3/13/2017 - Armageddon Out of Here!

Attending: Cash, Frank, Raymond, Scribe, Pastor, Perfect Storm, Tango

Despite prolific laughter emanating from the table, the conversation topics were dour, at best. The general theme: Armageddon. This topic was championed by Perfect Storm, positing that shortly, the only organisms gracing the table will be people with gold, roaches, amoebas, fruit flies, and Keith Richards (not necessarily carrying gold). During the conversation, cash cited the interest rate in 1932, and he didn't even have to consult his filing cabinet, a.k.a., his pocket.

Just as Scribe was ready to order a pint of hemlock, the topic thankfully shifted as smokergeddon broke out, again. That is, Tango abruptly, out of nowhere but his own brain, jumped out of Silent Bob's traditional seat, shoving chairs--with people in them--out of the way. Someone at the next table had fired up a coffin nail, and Tango was having none of it. Now being retired, going postal was off the table, so he sat strategically positioned to fire a visual laser in this smoker's direction that burnt a hole in the trousers of an unsuspecting rice farmer in Pyongyang. Now having been a former smoker with a severely addictive personality, Scribe jumped at the chance to take Tango's seat, inhaling the secondary sarcoma smog he so used to love. Thank you, Tango!

Then Cash brought up the most important word in the world to him: Jihaderadication, defined (by him) as "A term used by some imams in informal associations of mosques in the United States and some other countries to rid their congregations of some radicals." He apparently would like to post this on Wikipedia, but anonymously since he appreciates the benefits of having a head.

So come to Table 14 for uplifting conversation and cold beer! And let's raise a glass for an uplifting toast to Bill "piece of shit" Di Blasio, reciting the Table 14 mantra for the week: "Sweet little thing, why wait for armageddon when I can take you to paradise right now?"

3/24/2017 - Forget Love. I'd Rather Fall in Beer.

In attendance: Ant-ny, Cash, Chess, Elon Musk (a new nickname for Solomon every week until something sticks), Frank, Lispy Stuttering Steve (Pastor), Mike, Raymond, Rich, Robin Chess, Scribe, Silent Bob, Tom

We all have our talents. Silent Bob passes a paper towel like Lebron, Pastor coats a French fry in salt like he's spray tanning our First Lady, and Ant-ny is late. But there are some weeks where, although much fun was had, reading these posts is like watching flies fuck (credit George Carlin).

Speaking of, in our education section, the unofficial and completely made up meaning of the acronym CRC is Crazy Russian Chic.

The whereabouts of Glen's original Table 14 shirt are unknown. Pastor had it last which means it's probably in Mexico with Tom Brady's jersey.

The most energetic moments at the table were produced by a lengthy "discussion" between Ant-ny and Pastor about an extension that Pastor had asked Ant-ny for in selling his property. Ant-ny dug back to his days on the gang and narcotics task force, leering at Pastor, attempting to intimidate him into submission on the issues at hand. When Ant-ny finally had Pastor on the ropes, Pastor attempted to talk sense into him saying, "Look, kid. You know I always just want to help you get ahead," to which Ant-ny replied, "I'd have thought you'd be able to give better head after your 103 years of existence." Our phone calls to determine how Ant-ny would know this went unreturned. Ant-ny comported himself in a manner so menacing and terrorizing--with such unabashed savagery--that later in the week, Pastor had no recollection of the incident. During an exclusive phone interview with the Table 14 Bugle, Pastor summarized his deductive assessment of the episode as, "Hey! I drink, and I forget."

Yeah, nothing friggin' happened.

In closing, the Table 14 mantra of the week is: "Well, la-di-frickin' da! We've got ourselves a writer here!"

3/17/2017 - Hey, That Lobster Has Steve's Keys!

Cash, Chess, Dreadlock Fetus, Panama, Perfect Storm, Scribe, Silent Bob, Steve, Tom

A beautiful South Florida day began with Pastor coaching the table into their best impression of a family of penguins huddling eggs in an arctic windstorm. Mike (I believe his name is), the manager's, personality hernia apparently flared up again, putting the table in a self-imposed timeout for fear that he might ask each of us to write 100 times "I will not encroach upon pedestrian thoroughfares at the table."

Silent Bob showcased his most prized magic trick, where he makes someone else's keys disappear. Quite remarkable, it is, as eight witnesses were ignorant to the trick, including Bob. Then, in a whirlwind of fanfare, confident mystique, and imaginary mist, Bob unveiled the incredible reveal (to no less than himself) that the keys were in his pocket. David Blaine beware!

Since the T-Mobile contacts fairy recently visited Pastor, Tom and he exchanged information. As Tom entered his information into Pastor's phone, Pastor requested he file it under "Asshole", making it easy to find. Tom told Pastor her prefers to go by his Game of Thrones name: "Tom of the House of Assholes, the last son of the Assholes, Postman of Yesterday, Man of Tomorrow,  Lauderdale Marvel, the Bearer of Mail, a Man of Beer and Laughter, Neither a Bird nor a Plane." That wouldn't fit in the iPhone, so he entered himself as "Tom".

We learned that Dreadlock Fetus has honorary involvement with Johnson and Wales University because he has a whale of a johnson. He also can't go to some of Pastor's evening networking events because they conflict with breakfast.

Speaking of Dreadlock Fetus, he showed the table the official Emily Post approved method for eating shell-on shrimp. That is, open the hatch, eat it shell-on (tail included), and calmly await appendicitis. This method of eating marries perfectly with his life philosophy: "I don't believe in just the tip." An anonymous source reports the following morning, he passed a whole lobster. I now encourage you to go back and look at the title of this blog.

At risk of turning this into a Dreadlock Fetus blog, an additional paragraph would be lacking if not to relay Dreadlock's account of living in a Orthodox Jewish Los Angeles neighborhood where he became famous for traveling with a jar of bacon grease and helping all the ladies activate and switch off their vibrators on the Sabbath day to which they would gleefully shriek, "You bring so much color to the neighborhood!"

In closing, the Table 14 mantra for the week is, take your pick:

- I haven't lost it. I never had it.

- Hail, hail! The gang's all here!

3/3/2017 - Move Along. Nothing to See Here.

Frank, Pastor, SB, Tango, Whitey

The most captivating segment of this congregation of Table 14 apparently came during the 28 minutes before Scribe arrived. According to Whitey, a first-hand witness, "It threatened rain, it sprinkled, and then it stopped."

Beyond that, conversation was uncharacteristically civilized and pedestrian, making for a pleasant afternoon, but not much satire.

Oh, and Pastor took two seconds out of his day between sips from his chalice of Lite beer to approve Wimmer's new nickname of "Perfect Storm" with a rather papal wave of the hand.

And the table 14 mantra for the week is: 

2/24/2017 - Rapunzel! Throw Down Your Tax Deeds!

Cash, David, DF (Dreadlock Fetus), Fuzzicles (Chess), Jonathan, Pastor, Raymond Smith, Ryan, Scribe, Sticky Rice or Perfect Storm (Wimmer), SB (Silent Bob), Tango, Tom, Berkshire Hathaway (Solomon), Whitey

What a week at the table! With fifteen people doing our best impression of a fire hazard (if those exist outdoors), the White House issued an executive order providing guidelines around what can officially called huge.

Apologies for the partial inclusion of Fuzzicles.

Sticky Rice (nickname unapproved) began discussions regaling the table with his sexcapades in Thailand. Cash undoubtedly was envisioning exchanging Kentucky acreage deeds for a few "how's your fathers" in the far east.

Sticky Rice after his "special" massage.

Berkshire Hathaway (nickname unapproved) then assumed the regaling with his story about chasing a thug (a flamethrower, if you will) down in Manhattan after said thug hurled a carousel of cigarette lighters into his general space. Scribe was to devise an alternate ending for this story, but ain't nobody got time for that! 

Berkshire Hathaway on the streets of Manhattan.

Shortly thereafter, Scribe asked a question about tax deeds, which caused all debauchery to cease in favor of somewhat educated discourse. In other words, he bored up the joint. Whitey (just a little old country boy from Indiana) then began to speak something that, to the seasoned professionals at the table was real estate pole dancing. Cash got a tax deed chubby and had to stay seated for the rest of the afternoon. Scribe, an amateur in matters of real estate, got no action, but (FYI) his nose does grow when you rub his head. We learned from this episode that SB must have real estate ears because he heard every word Whitey said from across the table.

But even with real estate porn, the gentlemen were not fulfilled until a rather in-depth conversation/debate about Rapunzel surfaced. It was then that all was good in the universe and we remembered why we do this every damn Friday.

For the record, rachel means compassion in Hebrew, courtesy of Fuzzicles.

And the Table 14 mantra for the week is: Ain't nobody got time for that!

3/17/17 - All Forgets Are ... Wait! How Does That Go Again?

Bonnie (a.k.a., Dog), Cash, Mike (new guy), Panama, SB, Tango

This particular day was marked with the quaint intimacy (stop giggling) of a small group, especially with one honorary member under the table, keeping a smile on Pastor’s face. On several (or one, if we don’t want to exaggerate) occasions, in fact, Bonnie (Panama’s dog) bid for coitus with the holy leg. Her advances were met with tepid resentment. Alas, she turned her libido toward Cash’s 16 ½ foot rod, and Pastor went home solo.

Wait! Why am I doing this if not to exaggerate?!

A Public Service Announcement: After Scribe left a voicemail for Cash, and a related inquiry was met with a blank stare, we uncovered that Cash recently has resorted to exchanging all messages via carrier pigeon. Correction … carrier pterodactyl … carrying clay tablets.

After a pitcher or so of beer, Panama bid everyone farewell, retired in his back seat, and awoke at 1 AM with his car coasting down PGA Boulevard.

For sake of note, Mike, Panama’s mover, is married to a dollar sign.

And the Table 14 mantra for the week is a mini-poem:

First one’s free, 
But you gotta show up again to pay for me!

1/17/2017

Attending: Ant-ny, Cash, Dreadlock Fetus (DF), Out-of-Line Christie, Sticky Rice (Whimmer), Perky Purple Pastor, Scribe, SB, Tom, Whitey

Like every Friday at 4:30 the gang of T-14 fell for the picnic table again, arriving to a relieved and, until moments prior, exasperated Tom who had been sitting at T-14 since Thursday. Whitey editorialized the moment, “Nobody said stupidity was rare.” Poor tom blanched, held his head low, and whimpered, "I'm never eating a chimichanga again."

Shortly after the meeting was brought to session, Scribe moved for Pastor, as almighty leader and nickname coordinator, to formally baptize DF with his nickname. The omnipotent leader of a flock of alcoholics that he is, he immediately retorted, “I ain’t got nuttin’ to coordinate,” but eventually broke down. DF’s nickname was formally approved. He baptized himself with a shower of his own typical self-confidence. Having now formally brought DF into his flock, the Pastor initiated post-initiation hazing rituals, quickly hollering at him, “For a youngster, you got a big mouth!”

Scribe brought forward an agenda item: countering an offer his landlord brought forth for him to purchase of the apartment in which he resides. He was quickly adorned with rapid-fire professional real estate advice and felt like he had shown up at a Hell’s Angels rally on a Big Wheel.

At the evening's close, Scribe suddenly realized that Whitey and he were ostensibly on a double date with Ant-Ny and Christie. Scribe bolted like a scalded Syrian (or Serial) refugee at an immigration sting during this brave new era of Trump’s Namaste. On his way out, he heard a regular at the bar say, “El est gay.”

A random musing is for everyone at the table to be thankful that the men’s room isn’t labeled “gentlemen” because, in Whitey’s estimation, all T-14 members would be relegated to pissing off the dock.

And the Table 14 mantra of the week is: “Nobody ever said stupidity was rare.”