Hello again,
a small update but personally only second so still very important so I decided to devote this one to some VIPs doing some VITs (things). I will keep it short and sweet… First, Moose sporting exactly what he wants: Gin and Squirt.
and the regular I consider the anti-Nate, our humble friend and fellow umm “indulger” (he’s not a drunk he’s a respectable business man and the hamms-hat.com creator…) Steakhouse!
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!
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!