Tag Archives: laugh

The Barroom Chronicles… Vol 15 Freaks of a Feather

Sometimes is best to leave an event alone, allow the dust to settle, before gloating about ruffled feathers and sandy vaginas left in its wake. As the proprietor of ‘The Evil Bar’ in our tiny town, and a person who may or may not have been involved with the genesis of such a stunt, I believe the smoke has cleared enough to let the world know of such hijinks. This thought is based on the equation: Comedy = tragedy  + time.  Though there was no tragedy involved, there may have been numerous pairs of soiled underwear and/or attacked hearts, unless you take into consideration those without a sense of humor, their skipped heart beats and dirty drawers could be construed tragic.

On July  19th, 2012 at approximately eleven PM Mountain Daylight Time,  roughly an hour before Aurora, Colorado entered the cultural lexicon,  a couple of cohorts had a nasty idea for a practical joke. Of course, I couldn’t resist.  Those of you who follow this blog know about the ‘old west gunfights,’ we hold during Railroad Days, our little town’s yearly celebration. The night in question, we were walking through the scenarios for the following Saturday.

Krash Montana… Also known as Number 1

“Hey,” Cohort #1 said, “I have an idea.”

I should have known it was a bad deal.

Cohort #’s 2 and 3 said the idea rocked. “Let’s do it.”

I wasn’t at the ‘other bar’ to witness the event. But, I’ve heard the story enough, it goes like this:

Cohort #3 walked into the other bar and said there was a bunch of drama up at ‘The Evil Bar.’  Cohorts 1 and 2 were arguing about money that 2 owed 1. Being that both 1 worked for 2 and as someone said later, 2 owed a few people money, made the premise believable. A few minutes later 1 and 2 appeared in front of the other bar in the midst of a heated argument.

Now, Number 1 is an actor. He has the ability to get into a role and make it work. Outside of Al Pacino, I’ve never seen a better Tony Montana. Being gangster isn’t a stretch.

Number 2 is a loveable giant. Everybody in town adores him and he can possibly be the kindest person alive. Not to mention he can cook up a storm. So imagine the scene when 1 called out 2 in front of a small crowd of people who have drank with 2 since Camden was a prairie. Then he has the audacity to pull out a replica revolver and fires a shot into 2’s chest. Number 2 did his part and fell back against the outside wall. People scattered, the manager came unglued and the bartender, who happened to be walking by, allegedly peed her pants.

Meanwhile, those of us left behind at the ‘Evil Bar,’ were listening for two shots. Like Number 1 demonstrated before leaving, holding the revolver gangsta style while saying: “Pop, Pop.”

We giggled like kids hearing the first shot, imagining the mayhem. “Hey,” someone asked. “Where’s the second shot?”

The simple answer, things never go as planned. After the initial shock and awe, Number 2 had to jump up and proclaim “It’s just a joke!”  The manager, a mellow 50 something gal, instantly turned into a grizzly bear and allegedly read the riot act in numerous languages, leaving the three Cohorts pleading their case why they shouldn’t be eighty-sixed.

“What’s going on?” I asked a regular who had tagged along to witness.

“Oh man, it didn’t go good.”

“What happened? Where was the second shot?” I asked, panicked. I imagined 1 getting the tar beat out of him.

What I thought may have happened.

“Nothing that bad,” the witness said. “1 and 2 are buying rounds to make it good.”

It would be an hour before the three amigos returned. “So?” I asked.

“They called us freaks and told us to go back and drink with the rest of the freaks,” Number 1 reported. The comment confirmed my suspicion that freaks of a feather really do drink together.

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The Shithouse Poet Returns – The Men’s Room… The Barroom Chronicles… Episode 9

It was only a matter of time, you knew it was coming –  the yin to the  women’s room yang, or is it the yang to the yin? Who knows? All I know is that I can’t help  reading this stuff multiple times a day – no wonder I’m twisted. 

Without further ado, allow me to reintroduce the shithouse poet – the Men’s Room edition.

If you're weak kneed, sensitive, or a stick in the mud, do not attend!

Warning: If you’re sensitive, easily offended, or are politically correct…  Oh wait, you wouldn’t be here. If you managed to stumble across this blog and don’t know my tastes and find it offensive, tuck your skirt in or leave before you stain this beautiful poetry with your tears of sensitivity and good taste. 

Phew, now that we handled that and you’re still here, did you ever consider that good taste is a euphamism for a humorless stick in the mud. I know of such a person who took offense to what follows and in protest demostrated his outrage by urinating over the bathroom walls. But then his name was on the wall and next to his name is an activity in which I cannot confirm nor deny the said person is alleged to have participated. 

Without further ado, let’s step into the men’s room. Just don’t step on the butt print in the floor. We don’t know where that bottom has been other than sitting in wet concrete at a specific point in time.  (Hopefully picture is forthcoming. An edit is required to live up to wordpress standards.)

The first thing you may notice is a note about our town:

Shithouse Poet at it again!

Alberton: Where you don’t lose your woman, you lose your turn!

Placement is everything, and it’s no wonder I have a complex. Every time I pee, this chestnut stares me in the face: 

Why are you looking up here, the joke is in your hand.

Of course there’s plenty to read about men’s favorite topic, and it ain’t football, hockey or basketball:

I like them in frills…  I like them in lace…  But I like them better when they sit on my face!

Snow is like pussy… Fun to play in, you never know when it will cum, and only some of it is clean enough to eat!

Here’s to the breezes that blow through the treez’s and lifts little girl’s dresses above her kneezes… Lil boy seezes, does what he pleases and catches social diseases.

A trick is a trick, a ho is a ho, it ain’t no fun less you get some mo.

Now that we’ve discerned a man’s favorite topic, here’s a little lit about what we do when we get what we want:

The religious amongst us pray:   Now I lay me down to eat, I pray her muff don’t smell like feet, and if it smells too much to lick, I hope she’s good at sucking dick!

Others boast our own accoutrements:    It’s as long as me arm and thick as me wrist with a knob on the end as big as me fist and it just longs to be kissed.

Other’s wax poetic:  Love me tender, love me sweet, wrap you lips around my meat! Watch me smile, watch me grin, watch my cum run down your chin.

Other’s wax to the wax: I’ll love you tender, I’ll love you sweet, but it won’t be my lips you’ll see on your meat.  We’ll see a smile, we’ll see a grin, and we’ll see who’s cum is running down who’s chin!

And then there’s the result of such shenanigans:  As I stand here trying to piss, I think of the girl who gave me this!

When us men tire of pussy, there’s always our best friend:

My dog is smarter than you… She’s spayed!                                

Lady, keep your hands to yourself!

It’s a dog’s life… If you can’t eat it, fuck it, piss on it.

Some of us prefer a different kind of pet:                                          

I’m not a Spring Chicken… I’m the Rooster!

And often when we sit to contemplate we give birth to the following drivel:

 Here I sit buns a flexin’  givin’ birth to another Mexican!

Often contemplation leads to the philosophical:

Civilization exists by nature’s consent – subject to change without notice.

If the creator was a pessimist, he would have put your asshole in the middle of your face!

And then there’s the management’s promise:  We shall serve no whine before it’s time!    

Orson Welles has served 'whine' in his time... but he agrees literature is best enjoyed upon thy throne!

Please ignore the beauty right above the hopper,  it may cause you to piss on the walls:  Blankety Blank, you Blankety Blank, don’t you?

That’s funny, it didn’t cause me to do it either…

I’ve hope you enjoyed this tour into the filthiest of all places… and I’m not talking about the men’s room, I’m refering to man’s one track mind.

Episode 21 Some Nights

Paul Reubens In 'Pee-Wee's Big Adventure'It was a beautiful Spring evening; the sun flirted with the mountaintops.  We sat on the front deck of Sporty’s when a drunk looking like Pee-Wee Herman without the bowtie rode his bicycle up the sidewalk. In this town, a drunk riding a horse up the sidewalk isn’t uncommon. But there was something different about this guy. He wasn’t a local and he had an attitude – and a prosthetic leg.

Heads turned as he stopped in front of the deck, mumbled to himself, and took a bite out of an apple.  Jaws dropped when his leg fell off. Tears welled in my eyes; my face turned purple suppressing my laugh.

“Need help?” Big Steve asked the man.

“Nah!”

My chest heaved as he tried to pick up his leg.  I tried to be good.

The man hopped off his bike, picked up his leg and reattached it.  Two steps later the leg fell off again. I bit my fist 3313663trying not to laugh.  When he threw the leg into the street, I lost it.

I ran inside and howled.  Inside, customers asked what was so funny.  Before that night I never had a clear picture of a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest.

After a good Samaritan retrieved the leg, the one-legged drunk man secured it and laid on the deck in front of the door.

“Hey buddy, you can’t lay there,” I told him.

He ignored  me. I threatened to call the cops, to which Mullet replied to the man, “I don’t know where you’re from, but in this town, you don’t have a leg to stand on.”

Another night in real life Northern Exposure.