“Sarasota! It’s Sarasota!”–guy at bar’s trivia night, after the emcee asked “What’s the capital of Florida?” (He later amended it to yell: “Jacksonville. It’s Jacksonville, right?!”)
“Sarasota! It’s Sarasota!”–guy at bar’s trivia night, after the emcee asked “What’s the capital of Florida?” (He later amended it to yell: “Jacksonville. It’s Jacksonville, right?!”)
You won’t believe these benches! We scoured Palmer Square, in Chicago, Illinois, to find the six park benches your ass is gonna find so intriguingly comfortable, you’ll be glad you sat on them before you DIED! These benches are extremely perfect for observing the change in seasons, contemplating the cycle of life, and gettin’ hella transcendental with some Ralph Waldo Emerson! We’re not allowed to write more than four sentences in these intro paragraphs, so let’s do this!
“Sit on it!”
“Show me the money!”
“I’ll have what she’s having!”
“Hey, I’m a bench…look at me!”
“Horn broke, watch for finger.”–R.W. Emerson
Look pal: We got a world to feed, and the last thing we need is some hippie-dippie pencil-pushing no-can-do seeds. Who are ya gonna listen to: Farmer Brown puttering about on his Oshkosh-b’-goshd ass all day, or a benevolent motherscratchin’ biotechin’ multinational gigantor of future abundance?! Yeah-yeah, God is great and he accomplished a lot in seven days, yadda yadda yadda, but you really think those Old Testament seeds are gonna feed a growing planet? Guess again, Methusaelah! I think you turkeys hear the winds of change blowing in, and those winds are carrying seeds with balls! These seeds are full of torque, and torque is what you use when you smoke angel dust! Smoking! Yeah! That’s what I do, and these seeds are gonna leave God crying in his Zima. My attitude is my brand! You got a problem with that, high level yoga instructor?
Look lady: It’s time to accept the truth. Finger bangin’ mighta worked for your Aunt Harriet back when poodle skirts were all the rage, but now? It’s all about the dildos, my friend. And we ain’t talkin’ about no mamby-pamby dildos either, but big honkin’ stick-it-in-your-snatch-and-you-still-got-a-couple-feet-a-handling-to-work-with dildo. Real men’s penises are a friggin’ joke compared to these dildos; while your boyfriend Gary Bonerpills is drooping like a wilted orchid in July, this is one rock-hard dildo that stays as solid, thick, and tuff as the business end of a Louisville Slugger. This ain’t no coffeehouse half-chub. Your vagina’s gonna be tapped like a frathouse keg, and kegs are full of beer! Beer is good and so is smoking. You got a problem with that, Lilith Fair?!
My parents are growing a lime tree. The limes are starting to come in. When they’re good and ripe, I hope my Mom makes a key lime pie.
Our server’s name was Nancy, and she said she would be taking care of us today. She asked us if we would like to start off with something to drink. I said I would like a sweet tea. When she brought the sweet tea, the cup was so big, my hand couldn’t fit around it!
Today, the traffic was bad on the major roads between the hours of 4PM and 7PM, but after that, it wasn’t so bad. There are some bottlenecks here and there from some of the stop lights, but nothing that will adversely impact your commute that much.
It’s tough to get a seat at First Watch on Sunday mornings. Everybody’s getting out of church, and when you get out of church, you think about the coffee and omelettes they serve there.
Orange County, Florida, is trending “blue.”
The produce section of the average Publix Supermarket is a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing. The stacked avocados alone, that shade of green, it’s so exquisite. The heirloom tomatoes, the cherry tomatoes, the plum tomatoes…it’s all so perfect! Nothing is spoiled. Nothing is shriveled and pathetic. The “organic” selection is diverse and plentiful, if that’s something you’re interested in.
A woman in the parking lot who drives a white Honda Civic placed a cardboard sunshade across the inside of her windshield. The cardboard sunshade had a drawing of a pair of sunglasses, so the car looked like it was wearing “shades!”
A caucasian teen boy prepared for a party he was going to attend by listening to “hip hop” music.
I have a friend who I have known for twenty-eight years now whose air conditioner unit had problems. This happened last week, and since it’s summer, and it’s summer in Florida, I don’t think you have to try too hard to imagine how hot it can get this time of year down there. Anyway, as a way to take his mind off of this, he made a Spotify playlist. He later sent it to me because he thought I would like it. It covered a lot of ground—everything from the Stooges to Isaac Hayes to 13th Floor Elevators to Neu! To Xavier Cugat. Among many others. I really enjoyed it.
Last night, once again, the citizens of Volusia County who own beachfront property dimmed their lights after sunset, so the sea turtles aren’t confused about which way to go. Everybody does this, no matter what their beliefs are about whatever. Everybody has an opinion on Florida—especially those who have never lived there—but if you really consider the ramifications of this united gesture, as small as it is—you can’t help but feel a bigger connection to the world, to nature, and to this place you live, have lived, or are visiting.
Today at lunch, a day laborer chugged three mini-bottles of vodka in one of the port-o-lets of the construction site.
Some of the people drove pick-up trucks to work today.
A quirky gentleman driving a Volkswagen Jetta has a bumper sticker on the back of his vehicle that reads, “HONK IF YOU LOVE SILENCE.”
The classic rock station totally got the Led out this evening.
A depressed teenage girl is starting to enjoy the music of The Cure.
The Food Court at the Mall did a brisk amount of business this weekend.
Almost all of the flights arriving into Orlando International Airport (MCO) got in on time today. None of them crashed. So there’s that.
Like everywhere, the politicians did a bunch of shitty things.
My parents played golf today. My Dad had a great day out there and shot a 2 under. My Mom’s game is improving with every round she plays, and she shot a 5 over.
My seven-year-old niece will be starting school again soon.
The fondue restaurant on State Road 434 totally used to be a Denny’s that my friends and I would “goof off” at “back in the day.” It’s funny, because it’s a nicer restaurant—fondue and all—but you can still totally tell that it used to be a Denny’s. Which reminds me of the sports bar that’s on State Road 436; you can totally tell that that used to be a Long John Silver’s.
In Key West, a Russian taxi driver took a newly-married couple starting their honeymoon from Key West International Airport (EYW) to their luxury hotel at the end of Duvall Street right there on the water and everything.
A bunch of pelicans flew overhead in a row. Dude, it was SICK!
In today’s “Beetle Bailey,” Beetle was taking a nap—yet again!—when he should have been guarding the barracks. The Sarge got mad and yelled “Beetle!!!” Beetle woke up. The punch line was pretty good.
Several dozen men woke up this morning realizing that they weren’t actually in love with the strippers they were spending time and money on last night.
A clerk asked a customer “How are you?” but didn’t really mean it.
A man in a vehicle waiting at a stop light “waved” in another vehicle driven by a woman trying to turn right into traffic from the JoAnn Fabrics parking lot. The woman waved back, as if to say, “Thank you for letting me pull onto the road.”
An intoxicated man at the bar gave voice to all of his opinions last night. Friends said the man really “told it like it is.”
The Hot Boiled P-Nuts vendor at the beach did pretty alright for himself this weekend. Nothing to write home about, but still.
This was outside of Jacksonville. This dude couldn’t sleep last night, so he turned on the TV. “Sanford and Son” was on. Fred was upset because Lamont was dating a Puerto Rican woman. Fred asked Lamont, “Have you been smoking those el jointos again?” He then called his son a “dummy,” and then faked a heart attack. The man chuckled, then went to sleep, right there on his loveseat.
At Band Camp last week, the three freshmen crash cymbal players learned how to play “The Star Spangled Banner.” Well, the cymbal part, anyway, but without the crash cymbals in that number, what do you have?
Douchebags acted like douchebags. It sucked, and unfortunately, this behavior doesn’t only happen in the Sunshine State. Wait a second…you didn’t actually think that…the turds in your state don’t stink? Seriously?!
Shamu totally killed it yesterday. Simply put: One of his best performances.
On the roads, the tourists weren’t the best at driving. Let’s put it that way.
The wacky morning show on the radio had a lot to say about: Lindsay Lohan, Anthony Wiener, and the YouTube video about the cat.
The manatees lived to see another day.
Is that a robot? No, silly! It’s one of the performers at Mallory Square in Key West, entertaining passersby at sunset.
Across the state, the sunset broke hearts, it was so beautiful. It’s the same sun everyone sees everywhere, yes, but down there, over the Gulf, or over the Intercoastal Waterway, or dappled through the foliage, sinking behind lakes, condos, retention ponds, roads, rivers, state parks, national parks, theme parks, it’s an intensely vibrant orange hue through pink clouds.
A lot of people really improved their boogie boarding this summer. Way to go, boogie boarders!
The landscapers and pool guys, the roofers and exterminators, the contractors and sub-contractors, the carpenters and drywall hangers….everybody worked hard this week. Same goes with the managers, the bartenders, the busboys, the tour guides, the park rangers, the clerks, the little league coaches, the deep sea fishermen, the data entry operators, the copywriters…too many occupations to name….but they did their jobs and to that we say, “Thank you!”
Chameleons skittered across the screens enclosing back patios all across the state.
Did you see those egrets? That was pretty cool.
Misty water fell from the ceiling and kept the outdoor patrons cool, well, as cool as you can be this time of year!
It looks like rain, but who knows.
Me: OK, so you were telling me about the first time you had the thought, “My God, I hate music.”
Dude: Yeah right, it was in Austin, Texas on the Saturday evening of the South by Southwest music festival, in 2004….I was limping out of Beerland to find someplace to eat. (I had broken a bone in my foot while jumping up and down to The Spits, but wouldn’t realize it until a week later, after walking through three airports (Austin, Houston-Hobby, Midway) and several typical Chi-town commutes of walking several blocks to busses and trains, and the “sprain” wasn’t getting better…) Beerland wasn’t the problem—it’s still my favorite bar in Austin—and the bands who were playing in Beerland weren’t the problem.The problem back then was everyplace else. From mid-morning to the crack of dawn, the city surrounding Beerland was filled with live music, and most of it, after three days and nights of this, all sounds the same. 4/4 One-Four-Five honky hokum.
Me: One-Four-Five honky hokum. What do you mean?
Dude: “Louie Louie.” “More Than a Feeling.” “Blitzkrieg Bop.” Those are fine songs in and of themselves, but when it’s all you hear for literally hours at a time, like: Here’s the intro, here’s when the drums kick in, here’s the verse, here’s the chorus, here’s the verse again, here’s the boring guitar solo, here’s the breakdown, here’s the end, and here’s where the fevered ego frontman talks and talks and talks as he introduces the next song, “Ass Grab,” and it’s about grabbin’ ass (or something).
Me; That’s when you had that horrible thought.
Dude: “My God, I hate music.” Exactly.
Me: Wow. That’s tough.
Dude: And I meant it. It kinda floored me, because I had never-ever had such a blasphemous thought before. It was always quite the opposite, a life centered around bands-bands-bands since the age of ten, and live music since the age of seventeen.
Me: How do you move forward after enduring such tragedy?
Dude: Well, I wrote it off to sensory overload, but that thought lingers, and it never goes away. And it’s the perfect comment on rock and roll, on the music industry, on any and all festivals, and on what every rational human being should feel after more than two days at Clusterfuckstock.
Dude: Clusterfuckstock. AKA, South-by?
Me: So you’re saying that that was when you first had the thought: “Music. It’s the worst.” Is that right?
Dude: Sure, but:I want to be perfectly clear that, in spite of what I said above and what I will say below, I actually and earnestly love SXSW. The good outweighs the bad. While I have no interest in moving there (and I’m sure the locals are quite happy about that), Austin is a wonderful place to be in March, after slogging through another upper middle west winter. Beer, shots, margs, food trucks, friends you don’t get to see more than 2-3 times a year if that, bands you never get to see, new bands who inspire, laughing til you can’t breathe….I’ve broken my foot during SXSW, caught the flu during SXSW, came down with food poisoning from an Arkansas Wendy’s that led to vomiting all over the rental van’s steering column while entering Dallas and then the drummer had to wipe the vomit off the wheel before he drove before we made it just in time to play and before literally dozens of trips to the Beerland men’s room before playing the gig with clenched ass…grown quite familiar with the AAA tow-trucks and the unintentional cultural exchange program that seems to go on between myself and the red state mechanics dotting the hinterlands between Chicago and Austin. I’m not complaining. I’ve grown to enjoy every aspect of this experience! I’ve learned to accept failure, flatulence, and bankruptcy as a basic fact of life for low-level musicians on tour, and I’ve learned that “This is Spinal Tap” isn’t strictly a comedy, and by this point—finishing my sixth visit to SXSW one month ago—I’m grateful for similar lessons taught to almost all of the bands who play there.
Me: What kind of lessons? What do you mean?
Dude: Well, I bet more bands break up on the Saturday of SXSW than any other day of the year. It’s like what Thanksgiving weekend is for college freshmen still dating their sweethearts from high school.
Me: Why is that?
Dude: I don’t know. I’m just a drummer. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say it’s through a remarkable combination of no sleep, dehydration, piled-on hangovers, frito-piearhea, and the stresses of loading in and loading out and trying to park an out-of-state van while literally hundreds of others driving out-of-state vans are attempting similar feats, any and all inter-personal issues between band members come to light.
Dude: Among other things. But it’s a perfect storm, and it’s awesome! Everybody Hits the Wall. Everyone has lost their voice. Everyone’s in a bad mood. It feels impossible to force down those cans of domestic beer, but it’s drunk anyway, out of habit. You ask, “How you holdin’ up?” and you get the best answers! People are tired, they’re miserable, they’re hungover, they’re broke, they hate music, they hate their music, they hate the people in their band, they yearn for silence. Everyone’s bleary-eyed and haggard. Oh, the futility of it all! Why are we here?! Rod Rooter from Big Enterainment hasn’t been at the showcases to point his cocaine-stained index fingers and say, “You got the goods!” And by Saturday evening, at the parties, you play for no one. Because no one wants to hear music anymore. Sneak the Stones onto the bill of a house party on the east side. Nobody will give a shit! Sorry, Keef. Music is the worst!
Me: But it’s fun though, right? I mean, that’s the whole point. Beats workin’.
Dude: Sure, and as to hitting that wall, what’s great is that when you know it’s going to happen, and you know what to expect, then you can sit back and enjoy it. Two thousand bands played the 2013 SXSW, or so I was told. Two. Thousand. That’s a lot of quixotic ego coming face-to-face with exhaustion and rejection. Because so many drive thousands of miles to get there, then they play in front of three people, three people who are paying more attention to their smartphones anyways.
Dude: Uh-huh. So, hopefully, you learn to laugh at it, accept it, enjoy it, and know that this too shall pass. Because, for most, it’s a damn fool thing to do with one’s time. But it’s what you signed on for, right? And we haven’t even gotten into the financial part of it. You realize that somebody, somewhere (beer companies? Bars? Bartenders? Silicon Valley? Pepsi? “The Industry?”) is making pretty good money from this, and it ain’t you. Which is another reality to confront, sooner than later.
Me: And this is why you love it?
Dude: And this is why I love it. Yes. It’s a test, of sorts, of your brain, liver, heart, soul, conscience, constitution, and (most importantly) musicianship. OK, kid. You’re a unique snowflake and all, but behind your aloof demeanor and your tattoos and your taste in clothing and your haircut, do you really want to do this? Do you love music, even when you hate it? Like to party, bro? Yeah? Prove it. To yourself, because nobody else really gives a shit.
Me: So what’s the point. The end result?
Dude: When you push through the other side of that wall you confront on SXSW Saturdays, you’ve killed your inner ham-and-egger. You’ve slain the weekend warrior within. You’re a Road Dog—fartin’ freedom (aka Doritos Locos Tacos). There are no illusions and delusions. There’s no thinking about it. You go home, and you did have fun, and you hope you sucked less than you did before, and you hope you’re learning, and you will keep trying trying trying, [sings] “oooh I been dirt, but I don’t care,” and all you need is a night or three home, and you’re ready to get back out there, in spite of/because of.
Me: So I guess it’s “Thanks again, SXSW?”
Dude: Definitely. Hope to see you next year.
We’ve all been there, haven’t we? That “after work” drink turned into several drinks, and the next thing you know, you wake up in your bed (or someone else’s, wait what ladies!!!) with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, a hazy memory, and, worst of all, the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—running on an endless loop in your skull.
Maybe you are going through this excruciating time right now. You’ve googled the words “hangover painful eagles take it to the limit endless oh dear lord please kill me” and no one—not even the Mayo Clinic—has any suggestions. You are on the brink of madness. Everything seems hopeless. All is lost. There is nowhere to turn.
First off: I am not going to sugarcoat this. You are in serious trouble. There are no easy answers. This will take hours, and, in your weakened condition, it will be difficult. There is no silver bullet, no magical instant remedy like listening to the “Beverly Hills Cop” soundtrack or simple hydration and moderate exercise. Modern medicine—such as it is—cannot save you. You will feel adrift in a sea of mellow seventies terror, lost in a funhouse of vicious country rock harmony. Alienated from your own body and your own mind, as the words “One more time…” are sung, and you know that you will relive the atrocity again and again and again.
Please note, however, that I said this will be difficult, but not impossible. I speak to you as a survivor of this devastating earworm. I have been free of excruciating hangovers while the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—runs on an endless loop in my skull, for over two weeks now. All I can really say to assuage your pain is that you will one day live to be free of Eagles’ songs trapped inside your head while you are hung over. You will monitor your drinking, and do what you can to make sure you will never have to experience what you are currently experiencing.
You are not alone. Never forget this. People love you and want you to be Eagles-free. Your head will, sooner than you think, beat this thing, and you will go back to having “She’s Tight” by Cheap Trick, and other songs less hellish than “Take it to the Limit,” trapped inside your head for hours at a time.
If it makes you feel better—curse your fate. Curse yourself for drinking too much, curse the classic rock stations for still playing the song, curse Barack Obama because he probably has something to do with it, curse Randy Meissner for writing the damn song. Do whatever you need to do to try and maintain a semblance of comfort through these trying seconds, minutes, hours, and even days. Yes, days. (And nights.)
While I can’t sit here and say “Someday, you’ll look back on this and laugh,” what I can say is that you will emerge from this experience a stronger person. To paraphrase the Buddha: Existence is suffering an excruciating hangover while the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—runs on an endless loop in your skull. Yes, my friend, you have been scorched by the flames of rock-country balladry, but from the ashes, you are a phoenix who will transcend the played out and overplayed.
Hang in there, and we’ll see you on the other side, with a gallon of homemade Four-Loko and a copy of John Coltrane’s “Ascension.”
You ask anybody who knows me and they’ll tell you that this b*tch loves me some lemonade, so when I scored the hookup to check out the soft launch of Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand at the Farmers Market, I thought, “Finally, Logan Square has the beginnings of an outdoor, child-owned-and-operated drink stand scene.”
And let’s face it: Logan Square is long overdue for some lemonade stands. I’m from Hinsdale, and while—don’t get me wrong, people!–Chicago has a lot to offer, many are the summer afternoons when this Hinsdale girl yearns for the days when she lived in a city that actually has lemonade stands on every corner, in every neighborhood, with just the right blend of freshly-squeezed lemons, perfectly chilled, sugar-infused water and the perfect number of ice cubes, served in a ruby red plastic Solo cup by young entrepreneurs acquiring their first experiences in the free enterprise system, bright-eyed and eager to please.
With all that being said, it is nearly impossible to register my profound disappointment and deep depression over my experience with Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand. I’m still so p*ssed, I don’t even know where to start.
But I’ll try, so ok: Let’s start with the prices. Fifty cents for a cup of lemonade?! Are you f*cking kidding me?! I mean, yeah, sure—I get it—the cost of living expenses are higher here, but to pay that much for a cup of lemonade is price-gouging, if you ask me.
So the price was Strike One, but I decided I would see this through, no matter what. Oh, but just when I was about to cut them some slack, Strikes Two and Three reared their ugly heads. (Or, should I say, fingers and nose, but more on that later.)
Strike Two happened as I watched one of these girls try and make their lemonade. (I didn’t bother trying to learn their names, I was so disgusted.) While one of the girls sat at their table coloring in a coloring book (too cool and aloof to say hi to me, but whatever), I watched in horror as the other girl made their so-called lemonade. Was she squeezing lemons into a pitcher? Uh, no. She had that powdered, out of a can, store-bought crap, and with a spoon, she unceremoniously dumped the powder into the pitcher. Do you understand me now? THIS LEMONADE STAND DOESN’T USE REAL LEMONS!!!
Since this is Logan Square, tell me: Is this supposed to be one of those “ironic hipster jokes?”
What. A. Bunch. Of. Bull. Sh*t.
Strike Three was happening at the same time as Strike Two. With her nonspooning hand, this skinny Logan Square girl was picking her nose as she stared up into the sky and sang Taylor Swift songs, completely oblivious to how disgusting and unsanitary she was being. It was as gross as the inside of a “dive bar,” which, in case you’re wondering, is a type of drinking establishment that has been in business for more than ten years.
Nonetheless, I persisted in my folly, as I like to support small businesses, at least once. I ignored my nausea and my “three strikes and you’re out” rule and placed my order, hoping against hope that somehow things would get better.
They didn’t. Coloring Book Girl was rude and a total b*tch. She didn’t have change for a five, so, as if I wasn’t already paying too much for lemonade, I received as change, three dollars and forty-three cents in the form of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. This was a severe inconvenience for me, as I don’t enjoy having that much change in my change purse. FML.
Don’t even get me started on the lemonade, if you want to call it that. It was lukewarm. No ice cubes. The powder granules stuck to my tongue. It only took one sip to convince me that this was the worst cup of lemonade I have ever tasted on one of the worst days of my life ever.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m still hoping for the best for Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand, because the hood needs a decent lemonade stand, totes now. Until that time comes though, all I can say is: OK, Logan Square. You’ve got skinny jeans, PBR, and art school attitude down pat, but when it comes to Lemonade Culture, you’ve still got a long way to go.
Until next time, this is Urban Foodie Gal, saying… “Thanks for letting me dish!”
1. Remain calm.
2. Briefly indulge in idle fantasies re: what you will do with the large sum of money you shall receive for this nearly priceless artifact. A timeshare in Fort Myers, Florida. A luxury pontoon boat. Nice cheese.
3. Remain oblivious to the fact that there are only roughly forty million copies of this album on our planet.
4. Remain oblivious to the water damage, scratches, and that musty smell of the album you hold in your hands.
5. Immediately call your nearest record store and inform them of your discovery.
6. Make your anecdote concerning your discovery as longwinded and as seemingly pointless as possible, and please, for the love of God, mention several times how you found this copy of “Rumours” in your Ma’s basement while you were doing some cleaning, and there it was, in a Jewels-Oscos paper bag containing just that and a VHS copy of “Buns of Steel.”
7. Re: Long-Playing Vinyl Records. Please ask, at least once, “Dey still make dose?”
8. Keep your proverbial cards close to your proverbial vest. You are sitting on a gold mine. Casually get down to brass tacks, by posing the Big Question by saying something along the order of, “Yeah, so uh, how much should I expect to get for somethin’ like dis?”
9. Keep your trade options open. Mention in an offhand manner how you’re thinkin’ about puttin’ it up on yer cousin’s Ebay account, but ya thought you’d ya know support a local business before taking dis copy of “Rooo-merrrrs” into the global marketplace.
10. Think about it some more, and recall how your kid brother has some records in his basement that’re just collectin’ dust—yer Supertraimps, yer Uh-tah-mick Roooosters, yer Bahhhz Skaaaaigs, yer Yerriiuh Heeps, and maybe even somethin’ by yer Beeetullls ya ever hearda dem heh heh?
11. Prepare for intense negotiations.
12. Consider a contingency plan/prepare to have your bubble burst.
13. Enjoy the ride. Players only love you when they’re playin’.
Tonight on “Alaskan Cold Guys…”
Tonight on “Alaskan Gypsy Wedding Flippers…”
Tonight on “Young Neurotic Urban Vaginas Trying to Fornicate with Young Neurotic Urban Penises…”
Tonight on “Beverly Hills Party Pups…”
Tonight on “Las Vegas Casserole Moms…”
Tonight on “The Real Data Clerks of Menomonee Falls…”
Tonight on “Chop Choppers Chopping Chopped…”
Tonight on “Gosh, Will You Take A Look at These Loud Rednecks Playing Up Their Loud Redneckiness for the Camera…”
Tonight on “Alcoholics Anonymous…”
Tonight on “Bourbon Bunnies….”
Tonight on “Kale Wars…”
Tonight on “Chard Boss…”
Tonight on “Ramsay’s Bric-a-Brac Nightmares….”
Tonight on “Extreme Stuff…”
Tonight on “Thistlebrush Writer’s Retreat…”
Tonight on “Backstreet Rodeos…”
Tonight on “Cajun Titty Bar…”
Tonight on “American Cleavage…”
Tonight on “Ghost Buddies…”
Tonight on “Cheese Puff Chompers…”
Tonight on “Fashion Fuck-Ups…”
Tonight on “Reheat My Fry Vat…”
Tonight on “Swamp-Ass Ventilators…”
Tonight on “Saffron-Infused Risotto Boys…”
Tonight on “Soft-Spoken Police Cops…”
Tonight on “Lawyer Dogs..”