Tag Archive: booze


 

 

Bespoke cocktail

The word “bespoke.”  I was in a bar last week that boasted “custom bespoke cocktails.”  First of all, way to be redundant.  Second, what the fuck is a bespoke cocktail?  By definition, that a poncy way of saying “we’ll mix whatever the hell you want.”  In which case, that’s like, you know, EVERY BAR.  Fuuuuuck yooooouuuuu.

“Curate” is another word.  Holy fuck is this word thoroughly misappropriated.  Almost as bad as “diva” was.  Museums and art galleries only, if that.  You don’t get to fucking curate anything else.  A butcher is not a meat curator, a DJ is not a music curator, you don’t curate Twitter feeds, none of you assholes are curators in any capacity.  Please fuck off with the curating.

Occupy Sandy“Occupy” anything.  Here’s a bonus fuck you to the assholes who wasted their meaningless lives about a year ago trying to picket Wall Street.  A lot of good that did, you fuckwads.  No one gave a shit then, and fewer than no one give a shit today.  But what’s worse is somehow this “occupy” term taking on a whole new meaning for which it was never intended.  Don’t believe me?  Look at this shit on the left.

Lena Dunham.  Holy shit, you are SUCH a bore.  If Lena Dunham is to be cultural milestone, then 2012 is the year of celebrating mediocrity.  You’re not funny, you’re not interesting, how the fuck you finagled million dollar deals out of tepid, borings ideas that no one gives a shit about is beyond me.  And frankly, I’m jealous as fuck.  Because no one’s giving me million dollar deals for any my stupid ideas.  Oh, that’s right, I don’t have hyperartistic celebrity parents like you, you charlatan.  Ugh, enough with this dummy.

Instagram is all its faux filtered tilt-shift bullshit glory.  If someone took away Instagram tomorrow, would you miss it?  Would you?  I know if someone took away my Facebook or Twitter, I’d be fucking pissed.  But Instagram?  Who gives a shit.  Instagram did one thing only – they ability to share filtered, tilt-shifted photos.  Sharing?  Any number of other platforms can do that.  Shitty filters and fake tild-shift effects?  Every other camera app can do that now.  So what’s the value of keeping Instagram around?  And they’ve now got some new policy where they can sell my photos?  Fuck that.  I just deleted my account.

Vinyl SkateboardPlastic mini skateboards.  I got my elder kid a skateboard last year.  It was brilliant – a proper skateboard with a maple deck, trucks, big bearing wheels, the lot.  Then these stupid vinyl mini-skateboards show up all over the city. All commandeered by some hipster douchebag with a gnarly beard.  It takes every fiber of my being not to throw an empty Starbucks cup in front of one of these douchebags just so see him fly and eat some curb.  Fuck off with these little skateboards, you look ridiculous.

Homeland.  If there’s one thing I can reliably count on each Monday, it’s that my Twitter feed and my Facebook page will be completely inundated with comments about fucking Homeland.  “ZOMG!!  Homeland is the greeaaatest!!!!”  “WTF!  Homeland jumped the shark!!”  I have never seen the show and at this point, I never want to.  It may be a good show, but I’ll never know for real because you fuckers have ruined it by being completely incapable of not yammering about it all day and night.

Dubstep.  Thank you all for already killing this off.  Skrillex can now go back to pumping gas in the Valley.

That Gangnam guy.  Please, PLEASE, PLEASE go away.  I hope someone takes him across the border and straps him to one of Kim Jong Un’s “weather rockets.”

YOLO.  A few years ago, when I was in the market for my first paddleboard, I nearly bought one that was Yolo brand.  Thank fuck I didn’t or I’d have to set on fire, gather up the ashes, then set it on fire again just to be sure.  If anyone ever uses the phrase YOLO to you, verbally or in writing, no judge would ever convict if you decided to stab ‘em with a rusty spoon.

Camera phone self-portraits in the mirror.  It’s the holding of the phone that’s so, so stupid.  If you must use your camera phone to take pictures of yourself, make sure it’s dick shots only (Brett Favre can help if you’re not sure).  No more self-portraits.  And I’m not even going to get into doing with iPads.

Moustache FingerMoustaches.  I don’t just mean in November (although that can fuck off, too, because all that Movember bullshit is prejudiced against those of us who can refrain from shaving for two months and still look like cantaloupes).  I mean year-round.  Hipster moustaches, moustache ink on index fingers, glue-on stashes, all of it.  A follicle tuft positioned between your upper lip and your nostrils is hardly a thing that needs to be celebrated, so please fuck off.  Moustaches on Instagram are the fucking worst.

 

You drink like an asshole

This past weekend, I went to a large birthday party-slash-reunion party.  A ton of folks showed up, most were local, and quite a few from several states away.  It was big affair, and everyone showed up ready to party.

The fact that it was a big and well-attended affair didn’t mean that it was an overly fancy party.  Not in the least.  A modest buffet, a couple of kegs and a cash bar for mixed drinks.

That last part – the cash bar – is where it started to go pear-shaped.  Not because anyone got supremely blottoed (I fucking wish).  But because there were drinks ordered that NO ONE in this universe or the next should ever fucking order.

People have no fucking idea how to order mixed drinks at a bar.

It’s fucking deplorable that there are drinks that you’re allowed to order, and drinks no one should ever order, and no one knows this shit.  Maybe an easy way to determine between the two is to use a few rules.  These are my rules, I made them up.

  • If you order a drink that requires more than 3 ingredients, you’re an asshole.  In other words, fuck your Singapore Sling.
  • If your drink order takes more than 90 seconds to make, you’re an asshole.  You’re twice the asshole if it takes you more than 90 seconds to order your stupid drink.
  • If your drink has more than four syllables, you’re an asshole.  I hope you choke on your Long Island Iced Tea.
  • If your drink has some cute name, you’re an asshole.  You know what’s the best way to make a Fuzzy Navel?  You get a bottle of peach schnapps.  And you shove it up your ass.  Past your freshman year in college, there’s no fucking way you have any business ordering a Fuzzy Navel or a Sex On The Beach.  It’s your freshman year, you’re supposed to do stupid shit you know nothing about.  After that, if you order a Fuzzy Navel, you need to be stabbed.
  • If your drink order has to come from a “mixologist”, you’re an asshole.
  • If you call yourself a “mixologist”, you’re a huge asshole.  And a huge dickhead.

So, what does this mean?  This means no more fucking Mojitos.  The fucking things are so 10 years ago, at best.  I read this tweet the other week and it made my fucking week.  Enjoy your herpes in a glass, losers.

Nevermind how much trouble it is to make a mojito, the goddamn mojito is such a pretentious asshole drink to order.  “I want you to make me a rum drink that cloaks the rum taste with a mass floating bits of leaves.  It makes me feel sophistimacated.”  Fuck off.

And don’t you fucking dare order a Cosmo.  That drink violates the 4-syllable rule, and Sex And The City is pretty much one of the worst shows of all time.

Also off-limits are Whiskey Sours, Mudslides, Kamikazes, or anything with fucking Kahlua in it.  If your drink has part of a plant or, a flower in it, or it has different swirly colors, you’ve made a grave error, and you need to send that sumbitch back and order yourself a proper fucking drink.

Another thing you’re not allowed to order anymore: a martini.  You can’t be trusted to order a martini properly.  Because all of you fuck it up with vodka.  Fuck that.  Martinis are made with gin.  Only gin.  James Bond is a colossal douche for getting the martini wrong for 60 years.  Also, of course you fucking shake a martini – who the fuck stirs one.  Bottom line is if you’re not gonna get a gin martini, you’re not getting a martini at all.

Here’s the thing: a drink is a rite of passage.  It’s not a fucking toy.  It’s a several ounces of fulfillment you sip out of a glass to replenish yourself, physically and emotionally.  It’s something you should take some goddamn pride in.  How the fuck are you supposed to take some pride in yourself when you waddle up to some barkeep and order yourself an “orgasm”?

Stop being a douchebag to yourself.

But I don’t wanna come across as being some persistent naysayer, only harping on shit you can’t drink.  There’re a ton of drinks that are perfectly acceptable.  Again, these are my rules, I make them up.

  • You want something brown, get a Manhattan or a Sidecar.  These are classics that’ll never earn you a frown from your barkeep.  Too complicated?  You can NEVER go wrong with a single malt, neat.  Ever.  And don’t ever put your single malt on the rocks.  That’s like putting A1 sauce on a porterhouse.  Shitheads do that.  Don’t be a shithead.
  • You want something red, order a Negroni.  Done.
  • You want something green, fuck your Appletinis.  You get your hands on some absinthe or you can just fuck off.  You’re lucky I’m not putting brake fluid in your glass.
  • You want something blue, fuck you, you don’t ever fucking drink anything blue, dipshit.
  • You want something with tequila in it, try a tequila and tonic.  That’s right, tonic with fucking tequila in it.  Not gin, and not vodka, you unimaginative wank.  And stop being so scared of tequila.  Some of you treat tequila as if one whiff of it will send you into some PCP ragefest.  Calm the fuck down, it’s just tequila.  Tequila and tonic – with a slice of lemon – is one of the greatest summer drinks, so fucking get to it.

There you go.  Sort your shit out, and stop ordering dickhead drinks.  No one ever got in trouble ordering a beer (unless it’s got fruit in it, or needs to be served in stemware).  Or wine (although it may not yet be safe to order a Merlot).

So don’t say I never did anything for you.

 

 

This evening’s silly conversation:

TW:  “Dude, when was the last time you used a QR code?”

Me:  “Actually, the last time I used one was this weekend.”

TW:  “Really?  What for?”

Me:  “Well, I bought a new coat and it boasted some fucking snazzy heat-reflection technology bullshit.  And it came with a tag with a QR code on it.  So I clicked the code and a video played on my phone showing how this heat-reflection technology worked.”

MS:  “And that was the clincher?  The video?”

Me:  “No, the clincher was that the coat cost $25.  Where the hell are you gonna find some space age coat for $25?”

TW:  “I dunno, I hate QR codes.”

Me:  “No, don’t hate QR codes.  QR codes are great.  QR codes are fucking awesome.  Hate the douchebags who misuse QR codes, don’t hate the codes.  I love clicking on a code, and then it takes me to some cool content that probably can’t be accessed some other way.  That’s the whole point of QR codes.  That’s when QR codes are cool as fuck.  Instead, 99 times out of 100, what happens when you get when click on a QR code?  You’re taken to some stupid homepage.  Like I need your fucking code to take me to your homepage, especially when you put the code right next to your URL – assholes.  And half the time, it’s not even a mobile site, and everything’s fucking microscopic on your screen.  Die, you mobilephobic site, die.  Or you’re taken to something that takes a day and a half to load.  Or you see a QR code in a subway car – what fucking genius thought that one up?!  It’s just such a gross misuse of QR codes.

“I tell you what – QR codes are the Hoboken St. Patrick’s Day Parade of the digital world.  You have something that’s all nice and cool and properly organized for you – you get to drink in the streets for an entire day, for fuck’s sake! – and you have an opportunity to do lots fun and cool shit with it, make it somewhat exclusive or special… But instead, you act like a complete imbecile and you misuse and abuse the fucking thing, and you treat it like a little bitch, and you end up puking all over your girlfriend’s sister and her best friend, and wind up in the ER, and eventually, the mayor’s gonna come around and say, ‘Fuck you, this is why you can’t have nice things, you shitheads.’  And this is why QR codes need to die.”

 

Everyone:  “What is wrong with you.”

 

Day 14:  Weigh-in day.  Down another 4lbs.  I take the lead in this contest.  I worry I’ve peaked too soon.  However, everyone’s starting to plateau.  Everyone starts to convince each other that this is typically the way manic weight-loss programs go – you drop a ton right away, then skid to a halt.  Truth is, I don’t think any of us were trying as hard in the second week as we were in the first week.  I know I wasn’t.  The minute a curry or Mexican showed up, I was like Blutarsky at the cafeteria line.   I just keep thinking about how hungry and grumpy (more than usual) I’ve been the past two weeks, and I gotta look ahead to doing that for another three weeks.  Three more weeks of this bullshit.

Day 15:  Did you know that if you eat a lot less, you poop a lot less, too?  It’s totally true.  When you think about it, it makes sense.  Less going in, less coming out.  I have no more epic poops.  None.  What a goddamn killjoy this is.  The thrill of colossal dumps is a totally a guy thing, by the way.  If you have any doubt, just watch the South Park episode where Randy takes the most epic shit, then enshrines the deuce for his buddies to marvel at.  It’s one of the most brilliant episodes of all time.  There goes one of the few things I’m good at, right out the window.  Or rather down the toilet.  It’s like there is literally no fun to be had whatsoever when trying to lose weight.  I’ll bet Kate Middleton poops just one chocolate chip every three weeks.

Day 16:  I think I may be developing an eating disorder.  There is such a small window of contentment each time I eat.  Because I’ve got to eat less, my meal usually consists of about three bites and then I’m done.  I’m done before I can even figure out what the fuck it tastes like.  Then I’m still hungry afterward.  So I get something else to eat.  But the minute I’m done with the second thing, I’m racked with guilt and I feel like a fat, lumpy turd.  If I could draw this on a scale, it’d probably look like this:

In three weeks, I have yet to finish a meal feeling, “I’m satisfied, I’m done.”  I’m either still hungry or I feel like I gorge my fat face.

Day 17:  I met an old friend for lunch today at The Breslin.  I’d been wanting to check this place out for ages, so I thought, fuck it let’s do it.  If I weren’t in this contest, I’d help myself to all the rich goodness on the menu – anchovies, bone marrow, you name it.  Instead, I got the special that sounded like a typical English breakfast.  Baked beans, eggs, and sausage.  Except the sausage – oh glorious pork sausage – was crusted and DEEP-FRIED!  Washed it all down with a unexpectedly delicious Empire Cream Ale.  Oh my God, was that lunch practically orgasmic.  I spend the rest of the afternoon contemplating the repurcussions of my indulgence.  I’m so overcome with guilt again, the minute I get home, I bolt right back out and head to the gym.  Punish myself with a 45 minute workout.  But I got some extra punishment – some jerkoff was bogarting the remote and kept the TV tuned to some fucking hockey game.  Hockey!  Who gives a shit, we’re still in the midst of football season.  I know there wasn’t any football playing at that very moment, but I sure as fuck didn’t give a shit about hockey!   A bullshit workout made worse by stupid TV.

Day 20:  Epic fail to see out the week.  I end the week with a four-day binge.  It was the Breslin one day, Keen’s the next, then it was a Chinese New Year dinner hosted by my local Chinese restaurant (I’m tight with them), followed by another epic Chinese New Year’s eve dinner in Chinatown.  Four straight days of stuffing my fat fucking face.  In the four days, I devoured fried sausage, a bloody steak, fried lobster, greasy noodles, ribs, curry, abalone, and whole fish.  Chinese New Year is all about food.  Why can’t I come from a culture where it’s all about having great shoes or where short people get laid all the time?  This is bullshit.  It’s like I’m doing everything I can to lose this contest.  Today, I might as well have helped myself to a pound of chicharrón and washed it down with a pint of clarified butter.