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Surrounded by ICE in August

It was a warm summer’s night, July 31st, 2010, in the middle of Richmond, VA as the gang finally finished lugging all of the fine high quality furniture of Donnie Schemetti out of his previous residence on W. Clay St. to his new home in the illustrious museum district when out of the deep darkness of the night crept in a chill…


ICED: F150
sweet taste of illegality

Like a shit storm sweeping across the eastern shore Smirnoff ICE’s were raining down from the heavens and slapping individuals in the face with a sweet cruelty only a woman who was built like a house with a face like a monster could provide.

Walking up the stairs? ICE! Going to the bathroom huh? What?! The toilet won’t flush? Handyman extraordinaire wants to open the tank and fix it?! ICE! Just put down your hat for a second and suddenly realize how lonely your scalp really is? ICE! Freestylin’ about lookin at the wall, and how the bigger they are the harder they… ICE! Start laughin at a comrade who just got ICED! Well then here’s to you! ICE! Sitting in a chair? ICE! Getting a beer?! ICE! Checkin your twitter?! ICE! Writing Haiku’s…? ICE!

Smirnoff should honestly be paying us for spreading a marketing campaign not even Don Draper could have come up with in a WoodrowWilsonKatillion years. But, unfortunately the only price that’s being paid is by our dissatisfaction of the taste of what Smirnoff consider’s to be the epitome of a milky, merky, sugar concoction they think is malt liquor. Barry Burnett, pictured above, was quoted saying “This muh fucka’s got me scared to even leave my room.” Thanks Smirnoff for helping me learn to live in a constant state of paranoid awareness.


DC for July 4th…


… ended in a Mexican bar. How patriotic is that?! After schlepping down the Columbia Pike because DCPD decided our bus needed to unload its 40 some odd passengers and walk the 2 miles to the Pentagon for firework viewings we were desperate for a raging good time. We arrive back at the homebase and order a couple of cabbies only to have them never arrive.

Let it be said, I truly thought the night was destined for failure. I’m optimistic but there is only so much that can be done with no alcohol and no transportation. But… we took a gamble and went to a bakery. Yes, you read correctly… bakery at 12am. The aroma of scones and pastries was not what allured our army of adolescent adults. It was the fact that it was the only bar within walking distance. And low and behold it was packed with 20 to 30 Mexican Americans. Let me be more specific… 20 to 30 Mexican American Men. The only females I sight we either with us or tending the bar dispensing tequila.

But… would that deter us from celebrating the nation’s independence? No. Hell no. We raged. Hard. Tequila, Modelo, mystery draft beers and the Gypsy King’s cover of “Hotel California” blasting through the BOSE© speakers. The bartender attempted to close shop… but like Superman coming to the rescue the owner arrives and saves the day by keeping the bar open and giving out free beers. Incredible.

I’ve never seen a gaggle of men swarm the four females that were with us in my life. I was impressed. Especially with the tan Michael Jackson look alike who attempted to re-inact the Thriller dance routine. Happy birthday America!! I love being a turtle!