I realize why I drink, the other day I read this:

Part of the problem is there is a lot Americans just don’t know about the President. Even something as ridiculous as his place of birth is still in question with a lot of people because the hospital in Hawaii where he was born won’t release his birth certificate. They did give out a certificate of live birth but without the original a lot of folks still question it.

Same with his college transcripts, his association with Bill Ayers and his time spent at Wright’s church.

So Bush should have released his DUI mugshots? Clinton should have submitted his STD tests? I would love to see Palin’s community college transcripts especially the one she was booted from.

Look the whole birther shit is because Obama grew up out of this country. He was born in this country but people are scared because he managed to get a passport and time away from this place. I don’t think you can call it racism but it is definitely something close. Not that the other side didn’t place a halo on his head because he was a worldly black man.

Both wings treated the man in an unrealistic manner the shows little intelligent and a shit ton of misplaced emotion. The guy isn’t the savior or the anti christ. He was the lesser of two evils when the guy we should have elected in 2000, started showing signs of senility and picked community college barbie as the fucking Vice President of the United States in the middle of a spiraling economic crisis. Nothing more or nothing less.

Basically Obama is a slightly ineffectual president dealing with the worst Congress to be assembled in a long time. They refuse to move on anything despite having a super majority.

Obama isn’t a socialist or a Muslim trying to kill this country. He is just a figurehead to inspire the retarded masses with their dreams of some sort of political savior who Reid and Pelosi have almost no desire to listen to. Of course both of these people have zero innovation or gusto of their own.

Obama is just a middle of the pack president (who history is going to remember far more fondly than it should), better than the last one but not as good the two before. Though he could pull a Clinton when the Democratic congress inevitable eats itself alive and he has to deal with a Republican Congress. Hell it might be beneficial for him to see Nancy Pelosi sit back down in the cheap seats.

I am going to try to talk only about interesting nights and will take liberty on the drinks of the night.  One thing the blog did do is get me to stop drinking beer.  Beer was almost a third of my caloric intake for a week.  I had to stop for my health.  An occasional beer here or there but mostly just straight alcohol or vodka sodas or rum and diet cokes.  I actually lost weight since quitting beer.  I look more like Seth Rogen than Jonah Hill.  Someday I hope to look like less a cast member of Judd Apatow’s Jewfro Gigolos .

In conclusion, god I suck.  But  I suck because I am lazy.  And being lazy is God damn American way.

Brass Monkey might be one of the most pretentious bars in the city.  It is a bar people go to to be seen.  During the winter is crowded, expensive, and full of boring nitwits who work in various financial institutions, trying to look casual before they drop a couple of grand in bottle service in the meatpacking district.  The summer is much better when it opens up and the Frying Pan and pretentious roof top bars are open.  I try to explain what a terrible idea this is but Allison won’t listen.

I beat Allison and Pam to the Brass Monkey and make my way to the bar and grab a Guinness.  I sit and wait and watch the two girls get to the bar.  While they are standing outside, some guy approaches them.  I can only watch out the window but within thirty seconds of conversation, I get a text “Come outside we are going somewhere else”  Smooth buddy, smooth.  The bartender pours me a shot of Jameson presumely for making him laugh and I take off with the two girls.

Allison decides we should head crosstown to the Grassroots Tavern.  I laugh when I hear this.  She couldn’t pick a bar more different than the Bras Monkey.  The Grassroots Tavern is a real hipster bar where people pay for drinks in loose change.  Instead of living the jackass trustifarian dream, the people in the Grassroots Tavern  are actually poor struggling artists.  It is like changing a vacation from Miami to Oslo.

I order a Strongbow and a round of Jameson for me and the two girls and Pam gets to work.  Pam is a perfect mix of narcissism, looks, and hilarious stories.  She begins to immediately berate Allison for how straight Allison was when she arrived at Wellesley.  Apparently at the fine all woman institution of education, being straight is a good a way to become a social pariah.  Apparently the term for Allison was “straight bait”.

So one night Allison and I were thinking, you know what be subtle, lets drink and shower together.  You know what is not subtle at all, two girls hooking up drunk in a communal shower.  We broke the shower and the curtain rod.  Then Allison charged out of the shower and had to call campus security in just a towel because she locked herself out of her room.  Like I said, subtle. – Pam

Another Strongbow Pam explained that Awesome is an insult to her.  At this point I am just laughing.  Pam talks about using the female security guard with a crush on her for rides and why Allison always in trouble since the guard was mad Allison was with Pam.  Pam’s stories each are more funny.  Allison has some great ones too.  Their stories of Lesbian hijinx warmed my heart as well as their common hate of humanity.

When I went to get my last Strongbow for the night, the bartenders were no where to be found.  In the spirit of college stories reached over and poured me my last pint.  I left the money on the bar but Allison was caught.  The bouncer decided to throw her out, normally she can get out of situations like this by showing her cleavage but no luck this time.  I chug my pint and leave with Pam and Allison calling it a night.

There are very few reasons I would voluntarily go to Jersey.  I am not even sure a free open bar is reason enough alone.  Jersey is easily one of the most hostile environments known to man.  I am really not sure how I survived without a hazmat suit.  When I envision a post apocalyptic world, I think Jersey.  However my friend Ed was having an engagement party and I enjoy watching miracles so I went to celebrate with Ed and his wonderful fiancee Renee.

Of course this meant I would have to wear cocktail attire all day.  Going to work dressed up sucks.  I don’t understand how people do it.  I much prefer jeans and collared shirts.  I had to go down into a basement of antique seller to fix their wiring in a suit jacket.  Luckily this meant I could go to the Yale Club lunch buffet.  There I sat with a bunch of people with real jobs, eating Oysters on the half shell and drinking a pint of Yale Lager.  Little did these people know when they engaged me in business discussion I was thinking who would win in a fight Jack Bauer or Irradiated Giant Paris Hilton (I think Bauer in a really drawn out and convoluted way).

After work, I went out to grab a quick beer (Hooker IPA) with my coworkers at Valhalla where I encounter yet another person who confused Zoolander with Zohan (APATOW!) then off to Penn Station to whisked away to magical NJ.  Whisked is a strong word.  NJ  Transit seems to still not understand the concept automated ticket machines having only three in Penn Station yet having ten tellers.  Reminds me of RI.  The line is brutal and I have to run to my train just catching it (unlike the great Christmas Grand Central Incident).  Of course I jump on the car that has no signs telling you the next stop and the speakers are only admitting a gentle soothing hiss.

One of the main problems with NJ is that everyone in NJ assumes everyone that would be in NJ knows everything about NJ.  So when I asked if the next stop was Glen Ridge (where the wedding reception is) some guy looks at me bizarrely.  I repeat my question slowly and he stammers a bit.  Thinks for a second then tells me he thinks it is the stop after this stop.  Then proceeds to mumble to himself.  I ask other people and they just look confused.  Sure enough, I miss my stop and end up having to get off at the next stop.  Now I am forced to either wait an hour or to follow the train track back to the last station.  Fast forward to me walking two miles in Jersey in cocktail attire.

When I finally get to the party, Ed has something glib to tell me but I just walk by him and grab a Yuengling at the bar.  After I finish my beer I get another Yuengling and proceed to go and talk to Ed and Renee.  Ed is pretty much a dandy for a lack of a better term.  He enjoys dressing up and crossing his legs on his thighs.  I would say gay but there is nothing really gay about him.  He just enjoys being super WASPy.  That means his engagement party was full of law student anti social nitwits engaged in boring discussion.  I say hi to the couple of friends I know and attempt to join in conversation.  Before long I had another Yuengling in my hand staring blankly at what these people called a wild evening.

Thank God for Travis and Emily arriving.  Travis is far less a dandy than Ed is but still is a little reserved and enjoys occasionally putting on a suit and grabbing a good steak.  His girlfriend Emily is an amazingly hilarious opera singer.  The party is immediately much better with their arrival.  I spend the rest of the party having a red wine for the toast and having 3 bud lights as Travis, Emily, and I talked about nothing particularly interesting however it was a great time.  It is funny, when you are good friends you could recite the phonebook and have a great time.

Travis offered me a ride home, and I went up and took a nap before getting ready to go out again.

After work I decided to have a couple of people over to polish off a bottle of vodka I had from Christmas.  I invite my frat brother Biernat and Elvin from work.  We decide to watch a movie.  Going through the amazing selections on HBO and Showtime on Demand, we get into a heated debate over watching Something watchable or my choice Summer Catch (I thought I could make an excellent drinking game out of it.)  Then we realized that Zoolander was on demand.  Debate over.  Or so I thought.  Elvin said Zoolander wasn’t funny…

Zoolander is easily one of the funniest things that ever happened to humanity along with Animal House, Jeff Zucker, and the Franco- Prussian War.  There is a amazing amount of star power at its funniest in the movie.  Even the bit characters are stars.  David Bowie judging the run off?  Billy Zane taking Zoolander’s back?  Justin Theroux as the evil DJ?  Simply awesome.  Will Farrell is at his best as Mugatu.  I am not sure why this movie sucked so hard at the box office.  If it was released today, it would be like The Hangover.  Sadly the sequel is probably going to suck but any movie with a gasoline fight is good by me.   If you ever meet anyone who doesn’t like Zoolander, you should immediately shun them.  Shun them hard.

Now I was shocked to hear Elvin say he thought Zoolander wasn’t funny.  He generally has good taste in humor besides being on Team Big Chin.  However ten minutes into the movie Elvin was laughing his ass off.  I asked him why he sad the movie sucked and he told me he thought I was talking about a shitty Adam Sandler movie.  I realized he was talking about the horrendous “Don’t Mess With Zohan”.  I nodded and immediately took note to put this on my long list of grievances with Judd Apatow as I wait for the day we break bread on Festivus together.

Zoolander … it is freaking funny.

I choose volleyball simply because it was the only sport Zog offered that I would imagine there would be more girls to guys.  Plus I figured volleyball would be an easy blow off sport.  I didn’t feel like getting emotionally invested, and I can be a dick when I am competitive.   Of course, I realize what a huge mistake I made when I arrived at the gum late and saw Agent XI covered in sweat.  As soon as I got in the game I realized that even playing casual volleyball is serious business.  No one was joking around.

After the game I grabbed a quick Winter Lager, with my team at Aces and Eights.  I asked everyone’s name for the fourth time (I am pretty sure I forgot them all already), and ran to my outdoor soccer game across town.  This was infinitely more fun.  My team turned out to be a bunch of great people.  John Oliver ended up defending me on the field and he is pretty good.  Though I learned from my time playing soccer in England, that even the most uncoordinated English man looks a thousand times more coordinated on the soccer field than the average American guy.  I ended up having a blast despite the fact my body wanted to die from actually having to do anything physical.

After the game the team went to Coppersmith’s.  I ordered a Guinness and almost spit up my first gulp when I saw USC hired Lane “Lance” Kiffin.  What?  Why in God’s green earth would USC do that?  For those of you that follow college football, USC is on the verge of getting pounded by the NCAA for rules violations.  So much so that Pete Carroll the former coach fled the cushiest jump in college sports to go be an underwhelming coach for an underwhelming NFL franchise.  USC’s counter move was to Kiffin who may be the worst coach in college football to hire with NCAA investigation coming your way.

Why is Kiffin terrible?  Kiffin is such a horrible human being he got fired from the Raiders with cause.  A NFL coach getting fired with cause is almost unheard of.  You basically have to be killing orphans in the locker room while taking bets on dog fights to get fired with cause.  On can argue Al Davis wanted him gone because Kiffin didn’t listen to the franchise killer but Kiffin didn’t win his court case.  Of course then Kiffin spends a year at Tennessee racking up six NCAA violations while going after other coaches for the same.  Kind of hard being a whistleblower when you consistently cheat yourself.  Also people from Kiffin’s first recruiting class were caught for attempted armed robbery during the football system.

Kiffin is a dirty idiot who has a terrible track record of following the rules.  It is mind boggling to think he would be brought into a program about to get bitch slapped by the NCAA.  Especially when you consider the last thing the NCAA wants to do is bitchslap USC since it is pretty much the only “pro” football team in Los Angeles.  It is almost like USC is daring the NCAA to take the program out.

I grab a Magners and try to recite everyone’s name again.  I think I may have picked up two.  I am terrible with names in a social setting.  I walk a couple of blocks home and pass out.  I wake up to ever muscle in my body screaming at me for being dumb enough to run around.  Fun times.

When we enter I find something is amiss. The place seems different.  I can’t put my finger on it but I drag Agent X to the back while Agent XI is still in some semblance of a coherent state.  I wanted show him my greatest singular achievement in drinking, my victorious picture after a Truck Bomb.  A Truck Bomb easily the manliest drink invented probably by a lumberjack after headbutted a grizzly bear to death.  A Truck Bomb is comprised of the same elements of an Irish Car Bomb but enlarged proportions.  Basically you fill half a pitcher with Guinness, a 3/4  of a Collin’s glass full of Bailey’s, and fill the collin’s glass until it overflows with Jameson.  You then have to do the entire truck bomb in one go.   The real trick is not letting the Collin’s glass to smash into your face.

After I finish my first truck bomb, I had to do a little dance to allow the foam to rise and took a victory picture with my friend Meg.  There it hung on the wall of champions at Cheapshots for years.  However tonight, all the pictures of the champions past are gone.  I also notice that the bartenders are no longer trustifarian burn outs but girls in tight jean cut outs and corsets.  Something is amiss.  When I inquire what is wrong with my beloved Cheapshots, Patience, our bartender, informs Agent XI and I that there is new ownership.  These owners are in fact the owners of the Patriot.

If class does not matter to you at all, the Patriot would be the finest bar in Manhattan.  5 dollar pitchers and drunk bartenders in corsets are the highlight while the sweet ass country music adds to the amazing atmosphere.  This of course leads to the last coherent discussion of the night as Patience hands us a pitcher of Patriot Ale.  Are corsets really sexy?  Sure they make a girl look good when they are on, but there is a lot untying to do in the back.  Or do you just leave it on during sex?  Untying is unsexy as far as I am concern.  If you can’t do it with your teeth, it is too complicated for the bedroom.    That is why velcro sneakers are the hottest.

Minka Kelly is a Porn Name, I am sorry for the vomit smell in here.  I told my boss about it. - Pateince

When we get handed our second Patriot Ale Pitcher, Boring Jen begins bombarding the clearly intoxicated Agent XI.  They have what is probably the most drunk conversation I have ever read and Agent XI takes off to go meet her at home.  I finish off the pitcher and begin to take off when Agent XI calls me.  Apparently Boring Jen brought a friend with her.  I run to Agent XI’s to find said friend passed out on the couch and Jen and XI playing video games poorly.  I sit down on the couch and pass out.

I wake up around 11 AM to Agent XI walking out of his bedroom with only underwear and the beauty queen sash on.  I laugh then realize the pillow I am using is weird.  I sit up to find I was using Jen’s friend’s butt as a pillow.  I haven’t gathered the girl’s name yet and she being used to comfort my head.  I gather my belongings and head home where I pass out and sleep though the abortion of a first half the Patriots had.  Small gifts friends small gifts

I get into to Manhattan a little later then I expected to so I head right over to Agent XI.  I had a dark and stormy as I settled down and discussed our volleyball strategies for Tuesday (mostly I attended on looking as apathetic as possible).  Agent XI decided to show me his extensive cyber stalking skills already had field reports on all the girls on the team.  After digesting my first CIA field report, I poured another dark and stormy and began preparing for the trip to Brooklyn.

See you can’t just go to Brooklyn, you have to prepare.  First off you better know where you are going.  If you don’t have a general idea including nearby subway stops you could be wandering for years.  That is what happened to Gulliver and Odysseus.  Second you better have the number of the person you are meeting there.  Otherwise you could stuck outside someone’s place.  Third and this is most important.  You best reevaluate your decision to go to Brooklyn.  I mean Brooklyn is hipster central.  You best be prepared to bust out some sweet riot fight moves to teach those bastards life lessons in awesome.  I generally like to headbutt a wall and listen to some Pantera.

We decide we use a cab finding a quick route to Greenpoint.  That we avoided the evil know as the G train.  Sixteen bucks and six flights later we arrive at the party.  We arrive upon hipster central.  I pour myself a vodka cranberry and run into my old friend Maura.  Some guy is trying to talk to her but I immediately notice one of the big advances of hipster parties.  The guy tried to imply he was talking to Maura already and all I had to do was give him a look and he went to stew in the corner.  Surely he was writing a very mean spirited emo song about the situation.

Agent XI and I grabbed Dixie Cups of champagne and decided now would be a solid time to play Africa.  Ian whips out his iPod and realizes any and all resistance would be snide comments said just within audible levels (stupid hipsters).  Screw Norah Jones, it is Toto time bitches.

As Agent XI and I rock out to sweet melody of our favorite song when I meet Jane.  Jane is a former honors chem student from NYU so we begin to go entirely in Geek mode.  We talk about all our senile professors and how they couldn’t remember our names.  I talked about the standing ovations I once received for getting to Orgo 3 arriving on time (I swear to God a tear rolled down Professor Lukeman’s cheek).  Jane decides to impart some sage like wisdom in the journal.

It is not rape if you yell surprise

I remark that I am not entirely sure that is the law.  Jane offers Agent XI and I a ride back to the city.  We jump on it and take off.  String Theory is discussed.

We drive into North Kingston where my mom’s giant Irish family is assembling.  All four of her other siblings are going to be there and about half of my three thousand first cousins.  I walk in and am handed a Coors Light by Eamonn, my cousin who is closest to me in age.  Eamonn is definitely a cool guy and has come down to New York to drink with me time to time.  He has came for my last two or three birthdays.  Eamonn and I are famous for getting into the only wrestling match during an interscholastic tennis match.  Our mothers how to explain we usual decide who goes first instead of a coin toss.

We start to tease his Irish Twin Conor.  Conor is a funny dude with a shady background.  Conor was the kind of guy that ran the Craps game in the bathroom of a school semi formal.  Eamonn and I start our usual interrogation about why Conor transferred from ASU to PC.  The official statement is was he was “homesick” and some whispers of a time he woke up hung over in the desert.  Conor asserts “I liked Arizona State fine, but I would liked it better if they covered the spread.”

I say hello to the rest of my family, and then go down to the basement with Eamonn.  There my cousin Conor is playing my two eight year old cousins in Halo.  While they are starting to figure out the controls, Conor is screen peeking from a separate tv he is playing on.  This won’t be so bad except Conor is ranked in the top 500 in the world at playing Halo.  So here we have one the world’s best video game players cheating to beat his 8 year old cousins who have never played Halo before.  Class act.

I step in making fun of Conor and say I will play with my cousin Timmy.  At first Conor says I should play with both cousins but then his brother teases him for being a pussy.  To be fair even if Eamonn and I both played Conor we would lose.  I consider myself a good video game player but I simply don’t put the time Conor does.  He is proficient in every weapon, knows every level, and has near perfect aim.  In fact Conor could have taken the weight of both 8 year old cousins and still murdered us.

We start playing when I realize that Conor is using his partner as Chase as bait.  I decide to start flushing Conor out using explosives.  Conor then starts driving vehicles into me to keep Chase safe.  Or so I thought.  Actually Conor sarts just leaving Chase in cars and running as soon as go to blow them up.  He actually says “Well Chase it has been fun.” as Chase pleads with him to tell him the button to get out.  Eventually he starts knocking me out every time I move to protect my partner.  He still tries to avoid me and go after the eight year old driving in circles.   It would be like Jon Lester pitching around a minor league player to pitch a minor leaguer.  Classy.

After receiving my beating I head upstairs to eat and take family photos which you need a portrait lens to take since a quardter of the population of Cork is in the living room.  After that we decide to play cards with my grandmother who I affectionately call Nanny.  Nanny is as smart as a tact and enjoys playing senile.  She is hilarious.  Lately she has been watching Fox News.  This is funny because there is zero chance when the booth closely she votes for anyone that isn’t on the Kennedy’s ticket.

We start to play five person cutthroat HiLo Jack.  The entire time Nanny is just destroying people’s bids will continuing to ask what suit is trump and who won the last hand.  She clearly knows exactly what she is doing, and is laughing as she screws people.  I ignore her feigned weakness and play my hands close to the vest.  I eventually win and celebrate like a Math Team Magic the Gathering victory. My dad ends up owing me a dollar for all the times my grandmother screwed his bids.

I grab a new Coors Light as I circle around saying my goodbyes.  After teasing my Uncle Neil about Disney and watch the Bengals completely fall apart I take off with my Dad to New Haven.  I get on the train back to New York where I was going to meet Agent XI.

For Christmas, my mom bought my dad two tickets to go see the outdoor college Hockey game at Fenway, BU v. BC.  I have always liked college hockey, I even went to NYU hockey games at Chelsea Piers.  Sure I would sit with a couple of my frat brothers drinking out of Cutty Sark bottle screaming taunts at the opposing team, but I thought it was cool.  In real college hockey I have always cheered for BC.  My dad is a huge BC fan and since the hockey is in Hockey East, my hatred of BC for going to ACC  does not apply to the Eagles hockey team.

Of course, loving BC hockey means hating BU hockey.  And I despise BU hockey which instantly puts me at odds with anyone who attended BU.  You see, BU really only has one sports team, and that is hockey.  All their other programs are middling D1 programs but Hockey, they are always ranked.  That makes BU hockey fans more adamant then the most annoying Yankee fan.  Basically Hockey is all they have.  They have clutch on to it like tapeworm clings to an intestine for dear life.

I grabbed a book (Bourne Supremacy) and jumped on the 2:30 Bolt Bus to Boston.  The ride was pretty good (would have enjoyed bringing my computer) as I sat and read.  I even dosed off for a bit however I woke up awkwardly snuggled to the Asian girl sitting next me.  That wasn’t the last time this weekend I woke up curdled up awkwardly with someone.  I made it to South Station about a half hour later than I anticipated and decided not to play with the green line in the offseason and I just grabbed a cab.

First five minutes of watching a hockey game outside in a snowstorm is awesome.  We sat really close to the ice.   The BU band was right near us.  It was an awesome environment.  Then about the beginning of the second period, my toes got numb.  It was hellaciously cold and Fenway with its ruthless efficiency knew this.  End result Hot Chocolate and Coffee = $8.75.  Debating a bit I decided to buy the cheaper Bud Light though if Fenway was offering Irish Coffee or the such I would have probably went as deep as 12 dollars a cup.  It was really awesome actually seeing the slush on the beer tap from the beer freezing and was curious about how much a beer slushy would rock in the summer.

The game went on.  Of course, BC Hockey did everythign in its power to let the lesser BU Terriers win. BC made sure to pass the puck whenever humanly possible therefore to ruin every single scoring chance it had.  Maybe all the power plays wouldn’t have been killed, if they thought about taking a shot.

After the game, my dad and I went to Copperfield’s.  His ex girlfriend’s niece was the bartender and we got a round of Harpoon IPA w/ a shot of Jameson.  That helped me thaw out a bit.  We sat around discussing Beltre and other Sox stuff.  Talked about how cool it was to see a hockey game in Fenway now that we were warm inside.  We got a second round of Harpoon IPA w/ a shot of Jameson then  headed over the Pizzeria Uno for some food.

After having a decent burger and a third Harpoon IPA at Pizzeria Uno, my dad and I shuffled across the street to Kenmore Sq.  As we started to wait for the Green Line, I realized I left my book the Bourne Supremacy at the Pizzeria Uno as well as my precious journal.  I told my dad I would be right back and sprinted up the stairs like a fat kid chasing an ice cream truck.

I picked up the books and started to make way back.  From the top of the station stairs I could hear the train coming in.  I bolted down the stairs as fast as I could when I reached the ticket platform.  Not paying attention to the sandy slush beneath me, I endeavored faster and further until I got close to the ticket kiosk.  There I tried to plant a foot when I realized the folly of my ways.  As I boldly streaked across the station I did not realize who little traction my shoes had.  As easily as I bounced down the stairs my legs kicked up above my head as I flipped.

I think it was just before I hit the ground I felt a certain sympathy for Charlie Brown. Just as he would flip after Lucy pulled that damnable football away I too was airborne.  I vowed if I ever found myself in a Schultz comic I would give Lucy one upside the head and nod to Charlie Brown in a gesture of solidarity.  Just as I finished with this mental pack with a fictional character I realized my butt and elbow were screaming in pain.  I was lying limp on the ground with a newly formed crowd gawking at my clumsy self destruction.  I moved slowly until someone suggested calling an ambulance.  At that point I shot up, quickly gathered my things, and quasimoto’d my down the stairs to which my dad just shook his head and said “what now?”  Clearly 25 years of raising me has left my dad unsurprised at my self crippling.   We grabbed the train and continued the trip back to RI.