12/9/2016

In Attendance: Cash, Chess, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Stephen, Tango

Nicknames are evolving at T-14 at such a pace to draw suspicion from Fort Lauderdale PD. Once all T-14 members secure new handles, we will circumcise our watches and roll over a Dairy Queen. For you home-gamers, the latest movement in this regard is Gary becoming Tango and Wolff being called Cash.

December 9^th was an intimate and gut-busting affair to the point Pastor became puddly in his pants, and Scribe forgot to take some notes. Luckily, Pastor held confession last night at Yolo over several goblets of reindeer juice, and Scribe was absolved of his sins with a sign of the cross and penance of 3 Miller Lights and 2 Yuenglings.

Being the T-14 elder, Cash dispensed invaluable wisdom and observations deserving immortalization in the blog. The first is that “working out is a waste of time”. Scribe finds this advice highly pertinent to his circumstance, realizing that despite working out almost every day, 1) Cash would trounce him in an arm wrestling match in light of a rotator cuff tear and 2) would likewise thrash him in a foot race as his orthotics—worn to address drifting plantar bone fragments and minor hip dysplasia—are splitting and in need or replacement. Were he a horse, Scribe would have been put down some time during the Clinton administration.

Cash’s second immortal prudential nugget is to “just trade shit”. With a face that screamed, “I’m getting puddly in my pants just thinking about it,” Cash is outwardly modest about the small war chest he is amassing, “Just trading shit and knowing that I will make money 70% of the time.” His personal tagline, “I don’t know half the crap I own,” can be found in his upcoming business success book, “Fuck It!”

Meanwhile, Silent Bob spent ten minutes describing a listing to a billionaire who hung up 30 seconds into their conversation.

With that, the Table 14 mantra for the week is: It’s OK to break wind as long as you don’t put on airs.

12/2/2016

Attending: Ant-ny, Don, Dreadlock Fetus, Newcomer Ray (momentarily), Silent Bob, Solomon (momentarily, absque consientia), Tango, Wolff

Scribe is having pathological difficulty accepting that a group of such long standing does not have a comprehensive set of nicknames and is taking liberties with them himself where they are lacking. Of course, these monikers are completely open for future changes/improvement.

Pastor's absence was conspicuous and met with uniform concern by T-14 assuming he could only have neglected his voluntary obligatory appearance for a pivotal life circumstance like open bar.

Having arrived cryogenically frozen and categorically unable to participate, Solomon was forced to depart after 10 minutes.

The character of focus on December 2nd was Jim "bossy face" Wolff by way of 1) Ant-ny's giddy obsession with his upcoming 80th birthday blowout and 2) a festering Yuengling allergy. Regarding item 1, the discussion comprised several simultaneous tugs-of-war. The first was Ant-ny's planning grandiosity, which included destination parties, a birthday flotilla, a legion of scantily or non-clad strippers--1:1 guest:skank ratio. The more Ant-ny's creative juices flowed, the hotter Wolff's mental cash register ran. On the verge of meltdown, Wolff placed a firm kibosh on the conversation, reaffirming his original plan of a sports bar bash, of which the table generally approved as if it were their choice. Wolff declared the only remaining gap in his plan was lack of theme. The gentlemen of T-14 separated into breakout groups, employing consensus-building techniques such as multi-voting. scatter diagrams, and brainstorming to return with the fresh, revolutionary, completely innovative proposition of ... strippers.

Wolff shifted his focus to the borderline historic "Yuengling Controversy". It's genesis was Don and Scribe's innocent request for a brew upgrade. Wolff entered thunderous objections, turning fifty shades of dismay. He pounded the table in the name of T-14 tradition and superior taste. Others at the table asserted, "After thirty years drinking piss, how would you know the difference." Beginning to feel outnumbered, Wolff turned his argument toward those younger, naive victims at the table, categorizing Yuengling a "gateway beer", presumably to sophistication--something strictly forbidden at T-14. At whits end from enduring soiree consultations under duress and standing his ground in protest of Yuengling, Wolff spent three minutes downing a pint of Yuengling.

In other news:
- T-14 discovered a previously unseen lattice of veins in Antman's forehead as he regaled them with the general n'eer-do-well culture of the South Florida alarm installation community, so exasperated he was forced to fetch his own glass.

- Dreadlock Fetus constructed a new menu item SPRB could now call the Winn Dixie Burger.

- Scribe brought his vulnerability to the table, admitting that the follicularly vacant state of his scalp is casualty of a DIY dreadlock twisting accident.

In closing, the T-14 mantra for the week is: 22 + 12 = 40

11/25/2016

In Attendance: Gary, Panama, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Solomon

Scribe is honored to compose the second in a hopefully never-ending series of blogs for T-14. He attempts to make amends for the past two months during which Pastor subliminally baited him to commence penning absurdities. While Pastor has felt this encouragement to be overt, Scribe has been all but a tad oblivious. Scribe is thankful that Pastor didn’t have to entice him as Panama does his dog to pee—tickle his balls. That’s the dog’s, not his own.

Having a new kitten in Scribe’s household, he can draw parallels to the effect the absence of Dreadlock Fetus had on the table. The lack of youth lowered the table's energy more than a bit. On the other hand, no one unraveled the toilet paper in the John. The relative dawdling pace of conversation notwithstanding, Gary assured everyone he would catch up with the conversation shortly after everyone departed.

Public Service Announcement: Pastor has in his possession a menagerie of journals of which his wife no longer has use and are available for perusal, collages, or the full stocking of the periodicals section of a local library. Casual delight is for the taking from riveting pages of sundry titles like Diabetes Daily, Blue Cheese Quarterly, Miniature Donkey Talk, Girls and Corpses, Ferret Fetish, Portable Restroom Operator, Sewing News, Fencepost, The Croquette Gazette, Potato Review, and Lighthouse Digest, most of these being real titles. They are for the asking at a meager pittance of a Xanex and/or 15-year old scotch—quality or expiration dates inconsequential.

A special shout-out for Panama's appearance after a material absence. By his own narrative, he reenacts Vasco de Gama’s life obstacles with each expedition from the far-off shire of Delray Beach to partake in goblets of reduced-calorie ale with his mates. The valor and ardor he invests in each day of attendance do not go unnoticed.

With that, the Table 14 mantra for the week is: I’d rather go to the club.

11/18/2016

Attendees: Ant-ny, Dreadlock Fetus, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Solomon, Wimmer and newcomer New York Mitch.

Alas, the meeting commenced straight away on an inauspicious foot with Scribe in Pastor’s seat, prompting a glare making him puddley in the boxers. There is only one rule at the table that completely changes at least every 15 minutes—don’t sit in the Pastor’s seat. Silent Bob asked the Pastor if he wanted to invoke Medicare Part G upon Scribe, but Pastor considered it an ineffectual gesture given that, according to Silent Bob, 10% of the table is statistically dead.

DF’s (a.k.a. Grand Master Samurai Flash or Bruce Leroy) nightly budget for bringing his al dente noodle to the spaghetti house is $100 per night (an airbnb.com exclusive). Scribe would like to point out that DF may want to reconsider his spending arrangement in light of a Youngstown Ohio woman willing to engage in friendly bandicooting for $60 and a plate of nachos. Always entrepreneurial and seeing commission opportunities, Solomon wasted no time advertising that his cousin’s father’s son’s scout leader’s goomah’s ferret’s eurologist is Donald Trump’s social media director, possibly soon to be seeking earning opportunities. Pastor, awaiting the end of the 2020 election to close his next deal, remained unfazed of DF’s significant mugambo budget, having bigly comparable experience in his old panel van using Bit-O-Honey and a menstrual cycle costume as bait. For good measure, DF reminded pastor of the subtle distinction between a connoisseur and a curmudgeon. Notwithstanding, a grand layer of suspicion of Pastor draped the table when it appeared the first engine he ever saw was ostensibly a picture on Solomon’s iThing.

The table hit DEFCON 1 when an unsuspecting victim three tables away lit a cigarette. Pastor, with Solomon’s aid, cast an evil spell on him. He is now at the New River Community Mental Health Center playing with a train, his life goal to stuff a square piece into a triangular hole. Should this two-legged smoke bomb reappear at SPRB, the ante will be upped to transform him to stone in the form of an armless Dom Deluise riding a tortoise.

At exactly 5:43 PM, the one rule at the table became (for four minutes) that one may openly speak effeminately at presuming said one has a penis in his mouth and actively watches Madam Secretary.

DF seems to be attempting to go to the boneyard on one of his airbnbn conquests with  “lady” Pastor saw get bat mitzvahed last weekend. He is considering entering the Trump Protester Jobs Program to fund his extensive exploits. Sho ‘nuff!

In closing, a reminder of the daily table’s meditation mantra for the week: Only angels have wings.