This anomaly can only be compared to someone placing a perfectly good vagina at the base of a hairy penis.

I mean talk about your all-time back fires! Some butthole took my favorite place to eat breakfast and slapped it smack-dab in the center of a grind shack!

This review cums from the hip. Which is carefully holding up my left hand.

I must have driven past this block a thousand times in my life and never really gave it a second glance. Don’t get me wrong, if you drive slow enough you will see some serious fashion trail-blazers. Good ol’ Terry has a concrete and crotch monopoly going on down there, and God bless him for it.

So the other morning I was giving the old lady a ride to her car downtown and was craving some Cornerstone. I hadn’t been here in a long fucking time I soon realized, when I pulled up to J and 24th and the sonofabitch was gone. So I Gaygled it, and sure enough it directed me to Lavender Heights. Thinking that there must be some huge mistake I made my way to the end of the rainbow… Yep. There she was.

The Corner Stone is now the Corner Bone. Fuck it, I thought to myself, I can do this. So I pulled up my big-boy pants and headed to the front doors. As I approached what seemed to be a gateway to a whole different kind of world, I saw an older gentleman sitting at the first table inside, right by the door. He looked wrapped up in the novel he was reading, as the Tea-cup poodle to his left wagged her tail and barked subtly in her very own chair. (side note: Do health codes not apply to the other team? Just wondering) Strangely I was having a really hard time pulling on the door, as I could not stop staring at this guy. I quickly noticed that there was lipstick on his coffee cup, and there was not a lady (with an actual vagina) within 600 yards. I don’t know if I expected YMCA to come on the radio, or Liza Minnelli to be at the hostess stand but…I needed back up.

I called in the calvary to join me on this dining adventure. Holy fuck pump you should have seen the faces of the patrons when we walked in this joint. I was like, “Fuckin’ pinch yourself, I’m real”. Our line up must have been like the fucking Mall of America to the young men that were in there that morning. Myself, Bohl, Goody, Rogers. Tatts, buffed, tall, distinguished, fat, hairy, bald, rich, poor… you name it we had it hater!It was actually kinda flattering for the first 20 minutes. I mean the waiter was staring at me like he hadn’t eaten in a fucking month. I’m not a piece of meat sir. I am just a man, built from courage and brawn, and I want to enjoy my meal without feeling like I am on display… Jesus. Anyways we ate our food like a pack of beautiful, wild unicorns enjoying some fresh grass covered in a glistening morning dew. Well that’s how we felt anyway…

Needless to say, it was a hump I needed to get over, no pun intended, and it was pretty fuckin’ fun. I think the gay can smell the straight. For the first time I felt how all these hot gals in Sac must feel when a pack of em walk into the 2ME during Monday night football. It was pretty awesome.

I will definitely go back again!

Price – Same. The only change to the menu was the tall blond guy with a french manicure handing it to me.

Plate – The food here is Fucking Amazing. We all had some huge fucking Potato platter extravaganza thing, with eggs and 9 kinds of meat on it… Don’t ask. It might be the best meat I have ever put in my mouth. We shared a 9 1/2″ stack of pancakes smothered in creamy white butter for desert. They were finger licking good.

People – Well shucks. The people were…people. They just dressed a little nicer and all had good manners. The staff was awesome and fun to chat with.

Puss – The only puss here, is puss that is straight and wanted to get away from anything resembling a puss seeking penis. Or, the puss was there with the puss she ate before they ate.

Parking – It’s Sac. So… if you park, just remember that you will be getting a ticket eventually.

Pot – You think I would walk into a fucking bathroom at a Gay Bar that says Videos on the sign out front!?!? Fuck you dickface! I wear diapers when I go here. The very thought of the sexual carnival that has happened in those stalls would make my exploits look like that of a Jesuit Priest… Did I go in the bathroom… No fucking chance.

~youshoob

The females of the Pride are the true hunters, and inherently they refuse to lose. Anything. Ever. Exploiting this congenital energy is a surefire way to land some really good fuckin’.

Here are some simple ways to bring out the warrior in a woman.

~ While out, make it a point to hug a few hot gals you know. Don’t over do it to the point she thinks you are a mattress with a dick, but by putting your arms around another woman, it will trigger enough estrogen to get her thinking that maybe she is not the only gal in the room that wants your prick.

~ Be really nice to her friends. Get her friends laughing and then through in a subtle arm touch or something… Fucking forgetaboutit. You could do less damage by putting your dick in her friends martini. Yes, this move is daring but you will know when the opportunity arises. Seize it. It’s full-proof.

~ Flirt with the Bartender or Waitress. This is an art-form, so if you are not the charmer then you might want to leave this one to the Pro’s. But if you feel you are a true cocksman, then this tactic will yield a tremendous return. And if a one of them ever asks for your order before your dates… It’s fucking on! You might actually get a handy at the table.

~ At the crib, have a few pics of you and a hot “ex” still around. Girls hate hot girls, I mean fucking loath. Add that pure animosity to a pic with you in it, and you have an instant recipe for some “that bitch aint shit” sex.

~ And last but certainly not least. The brass ring. The Condom on the bathroom counter. The fuckin thing should just be an all access, VIP backstage pass to the pussy. All she is thinking is… what a piece of shit! What kind of fucking tool leaves a condom laying on his counter… You wanna know what kind of piece of shit. The kind that she will be doing the reverse cowboy on in 30 minutes haus! You can take that shit to the sperm bank!

Women HATE each other! and that little piece of intel is the key to every bedroom door…

~youshoob

You are gunna need a diaper before you even start cooking these bastards, cause when you take your first bite you are gunna shit your Dickies.

Start buy buying some bigass Green Bell Peppers. Get six of these hogs. 1 will fill you but bitches like to eat stuff so have extras for bitches.

Next cut the tops off the Bells. You barely have to take any off, but make sure you have a straight cut, or the guts will slide off the top when you put them in the ol’ cremator.

Now that the Pepps are prepped, you need to make the guts. Start with 1 1/2 pounds of Ground Sirloin, and a couple smashed up Italian Sausages. Throw it in a pot with a 1/2 cup of watter. Over Med. Heat, Stir like a retarded kid until the meat is broken down like the Ground Beef at Taco Bell. Laub in a 1/2 of 1 Chopped Red Onion. 1 Can Diced Tomatoes. 1 Small Can Tomato Sawace. 1/2 Tablespoon Minced Garlic. 1 Teaspoon Crushed Red Pepper. 1 Teaspoon Thyme. 1 Teaspoon Oregano. 1 Teaspoon Ground Black Pepper. 2 Teaspoons Sugar. 1 Teaspoon Salt. 1 Teaspoon Paprika. Cook this porridge for 35 min on low heat. Stir sometimes. Now pre-heat your Oven to 350 player. Add salt to taste…

While your shit is pre-heating and your Sawace is cooking, time to start with the goods. At the bottom of the Cups, toss in a little Mozzarella and Provolone Cheese, and a few Shrooms.

Now add your first layer of the Sawace. Don’t be afraid. You will start to think you are in Roundtable because of the amazing aroma, but you are not. You are in your Kitchen with hungry bitches 20 feet from you. Stay focused.

Repeat another Layer of goods.

Almost done hater. Fill these cups like the tip of your Jimmy. Hit em’ with a few slices of Peperoni and a few Black Olives. On the very tip slide on a little Fresh Parmesan. Then laub these cups of Viagra into the oven and cook for around 30 min, or until the cheese looks like it has a nice spray tan.

You are welcome. Tell her to clean up the Kitchen and bring you a pillow.

~youshoob

BEFORE…

Really. Who would have thought that little ol’, cow-town, river city, Sacramento, Ca. would have turned into a mecca for the up an coming true beauties of the future!?!

We have more models in Rosefuckingville than in the entire city of New York. It’s unreal, the talent that resides in our fair city! But what I don’t understand is why they don’t leave Keith Selle’s studio? Seriously…. Have you ever seen one of these Jewels in person? 1? It’s like a one-way door in SAC! You walk in a turd, you get Photo-polished and you are never to be seen again! Ever!

I mean talk about your all-time bait and fucking switch!

Don’t get me wrong… these photographers are fucking ass-getting geniuses and have claimed a stake in a pussmine that will never run dry! I wish I could have thought of such an easy close back in the day. If I knew then that I could have bought a $4000 Nikon and some software instead of 4 cars, 3 motorcycles, 2 boats, 1 mansion and a yorkie… I might still have the camera!!!

“Models Needed”, you have to be fucking pulling my huge cock!!! This actually works!?! I see you girls talking on some asstaxi’s facebook post and you are actually excited???!!! Has one of you ever made a single dollar? And getting compensated with Popov in a Grey Goose bottle, and a keybumb isn’t getting paid. You can yield those rations in Old Roseville any night of the week. So really? Why? What is the draw? A new look…? YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean come on butthole. Be proud of what your God gave you! Until, MAC makes an actual wearable Airbrushing kit, you are fucked! Do you keep your shoot pics in your fake Louis? Do you hand them out to guys at the bars? “Here… this is what I look like after 2 hours of wardrobe and 11 days of computer enhancement!!!” Wanna buy yourself 8 shots, so I will look that way now!?!?!”

For the 5% exception that actually is a hot slice of ass… you are giving the 95% a false sense of entitlement that will only cause them to age faster and end up bar tending in Old-Sac when they are 40. Have a heart gals! Jesus!

If I see one more girl with a fucking Fupa standing on a fucking riverbank, I am gunna blow my fucking head off! And what is it with Shipping Bays!!!!?!?!?!!! And Train Tracks…..!!!!! It’s like you are wanting to leave… so get on the God Dam Train and beat it! Did some guy, somewhere say you looked hot laying on a pile of gravel next to a rusted railway? No fucking chance!!! The only thing hot about Train Tracks is the actual metal. Thats it. Not 1 thing more.

Anyways…

I am starting the Diamond Dudes. Who’s cummin with me?

AFTER.

~youshoob

Poop-balls or Latin Stinkus Scrotium is the perfect way to invite your date to leave immediately. No habit will have your night take a shit, Literally, than being the proud owner of a pair of Mutts Nuts.

When a girl is nice and liquored up, and has by some fucking miracle actually agreed to come back to your house, do yourself a huge favor and make sure your lack of hygiene does not have her puking in your lap.

Yes, I am talking to you. If a girl heads down south to audition on the ol’ skin mic, and comes right back up… it’s you. Not her. She doesn’t care about the size, or the shape at this point. She is already committed. If she heads back up, it’s cause you smell like an outhouse in Iraq. And if she kisses you on her way back up, it’s her way of telling you that you can suck your own shitty dick.

There are rules to the wipe. If you reach between your legs for any reason while on the shitter, you are begging for celibacy. Jesus man. And if you have hair down there… Forget about it!!! If you have an asshole beard and girls still hum your wizz whistle, you are either rich, or … well… That’s pretty much where it ends. If you still get it, the woman you are with is Spirit World Drunk, or she is wearing a snorkel and blowing you under water.

And Ladies… don’t think you are dodging this one for one second. The only thing worse than actually being stung by a thousand bees, dipped in bleach and stabbed in the face with a Rambo Knife, is pulling down your Chones and being hit in the face by a heat wave of stench that can only be described as a sewer leak in North Highlands.

Cure: Baby Wipes.

Write that down. For the love of God.

~youshoob

I remember when you could ask a buddy… You an ass man, or a Tittie man. There used to be a choice? How profuckingfound.  Our beautiful little river city, now has more silicone than Vegas and Scottsdale combined. It’s unreal. It’s like you can’t fucking vote anymore unless you have bolt-ons.

Don’t get me wrong. I love me some nice freckled boobies as much as the next fella, but that’s not why these creatures even get em’. Because guys like em”? No Fucking chance pal. When a girl is shopping for her new bod, hoping a guy will notice doesn’t cross her mind one God Damn time. These caddy creatures do it for 1 reason and 1 reason only. So the other females in the pack will take notice. It’s like a huge game of one-upamanship, and we just so happen to reap the benefits. It’s simply glorious. It’s a battle of the cc’s. And the battle plan of this busty dispute has become so seamless that a gal can spot the competition on a Wednesday at MIX, and have her beat by Saturday at the Partio. The recovery time for this procedure is like 30 minutes now it seems. My hat’s off to all of you. To be able to turn bananas into bowling balls in 36 hours… Huge W for the pink team.

Just a few tips from the bench:

SIDE-BOOB! Hands down the hottest tech in your arsenal. We don’t give a shit if it’s a hot silky number, a wife beater  or a pair of fucking overalls, if we can see some side-tittie, you have a sold sign on our backs. You win. Period.

CLEAVAGE! I know you think we like it when your tits look like a pair of glued together ass cheeks, but we don’t. Okay, that’s bullshit, but Cleavage is key. You know when you put your lipstick in your bra… We think that’s pretty neat. Leave room between your boobs to put cool stuff. If your Doctor claims that all the girls are doing the stuck together boobs, he is a liar and a fat mouth.

BUILD OUT! When you are doing your Tenant Improvements, Use a reputable contractor and make sure you strictly adhere to the following. Go through the nipple and under the muscle. Baring some existing condition you may have, there is little room for compromise here. Take it from a true, proven aficionado. When you are doing your chores topless and you bend over to grab the next load of laundry, you don’t want it to look like you have a couple of misshaped river rocks in there. Write that down.

At the end of the day, a new set of Boobies is always a pretty damn good idea. But you must remember… Boobs are like a set of 24” Wheels. If you throw them on an S63 they will add a noticeable difference, and truly enhance the true beauty of their vessel. However if you toss a set of 24’s on a 99 Maxima you might not get the response you were hoping for. Remember, body-work and paint before you head to the wheel shop.

~youshoob

FUCK YOU – You fair weather, cafeteria Christian. Your stairway to heaven needs a vacuum. You can’t wake up on a Monday and spew out a couple proverbs on facebook, and be saved. You just can’t. Your cum-stained moral fabric could not be cleaned with 10 gallons of bleach and a team of under-paid slave laborers.

I find it quite convenient how some tough guy thinks he can knock out a kid in a bar, cause him reconstructive facial surgery, and make it so he can’t talk without drooling like a faggot with a mouthful of spunk, just because he did 1 to many caps of G with his Redbull Vodka’s… Then wake up the next morning, have what heroin addicts refer to as a moment of clarity, peel open the ol’ King James you found in your Mom’s diaper drawer, and pretend like you and your muscles have been born again. Fuck you Pagan! Doing lines off a table with white linen doesn’t mean it’s an altar, you retarded fatso. You should write a fucking country song with all of your broken promises to God.

And you… you, painted pirate club hooker. Do you really presume your salvation can come seamlessly by pleading your case to your imaginary friend in the skies after a weekend of sucking cock for coke and doing body shots off some fat insurance salesman’s piss whistle because you needed a place to crash? Wake the fuck up, grab your extension from his blood stained pillow, hail a cab with the money you stole from his nightstand and head not to a church, but to Planned Parenthood. You CAN’T drink yourself SAVED, you dumb bitch. A hangover and a crotch full of regret does not in any way, shape or form, purchase you a ticket to the Purly’s. Those gates are about as open to you as your legs are to a non-paying customer.

If you are going to proclaim your sudden, new-found Faith on a Social Media Forum, at least CHANGE YOUR FUCKING PROFILE PICTURE. You sucking on the top of the stripper pole on that hairy cocksuckers boat at Rage on the river 6 is not helping your fucking case with the Big Guy one fucking bit!

You stupid fucking sheep! Read a book! Fuckit’ read THE BOOK! I believe in God as much as I believe in Government, but if i was going to proclaim my allegiance to either I would at least get educated…

Remember one thing… Your “God”, like Santa, can see you when you’re sleeping and see when you’re awake, So when your blowing your dealer, while wearing a Rosary like Jewelry, SWALLOW…. For Goodness Sake!

~youshoob

When it come to dining in Sacramento, BANDERA is the Pièce de résistance.

There is not even a close second. I know, I know, MOXY is great, MORTONS is darn tasty, MULVANEY’S is pretty fucking amazing, but nothing, I mean nothing can hold a fucking candle to ol’ BANDERA.

There has to be something said about a fucking 0% turn over rate. I swear to God, I have watched people grow up here. From busser to General Manager. I think the only way people ever leave this job, is if they passed the fucking bar, or died.

If you feel like a girl you know really deserves to eat, take her here. It’s like the Narnia of the Sacramento Dinning Scene. The only thing that trips me out, is the lighting. I don’t give 2 fucks what time you walk in the joint, (well, from 5pm till close anyway, cause they don’t serve lunch. Why would they) your God Damn eyes need to adjust. Walking into Bandera is like walking out of Mustang Ranch at 7am. But after your pupils adjust to the dungeonesque, lit-torch lighting, you find yourself in the perfect environment to enjoy your company, and an almost perfect meal. I say almost perfect because, you DO have to pay for it at the end. Unless you are with Craig, then it is truly defectless.

Price – Well the menu, while pretty short and super sweet, is not for the folks in the bleeders. It’s not the most expensive grub in town, but certainly not built for the “budget”. Having said that, I would pay double the face value for this meal ticket. Save your duckets, it’s worth every red cent fella.

Plate – Jesus… Where to begin. I’ll start by having the Spinach/Artichoke Dip. I can only imagine that if Joseph ever went down on Mary, this had to be what it tasted like. While you’re at it huck me a single slice of that Corn Bread. Who said this magical treat was only for the brothers? I could eat the Bandera Corn Bread over ice cream. It is truly immaculate. I don’t how they do it, but if you eat 1 little slice of this shit, you seem to gain 11 pounds. But fuck it, I’m not here to watch the ol’ waist line. For dinner, I’ll have what can only be compared to cutting the rib meat from a fucking Unicorn. The Prime Rib at Bandera is hands down, unequaled. Who ever has the recipe to this shit must use the same security protocol as Steve Jobs. As for the rest of the menu, it is pretty much a seamless manifest for your taste-buds.

People – I have often wondered if the staff at Bandera had to undergo some sort of boot-camp. The entire team has what can only be described as a Subtly-Arrogant-Charming-Knowledgeable-Flirtatious-Confident-Enduring-There To Please- Winning Attitude.  The service here is crowning. Nothing is out of their reach. There is no such thing as a no. You will never order more than once. Not ever. You will never send an order back. You will never receive the wrong order, and should there, by some act of God, be anything on the plate that does not literally make your taste buds want to buttfuck, the staff will go to the end of the earth to ensure your complete and 100% satisfaction.

Puss – Lets put it this way. If you listen real carefully when you are pulling up, you can hear the content purring of the cougars inside. Unfortunately if you are a local stripped shirt wearing, 2014 Mercedes driving, Apartment in Woodside living, Bag of Douche. You will seldom find what it is you seek. Bandera, although a talent show every night, does not often yield two kinds of women. Single ones. This is place is the date night capitol of the capitol. And second, Young Extension having, painted war-whores. The reason – they can’t afford it, and Bandera doesn’t do Shots. Sorry bitch.

Parking – A couple years ago, you would have to park at Sac State, but ever since that shithole next door closed, it’s pretty much smooth sailing.

Pot – The shithouse here is as peerless as the rest of the house. Bring a flashlight though. It’s like hangin a single in your hotel room when you are trying not to wake your buddy and the 3 he is with, by hittin the light switch.

~youshoob