Oh man, you guys, seriously, I have been so excited to write this one! I made the greatest purchase ever this past weekend and I can’t wait to share it with you!
You know how sometimes you buy a pair of pants at the thrift store and you’re so stoked to wear them that you forget to wash them first and then halfway through the day you wonder if the guy before you even wore underwear when he had them … ?
This is nothing like that. However, before I can jump into that particular segment, I owe you guys some of my self-inflicted pain — and I have a feeling today’s variety is gonna be a bad one. Time for …
Dave Tries Nasty Sh*t So You Don’t Have To
At some point that segment title is going to cost us a sponsor …
So on my way home today I switched up from going to my usual liquor store to swing by one of my favorites from my childhood — uh, I mean, from my “young-adult-definitely-over-21“-hood.
I was catching up with them for old times’ sake and the conversation, as it inevitably does, drifted to what it was I was there to buy because they had sh*t to do. So I explained what it is that I do for this feature and they LOST IT. Seriously, I’ve never seen a group of people so happy to help pick out the worst, most disgusting alcohol for a customer.
I feel like they did good. Look at the name of this thing:
I’m going to do my absolute best (no I won’t) to not make any genitalia jokes throughout this segment (not gonna happen).
The looks on their faces when they told me this was “the one” was that of the bad guy in a movie when the hero is about to enter The Chamber Of Death or something. I’m a bit … daunted. But, it’s my duty to shoot this phooey, plus I’m supposed to check in with them tomorrow in case I don’t survive this swill. Hell, ya’ll may wanna check on me as well …
Oh good God …
I’m either dead or I’m the spirit of my body risen above the flesh to look down upon the worst mistake I have ever made. And I mean THE WORST. I’ve gambled on farts and lost. I’ve tried to act like I had Tourettes Syndrome in church. I’ve been intimate with some highly questionable women who may or may not have tried to steal my underwear (and succeed). This, however, tops it all.
Imagine, if you will, if Satan himself decided to materialize in your stomach and cut his way out with a dull spoon laced with salt and vinegar while singing Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” on repeat as you’re driving through a humid Alabama town with no air conditioning and the windows up.
Can you imagine that? It’s worse.
This was the alcohol equivalent of being roundhouse kicked by Michael Cera while he wears a Snuggie — you never really wanted it and now you’re embarrassed it even happened (link to picture for reference).
This terrible shot of sadness is 103 proof (51.5% ABV) and I’m one hundred percent certain it’s one of the main ingredients in a white phosphorous grenade.
If Jigsaw from the Saw movies said I could choose between having a railroad spike driven through my scrotum into the floor of a tiny shack made of balsa wood and I was given a plastic fork with which to chop off my genitalia (there it is, told you) to escape as he lights the whole thing on fire or take this shot again —
— I’m fine with being a eunuch (and yes, I had to spell-check that).
Dave’s Scale Of Suckitude: All of the suckitude. Seriously. Just swallow a handful of toenails soaked in ghost pepper sauce.
The Greatest Purchase Ever
Excuse me as I do my best to shake off that shot … ugh …
Now we get to — at least what I consider — the best part (seriously, my liver hurts, should I call someone?).
This past weekend I was out of town in Oklahoma for a work project. I had to leave early-ish the morning of the Fifth, meaning my Fourth of July was cut a tad shorter than normal. Knowing I wasn’t very happy about this, my beautiful and amazing wife and my awesome friends decided to make a trip out to see me and take me to a pretty legit Indian casino, Indigo Sky.
I don’t gamble much outside of some Roulette, but that didn’t matter — between the pool, amazing food, great drinks, and fantastic time hanging with my wife and friends, we had our way with the place.
One of the best products I’ve ever seen also happened to be available in their gift shop:
Yes, you’re viewing this right — a Manny Pack, complete with a zippered pocket on each side, a thermalized beer holster in the center, with a mesh net around said alcohol compartment for pocket shots.
It’s glorious. And my wife hates it.
Since that day I’ve worn this epic American masterpiece to work, Wal Mart (where it fit in completely), gas stations, customer locations, and of course, at home. The best part? The beer holster is designed for bottles. So if you’re a can-man, such as myself, you can stick that bad boy down in the thermal compartment and cinch it tight to keep it fresh as you finish the rest of your current beverage.
Plus, it’s stylish as &%$@. I mean, look at these two young strapping handsome lads (with great hair):
Listen guys, I know I typically have at least three segments in here, but I’m fairly certain I need to puke, or pass out, or eat, or some combination of the three. Seriously, DO NOT try the Cock Swinger or whatever that shot was called that I can’t remember because I burnt both it and it’s memory away forever …
But I would like to say, I’m extremely grateful that ya’ll give me this time to talk nonsense to you, and as much as my liver, kidneys, and likely future brain function may suffer for it, it’s always a good time.
So do me a favor and be safe tonight, tomorrow, and this weekend so we can do this again next Thursday. Until then, cheers!
What is everyone else drinking tonight?!