Wait...Im still in F'ing Albia!

WHERE THE FUCK IS AMISH?
WHY AM I STILL IN ABLIA?
HAS SOMEONE CALLED NOVO?
Im hyped up on medications so I cannot drink...BUT STILL!!! If no luck on gettin to DSM, you all are fucks. Fuck you and your New Years. Ill just sit here. Alone. Again.

Break out the booze!

May all of you enjoy your day off and have a lovely New Year's celebration.

F'in Canadia

Here's an article in the Washington Post about an old US military plan to invade Canadia.

what?

Here's an article on South Carolina's mini-bottle law, which Andy and I discussed the other day, before I had to blugdeon an Ethiopian man to death with a plastic jug of Paramount Rum.

You get what you pay for.

Bunny has returned from her venture to the $750 4-bedroom house. From the sounds of things it would work but it's very small and kind of "dumpy", as Bunny put it.

She said three of the bedrooms were very small...like, the size of my dining room area. The kitchen was "weird"and everything else was "okay." Apparently there are two bathrooms but the upstairs bathroom only has a claw tub with no shower and the downstairs has a tub with a shower but it is "filthy."

In short, we need to get that other house. We WILL get that other house.

Arnda Barnda!

I just spent a very stupid 25 minutes on the phone with US Bank. There's nothing more infuriating than going through an automated menu only to be delivered to another automated menu like f'ing five times, unless it's smashing the 0 and realizing you could have gone that route at the very beginning.

I paid off my credit card on the 5th, and today I have a new charge, for interest. So I called up the bastards, who got confused and transferred me to financing, who were confused that I was there and wanted to transfer me back. But they tried to explain it like this:

Guy with the voice of a professional seducer: Well, we have a minimum interest charge of $2 each period—

Me: But I had a zero balance.

Guy: Well, what might have happened is that you paid right after the billing statement. It looks like this month's period ended on the 15th, so you might have paid things off on the 16th—

Me: It was the 5th. I haven't used it since paying it off on the 5th.

Guy: Well, okay . . . but let's just say you did—

He transferred me to someone else, who tried to explain how sometimes after you pay off your card, you can still keep getting charged for interest that didn't get considered in the first go round…or something like that. I am confused. I'm mailing them their two dollars, and cancelling the fucking card.

Youre goin to have to repeat that cuz I couldnt hear you over the sound of me shittin myself

Someone! Get a hold of Amish and remind him he needs to pick me up before he heads to town.

Possible Wllm this New Years? Maybe.

The guts look like raspberry.

My coworker was just eating Hershey's kisses, and spat up a 4-legged bug with purple guts coming out of the bite mark.

Why is my camera not here?!

Edit: it was not candy, but blueberry yogurt...and she thought it was a blueberry till she bit it.

Flophouse!

Noticed a few houses for rent on University, between the flophouse and downtown, more toward the flophouse, but wasn't able to get the numbers. Maybe tonight we could drive by or something? Or maybe on my way back from work I could go by them with my chauffeur.

JOHN V. IS A PERVERT.

I've always thought the two guys on the Iowa State mainpage look like they're getting ready to threeway the blonde.

What do you think?

Fucking Ames perverts.

Well, that's it.

I tried to get sexy today, because my girlfriend is (probably) coming, but instead of looking sexy I just look like a lounge singer. I put together a shirt and a jacket that, alone, look normal, but when combined turn me into the kind of guy who will karaoke at the bar and swig a gin & tonic while pulling the tabs off those 25 cent lotto cards.

I just almost told my coworker that she spreads her lies around this office like manure on a pig farm.

Here are some certifications and diplomas I bet you didn't know you could pick up at DMACC:

Certified Airbrush Artist

Retailing Diploma

Thank you, Goathead, for the bed last night. I can't decide who I should thank more, though, so Ryan ended up sleeping on the floor (like the filthy, filthy hamster he is). But since he can't read this, I guess it doesn't matter.

If I was a serial killer, I'd be the kind who knocks you out then sews someone else's skin onto you, like a suit.

Probably not. But I was thinking about doing that with Amish's skin, to Wes, a couple days ago.

I almost forgot why I was posting: the old lady in the cubicle next to mine dialed her phone, then, in a very angry and vindictive voice, said, "I just want you to know that I'm STILL SINGING 'JESUS LOVES ME.'"

Root beer floathead:

Any news yet?

Oh the places in my mind I've been

Amid the wave of real estate posts, I figured it was high time I post something.

I had a dream. A dream that involved: timetravel, space travel, adventures in politics in South America, and shell fish.

It all started when somehow or another I managed to break time and walk through it back to a big basketball game that I had gone to with friends in my early high school years. I looked like I did back then, but I had all the memories of where I was in the present/future. I knew that some of you albian types were there as well, so I hunted you down.

I found Kevin and Amish, started talking them up. They were a bit shocked that I knew much about them. Explained how I'd know them. I ran into a problem when I wanted to go back to the future. Somehow I figured I was stuck here until time caught up with itself. ... I was stuck as a high schooler a second time. Strangely it didn't turn out like the first time.

I was taken to Brazil. I don't know why. I remember a flight there, but little else. I worked at the docks in some city. Saw a lot of fish. For some reason people that worked/lived near the docks used shell fish and starfish for just about everything. A little slice into them and they could hold papers for you (for instance).

I was working at a dock that had a very unique airport built above it. A stone runway was built over it. I was going to catch a flight and come back home. As I was sitting at the edge of the runway where it connected with land, there was something of an uprising going on. I think they were running some city official out on a rail. The whole thing was basically a linch mob and it was passing right past the runway. They were holding up my flight. There was a break in the crowd and the plane finally got to leave. I ended up in some modern facility (I dunno what it was.) It had a holographic suite of the universe. You picked an avatar space ship and could travel around, get out of it in and stand at whatever point in space you wanted.

I traveled to the edge of the universe. Stood around next to a star. I could see the rest of the univers behind me, only a couple of stars around and in front of me. One of the other people with me (I don't know who they were) was standing next to the star, and kicked it. I flexed, and he put a foot right through it. The star showed it's wireframe (is was a holograph afterall) and flexed around his foot. So we started kicking the hell out of the star.

Enter a knocking sound from the real world and the whole thing ended.

Irish Yoga

Now, the Irish version

(888)-359-6064

(888)-769-6081

There's also this madness

We could cordon off the living room with sheets or something...?

and yes, this is getting pathetic.

In case andy or ryan read this

I know we talked about this place last night, but I think I was confused--are we insterested in checking it out? Because it would mean Goathead and Ryan sharing a room, unless the Lady B is going to room with one of you, which I sort of doubt.

If you guys are both cool with that, I'll try to get an appointment for tonight.

Hooses again

If any of you people with the day off get crazy, here are some places we could check out when I get off work. The first one would take some phone negotiations, which is unfortunate, since it is obviously perfect.

I don't know if I'm going to get a chance to call any places today, as my cell is now being rationed.

3,100 sq ft: 5 BR, 3 BA, balcony, 1,200 per month, one month deposit required. Max three tenants (maybe we could negotiate). Available Now. hardwood floors, built-in bookcases/buffet/window seats, wash/dry hook-ups, claw foot tubs w/shower access, heat/water paid (steam heat), small pets OK w/add deposit, some off-street parking, large yards, 1/2 block from MTA stop, Carl's Place and Cafe DiScala. 243-2558.

HUGE HOUSE FOR RENT 3936 36TH St Beaverdale. Perfect for 3 roommates, 3 bedrooms, 1800sq ft. $1200/mo. no longer available BLAH!
515-554-5870

4 Bedroom House for Rent phone number no longer works
$850/month, $500 deposit. Located 1 block south of University. Call 556-9763

Sick...as Amish's grandma

I haven't read the blog, or posted for a while, (due to lack of speedy internet at my house in the boonedocks, which is like driving a tractor down the interstate).
Well, I hope you all had a good Christmas and whatnot. I vowed that once I got home Sunday afternoon from Cedar Falls that the furthest I would drive from my house was Ottumwa...well, I was wrong.
I spent half of my Christmas break in my truck driving from Cedar Falls to Albia, to Lamoni, then back to Albia, a couple Ottumwa trips, a trip to Des Moines and Ankeny, then back to Albia, one more Ottumwa trip, then another Lamoni trip, then Albia. Now, I'm back in Cedar Falls.
I wish I could have seen you guys when Wellsy called me, but I was sick sick sick :( I'm still kind of sick, and haven't been able to talk for about 6 days now, which is getting really, really old.
Anyways, I need to go buy provisions and whatnot since I'm back, lest I gnaw off my own arm for food.
What is everyone doing for New Years?
That's all I got for now, take care.

Well, you've all failed me for the last time

And I'm detonating your explosive collars.

Let me know if you hear anything from Bunbun on the house...assuming you're reading this...which you're probably not...because I'm starting to think a carbon monoxide leak sprung up right after I left this morning and everyone in the flophouse is dead...

Bunny has the magic stick

Hello!

Hello!

This bit is intended for Andy, Kevin, Wes, ETCETERA: I know all you bastards are just enamored with the idea of lunching at your precious malt shop, but YOU SHOULD NOT EAT THERE TODAY. I just got a report in from OSHA about the teeming bacteria on their "washed" plates, and the despicable sanitary habits of their staff.

Look: this is what you should do: come eat lunch with me. You could even bring one of Wesley's little games.

The thing is, I happen to be available between noon and one today. That's a whole hour.

Don’t make me beg.

Okay, I'm begging.

Okay, I'm done begging. Go to your damn malt shop. And while you're at it you can pour your little malts all over each other's unwashed bodies, you lazy bastards.

Some people have jobs.

Love!

Meow. I'd Sell You Out.

Season's Greetings for your ass!
---David Wells

David Wells just showed up and started gibbering about Narnia, and the scene where the kid sells his family out for Turkish Delight. Turkish Delight, as detailed by Dave and this article, is disgusting. This lead to a discussion on what we would sell all of you out for. So:

David: I would sell you out for a brand new Beemer equipped with active camo and a stick shift. It would need a soda dispenser somewhere on the dashboard, as well as a hookup for my broken, run-over and snow-dripping ipod video (thanks, Ryan).

Andy: I would divulge your location and weaknesses to the Mormon inquisition in exchange for a refrigerated semi trailer of

1) Killian's

2) Beck's Dark

3) Bacardi Select

or

4) Jack Daniel's

Wes: A couple twinkies.

Kelly: The same.

Kevin: A time-traveling pirate galleon.

Cricket: A main-character voice roll in Halo 3.

Amish: Relief from that painfull rash I picked up from your whore grandmother.

Josh: A bunch of cheetahs tethered to a sled, and a cheetah whip. This would be a cool time-traveling vehicle too.

Bil: I would never sell you out.

Karl: A warehouse of Zima.

Kenny: A Super Monkey Ball rematch against Martin.

What kind of girl would YOU be?

Sometimes I wonder what I would dress like if I were a girl. Maybe

1) a bunch of skirts and button shirts, which would basically be a port of my current style onto a different gender

or

2) a fuckin freaky goth getup, with fingerless gloves

or

3) a 1950's explorer, minus the huge underwear. How did anybody put up with that underwear? It practically swallowed your body

or

4) A giant banana

Very likely it'd be the giant banana. I'd run around in a big foam banana suit, and guys would be like, hey, it's that banana chick. What banana chick? You know, that chick in the banana suit. Let's go do her. Dude, that's not a chick. That's a guy in a banana suit. No it's not. It isn't? Well, what chick would wear a banana suit all the time? To class? To her job?

I tell you what kind of chick: the me kind.

Balls.

This post goes out to all the poor sons of bitches who are at work today.

And unlike most of my posts that start that way, this one is written from my desk. Because I am one of those poor sons of bitches.



I was supposed to have this day off; the calendar still says I do, and it taunts me, the motherfucker, taunts me from the filing cabinet where it's held by dusty tape and fairy magic. Everyone else in this damn office has the day off; all the supervisors, anyway, because they're the ones with the 15 extra vacation days. We've got me, the transcriptionist quality control lady, and that's it in this room of 10 cubicles and an office. My girlfriend's asleep on a futon mattress back in the flophouse, curled up with a stuffed alligator as big as her body, and all I've got to hold is a non-ergonomic keyboard and a mouse that's so old it still uses a fucking ball. I'm writing an occupational report for a guy who wants to be a full-time RA. The research assistant left a plate of Christmas treats on my desk but all the good stuff is gone and I'm down to the weird chocolate bird's nest and the mashmallow-peanuts-white chocolate globs that look like the Flood. There are little cups of peanuts smothered in chocolate that I'm not even going to touch.

But here goes the bird's nest:

and it's not so bad. It's chocolate, nuts, and little . . . Asiany . . . noodles? Crackers? It is a mystery.





God, I'm gonna eat that bloater here in a second . . .



Tonight I will return to Albia. A lot of people who aren't Ryan will return to Albia. This is the thing: Garrett's apartment no longer exists. Amish no longer works at K & G. There is nowhere for us. Nowhere. Nowhere. Also, any Christmas ruination that I am to partake in must take place this very night, as the next night (Christmas Eve) I must stay sober.

I have no idea when I will be around tonight, but I would guess it will fall between 7:30 and 8:30. You are all invited to swing by after 8:30ish, or contact me otherwise or, you know . . . whatever.

Chuck Norris lives by one rule: NO FAT CHICKS

SO, ANDY....wanna give me ride Monday to Des Moines? If no, Ill be leaving with Perry in the very f'ing early hours, before the crack of Noon-Thirty.

As for the rest of us, are we going to ruin Christmas again? I say yes. Yes to that. Bil needs to be called and forced to come along, too, and sodomize the Season with us. Everyone should too!!

EDIT: Sarah is not pseudo-gothy as I once said or implied. If anything, shes smart in the pants department, and of the irish descent of the Clan of McDrunkerfaces.

You're not real. This can't be happening ... you're already dead.

The main page of McSweeney's (Truly Groundbreaking Advertising...) is one of the best ones I've seen.

Hot Linkage!

A Christian Nudist Colony! WEEEHOOO, like Mardi Gras only...without all of the booze and the sex...and basically all the things that make people want to go to Mardi Gras.

Archeological Anomolies. Either intelligent humans have existed on Earth for a lot longer than estimated, some other intelligent race lived here before we did, or our dating methods are all F-ed up.

NSA Spooks react to the unwarranted, Bush-authorized-surveillance scandal. "You do a lot of weird shit. But at least you don't fuck with your own people."

Surfacing beneath Dave's house

Anybody know what a "gauger" is? I'm supposed to write an occupational report on that job title.

Here you go, Dave.

Boingboing links to an .mp3 of an It's a Wonderful Life radio broadcast with the original cast.

Girls Gone Wild is the Devil's Work

There are some awesomely ironic ironic quotes in this news story, linked to from Boingboing and originally published in LA Times :

(Francis in this news story is the founder of Girls Gone Wild)

[Francis] testified that an armed intruder stole cash and possessions and then forced him to make a humiliating, half-naked video. Francis identified his assailant as Darnell Riley, 28, who is accused of six felony counts of burglary, robbery, carjacking, kidnapping and attempted extortion.

In Los Angeles County Superior Court today, Riley's lawyer fired back at Francis, grilling him on his own police record. Defense attorney Ronald Richards asked Francis about a theft arrest in North Carolina, and a case pending in Florida alleging that he filmed minors for one of his videotapes and was charged with racketeering, prostitution, obscenity, child pornography and possession of an illegal drug.

"I don't want attention from this in my life," Francis said. "To relive this is even more painful."

Whales!

David, I want you to look at this picture and ask yourself: how much of that whale is still to be seen? How much of that whale's massive, crushing body still rides beneath the waves, secreted beneath the serene surface of the ocean?



There's a couple pages in the preface to Dave Eggers's Heartbreaking Work of Blahblahblah (a memoir, not fiction) where they're on a whale-seeing kayak ride, and a whale surfaces directly beneath one of the kayaks. That could happen to you, Dave. It really could. Or it could surface directly beneath your train on the way back to Denver.

I'll be going to Sarah's town over christmas, so won't see anybody at all.

No, just kidding. I will be in Albia.

I just ate the greatest Christmas candy I've ever had. If you have access to these, bring me one: it's a little green wreathe of rice krispies or something. Delicious. Crunchy. Delicious.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

In 4 hours, I board the train. Whoot!

Can we all get together for some sort of group shot. Not of booze, you damn alcoholics. Im talkin bout a picture of the HS gang. I know you all did it without me during the reunion (Somehow Bunny mozied her way onto the scene. CURSES!). Plus itd be symbolic of the fact we've been "friends" for about 10 years now. TEN DAMN YEARS! People dont believe that I still hang out with my high school click (well...minus last Thanksgiving when some of you were antisocial assfucks who sodomized my time away because of petty drama. And so on.) so I want something to pridefully rub in their snooty fucking faces.

And then I raped a cow.

The Nighttime Transmission

I've been reading one of the branch manuals for the Canadian version of Wells Fargo and they keep mentioning a "Nighttime Transmission" but they never really explain what it is. They'll say things like "The nighttime transmisson will always include a statement of progress." and "The nighttime transmission sent one day cannot be requested on the following day."

I'm starting to think that the nighttime transmission is a communication with the homeworld, keeping them informed on the status of the infiltration and terraforming of the human world.

If Wells Fargo were being run by space aliens, I wouldn't really be surprised. In fact, it might explain a few things.

Rominger's Manservant

Sometimes I don't shower for days on end. The last time I showered was Sunday before dinner; although I intended to bathe last night, I didn't get home until 8 and then it was too frigid for showering and too late to care and I passed out on the futon in a pile of books and prostitutes—at 11:30!

But nobody wants to be scurvy. You know how you just feel greasy after a couple days? I can't wait to get clean. I feel like I just made out with a squid—slime all over, tentacles enwrapping my body. And all these hickeys—tens of thousands of hickeys where the little suction cups held the skin of my face, my tongue, my cornea.

But the crust of moral filth is the hardest to scrub away . . .

Have you ever had market pantry cola? It's the generic target cola. And with apologies to Morgan, it is delicious. I prefer it to Pepsi, Coke, and that weird syrupy stuff imported from the mole people, Schnuxxor. Maybe it's just that I'm marketing's bitch, and can't resist the crisp lines of those white ice cubes against the red can. Or maybe I'm just cheap. But I used to mix huge vats of this stuff with rum and leave reality for weeks at a time.

Here's a question for anyone familiar with Dave's and my old church: if you had to make out with one church member over age 50, which one would you pick?

I'm thinking Don Eilander.

Not really.

But you get the idea.

Last night I dreamt that we bought the Scieszinski manor. Andy was high as hell, wandering around the place. There was a room with a giant punch bowl and an oversized Life game twisty wheel. There was John S. with 15 mutated eyes encircling his head. There was cooked human mixed in with pasta. It was a jacked up dream.

I am leaving this world next year. And by "this world," I mean Iowa. Failing acceptance at U. of Iowa, I'm either leaving for grad school in another state or leaving for pizza delivery in San Francisco. Or New York. Or, you know, something like that. I'm going to buy a suit and a limo and be Sarah's manservant. Or Rominger's manservant. I could do that too. This his child would grow up with a weird butler/chauffeur/bodyguard.

I guess I just found my life destiny.

Holy Fuck I Passed?

Look at that!!! I didnt fail miserably. Coincidentally, I passed CA (the 3d class) with the same grade I mooched out of Heritage.

Its great we won this cruise for being the awesomest 5th graders in the world!

This article reminds me of my youth. It reminds me of Tim's youth too.

Read the other articles, too. Its as though this guy is the blend of Tim and Me.

Did you ever play Paperboy?

If so, then read this!

Cricket's and my old roommate Troy was a grandmaster.
Or was that you, John?

Time-travelin Goathead from the future

..?

Get out of here.

Found this on Boingboing, but it's published in the Washington Post...which you probably don't have a subscription to, unless you have a job that forces you to consider the two minute registration process an investment in your long-term at-the-job boredom repulsion strategy.

Anyway, it's an interview with Bush about his ipod:

Bush : Beach Boys, Beatles, let's see, Alan Jackson, Alan Jackson, Alejandro, Alison Krauss, the Angels, the Archies, Aretha Franklin, the Beatles, Dan McLean. Remember him?

Hume: Don McLean.

Bush: I mean, Don McLean.

Hume: Does "American Pie," right?

Bush: Great song.

Hume: Yes, yes, great song.

Unidentified male: . . . which ones do you play?

Bush: All of these. I put it on shuffle. Dwight Yoakam. I've got the Shuffle, the, what is it called? The little.

Hume: Shuffle.

Bush: It looks like.

Hume: The Shuffle. That is the name of one of the models.

Bush: Yes, the Shuffle.

Hume: Called the Shuffle.

Bush: Lightweight, and crank it on, and you shuffle the Shuffle.

Hume: So you -- it plays . . .

Bush: Put it in my pocket, got the ear things on.

Hume: So it plays them in a random order.

Bush: Yes.

Hume: So you don't know what you're going to going to get.

Bush: No.

Hume: But you know --

Bush: And if you don't like it, you have got your little advance button. It's pretty high-tech stuff.

Hume: . . . be good to have one of those at home, wouldn't it?

Bush: Oh?

Hume: Yes, hit the button and whatever it is that's in your head -- gone.

Bush: . . . it's a bad day, just say, get out of here.

Hume: Well, that probably is pretty . . .

Bush: That works, too. ( Laughter )

Hume: Yes, right.

I Heart Failure

So far, Ive failed Typography and 3d Character Animation. Both because of me being bored with the class and/or procrastination.

I will be back in Iowa NEXT WEDNESDAY MORNING!!! Inform the illiterate one as Andy has. Why keep informing him? Because he of all you booze hounding sex fiends forgets and/or mistakes when I return.

Shhhhiiiiit.

I'm sort of a purist when it comes to the pub.

I have it on good authority that The Lift (a downtown bar frequented by Heather and Alyssa) is unofficially sponsoring a knitting night. Let me say that one more time, for those of you who are in a state of disbelief: A downtown bar is sponsoring a KNITTING NIGHT!!

No offence to Heather and her pastime of choice, but that is completely unacceptable and I plan to protest.

The first time I witnessed Heather knitting at a bar I thought, “Aww, that’s kind of funny and cute.” Each subsequent occasion of her knitting in the bar I felt more and more like, “There is something very wrong with this picture.” And there was, indeed, something very wrong with it. It was sacrilegious. I could walk into the bar and piss all over the counter then break a barstool over some dude’s head (not an altogether unlikely scenario) and I would not have soiled the sanctity of the bar half as badly as she did with her knitting needles and yarn.

I’m a pub purist, you might say. On a lot of issues I’d like to think I’m a progressive, forward-thinking sort of fellow. Not on this one. I take my drinking, furniture breaking and urinating very seriously.

When the Irish, in their infinite wisdom, decided to invent the Pub they had some very specific uses in mind. The Pub (which is short for Public House) was invented because the Irish had the same problem a lot of us have had; we invite people over to drink and they end up destroying the place. After waking to countless mornings in a pile of broken furniture and urine they built a public house where everyone could go to drink and be merry and break furniture and piss on everything and still go home to a house with no broken furniture and piss.

As the Guinness guys would say: BRILLIANT!

Now, that didn’t mean that all they did in the pub was drink, piss and break furniture. Heaven’s no. There were all kinds of other activities they deemed suitable for the public house. Activities such as singing, dancing, playing music, socializing, flirting with members of the opposite sex, and fighting were all enjoyed at the pub. These activities really complemented one another well. If you were drinking you would want some entertainment so someone should play music. If someone were playing music then that would probably lead to dancing. If there were women in the pub (which there usually were) then the drinking and dancing would lead to socializing and flirting. If there was flirting, then there was bound to be competition for the prettiest Irish lasses, which would lead to fighting. Then the fighting led to the broken furniture and urine and all the rest.

It’s a perfect system and drunks around the world have enjoyed it for centuries. We’re talking hundreds of years of broken furniture and urine. (You’ll notice I didn’t include knitting little fucking booties out of yarn anywhere in that list.)

Of course, even a perfect system could be improved upon, I’ll admit. Such inventions as billiards and darts lent themselves well to the pub scene. They fit in naturally, so even the purists accepted them with open arms. Pool cues and darts make for really handy weapons in bar fights too!

While knitting needles could also be useful in bar fights and I do love those hand-knitted beanies, knitting should never EVER take place in a bar. Knitting is a boring activity where old women take two sticks and a ball of yarn and conjure a damn sweater. That sort of octogenarian voodoo magic has no place in a bar. And really, neither do the old women who practice it. Old women don’t like to drink, dance, fight, break furniture, urinate or do anything else typically associated with the pub. A whole gaggle of knitters could get together at someone’s house and they would never end up passed out in a pile of broken furniture and urine. (Unless they had a cat issue, which some old ladies do. And if one of the cats became rabid, well...maybe the pile of broken furniture and urine then...maybe!)

So ladies, keep the pub pure, and keep the damn knitting at home.

Don’t make me have to piss on your yarn!

Just in case....

For those moments when you can't play halo:

http://www.xgenstudios.com/play/stickarena/

a completely different multiplayer shooter.

Probably.

Maybe we should get a dog for our house...?

This is what I really want for Christmas (and all other gifts will be turned away

[save the gift of the younger of the H. Perry's, who was far too thoughtful to our squadron of drunks and womanizers and vagabonds, and will be forever loved for it]):

A Jacket Made from Amish's Pelt

Make it!

Written by electronic zeppelin dispatch

In response to Dave's post: But you always talk about hating your family in real life! What about how you slipped lead chips into Julie's baby food, or rat poison into Gabby's milk supply? Or the time Ralph woke up and you were getting ready to castrate him with a cigar cutter? Or when your mom came home and you were microwaving Vader? Or when you microvaved HER. Or when you lured your entire family into the basement for a sample of a rare cask of Amontillado and then tried to brick them in for live burial?

You're a sick man, and I'll not be another silent strand in your web of lies.

In response to Kevin's blanket invitation to his home: As Sarah just arrived last night and already we've seen two movies, including the one you're watching tonight, I don't know if we'll make it. Also, she hates driving at night. Also, I have to do laundry. But I do want to see my Kevin. Are you going to hunt giant apes with us tomorrow night, if we still do that?

If anyone I live with is interested in going, you may see us. But I'm not bringing a pie over.

That will never happen again.

Fucker.

Pie fucker.

This morning andy gave me the gift of steak. In a tupperware tub.

I'm considering eating it at lunch. Everybody else will be swilling coffee and chewing donuts, and I'll be in the corner, hunched over a little pit, ripping a steak apart with my teeth and hands. If anybody asks, I found a mouse and cooked it in the microwave.

We'll be doing something for Sarah's graduation party Saturday night, so if you're in the DM area, you should come. (Not like that, you pervert.) Amish will be here to absorb all fate's misfortune, so feel safe.

FOR SIBLINGS WHO SHOULDNT BE READING!!!

So, my sisters found the blog. And they dont understand something. They dont understand that on the internet, I say bitter mean hateful things that I dont mean.

They think everyone on the internet is honest, truthful, and 100% themselves.

FUCK NO.

I dont talk about raping horses or launching seals in real life. Thats just cloud talk. The internet is all about cloud talk. And pornography. Dreamy talk and pornography. And Myspace.

I dont hate my family. I hate when all I can do is wait at my families house and not see my friends who are out hunting bigfoot or having a blast WITHOUT ME. And retarded is a universal adjective. Retarded christians. Retarded banks. Retarded Retards.

Tiny Tim's Christmas Gift

I think we should pool our funds to buy Tim a zeppelin for Christmas.

Don’t ask me WHY Tim needs a zeppelin, you dumbass! That’s like asking why a pirate needs a fucking galleon, or why Bozo needs a clown car. Tim needs a fucking zepplin.

I’m not sure how much a zeppelin costs and my initial google/ebay search for a zeppelin only brought up boxed sets of Led Zeppelin albums and a zeppelin brand snowboards, but I’m certain we can find one. I would guess it couldn’t cost more than...say...$150,000.

I’m going to start the pool with $5. If everyone who reads this blog contributes we might be able to get that number up to...like...$150,000,000 by Christmas.

Cause this blog is insanely popular, right? The kids love it.

Slap idea!

A slap haiku? Yea or Nay? I think it'd be hilarious for amish to preform haiku while being constantly slapped.

I have a doodle. I'll scan and post it later. Right now I think my desk is melting. F! How do you get desk out? Club soda isn't going to work.

Ichor!

This is a pretty good story.

It's Sherlock Holmes meets Lovecraft, essentially. By Neil Gaiman.

I eat zingers --Sasquatch

Oh man first I didn't have any money but then I found 35 cents in my pocket and then Kathy had a couple quarters so I was gonna get some zingers but then there were no zingers cause they'd been replaced by Hostess Brownies which looked exactly the same but bigger so I got those and then Kathy got those but her package had a hole in it and a bunch of little ratty gnaw marks so she got another package and then we saw that the real zingers were still in the machine but had been moved to the top! and we could have had real zingers but instead we got these crappy Hostess knockoffst hat don't even have cream filling!

I've never felt better....ok NOW I've never felt better.

I just had a major bout with the stomach flu. It sucked really bad and ruined my weekend.

Sorry you guys didn't win anything in the Halo tournament. You guys needed my expertise. I could have been the moving target to distract others, while you guys close in for the kill.
Think about it.

Even dumber!

Jep!

Hayuck!

We should probably stick to air travel in getting around Des Moines.

Heartbreak and disappointment

Him: Is this Mary Catheter's phone?

Me: Nope, this is Tim.

Him: (says my number)?

Me: That's me.

Him: I'm sure that's the number she gave me.

Me: I've had it for about . . . six years now.

Him: . . . oh.

Who wants to go see King Kong sometime this week?!

That's right, I knew you did.

The Halo Tournament

Hello! My name is Admiral Tim, and I will be your guide for this photo essay!

(see this link for more info on the Halo tournament)

How did I lose my eye, you ask? Let's just say those frat boys got a little carried away with their rock-hard erections . . .






We start out with a little training at John's place. If you've never been to John's massive single-celled apartment, well, now you have. In the same sense that you've had a threeway with two beautiful emo girls dressed in blue plaid skirts: by seeing pictures of it on the internet.






Victory is assured!

Most certainly!






This is John. Sometimes he looks very British. Here he looks like a British cat. Not only British, but also like a cat.

Meow!






Andy: Let's go kick some ass!

Tim: Let's go abduct a little boy!

Andy: ...






Man, when Tim puts on that eyepatch . . . sometimes I wonder if I might be gay . . .






And maybe that's why I have all these warts on my junk . . .






Let's play some Halo!

And at this point we play the JERKIEST, MOST WE-GOT-FUCKED-BY-HARDWARE game of my life. Movement was as grainy and jerky as an old computer game. No precision. We got F'd by overworked LAN cables and overhot consoles. And that makes these faces:











Amish! You got eight fucking kills!

Yeah? The controls were all--HWARG!




What could possibly soothe our broken hearts?

Oh, I know! PIRAAT ALE!

Outside the Halo tournament . . .

Check out these sweet Christmas decorations! They make my nipples so hard!



Amish! You know I'm fuckin Jewish!



Smacko!

"No matter how good the farrier is, he'll occasionally find himself standing in a pool of blood."

This list of rules for shoeing a horse is strangely fascinating.

Now I'm pissed!

The Dept. of Ed. stirred my furies, and I sent this back to the grad school rep I've been sparring with:

I guess I'll have my friends write it.

None of my professors with relevant experience are even returning my calls or emails. I have no idea what's going on.

I've won numerous writing awards. My GRE verbal score places me in the top 1% of test takers. I've dropped almost $800 on apps and GREs and transcripts and postage. And now I'm going to spend next year taking dictation for some corporate career widower instead of doing anything intellectually stimulating or even worth my time.

I understand the college has admissions requirements, but it seems completely illogical to completely rule out an application because two individuals who have nothing to do with my future performance have blown me off. I spent my undergrad career preparing for this, got a better GRE verbal score than any students currently in the English grad programs at two Iowa state schools I contacted, won the university's writing contest all three times I entered, got some publication credits, and now . . . it means nothing because one of my professors is too busy editing a magazine and the other's brain has apparently dissolved in a mess of whisky and grief over his brother's death.

At this point, there's no way I can get any old profs to write and send a letter by the 15 December deadline.

I'm never eating again.

FUCK.

Listen to this tale of bitching:

I already owe the state just over $2000.

I owe $200 rent at Ankeny.

Andy's rent company is fucking him out of money, which will affect me.

We're moving into a new house.

I wasted just over $800 on grad school processes, since ONE of my professors actually came through and wrote my letters.

Now, because the post office fucked up my mail forwarding, I just got a notice about how I'm losing an additional $216 to the god damned department of education for not paying a bill I still HAVEN'T RECEIVED.

I'm gonna fucking shoot myself.

Listen to my Hooves

Anyone with farm experience know if there are still professional horse shoers in Iowa?

A Nobel and Stupid Tale

Many of you have heard me bitch about this story, but not many of you have heard me bitch about it in inky, written form.

Once, in a distant lande, there wasse a noble deliverer of meat and cheese pies. Oftentime, the cookes who madde these pies wolde focke them up something greate and terrible, and thanne the deliverer wolde catch all the wrathe of Sathanes and his deviles from the patrons who purchassed the pies. Comme a time that the scoundrly cookes mangled an ordre so great and wondroussley that the warden of the meat and cheese pies offered this ordre unto the patron for no more coin than five gold dollars. Hokay, said this unsightly wench, and so the courier of pies amounted his sputtry steed and bounced outte across the hilles and slums of Albia, in search of this vile patron's home. And whanne it came that he found her dwelling, she appeared herself upon the stoope, looking to be rather large-bellied and full of ire. She wasse all of the age of fifteen years. The deliverer handed her the pie and asked for five dollars. She trafficked only in quarter-dollars, tho, and so handed our noble deliverer eight dollars' worthy, or 32 quarter-dollars. Thanne our deliverer, having three dollars too many, thanked this ogrous woman and turned to make his way. "Ah," she said, sounding alike she'd finally give way to Satanas' tempting hunger and swallowed her very tongue for noorishment, "in sooth, I will need the change."

And so I ask you: why the hell did she give me 12 extra fucking quarters if she wanted the change? There was no tip there; and it's not like I had to break any bill for her. She owed me five; she gave me eight. Then she asked me to hand the extra quarters right back.

That's like leaving four ones on the table, and when the waitress gets them, saying her tip is only two, and she'll have to make change.

The only explanation is that she couldn't F'ing count.

Tomorrow I go to win my second Halo tournament, this time as part of the 101st Fighting Hobos. So what if that first tournament consisted of a bunch of Gamestop fanboys at midnight over a year ago? It was cold, man! And we were drunk! Were those kids drunk? No. And Goathead and I still came out on top.

High Noon

I think this tournament is effecting my brain. I had a dream last night that myself, Tim, and Andy were in this amusement park type place. Around 60 people were milling around the old west area, some looking like cowboys. Someone yelled go, and everyone pulled out a weapon. The weapons were a mix of Halo weapons and old school Jedi Knight weapons (for some reason the concussion rifle was everywhere in the dream). I had a horrible time actually hitting anything, the conc rifle was always kinda hard use.

We survived for awhile, then I ran out of ammo and went looking for another weapon. Andy and Tim decided to stalk around in the cornfield and take out anyone who got close. I find more conc ammo, and a pistol. (and yes, when I switched weapons, the other would just magically be there)

I rejoined the fight, but I couldn't get immediatly back to the cornfield, I had to go through the old west town again. I somehow managed to find an underground cavern. I was ambushed twice just as I exited the tube that went down into the cave. It was a pretty big cave and I heard a familiar hum. A loaded warthog came from around a corner, turret fixed on me. I fired a few rounds, one guy got out to finish me, when the hog exploded, Andy and Tim had found the cave.

Good sign right?

Cryptozoologists unite to form Sasqyetiness Devil!

Tim! GO HERE! NEW BIGFOOT PICTURES!!!

This will make John do cartoons again

OLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLD MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN WIIIIIIIIIIIIIINTTTER!!!

...because its not so balls cold anymore. Its 45! Freakin' 45 degrees! My car still wont start :(

Eve! WHAT A HOT BITCH!

John, are you available for Halo training this eve?

Yep.

At this rate, this could be any of our futures.

Old Man Winter Strikes Back

Fuck! Balls cold! Ive discovered what that means. Last nite it got to be 2 degrees outside. TWO DEGREES! I tried to drive in it. But alas! My car died. Literally. It seased to work in the middle of a busy road. Luckily I was able to coast out of the way and get onto a side street. But still! BALLS COLD! Not to mention the ice and snow thats encrusted EVERYWHERE! I had to stay at Lynn's last nite cuz of the weather. Fuck!

THis is my 2 week warning: I am returning on the 22nd. Tell the illiterate. And Im going to need a ride to/from you all by you all for you all...

Prizes! Real Prizes!

There's going to be a halo 2 tourny just down the street from me. 4 person team double elimination tourny. I believe there will be prizes, probably from the radio station.

This very saturday I say. And if we lose (or win) there's a bar right round the corner. :)

Any takers?

It's going under the light.

I have to try this. I just have to. I willingly use my powerbook for this.

http://www.makezine.com/blog/archive/2005/12/how_its_made_laser_etching_pow.html

Where am I going to get a laser cutter you ask? I'll just walk down a floor and go to print services that around this time of year smells like toner, burnt wood and plastic and use theirs.

Why I Will Never Go to FUCKING Grad School

Here is an email conversation I've been having with a grad school secretary from the U. of Michigan's English Department:

I'll soon be applying for admission to the Creative Writing MFA program,
but I'm having some problems with my letters of recommendation. Although
three of my past professors enthusiastically agreed to recommend me to
graduate college, only one has actually sent my letters. One other lost
my packet of envelopes and cover sheets at a funeral a bit more than a
month ago and didn't inform me until I wrote last week to check up yet
again, and the third professor has stopped returning my emails and
calls.

Is there any point in still applying, assuming I'm unable to get hold of
any more letters? I'm doing everything within my power to secure these
letters, but if I don't receive them all I'd like to apply anyway. I've
already paid the application fee for Michigan (and several other
schools), in addition to GRE fees and transcript fees, and would hate to
lose so many hundred dollars for nothing. Also, I really, really want to
go to grad school.

I'm thinking of including my records of correspondence, dating back to
early October, when these prospective writers assured me that they would
recommend me, that they could do so with enthusiasm, etc.

What do you think?

To which she replied:

Dear Tim,

You do need 3 letters of recommendation to complete your application.
If you applied online, you can register your recommenders and they can
do the letter online, this may be more convenient to the one professor
you were referring to.

Beth

To which I replied:

I can't believe the department will entirely discount my application because my professors blew me off. It's disheartening to know that my entire future has been altered because people who promised to send me a letter can't fulfill the obligation. I'll be paying off the collective application fees and GRE fees and postage fees and transcript fees to all these schools for the next few months.

The one professor will have none of the online application.

If I can't get these rounded up, I'm going to mail my supplemental materials in anyway, and one of your interns can scrap it then. I've already wasted hundreds of dollars, so the postage won't hurt very much at all.

So now: BALLS! I have no idea what to do. Start touring the country in a van, peddling weed. Or maybe I could go from school to school delivering devastating fear-fueled lectures on the evils of alcohol. This is what YOU can do: you can write my letter of recommendation. One paragraph, I don't care what it says. Andy: this is your assignment: fire off a paragraph within the next couple days about how fucking COOL i am, seal it in an envelope, sign the back flap, and hand it to me. I don't care what it says or if you're wasted when you write it or if you sign it in virgins' blood; maybe if I just have something to count as my 2nd (and sarah: 3rd?) letter it'll be just square enough to get my supplemental materials in to the decision committee, who will be BLOWN AWAY by my breathless prose.

How to Destroy the Earth

From the looks of things, the Earth is a tough egg to crack.

sleep depravation and apartment extortionists

I may be hallucinating, so if this post gets a little wonky tonky weird on you, you’ve been warned.

I’m not hallucinating because I’ve been imbibing drugs. Oh no, I’m hallucinating because I only got four hours of sleep last night and because I’m insane with rage and frustration.

We’ll start with my sleep depravation.

I was really tired at midnight last night. Balls tired! I’ve been going to bed early lately, not because I want to, but because my brain has been shutting down early. I don’t mind it--it means I get up earlier and get to work earlier and get to the gym earlier and get home earlier and start drinking earlier and go to bed earlier. It’s a wonderful cycle I’ve started.

My wonderful new cycle was ended by a damned woman.

A blonde, not a redhead, which is the truly evil part of this story.

She coaxed me into keeping my little goat eyelids open for an hour longer than I wanted and then she made out with me for a while, during which I lost all concept of time, so I’m not sure when the making out ended and the sleeping began.

Then, as if that weren’t bad enough, I woke up at six (FUCKING SIX!) to a host of luscious female body parts strewn about my bed. I just couldn’t resist the temptation to stay awake for a bit and enjoy them.

From six to seven-fifteen I lapsed in and out of consciousness. I even had dreams about trying to go to sleep and trying to make coffee to help wake myself up.

WEIRD!

On to the rage and frustration.

Some robotic old woman behind the desk in my apartment office told me that there is a state law mandating that renters give 30 days notice before they’re allowed to leave. And, since I didn’t sign this notice by the first of the month, I have to pay for all of January. It doesn’t matter that my lease was only through the end of December, and it doesn’t matter that I signed the oh-so-fucking-important 30-day notice on the 5th (thus making thirty days January 4th) no, I have to pay for all of January. ALL OF IT! It’s state law...state law...state law...

State law my raw red ass! I will wipe my ass with that state law, if it exists.
I really need to get in the apartment-owning business. All the laws and leases are written to fuck the renter out of the maximum amount of money. First, you have to sign a six or twelve month lease, with no option to bail out. Oh, you can try to bail, but you’ll still end up paying rent for the rest of the term of your lease, because you can be damn sure the apartment people aren’t going to try to lease it out to someone else. Why would they? They have your money to bathe themselves in.

So you’re stuck for the term of your lease.

And then, just when you think you are finally free, they throw the 30-day-monkey-shit clause in your face and pleasantly ask you to pony up an extra months rent.

“But I signed a lease through December, shouldn’t you have assumed I was going to be leaving when my lease was up?”

“State Law, State Law, State Law, State Law.”

“How can that be state law? Does the state require you to send them my fucking 30-day notice? How will they know if I signed it on the 1st or the 5th, what difference does it make? Just let me FUCKING LEAVE!”

“State Law, State Law State Law, State Law.”

If only I were a bitchy fat woman, then I could surely persuade her to see it my way.

Bitchy fat women always huff and puff and annoy their opponents into submission.

Instead, I am a courteous short man who doesn’t want to offend some robotic old lady, and all I can muster is, “Well that’s....special.”

Yay!

The secretary on the left side of my cubicle is on the phone with the police about getting to the bottom of this "intricate" scam plot she's discovered--an email from "Nigerian royalty" that just sounds a little fishy.

Go police, go!

Fuckk!!!!!!

I swear the counselor on the other side of my cubicle just said, "Spicy sorority girls."

Last night I was hit with inspiration: Fuckk!!!!!!

Fuckk!!!!!! will be the greatest and best bar in Des Moines.

Fuckk!!!!!! will feature insane drink specials.

When you come to Fuckk!!!!!! you will be greeted (and carded) by me in a tiny cardboard tank costume. All you will see is my hands and naked arms, and you will wonder: is he wearing any clothes at all (and the answer will be, of course, no. As it is right now.)

At Fuckk!!!!! everybody can dance and have fun, but when the red light in the ceiling flashes and the siren sounds, Dave will jump onto the bar in a cowboy vest and a stetson and nothing else, and he will scream: "Barrrrrrrrrrrrr fight!" And then the Fuckk!!!!!! bar fight will commence. Lucky for you, the furniture is all built to break away, and the windows are made of candied glass, just like at your favorite gingerbread house. Just wait till Naked Cowboy Wells reaches into the walk-in cooler, because then it's time to throw the baby seals into the mix! Swing one of these at your date's snaggletoothed face for a night she won't forget!

And when some confused, disoriented biker (didn't this place used to be the pool hall?) finally sets you on fire, don't worry! That sprinkler system is loaded with cheap vodka! Open your mouth and look to the heavens!

But normal nights at Fuckk!!!!!! are fun too! You can find Cowboy Wells there in his natural attire, dancing on the bar in nothing but a baggy pair of tighty whities, a strobe lighting up all the luscious curves of his manbody. And I'll be behind the bar in a 1600s French military uniform that can't hide the demented grin on my face. I'll be squeezing the balls out of a bottle of chocolate syrup, scribing the message of your choice all over Wells's back. I might even douse him in powdered sugar.

And any night of the week could be the night we fire up the dancefloor canon full of cat organs and bloody mary mix!

Andy, is there anything I forgot? (Andy was with me last night when I created the business model.)

Why aren't we dead yet?

Certainly we can't fault our very own sun, who won't finally consume us for billions of years. Was our existance even worth it? Our first ancestor, he could have ended it. Well, what are we defending?

Fief

Andy, go talk to your apartment overlords!

Top o' the mornin', blog!

If the picture doesnt work: http://cantstopthekatamarimusicmix.ytmnd.com/

Fuckin' Macs...

You BROKE my BLOG

Does anyone regularly chech You're The Man Now Dog.com (Ytmnd.com)? Recently, it has been obliterated with Myspace Suicide spoofs. This one, however, isnt one: http://bushtrap.ytmnd.com/ (damn mac isnt pullin up the link thing :( )

This just in: Killing is legal. Hyuck! *bang bang*

EVEN THOUGH THE AUDIO SUCKS, this is how my life is everyday.

How this year's Turkey got pardoned

In case you all dont know, the turkey thats supposed to be slaughtered for the White House gets pardoned on Thanksgiving Day by the Prez himself. Then it gets released on a farm that has generations of the pardoned turkeys, since Roosevelt or whoever the hell did it first. They get eaten eventually...but yeah.

Point is: Bush is the retard from Tim's posts whos lookin to be a "Nukular Fisasist."

...fuckin' Bush and his turkey felatio.

Sloughing Off

You may have heard about the facial transplant that just took place. I don't remember which newspaper—NYT, probably—I read about it in most recently, but they cited one of the dangers as transplant rejection, meaning that the skin would slough off.

Just think about that.

Disgusting in an entirely different way is this news story about how Bush slaughtered some Iowan soldier's quotes about the war to twist it to his devious, world-conquering purposes inside the speechwriting room of his secret subterranean sand-tunneling anti-Figaroan castle.

Read this if you're bored

Listen to how FUCKING DUMB the people I work with are. Keep in mind that this counselor has a fucking MASTER'S DEGREE in social work.

She sent this job profile request for her too-dumb-to-get-a-GED client: "Inspector of Perishable Fruit." We tried to contact her for specifics, but I guess all those keys on the keyboard are just too confusing and intimidating for her, and she couldn't respond. So we wrote a report for a USDA fruit inspector anyway, and then she called

and ho ho, that's not what she wanted, ho ho ho, her client just has a very specific job in mind, working for a certain fruit sorting company in Norwalk, ho ho, and could we tell her about that job?

WHY THE HELL DIDN'T SHE TELL US THIS BEFORE?!

I can't wait till she gets the "audio operator" report and calls to ask why we didn't write the report for the car radio sales position at Best Buy in WDM.

And does anyone know what a "wildlife agent" is? Someone who represents animals in dealings with Hollywood? I wrote three reports: conservation agent, worker for Fish & Wildlife Department, and something else. Probably she'll write back to say she meant goldfish salesperson.

I'm going insane here.

Ring.

This morning I had 14 missed calls from Nick . . . which can't be right. Andy and I crashed pretty early, but not that early.

But anyway, sorry, Nick, for missing . . . a lot of your calls.

For everyone who gets on me about not answering my phone: it's true, I hardly ever answer. This is because I don't carry it around much and I don't know where my charger is, so at any given time my phone is probably at home, charging on Andy's kitchen charger, or just dead. And if I cut out while we're talking, probably the battery died. This happens all the time.

Or, if it's before 4:30, I'm at work and can't pick up.

Or, if it's evening, I'm likely either in the shower, on the phone with Sarah, on the phone berating Amish for his disgusting Marlon Brandonic obesity, passing out in the bathroom of some bar, digging for stuff in my car, in the midst of writing, or asleep . . .

It's not personal. I'm just lazy. But not as lazy as Andy, who fell asleep just after ten last night.

And if anybody ever realllllly needs to get hold of me and my phone's out, I prolly check my email more anyway...or this blog.

tim at bluestroom

OR

pharaoh at gmail

OR

hot adultery at that place where I meet your mom

I mean...not that last one...

ADDENDUM ONE:

Kathy: blah blah blah my son's going to a party blah blah

Tim: I never drank in high school.

Kathy: Yeah, but I think you're makin up for lost time.

ADDENDUM TWO:

Somebody with an UNAVAILABLE number is trying to reach me with the fervency and desperation usually reserved for men trying to pass kidney stones. I can't answer here, but if you read this and want to try around 12:30, I'll be on lunch.

Help! I'm covered in stupid!

gniod m'i tahw aedi on evah I.

Pounce!

It's Citywide Bring Your Koala to Work Day.

I wish I had a camera.

Inspector of Perishable Fruit

The client who can't earn her GED wants to be an "audio operator" or "an inspector of perishable fruit."

Pretty Much All Gert Did in Double Dash

Go read the rest of VGCats