Single DRUNK in LA: Lesbians can't have sex and gryffindors are pussies

(I am hammered right now, I cannot be held responsible for these thoughts, unless they are awesome)

3 quick things...

1. Lesbians have a very liberal interpretation of sex. Now I will admit that every single one of my assumptions comes from watching episodes of Orange is the New Black between the hours of 2 and 4 am on week nights when I'm stressed out and down a bottle of 2 buck chuck.

That said...

There's a whole lot of "I fucked the shit out of you" nonsense thrown around with those inmates, and then we get a quick cutaway of a little cunnilingus in the shower or maybe some finger blasting in the chapel.

Lesbians of earth, I'm sorry...but that is not sex. You are merely playing with doubles and triples. And unfortunately, Craig Biggio did not make it into the hall of fame this year, so I'm going to take the controversial stance that you are all virgins. (unless you fucked some guy in high school to fit in, which, let's face it you all did)

The thing about hetero sex that makes it a tad more legit is the fact that it has to be earned. You have to jam a phallic object into a crevice until one or both (usually one) parties achieves orgasm. The phrase "fuck the shit" out of likely comes from an interracial sex fable in the 60's where a black fox literally made a white otter void her bowels with the sheer blunt force of the pounding. (This did not make the cut on Aesop's greatest hits) regardless, it is cheating for a girl to finger another girl and call it sex. It's akin to taking all of the PED's available in the steroid era in baseball, the white AND the clear. Wasn't that the whole idea? What once was a double, is now a home run. 

That is unless we want to have sexuality affirmative action, in which case every hand job and blow job I received in between 1999 and 2012 is effectively transferred into sex. This would change almost everything about me as a person. I now have lost my virginity on a ferris wheel at the St Simon carnival and my mean sexual partner score shifts down from a  6.8 to a hard 5 (a blow job has no face [nor race {nor age}]) HOW FUCKING IMPRESSIVE IS MY tertiary parentheses usage!?!

Anyway, I think in order for lesbians to count real live sex, they have to involve a 3rd party, like a complicated NBA trade...or I suppose I will count scissoring, sure you don't have to hit a perfect balance of "drunk enough to perform but not too drunk to disqualify" but I've been thinking about the physics of it and it seems really difficult. Likely you would need to be in a small one bedroom apartment in New York where you could use your hands to prop up on the wall and provide juxtaposed pressure to... whatever, you get it. 

2. White girls still love Nelly.

I had a shitty day, and I was fully expecting to drink 3 bottles of wine at home whilst watching "The Wire" music video on repeat, but somehow I was dragged out to a Santa Monica bar.

In full jacket and coat, I sucked down IPA's whilst trying not to look miserable.

Cue "Ride With Me" "Hot in Herre" and "Country Grammar"

Obviously I knew every word, and despite the fact that I was RAINING sweat, moreso than a category 3 hurricane, my dick was grabbed by more single trust fund sluts than if I would have just optioned the latest Gillian Flynn novel. If I were a lesbian I probably would have told everyone that I fucked every girl in there.

Everyone was awkward in 1999, acne, lopsided boobs, I was still waiting for armpit hair...now that these insecurities are gone, people romanticize this time as if it were really magical or something. 

If you are trying to rap a Nelly song and forget a lyric just lean back and yell "OHHHH!" He does it every 3.5 seconds, odds are, you'll fit in. (Britney Spears still plays as well)

3. If you are planning on taking down a random do not eat Mexican food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We were around the second round of double dutch (which always plays) when I realized that if I were to go home with the 31 year old girl with the exposed stomach there was a 40% chance I would have to shit mid thrust...but have no fear, a buddy of mine completely distracted me by asking the question..."Dude some chick said in Harry Potter world I would have been a Ravenclaw, is that good or bad?"

Uber home...

I have a blog to write.

It's been, I don't know 8ish years since Harry Potter graduated Hogwarts? I remember reading the 7th book during hell week freshman year and imagining that I could cast spells on all the faggot seniors who would stay in to haze on a Friday night rather than go get to third base (lesbian home run) with some random tri delt. I would be laying in a supply closet covered in dip spit and cayenne pepper and convince myself that I was Harry living under the stairs at the Dursleys, and it must have worked because as Harry became the greatest wizard of all time, I became the greatest fratter of all time.

BUT ANYWAY, back then I always fashioned myself a Gryffindor. They're the good guys, they fight for the underdog. Who wouldn't want to rock the maroon and gold, maybe play left chaser and just run through witch pussy. I'm talking straight up Cedric Diggory before he started fucking Bella Swan...

But there was always an element of vaginitis to the Gryffs. Like I dig that Harry was trying to rail the Asian after he kinda got Edward killed, but why didn't he seal the seal? And what the fuck is up with picking Ginny over Emma Watson? Ginny Weasley is like 20 years old and married...I'm still pissed off Emma Watson didn't get naked in My Week With Marilyn. Regardless, Gryffindors are the boy scouts. The pre 2007 Fiji, the NICE GUYS, who dress well and have pretty girlfriends and don't really upset the apple cart. They have a strong lineage and probably make solid responsible choices. These guys go to the bar and order beers. They tried pot a couple times, but it wasn't for them. They stay in on the weekends and are ready to settle down and start going to dinner parties with their girlfriend's friends. Oh they pretend they like to have a good time, but the stripper at their bachelor party will be topless only.

HUFFLEPUFF

I'm trying to think what the worst possible thing you can call someone is...

Faggot? That's out of fashion because now the MAIN STREAM MEDIA tells you it's a HATE word...even though it used to be a term of endearment (I only call my FRIENDS faggots) Pussy, nerd, loser...they all send the sameish message. You are WEAK, inadequate, INFERIOR.

Well I think we can scrap all of those and just go ahead and say there is nothing in the world worse than being a Hufflepuff. 

Everyone has heard the urban legend now about the Columbine shooter that asked a girl if she believed in God and then shot her...I truly believe he told her, I'm going to kill you now NO MATTER WHAT, and she said..."Go ahead, you fucking HUFFLEPUFF" Basically Hank Schrader telling Uncle Jack to go fuck himself (can you make school shooting jokes if it's not the most recent school shooting??? It's ok, I empowered her!)

There is nothing worse than being a Hufflepuff. I'm pretty sure a gold star was preferable in 1940's Germany than a golden badger.

Ok that was too far.

Anyway. Hufflepuffs are the guys you work with that went to a directional school (i.e. Eastern Illinois) and didn't join a frat. They aren't skilled, they aren't driven, an ideal life for them is to marry a 5, have an average child that plays youth soccer and never makes the travel team, send him to public schools and pay half of his tuition to Southern Illinois - Edwardsville...so that he can keep the cycle going.

RAVENCLAW

I'm very torn, because growing up I always thought Ravenclaw was a very underrated house. These were like the smart kids that were secretly doing molly and having sex with each other while keeping a 4.0 and when you found out while drunk at a party you said "NO FUCKING WAY!"

Ravenclaws keep a lowish profile, they live in West LA instead of Santa Monica, they have a girlfriend but that won't stop them from going to the strip club and buying the birthday boy 400 private dances. Your Ravenclaw friend is just a solid dude, you probably often think, I should kick it with this guy more, he's awesome.

But again, it has it's limitations. Even your coolest married friend is still married, and while your buddy that rocks the purple is not as pompous and self riches as the Gryffindor homies, he'll never be the one that recommends staying up until the sun rises. He's not buying the Uber to the bar that claims it is "open at 6am 365 days a year" after a particularly intense bender.

He may pop out an "electric cigarette" right before he leaves the party..."Hey man, it's actually pot...don't tell Nikki." And that's fucking cool man, but that's about as risqué as it gets.

...

But at the end of the night, your Gryfindor friend has gone home to have missionary sex with his over achieving registered nurse of a fiancé. The Hufflepuff dudes you know are at the Magic Castle blowing up their pathetic social media feed to let everyone know that "they have a buddy who hooked it up" (magic is fucking gay) and the Ravenclaw dude, on his way out, makes some cool plan about the two of you eating pot brownies and going to Joshua Tree together in the spring (this will never happen) you realize tat the party is over and it's time to go to bed.

Until...

THWOMP THWOMP THWOMP!!!!

"What's up motherfucker?!?! You ready to get FUCKING SINNED?"

The SLytherins have arrived.

Your snake friends treat the world as their oyster and every member of the opposite sex as an object. They care about nothing but themselves and the physical pleasures that make them happy. HEY BRAH, chop up a few more lines??? Bro, that SLUT mindy she SUCKED MY DICK IN THE BATHROOM of townhouse (lesbian sex) I told her to come back here and do coke off our nuts but she passed out...

...BUT HER ROOMMATES ARE COMING!!!

Slytherins are the guys your parents warned you about. They're terrible people, straight up villains. They are the small devil on your left shoulder telling the angel on your right that he is a fucking faggot and that you should go have some reckless fun.

Life is too short not to embrace your inner slytherin...I have no idea how this post started as an indictment on lesbian sex and then somehow turned into my Draco Malfoy fantasy but it happened. 

And Draco never died...I bet he was fucking Ginny Weasley the whole time. You'll see. Once JKR runs out of money she'll write Hogwarts: The College Years and we'll find out Draco was piping Weasley while Harry was busy fucking horses and what not. SUCH A Gryff move, to get peaced by a WASPY blonde. HISSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Ok, I'm out of booze, if you stayed with my stream of consciousness, congrats, you're as insane as I am.

The Broeller Test

Sometimes it is hard to live in LA.

When I was growing up all I really wanted was a new video game once in a while, an occasional trip to Disney World and as I grew older at least a semi-annual hand job.

Then of course I wanted to get decent grades, drink copious amounts of alcohol and for my dick to work when I asked it to.

Mid twenties rolled around and all I really wanted to be able to do was pay the rent and fuck around.

When I got to LA, I thought white guilt was the hangover you get when you do too much cocaine, I had no social agenda and didn't really give a fuck about anything or anyone out of my tight knit sphere of influence. (It's like a form of selfishness where you care about others, just not strangers…I'm sure this has a name, ah yes…apathy)

You can imagine my confusion now when I read articles written by straight white men about the plight of the gay athlete or how it's a shame that women and people of color are underrepresented in the media. Yet whenever you give that response of indifference you are heralded as scum.

Sample responses I would give to these socially charged questions:

'I don't care that the gay NBA guy didn't get signed, maybe he was old and not that good anymore.'

'Ya, I guess that sucks that there aren't more black tv writers, I wonder if their dads were auto mechanics instead of Jewish Hollywood producers, I don't know, it doesn't sound like the worst thing that has ever happened.'

Basically, I don't fucking care.

But you can't be indifferent! You have to choose a side! The indifference of good men is what led to the holocaust!

First of all, comparing the plight of someone who faces a few more obstacles in their professional career to genocide makes you sound fucking retarded 

Second, let Hitler be a cautionary tale of what happens when you give short people power.

The thing is, I am fucking sick of political correctness, people feigning concern for the social well being. If you want to be socially conscious and really care, that's fine. But shut the fuck up about it, writing an op-ed piece about how Chris Kluwe should be given a medal for his LGBT activism is akin to posting pictures of your fucking baby. No one cares to see it, but some people may pretend to so they can fit it to an increasingly "high brow liberal" society.

A while back, some cartoonist illustrated a satire piece called the Bechdel test. The rules are simple, in order to pass, a certain piece of media needs to have...

1. At least 2 female characters

2. That talk to each other

3. About something other than men.

You would think that is pretty easy, but only about half of the items applied to this test pass.

In recent years, other spin-offs have been attempted...
There is Deggan's rule:

1. Two non-white human characters

2. In something that isn't about race

Or MY FAVORITE Russo's Rule

1. At least 1 LGBT charachter

2. That is not solely defined by their sexuality (include a tranny but don't focus on the tranny!)

3. The removal of this character must drastically alter the story (didn't know we were having such a problem with the token throwaway gay character)

So basically to pass this series of tests you need to have 2 Asian women talking to a gay banker about the optimal time to refinance their mortgage, seems like thrilling stuff!

My argument is why is any of this bullshit necessary? Some of these rules are so flawed, it's laughable. I would imagine that a show like Orange is the New Black scored very high for the GLAAD community, but it is in chief violation of a major rule. If Piper is not a bisexual, there is no show RUSSO RULE 2!!!! I just wish that people would chill the fuck out and just enjoy something at its face value. The goal of every writer should not have to be to effect social change, it should be to write something interesting and entertaining. I'm sure Wolf of Wall Street violates all three of these tests, but is that an indictment on the film as a dark comedy, satirizing wealth and excess?

I don't write a lot of female characters because I don't know what it's like to be a girl. When I do write a female character she is usually a love interest of my male character and reflects my dream girl...but dream girl often never has another female character to talk to because that would require me to know something about female-female relationships.

For the same reason I write very few gay, minority or short characters, it's not that I don't think an LGBT character can be compelling, it's because I would do a poor job constructing it. It would end up a caricature of modern stereotypes. The gay guy would love broadway, the black dude would love dropping N bombs (but man oh man do I love that word, maybe I should start writing more black characters to have an excuse) it's just not a reflection on what I know.

I've said a million times I'm not a great writer, just a good story teller. I think if you and I had the exact same crazy experience and were then asked to talk about it, I would do a better job. Maybe there are imaginative minds out there that can put themselves inside the body of someone else, I can't.
For whatever reason I'm really into realism, and as much as I hate Lena Dunham, it's one of her best strengths.

Why isn't there an Asian guy and a black girl in the show? Because I hang out with white kids. I think that's a fair answer, now you can tell her to make a wider variety of friends, but that's a different debate.

FORTUNATELY...
I am here to save you all.

I have created a NEW test, that should put an end to all the bullshit...

1. There must be at least two characters...

2. That curse frequently, often insulting one another and/or describing sex

3. And casually drop derogatory slang terms about non-present minorities.

Then you come up with brilliant scenes like this...



Now tell me that doesn't feel authentic as shit to you? You perhaps had similar arguments with your friends growing up, and perhaps even made one of your friends name into a gay portmanteau.

Regardless, it feels less forced than a mixed representative group straight from central casting, people need to worry about their own problems and stop crusading for social justice.

If you are a female writer and you don't like how women are portrayed in film WRITE SOMETHING BETTER. If you are a minority and don't like how few of you are working as television producers, don't write a long form article outlining the long and tragic road of non-white authors, write a fucking spec.

Maybe it was just a breath of fresh air to spend 2 weeks in the midwest where people still give less than half a fuck about this stuff, but I needed to get it off my chest, I hope you found my points reasonable and fair, or maybe you think I'm just a self-centered fucktard that is detrimental to the goodwill of humanity, but whatever you think, I hope you at least find me honest. Good day.

Winter Storm Warning

Every year I say the same thing...

"Man, I can't wait for Christmas break, I'm going to chill the fuck out at home. I'm going to write a screenplay, read a few books, spend some quality time with my family and then come back to LA completely refreshed."

My flight was at noon, Saturday December 20th. I stayed in Friday night, I charged my iPad, my laptop, downloaded a couple movies and purchased two non-fiction books. Could not wait to better myself.

I arrived at the airport 90 minutes before my flight (had I been traveling internationally I would have been there 2 hours prior to take-off) I breezed through security, grabbed a Gingerbread latte, texted my brother my flight info and then I took a seat near my gate prepared to spend an hour reading some Malcolm Gladwell.

Then there was an announcement that my flight was delayed by 2 hours.

And that was fucking it.

Lovely 2 week vacation out the window. Fuck the book, fuck the latte, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars, in fact spend 200 dollars on double jack and cokes until your plane arrives.

See I am what you would call a very volatile specimen, when kept in check, when things going according to plan, I can behave very rationally. But I become unstable when a set of conditions begins to change.

That pretty much set the tone for my winter break. There was no screenplay written (I'm really excited about this one guys, it's an action comedy where terrorists takeover the Universal backlot. The protagonist is a hungover PA and his sidekick is the star of his TV show that plays a badass, but is actually a pussy actor...it's going to have a budget of 300 million dollars and will make me the most famous writer of all time) Well alas, I didn't read, I didn't write, but I did do this.

As with all good stories, my winter break started at the Runcible Spoon in Bloomington. It was my first return trip to campus since I had left Little 5 2012 in a pool of my own blood, it was that day that I vowed I would never attempt to party like an undergrad again, but that didn't mean I couldn't come back to campus for a shitty December basketball game and get alumni wasted. So that is what I sat out to do.

I remember thinking, this is going to be the greatest trip of my life, everything is going to be exactly the way it used to be. Then with this triumphant attitude, I decided to use the restroom whilst I waited for my eggs. I went into that weird ass hippie bathroom, at runcible, you know the one with the bath tub and giant goldfish in the tub?

Well the goldfish is gone, I don't know if it died, or they just don't do that anymore, but it's fucking gone, and that would be a metaphor moving forward on this trip.

We go to the game and trounce some shitty Georgia Junior College or something and I actually convinced myself for like 5 minutes that the team wasn't awful. I was a tad bummed because I didn't run into anyone I knew at the game, but whatever, it's a Sunday on Christmas break. I know what it is, I bet everyone is at the bars! To Nick's!

Ghost town. A few people are watching some football games, but no bizz being sank, just a few locals watching the Colts. Well obviously everyone must be at Kilroy's.

Crickets. There wasn't even an old bartender I could share war stories with. The sad reality was that Bloomington was a place that has passed me by. No one there remembers my antics, who I am, I'm just a dude that graduated 4 years ago. A complete cycle of students have come and gone since I graduated. But that's fine, I went back to Nick's kicked back some cold ones with my fam and ate the shit out of a pizza. (Still really fucking good) A tad disappointing, but no worries, I have a week in Indy to rally the old gang.

My week in Indianapolis was as such, I slept until noon every day, drank whiskey in the basement and watched my cats fight. I would go to the mall with my parents and shit, and they hooked me up with the sickest new wardrobe and that was amazing, but save for one dinner with a friend, I didn't do a fucking thing in Indianapolis. That was realization dos, I haven't lived here since...high school. People have lives, they are busy with their own shit, just because my job gives me 2 weeks off, doesn't mean the world will stop to go get shitfaced with me on a Monday night. So instead I spent my evenings going to the movies or checking out a Pacer game, going to my favorite pizza spot or just laying on the couch watching Christmas specials.

Again, nothing too crazy...

But I still had one more stop left on my journey...Chicago! This is where we came of age, this was our crazy early 20's, this is where all my friends are!

I got to Chicago on a Monday (after riding a Megabus with a screaming toddler projecting his voice RIGHT into my ear. I cannot wait to have kids and DRUG THE FUCK OUT OF THEM during travel) and I checked into a hotel with 2 good friends and we proceeded to rage at a Zedd show.

Finally, this trip was gaining steam, the concert was amazing, I was drunk as fuck, we had an after party at my hotel room with some chicks, I felt like this is what I signed up for.

But then I woke up on New Year's Eve and we had to check out. I had a raging hangover and nowhere really to go. There is nothing worse than being hungover, with several bags and having nowhere to go...when it is negative 10 degrees outside.

I used to LIVE here, ALL my friends are here. Even after I left, for a while I had my old key and would just show up unannounced and my old roommates would be thrilled. But they don't even live in the fucking country anymore, and I am so bad at keeping in touch that I've lost everyone. I was in Chicago, on New Year's Eve without a destination or a plan.

I end up heading to meet a good friend and watch some IU bball, I drank away my hangover until somehow I was drunk and at a random house party and lo and behold, I celebrated the New Year by getting kicked out of a party, shortly after midnight.

By some miracle, I was able to find a nice hardwood floor to crash on that night, but alas I woke up on the 1st and had to go through the whole process again. I have to leave here now, my flight back to LA isn't for 2 more days. God dammit. Being the nomad that I was, I decided to head north, where somehow I was pressured into continuing my bender. I spent New Year's Day at a bar in Milwaukee playing drinking games with strangers and taking advantage of the Grand Prix, this is a deal that comes with a shot of whiskey, a PBR and a cigarette, all for the reasonable price of 5 bucks.

Wisconsinites are very well versed in drinking.

The 2nd I took a train back to Chicago, slept on a couch in Lincoln Park and woke up at 5am to take an uber to the airport. It's a miracle that I got out of O'Hare on the 3rd as Chicago was in the midst of one of the worst winter storms in recent years. When I finally landed in LA 2 weeks after leaving, I vowed that I would never leave again, at least for any extended period like that. I was bankrupt both morally and financially and I spent the 4th and the 5th laying on a couch. I didn't move once, and I was still hungover at work on Monday.

I was bitter for a minute about my trip because I spent the whole time in general discomfort and in search of something that I never quite found.

But that's the problem, my perspective.

The way I have framed my trip, it sounds like it was pretty miserable.

But also...
I saw the best team in the NBA, visited my college, saw the best dj in the world, visited 3 states, caught up with some great friends and most importantly, saw my family for the first time in a year (and oh the presents were pretty grand too) Man I went on a fucking adventure!

I've gotten past the whole, rage until dawn, fuck an ex and sleep on the floor thing. That's not what these trips are about. In fact, I'm turning 27 pretty soon, maybe that's a good age to just start planning on a hotel. It doesn't inconvenience your friends, and on the off chance you do find a willing piece of ass, it makes you look like a baller.

As eye opening as my trip was, I also learned that it's not home anymore. It's the place I grew up. Where my family lives. My life is here now.

I used to LOVE going home after college. It was like my place of solace that I could run away to and revert to an earlier, simpler time. I think that's because my entire existence from Jun 1, 2009 until about a year ago I was absolutely fucking miserable. I truly believed that everyone woke up every day wanting to kill themselves because of how much they hated their job, their life 5 days a week...but the only reason they didn't is because they were going to get super fucked up Friday night and it would be awesome until the Sunday night dread started to set in.

That's not true.

My life now kicks ass. I get paid shitty, and I'm an assistant and most of my Kelley colleagues probably make 3 times what I do in a year, but I don't fucking care. I wake up in the morning with a smile on my face, and I ride my bike to the beach. Then I drive my long ass commute to work, but I knock out a podcast and learn something interesting before I start my day.

I still get super hammered and put my dick places I shouldn't and Behave poorly but it's not because I'm running away from something. The idea of staying in on a Friday used to appall me because I was getting one step closer to what I perceived as a fate worse than death: Monday. Now, if I'm tired, it's Netflix and a whiskey rocks for me.

So ya, my trip home was fucking awesome. The midwest is cold as shit, but I did all my favorite stuff and I did it with some kick ass people.

My home is in California now. And I really do want my family to do a destination vacation for Christmas next year, because all of your instagram photos succeeded in making me jealous this time around, but I'm pretty sure I can find some contentment anywhere this go around.

I know it can be nauseating to hear people talk about how great things are going, because everyone has their fucking problems and they don't want to hear that things are perfect.

Things aren't perfect for me. My car constantly smells of gas, I think it is probably going to explode with me in it, sending me to a Paul Walkerian demise. At the going rate I will never have a relationship that lasts longer than a month, and my credit score is lower than Indiana Football's win percentage.

So my vacation wasn't incredible. My life isn't spectacular.

But it's good enough.

Single Dude Gift Guide

Pictured: Surprisingly not me!

I found my keys! I found my keys! Sure it came after I called 45 bars, 3 cab companies, rented a car, forced my mom to overnight me the last known key, but alas…I found them, in my outdoor closet where I keep my potato cannon.

How did this come to be? Well remember my boss gave me a fifth of Patron the night before the fifth exchange? He also gave me 5 limes. I only used about 2 of them for my margaritas. Now that I found my cannon out of place I can easily put the pieces together. I came back from the bar crawl with destruction on my mind. If I'm not going to fuck something I am going to launch these limes to the fucking moon. Well somehow in my drunken stupor a lime got stuck in the ignition chamber and I must've pouted by throwing my keys in the closet and going to bed. I guess it's a happy ending because now I have 2 pairs of keys so I can resume blacking out sans catastrophe and also I finished the job last night and launched one of those limes to Mar Vista. Now, on with today's post...

I have a white elephant gift exchange for work tomorrow. The only rule is the item has to be worth between 10 and 20 dollars. I have no fucking idea what to get. I considered a bottle of booze but that could be considered tacky. I pondered something funny like a sriracha t-shirt, but now I'm leaning towards outrageous. For example, what if I procured an Xbox One box and filled it with just a fucking moonrock. Would people flip shit for the Xbox, thinking 'Hey one of the producers must've broken the rules, MUST GET THE XBOX'...only to find out that it was just full of one measly ecstacy pill. Furthermore, how would this person react? Well no Xbox but, hey, Drugs! This will be an interesting midnight mass! Can you imagine rolling your way through Christmas Eve service? The whole lighting of the candles during Silent Night would probably be wild. And then sprinting home to rip open presents and drown egg nog? An EDM Christmas, I demand it. When is Skrillex putting out a holiday album, this kid demands a rave.

So far as I can find an Xbox box gratis, an x pill would technically fit into the ONE rule of ten to twenty bucks.

(Don't worry I probably won't do it)

But this got me thinking, what are the best gifts to give and receive around the holidays. You likely will be exchanging with friends, family and coworkers (if you're not, you'll probably be exchanging your laptop with a pawn shop guy for a gun to blow your brains out.) I have already received some conglomeration of Starbucks cards (the de facto, booze, scratch off tickets and other assorted knick knacks.

I imagine tomorrow I'll probably get more gift cards and hopefully some cash from the producers, and then whatever I procure from the white elephant. I have a few strategies. First is the threat of violence. If me, the youngest guy on the show, gets something that he REALLY REALLY wants and flips shit over it, no asshole locations manager is going to steal it from me when it's his turn. Taking the cool gift from the underpaid PA is like taking Tiny Tim's fucking Christmas turkey. There is also the implied threat of violence. I could beat up every single one of my coworkers blindfolded, and there is also the air that I'm the "cool" assistant, that everyone likes to remain cool with.

I find it unlikely that I will be robbed even though the people in Los Angeles are awful human beings, (by the way I'm assuming everyone knows what a white elephant is, you pick a gift and open it, on the next person's turn they can either steal or draft a new gift) but in the event that I do get fucked over, that assclown isn't getting a script, call sheet or paycheck the rest of the season OOPS. Don't mess with the little guy motherfucker.

All bullshit aside, whether to go the thoughtful route, funny or practical, here are a few gift recommendations, from the Single Dude himself. Happy holidays everyone, and remember it is better to give than to receive (talking to you ladies, and yes I'm referencing blow jobs)

Oh and PS these will all be relatively cheap.

5. A framed picture
You ever have a buddy and notice he has a bunch of pictures of his life in his room and his office and you didn't quite make the cut. Does that piss you off a little bit? Me too! Fret no more my friends, the cheapest and most awesome way to celebrate a friendship with someone is to celebrate one of your most epic memories. I spent about 15 thousand dollars of my parents money abroad, most of it was spent well, traveling, seeing the world, doing once in a lifetime cool shit. They were not thrilled about my spending habits, but that year for Christmas, I blew up awesome photos of me and my friends traveling across the world. They are all over their collective offices. My brother has a year book photo of him in the 2nd grade on a shitty wall. We live in an era where scrap booking and developed film are dead, but trust me, everyone loves an awesome photo, you're basically giving the gift of memories.

4. Tickets to an event
Whatever you buy someone, it's going to probably suck, or they'll hate it. If it's a shirt, they'll never wear it, if it's a copy of the Boo book they'll give it away, humans just aren't good at giving each other gifts. (Unless you are going strictly off a Christmas list, if anyone wants to see my Christmas list, this is all I want $1000 this will pay for my Park City trip and a new pair of decent skis)
But even if you were to give the most awesome gift ever, you will never get to have fun with it, so here is the trick…Tickets to a game/concert/underground sex show!

Now you have to play this one coy, make sure it's an event their girlfriend would hate, because if you get your buddy 2 tickets to Book of Mormon, he's probably going to assume it is intended as date material for he and his significant other. However, you get your buddy 2 tickets to Zedd or Lil' Wayne, the implication is that you not only have secured a night out on the town with your buddy but the two of you are going to RAGE. Also, this person will likely feel weirdly indebted to you for buying them a 40 dollar ticket and pay for all of your booze and drugs in order to even the score. Trust me, you're coming out ahead on this one 100% of the time.

3. Movie screeners
As much as I love going home for break, it is boring as fuck. My family all have to work, leaving me without a car, stuck in my brother's dungeon of a basement. I will rely on other friends that drove home for the holidays to chaeufeurr (not even close on that spelling but fuck it) my lazy ass around. Most days I will probably just watch tv, read and write…oh who am I kidding, I'm going to get bum drunk by myself and watch movies.

But at least I'll be watching movies that are going to win oscars and haven't reached Indiana yet. As someone from LA with unlimited access to this shit, it's very easy for me to load them up on a few drives and maybe even use them as bait to get someone to pick me up all the way out in Geist.

"Hey man, pick me up and we can watch Wolf of Wall Street"

"But that hasn't even come out yet"

"I've got a screener, come get me at my parents' house"

*drives me to broad ripple, I leave*

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, I've already watched that 5 times, I'm going to Kilroy's, enjoy!"

Tricking your friends into driving you places, the real meaning of Christmas.

2. A non-committal fling
As we have covered at length that despite the egg nog, the presents and the beloved family time, the holidays can be pretty boring. Sure I'll make a shitty snowman and throw a lacrosse stick in his hands, call him BROman and get 50 instagram likes, but after that I'm kinda over the whole winter weather thing. I'm skiing in February I don't need Indiana slush. But the good news is that there are going to be a lot of other bored people…and what do bored people do in boring places? They get fucked up and bang! (This is why every person you know from the middle of nowhere had sex before you) There are lots of girls I have varying degrees of sexual tension with. Those varying degrees go from, "we both got drunk and she thought about it once for like half a second and then was so repulsed with herself that she puked" to "it's only a matter of time."

One time in college I had said tension with someone basically all 4 years, one night at Kilroy's she just looked at me and said, "tonight's the night." I immediately knew what she meant, we briefly discussed the terms of our shack, had a couple more drinks and then went back to my place with a PG-13 sleepover. It was wonderful.

I can't recommend this enough, if there is someone from across the country that is also spending the holidays where you are and you are both single and bored, it would be a great mutual gift to one another to spend a night together. When the dust clears you go back to New York, she goes back to Denver and it's never spoken of again, but a nice little holiday memory will always occupy the back of your mind.

1. Nothing!
There is always such pressure to get someone the perfect gift, but what is more perfect than your company. Perhaps you each go out and buy the other person's favorite booze and then meet at your favorite restaurant and then afterward go to your favorite pub. The holidays are about spending time with one another doing what you like to do most. If that means packing bowls on a couch watching Seinfeld, you pack the shit out of those bowls, if it means watching Jimmy Stewart NOT leave town EVER for the 10 millionth time with your family while a fire roars in the back, fucking do that! The holidays are not a time to get stressed out, I have never understood that. Ohhhh added financial strain? I used to care about presents, now I want like some goofy socks and an AMC gift card, I have more fun badly fucking up a recipe for bourbon balls than I do scheming about where I'm going to wear my Burberry quarter-zip first (Note to my mother: if you are reading this, which WHY please stop…do not return any Burberry quarter zips you may have bought me)

I treat the holidays as a time to chill out, clear my mind and rekindle old relationships (both with friends and old flames) it is supposed to be a time of bliss. You get to not go to work, sleep until noon and watch Rick Grimes tell Kiera Knightley he loves her with note cards…it's fucking great. So whatever you do these holidays, if you have had a break up, lost a loved one, just know that it's not a time to be sad, but a time to be thankful for the fucked up traditions of our wonderful country. We celebrate the most famous birthday by giving everyone a shit ton of free vacation, and we tell them to eat turkey, wear funny sweaters and tell them they can consume raw egg! (I KNEW EVERYONE WAS FULL OF SHIT WHEN THEY SAID NOT TO EAT THE COOKIE DOUGH)

But NO MATTER WHAT you remember these holidays…remember that nothing has changed, yes we are still friends, and I would love for you to drive out to Geist and pick me up. I'll give you 5 bucks for gas #highschool

Happy Holidays everyone!

P.S. We are making a FUCK ton of bourbon balls

Decemberism

Last Saturday I started a hard bender, that should be ending about now…in the last 10 days, I have done 2 bar crawls, a rave, a fifth exchange an open to close, lost a set of car keys, lost 2 credit cards, rented a car and probably eaten about 2.5 meals that weren't late night pizza.

But before we get into that, a few things I wrote into my phone that I thought would be good thing to blog about.

1. Who the fuck wears ear plugs at a rave?
I understand, loud music is very hard on your ears. My good friend's father is a world renowned ENT doctor, he would shit himself if he knew that I consistently went to raves without ear plugs, but the problem is, ear plugs make you look uncool. The reason one goes to a rave is to get drunk, do drugs, dance and eventually make out with some equally fucked up sweaty chick.
This becomes much harder to do when you're wearing ear plugs, and can't whisper stimulating conversation on the dance floor such as "What's your name?" or "You got any rolls?"
I get it, you want to be able to hear when you are in your 80's but you will have much more respect from your grandkids if you are obviously falling apart due to years of hard living.

2. What type of dipshit streams a concert?
As previously mentioned, while "going to a show for the music man" is a bullshit line you will hear many a hipster say, it's not true. People go to concerts to party and hopefully have sex in a portopotty, even if you legitimately do not want to imbibe or roll your face off, you still want the pounding bass pulsing through your body and to feel the burn of the flames or the cooling touch of the co2 cannon. Watching on Youtube just sounds like a torturous way to induce FOMO on yourself. At best, it will just piss you off that you aren't there. You won't actually enjoy yourself while you watch a grainy lagging feed on your iPad, but you will make out the fact that some bro is 3 way kissing a couple sluts wearing nothing but pasties but you couldn't afford to buy tickets because you just paid a 6 month car insurance premium. This ends with you masturbating while you cry. If you can't go to the show for whatever reason, it's probably best to avoid it completely. Shut down social media too...people know that hash tag #coachella is guaranteed to get them a ton of likes, it's bound to be everywhere.

3. What the hell do extras talk about?
I work on a tv show and from time to time I spend extensive amounts of time on set. But I'm part of the crew, most of these guys are my friends and coworkers. We talk about our weekends, how the shoot is going or a movie we recently saw. But on certain days we will have hundreds of background actors. These background will have to pretend to be partying or doing some other sort of bullshit act, repeated takes, over several hours. But they literally meet each other a few seconds before the take. An AD will make a white guy stand next to a black guy and an Asian girl, so the scene appears to be "multi-cultural." There you go, that's your social pod for the next 3 hours.
I know what I would do, I would take this opportunity to attempt to nail as many chicks as possible. Here is my rationale. First of all, every extra is a pretty desperate person, they need 75 bucks in a bad way. Most extras are aspiring actors, but even the most delusional of them probably realize they won't be noticed in the background of a pool party scene demonstrating "acting talent."
Also you know that this person doesn't have shit going on. After they wrap the scene, most extras are going home and hoping to get another extra gig in a few days.

And you know what bored, desperate, poor, girls with no ambition are down to do? Get drunk and fuck. But most extra males are themselves pathetic, possessing no game they just start saying the alphabet when they run out of small talk. If they had any game they would at least be getting guest star roles. But still, I can't imagine how hard it would be to put up massive numbers by just taking a bunch of girls to shitty valley bars at wrap, its got to be better than going back to their parent's lower middle class Woodland Hills home.

These are the things that go through my mind when I'm drunk in a basement at my roommate's holiday party whilst A-Trak djs on stage.

So back to matters of importance.

What business does a 26 year old have taking a party bus down to Hermosa and blacking out in the name of the Big Ten? Well apparently not much. As much fun as I would love to claim I had on the crawl, I remember absolutely nothing. Literally, I pre gamed from 9am-11am at my apartment and then walked a couple blocks to get on the bus and remember nothing after that. During this time I lost a credit card and car keys.

Now if you have lost a credit card before you know it sucks, but only like 3 out of 10. Basically you are without access to money for the rest of the weekend. There is a new feature at some Chase banks where they will print you a new debit card on site, but it's just not pleasant. Going to the bank blows, there is always some sort of inherent judgment when I realize a personal banker is looking at my meager account balance realizing that I pissed all my money away the previous weekend and then lost my card. I honestly don't even understand how I can be considered an asset for Chase, I'm just glad they haven't fired me yet.

I started to see some activity on my card Sunday afternoon though so I immediately cancelled it. A few hours later I realized one of my friends had my card (and since all Chase Debit cards look the same, didn't realize it) we had apparently swapped during the mayhem of the crawl.

So whatever, I got a new card and life moved on. (Coincidentally I found an old credit card while tearing my apartment apart, previously thought to have been lost 3 months ago) Losing your car keys however is a 12/10 on the pain in the dick scale.

Oh don't you have a back-up set? Well as a matter of fact I had 3 back-ups, they have all been lost over the years in a similar fashion. So what does one do when you lose keys and need to drive to work?

Your options are as follows:
1. Have the car towed to the dealer and have a new key laser cut with a chip for $400.
2. Rent a car for 2 days and beg your mom to overnight the last remaining key.
3. Go get drunk to take your mind off it and then borrow your roommate's car Monday morning.

I initially chose 3, before finally resorting to option 2 Monday night. I must say, driving a rental car was lovely, I might just treat myself once in a while, or use them for dates. I imagine a girl would be very impressed by a man with a clean car, or even if she could clearly tell it was a rental. Most people that use rental cars are mature, it implies that they have maintenance done on their vehicle. I will simply drive my car until it no longer starts, at which point I will give it to NPR and ask my father to buy me a new one. (I might legit just take hand me down cars from my parents for the rest of my life or until I sell a script...so potentially the rest of my life)

But come Thursday, I had my new keys, I had my new credit card...I'm fucking back baby? How should I celebrate? By going to a rave on Venice Beach and staying out at Townhouse until 2 in the morning of course! Quasi-famous dj Atrak played the Snowglobe/Recess holiday party Thursday night and had an interesting array of free booze. The party was co-sponsored by Colt 45 and some sort of Four Loko-esque energy drink, so if that sounds like a good time, I assure you, it's an even better hangover.

This would of course lead into the Friday of the 3rd annual west coast fifth exchange. You know how this goes, each one of my friends buys a fifth of booze, wraps it and delivers it to our secret santa victim. I had a buddy that works in fashion so I of course got him skinny girl vodka wrapped in an Adam Levine cardigan (has his own line at Kmart now!) I received some Krakken rum and a kit of ingredients for dark and stormy (first time drinking that beverage, big fan!) Out of the 24 bottles of alcohol at the party, we drank about 23.5, and called it quits at 5am...just enough time to sleep until noon and then immediately start pre gaming for the Santa Monica Pub Crawl...

Ugh.

You would think that I had learned my lesson the previous week when I, you know, lost my life. But, fucking Paul Bird was in town, and after Ragegiving, he was ready for an encore. So we all dressed up in Santa outfits and stormed to Main Street. As with most bar crawls, I peaked entirely too early as I was making out with a pair of lipstick lesbians while we were still at our first bar. (It's tough to top that) But my real trouble started when we got to a bar that had a special on Fireball shots. My outfit was incredible, my dance moves impressive, my confidence at an all time high, but nothing can save me from myself. Instead of finding the hottest chick in the bar and directing her straight to my bed, I think I unknowingly stepped outside in a desperate attempt to stop sweating. I was not allowed back in. This is how people get separated on bar crawls, I would never see my team again.

Oof.

The next thing I knew, I had time traveled to Brentwood and I was again partying with Johnathan Martin, this time engaged in a heated game of beer pong. It did not end well for me. Again I resisted the urge to make him get on his face or do some elbows and toes on bottle caps because well, even if he was a bit of a pussy with that whole hazing thing, he is still about 6'7 300 pounds and seems to be a cool enough dude.

The weekend has to end at this point right? Nope, made it to a rooftop bar to pregame the Venice Canal parade and ended the night by drowning a couple bottles of Pinot Noir at Mao's, because the key to not getting hungover is to never stop drinking.

Yesterday was, to say the least, a struggle. But I've realized a few things to help you get through it. Never tell anyone at work a fucking thing, do not run with them in your social circles, and make sure your show has been cancelled before you black out at the wrap party. The key is to set a precedent that you are just a sickly child with bad seasonal allergies.

I currently don't have a voice, I can hardly move, but I set a precedent Friday that I was coming down with some sort of bug. I told my coworkers that I was going to have a holiday gift exchange with my friends and spend the rest of the weekend trying to get healthy. This way when I seem a step behind on Monday, it is because I am clearly recovering from my illness, not going through the various stages of withdrawl. God Forbid I call in sick on Monday, they will immediately think "ohhh he was sick on Friday" not, "That worthless piece of shit is too hungover to come in."

There was a costumes girl that called in sick yesterday, and I truly believe that she had food poisoning, but she set the stage that she was going to a birthday party Sunday and told the whole world how excited she was about it last week while we were at work. When she called in sick Monday with food poisoning, she didn't have a prayer. Everyone assumed the worst. Now it doesn't really matter in entertainment, everyone is a terrible person who drinks, does drugs and cheats on their significant other, but still.

One of the things that living a debaucherous lifestyle is to shroud yourself in a vail of mystery and deceit, no one outside my close circle gets to know who I really am, no one ever knows if I'm serious or joking, and when I make a deliberate effort to lie, I commit to that shit.

The storm is over now, the clouds have settled and the warm weather has returned to Los Angeles. I'll go home in a few days and do lots of wholesome activities in the midwest and when I go out a few times I'll humblebrag about how much better my life is to everyone just enough to make them subconsciously hate themselves. I'll probably go to Chicago for New Years and that's how my 2013 will end. I'll look back and say "Fuck, I'm still an unpaid writer working in a production office, when the fuck am I going to get real about all of this."

But then when you take a moment to stop wallowing in your own misery, I'll think about all the little vacations I took. Mardi Gras, Palm Springs, San Francisco, Vegas x2. All the wild and crazy shit I did last year are memories that will last me a lifetime. Why Am I in such a hurry to be successful. I have plenty of time to scrape by and be irresponsible and build my resume of fun stories I'll be able to use in my writing down the road. And it's not like I'm going into a sales office and making cold calls all day, I fucking drive to the Universal Lot and make tv...then I go home and lay on my couch with the windows open in December and watch tv while I smell the ocean.

There were a lot of bad choices that led to this point but I have to accept that there were probably a couple good ones too. Some people hide what they are or want to be, I've accepted that I'm just a single guy living the dream in LA that has an exaggerated misogynistic version of himself as an alter-ego that he writes with, and that's ok. I live hard and it's starting to get a little out of hand, but it's going to be ok in the long run, because I keep it real with you and I keep it real with myself.

That was a rough 10 days, and I am dehydrated...both physically and emotionally, but hey, that's why the Arrowhead guy delivers water 4 times a week, to put me back on the road to recovery.

Ragegiving part 2

Everyone has left for a sexual harassment meeting and I am in charge for the next hour. It's funny that I am the one person exempt from going (I did it on my last show, you get a year) because I think not a week later, I was violating some of those policies. Hooking up with a coworker is kind of like a bad snl sketch. In theory it's fucking amazing, why would I not want to spend the 13th hour of my shift banging it out in the copy room. Work and play concurrently, it's a win/win! Well the 10th iteration of the Californians wasn't funny either. So when the flirty girl at work starts batting her eyelashes at you, choose cheese instead and then go out that night and find some random slut at The Whaler in Marrrrrrina Del Rey (That's almost Long Beach man!)

One more thing on the Toluca Lake Trader Joe's. Gays, I'm rooting for you. I really really am. But after I have suffered an hour in the suffocating pretentious smugness of Burbank's worst…not the best time to ask me to sign a petition for anything. The midwest comes out in me and I just want to yell out to everyone. EAT BREAD AND RED MEAT AND FUCK CHICKS AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Enough of that…where were we? Ah yes, Beautiful San Francisco.

So let's just go ahead and skip to Saturday shall we? Friday was kind of a non-event, it climaxed in me and all of my friends chickening out on a rub n tug parlor. (One could argue there was no climax at all heyoooo) We ended up at some sort of booze less night club that literally has the mission statement "come here blacked out or sneak in your own booze, because we don't have a liquor license."

This place, cleverly named "The End Up" (OMG it's like the hangge uppe lollllz) was home to 2 major subgroups. Shirtless gays (to be expected) and Asians. Has anyone ever realized that almost every mid 20's Asian girl is a hard 7. They are small and cute, with no boobs or ass, but they're skinny. Literally they have a floor of 6 and a ceiling of 8, it's amazing. That is right in my wheelhouse. Watch, I'll marry an Asian. (Sidenote: LOTS of Asians in SF, you would've thought after the whole WW2 internment camp thing they would've GTFO, but apparently Silicon Valley pays THAT well.)

Wtf, we were going to skip this. Ok. Saturday.

Saturday started off like any other normal day, we were nearing black out drunk before noon at an Alabama bar in the marina district. "Crossroads" for those of you in the know. Anyone that knows how Saturday went down won't be surprised when I say I was standing on top of a table, doing key bumps, screaming War Damn Eagle! Much to the chagrin of all of the Bama fans. In most towns I would have been beaten badly, but I believe the San Francisco folk are a more socially conscious peaceful people. I think someone made a comment, "You can be as obnoxious as you want as long as your car has low emissions."

We stayed at the bar through the greatest game in college football history and into the USC game. It was at this point that there was a secret pact made behind my back.

"If we get Dave super fucked up and have hot chicks talk to him, maybe he will forget about the Pretty Lights concert."

Let me backtrack a little bit.

The whole point of this trip was to go to a Pretty Lights concert and roll balls.

My friends didn't see it that way. In fact, I was brought to SF on false pretenses. We will avoid the clubs, we'll get super drunk, eat chicken wings and then go to Pretty Lights. At this point in the trip, I felt like I was in charge. I usually am, just because I am the loudest and tallest in the group, little did I know this sabotage mission was in place.

Somehow, at some point in the day, people start feeding me shots, gorgeous blonds start approaching me. This never happens to me. It wasn't until it was in a cab heading to Ruby Skye that I knew it was too late. I had been sabotaged.

You can imagine what happens next. 3 bottles and a group of dick hungry sluts orbiting my table like some sort of unruly comets, just ready to armageddon into our table and steal all of our booze.

But that's why you do it, right? That's the idea in buying bottle service. You look cool, and hot chicks come hang out with you in exchange for the privilege of being behind a rope. Mark my words, if there is a fucking rope, there are people that want to be behind it. And when you're in the 12th hour of a bender you really begin to stop caring.

"Should we get another bottle? Just $200 more each!" Fuck it, why not? Maybe one of us will get laid.

A lot of what I tell you on this blog is made up for the purpose of telling a better story, but I shit you not I talked to a girl on the dance floor for 2 hours not knowing that the girl I was grinding on was from a different hemisphere and didn't speak english. Does it make me rapey that I just assumed she was just too drunk to talk and yet I continued to pursue?

Turns out she was Brazillian, also turns out Brazillians speak Portuguese and not Spanish. Lastly, when trying to pantomime your intentions to someone with which you have a language gap, putting your right pointer finger into a simulated hole made with your left hand is ineffective.

Also ineffective moves tried by me last weekend:
- I'm from out of town, what's fun around here? (Oh where? LA! Oh, FUCK LA)
- I'm locked out of my hotel, I have no place to sleep (sucks, I think I saw a park bench outside)
- I'm having an after party at my hotel room (oh really, you and who else)

My night comes to an end and I am financially and morally bankrupt. I made my way to a late night massage parlor and I was in such a pathetic state that the overweight Taiwanese masseuse/prostitute refused to service me. I didn't even know this was legal. Probably for the best though, I can't imagine the shame in failing to achieve an erection during a rub and tug and still having to pay full freight.

During my 10 hour drive home from Sacramento to Los Angeles (Yes it was a top 5 terrible day of my life) I had plenty of time to reflect on my trip. I realized the happiest part of my trip wasn't crawling around SF in search of hedonism, or torturing 19 year olds in the name of war re-enactment, or even the shot of vodka I took ocularly at the bar because I heard it would get me drunk faster.

The best part of the trip was sitting around the dinner table telling funny stories from years passed with close friends and family. Recounting all my misadventures from abroad and razzing on buddies about fat chicks they hooked up with once can be much more fulfilling that chasing a bunch of tail and trying to see how blacked out I can get the fastest.

Thanksgiving will always be one of my favorite holidays, and this one will be no exception…from the Vietnam War to being denied a happy ending in SF's underworld.

When you go as hard on the weekend's as I do, people look at you a little funny at work on Monday. What is this guy's real story? Why does he show up with a hoarse voice and mysterious cuts, why is he so quiet and out of it until 2pm…

Because that's when my BAC returns to 0 and I can be a functioning member of society again.

Ragegiving part 1

People may argue that certain parts of the Middle East, or a war concentration camp or possibly Cleveland is "the worst place in the world." But make no mistake, that distinction belongs to the Trader Joe's in Toluca Lake, California. This is not an affront to the Trader Joe's franchise in general, in fact I am a regular shopper at 33rd and Pico. I drink a bottle of 2 buck chuck every night I write and genuinely think that Joe O's are better than Cheerios. I am arguing that this specific Trader Joe's is far worse than the institution of communicable disease (can we just accept that EVERYONE has had someone close to them die of cancer and therefore it universally sucks and just know that the phrase "worse than cancer" is therefor inoffensive? No? Ok.)

First of all what is Toluca Lake? Toluca Lake is a community full of moderately successful studio folk who are too pretentious to admit they live in Burbank. They still live in the valley which is in itself embarrassing, but apparently it's less embarrassing when you live in the self proclaimed "Pacific Palisades" of the 818. By the way, it's not. It's a marginally nicer area than surrounding North Hollywood, Studio City and Burbank. But I digress.

The people that eat raw/vegan/gluten free in most areas do it because they think they gain some sort of competitive advantage from doing so. Maybe you live by the beach and think it will make you skinnier and thus more fuckable come summer. Maybe you saw a documentary on how slaughterhouses work and you get physically ill when you think about consuming meat. These motherfuckers do it simply so they can judge those who don't. You either grab a piece of bread and some guy says, "you know the human body wasn't built to handle gluten" or "ever since I gave up meat my colon operates so much better."

Well first of all thanks for sharing with me your shitting habits. I'm fairly certain the human ass wasn't programmed to have shit shoved up it? But that didn't stop you. Look man, I don't give a fuck what you eat but don't you spew your liberal bullshit at me about how you feel great ever since you started eating exclusively nuts. I'm sure I would feel great if I didn't drink 5 nights a week and engage in reckless behavior that resulted in varying bodily injury. So when I walk in with a bagel in the morning don't fucking ask me:

"Oh that looks so good, is it GF"

No actually it's GFY. Go fuck yourself loser.

Now let's get to what you really want to read about, how much blow I did in San Francisco.

Doing Thanksgiving with a friend's family is a strange experience. Of course there is a ton of drunken family drama and you want to pick a side and get involved, but it's not really your place. I limped into Sacramento after an extra debaucherous Wednesday night. I believe I drank about 30 shots of whiskey before finally waking up to find out I had again woken up alone, on top of a pile of my clean clothes staring at a note I had left myself before going out.

"Don't even think about passing out before you pack for NorCal faggot."

The shame of not being able to listen to a sober version of myself poured over me as I peered into my empty bag. (Note: this is a lie, because that would mean I unpacked after the Red Wedding)

So I threw a bunch of wrinkly clothes into a bag and ubered it to the airport, JUST in time to make the earlier Southwest flight. Only it turns out Southwest doesn't do standby flights so I had to buy a new ticket just to get on a plane 3 hours earlier. THANKS FOR NOTHING OBAMA.

(I did get mistakenly upgraded to business select though where I drank 4 cocktails in 45 minutes thus earning back 20 dollars from those greedy bastards)

Anyway flash forward to Thanksgiving dinner. I grew up in a family where I spent all of Thanksgiving getting scolded for how much I party.
"When are you going to get a nice girlfriend?" I suppose when I'm done railing out random sluts in bathrooms, that's when I'll settle down.

Eventually I go downstairs where I can freely drink my whiskey while playing Karaoke Revolution with all my 5 year old cousins and they don't give a shit. That is a judgment free zone. As long as I sing Miley songs with them, I can get as drunk as I want.

This family was not like that at all. We were required to take a shot between every course and then a shot after every person said for what they were thankful. All in, I finished dinner about 12 deep. But that was just the beginning. From there, the party moves to the garage and after about 60 games of Civil War and even more You Got Served, when everyone is good and blacked out and my phone is completely destroyed (ya thats why I haven't been answering your texts) then comes the real fun.

My friend has a younger brother and he invited his rag tag of friends over...then the old guys (us) and the young guys (them) do a re-enactment of the Vietnam War.

When I say a re-enactment of the Vietnam War, it is more like an all out brawl akin to the battle scene from Anchorman. People weaponize any available household object and begin to violently brawl.
There was blood everywhere, thousands of dollars of damage done, and I couldn't help myself thinking, "is this real life?" There was literally a trash can aflame in the corner and a 18 year old vomitting blood and crying.

I imagine this is partially what real war looks like.

We captured one of the Vietcong and our Marine buddy proceeded to water board him for information. What information you ask? It doesn't really matter, we were just torturing him until the Vietnamese side decided to surrender, which happened after about 5 minutes of bloodcurdling screams from a 19 year old. On a driveway. Of a 20,000 square foot home. In a gated community. Of suburban Sacramento.

Then in the spirit of the first Thanksgiving when the Pilgrims and Indians settled their differences over turkey and masked potatoes; we shook hands with the enemy and had drunken Thanksgiving dos in the garage.

Something about drunkenly eating leftovers amongst the carnage of the battle scene is supposed to signify a deep level of respect among the combatants. Needless to say a "peace pipe" was passed around the table and I immediately went to a room to pass out face down on the floor.

Unfortunately, a little later in the evening, Vietnam 2 broke out and I think my buddy broke a bottle over his little brother's head and I had to pretend to be asleep face down in the corner while my friend's mother berated him for 2 hours about how it's not ok to break bottles over your brother's head, even in the heated passion of war re-enactment. I've been tweaking on weed before. This was the worst. I remember stumbling through the house in between reality and dreams. One of my buddies was fucking an Asian in the movie theater, one had a face covered in blood and then there were the girls we had invited over, jaws dropped, unsure how to handle the animals that their high school friends had become. It was surreal.

I came out of a blackout in the corner, crying, eating leftover turkey, and trying to use my broken phone's Siri to call my ex girlfriend. It was equal parts horrifying and incredible. Thursday came to a close and my weekend looked like it was nearing rock bottom, but I think I can save it...Sure I'm 0 for 2 thus far on the trip. Black Wednesday and Thanksgiving couldn't have ended more pitifully for me. But you know as they say, 2 outta 4 ain't bad (do they say that?) Whatever, motherfuckers...I can turn this around.

We hadn't even departed for San Francisco yet. This was just the wholesome family holiday portion of the trip. What would happen when we got 7 bros in a hotel room in the marina district?
Will there be cable cars? Alcatraz Tours? Fun group photos on the Golden Gate Bridge?
Or...just a bunch of drugs, hookers and 48 hours of straight drinking?

FIND OUT TOMORROW in the thrilling conclusion to Ragegiving!