There is no greater drunk than Florida drunk.
Sandy, sweaty, salty, and overheated. Plus, you may or may not be in a bikini/banana-hammock.
Is that dental floss in the background? You bet your arse, sweet cheeks! We love our teeth around here!
You see that, folks? That’s classiness right there.
Pinky out, ‘cause I’m one helluva classy lady.
I decided tonight that alcohol and Super Mario Bros. do not mix. To clarify, that’s the newer one where you’re on a team with your fiancé, and even though you bought him the Wii U for his birthday, he still doesn’t have the fuckin’ decency to let you be Mario for once… but I digress.
SMBs is quite the volatile concoc(k)tion for when you’re already tipsy and staring down the barrel of that screwdriver you only made because someone drank all of the cranberry juice and didn’t tell you.
You know what’s really satisfying? A huge, wet, sloppy…
…bowl of Pho.
(That’s pronounced ‘fuh’ for all of you uncultured swine.)
What’dja think I was gonna say.
Me? Make a dick joke? Not on your life, Nancy. Unless your name isn’t Nancy, in which case… maybe. If your name is Nancy, though, bad news, I sktraight up lied to yo face!
Nancy. Puh. The only “Nancy”s I know are bitches. There was “Just Say No” Nancy, and… uh, “Nancy-boy”? Alright, that’s reaching
Nancy Drew. She friend-zoned Frank Hardy so fast that boy had whiplash on their adventure to Egypt.
… No, YOU’RE showing your age!
(Sigh) I swear to god, guys, cultural references… get them. They’re not hipster, they’re just obscure.
I can’t be the only one who wanted the illicit romance between Nancy and Frank to happen, can I?! Besides, who the fuck wants to marry a guy named “Ned Nickerson” anyway? Fuckssake, they’d be Nancy and Ned Nickerson!
In conclusion—Nancy Drew: Crime Solving Bitch Face and Cockblock Extraordinaire.
Fuzzy, shits and giggles,
I’m plotting something e-villlll!
This Saturday is my fiance’s 27th birthday party! His actual birthday is today, but it doesn’t count because we’re not drinking yet.
He has requested what we refer to as a “crunk party”, which in this case means that EVERYONE gets drunk all throughout the day. Sisters, brothers in law, mother, father–we’re hitting the booze hard and we’re doing it ALL DAY LONG.
We’re starting it off classy with mimosas at midday (and I’ve got the Barefoot Pink Moscato Bubbly, and if you’ve never had that shit then clearly your tongue has never orgasmed.) followed by our special cosmos and cosmo shots all afternoon!
Basically, vodka. Lots of vodka.
You’d think we were Russian or something, jeez.
Anyway, as a special post, I’m going to make him divulge his drunk thoughts to you on Saturday, so look for it, because that boy is CRAY when he’s schwasty-faced.
Keep it fuzzy,
Got your attention with that title, didn’t I?
Nope, Grog didn’t get drunk enough to take a crotch-shot this weekend, but she did stumble across the ad above and wanted to share with her lovely readers.
More drunken madness to come!
So, for those that don’t know, I’m on a CoEd kickball league.
We play every Thursday night.
To get shit-faced. And to win. But, primarily, to get shit-faced.
During the course of the game, I had two pints of beer. I kicked ass and scored two runs.
Couldn’t have too much to drink, as someone decided to bring their kids, as seen in the photo. Party-fucking-spoilers.
Don’t get me wrong – I love kids. Just not at 9pm at night when I have a cooler packed full of delicious beer and jello shots. I look forward to this game every week and there had always been an unspoken rule about creatures under three feet tall: if it’s not on a leash, we don’t want it here. Guess that was forgotten this week.
Regardless, we played and we played hard.
We’re now celebrating with straight shots of vodka.
If it weren’t for spell check and autocorrect, this post would be utter nonsense. I’m doing this from my phone, can you believe it? Technology is fuckin amaze-balls.
So, all this booze has got me thinking…
What is it about competition that motivates us? Do I really want to pummel that bitch on second base? Or is that some latent, primal instinct that normally lays dormant inside me but is somehow triggered when a red, rubber ball is placed in my hand?
Oh, we’re playing kickball? I thought this was dodgeball. Sorry for throwing this directly in your face. Perhaps you shouldn’t paint black stripes under your eyes and get a manicure on the same day, second base, because I will eat you alive. I have all day to look pretty. Right now, I’ve got blood-lust and I’m ready to score a run, regardless of where you plant yourself.
Oh, were you safe? Huh. Ball must have slipped out of my hands and slammed into your frontal lobe. Damn inertia! Can’t stop that shit once it’s in motion!
Oh, our second round of shots just arrived.
If you can excuse me for a minute, I’ve got a Kamikaze to throw back.
Rainbows and sunshine out the ass.