Ke$ha Wallpaper in the Bar None – Click on the Shot for a Wallpaper
Here then are the real dregs for the last week or so many other weeks that i’ve stopped counting. They’re short and sweat, just the way we like ’em here in the Bar None where urine for a treat from Ke$ha, Bieber’s top fucks up his Karma and i cure fucking hangovers. Keep on reading, you don’t beliebe me…
[Press ‘Play’ for “I’m pissin’ in the Dom Pérignon (C’mon let’s do it now)”]
Girl. Hungover Bar None Wallpaper – Click on the Shot for a Wallpaper
You know me (and if you don’t, i’m not the one), i hate to give bad news here ’cause i’m all about the yucks but don’t shoot the messager because i’m the guy to tell you that hangovers may stop existing.
Researchers in California (which, contrary to popular belief is not the Hangover State, that honor is reserved for Innebreity) are developing a pill that will, similar to Nicolas Cage, act like your liver.
What a disaster! No more hangovers! Who will be left to drive the porcelain bus? Who will put the technicolor in the burp? Who will call God on the big white phone?
It doesn’t stop there. What will be left to make make people promise to stop drinking? Imagine the hurt pain reliever sales will feel. The hangover is a rite of wrong every high school student needs to learn a lesson from. Just think, if there are no more hangovers, men will keep drinking Southern Comfort past their college years and women will continue to tipple peppermint schnapps if not into adulthood, at least someplace adulthood adjacent.
So protest, Barmaids and Beerhounds! Protest, i say! Go out and get your face so totally shat that you feel your essence rise high and higher from your body to the summit of the mountain of shit until the buzz stops and drops you all the way down into the deaths of despair with a hangover only suicide can cure. That’ll show those medical geeks that there is no cure for stupidity.
There’s just weird and then there’s this and by ‘this’ i mean Ke$ha: the girl you hate to love, and pray doesn’t become a role model to your teenage daughter.
The only thing that could make her any better would be if she’d been a Disney Baby Princess in a past life but even without that you still gotta like where this is goin’ and where this is goin’ is right in her mouth because not only does the chick like to get pissed in the UK sense meaning drunk, but she drinks it too.
A pic Ke$ha posted of herself peeing
She gave this interview with a British newspaper where she talked about how she’s been partying with her little brother and his tag for 2 years and doing shit like getting drunk at 6am and drinking her own pee. Which actually makes a lot of sense and is good for the environment because it’s recycling. She gets drunk, drinks her own pee and gets drunk on the booze in her pee.
Bar None Exclusive Interview with Ke$ha
i bet that Bronson Pelletier kid is bumming as he reads this because he’s realizing he could have recycled his buzz AND avoided arrest in the airport where he peed all over the floor in public.
There’ll be some solo shots of Ke$ha filling my drawers and you’ll wanna check that out all the way down there at the bottom of this post. You can’t miss it.
Once again i must play the part of the world’s conscience and believe me, nobody hates it more than you do, but i can’t sleep idly by when i witness such blatant prejudice against a group of people and yes, Barmaids and Beerhounds, i’m talking about drunk drivers.
Proof Bieber is a Lesbian
Never before has any group of individuals been as persecuted, prosecuted and vilified as drunk drivers. Some police officers even target drunk drivers and believe it or not, a few drunk drivers even spend years in prison!
Lil Twist (and if rappers chose anatomically correct handles, his would be “Lil Willy”) is best friends with another willy and by that i mean Justin Bieber and those two willies must be very hard to separate, they must stick together through thick and thin, they must stand tall as they come to face hardships because Bieber lets Willy drive his car no matter how many times Willy wrecks it.
There was that one time this “person” killed a paparazzi in Bieber’s car, and now he borrowed Lil Beeby’s toy sports car (it’s called a fucking “Karma” for fuck’s sake, which is only ½ step up from calling it a “Cartoon”) and drove it into cement protection poles at a…liquor store. Then they did what you and i would do in the same situation: they told all the witnesses it was Bieber’s car, threw the loose pieces in the back of a BMW and fled the scene. OK, they did what we would do if we were super rich and douches.
A real photo of where the accident should’ve taken place
Here it is, the beginning of another year and you’re starting it off wishing you could forget the few memories still hanging on from last night. i know, and how else could i know except i’ve been in the exact same places you are now. Well, not exactly the same because i don’t even know your sister so how could i be passed out on the cement floor of the bathroom in her unfinished basement where he husband insisted we sleep because our puke is bound to be heroically pungent after all the imitation crab legs we nuked on shiny paper plates with slabs of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter”.
Even if i haven’t been there specifically, i’ve been there before and it’s not because i’m sober today that i don’t recall ringing in the new year with a bell that clanged too fucking loudly and sounded like a hangover.
As your (Temporal) Functional Alcoholic Slurperson, i’m here to help by knocking one item off the to-do list scrawled on the back of the leaf you’re in too much pain to turn over at the moment. Here, then, are the
Ten Drinking Resolutions You’ve Made for 2012
1. I Resolve To Hold My Liquor Better
2. I Resolve To Sit Up Straight No Matter How Drunk i Am
3. I Resolve Not To Spill My Drink
4. I Resolve Not To Dance While Drunk
5. I Resolve Not To Play With Fire When Drinking
6. I Resolve Not To Get A Tattoo If i’m Drunk
7. I Resolve To Remember Cardboard Is Not A Costume
8. I Resolve Not To Go Native
9. I Resolve To Stop Sleeping Around
10. I Resolve To Pass Out In A Bed
BONUS ROUND: Click at your own risk and watch your step:
You know how you get drunk and start thinking that you have the sexual prowess of a porn star, before deciding to try acting on it and discovering that, actually, you don’t? I put this to the male members of the Bar None’s quorum of intellect, since they’re the ones most likely to try it on with the females in the joint…. it’s a broad generalization, I know, but are you really going to argue the point? It’s my experience that alcohol makes men randy, and women flirty – there’s a subtle difference I’ll get to in a moment; we all know a randy drunk man experience, right girls? Let’s face it: men, when pissed, think they have a 12-inch penis and a body like The Situation. Girls, though, tend to follow the example set by Cyndi Lauper: the Before looks stunningly hot, sexy and sultry, the kind of woman most men would lust after – the After looks like a cross between Sid Vicious and Sid Haig, a laugh like Fran Drescher on helium, and an exhibitionism mandate that makes Graham Norton look like a choirboy. Which is why Beer Goggles are a great invention.
From the Juiced Box: Kevin Bloody Wilson – Do You F*** On First Dates?
The greatest invention ever?
Beer goggles are often blamed for a multitude of facepalm moments The Morning After, as you roll off the bed and try escaping the clutches of whichever fat-best-friend you slutted yourself with to get into the panties of the girl you’re really into. Alcohol makes the brain process images in a different kind of way: the ugliest, fattest, most socially repugnant member of the opposite sex is suddenly transformed into (at least) an option for copulation, if not an outright certainty. Thoughts along the “well, he/she isn’t that bad lookin’” line start to bubble up, and before long, you’re playing tonsil hockey with somebody who looks like they’ve eaten a herd of cows. The speed at which this occurs is directly proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed.
Ye Olde Timey Sexing
All of which leads me to the topic of this post: the inexplicably amusing concept of Drunk Sex, and the journey we all take along the pathway to it. Most consenting adults have tried it at some stage, with varying degrees of success. Men find alcoholic courage allows them to try it on with a woman, bypassing the social conventions of meeting and getting to know a woman before trying to sleep with her. Women, on the other hand, get all flirty by steadfastly refuse to put out: drunk women are, frankly, a sexual pain in the ass. In every way imaginable. Most of the time, when the clothing becomes less restrictive, and more bare flesh is shown, and the louder the laugh and the wobblier the walk, the less inclined the womenfolk are to let a man…. well, you know. It’s my experience that woman become a giant prick-tease after they’ve had a skin full. It’s frustrating as all hell for the men, who’re only trying to do the most natural thing in the world by screwing their brains out in an orgy of lust and sexual release – like two positives, drunk women and men will almost always repel each other.
Fun? I doubt that...
That being said, there are exceptions. On the occasion when two people manage to get themselves into the position (ahem) of being intimate with each other, and both said people are a little hammered (or blind drunk, whichever you prefer), the act of procreation becomes something of a routine the likes of which will never make it onto Comedy Central. Limbs thrashing, sweaty skin and the slo-motion fumbling which feels like Basic Instinct but looks more like Showgirls, Drunk Sex is like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole. The man usually has a lack of ability to maintain his erection, and the woman is breathing so heavy the curtains threaten to open by themselves and expose all the goings-on to the rest of the world. Neither wants to admit they’re unable to enjoy themselves because they’re concentrating so hard on being the Perfect Lover and being not-quite-so-pissed, the sexiness of the fantasy is replaced with the cold, limp realization that sex whilst drunk is an event so replete with ineptitude it’s never gonna get a look in at the Olympics. So after the man fails to satisfy the woman, or himself for that matter, and both of them collapse on the bed/floor/pavement in an exhausted pretense of being “finished”, one of them will invariably mention the concept of “spooning”, and so they both fall into a slumber with the aforementioned unfinished business a rapidly evaporating memory.
An example of wooden things spooning....
However, the real belly-laughs come from The Morning After, when both parties awake to find that the person they thought was quite hot and sexy the night before, actually looks like a reject from Hoarders. The Lauren Hutton gap-toothed look you thought was modern and chic the night before is actually a Redneck-style cigarette-caused tooth decay miasma of proportions not seen since Faces Of Meth. If both parties wake up at the same time, that uncomfortable awkwardness of the realization usually results in a conversation along the lines of:
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“In the morning?”
“I have to get to work.”
“I have to get to work. I’ll call you.”
Hurried location of clothing, buttons half left undone, then a swiftly written fake phone number, a pause by the door to look back longingly (which is actually a mental note never to drink and fuck again), and scarper to wherever it was you think you left the car.
That’s if both parties wake at the same time.
This could be you on The Morning After...
The alternative is one of them (preferably you) wakes first, and notices the harridan next to them has breath that could chemically castrate a Catholic priest, looks like a small moon just crashed into the Earth, has a physical deformity they thought was sexually exciting less than 12 hours ago, and desperately tries to extricate themselves before the other party wakes. There’s no phone number left, often not even any kind of evidence at all that you were there save a skid mark on the sheets or a used condom wrapper (with the condom often still inside, because Ansell are bastards at making condoms fucking impossible to get up and running when your fingers feel like tree trunks) lying embarrassingly in the middle of the floor.
There. Is. No. Escape.
I can’t claim to have ever been in that situation, mind you. I’ve only garnered this opinion from what I’ve seen on television, read about thanks to tabloid journalism (yay the British press!) or seen happen to friends I’ve known through the years. I did try a drunken session with my wife once…. so I avoided the unpleasant Beer Goggles in the Bar scenario, but since she was sober it made for a less-than-satisfactory performance that evening, let me tell you. No, I don’t mind admitting it. Drunken Sex is funny to watch, but not that funny to go through personally. It can be a debilitating ego-killer, and it can get very, very messy. Sex should be messy in a good way, not in a drunken spewgasm after fornicating like two morphine addicted elderly folks trying to copulate over a zimmer frame: the sweaty, sheet ripping, pillow destroying, Lady Gaga-styled antics of a normal session in the bedroom should involve almost complete recall of the event, not a blank stare when mention is made of it around the water cooler the next morning.
Just remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a hot night of passion with some wanton drunken skank you just met – even at The Bar None – drunken sex can be a vile, life-altering experience from which there is no forgetting the horror of – gasp – the morning after.
You know how you resign from a job, and all your work colleagues want to take you to the pub and get you hammered? Ply you with booze, perhaps engage in a few physical challenges midway through the evening and hopefully find you hooking up with a young nubile hottie out with her friends? Maybe even a little out-of-tune karaoke? Or a lot? You know how you look forward to that impending drink-fest with only the merest hint of fear that you could find yourself bondaged to a train carriage on your way to Christ knows where, with no wallet and no phone? Or waking up naked tied to a light pole on a major intersection with an entire used roll of clingfoil nearby? Actually, that last one sounds like a standard Sunday morning at my place…!
To find out why this picture is here, keep reading.
The classic scene of the final-day-at-work-booze-up ended up happening to yours truly at the end of last year, when I resigned from my job at a transport company, a position I’d held for about 6 years. My work image was one of relative abstinence from alcohol, an image I’d tried hard to subvert with conversations about a bottle of wine I’d drunk the weekend before, or how I used to party a lot in my younger days – stuff I’d make up to sound cooler than I actually way. The day I announced my resignation to the office, was the day at least three people came up to me and proclaimed that on my last day, they were going to get me absolutely smashed and make me make a fool of myself. I could only utter one single phrase: bring it on.
From The Juiced Box – Jimmy Barnes: Cheap Wine :
I’ve mentioned before here at the Bar None that I’m not the worlds biggest drinker – I like the casual wine or Rum+Coke, but I very rarely drink to excess. Al’s made a living regaling us all with his stories of drunken excess (much of which can be attributed to his recent lack of visibility here at the Bar None) and while it would make me feel better to say that I can drink along with the best of them, I’m afraid to say, I can’t.
So when the date of my impending a-drink-alypse was set, so was the date for my liver to potentially collapse. Warn the ER, I may be comin’ in. The final day, of course, was pretty easy for me, with my feet up on the desk shrugging my shoulders at all and sundry who thought I’d still be doing some work. Idiots! As a going away present, they gave me an inflatable sex toy in the form of a sheep, as well as a voucher to spend on my other favourite thing: BluRays.
Rodney with his ex-work colleagues at the Bar None...
But the main event was to come. Around 6.30, a number of us arrived for our session at a local drinking establishment (no, I’m not proud to admit that it wasn’t The Bar None!), and I proceeded to start on my first drink. It was a well mixed Rum & Coke, my drink of choice for writing myself off. My wife had decided to drop me off at the bar, and return home to baby-sit my daughter, which was nice of her – especially considering I’d done the same for her the weekend before! Essentially, I was a man out on the town without a leash: a combination of freedom and alcohol makes for a very tipsy Rodney before the night is out.
Since I arrived first (to my own going-away party… what’s with that?) I had to buy my own drink first, which I did, but as I sat down to enjoy it and listen to the godawful dance beats pumping over the speaker system, several of my now-former work colleagues arrived as well. The most common question I was asked that night, as far as I can recall amidst the blur of wonky floorboards and puking in the bushes out the back of the bar, was “how many have you had?”, referring to the quantity of drinks, of course. After about the fifth drink, I couldn’t remember how many I’d had. Not to mention that my drinks were coming with such alacrity that I couldn’t even finish one before I had another in my hand, and you can imagine that had I been in any condition to allow my brain to function properly, I still would’ve had no idea.
Getting ready to start drinking...
After a while, I started to feel very sleepy: it’s a well established fact that instead of getting even funnier and more verbose than I already am, when I have a bit to drink I start to get tired. So there I am, slumped on one of the seats at this bar, a couple of people propping me up and asking me if I needed another drink, when all I wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. But I pushed through. For a while. Funny how you get to the stage where you suddenly realise that you no longer have control over your body, and can recall that moment with absolute clarity later on.
A while later – it could have been and hour or five minutes, I wouldn’t know – I started to get that feeling in my gut that things weren’t right. I’d had a little bit for tea, but probably not enough to stop the vomit-instinct I knew would kick in soon. Sure enough: heave… a bit of a swaying stomach made me reach for one of my mates and ask him to carry me to the lavatory. He and another of my friends do so, with my feet dragging along the floor as I feel them go out from under me. Propped up in the dank, squalid cubicle, smelling a bunch of piss and poo around me, I tried to keep whatever monster was in my guts from breaching the surface. Fuck you man, my gut responded. But I swallowed hard, and forbade a vomit event.
The drinking begins...
I was dragged outside by my now-concerned mates, and as I stood there against a railing, overlooking a nicely hedged sunken garden, I unloaded. All that rum and coke came back up, a creamy stream of projectile chunder looking more like chicken soup than stomach contents. At the same time as it sickened me, I was quite impressed: I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up so hard or so much apart from having a stomach upset. My mates patted me on the back… well, one of them did. At the same time as I was having a conversation with the bushes below and emptying my tea into them, a quite attractive woman came up and started chatting to one of my mates: ostensibly seeing if I was okay, but secretly I think she was trying to pick up. The mate who was being chatted up suddenly seemed to forget I was there.
Immediately after my spewgasm, I began to feel better. I didn’t know it at the time, but this feeling would pass. In the moment, though, I decided to get back to the bar, and my other friends, and keep drinking. My legs still wouldn’t work right, so I was half-carried, half-staggered back to the bar, propped up on a stool, and made to drink more. I say “made” when I really mean “self inflict”. A few Jager Bombs later (a mixture of Jagermeister and Red Bull), and I was completely, utterly, irrevocably fucked. And by fucked I mean totally smashed. I didn’t even know which way was up. I think it was to the left, but I wasn’t sure.
The drinks are taking effect.
After a few drinks (I think), I began to feel horrific again, and once more asked to be taken outside where I could safely release my stomach again into the bushes. I did so. But at that point, somewhere in the fog my brain called “thought”, I realised I’d had enough. I was beyond fucked, and I had a wife and child back home to get to – if I thought a taxi would stop and pick me up, I might have fumbled my way through the process. But the wife of a good mate came out, I grabbed her arm and asked her to take me home, in the most forceful manner I could. Not because I hated her or anything, but because I wanted to impart just how fucked I was, and how important it was for me not to be offered any more drinks.
She and her husband slid me into their car, and while my guts probably had no more contents to eject anywhere, I wasn’t about to take a chance. I grabbed an old McDonald’s bag stashed in the back seat and held it to my face like an aircraft sick-bag, and we began the journey back to my place. A journey which seemed to go on forever, with all the lights, motion and sounds of a city in party mode (it was a Friday night, after all) scrambling rational thought and creating a discombobulating discordance that made me even more disoriented. They dropped me out the front of my place, where I staggered down the back to where the garage door opened as I fumbled with my keys. I was going to go in the back door, since I didn’t want to wake the good wife, and with our bedroom quite close to the front door, thought the sound of me struggling with something as complicated as a fucking door lock might cause a reaction I didn’t need. The fact that she’d left the front door unlocked, and had told me she would before I even left, had been forgotten.
Really starting to feel it now....
I couldn’t open the back door. The exterior light had blown, and blown good, which meant the moonlight dampened by a think band of cumulonimbus had to be enough. It wasn’t, and I think I stood at the back door for about fifteen minutes convinced I’d be able to pull an Ocean’s 11 out my ass and get inside. I staggered back, and slumped against the car parked there behind me. God I was tired. I don’t recall ever being so tired in my life, at least, not this week anyway. I decided to rest my head on the back of the car, just for a moment. Moment. Moment. Several moments. Waking with a start, and wondering just how long I’d stood sleeping on the car like an idiot, I made the decision to go in the front door, my memory suddenly recalling the open-door policy we’d instigated that night.
Stumbling through the front door with the subtlety of a hamstrung elephant, I slid down the hallway to the lounge, where I was going to sober up a little. On my way, I grabbed a bucket from the laundry to catch any future vomit (one can never be too sure) and slid, sighing with gratitude, into the soft, cushiony embrace of our modular lounge. By this stage, I’d started to think about what had happened during the night: I had gaps, and that wasn’t a good sign. But I don’t think I did anything untoward, except the bit with the vomit…. and that was to be expected.
Been here? Let us know!!!
My evening ended with me waking up at about 6am, a carpet-mouth and slightly fuzzy head, getting a drink of water (the first of many that day…) and going to bed. My wife woke up a while later, and left me there (so she said) to sleep it off. To this day, the best recollection I have of the night is a gallery of photos on Facebook, the contents of which I’ve shared through this article. Considering a photo of the tits of the “Hottest Girl At Work” was taken (see photo below) and I don’t even remember it, I consider the evening to be the highlight of my life thus far.
So why recount this story? I know it’s not that alarming, nor is it the wildest night many of you have ever seen, heard or participated in. I didn’t wake up tied to a pole with clingwrap, nor did I find myself naked on a train bound for somewhere I didn’t know; for a casual drinker such as myself, though, I thought I managed to scrape through a potential disaster like getting hammered into oblivion with a great deal of fortitude. I didn’t embarrass myself (any more than normal), nor did I injure myself or anybody else in my efforts.
However, the following day, when I went to pull my keys from the pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a condom. I don’t carry condoms as a matter of course, because I have a wife and always know I’m faithful to her, but it did surprise me. My investigations revealed that one of my friends had decided it’d be a good larf to put a condom in my pocket for the wife to find when she washed my clothes… yeah guys, a great larf!
So I ask you, dear reader: tell us your best drunken story. We want details, and the gorier and more insane, the better. Drinking stories make me laugh hard, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because in order to achieve them we must make ourselves truly inebriated, a consequence of too much drink, but it’s a choice we make, and the consequences can often be hilarious [Ed: They can also be downright dangerous, but we aren’t here to pass judgement on those who drink to excess!]. The comments section below awaits your tale of drunk. Get to writin’.
Bulletin from The Bar None: After yesterday’s binge (and today’s hangover), i’ve realized i can’t afford to keep drinking. Can’t afford to on a financial level, spiritual level, mental level and relationship level…
The Bar None will still be open for business as unusual, with the added bonus that you get to hear about my struggles with staying dry, but not high. Wish me luck…
Here’s what i like about binge drinking: My cells dance. i don’t know if it’s just me or if it’s a medical thing that only alcoholics feel but i swear to god, when i’m drunk i can feel the booze fill each cell in my body like a disco globe. My atoms croon arias, my molecules sing solos, my bones whistle ballads, my skin purrs, my brain hums, my body composes albums as sweet as any wine. It’s a feeling i get from nothing else in life. i’m not saying it’s better, but it is absolutely unique. Because it’s a feeling that nothing else can imitate, those same cells and bones and brain crave the feeling when it’s absent too long.
Here’s what i don’t like about binge drinking: Everything else. The physical hangover the next day, the mental melancholy linked to the depressives inherent in alcohol, the spiritual sadness of acting like an idiot in front of my kids, my friends, my finacée… and this feeling lasts a lot longer than the buzz. The hardest part is living with myself for days afterwards. And—unfortunately for Miss Demeanor—living with me for days afterwards.
Six hours of extreme pleasure and three days (72 hours) of depression… The guy writing this would prefer to forgo the shit backing up into my brains, but the guy who drank last Saturday can’t imagine never feeling that way again. And that, members of Drunks Really Involved Now Known as Exiles Reunited (D.R.I.N.K.E.R.) and fellow delegates of the D-Generation (Drinking Generation) is the downside of up.
If you checked out my Twitter page before stopping by The Bar None, you saw that last Saturday got a little out of hand. The photo that heads this post is of my son in my neighbor’s improv studio recording a song he wrote. The session went something like this:
Shopping with Miss D and my daughter, i bought a bottle of Peruvian Llama wine (like i could make that up) and a bottle of Smirnoff Ice because it’s only 5% alcohol and i know me; i’m gonna want to drink more after only one bottle of wine so something not too strong is the safest bet.
We (my son, Miss D and i) went down to the neighbors—i took the wine.
They had some leftover Bordeaux that i had half a glass of after finishing the Llama wine.
i went back for the fifth of Smirnoff Ice.
After i finished that, i went back to the store. This was my fatal mistake. Usually, i’m too lazy to go out and buy more after drinking this much but i was motivated by those dancing cells i mentioned above; they were screaming in my ears about how great they felt and they wanted to feel even better and feel that way forever. Here’s some free advice for y’all: ignore that cell call if you can.
i bought three bottles of wine at the store, a red and two white, because the neighbor likes red and his wife likes white. i opened both and gave them each a couple glasses before i finished off both bottles.
i remember nothing after that until i woke up in my clothes, in my bed (thank god), the next day.
So yeah, not much to be proud of and what i’ve been struggling to get over for the last two days. Wish me luck. i’m down, but not for the count.
For those of you who’ve made it this far, i posted a video on my Facebook page [Friend Me! i have practically NO friends!] of Peaches Geldof sharing her thoughts about me and The Bar None. Enjoy…
A British think tank thought about the drunk tank and recommended that drunks admitted to the hospital to sleep off their bender should pay for their stay—not the National Health Service. Can you imagine? Paying for the hospital? $862: At this rate it’s almost like a hotel only without the sexy nurses and free drugs. My takes on this… Take 1 is that the government paying for hangover recovery sounds like a good health plan to me. Take 2 is that British drunks should have a buddy break their arm to get a free hospital stay.
This funeral home in Rome, Georgia had your BAC. If you’da died on New Year’s Eve. All you had to do was sign a contract with them that you planned to get drunk or do drugs and drive on New Year’s Eve and if you’d died, they would’ve pain for the embalming services, the casket, the vault, a grave, limousine services, facilities and staff for a chapel or church service and a bronze marker, as well as 100 engraved thank you cards. The funeral home (McGuire, Jennings, & Miller) say they did it as an awareness tool. No one took them up their offer.
The incredible tattooed man called 911 in Florida. What was the emergency? He needed a ride to Hennessy’s Bar. No, really needed a ride. He told the operator that he had bleeding ears, a broken nose, and that people were shooting around him. The cops showed up and he confessed to just wanting a lift. When he was arrested for placing a false call, he kicked one of the deputies in the knee as he was being put in the cruiser. In addition to the facial tats, the police report mentions the word “cannibalism” spelled out on his fingers; a dancing skeleton, a naked woman and a pumpkin head on his chest and stomach; a dragonfly, elephant and Batman symbol with breasts on his right arm; a snowman, naked pixies, a squirrel on a cross and a two-headed child on his left arm; and the word “doomed” on his back.
Like i could make this up. Two Cali dudes figured it out by themselves in a park one afternoon:
“We had just a whole bucket of beers, Coronas. I remember a couple dogs and no openers and we said, ‘I think that’s a good idea. We should try that! You call your dog over…you open it up, you put it back on (the dog’s collar) and that’s it. Why wouldn’t you want this? It’s basically the four-legged bottle opener for the party animal, I mean it’s perfect. what more could you ask for?”
Dumped straight from the annals of irony. This guy in Fargo (and you thought the movie exaggerated) doesn’t like to lock his door but prefers to place a stool with beer cans stacked on it next to the door. Yeah, that sounds easier. Daniel Gable stumbles into this guy’s apartment, knocks over the cans and wakes up the guy. The guy comes out in his underwear and starts fighting with Gable. They tumble into the hall and 911 is called. Turns out the cops think maybe Gable was just too drunk and got the wrong apartment.
Billie Joe (no big surprise there) Crawford was drinking in MacEnzi’s Bar until 10pm one Saturday night. He took off and came back half an hour later with a dark brown beanie [wtf!?] pulled over his face. He robbed the place for a handful of cash and was arrested hours later because the bartender know exactly who lurked beneath beanie boy’s beanie.
Deputies in Fort Meyers, Florida were working this traffic accident when a blonde, 35-year-old elementary school teacher goes barreling through the area and almost wipes a deputy. They pull Jennifer Lee De Roberto over and she reeks of alcohol. The best part is that when cops asked if she’d been drinking, she said “No” and then, with slurred speech, explained she was the designated driver and she was the only one in the car. Even better, she asked the deputy to get her phone from the car, which he did, and when he returned he caught her with her pants down, literally. She exposed herself to him and peed where she stood with onlookers doing what they do best. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Seriously, i know exactly where she’s coming from (and where she’s going) because i’ve been there myself. Just sayin’.
Bobby McCray, a New Orleans’ Saint, was busted for DUI on December 29, 2009 and as soon as he got out, he went on Twitter and called the arresting officer “a short guy with a Napoleon complex” who busted him for “DWP: Driving With Pizza”. He’s since apologized and taken down the page.
Dale Earnhardt drives a car and owns a bar called the Whisky River in Charlotte, North Carolina. One helluva owner as well, ’cause he picked up the tab for every drink drunk between 8-9pm. The bartender says it was a hefty sum, but that didn’t stop Junior from also tipping generously. Now if he’d only open a bar in Yeman.
Louise Glover, one time Playboy Model of the Year, was busted in Essex, England for giving a friend a nose job with the help of a toilet seat. Totally normal, the victim “looked at her husband”. You think i’m kidding, try looking at Miss Demeanor in a bar and see what i do to you. If i can stand up. And make a fist. Or reach a toilet seat.
Apparently, Glover was in the bathroom—loo—of the Oceana Nightclub, where she works as a waitress, with her friend DJ Maxine Hardcastle. They threw down after Glover threw a drink down Hardcastle’s blouse for looking at Glover’s estranged husband. Glover then hit Hardcastle in the face, breaking her nose and causing Hardcastle to bang her head against a stall door. Then Glover grabbed Hardcastle by the hair and repeatedly slammed her face into a toilet seat before trying to drown her in the toilet. Glover’s hubbie came in and broke up the fight.
Am i alone in thinking if Jennifer De Roberto, the pissing school teacher, partied with Louise Glover and looked at Ms Glover’s husband, then she wouldn’t have had to look too far for a toilet?