As of late, the Lords have been feathering their nest in a cozy little nook in the Village. It's our novel go-to staple known as Little Woodrow's. We had to migrate somewhere after those commercial real estate fuck turds razed the one on Alabama. Yes, we know the parking in the Village is as organized as a rebel group in Eritrea. Lucky for us, Good Charlotte has been helping the Lords work through the Big 50 and towards that infamous brown t-shirt and the promise of happy hour until 9 pm for life. We're well along the way and have overcome the most difficult hurdle, number 12, which is actually a pint of urine.
Saturday was spent guzzling liquid black lung, aka the Optimator. We are more fearful of it than Rommel in the North African dessert. The end of our journey will culminate with a black and tan, rumored to be liquified Seal poured over a Heidi Klum. Care to join us? We'll be there this Saturday again like clockwork. We're more of a sure thing than the meager returns expected during the second week of The Watchmen. Also, we promise not to swing our giant blue cocks in your face. Probably.
P.S. the Turkish Delight next door is as heavenly as an easy bartender working only the day shift.
1 comment:
Do not be lured by the smell of hops at the wannabe beer and wine only joint next door called the Gingerman. They don't kive you a keychain to keep track of your progress, nor do they have bartenders that can do a kickflip ollie while serving you your next pint.
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