One Late Afternoon At The GWAR Bar

After finding myself in downtown Richmond one afternoon, it was high time I paid my respects to a fine eating establishment that I have only heard about in passing to this point. Word of mouth only travels so far on social media this little pub was something I need to see in person.

The GWAR Bar was smaller than I expected it to be but surprisingly cozy. I missed the place as I was driving by it the first time despite it being the lone business on the corner.

I stood out from the small crowd that was there but not how I would have expected to. Mainly by my curious absence of body piercings and visible tattoos. No matter, I was going for vittles anyway.

The server was very helpful when I walked in. Asking if I wanted a table or to sit at the bar. Her tattoos looked depressed when I asked to sit at the bar.

 Not having much by way of funds or time, a small mean of wings—or ‘wangs’ as they called them—and a Coke would have to suffice. BBQ worked for me. And when they were served, they gave me real wings. Not the chopped up, sectioned out wings that most establishments offer.

So I had to pull them apart and gnaw the meat off down to the bone. The sauce complimented the wangs well and coated enough you couldn’t help but get your fingers coated with it. With the combination of tearing the wings apart and the red bbq sauce covering you fingers, it somehow made the meal feel that much more metal.

I asked where the restroom was when I finished but was told I will need to get a Slayer tattoo if I needed to use it. Lucky for me, there was a resident tattooist in the corner. I asked where he learned his craft and he replied, “Leavenworth”. Not having heard of that but assuming he knew that I knew what I was talking about, I felt safe getting the ink done. Besides, my bladder was on the point of bursting.

A tattoo that said, “*MEGADEATH*” circling my navel and an empty bladder later, I was ready to pay my bill.

It was a good thing I only had to urinate because the price for toilet paper was a Prince Albert. Whatever that is. I can only imagine that it wouldn’t be fun after seeing the needle they used.

I would go again. Just make sure to have my ink ready to go and empty the bowels before I leave the house.

So This Happened Today.

Gov. Scott Walker dropped his Presidential bid today.  

Yet Lindsey Graham is still in the race.  I see Lindsey talking but I hear Maverick's voice speaking.

PSA For Parents!

Great news. Coastal Plains was given some great information from the state government. Someone had to work on the weekend to give us this info. As always, we should never fear our children going to school. We have a very competent group that Barney oversees. What?! They spent about $6M on the weekend to bring us this super informative highlight. For all those with kids in school, we need to all be super vigilant.

This is a list of government approved images of what is and is NOT dangerous.






Clock - Don't worry, analog is still a viable method of time telling in 149 countries. Please do not alert authorities.

 
Bomb. Shadows hide demons. If a student refers to "checking the sundial", she is probably a terrorist.


Neo-proto-post-Mayan BOMB. This is a device known to the FBI and the CIA to trigger a world wide cataclysm when it hits 2012. Be vigilant, our cycle will end again in about 3000 years. There is no need to not be overly careful.

 
Obviously a bomb. Let's not joke around.


This is a digital clock used for many projects throughout the engineering world


This is also a clock made by someone with a tinfoil hat. It tells time one second behind "normal time". This is how Scotty stayed alive inside of a transporter for a long time.

 
This is a shitty science project that made a kid famous because his father wanted to make a point about bombs and kids in Texas. It does tell time. His dad is a huge cocksucker.

So, be safe! Be aware! You never know!

-Lex's clock is the seasons of salmon swimming in to your mom's chacha.

The Unease of Bicycle Only Paths In Richmond

I spent many years in the New England area and was put in to some very uncomfortable scenarios when I tried to move my boat from port to port over land. Bicyclists.

Bicyclists are, by all State and Federal law, supposed to follow the same rules as motorcycles and motor vehicles. Unfortunately, their tight spandex and superiority complexes make it hard to handle. One only needs to try to drive to work to experience a dipshit blowing a red light and switching lanes on a road.

Richmond is hosting a wonderful bike racing event this week. We already started off strong for the city: Let's try to steal fucking bikes!

Roads are closed. People are snooty. Lots of folks who wanted to go out to eat need to walk a few blocks before they can get fat on racist southern food.

Then again, deal. This is the new age. As the UCI (Union Cycliste Internationale) states, “It’s like our international coming out party". The Washington Post, known as a non-politically aligned totally fair news source states that "The event, the UCI Road World Championships, has not taken place in the United States in almost 30 years and has strayed from Europe only seven times since 1927. About 300 million people are expected to tune in, dwarfing the global television audience for this year’s Super Bowl."

Bull fucking shit. Pardon my Internationale French. This event is clogging a very middling city which relies upon people actually driving to work...not biking. I know, I know, what about all those fucksticks in the fan with beards and art degrees? Well, that's not an issue. They don't actually work until someone tells them to protest southern heritage for 30 bucks. They'll mostly be high and sleeping when the actual athletes ride their bicycles around the city and hope they aren't stolen.

But then, hey, I'm just a guy who works on a fishing boat and makes money selling my catches to all of the wonderful restaurants around town, like Havana 59.

Let's get the low down from the Mayor himself!

"Mayor Dwight C. Jones had been on the job for a matter of months and was pondering how to pump up his city’s profile when someone slapped a glossy magazine on his desk, pointed to the cover story and said: “How would you like to have this in Richmond?”

Well, Mayor?

 “At first I thought we couldn’t handle it.”

And then??????

Six months later, he changed his mind.

Fucking crazy! How did a disgustingly under-performing city run by a liberal caste that can't die make this work?

"How Richmond, a city of about 214,000, landed the big event makes for an interesting tale, but the way in which the organizers have Americanized the event is a better story."

Oh...... *puts on spandex and gets some lube*

“Americans will take any excuse for having a party,” said Jones, who has traveled to the last three cycling world championships. “For us, it’s going to be a nine-day festival, a nine-day party.”

Son of a bitch! *lubes up*

So, our mayor, who apparently travels around the world watching cyclists, has introduced a 9 day cycling party to Richmond. Sweet!

I was downtown last night and two guys were digging in a trash can with a dog that looked a lot like my co-pilot, Neville Chamberlain, and got in my face. "Yo, dude, we are trying to leave town, can you help?" I replied, "I wish I could, but no cash."

The dude said to me "I don't believe you, but I suppose I have to trust you."

So I walked back, pulled out my wallet and showed him zero money. I assumed he was going to ask me to use his square pay feature and just make a transaction. He didn't. However, I feel his pain, most people are trying to get out of the way for this 9 day fucking party on two wheels which does not involve Harleys or Veterans.

What should all you go to work drones think about this "event"? Well, the mayor says, "Think Mardi Gras with bicycles."

Sweet. Drunk people on bicycles with tits out crashing on most of our most used roads....

There has to be a history to this, right? RIGHT?!

"For 87 years, the championship has been all about the racing, with fans bellying up to the barriers and watching the riders whiz by. Richmond — with symphony and hip-hop concerts and other events — will be something different."

Sweet. The bicycling internationale is no longer about bicycling....it's about turning a city in to a place people can poop on BMWs. Lovely. Hey, what if we just throw beads at all the fucking bicyclists!

“We’re trying to create an event that’s more attractive to the broader audience than just the hard-core cycling fans,” said Tim Miller, chief operating officer for the event.

Thanks, Tim. Your event is shutting down a city for diversity and a broader audience.....you know, maybe that fucking dude who stole a $10,000 bike sitting unattended downtown is a great representation of what Richmond feels about your shitty bike event.

Take it, shove it, and here is to a half million in stolen dreams, tears, and bicycles.

-Lex Lesotho

Do you even date?

I'd like to take this moment to remember Sarah Palin. What? Did you one issue assholes get caught up in Donald Trump? Good. Please continue to be dumb.

By the way, Hillary Clinton probably three-wayed with Bill and Huma.

The "Village" at Short Pump - Seeing the sights!

First off, the location I went to was not a village. It was as much a village as OJ Simpson was not a murderer.

Rt. 64 appears to be "scenic". You can experience the effluent of people who drive to DC like assholes everyday if you start in Richmond. If you manage to get past the crime and poverty that resides directly below your vehicle as you drive west, you will be rewarded with a sprawling suburb called "Short Pump".

When I first dropped anchor in Virginia, I was told of a shopping mecca off of 64 that I would find if I only drove west towards Goochland and Bumpass. I was told it was a land of stay at home moms, yoga pants, wheat grass smoothies, Starbucks, and Ashley Madison connections.

The person who told me could have been Kunta Kinte at a Merle Haggard concert that one night I strolled on into Uncle Limpy's Hump Palace lookin' for love. Short story. It was true.

Short Pump, or as the Powhite (Po' white) indians call it, Short Pump, is full of all the things a lonely sailor with crabs (on the boat for sale) can ask for.

Take, for instance: The ACAC gym at Short Pump. You can almost smell the yoga pants from Keagan's!

If the night goes well in that lovely little village made up of plywood three story townhouses full of pretentious assholes who make way too much money that will never mow their own lawn (thank you Tinder), hire a Mexican nanny/maid, carry a wallet-sized shit dog, and drive a vehicle that resembles a silver dildo (it's electric, boogey ughgey woogey woogey), you can stay at the A Loft.

I met a nice 50 year old woman at the A Loft a few years ago that asked me to rub her feet. I swear on my life it was not Hillary Clinton. I was confused at first because her feet smelled like vinegar and old socks from the crab trap on my trawler, "Miss Interpreted".

All things being told, I did end up with a sandwich from Jimmy John's and a cigar from a nice little place called Mona.

Long story short, there is paradise by the dashboard lights in Short Pump. Highly recommended!

If you see her, tell Janice that I'm sure it was just "her soap".  *shudders*

Hi, my name is Lex. I'm a fisherman.

From the coasts of New England to the muddy shores of the Chesapeake Bay, I am Lex Lesotho. I am a fisherman. I was raised in the cold waters off the coast of Gloucester, Massachusetts and learned what it meant to be a man in a tent at a Boy Scout camp in Rhode Island called Camp Yawgoog. In that tent, I learned how to properly twirl a line around my ring finger and create a net that would capture some of the most notorious predators.

Commercial fishing for a living takes a toll on a person and after many decades fishing the coasts of pastoral New England, I moved south.

It was this year, in 2015, that I moved my 56ft trawler to a berth on an inlet to the Chesapeake Bay and met a fellow traveler that shared many of the same opinions as I have. Being that he is extremely comfortable with the internet, he suggested that we begin "blogging" together.

This blog will be our shared insight to Virginia and all the things we have learned and continue to learn about the state that is obsessed with dogwoods, has a bird that St. Louis, MO is pissed about, a flag that drives mentally challenged people crazy, and a song which actually uses the word "Virginny" in a non-humorous manner.

Welcome to our humble blog and please take a complimentary condom at the door. I'd also suggest you try the mini corndogs. Those things are the shit.

Welcome to the Coastal Plains.