1. Last Saturday, my friend Jen and I met a guy with the most ridiculous (read: lame) tattoo. We were at World of Beer, and bumped into this guy twice. Amid his drunken ramblings and psychotic obsession with trying to buy us beer, he whipped out a very new (according to him) and very colorful tattoo of Evil Jiminy Cricket. I looked on Google Images, there is no picture of Evil Jiminy Cricket. However, my crude doctoring of Regular Jiminy Cricket isn't too far from the real thing and just as shitty:
He wanted our honest opinion. Some gems we threw out:
-"She did a good job for what it is."
-"I think you will one day regret that."
He then went on this tangent about this bromance he had going on with this other dude who he called Evil Jiminy Cricket and that the tattoo was a way to have his friend with him always. It came off as kind of a memorial tribute, which would have been sweet--had his friend been dead. However, his friend wasn't (as evidenced by a text message exchange Ridiculous Drunk Guy showed us), so it just came off as creepy and incredibly stupid. Ridiculous Drunk Guy then went on to say that the Evil Jiminy Cricket tat would prevent people from thinking he's a "gangster," a problem he apparently had when he got his first tattoo, which is the Latin word for "brother," on the back of his arm. Jen and I refrained from making any overtly smart-ass replies. It was really hard for us, because Ridiculous Drunk Guy looked like this:
|Except in a striped polo and cargo shorts|
Yeah, okay, guy. You're "G." Riiiigggghhhhttt. I'll bet that's why you're not getting laid. The ladies are just too intimidated by your gangsta swagger. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're a huge dork who has a FUCKING EVIL JIMINY CRICKET TATTOO.
2. Earlier this week, I accidentally called Nessie "Bessie," which made my friend Kristina laugh at me. Joke's on her, though, because Bessie is also a bad ass sea monster who could fuck your shit up if you got in her path. Don't believe me? Here's pictorial evidence of Bessie in action:
|Bessie. That other sea monster.|
3. Last night, I had to stop by Walmart to get a few groceries. It had been awhile since the sweet, sweet elixir of moscato had touched my lips, so I picked up a bottle. That bottle was then bagged in the shittiest plastic bag ever, because as I was walking to my car, the bag ripped and my wine fell out. On the pavement. I had a mini panic attack. Apparently the other two people who were also walking in the same direction as me did too, because all three of us stopped, and waited with baited breath as I picked up the bottle and examined it: not broken! As soon as I made that proclamation, we all breathed an audible and collective sigh of relief and continued on our merry little ways. For that brief moment, however, those two other people shared in my despair at my wine possibly being ruined, and we were all united as one.
Wine. Bringing people together since man discovered fermentation.
Guess I should go eat food now and continue with my solo and early St. Patrick's Day celebration, which does NOT make me an alcoholic. Speaking of St. Patrick's Day, have fun, but don't be this guy: