Monday, February 28, 2005

Every Part of Monday Blows Chunks

Working late on Sunday night is not the part that sucks, it's working early on Monday. Which part of early Monday you ask? It's either the right-now part, the 7:30-class-I-havn't-done-the-work-for part, or the rest-of-the-day-after-the-other-two-parts part. I choose all of the above. All of those parts suck equally. They are the perfect trifecta of suck. They suck in ways that I am not aware of because I was raised in a conservative Christian home.

Moral of the story: Life is just an extended metaphore for death.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Is my cat Jabba the Hutt?

How dope are water wings?

Kids get all the breaks. I mean, come on... fun dip? Adults aren't even allowed to eat fun dip, that's why it's called "Adult Onset Diabetes."

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Six Shots or None at All

In other news... Hey, I forgot to tell you, something amazing happened on the 18th, at 12:32 p.m.

There, I remembered. Actually, I remembered a few minutes ago, before I signed in and started this post. I had to discuss it with myself first because I really should be working on homework right now, but it can wait... it always does.

So, on the 18th I was having a conversation with a buddy of mine via the latest version of MSN messenger when she was cut off from the internet. I figured she would be back on soon enough, so while I waited I began scanning the room for what I suspected to be a fly that had hit my hand earlier.

Indeed it was a fly, but this was no ordinary fly. I am pretty sure this was the fly from The Fly. This fly had the look of an insect that has been genetically bonded with a cutting-edge scientist who now spends his time being a friggin huge fly and killing people just because he can, since there are no newspapers big enough to end him.

Now, usually I am quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, but on the 18th I was just being an idiot who really wanted to bag a fly big enough to mount above the hearth.

Hang on a sec, I am sick of typing the word "fly" so much, and it is going to come up quite a bit, so from now on I will refer to the creature by its true name: Seth Brundle.

Now, Dr. Brundle wasn't about to go down without a fight. Fortunately, his little brain is not really designed for thinking thoughts any more complex than "100110" so I knew I wasn't up against strategy or anything like that. What Seth did have were wings, courage, and perseverance. Courage and Perseverance, these are important. If I ever decide to actually pour my heart out on this blog, those words will come up again, but for now, suffice to say they will add a good eight minutes to any fly's life, which is about two years in fly years.

He seemed determined to stay on the window, which I thought was a good thing as I proceeded to swing at him with a newspaper (which, as we have already been over, has no effect on gigantic fly people).

Then came my moment of opportunity. Brundle's little mind did not foresee the danger in landing on the edge of the window sill, where the window hits when it opens. My little mind, unfortunately, did not foresee any of the things that glass can do besides not break.

With the strength of a weak and sickly baby ox I slide the window open to crush the Brundle.

Now would be a good time to tell you something about flies. They see in slow motion, and all they care about is not dying, so while I wasn't thinking at all, Seth was on top of things, and dodged my feeble attempt at strategic attack.

The window slammed against the wall and I immediately had a new problem, one I have been alluding to for far too long: a crack in my window that was not there before. Judging by the not-cracked condition of my window in the pre-slam stage, I am forced to conclude that my actions were somehow linked to the now multiple pieces of glass comprising my window.

It was at this point that my manhood was on the line. Seth Brundle, bless his heart, could not be permitted to live, lest I be expelled from my tribe.

I am still in the tribe, so needless to say, Brundle got royally f-ed up.

As Brundle lay twitchy in his shallow grave/my trash can, my friend logged back on and I informed her of the situation. Her response: "Did you get those files I was sending?"

Cool response dude.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Why I Wish I Was Disabled

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Animal crackers suck

It turns out that root beer is the best kind of soda drink imaginable. Seriously, I just proved it today ontologically.

Now, on to the topic at hand. I have before me a keyboard and computer, but slightly off to my left (your west) I have a box of Nabisco brand Barnum's Animals variety Crackers. On it I see various adult male animals, with their respective young, all horribly out of proportion.

While these animal crackers may be a good source of calcium, they are unfortunately also a good source of the taste of old man's butt marinated in clover honey.

Seriously, I bought the box because I remembered liking them, but it turns out that they are freaking gross, so I could never have liked them for their taste. I must have been fooled into wanting them because of the cool box they came in. Little kids are stupid by definition, so it stands to reason that in my child form I was drawn to eat disgusting crackers.

I mean, it used to be a special event in my yet unformed mind when we went out to a grownups' restaurant, because on the way we stopped at McDonald's and I got a cardboard house-shaped box with molded pieces of fried particleboard chicken, French fries, and a "toy" that was not fun to play with and that could not, or would not, interact with any of my actual toys that I already had plenty of back at home.

I was going to save the box, but now I'm getting rid of it, and I'm not even going to recycle it because I don't want to live in fear that my next grocery bag will be made from 75% post consumer marinated butt.

The end.

Friday, February 04, 2005

This is my button, hanging out on my desk with some paper clips, staples, and my friend's In-N-Out nametag. I liked it better with my shorts.

Ode to my button

I have no memories of you,
Only memories with you.
But now that you are gone,
My memories are few.

A belt without a button:
Pat Sajack without a clue.