An open letter to Wandy Rodriguez

Wandy, light of our life, fire of our rotation. Our son, our soul. He was Wand, plain Wand, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one cleat. He was Juan on the dotted line. But on our Strohs, he was always Wandy.

We're sorry. We never should have said that your best use was middle-relief for the Tamil Tigers. That was not nice.

Genocide is not funny.

We certainly should not have called you an Oompa-Loompa with slightly longer arms. That was the jealousy talking. And we definitely never should have said that your only hope for a product endorsement is Valtrex. That was just mean. But how were we supposed to know? They may list you at 5'11", but it's as plain as the cold sore on your face that you're not an inch taller than our sister. (Stay away from our sister.) And we're pretty sure we never saw you pitch in a 7th inning of any game before the Bear Stearns collapse. It was almost like you thought baseball games were six innings long.

But we have to admit, in the past two seasons, you've turned a corner. You throw strikes. You throw quality starts. You have an ERA that is less than the price of a value meal at Jack-in-the-Box. And here is a warning for you, National League: something wicked this way comes, and it's the Magic Wand's curveball. We haven't seen so much drop to the knees since Carlos was in college. So we apologize. We like you. We no longer switch the channel to Antique Roadshow when we see you take the hill. We are proud to have you on the team. But seriously, stay the fuck away from our sister.

Helping Hands: Rain Delays

You can bet the Lords are out there in Houston doing our part to get you from work to a sushi lunch with clients and then back to work in under an hour and fifteen!*

Who cares about you? We do, that's who.

Be safe out there children.

*There is no way in a coal fire hell the Lords of the Loop would ever get out of their polished BMW and help your silly ass out of 6 inches of swine flu bayou slop. We hope you choke on spoiled escolar for even thinking such a foul thing. Eat shit and drown Cretans.

We're Sorry

Sincerest apologies for the trickle of posts recently. Here's a quick rundown of our excuses:

1. D. Burnes stole an industrial margarita machine from Cafe Adobe and has been experimenting with a new organic frozen called The Spermtacular.
2. A dolphin bit our penis at Seaworld when we were 13. All heeled, but we saw the title sequence to Flipper on ABC Family at the dentist and spent the next two days in a closet.
3. We heard that Maroon 5 was putting out a new single and so we had to put a stop to that. You're welcome!
4. Did you see Where the Heart is (2000)? Carlos did and is now pregnant and living in CostCo.
5. Our boss sent us to Grand Rapids, MI. We got our hopes up, because the joined words Grand and Rapids makes us think of a drenched Meryl Streep in The River Wild. The truth is, Grand Rapids smells and looks exactly like a wet John C. Reilly.

Forced to choose, we would have preferred a wet Kevin Bacon...

6. E. Wrath has reportedly proposed marriage to a plate of gnocchi at Catalan on Washington. So a robust flavorful congratulations to the happy couple.
7. Our design for an automobile that runs on sadness has reached a tipping point and so we've been reading Where the Red Fern Grows to a class of 4th graders and collecting their sorrow in a crystal decanter.

We know that you'll accept our apology, but in case you don't, we brought a gift

Peter Cetera - Glory of love

Lean away from the screen, so as not to melt your face.

In the News: Headline Check

While we'd rather be spooning with the dog and desperately trying to get back to the sex dream that comes more infrequently as the years pile on, we have an unfortunate "responsible streak" in us that forces conciousness and a drive to investigate the world around us.

Some of today's HoChro headlines...

1. M.D. Anderson officials say they may begin fireing, er, laying off, people next month. What a bunch of johnny-come-lately's. Fortune 500's down to mom-and-pop's have been laying off folks for nearly a year. Where the hell have you been M.D. Anderson? You think you can wait until the recession is waning and then ruin a few thousand lives? Bet you want a bail-out too, huh? While the medical district sits on the verge of collapse we know we can count on our thriving energy sector.

2. The Texas Senate sends $500 million solar energy bill to the House. To celebrate the passage through their part of the legislature Michael Jackson will sing an altered version of This One's for the Children via satellite from Venus called "This One's for the Hippies". While we're all for solar power and green shit, we're more for informing the state governmet that if $500 MM isn't enough to keep Freddie Mac afloat or it's employees alive it's not likely to jump start a new segment in a nationally embedded market. In a related story, Shell announced that it will begin layoffs in 100-200 years.

3. A body was found on fire in the streets of Tijuana. You don't say. Al Qaeda won't even go to Tijuana. Yet this is newsworthy in the 4th largest market in the country?

4. Guns are a comparable investment to gold and land. At least that's what this gun sto' owner believes. Has it really been a secret that long? The media, local and national, has been amazed with the uptick in gun sales since Prez-O indicated he is scared of them and the market went to shit. We thought everyone knew that the best time to shoot the fuck out of everything in sight was during a recession....

Happy Humpday bitches! Now go get your contribution-to-society on!

Art

The Dodgers are in town,
But there's no need to frown.
A big man's on the mound
And he's been the fuck around.

While you're at home gettin' drunk,
He's only throwing up the junk,
So drop to your fucking knees,
Casue muthafuckas, it's Russ Ortiz!

And now for your viewing pleasure, a work entitled:

Evolution of a Jstache

Go 'Stros!

Surefire One-Night Stand Outline

1. Dinner – yes, we know it seems a waste of time, but trust us, with the amount of alcohol you are putting into her, you want her to drink on a full stomach. Obviously, you don’t want to spend too much money, so we’d take her to a BYOB spot, such as Collina’s or Thai Spice in The Heights. For $20, you can bring a bottle of white and a bottle of red and get her good and buzzed. And the meal itself will likely be under $50 total.

BYOB - Win.

2. Next proceed to a fun, not too quiet but not too loud bar for an after dinner drink (translation: shots). How about Cedar Creek, Kobain’s, or one of those new places on Washington? Start with a drink and then make up some BS bet or dare, and you end up with 1-2 shots. Don’t do too many – you don’t want her sloppy.

+

=

BAD COP

3. Since she’s taken a shot or two, you clearly use that as an excuse to drive her home. You certainly don’t want to end up at your place – you want to be in control of the exit. Once you get inside, it’s game, set match!

Good Cop

Quick Monday Notes: 4/20 Special Edition

1. Merry 4/20 to all of you still smokin'. For those of you who are holdin' but are without the necessary tools to facilitate partaking, feel free to stop by one of Houston's proudest (and curiously out of place) chain stores, Houston 420.

Here you will find pipes, papers, bongs, hookahs, chips, dips, chains, whips...the usual...any and every accessory you need to fulfill what your stoned ass believes is the most spiritually appropriate way to inhale the by-product of a burning plant that Woody Harrelson believes will nurse cancer symptoms, stimulate the global economy if legalized, defeat global warming, and make time travel possible - Doc Brown was wrong: it's not the flux capacitor, it's the Purple Haze.

2. The Rockets managed to embarrass a Portland team that appeared to be blazin' some of OregOn's finest while on the trail to the game. I've never seen a professional sports team look so confused. I think Bill, Ted, Scooby, Shaggy, and Steven Wright should field their next starting 5 - they're used to playing under out-of-sorts conditions.

the artificial horizon is better than the actual horizon...

3. If you're hoping to rent Half Baked and veg out on the couch tonight with your girlie-girl, you should've bought that bitch long time ago 'cause it ain't available right now!

4. The 'Stros need a new dealer. The schwag shit ain't cuttin' it any more.

Happy Monday stoners, see you in the sky with diamonds.

Wisconsin: America's Frozen Yogurt

Your humbled Lords have accepted the honor of being blue ribbon speakers on the 13th Annual FYLA! Tour, Wisconsin Chapter. FYLA (Fuck You Looking At!) is a group of men dedicated to fighting against the Pussification of America's youth. Through a focused campaign of meatheadery, we aim to eliminate the four C's responsible for this sweeping epidemic of pusillanimity:

Chivalry Consideration Comprehension Charity

We've been asked to make several stops at local high schools along the I94 corridor. Our crusade begins in Wisconsin, which as evidence shows, is by far the faggyest looking state in the fucking Union.

Illinois is its cone.

If you need us we'll be at Madison West H.S. later this morning where we've planned a spirited program. Basically we chain lock the auditorium doors, gun 25 gallons of Whiskey into the crowd of students, tape cash bundles and gram heavy eightballs to all blindfolded male teachers, flip off the lights and let the kids sautée in loop of Danzig's "Mother" for about 35 minutes.

We can't imagine anything as motivating as a half hour of uninterrupted Danzig.

Make the world a better place, punch your principal in his fucking face. As we spread that special closefisted brand of Houston belligerence to those who really need it, you lucky bastards have a great week in the world's best city.

Uh, now what y'all know bout them Texas boys
Comin' down in candied toys, smokin' weed and talkin' noise
-UGK

The Secret to My Success (1987)

Summary
Michael J. Fox returns to his boy’s medium Ralph Laurens and plays the role of Brantley Foster, a 25 year old mail boy with aeronautical dreams of parlaying an MBA from Kansas into an upper executive role at a Fortune 500 multinational. Foster reaches his goal by posing as an idealistic new executive with yet another ridiculous frat-kid name: Carlton Whitfield. Helen Slater co-stars as Christy Wills, a ball-busting glass ceiling breaker who’s jockeying the grease off of her boss and CEO, but falls in love with Whittfield’s date-rapist persistence and marketing Performa graphs.

Cast
Capitalizing on his steamrolling popularity from days as Mallory’s exaggeratedly conservative younger brother, Alex P. Keaton, Fox chokes out this fluffer after starring in ass-to-ass mega-boners: Back to the Future and Teen Wolf; controversial films dealing with such topics as oedipal incest and bestiality, respectively. Despite a gross intake of $66 mil, Fox’s sheen baby face and Napoleonic stature, slots this film in a category along side the likes of Little Big League and Doogie Houser M.D., of outrageous child-in-power scenario-based entertainment.

Helen Slater offers up her dark eyebrows and blond hair in role really more suited for a circus dwarf, as despite sky camera angles and Fox’s man-heels, Slater towers indecently above him throughout their romantic interchange. You may rememberr her title role portrayal in the 1984 box-office destroyer, Supergirl, or perhaps a more recent portrayal of Elaine Tallidise in episode 13 of NBC’s epic hit series, Crossing Jordan (a show we’ve never seen, but can only assume details a young Israeli’s travels from Amman to Tafilahm, set against the backdrop of the 1993 NBA Finals).

Basic Film Recipe
5 minutes of fragmented dialogue (from either poor editing or poor script). Toss in a 14 minute lead character-profile improving montage. Repeat until nausea or credits.

Verdict
Siphoning any real character empathy or development, this film’s score and cinematography are to blame for mugging viewers of the emotional recognition needed to pull portions of this motion picture out of cheese and into the realm of quirky. Offering minor laughs and even less reason to think, TSTMS happily flounders through a sensationalist’s plot line enveloping office stratification and awkward romantic webs in a strong-armed effort at simply bulldozing believability.

The Lords give The Secret of My Success 3 adult smalls out of 5.This is the first of possibly many pointless critical reviews of obscure 80s films.

Once Hairful Friday: We Ain't Fraid of No Ghost

In 1984, a monolith dedicated to the flighty Demons of Hair was erected in movie theaters across America. With a vertical style that casted long shadows over the very civilization it ruled, this Gargantua erased the memory of all who came before it like floating down a violent river of grape flavored grain alcohol into an angry lagoon of opium.

Too hot to handle, too cold to hold...

We owe Dr. Egon Spengler for raising us during the tempest of neon that was the 1980s. We know to never ever cross the streams nor stare directly into the painted gaze of a Sumerian madman. We'd blindly follow any instructions that this pillar of hair commands, and find ourselves the better for doing so.

Have a great weekend loopers and remember, don't be careful...
...BE HAIRFUL!

Anvil Bar: The Drinks are Great or It's You!

Anvil Bar and Refuge
1424 Westheimer Rd
713-523-1622
Several Lords made it down to this new super spot yesterday after 8 hours of ditch digging and shaking ass for some frothy refreshment. Fledglings of Houston's most obnoxious lesbian pun, Beaver's Ice House, the barbabies who opened Anvil aim to serve highballs filled with cold art that you really aren't supposed to enjoy, taste or drink.

Our notes/impressions:

• This place is as cool as frozen steel, both icy in temperature, layout and building remod.
• Our first drink tasted like chilled battery acid vomit. We brought this pH nightmare back to the bar, only to be greeted by a dickface who personified and subsequently slandered our innocent taste receptor cells for not recognizing liquid greatness.
• It takes about 6 minutes to make a menu drink, so bring a fucking book with you to the bar, even on a slow night.
• We don't really care, but for a place that brags on its Master's in Mixological Studies, the bartenders eye that cheat sheet like its a porn spread of their mother.
  
• No television. By design? By budget?
  
• The Dark n' Stormy was solid, apparently so was The Curve.
• We counted at least 2 Quicksilver shirts.

Not this guy, but not all that far off

• We ordered a Beer Republic IPA off the menu and they were out, which was a real disappointment as this is our favorite Indian Pale Ale.
• Didn't try the food, but it looked like what you'd expect Monica Pope's disciples to spit up on a plate.
• They really need to bring the Opal Smash over from Beaver's.

We applaud Anvil for its attempt to crush the Houston Appletiniratti and come with a stark freshness. That being said, we aren't rushing back for more slow whipped egg white agave juleps served in bleached raccoon skulls any time soon.

Our rating system today is based on 90's hip hop and we're forced to give Anvil a slightly below average rating of Shai, for its talented ambition in a supersaturated market.

For more information about Anvil and other drink related overexposure, check out: drinkdogma.com

Astronots: Thanks for Winning

Jeff Keppinger: You have hit in all 5 games you've played in...we've played 8...6 hits...13 at bats...a team leading .462 BA...a walk...2 RBI which about 1/3 of our runs so far...we apologize for referring to you as "sluffed off skin of the Reds".

Bobbleheads and Crawford Boxes on Friday for Roy, boys.

Lord, please let us be there to see the 3rd of a string of wins.

Good Game Mike

Quick Monday Notes: Tuesday Edition

1. That squad car parked at the rest area on Memorial heading towards the loop from downtown is empty, so stop ram jamming your fucking breaks when you see it. We're behind you. We're always behind you. Chances are we're going 75 and have faces filled with leaded barbiturates and a recklessness that rivals Korean stuntmen. Be careful out there, our lives matter, even if yours doesn't.

2. 37 years old three man Brian Moehler is currently icing his sprained right knee and sizzling 27.0ERA in a JW Marriott penthouse near the Pittsburgh airport. If Moehler had been a racehorse yesterday, we imagine Dewey Robinson's relief of him in the third might have only required a curtain and fast bullet.

3. Better than Ezra tix go on sale for June 6th at HOB this Friday. Get yourself there.

4. Lords Fact Of The Day
All four Lords, as children, were featured on the Soul Asylum - Runaway Train video.

Soul Asylum - Runaway Train | Music Videos | SPIKE.com

Your guess is as good as ours...

Have a great week goblins!

Happy Easters

The Lords wish you a very happy and wet Easters today.

Having been raised secular Pagan, today we celebrate the Sequoian Equinox and trek deep within the belly of Memorial Park to satiate the Wolf God with sacrifices, bloodletting and dance.

If you live with in smell of the bayou, chances are you will see D. Burnes in hairsuit sprinting on all fours with a dove carcass in his jaws tonight. Consider yourself lucky, because it could be a lot worse:

No one, likes a ball hog.

Happy Easters motherfuckers!

Spotlight: Ron's Big Star Bar

Quietly lurking in the darkness of 19th Street just off Bevis is our new favorite watering hole, Ron's Big Star Bar. A triumph of elegance and class, there are no amenities left to be desired save for employed single straight women and sanitized needles. The bar, relative to square feet, is rather midgety and can get crowded, but unlike nearby Cedar Creek and her sister Onion the bartenders here give a shit and don't appear to have any agenda other than slangin' drank.

Among the Star's most excellent features are the jukebox, which doesn't require an arm or leg and plays only what's in it (fuck that download shit) and the Hefner-inspired Third Base Lounge where street craps and heavy petting are welcomed.

Outside you'll discover a modest firepit handy during the three days of annual cold, a store room housing extra wood and dead nutrea, and an even more handy metal awning sure to disintegrate into home and skull puncturing missiles next hurrican season.

On the highly sophisticated Lords Scale (1 to 1,000) we award the Star with 762 for high marks on atmosphere and service and failing grades in lavatory disease presence (though you should be too drunk to notice the fruit flies in the toilet you're puking in). Regardless, we'll be having many Lords-sponsored events at the Star and hope you all can make it.

Thursday Haiku: In the Bush

Astros versus Cubs

Diamond Club motherfuckers!
That must be a wig.

All Lords made it to the ballpark last night to see Moehler shit on himself and the glint of offense we're capable of on a regular basis. Kepp and Lance going back-to-back comes second to our chance to exchange grips with radio icon Milo Hamilton.

Enjoy your day children as comments will only be accepted in Haiku.

Astronots: Opening Series, Game 2

Okay, Jeff Keppinger, welcome to Houston.

Sorry, let me be more sincere...

WEL-COME to HOU-STON KEPP!!!!

You deserve it.

The guy actually has a .900+ OPS against lefties lifetime and carries around a .280 average, and he's had over 1,000 AB's so there's reason to think this may be a real good fit for him as well as Blummer.

But, please, don't go filling the talk radio shows with blabber about how you actually picked him for your fantasy team, or you were just saying the other day to your brother and sister set of shih tzu's that you had a feeling about him. It's one (broken bat, falling down) hit on his first adrenaline-rushed trip to the plate in his new home stadium.

Oh god, it's too late...about 200 of you are already hitting redial over and over trying to get on...

But seriously - keep it up, dude, and I'll apologize for the whole "sluffed off skin" thing...

Today's Complaints

In between taste trialing our cupcake batter which substitutes cocaine for flour and Bailey's for milk, we fire off about 20 or so daily customer complaints into the gentle hands of Houston's BBB with the destructive vigor of an executioner instigated by blood.

Some of today's complaints include:

At night, the neon gutter trim makes Cahill's on Durham look like a neighborhood hand job parlor or at least a place to get your palm spit on by a Cajun psychic with facial psoriasis.

There is an al qaeda cell that meets at Vintage every Thursday night. If yellow gold jewelry and 3 Series Beamers aren't qualitative signs of terrorism, then as far as we're concerned nothing is.

Hotel ZaZa rooms rape the eyes.

If you're looking for a rape joke here, you won't find one dirtbag.

The valet at The Lot told us they were Oxycontins, but they were really just cinnamon Altoids. Also they refer to their parking lot as a patio, someone needs to step in here.

The bartender at Bubba's has a black eye and she gave us ten ones in change, like we tip. Friends, the War on Awkwardness was fought on two fronts that evening.

We paid the tamale guy $3 for several hot beef tamales, but instead he sold us an earlier death.

Satisfaction. We Demand it.

Astronots: Opening Day Post-Game Thoughts

Damnit.

And...

Fuck you Carlos Zambrano.

Astronots: The Geritol Season

Nothing like the smell of a baseball stadium. Especially one with Aspicream and Depends spewing out of the home team's dugout.

Houston: this is your team.

Aside from Hunter Pence, who is actually poised (real journalist term...sorry) for a breakout season, and promising bust Michael Bourn, the best D-Mac and Ed Wade have to build on are Berkman, Lee and Oswalt who are each on the backside of their respective primes.

The last person to have such a breakout year is current/former 'Stro Mike Hampton. Anytime you have to refer to to the great year someone on your team had and it begins with "19", you best recognize you ain't got a paddle and your sitting in Shit Creek. Fortunatley, Mike figured we should witness both his best seasons and what are likely to be his worst.

The rest of the Nots (procede only if your stomach is made from recycled battleship):

Ivan Rodriguez - he probably ain't got the IQ of Brad Ausmus (few do) but he need only strain lightly to have more stick. At the very least, it's nice to have yet another likely HoF'er.

Kazuo Matsui - if he can keep his ass on the field instead of medical donuts we might actually get to see him play more than twice and, who knows, maybe he doesn't suck.

Tejada - fuck it, Miggy, we don't care if you juice your ass to kingdom come and tell Congress you mistook it for viagra, just play like you deserve $13 million.

Geoff Blum/Jeff Keppinger - Ho. Ly. Shit. This is who you give us Ed Wade? God bless and be with the Boone family, but it's not like we were looking that great at 3rd to begin with. The best our front office could do is couple Blum, who is worth his stick to have available as a lefty, with the sluffed off skin of the Reds?

Darren Erstad - I might be the only one with a Fathead of him on my ceiling. If we had an organization that put it's best players on the field every day, he'd be playing. Whatever his shortcomings, I'm not touching them because I don't like eating bats or washing balls, which I'm sure is what he'll have me do if he reads this as the guy plays with the intensity of a ferral pimp.

Pitching Staff: Oswalt - solid (actually due for a bad year and/or injury); Magic Wandy - God doesn't even know how he'll do; Hampton - already noted; Moehler - fresh of his career year of 11-8, 4.56 ERA...wow...I'm sure the opposition is shaking out of their leggings; Ortiz - see Hampton.

Pen: repeating the success of last year's season in the pen will be tough, but we actually have one of the best bullpen's in the league.



The bottom line: Things could be a whole lot worse and there is a lot of reason for optimism. We have a great bullpen, several potential members of the Hall, three starters who have had 20-win seasons, maybe the best closer in the league, and Doug Brocail who will eat the other team's rotation in last resort desperation. A healthy team will be a successful team. But more than anything, this is OUR team. So get out your foam fingers, crack a beer, and root for your 'Stros.

Quick Monday Notes

1. We're anticipating this work week like we can't wait to wrestle sacks of land mines down a concrete staircase. So we're taking a break from profit gen and kickin' it just for you.

It's Monday, which can only mean one thing...that's right...

...peach blazers.

2. If you like 2 note melodic satisfaction, you may want to check out Yankee duo Ratatat on Wednesday night. No confirmation yet, as some of us are still holding on to the dream of Diamond Club box seats that evening, but there may very well be a Lords sighting at the prime Meridian. Bring a magic marker and your favorite glossy 10x8 of Delta Burke just in case.

3. Opening day son. Look for some insightful bliss on this season from D. Byrnes as we board another runaway coal trolley that is Astros fandom, equipped with a Kate Capshaw (suspect rotation) and Japanese midget (Kaz Matsui).

Dodtor Jones, Mike Hampton is the fourth starter! Russ Ortiz?!?!
AAAaaaaHHH!!!!1!!11!!!

4. We would kill a homeless person to interview the bookkeeper of that recently busted Htown Prosty Ring. Over 1,500 professional athletes, doctors and lawyers are gnawing at their manicured knuckles in anticipation of impending divorce/asset liquidation. We've got a pretty great line we'd like to share about "paying for sex" and "eventually getting fucked," but we have too many magazine headlines to scissor and paste on a collage of anonymous blackmails.

Enjoys this cold snap and your week kids.

Once Hairful Friday: Hemptaculous

Early in season four, a young retarded man from Hanover, Indiana descends a fateful Boston staircase to become assistant drink monkey and dolty straight man in a wood paneled pub called Cheers. For several years, Woody Boyd served pints of idiocy to government employed alcoholics and the obese with a glass-eating child's understanding of the elementary plot developments around him. Young Boyd apparently also took to punching police officers in the face while laughing maniacally.

Franklin County Detention is always glad you came.

Decades later, you can still find Woody smacking the law as he sprinkles hemp kernels throughout America's parks like some urban Johnny Appleseed with bloodshot eyes and waning sperm count. The only difference is the replacement of Midwestern frat curls with Pope hating Sinead O'Connor's alien scalp.

If you need us tonight, we'll be working on the climax of our Cheers the Musical screenplay, which may keep us locked in the media room of our gaudy R. Oaks high rise condo analyzing the various emotions displayed by Sam Malone's billowy synthetic pelt.

Remember peasants, don't be careful this weekend...
BE HAIRFUL!

Chaos Week

A trailer loaded with veiny rubber dildos and various other exotic handsexing paraphernalia slams through an elementary school's gate at recess time. A cavalcade of raunchy-named pleasure devices hail down onto preteens in a holocaust of pornographic precipitation, and this only barely describes the chaos we've already faced this week.

After releasing a forecast which portends Q2 success somewhere akin to post Civil War Reconstruction and Crystal Pepsi, various bosses of bosses have taken to heaving sharp lead projectiles into the chalk hull of our career ship with gauged precision. Project cancellations and an exodus of technical expertise has our once heralded sales funnel now vomiting rum-scented future profits into an Applebee's dumpster. We're going through our Rolodex of market contacts, like hot bullets do Carl Landry, with a complete disregard for self respect, honor or health.

If worklife hasn't pushed a stroke out of us, getting chokeslammed by the bucket of cunts at our condo association could. We're Britpopface, Kate Nash, this week and there are fucking cracks in our foundation. It appears as though Hell isn't willing to wait, as judging by the rift in our Pergo floor it appears to be coming for us. Scheduling remediation and assigning ownership of liability to date has proven to be just easier than teaching kittens a Slavic dialect.

As bad as it is, we know someone who feels the same:

Thursday's Thoughts

Thanks to everyone that contributed to the new logo design.

"It's the bees knees" - C. Venezuela.

"Mewah" - DB

"I haven't been this happy since the syndication of Malcolm in the Middle" - E.Wrath

"To celebrate I'm coating my face in Malto-Meal and letting Heroine Kitty lick it off." - BB

We drink your milkshake! -- The Lords

Pepper Jack

On this day in 1978 an unworldly terror was released from the damned shackles of hell the likes of which would shatter benevolent humanity as we know it. Born with the temper of two junkyard Pittbulls on mescaline and the flighty good looks of Dracula's girlfriend, this bastion of evil has roamed the urine-soaked back alleys of our cities for more than three decades unchecked, leaving only the echoes of carnage in his churning bloody wake.

Looking back over the past 31 years, let's take a minute to examine the life of a steel oak tree known to mortals as simply Pepper Jack:

PJ can not be killed, because how does one kill the wind?

Jack's real father is a bridge in St. Louis.

"Papa?"

He has two tattoos. The one on his left forearm is simply a tribute to the riff demigods Tesla, but on his right shoulderblade...yep, your mother.

Pepper is colorblind. Is it really colorblindness, when color refuses to be his presence lest it take a roundhouse to the face?

PJ didn't invent the cup, that's absurd. He invented liquid.

Once a year, as an act of kindness, PJ shaves his chest to make warm coats for every child in the Ukraine.

It was just called City, Utah before Jack walked through it on a muggy autumn day.

You know Florida...Pepper Jack knows his penis.

If, by chance, you do run across this great man, nay this empire of light, be thankful for your life, because its over now.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOTHERFUCKER!