God Targeting the Tea Party with Hail and Shit

God Targeting the Tea Party with Hail and Shit

Granbury, TX—In a flurry of meteorological wrath, God unleashed hail, lightening, and high winds this week on predominately Republican neighborhoods as he looked on with his patented indifference.

“I don’t like the bastards,” explained God. “They’re hypocrites. Don’t say you’re doing shit in my name when you’re doing the exact opposite.”

When God was asked about the potential for going all ‘Noah flood’ or ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ on their asses, God replied, “Noah options are off the table.” He then laughed at his own joke, loudly. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick about this, but I always target Tea Party and Republican neighborhoods. Square states are Darwin’s shooting range.”

When asked about ideological incompatibilities, God said, “I love Darwin, the monkey loving F&*K. But do not cut that Noah pun out, Winslow! I can still smite shit!”

When asked about the fairness of targeting entire towns for the poor behavior of a few, God said, “Sure you’re going to get some liberal collateral damage. There are known knowns, things we know that we know, known unknowns, Hah! Damn I miss Rumsfeld. Shame he’s heading south. Truth be told, I don’t really care for people in general. I believe I made that clear in the Old Testament.”

As an omnipotent being, God’s Rumsfeld quote makes little sense in the context of….Aaaaaaah!!

Ask The Ghetto Shaman

Ask The Ghetto Shaman

Dear Ghetto Shaman,

I don’t think skullfucking is in any way a contribution to the new age movement. What is your real claim to fame, oh inappropriate one?

Walter

Dear Walter,

I am the first medicine man to point out how peeing is the perfect time to meditate. Read my Zen and the Art of Urinating. It makes for perfect bathroom material.

The Ghetto Shaman

Obama Smacks Baby, Drops Pants, and Screams Allahu Akbar!

Obama Smacks Baby, Drops Pants, and Screams Allahu Akbar!

Washington, DC—President Barack Obama delivered a speech today republicans are calling a brand of Nixonian Marxism not seen since Jimmy Carter—which, granted, doesn’t make any sense. Obama swaggered up to the teleprompter with a martini in one hand and the Communist Manifesto in the other and sung the Canadian national anthem in Kenyan. That’s not what disturbed people; he wasn’t wearing any pants.

“For four years I’ve read about my imaginary scandals,” slurred Obama. “I read headline after MFing Drudge headline about atrocities I never got around to committing. I was well behaved, bitches! Since I’m not running again, shits about to get real. From here on out I’m going to wiretap shit, drone strike shit, and even drone strike shit while I’m wiretapping shit. Remember, this was all made possible by patriotic people such as yourselves.”

Obama laughed, “Oh, and It was my idea to have the IRS target Tea Baggers. They’re kind of douchey, so it seemed fitting. And as for Benghazi, yes, we’ve been trying to paint a very different picture of what happened there: a group of Libyans, who love America as much as anyone, accidentally overran our embassy and killed everybody with glitter and bunnies…glitter and MFing bunnies, people!” The President then threw up a little bit.

“Okay, I admit they don’t really like us much. But they have their reasons. I am the President of the United States after all, so I personally have to bang most countries economically up the ass every morning before breakfast. It’s on my agenda. As it turns out, they don’t always like that. Heh, heh. Your turn Americuh’. Ask not who you can screw for your country…oh, and I have a drea…I mean, a drone!”

The Obama Administration plans to start handing out KY Jelly with each tax form, which they feel will help “the process” in something they’re calling Operation Lubrinflation.

The Worst Song Ever Written

Tony Ballz

I won’t whack near any shrubbery here: the worst song ever written, in my fleeting egotistical opinion, is “Tonight’s the Night” by Rod Stewart. Why this tune? Why not any selections from the Michael Bolton or Bon Jovi catalogues? Why pick on Rod?

“Rarely has a singer had as full and unique a talent as Rod Stewart; rarely has anyone betrayed his talent so completely. Once the most compassionate presence in music, he has become a bilious self-parody … and sells more records than ever.”

— Greil Marcus

Yes, unlike Mikey or Jon-Jon, his Rodness once possessed that magical quality known as “integrity”, and “Tonight’s the Night” represents the almost complete disappearance of it.

Between the years 1968-1973, Rod Stewart participated in nearly a dozen of the loosest, swingingest, sloppiest, drunkest, good time rock and roll albums ever made. Two with the Jeff Beck Group (Truth and Beck-Ola), five with the Faces (First Step, Long Player, A Nod is as Good as a Wink, Ooh La La, and a live one) and four solo (The Rod Stewart Album, Gasoline Alley, Every Picture Tells a Story, and Never a Dull Moment). Pick up a few, you won’t be sorry.

These records are just bursting with heart and soul and booze and humor and dirt and tears and friendship and love and honesty and spine. Rod and his mates are clearly having a blast, you can hear it in the grooves. And what mates! Jeff Beck, Ron Wood, Nicky Hopkins, Mick Waller, Tony Newman, Ronnie Lane, Kenney Jones, Ian MacLagan, Martin Quittenton … and Rod. All equals. Comrades.

Like many of his peers, Rod Stewart began his career as an interpreter of others’ works, then grew into a fine songsmith himself. Rod wrote or co-wrote a slew of stone classics during this period, including “Gasoline Alley”, “Mandolin Wind”, “Stay With Me”, “True Blue”, “You Wear it Well”, “Bad ‘n’ Ruin”, “That’s all You Need”, “Every Picture Tells a Story”, “Too Bad”, and “Maggie May”, his first #1.

The Faces in concert were like five best buds down at the corner pub playing all your faves on a Saturday night (there’s at least three full live sets posted on youtube.com). They punted soccer balls into the audience. Every song was a sing-a-long. Guitar solos got botched, background vocals went out of tune, strings broke, drumsticks flew, the bassist had a few too many and fell off the stage … they were the greatest. Everyone, band and fans, was there to have a jolly good inebriated bash and that’s what they got.

Then it ended. Superstardom beckoned for Rod but not his friends. He broke up the Faces. He began dating models and jetting with the cocaine set. His mockery of the jaded playboy personality became the real thing, much like Bryan Ferry’s did. Coincidentally, Mick Jagger succumbed to this lifestyle around the same time and, not so coincidentally, the Rolling Stones’ music also took a dive in quality. Not as far as Rod’s, though. His next two albums, Smiler and Atlantic Crossing, were okay but nowhere near the high standards he had set for himself. Still, they contained nothing truly horrible.

That would come in 1976. A Night on the Town was partially recorded at the famed Muscle Shoals Studios by R&B producer Tom Dowd. Due to the talent involved, the record has a few highlights but is bogged down by the sugary glop of its leadoff track, “Tonight’s the Night”. Rod had sold his soul to that skanky whore fame and had stooped to writing songs for housewives and dilettantes. He was rewarded with another #1 single.

Other superstars such as Paul McCartney had done similar, but while Paul’s granny music was mostly innocuous, Rod’s was downright sleazy, the soundtrack to a date rape. Stewart was only 31 when he recorded “Tonight’s the Night”, but he already has the creepy old guy vibe rolled out.

Examining the lyrics of pop songs like they were poetry is a pointless endeavor 99% of the time, but Rod richly deserves this one. So here we go:

Stay away from my window

Stay away from my back door, too

Not a bad opening. Go away babe, I still love you but can’t bear to see your face. It’s got potential. But then comes:

Disconnect the telephone line

Relax baby, and draw that blind

The girl is already in Rod’s house and he’s telling her not to go near the windows or doors. Oh yeah, the phone is unplugged too. All her means of escape are pretty much cut off. And pull them curtains while you’re up, honey. No witnesses. Now RELAX.

Let me pour ya a good long drink

How about a Roofie Colada? Rod then proceeds to rhyme “drink” with “hesitate”. Seriously, he’s not even trying.

Many critics of “Tonight’s the Night” point to this droolingly obvious double entendre as a perfect example of its wretchedness:

Spread your wings and let me come inside

Even a prominent feminist like Ted Nugent might blush at that. For me, the song bottoms out right after the supremely slimy “sexy” sax solo (even the MUSIC of “Tonight’s the Night” is leering) when Rod the Scrod delivers this timeless gem:

 Don’t say a word, my virgin child

 Just let your inhibitions run wild

Ewww. Was this considered seductive in the 1970s? I know rock and roll has always been about sexing up the young ladies, but how can that couplet NOT make your skin crawl? “Don’t say a word, my virgin child” sounds like a line Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs might use on the girl in the pit. It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose.

The secret is about to unfold

Upstairs before the night’s too old

And that secret is … Rod’s rod. So get your butt in the bedroom bitch, because it’s about to unfold.

To cap this mess off, over the sleazed-out harmony guitar riff that closes the song (and God damn you Rod for making harmony guitar riffs suck), we hear a female voice cooing in a foreign language, possibly Española.

SHE’S A VIRGIN WHO DOESN’T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH!

Rod has a skinny fourteen year old Mexican waif trapped in his palatial estate house. She probably thinks she’s there to wash his laundry or cook his dinner. To her horror, this nasty old dude with the fucked-up hair is intent on getting into her drawers. He’s plying her with alcohol and telling her to stay away from the doors and windows and not to speak. The phone doesn’t work either. She doesn’t understand much of what he’s saying, but she’s no idiot. She just came to this country and already Rod is the creepiest guy she has ever met. Her brothers are going to stomp this pendejo when they hear about this shit. Goddamn temp agency. Merry Maids my ass!

Can someone contact the authorities and see if there’s any street urchins on their missing persons list?

Tonight’s the night

It’s gonna be alright

‘cause I love you girl

Aint nobody gonna stop us now

Not even your parents or the cops.

For any die-hard Rodheads or fans of runny 1970s cheese out there, I will concede that “Tonight’s the Night” is catchy, just like herpes. If the rest of you hate me because that horrid song is now stuck in your head, imagine what I had to go through to research and write this article.

In 1975, one year before Rod’s masterpiece, a different tune called “Tonight’s the Night” was released in which Neil Young delivers a riveting, tequila-soaked elegy for two of his buddies who overdosed on heroin. There’s no sex in it, but this “Tonight’s the Night”, howling and bleak, full of ghosts and foreboding, is great art, essential rock and roll and very nearly the polar opposite of Rod’s song.

It was not a #1 single. 

NASA to Melt Down Armstrong Statue to Meet Payroll

NASA to Melt Down Armstrong Statue to Meet Payroll

Washington, DC—The Neil Armstrong statue at Purdue University is being hauled away to be sold as scrap metal in an effort to “keep the lights on” claimed former astronaut and current NASA board member, Sally Ride.

“We tried a lot of other cost cutting measures first, scrapping the shuttle program, scrapping any future projects, and even closing our salad bar,” said Ride. “Hell, we don’t even get glossy pictures back from the Hubble anymore and soon we’re going black and white only.”

NASA’s brochure now reads, “Hey, most of space is black and white anyway, right?”

The Carl Sagan Memorial in Ithaca is also being targeted for some gold trim in the modest obelisk’s surface designs. “We wish there were more Sagan statues,” said Ride. “We’d need a billion of ‘em,” she said before laughing uncontrollably at her own joke.

As for their Rover Program, NASA is also cutting Opportunity loose. “It costs a lot of money to get messages back and forth from Mars every day and, frankly, we’ve used up all of our minutes this month anyway,” said Ride. “Maybe it can find what’s left of its counterpart, Spirit, and finally settle down in a nice crater somewhere. We’re not paying their pensions, though. Screw that shit.”

For the Discord’s really inappropriate rover coverage click here.

Space For Sale

Pierce X. Winslow

Space for Sale,

The Ghetto Shaman column is available for anyone who can send funny material to me in a timely manner. I don’t care what his excuse is this time, I don’t care if he lost his fifth grandmother, again, or his parole officer has more stipulations, or he’s on another Mad Dog vision quest. I am washing my hands of that new age miscreant!

Pierce X. Winslow

P.S. Send me the goods now, Shaman, or you’ll never work in this virtual town again!

My Life in Retail: Part One

The Crank

As I think about my life, my thoughts turn to the whole “Legacy” thing. What do I actually leave with my friends and relatives when Momzilla pulls me kicking and screaming into the next world? Will people even remember me 15 minutes after I’m gone? Probably not, with the exception of Mikko passing a rag over his forehead and saying “whew, thank Darwin that’s over.”

I hereby decide that with a lifetime in various stages of retail, I will pass along an expose’ of what living your entire life in the sale of product to others is like. Cautionary note to parents and the squeamish:

This is not pretty. You may never shop again.

It all starts in the family business. I was six when I realized my upbringing would not have anything in common with Leave it to Beaver. My parents owned a Deli on Long Island. Each birthday, my dad would take me out behind the counter and put a pepperoni on a scale high up on the top of the salad showcase. He would then ask me if I could read it. At six? No. At seven? No. I am still at this stage reduced to getting stung as I separated the unwashed soda bottles for return and refill out behind the store (being ‘green’ circa 1962) and bleaching smelly wooden things inside the fridge units.

For my eighth birthday, I took the obligatory walk out behind the counter, and Dad put the pepperoni up on the scale and says “can you read it?” My answer would prove to haunt me for the rest of my days. You see, I figured that when I could finally read it, I would get some kind of extra-special prize for that birthday. Why else would he be doing this? As I looked up at the scale, I saw that the pointer was right on the mark that read seven ounces. “Seven ounces! Seven ounces!” I screamed. I couldn’t believe it, I could finally read it. Yay!! I then asked Dad, “Well, what’s my prize?” His answer? “You get to serve the next customer” as he retreated to the kitchen.

It was as if I grew up ten years in one day. I spent the rest of my formative years getting picked up at the bus stop after school, brought to the store, and had to do homework and serve customers in the store, as I cleaned and closed up shop. By age ten I got to be ridiculously good at stripping down and cleaning/sharpening/reassembling the slicer machines. My dad would come by to pick me up at closing. By 12, I had learned that a cold beer tasted mighty good after mopping the floor. My fave? Carlsberg Elephant Malt Liquor. By 14 I was driving home. Nothing like a slightly inebriated 14-year old behind the wheel of a ‘68 Rambler wagon we called the Green Glory. This, folks, is where the whole Coke and Twinkies thing started. Fat kid alone in a store filled with food. Thanks Dad. Little did I realize at the time that I would be battling those same demons well into retirement. Speaking of which:

It’s Alive, It’s ALIVE!
It's Alive, It's ALIVE! Twinkie Resurrection 2013
Twinkie Resurrection 2013

This was the late sixties and many teenagers would come in seemingly starving around 7:00 pm during the summer. At first I was rather perplexed, after all, don’t normal people have dinner like an hour ago? I soon found out about the whole ‘munchies’ thing and decided at 13 to exploit it. Mom would cook large roast beefs and put them on the table in the back to cool. I would put them in the walk-in fridge before I closed. When the ‘heads’ would arrive, I got an idea! I moved the beefs from their previous home to a new one on top of the counter up by the front door. The aroma got them every time.

“Wow maaan, what smells so good, maaaan? Oh boy, look at the roast beef. Hey like little chubby dude, we’ll take six Roast Beef heroes (subs to you westerners).” Worked like a charm.

I leaned a lot about life during those days. These were the braless days, ’68 & ’69, lots of swinging boobs behind gauzy blouses. I learned that I liked boobs. I liked boobs a lot. I even got flashed regularly for free sandwiches. That also worked like a charm. In fact, I ended up loving working. No, my life was no TV sitcom, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Now for a little Mick Zano story. When he was but a small child, he and his mom were visiting us at the store. When it came time to leave, he was nowhere in sight. We looked high, we looked low, looked inside and outside. Total panic was setting in when we found the little bastard hiding behind a candy display, watching the whole crazy people running around screaming thing and snickering. Should have known then that he would figure out a way to get paid to watch crazy people.

This would go on till my Dad passed on. He had sold the business a year before as he was ill. We now needed the money, so I decided to forgo college (much to the chagrin of Momzilla) and get a full time job. Where? Why, in a supermarket behind the deli counter, of course. It’s what I did. No, more than that. By then, it was who I was. I needed a job, and we had a relative who was a big shot with a local supermarket chain. He got me in. It was only going to be temporary, after all. I was going back to school as soon as we got back on our feet.

For the next 27 years I worked for supermarkets on Long Island. I could, and really should, write a book on my escapades in ‘Wally-World’ as we later on called it. Every year the memories fade, so I better get started soon. The supermarket business is its own world. It has its own language, mostly obscene. It’s where I got that wonderful little part of my personality from. You know those tapes of John Gotti taken from inside his social club? It’s like that, only instead of talking about killing, they are talking about Prosciutto (pronounced pruhzshoot). Most of the people I have met in the business all felt like they wanted more out of life, but life kind of threw them a curve , and they ended up here. Credence had just come out with their song ‘Lodi’, and we quickly augmented it with the words: ‘Was about a year ago, I set out on my own. Seekin my fame and fortune, lookin for a pot’o’gold. Well things got bad, and things got woise, I guess you know the tune…….Oh Lord, stuck in supermarkets again”.

No one aspired to be a supermarket clerk. No one, that is, except me. I was in a union for 26 years. With raving unmedicated ADHD, it was the perfect job. Do it FAST and do it so it LOOKS LIKE it was done right. Don’t need to finish it, just move on. Perfect. I got so good at it I was asked to do all the new store openings and remodels. I loved that. Three or four weeks in a store to set it up, and NO fucking customers. The day of grand opening, I would come in early to set up, and stand back and watch it all get fucking destroyed by the pillaging hoard. Think Jewish Vikings.

Supermarket customers are inherently pigs. Stupid self-obsessed pigs at that. You all NEED to be there, but there is no way in hell any of you WANT to be there, and you make it known to all the personnel. You walk through the store with your lists, staring at your watches, thinking of everything else you could be doing and then take it out on your drippy little kids and the clerks. Oh, I’m sorry, do I sound bitter? Did I offend you? Tough shit. It’s true, deal with it. I watched it for 27 years. Beeoches

How does one get through 27 years of that? Humor and friendship. I met some wonderful people in my days at Wally world, some that I still communicate with. When I would end up in a store with an asshat boss, I would find a way to torture them endlessly. In a union, if you are careful and smart, you can do just that. Its endless fun, really. You should try it. That was taught to me by the best, a man named John –one of the best managers in the company in his time. He knew they didn’t want to do without him, so he took advantage of that, every day. Case in point: When the supermarkets first found out about the six foot sandwiches that delis were making, they wanted in. The V.P. came to us one day to teach us this new art. Mounds of lettuce, mounds of tomatoes, with the thinnest sliver of a layer of meat and cheese. Prof. Steven Hawkings couldn’t find the meat on this sandwich. When the VP was finished, he told John he was going to lunch, and would he please make up a sign to tell the customers about the availability of the new 6’ sandwiches. He did just that. The sign read:

WELCOME TO HAMSTER HEAVEN- HOME OF THE SIX FOOT LETTUCE AND TOMATO HERO.

The V.P. was not pleased when he came back, but all he did was ask him to remove it. I learned a lot that day. John was like a large beer-loving and funny Yoda. We had one supervisor who, when angered, would start to stutter. John would egg him on till he got a ‘but J-J-J-J-John!’ Then he would say-Gotcha! You see, back then it wasn’t as important to remain p-p-p-politically correct.

Every supermarket had one thing in common. Each one had a bar next door. We all got real familiar with the bars. The Taffrail, The Dry Dock, etc. It lead to many interesting evenings. Sometimes the guys would close the bars, sleep in the cars in the parking lot, and open the next morning like nothing happened. Others would spend the night drinking and come straight to work. Case in point: I remember once where the opening manager was real late. There were maybe 30 of us all standing around, waiting. All of a sudden, we hear a screeching, followed by a crash. We then see, on the road in front of the store, the manager crawl out of his wrecked car, limping and bleeding. He walks to the door with his keys out and opens the door. Again, like nothing happened.

Back in the day, each store would have its very own token bimbos. They were called ‘motor-room girls”. The motor room was a room at the top of the store, where all the refrigeration compressors were. It’s where you took the girls for some afternoon delight, which, back then, was a reference people understood. Each store manager had his ‘girlfriend’, usually a cashier. You would hear them tell the assistants, umm, if you need me-motor room… We saw a fight in the parking lot once where the manager put his ‘girlfriend’ in a shopping cart and sent her careening down a hill. Thankfully no one got hurt…er, until his wife found out.

One time I worked for a guy that spent the entire day in the main office. He liked the price-change girl. He was never around. One day the V.P. called and they announced for Paul to pick up the phone. Before he did, I did. “Hello, this is Paul. I am not able to come to the phone right now, please leave your name and number, and I will get back to you.” I knew that the VP would recognize my voice and, yeah, Paul wasn’t there very long. I was a bastard towards the end. Thank you, John. 

After many years of this, around the time that I got married, I met another person who I would call friend to this day. When I went to her store to make some changes, the supervisor had me doing all the deli counters in the county. But, much like reading The Discord, I was not totally prepared for what I saw. Let’s just say the Good Lord really had his shit together the day he made her. We would end up working together for some eight years, when she was the manager in the store closest to my home. I would periodically go to other stores for various reasons for short stints, only to return to what I called home base.

Karen was good at all things I wasn’t (all managerial stuff), and I was good at making things look pretty, and doing it fast. By now I was considered by most in the company to be ‘unmanageable’. Mr. Winslow believes this has continued with my career here on The Discord. I did my own thing. I marched to my own rather odd drummer. Karen was able to do the impossible. She knew how to get me to do the right thing without me actually knowing it. It was also great fun working there. Once, as we were both filling the salad showcase, it became apparent what protuberances each one of us had. As we would pull our heads out of the showcase, she was always left with salad on her boobs and me with some on my gut. We were a great team.

One day, I was told that representatives of the company owners were going around seeing if they could buy out the union contracts of any of the long-termers (i.e. me). Two ‘suits’ strolled up and told me how much they wanted to give me for going home and never coming back. It was a nice check. The Discord has not managed to meet this number yet, thus my continued submissions.

Anyway, I took the check. During my last week there happened to be a day when we were visited by the new V.P.s. They saw our deli showcase and remarked at how it was the best one they had seen. They asked who set it up and they were directed to me.

I asked them if they liked it.

They said, yes, we do.

I then told them they had better take a fuckin’ picture.

They asked why, and I told them they would never see one like this again as I had just taken the buy-out plan.

It felt great!

On the way out that last day, J.F. the store manager saw me leaving, so I waved and said goodbye. As I went through the doors for the very last time in 27 years as an employee, the store manager went on the P.A and said, “Attention shoppers, Elvis has left the building!”

I spent the rest of that summer on my deck, wondering just what the fuck I was going to do now. I hope I figure that out by Part Two.

End of Part One

Hold your Crank

Indiana Woman Suing Juan Valdez

Indiana Woman Suing Juan Valdez

South Bend, IN—Eda Piersly made some very hot coffee one morning and, due to a combination of a wasp and a train whistle, spilled most of it onto her lap. Burned, angry, and American, she desperately needed someone to blame. Driven by vengeance and menopause, she turned to the Yellow Pages. Eda has yet to master The Google, although she is internet savvy enough to consider The Daily Discord a “liberal rag”.

She explained her situation to a local lawyer, Stephen Smith, and recounted to him her gruesome tale of 2nd degree thigh burns. Mr. Smith, not prepared to go to Washington, explained how her original idea to sue the wasp had no legal precedent, but due to the brand of coffee in question he had an idea. Mrs. Piersly is officially suing the fictional Columbian coffee farmer, Juan Valdez, and later added, “And his little F&^%ing donkey too!”

The National Federation of Coffee Growers in Columbia explained that, Conchita, is actually a mule and offered to settle out of court for one bag of 100% Columbian coffee and one baggie of 100% Columbian cocaine.

Mrs. Piersly responded by raising her pinkie to the side of her mouth and saying, “The letters from my lawyer will continue unless you pay me one bajillion dollars!” Her statement was then followed by some sinister Mwah hah hah-style laughing.

Angered Christie to Fight the Next Sandy with Sand!

Angered Christie to Fight the Next Sandy with Sand!

Longbeach Township, NJ—Governor Chris Christie explained to reporters his idea to build a 127-mile sand bar off the coast of New Jersey to act as a natural barrier to protect his state from the next superstorm. To appease Republicans he’s calling it the Liberty Sand Bar & Grill.

Many residents fear the dune will become a boardwalk. To these critics Christie said, “I have no interest in building anything other than a dune. I don’t want to build a road, I don’t want to build a shower, I don’t want to build a hut.” He then recited the second half of Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham, adlibbing at times with gems like, “I will not build it in a ditch, I will not build it on some bitch. I will not build a dock or tram, I’m not building shit, so F^&%ing scram!”

According to witnesses, the Governor then turned green, picked up the nearest vehicle, and hurled into an adjacent building.

After calming down, he recited part of Churchill’s speech, “We will fight storms on the beaches, and the landing grounds, yada yada.” He then later warned, “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t vote for me when I’m angry.”

Mother Road Brewing and Deschutes Unite!

Mother Road Brewing and Deschutes Unite!

Flagstaff, AZ—Mother Road Brewing made the fatal mistake of informing The Daily Discord about an important event. On February 5th they combined forces with Oregon’s Deschutes Brewery to brew one spectacular Super Brew. It’s kind of like that Wonder Twins thing, but instead of rings they use vats. Wonder Twins activate, form of ethanol! Video preview at the end of the article!

And, yes, we will be releasing the entire video on this momentous day, theoretically soon. For some history, about a year ago there were only four brewpubs in Flagstaff. Mogollon Brewing recently closed, but three more cropped up in its place, which begs the question is slaying a brewery like killing the hydra? You lop off a head only to find more sudsy heads emerging in its place?

Hey, just be thankful I didn’t go with my original Mead-dusa joke. You would have immediately turned to Stone…Brewing.

Zano, anymore puns like that and YOU’RE FIRED!!

Sincerely,

Pierce X. Winslow, CEO

Hey, I’m working here…

Anyway, it all started when the Discord crew attended the local Brew Ha-Ha on January 19th—which is also where we found and hired our new cameraman Greg, who hence forth shall be known as Greg!

Deschutes Brewery
Visual Design Studio
Greg
Alex Bone, Cokie McGrath, Mick Zano and The Pharmacists at Brew Ha-Ha
Alex Bone, Cokie McGrath, Mick Zano and The Pharmacists at Brew Ha-Ha

Yeah, I’ve been working out a little. Actually, that guy in the back tried to photo bomb us, so we showed him…by turning him into me! Take that, brew fest photo bomb dude.

I didn’t cover the Brew Ha-Ha for the Discord this year—not because it wasn’t fun—it’s just I’m getting lazy in my old age. If you want to get the true flavor of Flagstaff’s premier winter beer festival, check out my coverage from last year here.

Oh, but when my agency’s CEO made a surprise appearance this year, for my day job, I was just thankful the gang talked me out of my “great idea”.

“Hey everyone, let’s all run up to him and dump our beers on his head like it’s Gatorade and we’d just won the big game!”

Yeah, my friends…I’m kind of surprised they stopped me.

Meanwhile, at the Brew Ha-Ha we ran into the founder of Mother Road Brewing, Michael Marquess. He is already a bit too familiar with the Discord gang, but despite this fact remained shortsighted enough to tell us about his little Deschutes collaboration thing on the 5th. The idea was for Deschutes personnel to drive from Bend Oregon to Flagstaff Arizona and pair up with Mother Road as part of their initiative to support your local brewery.

Mike started brewing as a hobby in 2000 but now, 13 years later, his shiny new brewery was just recognized by the city of Flagstaff as the Business of the Year—narrowly beating out The Daily Discord, which has over 11 viewers, because our fans go to 11! Mr. Marquess was then presented with the key to the city, which in retrospect the Mayor now regrets as he got the town as far as Sedona before being pulled over by police. It’s sad, really, because no matter how big The Discord gets I can’t see the Mayor handing us anything. That bridge has sailed…or something.

We were able to corner Mike for an interview and here’s how it all went down:

Zano: I have only one question for the founder: why, night after night, do you serve this man (pointing to Alex Bone) when you know what’s going to happen? Isn’t doing the same thing over and over again the definition of insanity?

Marquess: My license states I have to treat and serve everyone fairly, even when he is—shall we say—less than himself.

Bone: (towering over both of us) I’m more than myself!

Zano: I just want to say, your black IPA is phenomenal, your recent Anniversary brew is phenomenal, you are a real up and coming brewery in this little town. Wouldn’t you say your black IPA is your signature beer?

Marquess: Yes.

Zano: Then please tell me how do you brew a black pale ale? That’s an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp or …wait, I have more. I prepared them (Zano reaches into pocket).

Marquess: We can argue all day about Cascadia ale, American black ale, so just call my beer Lost Highway—

Bone: I saw the movie Lost Highway.

Marquess: —keep drinking it, and we can agree to disagree on whether you can call it a pale, or black, or whatever the hell it is.

Zano: I love this man!

Marquess: We like you guys too, but please stop downloading that stuff you’re downloading off our free internet. I keep getting letters from my internet service provider.

(Our answer to this important accusation is best left to our video response. Hint: it involves dolphins.)

Alex Bone then interviewed Casey Carhart of Deschutes Brewery and asked him questions ranging from demonic possessions to zombie apocalypses. Bone isn’t well.

Alex Bone, Mick Zano, and Casey Carhart of Deschutes Brewery
Alex Bone, Mick Zano, and Casey Carhart of Deschutes Brewery

This is another reason I Iove Deschutes. Doesn’t this sound like the perfect event?

Deschutes Brewery

The video captures more of our antics and our ultimate ejection, but we really feel we accomplished some important work that day, or at least that’s what we keep telling ourselves… Our official apology to both breweries is included in the video, coming soon! Check your spam folder. Until then here’s the opening. Enjoy.

Massive Ice Deposits Found in Man’s Freezer

Massive Ice Deposits Found in Man’s Freezer

Manhasset, NY—Late last night, water crystallized in the freezer of one, Jack Stellar.

“It happened almost overnight,” said Stellar, “as if someone didn’t shut the freezer door properly.”

When asked, the 37 year old, live-alone bachelor had no idea who that someone might be.

The next morning the situation became so dire that closing the freezer door became next to impossible.  Stellar described his freezer as resembling an “arctic ice cave.” Mr. Stellar told reporters several food items are now hopelessly entombed in a fortress of frozen water.

“There’s a Ben & Jerry’s in there,” said Stellar.  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to it.  No one is giving me any answers.  Luckily the ice cube trays were already empty, or this could have been much worse.” 

Stellar reports mounting several expeditions into the freezer today, but he only managed to bend several spoons, most irreparably.

When asked if he had learned anything from this mishap, Stellar said, “Yeah, don’t call 911. Even the fate of a perfectly good Cherry Garcia is apparently not deemed an emergency by crisis personnel.”

Matt Drudge and Fox News are already jumping on the incident and calling it yet another blow to the theory of Global Warming.   Al Gore was unavailable for comment.

Brah!!

Tony Ballz

As I walked into the place, I felt like Frodo Baggins far from the Shire. It was a large hall full of people and every man there (as well as some of the women) towered over me. My height is on the short side of average (5’7 when I’m not slouching), but this was ridiculous. I estimated 15% of them to be past 6’2 as well. What the heck? I then realized where I was and relaxed. Of course. These were kind giants, stoned and peaceful. I was at a Karl Denson concert in the Orpheum Theatre, a natural gathering place for the 21st century hippiejock. I was among friends.

The hippiejock (or “brah”, to use the colloquial) is the modern ubermensch, carrier of only the top shelf genes and DNA. The splicing together of two seemingly opposed lifestyles and personalities, the jock and the hippie, and the attempt to focus and amplify the positive traits of each while dampening the negative has worked and I’m proud to number several as close pals.

In contrast to the traditional hippie, the hippiejock is well-scrubbed with neatly trimmed facial hair. They are children of suburbia and have a pretty good grasp on pop culture. If not still in college (the hippiejock’s petri dish) they usually have degrees and well-paying jobs, allowing them to purchase nice new clothes of the outdoor variety and expensive camping/sports gear.

They are physically fit despite the gallons of Fat Tire consumed. They rarely drink PBR and other schwag beer, unless it’s the only thing available. They are able to afford some pretty killer weed and are always willing to smoke you out. They possess very little of the hippiehippie’s natural laziness, with a constant need for physical activity such as hiking, snowboarding, rock climbing, rappelling, softball, jogging, frisbee golf, hacky-sack, mountain biking, skiing, one-on-one, etc.

In comparison to the traditional jock, the hippiejock is way mellower and more in touch with his feelings, allowing for less misplaced what-are-YOU-looking-at pent up anger leading to random bar brawls and spousal abuse. They are politically to the left of the jockjock, with a broader tolerance and understanding of women, gays, and non-Caucasians. They have thankfully little of the jocks’ need to constantly touch other men, outside of the standard brah hug or the occasional shoulder clap. Apparently they have been cured of the repulsive jock habit of parading around the house in their skivvies when loaded (more research may be needed).

Their musical tastes lean far to the hippie side, with barely any of the jocks’ love for heavy metal and Van Hagary “jock rock”, though isolated incidents have been observed. They will have some soul/R&B music, but not enough. And a little too much country. They usually date girls with 90% identical CD collections.

They will participate in spring break and other collegiate functions, but will end up getting laid while you’re covered in vomit and passed out in the surf. They are reliable designated drivers and always make sure the ladies get home safely. They are sometimes involved in weird mind game/athletic prowess competitions with older brothers. By the time you crawl out of bed at noon on your day off, they will have already made coffee, eaten breakfast, showered, visited the library and the post office, gone on a run, and had a beer at Pay-n-Take.

They are comfortable in nearly any social situation and won’t embarrass you in front of new people. They will listen to your drunken blubbering and offer comfort when your girl unexpectedly dumps you. They’ll eventually sleep with her, but not until you’re hooked up with someone else. They will feed you hallucinogenic mushrooms and get you high as a coon-dog on hydroponic bud and then want to go on a 10 mile uphill bike ride. They ALL know how to play “Wish You Were Here” on the acoustic guitar.

Moms love them. Dads too. Your younger siblings will have more fun with them than they ever had with you. Watch your girlfriend, for they are catnip to most women (muscles AND money AND sensitivity? Forget it, Jim). Deep down they are sincerely kind brahs, if a little obsessed with buying stuff. Do not mistake them for hippies, for the jock lieth within. Get them drunk and they’ll soon have each other in wrestling headlocks on the floor while discussing the six Widespread Panic shows they saw last summer.

The first attempt at melding these two disparate cultures was nearly disastrous. In 1987, after a 7-year hibernation between studio albums, the Grateful Dead hit the top ten with the In The Dark LP and the “Touch Of Grey” single and video. Their popularity on college campuses soared, as well as attendance at their live shows.

These were my college years as well. Around this time my friend Paul, an old school Deadhead, took me into his new housemate’s room and said look at this shit: on one wall was a Grateful Dead poster, and on the other a George Bush For President poster. It didn’t make sense, we couldn’t process the absurdity.

By the late ’80s, the Dead had been touring for close to 20 years with a traveling parking lot sideshow of vendors, diehard Deadheads, and assorted weirdos. Most outdoor venues would allow these people to camp out on the premises or in adjacent fields, legally or not. The college kids discovered this peaceful freak scene, declared it party central, and ruined it forever.

Drunken frat-boy mayhem ensued: fistfights, property destruction, and general obnoxious ungroovy behavior. A kid got killed in Florida after a show and Rolling Stone ran a big article. The police, who never once had to patrol these gatherings in 20 years, swooped down and broke them up. Deadhead-friendly places such as Alpine Valley in Wisconsin banned on-site camping. Farmers and land owners began worrying about liability and refused camping requests. The scene died.

The Dead kept plugging away until Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995, but most long-time Deadheads said all the fun was gone from what was left of their scene. But seeds had been planted. Some of these collegiates were enlightened by their experience and became hip to the Dead’s trip. For better or worse, kids were getting on the bus, as they always had. Bands started forming, and strange little pockets of hippiedom were popping up in college towns all over America.

These weren’t Haight-Ashbury street freaks, but the sons and daughters of the well-to-do, on the fast track to a career in marketing or computer programming, until drugs and the lure of this unknown lifestyle permanently derailed it. These kids had never been homeless, never slept without a tent in the freezing cold, never hopped a train, never subsisted on just rice for days, never went without bathing for a week or more, never had head lice or the clap, never been arrested for vagrancy, never been laughed at or beaten up or had a shotgun pointed at them by rednecks, never had a good friend who “just disappeared”, never left home to go on tour with ten bucks in their pocket, never had to take their girlfriend to the free clinic for an abortion, never dropped acid every day for a month, never had to hitchhike or panhandle or go to bed hungry. They were used to having money around.

They absorbed the hippie ethos and transformed it into something new, something their own. The Dead were already old, old, old, and soon they weren’t around anymore. The kids turned to the younger bands: Phish, Blues Traveler, Widespread Panic, etc., and adopted them as the new prophets.

The rest is history.

Brah.