What's New, Pussycat?

somuchsass:

crissle:

bitchcraftandwiggatry:

It’s officially gone too far now.

And the fact that all three of them were mashing that button. Jesus take it.

I heard about this last night and I am still appalled. 

What.


dottielou:

tbridge:

This is hysterical. So, Michael Morse hits a bomb off the far wall at Busch Stadium. The umpires call it in play. He gets tagged out on the throw back in. Umpires go to review the call, and find out it’s a home run. Because of the basepath confusion, they send the runners back to the bags, and Morse goes home, fakes a swing, and then takes the grand-slam trot.

Yeah. That’ll do.

This? Made my day. I love it.

This will never not make me smile. 


bartdontlie:

It’s like this. 

This week was real fuckin’ gangster. Just busy as shit and overwhelming from the jump. Too much to do and not enough time. You’ve barely been holding it together all day and your brain is cooked. 

So when work is finally done (or as done as it’s gonna get) you go next door to the bar. And you belly up and you handle your business and act like a goddamn professional. Not shouting and pounding on the bar like the guys two stools down. Not making a big show of blowing off steam because WOOOOOOOOO it’s Friday. Yelling at the TV talking about getting fucked up. That’s amateur shit. 

You order simply. You drink your beer and shot of whiskey quietly. Have your money ready. Tip well but not like an asshole throwing money around. Sit there like it’s your local even if it isn’t. Act like you’ve been in a bar before. Act not just like you’ve been there before, but like you’ve played in the postseason. You got this. 

And then on your second round in a bar you’ve scarcely ever set foot in instead of the standard shot glass of whiskey when you order the cheap beer and cheap shot combo special you get this nice healthy pour and a nod from the bartender that says “yeah, me too.” 

Because in the course of a single round you’ve earned that. You’ve shown that you can handle it. 

And then, as if you needed another sign from up high, Deltron comes on and if you squint hard enough into the distance you can almost tell that eventually it’s all going to be ok. 

Happy Friday, y’all. Have fun and be good to each other. I love you. View Larger

bartdontlie:

It’s like this.

This week was real fuckin’ gangster. Just busy as shit and overwhelming from the jump. Too much to do and not enough time. You’ve barely been holding it together all day and your brain is cooked.

So when work is finally done (or as done as it’s gonna get) you go next door to the bar. And you belly up and you handle your business and act like a goddamn professional. Not shouting and pounding on the bar like the guys two stools down. Not making a big show of blowing off steam because WOOOOOOOOO it’s Friday. Yelling at the TV talking about getting fucked up. That’s amateur shit.

You order simply. You drink your beer and shot of whiskey quietly. Have your money ready. Tip well but not like an asshole throwing money around. Sit there like it’s your local even if it isn’t. Act like you’ve been in a bar before. Act not just like you’ve been there before, but like you’ve played in the postseason. You got this.

And then on your second round in a bar you’ve scarcely ever set foot in instead of the standard shot glass of whiskey when you order the cheap beer and cheap shot combo special you get this nice healthy pour and a nod from the bartender that says “yeah, me too.”

Because in the course of a single round you’ve earned that. You’ve shown that you can handle it.

And then, as if you needed another sign from up high, Deltron comes on and if you squint hard enough into the distance you can almost tell that eventually it’s all going to be ok.

Happy Friday, y’all. Have fun and be good to each other. I love you.