Florida Man Becomes Front-Runner for Badass of the Year Award

What would you do if you were taking your pet for a swim and a shark suddenly grabbed the poor little furball and took him beneath the murky surface of the waves? We all probably have a few romantic notions of our potential, illusory heroism, but I wager a fair percentage of us might just squander those few precious seconds immediately after the abduction staring at the water stupidly, trying to wrap our heads around what the fuck just happened.

Greg LeNoir (aka "The Black," unless my French is even worse that I believe) begs to differ. When his rat terrier Jake was encompassed almost completely by the jaws of a shark and taken underwater, Greg dove straight in and punched the five-foot shark until it gave his dog back. The dive probably wasn't pretty, as his giant balls undoubtedly distort his center of gravity, but it's the results that matter--and the results are 100% undiluted "Awesome."

Greg LeNoir, I salute you. As, no doubt, does little Jake. Next time do us all a favor and don't take the little bastard swimming in shark infested waters. Moving out of Florida might be a nice start.

Sally Forth to an Age of Gilded Birthday Wonder

Last week was my birthday, and so my friends grudgingly decided to sally forth and celebrate fate's twenty ninth consecutive annual failure at wiping me from the face of the planet. Vegas had me, admittedly on a long shot, succumbing to syphilis-induced dementia and wandering into the desert to die this year, and while it's about as likely as winning the lottery, some couldn't resist the odds given. Hell, even I dropped a fiver on it. I suppose my widow would have received the winnings...and, if I really had syphilis, hopefully a shot or something.

...speaking of syphilis, we went to Medieval Times to celebrate. If you've never been, it's a magical place where grown adults wear paper crowns, eat their food with their hands, and shout at failed actors struggling for a paycheck. I adored it. Of course, getting mildly drunk and shouting at people is ingrained deep in my DNA, but the others made a point of putting on a brave face:


Obviously I'm having a blast, as I have a new crunk chalice in my right hand and a miniature flag in my left, and Kelly's good, as she's standing next to a prettier man. Nick looks mildly irritated, but only John on the right seems desperate for a quick death, and his fiance Megan appears all too happy to oblige. I can only imagine how long a blunt, plastic, light-up sword would take to sever a human neck. Of course, that may be like asking how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie-pop. Either way, as John is still alive and well at the time of this writing, it apparently takes at least a week.

The crowns' color tells you what section and what knight you will be supporting, and as anyone can imagine, the Yellow Knight was a fucking embarrassment. Honestly, he should have had a lame gazelle surrounded by lions on his shield, but I suppose that sort of heraldry is too large for anyone's blazon. Here's a shot, not of our man, but of the MC, who sounded a lot like he was announcing a boxing match.


I mean, come on. The light is shining directly from the front, but his shadow still darts blackly forward. Clearly the laws of physics do not apply in this magical, liminal space, and so I thought there was a chance the Yellow Knight, despite over a thousand years of literary precedent, might win. Alas, it was not to be.

Afterward we went back to our place, and in traditional fashion, got blasted drunk. Indeed, our faculties became so impaired that we started letting any piece of gutter trash come in and hang out with us, which is what led to the arrival of a second, far more terrifying Yellow Knight:

Indeed, the only vaguely redeeming feature of this hobo was his enduring affection for his mother, proudly displayed on a pale, completely un-muscled shoulder. That, and those glorious flaxen strands.

Thanks for a great time, folks. And for all those of you who called, thanks very much; you were there in spirit. As, apparently, was a hillbilly.

The Collar Pops from Within

Over the years, my wife has struggled to break me of certain lingual habits, not the least of which is using the phrase "lingual habits." I'm told it smacks of pretension, but as a friend recently told me, pretension is the new modesty. And in the spirit of both those sentiments, today I want to talk about the douche bag, kids. I'm not talking about that mysterious feminine product that seems doomed to be forever linked to meadow or spring metaphors in advertising, but rather that special brand of gentleman who makes me what to drive a railroad spike through my temple.

I bring this esteemed topic to the fore in honor of a man who I met last weekend at a wedding. Let's call him Andy, or as we soon started calling him: DB; the Douche, that guy, and Andouche. "But Colonel Gentleman," you might say, "you're a complete narcissist and your default opinion of any newcomer is disdain." Touche. Nevertheless, I still maintain I'm in the right on this one, and despite the rapid and unanimous consensus of those in attendance at the blessed nuptials (congrats again, Brock and Natalie!), allow me to furnish you with proof.

Item 1) Insisted on going on separate trip for his special, elite tequila (Don Julio, as it turned out) during a family barbecue furnished with enough booze to bring down a rhino because "I only drink margaritas."

Item the Second) The following morning, he insisted on taking the remainder of his tequila with him, rather than leaving it at the host's house.

Item Two and a Half) The same morning, he also refused to leave the room he slept in, or for that matter, even get out of bed, until his girlfriend went to the store and bought his special french vanilla creamer for his coffee, because he can't get up without his coffee, and he can't have his coffee without his special creamer. I opined that a steak knife to the trachea might due, but after some consideration, we decided it wasn't worth staining the furniture with arterial spray. Barely.

Item the Third) He's 39 and dresses like he's 22.

Item Fo') Here's a sample interjection of his into an otherwise innocuous conversation. See if you can detect the pattern developing before the train utterly derails:
"Hey Jim, I saw this shirt you'd like. It read: 'Shakespeare hates your emo poems.'"
"That's hilarious, Darren. You know about the one Kelly got me that has a picture of the Bard and says, 'Prose before hoes,' right?"
Enter Douche. "I saw this shirt that was two lines of gibberish on it, but if you fold them together right, it reads FUCK YOU."

Awesome, right? Anyway, here's a website that utterly captures the spirit of this man, and since the gentleman is actually a web guy, hell, maybe he made the site himself. It's called A Shirt for a Stud, and I'm genuinely sad to say I don't think it's meant to be funny. ....sorry about that. I just looked at the page again, and I started weeping blood. I don't think that's supposed to happen. Of course, it could be worse. They actually showed the page to someone's pet, and look what happened to it:


I'm not sure what the hell that thing was to begin with, but it's clearly been abused. And in Andouche's defense, so was he; his girlfriend was a real gem. Still, that's no excuse. Of course, it's not entirely classy of me to take pot shots at him from the dim corners of the internet, but I figure it's okay. I'm kinda a big deal.