Here’s a centaur meeting a reverse centaur. (Based on a short sketch by the brilliant Sam Wiles)
Gather ‘round! Big news out of the ole New Best Thing headquarters. We have our regularly scheduled monthly show, first Wednesday of each month at Whistle Stop coming up right around the corner on June 6th.
New Best Thing presents: NBT For Profit! This time around, Sam and Dan might have to…
Sam Gone Wiles: IMPORTANT RELEVANT ISSUES OF A GRAVE NATURE
…..OH hello there. I didn’t see you come in. I was too busy sitting here in a silk robe sniffting my brandy snifter and counting fox hunts. I’m very wealthy, and my racehorse has just won a stock market full of gatsbys. Dollars and sense. Money.
It’s been nearly a fortnight since we spoke last, and I have to admit, I’ve been thinking of you readers. Nary a moment passes when I don’t think “the handful of people that read this are downright delightful, and I should really send out all of those free Quiznos coupons I’d promised.” But instead I started thinking about different cartoons and their serious problems, and I got all the way down to an issue that has been STICKING IN MY CRAW. Can you imagine it? MY OWN CRAW!
The issue I have that we all need to address, is the serious abuses of power in Scooby Doo cartoons. Now don’t think that I’m going over well trodden territory, like marijuana use, latent lesbian themes, and the use of ascotts. I’ve not a hack.
But I am a concerned citizen and damnit if I don’t speak out, literally no one will. So here it goes:
You know how at the end of every Scooby Doo they would catch old man something, and then he’d be like “if it weren’t for you meddling kids, I would have acted like a ghost successfully whatever that entailed,” and the authorities would come apprehend him? You know that part? It happened like every episode, so think real good and hard, and ask yourself, WHY WERE THEY APPREHENDING HIM? It was a kids cartoon, so its not like Old Man Something was dressing up like a ghost and murder/rapin the amusement park patrons or carnival workers. So last I checked, the Scooby gang is having someone arrested for essentially playing dress up effectively. The literal biggest crime would be “spooking” people, WHICH IS TOTALLY LEGAL, so who cares, Scooby Doo era cops? Shouldn’t you be finding the Son of Sam killer or some shit? Maybe leave the hotel owner in a vampire costume alone. In a lot of episodes, wasn’t it like the own of the establishment? So a guy was dressing up as a ghost on his own property, and scaring people, as he is completely allowed to do, and we’re putting him in jail I presume? Dial it down, Scoobs. Maybe go, hey jerk, cut it out, we like ferris wheels. But having him arrested? A bit much, gang.
Also, I’m not totally sure if I’m right about this. I havent actually watched old school Scooby Doo in a long, long time, like a billion fortnights, and I can’t find any clips on Youtube.org to confirm my hypothesis. Were they all committing insurance fraud and it was slid in there quietly? I literally don’t know. If you can disprove, or prove, this insane tirade I just went on, please call me on a car phone at 1-800-HOT-PANT. Please and thanks.
Sam Gone Wiles: Online Dating!
Hey! Hey there!! Yeah you! You in the bald cap and coconut bra and argyle socks and elegant gloves! Thanks for reading, you! And cool outfit! A plus!
As for the rest of you, Hi. And thanks for reading another Sam Gone Wiles. You’re a bunch of professional friends, and excellent readists (people who read things, stupid). I’m excited to be reaching out to all of my readists more regularly again, and before you know it, I’ll be a regular writist again. I’ve had a busy couple of weeks, full of appointments and meetings and meatings (eating meat) meat meetings (meeting meat) and meat meatings (watching some meat eat other meat, then loving it). In the middle of all this confusing to say out loud meat/meet action, I got asked out on like a billion dates. (Meet and meat and greets, if you will). But of these billion or so women-ladies, only a few of them had sweet hot butts, or kissable brains. I have high standards.
I like em 6’5, blonde, and with an even number of wrists. “What are you? Some 3 wristed fuck?” is a phrase I want my sweet mother to never have to say again. They must be well read, and well hung (but with boobs and not a wiener), and well hmong (what I call someone who is familiar with Hmong New Year and subsequent writistings on Chinaman culture). I’m so picky in fact, that I can only turn to one place for help on the dating scene: The Internet. Yeah, sure, I can meet literally a billion babes, but only will I find the ONE through the power of the internet (much the way I found the ONE pair of underwear I rent). So I’ve decided to utilize the power of the online dating profile. I don’t know how that shit works, so I just filled out some questions, and just assume that when babes Google “Soulmate,” this will come up. Feast on, eyes:
My self-summary
All you need is two words: JEWISH HOPSCOTCH.
Next?
What I’m doing with my life
Would you ask a bird what he does with his day? Would you ask him how high he flies or how the wind feels beneath his wings or how freedom feels? You could ask those but I bet bird lives are multifaceted and a lot of paperwork. I’m cock deep in paperwork.
I’m really good at
Super bad ass wheelies and kickflips and sex things.
The first things people usually notice about me
My long jean-skirt, and that I’m an idea man.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
House and a youtube clip of Gary Shandling farting.
The six things I could never do without
Dr. Bronner’s lavender travel-size soap.
The song Allentown on vinyl.
Chocolate chip murder.
A fan.
A boxcar.
A children.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Gay sharks.
I’m looking for
- Girls who like girls
- Ages 24–25
- 6’5
- Someone who can shoulder an Adz and other remedial carving tools. For sex.
If any gals are reading this on the Google, my parents phone number is the same as my email: Iheartpizzones@yahoo.com
Sam Gone Wiles: Its been a Wiles
Long time no see? Oh you’ve all left? Permanantly? Well fine. You were all gross and not at all sexy or mysterious….JK YOU WERE TOTES SEXY and MYSTERIOUS! COME BACK!
Ehem. For the one or two of the original 12 readers of SamGoneWiles that have returned, please forgive me for freaking out seconds ago. I’m happy your, I mean you’re, I mean UR (cool?) here reading this junk. Its been almost 5 months since I cranked out the blog posts that made me exceedingly famous among tweens ages 12 to 12.5 (At 13 if you aren’t a tween yet, they kill you).
In those 5 months, I’ve been extremely busy. First, in January, right as I’m on the cusp of finishing Sam Gone Wiles the Novella, a novel about a short Sam Gone Wiles themed novella about kids in the 80’s finding a pirate ship, the literal worst thing happened to me. ME. Of all people. I get this….hangnail. And its just fucking…hanging there. For DAYS. Mocking me, blowing in the breeze, every bit minute hand movement a barrage of agony and sadness. I seriously considered hanging myself from my wheely office chair. Then one day I clipped it off.
BUT THEN, right in the middle of getting a Wilco tattoo on my ass and taint (the O ends where you thing it does), I get, get this, (got it?), another HANGNAIL. (GET IT?!?!). This time, its even worse. It mocks me. I think of nothing else. After mere hours, I’m so desperate to stop the agony that I stop watching Meerkat Manor for Meerkat hours. I turn off the T.V. because I run the clicker in my house, and I went to see an Indian shaman. I said “Sensei. What do I do about literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me?” And he said “Listen. Babydoll. You need to calm down, take some stick of your life, and realize hangnails are not really that big of deal, considering your propensity for hookers and blow. Thats at least a bigger issue, you know?” And to him I said “Thanks, toolbag!” BECAUSE WHAT DOES HE KNOW? NOTHING PROBS.
Then, in March, right as I’m entering the world forearm championships, I get this call. “Hey Sam, its me, the Shaman. I was really hurt by you calling me a toolbag. I’m a fucking SHAMAN. I curse your name, and you can’t come to my dad’s birthday, even though he wanted to invite you because he felt bad because he could beat up your dad.” And I said “Whatever, homosex.” Turns out, Native American Magic is pretty powerful, and I have hangnails like once a month. But I learned to deal, and thats why I’m a hero. Enjoy.
(Also, I started a show called The New Best Thing, and its a live sketch show and its awesome and fun and you can follow it on NewBestThing.tumblr.com. )
A few nights ago I went to a Comedy venue called the Improvisation because I needed a good laugh and was in the mood for some funny skits. What I saw left me shocked, in disbelief, and in doubt as to whether I would ever go to a live comedy show again.
The show started off…
Do you have cancer? Find out with this fun, flirty quiz!!
1. It’s the middle of class and your crush looks over to see you:
a. Texting him!
b. Paying attention to the teacher. Come on – it’s class!
c. Picking at a large new mole that has recently developed on your forearm!
*
Sam Gone Wiles: The LIGHT-er side of Seasonal Depression
Hello there everyone. Sam Wiles here. It’s been a while, I mean, Wiles, since we’ve spoken last through this blog that you love more than your kids. My thing about Fall sure was a hit, right? Apples, huh? Get a load of me. I’m hilarious.
But I guess it has been a while. Wiles I mean. Damnit, I did it again.
I guess, truth be told, I haven’t been really ‘Going Wiles,’ lately. Instead of Sam Gone Wiles, its been ‘Sam Sometimes Wiles,’ or ‘Sam From Time to Time Wiles,’ or ‘Sam In His Underwear in his Studio Apartment Listening to You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown and Thinking About Failure as an Abstract Idea…Wiles.’
‘Gone’ is almost a thing of the past.
(Ok, I’ll admit, that last sentence was fucking beautiful. Symbols and shit. I haven’t totally lost it).
And I know you’re screaming at your computer or iPad or Kindle Fire or pages you printed to take to the toilet at work “Sam! We need you to be Going Wiles! People need you!”
And I say “Guys. I’m just not feeling it.”
And you let out an even more impassioned yell from your bathroom stall and or home toilet where you take your laptop (gross), “Sam! Why are you doing this to us?! You’re still totally handsome and hilarious and an underrated dancer and have a great hairline! You’re the whole package, big dog!”
And I reply “I don’t know team. It seems like it’s just harder to get out of bed in the morning, in spite of all of my hilarious thoughts and universally loved personality. It seems like the only people who really understand me are all of the IPA’s I have in my fridge and have had 3 so far in this blog post, you know?”
And you say, “Yeah, you’re right. If you can’t do it, it being making life your servant as you so often espouse, then what chance do any of us have for greatness? It’s like winter days getting shorter is all a metaphor for us losing the number of finite days we have in existence.”
Now wait just a minute. Your collective and very specific response just reminded me of something. I know why I’ve been blue lately. Yeah, I have had my heart broken by lady as of late, and yeah, I just found out that Chubby Checker and Fats Domino weren’t tag team partners, or even siblings. Yeah I just realized poaching eggs wasn’t theft, making what I did at that Denny’s in South Padre really undignified. And yeah I got yelled at by my Weight Watchers sponsor for making a Bloomin Onion negative 1000 in my points counter. But there’s one thing I forgot, silly me. I have what several people have and is totally not weird no matter what Oprah or her other Nazi friends say: Acute Seasonal Depression.
And no, it’s not very aCute, at all. I’ll give you a minute to soak that in.
(It’s also called seasonal affective disorder, but I didn’t have a brilliant pun to go with it).
Did you get it all? Ok good.
But the best part of this realization that I’m dealing with the Seasonal Depression, or as I like to call it, Seez Depresh, is that there are steps to handle what can be an off-putting shit-suck factory. Like so…
1- Take a Hike -
No, I’m not saying it like a joke, like ‘Take a hike!’ like how Charles Manson says it on Full House (Little known fact: Dave Coulier and Charles Manson are the same guy. CUT-IT-OUT is in reference to a swastika in your skin. You got it, dude). I’m saying it like I want you to ACTUALLY go hiking. Exercise and sunlight are great for seasonal depression, especially if you are smart enough to live in a warm climate where it’s less depressing. (Unless you live in Las Vegas, where most people kill themselves or Phoenix which is about as appealing as a human asshole to live in. You’re pretty much boned if you live in those places and you should hike to somewhere better).
2- Laugh -
You know how people say Live Laugh Love when they don’t have an original take on life? Sometime they are right! One of the best ways to deal with SNEEZE-onal depression (if you make fun of it, it takes away it’s power. Seasonal Depression hates being called Sneeze-onal Depression because then it thinks about it’s terminally ill cousin Seasonal Allergies, which are soon to be extinct thanks to Claritan and Abbreva and Cialis). Anyway, get a laugh in! It’s gonna cheer you up. Turn on your favorite situation comedy. Mine is a show called Outsourced. I’ve only seen one episode, but I loved it so much I set my Tivo to get the rest of the series, and I’m gonna watch all of them back to back. They should be halfway through season 2 by now. In 6 years when they wrap it up, I’m just gonna lock myself away and watch all 7 episodes and the movie all together and have the viewing experience of a lifetime. Can’t wait.
3- Get a little drunk -
It is certainly not hurting this blog post and is it? Making me feel better. And, it makes certain music feel better. Like when you listen to Adele on Spotify. In the day time, sober as a bird, I think she has the build of a nose tackle. But right now I think I’d make out with her, or someone like you. But mostly her. Joking. Am I?
4- Go to a COMEDY SHOW -
As a professional comedian, I know this tip is a lot like the laugh one, but laughing is important! C’mon ya’ll! Drinks on me! Patron on me! You can have whatever you like! Rap.
I suggest going to Lestat’s on Tuesday nights, or you can go every tues wednes or thurs day and see one of my favorite shows at the Comedy Cuckold. It’s called Unssaulted CA$HEWS, and it’s run by G-Guy Quamedy, the funniest man in town. You can also….
5- Drink a lot of coffee
For fun, go to your local beanery (my cool nickname for a coffee house), and purchase a coffee. Use the singular, and never say “I’d like SOME coffee,” because then you sound like a retard. I would honest to God stab someone to death if I worked at a Synagogue (my cool nickname for a coffee house) and said they wanted “SOME coffee.” Some people just don’t understand the linguistic idiosyncrasy going down on the street, ya all.
6- Clean your car
It’s probably filthy. You’ll feel better.
7- Tie your shoes
What are you, some kind of animal? Get your life together.
8- Be true to yourself -
Read a book like the Secret and find out what the secret is and tell me. I’m pretty sure it’s the same as 4 hour work week. If it’s not, what the hell are we doing? Wouldn’t the most helpful thing for people be if all of the self help book authors got together and found some sort of baseline and then made that like the new secular Bible and then Oprah could partially fund it and then we as a civilized society could progress if everyone knew the Secret and everyone at least had access to great information about time management or checklists or whatever and then ultimately the same committee and this new race of a super efficient middle class could determine that the 4 hour work week was probably not only unrealistic for most people but also ultimately exploitative of people in unfortunate circumstances and that if you build a system where you need disadvantaged people to provide cheap labor so that you can get up at 10 every day and go to Aruba or some shit and isn’t it just barely worth it to at least in theory be opposed to something that needs people to be at a disadvantage regardless of in all reality they are going to be there anyway? Deep breath. That’s also good, but not an official tip.
9 - Eat a lot of fresh fruit. Citrus. Lemons and oranges. Apples and Pears. Apples Tigers and Pears, Oh My….
10- That sucked, but it was a transition into my actual next point: Make puns. They’ll help you make friends. Which takes me to my next point; make some friends, sad boy. Stop being such a sad pussy and go meet some people. Hang out at the delicatessen, maybe bust out those Zoobaz pants you bought from that apothecary. Lifes a jungle of friendship, take bite of the apple or some garbage.
11- Never forget
12 - Get some light, even if it’s artificial. Go to Target and ask for a sadness lamp to keep the gloomy clouds out of your gun cabinet. They’ll know what you mean. You know, vitamins and shit. Science. Get a lamp.
That’s the end of the list, and I hope that helped. Sometimes I get sad just like you and me. But then I pull myself up by my bootstraps, and Go Wiles because you need it. I’m that kind of guy.
And I have to admit, writing this blog post, for you the people, filled with hilarious jokes that you love and a list with numbers in the right order put me some kind of excellent mood, and most definitely got my mind off of all of our eventual deaths. The days are shorter? SO what! Who gives a hoot! Dance like no one can see you because it’s dark outside, you know? We’re all just here to live our lives, right? Right?! So fucking positive right now. There’s so much blood rushing to my head and hands I’m like a goddamn wolverine, like the opposite of depressed. It’s almost like it’s an unhealthy swing in the other WAY. IF IT WAS A MANIC EPISODE WOULD I BE TYPING IN ALL CAPS?? REMEMBER YOU GUYS! LIFE IS LIKE A GARDEN! JUST DIG IT! AND STAY TUNED FOR MORE SGW SAM GONE WILES! DOT TUMBLER! DOT COM!!!!! COOL PARTY GUYS!! HELL YEAH!!!!
….whooops heading down again.
I’ll see you guys at the Red Box on Fern.
I’ll be the guy in a bathrobe with a beard renting Love and Other Drugs.
Sam Gone Wiles: Apple Names!
Nothing gets my pumpkin juice pumping like the harvest season, which is fall and is also called autumn, and we’re in the meat of it. The leaves change colors and the colors change leaves, and all because Dr. MLK had a dream. A dream of warm sweaters, and cold sweaters, and hay rack rides and hay on it’s own. MLK himself even said “Fall is the best season for having dreams in. I hope someday I have a dream, because talking about a dream you had is a fantastic speech starter. Thank God fall is fast approaching, because once it’s late September, it’s dream city for this guy.” He was dead on. Fall is great for dreaming, hand holding, fall colors, Halloween, Freddy vs Jason, Man vs Food vs Jason, Jason and the Argonauts vs Freddy and the Mercuries, and pumpkin pie. But one thing Dr. ML King forgot to mention in his famous “I hope to soon have a dream because it’s fall and that’s a good time for dreams” speech, is an autumnal item near and dear to my heart but far enough away from my spine: APPLES. Ya’ll mothafuckers forgot about APPLES! They’re nature’s candy if candy wasn’t a thing and fruit was called candy. They’re a staple of the fall season, and better tasting/less insides-destroying than eating actual staples, Mavis or otherwise.
Apples also have quite a history, and that’s what I want to share with you this fine evening (This post is for night time only. I don’t like the idea of this blog being read in the morning. The morning is for vigorous calisthenics and puritanical wheat puffs only). As you all know, apples come in many shapes, (not true), sizes (still lying), and colors (2 at the most with varying shades), and because they are so diverse (nope), they have very distinct names and titles, each with a unique history. I am here, totally of my own accord, to inform you of these deeply interesting apple name histories. So, strap on. Your knowledge helmets. Because. Here we. Go. Now…ish:
-Gala Apples: The original apple namer, a man named Lars Pawkent, was going apeshit naming stuff, and came up with this gem. But he didn’t start with apples. He was originally given the assignment of re-naming primates and coming up with cooler slang for feces (the Puritans in Jamestown had been calling it ‘anger fudge’). He came up with ‘apes’ for primates, which everyone was cool with, and then started calling poop ‘shit,’ which everyone loved. He then topped himself by saying something crazy was ‘ape-shit,’ combining his two greatest hits, like when Walter Mathau combined Grumpy Old Men and Grumpier Old Men, originally two unlinked movies. Pawkent was then given the official title of “Stopkoppleton,” but then everyone thought that name was ape-shit retarded, so he went with ‘The United People of America’s Official Namer of Fruits.’ Pawkent had an excellent run naming fruits from 1818 to 1824, coming up with ‘tangerine,’ ‘pineapple,’ and ‘guns,’ (after Pawkent’s demise, ‘guns,’ were re-assigned to firearms, as in was somehow deemed ill-fitting for the fruit now known as the kumquat. That’s right, kumquat; the least ill-fitting name ever). Pawkent had actually been having such success as a namer of fruits that he was fancied as bit of a Lothario around town. He was seen with many a lady on many night and many a people assumed they were having many a sexings. However, this was the early 1800’s, so they were mostly port prostitutes with syphilis. Unfortunately, Pawkent fell in love with one of these dock wenches, a dyslexic whore with jaundice named Gushy Louise. She was named this because she had at the very least a fat, infected looking face, and at the very most she seemed to radiate nausia. She also had syphilis, and gave it to poor Lars. Mr. Pawkent, going untreated (he was Jehovah’s Witness or Siberian or some bullshit), went gradually ape-shit with syphilis, and it was his downfall. On a cold winter’s evening in January Jones of 1827, the year of our Lord, Lars Pawkent was to come up with the name for what we now know as the Gala apple. However as he sat at his naming desk, he began drinking ink instead of the glass of cider he had set out, not telling the taste due to the nerve damage in his tongue brought on by the syphilis. And then because his mind was so fragile, again, because of the syphilis, he imagined that drinking ink gave him Christ-like powers. He drank a full gallon drum of ink. Obviously, Lars Pawkent began to feel ill, and thinking that it may be his time to go, he called for Gushy Louise to come to his aid and she did. “Louise,” he said, “My disgusting whore. I must tell you the name of this apple, in the event that I ——bleaarrrchhh” Pawkent vomited ink into his own lungs, and died there in his home. With his last conscious moment, he managed to write G-A-L-A, in his own ink vomit. Gushbag Louise, that tramp, believed it stood for “God Absolutely Loves Apples.” Goes to show, sometimes God is right there in your syphilitic ink vomit.
Red Delicious: Some dumb douche-lord went “well it’s red, ain’t it?” and then some reasonable person said “Well, a lot of apples are red.” Then that douche-bag went “Yeah so? It also tastes good. It’s delicious. Red delicious. Perfect name. I’m a creative genius.” The perfectly reasonable person then said “That’s tremendous,” and shot himself because people are awful.
Golden Delicious: Richard Nixon had originally named them Jew Apples as a gift for his longtime friend Henry Kissinger, whom he famously was both wary and in awe of (because Nixon was for real super anti-semetic). However, Kissinger told Tricky Dick that it would be too offensive to name them Jew apples, and suggested he change the name. Nixon, still wanting to pay homage to Kissinger with apples, named them Golden Delicious, because Jews like Gold and being delicious is a good way of being sneaky. Nixon thought this way because for serious he really hated Jews, look it up.
PS, this also set up Gerald Ford’s famous order to rename Kike Oranges.
Granny Smith: The Granny Smith moniker starts in the mid 1950’s, when Strom T. Washington, apple discoverer, the Christopher Columbus of apples really, found a pile of slightly more tart apples growing under a pile of Washington apples. Strom was harvesting Washington apples in his famous apple pit. However Washington (the guy not the apples), dismissed the Granny Smiths, thinking they were Washingtons (the apples not the guy) gone awry. However, Washington (the guy, not the apples) had gone horribly awrong. Gil St. Percival, the Christopher Meloni of apple discovery had been doing some discovery of his own. On an overnight camping excursion deep in the Albanian woods of upstate New York, St. Percival was shown by a native Albanian a deep gorge just south of Loudonsville. St. Percival tasted these mediocre apples and declared them his own discovery, shoving tiny flags with his picture in each one and naming them ‘Percy’s.’ St. Percival gained widespread acclaim, having a state named after him by President Eisenhower, which is how we get Percilvania. This threw Strom Washington into a rage and he went to confront Gil St. Percival at his manor in New Hampshiresberg, Percilvania. The minute Washington and St. Percival began to quarrel, there was much tussling, so much that a skirmish broke out. It nearly escalated to a fracas, when St. Percival, knowing his position of envy, pulled the lever for the trap door he had installed under the spot where he skirmishes. Always two steps ahead, that guy. Washington fell 10 stories straight down, breaking his back and legs. St. Percival left him to rot. However, Washington (the guy) had loaded his pockets with Washington apple leather before the trip (because who isn’t nads deep in apple leather?) for sustenance in such an event. Washington gradually nursed himself back to near health, over the course of nearly 17 years, with the exception of a hunch in his back. He managed to Andy Dufresne the fuck out of a tunnel under the St. Percival manor, and escape to freedom somewhere in Ithica. His previous life in decay, Washington did the only thing he could. Plot his revenge.
St. Percival, on the other hand, continued his ascendancy, becoming mayor of Pittsburgh, as well as coach of the Steelers. He rode Terry Bradshaw’s roided out arm to a titles, and was truly the toast of the town. Then, on a cold day in March of 1974, St. Percival was driving along and his an old woman with his car. She was in terrible shape, but St. Percival in order to maintain his public persona, rushed the old woman, one Leeanne Smith, back to his mansion, and hired a top flight medical staff. St. Percival’s staff nursed sweet old Mrs. Smith well again. Then one day as St. Percival was getting Mrs. Smith some tea, she whispered in his ear “You know, big boy, I’m only 20 years older than you.” Smith and St. Percival proceeded to make grotesque old people love. It was when they were laying together post-coitally, that Mrs. Smith leaned in to whisper once more.
“I don’t care that you hit me with a car. I don’t care that you dropped me down a well. But those are my fucking apples.”
She then stabbed him in the jugular with nail file.
St. Percival bled to death as sweet old Mrs. Smith detailed how she was actually Strom Washington, and had had a sex change, and jumped out in front of his car intentionally. Washington had to be an old lady because of the hunch in his back, but he knew that if he could play the “I’m only twenty years older than you” angle, he could take advantage of St. Percival’s widely known affection for older women (He’d famously slept with Lynn Swan’s mother). When the police came, Washington/Smith claimed St. Percival had been aggressive with her and that it was self defense, an alibi the police believed. As St. Percival had no benefactors, Mrs. Smith was given St. Percival’s estate to watch over by the St. Percival family, as an old lady was surely a short term placeholder. Little did they know that Mrs. Smith was a mostly healthy 50 year old man with a vagina, and outlived nearly the whole family out of sheer spite (and by slowly killing them all with various trap doors). However, before Gil/Leeanne did anything, he renamed those storied apples. Granny Smiths.
McIntosh: Steve Jobs got bored and made actual apples in the hopes of becoming immortal.
And lastly, because I ran out of types of apples I could name immediately….
Honey Crisp: Gotcha! SUCK IT! You were going to give me an earful (of words) about leaving off the both the best apple name and the most delicious apple type: HONEY CRISP. Ya’ll N**GAS FORGOT ABOUT H-CRISP! It sounds like a desert on its own! Imagine, crisps of honey! The food of Krishna him/herself. Honey Crisp got its name out of nothing in the beginning. There was God and then there was Honey Crisp, 1 then 2. Honey MF Crisp.
So those are all of the apples (shut up), and their subsequent histories (facts). It was a long and winding journey through the depths of my knowledge forest, and it was well worth it. I hope it felt like jumping in a pile of leaves or raking over the corpses of tree babies (leaves). I want to wish you all a happy Autumn, and a very Spooktacular Halloween. Don’t prematurely Spooktaculate. And have a very happy football season, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, African American Friday, White People Friday (every other Friday), Hmong New Year, Mid-Season Back to School Season, and Happy Birthday to my dad, Tim Wiles. Fall into it. Get it? Fall.
Sam Gone Wiles: Top 10 Happy Hours, Guest Writer Brad Porkowicz
How’s my life been going? Convenient that you ask that because if you hadn’t, what I’d written below would be presumptuous.
Exciting news: I’ve recently made my foray into talk radio, and it’s been a blast off. I’ve been filling in for Tom Sizemore on his weekly radio show “Grady Sizemore’s Dad,” on KQEO, and it’s been an amazing experience. I’ve had a ton of fun fielding calls about all kind of wacky stuff from organic gardening to non-organic, non-gardening. But there has been a downside, and that is the time crunch.
I’ve been polishing this inherently brilliant essay on why genius is so easy to pinpoint, but it’s not quite ready. I’ve instead called on my good friend and San Diego native Brad Porkowicz. The guy knows his hot spots in town, plus he has a bunch of neat nicknames. I thought I’d tap into his cultural awareness and have him write a top ten list of some of his favorite happy hours in San Diego, because I thought you guys might like that. Look at me, being thoughtful. I didn’t really proofread it, but Brad is white and comes from money, so I know he’s talented and well adjusted. Please come back again, and enjoy. IN THAT ORDER.
Top Ten Happy Hours in San Diego
By Brad ‘The Meat’ Porkowicz
Hey yalls, it’s ya boi, Brad P, aka The Meat, aka Cool Brad. I’m here to give you the most straightest up info on the dopest happy hours in San Diggity, aka San Diego. If you’re like me, and your work day is spent knee deep in victory, you want to cap off the awesomeness by high-fiving your hot coworkers over some inexpensive appetizers and drinks. Whether it’s a Monday, Tuesday, or even a day between Wednesday and Monday, (the money days), I’ve got something to keep your wallet fat as dick, your throat quenched as balls, and your afternoon pleasant as tits.
In descending Mother-Effing order I’m gonna break it down by Place, Time, and Highlights. Have some, douche gremlins:
10 - Place: Broham’s Tavern in Pacific Beach - Timesies: 4pm to 9pm - Highlightskies: $6 Mega Shots, 13$ High Five Slider Buckets
One of my faves, Broham’s Tav in P(acific). B(each). has a bomb happy hour every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday and every third Friday. They’ve got drink specials, or as I like to call them DRUNK SPECIALS, because for just some money, they will get you drunk-assed as shit boobs. The BroTenders will be sure to shoot you a Mega Shot, which is a full size pint glass filled half way with well vodka, and topped off with 3 different flavors of 5 Hour Energy. It’ll make you get a giant boner (or if you’re a girl, a giant boner), and you won’t remember calling the girl you share a cubicle with a ‘hot bag of junk.’ She’ll be into it, because she also had a mega shot and didn’t die probably.
If you’re down to grub, mash some High Five Sliders. They come with ranch dressing, and you get 14 for sliders for $13 dollars, which is almost a dollar a slider. It’s burger time, douche gizmos! Get The Meat some meat! No homo!
9 - Place: Rocky’s Sports Castle in La Jolla - Time: 4 to Sevone (7) pms - Highlights and such: $3 Domestic Brews
3 dollar dome brew brews? Enerf said. Brad P is getting drizzity. Also, bomb fried cheese if you’re fat.
8 - Place: Charlies Pub in North Park - Timezone: 3 to 6 in the PM - Highlights the Mag: $2 PBR, bomb boobies on this chick.
One time some homo tried to give me an “old fashioned” so I told him I wasn’t queer and then showed him my balls. Classico. I make this place number eight though because it’s where I met this hot love of my nads,Christine, and I made her a mixed CD because chicks love that when you get all artistic with them and we totally banged I swear. Also, 2 buck PBR’s, which taste like nerd balls, but 2 bones is 2 bones and you can get mad fucked up mad quick.
7 - Plizace: Gardener’s Drink House - Timeshare: 4 to 5:30 - Highbeams: A bowl of Jagermeister for $6.
If you’re looking to get down on some sweet jagermeistsauce at 4 in the pm like I, Brad P, aka The Meat, LITERALLY ALWAYS AM, you’re gonna be super into feeling the haps 60 at Gardeners Drink Hizzy. Also, they are never not showing SpikeTV, which is dope. 1000 ways to die is fucking hilarious! Those people are all dead! Idiots!
Also, mash on some hot pretzels if you’re tiene hombre, and did I mention JAGER BOWLS? I think I did. A couple lines up. Have some, douche mogwais!
6 - Place: Mexican Pete’s - Time Of Day: 3:15 to 4:15 - Highlights: Mexican shit
Mexican Pete’s (aka La Hacienda de Pedro), has more margarita specials in an hour that most places have in an hour. 4 specials, to be exact, and from 3:15 to 4:15 you can get a grande margarita for $8.50, a super big marg for 10 bones, and Margarita Super Grand Gigante for 12. Hot sauce, right? Plus I went there with Christine once and she ordered some Margs and it was rad like Cool Brad, aka me.
5 - Plashe: The Hostpital - Irishman Tim O’ Day: All the time yalls - Highlights: Nurses ya’ll. And Mad fruit cups.
Sometimes Cool Brad likes to chill out with his broskies at St. Helen’s Medical Center. If you have an in with a custodian, they can get you into the pill closet. Plus dialysis is mad funny. You sort of have to hide in people’s rooms when they’re all sad or whatever, but a dope place to hit up after work, especially on a budget. A quality, and inexpensive happy hour, which is chill. You know with the economy and everything.
4 - Place: Stanwicks on 7th Downtown - Timesauce: 6 to 10:30pm - Highlights: Cheapest drinks on the PLAAAANET, plan on it.
The home of the 10 cent pitcher, this is the place to get super wasted on their late show happy hour, but not so much that you tell Christine she has fat arms but that you don’t mind you think they are nice fat not like weird fat.
But again, 10 cent pitchers are balls and wieners all the way if you wanna get drizzity drunk. Just watch your word sauce.
3 - Place: Charles II - Time: 4 to 7pm - Highlights: The sobering realization she’s gone
This place is a great happy hour yall. Its got drinks and stuff. Side note: do you ever feel your face for expressions and wonder what went so wrong? Like if you had a time machine? Like a real time machine where you could fix things? That Marty McFly shit cuts deep as tits.
Also, dollar pizza, which is chill. Pepperoni, sausage, all the MEAT, know what I’m sayin? Chill as boobs.
2 - Place: Digital Downtown - Time: 6 to 8pm obviously because happy hours are at night - Highlights: Alcohol, who will never leave you.
They have some drinks, and it’s pretty cheap for some time, and then It’s like, you ask yourself, what is wrong with ME? Why am I not good enough? They say it’s darkest before the dawn or whatever, and I feel like dawn is never going to come. Just day after day of sameness, like go to work and then go to a “happy” hour and pour cheap well drinks down my gullet. What good is a jager bomb when all you can taste is your own eye water? I mean, the best case scenario is that she does something bad enough that you leave her, that way it doesn’t hurt as much. It’s better to give than to something, you know? Hemingway. He was a guy you know? And Peyton Manning, he’s just a MAN, you know? Like some girl could just leave him too? Like mortality and stuff. It’s so not chill.
1 - McNulty’s Pub and Grill at a time and there are drinks or maybe Christine’s house.
Occasionally I just yell at God and say “What’s the point bro!?!” and you know what? He never answers. He never tells me the point, bro. He never says Christine will come back and then you’ll get to own a production company and the Chargers will win the Super Bowl and you’ll totally win best abs at the beach. He says “I don’t exist, Brad. So fuck you.”
I’ll be at the BevMo if anyone needs anything, and then I’ll be at the best happy hour you’ve never heard of Christine you bitch.
