Shit Happens

After spending the morning at a PGA golf tournament in Scottsdale, we got back to the car to find an unexpected visitor trapped inside . . . along with his loose bowels.

More Atrium Antics

This type of shit is always happening to us. Not complaining, just saying.

Toasty Bits

How do you warm up at a very cold Missouri wedding? Duh, like this.

Douche. It’s what’s for dessert.

This past weekend we were in St. Louis, Missouri, visiting our little sister Kelly and her husband Doug. Six months ago they had a baby boy, Parker, and we were eager to meet him.

We had the perfect day planned: take Parker to the zoo, take Parker to an Irish pub for lunch, take Parker home, put Parker in his Ohio State Buckeyes singlet, watch the Buckeyes game with Parker, put Parker in his Cardinals t-shirt, watch the Cardinals game with Parker, put Parker in his Blues jersey, watch Parker throw up on his Blues jersey, take Parker out of his Blues jersey and watch the Blues game with Parker.

Then to top it off, we’d take Parker to Ted Drewes, the legendary frozen custard stand on Route 66. What we didn’t plan on was what happened once we got there.

After pulling into a rather tight parking spot, we piled out of the car, already imagining the glorious diabetes-inducing concoctions awaiting us. But our euphoria was interrupted when we were approached by the driver of the car next to us.

“Did you not just feel your door slam into my car?” he barked. (Apparently he’d just downed a mouthful of asshole sundae.) Doug said that no, we didn’t feel our door hit his car because it hadn’t. “You gotta be kidding me,” the guy retorted, “You didn’t feel that? Our whole car shook!” (Guess he got nuts on that sundae.)

Now, under normal circumstances, a conversation beginning this way would be quite alarming. But Doug is a police officer for the City of St. Louis—he takes down pimps, drug dealers and murderers for a living, so we knew this Lexus-driving yuppie cracker was starting a fight he couldn’t finish.

While this was all going down, Kelly was busy putting Parker into his baby carrier. Once finished, she came around the back of the car to see what the commotion was about. And the bazookas came out firing.

“Where’s the damage?” she hissed. When the guy timidly responded that there wasn’t any, she followed up with, “That’s because we didn’t hit you!” She then turned on her heels, her infant son sleeping peacefully in the carrier dangling from the crook of her arm, and added the cherry on top: “FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

Every eye in the crowded parking lot was now on us, and while we felt twinges of discomfort, our sister strutted away, savoring the blood of a fresh kill.

Meanwhile, Doug remained calm. “I’m having Caramel Almond Banana. And that douchebag’s license plate number is NFP-272. I’m running it tomorrow.”

The Twins

Don't Feed the Fish

Here we are at the best bar on earth, The Swizzle Inn, in Phoenix, AZ. No, the Swizzle doesn’t have an outdoor patio. But it does have a super sweet atrium plopped down right in the middle of the place. The atrium is completely walled-in and appears to have been decorated by a blind surfer on acid. In other words, it’s awesome.

Technically, the atrium is just for looks. During the day, sunlight streams in from the open roof allowing patrons to gaze upon the tasteful décor: a beat up surfboard, sunburned plants and an old paddle that exclaims, “Please! Leave this at Shit Creek.” Naturally, from the moment we discovered the Swizzle Inn its atrium called to us like a siren song.

So last Sunday, fueled by liquid courage ($1.50 Bloody Mary’s) and some twisted bar logic (“If they didn’t want people to go in, why is there a sliding door?”) we casually sauntered into the atrium. And oh it was glorious! A psychedelic fishbowl full of magical things, a place where all your hopes and dreams could come true! We immediately pledged never to leave. Which turned out to be a good thing because someone had locked the door.

Jenny