WE HAVE MOVED

We have moved to our new site, which will continue to be under construction. It is functioning enough now, however. So for all your Classy needs, please forward your attention to our new site from now on.


The Classy Gentlemen

Hang in there with us while we work out the kinks.

The Effects of Alcohol

As I lay in bed today for a quick 20 hours, taking intermittent breaks to crawl to the bathroom and puke up the blueberry pancakes I tried to scarf down in a Busch-league attempt to neutralize my hangover, I came to a realization. I am a pussy. Now, finally out of bed after my initial wake-up 14 hours ago, I have the McDonald’s Angus Bacon and Cheese fueled mental capacity to actually put together a coherent thought, not to mention the ability to move more than 3 feet from where I was laying. During my crippled, comatose and cadaverous experience in my bed, however, something came to me. This is the result of that revelation. Without further ado, I present to you:

The Effects of Alcohol Over-Indulgence on Your Friends and Yourself

Everyone reacts differently to different things in life - whether it is stress, drugs, an unfortunate morning wake-up to a person double your weight – and alcohol is no different. After four years of liver-failing collegiate inebriation, I have witnessed the effects of alcohol on people from every walk of life. Through rigorous double-blind studies and tests, I have discovered that even if you take 3 people with the exact same tolerance for alcohol, at the end of the night they will all fall into different hooch-induced categories of crapulence. In this segment, I will attempt to discuss a few of these different divisions. Remember, this list is not exhaustive, but will touch briefly on some of the more well-known members of friend circles.

1. The Night-Puker

The Night-Puker is hard to peg as far as whether or not they are a “good drinker.” Capable of dominating drink after drink like a freshmen sorority girl, one would be hard-pressed to label them as a one beer-queer – if it weren’t for the fact that somewhere during the course of the night they will inevitably be found pulling the trigger behind the bushes of the local pizza place. Not all Night-Pukers are so lucky, however. Occasionally hit by an inability to contain said vomit, the NP has the capability to unleash the technicolor yawn without a moments notice – and often on the bar-top, on the street, or on a passerby.

2. The Hangover Queen

A description I unfortunately have heard quite a few times regarding myself, the Hangover Queen is one whose day-after fag-fest far outweighs whatever epic events occurred the night before. Usually seen writhing in agony on a couch the day after for up to 24 hours and, the HQ’s capabilities include up to an inch shift in either direction and the ability to ask if you can “please get me some food dude, I’m dying.” Regardless of whether or not you get him or her food, whatever may or may not be in his stomach will be expelled into a trashcan within the next 4 minutes.

3. The Bed-Wetter

Notorious for their elegantly-stained khaki pants or cargo shorts, the Bed-Wetter can never make it till dawn without emptying the contents of their bladder. Surprisingly calm for having slept 10 hours in their own urine, the BW usually will be the first to make fun of themselves for their reversion to their days as a 7 year old. Only a problem when they pass out next to someone else, on the couch or on a bed, the situation is minimal compared to those who pass deuces in their sleep.

4. The Rolling Blackout

Somehow always completely blacked out at any event involving alcohol, the RB is nothing if not a liability. Known for their glazed-over eyes and incapacity to walk a straight line, the Rolling Blackout gets their name for their talent to have a single beer and be completely blacked out, yet almost fully functional. While others are face down in the dirt, the toilet or an overweight member of the opposite sex, the RB will continue to drink and pick fights with people twice their size, inevitably resulting in your ass getting beat. Its okay that your RB friend didn’t get punched and you are missing two teeth – you’re friends – and you can laugh about it now.

5. The Pre-Game Savant

One of the last ones I will touch on – the Pre-Game Savant is the opposite of the Rolling Blackout. While the RB continues to operate and enjoy the night in the shell of his body although he has already mentally checked out, the PGS has called it a night before you ever even got out to the bar. Recognized for their excitement for this night for the past few weeks, the PGS never makes it past the pre-game. While everyone else is wrapping it all up and getting ready to head out, the PGS will be unconscious on the couch, unfazed by the Bose speaker system pumping bass out at volumes that make human ears bleed.


-E

GentILLman Introductory Post

The Classy Gentleman's Blog, that’s right just say it to yourself:

The Classy Gentleman's Blog. Sounds good doesn't it? Exactly what I was thinking, too, when I was offered a seat at the round table of Classy Justice. I go under many a moniker, but GenILLman should do. A Gentle, yet ILL man who wishes for all those classy to attain and remain that way by whatever means necessary. Speaking of those means, I will open up with this little anecdote of mine about the means by which one must go to attain “beverage” regardless of one’s financial situation.

In recent months by a chance of fate, a friend of mine won a free happy hour at a reputable drinking establishment in Philadelphia. This is the type of high-class, dress up, collar popped preppy affair which typically is not my scene, but one hour of free drinks were calling and as any gent would do, I answered the sounds of the feasting horn. Now, the scene was what I would call "Mostly" open bar - and offers you the ability to drink endlessly any type of drink so long as it is cheap and likely aged less than 15 days. Sorry, no goose and juice for you, but this situation is your basic buffet of beer, wine, and hard liquor. The best part about this bar besides the hour of drunken madness is the fact that when you arrive, you sign your name and are thrown into a raffle to win another happy hour. What are the chances right?

Well as a classy gentleman would do from time to time, he finds a means to exploit these free drinks and spread them among the classy. Especially during these hard economic times when a man finds the simpler things in life like Beer, Cigarettes, SNUS, Blunts, Liquor, etc. to cost him an arm and a leg. Well, a week after the delicious bucket of free drinks was bestowed upon me, I got a call from a hottie telling me that I had won a free happy hour too. After a week or two of bringing friends to the location, we pretty much have every Thursday and Friday night from 9-11 pm locked up on free drinks and downright debauchery - which goes to show that regardless how broke the classy gentleman finds himself to be, he will always find a drink to help him through.

-A GentILLman

An Age of Change

For those of you who don’t know, The Classy Gentlemen is the brain-child of a collection of men. Men who day in and day out exhaust the bandwidth of countless websites such as ESPN.com, NFL.com and People of Walmart while at work, consequently destroying their employer’s bottom lines - with the sole purpose of getting a few minutes of entertainment. After too long of a time in the “real world,” we realized that the interesting shit we were looking for simply wasn’t always there. When it was there, we exhausted an entire website within a half-hour only to find ourselves waiting for its owner to post something new every three weeks. Beaten, battered, and repeatedly bitched at by our hooker co-worker - despite the fact that we were told that we could listen to the radio at a reasonable volume from nine to eleven - we became fed up.

Thus was born The Classy Gentlemen’s Blog. We were so young – naïve, if you will – during its inception a long, arduous two weeks ago, that we had no idea what was about to happen. We actually enjoyed writing it. Since all the other shit out there was terrible, and we could only realistically read Perez Hilton on the off-chance that he would post another nude photo of some barely legal celebrity who texted her pics to the wrong boyfriend, we kept it up. However, with the recent successes and positive feedback we have received, we have decided to lift double-secret probation from ourselves and register our own domain name. It’s not quite ready yet, but when all is said and done, thegentlemensblog.com will be our new home - complete with a lot more interesting shit - since the most advanced tools we have at our disposal on this site involve the ability to italicize and bold words. Not that we haven’t enjoyed our time on here, but, all good things must come to an end. So we look forward to offending you in the near future, with a lot more pictures, slurs, and skull duggery than ever before. Until then, we will keep the posts rolling as usual.

-E

Shitty Drum Kits

Okay, so here is something all of you can relate to -- my hatred for playing on a shitty drum kit! This is me fucking ranting, because that's the purpose this blog serves to me... to rant about shit I fucking hate... and today, I hate shitty drum kits. Allow me to elaborate...

I have a pretty nice drum kit. It's not top-of-the-line... but, I take care of it. I keep it tuned; cymbals sounding good; drum heads in good condition; etc etc. I use this drum kit all the time. Every show. However, last night, my band had partaken in a classic, amateur-hour battle of the fucking bands. Which, to the non-musicians out there, means -- I'm a promoter, and I want all the money... fuck the bands. The only reason we did it was because the local radio station out here sponsored it, and there was going to be a bunch of people. Unfortunately, they wanted me to use the house drum kit. Over the phone, the promoter made it sound like it was some real nice kit with all kinds of bells and whistles. When I got there, I almost threw up. Literally, I could have take garbage cans and made them sound better. The kick drum head was dinged up, and I said to myself, "I'm going to kick right through that!" Sure enough, the first band that played kicked through it. You know how these pro's fixed it? FUCKING DUCT TAPE. Yeah, what kind of amateur hour bullshit is that! It took everything in my power not to completely blow up the kit during our set. /end rant.

- Sir John

To Catch a Predator: The funniest show on TV

So I just got done watching 6 hours of MSNBC and my stomach hurts from laughing. The culprit for my ab muscles getting tighter and even better looking; the cast, and especially Host Jesus Hanson, of "To Catch a Predator".

To briefly describe to anyone who has not seen the hilarity that is "To catch a predator", it is basically a sting operation for low life losers on the internet trying to rape the innocence out of young boys/girls. While that description does not sound funny (and that kind of shit isn't), the way in which the show is set up is fucking phenomenal.

The reason this show is so god damn funny is that Chris Hanson (the host and innocent savior, aka Jesus to me) makes the interaction between the bumbling, hillbilly idiots, that so often find themselves on this show, extremely awkward and funny. "Why don't you have a seat", and "What made you come here today" are two questions I can no longer hear without immediately doubling over in laughter. If you spend just ten minutes witnessing the ridiculous excuses these weirdos try to give, you will be instantly hooked. I guarantee it. Do yourself a favor. The next time you are surfing the channels on your all too comfortable couch and you see MSNBC running a "To Catch a Predator" marathon, snuggle in tight and get some popcorn.

So when all of you go out this friday night and you are drinking merrily to having sex with women who are of age, raise a glass to the best cockblocker of all time; CHRIS HANSON!!!!!!

-Drexel

Early System Video Games: The Golden Age of Gaming

I’m sure at some point in all of our meaningless existences we have had that friend who refuses to upgrade to a new game console. They are the ones in college playing Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out (before everyone got all up in arms about domestic abuse and the game was simply changed to Punch-Out, which, by the way, is lame as shit – who the fuck is Mr. Dream anyway) and Tecmo Super Bowl on regular Nintendo - or even advancing to GoldenEye on the N64. By the way, all of you who play ‘golden gun only’ are retarded, and I stick by that. Everyone knows the real way to play is one of these three: Power-Weapons, Automatics or Slappers Only. That’s it. Regardless, we have all had these friends and have always questioned their motives. Why won’t they buy the new Xbox/Ps3 Mega-ultra-epic-osity 3000 2k50? Are they hippies, communists? Poor? No ever truly knew, since the stench of bong-water emanating from their apartment at all times kept us from getting too close. Recently I have been thinking, however; perhaps we were the ones wrong all along.

I am not sitting here saying I don’t enjoy the new video game consoles and the mind-fucking 8-trillion p resolution. Quite the contrary. Somewhere along the way, however, we lose what truly makes a good video game. Gone are the days of raping and pillaging 1-pixel players with Bo Jackson on the way to a touchdown; no longer are we hitting that weird skull/rock thing in the middle of the dirt path on California Games and falling off our bike, writing in 1-D agony. Now, we are too busy killing little girls to harvest their life force in order to buy upgrades to our biotic weapons in utopian underwater worlds. I don’t even sniff 1,000 calories in food intake in a day because I am too busy attempting to save the entire human race by harvesting minerals from planets light years away to upgrade my fucking ship’s armor so I can go through the Omega 4 Relay – where no ship has ever returned from, by the way, assholes. Don’t know what I am referring to? Who cares. At this point I hardly know myself, but that isn’t the point. That shit is a lot more complex than falling off a fucking bike. The obvious question, then, is what was lost in the translation?

Somewhere in the Dolby 15.6 digital surround sound and the 17-D viewing-compatible Sony 1800” paper-thin holo-TV, these games are missing something. What it is, I don’t think we will ever know. What I do know, however, is that games such as Space Quest, The Incredible Machine, Escape from Monkey Island, Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out, GoldenEye, California Games, Myst, Riven (the list goes on and on) all have something in common that games today seem to be lacking: a huge, hulking, girthy, swollen mammoth of a nut sack. A nut sack that wasn’t afraid to tea bag you whilst you slept, only to have you awaken from a night terror, sweating and weeping. A nut sack that was no-frills - just pure, hairy, varicose content. A nut sack that stared you down, right in the eyes, contorted and twisted just enough as if to say, “Hey. Wake up. I’m fucking ready to be played.”

-E

Special thanks to Hallie for putting the "tea-bagged-goodness" over digital Tyson's grill; and also anonymous - who called me a "tardcake" in the comments section below - for helping me with the title.