Friday, August 10, 2012

Savannah, I Bid You Adieu.

Nearly seven years ago, I moved to Savannah (it was actually Garden City, but who gives a fuck about that place, other than its very own YouTube-Famous Shane Lee) and thought that I might have made a huge mistake. If it's not obvious, I was from a rural part of central Missouri, which ultimately means that although I know very well how both indoor and outdoor plumbing works, I was pretty much a nineteen-year-old, corn-fed hillbilly who had no fucking idea what the hell was going on around me. I know, I know, this is hard to swallow (that's what she said!), but it's true. I have had a boating license and hunting license since I was 13, I've bucked hay and steered calves for money, and I know what cow shit smells like. True facts. Sad, true facts.

I digress.

I moved into a small apartment during Tropical Storm Tammy into what is possibly the saddest and most ghetto part of Chatham County, and honestly, I immediately wanted to go home. However, I couldn't for reasons I won't indulge on this damned contraption. I had to live here, and as much as I hated it in the beginning, I grew to love Savannah, especially after I turned twenty-one, which makes a whole hell of a big difference here. I learned a lot about the South (always with a big "S"), and here are some lessons that I'll be taking with me to that one place I'm moving:

1. When someone says, "Bless your heart," it's not meant to be a compliment.

As much as I've heard this said to me, I've come to the understanding that "Bless your heart" can be translated to "I pity you for being retarded/simple/ugly/something negative." It's a way for a local to absolve them of any feelings of guilt or representation of bad taste when they insult you like this. Why say, "I really don't care about your problems, because you are below me," when one can say, "Oh, bless your heart!" and get on with their egocentric lives? It works, and I've proudly never used it in a serious way. I mostly just mock people who can't confront me and call me out-right retarded. It's sad, really.

In the Midwest, we don't give a shit about your feelings, and fuck saving face. If you're retarded, we're going to point at you and say, "You there, Murphy, are a bona fide retard of the special kind, and I'm going to laugh at you and your misgivings." The lack of blunt, unapologetic opinions in Savannah is nice, but it grows on you, causing one to believe that every nice thing a stranger says to you is actually a euphemism for a terrible insult on your part.

Bless their little hearts, they just don't know any better.

"Oh, look Johnathan! He thinks he's people, bless his heart."

2. Paula Deen just isn't that special.

Hailing from a shoddy restaurant located in Port Wentworth and gaining some kind of notoriety later in her life, Paula Deen really isn't that special. For all that it's worth, I recommend avoiding The Lady and Sons for its overpriced buffet tables of food that my mother can make for you (if she likes you) and with significantly less butter. I've never met the woman personally, but damn. I'm pretty sure she plays a huge role in the obesity epidemic of the United States. And her peach cobbler doesn't taste that good, anyway.

It's not all bad, though. Ms. Deen does portray the Savannahian pretty well. She drinks copious amounts of wine, has that voice that makes you think you're both in a hurry and relaxed at the same fucking time (ultimately causing repetitive aneurysms), and she puts butter, ranch dressing, or brown gravy on everything.

Seriously, there are better local restaurants to go to than this buffet o' bust-a-gut. Also, it would be interesting to watch a Paula Deen vs. Wilford Brimley Thunderdome fight. Man, that would be awesome.

"Hey, y'all! Meet my source of mind control!"

3. No one knows how to drive on Fridays or when it's raining.

Don't leave your house until after 6:30 on Fridays, because the rumor around here is that all the looney bins in Chatham County unlock their doors and leave a bowl of keys at the door. I've never seen such inane driving skills in my life (except that one time I saw a drunk guy driving a tractor. That was hilarious.), and I've never recorded as long of a continuous fear for my life ever. No one knows how to fucking drive on Fridays in this town; it's as if they left their motor skills and reflexes at the office and said, "Fuck it, I've gone too far. I'm not going to walk back to the office now and collect two very important brain items. It's Friday for Cthulhu's sake!"

When it rains, just stay inside or where you are, because every single idiot on the road is trying to avoid raindrops. It rains here nearly every day in the late summer months, but it just doesn't stick with these assholes. Don't listen for thunder to find out if it's raining; just time how many seconds there are between lightning strikes and ambulance sirens.

I've always wanted to sit at an intersection on Abercorn and give scores on accidents.

Look out motherfuckers! Granny's got the keys, and she sees puddles!

4. It's possible to be a high-functioning alcoholic. 

What brings everyone together here is the bevy of bars (dive and fancy alike) in this town. City Market is a bastion of alcoholism, and it's the only nightlife that exists here. The bar is where you meet the love of your life, get a job offer, learn how to Wobble, meet some really interesting people, or even get so shit-house drunk the bartender drives you home. It's where all demographics unite and figure out the velocity of a home-run hit on a napkin (as well as other world problems). And you know what? Your boss is probably just as hungover as you are the next day, which means everyone is equal in the eyes of booze. 

It's also how I got all these ideas for my posts. Thanks, bartenders and bar owners of Savannah. 

It's not a prank. It's a really complex Glass Harp.

5. There's no place like it.

The only thing I can compare this place to is the very old television show Northern Exposure, only bigger. The city is its own bubble of weirdness, achieving a strangeness that doesn't seep to nearby towns and awards it the name "Charleston's Promiscuous Sister." The epic weirdness that emanates from this place is overwhelming, which makes for a great location, but it can't be home for me. 

Everyone outgrows this town and its attributes at some point in their lives, but it's a sad goodbye nonetheless. In the seven years I've lived here, I've met many wonderful people, made some pretty bad-ass friends, and learned what a "buggy" was. Hell, my life started here, if you think about it hard enough. 

Thanks Savannah, you crazy-ass town of drunkenness. I'll miss you and your gross as fuck papermill smells. 

And for the last damn time, it's a SHOPPING CART, not a buggy. Jesus.

Don't fret! There is a new blog for even more potty-mouthed complaints about the new city I'll be living in! There isn't anything on it, yet, but soon enough you'll be pissing yourself with laughter again! Farewell, Savannahians! It was fun!

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Mating Dances of the Middle-Aged White Man

There are men who can dance, men who don't dance, and men who shouldn't dance.


I could end this post right now with that statement, and you would all chuckle and agree with me, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here to make you spit your coffee out at your monitor, piss your pants from laughing, or even barf in your cat's face from guffawing over a witty - yet depraved - comment about a twelve-year-old cooking meth in the Ozark Mountains while you slurp your split pea soup. Nope, readers, you aren't getting away with just one sentence this time. My stay here in Savannah is nearing an end, and I intend to make you all have at least one of these stories burned into your mind.

My boyfriend and I had just finished watching The Dark Knight Rises, and we figured that, seeing the evening was freshly in its youth, we wouldn't be old and go home. Instead, we headed to the bar to check out the happenings and have a couple liquid biscuits. Of course, it was a Friday night, which means that not only were the regulars there, but the crazies and the hooligans were there, also. Not to mention, it was karaoke/DJ night, which meant that the boyfriend and I had the opportunity to hone our interrogation skills by seeing how long we could deal with both vocal and visual abuses. I'm sure that one woman was an operative for an agency, as persistent as she was to sing every fucking song ever. 

A lot drunkards were dancing that night, often partaking in the square-dancing that always accompanies  Southern pop music (Yes, I do know how to Wobble, thanks. However, I will not teach you how to Dougie, so fuck off.). Shaking their asses, going through the moves commanded in the song, and often tripping over each other, those dancing drunks were the norm for me. But there was this one guy on the dance floor that just absolutely caught my attention.

He had to have been in his 40s, considering his puke-green polo shirt, dad-shorts, and his completely white knock-off tennis shoes. Wearing his golf hat backwards, I saw this man stumble/crab-walk all over the dance floor, moving his arms around like a generic, white Kris Kross back-up dancer. The dude had no skills (or skillz, for that matter), but he just kept on... doing whatever it was he thought he was doing. He even tried to pop n lock, and that just ended up looking like he had bad joint problems. The man was a train wreck; I couldn't look away. 

As I stared with what could have been described as an expression of mixed confusion and fear, my little mind-cave began a mecha-thought of all the dances I had seen performed by middle-aged men in downtown during the live music nights. 

Gary always loved the Soda-Shaking Dance.

What is this phenomenon? Why are they dancing like this? Do they know that people like me live in Savannah and record them doing this? I'm not the only one who was taping this guy's dancing, guys. Plenty of phones - at least a murder of them - were out and aimed at City Market's very own Lord of the Dance. I mean, shit, look at him. He's really into this classic rock, dudes. 

To add, there's always the drove of hippies at a Reel Big Fish concert who can only do one kind of dance: 

Ian and Dave took enough LSD to imagine a world covered in bubble wrap. 

I can think of plenty of reasons why men who shouldn't dance do dance. The most logical reason is that no one is telling him that he lacks the abilities and coordination. Other reasoning could be that these men have motor skills disabilities, or they have ants in their pants (or crabs). Murphy Reasoning can only deduce that these are men who are trying to attract women with their traditional, Caucasian-rooted dancing. You know, a mating dance.

I mean, LOOK AT THEM. NO...NO...LOOK. AT. THEM. They are so uncoordinated that it's impossible they are dancing to the music. These men are doing the Dance of I'm Down to Fuck. Seriously.

Sure, the middle-aged, white man doesn't have much to offer in the realm of dancing. No tango, no salsa, no Dougie, no rhumba. They're stuck with disco, waltzes, square-dancing, and this shit. And sure, they can learn to dance better to a point that they actually can dance, but who the fuck wants to do that?! These men are out looking for that girl that doesn't give a shit about their half-assed attempts at wooing and courtship. And if they have to learn how to dance to get a girl, what do they have to learn to do to keep her?

Oh, Cthulhu. Not folding clothes.

At least dancing isn't everything. Women can find attraction in other, more coordinated skills of men. You know, like writing their name in the snow (with their own pen, one could say). 

Saturday, July 28, 2012

McDonald's Is A Greasy, Lukewarm Cesspool

As mentioned in a previous post, my boyfriend and I made a weekend trip to Central Florida not long ago, and although the mini-cation was quite nice, we also decided that we fucking hate Northern and Central Florida. Don't get your palm tree-printed panties in a wad. We don't hate it like I hate Andrew Jackson (that asshole). We hate it like your heathen toddler playing in the dirt over there hates broccoli and pulling Band-Aids off his knees (He also hates you).

"You gave me broccoli, Mommy. Now, it is time for your punishment."

Besides the fact that part of Northern Florida serves as Muricah's Prison Mecca, there are some bumfucked areas that scream to be mysteriously turned into ghost towns by, say, a fire that engulfs the entire area of North Florida. It may be the only way to properly disinfect the area and allow for a much-needed reboot. For instance, the McDonald's in Baldwin, a hokey town just off Interstate 10 definitely needs to be set ablaze, then doused with one metric ton of a mixture of Lysol and bleach, and then set ablaze again (you know, just to make sure nothing survives).

If Baldwin, Florida, was a Baldwin Brother, it would wear this fucking suit.

The best way for me to explain what happened when my boyfriend pulled into McDonald's Store #5030 to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat is to show you the complaint I sent on McDonald's very own website immediately after leaving.

Here it is, in all its glory:

My boyfriend and I, under the false idea that a McDonalds restaurant would be more sanitary to rest in than the likes of a gas station, chose to eat a quick lunch and relieve ourselves after the first half of our long journey home at your store in Baldwin, Florida. Upon entering the restaurant, my urge to urinate overcame me, and I quickly jog-walked into the women's bathroom to relieve myself. Although my initial, intended action was to sit on the toilet seat, a more challenging feat - that of not contracting a venereal disease from the toilet seat - was in effect, which resulted in me subjecting myself to a hovering position that required the thighs of a clydesdale and the accuracy of a sniper in order to successfully excrete without getting it all over myself and ultimately have to ride home without pants. That bathroom was nastacular. I mean, hovering didn't offer me the solace enough to keep me from having my doctor perform an STD panel when I returned home. My boyfriend, who is in the military and very accustomed to relieving himself in unsanitary conditions, saw the condition of your men's restroom and immediately left, opting to risk a kidney infection over being exposed to the noxious excretions and debris that defined your bathroom.

Also, that's way too much mayonnaise to put on a deceptively healthy "chicken" sandwich. It's one thing to spend all that money on LCD televisions for the entertainment of your patrons, but sacrificing sanitation is downright criminal. It causes me to wonder what your own bathroom at home looks like. Seriously, that shit is gross. CLEAN UP YOUR CRAP BATHROOMS, OR YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE YOUR MOM DISENTERY. JESUS H. CHRIST! Smooches!

This is significantly easier, compared to the McDonald's Challenge.

I'm going to upset you a little bit right now. That little tirade just above this sentence doesn't cover everything that was wrong with this restaurant. Of course, it's a McDonald's, and the common human doesn't expect any sort of adept customer service skills from the employees, but we're pretty sure that every woman who was on shift that afternoon was on the rag. The only other time I saw such a gaggle of pissed off, bitchy women of that size was when I went on a band trip to Florida (no shit) and got stuck in a bathroom with ten or so guard girls at a rest stop. There was so much crying and yelling, I thought my eyes and ears were going to melt off and explode like tiny Kamikaze soldiers with a mission to get me the fuck out of there.

He died, so that I may not hear stupid girls crying about menses. 

Brushing off the menstrual mentality of a McDonald's shift crew, the boyfriend and I figured it was all part of the common experience and wandered into the dining area to get a table. I don't think any of the tables had been cleaned since the premier opening of this yellow and red hellhole. There were fries everywhere, like a fucked up, greasy spin-off of a steakhouse that has one of those peanut-shell infestations. Athletes Foot of Mercury, that shit was disgusting. 

It was impressive. Even my gross, depraved self wanted to barf on everything in the hopes that my stomach acid would disinfect at least the table we were using. And yes, we didn't stay there long.

In the end, I'm happy I didn't eat there. However, the boyfriend did. He's still alive and seems to be well, but I'm sure there was a shared moment in our lives that we could have died from dysentery-gonorrhea in the form of a McRib sandwich while the sweaty, obese patrons stared at an LCD television while shoving lukewarm chicken nuggets smothered in Chipotle BBQ sauce into their slobbering mouth-holes. And they probably wouldn't have cared one fucking bit. 

This is all making me hungry.

It's not like we swore off McDonald's forever, though. We just swore off Florida forever. Because it sucks. A lot. And we haven't heard back from Baldwin's star restaurant since we've returned, which can mean two things: they never got the message, or McDonald's sent their "Cleansing Team." 

"Let me baptize you in the fryer, my children!" 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

The Slowride to Paraplegia

"All aboard for the 8:30 to Hurtsville!"
A witness account of this story will be posted shortly on this.

In consideration for the closing gap between my life in Savannah and my life somewhere the fuck else, my boyfriend and I thought that it might be fun to schedule a Savannah Slowride on a warm, balmy Saturday evening. We had various things planned for other weekends, but on this particular weekend, we were going to leisurely stroll downtown Savannah in a new, modern way. Neither of us had done such a thing, so it seemed logical to try something as new and futuristic-hipster like pedaling a crawler for 2 hours. 

I mean, why would anyone just want to walk downtown? Fuck that shit. We think we're breezy cool, bitches. We aren't walking like an Average Andy! We wanted to fuckin' pedal on some strange vehicle probably constructed from the lost illustrations of Leonardo DaVinci throughout the town, drinking beer and listening to The Beastie Boys. 

It had to be fun, right? RIGHT? ...Maybe.

I need to begin this story from earlier in the day. Early on a Saturday morning, I begrudgingly slid out of bed, got dressed, and drove my Jeep to an undisclosed location and gave her away to a man from South Carolina. In my immense sadness and hungover vulnerability, my boyfriend thought that it might be nice to drive me to Lake Mayer so we could both get our fitness on and my mind off giving away my four-wheeled friend. 

We didn't do push-ups, but I still felt like a constipated walrus.

I merely wanted to walk at a moderate pace, allow for pensive reflection of my relationship with my newly-emancipated Jeep, and come out of my hangover before my entourage and I later gathered to experience that which is "Slowride." But noooooo, the boyfriend wanted to actually fucking work out. And I genuinely feel bad for him, because he wanted to work out with my mildly fat ass (yes, I am minimizing my ass size. Suck it). And yes, I do whine. A lot. I seriously have no idea how he puts up with it. What may seem as a small amount of air squats and forward lunges later, my weak thighs of thunderdom decided, "Fuck this shit. I want a breakfast sandwich with chocolate syrup on it." We left Lake Mayer, had breakfast, and lazed about until it was time to go on our pedaling adventure.

No, no. It's PEDALING, not PEDDLING. 

There were a couple flakers in our group who decided that they were much happier having us pay for their empty seats instead of showing the fuck up. However, my boyfriend's friend - on last minute's notice - showed up, and there were four strangers on the crawler as well to help us on our drinking/pedaling/sweating journey. We were all excited, because none of us knew what the hell we were getting ourselves into, but we all knew that it might involve something called "hard work." At that time, I didn't have a good idea as to this "hard work" people speak of, but I obviously figured it out soon enough.  As we signed our waivers for Jerry's Kids helmets and paid our dues (and paid for those who didn't show up. You know who you are. Assholes.), we still didn't know just what would happen. Sure, we knew it was going to be a challenge, but damn. We didn't think our four stranger-friends on the crawler with us wouldn't pedal the whole time, which caused almost immediate resentment. 

Two hours later, we were all covered in sweat and looking like we all had an impromptu orgy in a dark alley. For those of us who had hair, it was stringy and had the salt content of all the McDonalds french fries within a 10-mile radius, and every square inch of our collective bodies were soaked in the salty bodily excretion (I just made that sound so naughty). My thighs felt as if they had been fitted with squeegee-laden rubberbands that dragged the dry, rubber part of the squeegee over every nerve each time I took a step. My upper back, tightened into a multitude of knots, ranging from overhand to clove-hitch, denied every pleading request for me to sit down without pain. Great Poseidon's Salty Asshole, I was feeling the darker side of being fit. Holy crap my shit hurt.

As you can see, my back is now attractive only to sailors. 

But surely it would be better in the morning, right? Haha! Fuck you, it wasn't! I can't move without grimacing, and unbeknownst to me, while I was pedaling away my boyfriend's bet that I couldn't pedal the entire time, my thighs were chafing away at the bicycle seat, leaving two wicked sick chafe-burns on the insides of my thighs. It looks like I have a thigh disease. Oh yeah, and my ass is bruised, too. You know that part where your butt and thigh meet (I call it the butthigh)? Yeah. That shit's so bruised, it hurts to sit on the damned toilet to relieve myself. My entire lower body feels like an angry baker beat me with a granite rolling pin. 

So, it was fun, right? Yes. Bitching aside, I still think it was fun. Did it make me feel like a fat-ass? No; at least, not until I woke up that Sunday morning and realized I couldn't get out of bed without sliding out and subsequently walking like a pirate with two peg legs around the apartment. I'm so happy I didn't have to be anywhere that day, because those previous engagements would have had to been orchestrated in a way that allowed for a much-desired wheelchair, because shit, man, I think my legs are going to fall off. 

Regardless of the intense amount of energy one must exert in order to get anywhere, Slowride is actually fun. I recommend you do it if you have friends who don't flake on you (because you will be stuck with the bill), but if you're that kind of person who can't commit 100% with the rest of the team, I recommend you get one of these instead: 

"Of course you can shove a pizza in your mouth-cave while I do all the work!" 

And yes, I will judge the shit out of you. While Hernando here pedals your chunk-ass around town and lets you shove soft pretzels in your face, I'll be getting the pretzel knots out of my thighs and earning the BAMF Badge for donating my legs to the Foghat Wheelchair Foundation.

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Inner Fat Kid Always Wins

Lately, my boyfriend and I have become nearly obsessed with our health. Our concern doesn't necessarily make us anorexic or anything to that extreme, but we definitely whine and complain a little bit much about how our respective ages - and especially our indulgent lifestyles - have caused us to realize our lacking in the once majestic and legendary metabolism of athletic teenagers with penchants for never stopping ever. Alas, we no longer live life like we're Sandra Bullock in Speed, keeping our pace above 55mph; instead, our efforts to live at such dangerous speeds is abashed by the unfortunate event we all must endure: aging. Fuck you, aging. Fuck you so hard in the face. Father Time is a sick, sadistic asshole.

And he looks like Mark Twain with a scythe.

Regardless of the truth that age is a disease with which we are all infected, we still give at least some effort to chase that mirage of eternal beauty and brawn with unlimited energy (like nearly everyone else, so don't judge, assholes). We exercise, we drink a shit ton of water, we count calories for Cthulhu's sake. Then, we reward ourselves and lose a "little bit" of discipline when the weekend arrives.

Let me elaborate.

After a fun weekend in the tropical queue line teaming with drunkards and teens in tank tops that is Central Florida, we came to the conclusion that our indulgences were becoming a little bit more frequent than our discipline in a healthy lifestyle. The agreement (okay, okay, it was more like a challenge) was that, after our little trip, the boyfriend and I would persist a healthier living situation that included eating foods that were considerably healthier than just a plate of greasy, fried chicken tenders or a buttery, charred, grilled cheese sandwich. Holy crap. My mouth is watering right now. We even promised to cease drinking that beloved yeasty bread-drink (with the exception of Saturdays) in order to reverse the evidence of our youthful endeavors.

They're actually in line, waiting to get in line, to get into the line to get into Florida.

Yeah, that was harder than we thought. On the morning of Day One, the boyfriend and I did our thing: he ran a gazillion miles while I walked my little fat ass around (I can't run, remember?) for a good half-hour to sweat out a few calories while I thought about life and what the hell smelled so much like shit outside and how it was magnified by the hellish heat that is Savannah/Hell/Your Worst Oven Nightmare. That part wasn't so bad, mainly because that was what we had been doing for a short while before our "pact."

Lunch wasn't too terrible either. After ordering some delicious/kind of healthy noms from Zunzi's (now nationally known!) and avoiding eating all the bread, we walked off half our sandwiches through even more sweltering heat-filled humidity and sadness just to get back to the car. Again, not so bad. I mean, we may have been, say... a little bit cranky, but we were sure it was from the heat. And Great Poseidon's Salty Asshole, it was fucking hot outside.

Those parts weren't so bad. What was so bad was avoiding Starbucks and Leopold's Ice Cream Shop. Or chocolate. Now that was a challenge. And - again - it was too hot to do anything productive or entertaining other than just laying about and watching movies.

It didn't help.

We wanted beer and pizza and candy and ice cream with chocolate sprinkles and... I could go on, but I just came. We couldn't handle our withdrawals. I wanted to have something in my mouth-hole so bad (that's not appropriate to think that way, you sickos) that I ate grape tomatoes while watching American Reunion in bed. And yeah, it did look weird. We were so uncomfortable and listless, because we had cloistered ourselves in the apartment to keep ourselves from yummy evil that we couldn't figure out if we were hot or cold. Seriously. It was 5 million fucking degrees outside, the air conditioning was on with a fan aimed directly at us, and we were under the covers. What the hell was wrong with us?!

It was strangely similar to Dewey Cox's rehab experience.

I'll tell you what was wrong. We were losing the fight with our respective inner fat kids. Those pudgy demons within us were hungry and pissed, tearing at our stomachs and toying with our minds, telling us, "Yeah, eating a pizza isn't all that bad. Just cover it in a salad and it will look healthy." Yes. We did that. My boyfriend bought a pizza and we ate salad with it to make it seem "healthier." Not to mention that we maybehadabeer during dinner.

What? It's good for the heart!

See what I mean? The Inner Fat Kid is SATAN. He lurks in your stomach, instilling fear by growling at you throughout the day. He does something weird to your nose that makes you smell chocolate from eighteen miles away. He even makes excuses for you, like, "You'll only eat one chip," or "If you eat 86% Cacao, it'll be healthy or some shit like that. I don't care, I'm just hungry and it's there." How does one fight such a beast? No, really? Because I don't know, and I really want to know. Like right now.

How do you hit an imaginary fat kid? 

I guess we really can't beat the inner fat kid. He will wear our bodies like a burst package of buttermilk biscuits, letting his pudgy evil seep out through the cracks of our cardboard jails, screaming for a candy bar or to be let out in the mile-long buffet line at a Florida restaurant. All we can really do is ignore that little shithead until we can't take it anymore or aim to get food poisoning and gain a taste aversion to everything delectable.

Eh. Fuck it. I'm going to have another slice of pizza. (But it's okay, because I had a salad.)

Monday, July 2, 2012

The 5 People You Will Encounter Downtown on a Saturday Night

Summer time is a special time for the people of Savannah. The heat of the day leaves one feeling not only a bit too moist, but also as if they've been in Satan's oven for 12 hours, and the humidity can make a manatee want to move to the fucking desert. But I'm not here to talk about putting manatees into ovens and making some bitchin' quiche. I'm here to tell you about a crucial part of summer that could quite possibly be the backbone for Savannah's revenue. Yeah, I'm talking about the downtown drinkfest that happens every summer night.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe your town has a couple bars, or maybe you live in New Orleans (in which case, please excuse my hubris), but Savannah has some fucking sweet liquor laws and a plethora of bars - all within walking distance of each other. And this part might make your little alcoholic mind-cave fill with jealousy, but this is why we (Savannahians? Savannahites? Savannahoans? Eh. Who gives a fuck.) love drinking here so much: city ordinance says that one may frolic about with a plastic container of your favorite poison (or mixture thereof) anywhere in the vicinity of downtown. HAH. I can walk around downtown, double-fisting beer while seeing the sites, and you can't. Neener. Neener. Neener.

Now that I have this partially explained so that you aren't entirely confused, I can say this: Because of Savannah's relaxed drinking laws, there are a metric shit-ton of people you run into during your bout of "Hey, let's go downtown and get so drunk we can't feel feelings!" on any given Friday or Saturday night. The crowd is pretty diverse, but there are five (that's how many fingers you have on one hand) main characters that inhabit the downtown drinking scene:

Get yourself together, Stephanie. You're getting married tomorrow.
1. The Bachelorette Party

The bachelorette party is a common occurrence in downtown Savannah. The group consists of a minimum of five women: The Bachelorette, The Cock-Blocker, The Hot Married One, The Ugly One, and That Girl That Hates Men for Some Fucked Up Reason.

The Bachelorette can be identified by observing what she is wearing, which usually consists of headgear made of crazy fiber optic lighting, rubber penises (or other phallic-shaped items), and a veil that has a tiara hot-glued to it. She reminds me of a twisted, fucked up version of the movie Tron, only with dicks and booze. The bachelorette is often totally hammered, walking around with various mixed drinks in her hand and she throws her imminent commitment to some mysterious dude by making out with other dudes and yelling at them to "Sign my ass with this marker! No really! Sign my ass!"

The Cock-Blocker is legendary. Imagine a more civilized version of the Amazon woman from Futurama with less of a snuu-snuu mentality. The Cock-Blocker has one job: to keep men away from the group of women. It doesn't matter if the other, single girls in the group want to get their own action, the Cock-Blocker is unrelenting in insisting that, "Tiffany, we're leaving now, quit talking to that guy." She means well, but it's too well. The Cock-Blocker just can't imagine why any girl would want to hook up in a bar and try to get laid (even though her sexual repression is about to explode and she'd be happy if some dude would just hit on her for a goddamned second).

The Hot Married One is the jaded individual of the group. She already had her bachelorette party years ago, and she's only here because her husband is out with the guys playing poker or fucking that woman who works in his office. She hates these things, but she loves them, because it comforts her that one of her friends will soon be living the sad, married life soon enough. And yes, she's hot. If it weren't for the Cock-Blocker, she probably would hook up with that guy that keeps asking her name and giving her the attention that her husband doesn't give her anymore.

The Ugly One is ugly and makes the other girls feel desired and attractive. She's not necessarily ugly, but to the others in the group, she's less attractive. There's math involved with this special choice. Women are shallow bitches, and when they want to go out dressed like skanks with penis wands, they want an "ugly" woman around to be contrasted against. This makes the probability of a hook up significantly higher than if they were all hot skanks.

That Girl Who Hates Men for Some Fucked Up Reason is considered the most harmless of the group. She doesn't need a Cock-Blocker, because she blocks the cock with her own ninja mouth skills. This girl can tell you exactly "what's wrong with being cursed with a penis" and "how fucking retarded men are." Here's the bonus: she never shuts the fuck up! Unfortunately, this girl's hatred for men (whatever the reason: a recent divorce, daddy issues, etc.) is merely an act to continuously give herself confirmation that men don't care about a girl's feelings, because the men downtown don't want to hear her bitch and moan the entire time. Way to go, Angry Girl, I guess no man is ever good enough (because you won't let them prove otherwise by not shutting the fuck up for a second).

This group wanders drunkenly around downtown, mainly staying in City Market. Drunk and horny, these scavengers of the night often run into the next group of people and usually find meaningless sex within this unity of the two.

They all probably go to UGA.
2. The Broalition

A broalition is derived from two words: "bro" and "coalition." Imagine a boy band, only with popped collars, shitty haircuts, fistfuls of beer, and replace the Latino/Italian-looking guy with a token black guy.

They're downtown for one reason: pussy. Relying on the book The Game, these retarded versions of a dude prowl the bars, in search of an easy lay and an easier name to remember.

Common pick-up lines include: "I go to UGA," "My dad is a lawyer and let me drive his Beemer here," "We have a limo full of hookers and Natty Light," and "You want to go to that dark alley and suck my dick?"

By the time Last Call rings throughout the city at 2:30AM, these douchebags are too wasted/stoned to stop the party, and they usually end up going to Uncle Harry's to end the night by crying about daddy issues to a stripper while she's giving him a lap dance. Often, there is at least one guy in the Broalition that fits into my next category:

"Hurry up, dude! We've spotted booze and titties!"
3. Single Military Dudes

You need this information first: there are two Army bases near and in Savannah. There is a Marine base nearby in South Carolina.

It's not hard to spot a single military dude. He usually wears an Affliction t-shirt, has a tattoo of a bible verse on his arm, and his hair is cut just like the other guys in his group. Imagine Channing Tatum in a t-shirt covered in wings, fleur-de-lis, and a witty comment about pain or weakness. Add fancy man-jeans, New Balance tennis shoes, a striped dress shirt (unbuttoned and sleeves rolled half-way) over the Affliction shirt, and a swagger that resembles a man carrying two five-gallon buckets of pickles. Now multiply that one, single military dude by eight fucking thousand. Voila. You have just met half the population of Savannah.

...get a fucking haircut for Cthulhu's sake.
4. Hipsters

I cringe writing about this group. Hipsters have infested the Savannah area, mainly because SCAD breeds them. I'm convinced more each day that SCAD is a hipster farm with an art school front.

Hipster guys usually wear their little sister's jeans, a hoodie (even in this fucking heat), a t-shirt with the name of a band you've never heard before with a screen print of a cat wearing a pair of nerd glasses. Hipster girls usually wear day-glo cut-off jean shorts from the 90s, a t-shirt that got attacked by a pair of scissors (can substitute a bright tank top with a Ray Ban "Never Hide" ad on it), and nerd glasses. Nerd glasses all over the fucking place. Oh yeah, they also smoke Indian Spirit cigarettes or clove cigarettes.

Hipsters are usually found in dive bars, or that new bar on the corner of Congress and MLK, drinking PBR and talking about how revolutionary some new band is. This group is too cool for your company, because they think they're too cool for anything that's too "mainstream" (this part makes me giggle, because they all tweet and post their soundclouds on a fucking APPLE COMPUTER/IPOD/IPHONE). This group tends to stick to its own kind, but they often complain about bullshit issues and their drunken bicycling gets in the way of me getting my sober ass home.

"I sold this many palm roses!"
5. That Homeless Guy

We've all met him. He's that homeless guy that wants to sell you a rose made with palm fronds and tell you about how he needs "whatever you have" to get home to Wisconsin where his wife/daughter/boy-lover is living. You often see him digging in the trash - which hurts my heart, seriously - and drinking the leftover booze left in those plastic cups everyone pitches at the end of the night.

The homeless guy doesn't want food or shelter. He wants your booze, cigarettes, and money. Most of the homeless people in Savannah are very kind and humble, but there are the "others." They pandhandle you by trying to sell you palm fronds twisted and braided to look like roses. They use psychological warfare to guilt you into giving them money by saying, "God Bless You" when you tell them you have none. Even worse, there are homeless people that just get angry at you for not carrying cash.

Maybe if they carried these, they'd get more donations.
I thought about what could be worse than being confronted with an angry homeless man: a homeless man with a boombox that plays only sad Sarah McLachlan songs like you hear on those ASPCA commercials. If they had that, I'd probably cry and give them all my damn money.

As a bonus, I'm giving you a sixth person you'll meet downtown:

6. That Asshole with the Blog Who Makes Fun of People

Yep. For a short time, now, you might run into me downtown. Say hi; I might buy you a beer. Or not. 

Thursday, June 14, 2012

My Crazy Male Parental Unit

Just look at that mustache. This man has stories.
Father's Day is this Sunday, and seeing that I am a poor college graduate, I have nothing to give my father unless you count this sad attempt at a tribute to him as a gift. I thought hard about this blog post - which is odd, because I seldom think about the shit I write in this thing - and I decided that there is a plausible conclusion: my dad is a strange paternal specimen. The man taught me ideas and histories that my high school and undergraduate classes barely touched on. He taught me "real-world" skills for the Zombie Apocalypse. Hell, my dad even helped to give me a sense of humor (even though my mom is cause for 80% of it). And even though he still sees me as an innocent, four-year-old girl with dirty dishwater hair and no shoes on (ever!), he talks to me like a human being and not a stupid child. The guy takes an interesting perspective on parenting, for sure.

When I think of my father, my brain-cave fills with memories of the times that my siblings and I visited him (we're "broken home" kids, which means we'll fuck you up if you say anything about it) and the times I lived with him. I also remember a lot of things that he taught me, albeit through crazy hands-on learning experiences of what not to do when your dad is a Vietnam War veteran.

You see, kids, my dad saw some shit, and he went through a lot of shit to get home from the shit that was making life as an eighteen-year-old male in late-1960s America so shitty. Obviously, I didn't know him then, but I do know that it makes for some fun parent-child experiences, such as learning to wake someone up from more than 10 feet away to prevent getting my throat crushed, or playing a really fucked up Hide-And-Go-Seek game where the object is to hide in plain sight, or my favorite time: story time. Yeah, sure, I was read Goodnight Moon and Winnie the Pooh at bedtime, but at any other time in the day, my dad was prone to tell my siblings and me random shit in military history, naval sciences, or even Hitler. Seriously. I learned about Hitler as a small child, sitting at the kitchen table during one of our many "family dinner discussions," which ranged from how Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal could successfully spawn inter-special offspring, to how propulsion works on watercraft, and then to goddamned Hitler. Yeah, we were those kids. We learned almost too much, it seemed, but we loved to learn, and Dad had a brain that looked over-ripened with tasty, succulent and off-the-wall knowledge. We learned about who General Creighton Abrams, Jr. was and why Dad doesn't like him. We know about Dwight D. Eisenhower's insistence on holding priority with educating children over building more nuclear weapons as well as his ulterior motive behind the interstate highway system. Because of Dad, we know how an M-16 1A operates (it's a serious of tubes, no lie). The man wanted us to learn, dammit!

Dad couldn't always be a teacher of histories and gun mechanics, though. My siblings and I needed to learn "real-world" skills, such as fire-breathing and how to successfully engage a target while riding bareback on a horse with a bow and arrow (I'm kidding. He taught us other shit, like what color clothes to wear at night to keep from being seen). He also taught me how to operate a manual transmission in a two-toned 1988 Dodge Colt. He was the most patient person to ever sit in a vehicle with a 15-year-old girl whose first attempt at gently releasing the clutch while equally, and as gently, pressing on the accelerator resulted in a Mach-1 reverse into a bush. He didn't jump, yell, or get out of the car. He paused, shook his head, smiled at me, and said, "Honey, you've just learned reverse. Let's learn first gear now." Who the fuck can't love a dad like that?! Holy shit! And oddly enough, he also taught me how to iron clothes.

This is my dad - standing in front of a huge, mobile wiener. 

I guess I should mention that for some time - and sporadically now, my dad wasn't around. As kids, we lived with our mom (who is also pretty fucking awesome and awesomely fucking pretty), but I often drifted between the two houses. When I didn't live with him, there would be months I wouldn't hear from him, but I learned at an early age that Dad just liked to disappear. I never expected to see him at most functions, but learned to appreciate the times that he did. I guess Dad taught us a valuable lesson in that, too: time is fleeting, and he can't always be there for us. He may not have been there to raise us, but he did play a part in teaching us to grow up.

After my divorce, my dad called often enough to let me know that he still cared for my well-being, and when he figured out what happened, he was livid enough to threaten to come to Georgia and put the hurt on someone as retarded enough to fuck with his daughter. He was being that typical, protective dad, only with Vietnam Crazy Powers and a majestic, unkempt mustache that serves as the only physical evidence proving his celestial-walrus upbringing. We still talk, and he always insists on telling me that he's proud of me for how far I've come and for doing my best to keep making my life better.

Thanks, Dad. You weird, crazy intelligent, nomadic guy with space-walrus mustache powers. Wherever you are, be it The Walrus Galaxy, a mustache competition, inside a book about naval ships, or even at home watching Spike TV, have a good Father's Day. I made you a macaroni necklace. Again.