How to build a drink with ice without your wife noticing

I want to tell you about something that happened to this dude named Porkchop and how he’s trying to come to terms with it.

When Porkchop came back from a vacation this summer, Porkchop’s wife was not very happy with him. It seems he acted ugly in many ways and drank enough booze in 10 days for Porkchop’s brother and brother’s wife to call mom and tattle. Then Porkchop’s wife, “We need to talk about our future together.” Anyone who is married knows what this veiled threat is all about.

So it’s cutback time for Porkchop, who knows how good a gig he has, working from home and slapping his yambag all the time. So now he can’t drink on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, which represents a turmoil that’s significantly less than sporadically amusing. And when he does get to drink, he has to be responsible and quit before Porkchop morphs from Professor Porkchop into Fuckface Porkchop. The probability of this happening, he explained to me, indicated a potential statistical anomaly based on past performances. So that means when Porkchop’s lovely wife and family are in bed and he’s supposed to have stopped slugging back his cups, he has to sneak, which seems like a perfectly cromulent thing to do at the time. And yes, he says, before you raise your goddamned accusatory eyebrow, he knows is one of the classic indicators of alcoholism. But nevertheless, he is not going to AA because Porkchop will not submit to religion because he believes, as Einstein taught, religion is a bunch mumbo-jumbo and there probably is a god somewhere but he really isn’t interested in whether Porkchop can have another drink or two before he goes to fucking bed.

The rest of this essay is based on the assumption that a good liquor drink must be served in a glass rocks glass with plenty of ice. Otherwise, just guzzle it out of a bag, wino.

So he says the first thing to be careful of is slamming the cabinet door. Porkchop has those kinds of hinges where the door pops up about ¼ inch before it closes, and it makes a loud bang even if he keeps his hand on it. Then, the careful opening of refrigerator, which, depending on his paranoia, may include slipping his fingers beneath the rubber gasket that seals the door to break the airlock quietly. Now, one must remove the ice bucket from the freezer (not sliding but lifting and pulling) and carefully retrieving one ice cube at a time without disturbing those ice cubes contiguous to the original. With a dish towel wrapped around the glass to muzzle the clinking noises of ice falling into a rocks glass, carefully place one cube at a time inside, making sure not to upset the tedious balance of cubes already at rest. Of course, you don’t close the refrigerator while doing this so you don’t have to open it again. Quietly replace the ice bucket, then tip the glass to the side while the warm sweetness pours into thirsty vessel. Some nights, Porkchop must open another can of Sprite Zero (three to four drinks can be created per can) and this is quite difficult, because when the tab pulls and the interior gasses escape according to the laws of osmosis, it makes a loud cracking sound easily detected by the motherhearing of a wife even when she is sleeping. So place the unopened can under the shirt and wrap the non-opening hand around the outside. Slowly pull the tab while hiding in the downstairs bathroom with the poop fan on, then skulk back to the kitchen carefully avoiding the floorboards that squeak in the middle of the floor where people have been walking for 60 years.

Mix the bubbly with the marinated ice and happy juice. Almost anyone can handle the rest, including quietly installing the rocks glass in the back of the dishwasher’s top rack after you move the glass that was back there to the front so it will throw the dogs off your scent trail.

If you see Porkchop on that terrible TV show Intervention, he’ll be the one swinging punches at those in his family and friends who try to keep him from leaving.

No Excuses

I KNOW. We are the sorriest excuse for a blog in the entire interwebtube world of blogging. No excuses. By that I mean we have them, but I’m not going to try to sway your opinion of us by listing them here. We should stand on our own merits of competent and prolific blogocity. It shouldn’t matter that Poon’s new job as Chief Gnat Shit out of Pepper Picker is taking up all his time. And of course the medication he is taking for his pending “Change” makes him tired and negatively effects his creativity.

Savant hasn’t been seen since he ran off with Fritz the Erasure roadie. We know he’ll be happy as a clam….A clam with a ball-gag permanently crammed in its mouth that is.

Pork Chop, well you know Pork Chop. He’s been on a Hunter S. Thompson-like bender all summer. He’ll eventually tear down the foil off his apartment windows and emerge like Punxsutawney Phil only to realize it’s a cold drizzly late-fall in the Midwest and retreat to his bath-tub gin, Newports and crack whores.

Hairy Carrey, has always been thought of as the supposedly most upstanding and responsible of the bunch…PFFFFFT. He’s been way too busy trying to work the bugs out of his “theft prevention” cameras he installed in the girls locker room at his school. Good news is that theft is down but Ted the janitor is confounded about the origin of all the icing on the floor of the Asst. Principal’s office, and how to clean it up.

Even yours truly may have lost the muse. I’ve just really been depressed since I found out that Rosie O’Donnell was leaving The View. I just love her. I think it's so cute that most of the time you can still see her breakfast of bacon and ranch dressing on her chin. That GD Drew Carey, he must have blown someone to take away her rightful gig on The Price is Right. Bastard.

Seriously, none of that should matter. If we need to we’ll fire the whole fucking bunch of them and run Indy Buckeye and his footie pajama wearing posse in here if we can get some decent production out of this bitch. We’ll pull that trigger in a red hot second. Let this be a warning shot across your collective bow, Down and Distant. Get yer shit squared away and write, dammit. Or you’ll find your self right back where you started, making scary preditory comments on the Hannah Montana fan site.

So as not to have this post be just about bitching and complaining here’s a nice photo of the beautiful and talented Mrs. PK in Seattle, where she and PK were supporting our beloved Buckeyes. More photos available upon request. And, NO Hairy, not those types of photos. You perv.

PK out

I wiped my ass with a cat

I guess getting something crammed up your ass is just a fact of life.

Pork Chop recently turned 40, and since Pork Chop’s dad died last year of colon cancer, Pork Chop’s wife made him go get a colonoscopy. Now, we all have to die of something. Pork Chop is thinking of going out the way the Good Doctor Hunter S. Thompson did—high, drunk and with a .45 causing mortal brain damage.

Because the stuff you have to drink the day before the procedure is terrible. Well, it doesn’t taste that terrible, but its effects are devastating, plus it’s oily in texture and you have to chug it every 15 minutes for about four hours and it makes you feel like you’re going to spray out your internal organs.

Before you start drinking this stuff, though, you have to take four laxatives. Four. That alone is enough to do two day’s worth of damage. Then, you drink a gallon of this mule piss, which makes you crap out everything you’ve eaten since you were 15 years old. By the end of the day, I could have shit through a screen door into a two liter bottle of Sprite. And towards the end of this awful callisthenic, when you wipe your ass, your hand is trembling because you know how much it’s going to hurt when you touch your bunghole for the 75th time that day. I mean, I thought I was starting my period.

Pork Chop’s wife and kid recently got a kitten and named her Scout. It’s from To Kill a Mockingbird. Read a book. Anyway, this cat loves to come into the bathroom when I’m pissing and stand on her back legs and look into the water. She appreciates the heavy sound of my ropey stream as much as the next animal, I guess. So this day before my colonoscopy, Scout is hanging around the bathroom a lot. I guess she mistook the sound of another 16 ounces of water squirting out of my ass for a good urine slash.

It was early evening and I was miserable, sitting on the can and flinching away from another wiping. But I did what was necessary and leaned over on my left ass cheek, because that’s the way normal right handed people wipe their asses, and Scout sneaks up from behind the commode and pokes her head between my cheek and the seat. But I didn’t know she was there. So when I reached back to wipe, instead of applying the Cottonelle to my sphincter, I grabbed the back of her head and wiped my asshole with her face. I’m still laughing about the look she had on her face. If a cat can be appalled, she was.

Pork Chop Out

Drama my ass

Do you watch Entourage? I like it, my wife hates it, so that probably means it’s good. Hey, she’s still bitching at me for being a Neanderthal because I don’t want to watch The Age of Innocence. OK, so it’s a Martin Scorcese piece. So what? Two hours of boredom and no fucking or fighting. Great.

So, in Entourage, asshole Johnny Drama hooks up with a woman he wanted to bang 20 years ago and she brings along her friend for Turtle. The friend is supposed to give the best rim job in Los Angeles . But she’s fat and looks like a guy dressed up like a chick. Long story short, the good looking chick pulls a switch at the end and fucks Turtle, leaving Drama to his fate of rim jobbery. His face looks so sad as he gets his salad tossed.

My point is, if some chick gives you a rim job and jacks you off at the same time, that’s gay. What’s the difference if a chick does it or a guy? You’re getting your asshole licked while you get a reach around. If you don’t get some pussy afterward (and who would want to fuck that fat chick?), you might as well take the skin bus to poop town.