From the archives …

Dusting off the ol’ photo album, I found a couple snaps from August. Three noobs walked into the bar and although I’m pretty sure I’d never seen ’em before, they were drinking Hamm’s so they can’t be all that bad.

One of ’em won a hat. I love this country.

The guy wore his hat for awhile, and he was clever and managed to solve what could’ve been a serious problem … [Ed.: it’s kinda hard to see it unless you click on the pic, but the man has a straw.]

Problem solved. Nice work, young man … nice work.

Bandana nailed it …

So the other day, I received a very succinct e-mail from Bandana. I was opening up my e-mail one morning, and there was a message with the subject line: “that”.

This could mean a lot of things: Somebody found or witnessed something that involved bodily excretion of some sort in the alley behind The Rail; her husband Hot Pockets made a technological breakthrough in the consumption of burritos; Gibby figured out a new way to lose money to shiny lights and loud noises; Rick lost another piece of his anatomy — the list goes on and on.

With trepidation I slowly hit the Enter key to see what it said. And it said this:

“Hamms hat website is woefully behind….Just sayin’.”

With a figurative slap in the face and a kick in the nuts I realized what a shockingly egregious thing I had allowed to transpire. This simply will not do. It reminded me of a time back in September of last year when Low End won a Hamm’s Hat. Low End refuses to wear Hamm’s Hats, and so this lonely Hamm’s Hat …

… just sat there by its lonesome wishing that someone would place it lovingly on a head. Any head. Please? A sad day indeed.

And so I’ve realized that to fully keep this carefully sown tradition of over 37 years continuing, I need some help. Consequently I’ve enlisted the assistance of Hoss and River Rat to help out with the chores and provide updates so that when I’m lapsing, my pals and fellow Hamm’s-keteers will continue with the posting of the Hamm’s Hat-iness.

So without further ado, please help me in welcoming them to the arduous, but oh so rewarding, task of making this “blog” (I fucking hate that word) everything it’s meant to be.


And speaking of Wildman, if you see him, buy him a beer. Cuz he did something the other day that all of us have been wanting to do for a loooong time. And if you don’t know what that is, well, ask Hoss or River Rat or pretty much any of the regulars.

Dag-nab ding-a-lings gih-gih-gih!!

Pals forever.

Here we see Tony Gunning, a.k.a. Tony Baloney, enjoying an adult beverage with Hoss and his recently won Hamm’s Hat. And if you think Tony got that nickname by accident, well, you’d be wrong. Tony tells the most incredulous stories I’ve ever heard. He’s been in Viet Nam, Korea, World Wars I, II, and IV, etc. etc. He’s a helluva guy, actually. It’s always a treat to be in his presence, and he’s happy to engage you in conversation, which may or may not be to your liking.

I recall one time in particular when The Rail first started serving Guinness in a can. I enjoy a Guinness now and then, but I typically prefer it from out of an actual tap. Anyway, I decided to have one, and I happened to be sitting next to Tony. He started spinning a yarn about how he used to hang out at some bar where they had an early morning breakfast. That breakfast consisted of a pint of Guinness and a hard-boiled egg. Now I’ve known of bars like this before, but the truly interesting thing was that according to Tony, they would hang the hard-boiled eggs by a string from the ceiling. You would raise your pint glass, dip the egg into it, and then eat the egg off of the string.

I want to go to this bar.


I’m a Coulter jerk. I’ve been swamped with so many stupid things like drinking my brains out on a regular basis that ONCE AGAIN I’ve fell horrifically behind on my Hamm’s Hat Posting Duties. I gotta get another job. One where I don’t drink all day. Or drink on the job. Or, uh, drink. So I promise that in the coming weeks I’ll be posting more loving Hamm’s Hats because I don’t have a life. Well, outside of drinking all day. And going to The Rail. Which is sort of the same thing. But I digress. Oh. Wait, I didn’t, did I. ENOUGH!


So there.

Yay, Hamm’s Hats! Love how they’re bringing back the old style cases, amirite!?

Oh, and speaking of Coulter, be sure to check out his “new” blog which sounds about as good as it sounds.

We break from our regularly scheduled program …

I know this has nothing to do with Hamm’s Hats, but why the Earth isn’t spinning off its axis RIGHT NOW is completely beyond me.

Yes — here we see FOUR Joyce brothers all shitting away their carefully earned paychecks in front of the diabolical whore-machines at The Brass Rail.

This goes beyond Wonder-Twin Powers, Care Bare Stares, Power Ranger whatever-it-is-the-fucking-power-rangers-do, or Keith’s brain. This should scare every human being on the planet, and rightly so.

Something like this comes to mind:

Mrs. Joyce would be proud appalled titillated nonplussed.

And now back to your regularly scheduled program.



It was a quiet Thursday afternoon at The Rail, and a couple of knuckleheads walked in. Yeah, I know — narrow it down, wouldya!? At any rate, birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and Jones won a Hamm’s Hat! He decided to stick his tongue out one of the eyeholes. Pfft. Kids today. Meanwhile, Forty takes a nap.

After his nap, Forty chose to go outside and smoke a blurry cigarette.