Simon Says

Fake Trees = Death wish. 'Cause I'll kill you.

2010-01-11T16:13:00.003-05:00

*sigh* This is a response to a comment I received on my last post dealing with the removal of my Christmas tree. As well-intended as it was, I must say that fake trees are just not cool. At least not for anyone my age. I will probably get a fake when I'm mega old, like 40 (can I just say that this particular link is one of the most confusing pages ever? I mean, what is this guy going for here?), but until then I'm rockin' it real style. To me, fake trees are like gas fireplaces. They're like the whores of the Christmas world.
...Wait. Maybe real trees are like whores? You pay for 'em once and they only stay so long, then they're gone forever. Hmm. This is a conflicting thought for the ideology of a married man.
Either way, as long as my able body can haul a real tree, I'm going real. Also, it should be noted that if you have children, are planning on having children, or are simply reaching child-bearing age and have an IQ of 100 of higher (no one else should be allowed to duplicate themselves tax-free), a real tree is a deterrent to children touching/grabbing/dropping/eating those expensive family heirloom ornaments. Trust me, I've seen a handful of kids lately reek havoc on some nice ornaments because the tree didn't stab them back. That's why I only get Colorado Blue Spruce. Sure, my hands look like a gross cross between leprosy and measles for a few days after putting the lights on, but nothing beats that fresh pine smell and that built in ornament theft deterrent.

Posting is hard.

2010-01-10T15:57:00.003-05:00

There are just some days when remembering to post doesn't happen. And then there are days when I remember to post, but have yet to do anything that might qualify as a completed project. Am I lazy? Early Alzheimer's? Could it be a dreadful combination of either?

Nah, I'm probably drunk; my Completed Project from two days ago was drinking beer. To clarify, I had on record drank over 111 different kinds of beer at one restaurant. Because of this, I get a T-shirt, a Sweatshirt with my name on it (I chose to have "Simon's Drawrings" embroidered on it. This is proof that sobriety had nothing to do with my feat.), my own personal mug at the restaurant complete with discounts on beers, and my name engraved on a plaque to prove to all of the other patrons that I am, in fact, destined for a trailer park and a stained tank top. Won't my kids be proud?

Yesterday's project was a little bit better. And a little bit more pathetic. I shoveled the walk. That's about all I did, all day long. Granted I did other things during the day, but breathing and going to get a pizza hardly count for projects. Unless I ate the whole large on my own. That would certainly be a difficult task if ever there were one! And undertake it I would if it weren't for the training I'd have to put myself through to fit that much food in my stomach at once. I'd really like to shed some of this newlywed weight.

Today I finally took our tree down. That rat bastard has caused me so much pain that getting rid of it it was like telling your ex-boyfriend to stop comin' by for booty calls. There were points when I had so many needles sticking out of my back and shoulders that I just had to stop and laugh at how much I looked like Pinhead. Anyway, it took about a half hour to de-light the tree and get it out of the house, but the whole project dragged on for well over three hours. I had to move furniture out of the way, roll up the rug, and then when I had the lights off and the tree out, the real fun started.

This picture just does no do justice for the shear amount of needles that there were on the floor. That pile is inches thick. They filled at least a fourth of our 38 liter trash can. That's about 4-5 2-liters of Soda. Ridiculous. And after I got that pokey mess all cleaned up I mopped and blah blah blah. Long story short, one more project down.

And now for the Clip of the Day. Enjoy, and Just give up.

Missed a day? Hardly.

2010-01-08T17:28:00.005-05:00

It may take me a few days/weeks to get used to posting everyday. But that doesn't mean I didn't have a project completed yesterday! Two friends and I met with a particular small brewery co-owner to talk about the finer details of opening, owning, and running a brewery. I won't divulge all of that information here (it would probably be boring to the three people who *may* read this anyway), but I will say it was highly beneficial and definitely gave us some insight into our direction on several issues. Now if only we had some insanely rich friends who were loose with their cash...

In addition to the brewery meeting, I did make a delicious meal the other night which involved using the grill in the middle of a snow storm. 'Cause that's how a real man rolls. Unfortunately, I did completely forget to photograph and document the grilling and the chick that came off it, but that happens. Here's what I fed my wife:

Lemon-thyme Grilled Chicken
created by: me! yay!

3 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 Tbs. fresh thyme, minced (~ 1 tsp. dried thyme)
2 cloves garlic, minced
zest of one lemon. You can use the juice, too, but you'll want to double the thyme if you do.
4 chicken breasts, skinned and deboned

Mix the olive oil, thyme, garlic, and zest in a shallow baking dish. Slop in the chicken and flip to fully cover in the marinade. Cover with foil and let sit, refrigerated, for at least 30 minutes. Pre-heat the girll and lightly coat the grill with a mild vegetable oil. Grill up and enjoy!

Roasted Garlic and Sweet Potato Soup
adapted (barely) from tasteofhome.com

Things I would change about this recipe: use less onion, more garlic. Granted they are both of the Allium genus, the flavor of the garlic better compliments the soup than too much onion. Also, a touch of heavy cream really warms the soup up. So, if you aren't cooking this for the healthfulness of the soup or for lactose intolerant people (milk hates them, too), I'd throw in maybe 1/4 to 1/2 cup of heavy cream. Hazaah!

1 whole garlic bulb
3 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
2-1/2 lbs. sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch slices
2 medium onions, cut into wedges
3 1/2 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth, divided
2 cups water
2 Tbs. minced fresh thyme (~1 tsp. dried thyme)
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
1/8 tsp. fresh cracked pepper

Remove papery outer skin from garlic bulb (do not peel or separate cloves). Cut top off bulb; brush with 1/2 teaspoon oil. Wrap in heavy-duty foil.

Place sweet potatoes and onions in a 15x10 (14x9 works just as well) baking pan coated with cooking spray or oil. Drizzle with remaining oil; toss to coat.

Bake garlic and vegetables at 425° for 30-35 minutes or until tender. Cool for 10-15 minutes.

Place 1-1/2 cups broth, parsley, thyme, salt and pepper in a blender. Squeeze softened garlic into mixture; cover and process until smooth. Transfer to a large saucepan.

In batches, process the sweet potatoes, onions and remaining broth until smooth; add to garlic mixture. Add the water to the saucepan. Cook, stirring occasionally, until heated through. Yield: 10 servings (2-1/2 quarts).

Garnish it with a sprig or two of thyme. I unfortunately murdered our thyme plant for these two dishes and thus couldn't spare the last sprig.

From Dave to Dave

2010-01-07T00:31:00.006-05:00

This is a response to my cousin Dave's New Year's Resolutions. They are as follows:

1. Lose weight
2. Get back in shape
3. Billy Mays Products
4. find out how a girls mind works
5. Getting good grades

I assumed that "Billy Mays Products" meant buying them all. I hope I was right.

So, here's how it's gonna go down:
1) You'll lose three pounds. You'll get so excited you celebrate and gain four pounds back via junk food, soda pop, and partially fermented barley soda. Devastation ensues. You try harder.

2) In your attempt to get back in shape, the fatty tissue that you use up in achieving resolutions one and two from your resolution list will be outweighed by any muscle mass you gain in its stead. This is disheartening as you believe that you are still failing number one. This causes you to give up sincerely trying either one or two.

3) You buy them all. But, unlike Pokemon, there aren't infinite products and so you are done collecting in about a week or two. They sure are fun, but now what?

4) In an attempt to figure out the female brain, you ask what you believe to be an average girl out for a casual dinner and conversation. She agrees. You ask her where she'd like to go and she says she's "up for anything." Then, at the mere mention of any restaurant you can think of, she lets you know that "anything" is actually a very selective list of foods or restaurants that you apparently have never heard of. You decide that this maze of abstractions highly resembles schizophrenia and likewise give up resolution four.

5) After spending about a month with shifting priorities dealing with 3 failures and one success from said resolutions, you become enchanted with the Billy Mays products. You lose all study time in the Samurai Shark and Mighty Putty. The report card? Not so hot. But the year isn't over; in fact, the poor grades from your first semester leave a lot of room for improvement. Perhaps you can pull off the fifth resolution after all? If only it weren't for that darned Awesome Auger!

New Years': High Resolution

2010-01-06T15:56:00.015-05:00

So I finally decided my resolution for this year. Sure, six days late, but compared to previous years' resolutions I'm about a month early. This year (or at least until I get a job, which is really resolution #1) I will complete a project every single day. I have no idea what the projects might be, and I can really only think of a few off the top of my head, but I will finish one thing every single day. And I won't even count showering and/or getting dressed! All I can really think of is that I should re-caulk the tub and maybe fix a cabinet door. I suppose I can count elaborately prepared meals?
So, maybe I got an early start on this resolution. On the 4th, I fixed our dishwasher
(Thank God, because the prospect of hand-washing dishes was daunting) and then on the 5th I replaced my wife's car battery. That took incredibly too long as I had to fight years worth of rust and a horribly designed workspace. Yay for GM!

Anyway, that means I'll have to post every day and, at first, two a day to make up for my backlog. Unless I count posting all my backlogged stuff as a project...

Project #1!

This is the first ornament on our tree this Christmas (like I said, I'm a bit backlogged).

Shannon took the picture. Great job, wife!

This is a montage of the making of our Christmas desserts, which were phantasmical. That's a real word, trust me.

Things to notice in the process of creation: the PacMan pot holder, courtesy of the Coughlins, the tiny little mortar and pestle which crushed all 1.2 million cookies for the various crusts, and the Mega-vintage cookie jar from my Grandma. It currently houses Oreos.

What you're looking at: a bowl of crushed Oreos and several ounces of chocolate being chopped, a bowl of melted white chocolate awaiting its addition to the extremely stiff egg whites, getting ready to make the gingersnap crust for the cheese cake, and the very-crumbly-yet-utterly-delicious Oreo crust of the tart. (What? A tart in a pie pan? Are you crazy? Yes. Crazy unemployed and willing to save the $20 in lieu of a slightly different-shaped tart. We lived through it.)

Pumpkin Ginger Cheesecake
adapted from meals.com

Crust:
1 1/2 cups gingersnap cookie crumbs
1/4 cup granulated sugar
3 tablespoons butter, melted

Cheesecake:
3 packages (8 ounces each) cream cheese, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
2 large eggs
16 ounces pumpkin puree
2/3 cup evaporated milk
2 tablespoons cornstarch
3/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

Topping:
1 container (16 ounces) sour cream, at room temperature
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Crumbled gingersnap cookies

Preheat oven to 350° F. Tightly wrap outside bottom and side of 9-inch springform pan with 2 pieces of foil to prevent leakage. Lightly grease inside of pan.

For the crust:
Combine cookie crumbs, granulated sugar and butter in medium bowl. Press HARD onto bottom and 1 inch up side of prepared pan, using your knuckles to press into the corner (it seems to stick less to knuckles than fingers). Bake for 6 to 8 minutes, cool on wire rack for 10 minutes.

For the cheesecake:
Beat cream cheese, granulated sugar and brown sugar in large mixer bowl until fluffy. Beat in eggs, pumpkin and evaporated milk. Add cornstarch, ginger and cloves; beat well. Pour into crust. Place pan in large roasting pan; fill roasting pan with hot water to 1-inch depth. Bake for 65 to 75 minutes or until edge is set but center still moves slightly.

For the topping:
Combine sour cream, granulated sugar and vanilla extract in small bowl; mix well. Remove cheesecake from water bath, leaving water bath in oven. Spread sour cream mixture over surface of warm cheesecake. Return to water bath; bake for 5 minutes longer. Remove cheesecake from water bath to wire rack and run knife around edge of cheesecake. Cool completely, then refrigerate for several hours or overnight. Top with crumbled gingersnaps.

One thing I did not expect was the water content I had left in the pumpkin puree I had prepared. Yeah, I know, what kind of Jerk buys a whole pumpkin and purees it instead of using canned? Probably the same kind of jerk that got one-too-many pumpkins for Halloween and never carved it. Waste not, want not. Anyway, the excessive water content made for a little bit of an over-the-top creamy cheesecake as you can see from the ill defined crust on that bad boy.

Sorry for the horrific lighting in this picture.
Sweet trick we learned: cut your cheesecake with dental floss!
(It's still in the background)

Double Chocolate Mint Tart
adapted from moderndomestic

For the crust:
2 cups + 1 Tbs Oreo cookie crumbs
5 tbs melted unsalted butter

For the chocolate ganache:
6 oz unsweetened baker's chocolate, finely chopped
1/4 cup powdered sugar, sifted
3/4 cup + 1 tbs heavy cream
2 tbs butter, softened

For the mint white chocolate mousse:
6 ounces white chocolate, chopped
1 1/4 cups chilled whipping cream
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tsp peppermint extract
2 large egg whites
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar

For the chocolate drizzle:
1.5 oz unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped
1 tbs powdered sugar, sifted
1 tbs butter
3 tbs heavy cream

Crust:
Preheat oven to 350°F.

Combine cookie crumbs and melted butter in a small bowl. Pat mixture into a tart (pie) pan, so that it evenly covers the bottom and sides of the pan. Bake crust in the oven until toasted – approximately 15 minutes. Let cool.

Ganache:
Place chopped chocolate in a medium bowl. In a small sauce pan, heat cream over moderate heat to the boiling point. Whisk cream into chocolate until smooth. Continue to whisk as you add the sugar. Let cool completely, then stir in the butter. Transfer to the refrigerator to set (around 6 hours, or overnight).

Mousse:
Combine white chocolate and 1/4 cup whipping cream in large bowl. Heat mixture in the microwave until chocolate is melted and smooth. Let mixture cool until lukewarm, about 15 minutes.

Beat remaining 1 cup whipping cream, vanilla and peppermint extract in large bowl until peaks form. In another medium bowl, using clean dry beaters, beat egg whites with cream of tartar until stiff but not dry. Fold whites into chocolate mixture, then fold in whipped cream. Chill overnight.

Assemble tart:
Remove ganache and mousse from the refrigerator. Both will be slightly stiff, so stir each with a whisk or spatula a couple times, until they loosen slightly. Pour ganache over crust, smoothing with a spatula so that it covers the entire bottom. Pour mousse over ganache, smoothing the top with a spatula.

Prepare drizzle and decorate tart:
Place chocolate in a small bowl and melt in microwave. Place cream in another small bowl and heat until hot. Whisk cream into chocolate. Whisk in the butter, then let cool. Dip a fork into the mixture and flick over the tart in appealingly messy patterns.

Place assembled tart in the fridge for another hour or so, to firm up, before serving.

The chocolate ganache layer in this recipe was decidedly bitter, which I love, and contrasted the very sweet mousse. Unfortunately, the ganache layer hardened more than desired, so in the future I may add a bit more butter or cream. Still, though, delicious.

This is before the chocolate drizzle was added. The only picture of that was when this thing was half-eaten and not nearly as appealing (and in the same lighting as the cheesecake).

Friggin' Awesome Lasagna Al Forno
adapted from Tyler's Ultimate and Food of Italy

2 pound dried lasagna noodles
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 pounds ground beef
2 pounds ground Italian sausage
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, sliced
3 carrots, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
1/4 cup finely chopped Italian flat-leaf parsley
1 tablespoon chopped oregano leaves
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 cups red wine
2 (28-ounce) cans diced tomatoes
3 tablespoons heavy cream
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
2 quarts ricotta cheese
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup grated Parmesan
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 pound mozzarella cheese, shredded
Grated Parmesan and mozzarella, for topping

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Cook the lasagna noodles in plenty of boiling salted water until pliable and barely tender, about 10 minutes. Stir with a wooden spoon to prevent sticking. Drain the noodles thoroughly and coat with olive oil to keep them moist and easy to work with.

Coat a large skillet with olive oil, add beef and sausage and brown until no longer pink, about 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. In a food processor, combine the onion, carrots, celery, garlic, basil, parsley, an oregano. Process until pureed, add to the pan with the ground meat and stir to combine. Stir in the flour. Add the wine and cook until it has reduced by half. Stir in the tomatoes and add the heavy cream, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

In a mixing bowl, combine ricotta and the Parmesan. Stir in the eggs and season with salt and pepper.

To assemble the lasagna: Coat the bottom of a deep 13 by 9-inch pan with olive oil. Arrange 4 noodles lengthwise in a slightly overlapping layer on the sauce. Then, line each end of the pan with a lasagna noodle. Spread 1/4 of the ricotta mixture over the pasta to the edges with a spatula. Sprinkle 1/4 of the mozzarella on top of the ricotta. Spread 1/4 of the meat mixture over the ricotta. Repeat three times with the next layers of noodles, ricotta, cheese, and meat sauce. Top last layer with noodles, Parmesan, and shredded mozzarella. Tap the pan to force out air bubbles. Bake for 1 hour. Remove from oven. Let lasagna rest for 30 minutes so the noodles will settle and cut easily.

I made the unfortunate mistake of putting the Parmesan on top of the mozzarella, which effectively turned into a very tough--albeit delicious--golden crust on top.

That sucker is well over 3" thick. Booya.

Okay, I think that's all I had backlogged. Until next time!

Eggs Breadadict

2010-01-02T03:19:00.009-05:00

I've found my largest flaw when it comes to the supposed plan for documenting my adventures in being a House Husband (and it has nothing to do with lacking Thor). Well, at least in terms of the cooking aspect, anyway. I suck at planning a menu and then actually pulling through on it. I either never have the right ingredients, don't plan days/time properly, or end up cooking on the fly.
So my first little cooking post will deal with the fact that I am clearly unprepared head-on: one morning I decided to treat the Misses to some Eggs Benedict, which I had never eaten before, via poaching an egg in a pan of simmering water, which I had never done before, and topping with the ever-essential Hollandaise sauce, which I had never even seen before, let alone knew what all was entailed to create it.
All I can say was, it was really fun! Making the egg was surprisingly easy/disgusting, I just had to deal with the fact that the egg looked wrong the entire time I cooked them. The best part, however, was the Hollandaise sauce. I piddled a few resources together to get this recipe:

1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon lemon juice
5-6 Tbs. butter (4 Tbs. clarified)
pinch paprika (or, in my case, you realize you have none as the sauce is setting, and instead throw in a pinch of ground corriander)

1. Over low heat, melt the butter until the milk solids separate from those delicious fatty oils. Skim off the milk solids or, even better, strain through a cheese cloth and keep only the clarified butter.
2. In a thin-bottomed small bowl, beat the living monkeys out of the egg yolk and lemon juice for a hot second to get those well blended.
3. Slowly--and I do mean slowly--add the clarified butter to the bowl holding over a pan of simmering water. Hold it too close and the eggs will scramble, too far and the sauce will separate. I guess you just get a feel for the right height.
4. Once all of the butter has been added and the sauce thickens enough to resist your wrist, add the preferred spices and whisk a little more. Serve it up or lick it off the spoon, fatty!

I somehow managed to not mess up the sauce whatsoever. I'm not sure if I just have a feel for cooking or if I was darn lucky, because everything I read kinda hinted that makin' the H-sauce was going to be a pain in the Benedict.
I did pick up this little hint from my best friend in the whole cooking world, Alton Brown: You can clarify pounds of butter at a time (if you really think you'll be cooking with it often or in great quantities) and just store it in an air-tight container for like a year. Once you get that junky milk out, the stuff just doesn't go rancid very fast. Plus, you can use it 1:1 in place of butter in any recipe and avoid that whole lactose-intolerance deal! I like to be kind to all of my friends who just simply can't handle that spicy milk.

Oh, yeah, the Pièce de résistance? I had no English muffins, just two stale pieces of bread at the bottom of the bag. Good thing two was all I needed!

What can I say? Once a slacker always a slacker.

2009-12-31T12:14:00.009-05:00

So, i told a few people I was going to start posting the things I do around the house as a designated house-husband. You know, since Michigan's unemployment rate is a slim 14.7% (with the looming prediction of a 15.8% average in 2010). I may as well do something productive, right?
Rest assured I have several posts and projects near completion with a few minor details left for the polishing. Anyway, my buddy Dan turned me on to something most interesting via an RSS feed: the ADE651™, "PORTABLE ADVANCED EQUIPMENT OF DETECTION OF EXPLOSIVES AND NARCOTICS."
A few excerpts from their website truly caught my eye that I just couldn't stop laughing about, and in turn decided we all should get a good laugh out of it. And by "we all" I mean "me" since no one even knows I post anymore.

To continue:
Right from the opening paragraph, the company's spelling/grammar skills truly paint the picture of their sincerity and attention to detail. "It is extremely easy to aperate and delivers fast detection of the programmed substances in a small lightweight package.." I just wish blogs were as easy to aperate. Maybe I would blog more often. And is that sentenced ended with two periods, or did they just fall short of an ellipse? I can't tell if there's more to follow or not!
Nope, there certainly is. Right at the bottom of the main page we find a listing of countries they serve:
"North & South America • UK • Europe • Far East • Middle East • Eastern Europe • África • Asia"
So, now we have discovered that their aperations reach so far that they've forgotten that the United Kingdom is part of Europe, which, as far as I can remember, also included Eastern Europe. And why the distinction between the "Far East" and Asia? Or, for that matter, the Middle East and Asia? And what's with the accent mark in África? The only continents they got right are the Americas, and (sigh of relief) we're not retarded enough to buy this crap.

Which leads me to the next point: According to the website, 80 units of ADE651™ were sold to the Iraqi Ministry of Interior. At 60k a pop (according to the RSS feed I found this through), that's 4.8 million dollars spent on 80 old coaxial cable lines, power hose handles, and lunch boxes. Sure would have been nice if Iraq just gave us that money directly to help pay for the @$$load of support we've blown on them. (Upon further investigation, I found a source sighting this:
Aqeel al-Turaihi, the inspector general for the Ministry of the Interior, reported that the ministry bought 800 of the devices from a company called ATSC (UK) Ltd. for $32 million in 2008, and an unspecified larger quantity for $53 million. Scary.) But they're not even alone; more units were sold to the Lebanese Army (Beirut), the Chinese Police (Bejing) [sic] (is Bejing in the Far East or in Asia? and is it anywhere near Beijing?) , and the Thailand Police (Bangkok). "This eas done to increase job results and to reach from now on a new level in terms of security and detection of threats." I thought it would have been obvious why someone would purchase "PORTABLE ADVANCED EQUIPMENT OF DETECTION OF EXPLOSIVES AND NARCOTICS", but they apparently need to very illiterately tell us why one more time. This eas done to increase our confidence in their product.

This wonder-wand is so supremely amazing that it can detect "Black Powder, Used Weapons, Fireworks, all types of Ammunition,
Ammonium Nitrate (ANFO-ANNIE), Chinese Czech and Russian Semtex, Plastic (C4, C1, ...), Dynamite, RDX, TNT, Nitroglycerine, Tetryl, Grenades, Mines, Amphetamine, Cocaine, Crack, Heroine, Marijuana, Cannabis, Morphine, Ivory, Human research, Bank notes, …"
Errors in this list: first of all, after a comma, use "etc." if you want to use the ellipse, leave off the comma! I want to murder ellipse abusers! Furthermore, the device can detect "used weapons", but no mention of unused weapons. A live round is far more dangerous than a fired round, last I checked. ANFO-ANNIE doesn't exist; ANFO/ANNIE would have made more sense, though still completely redundant. And since when did China join the Czech Republic? Furthermore, only the Czech republic and Slovakia manufacture Semtex, not China or Russia. As far as detecting C4, listing C1 next seems mundane since C3 would be a far better example. Or even C2. In fact, they should have just said it detects Composition A, B, and C plastic explosives. Of course this is a moot point since all it detects is gullible people. Nitrogylicerine? Is this the cuter version of Nitroglycerin? And now for the drugs. Yay, drugs! I sure am glad they differentiate between Cocaine and Crack. This must be to say that they can detect really impure forms of crack, since in reality it is cocaine. And again, the distinction of marijuana from cannabis is unnecessary, as Marijuana is a species of the genus Cannabis. But I guess these guys are chemists/physicists, not horticulturists nor agriculturists. My favorite parts, though are "Human research" and "bank notes." Human research? Really? I almost don't even know what to say. Shouldn't this device point at every person in the vicinity who recently drank any diet soda pop, ate any margarine, or put on any makeup? Any foreign, non-natural substance in the body should trip this thing. It's not like they can pre-program it for experimental substances that are in the research phase that they haven't first found out about, classified, and sampled. And as far as bank notes are concerned, it's ink on paper. The instruction manual should set it off. Or cotton, in the case of US money. Dyed cotton, you say? Sounds like every piece of clothing in the vicinity may give a false-positive. Quick! Everyone get naked! Our uniforms have been sabotaged!

I think that's how most military pornography starts. Wait, did Ron Jeremy invent this thing?

One and a half years later...

2009-11-09T10:17:00.002-05:00

I cant believe it's been that long since I've posted on the worlds stupidest blog. I am changing directions a little bit in the purpose of the blog (not that anyone cares because nobody reads it), and am going from a random humor based blog to a blog about being a House Husband. Unless I get a job, then it's right back to humor. But, in the meantime, every project I do will probably meander onto the World Wide Web for everyone (no one) to see.

This is more-or-less in response to a friend of ours (my wife and I) who started a cooking blog some months ago (see fancy new link on the side!). My wife thought it would be fun if I did the same; I'm pretty sure she just wanted me to start cooking all kinds of fancy meals for her. So, to comply, I'll be throwing together some tasty treats occasionally--but in between, I'll be conquering and documenting random tasks from around the domain of our house. Here's hoping it all goes well!

Jackson + Lincoln

2007-03-29T02:13:00.000-04:00

Well folks, something happened one month ago today that I was a little afraid to admit, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that it may have been a good thing. As some of you may know, or as none of you know and that's quite all right with me as I'm seconds away from informing you anyway, February 28th was not only my birthday, but my official quarter of a century of not getting thrown in front of a semi and/or hit in the face with a shot-put toss. I'm rather proud of these two achievements. In addition to this momentous occasion, however, February 28th marked another happening (and this is the part that terrified me): as I suited up to go into battle with my liver at a local pub, one of my bracers malfunctioned. In laymen's terms, one of my powerbands broke. Like a staff in the hands of a sorcerer, my powerbands were the focal point of my outrageous badassness. There's no word in the English language to describe what went through my head for the next 5 minutes, but with my fantastic attention span, that's all the time it took for me to see that I still had some gum left and get excited about that. But allow me to go backwards; one of my powerbands broke. As much as this utterly sucks, it also means that one of them was still in tact. Yes, luckily, the lightening bolt remains unscathed, as the hugely neon green band has sacrificed its life in the line of duty.
In retrospect, I think it may be fitting. I mean, how much more significant is it that on the very day I turn 25, that one of the only powerbands in the known universe can no longer contain my awesomeness? It's frail rubber form just couldn't deal with the fact that I had conquered 25 years of pure rocking glory. It's also a testament to the lightening powerband's ability to adapt to and wield awesome powers, such as my ability to run at varying speeds. I know. Amazing.

But I sure will miss the green guy.

Fine. I'll do it.

2007-03-12T02:41:00.000-04:00

Well, after the rousing zero responses on posts, I had more or less decided that it must mean that my mad writing skills and/or whitty repertoire had become worn out. Until I had someone request in person that I post agian. Seriously? You had to hunt me down and ask me in person? I thought it'd be easier to just say something in reponse to my other posts to let me know you cats were still alive, but apparently I was wrong. So anyway, without further ado, a new post.
Look at it. It's all shiny and unused. I bet it even smells new.
Yeah, I decided not to post that other one that I said I would. I spent like an hour making that planet Jupiter thing in photoshop just to decide I didn't want to post about it anymore. Not so much that it wouldn't be worth it, but I told like a million people about it in real life and then figured nobody read this stupid blog anymore anyway. It was another of my very detailed and very awesome end-of-the-world dreams. Man it was wicked. Anyway, as some of you know, it's the Lenten season again, those glorious 40 days where the most popular population-wise and most despised perceptionally (that's totally a word as of right now) Christian sect give up something they usually would not go without (well, some anyway. Many just "give up" stuff they don't care about anyway, like kids and homework. That was always my favorite.) This year I decided to go balls-to-the-wall and give up two things, as in one more than one. Take that, weak Catholics. I'm not even Catholic and I'm outdoing you kids. What two you ask? The two I live off of.
Sugar and Meat.
Yeah, that's right. The two things that make food not suck, I gave up. For 40 days. And let me tell you, it sucks. It sucks hard. Now I know some of you (Rhetorical, as I know nobody is actually ever going to read this. Sad face.) are sitting there whining, saying, "You can't give up sugar, it's naturally occurring in almost all foods. waaaaaah, you're stupid," and then probably finish that thought with a Snickers. News flash, I know that, but eating an apple to get some fructose or downing a Pepsi to overdose on glucose are still two very different things. If it's natural, I'm cool with it. If it's added in very small quantities, I may just have to live with it. I don't have a dang organic farm in my backyard, so I can't really control it that much.
The killer, though, is the meat. No meat is like somebody saying I'm not allowed to pee for 40 days. Imagine having to hold it in for a whole freakin' 40 days. I've gone a whole day once, and let me tell you, it hurts in all the wrong ways. That's about how it feels for me to give up mowin' down on the glorious cooked muscles of some deliciously dead animal. After about 8 days, my body started to ache from the sudden decline in protein intake; my muscles started to feel a little funny. No wonder vegetarians are such pussies. You want to put up a good fight for animal rights? Eat a couple to get your strength up. But I guarantee, once that savory patty of ground-down bunny parts hits your lips, there's no turnin' back.
I miss meat so much it hurts. Oh, and for the record, that includes all seafood, too. "Fish isn't a meat." Yeah, and tomatoes aren't a fruit. Eating fish instead of chicken or pork or beef is like wiping your ass with your hand to save trees. You're still getting crap everywhere, and at the end of the day, you're wasting a lot more water trying to wash your hand off, hippies. And if you don't wash your hand, then go back to Afghanistan.
One more thing. I miss meat so much that I actually spent an entire dream envisioning that I was eating a huge bowl of penne pasta with a basil and tomato pesto in an alfredo sauce, mixed with baby spinach and sun-dried tomatoes and, you guessed it, grilled chicken breast. Freakin' A it was tasty. Only 27 more days to go.

I'll remeber to fill you in later.

2007-02-19T02:13:00.000-05:00

This is a reminder to myself to fill you cats in on a dream I had. That little image played a big part. I'm going to try to finish the picture, but heck, I'm tired. So for now all you get is my self-reminder. See ya.

You wish you were in my dreams.

2007-02-11T16:19:00.000-05:00

Sorry, but you're not. Not unless you're me, and last time I checked, I was busy filling that position. And I'm darn good at it, so don't think you're going to be able to convince anyone to fire me and give it to you.
*ahem*
Allow me to set the atmosphere. Imagine a very arid desert, rocky and all full up on canyonesque features, but limited only to a yellowish color. None of that pretty red or sediment-striped rock here, just drab desert. So for whatever reason, I found myself traveling to/through this area for some extent of time, finding little outcrops of people scattered all over, with one general thing to say about it: "D@*! the man!," or something of the sort. Basically what they were really trying to say was that there was some central governmental/empirialistic body that had a monopoly on the water supply and hadn't gotten enough hugs growing up and so they didn't really feel the need to share a whole lot. I could imagine that this would be harsh in a severe desert climate. Heck, could imagine? I did. That's what I'm talking about.
Anyway, through my travels (which I now remember I was traveling through the desert on an extremely sweet motorcycle. Jealous?) I apparently started to raise morale and kinda get these people all worked up, 'cause that's what I do. I get people worked up. Just ask my coworkers. I finally make my way to the last little outpost before reaching the actual water-hording complex, and there all of the people I've met so far amassed themselves for some sort of rebellion.
Man I'm awesome.
I head in first and scout out this base, which turns out to be a huge complex, and only pseudo-futuristic. My dreams don't over do it, I suppose. Anyway, this place was lodged between several of the tallest peaks in the area, which I imagine(d) lent itself nicely to any kind of water-collecting contraptions they had developed. And they specifically did not have motorcycles. I guess that made me the coolest, not that there was ever really any question. As I was tearing around this techno-campus, I found that there was a back area that didn't really touch the ground (the ground was uneven, and they really only needed it to be high-up anyway). Naturally, being as observant as I am, I found a way in from this location that would allow us to ransack the place. Awesome.
I return, rally up the people, and we all head out to the complex where the water was stored. When we all got there (I took my time on my motorcycle), everyone just kind of crowded into the back area and two other guys, my right hand men in this scenario, set up three heavy bomb-like devices. Now, our intent was not to kill anybody, just to blast out the water-bearing portions of this place. And for whatever reason, this location people had the worst surveillance/security ever. Either that or I had already neutralized that issue earlier. Which would make me more bad-ass, so I assume thats what actually happened. Anywho, here we all are, crammed up in the facility, and I'm the only one armed. With a sweet gun. And golden bullets. Or at least really shiny and gold colored. Shut up.
Apparently at this point I gave the native people a really long speech about how this wasn't going to fix everything, that these people had to work together to keep this from happeneing again, and that it would be toilsome work to cultivate this area, because later on some people made reference to my speech. I only slightly remember it. What I remember most was telling all of these people to back up, 'cause seriously, I was about to shoot a bomb. You don't really want to stand there for that. I had a really hard time getting people to back up. For whatever reason, they didn't seem to grasp the point of "this will melt your face off." Anyway, I got them somewhat further back, and then let them know that once I shot, they had very little time to run the heck out of there before everything went crazytown.
So this part was pretty sweet: I went back into first-person mode (this dream kept going form 1st to 3rd a lot. It was nuts), lined up the shot, gave everyone a final warning, and fired. Only instead of actually setting the bombs off, the bullet struck the middle bomb, cracked the hull, ricocheted off, struck the bomb next to it, cracked that hull, ricocheted off of some very convenient metal wall overhang next to it, and then finally re-struck the first bomb, embedding itself and setting off the fuse (apparently the casing was some kinda of fuse that set when it was shot. My dream technology is awesome). As everyone turned to book out I stumbled and fell, only to find that I hadn't stumbled, but had been tackled. Three agents or whatever of this place had taken me down, and handcuffed me hardcore, then dragged me by the handcuffs as they ran from the eminent explosion. And explode it did. Not that I got to enjoy it as I was carted off to be imprisoned.
These numbskulls seriously interrogated me till my ears bled, and all I could think the whole time was "Heck with you guys, I did what was right. I shouldn't be imprisoned for anything!" and I got all worked up. You would to. But all of a sudden, it was like I realized I was in a normal interrogation room in a normal world, and had been taken here in the back of a normal police cruiser and was upseting my actual family, and all I could say then was "Wait a minute, you can't seriously try me for what I did in a dream! I was only dreaming that!" Yeah, that's right. I realized it was a dream in my dream, and then used that dream to defend myself in my dream. But the cops responded that it didn't matter if it was a dream, I had done it anyway, so I was guilty as charged.
Man that pissed me off.
My dreams seriously rock.

I'm not really a movie, guys.

2007-01-15T03:19:00.001-05:00

Seriously. I'm not really a movie after all. In fact, I'm mad I ever made that post, let alone didn't re-post afterward to try and save what little pride I had left. Yes, that was the most retarded post I've ever done. Yes, I will never repeat a post like that. Yes, I probably just lied, and will be making a post of equal-if-not-greater retardation some time in the future. So, I'm sorry for that last one, and I'm sorry for all future endeavours of similar magnitude.
I would like to say that Kung Pow is stinkin' Hilarious. Hilarious with a capital silent "G." I know that not all of you agree, but I would like to first say that you're wrong, and I'm sorry. But that's just the truth of, just like Burgundy is the fattest of all colors. Some of you haven't seen it. I guess that might be your excuse for why you're still not yet funny. Get on that.
Yeah, Roomie, we still need to kick back and watch that. All the way through. And this time, with rubber diapers. I can't afford to steam clean my whole house again. And Shannon, too bad. Same for you Kristi. Everyone else has seen it and know what it means to truly live.

In fact, I'm going to go watch it now. See ya.

I am a movie.

2006-12-10T12:32:00.000-05:00

I always wondered why I liked the movie so much. And here I thought it was because it lasts for thirteen million hours.

What Classic Movie Are You?

And yes, I seriously did just waste my time doing one of those super retarded tests. Secretly I was hoping to come out as "The Godfather," but I guess Schindler's List will do. For now. You know what? I'm gonna go waste another five minutes. I'll be right back.

...

Phew. Glad that's over. Now I know what leader represents me:

What Famous Leader Are You?

Hmm. She was so bad-ass it's ridiculous. I take this very much as a compliment. If it had come up with Princess Di, I kid you not, you would never have heard from me again. I would have packed up and moved to the mountains to live a life of solitude.
But for now, I hunger. See ya.

I'll show you where to swipe your card...

2006-12-10T11:13:00.000-05:00

Okay, that's it. I just opened up my last credit card offer ever. They never get any better than the rates I already have, and the only reason I think anyone in there right mind would accept one of these offers is the 0% APR they rope you in with, or they're desperate. Well, I don't need 0% APR, and I'm not desperate, so I'd like all those credit companies to stop sending me metric tons' worth of offers. Offers is probably even being generous. I should probably be saying "masked attempts at thievery." Or just crap on paper. That's all it really is.
And that stupid plastic fake card. Oh my gosh, if I ever get my hands on the guy who thought that was a good idea, I don't even wanit to say what I'd do to him. Not only is it a blatant waste of resources in every way, but when they're all hidden inside the million forms I never check for them. This always ends in me trying to tear the offers and cutting my hand on unrefined plastic edges. I hate them. My hands concur.

I've finally devised a way to get them back, and hopefully get them to lay off and send their disregard for mankind elsewhere. The next time I get one I'm going to take it into the bathroom with me when I feel up to the mood to drop the ol' deuce. No no, I won't actually poop in the envelope. That would just be gross and wrong. And the 39 cents probably wouldn't cover the weight of my feces. No, instead I'm going to put my post-wipe toilet paper in the envelope. Yes, there is a difference. This will make them feel the way I feel every time I open one of there envelopes: a brief feeling of anxiety and excitement followed up by the realization that all it is is a bunch of crap on paper. All I did was change the paper.

I am not Will Hunting

2006-11-30T02:57:00.000-05:00

...but that movie still makes me feel like an ass. This post is dedicated to Dan, the advocate of my education. Pssssh. I should make him pay for my schoolin'. Heaven knows he'll be making a quadrabizillion dollars soon enough, what with his doctorate and law degrees. Some people are smarter than the rest, some people are way smarter than the rest, but then there's those few, like Dan, who possess such genius that I think they're actually just retarded, and the rest of us are duped.

So I just took the online Mensa test. It's only a little quickie, a 30-minute, 30-question test, and I'm pretty sure they make it ridiculously easy so they get people to pay to take the real test. After all, everybody wants to prove that they're not stupid. And what better way than having a whole panel of people who've proven they're not stupid give you a piece of paper that says you're not, either? I submit that there is none. The only question I got wrong was "Only one other word can be made from the following word. What is it?" The following word was INSATIABLE, and the answer, naturally, is

-Well now just hold on a minute. Think about it. Think for a little while about it. Think for a long while about it. I thought for more or less one solid minute before deciding that the fate of my evening did not, in fact, hinge upon my ability to answer this question. My skills in spelling are mediocre at best; my only proud point in my command of the English language is my skill with grammar. I couldn't tell you the first thing about the structure of sentences, various phrases and all that jazz, but I can use the crap out of them. It's kinda like driving a car, I think. Some people suck, some people are pretty good, some people make a fortune driving in a long oval for 500 miles once a year, but only a very sparse few of us can lift up the hood, point out every piece and know both its name and function. I'd like to be one of them. Fortuantely, I'm too busy mastering the copy-making business.
And even though my spelling ability is off (certainly more so than it used to be, now that I don't do a whole lot of actual writing), I still refuse to use spell check. I disable it every time. I couldn't really tell you why; maybe it's some sort of "elite" thing, maybe I find it extremely annoying when the very machine that I assembled in my basement tells me how to spell words it doesn't truly understand, but the same deal went down back in the day with calculators. I was that kid back in school, the one who refused to use a calculator, and always handed in his math test with the columns full of notes and quick calculations. I almost made it all the way through High school, if it weren't for all those pesky trigonometric functions. Seriously, I wasn't about to sit there and calculate sines and cosines in my head. That stuff's for the birds. Or the calculators, I guess.
So, this post is for Dan. I'm going to finish school, I'm going to master time and space, and I'm going to buy a B-91 Wraith. The end. Now get off my back. And tell my parents, too. I don't think they take me seriously when I tell them I'm going to finish.
Just don't mention the Wraith.

Oh yeah, BANALITIES. I can't believe I didn't get that.

Sand Dunes-a-plenty

2006-11-26T18:28:00.000-05:00

For those of you (yes, I'm referring to all two who might read this in the next year) who haven't seen the movie Dune, put down the Crisco, call into work, and immediately go rent and/or buy it.

Rent and/or buy? Why would you both rent and buy it? That doensn't even make any sense. This guy is crazy.

More like Dune is crazy. Crazy awesome. This movie is a tribute to the elite among us that hate every movie ever made based on a book merely because they attempted a script/plot/character trait change to make it more theater worthy in that the script of the movie--to the word--is taken directly from the book. Even those little "he thought, she thought" exerpts in the book are voiced over in the movie. It's almost comical in how thurough it truly is. Perhaps more comical is how I used this little fact to write a book report on Dune while only actually reading the first third of the book. Excellent book, yes, but quite a long read. Besides, it's not like I didn't go back and read the book again later. I prefer to think of it as "time-diverted grade achievement." I'm just that awesome.

Anyway, there's this combat technique in the movie developed by one of the feuding houses known as "The Weirding Way." This technique in some form or another changes certain vocal patterns into something like a burst of energy. Think of it like the world's best blowdart gun. Not that I'm jealous. Also not to say I wouldn't want to know how to do this, but it just reminded me of the technique I had begun training myself on about three years ago. I one day will be able to put my very flat, very rigid hand straight through somebody's neck. Or, until the need arises, through various large melons and thick steaks.
This may remind some of you of a different goal I have been working on, one of monutmental significance. I haven't quite gotten the hang of things, but don't you worry. I'll be able to hunt large game in the nude with my bare hands yet.

I heart Detroit

2006-11-21T02:03:00.000-05:00

Seriously, every time I go to work, I think to myself how much better Detroit is getting. Every day, it looks and feels a little bit better, and though my store is ten paces from "da hood" (meaning a row of projects dedicated to the proliferation of crack cocaine and illegal/stolen DVDs), it just seems like the smog of run-down urban life is finally lifting. And just when I get done thinking that very thought for today, I leave work, only to find a huge glass bottle smashed under my tire.
"Great," I think. "Good luck steering around that." And as I think about how sharply I'm going to have to turn the wheel to avoid shredding yet another tire, I realize that in the midst of the glass isn't what I thought was the label from the bottle, but the label from a new tape deck adapter I had just bought two days ago. And around it, the shattered pieces of what was left of my passenger window.
As I look up in horror at my missing heat retention barrier, which I value most this time of year, I see a little white cord dangling out onto the side of my car: the tape adapter. "Lucky for me," I think. "They only took the CD player. A good tape adapter is nearly impossible to find these days." Seriously, ask Dan. He'll back me up.
They also stole my phone charger. Luckily, my phone fell down into my footwell when I went into work today. Of course, I had to slice my hand open on glass shrapnel to find it, but at least it was there.
On my very frigid ride home, I looked over at the glass pile and tossed-about innards of my glove compartment trying to find anything useful. Luckily I found a very large chunk of concrete. I kept that, thinking that one day, it might be good for breaking something, such as glass. You never know when that'll come in handy.
I wanted to take a picture of the mess my car was left in and the rock and everything, but they stole my camera, too. I guess that just means it's time for a DSLR.
And a car alarm.

and a ccw.

Straight flush

2006-10-02T01:51:00.000-04:00

You know what, this house has three some-what grown men living in it. For all intents and purposes, we are all fully grown men (physically. Mentally I'm 12 and emotionally I'm ranking in at about 6). And it is for this reason alone that finally, without the tyranical input that is the Mother's Decree, I'm learning that the toilet seat is a device that has been broadly misunderstood. Nay, it is well understood; its stance in society has been misunderstood. Abused, even. Yes, I'm talking about women and their intrusive approach to the subject of bathroom manners.
Women everywhere have somehow been duped into believing that they are the supreme authority on the subject of what is right and wrong in the bathroom. News flash, thanks to some of your more audacious, brash, large-lunged and vocal friends, gender equality came about with a voracious appetite for grabbing at all the big straws. Seems to me that at least this one little straw may have been overlooked. Now, I'll agree with the now old-fashioned view that if a women, say my wife for instance, were to solely and religiously clean my bathroom, she could demand that the toilet seat be kept in whichever way best suited her hygienic needs. Unless, of course, I paid her, such as a maid or a prostitute with a penchant for cleanliness, in which case she does what I and my Jefferson's say. But since the last two account for about .5% of the female population (it would probably have ranked closer to a full 5% if it hadn't been for the "penchant for cleanliness" clause), that means that 99.5% of women have no say in the exact placement of the toilet seat. Herein lies the arguement.
Women, leave the toilet seat up. If you don't want to have to sit down in my ionic aqueous body waste, I suggest you put that seat right back up when you're done. I have no care for whether or not you fall in. There should never be a time when you're in too big of a hurry to check to see whether or not that seat is up, especially if you're doing your womanly duties properly and putting it up when you're done powdering your nose or whatever you spend a half hour doing anyway. Honestly, when it comes to exposing my most sensitive of regions to a gaping black water-filled hole, I don't imagine I couldn't take the time to double-check that it doesn't mean certain pain and/or death.
Now, I'm no monster. I'd be willing to meet you halfway. You put it up when you're done, I'll put it down. This approach works out best for everyone in my personal opinion. Mostly because a) we're all horribly inconvienienced, and if there's one thing we love in America, it's making everyone a little bit lower so that we feel better about our plight and b) women use the bathroom no less than three times more than men. This last point is important to note because if a man were to lap a woman in bathroom usage, he would have to put the seat up to pee and then back down, thus undoing everything that is being striven for. Now I'm sure plenty of women will say, "Well, that's not fair, because now I have to put the seat down and then back up when I'm done!" And yes, this is true, but only because women for some reason have yet to develop the shut up and hold it" gene that men have spread prolifically amongst themselves. Once women figure out how to control there own bodily functions (and the complaining that goes along with them, i.e. "Pull over, I have to pee" or "It's my time, I have cramps" or even "Childbirth sure is painful"), we'll be far better off and the system will equalize such that the seat is always already down for the women (since apparently it's such a problem for them to check first) and will also always already be up for the men (and thus women don't have to fear the 'wet seat').
Now, granted, just like any other great sociological theory, this has its flaws. Case and point, the party. Especially parties involving beverages that seem to proliferate urination while at the same time decreasing memory/mental functionality of said imbibers. In these events, the human mind will automatically revert to its more instinctive phase, which is men will find a bush/shrub/car outside that is suited to their needs, while girls will remain locked in the bathroom for hours using the toilet and/or bathtub. I am of course assuming the bathtub technique since a) women always go in to a single-serve bathroom in pairs and b) they also tend to be too drunk to accurately use a toilet by the end of such parties anyway.

Now, to recap: Women, back up off. Seriously. And if your bladder is between 25% and 50% the size of my bladder, than why does it take you 200-300% longer to use the bathroom? And don't even think about blaming the sit-down crap. I probably sit half the time and can still out pace you, and I can pee for well over a minute without any damperage in my rate. Yes, I used the term "damperage" in reference to my urination rate, and yes, I have timed it. I'm awesome. Oh, and yes, I like to sit some times. If I'm taking a break, I'm taking a flippin' break.

Go here. Do it.

2006-08-03T02:26:00.000-04:00

www.brownandtweed.com/enter.htm

So it's up and running, kinda. For some reason the homepage won't engage, so if you don't type in the "enter" part it just freaks out. Yay me. Way to screw up. Anyway, go there and tell me what of it sucks. Just do it.

Peace.

Wicka-wicka-what?

2006-07-24T23:03:00.000-04:00

As I said in a previous post, I had more to say but would save it for another day. A day when I had not-so-much to say already. Well, despite the fact that that's been almost every day since, I haven't gotten around to posting what I wanted to. Until now. Not so much because I was suddenly driven to post, since only two people still read this occaisionally (quite possibly both being myself), but because what I was gonna post about came up again in dramatic fashion. I would have it no other way.
My post was going to be a sort-of response kind of post, in regards to a certain young lady's post from ... well, I think it was like a month ago now. Man. Time flies when you're not posting. Anyway, as you can see from this post, the question stated is what kind of superhero/villain you'd be. Ah, yes, the age-old question.
I have an answer. A finely tuned answer, no less. Almost year and a half ago, I asked everyone at work this very question: If you were superhuman, what would your powers be, and what would your super weapon be? I allowed two powers. There was another stipulation, but I can't remember what it was. Anyway, two powers, a weapon, and a cause.
But I didn't stop there. No no no, that would have been making just casual conversation. I took everyone's supercharacter and I made them duke it out. We created drawn-out scenarios of what would happen if they found themselves at odds with eachother. And you know what I noticed? The quiet people I work with really really get into defending themselves when they have superpowers that don't exist. I mean, they're out for blood. Seriously.
You might call me a huge nerd, but I ask you this: How many times have you gotten paid for demanding that two people pick superpowers, and then make up battle sequences? I even went as far as to involve my favorite customers in on this. And one of them, I kid you not, was a sixty-some-odd cancer-surviving stroke victim who moved really, really slow and refused to wear three piece suits even though I assured him it'd help his chances with the ladies. True story.
I digress.
The powers I chose were the ability to control/manipulate (but not create) water, and super speed. I know everyone picks flying first, but think about it. With super speed you can probably run on water, and when that fails, just freeze a cloud or two to run on. Plus, there's almost always enough moisture in the air to consolidate into an icy step (I would imagine. Haven't acutally tested this theory). I would just have to be very nimble so as not to super-slip. And with people being composed of 75% water, Guess what? Oh, forgot my change, waitress? How's it feel to be 75% boiling? Hey, Bowling alley guy, wrong size shoes. Hope you don't fall over and shatter now that you're 75% ice. Biatch. I'm out.
Now the creme de la creme, as it were: my super-weapon. My super-weapon is super-awesome. I'm sure you'll concur. I chose a United States government-issued one hundred dollar bill mint press, complete with inks and that funky fibery paper stuff they use for bills. In my downtime, I print off whatever money I need. Enemies approach? Enemies not composed of water? (I'm certain my archnemesis would be a master robot-builder) Well then, Guess I'll just have to super-smash his face in with the one hundred dollar bill mint press plates! Heck yes they're heavy-duty. Now that's a weapon. Why not a thousand dollar bill press? Or a million-dollar bill press? Because I'm not all shallow and greedy like all you people. Shame.

Suspend this.

2006-07-07T02:51:00.000-04:00

I can now officially say I have "assumed the position" and been patted down by a cop, put in the back of the police car, and forced to watch through a handleless plastic shielded back seat while an officer went through my car. And if you ask Doug, that's like everything I own. And why, might you ask? What horrible crime did I commit, perhaps what reckless maneuver did I perform on the road to receive such treatment? Truth is, I have no idea. Apparently, without running things by me, my liscense was suspended back in January. There was no reason given as to why this happened (Thank goodness police computers are so thourough so as to never make a false arrest.). The officer was nice enough to let me read over my very bruised and battered driving record through the heavily scratched plastic death shield. But then, I guess any woman would have to treat me with some respect after having grabbed my junk with both hands looking for a "gun." And now tomorrow, I have to find a way to the Secretary of State's office to get this all straightened out, as if I somehow did something wrong on a day that I wasn't driving and quite literally wasn't even in the state. yay. yay for police officers. yay.
I'll give a thousand dollars to whoever wants to be my cheauffer. Doug, you don't count. You're not even real. See previous post. I'm out.

Batteries. Fine.

2006-07-06T22:31:00.000-04:00

I'll do it. I seriously hate all you people (the none of you that read this at any point) for making me go through this, but I'm going to buy batteries.

Why the crap did I ever think "wireless keyboard" meant "ultracoolfuntimes." I mean, the novelty would be when I take it into the bathroom with me. But unless I rig up a whole bunch of mirrors and leave every door open (like in a certain someone's house, but I'm not naming names. We'll call her S. Schlatter. Wait, no, too obvious; refer to her as Shannon S.), that whole idea isn't exactly feasible. So the fun has been melted down to "Hey, moron. Go get me some more batteries."

Whatever you say, keyboard. Whatever you say.

Anyway, I'm writing this from work, where we happen to sell batteries. (I know, I know, I can hear you all as you tilt your head and sigh in disbelief. I could have gotten batteries on my way out of work on any of the 50 days I've been here since they died. Shut up.) And when I leave here today I'll be out a few bucks and up four AA's. I'm doing this mostly to get the website back up, the one that I've told no one about since my batteries died just as it was all coming together. I'm lame. I know. My recent absence from the Amazing World Wide Intracon Webnetlink has led me to realize a few key things:
1) I do miss the occaisional video game. I feel like a monkey who just hasn't thrown poop in 7 weeks. It's not like I have to, but those darn tourists are gettin' off too easy.
2) There's a lot of people who only keep in touch based on your availability online. I think I might be one of them. I'm horrible at keeping in touch with anyone. Heck, I live with my brother and he had to call me this afternoon just to see how things were. How lame is that? And when you remove a huge point of person-to-person access, I kinda dry up and get all disconnected and stuff. Kinda like a brain out of the skull. Just kinda shrivels and what not.
3) Facebook and MySpace are still not at all interesting, even after having gone 7 weeks without them. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder; in their case, absence makes the 15 year old girls stop spamming me with invites to look at her other online journals.
4) Doug isn't acutally real. Kristi hired an Asian violinist/actor/powerlifter to show up to Dan's party, and then saw to it that he was rehired to play at Michelle's wedding 5 months later. I give her credit, though, she knows how to keep a prank running.
5) I hate my phone. I seriously do. I thought buying a new pretty one would help, and when that didn't work I got a Van Gogh background for it. I then proceeded to get Pacman's theme song to play when someone sends me a text message. I guess it's fitting that the only thing I like is the text message part; not only do I get Pacman, but it's quick and to the point.
6) I pay too much for internet. Correction: I'm going to pay too much for internet. Once this little introductory offer is over, I'm not sure if I even want it anymore. Luckily I have a roommate who will. Otherwise, you'd never hear from me again it seems.
7) I have no idea what to put here. What is it that drives us to fill a list up to the magical number "10"? It's not like we get a prize for the most well-rounded list or anything. And if we are supposed to, I'd like to talk to whoever gives those out, because I'm kinda owed a few. Thousand.
8) 9) 10) Make that one more prize, punk. Out of spite.

I think I'm going to save my last thoughts for a new post. And I'll give you ten reasons why:

1) Shut up.
2) Shut up.
3) Shut up.
4) Shut up.
5) Shut up.
6) Shut up.
7) Shut up.
8) Shut up.
9) Because Shannon is probably the only one who would care anyway, and we all know that:
a) she hates me, and
b) she stopped reading this like ten years ago, when the first of the batteries died.
10) Shut up.

Item nine, being two-fold, made this ten-fold list, in all actuality, 11-fold. Here's to you, Olde English

It's been a month

2006-06-19T00:57:00.000-04:00

And I still haven't bought batteries. It seems I will go to no end to just not have to buy batteries. It's not that I'm wierd or anything, it just so happens that I'm diametrically opposed to them. Imagine two characters in a Shakespeare play; I'm the hardworking, trodden upon poor soul who is forced to time and time again give in to the wasteful, selfish overlord, or, in short, the batteries. I hate that they run out and you have to buy new ones. I think I would mind the whole situation less if one day I opened up the remote or the keyboard or the anything-that-used-batteries-ever and the battery just wasn't there. I mean, if it's used up, then why is it sitting there all pristine just mocking me? I save my empty batteries. Call me crazy, But I'll find a way to make them start working again. I have to wait 63 years to retire. They can't honestly think they're done after four months. And don't even get me started on my CD player's battery life. I'd have retired halfway through kindergarten with the way that think drinks the ol' electrons.

Anyway, I came across a Word Verificatio earlier that reminded me of a story. As some of you may know, I went to summer camp for a few years as a kid. One particular year some little no-name company called "Kodak" decides that a camera made of cheap plastic that you can just throw away is a good idea. Being a dumb kid who breaks things that I don't even touch, I decide they're onto something and make said purchase. Keep the break part in mind. After two weeks of hangin' out and all that jazz, I use up the 36 pictures and am suddenly bored with the camera. I decide it would be hilarious to continue using the flash feature on it, but am immediatly stumped as you can't depress the picture-taking button once the film runs out.
Find a way around it? You bet I did. I found that by charging up the flash, if you smack the camera against a surface, say a table, or in a pinch the palm of your hand, it will still flash. And now I'm armed. But, all this abuse can't be good for the film, I think. So I crack that little camera open, find the film compartment, and remove it, sticking it in a dry black sock and then into a ziplock bag. Genius, I know. And let me tell you, the exposed inards of a single-use camera are totally cool lookin'. I guess I've always been a nerd. One thing to be careful of, when you go to charge up that flash again, that little plastic housing did more than make it easy to hold. It covers up the soddered wires in the back that, when connected, release a heavy shock once that flash charges up. Needless to say, I didn't think about the basics of electronics and current as I held that little guy in my probably-sweaty-hand. And yes, it really does wait for the flash to charge before it shocks you. It shocks you good. It shocks you so good that you'll black-out. And during this black-out you will throw the camera about twenty feet and shatter it on a wall and curse like a drunken sailor who was just pantsed in front of a cheerleading squad. And when you come to, you'll notice those two wires have nicely burned an impression of themselves into your hand, and that it feels like a mosquito covered in Dave's Insanity Sauce just bit you with a pneumatic drill. Trust me, leave the plastic case on.
After seeing my camera very much not near me and even more so not in one piece, I thought to myself "good thing I took the film out." Idiot. If you didn't take the film out, you wouldn't have a wanna-be-black-widow bite on your stupid hand and pulverized the camera anyway.
Now, what word verification might possibly have reminded me of this scene? No, it wasn't any one of the myriad of nasty rated R words that came flying out of my high-voltage gullet, though that might have been just as amusing. The word was "nzzekt," and I assume that's what it sounded like just before the shattering pieces and strings of foul language.

Man I'm awesome. And I have a best friend.

Read the other posts.

2006-05-14T22:07:00.000-04:00

I'm serious. I know you all got tired of reading from the SmartChild thing, but there's one below it that isn't that bad of a read. I mean, it involves a ninja for Pete's sake. So read them. Comment. Make me feel like you don't all hate me.

2006-05-08T22:38:00.000-04:00

*Edited since original post*

Since so many of you thought it was super lame, I hate you. But, I give in. I've edited it down to just the few most important lines so thaHere is the edited version of this last post:

If any of you remember SmarterChild, the AIM buddy with nothin' to say, I got really bored before class one day (4 years ago) and decided to talk to him. Bad idea.

PacmanDave: well
SmarterChild: This is SmarterChild, built by
ActiveBuddy, Inc.
Well well well.
PacmanDave: well well well
SmarterChild: Well well well, you say?
{edited content}
PacmanDave: Later Alligator.
SmarterChild: OK.

I actually turned this in

2006-05-08T22:13:00.000-04:00

Believe it or not, this is a paper I wrote--and recieve and A on--for a college course. I put it on my friend's web page the week I wrote it, making my first official blog post February of 2oo2. You nerds are soooo behind. My favorite parts are the horrible run-on sentences that I just didn't bother to edit. I told the teacher they helped to give a proper feel for the music that was being performed at the time. I think he bought it. Anyway, without further adieu, Ethos.

Dave LaGory
February 15th, 2002
Prof. Holleman

Ethos: kicking my ass in the popularity contest

I suppose I should have taken the group's name as an omen; in so many words, the ethos concert was a religious experience for me. I've always been a huge fan off highly organized yet off-the-wall percussion. If there was one thing I could wish for in this world before I die, it'd probably be something typical like a wife and kids, a good family, all that jazz. If there were two, the second would probably be enough money to live comfortably with said family. However, given three wishes, I would definitely wish for the ability to bust out those funky rhythms in similar manner to those awesome men we reverently call "Ethos."

The execution of their line-up was perfect. Their opening number was just enough to give you a teasing taste of what they could do, without making you strain to pick out each different instrument. They kept the audience on the edge of their seats, searching in vain for the meter structure that was right under their noses. Highly organized and yet not completely full of thumps, thwaks, and other various percussion noises, it got me in the mood to do some serious ninja-style killing. Oh yes, I mean blood thirsty psycho, running from seat to seat running the blood from countless victims down the aisle as I let the light catch my katana blade between stealthy thrusts and slashes in perfect synch with the beat. The only thing that kept me from doing just that was the suspense of what crazy rhythm they would produce next and a total lack of Katanas. Without any use of chords to create tension, they manipulated the rhythm itself to catch the audience in their web of percussive insanity.

Lucky for Dan Coughlin and Matthew Boehringer, the two saps sitting next to me, Ethos next number was the perfect foil to the first. I was soon calmed of my incandescent rage as I was soothed by the sweet sounds of the marimba. What a beautiful piece this was! If anything ever inspired me to do yoga, this song was it. I'm lucky I didn't fall asleep during it (unlike Matt, who will probably deny it if you ask him). Little can be said to describe this song, it was so simple, melodic, and tranquil. I could probably throw in a whole bunch of music terms at this point and try to impress you or get a nice juicy grade, but let's be honest. There's nothing I could say that you don't already know, and I'm lazy. Moving on, I'll get right to the point: Break it Down. Holy Geez, if only these men would move in with me. Talk about a sweet percussion line! The one dude down in front, playing those two Indian drums, showed some serious skill. Though not overly noticeable, he would bend the pitch of the larger drum as he tapped out eve more groovin' beats on the small drum, making a pseudo-melody for the drums. I must say it was very impressive. The meter of this piece was simply stupefying; it was so cool and complex it honestly made me feel stupid. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. To have two to three drums playing what seemed like completely different meters, and yet somehow fitting, all at the same time, well that just about made me soil myself. The finish was a nice touch; bringing the piece all together with a little Western drum set just made my day.

The next half of the show was a totally different flavor from the first. With less emphasis on the drumming itself, the choir did quite an excellent job with the African/Latin mass thing they had going on. Delicious harmonies and movement definitely made the music come alive to the droning of the bongos and other such percussive toys Ethos bore. The solos were well executed, and seldom drowned out. The only drawback I could find was the emphasis shifting from the driving beats of Ethos to the vocal music of the choir; it was almost anti-climactic. It just makes me wonder, though, how much more splendid the choral piece would have been if it were performed prior to "Break it Down"...

Whoa, I almost forgot. Before I leave you with this meager attempt at a critical review, I have to add that the man who put Ethos together, what's-his-face, he absolutely rocks at the triangle. There are few men on the face of this earth who will ever outshine his triangle solo. Seriously.

---------------------------------

Yeah, I acutally referred to a man as "what's-his-face," and didn't get docked points. This rivals the paper I wrote for philosophy and got writer's block so bad the only cure was several Cape Codders. And Spell check. Oh thank goodness for spell check.

Ingenuity at its Finest

2006-05-08T21:18:00.000-04:00

When the world's best and brightest collaborate, they occasionally come up with something that's just absolutely fantastic. And I bet a lot of you are going to click on that link and then get all pissed off that I think it just happens to be a modern marvel of advanced society, but whatever. Leave your comment and we can hash that out in another post. But what I'm referring to, quite fittingly, is a law that was put together in Tennessee. Swap out one e for one s, and you got a ripe recipe for Tenseness, which is what I feel when I read about this new law. Not a tenseness of fear or anxiety, but of... I take that back. Anxiety sounds pretty good. Anxiety of the marvels to come from this obvious brilliance. I mean, a "Crack Tax"? A tax on things that aren't even legal? Holy crap. Brilliance. Genius. Other smart-sounding word. Screw making anything legal, they figured it out: make it even more illegal, and then give the ol' Double-edged sword of black marketeering! Take that, drug lords! The big draw to that fashion of lifestyle has to be the tax-free living. I mean, it sure sounds nice to me. But not anymore! Drug trafficing in Tennessee has just become equivalent to peeing in the wind: Sure, may feel great when you get that release, but no one feels great when there's piss on their shirt. And shoes. Man, it sucks when you get pee on your shoes.
I need to get new shoes. Luckily, it has nothing to do with urine. Except that after a long rousing game of raquetball, my feet smell. Rank. But still, not quite like urine.
Crack Tax. Any tax called the "crack tax" gets my vote. Maybe they were on it when they made it? That's the only way I could see any lawmaker coming up with that one and not first thinking to himself, "Wow, what a huge double standard. I'd have to be a tard to put this down on paper." Speaking of, as about half of you know, I once had written an introduction to a movie that made Shakespeare just look like some dude who breathed heavy. Well, after a freak harddrive crash, I lost that and 3 years worth of data. Well, miraculously, I was able to resurrect that drive long enough to get it all back. Well, I guess I'll start another sentence with the word "well." And that movie? Still hilarious. Still in the works. And trust me, this opening scene to this day makes me wet myself.
There I go again with the urine...

Drink from the Chalice

2006-05-03T00:24:00.000-04:00

I have a new person to add to my list of friends, and more importantly, my list of friends that like Guitar Hero. Just thought I'd point that part out real quick-like.
And a side-note, I've had a few drinks before writing this post. And by few I mean like 4-5 euivalently. I'm top-nptch in motor skills, it just means my thought process is gone. Which is usually the case anyway. Only, in addition to that, I'm about to go to bed, meaning I'm tired, which in turn means that this post is going to take twice as long since I have to think about what my fingers are doing, which again means mostly typing typos. And run-on sentences like that will occur since I'm concentrating so hard on trying to get the right keys pressed without looking. In fact, from here on out, I will ne doing this poost with my eyes shut. Because I've bneen drinking. Rock on my. Or, rather, I r0xx0r.
Dang you, side-onte! Upi kist ,ade ,e fprget wjat ,y emtre [pst was anpit amyway!
So, I cheated. I opened my eyes. Wow. My fingers were off by one key, and suddenly it's WWII code all over again. Any one who got that without thinking too hard gets a cookie. From Shannon. Fresh baked, too. She promised. So, see ya.

I just wanted to leave another happy post. And then Captain Long Island Iced Tea was all like, hey, ramble. Ramble on. That's what Daddy likes. Well Daddy was wrong.

Call me mommy.

Odds on the lottery

2006-04-30T18:51:00.000-04:00

When I say the Name Dan Young Jr., I'm guessing that 98% of you don't know who I'm reffering to. And with only 5 active readers, that means 4 of you don't know at all and one of you has a one-in-ten shot of knowing what's up. Memory jog: he was released from prison in January 2005 after having spent 13 years rotting away on false accusations. A DNA test showed that he had absolutely nothing to do with the murder he had been physically beaten into confessing to. And his recompense from the state? After those 13 years in prison, the state decided this poor soul should be "awarded" $150,000; a whopping 11.5 grand for each year he was penned up. That's less than a full-time, minimum wage job without any raises, ever. Yay for our legal system! Because in Fresno, California, a woman was awarded--and this time, awarded is quite right--$1.7 million. And what for? Years of imprisonment and beatings from the ever-friendly policemen? Nay, her torture fell just shy of dear Dan Young Jr.'s: Janet Orland was "spanked" in front of her colleagues at work for no more than 10 seconds, in a "camaraderie-building exercise." This probably wasn't even straight-up sexual harassment in that sense, and she walks away with a cool 1.7 mil, 40 grand of which was for "future medical costs." You know, for when her hip bones explode from the obvious hairline fractures that that severe beating must have caused. 450 grand was for emotional distress. Clearly, she suffered at least 39 years of false imprisonments' worth of distress from that spanking. If this were truly the case, than the spankings I got as a kid that acutally hurt should be bringin' me a nice clean... I dunno, ball-park it at 2.5 million. Give or take.

Man, I really hate our legal system sometimes. Not because it is flawed in itself, but because people take advantage of it so badly. 12 complete morons had to sit there and listen to some old bat whine about how some guy spanked her, and how clearly that was worth an entire life's work in cold, hard cash. And then these morons go and agree with her.

Just to make things worse, the Dan Young Jr. saga didn't end there. 15 months later, that poor gent still hasn't recieved his check for 150,000 yet. The governer hasn't signed off on it. Who knows how long he has even had it on his desk. Lucky for Illinois that Dan is just happy to be free again. He has a low IQ and had never learned to read or write before prison. After prison, he concentrated on learning to read the Bible and steadily performing at his assembly line job. He taught himself to be able to write enough so that he could send cards to friends and family on birthdays and holidays. Not that it really matters in the end, though. The state saved themselves that $150,000; Dan Young Jr. was killed by an SUV in a hit-and-run on Thursday. Gotta love SUV drivers.

Chances have got to be hundred's of times in favor of winning the Mega Millions as opposed to what happened to Dan. This whole ordeal makes me so mad I could vomit. But then, I would get sued for millions of dollars at the distress this could cause someone who might see it happen from down the street.

Morbidly depressed? Time for a new post!

2006-04-22T17:22:00.000-04:00

So, after that last post, I needed a couple days to specifically not post. It was all killer-depressing, and I don't much care for those types of posts. So now we get the ultra-crazy post!
Pertaining to the story that is about to be unearthed, Chris and Dan can attest to the truths that lie herein:

Death Cab for Cutie show. What a bizarre experience. Not because of the show itself, but because of particular individuals that we met in conjunction with the show. I'm not even sure if met is really the right word to use here. But anyway, the show was in downtown Detroit, and since I now work and drive there all the time, I was elected for driving duty. Little did I know that 30 minutes later, as we pull into the Fox parking lot ( a staple from my hayday in the Ilitch Holdings, LLC ), I biff. I saw a lady in the booth, so I instinctively started to drive to her before noticing that there was one of those little push-for-tickety things. Stopping about a foot to far from it, the woman leans out and says it's cool, just pull up. And pull up I did, only to hear her say "What's the matter, you don't think I'm beautiful?" Thinking it would end there, I reply back (with apparently much cajolery) "Oh, no, you definitly are. So much so that I just got nervous." But it definitly didn't end there. She leaned out a little again and said, and I quote, "That'll be 8 dollars, baby. That's not too much, is it?" Pardon me? "No, that's perfect," comes my now bashful reply as I was stunned that what seemed to be an innocent comment was quickly becoming prostitution. I hand over a twenty, and she takes it like she's about to get naked on it. Terrifying. "Honey , you want your change back?" Yeah, and my innocence, thanks. "Yeah, that'd be great." But no, that wasn't enough. She now counts back to me my change, two fives and two singles, as if she were seducing 30 rich men all at once. Lip-licking and all. If I had a manual, you would have heard my tires squeal for miles. Seriously. Just wierd.
But then as we're driving away I stop and think, "You know, if we were in that booth all day long, that might not even compare to the things we might start doing to entertain ourselves..."
Truf.

Walking to the doors, we pass a kid who used to live down the street from me when I was like 8. Nothing too fancy, just wierd to see him there.

We managed to completely miss the opening act in all ways. We actually walked in as the lights were turned on and their last chord played out until the power was cut for them. I'm talking perfect timing for avoiding them. Anyway, we mill around, watch Franz Ferdinand (who were pretty good; I totally dug how apparently every member of the band actually played multiple instruments). After this, the temperature and local "everyone's breathing on my neck" humidity got a little high, so the roomer and I went for a touch of water. As we went up there, this girl totally did a huge double take on Chris, and I figured she knew him from the way she stared, and he stared back a little bit as if he knew her, too. Actually, he was just trying to figure out why she was staring in the first place. He asked me "why don't we ever talk to people like that? Just start up a conversation. The least I could have said to her was 'hi,' and seen were it went from there." Within seconds of reaching the bar, this totally new woman told us to get in on the round of shots she had just ordered up for her friends whom were nowhere to be found. Hesitant at first, it seemed wrong to make one person drink five shots. After talking to us a little bit, we discovered that this 35 year old mother with a son at home was here only for Death Cab, and that the opening band had sucked anyway. Also, she had a friend Jen, who though she didn't look to be quite as old, was obviously more aged than us. And i'm not talking about fine wines. Speaking of wine, alcohol: she bought us another round, for apparently no reason. Lemon drops both times. Mystery woman (her friend was Jen, but who the crap was she??) then proceeded to heavily push us to watch the show with her. This is when I thanks God that Dan had stayed behind. We told the ladies that we would meet them at the side after we got our friend. As we all waked back through the crowd, this woman almost grabbed my hand twice. Lucky for me I coat my wrists in canola oil for just these instances. Bee line away from them and back to Dan, where life is normal. Oh, and we had a good view of our highschool History teacher who was fired for "relations" with a Junior in my class. The girls he was with was probably about that age again. Way to go, Mr Carem. May you forever molest children.

Moral of the story: don't get pearl inlays in your key chain. Bad idea.

Stay in School, you're a fool.

2006-04-18T10:57:00.000-04:00

If I had to describe my feelings on school in just one word, I would consequently type out every dirty word that came to mind without using the spacebar to maximize the effectiveness of that exercise. Nothing is more frustrating than paying thousands of dollars to specifically do exactly what I don't want to do. I don't want to drive out here every-other-day so I can sit and listen to some pompous jerk talk about nothing at all, especially when what he has to say is about one fifth as much detail as what I could easily have read from my book. And my book? It's there more than one hour every two days. When I'm good and ready, I read it. I read it much faster than a professor could explain it to me, unless that professor is very good at his job, in which case he would have a job at a different university.
I'd like for once to have a professor who would just take 20 minutes once a week to talk to me in person, one on one, and just tell me what sections are important. If I have a question, great, if not, go do my work. I tire of all this busy work these professors give, like it's third grade again. I think next time I get a homework packet I'm going to do it with colored pencils and crayons just so I don't feel like it's such a farce.
Case and point, my calc class last year. I took Calc I in highschool, and upon going to Hillsdale, I went straight to Calc III my freshman year. I then took Number Theory, Differential Equations, one class I don't remember anything from (Linear Algebra), and college algebra. That last one was more of a joke. And funny it was. Anyway, I'm a good 3-4 classes out of Calc at this point, and last year my advisor tells me that I simply HAVE to take Calc II, or I can't graduate. What? is there really a doubt as to whether or not I could do it? If people really don't care about what you can do, just what's on a sheet of stinkin' paper, people like this guy get jobs in place of hard workers like myself. Serves them right, but seems to work strangely against me. Anyway, so I sign up for this tard-class, and the only available time is exactly when I get out of work every day, 45 minutes away. I sign up anyway, mostly because I'm stupid. After about two months of continuously not being able to make it to class, I e-mail the professor and cut a deal with him: I'll study up, take the first test that I missed during his office hour (giving me literally one hour to take the test that was given over an hour and a half), and then take the next test with the class two days later. He says it's cool, giving me two days to study for the first test, and then two more days to study for the second. Impossible?
More like easy. I blew through them both. And the deal was made again at the end of the semester: two tests, this time five days. I must have been too relaxed with that extra day or something. I had a complete brain-freeze on the first test and ended up with a "C" on it. The final, however, knew to go down in the hole and rub the lotion on its skin. But when I talked to the professor two days after the final, this is what he had to say to me:
"You did very well on three of the exams, and decent on the fourth. Pretty impressive for about two weeks of work. But, since you turned in only one homework assignment (I had also one homework and one quiz that I took at the midterm time, during those 4 days) and only took one of the quizzes, I can't validate giving you anything better than a D for the course. It's the best I can do. Part of my job as the professor is to see that you meet certain criteria set by the board, and part of that is homework and in-class quizzing."
What. The. . Since when is a teacher's job not to ensure that his students understand the material, but instead perform enough of the busy work to satisfy some board of jerks who probably don't remember a lick of calculus for exactly that reason?? As mad as I was, I couldn't fault my professor. He gets paid by them, not by my hand directly. (Maybe the lesson to learn here is to ensure that the prof. does get paid by my hand directly. Bribes, not dogs, are man's best friends.)
Seriously though. What a bloated structure of jerks. All I want is to be able to take all of my courses in 4-8 week stints. Anything more than 8, it moves too slow and I stop caring. Heck, after 2-week calculus, even 4 weeks seems generous. Here's an offer: I'll pay four times my tuition to have class last for one fourth the length. Any college would have to have a retarded board of directors to pass that up.
Oh... yeah.

I rock pretty hard.

2006-04-09T21:23:00.000-04:00

I certainly do.

And now for the main-course of this mechanical meal:

I am in love.

I think this bike encompasses everything that I ever needed in my life. It's retardedly fast, it doesn't care, it gets good gas mileage (but can also get terrible mpg when you really let her loose), and I'm fairly certain that it absorbes all evil that it comes near. I'm serious. Look at this thing. I bet it powers itself by tearing open the astral plains and feeding off the negative emotions in the world. How could I ever be angry or sad again with a bike like that? It's all the anger I'd ever need. Fast and the Furious, meet Furiously Fast. Okay, so that was really dumb. Please don't judge me.

This bike (for lack of a better term; I imagine in its [the bikes] native tongue, it's called something more like Great Tach'alek Tetrakisironfisted Deathbringer) looks something almost exactly like, but just not quite, a praying mantis on steroids spray painted black after eating a locomotive. Ladies, if you're ovulating, you might want to stop looking at it, because that bike is so manly the mere sight of it could impregnate you. Wait, in that case keep looking. I think the world could use a good batch of Wraith spawnlings, bred for their capabilities in hand-to-hand combat, as they'd be 7-foot-tall and constructed of steel with carbon-fiber skin. We already have Ligers for magic.
Look, all I'm trying to say here is that I really really would like to be able to buy this bike. Just so happens that I'm shy a mere 50 grand. So, anyone out there who's looking for (what I believe to be) a good cause to unload some dough, look no further. The Wraith calls to you. to give me the money. so that I may call to it.

man this is gonna rock.

The Ending of an Era

2006-04-09T10:03:00.000-04:00

So today is my last day at this store, officially. I still have two unofficial days, but those are more just filler making sure that people don't get *totally* screwed over in my absence. It's weird to be finally leaving after having trained my replacement. Sort of, anyway. How it really went was like this:
1. Replacement is hired and scheduled to fill in gaps in schedule, with just enough overlap for me to teach her what I do.
2. Replacement begins to catch on at a good pace, making me really happy that someone competent will be filling my shoes.
3. Replacement definitely begins to catch on to the fact that in doing my job, I also do my bosses job, because he's too pompous and lazy to actually spend a day working.
4. Replacement stops learning from me, as she starts to learn from my boss. This mostly entails learning only inane details for things that never happen as that's what pretentious people do. As it turns out, she's just as pretentious as he is.
5. Replacement gets huge attitude with me, to which my response becomes ignoring her and my boss, as I now do both their jobs.
6. Replacement watches me take on the attitude of "not my problem," in that anything that I can't find in my employee manual pertaining to me is completely and totally in one ear, out the other.
7. Suddenly, I love my job. Meanwhile, my replacement hates me. I think because I've pretty much made it so that she and my/our boss have to work.
8. I leave. I leave to go work in Detroit, a city that has only slightly fewer one-way streets than Ann Arbor, but the buildings are huge so you have no chance of seeing what comes next. So what if I got really lost yesterday? I found my way back out. And if I do get stuck there, then the crackheads will save me. They already did once.
9. There really isn't a number nine, but I feel driven to getting to ten.
10. Addition to my blog from a fellow coworker (guess who it might be): i love matt smith and i will miss working with him every friday and sunday :(
he should quit, so that my replacement and my boss will just have that much more work to do.
Truth is, I actually will miss him and Keith. And Dave, my boss, but that's a given since he got me the job when I was desperate for work. What needs to happen is that they need to come with me. We'll be a force the likes of which Detroit has never seen, mostly because our group is 75% white. Ouch. Done and done.

Coca-Cola Vlassic.

2006-04-02T22:23:00.000-04:00

That's a new combination that I'd like to try. Coke with pickles and/or pickle juice. It's like a match made in Heaven. Which really begs the question, just what kind of matches do they make in Heaven? I'd imagine blue-tip. But then, I bet angels just think about it for a second and the lantern/incense/birthday candles are already lit. So I guess the answer is none?

School. How does it do this to me? Here I am spending an entire two weeks hating it more and more, missing more and more class, doing less and less homework (to the extent that I have to do homework from January till now by Tuesday or I really take a hit in lab), and then it goes and gets me all excited and into it again. Thanks, school, could have used that like two exams ago, Buddy. Oh, and in the background at the time the song lyrics were saying "Count it a blessing that you're such a failure, or your second chance might never have come." Ouch. But seriously. All I could think about until like 20 minutes ago was how I could drop out and escape to Mexico and no one would know better, and then I get into photosynthetic and catabolic pathways and then further into cell division and genetics and the like. And all of a sudden, I'm thinking to myself, "Holy crap, this $#!^ is so cool." Excuse the French, but I mean, it was one of those times where it just flippin' necessary. I guess it's a good thing that when I'm at my lowest with school, it just reminds me how completely bad-ass the stuff I'm "learning" (reading about non-retentively) really is. Think about it. We all came from a single cell that contained a few strands of molecules that were organized just right to tell that cell how to make us. I'd like to invent the drop of Coke that could synthesize itself into a swimming pool of deliciousness, complete with ice, diving board, and creepy scantily clad uncle. 'Cause that's what this stuff is like. Seriously. Wow.

Wait, scratch that. That self-replicating Coke stuff would be lame. Now, Coca-Cola Vlassic, that's an invention.

March of Crimes

2006-03-26T09:29:00.000-05:00

I now have a new favorite game. Dan Coughlin, props to you on finding this one:

Don't worry, I'll try not to. Too much.

This game is all about the cutest little puppy ever and your quest to not murder it. This game is actually challenging; I never thought trying to not kill innocent animals would be tricky. Turns out, it certainly is a trying task! Vets have the hardest jobs ever, apparently. I imagine that every veterinarian has to deal with a 50 Cal right over their shoulder all day long, just waiting to pulverize every little doggie that pees on them while they try to give it heart worm medicine.
What's the trick, you ask? I can't tell you that! That's the point of the game! And yes, I beat it. All in 15 minutes. Man I rock.

Could that sign post be any happier? I think not.

So this is how I'm spending my Sunday at work. Keep Holy the Sabbath by keeping puppies alive. And babies. We're doing March of Dimes donations, and so far all the people I've been overly nice to won't donate a dollar. I'm gonna start stepping up my game, and when they say no to my asking if they'd like to donate a dollar, I'll say "Well I hope you enjoy your steak tonight, baby killer. Good thing that dollar couldn't have saved countless babies from being put under since nobody loves them. At least not enough to donate just one of the many dollars you're toting around. But then, I guess money is more important than the well-being and continuation of man kind."

That reminds me of posts that are coming, since I keep forgetting to put them up:

1. My dream two nights ago

2. Pele's Curse and my bad fortune

3. This crazy woman who started yelling and crying at me.

4. The woman after her who gave me a tip after I demanded it.

5. I'm serious, just give me a dollar. For babies.

*Update from Original blog*

This girl who just came in, in lieu of my asking if she'd like to donate to March of Dimes, said "No thanks, I hate babies." Wow. Definitely putting her on my list of heroes.

Jamie Cullum who?

2006-03-25T07:37:00.000-05:00

So after a few good days of Dan and I laughing at Jamie Cullum, I finally have to return to work (for a full day). Now, it should be explained that a week ago tomorrow we had a big attendance required meeting (Just once I'd like to see what happens when they don't specificaly say attendance required. Or, rather, hear about what happens 'cause no flippin' way will I be there). A major point of this meeting was to emphasize our new manager's Nazi-like approach to being on time. We're allowed to be ~7 minutes late unless otherwise stated ahead of time. Okay, so maybe a 7 minute window isn't the most Naziesque approach, but after three times we get fired. And that's the part that sucks. And yet this morning I stroll in at my leisurely 7:30 (with a 7:00 start time) and think nothing of it. I think just as much that Jamie Cullum is like a 10-year-old on stage, jumping around with no real intention of entertaining us so much as himself, I'm like that 10-year-old that hears his 200 pound dad frustratingly say "Johnny Stephen McHairdo! Do that one more time and I'll spank you 'till your heart bleeds!", and instead of stopping like any normal human with even the most meager sense of logic, I immediatly do it not just once, but repeatedly as fast as I can until my dad does, indeed, cause my heart to bleed by smacking my rear. Or until I, like Jamie, get bored and move on to something else. Why else would I continue to come in late on every single shift, not finish my car registration, and skip class incessantly?
Oh, and I still haven't bought a new tire. It's like I'm daring it to blow out. When it does it will probably throw my car into opposing traffic. If I were my tire, I would do the same. I love my tire.
In conclusion, Jamie Cullum is too hyper for his own good. Pot calling the kettle African-American.

Why.

2006-03-21T12:27:00.000-05:00

When I think of the Aboriginals, I think of an unjust extermination of an innocent race (yeah I know they're not all dead, but man did we do a number on them). When I think of formal lab reports, I think "You know, God must have hit the Aboriginal button on accident. I'm sure He meant to destory lab reports."
I'm serious. This is what I thought about when I got to page 8 of "The yellow pigmentation, coming from the carotenoids Carotenes and Xanthophyll, explained the peak of absorbency at ~570-600 nm. The actual chlorophylls, Chlorophyll A and Chlorophyll B, absorbed probably in the range of ~445-490 nm. The bands below 445 and at 655 would probably belong to auxiliary pigments, creating a masking effect of the actual chlorophylls' absorbencies." Note the key usage of the word "probably" in my scientific write-up, as in I didn't really care to get the facts straight so much as I wanted to have the paper flippin' done. So when 3 AM hit and I was still typing, I decided I could just get up early and finish. Well, I did get up and finish it, but not so much on the early side. I'll be done just in time for lab.
Holy crap, I bet my tire's flat again. I uh... I gotta go.

I am not a nerd.

2006-03-17T00:09:00.001-05:00

Just to be sure, these things do not make me a nerd:

1. Learning Visual Basic programming language for fun, just to help Jon out.

2. Getting into a detailed conversation about how a macintosh system with PC hardware (assuming them to be programmed together effectively) would be the goliath of all home computer systems.

3. Downloading and watching the entire 9-hour season of Noir, an older anime, and watching the entire thing in one day.

4. Subsequently downloading the soundtrack to said anime.

5. Doing the previous two stepson the day befor a big exam because I felt like studying that little.

6. Dreaming of the day when I am high enough in a company that i can spend the whole day driving through the office on my Segway and then go play croquet in my three piece suit.

7. Calculate the probability of seeing a car with a liscense plate consisting of three of the same digits in a row on it, and comparing that to how often I actually see them on the road in an given day.

8. Devise strategies for how I might better play lazertag with groups.

9. Play songs on expert in Guitar Hero over and over until I get them to a 5-star rating.

10. Do the same with races in Burnout Revenge.

11. Spend an entire afternoon trying to find a way that I might be able to sing harmony with myself. Brian did it on Family Guy once. I'm insanely jealous.

12. I use Skittles for models in pictures as opposed to people, much less attractive people. And no, I don't find Skittles attractive.

So there. Just letting you know, I am not a nerd.
At least not for those reasons.

My first Dedication!

2006-03-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

This post is dedicated to Shannon, who victoriously announced that she's the only one who reads my blog!

Buckle up for the dedication!

Shannon: Shut yo' filthy mouth! Congratulations on being the only one who knows about it. Maybe I don't have a lot of people readin' yet, but at least I update. Looks like you forgot about your own blog 2 months ago. Take that, subspace!

Furthermore, this is your gift to the world: bad knees.

Go ahead, do a google search for my family. You'll find we're prominent doctors (probably making a mint off of your knee disease) and artists. And what's that? I'm of Royal Bloodline? You mean my family history is that of governing over this land? Booya. So, go ahead and make fun of me. When I'm all done crying in the corner, I'll just tell myself how rockin' cool I am.

Like driving without my glasses on

2006-03-12T08:24:00.000-05:00

It's pretty much official that SUV drivers are my least favorite on the road. Don't get me wrong, drunk drivers are crazy and dangerous and stupid and all that jazz, but generally when you're driving along and you see Sir Swervo up there, you know he's drunk. But an SUV? That's just an itchy trigger finger on ten cups of coffee. You never know when he's gonna peel out, slam the breaks, take the worlds sharpest turn, etc. For instance, when was the last time you saw an SUV driver use the turn signal? They feel they don't need to. All with good reason to them, I'm sure, as any accident they're in doesn't matter, since your little car can fit right beneath their huge steel chassis. Anyway, to my point: this morning was one of those mornings when the fog seems so thick you find yourself holding your breath in fear of drowning. As I was driving, I'd wait until I could see something in the road, mark my odometer, and then see how far off it was until I got there. It was roughly, but not exactly, one 20th of a mile visibility. Given that there's about 1500 feet to a mile, if memory serves me right (and this would be a milestone if it truly did), that's about 75 feet of visibility. I could spit molasses farther than that. And what do I see emerge from the fog? Nothing but the worlds whitest SUV come peeling over traintracks with no breaking and no headlights. No headlights. I could barely make this guy out as I drove two feet next to him and he decided it wasn't foggy enough for headlights.

I should have hit him right then and there. I hate my car enough to do it, too. But like I said, my car would have merely destroyed itself beneath his. Man I hate SUVs.

Speaking of foggy mornings, I'm pretty sure they're my most favorite morning ever. I could never really figure out why, but I think that today I may have pieced it all together. Mornings are inherently the worst thing ever. Waking up and saying goodbye to dreamworld, and let me tell you my dream world is amazing (last night I just took a three-day long programming class in Sweden. Booya.), is one of the more painful things to have to do, especially when it means leaving amazing comfort and going to work, or worse, class. But foggy mornings seem to have beaten the curve. I mean, if you think about it, it's like you still are dreaming. Like the morning hasn't quite happened to you yet, and then it takes it's time in disappearing all gradually. Perfect way to phase into the day. Speaking of, I once had this awesome dream where it was all foggy and in black and white, but all the people that I talked to were in color. And I had a letter in my hand from an old friend that I read in my dream. Apparently, you're not supposed to be able to read in your dream. Take that, analysts. And Therapists. Analrapists.

man I miss Arrested Development.

yellow car.

2006-03-12T08:23:00.000-05:00

Swift left jab followed by a right hook to the jaw. That's two yellow cars, yo.

not quite two months

2006-03-08T17:57:00.000-05:00

So it's been only a couple days, and I've returned for more. Not so much because I couldn't get enough, but more because I've gotten enough of the studying. Another exam tomorrow, so what better way to spend my time than writing another lame post? Especially since I've told no one about this blog yet. I'm literally talking to no one. I could say anything.

Monkey spleen goat cheese, car chase bounced check table leg conflagration. Corn on the cob.

Wow. I just said conflagration. That's a big word. I didn't know I had any of those left... See, what's interesting about that is that most people in free writing actually form sentences and thoughts and such, whether they meant to or not. The best I could come up with was "goat cheese" and a big fire. Speaking of big fires, Jon and I (get used to the character Jon, he's probably gonna be more of a main character in these little writings than I myself) went to this bar called The Last Lap yesterday after school on what seemed to be a wild goose chase. Turns out, it wasn't a wild goose chase at all, but rather a domesticated lobster chase. This bar, and I have no idea who thought of this or developed it, but this bar had a claw-game or crane-game or whatever you call one of these with actual live lobsters in it. The entire game was underwater so these tricky little devils could swim out of the claw before we could get them out of the water and into the prize chute. Challenge you say? No challenge to great for Brown and Tweed! Though Jon did most of the hunting. It's in his blood.
Granted that a lobster straight off the menu only cost $22, and at two dollars a round for somewhere around 20 game plays, we may have been better off monetarily to just buy it outright. But as far as pride, thrill of the hunt, and carnal satisfaction are concerned? We spent next to nothing to feast on the our winnings. Kings of the Crustacean world, we made sure the four remaining lobsters in the tank could see us dine upon their brethren, and know that someday we would return. And we would victoriously taste lobster again. And if we learned anything, we would spend much less.

-Edit to Original Post-

As fate would have it, it turns out that this bar was just trying to get on the "everything Asian is cool" bandwagon. These live lobster claw games ar apparently all the rage in Chinese supermarkets. Come on, guys. Seriously.

How is it that China gets all the cool stuff?

and on the 8th day, He created blogs

2006-03-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

...and saw that they were not really all that great, and thus struck all record of them from Human knowledge.
And then we have to go and rediscover them. We humans and our pesky nosiness, what with all this inventing and such. We always ruin everything.

So I gave in to the blog. I've fought it off for so long, but after reading a few really funny ones, I decided I should try my hand at being an online author as well. The worst that could happen is a handful of lawsuits and broken friendships. Those were probably coming anyway.

Here's a list of reasons I have decided to get my own blog:

1. I'm funnier than you are, and I'm out to prove it.

2. I'm selfish.

3. I have little time for stupid things. Apparently, a little is still too much, so now i must fill it up with the stupidest thing ever, blogging.

4. I sometimes think back to when I was a little kid and really really really miss the years from 6-12. 13 was stupid, 14 even worse. But 15 on has been pretty darn good, minus the hundreds of traffic tickets . And so I think to myself, if I were twelve again, what would I do? Obvious answer is get my own blog, so I can talk about how unfair my parents are and how my allowance just isn't big enough.

5. It was either this or study. And man, do I hate school. I hate school enough to get a blog instead. That's like pure unadultered hatred.

I guess getting that glorious degree and getting a real job will help finance my need for an internet connection, so in light of that, I really should go study...
I'll see ya at the second post.

Which will either be tonight or tomorrow, or not for another two months. We'll see how I do.