Shamrock Open -- Slainte! (1056 hits)
Category: Computers & InternetRating: 1.84 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Wardy (View user info) at 2006-02-22 10:53:00 EST
I don't like facts. I don't care for hard work. I don't enjoy company and I rarely request an audience. In the interest of the aforementioned statements and your own mental stability it is probably in your best interest to go back. If anything, go under your sink and take three shots of all-purpose cleaning solution, shake your head, swallow, and tell me where you wake up.
....
A brief period of my life was spent experimenting certain hallucinogenic stimulants that have had some seemingly irreversible confabulatory damage to the cortex-bellum-dulla thing in my brain. I don't know, I wasn't listening to the doc. Well fuck all, if I was going to stop eating the stuff that grew under my pipes in the basement, I was going to have to start drinking.
Which is usually where most problems arise. Unlike most other hobbies such as bomb making (where disasters are usually permanent and instantaneous), drinking tends to fester and grow until the cancerous growth is so hideous and obtrusive that it scares small children and flakes off when you bump into people at the market.
Don't get me wrong — I love drinking.
I love tall glasses of just about anything - the closer it tastes to rocket fuel, the better. There is of course the exception of the time that it did in fact taste like rocket fuel, in which case I found myself in Rockshire, Virginia a week later with a Baptist named Jonah. I don't even know the significance of that, and I don't care.
What it comes down to is that drinking itself is an art of sorts, one that is slowly manipulated and procured to produce a masterpiece. It starts off as juvenile experiment in potential suicide and manifests itself into a concealed weapon of potential mass destruction. The road to perdition is of course paved with toilets, buckets, boobs, taco bell, bushes, cheers, jeers, overdraft charges, and of course fat chicks. The experience is never limited to any number of the aforementioned examples, but at the same time it is never without you, the drinker.
Now for all practical purposes we can safely assume that most people started drinking at various ages for various reasons, but we can also pretty much safely assume that the feeling was mutual between the majority of us.
While spending time at the Institute of Nature, I stole some files from the Encyclopedia Britannica online website and decided to do a nature study of humans with an emphasis on alcohol consumption. I cannot stress how not funded I was, so most of the following is speculation and non-fact, but like any good theorist when I was missing information, I just made stuff up. My subject became a boy named Roger Pelasky. Pretty much a harmless kid up until middle school where he was caught lighting his farts on fire while trying to drink milk at the same time. Raised by a single father, the mom had left her husband and son just after birth. Roger's dad enjoyed Ice beer and cheap smelling perfume, but he always put Roger first, as any good parent should. I figured Roger was as good as any juvenile subject I could have chosen from the States at the time. Plus, he was like a cheetah in that he could not smell fear — which played right into my hands.
We open with our subject Roger who smuggled three Natural Ice beers from his father's fridge into his backpack. A freshman in high school, his dad agreed to let him sleep over at his friend Mike's.
Roger (to self): Holy shit man holy shit man holy shit man. They can hear them moving I know it I know it fuck fuck fuck. I'm dead.
Notice the stimulated senses - brain wave patterns taken from the subject were similar to those of a fat gazelle with three legs walking across the Serengeti. Roger waved goodbye to his dad as the truck pulled out of the driveway. He waved goodbye to sobriety.
Mike: Did you bring them? Did you?!
Roger: Shhh! Of course I did.
Mike: Wow man, this is going to be so cool. I can't wait to get straight wasted.
Roger: What?... Nevermind, are you sure your parents won't come down here?
Mike: Nah man, we're locked. Let's do this.
Roger (pulling the three cans from his Jansport): Right, okay I'm not sure how we're going to measure these out because I have three and...
Mike: These aren't cold.
Roger (clearly not listening): I guess we could just go drink for drink - that could work.
Mike: These aren't cold.
Roger: What?
Mike: These aren't cold, Roger. We need these to be cold.
Roger: .... What the fuck does it matter?
Mike: You can't drink warm beer, it tastes like shit!
Roger: How would you know?
Mike: ......
Roger: Exactly. Now shut the fuck up, let's do this.
This is followed by a somewhat ceremonial, but anticlimactic cracking open of the cans of shit beer, followed by an unplanned raising of the beers in salute, followed by one's first taste of carbonated yeast. The rest of the night is spent watching TV with the can of beer perched next to the subject, along with the subject trying not to make eye contact so as not to give away what can only be described as a general disliking for the beverage. Studies show that most likely you go to bed sober and confused, much like your time spent with (insert generic child molester joke here). Gender reversal in this case is acceptable, except the end result is belligerence and a 99% chance that you make out with your female friend. You will also vehemently deny your homosexuality, and subsequently blame it on the fact that it was your first time drinking.
Fast forward to freshman year of college. Our friend Roger is back with us again, only Mike after a series of run-ins with the law, finally got caught jerking off on the slide at McDonald's. Poor Mike. Roger however, got accepted to the University of Iowa, and not only was he relieved to have found a purpose for the state to his immediate west, but he was finally free of the confines of parental control.
In this next excerpt, we have Roger on his first night in a new city. After meeting his roommate (who may or may not be normal, it doesn't matter), he decides to meet up with some friends from high school that have their own house. At this point we can assume that Roger likes most beers foreign and domestic, some liquors, and straight piss if disguised correctly.
Guy with stack of cups: Greg!
Roger: It's Roger.
Guy with stack of cups: Fucking awesome you could make it! Heard you're a freshman! Big night! Five bucks for a cup! We've got some liquor inside, have at it! WOO I'M METRO!!!
Roger shook his head and made his way into the party, which for all definitive purposes, did not really exist. Four kegs lined the basement wall; none with ice, untapped as well. Roger's sudden spike in his urge to run for the hills and masturbate is similar to those of the North American chipmunk upon encountering a homosexual mate. Roger, a virgin to the keg party, had never learned how to tap a keg, and it appeared as though he didn't know any one at the residence. Just when he was about to tuck tail and run, a hand touches his shoulder. Some would call this the hand of the messiah - we call them alcoholics. For the sake of telling facts and just the facts, the guy's name is Jim.
Jim: Hey Roger, good to see you made it.
Roger: Yeah... I don't... um... you're the only one I know here...
Jim: Don't worry, my good man. Nobody likes me anyways, so I'll hang with you. Just kidding, I'm fucking hilarious. Why don't you have any beer?
Roger: I... uh...
Jim: Never tapped a keg before? Fucking freshman, man. Fucking freshman. Here, I'll show you. This will make you a God later in the night when we've got change barrels.
Roger, who was never much for idolatry or the hostile take over of infinite powers, knew that God probably got laid a lot more than he did.
God: Damn straight, Willy.
The next hour or so is spent drinking while playing various card games and catching up with Jim, who it turns out is going into his third year at the university. Apparently Iowa girls are easy, but also have a one in four chance of carrying Chlamydia or being fat. Roger was confused by the math of that, but instead of trying to figure it out, drank more.
Sometime after eleven o'clock, Jim has disappeared and Roger finds himself feeling the serious effects of all the beer he's consumed. He's awkwardly made uninvited moves at a girl named Katie. She's a blonde with a cute little nose and a girl next door aura about her. Roger has a better chance of surviving re-entry on the Columbia shuttle than getting anywhere near the naked penis party he apparently wants to have with her.
Roger: Na nananana you wanna be my banannana??
Katie (Shouting, her eyes searching for an exit): Do I want your what?
Roger (Mumbling, his eyes punching each other frantically, trying to kill his nose): No! You want to tap it?
Katie (giggling): I don't even know you!
Roger: I needa pee. Later!
The rest of the night Roger spends between the bathroom and the stairwell, his forehead pressed firmly against the cracking drywall of either one. The next morning he wakes to find himself naked back in his dorm room. He turns to look out the window. The clock next to his bed reads a little after ten. He lets out a soft moan and lets his head drop back down to the pillow. It is at this point that he realizes there's someone next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he sneaks a peek.
Holy shit no way, he says to himself. The smooth golden-blonde hair protrudes the covers, signaling a soft yellow wave of triumph in the eyes of our friend Roger. Prey captured! Victorious! Unfortunately, being a virgin to the given situation, he has no plan of action. Conventional wisdom says check for a pulse then run, but our friend Roger is like a white guy test-driving a Camry - he has prematurely assumed he's hit the jackpot.
Poor Roger. He has not hit the jackpot. For in his self-induced mental retardation the night prior, Roger obtained what are often referred to as "Beer goggles." Katie was not as pretty as he remembered. As she rolled over, she revealed a round, portly face that he would later describe as "Not that fat, man", broad, robust shoulders that he would later describe as "Not that fat, man, seriously", and a body that failed all criteria for making Maxim magazine on many, many levels, although he'd later describe her as "C'mon man, like you never... oh fuck this..."
He also found out a week later that he had Chlamydia. Gender reversal in this case is also acceptable, except it is more likely that the following occurred: You were spotted, deemed property, invited to party, went with friends, made out with girl you don't know (you'll later vehemently deny your homosexuality and blame it on the alcohol), and you'll wake up next to a fifth year dropout or in rare cases, a dumpster. Don't worry, you're not pregnant yet.
Again years pass. We can safely assume that up to this point no two cases studies will have identical drinking experiences while at the same time both case experiences show evidence that they do transcend consistent themes leading to conclusions to the drinking maturation of the human species. But enough of that, we'll get to that stuff later.
We now find Roger out of college; he's twenty-eight and still drinking mostly on the weekends in order to fulfill feelings of social inadequacy and a remote chance to score. Tonight we find him and his small group of friends at an Irish pub in Evanston. It's a popular hang out for grad students and other persons similar to that of age and lifestyle of Roger. This intoxicated mating call is a direct transcript of a 1995 conversation held at McGregor's about an hour after our subject Roger Pelasky arrived:
Roger: Hey, I'm Roger. I've never seen you here before, you new in town?
Stranger: Oh hi! I'm Julie! Yeah, I just moved in today so it's my first time here.
Roger: Oh yeah? Where are you from?
Julie: Oregon, which is just west of Idaho.
Roger: ...
Julie: You're cute, do people ever tell you that you have nice eyes?
Roger (thinking to himself): Holy shit, has God answered my prayers?
God: Nope.
Roger (thinking to himself): If I have to pay for this shit again I'm not supplying the condoms...
Julie: Hello?
Roger: Oh yeah, sorry... uh... my eyes? No, I don't think anyone except my mom has told me that, can I buy you a drink?
Julie: Ohhh your mom!!! I hate my mom, she's so controlling, but you're lucky, your mom sounds sweet.
Roger: So, about that drink, or is it even necessary?
Julie: Necessary for what?
Roger (to himself): FUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!
Julie: Awkward....
Roger: Wait! No! Tommy, can I get my usual and for Julie here a Long Island?
Tommy: Go fuck yourself.
Roger: ....
Tommy is most likely sexually insecure, always looking for a guy to slip up and say "YETH!!"
Tommy: They'll be right up...
Roger (raising his glass): So you were sayin—
Julie (sucking her straw furiously and with complete disregard for somebody bumping into her and jamming the hard plastic up into her soft pallet): Do you live near here?
Roger: Well actually, yes. It's a cab rid—
Julie: Can I have another drink?
Roger: Uh... yeah sure, same thing?
Julie: That'd be great!
Roger: Yo! Tommy! Can we get another round?
Tommy: Sure thing, butt fucker.
Roger: .... What... did I like piss you—
Julie: Look Roger, I know this might seem a bit for—Oh thanks Tommy—mm this is good...
Roger: Oh definitely, real good...
Julie: No no, that's not what I was saying. Look, and now I don't want to scare you or freak you out or anything because that's not what I do, but can I stay at your place tonight?
At this point Roger assumes one of two things: 1) Julie is a nymphomaniac dead set on getting punched in the ovaries a few times by Roger's manhood or 2) Julie was hot so it didn't really matter what the other thing was, Roger was going to get to naked tonight and not feel ashamed. He nodded to his boys and left the bar. The two hopped a cab back to his apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, had a few or ten or something more drinks, and did all sorts of mating. They mated on the bed. They mated on the couch in the living room. They mated on the counters in the kitchen and the kitchen floor. They even mated on Mrs. Parson's welcome mat because her stupid dog always shit on Roger's.
The next morning Roger woke up, expecting to hop in mid-thrust, when lo! Julie had vanished. He looked all over, in the kitchen, in the living room, under the tables and in the closet. Julie was gone. Now conventional wisdom tells us to run — but Roger is dumb. Instead he sat by the phone, to which he hadn't given Julie the number to, in the hopes she'd call him.
Three weeks passed without word. And then, out of the clear blue complete randomness there came a knock at the door. Roger knew it had to be Julie! She'd come back to be his lover and wife! Hooray! It had to be her because it was Sunday, so there was no mail to be delivered. It couldn't be his friends because they would have called first, and plus it was SUNDAY!!
Oh Roger, how could you. On the other side of the doorway two detectives from the vice squad asked if they could come in. Roger was confused, but let them in. Turns out Julie was a seventeen year old runaway from Oregon, the state west of Idaho, and she was pregnant. The police had reason to believe Roger was the father, and asked if he'd be willing to take a paternity test.
Roger: And if I'm not willing?
Detective: We'll get a court order.
Roger: An official one?
Detective: Is that a serious question?
Roger got six years in the state penitentiary, and wouldn't you believe it? Mike was there! Remember the scrawny little kid Roger got drunk with for the first time? Turns out after serving a two week sentence for the McDonald's incident, he was caught looking up girl's skirts at piano recitals. The judge gave him ten years.
Mike: Wow Roger, I can't believe it's you!
Roger: Yeah, that's me...
Mike: I know man, it's rough. I heard what happened. But hey, at least you got to fuck her, right?!
Roger: ....?
Mike: Yeah, that's probably inappropriate. Whatever, we've got a lot of catching up to do. Look, I remember us getting all crazy and boozed up way back in high school. What do you say we hit back some whiskey later tonight... for old time's sake.
Roger: You have whiskey?
Mike: Fucking nigger please, I've got boot straps, knives, cards, cigarettes, you name it.
Roger: What're you going to do with boot straps?
Mike: Buckle them around your neck and jerk off. It's like punching yourself in the balls real hard and looking at a woman in a dressing room. Fucking solid shit man, I'm telling you.
Later that night Mike leads Roger to the back of the laundry room...
Mike (raising the makeshift flask): Shainte!
Roger: Shainte? What's that?
Mike: It's Gaelic for "to good health."
Roger: I think you mean slainte...
Mike: No, it's shainte - I'm positive, my uncle used to say it all the time.
Roger: Your uncle is a conspiracy theorist crackpot that lives in an old missile silo...
Mike: Yeah, but he's Irish.
Roger: Scottish...
Mike: Whatever, same thing. Have a drink.
Roger: What the fuck is this? I thought you said it was whiskey!
Mike: Yeah, no it's not whiskey.
Roger: Then what the fuck is it? It tastes like fucking piss.
Mike: ....
Roger: Oh fuck me, are you serious?
Mike: Hey man, some guys like it... just testing the waters, ease up brother, ease up.
Roger: Fuck...
Mike: So what, does that mean that we're not gonna do it?
Roger dodged a lot of cocks over the next two years, falling victim only a few times to the carnal prey of the insipid inmates. Of course, ask any man that has felt the stiffness of a goose beak playfully rammed up to his ass only to stop just before penetration, and he'll tell you being violated is among his worst fears. When he got out, Roger spent most of his free time in bars, liquor stores, or at the local Putt-putt where he managed to record impressive sub-par scores while drinking Jack Daniels out of a 40 oz. McDonald's plastic cup. The blind squirrel finding a nut theory does not apply in this case, because who has ever seen a fat blind squirrel? Me neither, and our friend Roger was fat, fat from the meat of his prey, alcohol.
Insert Roger into any given social situation at this time and the results are pretty consistent, but for the sake of randomness and authoritative control (or what people of talent would refer to as creativity), we will use the unfortunate consequence of a midday AIM conversation. Our friend Roger is drunk and unemployed and CutiePie95 is a female (he hopes) from the Chicago area (he hopes.)
AskFirst1995: Zooooooooooooommm!!
CutiePie95: haha hey ther wut u up 2?
AskFirst1995: Zooooooooooooooommm!!!!!!!!!!!@@!!!1111112111
CutiePie95: oo does this mean u lik 2 move fast?
AskFirst1995: 4444 Jacksonnnnnnn stareet bithc
CutiePie95: hehehe is that ur address??
AskFirst1995: bring a raincooat im gonnnananana rain piss on youuuuuuuu
CutiePie95: okay bye!!!!!
Conventional wisdom tells us to never do this for many reasons, but I'll name a few: 1) an axe murderer from southern Arizona is more likely to win a gold medal in the Giant Slalom than CutiePie95 is of actually being a female, 2) most of the time an AIM conversation ends up in either murder or an arrest, so unless you have plans for body disposal, you're fucked, 3) Even if this IS a real WOMAN and she really IS horny and desperate enough to hunt down cock over the internet, is this really what you want to be involved with? In this last case I am often reminded of the mating rituals of the North African fruit bat, who like all bats is blind and simply uses elaborate sonar techniques and its acute sense of touch to feel its perfect mate out. Of course, bats can't feel bodies for shit with those stupid wings of theirs, especially while they try and stay in flight, so we often see a skinny male bat mating with an enormously obese female (and sometimes male) bat.
Regardless Roger should run or pull the trigger. Once again our poor friend has made a very poor decision, all due to the consumption of alcohol and a lack of understanding of conventional wisdom. Surely, he could have done something to prevent this, couldn't he?
There must've been something that could have corrected this all too common tale of inebriated debauchery. For centuries man has drank from the sweet nectar of fermentation, and yet very few have mastered it. Of all the animals in the great kingdom of this Earth, man is by far the most to blame for his failures. Sure, the sea goat that thought he had flippers but finds out he has hooves is a fool, but who are we to judge? We are the species that profess cheers to good health, to happiness, and prosperity as we tip back our Judas and drink it. We toast to heavens and lords, cities and teams, we toast to greatness. And what do we have to show for it? A goddamned pedophile with an arm up his ass, searching for knives and paper clips. So remember this St. Patrick's day to be safe.
Alcohol consumption is all fun and games until you fuck a minor. Or a tranny.
Slainte...
User Reviews
Submitted by LSD420 (user info) at 2006-04-28 20:46:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I AINT NO ALTER
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-03-26 15:06:34 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
and it tastes like chocolate!!!
Submitted by Leftwingandunafraid (user info) at 2006-03-26 13:57:41 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Wardy's got his head up his ass
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2006-02-23 01:41:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Somewhat rambling at times but a very good read.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-02-23 00:39:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
I like a good long yarn as much as the next crossdresser, but I really think this could have been tightened up substantially.
When it was on it was on, but it could have been a powderkeg if it was compacted properly.
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-02-22 21:18:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-22 18:51:50 (#)
Ranking: 2
B@W
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uhhh.... thanks?
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-22 18:51:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
B@W
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-02-22 14:27:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it, it was long, but engrossing.
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-02-22 14:05:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
goddammit i fucking hate my life.
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-02-22 13:25:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Long, random, but somehow, just when I was about to give up on it, you brought it back.. everytime.
Over all, relatively enjoyable
Submitted by leilani (user info) at 2006-02-22 13:23:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i told you not to post those photos of my kids on here.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-02-22 13:07:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by PokeyPecker (user info) at 2006-02-22 12:35:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus Fucking H. Christ this was long. I thought I was reading motherfucking War and Peace, For Whom The Bell Tolls, and the Grapes of Wrath all rolled up into one.
Goddamn, I say GODDAMN!
But it was good.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-02-22 12:15:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I thoroughly enjoyed this post. That is to say, it kicked my ass. Just like Bushmill's does.
SLAINTE
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-02-22 11:45:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I loved it.
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-02-22 11:37:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Good. But seriously too long. You need to learn to cut it down to a more manageable size. I'm ADD and begin to lose interest after a while.
And the filename for the pic should have been: "Hey...You babes wanna have a 4some?"
Submitted by toucan_sam (user info) at 2006-02-22 11:30:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Roger (thinking to himself): If I have to pay for this shit again I'm not supplying the condoms...
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if i had a nickel...
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-02-22 11:24:37 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
i can't seem to find my sword... fuck...
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-02-22 10:57:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment