I’m up in Vermont for a wedding. My wife is one of two Matrons of Honor (a cowardly option for getting out of determining, in front of friends and family, your “favorite” person), so she’s off doing things. Like what? Oh, I don’t know. Helping the bride ascribe significance to a litany of generic prefabricated rituals that belong to one of the most industrialized and fabricated social customs in our culture.

But hey, that leaves me alone in our overly expensive, gaudy ass, nightmare hotel room at the inn.

To sit, crush Pepsi Max, diarrhea, get some work done. The diarrhea reminds me to drink Pepsi Max, the Pepsi Max reminds my bowels to diarrhea. Speaking of perfect unions, I think I’ve found one. An ouroboros of caffeineated-turd glory.

To refresh the typical blogs, jerk it once-twice-who-is-knocking-go-away-room-service-three times.

And! More importantly! Welcome you to Weekend Open Bar!

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