It’s been a looooong time, but I remember the Guinness Draught (not original) widget cans and rocket ship bottles used to specifically say drink from the can/bottle.

The only good thing about Newcastle is the guy from Venom hollering about it in this epic classic

Oh fuck off. The article says “under the influence” not “trace amounts were detected”. This is a toxicology report pursuant to an autopsy not some piss test for a job. The onus is on you to prove the test is inaccurate.

I don’t even disagree with you! But I’m not talking about legal liability here just good old fashioned dumbass-itude.

Damn, dude, chill. You must really hate savings.

Damn, dude, chill. You must really hate savings.

You get a pass on gameday, my friend.

Sure, but the article states:

Honestly, getting a goth girlfriend is probably insanely competitive. It’s got be at least a 50-1 dudes to ladies ratio in the goth world.

You’re right, but more importantly, who gives a shit?

After a certain age, anyone who is really into any sort of “scene” to the extent that they wear certain clothes and are known as a “XXX” is just exhausting and kind of a red flag. Goth, punk, metal, gamer, craft beer, misc geek, etc.

Tivo? You ARE an old guy!

I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve always been a joyless person who thinks TV should shut up and just let me drink my beer in peace.

“SAY FRIEND, YOU GOT ANYMORE OF THAT GOOD SARSAPARILLA?”

“Get in the hole” is legitimately the only thing I like about watching golf.

You might need a refresher on what “sarcasm” means.

Ah yes, Popeye, that character kids today can’t get enough of and are clamoring to buy in $80 doll form.

Not everywhere. And not for everyone.

I mean, the kid was high and ran out on an active race track. It’s not a leap to assume his judgement may have been somewhat impaired.

But despite all of these common-sense preventative measures, I still feel a bit uneasy. I can’t put my finger on it—maybe it’s the erratic oil pressure that’s freaking me out. Maybe it’s the rusty brake lines that I keep breaking off, or maybe it’s the master cylinder whose brake fluid I spilled all over my face the…

Well, yeah!