The MX-6 started and unleashed an uncontrollable cloud of smoke or, to M.C. Fox, "a cloud of glory."

THE GARAGE — Last weekend, The Blue House heard an extraordinary noise. The cause? The MX6 (a.k.a. Gibraltar) fired up for the first time in a very, very long time. Fumes of hard work diffused throughout the house, filling the air with proud molecules of carbon monoxide. House members stood in awe as they made attempts to protect their eardrums while watching the miraculous display.

“I’ve never heard such noise before. Ever since I joined the Blue House, all I knew the MX6 was capable of was sitting there in dull silence. I was wrong,” Nickle told the BHL.

“Oh that noise. That’s just the open headers,” M.C Fox explained.

When a car has open headers, there is no exhaust system installed, and the motor sounds like a powerful thunder storm in an enclosed garage. House members, however, could only take so much of the awesomeness before the light headedness and burning eye sensation kicked in. Residents were forced to evacuate the House and retreat to the sanctity of the Porch.

The show continued sporadically throughout the night in celebration. Even the neighborhood ass, Steve, had to bray in response to the rumbling. Fry-Bry, the House’s Porch Rider and renowned MX6 pessimist, admitted that overcoming that feat was a huge step for Fox in his mission to get The Gibraltar up and running.

“I’m really doing all this for the kids,” Fox told an audience of fellow Car-Domain.com enthusiasts.” I know they don’t get to see one of these beauties too often. But really, it’s for everyone’s viewing pleasures. And it’s fun to drive.” Fox also stated, however, that the car won’t be ready for any shows soon, but things are looking up for next year.

In response to the excitement, Fry-Bry grumbled, “That hunk of metal ain’t going anywhere, brother. Eight-year-olds, dude.”

“I still have a lot of work to do before I enter it into anything just yet. It needs another coat of paint probably.” Fox said.

Although Fox is cautious in his predictions, other House members have faith that they’ll live to see the 6 drive up and down the road someday.

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.

Horner's 300 not only trumped Nichole but set a standard for all Wii bowlers.

THE BLUE HOUSE – A milestone has come and went, but the world definitely noticed. A barrier always stood with regard to Wii Bowling. That barrier was a 300. The Blue House Lives previously reported on one respectable athlete’s quest for the 300, but last weekend, one member of The House finally achieved what he referred to as “a dream I never thought would be fulfilled.”

Jeff L. Horner, Esquire, bowled a perfect game by closing out every frame with a strike. Twelve strikes later, and Horner was standing alone on a podium so high that a jumbo jet nearly struck him in the temple. “I really couldn’t believe it,” Horner said. “I started racking up strikes one after the other, but when I reached the tenth frame and realized that I had a perfect game going, butterflies started having orgasms in the gut.”

And yet, even in that daunting final frame, Horner’s stroke stayed true. Three strikes fell, and with them, a touchstone rose from the dust. “This is a big deal,” The Blue House Sports Network published in an official statement. “Perhaps, Horner was, as many say, the most unlikely candidate. Perhaps, he is a little too inconsistent on his stroke. But, and this is a big butt (a Sir Mix-a-lot size but), he came through when no one else did. Now he sits alone atop the bowling world. Cheers to you, Mr. 300.”

“Mr. 300” has become Horner’s de facto nickname since his unprecedented achievement. “I don’t think it’s a bad name,” he said “and it is certainly marketable. I would seriously consider wearing a Mr. 300 t-shirt.” As of yet, however, merchandising options have not been announced.

Following Horner’s accomplishment, many sports pundits are perched on their little chairs yammering into a camera the one question that now dominates the Wii Bowling universe: “Who will be next? Who will get the next 300?” Many point to the previously undisputed champion of Wii Bowling, Fryin’ Brian. “Brian can definitely get it,” one such pundit commented. “There is little doubt that he wants it the most.” Others point to M.C. Fox, world-renowned virtuoso, who took home the Blue House Tournament of Bowling Champions trophy a year ago. And yet, there are even others who point to Nichole C. K. Stevens, the newest addition to The House. In her few months on the circuit, Stevens has racked up quite a bit of respect from Wii Bowling aficionados.

Whether or not any of these players will garner 300 honors is a curiosity whose conclusion may be merely blowing in the wind. There is, however, another possibility to which experts look, and yet, at the present time, this possibility is only something that one can imagine. It cannot be spoken or analyzed. This possibility is harrowing to say the least. It is simply a succinct question: “Can Horner do it again?”

O.G. is quickly catching on at The House.

THE HOUSE – The game: O.G. The origin: Unknown. Popularity status of this infamous Northwest card game has been skyrocketing ever since the “great” Northwest correspondent Nichole (yet to receive an official nickname) has introduced it to The Blue House. Members of The House are considering dropping off the proper forms to committee in order to make O.G. The House’s Official Card Game. Discussions have been made regarding designating an official O.G card night for the week.

When first taught the game, The Blue House was considerably perplexed by this advanced card game, unknown completely outside of the Puget Sound region. Rumor has it that O.G. was invented in an isolated prison on McNeil Island off the shore of Steilacoom, WA.

The O.G acronym has slowly taken on many meanings. In the Northwest, it is primarily known as original gangster or organized general. Since its expansion from the West coast, it has telephoned into “obscene gayness” and “occult genitalia” thanks to The Blue House.

As addicting and strategic as the game is, and as simple it may truly seem, it can be quite difficult to grasp at first. Once strategies were developed, Blue House members began going wild, screaming absurdities and antagonizing one another. Players have even jumped over The Porch table demanding rematches. From there the spiral of round-after-round of O.G. ass-kicking began.

Blue House member Man-Man took little pity on close Blue House friend Fryin’ Brian as he tragically attempted to learn the rules of the game under the influence. As Man-man continued to instigate Fryin’ Brian and his poor skills, FB was quoted as aggressively responding “I just want to learn the game! I just want to learn the game. Fuck off, I’m trying to learn the fuckin’ game!” Fryin’ Brian’s eagerness and enthusiasm to understand the game was quite apparent, but his slow pace at grasping the rules and game strategies were quickly used against him by Scooter and, more often, Man-Man.

Nichole brought the game from the "great" Northwest.

As expected with any addicting substance, all players were present the next day for more. Only this time, they came prepared with their game faces on. Talk had circulated, and it became apparent that the Blue House had formed alliances within already existing alliances. Along with creating allies and enemies, a silent language of cheat codes composed entirely of coughs and blinks were noticed as well.

Who knows if members of The Blue House will ever reach such champion levels as World, Universal, Divine, or Ultimate Yoda O.G. Master? Only one has been known to even reach Divine, and naturally that player resides in Dupont, WA, which is the capital of O.G tournaments (for now). Maybe with practice, The Blue House might have a chance at this extraordinary Pacific West Coast game…maybe.

Rules

• 3 face down cards, not to be touched till end of game. They are to be drawn randomly through the guide of lady luck.
• 3 face up cards, or “front line (BH Trademark)” cards rest on top of the 3 already down
• 3 cards in hand, so 9 to start. The 3 cards in hand can only be swapped out for higher cards with the front line cards at the beginning of the game.
• 3 cards must remain in hand consistently, as players discard and pick up from the remaining deck, or draw pile. Object is to match or trump the starter card, which is just flipped from the draw pile. The starter card must be lower than a face card and can’t be a 2 or 10 either. Once the players have swapped their front line out and the starter card is flipped, the player left of the dealer starts the game off.
• If a player cannot match or trump a discarder card, then he or she must pick up the discard pile and use it in his or her hand till the hand is back down to 3 cards again
• Once a player’s hand is gone, and there are no more cards to pick from the draw pile, then players turn to the front line for support. Once those cards are diminished, then players rely on the mystery cards faced down and hope that luck is on their side. If the card they flip cannot beat the discard pile, then the player must pick up that pile and continue to play.
• Winner is whoever gets rid of their entire hand first

• 2’s are wild/reverse back to the players turn
• 10’s blow up the discard pile and those cards are no longer in use. Player then places down the new starter card
• 4 of a kinds act as 10’s and blow up the pile
• 3-9 are ranked in numerical order
• Jacks-Aces are high, like most face cards are and are ranked accordingly. Aces are highest next to 2’s and 10’s, so be careful with them. Suits are irrelevant.
• Remember to keep 3 cards in hand!!!

* Game can be played with 2-4 players, preferably 3. Any more requires another deck of cards, or ½ a deck.