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Drifting Session #2 : Joe’s Downfall

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Click above to see the most recent drift sesh, submitted by one of our buds. Many of you are lucky enough to know and know of my brosef Josef, he’s known for making great choices and obeying the law, well this time as he put it so poetically, the law “fucked him in the ass with no lube,” an unfortunate truth for my brosef. So from what I heard it all went down like-a-this, Ben and Josef were a-drifting in a rather large vacated lot when the popo came a rollin in lights and all, catching Josef charging him with a misdemeanor. Bad times.

Only a few days prior me and that fine brosef were postin it at Fivestory marveling at our automobiles and Joe played with my headlights. Tee hee.

Winter break is over and my last semester of high school begins in the morning so I really better go and prepare my man purse with sufficient stationary and supplies for my busy day. See me driving bitches.


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Mantastic Bromance Turns Violent at the Russian River : That Time I Got Punched in the Face

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I should preface this  post with some insight as to where it was that we went for a half a weekend.  Guernville, California, a place where urinal spacing etiquette is ignored, men may freely compliment one another on their choice of pants, and threesomes always imply the presence of six testicles.  Party on.

It was with cheery morale and ample carbonated cargo that our 3-car convoy traversed the Northern California landscape with Guernville our grand destination.  Rolling six men deep and not a damn female in sight our only road stops were to speedily ingest beef and cheese a la in-n-out burger and swordfight in the bathroom, always being careful not to cross streams and consequently rupture space and time.  We also talked about football.  We love sports and suchlike.  Mostly swordplay though.

The bromance intensified once we unpacked at the loveshack / cabin and busted out the brewskis and the guitars.  Adequately swooned and sweaty the six of us tightened our chastity belts and made for the Rainbow Cattle a longstanding town landmark.  Denim was in short supply and was stretched thin over the undoubtedly shaven and very athletic thighs of the Cattle’s fine patrons.  Feeling staunch drinking long island iced teas out of mason jars through pink straws, we swooped on the pool table so all six of us could get to furiously chalking the tips of our cues.  What I will consciously omit from this post is the vast medley of drinks we ordered.  I shall let my reporting of the subsequent follys convey our collective mindstate.  Simply put, gay bar #1 was fucking lovey dovey, aside from denim Dan sexual assaulting Barry with hard stares all night.

Bad Decision # 1 : Leaving Rainbow Cattle

Two bars later we were at the bull pen, the neutral orientation destination.  Round after round of drinks had left our 6 man wolfpack divided and I found myself wolfless and free from social inhibitions as well as critical thought.

Bad Decision #2 : Striking up a conversation with the most hoodrat looking motherfucker in the room.

This is the part of my story that gets a little hazy and is therefore composed mainly from secondhand sources.  It may have been my persistence, maybe the fact that my ability to enunciate was quickly diminishing but it was probably because he thought I was shittalking his bumfuck city of origin.  I had asked my newfound acquaintance where it is he now resides and what brings him to the foreskin of California.  He assured me of his roots in the SF Bay Area and that he was  from Pittsburgh.  For some reason this little bit of geography had me baffled.

Bad Deciscion #3 – “Fuckkkk Pittsburgh man, thats in Pennsylvania”

Sonofabitch clocks me right in the mug.  Totally unannounced.  No haduken, no nothing.  Now despite having a nose seemingly modeled after a ski slope, I assure you it’s pretty much glass.  Pinky could blast a thunder fart in the next room over and it would probably get my nose bleedin.  And this asshole punched me  twice as hard as Pinky’s fart hits.  I don’t hit people in the face.  It’s jus not my thing.  Call it forbearance.  I totally had my booze shield paired with my retard strength anyway so thats like +10 strength + 9 defence.  My initial responce kinda went like this :

My 2nd responce was:

Bad Decision #4 – Leaving the bar to look for the guy, alone.  Finding him…not alone.

I like to think that I drew inspiration for this act from our commander in chief and I was, like Obama, engaging in direct diplomacy with leaders / douschebags from god fucking awful parts of the world.

My first contact / peace offering with this misguided manbrute was an outstretched hand and a “hey man whats youre name?” compressed into an indiscriminate single syllable noise.  Again, I must have offended this guy with my incoherent mumbling cause he started throwin hammers again.  I was then forced to immediately prepare myself for battle, whilst he immediately prepared himself for butthole.

I can’t properly get into the details of the scuffle cause I feel like I was hardly there for it but I will liken it to a cartoon fight wherein the fighters are entangled in a vortex-like cloud riddled with jagged lines and exclamation points.  I can thank Pinky and this Frankenstein looking motherfucker for coming to help clean up my mess.

Two arrests, one cold cab ride, and eleven hours of sleep later I woke up lookin like Don Corleone on one side of my face.  The hurt was all over, I was thankful to Joe for chewing up banana and giving it to me to re-eat.  Good guy.  Mantastic.

Acknowledgements :

Thanks Barry for driving us and doing the dishes.  Thank you Cahill for giving me a joy filled ride and taking me out in the Miata.  Thanks Joe for being my nighttime lap dog.  Ian, for being one passionate and angsty manbear.  Thank you Pinky for having a strong right-hand.  And thank you Pittsburgh, CA for being the putrid armpit of the East Bay, breeding ground for classless pieces of shit, limpdick tall-tee wearing shit smears.

Cmon Party People

Greetings and salutations to you all, I apologize I’ve gone through quite spell of blogger’s block partly because I didn’t have the time and partly because if someone were to ask me what I did last weekend my reply would probably be a dull and blank one. No longer is this the case. And so it begins:

sdsu A few weeks ago, back when I had a girlfriend and 2 jobs to occupy my time, basically slaving away at the daily grind for dollars that made little sense. My chance for escape came when my dear pal Ian hatched a plan for us to go stay visit Ash’ms, Christa Ryder and the new love of my life / Ashley’s boyfriend Daren Smilie. Needless to say the very prospect of these tentative arrangements solidifying into weekend plans was enough to send me into a heightened state of arousal. Ian and I hit the road at damn the ungodly hour of 5:30 A.M. embarking on what would turn into an 8 hour ass-falling-asleep-fest complete with sing along emo music audible throughout the rear speakers only, cause most the time if I have to listen to that shit at all thats how I like it, faint and kinda shaky. So prior to the trip people advised me to be wary of the smog polluted skies of LA and not to get arrested in Mexico, heres a pic of the gorgeous Los Angeles sky you can almost make out a plane in the background or maybe its just fecal matter I don’t know.

Maybe three or four hours into the epic journey I managed to catch some winks while sitting fully erect with my fuckin arm at a 45 degree angle and evidently Ian thought this was some majorly entertaining shit. The unpleasant aftermath of my sunbaked napping was a gnarly ass half farmer tan on my right arm that without the administering of the soothing aloe via Christa could have fucked up my days. I’d say the highlight of our excursion was the night spent in Tijuana where Mr. Cuervo and I made friends and he introduced me to his rowdy cousin the “Adios Motherfucker”, truly a lovely family all in all.

usf The next memorable excursion for yours truly was my time spent over at the lovely University of San Francisco with lovely ladies ingesting lovely liquids and peeing them out in womens bathrooms. Ally, better known as A-face round them parts, showed me a time and a half. Showed me my first club experience (north of the border) where my faith in the Hyphy movement was restored. True it wasn’t anywhere near Tijuana’s Gropefest ’07, and true I didn’t take any pics when inside but take my word for it when I say the force of friction felt was enough to grind down my jeans to the threads. Beleee dattt.

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In local news Hoesafe, Barry, and girl Joe all went the to beach a bunch of days ago. I met a 185 lb dog with a raging erection for

me. I was buried in sand. Life was made better when I saw my dear buddy Malchow at la casa de Gannon, played some beer

checkers and was shown the way of the shotgun, Ian and the dog ran a train on Umpy, and then we all ate tacos. Good night.

In Accordance With The Dictates of Reason

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Saint Patties Day ’07 was a bit of a bust, despite my best attempt of being green and mean the night will be remembered as the night I failed to celebrate my heritage coming home with unbruised knuckles and as many brain cells as I left with.

The same can’t be said for the evening at lovely Courtney‘s. The boys and I warmed up at Umpy’s house as a prelim. Brotha dawkness did what he does best, and faced the consequences dished out by the vengeful homeowner. Luckily his penis shielded most of the blow. We walked the streets in the cloak of night and into the pad of Courtney where everyone felt the need to pop shots elbow to elbow in the kitchen. I was quick to assemble with the fellas and strike a quick pose for the room full of adoring womens. Compare this pic with this one. Things started gettin nutty as the night progressed; Dawkness tried pinnin the tail on the Jenny and Dylan seized the role of the noise nazi.

Sashas partyThen there was Sasha’s, my favorite Russian chic. For this occasion I felt it necessary to come dressed with my favorite accessory, enjoy that corniness. she looks cute as a damn button there too. I fair well. So I spent the majority of that night bleeding profusely from the crater of the once proud pimple I tripled sliced with my fuckin Gillette Mach 3 turbo emo pain expression device razor. Half a roll of toilet paper later I was back in the game, beads of sweat clinging to each one of my ass hairs in the kitchen. It even looks sweaty in that picture. Sweaty Jimbo balanced shit on his head. Adam hosed puke off Sasha’s doorstep.

So I guess I never posted to the world about the aftermath of bambi colliding into my Celica, well it’s still in the family and I picked up a 1990 Toyota Supra, white, turbo, 5 speed, targa top, with about 105k miles. So I rock that pretty hard, its fast, its a tank and I love it.

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