The Outland is reopening for the third time since I started going back in 1999. Check out this article in Columbus Alive.
The Outland is a wonderful goth bar with dancing, torture and a rum and coke that will kill cancer. It's open until 4:00am and offers some of the best people watching in town. Though the best part is that you can dance as poorly as I do and no one gives a shit. I love that place.
One of my favorite Outland stories involves my brother Steve and Johnny Two-Sack. It was in 2001 and Steve and I spent the afternoon in Athens, OH watching Toledo beat OU in football. We drove back to Columbus and partied at Shorty's house for a few hours. While drinking, we told my brother a bit about the Outland and how great it was. He said, "Detroit, baby. Let's go."
So John drove us over close to the club and we all got out of the car. Steve was wearing a trench coat and a Toledo Rockets jersey and a t-shirt underneath. I took a look at his sports apparel and said, "You can't wear that shirt in there."
Steve looked at me and removed his jacket. Then he took off his jersey. And his tee-shirt. Bare chested, he put his trench coat back on.
John perked up at this point. "Steve, I can't let you go in like that." And John took off his leather jacket, removed his shirts and then put his jacket back on. "OK, now we can go in."
On the inside, we drank and I stood off to the side and watched as John and my brother danced with the goths and the punks. I bumped into a guy from work. We chatted a bit and he pointed out my brother on the dance floor. "Look at that guy." I said, "That's my brother." Friend said, "Is he a regular?"
I hope to see you there tomorrow. I'll be the one with a rum and diet, dancing like a fool. Dancing like a regular. Hopefully I will have a shirt on.
Edtitcational Shirts
I look at women's boobs. It is a built in, DNA programmed reflex and I'm done fighting it. Knowing that guys will stare at a woman's chest, I thought it best that we make the most of it. So I created the Edtitcational Shirt Series: math and scientific formulas printed on t-shirts so that guys can learn while they yearn.
The Quadratic Equation
Pythagorean Identity
Click on a photo to order or go to www.skreened.com/holyjuan to see my whole collection of HolyJuan Brand T-shirts.
The Quadratic Equation
Pythagorean Identity
Click on a photo to order or go to www.skreened.com/holyjuan to see my whole collection of HolyJuan Brand T-shirts.
Additional Helpful H1N1 Health Hints from the CDC
The CDC has published updated guidelines for avoiding the H1N1. In order to keep yourself and your loved ones healthy, you'll need to do the following:
1. Continue and increase all ingestion of bacon, ham, pork loin, sausage and pork rinds (except for Canadian Bacon - no one really knows what's in that, anyhow). Increasing your consumption will additionally help stave off the insidious effects of vegetarianism.
2. Throw out (preferably burn) all copies of Charlotte's Web books, VHS tapes, books-on-tape or 20th anniversary commemorative talking LP records to ensure no second-hand "Some pig!" H1N1 contagion.
3. Get an H1N1 flu shot vaccine. Note that you may have to disguise yourself as a 14-year-old unwed pregnant girl to ensure that you move to the top of the flu-shot priority queue. This will not be a problem in the Mid-West.
4. Start freebasing Airborne, Zicam, Sudafed, Centrum and Valtrex to maximize your immune system's efficacy in warding off disease. In a pinch, mix 1 tsp sugar with a glass of water. It works equally as well.
5. Up the ante - why wash your hands, when you can solder them clean? Note that solder gun and silver solder are not insurance-approved items eligible for year-end deduction.
6. Rent The Boy in the Bubble, starring John Travolta, and build your own hermetically-sealed mobile quarantine immunity dome. (Note: Conversion to Scientology is not necessary, though it is a well-known fact that Operating Thetans are immune to every disease and illness except gravity. And skepticism.)
7. Remember that alcohol kills germs - imbibe copious quantities of Wild Turkey, Grey Goose and Jim Beam before and during working hours. When co-workers discuss immunizations, tell them that you've had a shot and will have several more before the day is through.
8. Have sex with a nurse or doctor. H1N1 cannot be passed through sexual contact, and this will build up your resistance. Just remember, no kissing; it's too personal. You stay numb, you don't get involved.
9. Watch "Deliverance" up until the "squeal like a pig" scene. Turn off your televsion, put on your Ned Beatty pajamas and curl up on a cold concrete floor for the night. Torn rectum is optional.
10. Get it over with. Why avoid the inevitable? Lick door knobs and keyboards. Stand at the bus stop have the children rub their snot-encased forearms against your nose and mouth. Dumpster diving at the doctors office is not uncommon for the desperate. Find yourself a nice Ayn Rand book or congressional Health Care bill and rest for the next six days. You've earned it!
1. Continue and increase all ingestion of bacon, ham, pork loin, sausage and pork rinds (except for Canadian Bacon - no one really knows what's in that, anyhow). Increasing your consumption will additionally help stave off the insidious effects of vegetarianism.
2. Throw out (preferably burn) all copies of Charlotte's Web books, VHS tapes, books-on-tape or 20th anniversary commemorative talking LP records to ensure no second-hand "Some pig!" H1N1 contagion.
3. Get an H1N1 flu shot vaccine. Note that you may have to disguise yourself as a 14-year-old unwed pregnant girl to ensure that you move to the top of the flu-shot priority queue. This will not be a problem in the Mid-West.
4. Start freebasing Airborne, Zicam, Sudafed, Centrum and Valtrex to maximize your immune system's efficacy in warding off disease. In a pinch, mix 1 tsp sugar with a glass of water. It works equally as well.
5. Up the ante - why wash your hands, when you can solder them clean? Note that solder gun and silver solder are not insurance-approved items eligible for year-end deduction.
6. Rent The Boy in the Bubble, starring John Travolta, and build your own hermetically-sealed mobile quarantine immunity dome. (Note: Conversion to Scientology is not necessary, though it is a well-known fact that Operating Thetans are immune to every disease and illness except gravity. And skepticism.)
7. Remember that alcohol kills germs - imbibe copious quantities of Wild Turkey, Grey Goose and Jim Beam before and during working hours. When co-workers discuss immunizations, tell them that you've had a shot and will have several more before the day is through.
8. Have sex with a nurse or doctor. H1N1 cannot be passed through sexual contact, and this will build up your resistance. Just remember, no kissing; it's too personal. You stay numb, you don't get involved.
9. Watch "Deliverance" up until the "squeal like a pig" scene. Turn off your televsion, put on your Ned Beatty pajamas and curl up on a cold concrete floor for the night. Torn rectum is optional.
10. Get it over with. Why avoid the inevitable? Lick door knobs and keyboards. Stand at the bus stop have the children rub their snot-encased forearms against your nose and mouth. Dumpster diving at the doctors office is not uncommon for the desperate. Find yourself a nice Ayn Rand book or congressional Health Care bill and rest for the next six days. You've earned it!
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This policy is valid from 26 October 2009
This website is a personal website written and edited by me. For questions about this website, please contact holyjuan@gmail.com.
This website accepts forms of cash advertising, sponsorship, paid insertions or other forms of compensation.
The compensation received will never influence the content, topics or posts made in this website. All advertising is in the form of advertisements generated by a third party ad network. Those advertisements will be identified as paid advertisements.
The owner of this website is not compensated to provide opinion on products, services, websites and various other topics. The views and opinions expressed on this website are purely the website owner's. If I claim or appear to be experts on a certain topic or product or service area, I will only endorse products or services that I believe, based on my expertise, are worthy of such endorsement. Any product claim, statistic, quote or other representation about a product or service should be verified with the manufacturer or provider.
This website does not contain any content which might present a conflict of interest.
All content, materials, photos, writings, cartoons, and basically everything you see on www.holyjuan.com is copy protected. Contact me at holyjuan@gmail.com if you want to borrow my stuff. © 2006-2023 HolyJuan All Rights Reserved
To get your own policy, go to http://www.disclosurepolicy.org
This website is a personal website written and edited by me. For questions about this website, please contact holyjuan@gmail.com.
This website accepts forms of cash advertising, sponsorship, paid insertions or other forms of compensation.
The compensation received will never influence the content, topics or posts made in this website. All advertising is in the form of advertisements generated by a third party ad network. Those advertisements will be identified as paid advertisements.
The owner of this website is not compensated to provide opinion on products, services, websites and various other topics. The views and opinions expressed on this website are purely the website owner's. If I claim or appear to be experts on a certain topic or product or service area, I will only endorse products or services that I believe, based on my expertise, are worthy of such endorsement. Any product claim, statistic, quote or other representation about a product or service should be verified with the manufacturer or provider.
This website does not contain any content which might present a conflict of interest.
All content, materials, photos, writings, cartoons, and basically everything you see on www.holyjuan.com is copy protected. Contact me at holyjuan@gmail.com if you want to borrow my stuff. © 2006-2023 HolyJuan All Rights Reserved
To get your own policy, go to http://www.disclosurepolicy.org
The Fairfield County Fair in Two Parts: Carnies and Aim
Greg has been asking about the circus. Really he means the Fairfield County Fair and he usually corrects himself right after the word circus comes out of his mouth. He and I have a lot in common with our word selection except that instead of circus I accidentally say boobs. Greg’s been asking about the circus Fairfield County Fair so that he can get another goldfish. So on Wednesday, still dizzy and recovering from the flu, I picked him up from school and we drove to Lancaster to go to what is currently the happiest place in Greg’s mind. This story is broken into two parts: Carnies and Aim. I am sad to report that I only took two photos during this whole trip. I apologize that I will have to illustrate this story with boobs words instead of photos.
Carnies
As you pull into the Fairfield County Fair, you must pass through two human gates. The first person takes your money for admission ($5.00 for adults and Greg was free as was the parking) and they hand you x amount of tickets according to how many people you just paid for. The next person is about 30 feet up and they take the tickets that the first person just gave you. This is very inefficient and I still don’t understand why they first person just doesn’t collect the money and send you on your way. (I should clarify at this point that the people at the gates are Lancaster folk and not carnie folk.) As you pull away from the second set of people, you are guided towards the grass field to park. There are people to guide you and, on this day, it was like driving in reverse past a human evolution illustration. The first guy seems normal, the second was hunched over with a stalk of corn waving me past and the third guy was covered in hair and waved me on with a jawbone. The field was a muddy mess and I noted that a “Park at Your Own Risk!” sign was mounted about 50 feet past the point of no return of having to park. So we risked and parked.
The field was a muddy mess because it had been raining for about two days. The temperature was hovering around 47 degrees and there was just enough of a breeze to make you regret not wearing a sock hat.
I had to pee and tried to get Greg to go. He wouldn’t. The facilities at the Lancaster Fair Grounds aren’t primitive, but damn are they old. The stalls are about 18” wide and if you had to poop, you would have to do it in shifts.
We stopped and got fair fries. As the fairgrounds were pretty empty on a cold, wet, Wednesday afternoon, we got quick service. The fries were awesome. Greg likes his with vinegar and ketchup. I’m a vinegar only man, but will split a medium cup with both vinegar and ketchup with the boy. Greg kept saying, “These are good. I don’t know why the vinegar tastes good. These are good.” They were hot and delicious and kept the cold and wet at bay. I spent a good 18 napkins wiping off the 6” diameter ring of ketchup from Greg’s mouth.
The plan was to hit the fries, play some games, get a fish, and grab a candy apple on the way out the door. It was wet and cold and I was post-flu weak and already just wanted to go home. So we headed towards the row where the carnie games are located.
Oh dear god, the depression and sadness that filled the fair that day. I thought carnies were sad enough, but you get them wet cold and without customers they all ooze desperation and sweat processed methamphetamines. It was a gauntlet of pathetic taunts and barker’s sales pitches.
“One dart, you win!”
“Every kid wins!”
“Come on dad! Win one for the boy.”
“Only a dollar!”
“Easy win here dad!”
“I killed my wife in 1986.”
“One dart gets your choice!”
“Three balls only a dollar.”
We checked out the different booths as Greg eyed the huge stuffed animals and I pointed to the tiny ones. I was looking for the “Kids win every time” booths. They actually have games of no chance were you just pay one, three of five dollars and pick your prize. They fool the kids with some random floating duck mumbo jumbo, but in the end, everyone is happy.
We finally decided on a booth that had small SpongeBob Square pants. It was a balloon pop game and Greg was keen to throw darts this year. I asked the carnie guy what the deal was and they had a tiered pricing system for three darts that would gain larger and larger prizes as the price point went up. I settled for $5. Greg actually hit two balloons, but he needed three for the win. At that point, carnie guy reaches in the kids win every time basket for a tiny stuffed banana. He then leans into me and says, “For $5, you throw one dart and hit or miss, you get anything over here.” He gestured along the wall and the corner where a small SpongeBob sat. I said, “Sounds good,” and forked over another $5. I actually hit a balloon. Carnie said, “OK sonny, pick anything from this area.”
Greg pointed to SpongeBob again and said his choice.
Carnie said, “Oh no. Not there. Any where in this area.” And he pointed to a small area next to SpongeBob.” So I pulled out the Dude.
“Dude! You said $5 more bucks and we could have the SpongeBob.”
“No I didn’t. I said in this area.” His hand strayed even further from Bob.
“Dude. You completely pointed to the SpongeBob. Give us the SpongeBob.”
“That’s not what I said.” A whistle came out from between his eight teeth when he said said.
“Then give me back the $5 and we’ll take the stinking stuffed banana.”
I’m not sure if they guy felt bad for Greg or if I started to actually go Berserker on him, but he said, “All right, you can have the SpongeBob.” He pulled it off the wall and handed it to me. I turned to hand it to Greg who was now not standing alone. He had a new carnie friend who was watching me interact with his cohort. I handed it to Greg and pushed him off to the other side of the path at the same time. I’m not sure if carnies have a secret, sub-vocal alarm system, but that guy appeared from out of my blind spot, seemingly to ensure there was not a problem.
We went the other way. Quickly. I then realized that I had gotten into an argument with someone over a $3.99 stuffed toy and that I had won. But there’s an old carnie saying that goes, “If you think you’ve won an argument with a carnie, check you wallet and then your heartbeat.”
I realized that the next part of our stop to get a poster required us to travel past SpongeBob’s old home. We tried to sneak by. Carnie was chatting with the got-your-back carnie that showed up. I didn’t try to listen or look.
We made it to the poster booth where all you have to do is throw a dart and hit the wall and you win your choice. Greg did and selected a Scooby Doo poster. I tucked the poster in my jacket and stood up just in time to see my carnie pal walk by with a cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t notice me.
I then realized that perhaps he was going on break and the other carnie guy was there to relieve him. Maybe I’m just a jerk. Maybe the guy realized that he had made a mistake and didn’t want to see a little kid upset by his dad making a scene. Maybe carnies aren’t that bad.
Aim
We tucked away our spoils from the carnie booths and ended up at the goldfish booth. This game entails throwing ping pong balls into narrow necked bowls of water. You make one in the bowl, you win a gold fish. I bought Greg 12 balls for $2, knowing I’d probably need to buy 12 more.
He made one on the second shot. I started to do the math. At that rate, we’d have six fish. We could only make room for one more. Two would really be pushing it. Six and PETA would be dropping by.
Luckily, the goldfish booth also has one jar with red water in it. If you hit that, you can win a stuffed animal. I had Greg aim at that. He’s got good aim, but not that good. By aiming for the red, the missed shots were flying over the other containers. We ended up with only the one fish. The carnie filled a plastic bag with water and deftly reached into a tank and picked out our new friend. He tied it off and handed it to the beaming Greg.
After the fish, we scoured the fair looking for kettle corn. There’s a difference between caramel corn and kettle corn and I hope you get to taste the difference some day. We did not find any, so we settled for caramel corn for mom, a caramel apple for Ann and a candy apple for Greg.
We trudged back through the parking lot mud and we were about forty feet from the car when Greg announced that he had to pee. I said he could pee at the car. We pull the trick where the car door is opened and you can pee with 240 degrees of privacy. Greg stated that he would no be able to pee with other people around so I said we could go to a restaurant and pee. He was OK with that.
Somewhere in the forty foot walk to the car, Greg’s bladder informed him that it was going to let loose right now. He started saying, “I gotta pee! Right now.” I tossed all the prized possessions into the car, except for the fish which I stuck on the roof. We got the door open and he was fighting his pants down.
“You got it?”
“I got it.”
A laser thin stream of urine shot out of his body and began to carve a hole in the soft wet earth. That kid had really had to pee. I was standing behind him making sure that things didn’t go awry when shit went awry. He lost his grip and that pee stream went fire hose and started to fly up on to the open door and into the car. “Greg!” He started laughing. “I can’t help it.” I reached over and tried to do damage control. Pee was deflecting off the door and on to the floor mats and seat and dashboard. His pants had come up and were forcing his wiener in every direction but down. I ended up pushing everything in the groin area down; his gloves and jacket and shirt and pants and penis all got shoved down. The pee gave a last ditch effort to continue to hit the door, but gave up and decided to soak his jeans. Greg was still laughing. I was trying not to. We got his wet gloves off and I shoved him into his seat. I didn’t forget the fish on the roof. We drove home.
Mission completed.
So after a whirl wind trip to the fair, Greg only remembers one thing and the entire trip I only took two photos. Two photos of the pee damage to my car. Enjoy.
Carnies
As you pull into the Fairfield County Fair, you must pass through two human gates. The first person takes your money for admission ($5.00 for adults and Greg was free as was the parking) and they hand you x amount of tickets according to how many people you just paid for. The next person is about 30 feet up and they take the tickets that the first person just gave you. This is very inefficient and I still don’t understand why they first person just doesn’t collect the money and send you on your way. (I should clarify at this point that the people at the gates are Lancaster folk and not carnie folk.) As you pull away from the second set of people, you are guided towards the grass field to park. There are people to guide you and, on this day, it was like driving in reverse past a human evolution illustration. The first guy seems normal, the second was hunched over with a stalk of corn waving me past and the third guy was covered in hair and waved me on with a jawbone. The field was a muddy mess and I noted that a “Park at Your Own Risk!” sign was mounted about 50 feet past the point of no return of having to park. So we risked and parked.
The field was a muddy mess because it had been raining for about two days. The temperature was hovering around 47 degrees and there was just enough of a breeze to make you regret not wearing a sock hat.
I had to pee and tried to get Greg to go. He wouldn’t. The facilities at the Lancaster Fair Grounds aren’t primitive, but damn are they old. The stalls are about 18” wide and if you had to poop, you would have to do it in shifts.
We stopped and got fair fries. As the fairgrounds were pretty empty on a cold, wet, Wednesday afternoon, we got quick service. The fries were awesome. Greg likes his with vinegar and ketchup. I’m a vinegar only man, but will split a medium cup with both vinegar and ketchup with the boy. Greg kept saying, “These are good. I don’t know why the vinegar tastes good. These are good.” They were hot and delicious and kept the cold and wet at bay. I spent a good 18 napkins wiping off the 6” diameter ring of ketchup from Greg’s mouth.
The plan was to hit the fries, play some games, get a fish, and grab a candy apple on the way out the door. It was wet and cold and I was post-flu weak and already just wanted to go home. So we headed towards the row where the carnie games are located.
Oh dear god, the depression and sadness that filled the fair that day. I thought carnies were sad enough, but you get them wet cold and without customers they all ooze desperation and sweat processed methamphetamines. It was a gauntlet of pathetic taunts and barker’s sales pitches.
“One dart, you win!”
“Every kid wins!”
“Come on dad! Win one for the boy.”
“Only a dollar!”
“Easy win here dad!”
“I killed my wife in 1986.”
“One dart gets your choice!”
“Three balls only a dollar.”
We checked out the different booths as Greg eyed the huge stuffed animals and I pointed to the tiny ones. I was looking for the “Kids win every time” booths. They actually have games of no chance were you just pay one, three of five dollars and pick your prize. They fool the kids with some random floating duck mumbo jumbo, but in the end, everyone is happy.
We finally decided on a booth that had small SpongeBob Square pants. It was a balloon pop game and Greg was keen to throw darts this year. I asked the carnie guy what the deal was and they had a tiered pricing system for three darts that would gain larger and larger prizes as the price point went up. I settled for $5. Greg actually hit two balloons, but he needed three for the win. At that point, carnie guy reaches in the kids win every time basket for a tiny stuffed banana. He then leans into me and says, “For $5, you throw one dart and hit or miss, you get anything over here.” He gestured along the wall and the corner where a small SpongeBob sat. I said, “Sounds good,” and forked over another $5. I actually hit a balloon. Carnie said, “OK sonny, pick anything from this area.”
Greg pointed to SpongeBob again and said his choice.
Carnie said, “Oh no. Not there. Any where in this area.” And he pointed to a small area next to SpongeBob.” So I pulled out the Dude.
“Dude! You said $5 more bucks and we could have the SpongeBob.”
“No I didn’t. I said in this area.” His hand strayed even further from Bob.
“Dude. You completely pointed to the SpongeBob. Give us the SpongeBob.”
“That’s not what I said.” A whistle came out from between his eight teeth when he said said.
“Then give me back the $5 and we’ll take the stinking stuffed banana.”
I’m not sure if they guy felt bad for Greg or if I started to actually go Berserker on him, but he said, “All right, you can have the SpongeBob.” He pulled it off the wall and handed it to me. I turned to hand it to Greg who was now not standing alone. He had a new carnie friend who was watching me interact with his cohort. I handed it to Greg and pushed him off to the other side of the path at the same time. I’m not sure if carnies have a secret, sub-vocal alarm system, but that guy appeared from out of my blind spot, seemingly to ensure there was not a problem.
We went the other way. Quickly. I then realized that I had gotten into an argument with someone over a $3.99 stuffed toy and that I had won. But there’s an old carnie saying that goes, “If you think you’ve won an argument with a carnie, check you wallet and then your heartbeat.”
I realized that the next part of our stop to get a poster required us to travel past SpongeBob’s old home. We tried to sneak by. Carnie was chatting with the got-your-back carnie that showed up. I didn’t try to listen or look.
We made it to the poster booth where all you have to do is throw a dart and hit the wall and you win your choice. Greg did and selected a Scooby Doo poster. I tucked the poster in my jacket and stood up just in time to see my carnie pal walk by with a cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t notice me.
I then realized that perhaps he was going on break and the other carnie guy was there to relieve him. Maybe I’m just a jerk. Maybe the guy realized that he had made a mistake and didn’t want to see a little kid upset by his dad making a scene. Maybe carnies aren’t that bad.
Aim
We tucked away our spoils from the carnie booths and ended up at the goldfish booth. This game entails throwing ping pong balls into narrow necked bowls of water. You make one in the bowl, you win a gold fish. I bought Greg 12 balls for $2, knowing I’d probably need to buy 12 more.
He made one on the second shot. I started to do the math. At that rate, we’d have six fish. We could only make room for one more. Two would really be pushing it. Six and PETA would be dropping by.
Luckily, the goldfish booth also has one jar with red water in it. If you hit that, you can win a stuffed animal. I had Greg aim at that. He’s got good aim, but not that good. By aiming for the red, the missed shots were flying over the other containers. We ended up with only the one fish. The carnie filled a plastic bag with water and deftly reached into a tank and picked out our new friend. He tied it off and handed it to the beaming Greg.
After the fish, we scoured the fair looking for kettle corn. There’s a difference between caramel corn and kettle corn and I hope you get to taste the difference some day. We did not find any, so we settled for caramel corn for mom, a caramel apple for Ann and a candy apple for Greg.
We trudged back through the parking lot mud and we were about forty feet from the car when Greg announced that he had to pee. I said he could pee at the car. We pull the trick where the car door is opened and you can pee with 240 degrees of privacy. Greg stated that he would no be able to pee with other people around so I said we could go to a restaurant and pee. He was OK with that.
Somewhere in the forty foot walk to the car, Greg’s bladder informed him that it was going to let loose right now. He started saying, “I gotta pee! Right now.” I tossed all the prized possessions into the car, except for the fish which I stuck on the roof. We got the door open and he was fighting his pants down.
“You got it?”
“I got it.”
A laser thin stream of urine shot out of his body and began to carve a hole in the soft wet earth. That kid had really had to pee. I was standing behind him making sure that things didn’t go awry when shit went awry. He lost his grip and that pee stream went fire hose and started to fly up on to the open door and into the car. “Greg!” He started laughing. “I can’t help it.” I reached over and tried to do damage control. Pee was deflecting off the door and on to the floor mats and seat and dashboard. His pants had come up and were forcing his wiener in every direction but down. I ended up pushing everything in the groin area down; his gloves and jacket and shirt and pants and penis all got shoved down. The pee gave a last ditch effort to continue to hit the door, but gave up and decided to soak his jeans. Greg was still laughing. I was trying not to. We got his wet gloves off and I shoved him into his seat. I didn’t forget the fish on the roof. We drove home.
Mission completed.
So after a whirl wind trip to the fair, Greg only remembers one thing and the entire trip I only took two photos. Two photos of the pee damage to my car. Enjoy.
Man planning to go back in time to keep Obama from winning election
COLUMBUS OH (HJ) – Rex Mullins is in his garage, wedged under a large, egg shaped metal contraption, tracing wires and looking for the short that was created during the last test run. “Got it!” He asks me to hand him a red spool of wire and some wire cutters. He remarks, “This will be so much easier for the past me to build this once I hand myself the instructions six years ago!”
Rex is building a time machine. His time travel plan is so off base that I am going to have him say it in his own words. “I plan on going back in time to kill Karl Rove so that John Kerry will win the 2004 Presidential election which will then, in turn, keep Obama from running and thus winning the 2008 Presidential election.” Rex elaborates, “Without Rove, Bush didn’t have a chance of winning. Rove masterminded the election turn around. He messed with the public polling. Heck, I think he rigged half the voting machines in Ohio. Without him, Bush won’t win in 2004 and Obama won’t run in 2008. Pretty ingenious if you ask me.”
We headed back inside Rex’s modest home while he took a break from building. He looked around the kitchen and said, “I like this place, but while I’m back in time I’m going to move my investments around. Dump them right before the bottom falls out. Once I get back to 2009, I’ll buy up a foreclosed mansion.”
Rex’s plan was hatched a few weeks ago when he happened to catch the first half of Back to the Future 3 right after watching an episode of Dr. Who. “Then it hit me. Get Kerry to win and no Obama.” Rex said he knew Kerry couldn’t win on his own, so he had to get Bush to lose. “That’s when it hit me… kill Rove in 2003 and no Bush win in 2004. I hate to kill a fellow Republican, but if that’s what it takes… I’ll do it.”
As Rex showed me around the house, we came upon some photographs. Rex became quiet as he stared a photo of an older woman. “My mother passed away the night Obama was elected. Some say it was chance. I think she died of a broken heart.” He picked the photo up looked for a moment before reflecting, “How many other elderly people died that election night? You people in the media laugh, but Obama’s been killing elderly folks even before his health care death panels are instituted. I plan to change that.”
As we headed back in the kitchen, I asked him why he didn’t just go back and knock off Obama. Rex laughed, “You haven’t read up on your time travel history. See, Obama’s the next Hitler, and you just can’t go back in time and kill Hitler cause then someone comes back in time a little earlier and kills you. This way, it’s nice and clean.”
When I asked him if perhaps Karl Rove had been brought back in time by a future Rex Mullins to help Bush win the 2004 election to keep Kerry from being elected. Rex mulled that over for a bit. “Damn. I never thought about it that way. Maybe it’s Rove that is the next Hitler and I’m just retracing mistakes made by a past time traveling me.” He got up and poured himself a glass of wine. After half a glass he came to terms with himself. “I’m going to stick to Plan A. If I see another me in the past, I guess I’ll just have to kill him too. I’d rather have Karl Rove Hitler than an Obama Hitler.”
Rex plans on going back in time next week.
“I first plan on traveling back to August 4, 1961 and destroying Obama’s birth certificate just to really piss him off.”
Rex is building a time machine. His time travel plan is so off base that I am going to have him say it in his own words. “I plan on going back in time to kill Karl Rove so that John Kerry will win the 2004 Presidential election which will then, in turn, keep Obama from running and thus winning the 2008 Presidential election.” Rex elaborates, “Without Rove, Bush didn’t have a chance of winning. Rove masterminded the election turn around. He messed with the public polling. Heck, I think he rigged half the voting machines in Ohio. Without him, Bush won’t win in 2004 and Obama won’t run in 2008. Pretty ingenious if you ask me.”
We headed back inside Rex’s modest home while he took a break from building. He looked around the kitchen and said, “I like this place, but while I’m back in time I’m going to move my investments around. Dump them right before the bottom falls out. Once I get back to 2009, I’ll buy up a foreclosed mansion.”
Rex’s plan was hatched a few weeks ago when he happened to catch the first half of Back to the Future 3 right after watching an episode of Dr. Who. “Then it hit me. Get Kerry to win and no Obama.” Rex said he knew Kerry couldn’t win on his own, so he had to get Bush to lose. “That’s when it hit me… kill Rove in 2003 and no Bush win in 2004. I hate to kill a fellow Republican, but if that’s what it takes… I’ll do it.”
As Rex showed me around the house, we came upon some photographs. Rex became quiet as he stared a photo of an older woman. “My mother passed away the night Obama was elected. Some say it was chance. I think she died of a broken heart.” He picked the photo up looked for a moment before reflecting, “How many other elderly people died that election night? You people in the media laugh, but Obama’s been killing elderly folks even before his health care death panels are instituted. I plan to change that.”
As we headed back in the kitchen, I asked him why he didn’t just go back and knock off Obama. Rex laughed, “You haven’t read up on your time travel history. See, Obama’s the next Hitler, and you just can’t go back in time and kill Hitler cause then someone comes back in time a little earlier and kills you. This way, it’s nice and clean.”
When I asked him if perhaps Karl Rove had been brought back in time by a future Rex Mullins to help Bush win the 2004 election to keep Kerry from being elected. Rex mulled that over for a bit. “Damn. I never thought about it that way. Maybe it’s Rove that is the next Hitler and I’m just retracing mistakes made by a past time traveling me.” He got up and poured himself a glass of wine. After half a glass he came to terms with himself. “I’m going to stick to Plan A. If I see another me in the past, I guess I’ll just have to kill him too. I’d rather have Karl Rove Hitler than an Obama Hitler.”
Rex plans on going back in time next week.
“I first plan on traveling back to August 4, 1961 and destroying Obama’s birth certificate just to really piss him off.”
Horrible Request
This is a scan of a letter that we received at work via fax. I have covered up the bits that would reveal the name of the lunatic that wrote it. I mean, you'd have to be crazy to send this letter out in its current format.
(Sorry, I cannot size this photo correctly so you can squint to read it or click on it to get a HUGE version.)
(Sorry, I cannot size this photo correctly so you can squint to read it or click on it to get a HUGE version.)
Messing with the Urologist
This is the label from the specimen container which I turned over to my Urologist. It was four weeks after my vasectomy and they were checking to see if there were any swimmers left.
He's a Urologist so I assume he has a sense of humor.
He's a Urologist so I assume he has a sense of humor.
Lia's in 614 Magazine
My friend Lia got published in Columbus' own, 614 Magazine.
Check her article out here (http://614columbus.com/magazine/10-01-2009/on-the-death-of-post-modernism).
Check her article out here (http://614columbus.com/magazine/10-01-2009/on-the-death-of-post-modernism).
Not so Free Child Identification
Nothing is free. Especially not fingerprinting for your child by Western-Southern Financial Group. You might see them at local festivals or fairs advertising that they will provide a free ID for your child. Sounds great, right?
Basically this is a scam to sell life insurance. From their website:
“YES! I’d like to receive a free Child ID Card for my child(ren). I understand that an agent will contact me to schedule an appointment to create the Child ID Card(s). This appointment may include an insurance sales presentation.”
They say no purchase is required, but if you value your time, pass up on this offer.
Miss Sally had some nincompoop saleswoman, who showed up at the pre-school, run her around in circles for ten minutes, avoiding the question of whether this was really “free.” The woman finally admitted that Western-Southern would be contacting the parents to discuss life insurance opportunities. Miss Sally sent her packing.
If you are going to be out and about with your child, keep a couple of photos handy with their name and stats written on the back just in case they do wander off. If your kids are like mine, they look different every six months and the ID cards quickly become outdated.
Basically this is a scam to sell life insurance. From their website:
“YES! I’d like to receive a free Child ID Card for my child(ren). I understand that an agent will contact me to schedule an appointment to create the Child ID Card(s). This appointment may include an insurance sales presentation.”
They say no purchase is required, but if you value your time, pass up on this offer.
Miss Sally had some nincompoop saleswoman, who showed up at the pre-school, run her around in circles for ten minutes, avoiding the question of whether this was really “free.” The woman finally admitted that Western-Southern would be contacting the parents to discuss life insurance opportunities. Miss Sally sent her packing.
If you are going to be out and about with your child, keep a couple of photos handy with their name and stats written on the back just in case they do wander off. If your kids are like mine, they look different every six months and the ID cards quickly become outdated.
Washington Gas Light Company Sends $0.01 check
@athikerpickle got a check from the Washington Gas Light Company for $0.01. One measly cent.
They sent it in the mail which cost $0.44. They also processed the check which probably cost a few cents as well. If you think about the trees cut to make the paper and the chemicals to make the magnetic ink and carbon footprint of the processing; this check for one cent put a hole is the ozone the size of 2,486 football fields.
Luckily for the Washington Gas Light Company, they probably own a logging company, a magnetic ink company and a company that will sell you carbon credits for a small, outrageous fee. In sending this check, they made $1.3 million dollars.
Thanks @athikerpickle!
They sent it in the mail which cost $0.44. They also processed the check which probably cost a few cents as well. If you think about the trees cut to make the paper and the chemicals to make the magnetic ink and carbon footprint of the processing; this check for one cent put a hole is the ozone the size of 2,486 football fields.
Luckily for the Washington Gas Light Company, they probably own a logging company, a magnetic ink company and a company that will sell you carbon credits for a small, outrageous fee. In sending this check, they made $1.3 million dollars.
Thanks @athikerpickle!
Love to Hate the Drudge Report
Drudge is awesome. He's awesome because I am talking about him. He's awesome because he can pretty much headline what he wants and it becomes a talking point. He's brilliant. But he's also a douchebag.
For instance his article from 9/25/09:
The article that it links to (sometimes his headlines don't link to anything so this is a bonus) states:
"White House officials said Western intelligence agencies have been tracking the facility for years. Obama said officials from the United States, France and Britain briefed the IAEA in Vienna on Thursday on what they knew about the facility. The three heads of state decided to publicly disclose the existence of the facility after learning that Iran had become aware the site was no longer a secret."
Tracking it for years and somehow it was a surprise? What people will be talking about is how thatBush Obama was surprised by its finding.
Drudge is brilliant. I'll give him that much.
For instance his article from 9/25/09:
The article that it links to (sometimes his headlines don't link to anything so this is a bonus) states:
"White House officials said Western intelligence agencies have been tracking the facility for years. Obama said officials from the United States, France and Britain briefed the IAEA in Vienna on Thursday on what they knew about the facility. The three heads of state decided to publicly disclose the existence of the facility after learning that Iran had become aware the site was no longer a secret."
Tracking it for years and somehow it was a surprise? What people will be talking about is how that
Drudge is brilliant. I'll give him that much.
Greg plays soccer
Greg had a great game this morning. Three goals and a great block as goalie. The kid's got a powerful kick.
How to Piss Off an Eco-Warrior
A leather coaster with an oil company logo on it. It's a fitting place to put your teak cup filled with seal's blood.
HolyJuan interviews John: The Trip to Pensacola
(Author's note: This is an unedited interview between myself and the first funniest person I know, John, concerning a recent trip and associated conveyances.)
HOLYJUAN: Hello John, I understand you took a trip to Florida recently.
JOHN: Hi, HolyJuan. I did just travel from Ohio to Florida, but nothing about my trip was ordinary.
HJ: I know you are a well seasoned traveler, so you would have purchased a direct flight. Probably first class.
JOHN: Well, that's what made this trip so extraordinary - the sheer mundane nature of my travel attempts. I did, in fact, try to purchase a direct flight from Columbus to Pensacola. But, due to the unavailability of direct flights between those two airports, I was forced to purchase a flight with a layover in Memphis. And, due to a pronounced case of hyperclotholavaphobia (fear of hot towels), it was necessary to fly coach. I was lured into a false sense of security when the first leg of my flight occurred without incident. However, when I arrived in Memphis, things took a turn for the worse.
HJ: Explosive diarrhea?
JOHN: Explosive diarrhea? No, not this time. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get through Customs in Houston when you have two agents sifting through your boxers trying to separate the "flora" from the "fauna"?
No, when my flight arrived in Memphis, I took two trains, rode nine escalators, flew a hang-glider and hitched a ride with 27 Guatemalan immigrants in a '96 Hyundai Excel, all to arrive at my connecting gate just to hear that the second-leg of my flight to Pensacola had been cancelled.
HJ: I'm assuming that the airline paid for a night in a seedy motel / hot tub hotel and you caught not only syphilis, but also the next flight out in the morning?
JOHN: Well, yes. The airline did offer to fly me out the next morning and pay for a room that night at the 1/2-star Memphis Crampton Inn Menses Suites hotel. I declined on reasons of faith. I then spent the next 90 minutes working with airline representatives on finding alternate airport destinations that were reasonably close to Pensacola ("reasonably" being defined as within two time zones or 13 Postal Zip Codes). The closest I could do was Memphis - Pensacola via Bialystok, Poland, which was unacceptable - no duty-free shopping. Just as I was contemplating going to Graceland and committing assisted-suicide over the King's empty grave, something miraculous occurred behind me at the airline ticket counter.
HJ: Your introduction to the Memphis 0 Mile High Club?
JOHN: In hindsight, I would have much rather been inducted into the Memphis 0 Mile High Club, even as an "unwilling / forced-entry" initiate. When I turned around, I witnessed what could best be described as a ruckus. I saw three red-faced men, blustering and gesticulating wildly. I heard them speaking, in what I first thought was a foreign language, and quickly realized was a thickly-accented Southern drawl. The conversation went something like this:
Guy 1: "Whtchall mean, planbecancel?"
Guy 2: "Slap weasel sloop, we'sfukednow. Mysister-wife ain't gonna be none toopleased"
Guy 3: "I gotta takeashit."
I was fascinated. I stepped closer, so that I could hear more. What transpired over the next 30 minutes, as these world-traveling idiot-savants identified, and subsequently rejected, option after option for getting home, was a formulation of a plan so crazy, it just couldn't fail.
HJ: Were these business suit types or coveralls with boots? Would you say they were squeezed into their clothes or did they just step out of the gym fifteen minutes before the flight was canceled?
JOHN: Here's the recipe - toss Malachi from "Children of the Corn" into a time machine for 20 years and rough him up a bit, add a slightly-larger-than-average "Deliverance" banjo-playing cranium, throw in a hint of Skoal aftershave, season to taste and simmer for 23 hours in the same clothes. Repeat twice.
Drawn as I was to the spectacle unfolding before me, it was only a matter of time before I had to insert myself into the proceedings by way of providing airport information to this motley crew. And just like that (well, after one question was appropriately responded to in the negative - "Yous ain't nokiller, is yuh?"), I was officially part of the Southern Comfort Stranded Travelers' Club. I felt the unwashed hand of fate on the small of my back, carrying me along as the plan was put into action.
HJ: Wait... so you ended up in a hotel with these guys? Did you rent a crop duster?
JOHN: Fortunately, I was sober, so the hotel option was not discussed. A vehicle was rented, however. An eggshell-white Mercury sedan. It was into this conveyance that the four of us newly-formed and tightly-knit friends piled and proceeded to DRIVE, from Memphis all the way down to Pensacola. Let me clarify - I rode, for all intents and purposes, captive, in a car with three complete strangers for 450 miles (travel time required - 9.5 hours, which included stops at eight convenience stores, six fast-food restaurants and one closed-for-the-night petting zoo with really poor security). Along the way, I learned about sales, tractors and the increased need for birth control when sleeping with any relative closer than three-times removed. But, as if that was not enough, there was a kicker.
HJ: A kicker? Do tell! Did these fine gentlemen of the south expound upon the current health care debate or possibly their concern about the unemployment levels?
JOHN: The only topic upon which they expounded in any detail was their marked displeasure at the current state of race relations in the US, which they feel has progressed entirely too much since the "glory days" of 1860. No, the piece of information that they failed to divulge to me earlier in our trip, was that they didn't actually live in Pensacola, but rather "close," which translated to an hour north of the city limits. This required me to, at 4:30 AM CT, have my girlfriend drive 50 minutes to pick me up on the side of the Interstate. I spent those 50 minutes at a gas station restocking the shelves, taking out the trash and fending off the romantic advances of Horatio, the night cashier.
All's well that ends well, I suppose, but in hindsight, I would have been better off cramming myself into an URGENT - OVERNIGHT envelope and FedEx'ing myself to Florida. Or, maybe doing what other, ummm, more rational folks would have done, and simply waited for the next available flight.
HJ: Can you, with your elementary math skills, calculate the number of times, if any, they used the N-word?
JOHN: 3.97351680636005e+28 times (my calculator ran out of digits). What amazed me more than the sheer number of utterances was the inventiveness in which the word was used. Did you know that it can be used as a modifier (both adjective and adverb), a conjunction, a verb, even as the object of a preposition? I remember a sentence where the word was simply repeated seven times, with verbal inflection being the only clue as to what message the speaker was conveying.
HJ: What type of food did these guys eat and did they offer you bites after they had taken the first?
JOHN: Does Skoal Wintergreen backwash count? If so, it was an all-you-can-eat tobacco buffet on wheels through the entire state of Mississippi. Aside from that, there were a couple of routine stops at McDonalds and Krystal (White Castle for the South). There WAS something unusual, however. At 3:20 AM, I was awakened from a light doze when we pulled over to the side of the road. Two of the gentleman opened their doors and ran back behind the car with forks and napkins. It was dark, so I couldn't see what happened back there, but they came back to the car five minutes later wiping their mouths and mumbling words like "stil wawm", "shitlicious" and "whoo-hee."
HJ: One last question: given the opportunity, would you have done anything different?
JOHN: Not a thing, n-word…
HOLYJUAN: Hello John, I understand you took a trip to Florida recently.
JOHN: Hi, HolyJuan. I did just travel from Ohio to Florida, but nothing about my trip was ordinary.
HJ: I know you are a well seasoned traveler, so you would have purchased a direct flight. Probably first class.
JOHN: Well, that's what made this trip so extraordinary - the sheer mundane nature of my travel attempts. I did, in fact, try to purchase a direct flight from Columbus to Pensacola. But, due to the unavailability of direct flights between those two airports, I was forced to purchase a flight with a layover in Memphis. And, due to a pronounced case of hyperclotholavaphobia (fear of hot towels), it was necessary to fly coach. I was lured into a false sense of security when the first leg of my flight occurred without incident. However, when I arrived in Memphis, things took a turn for the worse.
HJ: Explosive diarrhea?
JOHN: Explosive diarrhea? No, not this time. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get through Customs in Houston when you have two agents sifting through your boxers trying to separate the "flora" from the "fauna"?
No, when my flight arrived in Memphis, I took two trains, rode nine escalators, flew a hang-glider and hitched a ride with 27 Guatemalan immigrants in a '96 Hyundai Excel, all to arrive at my connecting gate just to hear that the second-leg of my flight to Pensacola had been cancelled.
HJ: I'm assuming that the airline paid for a night in a seedy motel / hot tub hotel and you caught not only syphilis, but also the next flight out in the morning?
JOHN: Well, yes. The airline did offer to fly me out the next morning and pay for a room that night at the 1/2-star Memphis Crampton Inn Menses Suites hotel. I declined on reasons of faith. I then spent the next 90 minutes working with airline representatives on finding alternate airport destinations that were reasonably close to Pensacola ("reasonably" being defined as within two time zones or 13 Postal Zip Codes). The closest I could do was Memphis - Pensacola via Bialystok, Poland, which was unacceptable - no duty-free shopping. Just as I was contemplating going to Graceland and committing assisted-suicide over the King's empty grave, something miraculous occurred behind me at the airline ticket counter.
HJ: Your introduction to the Memphis 0 Mile High Club?
JOHN: In hindsight, I would have much rather been inducted into the Memphis 0 Mile High Club, even as an "unwilling / forced-entry" initiate. When I turned around, I witnessed what could best be described as a ruckus. I saw three red-faced men, blustering and gesticulating wildly. I heard them speaking, in what I first thought was a foreign language, and quickly realized was a thickly-accented Southern drawl. The conversation went something like this:
Guy 1: "Whtchall mean, planbecancel?"
Guy 2: "Slap weasel sloop, we'sfukednow. Mysister-wife ain't gonna be none toopleased"
Guy 3: "I gotta takeashit."
I was fascinated. I stepped closer, so that I could hear more. What transpired over the next 30 minutes, as these world-traveling idiot-savants identified, and subsequently rejected, option after option for getting home, was a formulation of a plan so crazy, it just couldn't fail.
HJ: Were these business suit types or coveralls with boots? Would you say they were squeezed into their clothes or did they just step out of the gym fifteen minutes before the flight was canceled?
JOHN: Here's the recipe - toss Malachi from "Children of the Corn" into a time machine for 20 years and rough him up a bit, add a slightly-larger-than-average "Deliverance" banjo-playing cranium, throw in a hint of Skoal aftershave, season to taste and simmer for 23 hours in the same clothes. Repeat twice.
Drawn as I was to the spectacle unfolding before me, it was only a matter of time before I had to insert myself into the proceedings by way of providing airport information to this motley crew. And just like that (well, after one question was appropriately responded to in the negative - "Yous ain't nokiller, is yuh?"), I was officially part of the Southern Comfort Stranded Travelers' Club. I felt the unwashed hand of fate on the small of my back, carrying me along as the plan was put into action.
HJ: Wait... so you ended up in a hotel with these guys? Did you rent a crop duster?
JOHN: Fortunately, I was sober, so the hotel option was not discussed. A vehicle was rented, however. An eggshell-white Mercury sedan. It was into this conveyance that the four of us newly-formed and tightly-knit friends piled and proceeded to DRIVE, from Memphis all the way down to Pensacola. Let me clarify - I rode, for all intents and purposes, captive, in a car with three complete strangers for 450 miles (travel time required - 9.5 hours, which included stops at eight convenience stores, six fast-food restaurants and one closed-for-the-night petting zoo with really poor security). Along the way, I learned about sales, tractors and the increased need for birth control when sleeping with any relative closer than three-times removed. But, as if that was not enough, there was a kicker.
HJ: A kicker? Do tell! Did these fine gentlemen of the south expound upon the current health care debate or possibly their concern about the unemployment levels?
JOHN: The only topic upon which they expounded in any detail was their marked displeasure at the current state of race relations in the US, which they feel has progressed entirely too much since the "glory days" of 1860. No, the piece of information that they failed to divulge to me earlier in our trip, was that they didn't actually live in Pensacola, but rather "close," which translated to an hour north of the city limits. This required me to, at 4:30 AM CT, have my girlfriend drive 50 minutes to pick me up on the side of the Interstate. I spent those 50 minutes at a gas station restocking the shelves, taking out the trash and fending off the romantic advances of Horatio, the night cashier.
All's well that ends well, I suppose, but in hindsight, I would have been better off cramming myself into an URGENT - OVERNIGHT envelope and FedEx'ing myself to Florida. Or, maybe doing what other, ummm, more rational folks would have done, and simply waited for the next available flight.
HJ: Can you, with your elementary math skills, calculate the number of times, if any, they used the N-word?
JOHN: 3.97351680636005e+28 times (my calculator ran out of digits). What amazed me more than the sheer number of utterances was the inventiveness in which the word was used. Did you know that it can be used as a modifier (both adjective and adverb), a conjunction, a verb, even as the object of a preposition? I remember a sentence where the word was simply repeated seven times, with verbal inflection being the only clue as to what message the speaker was conveying.
HJ: What type of food did these guys eat and did they offer you bites after they had taken the first?
JOHN: Does Skoal Wintergreen backwash count? If so, it was an all-you-can-eat tobacco buffet on wheels through the entire state of Mississippi. Aside from that, there were a couple of routine stops at McDonalds and Krystal (White Castle for the South). There WAS something unusual, however. At 3:20 AM, I was awakened from a light doze when we pulled over to the side of the road. Two of the gentleman opened their doors and ran back behind the car with forks and napkins. It was dark, so I couldn't see what happened back there, but they came back to the car five minutes later wiping their mouths and mumbling words like "stil wawm", "shitlicious" and "whoo-hee."
HJ: One last question: given the opportunity, would you have done anything different?
JOHN: Not a thing, n-word…
Erik and Doug go to Stu's 2009
The last time Erik and Doug went to Stu's it was 2006. We had unbelievable amounts of fun. There is something about going to Stu's that is almost magical. I cannot believe that it has taken us three years to go back. I'll illustrate with words and photos.
About six months ago, I asked Erik to go to Stu's with me. He said he was busy. I asked him to check his calendar. He said he would be free in August. So we set a date in September. We left work at 2:17pm on Thursday. Suggested arrival time was 5:17pm. We stopped once for gas and Swedish Fish. After exactly three hours, we arrived at Stu's place at 5:17pm. He met us at the end of his drive with his son, Oscar. Oscar is about 16 months old and a bundle of fun. We grabbed our bags, headed inside and sat down for a few beers.
Ann-Marie on the stairs with Erik and Stu below.
We had just searched the toy chest for Ann-Marie's missing wallet.
Ann-Marie with Oscar. Stu and Annmarie are expecting again in a few months.
In Indianapolis, you cannot buy beer cold. You have to buy it warm and either drink it warm or wait 45 minutes for it to cool down. Stu mentioned that in high school, his buddies would "roll beers" in a pan over a hot stove to cool them down quicker. It sounded just plausible enough to be bullshit, so we tried it out.
Test materials.
The rolling technique.
Scientific equipment.
We realized that unless we had a control, this experiment would be for naught, so we ended up drinking half cold beers (or half warm beers if you are British).
As we drank, we discussed what opportunities we had for the evening. Basically we were going to head to the Broad Ripple area and drink. That sounded like a plan. Stu mentioned that we would be taking bikes as to avoid drinking and driving. So we went down to his garage, selected three bikes (mine was called "The Mule") and we headed out.
Stu's bike for the evening. Made up of parts from four other bikes.
Three men and three bikes. It's hard to tell from this photo, but Erik's pedals were so close to the ground that they scraped when he turned.
Heading to town.
A photo for the insurance company to prove the bikes were actually there.
We started things off at the Broad Ripple Tavern. We initially pissed off the bartender when I offhandedly said "son of a bitch" until we realized he was fucking with us. We sat at the bar and ate wings and drank cheap beer. We called Shorty to apologize that we forgot to stop by and pick him up.
Stu talks with Shorty.
Doug and Stu. Stu's hat was obtained by trading hats with a prison sanitation worker.
In the back of the bar they had a Golden Tee 2009 on a huge screen. We waited for the two pros to finish up and I solidly beat Stu (who claimed he hadn't played in a while) and Erik (who claimed he had masturbator's wrist).
Cute waitress.
We were now completely loaded with beer and should have walked around the strip, but instead we got on our bikes and circled around for five minutes before Stu had us pull up to the back of some building. He said, "The Bikes are here!" and walked right in the back door. Erik followed. I followed.
That back door belonged (I found out later) to the Vogue Nightclub. A well known concert venue in Indianapolis. As I pulled in, Stu was putting his bike against the wall. Erik and I followed suit. There was a huge crowd of people in the place. It felt like they were in between acts. The guy at the back door politely asked us what the fuck we were doing. Stu said that we were told we could put our bikes back there and that they would be kept safe. The guy asked where our wristbands were. Stu said that we didn't need wristbands because we were with the band. The guy asked us who told us this. Stu turned to Erik and said, "What was the guy's name." Erik replied, "George." We were told that we would have to leave. And we did.
Our bikes in the back door of the Vogue Nightclub.
The bouncer wasn't having any of our bullshit story.
We grabbed our bikes and headed out, realizing that maybe we should have had a better story. Stu suggested that he could have used my HolyJuan business card to say he was a reporter. Because we didn't think we were ever going back, we told Stu that that sounded like a great idea.
Stu took us down some back alleys and we parked our bikes outside a, literally, back alley bar.
Back alley bar insurance photo.
There were a few very nice ladies coming out who took our photo.
Erik, Doug and Stu. I'm bending down so that Erik and Stu don't feel so short.
Inside this bar, we were greeted with an angry mob of people watching the IU game as they barely scraped by Eastern Kentucky. We were also greeted with a girl wearing a bra, so we sat down. There was some promotion going on that night and for some reason this chick had her shirt off to win a shirt. She did win the shirt and put it on, only to remove her pants. We hoped it was going to get very interesting, but that's about where it stopped. Stu bought $20 worth of pull tabs and we won $2.
Note that the girl on the far left barstool is not wearing pants. It was uncomfortable more than it was hot.
Douglas brand addiction.
We left the back alley bar and Stu took us back west again, this time to the front door of the Vogue Nightclub. Stu wanted to try the business card idea. Before he did that, we stopped and got photos of the bratwurst girl on Erik's bike.
Wait... is that a girl's bike?
Stu, once again, rode his bike in the door, this time in front. Erik stood by the door while I rode off in circles waiting for him to get kicked out. For a minute, it seemed like he might have succeeded, but soon he appeared, rejected, but not dejected.
Stu then took us off on a tour of the neighborhood he grew up in. We stopped at some tennis courts and rode around in circles for a few minutes. At one point, Erik and Stu dismounted to pee. A group of people walked by in the distance on one girl yelled, "Go suck dick in some other park!"
We left this park and during the next part of the ride, Stu's pant leg got caught in his chain. In trying to pull it out, he managed to tear the pants all the way up the seam.
Torn!
Underwear or nutsack?
The bike that I was riding, The Mule, had 15 gears but only one of them worked. I'm assuming it was 11th, because I had to pedal 170 times to Erik's 1. This meant that I was great on hills, but slow on the straight away. After the pant rippage, Stu and Erik took off and I was left in the dust. I actually lost them for a few minutes and caught up with them only after hearing their laughing in the distance. I followed their voices and suddenly I was entering a stadium with a track which was currently being raced around by Stu and Erik. Erik won.
Stu showed us some places he had graffiti-ed as a kid and then took us back to the bars. We stopped in a very popular place called the Mine Shaft, but there were way too many hipsters, so we went to Average Joe's, the bar next door.
Whole lot of hipsters with a whole lot of keys that don't open shit.
Average Joe's had an open front so we parked out bikes in front of the open front and ended up sitting in the open air portion right on the street. We planned on watching the bikes get stolen.
The next two hours were spent with Stu greeting and saying hello to everyone walking by us.
Hey!
How are you doing?
Looking good!
Hey pal!
Howdoyoudo?
And oddly enough, everyone either ignored us or were very pleasant in their response back.
Also in the bar were two ladies who did not run off as soon as we entered. We chatted them up a bit and we actually able to get them on Erik's bike for a photo op.
Lady friends.
Ladies with Erik on the bike. They feel special!
At some point, two of the people Stu said hello two walked by again and were very chatty. They were your run of the mill homeless punk teenagers who were having the time of their lives. Earlier when we saw them, they were carrying a stack of pizza boxes and said they had got them for free out of the dumpster. When they stopped by again, they were pizza-less, but Stu inquired about the pizzas. The homeless guys were a bit put off by the current status of the pizza as they left them lying in the street. Stu said he would give them $5 if they would get a box. They reiterated that the pizza was on the street. Stu reiterated that he didn't care and would give them $5 for pizza that even homeless people wouldn't eat.
They ran off.
They returned a few minutes later with a box, filled with a lot of pizza.
Homeless Pizza Delivery Service
Before the homeless guys took off with thier cash, we made sure to get a photo of them on the bike with Erik. While the homeless guys thought this was awesome, the chicks sitting behind us were put off that they were about as special as the two homeless dudes.
Oh my f'ing god that's disgusting!
DON'T DO IT!
Lucky for all of us, the bouncer told Erik that outside food was not allowed and Erik took the box away.
Sorry.
Happiest dudes in the world.
We ended up pawning our girls off to two other guys who had been standing in line for the Mine Shaft. I said, "Why stand in line when there are two ladies right here?" And the two dudes checked them out, shrugged, came in our bar and swept these girls off their feet.
Our job done, we headed home back to Stu's. By now the beers were actually cold and we sat on his porch and re-lived the the nights events and past nights long gone.
In the end, this trip matched all the others. Drunkenness. Spontaneity. Laughs. Random shit. I'm not sure if you have a Stu in your life, but I highly suggest you get one.
I hope that we do not wait three years to do this again.
Thanks, Stu.
About six months ago, I asked Erik to go to Stu's with me. He said he was busy. I asked him to check his calendar. He said he would be free in August. So we set a date in September. We left work at 2:17pm on Thursday. Suggested arrival time was 5:17pm. We stopped once for gas and Swedish Fish. After exactly three hours, we arrived at Stu's place at 5:17pm. He met us at the end of his drive with his son, Oscar. Oscar is about 16 months old and a bundle of fun. We grabbed our bags, headed inside and sat down for a few beers.
Ann-Marie on the stairs with Erik and Stu below.
We had just searched the toy chest for Ann-Marie's missing wallet.
Ann-Marie with Oscar. Stu and Annmarie are expecting again in a few months.
In Indianapolis, you cannot buy beer cold. You have to buy it warm and either drink it warm or wait 45 minutes for it to cool down. Stu mentioned that in high school, his buddies would "roll beers" in a pan over a hot stove to cool them down quicker. It sounded just plausible enough to be bullshit, so we tried it out.
Test materials.
The rolling technique.
Scientific equipment.
We realized that unless we had a control, this experiment would be for naught, so we ended up drinking half cold beers (or half warm beers if you are British).
As we drank, we discussed what opportunities we had for the evening. Basically we were going to head to the Broad Ripple area and drink. That sounded like a plan. Stu mentioned that we would be taking bikes as to avoid drinking and driving. So we went down to his garage, selected three bikes (mine was called "The Mule") and we headed out.
Stu's bike for the evening. Made up of parts from four other bikes.
Three men and three bikes. It's hard to tell from this photo, but Erik's pedals were so close to the ground that they scraped when he turned.
Heading to town.
A photo for the insurance company to prove the bikes were actually there.
We started things off at the Broad Ripple Tavern. We initially pissed off the bartender when I offhandedly said "son of a bitch" until we realized he was fucking with us. We sat at the bar and ate wings and drank cheap beer. We called Shorty to apologize that we forgot to stop by and pick him up.
Stu talks with Shorty.
Doug and Stu. Stu's hat was obtained by trading hats with a prison sanitation worker.
In the back of the bar they had a Golden Tee 2009 on a huge screen. We waited for the two pros to finish up and I solidly beat Stu (who claimed he hadn't played in a while) and Erik (who claimed he had masturbator's wrist).
Cute waitress.
We were now completely loaded with beer and should have walked around the strip, but instead we got on our bikes and circled around for five minutes before Stu had us pull up to the back of some building. He said, "The Bikes are here!" and walked right in the back door. Erik followed. I followed.
That back door belonged (I found out later) to the Vogue Nightclub. A well known concert venue in Indianapolis. As I pulled in, Stu was putting his bike against the wall. Erik and I followed suit. There was a huge crowd of people in the place. It felt like they were in between acts. The guy at the back door politely asked us what the fuck we were doing. Stu said that we were told we could put our bikes back there and that they would be kept safe. The guy asked where our wristbands were. Stu said that we didn't need wristbands because we were with the band. The guy asked us who told us this. Stu turned to Erik and said, "What was the guy's name." Erik replied, "George." We were told that we would have to leave. And we did.
Our bikes in the back door of the Vogue Nightclub.
The bouncer wasn't having any of our bullshit story.
We grabbed our bikes and headed out, realizing that maybe we should have had a better story. Stu suggested that he could have used my HolyJuan business card to say he was a reporter. Because we didn't think we were ever going back, we told Stu that that sounded like a great idea.
Stu took us down some back alleys and we parked our bikes outside a, literally, back alley bar.
Back alley bar insurance photo.
There were a few very nice ladies coming out who took our photo.
Erik, Doug and Stu. I'm bending down so that Erik and Stu don't feel so short.
Inside this bar, we were greeted with an angry mob of people watching the IU game as they barely scraped by Eastern Kentucky. We were also greeted with a girl wearing a bra, so we sat down. There was some promotion going on that night and for some reason this chick had her shirt off to win a shirt. She did win the shirt and put it on, only to remove her pants. We hoped it was going to get very interesting, but that's about where it stopped. Stu bought $20 worth of pull tabs and we won $2.
Note that the girl on the far left barstool is not wearing pants. It was uncomfortable more than it was hot.
Douglas brand addiction.
We left the back alley bar and Stu took us back west again, this time to the front door of the Vogue Nightclub. Stu wanted to try the business card idea. Before he did that, we stopped and got photos of the bratwurst girl on Erik's bike.
Wait... is that a girl's bike?
Stu, once again, rode his bike in the door, this time in front. Erik stood by the door while I rode off in circles waiting for him to get kicked out. For a minute, it seemed like he might have succeeded, but soon he appeared, rejected, but not dejected.
Stu then took us off on a tour of the neighborhood he grew up in. We stopped at some tennis courts and rode around in circles for a few minutes. At one point, Erik and Stu dismounted to pee. A group of people walked by in the distance on one girl yelled, "Go suck dick in some other park!"
We left this park and during the next part of the ride, Stu's pant leg got caught in his chain. In trying to pull it out, he managed to tear the pants all the way up the seam.
Torn!
Underwear or nutsack?
The bike that I was riding, The Mule, had 15 gears but only one of them worked. I'm assuming it was 11th, because I had to pedal 170 times to Erik's 1. This meant that I was great on hills, but slow on the straight away. After the pant rippage, Stu and Erik took off and I was left in the dust. I actually lost them for a few minutes and caught up with them only after hearing their laughing in the distance. I followed their voices and suddenly I was entering a stadium with a track which was currently being raced around by Stu and Erik. Erik won.
Stu showed us some places he had graffiti-ed as a kid and then took us back to the bars. We stopped in a very popular place called the Mine Shaft, but there were way too many hipsters, so we went to Average Joe's, the bar next door.
Whole lot of hipsters with a whole lot of keys that don't open shit.
Average Joe's had an open front so we parked out bikes in front of the open front and ended up sitting in the open air portion right on the street. We planned on watching the bikes get stolen.
The next two hours were spent with Stu greeting and saying hello to everyone walking by us.
Hey!
How are you doing?
Looking good!
Hey pal!
Howdoyoudo?
And oddly enough, everyone either ignored us or were very pleasant in their response back.
Also in the bar were two ladies who did not run off as soon as we entered. We chatted them up a bit and we actually able to get them on Erik's bike for a photo op.
Lady friends.
Ladies with Erik on the bike. They feel special!
At some point, two of the people Stu said hello two walked by again and were very chatty. They were your run of the mill homeless punk teenagers who were having the time of their lives. Earlier when we saw them, they were carrying a stack of pizza boxes and said they had got them for free out of the dumpster. When they stopped by again, they were pizza-less, but Stu inquired about the pizzas. The homeless guys were a bit put off by the current status of the pizza as they left them lying in the street. Stu said he would give them $5 if they would get a box. They reiterated that the pizza was on the street. Stu reiterated that he didn't care and would give them $5 for pizza that even homeless people wouldn't eat.
They ran off.
They returned a few minutes later with a box, filled with a lot of pizza.
Homeless Pizza Delivery Service
Before the homeless guys took off with thier cash, we made sure to get a photo of them on the bike with Erik. While the homeless guys thought this was awesome, the chicks sitting behind us were put off that they were about as special as the two homeless dudes.
Oh my f'ing god that's disgusting!
DON'T DO IT!
Lucky for all of us, the bouncer told Erik that outside food was not allowed and Erik took the box away.
Sorry.
Happiest dudes in the world.
We ended up pawning our girls off to two other guys who had been standing in line for the Mine Shaft. I said, "Why stand in line when there are two ladies right here?" And the two dudes checked them out, shrugged, came in our bar and swept these girls off their feet.
Our job done, we headed home back to Stu's. By now the beers were actually cold and we sat on his porch and re-lived the the nights events and past nights long gone.
In the end, this trip matched all the others. Drunkenness. Spontaneity. Laughs. Random shit. I'm not sure if you have a Stu in your life, but I highly suggest you get one.
I hope that we do not wait three years to do this again.
Thanks, Stu.
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