Let’s get something straight, fellow St. Petersburgers, while at some point in its twenty-four year history, El Cap might have had the best burgers this side of Perry, at this precise moment in time, however, the food there kind of blows. Maybe that’s a little strong. Let’s just say that it’s eminently unremarkable. It’s cheap, and you pretty much get what you pay for. If you read the user reviews of the El Cap you’ll see a lot of five-star theatrics from people who have probably been eating there for twenty-four years and well, maybe Poli-grip is interfering with their ability to taste anything but bits of grit with a mild spearmint flavor.

Of course, on the other end of things there are all the incensed yuppies who expected the best goddamn burgers on the planet and well, suffice it to say they’re not setting foot in that place again. I love people who end their reviews of restaurants that way. Is there something about having kids and wearing Tevas that gives you a delusionally amplified impression of the actual socioeconomic impact of your opinion and the $15 with which you so decorously parted?

Here’s the other thing about El Cap. It has rules - the kind of rules that local “institutions” earned by having something that a lot of people must have wanted at some point. Rules that seem to say things like “Booster seats? No, we don’t have them, and fuck you for asking.” Also among those rules is that they don’t split checks. It’s on the menu, and in case you’re a little slow, the server will be happy to tell your lazy ass that when you ask.

That’s usually enough for most people. Yeah, I know; arithmetic’s a bitch. It apparently wasn’t enough for yuppie dad #37. So, yeah, this dick’s for you, timmy. I had a perfectly mediocre burger ruined by this dude literally throwing a fit when he was told they wouldn’t split the check between his and the other breeder yuppies he came with. This guy is demanding to see the manager. Who does that? Your whole meal is gonna cost $20 for eight people and you’re demanding to see the manager because you’re too lazy to divide your own check? The server told him the only way that was going to happen was if the families sat at separate tables, which they did, of course, just long enough to be able to put in two separate orders, then they promptly reconvened at table A. Nice job, buddy. It’s you and your khaki shorts against the world.

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Greetings from sunny Florida! Now that you’re retired, and, you know, out of jail and stuff, we would like to extend a warm and mostly sincere invitation for you to enjoy your retirement here in fabulous St. Pete. As you may know, Florida has become a mecca for retirees, offering wonderful fare like shuffle board, early bird specials and those electric scooters at Publix. This is just a sampling of the bounty you will find awaiting you here.

If you fear boredom in your retired years, we’ve got that covered as well. Leisure activities of all sort abound, and you may even find that you will desire to rejoin the workforce as one of the many silver-haired army of Wal Mart greeters. Keep in mind you can’t kill anyone, though, you just need to say hello and ensure they are capable of shuffling their way to the nearest electric scooting vehicle (yes, Wal Mart has these too!).

Lastly, and certainly we are not advocating this, but instead providing all details and information as it pertains to your decision, there are a TON of people you could kill. Because of the abundance of other retirees, you would certainly find yourself up to your eyeballs in potential clients. Even a slight shift in your original mission statement would yield yet more potential clients in the form of poor emo kids looking for a way out of this dark and dismal life - beautiful frailty, trapped in the suffocating carcass of mortality, or something like that.

We hope that this has been an enticing proposal, and please contact us when you have made your decision. We look forward to putting together the welcoming committee and will be contacting the city shortly to arrange a ticker tape parade in your honor.

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Shep’s Deli. Seriously kick ass. If you are looking to lighten your wallet substantially in exchange for a really fine beer, or better yet 6 or more of them, Shep’s is the place. I dropped in last night and picked up a variety of beers from Avery, which as usual with selections from Shep’s, were kick ass.

The funny thing is that they have a deli - in fact, they are called a deli. And the one thing I’ve never gotten from Shep’s? Anything from the deli. If you’ve eaten there, leave a comment and let me know how it is.

Next time you drop by Shep’s (located at 2001 4th Street N, pretty much the corner of 22nd Ave and 4th St), take a good look at the counter where you pay. Years and years of patronage have worn deep into the woodgrain formica counter top. Ah, the stories that formica could tell.

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Land O’ Lakes is famous for lots of things. Like, you know… uh, being in Pasco. Oh, and the butter. Wait, no, the butter is from Minnesota. Um, let’s see. Oh, actually, fun fact:

Median household income in St. Petersburg: $34,597
Median household income in Land O’ Lakes: $56,789

Man, they’re living it the fuck up in the Land, making us ‘burgers look like a bunch of bums. Well, they recently got one more reason to make us look bad: Alien Apex Resort. Well, technically the founder of Alien Apex Resort, Bryan Temmer. The actual Alien Apex Resort will be built in Roswell, NM. Tell us more, internet:

Alien Apex Resort, Inc., located in the legendary city of Roswell, New Mexico, will be a multi-sensory theme park celebrating the famous UFO incident of 1947. The park will showcase the worlds first alien abduction experience. “This won’t just be a theme park ride”, says Bryan Temmer, Founder and President of Alien Apex Resort, Inc., “…you will actually believe you have been abducted by aliens.”

Please, please, PLEASE tell me that includes the anal probe part of it. Because, really, how the hell can you claim to have an authentic alien abduction experience without a seriously sore bunghole to show for it? Our buddy Bryan had this gem of a quote when he talked to RoadsideAmerica.com:

Bryan, however, told us of one ride, “Alien Abduction,” which would be a roller coaster in which you would “move across the plains of the Midwest in your house,” then be “taken into an alien space ship,” and then “some things that are still proprietary” would happen. When we pressed him for details, Bryan said that “there definitely will be some probes coming at you.”

Lots of folks have already covered this, in fact I’m a little surprised at how many people. But to me the real story is this: Who the fuck is Bryan Temmer? Seriously. I searched all over trying to figure out what this guy’s background was, where he came from originally, what he does for a living, what makes him think he needs to build a theme park about aliens diddling your asshole, the standard stuff. I came up with nothing. If you’ve got any insight into the Life of Bryan, please, comment. And hell, if you know him, have him call my agent, we’ll do lunch and talk details.

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Raise your hand if you remember the Trabant?  I see.  Well, maybe I’m the only one here who was smuggled over the Berlin Wall in a basket full of knockwurst and porn (mmmm, porn and sausage).  You’d think there would be more of us.  Anyway, the Trabant was like the only car you could get in communist East Germany.  Two cylinders.  Dope.  So dope, in fact, that when the wall came down, a significant number of East Germans just drove their Trabants up to it and left them there.  What does this have to do with my alley?  Not much, but it’s the closest thing to communism and parking I could think of.

So, here’s the deal.  I realize St. Pete seems to have its own set of parking restrictions - or a creative lack thereof.  Being able to park pointed against traffic is just the beginning.  It’s almost like asshole parking maneuvers are some form of artistic expression around here.  That dude with the monster truck (bumper nuts optional) who somehow manages to simultaneously park on the grass and block three handicapped spaces might as well put a sign out that says, “fuck yeah I parked like that!”

Somewhere not so far along the questionable parking spectrum are most of my neighbors, all of whom park in the alley next to my building.  Why?  Because they are lazy, and can’t be bothered to find street parking.  Is it against the law?  Probably.  Does it block a fire lane?  More or less.  Does it sound like the Indy 500 at 6am when that chick with the butterfly tramp stamp fires up her Neon with the sport exhaust?  Hell yeah it does.

This annoys me, but that kind of annoyance is a pretty standard feature of living in the world with other people.  I play video games.  I feel better.  Well, that’s my way of dealing with it, anyway.  You could deal with it like another of my neighbors who decided the other night to come out screaming.  His argument amounts to what I guess is kind of like a civic sour grapes.  I’m pretty sure he was pissed because he didn’t have the balls to park in the alley himself.  And well, the fact that everyone else does it must remind him of how much of a tool he is.  Actually, I think I’m giving the guy a little too much credit here.  I’m pretty sure he got frustrated when his meth lab broke down and decided to take it out on the neighbors.  After all, he kept screaming that the people parking in the alley were all communists.  Random, really.  You’d think that people on crank could at least keep up with world politics enough to have updated their paranoid conspiracies a little.  Oh well.

Generally speaking, if you’re ready to bypass normal conversation and yell at your neighbors about parking, it probably has more to do with your own self loathing than your automotive hang ups.  Maybe just stay inside and punch yourself in the nuts next time, okay, champ?  Besides, you’re not going to win when you’re trying to take away people’s right not to have to walk thirty yards out of their way.  The Big Macs might get cold, dude.

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Haha, man, I hope that never stops being funny. Susan Stanton’s balls. We should start a “Save Susan’s Balls” campaign. Hmm, that’s a damn fine idea, I’ll have to remember that.

We all know tampabay.com is a complete piece of shit and they, along with all local media outlets, have made a circus out of Susan’s balls. When I ran across a “breaking news” story today about it I figured they were up to their horseshit again. But, alas, it appears to be a story about being a city manager. More specifically about Susan and her balls being Sarasota city manager. Wow, it even contains facts about what Susan would do as city manager. Nice work, tampabay.com! This is ALMOST news. Not quite breaking news, but a good start. Also, bonus “oh my GAWD that is soooo a dude” image below.

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It looks like all the granola bars and D batteries you stocked up on for hurricane season were a waste of effort. Floridians have Governor Crist to thank for ending the threat of hurricanes by enlisting a very powerful ally in the War on High Winds and Heavy Rain. Not just any ally, but a guy who we know can make a flood happen when he’s in the mood.

That’s right: God.

While vacationing in Jerusalem today, our governor slipped a note to God into the Western Wall. This, apparently, will get it delivered straight to the top of the Big Man’s desk. He can’t ignore that.

You want art? We got art.

“Thank you so much for all you have done for us. Please protect our Florida from storms and other difficulties. Amen.”

Good for us! I feel a little bad for other states on the Gulf Coast who will no doubt be pummeled with tropical terror in our stead, but surely they can start a prayer tree to fight it off.

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So, like, the weather dude killed himself. Sure, this is old news; it happened back in April. I was a little shocked; I can admit that. I liked John Winter. First of all, he had a badass name. Like, that’s the sort of name that lets you get away with wearing cable-knit sweaters and having an eye patch. Well, maybe that’s a bit much, but at the very least, that name gave a lot of people with middling IQs the opportunity to feel clever for recognizing the irony of having a weather person in Florida named Winter. I suppose for serious trailer cred you could have made a joke about everybody’s favorite albino guitar legend having fallen upon hard times, but I digress.

I really liked the guy because you could tell he was a smartass. Hell, he might have even read a book or two. What the press is referring to as his penchant for “zingers” was more along the lines of biting sarcasm, and it made us happy to see Bob Hite in the morning with that confused look on his face that said, “Wait, is he giving me shit? Brain . . . can’t . . . process . . . subtlety.”

Anyway, as we know all too well, *sniffle* the dark side of having half a brain is often depression, of which Winter appears to have had a personal and family history. I am happy to see that the Tampa Bay Times has taken the high and useful road on this one and chosen to use it as an opportunity to inform the general public about signs and consequences of depression. Wait, who are we kidding? Of course they didn’t. Cover Story: “He died of SHAME.” We really love how “shame” is in big, red letters with - seriously, kudos to the graphics kids on this one, team - the big letter A positioned right in the middle of his chest. You know, “A” is for adultery. Yes, an affair. A horrible secret. The intrigue. The turmoil. The light dusting of Christian moral judgment. Are you fucking kidding me? The man didn’t die of shame; he died because he was depressed. He made a mistake, and, as depressed people do, he amplified that mistake in his mind into something irrevocable and catastrophic.

Ugh, so you know, in the interest of journalistic decency. We here at the Splog figured at least we could generate something useful out of this. Know what this is?

211

That’s the number you can call in the Tampa/Pinellas area if you’re feeling emo or find yourself under the ridiculous assumption that whatever you’ve done is worth killing yourself over. Now buck up, little campers.

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Another gem from St. Pete for Peace. There is something so endearing about amateur design work. Untethered from the constraints of design principles, the would be designer’s impulses flourish in Microsoft Paint and a few minutes later they’ve created a masterpiece. Well, at least in their eyes.

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With camera phones and easy data transfer we are finally enjoying the fruits of our collective labor in the form of brilliant citizen journalism. One good place to start finding said brilliance is at the tbt* community galleries. Look at these gems we found today.

I bet her mom is so proud, certainly the two dudes cheering her on are.

OK, not quite journalism, but damn intriguing just the same.

This one is just a bonus. Or, bone us… haha. Wait, that isn’t funny. Dammit.

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Let me be the first to say that starting, and maintaining, a magazine is not an easy task. However, starting a SHITTY magazine really just takes money, right?

This will undoubtedly become a series, so let’s begin with CITILIFE. Um, clever, citi… I get it. Although, I doubt you were being clever based on the number of grammatical and punctuation errors in a given issue of your magazine. You actually probably thought that was how city was spelled. No matter, let’s check out what your media kit says about you (oh, and this is unedited, so check out the errors in their official shit as well - fact check me here):

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