That Gym Guy

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

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

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

...

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

Rant over. Please disperse to go forth and mock.

The Washington Avenue Drinkery

4115 Washington Avenue
(Formerly The Daily Grind)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looporons: Man Jewelry

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

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

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

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

Are you Brett Michaels?

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

Do you write or perform rap songs for a living?

Is your first name Sigfried or Roy?

Do you rule the Kingdom of Zumunda?

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

Are you a member of the armed forces?

Are you a Thundercat?

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

Out,
The Lords

LoopHunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our score:135. Think you can do better?

Blog of the Day: Manbabies.com

Link

Lords to Austin - America’s Birthday

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



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

Definition: Shebroni

Shebroni (n.) (1) feminine version of Jabroni. Known to frequent large-upscale apartment complex pools inside the Loop. Also spotted in notorious douchebag havens such as Pub Fiction and Tipsy Clover. Synonyms: Douchebaggette, dirty bitch, Gucci hoochy and cocky slut.

They travel in gaggles with their male counterparts never too far away.

Over-accessorization, tilted Ed Hardy hats, skunk-bleached hair, and visible tribal or foreign-language tattoos are the most distinguishing tell-tale physical markings of this fecund beast. Lately, Shebronies have invaded the Loop like a pandemic of swine flue. They ooze attitude and are easy to spot (but not identify) with sunglasses nearly covering their entire face. (It's the new paper bag! Shit-ugly girls magically become princesses!) We're guessing welding masks are the next big thing, so we've decided to go all-in and sell off our short-term California municipal bonds for a majority interest in Weldingmart.com. *Crossing fingers*

Careful, Shebronies only have BFF's and mortal enemies. We don't have to warn you which side of the fence you should choose. They also carry the innate reflexive ability to do the appropriate dance to any rap song playing within earshot. Fedora hats, sugar-free Red Bull in hand, toe rings, ankle tattoos, or constant texting? Like, you may like have a likely candidate, dude. Unfortunately, the also speak in surfer-dialect. And then there's the metallic cloth-like material and an arm full of bracelets. Is the Roman army approaching?

So what are you waiting for? Get out to your local pool or shot bar to behold these obnoxious fiends. Don't get too close though, or you're chances of having one of the Shebroni "Brahs" in your face increases exponentially with each step toward the brood.

Letdown of the Day - Megan Fox Has Toe Thumbs

It's true, Megan Fox has toe thumbs. Alas, she is no longer perfect.

They also transform into buldozers as needed.

We blame it all on that insipid Shia LeBeouf. We've been LeBeoufed again!

Concert Watch: HEART - August 27th

Defying space and time, the legendary power-ballad super group Heart has located a worm hole to Houston and will soon be violating our ears with sonically-driven harmonies and emotion-roaring riffs guaranteed to vandalize your inner-core and embezzle your dignity.

Details

The Lords and love will be there. What about you?

Libations to Loathe ITL

As Lords of the Loop, we bathe ourselves in the most up-to-date knowledge of the flavorful libations Loopdrones are puring down their throats these days. Below are a few we've encountered, although not admittedly consumed, in the last week. Should your mixologist serve one you Loopbronies any of the following cocktails, we will not fault you for hurling it back in the face of the cunt-smirking bartender feigning friendliness for her $2 tip.

Perfect Pussy - the ever elusive paragon of our blissful sexual desires has now been liquified into a single shot-sized potation for every horny bastard with an attitude and $6.75 to waste. We thought Peach Schnopps and Red Bull could only be comingled at 8th-grade sleepovers and Pub Fiction, but the gypsies of Corpus have managed to recently flavor-inject the Loop with another metaphorical mouthful of this ridiculous concoction. Panties are sure to drop in Summer '09 with this poison on the menu and a hand-job of hope.

Volcano's frozen screw driver - East meets West by pureeing Japenese-orphan baby bits and frozen Tang into an Arctic slurpee that is sure to cool you off during what appears to be the hottest summer since Nagasaki. Dosages not to exceed more than four per hour to avoid pressure-releasing skull surgery the following morning.

Dark and Stormy (Anvil) - this allegedly refreshing drink will euthanize both your pride and self-respect all in one sip. With hints of Cap'n Crunch and Black Cats and topped off with a sprinkling of George Clooney's whiskers discarded from his days on Rosanne, it may be exactly what you are thirsting for to celebrate a suicidal 4th of July.

This guy obviously had a few too many at Anvil

So what are your favorite drinks inside the Loop that you love to hate?

Friday Quick Hits

1. K-Ham graciously suggests the best Houston food merchants who don't charge a cork fee on the 80 ounces of Mad Dog you brought with you as lubricant on date night. Though a relatively infrequent poster, her words are gospel...also, she's our sponsor.

2. Steve Winwood made a sexfire in the Toyota Center Wednesday night. If you missed it you're probably still hunched over in agony from the 11-4 kneecapping delivered by the purple and gold glitteratti that is LSU baseball.

3. The smelly proprietors over at Indie Houston press on with their crusade at trying to make Houston independent music relevant. We share their same delusional affliction, as to this day we refuse to believe that Macaulay Culkin's character dies at the end of My Girl.

Wanna go tree climbing Thomas J? He can't see with out his glasses.
Fucking bees

4. Hair Balls scribe and prostitute frequenter, John Royal, gives his take on the organ blending plague that is this year's Astros team. Royal ultimately suggests the tack hammer mercy killing of Jason Michaels, a charity to which we'd happily donate.

5. It's someone important's birthday this weekend and to celebrate you will find most Lords flipping a lobotomizing amount of alcohol as we crash the moat of one of our many Height's castles. This anticipatively jubilant weekend is best discussed amongst the angelic tones and godly hair of sisters Wilson.

Happy Friday Motherfuckers!

R.I.P. Michael Jackson

So say the monoliths of integrity at TMZ.

We stopped paying attention to anything MJ did after Dangerous and therefore only mentally prosecuted him for the Remember the Time video. He leaves behind a splintered legacy. As Lords we will always thriller on Halloween, walk with rhythm in a parking garage and pretend the sidewalk illuminates with a simple touch of the foot in honor of a fallen King.

We will...finally. Rest in Peace MJ.

Also Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and the next generational icon to die tomorrow.

Dean's Credit Clothing, The Sequel

315 Fairview Street

We strolled into Dean's at 5:30 on a Friday, heady with anticipation for the happy hour to come and the FOBs that we hoped would come with it.* Or maybe we were just heady from the fumes in the air. Paint fumes, to be precise. We imagine the conversation thusly:

"Why is no one here?"

"It can't be the monotonous post-industrial space and uncomfortable minimalist furniture."

"It surely can't be our beers that are only two degrees shy of a Nick Lachey boy band."

"Maybe it's the color of the walls."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

(In unison) "BABYSHIT BROWN!!!!"

What really made these fudgesicle facades stand out, however, were the price tags for art that wasn't there. We can only assume that these were offers to BUY art in a desperate attempt to mask the terrifying ugliness of the walls. Offer accepted. Our newest piece, Goat Penis Fandango, will be delivered shortly. You're welcome.

Inspiration

Listen, we'll take our drink anywhere. Greyhound bus terminal? Check. Playground at River Oaks Elementary? Check. Fortified wine under the Pierce Elevated? Double check. But this is precisely why we don't quite get the existence of Dean's second locale. At least the original is actually in an old clothing store, which imparts some playful kitsch, if not some retro authenticity. The deuce is just a shitty bar serving warm beer in a useless location. Skip it, and meet us in the parking lot of the Chuck E Cheese on Weslayan. We'll be there at 3. You bring the Boones.

* If you need to ask, you're not ready to know.

Definition: Jungmanns

Jungmanns (n.) (1) ginormous elephant-size testicles. (e.g., The Texas pitcher punked the entire Tiger hitting lineup and then rested his Jungmanns on the forehead of the LSU coach following the victory.)

Unfortunately, Les Miles was too drunk to notice.

Loopeve: Boat Shoes

Let's be clear here. Boat shoes are for two types of people: sailors and fags. Since we were forty miles away from any body of water of significant size, we will assume the latter. Unfortunately, we've been seeing this Loopeeve pervasive throughout the Loop during our random surveying of the Loopasites in our immediate vicinity. To begin to explain the origin of this ridiculous phenomenon would be but mere conjecture. Calling it a fad would give this happening way too much unexplainable credibility, which we do not. In addition, these same sea-faring closet homosexuals also are under the absurd impression that GAP jeans are also acceptable forms of clothing to cover one's legs. They are not. If you look in the mirror and your are no longer in grade school, it is simply unacceptable to shop at the GAP unless you also have food stamps in your pocket or are not heterosexual.

We assume you prefer to be the catcher because slippery surfaces
are just too much for you to handle without your uber-grip shoes.

Yes, that's right you stupid gaggle of pathetic fucks hanging out at Escalante's last Friday night. We were trying to enjoy a lovely evening with our beautiful dates, when you had to come outside with your untied ruh-tard slippers and your overly worn-in Gay and Proud jeans. And no, those Marlboro Reds did not excuse your poor performance for a human being and place you back inside the Looper map of existence. Why attractive women were hanging out with you is more of a mystery than the disappearance of the Air France flight over the Atlantic. The only conclusion we can surmise is that you had cocaine in your glove box.

Got Boat Shoes? Definitely Gay.

Houston's Own Soup Nazi: The Dumpling Lady

"Next," the weathered old archfiend of a woman shrieked like a Vietnamese prison camp warden to the emaciated lunch heathens in line before her. A quick snap of the neck may be your only hope. Exact change is your only defense. Downtown drones have come to know this heathen and dictator of the food court simply as the "Dumpling Lady." She's Houston's very own Soup Nazi.

Mouth-watering bliss awaits you in hell. Caution, they've never taken out the garbage.

A mouth like a fly trap and a toxic uzi-like gaze. The Dumpling Lady, as many of us affectionately refer to her, is a cross between a rusty lawmower blade and Ginghis Khan's liver. Some wish they had been warned. The Park Shops is her lair. Most recently her empire has expanded much like the Mongols plundered old China. Thoughts of her venomous stare and threats of stir frying our spine are enough to make use clench our jaws in fear and crush our molars into Pixie Straw dust. Nevertheless, brave souls risk their very beings each day to consume the best dumplings Houston has to offer at Doozo.

Which Houstonians do you fear the most and would not face without a Honzo in tow?

Dream to dare and wager your life to dine; however, we'd rather be on the front lines in Afghanistan than look her in the eye. In our opinion, Chik-fil-a will do just fine.

Thursday Haiku: Chivas/Soda

Nearly there lawyer,
Where we getting rocked tonight?
Scotch, soda, repeat.

Cutting edge computer technology meets handicapped percussion in music video heaven. Seriously, after today we need to fucking kill our thoughts.

Have a very Adrenalized Thursday Loopatrons. See you in jail tomorrow!

Enemy of the Kingdom: Cargo Shorts Guy

We saw you last night at the bar. We see you every night. Your date looks so pretty in her cute little dress, with her trendy shoes, overpriced purse, and perfect hair. So why the fuck are you wearing cargo shorts, a baseball cap, and ironic canvas tennies from 1955? Are you carrying tools in those pockets, Tim Taylor? Are you time-warping to a basketball game against Richie Cunningham? Or are you bathing in irony to cover up the stench of your own self-loathing? Maybe you don’t realize you’re on a date. Here are three clues:

1. Wherever you go, there is a girl standing beside you. She seems to know your name.

2. When you picked up that girl, you had to wait ten minutes for her to finish her hair. Because she’s not wearing a baseball hat, douchebag, because you’re going on a date. At night. And not to a baseball game.

3. You want to make the sexie-sexie with this girl, and despite every ounce of wanker pouring from your being, there remains a chance that she will let you.

We’re not saying that you need to spend as much time on your couture and coiffure as she does. This is Houston, after all, and you’re not (openly) gay. But jeezus, shitbird, show some respect! She has chosen to spend the evening with you, so the least you could do is take off your hat and put on some pants. You'll still be a tool, but at least it won't be so obvious to the rest of us.

We measure your tact against a scale of Mossad torture methods, and you rate a Glasgow Smile.

A wag of the finger and a slap to the skull, Cargo Shorts Guy, because you are an Enemy of the Kingdom.

Many thanks to JR for pointing out this specimen of class. Have a Fucktastic Friday, Loopizens.

It's Thursday and It's Awesome

To celebrate this most awesome Thursday, we ordered Rocky III on fucking LaserDisc. Why? Because we're awesome and Rocky III in HQ is awesome and Thursdays are awesome. A perfect storm of awesome just crashed your mind.

We'll be holding a private screening of this timeless epic at our palace in the sky next week (or as soon as the webmerchant ships our collector's item). Enjoy.

In time the goosebumps will pass.

Written and directed by genius. "I'm going to crucify him, real bad." Perfect. We'll let you know a date and time. Until then, you'll easily find us in yellow tanktops racing our former enemy/best friend on every beach.

Happy Thursday Mutherfuckers!

Wednesday's "What the Fuck!?"

Old people...they have false teeth and bad breath. They drive slow and cause wrecks. They are without control of their bladders and wear diapers. They also claim to be wise.

Bullshit.

Kathryn Winkfein, 72, proves that old people are stubborn, feel entitled, and, in all their wisdom, make really fucking stupid decisions.

After being pulled over for, uh hem, speeding (a "what the fuck!?" bonus) Miss Winkfein jewily questioned the officers nerve to interupt her day using only explicatives and surplus saliva. Having then been threatened with a taser, Miss Winkfein called the officer's bluff. He tased her.

Miss Kathryn Winkfein...WHAT THE FUCK!?

Here in La Porte

Here in La Porte,
Cat shit, to Snort,
Test grades, fell Short,
Kin sex, a Sport,
Here in La Porte.

The San Jacinto Monument
Because nothing salutes the brave men that fought and died during our Texas Revolution like erecting a 30 ft granite cock.

We hate us some La Porte with a fever. Which OTL community could you proudly set ablaze with little concern?

Definitions: Kirby

Kirby (n.)

(1) A surgical procedure which fractures the skull to make it smoother and just slightly bigger.

(2) The cost of new suspension mounts on a BMW.

(3) Thin heated copper wire inserted into the penis during techniques of persuasion developed by Koreans.

(4) A Mr. Mister song.

"Kirby frustration down the road that I must travel..."

From the latin: testes kirbitum. or the medical condition commonly refered to as "dusty nuts."

See also: kirbily (adv. the method used to dig out of one's own grave, hastily with no progress), to kirby (v. to scribble autistically in a coloring book with disregard for the lines) or kirbable (adj. able to be fucked, fuckable).

OTL: Sao Paulo Vol II - Fogo your Face

Last night, we slapped our wallets inside the original Fogo de Chao and got fucking Diesel'd on warm cachaca and bacon wrapped llama thyroid. If you've been to the Fogo on Westheimer, then you know it's the eatery equivalent to a day spent at SplashtownUSA on Beatles-grade angel dust. It's the same in SP, only buffed with Amazonian goodness and more skewered meat than a New York prison shower.

Pie Charts ooze credibility.

Our general safety concerns were expressed among the table, retorted by a Latin colleague who compared all things Brazil, which frighten our blood flow into a red steam, against a Venezuelan baseline. If we fear the taxis, abductions, lengthy eye contact, packs of bloodlusting dogs or gunshots up ahead, we'd never make in Maracaibo where they brand "VEAL" on your pickled face at immigration.

We sat enchanted by tales of the doorknob ease one could sequester the facility of a genuine transvestite at any hour AND the intimate details by which our host coworkers knew of this apparently habitual delicacy other travelling Eurostaff partake in regularly. We felt the belt of our job security tighten a notch with each senior manager's name revealed as we cleared our glistening plates of peppered marmoset heart and bathed under a shower of golden Caipirinhas.*

........................................................................................

The brain stem refuses all requests this morning, no matter how trite or necessary. We would have accused you a liar if you claimed one could vomit chunky brown via the eyesocket. "Not possible, couchfucker," we'd declare with assertion. Today... we witness the truth.

CO92 sets sail at nine tonight and we'd like to think this bull got tamed domestic, but we know it's us who felt its unruly horn.

*We have no clue what a Caipirinha is, but we know for a fact it IS NOT Portuguese for tranny urine. Putting that shit to bed.

OTL: Sao Paulo

We decided to hop on the red eye and go where it's winter. Equipped with a pillow case of cel phones meant for women of the battered variety and our collection of slightly used hypodermics we find ourselves in Sao Paulo.

Cleveland was out late slumming it with some of her girlfriends. She met her Omar Sharif in Cairo and his tempting roofie teabag. Their unwanted brown spawn grew up to be a very obese and dusty Sao Paulo. It really is a love story.

We just ordered something you can only pronounce under water. It's a plank of fried cheese covered in meat. The beer we are confronted with doubles as a tool for fire suppression.

Ironically the meat is battered too.

Not pictured is a garbage can of fries, two unfiltered packs of Newports from WWII and a coupon for complementary back-alley angioplasty/heart abortion.

The English television is a choice between soft core American pornography and one of the Delta Force sequels. In truth, we would choose nothing else.

Our outbound flight to Paris was cancelled for some reason, so we'll see you back loopside in a few days. Obragado!

Don't Take Us Literally

TGIF

Half Past Eight

After a sun-soaked Saturday watching our Strohs give it up to the North Houston Ass Rangers, and then frolicking with the dogs in the Mansion's crystal pool, we needed to get out. We first tried Pearl, but oh how sad are we now? Young and pretty has left the building. What comes after "Cougar," anyway? (Answer: the Lord.) Not even the presence of one Shane Battier could resuscitate this bastion of quatragenarian gypsy dancing. Our out-of-town dates deserved a better show, so we rolled down the Wash to Eight Lounge.

That's right, we said Eight Lounge. As in, "Ei8ht" is not a word, and we inside the loop be a literate mob. The Lords, however, are as forgiving as we are magnanimous. We will overlook this linguistic tomfoolery in our quest to find the next best thing. And so we did, only to find ourselves confronted with a sight more rare than a crowd at a Quanell X rally.

Don't call me Ralph.

Eight Lounge had itself a line. Out the door. To get inside. Say it slowly and let it sink in. We make it our business not to patronize joints with lines because we don't fucking have to. This is H-Town, and we are the Lords, and the fun follows us like fucka follows mutha, so we are not waitin in no mutha fuckin line. We will take our hollapalooza to someplace chill, and that's all we have to say about that.

But see the paragraph above regarding Pearl. Maybe we should rethink our policy? Our dates were getting antsy. And this is where our story turns sublime, because just as we began our march forward to grease the palms of the palace guards, an unlikely savior appeared from nowhere, as if sprung full-grown from the head of Zeus. Some sort of benevolent Jabroni-king had taken a shine to our dates' friend! This gentle man of indeterminate Mediterranean origin offered to slip us in the side in exchange for her digits. And so it came to pass that we did visit Eight Lounge that night. Thank you, Jabroni king. We are not sure about your judgment, but you are a credit to your kind.

And the sights we saw! We admired the Houston skyline from Eight's impressive rooftop terrace. We sipped champagne and admired our beautiful smiles. We danced to the oontz oontz until the lights came on. And then we broke up a catfight by the ladies' room, just for good measure. To the cute brunette who eats, it was the coked-up skinny blonde's fault. And we will testify.

It's Where You Died Last Night

The Manor on Washington
4819 Washington Ave, Houston, TX 77007 (713) 426-0123

Had we stuffed our liquor scarred epiglotti with ranch pounds of freshly picked Crockett, TX shroomberries, our creative upchuck of velvet horror would only half decorate a train lavatory compared to the Omega force which belligerently spewed checkerboard seizures and partially digested Gummi Bear shimmer into this former car wash.

The Manor at Washington and the hideous faces within its dark walls and snappy patio amplify the sins of its hostile, vanestruck barstaff and blind Moroccan interior designer. Upon entrance you're subject to charm rapists serving up below average cocktails in a room ripe with 70's pornset dumpster furnishings and dyed camel pelt wallpaper. The Manor succeeds in its aim to scrub mouths (and lives) of taste vigorously with a cold wire brush whilst being firmly handled by faceless patrons and an eyeborn typhoid of Off 5th discounted euroflash.

of the eyes...and this is not a game.

Sadly, we live within urineshot of this sense assaulting Arcadia which only manages to pour boiling mineral spirits over our rage inferno, since stains like this one lay the shredded newspaper down for more saloon miscreants to breed, feed and toilet in our fragile neighborhood.

Our rating system today is based on Time's list of the 100 Worst Ideas so we're forced to slot The Manor on Washington somewhere betwixt those pioneering entrepreneurs who founded the Heaven's Gate cult and the public announcement: "in left field, batting 6th: Michael Jordan."

Jabroni Sandiego

If a tree falls in the middle of the woods and nobody is around, will Jabroni's still flock to Midtown like flies on shit?

Last weekend, we actually had the pleasure of experiencing an hour long conversation with a fully-certified, Axe-Body-spray-sponsored Jabroni sitting by our pool. His tattooed murals of skulls and women gripping penis-shaped daggers would make the hair on Salvador Dali's paintbrush moonwalk on your face. The only problem was, this young gentleman had no idea of his Jabroni classification. It begs the question, do Jabroni's actually recognize their d-baggery status level or are they in just as much denial as Roger Clemens testifying before Congress? Let's look at the context clues:

1. Dolce & Gabanna wrap sunglasses - CHECK;

2. Pinky ring with ominous skull head - CHECK;

3. BMW 3-series key ring - HALF-CHECK (He actually drove an Accord);

4. Memorial Day-weekend Airbrush tan - CHECK;

5. An attitude laced with Jager and Red Bull: DOUBLE CHECK;

6. Blueberry-infused Stoli vodka for the ladies of the pool - CHECKMATE.

Needless to say, we were taken aback when Memorial Day Jabroni was describing places he doesn't like to hang inside The Loop because of all the Jobbers. The only thing he was missing was a mountain of awareness. Have you ever listened to yourself in the mirror before?

We don't mean to judge, but it looks like we have a dead ringer for J status and it's like staring down the exhaust pipe of a 1976 Dodge Challenger. OK, we're lying, we even pre-judge the words you speak before they even consider exiting your talk box. So J-bags, if you walk like a duck, and talk like a duck, you're a fucking Jabroni. There's no hiding from these sleuths of the Loop. We're your worst Carmen Sandiego nightmare.

Son, you are even less subtle than the North Korean government.

President's Club

We're sitting calmly in Houston's Club Prez awaiting a flight that will take us to Seattle, San Diego, Boston and Sugar Land. We measure hangovers against a register of despotic genocidal leaders and after last night's liver whoring, based on the Idi Amin scale, we're a brain throbbing Tamerlane.That facial hair tells our tale of misery

Since we fly more than a Serbian mafioso hitman, we've come to appreciate watching the brain liquification process that occurs to our fellow co-travelers during the distressful holocaust that is a security check point. We love the attention paid to us, as we carry on various prototypes and stink of ammonia passing severely noticed through the screening area. Chad tenderly pats us down and questions our loose citizenship. Notice us! that's all we want.

Have a good week, you faceless mass of society contributors.

Friday: Bacon Heros

Let the erosion of the five day work week continue. Friday Children!

We're going straight Footloose this weekend. Playin' the new kid in town, rocking some tractor chicken, smoking meth until our teeth rot, quoting scripture in city hall to the horrible cast of 3rd Rock from the Sun, beating our neighbor about the skull with Kenny Loggins Essentials and teaching simpletons the ways of dance.

Bringing high waist jeans into your office and beyond

Subpoena a fucking terrific weekend and enjoy life inside the loop.

Happy Wedding to S and T

We Hate You

Dear Fucktard at Catalan wearing scrubs last night:

Did you not receive our previous memo? We thought we made it unbundantly clear that under no circumstances are you to wear scrubs in public, especially in food establishments. You may only be a dentist but you had your hands in people's mouths all day and your lazy ass was probably wiping your hands on your "uniform" all day because of shortage of Purell inside the Loop in light of the swin flu pandemic. You're not even the most important person in your own office. That would be the hygienist.

We were having a perfectly pleasant evening with our 22-year-old fifth-year-seniors from UofH celebrating the end of finals until we looked over at your nasty face and saw you wearing those bacteria-infused work pajamas. We'd rather lick a urinal cake than sit next to you in the same restaurant.

We want to slap chop you in the face more than this guy:

BTW, the Colorado lamb chops from Catalan were almost as good as the Rocket's win over the Lakers in game 6.

On to game seven and death to the rapist, we mean Kobe.

Gibbs Boats and Motors: Serving You Proudly Well After the Apocalypse

1110 W Gray St, Houston, TX‎ - (713) 526-4349

Defying all of man's reason, there is a boat store selling boats and general boating apparatti on the poppy corner of West Gray and Montrose. We pass by this this hull merchant weekly and throw up a meaty fist in abound confusion. If this crystal hammer idea works why didn't our dog optometry clinic ever make it?

This picture mocks our terrible, terrible ideas

Then is hit us. Perhaps after the Great Yucatan Asteroid of 2113 and resulting tidal wave which crashes near Humble, a new Texas coastline is formed and Hugo's becomes a really delightful seaside locale to have Sunday brunch. In a civilization crushing instant, boat sales in the gay friendly quarter of Houstantonio break the sky and Mr. Gibbs laughs his sinister laugh pushing a wheelbarrow full of global currency all the way to the spacebank.*

In a kingdom of spoons they are the fork

One day we will meet this Gibbs genius and we will learn from him. Until then, we tip our hat and crown thee:
Most Inappropriate Business Location in Houston
Kudos, sir...kudos.

*In the future there is global currency, spacebanks and racist machines, but remarkably, people still use wheelbarrows.

Hubcab Wednesday

We just witnessed a young gentleman walking through downtown Houston wearing a red track suit and a hubcap around his neck. What's even crazier, we think it was a spinner. We thought Flavor Flav made his comeback years ago. Looks like the trickle-down effect is just now reaching the Loop.

On another note, here's a link to our new favorite blog outside the Loop:

FU Penguin

Happy Hump Day!

The Ugly Baby

So what are we supposed to say when you bring your newspawn into the office?

"Gee, Jennifer, that sure is a cute baby. I especially like its horns."

"Wait, wait, wait...we think we saw this episode of The Outer Limits."

"Wow, you don't typically see an infant quite this hairy normally.."

"Margie, your baby just tried to buy our soul."

It's not that we don't like your baby, it's that we don't want to live in a world where that sort of wet orgy of horror is allowed to grow and continue. Your baby punches our heart with its face.

"She's cute like a steel spike through the skull."

Please keep your ugly baby in the hole where you found it. --Lords

Monday Surprise

Since we all experienced wood the first time we gazed at Susanna Hoffs and Co. and we regularly find ourselves apathetically meandering through cyberspace in false hope of finding something to latch on to for more than 2 minutes, we offer this jewel of motivation...

Any other slacking you do today is up to you. Have a good week boys and girls.

Thousand Words

For everyone looking down the icy barrel of a furious mid-May work week, know that someone, somewhere has it much, much worse...

Umm...boss?! That sales funnel you needed is ready...

To our mom's and yours, Happy Mother's Day!!

Friday (Thank Christ) Headlines

1. God bless the NRA: Some recently-without-steady-cooter dude barged his way into the apt. of a now-with-steady-cooter dude because the cooter he lost was the cooter the other dude gained. So the dude now-with shot his ass. Fuck yeah he did. We think tazing is more funny, but it doesn't change people's ways like a bullet does.

2. La Porte has herpes: We all knew this. But we really can't be reminded enough to stay away from the town heralded as having the most beautiful haze in Texas. We don't recommend visiting the website mentioned while you sit your unproductive stale asses in your personal hell hole HR calls "the office", although it would help pass time. But if you do, don't blame us when the tech cop rolls you. And trust us - keep out of La Porte.

3. Only 500K more: Now there's some good news! We think this is the point that the economy begins to get his ol' swagger back. A measly 539,000 more people are without a paycheck this month. That's so awesome!

4. Damn, we always had good luck with Emily's: But now we'll have to begin assuming at least 8 women in the bar are named Emma, which could totally confuse us when we talk to the cops the next day.

10,000 El Caballo bobbleheads are available on Saturday, cabrones. Since the 'Stros have officially gone Hoover Vacuum we'll be getting around 50 a piece as attendance is estimated to be about 200 including players.

Have a safe weekend.

Thursday Haiku: Mind Your Manors

New bar, The Manor
On Washington. Wished we'd
Brought a rape whistle.

Happy Thursday Haiku, comments will only be accepted in the 5-7-5 variety.

E. Wrath's Revenge

Kids - it's been too long. E.Wrath was unexpectedly seconded to support Blackwater in an attempted coup of Somalia's Transitional Federal Government, but a lack of rations and a case of the Black Pearl cut the mission short. Let's give a quick run down of some of the things he's encountered since returning to the Loop.

A Botswanan attempted to steal his X5 while valeting at Escalante's but mistakenly forgot that the steering wheel is on the other side in America. She didn't get very far.

Lars, a salesman from Kuhl-Linscomb, attempted to entice Mr.Wrath this week into purchasing a sectional priced just north of $16,000. E.Wrath's response: "Does it give blow jobs?"

D.Swisher recently accompanied E.Wrath to a local dive bar favorite known as Dirt Bar a/k/a 222. The bartenders serve shots of gravel and punch you in your man meat if you even think about order something with a flavor-infused vodka. If Vince Neil circa 1986 were molded into the shape of a bar, it would look like this:

NOTICE THE RESEMBLENCE?

While getting his neck trim and crotch shave at Sports Clips yesterday, a stylist told E.Wrath he looked like Jamie Kennedy. He's now on suicide watch.

Although recently betrothed to one of the small plates at Catalan, E.Wrath had to unfortunately call off the wedding for failure for the parties to agree to all the terms in the prenuptial agreement. The main point of contention was obviously the inability to provide adequate cuddling after the weekly scheduled sexual forays. E.Wrath, that is. He will learn soon enough that a hug is just a handshake from the heart.

You thought Somalia was bad? We saw these guys in the back room of Dirt Bar drinking regular Budweiser.

SEE YOU AT WOODROWS ON FRIDAY MUTHER FOCKERS!

Auld Dubliner: Opening Tomorrow

4219 Washington Ave, Houston, TX‎ - (713) 861-2300
(formerly Chaise Lounge)

This Thursday Night (5/7), snatch up your deadliest bird and head down King George's Way for several flyer jars of the Vitamin G and a good crack. The Johnny Ray is a mate, so we're a scanger's growler if we don't show.

Oy! We playin' work for a mitch on Friday, so believe we'll be on the right piss. Moite!!

Several Lords will be making appearances at what used to be Chaise Lounge (refered by some fondly as Pooh Bar) tomorrow night in celebration of the opening of The Auld Dubliner. The humanitarians* that run Pearl Bar across the street will let you use their valet for this glorious evening, but...please...use it wisely.

Those guys seem nice.

First loop peasant to buy us a neat Jameson whilst humming something off The Joshua Tree gets a waxy pictorial of all 5 Lords made to look like the title drawing of TV megashow: Family Ties**.

Until then boys and girls.

*Please note that humanitarians in this instance was substituted for the more apropos: infant pistolwhippers.
**This does not give any validity to the rumors that D. Swisher once lovehandled an intoxicated Meridith Baxter in a South Philly Hampton Inn. It also does not deny them.

Seis de Mayo

Today is Seis de Mayo, and you know what that means: yesterday was Cinco de Mayo, the one day each year when we're all proud to be Mexican. We started off our Cinco celebraciones at that fetid hellhole in Midtown better known as Cyclone Anayas. We know that somewhere in that great Wrestlemania in the sky, Cyclone is self-applying a Superfly Splash over what has become of this once-proud establishment. Yes, their tacos are tasty and their queso quells our hunger, but an hour in their bar ranks as possibly the worst experience of our life. And we once sat next to Mindy Cohn on a 6am flight to Bakersfield. In coach.

We were hoping for Blair, but would have settled for Tootie.

Was it some sort of surprise to them that people in Houston flock to TexMex joints on Cinco de Mayo? It sure seemed that way, because they had two bartenders who were less enthusiastic about their jobs than B. Brown was about his gig as the normal in that midget p0rn. They were doin it for the money, but they were doin it too damn slow. We had to order our lukewarm Dos Equis two at a time because we knew it would be una hora before we saw the barstaff again. Even the blonde girl who believed we were struck by lightning in the sixth grade hated this joint, and she doesn't harbor another negative thought in that pretty little head.

We'd like to say we're never going back, but we know that's not true. When we do, though, we're bringing our flask.

Viva la Mexico!

Looprivia Vol 3: Talking Tacos

Its Looprivia time glue junkies! Put on your thinking caps, take a lungful out of that trusty Scotchgard bag and test your knowledge. First to comment with all correct answers gets a series of absolutely miserable prizes:

- A mint VHS copy of the 1992 sensation Bebe's Kids
- A hilarious picture of cuntpunchers: UB40 being gagged and tortured in an undisclosed Houston location for their crimes against humanity
- A cooler full of gorilla organs
- Two certified D. Burnes handrolled blunts from three years ago we found in our suitcase yesterday
- A signed plaster molding of Don Herbert's (aka Mr. Wizard's) Mastodon of a dick

The cocky stare of a man who's sexed your mother

- A heavily liquored up D. Swisher will sing Don't Cry by Guns N' Roses at Christin's Tailgate next Saturday topless with your name and phone number in glitter paint on his chest.

If you think by answering the following questions with accuracy will see you hauling a paralytic Dick back to his mansion in the clouds, then you're correct, because we want no part of him once glitter's involved.

- Looprivia Vol 3: Kissing Tacos -

1. How often does El Rey on Washington change the fryer oil?
a. Hourly
b. Daily
c. Weekly
d. Not since the Franco-Mexican War

2. When in line at Brothers Taco House, you're probably...
a. in the ghetto
b. about to order the best breakfast tacos in Houston
c. hungover and stained from last night's Jaeger-copia party
d. standing next to a convicted murderer
e. all of the above

3. True or false? The El Tiempo on Richmond uses only the finest cut of racing dog in its Tacos al Carbon.

4. Which one of these things doesn't belong?
a. Tony's Mexican Restaurant and Cantina in the Heights
b. Mathew Perry
c. a greased rubber fist
d. heterosexual intercourse

First to comment correctly...

An open letter to Wandy Rodriguez

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

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

Genocide is not funny.

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

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

Helping Hands: Rain Delays

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

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

Be safe out there children.

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

We're Sorry

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Cetera - Glory of love

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

In the News: Headline Check

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

Some of today's HoChro headlines...

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

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

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

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

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

Art

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

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

And now for your viewing pleasure, a work entitled:

Evolution of a Jstache

Go 'Stros!