tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29950795738190052572024-03-19T01:01:07.285-04:00drinking - drawing - debaucherythe world is my televisionfoodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-79057366911585805702010-10-06T23:10:00.000-04:002010-10-06T23:10:36.944-04:00Danzig = Kitty Cat Enthusiast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxTaxSiQ2zrh14CdP7Xhpazp5Uog16aI8yA5YQf10hi6Uu6HQ07KoKTCPATpyGxzfWyDfY5ywj8Nm_2b-_fQdeZa9IR9VxcliVl5PRDq8zhjN21OB3g_RJBo7iY9Zl_ox0vI6mORdpQ/s1600/danzig+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxTaxSiQ2zrh14CdP7Xhpazp5Uog16aI8yA5YQf10hi6Uu6HQ07KoKTCPATpyGxzfWyDfY5ywj8Nm_2b-_fQdeZa9IR9VxcliVl5PRDq8zhjN21OB3g_RJBo7iY9Zl_ox0vI6mORdpQ/s1600/danzig+1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So recent photographs have been circulating on the internets of horror punk pioneer Glenn Danzig exiting a grocery store while carrying a bounty of household necessities, including a box of "Fresh Step" cat litter and a bag of canned cat food. Although legions of his loyal fiends may be embarrassed by this uncharacteristic crusade, this should come as no surprise to his true fans (like myself.) Please allow me to take you on a jaunt into the lyrical legacy of Glenn Danzig, showcasing that his spooky sounds bluntly reference his penchant for pussies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let us begin with a selection of songs from his debut solo album, released in 1988. The track <strong>"She Rides"</strong> a bluesy, sexy-stagger of a song, is about taking his little kitty on long car rides. His favorite feline at the time liked to perch itself on Glenn's left armrest as he drove.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>indicative lyrics: </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>She's Black</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>And Sin Runs Down Her Back</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">An obvious reference to the time that Glenn visited the Arby's drive thru and spilled Broncoberry sauce all over the kitty. Poor little guy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>"The Hunter"</strong> was written about the one time his cat, Elliott, killed a mouse in the basement. Elliott was so proud to present the vermin corpse to his owner, upon the altar in front of their bay window.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>indicative lyrics:</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Gonna Do A Million Things To You Honey</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Your Life Belongs To Me</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>So Don't Use No Love Gun</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the longform video for the song <strong>"Mother"</strong> a live chicken is sacrificed, torn apart at the seams by the hands of the sideburned beast. Once the cameras stopped rolling, Glenn immediately gathered up all those tender vittles and presented them to his pack of kitties, all of whom had traveled with him to multiple video shoots. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From the "<em>How The God's Kill"</em> album, <strong>"Left Hand Black"</strong> was initially christened <strong>"Left Paw Black"</strong> due to the coloration of a Siamese who had a playful penchant for swatting shoelaces. Danzig ran into some legal trouble when his cat scratched the cornea of a neighbor's rabid canine, but luckily, a settlement was reached out of court. This track was to feature multiple meows during the downstrokes of the chorus but unfortunately, greedy slob producer Rick Rubin 86'ed this idea during the final mixdown of the album and thus, record sales slumped. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>indicative lyrics:</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Kinda Like A Dog<br />
With Seven Pupils In It's Eye</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The 1999 album <strong>"666" Satan's Child"</strong> was titled as such in reference to his cute Calico "PawLee" who made a habit of chewing on Glenn's car keys. Originally titled <strong>"Mr. Mischief,"</strong> the record company requested the title be changed in accordance to Danzig's legacy of darkness and evil. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HCsnkj7uBY12fRX_ydhsVhqaCDTRWjNQrV93W5OdxaDHKszB3WhHp7d8wTMeaqdmmlN-9NyDqN4A47sp5oUqJ3KVXRemWqseZ6xezzB2jI7Us5_DXjLioAaOA95N_GOHb2i9KKiXZA/s1600/danzig+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HCsnkj7uBY12fRX_ydhsVhqaCDTRWjNQrV93W5OdxaDHKszB3WhHp7d8wTMeaqdmmlN-9NyDqN4A47sp5oUqJ3KVXRemWqseZ6xezzB2jI7Us5_DXjLioAaOA95N_GOHb2i9KKiXZA/s1600/danzig+3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From his 2002 flop, <em>"I Lucifer I,"</em> the boring ballad <strong>"Wicked Pussycat"</strong> chillfully tells the tale of his four-legged feline who continually urinated on a rug that Glenn purchased in Romania in 1990. This was a pivotal point in Glenn's career, and is seen by rock historians as when he went public with his affection for felines, so to speak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>indicative lyrics:<br />
Six-Foot Pussycat, I Like The Way You Swing Your Tail</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Big Black Witch Cat, Yes, You Cast A Real Strong Spell</em> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even dating back to his tenure in Samhain, when Glenn penned the tune <strong>"He Who Cannot Be Named"</strong> which is a blatant reference to a malnourished stray who showed up on his doorstep one brisk autumn evening. Although the cat was not wearing an identification tag, multiple flyers were posted around his neighborhood and thus, the animal was returned to it's rightful owner. Sources close to the man have revealed that Glenn still reminisces about this cherished cat on a regular basis. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rumors have long been circulating to the origin of the famous Misfits <strong>"DeviLock."</strong> Truth be told, this signature hairstyle came about when Glenn, who loves administering Eskimo Kisses to kitties, began to playfully dangle a lock of hair in front of a frolicking feline. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yDiOI2xpCKpi_sSfMiQo_5_0sduprszcOXp_mhn03sATVBTmL8ITvTJN7L61SP3l0PMeZ00rkvreax06d8pFlylYK7jJ8Atk4TUbDxdSI5Py7UFn7n3TnZ7c908m92tGC5MqjjcCtA/s1600/danzig+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yDiOI2xpCKpi_sSfMiQo_5_0sduprszcOXp_mhn03sATVBTmL8ITvTJN7L61SP3l0PMeZ00rkvreax06d8pFlylYK7jJ8Atk4TUbDxdSI5Py7UFn7n3TnZ7c908m92tGC5MqjjcCtA/s1600/danzig+4.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The underlining kitty current in Danzig's lyrics is undeniable. Pay attention to them the next time you're listen to the man and his monsterous music. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8w0Vbo-gLR1K2EnaQQxZO1mgTPyYQI7_aKDEqPZH0jdC_y8r0_Uo532HZCvdvrfuw02tjHEEaEJc3wFjzDDmFvsePbWvp5QdhaiWVXvc_Lk-hwi-FOYR76JMgXvOBY3XCBAKSewb7xg/s1600/danzig+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8w0Vbo-gLR1K2EnaQQxZO1mgTPyYQI7_aKDEqPZH0jdC_y8r0_Uo532HZCvdvrfuw02tjHEEaEJc3wFjzDDmFvsePbWvp5QdhaiWVXvc_Lk-hwi-FOYR76JMgXvOBY3XCBAKSewb7xg/s1600/danzig+2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-83809612295681785442010-09-27T19:12:00.001-04:002010-09-27T19:16:45.832-04:00A Dog's Life...<em><span style="color: blue;">from December of 2006</span></em><br />
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About 8 years ago I met a dashingly handsome pit bull/boxer mix named Bubba. He hailed from North Carolina but his bark lacked any accent. He was born into poor dixie trash with his puppyhood spoiled by untold tales of abuse & neglect. Bubba found a new owner when he was about 21, someone he could trust and who would never let him go. He was a wonderfully behaved pooch, loyal, gentle and occasionally a little gassy. <br />
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<br />
Bubba had a roommate, a scottish terrier named Maxine. She was roughly a quarter of his size, but she ran shit like a General at Gettysburg. If she wanted to lay on the couch, he would have to get up and move. Maxine would always eat first. Any toy that Bubba was playing with at the time would instantly become hers if she desired it to be so. Being the elder, this bossy bitch took him under her wing...err...paw and taught him about true doggystyle. <br />
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Still, they were best friends, like Ponyboy & Johnny, R2D2 & C3PO, Kevin & Paul, Over time their living arrangement eventually blossomed into love. In their own little world of tugtoys, bellyrubs and outdoor defecation, they were everything to each other. They went on daily walks together, numerous car rides and many backyard excursions. <br />
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About a year ago, Maxine succumbed to old age. She lived a vibrant life but time caught up with her. Bubba was rendered desolate. He walked around his owners house for weeks trying to find her. Beneath the fur, he knew she was gone, but didn't want to admit it. At feeding time, he still gave leeway for Maxine to dine first, sitting back until his owner gave the OK. Bubba lost his appetite for everything he once enjoyed and the will to carry on alone. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZ-kla8HSjpSgHkEuckN9-qvypEpnd_L4PvorPEXx0WmjyxxU9VGmdbubDeOwVPoAy3ZnM1ZdKHuyU_2fJONmEdOxhuVBwFADlhlGSnc8GEbc5OHS-gk7FEmFxPpb9SFbiLJvl3MZng/s1600/bubba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZ-kla8HSjpSgHkEuckN9-qvypEpnd_L4PvorPEXx0WmjyxxU9VGmdbubDeOwVPoAy3ZnM1ZdKHuyU_2fJONmEdOxhuVBwFADlhlGSnc8GEbc5OHS-gk7FEmFxPpb9SFbiLJvl3MZng/s320/bubba.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bubba passed away last week at the age of 84. He never fully recovered from the loss of his soulmate - fuck...does anybody? If there is a canine afterlife, may he be reunited with that one individual who completes him. May his eternal days be abundant with dead carcasses to roll in, leggy bitches to mount and all the shit he can eat.foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-21274073783797629432010-09-27T19:10:00.001-04:002010-09-27T19:16:21.057-04:00National Epidemic or Erotic Excrement?<em><span style="color: blue;">from May of 2007</span></em><br />
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So I was walking around my neighborhood this morning. A peaceful Mother's Day stroll while residents were waking up, calling their loved ones or doing yardwork. Keeping to myself, humming Elmore James tunes, I noticed a handbill laying on the sidewalk. Hmmm...this wasn't really the type of area where trash is strewn about much, so I was interested in it's content.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ihPE9e-Zm0TFqi0B-WdBkt7tu9ZWVGgHMiCPp1oUDnCU_I5Ucozq9rLu-ggcNvi9k0sm2VfvSU96oJjaHcPHk_7chvCJyWKdFEHGhQFjcVVCKpW3iseiA4iPoiQObVRZRK99GJZfg/s1600/bedwet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ihPE9e-Zm0TFqi0B-WdBkt7tu9ZWVGgHMiCPp1oUDnCU_I5Ucozq9rLu-ggcNvi9k0sm2VfvSU96oJjaHcPHk_7chvCJyWKdFEHGhQFjcVVCKpW3iseiA4iPoiQObVRZRK99GJZfg/s320/bedwet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Is this really such an extensive epidemic that it needs to be addresses via streetwise propaganda? I mean, shit, everyone pisses. My one buddies' girlfriend leaks in her pants all the time, that doesn't mean she should send away for some informative pamphlet and sleep on the bathroom floor. <br />
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Apparently our good friends at Pacific International LTD, which is located nowhere near the Pacific Ocean, have taken it upon themselves to dry up America with their tried-and-true treatments of tyranny. Why must everyone follow their pissing protocol? We live in the greatest country in the world. Sure we're marred with racial inequality, political corruption on every level and freekin' Nascar, but we also have freedom of facial hair, Night Court in syndication and drive thru porno shops. I say if chicks wanna keep pissing themselves, that's cool with me. According to this flyer, bed wetting is caused by "incorrect sleep," which makes about as much sense as tit-flashing Stevie Wonder, but with over half a century of experience, I assume these pee pee professionals would hold some merit. <br />
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There's nothing sexier than when a hot chick lets loose a lemonade load on her deserving dude. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. These dry-jockied jerkbags are trying to desensitize the youth of today and steer children onto a path of the prosaic. I still remember as if it was yesterday, the first time I crossed the streams with a chick before. It was beyond cool. And ya know why, because my parents raised me right and showed lil' Smith the benefits of using toilets and urinals but also gave me the freedom of enuresis expression. As I celebrate Mother's Day by drinking an army of Pabst pounders, every time I urinate, it'll be like I'm hugging my mom and saying "Thanks."foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-87783516263213883222010-09-27T19:04:00.000-04:002010-09-27T19:04:45.599-04:00Piss on your Cross & Shit on your Altar<span style="color: blue;"><em>from July 0f 2006</em></span><br />
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So I received this letter in the mail the other day. Signed, stamped and addressed personally to me...in ink. A two page message, front and back. Nice pretty handwriting on eye-pleasing yellow paper...from some chick, says her name is Shaunna. The return address was from 3 blocks away. Perhaps one my neighbors was informing me of a summer yard sale, or writing me a little thank you note for letting their dog take a shit in my yard, or maybe... wait...stand down Mr. Smith....it seems like one of my god-fearing neighbors wants me to join their religion. Awww...this is too good to pass up.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QKZU3uZbkuqkToGXLEvo-I4c17yat_1wN0cc413vfHMxBfQBwvlSaH0VKE6PlK-GJnCEJ3OFQLY0lhrP6N7deG0FasBTLimapCT181ZsG-0ChR20HVlYTo66LN1yxsf2kwjcfGwHew/s1600/bible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QKZU3uZbkuqkToGXLEvo-I4c17yat_1wN0cc413vfHMxBfQBwvlSaH0VKE6PlK-GJnCEJ3OFQLY0lhrP6N7deG0FasBTLimapCT181ZsG-0ChR20HVlYTo66LN1yxsf2kwjcfGwHew/s320/bible.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So I read thru the letter and its more vague a blonde guy's mustache. No real definition of spiritual immortality, just a lot of hand-fed humility to which your average cross-crusader would feel enlightened to. The sector of belief is not important, because every Christian religion is fucked. Holding solid tenet and devotion to the most contradictory and censored book to ever exist, the binded souls who find solace in these readings are destined for ruin.<br />
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Dont get me wrong, (to quote Dude Shimek) "it's a good book", but I'm too informed to revolve my entire existence around it. When I was a lil' shaver, I used to love Beverly Cleary books, but those were also mis-interpreted fiction but nonetheless, an entertaining read. I felt almost offended that a neighbor would take it upon themself to assume that my beliefs and convictions are weak and I should jump the bandwagon to their asinine cult. <br />
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The letter and accompanying pamphlet repeatedly stress that reading the word of the lord needs assistance and that therein lies their motive. Captain Beefheart wrote some weird-as-shit music which could be translated as brilliant narration, but to some people, hes perceived as nothing more than a slurring sebaceous slob. <br />
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Why should I join a creed that allows only 144,000 people to enter the feigned pearly gates of heaven? Is it safe to assume that there is still room for me? Probably not, since this has been a practicing sanction since 1870. Should I renounce friends and country to believe in something that is as dogmatic as the easter bunny? I think I'm cool where I'm at right now. <br />
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I figured that responding to the author and informing them that I would have to decline their intriguing offer to enlist in their crooked crusade would be superfluous, so I will take the road less traveled. If anyone in the Erie area has a large canine that takes big shits, let me know. My neighbors are in dire need of some new lawn ornaments . . .foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-63750497839440551862010-09-27T17:35:00.005-04:002010-09-27T17:54:10.984-04:00Sarah Palin Parking LotI have very few words to describe this video. Shot in Columbus, Ohio this clip features the dudes from <a href="http://newleftmedia.com/">New Left Media</a> proposing political questions to people in attendance of a Sarah Palin book signing. Holy crap... check 'dis shit...<br />
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<object height="241" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mKKKgua7wQk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mKKKgua7wQk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="241"></embed></object><br />
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A few personal highlights from this clip ::<br />
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• The one lady who states that the U.S. had an "Administration of Czars?"<br />
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• The bizzo who says that PETA needs to get the polars bears off the land so we can drill for oil.<br />
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• The little troll lady who's preferred Palin policies include <strong><em>"Fairness"</em></strong> and <strong><em>"Realness"</em></strong><br />
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Hooray for ignorance. Praise the uninformed. These are the people that you share the roadways with. These individuals may very well be in charge of overseeing your bank transactions. And yes, these are the people that I compete with for jobs in the workplace.<br />
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Ehh... but the one chick is super hot. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2UuDC61KojBG9yJWkXgwLz8Z45CiDNmajbbv6lvRmxdk0qjhwlCk0WE57NoL56Q_9NFF2nH4QbXyAy7nQD_-Mnu4U_6ZhKJ0_nCJzoT0Tjd4FEvYEgAdtcgy2MfwAjQ3l_ri7GVqyQ/s1600/hot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2UuDC61KojBG9yJWkXgwLz8Z45CiDNmajbbv6lvRmxdk0qjhwlCk0WE57NoL56Q_9NFF2nH4QbXyAy7nQD_-Mnu4U_6ZhKJ0_nCJzoT0Tjd4FEvYEgAdtcgy2MfwAjQ3l_ri7GVqyQ/s320/hot.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-52534665458959509702010-05-16T09:57:00.002-04:002010-09-27T17:40:01.535-04:00Pungent Co-workerI work in an professional office. I make a decent living and generally enjoy and excel at my profession. I share a 16" x 20" room with one other person. The problem is, this individual is undoubtedly the most disgusting troll I have ever come across in my life. <br />
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During my initial interview, I sat across the table from my future co-worker and noticed a super sickening smell. This lady was dressed like a cracked out gypsy hobo. Ragged, tattered, unclean attire. Tacky homemade jewelry that looked too cheap for a scarecrow to wear. Brittle hair that resembled a rat's nest. Again, we work in a professional office setting where we meet with customers on a regular basis and occasionally venture outside the workplace on business. Man, I should have known better. <br />
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Dude, my co-worker hasn't washed her clothes in over nine years. This is fact. She told me so. Her family doesn't even own a washing machine. (I'm not even going to get into what her dirtbag husband looks like!) They believe that the body's natural oils are exuded for a reason and should not be washed away. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Humans need to cleanse themselves to get rid of dead skin. Dead skin is just that, human tissue that is extinct. And when human tissue dies, it begins to rot. She seriously emits an odor not unlike that of an unfortunate highway roadkill. Like a dead animal. A rotting corpse. <br />
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She has cats. Lots of them. I would tell you how many, but even she doesn't know. "More than 13" she says. And I know she isn't lyng, because her little feline friends often used her clothes as a litterbox. I shit you not. The lady smells like cat piss. Enough so to make your eyes burn when within close proximity. And the only thing worse than cat piss is old cat piss. It's nauseous fumes are almost dizzying. On the plus side, in my tenure at this company, I have learned to exclusively mouth breathe and when she is in my general vicinity, I can easily hold my breath for more than 60 seconds witout even flinching. Maybe this is how Houdini got his start? <br />
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My situation is embarrassing. When my parents ask me "How is work going?" I would rather not delve into my rotten reality. I have confronted our boss about this nauseating nuisance on several occasions and I get the speech of how she's been with the company for XX amount of years and how he promises to mention something. The entire office steers clear of our work area, for they all are aware of the offensive odor. of the I would say something myself to the lady, but I also failed to mention that she is the meanest witch I have ever met. An evil, hateful, self-centered, paranoid gutter-bitch. <br />
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The lady is not poor. I know how much money she makes. She is just a mean, filthy wench who thinks she is better than everyone else. Her kids sleep on a freekin' pool raft. This is fact. I am trapped in a revolting room with this despicable dirtbag.foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-18957594418254918852010-04-25T20:06:00.003-04:002010-04-25T20:12:02.410-04:00Dive Bar Review: Erie, PA - part IV - East Side<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Mays Tavern</strong></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1118 East Lake Road</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSyCPwnxOfgwSuU5ofE1R5v4cm8J1UlIZMG7J9GNlP-BP20Nq5zXF6teNrStyyt_lL5S_Av61R0Xl4bRE4qq-vxJ01kschjp8e2sAJskJ3VID9doUVvSDdDeg__ObG1hJfEHLITYueQ/s1600/mays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSyCPwnxOfgwSuU5ofE1R5v4cm8J1UlIZMG7J9GNlP-BP20Nq5zXF6teNrStyyt_lL5S_Av61R0Xl4bRE4qq-vxJ01kschjp8e2sAJskJ3VID9doUVvSDdDeg__ObG1hJfEHLITYueQ/s400/mays.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><em>review one: </em></strong></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If JFK would have lost the 1960 presidential election, then THIS BAR would be just like the movie The Deer Hunter. We, as a country, could have very well avoided our involvement in Vietnam. Over 58,000 American lives could have been spared and conjointly, maybe the Deer Hunter could have spend more time being about Buck Season! Deer Hunters are cool. I hope my next wife has her deer license so she can go kill dinner for me. That would be so romantic. And she’d give me the pelt so I could curl up in front of the fireplace as a read Napoleon Hill. And Mays Tavern is where I will hang out. I don’t wanna give away TOO MUCH about this gem, (i.e. GO THERE!) but lets just say the sign outside is irrefutable. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><em>review two: </em></strong></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Growing up, there was a kid who, according to his family tradition, was to have sex with the first doe he killed. Yup…dude rod into deer box. And he did. For real. He lives in western New York now, but I think he would like Mays Tavern. He just bought some land up there. </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 4/5 </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Kramers</strong></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">820 East Avenue</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTesXFyOfYy7NW9SgSWI54u6vC1nOqiRdkiNj9gOnYUL0b3LfubqupUnPscJ8Nc8ncGAdo0METa6HWda7egLDTSwSYv5ahgG9W4E9bosLniPQkIYxAJkit7jQJG6h3uXESBmDa_zNWQ/s1600/kramers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTesXFyOfYy7NW9SgSWI54u6vC1nOqiRdkiNj9gOnYUL0b3LfubqupUnPscJ8Nc8ncGAdo0METa6HWda7egLDTSwSYv5ahgG9W4E9bosLniPQkIYxAJkit7jQJG6h3uXESBmDa_zNWQ/s400/kramers.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We sat at the bar. There was a dead fly on the mustard bottle in front of us. We joked about it. Sometimes it’s not what you’re laughing about, it’s who you’re laughing with. This place was weak. I find no reason to revisit. As we got off our stools to leave, the fly moved over to a pepper shaker. True story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 1/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Swanns</strong></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPx_Lkv57w7F-0xbkyQz-n3dW027Q4EM71-r3kg2D6fqmxy9UpCth-aLPhfYveq92XcT9RYyLlP03xUkbsh6l9QWmActcKlfLZQfln1eXwn1gT8Qwli_019XVxBHbrznZomYGZTh-u_g/s1600/swans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPx_Lkv57w7F-0xbkyQz-n3dW027Q4EM71-r3kg2D6fqmxy9UpCth-aLPhfYveq92XcT9RYyLlP03xUkbsh6l9QWmActcKlfLZQfln1eXwn1gT8Qwli_019XVxBHbrznZomYGZTh-u_g/s400/swans.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not sure if you noticed, but I’ve been navigating off-topic lately. Most of these bars are what you’d expect. Shitty, boring and uneventful. Crappy budweiser on draft and a bawdy bitch sitting on her plump asspillow playing Megatouch. But still powerfully better than any bar in downtown Erie (sans Club Power Moves!) The night we visited Swann’s, it was my associates turn to drive. So I got drunk. Real drunk. I don’t remember much. I should probably go there again, if I knew where it was. I slept good that night. As if I was watching my kid in a grade school play. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: ?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Lakeview Tavern</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1400 East Lake Road</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWSrkc4G7e_J1WWgXpBsCcQHeXb1wv2QjM5wrcCEzylUQyVq96SEj4_GcDnu0yBW2KDywVoGtF3pWK7SvH0294NA0cFcPi9jca2_lHMp_VlvARK7dgzsaOuteZbbMycthMn5xfC5Jdg/s1600/idunno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWSrkc4G7e_J1WWgXpBsCcQHeXb1wv2QjM5wrcCEzylUQyVq96SEj4_GcDnu0yBW2KDywVoGtF3pWK7SvH0294NA0cFcPi9jca2_lHMp_VlvARK7dgzsaOuteZbbMycthMn5xfC5Jdg/s400/idunno.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, same night. I remember there was a giant stuffed gorilla sitting at a table. And some beastly lady with a bag of her soiled jeans. Probably shit stained. Pig… And I tried to get Whiteman to get us some swiss cheese and some pickled sausage. I don’t remember her name? At least I’m a fun drunk…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: 2/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Ash Street Pub</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">562 East 12th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUSr4bbhTvsmL5LTQcNPe0n2OfvGVP4LYplCk8Hhlgua6AXUrXnsW6jxeaCxzFFAGsBDGGbdU4sSXANox7pehobaxkRTLSxl8YPNLyK79Mil8tcljTKqxdcP40Y_tyHL7dLIfASaftg/s1600/ashst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUSr4bbhTvsmL5LTQcNPe0n2OfvGVP4LYplCk8Hhlgua6AXUrXnsW6jxeaCxzFFAGsBDGGbdU4sSXANox7pehobaxkRTLSxl8YPNLyK79Mil8tcljTKqxdcP40Y_tyHL7dLIfASaftg/s400/ashst.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, dawg! Le’ bartender was some classic rock renegade who’ll talk your freekin’ ear off, man. His drunken drivel made about as much sense as licking a raccoon’s paw. I liked this place. More bartenders should drink. Ron Popeil always tries the shit he’s selling! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: 4/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Clancys</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">901 East Avenue</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bR6GR-j1wg3ImsOCMwHtTCiungZl5YWpGTz7zKhOxWhTW40L9ARIQ8ORanyK0t7ZypfNYgfOEIZAoPXTW-laQp_AutgN1tN34kpMevh2ZmxVocXtaqugxBada7fRe9EKOs7S6U_siA/s1600/clancys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bR6GR-j1wg3ImsOCMwHtTCiungZl5YWpGTz7zKhOxWhTW40L9ARIQ8ORanyK0t7ZypfNYgfOEIZAoPXTW-laQp_AutgN1tN34kpMevh2ZmxVocXtaqugxBada7fRe9EKOs7S6U_siA/s400/clancys.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This East Ave. stop was nice. Not like “dude, you should buy this place” but a pleasing predilection of sorts. They had live music (some hoary hero with an acousitc geetar playing Paul Simon ‘n shit) and the joint did NOT smell like the inside of a retards thigh. This is the kind of place where you could make out with a chick and NOT worry about her moustache giving you face abrasion. And chances are she probably has enough money left over to take the bus downtown on Monday morning to get that abortion! Next time you go on a date with some broad, maybe stop here on your way to Rapeland Farms!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: 4/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Gatherings</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2902 Reed Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuP5eVxpJ89HUvUNkLZFw77xb78esMDR9dE3a4u8sTH2ts4MhijvoJ8bjGNPTlGCYkiba_bIjZNky6NYwcyKXjhmHOroab7GlGwV8283i5IYHP5nr6wu4kjPOPBiE-fzMGgrAn8JT09w/s1600/gatherings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuP5eVxpJ89HUvUNkLZFw77xb78esMDR9dE3a4u8sTH2ts4MhijvoJ8bjGNPTlGCYkiba_bIjZNky6NYwcyKXjhmHOroab7GlGwV8283i5IYHP5nr6wu4kjPOPBiE-fzMGgrAn8JT09w/s400/gatherings.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Collin Marple was my favorite roommate ever. Nothing against any of the other dudes and chicks who had the severe torture to share quarters with me, but Collin woke up early. We’d have coffee every morning outside on the couch of 319. His girlfriend at the time, who had gravity-defying boobs, would crawl to her car and we’d heckle her as she drove away. He would say the funniest shit and refer to every dirtbag, idiot and fool as “your boy.” He had this omnipotence over all things hip hop but was well versed in punk and metal, moreso than 99% of the people I know. Dude had Grim Reapers’ “See You In Hell” on vinyl! Wanting to hear the title track, and more notably, Steve Grimmett’s 18 second falsetto flair at the end of the track, Collin wisened me to a wider world. He dragged the needle to song 3 on side 1, “Liar.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Southpaw axeman Nick Bowcott crunches thru a killer riff showcase as Grimmett’s vocals soar overhead like a flesh-obsessed vulture. You’re lucky I don’t remember the names of the rhythm section, or I’d talk about them too! This is one of my favorite songs ever, probably because I was introduced to it in such a chivalrous and fun fashion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, Gatherings is NOT a dive bar. My associate lied to me…LIAR!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 1/5 This place is way too nice</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Nunzi’s</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2330 East 38th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv4zHq25ANB60W6hgxrnOc-ZMgZluEp1Nne6M9aVzJ6ONmdea_I_KTDYiJfiPGxQGALuDt747vODCJHY9XJjzXO2to-y7TXeOvTqE83wTkXRuEycQ1R35UCb7gToLySn8jURlyj30PQ/s1600/nunzis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv4zHq25ANB60W6hgxrnOc-ZMgZluEp1Nne6M9aVzJ6ONmdea_I_KTDYiJfiPGxQGALuDt747vODCJHY9XJjzXO2to-y7TXeOvTqE83wTkXRuEycQ1R35UCb7gToLySn8jURlyj30PQ/s400/nunzis.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Isn’t a Nunzi one of those things that chicks wear? I dunno. I found $10 on the floor. This place would be a good place for a mother rat to lay her eggs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: 1/5 </span><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Jimmy’s Tavern</strong></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">726 East 26th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeYp72hgivxPuamRwMeqebKLbPj_HaLoHeqI8-0sSDELflGNpM-RiBYFY3h0BKth_QWlxGcpDSikp1jfUY09ojP1SxBufv09JRFJKmxfdZ8_fvz5Fu2ESmZMdpfOEVjCKz34aDTjZMw/s1600/jimmys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeYp72hgivxPuamRwMeqebKLbPj_HaLoHeqI8-0sSDELflGNpM-RiBYFY3h0BKth_QWlxGcpDSikp1jfUY09ojP1SxBufv09JRFJKmxfdZ8_fvz5Fu2ESmZMdpfOEVjCKz34aDTjZMw/s400/jimmys.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think this is the first bar we simply walked out on. As we approached the sidewalk a sign proudly proclaimed MC DJ was spinning all your favorite crappy modern hits. Now I have seen AC/DC live. Critty was there with me. My neck hasn’t been the same since. (Hence the earlier reference to the Red chiropractor) Have you ever seen a show that was SOOOO loud that you could actually see the soundwaves? For real. It looks kinda blurry. Like visual vibration. You feel really exposed, like a wolf could come up behind you and take the sharpie right out of your back pocket. Well, Jimmy’s was loud as piss, blasting some horrible rap sewage. The place was crowded, but there was no bartender. We waited for about 4 minutes, assaulted by the abhorrent sounds of Kid Rock, before we left. Up yours Jimmy…and the bat that you ate off that tree!</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: blah!</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Skeeters</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">723 French Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufX2jxGWiDIm-SB1FfwOXYPtoLw-zH_elPPoiTOI1aEeWdqJKqELTDwJrQl4XoI8ubneuZl3dXL7F1i_i5nAvQ4mH209wdeLaUB9Zd_9EpcSmhahySoA6xjFrs46qUbtMFTYFPKOVrQ/s1600/skeeters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufX2jxGWiDIm-SB1FfwOXYPtoLw-zH_elPPoiTOI1aEeWdqJKqELTDwJrQl4XoI8ubneuZl3dXL7F1i_i5nAvQ4mH209wdeLaUB9Zd_9EpcSmhahySoA6xjFrs46qUbtMFTYFPKOVrQ/s400/skeeters.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If Lloyd Dobler was 21, he should have went here after her broke up with Diane Court. Absolutely NO chicks go here. Looking into the future, the following conversation will take place between me and my supermodel viking wife.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wife: where are you going? You can’t just bang it out and then leave!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Why not, I finished!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wife: Not so fast mister, I don’t want you staying out all night, coming home, smelling like perfume!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: (with arms outstretched) But babes, I’m going to Skeeters!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wife: (smiling) Ok, have fun. Don’t forget, tomorrow me and a buttload of my hot friends are gonna be re-enacting the battle scene from Braveheart in the backyard…topless. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Ehh…I might be busy (closes door)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, no chicks go to Skeeters. It’s cool.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rating: 3/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Scooters Lounge</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">602 East 24th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzJU-KA98hHClRCft_wFSL1CI0BoXQMlHkT7hEoqWeyEBnbbBh44YS6NpjitwjI1zamsnr53RjouLZvbIdcLCgOqmTpPKVs9EEyFO6AzRltvVg-GJn72ChelVUzhh3xSM5g4BeRV18g/s1600/scooters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzJU-KA98hHClRCft_wFSL1CI0BoXQMlHkT7hEoqWeyEBnbbBh44YS6NpjitwjI1zamsnr53RjouLZvbIdcLCgOqmTpPKVs9EEyFO6AzRltvVg-GJn72ChelVUzhh3xSM5g4BeRV18g/s400/scooters.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Remember in Back to the Future II when Marty is in the alternate 1985 and the entire town of Hill Valley is a biker haven rats nest? Yeah! We pulled up to Scooters (in a four wheeled vehicle…our first mistake) and were blinded by about 30 bikes and their respective riders. With more leather than Rob Halford’s closet, these dudes looked quite formidable. The inside of the bar was an entirely different story, maybe 10 people total, most of them saggy-tittied biker bitches. This place was rough, but I kinda looked the part, so we were in. When they make a movie of the life and career of Sam Elliott, THIS is the location in the film where he loses his virginity. They sell do-rags too. I almost bought one. I opted for a another beer instead. Ehhh..it’s like a homo going to a titty bar.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 2/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Chuckles</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">461 East 25th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaEzMpT74b-7qv41uH-iV3cTAm2wCfIbI9Vcrnps-SDfi_9YhKL7YfYGwkN3oZwJy4TaF8ZDYjLS0fvr9ogjlct8j2hoX5Tf9rU1TRD5wxlv-UwowianEp-VYvzk_LoHaP8qOTHc1gQ/s1600/chuckles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaEzMpT74b-7qv41uH-iV3cTAm2wCfIbI9Vcrnps-SDfi_9YhKL7YfYGwkN3oZwJy4TaF8ZDYjLS0fvr9ogjlct8j2hoX5Tf9rU1TRD5wxlv-UwowianEp-VYvzk_LoHaP8qOTHc1gQ/s400/chuckles.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Individuals fail all the time. The teenage girl that dresses like a hussie for 3 days straight, hoping that one boy will take notice and ask her to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance on Friday. The youngling who wants to build a treehouse super bad in his back yard, but lacks lumber…or any sense of architecture…or friends for that matter. The avid record collector who drives 126 miles to a swap meet, following a lead of first pressing John Coltrane vinyl, only to find a bin full of Steve Lawrence records. Sometimes effort goes unnoticed, sometimes direction just isn’t enough. Chuckles Tavern sits in a shitty location and therein lies the problem. Comparative to size as a hollowed out banana, Chuckle’s is no laughing matter. This place is sad, but has tinges of a family bar. Deadbeat dads come here to rekindle friendships with their fucked up families. Drug addict mothers show up to sing Bette Midler Karaoke. Styleless wiggers bring their underage girlfriends here to drink. Chuckles does have a mobile meal cart that my associate and I spotted at Liberty Park during the Edgar Winter show. Offering corn dogs, potato ribbons and many other fried feasts, this encased snack unit, which I dubbed the “Chuck Wagon” will hopefully be making many more appearances at local Erie events. I was pretty gooned up when we stopped here, so I don’t remember too much else. They had a pinball machine that was older and more beat up than Cher’s labia. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 4/5</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-16583371451847085432010-04-25T19:40:00.002-04:002010-04-25T19:45:33.481-04:00Dive Bar Review: Erie, PA - part III - East Side<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Michalski's</strong></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtTBz-dkf80Wj1o4A4iHEvc21-YkfoJp3_Oq5y6sphPZanjz2JdHT1lHUEq1aMG6aLjo_p_t607KRZBxa6np6dTF3FEfI1WB-Vw7MEUcsd3ZmXQgB98MBuKrDp2ViOTsj2avEYKlPiQ/s1600/michal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtTBz-dkf80Wj1o4A4iHEvc21-YkfoJp3_Oq5y6sphPZanjz2JdHT1lHUEq1aMG6aLjo_p_t607KRZBxa6np6dTF3FEfI1WB-Vw7MEUcsd3ZmXQgB98MBuKrDp2ViOTsj2avEYKlPiQ/s400/michal.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I find it fascinating when inanimate objects display human attributes. Not like a freekin’ potato chip with the visage of Abe Lincoln, I mean like a classic car that has more humility than the seafood bitch at Giant Eagle in Yorktown Centre. <em>(you know who I’m talking about, she wears that shitty captains hat…she’s far from nautical but is very familiar with seamen…heh)</em> I don’t know where I’m going with this, which is probably why we went to Michalski’s.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This bar has hit rock bottom. It smells like gerbil piss, the walls are thinner than a fruit roll up and the joint is completely filthy. The other patrons, a grizzled jerk named Irish and his filthy friend Fredo, look like they haven’t seen sunlight since Robert Guillaume took Benson to the top of the prime time TV ratings. The bartender accused Irish of heisting a bar rag, which was clearly sticking out of this coat pocket, but the Dublin drunk retaliated with (in a voice that could only be replicated by Popeye’s grandfather) “If I was gonna take something…it would be the whole fuckin’ bar!” Lucky for us, Irish wasn’t feeling greedy that day and left the joint the way he found it, grimy, shit stained and just plain wonderful!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On his way to the bathroom, Fredo started puking in his mouth and dribbled a bit onto the wooden plank floor. The barkeep had a fresh shot waiting on the bar as Fredo returned from the lavatory. The ceiling tiles were painted my Mrs. Eels’ third period Retard Ed. class. Go there and check it out for yourself. No windows, no women, no shit. If I ever get married, this is where my wife will have her bachelorette party. I dream about bars like this in my sleep</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 5/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>CZARTORYSKI CAFE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">302 Parade Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw71CLb7Tya2dck5iJKBVNTdJKt2T_b-MfyhTGGinSlbA1NzuYbs1_H21Z-t05CC1fn_M7Bo1OGB0ytn6QbOtOCPDxoarSZDybOGT3xp4mVvPp6y6owYjggWIOTeV1av2eg4-RpBdQTw/s1600/czar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw71CLb7Tya2dck5iJKBVNTdJKt2T_b-MfyhTGGinSlbA1NzuYbs1_H21Z-t05CC1fn_M7Bo1OGB0ytn6QbOtOCPDxoarSZDybOGT3xp4mVvPp6y6owYjggWIOTeV1av2eg4-RpBdQTw/s400/czar.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This place was a nittle too nice, and it was still crappy as hell. People were holding conversations with each other at a decent level. The jukebox actually worked. One chuggernaut down the bar even had a coaster. I noticed they offered swiss cheese for a dollar. This place was fairly busy despite it being nowhere close to happy hour. Some dirt dick named Lenny came up to me and said he had my back then offered us drugs. I don’t like drugs. I don’t like people who do drugs. If you’re that weak of a person that you resort to poisoning yourself for mental self improvement, than I personally think that you should cease to breathe. No one will miss you. There were two bartenders working, (which I think breaks a dive bar rule) neither of them busy. The men’s room featured a quarter inch slick of urine covering the entire floor. The bar stools were the most uncomfortable damn things ever and ricketier than an Imperial Walker. I’m pretty sure several bastard children were birthed in this very seat. Ahh bastards (sigh)…a slut’s diarrhea…</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>JT’S BAR</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">East 12th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirngqwAOGhjFlt0nxcwYdYyYVvugKU4OoZqVVXKXae2lIc710N4epBI7kJsJZciuKxggG9zHeqlwiGlrdNyOfIWFlUwg-WGNOU_fudXfnDtDz8dRePqvIgmMgF22XlSuS69pEi0BYT4Q/s1600/jts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirngqwAOGhjFlt0nxcwYdYyYVvugKU4OoZqVVXKXae2lIc710N4epBI7kJsJZciuKxggG9zHeqlwiGlrdNyOfIWFlUwg-WGNOU_fudXfnDtDz8dRePqvIgmMgF22XlSuS69pEi0BYT4Q/s400/jts.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Iran,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you’re going to bomb U.S. soil, I’d like to recommend the following establishment. Located on the corner of 12th Street and some shit road is the worst bar ever. The sign outside clearly states no sports jerseys, baseball hats must be worn forward and pants must be around your waist. Well much like your wife’s face, rules are meant to be broken. The teenage wigger kid bartender chose to defy his employers etiquitte and I must say, looked freekin’ ridiculous while doing so. His gear was about as fresh as the block of swiss cheese sitting out at room temperature on the counter. Bottles of Molsen Canadian were $1.75 but Mr. Gay-Z behind the bar couldn’t find them in the cooler. </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The place reeked of Nascar. I HATE Nascar. Posters, schedules, shitty blowup cars hanging from the ceiling and I shit you not, a song on the jukebox called “I Love Nascar.” Unfortunately, this is an accurate slice of Americana and I’d be more than willing to sacrifice these slack-jawed shitheads for ‘the cause.’ The place was very roomy but much like a chick with a big pussy, it doesn’t mean that you like being inside of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 0/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>PETE’S PUB</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">613 Parade Street</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8U8yBRjkNhW1iSnclQQTiHi54GyIq3oWFI_27EuF0_fYA0mcPU1RFvpM945Ad240ixV64IjBg1HYII8EaMWye23v_1eGyQDnuTNou0kmwT9jH0fmMm4t0jVBi7a1i7tkvbmXV4IivFg/s1600/petes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8U8yBRjkNhW1iSnclQQTiHi54GyIq3oWFI_27EuF0_fYA0mcPU1RFvpM945Ad240ixV64IjBg1HYII8EaMWye23v_1eGyQDnuTNou0kmwT9jH0fmMm4t0jVBi7a1i7tkvbmXV4IivFg/s400/petes.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never knew how delicious pumpkin pie was until Mama Carson served it up on Thanksgiving 1997. For the longest time, I refused to see the Lord of the Rings movies because I didn’t want to put someone else’s visual representation to my favorite books. I didn’t know what the Descendents looked like until the re-release of the Enjoy album on SST Records. On the same token is Parade Street’s best kept secret, Pete’s Pub. Located catty corner from the Gear Cave, Pete’s is a quaint little stop with a handicapped accessible entrance (or as Whiteman observed, so the paramedics can wheel the stretchers down the ramp.) The lady bartender had real crusty eyes but was cordial and efficient. They offer Sloppy Joes anytime <em>(swiss cheese is a dollar extra) </em>and delicious Pabst Blue Ribbon on draft! Splendid! It’s like the Rocky Balboa of bars.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like cannonballing into a pool of breastmilk on a hot summer day, Pete’s Pub just makes you feel comfortable. The clientele was sparse and kinda rough looking, but we were on their turf and respect was given. Everyone who comes here cuts their own grass. I like that in a bar. This is the perfect place to take a date, if you date girls who like to get shitfaced at 2 pm on a Saturday afternoon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 4/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>PARADE STREET CAFE</strong></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkybbR8bhXw4_Eht9yNij39wbMMsm7JrcDPtzWQVDgxvQy_0lRzVqLRCbhKsWXgIXivtf5K_Eq69Cgop0_15GArIG1PaeCNy14Yoo0RoNweb5_pJ2wvvFGQ-kZln8sVWJGeHv4r1umw/s1600/cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkybbR8bhXw4_Eht9yNij39wbMMsm7JrcDPtzWQVDgxvQy_0lRzVqLRCbhKsWXgIXivtf5K_Eq69Cgop0_15GArIG1PaeCNy14Yoo0RoNweb5_pJ2wvvFGQ-kZln8sVWJGeHv4r1umw/s400/cafe.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two cops were waiting outside as we approached…this place was gonna be rough. I hate cops. Two words to describe this place…Party Central. Man, everyone there was having a blast. Great, fun music like Kool & the Gang, Billy Ocean and Earth Wind and Fire. At any given moment, erupting sounds of laughter could be heard from all corners of the bar. Some gimp guy got kicked out, but in the nicest way imaginable. Behind the bar was a rotisserie of plump smoked sausage and swiss cheese for a buck. They also offer off-street parking for bicycles, inside the bar. I don’t like the things you like and you don’t like the things I like.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 3/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>MARTYS</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1003 Parade Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitxSsY42hU9KP5189AYvwcxYAwGOIQ2s8sqb1yYSe1Qoyd3wPs4d1kAVZvIm1CCChzDZhApr26iFWgNXzNrIhmUNN1bAT75cTmXrk6_uqoGPGNZR8_-pOqiI0gexugbbCUdj3FemV7Q/s1600/marty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitxSsY42hU9KP5189AYvwcxYAwGOIQ2s8sqb1yYSe1Qoyd3wPs4d1kAVZvIm1CCChzDZhApr26iFWgNXzNrIhmUNN1bAT75cTmXrk6_uqoGPGNZR8_-pOqiI0gexugbbCUdj3FemV7Q/s400/marty.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marty likes tigers. Tigers are everywhere in this joint. Tigers…and a confederate flag. PBR was again on tap and chilled to perfection. And I hope you brought your appetite <em>(we unfortunately lost ours as soon as we walked in the door)</em> because Marty’s offers a delicious selection of bar nibblin’s including pig hocks, pickled eggs, pickled beets and non-refrigerated swiss cheese. I think Whiteman tried to take his prom date here. Still, it was a shady saloon with reasonable prices and uhh…oh yeah, the bartender. Remember the main bad guy from the movie “Dune?” The one with all the warts on his face? Yeah, his twin sister slings suds at Martys… and she drinks on the job. The bathroom featured a condom machine from a time long ago. I’m talking pre-cold war. Reputably, Marty’s caters to an “over 30″ clientele, because only people under age 30 use condoms.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 3/5</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>JESTERS POUR HOUSE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1101 Parade Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-J6cC0MuhJosutLYJ09wCsFJzM8BBOsgCLqXDidAUpY_FLL9IZ1hH_zgEzhCgW12-Nc_1UR4SZ6Me9SZPBq8okFBgEkvYKIuIGmdHad34pl-mBpBq-1E_fyXn6dsdoVt_Fei6PVWVQ/s1600/jester.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-J6cC0MuhJosutLYJ09wCsFJzM8BBOsgCLqXDidAUpY_FLL9IZ1hH_zgEzhCgW12-Nc_1UR4SZ6Me9SZPBq8okFBgEkvYKIuIGmdHad34pl-mBpBq-1E_fyXn6dsdoVt_Fei6PVWVQ/s400/jester.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man, this shit was closed due to a king drug bust three days prior. FAACK!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>COUNTRY TAVERN</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8107 Perry Highway</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzwl14K5KYGQGIr5jR4amjnCO6zfNZGOCmTYLXwzSaIJIDkQy54uuJ6KofeJMFnS-Jd7yKlYe-Xia9AiLI16OH07RPlqGJQsI9nTPincDexYrRWR8C2sOMKUjuVvdc-cUD0g1KxMeUg/s1600/country.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzwl14K5KYGQGIr5jR4amjnCO6zfNZGOCmTYLXwzSaIJIDkQy54uuJ6KofeJMFnS-Jd7yKlYe-Xia9AiLI16OH07RPlqGJQsI9nTPincDexYrRWR8C2sOMKUjuVvdc-cUD0g1KxMeUg/s400/country.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wow…this place was essentially someone’s garage. One light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling as faded pictures of ducks adorned the water damaged walls. A rotten 6 point buck hung in the corner. I like shitty bars, but this hole had less character than Nicholas Cage. The place was pretty busy on a Friday evening and drink prices weren’t cheap so they really should DO something to improve this dismal dead end. Maybe an electronic love tester would do the trick…or a moat of gravy around the perimeter of the bar…with pieces of white bread as coasters? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>SOLOS CANTINA</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">923 Hess Avenue</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPq16utSuSnu-tzOLLeEPogj3XOSLpGXGjwxvymsTzd4sa2L6Ar0s6W4RtK89NMpM-6s_Nv2NMUf6tOgw6I3yOPFylYsThpZYPJ-Pan4r_XvOllcUdlrfnbL2OmwXXnWUVAfdSPhP4RA/s1600/solos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPq16utSuSnu-tzOLLeEPogj3XOSLpGXGjwxvymsTzd4sa2L6Ar0s6W4RtK89NMpM-6s_Nv2NMUf6tOgw6I3yOPFylYsThpZYPJ-Pan4r_XvOllcUdlrfnbL2OmwXXnWUVAfdSPhP4RA/s400/solos.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A rumored Star Wars themed bar located on Hess Avenue, this bar was more disappointing than Episode One. The Cantina seemed to host many rogues, bounty hunters and scoundrels from all over Eries Outer Rim territory. The female bartender looked like a freshly shaved Ewok and the jukebox shared functionality with the Hyperdrive Motivator of the Millennium Falcon. The decor included a lighted sign of Darth Vader reaching for an OE 40oz. and a framed picture of that dude from Pimp My Ride (who could possibly be the grandson of Lando) on the wall. There was some crazy dart-throwing denimed dude with a midget arm too. We did find a seedy round table which we all sat around and discussed our plans to blast our way out of there. Much like Jabbas Palace, this bar could be filed under At least now we can say that weve been there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beer selection: Hmmm…(as I despairingly scoped out the beer cooler) gimmie a bottle of Busch! I would have given my right arm for a glass of blue milk but… ohh wait…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jukebox: There was a markered sign on the wall telling patrons to bring in their own Cds. While there, we were treated to the wretched rhythms of Bone, Nelly (the band-aid cheek guy, not that sexy slut who cant sing either) and Will Smith. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Observation: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum & villany.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall ranking: 1/5</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>HERMANS CAFE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2802 Old French Road</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKaXtT8v3BBr2uqIolj0seHQ9PbWy-S8VbRTlx-lsl5Ys_sWjAaHz1t4axdIjDG4nSn7BkiQs3or21Ww8xRu46qQiEPa_Oi5w-b-gtX1Drr6tJsCWoJEAFb7ypYfYy-4FwrOMJGgRGA/s1600/Hermans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKaXtT8v3BBr2uqIolj0seHQ9PbWy-S8VbRTlx-lsl5Ys_sWjAaHz1t4axdIjDG4nSn7BkiQs3or21Ww8xRu46qQiEPa_Oi5w-b-gtX1Drr6tJsCWoJEAFb7ypYfYy-4FwrOMJGgRGA/s400/Hermans.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A surprisingly spacious saloon, Hermans advertises Pabst Blue Ribbon drafts for 75 cents. This proof threw me for a loop since they did NOT have PBR on tap. The bartender was the older brother of that super annoying waiter from Office Space (the faggy little prick who worked at Chachkis) When he wasnt closing one eye, pointing at you and making little clicking noises, the barhand had severe trouble with simple math. (i.e. $2.25 plus 0.85 is not $1.80.) The clientell were dirtbags & rednecks for the most part, but Hermans did have the hottest chicks (3 of them!) that we have seen so far on the bar tour. Some dude shooting pool had a TAZ tattoo (the lovable cartoon madman, NOT the shitty 80s cover band) on his leg and like any true dive bar, there was the blonde bimbo strutting her stuff with a faded tattoo on her boob (not that I checked her out, but I think it was a baby seal sitting on a piece of ice.) Some local greaseball got dragged outside and bitched up by a couple junkied jocks which amplified the already tumultuous feeling of the joint. This place could be cool, but living in a town with more bars per square mile that anywhere else in America, I can be choosy where I chug. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The beer selection was average, except for the misleading Bait & Switch tactic involving Pabst while the j</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ukebox blated a three-pronged attack of Dio...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Observation: Hey Earnhart, if you need to bring one of those shittyass beer-bottle coozies with you to a bar and use it, then you dont know how to drink…and you look like a total idiot. Go back to your couch and watch Nascar…I reckon der racin n Talladega this weeken</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall ranking: 2/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>CHIPPERS</strong></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4608 Wattsburg Road</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrrtahaZ4BWVJwxO-m2UJyIbL4CIWVosimvYvXryAtUNsP_7YIYDMTXNBXMO4_y4_2eIR4LSO5xIfQpyze6Iap7oQmnUxWn504iCjFgaSLmI-6UHx5bkR79lijceUivMMF3CSt6N1xQ/s1600/chippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrrtahaZ4BWVJwxO-m2UJyIbL4CIWVosimvYvXryAtUNsP_7YIYDMTXNBXMO4_y4_2eIR4LSO5xIfQpyze6Iap7oQmnUxWn504iCjFgaSLmI-6UHx5bkR79lijceUivMMF3CSt6N1xQ/s400/chippers.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You’ve seen the Deer Hunter, right? Yeah, everyone has seen it… and a favorable percentage (myself included) believe it is a good movie. But realistically, it is a very boring, fairly colorless, drawn-out story. There is no dialogue in the first 23 minutes of said film. Parts are very unrealistic. I HATE that one guy’s hair! Well, remember the bar that “the boys” go to after a tough day at the foundry? Well, the original Welch’s Bar was torn down in the 80′s but an eidetic exists in my hometown. Chippers is as blue collar as the asshole of a dog who ate a whole bunch of blueberries. We went here during the height of cold season, as the subsisting servant behind the bar didn’t mind sharing his phlem with every drink he poured. The place offers 62 flavors of wings, which makes about as much sense as a guy who never gets laid to purchase silk sheets. I didn’t like the sports stuff on the wall. But after a tough day of working with molten metal, sometimes a man needs to unwind…</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>UPTOWN BROWNS</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">264 East 30th Street</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13uWVng4rLM6O4laMHuUf-6h15kZ0QwWa5-2U2lZ6yFA-lBJoJ-Vbq_dSSaLu4Sbkw5x4DFPzj40eityghcKeoL4RlMAkeg5vh_tRswS7kjA8KPXnrT5MGJhgNhbhFPYxRDZEJwHEUQ/s1600/uptown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13uWVng4rLM6O4laMHuUf-6h15kZ0QwWa5-2U2lZ6yFA-lBJoJ-Vbq_dSSaLu4Sbkw5x4DFPzj40eityghcKeoL4RlMAkeg5vh_tRswS7kjA8KPXnrT5MGJhgNhbhFPYxRDZEJwHEUQ/s400/uptown.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the other day I was drinking. It was cool. Some chick was telling me about her experience at Uptown Browns. I really didn’t pay attention to what she was saying, but I noticed that if I cracked my neck and peered straight down while my head was at a 19 degree angle, I could totally see down her shirt. Nice! This is a pretty nice place, featuring real wood decor, although I am partial to fauz wood paneling. Gives my alcohol a basmental quality...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rating: 3/5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-38393860495394606892010-04-25T13:06:00.003-04:002010-04-25T19:00:54.698-04:00Dive Bar Reviews: Erie, PA - part II<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE SAUCERY</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2606 West 26th Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiVeEqZ62pd_NHW55M1-acymBPJBPPvYLBP4qbz_RONr-pwrEShN0uQ7wZbE5eq1zimge0Ty5jJfezczpWA0RzUdrByG1pwSRHPixB0dGqLgd4CZ5AggCSAljw4plquBBI-vV6DBy-A/s1600/saucery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiVeEqZ62pd_NHW55M1-acymBPJBPPvYLBP4qbz_RONr-pwrEShN0uQ7wZbE5eq1zimge0Ty5jJfezczpWA0RzUdrByG1pwSRHPixB0dGqLgd4CZ5AggCSAljw4plquBBI-vV6DBy-A/s400/saucery.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A scummy dart bar on West 26th Street, the Saucery has long been using the subtitle GOIN’ FAST. The young bartender had bigass titties and a shirt that looked like a rock climbing harness. I wouldn’t mind scaling her bountiful boulders. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This bar would be perfect for an exclusive Tom Waits jukebox. The drink specials are conveniently posted in a glass cabinet above urinal in the men’s bathroom. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People come here to get “sauced,” not to make friends or get in fights. One of the best dives in town. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 4/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>BACARDIE JOES</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1158 West 26th Street</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gbfO5jAxGNE9yxvgI7wuLa3lW6GE7317h34pbk0dlq1KVaMtI1c7eOm3mV0rJTA0g27oREjOuMce-v7jk_cfoCxcKWlujoZIy8ztvcndcEBE5CuWJADELUlNzEqFlcd1jgpvdfmxRA/s1600/bacardiejoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gbfO5jAxGNE9yxvgI7wuLa3lW6GE7317h34pbk0dlq1KVaMtI1c7eOm3mV0rJTA0g27oREjOuMce-v7jk_cfoCxcKWlujoZIy8ztvcndcEBE5CuWJADELUlNzEqFlcd1jgpvdfmxRA/s400/bacardiejoes.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fat Chicks and darts. If you like either of the two, then Bacardie Joe’s should be your new hangout. Billing itself as a “Pub & Grill” I wouldn’t wish their dinner menu upon my worst enemy, and besides, vegan will find their own demise due to lack of nourishment. The place had a pretty cool layout but attracted scumbag customers from all reaches of midtown Erie. Cherubic chubby chicks infested the joint on this Friday night. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some weasely lilttle DJ was playing tons of loud country and shitty dance music. Although commanding a “good DJ voice” it was apparent by his threads that he lacked game. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A 22 oz. draft of Molsen Canadian was only $2.25 but my beer kept some weird foam head for the duration of it’s short mug life. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you ever feel like “Hoggin’ it” swing by Bacardie Joe’s. Look for the incorrectly spelled sign outside! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 2/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>ELI’S</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1002 West 26th Street</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0R7T-aZl6zaXJiMVmry9cbDtQWSAHOcbMyWJ7HXGT__JcpJGr_vzXrUV1KZ0PS2OAHKWagTckUNuR-w2PpldLSMsXb6s0idzffWTN526bquDatxvU_zueMMrm8GZLRX7wqWHHcyWOA/s1600/elis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0R7T-aZl6zaXJiMVmry9cbDtQWSAHOcbMyWJ7HXGT__JcpJGr_vzXrUV1KZ0PS2OAHKWagTckUNuR-w2PpldLSMsXb6s0idzffWTN526bquDatxvU_zueMMrm8GZLRX7wqWHHcyWOA/s400/elis.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Legendary in Erie for having superb chicken wings, Eli’s is a quaint little joint with a Ma & Pa ambiance. Our waitress/bartender “Kel” dressed more like a sorority girl attending a co-ed volleyball match, but was quick on the refill and even quicker on the annoyance scale. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The barstools were exceptionally high which I found offensive due to the fact that RAINBOW was heavily featured on the jukebox. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> This place had great ‘staying power.’ We got there around 10pm with full intention to leave after an hour or so but favorable food and reasonable beer prices kept us there past 2am. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Hi & Dry Pub</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3077 West Lake Road </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8jbODVw-jliha2kyKX5jP1jSw-NiGUxhqgbuBeRhOnsl0D9y_-4dtllYsSyexGgzGnLC0YJvZ8g9hySe-KyKg7tsK7aqKDxaVwl0F7FdAL-91E-RhMR-3TG_PwYBxsGZAYJYkiiULQ/s1600/hidri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8jbODVw-jliha2kyKX5jP1jSw-NiGUxhqgbuBeRhOnsl0D9y_-4dtllYsSyexGgzGnLC0YJvZ8g9hySe-KyKg7tsK7aqKDxaVwl0F7FdAL-91E-RhMR-3TG_PwYBxsGZAYJYkiiULQ/s400/hidri.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I was a sewer rat, I would live here. The filthy wooden floors would be grea </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to chew on and sharpen my teeth. The kitchen is in open air so I can fling my turds into the soup of the day. I could make a cozy nest from all the errand hairs of the balding patrons. I’d have pool parties in the toilets as well. Probably eat my own babies too! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Is it good when your beer bottle is dusty? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A quick glance at the jukebox revealed a Dio album. This place is cool. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They had their x-mas tree up the first weekend of September? Probably so the rats can climb to tree then jump on the back of people’s necks when they walk by. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 2/5</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Rocco’s Tavern</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4040 West 12th Street</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgOxMsyQ4mRlQs4VkTyrkQbb6fwflbKFoVmNMTZxvPFSJNtETm1oeXwcqcxOzMgdsTYUXCjfldmKRWt0jc5OjRqYf-l5G5gAGMLmVgQ9ljIbDDvS9Jc6kucD2FcIN4D629tp-aioGVA/s1600/roccos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgOxMsyQ4mRlQs4VkTyrkQbb6fwflbKFoVmNMTZxvPFSJNtETm1oeXwcqcxOzMgdsTYUXCjfldmKRWt0jc5OjRqYf-l5G5gAGMLmVgQ9ljIbDDvS9Jc6kucD2FcIN4D629tp-aioGVA/s400/roccos.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Erie’s most miserable bar. Every occupant wishes death upon themself. After 20 minutes of being confined in those wooden walls, you would do the same. The tables are now dressed in white sheets, assumably to soak up the bitterness of the clientell. I knew the bartender. She is known around town as "</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Chicken Crack Whore"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 1/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Parsons</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">West 8th Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcepo6NijFvkqT86JP5Rnr89XUZbeFQfmrxkf8vijrNPqQoKxaf-2de-J-y_0jXUsCwHmXI5DIRjH41EnV8e8OYKSgfCSCYKfbIUJXr_lqIjQTJx6x46sxLek7mJ3lZH-uQOiZH2EBXA/s1600/parsons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcepo6NijFvkqT86JP5Rnr89XUZbeFQfmrxkf8vijrNPqQoKxaf-2de-J-y_0jXUsCwHmXI5DIRjH41EnV8e8OYKSgfCSCYKfbIUJXr_lqIjQTJx6x46sxLek7mJ3lZH-uQOiZH2EBXA/s400/parsons.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Good luck finding this shithole, since there is no sign outside, just the framework of a rickety old awning. This is the most ghetto bar on Erie's West Side, a hideous hive of gangstas and racists. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beer selection: Yuengling bottles for $2.00. Drafts of Molsen were $1.75. Crack is a bit more pricy. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jukebox: Some thugged out white dude leaned over to our table and muttered, “You all best play YOUR songs now, ’cause this place is about to get ghetto real quick” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ranking: 0/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Hunters Inn</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1204 West 26th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSlW4rGI5uGAN7D2FGhshP8ptCeR-Zydm9jismbFqufzelMiHNcEVR8988oShhhyUb-tnjmAQaqxMf_tKr60a_4XQpHZJwZwxcp-_rVnXhuaCBBae-XBgyRUyL1E878T0oEGCXheSow/s1600/hunters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSlW4rGI5uGAN7D2FGhshP8ptCeR-Zydm9jismbFqufzelMiHNcEVR8988oShhhyUb-tnjmAQaqxMf_tKr60a_4XQpHZJwZwxcp-_rVnXhuaCBBae-XBgyRUyL1E878T0oEGCXheSow/s400/hunters.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I relate Hunters to the writings of H.P. Lovecraft. You may be turned off at first attempt, but a second effort (or visit) may prove illuminating. And where else can you get “Hot Lunch Anytime?” </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve always enjoyed drinking at Hunters. It’s a predator bar, a chameleon bar, a hidden nook and party central, all in one. The patrons change like the hours on the clock. I’ve been there at 10 am and during this ‘friendship hour’ you’ll find an array of crusty old men and straw-chewing G-monies. Early in the evening Hunter’s seems to be the meeting place for infidels and hound dogs. Later on it’s a college hotspot. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you’ve never seen a male lion viciously attacking a gazelle, then swing by Hunters. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>The Cab</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5442 West Ridge Road</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXseaQCm7DrP7lttoi6EWVun7ahnzn4DDuImqwJOrG0WfcFx3MgU0s6hTbTxyCNJtXHDWH3Vlz1yEaQInuPidapEy8LfJ9HRB0RwQgwp8zb7KC3b0gtJcwkEKB6C__Objr-ilKHI8NPg/s1600/cab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXseaQCm7DrP7lttoi6EWVun7ahnzn4DDuImqwJOrG0WfcFx3MgU0s6hTbTxyCNJtXHDWH3Vlz1yEaQInuPidapEy8LfJ9HRB0RwQgwp8zb7KC3b0gtJcwkEKB6C__Objr-ilKHI8NPg/s400/cab.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This place has too much shit hanging on the walls. I’ll tell ya man, Nascar is gay and I’m not a big fan of Coyote Creek chew either. A cherry Pucker sign…what does Dave Turko hang out here….oh, there he is, rubbing that dude’s inner thigh. Duck crossing…ohh that’s choice!! Some seriously nasty girls hang out at this place. Even Dropcho showed dismay toward them! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some high-energy DJ (imagine Steven Wright as a paraplegic) played a plethora of 80′s rock songs, most were hits you never wanted to hear again. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our waitress had a bum leg. Free pizza Friday’s from 6-8pm but you only get one slice. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>McKean Tavern</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8968 Main St - McKean</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIm7Cqr0INc6CBqa87Vsclb3I3zm_eVGhg0jyaHIbgsVP4Eenf0QD6YYXN52K8Eu_9WDcTX3MMNew6KOLZL9o03myQvReZu7neB44Wh4oLjEBpbTp5yu6VP39C2yY0cMt-xDummeloew/s1600/mckean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIm7Cqr0INc6CBqa87Vsclb3I3zm_eVGhg0jyaHIbgsVP4Eenf0QD6YYXN52K8Eu_9WDcTX3MMNew6KOLZL9o03myQvReZu7neB44Wh4oLjEBpbTp5yu6VP39C2yY0cMt-xDummeloew/s400/mckean.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A nice, quiet little joint located in a two-bit, piece-of-shit, saggy-tit, pungent-slit, meth-pipe-hit, let’s-get-lit part of town. There’s not a whole lot of action in McKean. I use to go to a chiropractor just down the road. Dude had a red face. Probably wasn’t a drunk, but he had red hair. He was his own secretary. Red heads generally have gross skin. Tight, like a mask, but somewhat stretchy..not a lot of give. Ed Gein comes to mind. Definitely shouldn’t have kids. Ever see a “Red” eat ice cream? It’s sick… utterly lizard like. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our Sunday saunter yielded a leisurely drive thru the countryside. One time me and Kelly Surovick were walking behind the apple orchards on McCray Road and she convinced me to pee on an electric fence. I knew it would hurt. It did. She laughed. The next week her boyfriend beat her with a bag of flour. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Valley Inn</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">10107 Old Route 99 - Mc Kean </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIUdHMpfWb3XRJyFDTC2Dhgn0wkkT2Er7H4PyyiBlLAO1geSOLoCaG1CU5rjtD4ea-qBPUYyyud6SgHKf5FQf9N9nHAU7AxLiKnwSctoXyiBewO026nSy_aDGDYXCu71iSxUFZP9K2Q/s1600/valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIUdHMpfWb3XRJyFDTC2Dhgn0wkkT2Er7H4PyyiBlLAO1geSOLoCaG1CU5rjtD4ea-qBPUYyyud6SgHKf5FQf9N9nHAU7AxLiKnwSctoXyiBewO026nSy_aDGDYXCu71iSxUFZP9K2Q/s400/valley.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you ain’t never been here, then you ain’t invited. That is the vibe from this craphole. Remember that girl in high school with the caved in skull? Meh… Skeletor! Yeah…she works here. Patrons of the Valley Inn think she is hot. So does Whiteman. The bar smelled like pine needles. My larval observation was YES, I like this bar, but I also really enjoyed the 1974 King Fu blockbuster “Street Fighter”, starring Sonny Chiba. The part where he’s fighting those dudes and it switches to an x-ray of a skull that’s dented in by a boxing glove, THAT is awesome. More movies need cutaways. And for those wondering, my movie has been put on hold indefinitely. I AM 30 now, and have a lot of trees to lumber, but the concept will still subsist until fruition. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If the dudes from Creedence Clearwater Revival ever needed to hide, they should go here. They’d blend in nicely…only if John Fogerty would keep his cocky mouth shut. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 2/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Elk Creek Inn</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">corner of Bear Creek Rd. & Sterrettania</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HyCGyCrGNHct4Y30mkRkrGniySOdVnYSM2B7LhUJ2Ah2JQoaGy2Hg_pCpxEgwanJeEttYDCkvb59kJbHzgWOjv8Z8HB-wvvUp-9qxxHdjKYb5vro6OO22IUWtWhilRtypcv-vv6SSg/s1600/ElkCreek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HyCGyCrGNHct4Y30mkRkrGniySOdVnYSM2B7LhUJ2Ah2JQoaGy2Hg_pCpxEgwanJeEttYDCkvb59kJbHzgWOjv8Z8HB-wvvUp-9qxxHdjKYb5vro6OO22IUWtWhilRtypcv-vv6SSg/s400/ElkCreek.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, this is the place where I ate 77 jumbo shrimp in one sitting back in 1994. I’m over that shit. Now I drink. Although ownership has gone thru many permutations over the years, the place still remains idle. The wheels lack grease, but the ceiling looks like the back of Bootsy Collin’s cape. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The place stinks like cow shit, due to some bovine farm in close proximity. This incorragable keghouse still offers the all-you-can-eat shrimp special on Friday nights. Say I won’t break 80???? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 2/5 </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Sport Page</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1527 West 26th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJE4a0VVpsRlSIqqbz0W1ksAMUDYImkEvsvdCS85G4k7lCnzUnTaw3j9eXvCNwrXL2CA5uI81wLWu3DSw8GkUecoEDIJEM9k6rQ1RVPEACVW1POCZwsRrQON1-5T5FKFwBMx2wOwOfA/s1600/sportspage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJE4a0VVpsRlSIqqbz0W1ksAMUDYImkEvsvdCS85G4k7lCnzUnTaw3j9eXvCNwrXL2CA5uI81wLWu3DSw8GkUecoEDIJEM9k6rQ1RVPEACVW1POCZwsRrQON1-5T5FKFwBMx2wOwOfA/s400/sportspage.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hate sports. A maritial axiom, 44% of divorces are because husbands watch too much damn sports on TV. Fucking idiots. Just leave your wife at my place and go gay. Wait..is she young…and soft? Nothing good has ever come out of professional sports…except maybe a nice Nerf ball for a good dog to play with. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Greeks were the pioneers of athletic competition. And they spearheaded homosexuality too. Yup…the first locker room was a liar of love for sweaty dudes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ohhh Adrastus…you throw that discus super far, may I rub thy wang on your cheekith?” </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the Sports page is cool. Old dudes in tweed. Cougars who will bone for a Coors Light. Read the sign. You’ll know why. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Overall Rating: 4/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Chuck & Ginny’s</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">429 Raspberry Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjNHlK1M8CWrlrQV0rgZ4xvNp_9r-w7GCB-I524iBrJYUqOItlmFD_2O-493bjfvaITkGbjaf-m0GqZiR_Ot6TUVwdYOb6cqrrSQdDffpJLRBdY9EErVGGO6N36bBzhA1quw5ALezFQ/s1600/chuckginy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjNHlK1M8CWrlrQV0rgZ4xvNp_9r-w7GCB-I524iBrJYUqOItlmFD_2O-493bjfvaITkGbjaf-m0GqZiR_Ot6TUVwdYOb6cqrrSQdDffpJLRBdY9EErVGGO6N36bBzhA1quw5ALezFQ/s400/chuckginy.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You may ask yourself, isn’t Chuck & Ginny’s a restaurant? Indeed, my rosie-palmed retard, but it also has a separate bar room with a dirty door, so that makes it fair game. And it sucks. Some beastly bertha was blabbing about the tooth fairy and trying to include us in the conversation. We were having none of it. If I wanted to hang out with greasy, overweight, annoying, disease-ridden skanks, I would call Michelle Yuhas. But I am not a fan of callow cuntnuggets with crusty clits, so we exited the premises hastily. We went here one day after that dude knifed that baby sitting in a child seat, but unfortunately, we couldn’t find the blood trail. I would have bought him a drink. If you want to rob this place, let me know. I know where the safe is.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Overall Rating: 1/5</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Spencers</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1062 West 12th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdpMwBh0yzvNPS3v4CQtSUozg2kX9-meHyEal_AuSrFWrHmurr5_KWYD9o4I_yzLsLFKDho7I1C0WSuRXWKayCXb2tFl8WL_hR98BE-YABE-n1vEQZFRirLE8LkSsCaa2OTqS9lQbVFA/s1600/spencers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdpMwBh0yzvNPS3v4CQtSUozg2kX9-meHyEal_AuSrFWrHmurr5_KWYD9o4I_yzLsLFKDho7I1C0WSuRXWKayCXb2tFl8WL_hR98BE-YABE-n1vEQZFRirLE8LkSsCaa2OTqS9lQbVFA/s400/spencers.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Located in the old Goofies building, this place was supposed to be a titty bar. It was completely remodeled but a 60 year old city ordinance put a stop to the stripping the day it was to open. So a new owner and a name change later, here we are at Spencers. Very dim inside with whorish lighting. Patrons were scant, yet we were greeted by four bartenders, each of a varying ethnic background. Hmmm… something for everyone I guess. There were private booths where lap dances could occur…if this place was a strip joint. A mirrored room with a lion’s head waterfall? And a curtained backroom? C’mon dude, I wasn’t born yesterday. If I was, I’d probably be sucking on a boob right now…Phhttt….lucky babies. There’s some mad shady shit going on up in this piece. Someone is probably gonna get shot here by the end of summer. If Ice-T ever visited Erie, he would probably stop in this place to wash his junk after nutting in some chick. Damn! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 2/5</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Last Stop Café</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1063 West 18th Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopdUOFEqnzu9vWOHY7QPJW9TzE8nZROBsp8b6bLOkxSXtwmJYHZGAOvyZTL8wW8Okp_BUAHd_mpWLvCk6azmTsj6w6e_gDHy45wBQCHufh_oeeZ15dYFRv_jlQTemxMqAr9h_WyUCGw/s1600/laststop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopdUOFEqnzu9vWOHY7QPJW9TzE8nZROBsp8b6bLOkxSXtwmJYHZGAOvyZTL8wW8Okp_BUAHd_mpWLvCk6azmTsj6w6e_gDHy45wBQCHufh_oeeZ15dYFRv_jlQTemxMqAr9h_WyUCGw/s400/laststop.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was the final frontier of west side bars. Every person I ever talked to vehemetly exclaimed NEVER to go here, so obviously, my associate and I jumped at the chance to check it out. How bad could it be? Ehhh.. .we both have health insurance. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Luckily, my boy Ian from Backwards Cap Productions was in the house shooting pool and after a well-executing street smart handshake, I earned instant street cred with the crew he was with. We were finally here, we made it and we lived to tell the tale. I felt like we climbed to the peak of Mount Kulhanek. We had ventured were few men have gone before, many have lost their lives, a proverbial trail of blood and booze seemed to seep thru the walls. My associate and I are the Lewis & Clark of drinking. We explore unknown territory in an effort to expand our alcoholic arsenal. We make friends along the way and return home with tales of the town. Somewhere there’s a girl who got fucked on a pool table in this bar </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 3/5</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>R Bar</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">26th & Peach Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRNAghIR1MTiON2_C6XgvUq40vzC1vaq7jJNSpc7pcVY0z-K5MF0Kcju6W_iuuNF0KsHzajLLzcC3_5LZE6n55POXYRwQOtZly9kQ4BsCS1-Z-3A5Ygqw2dgXcbSjNfFU-6S7hAbLUA/s400/Rbar-1.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This dive is like walking the tightrope, corded three feet above a tank filled with pissed off crocodiles, starved sewer rats and broken glass from the trailer park. One false move and your multi-fanged fodder. This place puts the A-N-G-E-R in D-A-N-G-E-R! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This place simply rocks. Regular patrons can often be seen sleeping in the doorway waiting for the gates to open in the morning. There’s a tube of caulk behind the bar<em> (in case something needs fixing)</em> and I’m pretty sure the walls are made of old cardboard boxes. While we were there, some less-than-chilled chick was willingly railed in the restroom by four dudes. The place looked like a murder scene afterwards. There was almost a race war due to a misunderstanding and the back room is enter at your own risk. The monthly meetings of the B.P.S. (Breast Preservation Society) will be held at the R Bar from now on. I would totally date a girl who works here. My Associate tried for a while to get some dude laid, who’s one personality wanted to fight him. If you like to do things for the story, as I do, then this place is the mecca.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 5/5</span></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-3846540701351202372010-04-25T09:31:00.033-04:002010-04-25T12:25:06.551-04:00Dive Bar Reviews: Erie, PA - part I<div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>WEST RIDGE SALOON</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3460 West 26th Street </span></div><div align="left"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rMnk6aX0fzXML6UQR_JbN5DvB_lEbnbb24iOgrN1y-5tUo936MWr6w36j1CS8s2aiF4P34a0jpOpYz4NY2bZlbn0X4pcOJ9X_qKvfo3nImFIdE5llKOIcDgEBj7VTvGCVfxLwoL7lg/s400/westridge.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A fairly clean-yet-downwind dive, the West Ridge Saloon is a cool place to go before you go out. With average beer prices and a shot list longer than the line outside of a trailer slut’s bedroom, this basement bar had a tolerable new rock atmosphere The owner/bartender was indiscreetly the drunkest person in the bar, but the overall mood was pretty light. Our patronage will definitely be repeated at the ‘Ridge. The </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sexy lady posters in dudes restroom made urinating a pleasure! T</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">he bartender gave me the wrong change once and gave my change to someone else another time, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but the Sirius Radio pumped out Ministrys NWO while we were there, so all is forgiven.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OVERALL RANKING: 3/5 </span></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>CAPTAIN RON’S QUARTERS</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">401 West 18th Street </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6JyBRIT2CnJQR0vSYg3vWdh4Av-ONRVT597tHFdeKjdiSUQh3eeJ8KcZMei6Lnbjyhwuk50SR4VLfbgFXIw_XZhFNhAc_XRlOSw9gaKLYaBNX508XKeFFkqFdrVNuwZEkmtYr-MlUw/s400/captrons.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What kind of seamen’s shack locks its doors at 11:00 pm on a Friday night? Probably a good idea, since it's located in a neighborhood colorfully referred to as "The Rat's Nest." The bar wench looked to be some large-legged land lover. I sat adjacent to a middle-aged blonde ogre-of-a-lady with all white contact lenses. I think she may have had a tatoo on the side of her skull too. And her left fist was perpetually clenched. I will drop anchor here at a later date.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OVERALL RANKING: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>CHESTNUT STREET PUB</strong> <em><span style="font-size: small;">(a.k.a THE NUT)</span></em></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">362 West 31st Street </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3wbd5EAjgJvqxFGKDBo3QaXTisACqbwZxCnRSkAqJ6xOYgfi4IErrslub3C8nxc6IQZOVcCEhVXiFJ5tjQsB4ZXr49pzA_EI4LOcFBgK6sUiiJdCQLrbGQIEue5rEHsACM3dezIN1g/s400/nut.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So a guy walks into a bar…it was me. That was probably the highlight of our trip to The Nut. Dirty floors, ultra-loud dirtbag clientele, weak beer selection and just an atmosphere that makes you not want to be there! The bar stools were ricketier than the legs of a cripple and the bar had a faint smell of ball sweat. With the right holocaust, this bar could have potential, but an ugly chick with DD implants is still rotten in the face. Remember </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">when you were a kid and youd be dragged to your dads company picnic…yeah, its worse than that. Comparable to a bee sting to the crotch.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OVERALL RANKING: 1/5 </span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>BOBBY’S PLACE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1202 West 18th Street </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpYcGRIYF_Ox0ZOnpTO2rnWRIH4AHAyZNecB32WQLFgTrgtr96nsuAWCw-7fUjeW1fF73P3aexfD6Y3ww-i5JgveV2TUiFcsNH8OGYndUX3T8PuOiwRLQtlfuEmdmfxiSEBnc6aB40A/s1600/bobbys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpYcGRIYF_Ox0ZOnpTO2rnWRIH4AHAyZNecB32WQLFgTrgtr96nsuAWCw-7fUjeW1fF73P3aexfD6Y3ww-i5JgveV2TUiFcsNH8OGYndUX3T8PuOiwRLQtlfuEmdmfxiSEBnc6aB40A/s400/bobbys.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After Clint Eastwood escaped from Alcatraz and swam across the San Francisco Bay, he probably went to Bobbys Place. This is the most under the radar bar ever. I think it was also a stop on the Underground Railroad. If you really dont want to be found, Bobbys is the Place. Home of the $1 draft, this louchey lounge is the perfect spot to take that sure thing that is too ugly to bring around your friends. Dave the bartender slings drinks fast and courteous as the other patrons are, well…non-existent. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The jukebox was weak but fun; highlighted with early Ska compilation and the Escape Club, which blatantly indicated the sexual preference of said suds slinger.</span></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OVERALL RANKING 5/5 </span></div><div align="left"><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>SOPHIAS TAVERN</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">514 Cherry Street </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKS3ghegerOIABc7cHDXE0uQvRzgszXY-McPwX3XKR7MIXPAyOV-YkDIRNdfG-75rVFMWfOMqgLFRXXGODEA2sjRi6FuMQsX4b_0k-8k9VmpIVLcxsyMPax5RhOXSGc6baMVZ8gz_31g/s400/sophias.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've driven by this place a bunch of times so I thought we should check it out. Outside the entrance, assorted drug dealers peddled their products and conversed in slang. When we walked in, the record came to a screeching halt. Everyone in the place stopped and looked at the five honkys that entered their turf. While ordering drinks at the bar, a regular informed me that the Peach Street Pub was having mad drink specials that night and that we should check it out…soon. The back wall showcased a lengthy BARRED sign, naming many members who are no longer welcome at the establishment, including Ladybug, Shalom, Lil’ Juice and Junior (for life!). After choosing a drink from worst beer selection in America, we retreated to the back room where my associate became fast friends with a hairdresser named Cheri. After repeated claims of how much she loved white people, the sexy stylecat suggested we relocate to another establishment, because "we would probably like it there." </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sophias does NOT carry any of the following brews: Pabst, Yuengling, Labatts, MGD or Miller High Life while the j</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ukebox dropped a generous selection of rap, R &B and hip hop. Oh yeah, and t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here were random doorbells on the walls in the back room?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall ranking: 1/5 </span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>LEFTY’S TAVERN</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1248 Brown Avenue</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div align="left"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmcK1aELtosdopu_QakUlwj1CjbzchQVbJIEtLv8zutW0whXSvxMk9EZNMIUr4lJiJ2uOTs7N7uURyKSn1HAR71M57ZodigHV3WSmb5w_2m0tAXi-boJgsv-JGi6JGr5NI8UqCTKH5Q/s400/leftys.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This place was a pleasant surprise, nothing flashy or fancy, just a comfortable watering hole. . The walls were ornamented with various hockey memorabilia, but my associate and I chose to gaze upon the vixenous female sud-slinger behind the bar. The joint was pretty dark due to the total negligence of windows, which could be appealing to your average sneaky pete. One could complained about the lack of a pool table, but I personally go to a bar to drink, not to better myself as a bar jock. If I wanted to play games, Id find myself another crazy girlfriend. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had nothing really negative to say about this pub. The cool thing about this place was that wherever you turned, there was always something to your left, hence the name Leftys I guess? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall ranking: 4/5 </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE MARINA PUB</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">732 West Fourth Street </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeYVG7MFb2NO5_AhWglXLAlrtxcDTE8QCty4vm4QBCGZfHXQQiS8iL5oOulfO6XIVjRnPqL5S8yQ_GYKO-8eIGF8YHtGW-58LJLjKgCBIPDVpfUeV1TvCiKAVBUR-fJh7fOZ0rogSJg/s400/marinapub.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am convinced when the bartender was younger, her and a few girls from her neighborhood were picking flowers in a horse pasture and one older girl persuaded her to piss on an electric fence and the voltage crawled up into her urethra and jolted her to age prematurely. Her snatch probably looks like a corn beef sandwich that doubles as a punching bag for Butterbean. Knowing her own tragedy, she is the admiral of the bitch boat at the Marina Pub. The lavatory looked like the room from the movie SAW and you could tell that every preppy fratboy there had a pocketful of roofies. The only thing that saved this place was the small enclosed patio behind the bar. Drinking outside is one of the finer things in life. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was nothing nautical about this nook. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall ranking: 1/5 </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>NORBS BAR</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">25th & Peach Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3tLFfM6EpR5xvklz69SYp7xMoib2NFrKE9LUJcqWdU1sZ-7IWMG4iDqpEn6TJgfgB7uiIeWmRYB9uwvzb54sr4l9p6vY-jkHvTs0O3JtiZOybe_Woxeu0rfa0-skNJE5oUzEUEm8NUw/s400/norbs.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have you ever dined at Kenny Rogers Roasters and been greeted by the country crooner himself? Or been thrusting forth a generous portion of Texas Pete Hot Sauce onto your meal only to be corralled by his Lone Star lasso? A personal approach to business is what makes Norb’s a cool ass place. While boozing it up, placid whispers of “that’s the guy on the sign!” beheld the jubilant Norb himself, sipping suds at the end of the bar, flanked by blue-haired ladies. The j</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ukebox was very highly ranked, from Jackyl to AC/DC to Black Sabbath to Frank Sinatra. It would be relatively difficult to play a song that was not appreciated. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Norb himself informed us of his own signature drink recipe: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take one 12 oz. can of Gennesee</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pour it into a glass</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Add a dash of pepper </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Its the best drink around” he stated with honest conviction. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only people who dont like Norbs are the ones who have never been there </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 4/5 </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE LAST SHOT</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3064 West 12th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1diYs8_pnGhdqv0mrcYNKyfd50ENh2DVmAlPdzRlixqXmS8CB5hvprqcif4roHTRoCSA-_38mR-tTfpsacwVUqkSQJGcEt3drKkE2hEn2_878bkoLk9jcu31_rsgpigFhLEQo7Pjvtg/s1600/lastshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1diYs8_pnGhdqv0mrcYNKyfd50ENh2DVmAlPdzRlixqXmS8CB5hvprqcif4roHTRoCSA-_38mR-tTfpsacwVUqkSQJGcEt3drKkE2hEn2_878bkoLk9jcu31_rsgpigFhLEQo7Pjvtg/s400/lastshot.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Last Shot has cleaned up greatly since the days of GRIPPES, as the clientell seemed in bulk to be middle aged biker dudes and their respective back-of-the-bike bitches. Not the kind of biker whos some clean cut executive-type with whitewalls and a vast collection of polo shirts and a wristwatch that cost $4 grand, I mean the kind of biker with bbq sauce in his beard whose left bicep looks like a bathroom wall from all the homemade tattoos of bitches he loved over the years and who still talks about a pair of titties that flashed him at a Starvin Marvin in 1986 on his way to Bike Week. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although I have absolutely no respect for cover bands, its nice to walk into a dive and NOT hear that gayass “I love this bar” song being played 20 times a night. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think this place has a crooked floor. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall rating: 3/5 </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE RINGSIDE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3202 Sterrettania Road</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gLsV7JzDv90fH35zvS-hofbfQW8QzgLA0jidokpgY9fTb6SNcmXON8oQS1VBJDDKi_q8xpL1pJimoWJlmb7Jt75MTqH_YJBRbJ34ZDfrvhuTz6jEHGVwtQonHn2AcsVYfTI7VH2UiA/s1600/ringside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gLsV7JzDv90fH35zvS-hofbfQW8QzgLA0jidokpgY9fTb6SNcmXON8oQS1VBJDDKi_q8xpL1pJimoWJlmb7Jt75MTqH_YJBRbJ34ZDfrvhuTz6jEHGVwtQonHn2AcsVYfTI7VH2UiA/s400/ringside.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like theme bars. The more meticulous the better. The Ringside did a stellar job of bringing their boxing motif to fruition . Numerous posters of Roberto Duran, Marvin Hagler and Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini <em>(the pride of Youngstown!)</em> garbed the interior. The place was mainly an italian restaurant with a relatively small bar in the corner of the room. Brainstorming possible menu items, we formulated such authentic dishes as Ten-Count Cheesesticks, Southpaw Spaghetti, Left Hook Linguini and Rabbit Punch Ravioli <em>(none of which were featured on the real menu)</em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The jukebox? Raging Bullshit. Some malnourished wigger kid with cokebottle glasses and an atrociously bad teenage mustache was dropping indescribably bad beats by todays hip-hop heroes. A disabled jukebox was located on the near wall, but I was nair to recognize a single group on the roster. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Remember that shitty boxing movie from the early 90s called Gladiators? I believe Cuba Gooding Jr. was the star. If memory serves, the film was horrible, but not as shitty as the soundtrack, which featured Warrant covering “We Will Rock You!” The music video had Jani Lane trying to dance like Ali and jab at the camera. Id still like to jab a fork in his eye. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wrongfully assumed that they would have some boxer-esque shot like Yagermeister and Gatorade <em>(which would obviously be named “See ya Yager alliGator”)</em> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Observation: A split decision….I think Ill schedule a rematch. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall rating: 3/5 </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE STARLITE HOTEL</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">901 West 4th Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsY9dU4mpUW-wFUTVe9903yrtjZG3IgGgRf-vAlLuu7XjuH1EPYyw1iolNN0n8XMMuk1RBC-j9IfUnxshWXQuBuTh1i2xNiR72o1eTc5iV3ErrcBXrwq0amo_gIHezeCSv9flxuVp9wg/s400/starlite.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, this is the place located in the basement of a crack hotel. This is the same bar that Barf killed a rat running across the floor with one jab of his pool stick. This is also the drinkery that offers delicious sausage-and-pancake-on-a-stick for a mere $2.00. Yup, also the locale where someone took a shit on the back of the toilet tank because the bartender <em>(who was affectionately referred to as Skeletor)</em> didnt know how to make a Long Island Ice Tea. The Starlite Hotel is an Erie dive bar of primary importance. Dirtbags, hookers, crackmoms and thugs all conglomerate at this rotten establishment. Our most recent trip was pretty uneventful, sans my discovery that management got rid of CrAzY bOwL, the best video bowling game ever. Still, the Starlite has its advantages. Friday nights from 6-8 pm is free pool, any other time you must pay the full price of 25 cents a game. The mixed drinks are stronger than Dolph Lungren and youre bound to make friends with at least one of the derelict locals. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some thug DJ with huge speakaz (not a PA, I mean home stereo speakaz) was making shitty rap songs, drop, hit and boom. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently the old owner fell down the stairs near the bar entrance and laid there for two days before giving in to death. True story! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall rating: 4/5 (don’t ask me why…) </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE BEER MUG</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1108 Liberty Street </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4YH83gEFZZxxq6z7evXZj4NWCmTwF9qY6OAy4JH7gf7111C5VA6BfE3brag-KNPwVEBWWy1o2oRSVZBsvl8VKYOsYOm_l38PGJ7sfRXzPRc7Lt6xoW7yIxq67A21_iNzN_EUaLXg7A/s400/beermug.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you were a bong-ripping hippie, go to the Docksider. If you like shitty cover bands or shitty wannabe metal bands, then hit up Sherlocks. Since the closing of Forward Hall, the Beer Mug is THE place for good local shows. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Beer Mug serves mugs of beer, among other bottled favorites. What do you want? I want a Pabst Blue Ribbon! Whatll you have? Ill have a PBR! Oh man, I'd run a million laps for a bottle of Pabst! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One time at the Beer Mug some chick dragged me into the dudes restroom and made me hold the door closed while she peed in front of me. If that pink-pantied prom queen reads this, you had a nice stream baby!!! Ooooh! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Rating: 4/5 </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>WAGNERS</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1002 West 8th Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYAI0DapH9jLAMROwkUVl8bjV6q2dW30v5JoQTZQxWof90efWfPic3MXNH2-k0pTQ5mc7wnbQCyn_SSwBnpXta6ox6RVJaq5Yd43nOdoqv-YvfNOuFSnnO0P9IG0EG-1Zej1UFvRRAQ/s400/wagners.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another hole in the wall bar located on the lower west side. The wings here are pretty good, the atmosphere is dark and if youre lucky, you may here some ignorant NASCAR fan make a racial slur. This bar is about as fun as an insurance seminar. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We showed up just in time for the lunch lady DJ<em> (who I dubbed Salisbury Stacy)</em> to spin Cds that she borrowed from her 16 year old daughter, a proud owner of a Starter jacket. If music is the universal language, then this tongue was a twisted confection of ebonics and southern drawl. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For some reason the beer served at Wagners has a tendency to spill more easily than at other bars. I think they have some hot-rod tap system, but a filthy rag is always nearby to clean up the mess. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lived one block away from this place for 3 years and only went there twice…take that for what its worth. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall rating: 2/5 </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>DEMSEYS PLACE</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9wgwqhu7uLns5VSGAqQdu95FBLSQxk_YC-WVZLHhBzQd7S6XYZmPnbwZZsedlA7Qis8WC_6qSLQo8XUXRDbYgMr3ruuVOJLb4J6_eV1t4543iTgPoK2otdUWq35bfr-cBixxj8mwew/s1600/demseys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9wgwqhu7uLns5VSGAqQdu95FBLSQxk_YC-WVZLHhBzQd7S6XYZmPnbwZZsedlA7Qis8WC_6qSLQo8XUXRDbYgMr3ruuVOJLb4J6_eV1t4543iTgPoK2otdUWq35bfr-cBixxj8mwew/s400/demseys.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We pulled up in front of the building. It seemed to be hastily evacuated sometime around Reagan’s first term.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Dude, I think they’re closed...t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here’s no lights on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My associate: No, that’s just how they roll, man</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: I think I just saw someone inside</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My associate: I think I just heard a gunshot </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>AJ’s BAYVIEW</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">331 Cascade Street</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpPS3al3Oknk93b4oaVFxEIKKrh0iXW0Sj2N62fPiovQmXNUFlaUIQHhoVngl7ipfnlI0NirlvqLaic3RyROGL9u-lz7AgRrIkQ3tunvsDxB3Sog_9iQ1y3ig_eesEsUrNx-s6L3UIQ/s1600/AJbayview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpPS3al3Oknk93b4oaVFxEIKKrh0iXW0Sj2N62fPiovQmXNUFlaUIQHhoVngl7ipfnlI0NirlvqLaic3RyROGL9u-lz7AgRrIkQ3tunvsDxB3Sog_9iQ1y3ig_eesEsUrNx-s6L3UIQ/s400/AJbayview.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This place was “the Bar of the Living Dead.” Unthreatening grunts and monotone moans could be heard throughout this drop-ceiling’ed establishment. There was an odd mixture of fluff chicks, cowboys and assorted dirtfucks in the bar. I contemplated throwing out my shoes after walking into AJ’s…it felt that dirty. But alas, this is my mission. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thumbs up on the song selections. but it was very apparent that the customers refuse to accept musical progression after 1979. There is life after the first Boston album. It’s called Dragonforce. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bottles of Pabst were $2, I got a free shot after Whitman whoo’ed the ghetto brat bartender but the best drink deal was also the most discussed. Two loose-toothed ladies got in a hair pulling match right behind us. The bartender “Sandy” let out a piercing shrill that forced the rumble outside to the street, with the majority of the night’s patrons in tow. After a less-than-sexy sparring session the feuding females came back in the bar and were each subsequently awarded with a free 40 oz. malt liquor to go. From there, the majority of the bar argued over the punching prizefighters and the true victor. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If the boys at the Bayview held a fart competition, the winner could have his pick of any chick in the bar. A wise man would disqualify himself. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 3/5 </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>THE GASLIGHT</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2306 State Street</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRjRy2TT2_6cFXMUoCoR_aTKKyYmJeMX85YyuIU-tms6M94zXFr-DaH0vUi7npXC36Ie0d-DNG-OtUahySb410FRrL6cr_cX5syj_GhTTmLw4b9fwrLwIQoU6F0IGqn2bmNTtDNWKXA/s1600/gaslight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRjRy2TT2_6cFXMUoCoR_aTKKyYmJeMX85YyuIU-tms6M94zXFr-DaH0vUi7npXC36Ie0d-DNG-OtUahySb410FRrL6cr_cX5syj_GhTTmLw4b9fwrLwIQoU6F0IGqn2bmNTtDNWKXA/s400/gaslight.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This mild yet forgettable hangout was a refreshing change on the bar tour. There was alot of stuff inside that was breakable and I didn’t see one single person wearing a tanktop. It </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">seems that every bar we go to has the same damn music vendor so unless I mention otherwise, most holes-in-the-wall have a steady selection of classic rock, power rock and basic metal. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first bottle of Yuengling was flatter than Winnie Cooper from “The Wonder Years” but the bartender was very pretty so I bit my lip. She didn’t bite me back. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Gaslight had an impressive selection of kippered jerky snacks. It was a little nicer than the other dives we have been to…a decent place to take a ditsy date. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 2/5 </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>LUIGI’S</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">727 West 18th Street</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uPSUdckLrc5pxRdOCaSjNFn0BAGtcJc5dRj8es4tqFxMHm5R6pTyWhMVg13tdPmRMZIBbMsGYevaJnLKkLOZGrf6P2wzrS2WaVpc5JFX3jqm9d2h3lyMrmgmjJGoWopyQs3S6AeyCw/s1600/luigis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uPSUdckLrc5pxRdOCaSjNFn0BAGtcJc5dRj8es4tqFxMHm5R6pTyWhMVg13tdPmRMZIBbMsGYevaJnLKkLOZGrf6P2wzrS2WaVpc5JFX3jqm9d2h3lyMrmgmjJGoWopyQs3S6AeyCw/s400/luigis.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jimmy had an older sister growing up. She was 3 years his senior and all the guys in the neighborhood wanted to fuck her. They would come over to Jimmy’s house after school and eat all his food and ransack his bedroom. Not a day went by when he wasn’t roughed up by his sisters friends as he walked the school halls and corridors. Jimmy couldn’t take the abuse any longer and dropped out in in 1952 and joined the Army. He was swiftly shipped off to Korea, hoping to gain some respect back home as a war hero. On his first mission, Jimmy got a bullet in his lower back, which is why he still walks with a limp. For the next 53 years, Jimmy led a life of bitchery. He took a lot of joshing from those around him. On his 69th birthday, he spend his life’s savings by purchasing a bar on 18th & Liberty. Still, Jimmy gets shat on by every being that walks into that place. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At 9 p.m. this place was rowdier than a sports bar in Philly the night Rocky Balboa defeated Apollo Creed for the Heavyweight Championship of the World. And P</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">abst drafts for a buck…hell yeah! Ol’ Jimmy slings them suds like a turtle crossing an 8 lane highway, but that Milwaukee brewed beer is worth the wait. Most of the regular patrons have figured out that if you scream at the top of your lungs super freekin’ loud and bang your fists on the bar, Jimmy will eventually give you a refill. One guy was reminiscent of a caged gorilla in dire need of a tranquilizer. Good thing his prostitute girlfriend kept him in check or this thirsty tank-of-a-man would have went “Kong” on the joint. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a rather ballsy move, Jimmy recently posed a sign saying “NEW BAR POLICY: TIPS ARE NOW ALLOWED” but seemed disoriented when an errant dollar lay on the bar. Six packs of Steel Reserve High Gravity Lager are only $3.50, but it’s not the kind of place that you’d want to take a chick…unless you need to borrow Jimmy’s car. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 4/5 (keep rocking Jimmy!) </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>RENOS PLACE</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">18th & Walnut Street</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUeX2jfSC5Ezouj7I8-hgY4F263WVE67tAAY_x9jBonHFWv0pFZgU4_oXAUnAL1LoczDTTG2nQ7HfW9hhze-DEmXB2Wk2eABIuRFUEEW6bfqjS6uJU9nc2yQhaGbPEYRDu7v0DOtxyg/s1600/renos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUeX2jfSC5Ezouj7I8-hgY4F263WVE67tAAY_x9jBonHFWv0pFZgU4_oXAUnAL1LoczDTTG2nQ7HfW9hhze-DEmXB2Wk2eABIuRFUEEW6bfqjS6uJU9nc2yQhaGbPEYRDu7v0DOtxyg/s400/renos.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the filthier bars we have been to, Reno’s Place is a haven of deception, dust and dirtbags. I assume that if you smoke crack, you already know where this place. The jukebox blasted a</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ssorted rap, hip hop, and all other types of gangsta jives. I wasn’t familiar with any of the thug beats transcending thru the speakaz. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In regards to beverages, I was instructed to ignore the signs on the walls. The beer they advertise is not the beer they carry. When I ordered a Yuengling, the bartender stated, “Aww,,,no…the best we get is Labatt’s.” As </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sat down in a booth and was instantly entangled in a thickery of spider webs. Apparently this place doesn’t get a lot of traffic. </span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Overall Ranking: 1/5 </span></div></div></div></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-74201092265073362052010-04-24T23:39:00.002-04:002010-04-25T08:02:55.245-04:001992 Flashback - The Jamboree<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Joe Zasada was one of the coolest kids that I hung out with growing up. My opinion can be disputed by many of my contemporaries, but look at the facts. He wore a pouch of dead bird bones around his neck. He was the second kid in our grade to start smoking (Harris was the first.) He had sideburns and wore like 9 shirts at once. He brought chain wallets to Fairview, a fad that still flys today by some dorks. He was rowdy as hell and inspired a generation with his wildass rhetoric. He was the first kid I knew to have sex. If you sat next to him in class, the teacher would hate you by association. He was all about the outdoors and exploring stuff <em>(one time he & I walked to Springfield so he could show me a dead cat skeleton in a barn) </em>Current status aside, Joe was a good guy to have on your side and I consider myself lucky to have grown up with him. In May of 1992, the end of our freshman year of high school, Joe planned a campout in the woods across the street from his house. It was a decent patch of forest and fairly secluded. This outing was dubbed and will forever be referred to as “the Jamboree.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lineup for that historic journey was straight out of Young Guns. Accompanying Zasada on this outlandish outing was Belmont, Linsted, Turko and myself. Rounding out the gang was Tom Bean, Jim Borland and Mike Morrison. These three were always our friends, but I cite the Jamboree as the last time we really hung out with them as a group. I guess it was kind of a farewell. This was the age just before social rankings were realized, a standard of which I have never comprehended. This was early teenage innocence at it’s finest. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I rode with my mom to pick up Linsted then she dropped us off at Zasada’s house. Carrying our rations, we walked back thru the woods until we heard our comrades setting up camp deep in the bush. A fire pit was already being constructed and giant logs were being dusted off for makeshift benches. In a clearing, I set up my dome tent, unaware that I wouldn’t even use it that evening. The night before, a reconnaissance team, led by Colonel Tom Bean, broke into Mike Woods garage and stole a case of beer. Somehow our gang of 14 year olds also secured a bottle of Rebel Yell whiskey. While relaxing on a log, I peered to my right to see Linsted reach into the front pocket of his flannel shirt to reveal a box of little cigars. He offered me one. I had never smoked in my life, but surrounded by nature, a cozy fire and my best friends in the world, I was feeling kinda dangerous. I felt like an adult. I remember it tasting like dirt and it made me dizzy. It was still daylight as we sat around the fire and told stories. The flames were dying down so Belmont & Linsted grabbed the axe and set off into the greenery for more firewood. <em>(as I learned in Las Vegas in 2004, ALWAYS FOLLOW BELMONT WHENEVER HE GOES TO DO SOMETHING…read: when we followed the drunk homeless guy for 30 blocks into the desert!)</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We circled around the flame pit as the bottle of Rebel Yell was cracked open and passed around like Mononucleosis. I skipped on my turn, as this was the first time anyone there had ever drank before. It showed. Borland grabbed the bottle and trying to impress those around him (we were!) he took a massive swig. Massive. Within 20 minutes little Jimmy entered the blurry gates of inebriation for the first time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Off in the distance we heard some hootin’ and hollerin.’ While cutting down trees, Belmont and Linsted found a little bat. Instinctively, they nailed him to a tree in the jesus christ pose. The lil’ fucker was pissed. He was screeching and biting the air before ceasing to breathe. All of us by the campfire ran over to check out their discovery. As we marveled at the little fanged flyer, Borland ran up behind us, drunk as the day is long. We moved out of the way so he put his arms out to catch himself. He grabbed hold of the mighty oak for balance. Clutching the tree like a prom date, Jimmy gazed upon the black bat. He tilted his head like a curious puppy as he viewed the viral vampire. In a rather unexpected move, Jimmy opened his mouth, lunged forward and took a bite out of the bat. Instantly, Morrison and I tried to pry to lil’ guy from Jimmy’s mouth, our fingers cut up by Borland’s crooked teeth. Jimmy wrestled and resisted, finally swallowing the bat chunk. “Dude, Borland ate a bat!” It’s a story that will live forever in Fairview folklore…and I was there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time passed and the Jamboree was in full force. The bottle of Rebel Yell was virtually gone and everyone was having a hell of a time. I remember SOMEONE peeing in the booze bottle, hoping someone else would drink it. Just around dusk some of the ‘older kids’ showed up. Bob Jensen, Jawn Yochim, Jason Oros and Nicole McNeal somehow found out about our secluded soiree. I hated Bob & Jawn back then. They were both cocky as fuck and hung out with my brother which automatically made them gay. Oros acted like he was running shit and confiscated the Rebel Yell bottle as Jawn spit on Morrison’s face. Fuck those guys man!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By nightfall, our food rations of beef jerky, Coca-Cola and a bag of Gibbles Red Hot potato chips were entirely depleted. Making an executive decision, Zasada proclaimed, “To the Post!” We jaunted thru the woods and swamp land up past I-90 and over to the Hitchin’ Post restaurant <em>(solemnly remembered as the best damn eatery in Fairview history.)</em> We all were seated at a long table by the restrooms and were soon greeted by our server, Cheryl. She was a weathered looking waitress of about 25. She was attractive but her tragedy was blazingly apparent in hindsight. She was receptive and flirtatious to all at the table. I ordered my usual, french toast and 3 pancakes. I wish a stenographer would have recorded our conversation, for I can’t recall one topic of discussion, but I know that I never laughed so hard in my life, before of since. Man, I loved that place. After an excellent midnight meal, we scraped together what little money we had left and bought 3 cases of pop from the gas station next door. As we rambled back to home base, old man Platz released the hounds on us as we crossed thru his fields. We took off running like a brood of badgers, our legs fiercely navigating thru the freshly cropped soil. That was my first memory of adrenaline. Some of our pack got lost and when we arrived back at camp, we assumed the worst. A search party was immediately organized to find our deliquent crew. When they appeared from the woods minutes later, we all shouted & embraced and told the tale of what just transpired. It was intense as hell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back at camp, we again huddled around the fire and wove a tapestry of stories thicker than Doug Rozyle’s hair. Off in the distance we heard a rustling in the woods. We all jumped up at attention, grabbing the closest weapon of choice to combat the unseen enemy. The woods was quiet. I still remember that very moment of silence. Belmont seeped out a silent fart, but we all heard it. It may have been the last time I truly felt the element of fear. We all stood motionless and on edge, ready at any moment to either wage war or run like banshees <em>(hopefully the more valiant!)</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were all convinced that ‘something’ was our there. We outskirted the camp with a barbed wire perimeter about shin high (of which Zasada tripped over twice.) We set up a night watch schedule, 2 people at a time, one hour shifts. I was paired with Morrison and we were the second team to go. We sat back to back about 20 yards from the fire, deep in the foliage. We took turns holding the pellet gun and speculating what the menace could be. Morrison fell asleep very quickly. It was cold away from the fire. I could hear my friends laughing in the distance. I was too busy protecting their lives to have fun. I clutched the pistol in my hands and pretended to be Don Johnson on some routine drug bust on Miami Vice…only in the woods…in Fairview. About halfway thru my shift Belmont came over to the outpost and brought me a can of pop. At least someone appreciated my gallant efforts. We cracked open some Cokes and started our own little party…that’s what real friends are for.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once our shift was over, the gun was passed to Bean and Turko. I returned to the fire and a cornicoupia of chronicles. A few people were resting on the logs. Borland was finally sobering up and the fire as dying down. Zasada grabbed a can of gasoline and made the purely ace choice of dumping the entire contents onto the fire. That picture will forever be etched into my memory, as will that entire day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the sun came up in the morning, me, Belmont and Linsted were still awake, still bombarding each other with a tornado of tales. I packed up my tent, stepped over the barb wire tripline and walked the 3 miles home. I was tired, I was dirty. I wasn’t ready for the comprehension of what had just transpired. I just smelled like campfire and was concerned that my mom would be upset because my pants were caked with mud. Little did I know, I built character, friendships and survival skills that would feed me forever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I draw so many parallels in my life to the movies that I grew up watching. I never really appreciated the pure genius of “Stand By Me” until I was old enough to reminisce. Those of us who were there still talk about the Jamboree. We could never re-enact that in a million years. We wouldn’t want to. Sometimes those golden moments that you cherish forever are the ones that you initially take for granted. Everyone has their stories from childhood that help shape and define them. The years that followed were garnished with discussion of another backwoods outing, but I for one am glad that this memory will remain untainted and pure…just as we were.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-32988729524016136472010-04-24T23:35:00.000-04:002010-04-24T23:35:52.533-04:00Restaurant Review: The K-Mart K CafeIn case you’ve been living under some fat chick with three cats recently, I’ll have you know that K-Mart, that shitty dirt department store known for their blue-light specials, severe price gouging and exceptionally filthy floors, offers without a doubt, THE BEST early A.M. breakfast deal that you’re gonna find at a place that filed for bankruptcy four years ago. Now you might be saying to yourself, or to the bloody fetus lying next to you, “Dude, what the hell are you talking about? Is this another one of your fantasy fables like when you saw the skunk fish or when you drop-kicked that guy at the Old Country Buffet to get the last BBQ rib?”<br />
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Dude…all documented, all true. Me and my associate had to check this shit out for ourselves. The following report was conducted without the consent of K-Mart, the K-cafe, K-hop or it’s employees. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOtGaelux3-bcBbGo3loTDo0wHlsiVdJqFWiiOCh_xR9oa5bYJx2e1nLu0UaLPBa6lHwWddy8Ez_HJ4CkMQ3jfqBI7REXVecePtqhr86hdZShPKj-uQ8TT6FVkzAS617maSDPguIb-g/s1600/khop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOtGaelux3-bcBbGo3loTDo0wHlsiVdJqFWiiOCh_xR9oa5bYJx2e1nLu0UaLPBa6lHwWddy8Ez_HJ4CkMQ3jfqBI7REXVecePtqhr86hdZShPKj-uQ8TT6FVkzAS617maSDPguIb-g/s400/khop.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Ahhh…here we are! 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning. Have you ever seen the dirtfucks that go to K-Mart at this hour. We briefly met the morning manager, who had an agonizing resemblance to Robert Goulet. There ahead of us it stood. A blazing blue banner of breakfast. We’ve been looking forward to this for at least 10 hours and fruition was upon us. Talk is cheap and so are loose women, it was time to eat!<br />
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We entered the K-cafe and looked around. Quieter that zitty-chested teenager when he beats off at his parents house, not an employeee or patron was in sight. My Associate wanted a coffee so he went behind the counter and started rummaging around. Then, out of nowhere, a figure appeared, lengendary to the world of $1.99 breakfasts…was it…no way dude…maybe it…holy shit…it IS her…Pancake Patty!<br />
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The legend of Pancake Patty is one of tragedy and redemption. Born in 1925 (the same year Quaker Oats bought out Aunt Jemima) in Athens, Ohio, her older sister Gerdie taught her how to cook. She quickly became one of the most promising young short order cooks in the midwest. In 1970 while giving an outdoor culinary demonstation at Kent State University, Patty slipped on a serrated spoon and broke her left arm. Her sister Gertie was right by her side to dispatch immediate medical attention. Top doctors were flown in from other places, but the damage was too deep, she would never ladle another griddlecake again. <br />
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After the accident, Pancake Patty found herself on skid row. She became addicted to weird drugs and fucked random dudes all the time. In 1988 she finally got her shit together and secured a job at K-Mart. Still burning with the desire to make circular breakfasts, she applied for an opening as AM cook at the Erie, PA branch. The manager (that Robert Goulet guy we saw) was hesitant, but out of the kindness of his heart, he gave her a try and the rest is hotcake history. <br />
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Anyway, we gave Patty our order and before you could put on a pair of Rustler jeans, she brought out a short stack for each of us…oooh yeah!<br />
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</div>My Associate didn’t care about his high cholesterol or sagging waistline, all he could think about was the deliciousness. I was able to consume four less-than-fantastic flapjacks, each about the size of Roseanne Barr’s nipple. My Associate threw in his fork after three. It was a noble effort and a mediocre idea at best.<br />
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If Wheaties is the breakfast of champions, then when it comes to $1.99 all-you-can-eat pancakes, My Associate and I are the champions of breakfast. The best part about K-Mart’s $1.99 all-you-can-eat pancakes is the guarantee of a splitting fucking headache 5 minutes after you eat. We hear Target has a eatery as well! Hmmm…foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-56184833512394943022010-04-24T23:30:00.001-04:002010-04-24T23:36:51.011-04:00Restaurant Review: Applebees (worst food ever)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUINgFsJDP0DGIuyhHtbdlCIeN0i8tGGeScg6THXmVgXI4SsJFwtuJH29kmXzLhludBOZkbChxvxpPvqtDCyuZstgCPTTVbtAQdkC_yohPJ8oM1vUTlNAkZEjY5mhPLcCcJqLxxcgDfA/s1600/applebeesbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUINgFsJDP0DGIuyhHtbdlCIeN0i8tGGeScg6THXmVgXI4SsJFwtuJH29kmXzLhludBOZkbChxvxpPvqtDCyuZstgCPTTVbtAQdkC_yohPJ8oM1vUTlNAkZEjY5mhPLcCcJqLxxcgDfA/s400/applebeesbanner.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A while back, some disrespectful ditz gave me a gift card to freekin’ Applebees. I HATE APPLEBEES! Worst food ever. I would rather nibble on a gnome’s nutsack than dine on their putrid plate offerings. Crappy food served poorly. It’s like everything is served with a fresh glaze of warm pee atop of it. Hopefully, there comes a time in every adults life when they come to the clarity that one can either attain “good food” or “alot of food for not alot of money.” If someone has ever taken you on a date to Applebees, they obviously don’t like you at all. It’s like feeding chocolate to a canine. Diarrhea hath no fury like a corporate chain restaurant of ill repute. So one of my regulars and I cleared our schedules and decided on the “2009 Applebees Throw Up Challenge.” I kid you not. Simply stated, we force ourselves to consume crud, then whoever throws up first is the victor. This was one of worst ideas I’ve had in a while…this is gonna be cool!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I get one foot in the door and am whiplashed with pungent pheromones. The walkways are rampant with obese foodstampers and their unplanned children. Undisciplined youths grow up to be the kind of dirtbags that would dine at Applebees. Seems fitting. The entire restaurant smells like warm body odor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I perouse the menu. More pictures than words, for the daily diner of Applebees never finished high school. The entrees look about as inviting as napping in a gunnysack of broken glass, but this was our mission. I order some shitty Fire Pit Bacon Burger (greasily prepared in a frying pan) as my escort ordered the Three Cheese Chicken Penne. There, our fate had been determined, like that first puff of crack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our server, who’s last job was probably helping his mom with a yard sale, brought out our appetizer, boneless buffalo wings. Apparently the great Charles Darwin was chasing some native tail when this gelatinous falcon was conceived. Dude, it squeaked when I took a bite. This putrid nugget did NOT belong to any bird of flight. The temperature of the food was as sporadic as the target shooting of a cross-eyed sniper.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, our meals arrived later on. Damnit! The patty of my burger was extensively void of flavor, a clear indication that the beef had been flash frozen for an undetermined amount of time, probably during the filming of the pilot episode of Empty Nest, starring Richard Mulligan and his dog, Dreyfus. The bacon looked like snake circumcision. The french fries were essentially crispy salt sticks, lacking any starch or other spud-like symptoms. I wouldn’t feed this crap to a savage badger. Our meals were good. Not good as in flavor, good as in probability of death.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her Chicken Penne featured a colorful array of pink, microwaved chicken atop a bowl of overcooked, watery pasta. Apparently, Applebees doesn’t even TRY to to make their entees look appetizing. The consistency of the pasta sauce was similar to rat milk… and it smelled like a musty slipper.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alright, so the worst meal ever… I’m gonna haveta stop right here. That food was seriously so freekin’ disgusting that I am getting nauseated at the mere memory of this terrible tale. Bottom line, it was sick. I stood outside in front of a big window as dozens of retarded diners watched my vomital attempts. It baffles me that people eat here every day, on purpose. I feel sorry for them… and the rotten animal carcasses that get mutilated only to be served at a crappy restaurant like Applebees.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-421496001283867752010-04-24T23:22:00.000-04:002010-04-24T23:22:41.344-04:00Movie Review: The Last Run - starring Fred Savage<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I rented this movie with Fred Savage called The Last Run. I’ve been a fan of that curly haired little guy since I was in the sixth grade. From his groundbreaking work on The Wonder Years to his box office domination in movies like Little Monsters,The Wizard and Vice Versa, Savage is the uncrowned king of late 80’s coming-of-age teen drama. He carried an “everyman” quality that is extinct in all television programs of today. When he and Paul stole that sex manual from the bookstore, I shared in their thrill. When he borrowed his dad’s car to go see the Rolling Stones at Joe’s Bar, I too, was ready to rock. And when Becky Slater unleashed that supercilious suckerpunch, I felt that shit too, bro! I could spend a lifetime enumerating how his characters have influenced my life, but my loaf of bread will be done shortly, so brevity will prevail. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fred Savage will ALWAYS be Kevin Arnold. This is universally accepted law, at least in my world. His oeuvre will never surpass that monumental peak. He may be revealed as the bartender of the Jim Jones grape drink, steal a million dollars from the Special Olympics and finger-fuck Tipper Gore’s daughter, but he will always be that little boy in the NY Jets jacket from the suburbs. Perhaps my scotoma is skewed, but call me when you’re 30 and then we’ll talk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the movie is lame. Savage is an accountant and gets head on his birthday. Remember when his brother Wayne dated Juliette Lewis? Yeah! Something about that chick. She’s really not even that pretty, but hot as freekin’ hell. Trashy… I like trashy women. The kind of chick that puts her finger in her butt and raises one eyebrow as she glares at you from across your Cloud City bedroom, while smoking. Ahh…Balls Deep in Bespin Bitches! Anyway, your boy does stuff in the movie and in the end, other stuff happens. He develops a mysogynistic mindset and drinks a lot. I will spare you from the morose minutia, cause I’ve come to the conclusion that people never listen to me anyway. The only good thing about the flick are the cameos, which again, are like a high school reunion of sorts:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlWfL2FJ79ftYBeZuq6WDjV7zYUSOp6K04xnykc76RE8A3_LufFQUq71Pc5v_PGCLu3-QM63H3pa_J4a05g_DEEWLXA1LfjgkJVH9mOdDM2xMkdGbZbKILi9l2L-Hvo3uDgERYqr1FA/s1600/last+run2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlWfL2FJ79ftYBeZuq6WDjV7zYUSOp6K04xnykc76RE8A3_LufFQUq71Pc5v_PGCLu3-QM63H3pa_J4a05g_DEEWLXA1LfjgkJVH9mOdDM2xMkdGbZbKILi9l2L-Hvo3uDgERYqr1FA/s400/last+run2.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Robert Romanus</strong> – Kevin’s boss, the head of the accounting department, was played by none other than Robert Romanus, who you might remember as the coolest dude ever in cinematic history. That’s right, DAMONE returns. Now this flick was released 20+ years after Fast Times at Ridgemont High, but he still looks great! Cool, smooth and surprisingly fashionable. By way of the big screen, the Damone character taught me everything I know about women. (1.) Play it cool (2.) Keep your socks on (3.) What’s a condom? (4) There’s no such thing as coming too soon. He exuded awesome. And listened to great music. Thanks for stopping by, Mike! You PRICK! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Estaban Powell</strong> – You might remember this little guy from the last day of 8th grade. Yeah, Carl was a little shit back then, but Dazed & Confused was set in 1976. Plus, if your mom ever pulled a shotgun on O’Bannon, you’d fly under the radar for a while too! In this movie, he was hanging out in a diner or something…looking rather frazzled… probably drank one too many trunk beers. Wonder how the baseball team did last season? Carl was cool ’cause he made out with that one chick at the school dance. He kinda reminds me of myself at that age. Andrea, if your reading this….uhh….what’s up?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much like the oversized breasts on a mediocre dame, the best part of the movie is also the worst. I’m just gonna come right out and say it… they show Kevin Arnold sucking on a boob.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I shit you not. He totally mouths this chick’s titty like he knows what’s up. He’s not acting. Dude is a natural nipple nibbler. I suppose justification is in order. After years of being teased and finally weaned off the sultry-but-slender teat of Gwendolyn Cooper, ol’ Kevbo is finally ready to get his mitts on dos rack. There are a few sex scenes, which were overly graphic for my liking. I really don’t wanna see Kevin Arnold go dick deep in some vag. It would be like swinging thru the drive-thru for a double bacon Whopper on your way to Louie Anderson’s funeral. Plus, you’ll probably be late for said burial, cause the green Nissan Sentra ahead of you is ordering way too much shit. For real, Savage bangs some pretty precocious princesses. It was NOT easy to watch! I haven’t been this thrown off since the time I tried to mount that mare.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This movie was horrible, but it was nice to see what F. Savage was up to. It was somber to see him relegated to crap cinema, but ever since his dad quit Norcom to start his own furniture store, money has been tight around the Arnold household.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-9608495964394712752010-04-24T23:17:00.002-04:002010-09-27T19:22:52.060-04:00Movie Review: COCKTAIL - starring Tom Cruise<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have you ever actually seen the movie “Cocktail?” Yeah yeah… Tom Cruise… Yeah yeah… tropical island… Yeah yeah… Beach Boys… But for real, I had never seen this film from start to finish. So I willingly sat down yesterday and watched the 1988 Tom Cruise flick, in it’s entirety. As a wretched heathen of 1980′s filmography, I felt it my devilish duty to absorb this here action. I colorfully recant the television commercials, I own the soundtrack, I have seen VHS copies in the bargain bin many times. I thought I knew what it was about. Here is a quick assumption of what I imagined to transpire in the movie. </span><br />
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</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>A young kid’s parents get murdered by gangsters. In order to avenge their death, he gets a job at a bar. At first, he is overwhelmed by the pressure of the position, but after a while, develops an uncanny knack for slingin’ swill. He moves to the Bahamas, while the relaxing rhythm of the Beach Boys “Kokomo” is played as he gets off the plane. Dude buys a bunch of loud shirts and opens his own bar. He hooks up with an intimate islander, to which a romantic love scene is backdropped by “Kokomo” once again. The business is doing well, then a montage is put together (once again to Kokomo) and the movie culminates with a live performance of the Beach Boys. Credit roll. F@#k yeah… good movie!</em></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much like the time I tried to touch that girl’s taint, (sorry Ash!) I was completely off base. The movie is based in freekin’ NYC, and NOT a balmy paradise as I assumed. Cruise is an army brat who tries to break onto Wall Street but instead lands a job as a bartender in the evenings while attending business school. There he is mentored by some wise British dude who teaches him how to slings drinks and juggle bottles of liquor ‘n shit. Super gay. Cruise then proceeds to recite some shitty poetry, briefly relocates to Jamaica and bangs a bunch of chicks. The movie tries to glamorize a subculture that most people wouldn’t shake a crying infant at. ”Cocktail” is to girlie drinks what THE WIZARD (starring Fred Savage) was to Nintendo. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The erection-summoning Elizabeth Shue plays his female love interest. Total sex hair. Man, her life had really taken a plunge since her on-screen romance with Daniel LaRusso in Karate Kid. Meh… she also used to bang Johnny Lawrence, that leg-sweeping, leather-clad loverboy who by all intensive purposes, WAS the quintessential 80′s movies badass. (Seriously… Just One of the Guys, KK, Back to School… what’s up?) But in this film, she’s spreading her sexy spermslit for a shit-tooth Scientologist like Cruise? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you recall the music video for Kokomo, the highest charting hit ever for the Beach Boys, was totally awesome. It prominently featured Carl Wilson, Mike Love, Al Jardine and Bruce Johnston, as well as puffy-haired percussionist and “Full House” alum John Stamos on bongos. Although I’m still kinda pist they didn’t ask Brian Wilson to be on the track, it’s a smooth freekin’ jam and it’s hook is catchier than the genital warts of an unemployed crack-smoker.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The movie ends with the mentor committing suicide and Shue’s character frantically claiming pregnancy. Rightfully so, Cruise questions if her chubbied chach was his doing. I think if they ever make a sequel to “Cocktail” Tom Cruise should be sodomized with a splintery broom handle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bottom line, watch this moving musical picture of ”Kokomo” for it’s WAY better than the actual movie.</span><br />
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<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/9_5_AD9wXuY/hqdefault.jpg)" height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9_5_AD9wXuY?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9_5_AD9wXuY?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-47642494586105736612010-04-24T23:10:00.001-04:002010-04-24T23:28:04.084-04:00The Evolution of White Trash Style<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglc4A1U8OlnKHfdgXMjHjbwZGxuN2ijmVZdu35iiKD8xoUrv8rYhTyUQWttI83PgK-_cL8buUGM6F7GvMlP2OHBzi6LfolDIgfo5NHtMD_VBQFFOCZiKMaINfcvg0PdJrgTJUPQAtuqA/s1600/taz.jpg"></a><br />
<div><span style="font-family: arial;">Like the old saying goes, “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover” but if the cover depicts some fleshy oily beau-hunk hero with a cowardly mane and suspenders and he’s fighting some raging inferno and there’s some foxy chick on the 13th floor of the burning building with her juggs hanging out, then it’s pretty safe to make an assumption of the novel’s storyline.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">With that being said, it has always been apparent to me the visual showcase that America’s white trash prominently display. I remember as a young child riding in my parents Ford LTD. Being the youngest of three children, I always had to travel in the middle of the bench seat, or “bitch” as Dropcho dubbed it in 1993. Although sandwiched between two bickering siblings, I did have a fairly decent view out the front windshield due to my lil’ booster seat. When I wasn’t singing along with the radio or getting burned by the super hot pleather car seats of summertime, I would look at the surrounding cars and take notice of bumper stickers, window signs and mud flaps. But whenever Yosemite Sam, that handsome, red mustached roughian and a card carrying member of the Looney Toons, showed his fuzzy face, I seemed to notice a pattern every time I saw him. </span><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: arial;">He was always adorning mudflaps of really shitty American made trucks. His unspoken message was direct and to the point. He may seem tame by todays standards, but when I would see that varmint with his dueling revolvers and bushy eyebrows, glaring at me like I just semented his first born daughter, I would shyly avert my attention elsewhere. Occasionally, those mean-ass mudflaps would warrant a “cafeful dad” if I felt that my father was driving too close to the truck ahead of us. This was my first memory of white trash symbolism, or even iconic representation if you will. Luckily I was attentive enough to follow the progression thru my days.</span><br />
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<div><span style="font-family: arial;">When Taz burst onto the scene is 1992, he literally jumbled the white trash world like the whirlwind that he is. Where Yosemite Sam was merely an auto detail, Taz had worldwide appeal. The Tasmanian native was known for his destructive antics and ferocious appetite, to which your average Joe Nascar and Bobby Bootlick could relate to. T-shirts, keychains, collectable toys, feature length cartoons, cookies and toilet seats were just a few of the crappy products that this drooling dickhead endorsed.</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzCSzx37VUhIT7KZ5B_F7dfR-rJzmQZnPX_CCAqWAyS92X0ARgCoxi6GfrqHgC8nf17Y-s9HX-KEPZUZjgDmtjCVKNTC9pENRNF0NQL8yQ5tp_TCsL843Wvjfbs8619RGCwhCe5Kf1g/s1600/stonecold1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzCSzx37VUhIT7KZ5B_F7dfR-rJzmQZnPX_CCAqWAyS92X0ARgCoxi6GfrqHgC8nf17Y-s9HX-KEPZUZjgDmtjCVKNTC9pENRNF0NQL8yQ5tp_TCsL843Wvjfbs8619RGCwhCe5Kf1g/s320/stonecold1.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Taz seemed poised to take the imbred, racist, deadbeat fucks of our country into the new millennium but was humbly overthown in late 1997 by WWF wrestling champion Stone Cold Steve Austin. This cursing, asswhupping, beer-chugging, bald badass again played the relative redneck card to familarity and popularity. Millions of dudes across the country shaved their heads and beat the fuck out of their wives and it seemed that Americana was being reinvented. Due to a chronic neck injury, Stone Cold recently retired as an active wrestler and thus, a new symbol of white trash was needed. </span></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScGRWWYmkaJUYdJcWpt8JEfgTP8Urn6nApdx4NoVG0u78dFgt7Tf2XyL6H3frOc46-e9huaDyzPqdrEl6rok6I4O05hyphenhyphenvxMWzrMFUmDu6wFpMwX0M4arK9l4Ukr13vvDp07mioN9dog/s1600/wcc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScGRWWYmkaJUYdJcWpt8JEfgTP8Urn6nApdx4NoVG0u78dFgt7Tf2XyL6H3frOc46-e9huaDyzPqdrEl6rok6I4O05hyphenhyphenvxMWzrMFUmDu6wFpMwX0M4arK9l4Ukr13vvDp07mioN9dog/s320/wcc.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Enter West Coast Choppers, once a small custom motorcycle fabrication outlet based in Long Beach, CA but after a documentary on the Discovery Channel, the brand quickly bloomed to encompass a hit television show, mix CD’s and a line of clothing produced in China and carried at Wal-Mart. Now every dirtbag gearhead in America swears by the West Coast Chopper name and as soon as they find a way around child support payments, they’re gonna get themselves one of them bikes.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m sure this vicious white trash cycle <em>(no pun ntended)</em> style will continue to spread, must like the legs of the whorish cunts in Imperial Point trailer park…and you bet that I’m gonna be there!</span></div></div></div></div></div></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-16377448332691282812010-04-24T22:48:00.000-04:002010-04-24T22:51:57.733-04:00The NEW Worst Sound EVER!<p><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For years, it has been common knowledge that the worst sound ever is “the girl noise.” You know what I’m talking about. That sonic, unsexy shrill that 2 or more girls make when they get excited over the most trivial of shit. <em>(like when 3 round-hipped heathens are sitting around eating Dove Bars and their friend “Cathy” shows up unexpectedly to announce that she’s pregnant AGAIN, this time by Seth.)</em></span></p><span style="font-family:arial;"><p><br />I would rather hear an entire tray full of LJS planks dropped on the floor than THAT freeking sound. Well, I think I personally have a new, far more despised decibel decimator…<br />I work with many overweight women…literally TONS. Women who are so obese that their ankles are purple from the pure weight that they must support. They are large, they are mean and they are hungry.</p><p>I hear this sound everyday…it’s really the kind of thing that unless you’re tuned into it, you really don’t notice, kind of the tambourine player in Eddie Money’s live band. But now that I’ve zoned into this frequency, it tears me up worse than some tone deaf drunk trying to sing along with Heart on the jukebox.</p><p>The worst sound in the worst is simply a spoon scraping the bottle of a yogurt cup. UHHH!!! It’s terrible. These fat bitches can’t let it go. Do they really think that one more tiny eyedrop of yogurt is gonna fill them up? Is completion of absolute devourism necessary to move on? Does the fruit & enzyme snack taste that freekin’ good??? WHAT THE PISS!!!!</p><p>I hear this no less than 20 times a day. Some cat-hair covered cunt-rag <em>(who was seriously eating pork chops at her desk at 8:38 am this morning)</em> downed 4 Yoplaits by 11:30 today, ALL the while bragging that each cup is only 110 calories. FAAACCKKK!!! I think it’s something to do with the plastic cups that the yogurt comes in, because those Hunts Pudding Snack Packs don’t resonate nearly as bad as yogurt cups.</p><p>I plan on mailing a bomb to the Dannon factory later this week. Their Consumer Response Center is in Allentown, so maybe it’ll get there soon so I can have a scrape-free Monday next week…</span></p>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-71988611632979919862010-04-24T22:44:00.000-04:002010-04-24T22:48:45.826-04:00Out of Step, with the World<span style="font-family:arial;">So I woke up this morning (Saturday) around 8:30 am…I watched License to Drive, then utilized my own by cruising down State Street listening to Dag Nasty ‘Can I Say.’ En route to nowhere in particular, I stopped on Dobbin’s Landing to hang out along the water. Sitting by the bay relaxing, I was distracted by three teenage kids in mommy’s Subaru honking at me. These youths were no older than 16 and had black shirts, dog collars and spikey hair <em>(I think one kid have a winter hat on.</em>) Curiously, I turned to examine these youngsters who, at first glance, could be considered “Punk Rockers.” As I viewed these rebellious roughriders, I was greeting with lanky middle finger out the car window as they drove away.</span>
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<br />Am I that much of a square? Am I not punk enough to hang with these pristine pimply buttocked teens? Were these kids dead on, or were they just uncultured human zombies with empty eyes and cable television? I have been up listening to punk rock for over 18 years and will forver live by the beliefs of individuality, self expression and D.I.Y. I have seen a wide majority of the finest bands the genre has to offer, from Social Distortion to the Descendents to Chaos U.K. I’ve played in punk bands and have made lifelong friends with people I have met at punk shows. When I first heard punk rock, it was loud and fast and the guys were ugly and my mom hated it and they didn’t play it on the radio and that was cool. I look at the modern face of this music now and none of these attributes apply.
<br />
<br />It has always bothered me that punk rock is the only music where fans compete amongst each other for supremacy. I mean, have you ever heard two dudes bickering “Naw man, I’m way more hippie than you are dude!”But within the rebellion realm, it has morphed into “Who’s the most punk.” I recently read an article in Alternative Press, (at one time a GREAT underground music magazine, now a shitrag which takes it cues from MTV) and they were interviewing some twirp ‘punk rocker kid’ about the differences between real punks and posers. Apparently there are rules to follow in order to be a ‘real punker.’ I always thought the whole punk rock aesthetic was about going AGAINST the system?</span>
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<br />Actually, I guess I could be construed as “selling out.” I went and got an education, I cut my hair <em>(which has since grown back)</em> and I have a real job. But when 4:30 pm on Friday rolls around I kick open the door, peel off my shirt and sing along with Black Flag on my way home from work. It’s all about balance. It’s all about doing what you want.
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<br />Maybe I just wasn’t punk enough to be accepted into those kids’ ‘punk pit.’ I guess I never received the 2005 edition of the “How to be a Punk” …or maybe…or maybe I’m still writing the book…</span>
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<br />foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-77913099315109492992010-04-24T22:41:00.003-04:002010-09-27T19:25:07.977-04:00Jocks in the Workplace<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">Autumn is cool. Not just in the literal sense, but the changing season produces a brisk-yet-comfortable atmosphere which would be damn good weather to take a dog for a walk. I enjoy driving over the railroad tracks and seeing a patchload of smashed pumpkins, I like packing a freshly picked apple in my lunch everyday and I’m all about stopping at Mason Farms for a jug o’ cider on a Saturday afternoon. This is THE time of year…But much like the nine pieces of Sabo’s pizza that I had for lunch today, SOMETHING is unsettling me…My newest pet peeve <em>(not to take anything away from people clipping their fingernails in public)</em> is Fantasy Football. FAACKKK!!!</span><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: arial;">I admit, when I was a youngling, I used to enjoy watching football with my dad. It was never a life-or-death, edge-of-your-seat event, it was taken at face value for what it was was, entertainment. There was never the urge to yell and belittle the television with cries of “ohhh…come on!!!” and “what are we paying you for?” I never questioned “coach’s” decision or talked shit on the referee. And never have I ever referred to my favorite team as “we.” <em>(i.e. “We should have went for it on 4th down during the Brockway game”)</em> Anyone who spews these phrases obviously have the scent of schlong on their breath, but 21st Century toolboxes have rammed it into a new level. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Fantasy Football is gayer than Freddy Mercury’s boner. From what I gather from my sophmoronic co-workers, Fantasy Football is when individual players on professional teams get points for whatever the fuck they do, and if that prick is on your “Fantasy” team, then you win?</span><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I honestly don’t care, but tracking and recording every move, nudge and notion of every player totally sucks the fun out of the whole experience. When I watch the Outsiders on DVD, I’m not curious about how much money Rob Lowe got paid for his role or the clause that Patrick Swayze had in his contact in the 80′s that in every movie he was in, he had to have at least one scene where he was sans shirt.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I suppose everyone has different hobbies, interests and ways to relax, but dude, shut the piss up, stop drinking your lite beer and wash your freekin’ hands after you take a piss!<br />
*it’s a fact, jocks don’t cleanse their hands post-urination.</span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcEc0pWG3l4MIyZApFlzZU1paRmIz3nLdzy2inuuZ1KwLxgmiaBSxHgPE0xEMI4Eo-WguhqF9jpBGv4BFVVyegiWOLp17Xm9KZcBPpp2PzQf2RrWF4mu49h0RByAryVJSGRVreVuvgw/s1600/sports.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcEc0pWG3l4MIyZApFlzZU1paRmIz3nLdzy2inuuZ1KwLxgmiaBSxHgPE0xEMI4Eo-WguhqF9jpBGv4BFVVyegiWOLp17Xm9KZcBPpp2PzQf2RrWF4mu49h0RByAryVJSGRVreVuvgw/s320/sports.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-71079073024266869442010-04-24T22:33:00.000-04:002010-04-24T22:41:08.509-04:00Modern America Culture Must Be Destroyed<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><em>“When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, askhim to stop, If he does not stop, destroy him” -Anton Szandor LaVey</em></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><p>Tuesday morning, 11:39 am. I was working quite assiduously within the confines of my 8′ x 8′ cubicle, my Yoda statuette gazed upon me from atop my computer tower as my picture of Nick Nolte hung from my wall, lighting my path for work eternal. I had just reloaded my stapler with a fresh hundred and was en route to the drinking fountain to fluid up. </p><br /><p>As I mazed thru the aisles, I could mildly hear different songs being pumped out of personal radios and stereos. Around the first turn, I could vaguely make out “Heart & Soul” by Huey Lewis which unintentionally bleed into a shitty Michael Bolton ballad as I trekked on. Nearing the H2O dispenser, I was even greeted by some Billy Idol, to which I pointed at the desk jockey and uttered a felicitous “Nice!” </p><br /><p>Absorbing the stray water droplets with my sleeve, I began to walk back to my desk. As I turned a corner, I was met by an immovable roadblock, a 450 pound heathen tenderly referred to as “Big Cindy.” Wide as the mobile home she was born in and thicker than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows, Big Cindy’s sheer mass and glacier-like movements detoured my path to another aisle. </p><br /><p>As I returned to my cube, a cruel and unfeeling sound caught my ear. It beckoned my aggression like a 30 point buck on the first day of deer season. There was no musical force being projected, just the revolting, pierced-nipples-scraping-a-chalkboard sound of southern drawl chatter and canned laughter. Distracted from my work, I tried to ignore the broadcast. With each passing second, the volume seemed to increase at a feverish pace. My once docile temper was now starting to blaze, like an inserted tampon dipped in Tabasco. </p><br /><p>As time elapsed, the audio became more vivid. I could distinguish words, phrases and again, the atrocious sound of a laugh track. I looked down at my hands. My fingers started to curl, nails angled toward my palm as if I was clutching an invisible hush puppy. My chin stiffened and my lips formed a sneer that would make Charles Bronson move out of my path. My eyebrows angled downward, mimicking a pair of devilish arms stirring a kettle of witches brew. I couldn’t tolerate it any more…<br />I stood up, at full attention, ready to go to war. I can respect and admire those who fight for a worthy cause that they wholeheartedly believe in. Thru the course of history, many men have died in the line of duty, ensuring freedom and independence for their fellow man. I was ready to do the same, torid the office of this ghastly noise. Then I remembered this past Saturday night and the delicious Mad Anthony’s Ale that I consumed. I recalled the deathless quote of General Anthony Wayne, “I’ll storm hell if you only plan it.” These were enlightening words from the wise warlord. I should contrive a course of action, to forge a fool-proof assault to rid and waste this audio annoyance.<br />The duty was carried out with the professionalism and military precision of a sideburned Eisenhower. Undetected and unseen by the opposition, like a “kick me” sign on a sixth-graders back, the mission was deemed a complete success. </p><br /><p>Later on in the afternoon, after returning to my homebase, I properly and inhumanely disposed of the enemy. The feeling was euphoric. Too intense for bliss…too passionate to be merely gratified. No longer would I be belittled by these barking backwooded buttfucks. This was it. The commodore of the Bearded Infantry had sounded defeated General Cleanface in the battle of Widows Peak. I knew that with my actions, I indirectly assured that the south would never rise again. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SgMYYB4DVqnm6FFSym3uDxxDYY0TptQfiExvyufVkRPwKsqm0W7TjlY0mW4sr1PYnow-N193MYG_HsmH0khXMaUMOyop30SOZ7LqQdLXbJEUYFo3rPXxo60eF49ftzTyAG3ROE-IWg/s1600/shattercd.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463898767379928162" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 232px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SgMYYB4DVqnm6FFSym3uDxxDYY0TptQfiExvyufVkRPwKsqm0W7TjlY0mW4sr1PYnow-N193MYG_HsmH0khXMaUMOyop30SOZ7LqQdLXbJEUYFo3rPXxo60eF49ftzTyAG3ROE-IWg/s400/shattercd.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p></span></p><br /><br /><div></div>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2995079573819005257.post-40968888719525971572007-10-13T11:22:00.000-04:002007-10-13T19:52:45.205-04:00Self PromoterAfter months of exhaustive research, this is what I have gathered. There is this clown who lives in Erie, let's call him the Self Promoter, and he was married to that girl with all that shit on car. As far as ignorance and naivety go, they were a happy couple.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylvBiig5XADMGIa4ZOLQyL5ECgs6lCNvCS0ySbyQpVtJ6VOpXdL80cCrWRsb5vykAlrpRYSSX71y_rAJH7aa310YXzbiaIvsUNeYKPDiIyYiDc5yrmVxAVCNRpyMCdTDT6uXfACRwcA/s1600-h/clb3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120848590901469570" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylvBiig5XADMGIa4ZOLQyL5ECgs6lCNvCS0ySbyQpVtJ6VOpXdL80cCrWRsb5vykAlrpRYSSX71y_rAJH7aa310YXzbiaIvsUNeYKPDiIyYiDc5yrmVxAVCNRpyMCdTDT6uXfACRwcA/s400/clb3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This is him, the Self Promoter. Modern day warrior, full time <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">imbecile</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLC0FCfa-007i5uT1BpPc36V3fNSxAct43z7zpsOIE8x3xByQvi7urzhLXHKieNNpRhbFAVUNTVjE8K46I4ZC1vc_az6AO3I42xFly8RbPueA50csiC7S-CtWutLR8IAnWP582B-sqNA/s1600-h/bilde.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846533612134594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLC0FCfa-007i5uT1BpPc36V3fNSxAct43z7zpsOIE8x3xByQvi7urzhLXHKieNNpRhbFAVUNTVjE8K46I4ZC1vc_az6AO3I42xFly8RbPueA50csiC7S-CtWutLR8IAnWP582B-sqNA/s400/bilde.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And the female in question. She married the Self Promoter. Her parents obviously didn't care about anything. They were probably religious...<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaD0fp_s0JYBmKeVe5rdNkA-5huxND850bcvZ8LNyjsqZi56IXpCHhNPB8tNsovq4OMpa86Fi0zE1PNWLLKmOtt6S5tFphrwNghRvfHFGCaGmI5xFlbRJqB0Bnimfh4RrwZ5TE5BJKQ/s1600-h/6767.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846525022199970" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaD0fp_s0JYBmKeVe5rdNkA-5huxND850bcvZ8LNyjsqZi56IXpCHhNPB8tNsovq4OMpa86Fi0zE1PNWLLKmOtt6S5tFphrwNghRvfHFGCaGmI5xFlbRJqB0Bnimfh4RrwZ5TE5BJKQ/s400/6767.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />So this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bizzo</span></span> drove around in that purple Escort with all the crap on it. The flashy vehicle was rumored to be the brainchild of her husband, the Self Promoter. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Unbeknown</span> to both of them, a dark figure was lurking in the shadows, watching them both. This midnight maniac had developed a penchant for Self Promoter's wife, and would stop at nothing to secure her trashy loinage. This mysterious man's name, as you already know, was <strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Scotty</span></span> Colt</strong>!<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlU1veB4GWQvWkPWRbcIouWTo_ioizLfH58CQZhUIqsZIIvdvgOjg4TGwCkG7jA5BTkQnNvcRwkOK6LCf-NdAkJKvibWJ8L3OKHTfxUfrz9dWLU4kEZiJ9-moiwNaxyXXW86-yyNihJg/s1600-h/colt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120851421284917650" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlU1veB4GWQvWkPWRbcIouWTo_ioizLfH58CQZhUIqsZIIvdvgOjg4TGwCkG7jA5BTkQnNvcRwkOK6LCf-NdAkJKvibWJ8L3OKHTfxUfrz9dWLU4kEZiJ9-moiwNaxyXXW86-yyNihJg/s400/colt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Scotty</span></span> Colt was an ill-described "old Goth dude" with an insatiable appetite for all things sex. It didn't take long for this perverted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">purebreed</span></span> to wrestle the woman away from the Self Promoter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aa7EVMW-_YKvgpe7aAIDTsuWj39sduC0Fz8GvwsiQeasoH6BnRwMKXq11D7IQLejBmcyCnI-IaPLs6AVhuocgT-Y96lgXbC_LbhCVsEDeTAqYLbHgJEpV-8xKzCi7ZaPTCGvcpljcw/s1600-h/corel034.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120853229466149298" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aa7EVMW-_YKvgpe7aAIDTsuWj39sduC0Fz8GvwsiQeasoH6BnRwMKXq11D7IQLejBmcyCnI-IaPLs6AVhuocgT-Y96lgXbC_LbhCVsEDeTAqYLbHgJEpV-8xKzCi7ZaPTCGvcpljcw/s400/corel034.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Scotty</span></span> Colt took things one step further. After humiliating the Self Promoter, he embarked on a smear campaign against the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lispy</span></span> Canadian faggot and issued many comical images to anyone with a computer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9TjzpIdwBZZWQ8h_FBy99rnsJGrZdG3ld311xFCYGnIT1G6nciaeD_Sn2T1UONYP_RWEn1wWn7a_WO0aS2vlR7bhkV68yCTQTxQttV5y4xy6AUUhwxa0zcL-72w9BQuXcnArVNZncw/s1600-h/cumface.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120847190742131010" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9TjzpIdwBZZWQ8h_FBy99rnsJGrZdG3ld311xFCYGnIT1G6nciaeD_Sn2T1UONYP_RWEn1wWn7a_WO0aS2vlR7bhkV68yCTQTxQttV5y4xy6AUUhwxa0zcL-72w9BQuXcnArVNZncw/s400/cumface.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM1WAyGcWTh9CGBc8d0J05I2O5Z4ztpmlt-1NZ26PESWg356XleKUNGLGtGMZpfe_XND5qfH3za2qunTi5Q6Q_LI5eO4gEX7-CUXNYEcXuc8dwEuJomckBknQ8En5gha8IvKmcfw0mQ/s1600-h/self+promoter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120847195037098338" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM1WAyGcWTh9CGBc8d0J05I2O5Z4ztpmlt-1NZ26PESWg356XleKUNGLGtGMZpfe_XND5qfH3za2qunTi5Q6Q_LI5eO4gEX7-CUXNYEcXuc8dwEuJomckBknQ8En5gha8IvKmcfw0mQ/s400/self+promoter.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc7XbyVcBmZbJaRReC6LMnYbEDp2eD26JYn460yNK8py-D8MZTSXnMFGXh5t2dGCISFQ3CXyBgEQxEQQhumEy0HemOwk3YDrr_OdUCY0icoBxdoBcnS5TL11HxCHS1mLIO4__mqTJ5w/s1600-h/corel032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846855734681858" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc7XbyVcBmZbJaRReC6LMnYbEDp2eD26JYn460yNK8py-D8MZTSXnMFGXh5t2dGCISFQ3CXyBgEQxEQQhumEy0HemOwk3YDrr_OdUCY0icoBxdoBcnS5TL11HxCHS1mLIO4__mqTJ5w/s400/corel032.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-rP3YBIM_ND5OGrhaTmqofIZ8Kj733oa8OYhnWDbkfibiOqOqHFoPq6IGFY3YEQy0ZZCXBkbbyrF1s58u8C9iPs6EjGkEsBL0VEs1gNk7niGqw0Utqij4gigJuy7FcIP0gwDZMpiIg/s1600-h/corel031.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846847144747250" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-rP3YBIM_ND5OGrhaTmqofIZ8Kj733oa8OYhnWDbkfibiOqOqHFoPq6IGFY3YEQy0ZZCXBkbbyrF1s58u8C9iPs6EjGkEsBL0VEs1gNk7niGqw0Utqij4gigJuy7FcIP0gwDZMpiIg/s400/corel031.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">photoshop</span></span> work by: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Scotty</span></span> Colt</span><br />But there was a public outcry to these humiliation tactics directed toward the Self Promoter. Dozens of school-aged boys expressed their dislike for the prince of darkness.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbb3rfewY5yM2K3QWEVKbvayZkNeG3qE8rAGc4-XTwQm404I_IusJWIRzCZXNnmnrBlcgvLTYOZIumuM3YrVKKFtJdDy7C92Z4z_RcKQsDXpTpnN8ohLUAJ4Ba62sjVDpRB4x6QsBzw/s1600-h/corel030.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846537907101922" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbb3rfewY5yM2K3QWEVKbvayZkNeG3qE8rAGc4-XTwQm404I_IusJWIRzCZXNnmnrBlcgvLTYOZIumuM3YrVKKFtJdDy7C92Z4z_RcKQsDXpTpnN8ohLUAJ4Ba62sjVDpRB4x6QsBzw/s400/corel030.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZZD021Fs3epTdnx7BnXhmxJuYz-dA86tGYgSENelLTvtPgFQo_wK_uNbUTselDwkcJpvUSOo_qb6fVfiTP7idIVspRY3nUl8ZLBDlPbvyPHlh-COkYBmxTj1TTtcVcupbSPZMsMs3Q/s1600-h/corel033.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846860029649170" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZZD021Fs3epTdnx7BnXhmxJuYz-dA86tGYgSENelLTvtPgFQo_wK_uNbUTselDwkcJpvUSOo_qb6fVfiTP7idIVspRY3nUl8ZLBDlPbvyPHlh-COkYBmxTj1TTtcVcupbSPZMsMs3Q/s400/corel033.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8409zYMz1xP1ILO2wrUMDlwil4NfjWmwJWmQtDbuiXwluSFG7HfkufRCdwlKmc8jx5tdaCGxdJSbJarfHDb1FNOZsFwGQVA6Nyqk7jV0Jru7byGGHL1vbRVBl4OlauQ-yCsgDObRMWg/s1600-h/ryan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120847195037098322" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8409zYMz1xP1ILO2wrUMDlwil4NfjWmwJWmQtDbuiXwluSFG7HfkufRCdwlKmc8jx5tdaCGxdJSbJarfHDb1FNOZsFwGQVA6Nyqk7jV0Jru7byGGHL1vbRVBl4OlauQ-yCsgDObRMWg/s400/ryan.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-LNfE3SSkTd1nM_3BK4J3Omfz1qVl4aRBI4VjyJOuI7F5QfpLH8EMS_daNDm0MtjRw76OaqkpdTgJ7rnl-TzJikfwYX8d9Rm8qdZnrnDrIyD4nvpzeqykk6fDyYas9LL_TCngO1dVQ/s1600-h/corel036.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846872914551090" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-LNfE3SSkTd1nM_3BK4J3Omfz1qVl4aRBI4VjyJOuI7F5QfpLH8EMS_daNDm0MtjRw76OaqkpdTgJ7rnl-TzJikfwYX8d9Rm8qdZnrnDrIyD4nvpzeqykk6fDyYas9LL_TCngO1dVQ/s400/corel036.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It seemed as though albeit down, the Self promoter was not out. His fans loved him and backed him 100%. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Scotty</span></span> Colt has since <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">become</span> a recluse, but will always hold that one key victory over the Self Promoter. But one might ask, was this bitch really worth it?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7oPJCneR9mE3HEmKhEVWlF3-M6yzc1YH1n9Z1nAA1UcHKI4mz8-2ZE_y7dDw2sRfs-2_1Gi5Mn5IDaWWzv23c-SWE1rOMM87q_Ft3ca4rzlC1oVX01_I4fK-f3rhM2OSvwRCXy-hpCw/s1600-h/THISONE.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxp8sTvCgoMaKeHfRNOMYieLZPxDfLuE_dpHO3KEV4hFI3vIbwEhqdMWoEL8RJbHOiUkJT7ShBiCg569lKpj-JjoacyU3KA2t7MKnpwZifGIDvjofhE9gySjR_CfgDKSgktC7OaNqNw/s1600-h/7443.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120846529317167282" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxp8sTvCgoMaKeHfRNOMYieLZPxDfLuE_dpHO3KEV4hFI3vIbwEhqdMWoEL8RJbHOiUkJT7ShBiCg569lKpj-JjoacyU3KA2t7MKnpwZifGIDvjofhE9gySjR_CfgDKSgktC7OaNqNw/s400/7443.jpg" border="0" /></a>foodedgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11756656400792528892noreply@blogger.com0