Matt's Blog

2011-09-21T14:49:00.002-04:00

Attention, three people who have ever read this: I have moved to mattwrotethis.com

You can read all the fun new stuff over there!

2010-11-25T22:22:00.002-05:00

Axe bodyspray, the canned gasoline sixth graders use to mask the stench of their compulsive masturbating, has a new scent called Music. Music is a preferable title to the one that would actually describe its contents, which would be Mosquito Repellent. Other Axe scents include Vice, Touch, and Dark Temptation, which attempt to create a brand vision of the young, athletic male who is hounded by sexy women, which contrasts wildly with the reality of the chubby twelve year-old video game addict who is hounded with embarrassment after getting an erection during the V-sit stretch test in gym class and hopes the half-can of Axe he sprays on himself will either disguise the fact that his once-a-week bathing schedule is no longer sufficient, or will kill his brain enough to make him forget about the boner that he’s pretty sure his crush saw and he’s pretty sure she wasn’t impressed with.

If humans produce pheromones, they do not smell like Axe. If a guy uses Axe and attracts a woman who likes the smell, be warned that she probably lives in a trash can and drinks dishwashing detergent.

Axe should be sold in gardening stores as an animal repellent that will keep every living creature away from your plants. Even the mangiest, rabid raccoon with syphilis and a gimp leg is classier than Axe and would rather get hit by a car than eat anything tainted with the stuff.

Axe sells gift boxes that contain a can of flammable bodyspray, a stick of flammable deodorant, and a bottle of flammable shower gel wrapped in one convenient package that is the easiest way to tell the recipient that you do not care about them, because if you did you would not be giving them an Improvised Explosive Device for Christmas. That box contains all of the necessary equipment to turn each and every sweaty middle-school boy into a flaming vision from Hell. With just one spark, that kid could light up like a barbecue and if he then unathletically jogs into another boy, they could set off a chain reaction of acne-plagued fireballs that would end only when every male in the whole school has been reduced to a pile of Windex-scented ash. The parents wouldn’t even be able to identify which pile of ash is theirs because they would all say, “My boy smelled like bug spray,” and each pile smells like bug spray and all of the people who could differentiate between the Vice bug spray and the Dark Temptation bug spray are now mounds of black dust.

Here’s the morning routine of the average sixth-grade student. Wake up. Consider shower. Opt for the Axe and spray until the bathroom mirror fogs and you cough a few times and your mom yells up to ask if you’re okay. Yell down that you’re fine and she needs to get off your back. Listen to her yell up that you have a bad attitude. Put on a shirt with either a dragon or flames on it and a pair of cargo shorts with enough pockets to hold all twelve of your Axe cans. Grab a handful of carcinogenic hair gel and mold your greasy tangle of hair into a crispy crown that anoints you King of the Gamecube and looks like a bird’s nest. Check yourself out in the mirror and consider how sweet you look. Spray on more Axe because you’re concerned that you shirt is blocking your smell. Have your mom drive you to school and tell her that you don’t care about your bad grades because you’re going to be a professional skateboarder.

Now when the kid gets to school, here’s where it gets tricky. He must avoid open flames for the next eight hours, lest his kerosene-soaked body ignites.

So the plight of the sixth-grade body is that Axe bodyspray not only makes him stink and repel asthmatics, it also puts him in danger of immolation. In conclusion, my advice for twelve year-old boys is to take a shower.

2010-03-30T17:57:00.001-04:00

Dress code is key to being taken seriously. It’s critical at job interviews, on dates, and with any first impression. It can make or break they way people perceive you. You don’t show up to an interview at a respected law firm in jean shorts and a cut-off t-shirt. You can’t go to the gym in wool pants and a winter coat. No one would think you’re actually the lifeguard if you sit atop your perch in a tuxedo. So imagine my confusion last Friday when I saw a performance by a rap group that featured lyrics about serious issues like government control, authority, murder, and death, rapped by one member who was wearing a pair of Crocs.

The group, Deaf Judges, were good. They performed before a midnight showing of The Shining and started their set by chopping through a fifteen-feet tall door (scrawled with REDRUM) with a cartoonishly big axe. The three rappers and DJ were animated and having fun, bounding around the stage while switching off carrying that huge axe. But those Crocs were magnets for my eyes. It was like noticing a disgusting mole with a full head of hair and a braided ponytail on someone’s upper lip: Once you realize it’s there you can’t see anything else. I shouldn’t judge this guy based solely on his footwear, but it made it a little difficult to take him seriously with his lyrics about death. The most lethal thing you can do in Crocs is piss in the pool.

If this guy were to commit a crime in his Crocs, it wouldn’t be difficult to trace him, since the police would just have to track down the six individuals in the state who own a pair of Crocs larger than a deck of cards. Maybe the suspect pool isn’t even that big. The detectives may not even need to know the size. “Crocs, huh? Well, it’s either a toddler or the guy from Deaf Judges.”

I’m not an expert on street cred, but I would suggest this guy look to the rappers who have come before him for advice. We never saw Eazy-E in footie pajamas. Biggie Smalls didn’t cruise around in a VW Bug. 50 Cent didn’t get shot nine times with a Nerf gun. Perhaps a pair of sneakers is in order.

If I have a kid and he ever wants Crocs, I’ll know I have failed as a parent. I’ll strap two egg cartons to his feet with a pair of rubber bands and send him off to live with bears or wolves. Any lifestyle but the one that lead him to desire Crocs would be an improvement. Since Crocs are so popular, why don’t we modify the Crocs factories to manufacture a whole wardrobe of injection-molded foam pants, shirts, hats, and jackets? Each will be available in a variety of solid colors and everyone who wears them will be stiff-limbed characters come to life from a five year-old’s drawing of his family. But they’ll be happy, since the outfit cost nine dollars and can be washed with the garden hose once a week.

I really shouldn’t knock this guy and his Crocs, considering I wore New Balance sneakers with my suit to prom. I was extremely comfortable, agile, and prepared to sprint (had a relay racer desperately searching for the next baton-holder come dashing through the dance floor) the whole time. But at least they looked like normal shoes. With Crocs, the exchange of comfort for social acceptance is like if the world’s most comfortable and cozy jacket had a huge, graphic photograph of Fidel Castro decapitating a koala bear printed on it. It might look great at the Cannibal Corpse concert, but don’t wear it to the library.

2010-03-24T20:07:00.000-04:00

Some things happened at Kroger last week.

Daniel and I were browsing the cereal aisle when a masculine, gray-haired man walked up and put a box of Fiber One back on the shelf. He looked at Daniel and me and offered this unsolicited information: “Even with the coupon, it’s too much. One box is just two meals for me. I like big portions.” When he said “big portions” he gestured with his hands a plate about the size of a raccoon. I nodded in agreement, because the Fiber One is expensive, although this guy could probably cut down on his weekly food bill by consuming human-sized amounts. I think the serving size of Fiber One for a bear is half a box. If he’s concerned about his finances, then he especially needs to watch his intake, since toilet paper spending is directly related to Fiber One spending and that’s going to add up fast. He could also welcome some side dishes into his life. One bowl of cereal, no matter if you’re eating it out of a bathtub like that guy, can’t be a meal. Maybe he could pair his half-boxes with a dozen apples or a pillowcase full of grapes to round out the meal.

I did like that he gave us a detail about his life for just a nod in return. I’d like to do that when I’m old. I’ll look at kids and say, “The apples here are good, but I can’t eat them anymore because they make me turn into a lizard.”

There are stands of impulse-buys flanking the self-checkout registers loaded with gum, magazines, and Betty and Veronicas no one has ever considered purchasing. They’re items that are cheap, small, and easy to toss into your cart at the last second. But Kroger decided to try something crazy in the impulse-buy game that blew me away. Perched on top of two registers, demanding attention and begging to be bought, were two prickly pineapples. Full-sized, still-spiky, five-dollar pineapples.

Who sees those and thinks, “Man, you know, I really could go for some pineapple today. On the drive home I’ll get out my sharp knife, cut off the rind, slice it, towel off the juice before it ruins the upholstery, and put it into my mouth just as I’m about to drive into oncoming traffic because I was distracted by preparing that pineapple.”

I bet someone did buy one of those pineapples on impulse and thoroughly enjoyed it. And I’m happy for them. But for now I will continue to speculate.

There was a cereal box titled (are cereal box titles italicized?) Low Fat Granola: Crispy Whole Grain Cereal Without Raisins.

“Without Raisins” was part of the title. Chill out, box, no one assumed you were packing raisins. I never knew marketing was so easy. Just point out what your product doesn’t contain. Here are a few items that could try this strategy.

Cheese Pizza: Without Pepperoni
New Dell Inspiron Laptops: Without Mushrooms Growing Inside
Super Soaker 6000X: Without any Hamsters
Shutter Island: Not Directed by Sigourney Weaver

That was my wild and crazy time at Kroger last week. Nothing so far this week has been so insane.

2010-03-15T21:52:00.000-04:00

I saw an old man’s nude rear end today. I know you’re thinking, “Well of course you did, Matt, if your Internet history is any indication you see a dozen of those every five minutes.” But the one I saw today, a round, hairy, leathery mass, was right in front of me, very much in the flesh. There was nothing I could do to avoid it. It was like when you get ambushed in a magazine by that ad with the kids with the deformed lips. Except instead of a still image, this guerrilla attack (gorilla attack, based on the amount of hair) was alive and in front of me. And it was peeing at the same time.

Let me rephrase. The rear end wasn’t peeing. That would have been fascinating to watch, and if this old man’s digestive system had mutated itself its very own cloaca, where all of his body’s waste processing was done out of one reptilian hole, then bravo to him and he should be free to show that thing off whenever he pleases. But that wasn’t the case. This man was using the urinal in the gym bathroom and for whatever reason his pants and underpants were lounging at his ankles, seeming to be on a much-needed vacation from the day-to-day stress of his waist. There are a few potential innocent reasons he did this. Maybe he was extremely hot or had a fever only in his ass. Maybe he was smuggling a few non-members into the gym and they were ready to climb out. Maybe he was recently in a grizzly car accident and had his windpipe re-routed to merge with his rectum and it’s difficult to breathe with the pants up.

Those explanations seem fishy. I suspect this was a deliberate move. There are multiple ways to prepare the penis for peeing that do not require the pants to completely evacuate the scene. You can go over the undies and through the hole (to grandmother’s house we go) in the pants, through the undies hole and the pants hole, out the side of the undies and through the hole, or all of those undie method and over the pants. It might even be more socially acceptable to wet your pants than it is to expose your fuzzy glutes to an unwilling audience.

If this man had been six years old or younger, his behavior would be okay. When boys are in that range, they’re still curiously exploring the uncharted world of public bathrooms, discovering what new treasures and monuments await, and consulting the experienced users on what to do. They’re conquistadors on the hunt for fresh porcelain. I remember a kid in my first grade class dropping his pants to the floor and sitting in the urinal to take a dump in it. Obviously he didn’t think it through. There’s no toilet paper around, and if you flush, the back of your shirt’s gonna get a nice even soaking of toilet water. But he just saw a big white thing with water in it and identified it as a perfect receptacle for his poop. He gets a free pass because he was six. This sixty-five year old guy is a different story.

When I wrecked my car when I was sixteen I had to take an eight-hour defensive driving class. The guy who mooned me should have to take a two-hour How to Piss class. We’d just go over a few basic steps. One: Aim. Two: Pee. Special Note: Don’t show anyone your butt cheeks. It’s not like this guy didn’t know what he was doing. He was definitely a seasoned veteran and his confident stance proved it. He held his hands on his hips, looking like either a proud ruler surveying his newly conquered lands (and peeing on them), or a bored tourist waiting on the people in the cruise’s buffet line to move forward (and peeing on them). That’s not the stance a rookie takes. I imagine someone post-gender switch, standing in the hospital bathroom operating his gear for the first time (after reading the user manual and analyzing countless sixth-grade health book schematics) hangs on with the death grip used by the handlers of venomous snakes, trying his hardest to tame the wily creature and make sure it doesn’t spill anything.

This guy, though, was in control and free as a bird. When he finished he pulled up his sweatpants and walked right out as if nothing had happened. As if no one had seen anyone’s ass in there. Maybe he wanted me to see his rear. Maybe he wanted someone else to see his rear, as a signal that he did his part in a drug deal (“If my ass is bare, the cash is there”). I didn’t identify the guy beyond the two hairy hams that constituted his behind (being mooned is like looking at a flashbulb when it goes off—the rest of the scene is at best a haze) and I don’t think I’ll ever find out why he dropped his pants to the ground. But on the bright side I can be thankful that he was peeing in that urinal and not trying to poop in it, so I didn’t have to see either of his elderly balls.

2010-03-12T16:40:00.002-05:00

Why Tricking Taylor Swift into Falling in Love with You and then Dumping Her is a Public Service

It’s pretty simple. Taylor Swift is going to run out of songwriting steam real soon. She’s not in high school anymore and she isn’t a sweet and innocent small-town girl. She’s a Grammy-winning multi-platinum millionaire. Regular guys like Stephen (from “Hey Stephen”) or the one from “Teardrops on My Guitar” don’t have much a chance of breaking her heart anymore. Now she dates celebrities. Any love song she writes from now on will sound like bullshit. If she tries to sound relatable, you’ll just go, “Fuck you, Taylor Swift. Don’t try to make me empathize with you because Taylor Lautner banged Jennifer Love Hewitt behind your back. Get back in your private jet and see if Saks Fifth Avenue has any genuine problems in stock.”

But I don’t want that to happen. Ms. Swift has proven herself to be incredibly good at pumping out quality jams, as long as a real guy has recently crushed her soul, and those jams provide happiness to millions of listeners around the world. So here’s my plan. Someone needs to move to California and get a job at her mansion or estate or multi-island compound or whatever. Mow her lawn or something. Just make sure it’s a real “regular guy” job. Get to know her, working on the relationship very slowly. Just say hi to her when you pass for a few months. Then one day, tell her she looks good or whatever. I don’t know, just pull something out of your ass that sounds nice. Based on her two albums, she fell in love with about fifteen different dudes throughout high school, so it can’t be that hard to impress her.

Then one day leave a rose on her doorstep and a special letter about how she makes you feel. At this point she will fall in love with you, mainly because she’s in her fame-rebellion phase and is done with dating celebs, and you’re this sort of forbidden fruit as well as a grounded tie to her pre-fame days. Romance her for a year. Lots of fancy dates, romantic gestures, missionary-position intercourse. Make her really fall for you.

Then, the day before Valentine’s Day (after weeks of promising her she’s in for an amazing surprise (make her think you’re going to propose to her)), fuck Jennifer Love Hewitt. Take a cell phone picture of the act and send it to everyone on your contacts list.

That’s all there is to it. You move back home to continue your life, and in approximately seven to nine months, Taylor will bless us with a fresh album of quality songs straight from her destroyed heart. The world will appreciate your effort.

2008-11-02T20:11:00.000-05:00

I heard a joke the other day. Was it funny? No. But that’s not the point; it was the subject matter of the joke that really bothered me. Here’s the joke: Who loses if Barack Obama and Joe Biden are stranded on a desert island? The answer: America. Take a moment to not laugh at that.

The real problem with that joke is that it represents the kind of blind (or, most recently, obsessive) political party support that shows up unwelcome every four years. Would America really lose if those two were stranded on an island? I don’t know. I’m unaware of how the scoring works in this game. I don’t even know what game the joke is referring to, in which the entire country is a participant. Perhaps it’s Greco-Roman wrestling.

I remember when politics were cool. It was for about three months, from December 2007 to February 2008, when the primary elections were on everyone’s mind and there were about two dozen candidates running around so you couldn’t really get sick of any specific one. Each would pop up here and there for a quick message: Obama wants change, McCain has experience, and Ron Paul is wasting everyone’s time and money.

The race was exciting. There was nightly coverage of the hundred and twelve primary elections; all sorts of charts and graphs and statistics plastered across every newspaper and magazine in the country. It was like my TV screen was the back of a baseball card. Everything was all fun and games. We were still months, even years, away from the actual election so everything that happened was more for America’s entertainment than for America to actually use to form an educated opinion. Remember, though, that we are talking about average Americans here, so educated opinion can and should be regarded as an oxymoron.

Not that it’s really anyone’s fault. There is no way to form an intelligent, unbiased opinion about any of the candidates these days. It’s impossible. When every news source is biased and the candidates themselves are obviously lying about the majority of their claims, the only way to sort out heads from tails in this thing is to, well, flip a coin. Theoretically, the only way for there to be an unbiased news source would be for a reporter to descend from Mars in an exotic spacecraft. But there would likely still be bias, as he would favor whichever candidate pushes higher subsidies for Space Fruits and Space Grains.

Even I fell victim to believing politicians during the last few months. Here’s the story of my political opinions, presented in an easy-to-read bulleted, chronological list. You are very welcome. Seriously; my pleasure.

· Summer of 2007: I get all of my political news from the Internet, and thus I think Ron Paul is the man.

· December of 2007: I realize, much later than I should have, that the Internet is obviously the worst place to gather unbiased information. It dawns on me that comments by SigurRos6969 about Ron Paul’s brilliant economic strategies aren’t credible sources, evidenced by the variety of ways he spells “there.” I notice that most Ron Paul supporters are in high school or college. I remember that the vast majority of high school and college students are complete idiots, and my support for Ron Paul collapses shortly before his campaign does.

· January 2008 to June 2008: Just like most other people who won’t actually be eligible to vote in November, I hop aboard the Obama bandwagon. It’s cozy for a little while and I feel comfortable amongst others my age. We all know Obama is the best candidate, obviously. He’s the change Washington needs. He’s hope incarnate. He’s a phenomenal speaker, a prophet, a leader. He’s the messiah. Wait, what? Can you stop the bandwagon? I want to get off.

· July 2008 to Present: I finally come to realize, for reasons that will follow, that there is no reason to worry, or care, about who wins this election.

It seems that recently people have forgotten there’s still an incumbent President in the White House. And he’s still going to be there for almost three months after the election. His name is George W. Bush and everyone seems to hate him. I, too, was once on this bandwagon. The trajectory of Bush’s presidency mirrors that of Napoleon Dynamite: Everyone loved it for two years then all of a sudden people decided it’s not funny anymore. Just like everyone else under 30, I once thought it was cool to talk about his bad decisions, his gaffes, his general lack of intelligence. Then I realized that no one has any idea what they’re talking about and shut up. Most people who spend their days, nights, and weekends bashing Bush couldn’t name ten things he’s done. They probably couldn’t even name ten things they’ve done in the past year, besides bash Bush and work at Kinko’s.

Bush has been in office for almost half of my life. With the hatred he attracts and his record-low approval ratings, it would seem that my life went from carefree days of a fat wallet and smooth rollerblades under Clinton to current times of eating dirt and being verbally harassed by terrorists. How has my life changed since 2000? I now have armpit hair. That’s about it. My personality hasn’t changed, I haven’t really matured in any way, and my personal well-being and standard of living are every bit as stable as they were when Clinton was in office. Of course, plenty of people have been negatively affected by Bush’s decisions, but unless he has personally come to your house and clogged your toilet or siphoned your gas or used up all your monthly text messages, chances are you have nothing to complain about.

Sure, people have problems with his decisions on the war and his handling of various crises, but come on. What is all that complaining going to accomplish? Not much. Think of all the energy you used complaining. Energy expelled through your mouth and flailing arms as you stomped or marched in protest. Now who’s the one responsible for global warming?

Before I discuss the current candidates, I have a few problems with the way the election is run. First up: Polls are as useless and don’t even make sense, like most bass guitarists. Every night the news presents new polling data and every night it’s completely different. On Monday: “McCain up 10 points! Victory close enough to grasp!” On Wednesday: “Obama leading by 15! Let’s call it now!” They forgot to tell you that the first poll was conducted on 18 people and the second was done at Barack Obama’s mother’s house. There are infinite ways to interpret and analyze that useless data. “Woah, Latino Jews in west Florida favor McCain! Stop the presses, boys, we’ve got a winner!” The polling targets often get too specific for their own good. “Let’s see what former Milwaukee Brewers batting coaches think!” “Who do Filipino dogs wearing bandanas in novelty postcards favor?” “What about six year-olds? Obama is targeting the key six year-old demo! They’re gonna turn out in droves this year!”

It’s interesting that people only mention polls when they support their candidate. Actually it’s not that interesting, but not much is in this election. “You see Obama’s up ten points? McCain doesn’t have a shot!” But the next day McCain’s up ten. “What? Oh, polls don’t matter, man. Pointless.” Then they put on their black-rimmed glasses and return to their protest chanting. “Fox News is faux news! Fox News is faux news!”

Second, the attack ads. They’re incredibly uninteresting. These two are attacking each other about vague ideas and concepts, like experience and hope. How about specific events that people can relate to? Things real people can hate. Obama plays dirty basketball and has really big nipples. McCain forgot to leave to a tip at an Oklahoma Applebee’s in 1994. Obama owns Reba: The Complete Second Season. McCain sometimes forgets to flush. I don’t understand the big deal with experience in this campaign. What does the McCain camp expect Obama to do? Stroll into the Oval Office and realize that he doesn’t know what it takes to get a bill passed? He’ll have to track down his 9^th grade Political Science textbook to figure it out? No cabinet members will offer their assistance because they’re too busy playing NBA2K8?

If we’re so concerned with experience, look at the Chicago Cubs. They’ve got plenty of experience, but when was the last time they won a World Series? On the other hand, experience is necessary in most situations. I wouldn’t let a homeless man examine my prostate, unless I really needed some money or that homeless man was Danny Glover. I’d let him do it.

Third, the entire concept of campaign signs doesn’t make sense. How effective can these possibly be? “You know, I used to think Obama was an unpatriotic, Muslim terrorist. But now that I see his campaign logo uses a blue font, I think he’s got my vote.” Then there’s the law prohibiting people from wearing campaign logos to voting sites on Election Day. If anyone’s opinion is swayed by a t-shirt while they wait in line to vote, they don’t deserve to vote. They don’t even deserve to stand in lines. For someone’s opinion to be swayed at that point, they must have gone to the voting site undecided, which means they either just woke up from a coma or got lost on the way to a 2:30pm dinner at Golden Corral.

Fourth, the debates. There were three of them, in which the same two guys said the same things in response to the same questions. Actually, I’m just assuming that because I didn’t watch them because I (correctly) assumed they would be incredibly boring and pointless. Instead of debates and constant speeches, here’s how elections should be operated: Each U.S. citizen receives one piece of paper in their mailbox one week before Election Day. On that sheet of paper is a bulleted list of each candidate’s position on ten key issues, from the War to abortion to taxes, and maybe even a fun one like their favorite ice cream flavor. That’s it. No speeches, no debates, nothing. Because those don’t matter. But couldn’t the candidates lie about their positions? Absolutely; as they should. They do in their speeches and ads anyway, so why not? Say you approve of gay marriage even if you protested one last Tuesday. Who cares? They need the votes. Tell us your father is a Komodo Dragon. I’d probably vote for that guy.

I wish the debates weren’t as planned. The candidates obviously have their answers prepared ahead of time by a team of speech writers and campaign managers. What I want is a real, spontaneous debate; meaning that at least half the answers would be, “Uhh…” and an awkward silence for thirty seconds, like when you don’t know the answer at school. And the real sides of those two would come out; not the fake polite sides. There would be cussing and shouting; fingers pointed and, hopefully, legs broken. They would insult each other’s children and claim to have had intercourse with each other’s mother. It would be much more entertaining that way. Actually, why not just put them on Springer? Each debate needs a moderator, and Jerry Springer has been doing that every day for over a decade. Let them throw some chairs at each other, rip off each other’s shirts, and expose their genitals. Then bring in the transvestites. It’ll be fun.

The whole concept of a debate doesn’t really make any sense. They argue, but it’s not like one participant is going to say, “Wow. You know what? I was wrong. Completely wrong. This guy knows what he’s talking about way more than I do. I am a moron.” Nothing comes from the arguments. It’s like last week when I argued with a boa constrictor for hours about how large lizards aren’t tasty. He refused to agree, so I walked away from the argument, located my machete, and cut off his head. I just dropped it. That’s what the candidates should do. The TV networks would probably be annoyed when the debates end in a handshake after forty-five seconds.

Everyone running for office all have one thing in common. They love the middle class. Well everyone who has ever lost the Presidency has supported the middle class. Coincidence? Possibly. Why not try something new? I’d like to see a candidate despise the middle class. Announce in a thirty-second commercial to air during According to Jim, “If you make under $30,000 a year, I will fight for you. If you make over $250,000 a year, I will do everything I can for you. But if you’re between the two, you better watch your step. Because when I’m in office, it’s to the gulag with you!”

Since we’re on the topic, here are a few more things related to the election that have been bothering me. What’s up with kids suddenly thinking they’re intelligent? They watch the news for the first time in their lives and suddenly they think they’re political experts. They read one newspaper article and talk incessantly about it for the next three weeks. The main outlet for this is Facebook. Seriously, kids, any time you mention your political affiliations on Facebook you just look like an idiot. There is a 100% chance you don’t know what you’re talking about, whether it’s a membership in the Nobama 08 group or a “…is selling my blood and kidneys to raise money for Obama!” status. Most people who do this won’t even be able to vote. That’s like if the AARP magazine published a monthly column on beer pong and text messaging. Be aware of the demographic you fall into, and please limit your FB talk accordingly. What if the candidates talked about Facebook? It would be out of line and you would be offended. “Shut up, McCain. Maybe I think your bumper stickers are stupid.” Kids who can’t vote who care about the election (meaning most kids over 13) are really wasting their time. You might as well get invested in the race for the governorship of Puerto Rico; you also will have no effect on that election. Why not concern yourself with issues that you can impact? Like begging your mom for more trendy skirts or protesting the increased prices at your favorite hookah bar.

Speaking of young people pointlessly getting involved in politics, why are there Young Democrat and Young Republican clubs at school? Only a fraction of seniors will be able to vote. That’s like having an Extreme Sports Club at a school for the blind. What could possibly go on at those meetings? “Well I support abortions, do you support abortions?” “Yes, I support abortions, do you support abortions?” “I, too, support abortions.” “See you next week!”

The Young Democrats have a poster up that warns of Big Brother watching over us and if we have a problem with it we should attend a meeting. That sounds productive. What could come from that meeting? A letter to the White House?

Dear White House,

Shame on you! The Patriot Act is Big Brother! That’s contradicting the…well, one of the Amendments! It’s probably somewhere in that Bill of Rights! Scott was supposed to look up which one but he left his book in his locker. But it’s a human rights offense! It’s near genocide! It’s almost as bad as when Facebook changed layouts! Stop the Patriot Act now!

Arrgh,

The Young Democrats

Another thing that’s stupid? Anti-Obama chain emails. I’m very familiar with these; my mother forwards them to me on a regular basis. Of course they’re filled with lies and of course people are stupid enough to believe them. Remember, this is the same country that has purchased a million copies of Buckcherry’s album. But if you’re going to make up things about a candidate, why not go all-out? Accusing him of being a Muslim? Irrationally hating someone based on his or her religion is old news; we’ve been at that for thousands of years. How about accusing Obama of being a sorcerer? Say he had a hand in throwing the 2003 World Series. He slaughters ducks for fun. He operates a bed and breakfast that offers discounted rates for rapists. Any of these would do; I just want to see a little creativity in those emails.

Enough about people who won’t be affecting the election at all. Let’s get into the candidates. Actually, let’s get into the candidates for Vice President, whom the media apparently thinks are running for President considering the coverage they give them. First off, Sarah Palin is a name I hope I never hear again in my entire life. I would estimate I’ve heard her name fifteen times a day since she was chosen by McCain. The only name I want to hear fifteen times a day is my own, and I want it coming from a stripper’s mouth. Obnoxious liberals think Sarah Palin is the only human alive dumber than George W. Bush, but you have to realize that she was swept up into the race in a span of about a week. Anyone would look like an idiot with that little time to prepare for constant scrutiny by the entire country. What if she only had a month to train for Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest? She could probably only get six or seven dogs. Apparently Sarah Palin is a popular choice as a Halloween costume this year. You might as well just tape a sign to your head that says, “I (A) am not creative, (B) think I’m hip and smart, and (C) get my Halloween costume ideas from USA Today.”

Joe Biden is the plainest man I have ever seen. I’ve eaten grains of rice more interesting than Joe Biden. I was at the grocery store three days ago and I said, “Why won’t this box of plain bran flakes scan?” and the clerk said, “Because that isn’t cereal. That’s Senator Joe Biden of Delaware.” Joe Biden can barely hold my interest longer than an issue of US News and World Report. He has the rare ability to make Coldplay sound interesting, if you listen to them immediately after a Biden speech. He’s as generic as they come; the Kroger brand Old White Politician. If Obama and Biden win, the only way people will remember Biden in a hundred years will be if, on inauguration day, he changes his name to Jiggly Tits Joe. Otherwise he will be forgotten; a mere brushstroke on the grand tapestry of Plain White Guys Serving as American Vice Presidents.

John McCain seems like the guy who works with your dad that you meet at some company family outing and he pulls you aside to tell you a creepy joke about condoms. I can’t really criticize him for anything else, since every time I’ve come across a political article about him in a magazine or newspaper in the last few months I’ve skipped it because it looked boring. From what I’ve seen on the tube, though, McCain is a lot funnier than Obama.

Obama is supposed to be the coolest of cool. But realize that he’s cool for a politician. Would I want to hang out with Barack Obama? Play a little RB2 or throw down on the ping pong table? No, I wouldn’t. Because I don’t want to get lectured at for a half hour on hope and responsibility. From what I’ve seen that’s all he does, and if I wanted to be yelled at about responsibility I’d go back to Virginia and talk to my daughter’s mother. People need to stop obsessing and realize that Obama is a normal person. Three years ago he didn’t even know he’d be in this campaign, let alone be considered the savior of humanity. Not that I have anything against him; I just mean, come on, people. You act like he has some book of country-saving secrets he’ll crack open January 20^th and suddenly everything will be fixed. If that book existed the current Bush administration, as well as McCain’s campaign, would be on a whirlwind global hunt for it. And then this wouldn’t be a presidential race, it would be the next National Treasure movie.

So it comes down to this: I don’t really see any reason to like either candidate. But there are reasons to dislike them. Here’s why I don’t want Obama to win. First of all, when I type Barack Obama/Joe Biden into Microsoft Word, 75% of those names get a Red Squiggly. On the other hand, John McCain/Sarah Palin sees a 0% Red Squiggly rating. Do I want to put up with at least four years of Red Squigglies? No, not really. I also want Obama to lose just to annoy liberals. There’s nothing more obnoxious than someone who sits at Starbucks all day working on their horrible screenplay on their Macbook and talks nonstop about how Obama is literally the savior of humanity. This is how I picture all Democrats, and I wish terrible things upon them. The worst thing they could imagine is an Obama loss. Or the next Animal Collective CD getting cancelled. Hopefully both happen on the same day.

Why should McCain lose? So I never hear about Sarah Palin ever again. That’s pretty much the only reason I have. I know people frequently cite things like his policies and stances on issues and Senate record, but I really don’t care. It’s not like he, or Obama, will actually do anything in office. I admit that I’ve lost faith in politics over the last several years, but nothing Bush did ever affected me, and unless McCain makes Xbox Live illegal or puts a huge tax on Publix-brand yogurts, nothing he could do will either.

A political election is really just choosing who’s going to spend your money. The candidates are all about the taxes. They both say they’re going to lower them and are both lying to you, so it doesn’t really matter. The problem with the whole taxes issue is that the candidates forget about that whole national debt thing. The U.S. is currently over ten trillion in the red, and according to something I saw on the news, both candidates’ proposals will only increase it. Since the debt obviously doesn’t matter, here’s my plan: The federal and state governments eliminate all taxes: income, sales, property, whatever. No taxes on anything. But we set a date, one hundred years from now, when this will all end. The country keeps operating at its current level by getting fat loans from other countries, but without taxes of any sort. Everyone experiences wild prosperity and fun, while the national debt grows at an insane rate. Then, in 2108, the U.S. defaults on its loans and ceases to exist. That’s it; the country just ends. We have one hundred years of crazy fun, and then call it quits. Whomever the U.S. owes the most money to (likely China) will receive the largest share of American land. Each country we owe will take a proportional slice of the country, to be used as colonies or prisons or opium farms. I think that’s a solid plan.

With money on everyone’s minds lately, I also don’t agree with the assessment of the current state of the economy. Obama is quick to call it the worst times since the Great Depression. Is that true? There’s not really a way to tell, considering how radically different the country has become over the last century. You know how I know it’s different? Because hardly anyone takes dumps in the street anymore. People are too quick to label events as major crises. Since Vietnam there hasn’t been an event that united an entire generation. Our grandparents had the Depression and World War II, our parents had Vietnam, and we have, what, Pokemon? People want that event to happen and anytime something slightly serious happens they jump to label it as being larger than it is. I mean, yeah, if you have a lot of money in stocks you’re probably not feeling so hot these days. But I don’t have money in stocks, I have it in a hollowed-out book in my room. Most young people have nothing to complain about concerning the downturn. Honestly, the only way it has affected my life is that Riverside pizzas now cost six dollars.

It’s the same thing with people thinking this is a monumental, historic election. No it’s not; it’s a monumental occasion for your television station or magazine to get viewers and readers. Remember when it was the biggest election of our lives four years ago? It’s just like the Olympics: every four years it’s touted as being such a big deal so NBC and their sponsors can rack up fat cash, but after two weeks you realize you could watch people dive at the neighborhood pool and don’t care anymore. It’s not possible to have any sort of historic election anymore. The last one was probably FDR’s third term. Up until everyone bought a TV politics were the only thing to talk about and were a big deal, but nowadays for every political story people read they look at three humorous pictures of cats. That is why there will never be another historic election. Because people are more interested in Internet fads than politics. As they should be.

What really bother me are the people who are completely, blindly, mindlessly in love with their candidate. Sure, the presidential question is an odd one; but we can’t flip to the back of the book to find a definitive answer. (What an incredibly clever sentence.) They think the other guy is wrong about everything, from his ideas to his speech to the way he ties his shoes. And they believe their candidate is perfect to the extent of being able to fart on-key G sharps every time. And that’s just not true. Obama could barely hit a D the last time I saw him.

I hope people know that in our current society of hyper-scrutiny, by the time 2012 rolls around there’s a high probability that no matter who wins everyone will hate them. Some little mistake like sagging his pants Ja-Rule-style during the State of the Union Address will be blown up into a world-changing disaster, and soon enough whoever is President will be reduced to being just another in a series of jokes running the country. It’s one of the worst times to lead the country. There are a lot of problems out there. If I could vote, I wouldn’t, because there’s a 50/50 shot that I’d be responsible for a bad President. Actually, that’s not true. I might vote if you could vote in the DVD section at Fry’s or if they gave out a free taco or something. Well I can’t vote, so in four years when everyone is laughing at our country’s leader, I’ll face no responsibility. So to all you suckers who can vote, good luck, and enjoy waiting in line. This thing’s a coin toss, and hopefully it works out in your favor.

I know what you’re thinking. “What an incredible waste of time. It’s like you wrote a really long, unfocused persuasive essay in which you argue for people to do nothing.” Yeah, pretty much. This election has been going on for almost two years now and it will end in one night. That’s like starting today with daily in-depth research to prepare for a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors in 2010. “If everyone didn’t care like you, no one would vote!” Okay, cool. “Your whole point was that you’re sick of the election, but you seem to be willing to write plenty about it.” You’re right. This is the last I’ll ever talk about the election. From now on I will exclusively talk about the Twilight series.

2008-07-09T22:27:00.004-04:00

Competing in any sort of competition nationally is an accomplishment reserved for those who are the most dedicated, the most passionate, and the absolute best in their field. So imagine my surprise when I found myself competing at the Future Business Leaders of America National Leadership Convention in the Entrepreneurship category, a topic which I know absolutely nothing about. It was a strange two days.

My journey began a few months ago when I decided to enter the Entrepreneurship competition because I felt that, as Vice President of the club, I should probably participate in it and Entrepreneurship seemed to be an easy category. My previous experience with entrepreneurship was Maromi Movies, a company that produced some of the best films of all time and pulled in $300 in profits. That seems impressive for a bunch of sixth graders, but realize that all the cash came from my and my friends’ parents, which I’m pretty sure is not how Starbucks did it.

The Entrepreneurship test varied from common sense questions to ones about specific dates for turning in specific tax forms, which I have never done in my life. I fully expected to fail the test miserably and be comforted knowing that I do not possess the mental capabilities to start my own business, which is kind of a relief because that seems like a huge hassle. I would have had a better chance taking a test on 19^th century Liberian woodwork, which, sadly, was not one of the possible categories. But I received an email a few weeks later saying that I had scored high enough to advance to the state competition. This in itself really wasn’t much of an accomplishment because the test was taken on a computer, so anyone living south of Atlanta could not participate.

I chose not to go to state because I didn’t really want to. I think that was the extent of my excuse; I didn’t have much of an actual reason to not go, but I really didn’t want to. I figured that was the end of my run in the Entrepreneurship competition and I’d have to wait until next year to randomly guess answers on the test again. But I wasn’t done just yet. I got an email after the state convention saying that my score on the initial test was so high I would advance to Nationals automatically and be put on a Super Team with two other high-scorers. What I found odder than advancing to Nationals was the fact that the organization was childish enough to call something a Super Team. I decided to go to the National convention because I had already skipped the State one for no good reason, it would be interesting to see FBLA kids from across the country, and, most of all, it was held in Atlanta this year so I could leave at any time I wanted.

Day 1

I arrived at the Marriott Marquis around noon on a Thursday to find the lobby throbbing with students from all parts of the country (I later found out there were over 7,000 people attending the conference). Occasionally I could spot someone not affiliated with FBLA who was clearly confused at the sight of so many teenagers. They probably thought this was some sort of shoplifting convention or massive drug deal, or maybe that the pay-per-view porn was free that week. I briefly met the three other kids from Alpharetta there, including my roommate, before I went up to my room to drop my bag off. For the planned four-day event I brought two outfits and enough boxers to last three days because I was planning to leave early and also because I wasn’t too concerned with impressing anyone from North Dakota with an extravagant variety of t-shirts.

The planned events for the first day were a Georgia FBLA meeting at 12:30, my Entrepreneurship multiple-choice test at 4:00, and the National Opening Ceremony at 7:00. With my half hour to kill I went to my room, moved a chair in front of a window, and stared outside like an insane person. On the roof of the office building adjacent the Marriott was a man sitting underneath an air duct, likely hiding from the police. We looked at each other for a while and eventually he left, probably to begin work on his mission to murder me.

The Georgia meeting was my first real taste of what serious FBLA kids are like. It seems like kids who are interested in becoming business leaders would be somewhat intelligent, but realize that the club’s only requirement is a twenty dollar bill and you can get one of those for masturbating in a cup. It’s clear that at the Alpharetta High School chapter not many people care about it because of the 100+ members, maybe 15 show up to the meetings. But there are kids who pursue FBLA with all their heart; kids who would rather spend an afternoon studying up on business ethics than having any sort of fun. Some of these more serious kids were running for FBLA southern regional offices and had to awkwardly converse with everyone as if they, or the listener, cared at all. They could have saved a lot of time by saying, “I’m from a county in Georgia you’ve never heard of. Vote for me, because if I don’t get this regional office I’ll probably slaughter hogs on a farm for the rest of my life.”

A good example of the senses of humor these kids have came during the meeting when the State FBLA director said, “Girls need to wear hose with skirts. If you don’t have any, ask me and I’ll buy you some hose.” There was a brief pause while the kids put it together. You could imagine the whispers: “Hose is like hoes, which are like prostitutes.” “Oh, I get it now.” A small pocket of people began laughing, then another, and another, until it was spreading like the wave at a sporting event and the whole room was in stitches. Those south Georgians hadn’t had that much fun since baseball got desegregated.

After the wake of hilarity subsided, each student was given a gift bag from FBLA along with $25. I still have no idea what the money was for, but I was handed a twenty dollar bill and a five dollar bill and I didn’t ask any questions. Inside the goodie bag were schedules, and FBLA magnet, and some items to welcome out-of-towners to the fine state of Georgia. We got a paper fan that said, “Georgia FBLA Welcomes You to HOTlanta,” which is interesting because nobody calls Atlanta that. We got a pin of a peach holding up a sign saying, “Y’all come back now, ya hear?” because that is exactly how everyone from Georgia speaks. And we got a bunch of salt water taffy because someone apparently thought Atlanta is located in the northeast.

The FBLA Convention program included an example of the unintelligence of many FBLA members. It said there were people at the convention from the Virgin Islands. Leaving the Virgin Islands in the middle of June to come to Atlanta can be seen as nothing but an enormous mistake or a massive blunder. The only rational explanation is that they were under the impression that the convention was held in the lost city of Atlantis.

Once the meeting ended I got to meet the third member of my Entrepreneurship team. The Super Team was me, another kid from Alpharetta, and a third mystery person from another school. I imagined the mystery member would be Jessica Alba, perhaps taking a break from the movies to enroll in a few courses at South Forsyth. I was disappointed to find that instead of Ms. Alba my teammate was a black kid named Chris from Riverwood. He was a solid guy, but he did not look much like Jessica Alba.

Our other teammate suggested we eat lunch together and instead of saying, “What? No. That’s going to be really awkward,” I went along with it because I had nothing else to do. We walked over to the Peachtree Center Mall to find somewhere to eat. My teammate and I chose Atlanta Bread Company. To that, Chris said, “I’m just gonna go to KFC,” which caused me to almost laugh out loud because stereotypes are funny. I can’t blame him, though. I did choose perhaps the world’s third whitest eatery after the ill-fated Bull Connor’s Corn Dogs and California Pizza Kitchen.

After our meal we went back to our rooms to get ready for our competition. We had to wear formal business attire for it, even though we would be taking our test huddled around a computer and hardly anyone would see us, but FBLA is more interested in having kids look like they’re businessmen than having kids know anything about business. I put on my dress shirt, tie, and coat, looked in the mirror and thought, “Wow, that guy looks like a moron.” I have no business wearing such clothing. The outfit that I have worn every single day this summer is a white t-shirt and black athletic shorts. If I go somewhere fancy like a grocery store then I’ll throw on a different t-shirt. Dressing up makes me feel like I’m wearing a costume, like I went to a Party City and said, “Yeah, the scary demon is okay, but I really want to look like a 50 year old man.” But, nevertheless, I went down to the lobby, my too-big shoes flopping along with each step, to prepare for the test.

One of my teammates brought some notes on Entrepreneurship for us to review. Stuff about S-Corporations, angel investors, and market penetration, which I thought was a pornographic film about the New York Stock Exchange. Finally it was time for us to take the test. The competition had two parts: first a 100 question multiple choice test; then the top 10 teams advanced to the next round in which they were given problematic entrepreneurship situations and had to give presentations about them. Before we entered the Imperial Ballroom to take our test a friendly black guy working at the convention said, “Where y’all from?” “Georgia,” I responded. “Ooh! Is Georgia gon’ bring it home?” “Georgia is going to bring it home,” I assured him with the confidence of someone who has no idea what he’s talking about. We entered the ballroom, an enormous space likely used to house elephants in their off-season, sat down at a computer and started the test, making all sorts of assumptions, guesses, and inferences. Occasionally we would disagree on a question and have a small argument that would end when I realized I had no basis for my position and I would give up because I wasn’t that concerned about it. We were the third team to finish and felt confident. The same guy from before was outside the doors waiting for us and said, “Did Georgia bring it home?” “Georgia brought it home,” I said. He happily shouted, “The trophy is not gonna leave Georgia this year!” I can only imagine the look on his face when he found out the next day when results were posted that the trophy would go far, far away from Georgia.

The next event of the day was the Opening Ceremony, which turned out to be perhaps the strangest thing I have ever taken part in. All 7,000 attendees were bussed over to the Georgia World Congress Center, which, I suppose, is where the World Congress would meet if it existed. We were a little early, so my group stood in the lobby and I watched the behavior of other FBLA kids. Some of them wore jackets covered in pins, up to forty of them, from various FBLA events, but from the looks of the kids I could assume each pin symbolized one point of their SAT score. Eventually everyone was funneled into a huge, dark convention room that was full of smoke and terrible music. FBLA officers walked around handing out glow necklaces because the organization wanted to prove just how much money it could waste. The seats were arranged by state, and behind Georgia was Washington, a collection of kids who chanted their state’s name over and over again for no reason whatsoever. I thought that was strange, but then the ceremony began.

I have never been to either, but I can assume this ceremony was somewhat like a mix between a Hannah Montana concert and a disturbing cult meeting. There were flashing lights and loud music and even an announcer who sounded like he wanted desperately to leave. Someone sang the national anthem for no apparent reason, unless, maybe, to assure us that we hadn’t been part of a David Copperfield illusion and were still, in fact, in the United States. The National FBLA officers each gave speeches that floored me with how generic they were. One of them wanted everyone to cheer for “anyone who has had a dream or goal.” You might as well cheer for anyone who has ever breathed or eaten bread. Just when I was about to completely tune out the ceremony, they brought in the motivational speaker.

Motivational speakers are an interesting breed. Whereas homeless people have given up on life, with motivational speakers life has given up on them. The motivation most speakers achieve is just by being on stage; listeners think, “Wait, she’s getting paid for this? Anyone can do that. I can do it!” Her presentation mostly consisted of defining the terms hope and believe. She also referenced Beanie Babies, Mike Tyson’s ear, and “Who Let the Dogs Out?” letting us all know she has been giving this same speech for eight years. Then there was a weird call-and-response portion, where she would say, “I am not average!” and everyone would chant back, “I am not average!” and I thought, that’s correct; most of you are below average. Then came the dance contest.

I have never been affiliated with any business, or employed at all for that matter, but I’m fairly confident dance contests have nothing to do with business unless your business runs dance contests. But anyway, the speaker called five kids on stage and had a dance contest. The winner, determined by audience applause, won a t-shirt with the speaker’s “Children are the Future” message that he is never going to wear.

The ceremony ended and on the way back to the hotel I witnessed something absolutely extraordinary in its stupidity. While walking with Mrs. Davies, my FBLA advisor, a girl, looking distraught, said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you know where the Hyatt is? I’m so lost.” It seems like a legitimate question, that is until you consider that directly across the street from us, maybe 20 feet away, was a large building with a big sign on it that clearly said Hyatt. As in, THIS IS THE HYATT HOTEL, YOU IDIOT. The girl found her way to the hotel, and once inside probably asked her own roommate if she had seen anyone who looked like her roommate.

It was past 10p.m. by the time we were back in the hotel and every restaurant in the mall was closed. I was hungry and figured I’d get room service. My previous experience with room service was a positive one. It was at a Holiday Inn, where I received a decent meal at a reasonable price. What I did not realize that night was that the Holiday Inn is a really crappy hotel when compared to the Marriott Marquis. If you’re trying to impress someone you’d take them to a Marriott Marquis. If you’re trying to murder someone you’d take them to a Holiday Inn. So I went to the room and ordered some chicken fingers and a fruit plate. The person on the other end of the phone didn’t tell me how much it would cost, only that it would be up in 45 minutes. I expected it to be expensive, which for chicken fingers and a fruit plate is around $12. An hour and a half later the food showed up. The hotel employee who brought it asked for $32. No, no, I thought, I ordered the chicken fingers, not the lobster fingers. I was so stunned I paid the ridiculous amount and stared at my meal in shock. It was a good thing FBLA gave me $25 or else I would have had to rob the hotel employee just to pay for it. I took a picture of the plate to remember it because it was probably the most expensive meal I’d ever eaten. The picture looked like it belonged on a children’s menu at a restaurant near a beach called something like the Crazy Crab and the meal should cost $3.99. The chicken fingers looked and tasted exactly like the same chicken fingers served in restaurants and school cafeterias across the country, which is to say they were incredibly delicious. They gave me a decent amount, six tenders, and the fruit was good. Was the meal worth $32? Maybe if it had included a rare baseball card or ticket to the moon. Was it tasty? Very much so.

Day 2

My roommate and I woke up at the crack of 11 to catch The Price is Right. The other two kids in our group woke much earlier so they could attend a seminar on business etiquette. After the seminar they called my roommate to say they were surprised to find the seminar boring, which is like getting hit in the crotch with a motorcycle and being surprised it hurts.

We all decided to get lunch at Quizno’s and I was looking forward to a meal that didn’t cost as much as a back-alley kidney transplant. We walked down a few Atlanta streets in our business attire, probably looking like the results of some failed Georgia Tech experiment to turn children into adults. While in line at Quizno’s, a girl, a fellow FBLA member, asked us where we are from. “Georgia,” I said. “Where are you from?” “Arkansas.” After a lengthy pause I said, “Cool…” This is interesting because being from Arkansas is not cool. If Bill Clinton was never President most people probably wouldn’t even know it’s a state. But that’s how pretty much every conversation went at the convention: bland statements of locations. I wish there were something at all for us to talk about, but what am I going to say? “Hello, I’m from Georgia. Business is the best. Perhaps we could have a lengthy discussion of U.S.-China trade relations?” The problem with that is I don’t know anything about business and most FBLA kids couldn’t locate China on a map.

After lunch the two kids who attended a seminar earlier tried to convince my roommate and me to go to one that afternoon. I declined because I don’t think anyone has ever left a seminar thinking anything other than, “Well that’s an hour I’ll never get back.” My roommate and I instead chose to go to the Peachtree Center Mall. It was a standard mall, meaning there really isn’t much to see inside. There was a store called Georgia Electronics and Gifts, but, based on the merchandise and unsettling employee, should have been called Electronics and Gifts that were Stolen in Georgia. Located downstairs in the mall was a small convenience store that sold a range of items from school supplies to t-shirts to lottery tickets. The lottery tickets were located right by the entrance to the store away from any employee, which is why a particularly speedy man so easily stole one. He walked right by the store, reached out a hand, and helped himself to a lottery ticket. It caught me so off-guard that my only response was to think, “Well okay. I’m pretty sure you have to pay for those.” You have to wonder what the point of stealing a lottery ticket is, considering the slim odds. He could have stolen a hat with Atlanta written on it. At least then he would have been guaranteed a hat.

Before leaving the mall I picked up a copy of the New York Times because I wanted to read the news and I wanted to feel like I was better than everyone else while doing it. I don’t often get the chance to read such a publication in an environment where I don’t care if people see me and think, “That kid probably doesn’t understand half the things in there,” which is true. I only wanted to read the movie reviews. I went up to my room, flipped through the paper, was disappointed with the lack of comic strips, and decided to head down to the lobby to attempt some summer reading. I found a comfortable chair and tried to read but was continually distracted with watching FBLA kids. You could identify them by the nametags they proudly displayed for no reason. Did they expect someone to approach them saying, “Well hello there. I wasn’t going to introduce myself but now that I see your name is Mitch I’d like to offer you a hundred dollars.”

Just when I was really enjoying the sights of the Marriott lobby I received word of how the Super Team did in our competition. The news came from my advisor as a text message, perhaps the coldest form of communication, and read: Just posted. I’m shocked! AHS is not in top 10. You may have been no. 11. I’m so sorry!

I waited for the rush of emotions to strike: shock, disappointment, embarrassment, maybe even a stream of tears. I waited and waited, preparing myself for the emotions, until nothing happened and I realized that I wasn’t really that concerned about the loss. I gave it my best shot and wasn’t expecting much. At least I’d get to go home early and use my own toilet.

I checked the score sheet to verify the results. I scanned it up and down, looking for my name like a 6^th grader hoping he made the basketball team, but my name was not on the list. Several kids from California advanced to the next round, probably due to their entrepreneurship experience running surf shacks. I went back up to the room to tell my teammate. “Did you hear the news?” “Yeah,” he said, looking dejected. I looked him in the eyes and said, “The dream is over.” It was true. The dream of taking home the Entrepreneurship trophy was gone, which for me was less of a dream and more of a lukewarm interest. But the convention was far from over. We still had to attend a Southern Regional meeting, which, considering the Southern region was essentially the old Confederacy, I assumed would include planning secession from the rest of FBLA. Sadly it did not. It only included a brutal assault of boring speeches.

Each of the kids in the running for an FBLA Regional office delivered a speech. There was a one-minute time limit, which makes you wonder if the speeches are really necessary at all, except for the students to prove that even though they’re from Kentucky they can form simple sentences. But if they eliminated the speeches, the people in charge of FBLA would probably then realize that the regional meeting was unnecessary, then they’d realize that the state meetings were unnecessary, and so on until they realized the entire convention was kind of a waste of gasoline. In one of the speeches a kid compared FBLA to hunting by saying that they both require planning. With that logic you could say FBLA is like ordering a pizza or kidnapping someone.

The speeches went on for almost two hours, becoming more and more boring. I was forced to amuse myself by thinking that instead of Future Business Leaders of America perhaps this club should be called Current Boring Speech Givers of America. After the speeches came a question and answer session. One person asked for the candidates to state their greatest strengths and weaknesses. Instantly some FBLA employee rushed to the microphone to say that the candidates could point out their strengths, but mentioning their weaknesses would be too negative. It’s true, though. Those candidates would have had a hard time getting any votes if they revealed their true weaknesses of dental hygiene and operating automobiles that were manufactured after 1945.

After the regional meeting we walked over to the CNN Center to eat dinner, which is an idea that really shouldn’t make any sense. But odder than finding restaurants in the building was noticing that also inside was a hair salon. One can imagine the conversation that lead up to that idea.

“Sir, we have everything we need to build our hair salon. We’ve found a great location in a new upscale suburban development. Research has shown a strong demand for a hair salon.”

“A suburban development? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Let’s put it in the lobby of a cable news channel.”

Who knows; maybe they do plenty of business there. But I can tell you that personally when I need a haircut my first choice isn’t the headquarters of a television network.

After the CNN Center I went back to the hotel, my parents picked me up, and I was out of there. The journey was over. My only regret was that there was no sort of climax to the story. I knew I would share the events of FBLA Nationals and once I found out we didn’t make it to the performance round of the competition I realized that the story would just kind of end. That’s why Hollywood screenwriters should organize conventions: so there’s a nice structure and big climax at the end and everyone has a story to tell. Oh well, maybe next year.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from FBLA over the years it’s that I don’t have any interest in business. I appreciate businesses for providing me with cuisine and entertainment, but it’s just not for me. And if there’s one thing I learned from the FBLA National Convention it’s that if those kids truly are the future business leaders of America, I advise that you never invest anything into any sort of company. Because it will be run straight into the ground.

2008-06-09T23:57:00.002-04:00

I was going to write an entry about how nothing seems to bother me that much anymore. Back when I first started writing this it seemed like everything pissed me off. But these days if I see MTV I don’t get mad, I can enjoy it for its entertainment value. If I see a douche bag I’m not furious at how stupid he is, I just laugh at his ridiculous wardrobe and imagine seeing him as an assistant manager at Sports Authority twenty years from now.

But then I realized that I just haven’t seen anything lately that has really infuriated me. I don’t put myself in those situations too often anymore. But then earlier this week I found myself at Wal-Mart, the melting pot of everything that is awful about the human race.

I saw a commercial for Wal-Mart the other day. It was for a patio furniture set. A family was just loving every inch of the thing. They were smiling, laughing, and having possibly the greatest time of their lives since little Marky got a B+ on his spelling test. And why were they smiling? Because at no point in the commercial did any member of the family set foot inside an actual Wal-Mart. They wisely had the set delivered. If they had gone to a store, the commercial would have featured crying, screaming, and at least two showers. You could tell they hadn’t been inside a store because they weren’t covered in filth or attempting to commit suicide.

I had to go to Wal-Mart to look for a new Wiffle Ball bat (their selection was limited and did not yield a good bat). As soon as I stepped in the doors I regretted the decision. The fact that they pay a person to stand at the door and remind you to have a pleasant experience says a lot about how confident the store is in itself. Then I saw the customers. It's not like I was expecting a crowd of well educated professionals, but I was still taken aback. I'm just not around people like that often. They probably passed just as much judgment on me. Upon seeing my glasses I’m sure someone declared that I was from the future. Just assuming based on appearance, a Wal-Mart at any given moment has the second lowest IQ per square foot of any area, just behind the entire state of West Virginia.

Wal-Mart somehow makes Toys R Us seem clean. The floors are dirtier than a Vietnamese barber shop that caters to the homeless. So imagine my surprise when I heard a woman say to her child, “We can leave as soon as I find my shoes.” I turned around to verify it, and yes, she indeed was walking around a Wal-Mart barefoot. You might as well wash your feet in the runoff of a hot dog factory. The only semi-rational reason for walking barefoot at Wal-Mart is if you have already contracted every single disease known to man and are thus immune to anything more. But this woman looked reasonably healthy. She probably isn’t anymore, though. If a deranged murderer were chasing me through a Wal-Mart and my shoes fell off I would not continue running. I would rather take my chances with the murderer’s rusty kitchen knife than whatever is on the floor. It’s odd Wal-Marts don’t sell beekeeper’s or Hazmat suits, because those seem to be the safest way to shop there.

At the end of my terrible trip to Wal-Mart, my brother bought a cable for his iPod, so, as is customary at the store, he had to pay for it. Luckily for us there were some self-checkout stations, which are up there with the light bulb and the Game Boy Camera as the greatest inventions of all time. Why? Because you don’t have to deal with store employees. There’s no awkward exchange of pleasantries. There’s no strange moment when you have to stand there putting bills back in your wallet while the clerk just looks on. And, in Wal-Mart’s case, there’s no dealing with inbred mountain people behind the register spitting teeth at you. But, it being Wal-Mart, there was an issue with the self-checkout lane.

There’s a pretty clear order of operations there. Four registers, one line. The person at the front of the line goes to whichever register opens. When my brother and I were at the front of the line a woman, whom I will assume is named something like Mallika or Birju and whose purchase included some form of curry, decided to step in front of us. Who knows why. We looked at her, she looked at us, there were some hand gestures exchanged, and she got back in line. None of that should have happened. If I wanted an awkward exchange I would have asked a Wal-Mart employee for his dental records.

As I left the store I had one thought: How do Wal-Mart employees spend eight hours a day there and not blow their brains out? The only explanation is that they don’t know how to take the safeties off anything in the rifles department.

Or, who knows, maybe they love it. They get up every morning with a smile on their faces, looking forward to stocking bicycles and lots of Mexican CDs. Maybe there are whole families of Wal-Mart employees, who value and respect their profession like coal miners or doctors.

This could have been cleared up if I ever spoke to an employee. But I didn’t because I didn’t want to contract whatever disease they have that led them to a position at Wal-Mart.

Or maybe they’re perfectly fine. What I can conclude is that the Wal-Mart on Windward Parkway in Alpharetta does not carry good Wiffle Ball bats and has some strange customers. That’s good enough a conclusion for me. For further study you'll have to experience it firsthand.

2008-05-29T00:02:00.002-04:00

Two posts in two days? What’s the occasion? I’ll tell you what. I had a dream last night that was so spectacular I need to share it. It's just like when I had pneumonia. I feel like I should share it with everyone. I’ve had a few strange dreams before. In one of the more memorable ones I woke up with a twenty-four inch penis. It seemed great, but then I discovered it had the girth of my pinky finger and a 135 degree bend in it. For most of the dream I just stood in my room and stared at that disgusting spaghetti-like monster in shock and disappointment.

Last night’s dream was even odder than that and didn’t involve my penis. What it did involve were a President from the 1860s, crayons from the 1900s, and a band from the 1970s.

It started with me standing on stage playing guitar in a band. We were in some sort of huge arena with thousands of screaming fans. I was confused because A) I don’t have thousands of fans and the ones I do aren’t of the screaming sort, and B) I didn’t recognize any of the people I was playing music with. I was especially confused when I looked at the banner behind us and discovered that the band I was playing for was Iron Maiden. I have to wonder why my mind put me in that band, because I’m not a huge fan and haven’t heard their music since I last played Tony Hawk 4 a few months ago. But anyway, it got more confusing when I saw all the band members were dressed in the same red blazers and checkered-yellow pants. We looked nothing like Iron Maiden. I was wearing someone else’s glasses and couldn’t see very well. It was perhaps the most confusing situation I’ve ever experienced besides the time when my parents revealed that Pancho, the Panamanian boy who I thought was my brother, was actually an undercover DEA agent and was forty-six, not eight. And that’s before the wind monster showed up.

In the middle of all the confusion there was some commotion on stage and everyone ran outside. At some point during my escape I noticed that we were all fleeing from a wind monster, like that face that came out of the sand in The Mummy. I don’t know how quickly the thousands of people in the arena could have funneled through the doors, but suddenly I was outside where everyone was standing around. No one was panicking anymore. I guess we all figured the wind monster wasn’t smart enough to follow us out. How wrong we were, because suddenly I felt a breeze on my back. It was the wind monster making his second attack! Everyone grabbed a handful of sand off the ground and threw it in the air so we could see what the monster looked like. That’s when things got really weird.

The sand settled on the smoke monster and it solidified into a shape. It was a large house, which my mind immediately recognized as the United Stated Capital Building from Abe Lincoln’s presidency. It looked like a large plantation-style house, but maybe that’s what the Capital Building looked like in 1862. When it comes to historical facts I like to trust my dreams over books. Everyone was furious at the smoke monster so we all ran to the building and broke all the windows. I’m now realizing that the smoke monster didn’t actually harm anyone. I guess people just love ganging up on smoke monsters and breaking their windows.

We all climbed inside the building and it was more like Abe Lincoln’s house than the Capital Building. There was a very old bedroom and everyone immediately started raiding the drawers. I found a box of Crayola crayons. Each crayon was about a foot long and looked like a candle. I guess that’s how they made them during the Civil War. A dresser was full of Garfield merchandise. Not the president, but the cat. There were little figurines of Garfield. Maybe Abe was a fan. I noticed a friend of mine was there rummaging through Lincoln’s stuff right beside me. I joked to him, and I remember these specific words, “I bet Abe’s going to walk in here and shoot me in the heart.” Why the heart? I don’t know. I envisioned Abe Lincoln as a pistol-carrying gunslinger who aims to kill. From my knowledge of American history, though, he was not.

We all left the house and it was over. Nothing was really concluded. Maybe that wind monster/Capital Building is still out there haunting Iron Maiden concerts. But then the dream morphed and I was in a store, where apparently I worked along with that same friend who was in Lincoln’s house with me. We were standing around when a very old man walked in. Note that the man looked absolutely nothing like Teddy Roosevelt. He was a skinny old man wearing an apron from Lowe’s. But my mind told me that he was, in fact, Teddy Roosevelt. My friend and I followed him around the store, laughing at the idea that Teddy Roosevelt works at Lowe’s.

And that’s the dream I had. Pretty strange.

2008-05-27T15:00:00.004-04:00

Another school year is over. The books have been turned back in, the chairs have been stacked, and the calculators have been put to rest. The pencils have been retired to kitchen drawers and my drawers have been retired for the season. The summer is much more enjoyable without undergarments holding me back. The ability to wear nothing at all or as much clothing as physically possible is just some of the joys of summer.

But there are also horrible parts of summer. For example, family gatherings. This year’s Memorial Day gathering wasn’t out of the ordinary. There was swimming. There were hamburgers. And there was a deranged Pakistani man who tried to convince everyone to buy his Swimming Hamburgers, literally hamburgers that can swim. No one bit on his offer. My aunt almost did but she declined upon hearing that the hamburgers can do only the butterfly and not the backstroke.

During this gathering I was asked a question that seems simple but is in fact virtually impossible to answer. My grandma said, “So what do you plan to do this summer?”

My answer sounded fine to me. “Relax and enjoy summer.” That seems to sum everything up. She seemed to have expected more.

“Oh,” she said. Just kind of an “oh” that acknowledges that I have responded; the kind that means, “You have not impressed me. Perhaps the value of your Christmas gift will reflect my disappointment.” But honestly what could someone asking that question possibly expect to hear?

“In June I plan to scale Everest, throughout July I’ll construct a particle accelerator in my garage, and during the first few weeks of August I’ll catch Osama bin Laden.”

Maybe I should have just turned the question around. “What did you do during your summer vacations? Go to Washington to meet President Taft?”

I suppose I could have shared with her some more specific plans. I could have told her about the potato launcher I constructed yesterday. Here’s the problem with that, though. To anyone under the age of thirty the idea of a spray-deodorant-propelled potato cannon is pretty spectacular. But to people of an older generation, such a device would give them so many questions they very well could develop Alzheimer’s on the spot. “How far do they go?” “Why are you launching potatoes?” “Are you working for the Germans?”

Nothing good could have come from telling her about specific events or plans like the potato launcher. I would have been answering questions until school starts again. Having the time to make such plans and build such vegetable-firing cannons is perhaps the greatest part of summer. There are no longer any time constraints. Just one week ago I had a scant ten minutes built into the morning routine to relieve my bowels. But what if there was a great article in Entertainment Weekly that required fifteen? Then I’d have to save it for later. What if my bowels were full to the brim and required fifteen minutes of birth-like pushing? I would also have to save that for later. Now I can spend as much time as needed, or wanted, on the bowl. But having no time limits is a pleasure that extends outside of the bathroom.

I can read the newspaper without having to stop to do schoolwork. I can watch TV without having to pause to study. I can rob the local gas station at my leisure without having to be in bed early to wake up. Earlier today I spent a good twenty minutes eating an apple. Just sitting in silence, enjoying that apple, and thanking Johnny Appleseed for his work. During the school year there’s no time for such enjoyment.

And there’s also not enough time for things like trying to throw a baseball faster than the speed of light. Or trying to eat a whole can of green beans including the can. Or growing a third penis.

I probably won’t end up attempting any of those things. I’ll split most of my time between the newspaper and the waffle ball field. But knowing that I have the freedom to, at any moment, decide to eat all the leaves in my yard is a comforting feeling.

This summer is going to be a good one. Maybe I’ll run into you when I’m breaking the sound barrier on foot.

News Update!: I made a new blog for fictional things. Why? Because fiction doesn't have to be real. I can literally just make anything up and put it on there and no one says it's fake. I wonder why no one thought of this before.
yellowjacket622.blogspot.com

2008-03-15T00:08:00.000-04:00

Here’s a bit of personal advice. Look for oncoming traffic when making a left turn out of your neighborhood. Obviously to prevent your car from being destroyed and to prevent anyone from being injured, but also to keep you out of a 7-hour Defensive Driving course on a Saturday almost five months after the accident. It was not a fun experience. Here’s what happened.

8:45 a.m.: My dad and I arrive in the parking lot after searching for the building for ten minutes. We locate it as a large, grey concrete establishment hidden behind a line of stores and completely free of identification. There are three unmarked doors. One of them has a metal 7 hanging from it, I assume to alert deliverymen where to drop off the firearms, because this place looks like the set of a snuff film. The inside isn’t much more promising. It’s one dirty room with a computer, TV, long plastic table, and some folding chairs. Surprisingly the floor is not sticky with blood. The sole employee, sitting at the computer, is textbook old man. You can tell this man spends a lot of time looking at stamps through a magnifying glass. He asks for my information and needs clarification several times. The last thing this man heard clearly was probably Ronald Regan’s Inaugural Address. I tell him my street name: Greatwood Court. After three rounds of: “Great-what?” “Wood. W-O-O-D,” he writes down “Greatward.” A guy has to be a frequent customer at the hospital to misinterpret wood as ward. Finally he tells me, “All you can do is have a seat and make yourself at home.” I’m the second person in there so I hear him repeat that exact message to the next 6 people.

9:00 a.m.: Time for class to begin. The teacher hobbles to a desk in front of the TV and puts in a DVD. He handles it like an artifact from another galaxy. The DVD contains a PowerPoint presentation, which he reads to us for 45 minutes. It includes pointers along the lines of “It is illegal to not wear a seatbelt.” When he finishes I’m exhausted from the excitement and caught off guard when he throws a pop quiz on road signs at us. I shift to pop quiz mode and begin reviewing in my head. Have I ever driven a car before? Do I know what road signs mean? And, most importantly, just in case there’s an emergency, does the obese man sitting next to me look knowledgeable? I feel confident and whiz through the exam. Of course I peek at my neighbor’s answers. I’m not risking taking this class again because I was too proud to be sure that the triangle means yield. Our answers look similar and I score a 90. It’s easy to calculate my score in my head because there are 20 questions and I missed 2. The guy next to me also missed 2, but he multiplies 18 by 5 manually on his paper to determine his score. Maybe he’s not the genius I was hoping for. Things are going well. It’s time for the first 10-minute break.

9:50 a.m.: A few of my peers go outside for the break. I don’t know what they’re doing out there. Smoking? Sitting in their cars? Robbing local shops? I spend the time clearing out the old text messages from my phone and staring at the poster near me featuring spirited students at a Milton High School football game. Wow, I think. Their douche bags look just like our douche bags. I wisely brought the new Entertainment Weekly with me. I flip through it for a few minutes and decide to ration it off. I need to save the good stuff for later in the day.

10a.m.: The break is over and class begins again. This hour is more of that superb PowerPoint I got to enjoy some of earlier. The teacher reads it out of a binder with a the kind of slow southern drawl that makes me think he is likely the direct descendant of a plantation owner. His rolled-up jeans support my theory. The PowerPoint is more of the same. I notice time has begun to move more slowly, like a wounded pirate hobbling along in the Boston Marathon.

10:50a.m.: The second break. I bust out my magazine and browse through it, taking my time. It’s a decent issue. I notice a sign on the wall that reads: Crackers 50¢ Candy 60¢ Soda $1.00. It looks like it was hung during the Coolidge administration. I don’t know who would want to put anything from this room in their mouth, although I am tempted to find out how candy from the Great Depression tastes. And the soda was likely made with cocaine.

11:00a.m.: Surprisingly enough, class begins again. But this time something’s new. There’s no PowerPoint. Instead the teacher puts in a DVD called Extreme Driving Quiz, and boy is it a treat. It recommends fighting back against kidnappers if they try to shove you in the trunk of your car. Excellent tip, I think. I’ll be sure to sue the makers of this video when I’m shot in the kneecaps for doing that. I also learn that someone’s car breaks down on active railroad tracks every 2 hours in the U.S. I spend the remainder of the movie trying to comprehend how slim the chances of that are and how badly that statistic is exaggerated. While I’m doing this the teacher is filling out forms on a typewriter. Not surprising, considering the nature of this man, but a little odd considering there is a computer less than a foot from his typewriter. I suppose this man isn’t a big supporter of electricity.

11:50a.m.: It’s lunch time. We’ve got until 1p.m. to be back in the dungeon of a classroom. I walk to Nantucket Sandwich Shop and am suddenly put in an odd situation. I’ve never been in this restaurant before. There is one table of people there: three teenagers who aren’t eating anything, which means some type of exchange is going down there, either baseball cards or drugs. I don’t get close enough to find out. There are two people behind the counter watching my every move. I approach them and have no idea what I want. The only intel I have is that this establishment makes sandwiches, which could mean a lot of things. Sub sandwiches? Hot sandwiches? Knuckle sandwiches? There’s a menu posted on the counter but it would take at least 10 minutes to go through it, so I have to take a risk. “Can I just get a turkey and cheese sandwich?”

“Yeah,” responds the teenage clerk. I’m in luck.

I request it on wheat bread, pay the $7.25, and take a seat. While I wait I realize I haven’t specified anything more about the order. What if it’s with Swiss cheese? I’m strictly anti-Swiss when it comes to cheese and textiles. What if it comes with some odd sauce or other crap on it?

The sandwich arrives and it looks good. I see nothing strange on or around it, although the cheese remains a mystery. I take a bite and find it to be delicious. Nantucket Sandwich Shop hereby receives an official recommendation.

12:15p.m.: I’m done with my lunch. What am I supposed to do for the next 45 minutes? I take out my EW and read most of it, even the stuff I usually wouldn’t touch. The restaurant is filling up and I feel a little odd to be sitting alone reading about Cashmere Mafia being picked up for another season, but whatever. If it means not having my license suspended I’d publicly read about anything. (Unless it’s in Oprah’s Book Club. I have to draw the line somewhere.) I leave $2 in the tip jar and head for the bathroom. There’s a sign saying 10¢ Pay Bathroom. I can’t tell if it’s just part of the restaurant’s beach décor or real, but I take the risk even though I don’t have any dimes. If the sign is true, there’s got to at least be a garbage can back there. I find the door and I’m good to enter unpaid. My pee is free. I leave Nantucket and head back to HQ. Three hours to go. I can’t wait.

1:00p.m.: I go back inside the door marked 7 and wait in my seat. The other people file into the room. I have no idea where any of them went for lunch, but I do hear the man sitting next to me tell the teacher that he spent his hour purchasing a sweatshirt at Walgreen’s. I also find out he has a Scottish accent. After the chitchat class starts again. The instructor gives us a sheet featuring some gas-saving tips including: “Driving with the windows down increases drag and wastes gas.” A hot tip that very well may save me half a cent over the course of my life. Once we’re done with the sheet there’s more PowerPoint goodness. How they managed to fill this many hours with a slideshow of text about changing lanes and seatbelts I don’t know. My attention is waning and I look around the room. There are shelves full of items like compressed air, blank CDs, and napkins. It looks like the stash of a criminal who steals from Office Depots and keeps to a $5 per item limit.

1:50p.m.: Another break, more Entertainment Weekly. I also text message a friend who had to endure this class one week ago to ask about the final exam. I’m worried because a) I don’t want to screw up and have to take this class again, and b) I’ve had bad luck when it comes to driving exams. It took two tries to get a Learner’s Permit and three for a license. I swear half those tests are trick questions. But those things are in the past. This upcoming exam is soon. My friend assures me it’s all common sense, but I’m still a little worried. That’s what they said about the other tests.

2:00p.m.: More PowerPoint. I’m trying to pay attention to be absolutely sure I don’t fail the upcoming exam, but it’s difficult. The instructor has the charisma of a roll of toilet paper. Single ply. I zone out and stop listening. I know he’s talking, but I don’t hear it anymore. I feel like a deaf person at a symphony. I glance up at the TV every now and then to read what he’s talking about, which is currently speed limits. A peer asks about speed limits on Georgia highways and tells us a funny story about being pulled over for going 80 in a 55 in Ohio. He’s an entertaining guy, about 25 and wearing a large coat with the hood up. He seems like he does crystal meth. When his story ends the class again becomes the time-warp of boredom it has been for several hours. Hopefully something exciting will happen soon.

2:30p.m.: The TV suddenly turns off! Right in the middle of the slideshow! A mystery is afoot. The teacher investigates as quickly as his horribly slow legs allow while the students look around at one another confused. Was this planned? Is it part of the show, like a haunted house? Will a man dressed as a zombie bust out of the bathroom and terrify us while roller skating? Sadly none of those things happen. One of the phones is dead and something near the computer beeps every minute. Being the trooper that he his, the teacher soldiers on without the assistance of the television. Paying attention is now much more difficult without the visual. Two of the older guys in the class try to get to the source of the beeping at the computer but neither is successful, not even the hotshot Starbucks drinker who’s been on his BlackBerry since class began. He seemed eager to please us with his computer skills, but he comes up short. He is visibly disappointed with himself. The instructor continues reading the slides out of his binder.

3:00p.m.: The teacher tells us we’re supposed to watch another movie now, but we can’t since the TV is out. I thank whoever the kind worker is who chainsawed through the power cable. Or maybe someone is being tortured next door and ripped out some wires in a desperate escape attempt. We’ll never find out because we get to take the final exam now, instead of at 4 as was planned. This is an excellent surprise. The exam is fairly easy but of course I make sure my answers look similar to the guy’s next to me. It never hurts to be sure, even if the questions are to the tune of “When is it illegal to back up on an expressway?” We grade the tests together, so really I could have just waited to hear the answers and marked them down. But it doesn’t matter because I got a 95. Truly an impressive performance. I’m good to go; the class is over. Or is it?

3:05p.m.: The teacher hands out surveys for us to grade him and the location in 6 categories on a 1-5 scale. I score random numbers from 2 to 5. When it comes to surveys I find confusion is the best strategy.

3:15p.m.: My dad picks me up and I’m home free. What a terrible way to spend a Saturday, I think. But thankfully it’s over and my record at the courthouse will be wiped clean. I’m looking forward to next Saturday, which will hopefully be free of PowerPoints and old southern men.

2008-01-01T00:56:00.000-05:00

It's been a while, but I've kept busy with school and purchasing unfinished furniture. I also recently was kidnapped by a Colombian drug smuggler and he told me to update this with some of those year-end lists everyone does and I said, "But mine won't be just for this year, they'll be more general stuff," and he said, "No funny business, mistah Pistachio," which is what I told him my name was, "or those words will be your last." He later told me he was kidding about everything but I really did need to give him some kind of lists or he would kill my family. So here they are: one list of things that suck and one list of things I hate.

Things That Suck

1. Multi-part problems

It’s exciting to be assigned problems 31-32 for homework. It’s not exciting to find that each of those problems has parts a-j. It’s like expecting an easy day at your job of bagging groceries only to see the cast of Phat Girlz waddling through the door. That’s a lot of extra work.

2. Having homework in 5 classes, so you take home 5 notebooks and books, but each assignment will take less than 10 minutes
3. Turning the alarm back on on Sunday night
4. Noticing a lack of toilet paper after the dump

It’s a bad time no matter which route you take: screaming for mom or hobbling into the hallway, hoping nothing too big drips out.

5. Noticing a lack of shampoo once in the shower

The disappointing “pfff” and light spritz of goo from the bottle is far too similar to an old woman’s flatulence for my taste.

6. Getting out of the shower and there’s no towel

Lurking around nude is great, but doing it while dripping wet is awful.

7. Under-ripe bananas

Seriously, Del Monte, if I wanted to eat chalk I would have purchased it.

8. Over-ripe bananas

C’mon, Del Monte. Where was my reminder to eat it? It looked fine on the outside, but looked less like a Costa Rican banana and more like a Magic Johnson banana on the inside.

9. Hard pears
10. Hard peaches

It’s disappointing not only because they taste like tennis balls, but because you know it had the potential to be tasty if you had just waited two more days.

11. MTV.com

Just loading this site requires a $6,000 computer and two days. Then navigating it takes a team of 15th-century cartographers, all to watch The Hills. It’s still worth it, though.

12. Thinking you have a huge turd, but it’s just a series of farts

Perhaps the world’s ultimate disappointment. It is bittersweet, though, as the bowl provides excellent acoustics for said series of farts.

13. The Real World
14. People who summarize episodes of Family Guy or South Park
15. Having to download drivers for computer components
16. Crocs

Shoes made of Styrofoam? Yeah, that’s a good idea.

17. Teachers who justify assignments with, “This is an honors class”

That’s good to know, teach. If anyone actually cared they would probably have done the work in the first place.

18. Sitting on my testicles
19. Being asked to save the changes to document 1
20. When nothing good comes in the mail
21. Annoying girls who think they’re funny
22. Drivers who follow too closely
23. All-text pages in history books
24. Females with bangs

It’s never looked good on any woman. I have no idea why they try this.

25. Getting into an incredibly hot car that’s been in the sun all day
26. Writers born before 1900

Why am I discouraged from run-on sentences when those are the only kind of sentence these guys knew how to write?

27. People who aren’t good at Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater

Everyone’s been playing them since 1999. If you can't pull of a 100,000 point combo easily there’s something wrong with you.

28. When Microsoft Word asks me if I want to save changes to a document I haven’t altered
29. When someone orders a beverage other than water when splitting the check at a restaurant
30. Magazines wrapped in plastic at grocery stores

I’m not supposed to try it out before I buy it? What’s next, wrapping up food so I can’t eat it at the store?

31. Dane Cook
32. Double issues of magazines that mean next week’s issue doesn’t exist
33. Wide-ruled paper

Especially wide-ruled composition notebooks, which seem to be the only ones stores carry. Office Depot thinks I should be writing lab reports in crayon.

34. Amy Winehouse
35. When reading Newsweek, being assaulted guerilla-style by that ad with the kids with the screwed up lips
36. People under the age of 18 who care about politics or think they can make a difference in the world

Your school fundraiser will not solve anything and you’re wasting your time.

37. Hardcore liberals
38. When the mainstream media discusses videogames and has no idea what it’s talking about
39. The environmentalist fad
40. Teachers who take classroom games too seriously

I’m referring to the ones who make students say “What is…” in Jeopardy. They’re awful people.

41. Gamestop employees

I was there the other day to buy Mat Hoffman’s Pro BMX 2 and an employee started talking to my brother and me about how he’s embarrassed for owning Outlaw Golf. He was a nice guy, but I didn’t really care about his videogame collection. The problem is with all the other employees, who collectively know less about videogames than the world’s oldest man knows about Webkinz.

42. Movie theaters that don’t show "The 20"
43. Non-stadium seating in movie theaters
44. When people leave the speakers on on school computers

Does everyone need to know that I have mail? Yes. Do they need to know I use AOL? No.

45. Rolling Stone magazine
46. People who hold up cell phones at concerts

It’s embarrassing to watch and will be embarrassing for whoever does it in a few years.

47. Getting out of the shower only to notice a patch of soapy skin left un-rinsed
48. People who use the acronym APUSH
49. Holly Hunter’s voice

Good god, please pick a gender.

50. People who think it’s funny to act gay

According to the almanacs it stopped being funny in elementary school.

51. The Secret
52. Raven Symone
53. Capri pants
54. The annual shortage of book covers
55. Freakonomics

Some startling statistics that were left out of the book: Most Americans own a television; ears are usually used for hearing; and serial killers are more likely than regular people to commit murder.

56. MAD Magazine
57. People who call other people “buddy”

If you’ve ever been called “buddy” by someone, you know that they’re not a friend of yours and never will be. If you’ve ever called someone “buddy,” realize now that you don’t have any real friends and you’re the only person who thinks you’re awesome.

58. When pockets get stuck on kitchen drawer knobs
59. Shirts that are supposed to be funny
60. Having a boner while doing the V-sit

I guess having a boner at any inopportune moment usually sucks. I recall sporting one at least before the V-sit, but it might have gone into hiding during the act. I also recall doing some presentation in 6th grade health class with a pelvis-stalagmite. That was the last time I ever wore athletic shorts to school.

61. Comedians who talk about Indians working tech support
62. Crappy chain restaurants

This includes Applebee’s, TGI Friday’s, Red Lobster, Olive Garden, and anywhere else that serves mozzarella sticks. Chili’s is excluded because it’s okay.

63. Peeing with an erection

A faulty grip while doing this once resulted in a bathroom floor covered in urine.

64. Capture the Football
65. Unwanted people who tag along
66. Paper crusties
67. Unintelligent kids who get mad at other students for doing well on tests
68. 0.5 pencil lead

It’s more brittle than Betty White’s bones.

69. Group members who want to present last

Anyone with a brain will tell you that going second is the best way to do it.

70. Red Lobster
71. iPod headphones
72. Math and science word problems that contain multiple sentences of completely unnecessary information.

Unless they’re silly, like most physics problems. Specifically those with curious kittens, the world’s largest salami, or a highly skilled and trained elephant named Sammi. I really like the ones written by Billy Rochester.

73. Hyphenated last names
74. Parents who give their children untraditional names
75. Bicyclists on the road
76. Awkward car rides with friends’ parents
77. Stuffy noses
78. Changing the channel to a good show right as it goes to commercial
79. When Microsoft Word randomly screws up the format of a document
80. Having to walk without the bike in Pokemon
81. Frequent random battles when trying to go somewhere quickly in Pokemon
82. Starbucks, specifically its customers, specifically the ones who drink it at school

Are we supposed to be impressed you went to Starbucks? Nothing impresses me more than someone waking up extra early to wait in line for expensive coffee that she finishes before first period but keeps the cup until the end of the day.

83. Holding in farts

Our society will reach its zenith when people can fart in public at their leisure.

84. People who say “Present” when a teacher calls role

These kids tend to expect a laugh afterwards and are usually met with rewarding silence.

85. Kids who correct substitutes or tell them their nicknames when she’s calling role

These kids tend to be the same ones who wear Crocs, put pencils behind their ears, and say “present” during role.

86. Being asked a question in class that you don’t know
87. Having to flip the page over to complete a problem on a worksheet or test
88. Non-pornographic websites that have pornographic ads
89. Most stop signs in Windward
90. Tests with fewer than 25 questions
91. Arriving at traffic lights just as they turn red
92. Multiple choice questions with more than one correct answer
93. When people do a trivial task for you, like picking up a pencil, and rudely say, “You’re welcome.”
94. When your calculator decides to not work at the beginning of a math test

Or when you type in a problem before noticing that it’s not on.

95. Awkward conversations with relatives you barely know
96. When people show you something they made or wrote, expecting a compliment, and it sucks

It’s an awkward spot that could have been avoided if that person didn’t write such an awful poem.

97. Opening PDFs without realizing they’re PDFs

Almost no PDF is worth the 15-minute wait.

98. Cars that speed up to pass you for no apparent reason
99. When the person sitting in front of you doesn’t pass back the worksheet
100. When your pen explodes while playing with it during a lecture
101. Spilling things

Especially food.

102. Teachers at lunch who yell at students for not throwing away their lunches
103. Being completely out of clean boxers or undershirts
104. Doing all the work on a group project
105. Forgetting things
106. Realizing you got a question wrong on a test immediately after turning it in
107. When the school blocks non-pornographic websites for pornography
108. Teachers who justify homework on weekends saying that you have more time

Yeah, more time for eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching America’s Next Top Model.

109. When cleaning people re-arrange all your stuff
110. Waiting at restaurants

Especially at crappy chain restaurants that hand out flashing coasters. Those are never worth it.

111. Accidentally shitting your pants
112. Waiting rooms
113. Blood tests

Why do they take so much? How many steaks do they have to marinate?

114. When the doctor asks your mom questions about you when you’re perfectly able to answer them
115. Sticky boxers after a wet fart
116. People who talk while the teacher is talking
117. Shorts without pockets
118. Frozen foods that melt way too fast

Especially DiGiorno pizzas.

119. Hearing a teacher say, “You don’t have to write that down,” immediately after you have
120. Typing entire URLs

It seems the USA Today and many teachers are unaware of Internet searches.

121. Food melting in a car or pocket
122. Realizing the note you just wrote down is completely useless
123. Braces
124. When the section of the newspaper you want is no where to be found
125. The “ae” combo in words like “Caesar” and “daemon”

I run into each of those words at least four times a day and I still have trouble.

126. When the Internet doesn’t work

In fact, as I write this, it currently does not. The next best thing to do with the Internet is down is play Xbox Live, but that doesn’t work either. So you’re left with newspapers, magazines, the phonograph, and Microsoft Word. Life without the Internet is terrible. I often wonder how people in the 19th century downloaded movies.

127. The school’s online databases

Librarians, it seems, are unaware of most things on the Internet. Those databases are about as useful to my research paper as a donut covered in barbed wire and deep fried in whale blood. What? I don’t know.

128. Stop signs or red lights at the bottom of steep hills
129. Long telephone conversations

30 seconds should be the universal limit. That’s all that’s ever necessary.

130. When girls you don’t particularly like instigate conversations that aren’t particularly interesting
131. Being instant messaged by someone you don’t like
132. Long instant messenger conversations

Everyone knows it’s just for reading away messages and finding MySpace and Facebook links.

133. When you can’t find the remote
134. Commercials that are much louder than the others
135. When you can’t hear the person on the other end of the phone
136. Microsoft Word’s incorrect grammar corrections
137. Waking up with a dry mouth
138. Being woken up by a ringing phone
139. Waiting at the bus stop
140. After getting your hopes up, the waiter carrying a big tray of food walks right past your table

Unless it’s at a crappy chain restaurant, in which case I can wait a few more minutes for my steak fajitas to be microwaved.

141. Squeezing a testicle when holding in a fart

Holding in farts is never a good idea. It leads to squeezed testicles, stomach aches, or a build-up of pressure that results in projectile diarrhea. Only one of those three things is desirable.

142. Stopping for school busses
143. When every channel is on a commercial at the same time
144. Unsatisfactory dumps

If there’s not at least three big cigars and a cup of beef stew in the bowl, I leave unfulfilled.

145. Having to move the TV to get to the inputs in the back
146. Hearing a sexual reference when watching TV with your parents
147. Having a really itchy cornhole in class
148. Sitting behind a desk that doesn’t have a footrest
149. Desks without armrests
150. Getting bits of food (specifically peach fibers) stuck in your teeth
151. Awkward nipple hairs
152. Noticing stains on clothing several hours into the day
153. When you rip off a piece of tape and it pulls some paper off with it
154. Staples that don’t go all the way through
155. Rug burns
156. When the phone rings while home alone and taking a dump

You have to either risk it not being important and ignore it or waddle to the phone and risk leaving a stained trail of drippings that will last a lifetime.

157. When guests don’t get the hint that you want them out of your house
158. Noticing a good TV show is on and it’s got 2 minutes left
159. Walking with an open backpack
160. The unclean feeling from being outside for a long time

I mean when you don’t do anything physical; you’re just outside for a few hours and feel dirty. I don’t like that.

161. Briefly feeling like you’re the only person who doesn’t know what’s going on in math class
162. Thinking a woman is attractive from afar, but upon closer inspection she’s either very young or very old
163. Spilling water everywhere when filling a cup and eating out of the fridge at the same time

The left hand is on the cup, the right hand is in the fruit bowl in the fridge, and your focus is on the tasty fruit. This can result in disaster.

164. How the most interesting pieces on the news are shown last
165. Waiting for things to arrive in the mail
166. Eating a sandwich and thinking you’re half done, then opening your lunch bag to discover both halves have been eaten
167. When your locker doesn’t open
168. Getting a long string of the same answer on a multiple choice test
169. Hard taco shells

Eating out of a vessel that will shatter after the first bite doesn’t seem like a good idea.

170. Half-sheets of paper towels

Our culture has adapted to the standard size of paper towels. When a roll of half-sheets suddenly appears, it confuses everyone and causes a lot of spills to go half-dry.

171. Holidays that we don’t get off from school, but the mail doesn’t come
172. Flies
173. Most bands whose names start with “the”
174. Pleasantries
175. Bumping into people and then juking each other in the halls
176. Timers on lamps

When you’re trying to go to sleep they stay on too long and when you’re staying up they go off too soon. They shouldn’t exist.

177. People who sit completely upright in theater seats

It’s not even comfortable, so they’re just doing it to piss everyone off.

178. When the toilet flush is really loud at night and lasts for a while making it difficult to hear the TV
179. Emergency alerts that interrupt television
180. People who assume you always have gum
181. Crumbs
182. Double-sided worksheets
183. Going past the desired input on your TV, forcing you to click through them all again
184. Sunburns
185. Seeing people you vaguely know from school at their workplace
186. When people start to say something then stop and refuse to say what they were about to

Man, that’s annoying. When they do eventually reveal it, it’s always a let-down.

187. Awkward stopping and starting with another car at a four-way stop
188. Burps that feel like there’s vomit following
189. Commercials with doorbell noises

How is it any different from that amendment about shouting “fire” in a theater?

190. Accidentally tearing a sheet out of your binder
191. Car accidents
192. Buying a car
193. Car salesmen
194. When your mom cooks bacon in the microwave and it smells like bacon all day
195. Driving with your parents in the car after you have been awarded a license
196. Pears that seem fine until you bite into them and find that they’re completely rotten
197. Interviewers who go out of their way to note that the subject laughed at one of the questions
198. Misplacing your glasses
199. The obsession with the term “fresh” in food marketing

Do they think I assume all food that isn’t labeled as such is spoiled?

200. When people offer you food that you don’t want or you aren’t hungry and they make a big deal about it
201. People who dart out of classrooms without looking to see if anyone is about to run directly into them
202. Realizing your calculator is in radians after re-doing a problem ten times
203. Answers.com
204. When your parents talk loudly on the phone in the same room in which you’ve been watching TV for 20 minutes
205. Family gatherings
206. Interviewers who think they’re funny, especially when interviewing a comedian and forcing him or her to give a pity laugh
207. Websites that expect you to pay for content

There are few things in the world worth $4.95, and a 117-word New York Times article from 1971 isn’t one of them.

208. How clothing stores only carry pants in circus tent sizes
209. Extra dumps

The standard one per morning routine seems to work fine six days a week, but there’s always that extra day when my body feels like bothering me and I have to get rid of any left-overs in a second round.

210. Running a banana peel through the disposal

If you’ve never done this before, don’t. It’s the most horrible noise there is. It’s like Satan is laughing at you while playing Sounds of the Holocaust, Volume II.

211. The overtype feature in Word

I can’t think of a single time when this would be useful.

212. Being stuck walking behind someone you don’t want to talk to while knowing that if you walk in front of them they will spring a conversation on you
213. Websites that split one article onto multiple pages
214. Learning about bills that never went into effect in History

Things I Hate

1. The word “comedienne”

Why is this necessary? There are, what, eight female comedians who actually turn a profit? (Nine if counting Paula Poundstone) Why have this word? At least the only time it’s ever used is in magazine articles written by someone who had obviously never heard of comedy before being assigned the article.

2. Viral marketing

Since the entertainment industry recently found out people use the Internet, they decided to make a bunch of fake crappy websites that are supposed to be cool or something, but usually only hold the viewer’s interest for six seconds. I guess the term viral makes sense because they’re really annoying.

3. Gears of War

What a terrible videogame. If there’s anything I like more than Halo it’s a worse version of it that has two playable online maps.

4. “Dani California”

It was cool the first three hundred times.

5. People who don’t understand basic concepts in on-level science classes

I suppose this category could be extended to include all stupid people, but these ones are particularly obnoxious.

6. People who put pencils behind their ears

These people are usually really stupid and need the pencil behind their ears to either attempt to appear intelligent or they just missed when trying to stab themselves when trying an on-level science worksheet.

7. Mischa Barton

Eh, not for me.

8. People who use Comic Sans

I think the comic it’s referring to is something out of Highlights for Children. Choosing this font tends to be the most creative things its users have done in the last decade.

9. When USA Today italicizes song titles

Students are taught these rules almost every year and they aren’t challenging in the first place. I should also include the Associated Press’s policy of listing series as: thing 1, thing 2 and thing 3; instead of: thing 1, thing 2, and thing 3. If thing 2 and 3 are as separate as thing 1 and 2 are, why aren’t they separated with a comma? It doesn’t make any sense.

10. Laptop keyboards

Some people prefer these, but some people also eat hair for a living. It you like typing on a flat surface, you should make a computer out of floor.

11. Crankshaft

Not the comic strip; the art is good. Just the character Ed Crankshaft. That guy is a prick.

12. Apple fans

I think everyone hates them. Supporting Apple is like supporting a 5” black and white analog TV that costs $15,000 because it’s expensive.

13. The Big Lebowski

It’s not a very good movie.

14. The Big Lebowski fans

It’s really not funny at all.

15. Having my glasses fog up when stepping outside on a humid day

Of all the bad things humidity is responsible for, this is the worst. Seriously, water, I’ve got things to see.

16. People who dislike an entire genre of music without a good reason

You never hear someone say, “No, I don’t like comedies,” when talking about movies. At least have a reason for hating a genre of music. Personally, I hate country music. Because it’s annoying.

17. Sarcastic sentences than start with “I love how” or “I love it when”

These are a simple way for a very stupid girl to think she’s funny and force pity laughs out of her friends. It benefits no one and wastes a few seconds of everyone’s time. These are usually the same girls who say, “Just kidding” after getting a question embarrassingly wrong in class.

18. People who misuse apostrophes

At least it’s a quick indicator of that person’s intellect.

19. Jewel’s snaggletooth

Good god, that thing is disgusting. A moderately famous singer should be able to have that thing tamed, caged, and sent far away. Instead of having a piece of spinach stuck in her teeth, it’s like she’s got a head of lettuce permanently crammed in there.

20. The verb “to bogart”

I heard it on a TV show and it infuriated me. I think it means “to keep for oneself” but it’s much hipper. Because Humphrey Bogart used to keep stuff? I don’t know.

21. The term “fro-yo”

I’ve only seen this used once, but that was plenty. Why not abbreviate other trendy foods? Grilled chicken will be “grill chick,” pizza will be “piz,” and baked Alaska will be “bakal,” which sounds just like bagel and will confuse everyone.

22. People who misuse “ironic”

People tend to use it to describe coincidences, which are not ironic. At least it’s a quick indicator of whether or not someone is as smart as they think they are.

23. Unrealistic Christmas gift recommendations that pop up in magazines and newspapers every year.

The USA Today has been running a series of these guides all through December. Now, USA Today is a very common newspaper that costs 75 cents; it is by no means an expensive publication. But its writers are still under the impression that the paper’s main audience is a club of oil tycoons and antebellum aristocrats. Let’s take a look at their recommendations for a gift for a grandson. I fall into this category, and I have received Christmas gifts from my grandparents for multiple years, but I have never been given a $230 crappy iPod portable media player. According to the industrialists at the paper, $230 is a mid-range gift. The bargain gift, to me, implies something purchased at CVS for less than $10, but to the Today it is a $30 Transformers chess set, an easy way to make a grandchild quickly lose the few friends he had. The expensive gift is a $625 tweed blazer. The problem with that is that any kid who would enjoy that is already such a spoiled idiot that he probably already has one.

After I realized the USA Today’s unreasonable obsession with wealth, I decided to read this week’s Newsweek, a fine magazine. It was a good issue (Mike Luckovich hit another home run!) until I got to a certain Ms. Linda Stern’s article. Entitled “De-Stressing Christmas,” it paints Ms. Stern as Cathy from the comic strip, a stereotypically obese 30-something who freaks out when she realizes she just downed her sixth sleeve of Oreos. Linda Stern seems like she often grabs her hair and shouts frazzled exclamations like “Oh my gosh!” when it’s completely unnecessary.

The first section of the article is “Give time, not things.” It recommends “taking nieces or nephews on an outing to a museum or skating rink, with an ice-cream or cocoa stop.” Wow, what a horrible idea. It seems Ms. Stern never had a childhood, because if she did she’d know that unwrapping a trip to a museum on Christmas morning would be awful, mainly because it isn’t possible. A museum? Maybe if the tour ended with a Toys R Us shopping spree or something, but otherwise we have field trips for that kind of thing, Aunt Linda. I’d rather sit at home crying about not getting a real gift from you than go to the museum.

The next section recommends “skipping gifts for adults.” Nothing cements a friendship like ignoring kindness and tradition. She reminds us we can donate to a charity in someone’s name, which is a good idea, but she also suggests taking a day trip, which is what I guess 30-year old friends who don’t really know each other but just hang out because they don’t have anyone else call hanging out.

Next up is “Make a game of giving,” where Linda essentially summarizes Secret Santa. She says, “Set a $5 or $10 limit and see how creative everyone can get.” What kind of person would unwrap a dollar store figurine with some pipe cleaners and googly eyes on it and appreciate the creativity?

Finally, Linda tells us to “pick and choose” activities instead of getting bogged down and crying like Ms. Stern seems to do. She recommends eliminating the harsh burdens of the holidays with fun, like a “multi-generation photo labeling session.” Incredible. I would rather have Linda Stern read me more of her zany ideas for an hour while a polar bear eats off my face and my genitalia is attached to a medieval stretching device in a room full of rotting animal carcasses during the Spanish Inquisition than that.

The December 12th edition of the USA Today featured perhaps the most illogical gift recommendation ever written. Here’s the question:

I have an 18-year-old granddaughter who lives more than 300 miles away, so I don’t get to see her much. She plays and views all sports. Since sports are not my bag, I have no idea what to get her. Can you suggest something between $20 and $40?
-Dot Hanson, Skippack, Pa.

It’s a pretty standard question and most of the five suggestions make sense. But Amy Tara Koch apparently isn’t much of a reader. She’s the style and beauty editor of iVillage.com, a site you know is hip because it starts with a lower-case I (she’s listed as a “gift expert” in the article, a title that applies to anybody who can form opinions and look at stuff). Here’s her answer:

Buy your daughter four tickets to a University of Pennsylvania basketball game. Package the tickets with $10 worth of snack to eat at the game. Tickets are $5.

So let’s tally that up. Four tickets at $5 each is $20. $10 of snacks takes the total to $30, which is right in Dot’s zone. Now let’s just factor in four 300 mile plane tickets to take the granddaughter to Pennsylvania, and the grand total is a Christmas bargain at $1446, practically a stocking stuffer.

Okay, Mr. Escobar, is that sufficient? You said you wanted it long, right?

"Like a dong."

Long like a dong?

"Is that so wrong?"

As wrong as playing Pong in a thong, Mr. Escobar.

"Enough with the funny business. For that, you owe me three New Year's resolutions."

Okay, okay, just please put the knife away. Here are three New Year's resolutions for you, sir:

1. I pledge to grow at least six inches taller. People could save a lot of time if they just grew taller instead of trying to lose weight.

2. I'll try, no, I will eat an airplane in one bite.

3. A thousand more wishes. This genie severely underestimated my smarts.

That's all for now.

2007-07-02T00:26:00.000-04:00

It’s summer, which means three things: Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, and the Disney Channel. While the first two have served me as surrogate parents for as long as I can remember, the Disney Channel is like an uncle who died after he stopped airing Even Stevens and Lizzie McGuire. After they did that, Raven Symone took over the network and instantly turned me off with her fistfuls of sass and hips dripping with equal parts Crisco and attitude.

I switched my allegiance to Nickelodeon’s TEENick lineup, a suitable replacement for Louis and Lizzie. Drake and Josh are obviously hilarious, Ned’s Declassified is quality entertainment, and Zoey 101 proves that when given a good script, even a Spears child can suspend the redneck in her for 22 minutes a week. Also, the show has sweet scooters.

Somehow over the course of a few years, Raven and the new Disney crew tricked a bunch of children into thinking their shows were funny and the channel saw its biggest successes thanks to a pair of twins and the daughter of a former country singer. I ignored these shows for as long as possible, but in the lazy doldrums of summer, I simply couldn’t resist any longer. Also, I took some notes and did a little science while watching the episodes and discovered some very disturbing information.

The first show I watched was The Suite Life with Zach and Cody. With a pun in the title as hilarious as that one the show could have been about a school janitor who molests corpses and still be considered a rip-roaring comedy. The show stars two twins. I remember the good old days when twins were granted only half the rights of a normal person, a fitting sentence given that they each can only possess one-third to one-half the brain of a human. But apparently those days are no more and twins are now acting side-by-side instead of playing the same person. This confused me at first and made me realize that Full House could have been twice as hilarious, if only the writers were as clever as the ones from The Suite Life and child labor laws were easier to bend.

The episode I watched was “To Catch a Thief,” surprisingly about a thief. This caper was one of the early adventures in the Tipton Hotel- it was filmed before the That’s So Raven Curse settled in on the kids and made them fat. Raven is inflating at such a rate that it's only a matter of minutes before her form is more suited for a syrup container than a television screen. Just like Raven and her black friend, Zach and Cody are plumping up each day so they will go into cardiac arrest just as they stop being cute. Disney also has forbidden them from cutting their hair lately; I suppose the Disney marketers figure the kids watching are sitting around getting fat and growing hair all day, so the kids on the screen should too.

But back to the episode I watched. In order to see just how hysterical the show was, I made note of each use of the laugh track, a daunting task, especially when you consider that it’s played so frequently it can often be hard to tell when one bout of laughter ends and the next begins. The show’s heart beats with that laugh track, constantly reminding the audience that the show is still alive and the story is progressing. During the 21-minute episode, the laugh track played 146 times, an average of 6.95 laughs per minute, or one laugh every 8.63 seconds, which is an astonishing feat. I also recorded the number of times that I laughed during the episode: 3, and they weren’t really laughs, but I kind of quickly exhaled and thought, “Yeah, I’ll give them that one.” These laughs were due to 1) A suspected thief talks about his crime loudly on a phone in the middle of a hotel lobby, 2) It turns out that guy wasn’t the real thief, and the “huge Diamonds” he was talking about is a fat couple named Diamond, and 3) An old woman is captured in a net and beaten with an umbrella. For each genuine laugh I had to sit through 48.6 rounds of the imaginary audience loudly enjoying something that I just couldn’t appreciate. My loss, I suppose.

After the show, I saw a commercial for High School Musical 2, a film I am greatly anticipating. My excitement was only elevated when I saw the movie’s star, Zach Efron, tell me how much fun he had making it while in some strange desert and wearing an absurd amount of makeup on top of a ludicrously fake tan. That smells like entertainment.

Up next was Hannah Montana. Based on the theme song “The Best of Both Worlds” and the star’s appearance, it looks like the show is about transsexuals. Sadly, it is much less funny than that show would have been. My opinion of Miley Cyrus is that aging country singers shouldn’t procreate with farm animals. I’m sure some unfortunate looking little girls look up to her, but aside from her startling appearance she always sounds like her mouth is full of braces or marbles or carrots, oats, sugar cubes, and other horse-feed. Her best friend on the show is played by Emily Osment, punching in her time card on the set now that her brother can’t plump up the family bank account anymore. An interesting note is that, as in The Suite Life, males are forbidden haircuts on this show. The guys look like girls and the girls look like thoroughbreds and there’s a little Mexican boy who owns a hot dog stand. It’s a terribly confusing show.

When it comes to the funnies, this show seems to think it’s a home run. In its 21 minutes it racked in a whopping 182 hilarious moments, according to the laughter, or 8.67 laughs per minute. That’s one laugh every 6.92 seconds, certainly proving that this show is the funniest thing of all time. Sadly it is not. The episode, “My Best Friend’s Boyfriend,” had a plot, I think, but it wasn’t important. What was important, though, was the fact that I didn’t laugh a single time. Perhaps all the jokes went over my head with metaphoric subtext and allusions to things greater than me, but I suppose that’s my fault. One of the laugh tracks played after the line, “We were robbed.” This doesn’t strike me as humor. Perhaps they’ll get a smile out of me next time in the episode “My First Date(Rape)!”

Some notes on the episode: Hannah wears an awful lot of makeup when she goes to sleep. Hannah buys an apple from a vending machine at school. This raises some questions: 1) Where are these vending machines? 2) How bad do they smell after no one buys the apples and they sit around for 30 days until the refill truck comes around, and 3) They could do a better job of hiding the fact that the actress is a horse. According to www.GiveUsAHome.co.uk, apples are “relished by all horses.” Perhaps a granola bar would have been a less obvious choice.

Moral of the story? Even Stevens and Lizzie McGuire had no laugh tracks and were hilarious. These new shows do and aren’t. Though without them the viewers would be confused and wonder things like, “Is this supposed to be funny?” “What the hell am I watching?” and “How’s that horse stand up on two legs?”

Also, have any of you ever taken a leak in complete darkness? It’s an experience everyone should enjoy. I did it a few days ago when my bladder yelled at me in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to wake myself up, so I left the light off and bravely stood over the bowl. I couldn’t see a thing and, based only on my memory of the room, I uncoiled my weiner and aimed it to what I could only assume was the water. Bracing myself, I contracted my bladder muscle and there was a pause. A silent beat echoed through my head and I felt as vulnerable as I ever have. My heart ushered out one firm thud, and then SPLASH! The noise of my urine hitting the toilet water was a symphony of stinky success. A proud smile wrapped over my face as I crawled back to my cocoon. I recommend this experience to everyone, but no cheating: be sure to stand up. This will be even more thrilling for the ladies.

2007-03-04T16:06:00.000-05:00

I’ve been meaning to write a new one of these things for a while now, but I’ve been far too distracted. The last one was on November 15, 2006. I couldn’t write anything between then and November 22, because I was starving myself in preparation for Thanksgiving. Christmas was held on December 24th or 25th last year, so until then I had to prepare my wish list. The rest of Christmas break featured Driver’s Education, which is story enough for a whole different entry. (Actually I wrote about two pages of that one, but got bored and stopped. You’ll have to ask me about it in real life. Actually don’t, because I’ve told the stories enough and I’ll probably just ignore you if you ask. But they are funny stories.) After Christmas came the turn of the Millennium and I spent January celebrating Martin Luther and drinking Tropicana products. The complete first season of Dragon Ball Z was released on DVD in February. That brings us to the current month, March. “But what have you been up to this month?” you ask.

I respond, “A lotta stuff. Get outta my face,” and briskly walk away. I think to myself, I should have given that person the real answer, which would be: Listening to the new Fall Out Boy album and reading things on Wikipedia.

“Just those two things? For all this time?” You persist.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is your problem? How did you even catch up to me? And how did you hear my thoughts?” I wonder. “Nevertheless, yes, just those two things.” The FOB disc grew on me like a sugary sexually transmitted delight. At first I thought, Hmm. This doesn’t feel right. This sounds very over-produced, and there are pustules on my scrotum. But after three or four listens those boys from Chicago had me hooked like a simile-dealing fisherman. Every time I fire up my Comp-U-Tron 6000, I immediately start playing a live video of the Boys and love every second of it while simultaneously noticing how they sound worse than a band at a middle school talent show.

The second distraction is Wikipedia, which is the electronic equivalent of an encyclopedia. At night while watching TV I will usually notice interesting things and write them down to research in the morning. I will search for one thing, such as Public Access Television, and start clicking on all the blue words, or “hyperlinks.” Eventually my screen is so full of windows that I mistake it for the Home Depot. When I’m finally done reading all of the pages, it’s usually 3 o’clock in the morning and I’ve entirely forgotten the reason for getting on the computer machine in the first place. Usually I’ll have Instant Messenger running, but for no real reason, as I get annoyed when people message me and interrupt my Wikipedia reading. But I do know one reason for keeping AIM running: Sweet, sweet away messages and profiles. If someone were to write a book composed of hundreds upon hundreds of away messages, I would say, “How did you get that published?”

The author would respond, “Well, it was a lengthy process that involved years of schooling, hard work, connections…”

“Spare me the details, Poindexter,” I would yell in his face. “Just give me a copy of your book. I want to read all of those away messages.”

Which is precisely what I would do. Which is precisely what I do do. Any time I sign on, I must read where everyone is. Every time I sign off I must again read where everyone is. There is no man crazier than the guy who signs off without first running through everyone’s info from top to bottom.

The only problem with this is that people have more or less the same away messages all the time. “I am away from my computer right now,” says one. “Away,” is all another has to offer. But the very worst, the absolute worst away message possible, is the dreaded “Just chillin’,” or whatever other horrible way the author wishes to spell it. I know one person who frequently displays this one, though sadly he is currently sporting “I AM SO GAY AND I LIKE TO EAT MENS BUTTHOLES.” An interesting choice, and I still prefer it to the “JC” option.

“Just chillin’” very well may be the worst euphemism in the English language. It is the main reason I abandoned Instant Messenger for a time between 2002 and 2003, an era similar to Picasso’s Blue Period. I was avoiding the only conversation possible between two sixth graders. It goes a little something like this:

xXxlilhunnyxXx123: sup

sk8ater69: nm u

xXxlilhunnyxXx123: jc

The conversation would end there as xXxlilhunnyxXx123 went to download an Avril Lavigne song. That exchange was so common and useless and annoying that I stopped altogether. I thought I was safe from the dreaded “just chillin’”, but recently I’ve noticed it’s coming back to life, though in a far more horrifying form: Real Life.

It usually appears on Monday, secretly sneaking into conversations that are unnecessary in the first place. This exchange will be something like:

Person 1: How was your weekend?

Person 2: Okay.

Person 1: What did you do?

Person 2: Chilled.

Person 1: Cool.

As you can see, the language has evolved slightly from two-letter acronyms, though the meaning is just the same as it was so many years ago. “Chilled” is such a stupid way to glorify nothing. To contrast, here is how I usually field that same conversation, free of any such nonsense.

Person 1: How was your weekend?

M to the B: Not too bad.

Person 1: What did you do?

M to the B: Not much. I sat around in my sweats and watched some movies. I also ate a few sandwiches.

Person 1: Cool.

For the longest time the “chilling” bullshit had taken advantage of me. I never really thought about what it meant, but I figured it actually had some sort of a meaning. Then one quiet Saturday it was around 2:30 in the afternoon. I was wearing my standard uniform of stained black sweatpants and a t-shirt while eating my lunch in front of the TV and watching MTV. In my mind, this constitutes doing nothing. But then I looked around, squinted my eyes, and whispered, “So this is chilling.”

The next Monday I heard the standard exchange go down and smiled, knowing that the supposed chiller had really done nothing at all, but it’s much cooler to say “chilled,” because, I guess, the words are related by temperature. I wanted him to man up and admit what he had done, but I suppose he will learn in time. Hopefully the use of this dirty phrase will decline now that I’ve exposed it for what it really is.

Also, and this one goes out to anyone attending high school, if you want people to know you drive a car to school, please just wear a T-shirt that says so, or purchase a sign on the school’s billboard, or use a megaphone to announce it. Enough with the obnoxious key chains and Chik-Fil-A cups. They were cute at first, but it needs to stop. You might as well just run around with a Super Soaker and shout “I clean vaginas!”

2006-11-15T21:47:00.000-05:00

I was digging through My Favorites on my Internet browser of choice and came across an entry titled “I’m Awesome”. I clicked it and arrived here. Then I browsed my documents in the My Documents folder in My Computer on my computer and found two documents that contained words. Suddenly, I realized that I could somehow formulate a chemical equation that, when balanced, would result in placing those documents here. With complex computer coding, I could even place one of the documents after the other document. The documents were titled “Mediocre” and “6/10”, and I now present them to you.

For the sake of a trilogy, I’ll briefly include the third trip to the doctor I made recently. I got a flu shot and sadly the nurse was courteous and professional. This does not make for an interesting story, so I’ll keep it short. Hopefully next year the nurse will be obese and confuse my records with someone else’s while eating a lobster. I’ll now continue with the two other parts of the trio.

Last week I went to the dermatologist. Something strange happened. I should have noticed the clues: My pre-appointment trip to the bathroom went uninterrupted and nothing was spilled or splashed onto my trousers. The usually bustling waiting room was empty and silent. I was led into the white, fluorescent room with the metal bench ten minutes early instead of the usual 30 late. These signs could only have meant one of two things: Either the zombie invasion had finally happened and the dermatologist’s office was the last safe place on earth, or the doc was up to something. Sadly, as I would later find out with a sickeningly sweet request and a piercing pain through my cheek, no zombies were running through the streets thirstily searching for human flesh.

After a brief wait, a short Indian nurse called my attention and directed me to the appointment room. I leapt upon the metal bench and felt like I was wearing a diaper as I shifted myself around on the pointless paper covering, trying to not appear as an infant. The nurse ran through the standard questions with an accent that made me assume she had spent more time at a NetGear technical support center than medical school: What medication are you on? Any problems since the last time you were here? How long are you? I’m sorry, would you mind defining ‘choder’? She wrote things down and eventually left the room again. One more short wait later, and the commanding officer finally showed up. A tall, blonde woman of 45 or so, she didn’t look like one to enjoy tricking innocent children into allowing her to cause them short bouts of metallic pain. But as Kareem Campbell attests, looks can be deceiving.

She, too, went through the usual questions, most of them the same ones that her Hindu lackey likely didn’t write down. Once that was through she got down to business, inspecting me from all directions like a plantation owner. Something on my right cheek tickled her festering fancy for skin and she asked me for permission to do something that I had previously only imagined 3rd-world sex workers doing. “Now, you have a pus-filled spot over here,” she stated, perhaps thinking that the common term ‘pimple’ would make me cry. “Would you like me to pop it?”

I fell into a state of startled shock for a moment but leveled my head once I realized that this is probably what gets her off, and I’m not one to judge, so I replied with an unenthusiastic “Uhh…sure.” From there, I was expecting her to go with the standard two-finger approach and she would be aroused and done. But she was in the mood for something a little more special, and decided to take it all the way. She laid me back on the table with a crackly crinkle and snapped on a pair of pink latex gloves. If I was going into surgery there likely would have been a mask shooting gas into my nose then, and if I was in a pornographic film there likely wouldn’t have been pants on me, but I was stuck in a strange purgatory between the two.

The lady suddenly swiped a pair of dentist-caliber utensils from a small tray and without further questions helped herself. I think she stole one of the tools, a small metal hook, from the orthodontist located down the hall, and she stole her long, pointy metal rod from that lizard guy on Ripley’s Believe It or Not who shoves it through his testicles. At least it smelled like that one. Anyway, here’s how she used her instruments of pain to conduct a symphony of soreness across my face. First, without any sort of announcement or warning, she plunged the rod straight into ground zero and wiggled it and its razor point around with an odd interest and the precision of the mall employee who pierces 1st grade girls’ ears for $5/hour. She removed the spear and then brought in the cavalry: the dentist’s hook, which I suppose was used to scrape the pounds of skin she had unearthed off into some sort of radioactive medical waste receptacle. By the time the ordeal was over I estimated that I had lost 1.5 gallons of blood, which will likely be shared between the doctor and her nurse during tomorrow’s lunch.

But once was not enough for this lady, no. She set her sights on uncharted territory and again invited herself to blast off two more nukes. As she ransacked my face like a Nazi in Kristallnacht, she routinely muttered salaciously sweet nothings along the lines of, “I’m sorry; I know it hurts,” “Almost done,” and, “I vant to suck your blood.” The latter may be inaccurate, considering my hazy memory due to the blood loss, but I can say for certain that whatever she said was uttered in a thick Transylvanian accent. When she had finally drawn enough blood for her picnic, she told me that she was all done and removed her pink gloves. As if it would make it all better, she gave me a wad of gauze to prevent the three wounds she had inflicted from bleeding out, but that became soaked, bullet-wound style, in a matter of minutes.

I lied to her when I said, “Thanks,” and I filed out of the room. As I exited, though, my stern British upbringing reared its head in my subconscious and I wondered, Was I supposed to tip her? Does the insurance cover pimple popping? What is the standard gratuity rate applied for that kind of act? A waiter gets 15%, a caddy gets 50%, and a seasoned teabagist can fetch upwards of 60%. But it seemed to be strictly her disgusting pleasure, so I figured my being there was tip enough. I boarded my five-wheeled automobile and left the office in my rear-view mirror, hoping to never have a bad experience with a doctor again. But as you should be able to tell by the length of this writing, I was in for a disappointment.

Later that week, but before today, I set some sort of world record by going to three different places in one day: School, Best Buy, and the eye doctor. I say “the eye doctor” because there is only one in the United States. Allow me to elaborate on the latter two, as I assume the majority of the three of you reading this attends school occasionally. Best Buy was on my to-do list so I could purchase the Monster House DVD. It was a half-day of school, so I strolled into the store around 1p.m. and was met with numerous “Shouldn’t you be in school?”, “Where are your parents?” and “DVDs have movies on them?” glares from the blue-shirted employees. I did my best to dodge their glances and quickly picked up my copy of the children’s movie. The embarrassment of purchasing an animated film aimed at 9-year olds suddenly settled in on me, and the fact that I was going to use a $5 coupon on the transaction made me feel like an even bigger idiot. But I held my head up high and thrust the goods over the counter into the waiting hands of the jovial black cashier who I think didn’t know exactly what I was purchasing, thanks to my clever plan of placing the merchandise upside-down. Of course, the title was printed on the back of the box as well, but I’ll also assume she was illiterate, for the sake of consistency. I handed her my paper money and she handed me a paper receipt. I then covertly exited the store and boarded my horse, which I gave a firm kick to and pointed in the direction of the local optometrist, where I was expecting, but did not receive, an easygoing dive into the world of contact lenses.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon and the waiting room of the Thomas Eye Group was packed like a Sicilian pizza shop (Note: that means ‘a pizza shop in the city of Sicily,’ and not ‘a generic pizza shop that specializes in Sicilian-style pizza.’ The pizza shop in Sicily would be crowded, obviously, because Italians love pizza so much that they will ignore the sweaty stench of their neighbors for as long as it takes to get their thick hands on one cheesy slice). I arrived at least 20 minutes before my scheduled appointment, but the Eye Doctor Calendar is a strange and mysterious device that operates in lenses and retinas instead of hours and days, and as such I had the equivalent of two weeks to spend in the waiting room. Before taking one of the few remaining empty seats, I approached the desk with the intent of filling out some papers and potentially executing a robbery. But my plans were foiled mere feet from the counter as a stuttered stumble resulted in my binder full of World History notes and secrets spilling all about the floor in front of at least 400 pairs of watchful eyes. My foot must have caught on a pair of glasses or carcass of someone who expired before his appointment time came, and the next thing I knew was my arms loosened their grip on my binder, which held an article on Charlemagne that I was going to read, and it toppled, upside-down, until it reached the floor and exploded in a pulpy mess. My knees hit the floor at roughly the same time, and I kept my head low as I pretended that no one in the busy room had seen a teenage boy and his schoolwork fall straight onto the ground for no apparent reason. I quickly worked to shuffle the papers back into their respective pockets and scurried right to my seat. (Note: Avoid Office Max’s 2-pack plain white binders. They’ve caused me problems in the past and generally are terrible products that don’t justify their $3 price tag or the 3 minutes of Malaysian labor that went into making them. But this is a topic for another time).

I was in my chair for long enough to listen to a 52-minute album on my electronically rectangular musical playing device while reading a six-page article about that fat Charlemagne and selected pages from a paperbound novel. My estimation is that the elapsed time was roughly 52 minutes, but my calculator isn’t equipped to execute advanced trigonomic functions, so don’t quote me on that number. After the seasons had changed, a nurse emerged from a corridor at the end of the long room and shouted my name. I heard her and picked up myself and my belongings and followed her down a winding series of doorways and into one of the uniform, dark rooms. I took a seat in the brown chair that had a large, swinging set of eyeglasses for tarantulas in front of it. I started fidgeting with the hundreds of lenses and played out a scene in my mind where I broke the device just as the doctor walked in. The thought was accompanied with a laugh track, but was quickly dismissed when I realized, sadly, that my life wasn’t an episode of Smart Guy, and breaking that kind of thing would probably result in spending hundreds of thousands of dollars instead of having Moe sneak in to the office and replace the machine with a dummy unit the next night to no one’s suspicion. My life was a lot easier when it was an episode of Smart Guy. The nurse quizzed me on the standard questions to which I gave some standard answers. When she was through wondering about my vision, she changed the subject to complaining about her employer. For what seemed like 15 minutes she ranted on and on about how poor the office’s system of patient management was. Apparently they schedule several patients into the same time in order to increase productivity, confusion, and anger. This was, she said, the reason for the circus of people in the waiting room. I nodded my head in agreement with her as I thought, “This is incredibly unprofessional.” Eventually she got her bearings and decided to shoot a mysterious orange liquid into both of my eyes. I got to mop up her sloppy leftovers myself with a tissue and got a glimpse of a cabinet full of Tang and spoons out of the corner of my eye. I have a feeling that orange liquid wasn’t the one she was supposed to use. She flipped through the lenses as I looked into them and told her which were clear. Once that was over, I was forced to stare deep into a dark box at a red laser beam. I was sweating as I braced myself for the usual puff of air directly into my eyeballs that is so unexpected and awful that it can only be compared to a rapist’s fart. But that fart never passed. I sat there expecting the terrible blast of gas for at least a minute, but it turns out that the nurse only wanted to pretend she was playing Goldeneye and act like she was using the laser and tried to line up a headshot. After she made the laser-shooting noise with her mouth, she told me to sit down in the secondary chair as my accomplice boarded the captain’s seat. “That’s not the puff of air machine?” I asked, not knowing that the machine is called a tonometer.

She abruptly said no and that was the end of that. She wrote some things down on sheets of paper, interviewed and tested my accomplice, and led me to another room. This one was brighter than the other, but it was still full of posters featuring many pictures of the same smiling children, where each blurry picture features a different disabling eye disease that their grandparents have. Again I waited in the brown chair for several minutes until the doctor finally showed up. He was bald and wore glasses. Considering my mission was to insert contact lenses into my eyes, his wearing glasses wasn’t very reassuring. He went through many of the same questions that the other nurse did; either they keep two sets of everyone’s records for fun or he couldn’t read. He also scribbled down my answers and tried to strike up a conversation with me. He asked me what book I was reading, even though the title was clearly exposed on the counter, but he couldn’t read so I suppose that makes sense. I told him and he furthered questioned about the book’s contents. Again I told him the answer while thinking that I was there to have my eyeballs checked out, not to discuss literature with a bald illiterate optometrist. He picked up the book, flipped to a random page, and began reading the text aloud. I would have told him that I know how to read, but apparently he doesn’t get enough books in his diet and read two entire pages. Eventually he caught on that I wasn’t as into the conversation as he was and finally looked at my eyes. The eye exam took him about 40 seconds, roughly 1/10 the amount of time it took him to browse my book. The scientific conclusions he drew from the tests were that my vision was okay, which I could have told him several weeks before the exam. He also recommended that I purchase something called Ocusoft Lid Scrub. It’s some type of soap that I’m supposed to rub all over my eyes while in the shower, because apparently my eye lids are home to a swarming cesspool of bacteria that is going to ruin my vision in the near future. I have two problems with this: 1. I don’t know where this supposed bacteria is coming from, because I stopped swimming with my eyes open in my neighbor’s above-ground septic tank years ago. And 2. Ever since I was an infant, I have been trained by my masters to not put soap in my eyes. The lone exception to this rule was Johnson & Johnson’s gentle shampoo, which can be lovingly squirted into eyes to the squirter’s content, but that was introduced several decades after I graduated to more adult, harsh shampoos made from the sweat and blood of buffalo. So when the doc suggested that I lather this strange potion all over my eyeballs, I laughed in his face and shouted, “Are you joking? Maybe you should lather some Rogaine on that que-ball of yours, Ace!” Actually, what I did was nod my head and told him that I would look for the product and purchase it. What he didn’t know was that I was lying. He then started to read my accomplice’s newspaper that was on the counter aloud. I don’t know what his problem was or why he couldn’t purchase his own subscription to the newspaper, but he had a voice that sounded like his mouth was full of mucus and his large nose was full of boogers and the teachings of Abraham. He read an article about Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s and received no response. He shook my hand and surprisingly didn’t try to read the words on my sweatshirt out loud and shipped me off to yet another room.

Once again I waited, this time for the third doctor from their mysterious band of carnies to arrive. The room I was in this time, though, was a wonderland full from floor to ceiling with contact lenses. All shapes and sizes of contacts: from circles to ovals and very small to pretty small. They were on all four walls, little packets containing one lens each, all held on white racks lined up one after another. If I had a fetish for contacts, my pants would have been tight, but because I only have a mild desire to eat soft contact lenses, my mouth was just beginning to salivate when the final doctor walked in the door. He was an older man who also ironically wore glasses. He discussed his recent back surgery and asked me a short series of questions that basically amounted to, “I plan to try contact lenses today.” Then he led me out of the office and sat me on a rotating chair at a small counter with a rotating mirror on it. He probably walked back into the contact dungeon to admire his legion of lenses and rally them for their upcoming battle.

I sat by my lonesome at the counter with my accomplice at my left side for a moment or two until a cheery Mexican woman dressed as an employee of the office took the seat opposite mine. “Estas aqui para intentar los lentes de contacto?” she asked, but she really said it in thickly accented English. I told her that I obviously was, seeing as I was seated in the Contact Fitting Station. She looked delighted as she pulled out two small packets of lenses and started to inform me of the ancient secrets of the contact lens. Just like a pair of pants, the lenses aren’t supposed to be inserted into my eyes inside-out. She showed me several different styles of prying open my eyes, from the over-the-head “Slam Dunk” to the around-the-side “Reach Around.” After training myself to perform those tricks, it was finally time to touch my eyeballs with my dirty fingers.

Let me share some history with you: The original pair of contact lenses was the result of a chemical reaction occurring at the bottom of a garbage bag full of Satan’s diarrhea and Hitler’s semen. They’re the most awful, devilish creation to ever appear on the earth, and they more fitfully belong at the bottom of a sewer than in a human being’s eyeballs. While testing lipstick and make-up on animals like chimpanzees is hilarious, testing contact lenses on those poor, defenseless beasts is inhumane and cruel. I struggled with those weapons of terror for almost 40 minutes before having the Senora force one of them into my right eye. Tears streamed across my cheeks like a girl and the skin around my eyes was as red and chafed as my ballsack. The problem may have been my hand’s poor grip on my upper eyelids (perhaps due to the pools of slick bacteria soaking them), or my eyes themselves. My eyes are as wide as those of a Chinaman who’s trying to read a distant sign. Nothing has any business going into them, ever. The only con to this deformity is that I can’t stuff contacts into them, but the only pro is that old perverts can’t stuff their genitalia into them. I suppose I should at least be thankful for that much.

So after roughly 40 minutes I had succeeded in inserting one lens into my right eye. When I had both eyes open I felt like I had a split personality; my left side was horrifically near-sighted and my right side was being held in front of a blasting fire hose. My right eye felt like it was underwater, likely because there was a pool of water stuck to it under a concave piece of corrective eyewear. When I closed my left eye it felt like my glasses were both on, because of the clear vision, and off, because they weren’t on, at the same time. This confused me and made me think I was partially insane for a brief time. Several more attempts at the left eye were then made, mostly resulting in tragic failure. The Mexican woman was very adamant about getting the other one in, despite my enthusiastic retreads of “I think I’m going to stop now,” and, “I really don’t care.” She wouldn’t have any of that attitude and persisted with the zesty zeal of a mariachi band at the finest taco shop in all of Mexico City.

“C’mon, let’s go,” she urged with a large smile and spicy voice. She tried to set up a date for after school the next day to continue my efforts, because she had to leave promptly at 5p.m. to arrive at her second job, which surprisingly was at Federal Express and not one of my neighbors’ houses. I made up an excuse why I couldn’t attend because she really didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t care for those little transparent devils. Eventually I popped the second one into my other eye myself. Maricela (I assume her name was) was excited and cheered accordingly, but I was only thinking about how strange the feeling of opening my eyes underwater while sitting in a doctor’s office was, and couldn’t wait to suction them out. Fear settled in as I realized I would have to touch my eyes no less than four more times in order to remove them, lest I be cursed with contacted eyeballs for the rest of my days. It took several minutes until I fondled my cornea on the right side and pulled the contact off of it. The left proved more of a challenge and eventually fell out in the “Pink Eye-Paulie” method by rubbing my eye until it accidentally fell out.

I declared the mission accomplished and my accomplice purchased the pair of lenses for me to have at home in case I want to try them again. They have been sitting on the kitchen counter untouched ever since that day. The receptionist gave me a pair of paper sunglasses, or “Canadian Shades”, to protect my precious retinas from the sun’s harsh rays after being poisoned by that toxic dilating orange liquid. I walked through the packed waiting room again, though this time in the opposite direction than I had before. The sun’s rays were not nearly strong enough to damage my elephantastic eyes, and I had no use for the flimsy black sunglasses. I put them in the cupholder as I drove away, hoping to never have another bad experience at a doctor’s office again.

2006-09-10T11:12:00.000-04:00

In case this is your first time taking a ride on the Information Superhighway, allow me to tell you which websites you should try your best to avoid: Crazy Jim’s Balloon Extravaganza is unsettling. Aretha’s Animal Attacks is particularly disturbing. Stephen Glober’s Wonderful World of Aborigine Australian Culture is sort of boring. But most of all, the #1 most horrible, hideous place on the web is known as MySpace.com. For the unfamiliar, MySpace bills itself as “A place for friends”, when in actuality it’s more of “A place for teenagers to waste time and act like they really want to be molested”.

On it, easily-persuaded teens create their own personal “spaces”, on which they post long surveys about themselves that no one reads, leave terribly-punctuated comments, and post hundreds of pictures. Their main picture is the one most commonly associated with their name on the website, and thus must be a real prize. So most users either head down to the local photorium or stand in front of their bathroom mirrors to capture that one definitive snapshot. Allow me to describe them to you.

There are three, and only three, types of photos used by males:

1. If the male thinks he is particularly good looking, then his photograph will be of himself partially nude. This is likely the one picture out of 400 in which his abs are semi-defined.

2. The “hilarious photo”. This is used when the male feels he looks like a horse’s backside. Don't be fooled by the term "hilarious" in the title, because these poorly edited pictures are anything but funny. The user will attempt to mask his hideousness by pasting his face onto another's body; or another's face onto his limp body. Additionally, "silly" faces can be used to the same unfunny effect. These are usually a good way to determine that the user is a complete idiot and will likely eat a bowl of hair if it means people will look at him.

3. Underage drinking. These don’t really make much sense; seeing as holding a bottle of liquor doesn’t say anything about the person other than “My parents are over 21 and own bottles of alcohol. I have hands and am able to pick them up.” If I were to take a photograph of myself lying in a pile of cocaine under a waterfall spewing vodka while eating a salad made of dollar bills and tobacco leaves, the only conclusion to be drawn would be, “This moron thinks he’s really cool. And he has access to a lot of cocaine.” The picture wouldn’t prove that I snorted the cocaine, drank the vodka, or ate the tobacco. It would only prove that I live in South America and really want people to think I’m cool because I could be potentially engaged in illegal activity. I might as well photograph myself not wearing a seatbelt or tearing the tag off of a mattress.

Females also seem to favor a certain style for their images:

1. A picture that depicts at least two people, only one of which is the page's owner. This is a clever ruse used to confuse potential mates into thinking that one of the other females is the owner of the page, when in fact it is the cow sitting in the dimly-lit back corner doing her best to dodge the camera lens.

2. Being “outrageous”. These pictures feature the user, usually with her friends, being a wild and crazy kid. Some examples are: dressing up in obnoxious clothing, being a jackass in public, or making a face at the camera that tries to say, “I’m funny,” but really says, “I hate myself and often wish attention were available in a liquid form so I could stop the nonsense and just inject it directly into my arm.” A close relative to the male “hilarious” photo, these usually make the page’s visitors want to smack the girl with a ruler, put her in a dress, and tell her how to behave herself in public.

*Note- the male themes, especially the underage drinking motif, are also used by females to the same effect.

In addition to these main photographs, users can, and do, post hundreds of other useless pictures for everyone to see. And after they see these additional shots, the user’s friends are usually compelled to leave comments under the pictures. These comments are as utterly useless as the pictures themselves, seeing as all of them are very transparent, generic “compliments” that are likely copied and pasted onto hundreds of photos at a time in order to obtain maximum commenting efficiency. No matter how ugly a lady is, her friends are always quick to dish out a, “So cute!” hoping that her self esteem is inversely related to her waistline. Most users seem to have misunderstood the phrase “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” as, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, start making things up about people with the hope that they may eventually consider you nice enough to be their friend over the Internet.”

Located near the main picture on someone’s Space is a quote of their choice. More often than not, these are taken from movies that weren’t funny in the first place, and when taken out of context are even less funny and usually don’t make much sense. Maybe they would if users took the time to spell the five words in the sentence correctly, but I guess grammar is for children. And as apparent by their wacky pictures and drinking habits, most users are anything but immature.

MySpace users must not actually go to their own pages, because if they did they would probably notice how awful they look. Whoever the first idiot was to use a tiled picture of a bikini-clad model as their background needs to be smothered to death with repeated pictures of bikini-clad models and flashing text so he knows how my eyes feel. I actually just visited a page that had a non-stop flashing, bright, multi-colored background. Yes, the same sort of thing that got that episode of Pokemon banned in 1998 for causing seizures is being used by someone as the background to their “place for friends.” Because nothing says “friendly” like epilepsy and nausea.

Speaking of which, I also have to conclude that MySpace users don’t visit any other websites; because if they did they would likely see that black font on a dark grey background doesn’t fly elsewhere on the information superhighway. Notice how other web pages go for the standard black-text-on-white look. Not the hot-pink-on-black or your favorite college’s color schemes. Ever wonder why they do this? It’s likely because those websites aren't run by colorblind teenage douche bags.

The music chosen by MySpace users is yet another fault of the system. Here’s a fun fact: If you have a MySpace page, you listen to shitty music. And here’s a fun fact about said shitty music: No one wants to listen to it. And especially not while their eyes are already being molested by your horrid layout. Try not to turn your MySpace page into an audio/visual gang rape.

It seems that videos are appearing on more and more pages by the minute. And just like the crappy music, no one finds whatever stupid video someone showed you on YouTube funny. And they especially don’t want to watch whatever two-year old crappy attempt at humor you post. Here’s a piece of technological information for you: When MySpaces feature music, the music plays automatically (which doesn’t make sense in the first place, because what kind of lunatic looks at MySpace pages with his or her speakers on?). And when you post your imbedded YouTube garbage, this also will play when clicked. So there lies the conundrum. Two different streams of horrid audio are being pumped through your page simultaneously, which will cause the page to slow down. And when looking at something as terribly designed as a MySpace page, the last thing I want is for it to be any slower than it already is thanks to the 400 pictures posted on it. Allow me to simplify my techno-babble: The Internet is a series of interconnected glass tubes filled with molasses. Information is pulsed through the goo by means of electro-magnetic pulses, known as “zeepers.” When a website, such as a MySpace page, farts too many zeepers at once, the molasses becomes full and starts to drip much more slowly that it would have with a lower zeeper count, thus taking longer to reach its final destination: the viewer’s computing device. In short, crappy videos being played over crappy music is like having actual crap rubbed in your eyes and ears at the same time.

Have you ever noticed that little clickable sentence “View all blog entries” in the upper right-hand corner of a MySpace page? Ever noticed that it usually leads to a page that says, “This user has not posted a blog.”? No, you probably haven’t. Because no one cares about MySpace’s blog feature, which is actually a very good thing. Because if you own a MySpace page, chances are you don’t know how to write a complete sentence. And nobody would care about your poorly phrased opinions or “outrageous” stories anyway.

A line all too common on MySpace pages is located in the survey most people choose to fill out and post but nobody reads. The question is: “What are your favorite books?” I don’t know why this question is included in the survey, considering the obvious illiteracy of most MySpace users. Nevertheless, people choose to answer this question with yet another attempt at blistering coolness: “Wutz a book? Lol.” As that response is neither funny nor appealing, I often wonder why users bother answering it at all. The question should be replaced by something to the effect of “Are you a complete idiot who thinks acting like a moron is cool, and that reading and trivial things like grammar and the English language are reserved for toddlers, old ladies, and other stereotypically boring people?” Most users would probably reply with: “Wutz a book? Lol.”

“This profile is set to private. This user must add you as a friend to see his/her profile.” Known as the bear-trap of the Internet, this message is one of the most annoying things a user can stumble into while browsing people’s Spaces. Nothing kills the mood more when MySpace-hopping in the wee hours of the night than having that nonsense pop up to remind me that I should be doing something else. What exactly is the point of running a MySpace page that can only be accessed by “friends”? Can’t you communicate with those friends in other ways like, you know, talking? Do people put up the blocks to prevent potential molestation? Odd, considering half of the female population on MySpace appears to have “Get taken advantage of sexually” at the top of their To-Do lists.

Exactly what is the point of these “friends” anyway? Must MySpace users have a pictured list available to them at all times in order to remind them that yes, in fact, people do exist who might actually like them? Actually, scratch the “do exist” part from that last sentence, because my calculations say that roughly 60% of the people included on most “Friends” lists have never met, and will never meet, the person who they are supposedly close enough to exchange links with. So those calculations led to a hypothesis that was evaluated through use of the scientific method to lead me to a procedure that led to data tables that led to the conclusion that the only reason the “friends” list exist is for users to stretch, measure, and compare their e-penises. It seems a better and more direct approach to this matter would be for users to just post pictures of their actual penises on their pages. And they might as well plop their donguses on a triple-beam-balance and teabag a graduated cylinder so viewers can cut to the chase and just figure out which user is better by the density of his Johnson.

On the subject of fake MySpace friends, another incredibly irritating sight to witness is the conversation of two users held through comments left on each other’s pages. For those who partake in these festivities, here’s something for you to think about: That same “conversation” you had on your MySpace page over the course of three weeks could have been accomplished in 10 minutes on the telephone, or one minute in real life, in which one person would notice how heinously ugly the other is and exit the talk with a cockney excuse such as “Sorry, I’ve got to go. I don’t talk to ugly chicks who edit their picture on MySpace to appear semi-attractive. And you smell really, really terrible.” Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, the “conversation” is publicly posted on the page, but only half of it can be read. I say that because nobody is interested enough in your conversation about how awesome you two are and how badly you need to hang out to actually click on the other person’s picture and see their side of the story.

For more information on the quality of MySpace.com, please visit www.MySpace.com and start clicking on things. Within 30 seconds you will see and experience the factors discussed here.

2006-07-06T23:44:00.000-04:00

Like Wal-Mart, miniature digital cameras, and diaper-wearing cats, the concept of a water park is far better than the executed product. There are plenty of exciting rides to experience, people to anonymously grope, and even a large play area for the children to frolic in and enjoy. Parents who bring their little ones have ample room to sit around and do nothing (which they seem to enjoy), and fun is to be had by everyone. The trip down to the wet fun zone is filled with joy, delight, and anticipation. But as soon as you set foot onto the filthy concrete ground of the park, you stare with squinted eyes as all of the delight you so recently possessed evaporates into thin air, so much like the surrounding chemical-laden fluid.

The water park in question here is none other than Georgia’s own White Water. A real peach she is. Beyond the obvious filth and general stench of this water-wonderland, the vast majority of its problems lie in the people who actually visit it. Admittedly, White Water isn’t exactly located in the “filet mignon” of the state. It lies just on the border of the “paper towels and mustard” region, to keep the culinary metaphor afloat. Most of its patrons aren’t the classiest folk around, and their strange ways of talking and facial expressions show this. The combination of filth and country-fresh hill-folk inspire images of the park only as a dirty bathroom floor covered in white trash.

Speaking of dirty bathroom floors covered in trash, those were certainly provided as well. Except instead of just white trash, the floors were covered with an ample dose of urine. The fact that going bare-foot around the park is suggested doesn’t make the walk over the cold, slick tiles of the bathrooms any more appetizing. Urinals that extend all the way to the floor are lined up all along the wall, which only cater to having even more buckets of penile-fluid splash across the floor. Odors pour from each of the stalls opposite the urinals. Upon further inspection, I can declare that those odors are the result of un-flushed poop nuggets, urine trickled haphazardly on the toilet seat, and an assortment of cigarette butts and other charming litter lying limply on the floor or floating in the bowl. Changing into dry clothes at the close of my day of fun while locked in one of these chambers-of-hillbilly-paraphernalia-and-dung proved to be a balancing act of Barnum and Bailey proportions. I had to balance one foot on a sandal that was floating on top of the thin film of pee resting atop the tiles. While doing this, I had to slide my wet, E coli-soaked bathing suit around my enormous Johnson and legs and then rest it carefully on the dusty toilet paper dispenser. As I stood there nude, I could only think of the possible things one of the people outside the flimsy stall door could do to me at that precise moment. I quickly shook the thought off and continued the trapeze walk to dryness by slipping into my dry trousers and underoos while concentrating on not slipping and falling face first into the yellowed rusty toilet. Eventually I completed my mission safely and left the stall with only six sexually transmitted diseases.

I can only assume that the rides and supports holding them up were constructed by a traveling gang of chimpanzees who were exiled from a mediocre circus. The craftsmanship is equal to a 3rd-grader’s Pinewood Derby racecar, though instead of a 6” car speeding down a plank of wood, these rides hold hundreds of people. Rides sitting several stories high in the air sway from side to side on wet, rotting pieces of wood secured to the McDonald’s-quality plastic tubes only by a dozen or so rusty bolts. Even the staircases that deliver the attendees to the start of the attractions are built of the cheapest scraps of lumber available at the local yard; and they have water splashed, poured, and relieved on them for several hours each day. Whoever designed many of the rides must have had one twisted sense of humor. Take “Runaway River” for example. This ride shoots its passengers through a dark, partially-open, winding tunnel while on a raft built for four. At the start of this ride, when the riders are asked to board the rafts, the vessels are floated in one of two small pools (two rafts are alternately sent down to improve waiting times. I also don’t know why I’m telling you these things) before being launched down the passageway. To be blunt, the two pools that temporarily house the rafts in combination with the tube that functions as the ride form an incredibly phallic image. Here’s a diagram to visualize my point:

During the long waits for the short rides, it seems that many of the children who were enjoying the park along with me couldn’t resist my alluring pheromones. While waiting in a 20-minute line under the sweltering Georgia heat on a rickety, swaying, soggy heap of wood that will probably collapse any day now, I do not want to be assaulted, groped, fondled, or handled. Basically, it would be cool if people would just keep their hands to themselves. In fact, here’s something for the kids standing behind me in line that day to read: Unless I have personally gone out of my way to kidnap you, I do not want your head and/or appendages rubbing against my buttocks at any time. Seriously. One little hillbilly child couldn’t keep his hands off me. He seemed to have a strange obsession with head-butting my pooper. And the fact that he looked like one of the hellions from “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” made me all the more inclined to hurl his limp, uneducated body straight off the staircase. I kept my cool for the time being, though followed him once he got off the ride and defecated in his lunch.

On the subject of redneck younglings, it seems as if certain portions of the Southeastern United States are just now receiving broadcasts of Home Improvement from 1994, because the mullet that Jonathan Taylor Thomas perfected is apparently back in style. The combination of girlish hair, strange accents, and two-piece bathing suits made differentiating the boys from the gals a real country challenge. A lot of these kids rode the rides in their Sunday best; donning such gear as T-shirts, glasses, and shoes. And by “shoes” I don’t just mean those horrible “pool shoes” worn by creepy old men and lepers, but actual shoes, as in the kind made by cobblers in the good ol’ days. Real sneakers some people were wearing while in large pools of water. I don’t understand the need to wear glasses or sunglasses while submerged underneath several feet of liquid ice either. Luckily the park rules didn’t permit wearing sunglasses on the rides (a choking/stabbing hazard, I suppose), and the fools who chose to wear them were made to look appropriately foolish as they sent their $4 pair of Douchebag brand aviators hurtling down the water before them. Maybe the sun was too much for their eyes so they needed the sunglasses. Perhaps they were near-blind without their glasses and needed them so they didn’t step off of a ride without their swimming trunks. Or maybe they’re just dicks.

What the park attempts to pass off as edible substances called “food” are no more than pricey turds, in the sense that they are expensive and taste like human waste. They sell school cafeteria-quality food at mediocre restaurant prices. The $7 microwave pizzas must be an exquisite feast for the standard park-attending folk when compared to their usual dinners of cat food and Depression-style tomato soup. It would be a big plus to many customers if the park would offer healthier options on their menu, because this would probably aid in slimming down a good portion of the guests who are currently in the “sweaty pig-people who look to be the result of incestuous relations” category. Now don’t get the wrong impression and assume that I believe I am better than these people. But if one of the circus-people attending White Water on any given day and myself were both in a fancy restaurant, my belly would be full of steak and their hands would be full of dishes and dirty water.

The park is a series of extremes. From incredible heat that causes musty sweat to trickle down the greasy, wooly backs of the park-goers to freezing cold water that will make any man’s pouch instantly tighten up like a sun-dried raisin. People range in shape and size from slender gals who looked fresh-picked from Auschwitz to husky men with lumpy, floppity man-breasts just waiting to be pinched. But all of these rare sights culminate into a sticky, stinky stew that is just strange and interesting enough to warrant a taste.

2006-06-03T23:56:00.000-04:00

I saw the movie Over the Hedge today. I was alone. With every passing day I feel that the business of molesting children is lying more and more in my future. The movie was a stinky bucket of turtle urine, and I still felt like a pervert when I exited the theater by myself behind a family of four with two young boys. I’m sure the mother gave the two kids a good talking-to in the car about staying away from people like me if they ever see one hanging around the local pool with their trousers down or waiting in the trunk of their car wearing nothing but an uneasy smile.

But back to the movie. I would rate it two smelly, Wanda Sykes-voiced animated skunk poots out of a possible five. In retrospect, I’m not exactly sure what convinced me to see it in the first place. Consider its plot:

“A scheming raccoon fools a mismatched family of forest creatures into helping him repay a debt of food, by invading the new suburban sprawl that popped up while they were hibernating...and learns a lesson about family himself.”

I don’t know what it was about that story that made me say, “Well that deserves 650 of my pennies and 83 of my minutes.” Maybe I wanted to witness the heartwarming character arc of RJ the raccoon learning a lesson about himself, but that was about as predictable and engrossing as an episode of That’s So Raven. Perhaps it was the shallow social commentary on immigration, but that was almost as boring as VH1. Yes, the entire channel. After sitting for about 20 minutes in the awkward theater, I started to wonder if the movie was even supposed to be a comedy. It seemed like all four members of the “Blue Collar Comedy Circus” had one of their traditional down-South inbreeding sessions and the greasy, smoky, morbidly obese offspring they produced wrote this sad, humorless movie.

Apparently the movie hit right-on with its target audience, as the young girl seated behind me was quick to comment, “That’s a turtle!” when, you guessed it, and turtle appeared on screen. I almost turned around to give her a sarcastic high-five and congratulated her immense knowledge of the animal kingdom before I realized that children under the age of three likely don’t understand the art of sarcasm, let alone the high-five. So I sat there, staring at the screen, waiting for something humorous to happen. It didn’t. Instead, I was repeatedly slapped in the face like the baseball coach's kid who sucks with children’s movie clichés, such as evil humans, a fast-talking character who is obviously under the influence of several illegal narcotics, and the ever popular fart. In fact, many farts. I suppose that because one of the main characters was a skunk, the writer (his name is Larry The Asstard, and the resemblance to his fathers is uncanny) figured he needed to fill some sort of a “Fart-Per-Minute” quota. Considering the movie only ran for a little over an hour (those children have an attention span only slightly higher than the an MTV viewer), Larry did a fantastic job of cramming in enough fart jokes to make the parents of the young audience horrifically beat their kids after the ride home includes 25 minutes of hand-to-mouth farting in imitation of “Stella the skunk”.

When the movie was over, I sat silently in the theater while the credits rolled and all of the happy families filed out around me. One group of at least one child (the turtle fan, as mentioned previously) and one mother stayed around for the credits with me. They were seated directly behind me, and after some consideration I don’t think they were watching the credits, but I think they were watching me. Watching as in, “I’m going to try and silently text message my husband now because there is a strange person sitting in front of me and my child and I think he may have both his hands and mind down someone’s pants and I think he might try to follow me home and steal my child.” When I realized that I was being watched, I felt even more awkward than I had before and quickly made the decision to leave. So I rose from my chair and walked out, but when I got to the door I was greeted by three movie theater employees who had their brooms ready to go sweep slimy baby poop off the seats. I did my best to avoid eye contact with them, and prayed they wouldn’t notice my erection. Swiftly I exited the theater by means of the side door, surely being followed by a gallery of the creeped-out eyes of parents and sweepers alike.

I had nothing better to do after seeing the nasty deer scat quality film, so I set my sights on Mr. Barnes and Mr. Nobel’s Wonderfully Wacky World of Books. Everything was going fine at first; all five of my eyes and legs were working. I browsed here and I browsed there, even finding myself in their DVD department, where a movie will cost you $460 plus a kidney and testicle. After looking at the overpriced goods with no intention of purchasing anything, I left that section of the store and headed for the section that has shelves of paper covered in words printed in black ink and miniature font. Specifically, I went to visually digest (again, with no intention of spending any money) the graphic novel section. No, not comic books. Graphic novels. There’s a huge difference. If you don’t believe me, I’ll go to your house, call you into the street, get a rowdy crowd going, and have a heated discussion with you on the matter. Anyways, I wasn’t alone in my browsing. There were two people standing in front of the tall shelves; one a man, the other a wo-man. They were both black (but not the pitch-black variety, more of a cinnamon flavor), and they were both rather large. Now, I expected someone browsing this section of the store to be rather large, but the other descriptor was a startling surprise. So I silently looked at the things on the shelves, all while these two were having some sort of incredibly awkward (and equally pointless) argument. I’ll try my best to paraphrase the exchange.

“So you’re saying I don’t like music?” Queen Latifah confidently asked.

“No…” Al Roker responded with a sigh as he kept his eyes focused on the spines of the collections held on the shelves.

“Well then, what?” Latifah wasn’t ready to let this go.

“When people think of Best Buy, they think of computers and TVs.” Al replied.

“Who does?” The monarch said, becoming defensive. “Best Buy is a CD store. Where else do you buy CDs? I guess Circuit City, but c’mon. When people think of buying a CD, they go to Best Buy.”

“You think they make their money on CDs?” The jolly weatherman was now taking an active interest in the discussion. I was listening quite closely (and obviously), while trying to remain hidden by staring at the books. “What happens when you’re in there? They try to sell you computers and TVs.”

I was voicing my own opinions on the matter in my head, and I was siding with the portly fellow. Queen persisted, “Yeah, but nobody says, ‘I want a refrigerator, I’ll go to best Buy.’” My right eyebrow automatically squinted in a “What are you talking about?” fashion, and I think the couple may have noticed. Suddenly I was thrust into the center of the storm.

“Excuse me,” Ms. Brown Sugar asked, looking at me, “What do you think of when you hear ‘Best Buy’?”

“Actually I’m on his side,” I said while pointing at the enormous gentleman. When I was looking at him, I realized what I good decision I had made. If I disagreed with him I was likely to be deep fried and eaten or punted across the store like a baby.

The man smiled and laughed, and I felt an odd sensation of bonding with this stranger. “Exactly,” he said.

But the lady wasn’t done yet. “So when someone gives you a gift card to Best Buy, you think, ‘I’ll buy a refrigerator’?”

I was tempted to reply, “Ma’am, if you hadn’t noticed yet, I’m not exactly of ‘refrigerator-purchasing age’. And who the hell would give me an $800 gift card?”, but I didn’t. Her delicious southern sass was beginning to shine, and I was starting to become scared that she was going to hit me in the face with a frying pan.

“Well, then I’d use it on a CD or DVD. I guess it’s both. I mean you can buy the refrigerator or a CD there.” After reading that, I think I’m going to call Best Buy in the morning and demand at least $400 for my spectacular advertisement.

The man wore a large watermelon-like smile and laughed when saying, “Right, right.”

Her majesty also nodded in agreement when saying “Yeah.” She quickly uttered some sort of a thank-you as the two of them left. I felt good knowing that I had both settled their petty argument and prevented the large man from beating his girlfriend that evening.

Comments are welcome.

2006-04-23T14:03:00.000-04:00

Recently I witnessed what I believe to be a sure sign of the end of the world. No, I did not watch several men sketch up elaborate plans to set fire to the IHOP headquarters, which would cause International Havoc On Piranhas. No, I did not see a group of masked fiends hold-up a day care center, in search of a baby possessing some sort of a golden ticket. And no, I did not stand by as a sniper rifle-wielding assassin attempted to take down Mayor McCheese, the current Commander-in-Chief of McDonaldland.

What I did see was something far more subtle, something on a much smaller scale. A girl, older than ten, yet younger than thirty-five, was sitting in a school desk. Like many others her age, and many douche bags riding public transportation older, she had two white threads running into her ears—the horribly crappy headphones that are packaged with the iPod, which give off the sound quality of a fart passed through a paper cup-and-string telephone. She was listening to music, as one would assume, and smiling eagerly while nodding her head to whatever was being pumped into her brain. As I usually do, I assumed what she was listening to was garbage and minded my own business. Soon, she turned around to the fellow who was seated behind her and offered something along the lines of, “I know every word to this song.”

To me, knowing the words to a song isn’t much to celebrate. I have heard music since my ears were developed, I assume, and have never considered it a special talent to use those ears. Apparently in this day and age, being able to understand the lyrics to a song deserves not only a trophy, but a song, dance, piñata, parade of marching elephants, monkeys, and zebras, a band consisting of at least six trumpet players, and a magician to entertain the younger children. But back to the story, the gentleman seated behind the listening lass responded to her proud statement with one of pride: “As do I,” he said.

Now I was slightly more interested. Just what were these young-uns listening to that was so popular that not one, but two, people know the lyrics? I was careful to be sneaky, and used my eyes to find out. I peered in their direction and set my sights on the dim screen of the magical music box from which this song was coming from. I couldn’t make out the name of the song, but all I needed was the name of the artist to be shocked into disbelief, and for visions of atomic bombs and ape-people taking over to dance into my head.

“T.I.” it read. Now, I’m not one to judge, but these two folks were of upper-class Caucasian descent. As far as I know, T.I. is not. After doing some exhaustive research, consisting of reading half the lyrics to one of his songs, I have come to the conclusion that T.I. primarily raps about a rough life in the ghetto, guns, gangs, drugs, and about seventy various slang words that I couldn’t decode, not even with the help of context clues. Judging by where they attend school, the two teens who were listening to this T.I. reside somewhere near myself, which would be in an upper-class suburb of Atlanta. Mr. T.I. sounds like he has had some hard times. I think the last challenge I had to face in my upper-class community was wiping the dirt off of my golf clubs.

But then I began to think more about what they were listening to, beyond the lyrics. Just what do these rap songs contain that make them so irresistible to my fellow schoolmates? I have heard my fair share of rap in my time, mainly as something to laugh at and say, “How ridiculous,” then after twenty or so more seconds, “now turn that garbage off. It's disturbing my horse-back ride.” Usually it is nothing more than a few noises thrown together with some sort of a chant running through it. In fact, I think there is some sort of a magic mixture of liquids that are needed to craft a popular rap song.

My research tells me that these things are:

Lyrics:

1. Rapped in a deep, scratchy voice.
2. 4th grade caliber rhymes.
3. Chanted in a way that makes everybody, or “errybody”, want to jump around like animals.
4. Derogatory terms for women.
5. Horribly filthy words that wouldn’t be appropriate in the bathroom of a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
6. Featuring a mundane random object, such as an article of clothing, and upwards of two minutes of song about it.

Music:

1. The beat must consist of three, and only three, sounds which could be made by a toddler tripping and hitting his head against a piano. These three sounds are to be repeated throughout the song.
2. A drum noise that sounds like someone made it with their mouth, to be repeated throughout the song in symphony with the beat.
3. As many random cheers and hollers as possible are to be thrown into the song wherever possible.
4. Noises such as car alarms, grunts, animal calls, and gunshots are to be tossed into the cacophony as the group wishes, to create that “At home” feeling.

But wait a second. If a rap song is so simple, why don’t I create one, you ask? But I can’t, I’m a ripe young white boy, fresh out of the oven. Oh, you want me to make one, do you? Well, I suppose…

(If the video above doesn't work, click here.)

Wow. I’m sorry. I honestly, truly apologize. I have wasted an hour of my time writing and producing that, and two minutes of your time while you listening to it. I’m ashamed of myself. Perhaps a little embarrassed. I suppose that shows you how a rap song can be made. And it certainly showed me how I’m willing to spend a Saturday night.

Comments are appreciated.

2006-01-15T23:21:00.000-05:00

As I sit here sipping my diet ginger ale and eating my sugar-free Jell-O gelatin snacks I reflect upon my doings today. Aside from the usual Sunday Day Care Center heist, I got to enjoy some excellent cuisine, courtesy of the classy restaraunt "Olive Garden". Please allow me to spin my tale from the beginning.

The time was 9:00 a.m. I was awakened to the sound of gunfire and the screams of my comrades. I peeled out of bed and into the usual shower where I shed my temporary skin and later brushed my teeth. After said washings I clothed myself and headed down the stairs, where I prepared my breakfast consisting of a bowl of Alphabits, followed by course two consisting of Low-Sugar Oatmeal. "Dee-licious", as Queen Latifah would say with a soultry grin.

The morning came to an end as the whole clan boarded into the mobile and headed to the residence of the grandparents of the very hands typing these words. They also boarded said vehicle and the entire possee set course to the classiest Italian restaraunt this side of Sicily, "Olive Garden".

Maybe you've been to an Olive Garden. Maybe you've seen their commercials and have been enticed by promises of "Unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks". Anyways, I'm sure if you've even heard of it you'd know it's about as Italian as Taco Bell. If I were an Italian man and saw these commercials I would say something like, "That is not what Italy is like" and then continue sweeping the hair off the barber shop floor. Upon entering this institution of Italy, I noticed how the walls were dressed to look like a wine shop or other Italian stereotype. Now I've never been to Italy, but I'd imagine most of the walls in town don't have "Women" written on them above an unsanitary door.

I noticed this sign near the front door.

Nothing says "Italian Immigrant-run" like Asian immigrants.

After exchanging English words with a female employee who was more "hill-person" than "Italian master of pizza, pasta, and the mafia", we were sat down at a table purchased in a large warehouse and in chairs one could find at Office Depot. As I looked around I found I was surrounded by fake leaves and bottles of $4 wine. A portrait of an awfully Native-American looking gentleman stood almost five feet tall on a wall. I received my menu and browsed at my leisure, often laughing out loud at the menu items. The headlines for each category of food were written in Italian with the English translation provided in parentheses next to them. Thanks, Olive Garden! I couldn't figure out that the item labeled "Create Your Own Pizza" in the category "Pizze" meant "Pizza"! My head was near exploding with confusion until I spotted the translation.

I selected to eat the "Chicken Castellina", which, according to the authentic Italian website of this eatery, goes well with a red wine. This item is described with these giving words on the menu:
Chicken, mushrooms, artichokes and pancetta sautéed in a smoked cheese and sun-dried tomato sauce, tossed with penne.

After months of pouring through thick leatherbound textbooks and eating more lasagna than a man named Luigi does in a week, I translated those ingredients into what is actually used. I present the translation:
Chicken, mushrooms, artichokes, and bacon mocrowaved in Kraft American Cheese slices and ketchup, tossed with pennies.The last word still confuses me, as my plate was not covered in copper coins. I chose to replace the provided pasta with the optional "Whole wheat linguine" because I have a vagina.

As we waited for the greasy Italian chefs to spend hours microwaving our frozen lunches, salad and breaksticks were offered to the table as if we were gods. The breaksticks looked familiar, where had I seen them before? Oh yes, that's right. These were the same breadsticks available at bowling alleys. Authentic if I've ever seen them. During the wait my ears were delighted with such propaganda as the stereotypical song "Mambo Italiano", as if to remind me that this was in fact, an Italian themed restaraunt. Thanks, the illustrated vineyards on the cover of the menu made me think this was a Mexican restaraunt.

When the eats were served, my meal was crappy as expected. The most humorous portion of the meal was the cheese pizza ordered by my brother. It was served on a miniature pizza paddle made of plastic to help set the mood. I actually began laughing out loud when this was presented. I think the beast of a lesbian who was our waiter (waitress? waitranny?) thought I was laughing at her, which I was, but I kept that to myself. The pizza served was obviously microwaved and looked roughly elementary school calibur. It was given a solid 2 out of 10 points by the boy consuming this gourmet dish.

When the spent plates were carried off by imported Italian children, I began to peel over the dessert menu. I don't think a certain item would sit well with Italians. It is called "Chocolate Lasagna". Here is a photograph of said Italian dessert:

Nothing says "A taste of Italy" like nice American chocolate cake.

I also found an item appropriately named for what you expel from your bowels after an Olive Garden meal.

A "Chocolate coconut steamer".

ZING!

I should stop typing right here, that was plenty to fill your bellies.

Anyways, the large sized bill was paid and the gang headed for the exit, but first I had to "take a monster whiz", as I put it. I was pointed to the wall with "Men" scribbled on it, and entered the mysterious Italian restroom. Basing this assumption on feature films, I expected at least four men in suits to be drowning a fifth man in a suit in the toilet. This was not the case. I was alone, and mounted a urinal. Quickly I noticed I was standing in a puddle of a sticky substance. I saw where I was standing, and how this substance felt, and put the clues together to solve that I was standing in a puddle of Kool-Aid. After a taste test I found that I was actually standing in urine. I suppose relieving one's self into the toilet was not an authentic Italian custom. After a brief exploration I found that flushing the toilets must not have been either.

We exited the restaraunt with memories of Italy in our heads. As I sleep tonight I'm sure my dreams will be filled with men named Tony making pizzas and other Italian delicacies. So thank you, Olive Garden.

2005-12-18T00:21:00.000-05:00

Huh. It's been roughly six years since I've made a new entry, but after weeks of begging and the sacrifice of 16 virgins, I decided it might just be time to dust off the old blog and crack it open. Don't think that I haven't spent my time away not doing anything productive. I have both developed, and cured cancer. Because I cured myself, I decided not to reliease the recipe to the public, though I will tell you it includes sugar, spice, and everything nice; and I may have spilled some Chemical X into the mix. I also starred in 14 films, though only 14 of them were pornographic. I've read a lot of catalogs.

After the pleading of so many, I began to wonder just what I should write about, and a few ideas trickled into my mind. The most tempting thought was a rather long study of douchebags, but then I realized people don't want to read that much about feminine hygine products. So I kept thinking, and no ideas seemed to drop in. I was stopped left and right on the street by passersby asking, "When is the new blog coming?", or "Pay the god damn child support, Reggie needs to eat." I was often rudely inturrepted while at the barber shop, annoying both me and the greasy Italian man who was shearing my pubes.

So I kept considering returning to the trusty ol' Blogspot.com "Create Post" screen. I realized Chritmas was but a few weeks away, and my usual gift of Herpes never seems to be what people want, so I decided that maybe if I shot a new entry out of my body, people may be pleased with my behavoir. But I was still strapped for ideas. Then something came out of left field (or right, depending on your vision), and struck me right in the face. What hit me was not enjoyable. The enjoyment was comparable to opening a large red box on Chritsmas morning only to find a Japanese man inside.

Allow me to finally tell you what it was that so rudely struck me in the head. Roughly two weeks ago, I enter my usual place of residence to find my mother chatting it up on the phone. After she hung up and made me three sandwiches and prepared my bath, she explained what all her talking was about. Her friends are staying over at my house on Saturday night (Which is right now, as I'm writing this). I find no problem with that and give her a nod of approval. She then lets me know that their friend's children are also staying over. Not cool in the least bit. I neared striking her, until I realized we were almost out of peanut butter and there was no way I'd go to the grocery store to get more. She also informs me that she has donated my bed to whichever messy kid wants to put his nasty paws upon my pillows. This angers me. I've never met these kids, or even seen a picture of them. I do not want them getting into my bed and making a mess. I don't think my sandwich-maker realizes how creepy it is to enter someone's house whom you've never seen, then slipping deep into their slimy bed, of which you don't know what, or who, they've done in there.

She then continues to inform me of who these children are.
1. An 8 year old boy.
2. A gal in college.
3. A 16 year old alcoholic boy.

Now, when I say "alcoholic", I don't mean "Occasionally has a taste of some really old grape juice". This kid has attended AA meetings. Right now I'm not so hot on the idea of him getting into my bed, or going into my room where he will most likely leave with a pillowcase full of my things. So for the next week or two I continue to object to having this fellow over to my house, especially not near my collection of Encyclopedia Brown books. I plea to my mother about the situation, but she insures me he's no thief.

So now, today, around 2p.m. the whole crew pulls up to the house. In walk the gang. The 8 year old boy needs braces badly, or just a solid kick to the mouth. I have nothing against the college gal. Then in comes AA boy. He's about 16 feet tall, appearing to be the son of a brontasaurus. He wears a white hoodie, with squinted eyes, both saying, "I'm a bad ass", and "Where is the alcohol?". He sits on the couch and proceeds to watch television. After awkwardly standing around with the creators of this beast, I make my getaway and dart to my room, my arms full of notebooks, ready to get my study on.

While in my room I not only got my study on, but I also befriended, and saved the life of, a ladybug. I cracked the widow so the smoke from the four trashbags of pot I was burning could escape, and in flies this little guy. He immediatly falls in love with the light, repeadetly trying to mount it, only to be faced with intense heat and a very hard surface. He tried to dry hump the light for 10 minutes or so before giving it one last go and then falling to his near-death. He landed next to me, where I then picked him up and delivered him to his outside home. Mission accomplished. His family will be happy to have him back, but then again, he could have been a huge dick, and I only fueled his pissing off all of the other ladybugs. But tha was a risk I had to take.

After three hours of hardcore studying and saxaphone playing, I was called down for some dinner. Thanks to a poor decision, I rode in a car with the three clowns and my brother. During the ride, Dr. DrinksALot insisted on playing his gangsta rap. This rap was beyond horrible, and he had an 8 year old child in the back of the car. Now, I haven't written any parenting books, but I am under the impression that it is not good for an 8 year old to be hearing about "Running from the mutha****in' cops". Mr. Alcohol disagreed and played several rap selections from his very gangsta iPod. One of which was "Laffy Taffy". I could write several volumes of words about that song, but now isn't the time.

After we arrived from the awkward car ride, we entered and sat down. Most people look at the menu at a restaraunt. Instead, Senor Sauce looked at the beer menu for about 10 minutes before realizing he had a food menu. Here's something to keep in mind for my future parenting book. Sprite is not a good drink for 8 year olds with ADD. This kid is a psycho, running around a restaranut and skating on his cool "Heely's", which have probably caused more broken necks than professional neck breakers in the last 10 years. I tried to ignore him as best I could, but every time he opened his mouth I expected a flock of doves to emerge from the gaps in his teeth. We ate an awkward dinner, and promptly returned to the car for another awkward voyage home. We arrived, and the parents continued to chat while I sat around not doing much. Then came the turning point, who was going to slumber in my room? In my bed? Do they realize how many African-American ladies have been in that bed?

The ruling was that...

Excuse me while I urinate.

I am back, and only got a little on the seat.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the ruling was for the gal to sleep in my room, the 8 year old also on my room on the floor, and for Commander Coors to slumber in the basement. I was pleased with this ruling, assuming that Professor Pilsner has stickier fingers than the other two parties.

So the day wears on, with the 8 year old kid eating his weight in food. He has 15 pieces of candy, which is probably due to the subliminal messaging of his broter's sugary rap music, and then at 11:30pm requests a peanut butter sandwich. I nearly went upstairs and took a leak on the floor where he was going to sleep, but then I realized that is the room I sleep in. He ate his sandwich and then ran at roadrunner speeds around the house, tearing up carpet and creating dust storms left and right. I would have asked him to stop, but his crazy mind would intrepret that as "Eat a lot more candy", which would have only worsened the situation. After his marathon runs, he enters the basement, where his brother is probably working on his home-made Meth lab. He comes back up the stairs and requests for me to play some of those videogames with him. I had nothing else to do, so I accepted.

I find his brother downstairs, and I tighten my hole out of fear. We fire up the game, where I proceed to gently let him win by one point, so he didn't cut me and wear my skin. After our game we go upstairs to again do a whole lot of nothing. The psycho kid decided it's time to watch a feature film. He selects "Napoleon Dynamite". I put it on and leave the basement, where him and his siblings watch the talking images. They again return after the talkie is over, and stand around listening to interesting conversation about digital camera with our parents.

After this, it is declared night time. Brewmaster Bud enters the basement, and Admiral ADD and the college gal file into my room. I mount the couch ready for the evening, when I was drawn to the computer and proceded to write this enormous entry. The gang is expected to leave at 10a.m. Sunday morning, and I hope they stick to the plan.

If you read all of that, the next time I see you I'll call you an inappropriate name.

2005-08-17T23:02:00.000-04:00

I want to run a marathon, just so after I run it I can compare scents to "under my sack after I ran that marathon".

2005-07-28T03:52:00.000-04:00

Lately, a question has been on my mind. The question appears to be one of opinion at first, but when thought about the answer is fact. Is Simple Plan the worst band of all time? Upon first thought, you may think "Well of course, but that's just my opinion." Then you consider it more, "Wait..." and listen to one of their songs. "Oh my god..." and finally realize, "It is a fact that Simple Plan is the worst band of all time."

I first began questioning the band's worthiness a few nights ago after viewing MTV's "Nokia Unwired at Hard Rock Live" concert. Wow, I just realized that "Nokia Unwired at Hard Rock Live" is probably the most random combination of six words possible. "Cat bag saw keyboard coffee inhaler" is a more cohearent combination. But that's beside the point. The concert might have been the funniest 30 minutes of television I have ever seen. Easily the funniest thing I've seen on MTV.

The audience consisted of this diverse group of fans:
9-12 year old girls. Most with braces.
Their parents.
That was about it. A packed house, though. You could see the parents, as they were a clean 2 feet taller than their pre-pubescent daughters. One of the highlights was during the show, seemingly all members of the audience gladly threw up their "devil horn" hand signals, as shown in this picture.

Wow. Personally, nothing screams out "Hardcore Devil worshiping anarchy" than watching a group of grown men wearing womens clothing jump around and whine about disappointing their fathers. I bet they go home every night and eat live animals.

Speaking of the womens clothing, let's take a closer look at the people who make up "Simple Plan".
First we have lead singer "Pierre Bouvier". Wait. Why is your name Pierre? Is that a joke? Were you trying to be funny and outrageous? If your name is Pierre you souldn't have been allowed in the United States. I'm calling to have you deported first thing tomorrow morning.

Let's look at the pict...wait, is your hair spiked up? Spiked up like a 5th grader? You look like you're 10. That's cool. Again, when I think of someone ruling the pits of Hell, I think of someone with gelled-up hair.

Next up we have Mr. David Derosiers. Shall we look at his picture?

Oh my god. I laughed out loud at that. Is that a joke as well? Are you the sad one of the band? Aww, you are? Mommy only let you get the lip and nose piercings, but wouldn't allow the eyebrow? Do you want some ice cream? Will that cheer you up? It will? Okay, good. Come here big guy, it'll be okay.

Next is guitar player Jeff Stinco.

Woah, no sleeves? Watch out. And sharpee on your fingernails? Hardcore. I for one am scared. Wait...are you bald? Why are you bald? Really, what purpose does this serve? Were you so hardcore that your hair fell out? Or did if get torn out while in a fight? Or are you too cool for hair? Does mom know your lip is pierced? I doubt she'd approve. Well, I doubt she could approve, considering she's probably dead, seeing as you look about 4 times as old as everyone else in the band.

Next we have drummer Chuck Comeau.

Wow, he looks like the guy who works at the pharmacy and for several years fills your, and your family's, perscriptions until one day he follows you home and procedes to dig a tunnel and live under your house spying on you for several years, feeding off your garbage, until one day he enters through the widow you cracked in little Stevie's room because sometimes it gets stuff up on the top floor, and eats your entire family. And he spikes his hair up.

Finally we have guitar player Sebastian Lefebvre. I kid you not, that's his last name. I guess his family didn't know that it's not the best way to choose a last name by grabbing a handful of tiles out of the Scrabble bag and randomly arranging them. Is something wrong. Is he mentally challenged? What's he looking at? Is he...Is he urinating? If so, on what?

Here's one more picture of the whole gang in action.

Let's go from left to right. First, guy on the far left, what are you doing with that fist? Are you going to punch yourself in the jaw? If you're going to, please don't hold back. Go for it. Maybe even do it twice. Next, wait...is that man or woman? Or should I say boy or girl? 8 year old or 24 year old? With pants that tight, where does his dong go? How can he breathe with that shirt/sweatervest combo on? Did he cut his own hair, and do it with a blindfold on? The next guy...what's wrong with your face? Stop it. It's weird. Next up, are those "Lee Pipes"? Are they shorts or pants? And the guy on the far right...Collared shirt? Popped collar? What? And the pose he's making, I think it's supposed to be funny. Well it's not.

Let's continue to some of the bands songs. Real prizes here. First, the song "Perfect". Off the album "No pads, no helmets...Just Balls." The full title was "No pads, no helmets...Just Balls...In my mouth.", but the record company didn't like it.

Hey dad look at me
Think back and talk to me
Did I grow up according to the plan?

Unless the plan was "Grow up and be a complete asstard who embarasses himself while singing to 9 year old girls", then no, I doubt you grew up "according to plan".

And do you think I'm wasting my time doing things I wanna do?
But it hurts when you disapprove all along

Yes, he does think you're wasting time wearing womens trousers.

And now I try hard to make it
I just want to make you proud
I'm never gonna be good enough for you
I can't pretend that
I'm alright
And you can't change me

If you want to make him proud you could try getting a real job. Although with a name like "Pierre" that may be hard. You could go to mime school. And he could change you. He could put a crossbow with a flaming arrow against your head and pull the trigger. That would be a change for the better.

'Cuz we lost it all
Nothing lasts forever
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect
Now it's just too late and
We can't go back
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect

I'm sorry you make an ass of yourself on a daily basis as well.

I try not to think
About the pain I feel inside
Did you know you used to be my hero?
All the days you spent with me
Now seem so far away
And it feels like you don't care anymore

When you put as much gel in your hair as you do, I highly doubt he cares anymore.

Well that was a touching song. Next we have a song that really teaches all those mean bully's who's boss. It's called "Shut Up" off the album "Still Not Getting Any..."

There you go
You're always so right
It's all a big show
It's all about you

Interesting. Are you talking to me? Oh. No, no it's not. You're the big boy up on the stage. Don't worry, fella, it's all about you for now.

You think you know
What everyone needs
You always take time
To criticize me

No, I don't know what everyone needs, but I do relaize no one needs to hear this crap.

It seems like everyday
I make mistakes
I just can't get it right
It's like I'm the one
You love to hate
But not today

Yes, I will say that you, Pierre, do make mistakes everyday. Like breathing. That's a mistake for you. It would be nice if you could correct that and stop. Do I hate you? Yes. Do I love to do it? No, not really.

So shut up shut up shut up
Don't wanna hear it
Get out get out get out
Get out of my way
Step up step up step up
You'll never stop me
Nothing you say today
Is gonna bring me down

Wow, pretty forceful don't ya think, Pierre? I think you should cool down. And not repeat the same words so many times in one line.

There you go
You never ask why
It's all a big lie
Whatever you do

No, I'm telling the truth. I really dislike you.

You think you're special
But I know and I know and I know
And we know
That you're not

Aww man, you've gone and hurt my feelings, Pierre. Why would you do such a thing? You mean I'm not special? Is that what your school counselor told you? You're special? That's nice. Enjoy it while it lasts.

You're always there to point out
My mistakes
And shove them in my face
It's like I'm the one you love to hate
But not today

It's kinda hard not to. Your mistakes are abundant.

So shut up shut up shut up
Don't wanna hear it
Get out get out get out
Get out of my way
Step up step up step up
You'll never stop me
Nothing you say today
Is gonna bring me down
So shut up shut up shut up
Is gonna bring me down
So shut up shut up shut up
Is gonna bring me down

Enough with the "shut up"'s, Pierre, you're getting really annoying. Come up with a new phrase to use.

Also on Simple Plan's website I found this picture:

I awkwardly stared at that for a few minutes. Is that the whole crew dressed as elderly people? Is it supposed to be funny? Really, it is? Wow, they missed the mark by a long shot. These people just really aren't funny. It's good that they want to be, but they really aren't. Sorry, fellas, you'll get 'em next time.

If you read all of that, I applaud you. You have a very long attention span. You can reward me, as well as yourself, by leaving a comment.

2005-07-12T04:28:00.000-04:00

Who returns dog food? Dog food. Why would you need to get a refund for dog food? Of all the items you could exchange at a store for money, or store credit, dog food? This doesn't make any sense. Allow me to start at the beginning...

Earlier yesterday I start to watch a newly purchased DVD, 12 Monkeys. Everything is going good, until about 10 minutes in it stops playing. The disc just gave up, life wasn't worth living for it anymore. Fair enough, I'll exchange it for a new one. Maybe the new disc will be more optimistic. So, around six o'clock, I board the MattMobile and head to Wal-Mart in search of a new DVD.

Wal-Mart. In theory, awesome. Actually, pretty damn crappy. Wal-Mart is one of the worst stores of them all. When you think about it, it's amazing. Startling. Fantastical. Erotic. They have everything. Then you go to the store. And they have nothing. It's amazing how much stuff is on the shelves, yet when I look at the items, I would rather have my face pulled off by hand than use these items.

First I pass the Pharmacy section. Probably 10 aisles worth of medication. I did not know that much medication existed. And how many disease carrying people are walking around Wal-Mart? I know I won't be licking the toilet seats. At least I know how to go out with a bang if I want to kill myself. Grab a pogo stick from the adjacent Toy department, and pogo my way into the first shelf, which then knocks down all 10 aisles. With gallons of various medicines puddling all around me, all I would have to do is crawl on all fours with my tounge on the ground, and wait for the delicious flavors to fade, and then let the pain of my insides desolving set in.

I passed the Pharmacy section and went through the Toy department. Wowzazs, there are some crappy toys there. If I ever got a toy from the Toy department for Christmas I would be very disappointed. There were almost as many crappy toys as there were drugs there. Putting Wal-Mart and "Toy Department" together, I'm surprised I didn't slip and fall in a puddle of urine there. One of the more creepy toys was a 2 and a half foot tall Batman "toy". To all parents, buying a 2 and a half foot action figure of Batman for your child will result in them having nightmares, and when they grow up they will kill you. They will. What kind of parent would get this for their kid in the first place? Would you put it next to your child's crib? Everytime he opens his eyes he sees this person who is as tall as he is, yet looks like a grown man, staring him down? The thing looked like a banshee from hell. I wouldn't want to sleep next to that. I left the toy section, and proceded to the Music department.

Alright, look Wal-Mart, I don't care who shope in your store. I don't care where they're from. But eventually you're going to have to add more music genres than "Mexican" to your library. It's frustrating. I look for anything I can recognize, yet all I see are bands with names starting in "El", "La", or "Speaker". I don't know about the "Speaker", I'm not from Mexico. I left the Music section, and went to the DVD department.

Here I had no complaints. I weeded through hundreds of copies of "The Pacifier" and found a copy of 12 Monkeys, what I was here for. I took it, and proceded to the Customer Service desk to perform the exchange.

Alright, allow me to set up the scene. Three people in line:
1. Black Lady. Obese. Looks like a regular at Wal-Mart. She has a full cart of items. This looks like trouble.
2. White Lady. Obese. Looks like a regular at Wal-Mart. She has a few items.
3. White Guy, with two daughters. Seems normal, but he could have left the kids at home. I didn't tell him, that would have been rude.

The person working here: Between 20 and 40 years of age, woman. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but I'm going to say she was of Mexican descent. That employee discount probably comes in handy.

I mount my position in line. I expect this to take no longer than 10 minutes. The first lady in line apparently did not know you can purchase items at the cash registers. She assumed this is where you pay, and the lady working the Customer Service didn't object. The transaction took about 15 minutes. I don't know why, but the purchase seemed normal, maybe both of them just have birth disorders where they move in slow motion. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask them. After she was finally done, she left. Probably to go film more episodes of "Sister Sister", I think she played the mom.

The next lady was a real treat. White female, probably 50 years of age, a little too much meat on her bones. Maybe she was trying to exchange her metabolism. She meant business. She returns a few items, providing recipts with them. Then, completely out of nowhere, she busts out three boxes. One box- dog food. The other two boxes- "Scooby Snacks" dog treats. WHAT?! Are you kidding? Is this an elaborate scheme? Dog food?! No. No. No. You... No. You can't do that. Or at least shouldn't be able to. Why?! What reason could you possibly have for wanting your money back for dog food?! Did your pooch not enjoy it? When presented with the "Scooby Snacks" did he say,
"Aww hell no. I ain't eating those snacks. Scooby Snacks are for punks. Get me some Purina. That's gourmet, bitch."

The exchange took about 20 minutes. Before it ended, I left. I exited the store. That was 40 minutes well spent.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll push you through the hole in the center of a CD.

2005-07-10T05:14:00.000-04:00

Fantastic Four. Wow. What a movie. It's hard to find a movie as bad as "Fantastic Four". After seeing "Dodgeball", I said, "Wow, that was a terrible movie. I do not think any future movie can reach the level of horribleness that this is on." I was not aware that "Fantastic Four" was in production. If I did I would have said "Wow, that was a terrible movie. I can only imagine "Fantastic Four" will be on the same level of horribleness as that." Before I viewed the movie, I had to urinate. I found the most apropriate place to do so the ticket booth. When I was kicked out of that location, I was pointed to the theater's restroom.

A movie theater restroom is one of the most frightening locations on this earth. So many different things can happen. I do not think the ladies reading will relate as much, as it is challenging to sit down in a urinal. It does not matter if the restroom is empty or if it is full of people, the level of terror remains the same. I entered the restroom, thinking I was alone. I unhinged my belt. It was much longer than I imagined and it fell. I grabbed it, narrowly avoiding an unfriendly and akward smell on my belt. I continued with my business. Out of nowhere, someone emerges from a stall. Wow, I did not notice you. Maybe he was standing on the seat to not scuff his new sneakers. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. I was now aware that there may be other people in here, so I began to relieve myself faster. My head shifted sides, examining every corner of the room, to alert myself of hidden dangers. Maybe someone hiding behind a trash can. I was going to fast I wouldn't be surprised to see smoke rise from my hands, caused by the amount of friction in my urethra.

I just read that sentence and I am sorry. Very sorry. I formally apologize, and hopefully it will not happen again. But I must continue.

I was considering all the dangers I was open to. An attack from behind, I would be completely unaware of their approach. Someone standing next to me, commenting on my bits. A foe grasping my shoulder, spinning me around and yelling "Surprise!", which inadvertently causes me to make a mess on the floor. I continued going, promising myself to start taking in less fluids, because this was getting ridiculous. I finished, and left the restroom.

I now entered the theater/Nazi gas chamber that was showing the holocaust of a movie, "Fantastic Four". It is full of jokes only a 3rd grader would find funny. I don't feel like cleaning vomit off the keyboard, so I don't really want to talk about it any more. I honestly think it was written by an autistic 8 year old clone of Hellen Keller.

After exiting the theater/Auschwitz I conducted a brief survey of the viewers. The resutls startled me.

Fair enough, not a popular movie.

Odd, those numbers seem similar.

That's disgusting.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll have you eat a human-hand sandwich.

2005-07-08T03:47:00.000-04:00

MTV. Iv'e had enough. More than enough actually. If the channel "MTV" were a person, I would consider physically harming him. I honsetly hate it more than anything else in the entire world. I may go to the MTV heaquarters with plenty o' dynamite strapped to, and in, me and then threaten to detonate it. Maybe they would stop them.

I watched some MTV earlier this evening. Specifically, I saw the new television show "The '70's House". Wow. I was seriously considering suicide, because if the world can spit out television shows this bad now, who knows how bad it will be tomorrow. The premis of the show is a gang of "hip" people around the age of twenty are thrown into a house and must act as if the year was 1970. Seems very boring, and probably bad. Yet MTV thinks it's funny! Of course they do, if something will raise it's voice MTV will call it hilarious. If something wears both pink, and black colored clothing at the same time, MTV will give them a show. If you put various creams in your hair and wear pastel colored collared shirts and occasionally pop the collars, you will be featured on a dating show. I didn't actually watch much of this "70's House", because I didn't feel like driving far away, purchasing a gun, and scratching the itch on the roof of my mouth by shooting it tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

When that show was over, I looked at the television again. What I saw did not sit well with me. First, I saw a commercial for ring tones. If anyone ever shells out the $1 for a lyric-less version of a rap song that isn't worth a dollar to begin with, I want to know who you are. So I can find you. And let you know that you wasted a dollar. Then I would leave.
The NExt commercial I viewed was for "jokes" that you can purchase for $1 that come to you in the form of a text-message. Wow. Is anyone really that desperate for a crappy joke? I can imagine it.
Asstard shelling out the cash: "Joke"
Joke demon: "If ur american before going 2 da bathroom, and american after leaving da bathroom, wut r u when ur in da bathroom?"
Asstard: "I dunno"
Joke demon: "American"
That was worth a dollar.
The next one really outraged me. A text message "flirting" service. Explain how this works, please. How desperate would you have to be that instead of actually talking to a person over the phone to get your flirt on, you have to text message a 64 year old greasy obese man. That must be really hot.
"Wut r u up 2?"
"nm"
"kewl wanna do it?"
"k"
"i slowly take off my pants"

I'll stop there before it gets too creepy.

The television returned from the commercial break. Oh, look what's on. "Viva La Bam". Wow. Once appropriatley referred to by a critic as "Viva La Fartcake". When I go the MTV with the dynamit crammed into my every orifice, I want "Bam" Margera to be there as well. Really, how could anyone possibly find it appropriate to watch this man. First of all, he basically defines "attention whore". Look pal, I don't think you're cool because you stole your mom's car. I really don't. Please stop trying to get me to like you. He wore a bath robe during part of the episode for no reason at all. I guess his reason was his need for attention. He wore women's make-up dirung the entire episode. Does this make you cool? You're so hardcore that you can wear make-up, but not be gay? I don't think so. Wash it off, assclown. We don't like you.
Also, could it be any more obvious how scripted the show is? Once, "Bam"'s mother found a fancy invitation in her hotel room. She says, "Oh, they're planning something classy?"
1. MTV planned it.
2. Knowing "Bam" it was probably an invitation to a dance party where "Bam" wears a bright pink cape, running around yelling at the top of his lungs while throwing feces at the guests and being generally "extreme".

I turned the television off at that point, and began calling dynamite shops.

2005-07-03T03:43:00.000-04:00

I'm cold. Very cold. Cold enough to by typing this with my nipples. Excuse any grammatical mistakes, please. Earlier this evening, I dined at the restaraunt known as "Chili's". Standard fare I thought, but inside were several things that did not sit well with me. Allow me to start at the beginning...

When first entering the building, I thought the coast was clear. Then, out of nowhere, sprung the horse-woman. I have described this beast before, but allow me to recap. I would say a solid 6'3", I wouldn't be surprised to see her dunk. Around her mouth were various markings, maybe herpes. I strongly hope it wasn't herpes. Maybe gills. Yes, probably gills. Then inside her mouth were braces. This thing was roughly 22 years in age, yet still had the dental assistance of an 11 year old. Lets grow up, please. I don't know who runs that place, but she should be, if even allowed on the premises, in the far back, not the front. Maybe she's dying and her last wish was to greet people. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask her. But as a whole, I would rather have intercourse with Bill Cosby than this horse.

Upon sitting down, I tried to clear my mind of that grisly "human". Our waitier for the evening, Brian, then greeted us. His style of waiting was odd to me. Instead of following the rules, Brian has to break them. That's just what he does. He in fact does not write down the order, but instead remembers it. As a paying customer, this is not a risk I want to take. What if he remembers wrong and brings me a human face? Maybe he is trying to impress me. Maybe I will think, if this man can remember an entire order, he must deserve a healthy tip. Maybe his pride would take a hit. He would feel just like the other waiters, forced to the pen and paper. He would have to tell his mother how the kids at work now call him a "tar-tar" (slang/word I made up for "retarted person) because he couldn't remember properly. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

The most disturbing event of the evening were the group of ladies sitting behind me. There were 4 ladies, and one small lady-child. I would say two of the ladies were obese, the other two morbidly obese. Before ordering, they consulted with Brian about how spicy the peppers are. Excuse me? You want the waiters to spend their time in the back testing the peppers? No ma'am. After resolving their dispute, my main man Brian was on his way. After the food was served, the small child deemed it appropriate to sing everyone in the building a song. She started with the ABC's. All 26 of them. When she was done, she asked if I would sing with her next time. No, I won't. Right upon completing the first tune, she burst into the theme song to Barney. Fair game, she seemed to be in the appropriate age group. While in the middle of the song, she announced to everyone in a 16foot radius of her, "I peed". Thank you. I will sleep tonight. I was thinking "I wonder when the last time she urinated was?". My questions have been answered. The two obese woman (I don't know why it took two of them, maybe they were going to play one-on-one later), escorted her to the restroom. A solid 25 minutes later, she returned. They were eating and discussing various topics when I overheard one of the morbidly obese women say "She wet herself". I'm hoping she was referring to the child. I think she has a problem. But anyways, the girl urinated and the adults did not find a reason to get up. Maybe they like eating with the smell of urine in the background. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask them. I next heard the two obese gals discussing "boyfriends". I apologize, but you should have seen these two. Sorry ladies, but the only boyfriend you will be enjoying is named Cob and is made of corn.

If you read that and don't comment, I will autograph your genetalia with a saw. I'm sorry, but I'll have to.

2005-06-30T04:32:00.000-04:00

The subject of my discussion tonight will be tools. Not like a hammer, like a douchebag. I've mentioned them before, but I will mention them again. They never stop. It seems if I'm out of my house after 5pm I will spot a tool everytime I turn my head. I guess tools give birth to more tools. I wouldn't know, I only have six children, and none of them are tools. But I don't know about the several illegitimate ones I have, though. There's too many of those to count.

Back to the topic, dictionary.com defines "tool" in several ways.

A device, such as a saw, used to perform or facilitate manual or mechanical work.
-Fair enough, but that's not what we're looking for.

Vulgar Slang. A penis.
Wow, that came out of nowhere. But again, not what we want.

I'll head over to "Urban Dictionary.com" to get a more ethnic response.

One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used. A fool. A cretin. Characterized by low intelligence and/or self-steem.
-Not bad, but again, it's not tickling me where it should.

someone who tries too hard. a poser. one of those chic's who holds the sign saying "Carson Daly is Hot." the asstard who goes to a rock show because they heard one of the songs on the radio or mtv. or someone who insists on wearing velour sweat suits. Avril Lavigne.
-Aah, there it is. Scratched me right in the sack. That is how I define "tool". The example given also helps enforce what I'm trying to display.

"Jane is a tool because she dresses like Avril Lavigne while listening to New Found Glory and Dashboard Confessional just becuase Carson Daly told her to."

A+ answer. Now that we're all on the same page, allow me to elaborate.

Tonight I politely graced the movie theater with my presence, viewing the moving picture, "War of the Worlds". Upon exiting the theater, I spotted a horse. I don't know what a horse was doing at a movie theater, but he was enjoying himself, and his popcorn so I left him alone. When looking past the horse, I spotted a tool. That's right, a tool. Allow me to describe this asshat.

First of all, we were inside. This wasn't a drive in movie. We were in a closed area, completely safe from sunlight. The theater was very dark. He still found it necessary to wear a hat. Maybe he has cancer and is embarrased by his Q-ball head. I didn't ask, but it looked like he had a, very goofy looking, head of hair. I didn't see what the hat was advertising, because he had it tilted so far up I'm surprised he fit through the doorway.

The next thing I noticed on his was a collared shirt. Fair game, maybe he just played golf. But what disturbed me was, yes, his collar was...popped. As in "flipped-up for no reason". WHY?! I honestly do not understand this fascination with the popped collar. It accomplises nothing. Maybe he was sitting in front of an escaped convict, and he needed the extra protection around his neck incase of falling victim to an attack from behind. Or he probably just thought he was really, really cool. Maybe he just did it to impress people. Maybe he didn't want the guy at the food stand to take a dump in his popcorn again, so he had to look sharp. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

I walked past the tool, imagining what other cool activities he's probably going to partake in this evening. Maybe bungie jump. Rob a Wendy's. Have a carcass eating contest with his buds. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll make you eat a ping pong paddle. Without chewing. I'm sorry, but I'll have to.

2005-06-28T14:41:00.000-04:00

11:12am. I should be asleep now. But no, I had to get up at 9am. 9 in the morning. Getting up at 9 when you go to sleep at 3 is no good. But I had to, and I did. "For what?" you may be asking. "For an orthodontist appointment" is how I would respond. I know several of you are familiar with orthodontists, maybe you've even seen one. Well if you haven't I can assure you they provide no fun.

The Ancient Chinese Torturer, or "orthodontist", I visit goes by the name of Dr. Awbrey. On the sign outside the door of his new office I visited today it said "Specialist in orthodontics". You're not a "specialist", pal, you're an orthodontist. Stop thinking you're so cool. When I opened the door to the new office, I was greeted with something that did not sit well with me. In front of the door was a table with a fancy computer on it. All the computer was showing was a list of names, one being mine. The lady behind the counter told me to "turn the wheel, and click it in on my name". What?! The only reason this computer is here is so I can announce I am present? What about a pad of paper, that may save you a few thousand dollars. But no, Dr. Awbrey is far too cool for paper. He actually wipes himself with metal. Contuning the tale, I turned this "wheel" they had instead of a normal mouse and "clicked" it in on my name. I wasn't as impressed as they wanted me to be.

I then took a seat in the waiting room. The design of this room disturbed me. All of the chairs were bunched in a small area, most facing each other. Did they expect us to come here with a pack of 15 friends? Am I supposed to meet new people here and discuss politics? Not at 10am I won't. So I found a seat near a far corner, trying to ignore everyone, and ignore the cries for attention this office was making.

I calmly sat with my eyes closed until they called my name. "Matthew", they said. Excuse me? Do you know how many Matthew's there are? A last name would help, sister. I don't personally know you, so please don't act like we grew up together. I sat dumbfounded for several moments, until I finally gave in and stood up. I guess they were calling me.

I followed this girl taking me into the back room, and there was another teenage gal in front of me, her name also called. The two gals seemed awfully friendly, discussing how their Summers have been, as I walked half asleep and with my eyes half closed to the chair. While sitting in the chair, I noticed possibly the most unnecessary item I have ever seen. Upon the lady leaning my chair back, I saw on the ceiling, a television. Excuse me? Is this some sort of a joke? An elaborate scheme? What point is a television here? I'll be sitting here for 15 minutes, most of those spent with someones hands in my mouth. I tried to ignore the film selection of the morning "Harry Potter", and closed my eyes yet again.

In the chair next to me was the friendly teenage gal, and the lady who led us back. The gal was getting her braces tightened, so she needed a new color. She selected black. Upon this selection, the lady operating on her was offended. She tried to pursuede her to choose something like pink, light blue, or green. What? Christ lady, let her pick a color, please don't try to push some ridiculous color that makes it look like you're perpetually eating candy. She finally agreed to her selection with a sigh, and continued.

When she was done with her, about 15 minutes later, she came and saw me. She asked if I brought my retainer. "No." She asked if I wear it at night. "Yes", I told her, obviously lying so I would dodge a lecture. Her next question shocked me.
"When did you get your braces off?"
"Uhh....December", I responded still half asleep.
"Of this year?"
WHAT?! It is June of the year 2005. Meaning the months that have passed are: January, February, March, April, and May. Nowhere in those is December. Therefore there has been no December in this year. I didn't want to confuse her and make her head explode, so I said ".....yeah". She left for another 10 minutes.

Next the ringleader of this operation, the pimp Dr. Awbrey, came out. And by no means by "pimp" do I mean anything positive like "cool" or "hip". I mean he offers women to perform sexual favors in exchange for money. There is not a single other penis in the entire building except him. So, the leader of this whorehouse came out to see me. He told me to open my mouth. Fair game, I did it. He put a mirror in and told me to bite down, I agreed. What he told me shocked me more than anything I had heard all day.
"These teeth look sweet."
WHAT?! "Sweet"?! "Sweet" is possibly the least appropriate reaction to teeth you could have. They are teeth. Plain teeth. How excited can they make you? Perhaps "These teeth look straight", or "These teeth look good" would have worked. But no, not cool enough for Dr. Awbrey, the coolest orthodontist in town. I guess he's an orthodontist so he gets off that kind of stuff. He then pulled his instrument of death out of my mouth and left. So that was it? I wait 10 minutes in the waiting room, then another 20 in this chair, all so you can poke a mirror around my mouth for 15 seconds?! I just wanted to leave, so I said a quick "Can I leave?" to the lady, who didn't respond. I got out of the chair and left.

Comments keep me going like babies for someone who eats babies.

2005-06-27T04:25:00.000-04:00

I regret to inform you that there will be no entry tonight. I'm sorry, but I can't be out rescuing endangered pandas every day. Everything I do is not blog-worthy. Not daily do I parachute into poverty-stricken cities, and free the townspeople from their tyrannical leader. Not every day do I lead a band of rogues deep into the forests of South America to raid the tribal camps of the Amozonians. That only happened once, and you can purchase the book I wrote about those events at your local bookstore. But the book is published under the alias "Lance McCalisballs".

For all of you people who yell at me with vicious threats like "wHen Is tHE NeW bL0G enTRy c0/\/\InG?" please hold yourself back. I will let you, the reader, know when there is a new post because I'm that nice. That's my contribution to you. In fact if you do ask, expect to be smacked in the face with my penis and select portions of my scrotum. I'm sorry, but it's a measure I am forced to take.

So there won't be an enrty tonight. It's tough running a daily world-class blog that was commented on in the New York Times. I get letters by the truckload almost daily from fans and mothers of sons they have lost because they went on a multi-continental search for the scribe of this very blog. I have received several body parts in the mail from obsessed fans, many of the parts getitalia. I am often mobbed in public by, sometimes rabid, fans. Once a middle-aged man dove on me, completely nude, from the second floor of the mall. I stopped engaging in cyber-sex with him after that.

So there, I'm sorry, there won't be an enrty. Or maybe I just wrote one, that's up to you...

If you read that and do not comment, I will hunt you down, and in thirty years, eat your first born son. I apologize in advance, but it's what I am forced to do.

2005-06-26T03:41:00.000-04:00

Saturday. The last day of the week. Depending on your calendar, but I won't get into that. Today wasn't bad. It was good, very good. In fact it was fantastic. I won't go further, because I allow myself a maximum of six adjectives in a paragraph.

Today. Today was host to a double feature film marathon, starring Matt and Daniel (you can, and please do it's very good, read Daniel's portrayal of the day here: http://cgnu36.blogspot.com/). The films viewed in their entirety were "Howl's Moving Castle" and "Land of the Dead". Both good, numerous thumbs are up. A few things happened while viewing these moving pictures. Allow me to start at the beginning...

I wake up. 11 o'clock. Dash up from the basement to the computer because I was threatend with violent acts of beastiality, and other fetishes if I did not squirt another of these blog entry's out of my mouth. If you would like to read that entry, please use your mouse. I wrote it and arranged plans for these motion pictures, or "talkies".

The schedule was the first film, 4:10pm, followed by an elaborate candle-lit dinner for two at Burger King, wandering around not only Barnes but Noble as well, and then the second film at 7:45. During the first film, "Howl's Moving Castle", some child/animal inside could not control himself.

I do not know if he was mindlessly beating his feet against the ground, thinking he was standing on a drum set, or if he was running a race but both are equally innapropriate behavoir in a theater made for movies. Maybe he had too much sugar, or was trying to make a run for it from his parents who don't give him dessert if he doesn't was the car fast enough. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. He seemed to stop after a few minutes, maybe his parents finally smuthered him.

After that film, the destination was Burger King. But getting there wasn't without obstacles. As soon as we enter the parking lot, we are unpleasently greeted by an obese, greasy, African-American man leaning on to his trunk, seemingly passed out. His grimy attempt at dreadlocks made me jealous. As we pass, his head turns up. Oh no. He makes eye contact us as we try as hard as we can to continue walking to the restaraunt we had made reservations at just hours before. As we continue walking, his lips begin to quiver as saliva shoots out, sprinkler style.
"Can you guys help me out withthisifhf"
"What?"

At this point, myself and Daniel were kissing our un-tampered with rectums goodbye. We knew we were going to come out different men. We both imagined each other tied up in his trunk, being taken to his far away bungalo where he would have his way with us one, then two, at a time. We did not want this to happen. We continued taking slow, considered steps, trying to break his death stare.

"Can you guys help me out? I need some money for gas."

Aaah, of course. It would have been silly of me to remove my pants and enter the back seat of his car as I almost did, giving up.

"Umm... sorry man, I think I only have enough money for food", I said, obviously lying to the man.

"Alright, thanks" He says.

Relieved, we enter the dining establishment and enjoyed our double cheesburgers and Hi-C fruit punch.

When we left the King of Burgers' House, we were shocked to find the mystery man, and his car, were gone. Did this mean he had gas all along? Was he trying to steal my cold cash? Ridiculous I thought. And to think I was about to be assaulted by him...

During the next feature film, "Land of the Dead", the audience member seated directly in front of me didn't seem to know what she wanted. Allow me to describe her first.Throughout the entire movie I was under the impression it was a six year old girl. Turns out she was between 50 and 80. Close enough. She was at the theater with two of her pals it seemed, one male, the other female. She was wearing a visor, I do not know why, we were inside. Inside a very dark room. But I didn't ask. Here is what disturbed me about her behavoir. During a particular moment that scared her, she began clapping. Just two claps. It sounded very out of place, I'm sure she stopped at two due to embarassment. Here's the problem. She also clapped during a scene that made her laugh. The last time I checked, having the same reaction to events that both humorously entertain you and frieghten you causes you to be a serial killer. I'm sorry, it does. When I came to this conclusion, I realized I took a big risk sitting behind her. I also realized she was the accomplise of the Burger King theif. The fact that myself and my companion alluded both challengers still shocks me.

If you read that and don't comment I'll kidnap you. Simple as that, I'll kidnap you.

2005-06-25T14:27:00.000-04:00

I couldn't make an entry last night because I was writing/directing/producing/starring in a pornographic film. I apologize. As a reward for being so patient I will include the script to the film, Dirty Backdoor Debutaunts 34- Triple A: Asian Anal Adventures.

"Hey"
"Hey"
*Intercourse*

"So, we're all..."
"Again?"
*Intercourse*

*Doorbell sounds*
"Did you...?"
"No..."

*Answers Door*
"Hey, we didn't order a... Do you want to..."
"Yeah"
*Intercourse*

The End.

It will be on shelves September 28th.

A few nights ago I had a confrontation with my cellular telophone. I'm sure you've read of my brother sleeping on the couch, if not you are allowed to scroll down. Well, being the curteous person I am, I turned out the lights, and was trying to use my cellular telephone to light the way up the stairs. I don't know why, but the phone did not feel like cooperating. As soon as I open it, it yells, "PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND." Excuse me? I do not want to issue any commands at 2:30am . I did not even hit the "Driving Mode" button. Which serves no purpose. If you have to press a special button, and then tell the phone what to do while you're driving, instead of pressing the buttons, you should not be in a car. Not even as a passenger. The only car you should ever ride in is the one transporting you, inside of your cage, to a small island on the souther border of Haiti, for you to die on. Continuing my story, I still needed light to navigate my way up the stairs, because tripping and knocking over a table, that would then fall down the stairs with me isn't much of a good time. So I open the phone again. "PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND". "I am going to eat you", I commanded. That command was not recognized. I made my way up the stairs, by use of my cat like senses. I got to my room, threw my phone on my bed in a fit or rage and slept comfortably, next to a giraffe.

Last night I was unfortunate enough to view the motion picture, "Cursed". I'm not going to tell you how terrible it was, feel free to rent it. But I will tell you of some oddities I found. The film is about warewolves. Standard fare. While at a "happenin'" party, the warewolf strikes. The first strike occurs in a "Maze of Mirrors". Do these mazes/rooms/houses/bungalos of mirrors ever exist outside of horror movies? No, they don't. Because seeing yourself twenty times in the same room would drive you to eat all of yourself out of confusion. It's happened. Anyways, the warewolf jumps completely out of nowhere, through a wall and into this maze. I don't know how the warewolf got there, maybe a motorcycle.
My other disturbance, that I will tell you of, was when this warewolf was hiding in the rafters of the party. Fair game, the warewolf is going stealthy. Someone is walking under, and out of nowhere, the warewolf hand shoots out of the ceiling, and picks him up. Ridiculous. Since when are warewolves ceiling crawling ninjas? Do they all train in Japan for several centuries before strinking southern California? I wouldn't know, I've only written two books on warewolves.

After the credits rolled, the popular MTV program "Date my Mom" came on. Wow. And I thought the guy at Subway was a tool. But the popped-collar wearing, "jive-talkin'" "hipsters" aren't the worst part, even if they utter plays-on-words like "Show me tha' Honey". The gals on this show are ridiculous. All they do is tell their mothers to lie about them. Look, ladies, please, if I am on an intimate date with your mother, please allow her to tell me you have a dead siamese twin attached to your head. I don't want to find out you are a Wolf-Person with hair covering your entire body later on. Finding out you have a penis or two isn't a welcome surprise. Why isn't there a "Date my Dad"? That would be much better.

Boy and Dad eating steak at dinner.
*20 minute silence*
*Boy looks up, makes eye contact for less than a second*
"You touch my daughter... Look at me boy, look at me. You touch my daughter; I eat you"
*A 35 minute pause, the two exit*

If you read that and do not comment, I have no problem eating your face.

2005-06-24T03:39:00.000-04:00

Another night, another post. My brother is currently asleep on the couch behind me. I have a steak on the grill that I will be eating off his face in 20 minutes. Some events happened today, allow me to explain them.

First, I watched the end of the basketball game last night, and was disturbed with the soundtrack selection. There needs to be a ban on Queen songs from sporting events.We know that you were under pressure, and we also know that you are the champions. And everyone knows you love fat bottomed girls. Wait, actually that song wasn't played. But the amount of Queen at sporting events is ridiculous. Thought I would let you know about that.

My next tale starts in one place, and ends up in another. Allow me to start at the beginning, as I always do. I'm sure you read of my poster dilemma in a previous entry. If not, I won't recap for you, because no one is stopping you from scrolling down. Well after requesting my replacement poster, the seller said he sent my the replacement and included a "surprise for my trouble". This both excited and scared me. Turns out the surprise was yet anther movie poster, this one for "National Treasure". Not bad, but it wasn't as exotic a prize as I was hoping for. I was expecting a couple of severed fingers. Perhaps a pint of human blood. A penis. Maybe a white piece of paper with "Don't screw with me" written on it in blood and other bodily fluids. But I'll take the poster. Now that I had these fancy movie posters, I needed something to frame them with. Perhaps a frame.

My journey then took me nearly from Atlanta to Asia. I went to the store Michael's. Micahel's. Wow, what a store. I do not think a more boring store could be created. I would rather go to a morgue and have a body-eating race with a fierce opponent. But I went to Michael's. As myself and my trusty companion, Mother, strolled through the aisles, I was shocked with how bored I had become in less than two minutes. We entered the picture frame section of the store, one of the more exciting departments. As I browsed, I could not find the right size. None were big enough. Then I left the condom section, and went back to the frame department. Only one frame was the correct size, and based on my knowledge of frames, it was a crappy frame. A lady who worked there was near. My mother alerted her of our problem, and asked if she knew if they had any others of that size. Her response shocked me. I was expecting her to go near the frames, and begin browsing, telling us if she found any that were up to my standard. No, her response was "No, none but the black, cardboard backed one.". WHAT?! We weren't even near the frame, and I do no think she was using a periscope, so there's no way she could have been looking at it. She then continued "Yeah, just the $24.99 one." She also knows the prices?! Excuse me? Does she do nothing all day but memorize the styles and prices of picture frames? I guess that's about as much fun as there is to be had working at Michael's.

Well, my steak is done, and I have to prepare my ice cream sundae, to eat both off of my brother's face.

Comments will be exchanged for "favors".

2005-06-23T05:35:00.000-04:00

It's 2am and I figured I was due for another entry. Where to begin? Well, today I noticed some occurances that pissed me off. Allow me to start at the begining...

It was 1pm, yesterday afternoon. Myself and my brother figured it was about time for a lunch. We decided Subway would be serving us today. We boarded the MattMobile, and buckled up. I inserted a compact disc, Audioslave's latest. The tunes were blaring, bass was thumping, and the man in the back seat wasn't flailing around anymore. Finally. So we drove to the nearest Subway location, meandered around the parking lot, until I spotted a hispanic man being beaten by the police. Then I saw something that angered me: A Hummer.

Personally, I do not care for the automobile known as a "Hummer", or it's more popular sequel, the "H2". Perhaps the assumed "Hummer 2" title wasn't cool enough for the people who would purchase these. I don't know. I don't just dislike "Hummers", I hate them. I really hate them. If I stumbled upon a treasure chest full of guns and amunition, I would probably shoot a few select people, commit numerous acts of armed robbery, and then would assassinate the people responsible for the "Hummer".

Really, do "Hummer's" serve any purpose? If you're browsing the arctic tundra, or excavating an ancient Egyptian tomb, feel free to use the Hummer. Maybe you have to transport several hurt seal to another zoo, because the Depression hit Sparta Zoo too hard. But if you're picking up groceries or chauffeurring two or three children to soccer practice, please choose a different automobile. It's not necessary. I think a standard Honda will perform the same task just as well, and you won't run over any people unintentionally with a Honda. Can you even see out the windshield of a Hummer? Does a ladder slide down so you can enter the cockpit? Can you even drive it over bridges without the bridge collapsing?

Well, I continued walking past the Hummer, thinking my troubles were over. I walked into the Subway, took my stance in line, and patientally waited my turn. I then placed my order, as did my brother. Then, guess who walks in? A Tool. That's right a tool walked in. Allow me to describe this douche-extradonaire for you. First of all, his nose shocked me. It looked like he got hit in the nose with a baseball, his nose was flattened and has remained like so since. I actually felt bad, knowing he was probably missing out on the wonderful smells of Subway. I doubt he can even breathe through it. His nostrils were small slits, looking like staples. Enough about his nose. His pants. First of all, he was wearing pants. If I recall correctly, it was June the 22nd, in Alpharetta, Georgia. The temperature was somewhere in the range of 80-110. Pants were certanily not necessary. But he though so. The pants were of the blue jean variety, with holes all about them. If you purchase pants, with holes in them, you do not know how to spend money properly. And probably shouldn't be within 50 feet of children under the age of 10. Next, this tool had a collared shirt on, and his collar was, yes, popped. I was taken aback by this sight. I had only heard stories. I didn't know tools of this degree actually existed. I don't understand the popped collar. Perhaps this tool has a blood disorder, where he is very cold all the time, so he needed the pants, and the collar kept his neck warm. Maybe he doesn't receive the oxygen he needs, because of his deformed nose, and this makes him cold. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. He probably would have only used slang terms in his sentence, so it probably wasn't worth talking to him anyways.

It's 2:35am, and flights to Europe won't wait on me, so I must be leaving.

Comments are appreciated.

2005-06-22T03:15:00.000-04:00

You know what pisses me off?

The Real World.

Seriously, not many other things can piss me off that much in a 20 minute period. I watched the season premiere to "Real World: Austin" earlier tonight, and it succededed in making me want to physically harm the cast members. Now, I do hate "The Real World" (all seasons and casts), yet I have seen every episode in the last four years, and several from previous seasons. Don't ask why, the show is captivating. Even though I hate it. I think everyone in the enitre world has sat through at least one "Real World" marathon for several hours. I won't deny that. Well this season, I can tell I hate everyone on it. Seriously, these people are everything I hate in a person. I'll get into detail about the individual people later.

I don't even know where to begin. I was driven to such anger after watching that epsiode. I even took a page of notes, so I could remember all the specific things that pissed me off.

First of all, all these people want to do is have sex. Honestly, let's stop for two hours, guys. The enitre basis of the "Real World" series is for people to be in a house with 6 other people, and be engaged in a three month orgy. C'mon, guys, your penis can only take so much. Really. You're going to hurt yourselves.

Next, nearly all of the guys on the show act like they're the biggest ladies men of all time, yet they can't keep their hands off each other. When two of the cast members made a bet with each other, who could "hook-up" with a house-mate first, they shook hands and hugged each other more than 5 times. I don't see how they could be talking about having sex with a woman, while they were practically bending over and spreading their cheeks.

Speaking of the term "hook-up", it seems like that word (or two) is said at least once per sentence. I wouldn't be surprised if the cast mates were electrically shocked in the nipples, via remote, if they forget to mantion "hooking-up" often enough.

On the first night of entering the house, while the cast-mates were trying to "hook-up", I saw one guy and one gal chasing each other around the house trying to whip each other with a towel. I would have been very happy to see one, or both, of them slip on the tile floor of the bathroom and die. Seriously, I would have sent a check for $250 to the member of the pair who remained alive, for killing the other.

Another disturbance I had was people wearing t-shirts that are supposed to be funny. Seriously does anyone laugh at shirts? I saw two seperate ones, one saying "I say hella". Thank you. I now know a slang term is present in your vocabulary. I'll keep that in mind. The other shirt said "Time flies when you're having rum". I have not consumed rum, but I'm near positive time moves at the same speed, no matter what you're drinking. If it is a play on words of the phrase "Time flies when you're having fun", then it's not funny. I'm sorry, it just isn't.

Speaking of alcohol, one girl claimed "Hard alcohol brings out my bad side". Well, I think I have a remedy for that. Don't drink hard alcohol. Idiot. Don't say terrible things happen when you get drunk, while drinking an alcoholic beverage. I'll drown you in hard alcohol. The same girl, alerted the black guy of the show to calm her down if she gets drunk, and keep her from getting too drunk. The black man agreed. While the whole gang was out drinking, the girl was getting drunk. The black guy thought to step in, except he was a solid two hours too late. The moron let her get insanely drunk, then thought he would offer her a cold glass of water. That will solve everything. A brawl ensued, and the black man left. Perhaps the smell of Popeyes was in the air.

Speaking of the black guy, and don't get me wrong, I have nothing at all against black people. Just this guys is on "The Real World" so I have an excuse to hate him. While he walked away from the drunk girl, he was such a bad ass, he chose a path what was out of his way, and walked between people posing for a picture, and the person taking the picture. Seriously, what kind of dick does that? Another thing against this man is while the posse was out dancing, he was so cool, he had to say "No one could dance. Except me." Thanks pal. So because you're black you can dance incredibly well? Cool, so I can say that you love fried chicken more than you love your father, and you wouldn't be offended? Alright, I'll make note of that. One more thing about the black guy, while having a "deep" conversation with the drunk chick, he had the nerve to say "Now that I'm older, I don't want to fight. More peace." Thanks, Ghandi. You're so deep. What are you doing on "The Real World"? Shouldn't you be out feeding the hungry or donating blood? Seriously, give Bono a call and you can help him save Africa. Go for it. You are a modern day Mother Teresa.

Speaking of "Mother Teresa's", one of the attention whore girls claimed to be a nurse, after a guy got punched in the face for being a loud-mouthed moron. She looked at his bruise, and was quick to say "Let me look, I'm a nurse". Wow, thanks, Betty. If I want quality healthcare, I know the best can be found on "The Real World". If I ever get hurt, the first person I'll call is that chick I saw getting drunk and practicing fellatio on a horse from "The Real World".

Look at that motley crew of morons. Looks like the people who watch MTV.

That's all for now from me.

2005-06-21T05:28:00.000-04:00

Today wasn't bad, so I'll review what I did for you.

Shower- Started out a bit rocky, but eventually evened itself out. Upon first entering, the water was too hot. After adjusting the temperature, I found the water to be too cold. I fiddled with it for a solid 10 minutes, until the man who works inside my water heater decided to stop punishing me. The rest of my bathing went as planned, overall a good experience. 7/10

Trip to the post office/Poster story- Allow me to start at the beginning. Roughly a week ago, I purchased a nice looking movie poster for The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.

I paid $10 for it, with an additional $10 spent on shipping. Upon receiving the poster last Saturday, I was greeted with the ugly sight of a mangled shipping tube. There was a huge dent right on the side of the tube, as if at the United States Postal Service's annual softball game, Terry forgot to bring the bat, so they used the nearest tube. That tube was mine. I removed the poster and found it littered with dents and tears of various degrees. I could not stand for this, and the seller claimed to purchase shipping insurance, so I was off to the Post Office.

Upon entering the post office, I was greeted with a shocking smell. No matter how many times I enter that post office, the startling smell of cleanliness will never cease to surprise me. I waited for just a moment, before the kind man behind the counter waved me over. Like he owns me. I explained the story to him, as he inspected the package. Turns out the seller in fact did not apply proper shipping insurance. I pumped my fist in the air and uttered a "Why I Aughtta!". While getting odd stares, and watching women shield their children, I exited the Post Office. I was mad.

When I got home, I immediatley mounted my seat at the computer. This seller was getting an angry email, whether he wanted it or not. I emailed him, and he responded. Apparently he did insure the package, but through a different service. Odd, I thought. I sent him pictures of the ruined memorobilia, and he has promised to issue me a replacement. So in the end, everything worked out.
Poster 10/10
Damaged Poster 3/10
Post Office 7/10
Seller of poster 9/10

Movie- Batman Returns - I watched the film, Batman Returns, while in the car, as my mother shopped for fake flowers. The film wasn't great, yet wasn't bad. It improved on the pacing and editing issues of the first Batman film, yet still had its own problems. Burton's signature dark style still echoed through, and the direction was great. One main problem, was the climax of the film. It was rather anti-climactic. Batman, THE Batman, is fighting one-on-one against The Penguin. The Penguin is a 4 foot tall, morbidly obese creature, who wears a stained one-piece sock. The idea of him putting up a fight is laughable, and their confrontation only lasted a few minutes. But issues aside, it was a fun film. 7/10

Dinner- My mother, brother, and myself dined last evening at Chili's. Upon entering, we were horrifyingly greeted by a horse-woman. "She" is honestly one of the oddest looking "people" I have ever had the misfortune of encoutering. I don't want to go into detail, but I would rather fornicate with a horse than get within 10 feet of this beast. I ordered the "Boneless Shanghai Wings", my usual. I requested no sesame seeds, as they hurt my teeth and ultimately serve no purpose. They were alright, but getting old.
Without the Horse-Woman leading me to my table 7/10
With the Horse-Woman leading me to my table 2/10

Deepdiscountdvd.com Order- www.deepdiscountdvd.com is having it's bi-annual 20% off sale. I went B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Their prices are already very good, and this deal is adding sugar to a pizza. Or sugar to a...nevermind. I ordered $182 worth of items.

-------- ------------ ----------------------------------- ---------- ---------
PRINCESS MONONOKE $ 13.39 Backorder
NAUSICAA OF THE VALLEY OF THE WIND $ 16.91 Backorder
PORCO ROSSO $ 16.91 Backorder
EQUILIBRIUM $ 11.04 Backorder
SIMPSONS-5TH SEASON $ 27.91 Backorder
AMERICAN PSYCHO (KILLER CE) $ 8.50 In-stock
DARK CITY $ 4.47 In-stock
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST $ 6.22 In-stock
HOME MOVIES-2ND SEASON $ 16.74 In-stock
FREAKS & GEEKS-COMPLETE SER $ 33.52 In-stock
BATMAN THE ANIMATED SERIES Vol. 1 $ 26.49 Backorder

Merchandise Total: $ 182.10
Tax: $ .00
Shipping & Handling: $ .00

Total for this Order: $ 182.10
10/10

That concludes my day.

As a special treat for you, I'm including a link to my dear friend Daniel's song he recorded. Eventually it will turn in to our hour long symphony "The Bodily Functions Song".Here is the link. Enjoy.

2005-06-20T04:38:00.000-04:00

Am I really making a blog? Damn. I told myself I would never make one. But at least it's not a "Xanga". You girls and your Xangas... Does xanga.com even allow you to sign up if you have a scrotum? They shouldn't.

Well I won't be posting the usual ingredients of a child's blog, such as "OMG! liek t0day wuz soooooooo much fun! we liEk weNt to the p00l and sAw EVERYONE! it was Awesome!! weVe gotta hang out more!! <3!" No. You know why? Because I'm not an autistic three year old with downs, who's typing with a hook hand. I can control myself. When I see a keyboard I don't immediatley start slapping the keys like a retarted child on a piano who thinks he's making beautiful music. When I see a computer I don't immediatley tear off all my clothing, dive on the desk and begin flaling around. No. I don't. Because I can control myself. Honeslty, most blogs look like they were typed by someone who's hands have Turrette's. Ridiculous.

Most blogs are completely useless. Honestly, I personally don't care that your best friend came over and you two made cookies. I don't care about you going shopping. I don't care that you watched "The Notebook". I don't care that you killed that guy who gave you back wrong change with your hot dog.

Also, what moron cam up with these "Xanga Layouts"? Have any of you noticed more than half of the time you can't read anything on the page, because the brilliant mind who writes that blog decided white text would look good on a white background? Ridiculous.

But you kids can do what you want. I've lost my pride, I now run a blog.