Random rambles from a rambly rambler.

In seventh grade, Mrs. K gave us an assignment. We had five minutes where we weren't allowed to stop writing.

Write solidly for five minutes. If it entered your head, it must be put to paper.

Most of the kids wrote about not knowing what to write. Which I've found is a very popular topic for MySpace and Facebook profiles. "Um, yeah, I hate these things. So, anyway, here it goes..."

So tonight, I've decided that I'm just going to write for five minutes and at the end, I'm going to stop.

My fingers will never quit typing (although if there is a dreadful typo, I will backspace to save myself the pain). But if I get two sentences further and then notice it (which I won't be able to cause I can't stop typing) then I'm SOL. And if I notice it when I go back and read this blog por la manana, then too bad. My mistake will be there for the world to see.

So I'll either write the next great American novel in these five minutes, write total crap or get carpul tunnels. How in the hell do you spell that? I'd look it up on dictionary dot com, but I can't because stopping equals cheating and cheating equals lying and I'm not going to lie tonight.

Blogs are a funny thing. They're (mostly) diaries that you allow the world to read. Diaries with the hopes of validation. "Will someone comment on my blog today?" If so, life is candy and rainbows. If not, the writing was terrible, the thoughts vapid and you feel like the only kid not dancing at the winter ball.

The really crappy part is finding a topic that you really want to write about and you realize that you can't. Because you have no idea who's reading this thing. It could be a coworker, an ex, some random dude from Florida ... Gotta be careful.

The whole purpose of starting this blog thing was to make me write. Writing is my one true love and I've been neglecting it. We have a tendency to neglect the things we hold dear. Pitty, really. Perhaps it's because our loves will forgive us.

Five minutes is up.

What if golf had cheerleaders?

What if golf had cheerleaders?

Glad you asked. If golf had cheerleaders, they'd say things like this:


Swing that club
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Hit that ball
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Hit it far!
(clap clap clap clap clap)
Under par!
(Random cheers: Yeah! Go golfers! Wahoo!)


We say IRON
You say WOOD
Iron!
(Wood!)
Iron!
(Wood!)
Iron!
(Wood!)
Hit that ball good!
(Random cheers: Yeah! Woo! Golf rules!)


You want a low score?
What?
I said you want a low score?
Yea!
I'm gonna get a low score!
Wew!
(Imitate a swing) Four four four four!



Take flight birdie
Soar mighty eagle
Keep it under par!
If you get an albatross
You are a golfer rock star!
(Throw a cheerleader into the air)


The green is the goal
Aim for the flag pole
Get a club from your caddy
And show that ball who's its daddy!
(Random cheers: Alright! Win! Score!)


Bend your knees
(clap clap)
Eyes on the ball
(booty shake clap clap)
It's a breeze.
(jump)
Swing the club
(clap clap)
Aim the ball
(booty shake clap clap)
And don't hit shrubs!
(hand springs)

Tests aren't the best judges of intelligence.

There are IQ tests, SAT tests, ACT tests, AP tests, EOC exams, TAAS or TAKS tests, MCATs, LSATs, blood tests ...

The list goes on for ages. They're all used to meter intelligence (well, except for blood, but that day is coming). The problem is that some people are fantastic at standardized tests and numbed-brained when it comes to everything else. The opposite is also true; some fantastically genius people can't sit still long enough to take an intelligence test.

Well, luckily for the American-English-speaking world, I've come up with an easy way to instantly determine a person's true intellgence.

The pronunciation of the word "naked" is a true gauge of intelligence.

Saying ney-kid means that a person is at the very least, smart.

Saying nek-kid means that a person is, well, dim.

Now, all of you nekkid sayers, don't get your synapses in a wad. You might be clever and witty and artistic, but think about it. Aren't you a little dumb? Just a little bit?

You might be thinking, "I'm as smart as a club of fish, I is!" And I'm proud of you for having such elevated self-esteem. But you aren't smart. You're just manipulative or charmed.

Because if you say nekkid, ya ain't got that sharpa tools in yer shed, ya know? Ya just don't, hun.

There are some very powerful (and regretfully respected) people who say nekkid. I can only blame this on the sad fact that a good 49ish percent of the US population are nekkid sayers. But it's only fair that those in the nekkid sayer population have adequate representation in high society and politics.

But for us naked folk (ha!), this can be a bad thing.

So, in order for us to save the country, every child must be given extensive speech therapy to correct or ideally prevent the perpatuation of the nekkid pronunciation.

With the phase out we'll see more-efficiently-designed roads. There will be less hair in restaurant food. The cost of oil and gas will drop. And radio stations will stop playing only eight-year-old top forty hits.

I ask you, go out and help a nekkid person. Give him ego massage he needs to rise in society! May he use this new tool daily! May he stand erect and proclaim to the entire world, "Naked is the way to be!" ... What? Too much inuendo?

Samuel the Birtday Party Burro likes cake.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro walked in a circle with a rotation of squealing toddlers on his back.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro stomped the grass to death until the once-perfect yard had a now-perfect, grassless circle that would last for months.

For forty-five minutes, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro endured kicks to his ribs, being called an ugly horse and wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat. In protest, he took a dump right next to the birthday child's soccer mom.

So if Samuel hated being a birthday party burro so much, why did he continue to torture himself? Because Samuel the Birthday Party Burro had a sweet tooth. And children's birthday parties are known for cake.

With every revolution around the tree, Samuel the Birthday Parto Burro would catch a glimpse of this party's yellow-frosted masterpiece. He counted six blue candles and he thought he saw a frosting clown.

"Frosting clown equals jackpot," thought the burro.

Usually, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro would sadly stare at the least-jerky child and use his burro powers to get the kid to bring him, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro, a piece of cakey goodness. Not this party, though. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro wanted the entire cake. And he had a plan to make his fantasy come true.

At children's birthday parties where burros are rented, they are ridden before the treats are served. This is because children are prone to vomit and a birthday party burro doesn't need to be showered in stomach contents in addition to the other humiliations a burro must endure. So during cake time, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro's owner would be invited to eat cake while the burro was left tied to a tree to nibble on grass.

Suburban grass is the worst kind of grass for a burro. It gives them gas. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro didn't want suburban grass gas. He wanted cake.

So during the time that owner and birthday party attendees would be prepping for cake, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro would gnaw on his lead rope until it split into two. For the last four birthday parties, Samuel the Birthday Party Burro had been gnawing on that rope. Today, it would give.

As the last child's ride ended, the usual chain of events took place: burro tied to something, owner took a gulp of whiskey from a hip flask, owner went to the can, children gathered around a picnic table.

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro started to gnaw. The rope was weak. He tugged with all of his burro might and it snapped like a beatnik's fingers. He ran to the cake table. And he licked the clown off of the cake.

Then he dug his muzzle into the center of the cake. Mmm, chocolate. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro took gluttonous bites of the birthday cake. Each mouthful made the seventy yearly parties worth it.

"Look! The funny horsie is eating the cake," some freckled kid shouted.

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro looked up, sneezed out some frosting and continued to dine on the yummy, nummy confection.

Most of the children errupted in laughter along with a handful of the adults. The birthday child's mom stared in confused horror. The burro owner took another sip of whisky.

Digital cameras and camera phones emerged. Pictures were taken and videos were captured. Samuel the Birthday Party Burro just kept eating cake.

A day later, he was a YouTube star. "Jackass Eats Cake" was the number nine video for three weeks. Footage of Samuel the Birthday Party Burro appeared on various US talk shows and the situation was even referenced in a movie.

Cakes by the dozens were sent to Samuel the Birthday Party Burro's stall and he started working at all kinds of parties, but not as a beast of burdon but a star!

Samuel the Birthday Party Burro lived happily (albeit a little fatter) ever after.

The moral of this story, kids, just go for it. You can have your cake and eat it, too.

I don't know what a blog is. You see, I've been in a coma.

Here it is, folks. It's either the latest and greatest way to hit on strangers or the best way to eff with strangers.

It's the I've-been-a-coma technique.

How does it work, you ask? Pick a stranger and make one distinct observation. For example, you see a chick wearing a Fallout Boy T-shirt. Approach her and say, "I'm sorry but I was noticing your shirt. What is Fallout Boy?"

The girl should respond by saying they're a pop band (if she's really cool, she'll tell you that Fallout Boy is a comic book character from the Simpsons, but that's another story all together). If she doesn't volunteer the information, ask what songs they perform and how many albums they have.

Then when you find out they're relatively new, throw out, "Ahh. That's why I haven't heard of them before. I've recently come out of a year-long coma."

When you toss out the coma line, you have to be careful. If you're only twenty-five and you look twenty-five, you don't want to have a multi-year coma. If you're older (we'll say thirty-five plus which isn't old but old enough) you can afford to have been in a longer coma. For example, a ten year coma could be really fun; you would barely know about cell phones.

Not many people know others who've been in comas. So if you play it cool, the conversation will evolve. The stranger will be intrigued and want to know how long you were out. He or she might ask how you ended up in a coma. A great line is, "I can remember driving in my car and then I woke up in a hospital room a year later."

Be sure to say that while in a coma, you had no dreams, no thoughts, heard nothing. Because when you're in a coma, you might as well be dead. And be sure to toss in how your muscles had atrified and you've been in physical therapy to get your strength back (this is awesome if you're really skinny; say you lost like fifty pounds while in a coma). After all, spending x amount of time in a hospital bed eating through a tube, you don't really pack on the mass.

Mention how crazy it is that the world changed so much in x months/years. For example, "I found out yesterday that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are an item. Weird!" Or "I tried to order a medium soda the other day, and they don't have medium. Just large and extra large. When did that happen?" And my personal fave, "My sister showed me this thing called an iPod. It holds like a hundred casettes on it!"

If you want to play the super-pathetic card, say something like, "The worst part was when I finally went home and found out that my dog had died." This is a great time to shed a tear. Believe me, if you're a dude, you're getting a phone number.

The I've-been-a-coma technique is also great for being ignorant about certain topics. If you're sitting at a bar and some people try and get you to talk about sports and politics, just cock your head and say, "I'm so sorry. I have no idea what's going on in the world of [sports]. I've been in a coma for the last six months and I only woke up a week ago." Then take a long, slow drink from your beverage. If you steer the conversation right (and your friendly, local bartender doesn't rat you out), you might get some free booze.

It's a no-fail method for some good fun. Unless, of course, chance is against you and the person you're speaking to has actually been in a coma. If that happens, you're on your own.

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
As she slowly crawled out of her bed.
She tried to make her way to the bathroom,
But she went to the kitchen instead!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
One crazy-silly, forgetful morn.
After thirty minutes in the closet
She put on a some pants that were torn!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
And for entire day she was blind.
She wanted to eat a banana
But couldn't distinguish it from a rind!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs.
They are next to her bed in a glass.
So instead of avoiding a puddle,
Shelly slipped and fell right on her ass!*

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs,
And she swears that this will not repeat.
Because whenever she wasn't sitting
Coworkers would put tacks in her seat!

Shelly forgot to put in her eyeballs
One morning when she got out of her bed.
And this poses a serious question:
Why were her eyeballs out of her head!


*Damn. So close to being a child's poem.

Principal Harwood's Post-Bakesale Speech to the High School PTA

As you may have heard on the local news, we recently had a bake sale sponsored by the Art Department.

As you may have heard on the national news, some of the baked goods in the sale were, well, goods that could get you baked.

Let me be the first to tell you that from now on, we will be more weary of labels such as "Crippling Chip Cookies" or "Buzznana Bread" and especially "Pot Stickies." And any brownies that sell for over ten dollars each will be collected and tested for marijuana.

Unfortunately, several of the students and even the faculty managed to consume the afflicted sweets. In fact, only the diabetics and anorexics avoided the bake sale.

And regretfully, the bake sale took place near the end of the grading period. So if there's confusion with your student's status sheet, know that we usually don't give smiley faces, peace signs and check marks for grades. Once we manage to retrieve all of the record books from the swimming pool and air ducts, we'll have accurate grade reports sent directly to your homes.

For those of you not in attendance at Friday night's football game, it's necessary for you to know we had to forfeit. Half of the football team didn't even show up because they were passed out in their cars. And the other half were giggling at Sponge Bob Square Pants in the locker room. Only it wasn't really Sponge Bob. It was our mascot Terry the Tuna. We're going to need another fundraiser to get money for a new mascot costume. Part of Terry got eaten.

I am glad to report, though, that concession sales at the football game were at an all-time high. Wait, not a high! I mean they were the best we've ever seen.

The band also had a performance at an elementary school on Friday afternoon. It went surprisingly well. They didn't play "Stars and Stripes Forever" like they usually do, but they did play the entire Pink Floyd album "The Wall." Although Mr. Bartose, the band teacher, swears he's never taught them any of those songs. Man, isn't our band is talented!

I also have to report that there isn't going to be a school paper this week. It went to the printers on Friday and when we got it on Monday morning, all twelve pages were blank except for the front where someone had written "What are you going to do for me meow?" The date had also been changed to April twentieth even though this is October. We promise to have a paper next week that's more accurate and full of content.

Some good news, though, is that there wasn't a single fight or student sent to my office all day on Friday. Other than the incesant giggling in the halls, everyone was on their best behavior.

And that about does it. But before I conclude, I must add that I don't know who specifically brought each item to the bake sale. I've also gotten several messages asking how these items were made. I don't know the recipes, but know that we're doing out best to make sure other students don't know. We appreciate your concern and we're on it.

Now, here's Vice President Centerly with the updated dress code.

Today, I'm going to be a total jerk wad.

I'm going to drive like I'm racing and cut off every Honda I see. I'm also going to cut off every blue car, every truck and anything with four plus wheels (unless it has two, then I'll cut it off for not having enough wheels).

If it's raining, I'm going to tailgate every vehicle that ends up in front of me. And I'm going to speed like I've got a football player in the back of a white Bronco.

Red lights might as well be green because I'm going to pay no attention. And if a car gets in front of me and stops at a red light (or stop sign or for a fire truck) I'm going to lay on my horn like the sound is keeping me alive. If time permits, I'm going to give the other driver the double bird and set his head on fire with my stare.

Today, I'm going to shout at the grocery store cashier for a price being incorrect. It doesn't matter that the cashier won't in any way be at fault for the mislabeled salsa. And I'm not going to give a crap that the price was only off by fifty cents. You know why? Because the twenty seconds it takes the cashier to find the proper price will absolutely ruin my day. My time is valuable. In that twenty seconds, I could have scratched my ass or caught the first verse of some song on the radio in the car.

And the cashier is only a lowly human anyway. Any person working a register has to be completely incompetent.

Today, I'm going to blast music in my apartment as loudly as I can. Even if it's midnight and a week night, you bet everyone within fifty feet of my apartment will rock their arms off to "Enter Sandman" by Metallica. Everyone loves Metallica, and if they don't, they'll get over it.

After all, I just got two new subwoofers that need breaking in. And Metallica is so much better at full volume. Anything less is an insult.

Today, I'm going to toss my coffee cup in the general vacinity of a trash can. But that's it. If it lands in the trash can, fine. If not, I don't care. Someone else will pick it up, like some juvenile delinquent with court-appointed civic duty. Besides, I've got better things to do than touch garbage. And once my coffee is gone from the cup, it's officially garbage and not my problem.

Today, I'm going to glare at a child, complain about a stranger who will do nothing offensive and bitch some stranger out about a late fee that I'm completely responsible for but don't want to pay.

Today, I'm going to be a total and complete asshole.

Just because I can.

And tomorrow, hopefully, someone will pull me into a dark ally and forcibly remove the giant branch from my ass.

An apologetic letter to Peyton Manning.

Dear Peyton Manning,

Although we've never met, I feel the need to apologize to you on behalf of my mother. Alebit, she's not apologizing for her behavior.

What is that behavior exactly? Well, Pey (mind if I call you Pey?) my mother is obsessed with you and I think she may be stalking you.

A year or two ago when you started getting really popular (and I apologize because I know nothing of sports, you or your career except that you play soccer* or something and you're in some commercials; other than that, nothing) my mom started watching whatever team you're on. And she continues to watch that team. But it's not so much the team she watches; it's you. I called her the other day and she literally said, "Peyton's on. I've gotta go." And then she hung up on me.

She hung up on me, Peyton Manning! And it's your fault.

She even wears a jersey with your name and number on it while watching. This is a woman who didn't even want to go to her daughter's high school graduation because 'it wasn't a big deal.' But oh! She'll ignore her own offspring to watch you throw a ball. You'd better be the best damn thrower ever, Pey. Cause you're taking my mom from me!

Here's the real kicker, though. (Ha, kicker. That'd be really funny if you were a kicker. Are you a kicker?). She wants to find you and meet you because (and I have nothing to do with this) she wants you to marry me.

So before you're tackled in the grocery store by some strange, crazy lady named Susan (not to frighten you, but she's getting good with the internet and I think she knows where you shop) I want you to know that I have nothing to do with this. It's nothing personal. But I really have no interest in meeting you. I'm sure you're really nice, but there's just nothing there. Plus I think you're married, but Mom doesn't seem to care.

I really think that she wants to marry you but her husband wouldn't allow it. You know, polygamy isn't exactly the norm.

Anyway, her obsession goes deeper than just jersies and dreams of NFL grandbabies.

One day while I was at work (and this is a true story, I've got witnesses) a thirty-page fax gets dumped on my desk. First off, I had no idea that I even was able to get faxes. Second, it was a deck all about you. Stories, stats, facts. There were parts she's underlined and highlighted. She even added notes ("he's such a nice boy, see!"). Third, I had no idea that she even liked you or, for that matter, liked you for me.

So I call my cousin who's in sports (baseball) and he tells me that Mom had been harassing him to get into contact with you so you and I could get married. Because the mere fact that my cousin is in sports means that he just has your phone number.

Seriously. That's the logic.

She has some crazy plan, I just know it. She won't tell me the details, but I'm sure it involves you, me, a pool hall and a short, leather skirt. I'm not going to let this happen. I can't wear a leather skirt! It's too eighties.

Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads up. Perhaps let you get another body guard (although my mom is pretty harmless, I think).

I'm sure nothing will ever come of this and you can go on doing what you do on the turf and I can go on doing what I do on not-turf.

Again I apologize. Feel flattered. She hasn't been this obsessed with hooking me up since 8 years ago when she thought Prince William and I'd be perfect together. She even had invitations picked out.

Good luck in your game tomorrow, Pey. Score a homerun** and make my mom proud!

* It's only called "foot ball" in Brazil.
** That's when you knock all of the pins over.

Birds are racist.

No one else was going to say it. So I took the liberty upon myself.

Birds are racist. All of them. Cardinals hang with cardinals. Pigeons chill with pigeons. And mockingbirds, please! They'd never fraternize with a lowly duck.

There's truth to the phrase "birds of a feather stick together." It should be "birds are freakin' racist sons of mother pluckers."

I've thought long and hard about this. I've paid careful attention to the feathered wildlife around the city. Birds of one race refuse to acknowledge birds of another race.

The only exception is the bluejay. But those bastards are self-loathing racists. They play packrat with other birds' eggs. Racist!

I can't, though, figure out why birds are so blatently hateful. Dogs aren't that way. Labradors will canoodle with poodles and chihuahuas love weiner dogs. Cats aren't racist, either. Black cats and white cats and brown cats and pink cats all live in perfect, calicoed harmony. But those birds! Put a mockingbird in a cage with a sparrow and all hells gonna break loose.

The only harmony among different bird races seems to take place near ponds or on farms. Geese and ducks seem to be accepting of each other's existance. And chickens will run around with anything, but they're kind of dumb.

BUT birds of different races don't live together. A pigeon would never bring his hummingbird girlfriend home to meet his parents because a pigeon would never hook-up with a hummingbird. BECAUSE BIRDS ARE RACIST!

Do birds crossbread? I've never heard of it. I've never seen a half-dove-half-swallow. Have you? NO!

The insanity must stop. We'll start with the birds. Then it's on to the fish.

Oh, yes. This problem goes as deep as the ocean, my friends.

Oh, Puberty, you oily, hairy, evil beast.

Unlike most, I bloomed very late
And this always makes me hesitate
When a boy asks me out on a date.

For me, puberty is hard
And awkward and makes me a lard
(Mainly since there's now grass on the yard).

Growing and changing is quite a chore.
I don't want to do it anymore
Especially since I'm twenty-four!

This is what I've learned about parking lot etiquette.

I've been licensed by the grand ol' state of Texas to operate a motor vehicle for nearly a decade now, and I've noticed a thing or two.

So I've decided to record my observations here for future drivers. After all, this is stuff they don't teach you in driver's ed.

The goal in every parking lot is to find a place to park your vehicle (hence the 'parking' name).

Parking lot etiquette is not a constant, though. Rules vary from parking lot to parking lot. Here you'll find common types of parking lots and the appropriate legalities and essentials of survival in each particular one.

Shopping Malls in December

In large, busy parking lots such as the local mall, certain cars are allowed spots over other cars. The hierarchy is determined soley on window decals and bumper stickers. The order is as follows:
- Anything of the Christian persuasion: If you don't love Jesus, you don't deserve to shop during the holidays. Period.
- Anything with a children's sport: Because athletic children deserve more presents over other children. That and athletic childrens' parents are (vicariously) famous, therefore they have celebrity status and they shouldn't walk as far as the common folk.
- Anything with Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) peeing on anything: You don't want to fight these people. Unless Jesus is on your side or your kid plays peewee soccer. Only then do you stand a chance.
- Anything political/war/troop related: These people have guns in their cars. If Jesus, an athletic child or Calvin are on your side, you're bullet proof. If not, yield and yield quickly.

If a vehicle ignores the hierarchy and pulls into a spot, the other vehicle/party is allowed to ram the offending car. Every collison should be followed by flippin' the bird, honking the horn and yelling "Merry f*ck*ng Christmas, d*ckh**d!" Then, the wronged party should peel out and hit at least four other vehicles while exiting the scene.


Catholic Parking Lots (Sundays Only)

All bets are off. Every driver for him/herself. No matter what crime/offense you commit in a Catholic parking lot, you can be forgiven for it later in confession. Thus the beauty of the Catholic faith- a few Hail Maries and you're as good as new.

For extra protection from Hell, make sure a rosary is hanging from your rearview mirror. Or keep a small bible in your glove box.

When an available spot is seen and two drivers are trying to get it, using God's name in vain, threats of bodily harm and even vehicular manslaughter are all perfectly acceptable. UNLESS you harm an alter boy. That's the priest's job; don't take that away from him.


Grocery Stores

If a person is not in a vehicle (pushing a cart, carrying bags, walking from a vehicle to the store, etc.) he/she is a target if he/she is in the way of a prime spot. Running over a pedestrian is completely legal and okay. In the event of major harm, you are allowed to collect the injured person's groceries and put them in your own car. Calling an ambulance is unnecessary. They have no right of way in grocery lots.

If it is raining, feel free to park in the NO PARKING/EMERGENCY FIRE LANE. Rain is an emergency. You don't want your plastic grocery bags getting wet.

Handicapped spots are reserved for Mercedes and Yukons only. No handicapped plate/ID is required.


College/Universities

If you are a university student and own a car and have a parking permit from your university/college, your car is under no circumstance allowed in a university lot. You vehicle will be towed, smashed into a cube and incinerated if it remains on the premises for more than 37 seconds.


Parking Garages

There is only one rule for parking garages- take up as much space as possible.

If your vehicle is huge, park it in the smallest spot you can find.

If you're in a small, two-seater sports car, park sideways and take up two spots. Three spots is ideal, though.

If you see a vehicle that's parked perfectly between the lines and it appears that the driver/passengers have ample room to enter/exit the vehicle, park as closely as possible. This person has no right to be able to open the doors. Their punishment shall be to enter their vehicle through the trunk/back door or wait for you to leave.


AND A GENERAL RULE FOR ANY PARKING SITUATION: If the vehicle you park next to looks like the owner goes to great lengths to maintain it, be sure to smash your door into that car as hard as possible. If it's December, do it twice. You can also steal the antenna if you'd like. They make great play swords.

A day in the life of a restaurant ketchup bottle.

Sigh.

My life is pretty simple. I sit on a Chili's table and people squeeze* me over their fries and burgers. Sometimes, a rubbery steak.

Once someone sqeezed me over a salad. Thought that was kind of odd.

But I mainly just sit here on this table in this Chili's restaurant. Every day, some angry teenager tops me off with more ketchup. The old stuff never seems to get emptied out. Seriously. I've got 6 month old ketchup in me. It must have solidified by now. It's either a tomato again or it has fermented into chunky moonshine. If I'm lucky, the greasy fingerprints get wiped off of me.

I like it when the blonde chick tops me off. She has warm hands. And she usually moves me to a different table. I like the booths by the window. I can see the highway from table thirteen. Sometimes I pretend I have legs and arms. In my fantasy, I grab the nearest steak knife and bust the window. Then I sprint to my freedom and to the amusement park across the street. There I'd be the main ketchup bottle at one of those concession stands. Aw, that'd be the life. Living outdoors, getting squirted on hotdogs and pretzels.

But alas, that's only a fantasy. Instead I'm trapped in family-restaurant Hell.

Once a baby grabbed me and sucked a good amount of ketchup out before her sloth of a mother noticed. "Jamie, put that dow-un. I say-ed put tha-at dow-un!" She screeched for a good seventeen seconds before she realized the kid COULDN'T SPEAK ENGLISH YET!

Little kids suck, too. Instead of enjoying the ketchup on food, they seem to enjoy making art out of it. I'm wasted on napkins and table tops. Although, one kid did create a fantastic work of a tree and some birds. There was even a flower with a smiley face. That was nice. I usually just get sqeezed for the purpose of making pointless squirlies and sqiggles. The busboys wipes the ketchup away with disguist. He hates me. I know it.

You know who has it good? Dressing cups. Ranch, for example, is special. It comes out in those little cups. You have to ask for extra ranch because it's a priveledge. Ketchup, though, gets left out in the open to be fondled and shoved around and wasted.

I shouldn't complain, though. After all, I could be one of those little half & half cups. Once they've been used, life is over. That and half & half tastes like crap. At least ketchup is delicious.

*I know. Chili's uses glass bottle that you can't squeeze. Guess what? THIS ISN'T REAL!

I drove a truck all weekend. Wrote a song about it.

Like the title says, I drove a truck all weekend.

I spent Thursday night through late Saturday night in Electra, Texas. I'm convinced it's the land of white pickup trucks.

So as I was headin' back to the big city, the Beatles "Drive My Car" came on the radio. And I tweaked it in Weird-Al fashion.

The original song is about a chick hell-bent on stardome. Sort of. She tells this young dude that he can be her driver. At the end of the song you find out that she doesn't even have a car yet.

So my version is slightly different. A little dirtier. A little scuzzier. A little more ... modern.


"Drive My Truck"

Asked a ho what she wanted to do.
She said, "Baby, I've got something for you.
A little KY and some batteried toys.
Cause you ain't nothing like other boys!"

Baby you can drive my truck.
And if you're lucky then we'll f:)k.
Baby you can drive my truck,
And maybe we'll bone, too.

Then this crazy girl took off my pants.
What she did put me into a deep trance.
"Don't worry baby, this won't take long.
It should end before I finish this song."

Baby you can drive my truck.
And if you're lucky then we'll f:)k.
Baby you can drive my truck,
And maybe we'll bone, too.

Bow chika bow chika wow.

I woke up in a bathtub of ice.
Found that my pleasure cost full price.
Cause now things are kinda weird when I pee
Cause that crazy bitch took my left kidney!

Baby you can drive my truck.
And if you're lucky then we'll f:)k.
Baby you can drive my truck,
And maybe we'll bone, too.

Bow chika bow chika wow.
Bow chika bow chika wow.
Bow chika bow chika wow.
Bow chika bow chika wow.

Haikus about food make me happy.

Oh, carbohydrates.
You make me happy inside.
But fat on outside.


I love you, sushi.
And I don't say love often.
So get in my mouth!


I want omelettes.
I want them for ev'ry meal.
Even for linner!


I do not eat meat.
I'm a vegetarian.
All plants should watch out!


But I do eat fish.
After all, they do not walk.
Feet are disgusting.


Bacom is from pigs.
And burgers are made with cow.
Bomb pops though? Clown meat!


Haikus are easy.
You know what else is easy!
Your mom! (She's meaty)


Cheese is awesome.
I'd put cheese on anything.
I want cheese ice cream!


Choc'late is sexy.
Unless you're diabetic.
Sexy time murder?


Twinkies are sponges.
Who would want to eat a sponge?
Fat people, that's who.


Fill me with queso.
Until my eyes turn yellow.
Yikes! Too much queso.


One hundred tacos.
This is what I want to eat.
I lied. That's too much.


Honey ginger tea.
I miss you every day.
I need some dumplings.


Green peas are from hell.
They taste like buttholes and farts.
How do I know that?


I think candy is
Just Jim-dandy and I want
It every day.


I need good night snacks.
Without them, I cannot sleep.
Fridge next to my bed?


The last food haiku.
Now what should it be about?
Apples and gravy!

I've discovered the dirty truth about pants.

In preperation for the coming cold, I decided to try on some of my old pants. To my displeasure, they were tight in areas that weren't tight before.

How could this be? I don't weigh any more than I did last winter. If anything, I'm slimmer. I've got pictures to prove it.

I sat and pondered my shrinking pants problem when it came to me-- we live in the age of technology. Of artificial intelligence. Computer chips and binary code. Robots and prgrammable recorders.

With all of this technology, pants makers have found a way to make pants shrink.

Think about it. If you pants stayed the same and you stayed the same, a classic pair of pants could last you for years. This is economic suicide. If people aren't restocking on pants every 6-12 months, then commerce would come to a rusty hault.

No one would buy pants so no one would make pants.

No one would make pants so less cloth would be sold.

If less cloth is sold, less raw materials would be harvested.

With less raw materials harvested, some farmers wouldn't be able to sell crops.

If farmers couldn't sell crops, they wouldn't be in the fields.

If farmers weren't in the fields, they wouldn't be wearing out their pants. And if they don't wear out their pants ... GASP! Full circle.

Of course, the greedy pants makers are only thinking of themselves. They just want to make you feel like your ass is ever-growing so you have to keep recovering it.

I have proof of the shrinking pants theory.

I've an old pair of jeans. About two years old. They're now too tight. I bought a new pair or pants, same brand as the old one and same size. They fit perfectly.

Now, you might be thinking that I've washed these pants and dried them so they've shrunk. NO! This is impossible. They've never been put into a washing machine or a dryer. There is no way they've shrunk. If anything, they should be slightly stretched out.

The only explanation is that something was done to them when they were pieced together in that dark Chinese factory. Something sinister. Something ... shrinky.

I'm going to find the man* behind this and I'm going to stop him. Once and for all.

It might take days. It might take months. It might take some coffee. But this guy will pay; oh yes, he'll pay. After all, he can afford it. I've been giving him hundreds of dollars every year since high school.

*Oh, you know it was a man. He probably has a curly mustache, too. Asshole.

I am a shameless, self-promoting whore for your attention.

I'm in advertising. I get advertising. I'm all about promoting and displaying and verbalizing and sharing and all of that crap.

But mainly, I like money. And I don't want to have to work very hard for it.

So here's my plan. I'm going to keep doing this writing thing on this blog thing. And you're going to keep reading. But you're going to tell others to read it.

Here's where the marketing comes in. As readership increases, there's documented proof that popularity is on the rise. With popularity comes the potential to sell ad space.

BAM! I continue to share my quirky observations only now I don't have to do it late at night when I'm finally finished with the alleged 9 to 5. And my blog site is full of erectile disfuntion and Target callouts!

Oh, I can see it now!

The one flaw in my plan: Not everyone likes my writing. Like that guy who didn't like my writing. But he was totally jealous of my supreme awesomeness. Or that one professor in college who gave me a B in writing. But I don't count her because she was a freaky German with green teeth. True story. She had green teeth. I'm not even sure how that's possible. And she wasn't a huge fan of freedom of speech. And she was German! She could barely speak English. How in the hell did she know what I was writing in the first place. Anyway, I digress.

So this means that for my plan to work, not only do you have to spread the word, but I have to be a good writer- not great but good. That seems doable. OR I could hypnotize each and every other person I meet and convince them that they adore me.

I can see it now. Me and my swinging pocket watch putting fast food workers and business types to sleep and feeding them fat, juicy suggestions.

"You will read my blog every morning with your coffee. And you will click on the erectile disfunction callout ads. And then you'll get a prescription for the ED drug and fill it at Target."

I'd be known as That Pocket Watch Lady. Or Hypnosia (hip-nos-sia). I'd be a super hero in my own right. Perhaps even a metahuman.

But I think it would just be easier if you turned people on to me. I mean, I'd try to turn them on myself but there's that whole not-wanting-to-be-a-slut-whore thing. Being an attention whore is good enough.

I'm finding hair in the strangest places.

We humans are animals. Mammals to be exact.

One of the traits mammals possess (excluding whales and dolphins) is having hair. This hair sheds.

So if humans are mammals and mammals shed, then humans shed (for you mathmatic folk: a = b and b = c, then a = c which means hairy, shedding humanoids).

Taking all of this into account, it's perfectly natural and normal to find hair on the bathroom floor. All people find hair on their bathroom floors; this is fine. It's also perfectly natural to find hair on your shirts. Hair falls out of your head and lands on your shoulders and it then sticks to your shirt.

Some other normal places you might find hair are on your pillow, in the shower, perhaps the headrest in your car, occasionally on your desk or computer keyboard.

Again, this is all perfectly normal. It happens to everyone. All humans find sloughed off hairs all over the place.

What I'm wondering, though, is how in the hell did hair make it into my refridgerator. Seriously. Hair in the fridge. MY HAIR in the FRIDGE. What?

I wanted a pickle. I ended up with a handfull of my hair. (Okay, it was like two hairs, but the fridge? Really?)

There are only two logical explanations for my finding hair in the fridge. One: Someone put it there to freak me out. They snuck into my apartment and placed two hairs on the shelf beside the pickes. Two: The fridge tried to eat me in my sleep.

I'm thinking two. Here's why.

My apartment hates me. It really does. It plays dirty tricks like moving furniture when it's pitch black. Creeking to wake me up. And resetting all of the clocks. This apartment has it out for me.

Another reason, and I'm relying solely on my honed sleuthing skills picked up from Law & Order reruns, the guy above me keeps getting attacked by his appliances. Seriiously. Several times a week, there are loud bangs during the night that could only be caused by dropping a heavy appliance such as an oven, dryer or fridge. One Saturday morning, there were five bangs within a two-hour period. Before, I just thought my neighbor liked to play Drop the Furniture. But I now believe he's trying to protect himself from his evil fridge.

I bet that fridge is just chalk-full of hair.

So I think that while I'm sleeping, my fridge slides out of its space, makes its way through the living room, turns the corner and perches by my bed. Then it tries to bite me. But I'm such a ninja that I manage to avoid it every time-- even in my slumber. (That or it's just cause I sleep on the side of the bed that's furthest from where ol' Fridgey Boy can stand.)

This would also explain why it looks like my fridge is two inches too far to the right. I swear it wasn't always like that. I tried to move it back to the left but alas-- skinny woman arms.

My condiments also move about. And I'm anal about where things go in my fridge; I can totally tell when things are out of place. I have to be, after all, there's only like five things in there.

So that's it. My fridge has been trying to eat me while I sleep. That or it just wants to stop being a food preserver and start being a beutician. In that case, bring it on, Fridge! Give me some volume and curls!

Just try not to pull so much hair out next time.

My blog and I on the internet.

There is a problem with this post's title. Can you spot it?

I'll give you a moment.

Still giving you a moment.

Stop reading for a second and take the moment.

...

The problem is the word "I." It should be "me."

Most native English speakers misuse "I" and "we" in plural, first-person, descriptionary phrases. And most overcompensate by just inserting "I" instead of "me" because, I don't know, it sounds smarter or something.

It actualallly sounds dipstickish.

So, if you're one of the numbnuts who can't determine which is the proper, singular, first-person pronoun to use in a plural possesive clause, you're in luck. Because I'm going to give you a simple way to sound so much smarter.


The We or Us Test
You are going to take your dog Skippy to a NASCAR* race and you want to tell your whole redneck family . You want to say "Skippy and _ are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!" Oh, shit! What singular, first-person pronoun should I use? (For the sake of learning, pretend that rednecks use proper grammar.)

The simplest way is the We or Us Test. Simply say your sentence two ways:
"We are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!"
or
"Us are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR!"

Hopefully, you have enough undamaged-by-alcohol braincells to realize that "we" sounds normal and "us" sounds carnie-ish.
We=I Us=Me
So the proper way to say your sentence is "Skippy and I are loadin' up the cooler and headin' to NASCAR."

Here's another example.
You have a picture of Skippy and you at NASCAR. You want to label the picture on MySpace as "Skippy and _ at NASCAR." Hmm. Here we run into that little I-Me-I-Me problem again. Let's rewrite the sentence.
"We at NASCAR."
or
"Us at NASCAR."

This time, "us" sounds more natural. Hopefully. (I don't want to really explain why. Your head might explode if I start diagramming a sentence with direct object pronouns and predicates and indirect object pronouns and subjects and lions and tigers and bears.)
So, since "us" sounds better, you'd use the sentence with "me" instead of "I." "Skippy and me at NASCAR."

One last example.
It's another picture of ol' Skippy and you. Since your redneck friends are new to still images, you want to label your picture as "This is a picture of Skippy and _." Oh, fart, the first person pronoun is at the end of the description. Oh, golly gosh!

Don't worry. The test can get us through.

"This is a picture of we."
"This is a picture of us."

If you pick "we," you're telling everyone that this is a picture of urine (weeee weeee). If you pick "us," then you're right! And the proper sentence would use the word "me." Because we = I and us = me. And we can all live together in harmony.

Now go forth into the world a smarter, brighter, shinier person. And good luck to you.



*Nothing is cooler than NASCAR. Unless it's monster trucks. Those friggin' ROCK!

You can do so much better than Catwoman.

Dear Batman,

You don't know me. But I know you.

I've been admiring you for some time now. My entire life, in fact.

I loved you when I was a child and you were a campy, grey and blue clad fellow.

I adored you when you found your black rubber suit, despite your crush on Kim Basinger.

I even put up with you when your suit sprung nipples and you said lame things to a very homo-erotic Robin.

Then I watched you break yourself down and fall only to pick yourself back up.

And now I've been reading about the many different takes on your life, from the grayscale shorts to the technicolor classics.

It's all reaffirmed my undying love for you. Yes. I love you, Batman. And I think we need to be together.

I would move to the perilous Gotham City for you. I could live there if I knew you'd be near to protect me. I could put up with you working nights and being too tired in the morning. Heck, I'd make you omelets at whatever hour if you so desired. And if you needed me to massage your tired, muscular, perfect shoulders, I'd get the oil ready.

I'd worship the night you flew through.

And I would keep your identity secret. Or if you don't want to tell me who you really are, we could work something out. You could keep your mask on, for instance! I really don't mind. In fact, it's kind of hot. Hmm... Just a questions, what all toys do you have?

I digress, my sweet, Dark Knight. How can I prove to you that we'd be great together? Do I need to be stronger and faster? Because I did gymnastics for a while. And yoga, too. I could start that up again if it would please you.

I'd even fight crime. I'd fight crime with gusto. Let me show you how much I hate crime! I would make crime end if it would start our life together.

I'd do anything for you, Batman. Anything (okay, there might be an exception or two; perhaps you should have made your requests while I was in college and more adventurous and drunk).

I beg you, oh masked vigilante, to give me a change. Let's go get a drink sometime, although I know you only drink water and pretend it's alcohol. You have to constantly be ready. See! I get it. This would work so well.

Oh, we are going to be wonderful together. I just know it. You can't wait to meet me.

I look forward to seeing you. Perhaps I'll leave the patio door unlocked tonight...

Oh, and just an FYI, I look really good in black leather. Catwoman has nothing on me.

I think they miss me.

A few times in my life, I've been the one that got away.

And it sucks.

Because months after a breakup, after moving on, after making drastic changes and getting settled, an ex's parents always contact me. ALWAYS. The wonderful parents that were so hard to say goodbye to (sometimes harder than saying goodbye to the ex).

It happened tonight. I get some casual what's-up type of email from my favorite ex boyfriend's-dad. It's really sweet and I'm so flattered. But I wonder, is this communication appropriate? Probably. But I can't help but feel kinda bad. I mean, I HAVE moved on.

Does the parent really not know anything about what I'm doing? Surely the ex has said SOMETHING about my current situation. Or does the ex hate me that much? Think I'm not worth mentioning?

This is the worst timing possible. I JUST got off of a girly phone call where the main topic was how exes have screwed us up. And then BAM, a letter from an ex's parent.

A parent that I absolutely adored.

Perhaps I'm on the verge of how to discard an ex but keep his parents. What a wonderful thing that would be.

It's safe here in this closet.

We all live in a closet.

Every last one of us.

Our closets are filled with skeletons and secrets and other things that the world can never know. Because the world we know isn't ready to know the real us.

I envy those who can come out of their closets. The brave people who can tell their peers of their true sexuality, their true religion or their true pasts.

Luckily, though, I've managed to peek out of my closet just as like-minded people did the same. And now I've got other closets I can visit without fear of persecution. Other closets that are safe for people like me.

And for the time being, I'm fine living in my little closet. But I yearn for the day to be truly free.

Another death?

The following story contains material that may be unsuitable for young eyes and sensitive hearts.

The following story takes place in a land of mystical danger. Where even the most twisted creatures fear to tread.

The following story is very real. All events have indeed taken place.

If you're too brave for your own good, read on. If not, hit your back button before it's too late.

You've been warned.

...

My apartment is a place of death. That's right. A death has recently taken place in my apartment.

I came home yesterday night and found a body on my floor. The body was twisted, rigid and deformed. It was maimed, misssing parts and scattered. It was frightening and horrid and ubelievable.

The body belonged to my houseplant. While I was out of town for the weekend, my houseplant took its own life.

Seriously. My houseplant decapitated itself.

This is no laughing matter. It chose a violent, chlorophylly* death over existing under a single roof with me.

There it was. Well, there half of it was. Lying on the floor in a dirty heap. Broken leaves (still so green), severed stem (which previously had shown NO signs of weakness), and the hopeless air of suicide. I never saw this coming.

Why did plant off itself? WHY! Is it because I killed the bamboo**? Cause that was a total accident. That bamboo had to be defective. I mean, really! Bamboo is impossible to kill.

But this plant, this mighty Yucca fell on its own sword sometime between Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon. And it left itself right where I'd find it. Right in the path to my bed.

I just stood there over plant in disbelief. This was my fault. I managed to not only kill this plant, but make it kill itself.

I waited for the sirens and the plant paremedics to come crashing into my apartment. The plant CSI team to draw a leafy chalk outline on my floor and take forensic photos. For a brutish daisy to slap me in cuffs and hall me off to some forrest prison where I'd find some new religion and vow to never eat ruffage again.

I'd face a jury of seaweed, tomatoes and cacti. They'd discover that in my past I've taken the lives of sprouts, a Chia Herb Garden (eaten by a cat, not entirely my fault), a vegetable garden, violets, the pre-mentioned bamboo, a daisy bush, a giant sunflower, countless bean plants ...

The live oak of a judge would proclaim me guilty and I'd be sentenced to death by lethal pollen injection or a hayfever firing squad.

When I came to my senses, I realized none of this would ever happen. Afterall, after being in a room with me for a few hours, the entire law-and-order-flora community would perish. I'm poisen to to anything with a cell wall.

If a tree falls in the forrest, bet that I'll be skipping out the other side with a watering can.

I shrugged my shoulders and picked up plant's lifeless body. I had an unexceptional funeral for it at the apartment dumpster.

Maybe the bean plant I have at work will live ...





*Plants don't have blood, you know.
**Yes, I managed to kill a bamboo. Somehow, in opposition of science and a bamboo's inability to oversaturate itself, I overwatered it. Mind you, bamboo is an aquatic plant.