Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Worst Christmas Songs Of All Time

Oh it's that time again little ones.  The time of year where good 'ol Poon locks himself in his house, fully stocked on lubricant, whiskey and severed doll heads just so he doesn't have to get out into this hellish society we have created.  Here's the thing, I'm not opposed to Christmas.  I like giving shit to people and getting shit from people.  It's one of the few times of the year I have the opportunity to see someone truly smile.  Not a "hey nice to see you here" or "thanks for asking if I needed a refill" smile.  Not that.  The true "I cannot believe you had it in you to do something you knew would mean so much" smile. 

With that said, I hate the living shit out of Christmas music.  Pretty much all of it.  If I really felt lazy this evening I could even write down a list of ever Christmas song ever made and say each one was a tie for #1 worst ever.  I won't.  This may be tough to fight through, but here you go. 

10. Silver Bells

This has always sounded to me like we are at a funeral for someone named Silver Bells.  It's creepy as fuck.  Dreary.  Awful.  Love ya Bing. 

9. Oh Holy Night - Arcade Fire

So here is the thing.  I honestly don't know if this is real or not.  I looked all over the place and it seems to be fake, but I'm not an Arcade Fire fan so we will just say plausible.  If it is real, then may SantaGod have mercy on the poor souls that spent the time recording this.  If it is fake, then may ReindeerJesus take this down from the Internet or pierce my ears with a rusty needle.  Either way it's a win.

8. Santa Baby - Raelynn (and really anyone ever)

Always beaten my ass.  Especially when a young person does it.  Disturbing to whore your daughter out just because the song is popular with middle aged housewives that dream of having an affair with some fat bearded fuck.  The only goo version of course was done by Taylor Swift.  DON'T YOU DARE SAY A FUCKING WORD DIFFERENT YOU ASSDICK!

7. Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth

Oh Jesus fuck me........

6.  All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth - Your Mom

So you say I should give this poor child a break because she is cute or British or retarded or whatever.  I SAY THEE NAY!  NAY I SAY!!!  CHILD EXPLOITATION!!!!!

5. Let it Snow - Jessica Simpson

Not actually a horrible rendition of an awful song, but the fact that she may have actually filmed this against a green screen in her basement makes it on the list for pure lack of effort.  You need Nick back in your life sweetheart......

4. Mariah Carey - All I Want for Christmas is You

You did notice that this is the only one on this list where the artist is listed before the song.  Well good for you.  I am not a huge fan of this song overall, however, having to see what octave you are singing in by watching your hand go up and down while you death-grip your diamond encrusted microphone like it's Nick Cannon's baby arm is absolutely atrocious.  Did you also know that she kicks puppies in her spare time?  Look it up.  Hell trend it on Twitter.  #mariahkickspuppies

3. Christmas Don't Be Late - Alvin and the Chipmunks

Damn I love those bastards.  I just don't like when they fuck with me around Christmas.  Don't. Fucking.  Do.  It. 

2. Carol of the Bells

I get the fact that bells do in fact go "ding, dong, ding, dong" and I thank you for your reminder of that.  With that in mind, please stop.  The kids yelling this at me make me feel like I am taking part of a Children of the Corn ritual.  THEY WANT YOU TOO MALIKAI!!!!!

1. Wonderful Christmas Time - Paul McCartney
This video was hand crafted my the hand of Satan, sung with the tongue of Medusa and filmed through the eyes of that creepy guy from Poltergeist with the odd hat.  I don't really know why every store in America must play this in the checkout line while I wait behind some Hindu family breaking down a single basket into 16 different orders.  JUST GIVE THEM $6 FOR YOUR RICE AND BANANAS AND CALL IT A DAY!!!!!!

And here is a video of 3 hours of Christmas music just because I hate you. 

Oh and we just hit 10k page views. Merry Fucking Christmas.

Putting the ass in Christmas,

St. Pooncholas

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

How The Boys Beat the Bucs

So, as it turns out, there is actually a performance clause in my contract with Down and Distant.  So instead of going with "Plan A" which consisted of me cruising to retirement and not doing much, I am forced into "Plan B" which is "contribute".   So, seeing as I have to work for my beer money this weekend, I submit the following post.  I must warn you that some of these facts may have been stretched and there is at least one outright, blatant lie.  I will leave it to you to pick it out.  

After seeing Poons post about his lost weekend learning new terms like "bear" and "power bottom" in Chicago, I decided I was going to steal tickets to a Cowboys game and kidnap three random gringos to haul with me.  I made them call me "friend" and by the end of the day, proved Stockholm Syndrome works like a charm.  We will call these brave souls Richard, Johnson, and Peter.

The story begins (for most of us) at 8:45am as we triumphantly walk to our chariot, our cooler full of the raw materials for the Micks favorite daytime drink, the Red Beer.  I say the day started for most of us at 8:45, because one member of our travelling band, Richard, decided that Oktoberfest would be a great "pregame-pregame". As his truck came stumbling down the street, we could smell his alcohol infused pheromones from half a block away and as Richard poured himself out of the truck, he proclaimed that he was too drunk to think of a good excuse to back out of the days festivities. So here he was.  

We hop in the hoopty and head on down the road to Arlington, TX, the fun time capitol of DFW for sports and merriment.  This city also provides the best excuse to start drinking before 10am on a Sunday, if you need one.  

Relevant Quote: "You can't drink all day if you don't start early in the morning."

Pause for a Life Pro Tip: If you have read down this far, I am going to let you in on a pretty good parking secret should you venture down to Jerrys Death Star.  We found a small business that is a preschool during the week that whores its limited parking spots for 35 of your American dollars on game days. The best part about this is it is right across the street from Lot 15 which, if memory serves, is an $85 parking lot and puts you about half a mile from the stadium.  Not too shabby.  This place also allows for consumption on site.  They don't mind and old man Rufus, the attendant, is more than friendly.

Back to our story.  Peter, Johnson, Richard and I are standing outside the Mick-mobile in our newly rented parking space talking about the upcoming game and recent TV show marathons we have gotten sucked into.  I started talking about "How the States Got Their Shapes" and starting wowing them all by dropping all kinds of useless trivia on them.  I walked away from the group with my chest out in pride to get pour myself another red beer as I had surely left them reeling in wonderment at my superior knowledge of power grids and the Canadian border.  When I returned to the group, I found that the conversation had taken an awful, terrible turn.  

"I think I may have just shit myself" uttered by Richard was the first thing i heard upon my return.  How oh how did we stumble upon this conversation!?  I don't know if it was the beer talking but I was suddenly extremely jealous.  With that one statement, all attention had been drawn from my vast knowledge and onto Richard.  And here I was about to share with them that the Texas state capitol is deliberately 15 feet taller than the US capitol building.

The time came head to the stadium.  Super Secret Parking put us about a half mile from our gate so we had some time to people watch and get the stumble out of our sober.  Richard continued to be in a bad way, mumbling from time to time about "little infected poop needles" and the need to find a restroom.  

Now, Richard and Johnson are not big sports fans and like to make nonsensical comments about any event we attend.  As we waited in line to get into the gate, Johnson stated that we may not even get into the game until the "middle inning".  It was about this time that I saw a video board that showed a text short code to report unruly behavior.  I had a feeling I was going to need this to report myself as a preemptive effort.  This same Johnson would later comment upon an interception by the Dallas Cowboys that we just "hit a home run".  

After loading up on the maximum amount of beer allowable by the stadium, we proceed to our seats.  As you can tell from the photos, these were not bad seats by any stretch.  Sure, they could have been mid field, sure they could have been a little higher up to see all of the action on the field.  But in the end, not one of us had an issue with the view.  

It is at this point that I found out that Gangnam Style is now considered a Jock Jam, which I do not all the way disagree with.  

Some game stuff happened.

The scenery had moved on so we decided to do a little walking around to see the sights.  We went outside into a courtyard area and was greeted by a loud carny who proceeded to challenge our collective manhood and appeal to our inner show boat.  There was a truck, with blocking dummies attached to the bumper.  The idea is to push it ten yards to beat a pre-established time.  Easy enough.  My companions and I look at each other, shrug, and proceed to attempt our best impression of a three point stance.  Our first two efforts went well, I had forgotten how much fun blocking dummies were. Our best time was .5 seconds slower than the fastest time which encouraged us to keep going.  5 more times.  I am light headed at this point and need to stop.  

"Lets push a truck they said...  It will be fun they said....".  This is the reason that 2 days later my legs still hate me and my shoulder is sore something fierce. I am not 17 anymore.  I am still not all the way convinced that the game wasn't rigged and the e-brake wasn't on the whole time.  Carnies.  Never trust them.  It was out of this frustration that I proceeded to pick up the F150, Hulk Style, and heave it over the roof of Cowboys Stadium.  

Inside, football continued.

The consolation prize for trying to push a truck 10 yards was a Dallas Cowboys foam finger.  In my frustration, I grabbed my foam finger and bashed it against one of the tables outside like I was Billy Joe Armstrong on a drug bender making an ass of myself at a rock festival, breaking it in half. 

The foam finger excited Johnson to no end, however, and I believe it was the favorite part of the game for him.  From this point forward, he would point at people at random and shout "I have a foam finger!" every time people cheered around him. 

Things get hazy at this point.  By this time the game had started to wind down and we made our way out of the stadium and toward our ride.  We paused before the ride home to finish the beer that we had in our cooler.   If you ask me, our conversation was prim, proper, and in no way offensive to anyone.  if you were an outsider looking in, we probably more resembled monkeys grunting at each other and laughing uncontrollably.  

It was time to go, so we punched Peter in the gut until he was sober and slid him into the driver seat. Richard proceeded to promptly pass out and I have not heard from him since  He is presumed dead.  

And, dear reader,  that is the story of how the Dallas Cowboys beat the Tampa Bay Buccaneers by a score of 16-10. 

Yours In Christ, 

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

A Trip With The Chicago Bears

Not those Bears.....we will get there. Today is my first day of recovery after a 5 day trip to Chicago with a fellow Buckeye and one hell of a model American, Buckeye Savant. After about 18 hours of being home and a few gallons of water, I have a chance to look back at the trip and can really appreciate the fact that this was one of the best trips I have ever taken in my life.

When I first stepped off of the plane, I was greeted by the smell of stale mildewed carpet from a fraternity basement along with a gaggle of fat, derp-faced mouth breathers that you would only expect if you have ever seen any show that even mentions Chicago. Sometimes stereotypes aren't only right, they're necessary. A $60 cab ride later, I'm hunkered down at a local bar with a hell of a bartender that immediately understood what drink roulette was. Goose Island was her local brew favorite so we went through each and every one until Savant joins to partake. Now the bartender was not bad looking. Chicago hot at worst, hot hot at best. We will go hot hot. At the stroke of penis-o'clock, it's time to move elsewhere and meander our way to the local pizza place to dig into a pie. Not a let down at all and after some food and a few more....and more.....and more drinks, the night moves onto another local bar where we partake in Christ knows what. Making friends, enemies and stories along the way we work our way back to the hotel for some much needed sleep.

Early in the morning the sun rises. Just an FYI. It happens everywhere, but it happens in Chicago as well. Idiot.

ITS KISS DAY! ITS KISS DAY!!! Waking up 34% giddy from excitement and 66% hungover, the morning moves to Navy Pier to work through the bullshit part of the day before faces are melted. A bloody mary starts things off quite well and the fact that you can carry drinks with you just add on to the gloriousness of this city. A quick stroll and a Cheezeborger-nofries-chips at the Billy Goat lead into a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry. Get your learn on fuckers. That's what you need to know. Being someone with ADD, this was the perfect place to spend a few hours. Looking at skeleton dong, playing with fire and listening to the softest of whispers from a distant lover from across the room as if they were right behind me prepared me like nothing more for the evening. A quick stop by the 7-11 to get the pre-concert ingredients for a Bourbon Meyer and we are ready to roll. Although he will not read this, Finan is a bad motherfucker. Driver to and fro for this concert with his awesome girlfriend means that you are a solid dude in my book. Package that with a dude I would like to share some drinks with and hell, I may give you a hange if the highway isn't too lighted up. You know, because I'm classy. I don't want a trucker to see what I'm doing.

Stroll into the concert with beers in hand passing row by row....."excuse me"......"excuse me"........"excuse me".......until there isn't anyone else to say "excuse me" to. Because we are on the front fucking row. Motley Crue takes the stage in a fireworks display of naked whores and hard rocking, drunken, long-dicked motherfuckers that you would hope to the holy mother of Christ you get to be like one day. I will not. Not by a long shot. Being someone that was born in the early 80's, I didn't get much into Motley Crue or KISS in the beginning. I know their songs and enjoy "Wild Side" here and there. No bullshit that when I was on standby on the way home, I downloaded the shit out of both bands. No ballads. High powered, full throttle rocking for an hour put us in a place where we were never ready for this night to end. Chest pounding, adrenaline pumping, beer flowing. I could not get this sort of high trying to snort my way out of Lindsey Lohan's house....and believe me I've tried. And that was the opening act.

A quick piss and a beer later, we are back in the seats staring at a black curtain with a crowd full of investment bankers with faces painted which I am more than OK with. This place is somewhere that you can escape your day to day and live the life of who you want to be and not who society says you should be. Show your tattoos. Paint your face. Get drunk and sing your FUCKING ASS OFF!!!! ITS KISS!!!!! You wanted the best, you got the best! A barrage of fireworks, smoke, drums and explosions segue the band's decent from the rafters as they blast "Shout it out Loud" into our ear holes as if they are punishing us for just now partying with them. Piercing our eardrums with such ferocity that I would feel bad if I didn't see them any possible time I had a chance. If you can party through a show with KISS and see another band without thinking that you are cheating on Gene Simmons, then I congratulate you. You are a better man than I. Playing their normal set list of songs is exactly what you want them to do and it is exactly what they do. Running through the songs that made them the best band on this fucking planet is what they do best and they played the hell out of it. Shitty seats? No problem. They will come to you via a platform placed at the very last row of the covered seats so they can zip line out there and pelvic thrust you as close to your face as possible. In a barrage of fireworks, blood, confetti, alcohol, codpieces, loud bangs and explosions the night was done as we walked our way to the closest bar to wait for a ride home. Of course as we entered into the bar of 20-somethings playing Nickleback the only logical thing to do was play every KISS song they had and even pay extra for it to play before their dick-sucking music. And we did. For the next hour or so, beers were consumed and a jukebox was rocked with music it may have never heard before. We exited heads held high feeling that we had accomplished greatness that night. And you are goddamn right that we did.

Early in the morning the sun rises. Just an FYI. It happens everywhere, but it happens in Chicago as well. Idiot. Jesus, how many times do I have to say this?

No big plans outside of the Buckeye game for Saturday so we make it to the elevator with little on the schedule when we hear a couple of older ladies talking about going to the Bruce Springsteen show Saturday night.

"He was only here Friday right?" - Savant

"He is playing Friday and Saturday at Wrigley actually." - some old F.

Savant and I look at each other contemplating the same thing. As I get onto StubHub, I realize that we could rock out with The Boss for much less than we anticipated. Click. Buy. Print. Let's get this day started.

We make our way to a Buckeye bar for the game where we rub elbows with a few thousand locals who suddenly we have everything in common with. Throughout the first half, we power through hangovers and get to the point where we are ready to party when we stumble upon a tight shirt wearing gentleman at the front of the bar selling t-shirts. We quickly make friends and he makes a few bucks off of us along with a buckets of beer and some shots. Looking back, I would gladly pay three times as much as I did to make that connection than I did. Out of randomness, we also run into a friend of Savant's here. He is a bartender and was talking to us.

"I work at a bear bar"

Me - "Oh, I'm not leaving until late Sunday so I may watch the game there."

Him - "No sweetheart. Not a Bears bar, a BEAR bar. You would fit in good there."


//walks away

This is also where possibly the game of fellate/fuck/anal came into play. Oh, you haven't played? Let me fill you in. Chicago is filled with a diverse group of women. Much better quality than was expected actually. Instead of looking onto the standard 1-10 scale, it escalated to what will be considered "fellate/fuck/anal" from here on. So basically, if a girl is hot then you would fellate her. If she is OK, you would fuck her. If she is a root, then you would give her anal. I know that you shouldn't start a sentence with "if" so fucking kill me.

Around the end of the third quarter, we realize that there is a raffle for a free LED TV and a couple of tickets to the Buckeyes/Huskers football game. As they go through the winners, the worst thing that happened on the trip happened......we didn't win a free fucking TV. Seriously. Looking back, I would gladly pay three times as much as I did to make that connection than I did. Seeing as how I haven't looked at my bank account since this trip, I can say that with confidence.* (*anything said in this article is subject to viewing of bank accounts and/or pictures that may surface)

Back to the hotel for what will go down as the worst nap in the history of naps ever. 30 minutes of heaven followed by a few hours of hell. Hungover and struggling to focus on the matter at hand, we leave the establishment in search of The Boss. The seats are good. Not perfect, but good. First level, just under the overhang and out of the rain that started pouring. Bruce put on a hell of a show. Nothing flashy. No explosions. Just Bruce. Playing all of his hits and a few new songs rocking the shit out of his fans. The crowd was for sure different than anything we saw the night before, but just as good all-in-all. Especially when you run into some random that you went to high school with that is sitting two rows behind you for no reason whatsoever. We left feeling satisfied in a way that I can only describe as the way you feel leaving a great steakhouse after getting the steak you weren't planning on getting and it being cooked the way you didn't expect. Walking out of the door taking a deep exhale while looking at the other person shaking your head as in a manner to say "damn, I cannot believe that just happened." That sums up the night.

Wrigleyville was the happening spot from there on where we decided to play around in a few Michigan bars before finally cabbing it home around the 3am range from what I recall. We return back to the hotel where Savant immediately passes out fully clothed (dammit!) while I go to remove my contacts and get my nighttime eyes on.

Early in the morning the sun rises. Just an FYI. It happens everywhere, but it happens in Chicago as well. I mean this is just ridiculous now.  How do you not know this?  It's fucking scienceish.

Sunday comes and a little time is killed walking the Chicago downtown and browsing for things that could make me move here. It does a pretty damn good job. Come 11 or so, Savant must depart for home and I stand at the corner of the avenue, bags packed with nowhere to go. I have a 430 flight and a little time to kill so I meet up with a few friends on the north side of town to watch football for opening weekend. We catch up and tell stories while making our way through the finest home brews that Chicago has to offer. 2pm comes around and I still have not even come close to leaving for the airport so I decide that the time has come to push back my flight. Although I want to move back to a flight later in the day, the Monday morning option sounds much better. I don't have to work anyways. I return to the table with the great news that I'm not leaving tonight and am faced with the challenge to try Chicago's signature drink of Malort's. Now if you have never had Malort's, you aren't missing out. It's awful. Beyond awful. If whiskey had a down syndrome baby with Ether and tequila was it's godparent, then when it pissed blood you would understand what this tastes like. And yes, I am getting some shipped to me. The slow burn of the devil's piss made me more and more apt to keep drinking. We move from bar to bar passing a man in a chicken costume, a $580 flight change and allegedly some Hispanic waitress that would only serve me alcohol.

Now the flight that would finally take me home to sobriety left at 1220pm on Monday, however, my friend left at 530am. Being a good friend I stayed out until 2am drinking and left the apartment at 3am to catch a train to the airport to go standby. We get to the train station where we find out that $4.50 is the amount it takes to get to the airport (please see second paragraph for taxi fare to the same destination). I have exactly $1 on me and her purse is dumped upside down to finally come up with $4.50-ish in change and such. I get on the train and ass-to-ass with some homeless guy for a seat while a Chinese business man is looking over my shoulder at anything I am doing on my phone. The airport was very friendly, but slow at this time of morning and I get on the 530am flight to Charlotte for my layover where they cannot guarantee me a flight to Dallas before 2pm. I take my chances.

Charlotte comes all too soon and my friend boards the plane at 9am leaving me to fend for myself until I either die or get on a flight. Luckily there are 4 flights to Dallas before mine......all of which I miss. I am on standby for each and every one and am passed up. I try to sleep. No luck. I try to drink. No luck. I try to masturbate. No luck.

Finally I am called to my 5th boarding group to Dallas where I have to check my bag and not carry it on since I am some fucktard that can't manage my own shit and need to have some Charlotte asshole carry for me to the tarmac. I oblige. Before we leave the tarmac, I am asleep. In blissful, needed sleep mind you. I couldn't be happier at this time until I wake up just in time to hear "you may now turn on your electronic devices". Yep. 16 minutes. Being someone that is 6'4" it's not easy for me to sleep on a plane. Mix that with the fact that I hate flying and we are on a shit boat to fuckass town. I am miserable for the next 1.5 hours. That is until the turbulence starts. The last 30 minutes before landing were probably the worst I have ever experienced in my life. The point to where the older lady next to me was rubbing my back while I dry-heaved into the barf bag that I had gripped so tightly the entire flight. Seriously, if you are reading this I owe you big time. If you aren't reading this, then I appreciate you having a conscience. I had to apologize to her for trying to throw up and the fact that I was about 36 hours from my last shower. Not to mention that my right sock was inside out. FML.

Landing in Dallas could not have been much more of a blessing for me at this time. I cattle-herd it with the rest of my traveling companions to the baggage carousel where I see bag by bag pass. Staring me down. Mocking me. Until I am standing with two woe some travelers looking for our personal belongings. An empty carousel spins in front of us while we patiently wait. That is when a small bag peeks it's head onto the conveyor belt. I see two sets of eyes bulge but they can fuck the fuck off. THIS IS MINE! I snatch my beloved bag up and make my way to the shuttle that takes me to my car. Seeing that I gave my last dollar to the train station employee, I give nothing to the poor guy wheeling my ass around and get into my car and make my way back to my own bed for a nice 6pm nap.

The following hours and days were filled with regrets and memories. Mostly thinking about how lucky I am to be able to live the life I did for a few days and how lucky I am to have people like this in my life. No matter how shitty I felt on Monday and Tuesday, I would do it all again if I was given the chance. Here's to you Chicago. A city to which I hold high on my pedestal of admirable cities and one which I will go to again and spend more time enjoying your blissfulness.

Thank you Savant. Thank you Chicago


Sunday, June 10, 2012

My Yearly Prayer

For those of you lucky enough to follow me from the old "A Day in the Life Of..." blog, then I'm sure you have many memories with me.  My near meltdown with my ex-fiance that I for some reason made public, raging alcoholism, rambling on about an All-Star game Home Run Derby contest, late night posts while sitting alone in my one bedroom apartment on the cusp of another whiskey bender......Jesus how did I keep from offing myself?

Anyways, speaking of Jesus there is one thing from the old blog that I never stopped doing.  It is my yearly prayer.  I haven't made it public on here since I last did it on the old blog five years ago, but I think I am at a point that I need to put it here for the world to see.  Enjoy.

Hey Jesus, you there?  Hello?  I'm not sure why I always get your answering machine but it's frustrating me.  Anyways, I hope you are doing well and I think about you a lot.  Especially when I need something or when I'm upset.  That's just the way it works.  Sorry.

So I remember when you sent me that picture of you at the Spurs game a few years ago and I lol'd about it non-stop.  You were always crazy and I hope you haven't lost that.  I do have some concerns about your well-being though.  The Spurs lost and you let Miami make it to the Finals.  Is everything ok?  I know we aren't talking like we used to, but if you want to get together and talk I'm here for you.  Just because we aren't in the same relationship we used to be doesn't mean I don't care.  I do.  A lot.  Especially when the FUCKING SPURS AND CELTICS LOST AND THE FUCKING THUNDER AND HEAT ARE IN THE FINALS!!!!!

Sorry.  Just a bunch of emotions built up.  I mean I haven't forgiven you for stuff that happened in the past like LSU beating tOSU and the back to back World Series losses for the Rangers, but I hold out hope that you are going to prove to me that you are still the same as when I met you.  I think you KNOW you are.  There is something that is just causing you distress.

I really hope that you can talk to me and we can work through this.  For you.....not for me.  Because at this point we are really in a lose/lose situation.  Either OKC or Miami has to win this thing, right?  Unless you have something really awesome up your sleeve.  If you do, please talk to me so I know you are ok.

Call me maybe?


Friday, June 8, 2012

This Year is Different.....wait is that already taken?

Foo Fighters playlist and Sprite with my vodka.
Late night of drinking pre-Dominicana.
Cranking on airplanes and PK in bleans,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When a dog farts,
When my pee stings.
When YOLO makes Pickled Mick mad.
I remember that these are my favorite things
And then I just feeeeeeel soooooooo raaaaaaaaaadd!

So it begins. Well it actually began last night, but either way we are on our trip to see two of the most awesome people that we know get hitched. Although we are only halfway through 2012, this has been one shitfuckawesomeass of a year. To top it all off, it's only getting better. I haven't looked forward to a year like this in a long time. And I'm not talking from the heart of D&D but personally. D&D wise, it has been a hell of a year as well. Launched what may be the most profitable podcast of all time that now has followers all over the world. Porn bots or no, it registers so that counts.

I think for the past few years I have said that it was the year of the Poon. This may be the year I finally live up to my expectations.....and not a goddamn second too soon.

You know what this is not the year of? Russell Fucking Westbrook. You heard me right, Goat. This is not the year. I have come to the point that I am so against him, I have found myself rooting for not only San Antonio, but anyone that is not OKC. And man that hurts my anus having to do that. I mean like really hurt. Not that kind of "what did I do Friday night" kind of hurt, like "man I'm glad that guy only had three fingers on his left hand" kind of hurt.

Oh boo hoo Oklahoma. Oh you've been die hard fans for so long? Eat shit. "Thunder Up"? If one person from that trailer park state can explain that to me in something other than Otoe language then I'll believe it. You don't know what it means and neither does anyone else. Die.

When I was with C and I went to OK for the first time, she tried to sell me on that state with two points:
1. They invented the parking meter
2. Garth Brooks is from there


If she just would have included that Toby Keith is from there too, I would have turned the car around, kicked her in the cunt in the direction of the nearest truckstop, lit a cigarette and flicked it in the closest patch of dry grass and watched as that shithole state burned in my rear view.

After more than an hour and a half on this flight, we are finally served drinks and I have never been more excited to get a $5 shot of vodka in my life. Will keep you posted throughout the week via twitter.


Never let me slip cause if I slip then I'm slippin'


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Friday, May 11, 2012

Damn I'm High

10,000 feet in the air and listening to Bush makes me think of nothing else than my fellow hooligans at D&D. We have been slacking on not only the podcast but on the website as a whole. What do you suggest we do? Shut it down? Make more of an effort? Let's take a few questions from our readers.

Q. Hey why don't you faggots try loading Tuesday or Die on Tuesday instead of Wednesday or never. By the way has the new issue of Coal Miner Weekly come in yet?

A. There are certain logistics that come along with launching a worldwide phenomenon podcast like we have. There have been technical issues with the RSS feed as well as scheduling conflicts. If you dicks would pay us for this then we could dedicate more time to entertaining you. Oh and what the hell is Coal Miner Weekly? We do have the new issues of Cold Minor Weekly but The Pickled Mick isn't done "warming them up".

Q. Have any of you ever realized that all of your names start with "P"?

A. Yes. They also end with a silent "get a fucking life".

Q. My girlfriend is thinking that she wants to move our relationship to the next level and I don't know if I'm ready. What should I do?

A. Not sure how this helps us but here we go. Unless she is talking about moving her apartment to a higher floor, bail. If you are unsure now then you know damn well you're just trying to hold out for a better piece than you have in front of you. If she is thinking about moving to a higher floor, then approve and keep on rolling sir. She decorates better than you and her place is cleaner anyways. Believe me I know.

Q. Will you ever write anything relevant to sports or anything funny like when you guys had "The Penalty Kill" and "A Day in the Life Of"?

A. Holy shit why do you remember those sites? No and please stop glaring at me through my window.

Q. You know I've been inside of your mom?

A. At this point I just assume yes. Who hasn't?

Q. Ever thought about it?

A. Yes.

Q. If you recorded a podcast in the air and your plane went down right now, would anyone hear it?

A. To both accounts no. Although I am pleased hearing us banter about nonsense, I assume I am in the minority. And where I am I the air, only the havalena between El Paso and Midland would hear the boom.

Q. Can't you guys just die and let me have my time on the twitter feed back?

A. Oh! Thanks for being a follower of @downanddistant. Keep on not responding and we will keep giving you the nothing you deserve.

Q. Three part question. PK - hange or fooje? Poon - will you ever stop being a whore? Pickled Mick - will you ever write another article?

A. Christ keep the gloves up. Answers. Depends on if giving or receiving.....either way fooje. No if your mom or your mouth have anything to do with it. Depends on if I get any support on this f-ing thing. Can't carry these guys on my own.

Q. Andy Kaufman, Drew Carey, Larry David. Marry one, kill one, f one. GO!

A. You are demented. Marry Carey, kill Kaufman (he isn't dead btw), f David.

Thanks for your submissions. Leave any additional questions in the comments or on twitter @downanddistant, #danddquestion.

Fuck these airplane pretzels,


Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Talking horses' asses

This is becoming a habit.  Well, we like to drink and talk so why not?  To you high toners who must have this download through your iTunes automatically, sorry.  We think we are doing all the steps necessary to make that happen.  So until it works correctly, you'll just have to get your shitty Down and Distant podcasts the old fashion way....from Poon's ass.

Enter if you dare

p.s. You can subscribe in iTunes and hit refresh (search down and distant.)  You'll get all the episodes.  Which is why this is so maddening.  I'm looking at you Steve Jobs.  too soon?

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Whoa Nelly. Three episodes in the books. This one has the full cast of characters in the house.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Pat Sajak Makes 8 Figures

Now go back to your shitty day and send us your Google search bitches.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

So this is the second one that you should listen too. The first one is on iTunes. Listen in any order, but listen. SERIOUSLY. LISTEN.

Friday, March 30, 2012

PKs Google screen cap

Poon wins so far with the Jonathan Taylor Thomas search. Gay much?

Thursday, March 29, 2012

It's Check Your Google Night!

Submit your screenshots to or @downanddistant to win prizes next week on the podcast! I'll start. GO!!!

Christ I need to get my head checked.


Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Tuesday or Die Episode 1

You should probably listen to this. It's what happens when beers are mixed with audio recording equipment.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

My Last Will and Testament

Well it's come to this. After surviving so may of life's trials and tribulations, antique mirrors and minivans, whiskey benders and vodka morning is with great disappointment that I have fallen to what I can only describe as AIDS a mixture of bronchitis, flu and sinus infection. 48 hours after my diagnosis, I found myself going in and out of consciousness in a strange hospital room with multiple doctors hovering over me shaking their heads in disbelief. Blood samples, x-rays, stool samples, semen mouthwash.....they tried it all and finally came to the conclusion that there was nothing more that they could do to help out and it was best to make me as comfortable as possible for my final few days. My last request was that they allowed me to write my proud and loyal followers to say my final farewells.

The following contains legally binding information that must be carried out per the last will and testament of "Poon". The official documents have been notarized and will be mailed upon my death.

To my Down and Distant Co-Founders:
I bequeath 100% of my forth-coming profits from to reinvest in In the event that I am behind on my payments to the web host, please catch those up and if there is anything left, then you all must go into the closest 7-11 together and buy a pack of gum, gay porno and XL rubbers. When you get to the clerk, as if the rubbers are the biggest ones that he has. He will reply yes. Proceed to reply, "Well, shit. Then where are your trashbags?" Failing to follow through with this request will result in you acquiring all of my funeral costs which should end up somewhere in the $100's of dollars once you burn me down enough to fit into a Nike shoebox with the new Jordan's inside. I expect you to pay for those also.

So it shall be done.

To my Down and Distant Followers:
I bequeath the timeline of my Twitter and Facebook accounts. Whenever there is a day that you miss me retweeting meaningless information from Drew Magary or What The Fuck Facts, please go back through and laugh and what used to be. It will never go away and seeing that I have over 1000 tweets, you shouldn't run out of shit to look at for a while. When you run out of that, proceed to and count to 1 million. Once you run out of that, congratulations! You are gay. Quit thinking about me now.

So it shall be done.

To All The Girls I've Loved Before:
Welp, you pretty much got the gift that you deserve. You're welcome. Remember you cannot sue someone that is dead. Get checked.
Oh and #16, the video is in my sock drawer. You can't access it......but everyone that knows where I lived out my remaining days can. It will be posted online soon for your viewing pleasure.

So it shall be done.

To Outstanding Creditors:
Die. Please continue to call me on all phones possible. If you would like, you can stuff my ashy shoebox with threatening letters. That may make you feel better. I'll make sure to tuck in a little arsenic in the shoe soles in case you feel froggy.

So it shall be done.

Thank you for a hell of a run and I'm sorry to leave things unfinished. You can have 50% of what is left in my 401k along with any crap laying around my house. This is contingent upon the fact that you are required to instruct the doctors to name the disease that I end up dying from "The Hawk Flu" and I will only be known as "Case 1". For the other 50%, you must track down said "Hawk", behead him with a knife blessed with the blood of a sacrificed lamb and stick his head on a pole on top of my grave.

So it shall be done.

To My Friends:
Jesus, what else can I give. I mean I'm fucking dead for Christ's sake! Ok. I have 4 tickets to the Rangers/Red Sox game in July. Already paid for and waiting at the house. The first 16 people must seed themselves bracket style and face off one one one (highest seed to lowest seed) drinking Ipecac. First one to throw up is out until 8 is left. In the round of 8, you must face off one on one (highest remaining seed to lowest remaining seed) and eat a full meat turtle that you must make on your own. For the round of 4, you must face off one on one (highest remaining seed to lowest remaining seed) backs to each other each with a single slice of bread and gay porno playing on the TV. The first one to finish on his respective bread wins and the other person must eat said lubricated slice of bread. For the final round, the last two remaining players must play a round of Crab Hair Roulette. One of the players that have already lost, must shave their pubic hair and wrap it in an uncooked corn tortilla and wrap it in foil. They must also make 5 additional uncooked tortillas with brussel sprouts inside and wrap in foil. The person to choose the Crab Hair Tortilla wins the tickets. Congratulations.

So it shall be done.

To Whomever Is Left:
I freeze dried my semen in my fridge in the garage. Do whatever you may like with it. Start a future generation, put it on top of ice cream, fuck snort it like it the shittiest cocaine you have ever had for all I care. Just get that gross shit out of my fridge.

So it shall be done.

I wish you all the best in your endeavors for the rest of your lives and Godspeed. If I will leave you all with one thing, please click on the link below. Do this in remembrance of me.

Man Rides Fire Extinguisher on Subway

Love From Beyond the Grave,


Sunday, February 26, 2012

NBA All Star Saturday Night

First of all, I do not apologize for my posts last night. I cannot take back what beer makes me think and/or say. Deal with it.

Catching up on last nights NBA festivities on the DVR and I must say that this is the biggest load of shitcrap I have seen in a long time. Did you watch it? Of course you didn't because you are a smart American. I swear to baby black Jesus that the most exciting part of the night was the three point competition. Seriously.

I tuned in to the slam dunk competition in my youth to see Jordan and Wilkins go one-on-one in a battle to the death of slam dunk prowess. Now, it's all bits. Jump over a tall guy....jump over P. Diddy right after he yells black power and puts his fist in the air....turn the lights off and glow in the dark and dunk the ball. On top of that, they have new technology that shows how much "Dunking Power" each dunk generates. This I assume is in response to SportsScience on ESPN that noone also cares about. Whatever. Where did the excitement go NBA?

The reason I didn't put the names of the slam dunk contestants is because they are all no namers. The NBA has to be disappointed in this. Shortened season and ratings in the toilet from what I understand would make you believe that they are doing everything possible to bring back the fans that they lost.


It truly makes me sad to see the All Star festivities diminish to what they have now become. The youth of America will never see what grew up with and therefore will never really appreciate the competitiveness and honor of the NBA All Star Game.

The only good thing I have to report is that the event went over time so I didn't get the very end of the competition and I don't care enough to go online to see who won.

Throwing it down with authority,


Location:Waimea St,Frisco,United States

Saturday, February 25, 2012

5-4. Fuck you......
Me-4; TO-3. Eat it.
Beer-3, TO touchdown count-3. And it's halftime. I dare him to beat me.
Trying to live tweet from Allen Wranglers home opener but fucking failing like a mother fucker. TO with 2tds so far. Drinking a beer for each touchdown.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Hear My Sports Confession

Forgive me Sports Father -

I think I might have sinned. Or in the process of sinning. I'm not talking about the other 6 tabs that I have open in my browser, either. Overlook the fact that I'm not wearing pants.

I used to maintain football was my favorite sport. All time. I played it, I lived it, I have football cards that never saw the spoke of a bicycle. These days, I don't get jazzed up for football season like I used to. Hell, there were three Cowboy games that I didn't even watch this year. Now that it's over, I miss it, sure. And as fall approaches, I will look forward to it, but it's not like it used to be.

I know what some of you will say: "He's champion chasing, just like all those other Dallas ass-hats". To that I say, nay, sir... Nay. Basketball season didn't start until December this year and I didn't miss it. Though I don't mind basketball, you won't find me buying tickets (but I will go if anyone has extras).

Hockey has never really been on my radar. I do like to see live games, but can't think of the last game I watched on TV.

No, baseball is where it is at. I am looking forward to sitting in my game chair, shirtless, with Dorito crumbs in my chest hair. I am looking forward to living and dying with each pitch, each win and loss. I look forward to bitching about how long spring training is and wondering why we can't just "get on with it". I'm even debating starting a Twitter account to do just that so I can beat you into submission on two social fronts.

Now that my sins are off my chest, I feel better. Don't worry, Cowboys, Stars, Mavericks, and Sidekicks, I still love you all. As a life-long resident, all of my favorite teams have always have had "Texas" or "Dallas" in front of them (exception: OU).

If you will excuse me, I have to put on some Broken Wings by Mr. Mister, force myself to cry, and comfort myself. By "comfort myself", I mean abuse myself. By "abuse myself", I mean play a little 5 on 1. By "play a little 5 on 1", I mean slam the spam. By "slam the spam", I mean... Screw it, I've finished already.

Thank you for reading, human-heads.

Yours in Christ,

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Hunched Over and Sweating

Happy Saturday you little shit-fuckers! As much as I love each and every one of you, I sincerely hope that you are spending this glorious day being productive and enjoying time with your loved ones. Actually, I hope you are hungover and spray-shitting your newly cleaned toilet in between beers.

Whitney Houston is being laid to rest today which for me is bittersweet. Bitter because I don't think that I'm in her will although we had that fling back in 1987. Sweet because I know she is in a better place than her normal bathroom stall knee-high into cocaine and meth. Godspeed Whitney.

Of all of the famous Whitney's that I know, I suppose I wanted her to die the least. Why can't Whitney Cummings have a coke problem? Why doesn't Bobby Brown stop producing makeup and start beating her ass? I mean have you seen her show.......her standup...........a picture............ever heard her name? Irrelevant. She sucks. If I had to choose between watching her TV show or the Reba show there is no doubt in my mind that I would immediately throw a brick at my TV and use the shards of glass to cut off my dick and choke myself to death with it. That actually doesn't sound all that bad honestly.

Don't judge me.

Blow it in my face,


Sunday, February 5, 2012

Live tweeting from Plano SB bash. Open Grey Goose bar? God save the children....and the mobile port-a-potties.