A Brief History Of My Fiscal Irresponsibility – The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Before I start… this is something that Brendan mentioned in his heartbreaking tale about a hot chick telling him she’s blind, but I’m going to repeat it to really make sure the point gets across. We do things because they’re funny to us. Those things we do may also be funny to some of our friends. But much more often that not, they are funny to quite literally nobody else. 0% funny, 100% completely fucking moronic. Our brains are simply wired differently than the general public’s. It’s been said that you must to learn to love yourself before you can love others, and in return have others love you. Well, we’ve got the first part down pat, but have made little to negative progress with the latter. Do we care? Absolutely. At least I do. Nothing matters to me more than the opinions of others. But will I show it? Not a chance. I’ll put on my mask and go about my day and pretend the well-deserved snide remarks/dirty looks/silence from girls I’m interested in didn’t get to me. But they did, do, and always will. I’m sensitive like that. I watch This Is Us for fuck’s sake. I like to shed a tear every now and then. Regardless, we will continue doing what we’ve been doing since the dawn of our days and make no adjustments whatsoever.

On to blog number two for Tommy.

For me to live my life the only whey (side-note: sometimes we spell ‘way’ as ‘whey’ to let females know we lift. There will surely be more words we substitute in for others, but this is the only one I’m going to explain for you. So if you don’t know what we’re saying, just sound the word out and use some common sense) I know how, immaturely and obtusely, I very often will delve into the online shopping world and treat myself usually to whatever product I think would be amusing to own. My Amazon purchase page is more bizarre than the browser history of a budding teenage boy who has lost interest in simply youtubing “girls kissing” and is looking to diversify his fun-time library.

Together, we will take a trip down memory lane and recall some of my most memorable purchases. Each purchase will be rated on a 20-80 scale, much like the scale scouts use in baseball to grade prospects. 20 being a shit purchase, 80 being worth every penny. Factors taken into consideration include price, how often I use the item, and how it funny/unfunny it was. And speaking of baseball, I was quite the prospect back in high school. Would’ve went D1 but then I got hurt and that put an end to my major league dreams. What a bummer. At least when I tell that to girls, I:

1. Receive an enormous amount of sympathy from them – “Oh you poor thing!! How about I make it all better 😉”

2. Can brag about what a tremendous athlete I was without having to back it up with any sort physical activity. “Sorry babe, I’d love to buckle the knees of that annoying punk with a 92 mph slider, but the doc says no more pitching or I could lose the arm for good. Can’t risk it”

How did I get hurt? Not important. Let’s get to what you came here for.

_____________________________

PURCHASE #1: Women’s Tap Shoes, $19.50

I should first say that when I bought these, I was not aware they were women’s shoes. As a matter of fact, I didn’t realize until about halfway through the night when I thought “holy fuck these things are tight.”

Why I Bought Them: Short story. The pals and I were watching Family Feud one night. Steve Harvey is going down the line, introducing the members of the family. One guy claims he’s a professional tap dancer, goes center stage, and starts doing his jig. One of my friends is particularly impressed… I am not. Not one bit. “This guy is so full of shit. I could do that in my sleep,” I say. My friend fires back, “Oh yeah? Prove it?” 10 minutes later the shoes were bought, paid for, and shipped.

When/How Often I Wore Them: It took a while to break them out. The made their debut July 3rd, 2018 at our favorite bar. This place is actually a half-bar, half-club, so I thought tearing up the dance floor in some tap shoes would surely get some hunnies by my side. I lace ‘em up and I’m out the door. Big night ahead of me. Only problem? The place was a ghost town. At one point I was the only one on the dance floor. I was particularly looking forward to sneaking on the DJ stage and putting on a show before getting kicked off, but it was so dead that he didn’t even give a shit when I made my way up there. Regardless of the low view count, I still got some laughs and even a shout-out over the speakers. Very cool!


Grade: 50/80. Fun idea, fair price, good execution. But a small audience and no repeat tap-dancing nights force me to knock its rating down a tad.

___________________________

PURCHASE #2: LED Light-Up Sneakers, $55


Why I Bought Them: I was at work and saw a very young child with a light up pair of Sketchers. Instant nostalgia. I proudly owned a pair back in kindergarten and they were a hit. I would lead the way into the movie theater, “lighting up the night” for my family on our way to see Ice Age. When I was picked in duck, duck, goose (which was a lot because I was the coolest god damn kid back then), the lights would become a blur because I was so fast, plus they would be a distraction to whoever was chasing me, giving me an advantage I frankly did not need, because of the speed.

By the way, is there a title for the person doing the chasing in that game? I know the ducks are the losers who never got picked, and the gooses were either the popular kids (me) or the fat kids because they were easy to catch… but the chaser? Let’s put a name to the face right now:

Wolf, Eagle, Bear, Raccoon, Fox. Take your pick.

When/How Often I Wore Them: Once. I got to wear them one fucking time at a run-of-the-mill hangout because these pieces of shit broke within a week. I hate to use such a hostile tone, but it’s only because I loved them so much. These things didn’t just light up when you took a step, they had a permanent flashing setting. Actually, setting(s). More than one. They would blink blue, red, green. Flash all colors at once. Act as a strobe light that would trigger an epileptic seizure in a millisecond (remember the movie Miss March made by the WKUK guys? How about the scene where the chick seizes mid blowie and bites Trevor’s yogurt slinger? Ouch). I made sure to make the most of my time with these bad boys though. It’s a darn shame they didn’t last as they would’ve saved me at least 20-25% on my electric bill. Light up the night.


Grade: 35/80. So much potential these shoes had, but what a bust they turned out to be. Jeff Francouer-esque career. Got off to a scorching hot start only to turn into a bigger disappointment than every one of my last attempts at dating (“You’re really nice and funny, but…”). As they say, the brightest stars burn out the fastest.

_________________________

PURCHASE #3: Olympic Team Handball Net, $179.99

Why I Bought It: … Why the fuck did I buy this? I mean, Brendan and I were two-time European Handball Tournament champions in high school (Brendan was just a coach for the second one, but every team member gets a ring so I’ll count it). Did I think that I could continue that success and play for Team USA or something? Well I obviously couldn’t have because of that stupid sports injury that prevented me from becoming the transcendent athlete I was destined blossom into. I really don’t have an explanation for this one.

When/How Often I Used It: Once again, this was just a one time use for Tommy. Luckily however, it provided somewhat of a lasting impact. A few neat pics of me were snapped while I was shooting on it, which I promptly used as one of my Tinder photos.

Look at those legs

That is… until I was banned from the app.

Apparently, “I’ve been watching a lot of Dexter recently and I’m just looking for people to kill” is not the best pick-up line. But I say leave that for the big-city slams to decide, not the dumb fucks from corporate trying to silence my profile. #NotMyDatingApp

Grade: 20/80. Gonna be hard to get worse than this one. But hard doesn’t mean impossible. We can do it. Together.

Barry Zito-esque 12-6 Curve

Before I get into this one allow me to disclose something. Tommy and I often stir up/stumble into plenty of hi-jinx that we both find funny to each other and those close to us, but not so much anyone outside of that. I guess this one falls under the ‘birds of a feather’ saying or probably more accurately ‘misery loves company’ because I love my friends and we are all some miserable fucks. With all that being said I doubt this is a story that you would not be able to find humor in and basically something that can only really happen once.

Before I get into this once in a lifetime boondoggle I created for myself I’ll paint the scene. It’s Saturday in late March. The weather is not important whatsoever nor do I remember it but if I had to guess it was probably a pretty nice as we had a pretty mild winter here on Long Island. The group is getting together to hit the bars a few towns over. All the girls are excited, the guys not so much but we didn’t really bother coming up with anything else to do so we decided to tag along. On my feet I have a relatively old pair of sneakers that I managed to keep pretty clean but don’t mind getting dirty, hence the bar shoes. On my ass I’m wearing one of the two pairs of jeans I own. I need to get more jeans or other leg wear because khaki takes up most of my closet space and I believe “Call Her Daddy” said khaki was out. Crushing blow my wardrobe. The jeans I have on are a little snug, so snug that I once blew the button out of them trying to squeeze my magnum dong into but like I said I only have one other pair and I couldn’t find the other ones. On my chest, an LA Rams 2019 Super Bowl Champions t-shirt that I paid too much money for but got more laughs than I had expected so let’s call it a wash. On my mind, nothing. Blank. I take one look in the mirror and think one thing:

We get to the pre-game spot and things are off to a good start. My t-shirt gets a laugh and a comment, and not a sole makes fun of me for my jeans that are too tight. Things are going better than expected. It’s late March so we’re watching the basketball tournament cheering for our brackets. I’m in second to last only in front of a chap by the name of Logan who actually forgot to fill the thing out entirely. I polish off the last of my Bud Light Platinums because they remind me of drinking in the woods after school with my friends and we pile into our Uber, where things begin to take a slight turn for the worst. Uber says he left his aux in his other car, which I thought was bullshit but whatever, so we’re forced to chop it up the old fashioned way. When we arrive on Main Street we receive news that our number one spot is going to be a no-go for various reasons. If you’ve made it this far, things are about to get good for you.

We hit the first bar of the evening despite them charging an annoying cover. I pay for my friends, he buys me my first drink. Great trade for me, the drink was more expensive than the cover. We shimmy our way to the bar and that’s when I see her. The girl that I am ready to spend the rest of my life with. I take a few more steps towards the bar as she starts to walk away from it. We’re facing each other at this point but there’s a few people between us. A few more steps. We’re now a mere couple of inches from each other. I’m not sure if I made any kind of gesture. Maybe I raised my eyebrows like some kind of asshole, or maybe smiled which would have sucked because my smile is kind of shitty and my wink is exponentially worse. We lock eyes and time freezes. As far as I know the two of us have the bar to ourselves. I black out for a second and the rest of my life flashes in front of me. I see our wedding day. The birth of our first child. The way she consoles me when I get laid off. And the day she decides she’s had enough and hands me the divorce papers. The American fuckin’ dream. Time starts up again and she opens her mouth to say something. What I expect to hear: “Hey handsome! Funny T-shirt and no way are those jeans too tight, not even in Europe!”, or “Excuse me I need to get to my friends”, or even something more aggressive like “Let’s spend the rest of our lives together starting right now”. She did not say even a single one of those words. What she said is something I truly hope no other big city snipey ever says to me again. Two words I’ll never forget come out her mouth. “I’m blind”. True story. Crushing blow before I could even get the words out, which I probably wouldn’t have done anyway.

Two things made me mad about this. One is that it took me back to the point where I wasn’t able to come up with any sort of funny rebuttal or anything like that. I’m usually pretty quick on my feet but this time I had the yipps and then some and then some more. The other is that I had no idea if she was lying or not. I mean she probably was because how else would she have even known I was there, but what I’m going to choose to believe now is that she was blinded by my dashing good looks. Don’t try to correct me, you weren’t there and it will only make me feel worse about myself. The rest of the night didn’t get much better. Tommy dropped my phone and it broke the screen. My friend Carter and I decided separate Uber’s home was the best course of action but really only ended up being more expensive than anything else, and when I eventually got home I saw the mint leaves from the mojitos we were drinking because they rhyme with best bros. Also because I puked them into the toilet at my parents house because I guess I was eating the mint leaves from my mojito.

I’ve told this story a couple times since it happened and nobody really was able to make heads or tails of it. Hats off to the girl that stole my heart within moments of doing the same activity that a considerable amount of people my age do on weekends. I’m not bitter anymore and actually got over it and thought it was funny a couple minutes after this whole debacle. But I must give credit where credit is due, she managed to kill me with a curve that would make 2006 NLCS Adam Wainwright jealous.

I guess Carlos Beltran and I have something in common now. Sorry Tommy I know how much you love the Mets. Over and out.

Allow me to Introduce Myself

Greetings. I see you made the mistake of coming to my new blog. This is not Tommy. This is Brendan. Sometimes I like to go by Dave and I don’t really have an explanation as to why I do that. So for now on I am to be referred to as either Brendan OR Dave, not both. Like many other bloggers I live with my mom, however I’m only 23 years young so it’s not really embarrassing when I tell girls that because houses are expensive and I don’t have a girlfriend to share it with, but maybe after I throw a few words on a page and a little luck that’ll change. Also that last sentence wasn’t entirely accurate because it alludes to the fact that I actually talk to girls. I mean not that I only communicate with other men, I have my fake ex-wife but that’s a whole can of worms I’m not going to open right now and my mom and also my brothers wife, but as of the time of this blog Ole’ Davey Boy and big city snipey’s are not seeing eye to eye. What’re you going to do I guess? I was Born and raised on the mean streets of central Long Island where things weren’t always as easy as the stereotypes make it seem. When I was just hitting my teen years my parents decided not to replace the broken heater for our indoor pool and instead just relied on the fucking sun to heat it. My lacrosse team was pretty much always mediocre, and just last week my brother left my go-to Patagonia snap back in his friend’s parents Vermont cabin for their yearly ski-trip. Bullshit.

Anyhoo, like almost everyone in this world, except for Tom Brady because he’s good at everything, and that schmuck Chris Connor who stinks at everything, I am good at some things and pretty not good at others, maybe most. I’ve never blogged anything before so maybe I’m not good at it yet, but at one point drinking light beers, bench pressing (because I lift, ladies), and being a virgin didn’t come easy to me but now I would say I’m pretty fucking good at all those things. A borderline savant some might say. Some actually have said. But for now we’ll leave being a blogger somewhere in the middle of being good and being pretty not good. With all that being said feedback is very encouraged unless you’re just going to make fun of me like everyone would do on TikTok, that would not be appreciated, and honestly wouldn’t make me a better blogger. Which is why we’re here. So I can be the Shakespeare of the internet, and you can laugh. Which is another thing I’m good at and have the yearbook picture to prove it and god willing I learn how to use this website I’ll plug that.

If you read our first post you already know that I like Instagram likes and tank tops (the part about smashing your chick was unfortunately satire), but that doesn’t tell the whole story. I like light beer which is where most of my nonsensical ideas stem from, I love the Jets the way vegans love cauliflower rice, and really just drumming up some shenanigans, which is mostly what I’ll be spewing on this here website, if you will.

That’s all that I can come up with for now, so I guess we shall check back in next time assuming I don’t get bored of this too quickly as I often move from one thing to the next very, very quickly. Over and out.

I know what you’re thinking – “who is this handsome guy on my screen and why am I not having sex with him?”

Hey guys. I’m Tom. This is Brendan. We’re officially bloggers now, as you can see from our blog. Nobody can take that title away from us, hard as they may try. And I have a feeling they’re really gonna try hard as we were met with our first #hater within 3 hours of announcing our new online presence.

Hi Chris. Oh, you do cross-fit? How about you cross-fuck off (Letterkenny, “Ain’t No Reason To Get Excited”) and do a chin up or something

Anyways, this is our inaugural post, so let me formally introduce the two of us. We’re just a couple of kooks in our 20’s who think we’re funny. We like Instagram likes, we like tank tops, and we’re smashing your chick. Only thing is my last Instagram post only got 56 likes (yikes), I only own one tank top (Bucci OT challenge tank that I bought, didn’t win [fraud]), and your chick is comfortably snuggled up next to you on this rainy Sunday afternoon while you nurse your very minor hangover because you’re responsible – you know your limits when it comes to drinking and didn’t overdo it the other night.

And this is where we come in. We don’t know our limits. We really don’t have one actually. We spent most of last night hitting each other with a metal chair because it doesn’t actually hurt.

In addition to a blogger I am now also a Youtuber it seems

That’s what we plan to do with this blog. Recapping our weekends and be funny on the days that aren’t on the weekend – Monday, Thursday, Friday, Tuesday, and the fifth one. We hope you like it. If you don’t, it won’t come as a surprise at all since our piers (or is it peers? Idk the word I’m trying to say is the people we hang out with, not the wooden dock that extends out from the shoreline into the water) don’t like us as people.

Works Cited Page

Keeso, Jared, et al. “Letterkenny/Ain’t No Reason To Get Excited.” Season 1, episode 1.