It’s 1:34 in the morning and Rick Ross is on Jimmy Fallon. We would like to introduce you to someone who is far superior to Rick Ross and Jimmy Fallon. His name is Nacko Ball. He is not from Southie, but he fulfills our minimum requirement of 1/8th Cherokee. Here is his statement:
Been in NYC for less than a day. I had to pay $8 for a PBR tall boy. Everyone is either a Mets fan or a Yankees fan. It’s like Hell if Hell had great Thai food.
Somewhere during the aftermath of Aaron Boone’s walk-off home-run against Tim Wakefield’s kunckleball in the 2003 ALCS, I fell into a deep depression. I would stay up into the wee small hours of the morning asking questions. Why didn’t Grady take out Pedro? How did this all happen? What’s this movie on Showtime?
It would start off representing how I felt: A melancholy teenage girl forced to deal with undesired outcomes and a newfound tenderness of the breasts. But then it turned into so much more. Something I can only describe as…well, Beautiful. I would spend the next year of college spreading the Good News. The news about an independent film that answered all our questions: What would happen if you threw two incredibly hot, barely legal chicks together, and put them in a soft-core love story about two hot chicks that do it?
In March, when I started Caught on Chatroulette, I thought I hit a virtual oil well of posts that would last for generations of Sugar Shack Southie instances. However, somewhere shortly thereafter, that oil well sprung a leak deep within the ones and zeros of the Internet’s vast ocean. Until this point, the barrier of courtesy between mainstream social networking and burgeoning Internet porn technology remained relatively unmolested. However, Chatroulette has now become the abandoned bath house of Web 2.0. A place where people could once share their ideas on a sunny day has now turned into a shady hangout for anonymous men and their penises. Every time you see a kid around, you shout out, “Hey! Get away from there! It’s not safe anymore! You need an adult!”
Well, George Steinbrenner is dead. May the Devil sodomize him slowly, yet powerfully. Now, The Drizzle is a Red Sox fan, but I’m not really a big Yankee-Hater. Like everyone, I look forward to seeing them come up on the schedule, but there isn’t really the pure hatred that I see in the hearts of others. As I listen to WEEI, Dale Arnold is saying that he is saddened by the loss of Steinbrenner, and I’m sure most of Red Sox Nation will echo those regards. But I know that is a lot of bullshit. You were all secretly loving the fact that Georgie was sitting down in Florida, laying down on a vibrating lady bug that his sons found in The Weekly Special. That’s why you have your boy, The Drizzle. I will say all of the things you are too much of a pussy to say yourself. You’re welcome, children.
Don't worry, kid. You're a soccer player. You won't need those testicles.
As I sit down in my best Doogie Howser, M.D. posture, ready to type my wit and witticisms in my best Kevin Arnold internal monologue, I am reminded of a confusing time in my life. It was in elementary school that I noticed I was different than the other boys. I would sit there in my 32 huskies watching my classmates change into Larry Bird shorts and and polo shirts. There was something about this routine that was foreign to me. My DNA felt a strange connection to this feeling, as if somewhere in the long-long-ago one of my distant ancestors might have shared this feeling. However in that moment, while the stars aligned signaling my generation’s place in the world, I felt numb. After a few weeks I finally worked up the nerve to ask my father the one question that could only come out with the strength and determination of a thousand Spartan soldiers.
“Father.” I said. “Why don’t I play soccer?”
“Drizzle.” He responded. “Our family left Europe so we would never have to see that fuckin’ sport again. Now shut up and get me a beer. The Red Sox are about to become the 1986 World Series Champions.”
Man, is The Drizzle gonna get in trouble for this one.
If you live in Southie, or come here often for your refills of oxies and heroin, then you’ve come to know three names rather intimately: Patrick Brennan, Nick Collins, and Michael McGee. No, these men aren’t distillers of fine scotch and Irish whiskeys, they are candidates for State Representative in Suffolk County’s 4th District. Now you might ask me, “The Drizzle?! You’re in the toy department. You post about dead celebrities, specials, and alcohol(ic) related issues…not politics. What happened to that fuckthatitude?” Well I’ll tell you, children. I’m posting about politics because I now know what it feels like to be a pork loin at a Bar Mitzvah: Everyone wants a piece of you, but they don’t know how to feel right about it in the morning (“stripper at a bachelor party” and “underage twink at the Tony Awards” are also acceptable analogies).
Our options for which Golden Girl to bang has reached its last gasp of limitation. Yes it’s true, children, Rue McClanahan is dead. The lust-lorn spark plug that inspired a generation of nine year old boys to think about having sex with an awkwardly older woman has finally hit the money shot. She’s with Gary now.
If you had asked me when we started SugarShackSouthie.com if I planned to misuse city equipment and property in order to create an irreverent and quite insensitive series of posts…well, I would have said, “Definitely.” But if you asked me if I thought I would find a year’s worth of this shit, I would have told you that you were out of your mind. Regardless, I present to you a new weekly series that will post every friday here on the shack.
It’s difficult to put into perspective just how significant Dennis Hopper’s life was. Sure, he was no Gary Coleman, Cory Haim, or even Boner from Growing Pains. Dennis Hopper was a man that found success in Easy Rider and parlayed it into a million dollar project where he was able to get effed up in Peru for months (See The Last Movie).
I never loved Dennis Hopper. I never imagined him giving me fictional advice as I do with John Stamos and JJ from Good Times. However, I will remember that terrifying night when I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling after I watched Blue Velvet for the first time.
If Harrison Ford has the best weed in Hollywood, then Dennis Hopper has the best coke in Heaven.
A little piece of America died last week when a little black man died in America. I remember when he used to go up and down the dumbwaiter and stay up late with Mr. Papadopoulos to watch Monday Night Football…oh wait…that was Webster…Gary Coleman was the one that was molested in the back of the bike shop (Different StrokesEpisode #114, “The Bicycle Man”)…my B, yo.