between drags on her cigarette. I squeeze my balls out of the slit. She starts sucking and licking them.

Me: "Why don't you lose those boxers?"

Fish Taco peels my boxers off and completely dives into my asshole upon doing so. Her face is wiggling and slapping around between my ass cheeks like a frantic fish out of water. She's swirling her tongue around and slurping up whatever coodies lurk in my rectum. At one point, she's actually penetrating my ass with her tongue, in and out.

Probably the most glorious thing I've ever felt in my life. Remember those little scrub brush guys on those Tidy Bowl commercials? It was like there was an army of microscopic scrub brush dudes doing the waltz on my dirty asshole.

She continues to rotate from my cock to my balls to my smelly rectum for about 45 minutes to an hour. Now here's the problem. I can't fire off a shot right now not only because I jacked off twice (which was the purpose) but also because she took her top and bra off. Her tits were saggy and her nipples were mangled. They were weird, maybe her boyfriend used to chew on them or something.

So she tells me that she's ready to go inside. I put a rubber on. I remember thinking that this would last forever. I was spurting 3 minutes later. As I told her I was about to cum, she screamed not to. I did. She lost her shit. She continued to bitch, whine and yell for the next 15 minutes about it being "not fair" and what have you. I told her to calm down and relax and that there would be more to come. She would not stop. Finally I told her that maybe she should be sucking my balls to get my dick hard instead of complaining.

Fish Taco: "I'm not going to do that. What am I, your bitch?"
Me: "That's fine."

Fast Forward to thirty seconds later......slurp, slurp, gobble

Yes, that's the sound of her going to town on my nuts.

Girls are so stupid. You bitch and whine that you didn't get off. I tell you to get my dick hard. You refuse but know you've got no other option. Checkmate.

I put another connie on and start fucking her again. Now my dick is raw. It's throbbing at this point. I know I won't be getting off any time soon. I pounded her beat up puss for at least an hour, probably more. Now here's what transpired during this sesh...............

At one point I must have hit her spot. She's squealing like a pig.

Fish Taco: "That is the spot! I am going to cum! Keep this up, Looty! I just came! I just came right then and there! OMG!"

I continue to pump but switch positions. She's riding on top. She's getting rowdy again.

Fish Taco: "Slap me in the face!"

I have one of those Scooby Doo moments in my head............. Argh?!?!?

Not knowing what to do, I ignore her request.

Fish Taco: "Slap me in the face!"

So I do. Lightly.

Fish Taco: "Like that but do it fucking harder!"

Thwack!

I can just picture the flashing lights and sirens now.

Fish Taco: "Slap me again, you know I like it rough!"

Um, no actually I didn't. But now I do.

Thwack!

Let me tell you something. If you've never bitch slapped a girl while your cock was inside her, it's very empowering.

So I'm back on top at one point and I'm doing something right again because she's getting weird.

Fish Taco: "I'm going to cum! Keep doing that! OMG I just came right there! Do you feel how wet I am right now?!? That's because I came!"

This is bothering me.

So I'm still fucking her but I'm getting tired. My heart is going to pop. I get on my side and instruct her to do the same. I slip my penis in and rotate her slightly so she's on face but her body's still on its side. After telling me to choke her, and me obliging, she's about to cum again. Yes, I said choke. She's screaming. The headboard is bumping.

Fish Taco: "Talk dirty to me."

You have to be kidding me.

Me: "You like that cock?"
Fish Taco: "Yes, you are so deep right now. OMG do you know how deep you are?"

Not that deep, I've got a small penis.

Fish Taco: "Keep talking!"

Right now, after all of the bizarre happenings, I'm struggling for something dirty to say but realize anything will fly.

Me: "Are you my bitch?"
Fish Taco: "If this is being your bitch it is so worth it!"

I laugh in my head at how pathetic this girl is. Seriously.

Finally I can't last anymore. I'm dying. I tell her to get on top. She starts to climb on top but facing me. I tell her to face the other way. She obeys and starts to bounce. I reach for my phone and start snapping pictures. One problem. It's darker than it was in the bathroom so the pictures aren't coming out. I keep deleting them and trying to get a worthy photo to send on to everyone.

She must have heard me pressing buttons. She turns around.

Fish Taco: "I fucking knew it! You were trying to take a picture! You're such an asshole! I know all the stories but still! What are you going to do, tell all your fucking friends?!? You're not a real human being! You have no heart!
Me: "What are you talking about? My mom texted me asking where I was so I just responded saying I was sleeping at a friend's place."
Fish Taco: "Bullshit!"

She scurries into the bathroom where her clothes were and gets dressed. While in there, I delete all my text messages, especially the pix messages I sent of her eating my ass WHILE she was eating my ass. The last text in my phone is to my mom declaring, "Not sleeping home 2nite". I'm golden.

She comes out of the bathroom and I show her the text to my mom. I think she's bought it. Haha. But she continues to tell me that I'm not a real human being. I agree with her, I am not human.

Fish Taco: "That's a front Looty and you know it! Don't use that front!"

This dumb bitch said it, I just agreed with it, yet I'm using it as a front. This continues for way too long. I already know I'm heartless.

Fish Taco: "Well I don't want to sleep here and I'm sure you don't so let's go, I'll take you home."

I start filling my pockets with as many beer bottles that will fit and crack open a roadie to hold in my hand. Not a word in the elevator down. She wouldn't even look at me. The whole thing was very comical. So the elevator opens and she's power walking like fucking Oprah. I can't keep up with her. She's gone, out the back door of the hotel.

I stay in the hotel and ponder calling a cab or sleeping there. Five minutes later she calls me.

Fish Taco: "Let's go. Are you coming? I'm not going to leave you here, Looty."

I go outside and get to her car. I take all the beer bottles out of my pockets so I can sit. She starts driving to my house but continues to tell me that I'm not human. At this point I'm not responding at all, I'm just smirking at the whole thing.

She will not stop. Finally I can't hold it in. I burst out in hysterical laughter. I'm balling. She's mortified that I'm finding this funny. How could you not???

Fish Taco: "You know what? Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my car!"

I'm still laughing as she pulls over. I pick up the bottles. I leave the car door open as I put them back in my pockets. I decide to leave her door open. Fuck her. I start walking.

Fish Taco: "The least you can do is close my fucking door asshole. Close the fucking door!"

I don't even look back and keep walking. She holds her horn down for about thirty seconds. I keep walking. She closes the door and peels off. Did I mention she lives two hours away and doesn't know how to get home? Yup. The idiot lives in no man's land and forgot to bring her navigation system with her. Whoops!

I'm walking down the street. It's after 4am. It's totally silent. All of the sudden I here a loud POP! I start sprinting, not knowing what it was. Gunshot? Firecracker? As I'm running down the street I realize my tush has more breathing room. One of the beers in my back pocket slipped out and exploded.

So it took me about an hour and a half, maybe more, to get home from where she kicked me out of the car. It was 35 degrees out and I didn't have a jacket, just a long sleeved golf shirt. If I didn't have the 5 beers to drink I would have been in a world of hurt.

So after it was all said and done, here's the box score......

1 tossed salad, 4 bitch slaps, 2 choke holds, 5 rubbers, free hotel room, 20 beers and an hour and a half walk home.

Fish Taco, everybody.....Fish Taco.

The Mother Theresa of Hooking Up

So Saturday a bunch of us went to the Mets game. Started drinking at 10am, as I enjoyed a tallboy on the train. Went out before and after the game. I continued to smash beers all day like it was my job, and let's face it, it basically is.

When it came to both girls and booze, I was in the fucking zone all day. If you've ever seen one of those Axe commercials where all the broads on the planet are battling for one dude, you know what it was like for me yesterday.

But let's start with the point where I woke up in an apartment in Harlem next to an ocean of a woman. Broad shoulders, beefy thighs. Apparently she was a friend of the Robot. Bullet, the Croatian Sensation and I had met up with them downtown. The girl was on me instantly and we were making out within 15 minutes of meeting. This would normally be cool, but I have a tendency not to discriminate.

I really should be canonized for my charity work with the morbidly obese, buttery faced, Amazonian, canine, morally casual, pathetic and desperate. In other words, I'm basically the Mother Theresa of hookups. I'm one of the few who are willing to take in the lepers. I see things on a regular basis that most men would cringe at.

So somewhere between making out and waking up next to her, I ended up at this girl's apartment in the ghetto. I remember her starting to suck me off. It was solid but worried that too much of this and I wouldn't put on a good performance. Normally I wouldn't be concerned with this because I am the most selfish person on the planet but last time I hooked up with one of the Robot's friends, Picasso, she heard about a weak performance, which was really uncalled for because the second time I absolutely threw down.

So I ask her if she has any rubbers. She tells me we're not having sex. Then why the fuck am I here? So you can suck my penis and catch a mouth full of goo? Girls are so fucking stupid. Here I am, excited because I think I'm tacking up another victim to my filthy resume. I will never understand that. Does a girl think she's moral and going to Heaven because she put my penis in her mouth and she pumped? Would her father rather see my cock in her mouth or puss? I'm thinking puss, right? Getting face-pumped is so demoralizing yet girls continue to think they're better for only doing that. Whatever, I can go on about this topic forever but I won't.

So she's giving me the old roundmouth treatment but it's taking a while. Finally I blast. Good blast. Strong blast. Of course, as soon as the cum is done shooting from my urethra I have no desire to look at this girl next to me, or any girl for that matter. That's not the problem though. My problem is that I instantly have to urinate. I go into the bathroom but can't get it all out because I'm rocking the Mr. Softee, not quite hard but not quite limp. Now my penis burns. I've been in the bathroom for like twenty minutes at this point. I get back in the room and she wakes up. I have no excuse to give why I was in there so long because I thought she'd be asleep. I succumb to my instincts and tell her the truth and explain that I have pee pee stuck in my pee pee. So I get back in bed and pass out.

I wake up and I'm still next to this girl. As soon as I realize this I do what I always do first....take the girls hand and put it on my cock. She doesn't take the hint. I do it again. No dice. Third time's a charm. Strike three. I head to the bathroom because I have a raging woody and ponder jacking off. I decide that it's a good idea. I start jacking but I can't get off. It's taking forever.

I'm thinking maybe I need to relax. So I sit down on the can. But as soon as I do that a sudden urge to drop a giant dookie comes over my body. See I had taken like four Immodiums over the last 12 hours because I didn't want to poop in a Shea Stadium bathroom or at some dive in the city. So I've been walking around with two loaded weapons all day, cock and ass. So after I finish dropping this bomb I continue to beat myself.

Now I'm really drunk and tired at this point and really don't feel like cleaning up after a blast. Thinking on my toes, I grab the girl's fuzzy bathrobe that's hanging on the door. I shoot in the pocket. As I sit there, laughing to myself, I guess that this probably isn't the grossest or meanest thing I've done this week.

So I head back into her room feeling satisfied. I open the door and to my disgust, yes my worst nightmare, she's still fucking awake! Was she waiting for me? Did she think we were going to snuggle? Geez. It's fucking 6am, who the fuck wouldn't be asleep? She asks if I'm alright because I was probably in the bathroom for over an hour. Obviously I couldn't tell her that I was taking a long overdue shit and masturbating into the pocket of her cozy robe. I think on my toes and without hesitation tell her that I was throwing up. Technically that's not a lie, both my ass and dick threw up in there.

Girl: "Aw, are you okay? Do you want me to get you some water?"
Me: "No, I'm fine."
Girl: "No let me get you water."
Me: "No, really...I'm fine."
Girl: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Fine, but I'll just get it myself. Where's the kitchen?"
Girl: "Do you want me to make you some toast?'
Me: "Yeah ya know, that'd be great and can you give me some warm ginger ale too? What am I, fucking six years old?"

Girl laughs and tells me where the kitchen is. Now as soon as I blasted before I was thinking of a way out. Usually I just slither out as the girl sleeps but this one was stubborn and wouldn't sleep, I guess she just knew better. So as we're going through this bullshit about me needing water, I start picking up my clothes and putting them on. As I do this, I throw out the following statement to cover those tracks....

Me: "It's cold in here."

I'm brilliant. It probably never even crossed her mind that I was bailing on her. I get down the hallway to the kitchen with shirt, shoes and belt in hand. I run the water and frantically get dressed. I question if I should put my belt on there or wait until I get outside. I remember thinking I'd have plenty of time to put the belt on and get out in time before she comes to find me. All of the sudden I hear the squeak of a door opening. A sudden rush of fear covers me like a dark cloud. It's similar to that scene in Jurassic Park when they're sitting in the jeeps and here the loud footsteps. The glass of water is vibrating. The pounding gets closer and louder. Next thing I know T-Rex right in my grill. The girl must've realized what I was doing.

I tell her that I'm fine as I finish getting dressed. I pat down my pockets to check for all the essentials....keys, wallet, phone, balls......wallet? Fuck. I run down to her room to see if I dropped it on the floor. Jackpot, it's there. Now I'm sure she knows I'm going ghost like Swayze. She asks if I know where I am. I tell her I do. I don't. I pat her on the back and tell her, "I'll talk to ya". I won't.

I'm free.

Barney's Lemon Law

Well it’s Friday and for the first time in forever I am not out gallivanting, drinking enough to kill a badger or stuffing my face full of Johnny Rockets burger goodness. What can I say – maybe I am growing up…hahaha…hell no. Lets just say I have a big paper due on Monday called a thesis. In a startling revelation to you my loyal readers I will probably be the recipient of a Masters degree in May. But enough ruining the picture you have of me as a degenerate by telling you I am in school…
Tonight we talk about lemons. Not the fruit – although without them we wouldn’t have gin and tonics or the fantabulous drink called Fresca. The lemons we talk about tonight are somewhat similar to the crappy car that you may be driving, but a step further – specifically, the Lemon Law. As what better place to turn to for a definition of the Lemon Law than Wikipedia:

In "The Duel", a first season episode of CBS's How I Met Your Mother, the character of Barney devises a "lemon law" in which the lemons are blind dates rather than automobiles. It worked in that if you didn't like the person in 5 minutes, you could end the date so no one's feelings would be hurt. It backfired on Barney when a woman sat down, took a good look at him and said "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to lemon law you." Barney was not injured by this rebuff; he simply regretted not naming the idea "Barney's law."

Now this is the same Barney I wrote about last week. He’s awesome and although a fictional character on the tv show. However, let’s reflect for a minute on the lemon law. Everyone has been out on a date that you know right away that will not go well. The girl (or guy) starts talking about an ex, or orders the entire left side of the menu or gets ultra-hammered on one of those huge 60 ounce behemoth margaritas that probably comes with a toy lizard. Either way, within the first 5-20 minutes you are way done and already contemplating what escape mechanism to employ. Basically you transform from normal date-goer to Jason Bourne, going all tactical in hopes of escaping another 2 hours of alcohol-influenced small talk. The whole sick family member or friend in emergency is way overplayed and is an immediate tell – just don’t do it unless you love that red wine or beer you are drinking so much you want it on your shirt. In the past I have found success in just drinking a ton so I won’t really care how the date is going. Or another option is ordering nachos and a full rack of ribs. Not only will you will be full, but you just refuse to wipe your face off, and the girl (or guy) will never want to see you again. Some people at tables around you may even laugh at your shenanigans (word of the day!!!) Regardless, we have all used some pretty bad or interesting methods to scam ourselves out of bad dates.

But how cool, convenient and awesome would be it Lemon Law someone? It’s not too personal and it is an established rule – kinda like being cut from a sports team. You are telling your date that you appreciate their effort, but they just aren’t “talented” enough. No hard feelings. In my case “talent” stands for looks because I am pretty shallow. Dates are pretty much interviews so ending them earlier just saves everyone in the long run and will save your wallet too.
So there you have it – next time you are on a date that isn’t going so well, just invoke the Lemon Law. If your date doesn’t understand it, all the better..

Brrr….beer.

From The Vault

*Please note that my latest lady friend will be referred to as "Chesty" due to it being her sometimes self proclaimed nickname for her love of the Simpsons and her massive, wonderful breasts. It will also be used because real names are boring and very incriminating.

A bunch of us in the office are big Met fans and will sometimes go to a game as a group. This smoking hot chick, Chesty, is a huge met fan and always goes with us. Chesty had already been flirting with me briefly for a week through Outlook. I decide to pull off one of the most brilliant scams in my life. Mike Piazza was coming back to town for the first time since leaving the Mets. I knew this was the perfect opportunity. I previously had asked some of my homeboys if they'd want to go but they all had plans. Knowing Chesty was too die hard to miss the game, I pounce like a lion on the idiot wildebeest who thought it would be a good idea to leave the herd. I send out a group email to the usual suspects and what a surprise, they all respond back that they can't go........except Chesty! I tell her that I'm going to get tickets so if she still wants to go even though no one else from the office is (of course she does, I'm an adonis), to let me know if I should get her a ticket. Chesty quickly shoots me a reply, "Hell yeah I do! You'd be gay if you didn't want to see Piazza come back?!?". I ponder marriage.

I tell her I'm bringing a crew (Bullet's desperate to get out of his house of sodomites so agrees, The Croatian Sensation agrees never to be seen at the game and turns his cell phone off like a dick, and Beemer is too poor to hit the "send" button on his cell phone when it rings) and she tells me she'll bring a friend or two. I know it's going to be a one man battle with only Bullet by my side, so I pray the whole day she brings a smoking hot friend who has personality to entertain him.........she was morbidly obese and weird. I apologize Bullet, as I have before. Other than Bullet not saying one word to the girls and texting his Jewish princess the whole time with things like, "I can't wait to give you a pedicure when we watch Oprah tomorrow", the game went swimmingly.

It's Monday. I now had my "in". She starts to work overtime on the Outlook flirting. Somehow it comes up that she could beat me at Beirut (beer pong to queers). It becomes her little joke (seriously, has she not heard of me?) and challenges me to a game on Thursday night. Done. My penis might as well be in her vagina as soon as she types these words, it's over. She's trapped in the spider web and there's no way out. I tell her to think of a place to play and let me know when and where. Since she lives with her parents as I do myself, there really isn't a place to play and she knows this. So Thursday rolls around and she says to me, "I can't come up with anywhere to play, why don't we just go out for some drinks?" GAME ON.

It's Thursday. Knowing it's on, I've prepped like a doctor for surgery. Pubes trimmed. Balls shaved. Handful of connies, one in my pocket, the rest in the car. A fat roll of cash. She leaves work at 5 to go home. She's obviously going home to doll herself up because she told me she didn't want to wear work clothes. She clearly knows she's getting railed tonight too.

We go out to a nearby dive and continue to drink 9 to 12 beers a piece. We're wasted. She brings up Beirut again. If only we had somewhere to play. The following exchange takes place:

Me: "Well, to be honest with you, I'm way too drunk to go home. I
don't want to sound sleazy and I don't expect anything to happen but I
think I'm going to get a hotel room....so if you want we can play
there."
Chesty: "Good. Seriously, I was thinking it and wanted to but didn't
want to mention it."
Me: "OK....Let's get out of here"

[We proceed to leave. I am in such a rush to get a hotel room with this smoking hot broad that I am pretty sure we walked out on a check that was 4 plates of appetizers and at least 18 beers. A crucial stop is made at a 7-11 to get beer, Solo's, and ping pong balls. 7-11 does not have ping pong balls so I make due with a platic baseball that goes on a car antenna.]

We walk into the lobby of the Marriott Hotel. She takes the cups and ball and sits on a couch. I throw my 12 pack of silver bullets on the marble counter and tell the dude working the night shift that I need a room. The following exchange ensues:

Hotel Douche: "Name, sir?"
Me: "Looty"
Hotel Douche: "I'm sorry sir I don't see anything in the computer for
that name."
Me: "Yeah because I'm not in the computer. I need a freakin' room."
Hotel Douche: "Umm...Alright sir, just to let you know, that's going
to be $249.99"

The following thoughts immediately dash through my drunken head: [That's fucking absurd. This guy is a little weasel who's out to get me. There's no way I can not get a room at this point. I will look like a total chump and most importantly I might lose my chance at fucking this girl]

The exchange continues:

Me: "You're kidding right?"
Hotel Douche: "No, sir. I'm not."
Me: "You and I both know you're not going to sell this room tonight. You're not charging me $250."
Hotel Douche: "I don't have a choice, sir."
Me: "You're just trying to take advantage of me because you know I'm annihilated."
Hotel Douche: "Sir, how about I upgrade you to a suite? Would that help?"
Me: "Done."

I snatch the bullets and crack one. I beckon Chesty and we head to the elevator.

When we get to the room we realize the table is too short to play. So I set up only one side of cups and we both shoot from one end. At this point were both very wasted (and yes I drove her car to the hotel, which I don't condone kids) and I really don't want to play this stupid shit. I want booty! So after every make.....and miss, I chug a beer. The cups are gone. She claims she wins. Whatever. Come get your prize.

As we're fooling around I'm still drinking beer. She tells me that she "would hate for me to spill that beer anywhere on my body because she'd have to lick it off".

"Anywhere?", I ask.
"Yup" she says.
"What about if I spill it all over my cock?"
"Well then I guess I'll just have to lick it off."

I immediately pour the remaining beer in my can all over my cock and balls.

As you can imagine, this whole scenario is off the charts. This chick is wild. This isn't helping my performance. It's weak and pitiful. After only 11 minutes (max!) I'm blasting. I must look like the biggest chump. I quickly regroup and start things up again. Only this time I can't come close to finishing and realize I might not. After a while, Chesty gets up from the bed and is walking to the other room. I ask her where she's going and she tells me she has an idea.

Sitting in the middle of the side room is a large, round table. On the table rests a large tray with water bottles, glasses and the ice bucket on it. I follow her into this room. She looks at the table and looks at me. I look at her and look at the table. My arm is suddenly clotheslining everything off the table sending it all smashing into the wall. Broken glass everywhere. I bend her over the table and then she lays on top of it. Eventually we finish crushing, pretty solid performance I might add, and just chill for a little. She tells me, "Don't think we're not having sex tomorrow morning because I am totally raping you". She eventually passes out.

My buddies had previously bet me that I couldn't take her down and if I supplied proof they would buy me two nights of all you can eating/drinking. As she lays there passed out, I talk to her and shake her. She doesn't wake up. She is fucking out. I take out my phone and take some videos and pictures to capitalize on my bet. After I finished my evidence gathering, I wasn't falling asleep and I was bored. Being the sick, peverted drunk that I am, I decide to stick my finger in her ass. This entertained me greatly. Yes I know, I'm a cretin.

It's morning. I ask her if she's going to go to work. She calls in sick and I do the same. We bang again. Admittedly, a subpar performance. Who cares, in my book I'm already the man.

Your Local Bar

Day 3 and still going strong on the blogging side of things. Additionally, I have finally sobered up which makes for a better night. Speaking of sobering up – I blame bars for most of my drinking habits. I am pretty sure I could be paying rent at some of the bars in Hoboken because I am there so much which gets down to the idea behind this blog. Bars. You love them and get to meet all sorts of degenerates in them – in some cases it me as the degenerate. In many cases you go there for amusement in the form of Bingo Wednesdays or two for one margaritas on Mondays.

Regardless, I think everyone should find one bar and become a regular at said bar. Because I am ultra-lazy I am going to give you 5 reasons why you should become a regular in a local bar. Keep in mind you have to find one bar and can’t bounce around between a couple. I am strictly monogamous when it comes to having a local bar and you should to. Ok…drum roll please…

1. Who doesn’t like going to a place where you know every nook and cranny. And no I am not talking about English Muffins although they are fantastic. Think they call them English muffins in England? Ok back to the point. Knowing where the bathrooms are, as well as how a pool table rolls are awesome…you can hustle visitors in pool and know where to “break the sale”

2. Never having to be carded by the bouncer which eventual grows into the type of relationship in which a bartender takes your side in a barfight – unless you spear tackle someone in a crowd. The spear tackle automatically pegs you as a guilty party, but its worth it.

3. Having one bar allows you to try many different drinks and thus making you classy. And by this I mean you have memorized the specials each night allowing you to know when you can binge of the flavored vodka night or go fucking buckwild for SoCo and Lime shots night

4. You are running late and are rushing to the bar to get to the game. The waitress catches you as you sit down and the first pitch is thrown. She asks if you want “the regular”. You just nod. And ordering the regular makes you a badass like Steve McQueen and others around you think you are either a celebrity or a drunk. Either way they are in awe and you could walk over to their table, eat their burger, slam their beer, and take their hot girlfriend and they would say “Thank you sir”.

5. The Holy Grail – knowing the hot bartender. You walk into the bar and the hot bartender, who is surprisingly human after you speak to her on frequent occasions. No she is not a fembot and she talks to you every time you go in. Fucking amazing. This “relationship” hopefully evolves to the pinnacle of you thinking you are cool – you get free drinks. They start as a free beer every now and then, but quickly evolve into you running up a booze tab only to get charged $25 and then leave a largely unproportional tip of $40, mostly because you drank 10 pints of Guinness, 2 burgers and bought shots for the entire bar…You are now in the know and will try and use this fact to pick up all sorts of women
And also – everyone wants a bar like Cheers, where everyone knows your name…
Brrr…Beer.

My New Friend Ace

Special contributor Looty here. Adding a little story for today. Nothing great, just bizarre.

Setting: Cheesy dive bar in Queens with 50 year old regular that know each other's names and kiss the bartender on the lips goodbye. Note that the two huge flat screens on opposite ends of the bar played the A's/Tigers game and Dancing with the Stars. The entire bar gravitated towards the one playing "Dancing".

Characters: Me, Boo and Ace. Ace is a 52 year old biker. Rocking a bandana, perv mustache and tattoos.

Ace: Jerry Springer should have been cut (in reference to Dancing with the Stars)
Me: Oh yeah?
Ace: What do you do?
Me: I work in treasury
Ace: Federal?
Me: Uh......yeah.
Ace: I pay all my taxes! And my child support!
Me: [fake chuckle] Nah, it's not like that.
Ace: Wait what do you do? You work for the Actor's Guild?
Me: [trying not to bust out laughing] Um no, I work in treasury.
Ace: I always pay my child support. Except one time the check bounced. But I wrote a good one eventually. And then I got a $45 credit on my child support.
Me: Oh ok.
Ace: [Insert drunken gibberish that cannot be deciphered here] never wanted to bring a child into this world. Never got married. Hey how old are you?
Me: Um, I don't know how old do I look? [Why the fuck did I just ask that?]
Ace: I don't give a fuck how old you are. I just wanna know how old you are.
Me: 23
Ace: Damn. I'm 52. That's two and half decades older man. Hold up your right hand. Let me see it.
Me: [I hold my right hand up] Why?
Ace: Because I'm bisexual. [I quickly put my hand down]

A sudden bath of creepiness sweeps over my body. I suddenly feel how
most do after encountering a drunk Looty.

Ace: So are you bisexual.
Me: No
Ace: So you love women?
Me: Yeah
Ace: You got a girlfriend?
Me: No but I've got a girl I hang out with.
Ace: So you just moved here?
Me: Yeah
Ace: Where do you live?
Me: Um......in the neighborhood
Ace: You know someone out here?
Me: What?
Ace: A guy like you, you gotta know someone out here. That's why you moved out here.
Me: Uhhh yeah I know someone
Ace: I knew it!
Boo: A's just hit a homerun

I turn my head to see who hit the homerun and the current score

Ace: Don't ignore me
Me: Uhh I was just checking the score

My phone starts vibrating. It's a text from Boo: Pretend this is a
phone call, say we have to leave

Boo and I quickly depart the bar before Ace can roofie my beer.

End Scene.

Looty's Here!

Ok folks - I promised it, and after some serious negotiation over southern BBQ and giant bowls of alcohol I was able to secure "Looty" as the first guest blogger for My Drunk Polar Bear.

Looty is like another version of me, but like 127 times more perverted. I don't know how often he is going to post, but they will be primarily his stories with the various women he meets. They are some of the funniest things I have ever read, often better than Tucker Max. Looty will introduce a little more about himself as he goes along, but I wanted to give you all a warning....

The Wingman Rule

Here goes blog #2 in a row. And for those of you sticklers who are saying I am not posting within the actually 24-hour period of the day itself I have one response – F*&$ off. Although I am not legally drunk, I am pretty close and yes it is a Tuesday. I went to the Mets home opener today which was at 1:10PM and I just got in around 12:15AM – a fantastic 13 hours of being out because we went out for food and beers before the game. So forgive me if this is short or unspell-checked, but I am ridiculously tired and tipsy.

So while out today for the baseball game, which was eventually lost by the Mets because the goddamn bullpen blew it again I had to play wingman. Now we all went out after the game for like 7 hours in the city and it was great because I got southern BBQ which I love, but I was forced to play wingman to my good friend, the Croatian Sensation (CS for short). Now CS had found this group of hot little women and although he did not need my help to close the deal, required me to stick around and talk to two of three girls so he could focus on one. Keep in mind I was exhausted after dinner so I had to play wingman for like 4 hours. I am not complaining, but it got me thinking about the wingman role…

Mostly because typing is more of an adventure tonight than most others and because writing this blog sobers me up, I have decided to present you my wonderful readers with the magical ten rules of being a wingman, in no particular order:

1. The basic rule of a wingman is that when requested, you must help your friend score hot ass

2. The wingman rule is only null and void if the girl you must entertain is an ex girlfriend, 20+ years above your age or a murderer. All other cases mean you gotta suck it up

3. The wingman will take on a girl no matter what she looks like, even if she is a swamp creature during a bad hair day

4. The wingman should buy as little drinks when possible at a bar. Come on – he is probably talking to a fat girl so you can score with her hot friend, so make sure to keep him boozed up to deal with it all

5. The wingman has a 4 bar maximum. You can drag your wingman to 4 different bars in hopes of slamming a young hottie, but after that the contract is expired and you are done my friend.

6. Wingen are only required to keep ONE GIRL occupied – not many. The only exception to this rule is when they are Sweedish twins and in that case the Wingman can take on the Sweedish twins and some of their friends from the volleyball team.

7. Wingmen are required to hook up with said friend, but not sleep with them. That’s way above the agreement. However, wingmen and friend can come to an amicable agreement in which money or goods are exchanged for the wingman sleeping with the friend. Think of this as a legal form of prostitution.

8. Wingmen are only confined to the state you are in when you invoke the wingman rule, and are limited to 4 subway or cab rides. They are not nomads for Christ sake

9. The wingman rule can only be invoked once during a night. If you happen to need a wingman twice in one night you are a pimp which is great. However, don’t be a douchebag and make your friend suffer all night. You only get to call “wingman” once a night. If you call it twice you owe your wingman your sister or next hottest relative

10. Take the hotness number (1-10) of the girl you are trying to hook up with. Divide that by 3 and round up. That’s the number of times you owe your friend wingman duty. It is part of the ever lasting cycle and you sacrificed your time to be a wingman when you thought you had a chance hooking up with the hot blond from the bar…

If you have other rules, and I hope you do, please add them in the comment section and if they are cool I will throw them on the blog. If not they are getting tossed because I said so.

Brrr….Beer

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If my organs all had cell phones

Ok folks, I have been the most degenerate blogger on this side of the Mississippi as of late, and just at a time when my readership has gone from 12 to 18 – a 50% jump for those of you doing the math at home. Well in not one, but two acts of retribution I will be posting every day for the next week. I have been writing ideas as they have come to me and there are a plethora of blogger topics. And secondly, I am in negotiations to secure my first guest-blogger. Now I don’t want to jinx this because this could be an acquisition bigger than the A-Rod and Santana
contracts COMBINED. I will keep you updated.

So like me, over the past weeks I am sure the same question has been chipping away at your psyche, your very inner core. If some of your organs had cell phones and your cell number what would they be texting you? Now I know you are thinking – “DP, why wouldn’t they call?” My answer- come on lets be realistic and not get carried away." Well this conundrum could not remain buried in the inner workings of my insanity anymore, so I have decided to do us all a favor and do a little piece about it, and as a side effect you might actually learn that I have actually have a real college degree in biology and know a little about the human body…

Kidneys (they filter the blood) – “Drink more water dumbass. 3 liters a day? You are lucky if you get 1 liter. An no, Red Bull, Coffee, and Beer don’t count because they have water in them”

Heart (if you don’t know what heart does stop reading this because you are dumber than I) – “You need to get more aerobic exercise that is not simply playing Wii. Although Wii is the only way for nerds to develop muscles try going for a walk.”

Lungs (in, then out, then repeat 8 trillion times) – “You don’t smoke, except the occasionally cigar which is not too bad. So we have no beef right now. However, the liver is going to fucking kill you.”

Brain (I like to think of it like a miniature golf course) – “Orange tennis balls, Nutter Butter cookies, Papa Smurf, Legos, Reruns of Saved by the Bell….” – having read more than one blog do you think I actually have any real intelligent brain activity??? Writing this blog already gives me a headache.

Stomach (the workhorse of my body) – “Seriously, you try and eat healthy all week and we are making some real progress, then you go an dump two milkshakes, a double cheeseburger, and two orders of fries in me??? And no less at 4:12AM. What a jerk!”

Small Intestine (where most of your food is absorbed) – “I hate you. No, I am not just saying that. I really hate you. All I get is the junk you eat, and you expect to be in good shape. Think again dipshit. I love fried chicken as much as the next body part, but who the hell eats it for breakfast???”

Pancreas – “Blah Blah Blah Blah” If you aren’t a doctor/biology major no one knows what the pancreas does…

Liver (filters all the toxins out of your body) – I saved the best for last) – “I fucking quit. I can’t do this shit anymore. Alcohol is good for you, but Jesus Christ – you have to be the drunkest motherfucker I have ever seen. You know what day I like best. Mondays. Yea I said Mondays – the day everyone hates. Monday is the only break I get during the week when you aren’t throwing back some kind of whiskey or beer. Hell, I would even settle a light beer now and then. Because we have had such a long standing relationship, I have crafted a letter, because who breaks up over text message…

Dear Drunken Polar Bear,

We certainly have had some good times. And by we, I mean you, you jackass. As your liver I understand that I am supposed to clean out the toxins from your body, and expected that alcohol would be one of them, but my god son – you have a drinking problem. When you discovered booze in high school it was kinda like stretching my muscles, but your freshman year in college got me working overtime. I thought when you graduated college I might get a little bit of a break. Apparently, you disagreed and your binge drinking has continued. Although you never tried to sell a piece of me on the black market in Eastern Europe, I am packing it in. At this pace you are going to kill me with cirrhosis in a year or two. So…

Fuck it, I’m out
Your liver


Brrr...Beer

My Inspiration

No words, analogies, or weird graphs today. After searching for the perfect video, I have finally found the best way to unveil my role model and source of inspiration for this blog - Barney Stinson of "How I Met Your Mother"

I tried to drag the YouTube video directly onto the page, but I am a technical moron. Getting this blog up and running was just about as far as my geek IQ can stretch.

So here is the link to 6 and half minutes of awesome:

6:27 minutes of awesome

And of course accompanying blog:

Barney Blog