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

Cigar Bars

Time to continue the nighttime serial posting. I will make this one brief because I am tired, but just had to share…Cigar bars…

So I just got out of the shower and it is 12:30PM. I didn’t go for a run or get wildly drunk and decide to play battleship in the tub like I do on many occasions. I reeked of cigars after spending a good 5 hours in a cigar bar and boy is that smoke hard to get out of your skin and hair (and I basically have no hair). So why then would I write about this – because I can….ahaha

So I am not a big cigar smoker. I don’t think I have smoked a cigar in about 2 or 3years, but when some guys at work put together a guys night I couldn’t pass on the night. Guys nights are few and far between so I jumped right on. What a fantastic night – we went to one of the 4 remaining cigar bars in NYC because of the smoking ban. There are only 4 goddamn bars left – can you believe this? I understand not having cigarette smoking in bars, but there should be more than 4 bars in which you can smoke cigars. I am now convinced cigar smoking is badass – and this is why:

6:45PM: Arrive at bar and am worried I may have to roll up my sleeves because this place looks classy. Oak bar and big lounge chairs, all men, and hot women waitresses – my interest is suddenly awoken.

7:05PM: First beer arrives, brought by hot waitress – basketball games are on and the place smells like wonderfully flavored tobacco and scotch.

7:45PM: Burgers arrive and third round of beers. Burger is so big that I have to squeeze it to fit it in my mouth. The place is filled with me bullshitting in loud volume now.

8:00PM: Spanish/Mexican band starts playing and hot women just magically appear dancing in a very Shakira-like manner 3 feet from my head. Still working on the burger in a comfy chair. This place rocks.

8:45PM: Dinner gone and the cigars and single malt scotch arrive. Ladies keep dancing around to music. Cigars with single malt are sooo soo good. Sitting and relaxing with the aroma of cigars is unmatched.

9:30PM: Next round of scotch and still working on the same cigar. 30 year-old girl walks over and starts talking to me. In the conversation she asks if the group I was with “was having a business meeting”. Seriously – its 9:30 and we are drinking and cursing – that would be one hell of a business meeting. Who cares, this girl likes steak, potatoes, cigars and scotch. I contemplate proposing.

10:45PM: Cigar gone and more beers ordered. This place rocks. It has totally transformed into a speakeasy type bar and this is awesome.

11:30PM: Leave the bar – SOBER! This is a first, but cigar bars are awesome.
No theories or categories or analogies – just scotch, beer, cigars and burgers tonight.

Walk of Shame or Pride? Part II

I am breaking my personal record with three posts today. I just can’t help it. I wrote about the walk of shame and feel so obligated to my readers to provide a story of my most famous walk of shame. Get ready for this one…

So its winter 2006, and it’s time for the annual company holiday which is a black tie event. I throw on my tux and instantly visions of 007 Bond fill my head – I will save that for another day. Holiday party goes well and my tux has done its work – a girl finds me attractive. My attractiveness is some combination of booze, a tuxedo, and the chocolate fountain this place had. Well after the after party at a bar, I receive the golden invite back to the nice young lady’s apartment. I feel like I have just got the last “golden ticket” to go see the Willy Wonka factory. We hop in a lovely NYC cab and on the way back to her place.

Now the real fun starts. So we get back to her place and we….now what kind of person do you think I am? Do you think I would really recount the exploits of this wonderful holiday night and tarnish the image of this lovely girl? Well from what you have read, if any, this might seem like the obvious next step in the story, but I am going to skip it. Lets just say we “watched a movie”, but not the entire feature film.

So time comes for me to leave (I of course get my pants), but oh shit I am in NYC, in a tux, its 7AM and I have to be at work in 2 hours. Can I go to work like this? Dress clothes from the day before is one thing, but there is no way I am pulling off wearing a tuxedo to work on a casual Friday. I gotta get home, but this requires quite a hike and crossing state lines. So I get up, throw on all my clothes and say fuck it, I am not embarrassed, and still look good in a tux so I can go home like this. Now keep in mind I am in a full tuxedo, with the tie hanging around my neck and an ear to ear grin on my face, ready to make a 3 leg journey home:

1st leg – 2.5 block walk to the PATH passing people on their way to get morning coffee, the paper or early birds on their way to work. I get a couple glances, but I am walking a good pace so I don’t notice much.

2nd leg – The longest. A 30 minute ride across(under) the Hudson to get home. Now I am making the reverse commute so the train isn’t packed, but there are still a lot of people on their way to work and there I am sitting on the train in a somewhat wrinkled tux, neck hanging from my neck, smile on face and smelling like expensive single malt scotch. I am in all my glory and even get a nod and a couple smirks from the guys on the train because they knew I was on my way home. Now I didn’t get an evil eye, but there were definitely some disapproving stares from the women on the train.

3rd leg – The hilarious part. Exit the train into a station full of young professionals on their way to work. I am in full stride and still with a beaming smile. I got ass last night and they are all on their way to work so I am clearly in the advantage here. Every third person does a double take as a I stream by them with one resolute goal on my mind – not to make it to work, but to make it Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. I have earned it and normally don’t indulge in the Double D (Dunkin Donuts) for breakfast – tis the season. Still in full stride I blow through the doors and get in line. My sausage egg & cheese on an everything bagel is only 3 people away. I get to the counter, place my order, pay and as I am getting my change back the 50-year old Indian man working the counter says – “Had a good night kid?” – yes sir I did. Most people in a walk of shame would grab their breakfast to go. I sat there eating my sandwich and savoring my coffee because it was tasty. There were many more looks, but I was getting used it now, and I don’t blame them. I was in a full tuxedo at 7:45AM in a Dunkin Donuts. Unfortunately, the 1 mile walk home was uneventful, but it was one hell of a walk of shame. More of a walk of black tie style.

That picture is of Miranda Kerr again - I won't say the walk of shame was home from her apartment, but the girl slightly resembles her...

Walk of Shame or Pride?

Because I have been such a slacker, I am going to make this the first double post day in a while, and this one may just get your attention. We already covered one-night stands, but I would be remiss if I didn’t rant about the glorious walk of shame, the bastard step child of the one-night stand. Whether it’s a college hook up or good old American one night stand everyone has done the walk of shame. More intricate versions of the walk of shame include taxi rides, calling friends to pick you up or various forms of public transportation. For the purpose of this intricate art of bullshitting I call blogging, let’s use a typical Friday night at the college of your choice as the example as we examine the precursors, causes and effects of the walk of shame from both the male and female perspective. You may see a difference here between how a guy and girl treat the walk of shame:

Friday Pre Game
Guy: Drink with other guys while playing video games or watching a guy movie planning what girl(s) you are going to try and conquer tonight
Girl: Spend 1 hour getting ready while going through multiple outfits and have boxed wine

Friday Party
Guy: Drinks a lot really quick to get drunk and have courage to talk to young co-eds, finds a nice young lady who actually thinks he is charming when he is drinking. Girl may be drunk, but she invites him back to her dorm room to “watch a movie”. Guy gets nods of approval from group.
Girl: Drinks at a steady, marathon-like place, moving at regular intervals from tipsy to buzzed to drunk. Finally, the alcohol gives them licenses to accept the advances of a certain guy at the party. They also accept an invite to “go watch a movie” in the guy’s room.

Friday Late Night
Need I elaborate on this – come one we are all adults. If you didn’t know, “watching a movie” is the most obvious code for hooking up or baby-making. It happens in dorm rooms all across American and its probably happening as you read this post – God Bless College.

And now for the good part…

Saturday Morning (assuming you weren’t class and stuck around for breakfast)
Girl: Find your heels. You wore heels out last night as part of your classy outfit, but they easily get tossed in the shuffle of “watching a movie”. Poke the guy who you went home with last night and who is still in his bed. If you get a grunt, that is probably the best goodbye you are going to get – so take that as a positive note that you so ravaged the guy that he is exhausted. Start the walk home through the quad or down the street back to your dorm. Your head is down in an equal mixture of shame and the fact that your makeup went buckwild and migrated around your face. You don’t look up at any people passing by and will even go so far as the walk 4 blocks out of the way to avoid Jen from your Chem lecture. There is no way you are going to pass ofd the outfit you have on now as something you put on this morning, so you walk with the acceleration of an Olympic speedwalker. You hit your dorm doors and have made it through campus without running into any early morning tours or friends. You sneak down the hallway to get to you room. Half the hallway to go…6 doors….3 doors…. “Hi Becky, that outfit looked great on you LAST NIGHT!” You have been caught and oh the rumor mill is put in motion

Guy: Find your pants. Pants are important no matter if you are making pancakes or raking leaves. Get up, say goodbye to girl who found you drunkenly attractive. Time to get home and walk through the quad, down the street or however you get home. Unlike the girl, this is no walk of shame – this is a walk of pride. Your head is held higher than if you graduated with high honors from Harvard. You just got ass last night – no one questions the quality (looks) of the girl – you got ass nonetheless my friend. There is no shame in this walk, only strutting. You have an extra bounce in your step and most likely a smile on your face. You see other guys on their walk home and nods are exchanges and even high fives. Your clothes even appear as if they are fresh because guys always dress like slobs. This glorious night may even inspire you to go eat breakfast on a weekend in the caf (which despite popular opinion, does serve a meal before brunch on the weekend).

Thus we conclude the glorious comparison of the walk of shame. It happens everywhere and at all ages and to various degrees. My sophomore year of college I had a house on the main drag at school and had to be up early (9AM) to go to practice on the weekends and was witness to this ritual on a weekly basis. Fantastic.

Brrr…..Beer

Musings in a Coffee Shop

Again, I proceed to get lazier and lazier with this blog, but oh well. Maybe as the weather warms up so will my creativity. I am not working today, but have been furiously been trying to catch up on thesis work – maybe that’s why I haven’t posted, but it’s probably just because I have been ultra-lazy. However, Panera to the rescue. Yes – Panera, that wonderful hybrid of Starbucks and a high-class deli. It is essentially my library because the recliner, DVD player, dartboard and flat screen in my apartment absolutely ruin any chance I have of doing any real school work.

So I get to Panera about 11:30 this morning to get a good start in cranking out a couple more pages so I don‘t fail out of grad school (although at this point I think they would just pass me to get me out of their school). Now sitting in a Starbucks or any other coffee-type place is like a battle specifically in seating – it’s like a high school cafeteria. Let me elaborate:

Window Seats – for the ultra social people who come with books and newspapers, but really want to talk to everyone.

“Outlet” Seats – the most coveted seats for those working on laptops with no real battery charge and need an outlet. Finding one of these seats is like uncovering a hidden bottle of Grey Goose at the back of your freezer. Hell, people even go so far as to stalk people as they are packing up to leave. In my cruel ways, I frequently fake packing up just to fuck with these people. This will most likely come back to bite me in the ass one day.

Comfy Seats – each coffee place has 3 or 4 chairs that are the most comfortable thing in the world. Even if you went to the trendiest furniture store you wouldn’t be able to get the cushiness of these couches because they have been worn in by thousands of coffee drinkers. These bastions of backrest are usually snatched up by “trendy” people who are reading post-modern novels in another language because reading Jean-Paul Sarte at a table is an insult to the French intellectual movement of the 1880’s – duh!

Back Back Seats – tucked all the way in the bowels of the coffee shop, it is like a morgue back where these seats are. They are essentially the Upper Deck of the coffee shop without the drunk fireman yelling for D. Wright to hit a home run. People back here are writing long papers or on a strict deadline for work. You talk on your phone or even get a text message and you will get the evil eye and possibly spear tackled (which I would pay to see).

Counter Seats – the last option of seats. Everything else is taken up and there are only two tables left next to the counter and right between the Kenyan coffee bean sale and the remnant Christmas crap they are trying to unload on you. Even with your iPod blaring some classic Hendrix, there is no way you will be able to block out the “baristas” shouting their orders – triple, non-fat, light-foam, skinny, mocha espresso – What???? Nobody can last in this seat for more than 15 minutes are you will eventually feel the need to get up and yell – “Just order a large goddamn coffee!”

As a side note, or post-script, this is the first time I am in a coffee shop during the day and during the week. My traditional cohorts of students and corporate junkies are at work or in class. I thought the coffee shop would be empty and I would be able to pump out some pages. Not a chance in hell. I have discovered a world I had all but forgotten about – moms and kids. I am not exaggerating one bit by saying I see 11 strollers and upwards of 25 kids running around Panera right now. And when the hell did strollers get all pimped out? I swear some of these strollers are nicer than my last car – I am convinced one of them may actually have a plasma TV in it and possibly a Wii. Moms and kids (not old enough to be in school) rule the coffee shops during the week it seems. They team up to eat lunch in groups, but even acknowledge other groups of Moms with a simple, very guy-like nod of approval – the kind when you see a guy take a hot girl out of a bar. The one benefit – MILF mania. These moms are definitely taking good care of themselves these days…and I contemplate the career of a male nanny or Manny.

OK – back to work…

Brrr….Beer

Bachelor Series: 6-pack of Bachelor Eats

Again, it has been a long while since I have written. Creativity has once again eluded me like Road Runner and Wiley E. Coyote cartoons. I just can’t find either. Then I got to thinking and figured why not just write about myself and the wonderful bachelor lifestyle. Inflating my ego can’t hurt. Now I know you are thinking the same thing I am. DP, can one entry really sum up the fantabulous lifestyle you live? No – and thus we have the wondrous and magnanimous (yea I got a word of the day calendar) birth of “The Bachelor Series” – your front row ticket to the seedy underbelly of a northeastern bachelor…buckle up and get ready to be offended in every imaginable way. First stop on this tour – food. Really, I am going to attempt to write a whole post about food because I had a good dinner tonight.

Everyone eats. America more than anyone else as is evident by all the show on TV in which losing weight has become a contest. But as a bachelor you follow a completely different and obscure diet. The food pyramid you learned in grammar school is as useless as tits on a bull (I love that expression). I don’t have any cool graphics for my food system because I am lazy and can’t draw so you will have to use your imagination when I describe…..drum roll please…the “6 pack of bachelorhood eats”

#1 – Beer
Come on. Were you really surprised that this was the first group? Beer not only provides essential carbohydrates but also supplies the body with alcohol – a heart healthy compound that also serves to relax you after those long days or weeks at work. Even more – beer comes in a variety of flavors – pilsner, stout, lager, ale, white, etc and lots of brands.
Note: Beer also serves as a hallucinogen when drank is mass quantities making ugly women seem attractive and causing bad decisions.

#2 – Take Out
Ahhh yes – where else can you eat quesadillas, General Tso’s chicken, and a milkshake for dinner? You can’t in one place and thus God’s wonderful creation of take out. In any robust city you will be able to sample a veritable United Nations of culinary options on any given night. Pro bachelors not only know how to order from multiple restaurants to assemble one meal and have an account with delivery.com, but they know how to time multiple orders to be picked up on the way home – for less than $10!!

#3 – Bagels/Sandwiches
Everyone eats bagels and sandwiches, but only bachelors take eating them to a new level. Selection of your bagel place is a very delicate process and given more consideration than pregnant women give when choosing what MD will deliver your bagel. The perfect bagel place must be in walking vicinity, have good food, good service, a hot counter girl and an old man who will memorize your funky sandwich order after only a few visits. And because he knows how to make what your dub (in my case) the “turkey tornado” (pepper turkey, American cheese, mayo, Boar’s hear honey mustard on a fresh everything bagel) he gets your repeat business.

#4 – Meat
Who says that having a T-Bone with a side of chicken wings is bad for you? Protein builds muscles and after the three bagels you had for breakfast you don’t need anymore carbs. However as a bachelor, your meat choices when not eating out are limited to the following; red meat, chicken, sausage, and whatever is in my chili. When you maturity and age have taken over you will learn the differences among the different kind of red meats, but for now if it bleeds you will eat it.

#5 – Cereal/Granola Bars/Fruit/Any other healthy shit
Now and then, after you have downed a half-pound cheeseburger drenched in BBQ sauce with seasoned fries and 3 lagers, you feel a modicum of guilt about what you just ate. In these cases bachelors eat whatever is deemed “healthy” in their apartment. “Healthy” can be anything from Resse’s Puffs to Chewy bars to milkshakes to actual real fruit. If it has something that is remotely healthy than it makes you feel better about the 5000 calories your lunch entailed. This unnatural common senses usually lasts all of a couple hours until a roommate/friend decides to order out for pizza or wings. As a bachelor, you don’t really have to worry about all that cholesterol nonsense just yet. Hell most bachelors can still eat like crap and exercise most of it away. It’s a gift that is eventually stolen away along with one’s youth and alcohol tolerance.

#6 – Drunken, Post-Bar Food
Alas my favorite category and thus saved for last. Bachelors know how to party and drink obviously, but they are the finest connoisseurs in the inebriated-fueled culinary arts. Post-bar food selection normally encompasses pizza, McDonalds or a dinner. However, the real superstars in the bachelor category have honed their drunken food selection to include such rare gems as late night Mexican burritos, all-night bagel places and the Holy Grail of post-bar food – Johnny Rockets. Drunken Post-bar food is bad for you 99% of the time and you always regret eating it the next morning (especially when you taste the Rodeo burger you had at 4 AM), but food will never ever taste so good – except when you are eating it off the chiseled abs of a Brazilian supermodel.

Next up in the bachelor lifestyle – dressing for success with as little effort as possible…


Brrr….Beer

5-year Post-College Plan

So I have again fallen behind on the blogging. Blame school, work, and mostly laziness. Well another great idea came on the bus today. I am going to hit my second parade of the St. Pats season this weekend in the lovely town of my alma mater which had me reflecting on my post-collegiate lifestyle – and by lifestyle I mean the major adjustments I had to make to actually be a member of the adult-working world. So lets all go for a ride on (get ready for another theory) the 5-year post-college plan

Graduation – 1 year
That’s right you’ve graduated. Maybe 4 years. Possibly 5. 6 – way to be a dumbass. Either way you are not allowed at school anymore for fear of being that creepy guy. If you are smart you take the summer off to travel, blow some graduation money or just bum around and drink. Those really ambitious graduates get these magical things called jobs, where you get money for going to an office all dressed up and play on the Internet all day. The nerdy ones decide that they love school so much they want to go to graduate school where all classes are at night – why????
Flip flops, jeans, t-shirts and your favorite baseball hat are still your “uniform”, but you have grown up and will not wear flip flops unless its 40 degrees of higher – very mature. Thursday, Friday Saturday and Sunday-Funday drinking are still the normal behavior, but you learn that beer costs money in bars and keg parties are few and far between. You go back to school every 6 weeks to relive the glory days and are not yet considered creepy.

1 year – 2 years
All nine planets have aligned and by some magnificent act of Thor (the might God of drinking) you are still employed and possibly the recipient of a bonus, raise or promotion. Some of your colleagues at work actually take you seriously because they don’t know what you do on the weekend. Your apartment has grown into adulthood with the addition of pictures on the wall and the occasional cleaning. The fridge space is half alcohol and half real food – some big steps.
You only drink three days a week and have some methods for dealing with hangovers at work. Binge drinking still occurs once or twice a week and you are still able to rebound from 90% of your hangovers. You hit up your old college 4-6 times, but no more than that. Hey – you actually own a suit that fits??? Holy crap. Flip flop level is now 50 degrees or higher.

2 years – 3 years
Routines are starting to dominate your life and you hold a steady job (maybe your 2nd though). Your are probably on your second apartment which has modern adult-like amenities such as a dishwasher and cabinets. Maybe even a kitchen table – but that may be a stretch. You are slowly starting to master this whole cooking thing, but you are still a master of the take out order – probably having discovered just when you have to order dinner to pick it up on your way home without breaking stride.
Your drinking days still number about 3 a week, but binge drinking isn’t so common anymore. Your start drinking the fancy drinks of those Madison Avenue snobs like Gin & Tonic or imported beer. Astonishingly you discover that wine is made by more than Pinto Grigio and Yellow Tail. Must be fancy French wine. You are the master of the Friday morning work hangover, knowing just what to do before bed and what breakfast to order so you don’t seem like a lush in front of the boss all the while laughing at the “kids” at work who just graduated and wreak of booze and cheap sex. Lounges slowly gain popularity as a Saturday night destination. College visits are rare – maybe 1-3 a year.

3 years – 4 years
WHHHAAT??? You are actually having discussions centered around politics, when you want to “buy” an apartment, and your 401K? Get the fuck out of here – you sound like my parents. Your living situation has vastly improved because you now have a parking space and are a regular at the local deli/coffee shop & gym because you are there every morning after the gym at 7? Damn you are getting up early. That’s ok – you go to bed at 10:00PM, eliminating all good TV programming from your life. You are probably in a “relationship” – one whose foundation isn’t from a kegger at your friend’s basement. You even have couple’s night – but don’t worry, you aren’t at “board game night” level just yet – but be careful Grandpa.
Binge drinking is all but gone from your weekly activities. However, you do go full force for St. Pats, Cino de Mayo and any other excuse to act like a college kid again. Don’t worry you haven’t regressed – its just some residual immaturity left over from college. Pubs and packed bars are juvenile to you and paying $9 for a flavored martini is classy. You will only go up to college for some networking or reunion type thing. Oh don’t worry – I didn’t forget about flip flops. They come out in the summer, but are no longer the staple choice for casual footwear.

4 years – 5 years
Why even bother at this point. If you haven’t bought an apartment/house you are definitely thinking about it. Hell, engagement or marriage is no longer something that is talked about abstractly. You ready for the “marriage circuit” in which you will attend 17 weddings in 4 years, and be a best man (1-2), in the wedding (3-4) and just a drunk attendee (the rest). You get lots of sleep, eat regular cooked meals and have some real responsibility at work – you may even manage someone! If you are a stand-up person, you mentor someone about the Friday morning hangover remedy. You can safely call yourself an adult and nobody laughs.
Drinking? What’s that? You don’t drink. You have cocktails and occasionally have one two many (which in your case in 4). Your tolerance drops to that of a high school sophomore. The plus side of this is that you are a cheap date, but dangerously close to being that drunk guy at the holidays and work functions if you have that extra martini. You only go to bars that have seats for everyone and collared shirts are the norm. College has become a distant memory – essentially as far away as 8th grade. Flip-flops (no I didn’t forget about them) are reserved only for the beach or “themed” BBQ’s which are lame but the only way adults can find excitement.

CONGRATS! – You are now an adult.

Disclaimer – this schedule/model doesn’t apply to everyone, but I am saying it applies to most people and I am the one writing this blog so I win but of course feel free to get drunk to disprove my theories.

Brrr…..Beer (yes I still drink beer)

Q&A: Beer, Women, Desert Islands & Penguins

Because I am still recovering from the alcohol induced/blackout weekend I have tapped into some outsiders to help with this next post. Older brother, aka Baseball Banker has agreed to interview me. I don’t know how this one will go, but I am bored and you are reading this, so you are too…

Who would win in a fight, a drunken polar bear of a rabid raccoon?
Fact – polar bears have a top sprinting speed of 25mph over short distances. However, rabid raccoons are fucking crazy. I once opened up a garbage can as a kid and a nutbag raccoon came flying at me. I threw a brick at is tale and it ran away. So therefore – I think I would win.

If you were marooned on an island can you please tell me the: (excellent use of the word marooned – a favorite of Bugs Bunny)
Woman you would want to take there?
Miranda Kerr or Stacy Kiebler (both of whose pictures I will use for no relevant reasons in coming weeks.)

The drink you would want to bring?
Yohoo – its not chocolate milk – but a chocolate drink which means it won’t go bad and it tastes sooooo good…I don’t know why its not that official drink of Zimbabwe

The board game you would want to bring?
Most people would say Monopoly. No way – I am going with Hungry Hungry Hippos despite not being a real board game – Hippos are very cool animals

The weapon of your choice?
A English broadsword – they are badass and completely useless on a desert island but cool to swing around

In what Olympic sport would a drunken polar bear best succeed?
Ski jumping – the kind where you go down the long slide – no need for skis and my weight will carry me way past everyone else

If you could have any job in the world what would it be?
Goalie for the NY Rangers – seriously who will shoot a puck past me – I AM FIERCE between the pipes

If you could switch lives with any person in the world who would it be?
The guy who gets to build all the big Lego models in stores, David Wright or Dierks Bentley

Is the drunken polar bear at all related to the polar bears on the Lost Island? If true do you have anything to do with the mysterious nature of the island.
They are my cousins and although I don’t watch the show they tell me they like to get drunk at night and fuck with the crazy people on the island. Don’t even get me started on the penguins…

If the drunken polar bear could cross-mate with any other species who would it be and why?
Perfection does not need to be messed with…how dare you!

While the polar bears and native to colder climates, how do you cope with the warmth of the New York Metropolitan area in the spring?
The same way humans deal with the ultra-cold weather. Alcohol in mass, mind-numbing quantities

How do you open beers with big paws?
My penguin sidekick Petey. Not only can he open a beer upside down, blindfolded, with one fin, but he knows Kung Fu

Please describe the qualities the drunken polar bear looks for in a mate.
Well I will have to answer this one in reference to the ideal Northeastern women – my apologies for the length, but as the concluding question a real DP-original answer is merited

Three Golden (Obvious) Rules
1.Can’t be stronger than me (I pretend to be strong)
2.Can’t be taller than me (I am decently tall)
3.Can’t have more facial hair than me

After that women are awarded “Bonus Points” on a sliding scale for all of the following:
-Looks – yes I am shallow, but I am not a charity
-Intelligence – dumb girls are like Netflix movies – you enjoy renting them for a couple days, but after a few days you want to send them back
-Sense of humor – mine is twisted and inane, but any kind is appreciated
-Blond Hair (although I don’t discriminated against other hair colors)
-Athletic but not enough to beat me in sports
-Ability to watch a sporting event on TV without commenting on the colors or cuteness of uniforms and knowing what team they are going to root for and why
-Ability to drink beer. Not binging drinking, but you gotta be able to have a Bud Light some days while relaxing and not drink fancy martinis all the time
-Ex dancers of any kind, except exotic. Flexibility is always appreciated…

Super Bonus Points – this are like deal clinchers
-She plays golf
-She knows who Erin Andrews is and understands why all men love her
-Jeans and a plain white t-shirt are part of your normal wardrobe
-You can bake sweet peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies (sexist I know, but who cares)
-She is an avid runner
-When you take her to a sporting event she makes an effort to wear a t-shirt, jersey or hat of your home team. Women pay special attention to this. This is the hottest you ever look to us even if you are all glammed up. Something about you rooting for our teams and in their apparel is ridiculously irresistible
-If you routinely wear a guys dress shirt and nothing else the night after a party or fancy event – its hot
-Most of all – A LOVE FOR BIG GOOFY ARTIC ANIMALS

Brr....beer

12 Drunken Hours

4 liters of water, 8 aspirin, 1 sandwich, & half a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. That was my diet yesterday because my body was so physically destroyed from 12 hours of binge drinking…and maybe some other stuff

Alcoholism - A disease in which a person craves alcohol, is unable to limit his or her drinking, needs to drink greater amounts to get the same effect, and has withdrawal symptoms after stopping alcohol use. Alcoholism affects physical and mental health, and causes problems with family, friends and work.

Hahaha – by that definition everyone I drank with Saturday is an alcoholic. Who do these fancy medical folks think they are. And “causes problems with family, friends and work”??? Well see how my Saturday went and you can see I was probably the most amusing person in town.

Note: I am not correcting any spelling or filtering any of this story although, by my count, I committed at least 5 crimes.

Friday night: On my way home from work I decided to stop and grab a six-pack from the grocery store. It was after 7 so I didn’t think it would be that crowded. Holy crap was I wrong. It was like it was the end of the world and beer and alcohol were the only currency. The lines were so long and people didn’t just buy a six-pack and a bottle of whiskey. This was like bulk alcohol buying. Five 30 packs was not out of the question. Walking through the parking lot, I saw 4 guys load up their entire trunk (to the brim) with beer and Jack Daniels. This is going to be a good weekend.

12:30AM: I am about to go to bed, but am too excited to sleep. Its like Christmas eve….oh boy oh boy.

8:30AM: Awake and excited. It snowed last night, but that’s all gone. Time to eat a bagel for the debauchery begins.

9:09AM: And it starts…..having my first black and tan watching some cartoons. Sweet nectar of the Gods – whoever discovered this should be given a Nobel Prize.

11:14AM: Just did jello shot on top of a double jameson big irish coffee and a pint of guinness. Its early and i already know i will be drunk by one in the afternoon. Already i am thinking what girls would be morally casual oh yea I am going to be creepy today

11:48AM: About to do a car bomb which will officially make me drunk before noon. Fantastic. I love being irish and irish girls and everything bagels with butter….

1:00PM: Fully drunk now and making an ass of myself but the women here seem to find my idiocy amusing for some reason awesomeness is in my grasp – more booze is needed

1:15PM: I am officially drunk and am playing kings with fuckin Candy Land cards – that girl from candy land is hottttt - i wish she was real - that would be sweet - ahaha i made a pun

1:17PM: Girls yes plural think i am attractive for some reason oh my and booo yah

1:54PM: Where is that girl from beforree? She thought i was cute because I was givin away beeads

2:02PM: Def drunk and where the fuck did everyone go and where are the ladiea

3:22PM: Drunk drunk drunk drunk (on my way to a 2-kegger)

3:23PM: and hungry – I want an omlettte with snickers

NOTE: This is about the point when I got hammered and proceeded to try and pick up a girl and her sister at the same time. I thought it was going smoothly - not so as I work 15 feet from this girl and she recoutned it on Monday morning by asking if I remember what her sister looked like. The next few hours are shaky and there are no text messages, but through eyewitness accounts I know:

I met some girl named Mary
There are 3 new numbers in my phone
I had to erase my text message in-box so god knows what was in there
I played a drinking game where I was the guy drinking as much as possible
I made friends with a small old man in Dunkin Donuts because I bought him a bagel and coffee. He talked about life, I mumbled to myself about beer and cartoons

The text messages pick up again

7:11PM: Whjoa boy

7:13PM: Granyted i have missewd many emails but roick on

8:29PM: Pizzzzzzzzzzza whereee are u

That’s where the text messages stop, but Tuna Titan filled me in on the rest of the night. He videotaped my bouncing around the apartment from 10-11ish. If that tape every gets out, I can never run for any public office but it was fucking hilarious to watch the next morning because on the tape:

-I admit to being drunk and herbally intoxicated (I can go no further on that one) every 45 seconds
-I proceeded to curse at the TV, Tuna Titan (multiple times), the people across the street having a party, the Harp in my fridge, the lack of milk for cereal, and George Carlin
-I put on my customized Ranger’s Hockey jersey and running shorts
-I spilled a 1.5 liter bottle of water
-I threw my keys at a laptop computer
-I dance around the apartment like a jackass like a drunk monkey
-I air high-five the hallway
-And best of all, I try for 2 hours to eat Ellios pizza with the motor skills of a drunk chimpanzee – in no way succeeding to get the paper towels off the bottom of the pizza and dejectedly stop eating it

11:30AM: asleep on the couch

4:00AM: get up to go to bed. Two girls are sleeping in my bed. Tuna Titan leaves a note on the door to leave them alone. I go back to sleep on the couch

8:30AM Sunday: I awake forgetting most of what happened after 5:00PM and feel as nauseating wave rush over me ever time I move.

4:30PM Sunday: 8 hours later I get up off the couch

Needless to say, most people would regret drinking this much. I don’t and will be drinking in a similar manner in 2 weeks at another parade. I probably won’t drink enough to kill a family of squirrels, but I now know what my daytime drinking limit is….

Brrr…beer

Rock, Paper, Martini???

This special abbreviated blog is brought to you by the fact that I am dead tired at work. DP, why are you so tired? Well to get read for Saturday’s St. Pat’s festivities I decided to go out and have a couple of beers. A couple of beers turned into:

Entering an official Rock-Paper-Scissor tournament winning 5 straight matches (1 against Tuna Titan) and making it to the finals only to lose to a hot blond, who had to have some kind of ESP abilities because she killed me. I lost the chance to get a $50 iTunes card, but did get Myspaced/Facebook stalked by her friend first thing this morning – kinda creepy being I only told her my name (which is always spelled wrong) on my way out of the bar.

Entering another competition where two Absolut girls challenged you to create the best drink. Finally my time to shine. Here is what took the grand prize (of a medium t-shirt):

The Drunken Polar Bear Martini

Chilled Absolut Vanilla vodka
2 dashes of mint schnapps
1-2 dashed of blue Curacao
1 York Peppermint Patty

Frosty, minty and refreshing as the snow of the south pole…..yum

The night ended with some serious playing of Rock Band where I learned Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” is hard to play on the guitar…

Brrr…..Beer (or special DP martinis)

Blogging St. Pats

Well as you can see in my previous post - I love St. Patrick's day and I kick off the St. Patrick's season (which is 2-4 parades and lots of green) this Saturday with the Hoboken parade. Drinking will start when I roll out of bed and grab a Harp bottle from my fridge and go all day.

More out of my own curiousity and wanting to experiment I am going to record the entire day's events and compile it into one blog. No I am not going to walk around with a laptop or run back and forth between parties/bars and my apt. I am going to send hourly text messages to my email account. As I suspect I will be drunk for 12 hours this is going to be hilarious....

The over under on how many girls I offend is at 9, but I would love to take bets...

Thats a Kerry Gaelic football jersey - which I love and will be wearing all day.

Holiday Drinking Circuit

So I haven’t been keep up with my posting responsibility as of late so I have put the photo to the right to make up for it. That's Miranda Kerr - absolutely amazing – but I do have two reasons.
1. Work & School have been killing me lately (and no, I am not getting my grad degree in Marine Biology, but that would be cool)
2. A massive creative drought – no theories, weird curves, acronyms or stuff that got me thinking. I have learned in advertising that “all great ideas come in the shower or on the bus” – and I had an epiphany of ideas in the shower the other day which will fill the week…

So lets do some SAT work:

Group 1: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Independence Day
Group 2: Thanksgiving Eve, New Year’s, St Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo

Now what’s the difference between the two groups? Obvious they are both lists of holidays, but they are different. How so DP? Well here we go on another theory…

The first group lists the tradition holidays that most everyone and kids enjoy, and for the majority of them kids get excited. Running down the stairs on Christmas or Easter morning, having a big dinner on Thanksgiving with everyone, or taking the long family vacation during the week of July 4th. All good times and the most popular holidays for the majority of Americans – except those in the 18 – 30 age range. They rock the second list of holidays.

The second list of holidays are what younger folks look forward to – not because they mean a day off of work (sometimes), but because they comprise the alcoholic holiday list – more appropriately named the Holiday Drinking Circuit (just think the classiness of the PGA tour mixed with booze of NASCAR). Just think about it. How excited are you when these holidays approach. You look forward to them more than Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter

Thanksgiving Eve: Come home see the family, eat a nice home-cooked meal, but the highlight of the night is heading out your hometown bar with similar friends who are coming home for the weekend. You run into everyone you went to school with, exes all the while trying to seem like you have made the best of yourself – best job, gf/bf etc etc. Meanwhile, everyone is getting slammed. A great night – biggest bar night in America and one you never miss.

New Years: Really don’t need much description here. You make New Year’s plans in September long before you even know where you are eating Thanksgiving. Never has so much pressure to have the most amazing night been put on one night – the second most prevalent single’s awareness night (after V-day) where heavy drinking slowly melts away the levels of uncomfortableness….Auld Lang Syne…

St. Patrick’s Day: In my opinion the best event in the “Holiday Drinking Race Circuit”. Now I am just about as American-born Irish possible, embracing Irish culture all year long – and I have no problem that everyone pretends to be Irish on St. Pats. The more the merrier. The highlight of St. Pats – the parades spread out through all of March. On each of these parade days, it is adult Christmas. Drinking starts earlier in the morning (even as early as 7AM at some parades) and all the 20’s year olds go to bed the Friday night before with the same excitement as little Johnny on Christmas eve – they can’t wait for morning to come because they go straight to hitting the bottle or beer can. Truly fantastic.

Cinco de Mayo: Never before have I seen such a non-American holiday embraced so much for two simple reasons – Corona & Margaritas. I tend to think that Jose Cuervo invented this holiday to boost sales, but regardless young folks pile in droves to bars that embrace some weak Mexican decorations or themes to entice everyone to drink tons. The best version I saw was girls in bikinis serving drinks all night. Cheap. Trashy. My kind of style.

So next time a holiday comes up – think which group it falls into and how much you will be drinking.