Not so Silly String

While tweeting today about a new topic for a blog, The Democrat suggested I blog about the fact that silly string is illegal in L.A. Well after calling bullshit, throwing the appropriate bullshit flags, and filing the proper forms in triplicate, I Wikipedia’d that shit to find out that it is indeed TRUE and that SILLY STRING is illegal in L.A. Here’s the scoop:

Silly String is indeed banned in L.A on Halloween night. The following is a blurb that I pulled off of the Wikipedia page:

"In 2004 the Los Angeles Mayor James Hahn signed a council-backed ordinance (LAMC Section 56.02) to ban Silly String in Hollywood on Halloween night. The ordinance calls for a maximum $1000 fine and/or six months in jail for use, possession, sale or distribution of Silly String in Hollywood from 12:01 a.m. on October 31 to 12:00 p.m. on November 1. The law passed in 2004 and as of 2009 is still in effect."

After reading this garbage, I decided to do some comparison shopping on criminals in L.A. Let’s say I get pulled over at 10:30 P.M on October 31^st. I’ve been driving responsibly, I only had one beer at the bar, and I am wearing my seatbelt. The driver approaches and I give him my license, registration, proof of insurance, etc… The following is a made up encounter by yours truly.

Officer Dickweed: Do you know why I pulled you over, son?

Mung Socks: Well, no Officer, have I done something wrong?

O.D: I saw you roll through that stop sign back there. Have you been silly stringing at all tonight?

M.S: No Officer, I was just coming home from visiting some friends.

(Officer Dickweed shines his light in the backseat and sees 2 cases of Silly String in my back seat)

O.D(in his radio): Uh, yeah, I’m gonna need some back-up. Looks like we have a serial stringer here.

(To me): Sir, I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle, SLOWLY, and put your hands on your head.

To make a long story short, I could essentially be arrested for having cans of silly string in my car. And I know your thinking, but Mung Socks, that’s the law, you have to follow it. Therefore, I decided to compare some famous prison sentences with that of my own.

Name	Offense	Sentence	Quote
Mung Socks	Driving while in possession of Silly String with intent to distribute.	6 Months in Jail. 1,000 dollar fine for each of the 48 cans.	“But Officer, I was just trying to organize a birthday party for my 2 year old”
Paris Hilton	Pulled over TWICE for driving with a suspended license. License suspended due to alcohol-related reckless driving.	23 Days in lockup.	“I’ve been through a lot, and it was a pretty traumatic experience, something that I really have grown from.”
Nicole Richie	TWO DUI’s and admitted drug use.	4 days in jail and a $2,048 fine. Released after 82 minutes due to “overcrowding.”	"It's time to take responsibility and not take the easy way out."
Lindsay Lohan	TWO DUI’s, Cocaine possession and driving with a suspended license.	Wait for it….. 84 fucking minutes!!!	I’ll wear this bracelet to prove I’m not drinking. Ooops…..
Dante Stallworth	DUI and Second Degree Manslaughter. He KILLED a guy.	30 days in jail(24 served), plus 1,000 hours of community service, 2 years of house arrest, and 8 years probation. He has also received a life-time suspension of his driver's license.	I drank, at maximum, 4 shots of premium tequila.

Let’s recap. That’s 7 DUI’s, 3 driving with a suspended license, one felony drug possession, and someone KILLING A GUY, and a grand total of 47 days and 166 minutes of jail time. In comparison, I could potentially spend 6 months in jail for a fucking can of SILLY STRING?

Wow. Thanks for the laughs, stupid Democrats.

Fluffy Bunny

The Story of Fluffy Bunny

As has been requested by a few people, and mainly because I think it is funny, I am going to detail how Fluffy and myself both got our nicknames in Technical School for the USAF. Fluffy used to refer to me by my full name. Everywhere we went, and everything he asked me, it was my full name that he would use. Eventually, I got tired of it, so I told him to stop referring to me by my full name. He responds with, “Ok, fine, I’m going to call you the furthest thing from your real name.” At this point, he claims to have seen a chocolate Easter Bunny in the room and tells me that he is going to call me Easter Bunny from now on. For about a month, he calls me Easter Bunny, which then leads to Bunny, and now B.

We were having a discussion with our class about the jobs in the porno industry. The conversation eventually got around to the “fluffer” position. Being that our class was filled with 10 other guys and one cunt (we’ll call her Skank Whore), the juvenile humor was running rampant. The guys in our class decided that if Fluffy were indeed Fluffy, and I was Bunny, whenever we were together, we would be Fluffy Bunny.

And so the names were handed out. And Fluffy, if you have a problem with it, remember, you’re the one who named me Easter Bunny.

The bar, the diner and The Democrat

This one is for you, The Democrat.

So, about a week after the infamous Philly Taco Bonanza of 2009, I am planning on leaving Philly on Sun morning, and The Democrat invites me to hang out before I leave. I set it up so that I have a hotel room in Philly which makes my commute to the airport on Sun morning so much easier, and we decide that after dropping off someone at the airport, I will pick her up, check in to my room, and then we will go out after that.

I drop off another employee at the airport and drive straight to Pat’s King Of Steaks. Now I have only had Pat’s cheesesteaks two times before, and both times I stood in line for less than 5 minutes. Assuming that would be the case, I find a liquor store parking lot about 2 blocks away and park my car there. I am driving a small house known as a Ford Expedition, so I decide that it is best if I don’t attempt to parallel park this behemoth, and instead walk into the liquor store and purchase a small bottle of Jager, figuring that I will want to pregame later anyway. As I’m leaving, I notice the sign says 30 minute parking. I think to myself that it should be fine since I’m only walking 2 blocks and plan to eat in the car anyway.

I arrive at Pat’s to see the line wrapped completely around the building. Undeterred, I walk to the rear of the line and begin the wait. It is around this point that I notice I have metal shavings all over my body, dirt all over my shirt and hands, and generally smell like 7 flavors of ass left in a dumpster outside a 7-11. I start to think that maybe I should have cleaned up a little bit, and then realize, fuck it, if these people don’t like it, they can leave, because I am not leaving until I have a “whiz with” in my hand.

Not having talked to Fluffy in a few hours, I send him a message that says the line is wrapped around the building. He promptly replies with, and I’m paraphrasing, “Oh, poor fucking baby. Fuck your life. Leave me alone or I’ll kill you.” So Fluffy and I have a little tussle over text messaging, which is probably the queerest way to fight, but whatever, it worked. Right about the time we have made up, and rekindled our bro-mance, these fat people in line behind me start talking about the dumbest shit I have ever heard in my entire life. I generally make it a habit of eavesdropping on everyone around me because you never know when they might start talking about killing the guy in front of them to advance the line, and frankly, I don’t want to be caught off guard.

So I’m sitting there listening to this stupid crap that is spewing forth from this bitch’s mouth, and then she drops a line that makes me want to fall to the ground laughing and openly acknowledge that I heard everything she said. Let me paint you a picture before I divulge what she said. Imagine Rosie O’Donnell, but about 3 inches shorter, and she has an inner tube wrapped around her waist. Now imagine that inner tube is actually just a fat factory that has lapped over not only her belt line, but I’m pretty sure her vag and quite possibly her kneecaps. To sum it up, she is fat as shit, and is clearly on the see-food diet (If I see it, I eat it). She tells her husband (who is not exactly a winner himself and kinda looks like a mix between Chewbacca and Homer Simpson) that he can’t tell anyone she had this today, because she has been so good on her diet, and has lost 7 pounds. But that’s not even the end of it! She then recounts what she has eaten that day, and it makes Michael Phelps look like a damn Ethiopian. I wish I could remember everything she had, because it would feed most small countries for at least a week or two.

I start Tweeting and Facebook posting on my Blackberry about how annoying this bitch is and wishing that she would shut the fuck up. I then decide to look up Pat’s on the internet. I then find an article about Barack Obama eating a Pat’s steak. I’m livid now because it just ruined my whole outlook on life. So I do what every sensible person would do, I start bashing on The Democrat. Of course, she pulls out the trump card and informs me(even though I just found out on my own) that Pat’s is a Democratic leaning establishment. The mixture of this and the fat people behind me combines into a cacophony of anger and rage that makes me start seeing red and wishing that I could be certain the fat chick wouldn’t eat me if I told her to shut up. Then, about 2 minutes later, this old guy drives by a car, and the fat fuck behind me comes up with this glorious line, “Wow, he must be 150.” Now, just the ignorance of this pisses me off, but the next line made me want to scream out to the God’s of cheesesteaks to please strike down these unworthy ass holes that are ruining my Pat’s experience. Fat fuck turns to his blueberry looking wife and says, “I bet he was 21 when he started waiting in line.” Thank God for my cell phone and the ability to completely bash these people to my friends, otherwise I would have inevitably started bashing them to the people in front of me which would have led to a confrontation in the Pat’s line and all I wanted was a FUCKING CHEESESTEAK!

Finally I get up towards the front, and the fat people behind me are reading the sign that tells you how to order. Which is fine. Frankly, it helps the process along, so I am ok with that. I literally follow along as the read the entire thing (in my head, not out loud) because there is nothing else to do. When it’s my turn, I step up and order my steaks, and get them off to the side. I am wrapping them both up for the walk to the car, and I hear the fatties try to order fries at the window, even though they read, OUT LOUD, the part of the sign that says fries and drinks are at the SECOND window. I chuckle to myself as I walk off realizing that I have just been graced by the presence of the two stupidest people on this planet.

So I get back to the liquor store and hop back in to the bling bling that is my rental, and begin to back out. At this point someone comes out of the store and asks if I was a customer. I tell them that yes, I was, and show them the bag. The guy then tells me that there is a 30 minute limit, and that I might have exceeded it. I am dirty as shit, exhausted, stinky, and all I want to do is indulge in my Pat’s steak and get drunk so I tell him that I don’t fucking care, and tear out of the parking lot.

I then head to West Chester to pick up The Democrat. After I pick her up, we head back to Philly, making a quick detour to a Wawa. I am prepared to purchase just a tea and 2 Red Bull’s when I see a coupon for buy one get one free Dr. Peppers. I grab two and as I approach the counter with my arms full of beverages, I tell The Democrat that it is Wawa-conomics, and that I can’t pass up this deal.

After purchasing our drinks, we head back to Philly and check in to my hotel room. We stand there waiting for the elevator, and when it arrives, we are greeted with a scene straight out of a silent movie. At least 20 douche bags pour out of this elevator trying to act cool. I happen to have been lucky enough to have watched “The Naked Man” episode of “How I Met Your Mother” so I knew that these homos were members of the “Wooo” group. Whenever a group of douche baggy guys or girls get together and have nothing to look forward to in life, they shout “Wooo” about everything. We get on the elevator and as the doors are closing, The Democrat asks me to please make sure we go nowhere near those “douchy guys” tonight.

So after I shower and we watch some baseball, we head downstairs to meet Turtle. He is a friend of The Democrat and Fluffy, so I figure he should be a good time. We start to head to this bar, and along the way, I see some chick in orange sitting in a window as I walk past. It feels like a scene straight out of Amsterdam, so I do a double take and keep walking. Apparently Turtle didn’t see it, so I take him back to show him and The Democrat tells us its not nice to stare. I think I told her to “shut your mouth, woman. If she didn’t want to be looked at, she wouldn’t be sitting in a window like some cheap call girl in Amsterdam.” It might not have been exactly that, but you get the drift.

We get to the bar, and watch as the Phillies win in the bottom of the 9^th. Pretty exciting stuff, so everyone’s happy. After the game, the news comes on. It starts with a news story about a swim club that made some racially charged remarks. The Democrat tells Turtle that it is all blown out of proportion and for once, I am actually playing the other side of the card as I debate her on it. What was said is not important, however the highlight of the conversation was when the drunk, homeless looking vagrant starts muttering something about “niggers.” I was almost unable to keep my beer down as this douche bag starts mumbling more unintelligent bullshit about the Pirates(who were playing the Phillies) and arguing with the bartender about whether she charged him or not.

Turtle leaves the bar, and shortly afterwards, we do too. At some point it starts raining and The Democrat and I both have to urinate profusely. I tell The Democrat that if she doesn’t find me a bathroom I am going to drop kick her tits across the street. Finally, we arrive at a Ruby Tuesdays which happens to be still open. We sit down and order drinks and The Democrat gets up to use the bathroom and when she returns I go. We sit there for about 5 minutes while the bartender cleans up her shit. The Democrat and I realize that I already paid for drinks, and our mouths are dry. What the fuck is going on here? We ask the bartender where our liquor is and she replies with, “Ooops”. Ooops? Ooops? Make me my drink and be quick about it. About this time, we notice that it is POURING outside. Like torrential downpour. Finally our drinks get delivered, and The Democrats is in a weird glass, and after pointing this out to her, she informs me, laughing, that it is a carafe. Well la di fucking da. I inform her that I am a Republican and a war veteran and therefore do not need to know simple details about wine.

We finish our drinks and head out into the rain, which soaks us completely through in about 2 minutes. We walk to the hotel and then The Democrat gets this awesome idea that we should go to this diner she’s been to once before. Luckily for her, she finds it on the first try because if she didn’t, I probably would have punched her in the kidney. We sit down and look at the menu, and the waitress who I fittingly nicknamed, “Bertha” arrives to take our order. I jokingly ask her if they have alcohol and am pleasantly surprised to find out that yes, the do indeed have beer. I order food and beer and The Democrat orders food and liquor drinks. Then we realize that there is a jukebox at our table. I immediately get 5 dollars in quarters and start feeding them into the machine. We select a few songs and then choose the entire “Trapped in the Closet” album. Our songs start playing mixed with some queer shit selected by the other people. After I go to the bathroom, I come back and inform The Democrat that the jukebox is playing at every table, and if the entire “Trapped in the Closet” album plays, we might get shot. Convinced that we are facing an imminent threat to our well being, we eat our food and book it out of the diner.

After walking back to the room, The Democrat changes into some dry clothes and I pull out the couch bed only to find that there are no fucking blankets for it anywhere in the entire room. So I do the next best thing and steal one of the sheets off the big bed, wrap it around me Superman style and dive onto the bed, passing out in the process.

Some memorable things that happened that night that didn’t fit anywhere else:

The Democrat hugged a window at Macy’s and expressed her undying love to a faceless mannequin in the window.

A bachelorette party at Ruby Tuesdays involved the bride to be puking on the table, and some dumb blonde falling between the booth and the window.

Some dude totally wiped out in the rain while trying to run.

Some chick wrapped her hair inside a Wal-Mart style bag.

The Democrat and I called Fluffy about 15 times trying to get him to talk to us. He was severly pissed and threaten to rip out my trachea if I didn’t leave him the fuck alone.

The Philly Taco

The sole purpose of this blog is to exhibit my massive coolness and that of some native Philadelphians. Read on and enjoy, and if you don't enjoy it, then fuck you, you must be a Democrat.

I recently traveled to Philadelphia, where I indulged in a delicacy that we will refer to as the SSC(South Street Challenge) or the Philly Taco. Frankly, it can be referred to as both, but the only real title it should have is ooey fucking goodness, exploding with flavor that will inevitably put you in a food coma the like of which you have never seen before.

Now I have fallen in love a few times. I am married, I have a kid, and I have another on the way. But never have I fallen so hard over food. I entered into Lorenzo's fully aware of what challenge lay ahead of me, but I was soon to find out that I had no idea how vigorous an assault my taste buds were about to experience. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start back at the beginning.

A week before I was due to arrive, I contacted a friend, "Fluffy". I informed him that I would be in his hometown of Philly, and that he should try to be there as well. Fluffy decided he was going to be there as well. Sometime after we both made travel plans, Fluffy's friend, "The Democrat" decided to introduce us to the SSC. She described it as a Jim's Cheesesteak wrapped inside a Lorenzo's pizza slice. Never one to back down from a challenge, I believe my response was, "Fuck it, I'll try anything once." Fluffy quickly agreed to the challenge as well, and the date was set. Sunday, July 5th, we were going to complete the SSC. I did a little research in advance and was saddened to only find one article concerning this feat. Undeterred, I began to tell everyone within earshot of the challenge I was about to attempt.

I flew into Philly on Sun, and while waiting for my rental car, I received 3 or 4 phone calls from Fluffy, who was screaming at The Democrat because he couldn't find parking and because she took the long route to Jim's. Already realizing that the only way this night was going to end was with alcohol, and memorable pictures, I saddled in and began mentally preparing myself for the event that lay ahead.

I arrived at Jim's 30 minutes later to find that "Captain Iran" and "Yellow Shirt Guy"(I know your real name, but I don't have a cool nickname for you, sorry) were already inside of Jim's acquiring the first half of our feast. Fluffy, who is half cocked on wine already, decides to call Captain Iran multiple times, and scream into the phone, and then question the people in the line as to why they are staring at him like a maniac when all he is doing is yelling profanities into the phone at the top of his lungs.

After Captain Iran and Yellow Shirt Guy finish the purchase of Jim's Whiz With's, we make the trek to Lorenzo's to find a line that wraps out to the door. Fluffy is pissed and begins swearing and busting ass on The Democrat. After 20 minutes of waiting in line, we reach the front and order the pizza slices. We immediately head to a room in the back of the pizza shop and begin to prepare for our feat much like a professional athlete prepares for the Super Bowl or the World Series. Imagine the scene, 4 guys are stretching out their abdomen's, giving each other chest pumps, and in general, making a shit ton of noise while everyone in line stares at them as if they were capuchins in a cage at the Philly Zoo.

We each open the box of pizza, and I decide to set the tone by slapping my cheesesteak right in the middle of my pizza and making it into a taco. Fluffy suggests that maybe we should wrap it like a burrito, to which I immediately call him a dumb ass, French loving Democrat and tell him to make it into a Taco like every other red-blooded Republican would do. After bending to my will, Fluffy, Captain Iran and I all begin our feat. Yellow Shirt Guy never began the challenge appropriately and threw out half anyway, so we ridiculed him while stuffing our faces with our own meals.

The very first bite I took was like bouncing on clouds while naked strippers shoved their silicone filled titties in my face for free. I was in food heaven. Never before have I placed such delicious, flavor filled goodness in my mouth. I immediately began screaming at The Democrat to take more pictures, and began shouting about how amazing it tasted.

About halfway through the feast, I began to feel the first pangs of fullness. I took a swig of coke and told myself not to be a pussy and to continue to shove more food into my face. After about two more bites, I began to fear that I might not be able to finish this monumentous event. I promptly set down the Philly Taco, and began doing stretches. How these stretches were supposed to help me shove more food in my stomach, I do not know. All I know is that this Philly Taco was my Mt. Everest, and if I died trying, I was going to summit this bitch.

Captain Iran finished the feat first and began to emasculate Fluffy and myself for taking so long. Fluffy finished second and with gallantry that hasn't been seen outside of combat since the days of knights and dragons, I shoved the last two bites of crust into my mouth and proceeded to chew the shit out of it ensuring that it all went down. At this point we all realized that not only were we fat as shit, but people in line were actually afraid of us. As if at any point, our profanity laden mouths might stop spewing profanity and begin emptying the contents of our latest meal all over the store.

We then cleaned up our mess, which included probably 100 scrunched up napkins all over the counters. We walked out to the cars and realized that we have lost Captain Iran in the confusion. Fluffy and I accompany The Democrat to her car, and after watching her drive away, set off to find Captain Iran. After meeting up with Captain Iran, we find my car, and begin to head to The Democrat's house. Along the way, Captain Iran asks if I could please make the car stop doing "bumpies." We are all drunk off of food and can feel the momentous pressure of our gigantic feast pushing on our bowels.

We arrive at The Democrat's house, and we all ask where the bathroom is. I immediately push myself to the head of the group, and as Fluffy yells at me, I tear ass upstairs flipping him off while running into the bathroom and locking the door. I sit down and begin to unleash a torrent on the toilet. I am interrupted twice by Fluffy screaming at me to hurry up. Fearing that he might break down the door and sit on my lap, I quickly finish my business and light a match. I walk out of the bathroom, and stealing a line from Tucker Max, I inform them that, "I just put that toilet in therapy." The smell begins to linger downstairs and The Democrat, Captain Iran, and Fluffy begin yelling unintelligible statements at me and asking how I could do such a thing.

The rest of the evening consists of Fluffy, Captain Iran and I discussing our bowel movements with The Democrat's grandmother, and asking every chick for the rest of the night to show us her tits because we completed the South Street Challenge. Yes, we are horses, and yes, we know it.