One of the best ways to piss off your server is to spend fifteen minutes to look over the menu, finally order something, wait until the server rings it in, and then flag someone down to tell them that you changed your mind. You are what is known in the industry as a “difficult guest”. I will never understand how anyone can order something and instantly change their mind. It’s perfectly acceptable if you want to change your fries for a salad, but you can’t change your order entirely. You either want a burger or you don’t. You either want fajitas or you don’t. How fucking indecisive are you? If you ordered the wrong thing, suck it up and accept your failure. There’s no need to stress out your server and undertip because you’re an idiot. Ordering something and instantly changing your mind will bring you bad karma. I can only hope that a bird shits on you when you leave the restaurant.
Café Racer 15 is a limited batch brew from Bear Republic Brewing Co. It’s a nice, strong Double IPA with an impressive 9.75% alcohol content. Long story short, it will get you drunk and it will taste good in doing so. They use four different kinds of hops (Citra, Amarillo, Cascade, and Chinook) that makes for an interesting flavor profile. I can taste fruity flavors like peach, mango, grapefruit, and even a little apricot, along with a piney resin taste with a nice malty finish. You really can’t taste the alcohol, but you can definitely feel it after a few swigs. It might be one of the most refreshing Double IPAs that I’ve ever had. If you’re lucky enough to spot one in the store, you should grab it. And then you should drink it. And then you should thank me for changing your life. My only complaint is that it’s a limited batch so I can’t get it whenever I want.
Almost everybody has a built-in drunk compass to guide them home when they are blacked out. It comes in handy when it’s 3:17 a.m. and you have work the next day. You just want to sleep in your own bed, and that’s when you have to surrender to your drunk compass. Your drunk compass knows how to navigate the public transportation system. It knows how to hail you a cab. It knows the best way home. It keeps you from losing your bag and your keys and phone and wallet. It keeps you from going down dark alleyways in bad neighborhoods. Unfortunately, some people are not in tune with their drunk compass. They either ignore it or can’t use it properly and they find themselves in sticky situations, both literally and figuratively. You have to respect your drunk compass. Let it guide you. Let it carry you home. But never abuse it, neglect it, or take it for granted. Your drunk compass will save your life.
You know that feeling when you need caffeine and you’re torn between an energy drink and a coffee? Me neither, but Starbucks came up with an energy beverage for that very occasion. They have a line of energy drinks made with green coffee extract called Refreshers. Strawberry Lemonade is one of their flavors. It has a muted strawberry lemonade taste. It definitely tastes fruity and there are hints of strawberry, but I can’t really taste the lemonade part. And even though it’s made from coffee extract, it doesn’t taste like coffee at all. Let’s see, what else can I say about this drink… Um, it has 60 calories and 13 grams of sugar and is 25% juice. And I think that’s pretty good for a coffee-based energy drink that doesn’t taste anything like coffee. It’s better than the Raspberry Pomegranate flavor, but I would still take a Red Bull any day of the week. And it’s Friday, so I’ll take a Red Bull.
I work in a restaurant in a tourist trap in a major US city and we hire a lot of temporary workers during peak seasons. If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, then you know that your coworkers are your family. And right now it’s the end of summer, so a lot of those seasonal workers have to go back to their real lives and I’ll never see them again. And it sucks to lose your family. So we compensate by having drinks in honor of their departures. Going Away Parties are always bittersweet. You meet an amazing person, you spend time with them, you get to know them, you can call them a friend, and then reality catches up with you and they have to leave and go back home. And for some reason you throw a party to celebrate them going away. It seems kind of fucked up, but it’s customary to feign happiness during sad times. Hence the fiestas. It’s never easy to say goodbye but alcohol makes it easier. And those fucked up Facebook photos ensure that you’ll never forget the people that abandoned you. Going Away Parties provide a sense of closure. It’s the end of an era, but everyone pretends that there will be a next time.
I was hanging out with some friends the other night and the beer supply was dwindling. We had about fifteen minutes to run down to the liquor store to grab some more beer before they had to stop selling alcohol. We got to the store with about three minutes to spare before they closed. We quickly decided on a twelve pack of Heineken, and I brought it up to the cashier to pay. He took a look at my box of beer and charged me $39.99 for it. As in forty fucking bucks for a fucking twelve pack of shitty pseudo-imported beer. Fourteen dollars I can understand, but forty dollars for a twelve pack is pretty extreme. I wish I could say that I left the beer on the counter and told the cashier to go fuck himself, but instead I bit my tongue and accepted the fact that I was being scammed. That’s an extreme case of outrageous overpricing, but your options are pretty limited that late into the night. We returned to the party and announced that we bought forty bucks worth of beer and everyone cheered. Then they got one beer. Then they were sad and still thirsty. I suppose it’s better than nothing, but I will never get myself into that situation again.
Small Steps is the sequel novel to Louis Sachar’s Holes. But instead of focusing on Stanley Yelnats, the hero of Holes, Sachar decided to turn a minor character into the main character. Holes is by far his best work, so I can’t understand why he would make the sequel be about a forgettable background character that you never cared about. And I don’t know why the publisher would let him do it. Small Steps is not a bad book, it’s just utterly disappointing a huge step in the wrong direction.
Theodore “Armpit” Johnson is trying to get his life back on track following his stay at a juvenile detention center. His progress his threatened by the reappearance of X-Ray, an old friend with a shady streak. X-Ray manages to convince Armpit to buy a bunch of tickets to the upcoming Kaira DeLeon concert, with the plan to scalp them and make a quick and easy profit. Of course shit doesn’t go to plan, and Armpit finds himself in over his head, dealing with cops, thugs, counterfeit tickets, racism, and a potential relationship with a famous pop star.
Holes is a book about destiny and fate. Small Steps is a book about finding out who you are and who you want to be. And even though they are part of the same series, they aren’t similar enough. They don’t fit together. And it’s kind of obvious that Holes was a passion project and Small Steps is a paycheck project. It’s not terrible, but I expect better things from a genius like Louis Sachar.
“Pull my finger” is one of the oldest jokes in human history. The setup is simple, you approach and unsuspecting person with your index finger extended, and you invited them to pull your finger. They oblige by grabbing your finger and pulling it, and that’s when you let one rip. You fart, and you fart loud and proud; the wetter, the better. If you fart loud enough, the victim will get embarrassed and you will get a high five from whoever witnessed it. Farts are funny, but you have to pick your moments. Never ask your grandparents to pull your finger, never attempt it at a dinner party, and avoid it at all costs during weddings and baptisms. Funerals are acceptable. Anything that distracts you from death is ok. The next time there’s a dull moment, or you experience a lull in the conversation, ask somebody to pull your finger and let that flatulence fly.
It’s fun to make fun of Ben Affleck. It’s easy too. But the internet is freaking out about the fact that he’s going to play Batman/Bruce Wayne in the Man of Steel sequel. There are a million reasons why he would suck, but there are also a million reasons why he would be great. And the internet would freak out no matter who was cast as Batman. It doesn’t really matter. People keep forgetting that this isn’t a Batman movie… It’s a Superman movie. There’s no doubt that Batman will need a decent amount of screen time, but the hero of the movie will inevitably be Superman. Plus there will be another villain that they must team up against, so Batman’s screen time will be limited.
Ben Affleck has had an interesting career. He was a child actor who managed to survive Hollywood. He broke onto the scene in cult classics like Dazed and Confused and Chasing Amy, and saved the world in Armageddon. And then he appeared in a bunch of flops like Daredevil and Gigli and Paycheck. His career seemed to stall, but then he took control of his future and started writing and directing. Personal projects like The Town and Argo got his career back on track, and he deserves to be given a second chance. Or third chance. I can’t remember how many times we need to forgive him.
The internet also freaked out in 2006 when Heath Ledger was announced as the new Joker. There was no way that pretty boy Heath Ledger could portray such a dark, sinister, and nuanced character. He pulled off the performance of a lifetime, but he died before The Dark Knight came out in theaters. He went to his grave thinking that the internet/the world hated his performance even though they hadn’t seen it yet. People say it was the role that killed him, but I think it was us. Let’s not kill Ben Affleck. Kevin Smith, his buddy and Batman aficionado, will keep him in line. Ben Affleck will never be considered a great actor. But he’s still a good one, so give him a chance and quit bitching that he’s the new Batman. You know you’re going to see that movie anyway.
The Macarena was a horrible song and dance routine that took the world by storm in 1996. The Macarena was a glorious fad that is still considered to be the greatest one-hit wonder of all time. It’s still also Billboard’s number one Latin song and the number one dance song. It was huge and it was everywhere. It was all over the TV, the radio, at sporting events, and at school dances. You knew how to do it, your baby sister knew how to do it, your dad knew how to do it, and even your grandma knew the fucking dance. And everyone still knows how to do it today. That’s pretty amazing. And it’s even more amazing that it conquered the world without any help from the internet. This was way before YouTube and streaming videos. It was a viral hit before we knew what viral was. And it makes me wonder how big it would have been if it was released today. I’m pretty sure that Los del Rio would be hanging out with Psy in the billion+ hits club. It would be one of the biggest memes of all time. Instead it’s just another thing to reminisce about from the ‘90s. Oh god, how I miss the ‘90s.
Last night was one of those crazy summer nights that never seems to end. I was partying and drinking and hanging out with friends all night. We started by pregaming, then we went to the club, then we went to an afterparty at a friend’s house, then we went to another afterparty, then we went on a hike to see the sunrise, then we hung out on a jungle gym, then we got some breakfast, and then I went home and finally slept after being awake for more than 24 hours straight. Staying up all night is something that you have to do a few times each year, just to prove to yourself that you’re still young and you’re still alive. You might feel like shit the next day, but that’s a small price to pay for surviving the night. There’s nothing quite like experiencing the darkness disappear into light and watching the world slowly wake up. There’s something surreal about empty streets coming to life. At first the only other people you see are sleeping bums, then you start to see people going to work and getting ready to start their day. They look at you and judge you and assume that you’re on drugs (and maybe you are), but you don’t care because your night was way better than theirs. And it’s still going on. Staying up all night means that you’ll sleep all day, a small price to pay for winning the night.
A food fight is when you throw food at other people. Sometimes you don’t want to eat any more food. Sometimes you want to throw a spoonful of mashed potatoes at whoever happens to be sitting across from you. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I encourage you to start a food fight. Don’t throw any hard food, you want to hurl food items that splatter and stain. You’re not trying to hurt anybody; you’re just trying to make a mess. I know that there are starving kids in China, but it’s not really wasting food if you’re using it as a weapon of playful warfare. Food fights are a part of American culture. Everybody has participated in at least one food fight, and you haven’t lived if you’ve never chucked a dinner role at someone’s head. One of the best moments in cinematic history is the epic food fight depicted in Steven Spielberg’s Hook. If that doesn’t inspire you to throw food at somebody, I don’t know what will.
No kegger is complete without a keg stand. That’s when you do a handstand on a keg of beer and attempt to drink as much as you can while upside down. Someone puts the keg tap in your mouth for you; other people hold onto your legs for support, and everyone else cheers while they wait for their turn. You can turn it into a contest and count out how long each person stays up for. The winner gets drunk, and everybody else does too. It’s a great game. Keg stands can be a little intimidating and you might be reluctant to try it because you don’t want to make a fool of yourself in front of everybody, but you should give in to peer pressure and go for it. You might be the best keg stander in the world, you’ll never know until you do one. Try it. I believe in you.
Pluto is cursed. There has never been a good Pluto. Once upon a time, there used to be a planet named Pluto, but then it got demoted. Now it’s just another asteroid. Then there’s the Disney dog. You might recall that here are two main dogs in the Disney Universe. One of them was Goofy, a talking dog who is also best friends with Mickey Mouse. And the other one is Pluto, just a dumb dog who can’t talk and was enslaved by Mickey Mouse. Disney’s Pluto is so fucking dumb that a talking mouse keeps him as a pet. Eddie Murphy has been in a lot of bad movies, but his worst one has got to be The Adventures of Pluto Nash and that’s saying something because he has made a lot of terrible, terrible films. And I mean terrible. The name Pluto comes from Greek mythology. Pluto was the god of the underworld, but most people today remember the other Greek name for the god of the underworld: Hades. Anyone who’s ever read an ancient poem in English class, or listened to the lyrics of a good hip hop song knows that Hades is the undisputed ruler of the underworld. Pluto is a joke. Nothing good can come from naming something after Pluto. From now on we are all boycotting Pluto. No more Pluto.
The Chicago Cubs have a motto and it’s “wait til next year.” That’s because they haven’t won a World Series title since 1908. That’s a pretty big drought, the longest of any North American sports team. As each season crumbles away and they see their World Series chances dissolving, all the fans can do is wait till next year. I never really understood their grief. I’m a Giants fan, and we won two World Series in three years. But then the 2013 season began, and the Giants started playing like a Little League team. We still have the same core team that won it all in 2012, but this season we are last in our division, well below .500, and are about 20 games behind the Dodgers. We have no choice but to wait til next year. We can still gloat about being the defending champions, but we can’t ignore the fact that we suck right now. Only one team can win the World Series, everyone else has to wait til next year.
Humans are competitive creatures. We are constantly challenging each other in meaningless contests, like holding your breath underwater. I guarantee you that there are two kids staging a breath-holding contest in a pool somewhere right now. They count down from three, take a deep breath, plunge themselves underwater, trying to outlast the other person until somebody caves and breaks the surface to gasp for air. The best way to win this competition is to cheat. Take a deep breath, and pretend to start sliding under the water, but stay above the surface while the other guy goes down. Then you lounge around and enjoy the air in your lungs, while that goober is holding his breath underwater. You’re in the clear as long as his eyes are closed. Then when he starts to rise, you just dip your head underwater for a few seconds, then come up like you’re out of breath and act victorious. He’ll have no reason to suspect that you cheated if you do it right. Holding your breath underwater seems like a useless talent, but it can save your life if you ever experience a gas leak or have to use the bathroom after someone takes a shit.
A beer bong is a funnel with a rubber tube attached to it. You put the tube in your mouth, you pour a beer down the funnel, and you either chug the entire beer or spill it all over your shirt. Beer bongs are a fun way to get drunk really fast, just ask any fraternity member or bro. They are a staple of college life, and they still pop up at random parties when shit is raging. I remember I once thought it would be a good idea to bring a beer bong to the beach. We killed a few beers and set the beer bong down for a few minutes to throw a football around. And then we realized that wet beer bongs are sand magnets when we started drinking again. And sand and beer are not a good combination. And throwing up sand is pretty fucking painful. And chicks aren’t impressed with sandy vomit. I learned my lesson. Now I keep my beer bongs confined to house parties. Chicks are okay with regular vomit.