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