Sunday, July 27, 2008

All Tied Up

Good Morning/Afternoon/Twilight/Eve, dear readers. What did you do this weekend? That's nice. Me? I sat on my couch eating yogurt and interstalking you on the 'book. General fatigue and overtly antisocial tendencies left me relegated to the comforts of my IKEA Kramfort.

Please don't pitty me or I will spit in your face, and as you know, most people don't spit in other peoples faces anymore, so that's something to think about. Spit aside, me staying holed up allowed for great discoveries on the TeeVee.

One such discovery was the 2nd season of the program, Mad Men. This show is now The Official Favorite TeeVee Program About 1960's Ad Execs of Patrick Garrigan. Not to be confused with Law & Order: SVU, The Official Favorite TeeVee Program About The Special Victims Unit of the New York Police Department, The Elite Squad of Detectives Who Investigate Sexually Based Crimes of Patrick Garrigan.

As I watched this hour of provocative television, I thought to myself, this is Greatness: overtly misogynistic themes, ladies with skinny waists and big tittays, massive consumption of high-end booze, and perpetual propagation of passive aggressive behavior. As I watched, I began to feel that this show was very much like our own GWGG, but I couldn't pin down that one feature that fully defined the parallel. Then it dawned on me:


TIES.

As you'll note in the 'Man With Gumption' section of the page, since the inception of Greatness With Garrigan Gumption, we have been committed to precept that TIES=GREATNESS**. With that in mind, I have assembled:

THE GREATNESS WITH GARRIGAN GUMPTION
NECKWEAR RETROSPECTIVE



Almost as moving as the inevitable Heath Ledger tribute when he posthumously wins an Oscar for Dark Knight, isn't it? Oh lighten up, I said he's gonna win an Oscar.

I hope you've enjoyed these moments in Tie Greatness. Now I must hit the hay, as I will have to see "people" tomorrow and I need to emotionally prepare. Good
Morning / Afternoon / Twilight / Eve.

**TIES=GREATNESS precept only applies to ties worn by men. When worn by women, TIES=LESBIAN. That is all.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

I HATE SUMMER

Fuck summer.

Yeah, I said it. Aside from providing hilarious pictures like the one at left, I have abso-positively no fucking use for it.

Did you know? Murders go up 723% across this country during the summer months? You didn't? Well that's because I made that up. However, I am 723% more likely to kill you during the summer months than I am during any other point in the year. That's a fact.

I, like the states of Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, West Virginia, and hell, most of Middle America, am a self-involved glutton. I find environmental causes profoundly unsexy. Recycling: for pussies. Biodegradable products: what will keep my hot stuff hot and my cold stuff cold? Turning off the lights at night: ghosts will get me.

You know what would make the environment sexy? A 12-month calendar of the Earth all oiled up in provocative lingerie posing with assorted shiny guns. That would be HOT.


What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm fucking hot as hell!!!! Despite my lack of devotion to environmental causes a couple of things are certain: Global Warming is real and more importantly, my bits smell like those of a hobo. Too bad.

Hey kids, do you remember when we were walking around the windy, beautifully snow-speckled cityscape and you were all, "man, I can't wait until the summer gets here." Do you remember that? Well, let me tell you this. If you dare to say that during the winter of 08/09 I will have no choice but to kick you squarely in your no-no place. I will do this basically because I wanted an excuse to post this picture of an old lady kicking a kid in the babymaker, but also because you really shouldn't wish for such an awful thing.

As always, I know what you're going to say. "Patrick, summer is a great time to go to the park and drink margamaritas." While I love the 'ol margarmarita as much as the next fellow, I will just as soon swap this icy summer treat for a Sapphire & tonic or dry red wine (the Official Winter Cocktails of Patrick Garrigan), I am adaptable like that.

So where do we go from here? Not just a lyric from the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the final utterance of my third wife, this is a real enigma. I have come up with a few potential coping mechanisms.

The Dyson Body Blade. So while this limey gives me the heebee-jeebees, the way he's all excited that his products "don't lose suction," I went to the Time Warner Center where they have his airblade hand dryers. Let me tell you, these buggers work! Really got me thinking. What if this piece of equipment could be used to suck away my summertime "sauces." If it works on my hands, couldn't this invention be applied to the overactive glands located in the pit of my arm? Yes, I believe it can. WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY!!!

No Clothes. Part of why I love the Winter so much is that, if you are cold you can just bury your face in a thick muff(ler). The key to success during these chilly months lies in the power of layers. Summer doesn't offer these same options. There is only so much clothing you can take off before you find yourself manhandled by the long arm of the law. No fair. As a result I propose a July - September moratorium of indecent exposure. If I want to go to a Jamba Juice and order a Razzamatazz au naturale, I should be allowed. This is America, people.

Hybernation. I love sleep. What if I could just take a nappy-poo in a climate controlled chamber where I would dream about Cinnabons, international espionage and make out with my fuzzy afghan? Crazy, you say? Perhaps. But it might just be the entre into a bold new world where I wouldn't be a dick to you if you tried to talk to me before noon. That or it may just result in me becoming jobless and homeless.

Will these ideas help? I have no idea. I am suffering from heat-induced delirium and I don't even what the hell I'm talking about anymore. Bottom line is I am so frickin' hot and I don't like it. Not one bit. I'm going to go eat a Popsicle.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

The Official "The Official...of Patrick Garrigan" List...of Patrick Garrigan

HellooooooooNovices!!! Do you feel like you're working your way towards spiritual enlightenment, but you're not taking advantage of the finer things in life? It's true. I'm not just talking to the young Buddhist monks here. Just because you aren't dressed like a traffic barrel doesn't mean you aren't missing out on the luxury, culture and sophomoric delights the world has to offer.

Luckily for your sheltered ass, since February of 2007 I have been compiling a complete list of things certified the Official...of Patrick Garrigan. The certification the Official...of Patrick Garrigan denotes the commitment to excellence that is the hallmark of GWGG.

Despite my attempts to pepper the blog with these mini-endorsements, more and more I'm hearing the following complaints: "I can never find the official...of Patrick Garrigan for restaurants." OR "I wish you would just put all the Official...of Patrick Garrigan in one post." OR "Get your hand off my ass."

Based on this feedback, I have decided to create a complete Official...of Patrick Garrigan list (and move my hand from your ass to your tittay where it will gently reside until the police arrive). For this list, I will provide you with a few of the more frequently "tapped" entities with some new ones to spice up your life. **GONG!** Let's get started.

Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport Deodorant is the Official Deodorant/Antiperspirant of Patrick Garrigan
I am a man. I create man-sweat. While most of my light shirts may be adorned with an aluminum based, piss-colored stains in the pits, I like beginning my day knowing that my hairy underarms are wafting the intoxicating scent of sport, Pure Sport.
Dolce & Gabana is the Official Cologne of Patrick Garrigan
I am a dandy. This cologne makes me smell dandy.
Cross Rollerballs are the Official Writing Instrument of Patrick Garrigan
I am a writer who writes. With each penstroke, I need to know I have the power of heavy over-priced rollerballs clenched in my clammy paw. I take my rollerballs everywhere. I take my rollerballs in the shower. I take my rollerballs to work. Hell, sometimes I even sleep with my rollerballs. And gents, take note: the ladies love a man with hefty, shiny rollerballs.
Your Mom is the Official Forbidden Love of Patrick Garrigan
I am not going to lie to you. It really is just a matter of time until your mom and I hook up. It may not be pleasant for you to hear, but such is the way with truth. She's taken great care of herself over these years. Toned arms, surgically enhanced breasts, and new bangs / highlights. She thinks no one's noticed... but oh, I've noticed, Ms. [insert friend's hot mom here]. I've noticed, indeed.
Grilled Cheese is the Official Drunken Food Creation of Patrick Garrigan
I am just an okay cook, but when it comes to catering for my drunk or stoned friends there is one delicacy with which I excel. The grilled cheese sandwich. Stoners and drunkards, please feel free to comment.
Bank of America is the Official Bank of Patrick Garrigan
I am a patriot through and through. So when selecting a bank, would I bank with Chase or HSBC or [gasp] Banco Popular?!! Hell NO! I bank with the Bank of America. The bank that, like me, is OF AMERICA.
Gap Body boxer shorts are the Official Boxer Short of Patrick Garrigan
I spend a lot of time in my skin. With all that time spent walking around, and doing stuff, I want to know that I've got a soft pair of boxers making sure I don't get pee on my jeans. That's why Gap Body boxer shorts are the Official Boxer Short of Patrick Garrigan
Cinnabon is the Official Airport Delicacy of Patrick Garrigan
I travel a lot for work. Not really, but I like to say that, because I think it makes people stop and say, "my, he must be important." I like when people say that. Makes me feel super duper. When I do travel modestly for work there is one stop that is always required before heading to my destination. Cinnabon. You can lay on your, "that's 2,349,583 calories," but I don't know what that means. Cinnabon makes my mouth and tummy sing with joy and satisfaction and that's what's important. Here's to the jetsetting lifestyle!
jetBlue is the Official Airline of Patrick Garrigan
Speaking of jetsetting, let's talk about airlines. jetBlue is the Official Airline of Patrick Garrigan. They have tasty snacks and little TV's that pacify and prevent me from shouting, "I"m going to throw your stupid kid in the cargo bay!" Which is good. Despite my appreciation for the airline, 3 flights back I was checking in and a fat lady who reminded me of Frenchie Davis, who I do not like, would not throw my old baggage tags in the trash can right in front of her. I, like JFK, will forgive, but never forget. More chips, please!
Fall is the Official Season of Patrick Garrigan
With Summer upon us, I can't help but think HOW MUCH I HATE SUMMER. Hey, remember when we could go outside and not feel gallons of sweat pouring down the clefts of our buttocks, saturating our hairy legs, making us wreak of defeated purfume and human menk? Yeah, me too, it's called Fall and it is so much better than this.
Newcastle the Official Beer of Patrick Garrigan
While no one wants to like the British 'cause of the oppression of early Americans, the Irish, India, etc. One thing you can't deny is they know how to make tasty beer. The nutty deliciousness of Newcastle Brown Ale makes me feel okay about being oppressed -but only for the time it takes to finish 12 fl. oz. then I'm fightin' mad again.
Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits is the Official Hangover cure of Patrick Garrigan
What's that you were saying about drinking? Yes, kids, libating is fun, but there can be consequences. Poor choices, hangovers, and rashes, for instance. While I can't do anything about the poor choices or the itchy bits, I can give you some help in the hangover dept. Here it is: go to your neighborhood Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits. Order the 3 piece strips meal with red beans & rice and a biscuit. Problem solved.

Only through learning from wiser persons like myself can you take steps towards Greatness, and really, isn't that why you're reading this? Aaaaaaoohf course it is. Hopefully, these certifications are helpful to you. But I know you, never satiated, you animal! So I will keep providing Official...of Patrick Garrigan's, because you're overall happiness just might depend on it.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Consider, If You Will

Fair readers, a story to ponder:

This weekend I went and met up with my friend Salli for dinner. Now, when I say I met her for dinner, that is to say I got hammered on margaritas -rocks, no salt.

Then I went out for drinks.

At this second venue, Salli and I met up with two lady foreigners. One was a tall Australian and the other a well-coiffed Canadian, both of questionable immigration status.

During the course of drinks, we discussed current events and I donned a fuzzy scarf, leather Gladiator belt, and reenacted scenes from Spartacus, you know, like I do every Friday night. Just when we got to my favorite part when the ladies and I were overlapping -"I am Spartacus." "No, I am Spartacus" "Nay, I am Spartacus"- from the corner of the restaurant barks the order, "DO NOT RUN THAT CARD!!!"

The entire restaurant turns to find a Midwestern looking couple in a state of enraged horror. The gent, a man in his late 50's early 60's and his equally aged wife were demanding to see the owner for being overcharged!

[Editorial: For all you kids who don't live in New York, getting overcharged here is not only accepted it is expected. New York is expensive, so if you come here, don't be a douchebag and go to stores and say outloud, "this is soooo overpriced." It is that pricey for a reason -to keep your cheap ass in planted firmly in whatever shithole you come from.]

What were they being overcharged for that got them so upset? A 16oz. margarita. How did they come to know they were being overcharged? Upon being disappointed in the size of their margarita glass, Mr. Graduated Cylinder here goes to a deli gets a 16oz. bottle of iced tea, comes back to the restaurant and tries unsuccessfully to pour it's contents into the glass. The man then begins a shouting match with the bartender as the barkeep attempts to swipe his credit card.

Agape, the entire restaurant stares at the outraged Fluid Volume Expert. Sensing that he was not going to win this battle, he shouts to his wife, "stay here, I'm going to call 911." It is at the point the puzzled Canadian turns to Salli and I and calmly says:

"This is not an emergency."

Eureka. You know what Neighbor to the North? You are correct, this is not an emergency. This is an emergency:


This is not an emergency:
That is a 16oz. margarita glass, shit-for-brains.

The astute Canadian's comments really stuck with me as I went about the rest of my weekend. Because I care about your well-being, I want you to consider the following: as you review the bumps in the road, the stressors, the complexities of your own life; are your problems reeeeally emergencies or are you just an asshole with an empty tequila cup?

I think I may start my own cult.

---
Holiday Wishes:



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