The new Crocodile Lounge on 14th Street (a spinoff of Williamsburg’s Alligator Lounge) serves a crappy personal pizza with every beer ordered.

No way.

Way.

Having been brought along by in-the-know pals, I sat there refusing to believe that I’d landed myself in such a perfect situation until I had proof of pizza. Maybe my friends had gotten lucky on a one-night-special. Or maybe, since it was after 2:30 am, the oven would have shut down. But no: minutes after ordering beers… we each got a pizza accompanied by a wicker basket of sprinklings.

The quality of the pizza was exceedingly low. It tasted like something you’d buy at the concession stand of a high school gym or suburban ice rink, when you’re depressed that life has led you to this lame event and so you try to make things better with a pizza even you know is going to be truly awful.

The “crust” was maybe a few milimeters thin, a measurement which decreased with every second because the grease on top of it eventually just seeped right the F on through. When I picked up a “slice,” the triangular end automatically drooped at a 90-degree angle towards the floor, as if to say “Look, I’m not really pizza.”

This is not something anyone should eat. And yet, because it was right in front of me and available, I found the entire situation miraculous.

I’m tired. I clearly don’t care a lot about today’s holiday, even though I’m obsessed with green. Instead — to keep in theme with the winter that despite last week’s tease will apparently never end — here’s a camera pic of a tap shaped like a snowman. It’s appropriately called “Snow Man Ale.” The bartender promised it would taste like burnt marshmallows. I’m promising you it tastes like crap.

There.

Now I’m going to do something I never thought I’d do and invite readers to “have a good weekend.” At least it’s in quotes to convey possible disingenuity. Keep it challenging.

How adorable is that tap though? Come on.

It kind of annoys me when people I know say, “Oh, maybe I’ll go out for one drink.” The main reason I don’t like this is because they’re acting like they’re doing me (or whomever) a favor by going that extra mile to have that drink with us. Hey, great. Glad to have you. Idiot.

The other reason is the obvious one: People who say they’ll have one drink are lying. Seriously, why even bother? It’s so unnecessary.

I’m well aware that it’s not a huge deal that the people are lying (they know they are); therefore I don’t see it as a very big deal that it bothers me so much and that I’m bothering to complain about it. As a general note, I wouldn’t have to rag on people at all if they weren’t such morons all the time.

It would just be so much easier to not say anything. Either say “Sure, I’ll go to the bar with you.” or just shut the fuck up and either come or not. Thanks.

Whew! That was scary and mean. You know what that means: It’s definitely time to check out what’s on Channel 803!

Yay! Who doesn’t love Homo Zapping? Show of hands.

I’ve about had it with the freakin’ piegeons. I used to get rid of them by banging one of my 17 remote controls against my window, but now they’re so used to my presence that I’m not even a threat to them anymore. Sometimes I even open the window with a flourish and let out bloodcurdling screams. They just dart their heads back and forth as if something might be a little off, but that’s it. GOD!

Also filed under Things I Hate But Photograph Anyway for Shits & Giggles… DR presents this girl, her thong, and her Pooh tattoo. I hate to admit this, but I actually just spent two whole minutes debating whether the photo should be displayed to the side of the text like most of the pictures, or whether it warranted an entire column’s width. I went with the latter:

If you’re so turned on right now and feel the urge to save this image to make it your desktop pattern, you’ll notice that I named it “buttcrack_pooh.jpg.” Nice. Was she being ironic?

I am really, really mean. And probably losing readers by the tens by posting this. It’s something no one’s supposed to see, and my partner-in-crime Kate and I had to go and capture this atrocity with the triple-zoom. But you just can’t turn down the opportunity to snap a crack when one’s staring right at you. About a month ago, concerned reader Dee made a post demanding to know WHY I was so obsessed with putting SEC (Someone Else’s Crack, you know, instead of SEP, Someone Else’s Problem) on my personal website. I believe my exact response was “Mom, we live in a society. It’s just what people do.”

Huh? I’m not sure what it means either. But in that spirit, DR would like to extend a Call For Buttcracks. It’s sort of like a Call For Papers, which occurs in graduate school when prestigious universities hold conferences and need people to read at them. Well, this presitgious purveyor of Crack is holding firm on its SEC policy and needs people to send in their sightings. Happy hunting.

Note: I’m aware that the above photo does not contain VISIBLE Crack. But when the huge thong (and such a large portion of it!) is all up in your biznass, you really can’t tell the difference. And if you call this “covered-up Crack,” then I beg to differ. This is Crack! Say hello! Deal with it.

Another eventful time at Rose’s Turn.

Zach and I display our $2 street-bought gay gear. Yay Pride!

Michael Dionne gave us free shots! We love Michael Dionne!

This is Guillaume, from France. He thought we wouldn’t get it, but we do. It’s William in French. Go Guillaume!

Alex belts it out. Summertime. You go, grrrrrl.

Michael Dionne is under the sea. We love him and his funky props.

Zach just got hit on by two 50-year-olds. Hooray for Rose’s Turn!

An excerpt from Dee-mail:

“You do NOT look chunky!
You need to get a few more skirts to wear !
You would make the Mawmee happier to reduce the f-word usage !
Thank you very much for this opportunity to let you know the above info — knowing #3 is a stretch.
: ) “

Okay. Thanks. Actually, I will try to tone down the f-bomb. I think it’s trashy when I read it in other people’s stuff so I don’t know why I do it sometimes. A good writer shouldn’t have to use expletives to create emphasis. What the fuck are you implying?

Note my mom’s not-so-subtle hints that I should dress more like a lady. I knew she’d salivate over photographic evidence of me in a skirt. Yeah, well, she’s the only one. Worthless… fucker. Also note her entirely cute way of “spacing out” her smileys. Awww.

Today I met Online Kelly for happy hour at Duke’s because she was in midtown for company training and I felt like going to work at 7:30 tipsy. Seeing her was amazing. Oh wait. That was the nachos. Seeing her was pretty fun.

Will somebody (Kelly, ironically this could be you) please tell me how to get rid of red-eye? Why am I the only one it happens to? Life sucks.

Look who popped in after a hard day’s stare session! It’s the editor in chief!