the years change but this song never gets not awesome

Metal Monday

In other news, the scariest bridge in the world kinda collapsed.

frankly, i've always had a taste for livin.

3E approves

same chair. different BACs.

sober pic courtesy of tred.

In this case, Northport...

I know I've posted it before. Traditions, brah.

untitled

Impossibly bright, ground-zero bright, the seven AM sun blasts through the bank of uninterrupted windows.

“Hell of a way to wake up… Shouldn’t someone be cooking bacon or something?” Wes doesn’t so much say this. It is more of an expulsion. Like the words themselves are at the same time unpleasant yet necessary and somehow connected to the action of rolling over on the couch.

Other bodies stir on the floor, one rising and the other falling as the air mattress and its occupants seesaw to life.

The Black One covers his eyes with his tattooed arm. “Why is that so bright?” One arm being insufficient, now raising the other. Agitated and increasingly high pitched. “Did we do something wrong?”

The White One, significantly more composed, says something indifferent and muffled by his pillow.

There is no use trying to fall back asleep as each soon realizes. The pair on the floor slowly gain enough consciousness to reach that critical moment that males often experience when waking up after a long night of drinking and find themselves in a bedspace with a fellow (and usually only casually acquainted) male. White One to the loveseat and the moment is handled adequately.

“Wes, I want you to know I’m still pissed off that you didn’t come talk to those girls at the country-western biker bar last night,” the Black One says, rubbing his eyes and checking his phone.

“Those cougars?”

“Those girls were in college.”

“Whatever, I didn’t have my glasses. Doesn’t matter, though.”

The Black One sighs. The White One turns on the TV. Despite the abundance of channels, the most interesting thing on (but perhaps only interesting precisely because it isn’t interesting) is the BYU Network (this exists!), showing classic gymnastics.

“This exists.” Says the Black One, starting to giggle uncontrollably.

The White One has produced (oh, what’s this now?) a bottle of Jagermeister from his duffel and holds it, mischievously grinning. “A shot every half-hour until everybody else wakes up?”

The Black One giggles even harder. Wes eyes the White One and narrows his eyes. They have competed before. “Every half-hour? What are we? Mincing, turtleneck-wearing faggots? Every five minutes.”

And so it begins. Predictably, classic BYU gymnastics becomes genuinely rather than ironically interesting. Wes and the White One keep up the pace while the Black One becomes rather more engrossed in sending a text message to one of the non-cougars from the previous night. After much deliberation, the ideal text is decided to simply read “moist.” It does not illicit an immediate response.

As the clock approaches eight, the Jager approaches extinction. Stirring is heard elsewhere in the house. “I have a flask of bourbon in my bag. Well, blended bourbon. It isn’t very good,” Wes’s intonation at the end of this last sentence somehow makes it sound like an endorsement.

And so it continues. Just as the flask joins the Jager bottle in emptiness, footsteps on the stairs. Somewhat needlessly (no shame in an eight AM drunk), a silent agreement is made to act sober.

Our mystery footsteps belong to the Lord of the Manor as it were, the gracious host of the three groggy imbibers. “Good morning, boys. Hope the sun didn’t wake you.” Somehow, the three share a knowing glance without actually looking at each other.

“Mr. Palumbo, you haven’t shaved.” The Black One, despite drinking the least is the most inebriated. However, drunk as he may be, his observation is spot-on.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen you like this. You look DRUNK.” A calculated risk by Wes, gambling that the Black One wouldn’t explode in a fit of drunken giggles. Admirable restraint and the gamble pays off.

“Good heavens, you’re right!” Mr. Palumbo, a slight man with olive skin and dark features (Jewish? Mid-forties? Who knows…) reaches for his face with a look of abject terror and sprints down the hall and back up the stairs.

The dam breaks and the giggles roll. “And get that wife of yours to cook us some damn bacon!” the White One yells after the flustered host. Now in an exaggerated whisper, “You wanted bacon, right Wes?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m a vegetarian.” Wes rolls off the couch. Interestingly, it’s taken this long for his traditional morning erection to subside. Stumbling toward the kitchen, “How much beer do you think these people have?”

drankin'

His biographer, Billy Reed, says Hornung “led the Packers, and maybe the NFL, in chasing women, hanging out in bars and nightclubs, and generally trying to circumvent the strict rules of Vince Lombardi.” And famed sportswriter Dick Schaap, who spent a week with Hornung leading up to a game vs. Cleveland, summed up an average Hornung day: “At three (after practice) he’d come home, mix a pitcher of martinis, and drink martinis with Ron Kramer and the others. Then they’d go out an have dinner, a group of players. Scotch before dinner. Wine with dinner. Brandy after dinner. Then back on scotch. Every day. I lost count by the time it had reached more than 60. Also, he never went to bed before four in the morning and he never went to bed alone.”

Modern Drunkard Magazine

Don't worry folks, Tha Captainz back at the helm.

...but he certainly enjoyed his stay in the sticks.

Pretty much lived out the song, really:
1) Didn't use my cell phone.
2) Nailed a cat/bear/woman.
3) Killed a stranger.
4) Drank moonshine until I went blind.

Not moonshine, actually. To balance out all the hickishness, we went with the most city-fied liquor we could find. And it doesn't get more city-fied than Wall Street:

Graduate School Pseudofiction

6:30 AM. Darkened office. Graduate Student A enters, turns on the lights. Graduate Student B sits in a swiveling office chair.

Graduate Student A: Wow. I'm not doing the shots. I told you not to show up.

Graduate Student B: I know, it's a really bad idea. Good story, though.

Graduate Student B lights a menthol cigarette, inhales, coughs.

Graduate Student A: You started smoking? When?

Graduate Student B: Last night. I'm trying to quit, though.

Graduate Student A: What?

Graduate Student B: We both know why I'm here.

Graduate Student A: No we don't. I mean, I guess we do, but it's not really worth saying so ominously.

Graduate Student B: We don't have to drink this.

Graduate Student B produces what appears to be a bottle filled with water.

Graduate Student A: What is that?

Graduate Student B: Rum. And vodka... mixed.

Graduate Student A: Did you take that from my house?

Graduate Student B: Yeah. I thought it was pretty obvious.

Graduate Student A: Not really.

Graduate Student B: Apparently not.

Graduate Student A: Okay, yeah, we definitely don't need to drink that. I have to teach in 25 minutes.

Graduate Student B: I just wanted you to know I was serious.

Graduate Student A: Yeah, I realize that. You win.

Graduate Student B: I know. And you know what else? It's up to you whether anyone else even knows I was here. We can say I didn't show and that will be that.

Graduate Student A: I don't care. I'll say you were here and I wouldn't do the shots, it actually reflects pretty well on me.

Graduate Student B: Then I guess I'll do the shots.

Graduate Student B takes a significant sip from the bottle.

Graduate Student A: Come on.

Graduate Student B: Otherwise it wouldn't reflect well on me.

Graduate Student A: You're pretty worried about what people think of you.

sip.

Graduate Student B: I'm all about appearances. So what's it gonna be? What am I going to say when people start showing up in a few hours? Your call.

Graduate Student A: Tell them the truth. Do the shots, I don't care, you called me on this. You win.

gulp.

Graduate Student B: I know.

Graduate Student A: Have you been up all night?

gulp.

Graduate Student B: Yeah, smoking. Also energy drinks. I watched The Royal Tenenbaums. Did you know that's Gene Hackman's character's name? Last chance, do you want any of this?

Graduate Student A: No, I'm okay.

extended gulp.

Graduate Student B: You are okay. You're actually alright. I thought you were a dickweed the first time I heard you talk.

Graduate Student B discards the empty bottle.

Graduate Student A: Yeah, I've heard this story. Look, there's something I have to go do.

Graduate Student B: Your morning shit. I know. I'll call you when you get in there.

Graduate Student A: Don't do that.

Graduate Student B: Then I'll just come with you.

bathroom.

Graduate Student A: This is weird.

Graduate Student B: I guess.

office. 15 minutes later.

Graduate Student A: I don't know why you're telling me this.

Graduate Student B: Probably because I just drank a water bottle filled with liquor.

Graduate Student A: Whatever, I have to teach now. Stay away from my wife.

Graduate Student B: I'm coming to your class.

Graduate Student A: Whatever.

curtains.

Tha Captainz first attempt at BLOG: 01/17/05, 01/21/05, 01/26/05

Drunk:

17th-Jan-2005 08:08 pm - hey fuckbags

hey you rich assholes! you don't even know who i am! i'm benjamin disraeli! and if you don't know what i'm talking about you're either an asshole or you're worse! so just go away and don't try to learn my identity anymore!

• Mood:flagrant
• Music:fuck you by SP

...and sober:

21st-Jan-2005 12:02 am - all apologies, superfriends.

i want to apologize profusely for the tone which i lambasted you all with the other night. now, with that out of the way...

• Mood:ambulatory

...and could very well be either:

26th-Jan-2005 05:05 pm - there's a tear in my beer

hey there gumshoes! a few of you thought you had cornered this wily badger and unearthed my mysterious secret identity. however, those of us in the know know that that isn't true. now, how many sentences have you seen with one pair of the same word right after another pair? a clue? maybe...

until next time, squirt-fans...

• Mood:postmodern
• Music:bananaphone

Fill out a bracket that REALLY matters

I've got nothing to do this afternoon...


From this fine, reputable websaht.

IN POGUEVISION!

Start drinking, you fecking hooers.

It's Spring Break....

...and that can only mean one thing.

fucktarded.

3E party flyers: old school.

The Date: Seven years gone. March 8, 2002 (that's pre-3E, history majors.)

The Flyer:
The Party: Delta Mu Chi, the pseudo-forerunner of 3E, was known to throw a party or two. A surprising number of RAs showed up. For the uninitiated, The handsome devils gettin' x-ed up there are Filly and Scrotzilla, 3e's blonde bombshells.

3E endorsed?

Tuesdays with West

The sun landed hatefully on Wes's face, slipping like a cat burglar through the window and between the curtains. His face and eyes burned with the light. Beside him a beaked, pockmarked woman with dry, ugly hair breathed heavily. Her nipples, grotesque and mocking his poor decision-making abilities, peaked halfway out above the sheet. Wes could not immediately remember her name, nor did he ever want to. A small grey cat, curled at the foot of the bed, stared intently at Wes, who she did not know and did not like. He glared back wrathfully, certain that the cat had killed some poor small creature and temporarily stored it in his mouth, before defecating there. He was also sure, as he tried to open and close his jaw, that she had also deposited some sort of vomit-flavored spackle there as well.

Wes did his best to slip quietly out of the bed, made more difficult because he was still fully dressed and wearing both of his shoes, with the shoelaces tied together. What this suggested about last night's debauchery Wes refused to let into his mind for the time being; he was having a great deal of trouble thinking clearly, and some animal instinct in him recognized that all of his feeble powers of reasoning must be concentrated on escaping wherever it was he was. He dropped to the cheap carpet floor and quickly recognized that he was about to piss himself, whether or not he found a bathroom. Gingerly, Wes made his way out the door and down a small dimly lit hallway. He finally picked a door, resolving to urinate in whatever room it was. Fortunately for himself and the owner of the house, he picked correctly.

After relieving himself, Wes looked into the small cabinet mirror above the sink. His face was as bloated and swollen as a corpse, and his eyelids provided more the suggestion that he had eyes rather than any definitive visual evidence. There was a small cut above his right eye. Suddenly wobbly, Wes had to sit. He laid down the toilet lid and sat. Neither of his nostrils worked. By closing one tightly and alternately blowing and sniffing in the other, he managed some semblance of clearing his sinuses. In triumph he stood up and blew, flinging bits of mucous all over the sink and fixtures. The exertion of doing so, however, unleashed something dark and evil inside him, something better left alone. Almost before he knew it, Wes lurched over to vomit, splattering all over the still closed toilet lid.

Although he was disgusted and hurting and even more filthy, the act of releasing this evil gave him a sudden feeling of frenzy, as though he had snorted a line of coke cut with rock salt. He had to get out of this place, immediately. The windows of the bathroom indicated he was in a basement of some sort; he stepped out, headed upstairs, and made his way to the front door. He exited as quickly and quietly as he could.

Wes had only thought that the bedroom had been bright; the full power of the sun outside was a new kind of evil. He waved his hands blindly in front of his face like a madman. He knew exactly what a vampire felt like when it died. Wes surged forward to find some sort of relief, but the steps in front of the porch had other ideas. His body, perhaps seeing its chance to avenge the agonies heaped on it in the last twelve hours, refused to do anything about his fall. He fell forward limply, as would the victim of a sudden stroke. Fortunately, or not, the concrete sidewalk turned toward the driveway, and Wes survived, cushioned by the soft grass and impossibly pointy twigs. He lifted his head up and surveyed his surroundings. He recognized the street; the bar where his car was parked was only a few blocks away.

Moving incoherently down the sidewalk, Wes realized that he was muttering curses under his breath, filthy and magnificent curses using words he had never heard and acts he did not know could be performed. His voice seemed to be operating independently of his mind, and Wes listened in awe. He then realized that he was in front of First Baptist Church, and that the morning service had ended just five minutes ago, and elderly women in hats with flowers on them stared at him with their mouths hanging open. He put his head down, willed his mouth closed, and hurried his pace.

He saw the bar, O'Darryl's, and he hated it for allowing this sort of turn of events to happen to anyone.

As he turned the corner, Wes felt a rush of emotions: confusion, anger, sorrow. His car was gone. He looked up one block and down another, hoping he was wrong about the spot, but it was pointless; his car was not in sight. His keys were in his pocket. His car must have been stolen. But impossible! This was one of the brightest and busiest intersections in town; a thief would have been seen, been stopped. He must have moved it at some point, for some reason.

Collecting his thoughts, Wes crossed the street to find a place to sit. He came to rest in the McDonald's Play Pen. He sat like a pervert, hunched alone on a playground bench surrounded by screaming children in their Sunday best. Looking at his hands, he did his best to focus his attention entirely on the events of last night, clearing his mind of any distractions. He found that when he did so, his mind remained absolutely blank, an empty void. It was an unexpected and terrifying experience for a person who prided himself on his quick thinking and powers of retention. He could remember nothing.

Finally Wes decided he must walk home, which was not far, and find his roommate, Fern. He would have Fern drive him around town, however long it took, until they found the car. Planning this in his head, Wes absentmindedly walked through the CVS parking lot almost without noticing his car parked in the corner.

He crept up to it with the caution an aborigine might show approaching a downed helicopter in the Brazilian rain forest, touching the back fender and then jerking his hand away as if in fear of some unseen danger. It was his -- the hanging exhaust pipe and Cthulhu '12 sticker proved it. Feeling immensely relieved, he got in, but before he could start the car he noticed something on the hood. He got back out of the car. Someone had spray-painted on his hood with large, yellow letters:

"PUZZY MAGNET"

Tears came to his eyes. What kind of soulless degenerate would do this? Wes slammed his fist to the hood in anger and laid his head across his arm. It was then that he noticed for the first time the telltale hint of yellow paint on his right index finger.

He climbed back into his car. Upon starting, it produced the loudest music he or anyone else had ever heard. An untrained observer might have thought it was Ghost Face Killah, correctly. Wes jabbed wildly like an ape, temporarily forgetting how to turn off the stereo. Had he a gun, he would have immediately shot the radio, then himself. He finally managed to expel the disc, which he broke to pieces and in the process cut his hand.

He drove home crying and bleeding slightly. He limped up the stairs to his apartment and opened his door. He was shocked to find Fern wearing a business suit and an apron, stirring a pan of fried eggs. "Wes," he said, "I gotta run to lunch with the Bishop, but I'm making something for Natalie since she's kind of sick. She didn't want her cinnamon French toast; do you?" Wes could not have been more grateful; unable even to speak he sat at the table and began to eat.

"Hey," Fern continued, "some guys I went to undergrad with are coming in tomorrow night and I'm thinking we might do the pub crawl. You want to go? Mondays are half-price Guinness."

Wes finished chewing his toast. "Yeah, I think so. That sounds good."

3E approves (especially before 8 AM)

3E Party Flyers

The Date: Octoberish, 2003

The Flyer:
The Party: It was (3)E-Fest. It was insane. Other flyers/t-shirts sported slogans like : "There is always the bottle." and a faux vodka ad: "Absolut Despair." It was billed as the biggest party of the year and sure, the knife duel will never be forgotten, but we went and topped it the next weekend cuz we were always outdoing ourselves.