funny

Smokey The Drew

So let me just start by saying that voting today while listening to the song "Mrs. Officer" by Lil' Wayne made me love my country. I mean...really? I can do that? I don't know why I found this so fascinatingly odd and cool. But the old lady next to me, who may or may not have been dying IN her mini-booth, looked like she was mortified that I was listening to music on a "future-device" while voting.  Change is a brewin' ma'am...change is a BREWIN'. Also, thanks for voting, I respect your tenacity, as I’m sure being 900 years old makes it challenging to move/eat food/do anything really, let alone vote. So hey, HIGH five! Unless you voted for proposition 8. Then I hate you. Side note: I found it entirely alarming/hilarious that they quietly threw in Measure K on the SF ballot decriminalizing prostitution, and people are more outspoken and have a larger problem with same-sex marriages. Really? Where is the sign that is for people NOT being hookers? Isn't this kind of a bigger problem than people who like each other getting married, right-wingers? Anywho. Moving on from the political diatribe..

So I almost killed everyone in my apartment complex last night. With a duraflame. Let me explain.

It's chilly in San Francisco right now. You know, cold in a "everyone in California is a big whambulance about weather that isn't actually cold but yet they bitch about it" kind of way. Nonetheless, I love to complain so I'll argue that it's been cold.

So I got home and thought about my options. We have a fireplace at Chateau Ghetto, one of its only perks (well this was considered a perk until last night, when it became a "stupid"). Chateau Ghetto also came with gunfire, people dying outside on Fillmore St. seemingly every 4 minutes, and poor water pressure that in turn makes you feel like you are bathing with a very small squirt gun that is out of water WAY too fast. So obviously, when they said all of this, then told me that it comes with a fireplace, I of course said "WHERE DO I SIGN!" Hey, the last place I lived in SF, my landlord lived in the WALL and was a registered sex offender, so the apartment with the fireplace that came with NOT a registered sex offender seemed like a step in the right direction. Or a marathon in the right direction.

Back to the point: I looked in our lovely little fireplace, which i've used not once, and found a duraflame with no paper jacket on it. A naked duraflame, if you will. A sad, lonely, naked duraflame. Looking as though he was cowering in there with a British accent, saying, "please sir, do be kind and put a flame to me!" Yes, this is how I imagined him. So I thought, you know what duraflame? Today is your lucky day. I'm gonna romance the fuck out of myself with a nice fire while I enjoy monday night football. Let's do this.

Fast forward to the beginning of Drew challenging himself to see how many poor decisions he can make in a row. So to start, I decide to find the nearest magazine and just start basically tearing out pages in it to light underneath the naked lil' guy. If you are wondering, yes, ink smells great when you burn it (great = poopookaka). At this point, I light them and decide that I’d like some wine, so I'm going to leave the apartment unattended to go to Safeway down the street. I know, right? Who does that? Why didn't I just turn the stove on full blast and leave it open, and the set of knives on a rope and pulley system that shoot forward when you open the front door? It's like I was subconsciously trying to make my own Final Destination scene. (wouldn't it be cool to die that way though? be honest, you've thought about it...)

When I get back, it turns out the duraflame is not going up the chimney, but rather into the house. So that's cool. I decide to point a fan directly at the flame directing the smoke towards the window (which, last time I checked, is how wildfires spread...keeping score yet?), which then just blows smoke all over the apartment. It turns out you can't just tell the smoke to go out the window, it doesn't listen. At this point, my roommate gets home and basically just starts cracking up, as it smells like I went camping in the living room. Now here's the kicker: I decided I wanted to nip this in the bud before it just got smoke in the living room slowly all night, and I wanted to put out the fire. I have gone back through my logic from here on out for a while now, and I’m not sure how I passed any course from the third grade on at this point. I decide (get this) to SOAK A BATH TOWEL and throw it on the fire. In a very small fireplace. What? And go figure...smoke pours into the apartment. So I panic. And in that panic, I decide the next best idea is to open my front door and let it seep out into my building hallway, so that everyone else can enjoy the fun I’m having. Which in turn sets off the building's fire alarm. Which in turn sounds like a national terror alert siren. Which in turn turns on a strobe light. Which in turn locks the elevators. And calls the fire department. Wow.

I go out to the hallway, and EVERYONE is there staring me down. Kind of like Kevin's uncle in Home Alone ("looook what you diiiid you litttttle JERK"). And better yet, people are honestly acting like it's the apocalypse. Dogs and cats in in their travel kennels being run down the hall by terrified owners. So obviously, i'm feeling pretty good about myself. I run down to the street, and phew...THREE fire trucks have come. With twelve firefighters...gearing up like this is the final scene of backdraft or something. People are frantically asking me what happened, and I keep trying to explain that I'm just not that intelligent, but in all honesty I don't need the national guard in my apartment. Nobody listens, and instead this apparently translates to them that they need giant axes (side note again: why the axe? are you going to stab the fire to death? moving on). The best is when they get to my apartment...charge in to find...a wet towel on a duraflame. Needless to say, they did nothing and just left...basically stating to me that they just prefer that I do kill myself this way rather than help at all, because I have proven myself a weak link in the evolutionary chain.

Just to finish off the story, the smoke of course keeps billowing in because...I didn't remove the wet towel and just decided to ride it out? Wow...again. At this point, I decide to not have the fire department come again...and go BACK to Safeway...this time procuring 7 boxes of baking soda (it's all I could think of) to pour all over my fireplace. So basically...

Everyone at Safeway thinks I’m going on some huge bender and presumably getting drunk classy styles with a bottle of pinot noir while cutting MAYBE 9 pounds of Colombian grade cocaine, the fire department and 800 other people hate me, and I can't make a fire from a DURAFLAME at the age of 26. All in all, I'd say that's doing pretty well for yourself in one night.

Have I mentioned that it was a duraflame? And that I WASN'T on drugs, which is really sad? The best part of the night, though, was when all was said and done. The roommate and I are sitting there, in awe of my epic tour de retard...and he looks at me and says, "Welp. At least you've got something to blog about now."

Well said, Chris. Well said.

Song of the day is by MGMT. They are everyone's "hey have you heard of those guys?" band in advertising, and everyone acts like they are cooler than you because they found them first. But I found them before you. Because I’m in advertising. And who really cares…the band is just ridiculously good. Enjoy...this song is addicting. And hey, if you need someone to build you a fire, ladies...

05-kids-1

Bromancing In Fantasy Land

I am the least athletically inclined athletic person I know. Now...I use the term "athletic" loosely. This means, basically, that I'm not in a wheelchair and could probably run a couple miles if it was forced upon me. Well maybe a mile, and i'd probably complain afterwards. And I can shoot a basketball with horrible form and no spin whatsoever, but it often has a very good chance of going in inexplicably. But anyways. The irony of this statement is that all I ever want to do is watch or talk about sports. Ask me to play football on Sunday? Absolutely not, I’m busy/my foot hurts/my dog died/I have glaucoma. Ask me to watch football on Sunday? Done and done. As long as I don't PERSONALLY have to play? Of course! I'd love to critique people who are incredibly active and athletic and talk about what they could be doing better! I'll rattle off ungodly amounts of useless stats about that guy who just came in as the third down back. I'll even tell you his backup's backup. I bring this up because of what fantasy sports have done not only in my life, but in the general male population at large. While it has made a bunch of guys who USED to play sports lazy asses, It has also oddly created a level of bromance in the world that is unprecedented. Fantasy football has made softies out of men all across the land. Especially the lazy ones. Like myself. I'm sick for fantasy sports. And before you start, YES, I am aware of how "lame" they are and how ridiculous it is (and by lame I mean how stupid you are for thinking they are lame. Yes, you). Yes, I select 12 guys to play sports for me so that I don't have to. I follow them, I get upset when they get hurt because I wouldn't have rolled MY fucking ankle if I was out there running for us...and I CERTAINLY wouldn't have shot up that nightclub with my friends, as I would have known the suspension that would have loomed over my head (jax, jax, jax...). I relentlessly follow these guys, so I can make fun of the guy I'm playing that week because he didn't have MY guys who are playing MY sports for me, and that his played sports worse for him. I know all of these facts. And oddly, I’m okay with them.

So a few years back though, I felt lonely with my team. I don't know...maybe because they weren't real people I could talk to and I was yelling aimlessly at a computer screen (which is healthy). Only a shot in the dark there. But on a random whim, my brother and I decided that we would start drafting a team together about three years ago. This way, we could not actually play sports with other people...together. And here's the best part: it's been a strange glue that holds us together. Sure, there was plenty of brotherly love before fantasy Dualhorst Hoolhorst was born (not the name of our team, but as of this moment it SHOULD be in contention starting next year). I mean, my brother has always been my best friend. Even when he threw the Joe Montana Sports Talk Football genesis cartridge at my head when we were younger. Which, ironically, was the mode of fake sports I played back then. Wow. But I genuinely look forward to our fantasy sports dorkus drafts. We make huge evenings of them. We bring over notes (no i'm serious, we may as well have a whiteboard we can write on during the draft, we are THAT in denial that this is not a real draft), we have honest discussions about gameplans and how we'd like to focus our strategy this year. Honestly, i'm not quite sure how Adam's girlfriend takes it so well while not being seriously worried about her long-term boyfriend when him and his brother are chestbumping and high fiving because they "drafted" a "sleeper" in the 9th round of their fantasy draft. Yes, that really happens. But yes...I look forward to these nights every year. And after I leave his place? I'll probably call him in a few hours to talk about waiver wire pickups we should look into, trades we might want to make...and just generally how awesome we are for how we well we fake drafted our fake team. The funny thing is though...that we genuinely bond over this.

We'll hang out more often and watch sports together. We'll end up talking all the time and laughing at how outrageous our psyche's have gotten, because we are ridiculous and truly hurt when our team loses. We often lament about not playing that tight end last weekend (that's what she said...had to, sorry), we wonder if the Housh trade was the right move or if we were just trading for a name. We'll get angry with each other over opinions of who should be starting on our squad that week...I mean, these are all serious issues in my life now. Honestly. But the best part is? Fantasy sports took something ridiculous (which would be, uh, fantasy sports) and found a way to make bromance cool AND totally okay again. You know how in real sports when a guy makes a good play, and his teammate runs up and smacks him on the ass, as if to say, "hey buddy, good job out there"? Fantasy sports has given me the dork equivalent of being able to do this without actually being athletic...or just look like I'm hitting another dude's ass randomly. Instead, if Adam makes a good pickup? I can gush about it to him. About how smart he is, how proud I am to be a co-owner with him, because he had the foresight that it just wasn't LT's week and we should play Julius Jones no matter how ridiculous that looks on paper. I mean, I can honestly bromance it up, and it is in no way gay at all. All because we fake play sports together. Brilliant.

So if something ridiculous can bring my brother and I closer and make us spend more time together? I mean, no matter how loser-ish it is, what's so wrong with that? On that note, I have to go study up, as we have a fantasy basketball draft tonight. And after that? We're watching Starship Troopers 3, so we can then pretend that we are fake future soldiers that shoot laser beams at things. Because that's what brothers should do together: stupid shit they've been doing since they were kids. And I think fantasy sports got us back there. And I couldn't be more excited about it. Unless Anne Hathaway randomly wanted to do me tonight. Then I'd probably tell him fantasy sports are for losers and never call him again.

Lil' Wayne Blogs? Wait, Really?

I feel like Lil' Wayne is a hundred dollar bill I found in my jacket that I left hanging in the closet a year ago. Except I left him hanging in there after "Bling Bling" came out like 14 years ago or something and had an awkward jewfro. And now the coat is the outdated north face fleece that everyone had in high school (the black one) and I don't want to wear it because I fear I may look like i'm heading to P.E. or something. But seriously...WTF?? He should not be good. It's almost just science that he should be considered um...terrible. I mean, most of the time, the man's lyrics BARELY rival my drunken whitetastic flows...which, as Richard knows, usually simply involve me being Drew, who inevitably lives in a shoe...and then I will ask you what you "gon" do. This is the go-to drew hoolhorst flow. If not? I'm usually Drew and i'm here to say that i'm a crazy motherfucka from around the way. Ironically, I just went to research Lil' Wayne lyrics to prove my "oh my god he should be terrible technically" point...but I think I actually just proved my point the wrong way in the process. I was just going through song after song, and I almost feel like he is the rain man of rappers. I just sat there like a total retard in awe of this man's strangely hypnotic songs...and I feel like a four year old watching teletubbies or something. WHY is he so good? I don't get it. I'm not sure if he's good, or he just beats you into submission with the fact that he just never...stops...talking... (I know what you're thinking. "hey drew, I wonder what that's like. maybe grab a tape recorder the next time you are talking bud...")

I mean, he says "got so many bitches they should call me mike lowwwwry." This is genius. And you know you love the movie Bad Boys. If you don't, you are dumb and people should throw olive oil at you. I say that because it is a tough stain to take out of anything, so you THINK about making fun of me for saying that's what they should throw at you. It's terrible. You can't even shout that crap out. On that note, the next time you feel like saying something terrible about someone? You should just hope they stub their pinky toe and that it never grows back properly and instead makes this weird "nub" at the end of your foot that looks awkward when they go on vacation. Can you tell this happened to me? It sucks. And I wish it upon only people I strongly dislike. Also, it hurts when it rains. I'm like spiderman or something. Anyways...

So my love affair with this man is going on hardcore right now. It's not even a man-crush anymore...I'm at that point where I start bumping "A Milli" in my car after work, and honestly (yeah I know, get ready to picture this) start totally trying to flow the song...WITH him...and pretend that there are no windows in my car and that I don't look like a complete and total ass-clown. He's like the anti-anything-you-ever-wanted-to-look-like-in-life guy. I mean, he's basically just a tattoo now, and I wonder if he's bummed because he peaked and tattooed his whole body already so now he can't get anymore for the rest of his life unless he shaves his head. Wait, write that down if you are reading this weezie. And yeah, I just called you weezie. Jew represent, WHAT WHAT.

So here's my favorite new thing about the man. He blogs. No seriously. He blogs. I mean say that out loud. I don't know why this is so funny to me, but it is. The thing is? He's...interesting. And his points on sports are...valid. For some reason I expected him to write like this:

Lil' Wayne: Heh heh HEH...jiiiaaa....ya'll ain't know I'm it. I like grapes because they smash n' shit. Li-li-like who dat say they gon stop me from float'n on tha hovaboooorrrrrrd when ya'll know I ain't got scorrrred on. Heh heh hehe YOUNG MONEY!

This is not because I think he's uneducated. It's because I just don't think he can talk in anything but "flow" talk. I can't see him saying things like, "Yeah, I do agree...with foreign policy like this, our economy is sure to fluster! Good on you, sir!" I don't know. Maybe i've underestimated weezie.

Anyways. Listen to this song. If you hate it? You should ju...Oh what's that? You just listened to it for the fourteenth time in a row and can't figure out how to stop? SEE. I told you. WHO IS THIS MAN??!?!?!?!

03-a-milli

Michael, Michael, Michael...

Oh Michael...it was only a matter of time. I feel like your jewish mother doling out advice...but c'mon man, really? Here's a twofer/update on the progress of how fast Michael Phelps is going to lose the ultimate "I-can-hook-up-with-anyone-get-out-of-jail-free-card". The first one doesn't really shock me. Michael has been sleazin' it up at strip clubs in Vegas, and hanging out with the striped shirt brigade. I mean it's probably a better idea to get that out of his system here rather than in magical clamydia land a.k.a. China. The only thing odd to me is that strip clubs are predominantly for people who CAN'T score really hot women, so they pay for the make-believe hot women to create this illusion for them. Phelps right now could honestly walk into the Roosevelt hotel pool lounge and point. So why pay, buddy?

Now here's the "holy shit that is way too predictable" story going on. And by Sunday? We could have a full-fledged US magazine cover story. Michael Phelps is supposedly getting courted by none other than Lindsay Lohan. Wow. Her girlfriend must be kind of bummed that the fake lesbian stint is apparently coming to an end. But really...Lindsay Lohan being a lesbian was about as believable as a minotaur. Which, for those at home, is not believable and is not a real creature, much like the mythical Lindsay Lohan. Am I jealous? Who knows. Back in the Mean Girls days...yes I would have been jealous. But now? Michael. Come ON man. You could probably play your cards right and get anyone. And you are going to the hollywood starlet used car lot? She's like the equivalent of a 1982 honda civic at this point: it runs, gets the job done, but it's really unattractive and everyone will make fun of you for driving it.

Hey, while you're at it, I hear Tara Reid is available.

Michael Phelps in an outfit he picked up at "Forever Fratastic"

Sir, your head is blinking. Oh, and you look like I hate you.

So California made a judgement call, and I used to respect it. Everyone was getting into car accidents while talking on their phone, so the logical answer was to make a law that says you can't talk on your cell phone in the car. Which was awesome. Until this spawned EVERYONE and their mother buying a bluetooth headset. And this makes me want to punch babies.

I hate bluetooth headsets. I may hate them more than I hate cilantro. And I really hate cilantro, it ruins any food that it touches, it's like the chlamydia of foods. Anyways. Thanks California! Now everybody in the state turned into a giant d-bag with a blinking head. And the best part? I don't think anyone ever uses them. They just have them on. Because heaven forbid you pick up your phone and actually put it to your ear. Oh, you don't do that, bluetooth d-bag, because you don't want cancer? I'm sure the ROBOTIC DEVICE attached to your ear is free of cancer-making-nano-echo-five-bravo waves. Good thinking.

Sure, the most guilty guy is the loser businessman...so I mean, we saw this one coming anyways. But when I see that guy taking it to the next level and now wearing his bluetooth headset while getting dinner with his wife or girlfriend? Really? Really. That's like saying, "Hey, i'm really glad we could hang out. I'm going to also keep my phone attached to my head though because I'm hoping for another option of friendship to open up so I can openly access it right in your face, insinuating how little i'd like to hang out with you. Would you like a bottle of wine?"

Take the fucking headset off unless you are juggling knives or driving your car at extreme speeds on a freeway please. Otherwise, I'm assuming you have a hand free. Douche.

Signs You Are Missing The Point

I was hungover yesterday at home after Lesley's wedding (where apparently I drank the entire bar before dinner. Which is neat) and thought to myself, "HEY buddy. Let's get serious about the gym! We'll go find some videos or "podcasts" (which could just be called a video, but everyone loves the word "pod")  online that will tell us how to lift properly, and then of course we'll be 100% committed starting tomorrow and will only eat brocolli and yogurt and lift mountains and impress everyone with our daily gun show routine." At this exact moment, I opened another tab in my browser and searched for pizza delivery. Which I found kind of ironic. Browser Tab #1:

Browser Tab #2:

Awesome Signs That You and Your Friends Are Gross

Can you imagine how happy this makes a nerd like me? CAN YOU IMAGINE? It may as well say "24 of your friends spent way too much money on a phone that also doubles as a statement of how much better they are than you." p.s. I told my friend Kevin this weekend that he was a loser for having the old iPhone and that it was gross. And I stand by those claims. Grow up, Kevin. Grow up. (and yes, I just spelled it "iPhone" instead of "iphone")

Targeted Advertising, Now Killing Two Birds with One Stone!

There are so many things wrong with this ad, I don't even really know where to start. But I enjoy the fact that someone thought up an ad that is NOT ONLY telling some random chick she's fat while she's surfing the interwebs (and apparently I fall under that category, which worries me about my web browsing habits on so many levels...), it's also trying it's hardest to be racist at the exact same time! Because hey, if you can't be racist and degrading in one fell swoop, what kind of asshole are you really? I mean, why not just throw in a hello kitty picture while we're at it.

Stupid People are Funny

Ahhh I remember the good old days at university college of community of state. They sure did cater to my adult learning needs. (?) I mean, isn't this like saying "good at helping really dumb people"? Priceless banner ad. Who sees this and is like, "MAN, sign me up! I was worried I'd never find the university college school of state...college...for me!"

p.s. reminded me way too much of this