You listen to me, you ****ers.

[World B ThAreee]

Holy sheet. I totally forgot about this gem. Awesome.

 

[Ohio]

I'll do a Red Stripe butt chuggie Sunday night if they pull this off.

Well???

 

[MirORich]

 

[World B ThAreee]

Well???

So yeah, that’s quite a story. Sort of made winning the NBA Championship a footnote that night! Apologies in advance for the book-long post.

Here goes… Cavs win game 7, and a promise is a promise, right? Red Stripe butt chuggie it is.

So I’m a mid-40s dude in average physical shape who, up to this point, had never tried an actual “butt chuggie”. In fact, I’d never heard the term or concept until a few weeks prior when my buddy told me it was all the rage with the cool kids these days. I just thought the phrase was funny to say. Butt chuggie. You probably just said it in your head. It’s just great. I think it’s the cadence—monosyllabic + trochee (2 syllables with stress on the first syllable) with obstruent syllables, but maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol before or during the game. Way too nervous for that. During the game I was probably not my best self. My wife had invited her mother to stay with us that week (great timing), so my outbursts and general behavior during the game had a pretty judgmental audience. Most of the game was a blur, but I do remember after LeBron’s chase-down block on Iguodala I stood on the couch and screamed something like “YEEEEEEAH SKULL FUCK YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY TREE, ANDRE, YOU SHIT LICKER!!!” (as an aside, I notice “shit licker” is another monosyllabic + trochee cadence with obstruent syllables. Cool!). After my outburst my mother-in-law issued one of her patented guffaws, after which I pointed right at her and said, softly, but sternly, “Not. Another. Audible. Breath.” Not my proudest moment, but it was game 7!! And as a woman who grew up a Southern Baptist debutante with no connection to Cleveland sports misery (or sports at all), how could she possibly understand? I mean, where was she for Red Right 88, or The Drive, or The Fumble, or The Shot, or The Blown Save??? She wasn’t in Northeast Ohio, I can tell you that.

You all know what happened next—Kyrie hits the greatest shot in Cavs history (ironically aided by the specific force of gravity only possible on a spherical planet), followed by some of the worst offensive possessions in NBA history, then a near-iconic punctuating poster-dunk by LeBron on Draymond Green that instead turned into what appeared to be LeBron auditioning for a role as victim #7 in an undergrad film major’s attempt at a slasher movie on his iPhone 5, then LeBron miraculously recovering from his murder to hit one of two free throws, then the Cavs winning the NBA FUCKING CHAMPIONSHIP, making bukdow’s maulwedge prophecy a reality.

So after the game, having been sober the whole time (achieving what I think of as “hyper-sobriety”, which is being sober with my mother-in-law), it was time to “get my buzz on,” as the kids say.

I excused myself from our company, happily sashayed over to the fridge to grab the six pack of Red Stripes, and headed off to my “man cave”, which is essentially just a walk-in closet with some of my favorite stuff in it—e.g. mint condition, vintage Penthouse Letters, a Total Gym 1000, some old posters ranging from Craig Ehlo to Farrah Fawcett to Go-Bots, an old boom box with some killer tapes like all the early Van Halens, some Motley Crüe, and if I’m honest a Whitney Houston and Céline Dion, which come in handy (no pun intended) when it’s time to crack open the Penthouse Letters.

Without really knowing how to execute a butt chuggie, I had to formulate a plan. I assumed gravity (there it is again!) would be critical, but I wasn’t sure how to situate myself. I tried a few different setups that ultimately failed and ended in my crotch and clothes soaked in beer. I realized that the snub nose on the Red Stripe was not ideal design for a butt chuggie, and as refreshing as an ice cold beer is to drink, it’s beyond invigorating to pour it all over your nether parts. However, I persevered with three remaining beers.

I realized that part of my problem was my nerves. Having admittedly never inserted anything more than a finger or two into my rectum, I was having a tough time with the cold snub nose of the Red Stripe, so I took the chance that drinking one of the beers would relax me enough to allow for a smooth, controlled insertion of the bottle nose. And as pumped as I was after the big win, I had to switch the Shout at the Devil cassette for Whitney’s I’m Your Baby Tonight to help with the nerves.

The conventionally-consumed beer seemed to help, and I had what I thought was an improved plan. I removed my wet clothes and moved the Total Gym 1000 into place. For those of you unfamiliar with Chuck Norris’s finest endorsement, the TG1000 is a pulley-operated exercise machine that uses your body weight and gravity (no way!) to just torch calories. I’m a huge fan. Anyway, I set the TG1000 to its highest incline, opened the penultimate Red Stripe and set it down as I awkwardly moved myself into position. It finally felt right. However, as I reached over to grab the beer my foot slipped on the TG and I knocked the beer over. It glugged itself into the carpet just out of my reach. I was down to one last Red Stripe.

I situated myself again and carefully set the opened final beer next to me. I knew this was do or die. If the Cavs could do it, so could I. I set up, head against the wall at the bottom of the incline, bent legs up above my head with my back on the sliding platform of the TG. I attempted a few moments of meditation to relax the sphincter I knew would be so very challenged by this event. It was time.

I winced a little as my body accepted and took hold of the snub nose. My butthole gagged a bit at first, but the Red Stripe slowly began to flow. I closed my eyes. I could feel the effect of the alcohol almost immediately. It was pleasing. As Whitney started to hit the first chorus of My Name Is Not Susan, I was in another place. The Cavs just won the first professional sports championship for Cleveland in 52 years, and I was keeping my promise to my fellow RCF brethren. It was a moment of zen.

Then my mother-in-law walked in. Talk about guffaws! This was more like a scream. I guess it was really just a scream. She screamed. As I tried to cover myself I fell off the Total Gym onto all fours, and that’s when my wife came in and joined the chorus. To this day I have no idea how that bottle stayed in, but it did—sticking out like a gas nozzle.

My wife screamed “What the FUCK!?” before turning to walk back down the hallway. I heard, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” trail off as she got farther away, both literally and figuratively. Her mother stayed there, hands over mouth, staring. It was quite the awkward moment!

Needless to say, my wife and I had a few struggles after that. We eventually started to see a marriage counselor who turned out to be a well-hung rock climber with a second home in Tuscany. Within about four sessions he was “ploughing her fields”, as they say. I found out after about ten sessions, though I must say around session six I became suspicious, as when he would ask me questions he would be staring at my wife’s chest like a dog waiting for a training treat.

Anywho, I caught them in my house one day practicing some real Kama Sutra shit on our living room floor (like really… they had the book out and everything), so I packed a few things and saw myself out. It’s been a tough few years, but I’m getting by. No more butt chuggies for me! And apologies to Jigo for not capturing the moment on video. It would have been something, that’s for sure! All I know is, they’ll never be able to take that championship away from us, and I will never, ever ever, forget that day.

Typed on an iPhone 5 - please forgave any typos

 

[bigfoot5415]

We have officially come full circle.

Cavs in 6

 

[Ohio]

So yeah, that’s quite a story. Sort of made winning the NBA Championship a footnote that night! Apologies in advance for the book-long post.

Here goes… Cavs win game 7, and a promise is a promise, right? Red Stripe butt chuggie it is.

So I’m a mid-40s dude in average physical shape who, up to this point, had never tried an actual “butt chuggie”. In fact, I’d never heard the term or concept until a few weeks prior when my buddy told me it was all the rage with the cool kids these days. I just thought the phrase was funny to say. Butt chuggie. You probably just said it in your head. It’s just great. I think it’s the cadence—monosyllabic + trochee (2 syllables with stress on the first syllable) with obstruent syllables, but maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol before or during the game. Way too nervous for that. During the game I was probably not my best self. My wife had invited her mother to stay with us that week (great timing), so my outbursts and general behavior during the game had a pretty judgmental audience. Most of the game was a blur, but I do remember after LeBron’s chase-down block on Iguodala I stood on the couch and screamed something like “YEEEEEEAH SKULL FUCK YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY TREE, ANDRE, YOU SHIT LICKER!!!” (as an aside, I notice “shit licker” is another monosyllabic + trochee cadence with obstruent syllables. Cool!). After my outburst my mother-in-law issued one of her patented guffaws, after which I pointed right at her and said, softly, but sternly, “Not. Another. Audible. Breath.” Not my proudest moment, but it was game 7!! And as a woman who grew up a Southern Baptist debutante with no connection to Cleveland sports misery (or sports at all), how could she possibly understand? I mean, where was she for Red Right 88, or The Drive, or The Fumble, or The Shot, or The Blown Save??? She wasn’t in Northeast Ohio, I can tell you that.

You all know what happened next—Kyrie hits the greatest shot in Cavs history (ironically aided by the specific force of gravity only possible on a spherical planet), followed by some of the worst offensive possessions in NBA history, then a near-iconic punctuating poster-dunk by LeBron on Draymond Green that instead turned into what appeared to be LeBron auditioning for a role as victim #7 in an undergrad film major’s attempt at a slasher movie on his iPhone 5, then LeBron miraculously recovering from his murder to hit one of two free throws, then the Cavs winning the NBA FUCKING CHAMPIONSHIP, making bukdow’s maulwedge prophecy a reality.

So after the game, having been sober the whole time (achieving what I think of as “hyper-sobriety”, which is being sober with my mother-in-law), it was time to “get my buzz on,” as the kids say.

I excused myself from our company, happily sashayed over to the fridge to grab the six pack of Red Stripes, and headed off to my “man cave”, which is essentially just a walk-in closet with some of my favorite stuff in it—e.g. mint condition, vintage Penthouse Letters, a Total Gym 1000, some old posters ranging from Craig Ehlo to Farrah Fawcett to Go-Bots, an old boom box with some killer tapes like all the early Van Halens, some Motley Crüe, and if I’m honest a Whitney Houston and Céline Dion, which come in handy (no pun intended) when it’s time to crack open the Penthouse Letters.

Without really knowing how to execute a butt chuggie, I had to formulate a plan. I assumed gravity (there it is again!) would be critical, but I wasn’t sure how to situate myself. I tried a few different setups that ultimately failed and ended in my crotch and clothes soaked in beer. I realized that the snub nose on the Red Stripe was not ideal design for a butt chuggie, and as refreshing as an ice cold beer is to drink, it’s beyond invigorating to pour it all over your nether parts. However, I persevered with three remaining beers.

I realized that part of my problem was my nerves. Having admittedly never inserted anything more than a finger or two into my rectum, I was having a tough time with the cold snub nose of the Red Stripe, so I took the chance that drinking one of the beers would relax me enough to allow for a smooth, controlled insertion of the bottle nose. And as pumped as I was after the big win, I had to switch the Shout at the Devil cassette for Whitney’s I’m Your Baby Tonight to help with the nerves.

The conventionally-consumed beer seemed to help, and I had what I thought was an improved plan. I removed my wet clothes and moved the Total Gym 1000 into place. For those of you unfamiliar with Chuck Norris’s finest endorsement, the TG1000 is a pulley-operated exercise machine that uses your body weight and gravity (no way!) to just torch calories. I’m a huge fan. Anyway, I set the TG1000 to its highest incline, opened the penultimate Red Stripe and set it down as I awkwardly moved myself into position. It finally felt right. However, as I reached over to grab the beer my foot slipped on the TG and I knocked the beer over. It glugged itself into the carpet just out of my reach. I was down to one last Red Stripe.

I situated myself again and carefully set the opened final beer next to me. I knew this was do or die. If the Cavs could do it, so could I. I set up, head against the wall at the bottom of the incline, bent legs up above my head with my back on the sliding platform of the TG. I attempted a few moments of meditation to relax the sphincter I knew would be so very challenged by this event. It was time.

I winced a little as my body accepted and took hold of the snub nose. My butthole gagged a bit at first, but the Red Stripe slowly began to flow. I closed my eyes. I could feel the effect of the alcohol almost immediately. It was pleasing. As Whitney started to hit the first chorus of My Name Is Not Susan, I was in another place. The Cavs just won the first professional sports championship for Cleveland in 52 years, and I was keeping my promise to my fellow RCF brethren. It was a moment of zen.

Then my mother-in-law walked in. Talk about guffaws! This was more like a scream. I guess it was really just a scream. She screamed. As I tried to cover myself I fell off the Total Gym onto all fours, and that’s when my wife came in and joined the chorus. To this day I have no idea how that bottle stayed in, but it did—sticking out like a gas nozzle.

My wife screamed “What the FUCK!?” before turning to walk back down the hallway. I heard, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” trail off as she got farther away, both literally and figuratively. Her mother stayed there, hands over mouth, staring. It was quite the awkward moment!

Needless to say, my wife and I had a few struggles after that. We eventually started to see a marriage counselor who turned out to be a well-hung rock climber with a second home in Tuscany. Within about four sessions he was “ploughing her fields”, as they say. I found out after about ten sessions, though I must say around session six I became suspicious, as when he would ask me questions he would be staring at my wife’s chest like a dog waiting for a training treat.

Anywho, I caught them in my house one day practicing some real Kama Sutra shit on our living room floor (like really… they had the book out and everything), so I packed a few things and saw myself out. It’s been a tough few years, but I’m getting by. No more butt chuggies for me! And apologies to Jigo for not capturing the moment on video. It would have been something, that’s for sure! All I know is, they’ll never be able to take that championship away from us, and I will never, ever ever, forget that day.

Typed on an iPhone 5 - please forgave any typos

Incredible; the legend of this thread continues!

This thread should be pinned...

 

[MikeOC33]

2009.....damn. I have wasted a lot of time on this site...

 

[prf100]

Time?

 

[Randolphkeys]

Time?

Find a Red Stripe distributor pronto, gents!

 

[mds]

Oh my god I never saw this thread, fucking brilliant.

 

[Randolphkeys]

 

[BMAN]

So yeah, that’s quite a story. Sort of made winning the NBA Championship a footnote that night! Apologies in advance for the book-long post.

Here goes… Cavs win game 7, and a promise is a promise, right? Red Stripe butt chuggie it is.

So I’m a mid-40s dude in average physical shape who, up to this point, had never tried an actual “butt chuggie”. In fact, I’d never heard the term or concept until a few weeks prior when my buddy told me it was all the rage with the cool kids these days. I just thought the phrase was funny to say. Butt chuggie. You probably just said it in your head. It’s just great. I think it’s the cadence—monosyllabic + trochee (2 syllables with stress on the first syllable) with obstruent syllables, but maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol before or during the game. Way too nervous for that. During the game I was probably not my best self. My wife had invited her mother to stay with us that week (great timing), so my outbursts and general behavior during the game had a pretty judgmental audience. Most of the game was a blur, but I do remember after LeBron’s chase-down block on Iguodala I stood on the couch and screamed something like “YEEEEEEAH SKULL FUCK YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY TREE, ANDRE, YOU SHIT LICKER!!!” (as an aside, I notice “shit licker” is another monosyllabic + trochee cadence with obstruent syllables. Cool!). After my outburst my mother-in-law issued one of her patented guffaws, after which I pointed right at her and said, softly, but sternly, “Not. Another. Audible. Breath.” Not my proudest moment, but it was game 7!! And as a woman who grew up a Southern Baptist debutante with no connection to Cleveland sports misery (or sports at all), how could she possibly understand? I mean, where was she for Red Right 88, or The Drive, or The Fumble, or The Shot, or The Blown Save??? She wasn’t in Northeast Ohio, I can tell you that.

You all know what happened next—Kyrie hits the greatest shot in Cavs history (ironically aided by the specific force of gravity only possible on a spherical planet), followed by some of the worst offensive possessions in NBA history, then a near-iconic punctuating poster-dunk by LeBron on Draymond Green that instead turned into what appeared to be LeBron auditioning for a role as victim #7 in an undergrad film major’s attempt at a slasher movie on his iPhone 5, then LeBron miraculously recovering from his murder to hit one of two free throws, then the Cavs winning the NBA FUCKING CHAMPIONSHIP, making bukdow’s maulwedge prophecy a reality.

So after the game, having been sober the whole time (achieving what I think of as “hyper-sobriety”, which is being sober with my mother-in-law), it was time to “get my buzz on,” as the kids say.

I excused myself from our company, happily sashayed over to the fridge to grab the six pack of Red Stripes, and headed off to my “man cave”, which is essentially just a walk-in closet with some of my favorite stuff in it—e.g. mint condition, vintage Penthouse Letters, a Total Gym 1000, some old posters ranging from Craig Ehlo to Farrah Fawcett to Go-Bots, an old boom box with some killer tapes like all the early Van Halens, some Motley Crüe, and if I’m honest a Whitney Houston and Céline Dion, which come in handy (no pun intended) when it’s time to crack open the Penthouse Letters.

Without really knowing how to execute a butt chuggie, I had to formulate a plan. I assumed gravity (there it is again!) would be critical, but I wasn’t sure how to situate myself. I tried a few different setups that ultimately failed and ended in my crotch and clothes soaked in beer. I realized that the snub nose on the Red Stripe was not ideal design for a butt chuggie, and as refreshing as an ice cold beer is to drink, it’s beyond invigorating to pour it all over your nether parts. However, I persevered with three remaining beers.

I realized that part of my problem was my nerves. Having admittedly never inserted anything more than a finger or two into my rectum, I was having a tough time with the cold snub nose of the Red Stripe, so I took the chance that drinking one of the beers would relax me enough to allow for a smooth, controlled insertion of the bottle nose. And as pumped as I was after the big win, I had to switch the Shout at the Devil cassette for Whitney’s I’m Your Baby Tonight to help with the nerves.

The conventionally-consumed beer seemed to help, and I had what I thought was an improved plan. I removed my wet clothes and moved the Total Gym 1000 into place. For those of you unfamiliar with Chuck Norris’s finest endorsement, the TG1000 is a pulley-operated exercise machine that uses your body weight and gravity (no way!) to just torch calories. I’m a huge fan. Anyway, I set the TG1000 to its highest incline, opened the penultimate Red Stripe and set it down as I awkwardly moved myself into position. It finally felt right. However, as I reached over to grab the beer my foot slipped on the TG and I knocked the beer over. It glugged itself into the carpet just out of my reach. I was down to one last Red Stripe.

I situated myself again and carefully set the opened final beer next to me. I knew this was do or die. If the Cavs could do it, so could I. I set up, head against the wall at the bottom of the incline, bent legs up above my head with my back on the sliding platform of the TG. I attempted a few moments of meditation to relax the sphincter I knew would be so very challenged by this event. It was time.

I winced a little as my body accepted and took hold of the snub nose. My butthole gagged a bit at first, but the Red Stripe slowly began to flow. I closed my eyes. I could feel the effect of the alcohol almost immediately. It was pleasing. As Whitney started to hit the first chorus of My Name Is Not Susan, I was in another place. The Cavs just won the first professional sports championship for Cleveland in 52 years, and I was keeping my promise to my fellow RCF brethren. It was a moment of zen.

Then my mother-in-law walked in. Talk about guffaws! This was more like a scream. I guess it was really just a scream. She screamed. As I tried to cover myself I fell off the Total Gym onto all fours, and that’s when my wife came in and joined the chorus. To this day I have no idea how that bottle stayed in, but it did—sticking out like a gas nozzle.

My wife screamed “What the FUCK!?” before turning to walk back down the hallway. I heard, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” trail off as she got farther away, both literally and figuratively. Her mother stayed there, hands over mouth, staring. It was quite the awkward moment!

Needless to say, my wife and I had a few struggles after that. We eventually started to see a marriage counselor who turned out to be a well-hung rock climber with a second home in Tuscany. Within about four sessions he was “ploughing her fields”, as they say. I found out after about ten sessions, though I must say around session six I became suspicious, as when he would ask me questions he would be staring at my wife’s chest like a dog waiting for a training treat.

Anywho, I caught them in my house one day practicing some real Kama Sutra shit on our living room floor (like really… they had the book out and everything), so I packed a few things and saw myself out. It’s been a tough few years, but I’m getting by. No more butt chuggies for me! And apologies to Jigo for not capturing the moment on video. It would have been something, that’s for sure! All I know is, they’ll never be able to take that championship away from us, and I will never, ever ever, forget that day.

Typed on an iPhone 5 - please forgave any typos

This is the first time reading the follow up for me. My god.

 

[The Oi]

This is the first time reading the follow up for me. My god.

First time seeing this story.

I always wondered how other painters felt when they looked up inside the Sistine Chapel.

I even got a mention.

 

[CBBI]

First time seeing this story.

I always wondered how other painters felt when they looked up inside the Sistine Chapel.

I even got a mention.

First time seeing it since you wrote it, right?

 

[The Oi]

First time seeing it since you wrote it, right?

Are you suggesting that’s an alt?