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Sleepless in Louisiana

I will be out of the blog arena this week for reasons which I can not disclose. Yet. So in my absence, welcome back the one, the only, Mr. Hook….

secrets

Secrets, secrets are no fun — no, actually they are.

TEN THINGS YOU DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BECCA. Read the rest of this entry

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Meet “Z”

Some friends just stick. Sometimes those friends actually live outside of the computer screen. “Blasphemy!”. I can hear you thinking it already, but it is true.  This post is testament to that. When I first met Z, I was convinced that he was going to set our classroom on fire. Marketing 101. College.  His head phones and blaring Tech N9ne were essential to his wardrobe and my uneasiness. Little did I know, he wasn’t actually a murderer but one of my future best friends

25tofly friend

Some friendships are cosmic. He paid me in beer to say that. Part of the deal was also for me to give him some of my spotlight. So without further ado, meet my friend “Z”…

Well hello there! Becky (editor’s note: fuck you) has asked me to step in and fill in some space due to her recent episode of writer’s block. I offered her a couple hits of acid and the leprechauns that do my typing for me, but she refused. I’m not sure why she denied my offer though. Those four creepy little dudes have kept me employed the last three years and even earned me a 2.31 GPA throughout college. Fancy, I know.

Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Z. Well at least that’s what she named me on here a few times anyway. I’ve been called worse. I am originally from Smackover, Arkansas. Dead serious. Google it. It sucks, I know. But before my recent relocation to the great shit hole of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the two of us shared roughly 572,890 pitchers of beer together.

I shared with her my knowledge of billiards and was even the third wheel through the entirety of a yearish long relationship of hers. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably be sober. Yes, my life would suck if not for this lovely blonde! (editor’s note again: redhead now dumbass).

Up until recently, I didn’t even know her blog existed. For some reason I had to stalk her on Facebook just to learn this hidden writing talent of hers. But now I understand why we have always texted and only ever spoken on the phone once  in our multi-year relationship. And that was more awkward than some random non-blogger dude making an appearance on some chick’s highly popular blog.

When she first asked me to write a guest post, I will admit I giggled with a slight evilness. I thought, “How witty can I be?” and “Oh the people I can piss off with my political views!”. Then I realized she would just delete my post and ban me from the internet, which would cause a riot with the leprechauns. Not worth the risk.

So instead, I must confess to the masses how blessed each of you are to sit right where your rear is currently placed and enjoy reading the very thoughts and ideas that I have been graced with throughout my friendship with Miss Long Johns herself since some time in 2009. I check for new posts quite frequently now, due to the lack of our shared time together. It’s all I can get. She won’t come visit me anymore. Thanks to y’all.

I think I have babbled enough, and her head is probably slightly swollen after reading these kind words. It’s been a pleasure occupying roughly 3-27 minutes of your time. Who knows, maybe one day she will allow me to post something witty and political. Maybe not political but at least witty.

P.S. Her cats are evil. Between Ace, Jack, and my cat allergy, I am surprised I never woke up cross-eyed after drunkenly passing out on her couch all of those nights. Then again, it could have been those three-month old leftovers I always took off of her refrigerator’s hands. Who knows…

Stay tuned tomorrow for the recap of the LaLaBec New Year’s Eve bash. Because you know you don’t remember. Please leave a nice comment for Z while you wait. My writer’s block thanks him and you. 

becca cord signature

The Music of Mustache Make-Outs

Ever since Daan van den Bergh pooped out a glittery faberge egg for me on Twitter, then promoted me to the position of his official sound editor for his blog, I have been skipping like a leprechaun everywhere I go. I am mostly just impressed with him and his wife’s clay molding skills. Oh, and somehow he also talked me into being a make-out whore. I’ll let him explain…

It’s me, Daan.

Obviously it is the month for Movember. To those of you, who don’t know what that is, I am assuming that you are a newcomer and/or are living under a rock.  Read this post. Enlighten yourself.

Now, I want to tell you a story. I’m going to ask you to close your eyes while I tell the story. No, wait. I’m not actually talking. Just read it.

This is a story about an upper-lip enjoying a regular shave, a daily smooth-cut with sometimes a day or two in between. Eleven months pass by as suddenly November races up. The world gets darker each day as a carpet of thick, pointy hair consumes the upper-lip. Can you see it? It’s entangled in wire, caught unwillingly, all alone in the darkness. Can you? I want you to picture that upper-lip.

Now imagine that upper-lip is you.

So, I asked myself: what can I do to make these upper lips feel less lonely? What do you do when a guy feels bad? According to pop psychology, you either take him to a strip club or get him a hooker. I can’t help all of them and although prostitution is legal in my awesome country, it isn’t in the rest of the world. So I needed to come up with an alternative.

That’s why I got the Sound Editor of I Fkkn Rokk Studios (which happens to be the owner of this blog – happy coincidence!) to make-out with the 10 most ridiculous mustaches and share with us what it sounded like!

You’re welcome. Back to you, Becca. Read the rest of this entry

Oh Dad

As promised, and to avoid angering the blogging gods ultimately ruining my internet karma, today’s post is inspired by “Faddah Friday” or “Funny Dad Friday”. Started by Brother Jon, or more officially,  Jonathan (control your excitement Rutabaga), I am excited to share with you a post in this style. You might even gain some insight as to how I became the way I am, but I doubt it.

On Cars

My dad is a car maintenance enthusiast. Sometimes I think he is a car mechanic instead of a salesman. He once had the same truck for like fifteen years. That thing had about 500,000 miles on it. He also taught me to drive in that same truck when I was eight, then again when I was fourteen, and once more when I was actually of legal age. He also forgave me that time I backed into the house… eventually. Here a few things I learned from him on the subject: Read the rest of this entry

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