Back to the Future

When the hell did fortune cookies stop delivering messages about the future and start providing recommendations about how to live a better life? For example, take our fortune that we received today at Cafe Ginger (formerly Cafe Le Jadeite on West Gray): Take some time out for yourself. No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for the tip. Who's authoring this crap, Dr. Phil?def. fortunes (n). (1) things that happen or are to happen to a person in his or her life.
(2) (Idiom) tell someone's fortune, to profess to inform someone of future events in his or her own life; foretell. -- Really, it's not that difficult to comprehend.

Although we have fortune back-up at Magic Island, because it's been closed since Hurrican Ike, and the 116-year-old Guinness Book of World records holder for the oldest woman in Houston isn't going to be around too much longer, we anticipate that we will have to rely more heavily on the cookies in the future to give us clarity as to what lies ahead. Plus, MI Gypsy Lady is always having flash-backs about assisting soldiers on the battlefield at Antietam. Trust us, her shrills are colon-shattering. In short, we need you fortune cookies to pick it up a notch. And don't even think about blaming it on this economy. There are plenty of future-predicting contractors to go around these days.

On another note, the Tea Monkeys inside the Loop need to step it up too. We are tired of having to Gary Payton our drinks just so we can maintain the proper lemon and sugar to tea ratio. You monkeys are always so eager to keep our glasses filled to the brim, when you should appreciate how difficult it is to consumer that boiled Bayou leaf water without a little sugary citrus assistance. Going forward, please inquire whether we would like our glasses topped-off or we're going to shove the salt and pepper shakers up your nostrils. Attention restaurant owners of Houston, your are required to immediately implement Lords' Executive Order 593 requiring all Tea Monkeys employed by you to query whether your patrons would like their iced tea glasses refilled prior to execution of the pour. Any Loop-violators shall be purged of life by virture of complete submersion in a frothy bath of Kombucha Tea.

Thursday Haiku

Welcome, new trainee!

Not all that cute but you'll do;

Fresh stroke imagery

Tuesday Tirade

We arose early this morning for the annual examination of the Lords' corporeal wellness, and we are none too pleased. It's not our health. Our hearts beat strong, we get erections of steel, and we fuck like the man from fire mountain. But every encounter with our healthcare system reminds us of the sickening decay that spreads across our land, and plummets us into a mood of general foulness so dense that the light of a thousand suns cannot penetrate its fog. We know that it's several months until Festivus, but we have a lot of problems with you people, and we need to air some grievances. In no particular order:

The Sears store on Main and Wheeler. WTF? No, seriously. W. T. F?? Are Midtown Loopizens lining up to buy Craftsman socket wrenches and Lands' End cargo shorts? Keeping a Sears store open on this piece of prime loop real estate is exactly the kind of management genius that caused our SHLD stock to wither from 200 to 40 in a year. Fuck you Eddie Lampert. We're out.

Potato sack dresses. Ladies, this is not a good look for you. Even the trendy cute ones make us fear the worst. What is she hiding under there? A baby bump? Maybe a puppy. If you want some attention from the Lords, show us what you got and prepare to be judged. If you want us to do the same, just ask. We'll whip it out.

Please shoot us.

Lance Armstrong. No explanation required.

Sexting. Keep sending the boob pics, please do, but send them to our email. A new study shows that texting while driving makes us 23 times more likely to have an accident. http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ap/nation/6550046.html We don't need the distractions, and neither do you.

Beer pong. This is the dumbest drinking game ever conceived. It takes an eternity, no one gets drunk, and the rules are more complicated than Hammurabi's Code. We'll play flip cup or liar's dice, but get your weak shit out of our bars.

Neighbors. We turn the music down after midnight. We remind our guests in the grotto to soften their voices. We even stopped playing Rock Band in the driveway. In other words, we try. But the Lords were born to rock, sometimes well into the night. If you can't handle a little revelry late on a Friday, move to the Woodlands. We hear it's nice out there, but we wouldn't know. We live ITL.

Jeebus Tebow Is a Born-Again Virgin

Last week, you may have seen the ridiculous article on Tebow’s virginity, which surrounds a question posed to Timmy at SEC media day last week. We’re sorry, but Tebow must be employing the Iraqi Minister of Information for his PR this season.

"Guy's, I know it sounds ridiculous, but Tim Tebow is a great lover."

Here are five reasons why Tebow is definitely not a virgin:

1) If you have circumcised multiple Thai boys over spring break, you are not a virgin;

2) If you've raped Oklahoma a BCS championship game, you are not a virgin;

3) If you’ve showered with Urban Meyer, you are not a virgin;

4) If you’ve only had sexual intercourse at church lock-ins or on a missionary trip and cried afterwards, you are still not a virgin; and

5) If you’ve dated the girl seen below, you are most definitely not a virgin (or is a closet homo).

If this girl hasn’t blown TT, then we’ll devote our blog entirely to

discussing Tony Danza’s wardrobe on Who’s the Boss?

After all, Oprah says oral sex is sex.

Monday Music

This is not a music blog, but if you haven't heard of them you should check out Delta Spirit. Enjoy.

Have a great week Loopwalkers.

Friday's Complaints

It's been a cactus enema of a week. Once the unchecked sheriffs of business mining through fruit-heavy profit orchards, our occupations are now a fish head potpourri which includes some East Texas ditch making when we're not acting as our boss's boss's leathery, corporate dildo holster.

The displaced anger we feel over our recent joblynching descends upon this city as we have a standing weekly meeting with the foam arm of consumer justice that is Houston's BBB. Today's complaints include:

- A goblin that looks like Kathy Bates after a car accident works bar at Cahill's on Saturdays noontime. Someone please exercise her.

- With the addition of Block 7, there are now more wine bars than churches in Gomorrah... err...Houston. We sip our Cakebread calmly awaiting brimstone.

...brimstone and fire from the Lord[s] out of heaven... (Genesis 19:24-25)

- The moneytaker at Splash Hand Car Wash on Shep called us "bro" 5 times in under two minutes. We believe this to be a bit excessive as we were not purchasing marijuana from him on this occasion.

- There is a black hole at Roeder's Pub which only effects heterosexual woman.

Have a Motherfucking Looptaculous Friday!

Which Wich? - Open Up and Say Nothing!

How freaking great is this place? Fresh ingredients. Coke Zero. And virtually no interaction with the sandwich artists! Yes, we Lords rate many restaurants on how annoying the restaurant staff can be and strive to avoid small talk with complete strangers. In an ideal Loop-world, we would be able to order food from deaf-mutes.

Superior sandwiches without the annoying small talk.

For example, the jerk-off, overly-joyful Pot Belly staff always asks us how our day has been going and wants to talk about the devilishly hot weather H-town has been experiencing. Do you not realize that it's 8:45 at night, we are obviously just getting off work (See the neck noose and suit?) and that we've been at the office for the last 12 hours? Please don’t be surprised that we’d rather put your face on the meat slicer and slow-roast your flesh through that little toaster oven than have some trite exchange with your worthless fastfood serving ass. Please focus, we came to your establishment to get in and get out as quickly as possible, not to find new pals. Also, if we are the only person in line, don’t ask us if we are having a Wreck on wheat when you know god damn well-in-good that of course that’s our fucking sandwich coming down the conveyer belt. We are the next person in line. Do you think there was some sort meatball-sub coup going on behind the counter? We are the next person in line, so the next sandwich is ours. We know, it's a complicated concept.

On the other hand, at Which Wich?, we enter, fill out our order by checking off boxes on a brown paper bag to inform the sandwich maker of the specific condiments and dressings we have selected. It’s like a Scantron test with your grade being an edible prize! No interaction, no confusion. Not sure exactly what we want? Re-read the sandwich bag! Even monkeys could do it, it's so easy.

Easier than the SAT and comes with a heavenly processed-meat reward

ITL, we frequent the one on Richmond across from Cocks-Co. Traffic can be a little dicey and parking is usually a bitch, but we think these minor inconveniences should not discourage you from checking out the best (hassle-free) sandwich in town.

Nom-nom-nom! Enjoy!

P.S. The Diet DP poured over Sonic-style ice is a can't-miss complement to your meal.

Additionally...

Fuck you Ryan Franklin and the mullet on your face:

Two Back

Your Astros are poised to sweep the division leading team from Slut. Louis and pull within one game for a share of the Central. The Eater of Planets, Carlos Lee, yoked a gratuity grand slam last night; this coming after single-handedly relieving Monday night's scoring constipation with a messy 3 run bomb in the 4th.

He only smiles when he's hungry

Not to go unnoticed was a shimmering performance by Wandy, who went 7 innings and 1-3 with a motherfucking double.

Our fondness for this team never dies, though the struggle to understand it continues...
Oswald v. Carpenter tonight. 7pm. Go 'Stros!

OTL: Metairie...or, the Deceitfully Safe Part of New Orleans

There are only two things that are acceptable about New Orleans. First, to be considered an adult you must be an alcoholic, regardless of age. Second, Metairie, their sad attempt to birth a cosmohood in N'awlenz. Praise be to Lee Majors it exists though. And the nicest of the most affordable hotels (according to our fucking boss) sits right on I-10 so a Lord can get the fugk out promptly (with a daiquiri to go, snap).

Mother Nature has a constant period and she has it on New Orleans. If you've been you know the dew-like paste permanently waxing everything from concrete to metal to souls to the air inside our "upgraded" Starwood Preferred Guest "suite". There is no real reason to be in New Orleans or for it to be. It exists as our country doesn't agree with genocide - or any of the finer points of Hitler's wise side. We regrettably don't agree either, but only because the Marines staying down the hall escorted us to a human shielded-drink at Laffite's Blacksmith Shop on the edge of the Quarter. There was good jazz and we don't go to the Quarter alone at night no matter the severity of cabin fever.

Longest continuously open bar West of the Mississippi, check...no electric light, check...

freaky ghost-like pianist, check...and the bare necessities for a breathtaking culture...check!

Gun shots, e.g., are more muffled, almost endearing in Metairie, however. There are just two or three abandoned cars of low value noted along its major thoroughfare. You'll likely not be held at gun-point for healthy sperm or an organ. Sparse are the homeless and even less-sparse are the homeless with recently-living fowl in their hands.

There are few visible street signs in Mayor Ray's city and those that are findable are out of position, on the ground, and/or make no sense - it was like that before Katrina, so don't give us that shit. But in Metairie, if brave enough to ask, you might just get detailed directions to the nearest Hooter's from a local obtaining the simple and subtle sense of responsibility for the general welfare of common folk. We thank you for that one, Metairie, even though you were wrong. It was late, like 4pm. We knew you were already drunk and we respect that.

Website of the Day: Don't Even Reply

Link

Here, Kitty, Kitty: Cougar Evolution ITL 101

For far too long now, the term Urban Cougar, or simply cougar, has been tossed around too casually and without proper focus. It's often used in an incorrect manner, thus causing potential prey to become befuddled as tiger-horny men stagger forward through the night with a mischaracterizations of nocturnal felines taped to a Post-It note on the inner-wall of their skulls. With this helpful explanation below, you will not only be able to properly identify women falling into their respective places on the urban-cat evolutionary chart, you will be able to take this new-found knowledge and use it your strategic advantage to obtain an invitation back to her lair or repel, if so desired, using the proper safe guards.

It's a Labrynthian Atlas of feline maturation at your fingertips*

*As a disclaimer, although many of these species are broken down and defined, to some extent into age-specific phylums, by falling into one of these age ranges does not necessarily place you into one of these specifically defined orders. First and foremost, these groupings are attitude driven, so the age ranges are more of a guide than a rule.

Kitten - Any pre-pubesecent girl looked sexually upon by pedofiles, dweebs, Joel Osteen or R-Kelly.

Jaguar - Any fertile woman who desires a man that has no desire to procreate or settle down. Such creatures typically exhibit the general estrogen-laced attitudes of females by complaining about how human men really don't do anything else in life except for playing video games and fist bumping other members of their wolfpack. As a whole, this creature stalks its prey at a regular non-specific drinking establishments and rarely acts "desperate".

Bobcat - Most often falls into an age range of 26 to 39. Has had at least one long term alliance with a member of the opposite sex. Emanates a larger degree of attitude than a kitten but less desperation than a cougar. May also camouflage themselves as a peahen, gathering with other peahens in synergistic forces to bitch about other peahens roosting too close to their nest. Warning: Sexual desire may just be a mask for their soul mate search. Men, stay focused on the task at hand, which is intercourse not suicide. Cuddling is not usually an option but a requirement. Fuck that.

Cougar - The big Panthera. The center of the cat kingdom. Age range most commonly falls between 39 and 54. These testosterone carnivores target young men inside the Loop between the ages of 18 and 33. Silverbacks need not apply. They aren't interested in money or cars. They want one thing: Your cock in and around their mouth. Typical lairs include Moe's Steakhouse, The Remington at St. Regis, and Uptown Tasting Room. Enter at your own risk. Claws only, no house cats here.

Saber-tooth - Just too fucking old to really be in the game. Drier than the Mojave desert. Officially brought back from extinction with the aid of KY's lubricating jelly. Pros: May have a bevy a cash and could be a potential geriatric sugar mama. If you can secure a spot in her will, you may have it made, because she's roamed the Earth for nearly a 100 years now and the end is near.

Repellants for any potential undesirable feline attackers: (a) shots of vinegar (b) moth-ball cologne (c) face urination (d) pre-ejaculation (e) boat shoes (f) baldness (g) gold chains (h) a sense of responsibility (i) curfews (j) school (k) political discussions

Fear of the Day

Is the braided belt making a comeback? A true waist noose many Loopers are now embracing again. Panic has set in. Consternation leaks out of our pores. We may be close to the end. Good-bye and good luck.

We dare you to taunt this leather Python.

Name our Band

Each Friday, your Lords gather around a handle of 12 year to review our week, ongoing religious based Ponzi scheme and general sabotage plots. It's less a meeting between friends and more Houston's Plutocratic congress.

For years we've been tossing around the idea of cultivating our inherent harmonic ability and starting a band. We've got the talent, the instruments and the sex appeal, but what we don't have is a proper name. We could use your help; here's a few to get you thinking:

• Freon Panda
• Wound Gone Shitty
• The Yourmommameters
• Diesel and the Xenophobes
• The IUDs
  
• Daddy's Hitting Secret

Ran right into a door...it was my fault

Help?

Braying Asses

Woot woot. Booyah. Snap! Boop. Beeyotch. Whoop! Hey-oh. Bump! Da man. Da bomb. Da schiznit. Fo schizzle. Fo sho.

Faux pas.

Website of the Day: Hellen Keller Simulator

Link

That Gym Guy

Please pardon the interruption, but does anyone happen to have a blow torch, some duct tape and a dirty sock? We’d like to go Guantanamo Bay on a few of our newest Loopcquaintances we’ve run into at the gym lately.

You know who were talking about. The guy who transports his gallon-sized milk jug full of water to impress us with how hydrated he is. He’s just finished his seventeenth set of curls and has been grunting like a zebra in heat on mescaline and Adderall. It’s no surprise he’s acting like a Baboon given all the Alpha Male dust snorted prior to each of his weightlifting raves.

If it looks, smells, and sounds like a Baboon, you are probably at a gym ITL.

...

On another note, when the fuck did someone permit the donning of Capri pants by men at the gym? We saw you the other day, Toni and Guy. You and your clam diggers. What. The. Fuck. Are those shorts or pants? We just call them fags. Actually, never mind, because regardless of what your answer will be, it won’t change the fact that you probably wore culottes to your last White Party in Montrose. Why do we even bother covering this utter non-sense when you are oblivious to common heterosexual fashion-sense? You make Richard Simons look like Charlton Heston. If gay were a planet, you'd be Jupiter. Are you the new assistant-deputy director of Homo-land Security?

Rant over. Please disperse to go forth and mock.

The Washington Avenue Drinkery

4115 Washington Avenue
(Formerly The Daily Grind)

Loyal Loopjects may have noticed that we don't give many positive reviews. Don't expect that to change now. The Lords have high standards, and besides, nice is never funny. (The combination of our biting wit and utter inability to resist the joke has wilted more budding romances than Carmen Electra has B-movie flops. Count 'em.) But we also always try to see the bright side of everything ITL, so in that spirit, we present The Drinkery.

Post time for happy hour was 6 pm. The office wife was late to the starting gate (two demerits), so we took the opportunity to inspect the premises. This joint is a one-room schoolhouse for learnin to love us some liquor. One big room, stained-wooden columns, not much seating, and techno music at happy hour. Huh? Did the Red Lion and Pearl Bar have a baby? And apart from the dormant internet jukebox in the corner -- trend application rejected -- there is nothing to do in this joint but imbibe the squeeze and observe the Loopdrones. (More on them in a moment.) So we ordered up a scotch to quench our Thursday Thirsties, and wandered out back to view the deck. Oops. Might be nice in November, but human skin ignites at 1,400 degrees. Can't risk it in July. Back to class for some lessons in sociology.

The Drones at the Drinkery are a bewildering mix of over-40s and under-the-age-of-appropriate-Lordmates. Not many students in our "target demographic," if you catch our drift. And the techno music playing in broad daylight on a Thursday had not yet whipped the class into a libidinous fervor. Shocking. So we had to content ourselves with studying the schoolmarm behind the bar, and we are pleased to report that this is one area where the Drinkery excels.

We brought our pencils, give us somethin to write on!*

The Drinkery did not invent the buxom bartender, but they might have perfected it. Sadly, they have not perfected how to serve an excellent cocktail. No disrespect meant to the teacher; our drinks were mixed perfectly. But they were served in oddly-mishapen, acrylic cups. Excuse me? Are we sitting poolside at the Bellagio? No? Then please serve our firewater in appropriate glassware. We don't know about you, but the tink-tink-tink of ice in an old-fashioned glass is soft, sweet music to ears worn down by the whining demands of the worklife. Plick-plick-plick is just not the same.

The Drinkery is young and has potential, but it doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up. Hipster hangout or chill spot to throw back with friends? For now, we reserve judgment.

* Not actual photo of Drinkery bartender. The Lords have respect for the ladies of the Loop. We took this photo of a random skank way way OTL. Nuff said.

Looporons: Man Jewelry

Quick turtle. Chaste hooker. Virtual reality. Do any of these oxymoronic things actually exist? Unfortunately for the rest of us, there's something we've noticed lately gripping the stylistic tendencies of countless Loopdrones. Despite its incongrous nature this epidemic has infiltrated the Loop in an unwelcomed way. The giant pink elephant inside the Loop that everyone is thinking about, but has failed to acknowledge: MAN JEWELRY. Say what? That's right, you heard us. And it's not just the Jabronies any more. It's your neighborhood BerriPop servers, your local Subway sandwich artist, and even your company's IT guy.

Your shit's so shiny it's like staring into a thousand suns.

WTF is man jewelry? Man jewelry is any metal object adorned by a heterosexual male. Notable exceptions are obviously a watch or a wedding ring. The watch is acceptable because it serves a functional purpose. Although many of you jack-holes have been wearing some the size of Smart Car tires lately. The wedding ring is your license to get laid (at least once a week, we hope). Anything else is unacceptable. Class rings past high school? (Whoop!) No. Dog tags? You are not G.I. Joe. You did not participate in Wrestlemania III and you're name is not Junkyard Dog. Thumb rings? Jesus, we don't even know what to say. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? Your man card has officially been revoked.

Other questions you may ask yourself to determine whether it is permissive to stray beyond the scope of our general rules:

Are you Brett Michaels?

Do you have a medical condition that requires you to alert other to said medical condition?

Do you write or perform rap songs for a living?

Is your first name Sigfried or Roy?

Do you rule the Kingdom of Zumunda?

Have you or any of your direct relatives ever been involved in organized crime, i.e. The Mafia.

Are you a member of the armed forces?

Are you a Thundercat?

If you fail to answer in the affirmative for any of the above-referenced questions, please step away from the metallic ornamentation and then go jump in front of a Metro bus on Allen Parkway. Say hi to MJ!

Out,
The Lords

LoopHunt

As Lords, we are not immune from the summer's wicked tedium and therefore must climb down from our thrones occasionally to cripple the jester for our own amusement.

In addition to killing organs with graded alcohol and pretending to lose little brothers in the Randall's on Shepard, we have taken to a high stakes game of Scavenger Hunt. Last week we got all gintarded and hit the streets in search of the following gems:

- A Cavalcade St. sign without a bullet hole (20pts)

- A picture with an All-Star (50pts)

Don't turn around lady, we think there's a monster behind you!

- A key to the St. Regis Governor's Suite (15pts)
- Paul Bettencourt's head on a spike (125pts)
- A working Teddy Ruxpin with a Straight Outta Compton cassette in him (15pts)
- The a's off the Catalan sign (35pts/per)
- Half pound of butterflies from the NatSci Museum (10pts)
- A same day, return receipt for the teen fiction Rainbow Boys from Border's on Kirby (15pts)
- A car dent matching the skull of one of the Armenian valet's at RA Sushi (40pts)
- 10 different Target name tags (25pts)
- A Mexican child, 8-11 years old, that answers to Paco and can work a fryer (15pts)

Our score:135. Think you can do better?

Blog of the Day: Manbabies.com

Link

Lords to Austin - America’s Birthday

The Lords will be heading OTL to inhale smoke bombs and guzzle Roman Candles in commemoration of the 233rd anniversary of severing the connection with our neighbors across the Atlantic. Billy Ocean style we’re taking our dream girls with us transforming a music video expression into our own angelic reality.



Have a good one and stay safe our Loop-disciples!