23 December 2008

Necessity Is The Mother Of Invention - Part Two

You may recall that a few months back you were introduced to the Black & White Trash, or Black & Red Neck as my cousin mistakenly calls it. Well, it didn't take us very long to "invent" another alcoholic classic.

What to do when people have been making Irish Car Bombs for half the evening, but then run out of Guinness? Well, a wise man would kick those people out of his house for being unrepentant alcoholics, but no one has ever accused me of being overly wise.

As I had a friend in town over this past weekend, and he is very much a fan of Samuel Adams Boston Lager, we had plenty of patriotic beer on hand. And, since I was holding band practice on Saturday evening, there were plenty of handy alcoholics about. Someone was remarking how they never drew the connection between the Irish Car Bomb drink, and the IRA. Someone else was remarking how they were out of Guinness, so no more car bombs. Yet a third person was using the "Sensuous" line to request a Sam Adams. And the gears in my head started whirring.

I give you...

The Boston Tea Party:Now, I was out of Beefeater London Dry Gin, which would have been my first choice for something to toss into a Boston Lager. We were forced to use Jameson whiskey instead, which made for a "smoother" drink (and less vomiting), but wasn't the authentic "English product into Boston liquids" experience I was shooting for.

So, the drinkable recipe is:
1 Sam Adams Boston Lager
1&1/2 to 2 shots Irish whiskey

Mix & drink. Repeat.

The still untested, but more true recipe is:
1 Sam Adams Boston Lager
1&1/2 to 2 shots Beefeater Gin
1 handful of Willy Wonka's Everlasting Gobstoppers.

Swallow a handful of gobstoppers WHOLE. Act like you're swallowing marbles. Once you get ten or twelve in your gut, put the candy away.
Mix beer and gin. Drink. Repeat until vomiting occurs. Savor the clack-clack-clack noise and beautiful colors resulting from yorking up everlasting gobstoppers. It's like your own little patriotic fireworks display.

My potential guinea-pigs for this new drink had the following editorial remarks about the "true" version, especially the gobstoppers:

It was good to have Tubbs in town for an evening. As usual, he impressed the ever-loving-shit out of everyone with his mastery of every instrument in the room within eleven minutes. Even instruments he'd never played before. Even things that weren't instruments. I think he played the drapes for a song or two. Best drape solo ever, man.

I managed to record a song or two by him before he escaped into the late morning cold.

Mërry Kristmas

Since it is the holidays, and I'm feeling generous, your Krëg's Klassic Kristmas Kard is a two-fer this year:
Note: That was my cousin's nasty cig in the ashtray, smelling up my house.

19 December 2008

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Please bring me a Fender Telecaster with a fast neck. Alternately, a Rickenbacker Model 350V63 would be acceptable if you can't find the Tele, since those toater-top pickups run deep.

Or a hooker.



P.S. - A FEMALE hooker this time please.

15 December 2008

All employees must wash hands.

Yesterday at noon, it was around 70ºF here. By 7:30 in the evening it was spitting ice onto the ground.


Some crazy stranger attacked a woman in the common-area ladies room at my work Friday evening. According to our receptionist, he tried to strangle her with "something latex" before she head-butted him and escaped. They know it was latex because she is allergic to latex and she had a reaction. The woman, who is a receptionist for another company located in my buliding, did not know her attacker. Oh, and the police don't think it was a sexual thing. So it looks like he was just out to strangle someone in the ladies room on a Friday night. Sheesh, and people are always trying to tell me there isn't much to do in Tulsa!

The police have not captured her attacker and have no leads.


School is done for the semester, thank sunny jesus!

13 December 2008

Boomer Sooner

Congratulations to Sam Bradford. What a pimp. Total class during his acceptance speech.
And nice cock-block on Tim Tebow. Archie Griffin is safe for another year.

10 December 2008


I've been spit-balling Christmas card ideas for the past few days, and although I think I've decided what my final will look like, I wanted to share a few of the other ideas that almost made the cut.

That's mistletoe, by the way. You know, as in "kiss my ass"? Sorry, my Paint skillz are a bit lacking lately.

Number two is even dumber:

These two were rejected for two different reasons (I don't have easy access to mistletoe, and nipples aren't quite funny enough), but I thought I'd share them just the same.

Also, a mistletoe mustache would rule.

Gogol Bordello - Wonderlust King (It's like gypsy-punk)
Horse Feathers - Curs In The Weeds
Bob Dylan - Blind Willie McTell
Everyone's Favorite

09 December 2008


I am often reminded of how lucky I am that my job requires almost NO interaction with people outside of my company. I know scores of people who are forced to deal with the public on a daily basis, and most of them walk away at the end of a day with swelling contempt for their fellow man.

This site just reinforces my belief that I'm better off not working with the outside world.

04 December 2008

Kristmas Kard

So, having received my first Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah card yesterday (featuring my cousin's darling sixteen-month-old angel), I realized it is time to begin thinking about the composition of this year's Krëg's Klassic Kristmas Kard (available in digital format ONLY -- print your own, asshole). Last year's gem was inspired by my recent separation and pending divorce. I wanted to highlight the lonely, desperate freedom of being newly single. I think I captured it nicely.
This year, I feel I'm in a much more comfortable place. Plus, I've dropped twenty pounds. So my only real dilemma is whether to wear more clothes or less clothes for this years Kard.

Mickey and the Reverse Stranger

Hey, does anyone know why underwear/jeans/pants/glasses (optical, not drinking) are called a pair even though there is only one object? I ought to write my congressperson about that. What other singular items can you think of that are called a "pair"?

I've been needing some new jeans for a few months now. My old ones were a little loose in the waist, because my ex-wife got half of my body-fat as a condition of our divorce. Although I still have some old jeans from before sedentary married life made me krëgnant and exploded my waistline, those old pairs were looking a bit threadbare. Also, it appears I tried to nurture some denial and wear one pair into the second trimester of my krëgnancy, as the button-hole for the top button is blown out.

So I went to a few local department stores a few nights ago before "band" practice to see what was available. I was thrilled to discover that my waist now matches my inseam, so now I only need to remember one number when shopping for pants. Sweet! Less brain clutter! However, I was saddened to discover that the store was out of my favorite color of denim, a color I like to call "nerd-indigo".

A few hundred phases of the moon past, when I was in high school, this particular shade of pant was the LEAST socially acceptable. If ever a teenager needed to signal from afar a desire to be outcast and isolated, jeans this color were a safe bet. Also, if one was unlucky enough to have parents that "didn't understand" or "weren't cool," it was a sure thing one would end up in these dark blue life enders.

At least, that's how I felt back then. Fifteen (twenty) years later, I've come to love nerd-indigo for its rock-bottom prices, durability, and ability to hide gravy stains. Further, after roughly two hundred cycles through the wash, they fade out nicely, just about the time they get broken in. So these days, I'm all about the nerd-indigo.

There's only one problem.

I can't find the color ANYWHERE anymore. I tried three different stores, and got blank looks from most clerks. "You know, the color only a total dork would wear? Really dark blue?" Nothing. At the third store (Macy's), I found some pretty dark pants, and better still, they were in my size. I went to the fitting room, but before I could even put them on, I saw a problem. I took them out to the octogenarian clerk and told her that the store had stocked defective pants. "Oh no, sir. Those pants are supposed to have permanent wrinkles at the cuffs and the backs of the knees. That's the style now." What? Now it is stylish to have permanent wrinkles in clothes? Fuck, I guess I was being a trend setter during all my college years. Also, apparently this depression-era old lady knows more about fashion than I do. She's so cool, she's probably going to an all-night rave later. Ecstasy, glow sticks, pot, techno, whip-its ... she'll be into it all. Suddenly, I felt like a fourteen-year-old dork again. Sweet.

Settling for a few pair of less-indigo jeans (sans wrinkles), I began to make my way back downstairs and towards the exit. As I neared the doors to the parking lot, I encountered an elderly couple helping another man into his jacket. Closer inspection revealed that the third man was probably about fifty, and on the wrong end of the intelligence quotient bell-curve. I've always believed the tenet that it is impolite to stare at people (unless they have huge tits and/or are incredibly hot and sexy), so my eyes didn't linger long on the threesome. My mind on the other hand, began to try to tack a back story to them. The elderly couple were probably Mickey's (so named because of the Mickey Mouse on his jacket) parents. They had probably been taking care of his every need for the past fifty years. He was probably taken with them whenever and wherever possible, not only because he needed to experience the world, but also because the world needed the addition of Mickey's personality and character, such as it was. Probably.

As I walked to my car, I couldn't help but wonder what would become of Mickey over the next decade. His probably parents wouldn't live forever, and when they passed, Mickey's probably love-filled life would be irrevocably changed. Would he end up in a group home? Would he wind up on the streets? And why the hell did my brain suddenly seem to give a sh!t?

In order to eradicate my depressing line of thinking, I quickly rewrote my imaginary back story. The elderly couple was probably Mickey's court-appointed guardians, who had to step in after Mickey's probably opiate-addicted mother was sent to prison for probably committing lewd acts with a mule. His guardians were probably buying Mickey some warmer clothes so he wouldn't get too cold waiting in the car while they probably did meth at a rave with the Macy's clerk. Yeah, that's a better scenario. ... No wait. It isn't. Well, fuck it then.

I drove home while banishing all thoughts of Mickey from my head. As the rest of the "band" trickled in and began to warm up on their instruments (Bottles of Köstriker and glasses of Bulleit), I was feeling more like my normally cynical self. We rolled through our set list while sipping and bullsh!tting. Shortly after our rough cover of Common People (NOT the Pulp version), the drummer stood up and shook his legs one at a time.

Drummer: "Fuck. My nuts went numb!"
Me: "Numb junk?!? Sweet! You could give yourself a reverse stranger!"
Banjo/Mandolin player: (fake voice) "Whose grimy balls are these? Whose pipe am I slapping around? Oooh! Dirty boy!"
Bass player: "Wait. Would the reverse stranger be gay?"
Everyone: "Yeah. Totally. Yes."

(five second pause)

Everyone: "I'd still try it once. Yeah. Totally. Yes."

Oh! I think pantyhose also come in "pairs", even when they're hooked together at the crotch. Conjoined twin bank robbers would probably prefer that kind.

02 December 2008

Goodmorning Sunshine

My morning went something like this:
Slap the 'snooze' button five or six times.
Let the dogs outside.
Brush teeth.
Brush teeth.
Brush teeth.
Brush teeth.
Go to work.
Feel awful until lunch.

I'm guessing I must be pregnant and have morning sickness.

24 November 2008

Monday Wanderings

Breakfast was a glorious thing this morning. Waffles. The science museum in Golden Gate Park was pretty groovy too. Tonight, it's off to see Ben Sollee at a cafe.

Day Three

--Day three of internment--
Dear journal,
My captors still torment me, insisting that I eat dim sum with my brother and Hillary and my cousin Dave and his girl Annie.

Then they flogged me to search in vain for an open bar in the financial district on a Sunday. They cruelly separated us, insisting we drop David and Annie someplace crowded and then head back to The Ramp (they are trying to break me with repetition, as I was there yesterday) for alcohol and sunshine.

My captors then returned me to the cruel prison, where I was left with no other choice than to loaf in a casual manner on the couch for a few hours while drinking bourbon. They treat me like an animal, and that's exactly what I've become.

The inhuman living conditions are worsened when I was cast out into the harsh cold of the night and forced to watch screen-projected moving images before finding myself the victim of barfly syndrome, a condition that manifests near the bottom of pint glasses and carries such side effects as blurred memories and excessive smoking.

I don't know how much longer I can hold out under these oppressive conditions. My liver grows weaker as I try to cling to my remaining shreds of humanity.

In other news:

Tech 21 Oklahoma 65 while the fog rolled in and I got shitfaced and ate Indian chow.

Shortly thereafter, I witnessed Bela Fleck playing sh!tty CHRISTMAS MUSIC. Not impressive. I haven't even had my turkey yet, asshole.

I woke up on the couch holding an empty pizza to-go-slice box at some point last night, and then stumbled off to bed.

Vacations rule.

22 November 2008


Saturday. Part 1 - Daylight. Off to watch the Sooners.

19 November 2008

No Holds Barred!

The line between wrestling and goatse blurs.

Real post later. Promise.