Sunday Funday Whiskey & Gunday IV

Up front: nobody died or was maimed, so don't get your hopes up. But that doesn't mean that awesome things didn't happen. This was the most elaborate SFWGD yet, complete with electronics and pressurized canisters of things to shoot.

You might expect that the shooting and blowing up of things is the most fun part of SFWGD. I posit that the purchasing of the things to blow up is just as fun. Say, for instance, that you see this huge container of cheese puffs. To eat or to shoot? No matter, we say. The motto is always one for eatin', one for shootin'. Unless it's something gross, like a big tub of Miracle Whip, which is just for shooting.


Of course, another fun thing is seeing Senior dressed up like a big person on a motorcycle.

And four of us dressed up like tour groups.



I don't know if you remember this, but Joe has enjoyed (?) a string of injury-ridden SFWGDs, so of course we were all paying close attention when he picked up a gun for the first time.

I even tempted fate and shot doubles skeet with him, which I won handily and in no way cheated.


Even though Senior was the only one present for Joe's 4-wheeler accident last year, which basically means that she probably caused it and has been blackmailing him since so he won't go public, people still let her drive them around.


Look at this bunch of poorly-prepared idiots.



It makes SFWGD I look like a Model T, really.


Joe had a good idea to conduct a science experiment, wherein some baking soda would get shot and dump into a jar of vinegar. Only problem: jar was glass, vinegar just poured out. Next year: elaborate suspension system.


Last year began the tradition of mascots (RIP Lobster Nicole Smith, and please to lift the curse on our souls), which continued this year with an adorable stuffed lamb. Here is Evan posing with Shep-Shep and a spy.



Here is Evan ritually executing Shep-Shep.


Later, Shep-Shep was covered in spray paint and refuse.


Who knew that the bottle of Beam from SFWGD I was still in the house? Vintage, people.


Finally, a video of Matt warming up (read: setting fire to) some brush around a liter canister of propane in preparation for Joe (!) to shoot with a shotgun. Please enjoy the terrified screaming of multiple ladies for the first minute or so. There may be cursing, maybe not.

The fire didn't spread. At least not that we noticed.

Look at the guy who said shooting a canister of pressurized gas was a bad idea.

Also, I forgot that we shot my shirt. Here you can see Evan shooting a can of spray paint behind the shirt.

What if Michelle Obama Was My Girlfriend (Off-Color Joke Edition)

Ha, ha! Yeah, girl, I know how you feel about my cache of off-color jokes. What is it you always say? Not in mixed company, dear? I've been pretty good lately, right? Granted, Sasha was behind me during the Energizer Bunny joke, but I had no idea. I told you I was sorry.

A Mother's Impassioned Plea Falls on Deaf Ears (Too Lazy to Think of Relevant Pun)

From an interested party, who asked that this be unedited/anonymous (but didn't ask that I not add my own responses/plus not sure how anonymous one can be when referencing puns AND Minnesota):

[You] heady kids need to transcend their pedantic, corporeal fascination with holding/shooting a gun and unleash their intellect (which they appear to possess in amazing abundance [agreed]) and make it sunday PUNday. That's totally a good idea except puns don't make loud noises and blow things up.

Puns are cool and witty and never hurt anyone. Except nerds in middle school. The streets would be safer, and parents all over (including Minnesota) would be able to sleep at night!! Eschew the raw power of metal and the stench of gunpowder and free your inner punster, I say. The rest will follow. The world would be a better place for having you in it adding joy one pun at a time, rather than shooting it up. This basically insures that we'll be shooting signs that say "pun." Like they said in Oregon, stop the hate!!! Value added, people.

Just how I feel. I hate sunday funday/America. And, in the main, I'm not a hater.

You young, childless adults (woo hoo!) will understand one day when your beloved offspring come to you and say, "I want to drink til I puke and shoot a gun at lobsters seated on a sofa, you ok with that?" As long as there are no puns involved, Johnny.

love to all, a mother.

Pictures, Explained

Rather than create a narrative about five days in California and Oregon, which would require comprehension of time and space, I'd rather just comment on some pictures.

First, following in the first rule of American salesmanship, this guy yells obscenities at passersby, then sells them tea, further proving that people love being belittled, all the while justifying my personal work philosophy.


If every restaurant and bar in the world served some version of roasted bone marrow, it would be fine with me. This particular version is from Alembic, has capers and some other stuff, and was served to us by a very sad and weeded bartender who had to make lots of deconstructed Mint Juleps for tourists. He was particularly bummed about the fact that he was still waiting for his grenadine to cool, which is a problem I will likely never encounter.


The trip incorporated about 1200 miles of driving from San Francisco to Eugene, OR and back, a trip which gave me some form of back cancer that makes me walk like a comical old man. Ana and Amy find that HILARIOUS.


Somewhere in San Francisco, somebody's idea of a treasure chest is an oversized plastic container covered in affirmations.


Meanwhile, in Myrtle Creek, OR, the Dairy Queen has a cheeseburger eating competition that started in 2003 and seems to have reached its pinnacle on May 3, 2008, when dudes named Ammon and Tony ate 14 1/2 and 16 cheeseburgers, respectively.

The rules for the contest, which were on another unpictured sign, read something like this: "The cheeseburger contest rules: Eat more than the guy who came before you. Ask employees for details." We didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure the details would include them telling us that we needed to eat more than 16 cheeseburgers. I had a Blizzard instead.


In Eugene, restaurants have signs that tell you that you're entering a "Hate-Free Zone." Lucky for us they didn't do a hate search, cuz they would've probably kicked us out. Also, the picture of George Bush in the bathroom seemed to be covered in hate. Hippies have never been sticklers for consistency.


Here's a picture of Myrtle Creek.

Don't Forget to Buy Your Sunday Funday T-Shirt.

Because what fun is shooting guns unless you're all dressed alike?

And Now: Pins

I'm pretty sure pinmaking is a lost art, although I don't have any data to back up that argument. So I was pretty stoked to find a great selection of old pins at some store in San Francisco.


1. An old Bronco, for myself, since I need to start building my Bronco-related wardrobe and plus I can't really remember what it looks like SINCE IT'S STILL AT THE MECHANIC AND I'M DYING INSIDE

2. Minnesota, for Junes, because that's where she lives. FOR NOW.

3. A Steelers helmet, for Anne. Because she works down at the smelting plant.

4. Georgia, for me.

5. Canada/USA, for Sandy. Because she's both those things.

6. A school bus, for Chad. Because he seems to really like children.

NOT PICTURED: A pterodactyl, for Joe, and an eagle holding a bottle of whiskey, for me. Cuz it matches.

I apologize if your home state/defining personal detail was not available in pin form.

But First: Bracketology!

Last year I was mildly successful. By which I mean that I predicted that the two teams that played in the championship would both lose in the third round. This year I predict that I will get every game right. Even if I don't, at least I'm not a flip-flopper like a particular head of state.

Click for annotations!

To Tide Over

Me, Ana and Amy in San Francisco, posing for our upcoming LP release. I'd post more but I'm walking at the speed of Tim Conway's Old Man character from the Carol Burnett Show, so I have to leave early to get to work.

What if Michelle Obama Was My Girlfriend (Public Service Edition)

Hey, Michy. Yeah, I know you told me that you'd be busy working at the soup kitchen all day, but I couldn't help myself. Something about you helping the less fortunate, not to mention the cardigan and apron, makes me love you even more. You feel like catching a movie tonight? Jonas Brothers 3D is playing in Chinatown.

Sorry, Last Ones I Promise

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'm the fat one

When In Need of Content Check Drawers for Things

This picture is from my dorm room my sophomore year in college, in 1997.

1. My Cannondale mountain bike, which I regrettably sold out of frustration (it had been taking up all my closet space for like 3 years) in 2005 for $200. It was way too big for the dude who bought it.

2. I had a sweet Macintosh LCIII. $1350 got you 4MB of RAM and a 40MB (MB!) hard drive. When one remembers this, complaining about how expensive Macs are now seems petty.

3. Being a white dude in college, I had a guitar. Which I rarely played. I ultimately gave it to Mikey, I think.

4. The weird thing about this picture is that I don't have socks on. I almost always wear socks.



This is from a few months later, after we moved into an apartment off campus.

1. Ansel Adams print. Obligatory.
2. Greatful Dead throw. Also obligatory, albeit not mine.
3. Exposed brick. This might has well have been a flat in Soho for all we knew.
4. Leo the Persian, which Justin (roommate) found in the road in south Georgia.

This apartment building would soon be condemned.

My Friends Are Funny

I'm short on content, but it's no biggie because I know Murph AND TBs.

Here's a little setup: dudes who work at bars generally aren't into things called "tweeting," but something struck recently and a growing number of service industry dudes (ladies are apparently more scrupulous) have formed an increasingly awesome Twitter group. @thepatso, @sleepymurph, @thomsono, @tittyballs, @chadamerica, @faggo, @me, etc... It's getting to be pretty fantastic.

So last night, @tittyballs decides to keep a running tally of his barback's (@johnnythuder?) good and bad acts for the evening. The list of bads at the end of the night is choice:


Favorites: "6. Broke Tittyballs' Magic Wand"; "7. Jinxed us"

Last Saturday, @sleepymurph sent the following missive: A POX OF SEVEN GENERATIONS ON ANYONE WHO PLAYS PUB GOLF. Then, being the intellectually curious and empathetic man that he is, he decided to play a round, by himself, last night.

His debrief of the experience is posted here, and is totally worth the read. A good selection:

Next time you do a car bomb take a good look at the nasty curdled sludge left in the glass, or feel the sticky coating left over after a Jager bomb, do you feel like fishing in there with your fingers to get the shot glass out? How about fishing it out of a stranger's glass? How about 40 strangers' glasses? See how this is getting out hand really quickly?

Also, he was 13 shots under par through 9 holes, which must be some sort of golf record.

I Am Weirdly Hoping Jimmy Fallon Succeeds.

It might be because he's so obviously nervous. But really, "Slow Jam the News" is a great idea.

While You're Waiting for Bronco Pictures

You should go here and vote for this/me! for the best local blog, and then take your pick for best bartenders.