Gooch: The Saga Continues...

Celebrating my ability to date someone half my age. Legally.

Date has been confirmed:

Gooch: The 36th Birthday Party
April 24th - 8pm
Vertigo Bar
Corner of 43rd and Hawthorne (click link for full information).

I would say "more info to follow" or some shit like that. But that's pretty much it.

gooch:out

Mortal Douchebag

Mortal Kombat's latest rendition of Sonya Blade on the left, and who fucking cares on the right.

I spent the better (and by "better," I mean all) part of the evening cleaning my living room, putting up lighting, programming a remote, and reconnecting cat-chewed speaker wires. I found out that my security camera totally fucks with my remote light system, so the camera has got to go. That means when girl scouts or Jehovah's witnesses show up at my door, I might accidentally answer and violate many, many restraining orders. Fuck, this ankle bracelet itches.

A little buzzed. I rewarded my efforts with Taco Bell, vodka, and Mortal Kombat. Yes, I've regressed to the life of John Gallucci: age 20. Fuck, have you seen the new Sonya (from Mortal Kombat vs. DC Universe)? She apparently got implants since MKII. I would eat Army rations off of her stomach.

I'm buzzed. I'm going to sleep. Out.

Gooch in Wonderland

I love ramekins. The little cups in which condiments are served in fancy-ish restaurants captivate me. I made a Twitter/Facebook update that stated simply: "I steal ramekins." Someone who works at a restaurant that uses ramekins protested, because I (and idiots like me) am the reason he runs out of ramekins and had to use the "to-go" ramekins. I can sympathize... I hate the plastic ramekins. They don't look as nice and don't have the weight necessary to stay upright during a vicious dipping session. You could use that last sentence in its entirety as a way to describe dating an anorexic girl.

Ha.

I responded with the following little free-write, which isn't that spectacular, but serves nonetheless as content on this blog.

It's restauranteurs' fault for using opaque to-go containers. That's my #1 tool in ramekin smuggling. Ceramic ones from Claim Jumper, steel ones from Roadhouse. I love the little bastards. If I played D+D... my name would be Ramekin. I want to open a specialty kitchen supply place called "RameKing." "You want a glass ramekin? Sorry, we're out, but John over at Rameking probably has some. They have tons of ramekins there. I don't know where he gets them, but he also sells used opaque to-go containers. He's weird."

Last night, I stole one of those little fuckers from Roadhouse. I totally jacked that shit because I wanted the horseradish sauce. I wanted the au jus as well for my leftover prime rib, but that would just make a mess. I'm such a pussy, too, because I wanted to steal both ramekins, but was afraid that TWO missing ramekins might have raised suspicion. Then what? I get my ass kicked? I should go back tonight for that little sauce-holding bastard. Little wide mouthed shot glasses. Little cereal bowls for anorexics. Fancy liquid medicine cups. So adorable! I just want to put them in my pocket and take them home with me. Which, as you've gathered, I do.

goochout.

To the tune of Lady Ga Ga's "Bad Romance" 
 
Ra Ra RaRaRa
Ra Ra RaRaRa
Ra Ra Ra Ra Ramekin
 
You hold my au jus
You hold my bleu cheese
You hold my ketchup so I don't have to squeeze
A big bottle
 
RaRaRa a bit bottle... [getting too stupid, you get the idea].

The Gooch Locker:

From Star Trek (2009). If she gave me you gonorrhea, would the discharge still be green?

My Crackaz and my Bitchez:

I think "Gallucci-rigged" should be in some sort of dictionary. Webster's, Urban, I don't care. It should just be there to describe succintly the performance of some necessarily unorthodox means to fix a problem. The kind of fix where you look at it and say: "damn, that worked?" Followed by "damn, that worked."

Trying to fight my recent urges to overeat. I ordered a low carb bento from a place today. I mean, they call it "low carb" and then cover it in teriyaki sauce. Whatever. I'm also trying not to drink Diet Pepsi (my fucking life force) or coffee (I want to fucking beat my head into a wall right now) in an effort to decaffeinate myself and make myself a little less high strung. I'm also not hitting the booze for a bit. I'm all about self improvement. Oh, and using condoms.

Knowing me, after a few days of the above described abstinence,  come Wednesday or so I'll be having uprotected sex with a stripper while drinking a spanish coffee and injecting corn syrup into a vein. Because while some people fall off their wagons, I run mine off a fucking cliff.

I loved the most recent Star Trek movie. Totally kicked ass. Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut is coming to my mail box via Netflix tomorrow. Should be pretty dope.


goochout.

It takes a nation of millions to hold me back.

Followers:

What is improv? Is it when people get on stage and are given a situation and asked to act shit out? Someone randomly said last night that I should do it... on stage. I think someone else said something like that last week to me as well. It's more comfortable trying to be funny on the internet, or when I'm drunk and nervous in social situations. Also, improv sounds like it has all of the makings to be unfunny and disastrous. Who knows, maybe I'll try to do something funny in front of the general public. For now, drunk and in an effort to get laid is when I'll most likely bring the funny.

I am a man who tries shit just to try it.

Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of my not having a real job.

I need coffee.

See? There's nothing funny about this post. It's because I'm sober.

goochout.

We have nothing to fear, except Gooch himself.

Sluts:

My friend just found out that his girlfriend is having a boy. They use ultrasound to figure this out. The pregnant mother-to-be, the expecting father, and the doctor watch a screen while moving the ultrasound wand around the pregnant belly. All three eagerly watch the screen like a female cast member of Jersey Shore (and I'm sure at least one of the male cast members): Looking for cock.

My parents used ultrasound to determine my sex. Unfortunately they had to wait until I was eight years old to figure it out. My penis was so small that the doctor held the wand up to my groin and once they found something that resembled a penis, my parents didn't have to dress me in those gender-neutral Ellen Degeneres pant suits any longer.

As spring progresses, I'm starting to date again. It's my season. I like being single, but I also like buying meals and drinks for random chicks in the hopes that they'll have sex with me. The bedroom is refreshed: Mini fridge with refreshing morning after beverages (Plan B pills are being shipped to me from India as I write this), Wall hangings are (unlike me) hung. Any movie that I can get my pirating hands is available on demand to the televisions via a media server. I can bang, rehydrate, and watch a first run movie without leaving the bedroom. This is the world I want to live in.

Did anyone else jerk off to Lindsay Vonn during the Olympic Skiing thing? Holy shit. If I was only allowed to tie her up, stuff her in the trunk of my car, and drive around town... it would be the most sexually satisfying thing I'd ever done. And most romantic.

I've been eating and drinking myself back into morbid obesity. I'm leaving now to go to the gym.

gooch:out.

There's more than one way to kill a boner...

Depression and suicide are nothing to joke about. Having said that, here are some Facebook updates I didn't publish due to poor taste:

"Andrew "Boner" Koenig committed suicide. I wonder how he killed himself. Maybe he doused himself in whiskey. After all, whiskey has killed many of my boners."

And you can fill in the semi-comedic blanks with anything that stifles an erection:

"Andrew "Boner" Koenig committed suicide. I wonder how he killed himself. Maybe he had a girl ask him for a commitment. Commitment, after all,  has killed many of my boners."

Laughs-ahoy!

On my way to an awesome weekend. I'm going to handle a few basic chores and handle a few basic bill payments. A couple parties, a workout, barbecue, booze, and a few naps. These are what keep me, the King of all Mediocrity, happy.

Shalom, bitches.

goochout.