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.”

1/6/2017

Attending: Ant-ny, Cash, José, Panama, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Solomon, Tango, Wimmer

It was a happy Maserati Friday. With the fresh threat of a crusty-hillbilly-nautical-preppy brawl now looming, Pastor ordered the wearing of Table 14’s new fancy “colors” (courtesy of and in profuse thanks to Rick DiPiego) in a show of force. Next on the list is the creation of a symbol (most possibly a half-eaten chicken wing) and a handshake (very likely the exchange of $12).

The automotive division of Delivery Dudes was on the edge of their metaphorical seats for the results of the Panama-Solomon over-the-phone antique car auction. Panama and Solomon were determined to buy with a folio of cars in front of them yielding the false impression of belaboring an hour-long decision between the chowder and the crab cakes. Unfortunately, the proceedings came to no avail as the owner of the vehicle did not appear at the War Memorial to sell his WOP—I can say that because I am one—chariot. It’s a shame, too, because at least one Doublemint Twin was likely in the market for one of Panama’s cars.

José dropped a few acquaintances at the airport earlier in the day and swears he “heard something.” Those reading this for posterity must know that, around the same time, some Jujube unpacked his suitcase in FLL baggage claim, loaded his gun, and horrifically shot eleven people at point-blank range. The Fort Lauderdale bomb squad also blew up a suspicious package. If his real estate career should come to a late-stage demise, José certainly has a bright future with the Fort Lauderdale police in their Auditory Forensics Task Force.

Speaking of suspicious packages, Pastor declared himself the official Sssussspiciousss Package Inssspector of Table 14. Should he continue “faking” his effeminacy—by mode of speech and its underlying content—at his current clip, he is on notice that within a year’s time his nickname will be Gay Pastor or possibly Pastor But Rodeo Confessional. He can certainly protest or maybe even filibuster, but we suspect he’d rather fill it 'til it busts.

In other news, Silent Bob is regular—always good to know. Ant-ny has a buyer for his property, the contract adorned with a cornucopia of “Einhorn contingencies.”

And in closing, the Table 14 mantra for the week is: "Burns! ... Burns! ... Burns! ... What?!?!"

12/16/2016

Attending: Ant-ny, Panama, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Scribe, Solomon

Scribe has learned a completely predictable lesson from these minutes--that being if he waits three weeks to look at his notes, he might as well have not been there in the first place. The upshot: Scribe will come across as if he "has two brain cells, and one's waving the other goodbye." In other words, these minutes will, as the intelligentsia like to say, suck.

Notwithstanding, this does give an opportunity to type out, verbatim, the notes that were taken during the meeting--worth a chuckle in and of themselves:

• Oggling broker
• Gonorrhea of the mouth
• Mr. Potatohead with two noses
• Diablo Rojo in charge
• I have two brain cells, and one's waving goodbye to the other
• Being a bad jew
• Negotiate the menu

And in closing, the Table 14 mantra for the week is: That's my bush!

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.