Here’s Hideout looking like he really doesn’t give a shit. Because he probably really doesn’t give a shit. So stick that in your Hamm’s Hat and smoke it.
And I give two shits because …
Reply
Author Archives: steakhouse
Mr. Blurry Mofo
Here we see Mr. Blurry Mofo, who is, well, a blurry mofo. Seriously, though — does anyone know who this blurry mofo is? Otherwise, he’s just gonna be Mr. Blurry Mofo the rest of his mofo life. And blurry, at that. Still he’s wearing a Hamm’s Hat, so he’s ok in my book.
Cyber Hamm’s
And here we have the adorable Kate, live from Paris. France. Paris, FRANCE. Not Illinois, numnuts. Yup — it’s the Brass Rail’s very first virtual customer, coming over the Intahrwebs. Pretty fucking cool, right? We tried pouring beer into the phone, but she said it tasted funny, hence the straw.
Alas she did not win a hat, but you can’t have everything, Frenchie!
Be vewwy vewwy qwiet.
Shhhh … here we see “The Baltimore”, the largest of the Baltimorus family reaching a total body length of 1.8m and weighing up to 80-85kg. Its most recognizable feature is a dark-green patch of fur extending throughout most of its torso, with some sort of white patch in the upper-left. They are territorial and generally solitary but social animals, often requiring large swaths of concrete for habitat that support their prey requirements. They also wear Hamm’s Hats, so really, this lesson is over. Recess!!
Busch-Light-o-Lantern
Here’s Coulter putting on his “scaring-little-children” face. Effective, right? Kudos for the nice “work” on the hat holes, but hey — this ain’t rocket-science.
I see a resemblance, though …
*Ahem*. Sorry about that.
Yup — I’m embarrassed.
Once again I have fallen behind on my HHPDs. This simply will not do, so let’s get right back into it with a healthy shot of Hamm’s-Hat-iness and our good pal Quicksilver, who is clearly in the right spirit of things.
More posts will be coming forthwith … I’ve got a nice queue assembled, so stop in at The Rail, order a delicious can of Hamm’s, and let’s get it ON!
‘n shit.
Turkey Day!!
Ah — twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the bar, not a creature was stirring, not even a, uh … um.
Lessee now.
Ummmm … oh fuck it.
Anyway, it was a wonderful Wednesday night at The Rail. With a four-day weekend for most on the horizon, everyone was having a good time. Various folks brought in food, which was pretty damn awesome. River Rat once again was the lucky recipient of a Hamm’s Hat, so here’s me making sure it is ready for deployment.
After determining said headpiece was of a sound and robust nature, I handed it back to River Rat who seemed at a bit of a loss what to do with his new-found chapeau. Seeing as it was the holidays, I offered my assistance and got down to work.
And here we go:
And now for the back-side …
Teamwork! Amirite!?!?
From both of us all of us some of us a handful of us us at Hamm’s Hat Dot Com, Happy Thanksgiving! (Albeit a few days late.)
Sir Jeffeth of Decatureth!
“Are you gonna eat that cartoonishly large drumstick?”
After parting from the manor house, Sir Jeff mounted his trusty steed and headed forthwith to Ye Olde Brasse Raille.
A hearty meal of pottage, roast capon, Slim Jims, and Cheese Nips thusly ensued. Pray thee what shallest I quaff? Why a delicious Hamm’s, you currish beetle-headed scullion!
Pfft. Commoners.
Red Stag Hat!!!
It was a glorious Sunday afternoon at the Rail, and the joint was hopping with regulars and everyone was having a grand ol’ time. Lou the barber was in town from Panama, where he freaks out the locals and cavorts with various women named Vanessa. It seems like everyone he knows down there is named Vanessa. Federali also showed up with shit-tons of food for Hoss, including a pair of gigantic chili dogs. I swear I have never seen a hotdog that, uh, thick.
Later on, Gibby walked in as he was on break from his job. Naturally when you’re on break, you relax, and what better way to relax than to swing by your favorite watering hole and harass people into working for you. Alas, there were no takers, so Gibby decided to do a shot.
And lo and behold …
Whoa whoa whoa … hold it … easy there … Eeeeeasy …
And then Gibby went back to work. Something about nuclear missiles or brain surgery. I forget which.
Sharp Dressed Man
Because the Brass Rail is a black-tie kinda place, it only makes sense that folks come in dressed to the nines. To wit:
But please: no tuxedo t-shirts. That’s just not classy.