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    Hang On Goose, We’re Going Down

    2009 - 06.30

    Cue up Highway to the Danger Zone cause we’re about to buzz the tower.

    If you’re a male over the age of 13, chances are you’ve probably hit on a girl. It’s also just as likely that you’ve failed miserably at it more than once. Fortunately, since I traffic in dumbassery the way that Pablo Escobar trafficked in cocaine, failure pretty much just rolls off my back. No big deal, there’s plenty more where she came from. Most of the time it’s pretty painful to watch somebody get shutdown, but sometimes God throws somebody under the bus just for the sake of my mirth.

    During the course of the gift from the Blog-Gods that was this past weekend, we ventured out to the bar. Not our typical bar, but a different, douchier one. Some friends from out of town were with us, and they wanted to go there. I shouldn’t be allowed to get my way all the time, so I was actually kind of happy with this. I needed a change of pace. There were six of us, so we grabbed a booth in the back and ordered a round of cold adult beverages. One of the girls with us, Rachel, saw a guy at the bar who caught her eye and sidled up there to exploit her good looks for a drink. (Don’t protest, you girls know you do it, and we guys fall for it every time. It’s just the way of things.) Evidently, that tact didn’t work, but thankfully, someone else stepped up to take his place.

    Rachel’s a pretty damn attractive young lady. She’s tall, thin, and likes to wear white shorts. Give that girl some aviators and a southern accent and she’d be dangerously close to my dream woman. The guy that bought her a drink though, he didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell. He was probably a good 6 inches shorter than she was (He was obviously not a critical thinker. How are you gonna wallow around with a girl half a foot taller than you?) and decked out in his finest yuppie wear. Lime green button up shirt, (tucked in, of course) khaki shorts that ended 3 inches above the knee, and those God-forsaken boat shoes. I swear, Bass made so many of those things in ’85 they just waited 20 years and started selling them again. I never caught his name, but he reeked of Kennebunkport, so we’ll call him Preston.

    Preston had some friends sitting at a table across from us, so he sorta wandered back there after Rachel. Bill (you may remember him from the car wreck story) wasn’t gonna miss this opportunity to put Rachel in an awkward situation so he immediately went up to Preston and told him her name and favorite beer. He goes up to the bar and wanders back with two Sam Adams beers. Somehow in this span of two minutes, he’s managed to forget the most important thing, her name. I don’t know exactly what it was that he called her, but it sure wasn’t Rachel. It was really easy to tell that Rachel wasn’t having any of this, and if I was this guy, I’d just turn right back around and go sit down, but Preston was persistent.

    It was also about this time that I got a good look at Preston’s face, and he looked just like freakin’ Jean Claude Van Damme! I pointed this ridiculous fact out to the friend sitting next to me and she concurred, so I started pulling out the references to Bloodsport. So there’s this guy trying his damndest to come up with the right name for Rachel and Jennifer and I are behind him doing slow motion karate moves and yelling, YEEEAAAAH! A la the final fight scene in Bloodsport. (Seriously, watch this clip starting at about 2:00 minutes and you’ll understand).

    He stomps and stammers for a couple minutes with us yelling KUM-I-TE in the background until finally Rachel just picks up his beer and starts drinking it. “But that’s my beer,” he says. She says, “I know. I’m just gonna drink it until you remember my name.” The look of utter defeat on his face was priceless. It was seriously like someone had peed on his sand castle until it became one with the ocean. Somebody at our table felt sorry for him and told him her name, but she was so over him at this point, there was no salvaging his dignity. She gave him his quarter of a beer back and said ‘Why don’t you just go sit down now.” He trudged on back to his table to no doubt drown his shame in some over priced libations. Later in the evening I saw him trying to make out with what was either a Hobbit or Hoggle from The Labyrinth. Proving yet again, that trying is the first step to failure.

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    We Started One-letter Rappin’ and That’s How It Happened

    2009 - 06.29

    There are very few dull moments in my life, but even so, there are some moments that are even more not-dull than others. This weekend was a conglomeration of those moments. A veritable cornucopia of awesomeness, if you will (to which you respond, “and I will”). Admittedly, some moments are not blog-appropriate, if that’s even possible considering the things I’ve written about on here. But on the other hand, some moments were exceedingly blog-worthy. This is the tale of one of those moments.

    We were at a friend’s house after returning from the Braves Vs. Red Sox game, a day so face-meltingly hot that I was able to drink 5 tall boys of Bud Light (at $6.75 a pop, broke now, click on some sponsored links) without having to pee. A few of us were sitting around in the living room, waiting on some of the beanheads to get ready for supper, when somehow we got on the subject of odd talents. One of the girls, Jenna, had the ability to rap the first letter of every word in a song. Once I wrapped my noggin around this concept, I would have been less surprised had she told me she could see dead people.

    This may not seem like that big a deal, but let me explain. We’ll use “Hot In Herre” by Nelly as an example. This was the first one she did.

    Hot in Herre chorus:
    “It’s gettin’ hot in here
    So take off all your clothes
    I am gettin’ so hot
    I wanna take my clothes off”

    This is what she sang:

    WTF? Now, it’s easy to do this if you’re looking at the lyrics written down, like above, but it’s a whole different story when it’s coming out of your head. Go ahead, try it for yourself with a song you know by heart (If you’re white, you probably oughta use “Don’t Stop Beliving” by Journey.) Not easy, huh? We made her try it with a few more songs that were popular, (including “Don’t Stop Believing”) just to make sure she hadn’t memorized them that way. She passed with flyin’ freakin colors. I wish my cellphone hadn’t been dead so I could have gotten a video of this momentous occasion, but unfortunately, my Friday night exploits put the kibosh on that.

    Now that you’ve grasped how cool of a talent that is, think about the implications of it. I asked her how she did it, and she said she just “sees” the words in her head like they’re written on a sheet of paper. Since I am essentially a lazy bastard, I like to take everything I’m marginally good at or enjoy the least little bit and wring every last ounce of the goody out of it. So naturally I started thinking about what else she could do with this super power. I was thinking along the lines of identity theft or bladder relief wands, then she told me she was in law school. If there was ever a trade other than Pro Text-Messager (Messenger?) where a hyper accute sense of abbreviation would be totally tits, it’s lawyerin’. Just imagine that she’s there defending Ole’ Biloxxxi in the libel case of the century, when the need arises to draw from some arcane trial in the 20th century, like Liebeck v. Mcdonald’s Restaurants. Argument: Much like McDonald’s Coffee, Biloxxxi just ain’t the same cold. Bam! Acquittal. I-T-G-D-F-Y-M-A!

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    Biloxxxi’s Thursday Top 10

    2009 - 06.25

    I used to do a monthly top 25 for the high school newspaper back in my salad days. I did it again when I was in college for a friend’s radio show. They were always well received. I’ll continue the tradition here, except in top 10 format because I don’t have a month between editions.

    Ok, I guess this is more like a bottom 10, but whatever.
    Biloxxxi’s Top 10 Least Favorite People Ever

    10. The lead singer of Rascall Flats – Evidently this guy’s name is Gary LeVox. I cringe everytime I hear his voice. It’s the most whiny, snivvely voice I’ve ever heard, plus it’s got that ridiculously phony country twinge to it. Don’t believe me? Watch this cover of “Life is a Highway.”

    9. Anyone who has sported a Faux-Hawk since David Beckham – The good thing about being the first to do something is that even if it’s stupid, at least you’re being original. Do you know what they call copying someone else’s stupid idea? Mental Illness. I had long hair until yesterday. I cut it short for the summertime because of the heat. I can now sport a faux-hawk, but since I’m not a fan of mental illness, I refrain.

    8. Nancy Pelosi – This is my major problem with California. I can’t associate myself with people that would vote for this spawn of Satan. I think somebody might have slept with her one time too, because somehow she managed to get 5 kids. I don’t know, maybe spawns of Satan are asexual.

    7. Jon & Kate Gosselin – I dated a girl last year that watched this show, otherwise I’d have no clue of its existence. Within 5 minutes of watching this show, I knew exactly how this would turn out. Kate was a bitch and Jon was just defeated. Note to women: if you rely on breaking a man’s will to keep him around, he’ll only stay that way for so long. He’ll either commit suicide or wander. That being said, Jon is just as guilty for ruining his children’s lives as she is, and that’s the worst part of it all.

    6. Angelina Jolie – Am I the only person that thinks she’s just not that hot? Brad Pitt was way better off with Jennifer Anniston. Besides, I hate actresses or actors that use their fame as a platform to show off their idiocy. I can’t really remember a good acting role she ever played either.

    5. Chubby kids in skinny jeans – Skinny jeans are a bad idea even just sitting on the rack. Combine that with a kid who plays a bit too much Xbox 360 and we’ve got ourselves the perfect recipe for a gallon of bad idea. There are two prerequisites for wearing skinny jeans; the first is legs and the second is that you be skinny. It’s all right there in the name, Chief. Now run off back to the big boy section.

    4. Kanye West – “Voice of a generation” my ass. He’s not original, he’s just loud. He’s a bastard conglomeration of Andre 3000, Duckie from Pretty in Pink and Terrell Owens’ ego finished off with Joe Biden’s propensity to say exactly the wrong thing. It took South Park to show to him that he actually was a D-bag. Spot on, boys. Worse yet, there are people out there that actually believe he invented those louvered sunglasses…

    3. Celine Dion – The good news is, she’s mostly irrelevant these days. The bad news is everytime I go to the dentist, it’s like they’re playing her greatest (3) hits on repeat. This is further compounded by the fact that I have shitty teeth so I’ve gotta go a lot more often than twice a year. She haunts my dreams. Just in case you haven’t had a decent nightmare in awhile, here’s this…

    2. Bono – See Angelina Jolie above, but change “acting” to “music.”

    1. Perez Hilton – Ok, up until about a month ago, I had no idea who Perez Hilton was. Then along came that Miss California nonsense. Rule 1: Never ask someone what they think if you don’t want to hear what they have to say. Kudos to her for speaking her mind, especially in an arena like that. Rule 2. Never call someone a “faggot” to their face and expect to walk away unscathed. Freedom of speech is one thing, but should you choose to invoke it, understand that some words are freer than others and from time to you’ll be espousing through bloody lips. Being a little bitch is not a redeeming quality, regardless of your sexual orientation.

    Who really pisses you off? Feel free to comment.

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    The White Water Conundrum

    2009 - 06.22

    “You Bitches.”

    It’s been level 7 balls hot down here in the ATL for the last week or so. That’s not terribly unusual since it is summer and all, but normally this level of Hace Calor is reserved for August. Being that Sunday was Father’s day and all, our usual swimming spots were unavailable cause no one was around to let us in. So there we were, The Warrenton Girls and I, plotting our next move when someone suggests we go to White Water, Atlanta’s water park. “Good damn idea,” I said. So we packed up the Exploder and off we went.

    The park was more crowded than I expected, given that it was Father’s Day, but we were still able to get in fairly quickly. Besides the water, you go to water parks and pools and such to check out chicks in bathing suits. It’s in this area that White Water is sorely lacking. I’ve often said that if you’re a girl and you can’t come out of that place feeling good about yourself, then something is bad wrong with your life. First of all, every girl I hang out with has at least a modicum of dignity. Even the crazy ones. They would not wear something they have no business wearing. Least of all, a bathing suit. At White Water, dignity is thrown out of the window like the TV I left at my ex-girlfriend’s house; with extreme prejudice. Admittedly, a monkey wrench is already thrown into the plans of women who are less than figuresque. You have to wear a bathing suit. No shorts or t-shirts allowed. That makes it a bit more difficult to hide your girth, but there are different levels of coverage for bathing suits. You don’t have to just jump right into the skimpy two-piece.

    Let’s say you are overweight, like a growing segment of our population, and you decide to go to White Water. Keep in mind that you’re not just sitting by the pool or lounging on the dock at the lake. You’re in an environment where thousands of people are going to see you and you’ll be tossed violently around in water rides all afternoon, this might not be the best time to wear your fur bathing suit. If you are 5’5″ and you weigh 200 pounds, how is your life gonna be better served by wearing a two-piece bathing suit? That’s like saying New Orleans could benefit from smaller levees. There’s a flood, honeybear, and you’re it!

    There are times in life where you see people wearing inappropriate things. I see women at the local Publix wearing workout clothes that they ought not be wearing that close to food, but at least they’re putting in the work. They are also relatively few and far between. At White Water however, it’s like everyone of those women sent their fatter, uglier sister dressed in their skinnier, younger sister’s bathing suit. How do you put on your bathing suit, see that the retention wall is inundated with heft, and come to the conclusion that this is a good idea? I know these are the same rejects that read US Weekly and People magazine like they’re the freakin Bible, they have to know better than that. (Then again People magazine is about the reading equivalent of a McDonald’s menu).

    I suppose there might be something to be said for having the “confidence” to wear a completely inappropriate swim suit to a water park, but you should only be proud of your body if you take care of it. There’s no pride in neglecting your lawn or letting your car fall apart underneath you is there? Should your body be any different?

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    The 2nd Most Embarassing Story Ever

    2009 - 06.17

    “Two thumbs way up!”
    -Siskel and that other guy

    “Pants-shittingly hilarious”
    -Rolling Stone

    “…A depth of scope not seen since Gone With the Wind. Someone may explode from the sheer badassness of it all.”
    -Time Magazine

    I spend an inordinate amount of time making fun of other people. I try not to be too harsh unless it’s deserved, but sometimes I feel a bit bad nonetheless. Therefore, to show that I can take it just as well as dish it, I’ve decided to share with you what is probably my most embarrassing moment thus far in life.

    The year was 1997. The Original Star Wars Trilogy was being re-released into the theaters with some new CGI crap that was supposed to enhance it. I was in 8th grade and like many 14 year old boys before me, I thought Star Wars was totally tits. A couple of buddies and I caught a ride down to North DeKalb Mall to see Star Wars: A New Hope on the night it opened (On an ironic note, my car would be stolen from this same mall a year and a half later). We grabbed a bite to eat, most likely a calzone from the pizza joint there because that’s about all this mall ever had to offer. Then we stood in line to get our tickets. To this day I can still remember the excitement of standing in line to go see Star Wars in the theater, like my brother had 20 years before me (albeit at a much younger age). The geeks were out in force for this one. I remember seeing at least 4 Darth Vaders, several Stormtroopers and 1 or 2 Princess Leias to boot. Note to any future Princess Leias: If you weigh enough to be a stormtrooper, you’re automatically disqualified from Princess Leia contention. She was a spritely little thing.

    We got our tickets, grabbed some snacks, and went to find some good seats for the show. About the time we sat down, I felt my stomach “drop” about 6 inches. By “drop” I mean something went bad wrong in there. It sorta made that sound that a water cooler makes when an air bubble travels to the top. I thought “No big deal, it’ll pass” and stayed in my seat. It didn’t pass. I sat there and squirmed for a moment and said to myself “There are so many folks in here, I’ll just tear a little ass and nobody will know it’s me.” So I did and I’m pretty sure what came out would gag a maggot. Fortunately, it didn’t reveal itself in solid form, but I knew this was an indicator of things to come, so I quickly made a break for the restroom. After exorcising a demon or two in there, I returned to the theater hopeful that I’d finally be able to enjoy the movie. Wrong.

    After missing the first 10 minutes of the movie, I made it back to my seat. All is calm for about the next 15 minutes or so and then my stomach “drops” again. I wasn’t suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, I was suffering from Vengeful Bowel Syndrome. My innards were out to ruin Star Wars for me. What a douchebag move. I cropdusted for a few minutes as discretely as possible, then when I couldn’t possibly hold it any longer, I rushed back to the restroom for round two. Seriously, it was like the beginning of Rocky III where Mickey dies. Damn you, Clubber Lang.

    I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re saying to yourself, “No way his body hates him enough to go a third round.” But that’s exactly what happened. My demon innards were kind enough to give me a respite long enough to make it through most of the movie. That old familiar wave of terror washed over me again about the same time the main battle scene was ramping up. I didn’t want to get up again and miss the best part of the movie, so I tried holding out as long as I could. Right towards the end of the battle, I thought perhaps I could just let a little fart slide out to relieve some of the evil in my stomach so I could make it through the rest of the movie. When I did, every last shred of dignity that I had left at the ripe old age of 14 came with it. I shat my pants right there in the middle of damn Star Wars. I looked over at my buddy Jake sitting next to me with absolute horror in my eyes and he knew. “Fuckin’ No way!” He exclaimed and doubled over with laughter. I gotta hand it to that kid, other than that he never said a word to anyone else including my other friends that were there about this incident. Do you even realize the kind of damage that could cause to a kid in middle school?

    We should pause here for a moment to bask in the enormity of this event. I straight up pooped my pants right in the middle of the greatest battle scene in the greatest movie of all time. In an absolutely jam packed theater on opening night. I basically flew out of that theater into the bathroom and I’m pretty sure most of the people in the immediate vicinity knew what was going on. To further increase the already pegged out embarrassment meter, some of my neighbors were a row behind us. How would I ever be able to look them in the eye again?

    I rushed into the restroom to check out the collateral damage and believe me, it was not slight. Without going into too many undesirable details, let’s just suffice it to say that I attempted to flush my underoos down the toilet and they wouldn’t go. I ended up just leaving the sumbitches in there. I’m sure whoever cleaned that up hated their life for awhile.

    I made it back into the theater about the time the credits started rolling. I’d missed the majority of the movie, and I’d shat my pants. What an awesome day. I don’t think I even tried to go see The Empire Strikes Back but Return of the Jedi totally made the unending shame worth it. Well, at least until George Lucas decided that Jar Jar Binks was an acceptable character. Oh, and one final note, my neighbor called my mom that night to make sure I was ok, so I had to explain the whole situation to my mom. F.M.L.

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