Happy 4-20!

While I have been super busy with things other than this blog, I decided that it was incredibly important to take time to celebrate every skate park dweller’s favorite holiday.

The 20th of April is not only reserved for Hitler’s B-day. Fortunately for every high school stoner, 4/20 has become a day to proudly say “Hey! You! Guess what! I smoke weed!”

If you wear a beanie and feel personally connected to Bob Marley, today is YOUR day. Screw administration. Proudly wear your Rastafarian regalia!

Walking into school today, the atmosphere was obviously altered. Smoke practically poured out of the halls of SHS. The eyes of about 35% of the student body were obviously modified to match their green, yellow, and black bracelets and their shirts that said things like, “Get Your Smokey On.” An SHS student literally wore this today:

Attending classes with students who had obviously taken the ten minutes before 8:15 to celebrate, was more than entertaining. Simply looking into the glazed eyes of some of my peers was enough to send them into fits of laughter. If drug dogs were set loose, they wouldn’t know where to start. Screw their cars, half of SHS would be worried about the dogs sniffing their lips. Luckily, our local police were probably still tired from their drunk driving presentation yesterday.

4/20 is a day for celebration and laughter. I commend those who were sober enough to remember the holiday, and then cool enough to forget the date (or even year) after lunch.

Disclaimer: None of my peers smoke marijuana and absolutely none of them would ever smoke weed during school.


Dance Motha’s Gone Wild

During this week’s episode of Dance Moms, we learned that Abby Lee Miller is the ringleader of a boozed-out, botoxed, mean girl group of stage mothers.

For those of you that have never seen the show, it revolves around the Abby Lee Miller Dance Company. This dance company consists of a group of ten girls who have a combined total of twelve teeth because they basically all refuse to get braces. Apparently braces off-balance a twelve-year-old dancers composition.

While the dancers are entertaining by themselves, the real drama starts when you look at the cracked-out moms. Every week at least one mom flips her shit because Abby psychologically mind-screws their daughter.

You would think that the moms would simply switch dance companies, but alas, either for the exposure or the thrill, each week the moms stick it out to prepare for a dance competition at the end of the week. Most dance groups practice their dance routines for at least a couple of weeks, but not Abby Lee Miller’s girls. They have three days to practice a routine.

This week on Dance Moms, the dance company traveled to a competition where a fellow mom’s dance company was also competing. Instead of giving you a run down of all the events, I will break it down by each mom.

Kendall’s Mom – As the newest member of the Abby Lee Miller Dance Company, this was Kendall’s week to prove herself. Her mom, Jill, has a face filled with latex and the personality of a Beverly Hills Real Housewife. Jill had a rough week with the fellow moms. Unfortunately, as the newbie, she was due for a little bit of hazing. With a scene straight out of Mean Girls, the moms encouraged Jill to confront Abby about the pressure that her daughter had to endure. As you can imagine, this confrontation ended with Abby breathing fire and Jill’s face melting.

Cathy – Cathy is the owner of Candy Apples Dance Team and a rival to every single dance mom affiliated with Abby Lee Miller. Every episode, the Candy Apples attempt to win any solo or group number and fail every time. This week was no different. Cathy’s thirty-year-old dancers entered the twelve to thirteen age division and lost. That fur-wearing bitch was defeated once again.

Kelly – This is the mom with the teased hair and the acrobat kid. Every episode she gets drunk and cries. The only difference in this episode was that Abby called her out for it. Apparently getting drunk and taking your daughter to dance class is no longer accepted in the dance field.

Big-nosed mom – I don’t remember her name, but I do remember her nose. This week, she wore Ralph Lauren, convinced poor little plastic surgery mom to confront Abby, and bitched about her daughter having to wear things called “rats” and “snoods”…whatever the hell those things are.

Abby – This week, Abby was her normal, crazy self. She yelled at the bus driver, counted numbers loudly, and told the moms that they were drunks, idiots, and failures at “finding matching snoods.” Just an average week for Ms. Abby Lee Miller.

This week was filled with tears, trophies, and tons of “rats and snoods.” The lesson I learned this week: Don’t fuck with Abby Lee Miller and “dance like you want a puppy.”

Winter’s Inferno

Oh winter, you frost-bit bitch. Finally, almost a month after Christmas, you show your chapped little face. We thought that we could avoid you. With the end of the world approaching, we figured that you would just give us a couple of chilly days and be done with it. But no. For the past three days, I have woken up to find that my Ford Taurus was raped during the night. My windshield wipers are stuck, my windows refuse to budge, and it turns on with a depressed rumble followed by a growl.

You have raped my car into submission and apparently you like it rough. Well, I am here to tell you that I refuse to take your shit anymore. My car has been through enough.

My chapstick supply is running low, my car doors are officially stuck, and I am already tired of this winter wonderland. You missed Christmas and the nostalgia has worn off. Winter in December is comforting, winter in January is annoying. I’m sorry that you missed the date. Maybe you were drunk, maybe you were stoned, nevertheless, it’s not your time.

Winter, we are sick of you. Come again next year you ugg-wearing, anti-freeze-dependent, slippery little whore.

The skinny vs. the fatty

When thinking about “weight issues”, it is almost certain that one will think of someone who is fat or overweight. However, I am here to enlighten you about the problems that skinny bitches face daily. Fatties aren’t the only ones who get hounded about their weight. Everyday, skinnies around the world face hardships due to their small frame and double-digit scale number. While there may be a lot that differentiates the Celebrity Fat Club members and the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, the problems that they face are more similar than you would think.

For example, elbows are a problem spot for both the heavy and the small framed. For the people who can’t eat a McChicken without earning themselves another chin, their elbows practically disappear with every bite. Suddenly, their elbows become sandwiched between two sides of fatty tissue that cause their actual bone to sink lower and lower beneath the massive wall of skin and fat. I am obviously not a trained physician. However, I have observed that when one eats more Hardee’s than Subway, their fat seems to form a crease and push the actual elbow into a sick form of submission. That poor, little elbow never had a chance; it was gang raped by two bulging fat-ass bullies.

Where fatties have a vagina-like orifice on their arm, the skinnies also have a little problem with their elbows. For the average skinny bitch, their elbows are sharp as knives. This becomes an issue in many circumstances. Hugging a skinny person turns into an attempt to dodge their shark teeth elbows. If one of them pokes you, expect blood. Forget water beds, a skinnies elbows will poke right through. When you are Edward Scissor-Elbows, your options of clothing are limited. God forbid that a sweater accentuate your excessively pokey elbows. The only thing those blades can be used for are opening cans and getting in street fights. Being skinny isn’t always pretty.

Another problem that both fat and skinny people face is people asking them about their weight. For fatties, these conversations are more subtle and kind-hearted. The comments are usually things like, “You are looking smaller…did you do something?”. Decoded, this usually means, “You still look fat…why aren’t you doing anything about it?”. Let’s face it, their isn’t a polite way to tell someone they are obese. You can’t sugar-coat the words, “Damn bitch, you look BIIGGG.”.

When a fat person is confronted about how someone doesn’t like their size, it is almost always in a polite manner. However, for skinny people, these confrontations are blunt and almost always centered around a meal. For example, when a skinny kid eats the average portion of food, they are told, “You eat so much and never gain any weight. Why are you so skinny?” 1) It’s none of your business. 2) If I knew the secret to my skinny-ness, I would not be telling your fat ass. If a skinny person isn’t feeling very hungry and eats only a small portion of food, they are told, “No wonder you are so skinny, you hardly eat anything. You need to get some meat on them bones.” Depending on one’s mood, the witty response to this would be, “Well it looks like you have plenty to spare.”

As you can see, the chubby and the fit both share the same problems. Both have elbow issues, both have assholes who want to “help them out” and give unneeded advice, and both just want to eat or not eat without someone commenting on it. Plus, everyone knows it’s the midgets who REALLY got the short end of the stick.

Once upon a time….there lived a bunch of coked-out hoes.

For Christmas this year, I was delighted when I woke up to find that Santa had brought me the Princess and the Frog movie and soundtrack. If you know me, you obviously know that Princess Tatiana (or as some say incorrectly, Tiana) is my favorite princess and my favorite Disney character. What is it about her that brightens my day and fills me with glee? Is it her sweet melodic voice that sounds as if Whitney Houston and Queen Latifa had a love child? Is it her never-ending longing to become an entrepreneur and create her own restaurant in memory of her dead father? OR…is it her dark, ebony skin and tight bun? I may never know what makes Tatiana so damn irresistible, but I CAN tell you why no other Disney princess makes the cut.


Ariel: To begin with, Ariel lives under the sea. That girl probably smells like a mixture of Long John Silvers and tuna. No wonder her only friends were a crab and a chubby fish. Ariel’s ambitions consisted of finding a husband with legs instead of fins and collecting as many sporks and music boxes as her coral closet could hold. In short, Ariel was a smelly, hoarding fire crotch.

Belle: Although Belle is idolized by many little girls, when one takes a closer look,there are a few alarming details to her story. For instance, like one of those rape victims on CNN, Belle fell in love with the creature that kept her in captivity. The Beast locked her in a dungeon and in return, Belle fell in love with him. Belle turned out to be nothing more than an average-looking brunette who fell in love with her rapist dog.

Mulan: While I am a supporter of an asian princess, I am not a supporter of a cross-dressing asian princess. For half of the movie, Mulan dances around dressed as a man. A princess dressed as a dude? No thanks.


Cinderella: As the most recognized princess, Cinderella still holds the top chair in the hierarchy of princess-hood. Cinderella is basically the Tony Soprano of a princess mafia. But what exactly did she do to earn that title? Is she the only blonde (Regina George) princess? Nope. Is she the only princess who talked to animals? Nope. Basically, Cinderella was a poor-ass slave for her bitchin’ stepmom. Cinderella definitely doesn’t deserve her Regina Soprano title.

Aurora: This bitch was asleep for most of the movie. Lame.

Snow White: As the first princess, you would think she would be the original Head Bitch in Charge. However, Snow White was the queen of midgets and, like that dumbass Aurora, was asleep for part of the movie. You can’t fall asleep at the Little People Big World’s house and call yourself a princess. Owning elves just means you’re Santa…not royalty.

As you can clearly see, Princess Tatiana reigns supreme in this collection of schizos and neuroleptics. I will never know how the Disney writers came up with such a group of nutbags. Oh wait, yah I do. It’s all thanks to a little girl named Mary Jane.

Yearbooks are for fatties…

In my yearbook class, (yes, there is actually a class to create a yearbook) I was recently assigned a research paper. What could possibly need researched to create a yearbook? Sadly, we all asked ourselves this very question as we diligently “googled” the words “yearbook research paper” into the search engine. Because of our incessant talking and “powWows”, our teacher decided to give us the topic of The History of the Yearbook to write a something-paged research paper on. The exact details of the assignment are mostly a blur due to the previously stated “powWows”…nevertheless, I sat down to attempt a masterpiece that would impress my demanding yearbook teacher.

This is one of our powWows in yearbook. That is me in the blue.

 After hours (minutes) of research, I have come to the simple conclusion that the yearbook doesn’t have a history.

Did no one record this history because no one cared? …you can reach your own conclusions.

So, here I sit…my word document is STILL blank, my research is still at a deadend, and my grade in the class is slowing creeping down the alphabet.

I tell you all of this not to humor you, but to beg of you to research this topic for me. How dedicated are the fans of Bowties&Booze? I guess we will see 😉

A quickie……update.

So….guess who’s wi-fi is fixed!….that is right. THE OWNER OF THIS BLOG.

For the past month or so, the wi-fi at my house decided to become the anti-christ and turn off whenever it’s tiny, black, electronic heart decided. As you can imagine, this made it increasingly difficult to post a blog that usually takes me approximately thirty minutes. Within that thirty minutes of hell, my wi-fi would sporadically tell me that we no longer had internet around forty-seven times. Finally, we killed our wi-fi.

R.I.P you little bitch.

After a month of struggling to even creep Facebook or poke someone who apparently doesn’t want poked, the problem is resolved.

If you thought my pokes were harassing then, you better watch the f’ out!

Oh…and my blog will be updated more frequently. So if you decided to switch to another blog, it’s time to switch back!

This bitch is back.

The gospel according to Zac

Is there ACTUALLY a freedom of speech?

Recently, I have come into a little bit of trouble regarding this blog. The last thing I want to do is to sit here and bitch about how life isn’t fair. But, with that being said, I wanted to take a little time to try to figure out what actual rights I have.

What if I say that my chicken nugs at McDonalds taste like queef? Does my right to freedom of speech give me the liberties to say that I personally believe that someone in the back room sat on my nugs and tried to pull one over on me? Or does that somehow infringe on the rights of the queefer?

Freedom of speech is a very tricky thing. I believe that all the things said on my blog are said in good fun and are meant to make people laugh. If somehow Bowties&Booze has made you mentally unstable, I apologize. But, unless you are “the black girls” from my old elementary school, or were once a little fat kid that was made to go chase a dodgeball, I believe that you can probably rest at ease. But, in the same thought, if you ARE that little chunker that I (as a child) forced to retrieve my lost four-square ball, the best way to handle my blog would be to laugh.

My belief in my right to share my opinion is strong. A lot of people visit this site everyday to read my thoughts on every topic, and I hope they do it because I make you want to spoil your briefs–not because you are hoping to someone incriminate me.

Everything that I type is typed in jest, meaning it is meant to make you look at something with humor. For those of you who aren’t funny, and don’t know a good joke when you hear one, get the hell off of this website. If you don’t urinate at the thought of my lil’ granny peanut trying to  slide down a metal bar stool while intoxicated, we probably don’t think the same things are funny.

Basically what I am trying to say, is that if you don’t find me funny, why are you still reading? Also, on a side note, if you are bitter about anything that I have said or will say in the future, keep it to yourself. Frankly, I give ZERO thought into what others think this blog should be about. If you are a lame professional (of any type) and you are reading this, you probably should get back to whatever tedious job currently ties you down. But, if you are a fun professional and see humor in almost every situation, keep reading and enjoy all jokes about queefs and my ghetto childhood.

I write for myself and to entertain whatever dumbass wants to listen to me ramble. I don’t write to offend and I certainly don’t write to “stir up gossip.”

Amen, hallelujah, and praise whatever lord you please.

A Punctuation Blog Post?

In all texting situations, there are many factors that come into play. Spelling, content, and the occasional wink are all important to the casual texter. But possibly the most important of all texting tools is punctuation.

Punctuation can make or break a text. For example, exclamation points are tricky. I personally have only been so excited that an exclamation point was needed a handful of times. I find exclamation points to be occasionally obnoxious. Here is an example:

“Getting in the shower.” turns into “Getting in the shower!”

What was is so exciting about that shower? Unless you are about to take a shower underneath a waterfall while seventeen dolphins swim around you and whistle “Hallelujah”, I don’t believe that an exclamation point is necessary.

While exclamation points are a tricky punctuation to master, the most awkward punctuation mark has to be the accidental question mark.

In most circumstances, a question mark is pretty black and white punctuation. Unlike the exclamation point, a question mark is only used in one type of sentence, a QUESTION. This being said, the question mark is practically deadly when used accidentally. Not only does a question mark make you sound unsure but it can also make you sound kinky.

For example,

A simple sentence like “I’m driving” turns into “I’m driving?”

That question mark makes it sound like you are practically mocking the other person. All sentences with a misplaced question mark automatically have the same effect as the word, “DUH.”

A text that says “I’m getting in the shower.” transforming into a sultry “I’m getting in the shower?’

It practically sounds inviting. Unless a picture of your genitals follows that texts, I advice that you check all punctuation before pressing send.

Confessions of the middle of the Oreo

As a child, I was obviously different from every other boy around. While other five-year-old “bros” were outside trying to “bag” each other’s nutsacks and  kick each other off of the monkey bars, I was sitting in air conditioning trying to determine which soundtrack to My Fair Lady had the best Liza. I was different to say the least.

Because of this, I had a lot of time to observe others and find out what made people tick. In all fairness, an elementary school in the ghetto of Illinois isn’t exactly prime space to study human behavior, but I did the best with what I was given. What I witnessed everyday at recess is what can only be described as a hierarchy.

Everyday I would slowly walk to the doors that led to our playground. I imagine that what I felt during those days is close to what soldiers feel as they climb out of the holes of their tanks and brave the streets of Iraq. The mission had to be completed, no matter the cost. The cost those days for venturing the playground in the ghetto depended on the season. If  it was during the spring or fall, the only abuse that occurred was verbal. Teachers still watched you back then, even if they WERE on their smoke breaks. The worst season to be out on the playground, however, was definitely winter. Winter provided little mean kids with nature’s weapon. SNOW. A teacher didn’t think twice if she saw seventeen kids pummeling one tiny boy with snowballs. After all, “Boys will be boys.”

Ghetto recess was as dangerous as some federal prison cafeterias. At the top of this bully pyramid was “The Black Girls.” These were the girls you avoided on the swings, avoided in class, and avoided all eye contact with. Life was rough for a white kid, especially a white kid who didn’t know how to speak slang. If you were a boy, you better have a pair of low-rise jeans and you best be sportin’ corn rows.

(I secretly think the boys were jealous of my beautiful locks of blonde hair)

But nevertheless, I wasn’t “fresh” and my Osh’Kosh shirts looked like “dookie”…a word I later learned meant, “poop.”

Luckily, I wasn’t a girl. Girls had to wear little plastic bows in their hair and god forbid your “auntie” not be your hairdresser. All hell would break loose on those monkey bars if a girl lost her pink, plastic, clip-on bow. Supposedly that action resulted in an “ass-beatin'” at their homes. This resulted in seven or eight girls trying to sift through wood chips like they were looking for gold. Let me note that these search missions rarely ended in success.

As you read this, you are probably thinking I am writing about a stereo-typical black child…but in actuality, this is what my childhood consisted of. I was the white guy out. My best friend, Kitwana, was “too white” to be black….even though she was originally from Panama. We were perfect for each other; one Saltine cracker and one eloquent black girl from Panama.

Through this jungle of a public school, Kitwana and I ventured.

Below The Black Girls, were the lesser known girls, who for some reason, could never be as “down to Earth” as TBG. The Black Girls kept power by their strength in numbers. There were never more than nine of them and all of them sat on top of the monkey bars at lunch. Below them (literally) stood the wannabes. These are the girls that TBG called “fake” and “desperate.” They didn’t care if your parents bought you Barbie’s or if you even had parents. TBG was looking for a certain look, drive, and what I could only comprehend as bitchiness. 

Their response to ANY and EVERY confrontation was and probably still is, “Is it because I’m BLACCK!?!”

Because I went to a 93% African-American public elementary school, this excuse rarely ever got much sympathy. It was clear what race ruled the school. A little marshmallow like me never stood a chance.

Basically, my days in elementary school smelled like dookie.