Propeller Skies

I hate Atlanta.

Every year, the fucking Braves choke in the first round of the playoffs. Despite all of Bernie Marcus’ cash, and Michael Vick, the Falcons never manage winning season. Even better, the Hawks have not won a basketball game since Christopher Columbus discovered America. The Thrashers get a pass, despite a distinct lack of playoff appearances, because hockey is awesome.

The metro area population consists of a never ending supply of chronically irritating $30,000 millionaires, clueless white trash, illegal immigrants, motherfucking goddamn baptists, and genaral dumbasses.

Traffic is ridiculous. However, the government refuses to build more roads - despite extorting a communist car tax on an annual basis from the long suffering citizenry. I guess Vernon Jones’ security detail is not free.

Liquor, beer, and wine are not sold on Sundays.

So I bought a place in Atlanta.

After getting crocked at the oyster festival, Chesty McNasterson, Greta Von Dom, and I set off for an art show. However, someone was a little under the weather, so we stopped in L5P for burgers and tots at the Vortex.

While waiting for a table, I asked the bartender to surprise me with an India Pale Ale (IPA). She hooked me up with one from Lugunitas Brewing Company in Petaluma, California, which The Vortex just started carrying. The IPA was mighty tasty, and I have some in my private stash, but I still prefer Loose Cannon for every day drinking purposes.

Two Lagunitas IPAs later, we finally got a table. I overheard the waitress* mention, “I feel like a baby sitter,” to Chesty McNasterson**.

“Really, do you have to give spankings?”

“I can for twenty dollars.”

“I don’t have that much on me.”

Chesty McNasterson’s friend Joyce fronts the cash. The waitress bends me over a table, takes off her belt, and whips me. I enjoyed it. Additionally, watching looks of surprise, disgust, and fear cross the faces of the yuppie patrons was priceless.

notes:

* Yes, I know the proper politically correct tree hugging hippie liberal term is “server”. However, I don’t give a fuck.
** Who was sober.

Some time ago, I woke up early and headed over to Steinbeck’s with recurring Propeller Skies characters Chesty McNasterson and Greta Von Dom. I think Steinbeck’s was having some kind of oyster festival. I am generally opposed to such gatherings, because eating oysters requires effort on my part. However, they also serve beer, so I agreed to go along for the ride.

Beer was served up outside by two hotties. I drank enough beer to later get shot down by one of the aforementioned beer wenchs*.

Fire Franchione already. Gary Arnell’s (lack of) defense collapsed and the Cornhuskers scored the game winner. Gary Arnell is an embarrassment to the state of Texas. Governor Rick Perry should execute that punk ass motherfucker as a public service.

After the game was over, I ran into an old acquaintance, The Tree Hugging Hippie Prius Driver. She was hanging with a bunch of hotties, so I strolled over and started chatting with her. While I was busy chatting up one of The Tree Hugging Hippie Prius Driver’s fine friends, a smokin’ blonde joined the group. A few synapses fired, despite my best efforts to drown them all, and I asked her, “are you interested in Mr. Fangs?”

“Why, do you throw up the pieces?”

“No, I take the photographs. Do you have a Myspace page?”

“Yes”

“Are you Samantha?”

“Yes, you recognized me from my picture?”

“Yes.”

Samantha is even more fly in person than in her photograph**. We have quite a bit in common***, so I considered asking for her number, but I am just not bad ass enough to satisfy her. For example, I would never snort blow on I-85 while driving her to dinner.

notes:

* Who I later found slinging PBR behind the bar at Moe’s and Joe’s at the beginning of an over-organized pub crawl I bailed on. The wankers running it had name tags made up. What the fuck kind of pub crawl requires name tags? A lame motherfucking pub crawl, that’s what kind.
** But only because I didn’t take it.
*** We both attended the Black Keys concert and enjoy Terrapin Rye Pale Ale.