From Russia With Bloodhound Gang
Under my crusty shell, what is there? A creamy gooey center. Obviously.
It’s only 8am and twice already I’ve used the word “gooey” to refer to myself. Is social media great or what?
Besides the goo, you might also see the creepy place where I have some strange likes and dislikes. One of those is the Bloodhound Gang. No, do not google them. Do not look them up. They are offensive as hell. NSFW.
And yet I still enjoy their music. They make me laugh. Yes, I’m shaming myself right now.
Puerile. Juvenile. Disgusting. Vile. Sexualized. The guys do things like spend a lot of time trying to come up with rhymes for the word “vagina.” (Spoiler alert: North Carolina.)
Have you ever been clubbed over the head by a piece of music? There I was, hanging with my son in his room, and he was playing his “music” like tin foil on metal guitar strings while some talentless hack screams indecipherably. That’s not “music” in my book. Oh how he loves that shit.
But then, I became aware of something else. A song reached out and grabbed hold. The lyrics were beautiful in their simplicity. “I hope you die.” Wow. This was different. Such elegant simplicity. This was good stuff. I was hooked.
And thus began my journey of exploration of the Bloodhound Gang.
The guys recently made a “splash” on their Russian tour. Break out the Stolichnaya and play the Russian flag drinking game with me, won’t you?
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Gimlet the Dwarf
As a nexus of negativity, this blog has, above all else, an unbreakable commitment to truth and fact. Hell, that’s all you need to be a true negativist!
In that spirit (heh) I now say this:
At least one gimlet was harmed during the creation of this post.
Yes, courtesy of my wife’s desire to imbibe during the early-to-mid early afternoon and pouring the wrong spirits, I got to consume the “mistake.” Ha ha ha!
Let it be known she was making palomas but grabbed the vodka instead of the tequila. Oops! That’s when my solitary superpower kicked in and I saved the day!
Thinking on my feet I handed her the tequila and salvaged the vodka, adding only a dash of Rose’s Lime Juice.
Viola! A gimlet was born! (Then immediately consumed.) And a little something extra I call Afternoon Delight. (That’s code for an ulcer flare-up.)
Make the jump for a few more grimly gimlet details…
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