Oh Crap*

A friend of mine suggested today that the little things we are doing now could very well be God's way of preparing us for the great things we will do in the future. I pretty much just stepped in dog poop today, so I'm kind of hoping she's wrong.

*third part in the ongoing series, "Posts with Crap in the Title"

Entry in an Ever-Growing List

Colgate flouride toothpaste
Baking soda and peroxide
Whitening
Gel,
In my right eye,
Hurts like hell.

Elmo Whisper in My Ear...

"Elmo, nothing is beyond you,
So let those good thoughts fill your head.
You are furry, proud and red."

Amen.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Jujube

How lovely are your Brach's. I mean, Heide.

These make great ornaments for little Christmas trees. I'll show you some time.

Of course I'm excited.

Write Your Own Caption?

I think this sign is missing a comma.

TGIS

It’s Saturday and I’m awake at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Yes, I know most of the world is up by now, but we Christians are supposed to be in the world, not of it. My heart is instantly contrite, but the alarm blaring six feet away is not mine, and it shows no remorse.

Josh rolls over and hits the snooze button like a saint. I hear Andrew make a few sleeping position adjustments in the bunk overhead. Two minutes later I’m the only one still awake. If Chris or Michael walked in and asked me what I planned to do today I’d probably say I have to find the flying basketball before the puppies go marching by. Incoherent, yet painfully awake.

The alarm goes off again, beckoning my roommates to join in my vigilant stupor.

Why Josh, why?

Josh rolls over and hits snooze a second time. The bunk shifts and creaks for a few seconds. Quiet. Awake.

The closed blinds over Josh’s bed are growing bright enough to read a book by, and I can sense my opportunity for ever falling back to sleep becoming smaller by the minute. So much pain from that side of the room. I turn my head. Can’t sleep. I pull the blanket over my eyes. Can’t breathe. I turn toward the opposite wall and search for a place to put my arms. That button is a liar.

The alarm starts beeping again, conveniently censoring my thoughts about the situation. This time I don’t look. I pretend to sleep, hoping to lose myself in the role.

Click. Creak.

Silence.

They don’t give Oscars for pretending to be asleep, but I give a stunning performance nonetheless. I’m like Ferris Bueller without the part where he sneaks out of the house. It’s so convincing I could set up Santa Clause for Punk’d. After a few minutes, I’m not even sure it’s an act anymore.

Apparently Josh’s alarm wants to play it safe. Again with the beeping. Again, Josh hits snooze. Andrew rolls over (again).

Silence returns. I find something soothing about the grain of the wood in the bunk above me, and I need soothing right now, so I stare at it and look for faces in the lines—calm, restful faces. It’s so quiet that I can hear the phone start ringing four feet away from my head.

Four feet: that’s closer to Josh than it is to me, but he’s not moving. I wish the phone were closer so I could throw it at him. I almost fall out of bed answering it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Josh there?”

Hmm… let me check.

“Uh… yeah, hang on a sec.” I don’t have to say anything more—my blessed roommate is already sitting up bright-eyed and reaching for the phone like he expected the call.

I’m not listening. I don’t want to know who is calling or why. I only hope that whoever it is wants Josh to come over right away and never come back.

After a few uh-huh’s and a couple all right’s he hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. But not before turning his alarm off. It’s 8:45. I get out of bed. I’m not feeling very religious anyway.

It's just funny, that's all I'm saying

Sorry about the fuzzy picture. I guess I was laughing too much. This is inside a Rite-Aid in Idaho, just above the pharmacy I believe.

FRP, and if you don't know what that means, DET

I'm posting this only because it's freaking rad, which, incidentally, is the only reason I ever post anything on this site.

MSN Messenger Has Deteriorated...

into a place where Jesse "No Eye" tells me to go away.

Lot's of people used to tell me to go away on MSN Messenger.

This is a new level of lonely.

Spanish Alphabet Math

n + ~ = ñ ("~" is pronounced "yea!")

Let's use it "n" a sentence.

Aww Dip! Daddy bought puddñ.

I Ran Into an Old Classmate a Couple Days Ago

It reminded me of a funny story. We were in eighth grade science class learning the difference between organic and inorganic... the concepts in general. Someone whispered a question to a friend.

"No, the sun's not organic."

(a couple students snicker)

"Right, but... what is the sun made of?"

(someone says plasma, but no one knows what plasma is)

"The sun is made of superheated gasses—mostly hydrogen and helium," our teacher says.

"Oh," says my classmate in a flash of inspiration, "is that why the sun goes down at night, because it runs out of helium?"

Recipe for a Missing Friend

12 2½ inch abalone
1 tbsp. minced fresh ginger
12 oz. fresh spinach, cleaned, stemmed and patted dry
1 bunch fresh chives, cleaned and dried
4 sprigs fresh cilantro
4 fresh basil leaves
¼ cup chicken stock
¾ cup whipping cream
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Chinese chili sauce
1 tbsp. cornstarch
1 tbsp. cold water
¼ cup butter, cubed
Fresh ground black pepper

After this I'm not really sure what to do. It sorta just happened. I guess maybe you could combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Preheat microwave to room temperature, then microwave ingredients on High for 5 1/2 - 6 1/2 minutes or until hot. Careful, let sit for 1 minute before singing "Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing. Hip, hip, horrific is our thing. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) become a robot. (Help help) help, help, help, help help, help, help" (serving suggestion courtesy They Might Be Giants).

How to Become a Writer in Two Easy Steps.

It is no large etymological leap to say that writers are people who write. Sometimes I wonder if writing instuctors just say things like that to see how long they can keep a straight face. Surely they know that’s only half of the definition. It’s only common sense to include that, not only do writers write, writers refrain from deleting at least some portion of what they have written.

Sure, They're Cute When They're Little...

But mowing toddlers is a bit extreme, don't you think?

Oh, right.

The headache I've had all day today was caused by the fact that my glasses were dirty. I just cleaned them with dish soap and I'm reminded of what it's like to see. I wonder what it's like to see.

The More You Try to Qualify...

"Well, the more you try to shave the cat
The more the thing will bite and scratch.
It's best I think to leave it's fur
And to listen to it's silky purr."

-Cake, Tougher Than It Is

See, I Was Listening

My roommate was trying to decide what to wear out to dinner. Others may have called him indecisive. I called him Muse.

As It Turns Out...

Yesterday was this blog's two-year anniversary. Therefore today is actually Making Up for Not Caring About Your Second Year Anniversary Day, You Blog. In honor of not caring about this blog's second anniversary, I am going to take a nap.

HAPPY MAKING UP FOR NOT CARING ABOUT YOUR FIRST YEAR ANNIVERSARY DAY, You Blog

This Year's Resolutions:

1) take a shower today
2) maybe dry off and get dressed and the rest of it

p.s. shut up, I don't have class 'til 12:30.

Rorschach for Stickmen

Remember, right now we're only looking for your first impression.

Ninth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Nine*:

I

"I" stands for Ichthyology, which means "the branch of zoology dealing with fishes." Unfortunately, in conversation the word could easily be misunderstood for "Ick, theology," which means "eww gross, the study of God" and is not welcome in many religious circles. To avoid this and a host of other socially awkward situations, zoologists who specialize in fish should avoid the topic of their occupation altogether and talk about something else, such as politics.

*In recent usage the word "nine" also represented the planet Neptune in the mnemonic, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas." However, despite vehement protest from Red Baron the Neptune representative was changed to Nutella after the International Astronomical Union approved a definition for "planet" that excludes Pluto.

This Is What Happens When I Say "Hey Mike," and Michael Pretends Not to Hear Me

Some of those cushions are from the apartment next door.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 1 Number 1

Good atnoon all yea faithful.

The writers of This Guy are currently hard at work on things among other things, but we want to take a moment to make you aware of a few exciting events on the horizon.

Many of you are probably aware that this Friday marks the first annual Two Year Anniversary of our publication. Expect something big and prepare to be disappointed or appointed accordingly.

The construction of "Wild Animal Panorama Puzzle," by Haruo Takino (alternately titled "Noah's Ark Panorama" by those who maintain that hippos ship separately) has hit a blog-worthy (we're highly selective here at TG) snag. Keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically) for "Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part II," out soon.

Finally, the editor would like to acknowledge Anonymous, a frequent contributor of comments, by again, and this time willfully, publishing this fine and oft-used response: "word."

Word indeed, Anonymous. Your word has touched us all.

My Roommate Is the Master of Metaphors... Metaphors Disguised as Similes

"Dub, get a load of this carrot."
"Whoa. It's like, a mini carrot."
"A baby carrot, perhaps?"
"No, it's more like a... like a, Shetland carrot."

My Last Swing at Redemption

Both of you might recognize this story, but it's gone through some pretty heavy revisions "for publication" and, to quote Mitch Hedberg, "I couldn't [expletive] rob you of this one."

Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. She was a year older than me and probably six inches taller, and she lived next door. I was running in the opposite direction.

This all started when I fell in love with baseball back in the first grade, and while childhood loves are often short-lived, my passion for the game was still a problem almost a year later. The sweet, earthy smell of the field, the exhilarating crack of the bat, the electricity in the air on opening day—these were all completely foreign concepts to me. But my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum, so baseball was a way of life.

That’s why, when the neighborhood kids gathered for a game in the street outside our house, I turned off the Nintendo without even saving and raced to get my glove. In my first at-bat I launched the ball almost past the pitcher and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion, then raced toward the first base cone. My lightning speed was deteriorating as I neared the cone, but no one ran to tag me out. No one even tried to stop the ball for that matter, which was rolling past second and still going deep. Everyone just stood there looking across the street.

I turned around to see Beth’s dad knelt beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like a dying buck looking into the eyes of a hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not really sure how that would happen, but I wasn’t really sure how this had happened either.

“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.

“I’m, sorry.” My apology squeezed out awkwardly between labored breaths. Beth looked at me and quit sobbing long enough to gulp down a couple gallons of air, then started up again. “Sorry Beth.” I thought we should maybe take a break and sing the national anthem or something, but baseball isn’t a stop and go ordeal, so we played on. I stayed on first and tried to keep my head in the game while analyzing the last play.

It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a baseball expert or anything, but even if there wasn’t a game on TV I always had “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” to study on Nintendo. I didn’t know who Ryne Sandberg was exactly, but I figured he must have been Wayne Gretzky, who everyone knows is the greatest ball player of all time. But that was beside the point. The point was no one holds onto the bat while running the bases. It simply isn’t done. So what had I done wrong?

The rest of the inning went smoothly enough; I even managed to scrape up my right leg before it was over—I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before only hadn’t made it all the way to the base, which was evident by the size of the wound. But I didn’t even go inside for a knee band-aid, I just brushed off the gravel, grabbed my glove and trotted to the edge of the block. Satisfied that I was safely in the outfield, Beth wiped away her last few tears and limped around for a better place to sit.

As the sun sank below our rooftop horizon, I buried my left hand snuggly into the warm leather glove, then spread out the fingers of my right hand and let the cool air drift by. My ears drank in the scuffing sounds of tennis shoes on asphalt, the eager hey batter batter, sw-ing batter batter of the players and the steady conversations of a few watchful parents, who broke here and there into shouts of encouragement. Sure, the blood dripping down my leg was attracting mosquito eaters like a porch light, but that was no big deal, this was baseball.

I stood there and watched four or five kids strike out before someone came to borrow my glove and told me it was time to bat. I nodded and jogged confidently to the plate. After thinking about the accident and I’d come to a conclusion: I’d thrown the bat with too little control and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

The first pitch looked high, but apparently I was just short. Strike one. I closed my eyes to concentrate.

Strike two.

“Keep your eyes on the ball,” my brother shouted.

The pitcher gave me a reassuring nod; he obviously meant business. His arm drew down and back and my eyes locked onto the ball in his hand. The bat hung still over my shoulder. My breathing went silent. The mosquito eaters clung frozen to my leg. What happened next will stay with me forever.

The pitch came at me like a sixth grader off a swing set. I swung hard and grounded it past second, but this time I held onto the bat. I brought the bat back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, then carefully tossed it to my right, then watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I stood and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and I went inside.

Beth Doke went inside too.

Recommended Reading

These guys do good work. Some of them even come into my apartment and borrow towels without bothering to say hi.

I found this article while trying to figure out if I was a mythbuster or an artist. It's not as funny as the other site, but probably more socially relevant.

Quick poll: or is it socially relevant at all? (Make sure you read the "quick poll" part really quickly. That's why it's in italics.)

Finally, this is what I think of whenever I hear the word "genius."

Sorry about that... I mean, this.

Why I'm Glad I Can Mow Lawns

The following is an excerpt from the "author's notes" section of a non-fiction short story I submitted to one of my favorite professors for feedback. Her responses are italicized.

What is your initial impression of the story?
I don't think it succeeds yet at what you're up to.

Do you think this is worth submitting to the Driftwood in its present form?
It needs work.

Most importantly to me, is the story more than just "self-involved navel-gazing?"
no

The World Is a Dangerous Place

This gate will not hesitate to kill you.

Eighth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Eight*:

H

"H" stands for Hank, which means "a skein of yarn or thread." This is an interesting definition because after reading it you've learned that, whatever a hank is, it's not what you were expecting.

*Incidentally, H is the eighth letter in the alphabet.

Funny to Me

I just deleted an email with the subject line "different keywords, general fewer." I think I just caught spam with its pants down. It was kind of embarrassing.

Seventh Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Seven*:

G

"G" stands for Galantry, which means "heroic courage," "the behavior of a gallant" or "a courteous act or remark." However, it could be confused for "gal lamprey," which means "an eel-like girl with a jawless, sucking mouth." This is sort of disgusting and is best avoided by using words like "bravery" or "charm."

*The shortest distance between these two points is a line.

Love at First Flight

They met in an elevator.

On a Shoebox

Sometimes one, sometimes three, but it generally works out to two.

mewithoutYou Struck Again

Hence this burning red
Marked by a sadness
They'll look back
and call Joy

Or something like that anyway.

"everything i know i get from wikipedia."

- Abalone In Jade Sauce.

This In at Just This Time

A recent series of readership polls at a popular blog found that readership polls are completely worthless when the readership is not large enough to establish a plurality without including the writer.

"Sometimes I wonder what I'm really doing here," the writer, affectionately called "Two Guns" by no one, really, was overheard saying in his head. "But more often I wonder what [the blog's faithful reader(s)] are doing here. I mean, couldn't they be watching episodes of Freakazoid on YouTube or something?"

Two Guns went on to edit the title of his current post so it didn't end in a preposition, which he noted is actually a noun.

"I guess I get it," he said, regarding the previous sentence. "I'm just not sure it was worth getting."

A Readership Poll Inspired by a Readership Poll Inspired by Felipe Tamayo Collins

Now that my entire readership has been polled, here's another.

Are you a mythbuster or an artist?

A Readership Poll Inspired by Felipe Tamayo Collins

Am I a mythbuster or an artist?

No it isn't.

Craig's List Struck the Matches in Our Hands

To quote a misunderstood not-poet, "We burned you alive."

Fiddle Sticks

I recently switched my laundry from the washer to the dryer. Upon making the switch, I was happy to note that no socks were missing but less pleased to discover that I was in receipt of one (1) additional two-inch long grasshopper thigh and lower leg, intact with knee, for a grand total of one (1) grasshopper leg.

As usual, I hope I don't have a five-legged grasshopper in my underpants.

This Random Thought Has Been Labeled "Significant," and "Random"

Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather be quoted than understood. By "sometimes" I mean "just now."

At $1.75 a Pop, Tops...

why wouldn't you collect bottle caps?

not sure if this is a Haiku for Table at Michael's Birthday Party

Lighting sandy beach—
Craig's List hung you out to dry.
We burned you alive.

I'm Probably Not In Love With Your Daughter, But...

"Some days aren't yours at all."

Why The Natural Isn't About Me

Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. I was in the height of my love affair with baseball, which started when I was six and was still going strong almost a year later. For me, it wasn’t the smell of the field, or the crack of the bat, or the heroism of the players that made me passionate about the game. For me, baseball was a great game because my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum.

But right now I was learning that whenever the neighborhood children were gathering players for a game of street baseball, that was an opportunity I should turn down. During my first at-bat I’d hit the ball and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion. I was too busy with running toward the first base cone to see the impact. When I turned around to see what all the commotion was about, Beth’s dad was kneeled down beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like how a dying buck might look into the eyes of an approaching hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not sure how that would happen, but then again, I wasn’t sure how this had happened either.

Beth Doke was the prettiest, if not the only girl my age in the neighborhood. She must have been six inches taller than I was, with long brown hair and the kind of gymnast build that all but the least fortunate girls have at age seven. She was pretty enough that I knew better than to pay any attention to her if at all possible. It wasn’t okay with anybody that I had hit her in the shin with a bat.

“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing it,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.

I said I was sorry, and I was.

They sent me to first base, where I tried to keep my head in the game while thinking about what went wrong with the last play. I’d watched baseball numerous times on TV, both in real life and in “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” on Nintendo. I didn’t know exactly who Ryne Sandberg was, but I thought he might have been Wayne Gretzky, who I was pretty sure was a famous baseball player. Whoever he was, everyone on TV threw the bat before they ran, so what had I done wrong?

At some point before my next chance to bat I had scraped up the side of my leg. Maybe I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before. However it happened, it must not have been that traumatic because I was still in the game, and the only reason I even remember this minor detail is because I had to keep brushing away mosquito eaters that were landing on the open wound. It was kind of gross and creepy, but I also recognized that it was totally rad and that I was a man for playing on.

Somewhere around this time I’d also come to a conclusion about the accident: I’d thrown the bat with too little control, and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

The pitches I missed were of no consequence to my long-term memory, but the one that connected will forever stay with me because of what happened next. I held onto the bat. I brought it back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, and then carefully and deliberately tossed it to my right. I watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I was standing and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and went inside.

Beth Doke went inside too.

What I Was Wondering While My Professor Read the Syllabus

Can the word "arbitrary" be spelled incorrectly, or is that impossible by definition?

Nine More to Go

As I approach the end of the hallway,
With arcing path and leaning body
In anticipation of the bend,
My toe looks on with dismay
At the corner blocking his way
And asks,
"Why?"

The New Title, an Explanation

As it turns out, I am usually right. This is true despite popular opinion. In addition, I can generally come up with a reason to be troubled. It's a gift. And finally, modern American adolescence lasts until around age 25. Mine will probably last longer. Although I have yet to determine if I am usually correct in being troubled, all signs point to maybe, save one I haven't seen for a while.

Move Over, Lone Star

It has been decided by myself that no other slogan has been ripped off and misapplied more often than "Got Milk?" not even "Don't Mess With Texas," originally part of an anti-littering campaign, now the key "point" of the vast apologetic propoganda defending that endless expanse of desert, concrete and sewage smells (see also, "Everything's Bigger in Texas").

What brought me to this conclusion? (Surely you must be wondering.)

Not the "Got Jesus?" devotionals, or the "Got Crabs?" memorabilia sold by various seafood restaurants, or even my Pacific Islander friend's "Got Adobo?" t-shirt, as you may have thought. No, today I passed a printer supply truck with the giant white lowercase letters on a black background spelling out "Got Toner?"

That was the kicker.

A Simple Mathematical Equation to Kick Off the Weekend

20 mg Adderall XR + 1,065 ml Mountain Dew = never sleep again

The Cookie of Delphi

I'd assumed that was my chance.

Aside from Potato-Related Contexts...

Am I alone in thinking the expression "keep your eyes peeled" needlessly evokes a disturbingly graphic and unwholesome image in the minds of the vigilant?

Why Elevators Are Better Than Restrooms

Please, Keep Your Comments To Yourselves

Sorry, that was just me lashing out with sarcasm. It's a defense mechanism.

Paddington, Don't Go.

I love you, Paddington. I want to buy all your books. I promise to write you that poem. There's just some other stuff I've got to take care of first. We'll get through this, Paddington.

Weebie Puffin

I just wanted to share this with my loyal readers, I mean, reader.

My Art Professor, on Having His Neighbor Drive Him to the Hospital After He Broke His Hand as a Child:

"My parents were Christian Scientists, so thank God they weren't home."

Today At Lunch I Took an Ultra Mega Green Dietary Supplement, Which Had, Among Other Things, 4167% of My Daily Value of Vitamin B-12 (Cyanocobalamin)

My pee looks like chicken broth.

Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part

Yesterday I went to Denio's Roseville Farmers Market and Auction, not to see what was new, mind you, but to accompany a dear friend in need of a new pair of stolen Converse. However, while my friend Josh, who will remain "un"named, was pursuing his particular podiaic preferences, I happened into a nearby store that sold used books and really used books, and various items that probably have collectable value to people who save old q-tips and reuse Big Mac containers.

At first I thought I had gone in because it was hot enough outside to fire an ashtray in your hands, but once I got there I realized that it was fate. This store sold used puzzles.

My search for the perfect puzzle met with early resistance, as I had to step aside twice for the same elderly gentleman to shuffle by and because most of the puzzles promised little more than bald eagles or the daily life of the Amish for what would amount to days of puzzling efforts. But just as I was beginning to give in to the mounting tidal wave of despair, there called out to me from between the Eagle with Trout and Whimsical Kittens, "Zoos & Aquariums of North America" in all its 1000 piece glory.

The title of the piece sat just above a map in the puzzle's center, right where Canada would usually go, and a wise-eyed and aged Panda and his accompaniment of bamboo served to block out Mexico, while the United States of America shown proudly amid a halo of fierce and exotic animals. The border of the piece was a colorful display of zoo and aquarium posters, including the Waikiki Aquarium (home to endangered Hawaiian Monk Seals) and the Denver Zoo (one of the world's largest areas for monkeys and apes). I was pretty excited about paying the $1.75 for this bad boy.

Today I didn't have a whole lot to do. I did some reading, a little bit of moping, and a fair amount of sweating in bed and throwing up. I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. However, in the meantime I also did a lot of thinking about my puzzle while watching the second half of Jurassic Park on A&E.

As an experienced builder of used puzzles, I knew it would be a foolish waste of time to begin building the puzzle without confirming that all 1000 pieces were present. And so I counted. In less than an hour I had all four corner pieces accounted for, and probably 90 percent of the edge pieces in a separate bag, and then I began counting. With every ten pieces I would mark a tally on the bag and then watch a Velociraptor eat someone. After a while of this the raptors began opening doors and I decided I would rather watch Jeff Goldblum stutter than count and categorize scraps of cardboard, so I temporarily ended the count at 170.

Temporarily, that is, until I put the top back on the puzzle box. Temporarily, that is, until I noticed the sticker on the cover, the sticker marked "1 pc missing."

I set the box down, took a sip of water and glared at the box while Laura Dern stumbled around in air ducts and T-Rex decimated the main lobby. I turned off the movie during a commercial and never bothered to see the survivors off the island, even though Jurassic Park was on three times today and I watched the kitchen scene twice. I probably won't even care if Jurassic Park IV sucks. In my opinion, since things have become clear in the last couple of hours, the zoos and aquariums of North America suck.

Just Because I'm Long Winded Doesn't Mean I Talk A Lot

Case in point

I Just Beat Solitaire in One Game

I can't even decide if that counts as playing. I don't even know if that was an accomplishment. I think I need to go write.

Word on the Street

It turns out that Loser24 doesn't care for realtime blogging. Good for him.

The "Easy" Button

So, there I was sitting in an office chair, starring at a computer screen, hoping the phone wouldn't ring, when I noticed the easy button lying on the desk. I'd seen the commercials before, and, oh crap, the phone is ringing.

Nabisco Has Gone Too Far

I find the Nilla wafers packaging to be highly unsettling.

Nilla wafers are as calm a snack product as there will ever be, but there is way too much action on the cover of the box. Namely, one of the wafers is plunging—with no apparent source of propulsion—into a short, though probably refreshing, glass of milk. I don't like it. There is no way this wafer could possibly have propelled itself into the milk without a prime mover. No form of wafer, Nilla being no exception, has any sort of locomotive ability aside from the aptitude to roll down an incline or fall from a precariously balanced position, i.e. edge of a precipice. This wafer was obviously thrown.

What kind of sick individual would throw a Nilla wafer, I do not know. But I would add that it was hardly necessary to immortalize the event by plastering such an offense on every box of Nilla wafers currently in print.

My many faithful and highly irregular readers can testify that I have never been one to call out my corporate sponsors in such a widely read forum as my very own blog, but Nabisco, you've got some explaining to do. My Nilla wafers will be no part of your high-flying acrobatic spectacle or your Hollywood blockbuster stunt. No sir, my Nilla wafers will be arranged on a separate plate, and I will enjoy them with a glass of milk, and that milk will not be poured so close to the top that I have to sip a little before picking it up, because my Nilla wafers will be wafers of comfort, and my Nilla wafers will be wafers of peace. You can keep your "simple goodness," Nabisco, but you best set my Nilla wafers down, on a paper towel, with half a sliced banana. And you most certainly will not disturb me from my nap after I have cleaned up my mess and wiped off my placemat. And with that, good day to you, Nabisco.

I Laugh When a Flamingo Trips

I laugh when a flamingo trips
and plays it off like nothing happened,
and when a llama gazes into the distance,
contemplating,
then turns and meets my eyes
and declares us equals with his gaze.

I laugh when my mom looses her glasses
on her head.
and when Dad realizes he is wrong
halfway through explaining why he is right,
and when they both have to call me
because they can’t work the remote.

I laugh when I chomp down on a fork
even though I’ve been feeding myself
for a good while now,
and when I fart loudly during the final,
in the class I might be failing
but no one seems to notice.

Hey Look at Me

I'm doing work and being productive, I mean, wasting my life away online. Okay I love ya ba-bye.

Ah Crap v.2

Enough said.

What Sitting on a Bench Did to Me

When my cousin Rosalind was three years old, my aunt heated up a bottle of milk for her. But Rosalind thought the milk was too cold, so my aunt heated it some more. Still, Rosalind said her bottle was too cold, and my Aunt kept heating it up, and it was always too cold, so finally she tested a few drops on her wrist, and the milk was scalding.

When my Aunt told me about this, I first thought that something must be wrong with Rosalind’s nervous system, but that wasn’t the case. Somehow, Rosalind had confused the words “hot” and “cold.” Hot still felt hot, and cold felt cold, but somehow the words had gotten switched in her head.

I don’t really know why I am writing this, except it just came to me as a parallel for where I am at in life, and I don’t really know why yet.

I guess I figured someone out there might find a witty way to ridicule my subconcious.

We Put Mother Nature in a Home, feedback would be lovely

The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Charges and syncs via USB.
Or, for more serious thinkers,
There’s the contemplative rock,
Assuming they're lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.

But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.

Eye Kneed Too Bee Moore Carful

I'm not really sure what "butter irony" is, but I know it doesn't belong in my American Novel critical analysis essay.

Things that Blow

Heavy winds, light breezes and wind patterns inbetween

Oscillating fans

Bellows

American Novel critical analysis papers on Invisible Man due tomorrow morning

I Seem to have Gotten Ahead of Myself

I think... yeah, I think I'll get something accomplished today.

I spent a few days in Arkansas last weekend, and let me tell you, it was real nice to be in a place where Jesus is Lord. I'm thinking I might start a petition to elect Jesus as Lord of a local city, it was so great. I really felt touched by that sign, and by Jesus' Lordship in Siloam Springs.

We Put Mother Nature in a Home, take two

The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Is a five-ounce contraption with a color display,
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
On the race to work, or class, or distraction.

But there’s just nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in etched glass and silver plate.

My parents are too cute.

A Cute Little Post or, A Reader Sits in with Two Guns at a Weekly Session

I came here to espouse that obtuse is a stupid word and should only be used in mathematical and scientific references, but then I looked up expouse, my first attempt at spelling espouse, and discovered that I really don't know how to use it in a sentence, but since I signed in I might as well say something.

I think obtuse is a wonderful word and it ought to be used more often.

Please watch closely as until-now-obscure Amazon.com reviewer Brian Seiler from Kingwood, Texas uses the word obtuse in a real-life setting, describing the band Cake's most recent release, Pressure Chief:

"On the whole, this is a different, more mature, less obtuse effort for Cake--the metaphors here aren't nearly as thickly obfuscated as those that you find on their previous efforts." - Brian Seiler (emphasis added).

Such adjectival mastery.

Actually, I think this would be a good time to stop and think about the word "obfuscated" for a moment.

hmm... obfuscated.

You might think that I inadvertently deleted a vowel from that word, but the root word, obfuscate, is actually part of a small-but-growing movement within the English language, in cooperation with a, e, i, o, u and, sometimes, y, to bring b and f together, with the hope that their familiarity will eventually lead to the formation of a new letter (which I lack the key to display) and, along with it, a host of new curse words that will be really difficult, and therefore very satisfying, to say.

Anyway, as I was saying, obtuse... wow. And not just obtuse, but obtuser and obtusest, respectively. Amazing.

Okay, I am going to be honest, this really all started because I wanted to make fun of Brian Seiler, which isn't really fair, because it isn't right to make fun of someone just because he or she (in this case, he) has a larger vocabulary than you do. So why don't you just leave the guy alone. Seriously, lay off, alright?

In fact, why don't you get a bflippin' dictionary and maybe learn something new in the process? I mean, who makes fun of a guy for what he says on Amazon.com? Get a life.

Alright, alright, I'm not mad, I'm not mad. I'm just... disappointed, is all. You're better than this. I know you are. Now, pick yourself up, dust off your jeans, maybe put them in the wash sometime soon (maybe toss your pillow case in there too... it's been awhile...) and go get something to eat.

Yeah, you get 'em, tiger.

Murder on the Panda Express

I heard a loud crinkling noise in the alley, and when I came around the corner... when I came around the corner they were just, ripping them in half, like... like they were fortune cookies or something, and the slips of paper... my goodness the paper... it was everywhere...

I Used To Feel Guilty That I Had Two Pairs of Shoes

Then I met a man who had no feet.

One Wonders Whether The Weather Man Can

It's raining;
It's pouring;
One can only guess
what the old man's up to.

We Put Mother Nature in a Home, take one

The modern shady tree beside a lazy brook
Is a pair of earbuds and an iPod.
Or, if you’re serious about it,
A contemplative rock,
Assuming you’re lucky enough to run across one
As we race to work, or class, or distraction.

But there’s nothing fashionable about rocks—
Even our paperweights
Come in plate glass and brushed metal.

"Maybe Responses are More Important than Answers" - J.S. Finney

"When we have new eyes, we can look into the eyes of those we don't even like and see the One we love. We can see God's image in everyone we encounter. As Henri Nouwen puts it, 'In the face of the oppressed I recognize my own face, and in the hands of the oppressor I recognize my own hands. Their flesh is my flesh, their blood is my blood, their pain is my pain, their smile is my smile.' We are made of the same dust. We cry the same tears. No one is beyond redemption. And we are free to imagine a revolution that sets both the oppressed and the oppressors free."

-Shane Claiborne
The Irresistible Revolution, Living as an Ordinary Radical

This is my way of saying "you're not my mom." Of course, that quote is not directed at my mom. That would just be plain inaccurate.

This Guy is Always Tired or, I Am Attempting to Bring in Revenue Via Product Placement or, Never Limit Yourself with a Title

It seems pretentious, if nothing else, to make an allusion to my own body of "work," but I think simply acknowledging that fact gives me immunity. I am, of course, referring to the title of this post, and to Survivor.

What I am getting at is this: I am tired. I am always tired. This wasn't always the case. There was a time, back in '84, when I didn't exist. Then last semester I drank three Mountain Dews in one night because they were free, and because they were good and I had just remembered.

Okay, so maybe my situation is a little more realistic than that. But here is the deal: I haven't slept past 6:30 (anti-meridian, which I have recently become, by the way) since last Friday. I probably know why that is the case, but I don't want to say because you will make fun of me.

I hope this morning was the climactic event, because I woke up at 5:38, which is apparently a great time to purchase shoes. Who knew?

Maybe I should get a Select Comfort Sleep Number bed. I doubt they come in twin size, but I guess I could always send in for the free video. Maybe that would help me sleep. Maybe if I stopped writing this and got back to my homework I could get some extra sleep tonight.

I believe it was Garth Algar who said "Yeah... and monkeys might fly out of my butt."

p.s. Don't ever Google search "butt." It wasn't worth it.

I've Been Thinking

I really ought to post something new. Hmmm... yeah, I should do that soon. I think the problem is that I usually only blog to make my not-interesting life at least read in an interesting manner... and now that it seems particularly interesting, I have a bit of a problem recognizing blogging material. I guess that is only sort of bad. Okay, since I don't sleep at night anymore I think I will take a 30 minute nap. I hope that goes well. Maybe I will tell you about it sometime.

This isn't really a costume, that is why my favorite part is the chair, or maybe my new jeans, same as the old jeans, only new, and void of unwanted holes. I seem to have gotten off topic. Maybe I should tell you that the hat that I wasn't wearing had a spider in it. Maybe I should tell you that Vat 69 has a Band of Brothers connection, and I like it for that reason, even though I have never tasted it, and probably won't ever. Maybe I should move on to the next picture and try harder next time.

Trust me, this is ironic and funny, and I am glad I was there to capture the moment.

They keep their lawns emaculate at the United Parcel Service, I mean in Arkansas.

For Me To Comment On

Private Property. No Trespassing.

Acknowledging the Unbearable Wait

If you are wondering why there is still no Paddington sonnet, just consider that the commissioned author is the one on the left.

"A Rather Shapeless Hat"

I don't post pictures anymore unless I take them myself, but I really wanted to keep the raging, palpable Paddington hype going before the big release of "A Sonnet Called Paddington" (working title), so I had to compromise. Technically I took this picture. The magnifying icon that I forgot to move off the screen is proof. Please enjoy this artistic interpretation of Paddington sans Wellington boots.

A Bear By Any Other Name Would Not Smell As Sweet

You really shouldn't spend a lot of time reading this stuff out loud, the world is full of enough noise already; however, I feel that it is important for you to read the following two words out loud: Paddington Bear.

Seriously, if you are still reading this and you have not said "Paddington Bear," stop reading and just say it. You have to say it out loud. Thinking it and chuckling to yourself doesn't count. Actually, say it again. Paddington Bear.

I recently discovered that I have spent the better part of my life completely smitten by Paddington Bear, and I have decided to be proactive about it and write him a sonnet.

I can't decide on Petrarchan or Shakespearean.

More to come. And by "more to come," I mean, "a sonnet about Paddington Bear is to come."

Hey February, Pick On Someone Your Own Size

I don't have time to talk about it, but that has never stopped me in the past. My old photography teacher told me that I am artistic, which I thought meant I was good at art, but it turns out that it just means I'm sensitive.

My source of Northern Wisdom told me that our generation is subject to "quarter-life crises," and that was good to hear because from the way I have been feeling I thought I was going to die at forty. I hope that last one made sense because I thought it was really funny.

I wrote a poem about all of "this" for a class. It's one of those "I don't know what I am saying yet" kind of poems. It was supposed to be free verse, but I stopped short of polishing up the meter because I had other things to put off. I hope you like it.

A Title would be Venturing a Guess

I hope this poem takes a long time to write
Because if I finish it too soon, well…
I will be in trouble; I will be forced
To move on and do something else
And since this is a poem I will not lie,
Right now I feel like I would rather
Drop out of school and get a job
Than figure out this stupid business letter
Assignment. Last Thursday I told my friend
That I was acting like a big baby,
That I just needed to buck up and do it.
But that was when it wasn’t due tomorrow.
I find it’s easy to be optimistic
When the future is an idea,
And it’s easy to get depressed
When I stop to identify the problem
And I’m ashamed of what I think is wrong.

Tonight I can sleep soundly, knowing that the out-of-focus puzzle pieces are kept at bay by my ever-vigilant micro machines army man w/ a bazooka.

This stuff doesn't get old.

Happy Valentine's Day from the Oxford Essential Quotations Dictionary

Love is the fart
Of every heart:
It pains a man when 'tis kept close,
And others doth offend, when 'tis let loose.

- John Suckling

I guess this doesn't really need a caption.

Like a Sloth with Diarrhea...

Last night I went to bed with a headache and an upset stomach and dreamed of chicken burgers with mustard, barbeque sauce and onions. This morning I woke up with a headache and an outright pissed stomach and decided to let the chicken patty go to Problem Solving for me. I will get the notes from him later.

I have experienced the intestinal violence of bodily thinking twice about bad meat in the past, but right now I feel like I am in a long-standing verbally-abusive relationship with my digestive system, and it is time to get out. Hopefully I can catch the Wellness Center before they close all day for lunch. Lunch... eugh...

This Month Has Reduced Me to Near-Pithy Observations

Nevertheless, I feel the need to tell my readers that the chicken burgers are to be avoided. Furthermore, it is doubtful that my chicken patty came from one chicken. And in conclusion, finishing up with a fried banana was neither necessary nor prudent.

Holy Crap!

School, in February, gets busy.

I'll tell you about it sometime.

Man, How 'Bout that Super Bowl?

Yeah, that pizza was something else.

The Incarcerated Commode

If there is one thing I have learned from my parents, its "never trust a toilet."

Look Ma, Iambic Pentameter

Goodbye Easter Ham, Director's Cut.

I loved you like no other could, yon ham.
And I with happy heart and joyous face
Would sup with you alone, not leg of lamb,
And daily I would lie in your embrace.

Then time did come for us to say adieu.
I sealed thee In Ziploc with a kiss.
Oh muse, my love in absence fonder grew.
My nights were filled with dreams of you on Swiss.

But something awful chanced then to transpire.
A Locked gate separated me and fridge.
My bosom was robbed of all it desired
By a chasm no mortal man could bridge.

And now, apart from you in pain I dwell,
Here all alone in this, my hamless hell.

Ten Inches on A6

A string of beatings
In a single night last week.
Bruises, black eyes
And broken teeth.

Rocks, bricks, fists and feet,
Pellet guns and knives.
Baseball bats
Are a favored weapon.

A group of teenagers
Who piled into a car
And went
Looking for homeless people to beat up.

Practically sport among young people,
Mostly white men under 20.

The death of 45-year-old
Norris Gaynor, whose head
And chest were bashed
With a baseball bat
While he slept on a park bench.

Homeless people just take it on the chin
And move
To a more secluded area.

Willy the Wonder Balloon: ten years later and you still look as young as ever.

Word Processors Are Crappy Places to Vent

Holding shift down really hard should increase the font size. Either that, or I should just start screaming out loud.

Google Vs the Government, Plus Llamas

I like Google a lot. I like that I can sit down and type “llama poetry” and actually find a Web site that is dedicated to all things llama poetry in .56 seconds. There is something comforting about that. However, I also like that no one else has to know. That is to say, tell no one.

But in case you weren’t aware, there are more insidious things floating around on the World Wide Web than haikus about ruminant mammals—child pornography, for example—and there are also many people who have much more important secrets to keep than I do, such as financial information and weird obsessions with finding their high school crushes.

And thus we begin to shed some light on why there is so much controversy surrounding Google, pornography and personal privacy these days.

The government currently requires public schools and libraries with internet access to use content-filtering software, but it knows, along with most PLNU students, that filters don’t really work. So, to do better, the Department of Justice wants Google to provide one million random Web addresses and a record of all searches sent through Google in a given week.

With this information, combined with the data it has already collected from Yahoo, Microsoft and America Online, the government hopes to discover where objectionable content is and how it is most often found.

But Google isn’t going to comply without fighting what it says will jeopardize vital trade secrets and consumers’ personal information.

I feel bad for Google, and for people who are afraid Big Brother is going to find out about their fascination with making pipe bombs for recreational purposes, but as keeper of the most popular search engine in the world, Google really is in a position to do something about the out-of-control porn industry.

The problem is that people are just too paranoid. It is unfortunate that this controversy should arise just weeks after The New York Times revealed that the Bush Administration had sidestepped Congress to conduct wiretaps without warrants. All of this has nervous bloggers running around in the streets crying “The PATRIOT Act Ate My Baby!”

But this isn’t about finding Osama bin Laden in your carry-on items. The government needs information if it is going to effectively protect children without infringing on free speech with software that doesn’t work, but Google has stocks, and shareholders get uncomfortable when online services share information with third parties for any reason. In this environment, Google is practically being forced to fight the government to protect business.

Consumers need to realize that they have to be willing to lose some of their of privacy if they really want safety, and if that means a bureaucrat somewhere might find out that I admire the expressive nature of llamas, so be it.

The Mysterious Demise of Janice and Fredrick

I was just taking a walk down computer memory lane when I came across this bad short story I wrote for a class last summer. The assignment was to write a one-page story that included as many of the elements of bad storytelling as possible. The idea was to get bad storytelling out of our system. I don't know if it worked, but I do think I fulfilled the assignment.

And thus it begins:

“Goodbye,” Winston said to Janice and Fredrick, with a hint of that real sadness people have in their voice when they say goodbye to their close friends. “I will call you when I get to the airport in Boise.”

"Bye old friend,” replied Fredrick.

“Have a great trip. Fly safe,” came the reply from Janice.

“Ha, tell that to the pilot,” Winston joked back. With a surprisingly firm grasp for a man who would be 70 in three more days, Winston took hold of his clumsy hard-shelled suitcase. Patches of red showed through on its heavily scratched surface between the masses of stickers the bag had acquired from hundreds of trips through customs. His wife, Tabitha, an aging tennis athlete, had offered to replace the bag on several occasions. “It’s so tacky,” she would say. But Winston loved the bag and would never allow it to be replaced.

Now holding the bag, Winston used his other hand to search his inside coat pocket. Sure enough, he had remembered to bring his boarding pass. Thank God for online check in, thought Winston. My, how technology had developed in his lifetime.

Winston stepped over a little mound of cigarette butts and headed toward the airport. A large set of glass double doors slid open as he approached, he entered, and with that, he was gone.

“Do you think that we will ever see him again?” Janice asked Fredrick.

“You know perfectly well that we will not,” Fredrick retorted.

Oh yeah, Janice remembered. Today was the day that she and Fredrick were going to drive off of the edge of the Snake River canyon in a fiery blaze of death.

What a silly person Janice is for forgetting, Fredrick said to himself.

No one knows if Janice and Fredrick ever made it to that cliff or not. No wreckage was ever found, but some say that it was washed away in the powerful current and carried to the Gulf. Others say that they changed their mind and tried facing up to their financial struggles like adults, but either way they were never heard from again, which led Chief Smith to suspect that the mafia was involved.

Apparently Samantha doesn't think those last pictures were very funny. Either that or she is just gross-looking.

Navel oranges are just like little orange cats, only rounder.

With a little imagination, navel oranges can even have little orange cat faces.

It's Official...

Today I was carefully reading all six sides of a box of Celestial Seasonings Herb Tea for poetic inspiration when I noticed that the "About Herb Tea" section was full of sentence fragments. It began to bother me. It is still bothering me. I will probably look for opportunities to bring it up in conversation tomorrow. I just keep telling myself that it doesn't matter, but there is a muscle or group of muscles between my eyebrows that is getting tense, and my arms feel a little shaky, and I know it is because of the sentence fragments on a box of herbal tea.

Oh man, did I ever get an email about this.

Layout Tuesday Deserves Moby Dick's Last Name

Dear Martin Luther King Jr.,

Don't say I never did anything for you.

Sincerely,

TG

Moby Dick Deserves His Last Name

It is past 11:00 and I have more than 100 pages to read before my class at 8:00.

I really hope he gets it in the end.

I guess this means there's "no fat." Perhaps unattributed quotations are outside the jurisdiction of the FDA.

She rings a bell when she wants outside, and she picks up her leash and brings it to you on command, and I still have dog hair on my clothes from Christmas Break. Good girl.

Puzzles, Part Three of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts, with a Forward by the Author's Roommate

"I think this about sums it up."
-Dub, Two Guns' roommate (2003-present)

The third puzzle that we were going to build was called "No. 3, Rivers and Streams," of the European Wildlife Collection. It was a 1000-piece special gold series Jigsaw Puzzle (by James Hamilton), produced in association with the Fédération Rhône-Alps de Protection de la Nature - Université Lyon, illustrated by François Crozat. This puzzle was more than a puzzle; it was a dream.

My roommate Dub and I were eating dinner when we decided we would start the puzzle later that day. Walking back to the dorm, I turned to Dub and told him that this was the beginning of the new me. No longer would my life be shackled by the ugly chains of Procrastination. "'Why do tomorrow what you can do today?' From this point on, that's what I've always said," I told him.

With the card table set up and World Series Poker on the TV, we began sifting through the puzzle box for border pieces, being careful to set the corner pieces in a separate stack. When the last piece had been examined for a straight edge, we began preparing ourselves for assembly mode. Then I made a horrifying discovery—we only had three corner pieces.

Figuring that we had overlooked the missing piece in our haste to begin building, the two of us started searching through the box again, transferring the examined pieces from the bottom part of the box to the top. My hopes of finding the missing corner rose with every previously-overlooked edge piece that I found, but eventually the box was empty, and our stack of corners was no taller.

However, all was not necessarily lost. While I had discovered five additional edge pieces in the second sifting, Dub had found none, and I was holding onto the hope that he was completely off his puzzle-piece-identifying game. I was going to search again, but this time I was going to search alone.

I went through the box for the third time one piece at a time, making sure that I had checked all four edges of every piece before moving to the next. Seven hundred and eighty-eight pieces later, the stack of corners defiantly remained three pieces high.

I hated that stack. I wanted it to die.

"That sucks," said Dub. "Yeah," I replied. The guy across the hall thought it sucked too. "Hey are you guys watching poker?" he asked.

The dream was over, and we knew it, so I did what I always do; I popped open an IBC and put off my homework until the weekend, which isn't until tomorrow, and might not be until Sunday.

And Now, By Popular Demand, Puzzles, Parts One and Two of a Three-Part Series Told in Two Parts

My roommate and I like to build puzzles together, or at least we think we do, but we have only built two puzzles in our three years together, so maybe we don't know what we are talking about.

Our first puzzle adventure was a rendition of the classic Uncle Sam "I WANT YOU" poster. Because I am a college student I felt immediately attracted to this puzzle. I still have mixed feelings about the war effort and war efforts in general, and war generals in general war efforts in general (hard to believe, but true), but I know exactly how I feel about $3 puzzles. I love them to pieces.

Oh man, that was a good one.

Please keep in mind that I am only writing about this first (1st) puzzle so I can delight you with the story of another puzzle later on, so while there are some delightful elements to the Uncle Sam puzzle’s biography, all I will say is that once the final piece was put into place (it was an eggshell piece with brown specks), we glued the finished product to a piece of foam board with the intention of mounting it on the wall, but the board was warped and we couldn't think of a way to mount it. Then, to top it off, I lost one of the corner pieces when I brought it home for the summer. Remember this part of the story because this is where the irony is going to come from.

I’m not really sure why we still kept Uncle Sam behind the couch for an additional four months, but I eventually admitted for both of us that we would never find the missing piece, and even if we had the piece we wouldn’t hang up the puzzle because it was warped, so I wrapped it in a big Target bag with duct tape and gave it away as a white elephant gift. The gift I got was even crappier so I don’t feel bad about what I did even one bit.

Our story continues…

Our second (2nd) puzzle was (is, still) a panoramic image (over three feet long!) of Times Square, New York.

It is awesome.

We talked about building this puzzle all semester long but I think we were afraid to begin because of what happened with Uncle Sam (1st). However, when we did finally begin construction during the last week of school, it only took us three days to finish the job. It is now the coolest thing hanging on any of our walls.

I really want to emphasis that this puzzle is awesome. People walk into our room and the first thing they say is “Hey, do you guys have any tape?” Then I go “Probably. Hey check out our puzzle, isn’t it awesome?” Then they say something like “Yeah, that’s really cool. Hey do you mind if I borrow some?” No one has ever disagreed with my opinion about the puzzle.

So this time around we decided that things were going to be different (that is to say, better, as opposed to “Is he funny?” “Funny? I don’t know—he’s… ‘different.’”) and we began the third (3rd) puzzle on the second (Times Square) day of school. I know, wow.

Shoot, it’s time for class. Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion.

Sometimes I Resent All These Dots

Don't I have homework or something?

...And Sometimes Y

...And The Rest Will Follow is a great album by a great band called Project 86. Even if you don't like them, they are still excellent. Yeah, that kind of great... like great grandpas, only with a lot more screaming I hope.

In honor of ...And The Rest Will Follow, I have decided to embark on a musical odyssey to add knew meaning to the first two days of Spring Semester '06.

To begin, if The White Stripes have anything to say about Spring Semester '06, they aren't saying it now, to me. They are just yelling about some girl, which seems a little one-sided on Jack's part if you ask me, or Meg. Hang on a second while I find something more appropriate (this is real-time, by the way... each and every time you read it).

Well, all I found was "Dead by Dawn," by Showbread. This isn't working like I thought maybe it would, or at least I hope it isn't. This is kind of fun though—a one-sided musical odyssey needlessly communicated through print... excuse me for a second.

Thanks for waiting. Where were we?

Tomorrow Begins Spring Semester '06

My roommate and I are both exhausted for some reason and have been watching the clock since 6:45. We know that if we go to bed too early we will wake up too soon, but we really want to sleep. I wish there was some sort of compromise that we could make, but it looks to me like our only option is to just rough it and stay up 'til some ungodly hour like 9:30 or 10:00. I know, it's sick. Also, I must be at least 80 years old.

I was going to delight you with a tale about how we almost built a puzzle today, but in writing it I realized that is was necessary to tell you about the other two puzzles we built previously, and while writing that I realized that I was trying to delight you with a tale about how we almost built a puzzle... so I decided that it would probably be more entertaining for all of us if I just stopped writing and stared at the clock until it was time for bed.