Notes from the Never Never

Our weekly two hours of work are being put to the ultimate test as it's Quarterly Sales Meeting time, cuz! Can we get a fucking siren please!We're upchucking our miserable 2009 fortunes on to 16 digital slides and tomorrow we'll throw a nickel in the spaceship ride outside the Alpha Beta of our minds, as we stand in front of our peers and superiors wishing for simpler times.

Our 2010 sales bridge is fashioned from spider webs and soggy crackers. We'd likely strike a greater impression if instead we quickly ejacutate on a frisbee and hurl it into the crowd.

"Our 2010 forecast can best be described by Peter Gabriel in his song Big Time. Enjoy."

Peter Gabriel - Big Time
Uploaded by bebepanda. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

"Alright. Any questions?"

Work tomorrow. Scotch tonight/ It beckons...

Wednesday Wrap

So we just barely gutted enough trout last year to keep our jobs on the kill floor of respective firms/companies/snakepits and in an effort to spin back into our normal lives of not being a child eating troll to capitalism we're here to tell you the goings on in your town and ours...

1. The Branch Water Tavern opened up a few months ago and since a broom stick through our mail slot pokes this touted establishment in the short ribs, we couldn't refuse paying handsomely for slices of undercooked duck served over minute grits. They have a large collection of brown liquior, though how they intend on using it seems up for debate.

2. We received funding for our new project where we rent out dogs for the day/weekend to people who like the idea of a mutt but cant keep to a heartworm schedule. Be on the look out for LOTL's Pimpa Bitch in your neighborhood. 3. House of Blues intends to host the reunion of the Goodie Mob tomorrow night and just in time for MLK Day. We'll be there. Now, if the despotic overlords at HOB could lure New Edition back together, we'd die happily.

4. Sorry ladies, Colt McCoy is engaged.

5. Historically Damaging Fact of the Week:
Florence Nightingale did not subscribe to germ theory and was also a serial nymphomaniac. She used filthy, filthy sex to heal dying solders during the Crimean War. This is fact.

Take it from FloNite and spread your meds!

Happy Wednesday Motherfuckers!

Happy New Year Bitches

The Loop awoke this morning to a cold new reality -- the depeest freeze it has seen since Beyonce broke up Destiny's Child. Basic city services have ground to a halt as the gray-collar serfs scurry off to drain their pipes and wrap their plants in swaddling clothes. The beggars and bums have all gone home, toasty and warm in their 2/2 bungalows, heated with the dimes and dollars of naïve Houston motorists. Down at the 'Fold, the nipples on Sweet Caroline and her friends have grown hard as -- well, not hard at all actually. Those nipples haven't been sensitive to environmental stimuli since Clinton was in the White House. But you get the point. It's fucking cold.

-

As for your Lords, we take this arctic blast for what it obviously is -- an ominous sign portending doom for the year that lies ahead. We woke up confused to find an empty bed, universal health care, and a hot tub encased in ice! What the what? If we'd wanted that, we would have stayed at Harvard. Something obviously went awry in the blackout we like to call … the second half of 2009. Judging from the meth pipes and nitrous balloons strewn around the living room floor, we hosted Burning Man. Hope we had fun.

Do we need a permit for this?

So here's to starting a New Year inside the Loop. The Horns didn't win, but with a little luck, the Rockets will make the playoffs, the I-10/I-45 interchange will return to normal, and the new mayor will lez out with Victoria Osteen on the set of Great Day Houston.

Za tebya, comrades. Let's fuckin win in 2010.

Our Fever

It's only getting hotter...

Goosebumps are normal.

Terrence Cody's mother is a ball return in a southeastern Mississippi LazerBowl. The height difference between Texas WR Malcolm Williams and Bama CB Javier Arenas can be measured in Nick Sabans.

We're going to get nasty with it. See you in LA.

Definition: WALK OF PRIDE (n.)

Walk of Pride (n.) (1) Departure by a young lady from the home of a Lord in the early morning hours. (e.g., She took a long walk of pride after exiting the home of Dick Swisher following an eye-opening night of coitus.) Antonym: Walk of Shame. Especially appropriate when a group of cougars exits a lair together, as in a pride of cougars.



Own it in 2010 bitches!

Happy New Year's!

Giving Thanks

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

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

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

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

Tupac. Family. Respect. Thanksgiving.

Ode to the Fall Classic

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

Two DBs and a Dart Board

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye!

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

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

Hurricane Bitch-Rating System

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

She annihilates anything in her path

Without further ado here’s our system:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday Flashback

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

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

Robin Givens, Halle Berry and Eddie Murphy.

Yes.

The Boomerang Soundtrack.

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

We'd Do Without seeing this video again.

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

Whatever babe. Whatever bay bay.

Welcome to the Hell...

that is Shepherd Avenue under re-construction...


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

Tuesday Binge Drinking Poem

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

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

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

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

Wednesday To Do List

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

To D0s (9/23)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sky punches, dusty leather pants and legacy.

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

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

Tuesday Peeve

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

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

Exhibit A: Proper Way to Sarge a Peahen

Hang in there good citizens...

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

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

But what about the children?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday Haiku

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

Porch Swing Epiphanies

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

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

Be afraid, Tinseltown.

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

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

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

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

Big Things

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