Tuesday, January 10, 2012

puh-puh-puh-party part deux: electric boogaloo

It was my last evening in Minneapolis and I was ready to run with the wolves. I'm not gonna lie to you people-I likes t' party. Shit-I even like just saying the word. Party. Puh-puh-puh-party. One thing I've learned after years of fine tuning my boundless heathenry to laser precision, coupled with the thunder of Thor's hammer, is that nothing goes together quite like beer and smokes. It's Willie and Waylon. Now add fire and explosives and brother, you've got yer four basic food groups. You've got The Highwaymen. So what do you get when you've got a shit-ton of cheap beer, fireworks, aerosol cans, a bonfire and a handful of savages approaching a black out? Well mister, you've got the perfect storm.

Now here's a handy tidbit for the neophyte heathen: cowboy hats are an awesome platform for launching bottle rockets. You know what else is awesome? Pissin' all over yer friends fence. But don't be a greedy fun-tick. Share this privilege of pure elation and let him finish the job.

However, the most joyful moment of unfiltered bliss is blowin' shit up. Blowin' shit up when yer loaded is like making out with a unicorn-it's magical! It's like grabbing life by the sack, shoving his balls up his ass and packin' 'em in with your hard cock-the ol' 2 shot musket job. Any problems you may be incurring fall like autumn leaves and drift away in the face of blowin' shit up.  If I had the choice between a blow job and blowin' shit up? Well, let's just say my girlfriend would never need to buy mouthwash again. Hell, let's blow some shit up.

Pissed on fence looks better in 'splosion lighting.



  1. Fuck! Who needs women, my '92 Ranger carried the blobby scars of a bonfire aerosol can party until I had to put her down.