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...