The Politics of Self-Reflection

Not very long ago, I sent direct communication to all of my local representatives, at the state and federal level. Outside of voting, another way, I thought, to engage these men would be to actually, well, engage these men in dialogue. My state representative, Frank Dermody, communicated directly with me and invited me to his office to meet. Furthermore, as my issues of concern were being debated or even mentioned in Harrisburg, Dermody’s staff emailed me. One of his aides actually saw that a Del Duca was speaking on the floor and sent me a text to ask if I knew the person. Although Frank Dermody is a politician and must attempt to garner campaign money and votes, and although he is a Democrat and thus must align himself in prescribed ways with various issues, and although he didn’t “fight for” all of my concerns…he responded to me in a kind and direct manner and this responsiveness won me over. Even well after our meeting I received communication from Dermody and his staff which were often very specific to me. Frank, for the constituent win.

My state senator, Jim Ferlo, never corresponded directly with me…though he handed me off to his chief of staff, who eventually responded. The process with Ferlo was certainly not as personalized and extensive as my experiences with Dermody. He did the absolute miminum without helping me -OR- pissing me off, which is probably a decent political move in general. But not in particular with me. Ferlo, for the constituent meh.

Then comes Keith Rothfus. I wrote an incredibly specific, comprehensive, and diplomatic letter to him regarding several concerns. About two weeks later I got his robot response. And then came the deluge of hackneyed, predictable, fear-mongering, pandering to the lowest common denominator, (psuedo)Christian conservative Mad Libs.



President Obama (past tense verb) Obamacare into our (body part that could not fit a large object but which would accept it with violent effort) without (verb ending in -ing) for our (noun). Furthermore, he practices (religion that is not associated with Christianity or Judaism or most of the far east) and has sworn allegiance to (evil historical figure) while endeavoring to destroy (country below Canada & above Mexico), all in the name of (cartoon character). Really. Oh, and (four-letter verb) the U.N.


Furthermore, he sent me an extensive survey, reportedly attempting to poll values, concerns, and wishes of his constituents. It was a scantron. No fucking room to write or explain oneself. Furthermore, 100% of the questions, if you just scratched with a wet noodle below the surface of the questions, asked essentially this: Are you a patriotic Christian who reliably votes Republican? or, Are you a Communist freedom-hating secular tree hugger who reliably votes Democrat? (He could have had the wherewithal to include a third question, one that appealed even to a Karl Rove constructed “moderate voter,” so that people who actually think and hold nuanced, contextually-dependent, flexible-until-we-have-all-the-facts opinions could feel at least a modicum of representation.) So what I did was just respond to each question as if it were in short-answer format. As soon as I sent it out, I knew the fate of my survey. Some low-level staffer, likely a well-coiffed college Republican, would open it and then immediately file it in the trash can as “unreadable” by the scantron. I was so pissed just filling the damn thing out that I wrote another (…again metered and diplomatic, but certainly direct…) message to Rothfus bemoaning the glaring biases inherent in this survey.

(crickets chirp)

(a pin drops…TING!)

(a muffled cough in the distance)

(a Castro chuckles)


Abso-fucking-lutely NOTHING.

And then just last night I get a Rothfus communication.

Addressing my concern? No.

It was his stock newsletter describing how Dictator Obama bin Biden is yet again literally wiping his ass with the actual constitution and masturbating into the original stars and stripes sewn by Betsy Ross, making laws illegally that benefit only un-American behavior, and smoking weed from rolled up hundred dollar bills stolen from the pockets of coal miners in West Virginia while sipping illicit Muslum-made booze with Al Gore and Michael Moore. (This may not have been the precise content, but at least you got a laugh from this. Right? And I only become enraged when I read the original…so I don’t want to go back to the primary source.)


Come the fuck on, people.

But here’s the thing. All of this shit works. Regurgitated, unoriginal, pandering bullshit is all we get from all sides. And we drink it down like a cold Corona (with a lime) in mid-August. Sometimes, as illuminated above, interactions with local servants can be satisfying and bolster my confidence in our ability to make sound, rational, not-merely-selfish-thinking decisions. More often than not, however, the opposite is true. It’s either polished, minimalist, partisan glad-handing from the likes of Ferlo (…assuming that I agree with him and will vote for him…) or polished, fear-mongering, partisan finger-wagging from the likes of Rothfus (…assuming that I’m a fucking dummy, I suppose…), both of which leave me sucking down whiskey and considering a move to Canada.

Each time in my life when I’ve considered a movement into public service, be it on a school board, or as a union representative, or even local politics…I’m quickly reminded how actual service becomes money-hoarding and/or power-tripping, self-service and consciously myopic vision. I see the level of ethical compromise that people must endure in the hope that, when eventually they land in sought-after positions, ideals can be re-established. That never seems to happen, however. There’s the next position, the next campaign, the next dollar, the next chairpersonship. So I jump just as enthusiastically, though then deflated and frustrated, back out of these endeavors in which I entered with excitement, hope, and confidence.

So what’s it going to be?

Do you agree with me? (Then you’re awesome.)

Do you disagree? (Well then, you must be an constitution-hating fascist without God.)

Really, though…I’d love to get to the bottom of this and really move forward with people who want to move forward.

Are there enough people out there who are willing to take a hard, honest look in the mirror, then turn around and have real conversations about real problems with diverse populations? Are there enough people out there who can accept the possibility of being wrong, and then modify their perspective accordingly? Are there enough people out there who are able to be right, and STILL modify their perspective based upon the legitimate perspectives of others who’ve had different experiences and cultural influences? Are there enough people out there willing to grow, and accept the required growing pains?

I hope there are.

Otherwise, I might be trading in my constitutional republic for a constitutional monarchy.



Drunker Canasta

Oh boy.

Momma always said, “Drunk is as drunk does.”

Greg does drunk exceptionally well.

Last week, we regaled you with “Drunk Canasta,” the first part of our Cook Forest decompression. This week, “Drunker Canasta.”

The cast iron pizza was amazing, in the Mt. Rushmore of best pizza ever consumed by either Del Duca.

Greg can’t find his Lincoln Hawk shirt. Problem is, the world meets nobody halfway. Outside of Stallone, perhaps only Kenny Loggins truly understands this. It’s like a testosterone enhanced Hallmark card. Watch it. Jesus, that guitar solo gets me every time. (Norris understands. Don’t you, Earnest?)

Jen becomes annoyed with Greg’s infatuation with and use of Snape’s wand.

Greg fucks up the lyrics to, “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” (Kind of like this. Really, you should click that. It’s funny.)

Jen gives Greg a Steelhead education and two young Asian girls show off their catch.

Greg dives on Jen and Kate, now peacefully slumbering, thus concluding this shit show.

Jen finishes strong with, “I’m done with you, fucker fuck face.”

Very alliterative.

Well played, Jennifer. Well played.

We present to you, “Drunker Canasta.”

(Oh, deputy? Deh-PEW-teee? DRINK!)

More Spam Poetry

Are yinz ready for another round of SPam Poetry?!

Well, ready or not, here it comes!

This round amused me not only because of the content but also because of either the sender’s “name” and/or the post to which the sender responded.

(From Tom, in response to, “Middle School Erections,” in which I described my early infatuation with a particular girl, the song “Sexual Healing,” and also my seemingly perpetual teenage erections.)

I hope to give something back and help others like you helped me.


(From Morton, in response to the first “SPam Poetry” post, offering his own, well…it’s all very meta)

This is my first time pay a visit at here and i am actually impressed to
read all at alone place.

(And Joshua’s SPam Poem in response to “SPam Poetry” makes my head hurt a little bit.)

Yes! Finally something about advice.

(From Jeremy. This one’s titled: “It’s awesome in favor of me.” )

It’s awesome in favor of me to have a web page, which is helpful in favor of my know-how.
thanks admin

–You’re quite welcome

(This cluster is in response to, “Got My Hipster Vibe On Fleek,” in which I both lampoon local hipsters and come out of the closet as one. Deep social commentary in the world of SPam poets.)

From 中正紀念堂, which is apparently the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall:

When someone writes an piece of writing he/she maintains the idea of
a user in his/her mind that how a user can be aware of it.
Thus that’s why this article is amazing. Thanks!

From Teacup:

Hurrah! Finally I got a weblog from where I can actually obtain valuable data regarding my study and knowledge.
What do you think, Cassey?
This blog was… how do you say it? Relevant!!
Finally I’ve found something which helped me. Thanks!

And to round out the responses, White pussy has this:

I loved your article post. Really looking forward to read more. Really Great.
college sex

Last but not least, Charmaine sums it all up quite succinctly with my favourite justification:

Undeniably believe that that you said. Your favourite justification appeared
to be on the internet the easiest thing to remember of.
I say to you, I definitely get annoyed at the same time as folks consider worries that they plainly don’t understand about.
You controlled to hit the nail upon the highest as well as defined out the entire thing with
no need side-effects, peoplee can take a signal. Will likely be back to get more.

–I love a good “that that”

A Beatnik playing the bongos, Grayscale
A Beatnik playing the bongos, Grayscale

(Dig it, man. Yeah.)

Aunt Jemima In My Cocktail

There are relationships that, the more one gets to know another, gradually and naturally strengthen. The converse is also true. Then, there are relationships which, regardless of what direction things are heading, take an abrupt turn with one phrase or action or event, changing everything immediately.

It is no secret that I have been raised and sought friendship among people who identify as Black, Gay, Deaf, Catholic, Athiest, and all manner of diversity. It is also no secret that I respect and cherish that diversity, as well as inclusion, transparency, truth, and a strong sense of humility and humor. In my desire to remain open, optimistic, mindful, and sane…I’ve tried to reduce the time I spend on soap boxes and pulpits of judgement. I really don’t know enough about history, religion, the sciences, and politics to have an authentic dialogue with anyone. Nonetheless, I’ve spent too many minutes of my life, happiness, and sanity engaged in arguments and proselytizing based on opinion derived from opinion derived from perhaps a nugget or two of fact. I truly want to be done with it. I want to focus on mindfulness and happiness…mine, my family’s, my friends’, and yours. And, I want to focus on truth. That one’s slippery, I know. However, if I travel about in the spirit of mindfulness and happiness, I have faith (…also slippery…) that truth will emerge.

But enough of all that woo-woo and new age banter.

My wife and I had another couple over last night. We met this couple approximately five years ago because our children were friends at school, and through various parties, sleep-overs, and play dates our relationship gradually strengthened. Awesome, right? Right. However, there always, for me, lurked a sense that our values, particularly related to issues of diversity and inclusion (…both in the personal sense and societal perspective…), were divergent. Never did I reach the point of feeling the differences were incompatible.

Until last week.

Jen got an unexpected text, [Can you have Greg tell me his recipe for that delicious cocktail he made before?] The dialogue continued and I eventually said, “Why don’t you just tell him to come up and get one?” (If this were a suspense movie, it is at this point when you’d here the previously dulcet soundtrack arrive at an abrupt minor chord, thus foreshadowing the upcoming events.)

I began the experience buzzed. Moderately inebriated, truth be told. The couple, let’s call them Jim and Joan Smith, arrived and the conversation fairly immediately shifted toward school-centered and community-related complaining and gossiping. Not the best of starts. Furthermore, the local sociology of race relations and economics swirled about the conversation. I became worried, my Spidey senses were tingling, so I drank more. And I drank fast. And I drank high octane spirits. We made it through 30+ minutes of conversation spanning several topics and, with Jen’s skillful conversation manipulation skills (…she’s a fucking Jedi when it comes to this kind of thing…) as well as sobriety (…she did not drink…), the specter of crisis was averted.

The topic then shifted to my skills as an amateur de facto mixologist…which was the reason the Smiths had come over in the first place…and both Jen and I relaxed completely. (In all formulaic suspense movies, it is precisely when the protagonists relax that the boogie man strikes.)

“I just need to know how to make these things, Greg.”

(That evening, I’d made a punch using Wigle smoked whiskey and a combination of smoky tea [lapsang souchang, for those keeping notes], rooibos, maple syrup, demerara sugar, and lemon juice. I realize this parenthetical phrase doesn’t really fit with the story…but dammit the drink was delicious. I think I’ll have one tonight, actually. But I digress…)

“Jim, it’s obnoxiously simple. Really. Just about everything I do is a variation on an old fashioned…and all you need there is a glass, ice, booze, bitters, and syrup.” I continued, feeling quite confident, “Now, my preference with drinks like that one is to use maple syrup and not sugar or simple syrup. And I mean real maple syrup.”

Here Jen interjected, “Yeah, don’t use Aunt Jemima.”

And Jim, as if he’d been pitched a softball, as if the door had been opened wide for him, and as if a confederate flag were waving behind our heads as the guitar solo from “Freebird” swelled, countered with, “Yeah. I’d never put a nigger in my cocktail.”


The evening continued, but ended soon and swiftly. Jen steered things quickly toward a conclusion. (…these are not the racists you seek…) Neither of us called Jim on that horrid and misplaced comment. The next day, as Jen and I processed the experience, she argued that Jim meant it as a joke. A shitty, shitty, poorly timed and unfunny joke that didn’t take into consideration the room and the people therein. But a joke nonetheless. Furthermore, she indicated that should another similar semantic bomb have dropped from Jim’s bearded maw she would have addressed it. I felt partially ashamed (…that I didn’t immediately call him on it…), partially confused (…that he picked that moment, and not the multitude of earlier and more topically appropriate places, to regale us with his racism…), and somewhat helpless because I was entirely fucking wasted (…and was thus unable to approach the situation in the way I would have otherwise preferred). I dreamed the whole thing over again during my slumber. I didn’t dream *about* it. For the first time in my life, I had a dream which was essentially a one-camera documentary. I relived the whole thing, then woke up disoriented, disturbed, and hungover.

Jen and I have moved forward, discussed the evening, our history with the Smiths, and our plans for future interactions with the Smiths. We’ve found humor in the situation and also truth. Jim is who Jim is, was raised where he was raised by whom he was raised, has experienced what he’s experienced with whom he’s experienced it, and has arrived at his present as we all have arrived at ours. I cannot change him with admonishments, judgments, or arguments. I can, however, continue to live my life out loud as an example for mindfulness, happiness, diversity, service, and inclusion. That is my gospel. But there’ll be no more intimate evenings with the Smiths.

And I’ll continue to keep Aunt Jemima out of my cocktails not because of her race but because the product is corny, fake and unpleasant…like Jim.


(An ad hoc history of “What the fuck?!”)

Drunk Canasta

Jennifer, Gregory, and Kate – the (Jerry) Springer Spaniel, traveled to Cook Forest for a lovely weekend retreat.

Greg purchased Pike Creek Canadian Whiskey, Breckenridge Colorado Bourbon (…no, bourbon does not have to come from Kentucky, it just has to have at least 51% corn in the mash bill and fit the definition of American Whiskey otherwise…), both of which proved to be amazing spirits. Really. You should try them if you have the cash and they’re available.

Jen made jalapeno-infused as well as sage-infused simple syrups and then, along with Wigle bitters, stretched her bartender muscles to make a jalapeno mint julep as well as a blackberry sage old-fashioned. They were exceptional. Really. You should drink them if someone offers.

Kate made noise. Lots of noise. And poo. She’s like a shit factory. (Ultimately, I guess that’s what we all are.)

On the second night, as the pizza dough completed its journey to readiness for Jen’s signature cast-iron skillet pie, after the Del Ducas rose from a three hour nap (“A three hour nap. The weather started getting rough. The tiny cabin rocked. If not for the liquor in the two-man crew. The podcast would be lost.”), and as Greg drank half of each of the bottles of previously mentioned spirits, the Canasta cards came out.

What you are about to hear spans one glorious, often-hilarious, song-filled round. (Take note: This is part one of a split episode. The second part, will you’ll hear next week, occurs well after the game, and well after any amount of sobriety or topical cohesion.)

Greg laughs like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Jen wins the hand.

Kate goes down on herself.

We present to you, “Drunk Canasta.”

Dough Boy
(Mr. Pizza risin’. Mr. Pizza risin’. Got to keep on risin’.)

Bite Guard

Folks, here’s where I’ve arrived. I need to travel with a bite guard now.

Travel with the em effer, or else I find myself gnashing my teeth and precipitating temporomandibular joint soreness during my multiple daily commutes.

I am now plus Prozak, plus meditation, plus approximately 60 minutes of daily exercise, plus occasional “melatonin” edibles, plus nightcaps, and I’ve scheduled a sensory deprivation float. Writing really helps. That’s why I’m doing it right now. Knowing that I’m not the only one helps. That’s why I’m immediately publishing.

But, my right leg is shaking like an itchy dog.

And, for the first time in at least one year I nibbled a nail off.

Oh…nagging mid-grade back and neck pain have re-emerged.

And apparently I have to drive around with a bite guard in lest I crack my dental enamel like an angry crack fiend.

Fuck. Me.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop and approximately everyone is getting on my damn nerves with their fucking opinions and questions and vapid anecdotes. My ear buds are currently massively uncomfortable and I can’t find a Pandora station that doesn’t annoy me. But it’s air conditioned in here, and I don’t feel like getting back in my car just yet.

I’m countering all of this by being super friendly and chipper. Huge smiles. A high-pitched, almost feminine tone with sing-song prosody. On the outside, I appear to have my shit entirely together. (Or so I think.) My shit is assuredly not together. I wonder, is this what happens in the lead-up to “going postal?!” Truly, if my eggshell of a joyful exterior cracked even mildly, such anxiety-driven vitriol, panicky frustration, and self-hatred turned outward would immediately pour out that I’d likely end up in a holding cell.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Bite down on the rubbery, efferdent-soaked (…it’s not a calming flavor…) mouth piece barely helping me maintain my sanity; holding in the primal scream lurking in my larynx.

I know this too shall pass. It all passes.

But fuck…I’m as comfortable in my skin right now as molting snake.

Okay, gotta go get ‘em.



All By Myself

Tonight, it’s personal.

Tonight, Greg is quite inebriated and Jen threw in the towel well before what your ears are about to hear.

Tonight, Harry Nilsson turns in his grave (but also likely laughs if he’s not taking his decomposed self too seriously) as Greg emotes musically…albeit a bit pitchy, dog.

Tonight, the recording is short but the content is full.

Of shit.

Enjoy, “All By Myself.”

(Poop. It’s palindromic. Palindromic. It’s not.)

Uncle $am G*d?amn

Recently, I’ve seen posts, news stories, and memes “wondering” why it’s considered racist to celebrate “white pride” and why it’s societally accepted to celebrate, for example, Black History Month. The people who perpetuate this comment will then blame a society full of fearful, politically-correct, weak-kneed liberals. Rest assured, society is full of grown folks afraid of responsibility and transparency, rife with politically-correct bullshit that avoids important but challenging truths, and today’s liberals might as well form a third party called the Gumbies given their lack of anything resembling a knee, backbone, or even skeletal structure. Nonetheless, if you don’t see the absurdity of and racism inherent in the concept of “white pride,” you’re either: a)unwittingly ignorant, which can be quite dangerous…particularly if you’re prone to voting, proselytizing, and/or holding local political office, b)willfully ignorant, wobbling index fingers in your ears shouting “ahhh” with blinders on as you make your way through the world, c) a rubber eraser among thumbtacks (i.e. a dummy); or d) racist as fuck but, ironically, kind of afraid, weak-kneed, and playing the politically-correct card…unwilling to just say what you mean.

In the U.S. and across the Americas, “Black” generally means, “descendant of African slaves.” For the most part, “Black” or “African American” is not only a demographic description but is also a cultural identification. There is shared history, beginning on another continent, moving through the horrors of slavery, then the horrors of Jim Crow, and eventually to the residual impact within our governments, judicial systems, policies, schools, and neighborhoods. Throughout most of our (U.S.) history, Black Americans have not enjoyed that which our founding Fathers (…not Mothers…) have enjoyed. What do white folks have? Let’s see:

> With the exception of few historically recent examples, control of the entire federal and most state and local governments.
> Ownership and control of almost all of the land. Like fucking forever.
> Ownership and control of almost all of the money. Like fucking forever.
> Ownership and control of almost all of the guns and weapons. Like fucking forever.
> Generally unfettered ability to move around the country without suspicion, arrest, injury, or murder.
> Ownership and control of the corporations that write history books, school curriculum, standardized testing, and almost all other media content.

Also, who generally runs around claiming to be, “white?” Fucking who?! Perhaps this is different in different parts of the country, but generally what I hear from people is, “I’m Irish and German,” or “I’m full-blooded French,” or any number of actual cultural, linguistic, historical, country-based ethnic backgrounds. Not “white.” Furthermore, anyone I have met who self-identifies as “white” has also walked the earth informed by every common phobia and -ism available.

What percentage of Black people can say anything but, “Black” or “African American?” Few. Because again, the reality is this: the honest response would be, “Descendant of (X-African-Country) slaves.”

So yeah, celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, Columbus Day, Presidents’ Day, Independence Day, Veterans Day, Labor Day, Jewish and Christian holidays…but please shut the fuck up about “White History Month” or “White Pride.” Every goddamn month is white history month and really is it such a big fucking deal when a white person does something that white people in the United States have been doing since our conception, that our British forefathers conceived in the founding documents, that generations of subsequent politicians and power-brokers further institutionalized? It is assuredly not.

I am not anti-white. Neither am I pro-black. What I am…is pro-justice, pro-equality, pro-inclusion, pro-dialogue, and pro-problem-solving. What I am…is pro-human.

To quote Brother Ali’s astounding and harshly honest song, “Uncle Sam, Goddamn.”


Uncle Sam Obey
(Now stand your ass up for that national anthem.)

Spam Poetry

I’ve been posting essays and anecdotes for about 6 months now, using WordPress and generally putting myself out there across a variety of social media platforms. When one does these things, one invites the likes of spammers, robots, fishing schemes, stealthy advertisements and such. It hit me very recently, and I wish I’d caught this much earlier, that a small percentage of those messages that we generally call SPAM, are amazing pieces of poetic art. Well, maybe not “amazing.” And perhaps calling them “art” is stretching. Nonetheless, some of these certainly read as a kind of poetry. What kind? Poetry by an extra-terrestrial who intercepted English-language radio & satellite signals and interpreted them purely computationally then spat out whatever the hell it “thought” might emulate what had been processed. I really like the stuff. I began calling them, “Spam Poetry,” but only recently did I actually copy and paste these little gems. Regrets, I’ve have a few, and not capturing the early examples is one of them. I’ll share with you here a few of my favorites.

(NOTE: I’ve conceived and affixed titles, taken directly from the spam poems.)

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Off me
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Spamming people
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The dilemma
Now, if the pages aren’t included in the listings,
you are going to naturally be missing some targeted traffic for your pages.
The dilemma is that without people jumping fully briefed, sharing
and checking into Google Plus regularly; that only leaves
brands to showcase with other brands.

She claims…
Ms Bolter, 35, denies that any romantic or sexual contact took place. She claims heGamesFacebookAnonymousSocialMediaConsolesBitcoinGoogle.

I don’t know if I see
There are some interesting points in time on this article however I don’t know if I see all of them middle to heart. There’s some validity however I’ll take hold opinion until I look into it further. Good article , thanks and we want extra! Added to FeedBurner as nicely

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Aren’t you
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Disgrace on Google
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Or something
Its like you read my mind! You appear to know a lot
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but instead of that, this is magnificent blog. An excellent read.
I will certainly be back.

That’s also about how long it y. Nano Tex utilizes nanotechnology to: 1) design molecules with specific performance attributes; 2)iolates anti trust as well as right to work laws.

spam poetry
(Dig it, man. Then…fry it up and slap it on some white bread with yellow mustard. Yum.)

Boogie Nights (Parts 1 & 2)

Somehow, Greg had never seen the movie, “Boogie Nights,” so your humble hosts cranked up the stereo and turned this mutha out. In Part 1, pre-movie, Jen drinks Voodoo Good Vibes and Greg drinks Arcadia Hop Rocket. The conversation begins with the unparalleled awesomeness that is the Voodoo brew empire, then shifts to the unparalleled awesomeness that is Paul Thomas Anderson, and concludes with the unparalleled cuteness that is, “The elbows are coming.” (Wha?!) Yep, the elbows are coming. Just listen:

(Voodoo Brewery. Two awesome locations: Meadville – in an old coffin factory; and Picksburgh – in a previously abandoned fire station. Right dahn’ere in Homestead. Go. Drink. C’mon yinz guys!)

Part 2, post-movie. What a movie!! Now both quite inebriated, Greg grieves Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Jen climbs upon a societal and suicide soapbox, and the end credits music provides added atmosphere, drama, and eventually hilarity. Jen coins the term, “Preposterous empathy,” screams loudly at a goading Greg trying to remember the proper configuration of the shocker as well as the various rhyming pairs (Pink-Stink, Fondue-Le Pew, Cooter-Pooter, Taco-Guaco, Should-Could, Blood-Mud, Womb-Tomb, Bush-Cheney, Curtains-Hurtin’, Grassy Knoll-Assy Hole, Hole-Other Hole, Cherry Hair-Derriere), and proves herself quite the saboteur. This one’s a doozie:

Ice Cream Shocker
(Oh dear.)