Tag Archives: drinking

St. Patrick’s Day

no-thanks

As a drinker St. Patrick’s Day fails completely as a holiday. What would have normally been an enjoyable night at my local pub has now been ruined by the influx of assholes wearing green that have swarmed seemingly every bar in the city.

When I think of the holiday now, my first thought is not of the Irish, but rather a plague of verdant locus, a green mob of drunken assholes destroying everything that it comes in contact with. My favorite bar? Now overrun with a bunch of animal-house types who have valiantly, yet with no signs of composer or skill, been imbibing since the morning. They crowd the counter and spill their drinks in a misbegotten orgy of high-fives and chest bumps. The sidewalks are splotched with lime tinged vomit. Cabs are impossible to get. That cute girl at my local that I have been slowly mustering the courage to talk is now being hit on by a dozen preppy looking douche bags wearing Guinness baseball hats and green polo shirts. The beer I liked? Now perverted with green food dye. The pub food I crave? Not tonight, they’re too busy. Everything that was sacred at my bar – my temple – unremorsefully stuprated and debauched. What should have been a joyous evening turned into a surreal nightmare of sacrilege.

St. Patrick may have succeeded in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but he also managed to drive all the pricks to the bars one night a year. If you want to find me next St. Patty’s Day I’ll be at home with a bottle of scotch and six-pack of Bass.

Jeff

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The Wave

the-wave
America cannot consider itself a civilized nation until the scourge of the wave has been eliminated from sporting events. I do not care if you think it is a magical moment of community amongst fans. Any activity that leads to that much beer spilling can never be considered benevolent. No activity that involves unwarranted exercise can be considered joyous. The only possible benefit the wave has is the shaking of female bosoms caused by the rapid standing, but even on this account, the wave is organized all wrong. Everyone is facing the backside of everyone else. Instead of quivering tits, you get ass crack and back sweat. I came to watch sports, not to do rudimentary calisthenics while having my draft spilled to ghastly sights.

And let’s face it, after the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics no amount of mass coordinated movement will look cool again. Thanks China. So can we all agree that the wave is now unequivocally lame and desist from making asses of ourselves? If the Chinese want to prove how far they come by having thousands of people memorize basic actions and then perform them with slave-driver oversight type precision, that’s fine with me. They can have that honor. But this is American, the supposed land of cowboys and entrepreneurs – a country of self starting, independent thinkers – and the wave flies in the face of all of this. We are not a country of joiners; we are a nation of doers (and borrowers).

Anyhow, can we all hold off on doing the wave, at least until the Chinese call in our debts and we all have to learn Cantonese and synchronized box-crouching? That is all that I am asking.

Jeff

Checking My Credit Score

worst. jingle. ever.

My father has told me to do it. The advertisement will not stop blaring that my life depends on checking it. Even my dear old landlady has written imploring me to “stay on top of it.” But I have never checked my credit score: I simply to not care. If it’s bad, then I am already screwed, and if it is good, then I will just abuse that new found knowledge. If I took a breathalyzer before leaving a bar and it showed I had room for another beer, I would drink it – that does not make me a better driver. Same goes for my credit score: if I have room to lapse, then I’ll push it. I am driven by uncertainty, and the fact that I do not know is the motivating factor for my general financial prudence. Knowledge is power, unless you are like me. Then anxiety is preeminent.

Anyhow, I cannot fuck up my credit history as much as the rest of these schmucks in America. The average American is holding in excess $4,200 in credit card debt. That is more money than I have ever put on a card. Eleven percent of American’s are behind or past due on their mortgages. I don’t even own car. In ten years I imagine that by the shear fact that I never purchased a McMansion with nothing down, or purchased a plasma TV on installment payments only to renege six months later, will guarantee that I’m better than the vast majority of my fellow citizens.

So, even if I do make a mistake or two, I’ll be fine –America grades on a curve.

Jeff

Fancy Cocktails

fancy-cocktails

I’m a fairly simple girl. It doesn’t take a lot of bells and whistles to make me happy. Which is why when I see my female comrades (and certain male friends too) order some fancy cocktail nonsense, I can’t help but cringe in despair.

I like some fruity drinks. A mojito in summer. A margarita on the beach. But you’re not impressing anyone with your four-fruit colada. As a rule, drinks should be made with as few ingredients as possible. Why must you overcomplicate a boozy night on the town? If you want something sweet, order the cake, not the chocolate ravage. It will take the bartender ten seconds to pull a pint or pour my scotch. You’re backing up the line and wasting everyone’s time with your super deluxe “martini.”

A martini should be made one way: with gin.

Or maybe I just break too many long-stemmed glasses.

Andrea

Swimming

ratner-natatorium

I should but don’t like swimming. I do not care that it is good exercise and easier on the joints. I do not find it fun, nor do I not find it relaxing. It is unnerving and tiring. Swimming is not a sport. It’s avoiding death.

When you fail at running, you fall, scrape your knees, and bleed a little. When you fail at swimming, you sink, have your lungs fill with water, and die. With my tendency to do most activities slightly snockered, I think it’s best that I avoid the pool. Any form of recreation where the downside is accidental death is not for me.

And what is up with all the hoopla that surrounds swimming events at the Olympics? It’s a bunch of men with not enough swimwear on, and a bunch of women with too much swimwear on. On top of the questionable aesthetics, they don’t even go fast. Next time you watch a swim meet, focus on the judges that *walk* alongside the edge of pool. With a measured gait, and in chinos and blue blazers, they match pace with the *fastest* swimmers in the world. What a lame event. D-bags in cruise-ship apparel keep up without breaking stride.

The most absurd of all swimming related activities are the polar bear clubs, where men prove how manly (and by extension hairy) they are by donning Speedos and jumping in freezing water and having their balls shrivel. I’d love to go back in time and explain these events to the passengers on the deck of the Titanic as it slowly sank. I bet they would take real solace in knowing that their soon to be deaths would become a yuppie pastime within the century.

Or maybe I don’t look good in a swimsuit.

Jeff

Shots

Shots

I have a problem. It’s very serious. I’m going to the University of Chicago vs. NYU basketball game tonight, and I can’t figure out how to stay pleasantly tipsy through the two-plus hours of sloppy comedy they pretend to be “basketball.” If I’m going to watch a group of nerds butcher the game so badly, I’m going to need more than a glass.

The obvious solution would be a flask. I own two. But I can’t stomach the idea of swigging vodka in the middle of a crowded gym that smells like sweat and college students. Or maybe there is a bigger problem: I just don’t like taking shots.

Shots seem like an integral part of the twenty-something experience. Bad day? Shot of whiskey. Goin’ clubbin’? Take tequila. At that horrible East Village bar you can get five shots for $10, but have fun fighting the punks for them. There are fancy shots and flaming shots and foul shots. A shot for every occasion. But not for me.

Shots and I go way back, and I think it’s time to call it quits. We had our fun when I was underage and stupid. But they led to far too many embarrassing situations, questionable men, and bad dance moves. Now 23 (and probably still stupid), I want liquor with more sophistication than a frat party. Especially before midnight.

After the emotional and intellectual torture of college, can you really blame me? I guess this is what “school spirit” gets you these days.

Andrea

New Year’s Resolutions

January 2nd

Dear Everyone,

Your New Year’s resolution is dumb. Please stop trying to improve yourself; it is making me nauseous. The problem isn’t that you’re unattractive (well, at least not the main problem), or stupid (though that isn’t helping), or your crippling lack self-confidence (wait, who are you again?). The problem is that you are painfully boring. Remember, it is quite possible to lead a completely upstanding life, and never live a single day.

Wake up early, jog, eat breakfast, floss, say hi, and die. Have a job, wear your seatbelt, wait until marriage, look both ways, call her back when you say you will, and die. Count calories, wash your hands, watch your manners, buy insurance, jazzercise, and die. Smoke, drink, binge, purge, snort, shoot, fuck, speed, fight, shout, spit, and live. Care less, don’t plan, close your eyes while driving, dart across eight lanes of traffic, hit back, sleep for days, don’t sleep for days, forget when you last showered, and live. Of course, the more you live the sooner you die. Oh well.

Anyhow, if you still think self-improvement is a swell idea, don’t rule out self-destruction as the best way to get there. You want a packed funeral, right?

With much love,

Jeff

P.S. If you figure out how to get washboard abs, let me know.