Before we got down to the dirty, let me drop this plate from the juiced-box on ya: Mark Lanegan – Morning Glory Wine
[Press ‘Play’ for the coolest thing you’ll hear today]
A couple weeks ago, President Barack Obama took his show on the road and his first stop was Ireland. ‘Cause apparently his ancestors are Irish and now I finally understand why they say “Black Irish”.
You and i both know another reason he went there was for the beer and if you don’t know what i’m on about, shame on you because i was all over that shit ages ago. For example, how come you didn’t read about Why the Nobels Chose Obamawhich i wrote way back in October 2009?! And there’s no excuse for not reading the very recent Obama Beer Laden and, in fact, i’m kinda pissed off because you’re lack of reading it meant no one launched a fatwad on me and i was kinda looking forward to that.
Anyway, i’m thinking Obama wanted to start off his tour with a free beer. This is why it’s called a “round” trip: he’s on a trip and it’s always someone else’s round. Here’s the photographic evidence of that.
Obama is not a beerholic. Probably not. But this doesn’t mean we don’t exist.
People are always saying they’re gonna stop drinking the hard stuff and only partake of beer or wine like that isn’t alcohol. i’m beer to tell you, Barmaids and Beerhounds, it’s entirely possible and i’m nearly not living proof. Emphasis on Proof.
Wine was my drunk of choice for ages because it packed a 13% punch, cost about 3 bucks a bottle and 1 bottle was the perfect buzz. Two bottles was a good drunk and after 4 bottles was some of the best near death experiences i ever had if i could only remember them. Wine was easy to plan, ‘swhat i’m saying. Wine was faithful. i always knew where i stood with wine and that was right by her side.
Beer was different. i never liked the taste of beer and it always made me feel full and i had to drink a lot to get someplace else but that was also the upside, Chuck. Because i drank faster than a hole, liquor knocked me out quicker but beer helped me draw the night out and plus i got to piss like every ten minutes. Self-regulating, yo.
I'll Drink to That
All’s i’m sayin’ is i don’t believe the hype. Scientific studies (that i conducted in my living room watching TV) have proven the alcohol in beer and wine is the exact same alcohol in evil spirits.
If you’re gonna drink, may god be with you and not take you to the places i let the booze take me. If you choose not to drink: beer and wine count as alcohol, babes.
Bar None Dregs
In other news, i’ve been busy lately with writing projects and other blogs and going to AA meetings. Speaking of, i hit 5 months sober last Saturday. Also, thanks to Bats for stopping by to check in on me. i’m doing well, babe, ‘preciate your asking.
Linked to that [get it, linked to that? Don’t worry, you will right now], i started a new blog for movie reviews called WTF!? (Watch the Film). i basically take notes while watching a movie and post the notes and try to be funny. i created another persona to head the blog—his name is Saint Pauly and we’ll pretend he’s someone else but anyone reading this far is a regular and i got no secrets from y’all. Please feel free to Visit WTF!? (Watch The Film) and especially please leave a comment while i try to get it off the ground. Thanks!
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’.
From the juiced-box and dedicated to the Lady In Red (Wine): Savanna Samson – Kiss You All Over
What does the world need more of? Sure, peace and love and multiple orgasms for men … but what does the world need most of? You got it, singing porn stars that make their own wine.
Click On The Shot For Wallpaper Size
Barhounds and beermaids, i give you Savanna Samson. This charming young lady has bared her star power in such clitically exclaimed endeavors as Poke Her, Debbie Does Dallas…Again, I Was A Teenage MILF, not to mention The Devil in Miss Jones: The Resurrection.
Even better, like you thought there could be better and there even is: This gorgeous and multifaceted starlette uses some of her less obvious talents to produce one of the finest wines in the world, Sogno Uno, which is Italian for “Dream One”. i dreamed one all right and it looked a whole hell of a lot like Savanna pouring me a glass of her own wine personally. Which would go something like this:
Gently prick the stiff tip into the meaty pulp of the cork and slowly, slowly screw it deeper and deeper until it will go no further. Grab the bottle firmly toward the top and, using a languid, tugging motion, continue to pull the cork until it pops. Collect the rich, flowing nectar in a glass, sniff its musky odor, lick the elixir with the tip of your tongue to get just a taste and then swallow, swallow it all until you feel sated with pleasure.
Now that’s how you drink a glass of wine.
In even better news: Savanna Samson will be paying a visit to the Bar None very soon. Hang around, you won’t want to miss the Booze Talkin’ with her.
The Bar None’s Drawers
Savanna Samson at the Bar None
A special thanks to Wayne, who brought this tit-bit to my attention.
[Press ‘Play’ for a song from the juiced box that really has that vacation flavor. Sublime – 40 Oz. To Freedom]
Most of y’all do not know it, but i’m tending bar in a hole away from hole for this holiday season. My kids and i are staying with Old Grand Dad & Sea Grams (my mother and father). i hope to get some tending to the Bar None done while i’m away but can’t make any promises.
What i’ll try to do is keep y’all posted on what may be my Last Mind Bender for awhile, as i plan to go on the wagon starting January next year. These then are the dregs of my Last Brew-haha.
First off, on the plane, i had two glasses of wine, 1 of each color. Fortunately for all involved, i had to pay for the wine (even though it was a trans-atlantic flight) and my cards didn’t work and i only had enough cash for what you see in the picture. This prevented a repeat of last year’s Business Class fiasco which was a good thing because this time i didn’t have Miss Demeanor to babysit me.
Then, 22 hours later, my folks had cold Bud (or 3) waiting for me.
God but i love headlines that don’t need my help to be funny. And that are educational to boot–how else you gonna learn what a “stoat” is if it’s not for me? Y’all are probably too drunk to remember, but a while back i posted about a Scottish brewery called Brew Dog. They came up with this record holding 41% beer. Until this wimpy German brewery pushed the record by a measly 2% to 43% So what did the Brew Doggers do? Retaliated with The End of History— 55% (Brew) Dawg! The cool part is you get to drink it out of a stuffed animal. Only thing worse than i can’t afford it at $750 a bottle is that there aren’t any left if i could.
The worst thing about criminals is we got all kind of shots of their ugly mugs and none of their victims. ‘Cause i really wanna see what kind of dude would be engaged to Maureen Geddie, this 65-year-old entity in Huntington Beach. To show her gratitude to this guy for his ultimate sacrifice, she ran him down on the Pacific Coast Highway. Then did it again. Then tried to do it again but bystanders pulled the doomed guy away to “safety”. When the cops came, she ran a red and tried to run them over but crashed into a parked car. Mixed in the cocktail of her arrest report was driving under the influence.
i have no freaking idea how many fishit takes to tipple vodka (you didn’t really think i allowed racial jokes in the Bar None, did you?). But in other, less exciting news, Polish vodka tasters are tense, stinky sloths—this because they aren’t allowed to smoke, wear perfume or drink coffee. The real reason i included this in the dregs this week is so i could post the collage up top and this young lady. Who wouldn’t want to do body shots off this stripper Pole?
"Video Online"--Cooooooool / Click on the Image to Order
You know how you drink wine out of those tiny little baby glasses they should reserve for toddler tipplers? The drink lasts like 5 minutes tops and then you gotta keep heading back to the stoop out behind the trailer to get more. Here’s the solution: a wine glass big enough to hold an entire bottle. Look at the ad, it holds both chardonnay and merlot; talk about practical. Wonder if it works as well for white?
i know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “Sure, that’ll work for my Cozy Night In, but what about special occasions?” i got your backs, babes. Amazon has the same for champagne…
Click on the Image to Order
Bar None Dregs
As y’all have noticed, i haven’t been behind the Bar much this week. Several reasons for that and i’ll just spew them out here for anyone who cares. First off, i’ve created another blog life and it’s kind of eating away into my time here with y’all. The reason is linked to my catastrophic, i’m literally hoping not to be evicted, bank account situation which means i’m looking for ways to pimp myself out and not let people in on my alcoholism. On top of that, i’ve also got my real life thing going on and, between you and me, i’ve been a little blue lately. Link that to the bank account and to the numbers of patronizers here at the Bar None.
You may remember last week how i was all psyched about my figures. Remember? How they went over 3000 in one single day? This week, they’ve nose dived and crash driven straight into the toilet; there have been days when i didn’t even make over a thousand page hits.
On top of that, maybe i’ve been feeling bad because i started drinking again. Not a lot, but i wanted to hold off until this coming Friday but i had about 4 glasses of wine at two lunches last week and about 8 beers on Friday. So yeah, i guess i’ve been ashamed to come back in here and ‘fess up about that. On top of that, i’ve got four business lunches next week. Jesus god.
Here’s the freakin’ idea of the Century. Internet dating through empties. You buy a bottle of cheap wine (which is called “Soif de Coeur”, or “Thirsty Heart” in French) and drink at least ¾s of it to find a secret code inside, at the bottom of the back label.
The Code Is The Smudge At The Bottom Of The Back Label
After you’re sufficiently buzzed, you try to decipher the illegible scrawl through the warped glass. Think of it as a drunk test. Then you surf onto the A Thirst For Romance website, where another drunk test awaits ’cause you have to enter your code.
After that, you have to do things like remember your name and birthdate. And what language you speak (which is trickier than it seems, as “drunk” isn’t one of the options).
Then, all you do is sit back and wait for someone who also drinks cheap wine and looks for romance in the bottom of empty bottles.
As you can see, my soul mate is on his/her way. i just hope he/she isn’t driving to get here.
i’ll keep you posted.
[AlKHallism: Just in case you’re wondering, Miss Demeanor is fully aware of this experiment and does not feel threatened by anything the dregs of the net could throw up at me.]