Yes Sis Fish (my actual sister), there was a time in which the quote rant was a lead-in to the quote quote. And no, the giggle blink girl had nothing to do with the guy who hurt his ankle. I could make something up and I think I will from now on just to create a segue of continuity, but you are correct. I have too much to tell all of you and I don’t want to be handcuffed to whatever I deem funny enough to be the quote of the day. I actually don’t want to be handcuffed to anything other than Jessica Simpson’s nightstand. And even then, I don’t know that I’d enjoy it. She’d probably only be doing it to restrain me. Probably because I’d have broken in there. (I just reread this joke and don’t like it, but also don’t want to go back and type anything else)
Speaking of Jessica Simpson, I actually broke my promise of never going back to Brick Street. A buddy came back into town and he wanted to go uptown. By 12:30, Steinkellers was down to their last staff member, Skippers and 45 East were closed and Balcony was on fire again (that’s a lie). So anyway, we wound up at Brick Street. But it was different this time. It was apparently karaoke night. And there was this hot chick up there doing a heck of a Dusty Springfield. Turns out I actually knew who she was. I talked to her and found out that there was a $100 prize that night. So I figured what the hell. I’ve make an ass out of myself many times before for free, why not do it to the tune of a possible C-note (that’s what us gangstas call a hundred bucks). And so I got up there and screamed a shitty ass version of Keep Your Hands to Yourself and during the instrumental part, I did the jump split thing made popular in Ferg’s and Milkman’s apartment back in college. Picture Footloose at Aaron’s wedding without Big Mike throwing me all over creation. So at the end of the night, it turns out I caught one of the judge’s eyes (the guy, go figure) and actually won the main prize. Sadly enough, that is more than I made the entire day of work when I calculated it out. And thus, I have decided to give up my dream to be the best wiffleball tournament commissioner ever and tour the country going to bars doing good enough renditions of Georgia Satellites greatest hits. At least until my groin gives out mid-split. But for the moment, I am the King of Karaoke Night at Brick Street. Which happens to be the bar that most closely represents my personal seventh circle of Dante’s hell. To be surrounded by hot young tattooed foxes and me without my snappy snare.
Speaking of tattooed chicks (how you like that, Actual Sis?), I got into the conversation with a few friends about a month ago talking about girls that have a tattoo on the small of their spine. Sure, we all heard Vince Vaughn say that it might as well be a bulls eye in Wedding Crashers (which will actually segue into my next message), but I just found out that they are also called “tramp stamps.” It’s not a flattering name, but I don’t think it was intended to be. And so, I made a joke to the effect of “well, no wonder all my exes have them” which is barely funny and also a complete lie. But it begat this, which was worth the self degradation…
“I didn’t think you were allowed to get tattoos until you were 18.”
That is what we in the business call a “cherry.” It completes the joke sequence. Nothing can possibly go on top of the sundae after you put the cherry on it. And if any of our group of friends ruined that joke by trying to piggyback on it or “rejoke,” we are required to squirt them with hot fudge and kick them in the chopped nuts.
Still Standing Right Here…