Giving Thanks

We at LOTL Ltd., like you plebs, are not immune to the holocaust of family that is Thanksgiving. Some of us accelerate through this wall of misery heavily liquored and punchy, others go to Vegas with an Oslo chaser.

Just because posts are infrequent and frankly horrible, does't mean we aren't working behind the scenes to cripple grammar and subtly insult waitresses throughout the Houston metroflex. Don't think that because we aren't here means we don't care.

Like another heavenly gangster, we ain't mad at cha.

We "used to fiend for your sister, but never went up in 'er."

Tupac. Family. Respect. Thanksgiving.

Ode to the Fall Classic

The big bats are silent. The dugouts are bare.
All cheers for the victors. For the losers? Despair.
No more bratwurst, no ice cream. No nachos, no beer.
For us fans of the Astros there's always next year.
Til then there is football and basketball too.
We'll cheer for the Texans and Rockets, wahoo!
And what do we say to the season just past?
Nick Swisher? The Yankees?
They can all kiss our ass.

Two DBs and a Dart Board

Bro, it's your throw. That mirror will still be there when you're done.

I had to check out my new shades. They're DG. Why can't I hit this last bull?

Maybe you should take off your sweater. What size is that anyway?

It's a smedium. Like I should wear a medium, but I buy a small so everyone can see how ripped my delts are. See?

Dude, chillax. You just gave me a semi. Your throw. Why can't you hit your last bull?

Bro, you know I shredded my lats and traps today. I totally can't raise my arms above my waist. You're up.

Your sunglasses fell off the back of your head, broseph! You're such a tard.

Bullseye!

Cool dude, you win. I guess I'm bottom tonight.

Fuckin A. Now lets go find some hipsters and totally swoop their dates.

Hurricane Bitch-Rating System

Fellow Loop brethren, as we enter a new season and autumnal weather change, we feel like it’s our firm duty to offer you a new rating system for your benefit. For far too long, the men of the of Loop have had a difficult time quantifying what we know as a typhooning bitch and we’d like to take this opportunity to offer our new warning/rating system for your practical application. At first blush, this seem not exactly PC or offensive to some of the slaves of the Loop, so we have a message for you: Piss off. If this makes you uncomfortable, go back to your Regis and Kelly Live to pontificate about the latest Sex and the City movie and whether Samantha will abort her baby in a NYC taxi.

She annihilates anything in her path

Without further ado here’s our system:

Tropical Storm: Every female enters this category after exiting her mother’s womb. This estrogen-spiked classification recognizes the general bitchiness and complaints spewed by the XX-chromosome members of the population. For the most part, has sympathy on your soul and allows the men in her life to remain close to her calmest side, namely the eye of the storm.

Category 1: Mild to average bitch with slight gusts of male bashing with her friends. Usually takes some egregious act to set her off. Isn’t likely to make landfall unless you actually forgot a birthday, hooked up with her best friend, talked shit to her Mom, you know something reasonable that men can appreciate why someone would be upset.

Category 2: Often the jealous type, but only exerts her bitchiness after consuming large quantities of alcohol.

Category 3: Has no sympathy for you having any contact with a person of the opposite sex, but otherwise acts fairly normal.

Category 4: Most of her damage is caused by the storm surge, namely her foot in your junk. She’s more likely to cause physical pain rather than pure emotional trauma. Is known for her tendency to stalk and obsess over ex-boyfriends. For the most part, these are not common and only appear every two or three years. If you see one coming, we recommend utilizing the I-10 evacuation route, changing jobs and moving to a new home.

Category 5: The shit always hits the fan with her. Straight. Up. Cunt. Seek cover immediately. Preferably, a bomb shelter. Don’t even think about talking back or offering an opinion to anyone in this category, they probably have more testosterone pumping through their veins in a single day than you have produced in a lifetime. You thought Hurricane Andrew did damage to your bank account? This one can totally wipe you out in a single fit of rage. May just be upset b/c she’s actually a closet lesbian, and unwilling to admit it to everyone else. Example Cat-5 celebrities: Lohan, J.Lo, and Speidi.

So men, go forth and classify and help your fellow slaves avoid a shit-storm vortex of bitch hell.

Thursday Flashback

We were flipping though our collection of CDs, like it's 1997, soul searching our past and really beating ourselves up over how much fucking ska we amassed during some of our more awkward stages.

Then we come across it. Our first CD, possibly THE first CD.

Robin Givens, Halle Berry and Eddie Murphy.

Yes.

The Boomerang Soundtrack.

At the time, we didn't grasp the concept of digitized music, we just knew that snapping fingers repeatedly and wearing aquamarine velvet secured a life of flourishing success in this world.

We'd Do Without seeing this video again.

We know now that a cyan velour onesie and contralto ability gets you exactly one punch in the kidney from a larger boy after gym class.

Whatever babe. Whatever bay bay.

Welcome to the Hell...

that is Shepherd Avenue under re-construction...


And so it begins. God help us all...except Carlos

Tuesday Binge Drinking Poem

As the economy slumps,
And with nothing to sell,
Just cold calling cunts,
In our own private hell.

While five draws close,
Our palette does wet,
For that pill's first dose,
And this day to forget.

The low tide smell,
In our favorite pub,
We begin our descent,
With scotch, splash of club.

Starts with three singles,
Then two doubles down,
Our car keys a jingle,
We're hitting the town...

Wednesday To Do List

Mondays are always a surprise kidnapping of joy. Tuesdays were created for Laredo taintstrapped bars of grainy Xanax and slow sips of motherfucking Hennessey VS. On Wednesday we work, don't believe us? Gander...

To D0s (9/23)

AM
- Two breakfast tacos from El Rey and a small cantelope juice
- Diligently complete our reality series pitch where Danny Glover, of Lethal Weapon fame, searches for true love by going on a string of blind dates with slightly racist older women.

Look out Daughters of the Confederacy, Danny's at the door and he's changing minds.

- Rip other arm off S. Bradford voodoo doll, wrap in bacon and feed to chow next door.
- Buy Bob Schneider tix for Friday.
- 11:00 appointment with Cheryl from Comerica
a) seek financing for our new bar called Licka Stoe
b) don't mention her bad eye or wingless pterodactyl voice
c) EW to make aggressive sexual advance if denied
- Two Cuban tacos from El Rey and a small diet Coke

PM
- Write a coworker's suicide note, mail to work
- Leave a few unwrapped Snickers bars in the Belle Meade pool
- 3:00 appointment with Ernesto from Amegy

a) seek financing for our new record label called KinderBlunts, Inc.
b) don't mention his garage door forehead or foghorn halitosis
c) DS to make aggressive sexual advance if denied
- Check PO box for income/pornography

- One Hot Acapulco Sandwich at El Rey and an Orchata
- Educate Doghouse Tavern on the plight of a brave nation by plugging their jukebox with a $20 and an endless loop of Cherokee.

Sky punches, dusty leather pants and legacy.

- Meet at Porch Swing or King Biscuit or Red Lion, juice liver, vomit in a urinal, blame the last guy, sleep clothed on raft in jacuzzi

Note: If you have any interest in investing in future megabizzes like Licka Stoe and KinderBlunts, Inc or are Danny Glover, please contact our agent, Lawrence Soapblade, at whatmotherfucker@cloudychamber.com

Tuesday Peeve

Hey lady at the Starbucks creamer bar -- do you think you could arrange your fat ass anywhere besides the very middle so others could get a whack at the half and half? And what is taking so long? Are you trying to split the atom with skim milk, two Splenda, and a stirrer stick? You carefully placed napkins on the bar before you began your delicate operation. Why? This is not an operating theater at Mount Sinai. You are not a heart surgeon. Open the cup, pour in the milk, dump in the sweet stuff, stir it all around. Goodbye. You're fucking out.

You owe us for two minutes that we'll never get back. That will be $15.66.

Exhibit A: Proper Way to Sarge a Peahen

Hang in there good citizens...

The Lords have taken a much-deserved hiatus over the past several weeks to celebrate nuptials, offend Asians on their home turf, and generally to recuperate from the meth-fueled sex romp that was our summer. We will return in good time with new stories of valor, advice for the deserving, and warnings for the unwary. In the meantime, to hold you over, now hear this:

This is not a political blog, but this healthcare debate has gotten our hackles up. We know that we're expected to reflexively weep giant salty tears of pity and grief whenever Anderson Cooper tells us that 40 million Americans have no health insurance. We know that we're supposed to hang our heads in self-immolating shame whenever we are reminded that some of those uninsured are - gasp - children!

But what about the children?!

But we are not persuaded. In fact, we find the voices on all sides of this seemingly interminable row to be shrill, uninformed, and generally without redeeming social value. So, in no particular order, here are the Lords' prescriptions for meaningful health care reform:

5. Sell Florida to the Indians. (Think Apu, not Cochise.) We'll ask for Goa, but we'll settle for 50 shares of Tata Motors and a poster of that chick from Slum Dog. Florida is America's wang, and we're gonna have to cut that thing loose to save the republic.

4. Sin tax on health insurance for smokers and the obese.

3. Exception to rule No. 4 for hot girls who smoke to stay thin. Puff away, babydoll, the Lords got your backside. Need a light?

2. Legalize abortion through the 15th trimester. How's that for late-term, Connor McWhinesalot?

1. No boner pills unless you present the girl to our self-appointed "sex panel." The Lords will decide whether your dip in the honeypot is worthy of our tax dollars.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

Wednesday Haiku

Want in the biscuit.
Tuesday Night Tequila Fight.
No salt or lime, thanks.

Porch Swing Epiphanies

1. Sniffing Tide to Go Pens provides a much quicker way to get wasted than snorting Goldshlager

2. The symphony of urinals in the men's restroom is magical. Even Mozart would appreciate what is happening in there.

Be afraid, Tinseltown.

3. Metallic heart-shaped balloons do attract women. Especially when celebrating a maniversary.

4. If the bartender from the Porch Swing would have been present at the Alamo, the Texans would've walked away with an easy victory. We dare you to fuck with her.

5. Diesel's chest hair deflects stray bullets. To you common folks, it's known as Kevlar and woven into police vests.

6. There are many, many things we'd risk our lives for rather than watching Pay It Forward with commercials.

Big Things

Counting down the minutes until our DSW/California Pizza Kitchen double header on Sunday. It will be an EPIC victory of biblical proportions in the form of Malaysian-stitched leather and cheesey mushroom delight. See you bitches there.

Top 10 Recent Porn Titles

10. TrannyFarmers
9. G.I. Hoe: The Rise of Cobra
8. Slobknob Millionaire
7. Taking Woodcock
6. Revolutionary Rod
5. The Curious Case of Benjamin's Bottom
4. Burn After Breeding
3. 3'10" to Uma
2. Marley In Me
1. Julie and Julia

Looprivia Vol 4: It's not working out

Welcome back to another edition of the fungasm that is Looprivia! A game where you, the subservient troll, can spin the wheel of fate and win really the most atrocious set of prizes, all of which will surely burn down any semblance of the life you hoped to live.

Here is just a taste of what you could win:

- A trash bag of mushrooms picked off genuine Crockett, TX cowpies by D. Byrnes ( hand-drawn identification legend, indicating which species will yield tracers and which will make your insides burn with a taqueria green cholula fire not included).
- A Kaz Matsui autographed hemorrhoid pillow. Also, since he no longer requires them, you can have his Japanese baseball bats.
- The Garden Yeti

John Lithgow does not approve

- Ernest Goes to Jail (1990) on VHS. Yes the epic.
- Breakfast in bed prepared and served on the crotch of Mr. Venezuela

If you believe by answering the following scantroids with precision will have you waking up to a scrumptious crab omelet and a direct debit account with the credit score plunderers over at Fingerhut, then you couldn't be more correct.

- Looprivia Vol 4: Gymbo Jones -

1. The sneakthieves running Crew Heath and Fitness out of Soma's kitchen on Washington play a mix derivation of something by Moby...
a. more than a gay singles' bar circa 1998
b. less than was played at Guantanamo
c. right now, and then later on in the hour
d. all of theses answers are tragically correct

2. There is a $20 entry fee at the 24 Hour Fitness on Post Oak due to its ratio of scrippers to non-scrippers. T or F?

3. The YMCA in midtown is a great place to...
a. push out a hernia
b. have your identity stolen
c. dodge the gauntlet of swinging Hemingway crotch in the locker room
d. All of the above and a staph infection

First to answer watches arguably the weakest Ernest movie in the comfort of their own cave. Good Luck!

monday blackburry haiku

just jumped the lunch bill
royalty pays it today
thank you sushi king

For Different Folks

We were reminded recently of the time when we were little and got in trouble because of The Different Strokes. We were playing pretend in Bleach's back yard, acting out the episode where Arnold got abducted by the creepy neighbor dude. Dick played Arnold, Bleach played Willis, Diesel was Mr. Drummond, and Carlos was the neighbor. Ed played Kimberly.

We were just to the point where Willis realized Arnold was in trouble when our friend Rodney showed up wanting to play too. So we told him he had to be Webster, and he was all like, "Yeah! Webster's dad was a football player!" And we were all like, "Fuck you Webster! Our dad owns half of New York! He owns your dad. Suck it!" Rod and Ed were just about to go maelstrom, but Bleach's mom heard all of this and grounded our asses. We called her Seaward. She was a funsucker for sure.

Anyway, we thought of this recently after we were on a plane with Honey and the flight attendant started giving his saftey spiel. He deftly fastened a seat belt, and then he told us "a complete list of unapproved electronic devices can be found in the magazine in your seatback pocket." So we looked it up. Cell phone, radio, TV...that all makes sense. But it didn't say anything about 14" vibrating big black cocks. So you can imagine our consternation when we pulled "Willis" out of the overhead and started working on Honey, and the flight attendant was all like, "Haaayyyy! You can't do that heere Mister!" Retard. Long story short, that airline does not understand what the word "complete" means.

So now, 20-some years later, it comes full circle. We were arrested because of The Different Strokes. Had to spend a night in jail. They let us have the big black cock though. Not talkin about Willis.

* Bonus points to the Loopizen who sources the borrowed joke in this post.

Vegas, Baby, Vegas

In two days, the Lords head en masse to Vegas. Sin City doesn't know what's coming. Highlights of our agenda:

1. Open call tryouts for Thunder from Down Under. None of us is Australian, but Carlos has dropped so much acid that he thinks he's from Oz.

2. Kidnap Danny Gans. Demand $1 million ransom. Settle for a free spin on the Wheel of Fortune and a fistful of drink tickets at Binions.

3. Round up a few cocktail waitresses, sneak onstage at Cirque du Soleil, and grease the pole.

What pole were you thinking of?

4. Play the Martingale system on the single-green roulette wheel at Monte Carlo. It could never come up red nine times in a row.

5. Foolproof plan for entertainment: couple of hookers and an eight ball!

Help us out Loopizens. What have we missed?

Back to the Future

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

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

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

Thursday Haiku

Welcome, new trainee!

Not all that cute but you'll do;

Fresh stroke imagery

Tuesday Tirade

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

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

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

Please shoot us.

Lance Armstrong. No explanation required.

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

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

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

Jeebus Tebow Is a Born-Again Virgin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, Oprah says oral sex is sex.

Monday Music

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

Have a great week Loopwalkers.

Friday's Complaints

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a Motherfucking Looptaculous Friday!

Which Wich? - Open Up and Say Nothing!

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

Superior sandwiches without the annoying small talk.

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

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

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

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

Nom-nom-nom! Enjoy!

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

Additionally...

Fuck you Ryan Franklin and the mullet on your face:

Two Back

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

He only smiles when he's hungry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Website of the Day: Don't Even Reply

Link

Here, Kitty, Kitty: Cougar Evolution ITL 101

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear of the Day

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

We dare you to taunt this leather Python.

Name our Band

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

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

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

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

Help?

Braying Asses

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

Faux pas.

Website of the Day: Hellen Keller Simulator

Link

That Gym Guy

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

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

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

...

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

Rant over. Please disperse to go forth and mock.

The Washington Avenue Drinkery

4115 Washington Avenue
(Formerly The Daily Grind)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looporons: Man Jewelry

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

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

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

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

Are you Brett Michaels?

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

Do you write or perform rap songs for a living?

Is your first name Sigfried or Roy?

Do you rule the Kingdom of Zumunda?

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

Are you a member of the armed forces?

Are you a Thundercat?

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

Out,
The Lords

LoopHunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our score:135. Think you can do better?

Blog of the Day: Manbabies.com

Link

Lords to Austin - America’s Birthday

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



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

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?