Rookie Move, Mailman

So, I'm walking around the neighborhood today, and I notice every mailbox is slapped with a "Wet Paint" sign. Fucking rookie move, chief. Um, mailman, you're in Allston, the hipster mecca. To a hipster, "Wet Paint" translates to "Free Paint." Now every occupier in a ten mile radius is going to have matching postal service blue denim jackets and messenger bags, and every mailbox near my apartment is going to have a whiny little blotch on it, can't wait to see all the smurf-looking cool kids lurking outside of Silhouette tomorrow night.

P.S. I was walking back from the packie when I noticed the mailboxes, and I gotta say, Sam Summer gets all the glory, but Harpoon IPA is the real Boston summer beer. Fuck what ya heard.

The Shtick Continues

The shtick continues.  First off, this post has nothing to do with tits, but if I just put a picture of me backhanding an elderly Indian, nobody would read this, so fuck it, fake it til you make it, bro. Actually, everybody would read this, but I don't have that picture. Anyway, I've dropped some tweets recently about the owner at my corner packy, specifically the fact that every time I pick up a thirty, he says, "Big party today?" and makes me feel like an asshole. No, bro, 30 is just the number of beers I drink on a Sunday. Today was the icing on the cake. Sunday fun day, so I snagged myself an eighteen, and yet, still with the "Big  party" line. The fuck? Ya, I'm throwing a real hoe-down with my 18 natties, gonna rage like it's 1999 you combed over snuffleupagus testicle-looking beer peddler. So, I finally told him, "Just me, actually, I'm not a big party guy." This ends now. There is no party. There never was a party. Get off me.  

UPDATE: Picked up a 24 with nothing but a "nice weather today." Smells like...victory.