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:


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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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Words of Wisdom: Nacko Ball

Drizzle and Staker here.

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.

At The Movies With The Drizzle; Lost and Delirious: An Early 21st Century Lesbian Classic

To reach the maximum effect of this post, please click here and listen while reading.

2001 Let's-Be-Friends Movie of the Year

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?

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The World Cup: If You Really Liked Soccer, You Would Watch It More Than Every Four Years

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.”

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