Drink Up, Sue Ellen

Mona Lisa Vito: "Imagine you're a deer. You're prancing along. You get thirsty. You spot a little brook. You put your little deer lips down to the cool, clear water - BAM. A fuckin' bullet rips off part of your head. Your brains are lying on the ground in little bloody pieces. Now I ask ya, would you give a fuck what kind of pants the son-of-a-bitch who shot you was wearing?"

My clients who pin my skull between their crotch and the steel bridge stanchion beneath that overpass on west 22nd street always get mad when I try to look them in the eyes.  But I still do it.  Just because they’re paying $10 to make a gym sock out of my mouth doesn’t mean they’re better than me.  However, the Black Maple Hill 18 year old rye is in fact better than me and I cannot look it in the eye.  And neither can you.  Thinking that any human could be an equal to this rye  makes about as much sense as me trying to get a date with Brooklyn Decker.  And by date I mean gain unfettered access to her laundry bag and make off with all her underpants to the safety of a darkened subway tunnel.  Just isn’t happening. The rye proofs out at 95 which, in the grand scheme of American whiskey, is more towards the middle of the road. Not high test by any stretch, but still no slouch. And the nose on this is simply a thing of beauty.   There isn’t the slightest bit of heat from the higher proof.  Just the buttery scent of finely manufactured alcohol.  There is a huge depth of fragrance that becomes apparent as soon as you pull the cork. Warm caramel and oak are present and there is a way off hint of sweet woodsmoke as well.  It’s smells like Burt Reynolds ball sweat might have circa 1972/Deliverance.    Or like a heavy rattling fart after a night of DP with Willy Wonka and Grandpa Joe.  On the palate the rye is viscous, but not too thick and has a wonderful silky texture with the alcohol opening you up with a slight tingle.  The soft oak/woodiness comes across the palate first  and just as it is on the nose it’s clean and not overly astringent or tannic. The wood moves to the background and makes way for a fucking magnificently lush sweet vanilla flavor.  The flavors are round and big and warm (haha, tits!), but not overwrought.  This rye is a pitch perfect example of how a whiskey can at once be robust and big on flavor while remaining quite restrained. The balance is flawless.  And the finish, like a prison rape or a trip in my van, goes on for days and days. Drink this any other way but neat and you should be shot.

Outlaw Cat says, "I tole you this town ain't big enuf for both us. And ere you come fixin on takin my prized rye whilst I'm tryin' a nap. We draw at noon. Neath the clocktower. (shoots sheriff cat in the back of the head when he turns. drinks rye. meows and rubs nose with paw)

5 out of 5 cat six-shooters.

If this rye lived in the Beauty and the Beast mansion and came to life it would remove it’s boots and stalk like a redneck ninja with a length of piano wire from room to room until it had garotted every last piece of demonic, talking furniture, saving the insufferable french candlestick, Lumiere for last and staring into those dulling eyes as he slowly choked the life from them, before going up to Belle’s room and making love to her in such a fashion that she would chew the corner off her pillow and go blind with pleasure.  Why? Because this rye is a fucking badass.

It’s on the whiskey list at Spike Hill in Brooklyn and in Manhattan I would check to see it Beekman Liquors carries it.

Say what you will about Peyton's coffin nail of an interception last night. That is the mustachioed face of a man who has a sense of humor. And who might sell you coke or fuck your girlfriend.

Aaaaaand we’re back.  Let’s start with the Budweiser bridge commercial.  I don’t even want to call this one a runner up, because just like a girl in a beauty pageant who is fat enough that you wouldn’t fuck her sober, but still skinny enough that you’d fuck her bareback if you’d imbibed enough bourbon, it’s not something you hate or something you like.  It’s just the one who nobody but the janitor remembers. What? Someone had to notice your mom before you became a reality.

Keep in mind that this commercial is 60 seconds long.  Advertising time during the super bowl telecast cost over $3 million for 30 seconds. Pushing the price tag on this piece of shit in excess of $6 million just for the time it took up during the show. Not to mention the cost of the terrible CG required to render that stupid fucking human bridge. That’s like buying a $6 million dollar silk hat and putting it on that ginger pig at the 0:13 mark.  The staggering amount of money required to make an abortion so forgetful is equaled only by the staggering mediocrity  of the content produced.  Great job.  Next time just film a guy finger-fucking a retarded cat for sixty seconds. At least then I can get my money’s worth.

Auto-tune is a lot like Carlos Mencia’s comedic style.  It requires you to be totally talentless, annoying as fuck, and vaguely famous due to the fact that the people who use it/those who it appeals to are all annoying, talentless, mildly retarded gluttons intent on consuming the shitiest parts of pop culture.  Which is exactly who this commercial is geared towards and why every dimwit twenty year old shat down their legs when this aired. Also, look over here! T-Pain! He uses auto-tune! Haha, he’s a rap star who uses auto-tune! First a man on the moon and now this!  This commercial was unbearable to watch.  But that’s me. I have a hard time subtracting numbers that aren’t multiples of ten and I still wanted to gouge my eyes out while watching this.  Just imagine the jackasses who found this enjoyable (points at retard and laughs).  This commercial gets a runner up prize, a plaster cast of my nuts, because Budwieser was able to deftly update their Wassup? (four friends on a conference call? Oh, you!) campaign ten years after the fact and seduce the dipshit auto-tune generation without them even knowing it.  And they get points for T-Pain.

These two commercials tie for first runner-up. I liked them both.  I’d love to say that they’re both more or less totally innocuous, which they more or less are, except of course for the thinly veiled racial stereotyping they contain (although that might just be me forcing my intense racism onto what they’re showing us).  An asian scientist with stately ennunciation? A black dude spending frivolously on a house made of beer cans? Nerdy white people in glasses?  Those are the only who do those things! This is why Budweiser wins again.  The play to their audience so well.  Most of the morons who drink that crap wouldn’t understand what they were seeing if they saw someone in a lab coat who wasn’t asian. “Damn yo? Iz dat a ScIentiZt? Cray-ZeE! An AzTerOId!” Nonetheless, both of these commercials were smile inducing fun.  And this is coming from me.  A guy who just told a homeless man in a wheelchair when asking me for spare change, “Hop to it, Legs,  and start sucking if you want my money. Otherwise go fuck yourself.” Look at me! I’m angry! Plop. Extra points awarded for the hot astronomer doing a Slim Pickens on the telescope.

Second place is awarded to the book club commercial.  Pretty straight forward this one.  Men are pigs.  It’s true.  The two best lines in this come at: the 0:20 mark, “I love book club! I’d like to hear you read some words.”  It’s funny because what he really wants is to see her naked.  Haha, subtext! And the line right at the end is fucking great.  ”So do you like Little Women?” “Yeah, I’m not too picky.”  He’s not even talking about the book! I bet she feels like shit.  He’d fuck her or he’d fuck a midget.  What difference does it make to him? It all tastes like sweat in the dark.

The big winner is the Bud Light Stranded commercial.  First off, it’s a pretty excellent Lost reference (pulls off dharma underpants, pumps lotion into hand, smiles at Evangeline Lilly poster).  But my two favorite things about this commercial are the jet engine hot tub with old mama san and that sexy blonde. I let her pull up on my joy stick.  Seriously, I would have a hand so far inside each of those girls that I’d be able to wave at you from between their teeth.   The best part of this commercial though is the look of defeat on the face of that Kate stand in when everyone decides beer, bad beer no less, is more important than her and her stupid radio. You can tell the actress is channeling the disappointment from something that happened to her when she was younger.  Like when the fifth string quarterback dropped a nut on her face only to leave her naked and crying in a bathroom stall when he heard someone yell that he just grabbed some more Bud Light.

All in all it was a pretty weak showing for Bud brand commercials.  B-/C+ at best.  Also, the new Bud Light catch phrase, “Here we go!”, fucking sucks and feels wasted in the situations where it’s being used.  I would offer some suggestions for more appropriate instances to use it, but I’m lazy.  The best overall ads were the KIA Sorrento Puppets, the Little KISS Midgets, and your overall winner: Fiddling Beaver.

I like that he didn't get arrested on child pornography charges because he told police he was conducting "research" when he paid to be a member of porno site that caters to the urges of pedophiles. Right. That's just like when my penis and I conduct "research" on Chinese midget bukakke gangbangs five times a week.

Last night I spent seven hours and some hard earned, tear and semen soaked hand/blow job cash at Legend’s (review coming, though I’m still unsure as to whether I want to set fire to the building or not) hunched over a dozen and a half Corona’s while sandwiched between a weird old man and a person who seemed to have sustained severe brain damage at some point. People appeared to be interested in the game.  Especially the woman who broke into tears when the Saints won.  How embarassing.  It’s a fucking game, lady.  Nobody died.  Grow up and gives the french fries a rest.  Anyway, beer commercials.

Anheuser-Busch/InBev clocked in with seven commercials during last night’s super bowl.  Not a single other beer/liquor company stepped up to the plate to try and compete with them.  They win? Unfortunately, most of the Bud themed commercials weren’t very funny or memorable.  They should have figured out how to get the Clothing Drive commercial on the air.  Losers first:

Fail. Fifteen seconds of a floating beer bottle.  The only thing worse than this commercial is a person who drinks low calorie beer.  If you don’t want the calories, don’t fucking drink.  Have a water, put the chicken wing down, and get your fat ass on the treadmill. If you’re not a fatty then shut your cockwasher and drink a regular beer.

“They know how to kick in and kick back. That’s the Ultra life.” Eat. My. Ass. Hole. For this spot see what I’ve written above.  Only this one enrages me slightly more.  Drink Michelob Ultra and be like Lance Armstrong who “splurges” by adding an extra splash of milk to his cereal. Be healthy! Be fit! Lance would never put anything into his body that would make him fat or affect his health.  Well, except for the HGH, steroids, and blood doping chemicals he’s been using for the last fifteen years.  Also, here’s a game you can play in case you ever find yourself at a party like the one in the video where they actually serve low calorie dog piss. It’s called bourbon blackout.  You drink a bottle of Maker’s Mark, pull your pants down and throw the brunette at the 0:23 mark into the pool.  Then dive in after her and see how long you can make her hold her breath before she thinks your penis is a snorkel.

“Nothing comes between friends.”

“Especially fences.”

(maybe not fences but women/men, drugs, money, a sense of self preservation, and sports teams will most definitely come between friends)

I hate this commercial for four very simple reasons. First, personifying animals in this fashion, fuzzy memories and “playing” together, is fucking stupid and it’s lazy.  They’re animals. Either have them walk erect and act like humans (i.e. Fiddling Beaver) or have them act like animals. Then, if that’s the case, be creative with how you build the relationship between them.  Like how I send pictures of my crotch to your sister instead of flowers. Second, are the animal reaction shots. These should be enough to get you shot.  See anything George Lucas has been involved with since Star Wars to get my point.  Third, is the dalmatian.  These dog’s are ESE students of the canine world.  Remember how you would walk by the ESE room in high school and it always smelled weird and all the dumb kids would be drooling and picking their asses or punching each other? Yeah, I was the one with the hand buried in his ass.  Four, it’s the height of kitsch.  I normally love animals, mostly ones in people costumes or sad-eyed kitty’s/puppy’s, but if you liked this commercial blind fold yourself and make for the nearest major highway.

There are last nights losers for the beer commercials.  Beer winners and the top three commercials of the evening coming up next…

"Yeah! I'm, like, totally a sommelier! And I'm really smart b/c I totally went to NYU. I have opinions! Wanna know whatz a good wine to get at Wal-Mart? No? Blow jobs? Sure! I love giving those! (wipes cum off chin) Come here!

The beautiful, professionally dressed, and rather intelligent looking lady pictured above is Jess Altieri, full time dullard and “founder/CEO and host of winechanneltv.tv.”  And Wine Channel TV is, by my estimation, a website that amounts to a complete fucking abortion both as a website and as a source for finding any valid or interesting information on wine. And to top that off the wines she fumbles around with like a drunk ten year old trying to chamber a round on a Desert Eagle don’t even seem like anything you’d want to drink.  Unless you’re ten years old and intent on playing with daddy’s pistol.  Why don’t you just have a look for yourself.  Let’s  start with the video below as it is representative of essentially all the content that this imbecile has posted.

It’s clear she knows what she’s doing.  I mean look at how much she is able to derive from that wine with just a little sniff and a tiny taste.  And her comments! Generic. Nebulous. Bullshit.  Wine is like a hobo’s cock, Jess. You gotta get your nose in there. Smell it real good.  Get it in your mouth and let it work. Trust me. The pay off is worth it. (Peels sock off floor, pulls pants down).  Also, I like when she pans the camera so we can see the bar where she is. That she doesn’t just explain it and leave the rest to my wet-brained imagination. She doesn’t? Oh, well.  Not like you would really want to see or care what A BAR IN A MALL IN FLORIDA looks like. I’m from that overstocked, leather-skinned wasteland. And trust me when I say that nothing in Florida is worth seeing.  Unless it’s me getting tasered by cops for tackling a Victoria’s Secret model on south beach. Below is another great video of her with Charlie Palmer from Aureole.  The look on his face is what I would expect to see on the face of a man standing next to a chupacabra.  A chupacabra with big tits.  Which is probably why he agreed to do the spot with this idiot the first place.   I stopped counting all the times he eyes her cleavage after the first half dozen that came in under thirty seconds.  ”I’m a serious woman! Look at my tits!”  So, unless you want to she JustJess and her tits grandstand, ask vapid, stupid questions of rather important wine types, and mutter generalities about $3 bottles of red wine then by all means check out the site.  Although you might find yourself more entertained by  a child’s coloring book or replays of Animal Planet’s Kitty Half-Time Show!

JustJess likes to sign off by saying, “Wine is just a conversation waiting to happen.”  Yeah.  So is the chlamydia you contracted from fucking the bellhop at the Tampa Westin.

I swear his cock was THIS big!

I just want to apologize for not putting up any tasting notes lately.  I don’t want you to feel like one of those unloved monster children recently orphaned down in Haiti who use rubble and old needles for toys. (Slaps rock out of Haitian orphan’s hand. pushes him onto a pile of rebar.  ”Get a real toy asshole.” skips away licking ice cream cone).   I’ve just had a real motherfucker of a cold lately and instead of doing eight balls of fine china off your mothers back, I’ve been huffing Afrin like a kid on freon who’s about to be discovered wedged between an A/C unit and the stucco. Thus, leaving me with absolutely no sense of smell or taste.  We’ll talk some bourbon and other stuff when my head isn’t twenty-five pounds of mucousal drip.   Now, let’s make like your parents and never discuss t it again. Just like the herpes your mom gave your dad.