You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Monday, May 2, 2011

This Just In

I was poking through what was left of the kid's easter (sorry, I can't capitalize e's) baskets when I got the call on my 1984 Sports Illustrated football phone-free with 12 month subscription. God dammit what the fuck could he possibly want now? Always after I've just settled in with a little triple D (that Guy Fieri can eAT!). "Yes, Mr. President?", I sang.

"Mitchell? Barry. We gotta situation, grab Banks and K-Fed and get your asses to Dulles pa-ron-to", he barked. Usually I would tell him to chillax but he sounded serious. "This better be go-time?", non-plussed.

"Yea motherfucker! Grab Jack's Flip and get to the situation room", he was losing patience.

"Fine, but tell Joe if he sits in my chair, he's, he's, he', fuck it, I don't care. Let the baby have his bottle", I ran out steam. In retrospect, hash was probably a bad idea but things were supposed to be mellow, especially after the correspondence dinner display. Trump is such a loser.

I jumped in the hybrid, scooted out to echo Park, woke up John with a tickle and we headed to Bob Hope Airport. It ain't easy rushing when you're a hipster but John took the news in stride and voluntarily skipped on lacing up his Chucks. I double checked his beard symmetry while he took the wheel and looked at his sunglassed mirrored reflection in the reflection of the rearview mirror. It was the perfect distraction for me to smoke through my GWB pez dispenser (cowboy-booted carb). I sure as hell wasn't gonna drink Jet Blue's idea of a Bloody Mary sober.

Once airborne, my Droid stopped co-operating so I commandeered the cockpit and called Kev c.b. style at Johnny's to let him know operation Tarzan and Jane commenced. At this hour he had no choice but to travel by blimp. Lucky!

We hooked up on the tarmac 35 minutes later, John complaining about wearing Levi cutoffs and an off white muscle shirt. Personally I thought our uniform was pretty badass. Maybe someone shoulda been doing more shake-weighting and less spinning and he wouldn't have had a problem. Kevin was getting pumped up with some Bonnie Prince Billy and I had In the Air Tonight on repeat. We gathered our shit and cabbed it to the West Wing.

Once there, it was pure bedlam. Apparently Biden shit the bed and was blaming Bill Daley. I couldn't concentrate and told B I wasn't doing anything until we got some french toast and diet Squirts. Once accommodated, he broke it down. Turns out they finally discovered that dude Osama bin Laden's lair. We were to drop in from some blackhwaks, lay down the shit and exit stat. It wasn't until we were chopping in over the Abbottabad compound that it dawned on me that none of us had any formal military training in the slightest (save Barry's insistence of us watching Spies Like Us). This suddenly seemed like a bad idea. But fuck it.

What you know: bin Laden was KIA. Body ID'd. DNA matched. Buried at Sea. No U.S. military casualties.

What you don't: Kevin, John and I were decoys. Our guns only shot Skittles (taste the rainbow motherfucker!). I pulled my quad on my right leg leaping from the chopper. Kevin severed the tips of 2 fingers on each handed when he gave the victory sign a little too close to the blades. John got laid. I guess I'm just proud to be part of it all but I caught a ton of shit for taking a personal day from the lumberyard.


  1. Hello, I got laid by two girls and one 6 fingered friend. I think that is worth a mention.

  2. I got laid by 6 only had 2 fingers. Found you via a friend on Twitter. Good stuff.