After drinking an exotic cocktail at a popular party resort in Crete, 19 year old Corinne Coyle’s face swelled to abnormally large proportions.
The cocktail, bought in a Greek bar for 10 euros (£7.80), and served in a bowl, is said to contain a mixture of Baileys, chilli powder, tequila, absinthe, ouzo, vodka, cider and gin, plus a ’secret ingredient’.
The bar would not reveal what it’s “secret ingredient” was, but rumors have surfaced that it’s a potent dosage of “Ugly Stick”.
She returned safely back home to the UK, but as of yet, her facial features have not returned to normal. And I have to admit, after seeing the pictures, I was horrified by what the drink had done to this poor girl’s face.
You should read the rest of the article. I would describe my feelings as somewhere between sadness and hilarity. Either way, there are some great pics in there.
It seemed like only yesterday I was ushering the smooth summer breeze, breathing in deep the freedom of the 4th of July and enjoying the long days of summer. And I blinked my eyes, and now it’s over. What the hell, man?! What did you do?
It went by too quick. Luckily for me, I live where the seasons don’t change. So I’ll still be gettin plenty of sunshine, but the there will be less bikinis, less barbeques, and markedly less sunlight. Alas…
But it’s not a total loss. This summer was a pretty good one. And this past Labor Day weekend ended the summer on a good note. A bit of beach, a good amount of drunk, and a few funny stories. I’ll share two of them with you.
The Yagerbomb.
I went down to visit a friend in Newport Beach, which for the record, is way far south in Orange County. It’s about 50 miles from where I live, but a friend just moved down there, right next to the beach, so me and my buddy Skip went down there.
We started the night off with some nice drinking. Delicious Coronas with limes. This girl had a few of her friends visiting from Staten Island (the forgotten burrow of NYC), one of whom tried to convince me she had a pet goat. Then I told her “I have nipples. Can you can milk me?”
She did. And it was awkward.
So we all headed out to the bar by her house. I randomly ran into the Producer of that sketch “Porn PA” I did almost two years ago on the way to the bar. i literally haven’t seen this guy since that shoot day. He was about fourty pounds lighter, and mentioned something about rehab, so I didn’t prod too far. Good guy though.
I digress. We’re at the bar. It’s a rip roaring good time and I’m feeling the effects of those Coronas. Niiice. This huge party of dudes rolls into the bar all dressed up — suit, tie, a few corsets. It’s a wedding party, post-wedding, and they’re there to celebrate.
One of them walks up to the bartender and says, “Steve. 12 Yagerbombs, man!”. And so the Bartender starts pouring an rediculously large number of Yagerbombs. The crowd moves in, everyone grabbing one. And so do I. I sneak my hand underneath the group of hands, shout out a fake “Yeeeaahhh cheers!!”. I shoot it down, and immediately turn back around to my group of friends, like nothing happened
It was perhaps the smoothest shot-steal in the history of man. Certainly my finest. It may be one of those “you had to be there to get it” stories — you know, to see a group of 12 guys in tuxedos toasting and one dude in flip-flops and a stained white tshirt trying to pretend he belongs.
Anyway, I was lucky enough to hear one of those guys say later, “God damnit. I just spent $150 on Yagerbombs” Yes you did. Sowwwwy.
That was the highlight of the evening. That and the bartender at the next bar who had rediculously mondo fake tats (think bowling balls on a stick). She gave me and Skip a free shot with a weird name — like “hairy vagina” or “scrotum face” or something.
The Neckbrace.
So the weekend was INFX, if you will. This I believe was Friday night. A group of us went out to this dive bar in East LA (I rarely ever go to that side of town), and it’s Hipster Nation. Bowling hats, tight jeans, fedoras, thick-rimmed glasses. Everyone there was a Hipster, and they were giving ME dirty looks for wearing a plain blue t-shirt. (more…)
Per the suggestion of “Mike” (a dude I met yesterday with a CamelBak hooked up to a box-o-wine), I stopped by “Hippie Hill” on my way to the festival. And as he promised, the ganja was as plentiful as the drum circles and unwashed body parts. After haggling with a Jamaican woman named “Momma”, I procured said goods, and bounded down to Day 2 of this epic festival.
The doors opened early today – 1PM – which, keeping with the festival’s mantra, meant more musicians crammed on more stages. 26 bands to be exact. The schedule was tight. But today I had a plan. I already had my beer bracelet from yesterday, and I knew the festival grounds, so I was ready for the increased quantity of bands. I was prepped…
It starts with an “Excuse me, sir. Would you mind moving your seat?” But I’m not at the concert, I’m on my American Airlines flight en route to San Francisco for this weekend’s Outside Lands Festival. “Sure”, I said. No problem. It’s f*cking 9 in the morning and all I want to do is sleep.
As I move seats, I’m told “I’ll be taken care of”. Indeed. I’m sat next to an attractive 40 year-old off-duty flight attendant on her way back home. She knows everyone on the plane – old work buddies – and within minutes, I have a complimentary mimosa in my hand. Then a bottle of champagne. More mimosas. Oh boy. She tells me I have the “best eyes she’s ever seen”. This is apparently her weak spot, as we spent the next few hours making out in between free drinks. No need to get into detail, but I’ll just say the service on that flight was outstanding. I even got a free bottle of wine on my way out…
This weekend, I will be covering this kick-ass music festival up in San Francisco for the equally kick-ass indie music website QuietColor. I’ll be featuring snippets here on PMP, but stay tuned to their website for full coverage. It will be their featured article(s) over the weekend.
Currently, I would equate my giddiness to that of a prepubescent teenager about to see ‘N Sync circa 1998. In fact, a good portion of my travel bag is packed with extra panties for when my current ones get moist. It’s Titillation Town, and I’m the Mayor. “Why?” you ask. “Why are you so freakin’ excited? And what’s with all these stupid analogies?”
The answer is simple. I’m about to fly to San Francisco to go see Radiohead, Beck, Cold War Kids, and Lyrics Born. Oh yeah, and that’s just the first night. Saturday night: Tom Petty, Cake, Donavon Frankenreiter, Ben Harper, Primus, and Steve Winwood, among countless others. It’s a concert of epic proportions, and Quiet Color is packing heat…
We’ve all been on the airplane for a mind-numbingly long flight — bored out of our ass — and picked up the copy of the standard in-flight magazine SkyMall. After about 100 pages of lawn ornaments and technology from 1998, you have to wonder “who the f*ck buys this shit?”
If you’ve never been down to New Orleans (or “N’Arlins” as it pronounced), especially down to the French Quarter which holds Burboun Street, then you truly haven’t lived. And by “haven’t lived”, I mean—you haven’t seen the streets overflow with a beautiful mix of booze, pee, trash, and throw up–only to be trounced upon by a horde of drunk people so thick, you can barely move.
The police need horses to get around, and even they shed a naughty smile at the flashing of flesh. Beads are as good as currency. There are no open container laws, no real closing times for bars, and certainly no carding IDs at the door. I mean, the place is like Outback Steak House—No rules. (And their Bloomin Onion is off the charts!)
And I must say, I was a tad skeptical of how crowded Bourbon Street would be post-Katrina, but I was pleasantly surprised to see it chaotically full. Fuller than I honestly ever imagined. People hanging like monkeys from every railing, and freaks of all sorts out to enjoy the fresh, tainted air.
So here are some highlights:
- We were walking on Bourbon Street, beads around are neck. And there’s a crowd around some rather attractive ladies—which means one thing—they are trading visions of their funbags for some beads. We, of course, go to see. And do.
And upon turning around, we slam right into this drunk older woman, an ugly late 40s, and of course yell “Show us your tits!” (that’s the anthem of the street). We weren’t serious…but she was. And she lifted up her shirt and held it there. It was a sight for saggy eyes. And as I tried to shove beads at her to get her to put her shirt back down, she pushed the beads away and scalded me:
“I’m just a French Quarter girl in a French Quarter world” . She would take no payment–as the horror on my face was apparently payment enough.
And after she said this, she released the shirt (thank god) and started to walk away. Now, she clearly didn’t care, but her right tit was still just hanging out of the sweater. Just bobbing out of her shirt. Walking down Burboun Street, one boob fully out and swaying. People scattered at the sight, babies started to cry in distant houses. One of the police horses fearfully shit at the site, and galloped off.
- I’m told that there is “topless bullriding” by the Duke. When I get there, all I see is drunk Southern frat boys hootin’ and hollarin’. No topless anything. Just drunk dudes yellin, “’Ey! Skeeter! Ride that bull like granpappy taught ya!” So I step up, and ride the bull. And I think I got a concussion on my second go. (more…)
I never really get days off from work. My job isn’t one of those 9-5, three weeks vacation-type jobs that all you fatcats enjoy. You topfeeders know what I’m talking about–exhuberant trips with you caviar buffets and rainbow parties. High class call girls, chess, and champagne. But me… I basically get time off for holidays, and that’s it. So that’s why I had this brilliant idea over my holiday vacation…
I’m going down to New Orleans!!! The Big Easy. Bourbon Street. Jazz Junction. Titties in my face. You know, the good stuff. And what better time than New Years??!! It’s gonna be rowdy—fun, crazy, drunk—all that debauchery you see in movies, only realer. Tities actually IN my face. Hitting it. Brushing up against it. Whispering in my ear “Hello. Can you feel me?”
And best of all, my best friend from growing up lives down there now. I love this kid. His name is Adam (aka “Ad Dukes” aka “The Duke of Earl” aka “Balls over Baghdad”). And what’s better than free lodging and good times with the MF Dukes?
So I book the trip, and head there on Dec. 30th. Down to New Orleans to stay with the Duke. I am so pumped. I mean, I haven’t gone on a trip in like a year and a half. This was it. He had booked a balcony on Bourbon Street with an open bar for New Years Eve. So pumped.
Now I must note here, that my friend Dukes is a notorious party-pooper. Well, let me correct that–HE’S not so much a party-pooper, but he brings this curse of party-pooperness with him. When you go on a trip with him, you expect something very critical to go wrong. Something that ruins everyone’s time. This has been going on since high school. So much that we deemed a term for it long ago: “Adam Weekend”. (note: its pronounced “Aaaaaaddam Weeeekend” with a very depressed, drawn-out delivery. Usually while shaking your head)
Now, you must be thinking to yourself, “Come on. Cut the Duke some slack!!” Sure. But a few quick examples should set your mind in the right mood. We went on a ski trip with him—He had rented a HUGE condo ON the mountain! There was like 15 of us going, a real great group….and we get there, and they had no records of him renting the condo. Or anything. There was no place for us to stay. So we crammed in a 2-bedroom—all 15 of us.
I went down to visit a friend in Newport Beach, which for the record, is way far south in Orange County. It’s about 50 miles from where I live, but a friend just moved down there, right next to the beach, so me and my buddy Skip went down there.
We’ve all been on the airplane for a mind-numbingly long flight — bored out of our ass — and picked up the copy of the standard in-flight magazine SkyMall. After about 100 pages of lawn ornaments and technology from 1998, you have to wonder “who the f*ck buys this shit?”
If you’ve never been down to New Orleans (or “N’Arlins” as it pronounced), especially down to the French Quarter which holds Burboun Street, then you truly haven’t lived. And by “haven’t lived”, I mean—you haven’t seen the streets overflow with a beautiful mix of booze, pee, trash, and throw up–only to be trounced upon by a horde of drunk people so thick, you can barely move. 
- I’m told that there is “topless bullriding” by the Duke. When I get there, all I see is drunk Southern frat boys hootin’ and hollarin’. No topless anything. Just drunk dudes yellin, “’Ey! Skeeter! Ride that bull like granpappy taught ya!” So I step up, and ride the bull. And I think I got a concussion on my second go. 
I never really get days off from work. My job isn’t one of those 9-5, three weeks vacation-type jobs that all you fatcats enjoy. You topfeeders know what I’m talking about–exhuberant trips with you caviar buffets and rainbow parties. High class call girls, chess, and champagne. But me… I basically get time off for holidays, and that’s it. So that’s why I had this brilliant idea over my holiday vacation…
