icon is for King skdafldk Hot Tights
I am really, really tired but I need to stay up until midnight at least to register for classes (kill. me.) and I meant to write this up today anyway but got distracted by writing an essay and going to see Three Musketeers again (don't judge me okay this time i saw it in 3D so all my clothing porn was EVEN BETTER. alksdfj you have no idea how much I want to bite the King's thighs in those lacy tights, ugh, it's indecent.)
...uh, anyway. HERE FOLLOWS THE STORY OF LA MUSTARD REVOLUTION.
Once upon a time there was a German bar owned by a guy we're going to call Steve. Steve was a really good bar owner, he liked his customers, he had bowls of pretzels around the bar instead of peanuts for that German-esque feel, and he also handed out free German mustard for people to dip their pretzels in. It was a hit.
One day Steve decided to retire, and sold the bar to a man we're calling Bob. Bob should not have been a bar owner. He doesn't like people. He also didn't like giving things out for free, so he nixed the mustard. Finito. The German for finito. Finitung? Shut up, klu.
Well the guys had gotten used to their mustard and pretzels, so a few of them started bringing in individual mustard packets for themselves because what's the harm?
BIG. HARM. In Bob's head. He saw it as undermining his authority (or whatever) and FORBADE MUSTARD in the bar. When guys were still sneaking it in, he 86'd a couple of them. (For those of you who don't know, to be 86'd means you are never allowed in that particular bar again. Do not do as I did the other day and confuse this number with 69'd. People will look at you funny.)
So Bob is off his rocker, clearly. Guys stop bringing mustard in, because they like the bar, the atmosphere, the specialty beers, whatever. But they also start writing VIVA LA MUSTARD on one dollar bills and stuffing them in nooks and crannies around the bar. My dad happened to find one once just as Bob walked by and almost got his head torn off before he could explain he hadn't put it there.
Then Christmas rolls around. Guys, Bob is not big on Christmas, because he's Jewish, okay, he has a legitimate reason. (Jewish guy owning a German bar ummm just put that together. huh.) But anyway, he won't put up any holiday decorations, not even a fluffy snowflake or something, and guys being sensitive new age guys, the following happens:
The boys gather round Steve as their ringleader, because he's been watching this whole thing happen, trying to talk Bob out of being so insane about a little condiment. Steve buys a Christmas-tree-shaped neon sign, and he and the guys decorate the fuck out of that tree. They made tiny garlands out of mustard packets, they made ornaments out of jars of mustard, that tree was covered in so much yellow it was barely recognizable as a tree. The boys got their ladyfolk to distract Bob, and Steve snuck into the bar and hung the tree up for display.
"All. Hell. Broke. Loose." <--direct quote from Steve who told this story last night. Bob starts shouting, rips the tree off the wall, and chucks it in the dumpster at the foot of the hill.
The boys, of course, rescue it. And the next afternoon when Bob comes in to work, what should he spy but yon mustard tree nailed on the roof, plugged in to a breaker that only Steve knows exists.
Bob is no longer the owner of the bar. He sold it back to Steve who sold it to Jim who hosted last night's Viva La Mustard party. They made us sing this song to the tune of Deck the Halls:
Deck the halls with bottles of mustard
fa la la la la, la la la la
Tis the season to be fluster'd
fa la la la la, la la la la
while we dream of Ingelhoffer
fa la la, la la la, la la la
our poor ole pretzels wait and suffer
fa la la la la, la la la la
They will all be keeping their day jobs.
Sooooo. Yeah. Raise your hand if you think I'm making this shit up.
In other news I am looking very hard on the bright side of Nashcon moving to February. As shallow as it seems, my winter wardrobe is nicer than my summer wardrobe (shocker) so there is always that, if nothing else.
...uh, anyway. HERE FOLLOWS THE STORY OF LA MUSTARD REVOLUTION.
Once upon a time there was a German bar owned by a guy we're going to call Steve. Steve was a really good bar owner, he liked his customers, he had bowls of pretzels around the bar instead of peanuts for that German-esque feel, and he also handed out free German mustard for people to dip their pretzels in. It was a hit.
One day Steve decided to retire, and sold the bar to a man we're calling Bob. Bob should not have been a bar owner. He doesn't like people. He also didn't like giving things out for free, so he nixed the mustard. Finito. The German for finito. Finitung? Shut up, klu.
Well the guys had gotten used to their mustard and pretzels, so a few of them started bringing in individual mustard packets for themselves because what's the harm?
BIG. HARM. In Bob's head. He saw it as undermining his authority (or whatever) and FORBADE MUSTARD in the bar. When guys were still sneaking it in, he 86'd a couple of them. (For those of you who don't know, to be 86'd means you are never allowed in that particular bar again. Do not do as I did the other day and confuse this number with 69'd. People will look at you funny.)
So Bob is off his rocker, clearly. Guys stop bringing mustard in, because they like the bar, the atmosphere, the specialty beers, whatever. But they also start writing VIVA LA MUSTARD on one dollar bills and stuffing them in nooks and crannies around the bar. My dad happened to find one once just as Bob walked by and almost got his head torn off before he could explain he hadn't put it there.
Then Christmas rolls around. Guys, Bob is not big on Christmas, because he's Jewish, okay, he has a legitimate reason. (Jewish guy owning a German bar ummm just put that together. huh.) But anyway, he won't put up any holiday decorations, not even a fluffy snowflake or something, and guys being sensitive new age guys, the following happens:
The boys gather round Steve as their ringleader, because he's been watching this whole thing happen, trying to talk Bob out of being so insane about a little condiment. Steve buys a Christmas-tree-shaped neon sign, and he and the guys decorate the fuck out of that tree. They made tiny garlands out of mustard packets, they made ornaments out of jars of mustard, that tree was covered in so much yellow it was barely recognizable as a tree. The boys got their ladyfolk to distract Bob, and Steve snuck into the bar and hung the tree up for display.
"All. Hell. Broke. Loose." <--direct quote from Steve who told this story last night. Bob starts shouting, rips the tree off the wall, and chucks it in the dumpster at the foot of the hill.
The boys, of course, rescue it. And the next afternoon when Bob comes in to work, what should he spy but yon mustard tree nailed on the roof, plugged in to a breaker that only Steve knows exists.
Bob is no longer the owner of the bar. He sold it back to Steve who sold it to Jim who hosted last night's Viva La Mustard party. They made us sing this song to the tune of Deck the Halls:
Deck the halls with bottles of mustard
fa la la la la, la la la la
Tis the season to be fluster'd
fa la la la la, la la la la
while we dream of Ingelhoffer
fa la la, la la la, la la la
our poor ole pretzels wait and suffer
fa la la la la, la la la la
They will all be keeping their day jobs.
Sooooo. Yeah. Raise your hand if you think I'm making this shit up.
In other news I am looking very hard on the bright side of Nashcon moving to February. As shallow as it seems, my winter wardrobe is nicer than my summer wardrobe (shocker) so there is always that, if nothing else.