Showing posts with label guest posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guest posts. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
GUEST POST! - Jointing a Chicken: A Moment in Vinous Clarity
Sam Klingberg- Chicago's "Broke Wino" (and @brokewino on Twitter)- has burst onto the scene in the past year or so as one of the sharpest, most clever, and downright uncouth wine bloggers around. He's destined to be the voice of millenial wine drinkers for years to come...
...not to mention Sam's a cool cat with Georgia roots. When he approached me with this article, I said, "sure, I'll post it. It's more interesting and well-thought-out than anything I'll ever write." Plus, it gave me an excuse to post an exceptionally creepy photo I took years ago.
Talk to you soon. Sláinte!
-Joe
Chickens are this: members of petting zoos, and historical attractions. I believe people used to keep chickens as pets before dogs and cats were domesticated. This tradition is still kept alive in Ethiopia where a dinner quest is twice as likely to meet a chicken roosting above his or her head before he'd find anything that most Westerners would consider edible (although I assure you the wot is good.)
Generally, most Westerners also have a similarly primitive idea of what a chicken is. Pinkish cuts of various geometrical shapes that come shrink wrapped and arrayed in yellow styrofoam trays at the supermarket is the generally accepted theory. So it was with this general perception of the most common fowl on the planet that sent me to the kitchen, knife in hand, prepared to live as deliberately as modern life would allow.
Let me back up: I am obsessed with the interwebz. Countless glasses of cheap Sauvignon Blanc have slaked my thirst in hot pursuit of the absolute worst cover of a Train song on You Tube. I couldn't even begin to describe the hours of terrible songs being sung by terrible talent in front of terrible mounds of past-due laundry.
One day, I don't know how, but during a similar journey I stumbled on a video of Gordon Ramsay jointing a chicken. I was the single most awesome thing I had ever seen. I promptly spent the next three days watching every aspiring culinary internet personality hack apart a dead bird's carcass. From transforming live cluckers into organized mounds of meat on a cutting board, to mechanical separation, I couldn't get enough of it.
After I felt that I had an ample understanding of how to make a cute little french cut on the drumstick and properly excise the oyster with those succulent thighs, I headed over to the supermarket to buy my very own whole chicken fryer (Chicago seems to be oddly dearth of live fowl to butcher.) I returned home knife in hand, cutting board in place, and a cold, goose-bumped carcass awaiting my culinary experiment. I mean, the thing was already dead, what's the worst thing that could happen?
I soon realized, though, why almost everyone on You Tube had the big ass hunk of wood cutting board. My little plastic one slipped and slid around the counter recklessly, which was a little scary. But the feeling sharp steel cutting through bone, flesh, and sinew was too intoxicating to allow me to fear for my future maneuverability. Prehensility be damned.
I felt like a little school girl, watching the familiar "roasting" bird transform into succulent thighs and juicy tenderloins. Those strange looking pieces that were so familiar rolled in bread crumbs and sizzling in an oven set to 425º suddenly had a sense of place. I always knew it was a "thigh" but it certainly didn't seem like anything that could be part of a leg. But now, I could actually feel it. I popped that sucker out of joint and sliced cleanly through pure bone and tendon. There was no denying it once supported any and all vertical endeavors.
I've been obsessed with the Mâconnais lately. Perhaps because I went to high school in Macon, GA, sister city of the region's namesake, Mâcon (Pronounced, MAH-cone, I think.) Perhaps because it produces beautiful, damn straight succulent chardonnay. And, so affordable! You wouldn't believe the $15-$20 bottles of golden righteousness you can get. Producers like Rijckaert, Thévenet, and Chateau la Greffière will slay your palate. There simply will be no turning back.
Like a chicken has it's delicious dark meat in the extremities and coveted tenderloins tucked neatly between the sternum and the breast, wine is just as much about place. And Mâcon, for me, is a perfect opportunity to experience terroir, or the "somewhere-ness" of wine, without a small-business loan (because serious drinking is absolutely a business, have you seen Bordeaux prices lately?)
There's a limestone belt that sits underneath the Viré-Clessé, that's what it tastes like. St-Véran has spritely wines thanks to its sandy soil, and the under-appreciated Lugny is like a jolly, plump sister. All of these sub-regions of Mâcon have personality, and will make you down right butt-naked nasty about wine. Guaranteed.
This is just a little insight into why I'm so crazy about wine. And assuming you drink responsibly, taking a dive through the Mâconnais carries a hell of a lot less danger than slicing through a bunch of chicken bones. Go get that oyster.
Jointing a Chicken: A Moment in Vinous Clarity
by Sam Klingberg, www.brokewino.com
Generally, most Westerners also have a similarly primitive idea of what a chicken is. Pinkish cuts of various geometrical shapes that come shrink wrapped and arrayed in yellow styrofoam trays at the supermarket is the generally accepted theory. So it was with this general perception of the most common fowl on the planet that sent me to the kitchen, knife in hand, prepared to live as deliberately as modern life would allow.
Let me back up: I am obsessed with the interwebz. Countless glasses of cheap Sauvignon Blanc have slaked my thirst in hot pursuit of the absolute worst cover of a Train song on You Tube. I couldn't even begin to describe the hours of terrible songs being sung by terrible talent in front of terrible mounds of past-due laundry.
One day, I don't know how, but during a similar journey I stumbled on a video of Gordon Ramsay jointing a chicken. I was the single most awesome thing I had ever seen. I promptly spent the next three days watching every aspiring culinary internet personality hack apart a dead bird's carcass. From transforming live cluckers into organized mounds of meat on a cutting board, to mechanical separation, I couldn't get enough of it.
After I felt that I had an ample understanding of how to make a cute little french cut on the drumstick and properly excise the oyster with those succulent thighs, I headed over to the supermarket to buy my very own whole chicken fryer (Chicago seems to be oddly dearth of live fowl to butcher.) I returned home knife in hand, cutting board in place, and a cold, goose-bumped carcass awaiting my culinary experiment. I mean, the thing was already dead, what's the worst thing that could happen?
I soon realized, though, why almost everyone on You Tube had the big ass hunk of wood cutting board. My little plastic one slipped and slid around the counter recklessly, which was a little scary. But the feeling sharp steel cutting through bone, flesh, and sinew was too intoxicating to allow me to fear for my future maneuverability. Prehensility be damned.
I felt like a little school girl, watching the familiar "roasting" bird transform into succulent thighs and juicy tenderloins. Those strange looking pieces that were so familiar rolled in bread crumbs and sizzling in an oven set to 425º suddenly had a sense of place. I always knew it was a "thigh" but it certainly didn't seem like anything that could be part of a leg. But now, I could actually feel it. I popped that sucker out of joint and sliced cleanly through pure bone and tendon. There was no denying it once supported any and all vertical endeavors.
I've been obsessed with the Mâconnais lately. Perhaps because I went to high school in Macon, GA, sister city of the region's namesake, Mâcon (Pronounced, MAH-cone, I think.) Perhaps because it produces beautiful, damn straight succulent chardonnay. And, so affordable! You wouldn't believe the $15-$20 bottles of golden righteousness you can get. Producers like Rijckaert, Thévenet, and Chateau la Greffière will slay your palate. There simply will be no turning back.
Like a chicken has it's delicious dark meat in the extremities and coveted tenderloins tucked neatly between the sternum and the breast, wine is just as much about place. And Mâcon, for me, is a perfect opportunity to experience terroir, or the "somewhere-ness" of wine, without a small-business loan (because serious drinking is absolutely a business, have you seen Bordeaux prices lately?)
There's a limestone belt that sits underneath the Viré-Clessé, that's what it tastes like. St-Véran has spritely wines thanks to its sandy soil, and the under-appreciated Lugny is like a jolly, plump sister. All of these sub-regions of Mâcon have personality, and will make you down right butt-naked nasty about wine. Guaranteed.
This is just a little insight into why I'm so crazy about wine. And assuming you drink responsibly, taking a dive through the Mâconnais carries a hell of a lot less danger than slicing through a bunch of chicken bones. Go get that oyster.
Monday, September 27, 2010
GUEST POST: The Cola Holy War and Marshmallowed Delight
Still bumming around out west, apparently looking like many not-so-handsome stars of stage and screen. In my stead, I'm really thrilled to have one of the silverbacks of wine blogging covering for me. Not only is Benito Carter knowledgeable, entertaining, and a very good writer, but he seems to epitomize what it means to be the true Southern Renaissance man. One day, he's talking about a cocktail made with obscure Chilean spirits blended with heirloom herbs and eleven different types of Amazonian fruit juice to celebrate the birth of legendary bobsleigher Tony Nash. The next, he's discussing...moon pies. Bon Appétit!
The big sectarian conflict in American soft drinks has been dominated by Coke vs. Pepsi. I remember people who refused to drink Pepsi because they sold their products in the Soviet Union, and thus all Pepsi drinkers were Godless Commies. There are Arab countries that avoid Coke because of the bottling plant in Israel. Much like Ford vs. Chevy, Catholic vs. Protestant, and which way you hang the toilet paper roll, your position on the issue depends on you geographic region and family upbringing.
What is often lost in these arguments is the array of third options that exist, often with their own passionate fan bases. For instance: RC Cola. The RC stands for "Royal Crown", and the beverage was born in Columbus, Georgia back in 1905. Much later, RC Cola was shilled by no less than Nancy Sinatra. Let's be happy that it remains a solid performer in a highly competitive market, and that it hasn't developed an unfortunate demographic like Faygo and the Insane Clown Posse. (This wine blogger is not down with the clown, for any Juggalos that might be reading.)Quick tasting notes: RC on its own lands somewhere between Coke and Pepsi on the nose test, probably a bit closer to Pepsi. It lacks the bitter bite of Coke but isn't as sweet as Pepsi, and doesn't go aggressively herbal like a root beer.
Here in Tennessee, RC Cola is indelibly tied to the Moon Pie, a cookie/marshmallow/chocolate treat invented 200 miles north of Columbus--I'm talking about Chattanooga, Tennessee in 1917. Somewhere along the way the combination of the two products became popular as a cheap lunch, and there's even an RC and Moon Pie Festival in Bell Buckle, TN every summer. The pairing is even immortalized in a classic song. Jasper from The Simpsons was delighted to discover Moon Pies upon emerging from the freezer at Apu's Kwik-E-Mart. "What a time to be alive!"
I'm using mini Moon Pies here, but it's also worth mentioning that RC is also a popular mixer with spirits, particularly at college parties and sporting events. You can be clever and mix the Royal Crown with Crown Royal, but really any of the brown liquors will do. Want to class it up? Use a decent Bourbon and a highball glass. If you're just looking to have a good time, then cheap Canadian whisky and a red Solo cup are your friends. Finely crushed or shaved ice is best for the latter, because it will water down over time and allow for ideal pacing. You can treat it almost like a snow cone and still get a lot of flavor. Just sipping the cocktail now makes me crave nachos and an overcooked hot dog.
These flimsy plastic bottles don't have the solid nature of cans or the sculptural integrity of glass bottles, and I doubt anyone will be seriously collecting them a hundred years from now. But the flavor stays the same, and it always reminds me of BBQ joints and gas stations a bit off the beaten path, where you'd have to snap off the bottle cap on a wall-mounted opener or grab the church key hanging from a long chain. Home was Coke, Pepsi was the enemy, but RC was that set of rural relatives that might have had a different last name yet were loved just as much.
Big thanks to Joe for letting me crash on his virtual couch for this post. Peace out, y'all!
These flimsy plastic bottles don't have the solid nature of cans or the sculptural integrity of glass bottles, and I doubt anyone will be seriously collecting them a hundred years from now. But the flavor stays the same, and it always reminds me of BBQ joints and gas stations a bit off the beaten path, where you'd have to snap off the bottle cap on a wall-mounted opener or grab the church key hanging from a long chain. Home was Coke, Pepsi was the enemy, but RC was that set of rural relatives that might have had a different last name yet were loved just as much.
Big thanks to Joe for letting me crash on his virtual couch for this post. Peace out, y'all!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
GUEST POST: Missing in Action
Well, as the theme suggests, I've gotten away from the rat race for a few days. In my stead, so rad (and I don't use the word "rad" lightly) bloggers have filled in. I'm cracking up reading this rambling rant of awesomeness from Andrew Lazorchak, the mind behind Vineyard Vlog and the nifty little decanting device: Wine Soirée. If Drew's stuff reads like he's been shot out of a cannon, then it's fair to say that his writing has been properly represented his personality.
So, I hope you enjoy these guest posts. Just don't enjoy them too much. I'm not ready to give up on this blogging scam just yet. Sláinte! -Joe
The kid on the bike throwing the newspapers is coming around the corner. What’s the big news??? Joe Herrig is “Missing In Action”.
I am here to de-bunk the B.S. alibi that Joe Herrig AKA Suburban Wino is in Wine Country. Supposedly he is visiting Wine Country and is trying to network and see just why all the Atlanta Wine Bloggers keep on ending up in Sonoma County. There are various rumors surrounding what it is that keeps attracting these guys to Sonoma, but the stats are grimm…Atlanta wine bloggers are slowly but surely showing signs of not coming back. Well, in case you are not aware of the Bohemian Grove, there is a good chance that Joe is there now and at some Autumnal Equinox Owl Ceremony. And in case you have not been paying attention, DirtySouthWine has even showed some videos of his canoe conquest into the forbidden grove, dubbed under the moniker The Natural Process Alliance, where he talks about Talons and Falcons. Wine Tonite, Ed Thralls, was done before he even showed up in wine country. Ed admits he did not crack into a bottle of wine when he arrived, instead there are pictures of him in redwoods amidst a campfire.
Now if you believe any of this, you are a sucker. The “Real Deal” is that Joe Herrig is also a stunt man. He has stunt doubled for many unknown actors, which helps explain his fetish for B-rate films, his understanding of fine wine, and his paranoia of having a doppelgänger . As sources have been telling us, he is actually on some tropical isle doing stunts for a re-make of Chuck Norris’ – Missing In Action 1996.
On behalf of BNN ™ I am guest blogging for Joe while he is jumping out of planes and diving through windows. While I do not have Joe’s phantasmal sense of humor, I am relying on my 1.25 prior visits to read SuburbanWino.com to inform me what it is that all of Joe’s viewer(s) are looking for in their thirst for wine knowledge and bizarro humor.
But what I thought we could do while Joe is in “Wine Country” is to see how many actors or personalities that Joe has probably done stunts for. And I apologize in advance for blowing Joe’s cover, but in one quick Google search for images of Joe Herrig or his look a likes - it is clear he is trying to stay off the radar. Click here to see what comes up when you search Joe Herrig (it changes hourly):
So hopefully you made it back after checking an image search for Joe Herrig. What did we learn?
The Suburban Wino avatar is more popular than the real Joe, not a shocker. :)
His lost-twin sister Felice Herrig is an MMA Babe.
There is some 15 year old dweeb that also has the last name Herrig that is probably smarter than Joe & Me times 10.
Joe needs to find a new caricature artist
Joe forgot to introduce me to My Wine Genie , Kiley Baker.
Joe uses an alias when he walks the red carpet at the AVN Awards Ceremony!
So as we move into the wine portion of the blog. I need to stop and give Suburban Wino major credit as he always ties wine into these ridiculous and non-associated topics and does it sinuously. (now I recall why I wanted to do a video blog – writing aint easy)
So in my juvenile hunt for pictures of Joe Herrig, I found it much more entertaining to look for notable entertainers that resemble Joe, than to look for images of Joe.
Now when it comes to wine, and secret lifestyles, there are many wines that live under the radar and need to make a break from the B-rate films, and get onto the red carpet of Americans palates. Just the way we all hope Joe does in his new action re-make “Missing In Action”.
My Missing In Action Grape for you all is the Mencia Grape. The Mencia grape hales from the NorthWestern area in Spain and produces a great wine. I first tried this wine at Terroir in NYC, and it was remarkable. The lady I was dining with, also a wine geek, said I had to try it and compared it to Pinot Noir. I was sold, at Pinot Noir. Now I have a love for Pinot Noir, but I also kind of burned myself out on Pinot Noir, as I drank it non-stop in my early foray into wine, and then I found Grenache…I digress. But what I like about Grenache, Pinot Noir, and Mencia – is their ability to be gamey, funky, and yet fruity. I guess this could be most wines, but these three all have some common traits. They are thin skinned grapes, can show great fruity characteristics, and they can provide a delightful easy on-the-palate wine that can be further assessed for subtle complexities that make you want to drink more. (And please be aware that International Grenache Day is Friday 9/24/10 – so get your #Grenache out!)
Anyway – back to Mencia. Unfortunately, Mencia is about as easy to find as an Atlanta Wine Blogger that stays in Atlanta. I have only had 2 different bottles of Mencia, and that is because I have only ever found 2 Spanish brands in the USA that make Mencia. The most readily available Mencia I have seen is Petalos, from Bierzo, a D.O. known for Mencia. You can also note that for a while Mencia was thought to be a relative of Cab Franc, but has recently been DNA matched to Jean du Dão a Portuguese varietal. I have tried Petalos on 3 separate occasions and have always found it enjoyable. I recommend it as a wine that will not blow you away, but rather is teasing and flirtatious. While it is lighter on the palate, it suggests deeper darker secrets, just so long as you serve it at ambient temperature and give it some room to breathe. I found darker fruits on the 07 and not as much earth and forest floor funk as I would have liked to. But I promise, Mencia has some dark magic powers that will make you wish more importers were bringing it in. You might also find it curious that this Missing In Action grape has no planted vines in the USA. Not as far I have seen or heard. Also if you find some Mencia wine, you can also chalk up another point on your wine century chart.
And the message I’d like to leave us all with is: stay thirsty and remember just how BIG the world of wine is.
And the question I’d like to leave you with:
What are your thoughts on Mencia? And what actor would Joe be the best stunt double for?
Monday, June 14, 2010
GUEST POST! "Now is the time in Myrtle Beach when we eat!"
As the wife and I settle into less-than-no sleep, some friends have stepped up and brought some entertaining guest posts to the table. When my neighbor Chris wanted to talk about some German restaurants in Myrtle Beach, SC, I thought, "South Carolinian German cuisine is really random...will anyone want to read it?" Then I realized that "random" is sort of the modus operandi of most blog posts here. Furthermore, after (finally...sorry, Chris) getting around to reading his draft, I must say that it is a really humorous take on an under-appreciated culinary tradition, all taking place in the Coney Island of the South. While the opinions stated do not necessarily reflect my own, I will say that I too am enamored with anything "Airwolf". Prost! -Joe
Because Joe is busy with the little munchkin, I was asked to write a guest post in exchange for him pickup up my mail and watering my garden. I must say I was honored to be given such an illustrious task to become the Suburbanwino.com Chief Foreign Correspondent. This post was a difficult one to write, considering the location being a culinary wasteland and devoid of wine that can’t be purchased at Wal-Mart. I bring to you fine lad and/or lass, a humble review of dining in the strange and foreign port city of Myrtle Beach located on the coast of South Carolina.
This isn’t a blog post about wine, because in Myrtle Beach there are two kinds, red and white. It is difficult to find vino made from muscadine grapes and that crap is produced locally! No my good readers, this blog post is about food and beer. With the hundreds of not-so fine eateries on the Grand Strand I had to focus my effort. The natural inclination would be to go for seafood. However, the seafood restaurants are nothing but Calabash (deep fried everything) buffets and chain restaurants such as Joe's Crab Shack and Red Dumpster. I was determined to try some for the sake of journalistic integrity. So I summoned the courage to enter into one location (see picture with lobster fornicating with a mini-van) and after being greeted by the saddest looking pirate and a woman who was in shorts about 3 sizes too small, I took a look at the unholy offering before me (only $17.99 – a bargain in Myrtle), and did what any self-respecting human would do, turned around and walked out the door.
This experience left me with one other option to write about, German food! I had discovered on the internet that there existed two German restaurants in the Myrtle Beach area. Both claimed to be authentic but had completely different styles and atmospheres. The two contenders are Horst Gasthaus located in the suburban friendly North Myrtle Beach and Bodo’s German Restaurant and Pub, located in the heart of the Beirut-esque downtown of Myrtle Beach. Each restaurant has a distinctive nature that mirrors Germany of different eras. One is Sgt. Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes and the other is Dieter from Sprockets. Who will emerge victorious as the Kaiser of Myrtle Beach?
I took the family first to Horst Gasthaus. This quaint little restaurant is styled in the traditional Bavarian lodge. A good deal of the employees, including ownership and wait staff are from Germany. Every night after 6:00PM an accordion player performs music from popular polkas and other international tunes. I ordered the Horst Gasthaus Platte which consisted of Sauerbraten, Bratwurst, Knackwurst, dumpling, red cabbage, and sauerkraut. I must say I was not disappointed! The sauerbraten (roast beef in brown gravy) was tender and the Bratwurst and Knackwurst was terrific with the sauerkraut. The kraut was some of the best I’ve have here in the states, it was fresh but not bitter. The red cabbage was bright red and very sweet, a delight to eat. The potato pancakes my party ordered on the side were also delicious. And to top it off, I washed it all down with a half-liter of Maisel’s Weisse, a wonderful hefe that had a light, nutty, and clean flavor. It paired nicely with my meal. I also sampled the Bitburger Pilsner but found it a little two plain for my tastes but would work for someone who likes a lighter beer. Their menu selection of beers was small but of good quality. After having a delightful experience at Horst, I set my sites on Bodo’s German Restaurant and Pub. I have to say I didn’t know what to expect, reviews of the place were mixed and without a website to visit, all I could gather was that it was “eclectic.” So as we made our way through downtown Beirut Myrtle Beach, we had no idea what was waiting for us on the other side. As we entered the restaurant, we were first greeted to a unique smell of mold, cigarette smoke, and broken dreams. Apparently “eclectic” in Myrtle Beach means crap collected from the past 30 years stapled up on the wall. Everything from beer posters, bowling trophies, and a bust of Jesus, was used to decorate the restaurant. I knew we were in for trouble when I was seated next to a memorial poster of Princess Diana. Looking back on it, it seemed as if she was trying to warn us from beyond the grave not to eat the food, just like she used to warn children not to play with landmines. While I am at fault for ignoring this warning, I do have to say the picture of Jan-Michael Vincent (star of TV’s Airwolf) caught my attention and 80’s nostalgia filled my heart until the food arrived. I ordered the sausage sampler with family sauerkraut recipe, German potato salad, and red cabbage. I can’t begin to tell you fine folks how disappointing the food was. The sausages were clearly from Johnsonville and Jimmy Dean, the family recipe for the sauerkraut tasted like it came from a can, the same goes for the cabbage, dull and flavorless. To make matters worse, the selection of German beers was thin (St. Pauli Girl doesn’t count because it is made for export) and the Franziskaner Hefe (a solid and dependable beer) was served slightly below room temperature, yuck!
There you have it folks, if you’re in the Myrtle Beach area (which I do not recommend), save yourself from fornicating lobsters and Sprockets America….enjoy the good ole fashion German food and accordion music at Horst Gasthaus. Sgt. Schultz would be proud!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
GUEST POST! The Wussification, Castration, and Consternation of the American Man
Disclaimer: the opinions presented here are not necessarily the opinions of SuburbanWino.com. That being said, they are going to either entertain you or anger you greatly. I love when my friend Brad- aka "Wild Hog"- writes a guest post, because I know, if anything, it's going to be passionate and visceral. And while it's not about food or wine, it's probably a discussion sparked by a little too much of both.As for me, I'm taking the night off. Cheers! -Joe
Good, now that we have gotten that out of the way it is time to get back to the “Hall of Justice”.
I have been contemplating the ills of our society and what possible solutions their might be.
I will start with one of the roots that lead to our wussified society….. Political correctness. Really,…… On a date (well, a hook up) recently the lovely young lady that was allowed the pleasure of enjoying my company was upset when I referred to the three gay guys that live next door as my “Gaybors”. This is a term that I coined 6 years ago when I purchased my home soon learning that I had 3 gay guys living next door. She was offended by this term and proceeded to lambaste me. People figure it out! They’re gay and neighbors. It’s not an insult, it’s a fact. Chastity Bono is not a guy because she cuts off her boobs and digs chicks. But our politically correct government says “Oh yes she is”. B.S.! No amount of mechanical man junk changes your sex. People don’t fall prey to this stupidity! Life is black and white! Don’t allow your children to play sports where there are no losers. This also means there will be no winners. Seriously, dodgeball is gone and “Rope free” jump roping is part of physical education now. We are not preparing kids for life. There is no work-free job or rewards for just showing up.
My jump rope...
Secondly, some of you may not have heard but Michael Jackson passed away. Yes, I know, just terrible. And evidently more important than the collapse of our economy and the wars our boys are fighting. This man (refer to the previous paragraph, he was technically a man) allegedly had inappropriate interactions with children. His supporters say he is innocent until proven guilty. Really….. these donkeys are the same people who believed that “If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit”. Donte' Stallworth was freed after 24 days in prison after killing a man in March. Part of the lighter sentence is a direct result of his coming to a financial settlement with the
family before his trial. Nice sell out, literally. The parents of the children that “The King of POP” allegedly enjoyed “Jesus Juice” with- and who knows what the hell else- are just as bad. Good job, you donkeys. You sold out your children’s soul for a few shekels. Or, at least, you trained your child to lie in the first place for your own personal gain. Either way, your first mistake was the one that we know you made. You let your child spend the night with a man that bought “the elephant man’s bones” and refers to himself as “Peter Pan”.Why are you fruitcakes so enamored with this man’s life and death? Instead of running to TMZ every 5 minutes, why don’t you study NAFTA for that allotted time and start studying the candidates for the next election.
Cowardly Punks.
Now last but certainly not least, if you have or have had any of the following (or dated someone who did) it might be in your best interest to just stop reading now:
1. An Ed Hardy T-Shirt (or Affliction)
2. A faux hawk (Colored or frosted tips with Gel)
3. Tattoos on your neck, face, or small of the back
4. A picture of yourself kissing to the camera.
5. And yes AXE Body spray.
FORGET IT, SCREW YOU!! Read away; maybe you’ll learn something.
It all started several years back when one beautiful young lady (not the one pictured) realized there were almost no real men left in this land. Her sadness and desperation led her down a dark path filled with over-tatted puffs that wore women’s clothing. This was the birth of the “Metro Sexual”. The Metro (like all things douche) would evolve and eventually have a bastard child. This child was hideous! It smelled of Axe body spray, had really bad tattoos in even worse locations, gelled hair with frosted tips, and enjoyed the benefits of HGH and gold chains with crosses on them hanging down on their cleanly shorn chests.Not to fear! Our people made a deal with their king. Yes, the mastermind behind Von Douche and Ed Hardy. The king’s name was Christian Audigier. The king promised to mark his subjects with slightly tilted hats with straight brims and yes… yes.. shirts with ED HARDY and Affliction written on them. The treaty was made and until now our side has sworn not to break it. That was until recent matters forced action …..our breed is in danger. This new über-race of metro is now intermingling with our women. That’s right…. This sick, terrible abomination has now begun to infect our people. They can be seen interacting with our feminine prizes at locations like East Andrews and Tin Lizzy’s.
Now, it is time for our people to rise up! That’s right… Go out right now and get a can of Copenhagen, a pair of Levis, don’t shave (anywhere, except possibly your face), open the door for your lady friend (be a gentleman, not a donkey), and these actions will strike a heavy blow for our side. If you start to feel weak, I have a few tips that will help you continue in the good fight:
-Rent “The Quiet Man” Starring John Wayne
-Have a sip of Jack Daniels (with water, not Diet Coke and lime, you Sally)
-Revisit the incredible lives and times of two great American Men! Mr. Pat Tillman (and while you’re at it, have a Guinness in his honor) and Mr. Bob Kalsu (Google him, you Mary!)
Good luck out there. I wish you the best. Oh… and by the way if you disagree with any of this, you are part of the problem, not part of the solution.
MAN UP!
That is all.
MAN UP!
That is all.
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