Know what I haven't had in a while? Big League Chew.

I'm sitting at a bar (no surprises here right?) And the Little League World Series is on. It's fascinating and bizarre for a number of reasons. First off, the US seems to be represented on a statewide basis, whereas every other country is listed soley as a country. This makes for an interesting Colorado vs.Australia type dynamic. On the one hand I guess baseball is nost popular here in the states, so it stands to reason that there'll be more talented players per capita here than anywhere else, still it's odd that things are split up that way.
Also each player has their stats listed when at bat, which isn't that weird except that it lists trivia facts like their favorite food and favorite tv shows. It's odd for a couple reasons. First, that just seems like pedophile fuel. Hey, Tommy from Kansas likes s'mores, load up the rape van! Second, in the game I'm watching (Saudi Arabia vs. Japan) a Japanese kid listed his favorite food as cheese, and a Saudi kid just named his as sushi. My mind kinda got blown a little after that last one.
Anyways, I'm gonna finish this beer and head to band practice.
If hating baseball is wrong, than I imagine all my friends are in the right
-Pretzel

Neeed Heroiiiin!

Whattup Assbags?
I'm sitting at home at the moment taking a break from painting.  See I paint stuff.  Not in the "pulling ladders out of the back of an Econoline van" kinda way but the "ooh how marvelous a use of taupe, I simply must have this for my collection" kinda way.  I guess the simple way of saying it would be I'm an artist, but that has so many douchebaggy art school hipster connotations to it that I prefer just to say that I paint shit to amuse myself.  Anywhoo, I'm doing some commission pieces for a girl that I went to school with, and even though I need to put the rush on them (under 2 weeks to finish,) my hands do not want to cooperate with me.  I get shaky hands pretty easily, and I'm sure the amount of coffee and cigarettes I flood my body with isn't helping matters, but I guess that's why they call 'em addictions right?  Eh, long story short, I can't be trusted to pull a straight line right now, so i figured I'd rap with y'all for a minute.

The bandski is planning an early November tour out to Vegas and back.  So far we've only booked Vegas, but tentatively it's gonna be New Orleans, Vegas, Albuquerque, Houston, St. Louis,  and some other places I can't remember off of the top of my head.  Shit should be a blast, we're bringing along Damon's wife Michelle and our roadie (fancy right?) Joe Asshole.  Drunken debauchery and regrettable pictures should ensue.
That's all I've got for you my loves, I'm gonna go eat some food and conquer these damn shakes
Spread 'em if you got 'em!
-Prezel

Contrived Pop Bullshit

I'm at a bar listening to a gentleman whose been heaviliy indulging in some marojuana talk to my girlfriend about Lady Gaga. I have little to nothing to contribute to this conversation.
Wait, now he's talking about raves.
Now they're back to the Gaga.
I'm gonna drink

White Pizza!

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Fucking Danger Will Robinson!

Salutations y'alls!  I know it's been a while since I've posted on here, and for that I'm sincerely sorry.  Shit just gets busy sometimes y'know?  Anyways I was just gonna post this as a Facebook status but I realized I've got way to much rambling to do and not enough space on the 'ole book of face to do so.
Have you seen the new warning labels that are gonna be stuck on cigarettes? From what I gather they're not going into effect until fall of 2012 (assuming the world doesn't end by then) but they are going on every pack in the pretty near future.

Pretty serious shit huh?  Ready for the shock twist in this entry?  I'm completely for these terrifyingly gruesome bastards.  I mean it I think every pack absolutely needs these labels, hell I think every cigarette should have a heat activated chip in it that makes the cigarette yell " Hey dumbass these motherfuckers cause cancer!" in Gilbert Gottfried's voice.  

Fuck you cancer!-Gilbert Gottfired

Think about it, that's more tech jobs building the chips, more work for Mr. Gottfired, and I fucking guarantee earplug sales will skyrocket.

But that's not enough.  No the FDA may be placated with these labels, but I sirs and madams haven't built a safe enough future yet.  Check it, every McDonalds wrapper and every bucket of KFC gets a picture of an obese bloated corpse with the caption "you're eating your arteries to death fatass."  Every bottle of Jagermeister gets a picture of David Hasselhoff eating off the floor that says "you and your whole frat are going to end up like this"  

Just like this Chett, just like this

Every Snickers gets a picture of some british teeth, and every Red Bull gets a blood pressure warning smack dab on the front of it.  Think I'm done? Think again motherfuckers, at birth every child gets a forehead tattoo that indicates they may or may not be a rapist!

We'll be the safest and thusly happiest society in the world, productivity will rise and illegal downloading will end all together (for some reason or another, just go with it.)

I don't have time to wait till 2012 though, so I'm off to Kinkos to print off some labels, see you motherfuckers later!

-Pretzel

The Ex Girlfriend Witching Hour

Dear cockmongers; how's it going?
I realize it's been a while and for that i make no apologies, I've been doing shit.  Belly button lint doesn't pick itself y'know?
I worked at The Ship tonight, and it was murderously slow.  The high/lowlight of my night was a ground of freshly 21 year olds ordering "well's whiskey and cokes" as if well's was a brand of liquor.  Oh that and they kept talking to me about Jersey Shore, tipped like shit, and then one of them had the nerve to ask if we were hiring.  A few terrible customers aside though, tonight was pretty fun.
So since I haven't updated in a while, I'm gonna share a funny story with y'all.
A while ago on the day in which daylight savings time kicks into effect I experienced what I'm going to refer to as the ex girlfriend witching hour.  What might that be you might ask, and might or mightn't you ask I might explain via this tale.  I was at home, laying in bed fucking around on Facebook, much as I am right now.  All of a sudden a girl I dated pretty seriously a long time ago started up a chat with me.  This was odd, as we weren't exactly on good terms, and hadn't spoken in a few years.  I won't lie to you gentle reader, it was a strange and awkward conversation.  She was clearly in a very lonely and vulnerable spot, but as kindhearted and loving as you all know me to be, I had a hard time being empathetic with this girl cuz hey, she did cut me pretty deep years back.
So in the midst of this out of the blue conversation that I'm having a hard time processing, another ex girlfriend calls me.  This lady hadn't spoken to me in roughly 6 months or so, but was drunk at the bar across the street from me and needed a ride home.  Being the great person that I am, I hop up and head over to the bar.  After a short car ride and some slurred thank yous I arrive back at the house.  Here's where shit gets fucking strange.
Hanging on the front door is the same black canvas Sailor Jerry purse that I bought for the first ex I mentioned.  She was as far as I know, a 2 hour drive away at the time, so I don't think it's a stalker in the bushes getting a chubby over my panicked expression type scenario.  It's fucking bizarre though right?  I mean, let's recap:  Exactly as the extra hour in daylight savings time kicks in, 2 of my exes start talking to me, and then a present I bought 3 or so years ago shows u on my door with no explanation (to this day) who put it there or why.  Bizareness though, am I right?
That's all I've got for you today my children.
Go huff some paint and beat up a CVS security guard
-Pretzel

I Have Altered The Deal Pray I Don"t Alter It Any Further

Well hello there turds, didn't see you come in.  Might I be so bold as to say that you all look rather dashing this afternoon?  What's that, you want to hear me ramble a bit?  Well I suppose I can squeeze that into my busy schedule my cupcakes.  

Sometimes I like to think of places it would be awesome to play a show/shoot a music video at.  I think a show in the back of a semi truck would be pretty gnarly, possibly with a side cut out of it, and probably in a sketchy looking industrial parking lot type of setting.  Another of my favorites is rooftops, any show on a rooftop is automatically at least twice as cool in my book preferably with a bunch of gnarly beat up lookin' punk kids.  I feel like nighttime shows are also pretty badass especially when there's floodlights or fire involved as a lighting agent.  Shows and videos in pools are bitching too, whether it be a full pool with a platform in the middle or an empty bowl (preferably with kids skating around the band in it.)  But my ultimate venue choice, wait for it.... motherfucking Cloud City! 

BOOSH!

No sirs and madams, it does not get any fucking cooler than cloud city, it is my life's ambition to play a show in Cloud City and get drunk on Colt 45 with Billy Dee Goddamned Williams.  Think about that shit,  freaky Bespin broads with head tentacles dancing around, that cyborg guy overseeing everything, those weird siamese twin space ships flying around, and Boba fucking Fett lurking in the corner nodding along with the music.  

In my head Boba Fett is a big Involuntarys fan

That my friends would be bad as shit.  I don't want to hear your "Pretzel Cloud City isn't a real place" talk, or your "you're a little to old to fantasize about your band playing in a fictional universe" mumbo jumbo, and certainly not your " the only band that can make it in the Star Wars universe is the cantina band with those dudes that have weird crab vagina mouths" nonsense.  

Fuck all you dream squashers, and fuck all Mos Eisley musicians, I can have dreams too you bastards!

Eh, I'm gonna get drunk and watch return of the Jedi

Wipe front to back!

-Pretzel

Vkings! Wizards! Demon Lizards!

You ever have one of those mornings? You know the kind of morning when you wake up and the cuffs are a tad too tight cuz they're not the fun fuzzy kind, you can't get the taste of burritos and gin out of your mouth, and the portly guard is yelling about the illegality of your bootlegged Dora The Explorer DVDs?  Yeah me either. I mean don't get me wrong I've totally had bootlegged bavarian burrito mornings in my day just not many recently.  No sirs and lady sirs, I'm pretty stoked on life nowadays.  My stokedom is due to a number of factors (awesome friends, awesome job, the Bruins are number one in the northeast[suck it Joe, suck it Kevin] etc.) but the reason I'm gonna focus on today is motherfucking cornhole!  If you're unfamiliar with the game, cornhole is a game in which two people team up against another two and throw beanbags at a slightly angled board with a hole cut into the top.

If your bag goes in the hole you earn 3 points, and if you merely make it on the board you get 1 point, however whatever the other team scores that round will offset your score, and your opponents can knock your bags off the board and null that point. It's one of those awesome games where you can play with a beer in your hand, in fact being a bit tipsy is a good strategy.  So far as I know, "cornhole" is a regional term for the game, apparently in Chicago it's known as "beanbags."  Fuck that though, it's goddamned cornhole and I will address it as such you windy city cockbags.

I said it, do something Chi Town, come at me!

It's recently become cornhole weather at the bar, and let me tell you I could not be happier.  I'm a member of team Pussy Lickers and we're pretty amazing, I mean we took out the Weird Beards the Hoorayhole Lickers, and the Substance Abusers, that's a pretty impressive record right?  We weren't always the devastating force that causes grown men to weep and women and children to flee in terror.  Nope, we were once mere mortals just like yourselves but then we solidified with a team name.
Unity's a great thing, Op Ivy wrote a song about it, and I can see why.  I mean, in a team mentality you're not just looking out for yourself you've got other people you don't wanna let down.  I've got that going on in a number of facets of my life, the band, the house, the bar, and most recently team Pussy Lickers.  There's been numerous times when I just don't wanna play a show, but if I don't give it my all the band's gonna be let down and that'd bum me out pretty significantly.
Meh, I'm rambling and that means it's beer drinking time for uncle Pretzel
Stay sassy y'all!
-Pretzel
P.S. Don't tell Chicago what I said, they're kinda scary sometimes

My Hips Sure As Shit Don't LIe

Whattup you mother fuckaaaaaz!?  Today's rambling shall be tattoos, as I had an excellent and lengthy conversation whilst on a nature walk (yeah, that shit happened bro) about tattoos and the stigmas they entail.
My generation has embraced tattooing with a vengeance.  More and more 18-19 year olds are getting very conspicuous (think throat/hand area) pieces.  Now that's cool and all, I'm obviously all for personal expression, however when you have no career and no marketable skills a throat tattoo is a very big strike against you in virtually any market you can think of.  I've met countless kids who very early on, tattoo stretch scar and implant themselves all to hell with no idea what they're gonna do down the line, and it bums me out.  I'm being a complete hypocrite here by the way, I've got my hands, throat, and even ears done, and I was a dumb fucking kid for doing it.  When I was still piercing I wanted to go back to school for mortuary science, but when you work at a funeral home you not only have to embalm, but double as a funeral director, and lets be honest children, nobody wants a funion eared fuck like myself dealing with bereaved families.  So yeah, I screwed myself out of a career because I wanted to look how I wanted to look, and it's sad watching other kids doing the same thing.  I hear a lot of these same kids bitch and moan about how they're being discriminated against for their tattoos and heres the deal: getting tattooed is a decision that you consciously make.  A deli owner not hiring someone because they're black is discrimination,  a P.R. firm refusing to hire someone because they're gay is discrimination, but not hiring/ firing someone for a tattoo is absolutely not discrimination.  The best explanation of this I've heard is this, jobs have dress codes, if your gnarly sturgis 96 neck piece doesn't fit into that, than sorry bout your luck broseph, you fucked yourself out of a job back in 96.
That lengthy discourse out of the way, tattoos are undeniably awesome so get those ass antlers, get the Godsmack sun on your bicep and absolutely get that sweet hatchet man with juggalo lyfe underneath in old english, just don't bitch about it when your sweet tatties kill your dream of selling used Hondas.
Tip your servers (especially Alicia, she's fuckin rad) and drive safely my peeps
Oh and as always, send nudes
-Pretzel

I Disposed Of 7 Hooker's Bodies For My Boss And All I Got Was This Lousy Blog Entry

Well helloooooo there my children, how's life?  Alright that's enough outta you, it's my turn to babble.
I've been reading Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Poopers recently and it's fucking excellent.

The more I read about his zany exploits (heroin, coke, more heroin, banging his dad's girlfriend at age 11, more heroin, and some speedballs for good measure) the more I catch myself yelling at the movie screen of his life. "No Anthony Kiedis!" I'll say to myself, "If you OD with that chicano gangbanger you're never gonna live to record Under The Bridge!"  It's a semi fucked up dynamic really, because though I sit and curse Mr. Kiedis for almost throwing a brilliant career away, I do it with enough caffiene, nicotine, and alcohol coursing through my bloodstream to kill a miniature pony.

I find myself wondering from time to time what would happen if tortured artists with fucked up childhoods would have equally brilliant output, had their pasts been a bit more normal.  Take Rene Magritte for example.

He's the dude that painted this

His mom killed herself when he was a kid.  She jumped off a bridge and when her body was found her nightgown was draped over her face like a veil.  Magritte had a recurring motif of covering his subject's faces.   For example, one of my favorite paintings by him is called The Lovers.  It features a couple kissinng with a veil draped over both their faces.  This brings us back to my thesis question here.  Magritte was an enormously talented artist, and probably would have been a phenomenal painter regardless of how he grew up, but would his work have been as good had he not suffered the pain of his mom's suicide?  I like to imagine that he (or any other example you can dream up really) would simply produce equally amazing work with cheerier themes, but I guess that's a hypothetical I'll never know the answer to.
Eh, I'm getting a little to highbrow here for my taste.  Dicks, farts, bajinas, anal bleach and queefs.  That's right turds, queefs, now there's a topic that needs addressed.
Queefs, in day to day life are rather hilarious and should be giggled at.  However should queefage occur in a sexual situation it must be approached delicately.  You can either: A.) ignore it, power through and hope the moment hasn't been spoiled, or B.) acknowledge it giggle together like schoolgirls.  I've used both methods before and I've found that option B. works a little better.  I mean, you both know that shit happened, no reason for an unspoken awkwardness, and hopefully you've got enough chemistry with your partner that you can laugh at yourselves.
So to summarize, Belgian surreal artist, and pussy farts.
Talk amongst yourselves douchebags, I'm gonna go read on the front porch cuz its beautiful out today.
-Pretzel

2011; Year Of The Granny Panties

I was awoken this morning by NOFX playing "The Agony of Victory" through my phone.  Someone no call no showed at the bar today and due to my room's proximity to Damon's it's slowly becoming my job to relay messages to him when he's unwakeable by text or phonecall.
I hate waking people up, I really do, mainly because I hate waking up.  I hate it so much in fact that I have friends at the coffee shop that had no idea I had a personality until they saw me in the evening hours.
Anyway, after I played harbinger of waking hours, Damon trudged off to the bar which left me here bored and car-less which means it's been a day of watching youtube videos and hanging with the puppies.

Jabba and Betty getting their cuddle on

The dogs are kinda weird.  They're stoked on life first thing in the morning, they want to run around, play, poop, eat, and get petted right when they wake up, but then they pretty immediately switch into nap mode.  Around 7-8 or so they're up and all energy for a while and then it's right back to nap mode again.
I mean I guess I'm kinda the same there, aside from work or band hours all I really wanna do is sit on the couch, still I find their energy fluctuations strange.

I'm working 9-close tonight, and tonight, douchebags, is Jameson Night.  Jameson is always on special at the bar but tonight there'll be some sort of schwag being passed out, and the Jameson Girls will be on hand to (presumably) pass out shots, which should be fun, plus I'm working with Rusty,so there'll be shenanigans a' plenty.

We've got a show in Dayton this Saturday, I believe the venue's called O.E.  so if you're in Dayton, cancel your saturday plans and come get fucked up with us instead!

I'm out, lather rise repeat you cockmongers!
-Pretzel

Drunken Gas Station Shopping Spree

Yup, there was a storm out there, no denying it. Little rain never hurt anybody though right?
I covered my friend Rachel's shift at work yesterday.  We were fairly slow today, so I just got to fuck off, make up some drinks and hang out with my customers for a while.  After work as a reward for my fucking off, I bought myself a cosmic brownie, and a Fanta in a glass bottle.  Soda never tastes better than it does out of a glass bottle and you can take that shit to the bank.
Today I plan to:
1.) Take a poop
2.)Get some coffee
3.)Go to the bank
4.) Go hang out at a bar I don't work at
5.)Actually answer my texts and phone calls for a change
6.) I mentioned poop right?
7.)Maybe buy myself some dope Rocawear jeans and be fly for the ladies, hoooollla!!

Later douchenuggets!
Pretzel

Are Brad and Jen an item again? Details inside...

Hey there Involuntards! That by the way is what I'm calling our fans now, love your title, savor it my friends.
The Sinking Ship is open now, it's pretty fuckin' bitching, all my coworkers are the bee's knee's, and the customers are grand for the most part.  We're still in soft open mode, so give us a minute to find our footing before you swear at us and call us jerkfaces.
The Involuntarys haven't practiced in a while and I had to cancel practice for like the third time in a row due to my closing shift tonight.  Noah seems upset but it's nothing a slow jack and a ball rub won't cure.  That's our band therapy, it's way easier than that Metallica "Some Kind Of Monster" horseshit.
I'm painting my toenails  pink and watching the Blues Blackhawks game (three colors in one sentence, whooah!)  Yeah I guess I should explain that one huh?  Once upon a 40, I was shithammered drunk and decided to paint my big toes a kind of sparkly purple shade.  The next day we had a show and I played better than I ever had before, so painting my big toes has become my good luck ritual.  I am to be completely truthful rather retardedly methodical about my superstitions. For instance, I always carry a PBR bottlecap with an ace of spades on it in my left pocket.  Weird huh?  Well that's your behind the scenes look at the rhythm section for today Involuntards, I'm gonna go jerk off then walk to work for a pre-shift drink.
Hail Satan and such
-Pretzel

Little Trouble, Big China

Greetings turdnuggets!

Todays topic is halfassed self loathing.  Bear with me judge, I just woke up and I'm still a little drunk but I swear I'm going somewhere with this.  As you probably know, I live in Indianapolis Indiana (I would say I'm a proud hoosier, but I really hate that word so let's go with I like my state.)  Being in the throbbing veiny pulsating...heart of the midwest, one thing that you have to deal with every year is snow, and usually lots of it. 

This is how Google image search defines "snowpocalypse"

Snow separates the folks in this town into two camps.  The first camp I'll call the meltdown camp.  These people flip the fuck out, raid the grocery store for bread and distilled water, refuse to drive anywhere and when they finally do venture onto the roads, drive about 5 miles an hour.  In short they meltdown and overreact.  The other camp I'll dub camp macho.  These are the people who you hear say "it snows every year, why is everybody freaking out?"  They tend to be men who own large trucks with diamond plated tool boxes in the bed, but there are a few women and sedan drivers in camp macho.

Here's where today's theme kicks in,  I'm a card carrying member of camp macho.  I rip on everyone driving slowly and I point out that yeah, this is Indiana and we usually get at least one really hard snow a year so  unless you just moved here you ought to be used to driving in it. That being said every time someone else makes the same "it snows every year" observation, my first thought is "wow, you're a smug cockbag and it's gonna be poetic justice when you slide into a tree." I dislike my view on the situation, just not enough to change it, and that, sirs and madams, is halfassery.  

Here's another thing you may or may not know about me, I have big stretched out earlobes.  I know shocker right? 

And how Google image defines "big stupid ears"

Anyways a couple of days ago I broke one of my plugs whilst intoxicated, so I'm shopping for new ones online as we speak.  Cash is pretty tight in the rhythm section at the moment, so buying fucking jewelry of all things is totally a vain and petty luxury purchase, but since I'm pressing on with the shopping I am apparently both vain and petty.  Half assed self loathing folks.

On a fun side note, I'm sitting across from Damon right now wearing gym shorts with no underwear underneath and I'm fairly certain that at least one of my testicles is visible.  He hasn't noticed yet, as he's pretty deeply involved in a game of Splinter Cell, but there's still a vague chance that he'll catch an accidental passing glance, and that comrades, makes me giggle.

In band news, we have a show coming up on February 12th at the Dojo with The Blacklist Royals The Circle City Deacons, and another band whose name I forget and am too lazy to look up right now. If you're unfamiliar with them BLR are a fucking great band and are at the beginning of what I'm predicting will be a meteoric rise to stardom, and The Deacons are (see previous entry.)  So yeah, come out catch a gnarly show and maybe catch a glimpse of one of my testes!

That's all for today, carry on my wayward sons

-Pretzel

More Like Square City Ushers, Buuuuuuuurrn!!

Greetings once more Mexicants, and Hüsker Don'ts!
I'm writing to you today on behalf of some friends o' mine The Circle City Deacons.  I realize that "friends" part did just expose my journalistic bias, but hey, though I envy his mustache, I never claimed to be Kronkite.
The term "bonertastic ska exposionaries" is thrown around a lot these days, but few and far between are bands quite explosionary or bonertastic as the Circle City Deacons.
While most scholars agree that ska died years ago in the study at the hands of Colonel Mustard(plug,) The Circle City Deacons are doing a damn fine job resurrecting it. If the word ska puts a repetitive upstokey gimmicky third wave taste in your mouth, relax, that's not what the Deacons are doing at all.  They blend traditional ska with reggae and rocksteady to create a sound akin to early Slackers or a more dynamic Aggrolites.  They're generally relaxed and low key, but have a driving upbeat groove, and their live show is (even at their drunkest) a polished and well rehearsed machine.
Listen, like I said these guys are my friends, I grew up with them, lived with them,  and drank gallons upon gallons of rum with them, but for my money these guys are, fresh out of the gate, one of the best bands in town.
So there you go, when the ska train rolls back through the station and The Deacons are playing stadium tours, buying islands and doin' lines of coke off their supermodel girlfriends on air force one, you remember who broke the story to ya
Stay thirsty dear readers, and remember; if you can touch 'em they're real.
-Pretzel