DMV

I know, I know. It's cliche to make fun of the DMV. All the jokes have already been made, and they weren't that funny the first time. We all know the deal: it takes forever, people there are stupid and/or foreign, etc, etc. I have no jokes about the DMV. In fact, most of my DMV experiences haven't been too bad. Matter of fact, the DC DMV was the best I've been to. I've also dealt with DMVs in Pennsylvania and Virginia, and Virginia by far was the worst.

So it is with much dread that I am facing my return to Virginia license and registration. To work there you need proof that not only were you born in a third-world country, but that English is your eighth language. Of course, that can only help when 92% of the stinky hooligans in line are also garbage-can-born Anglophobes.

Last time I was at a Virginia DMV I saw a woman who learned how to apply makeup from a circus clown. Despite her best efforts, she managed to get not a drop of color on her actual lips. She did, however, cover the rest of her face. I remember a commercial or movie from years ago, not sure which, where a woman was trying to put on lipstick in an airplane bathroom during massive turbulence. The result was lipstick all over her face. I was reminded of this, although I had a sneaking suspicion this woman applied hers in a house that experienced zero turbulence. The best part was her daughter (?) was there. She HAD to know that was not the proper way to apply makeup. But she said nothing. She said nothing.

Which brings me to my favorite game to play while at the DMV: Why Is He/She Retarded. The above example is obvious. And easy. But everyone is retarded in some way. A lot of times it's visual. A Member's Only jacket. Shirt tucked in with no belt. Velcro shoes. But other times you don't know they're retarded until they open their mouth and prove it.

And I don't mean retarded as in Down Syndrome. I mean retarded as in these people suck at life.

Anyways, I have some good times ahead of me. Can't wait.

Abbreves: When It's Gone Too Far

Look, I'll be the first one to admit that I love abbreviations. So much that I abbreviate "abbreviations" to "abbreves." Most people look at me like I have a dick growing out of my forehead when I say it. But that's their fault.

Certain abbreves are completely acceptable, and frankly awesome. Take Tecmo Super Bowl, the greatest video game ever (that's the one with a New York Giants player on the cover, for NES). That name is way too much to say. Instead, it's Super Tec. Simple. Obvious. Sexy.


Others are questionable, but not entirely annoying. When I was in junior high we'd play basketball and a friend of mine would make a shot then say, "Hey get my reeb." As in rebound. See that? Not great, kind of gay, but not completely annoying.

But there are rules to creating abbreves. You can only shorten the word by removing syllables from the end of the word. I thought that was obvious. There are two false abbreves that make me want to kick a cat (which I really wanted to do anyway).

The first is the abbreve of "parents" as "rents." Use "rents" in a sentence. 'I saw my rents today.' Wait, what got rinsed? Did you clean it first? What the hell are you talking about?

Then there is "za" for pizza. Look, I know two syllables is a lot to ask for these days. But does a five letter word really need to be shortened to two? Are you a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?

At the bottom of the pile of useless human beings are the ones who legitimately use instant messaging syntax in normal conversations. "OMG" is gay enough; don't bring it from text to speech. Any time I hear "BFF" I assume it was spoken by a fourteen-year-old girl who has covered her bedroom walls with "Twilight" posters because "OMG, vampires are just so hot." When I turn around to see that it was spoken by a 30-year-old woman, I know God has forsaken us. LOL, LMAO, BTW, OISMLGSXIIUZNRIGKFLSDDFIJOVPVPV.

GFY.

(Go fuck yourself). That one's for me.

Damn You

Alright, dammit.

I had thought for the last few (seven?) months that I was locked out of this site, thus corking my outlet for hating everything and everyone. Turns out that my Gmail password is the same as 90% of my other passwords, and it worked. I've since changed it. Thanks, Google.

I've a lot of crazy going on in my head lately, and I've been lamenting at the lack of a "public" (by definition, only if more than two people see it...so, not really) forum with which to display said crazy. I went through the involved password recovery process, finally made it back to the site, and realized I have nothing to write.

Damn.

But given time, enough shit will rise to the surface of the settling pond of my brain that I can write again. And then everything will really start to stink.

Meet the Band: Europe

Aren't these the bad guys in Superman?

Recently a good friend and Polish immigrant, Gorski, had a conversation with Wick. Apparently Gorski had been skeezing around YouTube and came across the video for the "The Final Countdown" by the band Europe. As is inevitable while perusing YouTube, he ended up where he never expected. Namely, the video for "Cherokee," also by Europe. Wick had emailed the transcript, which included his exclamation of, "Is that a keytar?"

That line in and of itself left me crying with hilarity. Not only for the fact that yes, indeed, the IS a keytar in the video, but the fact that Wick knew the nomenclature for a keyboard guitar. You can see the video here, and I highly recommend it.

Is my hair teased enough? No, seriously, is it?

If you don't know Europe, you should. Everyone should at least recognize the song "The Final Countdown" from Arrested Development, as Gob's theme song when he was doing magic ("Illusions, Michael"). Europe is a Swedish glam-rock, hair metal, Eurotrash rock band that formed in 1979. Growing up with teenage ansgt at national health care, a sustainable population, and low crime, these guys found the inspiration they needed to rock.

"But, what kind of Eurotrash band names themselves the most Euro-trashy name possible, except for the name 'Eurotrash?'" you might ask.

Good question. I don't know. But who cares, they use a keytar.

Europe actually sold a lot of records. To who, I have no idea. The Final Countdown, Europe's third album, went triple platinum in the US. That's not counting the countries that usually love weird shit, like Japan, where they're still gods.

Next, check out their website (yes, they have one!). Enter the site. Be prepared for the usual bizarre shit that you associate with Swedes, like Ikea. They call their site "Secret Society," I'm guessing because to publicly admit to being a Europe fan generally results in insults, hate mail, and stonings.

This band still rocks. Browsing their site, you can see proof (pictures!) of their rock-tastic shows in rock mecca's like Minsk, Skellefteå, and Niagara Falls. I couldn't pull any pictures from their site (Sercret Society only), but these guys learned the finer art of shampoo, scissors, and big sunglasses. They are out to prove, along with Poison and Montley Crue, that middle-aged dudes with STDs can still rock.

And it's all about the music.

David Coverdale alert! Straight from Wiki: "On July 23, 2008 Europe did a co-headlining concert with Whitesnake in Padua, Italy. During Whitesnake's performance of their encore "Still of the Night", Joey Tempest joined David Coverdale on stage for the last chorus."

Rock.

The Emancipation Declarative Statement

I think that's a double negetive...

I done broke outta Shawshank!

Toiling for months under the iron fist of a totalitarian regime of capitalism and supply and demand, life was grim. My freedom of speech eroded, my basic human rights on the brink of collapse, my laughter silenced. All was dull in an already dull world.

Big Brother was Magick Island Technologies. They offered internet service. For an outrageous price, you could get spotty internet service at random times while unusual websites were blocked. Such was the case with HMNIG. When I tried to access it, it told me the site was restricted because it was porn. Porn! When has Gorgeous EVER had porn? What about the site makes it even remotely resemble porn? It was outrageous. It was unjust. It was...my only option for internet service.

So I abided. Another broken soul claimed by The Man.

Two days ago, I got wind that Magick Island Technologies no longer blocked porn. I didn't care about that. But Gorgeous was, apparently, porn. So I tried it. I was greeted by a striking picture of David Coverdale (see below), the new poster boy for literary freedom. Apparently Wick has been at work, though just barely. My reemergence can hopefully spark his creative genious. That is, if it can fight through the bourbon haze surrounding his brain.

I have been emancipated. The bonds of bondage have been un-bonded.

Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself....My Name is Gorgeous!

It's been too long. For the millions (tens) of readers of this site, we would like to officially say "We're Back." You ask yourselves, "Did you ever really leave?" Well, yes. We did. As two swashbuckling rakes, Brunswick and myself have been gone for months to fight the Global War on Ugly. Terrible tales from the darkest and most hideous reaches of this planet abound, but are not destined for this site. I could regale you with yarns of vile villians and despicable despots, of perilous plots and sinister sagas, but I won't (mostly because the real reason we haven't written is because we're lazy. Plus we each came down with scorching cases of the clap. Separately. Independantly. Not from each other).

The interstellar Hand of Gorgeous coming to reclaim your souls

What you'll see coming up is more of the same from before our sabbatical, probably with an initial shotgun blast. We've had a lot of strong opinions, bitterness, and hate in the last year, and vent we must. There will be a lot of catching up to do. Let's get started.

We're Back

My sincerest apologies to our reader for our absence as of late. The emails you didn't write and concern you didn't express failed to move us. I have recently returned from a two week excursion to 'R Kansas, where I dodged a tornado, multiple lightning strikes, a water moccasin, and a golf-ball-hungry turtle. Not to mention the locals.

I did, however, experience multiple Penn State props.

At a gas station in North Little Rock, I walked in wearing a Penn State shirt. The dude says, "You went to Penn State for real?" Upon responding in the affirmative, he says, "Word." Yeah, dude. Word.

While playing golf with my PSU hat and rain jacket on, one of the guys I was playing with said, "Ok, where's your ball at, JoePa." At that point, I had no idea, and had already lost two balls. It was a rough one and a half holes. But Joe got recognized.

While wandering the streets of Nashville, dude says, "You go to Penn State?" I said ineed I had, to which he replies, "That's a good team, man." I mumble something between 'not while I was there' and 'we'll see,' which came out as "Not while I'll see." My ensuing embarrassment at my loss of motor skills caused to act like I was looking across the street so I didn't have to walk near him anymore. Don't catch me off guard like that pal. I get flustered.

In the famous country bar Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, I sat down to a Budweiser and some live country music. Upon spotting my hat, three different people yelled "Penn State!" and shook my hand. I asked the one dude if he had gone there, but he was too boozed up and amused with himself to answer one way or the other.

All that recognition surprised me, especially in Tennessee. I even stayed in Knoxville on the way out, and recieved no shit from anyone. I guess UT fans have really bad memories, noone cares about The Outback Bowl, or they're just not as big into football as I had thought. I'm going to go with the first two. Especially the second.

I really wish I had remembered my camera on this trip, especially so I could post some pictures on here. My favorite was a large billboard that read, "Save Your Children's Lives...Use a Stick On Them." This was brought to you by a church, who are the only one's who can get away with telling you to beat your kids. Another one proclaimed "JESUS LIVES" in letters fifteen feet tall. If this were true, wouldn't we know about it? The Second Coming is bound to be a big deal, and I don't think 'R Kansas could contain it.

Plan on us having a lot more articles on here beginning in the next week. And the first week of June we will have a few spots about our sure-to-be-debaucherous week at Dewey Beach. Stay posted.

HMNIG's Shameless Us Weekly Moment

So a movie is being partially shot in DC. It's called State of Play, and stars Russel Crowe, Rachel McAdams, and Ben Affleck. Now, I think it's clear how I feel about celebrity trash outlets. But friends of mine happen to live next door to the Masonic Temple and Library here in DC where they were filming scenes for the movie. Which is kinda cool.

The Temple, with Brian and Colleen's building on the right

And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.

My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.

So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.

I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.

I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.

Why You Suck (2)

This week's edition of Why You Suck is brought to you by the retard in the cubicle four down from you. Let's call him...Bob.

Bob: HELLO!?!!?

Wife: Hi, it's me!

Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING? MINE'S FINE. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO. BUT BEFORE I GET TO ANY OF IT, TELL ME EVERYTHING THAT'S HAPPENED TO YOU IN THE TWO HOURS SINCE I'VE SEEN YOU.

Wife: Well, ok...Do you wan't to talk about all the crap that can probably wait until eight hours from now when I see you again?

Bob: OF COURSE. WHY WOULDN'T WE TALK ABOUT THAT?

***Fifty-eight minutes later***

Bob: HOLD ON, DEAR, MY CELLPHONE IS RINGING. I'LL CALL YOU BACK.

Wife: Ok, I love you!

Bob: I LOVE YOU TOO! TALK TO YOU SOON!

Molly (name has been changed): Hi Dad!

Bob: HI! HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING???

Molly: OMG! (Continues to spill guts)

***Thirty-three minutes later***

Bob: OK, HONEY, I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. I'LL TALK TO YOU IN SIX HOURS WHEN I GET HOME.

(Dials number on office phone)

Wife: Hello?

Bob: HI, IT'S ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wife: Oh, hi honey.

Bob: SO LISTEN TO HOW MUCH MOLLY IS SCREWING UP.

***Hour passes***

Bob: AND DOESN'T SHE HAVE DANCE LESSONS TODAY? LET'S TALK ABOUT HER COLLEGE OPTIONS. AND HER COMMUNITY SERVICE IS ALMOST DONE WITH...

Repeat at least twice daily. Take cyanide as needed.

HMNIG to Wednesday: Fuck You

Wednesday sucks. Sometimes you think it's Thursday, but it's not. Thursday's are Friday's gatekeeper; you have to pay your dues to get to Friday, but once you're there, it's freakin' sweet.

Monday is a unavoidable. Accept it.

Tuesday is the day to get things done, because there's nothing you can do about the fact that it's Tuesday. Friday is so far away it's not even worth thinking about.

But Wednesday is like a tickle on the balls without a handjob. All tease, no substance. At least Thursday has Lost.



And who the hell thought Wednesday should be called "hump day?" I want to pull that person's small intestines out through their nipple hole. Not that it's such a bad idea; a day for humping sounds good to me. But the reality of the expression is it's halfway through the week, hence, getting "over the hump." Like I need one more reminder I'm only halfway through the fucking week.

...

Sorry, I had to stop typing for a minute. I was busy gagging on someone's ill-advised attempt to poison me with office coffee. That shit was corrosive. It burns. I'm convulsing. I'm shivering. I just vomited. The aftertaste is still lingering. It probably will all day. I'm going to kill everyone.

But hey, at least it's hump day.

The Friday Love/Hate List

Due to my recent (and until Shamrock Fest, successful) stint in rehab, I wasn't able to create my weekly posts. Well, today begins the Friday Love/Hate list. It's self-explanatory, but you might be a retard. Regardless, I'm not going to explain it.

Love

-St. Patrick's Day. Really, no elaboration needed.

-Along those lines, Shamrock Fest. Smelled pot for the first time since college. Yeah, I'm a square.

-Putting money on NCAA Tourney. Makes me give a fuck about Drake.

-Call of Duty 4, XBox 360. Modern weapons, modern tactics, modern war. Modern geek.

-The Wire on DVD. Never watched when it was on HBO. So bitchin' when you can watch one episode and immediately watch the next. Question of the day: what dude is Omar gonna bang this season?


Hate

-The Day After St. Patrick's Day. Notice no new posts from Tuesday.

-Losing money on NCAA Tourney.

-Getting stage fright when I really do have to piss. Why is it that when dude goes to piss next to me, suddenly my pee pee muscles seize up like C3PO on Tattoine. Investigation to follow.

-Celebrity ANYTHING (see below)

-Buying "Medel of Honor: Airborne" for 50% off at Best Buy, and not being able to play it because "Seriously? You can't think of ANYTHING better to do than sit around and play video games like you're 12?" Honestly, girlfriends just don't understand the finer points of conducting airborne operations deep behind German and Italian lines in order to destroy anti-aircraft or artillery installations which will allow the attack or movement of follow-on forces for the continuation of the invasion of mainland Europe. Maybe you'd like to be speaking German, but me, I got a war to win.

It had to happen eventually

Pennypacker, that fink, will be out of pocket for a while. After a weekend hospitalization for exhaustion (read: a phenobarbital and Wild Turkey bender), he will be spending some time at Cirque Lodge to clear his head. I'll be picking up the slack in his absence. Get well soon, pal. I've got Canadian Club on ice for your return.

This poster no longer hangs in Pennypacker's office

Castro Steps Down! 80% of the Planet Says, "Who?"

Fidel Castro has stepped down as dictator, ruler, and Supreme Douche of Cuba. And we here at Gorgeous could care less. It might have something to do with how little effect the man has on, well, anything.

Fidel's brother is taking over. Will Cuba's government change? Will the Cuban people be granted more rights? Will pink become the new olive drab green? Raul is a Latino Communist generalissimo. So, no.

"Does this beard make me look douchey?"

Who knows what this reassignment of power means for the planet. As far as Cuban-US relations, the embargo is still on. This does not, however, prevent the exportation of shitty music. Or I Love Lucy reruns. Or the fact I still have to smoke shitty cigars from bootleg Caribbean islands.

What this does mean is that Miami will remain infested with Cubanos. Now, I've never been to Miami (probably because it's infested with Cubanos) so I can't really say if they're good or bad for the town. All I know is that they all cried about this picture, while I laughed.

"Say what again, motherfucker! I dare you! I double dare you!"

Personally, I'm not excited by this news. It means nothing. Raul is Fidel with less facial hair. Besides, if you think Fidel is going to spend the rest of his days on a beach in Fiji drinking Bay Breezes and ogling European chicks, you're wrong. He'll be sure to have his hand up his elbow in Raul's ass, trying to play him like a puppet.

V Day

It's Valentine's Day again, and we at Gorgeous are preparing our usual celebration: a bottle of Jack Daniels, an Air Supply cassette, and a bucket to collect our lonely tears. That's our gift to ourselves. A look back at other heart-warming Vag Day gifts:


270 A.D.--From: God, To: Hallmark. Death of St. Valentine.

1779--From: The Good People of Hawaii, To: James Cook. Multiple knives to the face.

1835--From: Douchebag, To: Douchebags. Mormanism.

1849--From: Technology, To: Fox News. First photograph of a U.S. president, James Polk.

1859--From: George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr.'s mom, To: 15-year-old boys. Birth of inventor of the Ferris Wheel, leading to a staggering increase in American hand jobs.

Zzzzzzzziiiiiiip!!!

1912--From: U.S., To: Girls Gone Wild. Future daddy haters possible by granting Arizona statehood.

1929--From: Big Al Capone, To: 7 wiseguys. Bullets to the face.

1961--From: Science, To: Nerds. Element 103, Lawrencium, created.

2007--From: Tom Brady, To: Bridgett Moynahan. Sperm donation.

2008--From: Randy Moss, To: Current biotch. A warm back-o'-the-hand. That's for making us lose.

Happy Valentine's Day, losers.

Penn State Bar Golf '08

It's February again, and that means that once again the Nittany Lions that left then den years (3) ago return home to discuss their careers, financial successes, and current relationships. Or drink so much sorority girls are interesting.


That's right, it's Bar Golf '08 at Penn State! One drink per bar, one bar per hole, 18 holes for the round. One drink per hole gets you par, more gets you arrested. Then there's the specialty drinks, like a Long Island Iced Tea at the health inspector-watch listed Cafe 210. That's an easy eagle on a Par 5. That car bomb is worth an eagle at #6 The Phyrst. You won't feel it until #8.

Authored by Steve Tracy, Frb '08 - Penn State University

The back nine gets tricky, when the highly structured event (half hour per hole, one hour at #9 to eat--vital) turns to a goat screw. People wander away, get lost in alleys, are beaten by bouncers, and loudly renounce Michigan (fuck Michigan) to anyone willing to listen.

For some, the back nine means vomiting with all the power of Anthony Morelli's arm (a lot), and are left with all of his intelligence (not a lot). If you survive to the 18th Hole, you're one of the few. Luckily, there's a prize waiting for you.

No, it's not your closest friends and family with 'life saving advice' and 'a chance for you to get better,' unlike my 24th birthday. It's another drink!


And maybe bail.

Bonus prize: a hellish, hallucination-infused drive to D.C. the next day, complete with sweats, shakes, and nightmares.

Ah, yes. Another round complete.

Update on Monday, after the tourney.