Regarding Moonshine

In my most recent post, dear reader, you may have noticed my juvenile fumblings around different nicknames for moonshine. "Quicksilver" was used, as was the shameful "Wake-Up Juice" (which, was stoled from Back To The Future III). My apologies. I'm not the word-smith I thought I was.
However, as is frequently the case, which is to say, "after the fact", I've stumbled upon several monikers for "the sauce" coined by Mr. John Hodgman, whose vocabulary and expertise in this field greatly overshadow my own.
Here, for a more worthwhile reading experience, I present to you his list of slang-terms for moonshine. Feel free to insert them into my previous, obsolete text as you see fit, for your enjoyment.
*Devil's Tears
*Sleepy Syrup
*Zip Sauce
*Hop Tallow
*Trance Juice
*Grain Guzzle
*Mystery Nip
*Irish Vinegar
*Brain Shellac
*Distillate of Dreamtime
*Jazz Chowder
*Fairy Pee
*Corn Cologne
*Washcloth Wringings
*Genuine Gin-Flavored Beverage
*The Sweet Tonic of Olde
*That Slippery Serum
*Near Beer
*Stutter Milk
*Juniper Jizz
*Antimatter
*Stun Gravy

I truly apologize for being....us.

Talking online with Drew and Jon Friday, we decided that Jon should start his own school of badassery. This comes one day after I tell Drew about Jon's rather incredible life, from one end of the spectrum of 'wild' to the other where he's an IT specialist for the Air Force. Incredible.

So, really, this is just a post to show you the many courses you'll be able to take while in attendance. I'm not telling you who said what, to protect ourselves from incrimination. I take no responsibility for our actions here. We really are this screwed up when the three of us are left to our own devices. God help the world when Neal's present, too.

How to literally Fuck a Mother 300a
Stealing Christmas trees and Kicking orphans 301
Punching Titties Lab
Espionage/Stalking Internships
Halloween: Treats AND Tricks that are dangerous, fun, and not illegal [yet]
Frat Guys: How to use them as pawns. 400
Finger painting 100
Finger Banging 201
ID's: When you need them, and when you don't. How to evade age ever being an issue.
Bar Bathroom Etiquette
Roofies: When and When not to use them
Movies with Boobies and other rhyming cool shit
B.E.A.C.H. - Being Entertaining And Charming Hammered
Chemical Makeup of Assholes
Better uses for Books: How to use them to get laid 200
Better uses for Books: Rolling Joints 300
Drug Deals: 305
Creating language 402
Interesting Fringe Science and what it means for your Future
How to expose the douchebag 400
How to suggest douching 401b
how to fight a friend 300
How to take a punch to the face 201
assasinations 200
The Art of Nut Kicking: Lab
Battlestar Gallactica 300
Coke: Soda and Snorting 300
How to pretend like you're working 500
LOST 101, 201, 301, 401, 501, 601 - each class is a season, and all you have to do is fucking love it
Friendly backstabbing 300
How to tune out old people talking about vaginas 201A
Cutting the Cord: The philosophies and dynamics of the One Night Stand
How to be critical of your sexual partner 400b
How to steal from a prostitute 400c
How to be a prostitute 400d
How to slap a prostitute 400e
Unconventional Torture 101
Running From the COPS independent study 300
How to Have Sex in a Theater 203
Keeping it Real 101 - The basics of having your own opinion
Keeping it Real 201 - Walking, talking, and acting like you don't give a shit
Keeping it Real 301 - How to keep it real in a cultural context in the modern world
Contributing to the Delinquency of Minors
Punching Babies 101A
Screwing your friends Girlfriend without getting caught 302
Affairs: When its ok to sleep with cougars and when its not.
How to create Panty Dropper cocktail in under 15 seconds 201B with lab
Stealing Wallets from Elderly People 291
Pornography: Good, Bad, and Mature (Ugly)
Punching People in the Face 101
Sticking it to the Man 101
How to hide a body 101

Also, I don't know what happened last night, but Sarah Vaughn, if you're reading this, I left myself a text message last night that said "Sarah Vaughn Toes" and I have no idea why. All I remember is promising to mention you or something in the blog. Ha.

Rule # 161

Rule 161. The keys to throwing a good party are a working stereo, christmas lights, and plenty of ice.

found at http://rulesformyunbornson.tumblr.com, which is pretty rad.

"161 is always 2171" - Jon Raney

Inventions by Matt

Over the course of life, somewhere along this crazy journey, people find society and innovators across the expanse of time before us that have made provisions for an easier life.

Roads, laws, grocery stores, etc.

I don't know if its the booze, the drinking, the whiskey, or general stupidity on my part, but several things pop up in my life as completely obvious needs in society and, as it were, no one has invented them yet.

Take for instance the other day, I was leaving for Wednesday night drink and draw (at a time when it wasn't regularly hosted at 2171) and I had sketchbooks, pencils, pens, drinks, etc. Now, the not that the ten feet of walking required to get to my car was really excruciating, but I was like "JESUS CHRIST why can't I just make one trip!? There should be some device that makes it possible for me to carry many things of varying shapes at once, some sort of bundle of cloth or -- oh....."

Yes, that day, I invented "the bag"

What about my next brilliant idea, you ask? Ok. Here it goes.

I was SICK. I was MISERABLE. I had tons of work to do the next day, and I had this icky grossness about me but no real motivation to go to Pri-Med. I think to myself, "you know, it would be great if there was some middle ground here. Why do I have to sit around and feel shit-tastic OR go to Pri-Med?? Why, society, have you let me down?? Why can't I just go to the store, by some sort of "mid-range mild version of what they give me at Pri-Med" and be done with this vile feeling that is not really sickness?"

World, meet invention #2: NYQUIL. (or, in general, over the counter medication.)

I'm an idiot, I've drown myself into an alien existence, I see this world as though I were a creature from another place, like a goddam martian.

Third and final invention for this post, just this week. For ages, I've been plagued with awful sleep. I've had trouble getting to work on time, total fatigue all the time. I've had sirens and blasts of sound and light from hell to shock me out of bed, many times to little or no avail. I'm almost certain there will be a blogpost from Neal concerning that very thing shortly. It's a very 'chilling' tale (for those of you that know the story, that's the corniest shit I could have said, right?).

ANYWAY, I shouted to the heavens, the fates, society and government at large - yet again - for not TAKING CARE OF ME! "Why, WHY, can I not have just TWO more hours of sleep a night?? I could wake up, go to get some food, enjoy the day a bit before work! I'm a morning person, world!! Wh-whhwhyhwyhwhyyyyyyyyyy *vomit* " (This rant happens while I'm crying and intoxicated, I guess.)

So.....yeah. My crowning achievement: BEDTIMES. I've gone to sleep somewhere before 11 everynight this week, sometimes drunk, even....and I've woken up before my alarm every day. I have actual seratonin pumping through my brain, I feel like laughing for no reason, I'm so deprived of this precious commodity you "sleeping people" have. I went to BREAKFAST this morning, drank coffee, listened to Rant by Chuck Palahniuk (thanks Neal). I even just sat still and had idle thoughts. Before noon.

No discredit to my wonderful mother, but you'd swear I grew up feral, or raised by wolves and set upon this earth with a raw piece of meat hanging from my jowls and a loin cloth made from the scalps of my prey, only to learn that there is a such thing as 'civilization' waiting for me over the horizon of some vast desert in which I've been scraping around for decades.

In closing, this quote Jonathan shared with me earlier, while enigmatic and stupid, is also quite poignant.

"... as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns - the ones we don't know we don't know."

- Colin Powell, before the Iraq War
(unfortunately, true)

That Good Ole Mountain Dew

For the past month, our good friends over at the Glarrow Porch have helped perpetuate our permadrunk with a steady incoming stream of glistening ‘Bama moonshine. And this stuff is amazing. Top-Shelf Moonshine, if such a thing is fathomable. It’s sweet and smooth, not nearly as biting as some of the lesser “lightnings” I’ve had, such as some of the cheaper, pestilent mashes of Tennessee and the abominable “Deep-Dish” style moonshine of the greater Chicago area. This stuff has an airy corn-blend with subtle and delightful after tastes, and it packs a wallop of an alcohol content. It’ll set your drunk-game back about 4 beer points if you’re not careful.

Amazingly, my girlfriend Robin, a mild-drinker at best, loves the shit. She’s a borderline “fiend for the fire-water” or “Hooch-Honey”, if I may be so bold. Robin lives in Auburn, however, and is typically only around 2171 on the weekends, so she rarely gets to indulge in that lovely, backwoods potable.

Matt won’t touch it. He tells me that drinking the moonshine makes him feel like he has “fire-ants running down my esophagus”. Let it be known that I’ve previously commented on the nature of my roommate’s alcohol tolerance, stating that it was akin to “a young Japanese girl’s”. But he’s getting much more adventurous and successful with the sauce, I’m happy to report.

The reason for today’s post is to point out how easy it is for me, at any time, to walk into the kitchen and get completely fucking bombed on ice-cold Quicksilver. It’s a great situation for me. But jars of moonshine, like the love of a puppy or the years left on Earth for Sen. John McCain, are fleeting and ephemeral. My well runeth dry. So, Mr. Glarrow, if you’re reading this, I want you to know how much I appreciate your contribution to my debauched lifestyle, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like it if you continued to do so. Let me know how much money, mason jars, wide-legged trousers, anything I can give back to this endeavor to ensure an ample supply of this God-given “wake-up juice”. And if you go to jail for this blog post, I’m quite sorry, but I’m hard-up, and Robin’s birthday is right around the corner.

Postscripts: The wall separating 2171 and 2173 (Luke’s) was nearly set ablaze today. For the photo above, I had attempted to set the jar of moonshine on fire. I narrowly escaped arson-questioning from the cops. Also, a warm-hearted “Happy Birthday” goes out to Mr. Christopher Saba.

Side note:

Today marks the second time I've used the phrase 'death incarnate' to refer to an apartment since the start of this blog. I need a Thesaurus, or just only write posts when Neal's in the room.

The Dry Week

So, its been a week since anyone has posted anything here. This is not without justification, and not without regrets and condolences for all the loyal friends and lovely subscribers.

This week I got a lot of "No, Matt, its NOT ok that nothing happened to you this week. Go pull some of Neal's bones out. Destroy your house. Go fight crime, or just socialize with a psychopath next door. Start a fire, a riot, or just try to kill yourself with booze on a 'weekday' already. YOU TWO QUIT BEING NORMAL AND POST IN THE BLOG FOR CHRIST'S SAKE."

Well, it was just one of those weeks. Neal was comatose for most of it, and I allowed my body to feebly do its job sober for a change, waking it from a restful slumber with herbal teas and actual real meals. With vegetables.

We still have a black hole. The hot water in the kitchen stopped working, actually, wouldn't STOP working and had to be turned off. The cover over the oven light fell and appears to be disintegrating. It is as though the world has moved on and the fabric of time that holds together all things is slowly unraveling, beginning in our kitchen.

Soon, people will go in there and emerge moments later, but as withered, ancient shadows of their former selves. Plants will die, and the light will scatter in a dreary way that can only be death incarnate.

And you wonder why there's never food in there.

So aside from the gradual deterioration of the building itself, life is fairly normal. For me, anyway, I won't speak for Russler.

I do have a feeling though, that since the first text message I got this morning was at 7:34am, from one of my most successful friends, and it said only "Shoot me in the face." and something about bootleg whiskey that I didn't understand AT ALL (wink, wink), tells me that this week could be a lot different.

I had drinking plans for tonight before 8am. Beat that, bitches.

The Long Overdue Extraction of Mr. Russler's Third Molars

More to come later, folks, but in the meantime, please send all dishes requiring moderate chewing, gift baskets, "Get Well Soon" balloons, and parade routes to:
Neal Russler
2171 College Street
Montgomery, AL 36106

Thunder-thief

I'm sorry to steal Mr. Russler's thunder, I know he has a fantastic post in line for this. Just remember to be nice to that jack ass for the next couple of days, because he's going to be in severe surgical/oral pain. Wisdom teeth removal is no picnic.

I asked him to keep a 15min incremental log of his experiences for the blog, I don't think he's gonna do anything but moan and sleep, so no one hold your breath.

Bohemia

In my random searches from blog to blog to blog to blog I end up finding the most random things. I found this little excerpt today, reminds me of this neighborhood. Original article here.

"It isn't possible to quantify the extent to which society and culture are indebted to Bohemia. In every age in every successful country, it has been important that at least a small part of the cityscape is not dominated by bankers, developers, chain stores, generic restaurants, and railway terminals. This little quarter should instead be the preserve of—in no special order—insomniacs and restaurants and bars that never close; bibliophiles and the little stores and stalls that cater to them; alcoholics and addicts and deviants and the proprietors who understand them; aspirant painters and musicians and the modest studios that can accommodate them; ladies of easy virtue and the men who require them; misfits and poets from foreign shores and exiles from remote and cruel dictatorships.

Those who don't live in such threatened districts nonetheless have a stake in this quarrel and some skin in this game, because on the day when everywhere looks like everywhere else we shall all be very much impoverished, and not only that but—more impoverishingly still—we will be unable to express or even understand or depict what we have lost."

- Christopher Hitchens, Vanity Fair

Mouthwash

When you're on your way to bed, and you have to decide which of those would be more beneficial to do first, you know you have a problem.

So Happy Together

The two of us, complete with a Montgomery Biscuits cup filled with Maker's Mark.

Bloodsucking Hippies

The mosquitoes in Alabama are world-famous for their tenacity and even more so for their sheer numbers. Considering that we basically live in the Amazon of the Northern hemisphere, it is not uncommon to have to fight one the size of a cat, or for them to stick you up and steal your money in dark alleys.

2171 is no exception. Quite the opposite, in fact. I believe our place is an actual Nexus for the damn things. There's a queen mosquito lurking somewhere in the attic or something.

Citronella candles? HA! We got one of those. Regardless, when we sit outside, conversations tend to go like this:

Neal: So I was at work today, and this guy comes in --
Matt: Onyourface!othersideotherside!
Neal: So he comes in and is all, do you guys sell waff-- one on your elbow dude. So he comes in and is all do you--
Matt: Another one on your face jesus christ lets just go back in.

We regularly have to admit defeat to these guys, no matter how much Citronella whatever we bring around. My theory is that they are some new strand of mosquito genes out there that is resilient to basically everything except liquid hot magma and space.

These guys probably looked at our Citronella candles, took a hit, and said "duuuude....go get Merl and the fellas. We're setting up camp." So now there's this little fucking hippy convention in the back yard, a bunch of bugs just sitting around getting stoned and - you guessed it - getting the munchies.

Seriously, you can go out there, and if you listen closely Bob Marley is playing, there's a group of them actually mudsliding in the Citronella, at least half of them have some sort of beaded head dress, and there's a micro-machine Volkswagen Van circle around the candle.

Maybe I'll just start offering them showers and jobs. That oughta do the trick.

[EDIT: A reader has recommended that we just get a fan. I really wanted lava... ]

A moment of dialogue.

The following is my vague summary of the events that took place at the back closet at roughly 10pm on Tuesday.

N: Matt? [comes into studio] Dude, what are you doing in that closet? We were watching TV, you got up to go to the bathroom, and a half hour later, here you are.
M: I lost my freaking Game Cube memory card.
N: I've never seen you once play Game Cube.
M: I have, too. Not at this place though, so I'm looking through the stored boxes.
N: O...k....you want me to hold that one? [grabs box]
M: Dammit...I'm looking for this thing until I find it I don't care how long it takes.
N: No you won't.
M: The hell I won't, watch me. Wait...what do you know?
N: I know its a Tuesday at 10pm, and you just finished a bottle of wine by yourself.
M: .....So?
N: Drunk.
M: ....Ass.
N: ...Wanna beer?
M: [sigh]....yeah, help me out of the closet.
N: Awesome. Lets go make fun of the RNC some more since nothing else is on.

[EDIT: Finally found the memory card. It's whereabouts? 12" from the Nintendo.]

Our Kitchen Spatiotemporal-Fissure

Since the day we moved in here at 2171, there's been an ominous stain in the ceiling above our refrigerator. From day to day it's grown exponentially worse, developing from a piss-pouch into a nasty crack that's been known to spit Spackle into my eyeballs. Concern has continued to grow in the 4 + months of our occupancy. Repeated calls have been made to our friend and landlord, Emily, and while the culprit hole in our roof was mended some time ago, the increasingly insidious lesion in the plaster over our heads has gone unchecked. Today, however, the Universe decided that the time for the debris-downpour was at hand.



We now face dangers yet unseen by man, as a chasm in the very fabric of reality hangs over our house. Specters from beyond our dimension now have free roam over our kitchen and adjacent domiciles, keeping Matt and I on an ever-vigilant watch for the paranormal.
"Hell's Kitchen" would be an appropriate title. Devotees will remember that our most perilous adventure to date, the one with Tuco the Rat, also happened in the kitchen. This does not bode well.
Now, I'm off to clean up all this cosmic excrement, to hopefully clear-out a path to the fridge. I feel certain that we'll be in need of "cold beers" tonight.
I fucking hate Tuesdays.