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The 50 States Of America If They Were Actually People In A Bar. California Is Perfect.

Alabama is a fat guy with a goatee, wearing a camo jacket and a trucker hat. Despite his drunkenness and outwards appearance of being a racist redneck, he is actually pretty nice to everyone at the bar. He’s drinking a can of Budweiser.

Alaska and Nebraska would just be 20 drinks in before even showing up to the bar.

Arizona is the bouncer, kicking Mexicans out who are trying to get in from the bar across the street. Ironically, he’s drinking Tecate.

Arkansas is drinking straight whiskey and asking people if they want to arm wrestle to prove how manly they are.

California is constantly buying drinks for others, yet has failing kidneys from lack of hydration.

Colorado is a beautiful, perfectly athletic couple wearing all Patagonia, drinking craft beer talking about their last mountaineering trip, with an air of aloofness.

Connecticut is a rich white woman sipping a martini and silently judging all the other states.

Delaware is that guy who hangs around the outside of the New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland and New Jersey friend-circle, taking occasional sips from his Yuengling and mostly being ignored, except when New York has to go past him to get to the bar.

Florida is drinking moonshine while riding an alligator through the orange groves to the local Publix.

Georgia will be drinking bud light, wearing a UGA trucker hat, tortoise Costa Del Mar sunglasses with croakies, solid colored Polo shirt, questionably short shorts with a UGA belt, and driving a Z71 with a Browning decal in their rear window (even though he only went hunting twice, in Jr High) and a UGA license plate frame. He went to Valdosta State University, and he works in his dad’s local business.

Hawaii is alone in a corner of the bar, away from the other states, drinking a cocktail from a coconut.

Idaho is drinking Keystone Light and pretending they are part of the South.

Illinois is a larger gentleman, eating deep dish pizza and drinking a Goose Island. He’s reminiscing about the ’85 Bears and how “this is the Cubs year”.

Indiana is in line for the toilet, drinking a Budweiser or a Coors, checking out the ladies and thinking about how bullshit it is that you can’t buy alcohol on Sunday.

Iowa is sitting next to Illinois, just trying to have someone pay attention to him.

Kansas is dressed in a plaid shirt, jeans and clean boots. He’s friendly enough and even buys a round to get the party started. After a few drinks, it’s obvious he feels sorry for Oklahoma, hates Missouri, and is hung up on Colorado. After striking out with California, him and Wisconsin get hammered drunk and sing Country Boy.

Kentucky would be drinking bourbon and arguing with anybody who will listen about college basketball.

Louisiana is celebrating that lack of open container laws by standing outside of the bar with an Abita Amber or a Sazerac and looking disdainfully at the drinking abilities of all of the other states. “Amateurs.”

Maine is wearing an L.L. Bean flannel and drinking Allen’s Coffee Brandy

Maryland is drinking a Chesapeake margarita. Rim lined with Old Bay. He is insisting that everyone try his drink because it’s really good if you just give it a chance, but no one else seems to get it.

Massachusetts is in a bar fight with New York over sports.

Michigan is drinking some micro brew and playing Euchre while trying to conjure up nice things to say about Detroit.

Minnesota is a pleasant guy drinking Summit Extra Pale Ale and will happily buy you one. He’s hanging out with his obnoxious brother-in-law North Dakota even though he doesn’t want to but he’s too nice to tell them to bug off.

Mississippi is just looking to start a fight with Alabama about who’s less redneck.

Missouri is in a drunken argument with Kansas about who gets custody of their strange in-between child – Kansas City.

Montana has to be two different people. Eastern Montana is a cowboy drinking Budweiser and gets into a fight with Wyoming over sheep vs. cattle, but this happens every week and they make up afterwards. Western Montana, on the other hand, is a hipster/hippie throwback with dreadlocks who drinks craft beer or PBR and absolutely reeks of marijuana.

Nevada is a sketchy, middle-aged balding man chain-smoking cigarettes he pulls from his black leather jacket, rolling dice on the bar counter top and drinking whiskey, straight up.


New Hampshire is a skinny, nerdy white guy in a collared shirt and khakis, who also carried in signs for his favorite political candidate. He’s drinking craft beer and getting into philosophical and political discussions with Vermont and Maine, but is open to talk to everyone. He is quick to tell everyone he loves himself, and humbly without arrogance.

New Jersey is a man of Italian/Mediterranean descent wearing a wifebeater and track pants. He’s downing jagerbombs and giving people the finger.

New Mexico is the quirky but good-natured one who is getting a bit too wasted with whatever shots the other states buy them because they can’t afford it.

New York is an Italian businessman, wearing an expensive suit, with a perfect haircut and slicked back hair. He is talking down to New Jersey, like a father talking to a son, and he’s drinking scotch.

North Carolina is an attractive, bubbly blonde girl of average height with a smoky accent, who’s just graduated from UNC and has taken a job teaching young kids. She is hanging out with South Carolina and Virginia, and she isn’t drinking anything because she just found out she’s pregnant.

Ohio is an incredibly average white guy, that’s not out of shape but not in good shape either. He has his sports hat on of his favorite Ohio sports team and is drinking good beer but nothing fancy. He has a family and works in an office. He can’t stop talking about how much he hates himself, but doesn’t leave due to his ties there, and would miss his friends if he left.

Oklahoma is an obese couple who have not moved from there spots since sitting down next to Texas. They have on sweatpants, and brought in fast food to eat at the bar. They are drinking Bud Light bottles.

Oregon is the hipster drinking the eclectic craft microbrew that nobody’s even heard of.

Pennsylvania is a cheery, pretty brunette girl with blue eyes, dressed fairly preppy. She’s drinking Yuengling and making out with a handful of other states.

Rhode Island is drinking Narragansett pounders and is sitting on phone books on its barstool.

South Carolina is an overly drunk guy in his mid-twenties, wearing preppy pastel clothes, a sports jacket, and pants with little boats embroidered on them. He is talking about what he is going to do with his family’s old money to anyone who listens. He’s drinking an Old Fashioned.

South Dakota is an older, in-shape man with long, straight black hair tied in a pony tail. He looks vaguely Native American and sits at the bar carving various little statuettes out of soapstone. He’s wearing a worn leather biker vest and has a colt .45 at his hip, but despite his rough appearance many of his neighbors like Minnesota and Wyoming come over to talk to him and seem to get along quite well, often admiring his handiwork. Other states however don’t seem to notice him much, passing him by without a second thought.

Tennessee is drinking Jack Daniels, and watching Nascar.

Texas is singing karaoke about how great Texas is.

Utah is the designated driver, sipping on water and making sure nobody gets too crazy.

Vermont is a guy who brought in his own craft beer from his hometown in Vermont, and stubbornly refuses to try any other beer, but is pretty much friendly to everyone.

Virginia is drinking some local craft beer that their friend made at their brewery. They will only talk about all of the fancy craft beer they have drank while complaining about traffic.

Washington is a pale girl, very quiet and reluctant to be friendly to anyone except Oregon. She has glasses and a couple books, and isn’t drinking because she’s enjoying a cup of coffee she got from her favorite place on the way here. She loves hiking with her boyfriend and watching indie movies and documentaries on Netflix. She suddenly yells at New Jersey for throwing a napkin on the floor and not in the correct recycling bin.

West Virginia is downin’ enough bud light to float a battleship, and talking nostalgically of the days when copper prices were higher.

Wisconsin is drinking New Glarus while eating cheese curds, and is probably about 5-6 beers ahead of everyone else.

Wyoming would be on the roof with a rifle, muttering conspiracy theories about black helicopters.

Bonus… Puerto Rico is standing outside staring through the window, wishing it could join the party.

Bonus #2… Washington D.C. is the bartender since it’s not a state but is essential for the whole thing to keep running. Plus everyone loves it when they need something and hates it when they don’t.


Spaghetti , Spaghetti,….

A doctor was having an affair with his nurse. Shortly afterward, she told him she was pregnant. Not wanting his wife to know, he gave the nurse a sum of money and asked her to go to Italy and have the baby there.
”But how will I let you know the baby is born?” she asked. He replied, ”Just send me a postcard and write ‘spaghetti’ on the back. I’ll take care of expenses.”
Not knowing what else to do, the nurse took the money and flew to Italy.
Six months went by and then one day the doctor’s wife called him at the office and explained, ”Dear, you received a very strange postcard in the mail today from Europe, and I don’t understand what it means.”

The doctor said, ”Just wait until I get home and I will explain it to you.” Later that evening, the doctor came home, read the postcard, fell to the floor with a heart attack. Paramedics rushed him to the ER. The lead medic stayed back to comfort the wife. He asked what trauma had precipitated the cardiac arrest.
So the wife picked up the card and read, ”Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti – Two with sausage and meatballs, two without!

Ah! the Highoctanehumor Blog

Ah! the Highoctanehumor Blog The perfect place to blow off some steam, share embarrassing moments, toughts, ideas, etc, etc What is life except a succession of “it seemed like such a great idea at time” moments? After all, these are the things you end up remembering fondly when you are older right? That awkward moment when after a hiper intense make out session in a disco, you go home with the guy/girl and…tottallllyyy pass out??? (beats throwing up though! Mother always said to look for the silver lining on everything!) Or, even more embarrassing, when you inadvertently flash your neighbor because he rangs the doorbell when you are sleeping and you just completely forget that your shirt is not buttoned up! Fainting when I had my first kiss at 11 years old (personally i think that one should definitely have tipped off that relationships would never really be my strong point!) I sometimes actually find myself thinking of me as the latin version of Bridget Jones!!! And no, it’s not really a compliment or a self-esteem boost!! Its more along the lines of “oh my god kill me now!!!” You spend your entire life looking for some sort of profound and deep meaning to your life, that famous sense of purpose to make you go on.. Until ending up getting a box of cookies (or ice cream), a blanket, a pillow and just sit back because you realize it’s going to be a very long wait. On the other hand some people seem to have so easy right from the beginning. Since the moment their born it is as if they already knew what they wanted and what their path should and would be like. But what about the rest of us? The ones that basically have no idea what they’re doing? Relationships, professional career, friends, travelling, finding your way…makes me tired just thinking about it!! Feels like running the marathon! except nobody tells you where the finish line is nor how to get there! At 33 years old i’m still trying to figure all this out! Wondering if anybody ever really does figure it out. Seriously! Does anyone really figure it out? Or they just pretend to find the answers as a sick and sadistic joke to those of us who don’t? It’s actually the first time i’m writing about anything so dear readers i do apologize for eventual lack of style and sintaxe or semathic errors. English isn’t really my mother tongue! But, in spite of everything, my father always told me that if you’re gonna write, write about what you know. And what I know best is random thoughts, pathetic paranoias, embarrassing moments, hope, despair….sometimes surviving. You know what they say boys and girls: If you can’t get rid of the skeletons in your closet, best take them out to dance! Exactly what I intend to do:)

The Demise of Chivalry

I’m going on a date tonight where the guy is actually picking me up! Like at my place…he may even come in for a minute…
We met through an online dating site and have been talking for a couple of weeks. Earlier we spoke over the phone finalizing the details of our first “face to face”, such as what part of town we lived in, where we might want to go, etc. etc. I was trying to figure out the general whereabouts of where he lived. Not the exact location including street address, square footage, interest rate or mortgage pmts but just the general vicinity. Meanwhile he was naming off all kinds of places which were nowhere near anywhere in between us. Finally he caught on to what I was getting at, stopped and said, “Wait! You don’t want me to pick you up?” with what I interpreted as genuine bewilderment. Either this dude hasn’t been participating in the online dating scene for long or he just doesn’t see himself as being creepy enough to justify separate vehicles.
“Well, um, I ah…” I faltered, my brain scrambling for why, again, did I always insist on taking my own vehicle. Oh, yeah, I thought, not doing so would provide an excellent chance of securing my own little thirty minutes of fame as the main character on Criminal ID- unsolved cases, three years later.
His taken aback reaction as well as my own surprise at his offer got me to thinking…is chivalry really dead in our culture or has it been forced into early retirement by twenty-first century single and looking nutcases? Is it truly our reality that this world we live in is so chilling we would rather spend $4 a gallon on gas and forfeit wine or a drink in order to avoid the risk of our potential stalker finding out where we live?
Is the sweet picturesque cliché featuring the clean cut spiffy young man sprinting up the lit up, flowered walkway which gaily lead to the huge porched entrance of the cozy red bricked farmhouse nothing more than a fond memory our grandmothers loved to tell?
I mean, I know times have changed. I realize my disguised time traveler in fireman’s clothing is going to have to deal with the gate, installed for my safety, and the confusion with entering the code, and will have to patiently navigate through my dyslexic directions and then most likely will come to words with the weekend rental cop who takes his job very seriously. Yup, times, they are a changing! But when it comes to dating in the 21st century, is it because protocol and gallantry and good ol fashioned small town etiquette have fallen by the wayside or are people so completely crazy these days, that in 1993 when some intuitive girl first trusted those hairs standing up on the back of her neck and had said firmly, “No, Lester, I think it would be better if I just hitched hiked home,” thus beginning the now sensational new trend of “Um, how bout I just meet you there?”
One of the few delights to online dating that I can see so far would be the offers, by way of magical cyber-spaceness, of a much broader selection than the old days. A smorgasbord for your choosing complete with pictures, personality tests and depending on how you look at it, the delights of the webcam, all provided at your fingertips within the comfort of your own home, office, library or vehicle. This cornucopia of choices, some no doubt ending up being the cause of some future restraining order, is nothing like the old days of choosing between the three left over single guys that still lived on my block. Back then we never drove farther than fifteen minutes from our small town and if we did happen to meet anyone with potential outside these boundaries, we’d never actually entertain the idea of dating them… I mean, when would I ever see him? He lives, like twelve miles up Valley Vista… Nope all we could possibly hope for from some hot guy in the next town was maybe adding him to my list of pen pals I had yet to write.
I recently became single and have had the pleasure of a few dates prior to meeting “The Beav” but never had I considered the idea of any of them actually coming to my house to pick me up… besides the obvious trepidation of them finding out where I lived, therefore saving them hours of research on the internet, this would mean having them pull up right outside my place. Which would begin the silent brow beating inner inquiries of ‘Do I ask him up? Does that send the wrong message? How would I get him to leave? If he starts playing his guitar again, he’s going to wake my neighbors…” and so on. If any of my past “first dates” were any indication, I would have to be very careful to avoid giving any sort of mixed signals which could potentially alert my date to the possibility of that green light he’d been hinting at all evening.
So, my only choice if he were to pick me up, besides trying to convince him to drop me at the corner, would be to initiate that awkward goodbye, “Welp, thanks for a fun night! I really do hope you find your wallet soon and just want to reiterate the importance of cancelling those cards right away and not waiting like you said to check balances or whatever… Anyway, thanks too for the ride…do you want some gas money? No? well ok….” and slipping out of the car quickly, without hesitation so as not to encourage eye contact or worse, the offer to walk me to the door. No, being picked up was never part of the decision making process in the pre-date period. That time was filled to capacity with worrying about what to wear or if wearing my hair up really did give the illusion that I was going bald like one of my dates had said, or if my fake spray tan looked as fake and uneven under bar lighting as it did under my florescent lights.
I think the era of assuming the date always came to the door ended about the same time moms started wearing slacks and working outside the home. In fact, if it wasn’t for my dad yelling, “Tell your boy Sean that if he blows that horn one more time and doesn’t come to the door, I’ll rip off his head and use his neck as a toilet,” I don’t think my generation would have even known that having the guy come fetch you was a true sign that he’d been raised right. We thought the rule only applied to special occasions like Prom or Sadie Hawkins and that was only because parents wanted pictures beforehand. Only then did the entire family hide behind the heavy, greenish brown dust laden draperies which covered the front picture window and listened to my younger sister commentator-like hushed play by play, which provided unneeded details about how his tie didn’t come close to matching his pants or how funny it was that his cowlick would not stand down not matter how much spit he hastily applied as he made his way awkwardly up the drive.
So why did I break all the rules and say ok to this particular guy who seemed different than the rest? It’s simply because he comes across as an honest to goodness, genuine, old fashioned guy.
He’d rather talk on the phone than text, he was shocked when I insisted on going Dutch, and he’s bringing a bottle of wine which I assume he wants to open before dinner, so I guess I’ll ask him up. And I would just bet he’ll be opening both the car door for me as well as any other doors we may encounter. He’s like Opie, all growed up but with hair and minus the lucrative director’s salary and about sixty extra pounds.
I may be naive and gullible and he still may be a modern day creepster, but this is why I plan to take his wine glass and carefully put it in a zip lock baggy and hide it under the sweaters in my closet. It’s also why I wrote his name along with where and when we met, where we are going and his license plate number and carefully placed that info on the front seat of my car just like I’d seen done on an episode of CSI. But this was only after I bought a can of premium nuts and used the expensive crystal bowl to put them in, lit the good candles and made the decision to shave above my knees tonight. After all, wouldn’t that be exactly what June Cleaver would do?
Shelley Allsup , . All Rights Reserved


I have a concern I’d like to discuss
I heard a rumor today about us.
Actually, I guess it was more about me,
the word on the street is that I’m your trophy.
An object for you to proudly display
yet, really means nothing at the end of the day.
I know you’ve grown accustomed to that kind of life.
as you create another home for the client and wife.
Surrounded by wealth as you further succeed,
I don’t blame you for thinking it’s what you need.
The problem though is I’m not that type,
I’ve no interest in the Stepford hype.
I don’t need a Jag to help me look hot,
driving it uselessly and being a snot.
I’m flattered you feel I would qualify,
but there are certain required traits I must clarify.
It’s not an acquired style, or something to learn.
It must be inside you, in your blood it must churn.
There aren’t many schools which teach behavior like that,
It takes a certain someone to be an adult spoiled brat.
A beautiful, polished trophy, I’ll never be,
And once I explain I hope you will see.
I’m not a size one or even a two,
my big size eight butt will just have to do.
I’m not demure, or walk with grace,
sometimes I go to bed without washing my face.
I don’t sleep on satin or wear lingerie,
I’m not a pretty picture waking up the next day.
I’d have no fighting chance if they knew
on my lower right hip, I want a tattoo.
My roots grow out shamelessly before getting em’ done.
I’m not terrified of exposing my skin to the sun.
I don’t shop exclusively at Trader Joes,
and I don’t bend over just so my pretty thong shows.
I don’t shave above my knees every day,
I’ll take a beer every time over Chardonnay.
I don’t keep my jewelry locked away tight,
and then wear phony replicas like a true socialite.
I don’t want to come across as mean-spirited or rude,
not every wealthy female adopts this attitude.
My point is merely to make sure that you know,
I don’t want to be part of the status quo.
I want to live life and enjoy it with you.
I want laughter and joy in the things that we do.
I can’t and don’t want to be anyone but me,
and I want you to love the true person you see.
To be content, satisfied and at peace with your life,
Is worth billions more that some stupid trophy wife~
By Shelley Allsup
All Rights Reserved

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