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!
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.
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.
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
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 DoogieHouser 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.
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 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
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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...
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 alqaeda 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.
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.
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 Astrosfandom, 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 HtownProsty 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.
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 SineadO'Connor'salien 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!
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:
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.
1. As mentioned by the inglorious E. Wrath, the Lords were seen shoving paths through a Fire Marshall's sweaty night horror at the Black Swan last Saturday. If you missed it, you missed E. Wrath sky humping an unaware bachelorette to Paperboy and the seersuckery of birthday baby and honorary Lord: Pepper Jack. (HT: Nessa)
PS. The Black Swan was obviously hosting some sort of Japanese wedding reception, because not since Karate Kid Part II have East and West cultures clashed so mightily in one evening.
2. We spent all of Monday after 5 working concrete out front of the Toyota Center scalping fake Brittney Spears tickets to various Girl Scout troops and homosexual men. We don't sell the experience, we sell the dream.
3. It's less than a week away from opening day and we're filling up the hot tub with canola oil in anticipation for the scariness that is Oswalt facing Zambrano next Monday. Speaking of scary faces...
Is he smiling mommy?
We are rooting intensely for our favorite non-LatinAstro not named Lance or Roy. Our prayers that Hunter learned how to properly slide into second (a testicle of the game we assumed dropped during teeball) this off season and can put together a year of uninjured completeness. Positioned on an unstable limb here, we're saying this five tooler is an All Star in 09.
4. Here's a little something to get you moving this Tuesday, because...well...you deserve it.
Don't be afraid to climb on that conference room table and let your office know who's king.
Last weekend the Lords cocked their 9's and headed into the Heights for a b-day bash Bedford style to honor a special lady friend. The duck ravioli, lemon crab rissotto, and hand-rolled sushi was better than a Czech massage parlor. Although we were craving something off the 99 cent menu and a butterflied Nathan's hotdog, we settled on the lamb osso bucca that melted off the bone like panties falling off the ladies at the Filthy Swan. Our waiter was as straight as a jelly fish in a washing machine, but the laughs were good all around. He even managed to serve us chocolate on a stick and flash-fried us back to TX/OU weekend - which is never a bad thing, provided Chris Simms isn't the starting quarterback. Loopdudes: Be sure not to miss the Dyson Blade hand dryer in the restroom de muchachos. It's the Bentley of hand drying machines and powerful enough to jump start an Obamatacular economy. With Egyptian soft hands, fiberglass smooth fingernails, and full tummies we levitated our way over to the Dirty Swan for some Katy Perry bubble gum rock and a dance floor of cosmic chaos. Life doesn't get any better inside, well, just outside the Loop.
BleachBrown will follow up with a few later, but here are a few to wet your palate:
High/Low lights -
A gallon of chunk in the first urinal. Not a drop on the floor. Damn, we respect projectile aiming skillz like that.
Lots of Asians. It was like Korea in a box of mirrors.
BleachBrown pushing E.Wrath into the largest Persian woman we've ever seen. She made Gina Davis look diminutive
Diesel Burnes being propositioned to trade his floral-print shirt in exchange for a pirated copy of Rad on DVD.
Send me an Angel.
BleachBrown encouraging E.Wrath to continue to slobber all over the hot chick on a date with the 2L from South Texas School of Blow.
And finally...Ridge Manners stepping out in a baby blue seer sucker suit. The Dos Equis Guy and the Warren Commission would be proud.
Stay thirsty my friends and dry your hands with care.
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.
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!
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.
(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).
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.
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.
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.
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...
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 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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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!
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...
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.
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