Shiner 99 Munich Style Helles Lager

September 23, 2008

5% ABV bottled

Believe it or not (DAD!) there are quite a few 50- and 60-somethings that like my blog. One is my friend’s father, a venerable fermented and distilled beverages connoisseur in his own right. And, when my friend was down visiting him in Texas recently, he made sure to send her back to NYC with one of his favorite local beers as a reviewable gift for the Vice Blogger. Thanks! Most appreciated.

Just like Boulevard in Kansas, Abita in Louisiana, Yuengling in PA, and Corona in latently homosexual frat houses, Shiner is an overrated local favorite. None of those are bad breweries producing bad beers (except for Corona of course), don’t get me wrong, but they are not as good of beers as the locals seem to think they are. And proud Texans are the worst when it comes to Shiner. Much like drawing a picture of Muhammad, saying God’s Hebrew name aloud, or taking your kid to a doctor if you’re a Xenu worshipper, not LOVING Shiner is akin to blasphemy in the Republic.

I’ve had most of the regular Shiner releases–admittedly several years ago–and I recall liking all of them, hating none, while likewise adoring none. Nevertheless, I was excited to try this special release, commemorating Spoetzl’s 99th anniversary (congrats!). A gorgeous label, very slick.

A malty smell dominates and indeed the tastes are of a crisp, light maltiness, some citrus flavors, and a slightly bitter finish. Very drinkable and refreshing. A good summer beer I probably shouldn’t have waited til a brisk September night to drink. Spoetzl has produced a great attempt of the famed Munich helles lager style and it is probably just my bias against this type of beer that hurts my personal grading of it. But helles fans will no doubt love this one, the second best American version I’ve had aside from Brooklyn’s Brewmasters Reserve effort of last year.



Schell Pale Ale

September 18, 2008

5.75% ABV

As my “in box” of yet-to-post reviews stacks up it’s time to send some to the “out box” via quick-hitters…

I’ve never really liked pale ales.  Rightly or wrongly, I’ve always felt they were kinda like IPAs for Dummies.  But not this one.  This one, from America’s second oldest family-owned brewery, I really dug.  It has a great, smooth flavor.  Incredibly drinkable.  East Kent golding hops give it a most pleasant smell.  It also has a solid full-bodied taste.  Love the maltiness.  As far as session beers go, this is top notch.  I could imagine myself bellied up to a bar in St. Paul polishing off several dozen of these.  I think it’s a better pale ale than even Sierra Nevada’s famed one.  If you have access to this one, be sure and try it.


Flat Earth Convention Ale

September 17, 2008

5.4% ABV from a bomber

There’s two schools of thought on how to walk the streets of New York. You can be like Barry Sanders, juking and jiving your way around slow-moving tourists, sidewalk-hosing bodega owners, and fatsos in Rascals, cutting right to left, behind newspaper bins, using bus stops and fire hydrants as your blockers as your try to quickly traverse the street. This certainly works but it is tiring and certainly not cool. No one looks at someone jitterbugging down the streets and thinks, “Now that is one sexy motherfucker.” I mean, how bad would the opening to “Saturday Night Fever” have been if famous homosexual John Travolta had implemented the Barry Sanders walk through Brooklyn? Something tells me the movie wouldn’t have been quite the cultural touchstone it became.

A second school of thought is to navigate the street like G.O.A.T. Jim Brown, picking an opening and with head down and shoulders even lower, busting through the crowds and sending any one in your path flying. This too is an effective process for Manhattan walking but results in people thinking you the high school bully who never grew up, still pacing through the halls knocking nerdy freshman out of the way. Plus, with all the crazies in the city, this method has a high potential for fisticuffs erupting.

Now I am one of the finest walkers in the entire city and I think that is because I shirk the common schools of thought and use a third school, a hybrid of the other two, hoofing it down the sidewalks ala Walter Payton. When I need to juke, I juke, but never too much. And when I need to lower my shoulder or use a oh-did-I-just-bump-you forearm to clear the way, I can do that too. And just like Sweetness, I never go out of bounds (the street).

It seems like hybrids of opposing schools of thoughts are always the best way to go. My feelings on politicians are well discussed and even if I do decide ever to vote again, I can’t imagine it being for either a Republican or a Democrat, it would have to be for someone with a bouillabaisse of values. It simply doesn’t make sense to be too far extreme in any direction in regards to…well almost anything.

Now that is not always the case with beers. I love overwhelmingly hoppy IPAs and overly alcoholic barley wines as much as the next guy, but I also like those oddball beers you can’t really pigeonhole. Such was the case with Flat Earth’s Convention Ale, a Minnesota brew specially made to celebrate the area’s hosting of the GOP Rah-Rah-a-thon. Said to have “a conservative amount of hops and a liberal amount of special malts” the brewery itself calls it a red ale, while Beer Advocate labels it a Belgian pale, Rate Beer gives it the always-ambiguous “summer” beer label, and I found it to be something completely different. But more on that in a sec.

I didn’t realize this til after I had opened the beer, but this brew has had strange problems whereas quite a few of the bottles have spontaneously exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. In fact, the beer has actually been recalled, and with only 9 total reviews on Beer Advocate at the moment, it would seem to be an increasingly rare pop.

Luckily for your Vice Blogger, the bottle was enjoyed without a hitch. A light straw yellow almost-macro pour with a very, very bubbly head. It had a mild smell and I was begin to wonder if this simply was a fancified macro.

It wasn’t. it was very carbonated and bubbly in taste, Belgian yeast and moderate hop bitterness (38 IBUs). Quite a bit sour, almost like a weaker version of a wild ale. I realize by definite it cannot be a wild ale, but that’s exactly what it tastes of, like a poor man’s Cuvee de Castleton. A chalky finish and low ABV are its demerits.

Whatever it is, boy is Convention Ale one oddball beer. Very interesting, almost like a champagne. It took me a while to figure out if I loved it, liked it, or hated it, but I sure kept drinking it, was damn glad to try it, and utterly sad to finish my sole bottle.


New Belgium Abbey Dubbel

September 11, 2008

7% ABV

memo to bosses re: hungover workers

When someone in your employ arrives at the office with two 32-ounce bottles of Gatorade, a large black coffee, and a greasy, greasy bacon, egg, & cheese sandwich, all of which he summarily devours at his desk in under five minutes–well that’s a hungover employee on your hands. Leave him alone for a bit.  He’ll work things out.

Last night I revisited old favorite 123burgershotbeer* with a pal and after an evening of aggressive drinking, found myself near comatose this morning. I needed a three-egg, sausage, and cheese breakfast burrito grease-missile, an extra-large iced coffee, two Propels, and a Diet Mountain Dew just to get me back to sea level, just to get enough synapses firing in my gray matter in order to pen this piece…

You can’t deny your honest feelings, but I still feel somewhat bad for bashing Fat Tire yesterday. New Belgium is a company that obviously takes beer seriously, that’s for certain. Like most microbreweries, I assume Fat Tire is their money-maker, their beer made for the masses, their beer made to fund the rest of the brewery’s more unique efforts. You can’t expect the public to consume high-ABV barley wines, saisons, and stouts in bulk. They need weak little sissy beers for their sensitive and unadventurous palates.  So enter Fat Tire. A beer snob should be concerned when everyone and their mother likes a certain brew. Everyone and their mother doesn’t typically know shit. Everyone and their mother loooooooves Fat Tire.  It’s a maxim I knew yet still didn’t follow.

Thus, I was glad my friend also brought back New Belgium’s version of a dubbel. It looked fantastic on the pour. And smelled just like the brilliant Westmalle. Wow, I was excited. Could an American brewery possible emulate with accuracy a trappist beer?!


Not quite. It does not really have a strong flavor at all.  The most mild hints of banana, sweet bread, and malt.   Dubbels should have more body than this.  More bite.  This beer has about as much bite as a newborn still not teething.  The Abbey simply lacks the “oomph” that makes Westmalle so special and world-class.

Having said that, this dubbel was undeniably drinkable and still a very worthy effort.  I wish more American breweries had dubbels. I have a feeling that someday I’ll have a New Belgium I truly love. It’s inevitable.


*Re-review of 123burgershotbeer–The burgers are still a buck and tastier than I recall, I recommend dressing them with this spicy chipotle sauce condiment on the bar. The goofily-named shots still cost a Thomas Jefferson and are still only ordered by the kind of men that say “Woooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” and then give each other homoerotic high-fives post-shot slam. And the beers are still gloriously chilled and three bucks, though poured into deceptively small mugs which I would reckon are only 10 ounces. The waitresses and female bartenders there continue to make 123 a (marginally more) upscale Hooter’s, wearing hot pants so short one can see ass curvature in the back and labium in the front. And, I now realize why 123 has such a pricing scheme. It’s not a gimmick, no, it’s just so the Communist bloc cuties and the modelishly handsome lunkheads manning the bar don’t have to think so hard to compute one’s tab. I couldn’t see, but I imagine the cash register only has three buttons: a giant Fisher Price-sized 1, 2, and 3. Oh, you ordered six beers? The drink-slinging dummkopf goes to the register and mashes the giant 3 button six times before the See n’ Say voice says “18 dollars.”


September 2, 2008

7.6% ABV

86ed.  The ol’ heave-ho.  Booted.  Tossed.  Ejected.  Whatever you call it, Saturday night was the first time in a while I have been thrown out of a bar.  I thought I was getting too old for this shit, but sadly, apparently not.  I’m no stranger to the great indignity of being forcibly dragged from numerous drinking establishments by some steroid-fueled missing link and thrown out onto my tush.  I’ve been bounced from bars, pubs, discos, restaurants, peel joints, classrooms, sporting stadiums, weddings, Bar/t Mitzvahs, golf course clubhouses, and once even a booze cruise (a tad hypocritical I contend).  But, my favorite 86ing happened on an airplane.

It was back four years ago.  I was returning to New York after having visited my sister at college down in Miami.  I was seated next to an older-than-Esther stereotypical Florida Jewish lady.  A curly afro of dyed charcoal black hair ala Linda Richman, dressed to the nines with pearls and gold jewelry, and a dousing of No. 5.  No big whoop, I don’t like to talk to my seatmates unless they are gorgeous women.  And I have never once been seated next to a gorgeous woman on a flight.  But I am constantly sat next to crying babies, BO-reeking fatties, and people that consider the Sky Mall catalog fine literature.

Nevertheless, we all know old people are very chatty.  And Jews are even more chatty.  And oldass Jews are about as chatty as they come.  Estelle asked me why I had been down in Florida.  I answered whatever was the exact sanitized opposite of “getting wasted on cheap drinks at college bars and trying to hook up with my sister’s classmates.”  91-year-old Estelle told me she always went down to Miami in the winter because she was still an avid golfer, walking a course several times a week.  In fact, while on this trip she had just broken her age, carding a 90!  What a woman.  I was blown away and told her so.  She then hit me with the downside.  After her most recent round of golf, the other player in her twosome, coincidentally her identical twin sister, had passed away.

Estelle began to cry.  I don’t deal well with crying no matter if the person is age 0, 25, or 91.  I tried to console her.  “Fuck it!” she snapped back up and wiped her tears away.  “She lived a good life.  Have a drink with me, Aaron.”  With pleasure.

I don’t typically drink on flights both because they have an abhorrent selection, I don’t want to have a broken seal and have to piss for an entire flight, and also I’m delusional enough to think that if the plane were to crash I could probably save myself while the other dopes aboard perished–that is so long as I were sober.  However, when a 91-year-old Jew with no doubt fantastic stories pulls a wad of twenties from her gigantic handbag and forces you to slug drinks with her in order to reach nirvana, well, no gentleman could turn that down.  She wanted to drink red wine and that was cool with me.  If you’ve never ordered wine on a flight, it comes in a tiny little bottle that has about a glass’s worth and is usually some mediocre bottling from the Gallos.  We had one glass, then quickly another.  Estelle could drink and I was actually struggling to keep pace.

After four glasses the air waitresses began to ignore us as admittedly we were getting rowdy, other passengers staring at the combined 116 years of drunken belligerence.  Estelle wouldn’t stand for this.  Next time the drink cart came by, pushed by an aloof and dismissive flight attendant, Estelle simply speared her varicose-veined arms into the cabinet at the bottom and, with the suppleness of a Bourbon Street pickpocket, filched two more bottles for me and her.  Nice.  Who says you can’t learn things from your elders?

After our free bottle number five, Estelle again tried to use the standard method for ordering as often employed by assholes, signaling for drinks by holding two fingers aloft ala Churchill or Nixon.  Those gents meant “V for Victory” however when drinking the V becomes the universal sign for “Two more, please, chop chop.”

“Hey!  Where’d you two get another bottle of wine?”  The bitch flight attendant who had de facto cut us off sprinted over.  She was clearly onto our scheme.

“The other stewardess served us,” I slurred.  Whoops.  I forgot that “stewardess” is the n-word in the flight attendant game.  Nevertheless, still such a more elegant term that the unwieldy politically correct nomenclature.

“I explicitly told that flight attendant NOT to serve you two again.”

“We’re fine and still temperate,” Estelle piped up, using a term for sobriety that hadn’t been heard since the speakeasy days when the old lady was no doubt flapping around with F. Scott.  “Now hurry up and get us another drink, sweetheart.”

“You two are cut off and if you bother me any more about it I’ll have authorities waiting for you guys at the gate.”

Estelle rolled her eyes at me and let out a “bitch” under her breath as the flight attendant waddled her fat ass back to the jump seat.

The great Estelle had one final trick up her sleeve though.  With a shit-eating grin full of false teeth, she pulled a makeup kit out of her hand bag.  Subtly unzipping that she removed a minibar-sized bottle of Grand Marnier.  She took a slug then handed the orange cordial over to me to finish off just as the flight began its descent.

By the time we had taxied to the gate, Estelle was shitfaced, but still savvy enough to pull off a move that would guarantee her lifetime enshrinement in the Vice Blog Hall of Fame.  Though a vigorous women perfectly capable of walking eighteen holes, Estelle quickly realized that the countless bottles of wine had made her incapable of hoofing it upright.

“Could someone get a crippled old lady a wheelchair!” she hollered.

And as everyone else on the airplane got out of her way, a crew rushed a fold-up wheelchair onto the airplane where they retrieved a drunk Estelle and wheeled her back down the aisle like a modern day Cleopatra, a VIP ride to the baggage claim.  As she exited she gave me a wink as an ever-so-slight smile came on her face for just a millisecond.

Now back to the present and Saturday, where like any red-blooded American male I spent the day watching college football and drinking beer.  The beer of the day was my first ever tippling of PranQster, a surprisingly effective American version of a Belgian strong pale ale.  Nice, refreshing, and imminently drinkable, but perhaps not that complex.  However, a few of those bad boys are probably not the best final beers before heading out to an evening bar.

Then again, if the bar is a piece-of-shit Murray Hill hellhole like Bar Twelve, then you should hope you drink enough to forget your time there.  You should also probably consider a disguise lest someone sees you entering such a dump like some trench-coated perv entering an 8th Avenue peep show establishment.  The place was admittedly decent before the midnight hour with reasonably priced drinks, reasonably attractive young women, and not much reason to leave.  Then at the witching hour, the lights darkened, the TVs were turned off, the place changed its name to the Ski Bar lounge (seriously), the dress code apparently began to require Pac-Man Jones jerseys and do-rags, and impromptu dance offs began.  I thought nightclub dance-offs only happen in movies made by stuffy white Hollywood executives in an attempt to appeal to a quote-unquote urban demographic, but no shit, these things are fo’ real.  I actually saw two men wager on one such dance-off though I have no idea how odds are generated and pay-offs occur.

Trying to avoid the sweatiest dance circle I’ve been near since the last time I hora’ed, I moved to a corner with some women I’d met during the more normal portion of the evening and thought I’d made some inroads with.  As I began my end game ala Kasparov some meaty paws encircled my shoulders.

Three-quarters of the time when you get 86ed from a bar you have no idea why.  That’s expected.  You’re wasted while the bouncers aren’t (though they are debatably retarded).  You think you’re swaggering around the joint like Dean Martin, regaling women and turning men’s heads in awe, always ready with a quick bon mot or a blush-inducing line of seduction, and next thing you know some goon in a Rochester Big & Tall sales rack suit has lifted you by the scruff of your neck and thrown you into a newspaper box outside (hopefully a rubber The Onion one as opposed to a sharp metal USA Today one).

That’s exactly what happened to me.

And then, let’s just assume I walked across the street to a “safe zone” and began yelling obscenities at the bouncer, telling anybody that was considering entering Bar Twelve blatant lies about the place.  Lies such as the fact that the antisemitic bouncers called me a Hook-nosed Heeb or that they are only playing Afroman and Baja Men music inside.  The truth would be enough to turn off most normal people but the lies were funnier to me at the time.  And the homeless people on Second Avenue laughed at my beer-addled wit, but they were drunk on fortified wine and probably thought if they sycophantically chortled I might give them some money.  Little did they realize I needed that to flag a cab home to pass out.

Then the next day I woke up hungover and admittedly ashamed, but not ashamed enough to recount the whole evening right here, topped off with one final point I’d like to add, in an effort to optimize this entry to hopefully become Bar Twelve’s number one returned google search:








Weyerbacher Double Simcoe IPA

August 20, 2008

9% ABV from a bomber

You live in New York City cause you don’t wanna grow up. And that’s not cause you’re a Toys “R” Us kid, it’s cause you don’t want to spend all Saturday afternoon mowing the fucking lawn. You’d rather actually enjoy your weekend, spending it relaxing on the lawn, as in the Great Lawn, which is mowed by a grounds crew out on work release from Queensboro Correctional, allowing you to do more important, fun things, such as nap in the sun, smoke cigars, day-drink, and block out the prattle of untalented amateur street musicians.

And you don’t want to own a five bedroom house. I’m sure that’s nice, but what do you need all that space for? It’s more fun to still be 30 and renting a shoebox filled with rats and roaches, living next door to a bunch of weirdos. Leads to better stories and always keeps you on your toes. Comfort begets the atrophy of mind, body, and soul.

And you don’t want to drive places. God driving sucks. You can’t do anything while you drive but…drive. And listen to miserable local radio DJs that couldn’t hack it in a real market discussing all the miserable things occurring locally. Mass transit is the way to go. You can read and do crosswords, ogle women, touch germ-laden poles and straps to contract oddball strains of disease, and ignore bums’ poorly-crafted sob stories.

And you don’t want to eat a square meal with your old lady after work. You want to hit happy hour! And get shit-faced. Grab some jalapeno poppers and chicken wings for dinner. And then some pizza afterwards for dinner number two. Aren’t you a little old to still be doing that?! Fuck no, this is New York City, we all still do that! We’ll never grow up!!

And you don’t want to be fat. Yeah, you really don’t want to be fat. I’m no scientist, but I am an anecdotal observationist and I have a little theory that suburban living directly leads to fatness and baldness. And you don’t want that. You want to live in a city with thin people who have lustrous heads of well-coiffed hair. It makes for a nicer general aesthetic than having to reside in a place with 300 pound orcas holding Cold Stone in their right hand, Chipotle in their left, and Quizno’s in their fanny pack.

And you don’t want to deal with fucking babies. Ever been to a party or get-together outside of Manhattan? There’s fucking babies everywhere you look! Like goddamn Gremlins. You’re trying to relax, tell a bawdy story or two, maybe get loaded and attempt to fornicate with a stranger, and then a fucking toddler comes over yanking your jeans leg. Good lord! Children are neither to be seen nor heard in New York. We are children ourselves, we don’t want any more of them.

And you really don’t want to have lights off, stone-cold sober, Jay Leno on in the background, missionary position, rhythm method, vaginal intercourse with your wife-you-no-longer-love 2.5 times per month. Yeah, you pretty much want the polar opposite of that.

But mostly, you just want excitement. Every single day to be different. A surprise around every corner. And bars that are open to dawn.

You don’t wanna grow up, because if you did, you’d see how boring the world can truly be.

But beer is always exciting!

My e-friend, the Drunken Polack, one of the few beer bloggers online that doesn’t suck, told me to explore some Weyenbacher brews, starting with this one. I listened to him, he knows his shit.

Simcoe has a very piney smell, like a Christmas tree. Or at least how I recall a Christmas tree smelling on the few occasions that your humble Jewish narrator was allowed into a Christian home during Noel. That’s cool, I’m not bitter, that’s not the reason I moved to the Tel Aviv of America once I got my walkin’ papers. We never let the un-Chosen People into our home to light the menorah either.

The brew’s taste is equally piney. A nice simcoe hoppy bitterness as well. Not that I knew what simcoe was until I acquired this beer.

Not that potent for a 9% DIPA. Which is quite shocking actually as that’s a pretty prodigious ABV for even a double. It’s very drinkable and I really dig the mouthfeel of this one. It tingle the insides of my cheeks and tickles my tongue. Nice! Like the first time I got French kissed under the bleachers during the ice cream social sock hop. I’ll never forget you Gladys!

Simcoe IPA is very good, but it feels a tad “one-note.” Nevertheless, I look forward to trying more Weyerbachers.


Old Chub Scottish Style Ale

August 19, 2008

8% ABV from a can

“Are you gonna blog about this?”

Mid-gulp I turned around. She was much better looking than I would have guessed regarding the unusual circumstances.  Thus, she had to be crazy.

Last week a random girl A___ had sent me an e-mail telling me how much she liked an entry I had written about a certain beer she liked.  She also noted how much she liked the bar where I mentioned getting the beer. I told her I likewise liked that bar. She thought we should like it together. I quickly agreed to meet her for a drink.

“You’re not even gonna ask me what I look like?”

True, perhaps I had been too overzealous.  Damn. But I didn’t care if she was 70 years old and ugly as Joy Behar, I had done something remarkable in only four easy steps:

1. Drink a beer.

2. Write an article about said beer.

3. Woman reads said article about said beer.

4. Now said woman wants to sleep with said me.

I wish life were always so simple. However, now A___ refused to tell me or show me what she looked like pre-date. She claimed it didn’t matter, that I shouldn’t be concerned, because there was no doubt I would “love her.” I told her what George Bernard Shaw said:

“Love is a gross exagageration of the difference between one person and everybody else.”

So, yeah, I didn’t know what she was gonna look like and now I was a tad nervous. What kind of woman could read my vulgar missives and think me a good catch? Think they absolutely had to meet me?!  Actually, I imagine most, I am indeed pretty awesome and my writings don’t even tell half the story.

Nevertheless, I got to the bar early to make sure my beer goggles were securely in place before A___ arrived. It didn’t matter though, she was surprisingly stunning. And she quickly wanted to buckle down and get some beer-drinking done. But first…

“Are you gonna blog about this?”

People always ask me that question nowadays when we’re in the midst of something. Some activity.  Having some shits and giggles.  And there’s no good answer.

I typically reply, “Well, yes, if something interesting happens.”

That’s not a great answer, though it is true. Paradoxically, the people I’m with both want to and don’t want to be blogged about.

They want to because it’s validation. It’s validation that they were a part of a good, memorable time; validation that they are a good, memorable person. At least that’s what they think, though it’s not exactly how I feel.  Many of the best times of my life are simply not interesting enough to an outside reader to necessitate writing about.

However, these same people don’t want to be blogged about because…well, I’m not actually sure why. Do they think that simply being a part of my blog will sully their sterling reputations? That it would be an event they will never be able to recover from? Like appearing in a “Girls Gone Wild” video or something? I’m still unclear about the line of thought. Especially considering me (and portly Kansans) are pretty much the only people I mock, defame, and libel in my writings.

I explained this all to her and she immediately took it as a challenge. She had to make the evening interesting enough to get written up. Cool with me.  Little did she know, though, that no matter how mundane the occasion, I was 100% going to write about my first date with a Vice Blog reader.  If we had an fun, interesting time, well all the better.

A___ was from near Boulder, Colorado originally and she seemed to know her beer. She recommended Old Chub from the Oskar Blues Brewery. I had never tried it before but I had certainly heard quite a bit about Oskar Blues. Mainly because they’re the only craft brewery in America that cans their beers.

Yes. They can their beers. A highly regarded beer from a can?! My interest was aroused but I was also quite leery.

I shouldn’t have been.

Old Chub has a thick smell, kinda like soy sauce though not unpleasant. Tastes of caramel, chocolate, and pronounced smoked malt. Very nice flavor and not what I expected. Kinda tastes like a dopplebock actually. It also went down a lot smoother than I thought nor was it as filling as I figured it would be.

However, it is perhaps a little boring. I would have it again though and am intrigued to try more Oskar Blues brews.

As we tippled our Old Chubs, A___ wouldn’t stop talking about…well, me. Specifically my writing. No matter how I tried to steer the conversation–toward the Olympics, toward other beers on the menu, toward last week’s awesome “Mad Men” episode, even toward the humor in watching the fat gal at the end of the bar eating an entire platter of nachos grande by herself–she kept coming back to me and my writing.  Discussing her favorite posts and mentioning many of her favorite lines and views espoused by your humble author.

Did this get annoying after a while?

Fu-uck no. I loved it.  I mean, I am a deep-seated narcissist.  Incurvatus in se ipsum.

So no A___, you didn’t do anything quite interesting enough to make me want to write about it, but you did make me realize who the perfect kinda girl is for me:

A member of my own fan club.


[To join the fan club please write me at theviceblog [at]!!!!]