I have always been on a quest to find coffee joints that do designs in their drinks. In Seattle they are on every street corner, but in the Midwest it's like trying to find a decent magazine to read at the dentist's office: impossible.

I ventured out in Madison, Milwaukee, and Delafield to find such a delight in my hot beverage. I've made comments to baristas, asking why they are too lazy to make the perfect balance between milk and foam to create a euphoric coffee experience for every guest that walked in the door. They either didn't know what the hell I was talking about or acted as if they suddenly became hard of hearing. I shrugged all these bastard baristas off, added them to my list on the wall, and stumbled into a place called Roast Coffee Company. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

This was the place. THE PLACE. I walked in without knowledge of their expertise, an unwillingness to have ANOTHER argument with ANOTHER barista, and low hopes of having any coffee that was remotely decent. My thoughts were in a jumble while trying to order, thinking:

1) Of course their menu is on an impossble-to-read mini chalkboard

2) They have a drink called the Keith Richards. No I'm not kidding. No really, I'm serious.

3) Is that a Wu-Tang shirt the barista is wearing?

4) Oh cool! They save java jackets here. Wait, didn't that person just order a coffee for here but got it in a to-go cup? In fact, everyone in here has to-go cups. Oh well, at least their saving java jackets. Fuck the cups.

5) Samples of donuts on a plate with yesterday's date. Nice.

As I ordered my soon-to-be marvelous-ness, the barista was looking at me like I was a dumbass. I didn't know why until I went to the restroom. I looked in the mirror and saw I had some chocolate on my chin from the 5th Avenue bar I had eaten on the way over. He probably thought I was eating a 5th Avenue bar on the way over and wished that I had saved him some. I know he wasn't thinking that I was eating a shit sandwich before I got there or wallowing in ferret feces with a big smile on my face saying, "Man, these things DO shit a lot!" He sensed my vast knowledge for designed coffee and wanted to be nice to me and serve me like the good little angel barista he was. Yeah, that sounds about right. Moving on...

I recieved my coffee (no it wasn't a skim latte. I have no idea what you're talking about it.) and to my non-dismay, saw a pretty feather in my coffee. I rejoiced within, trying to contain my excitement. I couldn't hold it in any longer, blurting out the first thing that my excitement came up with: "Did you know that designs in coffee are only possible with the perfect balance of milk and foam?"

The barista replied, "No, I didn't know that. Thank you."

He walked away, rolling his eyes and chuckling like the devil barista he was.

Fucking prima-donna barisitas. Think they run the Earth.

Devil or not, I was stoked. I decided I was going to visit daily from there on out.

I walked in the next day with a little peppermint in my step. Life was good, but more importantly, coffee was great! I approached the counter, confident with coffee-struck qualities, and ordered my skim, uh I mean WHOLE MILK latte, The barista looked like he wanted to give me a high five for ordering such a manly drink.

I got my beverage and saw that there was no design in it.

??????????

The taste was the same, yet the flavor was so bland without the design. My world came crashing down like a hipster having to wear normal fitting jeans. Like a man with a brand new CD of his favorite artist but only a walkman on his person. Like a parka without a hood. Like ANY winter apparel without a hood. Like guys without blow jobs from girls. Like girls without giving blow jobs to guys.

Oh, that world would be so awful. Especially with the last two points.

I drank the rest of my manly beverage and walked away with a semi-broken heart and squishy shoes from the rain outside.

I will try another day, Roast. The series is tied at one a piece. You better win, you little cocksucker.

Recently I got to see some old friends from back in the day. It was a nice treat since I only see them when THEY have time to hang. People with jobs and kids are so overrated. I can see having a puppy or DJing full time, but a real job? Kids? Please...

Anyhow, I met up with my friend Ger, his wife Fouella, and their son, Jam. We decided to go to a restaurant in Mequon in the mid-afternoon on a Sunday. Now I was already weary about this because the Packer game was on, and missing a Packer game is like missing church: It's ok to miss but you feel kinda bad about it.

Yes, the Packers are as important as religion.

So we walk in, the smell of musty genitals and moustache wax immediately entered my nostrils. I took a gaze around and thought:

a) Is is senior citizen day?

b) I'm wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Everyone else is wearing funeral type clothes. Or wedding reception clothes. Spell it out with me: S-N-O-B-S

c) Why is there so much cottage cheese everywhere? Wait...is that Alka Seltzer for someones dentures?

d) Am I 2Pac? Why are All Eyez on Me?

e) A hot waitress. Working here with the Geriatric Funky Bunch. Hot Waitress + Old fucks with hella money = Off duty stripper. Greedy bitches.

So we walk in and the hostess asks, "Ok, so 3 adults and a baby?"

Fouella replies, "Yes, that is correct. Two males, a female, and a baby."

She meant well, but all I could think about was the fact that it may have looked like Fouella was the serogate parent of the gay couple: Ger and me. I looked and Ger and he looked at me. We stepped away from eachother, laughed nervously, and then came to the serious conclusion that the host may be assuming all of this. I guess it didn't help that we were both petting the child at the same time. Shit, did I say that outloud?

After that awkward assumption of mine, we sat down at our table. They asked me about my cousin (Uno) visiting in town last week. Fouella asked, "So where did you guys go?"

I answered, "Uno and I went to the Bucks game, Packers game, White Castle, and many other places."

She asked, "So you went to Uno's Pizza and ate?"

"No, my cousin's NAME is Uno."

Ger butts in and says, "Oh, I didn't know what the two of you were talking about. I thought you ate your cousin."

Fouella said, "You ate your cousin?"

Sigh. Really? These are my friends? I wanted to jump onto the next table in the "Flamingo Ready" position with my teeth showing while pointing at them like the evil monkey in Chris' closet. I'd then grab an old fucker, hold them hostage, and wait for them to invite me to their home for tea and strumpets. Then I'd have all new friends that I could hang with and get close enough to be in their wills and wait for them to die. When they leave me all their stupid money, I will then buy the Uno's Pizza franchise, create a pizza that has a portrait of my cousin, and serve it to Ger and Fouella. I then will say, "Is this what you guys meant? Huh? You fuckers."

I'm kidding Ger and Fouella. You're not THAT stupid.

I'm still gonna shove a pizza in your faces, though. Yeah, I can't wait either.

I had my cousin and his friend in town from California this past week. His perspective on the Midwest was typical: Cheese-eating, mullet-wearing, hand-job gving, blow-job receiving, beer drinking, yellow-teeth sporting, happy-cow having rednecks with blue collars and a farmer's wit. He may be correct on a lot of those things, but I was out to prove him wrong. I wanted him to know that we DO drink beer, that we DON'T like fat rolls and chocolate shakes, and that we CAN party like those pansies in Hollywood. I showed him what I could, may have drank myself stupid a couple times, but managed to succeed in my goals. On his first night, for example, was the night of all nights. I showed him what was up.

 I took my visitors out in Chicago for a night. I knew that there was a lot of drinking to be done, so we started early. I was completely hammered drunk by 1am, and decided to stand outside and get some "fresh air" for the meantime. With drool down the side of my face and eyes burning, we finally met up. We stumbled to a place called the Weiner's Circle, which is known for it's outstanding char-driven food and extremely hostile service. People gather here for both reasons, and tonight was nothing different. A large crowd was waiting inside for their grease filled fat fixes while yelling obscenities and rude comments back and forth with the staff. All of a sudden, as I was waiting patiently in line, a man behind me screamed, "Hey! I want a chocolate shake!"

The black woman behind the counter replied, "That what you want, white boy? I got you."

She proceeded to lift her shirt up and dance around like a sumo wrestler in an earthquake. She was not thin AT ALL, and also had no bra on. Her fat rolls were flying everywhere like tires at Sam's Club and her boobs flopping up and down making a slapping sound with each contact of skin. I imagined it to be a dream, something that I wasn't really seeing and that I would wake up being relieved it wasn't real. The sight of saggy tits and a fast food busting gut wasn't my idea of a fond memory. To my unfortunate dismay, this was very real. It was so real that as it was happening, I couldn't stop staring. It was like seeing a three legged dog, a wheelchair with rims on it, a butt crack of a rather large man, a tampon string hanging out from a woman's swimsuit, a shoulder massage train consisting only of men, or a dildo hanging out of a grandmother's purse. I hated it, yet was uncontrollably drawn to it. It was so disgusting yet so fascinating. You know in the movies when people are in awe and their jaws are wide open? You know how you are thinking the whole time, "Dude, that jaw thing never happens." Let me tell you friend, when you see something as memorizing as a giant black woman shaking her fat tits and stomach rolls in the air screaming "you like that chocolate shake? huh?", it will happen to you. I don't like to admit it, but it's the damn truth.

As soon as we left, my cousin and his friend had a new perspective on the Midwest. What that perspective was exactly, I'm not sure. All I know is that whatever they thought before coming out here was different now. Not better or worse. Just different.

Fine with me.

F.I.B. You know what it means.

I was out a few nights this week and saw some people working in usual fine form. The legions of tight flannel wearing jock hipster wannabes to "party all the time!" mentality based Miley Craprus obsessors surrrounded me with little breathing room. I was short on patience and oxygen, but managed to write down some key points that I found were worthy. These are some of my many bar stories:

1) Speaking of Miley Crapus, I was DJing at a local college bar last week and saw a couple conversing like they were trying to come up with a plan. The two broke, giving a very feminine high five lead from the male. The female approached the booth with a self induced lazy eye from too many red bull shots and drink spilling down her chest. She stumbled, managed to make it up the one step, and asked, "Exxcuuuse me duuuude, can you plaaay Miileey Cyyrus?"

"I just played it five minutes ago" I replied.

"Oook, Greeaat! Thaanks!"

Confused, I kept on playing whatever the fuck I wanted. I then looked over and saw the drunk girl telling her male friend about her success and he rejoiced in a most feminine way. Jumping up and down like Dora the Explorer and screaming as loud as a troop of girl scouts, he celebrated to no end. I looked for the closest waitress to bring me a shot of Jack. Well, 3 actually.

2) I was in Chicago at a bar and saw a bunch of people taking pictures nearby. There was a guy that had a huge chain around his neck that he held in his left hand like Lil Jon. And instead of a pimp chalice, was holding a Vodka and cranberry. I took a closer look at the chain to try to see if it was real and found some interesting yet questionable features of it:

a) Are some of those "diamonds" turning green?

b) The chain is pretty long. Maybe he bought it off a Baboon dealer who specializes in "Baboon Bling."

c) That's a big chain for someone wearing a Casio watch.

d) Does the chain say "Verizon?" I think so...

I decided to mind my own business and continue ordering shots. Lots of them.

3) I heard a guy ask his buddy, "Hey, I'm buying drinks. What are you drinking there?"

His friend responded, "Ketel and Lemonade."

"Oh, good memory."

Good memory? For what? Remembering what drink he had in his hand?

I tell ya, I'm glad I'm not an idiot.

4) My friend Ger and I saw a girl with a bracelet on that had bold letters. The letters were large enough to wonder what the bracelet said, but small enough that it would annoy you if you didn't know what it said. I asked her, "Hey, what does your bracelet say?"

She replied, "It says 'I like holes.' It's from a song."

Ger, under his breath, said, "Is it a song from a porn?"

She asked, "What did you say?"

Ger responded, "Oh, uh, I said 'Is it a song from when you were born?"

She seemed heart-set on telling us about some stupid song from her childhood, but Ger and I walked away before she could mutter a word that was certain to be idiotic.

I tell ya, I'm glad I'm not an idiot.

I stepped into the bingo hall with a newfound optimism inside me. I have never won anything at bingo, not even the gift certificates they give out at intermission. Everyone I know has won at least something, and I was always the lonely bald sheep with no bingo credentials. Being shot down by the laughter of winners and good luck trolls of lucky old bags, I made the decision to keep my head high and dabber ready. This is what I thought when I ENTERED the bingo hall...

I sat down and had an immediate reaction that I started to notice was recurring. As soon as the caller starts calling out numbers, I start to fall asleep. Now, every bingo caller across the world has an annoying, nasal twang to them, slicked back greasy ass hair, and randomly say "thank you" in the middle of a game after calling a random number. What the hell is he saying thank you to? Is it to someone in the front row that got that much closer to winning, but didn't actually win yet? Did he fart and the guy behind him commented that he smells like ass? I know I would say thank you to that.

As my eyes grew heavy and cards became blurry, I tried to resist every urge not to fall asleep. I then started to think that his calls were more and more soothing, especially during the 3-second coverall game. He called those numbers so fast, so accurately. I then started to think that when I have kids, instead of reading them bedtime stories, I will call bingo numbers out to them. They won't have to mark cards or anything, and even if I made them do that they would fall asleep after the first few calls anyway. After the whole Baby Einstein scam that people were lured in by, I decided that I could lure in the same people by creating an infomercial that guarantees sleep for your children with certain patterns of calling  numbers. Want them to sleep when they're upset? Easy. Call out all "B" numbers. Want them to have nice dreams? Call out "O 69" over and over again. I've got all sorts of crazy shit happening around me. Here are some more:

1) I was out last week and ordered a vodka seltzer. Smatrick ordered the same, and The Mighty Bhor ordered a captain and coke. All of our drinks came with fruit in them, and I hate fruit with any drink. It's not about the flavor of the fruit, but more about manliness in drinks. And since my drink is already on the fence, I never like to take any chances. I threw my fruit into Smatricks glass and Bhor did the same. I thought it was funny how we unknowingly threw it in his glass, but what was better was that he gladly accepted the fruit, and pushed the fruit basket down into his drink with his straw to mix it in. He did this out of instinct as well. It's a common social assumption that fruit is for girly drinks and he's accepting the fruit with open arms. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

2) That same night we were at a bar and started talking about Tums. On the back of each Tums container, it says not to exceed 7 tablets in 24 hours. We started to think about why there is such a warning, and the Mighty Bhor busted out with, "So, what happens you think? You eat more than 7 Tums and you just start shitting everywhere?"

I looked over at Smatrick. he laughed nervously, and said, "Uh, want a shot?"

He escaped to the bar, shoving women and children out of his way and buried himself amongst the other thirsty patrons.

Man is he wieird.

3) My best friend from Orlando called and told me he met an actor. I asked, "Who was it?"

"It was the guy from Fast and the Furious 4."

WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?

4) I was at Ms. Jameson's house and she had her best friends over for lunch. We were all talking and having a great time when the subject of dog treats came up. The one friend (let's call her Megan) asked if anyone knew about dog cupcakes and cookies. I had seen them before, and raised my hand like a third grader with the correct answer. She then went on to say:

"Don't the cupcakes for dogs look delicious? They look better than human cupcakes. You ever try one? I'm embarrassed to say this, but I tried one. And let me tell you, it was delicious. I bought one for myself."

I couldn't believe my ears. I asked, "Did you really try it? Like, really?"

She replied, "Oh yeah. It looked so good and it WAS GOOD."

I wanted to excuse myself from the table before laughing, but it was like being in a classroom again and trying not to laugh in front of the teacher. I couldn't hold it in. I laughed. Obnoxiously. Right in her face. Tears rolling down my face. Bursts of "I can't believe you ate dog food!" and "That's so weird!" came out of my mouth like an erupting volcano. Couldn't. Stop. Laughing.

After it was all calmed down, I was still laughing, even more obnoxiously. The rest of the table seemed to fizzle on the joke, but I remained fully amused. Yes, I was THAT guy at the table. Perfectly fine with me.

I was Ann Arbor last week for no real responsible reasons whatsoever. I just thought it would be fun to see the campus and how things were over there. I'm sure, being Michigan and all, that there would be a lot of motors (I mean A LOT), a lot of lighthouses (there are 116 of them in the state), some fingers and lakes, robins, and Battle Creek, the cereal bowl of America. You ask why I know all these facts? Because I looked them up, dumbass.

My friend Jebediah actually had an interview in Ann Arbor and that's why I went along. He usually wears contacts, but before going to the interview, he put his glasses on. I asked, "You think you look smarter with those on? Is that why you wear them to interviews?"

He replied, "Yeah, I do think I look more intelligent. A lot of people say that."

I said, "Well what do they say when you're not wearing them?"

"Nothing." he replied.

"Well, it may not be what they're saying, but what they're thinking."

He said, "So what, everyone thinks I look like a dumbfuck when I'm not wearing them??"

I replied, "Well, I didn't say it."

Boy was that a silent ride home.

After arriving home, back sore from the Fast and Furious seats in his car, I proceeded to enter my vehicle to make a trek to Madison for a Halloween party. First I had to stop in Milwaukee and take my Mother to the Halloween store to find a costume. She was very adament about getting one, even when I told her that they were expensive as Hell and she would have better luck just making one. A Toga, a Bear Fucker costume, anything really. She refused, and demanded I take her there.

We arrived at the store and started walking up and down the aisles. We first reached the kids costumes, commenting on how cute some kids were in the pictures and how ugly and non-human some others looked. We were having such a good laugh until we walked into the female costume aisle. Now my Mother, being a bit older than me, was under the impression that costumes were fun and scary. But what I forgot, being a young and intelligent scholar of my time, is that Halloween is the only night of the year where it's acceptable for any woman to be dressed as a slut and be commended for it. So, in turn, the aisle we walked down was full of slutty costumes and high heel outfits. I recall looking at the models in the pictures and thinking, "She's a porn star, She's a porn star, SHE'S A PORN STAR." Gladly, my Mother had no idea who these talented young women were. She looked at me and said, "So, some of these costumes are cute."

AWKWARD

I then frantically looked for any normal costume. A Michael Myers mask, a Tootsie Roll outfit, ANYTHING. We hurried down the aisle and landed in the plus size section. "Ah, what a relief" I thought. I then looked at some of them and noticed that they were slutty costumes too!! I couldn't believe it. Before my Mother could even get a word out of her mouth I quickly pointed in a random direction and said, "OH! The normal costumes are over THERE! Let's check it out."

We wandered over, didn't find anything remotely normal, and she then decided that she would make a costume. Nothing fancy, an Egyptian woman is what she decided on. I hope she didn't get any ideas from this Egyptian costume. Risky.

I then proceeded to Madison to go to the Halloween party. It was a really fun party, kegs and beer pong which brought me back about 10 years. Nonetheless, it was a good time. One of the girls had such a good time that she vomited all over the upstairs floor in front of the bathroom. I thought it was funny and disgusting, but after the host cleaned it all up, she vomited in the same exact spot 5 minutes later. I then thought that that was downright coincidental. The host said, "Ah fuck it. I'm not even gonna bother."

We sat in his room and talked with some other people for a while. We had all forgotten about the puke that was right outside his door, until I glanced out to see who was there. To my not-so-surprise, a drunk fool came from downstairs and decided to have a seat right in the puke to wait for the bathroom. Shorts soaked and diginity gone, he didn't seem to notice. I decided that it would be funnier to see how long he sat there instead of telling him what he was actually wallowing in.

23 minutes. A new record.

I like traveling. People are so dumb outside of where I live.