See that shit? That’s a “scene kid.” I never knew they had a name. I guess I thought that was just what happened to kids who witnessed murders as children and went on to get picked last in gym class. And then, uh, badly misunderstand all the little nuances of human interaction, leading to alienation and self-loathing. I’m having a hard time pushing the funny through all the sadness. Suffice it to say that these kids make your everyday, run-of-the-mill strenuous efforts to look messy.
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.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look at a woman’s chest without the fear of false advertising. In the 90’s – right around the time when I started to notice that there were boobs all around me – I was betrayed, and now I’m being betrayed again. Allow me to elaborate.
When the Wonderbra gained international prominence nearly two decades ago, it changed my life for the worse: never again would I enjoy the luxury of knowing the true character of a given set of boobs before meeting them in person. For men who prefer the view from the back, however, there was no such obstruction, and they continued to live their lives largely unaware of the nefarious class of elaborately-designed underwear that has cast doubt upon every boob in America. That’s all about to change because of the Booty Pop.
It’s a Wonderbra for your bum. I mean, am I going to have to start judging women based on their personalities? This is outrageous.
In the infomercial above, spokes-booty Natasha raves about everything that Booty Pop has done for her:
“What I love about Booty Pop is the lift, and the shape, and the roundness.”
Well, Natasha, what I hate about Booty Pop is the damn, dirty lies. I can’t speak for all men when I say this, but why, Natasha, why? I’m sure your booty is just fine the way it is. Variety is the spice of booty.
I’m not going to comment about what this means for the women’s movement or anything. I’m just saying that if I get lucky and then find myself face to face with a Booty Pop, I’m going to be confused – just like you would be confused if I walked around with a cucumber in my pants. If you can’t be honest, at least be nice: when you want to trick a dude into thinking you’re hotter than you are, use beer. Trust us, it works.
Booty Pop, you’re on the Shit List until my apparati stop working.
We here at the Shack, like many people, are big fans of Chinese food. Drunk or sober, it’s a pretty good bang for your buck. And as with a lot of the things we buy, there’s a fair amount of brand loyalty involved; for example, Drizzle has been known to enjoy a Diet Coke in between PBRs and the Old Man tends to prefer the Glass Slipper to the Foxy Lady. A Chinese food joint that we dig is the Rainbow Dragon on F Street here in Southie, which, among other things, is home to the famous “French Fry Fravy” ($3.95 for the french fries, 50 cents for the fravy). Continue reading
Well, if it wasn’t today, it was one of the days this week. Skirt Week? You won’t see me complaining. It’s 70 degrees in New England.
Alright God, you’re good to go start smiting again.
For supreme teetotalers like the people we here at the shack tend to hang (and imbibe with), St. Patrick’s Day weekend marks an annual event the likes of which your average liver simply shouldn’t be expected to put up with. This year was no exception; it was, in fact, exceptional. But even the most perfect binge-drinking-with-a-group-of-close-friends weekends is not without its blemishes. Ours came in the shape of an insolent little red crab.
I will grant that there were 11 of us present that night, and that we had no reservation. But we made it clear upon arrival that we understood those two facts and were more than accommodating to the notion of being seated at different tables as different parties. We ambled over to the bar and ordered a round of Noble Pils. And then another. And then two more. Tables for four had opened up only to be filled by couples who put their names in well after us. We didn’t make a scene, just continued ordering high priced crafty drafties from the bar and ogling the amazing looking seafood that kept passing by on trays bound for tables that, for whatever reason, the hostess still would not seat any of us at.
After an agonizing forty-five (45) minutes or so of waiting and drinking high volume beers on emptier and emptier stomachs, the hostess informed us in the sweetest voice ever that she was SO sorry, but their computers had just gone down and there was now no way they could seat any of us. Apparently, nobody who’s job it is to seat people at a restaurant ever lived before computers. People back in those barbaric days often lost eyes and digits fighting for seats near their friends at the Red Lobster. We should all remember this when we take it for granted that a reasonably intelligent human being ought to be able to seat two parties of four and one party of three without the help of a computer during the course of a full shift.
Sorry, no pictures here. Images of this place are only fit for shitty episodes of tv shows celebrating gross indulgence.
Until further notice, Boston’s Barking Crab is in the Shit Shack.
“I Am Not Ashamed.” Well, you should be. I certainly am, seeing as I live on the same continent as you people.
Under the umbrella of a Christian organization by the name of Answers in Genesis, the blog/fecal catapult “I Am Not Ashamed” blisters up through the skin of the internet. It is a festering, rotten sore of simplistic and inherently contradictory belief systems, worsened by blind faith in an imaginary superpower – one which allows you to irrefutably confirm that the entire Bible actually happened. Hey evangelical Christians: how’d you discover time travel without real science? Does the time machine run on sexual purity? Repressed homosexual urges? Pure, distilled self-righteousness? The shredded remains of original copies of the Constitution? All of these things? Continue reading
It’s a balmy 55 degrees in Southie today. Soon enough, the wrinkly wall-sitters with the uber-tans will be out in front of the rink again, five-year-olds will be kicking empty cans of Natty Ice around the Marine Park playground, and we’ll be day-drunk, waiting in a crowd at Sully’s for onion rings as mothers glare dispprovingly at us for smelling like whiskey. Continue reading
As soon as I published the last post, a midget ran by and hit me in the testicles with a crow bar. Dave Zeltserman, will your fans stop at nothing?! You’ve won this round, Zeltserman.
As a functional illiterate I know I will never read any of your books. I do, however have friends with an attention span long enough to read some of the comments on our site. And they tell me that you used a word incorrectly!