Editor's Note: This is the second, and most likely last, part of a series tentatively called "The 12 Habits of Almost Complete Failures in Life: Counterintuitive Non-Sense Based on Empty Rhetoric." Scroll down or click here to see Part I.

We are what we repeatedly do.
We are nothing because repeatedly we never do anything.
-Someone less successful than Aristotle

Who we are, in simple terms, boils down to what we do.  In other words our actions, not our dialogue, define us.  And our actions are, mostly, made up by what has become known as our habits.  Most of the things that we do—brushing our teeth, wiping our butts, flinging our boogers at random women’s faces on the bus, other activities that aren’t examples of our wonderful personal hygiene—are things that we do over and over and over again, every day, every time we are in a certain situation (going to bed, pooping, riding the bus, etc.). 

We all know how hard a habit can be to break.  Some habits are super-physically addicting, as in the “if I don’t do heroin right now I will go through heavy withdrawal and probably discover a way to chew off my own face” habit.  Some habits are less physically addicting, but still effect our body, such as the “if I don’t have a bump of coke, or at least a drag of a Pal-Ma, right now then I am going to start shaking uncontrollably and fall to the ground like a malfunctioning Japanese robot who also is addicted to crack” habit.  And some aren’t really physically addicting at all, but are so engrained in our brains that when the situation arises, we have to take advantage of it.  These habits include the “anytime I am the only person home and the Internet isn’t out I will masturbate continuously until someone else shows up” habit and “it’s 2:49 P.M. and I am suppose to be doing something else, so I need to find a place where I am alone with Internet access to masturbate” habit.  We will not die, or physically shake, if we do not fulfill these needs or follow through on these opportunities, but in our mind—we might as well be.

Now-a-days it seems that most people do not take the time to analyze their habits.  Sure they might notice something if they are a crack addict or are hypnotized to get naked every time someone quotes Ace Ventura and says “Alrighty then,” but most of the things we constantly do are far more subtle than that.  They are so engrained into our being, so entrenched into our lives, that we do them without ever really understanding why.  We bite our nails, repeat words like “sick” or “ballin” to describe cool things, and jerk off every afternoon without taking the time to truly realize what we are doing and why we are doing it.

Habits exist for all of us.  We all have certain ones that impact the way we see the world, as well as how the world sees us.  For instance, I have a habit of looking over the wall of the urinal when I am pissing in public restrooms and, if I like what I see, telling my broom mate that he has a "nice dick bro."  Often this is not a completely conscious decision.  I am tall enough to see over the wall, curious enough to want to learn what my fellow man is packing, and compassionate enough to let him know that I may be impressed.  Those are facets of my character and personality that are revealed through my actions.  So in a way that one particular habit shows the world something about me; that I use my height to satisfy my curiosity about other men’s penises.

Habits, as opposed to actions that are irregular or abnormal, have a way of doing that.  For example, let's say that you are someone who sees a baby who somehow got trapped under a Monster Truck and, in a moment of inhuman adrenaline, lifted the truck up to save the small infant’s life.  That is a great feat.  You would forever be labeled a “hero” and deservedly so.  But, unless you are John Claude Van Damme, or some other action hero with four names, this is not a “habit” or a regular action for you in any way.  The world will forever see you as a hero, even though you will likely never do anything that heroic again.  You will forever exist as an icon of courage, even though you will never even be considered as a possible cast member for the next Expendables movie. 

My point here is that heroic actions, while fine and good and certainly badass, do not define us as people.  Brief moments of Stallone type strength do not show the world who we are.  But our habits, the regular, monotonous, self-destructive things we do day after day after day, they are the truest demonstration of who we are as people and what we stand for.  They show everyone around us that we may, or may not, be what they thought we were. 

We are what we do.  And we do what we are.

Now successful people, and the best-selling book I am not so subtly mocking here that was written about them, they have habits too.  There are things they do often, things that help make them productive and efficient members of society.  They, the successful, are different than we, the almost complete failures, are so they must be doing different things.  Based on the last two sentences I wrote in the section above—there’s really no arguing that.

The problem is that, while our habits remain harmless and unchanged, the successful don’t see themselves as people who are now and always will stay set in their ways.  Basically this means that successful, efficient and productive people have bad habits engrained into their consciousness the same as we do, but instead of embracing them and using their height advantage to check out other guys’ dongs, they try to transform themselves and break the bad habits that come along with their existence. 

Therefore instead of embracing who they are as people the successful and efficient men and women of society will always, in some way or another, be trying to change.  Instead of getting drunk every Friday, as is the almost complete failure’s one objective during this holy time that commemorates the end of a work week that we probably did not participate in, successful people may, against their own intuition, stay home so they aren’t hung over for their child’s little league game the next morning.  Is it admirable that a father or mother may want their child to know that they are capable of showing them sober affection? I guess it could be seen as such.  But it’s also disgusting that people would put their own “success” either with their family, their business, or their God, ahead of what makes them the unique human being that they are.  And, if you aren’t getting hammed face on a Friday night—then that’s exactly what you are doing. You are saying success is more important than humaness.  And that is something we will never agree with.

Which brings us back to well us—the almost complete failures.  Our habits, like the habits of the productive or efficient, are clear-cut and in many ways obvious.  The difference is both 1-what are habits are, and 2-How we prioritize our life to form them.  While the successful try to change themselves and their habits, putting their own success in one aspect of life or another ahead of their human nature, we do the opposite.  Our successes and failures are not our concerns; that’s for the outside world and their perceptions.  Because we will not change. We will not chew Handz Off Anti-Masturbation gum in order to curb our favorite afternoon activity and enhance our chances of getting more work done or finally making it into the Nights of Columbus.

And we shouldn't. This series will never encourage you to change who you are because that’s not the point.  The point is for the world around us to learn that almost complete failures have a voice.  That we understand who we are.  That we will try our damndest to party our dicks (or vaginas) off and laugh in the faces of those who judge us for it. That we are loud and we are proud and we believe that our priorities are what make the world go round. That we can semi-intentionally rhyme stuff in a shittily written blog post.

The point is that our habits define us.  We are not Stallone’s.  We are not Van Damme’s.  We cannot stop looking over the wall of the urinal and telling our fellow man that they have a “nice dick bro.”  And even if we could, we would choose not to.

Our habits—alcoholism, drug abuse, unabashed masturbation, misspelling words, not being able to afford Arby’s, constantly Tweeting the word “penis” even though our mothers beg us to stop as if it is not the anatomically correct word for someone’s wiener—and our inability to care about changing them is what makes us almost complete failures.  Earlier I told you who we were. Now I am beginning to tell you why.

Because, once again, this is an anthropological study into almost complete failurehood and what makes it.  And what makes us who we are is not the one moment of love and compassion we show our child when they are getting picked on by a bully or crack their head open because they have a learning disability and think they are Spider Man, but the trips, one after another, to the strip club where we drop our kid back stage and hit up the Champagne Room to try and pull a strippers digits (see YouTube video below).  What makes us who we are is not the one instance where we see a squirrel in the middle of the road, swerve to avoid killing it and end up crashing into a tree and giving ourselves whiplash, but the million other instances where we realize that a squirrel is a rodent and our necks are part of a human body and therefore get our priorities straightened out by not swerving or slowing down to avoid the critter in the road and harm it, instead of ourselves, in the process.  What makes us who we are is not the time we worked hard, saved up to buy a new sports jacket from JC Penny and aced the job interview at Lowe's Hardware, but the time we bought a ballin suit on our parent’s credit card and wore it on the train for no other reason than the fact that we wanted to sport it in front of as many gold digging babes who might confuse us for Investment Bankers as possible.

What matters is not what we do one time, but what we do over and over again.  That, and our reaction to the world’s perception of it, is what makes us who we are.

That’s why we are almost complete failures.  Not because we choose to be once in a while, but because almost every thing we've ever done made that choice for us.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since July 13th is a healthy +548 (512-inbox, 488-sent, 22 from females), which is pretty much a technological orgy for me at this point.  Also my Twitter popularity score has reached an all-time high of 303 followers so...I am pretty much 3 points more popular than Gerard Butler was when he was all jacked up in that movie about Greek homosexual warriors or whatever.

As for Big Ups this week, I have one special one to send out to my dude Ace for his love, support, tenderness and finding the YouTube video below and putting it on my wall.  Unreal.

Back next week with maybe some sort of creative subject matter.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"

 
 
Editor n' Chief's Note: Farting in Public is Fun.  You know what else is fun?  Mocking successful and talented people who write about other "successful" people.  So, on that note, I present to you an excerpt from my upcoming anthropological masterpiece, tentatively titled "The 12 Habits of Almost Complete Failures in Life: Counterintuitive Non Sense Based on Empty Rhetoric," which--based on its title--will likely never be published, purchased, or even elaborated on further. Hope you enjoy.

There is nothing you can do that is good
If there is no one who saw it and can tell you that it is good
-Someone, somewhere, at some point in history

In my almost 25 years of breathing oxygen, masturbating to Internet porn, and guzzling a delicious mix of Jim Beam and Budweiser (blame my mother’s breast milk for getting me hooked), I have come in contact with many people who have an iron-clad commitment to moral virtue and a deep sense of personal ethics, but have found themselves struggling; struggling to get layed, struggling to not drive a 1986 Honda Accord, struggling to tell people about their lives without the listener bursting into uncontrollably mean-spirited laughter.

I suspect that some of these problems, which I am just now making up in my brain, sound familiar to you:

I’ve set my career goals, and woke up one morning determined to accomplish them.  Then I realized that I didn’t even have a job and before I could start looking for one I discovered a Ren and Stimpy marathon on illegallypiratedTV.tv. It’s now 4 years later and my mom just bought me a super pack of boxers from the American Eagle outlet store.

I’ve started a new diet—for the 18th time this year.  I know I’ve overweight and I really don’t want to be.  I also know it’s January 18th, and my McDonald’s frequent Big Mac’s buyers punch card has already been marked 37 times.

I’ve taken course after course in time management, which is ironic—because taking a four-hour class about how to brush my teeth in 17 seconds instead of 28 is a giant waste of time.

My teenage son is rebellious and loves to party.  I’m only 22 and I have a teenage son. I haven’t partied since I was 9.

I see my friends or relatives achieve some measure of success.  Actually I don’t see them do anything of importance because I am out smoking drugs in the parking lot during all of their graduations, weddings, etc.

My marriage has gone flat.  My wife is Persian and I spent my lifesavings to bring her to America.  Now she is banging every dude in California and starring in low-budget softcore porns on Showtime.

These are deep problems.  Some are painful physically.  Some are painful emotionally.  Some, like watching Ren and Stimpy or smoking drugs, really are designed to take away pain—and usually do a damn fine job of it.  But all of them are, in one way or another, problems.  All of them make you a failure in the eyes of other people, which therefore makes you a failure in the real world.

Now I am not trying to put anyone down here.  In fact I can empathize with this very predicament. I know what you all are going through, because I am almost a failure as well.  In fact if I didn’t have possession of my parent’s credit card, and they didn’t work very hard so they could buy me Qudoba and then chastise me about my lack of independence every second of every day, my life would probably look worse than your’s.  My “success” is not my own—my parent’s still put a roof over my head, feed me, do my laundry, pay for my cellphone, car, gas, insurance and PS3 games, and allow me to drink any alcohol which may be in their possession—but that doesn’t mean I will not take credit for it.  I am upper-middle class, and I do not have a pure enough heart to want to earn that distinction on my own.

Even if you do however, that desire alone does nothing for you.  Like Andre Agassi once said: Image is everything.  If you aren’t wearing ballin’ ass suits, drivin a fly whip, or taking enough money out of the ATM to buy yourself a high class ho’ every Tuesday and Friday night, then you haven’t made it.  You can have all the inner peace you want, all the charitable characteristics that can fulfill your need to help others, and that, by itself, will never be enough.  Andre Agassi (arguably my favorite athlete of all-time) may have smoked Angel Dust and wore a strange mullet wig, but he went on to use all his money to become one of the most philanthropic famous people who ever existed.  And he still said that image is reality.  He still understood the meaning of “success”

My point here is that being a good person does not make you a success or a failure in our world, other people’s judgements do.  Realizing this, and deciding to be unsuccessful anyway, is the first step into being an almost complete failure, which is what I am; a youngish man-child who has yet to become a grown up.  I am someone who, by any objective measure, could be called at least somewhat of a disappointment.  I could be called lazy, immature, or desensitized.  I could be called politically unaware, unconcerned, or unsympathetic.  I could be called a moocher, a financial pariah, or someone too willing to live off his parent’s money.  I could be called a failure.

Which doesn’t mean that I am one.  It just means that I am close. I enjoy my life.  I do not want to change and grow up and become a productive member of society. That’s why I am trying to peddle this Internet site, despite its potential financial earnings of $0/fiscal quarter.  Because, in lack of better words, getting drunk on a weeknight is more fun than selling life insurance to people who are too fat to ever qualify for it.

And that's the difference between me, and the others in my stead, and the people I have completely made up in my brain and quoted above.  I know that getting drunk on a Tuesday because I have no job to get up for the next morning and no money of my own means that I am, by the definition of the word, not a doing “well” by any stretch of the imagination.  But I also don't care.  I am not a complete failure because I decide not to chase success, while the people above did and ultimately failed. That, their inability to either achieve at least a modest amount of "success" or embrace their own failure, is why they suck. That may sound blunt and overly honest, but it’s also true. Those are just the stone, cold facts homies. 

Look in the end I do not think that you need to drive a Mercedes to be a success, but you do need to have the keys to at least a relatively new Ford Focus.  You don’t need to go on a shopping spree in the Armani suit department to be doing well, but you do need to be able to buy your own cargo shorts at Old Navy.  You don’t need the whole world to pat you on the back or bend over and take your every whim up the b-hole to be a productive member of society, but you do need them to look at you and acknowledge that you are doing no worse than “just fine” for yourself.

Perception is reality.  Success is what we determine it to be.  You are not doing “just fine” for yourself if no one else can say that about you with a straight face.  And that’s OK. Because doing “just fine” is for mature people who want to live in the suburbs.  That’s not me.  That’s not the people who live their lives like I live mine.

Which is why we are here.  This is not meant to be an anthropological study into success.  This is meant to be an anthropological study into almost complete failure (otherwise known as complete failure for people who care) and what makes it what it is. 

This is an anthropological study, based on no facts or research other than me living my own life and not reading enough books while doing it, about myself and people like me.   People with no jobs and not enough money.  People who may want to be writers, artists or movie stars yet have either no discernable talent, or no discernable talent that anyone else can recognized.  People who embrace capitalism without making it their bitch yet.

People who are ineffective, and don’t want to change it.  People who want to be drunk and lazy and maybe one day find their way to success with little or no effort all at the same time.

That is who I am.  And this is the beginning of the story as to why.

We Are Almost Complete Failures: A Manifesto
We are sons and daughters; brothers and sisters; more than likely accidental fathers and mothers to alcohol and PCP abusers.  We are everything but husbands and wives.  We will never be able to afford a diamond engagement ring, or even afford to wear one without hawking it at our local Pawn Shop or using it as our entry fee when we sign up with a new prostitution ring.

We are men and women who, like our bastard children, consume alcohol, and maybe hardcore drugs if we found Uma Thurman’s overdose in Pulp Fiction to be arousing instead of a terrifying warning not to do awesome stuff.  We feel better we when are inebriated, and we should.  Getting drunk must be fun or no one would be doing it.

Besides getting hammered, we also masturbate and watch TV and sometimes we do them at the same time.  Kelly Ripa is hot.  We don’t have anything else to do all day.  Sometimes the Internet porn is cranking just a little too slow.  You do the math on what happens when our hands and down our pants and we are watching daytime television.

The only reason we may not be watching daytime television is that we are asleep.  We like to sleep. We like to sleep a lot.  Like 10 hours a day.  Or 12.  Or 18.  We probably need at least a little more time in the sack than the 195-year-old queen of England.  If we don’t get our two-digit plus hours every single night, we are monsters.  If God won’t let us drift off into our dreams on our own, we chug Nyquil.

We chug everything we drink.  Whiskey at night.  Gatorade in the morning.  Cheap coffee and monster energy drinks when we are tired from our 9-5 "lay down on the couch and don’t move" session.  We do not sip green tea with a sprinkle of lemon.  We have never stuck our pinky out awkwardly from the handle of the cup as we do it.  We are not British.  People who we claim as ancestors, yet have absolutely no biological ties to us whatsoever, beat the God damn Lobster Backs’ asses in two wars to ensure that.  We clearly don’t understand history very well.

We may have gone to college; we may not have.  We may be able to pass the GED test; we may not be.  We may know how to read good; but we probably cannot.  But we, the jobless, the drunk, the uninformed, the pretty dumb, the lazy, the guys who spill sauce all over our crotch every time we eat spaghetti, we, the people who do not know how to work washing machines or spell the word "immeiadetly," we, the men and women who buy breakfast, lunch and dinner off the McDonald’s value menu because we cannot work a stove or afford to pay a gas bill, we will be heard.

Our lives will be investigated.  Our patterns will be dissected.  The world will learn why we are the way we are.

The world will hear our story because, at some point in the future, I will tell it to you.   And at that point you will discover one thing: you will want to be more like us, not less.

We may not be successes.  We may be almost complete failures.  But we don't care because we know that we will have our day in the whiskey soaked sun.

And you, my rich and well-to-do friends, will be very, very jealous of us when that time finally comes.

We may not be productive members of society, and that’s OK. Because, everything we do, is productive enough for us to get drunk and sleep in our parent’s attics until we are 29.  Everything we do is productive enough for us to live life the way it is meant to be lived.

Fat, drunk and stupid may be no way for you to go through your life. 

But that will never stop us from going that way with ours.

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you, by the clear and unalterable definition word, MUST know the Sack is back from his vacation to his Kirkwood, MO mansion and ready to rock your socks off.  And one of the reasons why I am so comfortable in my stroke at this point in time is because, at almost 25 years of age, I have seen the light.  Like America I am ready to grow up.  At least it didn't take me quite 236 years.

The reason I am telling you all this is because I recently attended the gentile ceremony for grown up people.  That's right ladies and gents--I just attended a wedding.  Now to be fair I had attended weddings before, but this one was different.  I wasn't a 6-year-old ring barrier here.  I was a adult contemporary, a friend of the groom, the only guy who knows that sporting a neck beard with your Josef A Bank suit is proper nuptial guest edict. 

I was a grown up, attending a grown up ceremony, were words like "love" and "caring" were said with heartfelt emotion and meaning and not accompanied by Edwin McCain background vocals.  I was an (alcoholic) man-child standing in the ungoldly heat and praying to God that the open bar would open in the next 2.5 seconds. I was an adult who clapped when the ceremony was over and winked at the bride's grandma when she walked past me as I was entering the men's room.

I was a wedding guest.  I was (arguably) the drunkest guy there.  I was the one who fell in love.

With the flask of Jim Beam I snuck into the bathroom and chugged in the stall.  That was true happiness.  That was true bliss.

And that my friends is what weddings are supposed to be all about in the first place.

Carbondale = Butt Hurt...by a part of the Sack's anatomy
So now that I have offended by married friends by belittling their union and degrading their classy and pretty GD awesome ceremony into little more than a meaningless moment where a solitary man chugged Jim Beam in what may or may not be the men's bathroom...let me back track and tell you all what I learned from my wedding weekend in Carbondale, IL...dairy style (spoiler alert: it involves the terms "butt," "hurt," and bucket of ice retrieved from the surprisingly well functioning ice machine on the 2nd floor of the Comfort Inn and Suites).

Friday, June 29
1:38 P.M.-I depart St. Louis and begin heading south through the state of Illinois.  Fireworks are now illegal.  Which brings me to one question and one question only: if I can't shoot roman candles at my friends testicles...then what is this all been about?  What am I working towards?

2:51 P.M.-I'm listening to Hot 104.1, St. Louis' finest hip hope and R&B sung mostly by black people, when my radio turns to static. Good bye black music.  It looks like Southern Illinois has got you now.

3:51 P.M.-I arrive in Carbondale, check into my room at the Comfort Inn and Suites (I apparently missed out on that whole suites part) and send the following tweet/facebook status: Dear Carbondale, I hope you are ready to get butt hurt.  Cause that's where I'm putting all 4.6666667 inches of my penis this weekend. 

4:11 P.M.-I drive across the street to the liquor store.  As soon as I walk in I look behind the counter and discover that there is a drive through window.  I immeiadetly (still can't spell that word) get walk out of the store, get in my 2006 Ford Explorer and turn towards the drive through.

4:13 P.M.-I order a case of Busch Light and a handle of Jim Beam. Or, as they call it in Carbondale, "The upper-middle class folk special."

4:15-6 P.M.-I sit by myself drinking BL Regulars (aka Bush Light) in my hotel room.  I fell like this kind of moment has been and will continue to be far too frequent in my life.

6:02 P.M.-I load up my cooler with BL Regulars, drag it into the elevator (where I am standing with 6 or 8 elderly people who thought The Dale was the perfect end of June 15th honeymoon/deathbed vacation spot), through the lobby, out into the 108 degree hot, across a state highway, into the lobby of the swanky Holiday Inn across the street, through its lobby, up its elevator and into room 221.

6:14 P.M.-I reach room 221 where my boys Ream, Brit, and Stromboli are staying.  Within a few seconds we crack a few BL Regulars and close the blinds to keep the sun from reflecting off Brit's bald dome and directly into our eye sockets.

6:23 P.M.-Brit, Ream and Stromboli inform me that they are leaving to go to the Rehersal dinner that I am unceremoniously banned from attending.

6:24 P.M.-I drag my cooler out of the room, down the elevator, through the Holiday Inn lobby, out into the 108 degree heat, across the state highway, into the Comfort Inn, up the elevator (where I am curiously standing with the same 6 or 8 elderly people who apparently consider the elevator to be some sort of crazy amusment park ride they've never seen before) and back into my room.

6:57 P.M.-Booman, my roommate for the weekend, arrives. 

7:29 P.M.-We crush some Dominos and Beam, or as they call it in The Dale, the 4th most expensive meal in town.

8-10 P.M.-Booman and I watch Smackdown and pound Beam.  I am somewhere between 75 and 400% aroused during this entire time period.

11:02 P.M.-Me, Booman, Ream, Brit and Stromboli roll to the Penny Pitcher (aka the hottest club in The Dale) where we meet Iain, Danny Mush, and Kyle the brother of the bride and by far the most attractive person I have seen in person since I was one of 4 people who attended the first reading ever of Chad Michael Murray's graphic novel in Biloxi.

11:03 P.M.-To put this in perspective Kyle looks like a mix of a young Ed McMahon, that dude from Burn Notice and the non-famous guy in 3 Men and a Baby (no not Magnum P.I. or the guy from Becker) with the body of a 5'8" AC Slater.  It's like I'm hanging out with a non-Latino angel right now.  A right angle. Haha...get it. 

11:11 P.M.-I'm pretty upset that the Penny Pincher had a five dollar cover charge...until I step up to the bar and realize that they have no concept of money in The Dale.  I get a 2 whiskey cokes, a '95 Pontiac Grand Prix, a frozen reproductive sample from 1980 Olympic 100 meter champion Allan Wells  (aka the one white guy who ever won because of the US boycott) and the Lance Armstrong testicle from the movie Ted for $2.75...otherwise known as 19 billion Canadian dollars (or 22 trillion worthy of whatever the hell French Canadien money is called).

Saturday, June 30
12:02 A.M.-I'm feeling pretty good when Ream and I start playing this game where I slap him in the face because I am a foot taller and roughly 100 pounds heavier than him...and he runs to the bathroom so no one sees him crying in public.  You may call me a bully, but I am actually performing a service for a good friend. I am making sure Ream doesn't like getting hit in the face...after all no one wants to be one of those weirds who pays dominatrix money for that very privilege every day.

12:19 A.M.-I got to slap Ream when he ducks and I end up jacking Kyle right in the jaw with all of my Butterbean level force.  This angel of a man looks at me, instantly forgives my transgression and goes home with some chica.  And thus ends the first night of my love affair with God's perfect creature.

1:07 A.M.-The Penny Pitcher dance floor is getting insane! Every person in the Dale is grindin on a broad by now.  I am standing directly by myself directly in the center of the dance floor staring right into every dude near me's eyes.  I roughly 1/3rd as aroused as I was watching Smackdown. Jackpot.

1:43 A.M.-We are leaving the Penny Pitcher.  I have spent $29...or approximately 3x the revenue of The Dale's highest grossing car dealership "Big Don's Country Rib Market and Go-Cart emporium."

2:14 A.M.-Me, Booman, Ream and Stromboli end up at the local Steak n' Shake, where I obviously order a guacomle burger. Look, if there is one thing The Dale's Steak n' Shake is know for it's the freshness of their avocados, and based on our waitress...not giving their employees decent dental insurance.

11 A.M.-1 P.M.-Me and Booman wake up in our room and start watching TrueTV. I nearly murder myself. So, yeah...we clearly had a nice little Saturday planned.

1:09 P.M.-We roll to the Holiday Inn pool where I disrobe (completely?) and am quickly asked by a my of the several female gawkers if I am a body builder.  I tell them I lifted weights 4 times and have a gotten 137 punchers on my Cici's pizza frequent eaters card. (Inside joke here) But I do know a ripped guy who once benched 185 pounds 7 times at the Lawrenceburg, Indiana combine for Special Olympic athletes who are made fun of by other Special Olympians because they still wear rec specs and it isn't 1988 so, by the transitive property...yeah I'm pretty yoked. (This is really mean, but I am pretty sure the guy this joke was directed at doesn't read this trash so...I'm sorry?)

1:19 P.M.-I've created roughly 67 fart bubbles in this pool in the past 10 minutes.  Natural gas + chlorine = our best source of clean energy...and nature's most powerful afrodiasiac.

2:41 P.M.-Booman and I have been downing Beam and Monsters (Lo Cal of course...healthier than water) and are now putting on our suits.  Looking this baller means that I will one day be convicted by the SEC for securities fraud and paying Cam Newton $10 for every bible reference he made during the 2010 season (2 organizations...same name).  Is it worth it? Absofruitly.

3:03 P.M.-Booman and I get on the shuttle that is taking us from the hotel to the wedding, and immeiadetly begin talking about stupid shit that no one of you want to read but I will still mention far too often in my upcoming entires.

3:04 P.M.-First Booman and I decide that this wedding will be sponsored by the United Negro College Fund, which leads me to create the World Trending Twitter hashtage #McLaughlinMaroneyWeddingBroughtToYouByTheUnitedNegroCollegeFund. After all if there is a more worth while institution with a more noble purpose that I can make more outrageous jokes about them sponsoring a wedding that 0 black people attended...I can not think of one.  And that stuff is funny to me.

3:05 P.M.-Next Booman and I lock down our alter egos, aka the lies about our identity we will tell chicks at this wedding who know who we are because they went to college with us and will automatically turn down our sexual advances because they witnessed me attending the president's ball in a shirt covered with deep frier stains, sweatpants, and socks with athletic sandals.  We are the Lehman Brothers.  We are rich.  Our company has never gotten into any financial or legal trouble.  And we wear suits.  Nuff said.

4 P.M.-Jeffrey and Emily are getting married.  My heart has never been filled with more joy, or a desire to get drunk, or a hatred with the sun than it is at this very moment...which is saying something.

5:14 P.M.-I start taking down BL Masterpieces (aka Bud Light) two at a time.  By the way in case you haven't heard I know have nonsensical names for Busch Light (BL Regular) and Bud Light (BL Masterpiece). By this time 2022...they'll be sweeping the nation.

5:17 P.M.-There is a chalkboard where you are suppose to write Jeff and Emily a thoughtful message to led them into their life of being married and have your picture taken with for some collage or something.  I predictably grab the chalk board, draw a penis, and hold it directly over my crotch.  Happy wedding. Yeah you do it.

5:23 P.M.-I almost ruin the wedding reception by knocking a beer bottle off some table. The resulting racket caused the whole room to come to a standstill and stare at in silent disapproval. So what'd I do.  I blamed it on the guy next to me, yelling "come on Stromboli!! God!" The bride's father than proceeded to take off his belt and beat the shit out of him while I stood laughing at him for being such a bad person. Hahahaha...CLASSIC.

5:46 P.M.-I am talking to my boy Nelson.  For those of you who don't know Nelson, let me tell you a few things about him. 1-He's rich as f. 2-He's a baller. 3-His girlfriend works for BMO Harris, which basically means that she controls about 2/3rds of all the money in the United States' Heartland, 4-He's uh...Puerto Rican (sorry for being racist here). 5-He looks like enough of a bad ass that if you were in prison with him...you'd just shut up and take it.  So yeah...he's a great friend of mine. You feel like you know him already don't you?

7:19 P.M.-After dinner I make a trip to the men's room where I down about half my flask.  Nothing freshens you up like gargling Beam in a b-room stall in The Dale.

7:23 P.M.-I steal Stromboli's glasses, which cost $130 and have no prescription in the lenses, and I look like the biggest GD baller this side of Chingy (see pic above).  This Lehman brother is an intellectual success story and boy...are the girls not receptive to that act.

9:14 P.M.-The DJ hits me with a little Call Me Maybe. Carly Rae Jepsen = Canadians 3rd greatest important behind 1-Wayne Gretzky's giant whore of a daughter (by the way they are making Grown Ups 2 without Rob Schneider? Well, there goes my Summer, 2013) and 2-Uh, is Martin Short from Canada or something? No? Oh his brother Marvin Short lives in Edmonton now. That dude is hilarious.

9:32 P.M.-I see some 3rd year old kid running around in a plastic crown.  So I do what any god citizen would...I steal it off his head and run around for the rest of the night acting like I own 4.5 Burger King franchises, including the one and a half Carbondale locations.  And let's just say, this led to me getting laid slightly less than Owen Wilson.  Slightly.

10:08-10:19 P.M.-I take a giant poop in the men's bathroom.  I finished in about 2 minutes, but by then someone else had walked in so...I obviously hid in the stall into old man river finished his 9 minute piss. Might wanna get your prostate checked there friend. Just a suggestion.

10:21 P.M.-Jeff introduces me to the bride's father while I am literally chugging from a bottle of White Wine. Mr. Maroney obviously offers me a job on sight.  I tell him to F himself.  He offers me his job.  I tell him that he may or may not have strong feelings of dislike towards Arabs. I now own Carbondale.  Insult people and you get ahead in life...especially if you are a living, talking Teddy Bear.

10:30 P.M.-The picture above is taken.  Let's just say (and you can ask Britt about this): they don't call all 4.666667 inches of my ding dong Magic Mike's much younger brother with no rhythm or discernable ability for nothing.

Sunday, July 1
12:02 A.M.-I am back at the Penny Pitcher, still wearing my ballin ass suit, and telling people that I work on Wall Street.  Chicks are flocking to me and asking me all sorts of questions, such as 1-Which Jewish temple do I worship at? 2-Which member of the Bush family convinced me to play tummy sticks with him that one fateful night at boarding school (spoiler alert: It was famed TV with famous people dude Billy Bush) 3-Was American Psycho based on my life? and 4-What was Blake Lively like in real life? And with Blake Lively, we all know...I am in there like swimwear son.

4:19 A.M.-I end up back in the Comfort Inn and Suites.  Booman is sleeping in my bed.  I strip down and get in with him.  Hey, whatever happens in The Dale stays in The Dale.  But since I just wrote about it here? Oh wait...no one reads this.  Haha so I'm not gay? (not that there's anything wrong with that).

There you have it boys and girls.  Weddings.  The Dale.  My constant use of the word butt hurt (more explanation on this in the youtube vid below).  My life in a weekend nutshell.  My existence in between trips to the bathroom to gulp down Jim Beam.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since June 29th is a healthy +521 (432-inbox, 398-sent, 55 from females), which means that I am not a homosexual (not that there's anything wrong with that). Also I have now reached a pinnacle of 299 Twitter followers, which curiously includes a whole lot of Law Firms (including Tom Cruse's Firm in the movie The Firm, which I believe will be handling his divorce).  Are these practicers of objections and contempt and stuff trying to tell me something on the interwebs?

Also I would like to extend big ups to my whole crew from that weekend I wrote about including Booman, Ream, Brit, Stromboli, my married friends Jeff and Emily, Nelson, J-Bone, Lee and Nelson's gf who owns BMO Harris and a bunch of other people.  The time was about the same quality as this post.  That bad huh?

Back next week with something that hopefully doesn't make me butt hurt.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Master Jack of All Trades"