This Summer, You're Drunk

Awwwwwwww we're black y'all. We're black y'all. We're blacker than black and we're black y'all!

Oh, I'm sorry. We started off meaning to say "back" but couldn't resist the allure of black power-- which, for the record, has never suffered a major outage.

Forget all that though, friends, how have you been? I gotta say, you look a little taller. And did you lose some weight? Readers, you lookin' foine! Oh this? Nah, just a t-shirt I had laying around, you know. But listen, there's something we wanted to tell you.

So we know that this time when we said we were going out for milk, we didn't come back for five months. We just want you to know (in the same Robin Williams to Matt Damon tone) that it's not your fault...it's not your fault.

Honestly, we went to the store, saw a poster for a motorcycle festival, and one thing led to another. Long story short, we have the best leather vest tans going right now.

So let's put all that behind us, curl up under the ceremonious make-up Snuggie, and have ourselves a nice box of Franzia. What do you say?

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Breathe it in, kids. That's the body odor of mother Earth, and she is not wearing dewodorant. The weeks of incessant humidity are a wonderful reminder that the blades of our household fans simply can't cut it anymore. It is clear now that the air has been shampooed, and therefore must be conditioned.

We at The Sometimes heartily support the miracle of centralized air just as much as we support the practice of social gatherings. Where do these two phenomena intersect? That's right, Chuck E. Cheese's and the movies. We should only concern ourselves with the latter, though, because apparently being hot and sticky is frowned upon in a ball pit full of screaming infants.

A purple popsicle? You grapist!

A timeless American tradition, the theater is the place where buttery popcorn is transferred from a clogged vessel to a clogged artery. Where countless teenagers seek out private seats in a public forum, so as to engulf each other in a game of minor league tonsil hockey. Yes, it truly is the place for kings.

Throw a full-blowing air conditioning system into the mix, and the only thing hotter than those barely legal teens is Kevin James' sizzling performance in the fast-paced, beastility-filled thrill ride Zookeeper.

You can play video games in the lob...Hey, wait a minute. That's not an accurate description of Zookeeper at all. Let's take a look at what the 'ole online edition of a newspaper says. Okay, found the review. Hmm...he's a what? Oh alright, that makes sense. And he can do what...talk to animals? Oh, like Dr. Doolittle! What? What do you mean it's nothing like Dr. Doolittle? It's the same exact supernatural ability. That's like saying there's nothing in common between Michelle Bachmann and a white NBA player -- come 2012, a black man will continue to dominate them.

Alright, after having voluntarily added "zookeeper review" to my search history, I've learned two things. One, the only misinterpretations I made about this film were about the plot, setting, and characters. And two, it is impossible not to fall in love with Kevin James based on his cuddly frame and winning smile. I completely get what that Allegra Cole sees in him.

Still, I can't find any proof that this movie is actually enjoyable. No proof. Proof. Proof....

Hot damn, that's it!

Besides very long hallways, staircase lighting, and ticket checkers who heed Beyonce's infamous advice ("to the left, to the left") half of the time, what does every movie theater have? That's right, a concession stand! And what fills these fantastically overpriced vending stations? Why the popcorn, soda pops, and diabetes-sized candy bars, of course.

While all of these items may help partially alleviate the torture of sitting through The Smurfs, they will not make the experience enjoyable.

Enter the savior: Booze.

Bar Wars: You R2Drunk2Drive

Before you drink that idea down, imagine this. Having recently witnessed the annual glory of the Fourth of July, I defy you to tell me that the following scenario is not quintessentially American:

You're sitting in a giant megaplex watching Bruce Willis continue his assault on the world's accented terrorists in Die Hard 6: Explosions and Breasts. You lean slightly forward and grab your 50 oz movie theater sized, special edition ice cold Budweiser. Relaxing your chubby rear against the plush cushioning of your seat, you tilt your head back and take a long, refreshing pull. Just as McClane does a back flip off of a flaming helicopter, guns a blazing, you feel the soft kiss of centralized air on your brow.

You have just achieved the real American dream.

I mean, think about it. Not only would we enjoy the comments my black brethren already yell at the screen, but we would join in on the fun. Every single one of us has wanted to shout "Bitch, don't open that door!" at the top of our lungs. This would finally make that a socially acceptable reality.

For theater owners no doubt reading this small town blog, I offer you the possibility of never again having a lull in the box office. Say it with me: daily drink specials.

Those of you currently dealing with the oncoming anxiety of the Netflix price hike will soon find yourselves back in a theater seat. It is here where I implore you to imagine how great the next two hours spent watching Rise of the Planet of the Apes: of the could have been. Come back to us with feedback, please and thanks.

In the interim, know that the Sometimes is thankful to be back on your browsers, mobile or otherwise. We missed you guys and dolls.

Roll the credits,

Tapan Jones

[Art, as always, by Thomas Glass Jr.]

Click to maximize the pictures!

p.s. This is totally unrelated, but based on the recent internet craze, if you see someone "planking" just do the right thing: walk on them and pretend there's a sea of shark infested waters below your feet.

Return to Which Mountain?

So I was sitting in this chair smoking a pipe when I saw a commercial for a movie about some kids who ride in the back of the car while The Rock drives them somewhere and makes faces. First I thought, wow. Those kids are so lucky. But then one of them said something about being an alien and they copied that thing Hancock did where he stood in front of a train, and I nearly dropped my pipe onto the floor.

I was disgusted. These days, the media will have you believe anything. Sure, kids can be aliens. They can stand in front of cars and explode them and not get hurt. Do you know how many children are going to be run over when this movie comes out? While the media would have you believe otherwise, the simple truth of the matter is that the youth of today are not aliens, even though, like aliens, they are jerks. Try a little accountability on for size, media.

And all this is without even mentioning the egregious Hancock ripoff. He was different because he was a superhero and superheroes can do that, but what kind of message are we sending our kids here? There's only one Hancock, guys.

Come on media, you're not fooling anyone.

And that's another thing - the media is playing us all like so many fiddles. Do they think I'm stupid? Yeah right, Katie Couric. Whatever you say, and so forth. Like I'm listening anyways - I've got a bun in the oven, a baby in my vagina, and I'm trying to finish this 30-pack before my night shift. Can't a girl get some "me" time?

It's like, no matter how hard I try, someone's always waiting there, telling me I have a "drinking problem". Well you know what? Maybe I do have a drinking problem, but has that stopped me from achieving my goals? Clearly, it has not.

This brings me to my next and final point: if this country is ever going to beat China, we have to stop confusing people with movies about alien kids and come together under one mantra, under one common goal. That goal is: beat China. As drums and fifes start playing "Yankee Doodle", citizens of all colors and creeds must unite with determined looks on their faces and march in slow motion in front of the American flag. Each and every one of us must put red, white, and blue "Beat China" ribbons on the backs of our cars, for ribbons truly speak louder than words. The media must stop using their powers to confuse and anger me, and must instead use their powers to spew nationalist propaganda from purple mountain majesties to... fields of... wheat or something. Anyways, we must all do what we do best: drive muscle cars, wear cowboy boots, and eat chili on top of spaghetti noodles. This is our chance, America. Let's not fuck up.

Yours in Christ,
Mike