LordsTALK - Jebus T. Tebow

Loopdrones - we're back with another edition of LordsTALK and we are thrilled to welcome his holiness Mr. Tim "Savior" Tebow to the depths of hell, we mean Houston.

Our Tebow, who art in heaven.

TT: It sure is hot in here. Is it just me? And it smells funny too.

LORDS: That's the smell of our sins, Timmy.

TT: So, anyone in here need saving? I just saved a tribe in Tonga last week on my spring break with a bunch of handshakes and high fives. It took me about half an hour. Then I bench pressed a cart full of oxen to celebrate. One-handed.

LORDS: Tell us Super T, you've never done anything wrong in your life before? At least other than that personal foul call in the National Championship game last January... Some have even described you as "Christ-like" or the Messiah. Churches in Ghana use your sweat to baptize new members.

TT: Aside from that trip to Vegas where I snorted enough Angel Dust to kill a large elephant and Percy and I gave that Tahitian call girl the double stuff up her business, no I've never actually committed a sin. Jesus died for our sins anyway, so as long as we ask for forgiveness, we will always have a place in my, I mean, the Lord's heavenly kingdom.

LORDS: Tell us a little more about yourself.

TT: I was immacuately conceived in the womb of my mother, the virgin Carrie, in a small town outside Gainsville now know as Bethlehem, Florida. On the night of my birth, three wise ESPN commentators brought forth gifts of fearlessness, an unbreakable will, and a rigged Heisman poll. When I was 13 months old I etched the Footprints poem into the side of my crib with my Dad's Bowie knife. I have the foresight of a tarot card reader and the tenaciousness of a badger on a speed ball. I've never lost a game before, I've only run out of time.

LORDS: Besides convincing the children of the world that Jesus died for your national championships, what do you in your spare time for fun?

TT: Last week I painted Bible verses on the foreheads of homeless transients in the park. It's my new Paint the Pagans campaign. If they fail to convert after standing next to me, I pile drive them like an Oklahoma linebacker until they do. So far we've converted 718,436 hobos. This afternoon I'm showing Rick Perry and Greg Abbott how to bake gluten-free cookies iced with "I heart Jesus." It just doesn't get any better than my life. I love me some me.

LORDS: And so does everyone else. We also hear they've erected a new plaque of your speech from last season at the Florida football stadium.

TT: That's what Jesus told me last night during my bed time prayers, but I've been too busy to check out the plaque. I've been busy doing a lot of ministering everywhere possible so I haven't been back to campus much.

LORDS: We know what Tebow would do, but what would Tebow not do?

TT: I would not fail to turn water into Gatorade if my team was down at half time. I would not let any east Asian Christians name theirs sons after something other than me. I would most certainly not admit to Gator fans about having sex with a bunch of Florida State co-eds. And I would never fail to let an ABC college football audience that I love Jesus more than any thing else in the world.

LORDS: Even unprotected sex?

TT: No comment.

There is only one Golden Rule. Do as Tebow does.

Thanks for joining us on LordsTALK. Jesus Tebow, gradulations, you may now save the rest of the world.

Once Hairful Friday: Here We Go Again!

We base our daily lives and general morality around liturgy passed to us by the totem of late 80s glamrock. As these messages of prudence steer us through a tempest of indulgence, our mandate is to worship the benevolent hair providence in all its glory.

With shoulder pad movements that could hypnotize a tree cat domestic, British mansation and Whitesnake creator, David Coverdale, once stood at the apex of resplendence with blonde locks of liquid fire flowing through your girlfriend's every thought. At its orgasm, Coverdale's hair captured the imagination of a confused world, denying its fortress of appeal was then the equivalent of picking a fight with a guy in the riot palming a brick.

Fog machine...check. Wind machine...check. Some mild domestic violence on top of a cream Jaguar...check!

We're in the midst of designing Whitesnake's next cover art, in a transparent dream that our creativity alone will inspire a new album and subsequent 2010 tour, forcing us to bulldoze respective career paths and spend a summer floating between US amusement park venues, catching Hep G from a Mr. Bigg groupie and basking in the radiant babykill that is 'Snake. It's an electric guitar phoenix making love to Tawny Kitaen in a python orgy-pit on Saturn all done on MS Paint and we'll be submitting it next month. Fingers crossed!

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

Sensory Assault: EWR

We've got a layover in Newark and these surroundings are the bus full of pianos exploding our frail senses into vapor. Here you go:

- Kathy Bates in a Beetlejuice costume is sitting across from us with eyes firmly glued to our every twitch.
- Drops of Jupiter is playing somewhere and like a panther's growl alone in the rainforest, we can't tell where it's coming from or thusly which direction to flee from our certain deafening/murder
- Our lemon pound cake tastes like bathroom.
- A sherpa of noisy Indian children have descended upon us in a thick mist, smelling like a Hindi daycare and screaming for more chicken tikki.
- Reba is on the TV overhead. Hair. Lips. Twang. Horror.
- We're violently shoved to our knees by this airport's marathon fuckscent.
- Our lower right rib has snapped from a suited jerkbag shuttling our fleshy thorax with his blunt steel breifcase in passing.
- There are white jeans...everywhere.

Definitions: The Drake

The Drake (n.)

(1) A mythological vagina which bites penises with a parrot-like beak.

(2) A life full of tardiness spent in lines behind the handicapped.

(3) A plastic baby poncho.

See also to drake (v. to fall face first on a mounted axe), drakonian (adj. cocainey), drakely (adv. describes the walk used to avoid pain from a severe pelvic infection) and drake (n. Satan's thorny womb).

Program Note

We're held up in our subterrainean lair sucking down DayQuil smoothies with a rodeo clown's reckless abandonment for future brain function. As it does, real life has won this week's endfight against the virtual debate over whether we think So Vino in Montrose puts heroin in their pate.

If bosses are reading this, our illness and the begining of the NCAA tournament is a remarkable coincidence, and has been for the last 4 years.

Dance. Magic.

LORDS' Madness

At first we were a little crazy, but now we've gone completely mad! It's finally March and our under-achieving Horns are set to take on the repulsive rodents of mini-soda in the first round of the NC-2A tourney this Thursday at 6 pm. Lucky for us, we have a license to kill Gophers issued by the United Nations.

Doomed.

Sexy Dex is coming to dinner and Gopher is served. Please be forewarned, he eats nutria by the truck load.

We actually watched him swallow Kobashi once without dunking him in water first.

Quick Monday Notes

1. If you happened to have an intelligence seizure this weekend, you were probably downtown on Saturday blowing kisses into the St. Patrick's Day Parade with a retard's intensity. Wetter than mermaid sex, we sat tortured in the back of a pick-up for two hours drowning our fears of pneumonia in Wild Turkey and umbrella run-off.

2. The destroyers of melody, UB40, are slated to play HOB on Wednesday, April 29th. LOTL will be launching a campaign this week aimed at preventing the tyrannical abuse of eardrums from besieging our loved city.

Join us in the fight.

3. Our Runnin' Horns play the Golden Gophers at 6:10p on Thursday. The keg of optimism we carried for this year's veteran team has been whittled down to mere droplets of hope. Even if Texas gets out of the first round, the Horns would face the bonerchomping Blue Devils in Advantageboro, NC. All of this doesn't stop us from blindly hating our opponent though. Remember, you can't spell gay MEN's ScrOTA without the help of MINNESOTA.

4. It's Steve Winwood week motherfuckers!! Inspiration follows:
Higher Love
Valerie
Arc of the Diver
Spanish Dancer
Talking Back to the Night
While you See a Chance
Roll with It

Enjoy your week children.

LordsTALK - C.Venezuela

Loopostles - we're introducing a new feature where the Lords sit down with someone for an exclusive interview. We are fortunate to have our very own Carlos Venezuela.

LORDS: Carlos, tell us a little bit about yourself.

Carlos takes a long, deep draw from a thick Dominican cigar exhaling a sinewy jet stream of white smoke over his left shoulder. His black leather wrist cuff is slightly worn and his legs are crossed covering the strategically torn hole in his Rock and Republic jeans.

CV - I'm like an Old Spice commercial, half man, half beast. My mother was Nancy Reagan's social secretary and best known for her coining of the term "The War on Drugs". She was arrested shortly thereafter for running an opium factory three blocks from the White House.

It's still winnable.

CV - My father was a werewolf with a Vitamin D deficiency resulting from an addiction to the last season of Hogan's Heroes and honey roasted cashews. This may sound unbelievable, but I was conceived in the studio where Prince recorded Purple Rain, but have never met my folks nor seen Prince live in concert. I'm still wondering which I'd actually prefer. Prince has been one hell of a role model.

LORDS: How were you introduced to the Lords?

CV - Honestly, BleachBrown and E.Wrath found me face down in a pool of vomit in the middle of the dance floor at Sammy's after the club had shut its doors. They scooped me up, hosed me off, and I've been living out of a storage unit in 36 Sixty ever since. I owe them big time. Right now I'm just surviving credit card to credit card, but I've got this online cash gifting system thing that's guaranteed money. Two more weeks and I'll have my first money order, then it's on Diamond Club style.

LORDS: What's your favorite place for a one-night stand?

CV - Without question, Tipsy Clover. It's a guaranteed hook up for me after feeding a young co-ed three Pearl Lights, two roofies, and a line of Hydroxycut. They never remember a thing.

LORDS: Finish the following --

LORDS: If you could be anything in the world you'd be...

CV - Tiger Woods' cock.

LORDS: What's your favorite Giovanni Ribisi movie?

CV - Undoubtedly, Boiler Room, but his role in The Postman was brilliant as well.

LORDS: That's quite disturbing.

LORDS: Using a single video, summarize your approach to women --

Never gonna let you down. Utter bull shit.

Thanks again for sitting down with us for our first edition of LordsTALK. Carlos Venezuela, you are now off the hot seat.

Once Hairful Friday: Can't Slow Down

In 1983, the hallowed 8 Commandments of Love were gifted to mortals by the blissful tones of a celestial soft perm. This synergy of pop and soul under a curly tress of sculpted excellence exploded through American households faster than dropping bullets into kitchen blenders filled with lighter fluid and Plutonium.

The blind student/teacher relationship can be a tricky one.

Lock up your sightless daughters, because several Lords will be on the prowl tonight adorned in white linen blazers and a confident style. "Excuse me miss, that is a lovely cane."

Have a great weekend serfs, but please, don't be careful...be hairful.

Darkhorse Tavern: Scotch. We Demand It!

Darkhorse Tavern
2207 Washington Ave (713) 426-2442
Darkhorse Tavern finds itself just far enough down Washington from Pearl Bar/Citizen's to avoid clap of the eyes, but still close enough that you're not worried about catching a highway nap on the drive home. The generous patio allows you to toss back a few lung darts while still enjoying the pub's unforced charm. While rogue ex-Pats in another life, we found amenity in a baroque coffeeshop two blocks off Rembrandtplein. As a Houston locale, Darkhorse seances the same cozy awesomeness for us.

This underdog offers an array of drink specials to fit even the most discriminatory brand of alcoholism. Luck would have it that we recently found ourselves wet in the mix of $5 Single Malt Scotch Thursday. Scotch is usually something we reserve for home consumption as blending it with our perceived immortality is like throwing on meat gloves and waving arms in angry lion cages at a public zoo. Limbs are bound to go missing.

Our only criticism would be the music contraption's dollar rape just to get out one Paula Abdul hit.* The convenience of these digital J-boxes doesn't outweigh the taste and control displayed by a fixed set of albums. We struggle as this trend gushes throughout our bar playground.
Lords give Darkhorse Tavern the unprecedented Slurred Speech Award for excellence in the fields of Pubness and General Scotchery. Keep doing what you do sirs.

*Apologies to Brian (owner) as a member of our clan indeed rocked Cold Hearted Snake like its Middle School, purifying the joint of any paying customers hours before closing.

FU FB!

That's it, we've had it. If we have one more acquaintance inquire whether we have a Facebook account and if they can add us as friends, we're going to drive a meat thermometer into their left eye. To convey our vexation with this dark matter shit hole of a website they call a "social network", we have decided to create our own exclusive site called SpaceBook. It takes the synergies of MySpace and Facebook to create the uber web-interface of cyber displeasure.

That's downright Louisiana-style dirty.

Here are some of the notable details you might receive as an exclusive member of our new faction. Details are still being negotiated between our director of IT BleachBrown and his arch-nemesis C.Venezuela.

1. There is no "friending" on our site. This means no random ass messages from that tone-deaf midget that sat next to you in your 4th grade Texas history class. His penchant for sharting and Garbage Pail Kids repulsed you then, why would you want to be reminded of him now? Instead of blocking, we will actually have offensive capabilities which will include the ability to deliver a system crashing computer virus to anyone that sends an unsolicited message. The last thing they will see on their computer before the blue screen of death will be a personalized message that says: "I have no interest in being your fucking cyber-friend, so go buy a new piece of shit computer because we just wiped your hard drive emptier than Joel Osteen's soul."

2. No audio or video. Our site will not have audio or video file uploading capabilities. We have zero interest in that montage of your summer associate recruiting trip to Magic Island or your Nicholas Cage National Treasure Halloween costume. BTW, we think that no sideburns look is so creepy, it's not even appropriate for the Day of the Dead.

We know. He paralyzes us with fear too.

3. No friend counts. Why? Because no one gives a flying fuck about the online nexus of alleged "friends" you have. We haven't even seen as many people in our entire life as compared to the number of interweb minions our work spouse has tallied. I swear it's like she's running some sort of Nigerian e-mail scam from her workstation just to inflate her friend count. Sure you know someone named Hakuna Matata. On SpaceBook, you can only be connected to the Lords, so get used to us because we are more contagious than a case of HIV incubating in a Peruvian street hooker. Double bag? You'd be better off wrapping your goods in diamond-plated kevlar when making a connection with us.

4. No status updates. We will have two statuses: Drunk and Almost Sober. If the words are appearing in 3-D, it's not some special feature we've created, you're probably still drunk and you should update your status accordingly.

Until we get SpaceBook ramped up, please feel free to reclaim your life by canceling that parasitic trove of sewage known as Facebook. It consumes your life and has eroded the fabric of your psyche. You'd be much better off feeding your ravenous appetite with random conjecture on LOTL. We even promise not to send you bothersome messages making sure you know that the Lords are playing Scrabble and listening to Wham! Facebook can kiss our ass, before we Go, Go! We're crossing our fingers and hoping that mesmerizing dance-happy George Michael will agree to participate in our Superbowl promotion airing next year.

Choose SpaceBook and the Lords!

Quick Monday Notes

1. We just killed a Hamilton on green facepaint at Party Boy, as we get set to run caboose in this year's Houston St. Patrick's Day Parade. Fueled by brown liquor and someone else's tradition, this will be the third year that Lords have piled into the back of a F150 and indiscriminately launched metal shamrock key chains into crowds of Johns and crying orphans.

2. Its under a month until the Astros home opener against the Chicago Cubs. We're rolling our rrrrs in preparation for the return of El Caballo. Lee was tossing up doubles at a career clip last season only to knucklecuffed by Shitjar Arroyo. This year It's Panamanium!*

3. The Houstonist kindly lists the front half of this week's offering in the department of hearing. Our Wednesday is now a nightmarish coin flip we pray explodes mid air and cleaves our heads open, as we must choose between the twin hells of Canadia's Blink 182 or getting Fancy at the Rodeo.

4. This muggy weather angers the beast.

5. We're shopping a screenplay entitled Heroine Kitty. In short, its a period piece about a successful Calico who moonlights as a street justice paladin while battling the demons of a debilitating smack addiction. Think The Adventures of Milo and Otis meets Trainspotting set against the backdrop of the 1987 Invisible Touch Tour. If you'd like more information about this screenplay or another libretto, you can get in touch with our agent:

Tyfoon Coinstein
e: what!motherfuckers@2bluntproductions.com
p: (281) 2BL-UNTS

HEROINE KITTY

In a Land of Confusion, only one can save you...

...but can she save herself?

Little Woodrow's in the Village

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.

Once Hairful Friday: Returns to the Blue Lagoon

We could spend a tired career chronicling the gloryhair tennis bestowed upon us from 1973 to 1988. Instead, our goal is to focus, not on the most magnificent specimen (see: Bjorn Borg), but on deconstructing the steepest decent from coiffure wonderment. There is no stronger example in the sport than Mr. Sure Shot himself...

Armenians really are a sasquatch race

Sweet Mercy. Our thoughts and prayers go out to that tremendous headband, for it's truly one of God's sweet miracles. We'd throw up an AFTER shot of Mr. Graf, but fear the gleam would burn a hole through most retinas.

Enjoy your weekend plebs, and remember...don't be careful...be hairful.

Product Endorsement - It's ProCaulk Time!

Our first reaction was that this was the newfangled Viagra. Like an upgrade from 5-Hour Energy to 6. Is this the next best thing to mix with our Red Bull for a night of hiding the tool in the shed in the ladies' restroom at Komodos? We thought so. Unfortunately, no such extraordinary results were achieved. We were reduced to staring down a blossoming yet mysterious dental student on holiday from that D-bag town to our due north until she noticed our new thumb ring. We had paired it perfectly with a new Affliction tee and an Ed Hardy ball cap. How could she resist the synergies of these bitch magnets? It. Is. Not. Possible.

Taunt me and I will caulk you down with the momentum of a Thundercat on speed.

Anyway, of course we ended up plowing her, but not at Komodos. We had made our way over to Union Bar after the VIP herd pen shrunk down to a rousing conversation between two bouncers over who was going to clean up the John. Too bad for them, she made me go number three all over her back and half of the counter top too. Thanks again, Umbria. WHAT? That's a real name! We had confirmation from a real driver's license. Shut your holes, you envious pork swords.

So off to Little Bigs we went to cram our wasted faces with mini-midnight snacks. We woke up the next morning with new friends. Not a smoldering student of cavities, but French gout and a stank cock. No problem though, rub a little ProCaulk on it and it all fades away.

We rate this product five healthy whore-pipes out five!

scissor face

We're at Cahills absolutely hating life and watching Pitt take Marquette into a prison shower. Our buddy stood us up like its prom night and we've rammed down two Guinea and one of e wraths Vikes. If captain cockwart behind the bar looks in our direction once more, he's getting choked out with his brown dishtowel.

Don't be shocked if you live in the rice mil area and hear an air raid siren. Some one bleeds tonight...

Blow Out

Rarely would we leave our abode for a night on the town alone. We're the kind that may take in a matinee on a Saturday afternoon without companionship, but we'd never drag out our iron lung sans a friend and a crutch. Unfortunately, we've been feeling like a subterranean homesick alien for far too long and we're ready to prove it to ourselves that we can do it on our own.

We actually met her last Valentine's Day at a single-girls' dinner party. A house full of girls felt more like a house of cards. At first we thought she was a mute. We looked at her and sulked. She smiled back but it looked like she was attempting to swallow a pyramid-shaped light bulb. Two weeks later who would've guessed she would've been at Black Star Bar on the same Wednesday night as us. She wasn't the one we remembered. It was actually her friend who's claim to fame was once taking a trip to Alaska in the belly of the Exxon Morning Bell. She was the size of a small county in Nebraska and had clearly been corn fed for most of her life. We nudged her on the shoulder. Don't you know Stephanie Williamson? Stephanie was the hostess of the dinner party. NOOOOO, she roared with the force of a thousand suns and a pack of hunting bears. Oh, wait, yeah, I know Steph. I might be wrong, but you're, Billy right? Actually, it's Thom. You know what I mean, silly. Her jigsaw blood-stained teeth began to make our eyelids twitch with fear.

Our selfish goal was calculated with the intent of hoping to meet her paranoid android friend. It appeared that she'd finally waxed her upper lip and was beginning to relax after inhaling a line of Barbituates. So it turns out the Parliaments she's been smoking have also been contributing significantly to her recent weight loss, which is making her look extra special this particular evening. Or maybe it was the Corona Lights. Either way, we were hoping to clean the pipes. She grasps our treefingers without saying a word. There, there was her Volvo SUV just across the street in the parking lot. We take the 15 steps and foreplay ensues with the opening of the passenger-side door. A ripcord climax unfolded four seconds later with the unzipping of our pants.

Heaving bodies were packt like sardines in a crushd tin box. Feels like everything in its right place. She begins to bludgeon our beefstick and after seven-short minutes she's requesting a warning as her hand balances against the side airbag. Then our nice dream ensues. Just as she pauses to gasp for a breath and wipe the juice dribbling off the end of her chin, our throbbing vegetable dishonorably discharges right in her eye. We think to ourselves, will nail polish remover be of any use at expunging semen from a brow? Our thanks is the slamming of the revolving door. No surprises here. Her last memory of us was Radiohead humming in the background. As we leave her high and dry, we wonder if she liked the taste of our weird fishes.

Once Hairful Friday: Captain Jack Edition

Sweating cocaine and criticizing your pathetic life, an owl-eyed Billy J rocks faces crooked with a sinblistered disregard for the conventions of this world or the next. Due to some disagreements with the group, Joel's hair decided to pursue other interests in 1984. The two talents never truly excelled at anything after the breakup.

Have a good weekend kids. Remember, don't be careful, be hairful.

Endemic Loopeeves

Nails on a chalkboard. Chewing with your mouth open. No, what we're addressing can't be found on any of the pages penned by Emily Post. These outrageous habits plague many of those of us inside the Loop and have gone unchecked, until now. We shall eradicate these diseases with fingers pointed and guilt galore.

Spocktitis - We're talking to you, Jabronies. Hey guy with the mega-techno-phone growing out of your melon. You have a disorder of the, "You look like a fucking moron of the present." Spock died in the Rath of Kahn and you're not bringing him back, so put that Time Life Books operator device of the future back in your pocket until someone fucking calls.

FAIL.

Spousalthelioma - This silent cancer is actually contracted by your significant other while the illness ultimately manifests itself through you. It's a slow, covert assassin, but pretty soon she's sucked everything away from you and you've realized you don't actually spend any time your friends anymore. In addition to gangrene of gums and krill oil flavored saliva, signs of this disease may be detected early on. A conspicuous, tell-tale sign includes your spouse having a greater interest in tracking your cock with a GPS, than inhaling oxygen.

Pill Pirate Pathosis - You may have just had shoulder surgery, but your friends aren't just looking through your front window to check up on you. They're looking around for those Vicadin bonbons Dr. Painfree prescribed to you. Then they stuff them in their pants while you're re-dressing your staple wounds. Enjoy your recovery, we're off to augment our adult sodas!

Dry Leaving - You can't pretend you've never experienced this before. It's similar to dry heaving, as in when you gag like you're about to blow chunks, but nothing actually comes out. The symptoms arise commonly when you really aren't in the mood to go out, but your buddies have convinced you that a good time will be had by all at Kay's. Sure, maybe if Mario pimp slap you for ordering a bucket of Banquet Beers. Anyway, you finally arrive and your buddy's cousin has put away three Pearl Light's and is already falling into your lap. Problem is she looks like she's got Downe's Syndrome as soon as she's sucked down a few cold one's. You don't want to alert anyone to your impending departure, so you act like you're going to the bathroom and simply exit the bar. Game. Set. And Match. You've just made a clean getaway leaving everyone else to wonder: Where the fuck did he go? Answer: Evacuated from hell.

Scrubolepsy - Dear Dr. Vainglorious, we think it's swell you attended and graduated from medical school, even if it took snorting Myoplex and a Ritalin lolipop to pass your rheumatology exam. Yes, you are doctor. That does not give you a perpetual license to wear scrubs whenever you are among the masses. Do we wear our suit and tie to the gym? No, so please don't wear your pathogen-laced pajamas while you stare into the mirror trying to replicate the P90X instructor. Also, it'd be nice if you could turn down the volume of your voice. Bulgaria isn't interested in the hookers you met at Glass Wall the night before last. You. Suck. At. Being. In. Public.


Have you been infected? Are you a carrier? Now swallow your medicine with a spoon full of mirror.

Fuck You Its Star Pizza!

Star Pizza 2
77 Harvard (on Washington)
(713) 869-1241

We decided to eat out last night. We wanted a place offering Zeusian ambrosia and a staff of cretins who would happily slash out our sinewy pride tendons with cold hook knifes forged from years of mistreatment by the wealthy and attractive. This searing of love and murder can only exist under one construct...

Come for the pizza! Leave...a little abused...and angry.

We heard that some president man was going to try and sell us a miracle salve for our suicidally flaccid financial portfolio, so the intent is to sit in the room with the large 1993 rich family projector TV and try to believe. To our subtle disgust, we are informed that Star Pizza chooses to avoid the harsh controversy of a presidential monologue, thus decreasing the chances of some politically charged feelings betwixt patrons boiling over into a kitchen tool bloodbath amongst partisan rivals. We briefly imagine being forced into decapitating the busgirl with a 2.5" pizza slicer because she sees merit in an auto bailout and decide not to stay.

"What about fiscal accountability, Marta? Where does it end?"

The guy at the To Go counter has a bear trap for a grill and speaks in asshole. We try to explain the paradox of placing an order for delivery at the restaurant, but we can only hear the echo of our pointless words bouncing through the grey clouds of bong rip in his otherwise vacant skull.

In the end, sauteed spinach, chicken, artichokes and feta cheese on whole wheat, makes everything better.

Looprivia Vol 2: Off the Menu

Its Looprivia time muppets! You know the drill, first to comment with all answers correct receives a series of terrible prizes:

• A Lords of the Loop T-Shirt

...Ah she said I was the tiger she wanted to tame...

• A shot glass of genuine Dominican tears
• An autographed VHS of The Wizard with Fred Savage*
• A wet sock full of Quaaludes
• A personalized song performed in costume by Ed Wrath, set to the melody of Skid Row's I Remember You

If you're worried that answering these questions will result an early morning, Spandex clad E. Wrath's dizzying display of air thrusts and diamond cutters on the hood of your new BMW...your fears are just. Let's get wet.

- Looprivia Vol 2: Extra Anchovies -

1. Mardi Gras Grill on Durham serves which of the following Cajun delicacies...
a. boudin
b. frog legs
c. alligator
d. raccoon
e. all of the above

2. True or False? Brennan's was razed to the ground not by Ike, but by legendary chef and sinister hatchetman Mark Cox.

3. What rho at House of Pies will turn any child under the age of 8 gay for Hispanic men?
a. Texas Fudge Nut
b. Banana Creams
c. Adam's Apple
d. Inverted Toffee Crotch

4. Which definition is correct?
a. Ruggles (v.) - to consume a 4,000 calorie sandwich made from eggplant, fried blue cheese and bitter cherry essence
b. Reef (n.) - (1) a submerged ridge of rock or coral near the surface of the water: (2) $150 before tip
c. Soma (adj.) - describes a group of males in tight shirts sitting on IKEA furnishings
d. Tealas (n.) - a Mexican brand of dog food
*Please note this tape is autographed by Beau Bridges and not a 90s wonderchild.

LordsWOW!

Every so often something comes along to inspire us like no other. For many it’s religion. For some it’s reaching the apex of a gargantuan mountain. For the Lords, we are in complete and utter awe of ShamWOW!

Several rumors have been floating around about this incredible product. Let us clarify. Michael Phelps was actually smoking ShamWOW!,not pot. $18 Billion has been set aside to line the Alaskan “Bridge to No Where” with ShamWOW! Sure Chris Brown b-slapped Rihanna, but the story you didn’t hear was that she snatched his ShamWOW! and unloaded it on eBay.

Look, there’s 50% of the cola right there! The other 50%? We served it to you last night during Big Monday with three-week-old Ponzo’s pepperoni rolls.

"It soaked up all of the pools of milky water inside the Loop! I am so satisfied I even started a fund raiser to supply every special-needs HISD students with one! No more paper towels to suck up that drool.” -- BleachBrown, ShamWOW! consumer

So what are you waiting for? Call now and get them while they’re hot. Warning: Do not tease or taunt ShamWOW! And definitely do not sleep too close to it. It’s suction is so powerful it will even soak up your dreams.

Guilty Pleasures of the Lords - We Shall Overcome!

Sure everyone is downtrodden by the market's latest ominous news. The chances that you or your neighbor will lose their job increases exponentially with each passing day. What can we Looper's do to take our mind of these dire days? The answer is simple. It's the little things in life that allow us to make it through each billable hour and sales call. Here are a few of the simple things in life we yearn for and crave. We don't just promise intangible hOpe-bama. We offer real life-changing diversions at your very fingertips, something no government bailout could ever supply.

1. Billy Ocean



Truly orgasmic. He's also just kicked-off a European tour. Don't be surprise to see us there.

2. Malcolm in the Middle.



Yes, we DVR four episodes every day and get goose pimples at the prospect of being able to fast forward thru commercials after a long day of staring at Outlook 2003.


3. Coke ZERO on Tap


Our office may have cut discretionary bonuses this year, but at least we have this bubbly bit of heaven to quench our parched throats and caffeinate our souls.


4. House shoes

We've broken these out for many public occasion and soon we'll be pairing them with a robe for a night out on the town. Don't be afraid. Embrace comfort.

5. Cadillac Bar's Sunday Brunch


Stuff your faces and drown your sorrows in mimosas at this Sunday spot. Opens at 11 am and consistently better than head from your file clerk.

6. Target

Quality tail is abundant in this super store and provides free entertainment for hours on end and a better chance of a hook-up than wasting a $100 on a tab for a socialite named Aspen at Sammy's.

7. Cinnamon Toast Crunch


Fuck you, it's delicious.

Check out these sinful self-indulgences and hopefully you'll reconsider catapulting your leased BMW off the 610 / I-10 interchange on your way to work tomorrow morning.

Little BIGS

No this isn't the name of our testicles. It's the newest orphaned son vomited out by the owners of Reef, the purported number one ranked seafood restaurant in the country by Bon Appétit magazine. I don't give that ranking any credit because this is the same magazine that showered Chipotle with praise. The only thing I've come away from that establishment with is a case of tongue shingles and an agitated colon that felt like it was polished by the Department of Asphalt.

Nevertheless, the one bright spot of Reef has always been its slider burgers so we were excited to learn that the new joint would focus solely on that. These tiny bites of heaven are so tasty King Leonidas actually considered turning over Sparta to Xerxes for a trio. What's a trio, you ask? It's an order of three sliders. You can choose from mushroom, burger, or chicken, and mix and match as you please. Burger is our staple, but don't be afraid to gravitate toward the chicken one's with a helping of LB’s special sauce. No, not that kind. Get your freakin' mind out of the gutter. The mushroom sliders are coated in molten-lava cheese and then flash fried. The only thing better in this world would be Paul Walker's under-age girlfriend glazed in Gruyère.

Hey man, there's nothing wrong with under-aged chicas

Then there's The Dude. It's a miraculous milkshake libation aptly named after a character from The Big Lebowski. This tundra of creamy communism, also known as a Frozen White Russian, promises not to disappoint. It even has Vladmir Putin's stamp of marxist approval. He'd make it a part of the daily food rations for the peckish peasants of Mother Russia, but then he wouldn't have any more funds to blackmail the Kazakhstan Prime Minister. And if you ask nicely, they'll even let you take the adult beverages to go. We're sure this practice won't last long since this is Texas, not the backwoods of Thibodeaux, Louisiana, so take advantage while you can!

Dude, we hope to see you there during your next late night meal. After all, Little Bigs is open till three on the weekends, so there's no need to sit in line at Whataburger for taquitos unless you truly believe you actually have a shot at a hand job from that first year corporate associate. Her hands should be nice and smooth because she's billed only 12 hours this month and been lubricating them with Jergen's all week to stay busy while the economy melts down right before her very own eyes. FYI, there’s no drive-thru at LB’s so we won't hold it against you, because after all, that is one of the few valid excuses worth missing out on these divine bite-size sandwiches off of Montrose.

We rate this place four sloppy-smooth-associate handjobs, out of five.

Population Control Inside the Loop

The Lords gathered at the Mexican miracle on Kirby to imbibe some frosty cervezas and participate in a lively round-table discussion of the latest and greatest methods of birth control utilized by the yuppies of the Loop. First, as a caveat, there is no scientific proof whatsoever that any of the following methods are actually effective.

Undoubtedly one of the most common situations fertile young male Loopers encounter is the conundrum of averting the impregnation of that dirty-thirty-year-old whom you brushed up against on the way to the little boy's lavatory. Sure, she had been pouring buttery nipple shots down her throat at her roommate's bachelorette party. And you had just consumed the better part of an embargoed Cuban cigar given to you by your work spouse, but your sexual target lives in Katy, so why not get it on in the backseat of your X5 rather than drive way outside the beltway?

Unfortunately, the condom you had stashed in your glove compartment in 2003 for that MBRE post-ethics exam romp with the quiet girl in the back from your Fed Tax class had gone bad. She had insisted on taking it back door to preserve her technical virginity status so there was no need for the condom, but the expiration date was now 752 days past-due and was as crusty as the Longhorns' running game last season.

Back to the X5 and no condom. Thanks to the Lords, we now have a myriad of conception-prevention options.

1. The Rhythm Method - One of the most popular, yet seemingly misunderstood and quite confusing birth control approaches, is undoubtedly The Rhythm Method which could be accomplished by doing any of the following:

a. Playing Miami Sound Machine at high decibel volumes so that the sperm become so confused they don’t know which direction to swim. Think of sonar and beached wales. Without a doubt, our go-to track of choice is this:

b. Keeping the Beat (a/k/a, “Beat It”) - Another misunderstood variation of TRM is the use of a four or eight count beats to time the gyration of your CK One diluted sweat-covered bodies. The goal is to prevent from moving too quickly to excite each other to the point of creating a symbiotic environment for the fusion of gametes. That's fancy speak for when sperm fuses with an ovum to make a baby sea monkey. If a nearby friend is around, his newly purchased bongos from eBay might come in handy.

c. Pulling-out - This is really just a euphemism for TRM for you Loopers. In the end, if you don’t pull out prior to releasing your Scud missiles inside her Temple of Doom, the eggo will be preggo. Trust, us she’d much rather prefer an archipelago of your snow all over her thorax than having to contact the Attorney General's office to name you as one of their top five most wanted for failure to pay child support.

So we can maintain our 501(c)(3) status and make this somewhat educational, please see a complete description of the Rhythm Method here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rythm_method

If you actually practice any of the above, you will assuredly end up like this guy:

Damn, Adam must have been one horny fellow.

2. Hot tubs - Yes, chlorine kills it and will thwart any chance from pollinating her stamen. Please be careful in group situations so as not to dilute the potency of the sperm murdering cleaning agent.

3. Gravity - If you have her on top, it is a well-known fact that sperm cannot swim against Earth’s gravitational pull. So if you have to release your load prior to withdrawing your cannon, make sure your pistol is facing north toward the sky.

Thank you, Sir Isaac.

As a bonus, we also suggest utilizing a zip-lock baggie in lieu of a Trojan; however, this technique hasn’t been employed since the infamous spring break trip of ’87 in Anahuac at Grandma’s ranch house. For a secure seal, the bags with the "yellow and blue make green" gimic are preferred.

Saran Wrap and Wax paper are far less superior alternatives

To close the Loop, yes, we did end up scoring with her. Twice. Outside in the parking lot of Volcano. No, we didn’t use roofies. Those frozen screw drivers work just fine.

Its a Taco Miracle

We believe in miracles. We also believe ghosts exist and that they just want to help us understand...

JLH is apparently listening to the ghost of Debbie Gibson's ruthless bangs

Miracles happen and we stand in dumbfounded awe at their divine gloriousness. Sunrises, snowflakes, dreams, our paycheck, HD television, lymph nodes, Jordan Shipley, processed cocaine, rainbows, really good ribs, kitten faces, the success of Howie Mandel, galvanized steel, the Lourdes Grotto and our eczema medication are all perfect realities which happen without plausible explanation.

If you need us for any reason, we'll be huffing the goodness out of a dense Cohiba this happiest of hours outside Taco Milagro of the Kirby variety. We won't be eating, only smoking embargoed sin and pushing a fix of tequila juice in our faces until blackout or trauma or both.

There is defined reason behind tacos, so we can't slot them in the 'milagro' category as easily as some.

Career Aids

Cough...

A year ago, our employment was skipping queerly on a charmed career path, wrapped in flowing shrouds made from the finest compliments and toting a wicker basket bloated with wildly over budgeted CapEx projects and a healthy regional expansion outlook.

If you need our career today, its lying under a wet pile of crimson stained needle tips in a Detroit railyard squatter's nest wincing hysterically for more sweet horse. Our mom has already knitted a quilt patch for our current job, but denies this anticipatory action to prevent us from tossing all hope in front of a coal train run off tracks. We sit beside our sallow, emaciated profession at community clinics with sole aim in gaining enough free trial opiates to grind up, blend with a 5th of Military Special and funnel choking until coma.

We'd throw our face in this bucket if you'd promise to buy something this month.

We've got the career AIDs, but we got it from a transfusion, so we aren't definitely spending eternity in an evangelical hellfire playing heads-up 5 card stud against Boy George's libido for escorts. It was a transfusion of management which invaded our living utopia, propelling a blanket of frozen bricks at sales funnels with hooded prejudice. The old partners from Philadelphia think this style of management is a bit unfair.

We aren't the only wretches suffering from this viral coup. In fact there has been a veritable holocaust of casualties. You have to look hard past shallow attempts at hiding their deep facial bruisings and vast territorial yeast infections to observe the signs of plague, but its there. If sales orders are lifesavers, then jobs have been tethered to many a slow sinking boulder in open waters form months.

The only fix for this affliction is to rip a page from Magic Johnson's playbook and heave weighty bricks of cash in its general direction. By cash we mean bags of sales and yes, we're saying Magic Johnson cured AIDs with platinum smoothies* and diamond suppositories*, its fact, its science, its the NBA on TNT.

This guy has the HIV like we have Godzilla's tail in the front of our pants.

*We know there are no such things. Ervin cured his HIV with an amalgam of Chilean organs, chai tea and a kingdom of breaded protein.

Bob Schneider at the Mucky Duck

If you've never heard of Bob Schneider, then you never lived in Austin and probably don't have a methadone prescription or STI from Sandra Bullock, two life-projectiles which landed gruesomely close to us at one point.

Bob is a very gifted song writer/storyteller, who's music spans several genres, but stands juxtaposed in an acoustic concert setting. Its a gamut run of emotional outpouring as well as a filthly sing-a-long with Schneider. His personality comes through in his songs and performance, which is, we think, why we like him.

We remember him well going to Texas, as The Scabs (a group of which he is the front man) would shovel their sexually explicit lyrics and metaphors into crowded fraternity parties regularly.

This was our first time at the Mucky Duck, which didn't disappoint as a venue. The sound quality was crisp and not so loud that you hate yourself for a week afterwards. The pub food was well above average.

Quick Hits from the evening:

• Mucky Duck is a first class place, but we aren't sure its right for us all the time.
  
• We overheard that the owner of another frequented pubtype (color + animal) alledgely beats women smiling.
• Our favorite Bob song has always been Big Blue Sea, but Gold in the Sunset is nipping at heels.
• Our fellow Lord, Diesel Byrnes, has a favorite song too and not surprisingly its Where Have all the Cowboys Gone? by the talented Ms. Paula Cole.
• Our waiter was tragic from go, but got progressively better as we started to say rude things loud enough for him to overhear.
• Bob recorded this session.
• Helen Hunt is actually Asian. She had eye surgery in 1981 and bleaches her hair daily.
  
• Bob played with the help of a loop device and what sounded like a Matel MyFirst Piano.
• In a 4th grade spelling bee we proudly spelled nickel: N-I-C-K-L-E and cried ourself hypoxic right there in front of the entire grade.
  
• The Mark Portugal sandwich is deliciously flavored with real chunks of Mark Portugal.

Turkey, bacon, avocado and a career 4.32ERA deep fried in angioplasty and served with a dill pickle.

• Bob ended the night with a rousing rendition of Ass Knocker.
• If we were a musician, we'd definitely play the bassette clarinet and our first album would be entitled: Just Put Your Mouth on It.

Tales of the Unpleasant: Cahill's on Durham

Cahill's
903 Durham
Houston, TX
(713) 864-9400

For us, Cahill's is a proximately choice. Close and easy, the same way Arkansas men choose eldest sister for wife. Every time we decide to slop into Cahill's, the one bartender that looks like a fucking Ewok assaults us with his alarming face and gross inability to pour a decent pint of Guinness.

- "What a'll it be boys?"

Its unexplainable lack of seating and unplugged refrigerator scent make Cahill's the perfect place to ditch someone you hate. If you're the eighth person in the bar and still want a seat you're either leaning against the vomit stained walls or sitting on a toilet. We hear there's a rather fun patio over looking the barbed wire fencing on Durham, but since we doubt the waitress's translucent flesh has ever stepped outside to catch a single ray of sunlight, let alone take our drink order, we wouldn't know anything about it.

We regretfully ordered a hamburger there once. It becomes difficult to grade a dining experience when our plateful of greasy crime discharges antisemitic rhetoric and ultimately pulls a stolen .9mm on our blissfully Kosher digestive track. Our cowardly surrender lasted two porcelain nights, but in truth it never ended.

If you're like us and have awful friends who appreciate this black hole for all things enjoyable, then we'll certainly see you there.

We'll be the ones watering the circumference of the building with gasoline.

The Exact Change Bandit

Its a pucker morning at the office. We're wearing khakis and sandals because our boss is in Florida ruining someone's life a week before their pension matures. The air conditioning and our exposed toes banter with one another like two old men quietly being racist. The hive, relieved of some of its buzz after this most recent round of holiday firings, is throbbing with the macabre faces of forgotten hostages.

Our morning game is counting the number of times we hear customer service reps apologize to a stadium of unsupported customers and accounts.

At 9:30, the break room gets a visit. Much to our chagrins, we realize Armando from accounting didn't receive his pink slip on December 24th like we heard he would. Had we overseen the seasonal layoffs, Armongo's notice of termination would have been wrapped around a hurling meat clever. He nods in our direction then returns to pausing for breathes between aggressive bites of a McGriddle.

We ease our dollar into the vending machine and punch F4. Our liquid aspartame comes bucking down the drink shoot creating a familiar tune. In one motion we lift our Diet Dr. Pepper out of the catch and jam our sausage digits into the coin return ...

...wait...

...what the fuck...

...no...

...we bring our fore and middle fingers to eye line and they are both covered in shimmering ketchup. It appears, some fuckpang has flooded the office coin return with disdainfully sour condiments in a crude attempt to punish those of us without a coin purse. A bandit insisting on exact change.

To make the situation an even more a frostbitten penis, Armando throws his fat face in our direction and chuckles, "you just get your period?"

The Exact Change Bandit may be a filthy unstoppable menace, but his wake of destruction pales in comparison to the death toll amassed by the elusive Mexican Leprechaun...

Don't be fooled, that smile has killed with a knife.

Andre Ware Rookie Cards - $0.20 and Dropping

The 1989 Heisman Trophy winner and Cougar High product can be heard each morning on AM610, partnering up awkwardly with the voice of the Houston Texas, Marc Vaginapussy. These two clowns wax poorly about Houston sports all morning with a subtle disdain for their callers and nothing original to say.

We have a particular distaste for Andre's biased takes on our Longhorns, so if you're wondering what to get us for Xmas this year, look no further.

Sometimes $0.25 is a little too pricey.

You can buy it for us here.

We'd buy it for ourselves but we're saving that money for a gum ball at the grocery store.

Buddy Guy at the House of Blues

Several Lords were seen sipping cool beer from plastic bottles at the House of Blues last Friday night. All 72 years of Buddy Guy graced the joint and was kind enough to throw heavy buckets of hot magic into a packed house.

We've never seen an inanimate object personified the way Guy makes his guitar come alive. Well maybe this.

The music was therapeutic as if we just visited Niagara Falls or a got fired from our job we hate. We left there feeling small in our own accomplishments but hopeful at possibilities of acheivement.

His music fills our empty glass with wonder. It also sublimes faces into a gaseous cloud of suffocating excellence.

We were quite impressed with the House of Blues in general. Though we didn't go upstairs, the balcony looked like a pretty dope situation. Also, getting alcohol (while $7/MGD) was no problem, as we swung several a dead cat and hit many bars and unappreciative patrons. If you have the chance, check it out.

(HT: D Byrnes)

Dear Sunny 99.1

Dear Sunny 99.1,

First off, we applaud your monumental strides at maintaining the status of Houston radio's pink retarded baby koala. Forced, by the mongrels who work amongst us, to listen to your trite pop selections at work we have no complaints; sometimes you even drop an unannounced Chris Isaak* buzz-saw on us and it takes all our strength not to roll around on the office floor in a crude display of jubilance. Occasionally, when its A Morning in Studio with Dido, we contemplate drowning desk radios in broken urinals, but for the most part, we okay.

There is something troubling us today though:

Christmas Conga by Cyndi Lauper
Last Christmas by Wham!**
Merry Christmas with Love by Clay Aiken
White Christmas by Michael Bolton
8 Days of Christmas by Destiny's Child
This One's for the Children by The New Kids on the Block

All in one hour? Surely not. Do you have any broken glass we can eat to get this taste out of our mouths? Perhaps something dull and hard to ram with extreme prejudice into our tender thoraxes.

Its only the 4th and Julio Inglesias has raspingly wished us a panty dropping Feliz Navidad 20 times. Elvis, Boyz II Men and The New Kids recorded seasonal songs to exclusively pay for prostitutes, barbiturates and suede suits during the negative slope of their respective careers. Not really gifts the Three Wise Men toted.

Besides, encouraging Harry Connick Jr. only makes him seem more human and, trust us, this will be trouble in the long run.

We'll be the first to say it: HC2 is the definitely a seed of the Serpent. You see talent behind that thoughtless gaze. We only see monsterous wrath in those bangs.

We can only assume the Sunny studio is just a pale virgin named Tyler broadcasting from his sister's basement, so we're not pretending this letter will end up on the COO's desk at Cox. We'd just be neglegent if we didn't point out that Sunny is contaminating Houston with stronger pollutants than Dow Chemical.

Best Wishes,

Lords


*In 1990 we wrote a doctoral thesis entitled "Influences of Sea-level Rise on Tidal Inlets caused by the Wicked Game Video."

**Anything recorded by the group Wham! gets a pass on this website, due in part to the fact that "Careless Whisper" once saved our lives. A story we will never share, but haunts our every breath.

Lords to Austin

If you need us, we'll be in Austin this weekend fighting off the Hanta virus we've contracted in Wuppertal/Florida/Vegas with the aid of near lethal champagne, dark meat and Texas football consumption.

We will be gating near the Dish at least 12 hours before kick off, so come on by and get an autographed picture for your grandchildren. Just listen for Billy's Ocean's Suddenly on glorious loop in the corner of the parking lot.

In the meantime, an olldie but goodie:

Aggie Fan

Aggie Fan has little in his life to celebrate, therefore any thimble of success is reason to collectively hold hands in solidarity as men in uniform and then later use that same grip to rejoice inside a ruminant. Chances are he’s got home and away Troy Aikman jerseys in his closet and plans to wear both of them at some point this week.

In every 32 Aggie Fans, there is Aggie Woman. A stocky female, forged from the hardened cowpies that litter the streets of Bryan/College Station, Aggie Woman shops for clothing in BBQ restaurants and has seen more trucker penis than a urinal off I35. Her nipples are like fighter pilot’s thumbs and she menstruates Pabst Blue Ribbon. Aggie Woman is like the white guy in a southeast St. Louis off-shoot of the Crips; you don’t know how she got there, but she’d cut her own mother’s throat out in the name of respect.

Grampa Aggie is a gentleman by nature, until game day when Kentucky Deluxe and deer sausage turn your family butcher/taxidermist into a belligerent maroon hurricane who vomits okra casserole on his dying wife whilst pridefully spouting antique racist slurs, not used publically since sometime around The New Deal. He’d dive head first into his burlap-sack-wearing pregnant daughter-in-law, if he thought it might help his team get a first down. Grampa Aggie attended A&M during the rapiest years of sheep raping, and still can’t be trusted around the family collie.

...should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet one of the aforementioned, simply place any visibly shiny objects on your person in a small pile and cover said pile with a mixture of Mint Copenhagen Long Cut, giblet gravy and nacho cheese, then run as fast as you can downwind.

Hook 'em

in case of stairs use fire

our london hotel had a fire drill for kicks last night circa our third late-for-biology-exam and nude dream. Thank you Arora Hotel Heathrow for the complimentary water bottle and the ear siren we will happily check home with us to the States.

We're on CO33 headed back towards the Loop. Stinky McNevershowers and his pickled tuna breathe next to us say a very long hello to you all.

See you loopside!