Czolgosz lost his job as a steelworker at the Cleveland Rolling Mill during the economic Panic of 1893 and joined a radical socialist group known as the Sila Club, where he became interested in anarchism. He was also influenced by the anarchist Emma Goldman, whom he heard speak in Cleveland in May of 1901.

Government injustice, which allowed robber barons to enrich themselves by exploiting the working man, prompted Czolgosz to take action against McKinley. 

The assassination, two shots from a revolver to the abdomen, occurred while the president was greeting people in a receiving line at the exposition’s Temple of Music. Czolgosz pleaded guilty at trial, which began on September 23rd in Buffalo and lasted two days. The jury came back with a guilty verdict in less than thirty minutes, and he was executed at the state penitentiary in Auburn, NY, on October 29th, 1901.  

His final words were: “I killed the President because he was the enemy of the good people—the good working people. I am not sorry for my crime.” Then, his eyes bugged out for a moment, and in a prescient afterthought, he added, “Fuck the Bills…and the Sabres too.”  

The Bills are off to a fast start again, with Josh Allen playing at an MVP level. The Sabers have looked good in their preseason outings as well, with Noah Ostlund assuming the role of Alex Tuch, who left the team via free agency. Yet, like goldfish, whom Ted Lasso says are the happiest creatures on the planet because they have a memory that lasts ten seconds, the people of Buffalo are nauseatingly convinced once again that this is their year.

Buffalo Mud caught up with a few Western New Yorkers to get their thoughts on the Czolgosz curse:

Cami Clune—singer-songwriter-primary anthem singer for the Buffalo Sabres. Cami didn’t mention the curse and instead broke into song:
O Canada
Our home and native land
True patriot love in all of us command
I’m sooo goddamn hot
And Doug Allen is a big bald twat
Don’t even think about taking MY job
You COVID-denying knob…

Kevin McNamara—mixologist and Olympic floater. Throwing back tequila shots and sipping a Blue Light, he said, “As a world-class athlete myself, I don’t believe in any of this curse nonsense. You stick to your training regimen and trust the process. That’s what makes champions like me.”

Donna Kane—artist and wife of Amazon’s 1.5 millionth-ranked most popular author, P.A.Kane. She said, “I’m not sure about all this Czolgosz business, but I do know about curses. I’ve been with a man for a million years; thirty-plus years, and in spite of my constant, constant Karen-like nagging, I can never get him to take off his dirty fucking shoes when he comes in the house or put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And, don’t get me started about his dick. But, this is my cross to bear and my curse. Thankfully, I’ve learned to make all his thoughtlessness go away with a good healing cry…and gummies.”

Frankie Foolong—Service Manager, Buffalo Strive Vending, Starbucks Barista, and Dollar General weekend manager drew from his personal life about curses. “Just like Sherry Solmolotti’s ass cursed me with fifteen fucking years of alimony payments, this city and its sports teams are cursed. Hell, yeah, I believe in curses.”

Nick Langworthy—inconsequential, scardy cat GOP congressman from NY 23 who won’t hold a town hall meeting. “Forget Czolgosz, this curse is Kathy Hochul’s fault. She works for the Chinese government. She has a secret taxpayer-funded slush fund. She has secret environmental mandates and will be seizing your gas stove any day now. Also, explain how, in the first year of a multi-year super El Niño, New York was somehow colder last winter—I’ll tell you how—Kathy Hochul.
This morning, when you were stumbling around in the dark and you stubbed your toe, it wasn’t the twelve-pack of Busch Lites or the pork rinds from the previous night that brought that ouchie. It was Kathy fucking Hochul and her stupid policies that have made NY so unaffordable you have to work on the weekend for Frankie Foolong at the Dollar General instead of stretching out on the couch in your double-wide while you excise those Busch Lites with a Judge Judy marathon.”

The Bills are off a 2-0 start and play the L.A. Chargers this Sunday, 1 pm at Highmark Stadium. The Sabres open their season in Columbus against the Blue Jackets on October 1. 

The post Buffalo Celebrates One Hundred Twenty Five Years Of The Czolgosz Curse appeared first on buffalomud.com.

Sitting in Chaloooski’s coffee shop in Kaisertown, Malinchowski groused, “That book was so ponderous. It was sad that his parents died and he had to raise his brother, but it just went on and on and on. Hello—get a freaking editor. Also, I’m sorry no one showed up to your mom’s funeral, but jeez, Eggers, the world doesn’t revolve around you. Manage your expectations, buckaroo.”

“Yeah, and that McSweeny’s satire site he runs or founded or whatever the fuck—tell me, how is that funny?” McSlappy asked, befuddled. “Bunch of pretentious, beret-wearing twats from Harvard laughing at their own jokes.”

But the attraction between Malinchowski and McSlappy wasn’t limited to just despising Eggers or his book. They shared a hatred of numerous things: White Claws, pugs, and people who say: Be the change you want to see, and more.

“White Claws, I mean, what the fuck,” Malinchowski scoffed. “What prissy asshole thought that up? Let’s mix almost zero alcohol with soda and sell it to wanna be posers as a style fucking thing. You know who’s cool? The person who thought up whiskey and those Hayburners they sell around here. They’re like 10% alcohol and knock you on your ass.”

Nodding, McSlappy continued, “You know what else sucks—Pugs. They’re little garbage dogs with pushed-in faces and stubby legs. I walk faster than they can run. And what’s with the way they bark? They sound like my grandma when she wakes up in the morning, all phlegmy and out of breath—gross. No offense, Grandma, but forty years of Lucky Strikes did a number on the way you sound, and that baseball mitt of a face you have.” 

Malinchowski then imitated McSlappy’s phlegmy grandmother, and they both laughed. “Your Grandma is so gross, babe. But I bet you never heard nonsense like: Be the change you want to see, coming out of her leathery piehole. When I hear people say that, I wanna choke them out. That’s the change I want to see—them gone from this earth. How about instead of pithy little phrases, you just keep quiet and not be an asshole. Eeezee peezee, right, shitbags?”

Smiling at Malinchowski, a cooing McSlappy says, “You know that stupid song by Whitney Houston— ‘The Greatest Love of All,‘ where she sings about children being our future and the greatest love is with yourself? Well, first off, have you seen today’s little fucking Bluey watching mutant children? They’re all whiny and entitled with their juice boxes, veggie stix,’ and little devices. If they’re the future, let’s get on with it, and say adios to planet Earth. And that second part about the greatest love being with yourself? Don’t get me wrong, I like a good wank as much as the next guy, but the greatest love is not with yourself, or someone with the same values and interests or Hulu account. The greatest love is with someone who hates the same shit as you. Right, babe?”

“You know it, babe.” Malinchowski then leaned in and kissed her boyfriend.

Content with their shared hatred of books, drinks, kids, certain dogs, and more, the couple has no plans to take any further steps in their relationship, saying their present status as haters-together is a dream come true.

The post Local Couple Finds Love In Hating The Same Dave Eggers Book And More… appeared first on buffalomud.com.

The device has been used mostly with older adults living alone who have little contact with others or the outside world. The results have been encouraging. Over 90% of those using ElliQ feel less lonely and see the device as a close friend or life partner.

Intrigued with ElliQ, Buffalo entrepreneur Luke Laakkowan, had an idea to broaden the device’s scope. Working with an AI development team, Laakkowan integrated ElliQ’s intuitive principles to develop a robot prototype called Snod to address a wide range of human relationship issues. 

Snod works in conjunction with topic-specific software. For example, Laakkowan has married his ex-wife twice, and the couple was considering another reconciliation.
Sitting with his ex-wife Lisa, Laakkowan said, “You know what they say, third time’s the charm.”
“They also say, three strikes and you’re out,” Lisa countered.

Enter LSBU—Let’s Stay Broken Up. Very simply, LSBU is a software program in which users record a sample of their ex’s voice on their phones and then upload text messages, emails, and detailed grievances cataloging every criticism, complaint, and recurring argument from their former relationship. Once this information is gathered, it is uploaded to Snod. The device is then placed in a central location to monitor and respond to activity in the house. 

Here are some of the responses from Lisa via Snod directed at Laakkowan:
—Crusting on the couch—You going to lay there all day, fatso?
—Walking through the house with his shoes on—How many times do I have to tell you to take your goddamn shoes off? 
—Fixing food in the kitchen—Make sure you wash those fucking dishes. I’m not your mother.
—Making plans to go out with his buddies—Must be nice to do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want. 
—Combing his hair—Nice forehead, Captain Picard.
—Touching himself—(Mirthful laughter) You call that a dick?

Here are some of the responses Snod had for Lisa from Laakkowan:
—Crusting on the couch—You going to lay there all day, fatso?
—Standing in front of the mirror—Yes, those jeans make your ass look fat. Get over it.
—Getting directions from a friend over the phone—Jesus Christ, just use the GPS.
—Setting another Amazon box on the dining room table—Swear to god. I’m going to throw all this useless crap out.
—Complaining to work friend Rene about their boss—Who gives a shit, it’s a stupid job.
—Listening to Taylor Swift—I’m Lisa, Tay Tay gives me the feels…Whaa!

Laakkowan and Lisa both said any chance of reconciliation was nonexistent after having Snod in their homes for just a few days. Preliminary findings from test groups indicate 100% effectiveness across the board for Snod and LSBU.

With more investment, Laakkowan plans to develop more software for Snod. New software in development includes:
GTFOMH—Get The Fuck Out Of My House—for adult children that won’t move out.
LTYA—Listen To Yourself Asshole—for your loudmouth uncle who won’t shut up at Thanksgiving. 
SRT—Spoiled Rotten Teenager—for the young person that didn’t have to walk five miles uphill both to and from school. 

Laakkowan hopes for further investment in Snod and possibly launch an IPO in the near future. 

The post Buffalo Startup Helping Broken-Up Couples Stay Broken-Up With AI Robot appeared first on buffalomud.com.

Despite the long absence, Derek believes he’s been doing all the right things—going to the gym, skipping that third slice of pizza, not talking about Zach Benson nearly as much as he wants to. But Daphne, a cute little bug of a woman, didn’t seem to notice him even when he was splayed out on their bed after a shower in just a towel, looking all sexy at three-quarters chub.  

“It’s frustrating,” Derek said. “I mean, besides taking care of myself, I’ve made sacrifices. I agreed to her getting this Chihuahua—Roscoe. That little rat dog is always biting at my ankles and pissing in my shoes. I listen to her work stories about her Gen Z friend Hannah, who can’t see that Josh is just using her for her DLC and her Hulu password.  I built her a She Shed in the yard where she’s supposed to be pursuing a mindfulness practice and becoming her best self, but all she does in there is drink wine and watch Heather Cox Richardson on her iPad—if I had a nickel for every time Daphne mentioned Heather Cox Richardson, I could bend the moral fucking arc of history myself.”

Though frustrated, Derek has remained steadfast. On a recent Tuesday night, after a dinner of frozen Aldi meat lasagna and Caesar salad, he came up behind Daphne while she was at the kitchen sink and began to kiss her on the neck and touch her. With Roscoe pulling at his pant leg, she turned around and asked what he was doing? But before she could fully object, he hit her mark. Turns out, there was still some magic in his old fingers, and in no time, she was moaning like in the old days.  

In a blur, he had her in the back bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed with her pants off. He got down on his knees, looked up at her once, and then went to town. With Roscoe barking judgmentally at his feet, he dug deep, looking past her workday mustiness and unkemptness. Her body began to twitch and shake. She whispered his name over and over: Derek…Derek, prompting him to dig deeper still as pain seared through his burning knees, and oddly angled neck. When she was right there, lingering on the edge, writhing and quaking with pleasure, he made his final push, with a helicopter technique he learned from Hustler magazine when he was fourteen, she finally—finally—crossed over and exploded in unrepentant victory.

He pulled back, stood up, and began to undress, his face glistening. After drawing a several breaths, Daphne got to her feet, pulled up her underwear and pants, and asked what he was doing with an incredulous look on her face. She scooped up Roscoe and said, “Honey, could you finish up the dishes? There’s a new episode of Rooster on HBO tonight, and I’m a couple behind.” Without waiting for an answer, and Derek at full chub, she thanked him, then kissed him on the cheek and said, “Yikes, I need a shower.”

Derek went to the kitchen, finished off the pan of lasagna, and went to bed without doing the dishes.

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In one or two thirty-minute sessions, Kane will come to your house and judge your sorry ass. He’ll pinpoint all the dumb shit that has turned you into an inauthentic, robotic douchebag. Once your flaws have been identified and roundly disparaged, just like your dad used to, Kane will set you on a path to be a more viable and interesting person.

The good news is there isn’t some phony book with a seven-point plan, yoga, or podcasts to listen to. And mercifully, there’s no touchy-feely journey of self-discovery, and no bullshit mindfulness practice. It’s just the local author in your home scrutinizing you and your stupid lifestyle.

Here’s how it works: Say, there’s a Ford F-250 Super Duty Tremor, with 37-inch BF Goodrich Mud Terrain tires mounted on 22-inch Fuel Off-Road Maverick wheels in your driveway, and you don’t work in construction. After Kane stops laughing at you and making the universal sign for an itsy bitsy teeny weeny, he’ll remind you that worse than having a miniature penis is being an overcompensating douche with a miniature penis and point you in the direction of a very functional Chevy Colorado. 

Then, Amazon’s 1.5 millionth-most-popular author might follow that up by inspecting all the garbage in your streaming services, and ask how you came to have such shitty taste in music, movies/TV? What dark path led you to love Hall & Oats, Supertramp, and fucking Jackson Browne? 

He’ll want to know how you became so brain-dead that you find entertainment in these poorly written, mass-produced shows on HBO, like Rooster? You know, the new vomit-inducing release with the formerly funny Steve Carell, playing a successful beach-read writer turned author-in-residence at a posh New England college, where his daughter also teaches, and is going through a divorce after her husband sleeps with a grad student—just like every third episode of Dr.Phil.

In the first episode alone, the daughter burns down a house, Carell turns down sex from a faculty member twenty years his junior, and the dean parades around his office half-naked. In what universe does any of this shit happen? Don’t answer—it’s a rhetorical question because it only happens in the low-frequency studios of HBO, whose job it is to fill queues with half-baked, unrealistic bullshit that makes everyone boring, uninteresting losers. Turn on PBS and watch NOVA or Downton Abbey—something with rich characters who face real-life conflict and struggle.

These are just two examples. But Kane will also judge your diet—Fish oil pills? Eat a piece of salmon, fuckhead; Tattoos—What message are you trying to send with that Tweety bird tat? Duh—I have to have ink because everyone has ink—Duh; Coffee? What are you getting out of a Grande double latte with skim milk and sweetener that can’t be found in a Tim Hortons double double, you disingenuous poser? And much more.

To receive your own personalized judgment from P.A.Kane, please contact him at: buffalomud@gmail.com

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The primary reason for all the stupidity is that nobody really knows what Dyngus Day is about, other than drinking.

“Yeah,” said Kolwaski, “no one can decide if they’re celebrating the end of Lent, Prince Mieszko, or if it’s just about getting laid. Usually, people end up arguing. They call out each other’s mothers’ pierogies and threaten to shove pussy willows where the sun doesn’t shine—and not in a loving, freaky way.”

The most reasonable revelers Kowalski said, are those who have observed a restrictive Lenten practice. One of those revelers is Karol Kaminski, an Actuary for the City of Buffalo. 

“Since the first of the year, my bowl has been filled with a $109 million budget hole, and for the last forty days, my dinner bowl has been filled with gulumki soup. You know what the main ingredient in gulumki soup is? Cabbage—I’ve been eating cabbage fucking soup for forty days. So yes, I’ve earned my Krupnik, sausages, and paczki. And, I’m going to sit here and get shitfaced, listening to the dulcet sounds of “Who Stole the Keeshka?,” and “Too Fat Polka.”

The focus of arguments usually revolve around Prince Mieszko. As a Duke, he unified Poland into a single state during his reign from 960 to 992. He also taught the Polish people not to stand in a circle when stoning someone to death (very handy with the invention of firearms in the 14th century), and not to go home to get a ladder when the bartender says drinks are on the house. He also instructed people about language. That, Odwracać kota ogonem (“To turn the cat around by its tail”) is an expression about distorting facts, not an invitation to spin a cat around by its tail because Zbigniew got caught wearing his wife’s undergarments that somehow ended up in his kufer (chest).   

“It is generally accepted that those who want to make the day about Mieszko are the most argumentative and the biggest assholes,” said Kowalski. 

The last thing Dyngus Day might be about is love, or at least getting laid. Integral to the celebration is the handing out of pussy willows to people for whom you have amorous feelings. 

Kowalski explained, “By the end of the day these Polish dudes, thick with Krupnik and Tyski, are incapable of expressing a coherent thought, and stupidly try to make the sale by whipping out their kielbasas. Often they’ll ask the ladies to touch, taste, or give them a little tug. It’s ridiculous because everybody knows a kielbasa has some length and girth, and these losers are packing all of two inches. So to save them the embarrassment of using words or exposing themselves, some genius dumbed it down to the pussy willows for these idiots.” 

As trying as the day can be, Kowalski still loves the celebration and the stupidity of it all. She’s just glad she’s not Irish, because stupidity is a month-long thing with them.     

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Pandingham was relieved of his duties at Geneseo because of the general rot and decay of the American mind, which wouldn’t know the road less traveled from the long and winding road or the Yellow Brick Road. Cuts to staff caused by low enrollment also contributed to his dismissal.

Due to high driver turnover Pandingham was fast-tracked into his new position with FedEx, which used to absolutely positively get it there overnight, but now gets it there if the weather is pretty good and there aren’t too many call-ins. He likes the quick-paced, physical nature of the job, but is having some trouble assimilating with his co-workers because of his intellectual past.

An issue arose in his first few days during the mundane task of “balancing” with the delivery routes around him. Balancing ensures that all the routes have roughly the same amount of work on any given day. Pandingham responded to a request for his stop and package counts with some verse:   

Packages, there are a-many
Stops there are a-lot
Help, I would take any
That’d save my soul
From this wicked plot…

While the verse produced several curious looks and some whispering among co-workers, an incident a few days later almost turned violent. During the morning sort, where trucks are loaded with that day’s deliveries, the guy who runs the Lackawanna route, Lenny Lazaroni, was caught up with a package that needed retaping, just as Demi Lovato’s “Really Don’t Care” came on the radio. Lazaroni asked Pandingham to forward the station because the song reminded him of his whore ex-wife, who took all his money, his kids, and was living in his house with some fuckhead named Brad.

Pandingham did as requested, and the search landed on the classical station, which happened to be playing “Rhapsody in Blue,” with Khatia Buniatishvili at the piano. Pandingham was over the moon for this version of the classic Gershwin composition. So taken, he waved his arms playfully in the air, on his way over to help Lazaroni with the package, and said, “I just love Khatia’s Rhapsody—she’s so capricious and sensuous.”

Lazaroni dropped the tape gun, grabbed Pandingham by the collar, and said, “Look, man, I don’t fucking go that way—I like girls. If you ever say shit like that to me again, I’ll fuck you up. Don’t try me. I got nothing, so I got nothing to lose.”

Pandingham was able to smooth that over, but just barely, and was making some progress with co-workers—bitching about dogs on his route and Dumper Dave, a co-worker who routinely dumped all his stops and went home early. Then, one afternoon, just as he was heading out to do a pickup run, Laura showed up.

Laura was his old Geneseeo colleague and paramour. She was waiting for him outside the building with her Shakespeare and Keats. Laura refused to go on antidepressants because she didn’t want to dull her senses. She wanted to feel the hot blood course through her veins. She wanted to feel her own fire. Once, she stabbed Pandingham in the side due to a disagreement over a line in Byron.

He was smitten looking at her as she leaned up against her beat-up 2009 Volvo, pulling on her Marlboro, thick with Jim Beam. Though he needed this job, like a bowtie goes to a pretentious windbag’s neck or a beret goes to a self-important asshole’s head, he went straight for her.

Pandingham managed to escape with a warning after blowing off the pickup route. He’s unsure how long he can keep up this charade, especially if Laura keeps coming around. But until they send him on sabbatical, he’ll keep punching in and trying to hide his intellectual past.  

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Originally from Cattaraugus County, as a teen, Buttonbottom started messing around with ephedrine, toluene, salt, kerosene, and a bunch of other components to make methamphetamine. Eventually, he came up with a sweet mix that rocked the entire Southern tier. Taking his pay from Dollar General and a little backing from his daddy, he invested in supplies and equipment and built a respectable lab in the family trailer—the one Uncle John spent summers in when he was up from Florida.

Things were going great—brain cells and teeth were disappearing in Cat County faster than Patron at a Bills tailgate. But one night, Buttonbottom was a little careless and blew up the trailer. After that incident, Buttonbottom’s daddy thought his talents would be better served with proper schoolin’. So he went to the big city, got a degree from the University of Buffalo, and a job at Van DeMark.  

Things were going well at his job until Buttonbottom’s redneck past started to surface. When a spectrophotometer, which measures light intensity, went down, he pulled a roll of trusty duct tape from his briefcase and attempted a temporary fix. As he got to work, he surprised co-workers with the way he talked through the repairs—in a high-pitched yokel voice: “Well, hell, there it is. That cuvette gizmo’s the troublemaker. Hang on—I’m gonna back this door out a turn, mash this little arm down, and snake some duct tape through there so it quits floppin’ around. Yep… there we go. That’ll hold her together for now. She ain’t pretty, but she’ll run till the parts show up and we can do it the right way.”

Then there was the incident when he was dropping off some reports at the front office. A radio tuned to WYRK was playing “Achy Breaky Heart” at a low volume, and Buttonbottom couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Mrs. Trout, the office secretary, by the hand and proceeded to two-step with her. He went through the Pivot Turn, the Kick-Ball-Change, and only realized what he was doing once he was crossing his feet in Jazz Box. He apologized profusely to Mrs. Trout and exited the office, red-faced.

If he already wasn’t having enough trouble hiding his redneck past, his cousin Bobby was waiting for him outside the plant this past Friday in her 1987 F150. He and Bobby had a thing all through their teens. Buttonbotom once said, when they were together, they were explosive—like a frog with a lit M-80 jammed in its mouth. And on several occasions, Bobby pleaded to have his seven-toed baby. 

Yet, like a mullet is drawn to cheap beer at the county fair, he went straight for her.

Buttonbottom doesn’t know how long he can keep up this charade, but he’ll keep showing up at VanDeMark until they send him back home to a simpler life in Cat County of fishin’, Walmart, and bangin’ his cousin.

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Over the party weekend, Saturday will be the day Coogan expects to see the most traffic and experience the most lameness. The Valley location of Costello’s is a little removed from the downtown parade Sunday, but it’s right in the mix for the Little Parade in the Old First Ward on Saturday—so that would be the traffic part of it. The lameness will come because the high temperature on Saturday is expected to be thirty-seven degrees, meaning all the meatheads will be dipping into the Jameson early and often.

“Yeah, the colder weather will translate into guys doing more shots. When that happens, the number one thing they want to do is show me their shillelaghs—some will also ask me to touch, taste, and pull on their shillelaghs. I try to be a good sport about it since these drunken assholes do fill up my tip jar, but c’mon—they want to show me their shillelagh? Can’t they come up with something a little more clever than that? Besides, a shillelagh is like a three-foot-long walking/fighting stick, and everyone knows these weak-ass Irish losers are packing all of two inches.” 

Coogan also noted the strange dynamic of her bartending gig, especially this weekend. “I spend all his time laughing and smiling at guys as I reject them, which is weird. Even weirder, after I reject their sorry asses, they still give me crazy amounts of money. I know, they’re confused from all the beer and Jameson buzzing around in their little pea brains, but goddamn, have some self-respect for god’s sake.”

The Little Parade in the First Ward is scheduled to start at 11 am on Saturday, and the traditional St. Patrick’s Day Parade will take place on Sunday at 2 pm on Delaware Avenue.

Sláinte.

The post Local Bartender Bracing For Weekend Of Lame Irish Revelers Hitting On Her appeared first on buffalomud.com.

In addition to being a bartending legend, McNamara has worked his way up through the floating ranks to be a world-class practitioner. His unwavering commitment to sloth and sipping cocktails has been instrumental in his rise. People assumed he was just some lazy tosser with an insatiable taste for tequila, but in reality, on those scorching summer days in Charlotte, while his friends, neighbors, and family were retreating to the frosty safety and comfort of air-conditioning, McNamara was in the pool training, honing his skills for the day floating achieves international recognition and possibly a spot in the summer Olympic games.

Though looking like a cross between Angelica Huston and Jughead’s grandfather, some in the floating game have started to refer to him as the Josh Allen of floaters. McNamara says, “The recognition is cool, but this isn’t a game to me. I’ve been at this for some time, and I’ve seen ‘em come and I’ve seen ‘em go—the contenders and the pretenders. These pretenders think they can crack open a fucking High Noon, drop their fat asses into any old waterborne device, and be a floater. Well, let me tell you that’s not only a recipe for failure, but also for cramping and soft-tissue injuries. The floating game requires effort, discipline, and patience.”

With the warmer weather just around the corner in Charlotte, McNamara has been in grind mode. He says one of the keys to being a successful floater is preparation—both mentally and physically. Since January, he has been lying around, ignoring his wife and letting his house go to shit. He has also been watching reruns of The Jeffersons on a loop. “I get inspiration from George and Weezie’s story of movin’ on up. It helps me to mentally prepare for the grind of the floating season.”

Being physically ready is mostly a matter of hydration. Since January, McNamara has been increasing his intake of Gatorade and water, while limiting his tequila consumption. “I go 6:3:1 (six parts Gatorade, three parts water, one part tequila). By the start of floating season in May, my body will be fully prepped, and I’ll be able to turn that around—six parts tequila, three parts water, one part Gatorade, all of which I’ll chase with a shitload of Blue Lights. Once I get my body right, there are no limits to what I might accomplish this floating season.”

McNamara will take a short break over St. Patrick’s Day weekend to visit family and friends in Buffalo. But after that, he will return to Charlotte and resume his strict training regimen.    

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