Spaaaaace Meeeeeeeeat!

Check out this space meat. A gawky, sure-to-explode way to get a bigass space shuttle across the country.

I've been typing dyslexic style the past few days. Like, I think I type roof but instead I get foor, I think I type out but I get tuo. What is going on?!

What happened to the heyday of the blog? We had Wes on, and F1 and F2 were readers, and wow. Wow! I even found out some people I used to know from Cedar Falls were occasional readers. Where is the Kelly love? Where is the Mel love? You know where it is? It's in Nowhere Land, where there is no love, because it doesn't exist! And that's where things exist when they don't exist: Nowhere Land.

I have the perfect title for a SF collection of stories, and I'm not going to tell you. Not you! Ha! Ha! The version of you who knows the title? Where does that version exist? Nowhere Land. That's right.

I really hate titles.

Ryan, in response to your question, I have no idea who I look up to most. Probably a mashed potatoes casserole of different people and characters.

Last night I was at a gym. Yes, Tim was at a gym. (See yesterday's post about pants sizes) Everyone there weas huge! huge! except for the women, who were just moderately huge. One huge! if you will, except for this blonde who could kick all our asses even if we were ducttaped into one conglomerate fighter. But this one gym buff girl was on the treadmills in front of the elliptical machine where I jogged through the virtual Alps, and she had a music player strapped to her arm, and suddenly right in the middle of ESPN poker and CNN News her music player fell onto the treadmill and busted into plastic pieces and shot off the back. It was incredible.

After the workout, I collected my sweat and squeezed it into a bottle. I'll be selling that soon. If you're interested, you might want to preorder.