1. If you happened to have an intelligence seizure this weekend, you were probably downtown on Saturday blowing kisses into the St. Patrick's Day Parade with a retard's intensity. Wetter than mermaid sex, we sat tortured in the back of a pick-up for two hours drowning our fears of pneumonia in Wild Turkey and umbrella run-off.
2. The destroyers of melody, UB40, are slated to play HOB on Wednesday, April 29th. LOTL will be launching a campaign this week aimed at preventing the tyrannical abuse of eardrums from besieging our loved city.
Join us in the fight.
3. Our Runnin' Horns play the Golden Gophers at 6:10p on Thursday. The keg of optimism we carried for this year's veteran team has been whittled down to mere droplets of hope. Even if Texas gets out of the first round, the Horns would face the bonerchomping Blue Devils in Advantageboro, NC. All of this doesn't stop us from blindly hating our opponent though. Remember, you can't spell gay MEN's ScrOTA without the help of MINNESOTA.
Loopostles - we're introducing a new feature where the Lords sit down with someone for an exclusive interview. We are fortunate to have our very own Carlos Venezuela.
LORDS: Carlos, tell us a little bit about yourself.
Carlos takes a long, deep draw from a thick Dominican cigar exhaling a sinewy jet stream of white smoke over his left shoulder. His black leather wrist cuff is slightly worn and his legs are crossed covering the strategically torn hole in his Rock and Republic jeans.
CV - I'm like an Old Spice commercial, half man, half beast. My mother was Nancy Reagan's social secretary and best known for her coining of the term "The War on Drugs". She was arrested shortly thereafter for running an opium factory three blocks from the White House.
It's still winnable.
CV - My father was a werewolf with a Vitamin D deficiency resulting from an addiction to the last season of Hogan's Heroes and honey roasted cashews. This may sound unbelievable, but I was conceived in the studio where Prince recorded Purple Rain, but have never met my folks nor seen Prince live in concert. I'm still wondering which I'd actually prefer. Prince has been one hell of a role model.
LORDS: How were you introduced to the Lords?
CV - Honestly, BleachBrown and E.Wrath found me face down in a pool of vomit in the middle of the dance floor at Sammy's after the club had shut its doors. They scooped me up, hosed me off, and I've been living out of a storage unit in 36 Sixty ever since. I owe them big time. Right now I'm just surviving credit card to credit card, but I've got this online cash gifting system thing that's guaranteed money. Two more weeks and I'll have my first money order, then it's on Diamond Club style.
LORDS: What's your favorite place for a one-night stand?
CV - Without question, Tipsy Clover. It's a guaranteed hook up for me after feeding a young co-ed three Pearl Lights, two roofies, and a line of Hydroxycut. They never remember a thing.
LORDS: Finish the following --
LORDS: If you could be anything in the world you'd be...
In 1983, the hallowed 8 Commandments of Love were gifted to mortals by the blissful tones of a celestial soft perm. This synergy of pop and soul under a curly tress of sculpted excellence exploded through American households faster than dropping bullets into kitchen blenders filled with lighter fluid and Plutonium.
The blind student/teacher relationship can be a tricky one.
Lock up your sightless daughters, because several Lords will be on the prowl tonight adorned in white linen blazers and a confident style. "Excuse me miss, that is a lovely cane."
Have a great weekend serfs, but please, don't be careful...be hairful.
Darkhorse Tavern 2207 Washington Ave (713) 426-2442 Darkhorse Tavern finds itself just far enough down Washington from Pearl Bar/Citizen's to avoid clap of the eyes, but still close enough that you're not worried about catching a highway nap on the drive home. The generous patio allows you to toss back a few lung darts while still enjoying the pub's unforced charm. While rogue ex-Pats in another life, we found amenity in a baroque coffeeshop two blocks off Rembrandtplein. As a Houston locale, Darkhorse seances the same cozy awesomeness for us.
This underdog offers an array of drink specials to fit even the most discriminatory brand of alcoholism. Luck would have it that we recently found ourselves wet in the mix of $5 Single Malt Scotch Thursday. Scotch is usually something we reserve for home consumption as blending it with our perceived immortality is like throwing on meat gloves and waving arms in angry lion cages at a public zoo. Limbs are bound to go missing.
Our only criticism would be the music contraption's dollar rape just to get out one Paula Abdul hit.* The convenience of these digital J-boxes doesn't outweigh the taste and control displayed by a fixed set of albums. We struggle as this trend gushes throughout our bar playground. Lords give Darkhorse Tavern the unprecedented Slurred Speech Award for excellence in the fields of Pubness and General Scotchery. Keep doing what you do sirs.
*Apologies to Brian (owner) as a member of our clan indeed rocked Cold Hearted Snake like its Middle School, purifying the joint of any paying customers hours before closing.
That's it, we've had it. If we have one more acquaintance inquire whether we have a Facebook account and if they can add us as friends, we're going to drive a meat thermometer into their left eye. To convey our vexation with this dark matter shit hole of a website they call a "social network", we have decided to create our own exclusive site called SpaceBook. It takes the synergies of MySpace and Facebook to create the uber web-interface of cyber displeasure.
That's downright Louisiana-style dirty.
Here are some of the notable details you might receive as an exclusive member of our new faction. Details are still being negotiated between our director of IT BleachBrown and his arch-nemesis C.Venezuela.
1. There is no "friending" on our site. This means no random ass messages from that tone-deaf midget that sat next to you in your 4th grade Texas history class. His penchant for sharting and Garbage Pail Kids repulsed you then, why would you want to be reminded of him now? Instead of blocking, we will actually have offensive capabilities which will include the ability to deliver a system crashing computer virus to anyone that sends an unsolicited message. The last thing they will see on their computer before the blue screen of death will be a personalized message that says: "I have no interest in being your fucking cyber-friend, so go buy a new piece of shit computer because we just wiped your hard drive emptier than Joel Osteen's soul."
2. No audio or video. Our site will not have audio or video file uploading capabilities. We have zero interest in that montage of your summer associate recruiting trip to Magic Island or your Nicholas Cage National Treasure Halloween costume. BTW, we think that no sideburns look is so creepy, it's not even appropriate for the Day of the Dead.
We know. He paralyzes us with fear too.
3. No friend counts. Why? Because no one gives a flying fuck about the online nexus of alleged "friends" you have. We haven't even seen as many people in our entire life as compared to the number of interweb minions our work spouse has tallied. I swear it's like she's running some sort of Nigerian e-mail scam from her workstation just to inflate her friend count. Sure you know someone named Hakuna Matata. On SpaceBook, you can only be connected to the Lords, so get used to us because we are more contagious than a case of HIV incubating in a Peruvian street hooker. Double bag? You'd be better off wrapping your goods in diamond-plated kevlar when making a connection with us.
4. No status updates. We will have two statuses: Drunk and Almost Sober. If the words are appearing in 3-D, it's not some special feature we've created, you're probably still drunk and you should update your status accordingly.
Until we get SpaceBook ramped up, please feel free to reclaim your life by canceling that parasitic trove of sewage known as Facebook. It consumes your life and has eroded the fabric of your psyche. You'd be much better off feeding your ravenous appetite with random conjecture on LOTL. We even promise not to send you bothersome messages making sure you know that the Lords are playing Scrabble and listening to Wham! Facebook can kiss our ass, before we Go, Go! We're crossing our fingers and hoping that mesmerizing dance-happy George Michael will agree to participate in our Superbowl promotion airing next year.
1. We just killed a Hamilton on green facepaint at Party Boy, as we get set to run caboose in this year's Houston St. Patrick's Day Parade. Fueled by brown liquor and someone else's tradition, this will be the third year that Lords have piled into the back of a F150 and indiscriminately launched metal shamrock key chains into crowds of Johns and crying orphans.
2. Its under a month until the Astros home opener against the Chicago Cubs. We're rolling our rrrrs in preparation for the return of El Caballo. Lee was tossing up doubles at a career clip last season only to knucklecuffed by Shitjar Arroyo. This year It's Panamanium!*
3. The Houstonist kindly lists the front half of this week's offering in the department of hearing. Our Wednesday is now a nightmarish coin flip we pray explodes mid air and cleaves our heads open, as we must choose between the twin hells of Canadia's Blink 182 or getting Fancy at the Rodeo.
4. This muggy weather angers the beast.
5. We're shopping a screenplay entitled Heroine Kitty. In short, its a period piece about a successful Calico who moonlights as a street justice paladin while battling the demons of a debilitating smack addiction. Think The Adventures of Milo and Otis meets Trainspotting set against the backdrop of the 1987 Invisible Touch Tour. If you'd like more information about this screenplay or another libretto, you can get in touch with our agent:
As of late, the Lords have been feathering their nest in a cozy little nook in the Village. It's our novel go-to staple known as Little Woodrow's. We had to migrate somewhere after those commercial real estate fuck turds razed the one on Alabama. Yes, we know the parking in the Village is as organized as a rebel group in Eritrea. Lucky for us, Good Charlotte has been helping the Lords work through the Big 50 and towards that infamous brown t-shirt and the promise of happy hour until 9 pm for life. We're well along the way and have overcome the most difficult hurdle, number 12, which is actually a pint of urine.
Saturday was spent guzzling liquid black lung, aka the Optimator. We are more fearful of it than Rommel in the North African dessert. The end of our journey will culminate with a black and tan, rumored to be liquified Seal poured over a Heidi Klum. Care to join us? We'll be there this Saturday again like clockwork. We're more of a sure thing than the meager returns expected during the second week of The Watchmen. Also, we promise not to swing our giant blue cocks in your face. Probably.
P.S. the Turkish Delight next door is as heavenly as an easy bartender working only the day shift.
We could spend a tired career chronicling the gloryhair tennis bestowed upon us from 1973 to 1988. Instead, our goal is to focus, not on the most magnificent specimen (see: Bjorn Borg), but on deconstructing the steepest decent from coiffure wonderment. There is no stronger example in the sport than Mr. Sure Shot himself...
Armenians really are a sasquatch race
Sweet Mercy. Our thoughts and prayers go out to that tremendous headband, for it's truly one of God's sweet miracles. We'd throw up an AFTER shot of Mr. Graf, but fear the gleam would burn a hole through most retinas.
Enjoy your weekend plebs, and remember...don't be careful...be hairful.
Our first reaction was that this was the newfangled Viagra. Like an upgrade from 5-Hour Energy to 6. Is this the next best thing to mix with our Red Bull for a night of hiding the tool in the shed in the ladies' restroom at Komodos? We thought so. Unfortunately, no such extraordinary results were achieved. We were reduced to staring down a blossoming yet mysterious dental student on holiday from that D-bag town to our due north until she noticed our new thumb ring. We had paired it perfectly with a new Affliction tee and an Ed Hardy ball cap. How could she resist the synergies of these bitch magnets? It. Is. Not. Possible.
Taunt me and I will caulk you down with the momentum of a Thundercat on speed.
Anyway, of course we ended up plowing her, but not at Komodos. We had made our way over to Union Bar after the VIP herd pen shrunk down to a rousing conversation between two bouncers over who was going to clean up the John. Too bad for them, she made me go number three all over her back and half of the counter top too. Thanks again, Umbria. WHAT? That's a real name! We had confirmation from a real driver's license. Shut your holes, you envious pork swords.
So off to Little Bigs we went to cram our wasted faces with mini-midnight snacks. We woke up the next morning with new friends. Not a smoldering student of cavities, but French gout and a stank cock. No problem though, rub a little ProCaulk on it and it all fades away.
We rate this product five healthy whore-pipes out five!
We're at Cahills absolutely hating life and watching Pitt take Marquette into a prison shower. Our buddy stood us up like its prom night and we've rammed down two Guinea and one of e wraths Vikes. If captain cockwart behind the bar looks in our direction once more, he's getting choked out with his brown dishtowel.
Don't be shocked if you live in the rice mil area and hear an air raid siren. Some one bleeds tonight...
Rarely would we leave our abode for a night on the town alone. We're the kind that may take in a matinee on a Saturday afternoon without companionship, but we'd never drag out our iron lung sans a friend and a crutch. Unfortunately, we've been feeling like a subterranean homesick alien for far too long and we're ready to prove it to ourselves that we can do it on our own.
We actually met her last Valentine's Day at a single-girls' dinner party. A house full of girls felt more like a house of cards. At first we thought she was a mute. We looked at her and sulked. She smiled back but it looked like she was attempting to swallow a pyramid-shaped light bulb. Two weeks later who would've guessed she would've been at Black Star Bar on the same Wednesday night as us. She wasn't the one we remembered. It was actually her friend who's claim to fame was once taking a trip to Alaska in the belly of the Exxon Morning Bell. She was the size of a small county in Nebraska and had clearly been corn fed for most of her life. We nudged her on the shoulder. Don't you know Stephanie Williamson? Stephanie was the hostess of the dinner party. NOOOOO, she roared with the force of a thousand suns and a pack of hunting bears. Oh, wait, yeah, I know Steph. I might be wrong, but you're, Billy right? Actually, it's Thom. You know what I mean, silly. Her jigsaw blood-stained teeth began to make our eyelids twitch with fear.
Our selfish goal was calculated with the intent of hoping to meet her paranoid android friend. It appeared that she'd finally waxed her upper lip and was beginning to relax after inhaling a line of Barbituates. So it turns out the Parliaments she's been smoking have also been contributing significantly to her recent weight loss, which is making her look extra special this particular evening. Or maybe it was the Corona Lights. Either way, we were hoping to clean the pipes. She grasps our treefingers without saying a word. There, there was her Volvo SUV just across the street in the parking lot. We take the 15 steps and foreplay ensues with the opening of the passenger-side door. A ripcord climax unfolded four seconds later with the unzipping of our pants.
Heaving bodies were packt like sardines in a crushd tin box. Feels like everything in its right place. She begins to bludgeon our beefstick and after seven-short minutes she's requesting a warning as her hand balances against the side airbag. Then our nice dream ensues. Just as she pauses to gasp for a breath and wipe the juice dribbling off the end of her chin, our throbbing vegetable dishonorably discharges right in her eye. We think to ourselves, will nail polish remover be of any use at expunging semen from a brow? Our thanks is the slamming of the revolving door. No surprises here. Her last memory of us was Radiohead humming in the background. As we leave her high and dry, we wonder if she liked the taste of our weird fishes.
Sweating cocaine and criticizing your pathetic life, an owl-eyed Billy J rocks faces crooked with a sinblistered disregard for the conventions of this world or the next. Due to some disagreements with the group, Joel's hair decided to pursue other interests in 1984. The two talents never truly excelled at anything after the breakup.
Have a good weekend kids. Remember, don't be careful, be hairful.
Nails on a chalkboard. Chewing with your mouth open. No, what we're addressing can't be found on any of the pages penned by Emily Post. These outrageous habits plague many of those of us inside the Loop and have gone unchecked, until now. We shall eradicate these diseases with fingers pointed and guilt galore.
Spocktitis - We're talking to you, Jabronies. Hey guy with the mega-techno-phone growing out of your melon. You have a disorder of the, "You look like a fucking moron of the present." Spock died in the Rath of Kahn and you're not bringing him back, so put that Time Life Books operator device of the future back in your pocket until someone fucking calls.
FAIL.
Spousalthelioma - This silent cancer is actually contracted by your significant other while the illness ultimately manifests itself through you. It's a slow, covert assassin, but pretty soon she's sucked everything away from you and you've realized you don't actually spend any time your friends anymore. In addition to gangrene of gums and krill oil flavored saliva, signs of this disease may be detected early on. A conspicuous, tell-tale sign includes your spouse having a greater interest in tracking your cock with a GPS, than inhaling oxygen.
Pill Pirate Pathosis - You may have just had shoulder surgery, but your friends aren't just looking through your front window to check up on you. They're looking around for those Vicadin bonbons Dr. Painfree prescribed to you. Then they stuff them in their pants while you're re-dressing your staple wounds. Enjoy your recovery, we're off to augment our adult sodas!
Dry Leaving - You can't pretend you've never experienced this before. It's similar to dry heaving, as in when you gag like you're about to blow chunks, but nothing actually comes out. The symptoms arise commonly when you really aren't in the mood to go out, but your buddies have convinced you that a good time will be had by all at Kay's. Sure, maybe if Mario pimp slap you for ordering a bucket of Banquet Beers. Anyway, you finally arrive and your buddy's cousin has put away three Pearl Light's and is already falling into your lap. Problem is she looks like she's got Downe's Syndrome as soon as she's sucked down a few cold one's. You don't want to alert anyone to your impending departure, so you act like you're going to the bathroom and simply exit the bar. Game. Set. And Match. You've just made a clean getaway leaving everyone else to wonder: Where the fuck did he go? Answer: Evacuated from hell.
Scrubolepsy - Dear Dr. Vainglorious, we think it's swell you attended and graduated from medical school, even if it took snorting Myoplex and a Ritalin lolipop to pass your rheumatology exam. Yes, you are doctor. That does not give you a perpetual license to wear scrubs whenever you are among the masses. Do we wear our suit and tie to the gym? No, so please don't wear your pathogen-laced pajamas while you stare into the mirror trying to replicate the P90X instructor. Also, it'd be nice if you could turn down the volume of your voice. Bulgaria isn't interested in the hookers you met at Glass Wall the night before last. You. Suck. At. Being. In. Public.
Have you been infected? Are you a carrier? Now swallow your medicine with a spoon full of mirror.
Star Pizza 2 77 Harvard (on Washington) (713) 869-1241 We decided to eat out last night. We wanted a place offering Zeusian ambrosia and a staff of cretins who would happily slash out our sinewy pride tendons with cold hook knifes forged from years of mistreatment by the wealthy and attractive. This searing of love and murder can only exist under one construct...
Come for the pizza! Leave...a little abused...and angry.
We heard that some president man was going to try and sell us a miracle salve for our suicidally flaccid financial portfolio, so the intent is to sit in the room with the large 1993 rich family projector TV and try to believe. To our subtle disgust, we are informed that Star Pizza chooses to avoid the harsh controversy of a presidential monologue, thus decreasing the chances of some politically charged feelings betwixt patrons boiling over into a kitchen tool bloodbath amongst partisan rivals. We briefly imagine being forced into decapitating the busgirl with a 2.5" pizza slicer because she sees merit in an auto bailout and decide not to stay.
"What about fiscal accountability, Marta? Where does it end?"
The guy at the To Go counter has a bear trap for a grill and speaks in asshole. We try to explain the paradox of placing an order for delivery at the restaurant, but we can only hear the echo of our pointless words bouncing through the grey clouds of bong rip in his otherwise vacant skull.
In the end, sauteed spinach, chicken, artichokes and feta cheese on whole wheat, makes everything better.
Its Looprivia time muppets! You know the drill, first to comment with all answers correct receives a series of terrible prizes:
A Lords of the Loop T-Shirt
...Ah she said I was the tiger she wanted to tame...
A shot glass of genuine Dominican tears
An autographed VHS of The Wizard with Fred Savage*
A wet sock full of Quaaludes
A personalized song performed in costume by Ed Wrath, set to the melody of Skid Row's I Remember You
If you're worried that answering these questions will result an early morning, Spandex clad E. Wrath's dizzying display of air thrusts and diamond cutters on the hood of your new BMW...your fears are just. Let's get wet.
- Looprivia Vol 2: Extra Anchovies -
1. Mardi Gras Grill on Durham serves which of the following Cajun delicacies... a. boudin b. frog legs c. alligator d. raccoon e. all of the above
2. True or False? Brennan's was razed to the ground not by Ike, but by legendary chef and sinister hatchetman Mark Cox.
3. What rho at House of Pies will turn any child under the age of 8 gay for Hispanic men? a. Texas Fudge Nut b. Banana Creams c. Adam's Apple d. Inverted Toffee Crotch
4. Which definition is correct? a. Ruggles (v.) - to consume a 4,000 calorie sandwich made from eggplant, fried blue cheese and bitter cherry essence b. Reef (n.) - (1) a submerged ridge of rock or coral near the surface of the water: (2) $150 before tip c. Soma (adj.) - describes a group of males in tight shirts sitting on IKEA furnishings d. Tealas (n.) - a Mexican brand of dog food *Please note this tape is autographed by Beau Bridges and not a 90s wonderchild.
Every so often something comes along to inspire us like no other. For many it’s religion. For some it’s reaching the apex of a gargantuan mountain. For the Lords, we are in complete and utter awe of ShamWOW!
Several rumors have been floating around about this incredible product. Let us clarify. Michael Phelps was actually smoking ShamWOW!,not pot. $18 Billion has been set aside to line the Alaskan “Bridge to No Where” with ShamWOW! Sure Chris Brown b-slapped Rihanna, but the story you didn’t hear was that she snatched his ShamWOW! and unloaded it on eBay.
Look, there’s 50% of the cola right there! The other 50%? We served it to you last night during Big Monday with three-week-old Ponzo’s pepperoni rolls.
"It soaked up all of the pools of milky water inside the Loop! I am so satisfied I even started a fund raiser to supply every special-needs HISD students with one! No more paper towels to suck up that drool.” -- BleachBrown, ShamWOW! consumer
So what are you waiting for? Call now and get them while they’re hot. Warning: Do not tease or taunt ShamWOW! And definitely do not sleep too close to it. It’s suction is so powerful it will even soak up your dreams.
Sure everyone is downtrodden by the market's latest ominous news. The chances that you or your neighbor will lose their job increases exponentially with each passing day. What can we Looper's do to take our mind of these dire days? The answer is simple. It's the little things in life that allow us to make it through each billable hour and sales call. Here are a few of the simple things in life we yearn for and crave. We don't just promise intangible hOpe-bama. We offer real life-changing diversions at your very fingertips, something no government bailout could ever supply.
1. Billy Ocean
Truly orgasmic. He's also just kicked-off a European tour. Don't be surprise to see us there.
2. Malcolm in the Middle.
Yes, we DVR four episodes every day and get goose pimples at the prospect of being able to fast forward thru commercials after a long day of staring at Outlook 2003.
3. Coke ZERO on Tap
Our office may have cut discretionary bonuses this year, but at least we have this bubbly bit of heaven to quench our parched throats and caffeinate our souls.
4. House shoes
We've broken these out for many public occasion and soon we'll be pairing them with a robe for a night out on the town. Don't be afraid. Embrace comfort.
5. Cadillac Bar's Sunday Brunch
Stuff your faces and drown your sorrows in mimosas at this Sunday spot. Opens at 11 am and consistently better than head from your file clerk.
6. Target
Quality tail is abundant in this super store and provides free entertainment for hours on end and a better chance of a hook-up than wasting a $100 on a tab for a socialite named Aspen at Sammy's.
7. Cinnamon Toast Crunch
Fuck you, it's delicious.
Check out these sinful self-indulgences and hopefully you'll reconsider catapulting your leased BMW off the 610 / I-10 interchange on your way to work tomorrow morning.
No this isn't the name of our testicles. It's the newest orphaned son vomited out by the owners of Reef, the purported number one ranked seafood restaurant in the country by Bon Appétit magazine. I don't give that ranking any credit because this is the same magazine that showered Chipotle with praise. The only thing I've come away from that establishment with is a case of tongue shingles and an agitated colon that felt like it was polished by the Department of Asphalt.
Nevertheless, the one bright spot of Reef has always been its slider burgers so we were excited to learn that the new joint would focus solely on that. These tiny bites of heaven are so tasty King Leonidas actually considered turning over Sparta to Xerxes for a trio. What's a trio, you ask? It's an order of three sliders. You can choose from mushroom, burger, or chicken, and mix and match as you please. Burger is our staple, but don't be afraid to gravitate toward the chicken one's with a helping of LB’s special sauce. No, not that kind. Get your freakin' mind out of the gutter. The mushroom sliders are coated in molten-lava cheese and then flash fried. The only thing better in this world would be Paul Walker's under-age girlfriend glazed in Gruyère.
Hey man, there's nothing wrong with under-aged chicas
Then there's The Dude. It's a miraculous milkshake libation aptly named after a character from The Big Lebowski. This tundra of creamy communism, also known as a Frozen White Russian, promises not to disappoint. It even has Vladmir Putin's stamp of marxist approval. He'd make it a part of the daily food rations for the peckish peasants of Mother Russia, but then he wouldn't have any more funds to blackmail the Kazakhstan Prime Minister. And if you ask nicely, they'll even let you take the adult beverages to go. We're sure this practice won't last long since this is Texas, not the backwoods of Thibodeaux, Louisiana, so take advantage while you can!
Dude, we hope to see you there during your next late night meal. After all, Little Bigs is open till three on the weekends, so there's no need to sit in line at Whataburger for taquitos unless you truly believe you actually have a shot at a hand job from that first year corporate associate. Her hands should be nice and smooth because she's billed only 12 hours this month and been lubricating them with Jergen's all week to stay busy while the economy melts down right before her very own eyes. FYI, there’s no drive-thru at LB’s so we won't hold it against you, because after all, that is one of the few valid excuses worth missing out on these divine bite-size sandwiches off of Montrose.
We rate this place four sloppy-smooth-associate handjobs, out of five.
The Lords gathered at the Mexican miracle on Kirby to imbibe some frosty cervezas and participate in a lively round-table discussion of the latest and greatest methods of birth control utilized by the yuppies of the Loop. First, as a caveat, there is no scientific proof whatsoever that any of the following methods are actually effective.
Undoubtedly one of the most common situations fertile young male Loopers encounter is the conundrum of averting the impregnation of that dirty-thirty-year-old whom you brushed up against on the way to the little boy's lavatory. Sure, she had been pouring buttery nipple shots down her throat at her roommate's bachelorette party. And you had just consumed the better part of an embargoed Cuban cigar given to you by your work spouse, but your sexual target lives in Katy, so why not get it on in the backseat of your X5 rather than drive way outside the beltway?
Unfortunately, the condom you had stashed in your glove compartment in 2003 for that MBRE post-ethics exam romp with the quiet girl in the back from your Fed Tax class had gone bad. She had insisted on taking it back door to preserve her technical virginity status so there was no need for the condom, but the expiration date was now 752 days past-due and was as crusty as the Longhorns' running game last season.
Back to the X5 and no condom. Thanks to the Lords, we now have a myriad of conception-prevention options.
1. The Rhythm Method - One of the most popular, yet seemingly misunderstood and quite confusing birth control approaches, is undoubtedly The Rhythm Method which could be accomplished by doing any of the following:
a. Playing Miami Sound Machine at high decibel volumes so that the sperm become so confused they don’t know which direction to swim. Think of sonar and beached wales. Without a doubt, our go-to track of choice is this:
b. Keeping the Beat (a/k/a, “Beat It”) - Another misunderstood variation of TRM is the use of a four or eight count beats to time the gyration of your CK One diluted sweat-covered bodies. The goal is to prevent from moving too quickly to excite each other to the point of creating a symbiotic environment for the fusion of gametes. That's fancy speak for when sperm fuses with an ovum to make a baby sea monkey. If a nearby friend is around, his newly purchased bongos from eBay might come in handy.
c. Pulling-out - This is really just a euphemism for TRM for you Loopers. In the end, if you don’t pull out prior to releasing your Scud missiles inside her Temple of Doom, the eggo will be preggo. Trust, us she’d much rather prefer an archipelago of your snow all over her thorax than having to contact the Attorney General's office to name you as one of their top five most wanted for failure to pay child support.
So we can maintain our 501(c)(3) status and make this somewhat educational, please see a complete description of the Rhythm Method here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rythm_method
If you actually practice any of the above, you will assuredly end up like this guy:
Damn, Adam must have been one horny fellow.
2. Hot tubs - Yes, chlorine kills it and will thwart any chance from pollinating her stamen. Please be careful in group situations so as not to dilute the potency of the sperm murdering cleaning agent.
3. Gravity - If you have her on top, it is a well-known fact that sperm cannot swim against Earth’s gravitational pull. So if you have to release your load prior to withdrawing your cannon, make sure your pistol is facing north toward the sky.
Thank you, Sir Isaac.
As a bonus, we also suggest utilizing a zip-lock baggie in lieu of a Trojan; however, this technique hasn’t been employed since the infamous spring break trip of ’87 in Anahuac at Grandma’s ranch house. For a secure seal, the bags with the "yellow and blue make green" gimic are preferred.
Saran Wrap and Wax paper are far less superior alternatives
To close the Loop, yes, we did end up scoring with her. Twice. Outside in the parking lot of Volcano. No, we didn’t use roofies. Those frozen screw drivers work just fine.
We believe in miracles. We also believe ghosts exist and that they just want to help us understand...
JLH is apparently listening to the ghost of Debbie Gibson's ruthless bangs
Miracles happen and we stand in dumbfounded awe at their divine gloriousness. Sunrises, snowflakes, dreams, our paycheck, HD television, lymph nodes, Jordan Shipley, processed cocaine, rainbows, really good ribs, kitten faces, the success of Howie Mandel, galvanized steel, the Lourdes Grotto and our eczema medication are all perfect realities which happen without plausible explanation.
If you need us for any reason, we'll be huffing the goodness out of a dense Cohiba this happiest of hours outside Taco Milagro of the Kirby variety. We won't be eating, only smoking embargoed sin and pushing a fix of tequila juice in our faces until blackout or trauma or both.
There is defined reason behind tacos, so we can't slot them in the 'milagro' category as easily as some.
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Join us in the fight. 
c. Pulling-out - This is really just a euphemism for TRM for you Loopers. In the end, if you don’t pull out prior to releasing your Scud missiles inside her Temple of Doom, the eggo will be preggo. Trust, us she’d much rather prefer an archipelago of your snow all over her thorax than having to contact the Attorney General's office to name you as one of their top five most wanted for failure to pay child support.
