Friday, August 3, 2012

kcerwd on Henry Thorough: On the Issue Of: #nmb2012

“Onwards and upwards, never backwards”
This heady piece of advice was given to me…wait, was given to our property management group as reason #8 for us moving out of our apartment. The engineer of this advice is my friend/roommate, soon to be just friend: Henry Thorough. Now I know what you’re all thinking; “Here comes another depressed kcerwd rant about how the boizzz are moving on, things never being the same, blah blah” - go fuck yourself please! That is not what this is. Instead of pissing and moaning about what’s changing lets take a little look back at what’s the same as it was this time approximately a year ago…
Henry has still not “touched” the young lady described as a rocket in the paragraphs below (although geography is now his friend and it’s only a matter of time). Alex Kovalev’s aunt Beatrice still makes a mean bowl of French Onion Soup. Henry can often be found sleeping in jeans and still is not interested in hearing about your coworkers, lady! Some of us still get drunk and squander, not as much the touches of others, but a squander is a squander is a squander is a squander. It’s always a good idea to get a couple of dawgs-into-ya and most importantly, everyone STILL loves a good breakfast. Confused? Ok, ok! Story telling has never been my thing, save one epic tale of the biggest beat down that never was (LOL Season 2 friends…)... read this post from Henry Thorough and give this paragraph a re-read…


May I Present to You A Brand New Latch Out Loud Blog Series presented by the latches of Latch Out Loud Blog.

Henry Thorough
“On the Issue Of…”

This is a little series which will be a series of pithy remarks on a variety of topics. You’ll get the idea…

On the issue of: Late Night Hook-Up Etiquette.

You get a call late in the evening and end result is you showing up so extremely intoxicated that you look like you’ve been drinking liquid morphine all night. You find yourself, at 4am in the morning, trying to walk and talk like a normal functioning human being and it’s not even remotely working. She asks “What the hell took so long to get here you idiot” and you slur “Alex Kovalev’s aunt Beatrice made me a delicious French onion soup” or some sort of gibberish and in some bizarre turn of events, she laughs.  It’s a miracle anyone (let alone a rocket) would open the door for you in this state, but alas this is the nature of the game and you rush to get to the victim’s bedroom to commence what you think will be the worst performance of shibbity-bibbity or/and hoppity-boppity of your meaningless existence.

You try your damn damned damnedest to get her clothes off, thinking this should be fairly easy, because why the hell else would you be let in at 4am in the morning? I’m not here to talk about your co-workers lady. I have one thing on the mind and it certainly isn’t democracy in Libya or the impending crisis of hurricane Irene. I’m here to get to the bone yard, like a sex-deprived mongoose in mating season.

Next thing you know, you wake up in a familiar state of confusion, disorientated, wondering how the hell you biked 20 minutes to get to the other side of town. And who is this person next to me? Why am I still wearing my jeans?

Moral of the Story: Have sex with me please.

On the issue of: Really Drunk Friends.

We’ve all been here, one of your pals gets so drunk on liquid morphine that he can’t stand up or tell the difference between a hot rocket and an officer of the law. He’ll probably start mouthing off old ladies, hell – any lady that is in the direct vicinity because his drunken, maniacal mind can’t process social decency.

Sometimes this phenomena deters from your ability to pursue the woman your night revolves around because, let’s face it, if you don’t come to the aid of your brother-in-arms, he’s definitely going to get arrested, savagely beat up, or hit by a car on the long bike ride home on your expensively priced road bike. So, needless to say, he’s insulted everyone (including yourself) and you try the hail-mary attempt to get one last gin and tonic at the bar. Obviously, the bartender takes one look at this disheveled mess as he falters in his effort to sit in a bar-stool. There is zero chance this guy will get another drink at any establishment, save the Dom, but you can’t take him there, he’ll be eaten alive by the local patrons.  

The only thing left to do is to let your friend run crazy on Elgin Street and laugh ferociously as he comments on anything/anyone/everyone who walks down the street. At this point in the night it is highly encouraged that you get a couple of dawgs-into-ya and call it an evening.

Moral of the Story: Everyone likes a good breakfast. 

Now go back and read the second paragraph again.

Now do things make sense? No? Well I don’t know what to do for you pal. This is my favourite Henry Thorough blog post from the past year. It’s hard to explain why exactly but more than any other post of his, I think this one gives the reader a sense of who the blogger known only as Henry Thorough truly is. To those who know him best, Henry is a dork, a wild-hyena, a boozer, a loser, a biker, a music fan and more than anything else, a great fucking guy. This post shows it all. Would I make a friend breakfast if he did everything in the name of Admiral Banter to ruin my most coveted touch from the night before? There is simply no way.

Here’s to the Wild Hyena in all of us.


(Happy Birthday LOL)

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