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Untappd—Social Networking the Way God Intended

Recently, I had an idea for an app so I tossed it out my friend who runs BuffaloSoapBox.com and has had some experience with app development.  Although the subject material of this app is a mutual interest of ours, his response was more or less, “Meh.”

Nevertheless, I started trolling Google Play to see if something like what I had in mind existed already.  Through this halfhearted drunk Google Play stumbling I came across a choice little piece called Untappd.  For those unfamiliar, this is basically Foursquare for beer.

You ‘check in’ to whatever beer you’re drinking, add a photo, add your location, maybe a snobby comment, rate the brew and bam, your beer before work or the handful you have after when you go barhopping while your girlfriend thinks you’re still at work, are broadcast to all your friends and recorded to be used against you in court later.  Like every app out there you can connect it to Facebook and Twitter so it instantly shots your check ins to those sites, and your location is tied in through Foursquare.

There’s a few cool things about checking in to a particular beer—first of all, you can follow the brewery.  I can’t seem to figure out where to do this on the app, but if you’re on the website, the breweries you’re following are listed and you can click through them to see who else is drinking their brews and even which styles by them are trending.

You’re not just seeing random people across the country check in to beers.  Like Foursquare—and the interface is basically identical—you can friend people and see what and where they’re drinking.  This is a social app after all, so it isn’t just about what people are drinking, it’s where they’re drinking it.  Going back to the brewery pages, you can also see the bars where those beers are most popular.

The friend thing is cool because there are so many micros out there—I only have a handful of friends right now but they range from Pennsylvania to Oregon to West Virginia and California so I haven’t heard of any of the beers these people are drinking.

What if, for example, I had a buddy in Chicago, and he’s cracking open some microbrew he found at a dive bar on his way up to Kelly Lake, and this beer is brewed in Wisconsin and only sold within a three hundred mile radius of this bar.  Maybe it sounds pretty good.  Maybe it sounds so good you go visit him just to try some.  Or better yet, when he moves back to town, he brings a sixer with him.

Just saying…  Without Untappd you may never have heard of this beer.  This beer could change your life.

Most importantly though, Untappd puts things in perspective for you.  I don’t just mean that as you check into different beers you notice you’re maybe drinking too much.  That can happen, but this app isn’t for idiots playing beer pong who are marking down their cans of Natty Ice by sharpying hash marks on the wall.  You’re using this app to share good beer, not to let everyone know you think Genny Cream Ale is only a 2 out of 5 bottle caps.

The main thing I’ve learned from the brief time I’ve been using this app is that I drink shitty beer.  I want to believe it’s just the time of year, I’m a little broke after a couple vacations and you know how it goes.  My only major accomplishment with Untappd is that I’m friends with Wil Wheaton on it, it brought a tear to my eye when he accepted—but at the moment that only serves to twist of the knife that is my shitty beer drinking.

That buddy I mentioned in the example above is, in fact, moving back to Buffalo from Chicago, and he can be a little bit of a beer snob.  Maybe that can turn this around and help me save some beerface.

So check out the app and find me, shame me into drinking something that’ll make Wil Wheaton proud.

The Autobiography of Kevin

Chapter 1

Monday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and a baked pork chop that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Genny Cream Ale on the coffee table, and left the nineteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible five thousand ninety-seven times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Tuesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Miller High Life  on the coffee table, and left the thirteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had places to be.

Tonight was Man Night, the weekly gathering of a dozen or so friends in a crowded, disheveled attic, complete with pool table leveled out with coasters, a naked female mannequin, several televisions of debatable working conditions, a deep-fryer and a keg, kept snuggly in a refrigerator of debatable working condition.  A paradise this attic is, a true Eden for the group of young professions interested in drinking, debating the merits of the metric system, making fun of Dyke Lofer, a young man in possession of the honey-pot who frequents the Buffalo Club for no discernable reason whatsoever, and pissing out windows in front of which the aforementioned naked female mannequin was situated.

After I polished off half the keg I decided it was time to go.  The local police had stopped circling the block watching the house about an hour before, so it was safe to leave.

On my way home I stopped at this great sub place and ordered the Philly Cheesesteak, a fourteen inch log of grease sprinkled with meat.  When I got home I sat in my La-Z-Boy and inhaled my sub.  Once I had caught my breath, I farted.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 


Chapter 3

Wednesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked fish that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Busch Lite  on the coffee table, and left the nine and three-quarters dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand twenty-eight times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Thursday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under forty-five seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Icehouse on the coffee table, and left the twenty-two dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand one hundred and six times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Friday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.  I had to cut my normal pooping time down today though, after all it was Friday, I had places to be.

I changed from my shirt and tie and my gray pants that may be too tight or may accentuate my bum just for the ladies—you be the judge—and put on my play-clothes so I wouldn’t get yelled at later.  I wore my plaid going-out shirt and rolled the sleeves up in a just-so casual kind of way.  Some people might think that shirt’s a little tight on me, but I think it’s just right.  I’ll let the ladies decide when I’m up on stage later at karaoke with my buddy Dave, totally making “Bye Bye Bye” our bitch.

Then I went out to the bar.  That’s where I drank.  While I was drinking I held a conversation with my former roommate Busse entirely in quotes from The Simpsons, Seinfeld and Family Guy, occasionally referencing the “Danger Zone!” and “meowschwitz” as well.

After we finished all the beer at the bar we left to meet up with Dave and some other cool dudes.  We sang some karaoke.  For our encore, me and my buddy Dave sang “Quit Playing Games with My Heart.”  We totally rocked that shit.

When we left we stopped at Mighty Taco on the way back to my apartment.

Once back home we fueled our sphincters on taco-taco-burritos and polished off the last of the Natty Ice.  Then Busse’s girlfriend called him and he was “in twouble,” since he’d told her he was on his way right home after work, which was eight hours ago, so he had to go home.   When he left I put on this movie, “The Ice Cream Man,” starring Clint Howard in a tour de force performance that was heinously snubbed by those pretentious flamers running the Academy Awards.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Saturday

 

I woke up this afternoon.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.

I made some coffee.  While it was brewing  I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, while I drank my coffee I struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

Being Saturday and all I spent my day firmly ensconced in my La-Z-Boy watching SyFy Channel original movies.

Around halfway through “Octoyetisaurus vs Giant Squidapus in Cleveland” I had to poop.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

After that I went out to Wegman’s and picked up a sub, the quite tasty and vastly underrated Wegman’s Assorted with ham, turkey and roast beef.  I housed that shit and had a few Beasts, aka Milwaukee’s Best.  Damn right it is.  Then I burped and that bad boy rocked the house.  I thought the TV was going to fall off the wall.  It’s a really nice TV.  Then I farted.

After that, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to continue my SyFy channel marathon.  Perhaps it was the utter stupidity of the movies or the 80s-pop-star/soft-core-porn/chick-fight in “Mega Python vs Gatoroid” that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand five hundred and thirty-two times, breaking my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Sunday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

I was skited, or excited for you lay people.  You see, today was foozball day.

I turned on the TV.  It was still pretty early, only 9am, but I turned on to the Buffalo Bills pre-game show.  Since kickoff wasn’t until 1pm I left the room.  The sink was overflowing with dishes and the trash can had garbage piled up about six and half feet above the rim of the can, but instead I ignored all that nonsense and put a load of laundry in.  three hours or so later I moved that load to the dryer and put another load in the wash so that they’d be ready in four days when I finally went back to retrieve them.  Laundry really takes a long time, I don’t know how my mom would get it all done.

When I came back upstairs, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

A  little before one Busse came over with half a case of beer and some tacos.  There was still some Red Dog left so we were pretty well stocked up for the game.

When the game finally started I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand.  Perhaps it was the repetition of Bills’ turnovers that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand seven hundred and two times, breaking my previous record.  It’d been a pretty good week for La-Z-Boy farts, I’m hoping I can keep it up and crack 7k next week.  I’m feeling good, the sphincter’s feeling loose.

Then Busse’s girlfriend called.  She was back from yoga or picking up smokes from the Indian reservation or doing something else, and he was nowhere to be found, so he was “in twouble” again.   Since it was a horrible day for the Buffalo Bills anyway, he left.

I flipped channels from one football game to the next and watched ESPN so they could remind me about everything that had happened during the football games I’d watched, then I watched some cartoons.

Around ten  I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

I certainly didn’t want to die in my sleep though.  Tomorrow was Monday, the start of another week, and I just couldn’t wait to do it all again.

 

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