Darth Efficient, Sith Lord of Homework

I'm in the middle of an historic procrastination session, and I dare say I may have outdone myself this time. And I'm no slouch in this area, in fact I'm an expert. As far as not doing homework goes, I'm world class. I still haven't turned in my Spanish 3 final; it was due at the end of the hour four years ago.

Anyway,
I'll be up all nite writing a stupid paper that probably won't even ever get read (and certainly not by me), so entertain me.

And I know, I know, worst post ever. Beat you to it.

Saturday Morning Veronica Mars Discussion No. 5

To Err is Human, to Forgive Aaron is Divine



Okay, so what if Aaron Echolls was boning his son's girlfriend, it's not like she wasn't hot. Plus she TOTALLY seduced him, what choice did he have? Was he supposed to turn her down? You know what that would have done to her fragile self-esteem; it would have crushed her (her spirit, not like, you know, her skull or something).

Plus, did you see how fucking hideous his wife was? You telling me you'd really rather bed that surgically-disfigured, lips-look-like-a-macy's-parade-float, eel-woman than the lovely and glorious Lilly Kane? Only Moronica, with his every-increasing list of sexual hangups, could make such a claim with a straight face.

I guess my point is that I think this guy is a badass. All you Logan-lovers need to recognize (and we're going with the alternate 'rek-uh-nize' pronounciation) that your beloved anti-hero is just the kroger version of his old man. Call me crazy, but I don't like knock-offs or remakes.

And how could you not sympathize with the man after hearing his impassioned testimony in the court room? Maybe I'm just a bleeding heart liberal, but I think the poor guy deserves a second chance. I heard that President Bartlett was even considering giving him a presdential pardon if he'd been convicted (of murder, not of being a badass, in which case he would have pled "motherfucking guilty, your honor").

And I'm not completely alone here...




(lyrics)

I don't negotiate with errorists

My submit button has gone missing. It's been over 48 hours and I've notified law enforcement officials. I also called the Hays Daily News because I was 100% positive they would want to run a story (front page, above the fold is what I suggested). And Babbles personal private eye is on the case.

So this morning/afternoon/whatever I got a text that read, "Wut u doin? =)."

It went on: "If you ever want to see your submit button again you need to bring a decent amount of scrilla to the sixth hole on the disc golf course at Summer Lane and 41st this afternoon."

Right away I noticed the message was strangely vague about time and amount but pretty specific about place. That frisbee golf course is in my neighborhood so it'll be easy to find but I'm pretty sure that whatever was meant by a "decent amount of scrilla" is more than the -$12.54 that's in my account.

And this afternoon? I hope this buttonnapper is planning on waiting around the whole day because If I do show up, it'll be whenever I feel like it.

At first I was worried that someone had flipped Babbles' P.I., Vinnie Van Lowe, but, really, he's more of a professional than that. (Van Lowe for Sheriff '08!!)

Anyway. The upshot of all this is I'm not really into getting my submit button back if it's going to be a huge hassle. So until I hear from Vinnie this texter can go fuck himself on a disc golf course.

My latest fascination...

Fucking wine with snakes in it.



Okay, first off, don't think it's as simple as just putting a snake into a bottle of rice wine. You've got to gut the snake first (but don't forget, the heart goes back into the bottle, not in the scrap bucket).

See:


Two notes about the video:
1.) It creeped me the fuck out.
2.) I found it by typing in to google, I swear to god, "snake wine what the fuck".

Apparently this very, very manly intoxicant isn't just for looks; drinking it supposedly helps cure everything from diabetes to down syndrome (that's in addition to increasing your sexual prowess- because seriously, it wouldn't be a weird Asian custom if it didn't, now would it?).

But who cares why anyone would make it, the real question is how does it taste?

"It would best be described as a combination of Japanese Sake and cheap tequila with subtle tones of formaldehyde and fish jerky."

Another taster described it as:

"The taste was mysteriously bland, like licking envelope flaps or stamps. Oh, and the bottle I bought listed "ethanol" as its main ingredient."

Personally, I give the first description much more merit; any bottle of snake wine with a list of ingredients is definitely not the real deal. Plus the second quote came from a guy who writes for The Washington Post, and you'd have to be some kind of pussy to write for the The Washington Post.

Apparently the more poisonous the snake, the more badass the wine is (don't worry, the poison is broken down chemically by the alcohol).

Here's the best part of snake wine- you never run out; once you drink the bottle down you're supposed to just put more rice wine in and let it age a few months. BAM! More snake wine. It's like what Jesus did with the fish and the loaves of bread.

But, if you're re-using one bottle for an extended period of time, be careful. If you shake the bottle, the dead, gutless reptile you're storing in a bottle of something you plan on later drinking will shed its scales. And that would be gross.

It's the Monday after Spring Break and you know what that means...

It's sometimes-commenter Usher's birthday!

Also, I don't know if it's stress, my awful, awful diet, lack of sunlight, or what, but you should see my complexion; more like spring break-out.

Anyway, HAPPY B-DAY or whatever. And since it's your special day, treat yourself; don't read the blarg today.

Saturday Morning Veronica Mars Discussion No. 4

Season 4: do you or do you not give a fuck? would you watch? Or would this be like the third Back to the Future movie, where you're better off just pretending it never happened?

I think the casting of her love interest(s) was poorly done; the Veronica I know wouldn't be interested in speeners of a caliber this pathetically low. And I'd miss the old favorites (both characters and settings), but how could I not watch? I can't leave my special lady friend hanging; I'd tune in...

what the hell was I thinking.

No, I know what I was thinking and it was something like this (in whiny high-schooler voice): "Why NOT run for senior class president? It's not like class officers actually DO anything. Plus, It'll look really good on my transcript."

I found out the day of the "election" that the senior class president is responsible for planning class reunions. I tried to back out of the race (failed), won, and have been worrying about it for the last. nine. years.

I could refuse to acknowledge the responsibility (like I've been planning on doing) and let someone else take it over at the last minute when they realize it's not getting done any other way. Or I could bite the bullet, enlist the help of all my fuckface high school friends, and start planning a goddamn 10-year class reunion. I generally consider avoidance of guilt a pretty piss poor motive for action, but that's not necessarily going to stop me.

The worst part: My transcript? Srsly?! If only I had known then what I know now. I would have had a lot more sex, smoked a lot more pot, and I would have had a much less impressive fucking transcript.

My St. Catrick's Day felt a lot like this

But with more cats.

Also. My house looks and smells like a bar. At least it's a change.

And my brother showed up and did a few dishes. I also let him hang out with some of my friends.

When compared to other Spring Breaks this one is holding its own.

Saturday Morning Veronica Mars Discussion No. 3

I know it's a very personal question, but, if you feel comfortable sharing, who got your vote in the sheriff election?

I voted for Vinnie Van Lowe, but only because Keith entertains me more when he's being a sneaky fuck than when he's the long arm of the law.

Also, during Vinnie's stint in the military police, crime dropped 20% across U.S. military bases.

my sister's a whore.

Just wondered if she reads this. If so I suppose I can be expecting a phone call.

What the French, Toast?

So very few days pass in this concrete and white walled prison . . . *ahem*, institute of higher learning where I don't find someone to focus my contempt upon, and today I've decided to share him with all of you.

Mr. Roger Kimball

I came across Mr. K as he was railing against the classification of americans by hyphenation. (that damn hyphenation, always at the root of all America's problems). His argument is that calling yourself "African-American", "Asian-American" and so on, and so forth, signifies that you are only provisionally american, and as such, have only a divided allegiance at best. And regardless of my low opinion of his argument, it was the analogy he used next that solidified his new status as "Arch-Nemesis of the Day".

He says this is similar to the problem of hyphenating of the brides name in marriage. It is a gesture of independence that is simultaneously a declaration of divided loyalty.

Listen up, Jackass - I have one of (if not THE) coolest last name on the planet, and apparently 'cause I don't want to trade it on for something all plain-vanilla-mediocre like . . . oh, I don't know. . . Kimball - I will never have as solid a commitment to my marriage as someone who would. Damn me and my independence prone, disloyal heart. If I happen to come across a certain Mr. Jesus C. Superstar I may take his last name, by the same token, if I fall head over heels for Viktor Sleazak -- chances are I'll keep what I've got, thanks. And either way, it's none of Mr. Kimball's business.

Filling space like a.v.e.'s "miyagi"

I'm so fucking lazy that I used a cancellation today as an excuse to leave work at 1:30 (I get there at noon) so I could go play outside. A friend and I played soccer (kind of) in the street, ate red velvet cupcakes, and afterwards we shared a forty out of a paper sack. On the porch. While the elementary school across the street was letting out.

I did it up 406-style.

Another thing I'm vaguely ashamed of:

Not all the time, but SOME of the time I'm a compulsive weather-checker. I may or may not check the current 10-day forecast against the historic average for my zip code. A few minutes ago I checked the weather for my weekend (rainy, naturally) and here's what I saw:



I did.

It was jumpin'.

Hybrids should be able to park in handicapped spots

I mean the cars, not like wolf people or something. And I'm not just saying this because I want one.

Saturday Morning Veronica Mars Discussion No. 2

First, Usher, obviously, spoiler alert. stay out of this.


Favorite scene (or most memorable), again, using the criteria of your choosing.

GO!

Also, now this thread is interactive:

Here's my favourite...





I like the reference to the first episode when it was Weevil beating up Logan in front of her, asking "do you want your friend to apologize?" Plus, seriously, who doesn't melt when they see these two together???

Attn: Moronica

Bars, don't marry Corndog Girl. Marry Slut Machine. Here's video proof that she's your soul mate:

"Pot Psychology"

Plus, you can skip the roses and stuff 'cause she's already seen your weiner.

fuck you, i'm sick.

This is what I feel like:



Not even regular ass, but stupid brown cat ass. I have the fucking usual list of symptoms that accompany the death flu and goddamnit I want some sympathy. Or at least some Tylenol. I would even settle for coffee. We ran out and I'm too weak and sickly (and mostly just too self-pitying) to go get more.

On the bright side, along with the cat ass illustration I found a pic of my (or your?) next tattoo:




*GROAN* going back to bed.

I want to believe!

when class starts with this: “ now here we have our happy little pie chart, and in this half are aliens. . . “ you’d think you were in store for a rollicking good time - especially if you consider yourself to be a sci-fi geek (and I do).
This sounds like the kind of math problem I can handle.

Alas, this is not Fox Mulder standing up there, it isn’t even Bob Engler (who would be a big step up from this particular professor) . . . and despite the discussion of EWI’s, OOS’s, and the statutes referring to “alien crewmen” this is the longest three hours of my week.

I think Wednesdays are the new February.

At least I have this blahg

I'm not saying I'm a righteous-living, God-fearing exemplar of humanity like our friend Job. I'm actually a lot more like our other friend Gob. All I'm saying is there's a precedent for someone up there fucking around with people down here basically just for kicks.

I've long had the sneaking suspicion that I'm one of God's Chosen-To-Be-Fucked-With People and this last weekend kind of strengthens my case.

Sometime on Friday while at work with the adult retards. I lost my keys and I haven't found them. There might be a spare set somewhere but the car I drive belongs to someone else in a different city so the car is cooling its jets way out in the country where we keep the adults with many many disabilities (not least of which is their sexual predation but that's a whole other post). I did spend my only two days off in I don't know how long looking for these keys, or walking my bike with one flat tire (and I can't just buy a new tube at Wal-Mart because, like an idiot, I have non-standard size wheels), or sitting around Professor's waiting for my friends to get off work so they can give me a ride. It was exactly how I wanted to spend my one weekend off. But it wasn't all misery and indignity. The weather was snowy and icy and I did get a chest cold and I did lock my medication in my car so by Sunday morning I was going through a very unpleasant withdrawal. Ah well.

i heart craigslist

Im trying out a new career as a videoggrafur. Whaddaya think?

I'm so out of the loop

How the fuck did I not know about this little nugget??

There was a time when my entire existence revolved around repeat screenings of MS (my life was much better then).

And, one of my favorite pieces of Corey Feldman related trivia is that MS was supposed to be another Haim/Feldman blockbuster (as was Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure). Wouldn't that have been the cat's pajamas?

It's a disaster waiting to happen

Last September I purchased this:


It was really cheap and in awesome condition (and it's fucking adorable) and I was working with a bunch of dudes who like to work on motorcycles in their spare time and would think it was fun to teach a girl how to ride a bike. (Or at least laugh at me while I wrecked a bike.)

But I don't work with those fuckfaces anymore, and the bike takes like 40 kicks to start (because I don't know how much it costs to fix a starter but it's more than I'm willing to pay) and I look like a goddamn idiot doing it because by the time I get it started I'm all sweaty and out of breath.

The last time I got it started I had to take a break from the kicking because it took so many tries, and when I did get it started I realized that because I had parked it ass-end-out and because I'm not strong enough to lift it over the concrete dam that sits like a parking block in front of the garage door, the fucking bike was going nowhere. I wanted to torch it.

And I'm not sure if I mentioned that I still don't really know how to ride it. I've never ventured out of the 2-block radius that keeps me out of traffic. I've also never ventured out of 2nd gear.

And now I wake up and see this:



and... I guess... I'll go try to start it.

*sigh*

I'll update later from the emergency room.

Saturday Morning Veronica Mars Discussion No. 1

Using the criteria of your choosing, select your favorite season-

My Gym (again)

Joining a gym has proven quite useful, if for no other reason that it keeps giving me (boring) blog material.

The latest is this:

Naked Realtor was in the free weight room (clothed). I walk by and say "hey."

He looks at me like I was fucking scum. Motherfucker (clothed) didn't even recognize me from three days ago when he yakked my goddamned ear off (unclothed).

But that wasn't even the highlight of this workout, no the highlight was this:

Morbidly obese man wearing a weight belt to protect his back, spent thirty minutes doing one, yes one, exercise over and over and over (not that it matters but it was a tricep pulldown, which is the sort of thing you'd want to do three sets of, not three hundred).

Astonished that he was still doing it a half hour after I arrived (and lord knows how long he'd been doing it before I showed up), I happened to walk by him only to overhear him say to no one in particular "this is stupid."

Yes it is, Mr Morbidly Obese, yes it is. He's my new favorite gym character, beating out the previous favorite, cat tattoo dyke lady. Yes, I'm not the only one with a cattoo. But she's got no Ptattoo (at least that I"m aware of), so I still win.

comma, comma, comma, comma.

I think having more than doubled the number of posts last month qualifies this as a bona fide "Blogaissance".

I missed the memo that this was where we submit all demand lists, "rather be" lists, and "things I've done whilst being smitten" lists. Allow me to make up for lost time.

Demands:
1) more sharkweek.
2) less february. every year. Seriously, just get rid of it all together.
3) fewer folks wearing loafers in my immediate vicinity.
4) more pie.

Rather Be:
a) Blah School Dropout
b) the next American Idol
c) my childhood idol: Hall Monitor (and No, Babbles, I don't mean the reptile kind)
d) snotty, pretentious wine expert (a.k.a well dressed lush)
e) patissier
f) mechanic
g) (if gender and orientation were not a bar) drag queen

Things I've done whilst smitten:
first: making a left hand turn from the middle lane on a red light, cutting off a cop, and therefore getting pulled over by said cop.

next: bought (as a present) an iMac in December. (Got broken up with in January.)

last: attended local South Dakota version of a NASCAR Race. (oh, the shame)

that is all.

Another actual sign posted at my gym

They've posted a follow-up sign, apparently the bandit is still around...


Attention Members:
We'd love to keep the treadmills open, but the HEALTH DEPARTMENT is making us close them down because SOMEONE keeps SHAVING, WASHING, AND DEFACATING on them. Because of this, there will no longer be treadmills to use.


Okay, it should be known, however, that I was the one who posted this sign. And it was handwritten on a paper towel.

Sometimes I feel like making love

And when I do, I like to play music that sets the mood.

It's important to create an environment that makes those involved feel comfortable and relaxed. The right music is integral to this.

And as I'm sure all of the unfortunate souls who've shared this experience with me would attest (that is, if they were still speaking to me at all), this playlist seems the most appropriate for the special occasion.

Shelley Pomeroy's End of the Year Party

...is scheduled to take place sometime in May. In a cabin near Nederland, Colorado. Everyone's welcome to attend. Molly, your job is to not tell your sister. Gal's job is to make sure Veronica Mars shows up, Moronica's job is to find someone of age to get the liquor, AVE's job is to not use up all the GHB before the event.

And for the love of god, don't tell usher about this.

yes, please

I'll accept any job that gives me an excuse to avoid doing other, more productive things, so of course I happily accept a submit button here.

And now that I've taken this gig, here is my list of demands:

1. An introduction to Gal. In person. Babbles, you should be able to arrange this.
2. Tattoo of a "submit" button. (I suppose I can take care of this one on my own.)
3. Hookers.
4. Blow.
5. This.
6. This.
7. A case of this.
8. And a case of this.

OK! So I'm going to make some coffee and I'll just wait here for my stuff to arrive. Any time now would be fine.


...


And hurry up. I'm hungry.

two lame ideas in one post

The thing about institutions of higher learning, specifically those that train the ethically bereft lawyers of tomorrow, is that they love giving rules and restrictions to the general masses; where one statute could do, one with three subsections, two sub-sub sections and one reference to a completely different statute is Superb.

Then they opt out of actually following the rules the rest of us learned in elementary school. What made me give up on homework tonight is the definition section that uses the word they are trying to define in the definition. And if once is good enough, three times is Grand.

Now I'm stuck trying to decide what is better to waste my time: Adventures in Babysitting or Big Trouble in Little China.

Although the real question is which has worse lines:
"You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like this. . ."
OR

"Don't Fuck with the Lords of Hell!" "Don't Fuck with the Babysitter!"

oh, the mediocrity . . .

Attention: Molly Slaggerty

So while at my gym today a man in the locker room started a conversation with me. This is the first time someone at my gym has spoken to me (and hopefully the last).

Anyway, Miss Molly, this is your fault. It was painful; he was a real estate agent.

Realtor: Hey man, how many tattoos do you have?

Me: (what? you're talking to me? fuck) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: Yeah, I go to the shop downtown. I'm thinking of getting a big dragon.

Me: (You mean like as a tattoo, or a pet) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: On my chest.

Me: (that doesn't answer the question) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Then I did that thing I do where I try to drum up business for you... Hope you don't mind doodling dragons on lame dudes' boobs.

And oh yeah, he was fucking naked the entire time.

I told him to go to your website. And to put on pants.

A list of things I would rather be than a lawyer:

personal trainer
professional poker player
teacher at at least the high school level
writer for a television series
sportscaster
television announcer for a poker show
optometrist
part of an advertisement team
dog whisperer
radio dj
florist
rodeo clown
pool boy
person who puts the newspapers on those stick things at the library
janitor
ditchdigger
dead

Should I have expected this?

Oh great. Now my St. Jude candle won't light.

Living amongst the unwashed and illogical masses

So a while back I decided to try to live in a more healthy fashion. A big part of the attack plan for Operation: Cholesterol Bad, Beta Carotene Good was to change my awful, awful diet.

I bought a head of lettuce and a wad of cauliflower. Or maybe it's called a bunch, I don't know, whatever. Anyway, lettuce and cauliflower.

A few weeks later, which was approximately a few weeks since I'd given up, I realized I should have just named the plan Mission: Impossible and cleaned out the fridge.

Instead of throwing the lettuce and cauliflower (and yes, those two things were the only healthy foods I attempted to eat) into the garbage, I just tossed them into the backyard. And then I noticed that I had some stale bread, so I tossed that out, piece by piece all over the yard. I figured animals would eat it or something.


The next day my roommate told me that "Our asshole meth-head neighbors threw a bunch of rotten shit into our yard so I went out and threw it back."

He continued the story by telling me that as he was walking around the yard collecting the food (and then subsequently throwing it over the fence), our other neighbor, a nice old man (who lives on the other half of the meth-head duplex) came outside. He saw Roommate throwing the food into his yard. Roommate, caught red-handed, announced "Sorry, but your douchebag neighbor threw it into my yard and I don't want it."

The beauty of that statement is that it's true, only the douchebag neighbor is me.

In the end the nice old man had to walk around picking up the food, which I still don't understand, why we can't just let it rot in the yard. But whatever.

The lesson to be learned here is that none of this would have happened had I just bought more big boy chips like I had wanted to.


Also, three posts in two days; I guess this means there won't be another one for six weeks.

Hide the milk

What scares me most about an army of undead skeleton warriors rising from the wet earth to take their place at the top of the evolutionary food chain with large swords and three point hats, aside from their viscousness and lack of mercy (much like the reavers from Firefly), is that fact that because they don't have muscle cells to fill with lactic acid, which is the cause of fatigue, they'll never get tired. At least not in the 'weakened' sense of the word, I'm sure they still get sleepy. Hopefully. Oh my god, what if they don't sleep? We're so fucked.

And because they don't have blood, they're immune to attacks from vampires. An onslaught of osteoporosis is our only hope.




God, class is so boring right now.

Actual sign posted at my gym

Attention Members:
We'd love to keep the jacuzzi open, but the HEALTH DEPARTMENT is making us close it down because SOMEONE keeps SHAVING, WASHING, AND DEFACATING in it. Because of this, there will no longer be a jacuzzi to use.

Okay, so my first thought was "wow, one guy is doing all that stuff?" And my second thought was "I wonder what order he's doing these things in?"

Exciting hygiene related news

So I was in target the other day purchasing new deodorant (because of the girl deodorant thing), and yes, it took me this long to rectify the situation, when I noticed that my 'powder fresh' female anti-perspirant was in the men's section. IT'S NOT GIRL DEODORANT AFTER ALL!! Apparently men can smell like candy these days, too.

This totally makes up for the disappointment I felt when I realized that 'powder fresh' doesn't mean 'gun powder'.

The Alumni magazine

So the graduate school Gal and I attend (reluctantly, mind you) is semi-prestigious (according to some sources). The school takes pride in this semi-prestige, mainly because it allows them greater pull when hitting up the alumni for donations (which is something that once I'm an alumnus I will never give in to).

Part of their strategy for procuring the chedda' from rich graduates is to print up a bi-monthly magazine about recent happenings in the school. The compilers of this rag lean heavily on two main sources for material- they like to open the magazine with a list of student accomplishments, and close with a list of donors and the amount of their donations (using their readerships' propensity towards competing with each other, brilliant).

In the most recent issue the list of student achievements tragically omits the black-face scandal that hit the school in September (yes, a student actually came to school in blackface, and not in an ironic nor protesting manner- he was into it.). But it does highlight a few of the summer feats of my peers.

One of those featured students is a fucking toad. I mean that literally; he looks like he was the spawn produced by an unfortunate e-harmony pairing of Kermit the Frog and Professor Umbridge. But over the summer he got some fancy bullshit job because his parents are loaded (again, I mean that literally- fucking drunks. But rich, too) and so now the magazine wants him prominently featured.

That's the extent of my knowledge of this particular person, except for one other thing. Last spring during finals week my neighbor was making small talk with me, and happened to mention that while he was in the engineering library some damn law student was walking around asking people if he could buy any adderall from them. He then went on to describe the odd appearance of this person, noting his strange proportions. I asked if perhaps this mystery slimeball looked like a giant baby, or perhaps a toad. My neighbor confirmed this diagnosis as being "eerily accurate."

Yes, he was cold-calling strangers for unprescribed children's ADD medication. Why don't they put that in the magazine? Or at least a picture of him sitting on his lilypad.

These are my peers, and why I hate school (one of the reasons anyway).

You can't choose your friends

A.V.E. over at Lower Level 30 mentioned a few of the stupid things that we did/happened to us over that one weekend in this post.

But it's a pretty partial list, no where near comprehensive for A.V.E. let alone the rest of us. And I'm not going to be the one to catalogue all that stuff. Talk to Babbles or something. But I will respond to this line item:

Seeing that K-Fed didn't get sent up on some charges of the statutory kind.

Look. None of you fucks 'saved' me. I wanted to do one sleazy immoral thing and A.V.E. kicked her out of my bed. Much like he kicked in Ankram's windshield in 10th grade. With his boot.

Anyway. Stay tuned for more about what awful friends we are. (We should probably just have a whole blog about that.)

And credit where credit is due--A.V.E.'s Golfweek post borders on funny.

Actions speak louder than nerds

I complain. A lot. About most things. And usually I don't do anything about it, but I finally decided to take action.

The crossword puzzles in the paper have been fucking lame lately, and since completing the damn thing is a big part of my daily routine, this really annoys me.

So now I make crossword puzzles.

I've got some software to assist (re: do most of the work) in the process, but in order for anyone to be able to view the thing, I've got to upload the finished product to the software distributor's site so some old bag can approve of it.

So far I've got two cleared.

Just try and complete my torturous (or, depending on the laws of your particular state, tortious) grid of pain.

And don't cheat, bastards.

little black boxes

I know some people out there, and one blogger in particular who harrassed me into using one, who think that the little magnet boxes that hold spare keys are a great invention. While I don't generally like public opinion, and nearly always distrust the advice of my friends - I went along with the flow on this one. Never again.

at six fucking thirty this morning, as I am lying in the six inches of snow on the street next to my car, in the dark, blindly patting down the underside of my car in a vain attempt to recover that miniscule, dare I say near-invisible box with the spare key inside of it, trying not to inhale exhaust and fervently hoping that I wouldn't get hit by some suburban Joe on his way to work, I cursed anyone who ever recommended that damn box.

I am logical enough to understand that I bear some responsibility for managing to lock my keys in my car while it was running to begin the whole debacle. But it makes me feel much better to vent my spleen elsewhere. Especially at ungodly hours of the morning.
My spare key is going back in my extra bag in up in my bedroom, and that box is getting returned to the fiery pit from whence it came.

I accidentally bought girl deodorant again

And the scent isn't just slightly feminine, it's fucking girlie. Like Lisa Frank girlie. And delicious. I smell like a million bucks.

Here's the thing, it took me a while to figure out where this beautiful aroma was coming from. I kept wondering why my dirty shirts smelled like a prom dress. And then one night while laying in bed I realized "oh my god, it's me!" I did some Veronica Mars-ing and traced the scent back to my "fresh scent" SURE invisible solid.

If you see me, I'll happily oblige if you ask for a sniff. And it's worth it, believe me.

Sorry for the absence, I lost my submit button

Listen, when you only leave the house once every three or four days it's hard to make a blarg about anything (unless our readership really wants to hear about the installation of a coffee maker in my bedroom, or the new cat toy kiki's ignoring). But in the interest of sportsmanship, I'll give it the ole' college try...

...

...

...


seriously guys, I've got nothing.

check back in later, maybe something noteworthy will have happend.


same bat-time, same bat-channel.

Every little thing I do is tragic

Especially this blog.

But seriously. I was supposed to meet up with some people last night and when I got to where I was going I thought "It's cold. I'll leave the car running so it's all nice and toasty." As I was getting out all I was thinking was, "Hit the unlock button. Unlock. Unlock. Unlock." So I hit the lock button. And because I'm driving this car I like to call the Black Shadow (which doesn't belong to me), I don't have any extra keys in Hays. So that took for fucking ever.

And school is always crazytoberfest. I actually had to have a serious conversation with a kindergartner who insisted that his "butt itched" and that he needed "butt cream and we should call Mom to get some."

And then this pretty sharp middle-schooler tells me that the cops gave some kind of presentation at her school today that included the photos from my sweet Subaru's death. Tasteless. Let the dead rest in peace.

ancient solutions to modern problems

And the winner is...

1. criminal- used to run a mafia group and carries a knife at all times. Reward: 2 million.

2. dating website- and he has a fundamental disrespect for the rules of grammar.

3. dating website- and he lists his occupation as "Medical Diagnostic Imaging. Independent consultant and other areas ;) Beach Bum".
What is this supposed to mean? It's like the world's worst double entendre.

4. criminal- he shot and killed an armored car security guard in Arizona, and in addition, he has what the FBI calls "bisexual tendencies." So keep that in mind when you're playing Dog the Bounty Hunter and trying to capture him.

5. criminal- other interests include killing his wife and two young children, and then blowing up their house. And, according to the FBI, "he is known to chew tobacco heavily." What do you think that means?

side note: on every FBI profile I saw, they used the word "avid" when describing the suspect's interest. So beware of any people you know who do anything avidly.

It takes a fucking village or something

Look, we're clearly not good bloggers. We post infrequently and what we do post is just uninteresting. But you fucking commenters aren't exactly wowing us either.

You harass us in person rather than on the blog (Do we need a quick tutorial on what the comment function is for?) and it makes the blagh feel like homework. Now, given what you know about our feelings for school, can you see how that might not be a positive motivation?

And motivation is what this post is all about. Starting as soon as we get some decent comments, we're going be recognizing outstanding the outstanding ones. Not sure what an outstanding comment is? Me neither. But you can't go wrong dunking on Babbles.

A mother and child reunion is only a squalling catfight away

Babbles is bringing Kiki, the cat that lives with and barely tolerates him, home for the holidays.I'm pretty sure my sister will bring home her two cats, one of which is Kiki's offspring--Donkey.



(Donkey's the all-grey lump in the middle, patchouli's the cutie on the right)

When reintroduced we think the conversation will go something like this--

Kiki: You probably should have been fed to your siblings. Jesus, you're fat.

Donkey: If I had known what you were like I would have clawed your organs to ribbons while I was in the womb. Still drinking I see? They had to send me to AA when it was time for me to be weaned.

Kiki: What do they call you, again? Donkey? Kind of an ugly name isn't it?

Donkey: Didn't you used to call me your Little Slut Trophy?

Kiki: Oh no, honey, it was Patchouli I was proud of. We mostly just called you the dumb drooly one.

As if this blahg didn't make it crystal fucking clear

My life is kind of really pathetic. But in so many ways!

So, you know, reader's poll:

Which is more pitiful?

A. That last night I couldn't come up with $10 to keep a check from bouncing

or

B. That I couldn't come up with anyone to call and borrow $10 from

A christmas miracle

So I started the day by doing laundry (that way when I spend the next six hours doing nothing I can still respect myself). I was trying to figure out the correct way to pronounce "aposiopesis" as I was carrying the laundry basket down the stairs. I spaced out, missed a step and tripped.

Yes, I fell down the stairs- Hold your applause, I wasn't hurt, more embarassed than anything. And you know the worst part? I still have to do the goddamned laundry.

This never would have happened if I had just decided to watch TV for ten hours straight (which was my original plan for how to spend the day).

I need a domestic.



PS
The miralce is that I was doing laundry in the first place

This space has been reserved for a future blarg

I promise to write it tomorrow (wed.).

Have mercy.

And seriously, does anyone still read this anyway?

Creative Opportunities at Hearst College

Are you guys excited about the upcoming Reader-Submitted Veronica Mars Fanfic/Slash Episode Screenplay Contest?

Well get excited because I just made this up and we're totally doing it. I'm working on one where there is a student news pundit who is the Bill O'Reilly of Hearst College. Obviously Veronica will hate this guy but end up going to work for him when he becomes the prime suspect in some horrendous campus mystery crime that Veronica will solve when no one else can or even cares to try. I'm still working it all out. Also in this episode Veronica will fuck Logan a bunch and Wallace and Piz will really discover each other.

Deadline to be announced. If you don't already just pretty much intuitively grasp the scope, guidelines, and rules of this contest then you probably won't win. But still, you should totally enter.

Make it work, people.

Best vanity plate ever

Yesterday, while leaving the secret CIA torture facility school, Gal and I spotted the coolest vanity plate I've seen in real life- SNAPE

Q. How awesome is that?

A. Very awesome.

Now that's a dunk...

College Basketball

South Kingstown, RI
During last nite's match up of in-state rivals Rhode Island University and Providence College, the crowd from the more prestigious PC began chanting "Safety school, safety school" at both the players and fans from RI.

Additionally, the PC mascot, a student in a friar outfit, was banned from the game (apparently he was a real rascal at last year's meeting).

RI did end up winning the game, but really, who cares; that's the least interesting part of this story.

Also, there's more, but I'm bored. I think the band was banned too, and not just because the words are homophones. The cheerleaders, too.

God, I'd make an awful reporter, wouldn't I?

Two links that entertained me today

The 13 most offensive album covers according to some guy on the internet...

...And wigs for cats!

A 20 gigabyte ipod holds 5000 songs

The first long car ride I took myself was probably in 1999, and it was only five or so hours. This was during the time when napster was the greatest thing ever invented, so to prepare for my trip I would burn CDs. A five hour drive meant making five cds. If I put 20 songs on a cd, that's 100 songs for the entire trip (and I'd repeat them for the return drive).

A few years ago I got an ipod. Now when I take that same five hour drive, I take two or three thousand songs. And the thing is, I need that many.

Last time I drove to Dodge, I went through 65 songs before I hit Topeka. Topeka is 20 miles from Lawrence.

At this point my musical taste has been so infected by my ADD that I'm not sure if I even like music anymore. I think I might just like recognizing songs- oh, I know what this one is. Next.

It's pathetic, really. Which is nice, that way it matches up with everything else I do.

I just can't

I hate "Empire Records." Always have. Always will. It just smacks of trying so fucking hard. It was one of the things that helped turn 'alternative' into a pejorative. It's an awful movie.

But I still like that sugar high song.

Remember the good old days...

...way back when we used to have this blog? Yeah, I know, it was a boring blog. But damn it, it was our boring blog.

We need to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, get back on our horses, and make some more posts.

Or not.

Either way, really.

you'd think. . .

Does anyone else find it amusing that the address for the "Friends of the Earth" website is www.foe.org ?

The first day of the rest of my life...

When I woke up this morning I thought that I wanted to finish clown college so that I could get a J.D. and a real job, yada yada yada.

But by noon I figured out that what I really want isn't a juris doctorate, it's a black belt.

So that's what we're doing now.

Check out my ebay auctions for some cheap law school texts (user name "FU_law_school")

And don't tell my parents.

Are you wearing a wire?

I think my dad is trying to kill me. He recently found out about my DUI and was pretty furious for several boring reasons. I think part of it was that he realized that I've been taking legal counsel with Oliver Babbles who, unlike my father, is not a real lawyer.

Yesterday I got an email from him wanting to know if I could "got to Atlanta" to "pick up a car." What's his game? Nevermind the utter randomness of the request, he knows I'm not supposed to be driving. I think he's going to have me whacked or sent up the river or something. It's all very fishy.

Corky's side of the force

I've been thinking about it and what if droids are the handicapped retards of a galaxy far far away? Threepio does have a lot of special needs and Artoo has that crazy retard strength. I'm just saying.

so . . . iTunes

It is frustrating enough to be sitting, doing whatever on your computer at the law school, and have to put up with all the "cute-sy" little names the students come up with for names of their iTunes.

But if you insist upon naming your iTunes after some iconic tidbit of our american culture - can you have the decency to do it right? Don Corleone has an "e" on the end of it. Otherwise you are referring to a record label with a penchant for bad reggae and album titles like "Too Fucky Fucky".

Clarification

On that inadequate lover thing. I guess I'm saying I'm not going to just hand out orgasms. Not without a fight, at least.

So I was at the Jewish Center this morning...

...eating blintzes, when all of the sudden United States Congresswoman Nancy Boyda showed up. She stole my chair and then offered me a spot working on her next campaign. I said 'yes', until I realized she wasn't talking about Halo.

The tools of enragement

Your favorite blargger, Oliver Babbles, says I can't call him every time I think of something I want to speak out loud. So I guess that's what this blog is for.

I already told Babbles that both possible lunger Doc Cochrane and world's best mayor E. B. Farnum appear in the first two seasons of X-Files.

But update. An episode in season 2 features "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

Also. I think I have new neighbors upstairs and they are fucking noisy.

Anyway. Call me.

Drop some cash on me

Buy me this!

I'm thinking of joining a bowling league

Yes, an intramural bowling league.

I'm thinking of signing up. Mainly so I can have tee shirts made. Of course, that's really the only reason to sign up for anything.

Anyway, I've got some potential teammates (although they don't know it yet), a team name, and a team logo.

This plan has two problems, however:

1) It goes against my nature to get involved with anything school-related

2) I rarely follow through with things. In the words of (maybe) the smartest professor I've ever had, "you're not exactly a taskmaster, are you." And no question mark because he didn't say it as a question. Or maybe I'm just too lazy to hit the shift key again. Either way.


Oh yeah, also, I suck at bowling. Three problems. But whatever.

VH1 right now

Salt N' Pepa performing "whatta man" in a church with new lyrics... lyrics that make the man in the song Jesus.

seriously.

S. O. U. S.'s

Spiders of unusual size? I didn't think they existed.

Until yesterday - fucking spiders, as big as my hand, everywhere. At my school, at Stella's school, at my house.

For the record, I can kill bugs with the best of them - I'm not too terribly squeamish about this sort of thing. I have a shoe, I have a paper towel, I have a book - it's no problem. But when the ensuing "mess" cannot be contained by the item used in the squishing process - this is problematic.

stupid temperate climate. It's fucking October: freeze already!

I have no problem pronouncing "Yevgeny Kafelnikov"

My therapist says I like to "hit and run." He thinks I prefer to know just enough about a person to be irritated with them and decide they aren't worth my time.

Obvs, this diagnosis does kind of irritate me and not just because of its spot-on accuracy. What really kind of pisses me off is that in the second season of "Sports Night" psychiatrist Abby Jacobs uses this exact phrase when dealing with cocky but lovable sports anchor Dan Rydell. And I hate Aaron Sorkin, the tender-minded hack behind "Sports Night." I hates him. A lot.

Fifty Minutes of Motherfucking

Sometimes just getting out of bed is enough to ruin your whole day. I've been trying to make one of my teachers feel that way each Wednesday. She runs a bullshit discussion group disguised as as a bullshit class.

Every week she starts class by saying "what did you find interesting in the assigned reading?" In case you're wondering, "nothing" is not the right answer; just a little FYI. When she says this the fuck-face students take it as their cue to volunteer some trite observation that doesn't actually answer the question because there's no way in hell that they actually thought anything in the reading was interesting.

But what happens when the professor runs out of asshole volunteers? She randomly picks someone- "You, what did you find interesting?" And she keeps this up until class ends. Or until that last student has finally killed him or herself.

Oh, also this is the class with the carroll county accident in it. It's a real son of a bitch.

Anyway, last week she asked me what I thought was the most interesting thing about the reading. I told her "the typo on page 67."

And I was dead serious.

Awkwardtoberfest

So to catch you up. For starters, let me just say "Oktoberfest! Woo!"

Right now, I'm still in my pajamas and watching Veronica Mars (season 1). Usher is 'tailgating' (whatever that means) with his dad and some of their cronies. And a storm of drunken idiots continues to ravage the town.

Last night, Ush and I had supper at Al's Chickenette and then watched old "Newsradio" episodes.

Forgive me if I repeat myself but "Oktoberfest!!1!"

Still Liveblogging Oktoberfest

I doubt there is anyone who reads this blog. . . . Actually I'm just going to end that thought there. I was going to write 'I doubt there is anyone who reads this blog who is not overly familiar with what a gangfuck Oktoberfest in Hays always is' but I think that first sentence captures so much of what I want to say.

For those who might not know, Oktoberfest in Hays is a citywide holiday dedicated entirely to drinking. The university cancels classes expressly to give students more drinking time. And when the university-sponsored, city-endorsed, all-day drunkfest ends Friday evening, the whole college neighborhood throws opens its doors to anyone who wants to drink in their houses and yards for the rest of the weekend. Sounds fun, but it's not. While I totally condone the sentiment, Oktoberfest is really just a good idea poorly executed.

I bet everyone reading this has already spotted the a few flaws in the plan. For starters, drunk people are no fun; they're just irritating. And Hays is a car town; you have to drive to get anywhere so that sucks. And there are the drunk people again; drunk people like to fight and I don't. And then there's the cops; cops are dicks and they're even worse on Oktoberfest.

Anyway, we're only a little ways into this 72-hour boozetoberfest so I thought I would let you who couldn't be with us know what we're up to.

Usher is playing my xbox.

I'm cleaning my apartment.

Check back for more exciting updates!

(Almost) Liveblogging Oktoberfest

Usher and I just walked down to the park. Because it is Oktoberfest. And because I thought it would be better than cleaning my apartment.

of course, the whole time I was there I just wanted to come back and clean.

It was just as awful as all of you remember (or have heard). On top of that, it's unseasonably fucking hot and I didn't even get to talk to the teacher I have a big boy crush on.

More updates to come.

FYI

the foulest substance on this earth is Gogurt.

End of story.

It's sticky, viscous, sickly sweet smelling, and while mildly annoying in your vicinity, becomes a very large problem when it slides down the outside edge of your wrist as you're driving a manual transmission down the highway at eighty five miles an hour.

and even supposing you do get it contained, that smell is gonna haunt you for the rest of the day.
*ugh*

Stop me. Because you've heard this one before.

Someone on the set decided to take a few minutes and really write some dialogue for the porn that was being shot. And they came up with this gem.

Girl: Do you know what foreplay is?

Guy: One more than three-play?




Well. At least they're trying. 'A' for effort.

If you can't spot the sucker in your first hour at the table, then you are the sucker.

allow me to tell you a little something about myself. I hate law school.
It seems to me that it is nothing more than an academic racket, and I got suckered into attending. I take partial responsibility for this, I suckered myself into belieiving the propaganda.

I do my work, I go to class, I even speak in class when absolutely required. My professors often look at me like I am speaking another language. I get the feeling they believe me suited to other, less lofty professions. So did my undergrad guidance counselor:

Counselor: Are there any schools you are particularly interested in?

Me: I have *insert name of prominent public university here* law school at the top of my list.
Counselor: and what field do you see yourself in?

Me: I was thinking something with the federal government, maybe FBI or State Department.

< here there is a really long pause as she shifted in her seat and sifted through all of my scores in front of her>

Counselor: hmmmmmmmm. well, . . . ah. . . I have looked at your results and here some brochures and applications that might be of interest to you. (she refuses to meet my gaze as she slides them across the desk)

Me: Thanks - I see here this application has *insert prominent public university name here* at the top of the form, but they aren't asking for a GPA or anything. . . (I skim a few more pages) and this one has the U.S. Government seal, but I can't find which . . .

Counselor: (interrupting) Well, I know you said you see yourself *attending* those institutions, but your tests show that you might be more suited to *tending to* them instead. . . have you ever considered a career in the custodial arts?


It was at this point that I should have dropped any inclination of attending law school -

Instead I stubbornly stuck to my guns (if you will) and underwent the entire charade and find myself here. Which is to say: two years into law school, hating it, hating the people, and hating myself for being unable to just quit. Of all the things in my life that I have hated, this one tops the list. And of all those things that I have loathed to this degree, I have packed up and walked the fuck away from most of them. So what is my problem? All I know is that I see the janitors and repair folk around the school and they seem a hell of a lot happier than me.

Dykes of Hazzard.

This is so not how things ended up when Beau Duke and Luke Duke tried it.

I can't even tell anymore

Yesterday in class the professor called a pentagram a "pentagon." At first I thought this was smirk-worthy (maybe), but then I realized that not only did he not do it intentionally, he wasn't even aware he'd made a mistake. I'm not sure if this makes it more funny or less funny.

Whatever.

At least it's Friday.

I spilled deja vu all over myself

My drive this morning started out a lot less irritating than Gal's but by the time the cops showed up I kind of felt like it pretty thoroughly sucked.

I even said out loud to no one in particular "This really sucks" while I was upside down in my car, covered in milky coffee and bits of glass.

What's that? Why was I upside down in my car? Well I wasn't just sitting there ass over heels in the backseat or anything. The whole car was upside down. Yeah. I wrecked my fucking car again. At least this time it was spectacular.

Anyway, I'll update later. Fuck off.

Briga-what?

One of the odd occurrences of where I live is that during the fall and the spring the road from my house to school gets a layer of fog upon it. This morning it was thicker than I've ever seen it - and it lasted the entire drive. So for about forty minutes I can't even see the other lane of traffic let alone if there are cars on it. I can't see the exit signs until I'm almost past them.

But here's what I can see: the fat-assed obnoxious truck in front of me. Now, I don't harbor any ill feelings towards trucks in general, unless they have double tires in the back, silver bull testicles hanging from the trailer hitch and something that references Texas. Then I have some deep seated dislike. This truck, bright "blood of the patriots" red in color, had all of the above, and one thing more. A bumpersticker that read: Dead Molesters Don't. And lest viewers be confused that maybe the driver supports the death penalty, there is a National Rifle Association sticker below it. You know the one, something about cold, dead hands.

So, I'm driving behind Mr. Vigilante Justice, relying on him to just keep going straight. If he takes an exit, chances are I'm following him cause the road is nigh impossible to see. Being sort of a sci-fi geek my mind starts to wander to all of the different stories I know where people get lost in fog/mist and emerge on the other side in the future or the past or a different location altogether. How I wish, wish, wish this would happen to me. I don't want to end up at school - Fuck School. I want to come out in Brigadoon, King Arthurs Court, Avalon - anywhere but where I set out to go. Of course, then I start thinking that with Trigger Happy Jack in front of me, my redneck sherpa guide, the chances of me finding myself in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition (or worse yet, Texas) seem more likely.

Sad to say, the fog lifts just as we hit the city limits, and all seems as it ever was. *sigh*

I had one moment of hope when I drove up to campus - the first guy I saw walking along the sidewalk seemed normal from the back: khaki shorts, polo shirt, backpack, but the obligatory iPod was missing and this young fellow was smoking a pipe.
Odd enough to make me wonder if maybe I had emerged into some different version of my usual reality. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

I Drink So You Don't Have To

My siblings and I are all predisposed to have hangovers. We all have our crosses, right? Tell me about it. My little brother turned 21 sometime in the last year or two (and not that he didn't drink before) but I've decided now would be a good time not to tell him all the ways I've learned to enjoy booze and avoid (postpone?) the awful consequences.


I'd like to think I have some noble intention in not helping the little guy avoid some painful headaches, dizziness, and nausea. Like I'm trying to remind him to learn from my mistakes, that being drunk like half the time and half-drunk all of the time just isn't cool. Or something. But seriously? I just like fucking with him.

The Carroll County Accident

In addition to being an enigmatic classic country song, "The Carroll County Accident" is what I call the girl who sits in front of me during one of my bullshit classes.

I can't stand her. She's a real piece of work. Or shit. Whatever. I'm going to try to describe her. But it's going to be hard for me to do- if I'm going to write about her I have to think about her, and if I have to think about her I have to keep throwing up.

Her name is Carroll. Like a song you sing at christmas. Except instead of being jolly and merry, she makes you want to die.

I guess the first thing you should know is that she's tall, very tall. Like the world trade center before it fell down. And oddly shaped. Like an hourglass, only the opposite. I could compare her hips to a wildebeest, but I won't. But I will compare her feet to hog hooves. Even though a more accurate description would be to say that her feet are each a whole hog. And she wears a lot of open-toed shoes. Maybe I should say "open-toad shoes." Have you ever seen a cane toad? They're disgusting. And that's what she walks on. Or if we were to maintain the swine analogy I'd say each foot looks like a pig in a pen that's way too small for it. If this girl could somehow impale two piglets onto her stumps, well, that's what we're dealing with.

And her hair, my god her hair. Until I heard her voice, I didn't think anything above her neck could be worse than her hair. It looks like a beaver tail. If beaver tails were made of birds' nests. Her voice is beyond nasally, like if fran drescher and Alvin the Chipmunk procreated (which would explain the hair).

Anyway, I hate her. And the other day she was talking to the guy who sits next to her (he must have done some real fucked up stuff in a past life) and she was telling him how she loves beauty pageants. She saw the miss america bullshit live last year. And she sometimes competes. She told him more about it, but at this point it was every man for himself and I left the room.

What the fuck.

Also, this is what her feet look like in her fancy high heels:

The O.J. Simpsons Movie

You can tell how old someone is by what they know about O.J. Simpson. People under twenty-five know him as the famous guy from the murder trial their teachers wouldn't stop yakking about when they were in middle school. People over twenty-five know him as the guy from the Naked Gun movies, and also, of course, the murder trial. And to people older than that he's the great football star, who was later accused of murder.

And while I don't condone his actions (specifically the Naked Gun sequels), I do respect how he keeps managing to reinvent himself so he can stay relevant to subsequent demographics. He's the Madonna of murderers.

The dishes are done, man

I was going to make a post earlier, but decided instead to compulsively check my email. The funny part is that I don't even like getting new messages. Reading new email is like making a big dinner; it's sort of entertaining and a good way to kill some time, but afterwards you have a mess to clean up. That part is like replying to emails. And I hate doing the dishes.

I have some emails that I've been intending to reply to that are still within the acceptable range of response time; emails that you see the date stamped on and then open up and smell to see if they're still good. But I have other emails that are way past that point. Emails that say things like "let's do something on spring break;" emails that are the salad dressing you can't remember ever buying that you find hidden in the dark corners of your inbox-refrigerator

But not replying does serve my ulterior motive (assuming laziness as my primary motivating factor): if you don't reply they stop writing. Now if only I could get people to stop calling me.

You know, I used to think that maybe I just wasn't cut out for modern life and all its technological wonders, but now I think that maybe I'm just not cut out for life.

Fucking People

Well, What Would You Do With Polyjuice Potion?

I thought the answer to "What would a bunch of teenage wizards do with polyjuice potion?" was kind of totally obvious, but an informal poll of friends and acquaintances resulted in mostly blank stares and stupid answers.

I think the magical teens would fuck. I mean, right? Like, think about a bunch of teenage boy wizards who can't get laid because they can't talk to girls or whatever. Wouldn't they brew up some polyjuice, pluck a few hairs (from the hot bitchy girls. for instance Parvati Patil, and the too-shy hot nerdy girls, like Luna Lovegood), and draw straws to see who gets banged first? Yeah probably. And it wouldn't just be the boys either.

I can see some people having hang-ups about this kind of activity. Wouldn't this kind of thing really confuse and disorient young people who are just beginning to grapple with their sexual preferences and identities on the whole? I kind of think those hurdles would be pretty easily cleared when these kids realize that they're actually going to get laid.

But wouldn't this friend-fucking lead to anxiety and frustration in a lot of teenagers' interpersonal relationships? Pardon? Just what part of your life as a teenager wasn't full of anxiety and frustration?

Anyway I've got Hermione stirring up a batch in the bathroom as we speak and I've collected about eighteen strands of her hair. Babbles is in for a sore time when next he visits ;)

Car Shopping

I've been on ebay looking for a deal on a used car (one of my head lights went out and I'd rather trade it in than fix it), and I've fallen in love. With a car. A car that's a hooker. It's just like Pretty Woman crossed with Herbie the Lovebug.

The object of my affections? A 1995 Ford Escort. What do I love about it? Well, it's not the "ice cold" air conditioning, not the a.m./f.m. cassette player, and not the douchebag-green exterior; it's the name.

Most people think that the worst name ever given to a car was the Chevy "Nova." Sounds like "supernova," bad ass, right? Yeah. But it also sounds like "no va," which means "doesn't go" in Spanish (which it turns out was surprisingly accurate).

But there's a car with a worse (better) name: The Ford Escort. Naming your line of compact cars after hookers... that's a ballsy move, Mr. Ford. I wonder if maybe your great-grandfather actually wanted to name his first car the "Topless Model-A."

Who cares about gas mileage;
I want a car named after a call girl.
I want a car that charges money for sex.
I want a car I'm embarrassed to bring home to meet my parents.
I want a Ford Escort.

And I want it in the worst way.