Showing posts with label shit faced. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shit faced. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

The Voice: The Drinking Game

There really isn't a heterosexual way to say this, but,...I like The Voice. I could try and spin it, saying I just watch it for Christina Aguilera's bomb ass cleavage, but, that would only be partially true. I am actually intrigued with the competition itself. The energy of the competitors, the songs, the fact that everyone involved seems to have cancer are all valid reasons to watch. Yet, there's something that gnaws at me. Something that tells me that liking this kind of show is wrong.

It's a show about singing, so, obviously, a majority of men deem it "gay" out of hand. Gay meaning, weak or girlish of course, not gay as in homosexual. Eat all the pussy and dick you want gay people. This doesn't concern you.

While it may seem "faggy" or some other homophobic adjective, it shouldn't in any way diminish the show's appeal. It's pretty neat, though, still a hard sell to the die hard anti-faggy factions. Yet, it is possible and I believe I have found the answer. I present dear friends, The Voice Drinking Game...


Pictured: Cleavage and vodka.

The game works like this; 4 judges: Christina Aguilera (r&b chick), Blake Shelton (some country singer), Cee Lo Green (weird mother fucker) and the gay guy from Maroon 5 have their backs to the contestants. The contestants sing and the judges turn around if they like what they hear. This is the first wager to make.

1a. Are they going to turn around? 


To pick the bull dyke or not to pick the bull dyke? Drink.

It's a 50/50 take a shot/drink bet so far. Some sappy crooning fuck is singing his/her heart/vagina out. Is a judge going to turn around? Are they going to make it? The game begins. 

Yes: no drink
 No: drink. 

1b. Who turns around?


Who's house? Cee Lo's...fat.

So, maybe a judge or two decides to give the warbling nobody a shot. There are four judges. Choosing who will turn around for the prick is a bet in itself. Many a time has the tattooed lesbian turned the country singing Blake guy's shit around. So, really, it's anyone's game. Plus, depending on how many people are playing, you can choose more than one judge. Which, makes it all the more awesome. Choose a judge and wait...or pray, depending on your devotion to the game. 

Your judge turns: Don't drink
Yours doesn't: Drink

2. Shit, more than one judge?


I'll choose...the one with the most tits.

Well, fuck. More than one turned around. Now what? Well, according to their rules, it's the contestant's turn to pick who they're going to roll with. Now, you get to place your bets on which "coach" the contestant is going to pick. Choose one of them and see what happens. 

They pick your judge: Drink
They don't: Don't drink.

Multiply this by the ass load of contestants per show and you're bound to get trashed. These top rules really only apply to the "blind audition" parts of the show, at the beginning of the season. Relax, there's still more drinking to be had. 

3. Who are they getting rid of?


Whomever strips...wins. Aaaannnd go!

All of these shows have them...the eliminations. Poor bastards get a taste of that golden ring of fame, only to have it ripped from their aching maw. I love it. It makes me smile to see potential stunted. It's sick I know, but,...well...fuck you. I digress. After getting people on their teams, it's time for the Judges initially pick 12 people for their perspective team, which now has to be thinned to like...6 or something. It doesn't matter. Why? Because the contestants battle each other two at a time as a way for the judges to decide. Pick your man and run with it.

Your prick makes it: drink
Your prick doesn't: don't drink

Again, this is like six times a show or something, so, drink up! Plus, you can add a bonus drink for every time Cee Lo makes a sexually innuendo laced comment to the women contestants...which is a goddamn lot or perhaps when that Blake guy makes a homosexually laced comment toward the guy from Maroon 5...which is starting to be...a lot. Weird. 

4. Who's staying? Who's going?


You win, bitch!

Through most of this shit, you'll find that it comes down to one person against another. This happens later in the show too, only, it comes down to the audience voting at home. This can be a bitch. Sometimes it comes out of left field. 

Your person stays: don't drink
Yours leaves: drink.

There are a ton of other things to drink to in this show. Will the person bring up an illness as the reason they're on the show? Will it be "for their kids"? Will Cee Lo be petting his fucking cat during his "interview" segments? All of this shit can be worked into this game. Have fun with it, change the rules, whatever...and remember, after you're done playing, drive home slowly and with lots of braking. You're drunk for God's sake, have some decency and drive slow and methodically...with one eye open. 


Seriously, don't drive drunk. 
What are you a fucking idiot?

Monday, December 5, 2011

Broken Gold Shitfaced Watches

      Today, I woke up late...by about an hour or more. If I had a job, this would be a problem, but, since lucrative positions in the "do nothing but shit for money" career field are all filled, I'm free to dick off. Still, I try to get up to wake the two oldest children in time to catch the bus. This didn't happen today and only one made it. What lead to this disaster? I'd like to actually blame the ah-ah-ah-a-a-a-alcohol (thank you Jamie Foxx!), though I did cover fact that getting drunk isn't an excuse for jack shit (fuck you Jamie Foxx!). My only saving grace is I only drank enough, to disrupt my sleep and completely fuck up my day. I stopped short of the soul cleansing goodness of obliviously shit faced drunk.


Didn't use one mirror.

      I don't know what it is about booze that makes me drag asstic for days afterward. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's the dehydration aspect of imbibing or me being a weak sissy bitch drunk. That last one was a test. If you think that, I challenge you! Bring a box of Kleenex because you will be crying in defeat...and giving me a handjob as a token of your worthlessness. Oh, and you'd have to be a woman. Though, I have nothing against homosexuality, I have severe reservations about looking at a defeated, crying drunk male stroking my junk. It's not homophobia, it's just that the lack of boner on my part coupled with the fact that I'd have to be looking at a sobbing dude would make for a long, drawn out, endless awkward moment...with lots of chafing that I really don't need. If you're a guy, just buy me more booze or lots of money. That will be your albatross of shame! I digress. Alas, I got up late. I didn't hear my alarm go off. Nope, check that. I did hear my alarm, I just incorporated it into my dream. This particular dream was me inheriting a watch from what everyone told me was my grandfather, but, looked oddly like Colonel Sanders. It was a really nice gold, antique kind of watch, the kind that someone would have secreted in their rectum to keep from secret police or shadow government. 


That colon gold watch gets video! SOLD!

      Anyway, the lawyer is reading all this dreamy, mumbly lawyer shit about inherited watches when, the alarm started going off on it. I tried like crazy to cut it off. I was jabbing at the buttons, slamming on the lawyer's desk, slamming it on the lawyer's face and buttocks. I gave serious thought to putting back in Colonel Sanders's rectum but, thought better of it, so, I hit the lawyer across the face a couple more times. Nothing. The damn thing mockingly refused to go off. I was strapping a hand grenade to it when it hit me...it's your REAL alarm, dumb ass! Leave that fucking watch alone, get out of that astronaut suit you're wearing and into your Superman costume, because you have to fly to Wake The Fuck Upville! So, I did. I got up, stared at the clock and realized...ever groggily, that I had gotten up late. What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean I...huh? The Superman costume? I didn't realize I would have to explain that...uh...you need it. So anyway, I got up quickly and...huh? Why do you need it? Because...it's something...nevermind. Just drop it, okay. You wouldn't understand. Gah, oh...okay, fine. You need it to fly. Happy? You can only fly as Superman in dreams. I told you you wouldn't understand. Besides, what if I woke from a dream without first changing into it IN my dream. I'd just wake up confused, because of what I wear when I go to sleep.


This chick knows what I'm talking about.

      So, my shitty day wore on and I end up seriously passing out later anyway. I didn't WANT to piss my day away, but, I did. I was supposed to be submitting the shit out of some Cracked.com articles. Instead, I had a mild alcohol related sleep hiccup that softcore raped my schedule. Will it happen tomorrow? Shit yeah! I'm getting trashed right now. Lesson learned? Nope. Drunken Elton is here to stay for a while and he's barely standing. Goodbye brain cells. Hello damaged liver!


What did I have to do again?