10 Easy Steps To Fighting Holiday Depression: By A World-Traveling Drizzle

My tear-stained Christmas memories...

My tear-stained Christmas memories…

“This is the day the Lord has made.  Let us rejoice and be glad.”

I think Jesus wrote that.  But anyway, there are some valid points to that old field holler.  God artificially inseminated a woman (much in the same way gay men donate sperm to their lady friends) in order for his only son to be brutally and maliciously murdered some 33 years later.

For this, we should rejoice and be glad.  Glad that God decided to wait a few years before offing his son so the abortion issue could remain ambiguous, and provide for decades of drunken entertainment (both with impregnating and arguing with douche bag soccer moms)…and rejoice for it is yet again the time to face the Demons of Christmas Past that haunt us in the form of drunken mothers, abusive ex-girlfriends, and the long-forgotten California Raisins Christmas Special.

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Saving Spaces for Southie’s Faces

Okay, so another long-fought battle with the yuppies has been the concept of using trash to save parking spaces after a snow storm.  Yuppies think they’re badasses because they move the space-savers to use the spot for themselves, but true South Bostonians win out in the end with a few swipes of their car key to that blue Prius.  Anyway, the South Bostonians also won out on Menino, as we now have an excuse to get rid of all those broken TV’s the garbage men refused to pick up.  Thanks Menino, you fucking douche!

But you don’t have to take my WORD for it! (Reading Rainbow reference) Billy Baker, from the Boston Globe, did some research in this article.

A Day At The Races With The Drizzle And Old No. 22

Non Racing Day. Go Figure.

There are often times in a man’s life when he needs to go where everybody knows his name.  It also helps when they have a personal relationship with a jockey in the fifth race.  So this is where we stood, The Drizzle and Old No. 22.  Burgeoning on the precipice of a new height of degenerate gambling.

We bring you: The Suffolk Downs Bachelor Party!

Balmy with a chance of man-boob

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Darker Than Middle Africa

I have this recurring dream that I’m in a cave surrounded by water.  I enter the cave insecurely and I hear voices excited as I’m entering.  I retreat, nervously, that I need to confront those within the cave.  Eventually I enter the cave and its warm, warm water.  I relax within and let the cave masters take me into the next cavern.  I feel as if I’m foolishly following a Zork trap, almost self-determinately ruining my chances, but also knowing intellectually that I have no choice.  The cave is my destiny.  The cave is all that I’ve ever known.  There will never be an exit.  There will never be a departure into the daylight again.  I am the cave.  I am those people.  I am the darkness.

There are neon lights within each cavern:  Blue, Yellow, Red.  There are children inside the cave.  Those that remind you of yourself, while also annoying the shit out of you.  One of them will bring you to the point of screaming.  They will push you to the point where you never thought you could go.  You are alone with a child that makes you want to reconsider your stance on being pro-choice.  Eventually the cave-dwellers get rid of the children because they know it is counter productive to your progress.  You are no longer a participant.  You are now the experiment.  Your life so far has lead to this moment and you have no idea where it will lead.  You are the cave.  You are the people.  You are the children and the darkness.

Fenway Bark Sucks.

How To Go Down Swinging in 2010: By A Very Weary Drizzle.

Karma, you've owed me since Father Bonaventure...

The past month has been mad aggy for your boy, The Drizzle.  I have seen a grown-ass woman deconstruct a pepper grinder and cut herself seven times on the wrist.  I have seen heartache, suicide attemps, and even a Jewish comedian point to an Italian guy and say, “Hey Gino, how’d your day go? (If you need me to explain that, then you don’t deserve to understand the joke.)

That being said, I feel that I deserve the right to lift my heroin needle up high as the ball drips on New Year’s and without any protest be able to say, “2010 sucked the motherfuckin’ cock-clastic-cock (true alliteration) of all time!”  …And it’s only September… So I decided to think about the next few months and the ways that things could go wrong for any of us….So without further adieu, I present:

TEN WAYS TO GO DOWN SWINGING IN 2010…

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The Sunday Paper – Special Labor Day Edition

You’re fired!

Happy Labor Day. It’s the Sunday Paper! Continue reading

Chatroulette Is Dead.

This is a Chatroulette catch!

So this weekend I took some time out of my beer drinking (I switched to gin) to do one last Caught on Chatroulette.  At the time, I held out hope that I could save this sinking ship, but alas, I was incorrect as usual.  I spent a full hour on Chatroulette, and it was more of a self-flagellation than research on a story.  To spout the details of the experiences my tenacity forced me to toil with would only further my embarrassment and present a total for which to assign the amount of penises I have seen online since March.  So for my own sanity, I give to you:  Chatroulette Is Dead: A Celebrity Obituary.

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From High Atop The Soap Box: Fenway Bark, You Are On The Shit List!

Not only do yuppies try to shape the grooming landscape, but they try to replace our Pit-bulls and Rottweilers with this genetic abortion.

As my hetero-life-mate, there are many reasons why I love Staker.  I have known him for nearly 17 years, and I remember vividly the day we met in our little league coach’s apartment in the Old Colony Housing Projects.  But of all the reasons why I would love this hairy little grease-ball, I would have to say that I love him most for his ability to piss people off, and attract more violent energy than a hillbilly wearing steel overhauls.

What can also be a tragic character flaw really pays off here on The Shack, and the amount of heat we’ve received for his March 11th post, Passing Judgment on Fenway Bark, has lead us to make new enemeies of Zeltsonic proportions (mainly because his post is number 6 when you Google “fenway bark.”  That can’t be good for business.  Oops!).  Now we don’t really care if you take your dog to a spa, just like we don’t care if you go down to Bella Sante on Newbury Street for a botox and Brazillian.  The point is that there are many more practical uses for the limited property here in South Boston.

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