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"

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you undoubtedly know, from both personal experience and the fact that once you begin reading this blog you instantly become a social pariah, making friends can be down right hard.  Kids on the playground don't like you because you get winded playing red rover.  Kids in high school don't like you because you got braces, acne and a small wiener (wait...what?).  Kids at your liberal arts college don't like you because you eat meat, believe in capitalism and you love running their bicycles off the road with your gas guzzling SUV. Oh...and you still got a small wiener.

So, where are us losers suppose to go from here?  We are all stuck in the real world with no jobs, no booty, too much body fat (and too little a wiener. Man...I am really riding the little guy today) to become a legit male stripper, not enough self-confidence or technical skills to get a recession proof Internet or banking job, and...no friends to share our misery.  No douchers out there who can make us look good in comparison. 

Now, I am not sure where I am going here, but I will say this: making friends is hard, there's no question about it.  But, you know what's not?  Making friends of friends.  In fact it's as easy as a roofied George Michael patrolling for ass in a bus station bathroom way.  Buttsex boom (not that there's anything wrong with that...besides the fact that it is illegal and a good way to get AIDS).

All you need to do is make, or act like you have made, one real friend.  It could be a kid from high school.  It could be a kid from the playground (hopefully a kid from your days on the playground who is a grown up now).  It could be a truck driving that you solicit for some "bro look at my penis" time at the nearest public restroom facility. 

It could literally be anyone, as long as they in turn have friends you can steal from them.  That, my compadres, is how you become part of a social group.  You find a tool bag, act like he's your homey, then swipe his buddies (who love you because you party your dick off 24/7) and make them your first and only friends in the world.  That boys and girls is how friendship is done.

Or you can start a baller ass blog that one time made a girl think about banging you if you weren't a 25-year-old on your parent's insurance or a guy who looks like he got shot in the chest because he just ate a rack of ribs.  The choice is yours.  But, the more I think about, the more effective option #2 seems so...

The Sack's Rolls With a Friend of a Friend (And a regular Friend or 2)
By now I am sure that you are all wondering why on Earth I made you suffer through that disjointed and semi-retarded (it's OK cause I'm not calling a retarded person a retard, I am calling myself a retard cause I am writing retarded. Am I not really retarded?) intro.  Well, because I spent this past Friday night with my 4th best (behind 1-Tom Brady (Belichick hooked it up at a homeless shelter we were both sleeping at) 2-The Leham Brothers (Johnny Hopkins and Sloan Kettering hooked it up when we were high) and 3-That ugly dude from Live Action version of Rocket Power (Live Action Hey Arnold hooked it up)) friend of a friend Mike, and preceded to dominate him and the rest of the world.  I then spent Saturday night with my least best friend of a friend Mandrew (behind everyone who has ever existed). 

This is my story, in good ole' fashion diary format.

Friday, June 22
7:47 P.M.-Watching Air Force One at my parent's house when some dude spits in Harrison Ford's face.  You never spit in Harrison Ford's face.  It doesn't ever end well for you.

8:02 P.M.-Air Force One Spoiler Alert: Communism ended 7 years before it was made. 

8:22 P.M.-I get to my boy Paul's sister's house, and lemme tell you--she is one hot piece of ace.  The black kid in our high school class, Blizzy, use to write her love poems involving fingers and weird places where he could put them.  Not sure how she responded, but she is a really nice girl who I respect as a person so...get your mind outta the gutter Blizzy.

8:23 P.M.-I immeiadetly start pounding whiskey.  Immieadetly is the hardest word in any language to spell.  That includes Chinese where they draw a guy skiing as their 14th letter in "and"

8:49 P.M.-My buddy Luke, who in my history of knowing him has gotten so drunk that he has 1-Bonged 9 shots like the greatest champion this side of Michael Phelps and 2-Allowed himself to be beaten in the stomach with wiffle ball bats, shows up.  Only problem is he can't drink because he has to run some race for "Breast Cancer" tomorrow.  Look this my be incredibly offensive because I mean 0% of it, but how is running suppose to cure cancer or do anything to make anyone's body more healthy?  Riddle me that son.

9:23 P.M.-We're still drankin when Paul gets a call from my dude Joey, who apparently just got a ticket for running a stop sign.  God I can't believe the Supreme Court makes us do things like buy health insurance or come to a complete stop at any screen corner with a red octagon on it! I'm so mad right now!

9:24 P.M.-What is the Supreme Court anyways?

10:23 P.M.-Joe has arrived, and I am currently sitting in a room getting drunk with 4 dudes and watching diving on a television.  Cross that Olympic Trial moment off the bucket list.

11:14 P.M.-Joe is driving us to the bars while I am pounding a Beam and Coke in the back seat.  Totally legal in the great state of Missouri.  Looks like the Supreme Court is making some decent decisions after all.

11:31 P.M.-Me, Joe and Paul walk into the Drunken Fish to meet Chuck, Brumm, Tedward and some other people I guess.  By this point it's starting to get pretty blurry.  I do remember wondering whether it is illegal for a drunk fish to be swimming in the Ocean. Then I realized...swimming for them is like walking to us. So as long as they are 21...they should be good to go.

11:37 P.M.-Meet the other dudes and the bar and Mike immeiadetly orders me a shot of Rupplemintz.  Thus begins the pattern where every time Mike and I see each other (all four or so of them) we begin going shot for shot until one of three scenarios plays out.  Either 1-One of us pukes at the bar, 2-One of us passes out on a table inside of the bar, or 3-One of us ends up attempting to cut the other's head off with a barbwire fence.  I would elaborate but I can't get past Supreme Court jokes right now so...

Flashback: The first time Mike and I met each other was at Chuck's 21st birthday, and apparently we hated each other from the first second we laid eyes on one another.  Why?  Well Mike, like myself, is taller than 6'4", weighs more than 240 pounds, and looks like a mix between a not that young Marlon Brando and Butterbean the boxerAnd, as we all know, anytime you get 2 people in the same room who share those distinctive characteristics...the sexual tension is palpable.  Or Papal I guess.  Depending on how Catholic the adjectives you use are.

11:40 P.M.-I meet Mike's girlfriend Holly.  Just further evidence that chicks dig the old-Brando/Butterbean mix.  The sexual tension is now Papal as shit.  Just kidding...there was nothing Catholic (or existent) about the sexual tension I am describing here.

Saturday, June 23
12:12 A.M.-We're at Tom's Bar for karaoke night.  Mike and I are on our third shot or so of Rupplemintz.  There are some girls here who I have met before.  None of them remember me.  Turns out I tested positive...for G-A-M-E.  And for Gnorrhea.  I got it from riding my tractor.  I swear...it can happen.

12:49 A.M.-Mike and I are another shot or two deep when we decide to do a little duet on the Karaoke stage.  The only problem?  There's no quality N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, 98 degrees, or LFO. I mean...it's like the white dude's with no musical talent who flourished in the mid-to-late 90's never even existed in this place.  Imagine bringing your children up in a world with no Lance Bass or girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch? I'm weeping for our future just thinking about it.

1:03 A.M.-Mike and I decide on Bohemian Rap-sody by some band called Queen.  I never heard of Queen, but if their raps are as gangster as the name of the band makes it seem...then we are about to get real g'ed up in this piece.  And yes...this is what I honestly thought when we settled on this song.  I'm that cultured.

1:33 A.M.-It's last call so we down a couple more shots and head to the stage for our big finale.  We are going to tear the roof off Tom's Bar.  Those Queen jams are so hot right now.

1:35 A.M.-Unfortunately I cannot see a tiny siloutteo of a man...or understand this song.  I don't get the ryhthm.  I cannot handle the lyrics.  This isn't rap at all.  I am embarrassed on the stage. Everyone laughs at me like I don't have any marketable skills or ability to contribute to society or something. I feel douped Queen. How are you champions at all?

1:48 A.M.-We've taken the part to Talanyas, or T-World's as it's known in the hearts and minds of everyone who believes their bars should involve disco balls, an ominous feeling that you are going to get stabbed, and a really excellent chance that you will find a fairly price prostitute who has more than 4 venerial diseases and less than 4 teeth.  Aka my favorite spot in the world.

1:51 A.M.-We all make it through the line and to the front door.  It turns out there's a $5 cover tonight.  I obviously refuse to pay it like always.  But, instead of just walking by like I always do, some new skinny white guy sitting behind the cash register tells me that I got to pay it.  When I refuse he takes my ID and tells me that I will get it back when I go to the ATM, get some cash, and pay him.  God damn taxes!!  Making me pay for things!!

1:53 A.M.-I walk to the ATM and attempt to use it by sliding my '05 St. Louis Priory School ID into the machine and punching in a random combination of numbers onto the keypad.  At this point I'm pretty sure it worked but I mean...yeah it seems to me like it would work.

1:55 A.M.-I find my friend the Gigantic Black Bouncer, whose name is The Gigantic Black Bouncer (but really I think it's something like Ches or Kirk or LeSandraldre, you know...something plain like that), the guy who usually let's me in for free.  I tell him what's up.  He goes to the little white dude, threatens to hang him from the DJ booth by the brims of his Captain America underwear, and gets me my license back.  Or so I think.  More on this later.

2:04 A.M.-Mike and I do another shot, which I almost vomit directly onto the 59-year-old bartending at this scummy prosititute station.  Everything starts to go black.

2:38 A.M.-Mike attempts to cut my head off with a barbwire fence and wakes up with dick drawings all over his face.  Classic Mike, I think. He's more Chuck's friend so...I honestly wouldn't know.  But once again, it makes sense in my head.

3:12 A.M.-Blackout.  Apparently I go to Courtesy Dinner and eat 14 slingers and 6 orders of Biscuits and Gravy.  Actually I am quite positive that this is what I ate because I am a man who believes that heart disease is a myth that never killed anybody...like anyone with good health insurance does.

9:43 A.M.-Wake up with about 14 Slingers worth of chilli and 6 biscuits worth of gravy all over my fratstar polo shirt.  Could the gravy be semen? Hey...I don't know how they make that stuff taste so good.

9:44 A.M.-I have no idea where I am, until I look over and see Paul's sister in yoga pants.  Jackpot.

10:19 A.M.-I hit the McDonald's drive through for some bfast.  When I get to the window and open my wallet to pay my McGriddle tax, I notice something curious.  The ID in my wallet is not mine.  It belongs to a certain Michael McClear of 1842 Sublette Ave, St. Louis, MO.  Yeah I just posted this dude's real name and address on the Internet.  Sue me McClear.

10:22 A.M.-I am investigating McClear's license, which says that he is about 4 months older than me.  However, this dude looks a lot like a fat Gary Sinese who got beaten with wooden sticks by a group of ruffians until he was declared dumber than that chained up dude in the Goonies by the state.  Seriously, he is the most shot out 25-year-old I have ever seen.

11:47 A.M.-I go to the DMV to get a new license, instead of risking the fact that McClear ended up with mine and stole my identity as a suave, debonair guy whose well of pop culture references is running so dry that he just mentioned Gary Sinese 17 years after he lost his legs in the Vietnam War/while filming Forrest Gump.

12:01 P.M.-The chick behind the DMV counter weighs about 312 pounds, has tattoo sleeves on both arms, and is about a -112 two on a scale from 1 to the host of Top Chef.  She clearly wants to bang me, assuming I am willing to give her the $12.50 I would otherwise pay to the state for my new ID.  To make a long story short--me and her got it on! No we didn't.  But you can imagine what it'd be like if we did right?  No? Just watch the next edition of Manatee sex time on Animal Planet, shown every Tuesday morning from 4:30-4:45 A.M.

6:42 P.M.-I wake up from my cat nap and begin downing beers and watching Animal House.  Dean Wormer is right: fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life.  That's why I'm drinkin my mom's Michelob Ultras.  Lo-cal.

7:43 P.M.-Air Force One is on again.  I am an American...so I am watching it again.  By now, in my 9,349,210 viewing of the film, I have decided what I would do if I were an H Ford president stuck in this situation.  1-I'd never have Glenn Close as VP. If you're gonna pick a woman, she can at least be hot.  Let's go with Brooklyn Decker.  2-I'd randomly take my shirt off the first opportunity that I got and show off that bod. 3-I'd get drunk.  4-I'd bump some Van Halen through the plane's sound system. 5-I'd tell the Russians that Karl Marx was back from the dead and having an autograph signing directly below our location, causing them all to jump off the plane in hopes of meeting Marx. 6-When I had Gary Oldman caught, instead of just kicking him off the plane I'd deficate and jerk off all over his body, then immieadetly fly to Russia and hang his body from a stake in the middle of Moscow as a warning.  Don't mess with America, and more importantly...don't ever F*$k with Harrison Ford!

10:31 P.M.-Joe arrived at my house with a bottle of Red Stag about an hour ago, and we've been pounding it.  My parent's are out of town so we decide to order the UFC on pay-per-view.  This is shaping up to be the best 9th grade party us two have ever had!!

11:38 P.M.-I realize that UFC is a lot like gay porn.  Because I'm into it.  And it's giving me an erection.

Sunday, June 24
12:04 A.M.-Joe and I go back to the CWE, where we meet this kid Mandrew at SubZero Vodka Bar (the 9th douchest place on Earth, behind Kevin Federline's scrotum and a bunch of other stuff).  Now, how can I describe Mandrew? Well he's tall, about 6'7", and hates all sports besides soccer.  If Ronald Reagan were still president that'd be more than enough to declare him a witch (he's very feminine) and have a young John Elway throw passes at his face until he either renounced his Communism or dead of a massive head trauma. God...I miss the good ole' days.

12:39 A.M.-On the bar at SubZero there are these containers holding fruit and vegetables--pickles, peppers, strawberries and the like--which are soaked in alcohol.  Every time the bar tender turns her back, Joe begins pulling them out and eating them.  I quickly join suit.  Nothing gets ya drunk like a pickle soaked in vodka. Well besides Ever Clear...and every other sort of alcohol on Earth.

12:40 A.M.-Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled. 

1:22 A.M.-We are leaving SubZero douche zone, when I decide to stand behind the hostess' stand a go through her shit.  You'll never guess what I found? A black business card with black ink on it.  Black on black?  That's more baller than a pair of shoes that turn to flotation devices when you're walkin on water.  I pocket about 8, or 10, or 124 of these bad boys.

1:49 A.M.-We are down are Wash Ave now, and we go into this bar called Shiver, aka the 3rd most accepting bar of date raping in the entire continental world.  Not only will you get date raped here, but people will think it's awesome.  But hey, at least they're honestly about it so...

1:58 A.M.-Joe, Mandrew and I move on to Lucas Park where we end up hanging with this black chick.  Now let me tell you something about black chicks...they love me.  I mean think about it. Who are the two groups I make the least offensive remarks about? Women and black people.  Who are the two groups that I have fought the hardest to protect their civil rights? Women and black people.  Who are the two groups who are most capable of operating motor vehicles and/or heavy machinery?  Well black people are fine at this I guess.

2:09 A.M.-I Ric Flair chop Mandrew. Had to be done. There's just something about who he is as a person that makes Ric Flair chops to the trachea a necessity.

2:48 A.M.-The bar is closing, so I take my full Beam and Coke and put it in my pocket.  Did my shorts get drenched? Yeah. Did I take them off in the middle of the street and lick the stain to soak up all the whiskey that I could? Yeah.

2:50 A.M.-We are walking down Wash Ave.  Now I've been handing out my new black on black business cards all night.  But now, according to the black girl, Nelly's daughter is walking right behind us.  What do I do with the greatest musician of all-time's own kin in my crosshairs?  Hand her the black on black, say what up, and tell her I got a new rap song called "Black on Black Biznass Card...What Up." That shit is gold play boy.

3:01 A.M.-Joe and I hope into a cab and head to the White Castle on Vandeventer Ave.

3:25 A.M.-We've been waiting in the drive through for like a year, so I decide to get out and go in.  The place is filled with gay black guys, not that there's anything wrong with that.  In fact, forget what I said about black chicks, it's the gay blacks who are my biggest fans.  Plus they are capable of driving a car and have a penis so...hahaha I'm just kidding those two things don't make anyone better than anyone else.

3:30 A.M.-Still waiting in the order line when I start talking to the chick next to me.  I hand her the black on black and tell her I am a rapper.  She tells me she is a lesbian.  One of us is lying.  And the fact that she would not go home with me, played collegiate softball and/or I ended up streaming Internet porn later that night has nothing to do with figuring out who.

3:49 A.M.-I eat more White Castle than I have at any other point in my life.  Well, that's not true...because I fell asleep on my couch and woke up with a half eaten cheeseburger on my crotch and an unchewed pickle in my mouth.  Boom.

So there ya have it boys and girls.  Weekends just don't get any more fun, long-winded, or boring and tedious than this.

Due to the length of this post, and the fact that I want to appear like more than 1 girl actually has my number and knows how to work text messaging, I will also skip text updates and big ups till next week.  Enjoy the youtube clip below provided by my man Ace.

Back next week with a post that is less grammatically correct, while still containing several misspellings of the word immediately.

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

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you St. Patty's Day 2012 has already come and gone.  That's right, the holiday which commenorates St. Patrick's fictional banishment of the fictional snakes that were terrorizing very real and very poor Irish people is now in all of our rearview mirrors.  St. Patrick the man is dead, as is St. Patrick the holiday. Well, at least for the next 360 days or so.

And I for one am devastated. Now the Sack is not now, nor ever has been, Irish.  My grandparent's weren't detained at Ellis Island for having lice.  My home nation's livlihood is not completely wiped out when Lays decides to buy 7 less potatoes this fiscal year than they did in 1902.  I do not have one single relative who serves on the Boston Police Force.

However, there is one characteristic which I proudly share with my Irish brethern. And no, it's not an undying love for the color Green (they say that geniuses pick green. If that's true then I can tell you one thing...Irish people didn't pick their own color). You see both me and my Irish homeys truly love one thing, and one thing only...alcohol.

So inventing a fictional holiday about a person who did fiction things just so you can have an excuse to black out, urinate in public, and throw empty Jameson bottles at homeless people?  That's right up my alley. 

So way to go Irish people, I salute you.  You may not be smart...but through your stupidity you've convinced everyone else not to be smart either.  Even if it's just on March 17th.

Was this racist? Naw, Irish people are technically white so...not making fun of them would have been racist. Yeah...that makes sense.

Sack Gets a Little Irish In Him
So what happened on the one day in 2012 where Irish people and my own passion most intimately come together?  Well let's take a look at my March 17th.  And remember any references to drunkeness, drug abuse, sexual activity, human trafficiking, tooth brush shanking people in a Joilet prison, and me ever speaking to women have been greatly exaggerated.  Or something like that...

Saturday, March 17th
7:52 A.M.-I wake up and laying in my bed with me is my good buddy Jimbo...who just happens to be wearing only his tighty whities.  I just happen to have a erection.  I reach over, and just happen to feel my snerk sauce (aka the lube I use for uh, doing stuff to myself) laying in the bed between us.  My butthole just happens to feel like it had about 47% of a Subway footlong tuna sub shoved in it repeatedly.  Do you guys get the subtle hints I am making towards homosexual sex acts (not that there's anything wrong with that) here yet? No?

8:13 A.M.-Jimbo pours his first drink, which consists of Jameson, Ginger-Ale and five 5 hour energys.  Jim's now got 25 hours hours of energy. By 9:13 A.M. tomorrow his heart will burst and he will end up like that giant bug man in the original Men In Black. Hey there are worse ways to go out than swallowing Tommy Lee Jones and having him plant an explosive inside your vital organs I always say...

8:29 A.M.-We've been to McDonald's breakfast. I've eaten a steak, egg & cheese bagel, 2 breakfast burriots, 6 hash browns, copious amounts of sausage biscuits, and a Lilo & Stitch toy outta some little douchy kid's happy meal. So let's just say...that my heart is a lot closer to exploding then Jimmy's is.

8:33 A.M.-My friend D-Boi has arrived, and yes...he is a ginger. If I had a gun with 2 bullets and I was in a room with any ginger, Osama Bin Laden and Hitler...I'd shoot the ginger twice. Osama and Hitler are already dead I'm pretty sure so...

8:49 A.M.-We are already a couple Jameson drinks deep when my friend Ace shows up on his killer bike (it's a Schwin I think).  He quickly shows us our new secret handshake which includes several high-fives, black flips, exposed genitals, some sort of Asian style dildo and a prostitute's vagina (probably the one John Edwards bangs every other Wednesday).  Hey smell my finger...through the computer. It's pretty rank huh?

8:50 A.M.-Watching the new Footloose. Hey...there are no black people in Footloose.

8:55-11 A.M.-I was drankin...but I wasn't mf'in driving. Everyone knows that everything besides driving is completely legal if you are drunk.  Anybody got any heroin or a pirated video of Game of Thrones?

11:02 A.M.-My "friend" Tyler shows up. Kid is about as cool as a kid that you hate and aren't afraid to say it to his face. Kinda like a less famous version of someone famous that no one likes and makes fun of to his face. Who am I thinking of? Joey Fatone maybe?

11:09 A.M.-Me, Corey, Jimbo, D-Boi, and Seal get in a van cab which takes us north to wrigley. Everyone in the car is openly drinking Jameson. At one point we open both of the sliding doors in the van and are yelling out at people on the street.  I spit tobacco juice out the window and it lands on some clown who is JOGGING without chugging liquor or wearing green on St. Patrick's Day. He deserved it in my book...aka the bible and/or Tim Tebow's autobiography.

11:59 A.M.-We're at Mullen's bar where me, Jimbo and Corey have been playing a virascious game of Golden Tee. We're tied, and I'm on the 18th fairway. Do I lay up? No. I go for the green...and hit it in the water. Then I do it again, and again, and again, and again. Someday I'll be a hero, cause no one remembers major champions...they remember qualifiers who lose them like idiots cause they are dumb as a rock. Hey wait a second...

12:00 P.M.-The game tells me that I've reached my stroke limit before I ever make the green. Hold on...this isn't how it happened in the movie. Kevin Costner...you son of a bitch.

12:55 P.M.-I get my bar tab and it's something like $155. Do I have the money? No. But I do have an undershirt worn by screen legend Anthony Quinn.  I am not sure who that is so...I run away without paying.

1:33 P.M.-By now we've gotten to Kirkwood and I walk up to the bar to get a drink. As I order I notice a yet-to-be-served plate of food sitting in front of me. So I do what any good American citizen would...I shove tater tots into any and every crevice of my body.

1:38 P.M.-Some lady walks up to the bar to complain cause she hasn't gotten her tater tots yet. I fart...and a tater tot pops out right into her mouth. Wow...that was pretty f'in gross.

2:34 P.M.-I walk out into the alley to take a piss. Next thing I know I was rubbing white powder into my gums with some homeless guy so I don't get addicted to the ridiculous amounts of it that I am also snorting. Turns out it was baking soda...so I obviously shoot the homeless man for lying to me.  Hey this is a society...and rules are rules.

3:38 P.M.-We are back at my apartment and one of my neighbors on the ground floor of my building is hosting a bachelorette party. So what do we do? Throw glass bottles down at them from my 3rd floor balcony. Uncalled for? Maybe. Possibly deadly? No doubt. But hey, nothing spices up a bachelorette party like being bombarded with shards of glass you guys.

4:12 P.M.-I walk downstairs to try and make piece with the bachelorette party.  Next thing I know I am being mobbed by 22 pretty unattractive chicks in their mid-to-upper 30's. It's pretty sexual and violent. By this point I am really starting to miss Jimbo and our boner, lube sleepy time.

4:27 P.M.-I look up at our balcony where Jimbo is standing in his tighty whities, his package gently kissed by the fading sun. A Christ like figure glistening in the twilight, exposing the entirety of himself to his admirers below.  A man ready to lead. A group of bachelorettes ready to follow. A penis and 2 balls jammed into stitched white cotton...ready for their time in sun.  A moment, and a set of genitals, perfectly captured and frozen in time forever...

And people say that I can't write beautiful prose about cocks and balls.

7:03 P.M.-By this time my apartment has become a revolving door, tons of people coming and going. Noah, Ream, Jeff, Emily, Hort...some homeless guy trying to sell me baking soda with a bloody bullet wound. What happened?  Who banged who?  Why does my finger still smell weird?  You tell me?

7:45 P.M.-Jimbo, Ream, Ace and I have started a game where Jimmy flips his athletic sandals off his feet and sends them flying towards your ballsack at warp speed.  It's a lot of fun. Approved for ages 9-84.

8:12 P.M.-I walk into the living room where I see Jimbo squating, his ass, cock and balls sticking out of the window. Ace is holding his handing, rubbing his head and saying "Let it out Jimmer...let it out." I look outside and see two fairly large brown projectiles falling from the sky and smashing into a pile of mush on the concrete below. That's right ladies and gents...Jimbo took a shit out of the window in my 3rd story apartment. That's just how we roll.

8:42 P.M.-We are outside and started playing a game where we stand on the four corners of an intersection and play catch with a handle of whiskey. If you catch the whiskey take a pull.  If you drop the whiskey, pour it in your pants. Approved for ages 6-139.

8:46 P.M.-Jimbo flips his athletic sandal into the air. It lands on a girls face.  Like Jan Brady, her nose is devastated...and she will never be as pretty as her sister. Oh wait that happened to Marcia? Oh well...she'll still always be hotter than Jan. Not sure this chick can say the same.

9:31 P.M.-Ace's cock has turned bright red due to its repeated athletic sandal attacks. I'm aroused. Wait...what?

9:38 P.M.-Jimbo nails some chick in the ass with his sandal.  This chick, cause she hates fun and has a brain that uses, uh--female logic--can't understand that we are playing a game and gets very offended.  She grabs the sandal and starts spanking Jimbo. Hey lay off lady...that's is my butt.

10:12 P.M.-Somehow me, Jimbo, Ace and Ream end up walking somewhere in Wrigley when Ream decides to chase some guy on a bicycle. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that it was Dupree you know...from the hit film You, Me and Dupree.

10:15 P.M.-Dupree has come back down the street and gotten in Ream's face. Ream, as any logical 5'2", 128 lbs. Mexican would, decides that fighting is his best option.  Next thing I know these guys are wrestling in some dude's front yard. If only I had some KY jelly and a referee's shirt.

10:16 P.M.-Some guy comes out on his porch and tells us his alarm is gonna go off if we don't stop, xo Jimbo grabs Dupree...and chokes that mother f'er out. Literally like the guy can't breathe.  His face is turning purple. But Jimbo won't let go, instead constantly asking the guy if "he's done." Hey can't be too safe when you are choking out an Owen Wilson character on some dude's front yard while his alarm is sounding. That's the first lesson every child learns. I think it's on Sesame Street or Barney or Downtown Abbey or some shit.

11:02 P.M.-We're walking down Clark Street, and there's apparently been some type of horrible accident.  The streets are blocked off.  People are openly having sex and sticking other people with AIDS infested heroin needles.  Some dude slit a guy's throat and drank his blood. 

11:03 P.M.-Turns out they were actually just shooting the new film Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. I'm gonna be in da movies bitch!!!

11:26 P.M.-Ace, Jimbo and I are riding in a cab and once again yelling out to the people in the streets.  At one point a hot chick walks by and Jimbo yells "Hey you're precious...like the movie" as the cab speeds off. I've never seen someone so offended in my entire life.

11:56 P.M.-We are struck at a stop light when we see the hot chick sprinting towards the cab and yelling that she is gonna murder Jimbo at the top of her lungs. She came out of now where...and must ran like 20 miles.

Sunday, March 18th
1:02 A.M.-We've been drankin at Kincades for a while when Jimmy sees a guy walking around with a WCW Championship belt. Turns out this guy has no job and no money, but still manage to scrounge up the $600 necessary to buy this authentic belt by suckin' dicks and selling encyclopedias (the two lowest jobs in the world).  That's that's being a true American like my boy...HACKSAW JIM DUGGAN

1:19 A.M.-Someone tweets me, saying that I look like a dracula (see youtube video below). Wait like a cartoon Dracula? Is it my teeth? Or my hairline? It's my hairline? Got it. Thank you.

9:13 A.M.-Jimbo's 25 hours are up. His heart explodes. Now I need to get to work on recreating the plot of Men In Black 3 (skippin MIB 2 for obvious reasons) in real life. Only got 364 days to make it happen...

Text Updates and Big Ups
My text message score since March 9th is a staggering +672 (540-inbox, 467-sent, 55 from females), which represents the most chicks I've sent dick pics too who still text me back in the history of my life. Also my Twitter popularity score has slightly increased to 246 followers so...looks like I am taking over the social media world one penis pic at a time.

The only big ups I have to extend in this edition of the blog go to Corey, Ace, D-Boi, Seal, Ream, Hort, Jeff, Noah and of course Jimbo for helping me get into all of the exciting escapades I detailed above. The rest of you...pick yo' games up if you want a mention.  No one does though so...

Back next week with a look at something slightly less offensive to Irish people (but still offensive enough).

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

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you know because, well I wrote about it, college is the best time of our lives.  This is an undeniable truth even if you went to a school in an economically depressed, Wisconsin shanty town where 89% of the female population is either a-a stripper, b-pregnant or c-a pregnant stripper.  It's true even if you went to a school where no one knew you had a football team because they were too busy tailgating for the big ultimate frisbee or qudditch game.  Hell it's even true if the only porn your shitty Internet connection could get looked like this.  I know cause I lived (and jerked off to) it.

However it's also undeniably true that once our 4 years (or 7 if you are a doctor/Chris Farrely/this guy) of glory go by in a wink of the eye.  One day college will end, we will all get divorced multiple times, and our lives will suck.  Those are just the facts homies...so do with them what you will.

And even though we will always be able to visit our old collegiate stomping grounds and live vicariously through our former lifestyle (in fact any of you who took the time to click on the first link in this post will have the blueprint on how to do exactly that) that still leaves us with one serious unanswered question...what in the hell are we supposed to do all the other times?  You know when we are all stuck being poor and lonely, simultaneously crying and jerking off to Eat, Pray Love using only our tears as lubricant?  Why do our lives how to turn out like this?

Well I am here to tell you that they don't, that there's a light at the end of the tunnel.  I'm here to say that whether you live in New York, Nome, Alaska or Moscow you can turn back the clock, throw on a pair of Sperry's and frat down just like you did in the old days. You just gotta want it.

So whether you are 24, 54, or 124 it's time to call up the bros...and f'in rage.  You can still do it.  I know...I've lived it.

The Sack Returns to Epicness
I spent last Friday raging with one big dog (This Ya Boy D-Love) and one 6'8" semi-retard in unabomber boots (b-wim, and yes...he seriously wears those things in public).  Among the highlights was D-Love and my attempt to double team a chick by telling her our names were John and Jeremy Ryan (Are you guys brothers? No...yes.  But seriously we aren't), an undercover Home Land Security agents trying to buy drugs off us (entrapment anybody?), and b-wim passing out on the bar at 11 P.M. after getting hammered off of 1.35 beers and being molested by that very same Home Land Security agent (who said it wasn't illegal...cause b-wim looked like he wanted it.  I'm not going to argue).  However, I don't want to bore you with the details so let's skip ahead to Saturday...where the story really gets interesting.

Saturday, January 28th
3:15 P.M.-Dboy has joined me, D-Love and b-wim. We've decided to go out for a nice linner when Dboy gets denied service by 3 different restaurants...cause he's a ginger.  Turns out discriminating against gingers is a right given to all American citizens through the 14th amendment.  I'm never been so damn proud of my country as I am right now.

3:23 P.M.-I finally convince some place to let us in by telling them that Dboy is just a kid with down syndrome who spilled ketchup all over his head and doesn't know how to wash his hair.  Should have tried this way earlier. No one questions it at all.

4:01 P.M.-Michael has joined us and I've finished my lunch, which consisted of a burger topped with a fried egg.  Look I'm not saying that I spilled egg yoke all over my power beard...but I'm not saying that I didn't either.

4:02 P.M.-Chicks swarm me.  Turns out nothing is sexier than egg yoke covering the hairs which cover your entire face and neck.  Write that down kids.  What you don't have a pen? Well...just remember that then.

4:11 P.M.-We pay the bill and walk out of the restaurant, when some homeless guy walks up to me and begins licking the egg yoke out of my beard.  Best meal he's had in years.  And people think Mother Teresa did a lot for the poor.

4:30-8 P.M.-Nothing cool happens.  In fact I am pretty sure I just sat on the couch, watched TV and called my parents who told me that my life was a disgrace.  Welcome to a regular day in the life of the Sack.

8:39 P.M.-I pick up my boy Joey from the airport and return to me apartment.  By now Ace, Seal, Matty and the Booman group have joined the party.  Likes look we're about to have a good old fashioned orgy, uh...I mean party.  We've got to think outside of the box and inside of the box.  But there are no girls here so...anyways.

8:46 P.M.-My boy stunt texts me and asks if he and his black friend Jeremy can come over.  I say of course...there are no Jim Crow laws in my apartment.  Besides I voted for Obama so that means that I can't hate black people.  Or it means that I really hate white people.  I'm not sure, I don't really follow politics. I just had that Young Jeezy song stuck in my head when I was voting so...my president was black son.

9:01 P.M.-Stunt and Jeremy arrive, and I quickly discover that Jeremy is left handed.  So I do what anyone honest American would...and tell him to get the F outta my apartment.  Anyone who needs a special desk to take the SAT is not welcome here.  But I need a special, titanium reinforced desk when I was taking the test after the regular wooden one was crushed under my weight so...I just hate left handed people.  That's what I want you to get from this joke.

9:06 P.M.-Joey tells me that his broadcast partner for NCAA bball games is non other than former Wake Forest head coach Dave Odom.  I say hey, it ain't an orgy (uh...I mean party) until Tim Duncan's college coach is naked.  Jackpot.

9:23 P.M.-I just realize that Stunt and Jeremy brought a chick with them.  Looks like the orgy is off.  Suddenly I'm just not that into it (not that there's anything wrong with that).

11:22 P.M.-Michael, Ace, D-Love, Seal and Dboy leave to go to some bar, while the rest of us wait for Hort and Joey's buddy Wayne. 

11:23 P.M.-Joey is walking down the street yelling for Wayne, when hundreds of people pop their heads out of their windows and yell back "Hey I recognize that voice?  Is that guy the voice of the Sun Belt Conference on ESPN3?"  Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't.  I'll never tell.

11:31 P.M.-Hort and Wayne show up and we head out to Maeve to meet up with the dudes who left.  I don't know if Maeve is a person, a bar, a Turkish bath or some sort of weaving technique.  All I know is that I've been down with the brizown all my life.

11:41 P.M.-We arrive at Maeve and me and D-Love instantly begin spittin game.

11:54 P.M.-I got two chicks believing that I am really Paul Walker wearing a beard as a disguise.  At first they are skeptical, but then I say "hey, have you ever seen Paul Walker with a beard?"  And when they say no I say "Well now you have."  Works every time.

Sunday, January 29th
12:02 A.M.-Turns out these chicks have a party trolley and would love for the bearded version of the guy who starred in the modern classic Eight Below and his friends to ride it with them.  Looks like we are in there like swimwear son.

12:04 A.M.-I enter the trolley and immediately the one fat virgin chick tells me to get off.  I say hey I'm Paul Walker.  She says that I'm not.  I ask her if she's ever seen Paul Walker with a beard.  She says she has and shows me this picture.  I have no response.  Turns out a woman can outsmart me after all.

12:19 A.M.-We've left Maeve and headed over to Red Ivy, where D-Love and I are telling chicks that we were extras in the classic Kip Pardue film Driven, and of course...no questions us.  Man if that can't get me laid...I don't know what will.  (Spoiler alert-nothing can get me laid).

12:38 A.M.-Joey and D-Love start talking to a couple of chicks.  Turns out one of them is engaged.  They ask her how her fiance popped the question and she says, "He put the ring in the mailbox and when I went to get the mail it was just sitting there." They tell her that that is the dumbest thing they have ever heard, read about, or seen on TV/in real life.  She immediately calls off her wedding, cries in the corner and says she will sleep with the next guy she sees.  I walk in front of her.  She immediately calls her wedding back on.

1:14 A.M.-Matty and b-wim tell me about a private party in the back bar and say that anyone can just walk back in.  Me and Booman walk over there.  10 seconds later I am standing outside a curtain by myself.

1:17 A.M.-I notice that the bar has Golden Tee.  I text every person in my address book to tell them that I found one of the 13,941,372 bars in the US that has Golden Tee.

1:39 A.M.-I notice that D-Love is making out with some chick on the dance floor.  I walk in between them and tell her that I was an extra in Driven too.  She begins making out with D-Love again.  I am stuck in the middle of their embrace.

1:59 A.M.-Michael leaves the bar without telling anyone and heads down to Boystown for a little "night cap" (not that there's anything wrong with that).  He later tells me that leaving without telling anyone and ending up in a Turkish bath in the gay section of town (once again...not that there's anything wrong with that) is called a "French Goodbye."  From what I know about the French...I don't doubt it.

2:44 A.M.-Red Ivy is closing so we walk outside to get a cab.

2:48 A.M.-Booman gets in some dude's cab without realizing that anyone else was in there.  I walk over to get him out.  Next thing I know some chick walks up to me and slaps me in the face.  Thinks are really starting to heat up...if you know what I'm saying.

2:49 A.M.-Clay Aiken walks outta no where and gets into my face.  I have no idea what is going on.  Clay Aiken head butts me in the chest.  I don't budge.  Next thing I know Clay Aiken is gone.  And seriously...none of this is made up.  I'm pretty sure that the frosted tip d-bag who head butted me actually was Clay Aiken.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the next day I was featured on ClayManiacs.com in the thread entitled "Clay Aiken head butts bearded Paul Walker/extra in Driven."  I've finally made it!!

3:16 A.M.-We are now in Big City Tap.  Someone tells Joey and Wayne that this is a big transvestite bar.  We can't wait to get onto that dance floor.

3:29 A.M.-Some "girl" is sticking her tongue down my throat.  I'm as hard as a dime in an ice storm right now.  The lights flash for a second, and the tranny gets a look at me.  She can't run away fast enough. 

3:41 A.M.-The hottest rap song in the screets starts bumping and the BAR IS GOING CRAZY!!

4:13 A.M.-Next thing I know I am laying in my bed.  Booman walks in and gets under the covers with me.  Soon he's the big spoon, and I'm the little spoon.  I'm not saying that he was as hard as a dime in an ice storm...but I'm not saying he wasn't either.  Bout time we got around to the orgy.  And we all not there's nothing wrong with that.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since January 27th is +294 (226-inbox, 179-sent, 21 from females), which means that more and more chicks are hearing about how I am the bearded Paul Walker/was an extra in Driven so...nice.  Also my Twitter score is holding steady with 222 followers so...looks like I am doing something right sucks.

I also have a couple of big ups to extend in this edition of the blog.  First to Ace, Booman, b-wim, Dboy, D-Love, Hort, Joey, Matty, Michael, Stunt, Seal, and Wayne way to go for being my friends.  That says more about you than any Internet blog ever could.  Also to Dorial Green-Beckham, arguably the greatest football player of all-time, way to go on becoming just another cat from Ol' Mizzou.  Now you just gotta be featured on the "We Are Mizzou...REMIX!!!" DGB...please. Only you can prove that my home state isn't compromised 100% with dweebs.

Back next week with more about Kip Pardue and the greatest film of the past half century Driven.

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

 
 
Dear Readers,
As surely all of you know, there is a new standard for hotness.  A new peak for male attractiveness.  A new figure head, the dude that all the girls want to be, and all the dudes want to be with (wait a second...).  That's right ladies and gentleman, the time has come for People Magazine has named it's Sexiest Man Alive in 2011.  And the winner shouldn't really shock anybody, unless you were expecting Stanley from the Office to earn the crown (see youtube video below if you are skeptical about this).

That's because the man who took home the title is my hero, my inspiration, my ultimate "my get drunk and make out with but it's not gay because we're hamered" fantasy.  Yeah, it's true...the sexiest man alive in 2011 is the original Sack (aka Bradley Cooper, you know the guy from Limitless. Wait...is that the one where the guy is limitless?), the man who forever changed American cinema by nursing baby sea otters to health, cheating on Rachel McAdams by smanging environmental sluts in cabs, and inspiring Dick Cheney to shoot dude's in the ass during quail hunts

And Vice President Cheney, arguably the most frat person in the history of American government, is hardly the only person that Sack inspired.  In fact he inspired men everywhere.  Men who want to have no feelings or emotions.  Men who understand that the Eastern Seaboard was founded on seafood patties and real football.  Men who are sexy, and they know it because they're on the cover of a People Magazine issue which is declaring it to the world. 

Men like myself.  So true Sacks of the world reunite behind our leader, our founding father, our hero.  The Sack is back...and he's never been sexier.  Almost 100% homo (not that there's anything wrong with that).

The Sack Blacks Out...on Black Wednesday
Thanksgiving is about turkey, the opression of Native American's good nature for white people's gain, and rage block abouts by Ndamukong Suh (Is he a Native America? Cause if so, his Thanksgiving anticis were understandable in my opinion).  However while food, football and racial opression provide the perfect main course for the Sack's favorite holiday, it's nothing without the alcoholic appetizer provided on the Sack's favorite holiday eve.  Black Wednesday may have a racist name (why can't it be Asian Wednesday?), but in the end it affects people of all colors, creeds and religions the same.  It f's them up.  With that being said, here's what went down on the latest edition of the racist day before the racist holiday.

Wednesday, November 23
7:58 P.M.-I've invited 20+ people over to my house.  No one is here.  So I decide I start doing my favorite thing to do when I am all by myself...you know what I'm talking about.  Oh yeah.

8:02 P.M.-My buddy Luke comes over and catches me doing what I'm doing, so...he obviously decides to join in.  We're both drinking pretty heavily now.  Is drinking all I'm talking about?  You be the judge.  But Luke may or may not be circumcised...if that tells you anything.

8:14 P.M.-Watching Modern Family and drinking copious amounts of whiskey.  God, I've heard Cam's pumpkin story like 100 times...and it's surprisingly only slightly funnier when I am drunk.  Oh wait, I've never heard it sober so...whatever.

8:33 P.M.-My boy Danny and his friend Clay show up for the "four dude" party I'm apparently throwing, and I quickly discover that Clay's dad works in his underwear.  What's his job you ask?  Well he's a lawyer.  Looks like I know who's representing Penn State in their upcoming civil trial.  (Too soon?  Alright yeah, that was in poor taste, but South Park made Penn State jokes first so...you blame them.  Or you can blame society for allowing these tragedies.  Or you can blame people without a since of humor for being offended by everything that is even remotely funny.  All I know is it's just not my fault that I made that joke.)

9:43 P.M.-By now Chuck and Katie and Jimmy and Joseph and Joey and some other kid with chubby cheeks and fruity blonde hair are all drinking at my house.  However I'm still sitting on my couch drunk and wearing my underwear.  Actually this makes it look like I am more than qualified to work at Clay dad's law firm.  Which is in his basement.  And frankly sounds made up.  But he lives in West County so...someone got money somehow at some point.  No minorities live anywhere near that place.  And people wonder why a brotha like me hates the suburbs?  Oh wait...I've written about this alreadyTwice.

10:33 P.M.-We're all waiting for the cabs to be here, so we decide to pass around and bottle of Jim Beam and take pulls.  Just like the Cowboys and the Aliens did at the first thanksgiving.  You know that movie with James Bond and that guy from Hollywood Homicide.  I'm pretty sure that movie is about Thanksgiving.  And getting serious Oscar consideration so...nice.

11:02 P.M.-Me, Chuck, Katie, Jimbo and Joseph are all in a cab heading out to meet the others when we realize that that blonde kid with chubby cheeks (Will) will be at the bar so...it's clearly a gay bar (not that there's anything wrong with that).  This makes me and Jimmy want to go there more...and everyone else want to go there less.  Looks like we're out voted 3-2.  Stupid idiots.  Everyone's gay once in a while...it's St. Louis.

11:19 P.M.-We get to Molly's, and it's packed.  I decide to stand by the door, and am hit by it as it opens approximately 14.5 times.  Welcome to concussion #1 of the night.

11:20 P.M.-I do the only logical thing after suffering a concussion.  I continue drinking...just like they do in the NFL.

11:50 P.M.-We leave Molly's Llywelyn's pub...which is now known as the bar with the hardest to spell name in the world.  This meanwhile is now known as the least funny attempt to keep you guys apprised on where I was and when I was there in my entire life.  I guys bad things really do happen to good people.

Thursday, November 24
1:12 A.M.-Llywelyn's is closed and we are all waiting in the street for a cab when Joseph and I get into a wrestling match.  I trip and fall on my shoelaces and slam my head onto the concrete.  Welcome to concussion #2.  Plus I know have a weird lump on the side of my head.  That's alright though, cause chicks dig scares...and weird lumps on dude's with neck beards heads.  Yep.

1:45 A.M.-After a long wait we finally arrive at the Casino Queen.  I quickly sit down at a blackjack table where Danny and a girl he knows join me.

1:46 A.M.-Rasheed Wallace's look a like walks up to Danny and asks if he "Can dance with yo' dates."  The girl next to Danny gets up and hits the dance floor.  I cut off my left hand and send it out there with them too.  (Spoiler alert...Rasheed Wallace's look a like can dance like nobody's business.)

2:03 A.M.-An undisclosed member of our party says the world "black people" out loud.  At the Casino Queen.  The Casino Queen in East St. Louis.  You can't say the words "black people" in East St. Louis. What's next, this guy is gonna ask random people on the East St. Louis streets for directions on his ride home?  Come on man.

2:36 A.M.-This say undisclosed member of our party says "fuck you" out loud after a hand of bj (see what I did there...calling "blackjack" "bj"?  Do you get it?).  Do be fair I don't think he was saying this to the dealer, who kicks him off the table, but he should have.  I mean she didn't bust on a 16, and she controls the cards she gets so...she deserved it in my book.  Just like the government taking all those taxes from people who inherit money that they never earned through work of their own.  F them too.  This is America...last time I checked.

3:14 A.M.-Me, Joseph, Joey and Jimmy are sick of losing money so we decide to re-invest it into the economy instead...at the strip club.

3:19 A.M.-Joseph and Joey turn all their money into $1 bills.  They each now have roughly 5,000 one's and decide to show everyone outside the casino just how much money that they have, ignoring the fact that $5,000 in small bills is worth easily $5,000,0000,0000 in East St. Louis and that you have a 98.7% chance of being robbed once anyone in the East StL figures out you have any cash on you at all.  Didn't one of these kids go to an Ivy League school?

3:41 A.M.-We finally get a cab at the Queen and tell it to take us to the strip club...which is approximately 4 blocks away.  Why didn't we walk?  Cause walking in East St. Louis = a 94.33% chance of sexual enslavement...so I've heard...and technically experienced for a few months after college.

3:44 A.M.-Jimmy makes the cab stop at a gas station, where I see Tyrone Biggums smoking crack and drinking a red bull.  Oh wait, that's actually Dave Chapelle.  I've been wondering what he was up to.

3:57 A.M.-We arrive at PT's strip club and Joseph decides to start puking on the bouncer's shoes as soon as we get out of the cab.  Do they still let him in?  Does he still have a stack of $1 bills and little to no self-respect?  Yes.  So, in that case, strip clubs actually encourage their customers to puke before they go inside.  After all, no one wants a puke version of 2 girls 1 cup on a strip club stage.  That might be going too far.

4:02 A.M.-I run into my boys JJ and Squirrels, who is wearing a gorgeous couduroy jacket by the way, inside the club.  I always knew my five year high school reunion would be in a strip club.  That's what $90,000+ of private school tuition gets ya.

4:19 A.M.-A stripper asks me if I want a lap dance.  Last time I got a lap dance I was told that $500 would get me a room in a nearby hotel and "whatever I wanted" from the dancer.  Of course the stripper didn't realize that all I have to my name is $34 worth of baptism bonds and season 1-4 of One Tree Hill on DVD.  Of course I didn't realize that prostitution in East St. Louis was the most successful element of Barrack Obama's economic stimulus.  Looks like I let the economy down on that one.

4:53 A.M.-My buddy Jimmy is kicked out of the club when he removes his shirt and walks onto the stage.  Surprisingly in his 3.5 seconds on stage he got $4, a used condom, and a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer briefs in tips.  That's more money than some of these strippers see in a lifetime.

5:08 A.M.-We are standing outside in 38 degree weather.  Jimmy doesn't have a shirt on.  We buy hot dogs from some homeless guy with a grill outside.  Is there a risky place to buy an edible weiner than outside of a strip club?  Oh God...what did I just put into my body.

5:27 A.M.-Joseph and Joey finally join us outside, but the cabbie sitting out there won't give us a ride home because Jimmy is drunk and lost his shirt.  Look buddy, what kind of guys are you expecting to pick up outside of the strip club at 5 AM?  Fully clothed moderate drinkers without STD's?  Is that honestly a reasonable expectation?

5:39 A.M.-We finally find a cabbie to drive us home.  Joseph may or may not have puked on his shoes.  I may or may not have laughed about it.  Everything is a blur.  Is this the cash cab?  Cause that'd be the best 10 minutes of TV ever made.  And the big break we've all been looking for.

6:02 A.M.-The sun still isn't up when we arrive at my house.  I don't think Jimmy has any clothes on.  My neighbors aren't that impressed.

6:07 A.M.-Joseph and I go to sleep in my bed.  He begins spooning me without my consent.  I fart...repeatedly.  That doesn't stop anything.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since November 18 is +552 (453-inbox, 397-sent, 43 from females) which is good enough for a two week period.  Also my twitter score has jumped all the way up to 213 followers so...I guess there or more computers that auto follow idiots out there than I thought.

Also I'd like to extend a special set of big ups to Luke, Danny, Clay, Will, Charlie, Katie, Jimmy, Scherer, Joseph and the unmentioned Chris for hanging out with me and making Black Wednesday as awesome as a racist day before the holiday can be.  You guys make dreams come true.

Now back next week with more about less I'm sure.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"
 
 
Dear Readers,
As you all certainly know, mainly because I've written about this already, the Sack thinks the suburbs f'in suck worse than female drivers, Broadway musicals (being literal here) and/or any M. Night Shyamalan movie that doesn't feature dead people, aliens...or celebrity beer make Sam Jackson.  And as any of you who clicked on that link can figure out, my logic (as always) is air tight.  There's no question that the burbs, with their quality schools and clean air and swept under the rug racism and semi-funny ABC sitcoms, are ruining the fabric of this very nation.  Y'all may be saying Occupy Wall Street, but I say Occupy The Gated Communities that try to keep homeless alcoholics with neck beards, like myself, out (or Occupy Herbstreit for all you college football fans out there.  Whichever one is funnier to you).

However maybe because I have a heart, or maybe because I acknowledge that I am often drunk and therefore cannot make many rational decisions, for the first time in my life I found myself second guessing well...myself.  Maybe I had been too harsh before.  Maybe the suburbs were compromised of good people who loved America and just wanted to be closer to the low prices/incredible labor practices found at their local Wal-Marts.  Maybe making millions of dollars and not voting for Barrack Obama didn't make the people living outside of urban areas racists.  After all Obama is only half black, so suburbanites were also half voting against a white guy when you really think about.

So it was with these thoughts in mind that I decided, against my better judgement, to give the suburbs a second chance.  And what did I find?  Were my biased judgements replaced with a fair look at upper-middle class environments?  Were my inclinations to give rich people who don't live in American industrial centers another opportunity to prove themselves rewarded?  Did I discover a new found respect for suburban parents who worked hard to provide for their families and give them the best possible chance at future success?  Do I now want to buy a Volvo Crossover?  And I am going to keep asking ridiculous/semi-offensive questions because I have no idea what to write about once I finish this paragraph?  Am I?  Well...let's find out.

Sack v. The Burbs...Round Deux
As I wrote earlier I returned to the scene of my previous crime, the Chicago Suburbs, to reevaluate my once strongly held beliefs and to celebrate my boy AE's 21st birthday with some close friends and his ginger brother who tweets more racist comments than Robert E. Lee.  This is what went down.

Saturday, October 22
5:11 P.M.-I've just finished my co-ed, slow-pitch softball game (aka my co-ed, slow-pitch softball domination) by going 1 for 2 with a run scored, getting 2 put outs at 1st base and crushing the soul of some chubby, 42 year-old by trucking him at the plate and emscaculating him in front of his wife and kids who now want me to become their adoptive father.  My team may have ended the season with an 0-8 record, and a -234,052 run differencial, by head I only struck out once in 7 at bats of slow-pitch softball so...the season wasn't too bad on my end if you ask me.

5:55 P.M.-I stop by McDonald's and grab a double royal with cheese, which completes my war chest of items necessary to make the 3.5 hour/12.3 mile trek from Chicago to Oak Park Terrace, Illinois.  That's right I now have a 0.5 pound hamburger, $60 cash, 1/3rd a handle of Fleischman's whiskey, a tin of fresh chaw, one I-Pod player covered in what appears to be spilled seafood gumbo and a button-down shirt so people will think that I'm a white person with money.  Everything you need to be a true Suburbanite for about 15.3 hours.

6:33 P.M.-I've battle through the usual, and self-explanatory, Saturday rush our out of Chicago and into the suburbs to pick up Seal (wait...what?).  His gigantic forehead is so heavy that it forces him to walk to my car while dragging his dome on the street.  That's just gonna lead to serious back problems down the road.  And a f'ed up looking face.

6:50 P.M.-Seal and I are listening to the GPS on my phone, which apparently is telling me to drive to Gary, Indiana and become a crack addicted male prostitute.  Looks like I am the idiot for not getting an Iphone 4S and letting a robot call, text, find porn and masturbate for me.  Actually I'm glad I didn't, because we all know how this ends.  Computers...what if one day they are in charge?

7:24 P.M.-Seal and I pull over next to some sort of Korean mall.  Minorities shopping at Banana Republic?  No way we are in the suburbs...or at a legitimate Banana Republic for that matter.

7:27 P.M.-Seal calls D-boy to see just where in the hell we are.  D-boy tells us the fastest way to cover our 10 mile difference is to drive to Ottawa and catch a Canadian airlines flight into O'Hare.  I question this.  Everyone knows that gingers, like women, have a terrible sense of direction.

7:39 P.M.-We finally get off at the correct exit, and turn onto the right road.  We are now 0.9 miles away.

7:43 P.M.-We get to the hotel and I hop out to to ask where the nearest liquor/grocery store/dude on the corner who will sells us booze is.  The lady at the front desk tells me to continue down the road we were just driving on for about half a mile and we'll see one.

8:02 P.M.-We've been driving down this road for close to 15 minutes.  I've seen 9 Burger Kings, 6 Ruby Tuesdays, 4 Applebees, 4 Buffalo Wild Wings, 3 TGI Fridays, 2 Chilli's, a Holiday Inn, a PF Changs, another Holiday Inn, a Holiday Inn Express and 17 pizzera Unos...but no grocery stores.  Just as I expected, people in the suburbans cannot buy their own food.  Instead they eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at different chain restaurants every day...and apparently often sleep in a hotel that is somehow connect to the Holiday Inn family.

8:03 P.M.-I begin praying that we can find a liquor store and get back to the hotel so I can legally begin drinking without operating a motor vehicle.  Hey if it can help Tim Tebow become on the NFL most efficient passing quarterbacks, then it must work after all...or something like that. (see youtube video below)

8:05 P.M.-We find a Binnys.  I don't have any money.  I make the next most logical decision.  I put on a doo-rag, walk into the store, and am given alcohol by nervous suburbanites who assume I am committing an armed robbery. 


8:21 P.M.-We are back at the Holiday Inn (which one?  I have no idea).  Turns out it took me 2 hours and 26 minutes to make a 21 miles drive.  I farted 24 times and got 3 and 1/2 boners during the trip (come on man...bumps in the road can be exciting)...for your information.

8:24 P.M.-I enter the hotel room and immediately begin chugging Early Times whiskey. Hey we're in the suburbs...so I had to spring for the expensive stuff.

9:23 P.M.-Albert Pujols is better at baseball than Jesus and Ty Cobb's racially sensitive love child (got Christ's tolerance...and Cobb's hand eye coordination).  His animated version is also better at backyard yard baseball than that flamethrowing pitcher kid who rides around in a wheelchair.

10:45 P.M.-Michigan State beats Wisconsin with a crazy hail mary.  Brent Musberger has a stroke in the broadcast booth (and also probably both creams and poops his pants).  He somehow recovers enough to appear in the ABC sitcom Happy Endings 11 days later.  Do you believe in miracles?!?! No! That's wasn't Musberger's call.

11:23 P.M.-I am in a hotel room with about 18 other white people (and no minorities).  Man my friends greatly resemble the cast of the actual TV show Friends. Is it just me or is it starting to feel like the suburbs are just a giant hockey rink right now?

Sunday, October 23
12:01 A.M.-It's now officially AE's 21st birthday, so he can have the first sip of alcohol that he has ever enjoyed in his life.  What was he doing up in the hotel room for the past 8 hours?  Well let's just say he paid a woman over $4,000 and if Patrick Bateman were up there...there may or may not be some dead bodies chilling up in room 213 at this point.

12:03 A.M.-We walk into the Bar Louie attached to the Holiday Inn. Spoiler Alert...the Bar Louie attached to the Holiday Inn in Oak Park Terrace, Illinois is bump on a Saturday night!!!  Oh wait...that's not true!!!

12:04 A.M.-3 dudes I don't know hand me 3 different shots.  Can anyone say roofalin...there you go with that word again roofalin.  Might as well call it rapies, and for the first time in my life...I am the victim.  (actually I never had, and never word use roofies.  Or mentos...the fresh maker.)

12:11 A.M.-I am standing next to AE's and D-boy's dad, but I am afraid to talk to him.  Look everyone knows I am intimidated by mustaches...and AE/d-boy's dad is rockin a powerful one.  I mean why do you think I am scared to watch 1970's porn...or Tom Selleck shirtless?

12:45 A.M.-Wait Tim Tebow isn't the only AFC West quarterback who believes in God and is capable of beating the Miami Dolphins?  Who woulda thunk it?

1 A.M.-We leave the hotel Bar Louie and head to the Tilted Kilt...aka Hooters for Irish immigrants.  I order a chicken breast...hold the chicken.  Hey-yo!!! Oh, and I got some potatoes too.  The place is Irish after all.

1:02 A.M.-I see a black guy.  In the suburbs.  At an Irish Hooters.  This is like seeing a giant lizard on the loose killing the good people of Tokyo.  I hate Gozilla too!!

1:43 A.M.-The Tilted Kilt is closing, and there is only one option for late night fun in the burbs.  That's right I said...me Reggie Miller and Spike Lee are going to a strip club. Wait...I didn't know Cheryl Miller's little brother played basketball?

1:44 A.M.-The bartender calls us a couple cabs.  Says it'll be about 10 or 15 minutes.

2:32 A.M.-I am standing in the parking lot of the Tilted Kilt.  Not a single cab has come.  Does the word minutes mean different things to people who work at an Irish Hooters?

2:41 A.M.-We bail on the cabs and are driven the 3.4 steps to the Holiday Inn's connected McDonald's drive through (hey...where do you think there room service comes from) by a volunteer firefighter. 

2:43 A.M.-That same volunteer firefighter drives home.  Does it matter that he is more f'ed up than Hunter S. Thompson at Mardi Gras? Of course not...cause volunteer firefighters are above the law.  Although they interestingly don't get any monetary compensation of any kind.

3:16 A.M.-We have downed our McRibs (it's back!!!) and are back in the hotel room.  Do we go to sleep?  Of course not.  We obviously decide to jump on the hotel mattresses and have a homo erotic 6 dude pile up in our skives instead.  Hey it's not gay cause it's in the suburbs...and I was involved in it.

3:49 A.M.-The dog piling is over and I close my eyes for the final time.  AE is 21.  I may or may not have a night time boner, and need to order a "hotel" movie so I can go to sleep.  The suburbs are still racist, although they tend to be more tolerant of hats.  And, once again, I get to dream the dreams of men.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My text messaging score since October 21 is a robust +1,084 (713-inbox, 483-sent, 141 from females).  This is probably the most impressive thing I have ever accomplished in my life...even when considering that it's been about 16 days since my last post.  Anyone who challenges this claim can suck.  I have also reached one of the most important milestones on my life via twitter...but I'll have more on that later.

As for big ups I guess I gotta offer them to AE, Ace, D-boy, Seal, Joe, the volunteer firefighter and everyone else who made my second trip out to the suburbs so forgettable and not that important in the overall scheme of things.  I also gotta thank Michael Kovach for introducing me the youtube video below, and the St. Louis Cardinals for proving to me that there is a God...even if Tim Tebow and Phillip Rivers really already proved that to me before.

Back hopefully later this week with some look at some aspect of something in my life that almost no one else will care about.

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"
 
 
Picture
Dear Readers,
As all of you surely know, both because I've told you and just from my general demeanor/behavior, The Sack is from the screets.  In fact I'm so screet that I recently got a gigantic "Thug Life" tattoo across my stomach, which has inspired ESPN: The Magazine to write a story entitled "What if The Sack Artist Were Country," examining how my life may have turned out differently if I was not born and raised in my kill or be killed inner city environment.  And, while this question may never truly be answered, it is an interesting hypothetical to consider.  What if instead of growing up in the industrial/cultural/economic center of the modern, Western world (St. Louis, MO) I was brought up in a place where the number of cows/pigs you own represented financial prosperity? What if instead of learning to train pitbull puppies to chew the faces off other dogs and white people, I was taught to treat animals with respect and care in the hopes of one being able to earn a blue ribbon at the county fair?  And what if instead of having my inner city voice represent by Thug MC's like Tupac, Biggie and that detective in Law And Order: SVU, I was able to resonate with the likes of George Straight, Taylor Swift and that black guy from the College GameDay theme song? 

Well recently I've see how the country side of this great nation lives, and what their music represents.  And boy was I surprised by what I discovered.  You see I use to think that country music was all about having sex with a blood relative or never having to acknowledge minorities or being illiterate...but I couldn't have been more wrong.  Turns out country music is about thinking things like Freedom and Equality are good, and thinking things like terrorism and cancer are bad.  It's about standing up for things like law and order no matter what, while simultaneously encouraging listeners to drive their pickups hammered drunk on dusty dirty roads.  It's about valuing things like church attendance every Sunday or a new pair of Wranglers or a fresh tin of Copenhagen more than things like money or education or not getting mouth cancer.  It's even about having a loving, loyal dog who is your best friend instead of allowing him to be the killing machine that biology, and certain Philadelphia Eagle quarterbacks, want him to be.  All in all it's a very powerful, and worthwhile, message.

And I'm not trying to say that drinking whiskey is better than drinking 40's, or carrying shotguns is better than carrying gats, or that riding a bull is more fun than playing street ball or even that selling corn is better than selling rocks Joe Rogan.  After all this isn't about one side being better, or one musical style being superior, to another.  This is about being able to accept each others' differences, learn from them, and use that new found knowledge to make yourself a more complete person.  Because whether we listen to country, hip hop, rock, jazz, blues, bluegrass, classical or books are tape..we are all Americans.  We are all the same. And, at the end of the day, we all love each other.  Unless you are listening to some sort of doofy punk music that offends my eardrums.  Then you're just SOL in my book. And, unfortunately for all you hipsters out there...my book is really the only one that matters.  Sorry guys...but that's just the way the cookie crumbles.  Better luck next year.  Maybe by then I will have a truly open mind.  Yeah I know...I wouldn't hold my breath on that one either.

The Sack discovers his Country Roots
Now I'm sure you are all asking "hey Sack what inspired this new found appreciation for the country music lifestyle?" Well you see this past Saturday I attended a Jason Aldean concert in Tinley Park, Illinois, and as you can probably tell...it was an eye opening experience.  Let's take a look at my journey towards becoming a true, 100%, red, white and blue blooded American son of a gun...shall we?  Of course we shall.

Saturday, August 27th
2:02 P.M.-I'm only about 2 beers deep when I get a gigantic burrito from Chipotle, yet somehow I manage to spill 2/3rds of its contents on the floor. Do I eat it off the ground? Of course I do...I don't want to be wasteful. Besides I followed the 2 minute, 37 second rule so...it's really not that gross when you think about it. 

2:13 P.M.-I'm riding in a car heading for the Chicago suburbs when I find out that if a driver in the state of Illinois gets caught allowing one of his passengers to have an open container of alcohol in the vehicle, then he (the driver) gets a DUI.  Look I am all for stringent drinking and driving laws, but do any of you out there really think it's fair that someone who is just driving a car while one of his buddies drinks a beer is punished just as severely as someone who takes 19 shots of tequila then wrecks his car in the median of Interstate 90 in the middle of the Chicago Loop?  Of course it is.  After all...the state of Illinois never gets anything wrong when it comes to governing.  Just ask one of their 167 death row inmates who had their sentences commuted in 2003 when it was discovered that there was absolutely no evidence against them.  They'll tell you what's up.

2:40 P.M.-I arrive at my good friend Matt Davis' house, and immediately hop in the shower.  The entire Davis household can thank me later for my stirring rendition of the O-Town classic "All or Nothing" that I belted from the bathroom.  Shower + Singing = Me eventually winning season 49 of American Idol...when the only contestants left are me and 3 or 4 homeless dudes.

4:12 P.M.-I'm a few more beers deep when Matt's buddy Mike shows up in his 1951 Buick Lesabre to take us to the liquor store.  When I get into the Lesabre's back seat the entire passenger side of the car drops down so far that it's dragging on the street.  Looks like that extra meat/black beans I ate off the Chiptole floor may have been a bad idea after all huh?

4:24 P.M.-Me, Matt and Mike buy a handle of Early Times Whiskey and 4 liters of Coke.  By the end of the night me and my associates will have polished off 3 handles of Early Times in the past 7 days.  Look like somebody (Early Times) should thank me for that bump in their stock prices.  Now that's insider trading at it's finest.

4:57 P.M.-We show up at Mullen's Bar where we will be meeting the rest of our crew before heading to the concert.  Now Mullen's is a nice, clean suburban bar where upper middle class families show up to have a quiet, early dinner or a husband and wife can sit at the bar and enjoy a glass of Merlot.  It's not generally the kind of place where 17 guys dressed in flannel shirts and cowboy hats try to drink their weight in whiskey.  Well...not until now.

5:09 P.M.-My other roommate Chad, and about 12 of his closest friends, show up at the bar.  And, as I alluded to earlier, out of the 13 or so dudes in our crew, 12 are dressed like the Brawny paper towel man (flannel shirts)...and 1 is wearing a graphic t.  Looks like somebody (Matt) is gonna stick out like a Jersey Shore cast member visiting a lumberjack convention...doesn't it?

6:02 P.M.-Our stretch hummer arrives to take us to the concert.  At this point I am just very disappointed that we didn't get the stretch Ford F-150.  Now we're never gonna fit in at this thing.

6:03 P.M.-The hummer comes equipped with 2 full bottles of liquor and a cooler of beer.  Of course this is in addition to the handle of whiskey, 3 cases of Bud Light and 15 kilos of black tar heroin we brought ourselves.  Hey it's a limo so...the law doesn't apply here right?

6:05 P.M.-Me, Matt and another kid Doug are seated in the very back seat of the hummer so...by this point everyone has forgotten we exist.  And people think segregation is dead in America? Not by a long shot.  Rosa Parks would be so ashamed.

6:09 P.M.-By this point Matt, Doug and I are trying anything to get someone to notice us, but nothing has worked.  So I decided to yell obscene things at the chicks in front of us like "Hey, I wanna hold your hand and take a long walk through the Home Depot picking out shower curtains with you."  Still nothing.  Looks like these chicks are pretty loose.

6:11 P.M.-Doug is telling me and Matt about his stand up routine.  It basically goes "I've been trying to lose some weight lately so...I started wearing roller blades on the treadmill." 1-Is there a punchline in there? Eh...you guys be the judge and 2-How long till Richard Simmons markets this as his next exercise routine? The over/under is 3 weeks.

6:47 P.M.-The hummer is stuck in some serious traffic when we make what is at least our 3rd piss stop, and this time I get into the action.  Is there anything more fun than pissing on the side of the interstate for half the state of Illinois to see? Not in my book.  Unless there is a Chucky Cheese around. Naw, I take that back...I'm sick of Chucky Cheese.

6:58 P.M.-Piss stop #4.  Does anyone else find it interesting that in the state of Illinois you can't drink alcohol in a regular car, but when you are in a stretch hummer you can not only drink but also do heroin, yell obscenities at females and piss in front of an entire freeway packed with cars?  Looks like if you are rich enough to ride in a limo...you are rich enough to do whatever the f you want.  That's capitalism at it's finest right there.

7:39 P.M.-We pull up at the concert and all the alcohol is gone...I think.  Everything is becoming a blur at this point...for obvious reasons.

7:42 P.M.-We walk onto the lawn at Tinley Park and what's the first thing I notice? 50,000 flannel shirts...and 1 graphic t.  Matt Davis probably feels kinda like that one white guy who went to the Million Man March/has been in a Spike Lee movie right now. Or the one black guy who is at this concert.  Either comparison is pretty valid at this point.

7:49 P.M.-What's the second thing I've noticed about this concert?  The slope of the lawn is just way too steep.  You figure that most outdoor, concert venues have a lawn that sits on a hill with a slope of what, maybe 30 degrees or something?  Well this hill I'm standing on feels like it's almost 90 degrees.  And what's more safe than having 50,000 hammered drunk people stand on a perpendicular hill?  Probably exposing babies to nuclear radiation or selling firearms to Sylvester Stallone or vacationing in Jurassic Park/Detroit.  Yeah...those all definitely are. Well, maybe besides the whole visiting Detroit thing.

8:02 P.M.-Someone is smoking marijuana.  Really?  At a country music concert?  All these flag wavin good ole' boys are gonna let someone smoke an illegal, mind altering drug on their turf?  Looks like they have more in common with hip hop/Dave Matthews fans than I thought they did. 

8:23 P.M.-Mike, Matt, Doug and I are looking for a place to piss.

8:24 P.M.-We all decide to just whip it out and piss through the fence covering the side of the lawn area, of course soaking the people standing below the hill with urine in the process.  However before we can begin our piss off a security guard sees us and quickly breaks it up.  Looks like once you're not riding in the stretch hummer anymore...you're free pee party is over pretty f'in quick.

9:02 P.M.-In my daze I see a guy double fisting a beer and a Mike's Hard Lemonade.  Talk about a man's man.  After all nothing is more manly than alternating between a true, American staple like Budweiser and a fruity, 0.03% alcohol beverage like Mike's Hard.  Especially when you are doing it at a country music concert. 

9:35 P.M.-Matt and I see the one black guy in the concert and start running after him (not in a racist way, but in a "we gotta see it to believe it way." I swear).  However, Matt gets his foot tangled in the strap of a lady's purse and drags it throughout the entire chase.  And who do you think security would have blamed for the "stolen" purse if they caught up to us, Matt or the black guy?  I'll let you guys be the judge.  (Spoiler Alert...they blamed Matt.  Cause it was his fault)

10:12 P.M.-I put a little bit of chewing tobacco in.  Which means that, as of right now, 98.435% of the people at this concert are dipping/chewing tobacco.  However, only 59.68% of those people will eventually get their jaw removed due to mouth cancer one day.  And people really think there's some sort of connection there? Come on.

10:23 P.M.-I see two people kissing, then hear both of them yell "You can keep that Skoal baby!!" at one another.  Now that's what I call "country hotness" right there!!  God I feel like I'm on the set of a CMT softcore porno right now. And it was even more awesome than it sounds.

10:31 P.M.-A couple of guys ride past us on horses and start shooting their guns in the air.  EEEEEEEEEHAWWWWW!!!  (By the way how much more entertaining would it be if this was how they ran the Kentucky Derby? Armed jockeys picking each other off with shot guns? Yes please.  Or at the very least this horse/gun/race idea could be used as the storyline for a movie where armed prisoners race horses, risking their lives in an attempt to earn their freedom.  Just get Jason Statham to star and call the movie Death Race 3: Where Hooves Replace Tires. Hey I think I am on to something here...assuming this movie isn't already in pre-production. Yeah...I bet it is too.)

10:45 P.M.-My roommate Chad thinks it's hilarious to repeatedly attempt to head butt me in the nuts. Come on man, I don't deserve this. After all...I'm the one guy here who isn't wearing jeans.  Well I guess if wearing denim pants earns you a punch in the balls, then khaki shorts should probably get you a head butt in the scrot sack huh? Hey, I ain't complaining..what's fair is fair.

11:02 P.M.-Jason Aldean begins playing his hit song "Dirt Road Anthem" uninterrupted.  Man look's like I'm losing that 10 bucks I bet on Kanye West storming the stage, grabbing the microphone and telling Aldean that Beyonce is infinitely more talented/has infinitely bigger breasts than he does at this point in the show.  This bet may look stupid on paper but hey if someone gives you 10,000 to 1 odds...you take them.  If John Cougar Mellencamp ever wins an Oscar (or if Tony Danza wins a grammy/Oprah and Roise O'Donnell find a way to conceive a bi-racial child/Joan Rivers actually finds the fountain of youth and really does live forever)...I'm going to be a very rich man.

11:29 P.M.-I come to and am sitting in the stretch hummer.  Let's get this party started...again.

Sunday, August 28th
12:01 A.M.-I wake up and start freaking out.  Apparently I've been sleeping for over 30 minutes and now I am riding in a stretch hummer with 12 complete strangers, 4 dudes I know and a Hispanic driver...everyone of whom appears to be asleep.  Who the f is driving the car!?!?! (I know I use this line a lot, but if this doesn't sound like the plot for America's next great horror film...then I don't know what does.  Get on that shit master of terror M. Night Shyamalan, you know...the guy who made The Last Airbender).

12:12 A.M.-I'm gonna puke...a lot.  My only goal now is to projectile vomit with enough force to soak everyone else in the car.  Why do I want to do this you ask? Well 1-Getting projectile vomit on people is hilarious...just ask Dean Wormer and that fat kid from Animal House and 2-If these chicks get covered in puke then my odds of hooking up with them go up to 1 in 1.2345 trillion...so you're saying there's a chance?

1 A.M.-The hummer drops us in the middle of some dark, suburban road.  I clearly have no idea where I am.  Now I finally now how blind people feel when they're drunk. (Get it? Cause blind people never know where they are either...especially when they're hammered. I just wish I had a seeing eye dog to get me home.)

1:21 A.M.-Me, Mike and Matt somehow get back to the Davis household just in time for Matt to puke straight shots of whiskey into the toilet.  Now that's what country music is all about right there son!!

2:13 A.M.-Somehow I end up in Matt's driveway, retrieving a pizza and wearing nothing but my boxer shots.  If I were more sober, I'd be pretty sure this was just a giant, sting operation that would eventually lead to my debut on the hit FOX TV show Cops. I redact my earlier statement...this is really what country music living is all about son!!  Looks like the rookie hit a homer in his first at bat baby!!

Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score is a healthy +161 (138-inbox, 123-sent, 8 from females), which isn't the worst showing I've ever produced.  Also my twitter score has semi-rebounded up to 188 followers so...looks like I am kinda back on top of the social networking world right now.

I have a couple of big ups to proffer in this edition of the blog.  First to Matt, Mike, Chad, Doug and everyone else who accompanied me on my country music expedition...why don't you all give yourselves a giant pat on the back.  Second to blog mainstays like Danny Boy Flynn and Jay Boy Leonard...thanks for your constant support and feedback.  Also to my own mother for objecting to my constant use of the word "penis", I thank you.  After all, it's that level of uncomfortably that I strive to cause all my readers to reach on a weekly basis.  Finally I'd be remiss if I didn't thank Michael Kovach for showing me our first youtube video below, which stars a Akron, Ohio native who recently beat Kovach in horse without getting a single letter (and I heard recently signed a letter of intent to play college basketball at Duke).  Thanks Michael...you're a big help to the blog as always.

No everyone remember not to throw paper clips at people (see youtube vid #2) and I'll be back next week bigger, stronger yet somehow...steroid free.

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

 
 
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Dear Readers,
As many of you know...love is in the air.  Yes that's right, it's Wedding Season! And, for all you sand bagging son of a bitches out there, that can only mean a couple months of dancing with elderly people, posing as purple heart winners to get free drinks (for all you cheap a-holes with cash bars) and smanging broads who think your best friend and teammate on the Yankees was killed by a drunk Toronto Blue Jays fan.  This should be the time of your lives, where women are so aroused by the idea of marriage that they are willing to throw their sexual inhibitions to the wind.  Look part of being a true man is having the ability to hide your real emotions behind a wall of liquor and lies used exclusively to manipulate women in order to get into their pants/purse.  I mean that's the only way to enjoy life...right?

Well for the first time in my life, I'm not so sure...and you can thank my main man Joe Davis for that.  That's right, the same Joe Davis who is the preeminent play-by-play man of our generation, who made hair gel into a stylish accessory for grown men (and not just prepubescent 7th graders who use it as lube in the bathrooms of their middle school mixers) and who, by wearing their t-shirts, has returned Abercrombie & Fitch to the highest level of prominence they've reached since Ernest Hemmingway killed himself with one of their guns, has opened my heart...by opening his.  Yes Joe Davis, the cultural icon, recently proposed to his lovely and talented fiancee Libby Baughman.  And while my first thought was just about how I was going to get hammered and knock over 13 tables doing the Wop at their wedding reception, I have now realized there is much more to it.  There is a love that Joe and Libby share...a love as pure as the driven snow. And it's beautiful.

Now don't get me wrong, I have loved a lot of things in my life.  I've loved whiskey.  I've loved beer.  I've loved football teams.  I've loved basketball teams.  I've loved fried food.  I've loved knowing that I'll die of an eventual heart attack before the age of 50.  And, perhaps most of all, I've loved proving my manhood by destroying people in any form of competition that doesn't involve intelligence, sexual competency or foot speed/hand-eye coordination (you'll read about one such contest later in the post).  But, I'm not sure I've ever loved another person.  And, as Joe and Libby have showed me...maybe the time has come for that to happen.  Maybe I'm ready to give my heart to someone else.  And maybe, just maybe, that will lead to more fulfillment than a life based primarily on the consumption of alcohol and Popeye's chicken.  Well actually, on second thought, I just watched Little Nicky and I'm starting to remember just how f'in good Popeye's chicken really is. Besides due to my fear of the female reproductive organs, I'd have to move to New York State to get married anyways...and I hear the economy in Buffalo just ain't what it use to be. So, I guess I'm good with my life plan after all.  Sorry for wasting your time.

27 Beer Day
There are times in every man's life when he has to prove something to his family, his friends, himself and the principle of manhood itself.  These moments are the true tests of a man's ability to reach down deep, discover his scrotum, and overcome any and all obstacles standing in his way.  This is what every young, Jewish man does when he remembers to open that Hebrew book backwards at his Bar Mitzvah.  This is what Charles Barkley did when someone told him he wasn't man enough to drive a car with a blood alcohol content of 0.33, and still remember to solicit sexual favors from his arresting officer.  And, this is exactly what occurred last Saturday when I was able to drink 27 Busch Lights without crawling into a secluded cave and choking on my own vomit.

27 beer day originated at the University of Miami in Ohio when one frat bro asked another "how many beers he wanted to drink that day." When the 2nd bro replied with "27" a tradition was born, and quickly passed from generation to generation.  This past weekend was my first experience with 27 Beer Day, and it was more glorious than I ever imagined it could be.  Here is my story.

Saturday, July 23
2:13 P.M.-Arrive at the grocery store to buy a case of Busch Light when I get a call from my friend Friar Chuck asking me to pick up some water.  He says "we'll need it."  I say that "I'm a man and the only water I'm going to drink today is the stuff that fills roughly 95.8% of each Busch Light can I'll consume." Think I won the frat battle in that conversation.

2:31 P.M.-Arrive at the site of the competition, and I'm only 28 minutes late (27 beer day officially starts at 2:07...for obvious reasons).  The place is packed with prospective beer drinkers, and it appears that I'm already lagging behind.

2:32 P.M.-I check the "leader board" and I am 2 to 3 beers behind several other competitors.  That's right there is an official leader board (basically a giant piece of cardboard) with everyone's frat name and their beer count posted for all to see.  The frat names range from colorful stuff like "Friar Chuck," "Turkey Man," and "Ass Licker McGee" to boring, uncreative pseudonyms like "ZP" (which, of course, was given to me).

2:33 P.M.-I open a Busch Light, start pouring lukewarm deliciousness down my throat, look at my competition and smile.  This must be exactly how Will Smith's son felt when he was the only black kid at the competition in the Karate Kid remake. If you're the only person from the screets, then you know you're going to win. That's what Jaden Smith and the new Karate Kid taught me. And that's exactly what's happening now.

2:35 P.M.-They reread the official 27 Beer Day rules for my benefit.  Among the litany of regulations are the necessary steps towards verifying a drunken (dranken) beer (emptiness must be checked by at least 2 other competitors or 1 founding father.  I choose to have John Hancock verify all my beers cause, as we all know...he was the really drinker in the group), the acceptable ways for official beer consumption (no beer bongs, shot gunning or diluting beer with your own urine allowed) and the list of banned PEDs (including, but not limited to, Red Bull, Cocaine, Steroids, 5 Hour Energy and that pill that makes Bradley Cooper a genius in the classic film Limitless).  Any disapproving parents might want check that last part.  Would you rather have your kids drinking 27 beers or doing dangerous amounts of blow, roids and caffine/ginseng?  Yeah that's right...those are you're only two options. Turns out, we are keeping your kids off the streets.  You can thank us later.

2:36 P.M.-Just as I finish my first beer, and get my first tally up on the board, "BT" downs number 4.  Now BT and I may share the least original leader board names in the competition, but since my initals are way cooler, I got him beat.  Besides, our frat names are about all we have in common.  For those of you who don't know BT he is a tubby, short, square headed, British dude (imagine a mix of Mini Me from Austin Powers, a white Cee-Lo Green, Mr. Clean and Ricky Gervais)...and there is no way I will ever let him beat me.  Just like the Americans didn't like the British beat us in WWII. This international drunk fest is on...like Donkey Kong.

3:03 P.M.-My friend Jimmy shows up, wearing the exact same shirt that Russel Brand spilled Cranberry Juice on in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  I do admire sir Tommy Bahama.

3:25 P.M.-Jimmy and Friar Chuck decide to break out the slip-n-slide.  The only problem? They use a little too much soap and not quite enough water, which means that they slide about as far and fast as Bowser when he flips over on his shell in the middle of a Mario Kart race.  Plus when they stand up their bodies have more suds on them than a white guy in prison. Don't get that last joke? Yeah...me neither.  It's just that paring soap, white people and prison is always a hoot...as long as you aren't said white person.

4:33 P.M.-Finished my 9th beer and realize that I 1-Have a very strong buzz, 2-Really, really have to piss and 3-Am only a third of the way to the finish line.  These facts all present very real problems because 1-Drinking 18 more beers after having a strong buzz at 4:30 P.M. has only been done by Wade Boggs, Joey Chestnut and Andre the Giant, 2-Breaking the seal with 18 more beers to take down means that I will be pissing more than a toddler pounding Monsters (at least 20 more pisses left in the day) and 3-No one has worked harder to only finish 1/3rd of their task since Lewis and Clark befriended all those Indians when they reached Denver by forging them legal marijuana cards.  And forging a legal marijuana card was no easy task in 1804...let me tell you.

5:22 P.M.-I am rapidly catching up to BT but there is a new competitor challenging us for the lead...Van.  Now usually people named Van are cool (Van Morrison, Van Wilder, Van Gundy), but this kid definitely doesn't live up to his name.  In fact we all are starting to suspect that this MICDS (Slytherian) grad is cheating harder than Draco Malfoy at a Quidditch match (some stereotypes, like the one about Slytherians just not being good people and doing anything (such as worshipping a murderous psychopathic wizard) to get ahead, are true). 

6:19 P.M.-About 13 or 14 beers deep, and feeling really good at the half way point.  I wish I felt this good after running the first half of the mile in 5th grade.  Instead, at that point I was throwing up all over the homeless guy who use to pay me garbage in exchange for the soda cans I snuck into lunch.  Let's just say I ruined that little gravy train.

6:31 P.M.-I'm in the middle of real in depth discussion with my boy "Turkey Man." Now, why is this kid's frat name Turkey Man?  Well try drinking 15 beers, not eating for 5 hours and then having a half hour convo with the kid without somehow imagining him filled with stuffing and garnished with parsley. I'm no cannibal, but I'm telling you it's impossible.  I mean no person has looked this appetizing to another human being since Kramer sun tanned with apple butter and Newman attacked him like he was a Kenny Rogers rotisserie chicken (see youtube vid below if you grew up in a cave).

6:47 P.M.-Instead of eating Turkey Man like he's a New Zealand rugby player who didn't survive a plane crash, I decide to order some pizza.  And who do I share pizza with? BT...who's still a couple of beers ahead of me.  And do I put some sort of low grade beaver tranquilizer into BT's half of the pizza in order to ensure my victory? Well we'll have to wait for the official 27 Beer Day random drug testing results to know...won't we?

6:50 P.M.-John Hancock certifies my 18th beer.  I'm 2/3rds of the way there, tied with Turkey Man, and just one brew short of BT.  The last time I was only 66.66% done with something after 4.25 hours of work, I was using a picture of Hillary Swank as "inspiration" (if you know what I mean).  And, like Kevin in The Office, Hillary Swank obviously just doesn't do it for me.  She is not hot, and anybody who's seen her play a man would have to agree, unless...you're into that kind of stuff.  Then maybe her having a wang just made her hotter.  I'm no mind reader.

7:03 P.M.-I start talking to Aaron Rodgers. Or is it Brett Favre? Or is it Matt Flynn? Or is it just some random white guy in a Green Bay Packers jersey? I mean who the hell knows at this point? Mike McCarthy maybe?

8:14 P.M.-I'm like 23 beers in when one of the bros makes a startling revelation...a 5 hour energy! And whom (aka who) does this illegal performance enhancing drug belong to? Me of course.  I brought it in, with the intention of drinking it after the competition (wink, wink).  There is some suspicion, but since the 5 hour is unopened, I have yet to consume any of it and my personal trainer refuses to testify against me despite being held in prison for the past year, they have no choice but to allow me to remain in the competition.  Although (despite me being arguably the greatest performer in 27 Beer Day history) I still don't expect to be welcomed into the 27 Beer Day Hall of Fame anytime soon due to this incident, which is just a shame.  A God damn shame.

9:07 P.M.-I am like 25 beers deep and still going.  As all participants learn 27 Beer Day isn't a sprint...it's a marathon. Actually it's more than a marathon because you are drinking 27 beers instead of running just 26 miles. So get off your high horse marathon runners...because, as I am about to show, I have more mental toughness than you could ever dream of. (By the way, do you think P Diddy could drink 27 beers? No way. But he could, and did, run 26 miles. Just goes to show being rich can give you enough heart to run long distances, but not to drink great amounts of alcohol...even if you use some of said money to start a vodka company).

10 P.M.-Somewhere around this time I FINISH MY 27TH BEER!!! In roughly 7.5 hours I accomplished arguably the greatest feat of strength, mental fortitude and perseverance since that time when I actually sat through an entire 3 hour marathon of Tyler Perry's House of Payne.  Now do I remember the final moments of this great achievement? Not really...and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Because my imagination is almost always better than reality (don't believe me? Well...look at my life! Yeah...now you all believe me).  It's like when Dock Ellis pitched that perfect game high as shit off Acid.  Do you think he remembered that 27th out (27th out, 27th beer...coincidence?) or thought that he was fighting a dragon while floating on top of a medieval castle? Yeah probably the latter. And he wouldn't trade that memory for anything. I guarantee it...cause fighting dragons is always cooler than playing baseball.

11:33 P.M.-Come to while I'm chugging a beer in a cab.  So actually I drank more than 27 beers...assuming I was able to finish another beer for the rest of the night.  So yeah I probably drank 27 full beers, and roughly 1/25th of 4 other ones.

Sunday, July 24
12-2 A.M.-Gambling at Lumiere Place Casino while trying not to breath in too much air because my stomach is so full that there is a good chance I am going to projectile vomit all over my dealer, who just happens to be black...which I'm pretty sure makes puking on him a hate crime.

2:30 A.M.-Put my head to pillow knowing that I reached a new height in my life.  Drinking 27+ beers makes you frat as f.  Later bragging and exaggerating about your experience drinking 27+ beers on your blog makes you too frat to f'in care. And the best part is that, as usual, my parents are very, very proud.  Some days are life changers, and ladies and gents...this was one of them.  Thank you case of Busch Light...for giving me the chance to prove something to myself.  And, if I haven't done that by now...then I never will (anyone get the Rudy reference here? You know the movie where that dude from Lord of the Rings plays football for Notre Dame? No wonder the Irish haven't been very good lately...recruiting Tolken characters very rarely pays off)

Text Updates and Big Ups
As usual I have more than a couple big ups to extend in this post.  The first obvious one goes to Joe and Libby, for having a love so pure that it can't possibly be corrupted.  Second, I gotta give it up to Friar Chuck, Turkey Man, Ass Licker McGee, Teddy, Jimmy, BT and even Van for helping pushing me to new heights on 27 Beer Day.  Also a special shout out has to go to Jayboy Leonard, who showed me our second youtube video below. Finally I gotta show some love to a lifelong Sack Artist fan, my boy Dan Tryniecki.  I came across Dan at Lumiere Place Saturday night, and while he could never stand or speak coherently, he was able to tell me that he thought the Sack Artist was hilarious.  You are truly a dedicated fan Daniel...and one I hope to get hammered with very soon.

My text message score since July 21 is a paltry +260 (202-inbox, 153-sent, 9 from females). And yes, 7 of my 9 texts from females are from either my mom or my aunt but so what...blood is thicker than water (or something like that).  Also my twitter score seems to be falling as I've dropped all the way down to 188 followers.  So that's no good, but oh well...can't win them all (or any of them).

Back next week, hopefully with a delightful birthday tale.

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


 
 
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Dear Readers,
As all of you know America is the best God damn place on Earth.  It's the land of the free, the home of the brave, and the place where hard work and good, honest corruption can lead you straight to the top.  It's where Michael Douglas can exploit a pre-rehab Charlie Sheen into selling out his own father (and future US president) Martin Estevez (name alert) or where Ben Affleck, Vin Diesel and Phoebe's brother from Friends/the jerky boss dude in Avatar can run illegal casinos and sell fake stocks to con middle class families (like that Boiler Room shout out? If you haven't seen that classic piece of film making...then I am cooler than you).  America is simply the land of opportunity, where everyone with loose morals has the same chance to cheat the system, make a lot of dough and gain a ridiculously high amount of influence. I mean if money gives corporate magnates, with no real governmental authority, the right to make outrageously racist claims about our current president's birthplace while still keeping their NBC prime time reality show...then we must be doing something right.

And, if "acquiring obscene amounts of money through questionable ethics in order to gain people's unearned respect" really is the American Dream...then I took a step in the right direction this past weekend during a trip to the Indian Casino (That's right Native Americans live the American Dream too...by rigging slot machines. And people think America is racist?). Because, standing in that Wisconsin tribal shrine, I made the magic happen. I made a rich guy give me money.  And, while you will read more about this incident later in the post, I just want you all to know how proud of myself I am.  I preyed on the financially rich (but mentally poor), exploiting him with my humor, charm and good looks...and getting rewarded handsomely for it.  It was a page right out of the America kicks ass/Bernie Madoff (if he were funny) playbook, and I executed it like some kind of non-Christian Kurt Warner.

But, this post really isn't about me...it's about our great country. A few short weeks ago our nation celebrated it's 135th birthday, and I celebrated by drinking, gambling, getting sunburned and most importantly...learning how to succeed in our truly excellent society.  Add that drive for success with the never wilting alcohol addiction I mentioned in my last post, and it is clear that I understand what America is all about...and I hope you all do too. Because drinking and money are the God damn American Dream (see the first youtube vid below), a dream that I am currently living. And, like America...it's the best one out there.

Sack at SummerFest
Look for my entire life I always thought of Milwaukee as the city of delicious sausage (pork, beef or man meat), losing baseball (check the 1982 World Series if you don't believe me) and truly wretched tasting beer/dog piss that no with any integrity likes or buys. However, I saw a new side to Wisconsin's largest town this past 4th of July weekend.  I attended SummerFest, otherwise known as the Midwest's largest outdoor musical festival, where musicians, beer vendors and groupies live their own version of the American dream by exploiting hard working Americans for their money and/or sexual organs.  Here is my story.

Friday, July 1
12:32 P.M.-I stop at a gas station and buy 14 monsters, a case of 5 hour energy, 3 Starbucks Ice Coffee drinks, 3 dozen cartons of Marlboro Lights, a case of Bud Deisel and 17 crack rocks.  And that's just for the drive up there.  If my heart stops on the Illinois/Wisconsin border then I just wanna tell all of you...it has been one hell of a ride.

1:19 P.M.-I reach 6 Flags in Gurnee, Illinois.  Now I hate roller coasters. And I really hate non Disney themed theme park mascots. And I really, really hate 40 year old MILFs who are willing to throw their family, $800K suburban home and golden retriever away for romp outside The Batman ride with a delicious peace of man meat like myself (Hey Sack ain't no home-wrecker...I don't think. Never really been in that position before).  But I do love fried turkey legs more than I love Jesus Christ, my parents or anything that isn't some sort of alcohol or sports team so...of course I stopped. And it was worth it.

1:53 P.M.-I am currently in the middle of a half hour traffic jam due to road construction. What are they constructing to make traffic stop for so long in the deserted farmland of Northern Illinois you ask? About a 100 foot section of the median, that looks perfectly fine to me.  But hey this is the great state of Illinois, so we know the government isn't corrupt and couldn't possibly be wasting tax payers money...right? Yeah...something like that.

1:56 P.M.-There's a toll. Do I stop? Of course not. This is America and that means a few things. Mainly that I can smoke crack and drink Bud Diesel in my car while not stopping at tolls. Especially in Illinois.

3:03 P.M.-I show up in Milwaukee and park outside my friends Kovax and Trick's apartment and wait for them to return home from work.  While I am sitting in my car some cracked out black guy (I was told later he is black...once again I'm color blind) starts tapping on my window.  Do I pull an Office Space and lock my doors when I see this guy coming? Oh course not...that'd be racist. On the other hand, do I open my window and toss this guy a few cents for a crack rock? Also no...assuming black people need your money is just as racist as assuming they are criminals.  I just let the guy live his life...which is exactly what MLK Jr. woulda wanted.

3:07 P.M.-The black guy leaves to go chase down a bat that stole his drugs just as Kovax is coming to get me from the car.  Danger avoided.

3:09 P.M.-On the 2 block walk to Kovax apartment I see 3 women sleeping in a 1992 Dodge Dart parked in a McDonald's drive through line. Welcome to Detroit. Oops I mean Milwaukee...apparently. (Rent in Milwaukee for a 1992 dodge dart that permanently sits in a McDonald's drive through line? $135.78 a month).

4:33 P.M.-Our bud Rich joins us, and we are finally settled into Kovax apartment. Look anyone who knows Kovax knows that he doesn't really like to drink or party or have fun. But Sack is in town so...It's time to do some serious drankin! I'm talkin drankin with Sachary L. Poelker I!

8:15 P.M.-After some drankin we get on a bus to head down to the SummerFest grounds.  Now I know what you are all thinking, "Sack you took public transportation? Did you get raped." Well 75% of people who ride public buses in Detroit (Oops...I mean Milwaukee) get raped so...you do the math.

8:36 P.M.-Prince Fielder is in front of me in line for the concession stand. He orders 49 brat worst, 317 cheese curbs, 9.5 sticks of butter and the love and acceptance he's also wanted, but never received, from his famous father. Hey Prince, I'm not sure this part time dairy farmer selling homemade cheese in a wooden stand can help you with that last part, but you never know since he has contributed to both you and your fathers heart disease. After all...it is Wisconsin.

9:02 P.M.-Who is playing at SummerFest? I have no idea who the bands are, but there are a bunch of 13 year olds doing sick 123 mctwisty backflip 280s on their BMX bikes over at the skate park so...this night is shapin up to be something special

9:05 P.M.-I meet Kovax's friend Vladimir (or something like that) over at the state park.  Turns out this dude is a Russian who was conceived in a labrotory using a mix of sperm from the bad guy in Air Force One, the bad guy in Die Hard, the owner of the New Jersey Nets and Ivan Drago. So yeah, even though we "supposedly" won the Cold War...he scares the shit out of me. 

9:09 P.M.-Someone does a 900, flip, indy mctwist double ollie back fake on their bike. Man I wish I had a video camera right now...cause BMX bike racing is a 30 for 30 that needs to be made.

9:12 P.M.-Me and Trick walk over to the concert stage where we meet a friend of his who is a student in the Milwaukee Police Academy. Obviously I don't trust the guy so I crack him in the dome, opening a deep wound in his forehead. And he deserved it. Snitches get stitches pig.

10:05 P.M.-Make our way over to the stage where Third Eye Blind is playing, and just in time too. At this point I was seriously considering killing myself, but now that I'm listening to Jumper...I think I'll hold off on that for a while.

10:58 P.M.-We decide to leave and find shelter because apparently the crime right in Detroit (Oops...I mean Milwaukee) goes up 6891.2% after 11 P.M. Why you ask? Well watch The Lost Boys...and you'll understand.

11:49 P.M.-We've taken the bus back to Kovax and Trick's apartment, and it looks like we are going to make our midnight curfew when I get a crazy idea...the Indian Casino. Kovax agrees to go with me and bust his Indian Casino cherry...which is probably one of the 5 most important events in a young man's life (behind the first time he drinks alcohol, watches porn, sees Bad Boys II or kills a water buffalo with his bare hands).  Giddy up!

11:51 P.M.-Kovax and I get into the cab and have a nice Arab/Indian/Australian fellow driving us to Potowatomi Casino. Look I've been in roughly 90,234 taxis in my life and about 0.022% (or roughly 19.85) have been driven by men of Australian descent so...there's a pretty good chance that, in this case, our cabbi had just downed 32 fosters and 14 bloomin onions at an Outback Steakhouse. Maybe the dingo ate his baby?

Saturday, July 2
12:09 A.M.-We arrive at Potowatomi Casino, which is technically located in Potowatomi Nation and not a part of US territory. This marks at least the 32nd time I've entered into a sovereign Indian nation. And people say I haven't seen the world?

12:13 A.M.-Walk up to the bar and find out that a double whiskey and coke costs 343 Sacagwea gold pieces...which comes out to about 1.12 American dollars.  Exchange rates are just crazy now a days.

12:19 A.M.-I sit down at the blackjack table and start playing while Kovax stands behind me and watches. What is Kovax's role in the next couple hours of my gambling? Well he can't count cards, add to 21, or tell the difference between a King and a 2. But, he is old enough to drink in Potowatomi Nation so...sending him to the bar to freshen up my drinks is not out of the question.

3:12 A.M.-I fall asleep somewhere, at some point before or after this.

6:38 A.M.-Kovax wakes me up and tells me he has to drive Rich to the airport.  I tell him I'd rather become a death eater and perform sexual favors on Draco Malfoy than get up and go with him (By the way death eaters are the third least likely group of dudes I will ever perform sexual favors for, slightly behind anyone associated with the Duke basketball program...and the damn dirty Dutch. And Canadians.).

6:39 A.M.-Kovax says he'll buy me McDonald's breakfast if I make the trip with him. Looks like I now hate Ron Weasley...and Draco will have the night of his life here soon.

12:32 P.M.-I wake up on Kovax's couch. Did I drive Rich to the airport? Get my McDonalds breakfast? Go down on a Slytherian? Naw...it was probably all Inception (you got a brother dreaming, dreaming).

3:29 P.M.-Dboy Edwards and Seal show up in Milwaukee.  Luckily we added a ginger to our crew for the weekend...just in case we couldn't be less appealing to the Cheese Head Chicas.

4:32 P.M.-I'm talkin about drankin with Sachary L. Poelker I!

9:04 P.M.-We show up at the Maroon 5 concert at SummerFest...and the place is absolutely packed.  I mean I haven't seen this many people gathered at one spot in Wisconsin since Donald Driver was signing sharp cheddar cheese blocks at that K-Mart in Sheboygan (managed by CJ Chokum).  Man...that was a crazy time.

10:57 P.M.-Seal, Dboy, Kovax and myself leave SummerFest and head to...Potowatomi Nation. Tonight I think I'm going to try to gamble using only maze as currency.

11:14 P.M.-The whiskey is flowing and the cards are popping.  Everybody gambles...EVERYBODY WINS!! (Bonus points to anyone who walks into a Gamblers Anyomous Meeting and yells this...just to ruin some lives).

11:29 P.M.-Life is pain, life is only pain...in America maybe.  But not here in Indian Country...where alcohol and gambling are considered the two greatest attributes (not vices) in society.

11:53 P.M.-I am up...and Dboy keeps telling me to get out. What's the deal with redheads anyways? I came here to lose my money and ruin any chance my future family has at a financially stable life. Why can't you people understand that? You people? What do you mean you people?!?!? (Are redheads a race? If so...this may be the first racist comment I have ever made in my life.)

Sunday, July 3
12:02 A.M.-I'm not gonna live in a third world country with all the conformist. (Are Indian casinos considered a third world country? Cause if so...I redact my last statement.)

2:04 A.M.-Kovax and I are standing in the cashier line when we happen to meet a nice guy named Jeff...who is holding at least $10,000 in chips.

2:05 A.M.-It turns out that Jeff is a successful attorney who is willing to trust people so...I see an opening (see blog intro).  Jeff and Kovax continue talking.  Eventually Kovax brings up student loans and Jeff says "I'll be paying my student loans off till I'm 70!" To which I respond "How long's that...like a year and a half?" Now, when you are all done laughing, I will point out that Jeff is about 50...and it looks like he is going to hit me for this hilarious (yet possibly insulting) comment. I walk away slowly.

2:11 A.M.-I've cashed in my chips and am standing to the side waiting for Kovax when Jeff walks up to me, shakes my hand, and slaps a couple of crisp Ben Franklin's into my palm (better than the stuff that usually goes into my palm. Haha gross).  Now you see what I was talking about in my intro. Getting paid $200 for one hilarious comment? Yeah I was slightly underpaid, but still...that's what capitalism is all about.  Earning money by taking advantage of rich guys by being funny and/or willing to sacrifice your dignity/giving sexual favors. America...f yeah!

2:49 A.M.-We go to Ian's Pizza and I get a couple of slices of the mac n' cheese za. Somewhere Joey Tribbiani is creaming his pants.

12:49 P.M.-We've all woken up and are ready to head to the beach...other wise known as my primary stomping grounds. Look when you 1-Are jacked up like Ryan Reynolds in The Amityville Horror, 2-Tan like a younger version of Barrack Obama, 3-Have a completely hairless body and 4-Win every beach volleyball match on The Top Gun set...then you are ready to rock and roll once you hit the sand and surf.  Trust me...I know.

1:36 P.M.-Do gingers tan? Well Dboy is redder than a Kool Aide Man/Hawain Punch Mascot love child so...you tell me.

2:23 P.M.-My man Snake joins the party, so forget drankin with Sachary Poelker...it's all about drankin with Snake Majeski now.  And I'm talking about doin some serious drankin!

3:47 P.M.-Me and Dboy go out for a swim in the good old/very, very polluted Lake Michigan.  And it just so happens that I catch a Minnow, skin it, cook it and eat it as a snack (If you don't get the Creed reference from The Office then I am not sure you understand what this blog is all about...and your life is probably more fulfilling for it.)

4:41 P.M.-Snake pukes all over the beach...and the ladies are somehow more attracted to him than ever. Now that's what I call charisma.

6:15 P.M.-We've returned to the apartment and Dboy has decided to pop a bottle of cris. Of course this is after he's had it in the freezer for the past 26 hours, so the bottle obviously explodes all over the ceiling once it's been opened.  Now I know what you are all thinking "what does a ginger have to be celebrating in Wisconsin?" And the answer is...being the last person on Earth to understand that storing a Champagne bottle in the freezer will lead to it exploding all over a newly furnished 2 bedroom apartment (with carpet).  So congrats Dboy...live it up. After all...you've earned it.

8:51 P.M.-Seal, Kovax and I are in SummerFest listening to someone of equal or lesser fame than Maroon 5 play. Where are Snake and Dboy? Well I hear the bathrooms in this place are quite the hangout...if you know what I am getting at George Michael.

8:53 P.M.-We are walking by the Lake on the SummerFest grounds when we see the cops.  Naturally our first instinct is to flee to safety in Potowatomi Nation (where the white man's police have no authority), but we decide to stay and watch the police pull a drunk guy from the jaws of life.  Turns out this guy decided to down a 5th of vodka, jump in the Lake, and figure out the whole swimming thing later.  And drowning was the least of his worries...because that Lake smells like poop.  Seriously...it makes Michael Jordan cologne smell like vanilla extract.  I mean that guy has a better chance of attracting the sanitation department than a hot chick at this point.  Welcome to my life a-hole.

11:02 P.M.-We are leaving SummerFest. Where are Snake and Dboy you ask? Well at some point in the night they decided to leave, try to walk home, and then pass out on some random person's yard.  So yeah...they're probably sleeping in a grass/dog poop filled Milwaukee lawn by now.  (By the way Snake likes to sleep in the nude so...this Milwaukee neighborhood is getting quite the free show.)

Monday, July 4
12:12 A.M.-Snake and Dboy awake and start walking the streets in a drunken haze. 

12:19 A.M.-Snake and Dboy have already witnessed 14 robberies, 32 rapes, 49 murders...and 657 vampire attacks on innocent civilians. But hey that's Detroit (Oops...I mean Milwaukee) for ya.

12:20 A.M.-Snake sees a hipster in a red and white striped shirt and is convinced he's Waldo.

12:20-1 A.M.-Snake chases the guy through the streets yelling "Hey Waldo...I found you!" Finally Snake has realized his life long dream. (Also if they had just made Waldo a minority, like many of them are in the picture above...he would have been much, much easier to find and I wouldn't have wasted so much of my childhood looking for him.  Stupid racists.)

1:20 A.M.-Every bar in Milwaukee is closed up for the night. You know for a state that claims to love alcohol so much, closing bars before paid programming even comes on the UPN...isn't that cool.

12 P.M.-12 A.M.-Wake up, walk around, eat, sleep, listen to my friend Soup Can tell me about his weekend at a county fair in Michigan, sleep, watch TV, eat Ramen noodles, walk to see Fireworks, fall down a hill, see no fireworks, watch the King of Queens, and sleep some more. Exactly what Thomas Jefferson and John Adams did on the 4th of July in 1826...before they both died cursing each other's name.

And there you have it, the most uneventful 4th of July weekend that anyone has tried to turn into a readable text in human history.  Hope you enjoyed it because there's more observations to come...in another post thankfully.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My text messaging score since July 1st is +452 (300 inbox, 224 sent, 76 from females) which represents my highest proportion of female texts since those angry feminists were texting me death threats after I tweeted those comments about Hillary Clinton's PMSing.  Also my twitter popularity score has shown a sudden upswing with 187 followers, several retweets and a tweet from the Tomcat Tim Cowlishaw.

I have a lot of big ups to extend in this post.  First to Kovax, Trick, Rich, Seal, Dboy, Snake, Soup Can and everyone else who gave me some sort of OK material on my trip to Detroit (Oops...I mean Milwaukee).  I thank you all (even you Dboy) for your hospitality.  I also got to thank Matt Keesy for his lovely facebook post on my wall.  Finally to Jayboy Leonard who discovered our second youtube video below...thank you for adding just a little bit of joy, a lot a bit of offensiveness, to all of our lives.  You are a true patron of this blog.

Back next week with some news about rap superstars...and their concerts.

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

 
 
Picture
Dear Readers,
As I'm sure all of you know men are animals.  Well technically all homo sapiens are animals, but men are the gender that acts like it.  We men burp, fart, poop, eat meat and scratch our balls at extraordinary high rates...all things that no woman this side of Lady Gaga has ever done in her life.  We drink beer.  We watch sports.  We ocasionally perform acts that the Catholic Church would deem as a sin (yeah...on ourselves too).  And, whether you find these actions endearing, disgusting, arousing or just flat out strange...we can't help it.  It's in our DNA.  Don't blame/congratulate us...save it for the big man living up in the sky.

However, just because I take absolutely zero responsibility for my actions as man, that doesn't mean I don't get that women just don't understand them.  I mean, as the popular book said, Men are from Mars and Women are From Venus.  And, while evolution proved that theory (and author) to be full of BS since both sexes are from Earth...it makes sense if you take it metaphorically.  Men and women are different, and that's all the book is trying to say (please don't take anything insulting from me capitalizing Men and not women in that last sentence. I didn't make the rule that the first word in each sentence gets capitalized...so take it up with the guy who did.). 

And that's why the women reading this post (if there are in fact any) may not understand what I am about to write about.  They might not get how guys can pay $20 to crowd into a small house and watch a lady take her clothes off.  They might not understand the rush of testosterone that every boozed-fueled, red-blooded, American male gets when it's time for g strings and white trashily named women (just a warning to all you future parents, as you should already know naming your daughter Destiny sends her down a distinct road in life...a road which may or may not lead to several appearances on Jerry Springer).  They might not even want to know that dancing on a pole is the single best exercise any and all women can perform (once again, don't blame me...blame science).  So before I start weaving my magical story about a specially American night a couple Sundays ago I just want to tell the women of the world I respect them...even if I didn't vote for Hillary Clinton.  Now ladies, read at your own risk--and don't say I didn't warn you.

Stripper Home Visits
As I just alluded to, I had the special privilege of taking up space in a house that was also being occupied by a stripper.  Look I've been to tens of strip clubs around this great land in dirty Midwestern towns like East St. Louis, Cedar Rapids, Beloit and Sauget, but...this was my first experience with the stripper home visit.  And while the ending of my story may leave all of you less romantically fulfilled than the ending of The Breakup, I am glad it happened the way it did.  Having a stripper come to me was something I had to experience...a seminal moment in my male development. Now I am truly a man--even if I have no money, girlfriend or self respect.  Lets take a look and see why. 

Note-All other participants will be given fake names in this post due to my desire not to get them fired from their 9-5 jobs selling policies at Deep Cheap Life Insurance once this blog becomes a national phenomenon and their boss reads it.

Sunday, May 29th
6:15 P.M.-I'm sitting at my house all by myself polishing off my 5th or 6th Bud Light (yeah...I have a problem) when the phone rings.  It's my boy Seamus Finnegan, and he's got an interesting business proposition for me.  Him and his buddy Neville Longbottom have just ordered strippers tonight, and for just $20 I can sit in a drunken stooper and watch.  Man I haven't been this excited since I tweeted that rumor that Pee Wee Herman and Charlie Sheen were were hitting "special theaters" together.

6:20 P.M.-I am getting ready to leave when I see that Bad Boys 2 is on the Starz: Black Buddy Cop channel. 

8:30 P.M.-6 beers and 25 Martin Lawrence jokes later I am ready to move on with my life.  I get out in my car and drive out to Clayton.

8:50 P.M.-I stop at a grocery store and walk up to the customer service desk, looking to turn my 2 $20 bills into 40 $1 bills.  The lady working says she'll give me 10 $1 bills and 4 bags of Cheetos Puffs for my $40.  I instantly accept...Cheetos Puffs are worth their weight in gold.

8:52 P.M.-There is a cop in the parking lot who's eyeing me down as I walk to my car.  He knows what I'm doing. Good thing that I know that ordering strippers to your home or place of business is completely legal...like counting cards or masturbating on an airplane (or bus, train, etc.)

8:57 P.M.-I walk into Neville's house and the place is already kind of full.  And, to my surprise, over half the occupants are females.  Looks like we invested in a male stripper as well, cause it's always a good move to keep the ladies happy...why do you think Nookie Thompson had some much power back in the day?

9:01 P.M.-Neville shows me a picture of the two strippers we are getting, Elizabeth (who will be dressed as a school girl) and Ava (who will be our busty, mixed race, lady cop).  Looks like this is the best investment I've made since I bought all those Pokemon cards and then traded them for a Mr. Pibb in 3rd grade.

9:04 P.M.-I don't know who the hell Jim Beam was...but he tastes awfully good mixed with coke.

9:32 P.M.-The place is starting to get kind of packed.  You even got kids from Priory (my high school so of course...Gryffindor), Burroughs (Ravenclaw), MICDS (Slytherian) and public schools (muggles) meeting hospitably to drink, chat and eventually...stare at some nakedness.  Never thought I'd see the day.

10:04 P.M.-I smell marijuana smoke.  Look I've never smoked marijuana...because I respect the law too damn much.  I actually respect the law so much that,  if I even smell marijuana, the cops are called instantly and everyone on the premises is personally interrogated by me and subject to blood, urine and hair tests. 

10:06 P.M.-Shockingly my investigation ends in about 1.5 minutes.  Who's the guilty party? Well Professor Snape of course.  Hope you don't drop the soap in Azkaban there Severus...I hear those dementors can be pretty rough.

10:19 P.M.-I am feeling good when I see Draco Malfoy making a drink out of my Jim Beam.  Just to be clear I don't know this kid, he went to MICDS (Slytherian) and I paid $23/half my paycheck for that handle of whiskey so...it's not just a "hey help yourself" kind of deal for him.  Look I know high school is over, and I should be past my whole "f you MICDS for beating us 103-4 in football my junior year" phase, but this kid drinking what amounts to my blood, sweat and tears for free...just grinds my gears there friends.  And it always will.

10:33 P.M.-We move the chairs and couches in Neville's house around to make a semi circle facing our makeshift stage in front of the fireplace.  I wonder how you feel as a stripper walking into some stranger's house and having 50 dudes sitting there waiting and staring? I mean...it's gotta be a rush.  Kinda like what the Rock feels when he's walking to the ring.

11:02 P.M.-I sit down on one of the couches and claim a prime spot for the show.  What time is the stripper supposed to get there? 12:30 so...I'm only an hour and a half early.  I haven't been this early to something since I stood in line at the Red Box so I could be the first person to rent Blue Crush 2 on DVD.

11:03 P.M.-I spill a full whiskey and coke all over myself, the two dudes sitting next to me and Neville's couch.  Yet, somehow I sneak away without anyone knowing I drenched half the living room. 

11:04 P.M.-It's hilarious watching people's reactions as they try to claim my now vacant seat only to realize it's absolutely soaking wet.  Half the party now has huge whiskey stains on their butts.

11:11 P.M.-I have a new seat, a nicely situated chair in the second row. 

11:12 P.M.-I drop a full whiskey and coke all over myself, the chair and everyone sitting within a 10 foot radius of me.

11:13 P.M.-I somehow snuck away from the chair as well and reach the kitchen...only to have everyone laugh at me because it looks like I pissed my pants.  Man the one time I don't hammered and pee myself is the time I get caught and ridiculed for it? Looks like karma really is a bitch...just ask LeBron James.

11:16 P.M.-Neville's cell phone rings...it's StL Strippers telling us that Ava is too drunk to drive.  I say who the f cares, she needs to get here.  Besides if she gets pulled over she can just do a little something something with the cop to get out of it...it's not like her great morals or sense of self dignity would prevent that.

11:18 P.M.-Neville finds out that they will get a replacement stripper, but...I don't want no scab.  I am a union man through and through.

11:45 P.M.-The whole crowd starts chanting "STRIPPERS!! STRIPPERS!!" I haven't seen a room full of people this excited since Will Smith knocked out that Alien and said "Welcome to EARFF" in Independence Day.  (Look there is nothing more American that one moment in movie history. And people wonder why Will Smith is my favorite clean rapper turned sitcom star turned feature film A-lister in Hollywood today? Come on.)

11:50 P.M.-Neville gets another call from Stl Strippers.  Turns out the second girl we picked, Elizabeth, also will be unable to attend tonight's performance.  And now we've reached Economic Reality #1-Apparently these agencies who rent out strippers don't really care which one you got.  Look we picked the strippers we wanted, paid our fee to get them here, and we're promised that those 2 girls were gonna come.  And now...they aren't.  We didn't pay to have two random girls show up to Neville's house...we paid to have Ava and Elizabeth show up to Neville's house.  And now not only are they not coming, not only do we not get to pick their replacements (they could be pregnant, elderely women from the Ozarks for all we know...far much more common in the stripper business then you'd think), but we also don't get any sort of discount/coupon/apology from StL Strippers. This is like ordering Justin Bieber/Jaden Smith and getting the Jonas Brothers.   I mean the Jonas Brothers don't know karate and they also ain't Canadian virgins. What a load of bull.  Never say Never.

12:02 A.M.-I spill another drink on the chair I am currently sitting in, but this time it's on purpose.  Look the place is packed, seating is at a premium, and I have to get up every 10 seconds to piss/make a fresh whiskey drink.  There's only so many times you can say "quack, quack, seat back," and not feel like some sort of homosexual version of the Aflac duck.  But now, with my seat sopping wet and me having nothing to lose after already getting ripped left and right for pissing myself, what better way to keep people from wanting to steal my chair? Yeah ladies...I am a problem solver.

12:12 A.M.-Neville gets another call from StL Strippers...and now it looks like only one girl will be showing up tonight.  Welcome to Economic Reality #2-It's 18 minutes before showtime and Joe Jonas just called to say he won't be showing up with his brothers tonight.  Come on no one wants to see Kevin and Nick do a duet on "Burning Up."  I mean we paid for TWO STRIPPERS, and since we didn't get the ones we wanted, we could at least get the same number.  And once again there's no discount or apology.  I haven't seen customer service this bad since I ordered that robot from Rocky IV to do my laundry (Lets just say...society isn't quite ready for a personal laundry robot from the early 1980's just yet).

1:23 A.M.-The strippers, or should I say stripper, is now 53 minutes late.  Did they call Neville to say they will be late? Maybe, but at this point I am almost too hammered to know who Neville is. (Especially cause that's not his real name and I'm drinking as I am writing this so...as of right now I am not sure who Neville is suppose to be either)

1:47 A.M.-The stripper and her "security" show up 1 hour and 17 minutes late.  Welcome to Economic Reality #3-Paying for the Jonas Brothers to take the stage, but getting Kevin and Nick showing up an hour and a half late after snorting copious amounts of cocaine (as I assume this stripper has) instead.  Once again no discount/apology to my knowledge.  Do you think Michael Scott would let this happen if he managed a stripper company? Come on...not even Creed would let this kind of non sense go down. Alright yeah...he probably would.

1:50 A.M.-We tell the stripper it's Neville's younger brother's, aka younger Neville, bachelor party.  She promptly sits on his face and does some sort of belt slapping routine that is every childish worst punishment...and so many creepy men's greatest delight.

2:03 A.M.-I walk, scratch that stumble, into the kitchen to freshen up my drink.  I end up striking up a conversation with the stripper's "security" guard, who by the way is probably 1/25th of my size (think JJ Barea if he never ate vegetables or drank milk as a growing boy).  Anyway, the "security" guard informs me that if we don't start tipping more than he is going to take the stripper and leave.  I inform him we paid for an hour of dancing.  He says he doesn't care, that he can leave at anytime and that I should read the contract.  I wonder in my head if there ever was a contract  and if this guy can/has ever read in his life.  The answer to both questions is almost certainly no.

2:05 A.M.-After apprising the situation with Seamus we decide to handle it ourselves.  We take out all our one's, sit right in front of the stage and starting having the girl dance all over us while we drop her singles.  No one else seems to get the hint.

2:06 A.M.-I feel like Burt Reynolds in the film classic StripTease. I just wish this chick was a hot as Mrs. Ashton Kutcher...and Ving Rhames isn't on his way to kill me.

2:11 A.M.-The "security" guard tells me him and the girl are leaving.  Welcome to Economic Reality #4-Paying the Jonas Brothers for an hour long performance, and having Kevin and Nick show up, play for 28 minutes and then bounce.  Look I can understand why the stripper might leave early if we were hurling rotten vegetables or bill control pills at her, but not because she isn't being "tipped enough." I mean this is America, where an honest days work = an honest days pay.  If you are a stripper who isn't getting tipped, it's because you don't deserve to be based on your level of attractiveness, attitude or lack of athleticism when working the pole.  If you don't like getting tipped on your merit as a nude dancer...then find another profession.  But we paid for an hour of "Burning Up" quality performance, and leaving after 28 minutes while giving no discount is just BS business. After all, as the gigantic black bartender alludes to in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, stripping is still all about "customer service"...and StL strippers showed absolutely none. 

2:15-4 A.M.-I drink more, call a cab, wait almost an hour for it to show up, call another cab, get in, make the driver take me through White Castle, get home, eat my white castle, fall asleep, and dreams the dreams of men. This experience may have been wildly disappointing...but it was still necessary for me to become the person I dream about being.  And that's 100% true...just ask Congressman Anthony Weiner.

Text Updates and Big Ups
My semi-make believe text messaging score since June 3 is a cool +538 (400 inbox, 328 sent, 66 from females), once again about as sausage festy as a NFL Players Union Meeting.  And my twitter popularity has taken a hit as well since I've fallen to 169 followers without ever really mentioning anything too grotesque (this post got all the bottled up grotesqueness out of my system). 

I have a couple of big ups to extend here.  First to Neville, Seamus, Dean, Fred, Professor Snape, Luna Lovegood and the entire cast of characters who shared my special stripper home visit...thank you.  Also I gotta thank the 400 facebook friends who introduced me to our first youtube vid (which all 5 of you have probably seen) by posting it a total of 1,345 times on people's walls.  Also thanks to Jay Leonard and Jimmy Holmes for beginning a facebook wall post relationship that led to our second, hilariously fitting youbtube video.  Thanks to you all.

Back soon with some sort of post about something having to do with something that I did/thought/ will eventually do.

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