Here lies some of the desolation from the storm that Scooter labelled as "devastating".

BLUE HOUSE — On Tuesday night, two massive systems collided to spawn one of the most terrible thunderstorms to ever strike the Blue House. Strong winds slammed into the area, and a hurricane-like extravaganza erupted with a force unheard of. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the House’s hallowed grounds suffered immensely. Limbs were shattered and thrown from their trees, the trash can was hurled into the yard, and the legendary swing where Fryin’ Brian once roosted was thrown violently into a bush.

“It was devastating,” Scooter said. “What a rush that storm was.”

The tempest was immediately followed by a severe power outage that affected the House for nearly a day. Nothing was visible, and only the silence of a once bustling House remained.

“I could barely see to use the bathroom,” Man-Man said, “and when it’s too dark to poop, you know something ain’t right.”

Scooter recounted his attempt to eat a delicious dinner when the blast arrived: “I was munching on a delicious dish that Nickle prepared, which consisted of salmon, rice, and asparagus. Then the thing hit like a bomb. The storm was everywhere all at once. I thought a tornado was going to strike the House, so I screamed for Nickle and the cats to get downstairs. Of course, no one listened, so I ran down myself. Eventually, it all ended, and, as usual, I looked the idiot—standing in the dark all by my lonesome.”

“I was going to go downstairs too,” Nickle said, “but I didn’t want to be caught unprepared. So, I raced into my room and slipped on tennis shoes. I was the smarter one. Who runs around like an idiot with flip flops on? Coincidently, he (Scooter) had flip flops on.”

Man-Man, however, was content in the garage with his beloved Mazda MX-6. When the power failed, he stood stalwart and continued to restore his masterpiece. When the storm ended and the power refused to return, he enlisted the help of Nickle and Scooter. Nickle held the all-important light, and Scooter used his laptop’s miniscule battery life to serenade the group with soothing music.

“Ain’t no storm going to stop me,” Man-Man said. “Nickle was all right holding the light, and Scooter’s music sucked.”

The group then ascended to the kitchen and played cards by the ambient light of an oil lantern. Each claimed victory in a series of games, but all were winners, for they consumed the warming beer from the refrigerator.

Soon, however, the beer ran scarce, but the House had a proverbial ace up its sleeve. After a scavenger hunt in the downstairs fridge commenced, the trio discovered a trove of beer hidden by the passing years. These beverages were immediately paraded up the stairs in a victory cavalcade.

“It actually turned out quite fun,” Scooter reminisced. “We were forced to be pragmatic, and when that happens, good things happen. I was proud to be a part of it, and mostly, I was proud of the beer.”

The following afternoon, the power returned, and yet, the most unexpected thing occurred. The House experienced sadness. With power came a humdrum return to the everyday. It was even reported that the Blue House itself dripped a drop of blue paint as a symbolical tear.

“I was a little said,” Nickle said. “I wished for another storm, and while they did come, the power remained. It really wasn’t fair. At first the storm was frightening, but then it became a blessing. Oh well. I guess, when the next one comes, I’ll have to throw the breaker to make sure we get the most out of it.”

My mouth had officially combusted. The sensation spread down my gullet as I swallowed the meat. How, oh I ask how, could this man in front of me, with his bristly beard already full of Atomic sauce, devour an entire basket of these things."

KNOXVILLE, TN – This is the story of when I witnessed a man eat fire. It was a Tuesday, and the sky looked like slate. Nichole and I had slid into a parking spot in front of Quaker Steak and Lube. We were early.

“Are you going to eat them?” she asked.

“I might try one. I think I kind of have to.” I said.

A few minutes later, a silver-bullet of a car cruised into the parking lot and stopped next to us. It was Fryin’ Brian making what, to him, was a weekly pilgrimage. There’s something about Brian that any time as he enters any scene, it seems entirely appropriate to play some old static-laced Hank Williams song; “Honky Tonkin’” should about do it. Brian lumbered up, and the three of us entering what is commonly known as “The Lube.”

“Ready to eat some hot wings?” I asked Brian.

“Do it every damn week,” he said. “This ain’t nothing.”

“I take it you getting the Atomics?”

“I get ‘em every time, and they’re good. They go down like candy.”

I was still wrestling with the idea of trying the Atomic Wings. They are so spicy that The Lube once had patrons sign a contract that cleared the establishment of all post-wing responsibility. So, as I understood it, these wings could kill me, and my little speck of a life could reach its climax on the floor of a place called The Lube.

The waiter approached. Brian ordered the sacred Atomics. Nichole ordered Asian style, and I, characteristically, wimped out and ordered plain hot wings. I could already see the indelible headline: “Scooter Cowardly Orders Hot (Wimpy) Wings. Atomics laugh heartily.”

“You can try a piece of mine, brother,” Brian said. I should have felt relief, but even this mild consolation startled me. I began to wonder whimsical things, like how cushiony the carpet was at The Lube or how it long it would take the paramedics to respond.

I drank a beer. Nichole sipped one. Brian drank two. Was he numbing his taste buds? Was that the key to Atomic Wing success? Should I too drink excessively, or would that only speed-up my post-Atomic demise?

The Wings arrived at our table, but I swore I could catch their fumes as they cleared the kitchen door. Their scent was stinging, almost suffocating. It felt like a hornet had flown up my nose and instantly crapped out acid. Brian basically licked his chops. Without any notice at all, he sunk his teeth into that juicy inferno.

“Just like candy,” he said.

“I can smell them from here,” I said.

Nichole held her nose.

“They smell good,” he said. “You should try ‘em.”

I nodded slightly and bit into one of my wings. It tasted as I expected it to taste: mild. I was coward; I knew that for sure. In the world of manly excursions, eating the hottest wings is a sure-fire way to rise to the top of masculinity, and by humbly munching on tame wings, I provided too much evidence that my estrogen level was high.

“My wings are pretty good,” Nichole said. Of course they were; they were tamest of all.

There was only one sensible thing for me to do. I had to try the Atomic Wings. “Cut me off a little piece,” I said.

“These are the hottest wings in town,” said Brian. I thanked him for his bedside manner, and with my fork, I snagged a small piece of chicken from his basket.

I was definitely hesitant, as I smelled the piece of meat until my nostrils hurt. I then decided to compromise and dip the meat into my ramekin of ranch dressing. Actually, dip might be an understatement. The correct description would be that I drenched the meat in ranch until there wasn’t even a section of it visible.

“Chicken shit,” Brian said. “The ranch dulls it.”

“I know,” I said.

Here was the moment. I glanced at Nichole in a subtle attempt to say farewell. I would have said farewell to Brian as well, but I secretly blamed him for convincing me to try such a thing. I shoved the meat into my mouth and chewed until the ranch wore off. Sensation: that’s the best way to describe it. It spread like spicy cancer through my mouth, and I tried to chew faster. I let out a sound, although I don’t remember what it was. Something like “Whew.” Brian snickered. My mouth had officially combusted. The sensation spread down my gullet as I swallowed the meat. How, oh I ask how, could this man in front of me, with his bristly beard already full of Atomic sauce, devour an entire basket of these things. He didn’t use ranch. He used nothing. He just took bite after bite with the look of a famished lion. He enjoyed them. I bet he would have eaten burning coals if I would have asked him.

“How’d you like it?” he asked.

“I hate you,” I said.

“This ain’t nothing,” he said. “These are only 150,000 Scoville units. There’s some in Chicago that are 560,000. I want to try those.” I should explain to the reader that a Scoville heat unit is a measurement of a food’s spice. It measures the presence of capsaicin, the active ingredient in chili peppers. Basically, Brian wanted to eat lava.

“You think you could finish a whole basket?”

“I’d damn sure try.”

I swigged my beer and went back to my regular (tame) hot wings. Interestingly, they weigh in at 3,000 Scoville units, which seemed a lot to me, but when compared to the mini-Mount St. Helens in Brian’s basket, I guess I should consider them about as spicy as a banana.

The rest of the meal passed as uneventfully as any meal does. My mouth still burned, and I feared what might happen when that little piece of chicken fully digested. I imagined that I would make the bathroom my monkish cell, as the wrath of God erupted from my ass.

Nonetheless, I had tried the suitably-named Atomic Wings. Brian ate a basket of them. I had a mere speck. And, if anyone cares to know, Nichole’s Asian wings were probably the best ones there.

Corey grills up the love with spatula and water bottle.

On Saturday evening, Corey McPherson and his domestic partner Shauna Margetson delivered a cookout that rivaled any gala of the summer. Corey was observed early in the evening grilling myriad delicacies such as hot dogs and hamburgers. He performed it all alone save for a trusty bottle of water to shoot down splintery flames. “He’s quite a man,” one attendee said. “He’s like Big John in that song about that guy who died in a mine, except for the fact that he’s not a miner but a designer. Hey, that rhymes. So, I guess the simile works.”

While Corey served up the grub, Shauna entertained by displaying her unique dancing ability. She pranced through the hardwood living room with pigtails flying. The Blue House Lives junior dance correspondent related, “She flew through the air like an intoxicated swan. It was glorious.” In fact, the dancing was so spectacular that one might have thought she was trained by Baryshnikov or Nijinsky.

As Shauna waltzed around, the other attendees crammed their mouths with the delicious food. The Blue House Lives fatty food correspondent said, “The food was typical cookout fare, but very good, nonetheless.”

Aside from the food, guests inebriated themselves on an intriguing assortment of beverages provided by the guests themselves. Jeff L. Horner, one of the guests, said, “My beer was good. I guess everyone’s was. Bring your own beer suited the cookout perfectly.”

It was outside, however, on the dimly lit sidewalk, that the real action took place. Before igniting the grill, Corey had personally constructed a state-of-the-art cornhole arena. The Blue House Lives senior sports correspondent said, “This event was where the heroes were made and the posers destroyed.”

With regard to heroes, it only seemed fitting that The Winner of the World continued his winning streak at parties. Following his glorious return from a cooler injury to win The Blue House Beer Pong Championship, The Winner strutted around the cornhole arena like a king in his castled realm. It seemed as if every toss of the beanbag had the blessing of fate tattooed upon it. He blew through formidable competition that included Scooter and Striker.

The cookout was a gathering of warmth and gaiety.

It was only when Corey Mac himself sauntered onto the sidewalk that The Winner faced a significant challenge. Corey Mac had impressed the crowd earlier with his hitman-esque accuracy and amiable spirit. “The fans love him,” one spectator said. “He’s damn near a working class hero.”

Corey and The Winner battled into the night, and it appeared that even the moon stopped its orbit to observe the competition. Following extra period after extra period, The Winner finally prevailed 16-14. It was perhaps his most glorious moment. Experts say, however, that this could be the beginning of a rivalry that may make the Yankees and Red Sox look like gossipy teenagers.

All in all, the cookout proved to be a considerable success, as old friends mingled and felt the warmth of each other’s presences. One can only hope that Corey and Shauna will hold such a festivity again in the future. If so, The Blue House Lives will definitely be in attendance.

NOTE: All of the photography credit in this article goes to Corey McPherson and Shauna Margetson. Catch more incredible photographs on Corey’s Website.

When The Winner fell, the spirit of the planet fell with him.

A tragedy has befallen the planet. The Winner of the World, a man so decorated and defined by his excellence, was finally stung by the inevitable: failure. He failed to maintain his balance while perching on a cooler. The cooler tipped and The Winner plunged to the earth. Those around fell silent, and some astronomical experts claim that the Earth ceased spinning for a mere moment. The eyes of the world gaped at the broken and intoxicated body lying near the cooler. Some hurled, but most merely wept. The Winner was down, and the world was without a hero.

“I cried all night,” one onlooker said as he began to tear up. “To think that this was possible. I don’t know. It’s impossible to put this into words. We are all lost now.” This sentiment was echoed by everyone as all hope for humanity was sucked from their bodies. Even theologians agree that this travesty has revelation-esque implications. The Blue House Lives chief theological correspondent reported, “Many men of the cloth believe that even God was crying from on high. Forget the Jesus wept. Today, we all wept.”

After the calamity, the cooler was immediately snatched up and imprisoned. After a very speedy trial (4 minutes and 22 seconds), it was convicted of destroying the planet’s confidence in a hero and condemned to death. Hundreds of billions of people are expected at the execution when the cooler will be burnt at the stake later this week.

Will a hero return to save us?

As for The Winner, doctors say that hope is not completely dead. “He has a spirit like nothing I have ever witnessed,” one medical expert stated. “He’ll make it. I know that for sure.” While it is known that The Winner will be back to his winning ways, the condition of the world’s dreams remains unknown. For the trillions of people who held out for a hero before The Winner arrived and silenced their anxieties, the cooler incident was as demoralizing as evil itself.

Perhaps, the very universe has become altered for the worse now. Stargazers report that Alpha Centauri has lost most of it luminescence, and the man in the moon is perpetually frowning. Prophesiers and soothsayers have announced that this event was written in the heavens as the coming of a time of great strife. Nostradamus’s quatrains are now being investigated as to whether there was a significant warning that this would happen.

The day the The Winner failed will now and forever be remembered as a day that will live in infamy. When he toppled from that cooler, all the harmony and ambiance of life toppled with him. Now, it seems, all anyone can do is pray and wait and hold out for a hero.  

Note: The Blue House Lives would like to thank Corey Mac for his on-the-spot photography. The Blue House Lives would  also like to thank Duncan Harryman for the headline. You will always be in our thoughts, Corey and Duncan.

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July 26, 2009 – We Didn’t Start the Fire…

Carlisle thanks Prometheus for the fire.

Last night, all local aristocracy converged upon the Carlisle Estates for what was promised to be the biggest outdoor gathering of the summer. The gala surrounded a large bonfire that was described by one observer as “orange and hot.” The festivity was hosted by John H. Carlisle, the automotive tire tycoon. Attendance was modest at times, but very distinguished. The Blue House Lives freshman social correspondent ultimately labeled the event “an overwhelming success.”

The most conspicuous attraction aside from the fire had to be the makeshift zip line that hurled passengers at high speeds. One passenger described the experience: “You were launched from the tree like a jet ejection. I felt like Harrison Ford in Air Force One. You know, at the end. I zoomed so fast that I thought I left my breath back in the tree.” The zip line was also successful with regard to safety standards, as the Blue House Lives Board of Health, Intoxication, and Safety reported zero injuries linked to the zip line.  Although, there was a small panic when B.L. Caldwell was doused with iced water during his trip down the line, but on-site doctors reported that Caldwell was not threatened by immediate danger from either hypothermia or asphyxiation. “We were all lucky in that regard. Everyone can go home to their families tonight after a rather pleasant experience,” one attendee reported.

Carlisle zip lines into adoring fans.

Along with the fire and the zip line, the party featured a plastic umbrella-covered table with an assortment of complementary foods and delicacies. Most of these foods were potato chips, but most in attendance were satiated. However, there is always a flea on the dog, and this flea was Michael T. Huie, a recent visitor from more eastern lands. He complained regarding the food, “There was no S’mores or wieners. How are you going to have a bonfire without S’mores or wieners? This is crazy!” Most guests, however, were content with the chips.

“Everyone was drinking excessively. It was exactly as it should have been,” on onlooker declared. Even Michael C. Fox, II was not immune to the drink as he was found later in the evening showering the party with water whose spray originated at his crotch. The Winner of the World said of the showering during an interview this morning: “I wish he would have shot it in my hair!” The drinks served or brought to the party have received overall praise from critics who labeled them as “inebriating.”

Guests left the event with a favorable impression of Mr. Carlisle as well. A Blue House Lives poll from the event shows that 98 percent of attendees found Mr. Carlisle to be “congenial and charming.” The Winner of the World expressed affection for Carlisle by saying, “He’s the best taint-haired guy I know.” Even Michael T. Huie was impressed. When asked about Mr. Carlisle, he stated, “He’s gay.” Huie could never be more right, as Mr. Carlisle seemed to be extremely happy with the result of the event. He even took the time to sail gracefully down the zip line into a crowd of adoring fans.

Fox showers guests from his crotch.

While a handful of critics claimed that with all of the attractions, the Carlisle Estates more closely resembled Neverland Ranch than a respected Southside façade, the party raged on, and the guests themselves were highly pleased. B.L. Caldwell was so gratified that he celebrated by almost ramming his car into a fire hydrant. Michael C. Fox, II displayed his fulfillment by throwing his iPod accessible cooler onto the street from a moving SUV. All in all, it must be clearly recognized that Carlisle’s festivity was a highly successful affair.

Note: The Blue House Lives would like to thank Corey Mac for the awesome photographs presented in this piece. Corey has been one our biggest supporters since the publication’s founding. Thank you, Corey! We love you!

The seven beers could cause a huge stir.

There is a simple fact that must be acknowledged at the house this present moment: there are seven Coors Lights in the refrigerator. That they reside in the fridge is not an unbelievable detail, for many a beer has found its way into the Blue House chill-box. No, the unbelievable fact is that these beers have been there since Saturday and have not been drunk. This situation raises the eyebrows of many experts, for it is now unknown as to the fate of these beers. In simple terms, who will drink them, or, even more perplexing, are they, as many claim, untouchable?

These questions will be the subject of intense observation by the Blue House Lives. So far, no one is willing to comment on the status of those seven silver bullets, but everyone tacitly agrees that something must be done. Pundits everywhere have expressed the basic ambiguities regarding full beers that are more than a couple of days old.

Firstly, it becomes difficult to determine whose beer is actually clogging up the refrigerator. At the Blue House, this usually is not a difficult drawback, yet there are times that establishing an owner’s identity becomes a pressing issue. Some have pushed for legislation that places a specific definition on an owner’s period of ownership. Therefore, if a beer outstays its welcome, it becomes what is referred to as “fair game”. Overall, anyone who has a thirst can quench it with the overstayed beer.

The beers could cause major blockage in the refridgerator. By the way, we would like to thank Dole, Brita, and Coors Light for today's unofficial sponsership.

Secondly, the beer simply clogs up the refrigerator. This blockage prevents other beverages, such as milk, soda, or simply more beer from being placed in the fridge. In a place with so many cohabitants like the Blue House, blockage leads to close conflict and the potential for open warfare. So far, no conflicts have broken out over the beers, but the Blue House Lives will be on-scene if belligerency does occur.

The Blue House Lives chief kitchen correspondent reminds us that there has been a spike in the milk consumption in the Blue House. How this will affect those seven beers is still unknown, but it is possible that a complete diary takeover could take place within the confines of the magnet-clad fridge. Yet, it must be remembered that this is all presupposition, but many experts have had presentiments that some crisis stemming from the Coors Lights is approaching. The Blue House Lives will persist in its ongoing coverage of the seven silver bullets and will soon answer whether the beers are, in fact, untouchable.