Theo!

Bill Cosby would be disappointed in me. He says there's always room for J-E-L-L-O pudding cups, but I spent $8 on a pile of pudding last night that looked like doggy poo and was not J-E-L-L-O.

"Hold up dawg. Back that train up. How did we get to an $8 pile of doggy poo? I need more story."

Then more story you shall get. Over the summer I worked as an engineering intern for a husband and wife who were snooty and rich as all hell. They wore $300 shoes just because they could. And talked about them. They thought they were into the art scene. They ate at over-priced snooty restaurants so that their snooty "friends" could see them and be seen there. One time they were at a little French place called Les Deauxville, and it was almost the end of summer, and I had done a spectacular job working for them (lies! lies!), and so they purchased for moi a gift certificate to said fancy pants restaurant for ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Score.

Last night Old Dude and I finally decided to make use of this ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR gift certificate to the fancy pants restaurant called Les Deauxville. I made reservations ahead of time, but when we showed up and told them we had reservations, they still looked shocked that subhumans like ourselves had wandered into their fine dining establishment. Apparently when you're that snobby, your face always looks buggy-eyed and your nose curled-up like you just let a terrible, terrible fart.

They seated us at a tiny table for two that was separated from the next table for two by a two inch space. We were pretty much sitting at the same table as a middle-aged couple who talked about the kids from all their marriages and didn't seem to find any problem with wearing a belt over a sweater. Waiters bumped into us constantly because the space was so cramped, but mostly they just wanted to remind us that we were in their way.

We both got Chardonnay because it was the only wine we recognized, although I forgot to pay attention what region of France it came from. Don't worry, they were more than happy to let us know. We both caught a surprising buzz from one glass, which had not been our intent at all. It's no wonder those Frenchees and Italians are so ca-razy.

None of the appetizers looked good to me, so I got frog legs to try something new. YIKES. Old Dude got the shrimps and avocado. Yes, they put an S on the end to pluralize shrimp, and to confuse us they called the appetizers entres. The appetizers were a'it, I guess.

The main courses were good. I got some kind of fish on some kind of rice with four seriously fancy green beans. Come to think of it, it was kind of nasty. Old Dude got a steak, which was the only thing that came on the menu with French... fries. Boring, but tastebud tantalizing.

We were dying to get out of that place by the time our bill came, but then we saw that we still had $27 of the ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR gift certificate unspent, and there was no way we were going to let that snobby patch-eyed servuer get that big of a tip. Therefore, to royally piss him off, we got a dessert to go. Bwa ha ha! I'm sure that offended the chef. His scrolly moustache probably twitched up and down completely independent from his face the whole time he made a pot de creme sans pot, unless a bulky plastic to-go box with a clear lid counts as a pot. We waited fifteen minutes for that pile of shit, much to the servuer's annoyance, and when it came we were almost as disappointed in it as the restaurant had been in us when we first showed up. It was a big black plastic dish with a testicle-sized puddle of chocolate pudding in the middle. "Some pot of cream!" I boldly stated. We stormed out into the freezing cold.

Once we got to my car I stuck my finger in the brown plop and tasted the pot de creme. I nearly ate my finger off it was so scrumptious. I will never doubt a pot of cream from Les Deauxille again, even if I think the whole restaurant sucks.

Wait! I forgot that the whole point of this was to talk about a morbidly obese guy I saw at Les Deauxville. I have no problem with the morbidly obese. They are A-okay in my book, but the ones who sit on a pile of gold all day and hold their jiggley bellies while they laugh because their favorite pasttime is to opress bother me. Anyway, this fat guy and his hairpiece leaned over to pick up something from the floor, probably a penny, and he couldn't get back up. His arm flailed around as an unspoken beakon to his wife, and she pulled it with all her might like a good servant, rolling her eyes, until her man sat upright again. I guess they had been through this before. Ha ha fat people. The end.

Deeyanher, the Next T.S. Eliot

My first poem was entitled "Hair." I wrote it in the first grade, and many more soon followed. I don't think they ever got any better. Here it goes:

HAIR
I went somewhere,
And pulled some hair,
But when I got back,
I didn't have any hair!

See, the beauty of it is that I rhymed hair with hair. You can't go wrong rhyming the same word with itself. The only way I could have made that poem any better is if I had used the word "o'er" somewhere.

There was another poem of comparable integrity written during the same prolific period. It was called "Nobody Loves Me, Not Even My Dog." It had a lot to do with a frog on a log in the fog, and after every line I reminded the reader that nobody loves me, not even my dog. Such dark poetry for such a young mind. The biggest tragedy is probably that I didn't even have a dog.

The Veritable Cornucopia

Happy Thanksgiving everybody. Aw shucks, you're the best.

I went to my Mamaw's for Thanksgiving dinner. She was sick, so I ended up at my aunt's house. We ate food. I played the piano. I got to hold three babies. Success.

In honor of holidays, I would now like to present my Christmas Wish List. Until today it only had two occupants, but now I have added a third. I think it's pretty easy to guess which one was added today.

So here it is, DEEYANHER'S CHRISTMAS WISH LIST:

1) A Keytar, preferably red

I also wouldn't mind if it made a V at the bottom instead of being flat.

2) A BeDazzler

It puts rhinestones on your clothes. What more could you want?

3) A wicker cornucopia

Because everybody needs a horn of plenty.

*Tinkly tinkly tinkly* Hey Kids, I've Got Weeed.

I forgot to mention that the Weed Fairy visited my pillow roughly a fortnight ago, didn't I?

Yes.

In case you're wondering who the Weed Fairy is, just imagine the Tooth Fairy, and replace your mental image of the money that she brings with half a joint. Only you don't have to imagine losing a tooth or putting anything under your pillow because this brand of fairy is very generous, and don't imagine the Weed Fairy visiting the underside of your pillow so much as the top of it because that's where the Weed Fairy leaves the partially smoked dooby, ash and all. Mmm. Just thinking about burying my face in ash makes me all... I should stop.

Oh yeah, also imagine the Weed Fairy to look remarkably like that bearded preppy guy who came to my roommate's party a couple weeks ago who didn't seem to understand, man, that no, man, I didn't want a drag, man.

If you actually want the Weed Fairy to visit your pillow, then you must first grow boobies and be as ridiculously hot as I am, and then invite my roommate's boyfriend's pseudo friend over, have him try to flirt with you for a while, and then leave the house so that he can visit your bedroom and place whatever he's smoking on your pillow like a cat bringing you a dead bird--what it interprets to be the best possible present. Be sure to give him enough time to put the joint out first. He's not a smart boy.

What made me think of the Weed Fairy? My walk to school today. Duh. I must have accidentally smoked his pillow-top gift when I wasn't looking because I got stuck behind a man walking at a moderate pace that was slightly slower than mine, and I couldn't believe how luxurious it felt. Just slowing down three nanometers per second made me feel like a pimp with a gigantic feather streaming from my felt hat and rubber legs that actually stretched toward the next step in order to suck me forward with very little effort.

"Audrey, you whack," I told myself for enjoying the leisurely amble, to which I responded, "Girl, don't I know it?" and we had a little chuckle before I dropped my books, ripped off my coat and scarf, and broke into a dead run toward the chem/phys building. Once there, I plopped down into my seat in topology and proceeded to tell the story I just told you to the guy who sits beside me. He hit me in the face.

Nah, dawg, that whole last paragraph was a lie. Where were we? Oh yes. I enjoyed my stroll immensely and was sad when I had to take a different sidewalk from Mr. Pace Setter so that I didn't end up at the library or sperm bank or wherever he was going. A single tear rolled down my cheek, and the sunlight hit it so that it sparkled once.

So now I was in the chem/phys building, trying not to bawl my eyes out over the termination of such a beautiful walking pace, when I was consoled by the staircase that would lead me to the second floor, the location of my next class. These stairs were built with the most perfect rise and stretch of any staircase I had ever seen. Never mind the fact that I had taken these stairs two times a day for the past three years without ever noticing how marvelous they really were. Each step was effortless, but not so shallow that it bored me. I soaked up the entire flight's worth of experience.

Blah blah blah, It's like I was high, blah blah blah, I must have smoked weed without knowing it, blah blah blah, The joint from the Weed Fairy, blah blah blah, And we're back to where we started, so I can shut up.

Go to this site and cry: dork!

Gobble gobble gobble! Gobble! gobble?

It's almost Thanksgiving break. Hey! It's almost Thanksgiving break. Hey! (You're supposed to be imagining the most catchy tune in the world.)

I tutored a whole shit-ton today. Are the students any smarter? No. I seriously doubt it because half of them probably aren't going to school tomorrow, which means that 100% of them didn't pay attention to anything I taught them. Do I give a shit? No, because I don't have school for four days after tomorrow. School can suck my big fat... gobble.

Get a Life

I received the best present of all times ever from Old Dude the other day. I'm not going to tell what it is, but I will say that it probably came in a package that looked like this once upon a time:



I must leave you hanging from here.

Yesterday was fake Thanksgiving. I'd like to give a shout out to El Torro y el hermano del Torro por la pavo(turkey) de Popeye's.

I'd also like to give a shout out to the seven people I beat in poker.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

You can now post comments. COMMENTS!

Today is Thanksgiving at some people's house that is not my house, and I thought I'd bring a blackberry cobbler. Old Dude and I got the recipe from my mom and did everything she said, but the results were less than astounding. Well, I guess they were astounding in the sense that I didn't know things could float in butter like that.

Ergo I bought the best vanilla ice cream in the world to cover that mess up (Breyer's), and nobody will know what they are eating if they actually go near that shit. All the while I'll be sitting in a dark corner with my eyes all buggy laughing quietly and watching them get fatter and fatter to the taste of vanilla.

Old Dude and I also raked leaves in his yard today. Now half the yard is green and wilted, and the other half has eight times more leaves on top of it than it did previously. (Don't attempt the math. I am a math major. I do the math.) Our raking was not quite the success we'd hoped for, but it sure beat the hell out of our cobbler.

That's all. Post comments on any entries you want (please please please), and every day I will comb through the months one by one, only to have my hopes of being liked crushed by the black absence of any commentary whatsoever. I hate my life.

...But I sure love me some ice cream.

Beware, the Ides of Mango

I got stuck walking behind a girl who smelled like bananas today, and I'm not talking about a light tropical suntan lotion smell either. I mean when she woke up this morning, she pulled out a bright yellow spray bottle with pictures of bananas on the front and went to town all over herself. It was like a gun, and she was the sheriff in this town. I was offended that she had invaded my two-foot personal space bubble, even if only with her scent, but then I realized that the overpowering stench of bananas on this girl wasn't such a bad thing after all.

You see, I got to listen in on her cell phone conversation, if by "listen in" I mean I walked as close to her as I could holding one of these things to my ear:


She was talking about her wedding plans. Ah, that's precious. But wait, she was planning a NAZI WEDDING. Or at least she was a Nazi planning a wedding. She would be all giggley girl cute, talking about the exact details of her nails and how the pinkish parts will be painted with a translucent white, but the whiter parts will be painted with a more opaque white, and she doesn't think she wants any details on them, although some see-through wedding bells could look cute, and she's not quite sure if she wants fake nails [talons] or if she wants to grow out her real ones. Oh, and "GET THOSE NAIL POLISH SAMPLES TO ME BY THE TWENTY-FIRST of MARCH, YOU ASSHOLE, OR YOU'RE FIRED!!!!!!!! I'M THE PRINCESS!"

So how does her Naziness make smelling like bananas a good thing? Ah, it's so simple. The aroma serves as a warning for anyone who finds themself caught in her fifty foot odor diameter. Just think, if you were walking along minding your own business, and then suddenly you found yourself thinking, "Hoh-ly Lord. Bananas.", you'd know something was not right, and you'd follow your instincts to seek shelter in the nearest low-lying overhang. This would be an appropriate reaction because otherwise you might get stuck, like I did, having to hear about brain-deadening cake and hair and dress and fingernail details and how EVERYTHING MUST BE ORDERED BY THIS FRIDAY! Also, smells that strong can potentially burn out your nose buds for an undetermined period of time.

Always be wary, those who smell like fruit. Especially the girls who smell like the fruits that are uncommon to perfume. I'll give you a list of scents to watch out for, just so you can be super sure that you're not somewhere you don't need to be. Number one on the list is bananas. Number two is blueberries, which is followed closely by grapes, oranges, cherries, apples, kiwis, strawberries, cantaloupes, and every other fruit that has ever been created. There is one exception and one exception only. Apparently melon is an okay smell for a girl to have as long as it is accompanied by cucumber. I don't know who invents these rules.

It goes without saying that vegetable smells are not permitted, especially those of broccoflower. Back to fruits. Smells on your body from hybrid fruits are no more permissible than smells from the fruits that Adam and Eve did NOT rub all over themselves.

Also be wary of guys who smell like fruit, if there are any. The end.

Nasty Panty Surprise

Eeeehhhh. I went to school today and then I took a shower.

"Wow Audrey. That was a great story."

Yeah, I'm full of 'em.

testing testing please stand by

Stand by what?

The little "post comment" button beneath each entry is under construction, but I'll let you know when it's working.

BELIEVE me, I'll let you know--if you know what I mean.

By the way, I know nothing about computers. I can tell you how matrices are used in the design of a CAT scan machine, yet I can't italicize words on this stupid "blog." Hence, the EXTREME over usage of capital letters.

UPDATE: This has nothing to do with the status of the post comment availability, but it does have everything in the world to do with my leg warmers, which, by the way, I am still wearing. (Why do all my socks have holes?) I put them on in the dark this morning, and much to my dismay, I discovered during my Spanish class that one of them was inside out. Here is the beauty of a leg warmer. Are you ready? I didn't have to take it off to turn it right side out again! Just think about it. I'll let that simmer in your brain while I do more important things.

ANOTHER UPDATE: This is what I did for an hour last night instead of homework.

That is what everybody else did while I did this for an hour instead of homework. Yep, I would prefer to draw people playing cards than play with the blasted things. Hopefully this work of art caused you to revel in the glory of the ceiling fan. That was the whole point of the drawing. Focus on the gleaming, ray-emitting ceiling fan.

See You on the Other Side

I got arrested last night on one count of public drunkenness and two counts of public nudity. Well, I wasn't completely naked; I did have my hour-old nipple piercings on, as well as a fake tattoo of a surprised-looking Jesus under my belly button. The cops didn't have a hard time spotting me because I apparently was performing my (nude) jazzercise right across the street from their station. That was all a big lie. Today is very boring.

No... Toes...

I am wearing leg warmers. You thought they didn't make leg warmers anymore, didn't you? Well, thank GOD you were wrong. My leg warmers make a killer fashion statement (which no one gets to see because I also wear pants), and at the same time (Can you believe it?) they provide thermal insulation for a part of my body that rarely gets cold, my calves. I must admit, I sleep a lot better at night now knowing that my calves will never EVER get cold again, as long as I have my leg warmers.

I know how worried you must be that you'll never be able to find leg warmers and be like me. My friend, worry no more. Leg warmers are as close to you as your nearest Wal-Mart. Here's the catch: THEY'RE DISGUISED AS SOCKS. That's right, they don't say "leg warmers" anywhere on the package, and they're thrown on a sock rack between all the other socks by some careless Wal-Mart stock boy who doesn't know what jewel he holds in his hand.

So yes, I came across my leg warmers by accident, which probably does make me a little less cool, but I recognize a good thing when I see it, even if it takes ten minutes of acting like a hamster to do so.

"Audrey, I don't get it. What do you mean you had to act like a hamster?"

Good question. You know how the nice "socks" come all folded up on a cheap miniature clothes hanger instead of wadded up in a plastic bag with seven of their friends? Yes, me too. That's how these maroon and blue stripy "socks" came to me, all folded up. In order to wear them, I had to first unstaple and unhook and unbind and unroll them, which I did with the ferociousness of the Siamese cat that used to attack the little kids in my subdivision, and then all that was left to do was put them on.

I grabbed the open end of the first alleged sock with my left hand and ran my right hand down it until I found the open end. Oops, it's upside down. I flipped it over so that the open end was on top and smoothed my hand all along the length of it until I found the open end. Oops, it's upside down. I flipped it right side up this time and...

Like a hamster in a hamster wheel, I repeated the flipping process for way too long and never found the toes of my "sock" before it dawned on me: "Crikey! I got leg warmers!"

I knew this was a good thing, having leg warmers instead of socks, but the reason I'd tried to purchase socks in the first place was that I no longer owned a pair that wasn't ridden with holes. I still don't.

My first idea for a remedy was that I could just wear the leg warmers tucked into my shoes and no socks to give the illusion that I was wearing socks. But no, that's stupid. I want warm feet. That's 80% of why I wear socks. Only 19.5% of that is to impress other people.

Perhaps I could sew the leg warmers to another pair of socks. No, then they would come all the way up over my knees, and that ain't fly. (It only took me a day to realize that if my leg warmers had two open ends and I only wanted one, all I had to do was sew one end of them closed without ever involving another pair of socks.)

So finally I decided to just accept this blessing that is leg warmers as a gift from Heaven, only fifteen years late. God, I used to want leg warmers.

These leg warmers didn't look exactly like the ones I envisioned when I was six. I used to imagine them to be a terrible version of pink and a lot fluffier, but I'm glad they don't look like that now. Then I wouldn't be wearing them.

With socks.

Like I said earlier, you can try to find leg warmers at Wal-Mart, but I'm beginning to think I might have the only pair made since 1988 in the world, like some beautiful fuck-up at the sock factory, so maybe you should just give up the dream.

Or maybe you could cut the toes off your socks.

It's All About Epsilon

I just scrapped two whiney paragraphs about how I had to tutor for five hours straight today with a sore throat. Aren't you glad you got to read the condensed version?

Between all the phone calls I received last night to tutor, I had a nightmare that I had to stand in front of my topology class at the chalkboard and mathematically prove that if the Johnson family went on vacation, they wasted time. Needless to say, I was clueless about how to do it, but the know-it-all who sits beside me in class kept telling me that it would be easy if I could just find the right value for epsilon. Today I was relieved to find out that he indeed does not think such a statement is possible to prove, even with the right epsilon.

My teacher for that class, who bothers the hell out of me, always spits out five or ten minutes worth of jive-ass math talk at a time and then asks us if we have any questions, as if we understood even one sentence of what he said. After asking us, he immediately says, "Good," and continues on, taking our dumbfounded stares to mean that we are idiot savants.

I think on Wednesday when he asks us if we have any questions, I'm going to ask him out. He is at least ninety. He looks like Homer Simpson's dad. I'm hoping it will make the class more interesting, and hey, I may even get a date.

Guy? Girl. Guy. Girl?

I had the most gender-ambiguous cashier at Wal-Mart today. When I first saw her, I thought, "Ha ha. That is the best femi-mullet ever." Then I looked at his nametag, and it said Petey. What's sad is that she wasn't a particularly butch girl, but he wasn't a particularly feminine guy either. I don't what he/she was. Kinda looked like a turtle.

I tried to make Chinese food yesterday. Upon tasting it I realized that it wasn't Chinese at all; it just had soy sauce in it. It was like salty vegetables and chicken and rancid noodles. Dee-lish.

I think I'm getting sick. My throat is sore. My throat is always sore. I should have let the doctors take my tonsils out when I was in first grade and caught Strep Throat ten times. Then I wouldn't have to deal with this nonsense.

A Discourse on Technology and the Animal Kingdom

I met a spider today who had an ingenious, but flawed idea. It had built its web all over the spokes of a bicycle tire. The bike had not been ridden since the spider had taken up residency upon it, so the outcome of this plan had not yet been discovered.

How bad-ass does that spider think it is, building a web on a bike tire? Sure, its chances of catching a bug are going to increase twenty times over once its web goes hurling through space instead of waiting for prey to come flying into it, but unless it rides in the very center of the tire, its going to be a seriously dizzy spider by the end of its ride.

That's why all the other spiders probably think this spider is the bad-assest of them all. We as humans often attach the label "Hardcore" to people who do the most ignorant things, so I can only assume that spiders do the same.

I didn't get close enough to this bicycle tire spider to see what it was wearing (I'm not scared of all spiders, just ones who live life on the edge), but I'm assuming it had a flame-patterned skull cap tied around its head over those eight mean eyes, three of which work. It hadn't woven a middle finger into its web; I checked.

Since it doesn't have hands, I'm thinking about making a teeny tiny bumper sticker for the spider's bicycle tire to let all the other spiders know that it is one bad dude. My first thoughts were that the bumper sticker should say "Bad to the Exoskeleton," but then I realized that's something my mom would come up with, so I think I should make some sort of intimidating warning label addressed to all flying insects instead. Of course, I'd say the spider already has this tattoo, so I probably shouldn't waste my time.

I'm glad I got to meet such a bad-ass spider who doesn't play by the rules, but I'm also glad I didn't find it on my own bicycle. I wouldn't have the heart to tear its web down, but at the same time I would feel too guilty to drive a two-wheeled, foot-powered killing machine for anyone other than myself.

I don't have a bike, though, so I guess I don't have to worry about this.



(Imagine this spider saying, "I'm crazy, and I'm on a bike.")



(Imagine this picture making no sense.)

BOOBIES!

Today was the day it finally happened. My nipples shriveled up and fell off because of the cold. Nooo, noo, I kid. But I did brush against a glass door and cut a perfect line through it.

You know what fashion statement I'm thinking about popularizing? Short sleeves and gloves. Honestly, I'm surprised it's not popular yet. The reason I want to start this amazing trend is that a person who wears gloves with their short sleeves draws attention to their hands, so obviously their hands are doing something important, and that important thing is probably emphasizing something important that the person is saying, so by default that person is all-around important. That's the image I want.

I'll also carry a mug or an apple at all times because a person who makes time for either of these things is better than you. They make you wait while they take a sip or finish munching before they resume talking in a matter-of-fact voice. I want to be that person. Mug or apple, gloves, and all.

Rain and Preps: A Winning Combination

I don't think the weather could have been any nastier today. The rain left a puddle on the ground the size of Lexington, and the puddle, in return, pasted all my ice cold toes together with some sort of shoe soup. Mmm. The extreme lack of sun sucked any color out of my face in one day that an entire summer had put into it, and so now I am more translucent than I was before. When I'm outside, I reflect the gray color of the sky. When I'm inside, I glow with the annoying buzz of a fluorescent light. That's a lie.

I love days like this, and I'm not being sarcastic. It's not because I get to curl up in a cozy warm blanket and watch sheets of rain slide down my bedroom window in droves while I sip hot cocoa. That would be gay. I love these days because they make a circus out of school with all the rain-soaked, make-up splattered sorority clowns.

One rain drop has the power to undo an hour and a half's worth of morning prep work for a sorority girl. It starts on top of her head, flattening out some of the fluffy volume in her hair with its initial "plop" that she, ironically enough, induced using a man-made machine that harnesses the power of wind, the Blow Dryer. You see, usually wind is the enemy.

Next this devious little drop crests over her forehead and begins picking up speed, as well as granules of face spackle.

It pauses for a moment in her prostitute-like eyelashes, stuck in the tar that is mascara like a fly in a spiderweb, until finally it breaks free and drags some of that black goo down with it to the region below her eye in a sad, upside down triangle.

After that, the rain drop is home-free, allowed to snowball down the preppy girl's cheek until it dangles from her chin like a fruit, ripe with its own weight, having cut a stark white or leathery brown trail through her peachy morning dew complexion. Add five billion of its friends to the mix, and the girl's day is ruined, her hour and a half of prep work negated by the rain drops in the time it takes her to walk to class.

Given enough time, the first raindrop and its friends will evaporate so that they can rejoin the sky and find another preppy girl to make their target. Behind them, they will leave a grotesquely rearranged face, smeared all along the lower rim by globs of sticky pigments.

Vet'rans, Meatloaf, and the Like

My mom just called to invite me over for a Vet'rans Day meatloaf, and I refused. I am a terrible daughter, and I apparently don't appreciate the vet'rans because I didn't even know that today was their day.

Now had my mother invited me over for a llama-wich, I would have had no choice but to oblige.

Stock up on Canned Food and Ammunition

Hello, bitches and hos. What's izup?

I just had a piano showdown. It was with a guy I've known for a little while who also is a math major and who also plays piano for the hell of it on the side. The competition ended in a tie because we played different pieces. I should have seen that one coming.

Now for something completely different. You know what the first thing I noticed about UK's campus when I came here over three long years ago was? No, not the beautifully landscaped flowerbeds, spiderwebbed by graceful, sweeping sidewalks. No, not the overwhelming amount of construction within a one hundred foot radius of any given spot where I was standing. It wasn't even UK's insanely good-looking custodial staff.

Instead it was the barcodes tagged at eye-level to every single tree on the entire campus. That creeped me the fuck out. What's the point of a barcode if you can't pick the tree up and go "Boop!" across a scanner like it's a consumer good? Shut up. I don't want to hear it. Barcodes are soul thieves for UK. I guess the enforcement of barcodes on student foreheads is the only thing we can expect next.

The world is coming to an end.

I NEED More Belly!

Another boring day. I'm not complaining, though. I think I got twenty hours of overdue sleep this weekend. Now if only I could get a little burst of adrenalin to help me with that homework I've put off for two days.

Old Dude and I made a little animation today. It took way too long with way too little pay-off. All it consisted of was El Torro reading a book and grunting for twenty seconds and then our Abercrombie friend popping up and asking if he wanted to see a card trick. El Torro cleverly avoided the question by asking a question in return, "Would you like to see my Hershey Kiss?" Mr. Abercrombie did not reply, but instead snuck out of view. And... scene. That was about two and a half hours worth of work.

Here is a scene from it:



Spell-binding, isn't it?

If I Knew You Were Comin' Woulda Baked a Cake...

It's a slow news day. I made soft shell tacos and a cake. It was a cherry chocolate coke cake, and I used the real white stuff. No, no I am joshing. It was a Coca Cola Classic cake. All I did was replace the water in a chocolate cake mix with Cherry Coke, and then I simmered cherry pie filling with Cherry Coke and dumped that shit on top. You should try it in the privacy of your own home, too.

What else did I do today? Hmm. Nothing. This Bud's for you.

Redneck Tries to Be Funny. Fails.

Thank-you Holy Lord Jesus for inventing weekends. This hell week is finally coming to an end. Unfortunately I will spend as many hours as I can doing topology homework so that I have a tiny clue what I'm talking about at the meeting I forced myself to arrange with my teacher Monday. Freakin' frackin'.

I found out my cousin Vernon Dwayne's wife had a baby. This is terrible news for those who oppose child abuse. You can expect his family to look like this:



...Only with fewer teeth, or at least blacker ones.

On a totally different topic, the major front page story on UK's paper today was called "When Squirrels Attack," and it was accompanied by a terrifying photo of a rabid squirrel with glowing red eyes. My thoughts when I saw it were, "Woo hoo! Something on the front page that I'll actually read!" because I usually skip over all that "War in Iraq" or "Roe v. Wade Re-hacked" shit and go straight to the crossword puzzle. I like to consider myself a learned person. (That's "learn-ed" with two syllables.)

Upon reading the killer zombie squirrel article, I was disappointed by the stupidity of the people the columnist interviewed and of the article in general. The stupidest quote was from a guy who said he saw a squirrel fall out of a tree and land on its side. It goes, "It looked like the squirrel could have broken a leg, but it got up and ran away all crazy." Nice use of an adverb. It continues, "It's like they are on speed." Alrighty then.

The uppity I'm-smarter-than-you side of me scoffed at such a dumb article about a dumb subject read by dumb people, then I remembered how excited I had been when I first saw the crazy attacker squirrel on the front page, as opposed to the usual photos of campus or courtrooms with boring words like "embassy" that keep me from reading the rest of the title. Wow. I'm one of the dumb people, I re-realized.

Should I force myself to start reading the boring columns about world issues or government policies and dismiss the fun articles with flashy pictures that have no point? No, I think not. I think what needs to happen is that the boring shit with actual content be presented in a more exciting and tactical manner that appeals to the audience of which I am a member--an audience with no attention span or care for anything that doesn't affect them directly. An audience who is attracted to bright pictures with funny animals.

Here are some possible examples:



"Proposed Keg-tagging Ready for Formal Vote"



"Many Students Feel Unthreatened by Local Homeless"



"Eastern KY Man Arrested On Animal Cruelty Charges."



"Child Molester Caught by Police at After-School Program. Disguised as Giant Bear."


Leave me alone. I just want to use clip art.

Life Under Water

I think I'm dumb. No, I know I'm dumb. Here is why:

This morning I went to bed at 4:00 because I stayed up doing homework. That only makes me a little dumb. Next I set my alarm clock for 5:00 by mistake, so that makes me pretty damn dumb. Then, when it started going off an hour later, rather than reset it for 7:00, which is when I actually needed to get up, I hit snooze every nine minutes for TWO AND A HALF HOURS. That is why I am all the way, 100%, rock-on-the-bottom-of-a-river dumb.

At least I'm well-rested. No wait... No, I'm not that. But at least the teacher took up the homework I spent all night on. No, no he didn't do that either.

Here is a picture of me:

(Pssst... Not really.)

Tonguing with a Fury

Oh what a terrible day. It just won't end, but that may be a good thing since I have so much shit left to do.

I just got out of a calculus test that tossed my salad. And I mean that in a bad way, because I didn't ask to have my salad tossed. I was just sitting there quietly at my desk and then, whoa! What's that? Oh, that's my calculus test. In my crackalack.

There is nothing more to say on this topic.

Diesel Cafe

When I was driving down to Bowling Green a couple of weeks ago, I passed a gas station with a giant sign that read in block letters, "Diesel Gas Cafe." What a clash in title words, I thought. I think it was advertising the gas stationness of the facility, as well as the cafe inside. But isn't "cafe" the wrong word? (Aside from the fact that it doesn't have one of those little whirly-doos over the 'e'.) I can't imagine a big hairy dude named Boner who's covered in faded blue tattoos serving miniature porcelain cups of espresso, nor can I imagine two trucker buddies sitting at scrolly black iron furniture discussing big rigs and CBs over biscotti.

Perhaps the owners of this alleged Diesel Gas Cafe should consider using a different word in place of cafe if they're not going to put any separation between the last two words of their sign. I would suggest something more fitting, like "eatery" or "food depot."

Nope nope. Nevermind. I take that back. Now that I think of it, I need to use "food depot" as the name for my restaurant for picky picky people that I'm going to start when I grow up. But wait... I'm moving to Scandinavia after I graduate. I guess I'll have to learn how to translate "food depot" into Finnish or Swedish or something. Anybody want to help me out with a translation here? This is important stuff.

I Am a Failure.

Disappointment.

I thought I was a bad enuff dude to save the president, but I can't get past the Red Ninja in the first board of "Bad Dudes," so the president remains unsaved.

I still haven't tried playing the other Nintendo game I bought Saturday. It's called "Pinbot." I think the goal of that game is to beat the Pinball Wizard or Genie. Or robot. Alien. Naked Mole Rat. I dunno.

Wait a minute... Our current president is George W. Bush. Goddammit. I'm not playing "Bad Dudes" again until we get a new mother-freaking (you heard me) president.

I Am Certainly One Bad Dude.

Mmmmm. Chocolate cake. You know you're a healthy person when you're hiking and all you talk about the whole time is the chocolate cake you're going to eat when you get off this damn mountain.

I went hiking today. No shit? No shit. It was perfect weather, so I couldn't resist, and I got to take pictures of all the leaves with the dope-ass camera my brother-in-law gave me for Christmas last year. I hope the peectures turn out alright because it was getting dark while Old Dude and I hiked up the West Pinnacle in Berea. Old Dude who? Old Dude.

The sunset was very pretty. It was deep red. Apparently, though, it gets dark outside after the sun goes down. I should have considered that before I hiked to the top of a rocky, cliff-ridden mountain. I mean, I love getting lost in the woods at night and all, but you know. I'm just sayin'.

Afterwards Old Dude and I went to Papaleno's, the best restaurant in the world, and we got the best chocolate cake in the world, along with some other food that was the most slightly above average in the world. Now I'm sleepy because I actually got a little bit of exercise for once and ate a ton of food. I could fall asleep in a curly little ball right now, but instead I think I'll do homework. I love my life.

I should mention one more thing before I shut up. I bought two new (used, obviously) Nintendo games for my original Nintendo, and one of them is called "Bad Dudes." I don't remember what the other one was called. It doesn't matter. I just can't wait to go home and see what wondrous world of trash can-filled allies or ninjas with machine guns awaits me when I get home and pop in "Bad Dudes."

Oh yeah, do you like the clip art? Yeah, me too.

What Did the Pumpkin Say to the Hot Dog?

Happy Halloweeny! Well, yesterday.

I didn't get to be Audrey Scissor Hands after all, but I still looked like a dead girl, so I consider my make-shift costume a success. I went to a party with a gay cowboy and did the make-up for Robert Smith (from the Cure), but none of these won the trophy. In my book, the best costume for the night and for all times goes to Lumbergh from Office Space, as portrayed by El Torro. Who else could pull off drinking beer and hooch from a coffee mug, n'kay?

N'kay.

To El Torro, I award all these trophies: