Boston is Funny...

The saying In Vino Veritas translates to: there is truth in wine. It means that you are more likely to say what you feel under the influence of alcohol.

Let’s test the theory.

Warning: this article contains excessive use of the word jug

I went to the liquor store to pick up a little ‘vino’ for my experiment. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but my palate is good enough to know if it sucks. My wallet, however, dictates what I’m willing to pay. On the Boston Is Funny salary I would need Jesus to perform a miracle on my tap water. Thankfully I have another job. Thankfully, I have an entertainment budget. Thankfully, I have Carlo Rossi.

The liquor store guy tried to put me into an expensive model as if I were at a Saturn dealership. He recommended a nice thirty-dollar Cabernet.

“Naw, but that big fuckin’ jug’ll do.”

The Vitals:

1 four liter Jug of Carlo Rossi Paisano Table Red wine
equivalent to five normal ( 750ml) bottles of wine
Approx 135.26 oz
Equivalent to over 20 glasses of wine
Price $9.49

That should be plenty of booze for my 167-pound frame.

I paid for it in cold hard cash, a crispy ten, then threw the jug over my shoulder, being sure to sure to tell the register jockey he could keep the fuckin’ change. That’s how I roll.

The jug rode shotgun. I could have sworn she told me to change the radio station a few times. I guess it was a bit of foreshadowing, but I chose to ignore it anyway. Besides I was getting the ‘Led out’ to a little “Tangerine”.

When I got home, I realized I didn’t need a corkscrew, because Rossi is twist-off. Good fucking thing, because I don’t have a corkscrew and I’d be damned If I was going back to the store to blow any more of my nest egg on unnecessary luxuries.

Twist the cap I did, after I tapped the bottle, of course. I poured the truth juice into my plastic 32-oz Dream Team cup from Mickey Dee’s, and I was off. I figured I could drink the whole jug in about five cups in a few hours, while letting the stream of consciousness flow.

Cup 1
This wine is pretty good, albeit a little sweet. I wonder what “paisano” means (I then Google paisano). In Italian, it means friend.

I also check out imdb.com to see what the hell Dan Aykroyd’s latest project is. Seems as though he hasn’t done anything since Christmas with the Kranks. He played Vic Frohmeyer. Awesome. His project before that was the straight-to-video Intern Academy, which some reviewers have deemed completely unnecessary, a pile of shit on top of a pile of poo. He’s falling, he’s falling fast.

Truth Number One:
The reason I hate Dan Aykroyd.
Dan is my biological father. My mom was an SNL groupie back in the 70’s, and well, what can I say? I was born a bastard child with sketch comedy chops. I never even met the man. Never sent me a birthday card, letter, nothing.

That’s all bullshit. He’s not my dad. The saying should be changed to In (Latin word for lots of) Vino Veritas because I’m still full of shit after just one Olympic-sized cup.

Cup 2
Got a nice warm buzz on. Basically each cup is the size of a whole bottle. That thought sinks in.

Truth Number Two:
I think this experiment is really just an excuse to get drunk. A throwback to the binge drinking days of college years. Maybe it’s that smell in the air, the shift in temperature, the cool breeze; summer is almost over and there is an empty void. That void is the beginning of a new college semester. I’m five years removed from college, but each year I have that withdrawal. The sensation is weaker with every passing year, but it’s still there.

I’m almost done with cup two and I’m drunk. There’s barely a dent in the jug. This is an impossible task. Fuck you, jug.

Cup 3
I have a conversation with the jug. I don’t consider it my friend any more. We are now sworn enemies.

Truth Number Three:
Everyone hates you, jug of wine. You are the laughing stock of the wine world. You have slightly more respect than a Bartles and James Wine Cooler but less than a box of White Zin. California table red my ass, paisano!

I chug cup number three while staring down the jug in angst.

Cup number 4

I’m no longer drinking out of the Dream Team cup. We had an argument. Several of the guys on the team (Bird, Mullen, Malone, Stockton, Drexler and Laettner) took the jug’s side on the abortion issue. Jordan abstained from the conversation, because he was off shootin’ dice. Me and Magic where the only ones who vehemently agreed that a woman has a right to choose, so I threw them across the room. I fuckin’ hope they landed on Laettner’s fat feathered face. The jug and I made up. In fact, I’m drinking directly out of the it, so I guess we’re kind of seeing each other now.

Truth number four:
I’m shit-faced. Also, putting on my white first communion suit was a bad idea when ‘jugging’ red wine. The good news is that the suit still fits! I remember my first communion like it was yesterday. It was on a frozen lake, but my snowmobile was broken so I caught three red snappers and set them free. My head hurts and everything is spinning.

As I whistle “Taps” into the jug, I realize that it is my destiny to start a band with eight people. An octet! The only instrument we’ll play is the jug. Maybe we’ll grab a skin-flute player too. We’ll conquer America just like the Beatles. Fame, fortune, wine… ZAP! That’s onomato… onamono… oenomeanopia… ahh.

Lights out.

The Next Morning
I woke up early for work, but on the floor. At least an hour early. I almost made it to the bed. Despite all this, I feet great. However, I’ve been in the game long enough to avoid getting a false sense of security. I’ll pay for my sins before lunchtime.

As I got out of bed, I wondered why the hell I’m wrapped in red-stained white towels. I quickly remember my drinking experiment. After I took a cool shower, I realized that I have no clean bath towels. As I air dried, I noticed that some of Rossi’s 2004 Paisano Reserve made it in to the toilet bowl the night before, along with what looks like cabbage. I hadn’t eaten cabbage since St. Patrick’s day, 2001. Thankfully, not all of it landed in the bowl. The rest covered the floor, wall and even a bit on the ceiling. Impressive. For some reason, cleaning up puke isn’t as bad when it’s your own. I still had a few gag reflexes, but it’s ok. In that purple cole-slaw vomit was a little bit of me.

Before passing out, I managed to write a few things down…

Adam Carolla: Beep.
I may or may not have been watching Carolla’s new show on Comedy Central. I think he did a bit about the beeping a truck makes when in reverse. Any clarification on this would be appreciated. I can’t remember if it was funny or lame, or if it happened at all.

BRW BMP.
That’s what I think it says. It’s not legible. It could also be BRUN BUMP. Regardless, I have no fucking clue what it means. I must have been on to something though because I underlined it seven times.

I AM…
Is this some existential Popeyeian ultimate truth? Or did I pass out in the middle of a sentence? The latter is more likely, but who can be sure?

I didn’t finish the wine. There was a good 24oz left upon measurement. But, one should drink in moderation. If I had finished it all, that would’ve just been downright piggish.

What did I learn? Maybe it’s that I can’t finish a whole jug of wine. I challenge you to do better, paisano! Perhaps it’s just that I miss college, where they would have accepted my efforts, instead of the brow beatings I got from friends and loved ones. Maybe drinking a jug of wine is part of who I am. I definitely don’t have a drinking problem, despite what they say. Or maybe I’m just not ready for step one of twelve.

The truth is out there. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a Carlo Rossi jug. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Maybe the worm knows; I’ll be sure to ask him later tonight, when I’m roaming the streets along with Mr. Cuervo, trying to dispel the myth that ‘Tequila makes people flash their boobs to complete strangers’. The neighbors are going to be so excited to see my hairy purple nipples

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Recently, on the first vacation I’ve taken in years, I met Eddie. We were booked to stay at an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, and wanted to just relax and enjoy ourselves. What we got was that and much more. We got Eddie.

These resorts have excursions that you can schedule. For instance, they had a bicycle trip through the Blue Mountains. I have a mountain bike that I received as a gift two years ago that now has two flat tires from inactivity (Also I think the bicycle seat has an STD, just my superstition and my valid excuse for not using it). But, pedaling up a fucking mountain on vacation in ninety degree heat and ninety-nine percent humidity? Yes please (Read: no fucking way). There was another excursion that involved riding horseback through the tropical forests and into the water. No thanks. Horseback riding looks like it hurts. Especially for me, because I have huge balls. Now, a farm girl sucking off a horse, fine, that makes perfect sense to me. Or seeing a rich actor doing super steeple jumps, I’m there… with popcorn and Vaseline, in case I get an unexpected but wanted erection.

Excursion. What a bullshit word. The word excursion is a euphemism for keeping boring minds occupied. Hey idiot, quit staring at your ingrown toenail and come with us on a rockclimbing excursion! Hell yeah! Word on the street is that the Nazi’s used the ‘train ride’ excursion tactic sixty years ago. That was the shittiest of all excursions to be sure.

We decided to do no excursions. Instead we just wanted to lounge by the pool and drink frozen concoctions with not nearly enough rum.

But the third day we decided to book a fishing trip, which is different from an excursion because I said so. We booked it and paid a sum of our dirty money (the wife runs numbers) that we could have used to buy an acre on waterfront property in Jamaica, or coastal Mississippi. We’d have a few beers, throw out a line and catch us one of them pretty tropical fish that people take underwater pictures of in the coral reef. Then bash them over the head with a putter and sauté their lifeless colorless filets with mango butter and some coarse salt.

The next morning we arrived at the dock first. The boat was large and apparently seaworthy. Arriving next was Eddie and his wife. Eddie was from New York. Christ, four hours with an obnoxious New Yorker. Eddie was in his mid to late forties, shaved head accompanied by the obligatory goatee. He had bad teeth, was short, and he was round in the middle. His accent was thicker than an LPGA golfer’s wrasslin arm. He began to tell me of all the fish he had cuwaht, and how he has never got seasick and all about the history of the Yankees storied franchise. In my mind I was giving him a wedgie with a hot curling iron dipped in tobasco sauce.

Predictably, the Jamaican “crew” arrived last. The boat was to leave at 8:30. They got there at nine. Y’mon, irie. The barefooted crew; captain & first-mate helped us on board. Once we were off, the first mate informed us that we would be trolling. Trolling is when the boat moves at a slow speed with lures in the water, there is no casting involved. The first mate informed us that we must keep moving or this here boat goin’ down. Very choppy. Ten to fifteen-foot waves where we goin’. Yikes. Have a nice ice cold Red Stripe beer.

The human chum line of vomit was started by my wife and soon was accompanied by Eddie for the next four hours. Poor bastards. I almost lost my stomach about six times; the exhaust fumes from the awesome vessel didn’t help as I tried to breathe some fresh air.

The combination of the blistering sun, engine exhaust fumes, jerk chicken, rum and fifteen foot waves is a recipe for puking, and also my recipe for my tuna casserole surprise excursion.

My wife’s puke was an adorable orange. Eddie’s was demon green. Eddie was hunched over the back of the boat with a towel over his head reminiscent of a Turkish danish. I just fixed my eyes on a particular rod (the first-mate’s) and waited for the line to start screaming.

Nothing. Not one bite. Fucking first mate handed us a color illustrated booklet at the beginning of the trip of all the fish we might catch. Marlin, Yellow-fin Tuna, Hammerhead shark.We’re going to catch a shark? You might, he said with a suspicious smile. Not one bite. I’m not sure when we docked, but it wasn’t soon enough.

Eddie was embarrassed and upset. His wife handled the whole thing the best. She got her sea legs pretty early. I bet she has a waterbed. She looked like the waterbed type. We shook hands with Eddie and wife, not knowing if we would see them again.

On the walk back to the pool after the boat, I was tempted to grab a koi out of the little fountain pool and bite it’s fucking head off.

Later, as we were at the bar, I ran into Eddie again. His skin wasn’t green anymore but his teeth still were. We sat with Eddie and wife in the bar and talked about our awful fishing trip.

They had tons of excursions planned. Tons. They planned to swim with the dolphins the next day. Those pitiable creatures, I thought. He explained how great it was. You get to pet the dahlphins and then get on deir backs an dey take you for a ride. Den you grab two at a time by da dorsils and da two of dem dahlphins take you for a ride splashin around in da woodir. It’s great, ya gadda try it. The thought of those captive mammals that once swam freely and roamed nomadically wherever they damn well pleased now reduced to taking a fat little guy from the Bronx on a thrill ride was hilarious: Eddie grabbing two dolphins at a time! Except for the dolphins; it must suck for them.

Eddie had performed in the talent show the night before, which I’m sorry I missed. I didn’t ask what his talent was because it was much more fun to imagine what his talent may have been. Reading? Pantomime? Juggling three cans of tomato paste while sitting Indian-style on a rusty spike while telling racist jokes? Unfortunately I found out what Eddie’s talent was, because at the resort that night, it was karaoke night.

After dinner we stopped over to see some drunken people making fools of themselves at karaoke, which is always the case. Not there. People were actually really good. Eddie was the icing on the cake. I asked him if he was nervous before he “went on,” as he put it, and he had a look on his face similar to a veteran news anchor before another broadcast. Dis ain’t my first rodeo, kid. Shit right. He belted out ‘Hotel California’ better than Don Henley himself. I was worried and nervous for Eddie that he would not reach the bar set earlier by the Jamaican girl singing a Bob Marley anthem, or the older Sinatra impersonator. As Eddie made us wait for the long intro of the song, eight bars he informed me, I thought I caught a glimpse of jitters in his sway. But it wasn’t so. He belted that song out with all his heart. And when he botched a line from the song, we in the audience appreciated him even more because we realized he was karaoke-ing naked, free from the guidelines of the teleprompter with his eyes closed! I gave him a standing ovation, and let him know that with his talent he should have placed much higher than fifth the night before at the talent show.

I didn’t see Eddie again after that night. Like the one great teacher you have in your lifetime, Eddie taught me a many things about life. I learned about truth, and happiness. We discussed the great thinkers of our time and our mutual influences. And also, he taught me how to properly and platonically mount a dolphin when riding. As I was boarding the plane to leave Jamaica, I took a look back, and for an instant, thought I saw Eddie. I did a double-take, but upon further scrutiny realized that it wasn’t Eddie, but rather a very large black Jamaican lady and I think she was pregnant, with twins. I turned to my wife and said, “It’s not him honey. Let’s go. Let’s go home.”

Filed under: True Stories
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This rag sucks.

I haven’t read the Phoenix in about 6 months, because it hasn’t occurred to me.

I see the current cover which has a blurb about the twenty best Simpsons guest stars. It grabs my attention, because the cover shows Homer and Ricky Gervais: Two of the best characters to ever grace the small screen in small company that would include Archie Bunker, Costanza and of course ALF.

The cover teases the article. I blow through the rag and can’t find it. Upon further inspection, the article is a web exclusive on thephoenix.com.

Now I’m emotionally committed to read this article if only to disagree with every single key stroke.

I went to the website and as of 2:30 p.m. March 24, it’s not there.

A search of the sites archives only brings up an error page. What the fuck!?!?

Front page! Follow through. Jesus.

You got me good Phoenix. But for the last time. Think I’ll check out what the Dig has new this week.

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A friend of mine put several of his friends under severe duress to play in a charity poker event (which I was told 1st place paid 3 grand) last night at Kowloon’s.

There was a field of 68 players. The tournament buy-in was $125.

I won. Came in first. I’m not a good player. That’s beside the point though.

The payout was not 3,000. Rather it was 1,000. Except not in cash. They paid in fucking gift cards. Not only that, but I had to fill out a tax form claiming the winnings.

The tournament organizer also strong-armed me into tipping out the dealer $80.

On the way home, I was calling the numbers on the card to activate them. While doing so, I failed to see a posted speed limit of 30mph in the tunnel at the Tobin Bridge. I got pulled over. The police officer informed me I was going 58. I got a $300 ticket.

It’s probably un-related, but this morning my wife got a flat tire. I had to take care of that, and as a result was late for work. I might get fired.

The Breakdown:

Winnings: 1000
Buy-in: -125
Drinks: -20
Gas: -10
Tip: -80
Ticket: -300
Taxes: -150
Tire: -100
Job: -60,000

That put me in the red. -59,785.

This is what it feels like to be a winner?

Filed under: Today in Boston, Boston Sucks, True Stories
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You know what I miss? Spitting. That’s right; spitting. I was really good at it too, and I ‘aint much good at anything. It’s not fair that the only people who get to enjoy spitting are either ballplayers or stupid babies.

Hi-fives have obviously made a long overdue comeback, so why not the spitting? Join the movement and start enjoying America’s real favorite past time. Do it for America.

So I need to ask, are you spitting enough? Do you spit indoors? After winning an argument, do you spit in celebration? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you are already doing your part to advance the movement. If you aren’t quite there yet, don’t fret; we are here to help.

Here’s a little starter kit to help you get, well, started: a few choice times where a little spit is keen punctuation and will help you get back into the awesome habit, but first the ground rules:

1. Spit saliva or blood only- no lougies, creep.
2. To avoid everyone spitting on each other all the time, always turn your head to the left to spit.
3. No spittoons allowed; this is progress folks, spittoons could set us back 100 years.
4. If you already spit all day because you dip, you need to stop this vile shit immediately.
5. Velocity must be at a maximum, no droolers, or suck-backs.
6. If you spit on yourself you’re out. That’s right; spit Darwinism. Live with it, failure.
7. Women are not only allowed, but are encouraged to participate.
8. As always, there are exceptions to these rules.
Without further ado, here are the times you should spit.

First Impression
Douche bags are always giving you tips on how to make an impression when meeting new people, and I’m a douche bag, so… They will remember you if, after you shake hands, you take a nice pregnant pause and then spit, maintaining eye contact all the while. Eye contact is crucial, trust me.

Extra points if you’re on a job interview or meeting your fuck buddy’s parents for the first time.

The Vows
Nothing puts emphasis after the “I do’s” like a nice little mouth diving foam.

Extra points if you have your fingers crossed during the vows.

Entering a Not Guilty Plea
Fuckin’ right I’m not guilty! (spit) And I wave my goddamn right to an attorney! (spit) I can defend myself, thank you very much! (spit).

Extra points if you are facing a life sentence or if you’re innocent.

At the Office
Got a great idea in a meeting? Spit first to get their attention, and then tell them your idea.

Extra points if you get fired because of your terrible ideas, not the spitting.

Spit Takes
This is a lost comedic art form. The spit take. Timing is everything. Take a sip of your Midori Sour just before you know a friend is about to say something hilarious and then spray a seemingly spontaneous Midori mist because you just can’t hold it in.

Extra points if your friend isn’t being funny at all or just told you he/she has a terminal illness.

Spit Fights
Too often we get into physical altercations with each other. The results are usually black eyes, broken bones and bloodshed. We need to stop hurting each other! Instead, let your spit do the fighting. If this were ever put into practice everyone would be on an equal playing field regardless of physical stature. Smart people everywhere would actually have a chance to win a fight!

Extra points if you mix up the real spit with spitting out lyrics about your adversary’s momma.

Eulogy
What can I say about Aunt Mary? She was an awesome lady, and now she soars with the eagles or angels and shit. She is in a much better place. Then again, anything would be an improvement on that little rat hole where she hung her hat. Cheers! (spit, splat)

Extra points if you can actually use the word spit more than once in the eulogy. For example: She was the spitting image of Janeane Garofalo with the courageous big heart of swimmer Mark Spitz…

Spelling Bee
If you can quote Napoleon Dynamite at a Spelling Bee, you can definitely spit.
-”Your word is scimitar.”
-”Hmm, could you please use scimitar in a sentence?” (spit)
-”Sure, The contestant at the spelling bee had a difficult time spelling scimitar.”
-”Ok, I got it. Scimitar. S-c-i-m-i-t-a-r. Scimitar.” (spit)
-”Correct!”

Extra points if instead of spelling the actual word, you spell f-u-c-k-y-o-u, then spit… blood.

At the BMW Dealership
The pricks at these dealerships are a dangerous mix of self-importance while being grossly undereducated. Make sure you wear a suit into the place, so they’ll at least look at you. Get one of these creatures to try and sell you a Five Series, then ask: Hey! Where the fuck is the tow ball on this rig? (spit on hood)

Extra points if you have him get the paperwork started for three sixty-thousand dollar automobiles, while you go to the bank to get some “funds.” Come back with a dozen eggs. Egg ‘em. Spit on the eggs first.

You should now have a good strategy to get started and get spitting. Please, use your own imagination and improvise when you think a good spit is warranted. Practice at home with your family at the dinner tabe. Or in the bedroom with your significant other. Do it for America.

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I don’t offer much in the sense of public service ever, really. So I’d like to change gears and help you make this the best St. Patrick’s Day ever. I’m mostly Irish and from Boston, home of the first ever celebrated St. Patrick’s Day on American soil… so for any newcomers, here are some tips to make your Day special…

You don’t have to be Irish
Who cares if you aren’t Catholic, or Irish – St. Patrick wasn’t either! It’s true. St. Patrick was born a pagan in Wales, lucky bastard. So, if you’re Jewish, you’re in. If you’re black, that’s cool black-jack! Protestants are welcome, but keep that shit to yourself. In fact everyone from all races and denominations are welcome; except maybe the Italians. I think I can speak for everyone when I say we’ve had enough of their shit.

Buy the Best Corned Beef you can find!
There is nothing better than corned beef, except anything edible. You want a piece of meat that you can be proud to boil for hours evaporating any taste, flavor and nutritional value. Slip the butcher an extra fifty and ask for the finest slab of corned beef he has. To keep him honest, argue about the piece he gives you even if it looks pretty good. Argue until he gives you your fifty bucks back, in honor of St Patrick! Now grab all your favorite vegetables, like cabbage and turnips and your ready to have an authentic Irish St. Patrick’s day boiled dinner. Except the Irish don’t eat that stuff.

Get a good spot at the parade!
Parades are awesome! You get to watch people walking past you all day. Some are even wearing funny green hats! You want to get close to the action. You want to be so close, that you can touch and smell the gays parading past you. Make sure you stand there all day and wave to all the strangers walking past you. That’s perfectly normal.

Get to Church early!
It’s obviously a big religious day, so you want to be the first one to get to church. Get a spot in the middle of the church so you have a nice unobstructed view of the priest. Listen to his sermon. Pray your fucking ass off, after all it is St. Patrick’s Day! He got all the snakes out of Ireland for you! Show some thanks. Pray hard. Pray for shit like: finding some money, getting a promotion, getting laid… Church is like a free wishing well which is nice because you get to save all your loose change for the peep show booth.

The other benefit of being in the middle of the church is that when it comes time to shake hands offering peace you have access to shitloads of hands. Shake them fuckers! Tell them “ may the peace of God be with you.” Say it twice and hold the handshake a little longer than normal. Let them know you really mean it, even if you don’t believe it. Try to shake everybody’s hands, spread the peace. Get out into the aisle, touch everybody like a fat cat politician. Kiss babies. Kiss the ladies on the mouth like Richard Dawson. Don’t kiss the men on the mouth. Kiss them on the cheek. Whisper in their ears if you want. If things get weird, remind these people that they are in a house of God on the holiest of days.

This looks like the makings of a pretty sweet St. Patrick’s Day. You have it all. Parades, boiled dinners, and Church.

Have fun, and try to remember what this day is really all about. If anyone knows what this day is really all about, please let me know - I’ll be playing flip-the-cup while you’re at church, the parade or eating boiled sludge.

Filed under: Today in Boston
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In a rush this morning, I slipped on my black shoes.

I have it timed to the exact second, when I have to get up and be out the door. Today I hit the snooze button one too many times, rationalizing with myself how I could explain being 9 minutes tardy. Traffic. Car problems. Had to wait for the plumber.

Today is a bad day for that shit. Tuesdays we have a company meeting - all the departments. All the bosses. You look like a schmuck no matter how good your excuse is showing up late.

So I got ready in about 7 minutes. Throwing together a God-awful ensemble. Blue striped shirt, shiny blue-ish-green tie and brown pinstripe pants. Too many fucking stripes.

Brown socks, brown belt, and black shoes.

Black shoes.

I walked into the building like Andy Dufrane before he escaped, praying to God the warden or any other guards notice my shoes.

It’s been a long day of keeping my shoes under my desk, and no crossed legs all day. If I go anywhere today, I go fast. Like a fucking comic book character.

Thank God it’s almost over.

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I’ve been in Sunny Florida, so not much new to report here, but BWP has been a very busy little network…

T-Rage is an observative sum-bitch. Thank goodness I don’t take the T too much — don’t know if I want Mike secretly judging me. Sheesh.

I don’t always understand Chris at NEGEEK.COM but he’s always funny, I think. And he keeps expanding my limited knowledge of all things geek. Here is some helpful info on all these damn hoaxes in cyberspace.

The Muslim Bostonian packs light - some advise I could have used on my 6 day trip to sunny Florida. I checked 2 fucking bags and had a carry-on. Not sure why I packed a wool suit and 3 pairs of Jeans.

Not sure why Dan has a hard on for this guy over at Puritan City, but I love the story-line and am interested in seeing what happes - my interest level is about the same as finding out whether Tony Soprano is dead or alive next week.

Boston Pro Sports has got some good Red Sox info for this season. Can’t believe baseball is around the corner.

A newcomer, Boston Cocktails, has all you need to know about Irish Whiskey - valuable info for the “comeback whiskey” although I didn’t know it ever left. There’s nothing like a tepid Jameson shot with an ice cold Pabst chaser.

Let me know if the links are busted, I probably won’t fix ‘em, but if it will make you feel better, do it. Same goes for typo’s and grammatical errors.

Filed under: Today in Boston
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A homeless man lit himself on fire in the North End.

He was protesting the sorry social state of affairs, and the feeling of hopelessness. So the 30 year old dramatic homeless man lit himself on fire on a cold and Grey Boston morn.

Oh, wait never mind… Some sick fucking teenagers doused him in flammable liquid and torched the guy after kicking the shit out of him, and before running off like a couple of cowards.

Maybe it would be best if we encouraged our youths to stay inside, play Tekken 3 and get fat, so if they ever got the notion to pull shit like this again they’d be too out of shape to run very far. Would’ve loved for these inbred fucks to get a Ha-Do-Ken to their fat guts.

Sick fucks.

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Good Morning Class, my name is Mr. Riley and I’ll be your substitute teacher. It’s an honor for me to be stepping in for Mrs. Phillips’ tenth grade AP American History today.

Well, I’m not so sure what is so funny about that, but I’ll take what I can get I guess. I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret; I went to this very school eleven years ago. That’s right; I was just like you guys not that long ago, sitting at those very desks.

Although I must say you are an eclectic looking bunch.

Ok, so who can tell me where Mr. Phillips left off?

Really? He was talking about the dangers of talking to strangers? You guys are fucking with me, right? I get it, pick on the substitute. I’m not an idiot though. Seriously, what chapter are you guys on?

You in the second row wearing the mittens. What chapter are you on?

Chapter two-thousandy-seven, huh? Fucking wise-ass. You in the fourth row with the helmet, what was last night homework assignment?

To tell your mother you loved her? What the fuck! Ok, jokes over you morons. Quit acting like a bunch of retards. You guys are supposed to be the smartest kids at that school, start acting like it.

Hey, Big Bird T-shirt, are you drooling? Cut the shit dude.

You know what? I’m going to give an oral pop quiz. If you get the question wrong you get an F for the day. Understood?

Here we go. Blue sweat-suit in the third row; who was the Confederate General during the Civil War?

George. That is your answer? George? George who? Fuck it; you’re getting an F, dickhead. What’s your name? George. You’re name is George? You’re trying my patience here folks.

Can anyone tell me who the Confederate General was? Christ. This is an advanced history class? Our education system is going completely to shit.

Girl in the back with the thick glasses and buzz cut, you got an answer?

Hello? Cat got your tongue? What the fuck do you mean she doesn’t talk, George?

You know what shy girl; you just got yourself an F for the day too. How do you like that Helen Keller?

You, Shaq look alike, you got an answer? Bubble gum, huh? F.

How about you tiny head? No, the Earth is wrong, but good one. F.

Alright this little charade is over, ok? Let’s call a truce. I appreciate your commitment here guys, and if I wasn’t the butt of the joke, I’d compliment the brilliance of the whole thing. But let’s get to work, ok?

Yes, can I help you?

Are you Mr. Riley?

Yes?

I’m afraid you’re in the wrong class. I’m Mizz Sullivan and this is my special ed class. You should be two doors down on the left.

Oh… Oh! I’ve said some terrible things about retards.

Oh, well I wouldn’t worry too much. Their memory isn’t very good. Isn’t that right class?

Yes, Mizzzzzz Sull-i-van.

Say goodbye to Mister Riley.

Good-bye Mis-ter Ri-ley.

So, class what did Mr. Riley talk to you about? Yes Michael?

He was asking us about Robert E. Lee, but we were fucking with him because he’s a substitute teacher. Timmy was even drooled a little.

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