HAVING FAMILY OUTINGS INTERRUPTED BY BIKER GANG VIOLENCE

Last Sunday, the fam and I headed out for our weekly tradition – great food and great times at our local Twin Peaks Restaurant in Waco, Texas. I can’t speak highly enough about this place. It has everything under the sun and even more for when the moon hangs high. For starters, the alpine theme is a total bullseye since we all love the outdoors. But that only scratches the surface. Healthy portions at a great value, tallboy beers for me, strawberry margs for the mrs and a professional waitstaff that ain't too shabby to look at – it all adds up to an outstanding customer experience. And the kids positively love those state-of-the-art flat screens so they can zone out to their favorite show – Tattoo Nightmares Miami on the Spike network.

So there we were, having the time of our lives, knee-deep in the Peaks Sampler. For you greenhorns, that’s a savory assortment of fried pickles, buffalo tenders and mozzarella bites. Food so good your taste buds will get goosebumps. So, the kids are happy as clams, the wife is utterly content and I’m feeling a little tingly below the waist looking at those waitresses because they do that thing with the plaid shirts where they pull the front up through the neck so it creates a kind of makeshift bikini top that absolutely knocks my socks off. If I play my cards right, I bet I can walk out of this oasis with a doggie bag full of Blackened Chicken Quesadillas and perhaps even a phone number or two. You see, my wife and I have an open marriage. And by that I mean I’m open to talking to a few ladies on the side! But I digress. 

So, we’re all smiles and high-fives waiting for Mercedes to bring out our Smokehouse Burgers with the Gruyere Cheese and Slow-Roasted Cipollini Onions when what happens? Two extremely rough individuals spill out of the men’s restroom. A man with an impossibly bushy handlebar mustache has a guy with a flaming cobra tattoo in a headlock and he’s punching him in the face yelling, “I’m gonna fucking eat your soul you cocksucker motherfucker!” That is not the kind of language we allow Tucker and Tanner to use indoors. And we hadn’t even gotten our BBQ Pulled Pork Nachos with the Sriracha Sour Cream yet!

So, another guy with a shaved head and a patch on his leather vest that says “Satan’s Spawn” pulls the handlebar mustache guy off and starts stabbing him with a skewer that I can only assume was used for the Poblano Chicken and Shrimp Kabobs with the Roasted Garlic Lime Butter Sauce. Like, full-on stabbing him. I don’t know if my wife has 100 cc’s of strawberry marg courage coursing through her veins at this point or what, but she gets up and starts yelling at them to "take this shit outside.” I knew it wasn’t a good idea because Satan’s Spawn yelled, “Shut up, bitch!” Now, that’s no way to talk to a lady. I was super-close to saying something, but the guy broke out one of those bats with the spikes on it. All I had was the cast iron skillet from my Red Curry Skirt Steak Fajitas, but I’d only taken a couple bites and it’s one of my top 5 favorite dishes at the Peak.

So, Spawn starts clubbing this guy right on the face, chest and shoulders. The whole thing was so stressful it was making me a bit parched, but this didn’t seem like the best time to ask for a refill. Anyway, a cook from the back comes rushing in with a meat cleaver which he probably uses to chop up the Green Chile Pot Roast with Jalapeño Cream Gravy. He yells, “Blood for blood!” and starts hacking away at the guy’s leg until it resembles the Bread Pudding with Cinnamon Bourbon Sauce.

Before we knew it, the manager rips off his name tag, yells “This is our turf, bitches!” and starts spraying the place with an AK-47. Everybody scatters as the battle spills into the parking lot.

This is when my instincts take over. Without hesitation, I jump on top of Mercedes. I simply couldn’t live with myself if that precious angel got hit by a stray bullet. She made it out alive. But I’m no hero. I’m just a guy who’s more than a little annoyed by the entire situation.

ROBERT DURST

It’s been a while since The Jinx finale aired and I, for one, still have a blazing case of the heebie-jeebies. It was some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen on television, and this is coming from a guy who watched every episode of Temptation Island. Perhaps a quick exploration of some key learnings from the show might help quiet the voices.

Don’t agree to do a documentary if you’ve killed three people.

This is page two of The Psychopath’s Handbook, right after “wear gloves.” Documentaries have gotten really adept at getting to the bottom of stuff. I mean, have you seen Super Size Me? If you eat Mickey D’s for a month straight, you’ll uhhh…get mild liver damage, okay bad example. Listen, if you’re a racist owner of big-market basketball team, don’t have a black girlfriend with above average audio recording skills. If you’re a psycho killer, don’t invite a film crew in to hear your story. It’s bottom line stuff, people.

Don’t steal a hoagie when you’re on the lam.

Sure, you’re feeling invincible because you’ve pulled off the unthinkable, but this is no time for petty crimes. Looking for a quick thrill? Drink expired milk or do that Mentos/Coke thing.

Don’t shave your eyebrows when you’re trying to steal a hoagie.

I like where his head was at with the drawing attention away from the fact that you’re putting a hoagie in your pocket, but it’s a flawed strategy. Remember the three rules of hoagie-stealing my father instilled in me: blend in, blend in and blend in. I guess I just had a better father than Seymour Durst.

Have a better father than Seymour Durst.

‘Nough said.

Don’t eat grocery store hoagies.

What are you, an animal? Eat Fresh or hit up a Jimmy Johns. I recommend a #3 with extra cucumbers.

When scoping your brother for a possible 1-8-7, don’t go in all willy-nilly.

The dude owns half of Manhattan; you think he isn’t going to have a few surveillance cameras? What did you think was going to happen? You’d just shuffle up the stoop, see him through the window snorting caviar, open the unlocked door and just do that voodoo that you do? Is that backpack even big enough to carry a bow saw? Think it through, guy. And please don’t tell me that’s your kill suit - a short-sleeve button-up tucked into jean shorts, white tubers and some Skechers? You might as well be sporting a front-facing fanny pack. Now this is a kill suit:

When you’re a psycho, binge-watch Dexter.

But skip the finale. That was just ridiculous and not-at-all informative for your endeavors.

Never trust a dude who constantly refers to himself by his last name.

“Hey, Bob, Jarecki here” should’ve translated to “Hey Bob, I’m going to win an Emmy exposing you for the die-hard whack job that you really are.”

Keep a lid on it until the lavalier mic has been properly removed by a professional.

I’m calling this The Biden Rule.

Don’t start burping uncontrollably when you’ve been caught red-handed.

I don’t play much poker, but I believe this would be referred to as a “tell.” I actually thought he was going to turn into a frog and try to hop away. Instead of burping, just say “classic frame job” over and over again until they move on.

Don’t kill three people.

Probably the most important takeaway of entire show. One, you’re an amateur. Three, you’re a sociopath. Two is the perfect amount of people to kill. Holy crap, you’ve turned me into a monster, Bobby Durst. 

LOSING MYSELF TO DANCE

Sometimes when I’m at Club Shimsham and I’m making a twerk or doing a sick move of dance I get so immersed in my own drumbeat that I forget who I really am. Am I still that innocent, great, lovable, handsome, hilarious, chiseled guy from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the heart of Denver or am I a sad, lonely drifter from Topeka destined to work in the sporting goods section of Walmart because I once scored a touchdown in JV football so many years ago? I don’t even know. What I do know is I can feel the rhythm of the beat from my head to my feet. Sure, I’m well aware that my next-level moves are 100% grade-A infectious and inspiring to those around me, but when I do a deeper dive, I’m wondering if I’m still that lovable, black cruise ship bartender with a million dollar smile and a ten million dollar mustache. Is he lost forever? Is he still in there? Sure hope so. But for now, I guess I’ll just keep on dancing because it feels hella good.

DUDES READING IN BARS

When I fulfill my destiny as the benevolent dictator I was born to be, one of my first action items will be to make it punishable by death for dudes to read in bars. Let me amend that: dudes reading literature in bars. If a guy is posted up, sipping a whiskey or macro tallboy and destroying a Lee Child, all cool. Magazines and newspapers are fine. Pamphlets are allowed although not recommended because that’s likely personal business that don’t nobody else need to know about. And the ladies can read whatever they want. There’s something hot and mysterious and French about a young lady at a bar solo reading Love in the Time of Cholera. And children can obviously read whatever they want although they should not be at bars by themselves. And certain dudes who can pull it off can read literature from a pre-approved list I will provide once I take office. And punishable by death is a little strong. Punishable by atomic wedgie. Basically, I once saw a guy at a bar wearing a flat cap and reading Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and I wanted to give him an atomic wedgie.

PUBLIC SOCIAL NETWORKING DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION

Love is a many splendored feeling, but not on facebook. When someone writes mushy junk on their significant other’s wall it makes me want to take off all my clothes and jump into a hot pit of lava. When you do this, you’re not really telling your honey boo boo that she’s the world’s biggest snugglebum, you’re telling the world that you’re the world’s biggest dingleberry. Let’s keep the pillow talk for places with pillows. And maybe the occasional “you smell like a wet puppy” as you hold the door for them. They love that shit.

DUDE ON DUDE LOL ACTION

DUDE1: Hey dude, what’s up?

DUDE2: Just chillin’ LOL

DUDE1: Why are you LOL’ing?

DUDE2: Ha, what’s good with you?

DUDE1: You know, this and that.

DUDE2: LOL

DUDE1: That wasn’t really a joke. Just kind of a throwaway statement.

DUDE2: LMAO

DUDE1: Like, you don’t have any more ass left?

DUDE2: LMFAO!!!

DUDE1: So, do you have that $20 you owe me?

DUDE2: No. Hey, I gotta go.

DUDE1: I need that money.

DUDE2: TTYL

COMPLAINING ABOUT PAPARAZZI

If you ever find yourself in a position to complain about paparazzi, do us all a favor and shut it down. If people are constantly hounding you for a picture it means you have a crap-ton of money. And I’m not saying money can buy happiness, but that’s exactly what I’m saying. If you have money you can buy yourself a water slide right off your bed so you can just roll over, slide down a rad slide and be catapulted into your own private grotto with a breakfast bar and mermaids who swim around and sing magical songs. Or, ya know, whatever you’re into. So if I had to pick between that awesome scenario and nobody ever wanting to take my picture, I’d go for the morning grotto every time.