tommylama2

The Tommy Lama joins the show from The Laugh Factory in Las Vegas, Nevada to talk about his previously wasted life, his ideas to help unionize the Nudie Card Slappers of America and explain the benefits of gun violence. The Tommy Lama can be seen, enlightening the masses at The Laugh Factory inside the Tropicana Hotel and Casino on The Strip in Las Vegas, Thursday through Monday.

Also, Matt has his first kid, Sam eviscerates a Sierra Nevada seasonal beer and Stupid/Drunken news takes us to Paris, Arkansas. 

Follow The Tommy Lama on Twitter @ TommySavitt and visit his website www.tommylama.com/

Follow Sam on Twitter @ Tigerclawmedy and get all of his tour dates at www.predictablydrunk.com/

 

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Sam and Matt trade drunken stories of yesteryear. From throwing up in taxi cabs, to peeing in bushes. And which one of the two of them jumped out of a hotel window without ever spilling a drop of his beer? Find out in this week’s episode of Predictably Drunk: Smart People Talking About Stupid Things.

Follow Predictably Drunk on Instagram @Predictably Drunk, on Facebook @Predictably Drunk and http://www.PredictablyDrunk.com

Subscribe to Predictably Drunk on iTunes and RATE AND REVIEW the show! Do that by going here:  https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/predictably-drunk/id964905672?mt=2

 

Follow Sam on Twitter @Tigerclawmedy.

 

 

 

Matt discusses his road rage issues from yesteryear and swears that he has changed his ways, while sharing stories that clearly shoe that he has not. Additionally, Sam reveals that he one got into a road rage victim that involved high speeds, barbecue beef sandwiches and little kids. Plus, Sam hates the 555 area code that is used in movies, Matt forgets that our announcer, Ross Baker, exists, and more.

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Follow Sam on Twitter @ Tigerclawmedy

For the complete podcast catalog and additional information, visit www.predictablydrunk.com

Subscribe to us on Itunes and RATE AND REVIEW THE SHOW here: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/predictably-drunk/id964905672?mt=2

 

 

 

 

Mario The Butcher sits down to talk to Sam before a recent comedy show. An extremely honest and candid interview where Mario talks about his struggles with drinking, the hardest part about being homeless and getting in trouble in the military. We also discuss his successful comedy career, getting out of speeding tickets and of course, having the coolest nickname ever.

Follow Mario on Twitter at @MarioMontes65

Follow Sam on Twitter at @Tigerclawmedy

For all of Sam’s tour dates, go to https://sammarcoux.com/

Follow Predictably Drunk on Instagram @Predictablydrunk

Subscribe to us on Itunes, keyword Predictably Drunk, and RANK US!

 

 

 

 

badmovie

 

The latest episode of Predictably Drunk sees Sam and Matt Somerville discussing the WORST HOLIDAY MOVIES EVER. From snowmen that come alive due to a magical harmonica, to Santa Claus reuniting with his brother, and yes, even Arnold  himself, chasing down a Turbo Man for his kid, the Holidays bring us goodwill, cheer, and awful, awful movies.

Find out which Christmas Clunkers made the naughty list and be sure to thank us later when you are able to avoid these on basic cable. Remember folks, we watched these bad movies so that you don’t have to.

 

 

 

 

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http://www.SamMarcoux.com

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Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The First Date Fart

They say you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Which, if true, really sucks when your first impression is literally a shitty one. A few years back, I met a girl at a bar, bought her a few drinks, and mustered up enough liquid courage to ask for her number AND ask her on a date. To my drunken surprise, she agreed to both. To my hung over surprise the next morning, the number she gave me turned out to be real and better yet, she responded to my texts.

A week or so of texting, flirting and awful jokes (hers not mine. My jokes are brilliant), and our first date was upon us. I dressed up in my best ripped jeans and slightly wrinkled shirt and sped off to buy some beer and condoms (I am a gentlemen, after all). Strangely enough, she had me pick her up at her friend’s house. Which signaled to me that either she was afraid I might be an ax murdering psycho but needed a second opinion, or that her friend did. Either way, I was charming enough to her stupid friend and got her out of the house and into the car. And the beginning of the first date fart seeds were planted.

Normally, when a man asks a women out on a date, it is assumed that he will pick the night’s festivities with little to no input from the woman (because after all, she is a girl and everyone knows that girls make stupid decisions, right?). And I assumed that this would be the case here, as well. Except that the lady in question was former military with combat experience, and as such, was extremely upfront and outspoken about what she wanted to do, eat and drink.

“Great,” I thought. “Less shit for me to worry about.”

Or so I thought.

Now, when on a first date, or in any situation where appearances and impressions mean a great deal, you have to tactfully weave yourself around the obstacles of your personality. If you are racist, for example, you don’t start the night blurting out the N-word and flipping off the Mexican cooks at the restaurant. You have to ease into your horrific personality with light-hearted humor jabs about Asians and the poor driving or how quip about how white man’s syphilis decimated the Native American population. You know, to test the waters with your first date mate and to see if she is of like mind.

Now, that is an extreme example, but I think you catch my drift. You have to try to highlight the better parts of your person, in an effort to impress the other participant in the date, essentially. Which means that if you know spicy food gives you gas, then you should probably avoid spicy foods like a Jewish person avoids Germany. And if you know that spicy food gives you gas, and your date requests you take her to Mexican food for your dinner, you should swallow your pride, turn around, and admit to you, and her, that this relationship will never, ever, work and drop her back off at her friend’s house. Except, of course, I didn’t take my own advice, and we went to eat the Hispanic devil food, and disaster started to rear it’s ugly head. Or at least gurgle it’s ugly stomach.

After pounding down an approximate four pound burrito that was covered in hot sauce, and washing it down with a tequila shot and a beer, my date left the dinner table impressed and ready for more. So I, like a gentlemen, walked us to my car, opened the car door and escorted her into the vehicle. I figured that this lent me the perfect opportunity to blow some ass while walking back to my side of the car. Except my body failed me at that moment in time and the fart that I held in through dinner, was now no where to be found.

“I’m doomed, ” I thought.

The night progressed to a bar where we proceeded to drink more than we should have and I proceeded to clench my ass cheeks together for longer than I should have. Last call came and went and I was now working on a personal best record for oppressing my natural bodily functions. But the night was close to done, and soon, once I dropped her off at her suspicious friend’s house, I could finally relieve myself of the 10 pound toxic bubble that was festering in my gut. Unfortunately for me, however, the night was just getting started.

“So I want to see your place now, ” she said, as we entered the vehicle once again. “My friend is asleep by now so I need to crash at your place anyway. But don’t expect sex. I am not that kind of girl.”

30 minutes later we had sex.

And during sex, I could do nothing but mentally tell myself to not fart while thrusting. It was so overwhelming this thought, that I almost forgot that I was in the middle of having sex with a woman on the first date. I mean seriously, I consider it an achievement worthy of putting on my work resume whenever I can trick a girl into boinking me, but typically, it takes longer than a first date, and considerably more booze. But here I was, boffing the hell out of this girl after a burrito and some beers, and instead of mentally high-fiving myself for such a stellar performance, I was riddled with guilt that my asshole might start whistling at any moment and destroy everything that ever was built by humanity.

Nonetheless, I finished my duty without any leakage of doody, and went to sleep immediately after, as did she. The next morning my stomach was bloated beyond belief and I decided to make the executive decision to wake her up and shovel her off my bed and into my car for an early morning walk of shame up her friend’s driveway. By this point, I was pretty much doubled over in pain and had tunnel vision. I ran through red lights, swerved in and out of lanes like a mad man and was generally concerned for my rotted intestines at this point. The poor girl must have thought she had done something wrong to be whisked away so quickly and recklessly like that, but I didn’t give a shit…which was literally the problem at the time, too.

I pulled up to her friend’s house, unlocked the door from the driver’s side (God bless power locks) and hastily gave her a kiss before thanking her for a lovely (pain filled) evening.

Confused and possibly a little hurt, she gathered her things and got out of the car. Looking like she wanted to ask what went wrong so quickly, but knowing that I wouldn’t answer, she reluctantly closed the car door behind her.

PPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTsqueakTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!

It happened. It finally happened. A 13 hour built up fart. Clothes have been put on lay away at TJ Maxx for less time than I held onto that man-queef. With each passing rumble that dropped out of my ass, I couldn’t help the growing grin on my face. It slowly spread across my face like when scene in Dr. Seuss’s book where The Grinch devised his evil plan to steal Christmas. It was satisfying, evil and I couldn’t be happier for myself. The only thing that echoed the sound, was the stench that followed.

Thunder and lightning.

If only I had this sign in the car at the time...
If only I had this sign in the car at the time…

It was awful. Dogs were howling at the moon, during the day. Children wept and my car’s interior wrinkled and stretched. It was the fart to end all farts. And I didn’t care. I could no longer hold it in and the beauty of it was that I got away with it. No one would be the wiser to the atomic bomb that I just dropped.

For about seven seconds.

And that is when I heard the passenger door swing open followed by a female voice saying, “I forgot my purse.” She had returned to the car in the midst of the crescendo of the fart. I literally jumped to my left, crashing into my own car door, shrieked like a little girl who just had a spider jump on her and looked on in horror as my gassy, shit-trombone musical was now playing for an audience. With an interactive, immersive element to it as well, I might add. I watch as her face played out the entire range of human emotions in about two seconds as her brain began to process what the sounds and smells were that were now flooding her nostrils and ears. And I watched in dismay as she realized I had done everything short of shit my pants. And I realized, in this moment, that I would need to muster up the funniest comeback I could possibly think of, in order to salvage a second date. Something so amazing that she would have no choice but to overlook this episode and accept an invitation to another dating activity. So I rolled with my instincts and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

“Wow…was that you?”

The sound of the car door slamming and the sight of her running towards her friend’s front door were the last things I remember.

There was no second date.

 

/Tigerclaw

Michael Gilkison swung by the studio and sat down to discuss his own podcast, In The Galaxy, as well as stand up comedy, Youtube, growing up in Kentucky and of course, tequila shots while playing Drinko. Plus, Sam discuss what form of entertainment he likes performing the best, breaks some news about Ellen DeGeneres and of course, the BEST WORST JOKE OF THE WEEK!

 

 

Catch Michael and Jaye on their podcast: http://inthegalaxypodcast.podbean.com/

Follow Michael on Twitter: @MichaelGilkison

 

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Follow me on Twitter: @Tigerclawmedy

 

 

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The Night I Shomited

Pleasanton, CA has a street fair every first Wednesday of the month during the summer. If you have never been, it consists of Main Street being shut down for anything other than foot traffic, a random chiropractor booth where your free assessment diagnoses you as The Elephant Man, food trucks, young adults looking to give each other various STD’s and of course, booze. Beer gardens, full sidewalk liquor kiosks and traditional bars and restaurants cater to the insane influx of foot traffic like a mini-French Quarter, employing temporary carnival barkers to shout at the pedestrians strolling by about their drink specials in hopes of luring them, and their wallets, into their respective establishments.

A few years back, I decided to partake. I parked my car a few blocks away and weaved my way through the crowd of scantily clad girls, over-served douche-bags and others, to meet my friends (also scantily clad and douchey). After a brief tour of the kiosks, booths and other temporary structures that sold useless goods and services, we ducked into one of the Mexican Restaurants and made our way to the back patio where all of the cool kids hung out. We lucked out and were able to secure a table for our ever growing social circle. At some point, it swelled to a point where it made sense for us to purchase group drinks, and the decision to drink our weight in margaritas was made.

The pitchers started piling up and while they weren’t particularly strong, they were good. And since the street fair was quickly coming to a close, it was time for us to finish one last pitcher before moseying off to other establishments. As I was pouring my last cup of neon green goodness, my friend handed me a cup of water and told me to “drink this.” Being a good friend, and an even better order taker, I snatch the glass of water from her hands and threw back the plastic chalice of water quickly.

The horror in my friend’s eyes told me I had fucked up.

As it turned out, the glass of water I had just chugged, was in fact, tequila, and my friend’s instructions of “drink this,” was mis-heard by my had actually person as she had actually told me to “take this.” As in hold on to it. The table had purchased extra tequila to “spice up” the relatively tame libations, and I had just taken the entire group’s worth of extra shots, directly to the face. For a brief second, I thought I was going to be okay. The liquid had gone down surprisingly smooth and I wasn’t feeling any ill effects at the moment. Regardless of my seemingly invincible state, no one allowed me to drink another drop. So naturally, I left those buzz kills in search of new drinks, and new friends.

I found neither.

The moment I left the Mexican restaurant, the tequila entered my blood stream. with every step I took, my blood-alcohol content ticked upwards until I was spitting fire at people like a drunken, human Godzilla meandering through Downtown Pleasanton. By the time I the reached the block where my carwas parked, my legs were no longer cooperating with the rest of my body. I felt that continuing my search for further drinks and further friends was probably best to abort, while simultaneously developing a new plan to hastily retreat to my car for a quick 35 hour nap or so. I stumbled to my car, threw my keys on the passenger seat, crawled into the back, and traveled to dream land.

Undie bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down...
Undie bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…

I woke up hours later to a stunning silence and a morbidly dark sky. I was now DEEP into the early morning, a disheveled mess, and still in the merry little town of Pleasanton-fucking-California. I sat there for an extra 30 minutes or so, until I was absolutely sure I was good to drive. Once I was, I made the long, awful trek to my house on the other side of the bay, in Burlingame. In order to get to Burlingame, you have to cross a bridge. About five minutes from crossing said bridge, I realized that I had no money on me. I had no money because it was in my wallet. Which was still in Pleasanton…somewhere. My 45 minute drive home turned into a 90 minute drive home as I drove down to San Jose and up the peninsula to my home.

I parked the car, I ripped off my clothes, and crawled into my bed that was being occupied by my ex-girlfriend who was still living there at the time.

“You smell awful,” she said.

“Fuck you,” I replied (tequila does wonders for my attitude, I should point out).

“Wonderful, Sam. What the fuck did you drink? Everything? It is Wednesday, you genius. Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

“Don’t YOU have to move out of my apartment?” I retorted (again, tequila). “I don’t need this, I am gonna go puke.”

And with that, I rolled my bloated carcass out of the bed on a quest to relieve my stomach contents in my bathroom toilet. Except along the way to the bathroom, I realized that I really had to shit. Bad. So much so that I completely forgot about me needing to vomit. I stomped into the bathroom, ripped my undies down, and plopped my ass down (literally) to do my business. While I was evacuating my bowels, the stench escaped the confines of the toilet and rolled northward towards my nose. The deadly combination of tequila shits and ball fog proved too much for me and I was violently reminded of my body’s desire to hurl.

The problem of course, was that I was  glued to the seat due to my aforementioned shitting. Seeing as how that was not ending anytime soon, I was left with no choice but to spew directly on the floor in front of me while shitting at the same time. Anyone who has ever puked knows that it strains your stomach muscles like no other. But what most people don’t know is that those same muscles also control your poo distribution. So you can the imagine the velocity and power that my tequila shits hit the bowl, once aided by the overworked stomach muscles from puking. My insides were headed outside through both ends with no difference in color, consistency or smell. The entire scene was horrific enough to give even the most hardened war veteran, PTSD.

I had shomited, ladies and gentlemen. Shit and vomited at the same time. A feat so rare that a word had to be made up about it.

I finished leaking out of both ends, cleaned myself up and pulled my underwear back on. Immediately I knew something was wrong, my entire crotch was now wet. And just then, I realized what had happened. In my haste to get to the can and take a dump, I pulled my underwear down, but not off. This faux pas led to me creating a sort of, underwear bridge between my legs. More accurately, I had created an underwear net. A net that could catch, say…a crotch full of stomach butter that I had just upchucked for the past twenty minutes.

I shomited into my undies. And then pulled them up and smeared it into my privates. At this point, I was officially the worst human being on the planet. I was also exhausted so I shrugged my shoulders, accidentally stepped in the pile of puke on the ground, and crawled back into the bed.

The ex-girlfriend pushed up her expected move out date to that morning.

/Tigerclaw

 

Me Doing Comedy. July 29th
Me Doing Comedy. July 29th