Pretending to model.

Angela at Mode Merr asked me to wear some of her new duds for her website.

My profile pic is one of the results, and although it's not on the site yet, I'm on the site modeling another incredible outfit.

http://www.modemerr.com/PerfectSkirt.html

Words can't express how much I love their stuff, and how awesome I think it is that Angela fights to keep it "Made in the USA"

Go buy something and tell them Action Girl sent ya!

7:42 PM - 89 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

My Creepy Lunch with Herb

Cheriti and I escorted Maria and Katie to a meeting with this guy that wants Katie or Maria to appear in a superhero-themed promotional video. ..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Katie asked us to go so we could be there if the guy turned out to be a creep. This guy evidently contacted her through 9^th Life. He saw her picture and the banner for 9^th life and called to shop to get in contact with Katie. Ida put them in tough and  Katie chatted with him on the phone before accepting the meeting at City Cafe. To say the least, I've NEVER encountered a scarier weird old pervert quite like this guy. Somewhere in his 70's, very Jewish and "shifty-looking". He had a little bit of a Woody Allen vibe and was chocked full of BAD jokes. (He also mentioned that his wife thinks he's "smarter than Woody Allen")

When we got there, Katie and Maria approached him because he was just kind of standing around and they figured it had to be him. He tried to get them to come outside, but Katie pointed out that she would be sitting in the restaurant with her escorts. He came over and sat down with us begrudgingly, making clear by the end of the meal he wasn't picking up the tab "for those two" (meaning Cheriti and I).

He pulls out a $20 non-functioning portable DVD player to show Katie an example of his stunning videography. We're pretty sure that there is no actual video to be shown, hence the conveniently broken DVD player. He claims he's going to mail her a DVD so she can check it out, but we all doubt that will ever happen.

Next he pulls out some stock 3-D photos of Gettysburg and a homemade 3-D DVD of similar shit that he claimed to be his work. The presentation of his photography was STUNNING, printed out on a shitty home printer and stuffed in plastic sleeves meant for a binder. Then he pulls out this inkjet printed picture of flowers that was run through a "watercolor" filter and glued onto a square canvas (adding, I sell these!).

He explains this plot for this superhero movie promo featuring Katie. He asks her how she feels about him tying her up and chloroforming her (not REALLY har har har) so she can't get away. Then there's talk of green screens, special effects, flying and why he's the best in the business. In fact, he tells us that he's "the most talented man we'll ever meet". He writes! He paints! He makes costumes! (he's also the Villian in the video- which might become "a feature length film!") To add to his credibility, he tells us about how he had been the "stunt coordinator" for a movie called "The Statues of Gettysburg" involving civil war statues coming to life and killing people. Evidently the only way to kill the marauding statues was with pigeon shit (I can't make this shit up!). He evidently got the "stunt director" gig by figuring out that white paintballs made good fake pigeon shit bomb effects-- "You have to think outside the box".

Of course, things are always on the move for old Herb… he's even negotiating with the Walter's Art Gallery about a 3D project for the museums collection. He also wanted to work with the Smithsonian, but those people are "bastards". He also has a mysterious partner named "Bob" and a ties to an award winning Maryland wedding photographer. Connections baby! Connections!

It gets better.

He then reaches into his briefcase, and pulls out a folded up photo of one girl tying another girl up and asks Katie if she'd be into that, citing how she's a fan of Bettie Page. Katie says it would depend on who ties her up (he points to Maria) and where. 

At this point, he gets desperate.... He says that she be perfect for this full nudity project and Maria chimes in and says that Katie's model card very specifically states that she doesn't do nudes. He replies "Yeah, but they'd be GLAMOROUS". He switches to me for a moment and asks what kind of camera I use. When Maria asks him the same thing he replies "a cheap one". Katie excuses herself to the bathroom so she can laugh hysterically.

At this point it's really gotten uncomfortable so I get up and tell the waiter we need the check because this guy is a total creep. Before we get to leave he whispers to Katie that he's way more interested in working with her then "that other one" meaning Maria. It totally reminded me of that scene in Borat.... "her, not so much".

Both Maria and Katie ask him for professional credentials, a portfolio, web links, etc. To which he replies "Nah, who needs that!" I'm good, I'm really good. At this point, we've seen nothing that couldn't be produced on a Commodore 64 during the entire interview.

My favorite part was when he gave them business cards (Office Depot cheapies) but explained he didn't use his "REAL NAME" because he used to work for the Social Security administration and had used their computers to make "Tales from the Darkside" so he had been living under an alias ever since so he wouldn't get in trouble.

Fucking BRILLIANT!

He was pissed off that Katie brought escorts (although she told him in advance that she was) and especially pissed that I was a photographer, because he worried I'd try to steal his trade secrets.

I wish I was making this up.

XOXOX

Stacey

3:08 PM - 89 Comments - 71 Kudos - Add Comment

The best article on the Imus situation yet.

Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star:
 
Imus isn't the real bad guy
 
Instead of wasting time on irrelevant shock jock, black leaders need to be fighting a growing gangster culture.
 
Thank you, Don Imus.  You've given us (black people) an excuse to avoid our real problem.
 
You've given Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson another opportunity to pretend that the old fight, which is now the safe and lucrative fight, is still the most important fight in our push for true economic and social equality.
 
You've given Vivian Stringer and Rutgers the chance to hold a nationally televised recruiting celebration expertly disguised as a news conference to respond to your poor attempt at humor.
 
Thank you, Don Imus.  You extended Black History Month to April, and we can once again wallow in victimhood, protest like it's 1965 and delude ourselves into believing that fixing your hatred is more necessary than eradicating our self-hatred.
 
The bigots win again.
 
While we're fixated on a bad joke cracked by an irrelevant, bad shock jock, I'm sure at least one of the marvelous young women on the Rutgers basketball team is somewhere snapping her fingers to the beat of 50 Cent's or Snoop Dogg's or Young Jeezy's latest ode to glorifying nappy-headed pimps and hos.
 
I ain't saying Jesse, Al and Vivian are gold-diggas, but they don't have the heart to mount a legitimate campaign against the real black-folk killas.
 
It is us.  At this time, we are our own worst enemies.  We have allowed our youths to buy into a culture (hip hop) that has been perverted, corrupted and overtaken by prison culture.  The music, attitude and behavior expressed in this culture is anti-black, anti-education, demeaning, self-destructive, pro-drug dealing and violent.
 
Rather than confront this heinous enemy from within, we sit back and wait for someone like Imus to have a slip of the tongue and make the mistake of repeating the things we say about ourselves.
 
It's embarrassing that Dave Chappelle was offered $50 million to make racially insensitive jokes about black and white people on TV.  He was hailed as a genius.  Black comedians routinely crack jokes about white and black people, and we all laugh out loud.
 
I'm no Don Imus apologist.  He and his tiny companion Mike Lupica blasted me after I fell out with ESPN.  Imus is a hack.
 
But, in my view, he didn't do anything outside the norm for shock jocks and comedians.  He also offered an apology.  That should've been the end of this whole affair.  Instead, it's only the beginning.  It's an opportunity for Stringer, Jackson and Sharpton to step on victim platforms and elevate themselves and their agenda$.
 
I watched the Rutgers news conference and was ashamed.
 
Martin Luther King Jr. spoke for eight minutes in 1963 at the March on Washington.  At the time, black people could be lynched and denied fundamental rights with little thought.  With the comments of a talk-show host most of her players had never heard of before last week serving as her excuse, Vivian Stringer rambled on for 30 minutes about the amazing season her team had.
 
Somehow, we're supposed to believe that the comments of a man with virtually no connection to the sports world ruined Rutgers' wonderful season.  Had a broadcaster with credibility and a platform in the sports world uttered the words Imus did, I could understand a level of outrage.
 
But an hourlong press conference over a man who has already apologized, already been suspended and is already insignificant is just plain intellectually dishonest.  This is opportunism.  This is a distraction.
 
In the grand scheme, Don Imus is no threat to us in general and no threat to black women in particular.  If his words are so powerful and so destructive and must be rebuked so forcefully, then what should we do about the idiot rappers on BET, MTV and every black-owned radio station in the country who use words much more powerful and much more destructive?
 
I don't listen or watch Imus' show regularly.  Has he at any point glorified selling crack cocaine to black women?  Has he celebrated black men shooting each other randomly?  Has he suggested in any way that it's cool to be a baby-daddy rather than a husband and a parent?  Does he tell his listeners that they're suckers for pursuing education and that they're selling out their race if they do?
 
When Imus does any of that, call me and I'll get upset.  Until then, he is what he is- a washed-up shock jock who is very easy to ignore when you're not looking to be made a victim.
 
No.  We all know where the real battleground is.  We know that the gangsta rappers and their followers in the athletic world have far bigger platforms to negatively define us than some old white man with a bad radio show.  There's no money and lots of danger in that battle, so Jesse and Al are going to sit it out.

9:07 PM - 89 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Man, this girl and I are soulmates!

AN OPEN LETTER TO
MR. JAMES THATCHER, BRAND MANAGER
PROCTER & GAMBLE

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads
for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their
features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or
Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go
horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly
steer clear of running up and down the beach
in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has
to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on
being the only company smart enough to realize how
crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I
can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month
knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher?
Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you
haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting
right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal
forces violently surging through my body. Just a few
minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be
transformed into what my husband likes to call "an
inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the
human body amazing?

As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division,
you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what
exactly happens during your customers' monthly
visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about
the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and
about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and
out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a
tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer
fought
the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles
into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her
he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken
chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people
must realize that America is just crawling with
Homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the
reason for my letter. Last month, while in the
throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach
inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an
Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive
backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."

Are you f****** kidding me? What I mean is, does
any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really
think happiness-actual smiling, laughing happiness
-is possible during a menstrual period? Did
anything mentioned above sound the least bit
Pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless
you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never
be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to
jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa
and lock yourself in your house just so you don't
march down to the local Walgreens armed with a
hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in
a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you
just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad,
wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's
actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or
"Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just
picking on us?

Sir, please inform your accounting department that,
effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in
monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my
maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will
certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one
minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit And
that's a promise I will keep.

Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX

12:11 PM - 89 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Baking Bread In My Twat- For The fans!
Category: Romance and Relationships

This was originally sent as an e-mail to my friend, but I thought it made good blog material, and knowing it's been a while, I thought I'd share.

--------------

Seeing as though you've already read countless other gross stories about my vagina, I'm filling you in on what I'm calling the worst 2 1/2 days ever.

When I woke up Christmas morning, I had a slight measure of discomfort down in "Area 51". Initially, I thought it might be generalized soreness from the previous night's drunken activities (felt good at the time, right?), but by noon I'm was pretty sure something was brewing down there. By 9 p.m. I knew for sure that I had a yeast infection.

The last time I had a yeast infection was about 15 years ago so to say the very least, I'm way out of tune with what to do when you get one aside from going to get Monistat. Thank god, that's an over the counter deal these days, because the last time I needed it, a prescription was involved.

I ran into Walgreens on Christmas night (Thanks Santa!) and checked out the selection. They have 1-day, 3-day and 7-day treatments. They all do the same thing, so I have no idea why someone would want to shoot cream in their hoo for 7-days instead of one, so for all the obvious reasons I grabbed the 1-day. When I got home, I used the kit and went to bed expecting to wake up feeling great.

Instead, I woke up feeling like my vadge was being tortured with a blow torch and I was in so much pain I couldn't even sit. I spent most of the day (save for maybe 20 minutes) in bed because laying down was the only safe move. By the time Frank got home I had taken 3 cold baths and was crying in the bedroom like a lunatic. I sent him out for the 3-day combo pack (has external creme for pain) and he came back with the pack without the external cream but I wasn't sending him back out. I take the first treatment and within an hour I'm feeling so bad that the only sensible thing to do was to take Vicodin, which barely took the edge off. I also strapped a ziploc full of ice cubes to my twat, which leaked sometime during the night for added fun.

Fast forward to last night... I'm on day 3 of what is usually a one day gig. I even canceled a photo shoot I had scheduled because I was so totally out of it and miserable. I'm still not feeling any better, can't wear jeans, can only wear loose fitting pajama pants, haven't slept, etc. I figure it's just a matter of time that this whole thing will go away, so I do my second treatment. A hour later, i'm ready for a trip to the emergency room. In a final attempt to get myself straight, I call my GYN and fill him in on what's going on. Turns out that i'm highly allergic to Monistat, (didn't used to be of course) and that 99% of what I've been going though was because the Monistat was irritating my poor vadge. To make matters worse, ... evidently there's a simple 1-pill by mouth cure (no twat cream involved!) that was invented in the years that my vagina was doing what it was supposed to do. I took that last night (thanks Diflucan!), and this morning I feel semi-human again.

So I've wasted 2 days of my vacation laying on my back staring at the ceiling fan in my room. My vacation is 1/2 over I haven't had ANY FUN YET! I'm losing my fucking MIND!

So today, I'm buying some Yoga pants, dropping my daughter off at my Mom's and am going to seriously try to find something to do that doesn't suck. So far, this has been total crap.

Stacey

6:24 AM - 89 Comments - 27 Kudos - Add Comment

I put the Stumble in Santa Stumble
Current mood: sore

I went to a Santa Stumble Friday night and wandered around town with 20 drunken Santas and another "santaette". Of course, I dressed up in a slutty Santa girl outfit that was completed with a pair of 8" heel PVC boots with a 2" platform. They looked hot, and seemed like an EXCELLENT idea at the time.

After a few drinks and shots I decided to go dancing with some of the Santas and during a poorly-executed disco move, I ended up losing my balance and falling on my ass. (Yes, I'm classy like that) The aftermath was a terribly twisted ankle.

Friends did the honors of driving me to the next bar, and a few drunk Santas took me up to the second floor for more drinks. 3 shots and a pitcher of vodka cranberrys later, I decided to call it a night.

I knew I did a number on it, but I think the booze had me thinking it wasn't as bad as it was. When I got up the next day, it was killing me and by this morning I knew a trip to the doctor's was in order.

The verdict? Torn ligaments, a splint, and 3-6 weeks for full recovery. At least they sent me home with Vicodin because at the moment, I'm feeling no pain. 

Was it worth it!? YESSSS! Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind and just go make an ass of yourself in public with a bunch of drunken Santas. 

Check out the greenish-purple loveliness of it all.

5:50 AM - 89 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

A monthly tradition.

Seems like every month, my period shows up and I'm inspired to bitch about it in my blog. Well dear readers... this month is no exception. The words flow from me like the river of chum in my pants!

Lets start with my witty segue from the other day... Cheriti and I were talking about various sauces and at the end of our conversation I said... "speaking of sauces, I need to go change my pad!" Yes... I'm both awesome and CLASSY.

So today I picked up a fresh bag of pads after what can only be described as the scene from The Shining (with the elevator and floating lobby furniture) occured last night. I have a thing against pad with wings (they get all tangled up) but Walgreens only had the heavy artillery with wings so I had to settle.

Just moment ago it was time for a change out, and when I went to put a new one on the little no pest strip you have to rip off to expose the adhesive had a message for me... "Have a Happy Period". Yes, that's right... a message from my pad! (scan below)

I told Frank about it and he said... what? Like a fortune? Does it have your lucky numbers?? I can only say I wish that it did...

This got me to thinking... #1... How do I find the person who thought this was a good idea so I can stab them in the neck? and #2... If there's going to be a message in my pants... What should it be???

So this, dear readers is your mission... what should the message on my next maxi pad read?

Here's a few of my own ideas to get you started.

- All men are evil and should be destroyed. Wait for your orders.
- Hey there! Wow that's extra chunky!
- Make sure you wrap that thing up so the dog doesn't get it this time!
- Sweet! You dodged the baby bullet again!
- Gee your hair smells terriffic!

Your turn.

XOXO- Stacey

11:30 AM - 89 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

I Believe There Is No God

There Is No God

by Penn Jillette 

 

Enlarge

Nubar Alexanian

Penn Jillette is the taller, louder half of the magic and comedy act Penn and Teller. He is a research fellow at the Cato Institute and has lectured at Oxford and MIT. Penn has co-authored three best-selling books and is executive producer of the documentary film The Aristocrats.

 

 

 

I'm not greedy. I have love, blue skies, rainbows, and Hallmark cards, and that has to be enough It seems just rude to beg the invisible for more.

 

 

Morning Edition, November 21, 2005 I believe that there is no God. I'm beyond atheism. Atheism is not believing in God. Not believing in God is easy -- you can't prove a negative, so there's no work to do. You can't prove that there isn't an elephant inside the trunk of my car. You sure? How about now? Maybe he was just hiding before. Check again. Did I mention that my personal heartfelt definition of the word "elephant" includes mystery, order, goodness, love and a spare tire?

So, anyone with a love for truth outside of herself has to start with no belief in God and then look for evidence of God. She needs to search for some objective evidence of a supernatural power. All the people I write e-mails to often are still stuck at this searching stage. The atheism part is easy.

But, this "This I Believe" thing seems to demand something more personal, some leap of faith that helps one see life's big picture, some rules to live by. So, I'm saying, "This I believe: I believe there is no God."

Having taken that step, it informs every moment of my life. I'm not greedy. I have love, blue skies, rainbows and Hallmark cards, and that has to be enough. It has to be enough, but it's everything in the world and everything in the world is plenty for me. It seems just rude to beg the invisible for more. Just the love of my family that raised me and the family I'm raising now is enough that I don't need heaven. I won the huge genetic lottery and I get joy every day.

Believing there's no God means I can't really be forgiven except by kindness and faulty memories. That's good; it makes me want to be more thoughtful. I have to try to treat people right the first time around.

Believing there's no God stops me from being solipsistic. I can read ideas from all different people from all different cultures. Without God, we can agree on reality, and I can keep learning where I'm wrong. We can all keep adjusting, so we can really communicate. I don't travel in circles where people say, "I have faith, I believe this in my heart and nothing you can say or do can shake my faith." That's just a long-winded religious way to say, "shut up," or another two words that the FCC likes less. But all obscenity is less insulting than, "How I was brought up and my imaginary friend means more to me than anything you can ever say or do." So, believing there is no God lets me be proven wrong and that's always fun. It means I'm learning something.

Believing there is no God means the suffering I've seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn't caused by an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force that isn't bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future. No God means the possibility of less suffering in the future.

Believing there is no God gives me more room for belief in family, people, love, truth, beauty, sex, Jell-O and all the other things I can prove and that make this life the best life I will ever have.

7:15 AM - 89 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Weekend and the world's worst motel

This weekend me and some friends went to Scranton for the Electric City Rockabilly Run. The show had a pretty meager turnout because of forecasted rain, but we ended up having a great time anyway.

The ride to Scranton was uneventful, and although it was foggy and overcast, it was also nice and cool which is great when you're in a 55 year old car with  no A/C for 4 hours.

When we arrived in Scranton, it was raining a little and lots of folks had left to seek shelter or find indoor activities. We walked around the show and checked out a few cars, took a look at what vendors had for sale. Cheriti drooled over and eventually bought a purse by Less Posh (KILLER STUFF!) We stopped at the bar for drinks, and then eventually decided to go look for the motel.

When we booked a reservation for this fine place, we did so for three reasons a) it close b)everything else was sold out c) it was described by the organizers as a "cute vintage-style 50's motel"

I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Here's view of the room upon entry. The bed was made, but I pulled the blanket back to assess the sheets. Upon initial inspection, it seemed ok.

My hubby walked into the room and immediately opened a bar of soap to wash his hands. The soap was so old, it immediately crumbled. That's when Tim pointed out that everyone else must've thought the soap sucked too, because the ground in front of the rooms was littered with discarded soap.

To the right of the soap farm, there was a chain link fence, and just behind it was a baby walker that was shoved down the hill. Tim peed on it later that night.

Cheriti and Tim had creepy artwork in their room.

The room smelled like 50-year-old cigarette smoke. I sprayed lots of perfume to no avail. When I layed down in bed I noticed this lovely tie-dyed tree air freshener tied in the lamp. I'm not sure what scent it was, but I'm guessing "dirty hippie".

All of the wallpaper was trying to escape.

The bathroom light was taped inside and out, and there were lots of interesting stains on the ceiling.

The heater in the bathroom was trying to burn the door down.

mmmm.... MOLD.

When the trim falls off the wall... the clear solution is DUCT TAPE!

Where the magic happens.

The bathtub... this is where you go to cut your wrists and drift away to a happier place. The really fun thing is that you HAD to take a bath. There was a shower head, but no button or lever to pull to activate the shower. You can't see very well, but there's cigarette burns on the tub (and just about everywhere else).

The paper bathmats had cute artwork, but they WERE PAPER.

The toilet had a nifty "sanitized for you" paper doo-hickey across it, but it hadn't been cleaned in a long time... MOLD.

General filth.

The reverse of the comforter revealed blood spatters. That ended up on the floor.

Tim and Cheriti's mattress had holes and major blood stains from messy incidents of shooting up.

If you really want to get an idea of who was sleeping in the rooms beside us, check out their RIDES!

The jeep had mutiple colors of replaced body panels, and missing windows that had been replaced with cracked plexiglass and screws. The truck speaks for itself.

The following morning, we spotted "ghouls" and "zombies" outside. Toothless, disheleved step-dragging drug addicts. Frank speculated they were on the way to our room to suck body fluids out of the sheets. I think he was right.

I snapped a photo of one of them from the safety of my car. I wish I could have gotten a face shot, because she was rather hideous.

In any event, when we weren't in the motel, we were at the host bar for the Rockabilly Run getting hammered trying to forget that we had to sleep there. I thought about not getting laid in that motel, but after several cocktails I didn't give a shit... I mean a girl has needs and all....

Stacey

7:43 AM - 89 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday's with Nappy.

Tuesday night I met my friend Nappy in York for drinking, laughs and a concert. He's one of those people that always makes me laugh, and that I always manage to have fun with. The big plan was to go see She Wants Revenge, a band that I can't stop saying good things about. These guys are just killer, and since he lent me the CD that started my obsession with them, I thought it would be cool to go see the show together.

I headed up to York in the afternoon and met Nappy when he got off work. We had a few hours to kill so he took me on a tour of local watering holes. The first place we stopped was The White Rose, located on Beaver Street (!!). The back bar has a neighborhood local bar vibe, and the front one has a yuppie thing happening. We started in the back, and had a Pabst, wings, and cheese and bacon fries (Holy shit was that a lot of food).

Nappy wanted me to try this drink he and his buddy Skye whipped up called a Pabst Smear. He told me it was tasty and refreshing and not to let the ingredients scare me. I took a chance on it and he was right. You have to try one yourself... it has a bit of a margarita vibe and is a great summery light drink...

PABST SMEAR

1 part Gin
1 part sour mix
1 part Pabst (or similar beer)

We left the back bar and headed to the front bar and had another one, before heading to what could possibly be the best name for a bar ever- The Weiner World Lounge. This place is evidently a family restaurant known for hot dogs, but it also has a Lounge. When we arrived there were some super scary locals including this braless woman with her tits resting in her lap. I think our impeccable sense of style scared them, cause we got a lot of stares- hahahha. At Weiner World, you can get a cold PBR in a BOTTLE and you can watch old re-runs on Dukes of Hazzard on the TV's. If that's not enough, what really got me was when Nappy returned from the bathroom with a little surprise from the condom machine. On the outside of the box it says "here it is SHOCKING EROTIC PHOTO. Never before anything like it!" Now I don't know about you, but I was intrigued about the contents... would it be girls with donkeys? Someone with a wine bottle in their ass? The suspense was killing me. Inside, there's a small TAME color picture of a naked girl laying on a dropcloth. No donkeys, no wine bottles, not even a spread beaver. WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO??? Although the payoff was rather lame, I ventured into the girls room to see if there was a machine in there also. There was, and in my machine was "tattoos for two", condoms, and pleasure extending cream. I went for the tattoos, but I'm too much of a dumbass to figure out that I was supposed to stack the quarters, and gave up in frustration. Next time I'll do it right.

Next we ended up in the parking lot of the Eat N Park, a local resturant that's like a Denny's. Turns out that there was a rumor that part of the decor in that place was a picture of Nappy's house, and sure enough it was true. After a quick camera phone pic to memorialize this awesome find, we were off again to the next joint.

Minutes later, we arrived at Charlie Brown's steak house. It was $1.50 margarita night! Can you say YUM? A bunch of Nappy's friends were there and we hung out for a bit drinking margaritas until it was time to venture to Lancaster for the show.

The drive to Lancaster was uneventful, so I had some shots of Jaeger on the way (this would prove to be a bad idea). We got to the Chameleon and the band was already on stage and put on an awesome show. God damn, the lead singer's voice makes me think AWFUL thoughts. He just oozes sex appeal.

When I dragged my ass to work on Wednesday, I was nursing a serious hangover and my lame attempts to kill it with orange soda failed. I barfed in the disgusting toilet at work, and spent the rest of the day jittery and queasy. Was it worth it? HELL YES!

If memory serves... this is what I drank...

2 Pabsts
3 Pabst Smears
2 margaritas on the rocks
3 or 4 hearty swigs of Jaeger
2 Boddington's

(and then I had to finish a couple of Nappy's drinks cause he was the "designated driver")

I think if I had stopped at the margaritas I would have been better off. I haven't gotten smarter as I've gotten older, and the hangovers get harder and harder to bounce back from.

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