by Mike Stangle
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Sur La Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Preface: A Letter to Our Mother, Denise
Introduction: Meet the Stangles!
A Media Tour Done Right
Our Own Personal eHarmony
The Purge
The Hunt: Let’s Be Offensively Honest
Breaking Up
A Coonskin Tale
It’s All About the Nipple
Extended Pleasure
Inside the Sicko’s Studio
Molly. Roofalin?
(Too Much) Grass
Goofballs
Holly Humphrey Holy Hell!
I Farted on a Baby
Punched by a Midget, Directly in My Penis
Gay Guys, They’re Awesome!
The Gag Is Up!
Have I Mentioned Quack?
Fudgies in Vegas
Afterword: We Fed Mom a Pot Cookie
Appendix
About Mike and Dave Stangle
Acknowledgments
To our brother, Sean.
For being our Cooper Manning and sitting this one out.
To our dad, JT Stangle.
You’ve already read too much. Go back to Bill O’Reilly books.
To our agent, Michelle.
Thanks for finding us, then making our lives way cooler.
To our other agent, Cait.
For somehow amplifying all the stuff Michelle did for us.
To our editor, Jeremie.
For trying to read our “C-section” line aloud in a Simon & Schuster staff meeting. You sicko.
To our other editor, Kiele.
Thanks for still talking to us after you read our first draft. And for changing it.
To Jay Barbeau.
Everyone should look Jay up on Facebook and add him as a friend right now. Mike will drink a Zima on YouTube for every ten new friends he gets.
To the state of Colorado.
For legalizing grass just as we were about to finish this book, for the third time.
To 1996’s “Dancing Baby” viral video.
For going viral first. Though considered adorable at the time, with today’s advancements in 3D technology it would surely qualify as baby-porn. Ooga-Chaka!
To Pop Rocks and soda.
For taking internet virality and giving it an unwarranted bad-boy feel.
To SpaceBalls.
For basically being the best movie ever.
To Craigslist.
For pulling the ole’ Price-Is-Right “$1 DOLLAR, BOB!” on eBay. They never saw it coming.
To Dick Cheney.
Because we can say, “Hey man, at least we’re not Dick Cheney” when people give us shit about this book, and they’ll be all like “you’re right.” Handshake.
To our friends, so many to name.
You’re much funnier than we are. You had a part in any part of this book that makes our readers laugh. So, probably seven people have laughed because of you. Way to help us write a shitty book. Thanks for that.
Author’s Note
(Dave)
It’s difficult to write one book between two people, especially because Mike is borderline illiterate. Still, it’s tricky to establish a single voice, and the reader can become confused as to who is talking when. Truth is, it’s both of us talking, always, regardless of “whose story” it is. Every chapter is a collaboration between us—written, edited, re-edited, scrapped, started over, argued over, drunk over, and then, finally, shoved by both of us face-first through a plate glass window to the finish line (and always past our deadlines).
If that confuses you, we’re sorry. Now you know how Mike feels all the time.
Preface
A Letter to Our Mother, Denise
Dear Mom,
You look great today. Have you done something different with your hair? We love it! Not a lot of women can pull off that look. Good for you.
Mama, we’ve been asked to write a book and unfortunately, it’s mostly the stuff we promised we’d never tell you. Like—remember a few years back when you made us breakfast as we recapped that crazy Christmas party? You finally asked us to stop when Dave said, “You’d be surprised how realistic the vagina felt!” You laughed and you cried and you made us promise never to repeat that story in front of Dad. This book is like that, but way worse.
For as long as we can remember, you’ve led by example and taught us what is important to enjoy and what is important to forget. You taught us not to take ourselves too seriously. You taught us what pairs best with wine (more wine, so simple). Dad may think we’re complete degenerates, and you might not always want to hear the details, but we know that deep down, you’re glad we’re having fun.
Come to think of it, just skip the damn book and let’s go have some wine.
We love you,
Mike and Dave
Dave and Mike, after a very high Facetime brotherly catch-up/pump-up. December 18, 2013.
Introduction
Meet the Stangles!
(Dave)
Oh man, first off—the book cover reveals our full names, and when our dad reads what’s in here, he is going to shit himself. He will actually shit, and if he is wearing pants at the time, he will shit himself. He wants nothing to do with any of this “nonsense.” When he first heard we were writing a book, he requested final editorial approval on the entire thing. Oh hey Dad, are you NUTS? We aren’t writing a book on conservative talk radio or upstate New York’s best driving roads.
Republican. Robust mustache. Wise. Old. Duck farts. Disapproval. Tough love: John Stangle. You can’t blame our dad for not being crazy about all of this. He’s old-school. He is the face of old-school. You could even argue his appearance resembles that of an actual old school. It needs restoration, funding is tight, and it just wasn’t designed to handle this many kids! Besides, his political beliefs don’t allow room in the budget for excess government spending. Johnny could never have predicted that his future wife’s wild side was genetic, destined to dominate his boring, by-the-book, law-abiding genes when drawing up the pundit squares for the Stangle kids. John Thomas Stangle (JT) was born in the same village in which he currently still resides, sixty-two years later. Yes, we’re from a village. It’s the same village where our entire family was born and raised. How many people do you know who grew up in a village, and aren’t either an Eskimo or a Smurf? Well, now you know two, and you’re about to meet a few more. The Village of Menands was founded in 1924, and as of the 2010 census, the population was just shy of four thousand people (we’ll get there, just wait for 2020!). Our dad loves Menands; it’s a part of everything that is JT Stangle. He even currently holds the title of “Village Clerk,” just so nothing goes on within village lines that he doesn’t have some sort of scent of in that old hound dog nose of his. Old-school guys like our dad are often labeled as hard-asses. He is a hard-ass, but it’s also important to know he is a really sweet fella. Like Jeff Bridges’s character in True Grit, he is a likable, stand-up, grizzled old soul of a hard-ass whom you root for. That’s our old man. No wonder he’s been able to lock up a dime like our mom since ’74.
Our mom, Denise, (Denny, to her friends) didn’t grow up far from Menands. She was only a few towns away, actually. You know what’s cool about our folks? They are high school sweethearts. From villa
ges. I know! God, they’re cute. They’ve been married forty years. Cheers, you two. They met when they were seventeen. Denny claims that my dad is the only guy she has banged throughout her entire life, but we don’t buy it. Come on, Mom! If that’s the case, you missed out, even for that day and age. In any case, we’re happy to say that, somehow, JT and Denny are still smitten to this day. Denise is the very definition of “Forever Young.” Rod Stewart might have even written the song about her. Did he write that song? He certainly sang it; he sang the shit out of it.
Denny encompasses so many incredibly admirable character traits, Mike and I would be lucky to inherit half of them between us. Denny is intrinsically kind, selfless, and caring. She is wildly patient, wise, and has seen it all. She is a great cook, makes a mean cocktail, and can even fix a zipper! She is like a professional mom, but being a friend is her passion. Denny is the complete package. If you didn’t pick up on this already, Mike and I aren’t ashamed to admit we’re huge mama’s boys. I’m proud of it. With a mama like this, who wouldn’t be a mama’s boy? Denny is the throbbing heart of our big old family.
And she raised four kids! Oh yeah, Mike and I aren’t the only ones. Did we mention that? Two came before us; we’re numbers three and four. If there are a couple of fractions somewhere out there in between us, JT, we won’t hold it against you. The seventies were a wild time. The chronological leader of the pack is our brother Sean, age thirty-five. He’s a real tool. Whether or not we actually believe that is known only to us. Sorry, Sean, when two brothers write a book without the remaining brother, they’re compelled to take advantage of the opportunity and call the third brother a tool in print. Sean lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. The day after Sean graduated from college, his long-term girlfriend dumped him (ha!), so he packed up and moved out to Vegas with a few buddies on a whim. Power move. They all still live out there to this day. Sean has two degrees—one in mathematics and another in some sort of engineering. What’s he do out there for a living? Oh, he’s a bartender. In Vegas, he’s a “mixologist,” if you ask him. He pours different combinations of liquor over ice and serves it to bachelor parties, businessmen, and entertainers until they work up the courage to go spend a night with hookers. But he is a damn fine mixologist. Sean knows more about booze and hospitality than anyone I’ve ever met.
For us, this is both a blessing and a curse. It takes a real sick son of a bitch to actually be able to survive while living in Vegas. Think about that for a second. Most normal humans have a firm two-night, three-day limit in Vegas before they lose it. Personally, if I’m within Vegas city limits for more than thirty-six hours, I turn into Teen Wolf and start surfing tops of moving vans. Sean is different. I used to think he was the smart one, but that was just because Mike and I have been acting like idiots the last fifteen years. Our cat Sticky seemed smart compared to us, and he was literally diagnosed as “a retarded cat.” That’s the vet’s phrase, not ours.
My parents didn’t put up with nearly as much shit from Sean as they did from us. Sean had to go through the first-time-parent shit. When Sean was seventeen, he wasn’t allowed to ride in the car with other high school kids, because it “was dangerous.” Things loosened up so much for me that by the time I was seventeen, I was paying twelve-year-olds to chauffeur me around! Hell—by the time Mike was seventeen, he got arrested for throwing a giant party on the roof of our middle school, a story that would appear on the local news. No wonder Sean lives in Vegas now; he’s making up for lost time. Now is also a good opportunity to mention that Sean is only six feet tall, while we rose to the handsome height of six four (though Mike claims to be six five).
Then there’s Kristen. She’s the only girl and is 100 percent our old man’s favorite. She always has been. Kristen is like the Vlad Putin of Stangle offspring sibling popularity. She runs unopposed, every term. She is also an absolute character. We’ve never met anyone more comfortable, aware, and honest about who she is. Kristen does exactly what she feels like doing all the time. If she wants something, she buys it. If she wants to go somewhere, she goes there. If she doesn’t want to be somewhere, she leaves. She is incredibly unfiltered. She’s a tough cookie too; she had to be, after growing up surrounded by three brothers. That poor girl couldn’t bring a prospective guy near the house without us turning into a bunch of junkyard Rottweilers. Her first boyfriend was this turd named Jay. He worked at a Pokémon/Magic: The Gathering trading card store in the mall. The kid had a chin-strap beard at eighteen years old. Jay also went to our rival high school: South Colonie, the Garnet Raiders! We Stangle boys could read the writing on the wall that Jay was bad news. With an effort spearheaded by JT himself, we brothers tried to shake Kristen’s young love for this dirtbag. We tried everything! When Kris and Jay would sneak off to start frenching somewhere, Sean and I would send Mike in there, ten years old and armed with a spatula, to break up the lip wrestling. But no matter how many times we tried, we learned that Kristen cannot be deterred. If she wants it—she gets it.
Now you’re starting to get the complete Stangle family picture. JT and Denny, Sean and Kris, then the shithead duo of Mike and myself. The first time we described ourselves to the public, we didn’t know it would be public at all. We were just fucking around. It provided a fun, creative outlet to break up the day. Had we known one of our Craigslist posts would go viral and be read by so many people, we might have put a little more thought into it.
Who Is Dave Stangle?
Dave and Frank, both seemingly unimpressed.
(Mike)
Meet my big brother Dave: Division One athlete, business professional, grade-A scumbag. Dave is my mother’s favorite. Why? Good fucking question. We’re talking about the guy who out of sheer boredom spent all of this past Christmas Eve trying to convince my father of his made-up-on-the-spot homosexuality. The guy who dressed up like a stray dog for Halloween only so he could bark and growl loudly at women and piss, dick out and leg up, on every fire hydrant he passed in Manhattan. The guy who insists on pulling his pants (and underpants) all the way down every time he pees in a public urinal—affectionately referring to this as “the preschool pee-pee.” I realize I sound bitter here, but it’s just unbridled jealousy. My big brother is an inspiration: perverse lunatic meets brilliant, charismatic piece of shit. He is creative, ballsy, and has no absolutely positively no conscience whatsoever. It’s a lethal combination.
People who don’t know him typically assume he makes up most of his stories, but I’ve been an eyewitness to more than I’d care to admit, and in most cases he’s actually toning it down. Dave has been punched in the dick by a midget! He was once roundhouse kicked in the face by a female all-American kung fu master (he would kill me if I didn’t make sure to mention that he ended up winning that fight “unanimously,” even though it took place on our front lawn). I might hate him 51 percent of the time and love him the other 49 percent, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit he’s the perfect guy to have in your corner 100 percent of the time, even if he has the most fucked-up priorities of all time. In a pinch and need a condom? Don’t go to Dave in a million years. Need an iPhone 5 charger? He’s got six in his top drawer, where the condoms should be.
I am not a writer and I don’t pretend to be, but I’m not even sure Dave can put together a grammatically sound sentence. Seriously, the hardest part of writing this whole thing has been correcting his use of “there,” “their,” and “they’re.” Dave, how do you even survive professionally? At the end of the day, my brother and I have a lot in common, but I think what makes us most similar is that we’ve both always believed that to survive as modern-day young gentlemen, we need to have as much fun as possible while giving as few fucks about as few things as possible. We want the last check we write to bounce. I’m lucky to have Dave, this big ol’ mess, as my older brother, making all the mistakes I never had to make, treading through all the mud while my shoes stayed white.
Okay, Dave, me now me now.
Wait, Who Is Mike Stangle?
&
nbsp; Here we see Mike, stoned.
(Dave)
Mike Stangle isn’t just a complete accident that resulted from a road trip our folks took back in 1987. Back then, my mom and dad drove counterclockwise around the outer border of the United States in my dad’s gray panel van (one of several full-size vans my dad has owned in his lifetime). It didn’t have any chairs or benches in the back, you know, ’cause it was a fucking panel van. Our old man just heaved a mattress back there so he and my mom could save on hotel costs. What a classic move! I honestly don’t know how you don’t get a chick pregnant with that plan, but as far as I could tell, no one knew what the hell was going on in the eighties, anyway. Thousands of miles and several dozen boxes of wine later, Mike was conceived. Ew!
Since then, Mike has been sucking up one-quarter of my parents’ attention that otherwise would have been nicely allocated three ways between my brother, sister, and me. I was supposed to be the baby, the family caboose! Instead, I spent my childhood in the middle with my sister. In the meantime, Mike got away with all the shit I got in trouble for. My parents were so worried about the things my buddies and I were up to that they forgot to worry about Mike. The youngest always grows up fast. I’m pretty sure he knew how to put on a rubber before I did. Mike has been a grade-A sexual deviant from a very young age, he figured things out quicker than most kids. The first time I ever put a condom on, I thought that it was supposed to go around my balls, too. Turns out that is basically impossible. The condoms just kept snapping as I stretched them around my entire dick and balls, then they would go flying off like popped balloons, twirling around the room and making the dog bark.
Mike is constantly approached by gay men looking for a good time, despite his (allegedly) unwavering love for females. The top-line fact is that Mike has lived his youth in a way that, upon reflection, splits grown men into two camps. In the first camp are the men who see Mike and regret their own comparatively tame youth. But if they’re lucky, they’re in the second camp—those who look at Mike and are reminded immediately of just how much they truly nailed it. Mike is so many things: unemployed nomad, string cheese enthusiast, scooter rider, silly heart, currently sweating in a men’s room john. I could go on and on. At this point, I’m just riding his coattails; there is no possible way I can keep up. I may be one sick pup, but Mike is a different breed altogether. Have you ever woken up on an Indian reservation? In Canada? Mike has. Try to figure that one out. We’re talking about a guy who once accidently drank his own semen. Fact. He’s the guy who got so drunk before we went on Anderson Cooper (films at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday, mind you) that he couldn’t remember what state Orlando was in. He has a knack for three things: Overeating, armpit sweat, and finding adventure everywhere he sets foot. Yes, two of those are serious flaws that keep him from romantic success. But he’s not all dick jokes and frat stories; never mind that he was never even in a frat and that he has a terrible dick (both true).
