admin
22 December 2023
Due to an unforeseen mishap with an unsheathed man-rod, Tanya’s spending her afternoon at the free clinic. So I get the pleasure of writing this month’s Hot-Town!!! Hooray for me.
Against the advice of my fellow staff members, I decided to go out with Tanya this past weekend. Even though she’s known around the office as, “a heroin chic Burt Reynolds with tits,” desperate times call for pathetic measures. Plus, I figured she’d put out way before any of the decent girls I’ve been going after. Seeing as how this whole “town-hopping” thing is her schtick, I let Ms. Shemanski lead the way on our evening of bliss.
The first place we ended up was The Evergreen Bistro, or what I like to refer to as, "Another Fucking Pretentious Neon Hole-In-The-Wall For Uppity, Underweight, Dirt Eaters.” We dined on the finest in meat and dairy-free cuisine, including faux duck endive, pseudo-crab bisque, almost chicken and scallops, and a delightful dish called “maybe beef, but more like black beans.” I have to admit, the meal was pretty damned good. All of the fake-out food managed to taste really close to whatever dead animal it was named after. Which makes me wonder why these people don’t just make the shit with real meat?
After our bizarre fake-dinner, Tanya and I made our way to one of her favorite Irish pubs: Jen McSnatchy’s. From the banner over the bar, to the giant flags hung atop the urinals, the place sure did a good job of reminding me that I was in an “authentic Irish pub.” I’ll bet if I had those keen sunglasses Roddy Piper sported in They Live, I would have seen that all that stuff really read, “Commercialized Green, White and Orange Budweiser Monstrosity.” While I was trying to figure out why every young urban professional kept referring to their glasses of Coors Light as “pints,” Tanya was busy accepting drinks, drugs, phone numbers and vials of blood from every guy that passed our booth. I’ve never seen a woman with such a tolerance for the combined effects of whiskey, Zoloft and cat tranquilizers. Of course, Suitor #48 (Anton) convinced her to go with him to his car. I spent the next 20 minutes staring into my piss-warm Amstel Light, hoping to bump into someone with a soul. Every now and then, I thought, “Gee. If Tanya gets raped and killed by that guy, I hope I don’t have to testify in court.” Needless to say, I left McSnatchy’s alone, realizing an all-time-low in hopelessness for the human race. I’m sure that if I had asked, I could’ve gotten in on some Vivid Video-style three-way with Anton and Tanya. Still, I couldn’t help but move on, forever knowing that I’d rather have my nuts force fed into a blender set on puree, than be seen in public surrounded by people like that.
NOTE: Upon reading this article, Tanya Shemanski experienced her own personal meltdown and quit the paper. She will be missed.
Against the advice of my fellow staff members, I decided to go out with Tanya this past weekend. Even though she’s known around the office as, “a heroin chic Burt Reynolds with tits,” desperate times call for pathetic measures. Plus, I figured she’d put out way before any of the decent girls I’ve been going after. Seeing as how this whole “town-hopping” thing is her schtick, I let Ms. Shemanski lead the way on our evening of bliss.
The first place we ended up was The Evergreen Bistro, or what I like to refer to as, "Another Fucking Pretentious Neon Hole-In-The-Wall For Uppity, Underweight, Dirt Eaters.” We dined on the finest in meat and dairy-free cuisine, including faux duck endive, pseudo-crab bisque, almost chicken and scallops, and a delightful dish called “maybe beef, but more like black beans.” I have to admit, the meal was pretty damned good. All of the fake-out food managed to taste really close to whatever dead animal it was named after. Which makes me wonder why these people don’t just make the shit with real meat?
After our bizarre fake-dinner, Tanya and I made our way to one of her favorite Irish pubs: Jen McSnatchy’s. From the banner over the bar, to the giant flags hung atop the urinals, the place sure did a good job of reminding me that I was in an “authentic Irish pub.” I’ll bet if I had those keen sunglasses Roddy Piper sported in They Live, I would have seen that all that stuff really read, “Commercialized Green, White and Orange Budweiser Monstrosity.” While I was trying to figure out why every young urban professional kept referring to their glasses of Coors Light as “pints,” Tanya was busy accepting drinks, drugs, phone numbers and vials of blood from every guy that passed our booth. I’ve never seen a woman with such a tolerance for the combined effects of whiskey, Zoloft and cat tranquilizers. Of course, Suitor #48 (Anton) convinced her to go with him to his car. I spent the next 20 minutes staring into my piss-warm Amstel Light, hoping to bump into someone with a soul. Every now and then, I thought, “Gee. If Tanya gets raped and killed by that guy, I hope I don’t have to testify in court.” Needless to say, I left McSnatchy’s alone, realizing an all-time-low in hopelessness for the human race. I’m sure that if I had asked, I could’ve gotten in on some Vivid Video-style three-way with Anton and Tanya. Still, I couldn’t help but move on, forever knowing that I’d rather have my nuts force fed into a blender set on puree, than be seen in public surrounded by people like that.
NOTE: Upon reading this article, Tanya Shemanski experienced her own personal meltdown and quit the paper. She will be missed.
artid
744
Old Image
4_10_hottown.swf
issue
vol 4 - issue 10 (jun 2002)
section
stories