Now just look at this lovely lady and the very creative hat she made! Anyone know who this is? River Rat tweeted that it looks like an Oriental Roman Helmet. He’s now sitting at the racist end of the bar (probably with Gibby.) We’ll have none of that, mister.
Coulter would be proud. (And envious.) And I have no idea what’s up with the Sharpie …
Caw!
Sure … there’s the Oscars, there’s the Grammys, there’s even the Nobel Prize celebration. All of have these have lasted for decades, and, well, so has the Pi Omega Omega Formal, which dates back to 1372. I think it was Pope Gregory the XI, who, after downing a couple shots of rail gin, said unto-est Moose, “do that shit.”
And so, Moose did, and low and behold, we have this wonderful tradition that has spanned countless bars centuries. I shit-est thou not.
This year the festivities were held at work. And when I say “work”, I mean, of course, none other than the venerable Brass Rail. DJ Otter was on the beats, Tumbleweed and Hideout were bartending, …
… and everyone was, OF COURSE, dressed to the nines enjoying their respective wives. There were also some new inductees into the frat, including, but not limited to: Tyrant, Hi-ho Silver (not sure about that one …), and Lightning, the last of which was bestowed on Greg, the only man I know who will wait outside the Rail at 8:45a in freezing cold weather for a Pepsi. Believe me when I say — Fu Dog doesn’t open them doors til 9 o’clock SHARP.
Let’s begin:
Here’s Hoss and Gibby. Hoss is being Hoss; Gibby is being, well, Gibby.
Trent and Cool-whip looking quite regal … nice tie!
New York, Moose, Cool-whip, and Skater lookin’ sharp.
Gibby & Skid, cuttin’ a rug …
Steakhouse & Margarita …
Big Black! … amongst others.
But hands down, the real winner of the evening was none other than Slim Jim himself. Seriously: Formals have been held ALL over town. So the last thing anyone expected was when Mr. Yamamoto himself strutted in WEARING A GODDAMN FUCKING SUIT. Sans hat; sans belt (of the red variety); sans stapled to plastic packing material. And I cannot stress this enough: KEITH WAS THE MAN OF THE HOUR.
Huh?
Pssht. I don’t get it. That doesn’t add up.
So … Apple makes iPhones, and HP makes printers, right?
He almost looks like he’s smiling (i.e., not confused) in this shot with Bermuda …
There is a running theory that Keith has an IQ of 172, and his perpetual puzzlement is all an act. Judging by how he looked that night, there may be some truth to that.
Yaaaaaaay, Slim Jim!
And last but not least, there was a fucking Hamm’s Hat. Once again, relevance prevails.
Caw!
Well, unless you’ve been living under a rock, or above a rock, or adjacent to a rock, or really not giving two shits one way or the other, it’s Paris Fashion Week. How do I know this? I don’t. I made it up. I just happen to be correct. This of course means that it’s time to wear hats of the Hamm’s variety in all kinds of silly ways whilst sashaying down the runway. And when I say runway, I mean bellied up to the bar of The Rail. That being said, here I am wearing what will forever be known in the fashion industry as “the sidehat”, or “the double-wide.” Suck it, Armani …
Oh, and stay tuned — just got some great photos from Cool Whip, so a Frat Formal 2013 post will be coming forthwith, complete with — you guessed it — a Hamm’s Hat! God I love this country.
And now in the realm of completely inexplicable things, there’s been this strange phenomenon at “Work”, as opposed to “The Library”, “The Marriage Counseling Center”, or “Church.” (Ed.: If you don’t what the fuck I just said, ask Moose.) Anyway, one day I’m sitting at the The Rail, and River Rat yanks out this gigantic bottle of Hawaiian Punch from the cooler. I don’t think I’ve seen that shit since I was 12. Or 38. Who knows. So I ask, “what the fuck?” River Rat proceeds to explain that someone brought in a whole bunch of Hawaiian Punch. It might have been Tumbleweed, I don’t recall.
“What do you mean a whole bunch?”
“I mean a whole bunch.”
To wit:
Note Big Black looking on in curiosity. And what the hell is that middle one. Hawaiian Punch Light!? Seriously? Sure — instead of feeding your kids scoopfuls of sugar, let’s just pump them up with artificial chemicals instead.
“Here”, River Rat says, as he polishes off a pony of punch …
“Yah know, River Rat … that would make an excellent hat.”
“Indeed it would, Steakhouse, indeed it would.”
And there you have it. Is there nothing The Rail can’t do?
Here’s Forty looking tough and manly, until you realize he’s wearing a Roman Helmet. What’s a Roman Helmet, you say? Well, let’s let Urban Dictionary do the talking. Needless to say, when this new definition was discovered, The Rail turned into a bunch of little schoolgirls giggling and tittering about. Yeah — we’re a veritable 3rd grade class of scholars. Coulter even wrote a column about it. Sort of.
Pay no attention to the blood-sucking machines behind … pay attention to the happy Hamm’s Hat winner!
Who loves The Rail?
I do, I do!! Yaaaaaaaay, Rail!
Only 42 days til opening day, and here we see Baltimore ready and waiting in his White Sox hat, on top of his Hamm’s Hat hat. This Joyce is pumped! But he’s not to be confused with being a member of the completely, perpetually, and utterly shit-faced venerable “Joyce Brothers”, although they do have some similar talents. I think at last count there are sixteen or seventeen Joyce brothers — Baltimore is not one of them. In fact, when he gets asked if he’s one of the Joyce brothers, he slowly lowers and shakes his head, heaves a big sigh, and says, “no …”
And don’t forget: the frat formal is tomorrow night starting at 8:00p at The Rail. Dress to the nines, bring your wife, and get your drink on!
Caw!!
Freshly off of the train known as Amtrak, we see here the adorably cute Kate who walks into the bar, calmly orders a cool refreshing cylindrical can of Hamm’s, and guess what: HAMM’S HAT, baby … It’s a beautiful thing. She was a little unsure about the hat construction technique, so yours truly stepped in and gave her the classic Hamm’s Hat look. Admittedly it’s still harder with 30-packs than 24s. Can we please go back to 24s!?!? No? Fine.
Let’s watch:
And here she is stumbling about because she can’t see …
Oh, here I am !!
And we have another victorious soldier in the annals of Hamm’s-Hat-ness. God Bless ‘Merica.
Holy fucking fuck. So I stumbled walked into the bar and calmly planted my ass on my favorite stool, ordered my usual, and I hear some words that I pretty much just ignored. I then ordered my usual AGAIN, and once more … I’m hearing just BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH … I mean what the fuck. C’mon, man … Finally, I decide, well, maybe I should actually pay attention to what I’m being told since I still have yet to have a beer in front of me.
“We have no Hamm’s.”
“Say what, mother-fucker?”
“Talk to the distributor.”
Holy fucking fuck. Yes, I said it again. The Rail is out of Hamm’s. Now you could order a buttery Hamm’s, but, well, that’s your choice.
One funny outcome, however, is that River Rat decided to announce this on The Brass Rail, uh, “announcement board” — for lack of a better term — and instead of writing “No Hamm’s”, he wrote “No Hamm’s Hats”. When questioned about this, he thought about it for a second and realized that he just kind of wrote it without thinking about it. I find this amusing and poignant at the same time.
So there you have it. Stay tuned for further details.
Or not.
Oh, and P.S.: New chips. So you got that goin’ for ya.