We are, in fact, the BaddestAss-KiltWearingest-DamnSexiest Two Hunks of ManMeat that you know.
| ATL, Day One | ATL, Day Two, Part Two | Atlanta Illustrated's Salami Tsunami (Pork's Alter-Ego) |
Friday morning, Dusty and I both woke up to the phone ringing and the startling realization that there are people in this world who just can't appreciate a good hangover.
Sadly, the both of us could only all too well.
Clearly, greasy Mexican food was called for.
The rare occasion arose that we couldn't actually walk to anything that was the bitchinsweetinest place to go, so we cruised the Highlands neighborhoods, checking to see what was in fact, open and ready for us.
I got to see some sights too, and more than once found myself gaping slack-jawed at that awesome city like the mountain hick that I am.
A mediocre meal, and one of the foulest restroom trips ever later, and we decided to stop at the beer store, to pick up the weekend supplies.
I was meandering brainlessly, as I tend to do in a liquor store, when Dusty told me that they had a \"special room.\" Figuring this to be something sexual, or at least dealing with nudity and/or monkeys, I followed him into the Closet O' Imports. Being confronted with such a multitude of choices of beer temporarily overwhelmed me, and I was only brought back to my senses when I heard him exclaim, \"Oh... oh, THIS is the one.\"
He pointed to a 4-pack on the top shelf, where my eyes fell on a Scottish Ale, nay, Fate in a Bottle...
![\"Skullsplih-er!\"](\"images/skullsplitter.gif\")
He asks me, \"Whaddya think? Should we try it?\"
I replied, \"Shit man, whether we do or not, we're going to be yelling that the whole weekend.\"
After grabbing the rest of the beer, and naturally the SKULLSPLITTER, I grabbed a bottle of Asti Spumanti, and we both agreed that the evening ahead of us probably warranted referencing the champagne with the operative word of \"Spoo.\"
Screaming \"SkullSplitter!\" \"Spoo!\" and giggling childishly, we returned to Casa de Puerco and nursed away the rest of our hangovers with the only true cure...
![\"Oh,](\"images/couchbitch.jpg\")
More beer.
In that picture, I was apparently caught in mid-Al-Bundy, but I also caught Dusty on the phone with one of his numerous admirers.
![\"you](\"images/d_bag.jpg\")
We settled in and he put in a movie that I had previously never heard of, and now love more than my own mother.
It may only be because of the fact that I am from a similar rural-type area, or it may be because I a am complete fucking dork to this day, but Napoleon Dynamite was quite possibly the most brilliant movie I've ever seen.
If you haven't seen it, for the love of all that's JuddHoly, do so NOW.
If you have seen it, and you loved it like I did, then you'll always know what I'm flippin' talkin' about, GOSH!
If you have seen it, and you didn't like it, then please do me a favor. Grasp the outer edges of your keyboard in your hands, lean your head over it, and lift it upwards quickly, making abrupt and violent contact with your face.
Repeat this until you realize how awesome this movie is, and/or understand why I'm naming my first child, \"Dynamite.\"
I laughed so hard that my sides hurt, and I had tears leaking from my eyes. Granted, uproarious laughter isn't the best thing for a pounding headache, but it was well worth it.
I woke from a nap to the Buttless Chap bounding into the joint to pick up the movie, so that he could bask in the pure genius that is Jared Hess.
I jumped into the shower while Dusty and his brother were scheming about something to do with \"What's Under the Kilt,\" though I wasn't really paying attention. I scrubbed my Nether Regions good and heartily, as nothing says, \"Love to my favorite D-Lander,\" like my pubic hair embedded in his soap.
When I got out, cologned up and smelling so goddam good that the kilt could only amplify my pure sexitude, I saw scattered across the living room several styles of Panty Hose, and Dusty and Buttless plotting even more feverishly than before.
Buttless took off for another party, so I became pulled into the project. I lent my considerable stitching skills (I'm a good li'l bitch like that) and, after a memorably awkward moment, we both marveled in the glory of the final results.
(Actual picture of Codename: Operation GigaDick, not available at this time)
Unfortunately, the damn thing didn't fit under the kilt, and poor Pork was forced to leave hanging that-which-God-gave-him. He was understandably apprehensive about this, never having worn a kilt before, but was placated by my repeated promises that \"Chicks will look, they always look, and they're always impressed, doesn't matter what they find, as long as they look.\"
We had some time to kill before our dates showed up, as they are girls and apparently girls can never be ready on time, so we decided to \"warm-up\" Atlanta to the kilts, and walk to a local bar for a burger.
The second we stepped in the door, the music stopped, and every single head in that quiet pub turned, in unison, and stared.
And Stared.
We got a booth and ate our meals while, one by one, seemingly every drunken patron of that modest tavern came up to our table and asked such startlingly intelligent questions such as:
\"So... where you boys headed? You in a band?\"
\"You goin' to a Scottish party, or what?\"
\"You boys play the bagpipes, or sumptin?\"
Drunken Mongoloid Guy kept glaring at me intently, and I could tell that Dusty was starting to question the wisdom of wearing a kilt in Atlanta, as it seemed that a night full of headbutting and asskickery was surely in store for those that would fuck with us. We were going to be Splitting our share of Skulls for certain.
Mongoloid came over to the table and seemed overly interested in exactly where we were going and at what time we would be there. Though he prefaced the entire conversation by explaining how drunk he was and how he was only going to stay at that bar and get drunker, we were still a touch fretful that he may show up at the Fox Theatre later, and we would have to unceremoniously Split His Skull.
We went back to Pork's house and decided to christen the evening with that Sweet Essence of Badassery, a bottle each of Scotland's Finest.
In between shouts of \"SKULLSPLIH-ER!!!\" we regaled each other of the story on the side of the 4-pack, that explains all about Thorfinn Hausakliuf and what a complete Scottish-Norse-Ninja he was.
This guy is SO going into my next template design.
![\"THE](\"images/thorfinn.jpg\")
The phone rang, and our smokin-hot dates were on their way.
We were indeed ready for the evening ahead, but was it ready for the...
![\"Baddest-kilt-wearingest-muffuckas-you-know\"](\"images/skullsplitters.jpg\")
The redness of our eyes isn't because I've got a sub-standard camera, it's the pure Sexitudinal Awesomeness glowing from deep within our kilt-clad bodies.
It's barely containable, and a massive quantities of alcohol at a bitchincool New Year's Party would prove NOT equal to that task.
Our dates arrived, and I felt some anxiety about what kind of girl Dusty would hook me up with.
She knew what I looked like, but what does she look like?
Will we get along? At midnight, will she mind if I kiss her and then headbutt her while screaming \"SKULLSPLIH-ERRRRRR!!!!
The girls showed up, not only smelling good and nearly melting my kilt with their SuperPowers of Hotness, but toting snacks as well.
![\"Kilt](\"images/kilts_smokin_hotties.jpg\")
No, I'm not puffing my chest out in that picture, my body is literally swelling with tremulous excitement. I may have actually burst if I hadn't distracted myself by placing my hand somewhere that normally gets me slapped.
It's snowing like a bastahd here in the Mile-High City, and I gotta drive home in this shit, so I'll get to more pics and the rest of the evening tonight or tomorrow.
On a side note, her Queasliness had yet to move even three feet from my luggage.
By now I was positive that this was making Dusty jealous, but that could have been because his li'l whorecat was now hanging her tongue lustily out of her feline mouth.
![\"Screw](\"images/queasy_tongue.jpg\")
Pictures of me making out with Dusty soon, I swear.
Watch out for deer.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Heapin' Helpin' of Atlanta with Pork and a Side of Redneck.
| ATL, Day Two, Part One | ATL, Day Two, Part Two | Atlanta Illustrated's Salami Tsunami (Pork's Alter-Ego) |
When I first decided to hop on a plane to Atlanta and party it up at New Year's with Dusty, I'm not sure what I was expecting. I guess I just figured I'd impulsively take a trip to somewhere I'd never been and hang out with someone I'd never met.
Sure, there was the promise of massive quantities of beer with a buddy that makes me laugh even when he's threatening me with violent sexual acts.
There was also the promise of teeming throngs of insanely hot women that Atlanta seems to grow from it's fabled \"Hot Chick Groves\", and the assurance that a fairly large sampling of them would be at a swanky-ass New Year's Eve party at some styling theatre.
Plus, me and Pork were going to be in full kilt get-up.
All of this sounded pretty good, and I was stoked about my trip.
Now that it's all over with I can truthfully say, without a shadow of a doubt, there was no way I could have ever prepared for the fact that I was going to experience what I've recently dubbed, \"The Bestest Fucking Weekend of My Life.\"
The only way it could have possibly been better, is if I had spent the entire time sitting on a mountain of beef jerky, being pleasured orally by 27 virgins, while watching the entire series of Girls Gone Wild on endless loop.
If that had happened though I'd know that I was in fact, dead, and even though this would mean that I could wile away the days in Valhalla screaming nonsensical Gaelic with Thorfinn Hausakluif and drinking endless amounts of Scottish Ale, I wouldn't be able to tell any of you about it.
As it is, my trip to Atlanta provided me with enough material for a short novel, so I'm going to recall it in installments, starting with Day One.
Thursday night we headed to a quiet drinking establishment that you apparently need to be an ordained minister in the Church of Awesome to get into.
We began drinking heartily with Dusty's realtor, shooting the shit and trying to out-funny each other, when over came Anita, a cute, middle-aged, blonde chick who was humorously drunk. She made a brave effort at telling us the story of \"Psycho Lee and the Car Thieves\" but couldn't seem to get past the first five sentences because she made the mistake of attempting to tell this story to three mildly inebriated wise-asses.
Any drunk chick that tries to tell a story to quick-witted jackwads, who have already been busting on each other for a good hour or so, would have to possess a saintly amount of patience to keep herself from smacking us repeatedly in the mouths with her shoe. Bless her li'l drunk heart, Anita made it farther into the story than I would have ever guessed.
However, a simple slip of her tongue turned \"horse-minder\" (someone who takes care of horses) into \"horse-mimer\" (a mime who is obviously retarded, insane, or a Monty Python fan). After 5 solid minutes of the three of us pawing wildly at the air, soundlessly snorting, eating out of imaginary feed-bags, and trying to break out of our invisible stalls, Anita gave up at her story and left to fetch her husband, Psycho Lee, so that he could tell it himself.
Any attempt that I could make right now to tell this story would do it zero justice, and would take hours to write and to read. I won't even try right now and instead defer to the Porcine One, but hopefully someday it will be an animated short film, and will receive numerous awards and accolades.
I've never been to that part of the South before and so far had only met Dusty and Realtor, who don't really have accents or \"Southern\" affectations. Psycho Lee was everything I could have asked for had I told the waitress, \"One Georgia Redneck, straight up, please.\" From his good-ol'-boy accent, to his Rock-a-billy greased pompadour, lamb-chop sideburns, and straight-out-of-GraceLand Elvis smile, I was already thoroughly entertained.
When he came up to the table, I half expected him to unroll a pack of Lucky's from his shirtsleeve while he rested his side-buckle, black, leather boots on the nearest stool and proceed to tell me about drag-racing his '57 Chevy.
Instead, he launched into his story with an explanation that he always carries his gun with him because he has to shoot any snakes that he comes across while walking the dog, as they scare his wife.
I think it's only fair to mention that he doesn't just haphazardly kill the snakes, oh no. He catches them first, and then lets them go. If they don't \"run\" away as fast as they can, he assumes they aren't scared of him and therefore won't run away from his easily-frightened wife. THEN he shoots them.
I think it's also fair to mention that Psycho Lee and Anita don't live in some backwoods Georgia swamp, but somewhere inside of Atlanta's City Limits.
I don't know much about that city, but I have nothing but the greatest of interest in any place where I might be able to catch a glimpse of Elvis, walking his dogs, catching snakes, dropping them, screaming at them to \"Git,\" and then blasting them into oblivion when they don't.
Realtor warned me that Psycho Lee was crazy, and I took it to mean he was a \"fun\" kind of crazy. After hearing him tell his story, I learned that he really is a \"fun\" crazy, it's just a \"fun-until-he-shoots-you-in-the-cheek-before-jumping-in-front-of-a-bus\" kind of crazy, though.
When he finished and I told him this, his reply was, \"Nah man, I'm sane. You gotta be crazy to be sane in an insane world.\"
This was priceless, if for no other reason than when he said the word, insane, it came out, IN-sayn.
The evening marched on, Pyscho Lee and Anita went home (in their busted-out-windows Honda... not a Chevy after all), Realtor threatened to go home to his preggo-ready-to-pop wife at least 17 times and came back to our table drunker after each time, and I got a kiss and a free shot from the hot female bartender (Yeah, I felt the need to specify her gender, I know where you smartasses would go with that).
By the time Dusty admitted that he was having full-on conversations with himself in the bathroom mirror about how much more he should (or rather should NOT) be drinking, and I was busting out Travolta-like moves with Realtor on the dance floor, it was undoubtedly time to go home.
On the walk back to his place, Dusty reminded me that not only is a good, greasy breakfast a great idea after drinking your weight in beer, but that he also lives in the Nexxus of the Awesome Universe and a classic Greasy Spoon was but a half-block out of our way.
We settled in and spent the next 40 minutes waiting for our omelettes while having slurred conversations with the other drunkards surrounding us. Right before we had mutually decided that we were going to venture behind the counter and start cooking our own fucking food, it arrived. I tasted grits for the second time in my life, and announced loudly to the cafe that I do indeed \"love me somma dem grits.\"
After continuing back on our way to sweet Passing-Out-Oblivion, I got to meet yet another in the evening's string of colorful characters, one of Atlanta's Finest Unlabored Capitalists. First, our new friend wondered aloud if the large, yellow, mini-van nearby belonged to us. I realize this would have made sense, were we a pair of flambouyantly gay carpet cleaners, but no such luck for our dredlocked compadre. As we walked past the van, he wisely ignored the glaring Dusty in favor of the gleefully drunken Me.
\"Hey man, can you help a bruthah out?\"
\"Maybe, whaddya need?\" hoping his reply involved him being pushed in front of a bus.
\"Meeehhhnn, I been workin' haahdd...\" Plaintive tone that already has me digging a dollar from my pocket (SUCKER!)
\"Hey, good for you, good luck with that.\" Attempting to walk around his cloud of stench.
\"It's haahhdd goddam wook gettin' sumptin to eat around here...\" greedily snatching dollar from my hand.
\"NO SHIT, \" clapping hand on his shoulder, \"I totally know what you mean, I just spent 45 fuckin' minutes waiting for a goddam omelette!\"
As I unfolded the couch, it became apparent that Dusty clearly felt that I owed him something in return for his hospitality. Even though he said he \"only wanted to be held,\" I knew he was expecting more, and I think I know why.
I'd been there for fewer than 8 hours, and Queasy was already in love with me as well as my luggage.
![\"Can](\"images/queasys_ass.jpg\")
She made no attempt to hide her efforts at trying to gain my affections, as she's a whore just like her daddy.
Seriously, for all of you out there that think Dusty is this kick-ass guy who lives just about the awesomest life you could imagine, you're absolutely right.
And, in reality, he didn't really make any passes at me, which was somewhat disappointing for as drop-dead sexy as I was in that kilt.
I'll cover Day Two and the New Year's Party, complete with pictures, soon.
Til then, be good, and watch out for deer.