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