I TOLD YOU TO GET THAT DAMNED PENCIL OUT OF YOUR EAR.
Had some choco milk on the way to work today, and was wondering: what is whole milk? If there’s 1% and 2%, is whole milk 100%? No, that’s impossible. So is it just milk that’s…not altered? As in, not de-fatted?
Back in high school, one of the drama/pops choir/speech girls—Stacy or Sarah or Kari—was obsessively disgusted with any non-skim milk. Sometimes we’d have donuts and milk at rehearsals, because eating these sorts of foods is proven to help you perform back flips, spins, and the other elements of dance that Pete tried to develop in us. Anyway, Stacy or Sarah or Kari would say something like “Oh my god, 2% milk, I’m going to puke.”
And then we’d say “well, what if it was 14 percent milk?” And she’d say “Ugh.” And then “what if it was 30%!” “That’s disgusting.” “Tim, did you memorize that bass line yet?” “BUT WHAT IF IT WAS 50 PERCENT?! WHAT IF HALF THE MILK WERE FAT?” “I’m feeling sick…” “Tim?” “60! 60 PERCENT!” “Can he hear me?” (Andy, charging in from offstage, leaps into my arms) “Hey, beyatch!” “75 PERCENT! THREE QUARTERS MILK! IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD FEEL LIKE GOING DOWN!” “ugh…” “Tim, let’s hear measure 7.” “90 PERCENT!” “I’ll be…*gurgle* right back…” “100 PERCENT! 100 PERCENT MILKFAT!”
Have you ever listened to NPR? It’s alternately boring and entertaining. It’s like a deck of cards where the spades are all holographic images of dancing goth girls and the other cards are math equations. This morning I listened to a report on how some scientists now think that exposure to the sun may fight cancers in a way that outweighs the risk of cancer from simply being exposed to the sun. But then there was some crap about the…Tony’s? Some Broadway awards. And something about children. You all know how I feel about children.
…
Those Fuckdamned children.
Anyway, why is it that the sun gives us cancer? What the hell kind of logic does that make? I mean, why, The Sun? Why do you do this? Just stop with the freakin cancer! Until recently, people spent most of their time outdoors. Were they all festering with pus, overcrowded with discolored and shape-shifting moles? Did you enjoy this, The Sun? I’ll bet you did. Not good enough for you that your rays make us tanned and more likely to be picked up at bars. No, you must kill us as well.
I now have a cubicle. Everyone in my office is temporarily in cubicles. If you also have a cubicle, have you ever noticed how everyone walking by your door just has to look in? As if to say “whoop, there you are. Just checking.” Because they certainly wouldn’t want you to have any privacy. Like hey, janitor boy, why must you glance in every time? And worst of all are the people who make eye contact with you. Because then you know it’s not accidental, or reflexive. They know they’re looking in on you. There’s this guy down here who walks by several times a day, always smiling like a molestor.
Back in high school, one of the drama/pops choir/speech girls—Stacy or Sarah or Kari—was obsessively disgusted with any non-skim milk. Sometimes we’d have donuts and milk at rehearsals, because eating these sorts of foods is proven to help you perform back flips, spins, and the other elements of dance that Pete tried to develop in us. Anyway, Stacy or Sarah or Kari would say something like “Oh my god, 2% milk, I’m going to puke.”
And then we’d say “well, what if it was 14 percent milk?” And she’d say “Ugh.” And then “what if it was 30%!” “That’s disgusting.” “Tim, did you memorize that bass line yet?” “BUT WHAT IF IT WAS 50 PERCENT?! WHAT IF HALF THE MILK WERE FAT?” “I’m feeling sick…” “Tim?” “60! 60 PERCENT!” “Can he hear me?” (Andy, charging in from offstage, leaps into my arms) “Hey, beyatch!” “75 PERCENT! THREE QUARTERS MILK! IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD FEEL LIKE GOING DOWN!” “ugh…” “Tim, let’s hear measure 7.” “90 PERCENT!” “I’ll be…*gurgle* right back…” “100 PERCENT! 100 PERCENT MILKFAT!”
Have you ever listened to NPR? It’s alternately boring and entertaining. It’s like a deck of cards where the spades are all holographic images of dancing goth girls and the other cards are math equations. This morning I listened to a report on how some scientists now think that exposure to the sun may fight cancers in a way that outweighs the risk of cancer from simply being exposed to the sun. But then there was some crap about the…Tony’s? Some Broadway awards. And something about children. You all know how I feel about children.
…
Those Fuckdamned children.
Anyway, why is it that the sun gives us cancer? What the hell kind of logic does that make? I mean, why, The Sun? Why do you do this? Just stop with the freakin cancer! Until recently, people spent most of their time outdoors. Were they all festering with pus, overcrowded with discolored and shape-shifting moles? Did you enjoy this, The Sun? I’ll bet you did. Not good enough for you that your rays make us tanned and more likely to be picked up at bars. No, you must kill us as well.
I now have a cubicle. Everyone in my office is temporarily in cubicles. If you also have a cubicle, have you ever noticed how everyone walking by your door just has to look in? As if to say “whoop, there you are. Just checking.” Because they certainly wouldn’t want you to have any privacy. Like hey, janitor boy, why must you glance in every time? And worst of all are the people who make eye contact with you. Because then you know it’s not accidental, or reflexive. They know they’re looking in on you. There’s this guy down here who walks by several times a day, always smiling like a molestor.
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