I F'd Amish's Grammar
Anyone know of a concise, helpful explanation of comma usage online? I'm supposed to find or create a one-page field guide to comma usage, and would rather find one than write one.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Do it now.
Looks like Goathead and I are both having the worst days of our lives.
Post naked pictures of your mothers or something to cheer us up.
Post naked pictures of your mothers or something to cheer us up.
Ive got something to put in you!
Two random memories I had when I was on the train:
1) House days. There was beer everywhere. Mullens was there and he asked Gotehed, "Can I have one for the road?" Andy replies, "Ill give you one for the road" and WHAPPO! Andy delivers a boot to Mullens' groin, dropping him ot the floor.
2) Christmas time! Tim, myself, and Van Gordon were "dragged" by Jim Hatfield to a drive through Nativity Scene in Oskaloosa. Afterwards, we were forced to go to an establishment called Bonanza. Upon reaching there, a huge Russian man in a cowboy outfit seperated the men from the women, and then the boys from the men. If you catch my drift. I will never forget Tim's girlish screams as those Ruskies dragged him into the "Big & Tall" room and did their way with them. Luckily, when it was my turn, they put me in a buffet. Tim got the man buffet, however. And to this day, buffets will always remind me of group sodomy.
I also had a recurring dream on the train. It involved a skywalk above the Alaskan Mountain Ranges that were full of Neo Nazi Eskimos and false glass floors. And it was played out like a video game. I got hit by a spear and I lost 2 of my 5 "bars". However, I managed to beat the mini boss (2 flying Wiccer Troll Heads) and the stage boss (a giant Mr. Miagi Robot driven by a blonde hottie) Then we went to Traverse Town. Who was we? Andy, me, Tim, and Dmitri. Just plain fucked up.
1) House days. There was beer everywhere. Mullens was there and he asked Gotehed, "Can I have one for the road?" Andy replies, "Ill give you one for the road" and WHAPPO! Andy delivers a boot to Mullens' groin, dropping him ot the floor.
2) Christmas time! Tim, myself, and Van Gordon were "dragged" by Jim Hatfield to a drive through Nativity Scene in Oskaloosa. Afterwards, we were forced to go to an establishment called Bonanza. Upon reaching there, a huge Russian man in a cowboy outfit seperated the men from the women, and then the boys from the men. If you catch my drift. I will never forget Tim's girlish screams as those Ruskies dragged him into the "Big & Tall" room and did their way with them. Luckily, when it was my turn, they put me in a buffet. Tim got the man buffet, however. And to this day, buffets will always remind me of group sodomy.
I also had a recurring dream on the train. It involved a skywalk above the Alaskan Mountain Ranges that were full of Neo Nazi Eskimos and false glass floors. And it was played out like a video game. I got hit by a spear and I lost 2 of my 5 "bars". However, I managed to beat the mini boss (2 flying Wiccer Troll Heads) and the stage boss (a giant Mr. Miagi Robot driven by a blonde hottie) Then we went to Traverse Town. Who was we? Andy, me, Tim, and Dmitri. Just plain fucked up.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Mom Swap Chapter 2, Verses 1 and 2
A few more minutes, a few more details, and Billy cuts the interview short. He's crying openly now, and his eyes keep jumping to a framed photo above the fireplace: a woman, waif thin, with hair so blonde it's almost white. She wears a red sweater and a brown trenchcoat, and looks as if she's about to be carried away by the wind.
"That your mom?"
Billy nods. I stand, walk to the photo, take it off the mantle. This close, I can see the teeth in the woman's smile. She's grinning hard, ludicrously happy. Behind her is a brown building, a brick wall.
"Strange place for a photo."
"That's taken just outside her job," Billy says. You can hear relief in his voice, the ease of talking about something comfortable. Normal. "It was the day she got hired."
"Rockfall Communications," I say.
"Yeah," he says. "How'd you know?"
"My partner's over there right now. Talking to your mom."
Billy stares, gapes. He looks betrayed. "You have a guy talking to my mom? My freaking mom—"
"Relax," I say. "Kevin's a good guy. He'll make her feel comfy."
"Get out," Billy says, and jumps up. "Get the hell out."
"Can I keep this photo?" I ask, but he just grinds his molars in response. I drop the photo and get out of the house, out of the too-hot living room and back into the bitter wind of November. "It smells like sex in here anyway!" I yell when I'm halfway out the door, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Billy slams the door hard enough that the glass of the window rattles. I take a few steps and spin around. "Mom sex!"
. . .
The actual "mom sex"—the Mom Swap—took place two weeks before. Billy Hughes and Robbie Waller got drunk on cheap beer, probably Natural Light, and decided to fuck each other's moms. Their mothers, both divorcees, had no problem with that. No problem at all.
The swap should have been a secret. Secrecy is inherent to all Mom Swaps—it's part of the deal, part of the contract that goes unspoken: you fuck your friend's mom, he fucks yours, and you don't talk about it. But something went wrong with the Hughes/Waller Swap; one of them talked. It couldn't have been Billy, but it could have been his friend, and it could have been his mom, and it could have been his friend's mom. Any of them. It doesn't matter; what matters is that the news leaked to some cash register jockey or salonist or high school chum and then it spread through town, whispered at lockers, across lunch counters, laughed about over beers at one of the bars downtown or on College Hill, the university's bar district. And from there it reached the Jack Spraut at the Cedar Falls Courier.
Spraut was an old college buddy, a partner in Senior Reporting Methods, the final class required for a degree at the U. of Northern Iowa. We'd teamed up to report on the fencing team's cross-country to trip to compete in Sacramento, riding along in the back of the van, stuffed shoulder to shoulder between bags of white cloth jackets and white cloth breeches and white padded armor. We put twenties together and bought $40 worth of batteries, then recorder the entire fucking trip. There was one stop on the way, a hotel in Montana, and while the team practiced stabbing each other in the hotel multipurpose room Jack and I drained whiskey sours in the bar and tapped our story out onto my old iBook. We spilled whiskey into the keyboard twice, lost use of Z through C, but finished our report on the first night and spent the rest of the trip fuzzy with liquor. We came back exalted and exhausted, handed in a 30 column-inch feature, and received it back a week later with a D scrawled acrosss the cover in red ink. We hadn't spoken since.
I was on my bicycle when the call came in, pedaling across Grand Avenue, dropping off the sidewalk and into a gap in the traffic. It was some time after evening and before night, and the bike was a beige Goodwill model with an Ames Police Biek Rodeo registration sticker dating back to 1981. The tires were half flat and the reflector had long since fallen off. I was an invisible creature on the streets of Des Moines, a wobbly shadow on wheels. It took all my concentration to stay upright and alive, but I reached for my phone anyway, pulled it from the flapping pocket of my jacket, and stared down at its screen, a phosphorescent blue rectangle in the shadows of my hand.
Spraut, it said, which made no sense. Spraut, Spraut. Jack. Jack Spraut was calling me for the first time in . . . half a year. I started to swear but the front wheel of my bike collided with the curb, and I fell/jumped to the sidewalk. Handbars tangled in my ankles and I slammed into the plexiglass wall of the bus stop at the same time I accepted the call. Jack was talking by the time I pressed the phone to my face.
"—got a great story for you, man. How are you doin, anyway? It's been what, a year?"
"Six months," I said. The bike lay in a tangle at my feet, and beer leaked from one of the plastic sacks I'd dropped. I nudged it with my foot, heard the scratch of broken glass against broken glass. Two of the bottles were broken. I sighed, snatched up one of the remaining four, and unscrewed the cap, turned my back. A cop on Grand would never stop for someone with a cell phone; on Grand they only snagged hobos. "What are you talking about?"
"Crazy story," he said. "We got this tip in on the hotline, the news hotline—"
"Jack—"
"I'm a designer for the Courier now," he said. "But we have this news hotline that you can call with ideas for stories, right? Usually it's old women complaining about their neighbors—every old woman has a meth factory for a neighbor—but other day we get this call in, something about a 'mom swap'—"
And he told me about the swap, everything he knew. It wasn't very much, really but enough to sink a hook—couple kids had sex with each other's moms, it was arranged, some of the news boys had checked out the sources, done the preliminaries, decided the story might hold some truth.
"Jack," I said. "This is ridiculous." And I laughed. The beer was Killian's, the best I could afford on my salary as a low-level state researcher. It tasted red and buttery and too cold for a November night. "If this story is even remotely true, why isn't the Courier covering it?"
He snorted. I could see his face again: pudgy cheeks, raggedy goatee, icy blue eyes. "Tim, come on. Mom fucking. You think the Courier's gonna run this story?"
"Guess not."
"Besides, it's not really . . . news. In the sense of newspaper news. I mean, who gets hurt?"
"If it's not important, why'd you think I'd want to cover it?"
"Because it's weird," he said.
. . .
Kevin is across town, interviewing Billy's mom on her smoke break. He's got the car, so I'm fucked. I start walking away from Billy's house, through the maze of streets that makes up the suburbs. The wind is slow but picks up every fifteen seconds or so, whips into my face and and neck, and when that happens I walk faster, stride longer, until finally I'm jogging and then finally running, loping along the edge of the road, leaving swooping gray tracks in the beige dust of snow and dirt.
The houses slide past, front to back, all the same, all white and plastic. I wonder what's going on in each of them, if any other moms in this neighborhood have been swapped.
Minutes pass, enough time for the skin of my neck to turn to marble. I pass a busstop and think of Jack's call two weeks ago. A few blocks later the bus itself catches up with me, and at the stop light I board.
"This thing go anywhere near Rockfall Communications?" I ask as I dump a handful of change into the slot.
"Sure," the driver says. "That's 6th Street. We'll drop you right outside."
"That your mom?"
Billy nods. I stand, walk to the photo, take it off the mantle. This close, I can see the teeth in the woman's smile. She's grinning hard, ludicrously happy. Behind her is a brown building, a brick wall.
"Strange place for a photo."
"That's taken just outside her job," Billy says. You can hear relief in his voice, the ease of talking about something comfortable. Normal. "It was the day she got hired."
"Rockfall Communications," I say.
"Yeah," he says. "How'd you know?"
"My partner's over there right now. Talking to your mom."
Billy stares, gapes. He looks betrayed. "You have a guy talking to my mom? My freaking mom—"
"Relax," I say. "Kevin's a good guy. He'll make her feel comfy."
"Get out," Billy says, and jumps up. "Get the hell out."
"Can I keep this photo?" I ask, but he just grinds his molars in response. I drop the photo and get out of the house, out of the too-hot living room and back into the bitter wind of November. "It smells like sex in here anyway!" I yell when I'm halfway out the door, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Billy slams the door hard enough that the glass of the window rattles. I take a few steps and spin around. "Mom sex!"
. . .
The actual "mom sex"—the Mom Swap—took place two weeks before. Billy Hughes and Robbie Waller got drunk on cheap beer, probably Natural Light, and decided to fuck each other's moms. Their mothers, both divorcees, had no problem with that. No problem at all.
The swap should have been a secret. Secrecy is inherent to all Mom Swaps—it's part of the deal, part of the contract that goes unspoken: you fuck your friend's mom, he fucks yours, and you don't talk about it. But something went wrong with the Hughes/Waller Swap; one of them talked. It couldn't have been Billy, but it could have been his friend, and it could have been his mom, and it could have been his friend's mom. Any of them. It doesn't matter; what matters is that the news leaked to some cash register jockey or salonist or high school chum and then it spread through town, whispered at lockers, across lunch counters, laughed about over beers at one of the bars downtown or on College Hill, the university's bar district. And from there it reached the Jack Spraut at the Cedar Falls Courier.
Spraut was an old college buddy, a partner in Senior Reporting Methods, the final class required for a degree at the U. of Northern Iowa. We'd teamed up to report on the fencing team's cross-country to trip to compete in Sacramento, riding along in the back of the van, stuffed shoulder to shoulder between bags of white cloth jackets and white cloth breeches and white padded armor. We put twenties together and bought $40 worth of batteries, then recorder the entire fucking trip. There was one stop on the way, a hotel in Montana, and while the team practiced stabbing each other in the hotel multipurpose room Jack and I drained whiskey sours in the bar and tapped our story out onto my old iBook. We spilled whiskey into the keyboard twice, lost use of Z through C, but finished our report on the first night and spent the rest of the trip fuzzy with liquor. We came back exalted and exhausted, handed in a 30 column-inch feature, and received it back a week later with a D scrawled acrosss the cover in red ink. We hadn't spoken since.
I was on my bicycle when the call came in, pedaling across Grand Avenue, dropping off the sidewalk and into a gap in the traffic. It was some time after evening and before night, and the bike was a beige Goodwill model with an Ames Police Biek Rodeo registration sticker dating back to 1981. The tires were half flat and the reflector had long since fallen off. I was an invisible creature on the streets of Des Moines, a wobbly shadow on wheels. It took all my concentration to stay upright and alive, but I reached for my phone anyway, pulled it from the flapping pocket of my jacket, and stared down at its screen, a phosphorescent blue rectangle in the shadows of my hand.
Spraut, it said, which made no sense. Spraut, Spraut. Jack. Jack Spraut was calling me for the first time in . . . half a year. I started to swear but the front wheel of my bike collided with the curb, and I fell/jumped to the sidewalk. Handbars tangled in my ankles and I slammed into the plexiglass wall of the bus stop at the same time I accepted the call. Jack was talking by the time I pressed the phone to my face.
"—got a great story for you, man. How are you doin, anyway? It's been what, a year?"
"Six months," I said. The bike lay in a tangle at my feet, and beer leaked from one of the plastic sacks I'd dropped. I nudged it with my foot, heard the scratch of broken glass against broken glass. Two of the bottles were broken. I sighed, snatched up one of the remaining four, and unscrewed the cap, turned my back. A cop on Grand would never stop for someone with a cell phone; on Grand they only snagged hobos. "What are you talking about?"
"Crazy story," he said. "We got this tip in on the hotline, the news hotline—"
"Jack—"
"I'm a designer for the Courier now," he said. "But we have this news hotline that you can call with ideas for stories, right? Usually it's old women complaining about their neighbors—every old woman has a meth factory for a neighbor—but other day we get this call in, something about a 'mom swap'—"
And he told me about the swap, everything he knew. It wasn't very much, really but enough to sink a hook—couple kids had sex with each other's moms, it was arranged, some of the news boys had checked out the sources, done the preliminaries, decided the story might hold some truth.
"Jack," I said. "This is ridiculous." And I laughed. The beer was Killian's, the best I could afford on my salary as a low-level state researcher. It tasted red and buttery and too cold for a November night. "If this story is even remotely true, why isn't the Courier covering it?"
He snorted. I could see his face again: pudgy cheeks, raggedy goatee, icy blue eyes. "Tim, come on. Mom fucking. You think the Courier's gonna run this story?"
"Guess not."
"Besides, it's not really . . . news. In the sense of newspaper news. I mean, who gets hurt?"
"If it's not important, why'd you think I'd want to cover it?"
"Because it's weird," he said.
. . .
Kevin is across town, interviewing Billy's mom on her smoke break. He's got the car, so I'm fucked. I start walking away from Billy's house, through the maze of streets that makes up the suburbs. The wind is slow but picks up every fifteen seconds or so, whips into my face and and neck, and when that happens I walk faster, stride longer, until finally I'm jogging and then finally running, loping along the edge of the road, leaving swooping gray tracks in the beige dust of snow and dirt.
The houses slide past, front to back, all the same, all white and plastic. I wonder what's going on in each of them, if any other moms in this neighborhood have been swapped.
Minutes pass, enough time for the skin of my neck to turn to marble. I pass a busstop and think of Jack's call two weeks ago. A few blocks later the bus itself catches up with me, and at the stop light I board.
"This thing go anywhere near Rockfall Communications?" I ask as I dump a handful of change into the slot.
"Sure," the driver says. "That's 6th Street. We'll drop you right outside."
Happy Birthday Attic Apartment
As of the 26th (like...four days ago) the Attic Apartment blog was two years old!!!
Can this be? She's been a good blog. Loyal to us through these two years--always there when we needed to rant or complain or just read someone's hilarious anecdotes.
I think thanks are in order; first to Bil and Wes for keeping this blog working and making it so easy on the eyes, next to Tim for always posting no matter how far down into the dregs of his mind he had to reach, to Dave for making the rest of us feel good about how shitty our lives are not and reminding us of the importance of correction sentence construction, and finally, to all of our silent readers.
How I love you, silent readers. How I want to stroke your head and kiss your cheek and say
"Thanks for reading."
This blog has kept us together, in a way, even though we've been apart these last two years. Hopefully it will keep us all together for many more.
Happy birthday blog!!!
Can this be? She's been a good blog. Loyal to us through these two years--always there when we needed to rant or complain or just read someone's hilarious anecdotes.
I think thanks are in order; first to Bil and Wes for keeping this blog working and making it so easy on the eyes, next to Tim for always posting no matter how far down into the dregs of his mind he had to reach, to Dave for making the rest of us feel good about how shitty our lives are not and reminding us of the importance of correction sentence construction, and finally, to all of our silent readers.
How I love you, silent readers. How I want to stroke your head and kiss your cheek and say
"Thanks for reading."
This blog has kept us together, in a way, even though we've been apart these last two years. Hopefully it will keep us all together for many more.
Happy birthday blog!!!
This was an ad in my gmail account:
Gmail ads display in the top of the screen in muted colors, and are usually connected to the subject of your emails. I have no idea why this one was selected, and I have no desire to click on it to find out what else it has to say. But from the portion I could see:
"The Original Fecalgram - fecalgram.com - Anonymously send them a box of poop and see"
"The Original Fecalgram - fecalgram.com - Anonymously send them a box of poop and see"
I work with dumb dumb dumb people.
If you held a master's in social work and worked as a career counselor, would you ask me to profile farm jobs, construction jobs, and floor-laying jobs for your client who has degenerative arthritis and is unable to work away from a desk for more than short periods of time?
Or maybe you'd ask me to profile and find openings in dietary aide fields and federal wildlife agent fields for your client who "does not have GED and may not be able to get it. Client does not want to attend any college."
I work with dumb dumb dumb people.
Or maybe you'd ask me to profile and find openings in dietary aide fields and federal wildlife agent fields for your client who "does not have GED and may not be able to get it. Client does not want to attend any college."
I work with dumb dumb dumb people.
Monday, November 28, 2005
From the McSweeney's Newsletter
A L T E R N A T E N A M E S F O R
" I C A N ' T B E L I E V E I T ' S N O T B U T T E R "
By Bob Shea
"Not butter? Then what the hell did I just eat?" Spread.
"I still say it's butter" Spread.
After all the damage you've done to this family with your habitual lying and deceit, you have the nerve to sit there with a straight face and tell me that this isn't butter?" Spread.
"I'm pretty sure that was butter" Spread.
"I'm comfortable calling this butter" Spread.
"This challenges everything I've come to believe about butter" Spread.
"I'm not Entirely Sure it's Edible" Spread.
"I'm willing to suspend disbelief about this being butter for about as long as it takes me to eat this toast" Spread.
"In the absence of actual butter, sure, I'll play along" Spread
"I guess you could call it butter. If you don't put any in your mouth" Spread.
"From a distance, you'd swear it's butter!" Spread
"I can't believe it's so flammable" Spread.
"I have no reason to believe this isn't butter" Spread.
"Am I wrong about God too?" Spread.
" I C A N ' T B E L I E V E I T ' S N O T B U T T E R "
By Bob Shea
"Not butter? Then what the hell did I just eat?" Spread.
"I still say it's butter" Spread.
After all the damage you've done to this family with your habitual lying and deceit, you have the nerve to sit there with a straight face and tell me that this isn't butter?" Spread.
"I'm pretty sure that was butter" Spread.
"I'm comfortable calling this butter" Spread.
"This challenges everything I've come to believe about butter" Spread.
"I'm not Entirely Sure it's Edible" Spread.
"I'm willing to suspend disbelief about this being butter for about as long as it takes me to eat this toast" Spread.
"In the absence of actual butter, sure, I'll play along" Spread
"I guess you could call it butter. If you don't put any in your mouth" Spread.
"From a distance, you'd swear it's butter!" Spread
"I can't believe it's so flammable" Spread.
"I have no reason to believe this isn't butter" Spread.
"Am I wrong about God too?" Spread.
The Madness
Warren Ellis, on arcane web applications written by people with too much specialized knowledge versus more accessible stuff:
But if the future
of the web as a communications
channel for the arts IS going to
emerge from this Web 2.0 bullshit,
and if the conversation IS going to
be reclaimed from people who think
hermits making Star Wars models
out of autism-medication wrappers
is news, then it's going to be through
little things like this.
. . .
You know how back in the day, sometimes if you did something someone else would say, good job, do you want a cookie or something? I would say that yes, I want a cookie. Who doesn't want a cookie? Does anybody reading this not want a cookie?
Sarah, I hope you have successfully made it back to Cedar Falls. Actually, I hope you have turned around and will be meeting me in Des Moines after work. But since your precious "finishing college" and "graduating in three weeks" is so important, I guess that's not very likely, is it? I guess it's not likely at all!
Sorry, I've got the reefer madness.
But if the future
of the web as a communications
channel for the arts IS going to
emerge from this Web 2.0 bullshit,
and if the conversation IS going to
be reclaimed from people who think
hermits making Star Wars models
out of autism-medication wrappers
is news, then it's going to be through
little things like this.
. . .
You know how back in the day, sometimes if you did something someone else would say, good job, do you want a cookie or something? I would say that yes, I want a cookie. Who doesn't want a cookie? Does anybody reading this not want a cookie?
Sarah, I hope you have successfully made it back to Cedar Falls. Actually, I hope you have turned around and will be meeting me in Des Moines after work. But since your precious "finishing college" and "graduating in three weeks" is so important, I guess that's not very likely, is it? I guess it's not likely at all!
Sorry, I've got the reefer madness.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Wouldn't your ass like to know?
So lets go step by step what happened at Alyssa;s party:
Sat there.
Pictures were taken.
Watched people drink.
Sat some more.
People drank.
...
Pictures again.
Sat.
...drank.
Pictures.
OH! Bedtime!
Slept.
And thats about it pretty much. If you all wanted me to do somethin last nite, you sure put up an effort to get me to do it. Besides Tim trying to call Amish, whos about as reliable as the weather. SO I dont want to hear bitching or yelling about Bros Before Hoes. Fuck, man! Ryan cant read so he better not bitch at me!
Listen: I did jack squat at that party and you all went bar hopping. Which is better? I dont really know. Bar hopping is REALLLLLLLLLYYY not what I wanted to do last nite with you all anyway. If we watched some movies or played Mario DD that woulda been BADASS. But despite me saying that I was going to be in Albia about 3 weeks ago and that there were to be plans made sometime, I got no help from your end. This makes me a sad panda and regretfully puts me in that position to choose hos before bros. It was ugly to make that choice. UGLY. Like Amish's grandmother fallin through the ugly forest after being thrown out of the ugly plane for bein too damn ugly, and then she gets put into a time paradox where she repeats that scenario about 6 times consecutively.
And so on.
Sat there.
Pictures were taken.
Watched people drink.
Sat some more.
People drank.
...
Pictures again.
Sat.
...drank.
Pictures.
OH! Bedtime!
Slept.
And thats about it pretty much. If you all wanted me to do somethin last nite, you sure put up an effort to get me to do it. Besides Tim trying to call Amish, whos about as reliable as the weather. SO I dont want to hear bitching or yelling about Bros Before Hoes. Fuck, man! Ryan cant read so he better not bitch at me!
Listen: I did jack squat at that party and you all went bar hopping. Which is better? I dont really know. Bar hopping is REALLLLLLLLLYYY not what I wanted to do last nite with you all anyway. If we watched some movies or played Mario DD that woulda been BADASS. But despite me saying that I was going to be in Albia about 3 weeks ago and that there were to be plans made sometime, I got no help from your end. This makes me a sad panda and regretfully puts me in that position to choose hos before bros. It was ugly to make that choice. UGLY. Like Amish's grandmother fallin through the ugly forest after being thrown out of the ugly plane for bein too damn ugly, and then she gets put into a time paradox where she repeats that scenario about 6 times consecutively.
And so on.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Duck and Cover!
Do you want to know how f-ing boring it is to be at work today? So boring that I have watched this Duck and Cover video three times!!! AND IT ISN'T EVEN TEN O'CLOCK YET!!!
I think I've got the "working-the-day-after-Thanksgiving" madness.
Getting ready means we will all have to be able to take care of ourselves. The bomb might explode when there are no grown-ups near. Paul and Patty know this and they are always ready to take care of themselves. Here they are on their way to school on a beautiful spring day. But no matter where they go or what they do, they always try to remember what to do if the atom bomb explodes right then. "It's a bomb, Duck and Cover!"
Here's Tony going to his Cub Scout meeting. Tony knows THE BOMB can explode any time of the year, day or night--he is ready for it. "Duck and Cover!!!" Atta boy Tony, that flash means 'act fast'.
Tony says, "Bring that f-ing bomb on, I'll whip its ass!"
I think I've got the "working-the-day-after-Thanksgiving" madness.
Getting ready means we will all have to be able to take care of ourselves. The bomb might explode when there are no grown-ups near. Paul and Patty know this and they are always ready to take care of themselves. Here they are on their way to school on a beautiful spring day. But no matter where they go or what they do, they always try to remember what to do if the atom bomb explodes right then. "It's a bomb, Duck and Cover!"
Here's Tony going to his Cub Scout meeting. Tony knows THE BOMB can explode any time of the year, day or night--he is ready for it. "Duck and Cover!!!" Atta boy Tony, that flash means 'act fast'.
Tony says, "Bring that f-ing bomb on, I'll whip its ass!"
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Why? Cuz no one is around, my phone doesnt work here, Im stuck without a car, I have no money, and to boot my ticket home is SCREWED UP because the ticket guy gave me the wrong day and to fix it I have to shell out $50. Fuck this holiday, Im starting Welcometaking.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
DaveO takes 52 points of damage!
Im back in Albia. Im at my mom's house. Need me? Come get me.
You know...to hunt bears or something.
You know...to hunt bears or something.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Bears: The real threat.
During the last four years the nation has had its fear focused on terrorism. Billions of dollars have been spent by the United States in an attempt to prevent and eliminate terrorism around the world. Confident that, just as they won the war on drugs, they would eventually be successful in their effort, the US has spared no expense in fighting terrorism.
But while all of the focus and funds are going into fighting terrorism, an even more eminent threat lurks in the forests around our very homes: BEARS!
That’s right, you think terrorism is scary? BEARS are scary! Have you ever looked into a bear’s eyes and seen the raw evil that dwells within? Bears were forged by satan himself in the fires of hell! And bears tried to kill George W. Bush’s dad long before Saddam Hussein even thought about it!
Ignore the bears’ “feel good” propaganda, they don’t care about anything other than devouring the flesh of tasty humans.
These bears, well, they are not scary. This is the Bears NFL team. They aren’t scary because they haven’t had a good team since, like, the 80’s. I liked GI Joe’s in the 80’s and couldn’t have cared less about football, so I don’t even remember when the Bears had a good team. Not scary. Refrain from killing these Bears.
Now THIS bear is scary! I about pooped ‘um when I saw this bear. Yes, I nearly soiled myself from shock and horror when I saw the image of this ferocious creature. THIS is the reason God gave America guns, not terrorists!
But, in the War on Bears, guns won’t even be our most effective weapons.
But while all of the focus and funds are going into fighting terrorism, an even more eminent threat lurks in the forests around our very homes: BEARS!
That’s right, you think terrorism is scary? BEARS are scary! Have you ever looked into a bear’s eyes and seen the raw evil that dwells within? Bears were forged by satan himself in the fires of hell! And bears tried to kill George W. Bush’s dad long before Saddam Hussein even thought about it!
Ignore the bears’ “feel good” propaganda, they don’t care about anything other than devouring the flesh of tasty humans.
These bears, well, they are not scary. This is the Bears NFL team. They aren’t scary because they haven’t had a good team since, like, the 80’s. I liked GI Joe’s in the 80’s and couldn’t have cared less about football, so I don’t even remember when the Bears had a good team. Not scary. Refrain from killing these Bears.
Now THIS bear is scary! I about pooped ‘um when I saw this bear. Yes, I nearly soiled myself from shock and horror when I saw the image of this ferocious creature. THIS is the reason God gave America guns, not terrorists!
But, in the War on Bears, guns won’t even be our most effective weapons.
These bears are smart. A mere gun is no match for a bear’s keen intellect and lightning speed. They swat bullets out of the air like honey bees! We need something more powerful than guns.
We need Conan O’Brien.
Conan O’Brien has trained for years in his secret bear-fighting facility located somewhere in Wyoming, preparing his mind and his body to be the most efficient bear killer known to man. 
Conan eats nothing but raw bear meat to keep his blood lust fresh.
Conan engages the bears in exercises that challenge the body... 
...as well as the mind.
No bear will outsmart him.
As if Conan wasn’t enough of a match for these bears, he is now also training an apprentice bear killer.
Tim Dicks: professional assassin and javelin-throwing prodigy
Agent Dicks has the unique ability to hear a human heartbeat from great distances. He can pinpoint the location of anyone within a five-mile radius just by listening for their heartbeat! He also has an incredible knack for chucking a javelin with amazing accuracy.
Conan saw the potential for a bear-killing machine in Tim Dicks.
Conan has been training Tim to pair his audio location and javelin throwing to hit a bear in the heart with a javelin at distances up to sixty yards! So far Conan says that Agent Dicks is showing amazing results. (Reporter Note: I’m sorry but I couldn’t get any pictures of Agent Dicks actually impaling a bear with a javelin, Mr. O’ Brien said that was classified information.)
(Artist's depiction of a bear pierced by Agent Dicks' javelin.)
Conan told our reporter, “This guy can hit a motherfucking bear in the heart from sixty yards. Hell, this crazy bastard can even do it blindfolded! He is going to kill a shit ton of bears!”
Yes, bears may be the most dangerous threat to American lives today. Bears may be more deadly than terrorism, global warming and the avian flu combined! But as long as men like Conan O’Brien and Tim Dicks are fighting for freedom from fear of bears, there is still hope.
I DO have a photo of myself in a bathroom mirror...
From Urban Dictionary:
"Scene" is a culture made mostly of teenagers and is relatable to emo. It is a culture derived to reject the "norm". Scene kids might often be quoted as saying "I hate people that arn't themselves" or "I dress this way because this is who I am!". Ironically, there has become a set mold which scene kids seemingly strive to fit, and they all look/act the same.
"Scene" guys often wear:
-Tight jeans
-tight t shirts, often from elementary school/middle school, or picked up from the local thrift store.
-tight blazers and jackets, even during a warm summer.
-Long, greesy hair, cut and dyed at home, with bangs that cover 1/2 of a "scene" guy's face at a 45 degree angle.
"Scene" girls often wear:
-Bright colored makeup
-Short, choppy hair, usually thicker on one side, and containing 2+ colors.
Scene kids are almost required to own a myspace page. Here, they will network with hundreds of other scene kids, post dozens of pictures of themselves (from different, crazy angles and more often than not, incorporating a bathroom mirror), and write blogs about pointless teenage drama which nobody else truly cares about.Scene Kid 1: I'm Scene. I'm a unique individual. And you stole my awesome, Scene, haircut.
Scene Kid 2: No! I'm scene! And I'm far more unique than you! I suggest you give me back my haircut before I am forced to write a blog on myspace about how angry you have made me!
And from an alternate definition:
Steve: Dude why is Trey sucking that guys dong!
Ryan: Didnt you hear? He's scene now.
. . .
I can't believe I've reached the point where I have to look up the kids' slang on fucking Urban Dictionary. We're all F'd.
"Scene" is a culture made mostly of teenagers and is relatable to emo. It is a culture derived to reject the "norm". Scene kids might often be quoted as saying "I hate people that arn't themselves" or "I dress this way because this is who I am!". Ironically, there has become a set mold which scene kids seemingly strive to fit, and they all look/act the same.
"Scene" guys often wear:
-Tight jeans
-tight t shirts, often from elementary school/middle school, or picked up from the local thrift store.
-tight blazers and jackets, even during a warm summer.
-Long, greesy hair, cut and dyed at home, with bangs that cover 1/2 of a "scene" guy's face at a 45 degree angle.
"Scene" girls often wear:
-Bright colored makeup
-Short, choppy hair, usually thicker on one side, and containing 2+ colors.
Scene kids are almost required to own a myspace page. Here, they will network with hundreds of other scene kids, post dozens of pictures of themselves (from different, crazy angles and more often than not, incorporating a bathroom mirror), and write blogs about pointless teenage drama which nobody else truly cares about.Scene Kid 1: I'm Scene. I'm a unique individual. And you stole my awesome, Scene, haircut.
Scene Kid 2: No! I'm scene! And I'm far more unique than you! I suggest you give me back my haircut before I am forced to write a blog on myspace about how angry you have made me!
And from an alternate definition:
Steve: Dude why is Trey sucking that guys dong!
Ryan: Didnt you hear? He's scene now.
. . .
I can't believe I've reached the point where I have to look up the kids' slang on fucking Urban Dictionary. We're all F'd.
POW
The damn Register is obsessed with child pornography the last couple months.
This is the weirdest compliment I've ever recieved:
KATHY: I don't know how you can just do that, just fall asleep like that.
TIM: I...am exhasuted.
KATHY: But just sitting there.
VICKI??: Yeah.
KATHY: You would make a really good prisoner of war.
This is the weirdest compliment I've ever recieved:
KATHY: I don't know how you can just do that, just fall asleep like that.
TIM: I...am exhasuted.
KATHY: But just sitting there.
VICKI??: Yeah.
KATHY: You would make a really good prisoner of war.
If you are in possession of an infant, I WILL KICK IT.
I no longer look like a hobo. I now look like a robot. I am deadly serious about this. If you were to joke about my roboticism—if you casually dropped a line, during a tuna salad dinner at Java Joe's, about how my corneas seem to be rotating like gears—I would use deadly force against you. I would actually disembowel you, using your own hand. I would grasp your fingers, twist them into a hook, and then jab your own hand into your belly. I would then use my robot brain to study a diagram of your human nerve system—it would take about 3 milliseconds in all—and I would then lightly tap your spinal column in such a way that certain nerves would fire and your hand would go into what I can only call a gut-scooping motion, or series of motions, until you yourself had emptied your torso like a Halloween jack-o-lantern.
I was just in the bathroom washing my hands and staring at my disfigured face in the sick other-worldly neon ligth when I realized: I look a lot like a robot today. I look fake. I look "scene." As if I'm part of the robot scene. Or, really, as if I'm a robot who wants to be part of the human scene, and so I've liberally mixed together a paste of wood pulp, sliced turkey, and pipe cleaner covers into a faux-skin and applied it to my stainless steel shell.
My coworker gave me a muffin today. It tasted mealy, and I found out it has been in her freezer for about a month. Still I worked on it, despite its disgusting texture and flavor, until I realized that it was designed to taste like that; it's some sort of oat flavor.
The quality of that last paragraph was insufficient. I apologize.
There is no greater television program in the breadth of human history than Knight Rider. Last night I returned from WalMart ready to sit down with a gin and juice and string out five pages of Mom Swap, but Ryan and Bunbun were watching David Hasselhoff cavort around beautiful San Francisco. Or something. Here is a synopsis of the episode, the first full-length episode of this program that I've seen:
David Hasselhoff is being chased by David Hasselhoff in a fake goatee and black clothes. Whereas ungoatee'd Hasselhoff drives the bitching and whining but intelligent KITT, goatee'd 'Hoff drives a semi rig the size of the capitol building.
Evil Hoff and Good Hoff look the same because after Good Hoff's face was ripped away in a freak gasoline fighting accident (or gunshot, who knows), an eccentric millionaire had his face reconstructed in the image of his [the millionaire's] son, Evil Hoff, who was imprisoned in an African prison.
Evil Hoff, back in the present, captures Good Hoff and places him in the African Prison cell, which he has transplanted to America BRICK BY MOTHER-F'ING BRICK.
Etc.
The following episode was about a sassy back-talkin teddy bear.
Neither of these episodes are as good as the Bayou episode, my inaugural but incomplete virginal experience with Knight Rider.
Anyway, in all seriousness, if you'd like something to watch while you drink with your 80's-obsessed friends, there is no better show.
You know how Wolverine gets hurt a little every time he extends his claws? That would suck. Sometimes I wonder if analogous abilities would be worth it. If, for example, I could send functional helicopter blades sprouting from my shoulder blades, the associated pain would probably be acceptable. But what if I could only extend a pen through the tip of my finger? Or a tire gauge out of my toe? Those abilities would suck. If I had those abilities I would wander around Des Moines kicking infants without discretion.
I was just in the bathroom washing my hands and staring at my disfigured face in the sick other-worldly neon ligth when I realized: I look a lot like a robot today. I look fake. I look "scene." As if I'm part of the robot scene. Or, really, as if I'm a robot who wants to be part of the human scene, and so I've liberally mixed together a paste of wood pulp, sliced turkey, and pipe cleaner covers into a faux-skin and applied it to my stainless steel shell.
My coworker gave me a muffin today. It tasted mealy, and I found out it has been in her freezer for about a month. Still I worked on it, despite its disgusting texture and flavor, until I realized that it was designed to taste like that; it's some sort of oat flavor.
The quality of that last paragraph was insufficient. I apologize.
There is no greater television program in the breadth of human history than Knight Rider. Last night I returned from WalMart ready to sit down with a gin and juice and string out five pages of Mom Swap, but Ryan and Bunbun were watching David Hasselhoff cavort around beautiful San Francisco. Or something. Here is a synopsis of the episode, the first full-length episode of this program that I've seen:
David Hasselhoff is being chased by David Hasselhoff in a fake goatee and black clothes. Whereas ungoatee'd Hasselhoff drives the bitching and whining but intelligent KITT, goatee'd 'Hoff drives a semi rig the size of the capitol building.
Evil Hoff and Good Hoff look the same because after Good Hoff's face was ripped away in a freak gasoline fighting accident (or gunshot, who knows), an eccentric millionaire had his face reconstructed in the image of his [the millionaire's] son, Evil Hoff, who was imprisoned in an African prison.
Evil Hoff, back in the present, captures Good Hoff and places him in the African Prison cell, which he has transplanted to America BRICK BY MOTHER-F'ING BRICK.
Etc.
The following episode was about a sassy back-talkin teddy bear.
Neither of these episodes are as good as the Bayou episode, my inaugural but incomplete virginal experience with Knight Rider.
Anyway, in all seriousness, if you'd like something to watch while you drink with your 80's-obsessed friends, there is no better show.
You know how Wolverine gets hurt a little every time he extends his claws? That would suck. Sometimes I wonder if analogous abilities would be worth it. If, for example, I could send functional helicopter blades sprouting from my shoulder blades, the associated pain would probably be acceptable. But what if I could only extend a pen through the tip of my finger? Or a tire gauge out of my toe? Those abilities would suck. If I had those abilities I would wander around Des Moines kicking infants without discretion.
The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie
Last night Kevin spent something like 12 hours in line for an Xbox 360 at Walmart. I walked from Andy's to 73rd Street to visit him.
I knew I was getting close when, outside the electronics section, I heard the tinny rattle of boombox radio. A line of people extended from one of the main aisles back through the headsets and battery packs and other accessories and into the layaway section. The vanguard of the line was a pair of middle-aged women, one with gray hair. A few people down, a middle-aged man sat back, hands folded over his paunch. As the line stretched into the back, and toward the people who'd been here the longest, the people became younger, dropping sharply off from 50s to 20s. I marched past them, trying to ignore their midlly annoyed stares as I cut to the front of the line, to the folding metal chair where Number 2 had been sitting for the past several hours.
Kevin looked happy. Everyone, in fact, looked happy, strangely happy for having been in the back of WalMart, on a folding chair, for the past ten hours. Beneath his chair was a bag of cookies delivered by Shannon, which I ate. I then called his girlfriend and arranged an after-walmart tryst. I also told her that the cookies were excellent, and that she was a Right Nobel Girlfriend (not in those words).
(I'm now introducing girlfriend ranks, like the Right Honorable Girlfriend and the Girlfrined First Class.)
The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie was negotiated, but no accord was reached.
. . .
Are muffins not the stupidest food ever conceived? Hey, master chef! Let's make a food that will crumble all over you when you try to eat it! And to make it worse, wrap it up in a little paper container that peels away crumbs and drops them onto your lap too! F it!
The worst feeling in the world is taking a big bite of an already-stale muffin and hearing a storm of crumbs patter against your chest.
I knew I was getting close when, outside the electronics section, I heard the tinny rattle of boombox radio. A line of people extended from one of the main aisles back through the headsets and battery packs and other accessories and into the layaway section. The vanguard of the line was a pair of middle-aged women, one with gray hair. A few people down, a middle-aged man sat back, hands folded over his paunch. As the line stretched into the back, and toward the people who'd been here the longest, the people became younger, dropping sharply off from 50s to 20s. I marched past them, trying to ignore their midlly annoyed stares as I cut to the front of the line, to the folding metal chair where Number 2 had been sitting for the past several hours.
Kevin looked happy. Everyone, in fact, looked happy, strangely happy for having been in the back of WalMart, on a folding chair, for the past ten hours. Beneath his chair was a bag of cookies delivered by Shannon, which I ate. I then called his girlfriend and arranged an after-walmart tryst. I also told her that the cookies were excellent, and that she was a Right Nobel Girlfriend (not in those words).
(I'm now introducing girlfriend ranks, like the Right Honorable Girlfriend and the Girlfrined First Class.)
The safe return of my partially-eaten cherry pie was negotiated, but no accord was reached.
. . .
Are muffins not the stupidest food ever conceived? Hey, master chef! Let's make a food that will crumble all over you when you try to eat it! And to make it worse, wrap it up in a little paper container that peels away crumbs and drops them onto your lap too! F it!
The worst feeling in the world is taking a big bite of an already-stale muffin and hearing a storm of crumbs patter against your chest.
I'm a Master Harpoonist
Listen:
I can hear a mammalian heartbeat from up to 60 yards. I'll be standing there outside a bar—Gronau's, maybe—holding a beer and a smoke and the long buttery hair of a vomiting hobo and then there it is, at the periphery of my awareness:
bathunk
bathunk
and then the instincts kick in and I grab for the nearest javelin-like object. Because at any given moment—after sex, in the shower, eating a muffin—if I hear the beat of a heart I can stop, focus, and put a javelin through it from 60 yards.
Watch the fuck out.
I can hear a mammalian heartbeat from up to 60 yards. I'll be standing there outside a bar—Gronau's, maybe—holding a beer and a smoke and the long buttery hair of a vomiting hobo and then there it is, at the periphery of my awareness:
bathunk
bathunk
and then the instincts kick in and I grab for the nearest javelin-like object. Because at any given moment—after sex, in the shower, eating a muffin—if I hear the beat of a heart I can stop, focus, and put a javelin through it from 60 yards.
Watch the fuck out.
Scene Man
OH MY GARD THERE IS SO MUCH RESEARCH AWAITING ME TODAY.
Got to work still drunk and what did I find but an effing drawer full of requests awaiting me, including these gems:
Occupational interests:
Floor sander and polisher
Railroad worker
"helpers installation" (I have no idea what this is)
and the guy's disability is that he has to perform sedentary work. So obviously a railroad yard is a good place to put him.
FUCKING IDIOT! FUCKING STUPID STUPID STUPID IDIOTS I work with!
Here we go:
Last night one of my new landlord/roommates invited some 18 year olds over. Did anybody care if 18 year-old girls showed up? No! No, we did not! And so they showed up, toting a bottle of Bacardi 151, and mocking me instantaneously—I overheard a conversation not unlike this very one:
Her: Yeah, that guy is so "scene."
Him: . . . what?
Her: Your scene friend. The one with the glasses.
Him: . . . what?
Her: Your friend with the emo glasses. That's so scene.
Him: . . . what?
Her: Like the emo scene. That's so scene.
But listen, woman! I am not part of your emo scene! I am not part of any scene because, as Andy can tell you,
I HATE MUSIC
all music. Burn it. If I could start a concentration camp for musicians I wouldn't because I wouldn't pay state funds to keep them alive even if they were kept alive via the vital nutrients of moldy velveeta and badger meat.
The only thing I associate these glasses with is Grant Tracey, a prof I had who claimed not to drink but who left mysterious whiskey-colored stains on Andy's and my papers along with such comments as "excellent work! Brilliant!"
I could really go for a velveeta and badger meat casserole right now . . .
My gloriously hot girlfirend is coming to town tonight and I look/smell/feel like a hobo. Wonderful. Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Got to work still drunk and what did I find but an effing drawer full of requests awaiting me, including these gems:
Occupational interests:
Floor sander and polisher
Railroad worker
"helpers installation" (I have no idea what this is)
and the guy's disability is that he has to perform sedentary work. So obviously a railroad yard is a good place to put him.
FUCKING IDIOT! FUCKING STUPID STUPID STUPID IDIOTS I work with!
Here we go:
Last night one of my new landlord/roommates invited some 18 year olds over. Did anybody care if 18 year-old girls showed up? No! No, we did not! And so they showed up, toting a bottle of Bacardi 151, and mocking me instantaneously—I overheard a conversation not unlike this very one:
Her: Yeah, that guy is so "scene."
Him: . . . what?
Her: Your scene friend. The one with the glasses.
Him: . . . what?
Her: Your friend with the emo glasses. That's so scene.
Him: . . . what?
Her: Like the emo scene. That's so scene.
But listen, woman! I am not part of your emo scene! I am not part of any scene because, as Andy can tell you,
I HATE MUSIC
all music. Burn it. If I could start a concentration camp for musicians I wouldn't because I wouldn't pay state funds to keep them alive even if they were kept alive via the vital nutrients of moldy velveeta and badger meat.
The only thing I associate these glasses with is Grant Tracey, a prof I had who claimed not to drink but who left mysterious whiskey-colored stains on Andy's and my papers along with such comments as "excellent work! Brilliant!"
I could really go for a velveeta and badger meat casserole right now . . .
My gloriously hot girlfirend is coming to town tonight and I look/smell/feel like a hobo. Wonderful. Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Millions Gather In Worship of the Big Green X
Look at what I got at K-mart. It's not an xbox360 but it talks damnit!! Its supposed to say 500 phrases but it just repeats the same 5 over and over again. I'm psyched about the xbox release man, but I'm gonna wait awhile before making the big purchase myself. Whats everyone doing for turkey time? If your in Albia on the weekend you can stop by. I'm working alot this weekend but thats daytime. Anyways hope you guys have a good holiday!Yoda says: Meditating I have been. At one with the force am I.
Doesn't he kick ass?
I'm sorry to inform you, but your mom is dead. It's physically impossible to have that many penises in a human body at one time.
So, I gets on the train tomorrow.
I know that some of you....*cough* tim *cough* will not see me because of poor communication and other obligations. So forget you, I'm goin to start my own holiday and you can miss out on the fireworks and the giant floats and the candy corn and the balloons and the Henry Kissinger Lookalike contests and the blasphemous indian rituals and the virgin sacrifices and the group orgies and the pool party and the petting zoo and the grab ass games and the Civil War reinactments and the confetti and the bear hunting and the moose sodomizing and the fishing trip and the carnival and the funny helmets with the lights on the top so everyone can see how much damn fun we're having and the endless booze.
And Ill call this holiday: Welcometaking. The anti Thanksgiving.
I know that some of you....*cough* tim *cough* will not see me because of poor communication and other obligations. So forget you, I'm goin to start my own holiday and you can miss out on the fireworks and the giant floats and the candy corn and the balloons and the Henry Kissinger Lookalike contests and the blasphemous indian rituals and the virgin sacrifices and the group orgies and the pool party and the petting zoo and the grab ass games and the Civil War reinactments and the confetti and the bear hunting and the moose sodomizing and the fishing trip and the carnival and the funny helmets with the lights on the top so everyone can see how much damn fun we're having and the endless booze.
And Ill call this holiday: Welcometaking. The anti Thanksgiving.
Let's swap moms
Kevin has taken time out from his busy schedule of researching the Mom Swap scoop before USA Today gets hold of it to stand in line at Wal-Mart on 73rd. He is going to get an Xbox.
I have decided to blog Kevin's experience. First dispatch, directly from the field, came in text message form not five minutes ago:
Only ten more hours left
and, earlier:
If anybody gets bored tonight give me a call I am gonna be at wal mart all might
So call Kevin! Or visit him!
I have decided to blog Kevin's experience. First dispatch, directly from the field, came in text message form not five minutes ago:
Only ten more hours left
and, earlier:
If anybody gets bored tonight give me a call I am gonna be at wal mart all might
So call Kevin! Or visit him!
You're Dead to us, Bunny!!! DEAD!!!
Anybody know of huuuuuuuge houses for rent? A few months back Morgan mentioned such a place, but all details have evaporated from my brain, through my very skull!, and into the atmosphere. If we wait long enough, they will reach the upper levels of the sky, condense, and then rain down upon us!
But some of us are impatient.
I am trying to work myself up to write Chapter Two of Mom Swap, but I'm plagued by the question: how best to go about it?
More first-person present: I walk immediately to Kevin, who is interviewing one of the swapped moms
OR
Pull out for some journalistic back story first, leading into the scene where I go meet up with Kevin.
But some of us are impatient.
I am trying to work myself up to write Chapter Two of Mom Swap, but I'm plagued by the question: how best to go about it?
More first-person present: I walk immediately to Kevin, who is interviewing one of the swapped moms
OR
Pull out for some journalistic back story first, leading into the scene where I go meet up with Kevin.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Cancelling Out Tim's Useless Posts...with MY Pointless Posts
This phrase of expressing negative actions towards a fellow human better be in use when I return Wednesday:
I'm about to become Ed Chokabich. (pronounced Choke A Bitch)
I'm about to become Ed Chokabich. (pronounced Choke A Bitch)
Hilarity Ensues
I heart art school SO DAMN much. In 3d animation, theres this thing called a Euler. I dont know what it does... some sort of debauchery.But anyway, now everytime our teacher says Euler, someone in this dim lit class does the line, "Euler? ... Euler? ...Euler?"
John!
Bunny Jawsex is trying to get hold of you.
That is not the other Bunny, by the way. Sorry, Bunny. If you're confused.
That is not the other Bunny, by the way. Sorry, Bunny. If you're confused.
Just like Breadeaux Richie
One of the writers at Bookslut claims to have overheard her friend's young daughter say this:
"I'm tired of thinking about ponies! Now it's time to kill!"
"I'm tired of thinking about ponies! Now it's time to kill!"
An Endless Story about my Job
There is this middle-aged morbidly obese woman down the hall.
(necessary information: in our temporary setting, we all have cubicles with open ceilings and doors and you can basically hear everyone's labored breathing from down the hall.)
Anyway, about five or sex times a day, this woman
(I just noticed I wrote 'sex' instead of 'six,' but am leaving it because my unconscious wants me to do so. Or my finger just slipped)
answers the phone and has an argument with the mysterious
(she just walked by and lookd in at me! Dear Jaybus, she's psychic!)
"Kim" or "Tim." These arguments always sound like this:
"Kim, no. Kim, listen. Open the drawer. It's in there." *pause* "No, I can't come there right now. No, now. Kim. Kim. Listen to me: how much is left? Have you been working on it this afternoon? No. No—no. Kim, lis—goodbye, Kim."
or
"What do you want, Kim? I'm at work, Kim. I'm busy. No. I don't have time for you to be calling me all day. Okay. There are some oreos in the cabinet. Kim—no, Kim. I can't leave right now. Kim—Kim. I'm hanging up. I'm hanging up, Kim. Kim—"
So I've always assumed this is her son or daughter. But really—shouldn't this kid be at school?
Anyway, today, Kim call number 4 or 5 goes like this:
"Kim—Kim, no. Look, I'm very busy. I have work here to do. I can't help you with this all the—no. Okay, those spreadsheets are the drawer. Well, try the filing cabinet. Did you even send out that memo? Just hand it to the secretaries—"
What the F? Is this like..her coworker? Or what?
(necessary information: in our temporary setting, we all have cubicles with open ceilings and doors and you can basically hear everyone's labored breathing from down the hall.)
Anyway, about five or sex times a day, this woman
(I just noticed I wrote 'sex' instead of 'six,' but am leaving it because my unconscious wants me to do so. Or my finger just slipped)
answers the phone and has an argument with the mysterious
(she just walked by and lookd in at me! Dear Jaybus, she's psychic!)
"Kim" or "Tim." These arguments always sound like this:
"Kim, no. Kim, listen. Open the drawer. It's in there." *pause* "No, I can't come there right now. No, now. Kim. Kim. Listen to me: how much is left? Have you been working on it this afternoon? No. No—no. Kim, lis—goodbye, Kim."
or
"What do you want, Kim? I'm at work, Kim. I'm busy. No. I don't have time for you to be calling me all day. Okay. There are some oreos in the cabinet. Kim—no, Kim. I can't leave right now. Kim—Kim. I'm hanging up. I'm hanging up, Kim. Kim—"
So I've always assumed this is her son or daughter. But really—shouldn't this kid be at school?
Anyway, today, Kim call number 4 or 5 goes like this:
"Kim—Kim, no. Look, I'm very busy. I have work here to do. I can't help you with this all the—no. Okay, those spreadsheets are the drawer. Well, try the filing cabinet. Did you even send out that memo? Just hand it to the secretaries—"
What the F? Is this like..her coworker? Or what?
43 hours of microprocessing.
Creating a poster for work. Needed presents. Don't have a nice enough camera, don't have a studio to shoot, I'm not even sure I have a budget... My solution? Use blender. 43 hours, 57 minutes later I have a gigantic raw .tga file that's pretty as sin in a skin tight dress. Well, pretty as something I make gets, which is somewhere between homely and aw, that's cute (in a sort of unibrow kinda way).
I've been seeing a poster today for A Christmas Carol that some theatre group on campus is doing. I keep looking at it and stopping in my tracks. I swear the guy in the poster looks like Ryan. He's is in traditional ye olde times garb, smiling at me. The top hat he's wearing looks spiffy, and he's holding tiny tim... Not our tim though. (Mental note, need to have dicken's themed party. Tim, you will be tiny tim after a growth spurt.)
And now, for my next trick, I will spew fire and spin wool into gold!
I've been seeing a poster today for A Christmas Carol that some theatre group on campus is doing. I keep looking at it and stopping in my tracks. I swear the guy in the poster looks like Ryan. He's is in traditional ye olde times garb, smiling at me. The top hat he's wearing looks spiffy, and he's holding tiny tim... Not our tim though. (Mental note, need to have dicken's themed party. Tim, you will be tiny tim after a growth spurt.)
And now, for my next trick, I will spew fire and spin wool into gold!
How to Escape a Robot Uprising
See what you're missing by not having a free sub to the Post?
Good luck fighting the robots.
I'll be in the clear.
Suckers.
"I went and asked a lot of robotics researchers (roboticists) how they would escape from their robots. The number one reply was, "I would walk away slowly."
"Robots have no emotions -- sensing your fear can stir feelings of jealousy, resulting in a white-hot robot rage."
"Daniel H. Wilson: ROBOT VS. ROBOT ZOMBIE: WHO WOULD WIN IN A FIGHT?
Well, "robot" is vague. Are we talking a skyscraper-sized behemoth with thousands of whipping, shredding razor-wire arms? Let's assume we're talking about a humanoid robot vs. a robo-zombie.
This fight is going to be good. The zombie will function in the event of massive failure, and may even reanimate after being torn apart by it's opponent -- who, after all, is a merciless, methodical metal man.
On the other hand, could a single squishy zombie pull apart the titanium-laced carapace of an atomic-powered killbot?
ANSWER: ONE ON ONE THE ROBOT WINS, HOWEVER, ZOMBIES USUALLY ATTACK IN GROUPS..."
Good luck fighting the robots.
I'll be in the clear.
Suckers.
"I went and asked a lot of robotics researchers (roboticists) how they would escape from their robots. The number one reply was, "I would walk away slowly."
"Robots have no emotions -- sensing your fear can stir feelings of jealousy, resulting in a white-hot robot rage."
"Daniel H. Wilson: ROBOT VS. ROBOT ZOMBIE: WHO WOULD WIN IN A FIGHT?
Well, "robot" is vague. Are we talking a skyscraper-sized behemoth with thousands of whipping, shredding razor-wire arms? Let's assume we're talking about a humanoid robot vs. a robo-zombie.
This fight is going to be good. The zombie will function in the event of massive failure, and may even reanimate after being torn apart by it's opponent -- who, after all, is a merciless, methodical metal man.
On the other hand, could a single squishy zombie pull apart the titanium-laced carapace of an atomic-powered killbot?
ANSWER: ONE ON ONE THE ROBOT WINS, HOWEVER, ZOMBIES USUALLY ATTACK IN GROUPS..."
Helen Keller was a fucking HOAX
Iron Maiden, baby!
This will be my only line of defense in court:
(Pulling at hair, stringing out tie, flailing): This . . . this . . . this is a ballsing DONKEY SHOW of justice!
Check it out: Helen Keller: a bunch of bullshit.
I'll say it again:
Helen Keller = BULLSHIT!
I"ve always been confounded by her story: this deaf, dumb, blind kid learns how to communicte in signs? Learns to write? Learns to speak? Learns how to read five or six different languages in braille?
Obviously she stole her life story from Tommy.
But really, come on: how the balls could she possibly learn that stuff? Imagine that you can't hear words, can't see text. Some lady grabs your hand, shoves it in some water, and manipulates your fingers into a string of symbols. Okay, you know how to sign 'water.' But what about prepofuckingsitions? Adjectives? Colors? Touch your hand to the ball, Helen. That's red. No!
Helen Keller was either a hoax or a robot, and Anne Sullivan was a fucking con artist.
If you've been contacted by me within the past hour, you should consider yourself in the know, and I will likely see you tonight. If you were not contacted, you should consider yourself DEAD to me and WORTHLESS to the people of the world at large (unless you're Cricket). It would be better for the rest of us if you would kill yourself at once, and stop using up our precious broadband, Mountain Dew, postage stamps, sumatra coffee, twine, aerons, mortar, central heat, yakskin coats, samurai blades, ninja maneuvers, internal combustion, ETC. Or, if you are morally opposed to killing yourself, we could use this space to organize some sort of group voluntary homicide; each of you kills another, etc.
This will be my only line of defense in court:
(Pulling at hair, stringing out tie, flailing): This . . . this . . . this is a ballsing DONKEY SHOW of justice!
Check it out: Helen Keller: a bunch of bullshit.
I'll say it again:
Helen Keller = BULLSHIT!
I"ve always been confounded by her story: this deaf, dumb, blind kid learns how to communicte in signs? Learns to write? Learns to speak? Learns how to read five or six different languages in braille?
Obviously she stole her life story from Tommy.
But really, come on: how the balls could she possibly learn that stuff? Imagine that you can't hear words, can't see text. Some lady grabs your hand, shoves it in some water, and manipulates your fingers into a string of symbols. Okay, you know how to sign 'water.' But what about prepofuckingsitions? Adjectives? Colors? Touch your hand to the ball, Helen. That's red. No!
Helen Keller was either a hoax or a robot, and Anne Sullivan was a fucking con artist.
If you've been contacted by me within the past hour, you should consider yourself in the know, and I will likely see you tonight. If you were not contacted, you should consider yourself DEAD to me and WORTHLESS to the people of the world at large (unless you're Cricket). It would be better for the rest of us if you would kill yourself at once, and stop using up our precious broadband, Mountain Dew, postage stamps, sumatra coffee, twine, aerons, mortar, central heat, yakskin coats, samurai blades, ninja maneuvers, internal combustion, ETC. Or, if you are morally opposed to killing yourself, we could use this space to organize some sort of group voluntary homicide; each of you kills another, etc.
Inconclusive
For all you who suffered through the tooth-pulling fun of Final Fantasy Tactics (original page) and it's horrendous ass-getting-handed-to-you one-sided balls-fucking-hard battles.So Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire...wowzers. It was a good movie.
...IF YOU WANT TO BURN IN HELL FOR BELIEVING IN WITCHKRAFT AND SORCERY!!!!
Seriously, it was a good movie. Im not a big Potter fan, but I did enjoy this movie. I didnt enjoy the 300 lbs fangirl next to me that cursed the screen and cheered very minor characters, however.
---
The local radio station out here is doing Thanxbox @eekend. Theyre givin away about 20 XBOX 360 songs. And all we gots to do is request 3 songs for thanxgiving weekend. Any 3 songs qualifies you.
So one of the DJs earlier tonite got on and said his piece. He said he DOESNT want people requesting retarded and non-cycled music. As in Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer or The Marcerana. And he enacted his "daily" revenge on said idiots who do that. It went something like this:
NERF: Dont request songs that arent' modern rock. Like Lilly Thompson, 24, of 3048 Virginia Drive, Littleton, Colorado did. She works at (some agency) from 8 to 5 weekdays. She requested this little diddy:
*If you like Pena Coladas!*
If you know Lilly Thompson, 24, of 3048 Virginia Drive, Littleton, Colorado, tell her that she is doing NO ONE a favor by being sarcastic and not taking our contest seriously. Lilly Thompson, 24, of 3048 Virginia Drive, Littleton, Colorado? You just ruined it for everyone. Lilly Thompson, 24, of 3048 Virginia Drive, Littleton, Colorado is to blame if your song is judged to be innapropriate and not part of the Modern Rockracy. So unless you LIKE getting spit on in public, ENTER OUR CONTEST seriously and honestly.
Not Mom Swapping
Hey whats going on folks? The SQUID is back hooray!!
Anyways just saying howdy and uhhmmm thats....yeah thats about it. Sorry about that I'll have more for you laters.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Amish's Future Wife
That's right, I only insult people who can't or don't read the blog.
Or people who just can't read...RYAN. You illiterate fucking bastard.
Mom Swap, Chapter One, 1st Draft
Chapter One of Kevin's and my fake nonfiction book: (this is probably too long to be of interest to anyone but Kevin)
Billy Hughes is a shy kid. When he talks, he has a way of staring at the grass, the sidewalk, the neighbor's orange pumpkin-shaped mailbox—anything but your face. His head bobs around on a scrawny neck, and washed-out blonde bangs hide his eyes. In his pockets, hands clench and release. Billy doesn't like talking to strangers, especially ones who ask questions about his Mom.
It's late 2005 when I catch up with Billy, the winter months. October's gone, buried beneath November's first snow, and let me tell you—here in Northern Iowa you know that snow's not melting anytime soon. Winds tear across flat farmland, and by the time they hit your face you can feel your nose turning red, can feel crimson blooming in your cheeks. Snot freezes. Tears solidify at the rims of your eyes.
Billy doesn't seem to mind the cold. It's the second thing I notice about him.
"Inside," he says. "It's pretty hot. Mom keeps the heat on all the time."
"That's what I hear," I say. "I hear you help her keep it that way."
He cocks his head, frowns. He realizes, for the first time, why I'm here. I'm not a Mormon, not a Jehovah's Witness. I'm not selling tubs of cookie dough for my daughter's 5th Grade band. I'm here to ask about his Mom, and I'm here to ask about her flat-out.
"You're one of those," he says. "You with the Courier?"
"I'm a private researcher," I say. "Freelance. You talked to anybody about this yet?"
He shakes his head.
"You're not going to, either." I cross arms, stamp feet. My boots grate against the smooth suburban sidewalk. "Between you and me, this story's too fucked up for the Courier. It's too fucked for the mainstream media."
He squirms, looks down the road, hunches forward. Maybe now that cold's getting to him. The door behind him is still open, and I can see a fake fireplace, and atop its brick mantle a row of photos. There's a bowling trophy there too, probably plastic, probably from Billy's childhood. I can see the kitchen, too: tile floor, glass table, low counter lined with a breadbox and a Mr. Coffee and a toaster that looks like it could calculate square roots. There's heat in that house, and the muted sound of dinnertime television, maybe Alex Trebek asking questions or Jerry Seinfeld telling jokes. Billy's one of those kids, then—he comes home from school, walks down these suburban streets, nods at the dads and moms shoveling snow outside these identical houses, and then walks into his own, flips on the TV, throws together a turkey sandwich from the fridge. Is his Mom home? His Mom is probably not home.
"How'd you hear about this?" he says, and then gapes a little. "I mean, if there's anything to hear about . . ."
I crane up on my toes, then drop down, try to look confident. I remove a glove and fish out my notebook. Already my fingers turn stiff, the skin under the knuckles turns hard. But it has to be done. "I got a call from a friend with the Courier, Billy. They know, see. Not a lot of people around here know, but some do. Someone's gonna tell your story, Billy, and not everybody's gonna agree to give you and your Mom and your buddies false names. The Courier is not gonna touch this story, but if you don't talk to me, you wait around another week, US News is gonna show up here, the Enquirer, fucking Entertainment Weekly."
Billy shifts around some more, shuffles his sneakers against the ice and salt on the doorstep.
"You know how US News operates, Billy? Week from now you're gonna be in there in your little sockeys watching Jackoff Jones and the Honeybunny Squad and someone's gonna ring your doorbell. You're gonna come to the door and instead of me out here, me with my notebook and pen and cold fuckin fingers, instead of me you're gonna find three guys with tape recorders and a woman with a video camera pointed at your face."
Billy's eyebrows quiver. He folds and refolds his arms. He bobs up and down, peeks over my shoulder, looks down the street both ways, and then nods toward the door. "Come in," he says, and sounds dejected enough that I feel a little bad.
. . .
"I love my mom," he says. He's buried in a couch that's soft enough to swallow a cow. He hugs his heels to his ass, his knees to his chest. He looks like he's 8. Across the room, lounging in a recliner more expensive than my monthly rent back in Des Moines, I make a point of spreading my legs, throwing out an arm, scratching my head. I tousle my hair. I'm relaxed. Over on the couch, Billy's making a freakshow of himself.
Not that he hasn't already.
"Had you been with a girl before?" I ask. "Or a woman?"
He shakes his head, then grimaces as I make notes. Really I don't need the notebook, I'll remember all of this, but it's a useful prop. A notebook can make a journalist out of just about anybody with a button shirt and a pair of glasses.
"So you thought this would be a good way to toss out the ol' vir-gin-i-tay."
"Um," he says. "Actually, it wasn't really my idea."
"Your friend came up with it?"
"He said it's sort of a thing, you know. A trend." Billy coughs. "You want something to drink?"
"How'd he bring it up?" I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom."
Billy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. The bangs stick up like bent antennae. If he wasn't staring at the floor before, he is now.
"Billy," I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom for his?"
"Just one night," he says, and I can't tell if he's going to cry or scream, just bawl or hurl the TV's 40-pound remote at my face. "Just one night, he said. Everybody was doing it. It came over from the West Coast, I don't know, Rob's got this cousin in Seattle I guess, and Rob heard about it and liked the idea, and . . ."
"What?"
"He's always liked my Mom."
I ask for Rob's last name, write it down and circle it in my notebook.
"My mom was cool with the idea," he says. "I mean, it's not like I forced her. My dad's been gone three years now, Mom's lonely—"
"How'd you bring it up?" I ask.
He exhales, hard, like he just came up out of eight feet of water. "I dunno. Rob and I, we had some beers. Mom gets home at 8 or 9 most nights, so we were down in the basement and by the time Mom came down with a DiGiorno we were drunk enough to ask her. She sort of looked . . . shocked at first, but then she smiled at Rob, a little weird like, and I came upstairs and finished my beer."
"And then what?"
Billy's not crying yet, but he's close. He's breathing hard and slow, and his hands can't stay away from his face. He presses palms to eyes, to temples. He can't look at me. "Then I don't know, I get through my beer. In the basement, I hear Mom laughing, and Rob talking to her. And then—"
"Yeah?"
"Then there's someone at the door. The doorbell rings, I mean. And I'm drunk, I am hammered. I get up and get the door and Katrina's out there. Katrina, that's Rob's Mom. And for a second I think she's here to pick up Rob, to bring him home cause he's had so much to drink, but she just smiles at me, and her eyes are, you know, slanted in a little, like she's thinking something dirty.
"'Robby called,'" she says. "'He says you two have an arrangement.'
"And I'm like . . . floored, you know? I'm shocked. Down in the basement, Mom laughs at something real hard like, and then there's this weird moment where she stops laughing and sort of . . . you know . . ."
"Moans?"
He nods. "And Katrina comes in and shuts the door. She puts a finger underneath my chin—" He demonstrates. "And says I've always been a cute little boy. She fiddles around in her purse for a second and I'm terrified she's looking for a condom, but she pulls out a flask. I don't drink liquor, but I did that night, and she did, and beneath us Mom and Rob were starting to really make too much noise."
"And then what?" I ask, but my imagination is lost, I'm staring at the door, at the lines of shoes and the hanging coats, and now I can see her there, Katrina, this 40 year-old brunette in pumps and a business suit, flirting up her son's 17 year-old friend.
"I ask—" He swallows, hard enough for me to hear. "I ask if she wants to go up to my room. But she grabs my shoulders and says no, right here's fine. She likes to listen, see. And you can hear my Mom and Rob downstairs, Rob's grunting a lot and Mom's almost screaming, it sounds like someone's torturing her."
"Did you go upstairs, then?"
He shakes his head, swallows again. "She pushed me down onto a chair, and I was drunk, you know? And then she's on her knees in front of me, and she's got my pants unzipped and off and—"
"And where'd this happen?"
He nods at me, at the recliner I'm in. "We had sex on the couch, but she went down on me right there."
"Here?" I say, and get it. "Oh," I say, and stand up, shudder. "Balls!"
Billy Hughes is a shy kid. When he talks, he has a way of staring at the grass, the sidewalk, the neighbor's orange pumpkin-shaped mailbox—anything but your face. His head bobs around on a scrawny neck, and washed-out blonde bangs hide his eyes. In his pockets, hands clench and release. Billy doesn't like talking to strangers, especially ones who ask questions about his Mom.
It's late 2005 when I catch up with Billy, the winter months. October's gone, buried beneath November's first snow, and let me tell you—here in Northern Iowa you know that snow's not melting anytime soon. Winds tear across flat farmland, and by the time they hit your face you can feel your nose turning red, can feel crimson blooming in your cheeks. Snot freezes. Tears solidify at the rims of your eyes.
Billy doesn't seem to mind the cold. It's the second thing I notice about him.
"Inside," he says. "It's pretty hot. Mom keeps the heat on all the time."
"That's what I hear," I say. "I hear you help her keep it that way."
He cocks his head, frowns. He realizes, for the first time, why I'm here. I'm not a Mormon, not a Jehovah's Witness. I'm not selling tubs of cookie dough for my daughter's 5th Grade band. I'm here to ask about his Mom, and I'm here to ask about her flat-out.
"You're one of those," he says. "You with the Courier?"
"I'm a private researcher," I say. "Freelance. You talked to anybody about this yet?"
He shakes his head.
"You're not going to, either." I cross arms, stamp feet. My boots grate against the smooth suburban sidewalk. "Between you and me, this story's too fucked up for the Courier. It's too fucked for the mainstream media."
He squirms, looks down the road, hunches forward. Maybe now that cold's getting to him. The door behind him is still open, and I can see a fake fireplace, and atop its brick mantle a row of photos. There's a bowling trophy there too, probably plastic, probably from Billy's childhood. I can see the kitchen, too: tile floor, glass table, low counter lined with a breadbox and a Mr. Coffee and a toaster that looks like it could calculate square roots. There's heat in that house, and the muted sound of dinnertime television, maybe Alex Trebek asking questions or Jerry Seinfeld telling jokes. Billy's one of those kids, then—he comes home from school, walks down these suburban streets, nods at the dads and moms shoveling snow outside these identical houses, and then walks into his own, flips on the TV, throws together a turkey sandwich from the fridge. Is his Mom home? His Mom is probably not home.
"How'd you hear about this?" he says, and then gapes a little. "I mean, if there's anything to hear about . . ."
I crane up on my toes, then drop down, try to look confident. I remove a glove and fish out my notebook. Already my fingers turn stiff, the skin under the knuckles turns hard. But it has to be done. "I got a call from a friend with the Courier, Billy. They know, see. Not a lot of people around here know, but some do. Someone's gonna tell your story, Billy, and not everybody's gonna agree to give you and your Mom and your buddies false names. The Courier is not gonna touch this story, but if you don't talk to me, you wait around another week, US News is gonna show up here, the Enquirer, fucking Entertainment Weekly."
Billy shifts around some more, shuffles his sneakers against the ice and salt on the doorstep.
"You know how US News operates, Billy? Week from now you're gonna be in there in your little sockeys watching Jackoff Jones and the Honeybunny Squad and someone's gonna ring your doorbell. You're gonna come to the door and instead of me out here, me with my notebook and pen and cold fuckin fingers, instead of me you're gonna find three guys with tape recorders and a woman with a video camera pointed at your face."
Billy's eyebrows quiver. He folds and refolds his arms. He bobs up and down, peeks over my shoulder, looks down the street both ways, and then nods toward the door. "Come in," he says, and sounds dejected enough that I feel a little bad.
. . .
"I love my mom," he says. He's buried in a couch that's soft enough to swallow a cow. He hugs his heels to his ass, his knees to his chest. He looks like he's 8. Across the room, lounging in a recliner more expensive than my monthly rent back in Des Moines, I make a point of spreading my legs, throwing out an arm, scratching my head. I tousle my hair. I'm relaxed. Over on the couch, Billy's making a freakshow of himself.
Not that he hasn't already.
"Had you been with a girl before?" I ask. "Or a woman?"
He shakes his head, then grimaces as I make notes. Really I don't need the notebook, I'll remember all of this, but it's a useful prop. A notebook can make a journalist out of just about anybody with a button shirt and a pair of glasses.
"So you thought this would be a good way to toss out the ol' vir-gin-i-tay."
"Um," he says. "Actually, it wasn't really my idea."
"Your friend came up with it?"
"He said it's sort of a thing, you know. A trend." Billy coughs. "You want something to drink?"
"How'd he bring it up?" I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom."
Billy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. The bangs stick up like bent antennae. If he wasn't staring at the floor before, he is now.
"Billy," I say. "How'd he talk you into swapping your Mom for his?"
"Just one night," he says, and I can't tell if he's going to cry or scream, just bawl or hurl the TV's 40-pound remote at my face. "Just one night, he said. Everybody was doing it. It came over from the West Coast, I don't know, Rob's got this cousin in Seattle I guess, and Rob heard about it and liked the idea, and . . ."
"What?"
"He's always liked my Mom."
I ask for Rob's last name, write it down and circle it in my notebook.
"My mom was cool with the idea," he says. "I mean, it's not like I forced her. My dad's been gone three years now, Mom's lonely—"
"How'd you bring it up?" I ask.
He exhales, hard, like he just came up out of eight feet of water. "I dunno. Rob and I, we had some beers. Mom gets home at 8 or 9 most nights, so we were down in the basement and by the time Mom came down with a DiGiorno we were drunk enough to ask her. She sort of looked . . . shocked at first, but then she smiled at Rob, a little weird like, and I came upstairs and finished my beer."
"And then what?"
Billy's not crying yet, but he's close. He's breathing hard and slow, and his hands can't stay away from his face. He presses palms to eyes, to temples. He can't look at me. "Then I don't know, I get through my beer. In the basement, I hear Mom laughing, and Rob talking to her. And then—"
"Yeah?"
"Then there's someone at the door. The doorbell rings, I mean. And I'm drunk, I am hammered. I get up and get the door and Katrina's out there. Katrina, that's Rob's Mom. And for a second I think she's here to pick up Rob, to bring him home cause he's had so much to drink, but she just smiles at me, and her eyes are, you know, slanted in a little, like she's thinking something dirty.
"'Robby called,'" she says. "'He says you two have an arrangement.'
"And I'm like . . . floored, you know? I'm shocked. Down in the basement, Mom laughs at something real hard like, and then there's this weird moment where she stops laughing and sort of . . . you know . . ."
"Moans?"
He nods. "And Katrina comes in and shuts the door. She puts a finger underneath my chin—" He demonstrates. "And says I've always been a cute little boy. She fiddles around in her purse for a second and I'm terrified she's looking for a condom, but she pulls out a flask. I don't drink liquor, but I did that night, and she did, and beneath us Mom and Rob were starting to really make too much noise."
"And then what?" I ask, but my imagination is lost, I'm staring at the door, at the lines of shoes and the hanging coats, and now I can see her there, Katrina, this 40 year-old brunette in pumps and a business suit, flirting up her son's 17 year-old friend.
"I ask—" He swallows, hard enough for me to hear. "I ask if she wants to go up to my room. But she grabs my shoulders and says no, right here's fine. She likes to listen, see. And you can hear my Mom and Rob downstairs, Rob's grunting a lot and Mom's almost screaming, it sounds like someone's torturing her."
"Did you go upstairs, then?"
He shakes his head, swallows again. "She pushed me down onto a chair, and I was drunk, you know? And then she's on her knees in front of me, and she's got my pants unzipped and off and—"
"And where'd this happen?"
He nods at me, at the recliner I'm in. "We had sex on the couch, but she went down on me right there."
"Here?" I say, and get it. "Oh," I say, and stand up, shudder. "Balls!"
More Mom Swapping
Wait, Kevin! Brilliance has struck! What if we write Mom Swap as a documentary of a real mom swapping phenomenon that got kicked off when two guys wrote a fake journalistic account of a fake mom swapping phenomenon? Yes.
Today I Was Accosted by a Hobo -:- AND -:- Mom Swap!
I pulled out of sleep, looked out the window at the capitol building, and smacked at the Stop Request line. The bus driver stopped at the closest crosswalk, which is not what I intended, and I stumbled outside while fumbling with a pair of gloves, my phone, my laptop bag, a trenchcoat, a satchel, and a typewriter case full of Xbox and internet equipment. This guy about ten feet down was walking in tight circles, like a shark, swearing into the air. He was dressed in decent state worker sort of clothes, so I just thought he was on a cell headset, but when he said "Motherfucker! Hey! I'm talkin to you motherfucker!" enough times I had to turn around. And he asked me for change. And when I didn't have any—I really didn't—he called me a motherfucker again and told me I better stay the fuck away from him if I was gonna pull that kinda shit.
And then I clocked him with the typewriter case.
Not really, but . . . you can imagine. I'd collect his broken teeth and jam them into my own mouth while he writhed on the ground. "Look!" I'd say, and dance around, bloody teeth falling from my lips. "I have a surplus of teeth now! You loony bastard!"
. . .
When I saw the movie review headline, "New Potter is Not a Rotter" ten seconds ago, I suddenly had a fantasy of crushing a reporter's trachea with a closed fist punch.
. . .
Kevin, I'm thinking of spending my free time today pounding out the opening chapter of our hard-hitting text documentary, Mom Swap. I'm thinking we open with a personal story, told in the 3rd person, journalistic style, about one boy's experience falling into the social quagmire that is the Mom Swap. Then in the next few chapters we pull out for a wider view of the phenomenon.
It's too bad no actual moms would cooperate with this idea, because this would be a kickass video documentary.
A filmvideo documentary.
A filmvideo movie documentary.
And then I clocked him with the typewriter case.
Not really, but . . . you can imagine. I'd collect his broken teeth and jam them into my own mouth while he writhed on the ground. "Look!" I'd say, and dance around, bloody teeth falling from my lips. "I have a surplus of teeth now! You loony bastard!"
. . .
When I saw the movie review headline, "New Potter is Not a Rotter" ten seconds ago, I suddenly had a fantasy of crushing a reporter's trachea with a closed fist punch.
. . .
Kevin, I'm thinking of spending my free time today pounding out the opening chapter of our hard-hitting text documentary, Mom Swap. I'm thinking we open with a personal story, told in the 3rd person, journalistic style, about one boy's experience falling into the social quagmire that is the Mom Swap. Then in the next few chapters we pull out for a wider view of the phenomenon.
It's too bad no actual moms would cooperate with this idea, because this would be a kickass video documentary.
A filmvideo documentary.
A filmvideo movie documentary.
Thought up at almost 6AM MST
Seriously, did something happen to Bil? I havent seen any action from Wllm for about 2 weeks on here.
Has the blog truely devovled into boring logs of Tim, Andy, Cricket, and Dave that are nicely coiled in little piles out on the front lawn that is ithe internet???
Has the blog truely devovled into boring logs of Tim, Andy, Cricket, and Dave that are nicely coiled in little piles out on the front lawn that is ithe internet???
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Not sure why I'm proud of this
DID YOU KNOW!...
That I haven't showered since Saturday afternoon?
Maybe you did, if you can smell me from wherever you are.
That I haven't showered since Saturday afternoon?
Maybe you did, if you can smell me from wherever you are.
Just a little boo boo
This morning I was filling out a work order form and listening to my headphones when all of a sudden I noticed something dark on the extreme of my left periphery. I didn't look up right away because I wanted to finish what I was doing. When I did finally turn around there is the annoying woman from New Zeland standing over my shoulder watching me write. She kind of surprised me and I accidently blurted out, "What the fuck are you doing?!?"
Probably not the best choice of words. Although it was really fucking creepy that she was just standing there looking over my shoulder. If I hadn't been listening to my headphones I probably would have heard her walk up, but I had them low enough that she could have just said something and I would have heard her. Did she say anything? No, not a word. She just fucking stood there watching me fill out this form.
Luckily my boss won't be back till next week so it'll probably be forgotten by then. Even if anyone does say anything to me I'll just be like, "The creepy bitch was just standing behind me watching me write! What the fuck would you say when you discovered that?"
Probably not the best choice of words. Although it was really fucking creepy that she was just standing there looking over my shoulder. If I hadn't been listening to my headphones I probably would have heard her walk up, but I had them low enough that she could have just said something and I would have heard her. Did she say anything? No, not a word. She just fucking stood there watching me fill out this form.
Luckily my boss won't be back till next week so it'll probably be forgotten by then. Even if anyone does say anything to me I'll just be like, "The creepy bitch was just standing behind me watching me write! What the fuck would you say when you discovered that?"
Old Man Winter Just Punched Me in the Kidneys
Dave: I am never going to call you. Why? Because I am fucking Procrastinate-O, a robot created in the year 2439 with the sole purpose of procrastinating. I've had like…4 calls from Lacy in the past week, all at work where I can't answer them, and do I remember to call her back? No. No, I do not.
I suck.
As you all know, today it is balls cold outside. There is a lady at the end of my block who walks her dog before 7 every day. She's always out there, in her yard, holding two dogs on leashes. Well, today…the ice all along her sidewalk was a patchwork of different colors…different urinical colors…
This snow reminds me of college, of being too fucking frozen to leave or to study or to do anything but mix up a Koala Bomb (that's Dew and vodka) and play some vidjo games. And, going back another year, of being stuck in my room listening to Andy's fucking Christmas mix on repeat for the 37th time. There was definitely a soundtrack to that winter. I know because I heard it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
I suck.
As you all know, today it is balls cold outside. There is a lady at the end of my block who walks her dog before 7 every day. She's always out there, in her yard, holding two dogs on leashes. Well, today…the ice all along her sidewalk was a patchwork of different colors…different urinical colors…
This snow reminds me of college, of being too fucking frozen to leave or to study or to do anything but mix up a Koala Bomb (that's Dew and vodka) and play some vidjo games. And, going back another year, of being stuck in my room listening to Andy's fucking Christmas mix on repeat for the 37th time. There was definitely a soundtrack to that winter. I know because I heard it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
The feast of dead poultry
Well, it's still a bit early, but I thought I would post the initial "What is everyone doing around Thanksgiving" post, so maybe we could find a time and all get together, because I know Wellsy is going to be here. I will be in Albia from the 21-27. I don't really have many other plans otherwise. So, comment away!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Story from the Register
Motorist hit, killed after hitting dog
By ASSOCIATED PRESS
November 15, 2005
A motorist who hit a dog on a Grundy County road near New Hartford Tuesday was killed when she was struck by a passing car as she got out of her car to check on the animal, sheriff’s officials said.
The woman was traveling near New Hartford about 6:30 a.m. when she apparently hit the dog and pulled over to check on the animal, Sheriff Rick Penning said.
She was struck by a car, which then slowed and was hit from behind by a third car, Penning said.
The name of the woman who was killed wasn’t immediately released.
Neither driver of the other cars was injured, Penning said.
Penning said the dog was killed.
By ASSOCIATED PRESS
November 15, 2005
A motorist who hit a dog on a Grundy County road near New Hartford Tuesday was killed when she was struck by a passing car as she got out of her car to check on the animal, sheriff’s officials said.
The woman was traveling near New Hartford about 6:30 a.m. when she apparently hit the dog and pulled over to check on the animal, Sheriff Rick Penning said.
She was struck by a car, which then slowed and was hit from behind by a third car, Penning said.
The name of the woman who was killed wasn’t immediately released.
Neither driver of the other cars was injured, Penning said.
Penning said the dog was killed.
Don't ever google image search "leprosy"
but you can't resist can you? You're probably already pulling up google in another window just itching to see what disgusting images could make me warn you against this. Go then, but don't say I didn't warn you!
You don't think you could...get leprosy just by looking at google images of it, could you?
Fwoosh!
I have no idea what this picture is about, and don't even care that it's definitely faked. The photo ID is 'trach-flames.jpg,' and that is all that matters. That and the goofy fuckin expression on the guy's face.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Blood match
There is an awesome verbal battle in my boss's office right now! So far the sweatsuit lady is in the lead, but . . . I'm not calling it either way until blood seeps out from the cracks.
Funny
From City View:
3 His tender side
In a bit of heart-wrenching testimony, 19-year-old videotaped opossum burner David Bendickson, said that, deep down, he's really an animal lover and has "been around turtles." An article about him in The Des Moines Register was accompanied by a photo of him being hugged by his mommy in front of a painted mural with horses on it. Next stop prison. Then hell.
3 His tender side
In a bit of heart-wrenching testimony, 19-year-old videotaped opossum burner David Bendickson, said that, deep down, he's really an animal lover and has "been around turtles." An article about him in The Des Moines Register was accompanied by a photo of him being hugged by his mommy in front of a painted mural with horses on it. Next stop prison. Then hell.
Peanut Butter Jelly Time
Have you heard of the McMurders? You should check them out, if you're a cool person. Or if you want to be a cool person.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McMurder
Don't even ask me how to become a premium person.
. . .
David-O!: this would be a good night to call me. Or I will try to remember to call you. But really, my memory is swiss cheesed from too much quantum leaping. I can barely remember to mail the electricity check.
Also, if you see me on halo, throw on the headset and we could talk in a room there.
. . .
If you could either jump into a bathtub full of cashew chicken or tapioca pudding, which would you pick?
. . .
This is what sucks: writing a 2 1/2 page email and accidentally deleting it.
. . .
The other researcher just discovered that to get into Berkeley's undergrad program, you need a 31 ACT.
Absurd!
. . .
Those fucking smarties. Let's see how smart they are when they get a visit from my pack of ferrel dogs who are trained to have sex on people's beds. Ryan got a visit from those dogs this weekend. Didn't you, Ryan?
I think one of them puked. Sorry.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McMurder
Don't even ask me how to become a premium person.
. . .
David-O!: this would be a good night to call me. Or I will try to remember to call you. But really, my memory is swiss cheesed from too much quantum leaping. I can barely remember to mail the electricity check.
Also, if you see me on halo, throw on the headset and we could talk in a room there.
. . .
If you could either jump into a bathtub full of cashew chicken or tapioca pudding, which would you pick?
. . .
This is what sucks: writing a 2 1/2 page email and accidentally deleting it.
. . .
The other researcher just discovered that to get into Berkeley's undergrad program, you need a 31 ACT.
Absurd!
. . .
Those fucking smarties. Let's see how smart they are when they get a visit from my pack of ferrel dogs who are trained to have sex on people's beds. Ryan got a visit from those dogs this weekend. Didn't you, Ryan?
I think one of them puked. Sorry.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Weekend Review
Where has Wllm gone? I think hes been murdered because he knew too much of the cult that is summoning that Cthulhu or whatever...
Tim, you cock ass. I called. TWICE. No responce. Too f'ing good to answer your phone? Heres the deal: CALL ME WHEN YOU GET TIME. That will unhassle you.
Chicken Little is worth the 8 bucks to see it in theatres. Its not pixar, mind you, but its better then that other movie disney did. You dont remember it? Exactly.
And...yeah. Got my tickets. WHOOT. We will have to get all liquored up or something...
Tim, you cock ass. I called. TWICE. No responce. Too f'ing good to answer your phone? Heres the deal: CALL ME WHEN YOU GET TIME. That will unhassle you.
Chicken Little is worth the 8 bucks to see it in theatres. Its not pixar, mind you, but its better then that other movie disney did. You dont remember it? Exactly.
And...yeah. Got my tickets. WHOOT. We will have to get all liquored up or something...
Friday, November 11, 2005
prizes!
Some of us should definitely enter the 250-word Dean-Koontz-Gets-it-on-with-an-Asian-Man Contest run by Bookslut.
Dispatch from the pile
I woke at 9 and crawled out of the pile of your mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives, etc. "Where are you going?" they asked as one, which is not surprising, as they need me. And then I thought: where am I going? So I got back in and slept till 11, as predicted.
Remember when I said that the Theory of Everything was pretty good? It's still pretty good. It's a radio podcasty thing, mostly talk, with music in the background and a different theme each week. In the past 12 hours I listened to five, I think, while I played Halo. The last ten minutes of "Anatomy of a Love Story" is about a dating service for people with STDs, and comes highly recommended. The program, not the dating service. You sick fuckers.
www.toeradio.org
Dave's post is so sad but also so entertaining...and now we know why God puts people in unfortunate circumstances: for the rest of our amusement.
This next bit is for John:
JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO!
You said you wanted to know.
And I'm listening to a Bobaflex song. You should burn me a CD of them or something. Or let me rip one. Because I do not support artists I like.
This will go on for the next hour or so, intermittently, I'm sure.
In response to Andy's post: I hated fishing stuff out of the pool. Man. Talk about futile. And disgusting.
When I was a kid I was terrified that someone might swim around at floor level poking people in the ass with pins and other pointy items...thankfully this never happened.
Another memory from my far flung youth: my mother telling me that if I peed in the pool, yellow bulbs would flash and sirens would sound and it'd generally be as if an Air Raid were happening.
Remember when I said that the Theory of Everything was pretty good? It's still pretty good. It's a radio podcasty thing, mostly talk, with music in the background and a different theme each week. In the past 12 hours I listened to five, I think, while I played Halo. The last ten minutes of "Anatomy of a Love Story" is about a dating service for people with STDs, and comes highly recommended. The program, not the dating service. You sick fuckers.
www.toeradio.org
Dave's post is so sad but also so entertaining...and now we know why God puts people in unfortunate circumstances: for the rest of our amusement.
This next bit is for John:
JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO! JOHN I'M PLAYING HALO!
You said you wanted to know.
And I'm listening to a Bobaflex song. You should burn me a CD of them or something. Or let me rip one. Because I do not support artists I like.
This will go on for the next hour or so, intermittently, I'm sure.
In response to Andy's post: I hated fishing stuff out of the pool. Man. Talk about futile. And disgusting.
When I was a kid I was terrified that someone might swim around at floor level poking people in the ass with pins and other pointy items...thankfully this never happened.
Another memory from my far flung youth: my mother telling me that if I peed in the pool, yellow bulbs would flash and sirens would sound and it'd generally be as if an Air Raid were happening.
End of the week boredom
On the Effectiveness of Aluminium Foil Helmets:
An Empirical Study
<---This guy goes to MIT. Does anyone else feel cheated by that fact?
“Hoppy” beer prevents cancer (and there was much rejoicing)
Army Wants Synthetic Gills ...and I want a Super-soldier syrum. We can't all get what we want. At least this is proof that the Army is good for something. I consider research into goofy shit like this money well spent. (seriously, I'm not even being sarcastic about that)
Enormous nuclear bunker for sale ...one of many reasons I consider playing the powerball.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hope you enjoy those links. They sustained me from the time I got to work to about...well...just before I started posting this blog. It is SOOOOO boring today. Tim isn't at work so I can't email him and a bunch of people took the day off so it's eerily quiet around the office. I know there are people here, but none of them are making any noise. IT'S FREAKING ME OUT!
Actually, maybe they all did leave and I just haven't noticed yet. If they did I think they cranked the air up before they left because it is FUCKING FREEZING in here.
Lately I've been studying Zen Buddhism. I've learned that Zen is really hard to nail down, like trying to grab a bee that accidently fell into the pool. When you grab for it, you push it farther away. You have to wait and be patient until it finally floats over your hand. Then you just cup your hand and lift the bee, water and all, out of the pool.
Then you set the bee on the concrete outside of the pool so someone can step on it.
So anyway, one thing Zen has helped me with is not getting so upset when things change. When something doesn't work out the way you want it to or you lose someone or something that was dear to you, it doesn't help you to fight that loss. Instead, you should focus on where that change will be taking you.
I still haven't got it all figured out of course, but that's sort of a preliminary lesson I've learned.
I've also discovered that you can learn a lot by paying attention to your breathing. Have you ever been doing something and all of a sudden you became aware of your breathing?
Listen to your breathing for a moment. Don't try to change it, just listen to it. Feel the breath move in and out of your body. Is it a deep breath, or shallow? Do you hold it in a long time or do you immediately let it back out? Is it a smooth, even breath, or is it erratic?
The answers to those questions could tell you a lot about how you are feeling at the moment. If your breath is deep, you are probably calm. If you are holding it before you let it go, then you might be holding on to something in your life that you need to let go of. If it is erratic, you are afraid or anxious about something.
Yes, that's right, I'm so bored I'm listening to my breathing.
I'm going to go drown myself in the water cooler now.
It takes 27 pancakes to cover Massachusettes because your mom's side of the family likes peanut butter every other Thursday in April on Leap Years
So earlier this evening/last nite::when you read this, I went shopping with Lynn and wound up in Victoria's Perversion. Upon being in there, she picked out nighties to excite her new boyfriend. As she asks to be let into the changing room, she motions her coat and purse towards me. I then utter the magical phrase: "It's Emasculating Time!" I believe my brain decided to put the inside thoughts outside through the mouth. The worker, hot by the way, says "Oh its that time of year when men get to wear purses" and Lynn replies, "Oh this teddy is for my boyfriend. Hes just my very best friend." Best friend in Dave's World usually means a medaphorical Andy-Hit-Me-in-the-Testes-with-a-Fanoodle but this time, I just nodded. Then the worker, did i mention she was hot?? ok, says "You are a good person!" just like the shrimp from Shark Tales. JUST LIKE THE FUCKING SHRIMP. I dont know where I was going wih this story. Oh yeah, so I called it Victoria's Perversion because its not a secret if you can see through it. And lingerie is quasipointless. Its going to come off. Just like you. But then again it makes the woman more susseptable to suggestions and builds her confidence enough for her to put on the cowboy hat and let you wear the pirate hat and then you start speaking italian long enough to give her a good ol' DP. Fuckin' A, man. I have no sense of sentence or paragraph. Form.
Got my tickets. Will be back on November 23rd. If you get a call from a 720 number, its me. I'm looking right at you, Tim.
Got my tickets. Will be back on November 23rd. If you get a call from a 720 number, its me. I'm looking right at you, Tim.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A Magnanimous Message from Tim
Awww, hell!
I can not wait for tomorrow!
I hope you are all as excited as I am about receiving holiday pay while you play 8 straight hours of Halo!
oh...
wait...
Not all of us get Vet's Day off.
Not to worry, though, because I dedicate my day of holiday pay to you!
And besides, it will be boring...when you think you're bored at work tomorrow just imagine how bored I must be, with nothing to do but crawl deeper beneath the warm embrace of my blankets until 11. And then I'll have to suffer through a leisurely lunch, and then a dull wandering around town, and an absurdly long shower, and the pain that is two solid hours of Halo...
you'd rather be at work or school anyway, I'm sure...
I can not wait for tomorrow!
I hope you are all as excited as I am about receiving holiday pay while you play 8 straight hours of Halo!
oh...
wait...
Not all of us get Vet's Day off.
Not to worry, though, because I dedicate my day of holiday pay to you!
And besides, it will be boring...when you think you're bored at work tomorrow just imagine how bored I must be, with nothing to do but crawl deeper beneath the warm embrace of my blankets until 11. And then I'll have to suffer through a leisurely lunch, and then a dull wandering around town, and an absurdly long shower, and the pain that is two solid hours of Halo...
you'd rather be at work or school anyway, I'm sure...
Libraries are BREEDING GROUNDS OF SIN
I just received this lovenote from the DMPL:
***BILL*** Our records show that you have a balance over $25. Please pay this bi
ll at the checkout desk as soon as possible. If still unpaid 22 days after this
date, the bill will be sent to Unique Mgmt. Services for collection, for an addi
tional $10 fee.
The know-it-all : one man's hu 31704011264868 Fine
Blood and smoke 31704009396011 Fine
Carter beats the Devil : a nov 31704010151660 Fine
The blind assassin / 31704009546581 Fine
The King Edward plot / 31704000904219 Lost
Previously Accrued Balance:
Total Charges This Notice: 25.45
Those f-ing bastards! They should have known not to trust me with their books in the first place!
***BILL*** Our records show that you have a balance over $25. Please pay this bi
ll at the checkout desk as soon as possible. If still unpaid 22 days after this
date, the bill will be sent to Unique Mgmt. Services for collection, for an addi
tional $10 fee.
The know-it-all : one man's hu 31704011264868 Fine
Blood and smoke 31704009396011 Fine
Carter beats the Devil : a nov 31704010151660 Fine
The blind assassin / 31704009546581 Fine
The King Edward plot / 31704000904219 Lost
Previously Accrued Balance:
Total Charges This Notice: 25.45
Those f-ing bastards! They should have known not to trust me with their books in the first place!
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Another Conversation with Heidi
Heidi says: (9:40:09 PM)
by the way did you know my grandma is dead
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:14 PM)
...
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:16 PM)
you are a liar
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:21 PM)
i hope
Heidi says: (9:40:33 PM)
yeah
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:36 PM)
whew
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:41 PM)
not that i wouldn't still do her
by the way did you know my grandma is dead
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:14 PM)
...
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:16 PM)
you are a liar
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:21 PM)
i hope
Heidi says: (9:40:33 PM)
yeah
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:36 PM)
whew
Tim (busy with your grandma) says: (9:40:41 PM)
not that i wouldn't still do her
The Thicket of Solitude
Oreos are like the worst food in the world for you, right? Then it is unfortunate that they are so damned delicious.
I have devised a new recipe wherein I dip the Oreos in a jar of lukewarm mayonnaise that's been in my filing cabinet since October. The Oreos are of the Halloween variety, meaning that the back of each is encrusted with a jack-o-lantern, a swirl of bats, a bedsheet ghost. If I happen to pull one with a witch on the back, I like to torment her first. "To the dunking!" I yell. "If she floats she is inn-o-cent!" But of course no one floats in may-o-nnaise.
. . .
Patty Mayonnaise . . . what a tramp.
. . .
She was probably a witch.
. . .
I am entering a new state of cheapness. This is an attempt to horde as much money as possible while writing large checks to the government, my landlord, etc. This means that if you ask where I want to go out for dinner, do not be surprised if I say "Aldi's."
. . .
Any news on the slapping site?
. . .
Vodka
I have devised a new recipe wherein I dip the Oreos in a jar of lukewarm mayonnaise that's been in my filing cabinet since October. The Oreos are of the Halloween variety, meaning that the back of each is encrusted with a jack-o-lantern, a swirl of bats, a bedsheet ghost. If I happen to pull one with a witch on the back, I like to torment her first. "To the dunking!" I yell. "If she floats she is inn-o-cent!" But of course no one floats in may-o-nnaise.
. . .
Patty Mayonnaise . . . what a tramp.
. . .
She was probably a witch.
. . .
I am entering a new state of cheapness. This is an attempt to horde as much money as possible while writing large checks to the government, my landlord, etc. This means that if you ask where I want to go out for dinner, do not be surprised if I say "Aldi's."
. . .
Any news on the slapping site?
. . .
Vodka
Badgers?! We dont need no stinkin' badgers!!!
So, what am I upto. Besides not having readily accessable internet, 4 in the morning blogging is where I get it on. And when Im on RA duty.
Nick mentioned doing an online comic of the burger comics. ...prolly not going to happen. Why? I seriously put a crack pot team of serious 2d animators together and we are doing a 30 minute cartoon. I'm the lead animator and artist on this project. Sweet ass, no? I have Screaming Mechanical Brain (formerly Screaming Monkey Boner) lined up to do some of the soundtrack with the possibility of any other music I can Katamari up. We also have the same artists mentioned earlier doing flat art to describe the stories to be accounted for in the animation. Following The Writers Journey and Joseph Cambell's Hero of a Thousand Faces archetypes, we've hammered out a pretty dandy script. We even got Cthulhu into this mess. And the best part? Its all from me. With help, of course.
After this project is sent to the in-betweeners and distributed, Im going to work on adapting JC and the Swingers into a religous cartoon series. I also would like to get with Wussly Beary on that zombie game Wllm thought of a while back. Ive gotten 3d character rigging down pretty well in 3d Studio Max and could possibly see if Wussly was interested in making a game engine. Aside from that, I was offered to help with a serious online comic book idea about Gods and faith and the power they possess, with the occasional demons and super powers none the less.
I'm still hammering out Denally. I still want to do FOES. Chuckles and Rikiki could work out. Rico Perez fits into anything I am working on now. OH! And theres that idea Ive been having about the spirits released during the 1890s idea Tim & I threw around. Not to mention I have to write a movie script and put together a flat art portfolio sometime. And then theres the burger comics that can be worked out into something else.
Denver is pretty neat. I still love how cheap it is for me to get drunk out here. I actually am considering living out here after college and after/during my career. AiC (thats the school I go to) is about 3 months from being certified or something for Master's Degrees in several fields, including teaching and sorcery. I might just take the route some of you didnt take and stay in school after school so my loans can coagulate into even larger blood blisters. Hopefully my projects will pay for all this well in advance.
Oh. Last thing: I finally got the guster to make and consume a Twinkie Wiener Sandwich (my favorite!) I got pictures. Will post them prolly today. Ok, Im done. Bedtime.
Nick mentioned doing an online comic of the burger comics. ...prolly not going to happen. Why? I seriously put a crack pot team of serious 2d animators together and we are doing a 30 minute cartoon. I'm the lead animator and artist on this project. Sweet ass, no? I have Screaming Mechanical Brain (formerly Screaming Monkey Boner) lined up to do some of the soundtrack with the possibility of any other music I can Katamari up. We also have the same artists mentioned earlier doing flat art to describe the stories to be accounted for in the animation. Following The Writers Journey and Joseph Cambell's Hero of a Thousand Faces archetypes, we've hammered out a pretty dandy script. We even got Cthulhu into this mess. And the best part? Its all from me. With help, of course.
After this project is sent to the in-betweeners and distributed, Im going to work on adapting JC and the Swingers into a religous cartoon series. I also would like to get with Wussly Beary on that zombie game Wllm thought of a while back. Ive gotten 3d character rigging down pretty well in 3d Studio Max and could possibly see if Wussly was interested in making a game engine. Aside from that, I was offered to help with a serious online comic book idea about Gods and faith and the power they possess, with the occasional demons and super powers none the less.
I'm still hammering out Denally. I still want to do FOES. Chuckles and Rikiki could work out. Rico Perez fits into anything I am working on now. OH! And theres that idea Ive been having about the spirits released during the 1890s idea Tim & I threw around. Not to mention I have to write a movie script and put together a flat art portfolio sometime. And then theres the burger comics that can be worked out into something else.
Denver is pretty neat. I still love how cheap it is for me to get drunk out here. I actually am considering living out here after college and after/during my career. AiC (thats the school I go to) is about 3 months from being certified or something for Master's Degrees in several fields, including teaching and sorcery. I might just take the route some of you didnt take and stay in school after school so my loans can coagulate into even larger blood blisters. Hopefully my projects will pay for all this well in advance.
Oh. Last thing: I finally got the guster to make and consume a Twinkie Wiener Sandwich (my favorite!) I got pictures. Will post them prolly today. Ok, Im done. Bedtime.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
No offense, but you're going to require a kick in the nuts
I'm on vacation, so I've been very drunk lately. Not as drunk as Ryan though. That MF-er can drink! So can all my friends though. Krispy told me tonight that he drank a quarter of a keg of Rock Bottom's Iron Horse stout. That is a shitload of beer! I don't think I could handle it and Krispy...fucking Krispy drank it. No offense to Krispy, but I've never thought of him as much of a drinker, and he put me to shame! Tim can drink more than me...Ryan can drink more than me...fuck, Sarah can drink more than me! But Sarah is also a damn drinking prodegy...so maybe I shouldn't feel bad about her.
I spent this weekend in South Bend Indiana immursing myself in Nortre Dame and football and stuff I know most of you probably wouldn't be interested in since you don't watch football and you basically were frightened by contact sports when you were young, so I won't bore you with a bunch of football-related stories about Notre Dame. I will tell you this, however: If you can't drink all day, don't start at 7 A.M.
So Nick, or slicknickwiththediamondick (which, by the way, should have been a dead giveaway) is the real Nick? The Nick from high school? What the balls? I thought he was hobnobing and rubbing elbows with Hollywood producers, wasn't he? Isn't that what Dave told me? I fear I was lied to. Why would he take time out of his busy hollywood schedule to post comments on our humble blog?
I spent this weekend in South Bend Indiana immursing myself in Nortre Dame and football and stuff I know most of you probably wouldn't be interested in since you don't watch football and you basically were frightened by contact sports when you were young, so I won't bore you with a bunch of football-related stories about Notre Dame. I will tell you this, however: If you can't drink all day, don't start at 7 A.M.
So Nick, or slicknickwiththediamondick (which, by the way, should have been a dead giveaway) is the real Nick? The Nick from high school? What the balls? I thought he was hobnobing and rubbing elbows with Hollywood producers, wasn't he? Isn't that what Dave told me? I fear I was lied to. Why would he take time out of his busy hollywood schedule to post comments on our humble blog?
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Lets prove this
Theres a "Nick" on the comments. If he is Wauson, then we shall find out with 3 questions:
1) Who was Phil?
2) What joke was banned from the burger comics?
3) What was the name of the cartoon you wanted to do with monkeys living under an old woman's porch?
4) First town in Final Fantasy 3/6 was ________________ AND what did we go to Burger King to get?
Nick should remember these. If its not Nick, we will shun the fuck out of the imposter. And by shunning the fuck out of, I suggest barb wire dildos and monkeys with metal rods.
1) Who was Phil?
2) What joke was banned from the burger comics?
3) What was the name of the cartoon you wanted to do with monkeys living under an old woman's porch?
4) First town in Final Fantasy 3/6 was ________________ AND what did we go to Burger King to get?
Nick should remember these. If its not Nick, we will shun the fuck out of the imposter. And by shunning the fuck out of, I suggest barb wire dildos and monkeys with metal rods.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
He's feelin it
Oh my God I HATE WADDLERS! Man!
I do not hate fat people. Although the truly fat would like nothing better than to seize us "Skinnies" (as they call us) by the husk and sink their sugar-warped teeth into our skin, they are too slow to get close. So I do not fear them either. It's safe to be fat around me.
But it is not safe to waddle in front of me! Fuck! Is there any worse feeling than to be stuck behind some bowling ball of a person who insists on walking not against the right side of the hall or agains the left side but straight down the fucking center? Going for that strike there, avoid the gutters. And they're always huff huffing and shuff shuffling and OH GOD it drives me mad. Yesterday and today both I've had to Solid Snake my way into the building because fat chicks WHO HAD THE AUDACITY EVEN TO LEAVE THEIR PARTY HATS AT HOME claimed entire hallways, absorbing space into their rolls like a Brawnie towel tossed onto a puddle of chicken grease.
I'm gonna start carryin a chain saw for pruning of excess body real estate.
Ironically, breakfast today is Halloween oreos and a bag of Snickers bars.
In related news, does anyone know what a "husk" is? I've been challenged about it before, but it's actually of Romingerian etymology.
Today I have a substance abuse evaluation. I'm going to whip out a cocktail shaker midway through the interview, nonchalantly pour vodka and kahlua from airline bottles, pull some ice out of a miniature portable cooler, and then whip out a cut glass tumbler. Then I'll pull out another, and offer the counselor one.
I can not believe fucking Denver decriminalized pot. I know where I'm moving when my liver gives out.
I do not hate fat people. Although the truly fat would like nothing better than to seize us "Skinnies" (as they call us) by the husk and sink their sugar-warped teeth into our skin, they are too slow to get close. So I do not fear them either. It's safe to be fat around me.
But it is not safe to waddle in front of me! Fuck! Is there any worse feeling than to be stuck behind some bowling ball of a person who insists on walking not against the right side of the hall or agains the left side but straight down the fucking center? Going for that strike there, avoid the gutters. And they're always huff huffing and shuff shuffling and OH GOD it drives me mad. Yesterday and today both I've had to Solid Snake my way into the building because fat chicks WHO HAD THE AUDACITY EVEN TO LEAVE THEIR PARTY HATS AT HOME claimed entire hallways, absorbing space into their rolls like a Brawnie towel tossed onto a puddle of chicken grease.
I'm gonna start carryin a chain saw for pruning of excess body real estate.
Ironically, breakfast today is Halloween oreos and a bag of Snickers bars.
In related news, does anyone know what a "husk" is? I've been challenged about it before, but it's actually of Romingerian etymology.
Today I have a substance abuse evaluation. I'm going to whip out a cocktail shaker midway through the interview, nonchalantly pour vodka and kahlua from airline bottles, pull some ice out of a miniature portable cooler, and then whip out a cut glass tumbler. Then I'll pull out another, and offer the counselor one.
I can not believe fucking Denver decriminalized pot. I know where I'm moving when my liver gives out.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Stop laying eggs in my tear ducts! Stop it, damn you! Stop it! You filthy non-mammalian son of a bitch! I'll have your ovaries! I swear I'll scoop the
I love the Des Moines Central Library!
Wow! You remember that copy of The Maltese Falcon that I checked out from Central Library and kept for like...a month?
Well, some of you should remember that, because you came over to my apartment to watch it. We didn't watch it, we just ended up getting drunk and going to the bar...but anyway, that movie had to have been three weeks late when I finally took it back. Tim told me that the Cedar Falls library charged $5 per day for late movies, so I figured I was F-ed for sure.
Well, turns out I only owe them $7.50. God love them, I was so scared I would never be able to check anything out in Des Moines again and then I discover that, for the price of a couple beers at a fancy-pants bar on the west side, I can redeem myself.
Well, some of you should remember that, because you came over to my apartment to watch it. We didn't watch it, we just ended up getting drunk and going to the bar...but anyway, that movie had to have been three weeks late when I finally took it back. Tim told me that the Cedar Falls library charged $5 per day for late movies, so I figured I was F-ed for sure.
Well, turns out I only owe them $7.50. God love them, I was so scared I would never be able to check anything out in Des Moines again and then I discover that, for the price of a couple beers at a fancy-pants bar on the west side, I can redeem myself.
I've burnt a circle into my vision.
It hurts.
But why you ask?
Because I wanted to figure out how the guys to who do weeble and bob made their preloader. I know how to make a preloader, but I didn't know how to make the spinning happen in relation to the % of the movie loaded. A week ago I stumbled on, and this seems like a no brainer too, .rotation in tutorial. Instantly I know what I need to do! So I make something, a test, monochromatically. The vibration of the movement burnt a circle in my eyes...
I want to use something like this for the slapping sight with a cutout of amish's head.
On a side note, I may have absorbed my twin in the womb and now he is a part of me! I was the stronger!
But why you ask?
Because I wanted to figure out how the guys to who do weeble and bob made their preloader. I know how to make a preloader, but I didn't know how to make the spinning happen in relation to the % of the movie loaded. A week ago I stumbled on, and this seems like a no brainer too, .rotation in tutorial. Instantly I know what I need to do! So I make something, a test, monochromatically. The vibration of the movement burnt a circle in my eyes...
I want to use something like this for the slapping sight with a cutout of amish's head.
On a side note, I may have absorbed my twin in the womb and now he is a part of me! I was the stronger!
But why were their heads shaved?
Remember that time we went over to Ryan and Andy's, and there was all that rustling around in the closet, and when I opened the door--had to brush by Andy to do so--the two guys in suits who were tied and handcuffed and gagged practically rolled out. And then we just slammed the door again. Man, that was crazy.
Devil Rum
Have I blogged about the guy with braces yet? Leg braces? I feel so bad hating him, but man . . . of all the cubicle gawkers, he's the worst. He doesn't even look in, but he passes by, arms wiggling, braces shaking, almost falling onto my fucking lap. Sometimes it's so bad that he sways in here and I get afraid that the braces are just gonna snap and I'm gonna be buried under 300 pounds of man. I just want to kick out the supports, let gravity have what it wants. "Give in!"
The number of disabled or otherwise non-traditional people here is quite high:
one guy with braces
one woman with flippers instead of hands
one morbidly obese woman
one woman who has a shaved head, wears men's suits, and obviously speaks too low for her voice, like a kid playing grownup on stage
one woman with a hunchback
one guy whose…I'm not sure what's wrong with him. His torso is too big…it's like you took the torse off an XL doll and sewed it onto a M doll's legs. And it's all like…no contours. It's like it's carved of wood, just a big block of it. And this guy will stare you down, as if to challenge you to stare. In all situations. It's really most disconcerting in the bathroom.
one building manager with a cane, very boss hawg. She spilled her coffee outside my cubicle once and radio'd one of her janitor lackeys to get here on the double.
And then there are the old women with hot legs. I don't even know what that's about.
My brain is broken today. F-ing broken. I blame the devil rum. Curse you, Paramount! You loom large in the abyss beneath the sink, your plastic bulk shiny against the muted grays of pipes and that old wrench I stole from my father's van. And you last forever, because you come in that jug for just thirteen dollars.
You know, devil rum, I love getting drunk on you. You're completely different from Bacardi; you twang the mouth more, zap nerve endings, jangle fillings. Your taste is like lightning that's been consumed and filtered out as urine. There's the aroma of rot on you that mixes so well with coke.
But there's nostalgia too. You and I were great friends in college! Yes! Watching Cowboy Bebop and writing blog entries at 3 am. And it takes me back to taste you now.
If only you weren't such a bitch the morning after.
The number of disabled or otherwise non-traditional people here is quite high:
one guy with braces
one woman with flippers instead of hands
one morbidly obese woman
one woman who has a shaved head, wears men's suits, and obviously speaks too low for her voice, like a kid playing grownup on stage
one woman with a hunchback
one guy whose…I'm not sure what's wrong with him. His torso is too big…it's like you took the torse off an XL doll and sewed it onto a M doll's legs. And it's all like…no contours. It's like it's carved of wood, just a big block of it. And this guy will stare you down, as if to challenge you to stare. In all situations. It's really most disconcerting in the bathroom.
one building manager with a cane, very boss hawg. She spilled her coffee outside my cubicle once and radio'd one of her janitor lackeys to get here on the double.
And then there are the old women with hot legs. I don't even know what that's about.
My brain is broken today. F-ing broken. I blame the devil rum. Curse you, Paramount! You loom large in the abyss beneath the sink, your plastic bulk shiny against the muted grays of pipes and that old wrench I stole from my father's van. And you last forever, because you come in that jug for just thirteen dollars.
You know, devil rum, I love getting drunk on you. You're completely different from Bacardi; you twang the mouth more, zap nerve endings, jangle fillings. Your taste is like lightning that's been consumed and filtered out as urine. There's the aroma of rot on you that mixes so well with coke.
But there's nostalgia too. You and I were great friends in college! Yes! Watching Cowboy Bebop and writing blog entries at 3 am. And it takes me back to taste you now.
If only you weren't such a bitch the morning after.
The Alpha male
Sunday night as I was racing back to Des Moines from Ames I was suddenly overtaken by a white blur. The only identifiable marking I could find on the blur was a pink Cubs sticker attached to it's hitch.
I said to Amish and Tim, "Hey, I know that Cubs sticker. That's a lady I work with!"
So I pressed the gas pedal down and took off after the white blur to confirm its identity. I was swerving in and out of lanes at ninty miles and hour in hot persuit of the blur and when I finally caught up, I discovered that it was, in fact, the lady I work with.
So naturally I gave her a lot of crap when I came in on Monday. But the crap I gave her was also very flirtatious, because I kind of have a little crush on this lady. Yes, she may be 36 years old; yes, she has three kids; and yes, I do work with her. But damn, if she isn't one of the hottest 36 year old divorcees I've ever seen.
My boss happened upon me while I was engaged in my crap giving/flirting, and he brought it up while we were at lunch yesterday. The two of us had gone out for some mexican food and practically the first thing he asked me was, "What were you and Jacque talking about yesterday?"
"Oh, I saw her driving like a bat out of hell coming back from Ames."
"Yeah, she's a wild one. Of course, you know how women are after they get divorced. You probably couldn't handle her."
Now this, as any man knows, is a challenge. My boss has just challenged my sexual prowess and I now have to defend myself.
"What do you mean I couldn't handle her? She's 36, I'm 23 -- I don't think she could handle me!"
"Oh, you don't know Jacque. She's a man eater, buddy. She would drink you under the table and then go home with your best friend."
Again, I have been issued a challenge and I am bound defend my honor yet again.
"What? Yeah right! Obviously you don't know me very well."
In a way, I have challenged my boss here. This is all a very intricate and ancient ritual to establish the dominancy of males. He is about to pull a very dirty card out of the deck.
"Oh really? Well, ask her out then and we'll find out."
Oh balls. This is a challenge of the highest order, if I back down from this I am admitting that I'm a spineless little coward.
"Sounds good. I'll have her bedded by Christmas."
Oh Andy, you damn fool.
So now I have to spend the next two months hitting on this 36-year-old woman if I want to save face. Well, I guess I don't really have to. I mean, my boss probably thought it was all a joke.
But I didn't.
I said to Amish and Tim, "Hey, I know that Cubs sticker. That's a lady I work with!"
So I pressed the gas pedal down and took off after the white blur to confirm its identity. I was swerving in and out of lanes at ninty miles and hour in hot persuit of the blur and when I finally caught up, I discovered that it was, in fact, the lady I work with.
So naturally I gave her a lot of crap when I came in on Monday. But the crap I gave her was also very flirtatious, because I kind of have a little crush on this lady. Yes, she may be 36 years old; yes, she has three kids; and yes, I do work with her. But damn, if she isn't one of the hottest 36 year old divorcees I've ever seen.
My boss happened upon me while I was engaged in my crap giving/flirting, and he brought it up while we were at lunch yesterday. The two of us had gone out for some mexican food and practically the first thing he asked me was, "What were you and Jacque talking about yesterday?"
"Oh, I saw her driving like a bat out of hell coming back from Ames."
"Yeah, she's a wild one. Of course, you know how women are after they get divorced. You probably couldn't handle her."
Now this, as any man knows, is a challenge. My boss has just challenged my sexual prowess and I now have to defend myself.
"What do you mean I couldn't handle her? She's 36, I'm 23 -- I don't think she could handle me!"
"Oh, you don't know Jacque. She's a man eater, buddy. She would drink you under the table and then go home with your best friend."
Again, I have been issued a challenge and I am bound defend my honor yet again.
"What? Yeah right! Obviously you don't know me very well."
In a way, I have challenged my boss here. This is all a very intricate and ancient ritual to establish the dominancy of males. He is about to pull a very dirty card out of the deck.
"Oh really? Well, ask her out then and we'll find out."
Oh balls. This is a challenge of the highest order, if I back down from this I am admitting that I'm a spineless little coward.
"Sounds good. I'll have her bedded by Christmas."
Oh Andy, you damn fool.
So now I have to spend the next two months hitting on this 36-year-old woman if I want to save face. Well, I guess I don't really have to. I mean, my boss probably thought it was all a joke.
But I didn't.
