You just made my list!

If you have to declare a sad little space in your basement as your “man” space, are you really much of a man? Do you even deserve a cave? How about this… the whole house is my God damn cave, deal with it Carol!

I know you had high hopes when you bought the poker table and the neon Miller Lite sign but I’m willing to bet you have never used that table for anything other than folding shirts. You hung your guitars on the wall dreaming of late night jam sessions with drunken bros but sadly most of your pals are simply too tired at the end of the day to come hang out in your dank basement and play Counting Crows songs. Your Xbox and Playstation sit under a layer of dust, your bar stays un-stocked and the fulfillment of your dreams remains hollow, just like the life-sized Stormtrooper costume that stands in the corner with a Jimmy Buffett hat on its head… watching you… judging you… feeling sorry for you. WHAT DID YOU EVER DO THAT’S SO GREAT WITH YOUR LIFE, STORMTOOPER?!? Fuck you Stormtooper!

Carol, will you play Guitar Hero with me? Carol?

Look at you opening your beer with your shirt, you sicken me.

I’m not one of those guys who is obsessed with being macho. For example, when my girlfriend’s dad put me in a headlock this weekend during a family Thanksgiving party in an attempt to show me I was no match for his karate skills, I just rode it out until he grew bored with choking me. HOWEVER, there are some things a man should simply never do. Obviously never get into a karate match with your girlfriend’s father and never open a twist-off beer with your shirt. I’m pretty sure Nancy Reagan and her tiny hands that look like wet toilet paper draped over sticks could still twist open a bottle of beer, so what’s your excuse? I hate you.

Don’t think I can’t see you casually slip that bottle under your Spin Doctors T-shirt. I see it and I’m judging you.

Shame. Shame on you and your pussy hands. The next time you consider using your Ralph Lauren golf shirt to pop open a shitty Miller Lite, please remember these videos, because sometimes being a bro is the right thing to do.

Full disclosure …..I am drunk.

Wow, what a day it has been! so much talk of pee and poop and balls. I am overwhelmed by the care and detail given to the subject of peeing while sitting. I now know what it is like to win an Oscar.

So (thanks to beer) I would like to say that I am so impressed, and sometimes intimidated, by the readers and commentors on this website. Your comments are often better than my lame attempts at humor or social commentary or whatever it is I do here. To be honest, it kind of pisses me off when I read comments that are better than what I wrote. Only sort of though.

Really I am proud that, for the most part, the people who waste their time reading my bullshit are so smart and funny. When I write a post I feel genuine fear and pressure to deliver something good because I know most of you guys are funny and smart. Writing does not come naturally to me so writing each night can be a daunting task. (I wish you could see how hard spellcheck is working to keep me on track right now). I would like to point out that the recent comments on my scrubbing bubbles post are not included in the “smart” category.

The point is, I just want to say (thanks to being a happy drunk) I genuinely really appreciate you guys for wasting your time reading my bullshit. I’m only saying this because I’m drunk, starting Monday I will be calling you all idiots again.

(for the record, it took me approximately one million hours to write this)

I’m awesome! FUCK YOU!

A good friend stayed with me last night on his way through town and I’m not going to lie, I chose beer and male bonding over blogging.

Cheers!

If only there was a way to combine my love of sandwiches with tennis ball packaging.

From now on when I head to a kickass beach party I’m grabbing a six-pack of Coors Light and a sixer of BBQ chicken sandwiches. I’m also bringing a six-pack of condoms because when the ladies see me pop the top off a fresh sammie they’re going to be like, “I wish that guy eating canned sandwiches over there would get me pregnant,” and I’m going to be like, “You wish,” and then she’s going to be like, “Yeah, that’s what I just said,” and I’ll be like, “That’s what she said,” and she’ll be like, “Wait, I can’t tell if you are kidding or you just can’t understand what I’m saying,” and then I’ll smash the empty Candwich can on my head and be like, “I just ate a canned sandwich so, yeah, I’d say I’m basically the shit. Now let’s do it.” Yet another girl goes home with a little PB&J all over her body. NEXT!

I don’t hate the concept of the Candwich. How could I? Sandwich in a can? Yeah, that’s perfectly normal and awesome. I do, however, take issue with the fact that the Candwich creator, Travis L. Wright, was able to talk a bunch of Utah investors out of $145,000,000 in order to make his dream of canned lunch a reality. Well technically they thought they were investing in real estate and Wright was secretly using their money to cram hoagies into soda cans. The point is, this guy had a dream and found a way to scam people in order to make it a reality. Why don’t I have that kind of resourcefulness?

Oh sure, it’s easy for you to sit there on your high horse and call Travis Wright a thief and a fraud but why don’t you take a bite of this turkey and Swiss before you pass judgment. Here, wash it down with a can of mashed potatoes and gravy.

Apology accepted.

What’s wrong Rush, afraid of a little rain? What’s the deal Geddy, didn’t want the moist air to wreck your beautiful hair? Pussholes!

Thanks for making me drive through Chicago rush (hey!) hour traffic, park, take a shuttle filled with inconceivable body odor, stand outside in the rain for an hour and buy (and drink) an $11 Bud Light just so you can cancel the concert. I drank a God Damn Bud Light for you fucking hosers!

Then you have the unbelievable nerve, the unmitigated gall, to reschedule the concert on 9/11. Take off, eh! It’s official, Rush hates America.

Oh, and you owe my friend an umbrella to replace the one the cock-licking cock-ass venue security confiscated.

And once again, fuck you Chicago weather!

How the fuck did I ever figure out whether or not my beer was cold before the world’s smartest scientists at Coors figured out how to make the box tell me? Hey box, if you’re so smart why don’t you tell me why my parents got divorced?

I’m wondering if people who drink Coors Light might be mildly retarded because Coors finds it necessary to constantly invent space-age cans, bottles and boxes that attempt to explain the difference between cold and not cold to their customers.

Some of you elitists out there are probably using your East Coast liberal voice to say, “Can’t you just touch the can to see if it’s cold?” Oh yeah? Why don’t you get back on your polo horse Spencer, because the working man ain’t got no time to be touching no bottles and cans all day long. Real men are too busy chopping trees the fuck down and hauling them behind their pick-ups with chains to waste time checking the temperature of every beer they encounter. Even if they WANTED to check the temperature of a Coors Light it would be impossible thanks to their leathery man hands.

Wait, I just realized I have no idea if Coors Light is a “working-class” beer or not. Maybe it’s the kind of beer college guys in puka shell necklaces drink? Perhaps it’s the beer you are most likely to see spewing from the mouth of a 38-year-old woman in the parking lot during her 20th high school reunion as Phil Collins’ “Another Day In Paradise” can quietly be heard from inside the Holiday Inn? I have no clue because I literally don’t think I have ever seen a single person drink a Coors or Coors Light.

Isn’t it funny how, like, women want to, like, shop and get married but guys, like, totally just want to watch sports and drink beer?

Whoops. I accidentally went to see Mexican midgets wrestle last night. The sad result of this “situation” is no brilliant post today.

I am sort of sorry.