From being oppressed by the man, to being the man

Well today was a pretty great adventure of a day. But I think I should pick it up from the tail end of yesterday. So, we had visited the Seattle downtown area. I saw some interesting things, checked out the Space Needle. The moutain wasn't "out" meaning we couldn't clearly see Ranier (and being Seattle, also that it was still in the closet), but the rest of the views were really impressive. I gathered a large crowd as I used a large exclamation point as a phallus and testes. As I posed for my pictures the tour group was pretty well in stitches. Very lude and very fun. I was already making my mark on Seattle, in accordance with the prophecy.

After the needle goodness, we checked out the E.M.P. which sadly has nothing to do with an electronics crippling pulse, and much more to do with a weird ass building and painfully high admission prices. It's a museum built by Paul Allen, who for those not into the world of PC's is Bill Gates' right hand man. He's basically the Darth Vader to Gates' Palpatine. So what I'm saying is that the bastard didn't need to charge poor college students 25.00 to get in. This would be the first time we were oppressed by the man. And just from that, I felt more soulful, more alive, more prone to write blues music. Loudly I shouted "Fuck the corporate world, biiatch!" I then applied for a job, got coffee at Starbucks, and updated my resume. But seriously, I was pretty tired at this point from touring Seattle all day. So tired in fact, that when Nathan drove us down Broadway I could only do 5 minutes of material on the store called "Gay City" with the sign on the door that said "Entre Hermanos" (for the Spanish Impaired it says: Enter Brothers). Still, it was pretty funny stuff.

So on the way back to Nathan's happenin' pad, I fell asleep in the car a few times. Which is quite a thing considering that (traffic permitting) he lives about 15 mintues from anywhere. Quite the geographic oddity. Anyway back at Nathan's place I fell asleep in what was described as the most awkward position in the history of time. Including those in S&M magazines. Who described it like that you ask? Me. Just now. To describe it. Deal with that. Anyway, I woke in a daze late at night, wandered into the room I was sharing with Barrett, muttered about how I refuse to share a bed with a man and promptly slept even more awkwardly on the floor. With my lack of sleep and timezone hops, I had no idea when it was that I woke up, but I felt refreshed. And so it was on to today.

Nathan was already gone (to work, the corporate sellout), so me and Barrett talked to his aunt (who I was meeting for the first time on account of having been passed out on her couch, well mostly on the couch) she gave us the skinny about... ALL OF SEATTLE. Very talkative gal this aunt of Nate's. Very nice though. After hearing about various places to go to we set out to find that which caught my ear the most: a legendary "hot Starbucks girl". Also, we wanted to see the mall. Here's a fun fact, all those rumors about Seattle having a ludacris amount of Starbucks's? PAINFULLY TRUE. We were briefly at an outlet mall that I swear to you had TWO Starbucks in it. One on the west end and one right in the center. I'm getting a picture of this for the world to see. It's worse than the ones in Texas across the street from one another. These are literally 1500 feet apart. I could see myself working there and asking for a transfer because the other one is closer to my house... FIVE PARKING SPACES CLOSER TO MY HOUSE. It's insane.

Anyway once Nathan got done being responsible, it was time to go have adventures. Our first outing for the day was to visit Snoqualmie Falls. Beautiful place, let me tell you. My issue with it was this: you couldn't get anywhere near the falls or the water. We could look from far above the river as the water crashed down, but that wasn't good enough for me. Then Nathan told us about the trails that go to the lower observation point. I liked the sound of it and we set off down the mountain (mostly through trails that bypass the main trail) to the bottom observation deck. We stood there and looked, but that still wasn't good enough for us. So, I decided I wanted a closer look. It was a pretty easy thing to hop the guard rail and climb down the rocks so... that's what I did. Right past the sign warning me not to. Nathan got a pretty hilarious picture of that sign, then the next one of me climbing down to the river.

Once down there my brazen recklessness swayed the others and they too climbed down to the base. From that vantage point we got some amazing pictures. We climbed around on the rocks, got hit by the waterfall mist, then noticed how rediculously exposed we were in the valley 1,300 feet below the lodge/upper lookout. Feeling like Gandalf as Saruman's birds approached in the Fellowship of the Ring, we ducked behind some rocks. As long as we had been out there, drinking moutain river water, skipping rocks and generally acting like idiots, someone had to have seen us. It was at this point Barrett mentioned something about the severe warning they gave about tresspassing on government property.

The fact that we weren't terribly far from a hydroelectric power station didn't help our case any. So we stealthily headed back up the trail. While we were on the main trail we heard something that didn't quite belong... something strangely like an ATV... but ATV's aren't allowed who would have... RANGERS! Realizing this we ran like Frodo from the road. I was telling Nate and Barry about the Nazgul on the road and to hide. And with that, we ran from the road up into the hills on a secluded path. Whether or not we were actually running from a ranger or heard something from a road didn't really matter at that point. We were getting the hell out of there. And that we did. Back to town.

Later that night we went out to a Mongolian Grill. On the way a crazy black guy jumped out from near some trashcans waving his arms. Nathan, naturally walked around him. There was hardly any reaction. But the black guy got offended. "You just jumped like that because I'm black didn't you". Apparently I'm a bad influence on Nathan because he looked the guy square in the eye and gave him a sarcastic "Yeah" that I was pretty proud of. Then he quickly said "no." This furthered the crazy black guy's rage. CBG launched into a diatribe about how we're racist and asked Nathan what mix he was, and if we were college frat guys. I smartly replied "No we don't even go to college man" to which his friend replied "right on". At that point he said "good because I'm gonna stick [as in cut, stab, murder] the next damn frat asshole I see". There's more to that exchange but I can only do it in person, and by now, my fingers are about to fall off. I'm out for tonight, tomorrow: Canada.


- Scott

Planes, Trains, and Ex-Con's

Whoa. Dude, I'm in like...Seattle and stuff. And very quickly absorbing the local flava. It's a really cool place, with Asian people, hippies, and Asian people who are Hippies. The ride out however, was not cool. As you might have known (from the hyper explicit post below), we started this adventure by train, a train which was naturally late. When it did eventually get to Springfield I had been at the train station for an hour and a half. Sadly, this would set the precedence for the trip. Once aboard said train, I had to fight my way to the car that Mr. Barry was sitting in. I think somehow he ended up in business class. Because he was in a way nice car than I had been in. Unfortunately we ended up with a confirmed psycopath and drug addict in the seats behind us.

All of that didn't come out of course, until the accident. Apparently the train ahead of us was hauling toxic waste. And I kid you not, there was a hazardous material spill on the tracks. We were stuck. It was now up the the brilliant people who make their living pressing the "go forward" button in the front of the train to figure out what we would do about this. One hour later they decided we would take a different set of tracks. So we backed up and got on freight tracks, then we had to wait for someone qualified to "pilot the train on these different tracks" to which I replied "Just close your friggin eyes and pretend you're on your own tracks". Carl Windslow (my pet name for the conductor in our area) was not amused. It took just a little while (in the geologic sense) for them to figure out that the tracks we were on did not lead to union station. And just a bit longer than that to figure out that the guy who switches the tracks had gone home for the night and that we were stuck.

By this time pandamonium had broken out, we were now 3 hours behind schedual. People were pissed. Irrational things started happening. The Coked out girl (who was pretty clearly on drugs when she got on, and indeed was sighted eating some foreign substance) took some more drugs. The ex-con type psyco behind us started using even more profanity (which meant that the only not profane words in his vocabulary were now "the" "son" and "mother") he also told us about how he screwed a Vancouver girl in Vegas, were we could get hash in British Colombia, and how cool those "fucking granola guys" who live in Seattle are. He also regaled us with the story of how he got fired from his last job for getting in a fight with a 500 pound black guy who just so happened to get on the train with us. And how if he said one thing to him, the ex-con would "rip off his head, skull f- him and shit down his throat". Lovely heartwarming togetherness in the face of adversity. This is the guy they screened for at NASA when they were going to be putting people on tiny capsules for days at a time.

Eventually the Amtrak people deicded that the best way to head off a riot was to offer free consessions in the snack car. Sadly, this too backfired as the entire train bumrushed the front car. It was really primal, I expected someone to kill a weaker passenger to establish dominance over the snack car territory. As soon as all was calm we noticed we were moving again... PAST Chicago. We went miles out of our way to the next switch over, then backed the train all the way to Union Station. Finally there, Barrett and I ran screaming from the train. We wanted to be damn sure not to stick around psyco guy or drug chick. It was still a few hours till our flight, so we got in touch with Josh and he came and picked us up from the station. We then spent 3 hours at Elmhurst (there's a really funny story about what happened there, but I'll tell it later in the comment section because I'm about to go kayaking) before we had to leave for the airport. Once we got on our flights, things went much smoother than the train, but considering the fact that for things to go worse the wings of the plane would have had to fall off, this was no great feat.

Anyway, we're now out in Seattle. We've been to the Space Needle, I've take lude pictures. One of Nathan's friends saw Kristin Kreuk in a trendy cafe a while back. Apparently she gave him the "shhh" finger to the lips and he gave her the "I won't tell but later on you have to make out with me" head nod. We went to a hospital where they have a slide and slid down it like 20 times. Laughing all the way. Then I loudly pointed out how only a healthy person could climb the rediculously steep steps and survive the rough voyage down the slide itself, so it's more of a motivation to get well than something to entertain the sick people. Which basically is cruel, like having an ice cream stand at a fat camp, or a "not eating" stand at an annorexic camp. And with that, I'm out of time for blogging today. It's now time to go have more adventures in Seattle. Dude... I'm like totally out...

- Scott

Apparently I'm the most cryptic person, ever.

Ok, so I've been alluding to some mysterious Seattle trip for a while now. I thought I said something about what it was/why I'm going, but apparently not. Then I found a note in my BlogPoints that reminded me how this happened: "Don't drive Seattle Trip into ground". Reading that gramatic turd, I remembered that I was all excited about the trip a month ago (well, I still am, and even more so now, but that's I'll get into that a couple of sentences from now), and having a month until I was going to go, I didn't want to make every single post about it. So I didn't. But recently I have had like 10 people talk to me and ask me just what the hell this trip is going to be, so I'm giving you the low down. Listen up, I'm only going to type this once.

Prologue:

The time: one year ago. The place... uhh... probably this exact apartment, I don't really remember. The thing: me promising Nathan Harry I would come visit him at school "next" year. Which would be well and good except that he chose that moment to spring on me "Well you can but I'll be in Seattle." Damn, nice trap Nathan. I'm tempted to think you're a woman, what with the leading a man into unintentional commitment. Kidding of course, I was even more gung ho to go after hearing that. So, days and weeks passed by. I was biding my time and athe hour that everything would align and I would have some sign that Nathan was ready to have visitors come to see him. Did it ever come? Maybe, but I decided that it was high time to head out there about a month ago and ordered tickets.

Once the tickets were ordered, I asked my parents if I could go to Seattle. It's nice to let them feel like they're in on the decision making process, especially considering the fact that they're paying for it. It's diplomatic touches like that one that keep me out of trouble. Fortunately they consented and disaster was averted. Then thinking about it, I saw no reason I should embark on this EPIC journey by myself. So I called my trusty left-handed right-hand man; Mr. Barry. (Known as Barrett Schmidt to the rest of the world, it's just me and one black guy at Hoods that call him that. But I still friggin' love it). Even though it was some days later I managed to book him on all the same flights as me, thanks to some mad skillz. And Orbitz being really easy to cobble together flights. I think it would be easier to explain the rest of the trip day by day. Here goes:

Tuesday:

This day shall henceforth be called TrainTuesday. Because that's what it is. The cheapest flights, best hotdogs, and worst baseball team all come out of Chicago. So I decided we would fly out from there and save some money. The issue was getting there. Fortunately if you book in advance (like 2-3 weeks in advance) Amtrak is rediculously cheap (from here to Chicago round trip is 32 dollars.) So that's what I did. The only problem with this plan is that the train dumps us out in Union Station at 8:45 PM, and our flight leaves from O'Hare... at 6AM the next day. I don't have much of a plan for this, but all accounts of what we do with this time will involve shenanigans. I promise you that.

Wednesday:

We fly to Detroit. That's right, Detroit. Why go to Detroit on the way to Seattle? Well, part of me wanted to be in every continental US time zone in one day, but mostly because North West is rediculous. Really. Really. Rediculous. But it's cheaper, and I get to hang out in the Detroit airport. Win win. After a breif layover we hop a flight to Seattle. I have window seats all the way in both directions. I just can't tell you how much I enjoy booking my own flights. I'll also be enjoying my Kosher meals on the flight there and my Vegan Entree's on the way back. It's just too sweet to f*ck with the airlines. Anyway, that day we land. That's all I know about it.

Thursday:

Watch Joey? I don't have anything planned for this day, which means something fun will likely crop up. Or I'll have to go about russ'lin' it up.

Friday:

Regret that I'll have to miss the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Premier, because I'm going to Canada. Then remember I'm leaving the country and get giddy with the possibilities for an international incident. Plus it's Canada. How rife with fertile comic soil can a country get? Not much more. I guess I could be in North Korea, but that would have little more than half the charm and none of the flannel. Not to mention the legal drinking age is 18. And here's the kicker: Nathan's Aunt got us a hotel in Vancouver, so we're staying there two days. Hopefully I'll be able to track down some celebrities from shows like Smallville, Battlestar Galactica, and/or Stargate SG-1/Atlantis. They shoot other stuff there too, but that's all that currently comes to mind.

Saturday:

Mostly Canada.

Sunday:

Get back to the States. Mourn the lack of milk sold in bags. Make other comparisons from Five Iron Frenzy songs. Go to church. And most likely see The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Monday:

No real clue. I'm sure we'll hang out with Nathan. Rehash shenanigans of old. See things and people. Regret that we have to part later on that night. Make future plans, discuss how we never make "past plans", point out that sometimes Scott's plans go so horribly wrong they actually work. Then get a ride to the airport and have our fond farewells.

Tuesday:

Figure out how we're getting from O'Hare to the train station again. Then doing it. And that's the trip. One more thing though.

Today:

Wonder about the wisdom of giving stalkers, the government and theives my exact itinerary. Seriously, I'm like a C list celebrity. This can't be safe at all. Damn interweb! Oh well, enjoy bloggites, theives, and G-men. I'm out.


- Scott

The Final Countdown

Well I just got back from one hilarious night of Kung Fu Hustle and Smallville. Thank you Wherenberg and Tivo respectively. If you haven't seen Kung Fu Hustle, do. You won't regret it, and there's a good likelyhood that you'll pee your pants laughing. The same is true of the last episode of Smallville. There's some pretty gaping plot holes there. I had a good time pointing them out, so good in fact that I found myself wishing I was trapped on a satellite with two robot pals and a theater to myself. Oh, how I long to supplant Mike Nelson.

Anyway, on to less usurp-ful news. In just four of your Earth days, I will begin a legendary voyage. One no doubt filled with peril, a lack of attention to more important details, and general Tom Foolery. That's pretty well locked in place. Here's the variable: music. I always listen to the Europe classic, The Final Countdown, as the plane is taking off. The stewardesses really frown on me using my headphones during preflight, but I've never been much for the rules. Besides it gives the takeoff that sense of purpose it typically lacks. Suddenly it's not just some trip I'm on, because "we're leaving together". And it's not like we're really on the same journey so I make it known "but still it's farewell". "And maybe we'll come back to Earth, who can tell?" I think to myself. Because even though it's not likely, there's a chance we'll make escape velocity and just leave the whole wretched planet behind us and somehow travel through space in a jet. Stranger things have happened. The current success of Carrot Top for instance. At somepoint I notice I'm flying Southwest, and sighing I soliloquise "I guess there is no one to blame". Then all of a sudden "We're leaving ground (Leaving Ground...)". And I steel myself because "It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN (The FINAL COUNTDOWN!)"

And that's how I start every flight. Incidently it explains why I swallow whole peanuts exclaiming that they're my "protien pills", brag that my ship can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, and feel so completely comfortable relieving myself in my pants during extended flight. Morbidly, I also like to listen to "Major Tom" shortly before landing. Which brings me to my question o' the post. What songs should I fill in my trip with. Take off is firmly settled into it's synth driven 80's anthem, but the rest of the flight/adventure is completely audiologically blank. Color my world people, and do it with sound.

That's it for this post, I might squeeze in another before the actual final countdown, but I promise to post from Seattle. I'm sure I'll have good stories to regale you with. Now let's hear those suggestions.


- Scott

Get that restraining order ready.

Wouldn't lawyer-ing be a lot more interesting if restraining orders were delivered via a holster mounted "Pistol of Justice"? I think so. And it would probably make getting one less embarrassing you could tell your friends "The restraining order is some B.S., but that ther' DA has the quickest draw west of the Missip' " Which will make me feel better when I get one. Because I feel like a damn stalker. Here's why; I have this ridiculously good memory and I remember people's faces for years. I saw a guy the other day I didn't recognize at first and then two days later realized it was the guy whose car broke down and left him stranded at BestBuy.

Creepy I know, but it happens all the time. Like today, I was watching the...*ahem* Gilmore Girls, because...er it was... on? Yeah, it was that and nothing else. I only got one channel today at 4:00 and it had the Gilmore Girls on. Totally not my fault. Anyway there was an extra in the background who asked Lorelai a question and I recognized her immediately. It was Tim's newest crush: the McGriddles girl. So armed with this info I managed to track her down. Her name is Riki Lindhome. Apparently she was in Million Dollar Baby too, I'm generally not into beefcake women's boxers (seriously, the least feminine group outside the WNBA) but I might have to see this thing.

The other reason is that I have officially proclaimed my love for a celebrity to a celebrity. At least by proxy. Remember my attraction for Pam from The Office? And how I couldn't remember who I knew that said they were related to her? Well I found out my friend Karen was the one who originally gave up that little nugget of trivia. And thanks to an assist from Rob, a message got passed along to Pam. Here is the message exactly as it was delivered to her: "Scott Gresham totally thinks you're hot." To which she laughed. I could feel rebuffed, but I like the idea that Pam (Jenna Fischer) laughed at something I said. The way I see it, she knows how I feel; the ball's in her court now.

That's all for today kids. See, I told you it'd be much shorter.

- Scott

Duality and Omni-ality

Well, I just got back from a humdinger of a weekend. I'll start at the beginning because the best parts happen later on and I have no desire to be anti-climatic today. Also, this is the second time I've typed this story out. I typed it all in last night, and after a breif AIM chat Firefox crashed and I lost the whole long thing (and it's pretty long, get ready for some heavy page-down-ing). I can't explain the feeling of depression after that, but it was seriously like someone ran over my dog. Here's to obsessive compulsively saving my posts from now on.

Anyway, my weekend: it, like most weekends, started on Friday. I took off to see my friend Karen in a play. Or musical, whatever. It was Jekyll and Hyde and was very well done by Quincy University. Let me tell you, that Hyde seemed to be having an awesome time. I almost wanted to hang with him. But then the frivolous murders got to me and I decided that, despite my love of vibrant characters, I draw the line at those who claim to be "filled with evil" and have the devil at their very side. Yeah. Look out for that. On the way back I got the privilege of driving Jake's car. A 1988 Dodge Omni. That thing has literally tens of horsepower at my disposal. Despite it being the only car I've ever been in that has an echo, it rode surprisingly well. Jake and I parted ways at Jacksonville and Linds and I headed back to Springfield.

Lindsey had to stay at my place because she had a Methodist Church conference thing the next morning. And because her Christian confrence was at such an unholy hour, I was up in time for to get some McGriddles. I usually don't eat at McDonalds, but those things are just too bad and delicious for me to resist. Filled with the toxic, harmful, potentially deadly McGoodness, I helped Lindz find her conference center, and took off for Jerseyville. The plan for the day was to go sailing. It was going to be a family thing but mom and Ross don't like when the boat leans. Pfft. Pansies. So we went on by ourselves. We made some great time getting down to Caryle, so when we past the little airport that catches everyone's eye we decided to stop.

Now why does this little airport catch the attention of so many otherwise dilligent drivers? Well the highway being within feet of the end of the runway does have something to do with it, but more importantly it's the headquarters of the St.Louis Soaring Association. And yes, they are stretching the alliteration a little bit too far. But they make up for it by being pretty awesome. They fly SailPlanes. Yes, those sweet gliders. We went to con our way into a ride in one of them. We got directed to the "club house and control tower" which turned out to be a tin shack of a building next to the long grassy runway. A skinny bearded guy named Peter gave us the low down on their organization. We weren't really all that interested, $42 dollars a month for access to 8 planes, an airport and a hangar was pretty impressive, but we were after a ride not a brochure.

Ok, I'm breaking this post up and finishing it in the next installment. I originally posted it as one uber post, but that was daunting even for me. So I figured I'd solve my little dilemma with a good friend from elementary school; division. Scroll down for the exciting conclusion.

- Scott

Confusing wildlife at all altitudes

And now the exciting conclusion...

Sadly it didn't look like it was going to happen, so we decided to watch a few more take off and land before we headed to the lake when the most perfect thing happened. A plastic surgeon named Rich asked "So are you members?" I told him we were working on it and then he asked if we wanted to go up. Sweet! Since he was taking off in about 5 minutes I would have to help him prep the plane. As it turned out, preping the plane involved hooking it to a golf cart and bthe wings as it got pulled down the runway. Then I strapped myself in and waited for the tow plane to land and connect up with us. We would be flying in a G-103, I rejected this name and rechristened it the X-103, which sounded much more badass. In fact, here's a picture.

See? It really does deserve the extreme title. Once the tow plane was ready the tow line was hooked to the front of the plane. Now I will say at this point that calling it a "tow line" is a pretty grandiose term for what pretty much amounted to one of those yellow, nylon ropes you buy at Wal-Mart for $7.00. The kind you hang a tire swing in a tree with and wonder how many weeks before the line snaps. That rope. It was a little disconcerting to be pulled along the runway and up into the air with it. But, as it turned out, I would be continually redefining my concept of disconcerting on this trip.

On the (extremely bumpy) way up I began to question the judgement that led me to get into a plane with no engine and only hot air and wishes to keep it airborne. Especially at 3000 feet when the tow line was released and we dropped a good 30 feet in the space of a second. We leveled out, I made some idle chatter with him and he was told me about the plane. He mentioned a "little clock thing" on the instrument panel when I hit him with "You mean the Altimeter or the Variometer?" He paused a second and said something like "Oh so you know about planes, good". I silently thanked Microsoft Flight Simulator 1992 for my unconsious knowledge of planes. I got in another good exchange when I asked him about my "brown patches of ground give you bettter thermals" theory. It was at that point that the impossible happened: he asked if I wanted to fly the plane. Going out of my way to seem knowledgeable was one thing, but risking my life... then I decided how often do I get to die by glider? Not often enough. And it was settled.

I took the stick and managed to be a pretty good pilot, I even found a thermal that took me up a few hundred feet. These video games really know their crap. Eventually I also had to thank the county fair Rock-o Planes for their strengthening effect on my stomache, otherwise I might have vomited when I got a little too tight in the turns. But overall it was really good. I have to say the most memorable thing might have been looking out to my left and seeing a hawk look over at me like "What the hell?!" Amazing what those hawks can express with their eyes. All in all a really great experience that I have now rambled on about for eight paragraphs. Sailing was good too. I plan on going again and even getting my license, I think that'll make for some good stories of me swooping past the tin shack "control tower" and some old man shaking his fist and screaming "Maaaveriiiic!" That's it for now kids. I promise a shorter post tomorrow.

- Scott

P.S. Old fighter pilots do not find it funny to scream "Bogey on our six!" when in the air. Just so you know.

F'n Chuck Norris

I really wanted to use the actual quote, but I think dropping the F-bomb in a post title is just a bit extreme. Now if I were talking to whoever is currently reading this, I most likely would have said it. But that's an entirely different thing. I find I can get away with saying a lot more than I can in writing. At least when I say something it's not as easy to refrence. Besides, I can say it in a way that doesn't rely on the the curse word to get a laugh. Anyway, that concludes the paragraph explaining why I didn't just write fuck. Now on to the reason for the quote.

I stopped off at my local Globo Gym to make sure everything was still on for my dodgeball leagues (Gold's Gym actually, but probably the inspiration for Globo Gym). And guess what? Those snotty, image peddling bastards dropped all the individuals that signed up. So now if I want to beat the life out of ponchy middle aged men enjoying a mid-life crisis I have to round up a collective of 12 guys (girls are welcome too... if the guys on the team are OK with not winning I'm down with that too). Not only that, but instead of just paying the individual cost of 70 bucks to join I have to raise $400.00 to play. I might con my school into paying for all of this somehow, but in the meanwhile if there's any able-bodied people out there in the Springfield-ish area who want to play dodgeball, drop me a comment.

In an unrelated but equally annoying story, my apartment complex now acts as my mother. Well, not my mother, but some kind of room-invading, facist, evil parent. Pretty much like Mussolini the step-dad. They left me the notice that they would be entering my apartment to change a filter and check for bugs like usual. It's a little invasive and happens every three months or so, but I never really cared much about it. "Let them enjoy looking at my awesome stuff, only to remember that they aren't cool enough to own it" I thought. Only this time I got a 'report card' after they left. Apparently they went through everything in my place and rated it. Everything from the front door to the bedrooms to the bathroom, living room and kitchen. I got "OK" in every category. And if I hadn't? I'd make sure to voice my apathy in a way that was constructive. Possibly by egging their office.

But what I'm going to do for sure is rig up some kind of surprise for the next time they come here. I was thinking something along the lines of hiding when they come in and jumping out of a random place screaming about the voices. Or maybe when they test my smoke detector it electrocutes them. Or some other, as yet, unthought of action. Because really, you come in my underground lair, you takes your chances.

That's all for today kids, tune in next time for Scotty Quest and Mr. Barry's Mass Transit Adventure.

- Scott

P.S. Embarrassing thing I've been meaning to clear up. When I called Amy a 'Grade A' woman, I was under the impression that I was talking to my friend Amy from Georgia who also reads my blog. Then when I was checking for something else I said in a comment I noticed that you said you were a 'Tim fan at heart', at which point I also noticed myself saying "shit." So to Tim-Amy, my bad. Any and all sexual harassment was made under the assumption that you were a different girl. Don't worry though, I'll still give you the benefit of the doubt that you are a 'grade A' woman.

It's been a long time since I blog and roll...

Sorry, listening to some Zepplin right now. That one just slipped by. Today was a pretty productive day, I got the play I was writing finished, got a robot to navigate a maze (then attempted to program a victory dance, but instead decided to hump the robot in celebration), and banged out the latest edition of the campus craze the MorrisCode. My newsletter. Or the campus newsletter, but I'm a direct influence over it. Oh yes, I twist the print to my will. Makes me feel like God, or at the least Martin Luther.

Part of the issue was a kind of spotlight interview with a member of the student body (as an antiphrasis, that's also how I choose the person; by their student body.) But, as if by some embryonic choice, those with the better bodies tend to not have the better minds among us. I don't know if books have some de-attraction-ing effect on readers, or if ignorance being bliss, happy people just look better, but it's a pattern I run into a lot. Like today, I interviewed a girl that we will call "Sara" to protect her identity, and also because that's her name. I like her alot, she's a nice girl, but she makes Jessica Simpson look like Ann Coulter...well as far as information goes. The article was titled "If I was President..." and is a direct rip off from the now defunct George magazine.

I gave her the questions and left her to work out her answers, 20 minutes later she came back and had just a few questions here they are verbatim:

I was wondering, what's a pardon? Also, what's the Oval Office, the Lincoln Bedroom, and the State of the Union Address? Is it like the address of my house on a street?

I tried not to laugh and answered them as best I could. But somewhere out there a history teacher is rolling in his grave. Or, if he's still alive, rolling in his slightly rusty Toyota. The interview gave some really hilarious answers, so I think I'll post the best ones in the comment section. Enjoy.

Heart broken.

As you may or may not know, I'm not really one to get all 'crushy' over a person. In fact most of the girls I'm interested in don't even exist (ie. Chloe Sullivan, Rory Gilmore, to a lesser extent Pam from The Office). I like to think I'm as unemotional as possible, except the Internationally Certified 'Man' emotions of Happy, Angry and Neutral. But over this one, I'm heartbroken. You see, one of my creepier attractions was (and I stress was) to Hilary Duff. I looked at her the way Mongols look at China, nice to look at but out of reach. She had that girl next door thing going on for her. But now...now she's gone Hollywood. I can barely bear to describe it. I think it's best if you have a look for yourself.

Hmm, I didn't know they were making a new Mr. Ed


Here's a quick comparison of the old teeth, vs the new.

Disgusting. It doesn't even look like her. Or a person. I'm in serious danger of not having any borderline creepy celebrity attractions at all!Look at those things, she went out and got vaneer's. Damn you The Swan! You go to hell, you go to hell and you die. And look how skinny she's gotten. I'm officially no longer attracted to Hilary Duff at all. Ah, it feels good to say it. She now looks like some kind of James Bond villain, Choppers they would call her. She'd bite through chains and things and act threatening, but at the end Bond would trick her into biting down on a blasting cap and blowing her teeth off. Then he'd make a joke about that being quite a 'blow' job.

In light of all this, I'm making a Public Service Announcement. TO ALL FEMALE CELEBRITIES: Your boobs are fine, your teeth are O.K., your lips are not too small, your nose is great (well, except for you Lil Kim, what the hell is that?), and if you're old it's less weird to look at a saggy face than a face that reminds me of Native American drums. So STOP GETTING ALL THIS DAMN DISFIGURING PLASTIC SURGERY.

That is all.


- Scott

And thou shalt flaunt thine ice.

Brace yourself, I have news. The Pope is dead. I don't know if you've heard about it. It's been the Rosa Parks of news stories (buried in the back), but if you sifted through all the pieces out there you might have eventually found out about this relatively obscure story. (For the Amish: I'm being sarcastic, it's friggin everywhere). Really, turn on CNN right now. I guarentee they'll cut to some wide eyed field reporter who will give us the update "The crowd here is incredible. And...wait I'm getting something here. Yes, yes it is confirmed. The Pope is still dead. We'll continue to have updates every half hour until some senator has an affair and we have a new story to drive into the ground."

But all the buzz over the passing of the Pope has generated some good. The market for Pope-collectibles is going through the roof. Pope-on-a-rope, the bath soap is a top seller, because really, cleanliness is next to Godliness. Another good seller is Pope-pourri, the Papal scented home fragerance. While these products are legit, there are a few outlandish pieces like Pope Free Orange Juice. Come on, you're not fooling anyone shamless marketer.

Guaranteed to cleanse even the grubbiest of souls!

Even as people sell products like Pope-dope, for the devout Catholic Stoner, there is debate over who will be the next head of the Catholic Church. And where there's competition there's betting. Kind of the way where's there's smoke there's fire, or where there's Britney Spears there's trailer trash. That last one is pretty much locked in by her being there. A betting war is being waged over which of the four front runners will be named the new Pope, and honestly, I don't like any of them. What the Catholic Church really needs is a bit of a make over. This is what Tim and I came up with in a chat we had: the new Pope should be young, black, and urban.

Think about it, how awesome would it be to see the Pope-mobile pimped out with some 20's? Wicked awesome. And think for a second about how the pope dresses. It's already half blinged out. We just need the right guy to finish the job. I can see the episode of "Pimp My Ride" now. X shows up at the Vatican and the Pope flips out. "X to the Z? No way!" "That's right Pope, we're here to Pimp Yo' Ride" "Great, now give me 3 Hail Mary's for saying 'pimp' at the Vatican".

Then they'd get it to the shop and the guys would act like the sight of it offended them, but would proceed to get to the work of pimping it out. And they'd cut to the interior guy who would pretend to think about what he was going to do for like 3 seconds before he tells the shop manager the same thing he's done on EVERY CAR THAT'S EVER BEEN ON THE F&CKING SHOW: "Hmm, on this car I think we'll go with some Vinyl and Tweed. That'd look real nice." And despite that the car would have 15 flat screens, hydraulics, and a laser show inside the bubble. Yeah, I think I like this new Pope thing.

Question for the day: How would you like to see the Pope-hood pimped out?
Word of the day: (Why the hell not?) Pope.
Flavor of the week: Orange Sorbet.

- Scott

P.S. I seriously want to hear your Papal suggestions.

What the hell kind of scam is this?

I swear, ice cream trucks drivers have NO idea how to do their jobs anymore. Just this weekend one of them blazed by my house with his crappy MIDI music blaring. And it wasn't even 'Turkey in a Straw' what sacrelig! Just how in the blue hell is a fat 8 year old (the Ice Cream Truck prime demographic) supposed to catch that. I wanted some and had to chase him down the street on my moped (which was pretty hilarious actually). But without the blazing speed provided by Betsy's 72cc's of power, there's no way I could have possibly caught him. My guess is that this some evil plot to get the kids to exercise. Come to think of it, I do recall some black helicopters in the area that day. Clearly the alien overlords want us to be lean.

I ran into the same situation the other day in Springfield. Living in the center of many, many apartment complexes that echo shrill noises like the music the Truck plays really didn't help me at all. I must have ran though 5 parking lots before I tracked the guy down. Annoyance aside, I don't think I've ever felt more like a feral beast chasing down his prey. I got the sense I carried the feeling too far when the driver looked on agast as I ripped the juglar out of my Strawberry Sundae Crunch, but hey I go with the flow.

One last thing before I go, has anyone else seen the show "Growing Up Gotti"? And if so, can you please explain to me who in the hell these people are and why I should give two shits about them? Because really, how rare is it to give one shit about something, let alone the two GUG requires. Are they seriously the offspring of John Gotti, the crime boss? And if so, why has there not been a hit on his embarrassingly gay son? Because really, that's your first episode right there.

- Scott

You vant my blood?!

So, today was the Robert Morris College blood drive. I was psyced because I schedualed my timeslot specifically to get out of Econ with Mr. Ron-Probably-Satan-Incarnate Ulmer. This was the perfect plan, and made even perfect-er when I learned that I was supposed to have my project proposal done today. Sometimes my genius extends beyond my ability to comprehend it. Think about that for a minute, ahh colors, pleasing shapes, reflective surfaces, spinning around...Wait, I was thinking of a mobile.

Anyway, I went down to the basement of the school (where they decided would be the best locale for taking the blood of the living) and got in line to give my blood. I instantly started in on vampire jokes, and was having a good time. However the good mood was hampered by what I can only describe as the least pleasant receptionist in the history of time. Or at least the universe. This she just kept bitching at how many people showed up.

"You were all supposed to have appointments" She yelled, then slightly more quietly bitching, "how many more are there? I've been at this since 7 this morning"

Yeah, it must really inconvience you that all these people want to give their blood. It's not like you wanted it. Oh wait. Yes, yes it was your posters begging us for blood to fill the nearly bankrupt blood bank of Springfield. How horrible that people actually showed up. Man, there's even the off chance that an EXTRA person might survive a horrible accident. So I can really see where you're comming from here, what a bother. It was then that I decided I was going to steal the braclets AND the tee shirt. You're supposed to go one or the other. I think I showed them.

The real fun of the day was when I got to the questions they ask you. The first one is inevitably 'Have you ever, at any point in your life, donated blood under a different name?' Now when people are lazy, overtired, and overworked (or so they decided) it may seem like a bad time for a joke. I like to think it's the perfect time for a joke, because who doesn't need humor then? Nobody that's who. Doesn't. So a funny thing to do the next time you give blood is to wait for this question, look nervously over your shoulders, lean in close and say "H-how should I answer if I'm in Witness Protection?" I promise you the look on their faces will negate any awkwardness you feel as you do it. Hilarious.

It's also fun to take way more cookies than they want to give you when you're in the snackage area. On the way back to Econ (to turn in the proposal I banged out) I passed a room that had a bunch of pizza's, cans of soda, and no supervision. So I walked into econ with a plate of pizza, a can of soda (tea actually) and minimal supervision. I'm sure someone appreciated that one. And that was my day, tune in tomorrow (depending on what I'm up to...) and be educated on 'The Pissing Contest'.

- Scott

Oh the hairmanity

"Welcome to MasterCuts, I understand you're here for an interview."

"Yes, I'd really like to work here"

"Well, I have a few questions for you. First of all, do you suck at cutting hair?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, this interview is over. Please leave, and never come anywhere near our franchises"

That's the scene that's played out over a thousand MasterCuts's hundreds of times a year. A qualified applicant decides she wants to work there and the manager laughs for a good three minutes then throws her out on her ass. Trust me, it's what happened, it MUST be. Because I was just there. I usually go to His Excellency in Alton where the customer is King, and oddly, the staff knows how to cut hair. If you can imagine such a place. MasterCuts apparently, cannot.
I should have known it was going to go badly for my hair the second I walked in. I even left an away message to this effect:

One man, one hair cut, millions of individual hairs. The dilemma; to wait in my cousin 'It' like stage on the only place I get my hair cut, or...THE DREADED MALL HAIR CUT.

Damn it, I'm off to get my beautiful hair butchered.

But I went in anyway, and lo and behold they asked me what I was there for. "An ice cream cone and a blow job what the hell else?" I thought, "A hair cut" I said. Despite my specific instructions on how I wanted my hair cut I got an "I think I know what you mean, now that I have some dumbass idea in my head I can shut my brain off...ah that's better" from the 'hair cut expert'. She was one of those people that it's pretty clear went into cutting hair because McDonalds requires too much thought and she hasn't found her sugar daddy yet.

Then she began the hair cut, I should have known not to go there in the first place, but I should have bolted from the chair when she seemed to have trouble figuring out how to put the 'hair cut cape' on me. I watched in horror as she went at my hair with the scissors the way drunken freshmen go after girls at the bar. Except the drunken freshmen probably have the edge with their slightly better motor skills and thought process. I tried to correct for her mistakes with suggestions but in the end I probably made it worse. By the time it was over I looked like an extra in a Flock of Seagulls video.

The kicker: Somehow she managed to make it look like I have a cone head. Which is almost impossible because I know for a fact I have an abnormally round head. To give you an idea of how bad it was, when I got home (about 10 minutes ago) I whipped out the scissors and fixed it myself. The scary thing is that I did a better job than she did. So now it looks passable. But I'm seriously considering sending her a pair of broken scissors and a copy of this post.

- Scott

I'm the John McEnroe of Professional Biking.

The weather here in the Little Easy has been unreasonably nice today. I don't know how it's been where you kids are, but here lately it's been nice enough for me to wear shorts. Besides giving me occasion to encite lust in members of the opposite sex with my skimpy short-shorts, the weather has also brought outside activities squarely back into my life. Like today, I decided to take a nice little bike ride. Go back and re-read that sentence and look at how simple the thought is. It shouldn't be hard, or dangerous should it? No, I wouldn't think so either.

But the thing about having a plan is that it gives the arrogant ghost of Murphy and his bastard laws a chance to spite you. So I go biking. I notice my tires are low. No matter I think, I'll stop off at the petrol station and fill up the free air. (You see in my mind, I'm British). But I had to cross Wabash to do that. So I was waiting at the light pedaling backwards, but it doesn't do anything on a 10 speed except make you look like a pretty righteously awesome biker dude... Usually, today it decided to make my chain all kinds of come off the gears. I had my iPod in my pocket so I really didn't want to get my hands dirty, because I'd eventually have to touch it. But being the man I am, I fixed it right there on the side of the road. Or thought I did.

The Don't Walk, turned into Walk and it was time for me to cross the street. So I start pedaling across the crosswalk and get about halfway across when my chain seizes up and brings me to a screeching, cursing stop. I nearly flipped over the handlebars. I was pissed. This bike just betrayed me, and inanimate object or not, I don't suffer betrayal. Not to mention the fact that there were no less than 6-10 cars full of people who had a great view of the event. But if they thought that was a show, they were dead wrong. That was the preveiw. In my rage I forgot people were watching and picked the bike up over my head, stomped across the road and threw it hard into the ground on the other side. I then gave it the finger and kicked it for good measure. The look on their faces was hilarious. I think they didn't know whether to laugh (I would have), or be terrified (whoa I incited fear? Awesome.). It took me a good 20 minutes to fix the chain then fix the damage I'd done to the thing myself but once I got it, it was a pretty good bike ride. All in all, I'd call it a success. Hope everyone else out there is having as good a time as I did.

Tommorow's post (well I really go every two days more or less so probably Wednesday's post): my own TV show, that's right kiddies, it's in the works.

- Scott

OK, no excuses

First of all, I'd like to welcome Allyn to my blog. Apparently I'm getting some of Timmy's traffic. That's fine with me, bloggers can't be choosers. But really I couldn't choose a better lot. So welcome to all the Tim traffic. Anyway, I realize a lot of people are on some kind of Springbreak today but whatever you're doing make some time to watch the new NBC sitcom The Office with Steve Carell. Hopefully it's as funny as it looks, but either way it's worth seeing. I've got a longer post in mind, but that would only dilude the message here so how's about I hold off until tomorrow on that one. In conclusion, this paragraph in one sentence:

The Office, 8:30PM, NBC, watch it or be banished from the land!

Such is my decree.

- Scott

Edit: Post your reviews and thoughts on The Office/Steve Carell in the comments section

I wish I was emo

Hey, I'm glad you all enjoyed my stories of pranks and Starlets. Since they went over like Olestra Chips at a Jenny Craig clinic, I think I'll just keep on keepin' on. I'll chalk it up to half of my constituants being on spring break.

Back to the headline. Yes, you read that right. Despite my rugged good looks, my Bond-esque style of emotional detachment, and my complete lack of anything resembling a crushingly painful breakup to bitch about over 5 albums, I wish to be emo. Now you might think that it's because the emo look is trendy, or because if I were emo people might decide that I at least used to have a girlfriend, and that's why I'm such a whiner now, or maybe it's just so I don't feel the knives of fire that shoot out of the poseur Hot Topic girl's eyes when I look around in there. But no, none of these things are the reason.

The real reason is simple: the emo man purse. Normal men have to squeeze their entire lives into a four inch square of leather we call a wallet. Then we have the honor of picking which butt cheek to detract from by putting it in our back pocket(sorry ladies, you'll just have to land me to see them in their natural glory). On top of these pains we then get to sit on it. Now I think men do this to prove our natural efficiency, we can carry everything we could possibly need for the day in one pocket. And women have to carry a bag. Ha! But I think every man has been just a bit jealous of them at some point.

They get to carry purses, nobody looks at them funny when they have a Louie Vuitton bag hanging from their elbow. Purses fluctuate in size more than Oprah and Matthew Perry combined; from the handbag up to the "I-can-hide-a-midget-fighting-a-moutain-lion-in-here" purses. Mary Poppins had one with a wormhole in it. My point is this: Emo guys (like Timmy) get to carry them around with considerable less ass beatings. Even in the south! So after a hard day of sitting on my wallet, my hat goes off to you Emo guys, keep on making it O.K. for men to accessorize.

- Scott

Oh no, it's a double blogger

I feel like I don't want to dwell on the last post, so after waiting a whopping 5 minutes I decided to post the one I've been meaning to post for awhile now. Here goes: I don't know how many of you actually stick around after the Gilmore Girls and watch the latest half baked offering from the WB called The Starlet but it...is...HILARIOUS.

I'm not sure it's even intentionally hilarious and, as we know, unintentional hilarity is really the best kind. The first of the things they couldn't possibly have planned on was this; a girl from the wildly successful MTV show SurfGirls (what, you mean to say you don't remember it either?) ended up on the Starlet. It was Neva, the one with no surfing talent at all who pretty much washed out instantly. Seriously, the girl could barely swim. Naturally looking around for another profession in SoCal she decided on acting. The funny thing? She acts worse than she surfs. She made it to the 2nd episode this time. All of this leads me to wonder what her next televised failure will be? Maybe the WNBA? Oh wait, I said televised, which implies someone watches it... Sorry WNBA, but the funniest part of Juanna Man was people caring about women's basketball.

Next up, the model trying to turn actress: Mercedes. She's pretty much exactly what you picture a model to act like, vein, arrogant, an air of superiority. Which makes this next exchange all the better. They were working with the director of a commercial, and after she finished her run through he said:

"Oh you're a model, have you modeled?"

Confidently, arrogantly, proudly: "Yes"

"Ok, now we just have to make you a person"

I laughed until I nearly cried. Then I went ahead and cried. You should have seen her expression after that one. Ah, classic. So the assignment for this week is to watch The Starlet and laugh at how rediculous it all is. I expect your report on my blog by Tuesday.

- Scott

Comas are so inconvient

Yeah, I wish I had such a good excuse for not posting for nearly a week. Sadly the real reasons are not as soap-opera dramatic. But just for a moment let's reflect on how cool it would be if I were in a coma and they found a way to hook the internet up to my brain, but I thought I was still living a normal life and my only way to communicate would be through this blog. Whoa, how do I know I'm not doing that RIGHT NOW? Who knows, maybe I can fly in here...

Ok the horrible pain and the cracking sound when I jumped down from my refridgerator leads me to believe that this is real life, and that I need to drink more milk. Anyway, when I'm not leading to the further subsidization of the cattle industry, I like to play pranks. Sometimes they go horribly, horribly wrong. For instance, who thought writing 'boobs' on someone's blog could lead to a real life meeting in which you reveal yourself as their secret admirer? Not this cat. That's for sure.

Here is the story in short. One day I was bored. It happens. What can you do? In my case you find a random means of entertainment. And on this day during my obsessive away message checking I noticed someone (who will remain nameless for their sake) had a blog. Well, I thought I would comment.

"BOOBS!"

More in the comments section....

Call me Rooster Cogburn.

So, I just finished Ender's Game a few days ago and I was struck not so much by the great story, but by the kid's name: 'Ender'. Early on they mentioned that though it was a nick name, it is the name that the child uses to refer to himself. What a badass nickname, Ender. Say it with me class. Ennnnderrrr. Very good. You could be a 5'4 mathlete and when people overhear you at a club being introduced as 'Ender'...panties will drop.

Naturally I want to get me some of that, nickname that is. Despite my current gambit of nicknames like Scotty 2 Hotty, Scott the Cool, and Scott-that-one-really-hot-guy, I really wanted to be called Ender for a day or so. And that's when it struck me that this is a game I've played before. A game I call 'the impossible nickname', it usually takes place right after I see some movie where one character kicks ass and has a great nickname. For those of you wondering, yes this does account for the phase in my life when I wanted to be known as Colt.

Here's a breif list of names I've also wanted to be nicked, but never had any justification for:

• Sice: Smooth and cool like Ice. Hence, Sice. Also a combination of Scott and Ice.
• Shootemup Scott: This'n here was originally Shootemup Steve, which he was using for himself. Somewhere's I decided I liked it and feigned ignorance in an attempt to use it. Clearly, it failed.
• Quickdraw Scotty: In a western post on the old message board this was a name Stevo gave me. Looking back, I kind of like it.
  
• Colt: Thanks alot Three Ninjas, like I wasn't odd enough as a kid.
  
• Commander Keen: Another choice I regret like the Valtrax girl regrets giving it up. I think this was the day Kevin Bland decided that he had hit me just a *bit* too hard, one too many times. And finally,
  
• Scotty Quest. Now supposin' I could somehow keep an indian friend (after feeding him lots of fatty American foods to thicken his body, and his skin), don't tell me you can't see this one.
  

I think you're pretty well impressed by my list of distinguished nicknames. How's about you get off that high horse you're on and join the cavalcade of rediculous monikers. What 'impossible nickname' have you always wanted for yourselves? If you're lucky we might even start calling you that.

- Quickdraw

A funny blog happened on the way to the forum

"Don't berate the small audiences for being small. They showed up. They're the good guys."
- Rules of Standup. (Quoted vaguely because I forgot which comedian said it. They're important though.)

"A forum is almost better for regular posts as opposed to a blog, however it's great for reading your stories and not have them cluttered with other people's crap."
- Steve Harmon

Things I've been considering lately: Hi, my name is Scott and I am a comment addict. *HI SCOTT* It doesn't really matter what they say, I enjoy them. You can even observe the limits of my tolerance in not deleting the Emily Eyers comment on my audio post a way's down the page. In my drunken rambling I said something to the effect of "comment damn you!" For this I am sorry, because you (that read my blog) are the good guys. Except for Rob who has repeatedly stated that he is my arch nemesis. But he's family, what can I do? Try to date his sister. That's about it.

Here's the thing about comments, I don't need them to praise me as a genius (which they do anyway) I like them because I'm what you call a conversationalist. I enjoy banter almost as much as potato guns, though I do miss the potential for fatal injury. Hmm, thinking about it, I've put myself into many a conversation where that was an actual possibility. So, I guess they're equal.

Anyway, as I alluded to earlier, maybe the half baked solution (my favorite kind) to this problem would be to resurrect the forum idea. I have had them on all my other sites (see this post) and they've always been the hot spot. Right now I have a bit of a monopoly, which I intend to keep. But the thought of setting up a puppet democracy under my behind-the-scenes ruling with an iron fist-ness really appeals to me. As my momma told me, I've gotta shop around for the right message board, so it's just an idea. But a fun one. So what do you, the loyal readers of my blog think? Redundant? Or brilliant?

Now I'm out. I expect to have a kick ass time in J-ville this weekend. If you're reading this, and you're going to be in J-ville call me *I promise you won't be arrested.



* Sentences following a single asterisk are made under the assumption I won't be held to them.

The Worst Mortar Team Ever

Apparently, I don't stand by the things I drunkenly slur into my cell phone. Among them are telling Julie Collins that I hate her for not waiting by her phone for my call at 3:23 in the morning (despite the actual time being 2:45), claiming I'll go on a post strike if there's no comments, and calling Jacklyn a bitch. You know, I do stand by that last one. How dare she not adore me! I'm friggin' adoreable.

All this scarcely addresses the main topic of this post. (Side bar, after reading the Hitchhiker's Guide Books, then immeadiately afterward listening to the entire Radio Play I've picked up some subtle English speech mannerisms. I just happened to think that sentence needed 3 more sentences' explanation.) The topic? Potato Gunnery. I've mentioned it alot on the blog, but you've yet to see the finished product (except for one or two of you). Well, I can't dissapoint my readers for long, unless you're expecting maturity, full frontal nudity, or debate over the serious issues of the day.

With a pantload of further adieu, here are two, somewhat small and grainy pictures of my master piece of vegetable acceleration. Technically, I don't just shoot vegetables out of it, as you can see from the partially finished PVC Rockets pictured below. In the end I'll have heated the...end (ironic word choice) of the pipes with hot vegetable oil to make them maleable and, with the help of a metal funnel and a section of pipe left over from my barrel, flare them out to the correct diameter. This way they fit tightly against the inside of the barrel, and hence use the air better when fired. There, I'd reckon that's enough adieu.

"Death Au Gratin" and a portion of my arsenal.

It's actually just 11 inches, nothing to be ashamed of. But I'm not here to decieve the masses.

Quick story before I wrap this post up. I was showing my dad a glowing round I had made, which basically amounted to a battery powered glowstick with electrical tape and paper towels to expand it to the width of the barrel. I had done one test shot and it worked great. Well, the next one...not so much. I juiced the PSI in the chamber to get it really high in the air (to the point that it becomes hard to see). Dad warned me to move forward so it didn't have a chance to come back and hit the truck. I (over) self assuredly explained that it hasn't ever done that.

Guess what happened. I, did in fact, shoot it so high it became very small and hard to see. But what we could make out was the fact that at that height a strong wind blew it back over my head...way back. In fact it got blown over my house toward the house of a somewhat worrisome lone nut type person. It would be ok if it was just toward his house. But naturally it was a fall of 400ish feet onto the roof of this semi-creepy guy. We didn't find that out until the morning. For a good half hour we searched the yard with flashlights ablaze trying to find this object, that should be glowing. When we finally saw it in the morning it was more or less the baseball that fell into The Beast's yard. It was on the roof of his house, and what's more right in front of his door. So I did the manly thing...waited until he wasn't there, went over and courtesy knocked his front door, then used a tree trimmer to get the thing back.

So the potato gun has become an obsession. I'm working on a backpack of compressed air so I'm completely mobile. I have a question for you kids:

What would you like to see me

1. Shoot out of the gun.
2. Shoot the gun at.
   

Whoa, I drunk dialed my blog!

Wow. Is that what I sound like? Even SEXIER than I thought. Anyway, apparently I decided to call my blog last night. Better than my school...again. Oh, and don't worry about the comments, I was ranting. It wasn't even on my mind until I called. But I would like to hear from other people that I might have drunk dialed last night. Anyway, I'm out.

- Scott

Boldly spliting infinitives that no man has split before.

Hello again boys and girls. In case you couldn't tell by the title of this post, I've been reading Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I just banged out the first book in the seires yesterday. I actually read the whole thing in one day. Well, all but 14 pages. It was 2:00 at that point and despite a valiant effort I was no longer able to comprehend the words on the page. So I guess technically it was today that I finished it, but it was well within the 24 hour grace period that I consider a day.

In other news, my life imitates art more and more each day. I've always thought of myself as sort of a protagonist of the sitcom that is my life. Or perhaps something similar to the Truman Show. For awhile I actually had to wonder and look around for cameras when events were just too convenient to explain. But, not every situation can be explained within the confines of either the Truman Show or sitcommery. So sometimes I look to movies, especially to compartmentalize one portion of my life. Such as my life in Springfield. I often feel my time here is a bit of an accidental exile. Not unlike the plight of Tom Hanks in the movie 'Castaway'. Sure comming here seemed like a good idea at first...but so did getting on the plane. '

However, for all these parallels, Tom always had one thing on me. No, not that stupid package. What the hell was in it anyway? And wasn't the whole movie kind of an advertisement for NOT working at FedEx? Anyway, the one thing he had that I didn't? Willson. Without ever realizing it, I kind of constructed one with things that had been given to me, until... Well it's best if you just have a look.

As you can see he's giving me the 'pouty' look.

It started with just the tissue dispenser (he normally sneezes Kleenex, but he's currently out, hence he seems to have no nostrils), but I added some Cop Glasses, and he looked pretty badass. After Halloween he got my asian people wig and began to look a bit like Elvis. Then my parents got back from the Caribbean and gave me this Rasta Hat/Dreads and I didn't know where to store it. That's when I was walking by Bob (his full name is Bob Doobie, mostly because it makes me laugh) and decided it was a good fit. So now I imagine that he spends most of the day stoned out of his mind, after I say hi to him at breakfast.

In a related story I have obscene amounts of free time.

- Scott

Ironically I can only do this with break-ables

Guess what day it is....That's right kids! LAZY POST DAY! For you see, I feel like crap. The last two days worth of info on my weekend shall be forthcomming in tomorrow's post. Suffice to say, the potato gun is a deadly weapon and likely to put you into extremely dangerous situations. But enough foreshadowing, let's talk about today's post.

I found this quiz to be unusually insightful. While I disagree with any comment describing me as 'obsolete' and those that deride light-heartedness as inappropriate, I do find it to be uncannily accurate. Even the quiz itself had answers either in the vein of what I would say if it weren't a 'lock-in-your-answer-from-these-fachist-options-quiz' or exactly the right answer. So lo and behold the results from the 'Which Obselete Skill Are You' exam.


You are 'juggling'. Jugglers, tumblers, and other
street performers were a very popular sort of
entertainment once, before movies and talkies
and online quizzes supplanted them.

You like to put on a show for people, and they like
to watch. You are friendly and well-liked,
particularly for your sense of humor, although
you sometimes play with people's heads. You
are frequently the center of attention, and you
like it that way. However, you have to realize
that the world does not revolve around you.
Furthermore, you have to learn that your
light-hearted antics are not appropriate to all
situations. Your problem is that juggling has
been obsolete for a long time.


What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Uncle Sam wants YOU...to back the hell off

I just got back from the Ludo/Pomeroy show. Wow. That was pretty good and I have some stories to tell about it, but I'll breifly give you a smattering of the weekend's events thus far before I get to it. As I was leaving Springfield (read: evil city of my imprisionment), I remembered that I had gotten one (well actually two) of those "certified mail" tickets. You know those little pink slips of paper, the gist of which is 'You weren't here when I tried to deliver this envelope, so we took it back to the post office, you have to come and get it or we'll send it back'. Despite this vague threat of missing out on a random letter I really wasn't that inclined to go get it. Since it was from my school and certified mail I decided it was either really good or really bad. And they were sending it back the next day so I figured that I could swing by the post office on my way out of town. Good thing I did. Apparently what they were trying to mail me was my Associates Degree. Dodged an embarrassing bullet there.

Anyway, I started my weekend (on Thursday) with a call to Mr. Barry. Known to all others as Barrett Schmidt. After a breif round of cool guy greetings we got down to buissness. I wanted to go see Constantine and so did he. So we settled on the 10:00 showing in Edwardsville because he was already there visiting his girl Emily. So I picked them up and we went off to the theater. There's a hilarious story about the convesation I had with/co-opting into my plan of Emily, but I fear that if I talk about it here I might give it away. Suffice it to say, Constantine was surprisingly good. Although it seemed to be a very different take on the Roman Emperor who brought Christianity to the Empire and later took over a city and renamed it Constantinople (which was later named Istanbul, but was Constantinople, now it's Istanbul; not Constantinople. So, for example, if you have a date in Constantinople, she'll be waiting in Istanbul.)

Ah, but my friends that was yesterday. Two days ago if you consider that it's 2:46 AM as I write this. Today was a horse of a different color. Two colors actually gothic black and preppy pink. You see, those were the colors of the crowd at the Ludo show. Apparently Ludo is the rare band that attracts the hardcore crowd and the kids from Hollister. I find both to be equally annoying. Why not just tatto yourself "I'm trying to differentiate myself from others in the exact manner my friends do". It'd be a hell of a lot less hassle.

In any case, the opener was actually a pretty decent band...if you were listening to them on the radio. Other than that they looked like the biggest goons that had ever chanced being on a stage with people watching. I took one look at the lead vocals, turned to Barrett and said "Fattest. Frontman. Ever." He makes Jack Black look like someone from the 'Feed the Children' commercials. And he didn't help himself any either. When he was talking up the next song he said "I meet a lot of lesbians, that's what this song is about" to which I yelled "Yeah. THAT'S WHAT THEY TELL YOU!" Why must I heckle so? Later on their drummer was being being generally annoying (I have no idea how he annoyed me) it was after their set and he was throwing the drumsticks into the crowd. But instead of just doing it he teased us with it like a person with a bone teases a dog. So while everyone was waving their arms to get his attention I just gave him the finger. And he threw the drumstick right to me. I would have it now if this Harry Potter look-alike jerk hadn't flown out of nowhere and knocked me out of the way.

Next up was Pomeroy. They were decent. Not too much to report here. Except that they sounded NOTHING like what I would have imagined from the one Pomeroy song I know: "Roboflow." They were a lot lighter, and unexpectedly good. Although I have to say, no matter how many times I see it white people seriously rapping cracks me up. Cut to right before Ludo. I've gotten seperated from Barrett and Emily because of my love for the mosh pit. And it put me in a better position. So I was gesturing to B-Funk with my head to come up to where I was. Me and him had a whole conversation with head gestures. I thought this was pretty funny, but the little goth bitch next to me was being...well bitchy. I eventually got Barrett and Emily to fight through the gaggle of goth people (mostly girls) and get next to me.

Well as soon as they up to me that same goth girl starts giving Barrett all kinds of hell. She's making a scene as only a pissed off woman (goth or not) can. I could see the goths with her (two of them big guys) were kind of siding with her. So I did what comes naturally to me; work the situation to my advantage. I exploded back at her "Hey, why don't you lay the fuck off. This guy just got back from Iraq, he's a fucking hero. So don't give him shit about where he stands, he protects your fucking freedom." She INSTANTLY blushed severely, and turned away from us ashamed. All the people nearby turned and looked at us so I went on "He's a great guy, and I don't care who knows it!" I really had the support of the crowd at this point and they gave us plenty of room. You gotta do what you gotta do.

- Scott

The Costanza Shuffle

My school is just weird. There's no other way to explain it. The next time my crew (in white people talk: people I know and count as friends), are in Springfield we're all going to the school and I'll give you a tour of the madness. But that same madness plays into today's story.

Let me describe for you my school, it consists of one and a half buildings. "Half a building? The hell you say? " Well, at first we were just one building, then we started renting/purchasing parts of an adjacent building. We now own almost the entire second floor, two classrooms sandwich the remaining office on the level. For some reason (old folks would say I have a bit of the devil in me, psychologists call it complete and utter disreguard for the concequences of my actions), I decided to do the doorbell ditch on this particular office. You see we're pretty well warned off messing with it.

Despite that, I figured it'd be pretty funny to knock really hard on the door repeatedly and run away. Step One of the plan involved forming my hand into a fist and knocking like I'm on fire trying to get into the pool. This was the only part of the plan that went smoothly. Part Two was running away. I begin to bolt down the hallway when who should come around the corner but the Dean of my campus. I paused for a beat and wondered at my own bad luck. So I had to turn around and run back past the very same door I knocked. I did this just as I heard a hand on the handle.

Fortunately my cubicle (I'm the editor of the school Pap') was just through the next set of doors to my left. So I dodged inside, and not wanting to be seen I went the extra mile and dove under my desk and pulled the chair in. I spent a good 2-3 minutes in there waiting for the heat to die down and telling my stomach to quit rumbling so loudly. When I finally decided it was a good time to come out who should come by but the lady who runs our bookstore who was showing what looked to be some parents of prospective students (or at any rate, adults on a tour of the school) the office. They had paused right at my cubicle and saw me uncurling myself and crawling out from under the desk. Once again I paused and contemplated the ludicrous nature of the entire string of events. I then mumbled something to the effect of: "Ah, finally fixed that computer."

They just looked at me like I had asked them if their mothers breast fed or not. Awkwardly the bookstore lady either said or implied "Aaaaaanyway, let's move on with the tour." I could see both as having happened. I eventually just went back to class. Today was special, because I think I've learned something that I can use the rest of my life: It usually pays to set a lookout.

Now I'm off to see Keanu Reeves play Neo as a Goth kid. I'll be sure to let you all know if Constantine sucks as bad as Autumn In New York.

- Scott

Oops.

I often think that I would be pretty good at a life in crime. I'm suave, I'm quick witted, and most of all I can lie as convincingly as I tell the truth. I often don't even know if I believe what I'm saying, let alone whether or not there's truth to it. But for all these good characteristics, I might have one fatal flaw...I tend to gloss over the details sometimes.

For instance, I remember in my childhood me and my close friend Stephen decided to set a trap (don't ask me why) for his little brother Jon. Or maybe Tim, the point is we wanted to set a trap for them. Surprisingly, our trap, which consisted of two pieces of cardboard over a gaping hole in the floor of the attic, was quickly forgotten. I'm not really sure why we thought the attic was such a high traffic area for Tim and Jon. In hindsight not the best plan. Weeks and months passed and I was at their house one day when Steve and I hear the sound of wood breaking and a scream. As we ran toward the bathroom we saw a horrifying sight: a disembodied leg that had crashed through the ceiling. There were bits of wood and plaster everywhere and the leg was swinging wildly around. So naturally, I ran away. A pretty fool proof plan I thought. There's nothing linking me to this, I should just get the hell out of here. But there was one detail I forgot, the interrogation techniques of Stevo's family. So eventually, I was implicated. Although I don't think I ever got into any kind of trouble because of it.

Sadly later in life, the trend tends to pop up now and again. Last semester I was in macroeconomics, when I finished the semester I wrote obscenities in my book and sold it for the hansome sum of $23 dollars. Which was a bit of a shame because the damn thing cost me $80. They plan to sell them to another school for a hefty mark up I'm sure. Here's the kicker though: today was the first day of microeconomics and the first words out of the teachers mouth "Good news, we're using the same book from last semester" Shit.

But to cheer myself up I've gone out and found a guy whose plight makes my minor blunders look even better.

Read all about it.

The best part of the story is that he was a runner posing as a woman, but when they caught him he tried to run away and got caught! That's even more embarrassing than getting caught playing hide the sausage in your track pants. To think he's the best "female" runner in the country, nice work Zimbabwe. And who is this guy who can go either way on the gender portion of government forms? I'm sure it started with Manties...then just snowballed from there. I also like that Witchdoctor's spells work like a tank of gas, if you don't spend enough money they won't quite get you there. Apparently he wanted the boobs, AND vagina package. He got stuck with some Avril Lavigne A-cups and a mangina. The moral here is to pay your witchdoctor whatever the agreed upon fee was, or go to a real doctor. Your call.

- Scott

Get your broom; I'm calling shenanigan.

This might be one of the more callous posts I've had (so far...) but I have a serious (as serious as you've ever known me to be) question. What's the deal with the Tsunami Aid commercials I see to this day. The tsunami hit December, 26 2004. That's nearly two months ago by most calendars. And STILL the charitable money grubbing goes on. Apparently the aid figures are close to $2 Billion.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for helping the needy. Especially when the needy is me and the aid is some action... But honestly, how much does it cost to rebuild some mud shanties? Come on, the dirt's already wet. I mean, if we can manufacture soccer balls there for 1/2 cents an hour. I think we can rebuild the area for a bit cheaper. What are they doing building back the natural appeal of the area? Last I checked it not only was free, but occasionally destroyed everything on the coast. Sure you lost some trees, but have Jafar Palm-tree-seed with his falafel pan on his head skip along the beach and replant them. He's both folksy and free.

And I know, I know, there's been some lives lost. But there's not even burial fees. They were more or less burried at sea...except now the sea delivers. It more or less begs for a tip, but if you play dumb it'll kind of slink back out to sea after muddying-up the place. So it's not like there's a huge sum going to grave digging. I suppose the living have some medical bills to pay, but if didn't get killed outright by the tsunami you have some pretty weak injuries. Seriously, a supermodel managed to hang on to a tree. A supermodel not only outsmarted this wave, but had the strength to hold on to tree to save herself. She was in India because it's the only place in the world she might see someone that would make her look fat and she managed to hold on to a tree. You have to understand, the grip of a supermodel (largely because of the joint forces of their diet and their heroin addictions) is somewhere between the stregnth of a newborn and that of a nerf sucction cup. So really, if you let a wave sneak up and injure you, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Costs aside, I don't think $2 Billion dollars is really justified. Because really, have 2 billion anything even come out of that area? And no, taxi cab drivers are not considered. So I really have to ask, what the hell are we spending the cash on?

Quite Possibly the Most Dangerous Thing Ever

I was about to comment on Tim's blog about how when I read the titles of previous posts instead of saying "This is huge" and "The chick and the rhino..." I read it as "this chick is huge" and laughed as I pictured a fat chick. But that seemed too immature, and I didn't want anyone to know about that little transgression, so I decided to regale you all with some of my activities of late.

Sorry, about the lack of posting but this parasite known as the 'real world' has been draining my time like Ruben Studdard drains a triple thick milkshake keg. (Two fat people jokes and I'm only two paragraphs in...this is lookin' up). Well after my finals ended I was in a daze. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself. Sure I could play EverQuest, but I felt something else in my masculine makeup (that's the makeup of my psyche, not the Mabeline I'm wearing) pulling me toward some vague, shadowy goal. I felt like Roy Neary building the Devil's Tower out of mashed potato's, he didn't know what it was....but he knew it was important.

Well, mashed potato's are (as it turns out) exactly what I was after. I wanted to build a potato gun. They're great toys, but have the potential to seriously injure someone. What's that called? That's right, bonus points! Man has long had a love affair with potato guns going back to the mid 1800's. Archaeologists recently discovered that the period from 1845-50 (affectionately known as the 'potato famine') was simply a group of raccous, drunken Irishmen running around with their proto-potato guns. Instead of hairspray, which hadn't been invented yet, one of them would just burp into the chamber and the volatile fumes were more than enough to shoot a spud.

However, this is all well and good. But I'm living in the 21st century...isn't there something more I could do? As it turns out, yes. A pneumatic potato gun. It'll be a great test of my pskills. Besides, a similar design to the one I'm using (though on a slightly larger scale) has propeled a potato past the sound barrier. So yeah, it's a good gun. The best part though? I'm suppposedly house sitting for my parents right now. So I'm all alone working on explosive ordinance. I truly love my shenanigans.

That's all for now, I'm out like the Pringles cans at Kristy Alley's house.
(THREE fat jokes!)

- Scott

Bastard Wants to Hit Me

I just about got ran off the road by a soccer mom in a busted up Ford Windstar. I thought she just wanted to race, so I gunned it off the line. Surprisingly she did too, so we raced almost to the next light and then she honked her horn and gave me the finger because she had to get behind me in the line waiting on the light. All the while I pretended I couldn't hear her, put my hand to my ear and said "what's that". Oh, man was she pissed. I enjoy instagating road rage more than anything when I'm driving. There's a really classic story about the first time I did it, but I think I'll save it for when I can tell it in person.

In other news, I've just finished another semester at the illustrious RMC. Did I say illustrious? I meant festering-bureaucratic-crap hole relpete with the decay of individuality and humanity crushed under the mind numbing weight of farcical policies. Strange how easy it is to mistake one for one the other. The end of sememster crunch was bogging me down, so sorry for the lack of posts. Let me catch you up with some observations I made from my period of intense scholarly persuits:

Apparently the best way to watch assloads of TV is to need to study. I seriously believed that there was no way I could learn without commercials playing in the background. And while we're on the topic, as far as people I know in commercials, I'd say Angeline kicked Laural's ass if there was some kind of Jerseyville People Commercial Contest (JPCC).

Has anyone else seen the new Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper commercial? First of all, why do we need a paragraph to describe a soda? Remeber the days when you could just say "cola" or "root beer" now it 's 'I'll take a Diet Carbonated Grape Taffy Hotpants-Wearing Mr. Pibb". And I really think it's weak of Mr. Pibb to try to copy off Dr. Pepper, I mean, he didn't spend seven years in soda-college to have some upstart knock him off the market. But I will say this for the new, constitution-length named Dr. Pepper; they have a great ad campaign. It might just be the best use of a Muppets song in an advertisement I've ever seen.

In other commercial news, the new fragrance by Britney Spears surprises me, because I didn't think there was that much of a demand to smell like a cheap hooker. And even if there was, I thought Liz Taylor pretty much cornered the market years ago. But her perfumes aren't on the cutting edge, distilled from the removed carpeting and sheets of motel rooms. Ah, progress thy name is Spears.

That's it for today, I just wanted to get something out there. I promise that tomorrow will be a more substantial post. I'm out

- Scott

Mood killer

I just got back from seeing Sideways. I thought it was PFG. Pretty Freaking Good. What might possibly be burned into my mind forever however, is the image of Paul Giamatti stealing a wallet out of the bedroom of a chubby couple having sex. The naked man chasing him as he ran away terrified with wallet in hand had me laughing hard enough that I couldn't breathe. Which is quite a thing if you've ever paid attention to how often I actually laugh, especially like that. I can only speculate that Paul Giamatti busting in on me having sex would similar effect on me. (You're welcome for the mental picture. The first one's free then I jack up the price; so savor the flavor, punk.)

But before the movie there are the inevitable previews and commercials. I have to say, commercials before movies are some of the most rediculous things I've ever seen in my life. Apparently the new thing is to try to hire film school students to make them so you get an ad for delicous, refreshing Coca-Cola (WARNING, BLOG PRODUCT PLACEMENT) that looks like something the Mad Hatter would watch then turn to his teapot-mouse friend and incredulously ask "What the f*ck was that?"

Worse than that is when you get movies being previewed that don't even make sense for what movie it preceeds. I have to ask what the crap demographic are they trying to hit that would go and see Sideways, then immeadiately say "I really need to find out what the deal with this Heffalump in the 100-Acre Woods is, screw live action." The big preview that I think is really annoying (and too late considering no one heard about it until it hit theaters anyway) is the one for "Because of Winn-Dixie". First of all, don't make a movie that sounds like it's about how a college athlete smuggled some clean piss to his drug screening. Secondly, they tag the movie at the end "Only in theaters". As if there was a toss-up between straight to video and 'aw, hell let's put it in theaters.' Who does it surprise that the preview they just saw, IN A THEATER, is for a movie that is going to be IN THEATERS.

Finally, from now on supposedly liberal Hollywood, instead of saying "with Cedric the Entertainer" to get black people to come to movies, why not say "Now with free reparations popcorn for blacks". I think that would be a better promotion. You could have a bunch of white upper middle class kids behind a one-way mirror actually picking the corn by hand and shucking it. Then picking kernels off the corn when its ready. Even a little song "Masa' got me workin', Daddy lost the trust fund, now me'sa gonna pick corn". I think the NAACP would get a real kick out of it.

- Scott

P.S. Has anyone else been seeing Angeline Holmes on TV every five seconds in that dammed Kay Jewelers commercial?

In his singing debut...

OK, so technically it debuted last year on Valentines Day. But it's a classic. If you know me you'll notice it's a bit out there, but I was feeling slap happy and made this little piece of wonderment. For those of you bummed about V-Day and the boy/girl relations that come about because of it, take a look at this and laugh (and realize that someone else is getting less ass than you...)





It is a thing of beauty beyond the ability of mere words to describe. Click the picture, and enjoy. Just make sure the speakers are cranked...I wish it could have been louder.

- Scott

Ah, sweet marriage

Since my blog brothers have been so enraptured by the happening, I feel that I too must share with the world and the internet how Josh's engagement has affected my life. It's funny how life is, one day you wake up and it's like 'here go to school, there's no more day long marathons of Seasame Street and Garfield' and at first you're confused. Why, why does this utopian existance I've known thus far have to end?! But then you find out college isn't so bad and you get over it.

The next thing you know, your friends of friends aren't 'hooking up' anymore, but getting married. Marriage? Like in the movies and tabloids?! And as long as I've known Josh I've never pictured him married. This is all new to me. And so difficult to take all at once. I'm just a little disapointed I had to hear about it from Rob. I mean, aren't we close Josh? I remember those days we spent together at Agape, breaking into houses for showers and...well that's about all I remember from that particular expierence. But it was GOOD! And now you're getting married. I'll have to think of it as not losing a brother/friend of a friend, but gaining...the story of Tim's toast?

Come to think of it, that's a pretty even trade. I officially give this marriage my blessing and as such include a list ofvarious advice to make your marriage last from my observations into the subject:

1. When rebelling against England, make sure to hide your bride so some English snob can't tie her to a post and slit her throat. Because after that you're liable to go crazy and get your intestines ripped out of your still living body.
   
2. If at anytime your bride wears sneakers with her wedding dress, sedate her and prevent her from getting collagen injections for her lips.
   
3. Any interaction between your hippie wife and conservative parents will be painful to watch but for some reason laughter will come from off screen. Don't question this or you'll be written off.
   
4. Apparently it's more romantic if you set it up as her marrying someone else, then you have to burst in tell her you lover her, and marry her on the spot. If there's someway you could set that up, I'd reccomend it.
   
5. Corollary: When you start to marry her bar the doors when the priest asks "if anyone has an objection to this union please speak now...yadda yadda yadda." Because why risk it?
   
6. Finally, on the honeymoon, don't let Harrison Ford pilot you anywhere. Just trust me on this one. The man has never been on a plane in a movie where something didn't go wrong.
   

I just hope this helps.

- Scott

P.S. Feel free, nay, encouraged to add to this list. I mean, we want the best for this kid right?

It's that time again....

'To make the CBS censors angry?' 'To make fun of the Disney Channel' Perhaps in another post...no it's time for the 2005 Bloggies. The most prestigous award sho...cerem...thing on the internet. And sadly we here at Bufford the Wonder Blog were snubbed again this year for the first year in a row, but one of the blogs the entire staff of BTWB supports is Teaching The Indie Kids To Dance Again. What catagory you ask? No not the abso-fucking-lutely longest URL on the interweb. Their catagory is "Best Kept Secret" which I think they've effictively destroied with this nomination.

They should have been up for best music blog, but the got rid of that after last year. Apparently the RIAA was shitting cows made of bricks over it, so it got the boot. A shame I'd say. But if you're a member of the Blogcademy and you're voting this year I'd seriously reccomend TTIKTDA, and while you're there check out some kick ass indie tracks.

- Scott

P.S. I'd also like to welcome Rob to the nerdery, he's officially joined my EverQuest Frat.

Harry Scotter and the Renegade Bellboy

Ok, so today in English for no reason at all I just got up and left. I decided that I didn't need to listen to this crap anymore because I obviously know more than the teacher. (Particularly when I need to explain an allusion in my paper, I mean isn't she supposed to be on top of that?) I was amazed at the freedom I had found, I could do ANYTHING.

And the first thing I decided I wanted to do was to go and peak in the plate glass windows they have in the front of class rooms. Great situation for the students seeing me, but not the teacher. So I did the classic going down the stairs, the canoe, just looking in the room and making eyes at certain ladies. But I quickly tired of my 'people zoo' as I had come to call it in my mind and wandered elsewhere.

As I got to the basement of the first building of the school I noticed for the first time that there was a high ceiling overhead (like went up two stories in a shaft between stairs). So I wondered if I could climb it. Since the walls were so close together I decided that I could. I think I got about 20 feet up before I decided that if I got caught there would be no easy way out of it. Plus the cheap ass drywall was making cracking sounds. At least I got my foot prints 20 feet up on the wall. Proud of that one.

Finally the master stroke of my renegade day. I snuck back into the class I had left and stole a chair. The teacher didn't ever look up from what the hell ever she was doing, so I came off completely James Bond about the whole thing. Step Two of my master piece was getting a bunch of food from the student lounge. And the final part: The Elevator Picnic. I sat on my chair riding the 'Elevator of Love' pressing buttons for people, eating my snacks, and generally being hilarious. Best part was when people who were touring the school come into the elevator to see me with my feet up on the handrail, drinking a soda and reclining in my chair. The expression was priceless. What a kick ass day.

- The Renegade Bellboy