Yeah. She's ok.

Yeah. She's ok.

That little plastic beauty---->... is probably the only piece of ass in Birmingham that hasn't resorted to stalking me on messenger, or knocking on my door at 2 in the morning to remind me that I am the biggest asshole she has ever met. Instead, the hole in her head has provided a convenient resting spot for the cans of shitty beer consumed each weekend in an attempt to get pissed and forget about the sucky inferno heat wave that is Alabama. In a plastic world, she's maybe a 4. All of 3 feet tall and a mouth molded open that wouldnt fit a carrot in it, she's completely useless.

I went and saw Pete Yorn last night. The venue: some shithole called the Nick. When I say shithole, I mean think double wide that was supposed to be delivered to some podunk nascar loving town outside Birmingham. Only this particular piece of manufacturing/architectural fodder never made it through the city to the backwoods destination. Instead its location under the overpass of 280 would lend one to believe that it fell off the oversized truck carrying it. Since possession is 9/10th of the law, and a rebel flag and a bible will get you elected and laid in this state it seems that some lucky bastard got himself a free home. A free home that was gutted, painted black and stocked with cheap vodka, PBR and Yuengling's .

The place fucking rocked. Yorn wasnt bad either.

Packed into the hurricane package fema trailer like fucking sardines it was nearly impossible to lift my left hand holding my beer nevermind make it back to the bar for a second, third or tenth; which made the scene that ensued when my friend Murdock tried plowing her way through the crowd with her little sister Morgan in tow all that more amusing. Enjoying a somewhat slower version of Crystal Village while avoiding the spastic convulsions of the deusche bag in front of me it was impossible to avoid the debaucle occuring behind me. Turning around I caught the last bit of what appeared to be a standoff between Murdock and a smiling pixie ... pause... clarification...Phake; my pacifist, 135 lb 6' lance armstrong friend was beginning to puff his chest up frat boy style, in a desperate attempt to make his presence known whilest trying to encourage the silent pixie to let Murdock and Morgan thru. "What the fuck motherfucker?". Looking at Phake in part confusion, part awe, I did what any good friend would do. Shit, I turned around and started watching the show.

Murdock and Morgan made there way way thru finding an alternate route... Phake settled down a bit. Which was nice, I was enjoying the show.

Thats not even the best of it... I started this blog .. this littering of shit with the intention of talking about the mentally unstable women that I have encountered while living in this inferno of a state...

Standing in the middle of a gutted, black walled, press kit littered bar surrounded by middle aged men smoking camel and marlboro lights, mingling with scantily clad college girls still in love with the Pete Yorn of Strange Condition fame, I found myself feet from my own personal Glen Close (without the rabbit) a drunken affair, a hookup turned sour... giardia in my drinking water... and I didnt fear for my life.