Well, my 3rd Annual Turkey N' Tailgate was this past Saturday, and I must say it was a rousing success. Despite the fact that every single person who had agreed to bring side dishes pulled a no-show, or chose to bring something else other than what they had agreed to, we had a blast. I think Kyle named it best when he named it the turkeybreadandpie extravaganza, because that was what we had. 29 pounds of turkey, 2 bags of rolls, a loaf of bread, 4 pies, 3 bottles of wine, countless cases of beer, and crockpots of a spiked apple cider. Also, Brett and Jennie B brought ice.

We ate all of the turkey, every single last scrap of it. I even brought out the mayonnaise so that we could make turkey sandwiches. Not the traditional Thanksgiving dinner that I was shooting for, but sometimes things just kind of work out. Especially when you have friends that rock as hard as mine do. Their amps go all the way to 11, they rock so hard.

We watched football, drank beer, fried turkey, drank beer, made the cider (and we modified the recipe so it was good), drank beer, gave the girlfriend's dog a mohawk with hair gel, drank beer, got 2 trucks stuck in my yard, drank beer, and then, just for good measure, we decided to drink some beer.

I'd like to thank everyone who came out, with or without sides, for making this a success. Especially Shawn's wife, Katie, who just had jaw surgery and had her jaw wired shut. She watched as we consumed mass quantities of booze and turkey, unable to partake herself. She assured me that it was okay, she had an Ensure before she came over. What a trooper. Truly, she embodies the very spirit of Beermas, which begins on the night of the Turkey N' Tailgate every year. It runs until New Year's Day, or whenever I decide to take down the beer tree. Here are pictures of the tree, the stockings hung by the chimney with care, and me acting as Beer Geisha.











Note that I am rocking a CDP shirt as Beer Geisha. Next month is CDP sweeps month - go check him out, and have yourself a merry little Beermas.

Today on my way back into the office from lunch, I made a fascinating discovery: the highest volume setting on my car stereo is 39. Why 39? Couldn't we have just rounded up to a nice, even number like 40? What happened to the days when the top volume was 10? I don't think that the radios played quieter then, did they?

Anyway, the whole 39 thing annoyed me...but not as much as the fact that I don't have hydraulics on my whip. Is it too much to ask to be able to pancake it when I park it like it's hot? Maybe Santa will bring me hydraulics for Christmas. I'm not even asking for a fancy, 16-switch system. I don't care about the front and back, or side to side. I just want to be able to pancake it. Also, orange ground effects, and an air horn that plays Dixie. That should confuse people a bit.

Damn. No matter how hard I try, I still sound like the white guy that I am. My street cred? Zero.

I just got home from the grocery store. A lady asked if she could cut in front of me in line because she had to hurry so she could get to the emergency room. She wasn’t feeling well and thought she was going to pass out. I suggested she call an ambulance, as it didn’t seem terribly safe for her to be driving. I also am confused by her priorities.

Damn…intense…abdominal pain…must buy corn dogs…before I go to hospital…they’re half price…

I let her in front of me, only because I would have felt like an ass if she had passed out and died while I was buying PBR.

I completely stole this idea for a post from someone else’s blog that I stumbled across this morning, and I would ordinarily give credit where credit was due, but I can’t find it again. So, if you happen to be reading this and know from whence it came, drop me a line so I can properly link to it.

Update: Kenny was kind enough to point me in the right direction. Here's how this worked: bored at the office, check out CDP, check the other sites in his network, which Kenny is a member of, then jumped from her site to The Hot Librarian site that the rider came from. Gracias, Kenny, and don't be a stranger!

I’m sure most of you have seen the riders that big name celebrities have attached to their contracts. You know, the list of items that must be present in their dressing rooms, list of items that must not be present, and various other conditions set forth. Here, without further ado, is what my rider would look like if I was a rock star instead of a salesman (salesmen don’t get riders, nor do we have dressing rooms).

• Four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon, chilled. Two cases should be cans, two cases should be bottles. Longnecks, not stubbies.

• A 12-pack of Miller High Life, also chilled, in case Epat or Heimlich stops by. Also, because I think the label is pretty.

• An old-school NES, with the following game cartridges: R.C. Pro-Am, Rygar, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Double Dragon, and Super Mario Brothers 2.

• The following DVDs: Shaft (the original one with Richard Roundtree), Super Troopers, Monty Python’s Holy Grail, and Hell Comes to Frogtown.

• Funyuns. Bags upon bags of Funyuns.

• Puppies, preferably lab mixes.

• A cell phone charger, since I always forget mine.

• A magician, a juggler, and a clown (preferably one that can make balloon animals). Also, these three must be willing to drink heavily.

• Someone with a funny accent (not French, I said funny, not annoying.) Note: this can be the magician or the juggler, but not the clown. Clowns with accents scare me.

• An air hockey table (if one is not readily available, a foosball table is acceptable)

• 3 pounds of Skittles

Feel free to drop me a note in the comments with your rider, or to suggest additions to mine.

My good friend The CDP (and by good friend, I mean a guy I’ve never met or spoken to that I communicate with about relatively unimportant topics via the interweb) remarked on my profile picture, so I thought I would tell the story behind it. I had just knocked over a liquor store and was heading for the border. Unfortunately, due to a poor grasp of geography, I headed for the Canadian border, which is significantly farther from South Carolina than the Mexican border. I didn’t make it, and I’m writing this from my holding cell while I try not to wake up my cellmate Tito.

In all actuality, the story is much less entertaining. I was wearing the wig in preparation for a Halloween party, and had just purchased the gun from Big Hook. Not just any gun, mind you, but a Ruger .44 Magnum Super BlackHawk. I am, to put it bluntly, completely infatuated with this gun. But I’m getting distracted again.

Right…had the wig for Halloween, and a new toy to boot. I decided that the best possible course of action was to drive around with the wig on while brandishing the gun. Mind you, I was completely sober at this point, as it was 2:30 in the afternoon. Not that I’ve never been drunk at that point in the day before, but this was during the week and technically, I was working. Big Hook happened to have his camera on hand to document the madness. Of course, being the supremely intelligent individual that I am, after paying Big Hook for the revolver I decided to go grab a bite to eat. I was hungry. Unfortunately, I forgot two important factors before I entered the drive through:

1. I was wearing a wig
2. I had a massive handgun on my passenger seat in plain view.

The girl at the window just laughed at me. Luckily, it was close to Halloween, so she probably did not realize it was a real gun. Otherwise I may have gone to jail that day.

That, boys and girls, is the story behind my profile pic.

Here’s my current dilemma: I can’t decide on a name for my gun. She needs a name. Post your idea in the comments section. I’ll come up with a prize later, since it’s not fair to my out-of-state and international readers to offer to buy a beer the next time I see them.


Isn't she beautiful?

My loyal readers (Kyle) informed me that the reason they haven't been commenting was that the comments section wasn't working. I've fixed it, so feel free to comment to your little heart's desire...or don't, whatever makes you happiest.

Also, I have the clap.

My second favorite holiday of the year behind us, it’s time to start gearing up for my favorite: Thanksgiving. You know why I love Thanksgiving so much? Because, in my mind, it heralds the day when honest, God-fearing white people started running things in this country. I get chills when I think of the ingenuity of trading liquor and glass trinkets for valuable real estate, or using smallpox infested blankets to kill off those who weren’t willing to play along. Truly, the Pilgrims were the frontrunners of Corporate America as we know it.

Actually, I love Thanksgiving because of the food. I was kidding about all the white people stuff. I don’t even like white people that much. Not as much as I like turkey, anyway. Of course, in all fairness, turkey is #3 on my likes list, behind PBR and Clemson football. However, unless the coaching staff steps it up (I’m talking to you, Bowden and Spence!), turkey may soon take the #2 spot. White people are #18.

I don’t mean just any turkey, though. I mean a deep fried turkey with a dry Cajun rub and my own secret injection (keep your minds out of the gutter, people). I only fry turkeys a couple of times a year, usually at my annual Turkey N’ Tailgate party (now entering year 3!), and Christmas Eve at my aunt’s house. I deep fry two turkeys, supply a limited amount of booze, and everyone else brings a side dish and more booze. There will be plenty of appetizers on hand, as well, since a lot of people show up early to watch football. I 'll have multiple TVs set up throughout the house so everyone can watch whatever game they want. We also usually have a beer pong tournament and various other games going throughout the day. In case you’re alarmed at the amount of alcohol we consume, I should mention that most people crash at the house afterwards. By the way, if you’re reading this and want to come to the party, email me for details. Unless you’re a crazy internet stalker. In that case, you already know where I live, just stop on by next Saturday!

We all eat until we can’t move, drink until we’re out of beer, and then make another beer run to the store. Finally, for good measure, I spike the “non-alcoholic” cider and/or hot chocolate. That way, if we’re not all passing out from a turkey overdose, we’re passing out drunk. Either way, my pants are coming off.