Irritable Male Syndrome

Friday, August 17, 2007

Hello, all. Welcome back!

Where have I been? Glad you asked. I've spent the last month studying the elusive Yanomamo people of central Brazil. I had to return to civilization because, not only had I become desensitized to native boobs(that's a bad thing), but they didn't have any beer(also bad). Plus, they smelled like muenster. Normally that wouldn't be that alarming, but I like to keep my Brazilians smelling like a combonation of the beach and coconut oil, and not like Nazis.

Speaking of; upon my return, I decided to do something I've been interested in for the past few years; brew my own beer. I figured, hey, I like drinking beer so much that I'd love to spend hours toiling above a rolling boil, hoping that I don't accidentally pee in the pot, and then waiting an extra month before I can get test the final product. What's not great about that?

Oh, and the $200+ in start-up costs for something that's going to ultimately end up as urine? Totally my thing.

I have one issue that's preventing me from beginning the brewing process right this minute, though; my apartment is too warm to store the sludge that turns into beer. If only I knew a new homeowner with a basement in which I could store the carboy. Hmmmmm.


It's 65°F right now, which is the perfect temperature to play hooky. It's not too hot, because when it's too hot, I sweat like a fag eating a foot-long hotdog.

Oh, please. It's not even my joke.

Anyhow, I want to go golfing, and I've yet to get out on the links this year. I used to play at least 36 holes every damn day in high school, at least ten times a year during college, but that level has slowed to nary a trickle since. My brother, dad, and I would go every Father's Day, but this year we didn't even get to do that. This year I was in Chicago, praying that my liver would spontaneously combust.

Since the days of my 36 hole-a-day habit, I've become increasingly intolerant of the amount of time spent on the golf course. Back then there was nothing else to do. I didn't drink, didn't have a girlfriend, didn't really care what was going on that night after lipping out on the last hole. Now, though, I can't play more than 4 holes without wondering if I'll be able to make it home in time for happy hour, and where the fuck is that beer cart girl?

And walking? Forget about it. I used to laugh at the E-Z-GOers, those lazy fucks. But now, I am one of those lazy fucks. I don't even want to think about having to walk a few miles while swinging a light titanium club at a little white ball.

Oh how taxing.


At 10:01 AM, Blogger Drizztdj said...

September 15th, mark it down for golf.


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