Sticky Notes - I wrote this drunk.


I'm sucking down a tequila soda, watching two dozen piss-drunk motorcyclists stumble around the checkered floor of a barroom like tattooed penguins trying to find their footing on a wobbly sheet of ice.

They're yelling and hollering at one another, each pretending to comprehend what the other is getting at, giving the impression of babbling toddlers saying something very pressing into the mouth of a plastic toy phone. 

One of the bikers cocks back and slaps another biker with an open hand that let's out an audible clap in the barroom that rifles over the blaring music.

The slapped biker holds his face like a child that has just been reprimanded and for a moment I think he is going to cry but he finds his footing and his pride, cocks back his own hand and slaps the slapper something nasty in return.

More slapping ensues and before I know it, I'm watching four or five middle-aged men cladded in leather slap each other red whilst laughing sadistically like hyenas high out of their minds on speed. 

By this point, the bikers drunken stupor has caused them to form what could best be described as a collective brain. They're moving about the room in exactly the same manner, they're cackling in the same cadence, they're dancing in much the same rhythm and they're all drinking the same boos: enough Jim Beam to dissolve the bark off a 50-foot Oak tree and enough Bud Light to fill a killer whale exhibit at Sea World. 

Overcome with some sort of primal urge, one of the bikers rips the shirt from his body and throws it at a wall. He's covered in fat-widened tattoos badly faded from the sun and save for his jeans that give his legs an artificial stream-lined look, his body resembles that of a melted push-pop.

To my horror, I watch as the remaining bikers think this stunt to be holy and follow suit, ripping their black shirts and leather vests and denim jackets from their brutish bodies.

All of these bikers have nearly identical physiques: arching spines from years hunched over their hogs, burly arms from years of clinging tight to their reigns and large stomach from years of unfathomable liquor consumption.

My girl grabs the mic to sing karaoke at the bar with her friend John, stopping  the AC/DC blaring over the speakers.

The sudden silence as the Karaoke song is being queued creates enormous confusion in the drunken bikers that soon leads to a few of them being properly pissed off.

A tall, flimsy-looking biker that resembles a mouth-breathing meerkat lets out a terrible roar as he clenches his fist, sending a tremble in his tatted paunch.

"What the hell is this!", he yells. 

One of his fellow bikers puts a heavy callused hand on his bony shoulder in hopes to calm him down. They both lose their balance as they attempt to drink the other's beer and then stumble into a booth off to the side of the barroom, where the skinny, mouth-breathing meerkat begins to violently sob and then hysterically laugh and then violently sob again. 

Another biker starts to share his two drunken cents but is silenced by a security guard that looks like he could play Centre line for the Tennessee Titans.

The biker looks the security guard up and down, decides he doesn't have a dog in the fight and scampers back to the bar top where he steals a messy pull from a beer belonging to an old, leathered looking biker tonguing a girl that doesn't appear to be too much older than twenty-one. 

We eventually leave the bar to venture to another bar not infested with a hoard of wannabe Hell's Angels where outside, I see fifty glistening Harley Davidson Choppers in all shapes and sizes, waiting on their riders to return from their debauchery,

Harley Davidson did about $4.5 billion last year in revenue with many of their customers belonging to the rowdy bunch of swashbuckling lunatics raising hell at the bar I was at last night. 

Many of them work as roofers, landscapers, factory workers, janitors, dishwashers; any gig they can take up as quickly as they can put down so they can make enough dough to ratchet on another part to their metal horse. 

And I'm telling you all of this not because I'm a wannabe Hunter S. Thompson but because it's worth remembering that the customers that are the life blood of billion dollar brands aren't just affluent college-graduate professionals living and working in New York City and Los Angeles. No. They're the strange misfits inhabiting the 2,776 miles in-between.



P.S. I don't talk this dirty in all my advertising 👇🏾

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Or, again, just buy me a damn drink... 

Bottoms up.

Growing up in Southern Indiana, there were two kinds of athletes: The Specialist and The Generalist.

The Specialist would play a single sport year round and he would dedicate all of his time, energy and physical and mental bandwidth to mastering that sport.

For me, this was basketball.

The Generalist, on the other hand, would play multiple sports that would change with the seasons and he would dedicate all of his time, energy and physical and mental bandwidth to becoming competent in all of them.

Outside of sports, it’s apparent that certain vocations and industries require Specialists and others, Generalists.

You don’t want the individual performing your LASIK sur...

Eyeing you.

Not unlike assholes, everybody has an opinion to share and criticism to give.

Especially online, where critics are safe from the risk of getting slapped across the face if they say something horrendously daft (… and where everyone seems to be handsomely rewarded for pretending they know what the fuck they’re talking about).

Naturally, this makes life absolute hell for those of us writing and creating online because the moment we’ve done something we are genuinely proud of, we look up to find an asshole in our face, criticizing us on how we should have gone about the thing differently.

For reasonably self-aware writers like myself –– who don’t want to become full-blown narcissists like Kanye...

Zebra cakes, anyone?
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