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.

K? DOOOOD?

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.

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.

Hoss!

Frat Formal 2013

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!

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.