Archive for the ‘Miller Time’ category

Fotografias, Parte Dos

July 30, 2007

This is part deux. Unfortunately, due to legal issues, I’m unable to post the pictures I just took at the Playboy Mansion celebrating The College Football Tour Guide. Sorry.

The Birthday Fiesta


Yackie made a cookie cake. If you’ve outgrown cookie cake, chances are I don’t associate with you. Efforts to convince Yackie to include my full name in frosting went unfulfilled.


Guns.

You’ll notice the lovely kitchen that couldn’t possibly be mine. My parents were kind enough to let me move all my crap into the casa while waiting to move to the other coast. You’ll also notice that Sully has what appears to be a male gunt (munt?).


One of the central themes to this gala was the Chickadilla. I shouldn’t have to explain what a chickadilla is (triangular chicken finger, quesadilla hybrid), but let it be known that it trumps most other Americanized Italian fast-food appetizers. Pictured: Yackie in the midst of a chickadasm.


Big Daddy Eisner chickadasm. You’ll notice the subtlety and grace with which he eats his chickadilla. Some attribute this to his dipping choice of ranch dressing. Others say he takes Ameci‘s appetizers far too seriously. We may never know.


KtL‘s first chickadilla. I can’t say for sure, but I think Sully loves her a little more after witnessing two of his favorite things in life come together in one magical moment. Sully, in particular, is one of the biggest proponents of the chickadilla in the Greater Los Angeles Area may ever see.


See. Such style, such decisiveness. If you ask me, it’s a wonder he stayed on the market as long as he did. KtL truly has a late round steal in Kevin Sully.


When I blow out birthday candles, I make as much of an effort to appear as primate-y as possible. Just my thing.


Big Daddy Eisner, on the other hand, get’s so excited that his pits explode with anticipation sweat. Miller Time appears to be in drastic need of seconds.


Woo.

The combination of too much chickadilla (some say this phenomena doesn’t exist), too much pizza, too much alcohol, too much cookie cake, and too much milk mixing with all of this wasn’t smart. I’ll save you the details of my night. We’ll leave it at saying that my religious pleas went answered, albeit barely.

The Birthday Dia


Yackie and I decided to go to Ventura for a couple hours for the ol’ 24th birthday. This is the Anacapa Brewing Co., whose greatness was discovered by Yackie and Me, and later confirmed by Sully and KtL. Rating: 5 out of 5 Steinies.


Pulled pork, duh. I get so transfixed by this sandwich that I suck out all of the light behind me. I really have no idea why it seems so cavernous behind me – it looks as if we had to know some sort of password and kill a hobo to get into this place, but I assure you, everything was on the level.


Yackie with her sandwich. She got so excited over this sandwich that she turned pale with excitement. Oh wait, never mind, standard pigmentation.


Artsy fartsy and out of focus. Just how I like it.


Hobo-killing darkness!!


When one reaches 24, he must understand that it’s probably time to start acting more adult and celebrate occasions accordingly. Or so I’m told. Here is some mini-golf and go-karting.


Yackie kept it surprisingly close, considering her lack of wingspan, upside, and athleticism. She’s got what you can’t teach (no, not heart) – sheer luck.


Her form is remarkably below-average, although she makes up for it by viciously cheating with absolutely no remorse. I should probably make a mental note of this.


I never felt weird mini-golfing that day, mostly because we were playing behind the lead singer of Nickelback‘s skinnier, terrible mini-golf playing cousin.


Unmatched focus. Sure, I may have held up some little kids looking to keep moving, but you can’t rush perfection. You just can’t.


Call me a hippy, but I stand by my separation of church and mini-golf ethos.


Look at that form. If Big Daddy Eisner were there, his pits would’ve exploded with form-envy sweat. I closed out the round late, proving once again that my upside and wingspan trumps Yackie’s ability to luck into putts and viciously cheat without remorse.


To celebrate, I sped around in a go-kart that I barely fit into. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t drive the Cole Trickle way. Rubbing=racing, just ask Big Daddy Eisner’s daddy, Big Red Eisner.


Almost the entire race was spent in second place, or as it’s more correctly coined – first place loser. Back to the drawing board I go.


Good times were had by all. I couldn’t catch the first kart, Yackie refused to kart, I bumped somebody illegally while gaining inside position, and my picture is now probably on an “Unwelcome Parties” list at Golf-n-Stuff. Oh well, there’s always next year.