Category: Trips

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

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.

Cultural Learnings of New Zealand for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of USA

I spent the greater (perhaps the greatest) part of July and August in windy Wellington, New Zealand  shacking up with my squeeze (she’s 6 feet tall).  Now it’s becoming more and more a rarity for me to venture out of my hometown much less my state, much much less my country.  Needless to say I was somewhat unprepared for the 15+- hour lapse of time spent on 3 different planes each way with 3 different shitty chicken or fish dishes and 3 different shitty catalogs of shitty movies.  Shit.

I suppose the payoff was well worth it.  

So anyway, I write this for the curious worldly types who wish to get a gander at that which is New Zealand and learn of its Kiwi culture.  

1. There are a fuck-ton of sheep.  I haven’t spent much time around these creatures, aside from the domesticated types.  These lil flufflers tend to be rather annoyingly evasive.

2. Playgrounds are fucking monumental in New Zealand.  Get a fucking gander at this slide!  

3. They have weird/awesome cars.  Like Supras, like RX-7‘s and oh so many skylines…..  Seemed to me like every other car rocks a fat ass intercooler and vroom pshs after 

4. Kiwi’s like to drink / hit the piss.  

5. Behold the renowned “Kiwi Big Breakfast“ – tried it twice, safe to say I’m definitely not yet down with the Kiwi interpretation of the breakfast sausage but I suppose I’m not as big a sausage connaisseur as some other people i know…

6. Birds kick it indoors.

7. Kiwi birds, the feathered, flightless symbol of New Zealand lays the largest eggs comparable to their body size.  Once juiced and strained the resulting product is quite bitter yet deliciously refreshing.

8. Blessed with the power of retard strength, even the sturdiest of Wellington’s embankments were no match for my American ass. 

9. Order an ice coffee – receive this : what I perceive to be a mocha with 2 scoops vanilla ice cream plopped in.  Fantastic.  

10. Minus 5 Ice Bar – I’m into 2 drink minimums and spending 25 minutes in a -27 degree room comprised of nothing but teh ice.  Ice formed from nothing but the natural artesian springs of New Zealand herself.  Slap it on your checkout list.

11. What does not belong?

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:

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.

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.

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.

Aint That a Beach

It’s been way too long since I’ve felt hot sand under my feet, it’s been way too long since I’ve eaten a big schweaty wiener prepared by Malchow. I cut school that day so I could go to work early, get my hours in, fatten up my favorite leather wallet, and get off at noon so I could get to the beach boy-eeeeeee. I do have an affinity for our convoys that we travel in, I enjoy Cahill’s superior driving capabilities, and his turns sharp enough to cut yo mutha. Than again, I am partial to the ruggedness, the brauns, the compensating factor of Kyle’s big blue jeep. It was the last day of a freakish hot spell in San Mateo in the middle of fuckin February, but of course over in the asscrack of the Bay Area we could see our breath over in Half Moon Bay. So anyway after we downed our wieners and Kyle his sandwiches, we got to work on our goddamn dam and made fiya.

Malchow really is a hit with the ladies, he knows that the quickest way to a womans heart is through the wiener. Hah! So thats enough of the piere jokes. K wait, one more. K, done.

As if the land and the air wasn’t cold enough, I got in the water cold enough to make my balls retreat into my anus, but surfing on that tire was worth it. Same with the sail. I tried taking a bite of this big hunka wood and it hurt my teeth real bad, I wouldn’t recommend it.

Malchow was on Baywatch in case you didn’t know. Resemblance?.

What does this look like to you, and NO, you wouldn’t find em here.

Long story short…Ya’ll can’t do likeNBHQ. click here to see all the pics from the beach. And click here to see some BETTER pics

And the video:

– Cheney Got a Gun
– Lego Computer
– Simpsons House
– Weird lookin buildings
– Top 10 Baseball Fights
– Cool Guitars