Greetings From The Snowpine Lodge (a.k.a. Man Camp)

Cheers to the North!   

The dirt on the lens is for emphasis.

 

I am pathetic.

Twenty-five, relatively fat (sorry Mairk), completely unemployed, highly educated, and moderately (completely) addicted to internet porn.

So fuck you. You limp-dick anti-Semites You are terrible. All of you. Completely worthless.

Saul, living at your parents’ summer house is not being a writer.

Noah, I’d rather die than have you administer any form of first aid on my helpless body. And that goes for everyone.

Gabe. Way to be anexoric. And get plastic surgery.

And that’s just the beginning. Draper, you fucking racist.

Max, if I get one more text message from you at 2 PM where you describe how you’re in the process of jerking off, I’m going to puke. Writing “Tell me how Mitch smells, slowly” was one of the funniest things I’ve ever read, however.  (Gabe, I know the grammar is wrong you fucking pussy. Why don’t you cheat on your homework.)

God, you guys suck.

As you can see, Mitch has lost a lot of sleep over his portfolio the last few months.

And here I am, in Bend, Oregon. With an out of season moustache, a landline, and an uncircumsized penis. (HIGH5 Tom)

Completely unemployed – I’ve applied to literally 25 jobs. The gayest interaction occurring when I dropped my resume at the Crepe Place, where a 47 year-old blonde with fake tits tried to hide the fact that there was no way in HELL she was hiring a registered sex offender for that job.

So what do I do, you ask? Wake about around 9:45. Jerk off.

Then around noon Mitch and I go for an outing in his early 90’s Subaru Loyale. We make wild claims about how we hate the girls we are actually obsessed with, talk about buying pot, and then find ourselves in one of the area’s many fine thrift stores, eying the selection of French Press and confessing that we both have to poop.

Later on, we play cribbage, and I complain about how there aren’t any jobs in town. Mitch checks the government weather on our stolen Internet (the FBI is going to the THEIR house, not mine), hopes for snow, and psychoanalyzes me.

And man, is there a lot to psychoanalyze.

Usually around 5:15 we start a fire. Drinking commences, and we begin to slowly but methodically act out a complete hypocrisy of everything we claimed to do during daylight hours.

Two for $5

I’ve got a plan though – to sell meatpies from a Dick Clapp in the center of the action. I’m banking on Tim (whose completely pussy whipped) to move AWAY from his girlfriend (for the 4th straight year) and run the whole thing for me while I write the checks.

Plus Saul is trying to swoop in and fuck it up, like only he knows how – with platters of Dungeness Crab and steak tartar for lunch. Who would win between him and SK in a one-on-one decathlon, by the way? Poll?

Anyways, my high is fading, so I’m going to stop. Dave, nice blackout move – convince Tim to pin Mike down while you fuck him in the ass. Jesus Christ dude.
In an aside (do you know what that is Smalls, you stupid fuck?), this website is ABSOLUTE GOLD. I literally would offer it as an IPO at 10M, no less.
No one does shit. Saul is such a cock tease, and nowadays just fucks us for 15 minutes, rolls off and leaves.

Tim couldn’t care less, and actually talked about how it should be erased from existence when he was being all righteous in the Castro over Thanksgiving.

Gabe is the Acie Earl of the website – his team sucks, and he’s the worst one on it. The fact that he thinks he is some sort of influencing force is retarded – Gabe, you haven’t done anything of worth, and you’re links SUCK. Happy Birthday.

But it’s gold – gold, Jerry. It’s authentic, and original, and absolutely hilarious. And if we didn’t snort so much of Hillary’s adderall when we got together, we could make something of it.

So fuck you.

Baker, you couldn’t pay me to put your hands in my kids mouths. And if I ever catch you in the kitchen with my wife opening a bottle of Chardonnay, I’ll fucking kill both of you.

Dericious!

Well, that’s about all. 

A surprisingly handsome group!

    It was a truly glorious Thanksgiving Holiday, filled with all the special treats that only the Upper Valley can provide. Illegal manual labor in White Junction highlighted by multiple trips to the Hairtford Dump with four in the cab of the truck. An alumni soccer game at the West Beverly High Turf Stadium, with Buck Baker scoring a crisp goal past a diving high schooler. Screaming "You’re garbage!" to Dartmouth soccer players  during their heartbreaking defeat to UVM at the NCAA tournament game in front of Aleixs and her family, assuring them that no, we hadn’t matured since high school.
    And of course binge drinking. Ah binge drinking, how you keep us coming back for more! How you make even the most awkward conversation with former classmates tolerable, how you give us the courage to try and hook up with girls who had long since deemed us persona non grata during high school, how you give us the strength to use hard narcotics while sleeping under our parents’ roofs, and the clarity to have unprotected with the most dangerous of partners. Where would we be without you, binge drinking? May you never leave our side.

Thinking about Computac, MAIRK?!

One of the true highlights was the annual baseball game at Huntley Meadows, known to some of you as the time when we shamelessly discuss what it would be like to fuck one another while smoking cigarettes and rubbing our balls. Under warm autumn sun, we reviewed the pathetic shenanigans of the previous evening.

Alex, fatly: "What I don’t understand is why no one fucked (Hanover-girl-who-won’t-be-named-but-is -younger-and-at-some-point-stupid enough-to-make-out-with-me-when-she-was-hammered) last night? She has big tits."
Mike A, dumbly: Yeah. (that-same-girl-who-I-fucked-but-didn’t-tell-anyone-but-Mahler-about) needs to get fucked.
Alex: Yeah, totally dude, what the fuck?
Mike A: Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do at Christmas, I’m going to fuck her.
Alex: I like her tits.

Finer, Jewishly: I hate you guys.
Tim, gayly: Let’s just do anal with each other.

Alex gets some face time with Hank Greenberg

    As the weekend wound down, it was apparent what these little visits were really all about: the initial excitement of seeing old friends, followed by a predictable realization that we are a terribly unproductive and pathetic group when congregated. Fat, violent, and homophobic, it’s a wonder our parents let us come home at all. Or in many cases, live with them permanently.

"Te he he he he…"

Nice lipper, Mike, you fucking dirtface.

Just when you thought Alex’s internship was simply a Manhattan locale for him to work on the website….it is!

But look at the perks! As these two photos show, Alex has really made his Internet mairk at The Onion, with two groundbreaking photo cameos. First, in an apropos casting job, he was depicted as a brew master hosting a New Hampshire family planning a run for the Presidency. Most recently Alex’s beard, the loin that spurned his moustache, appeared as the beard in "Mark Cuban Grows a Giant Beard to Spite David Stern." Yes, that’s right, that’s really his over-exuberant facial hair photoshopped on Cuban’s billion dollar mug.

Those three colleges really paid off, eh kids?! His parents must sleep well knowing their continued post-graduation financial support is finally helping Alex’s career launch to previously unimagined heights.

Dear Sirs,

This is Lift Foreman Mairk reporting from the State of Latter Day Saints and I have one thing to say about that. Polygamy is like a gun rack: I don’t own ahhhh gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack.

Of course I chose to come out during the worst winter in years. The last two weeks have been in the high forties, although today our savior managed to drop a foot at the top, and rain on me. Although I fear a drop in my stock price I will admit that I am not the head chair lift operator, I am what they title a Lift Foreman, a job I managed to acquire after just one week of being a liftee. This title simply means that I babysit Argentinians and Brazilians, tell them when to go on break, drive a badass truck, sometimes a snowmachine, and try not to launch little kids off of lifts (they go flying).

As some of you may know I am primed for Moustache March, the enclosed picture showcases what has been above my lip since the middle of October when one Brian Venti and myself lost a bet in a game of Darts. Needless to say I have received many a positive comment from the male gender, and many an awkward look/stare/glare/overall look of discomfort from the Female gender. The best being “wow, you still have your moustache” from Venti’s female roomate. Here’s to another month and a half.

I would invite you to come visit, then again I don’t care to see any of you or wake up at 6:00 in the morning and see you sleeping on my couch as I walk out the door to go work a job that requires absolutely no thought or skill.

I almost forgot, a couple of weeks ago I backed into a car with the company truck, I drove off as if nothing happened. Of course someone saw me, and I knew they saw, yet still I drove off with the Brazilians saying “no, you didn’t hit it, there’s no dent, lets
go.” Well there was a dent, so I had to go to the clinic and pee in a cup. The nurse who I handed my pee to was hot, and of course all I did was look at her and wonder. I suck at life.

-Wish We Weren’t Friends,

Mairk

We all hate working. But sometimes you have to do it to keep up appearances, and get your parents to keep paying for your life.

Welcome to the place for between the blackouts.

THIS WEEK IN JOBS!
———-
Tim “Guevara” couldn’t go a day working without making at least one Scandinavian model drop her panties. That’s why he’s an ice sculptor. Yes that’s right: An Ice Sculptor.

What does he get for 18 short months of loyal service? Well the head sculptor position of course.

From ice mover, to luge craftsman to Buddha master, our Tim is now the top dog.

Now he can ride his motorcycle with his homemade cowboy boots while playing the mandolin and carving a penis-luge on his backseat.

NO HANDS!

Stock options! Bonuses! Less time on the phone with his girlfriend! (Yeah right.)

This job’s got it all!

It may be a sputtering biplane, but it’s better than the shit-filled oxcart the rest of us are riding in.