Career Aids

Cough...

A year ago, our employment was skipping queerly on a charmed career path, wrapped in flowing shrouds made from the finest compliments and toting a wicker basket bloated with wildly over budgeted CapEx projects and a healthy regional expansion outlook.

If you need our career today, its lying under a wet pile of crimson stained needle tips in a Detroit railyard squatter's nest wincing hysterically for more sweet horse. Our mom has already knitted a quilt patch for our current job, but denies this anticipatory action to prevent us from tossing all hope in front of a coal train run off tracks. We sit beside our sallow, emaciated profession at community clinics with sole aim in gaining enough free trial opiates to grind up, blend with a 5th of Military Special and funnel choking until coma.

We'd throw our face in this bucket if you'd promise to buy something this month.

We've got the career AIDs, but we got it from a transfusion, so we aren't definitely spending eternity in an evangelical hellfire playing heads-up 5 card stud against Boy George's libido for escorts. It was a transfusion of management which invaded our living utopia, propelling a blanket of frozen bricks at sales funnels with hooded prejudice. The old partners from Philadelphia think this style of management is a bit unfair.

We aren't the only wretches suffering from this viral coup. In fact there has been a veritable holocaust of casualties. You have to look hard past shallow attempts at hiding their deep facial bruisings and vast territorial yeast infections to observe the signs of plague, but its there. If sales orders are lifesavers, then jobs have been tethered to many a slow sinking boulder in open waters form months.

The only fix for this affliction is to rip a page from Magic Johnson's playbook and heave weighty bricks of cash in its general direction. By cash we mean bags of sales and yes, we're saying Magic Johnson cured AIDs with platinum smoothies* and diamond suppositories*, its fact, its science, its the NBA on TNT.

This guy has the HIV like we have Godzilla's tail in the front of our pants.

*We know there are no such things. Ervin cured his HIV with an amalgam of Chilean organs, chai tea and a kingdom of breaded protein.

Bob Schneider at the Mucky Duck

If you've never heard of Bob Schneider, then you never lived in Austin and probably don't have a methadone prescription or STI from Sandra Bullock, two life-projectiles which landed gruesomely close to us at one point.

Bob is a very gifted song writer/storyteller, who's music spans several genres, but stands juxtaposed in an acoustic concert setting. Its a gamut run of emotional outpouring as well as a filthly sing-a-long with Schneider. His personality comes through in his songs and performance, which is, we think, why we like him.

We remember him well going to Texas, as The Scabs (a group of which he is the front man) would shovel their sexually explicit lyrics and metaphors into crowded fraternity parties regularly.

This was our first time at the Mucky Duck, which didn't disappoint as a venue. The sound quality was crisp and not so loud that you hate yourself for a week afterwards. The pub food was well above average.

Quick Hits from the evening:

• Mucky Duck is a first class place, but we aren't sure its right for us all the time.
  
• We overheard that the owner of another frequented pubtype (color + animal) alledgely beats women smiling.
• Our favorite Bob song has always been Big Blue Sea, but Gold in the Sunset is nipping at heels.
• Our fellow Lord, Diesel Byrnes, has a favorite song too and not surprisingly its Where Have all the Cowboys Gone? by the talented Ms. Paula Cole.
• Our waiter was tragic from go, but got progressively better as we started to say rude things loud enough for him to overhear.
• Bob recorded this session.
• Helen Hunt is actually Asian. She had eye surgery in 1981 and bleaches her hair daily.
  
• Bob played with the help of a loop device and what sounded like a Matel MyFirst Piano.
• In a 4th grade spelling bee we proudly spelled nickel: N-I-C-K-L-E and cried ourself hypoxic right there in front of the entire grade.
  
• The Mark Portugal sandwich is deliciously flavored with real chunks of Mark Portugal.

Turkey, bacon, avocado and a career 4.32ERA deep fried in angioplasty and served with a dill pickle.

• Bob ended the night with a rousing rendition of Ass Knocker.
• If we were a musician, we'd definitely play the bassette clarinet and our first album would be entitled: Just Put Your Mouth on It.

Tales of the Unpleasant: Cahill's on Durham

Cahill's
903 Durham
Houston, TX
(713) 864-9400

For us, Cahill's is a proximately choice. Close and easy, the same way Arkansas men choose eldest sister for wife. Every time we decide to slop into Cahill's, the one bartender that looks like a fucking Ewok assaults us with his alarming face and gross inability to pour a decent pint of Guinness.

- "What a'll it be boys?"

Its unexplainable lack of seating and unplugged refrigerator scent make Cahill's the perfect place to ditch someone you hate. If you're the eighth person in the bar and still want a seat you're either leaning against the vomit stained walls or sitting on a toilet. We hear there's a rather fun patio over looking the barbed wire fencing on Durham, but since we doubt the waitress's translucent flesh has ever stepped outside to catch a single ray of sunlight, let alone take our drink order, we wouldn't know anything about it.

We regretfully ordered a hamburger there once. It becomes difficult to grade a dining experience when our plateful of greasy crime discharges antisemitic rhetoric and ultimately pulls a stolen .9mm on our blissfully Kosher digestive track. Our cowardly surrender lasted two porcelain nights, but in truth it never ended.

If you're like us and have awful friends who appreciate this black hole for all things enjoyable, then we'll certainly see you there.

We'll be the ones watering the circumference of the building with gasoline.

The Exact Change Bandit

Its a pucker morning at the office. We're wearing khakis and sandals because our boss is in Florida ruining someone's life a week before their pension matures. The air conditioning and our exposed toes banter with one another like two old men quietly being racist. The hive, relieved of some of its buzz after this most recent round of holiday firings, is throbbing with the macabre faces of forgotten hostages.

Our morning game is counting the number of times we hear customer service reps apologize to a stadium of unsupported customers and accounts.

At 9:30, the break room gets a visit. Much to our chagrins, we realize Armando from accounting didn't receive his pink slip on December 24th like we heard he would. Had we overseen the seasonal layoffs, Armongo's notice of termination would have been wrapped around a hurling meat clever. He nods in our direction then returns to pausing for breathes between aggressive bites of a McGriddle.

We ease our dollar into the vending machine and punch F4. Our liquid aspartame comes bucking down the drink shoot creating a familiar tune. In one motion we lift our Diet Dr. Pepper out of the catch and jam our sausage digits into the coin return ...

...wait...

...what the fuck...

...no...

...we bring our fore and middle fingers to eye line and they are both covered in shimmering ketchup. It appears, some fuckpang has flooded the office coin return with disdainfully sour condiments in a crude attempt to punish those of us without a coin purse. A bandit insisting on exact change.

To make the situation an even more a frostbitten penis, Armando throws his fat face in our direction and chuckles, "you just get your period?"

The Exact Change Bandit may be a filthy unstoppable menace, but his wake of destruction pales in comparison to the death toll amassed by the elusive Mexican Leprechaun...

Don't be fooled, that smile has killed with a knife.

Andre Ware Rookie Cards - $0.20 and Dropping

The 1989 Heisman Trophy winner and Cougar High product can be heard each morning on AM610, partnering up awkwardly with the voice of the Houston Texas, Marc Vaginapussy. These two clowns wax poorly about Houston sports all morning with a subtle disdain for their callers and nothing original to say.

We have a particular distaste for Andre's biased takes on our Longhorns, so if you're wondering what to get us for Xmas this year, look no further.

Sometimes $0.25 is a little too pricey.

You can buy it for us here.

We'd buy it for ourselves but we're saving that money for a gum ball at the grocery store.

Buddy Guy at the House of Blues

Several Lords were seen sipping cool beer from plastic bottles at the House of Blues last Friday night. All 72 years of Buddy Guy graced the joint and was kind enough to throw heavy buckets of hot magic into a packed house.

We've never seen an inanimate object personified the way Guy makes his guitar come alive. Well maybe this.

The music was therapeutic as if we just visited Niagara Falls or a got fired from our job we hate. We left there feeling small in our own accomplishments but hopeful at possibilities of acheivement.

His music fills our empty glass with wonder. It also sublimes faces into a gaseous cloud of suffocating excellence.

We were quite impressed with the House of Blues in general. Though we didn't go upstairs, the balcony looked like a pretty dope situation. Also, getting alcohol (while $7/MGD) was no problem, as we swung several a dead cat and hit many bars and unappreciative patrons. If you have the chance, check it out.

(HT: D Byrnes)

Dear Sunny 99.1

Dear Sunny 99.1,

First off, we applaud your monumental strides at maintaining the status of Houston radio's pink retarded baby koala. Forced, by the mongrels who work amongst us, to listen to your trite pop selections at work we have no complaints; sometimes you even drop an unannounced Chris Isaak* buzz-saw on us and it takes all our strength not to roll around on the office floor in a crude display of jubilance. Occasionally, when its A Morning in Studio with Dido, we contemplate drowning desk radios in broken urinals, but for the most part, we okay.

There is something troubling us today though:

Christmas Conga by Cyndi Lauper
Last Christmas by Wham!**
Merry Christmas with Love by Clay Aiken
White Christmas by Michael Bolton
8 Days of Christmas by Destiny's Child
This One's for the Children by The New Kids on the Block

All in one hour? Surely not. Do you have any broken glass we can eat to get this taste out of our mouths? Perhaps something dull and hard to ram with extreme prejudice into our tender thoraxes.

Its only the 4th and Julio Inglesias has raspingly wished us a panty dropping Feliz Navidad 20 times. Elvis, Boyz II Men and The New Kids recorded seasonal songs to exclusively pay for prostitutes, barbiturates and suede suits during the negative slope of their respective careers. Not really gifts the Three Wise Men toted.

Besides, encouraging Harry Connick Jr. only makes him seem more human and, trust us, this will be trouble in the long run.

We'll be the first to say it: HC2 is the definitely a seed of the Serpent. You see talent behind that thoughtless gaze. We only see monsterous wrath in those bangs.

We can only assume the Sunny studio is just a pale virgin named Tyler broadcasting from his sister's basement, so we're not pretending this letter will end up on the COO's desk at Cox. We'd just be neglegent if we didn't point out that Sunny is contaminating Houston with stronger pollutants than Dow Chemical.

Best Wishes,

Lords


*In 1990 we wrote a doctoral thesis entitled "Influences of Sea-level Rise on Tidal Inlets caused by the Wicked Game Video."

**Anything recorded by the group Wham! gets a pass on this website, due in part to the fact that "Careless Whisper" once saved our lives. A story we will never share, but haunts our every breath.

Lords to Austin

If you need us, we'll be in Austin this weekend fighting off the Hanta virus we've contracted in Wuppertal/Florida/Vegas with the aid of near lethal champagne, dark meat and Texas football consumption.

We will be gating near the Dish at least 12 hours before kick off, so come on by and get an autographed picture for your grandchildren. Just listen for Billy's Ocean's Suddenly on glorious loop in the corner of the parking lot.

In the meantime, an olldie but goodie:

Aggie Fan

Aggie Fan has little in his life to celebrate, therefore any thimble of success is reason to collectively hold hands in solidarity as men in uniform and then later use that same grip to rejoice inside a ruminant. Chances are he’s got home and away Troy Aikman jerseys in his closet and plans to wear both of them at some point this week.

In every 32 Aggie Fans, there is Aggie Woman. A stocky female, forged from the hardened cowpies that litter the streets of Bryan/College Station, Aggie Woman shops for clothing in BBQ restaurants and has seen more trucker penis than a urinal off I35. Her nipples are like fighter pilot’s thumbs and she menstruates Pabst Blue Ribbon. Aggie Woman is like the white guy in a southeast St. Louis off-shoot of the Crips; you don’t know how she got there, but she’d cut her own mother’s throat out in the name of respect.

Grampa Aggie is a gentleman by nature, until game day when Kentucky Deluxe and deer sausage turn your family butcher/taxidermist into a belligerent maroon hurricane who vomits okra casserole on his dying wife whilst pridefully spouting antique racist slurs, not used publically since sometime around The New Deal. He’d dive head first into his burlap-sack-wearing pregnant daughter-in-law, if he thought it might help his team get a first down. Grampa Aggie attended A&M during the rapiest years of sheep raping, and still can’t be trusted around the family collie.

...should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet one of the aforementioned, simply place any visibly shiny objects on your person in a small pile and cover said pile with a mixture of Mint Copenhagen Long Cut, giblet gravy and nacho cheese, then run as fast as you can downwind.

Hook 'em

in case of stairs use fire

our london hotel had a fire drill for kicks last night circa our third late-for-biology-exam and nude dream. Thank you Arora Hotel Heathrow for the complimentary water bottle and the ear siren we will happily check home with us to the States.

We're on CO33 headed back towards the Loop. Stinky McNevershowers and his pickled tuna breathe next to us say a very long hello to you all.

See you loopside!

New Bossman

New bosses interviewed with Satan and are incentivized based on the volume of smooth homogeneous paste derived from crushed employees' souls. A paste so silky and delicious it could only be the hot fruit of the wicked. For us, this new hellspawn is Kyle.

MMMMMMmmm...you can almost taste the work ethic

Upon introduction Kyle attempts to personify himself by telling us a little about his hobbies, only he fails to mention the budding collections of schoolyard manhole covers and marble busts of Benito Mussolini. He directs his babybutcher narrative into our eyesockets for fifteen minutes but all we can hear is an audioloop chainsaw montage from Evil Dead II at accelerated pitch. This despot clamps his monstrous claw onto our superfluously moisturized hand and we look up pondering whether to begin gnawing at our own wrist in deathrow-jailbreak fashion.

In 1965, Kyle was conceived when an arrant school bus plummeted deep into a west Pennsylvania coal mine. His glare sees your ideas before you have them and thinks they're shit. Kyle preaches corporate motivation strategies from a glossary of pain and does so with a mustache who's ecosystem’s inhabitants have just discovered feudalism. He can't be killed because how do you murder a stone.

Alarming just standing still, Kyle tends to suddenly excite over the paperclippiest of events. His testosterone level fires from newborn to werewolf when he meets a contracted draftsman and we envision their furious handshake leading to a cartilage-popping, arm-from-shoulder amputation, ending with Kyle forcibly sodomizing his poor insurance-less employee with the bloody stump.

Groomed at a jungle school for office politics, Kyle takes the position that if you’re not the alpha gorilla you’re relegated to heaving fistfuls of ejaculate on passing zoo visitors. We watch, paralysed in awe, as he surgically picks off tenured members of staff with the accuracy of a seasoned Green Barrette on a twelve day Bolivian forest-coke binge. Making a 52 year old father of four cry himself incoherent mongoloid on a conference call breaks our reason into dust.

He has arranged an off-site meeting with us and 3 gargoyles in our organization, calling it a white paper session. We assume its some type of occulty-Reich initiation where we dip our hands in hot wax then broken glass and endfight Susan from HR. Our expected pain threshold for this ritual lies somewhere between a Muppets on Ice interpretative tribute to the band Nickelback and being forced to ensconce a lit stove with a leaky bucket of muriatic acid in our lap.

However poorly it goes next week, it could never be as bad as what fates young Billy Joel.

We do miss the talent, but most of all we miss the hair.

Growing Pains

As I turn another year older on this festive Dia de los Muertos, I’d like to take a moment to reminisce on my childhood and recall some of things that used to fill the days of my adolescence not so long ago. Although conceived in the seventies and born into disco, it was the 80s that shaped my inner core making me who I am today.

To give you a glimpse into my supple soul, I give you the ingredients that flow through my body and make up the better part of who I am today. We start with a cup of Tennessee and add a barrel of Texas. After bringing this mixture to a slow boil you add the following to create what we know as Edward Wrath the Only:

My first album – received on my 8th birthday.
Everybody wants to rule the world - Especially me with my kick-ass jambox.

I had ‘em. You did too. We were the S-H-I-T. At least on our backyard basketball court of dreams…

This stuff was actually banned in several south-east Asian communist countries.

It's the stuff dreams are made of.

War is peace. What is the equivalent today? Pok-e-mon? WTF? Team America, Fuck yeah!

I actually had these confiscated by my 2nd grade teacher. And on to baseball cards it was. The ‘rents would rather have me worship a bunch of alcoholic, tobacco-chewing spitters than a few obnoxiously-grotesque cartoons. Go figure.

A duck that has so much money he can swim in it. Does it get any better than this?

I pity the fool who didn’t eat this cereal.

I still don’t understand why Obama never involved these three in his campaign to cross racial barriers.

I may be a little stale these days. My body makes a few more creaks and groans than usual, but put me in the microwave, warm me up and I typically thaw out pretty well. And remember, life will always taste just as yummy, so long as you never forget your (ginger) roots - especially the ones with FDA-approved perservatives from the best decade man has ever known.

Cheers,
E.Wrath
Associate Junior Member of AARP and Product of the 80s

Couples Night: Kings of Leon

Who's going to tell us about the show on Tuesday?

Mr. Burnes and Mr. Wrath and the controlled vomit noise/train shearing sound of Kings of Leon. A breathtaking night for couples everywhere, we imagine it went a little like the clip above.


Happy Birthday Motherfucker!

Colt McCoy - The Man, The Myth

There’s no denying the admiration we Lords have for Mr. McCoy, but we are going to try and personify the innate power overflowing out this unhuman beast we know as Colt-45. Put simply, he makes the impossible a given. Some may have heard of these myths, but we’ll try and recount a few for your reading blog pleasure:

(1) Colt devised the Dewey decimal system while eating a fruit roll-up in 2nd grade;

(2) Those scenes from the Matrix that you thought were CGI - that was actually Colt captured on camera in slow motion;

(3) The Members Only jacket was custom made for Colt. He is the only member;

Original design was "Stud's Only"

(4) There’s air, fire, earth and water, then there’s the fifth element, COLT;

(5) Colt went back to the future traveling at 88 miles-per-hour while carrying Marty and Doc on his back and pulling the broken-down Delorean.

(6) Every Cracker Jacks box that Colt opens has two prizes;

(7) Colt rescued baby Jessica from the well in Midland;

(8) You can’t ask Colt a knock-knock joke, because he always knows who’s there;

(9) Colt speaks seven languages, in tongues. Colt's Dad served on then governor George W. Bush’s security detail. His Dad has also played golf with Ben Crenshaw, twice. And Colt converted the entire nation of Peru to Coltism, I mean Christianity, by waving from a taxi on cross-city trip through Lima.; and

(10) The Eurythmics were dead wrong - sweet dreams are made of Colt.

'Colt had just another unbelievable performance. I've never seen anything like this.' — God on QB Colt McCoy

We have no doubt that the above-mentioned experiences and intangibles will push the Horns over the top this weekend in Lubbock to triumph over the Dread Pirate Leach. “As you wish,” Colt always says to the begging Longhorn fans requesting a decisive victory.

Lords of the Loop prediction for the weekend: PAIN!

Hook'em,

E. Wrath, Second Lieutenant of LOTL

Fears

We called in cold today. Highs under 68 of the Fahrenheit variety frighten us to our very core. With Halloween approaching we thought we'd share some other nightmares we'd hope to never wake up to:

1. Tejano music coming from a slow moving Chevrolet
The Medusa Stare. All we remember is a discolored tan hoopty broadcasting Serena and then paralysis.

2. Pools of milky water
How did milk get in the street? Wait...that's not milk. Terror.

3. SkyNet
We were babysat by the Terminator films, which is why we refuse to be fooled by the toaster's color coding for light brown English muffins.

"It has a popcorn button, but...how does it know?!"

4. Sandwiches from the gas station
The package is foggy. Does chicken salad have green specks in it? We don't know. We've always run from green specks, like we're doing right now.

5. Stafford, TX
Plunging property values and retention ponds score bigger on our Vertigo Index than high altitude skydiving or mercury milkshakes.

6. Helen Hunt
No explanation needed.

7. The old naked guy in the locker room

He's got his hands proudly on his hips and swinging a mess of genetailia that looks like an angry Ernest Hemingway.

Intimidatingly regal, but has many a dark tale to share.

Ten Reasons Why It’s Better to Live in Lubbutt, TX Than Inside the Loop

1) Graduating from High School is considered a great accomplishment;

2) Dressing in style is as easy as going to Ross Dress for Less. The GAP is also acceptable;

3) Dinner dates are limited to Outback Steakhouse, Chile’s and TGI Friday’s, which are all pretty practical places to go considering the economy. Man, we love fried stuff with cheese, especially when it is served with an entrée and a dessert for $12.99;

4) Never a shortage of pirate costumes for Halloween;



5) Will never be an Al Queda target – why would they want to destroy something that looks like their homeland?

6) Number one ranked training ground to become an Italian Transportation Engineer, a.k.a. pizza delivery boy;

7) No reason to feel “embarrassed” about that STD since everyone that has a driver’s license has at least four;

8) You have no problem with a restroom pit stop at Diamond Shamrock, because by comparison it’s a lot cleaner than your own bathroom;

9) Plenty of day care at the Junior prom;

and of course:

10) Texas Tech hotties




which might be the cause of this:



Lubbock or leave it? – We think we’ll take the Loop.

Salute to Local Advertisers, Installment II: The Finger Pointing Guy

It is with great regret we issue this post as one of the greatest local advertisers in history has apparently run his business into the ground. Rodney S. finger, the man that committed Einstein-like innovation for the less-than-$100-per-commercial world when he first gayly pointed at his home audience in conjunction with the equally diety-esque tag line "at your fingers", has decided to cut his losses.

Not lost of course is the gesture's pornish inuendo, which will live in infamy along with the debt of 95% of the customers.



Founded in 1927 by Sam Finger, by 2006 the Houston furniture retailer was among the top 50 furniture retailers in the country while pioneering the idea of staging his goods on a showroom floor. Little did he know that his vision birthed on the eve of the Great Depression would see a 50th birthday and proceed to peter out as the younger, fourth generation Rodney (or "the Rod" as his fellow furniture peddlers refer to him) got a little too big for his britches with schemes to double the size of his inventory. Great timing Rod. I suppose you were hoping to squeeze your share of the final drops of bad credit out there into your already impregnated pockets.

Now retired, we assume he will be pointing at his slicing Top Flights, 15-Couric turds, and supple underage country club lifeguards. We are confident, however, that he will continue to support the non-profit Northwest Assistance Ministries (NAM), Houston Furniture Bank, and the host of other charities he has given his time and miscellaneous cash to over the years as most successful Houstonians are known for. Peace out Fingers - your commercials sucked something fierce anyway.

DB

Some facts obtained from Allison Wollam's 2006 Houston Business Journal article
http://houston.bizjournals.com/houston/stories/2006/11/13/daily17.html?surround=lfn

Definitions: Comcastic

Comcastic (adj.)

(1) feculent, to be valued less than sewage.

(2) expresses the customer service received in a serial killer's hell.

(3) denotes an injury or pain, resulting from nude cactus wresting under a lime juice waterfall.

(4) characterizes a species of Tanzanian water bird which both consumes sustenance and defecates from the same orifice.

From the Italian root comcastino meaning "hand rape."

See also comcasting (v. eating, digesting and ultimately passing a masonry brick), comcasm (n. the coma one receives from too much enema solution), comcastally (adv. work performed in a such a manner as to make things twice as bad) and comcast (n. an infected second anus).

None of the Above!

As we inch closer to the inevitable presidential election in the first week of November and we cull through the myriad of heart-felt hollow promises the desperate candidates offer to the people of America. Will we be looking toward a more preferable path as we begin the New Year? We at the Loop have no political affiliation. No affection for one candidate in particular. The only thing a presidential election is really good for is to oust the refuse from the ivory house on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Like you, we’re not sure if it’s better to cast our ballot for a terrorist-loving megalomaniac who may not have even been born on U.S. soil or an octogenarian that has spent more time in a Vietnamese-torture camp than he has in front of a computer. Then of course, there’s also the 74% chance that Frankencain will drop dead within the first 45 second after one of the Whitehouse interns slips a Viagra tablet into his morning Mochachino to consider.

Before we know it, we'll be dealing with a Vice President succeeding to office with about as much foreign policy as a greenhorn from Deadliest Catch. Yes, we know you can see Russia from your backyard, but could you imagine what the U.N Security Counsel would do to a former Ms. America behind closed doors? Not to worry. If for some reason another tragedy should befall the country and Ms. Palin was misplaced, the Elephants already have a back-up plan, so we doubt you’d even notice that the Alaskan was missing. Ever seen the movie Dave with Kevin Klein? Let me give you a hint, this movie is the “contingency plan”. For a glimpse into what is potentially forthcoming please see below:

Thank God for closed captioning.

In sum, when you think about pulling that lever on the first Tuesday of November let us recommend the wise advice Montgomery Brewster offered us in the 80s cult-classic, Brewster’s Millions:

Cheers to adding another trillion dollars of debt over the next four years and to hoping the next invasion target is Canada!

Got oil, eh?

The Rise of the Houston Jabroni

Jabroni (n) – derived from Jabronious douchebagorous

Language of origin – slang

(1) A nocturnal young man, often overly-tanned and tattooed, who chooses to wear sunglasses in dimly lit places and men’s jewelry and exudes much unneeded attitude in effort to feign an elevated place in society.

For some time now, we at the Loop have become greatly concerned about the plague that has recently come upon us, namely the arrival of the Jabroni to the Houston area. Many ask, “What exactly is a Jabroni?” Well if it isn’t clear from the above-provided definition, let me provide you with demonstrative Exhibit A:

For a full explanation, click on the video below – if you dare:



He's right, Lloyd Carr is a fucking Jabroni.

What is the origin of such a creature? Many believe that the source of this feral beast can be traced back to the upper downtown area of none other than the pretentious city to north of us, Dallas. Our concern here is that this depraved creature will attempt to alter the night life we have come to know and love in Houston. You may say, what’s the trepidation here? Well, before we know it, Jabroni gang wars will cause the undesirable spilling of hair product and Axe body spray into our beloved streets. At will, Jabronis will steal our women with their impressive calf implants and 3 series BMWs. Sure, they may only be brave enough to venture into Midtown at this point, but what’s next? Upper Kirby? The Heights? Can you imagine what a gaggle of Jabronis would do at The Tasting Room on a Friday night? That’s right – pretty soon they’ll be encouraging everyone that it’s OK to mix that $48 bottle of Pinot Noir with a little Red Bull – what’s the harm, you say? And it gives you a little kick. Pretty soon we are all Jabroni clones accepting that men shouldn't be embarrased to wear mascara and True Religion jeans. And we'll all have "nicknames" like Val and C.J. endeavoring to entice young ladies back to our apartment for an Irish Haystack. They might have credit card debt larger than some Eastern European countries, but real Jabronis know that spending that $200 they never had on t-shirt from Neiman Marcus was worth it. Otherwise, that inebriated community college student wouldn't have ever spotted them in the bar, let alone agree to that spontaneous hand job in the girl's bathroom at the Drake.

Who say’s it’s not cool to talk shit or start a fight with a guy just because you thought he looked at you funny? Not we, say the Jabronis. Well, we will no longer support such a movement. We are hereby throwing our resources into halting this tidal wave of ridiculousness by boycotting the following establishments, which are known breeding grounds of Jabroni gang activity: The Roof, Citizen Lounge, and Red Door.

No longer will we have to worry about catching a fleeting glimpse of an inappropriate male tramp stamp, an arm band tattoo, or a strategically tilted baseball cap. Free of thumb rings, Jager bombs, and popped collars we will be.

Should you or any of your friends, come across a Jabroni outside of the aforementioned establishments, please immediately call 9-1-1 and report this activity to the proper authorities. We can halt this pestilence, if we work together.

Sincerely,
Lords of the Loop
Promoters of a Jabroni Free World

Salute to Local Advertisers, Installment I: Mattress Mack Daddy

Surprising it is, we know, that Houston has arguably the most flamboyant base of self-advertising bidness men this side, even the other side, of the Mason-Dixon Line, especially in the furniture industry.

Jim "Mattress Mack" McIngvale, or Don Moneytree in the secret society of furniture store owners known as Act Like You Are Insane On TV and People Will Buy From You Holla, started with five grand in 1981 and has since built a $100 million a year empire. He manages to do so with only one store and for over 10 years has raked in more jack per square foot than any other furniture retailer in the country. Given the median weight of the city it's easy to see how a family of four can run through an overstuffed living room set in as little as 6 months thus providing a healthy market place for those upholstered products made abroad by the lowest bidder.


It pays to have Turrets

We'd be remissed not to mention what most tenured Houstonians know already which is that in light of the serious bank Mack hauls away with everyday, he is an avid philanthropist giving much of his time and loot to various charities and non-profits across the city in addition to supporting and promoting higher-browed affairs in tennis and horse racing. His cup runneth over and he aims for the less fortunate. Yes ma'am, that there is mighty neighborly of Mack, the Houston way.

So here's to you Mattress Mack - no longer will the public have to settle for the couch that isn't deep enough to hold Uncle Junior's humongous size 60 ass; no longer will they have to shop at more than one location in order to buy both electronics and a new most-proudly-priced-memory-foam-mattress out there; no longer will they have to stress not being able to buy what they can't afford in the first place; and no longer will they have to sit in an empty house for more than 12 hours because this is American and they shouldn't have to damnit...

because you can get them that couch big enough for Junior AND his hooker; you can perch the 60" plasma that never seems to fully focus on the wall AND get Daddy a bed he'll fall asleep on in less than 5 minutes so sound he won't even hear Junior choking her; you can coerce a bank to loan them money they don't have and worsen the credit crisis; and you can get it all in the home they also can't afford and will eventually be foreclosed on TODAY!!!!

DB

Some facts obtained from Loren Steffy's 2006 chron.com column.
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/business/steffy/4324530.html