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Posted

I've realized that I'm an internet Luddite. Surly and a little Reddit are the only "social media" that I use or care about. I typically only watch YouTube if I have a specific purpose in mind. I don't want to listen to your fucking podcast.

I just want to read interesting shit on the internet. Read being the key word. You know, blogs. I realize that market is dying, or has all moved to Substack or something, but I want suggestions if you have them. Bonus points if it has an RSS feed, because I'm a dinosaur that still thinks that RSS is cool.

Here's a list of things I currently read on a daily basis. If you know some more stuff along these lines, post 'em here and I'll check it out.

  • The Athletic (various teams/sports)
  • Fangraphs - maybe the best no bullshit, read-interesting-stuff website left on the internet (if you like baseball, at least). My $60 annual membership is money well spent IMO
  • MLB Trade Rumors
  • ArsTechnica - Great for tech/science stuff
  • Engadget - Not as good as Ars, but still has interesting stuff from time to time
  • Stereogum - New music recs
  • Texas Tribune - Free Texas news
  • Houston Landing - Free Houston news
  • Tedium.co - Just found this one the other day. Basically just one guy blogging about weird, interesting tech-y things.

Bill Simmons used to be a big player in this niche until a few years ago. Grantland was pretty much exactly what I want. The early Ringer was good too, but it's pivoted to about 90% podcast content which is not what I'm looking for.

  • Like 1
Posted
10 minutes ago, troph said:

I thought this was going to be a thread of dominance and resurgence of OG shag fan fiction. Oh wells.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

  • Fuck Around and Find Out 1
Posted

The Ryan's Steakhouse Story

by Anonymous

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.

Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little *******s. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****. But in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire-cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a ****.

I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical portions. I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little *******s attending kids night. It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.

What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my eso****us.

Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such force, and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat, that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall - at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls - unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of **** remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no ****ing toilet paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels.

Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed, in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little ******* kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

Posted (edited)

Thoughts on Texas A&M...
Fox Sports Show And Radio Host Jim Rome

1) They won't shut up. They have to go on about spirit, and old army, and red ass, and how bonfire represents the burning sensation they have in their urine to beat UT, and blah blah blah. Shut up. You start to get the feeling the entire school was built to spite UT.

2) Forget the fact that when the Texas Legislature back in the 1870's passed legislation to start a state university they also decided to have a subsidiary branch of the main school (University of Texas) that would teach agriculture and mechanics. Aggies love to say their school is older, from where they get that I don't know ... the fact is, the state intended A&M to be a branch of UT. They are like the afterbirth from the original creation. Like Danny Devito in "Twins".

3) So they apparently have this complex, so much so, that they must devote their entire school to trying to prove to UT that they are just as good. All the while, nobody at UT denies that A&M is a good school, yet they won't shut up. So they write a fight song ... about? ... Texas, and how they want to beat them. They have a Fish Camp for freshman where they tell them how bad Texas is and how good A&M and all its traditions are. It is the world's largest known case of penis envy, and it is manifested in everything A&M does.

4) The people at A&M. Now we all have friends who went to A&M or are at A&M. There are some nice people there. However ... There is the Corp. East Texas' answer to dreams of ROTC kids everywhere. For every boy scout who never learned to stop playing with his GI Joe Toys, there is the Corp. Now, forget the fact that A&M will actually let people with sub-par grades enroll if they agree to join the Corp. Forget the fact that the Corps looked like a Gestapo-hate rally while beating down students on Kyle Field in 1995. Forget the fact that along with the numerous hazing charges that have been filed against them, and swept under the rug over the years, they just this past month have had one Corps member bring charges against another Corps member who apparently had been propositioning others for a little actual sodomy. Not only could I go on with more instances of idiocracy by these Khaki-clad-shaven-headed-dorks, I am sure each of you have your own stories. The point is: We all respect West Point, Annapolis, The Air Force Academy; however, nobody respects the Corp. I imagine they are kind of the laughing stock of the military world. Just because you dress like the Army, and try and act like the Army, does not make you the Army. People at A&M don't even respect these clowns. It is not cool to shave your head and dress up. Halloween is only supposed to be one day of the year. If you want to carry guns and beat up civilians, move to Israel.

5) It is even less cool to slobber on somebody's daughter on national television and call it a tradition. Dry humping 18-year-old girls in the stands at football games is not cool. Not only is it not cool, it should be against the law. I know that in College Station, students are just prone to mount each other on the campus lawn, or in the middle of class, or anytime anything good happens you can just grab the girl sitting next to you and start sucking on her face. But everywhere else in the world, it is looked down upon. Especially if you are doing it on my TV. That is why we have moved the game from Thanksgiving. Because people across the nation were gagging on their turkey when in the middle of watching a football game, some boy scout is tongue thrashing some overweight co-ed during somebody's Thanksgiving dinner. We do not need to see burly women engaged in a suckfest every time your woeful offense manages to put points on the board. Some of these girls are in desperate need of a trip to the Clinique counter. Screw that, forget make-up, it is too late for that, just give them a veil.

6) "T.U." is not funny. It is not insulting. It is dumb. Just imagine if folks from Texas kept talking about M&A and giggling. That would not be funny. In fact, it would be r****ded. That's why UT fans don't do it. Please learn.

7) You want to lose the image of country bumpkins, of a people fond of sheep, of people that aren't stupid? Then quit building things that fall down. Quit chasing cheerleaders around with swords on national TV. Quit whooping in church. Quit whooping period. Quit putting up scoreboards for the enjoyment of dead mammals. Quit spending your Friday nights practicing how to yell. Quit telling rape jokes to reporters when you're running for Governor. When you are filling out season ticket renewals, and the form asks for your phone number, h&w. quit putting 258-3999, Height 6'3", Weight 185. Just, collectively, stop making asses of yourselves. Go to East Texas, tour every small town, and ask every red neck with a fifth-grade education why they cheer for A&M and wear maroon. That is your fan base. This is why you are perceived by the educated masses as stupid.

😎 Nobody cares if you think your band is better. They might be louder, they might march in neat little zig zags, but they have no musical ability. The point is, nobody cares who wins halftime. Quit getting geeked up about marching bands. I find it hard to believe you stood through your high school band's entire halftime performance. And why? Cause nobody cared then and nobody cares now. Plus, you can hear them fine sitting down even if you do care. Why is it cool all of a sudden now that you're in college?

9) Men should never let out high-pitched whooping sounds. Perhaps the only justifiable situation in which this can be tolerated is perhaps during an anal probe. Oh wait...I understand now.

10) Dogs are not ladies. They don't look or smell like ladies. Dogs eat their own feces and should be treated accordingly.

11) Finally, College Station is an arm-pit of a town. Quit pretending that it is a great college town. It is a town, and there is a college there. That should be the end of this comparison. If you feel that life doesn't get any better than the Dixie Chicken, and enjoy being stuck in a never-ending "Dukes of Hazard" episode, then move there. More importantly, don't move to Austin ... They are trying to create an educated, technological, and open-minded population base. Austin is, and will continue to be, the birthplace and final resting place of all that is cool.

As my friend, Stephen Johnson, once said: "If the world were ever to get an enema, College Station is where you would connect the hose." If you go to school at A&M, please don't be an Aggie.

God bless the great state of Texas.

 

 

Edited by orange dream
Posted

Texas Football Fan's Diary

A chronology of events for Saturday, December 4, 1999, and the early morning hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999:

6:00 AM - Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at full-freaking blast

6:20 AM - Get in car, drive to New Braunfels

7:30 AM - Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning)

8:50 AM - Turn 9 (crack open first beer)

8:53 AM - Crack open second beer

8:58 AM - Crack open...(you get the idea)

10:30 AM - Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth 95

10:35 AM - Headed for San Antonio

10:50 AM - Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities

11:10 AM - We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a liquor store and buy the good
ol' 750 ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam

11:50 AM - Arrive at the tailgate spot. Awesome day. Not a single cloud in the sky. About 70 degrees.

11:55 AM - I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.

11:56 AM - I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself.

12:15 PM - The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. We’re on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us). We're hooting and hollering like wild men. The band doubles back to the street right below us and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas. AWESOME MOMENT.

12:25 PM - In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.

1:00 PM - The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome. Again, we hoot and holler like wild men. Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs. *Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.

1:30 PM - I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.

1:47 PM - I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans. They are taunting me. I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska. I decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be remembered as "Cell-Phone Flop Out." Remember flop out for a dollar? The rules are similar. I tell this Nebraska jackass that if he’s so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl. And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not those damn refundable tickets, either! You request those non-refundable, non-transferable sons-of-bitches!" He backs down. He is unworthy. I call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferable. Price: $712. He is humbled. He lowers his head in shame. I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans. I am KING and these are my subjects. I distribute the 11 beers in my pants to the cheering
masses. I RULE the pre-game kingdom.

2:34 PM - Kickoff. Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my first stiffy.

2:45 PM - I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big. Nebraska is fast. Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.

3:01 PM - The first quarter mercifully ends. 9 yards total offense for Texas. Zero first downs for Texas. I'm still talking shit. I pour another stiffy from the Traveler.

3:36 PM - Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead soldier. I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants. While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone. Safety.

3:56 PM - Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0. I wish I had another Traveler.

4:11 PM - While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock." He is not amused.

4:21 PM - I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants.. I share my beer with two high school girls sitting behind me. Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of vodka. I send them off to purchase Sprites, so that we may consume their vodka. I have not lost faith. Nebraska is a bunch of pussies.

4:51 PM - No more vodka. The girls sitting behind me have fled for their lives. I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome merchants.

5:18 PM - Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0. I am beginning to lose faith. This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field.

5:27 PM - I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir. Those tickets have been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferable."

5:37 PM - I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession counter. As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock. I am enraged by this policy. I ask loudly: "Why the fuck didn't you announce last call over the fucking PA system??!!"

5:49 PM - Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat. All of a sudden, the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts. "Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig? Did wez scort?" Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score. The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the "Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone. I cheer wildly. I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it. I am thirsty.

6:16 PM - Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck. I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences. With my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship.

6:30 PM - Back in the car. On the way back to Austin for the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off. We can still salvage the day! I crack open a beer. It is warm. I don't care.

7:12 PM - We have stopped for gas. I am hungry. I go inside the store. I walk past the beer fridge. I notice a Zima. I've never had a Zima. I wonder if it's any good. I pull a Zima from the fridge. I twist the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows. Zima sucks. I replace the empty bottle in the fridge.

7:17 PM - There is a Blimpie Subs in the store. I walk to where the ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub. There is no one there. I lean over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives. I eat them. I am still hungry. I lean further over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of Pastrami. I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami. The patrons in the store fear me. I don't care.

8:01 PM - We are in South Austin. I have been drinking warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour. My truck-mate is tired of my singing. He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a bit excessive. Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play on its own. I tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon."

8:30 PM - We arrive at the Erwin Center. My buddy, against my loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage. I tell him he's an idiot. I tell him we will never get out. I tell him we may as well pitch a fucking tent here. He ignores me. I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes. I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.

8:47 PM - I am rallying. I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants. We're going to kick the shit out of Arizona.

9:11 PM - Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29. I am pleased. I go to the bathroom to pee for the 67th time today. I giggle to myself because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice." There are no Arizona fans in the bathroom. I am disappointed. I tell myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock." No one is amused but me.

9:41 PM - I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can. Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out of a can. An usher stops me: "Where did you get that, sir?" I tell him (no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little plastic foot balls. Would you mind throwing this away for me?" I take the last swig and hand it to him. He is confused. I pretend I'm going to the bathroom, but I run away giggling instead. I duck into some entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me. I sneak into a large group of people and sit down. The usher walks by harmlessly. I am giggling like a little girl. I crack open another can of Bud Light.

9:52 PM - I am lost. In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings. I have no ticket stub. I cannot find my seats. Texas is losing.

10:09 PM - Texas is being screwed by the refs. I am enraged. I have cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it. A concerned fan asks if I’m OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously. I tell him to fuck off.

10:15 PM - After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects. However, on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye. I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over my shirt. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm taking this a bit seriously."

10:22 PM - I am standing in the bathroom peeing. I;m so drunk I am swaying and grunting. I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye. My pants are bloody. I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist. I look like I should be in an episode of Cops.

10:43 PM - Texas has lost. I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make my way for the exits. I am stopped every 20 seconds by a good Samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep moving.

10:59 PM - With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage. I walk up six flights of stairs. . . promise that when I see my friend I will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs. . . find the truck .. . . and collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck. I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving . . . I take a nap.

11:17 PM - I awake from my nap. I see my friend in the driver's seat.. I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I am too tired to punch my friend. I call my friend a "Stupid cocksucker."

11:31 PM - I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "stupid cocksucker."

11:38 PM - I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "stupid cocksucker."

11:47 PM - I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving. I call my friend a "stupid cocksucker."

11:58 PM - I am jostled. The truck is moving. I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second floor. I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below. My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister. I turn around and pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon Moon."

12:11AM - We are moving. We are out of beer. I jump from the truck and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers. I am happy. I return to my vehicle.

12:26 AM - We have emerged from the parking facility. We make our way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him. . . . . We are all going to die tonight.

12:59 AM - We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet. We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's. Ed has to pee. He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full-length mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces. We giggle uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.

1:17 AM - The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to enter his club. "Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've been working this door for almost a year. I've been working doors in this town for almost 5 years. And I can honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker motherfuckers than you three. Sorry, can't let you in." We attempt to reason with him. He laughs harder.

1:44 AM - We find a bar that lets us in. We take two steps in the door and hear "Last call for alcohol!" I turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat wasn't that fuckin' hard. Day don't fuckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the alab....fuck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and three beers.

2:15 AM - Back on the street. We need food. We hail a cab to take us the two and one half blocks to Katz's. The cab fare is $1.60. We give him $10 and tell him to keep it.

2:17 AM - There is a 20-minute wait. We give the hostess $50. We are seated immediately.

2:25 AM - We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Rueben sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion rings.

2:39 AM - The food arrives. We are all asleep with our heads on the table. The waiter wakes us up. We eat every fucking bit of our food. Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted. We don't give a fuck. The tab is $112 with tip.

2:46 AM - I'm sleepy.

9:12 AM - I wake up next to a strange woman. She is the bartender at Katz's. She is not pretty.

 

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I'm not sure how I found it but I really enjoy https://medium.com/

I checked some boxes on what interested me and I get a daily email with 5-10 articles linked. Some days I read them all, other days I read 2. As I've clicked on articles they get better and better at curating them to ones that interest you. It does trend toward tech and most of my interests are around programming and technology, but there are great articles on other topics. 

It's $50 a year but I find it worth it. 

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