Not Your Father’s GINGER ALE = Life Wrecker

Small Town Brewery Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale

Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale is now available from Small Town Brewery.

Small Town Brewery is owned and operated by Tim Kovac, and made national headlines with the launch of Not Your Fathers Root Beer. The booze meets dessert brand has made millions this year as it has been rolling out nationally.

The next innovation is a ginger ale/addition is now available – Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale. A 5.9% alcohol by volume ginger beer meant to be served over ice. (Or with bourbon if it were us.) This new brand extension – described as “gruit-inspired botanical beer brewed with ginger”, is suggested for use Dark & Stormy & Moscow Mule cocktails.

We like to think of it as a refreshing ale brewed with ginger.

Not Your Fathers Ginger Ale is rolling out in 40 states through Pabst distributors, and nationally by February, 2016. ERP is $10.99/6 pack.

Style: Ginger Beer
Availability: 12oz Bottles, Cans
Release: November, 2015

5.9% ABV

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You may recall the evil and delicious concoction released earlier this year dubbed Not Your Father’s Root BeerI wrote about it last Spring describing its tasty and un-alcohol-detecting awesomeness that was sure to push many of you (fine, me too) borderline drunkos right over the proverbial edge.

And now this?

Are you friggin’ kidding me?

When posed the silly camp fire question of “If you could only have 1 drink for the rest of your life, EVERYDAY, what would it be?”  I have always answered emphatically with “Ginger Ale“.  Ginger Ale is like the Holy Grail of drinks to me.  Its thirst-quenching, stomach-ache-relieving, and just, well, yums.  Christ, it even makes delicious whiskey taste even better.  Its the drink everyone loves from age 8 to 80.  Show me a person that doesn’t like Ginger Ale and I’ll point to a liar or a demon.

And now those Satanic geniuses at Small Town Brewery are clearly chasing a not so small town market with this new development.  Oh yes.  For every one guy or gal that likes root beer, I’ll show you 10 that love Ginger Ale.

I guess the good news (I pray) is that it won’t be commercially available until February 2016 which means I can roll through the holidays and the NFL post-season without having to describe to law enforcement officials why I skated across the Boston Frog Pond pantless singing dirty Christmas Carols or the reason I choked out a department store Santa Claus (pantless again, of course) in front of 1,000 believers.  

But, at the end of the day, its just buying me time.  That’s all.  Come Valentine’s Day when this anti-antidote product is available to me I will surely be found lying in the candy aisle at CVS eating a box of chocolates and writing an incoherent sex poem to my wife on the back of a Tampax box.  Its just simple math.

So, Mr. Kovac and your merry band of Not Your Father’s Assholes….thanks.  Thanks a Yahoo.  This should be the final straw (you can drink it with a straw right?) in my demise.

Merry Christmas!

#onceithitsyourlips #iamfrankthetank

 

Thanks for the memories Scott Weiland


(Dedicated to my moron buddies.  Pouring one out for you, Scotty Boy)

Chris Farley, overalls for men and now another 90s legend has left us behind on this earth.

Scott Weiland, long time front man of 90s rock band Stone Temple Pilots and later (underrated) Velvet Revolver is dead.

Was he an anorexic junk bag that looked like a human rooster most of his adult life?  You betcha! But I am not here to judge the man today; I am here to thank him because this guy was a key player in some of my favorite and funnest days of my life.

You see, the height of this guy’s success was also at the height of my and my jackass friends’ party days. Those care free 90s, baby.  Flannels, Doc Martens, fear of AIDS and Stone Temple Pilots; thats how we rolled.

And Mr. Weiland was a part of two of the best memories of my carefree younger days and so I tip my (sorry, its not filled with smack, Scott) cap to you, Sir.

Summer 1993, Gardener, MA

A beautiful Saturday afternoon in casual central Massachusetts.  A merry band of idiots from Lowell packed up their cars with enough beer to kill the Budweiser Clydesdales and enough weed to choke out Willie Nelson to see this exciting new band, Stone Temple Pilots.  After some “merriment” and tailgating, what of course naturally happens when you enclose a few thousand intoxicated 19 year olds in an area full of drugs and bad decision making?  You guessed it; a fight.  In the parking lot of some random ass park or whatever the modern day West Side Story breaks out between  the drunken Jets and more drunken Jets (The Sharks didn’t care much for hard core rock).  Ah, crazy kids probably disputing something critical like Roger Clemens ERA or who was funnier, Norm or Woody.  The memorable part of this entanglement was not the fisticuffs but rather how it all was settled.  Just as John Q. Law and his ‘friends’ were about to end our day abruptly before hearing one note of Plush, one of our creative friends took action.  Yes, just as we were all about to likely be whisked away to the glorious holding cell in East Bum, our buddy somehow finds a parking attendant vest, straps it on – to his shirtless torso, mind you – , poses as Security, and proceeds to inform the police that our crew had nothing to do with aforementioned disruption.  And, it worked.  An hour later, we were all moshing out to Sex Type Thing and attempting to make out with grungy looking broads.  Absolute Xanadu.

Summer 1994, Worcester, MA

Ah, Summer is here again.  Our STP boys released their second, and seemingly as awesome, album, Purple.  The Pilots were destined for our neighbor to the west – my beloved town of Woo for a couple nights at the former Centrum.  Let’s see, how can we get ourselves to the this show in the most stupid and dangerous capacity?  Yes, you, in the Kirk Cobain shirt  in the back?  Ah, a U-Haul?  Correct!  No joke.  My idiot friends decided to rent a U-Haul box truck to haul our asses 40 miles west to see a concert.  What could go wrong, right?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Number 1, you need to provide your owner driver, fellas.  And what does every 20 year old feel like doing when heading to a concert with 7 other guys?  Being the sober guy.  Sure (wink wink), someone will be the DD.  Number 2, where are we going to sit, assfaces?  There is no seating in these storage units on wheels.  No problem.  Grab the beach chairs.  Genius!  Number 3, picture turbulence on a plane only worse because the ‘pilot’ (pun intended) has a 6-pack and ounce of pot in his system before take off.  What’s better that flying around the back of a box with a bunch of jerk off buddies?  Flying around the back of it with NO LIGHTS.  Oh yeah, except for the lit joint and the crack in the back of the cargo van door, you could not see a damn thing!  Not sure how we survived that one – but what a show! (Look for yourself!)

Anyway, rest easy Mr. Weiland and Godspeed(ball).  Thanks of the music and the bruises.  I hear the smack in Heaven in MINT.

Elf Discipline: When Words Aren’t Enough

(Another re-blog cause I am creatively barren but this is a timely one.  Ho ho ho!)

  

December 2012

Elf on the Shelf.

Every half-wit Mommy blogger in the world has covered this subject ad nauseam over the past few years.  I do not intend to offer you the same silly jokes, observations, or suggestions about this Christmas phenomenon. I promise.  Instead, I am going to share some effective (perhaps a bit harsh and in some cases, outright sadistic) methods to leverage this magical little friend for disciplinary purposes during this joyous holiday season.

Before I divulge these techniques, let me take a quick step back to bring you non-Elf-owners up to speed.

Per www.elfontheshelf.com, here is the low down…(skip ahead if you must- it’s annoying anyway)

“The tradition begins when Santa sends his scout elves out to Elf Adoption Centers. Waiting for their families to bring them home, these patient elves hibernate until their family reads The Elf on the Shelf, gives their elf a very special name, and registers their adoption online. Once named, each scout elf will receive its Christmas magic and become a part of the family’s Christmas each and every year.

Excellent listeners and even better observers, these scout elves are the eyes and ears of Santa Claus. Although they cannot be touched, or else they may lose their magic, the elf will always listen and relay messages back to Santa. Taking in all the day-to-day activities around the house, no good deed goes unnoticed; these scout elves take their job seriously.

Each night, after the family goes to bed, the scout elf uses his magical Christmas powers to fly back to the North Pole. Once there, the elf will make his or her daily report to Santa and visit with elf friends where they will tell stories about their beloved families, play with the reindeer, and of course, sneak some of Mrs. Claus’ cookies!

Before the family awakes each morning, their special scout elf will fly back to their home from the North Pole. However, since these elves like to play games, don’t expect to find them in the same spot! While some like to hide in the freezer (probably because it reminds them of the North Pole) and others prefer to sit on the fireplace mantle or hang from the chandelier, these elves love to play hide-and-seek with their families.


On Christmas Eve, the scout elf will listen for Santa’s bell and then fly back to the North Pole until the next season, wishing every girl and each boy a Christmas of peace and a year full of joy. Join the tradition and adopt your own Elf on the Shelf now!”

Blah, blah, blah.  These Elves (in my family’s case, “Sanny”) are 12” dolls, for lack a better description that for some strange reason kids actually believe are magical.  I call it genius branding! But the fact of the matter is this little Elf on the Shelf-thing is making some guy or gal MILLIONS!

For a full month of the year “Sanny” becomes the in-house Gestapo at our house.  Every time one of my little cherubs screws up, uh oh, “We are telling Sanny!”

NO, NO…PLEASE…DON”T!  We’re sorry!  Please,” beg these small-minded simpletons.

“Ok, fine, but no more fighting/hitting/stealing/punching/smoking/whatever or we are telling Sanny who will surely notify Santa.”

And guess what?  It never fails.  If I am being very candid, the Elf is as good a disciplinarian as my wife or I could ever dream of being.  These kids are more scared of this inanimate object that any adult in their lives.

But, I got to thinking, what if it wasn’t enough to simply threaten to rat your little rats out to the Elf? What if we really needed to set an example of what will happen if they don’t wise up?  What if we, as parents, took extreme measures to enforce rules?  What if we treated the Elf with jail yard justice to make our parenting point?  Mob rules.  Violence.

While I would never endorse and certainly never partake in the following actions, I am confident they would result in some serious behavioral improvements and, for certain, cause severe childhood trauma that even Sigmund Freud could not rectify.

Level 1:  Exhibited Behavior – Not listening

You keep telling the kids to sit down/eat their dinner/lower their voices/hold the wheel.  Pick your minor infraction.  Instead of an idle threat to simply relay your discontent to your family elf; up the ante.

“That’s it, I told you to sit down and eat your brussel sprouts.  Now see what happens.”

Grab said Elf, carry his magical little ass to the children’s viewpoint (and they know you are not supposed to touch him), grab a pair of scissors and cut his hand off.

“How do you feel about your vegetables now, kids?  See what you made me do?  Now Sanny is headed for the North Pole Emergency Room instead of Santa’s Village tonight.  Hope you are happy with yourselves?”

Should carry some weight.

Level 2: Exhibited Behavior – Fighting

Should those tiny treasures of yours engage in physical violence with one another and your ‘use-your-words-crap-psychology-spiel’ does not resonate; set the stakes higher.

“How many times have I asked you to not hit your sister?  How many?”

“You don’t know?  Oh really?  Well, let me ask Sanny.”

Grab your foot-long-merry-muppet, bring him to the sink and create a make-shift Guantanamo Bay water-boarding exhibit (this technique works especially well if you have your spouse pretend to be the elf and scream for mercy in the next room).

Sorry, Sanny, but some people just won’t’ listen,” you sadly express to the elf as you simulate his drowning.

Trust me, this should break up the scuffle between Frick and Frack.

Once you believe this method had made it’s point, remove now soaked elf from water, wrap him in mini-blanket and place him on the heater as you apologize for nearly murdering him.  Visuals are killer lesson teachers.

Level 3: Exhibited Behavior – Stealing/Cheating/Bullying/Larceny

I realize most children that are still in ‘the believing stage’ will not likely get into this much trouble given their respective ages but let’s face it; there are some bad seeds out there.

If you just reach your limit and do not know what else to do to teach your child that you mean business then Level 3 should set Billy or Lilly straight for a long time.

“What do you mean you just took the candy from the store?”

‘What were you thinking when you looked at Shelby’s test paper?”

“You mean to tell me you pushed a girl at school because you didn’t like her headband?”

“Liquor store robbery.  Officer down?”

And here comes the dynamite.

For dramatic purposes, run away from your child in a frantic manner straight for the Elf on that Damn Shelf.  Be sure to run fast enough so the child can’t catch or stop you in any way.  Grab that cheery, smug bastard, bring him to the (lit) fireplace (If you don’t have a fireplace a lit cigarette/cigar can work.  If you don’t smoke a garbage disposal or blender can suffice) and throw him/her in.

“I’m sorry, Sanny, but ‘Sally’ just keeps making bad decisions.  This hurts me more than you.”

Stand in a serious, mesmerized pose as you watch the magical guy burn alive in front of your child’s eyes (again, if you have a spouse strategically planted around the corner screaming bloody murder (pun intended) than it will only punctuate this display of pure evil and ensure an incredibly repentful – albeit damaged -child).

Once again, I highly doubt that any of you loving parents will ever need to take your disciplinary actions to this level, but Dr. Frank is here to help if you do.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Put Me in the Bathroom

(Well, you can now add last night’s devastating Patriots loss to the Denver Broncos to the listing of Boston sporting events where I just should have been put in the bathroom instead of watching.  We would be 11-0 if I was sitting on the throne instead of my couch.

A little throwback blog from a couple years back since any creative thought is not entering this post-Thanksgiving depressed head case.)

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May 2013

Can I Be Frank?: Put Me in the Bathroom

Another one for the ages in the world of Boston sports.  The Boston Bruins overcame a deficit that seemed conceivably impossible last night.  Trailing 4-1 with ten minutes to go in series clinching Game 7  on their home ice at TD Garden in the first round of the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs, many fans and believers, (including yours truly) was ready to throw the towel and “see ya next year.”  But this was not the case.  In magnificent fashion, the Bs turned this lopsided lead around, scoring three goals (two in the final 90 seconds of the game) forcing sudden death overtime which ultimately resulted in the winning the game 5-4 and taking them to the Eastern Conference Semifinals against the New York Rangers.

WOO HOO!  YESSAH!  LET’S GO BRUINS!

Well, the win was bittersweet for me, to say the least.  I have a confession to make and I truly hate to admit this but I shut it off literally seconds before the true excitement began.  With just under three minutes remaining in the game and the Bruins still trailing 4-2 I gave the proverbial ‘it’s over’, changed the station, rolled over and went to sleep.

Way to go Super Fan.  Way to go.  Aces.

I woke at about 3:00AM and decided to get a drink of water.  Made the critical mistake of taking a peak at the iPhone.  Quick check of email, texts and Twitter.  In my one-eye-open state of mind, I started to catch comments about a Bruins WIN??!!  What???  HUH? No friggin way!  I read on….

Texts from friends reading…”Greatest win in history”

Tweets from all walks of life…”#Bruins make historic comeback”

I won’t even throw out all of the frantic Facebook fodder.

And I missed it.  I missed it…again.

I’ll get to that in a second.

Mob movie classic ‘A Bronx Tale’ has a memorable scene where all of the gangsters are in a crowded back room gambling; specifically playing craps.  As the lead Mafioso, Sonny LoSpecchio, continues his hot streak he fears some of his observers could deliver some bad luck.  What does the Boss do?  Instructs that these so-called “jinxes” be ‘put in the bathroom’ while that dice is rolled.

Great movie scene that I recalled as I watched the incredible highlights of the game I purposely tuned out for lack of belief.  And then it became clear; I should be put in the bathroom too.  Put in the bathroom during all critical Boston sporting events.  I really should.

Not only was this evidenced in last night’s miraculous Bruins win, but it happened years back in, perhaps, an even more memorable Beantown moment.

Sunday, October 17, 2004.

Our beloved Boston Red Sox versus century old rival the New York Yankees.  Game 4.  Sox trail in the American League Championship Series 3 games to 0.  Facing probable elimination to their hated arch nemesis late in the game, I decided to do the same thing I did last night.  Quit.

“Bleeping, bleeping Sox.  Sick of this shit.  Breaking my heart again.  Not doing it.  Aaron Boone did it last year.  Not doing this again.  I’m not.  Not a chance,” my inner monologue screamed as I shut off the TV.

See ya next year.

And of course we call know what happened next.  Dave Roberts steals second base (perhaps the greatest steal in Red Sox history).  Bill Mueller singles Roberts in to tie the game 3-3 and it to extra innings.  David Ortiz hits a 2-run home runs in the bottom of the 12th inning leading the Sox to a victory.  All while I was watching the back of my eyelids and history wasbeing made.  This amazing win clearly shifted the momentum to the Sox that would ultimately carry them through not only the ALCS, but later to their first World Series title in 86 years when they uneventfully defeated the St. Louis Cardinals in just four games.

I should be put in the bathroom.

Amazingly, I never seem to ever miss a play, pitch, shot, hit or hoop when our team is defeated.  (READ: Superbowls XX, XXXI, XLII, & XLVI)  Never.  Ever.

But fear not Bostonians, this ‘jinx’ has made a conscience decision to CONTINUE to make this mistake again when the opportunity presents itself; only this time on purpose.  If I find the Bruins/Sox/Celts/Patriots in a dire situation that seems impossible to overcome I will do the right thing, quit on the team and head for the restroom.  For if I do so, I can guarantee victory.

So, best of luck Boston Bruins in round 2 and beyond.

If you need me, you will know where I will be.

Knock first.

 

 

 

 

 

Un-AUTO-motivated: What Really Grinds MY Gears

In a recent remote control location dilemma I found myself in a predicament.

I could…..

A) get off couch and search for said missing “clicka” or

B) simply stay comfortable and ride out whatever was on that particular channel until I can trap one of my kids to find the aforementioned remote.

I chose B but I think I regret that decision.  As it turns out, the station had somehow landed on one of those DIY-go-getter-hands-on-lets-fix-things-for-shits-and-giggle stations. (I am actually surprised that I know that ‘DIY’ stands for “Do It Yourself”, as should you).  Do it myself, huh?  How bout you FUCK yourself instead, how about that?  OK, sorry.

Specifically, what grinds my gears is the programming of those car repair/auction-your-stupid-Trans-AM shows.  I don’t even know what they call it?  All I know was there were 2 rugged-looking dudes talking way too enthusiastically about carburetors, engines, motors and other shit that apparently make my wheels go move forward and backward and that kind of…stuff.

After a total of 36 seconds of viewing I was not only bored and completely confused but I was confident I had found the ‘Ambien network’.

How the holy hell do people find this crap interesting; let alone entertaining?  How?

Look, it has been well documented that I am not a manly man.  No need to flog that fallen horse, but the fact remains, how do people get in to this type of “hobby”?  I find it baffling to say the least.

Now, let me put on the back-up alarm (is that close enough to industry jargon for you, Fonzie?) before Bo and Luke Duke jump out from behind the General Lee and put an ass whooping on me about the virtues of Quaker State versus Prestone let me say, ‘being a mechanic is a skill and a talent and if you are gifted enough to actually turn that into a paycheck, carry on.’   Ok?  Happy?  Great, now screw.  The problem is clearly the by-pass line anyway.

This is the part where I should be saying ‘Hey, to each his own’.  If it makes you happy, Sheryl Crowe, it cant be that bad, right?  Wrong. Wrong.

In my humble, can’t-change-a-light-bulb-ass opinion, this stuff is just too bizarre.  How do you really get enjoyment out of getting grease and oil on you?  Crammed in to a tiny, confined space on your back (which can actually be fun in Tijuana)?  Odors, fumes and hot objects?  YUCK, I say.  Thanks anyway, but I am good.

At least when I sit back and enjoy the cooking channel(s), I come out of it with a kick ass recipe for some ribs or a delicious Gelato (Thank you, Giada!).  Travel channel, you ask?  Well, I am now well informed about where to grab a taco in Tacoma or places to contract Malaria in Malaysia?  That’s always useful information.

But, the motorhead stuff?  Why?  Why watch?  Unless you have a career in the automotive arts or plan on settling down in the pits of Talladega, why is this beneficial enough to put on television?  Cars issues seem basic to me.  You run out of gas?  Fill ‘er up!  Oil is low?  Put more in!  Tires are slashed?  Blame that odd cashier kid that’s always staring at you when show up in his line at the liquor store…in the AM hours…on a Tuesday.  Simple enough to me people, isn’t it?

Now, to any mechanics reading this that may need to assist with my vehicular needs in the future, don’t try any bullshit on me about the ‘Johnson Rod’.  I may know jack dick about cars, but don’t try to out-Seinfeld me, Puddy.

Pats-Colts: The Only Way We Will Be Satisfied is if…

Welp, “the game” is finally here.  Sunday night, Tom ‘FUC’king (Fuck You Colts) Brady and the Patriots travel to Indianapolis to exact revenge against the weasels that were the root cause of the greatest, most shameful sham in sports history, “DeflateGate”.

Unless you live is Crazistan, you know exactly what I am referring to.  Colts accuse Brady of deflating footballs to illegal air pressure level resulting in his enhanced performance during the AFC Championship game last January.  Total and utter horseshit (or Colt-shit, I suppose).  That’s all I can say because it causes a visceral reaction in me due to its stupidity and my blood pressure is already a health concern.

Anyway, we all know the story.  But now, the time has come. After all the noise from the media, NFL Owners, soon-to-be-unemployed Commissioner Roger Goodell, and Indianapolis sports hack writer, Gregg Doyel, its simply time to play football.  Early predictions are not pretty for Indy.  Colts poster boy Andrew Luck is not healthy and, even though he plans to start the game at QB, he is not 100% which only enhances the case for the Patriots winning….and winning HUGE.

Enough of my shitty sports babble.  I started to ponder what could possibly meet Patriots’ fans expectations?  I don’t think a Pats runaway victory will satisfy us.  Not at all.  I think Patriot Nation is looking for something biblical.  Something epic.  Something impossible to happen.  And why not?  Let’s be candid, TFB and the boys are going to destroy this substandard team, but let’s use our imagination for a second.

What could happen Sunday night that would truly make us believe that justice has been served?

I polled ‘The Crew’ and here is our compilation….

(DISCLAIMER: We do not actually wish any bodily harm on anyone.  Colts players, staff ownership or otherwise.  This is supposed to be funny.  I am explaining this in case any of you slow-witted Shit kicking mid-westerners happen to read this column)

  • Andrew Luck spontaneously combusts and somehow Peyton Manning comes in as the backup (because of what Hasselback did – see below).  First play, his arm falls off as he throws interception to Tom Brady, who is now amazingly playing defense because he is bored.  Brady then walks by the now one-armed Manning and sings over his body, ‘Chicken Parm, you taste so good!”

  • Julian Edelman plays quarterback for the entire 4th quarter because Pats are up by 63.
  • Upon a landslide win, the collective force of all the Colts disappointment seeping out of the roof of Lucas Oil Satdium causes their fleet of AFC Runner Up banners to break from the rafters, falling to field and suffocates Irsay, Grigson and Pagano….because no one could hear their cries for help due to the fake crowd noise.
  • Somehow Bill Belicheck convinces Adam Vinitieri to come back to New England during the game and he kicks a meaningless last minute field goal to seal a Patriots victory…86-6.  ITS GOOD!!!

  • Colts Owner Jim Irsay and Patriots Owner Bob Kraft have a full on WWE wrestling match in a cage above the field during halftime.  Kraft, wearing his usual white-collar-blue shirt duds, wins with a Stone Cold (Steve Austin) Stunner, pounds 2 Budweisers that Gronk has thrown him and throw cans on Irsay’s unconscious body.
  • Chuck Pagano cries.  Again.
  • (Boston native) Colts’ Backup QB Matt Hasselback shows up dressed in Patriots uniform.  Takes a dump on the 50 yard line.
  • Upon scoring yet another goal line quarterback sneak touchdown, Brady heads for the goal post, pulls out a prescription pill bottle, whacks back the whole bottle and points up to Owner’s box. (by the way, the bottle was simply filled with Awesomeness.)

  • Following victory, Kraft BUYS the Colts and immediately moves the team back to Baltimore….Sunday night….via train.
  • During Post-Game Press Conference, the usually mute Bill Belicheck does a full on gangsta rap whereby be announces he had sex with Colts fat shit GM Ryan Grigson’s wife.  It would rhyme of course.

OK, maybe we have high hopes, but hey, we will need something to think about once we are up 50 at the half.

To paraphrase Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glenross, “I’d wish you Luck, Baltimore, but you wouldn’t’ know what to do with it.”

Indianapolis Colts: “What’s your name?”

New England Patriots: “Fuck you.  THAT’S my name.”