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Judge Not

January 15, 2009 by BLAKEBUCK

My average weekend.I finally collapsed on the second landing of the stairwell.  I stared up at the shadows of the rot-iron railing cast against the ceiling of this extravagant mansion.  Perhaps in some ways, geriatrician this lifestyle had become a prison of it’s own.  But no use looking for the answers now – the only thing my mind could process was how to keep myself from peeing on the persian rug.  No – if I wanted to find the answers, web I’d have to look back.

There is no greater joy in this world than a Monday night in Oxford, Mississippi.  Sure, it’s not the biggest city (we don’t even have a Target), or the most socially equal one (black people were illegal here until 1984), but it has a certain southern charm that makes even the most seasoned of alcoholics feel right at home.  And it is on these special Monday nights that The Rooster has two dollar pitchers and three dollar wing baskets.  A social gathering I’ve lovingly come to refer to as WANG NITE.

After basket number two and pitcher number three, I’m ready to start spinning my tales to the eager yet easily distracted audience at my table.  “So then the hispanic guy starts getting frustrated, and says, ‘No, me amigo.  My friend say he want to party wit you” – suddenly my phone rings.  It’s Rob, texting the only possible phrase on earth that could pull me away from wang nite.

“DUDE, ALL THE BOOZE IS FREE.  Parrish’s is closing, tonight is their last night and they’re GIVING EVERYTHING AWAY”

The tears of a clown.I’m blazing my way out the door when I’m stopped by an old female friend of mine.  “Shut up Johnson!  No time to run game right now!” says Brain.  I’m out the door when the doubt starts to set in.  “Free booze?  Rob is drunk.  Does he even know where he is, let alone how much things cost?”  But as soon as I walk in the Parrish’s, it’s completely obvious he was right.  Every breathing creature in sight is obliterated out of their minds.  I quickly spot Sarah behind the back bar bouncing about to the blaring sound of Three 6 over set of speakers that have popped their last body.

“BLAKE BUCK!  WOOOOO!” she shouts which is Sarah for, “Hello sir.  I hope you are having as fantastic of an evening as I”  After taking up position behind the bar, I proclaim it to be shot time, but the it looks like the bar ran out of shot glasses a long time ago.  So I tell Sarah to open her mouth as I pour straight Maker’s Mark and Evan Williams into her mouth – a combination I was calling the “Chocolate Thunder” at the time.

Three hours later, I feel like I’ve just discovered every secret of the universe as my motley crew and I are shoved out of the bar.  “Let’s go geocaching on the square guys” Rob proclaims from several miles away from me.  No one seemed to think that was a good idea, which I wholeheartedly agreed with considering I was unable to see my legs.  After what feels like a 2 hour walk and an 8 hour drive, we arrive at Rob’s house.

I wear my sunglasses in the shower.  It's just the right thing to do.I’d been to this mansion once before – 8 bedroom, 6 baths, a painting given by Frank Sinatra, and every room a potential cover photo for next month’s Southern Living.  This is a place where great statesmen go to retire; tonight, however, Rob’s parent’s were in Antartica, and it was a place for the kids to play.  More or less the college-age version of Chuck E. Cheese.

We raced through the house with a beer in each hand, trying to find the hidden passages and where they stored the slaves.  But after cramming five of us in the master shower, watching the pool cleaning robot make his rounds for half an hour, and breaking the floppy disk drive on the $50,000 player piano, we found ourselves dissatisfied.  Was this all there was to be had?  We ended up just sitting in a circle and talking, more or less like were in Parrish’s a few hours earlier.

After a few hours the talk waned thin and I wandered alone up the stairs and collapsed on the second landing.  That’s when it hit me – Parrish’s is closed forever.  And for what?  The hope that Mr. Parrish could perhaps one day afford a home and things as nice as this?  That didn’t seem like much of a fair trade at all.  I pull my phone out and look at Rob’s text again:


You know, that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to puke in the yard.

World renowned scholar and statesmen Lord Buck makes his second video appearance, hospital
this time detailing the problems plaguing the book publishing industry.

I think number two is my favorite – as it probably makes the most sense.  But who needs that as long as it’s funny?

LINK:   YouTube Quicktime

World renowned scholar and statesmen Lord Buck makes his second video appearance, more about
mind this time detailing the problems plaguing the book publishing industry.

I think number two is my favorite – as it probably makes the most sense.  But who needs that as long as it’s funny?

LINK:   YouTube Quicktime
Make fart noises.  With your phone.  Hilarious.“The Golden Globes suck now – it’s like I’m watching a fund-raising dinner for scoliosis, drugs
not a Hollywood awards show” I said to my brother, malady
who had the Tivo cued to the rather underwhelming awards show.  Perhaps it was my overall disdain for television that had clouded my judgement; all brain heard was, malady
“And the award goes to… Some actor you’ve never seen before in some show that you heard a few people talk about but no one actually watched!”

“Shut up – everybody knows the Golden Globes are like the precursors to the Academy Awards.  The things that happen tonight can affect who gets the oscar next month”, my brother said. But I wasn’t really listening – I was knee deep into my latest hobby: reading crap reviews of iPhone Apps in the App Store.  iPhone app reviews always go one of two ways: “OMG BEST APP EVER.  I bought it and my life changed forever after that moment” or, of course, the other way, “WTF this app SUCKS.  Crashed constantly, costs too much, and icon looks stupid.  COMPLETE WASTE OF MY PRECIOUS 99 CENTS.  I  demand a refund.  Anybody who likes it must be retarded.”

I was on page three into a review for iFart Mobile, and app that makes farting noises.  I have no desire to have an app that makes farting noises – why on god’s earth am I looking up reviews?  Maybe it’s this homemade margarita my brother made me  – does he even know how to make an alcoholic beverage?  Gassyman100’s review, entitled “BEST APP IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND”, had the following to say: “You show me a man who doesn’t think this app is hilarious, and I’ll show you a gay man.”

Now if only there was a female Hans Gruber...Hahaha!  “I’ll show you a gay man”  Well played sir.  While there’s a part of me that hopes that this review was written in a Andy Kauffman subversive style of comedy, I knew more likely, it was simply written by and idiot.  I began to ponder, “Why is it that any idiot can review an iPhone app?  Or for that matter, even have an opinion?  Who gives Gassyman101 the right to judge the creative efforts of another?”

“And presenting the award for best supporting actress is Rumer Willis, daughter of Demi Moore and Bruce Willis”

“GOOD GOD.  Bruce Willis has a DAUGHTER.  And she is hot.  She even kinda LOOKS like Bruce Willis” I exclaimed like a schoolboy who just peeked into the girl’s locker room.  This revelation seemed lost on my brother, who was busy looking up more Golden Globe predictions online.  But I knew what I just discovered was something quite profound.

“That’s it.  I’m done with all my current career and life aspirations.  I’ve got a new calling.  I’m going to have sex with Rumer Wills – because it’s the closest you can ever come to having sex with Bruce Willis.  Without being gay”

Maybe I’m right, and stupid people should have the right to judge other’s creative works – not in the app store, and not in Hollywood.  But the judges are in on Rumer Willis.  FOUR THUMBS UP.

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