Why Drinking As Much As I Did The Past Several Days Is A Bad Idea.

For starters, it gives one too many options on how to title such a blog. Or begin it, for that matter. I just axed the title: "Birthday. Beer. Boobs. ..Err, No Boobs, Actually. Uhmm... Blas...Uhh. Oh! Barfights." It was misleading. I didn't see any boo...oh wait! I did! On some machine at the Tap Room that guys suddenly took interest in. My guess would be that interest was inspired by the boobs.

Neither here nor there, though. I also considered starting this blog like:

Dear Diary,

I thought about writing what I'm about to tell you on my blog. Then I realized I'd have to be fucking insane to do that. Then I realized I'm fucking insane...

And the storytelling would have continued, etc.

But then I decided the best way to preamble this tale of drunkenness was to start and stop and make very little sense (see above).

So here goes.

Friday was my last "real work day" before my layoff took effect. I spent the day filling over 20 cardboard boxes with files from our file cabinets. I finished so I could go drink at Elephant & Castle stress free with my soon-to-be-former coworkers. The first drop of alcohol hit my lips around 5:45 or 6pm. Everyone was happy, laughing. I shared my birthday plans with everyone, and a surprising number of girls knew about the UFC fights on Saturday. Why? A surprising number of guys had already frustrated them with their UFC obsession and no-longer-free Saturday evenings. I received my first birthday shot from Christine (thank you kindly, Christine), which was a tasty lemon drop. Then, back to Carlsburg. Then I broke the seal. Then... *sigh*, I kept drinking, and should've taken the instance of whispering to someone that I wanted to fuck them when I first met them as a sign of a wild and crazy weekend to come.

Note: I don't make a habit of whispering to friends that I want to fuck them, whether or not I want to fuck them. (Err... not entirely true. I whisper that to my guy friends all the time to make them uncomfortable. It works.)

Point is, that was my last memory of Elephant & Castle before I got out of a cab at my friend's house party, where I drank - I found out later, from pictures, stories - jungle juice. Lots of it.

Time to fill in some blanks...

After I unceremoniously disclosed my carnal desires to an unsuspecting fellow drunk, I left Elephant & Castle around 1030 or 11pm with a number of people and hopped on the Blue Line. At the Western stop, I got up and said, "I'm going to take a cab from here, grumble grumble." History proved: that's exactly what I did. If I had a dollar for every L ride I couldn't remember the next day...

And... *sigh* alright. I remember being at the party. Seeing people I recognized. Getting a few 'Happy Birthdays' and what not. And they cooked up some delicious ass burgers for our drunk asses. Ate about... 4 of those. I remember that much. And looks like I was having a pretty great time, too! Dancing with Richie and the aforementioned jungle juice:


What I don't remember...

Drinking jungle juice. I assumed I kept drinking at my friend's house party. It was, after all, a house party, with $5 per cup admission. I didn't remember giving anyone $5, but I figured I must have, but then I couldn't remember ever going to the bathroom. So I thought, "Huh. Maybe I didn't drink at the party. I have to piss every 5 minutes after I break the seal." So apparently, I don't remember going to the bathroom a million times either. And I thought I rested my eyes for a while - not so. I passed the fuck out for a good half hour before we left. It started like this:


That would be Henry holding my head up while I slept so that I didn't crash into him. Note my unconscious determination to do something fruitful with that jungle juice. Like, drink it, or something.

Alright, alright. I was told the jungle juice had been planted in my hand for comedic effect. But all jokes must die:


Not the jungle juice joke. Not yet, anyway. But.. oh wait, here we go:


So this is what I had looked like when... well. Henry recounted to me that he was talking to some girl who had been petting me, claiming how charming I was being passed out the way I was. I guess Henry had a really wonderful conversation with this girl, and agreed that I was awfully charming passed out as I was. Henry may have even pet me, too - I'll never know! Charming or not, my friends had work to do...


Some friends draw dicks on your forehead with permanent markers. My friends cover you head to toe in an abundance of beer coasters. No passing out shall go unpunished.


Punished I was.

Then we went home. I passed out in my bed. I woke up with the worst headache ever.

And got right back to drinking hours later at Honey 1 BBQ. I decided a nice bday dinner was in order, and what better way to kick off a night of fights and birthday drinking than with greasy, manly BBQ and micro-brewed beer (Wolaver's Pale Ale. Delicious.). I had a pulled-pork sammich and rib tips. That Wolaver's must've been highly alcoholic, 'cause Henry and I buzzed our way over to the Tap Room to watch UFC 94. En route, we noticed a neon sign in the liquor store next door to the Tap Room that said "Certified Purveyors of the Miller High Life." For the record, I will love you forever if you get me a neon sign that says both 'purveyor' and 'Miller High Life.'

Fights started. I was excited. I'd been looking forward to GSP vs BJ Penn since August, and especially since November when UFC announced it would happen on my birthday.

So ya know, I'm drankin' my face off a lot harder than I realized, because when BJ's corner threw in the towel, I started yelling. A lot. Just joyful, gleeful yelling (or so I thought, anyway). One of the bar's patrons took mild exception with my celebrating (BJ's a fucking PUSSY!), and he pointed out that BJ had taken quite a beating. It was true. He had. And I wasn't mad at the guy for pointing this out. All I could think about was how BJ called GSP a bitch for tapping out to strikes (read: repeated punches to the face) during their first fight (only after the bell rang ending the first round, so GSP didn't lose, and GSP wound up winning a split decision victory after two more rounds). So, I was wasted, ya know. All I heard was BJ quit. And all I thought was 'hypocrite.' So all I yelled to this unsuspecting Tap Room patron something along the lines of: "You're a fucking idiot and anyone who agrees with you is a fucking idiot!" The actual words have been hotly contested since the incident. I certainly don't remember what I said. Remember? I was just yelling aimlessly. But I realized I was being an asshole when I felt the arms of friends holding me back, while one whispered, "Whatever. We got numbers. It's all good." And I guess this guy understood pretty quickly that I was just being a waste face and not really looking to hold a halfway serious conversation about the well-being of one BJ Penn. I guess he was by himself, too, and wearing a wedding ring. I don't think he was very large, either. All told, I chose the right person to be an asshole toward. And I learned my lesson that uhh... adrenaline + testosterone + beer = cocktailforJontheAsshole. So I can keep that in mind the next time I'm full of adrenaline, testosterone and beer and yelling for the sake of yelling. In other words, I'll probably stop myself from yelling, and just smile widely.

Karma's a bitch, though. Minutes later, while waiting for a bus to take my drunk, testosterone-filled self home, I uhh... Hmm. How shall I put this...

Well, alright.

I fell backwards like an unconscious log because I'd fallen asleep on my feet waiting for the bus. Henry, talking on the phone behind me, saw my dead-logged body at an approximately 65 degree angle in relation to the ground and shoulder-blocked me to the side so that I landed on my elbow instead of cracking my head open on the sidewalk. Had I cracked the back of my head open on the sidewalk, I'm sure I'd have some commentary on it involving the words 'brutal' and 'awesome.' Instead, I'll say I stood back up and denied knowledge of such a thing ever happening. So one friend held me up with my arm around his shoulder and his arm around mine, until it was clear that that was not enough to hold up a sleeping 25 year old man. I may have crashed to the sidewalk again. Not really sure. But I was two-manned for a while in the 'Hold Up My Drunken Friend' department. Shortly after that, I walked unassisted for two blocks to catch a cab.

Then, memory fails me. I woke up shirtless on my couch and retreated to my bedroom. There I found Jake passed out, 'cause I'd stolen his bed (my couch). I woke up the next day without a single symptom of a hangover.

Luckily, I have friends to fill in blanks.

When we got to my apartment, we played Rock Band for a while. Shirtless. I participated, apparently. Then, there was a long enough break in the action for me to start leaning/rolling against the wall, causing my roommate to declare 'Oh my god, that guy is not okay,' at which point I guess I fell onto a chair and almost broke something. Jake said he slapped my face, told me to pull it together and walk over to the couch (a 3-4 step journey). I complied and didn't move again until morning. ..Err, unless someone started talking to me about drugs. I guess that got me to move from time to time.

Oh, my favorite part... Henry's girlfriend Gosia cabbed to our apartment shortly after we arrived from the Tap Room. She told us her cab driver picked her up and she gave the cabbie her address of destination. He gave her some interesting news: "[That address]? I just dropped 4 guys off there. One was really tall and had a nose ring [Henry]. Ya know, most guys I pick up - all they talk about is gettin' pussy. These guys? All they talked about was tacos and burritos."


That's Gosia and the cabbie. Reports indicate he was amused by our banter. I certainly don't remember. My friends said I was interacting with others coherently in the cab ride. I assume they were speaking relatively.

So I took a day off from drinking. Visited my parents. Told them a more selective version of the story you just read. And, I say 'took off,' but I meant I only had 3 beers instead of enough beers to kill a yak. I considered Super Bowl parties, but some sound piece of judgment managed to reach my thick skull that day and I did not SuperBowlParty it up.

But Monday, Feb 2nd, my last day of employment, I threw sense out the window and drank and drank and drank, starting around noon at the Billy Goat Tavern. I had a great time, too. Not one bad moment, really. Everyone was happy, drinking with me, laughing, forgetting that we'd all just lost our jobs. It was quite great! Nothing bad that I remember. Probably because... I don't remember passing out at the bar we'd been drinking at, Cal's. And I don't remember getting thrown in a cab with Sam V., whose boots I puked on (for what it's worth, Sam, I puked a little on my peacoat, too) during said cab ride. My delightful coworkers tried desperately to contact my roommate Jon to make sure I didn't die when I got home. My roommate Jon's recounting of events:

"I received phone calls and text messages from numbers I didn't have stored in my phone. They said things along the lines of 'Jon - your roommate Jon is beyond wasted and we're sending him home in a cab. Please make sure he does not die.' I got home and was happy to see you not passed out in the hallway. The door to your room was open. No lights were on. I looked inside and turned on the light. You were wearing your coat, hat and scarf, kneeling in front of your bed with your upper torso and face flush with the mattress. I thought, 'He didn't quite make it...'"

I still don't have a time frame for any of Monday's events. All I can say with certainty was my last memory of Sam V. was at the Billy Goat, when she went back to the office (she has her job until April). Not Cal's, where I passed out and got thrown in a cab. At some point during my unconsciousness, Sam V. returned to her more merry former coworkers and dragged one of them into a cab home where he proceeded to puke on her boots as a means of saying "Thank you."

I can think of many reasons to drink yourself into oblivion. I'm not saying my reasons were bad at all, but... there comes a point for all of us where enough is enough. I just needed to come to that point... 5 or 6 times in 3 days for it to have any sort of meaningful effect.

So this is how I've entered my new, bohemian lifestyle. Puking on boots and writing about it.

I think I can dig that. Wish me luck.

Dunkin Donuts Vs. Krispy Kreme

Dunkin Donuts eked this one out. I get all excited about Krispy Kremes until I eat one and a half and feel the sudden urge to throw it back up. With Dunkin Donuts, I can eat two and wait hours before I feel like death.

That is all.

Porn Vs. Rugby

I'm disappointed, BBC. First of all, you covered a trashy (fine, perhaps 'relevant' though funny) story without including any of the trash. What kind of hardcore porn was it? Standard missionary? Doggy? Blowjob? Money shot compilation? 70's? 80's? Pubic hair or not so much? Hardcore close-up penetration? Double penetration? Two guys and a girl/two girls and a guy? Interracial? BBW's? Toys? Anal Beads? Foot fetish? Orgy? Lesbian orgy? 69? Voyeur video? Amateur? Big Naturals? S & M? Dominatricies? Chicks with dicks? Bukkake?

I mean, really.

Some may consider this 'blurb worthy,' and blurb-ed it was in five sentences. But isn't this the story that could become a human interest piece? Families tuned in to watch grown men inadvertently kick the fuck out of each other while they play rugby; instead, they got...well, I don't know what the fuck they got 'cause BBC feared divulging specifics. We know that it may have been seen by children. What children? Why weren't they interviewed? What happened to real investigative reporting?! Think of the amazing quotes to be obtained.

Feel free to leave comments of styles of porn I omitted.

I'll get you yet, Tasty Potatoes...

Congratulations, Tasty Potatoes. You have shaken up the blogosphere (i.e. Greeple)and discovered yourself on the receiving end of a critical shaking of Greeple's fist. In fact, he's too furious to write in the first person. I've never seen hi...aww damn it I...he fucked it up!

Here's the problem.

Your blog name is superior to Greeple's. He resents you for the rest of his day's, will critically shake his fist in your general direction 'til life escapes him, and scoffs at your recipes afterwritingthemdownandusingthemfordinnerpartiesandtakingallthecredit. Eat sh... famined potatoes and die.

Scrapes - usually not cool.

But that one is. I was putting something away in the fridge, like milk, or, something that goes in a fridge. I paid little mind until Monday arrived, as did I, at work. After studying its likeness, wondering why it looked so familiar, I concluded "Those are balls, and sweet Jesus! That there's a cock!" Then I took that picture 'cause I thought it looked like a cock accompanied by balls (dude sitting next to me confirmed), but the picture doesn't do a just representation of cock and balls.

We'll go with 'snowman taking a leak.' It's straight and curved, depending on the movement of my knuckle. Amazing.

*There. 15 seconds of your day: slaughtered.*

Men's shoes suck.

It wasn't that I didn't have anything better to do. I had plenty of things to do (and still do. Alas.). But shopping for men's shoes has become the most arduous and confusing of tasks. Are these cool? Aren't these kinda ridiculous? Surely no one would ever by those. Perhaps these aren't so bad, but can I find them cheaper on another website? Fuck, are they even me?

It all started last Thursday night, wandering through Andersonville/Uptown, stumbling upon a place called Alamo Shoes or something. I was early meeting someone for dinner, so I strolled in. Needed flip flops/shoes. Big fan of impulse purchases. I found some Rocket Dog brand flip flops with a plaid strap that were kinda cool, but it had graphics where my dirty feet go (oddly enough, according to a google image search, only women have dirty feet). Also, they were $40. For flip flops. And in my experience, flip flops that make the effort to look cool fall apart within 24 hours.

Also, I found some shoes that were $100 by Born, and they looked sturdy and like something that would work for me - if I were willing to drop $100. Something I'd decide after trying them o...oh wait. They shut the lights off. Store closed. I was locked in and had to be let out. Fuck those guys.

Truthfully, the search for new shoes had begun a few months ago, when my big toes (plurality noted) punctured holes in the canvas of my Vans. I looked inside my Puma's and discovered that the padding had worn to the plastic. (I like having a couple pairs of shoes to wear regularly, 'cause my feet get smelly. "One to wear, one to air" my momma always said.)

Enough screwing around. Time to buy.

Okay - google 'mens shoes.' Thousands of websites to choose from - at least 15 at your immediate disposal, including the sidebar links. Okay, screw that. Shoes.com. Amazon.com. Zappos.com, where I'd gotten my now punctured Vans. Shopping.com and pricegrabber.com suggested different shoes and which website to find them the cheapest. Tens of thousands of different pieces of footwear were offered to me. That's not at all daunting!

I guarantee you - in the past 24 hours, I've looked at a few thousand pairs of shoes and flip flops, easily. I don't think my criteria was too tough for a kinda picky dude: shoes/flops that appear well made, comfortable (enough), not too bland, not bizarre, not typical but not overtly atypical, have a return policy (shopping for shoes online sucks enough already), and most importantly, fit my personality.

Literally, over seven hours of searching and wall smashing and Advil breaks later, I decided on these (in brown/hemp), these and these. Overall, I think I did well, and I kicked the shit out of getting good prices. I think I'll be satisfied when they come, but if I open the box, show my oft trendy roommates and they placate me with a 'uhh, yeah man, sure, cool,' I'll slit my wrists and neck and blow my head off black metal style.

Office Freakouts

Including the one linked in the title of this blog, there are several other 'office freakout' videos on YouTube.

Some are clearly fake, but others appear to be legit. And these are just the freakouts that made it to YouTube. Tell me any corporate office is a healthy working environment and I'll smash my keyboard over your head, shove my mouse up your unspeakable orifice, and chase you through cubicles with my monitor cocked and ready to throw.

newegg.com - worst web-purchase experience EVER.

Fuck you, newegg.com. Fuck you to hell.

Story:

A week ago, I went to El Paisano's to get a gastrointestinal-destroying burrito for less than $5. Per usual, I had no cash and gave them my card. They gave it back with no receipt and told me it was denied.

Awesome! I love it when that happens and I know I have over $600!

Or so I thought...

Here's what happened. I placed an order on newegg.com for approx $300, minutes before the destruction of my gastrointestinal tract (other roomie lent me cash, saved me some embarassment - tastebuds more than happy). It wouldn't have been the first time I had less money than I thought, but my bank confirmed otherwise. Probably for the first time ever.

newegg.com had declined my card because I was having my purchase shipped to my roommate, Hank (because it was a purchase that would count towards my purchase of his old computer). They wouldn't tell me this was, or could be, the case, and specifically told me it was not possible - at this stage of the purchase.

But by that stage, I already had to have my friend's shipping address 'verified' by their shitty system that thinks LaSalle Street is a drive. I had already been kicked off newegg.com, mid-purchase, to be thrown to my bank's website to verify who I am, before I was thrown back to newegg.com to be told my order was processed successfully. Oh, and my card was denied at fucking EL PAISANO'S. How that could happen is beyond me, but newegg is to blame (my bank confirmed zero holds on my card, so someone give me a better explanation knowing this has never happened before).

Days later, I go to newegg.com's FAQ page to learn that any/all shipping addresses must be sent to my bank first before it would process any order. GOOD TO KNOW.

I said fuck it, gave Hank $280 cash, cause I'm a baller, and told him to take care of it. Guess what? He was declined, too. Re-registered his billing/shipping addresses with his bank, and was told by newegg.com that it would take 1-2 business days to process.

So today, good ol' Hank goes back to our new best friend's website, newegg.com, and his fucking harddrive had SOLD OUT.

I think they're bluffing. It was already proven - it's categorically impossible to successfully complete any purchase with newegg.com, unless your patience rivals that of one Mahatma Gandhi.

Luckily, I run the most important, popular blog ever and expect to see newegg.com completely out of business within 24 hours.

Tuesdays.

Tuesdays suck harder than Mondays. On Monday, you're fresh off the weekend and the dread of the five days ahead has had its blow softened. Perhaps from the extra rest or the extra fun you just had.

Until Tuesday.

On Tuesday, your headache from Monday still throbs. You have nothing to look forward to - Friday is still four fucking days away. You've almost hit the hump day Wednesday, but looking forward to a day where you look forward to another day raises the level of frustration.

Eat it, Tuesday. You are worse than charlie horses.

Beginnings of a blog.

To begin, there are three things I must smash to hell with my critical fist:

1. Beginnings
2. Blogs
3. Beginning a blog

1. Beginnings

Beginnings present new opportunities. For example, it gives one the opportunity to use the phrase 'New Beginnings,' which really pisses me off. Why? Well, beginning something implies that it has not already begun; therefore, the beginning would be something new and no one should ever need to state the phrase 'New Beginnings.' Unless you like hearing yourself speak. Or you're a politician. Even in such cases, don't you already want to hit those people in the face? If not, I'm now threatening to hit you in the face.

This particular beginning, Critiques by Greeple, excites me, because I think it'll give me a platform to start writing again - one interesting enough, hopefully, to keep me coming back. The biggest problem facing this writer? Writing. So that's good.

Beginnings are good, generally. Save bad beginnings. Like beginning a new millenium with W as our president.

2. Blogs

Can you think of a word more stupid than 'blog'? I'll wait.

3. Starting a blog

It's a bandwagon thing. Since blogging's inception, it has gathered quite an obnoxious reputation - one that kept me from starting one. Whenever someone says they're 'blogging,' have a 'blog,' read 'blogs,' or follow a 'blogger,' I feel like flogging skulls with my fastidious fists (see '2. Blogs').

Now that I've started my own, determining a direction to take it has become problematic. I've decided to start a blog where there are no limits to the things that I can critique. I like critiquing things, and moving forward, that's all I've decided to go on. As it develops, it will become more focused: how I critique things, why I critique things, the tone or dialogue I'd like to establish with (a) reader(s)...

For now, the common thread shall be me, Greeple, writing as a sarcastic asshole. 'Til next time, folk(s).