Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category

It hasn’t been since the Sigfried (or was it Roy?) debacle that any of us have seen a tiger attack so potent.  But what else do you expect from a company that calls Michael Jordan a pal?

Enter the 33 second black and white air strike from Nike during this momentous Masters comeback.

I have to say, I like the commercial.  Before you get all huffy, let me re-phrase.  I like the AESTHETICS of the commercial.  The brief, black and white montage of Tiger frittering and fidgeting with his eyes in a habitual line dance between remorseful and determined is reminiscent of Andy Warhol’s 500 plus screen tests in which he mounted celebrity friends in front of his tripod and asked them to stare blankly into the camera for four minutes.  To watch them in a collection is a really impressive and simplistic beauty.

Nike was rounding third with this commercial until Earl decided to scold Tiger.

The freak of nature phenomenon who just wants to get back to playing golf and never miss one of his children’s birthdays again is rehashing in a way that, while marketing genius, is not putting his goddess of a Scandinavian supermodel first.  Which by the way, should be done very, very privately at this point.  Preferably on his large boat at sea.

On Nike’s part it’s as effective and as awesome as the Manchester United and Ajax soccer commercials they ran a few years ago.  Most of Nike’s ploy has always been a ‘Just Do It, Just Run, Just Play’ mantra.  Through Air Max Shoes and Gortex half zip shirts Nike has made us believe that there’s a warrior in all of us who just needs to get out there and run, jump or swing despite our problems/weight/stress/age, etc.  With his big return at the Masters, I assumed Nike would put out a commercial, but more along the lines of a few still shots of Tiger doing what he does best with no regards to the 14+ skanks and all of the Mystic Tan hush money they now possess.

But I seemed to forget that with an inconceivable marketing budget comes the giant balls to put it out there. Yeah, they went there…and they went there with Earl Woods nonetheless. From the grave, from heaven, from wherever.  Whew, that’s a lot to do in 30 seconds.

As nauseating and annoying as it is, the blogosphere is out of control dissecting this lil gem of a commercial.

Funny how we wish he would now just shut up and crush the ball again circa 2009 when he was still on PR house arrest. No more press conferences, and please, no more Earl.



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The truth hurts.

That phrase, that ugly goddamn phrase….well, it’s spot on.  The past few months for me have been a little about freelancing, some about hugging my nephew and a LOT about self discovery.  In fact, if I could somehow become friends with Jared Leto I’d make him star in a series of (semi) successful Youtube videos called “My So Called Life 2, Sara and Jordan Catalano Make It Work.”

During all of this employment downtime and cerebral, um, ‘up time’ (?) I made the weirdly easy decision to go back to Graduate School to get my Masters and hopefully PhD because ambition is such a wonderfully intoxicating upper when you haven’t yet engaged yourself in the physical labors of writing 100 page papers and crying at 5am because you’re sick of Toni Morrison and you just want to read your People Magazine.

Some people could claim that Grad School is just a prolonged escape from having to enter (or in my case, re-enter) the real world, and yes; for some this may be true.  It’s kinda like the undergrad who goes to school for seven years, only this time you are fooling people a little more because horn-rimmed glasses are involved and there are COMMITTEES  to which you defend really, really long thesis papers. That sounds pretty serious, pretty good, right?

But for me, it’s a nagging, insatiable feeling that nothing will be right, nothing will be correct until I am writing.  Learning about it, teaching it, talking ad nauseum about it, cursing it, hating it and then loving it all over again.  In my opinion, it’s the correct and just reason for seeking higher education.  And according to this blog post, there’s a great chance I will make no money doing it.

And you know what? He’s right.

Seth Godin is my go to guy when I need inspiration and/or information about blogging, social media and above all, following the path you desire.  It’s a short blog post, only a few small paragraphs, but the reiteration of the obvious in such a squat, powerful little block is a hit in the face. It’s kinda the equivalent of being grabbed squarely on the shoulders and shaken.

Let me tell you, it’s a hell of a thing to all of a sudden remember that you want to be at the mercy of a career that is not as lucrative as others and it’s another kick in the balls when you know that this is where you need to be, student loans and all.

If a drunk relative tells you that you’ll never make any money doing what you love you smile, mumble ‘fuck you’ and then head over to the cash bar.  But if Seth Godin tells you that for every one successful book there are 10,000 flops, you make silent amends and try to envision that with the right lighting a studio apartment isn’t so bad and that ramen noodles can be transformed into Thai delights with the right kind of sauce.

This is not pessimistic; in fact, I think that the way we all make peace with our facial features that we needed to “grow into” is the same way that we (hopefully) make peace with our course of happiness and what that entails, even if it means having to live at home for a year or maybe go to a few less concerts for a summer.

So play writers, operatic singers, music theory majors, yoga instructors and guitar playing broody guys, keep doing what you’re doing.  Seth Godin doesn’t ever want you to stop ; he (and I) just want you to do it for the right reasons….even if you never make it on any type of “best of” list.


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It is to be said that I am a social media addict, ostensibly so.  I have also (briefly) relocated from the sunny rays of Colorado back to the wet, damp, snow-laden  winter wonderland snowgasm hell from which my closest loved ones and relatives reside.  This ungodly amount of precipitation has afforded me much more time indoors to run on the treadmill, watch Californication on my Macbook and yes, spend a lot of time on Facebook.

After the (somewhat) successful secret bra color status trend that hit Facebook a few months ago, it’s become apparent that the newest and greatest foray into active Facebooking is now community participation.  (BTW, the bra color update was only funny for a minute based upon the sheer pandemonium it caused men for those terrifying 20 minutes that they were unsure of).  Whether it be spiteful, hateful, humorous or inspiring, it seems that social media in all of its widget glory is still a touch alienating and community Facebook goals are the water cooler talk for 2010.  I am ok with this because it diverts people from Farmville and Mafia Wars which are soooooooooo 2009.

Some of the newest trends include the aforementioned bra color, the Doppelganger  “week” which actually seemed to drag out like a bad high school reunion and my NEW FAVORITE ONE : “can we make [inanimate object A] more popular than [pop culture ‘icon’ B].”   The basic premise is to find out how many fans a particular ‘celebrity’ has and try to “outfan” this person(s) with an everyday object, based on its  everlasting qualities such as taste, color or general awesomeness.  Some examples include “Can we make this pickle more popular than Nickelback” or “Please make these curly fries more popular than Lady Gaga.”  It’d be an impressive commentary on celebrity gluttony if the same people who joined these groups weren’t the same people who spend all day on US Magazine message boards, myself included.

In light of this new sense of community, I’d like to recommend some collaborative Facebook activities that I’ve thought a lot about just at this moment. right. now.

Who I’d like to punch: Why put up a picture of who you “look like” when you can let the world know who you’d like to smash in the face.  I think this is a nice one because while your balding, mid-20s friend probably does not look that much like his “doppelgänger” Taylor Lautner, it’s much more realistic to assume that one day you may get to punch him in the face for repeatedly saying that he looks like Taylor Lautner.  In fact, placing his picture up as yours for an ENTIRE WEEK on Facebook (which is equal to 5 light years) sends a clear message that, “Hey buddy, if you don’t stop saying that you look like the guy from Twilight, you will get a knuckle sandwich, sooner than later.”  It’s succinct, and let’s face it, hilarious.  I recommend choosing a picture that makes other people want to punch this person as well, such as when he has a popped collar, is throwing up a gang sign or is shirtless in an inappropriate place.  Girls, this is equal to when another chick is : making a duck face, wearing a tiara or throwing up the standard sorority peace sign.

Addendum: Other suggestions include “the girlfriend/boyfriend of a friend I’d like to sleep with,”  “the person I know with the worst hygiene,” and “a person I would probably turn in to the cops.”

The age when I first…  : This one is not for the faint of heart, but based upon the question allows you to gauge how much of a A)Slut  B) Prude C) Nerd D)Moron you are compared to the rest of your Facebook Universe.  Some examples could be : The age when I first…”realized I loved drinking,”  “was arrested,” “wanted to hang myself at an office going away party” and, “bought my own weed” etc.  The reason I like this one is because there’s so much crossover in Facebook no one really knows what anyone is talking about.  You may put the status update of “13,” signifying the first time you felt grown up but your mom may assume that means “the first time I lost my virginity” which was another little status trend happening simultaneously.  Awkward hilarity ensues.

At will statuses: This is good for anyone who clearly has nothing better going on (myself at the moment) and justifies letting the entire world know that “Arrested Development is the best show EVER” or that “Milano cookies are still good even though I am 26.”  (I agree with those both of those statements, btw).  The idea is simple:  pick two equally awkward choices such as “For my next status update would you rather have me write my worst opposite sex story or would you like me to post my worst grade school picture,”  allow one day of voting, and then once the people have spoken, honor their choice.  If anything, it’s way more interesting to read a litany of bad naked stories than 45 updates about how the last season of Lost is going to rock so and so’s face off.  Plus, you get to see how big of jerkoffs your friends really are.

If we want to look at this with any type of perspective, I guess we could say that 1) Facebook really beat the hell out of Myspace and 2) The power of social media is dense and can just as likely be used to garner hope and inspiration for worthwhile causes in forthcoming months and years.

I, however, prefer to look at it from the standpoint that thanks to active participation, your parents and (gasp! grandparents) are getting first-rate Facebook army training and becoming social media soldiers that will soon know how to look at every picture, status update and inappropriate message you receive.  My advice?  If you can’t beat ’em, drink up and join em.

Hi Mom and Dad : )


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Me. Not an Accurate Depiction.

So  this is the time of year that people get super reflective and decide all of the “changes” they’re going to make in the next year which they typically drop by January (or March is they’re REALLY resilient).  I, like the others, have been doing that exact same thing as well and while i have the superficial and the silly,  the one that I have decided to take very seriously is….drumroll please…I am going Veggie.

Yeh, I’m Irish and East Coast…what am I thinking?  In fact, I’m fairly certain if my nana had a computer or the internet or a computer with the internet she’d faint.   But hear me out.  Over the past 6 months I have been removing more and more meat from my diet, starting with red and heading down the line until I am now at this point where I am ready to go all vegetable (and many-a interesting grain).  This is not a result of being in Colorado and spending too much time in Boulder or a flash in the pan idea like a nose ring or Vegas marriage.  Rather, it’s something I’m ready to do and it’s going to be a wild ride.

I’ll write the occasional blog post about it and report on the progress over the upcoming months.  It’ll never be preachy or laden with “I feel amazing!” quotes.  Instead, it’ll be amusing (at my expense) narratives of what it’s like to watch someone else eat a delicious looking cheeseburger or how stupid I feel trying to figure out how the fuck to use tempeh and make it resemble meat.  I’m like your Veggie test dummy.  Plus the nice thing is that beer is vegetarian so what’s better than writing a healthy and ethical blog post drunk?  As Alec Baldwin says, “It’s a weird good feeling…like going to the gym drunk!”

And now you, my faithful readers, have been invited into either the best decisions I’ve made or the worst 4 months of my life.  Cheers.


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1. hoopty

In reference to cars: a vehicle in poor condition, often large, boatlike, and aided by duct tape or bungee cords. Comes in two flavors, White Trash and Black Ghetto. See also: hoopty mobile.

Chinese astrology matches your birth year up with an often not attractive animal and thus your characteristics, downfalls and general “you-ness” is calculated into a list of words and phrases matching a 10th grade grammar book.  While highly annoying to be called things such as intuitive and witty, the Asians are typically correct about everything and these horoscopes are spot on.  For instance, I was born in 1984, making me a rat (not cute), which also means that my power element is water.   I am a perfectionist, highly irritable, very interested in the opposite sex and inclined to be simultaneously bossy and uptight one day and a hippy dippy creative wanderer the next (very, very true).

However, after this year I have determined that I will create my own system of astrology, in which case, I have deemed 2009 the year of the car.

Now, I am not one for dramatics, so I shall spare you the grizzly and personally annoying details of my past year in “Car Talk,” which has included one wrecked Passat, two flat tires, a missing hubcap, a broken window and one car break in.

But several weeks ago my car trouble was truly the whipped cream on top of my humble pie.  Let me preface this story (I do like some dramatics) by saying that I live in a very very nice and friendly, albeit sometimes snobby , neighborhood in Denver called Washington Park.  My hood is filled with leafy green trees, beautiful running trails, trim happy couples with their oodles of blonde kids and lots of Porsche Cayennes, BMWS and tricked out Audis.

It’s the kind of place a 25 year old punk like me is very fortunate to hang, especially when there was a garbage bag on the window of her Jetta.

The masking tape was a nice touch.

Yep, garbage bag.  I feel that this week of hell/hilarity/humility is best  expressed in a type of day by day diary/mini memoir I wrote and have tenderly named “The Hoopty Diaries.”  Enjoy.

Day 1, Monday: An inordinate amount of snow has squired Denver in a down of white and I go to my car at 8am to find my doors frozen.  As taunting texts come in from East Coast friends enjoying the 60 degree gift from El Nino I manage to pry myself into my driver side and make the 4 minute jaunt to work.  I try to put my window down to clear snow from the driver mirror and hear the motor grinding and hissing as it tries to do its thing.  Ever the impatient (horoscope key word!) and stressed morning person, I continue to hit the button wildly until the motor wimpers and stops altogether. As I go to get gas , I slam my door and hear craaaaaaaaaaaaash as my window slips down into the door abyss to never be found again.

After 4 hours at Pep Boys full of swearing and reading an ESPN article on Tim Tebow’s virginity, I leave with a bag taped to my window.

Day 2, Tuesday: It’s not so cold out anymore so the bag isn’t that bad, but I find making left hand turns, especially at night, to be  incredibly dangerous on top of my already piss poor driving.  I take the long route to work which essentially takes me five minutes out of my way but only involves right hand turns.  This is not before my attractive lawyer neighbor across the street wants to know if the police have been contacted yet about my car break in.  I kindly tell him that the only crime is that I am a child in a woman’s body, carrying a $500 purse but using a hefty bag as a window.

Day 3, Wednesday: I finally get around to calling shops when I have down time at work, only to be told that it will cost $600 dollars to fix this before I tell them that this is not true and they go quiet before we both hang up like an awkward call before a first date.  The men in my office treat me like a fantasy football team and drown me in stats and repair shop addresses and even do it yourself (haha) directions on how to get this window fixed.  My co-worker calls me trashy girl and laughs every single time he does it.  Another co-worker tells me to buy the part and take it to “one of his guys” and he’ll do it for cheap.  He’s from Long Island and I get the sense that he has a guy for everything from haircuts to calzones.  I feel like an episode of the Sopranos.

Day 4, Thursday: I am relegated to wearing  my winter coat while driving and the lack of mobility makes me feel like I have T-Rex arms.  As I drive through Cherry Creek past Neiman Marcus and Hermes I am sure I am getting dirty looks, but the thick plastic keeps me from seeing (my saving grace).  At this point it is not so much the cold that bothers me but the fact that the whipping sound against my “window” makes it impossible for me to hear NPR on my morning drive.  I put on Lil Wayne because he is the only man alive louder than nature.  I am now in a full-fledged hoopty and not even my thick Coach hipster glasses can salvage this.  On the way home from work I stop at Whole Foods to get some sushi because I am feeling pretty lousy.  Not only do I get dirty looks on account of my car, but I also forgot my reusable tote.  I’m like Hester Prynne of organic food purchase.  Double lousy.

Day 5, Friday: Hurrah!  With a little elbow grease I figure out a system that works!  I grapple back and forth with some Mexicans and get the part at cost and get my Pep Boy guy Brett with the rancid soul patch to put it in for me 300 dollars cheaper than the next cheapest guy!  I leave work early (ugh, again)  and wait at Starbucks for four hours reading tween fiction and watching episodes of East Bound and Down on my Macbook until it is ready.  A swipe of the debit card and I am apart of normal functioning society again.

Moral of the story?  Well there really is none, but I guess if you can’t laugh out loud about being the occasional asshole , at least write it down so your loved ones can.


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 Today  a pal and I were engaged in our typical nonsensical daily conversation that keeps us from jumping off of bridges.  You know, the type of marshmallow fluff that only the people engaged in the conversation are interested in: cute puppies, ninjas with lasers, why people with bad grammar suck, delicious burritos, etc, etc, etc.

 But then my boy got real on me.  Like Sarah Palin on Oprah real.

 It seems that during his formative college years, he regarded himself as the single guy and was not the stand up ooey- gooey hot pocket of love and honor and commitment that he is today (you get the picture).

 Long story short, he believed he owed one of his wounded an apology and wanted to know if he should say he’s sorry.  The girl has moved on, but my boy believed she deserved something.  (BTW, isn’t it funny how we can deserve both good and bad things, depending on the day/how big of a bastard we are being)?

 This got me thinking, why do we apologize?

 There are a lot of reasons we apologize; most  typically because it helps keep a steady environment of peace and sanity, especially if the person is someone you live with or are within close proximity to on a daily basis such as a wife, brother, roommate or colleague. Let’s face it, life is tough enough without a coworker eating your Special K or your cubicle mate ratting you out for Facebooking.

 Depending on how lippy or irritable you are, you may even find that apologizing becomes as commonplace as saying Thank You or Good Morning or You Need to Leave Before My Roomate Wakes Up.  Half the time they aren’t truly sincere, but they’re an outreach; a symbolic white flag and a moment in time where we put our hands up and surrender for the sake of maintaining a staid routine.

 But what about those really long overdue apologies?  The kind that can’t be done with a SomeEcard,  but rather have to be penned with one of those old-fashioned quills and ink by candlelight or done standing on someone’s doorstep in the rain in the middle of night (and it HAS to be raining for drama sake).

 You know what I’m talking about, and we ALL have someone in our lives that deserves a  I FUCKED UP, YOU’RE RIGHT, I’M WRONG, PLEASE ACCEPT THIS GIFT CERTIFICATE TO BENNIGAN’S type of apology.  Hopefully not too many but I’m sure you’re thinking of that person right now.

While sometimes we are looking to repair the relationship which was demolished due to our own missteps, many times (especially romantically) the involved parties have moved on.  Yet, we have this nag, this itch to tell someone we messed up and it was all our faults.

 Call it Catholic Guilt/Jewish Guilt/Karma/Overbearing Mother, whatever you’d like, but isn’t it inherently selfish to apologize sometimes?  Even if we are truly truly sorry, by apologizing we’re reopening someone else’s grieving process and spring cleaning our bad deeds shelf in order to make room for the mistakes we’ll more than likely make sooner than later…because, well, that’s what humans do.  Since we’re the offender we get to breathe easy while the hurt party now has to replay the damages and spend a lost weekend watching reruns of Mad About You and eating Thai food. 

 Good intentions or not, apology accepted or not, we’ve now placed something back into someone’s conscience that time and the human memory have done a pretty good job of removing on their own.  Things like your father’s difficulty accepting your liberal arts degree or your grandmother’s shock that you live with your boyfriend!  See how easy that is!

 Another factor that comes in to play is time.  Whether its embarrassment, denial or simply the abhorrence of the offense, sometimes the desire to apologize can take years.  It’s really easy to say “I’m sorry because I was young” or “I’m sorry you didn’t understand my love of jam bands at the time.”  But to  just say “I’m sorry” with no bows or strings or gadgets attached can be really tough.  If you do something horrible to someone, are you better off apologizing immediately as a sign of recognition or to wait a while to show sincerity?

 I don’t have the answers to these questions, because if I did I’d have a book option from Harper Collins right about now.  Rather, I’m thinking out loud instead of doing menial marketing pieces.  However, I am certain that if you’re going to say those tough words, make sure you don’t do it on a post-it note.

 It didn’t work on Sex and the City and it sure as hell won’t work for you.

 And if you never apologize?

 You’re a dick and that’s for another blog post.


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Don't be that girl. Unless it's your birthday. Or you just got divorced.

The pressures of life and bills and relationships make it reasonable, nay necessary, to socialize with others and indulge in alcohol from time to time.   Of course the way that you interpret “from time to time” is up for speculation.   My cousin, friends and I decided to center our imbibing around a “super sports weekend” consisting of the Broncos/Patriots game and game 3 of the NLDS with the Rockies and Phillies.

Thanks to the subarctic temperatures in Denver Saturday night the baseball game was moved to Sunday, meaning that rather running the 100, this was more like the 1600…summer Olympics style.  A veritable marathon of talking, dancing, drinking, games and sports- – there was going to be some required stamina and decorum.  Looking back on how the weekend went, involving 1 arrest, a couple upheave episodes and several trainwreck bruises,scratches and wipeouts, it seems pertinent to use our collective group of 8 to lay a few ground rules about how – and how not- to be a class-A drunk.  It’s like a case study for the extremely hammered!

The wrongs:

1) The world is not your bathroom, don’t make it out to be: This is especially important should you find yourself involved in any type of outdoor festival, tailgating or public event.  Peeing on walls, yourself or in bottles (unless you have eagle eye aim) is for cavemen or cocker spaniels.  We are classy women and men here.  Find bathrooms before your 7 bottles of IPA because you know what?  That bush that you think is a hidden forest is pretty see thru once you’re blitzed.

Addendum: Use the bathrooms of your own gender.  A girl trying to go in a urinal is only funny to that girl and flashing genitals to the opposite sex at a sporting event only happens on Cinemax, not in real life.

2) Don’t Get Lippy: Unless you are provoked, don’t be the provoker.  A little ribbing when you kill someone in Cornhole is expected.  Unloading dirty expletives on the stadium worker who won’t sell you 9 beers at once is bad taste.  Now I swear like a sailor.  Much more than what is considered ‘classy.’ But the skank factor goes up to volume 11 if not only am I holding my own pint of Jack Daniels, but also screaming at someone “You Don’t Know Me!” It’s the equivalent of holding four children on my hip in front of a double wide.

3) Walk, don’t Run: I’ll use my self as an example for this one.  In my excitement for football during the weekend, I ran towards Invesco field only to find myself bite it, sprawling forward into some orange construction netting.  No one looks sophisticated sprawled out like one of those chalk drawings of murder victims. I now have to brush off at work why it looks like I had unsuccessfully tried to fight Mr. T all weekend.

If you are going to run, or need to (from the police, I’ll get to that in a second), make sure it’s early on in the game and not after 4 solid hours of drinking.  Ever see a pretty girl in a dress at a wedding with lots of cuts and bruises on her legs?  That girl has been running drunk.  Not cute.

Addendum:  If you can barely walk in the shoes you put on pre-drunk, you don’t have a shot in hell post-drunk.  I was wearing Uggs and still managed to almost cripple myself.  I’m not saying go the orthopedic route, but be honest about how fucked up you really plan on getting and act accordingly.

4) If you get caught by the police, they win: You can run, swerve, fake out, do the Heisman pose… but if the police get you, it’s game over.  Calling them pigs, swearing, spitting or throwing your beer only makes your time in the drunk tank that much worse.  Our friend during this weekend got her assault on and ended up in surgical booties and a holding cell which she likened to Alcatraz.  “They were so mean to me,” she said.  Well no kidding.

The rights:

1) Find an auspicious time to throw up: Yes, no one looks classy or regal throwing up.  Yeh, maybe you shouldn’t have drank that much.  But sometimes it happens!  Take a cue from my friend Diane who at the top of Invesco field managed to throw up in a french fry container with only her companions knowing!  Quiet, head forward, like nothing happened.  She also managed to say “Pardon me, hold on please, I’m going to throw up now”  several times.  That is the way a real lady would do it.  This style also comes in handy for women’s social functions when you can’t stand the lady talking about her ‘amazing, supportive husband’ or her ‘spiritual trip to Thailand’ and you find yourself downing vodka martinis.

2) The more polite you are, the less people focus on your hammer time: Using phrases such as “excuse me” “sorry” and “thank you” allow people to focus on you kindness and way less on your ability to beer bong like it’s a night game, mid season with your team going 7-0 ! You can bet they’re a little blizted too and the Mary-Sunshine Martha Stewart attitude goes a long way.

3) Continue to Tip Well: This goes along with politeness.  If you’re 5 patron shots in and you are still tipping at least 20 percent?  Not only are you a classy drunk, but you can do your math!  “Goddamn genius from a nice family” is what people will be muttering behind you (at least that’s what I pretend is happening!)

Point being, if you’re American and a breathing homosapien there’s a good chance you’ve been drunk.  But unless you’re 19, being “that guy/girl” is no longer acceptable.  Take a cue from the Irish and not only be wasted, but also fully functional.

It’s all about multitasking.

And we love that in the U.S.A.

And if you’re unsure?  Just yell “Michael Phelps is a classy drunk!!”

No one will question you.


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