My First French Kiss

Horrific. That about sums it up.

There comes a point in every man and woman’s life where you French Kiss for the first time. Unless you don’t. I guess.

My introduction to this world of romantic endeavor occurred in the 6th grade. However, my first kiss on the lips happened in 4th grade on a Church bus heading to a Church camp in St. Simons, GA. My God that girl was hot. She was a full-blown blond bombshell with an outrageous body. Sure she was bigger than I was at the time like every female on the Earth but a knock out none the less. I was on top of the world and kissing was WONDERFUL.

The trauma that unfolded in the sixth grade was not WONDERFUL. (Side note: use the word wonderful as much as possible because it is a fantastic word) I was dating a girl, whatever that means when you don’t have a car and not sure how your penis works, and had kissed her several times in the course of our courtship. However, I had always avoided the French Kiss because the thought of it scared the shit out of me. God forbid I mess it up, bite her tongue, get gingivitis, cancer, AIDS, gout, cavities, polio or a boner.

Then along came her birthday party. Great.

If you have ever been young, then you will understand how your peers encourage you to do everything. Any by peers I mean asshole friends. I believe Dr. Phil calls this peer pressure. Well guess what? There was a shit ton of that at this birthday party.

How do you practice French Kissing when you have never French Kissed? YOU CAN’T. That is the problem. Unless you have a forgiving dog or live on a farm I guess. Should have thought of that.

We were somewhere under her house, or beside it, or in it, or whatever I cant remember. There were several of my terrible friends shouting at me to kiss her. Like a boss, I kissed her. Over and over. On the lips. No tongue. Easy breezy. Everybody shut up. Where is the cake?

Then the same set of asshole friends starting chanting “with tongue”. And the nightmare begins.

The French Kiss – invented in France and known around the world as a kiss that involves the tongue going into and around the mouth of the partner. i.e., take one of the most vial parts of the human body and home to a quarter trillion bizarre bacteria and overproducing mucus glands and put your number one taste receptor, the tongue, inside of said space and wiggle it around. Thanks France.

After a hour of encouragement and on the brink of an anxiety attack, I was forced to engage in my first French Kiss.

I stuck my tongue in her mouth.

I cannot remember if I did the straight in and out jackhammer method or the helicopter round-a-bout method but confident it was one of the two. After what seemed to be 6 hours of kissing (8 seconds) I was done. Mission accomplished.

I had finally performed my first French kiss. BOOM! I WAS A MAN!

Then I got sick to my stomach, left the party early and went home and cried. I swear to God.



Powered by Xorbia Ticket Technologies

The 5 Atlanta Festivals You Cannot Miss in 2015 Unless You Literally Can’t Even (Attend)

Sure there is the Dogwood Festival and the Inman Park Festival if you like buying birdhouses made out of license plates but what if you like to party? What if you enjoy a few brews and poor morals? What if you are young, single and sick of Chatroulette? Well friends, we have you covered. Here are the 5 festivals you should put in your day-timer for 2015.

5. TomorrowWorld – Sept 25, 26, 27 Chattahoochee Hills

This is the best EDM festival in the United States and it is in your backyard. Or some farmer’s backyard. Why is it the best? Because it is 21 and up. That’s why. Plus there are no lines for beer because all 60k people are huffing water all night for some reason.

4. FOO FIGHTERS – Oct 4th Centennial Olympic Park

Somehow our buddy Josh has lined up the greatest living band in the entire world for Centennial Park on October 4th. Dave Grohl is the coolest dude on the planet (besides Tony Robbins) and puts on one of the greatest live shows in the world (aside from Siegfried and Roy in Vegas. The tiger guys?) Anyway, if there are tickets still available get your shit together and buy a half dozen.

3. Shaky Knees Music Festival – May 8, 9, 10 Centennial Olympic Park

Ol boy Tim Sweetwood has built up a doozy here over the past few years. What once was held in pure mud at the Masquerade with some indie hippie bluegrass band has evolved into a 400 band fiasco at Centennial Olympic park. Tim, who is much taller than we are, has lined up some greats this year including The Strokes, The Avett Brothers, The Black Lips and some dude named Steve Gunn whoever that weirdo is.

2. Steamhouse Lounge Original Oysterfest – Feb 21st & 22nd 11th St & W Peachtree

This has been an Atlanta staple for the past 28 years. Did you hear me? 28 mother grabbing years. This beast takes place in Midtown and produces around a quarter trillion roasted oysters. Live music, booze, booze, booze and some booze. Budweiser and a shot of Jäger, rinse, repeat.

1. LEPRE*CON – March 14th Park Tavern

Shocker, our party comes in number one. Whatever, THE PEOPLE VOTED. It is the best St. Patrick’s Day party in the universe and doesn’t cost $400 a ticket. There are over 4,000 hot and horny folks making bad decisions and a few making real bad decisions (the contests, damn those contests). There is also a grassy hill, spring break stage, harem of DJs, live band, booze for days and a wet T-shirt contest because we think we are still 17 years old.

There you go folks. Cancel your Netflix and buy a funny shirt because festival season is upon us!

Social Mess Festival Research Division

Powered by Xorbia Ticket Technologies

The Scariest Christmas of My Life

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…

Scratch that.

It was Christmas morning and MY WORLD CAME CRASHING DOWN.

Let me preface this disaster with some background info. You see, long ago about third grade, Mom and I were living in an unluxurious 2-bedroom brick house with the approximate value of a current day Ford Taurus. There were only two human beings living in that house and it was me and moms. There was no dad and I had no brothers or sisters. Living the dream. Oh, and a half dozen imaginary friends who thought I was bad ass.

It was Christmas morning, 1982. I woke up at 6 am on the dot like most annoying children on Christmas, eager to explore all my gifts from the almighty Santa Claus. I screamed at mom to get her lazy ass out of bed. IT WAS TIME TO DO THIS. Poor woman. #yolo.


BOOM! I exploded into the living room and…WTF? Yes, there was a tree. And yes, there were milk and cookies. UNEATEN. But no, not a single present. Explain that universe. I mean, Mom didn’t have much money buy my God, how much does a toy cost? Six bucks? Nothing.

Now, let me put this into perspective. I was a young child and up to this point, firm believer in the Christian ideology of an obese elderly man granting gifts through the help of northern reindeer. Sure, he had the same handwriting as mom and somehow serviced around 4 billion people in one night when it took McDonalds 58 years to serve the same number of hamburgers. However, my buddy Ace just bought a 3D printer that apparently can print cars and create free energy so whatever. Stuff happens.

There was no question in my mind that Santa Claus existed because that bastard had been giving me presents my whole life. Until now. Service Merchandise could have their catalog back. I was pissed.

At this moment, I did what all grieving young men would do, cried like a sorority girl after a gallon of vodka and a positive pregnancy test. Mom hugged me, which did nothing for my emotional breakdown, and guided me into the next room where we settled onto our inexpensive couch. What happened next, well, defies logic and put me in therapy for most of my adult life.

As we sat and cried on what I can only remember as a horrid floral print couch, a walking cane came in through the hallway door. A wooden f*cking walking cane. Said cane tapped the hallway door and all the lights in the house went off. I shit you not. Like David Blaine and Jesus Christ had teamed up to magically remove all electricity from my whole house with the touch of a walking stick. I mean even Steven Hawking can’t explain the physics on a walking cane shutting down the entire electrical system of a single-family home. Or half-family home I guess.

“Oh no, looks like Santa might be here” said Mom.

No lady, we are getting robbed and sure to be tied up in some basement for the next 30 years until Anderson Cooper and Lisa Ling dig us out on CNN. Sure, I was a young child but per my earlier statement, there were only two people that lived in that house. And now some kidnapping axe murder/magician just blew out all the lights and is in the next room. My life was over. This I knew for sure.

A few minutes later, as I shivered on the couch praying to every God I had ever been taught, Mom finally said, “should we go in the living room and see if Santa came?”.


There is a cane-welding child murderer in the damn house and you want me to go into the next room? Am I not your biological child? Can you not afford me anymore? Have you always hated me? Who has their own child murdered on Christmas?

“No thanks”, I replied, through a hurricane of tears and hyperventilation.

She finally dragged me into the living room where, God only knows how, Santa had come in, set up all my toys (including a full train set), ate the cookies and milk and somehow exited the house in complete and utter silence. Then the lights magically came back on. Straight poltergeist.

Let me gently remind you of the size of our house. I would say it was approximately the size of 6 refrigerator boxes. This man, Santa, had built an entire room of toys on the other side of the cheapest wall ever created in a low-income house WITHOUT MAKING A SINGLE SOUND. In less than 4 minutes. And escaped, thank God.

To this day, my Mom will not tell me how all of this unfolded or who, if not Santa, was the caned magician/murderer that built 25 toys in less than 4 minutes in a room 6 feet from us. My guess was it was my dad, but he was a complete drunk and had been disappointing me since he left us when I was 3. Must have been Santa.

Also, what Santa comes after 6 am on Christmas?

Merry Christmas folks and please, for the love of God, sleep ‘til at least 7 am.


Ring In 2015 With Yacht Rock Revue & Yacht Rock Schooner

Yacht Rock NYE Gala for those who love booze and wearing fancy captains hats. The beauty of this humdinger is there is always amazing food which includes a massive Krispy Kreme selection this year. EAT IT. As #usie this party is all-inclusive and has your #usie forte of DJs and sweet-soft-rock live music. You can also save $10 by using promo code “ASM”. This allows you to buy 2 pair if lee jeans at Goodwill or a one-month subscription to if you so choose…GET TICKETS HERE

A Magical Night with Susan Boyle

A Magical Night with Susan Boyle 

By Trey Humphreys

To my recollection, I only saw two music shows this past year. Just two. One was the TomorrowWorld Electronic Music Festival with over 300 DJ’s and a billion dollars in lasers, pyro, glow sticks and speakers. The other was Susan Boyle at the Atlanta Symphony place in Midtown. I swear to God.

Photo Oct 26, 7 48 15 PM

Ol girl played here in Atlanta about a month ago, which happened to land on the exact day I was having a few beers, conveniently. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was winning a pumpkin-carving contest at a local watering hole when it hit me like a ton of woman…..


I remembered the Susan Boyle concert was that night in Atlanta. How did I know this wonderfall of information? Because of a fantastic phone call with my Aunt Betty whom I had not spoken with in 25 some odd years. The phone call conversation included: 30 dogs, a house fire, Curves, Asperger’s disease and the Susan Boyle Fan Club. However, that is another story for another time.

Fast Forward to the pumpkin contest…

Deep into the carving, I dialed up the only other human being dumb cool enough to go to the concert with me, Melanie. Thankfully, she owns a delightful sequins dress and one of the most fantastic middle-age-woman wigs on earth. A real gem of a hair piece.

With the pumpkin contest under my belt, I headed home to grab my white tuxedo (with tails).   I assumed that is what most folks wear to a Susan Boyle concert. I was wrong.

We got all dolled up and Ubered down the show. We got dropped off at a restaurant called TAP where we ordered two grilled cheese sandwiches and two dirty martinis. Chicken soup for the soul.

Photo Oct 26, 8 47 26 PM

As I was consuming vodka and eating a cheese sandwich, an elderly woman in a fantastic half-sequins sweater asked if I was Lance.   I assumed she was lost and thought I was her grandson. That or she was the oldest prostitute on earth trying to find her date. Things were looking up…

Post awkward conversation with the old woman, we strolled down to the show and entered the lobby area, which was filled with wheelchairs and Medicare. It felt like I was riding a white horse into the bingo section of a yarn convention.   We got some stares.


We hit the box office and made our way to the cheap seats, which were somewhere around 1200 feet above the stage with limited oxygen. It was a miracle the elderly could mange their way up that high with out the aid of sherpas or cranes.


The Curtains unfolded and BOOM! There she was. Except she was a he. And then he sang. LANCE. Whoever that is, sang two songs. He was the opening act and not the 90-year-old prostitute’s date or grandson. Life comes full circle. What?

Side note: Lance, full of spray tan and amazing hair, was the opening act for Susan Boyle. Let that sink in for a moment. That man tours with Susan Boyle.

And then, like a Build-A- Angel from Heaven, she appeared. The crowd exploded. I scanned the audience for heart attacks. She wore a sleeping gown with flowing feathers on the shoulders and a beaming smile. I think. I was pretty drunk and 80,000 feet above the stage.

Photo Oct 26, 8 11 29 PM

With the voice of a Scottish angel and the stage presence of a dead plant, she opened with Somewhere over the Rainbow and then Winner Takes All by ABBA. She moved her right arm up and down which was the extent of her choreography. There was no dancing, or moving for that matter. She stood, sang, sat, sang, repeat. Literally.

The guy in front of me played backgammon on his phone.

Photo Oct 26, 9 05 58 PM

She even sang the Sarah McLaughlin animal cruelty song.   If only the dogs could hear her. Or cats I guess. Cats. What a disaster of an animal. Nevermind.

While half the audience watched her and the other half watched us, we decided to dip out after 10 unbearable songs. I wanted to find her, or get a picture with her, or kiss her on the lips but never got my chance.

Until next time Suzzy, until next time.

Photo Oct 26, 8 48 04 PM



Lance’s best friend

Buford Highway Adventure Club


by: Trey Humphreys

It’s Monday Funday you yolos.  Well, it was.  I am not sure what your Monday afternoon usually consists of but the upper brass here at A Social Mess believe in America, fine spirits, and educational field trips.  In the same fashion as the late great Chris Columbus, we thrive on the discovery of uncharted lands.  Specifically,  Buford Highway.

If you are not familiar with Buford Highway, think of a cultural smoothie including Asia, Latin America, and used car lots.  Although it is not a highway, it is a 5 lane juggernaut of foreign language signs and pedestrian frogger.  God love it.

This past Monday we set out to conquer said fake highway.  We gathered the powers that be including the Mayor of a different road, an Instagram queen,  John John “Rampage” Delladonna, Jennifer Ling Ling Lester Lingvall, and Ashley Knotts who we stole from the Buckhead Theater.  Call it client relations.  A limo was secured because that is how we roll b*tch.  And the non-adventure began…

The first stop, obviously, was Green’s Liquor Store on Buford Highway. Ironically, this is the very first retail building on Buford Highway south. Once outfitted with the proper tools including; a 6 pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, two 4 packs of Sutter Home White Zinfandel singles, and two bottles of Cooks champagne, we toasted to America, Mexico, South Korea, China, and Strip Clubs and began the journey.

The next stop landed us at a mega fake jewelry complex that resembled a jail on the outside and 900 Shane Co. Jewelry stores combined on the inside. It was a true bliss of pure un-gold and dazzling non-silver jewelry galore. Though they call this stuff costume jewelry, I think that is an insult.  It is high fashion and affordable. Chains, headbands, earrings, watches, and a dolphin pendant were secured. We bought somewhere in the neighborhood of 130 pounds of jewelry and dropped $48.

Post shopping we stopped in at a local taqueria where we crushed 19 different kinds of tacos while trying to avoid staring at the gaggle of hair growing out of the waitress’ neck. Hess couldn’t decide between the “Bowels” taco, “Tongue” taco, or “   “ taco.  I stared at the hair on ol’ girls’ neck. Mayor had beer and John John ate some kind of fish. Poor guy.

VAMOS LA PLAZA FIESTA! If you have never been to the Plaza Fiesta on Buford Highway, then you must hate western wear, shitty ice cream, and La Quinceanera dresses. We dropped in here for the family portrait session where it took us 30 minutes to choose the background. This high-end Olan Mills type place had plenty of props for us including a set of enormous broken Jesus hands and a “SENIORS” sign. We settled in and confused the piss out of the poor camera girl. Memories were made and Rampage lost his shirt.

Next we set off to find some Saki bombs and ended up in a Korean joint that looked to be a Pizza Hut the day before. Pizza on Buford Highway? In your dreams. At any rate, they only served Sprite and Coke. BACK IN THE LIMO.

BOOM! Asian Karaoke. What do you get when you combine Karaoke, used Jell-o shots and no air conditioning? Saki Bombs. We sang upwards of 3 songs. Upon leaving this dump we learned they were actually closed. Perfect.

BACK TO THE MEXICAN MALL for our pictures. 16 wallets and some portraits and we were set. After trying to find more outdated and unhygienic bars that were all closed, we crushed the rest of our booze and headed home.

Roughly 10 minutes before the end of the adventure crawl, the Mayor crushed a 5 hour energy.

The End

This is Braves County!


By Mayor of Ponce

It’s Opening Day, and I’m not OTP nor ITP- I’m burning rubber ON the perimeter, up 285, aka The Pascual Perez Memorial Highway. Since the good guys are opening up on the road in Milwaukee, I scoot past I-20 like it’s the cole slaw on a three meat plate at Sonny’s. I gotta get to where it’s safe and clean. The home to apple pie, Chevrolet,.. and BASEBALL. You know where I’m talking about- Thomas Willis Cobb County, son!

It’s noon fifty Central time, and we got a first pitch in a few minutes. No problem, 285 is pretty much a super highway from the Jetsons and rarely is there traffic. Except if there’s a funeral or something and everyone in the south pulls over because we’re very respectful and understanding people down here. I’m just a couple exits from the cradle of civilization, The Cobb PKWY…

SON OF A B-WORD! Some idiot must’ve died. Tail lights. I wanna tomahawk chop whatever jerk has a funeral on… Nope. Sorry. It’s just normal 1 pm Monday traffic on the Pascual Perez.  I apologize.

No worries, there’s an internal sensor in my body that knows the closest ‘Bee’s at all times. I blow through a few red lights in the CID, 2-wheel a corner, and boom… there it is… Home. Frantic and busting with excitement, I’m just gonna be able to make first pitch of the 2014 Braves season… THIS IS OUR YEAR… THIS IS BRAVES COUNTY… swing open the doors about to see my dawg Julio burn a fast ball over the black paint on the plate… AND THE FUCKING CUBS-PIRATE GAME IS ON.


No matter, this is Braves County.  There’s about 12 tv’s in here, so surely one will have the good guys bustin’ up on those dirty, no-good Brewers. Nope. Womens NIT and FOX News. I down a 22 Brewtus (didn’t want to be rude) as I form my letter in my head to the Applebee’s upper brass; and I’m gone like a Saturday night rail of Peruvian marching powder in front of Dan Uggla at Peachtree Tavern.

I’ve got to find some real American cuisine, none of anything off the ‘Bee’s 14 page menu of sissy boy high filutin salads and apps. I need some salt of the earth type folks. Where would a real champion go? Someone who could sit in a tree all day in camo with a high powered rifle and wait for a big ass buck to slowly graze by and kill it with his own hands that were holding a high powered rifle with supersonic scope…

“Hi! Welcome to HOOTERS!”

Home, gentlemen. I pony right up to the bar and I swear to Kenny Chesney, they were all over me! So many babes coming over, genuinely excited about me being there at 2:30 on a Monday afternoon. I felt like Larry Wayne Jones Jr himself.


Just as that baller ass song from my senior year comes on Hooters Radio, “Hey now, you’re an All-Star..”, A damn sorry ol’ Brewer ropes a double into the left field corner to take the lead, 2-0 Bad Guys. But that’s all right, I got Budweiser Light, Taylor, and Lisa soothing my pain. “How have you been, baby? You working hard?”, as she gazes into my baby blues. I’m being serious, this chick is into me.

Just then, sensing the competition for my boss player affection, ol’ Lisa touches my knee, “Are you tired, you look stressed, honey”. Well shit, Earth to Lisa, the Cobb County Clobbers are down 2 runs to some ‘tard team in lard country. But she doesn’t know, she’s just concerned over her new #1 guy. And I’m not gonna lie, it felt good. She’s got me feeling like I’m munching a cheeseburger with cheese in Margaritaville. And I like mine with lettuce and two cute tomatoes fighting for my love. And boner.

A couple more Diet Budweisers and I realize I’m in fact not in Margaritaville- these mugs are apparently 24 ounces and I’m actually just drunk at a Hooters Cumberland Mall location. Time to make my move on one of these sirens and seal the deal. I’m Chipper Jones, we’re at Shea Stadium, and these lil’ shorties are hanging curves…

SON OF A MOTHER F WORD. Turns out… These chicks HAVE BOYFRIENDS. Could’ve been more useful before I left a 78% tip and bought $286 in Cumberland Hooters merch. What the fuck am I gonna do with 6 car tags and 5 oversized B.U.M. sweat shirts.

And out the door away from these gold diggers disguised in hoochie pants and what do I spy? Just over the yonder glistening in the afternoon sun. Home.

“Hi! Welcome to Tilted Kilt!”

It’s an authentic Irish Public House with pale young ladies in traditional school girl outfits. It’s culture, and Cobb is damn swimming in it. Most eateries on Cobb P-K-Y used to be a former Bennigan’s, Pizza Hut, Tire Depot, or future Tire Depot. But not The Tilt, this place is pure class. I’m not sure, but I think it was flown in piece by piece from the homeland. At least that’s what I’m telling everyone who sits beside me.


I’m feeling good, got a couple Kickin’ Chickens (Wild Turkey and Coke) in my belly, got my team on tube with the sound up, talkin Old Navy chinos and cargos with my new boys around me… and one of the Bravos grounds into an out. That’s ok, plenty of ballgame left. The idiot Brewers seem pretty excited about a routine grounder…

JESUS H. WAR ON CHRISTMAS… That was the last out of the game. Braves lost.

Fuck Tilted Muffin Tops- I’m outta here. I need to unwind. Need to relax. Need to go see my girls Lisa and.. nope. Bad idea. I kinda burnt that bridge after the bartender wouldn’t hand them the phone when I called up there to give them a second chance. I need a vacation from this ball season. Whats that glowing in the distance? How about a quick trip to say… Italy. Or as I call it, My vacation home.

“Hi, welcome to Olive Garden!”

Ahh, It’s so nice to unwind with some O.G. house grapes in my wine glass after a grueling  game. Just then and “urban” couple from Douglasville chowing down on unlimited salad and extra gluten sticks try to make chit chat, “You must think we on a diet…”


I just can’t deal with the bridge and tunnel crowd right now. Not while I’m on vacay. Especially when the guy had a Washington Nationals on IN BRAVES COUNTY. I need a vacay from this vacay. Some far off land of mystique and fish tanks. Across the Parkway, almost getting murdered by an SUV racecar sponsored by Salt Life and a stick figure family, but I made it. Bang a gong, brother, I’m home. Between a Super Nails and Title Max, it’s a spiritual place of another world…

“Hiy! Howr many? You here fo pick up??”

It’s Lee’s Golden Budda Chinese Restaurant #7. Cobb has so much culture. Theres no place like this on the earth. Lee’s Golden Budda Chinese Restaurant #1 isn’t like it. Lee’s Golden Budda Chinese Restaurant #2 isn’t like it. Lee’s Golden Budda Chinese Restaurant #3 isn’t like it….

I drink half of some beer with a giant cat or turtle or ferret on it and I’m done. Too much culture. Too many heart breaks. And I’m too far from home

That cat/turtle ferret beer’s oriental powers must be kicking in because all of a sudden  I’m on the side of the highway taking a selfie with a Down’s Syndrome sign spinning Uncle Sam who’s trying to get me to sext the Lord and Savior.


I’ve gotta get home, kick my dog, and send some passive aggressive texts to girls. No worries, I’m in Cobb County, the center of the free commy hatin world. I’ll just hop on some sort of futuristic train that moves masses of people around the city…. Like a MARTA or something…


-J. WInter


Steamhouse Lounge’s 2014 Oysterfest

Listen here, folks. Steamhouse Lounge’s Oysterfest is this weekend and by God, you need to be there. Don’t like oysters? You do now. Don’t like hanging out with 8k cool people? The library is closed. Don’t like Budweiser and Jagermeister? Whatever. Here are some facts about this bash:
  • This is the 27th year for Oysterfest. Your mom went in 1981 and CRUSHED IT!
  • Oysters are cheap and plentiful. Eat up.
  • The Lobster bisque is f*ck!ng amazing.
  • The stage is larger than the Grand Canyon and hosts plenty of live music.
  • We almost broke the balcony on the hotel across the street 4 years ago.
  • Saturday is 21 and up so stay home high school nerds.
  • Sunday is 12 and up so stay home 1st grade nerds.
  • Live bands from 11:30 – 7 Saturday. Arrive early & start drinking immediately.
  • Buy a 2 day ticket for $20 or a Saturday ticket by itself for $20. Do the math.
  • There will be no bobsled at this event.
  • Buy tickets online because it will sell out and you will look like a loser on the other side of the fence trying to con your friend into asking his friend if that friend knows the guy that knows the guy who is throwing the festival who can let you in free.

 There you go people. I can’t wait to see you there along with my Tinder dates. Who? -Tom

The Book of Mormon Review By Jon Stennis


Tonight I saw The Book of Mormon alongside the lady with whom I share a bed. Besides being balls cold with a wind chill factor of “let me peel your face with a razor knife,” it was a calm evening; the bums were meandering about reassuring patrons they made the right decision not to live anywhere near downtown Atlanta.

Rest assured there will be no spoilers; I will simply focus on the crowd and the hype surrounding this musical. Evidently, this is the “greatest musical of all time” and tickets for the Broadway showing are more sought after than the cure for AIDS. That in mind, I went to this EXTREMELY Off Broadway showing expecting to leave exhausted from laughing.

Not the case.

Sure, there were funny parts and some shocking lines, but ultimately this show appealed more to a crowd that finds the Big Bang Theory or Two Broke Girls amusing (any TV show with a laugh track and forced humor sucks, no matter what the ratings). I will admit that I was very entertained by the way they ripped the Mormon religion a new b-hole. (I did some research and there are some really silly beliefs with those bike pedaling bastards).

The crowd was more upper-middle class than I expected – a shit ton of blazers and mock turtlenecks. I’m sure a few of these folks had a seen a musical or two in their day, but I highly doubt they’d seen an episode of South Park to really prepare for what their “cultured” ears were about to hear. First off, I was seated behind a large woman in a hat. When I say large I don’t mean tall I mean wide – she had one of those secretary butts that had expanded in her office chair over the years like poured pancake batter.  Her size really wasn’t an issue; it was her “JJ from Good Times” hat that sat view obstructively atop her wispy disheveled old lady hair. After spending the entire first half defying physics with the way I had to bend my neck, she did slothfully turn around and asked if her hat was a distraction. Since I am only brave behind a computer screen or my windshield I said it was “no problem” but she removed it anyway.

I immediately missed the hat.

Upon removal I found the hat’s true purpose: to hold down a plethora of stringy grey and white hairs. With these strands of hair standing at full attention my view was as clear as looking through wax paper. Other than a need for Lasik and years of chiropractic work, the show went on without a hitch.

So in summary, is The Book of Mormon worth seeing? If you can get tickets, yes. If not, don’t sweat getting on the five-year waiting list.

Is it the funniest show ever? It was entertaining based off of the crowd’s reaction to hearing the word “Fuck” in a musical, but after the shock value wore off, so did the laughs.

What do you think happened to the lady in the hat? I can only speculate, but after spending 12 minutes freeing herself from the seat I hope she was scalped by Native Americans and her pelt traded for rice and sugar.


Do Not Look…

…at these Pictures!

Twas the night before New Year’s Day, and all through the house…EVERYONE WENT BANANAS, apparently. So much for a refined, formal affair with A Social Mess for New Year’s Eve. My God, what is wrong with you people? If you are not in any of these pictures then you are safe (and need to quit going to lame NYE parties). Sure you get to wear your favorite Tommy Hilfiger tie and Kenneth Cole shoes at other parties but we were half naked and terribly intoxicated. Thanks to Bud Light, Pinnacle Vodka & Jagermeister! We got dumber, wore bizarre costumes and I got married (to Keri and I’m sure her boyfriend is going to dislike these photos). So it goes, so it goes.

Email us your favorite story from the party and you might win $100 cash just so we can hear about other shenanigans that ensued. We will also add it to our next newsletter and make you celebrity famous.

Speaking of celebrity famous, if any of you fools can spell and write, we are looking for interesting blog articles for the Social Mess website. Let us know fool! You will get exposure and free stuff.


1 2 3