Tanned, Relaxed, and Ready to Post

Hi kids. You didn't think I'd let 2005 slip away without one more post on the Wonder Blog did you? If so you've sorely misjudged the importance I place on symbolic dates. I'm proud of you all, not one "where the hell is Scott" comment. I conjure that's mostly because I'm seeing a nice chunk of you in person and you know damn well where I am. And also, people are out living their lives. But I think the real reason is because you respect my privacy. As an S-list celebrity I really appreciate fans that can respect me that way. In fact, there were only a few paparazzi. I think I'll show you a few of their shots.

Somehow they took one of me, inside the apartment. That's just such an invasion of privacy it's scary. Even worse, they had the screen flipped out to the side so I could see how good I looked. I ended up not even looking into the camera because I was so enthralled by my own visage. Bastards! But reguardless of how boyishly good looking I come off, there is a fire in me that is radiating heat, and a message. That message? F- cold weather. I punch it in the face.

As such, I blew off the Midwest and its frigid winters for the sunny Caribbean aboard the good ship ms Westerdam. There it is. The bastards snapped a shot of it when it was anchored off a private island. On the right of the photo (port of the ship) you can see one of the lifeboat "tenders" I took to shore.

Earlier in the vacation I had visited here. Sunny St. Thomas. Who knew it was the real life home of the Sealab? I kept saying omnious things, but no matter what I said the thing wouldn't blow up at the end. That's why they make the big bucks at the bottom of the sea I guess...

However, in no way does that mean that I can't visit the bottom of the sea myself. Hey self, lookin' good. At that point I was Neptune, LORD OF THE SEA. You know nothing of my work! Sealab 2021 jokes abounded, but because there were no radios, no one could hear me. I took full advantage of this and propositioned the professional diver, there to keep an eye on us. She could keep more than that on me. Come to think of it, I hope she can't read lips. I had a gaye old time of it. Jumping up and down on the bottom of the ocean, held down by the incredibly heavy bell on my head (the thing weighs about 80 pounds out of water). It was basically moon physics, so I did the Neil Armstrong thing and hopped about. Sadly the hot diver lady shut me down with head shake and a wagging finger of amused dissaproval. I almost smote her (LORD OF THE SEA, remember?) but I decided she was just hot enough to escape punishment.

Later that day, we decided to rent hardcore, manly motorcycles. And by that, I mean scooters. Those things booked though; Ross with the only functional dashboard, told us we topped out at about 80 kph/50mph. Not too shabby. Here, we're lost. But we're in St. Thomas, who the hell cares?

After a successful navigation back to the ship before it left us (narrow window that was), we had a nice dinner onboard ship. It was a formal night, so that meant suits and ties. Bleh. But at least I look sexy, so it's hard to hate the nights completely. I really liked how seriously the old folks took it. Quite a few tuxedos abounded, and I started to feel a bit underdressed. Then I noticed that no male under the age of 50 was wearing one and relaxed. "But Scott, we know you ate dinner. Why include a picture?" Well, I just like how dumb my brother looks in it.

The next day we chartered a sailboat. The Random Wind. It was quite a day. Free rum punch, beer, soda, and food. Not to mention getting to sail the boat. It was really relaxing, and a great way to escape all the elderly people on our cruise, none of them could stomach the high seas. We went snorkleing, and swimming at each place we stopped. At one point a lady's shirt blew overboard. Being the strapping young LORD OF THE SEAS I am, I decided to hop overboard and go get it. It had sank bottom and that meant about 15-18 feet where we were. So I strapped on some fins and a mask and went after it. Little did I know I would come face to face with the lord of all bony fish... a barracuda. We squared off he was swimming past the shirt, and I wanted the shirt. The situation was comming to a head.

For a moment we stared each other down. Then, after talking with the fish for a moment, we realized that we knew some of the same people, and that we liked each other pretty well. So he went his way, and I grabbed the shirt; returning to the surface the shirt in my fist broke the water first, followed by the rest of my glorious body. A cry went up. I was a hero, and the button up was safe for another day. My reward? Free beers... that were already free.

I also made a sport of rescuing starfish from certain destruction at the links of the anchor chain. Same depth. Only the starfish cheered me this time.

A quick picture of Ross and I the second time we rented scooters on Tortolla. See how his leg is wet? That's because I, inadvertantly, ran him off the road and nearly into a cliff. It's really his fault for comming up on my left. I chalk it up to the crazy British practice of driving on the left. I fully realize that doesn't explain how it got wet. He got muddy when he went off road, it was just after the daily downpour, so he washed off in the sea. There. Now you know.

Another formal night. I'm a bit trashed here. You might be able to tell. I'm drinking a Flaming Gunther with a straw for the love of Neptune! I dubbed it the Flaming Gunther because it's a coffee drink with lots of alcohol in it that was set on fire. Flaming for the alcohol and fire, Gunther for the coffee. Brilliant.

Faceplant!

I think this one is pretty clear. I'll leave it at that.

Here I am flying my kitesurfing kite. I had a pretty good time when the wind was cooperating. Sadly, that didn't last as long as I would have liked.

I was getting tricky and clipped the water with the edge of my kite. Had the stunt panned out a little better I was sure to fly several feet into the air. Instead, I got the pleasure of advice from 80 year old tourists about how I should try to keep it in the air and a smarmy look from my brother.

Here's another from our last formal dinner on the ship. Is is the name of the Filipino toy soldier between Ross and I. He was the mint guy who handed out after dinner mints, he was really funny. "Yummy yummy for your tummy" he was awesome enough to not sound dumb as he said that. Also, the dude was always happy. Huge smile, childish glee all the time. Why are Ross and I looking so happy? Well the merry mint-er tickled the hell out of us just as the flash was going off.

And here we have a typical scene at the end of the day. Beautiful sunset, ships comming and going at the laziest pace immaginable, a nice mixed drink in my hand. Is there anything better?

That's all suckas!

You made it to the end. Congratulations. You get a picture of me. This one isn't paparazzi, it's a Wonder Blog exclusive. Cherish it. And Happy New Year.

- Scott

The Tops

One of the music blogs I frequent recently posted their choices for the Top 22 Songs of 2005. Why 22? I don't know. But it's a nice round number (though I would have used either 8 or 1995) and all 22 songs are worth hearing. I don't necessarily agree that these are the best songs of 2005, but a lot of them are on my list anyway. Without further bullshit, I give you the link. All the songs are download-able for free so you can hear them for yourself. And as a bonus I'll tell you which songs are actually the best, or at least, my favorites.

Said The Grammophone's Top 22 Songs of 2005.

Scott's Personal Favorites:

Andrew Bird - Fake Palindromes: This is one of my favorite songs of all time. It's not my normal fare by any means, but the lyrics really drive it home. I find myself singing this song all the time, and occasionally inserting lyrics from it into everyday speech. Most of the time I can work it in so casually nobody stops and says "Wait, what the hell are you talking about?" Now that's smooth baby. Give it a listen. Bonus side trivia: Andrew Bird plays almost every instrument in the song except drums. Double bonus: I can't hear the lyrics "Dewy eyed Disney bride" without thinking of Allyn.

Kelly Clarkson - Since U Been Gone: I know. I know. Kelly Clarkson... what the hell. But the damn song is addiciting. Sean's description is perfect, so I'd strongly urge you to just read that. In addition I'll admidt that when I'm alone at my apartment or when I'm driving I'll just put this on and freaking rock out. To compensate for the gay-ness of this one song I also hunt deer... with my bare hands.

Sufjan Stevens - Casmir Polaski Day: This song makes me think of Rachel Sandvig. I don't know why. Anyone remember her? While I'm not a Sufjan fanatic, I do kind of enjoy him from time to time. So if I'm not wild about the song and I don't have anything more insightful to say about it than Rachel Sandvig referenes why list it? To piss off Jake.

Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek: Didn't Lauren Bitchwater want to name her child Imogen once? That taint aside, the song is entrancing. It's like staring into a fire. Anticipate four minutes, twenty eight seconds of not doing anything. Once again, not my usual fare, but a worthy song for the list.

The Strokes - You Only Live Once: Glad to see The Strokes can actually evolve musically as a band. I liked their first two albums, but there wasn't a lot of difference between them. So I got a little scared. Especially considering that another band I once liked has done nothing different since their debut. I'm looking in your direction Coldplay. Way to grow as an artist, asshole(s)! Speed of Sound? More like "Cut from the first album."

I could go on, but I don't think I need to. Suffice it to say Wolf Parade, Broken Social Scene, and LCD Soundsystem are all represented with songs that are definitely worth a curious listen. I also like Agent Simple, if for no other reason than that their name reminds me of Improv Everywhere, and I love Improv Everywhere.

So that's all for today. I probably won't be able to post again until Monday when I'm settled into my new floating city of a ship. Feel free to post responses and rebutals, I look forward to it. But now, off to skate in Forest Park. The next time most of you see me I'll be much tanner, hopefully not too tan though. I don't want to get searched at the airports*.

- Scott

* You could be offended here, but come on. You know that's how it works.

W.A.D.W.U.S. Vol 1, First Edition.

Today's post is to be the first of many entries into the WADWUS. That's an acronym. It stands for "Wicked Awesome Directory of Words Used by Scott". It was originally going to be the more flowing "Wicked Awesome Directory of Words Scott Uses" but that doesn't spell anything. Nothing useful like WADWUS anyway. So let's get down to the bread and butter of the WADWUS directory: words I use.

• 1995: The default date for something old. For instance "Wow, what an edgy guy... for 1995!" or "Nice taste in music Jacob, what is this, 1995?"
  

• 8: Arbitrary number. Used in a similar fashion to 1995, except this denotes ridiculous understatement. For instance: "Dude have you heard of the Carribean? There's like eight islands there." or "Man did you see Goblet of Fire? There were like eight wizards in that movie!" Always said in an excited manner.

• Boobs: Also said in an excited manner, but in so far as the the WADWUS goes just something I like to write in the margins of borrowed books and on computer keyboards at RMC. I also spent an entire class period one day in Cisco writing various obscenities with a label maker. It's a recurring theme in my school work. Often times I try to spell it down one side of a paper connecting every first letter in the line.
  

• Mesa: As used by me, not an elevated rocky plateau, but a measure of magnitude. For instance, "That was some mesa bad food poisoning. I thought I was going to crap out my skeleton." In the metric system mesa comes after yotta.
  

• Hilariculous: A term for use when a situation is both hilarious and ridiculous and that's just too many -ous's to not sound dumb. Plus with the sheer amount of time you save you could easily comment on my word skillz. I created this one.
  

• Plusdick: Also one I created though not a word I use very often as it's actually the nickname of a friend of mine. His real name is Tyler Adcock. But I thought Adcock was just a little plain for my tastes. So doing some quick mental math utilizing the transitive property Add Cock became Plus Dick. The scientific formula looks like this: (+ 8=======>) = (+ 8======>). And you thought you'd never use algebra.

Of course there are many I left out. But this is only volume one, I think you have quite enough to study as it is. If I left out any Scott-isms feel free to remind me. I'm just so prolific it's hard to do myself justice.

That's all I have in me for tonight. Merry Christmas kids.

- Scott

The Secret to Motivation

I am so checked out right now. As a rule, I think that only people who are clossal tools use the word senioritis, so I won't. But I relate to the concept, so I henceforth rename it: this-week-next-time-I'll-be-on-a-nice-warm-island-blissfully-sipping-an-alcoholic-beverage-itis. As a result, nothing will be getting done this week. Or so I thought just a few scant hours ago. Then I stumbled upon a revolutionary epiphany that may well rock the very foundation of our very society. Here it very is: if you want to feel motivated to do something, find someone who can't do it. Then proceed to remind yourself how lucky you are by flaunting your ability to do simple tasks. (It's better if you do it out of their sight. Not for your motivation, just your what's the thing... oh, soul.) It's horrible I know. But it came to me as I was trying to get about eight things done and ignoring all of them to chill in the recliner and watch some TV. Flipping through channels I landed on The 750 Pound Man (at first I thought it was a beanbag). Out of sheer, morbid curiosity I decided to watch.

When they got into his relatively normal back story of simply being a lazy, lazy bastard it terrified me. I'm a lazy bastard! I can't let all this go and live like that! And instantly got up and cleaned my house, did 50 situps (which burned... burned so good), and pounded out three homework assignments. And now a blog post. I'm seriously impressed at the resolve right now. I think I've been scared straight. Don't get me wrong I feel bad for the guy, but somehow someone go through physical therapy to be able to more easily scratch themselves in bed makes me feel like an Olympian for flipping over the end of my couch into a 9.5 point TV watching sprawl. Not to mention how comparitively ripped I look next to this guy. You could bounce a quarter off my knee. Can he say that? I think not. Now, if you'll excuse me I think I'm going to go lift some baskets of laundry all the way over my head!

- Scott

P.S. What are the odds that during this season of loving and togetherness both Tim and I would have darker than average posts?
P.P.S. The ship I'm going to be sailing on over this holiday season, the ms Westerdam, has an internet cafe. So expect regular reports of how much better my day is going than yours.

I prefer the invasion of the Fantanas

So, I like monsters. I'm excited (finally after originally thinking it was a dumb idea for a remake) about King Kong. When I read what looked like a legitimate BBC article about a zombie-like disease infecting people in Thailand I was thrilled. I know how to fight zombies! I've practically been training my whole life. For instance I know that you have to destroy the brain to really shut one down. You might unload a clip into it, and it might go down. But once you get to the key and pass back over it, the allegedly re-dead zombie will spring back to un-life with increased strength and speed. It is what is known as a "Crimson Head." Although if he does get you just make sure to combine some red and blue herbs to restore health and posion resistance to continue the fight.

See? I'm ready. (It should be noted that I figured out the article was a fake in about three seconds, but I just wanted to believe so bad...) However there is one mythical plague that I'm completely ill-prepared for. And that is the invasion of the giant jelly fish. They're currently attacking Japan. And most surprisingly of all, it's legit. Here's a link to the story. And below is a picture of the beasts shortly before devouring one of their human prey.

IT'S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY FISH!

Terrifying. Even more so because if someone made a Metroid joke here I would laugh. I think the best part of this whole story however, is that the people of Japan are responding... by eating the invaders. The thing I take away from all of this is that I should move to Japan, the women dress like schoolgirls, giant sea creatures invade sometimes, and passing out business cards is customary. If it weren't for them damn ninjas flipping out and killing people and popping 10 boners... maybe, just maybe.

- Scott

Sneak Like a Spaniard, Tumble Like a Weed

Apparently I'm more physically talented than I give myself credit for. Maybe it's the shoes. Whatever the reason, I've been ridiculously sneaky the past two weeks. I've been popping up next to people with more efficiency than even the Sidler. The last two times this happened to me were both at movie concession stands. The earlier time I had slipped out of Ice Harvest (horrible, horrible movie) to get a refill. I walked up to the counter just as the girl bent down to put some snacks away. When she turned back I was there. Fear met desire and a cry/moan of shock/lust escaped her lips. The second time when the reel broke at Goodnight, and Good Luck, I mosey-d on down to the concession stand to get some snackage to make that dry turkey of a flick more bearable. Same thing, the girl had her head turned, I walked to the counter started in with "What up, could I get some Reces's Pieces?" which was also quite shocking for the girl in question.

If I were some kind of unaware-women-murderer I would be cleaning up. Making out like a bandit I tell you! (Insert Family Guy-esq cutscene of a bandit awkwardly attempting to kiss a girl at a drive in movie, followed by my revision: "...well, maybe a little better than that.") But that's not the extent of my mutant powers. Not by a pantload. I also have the ability, or even skill, to fall down flights of stairs with little to no phsyical damage. I have done so when the occasion suited me in the past, and did it recently at Josh and Allyn's place. I think I decided it was necessary after the 10th time I heard "Becareful, the stairs are icy!" At that point I just threw myself down the stairs, tumbling like a sassy child in a dryer, then smacked into the concrete at the bottom and kept on rollin'. I finally stopped on the sidewalk and lay prone in one of positions made popular by the police chalkings-around-dead-foo's. I proceeded to moan: "If only you had warned me just a little sooner, or perhaps a few more times!"

It was good times for all.

- Scott

Add another moment to the list

We all, like Cool Runnings, have our moments. Some of us even like to name them. For instance, Rob imparted to me a term that I use quite often describing a moment where everything works perfectly like a movie, that term: cinematic moment. On this week's episode of one of TV's funniest animated programs featuring a 10 year old black child as the main character, The Boondocks, the theme was about nigga moments. A nigga moment is when for no apparent reason, otherwise charming and bright individuals will suddenly abandon all reason and through rage get themselves into a situation they can't get out of, like jail. (I know what you're thinking but it's not racist if I'm just giving a synopsis!)

Anyway, to this list of moments I add my own. I dub it the Julia Roberts Pretty Woman moment. It happened to me when I was at the mall. Just hanging out, minding my own business. I saw the very same Calvin Klein suit I purchased last week (after much conflict, discomfort, and amid hilarious bits (I was on fire)). Anyway I guess I wasn't really dressed to impress in my 80's Member's only jacket, my Vans, and my favorite pair of jeans, but I looked damn sexy. Despite this as I was compairing dress shirts to the suit the snooty salesman sauntered over to me and motioned for me to take off my headphones. He proceeded to look down his nose so intently I thought he was going to aim a sneeze at me before saying "I bet you wish you could buy that. Don't you? Pesant*?"

What the hell? Do I look like I just rode a borrowed mule from my thatched roof cottage or something? Those headphones went to an iPod! A 40-gig too, not some pissy 2-gig hand-me-down! I shot back "Actually, I already have this one, mostly for lounging around in, maybe going to the bars." He then sprang into Mr. Helpful Ass Kisser. It was darling. I ended up with four new shirts and he ended up with no comission** because I let him help me then bought them later. Ha!

- Scott

* True, except for the pesant bit. Too tempting to leave out.
** Do Famous Bar Employees*** get comission?
*** Also, why was this guy sweating me? He works at Famous Frickin' Bar who is he to judge?

It's been one week...

I can't think of more appropriate song lyrics. You know the song with the listing of things? Barenaked Ladies? A band that, much like Free Corndogs, changed their name to trick people into comming to their concerts. Which is a damned dirty trick, and as such I love it. I also like that the Barenaked Ladies now have nothing better to do than appear on VH1 "I love" series and Comedy Central Specials.

Anyway, the song lyrics, they're appropriate because it's been a friggin' week since I posted. That is just not acceptable. However you didn't miss much. I did get in some good hang time with old friends in town, but not nearly enough. This year continued the tradition of the Drunken Thanksgiving. I don't really think I had as good a time this year. Perhaps too drunk? That's something to think about for the next year. Maybe work out a formula for just exactly when to start drinking to be at my pique intoxication when we get to Mad Gab and Buzz Word.

I'll get on that. You enjoy this gem. I'm serious. If you've never followed a link I've laid down, now is the time to redeem yourself. It's amazing.

- Scott

C'mon post

Current Mood: Impressively lazy (instead of finding the remote and muting the TV, I just turned the game up louder)
Current Music: Led Zepplin - Kashmir (as played through an NES music processor)

Nintendo should just start making everything. I mean it. The NES controller is already a belt buckle, MP3 player, and all around geek chic item. The NES itself is the ultimate in computer case mods. So really, why isn't it still the 80's? That seems to be the basis of all fashion, music, and movies today. Are we any better off? Oh yeah, blazing fast porn. How could I forget.

Anyway I wanted to whip out a post considering the likelihood that I'll be busy these next few days (what with my being a stud and all the girlies being home for Thanksgiving... better get 'em before the holiday flux sets in). And this post is all about my favorite person: myself. So let's bring you all up to speed on what I've been doing and what I'm going to be doing over the past, and next few days respectivelly. And we'll use the post condensing tool of the year: bullets.

• Last few days: Went and saw Walk the Line which had some serious pacing issues. However whatever went on during the 2nd act was completely drowned out by the drunk-off-his-ass heckler in the back periodically slurring "C'mon Johnny!" It. Was. Hilarious. There was a breif scene with Waylon Jennings and Drunky McHeckle switched smoothly into a one time "C'mon Waylon". I was amazed that despite being more plastered than the outside of a Mexican villa, the guy had perfect comedic timing. However the kicker of the whole event was when bitchy girl No. 3 decided to intervene. Here is their exact exchange:

Bitchy Girl No. 3: Would you please shut up?!
Drunky McHeckle: I'm sorry...
Bitchy Girl No.3: It's ok.
Drunky McHeckle: Be quiet, we're trying to watch a movie here!

• I really was sad to see him go. That day also included a lovely conversation on the topic of cock piercings and the exact meaning of "Hot Carl". A car full of guys spins a wonderful web of topics. I had a pretty decent call back to the "Hot Carl" discussion later on, but for the life of me I can't remember what the second topic was. Steve, help me out?
  

• Most Recent Few Days: I've been planning a pretty bitchin' party for my school. Well... kind of... it's a LAN Party. I know. I know. Geeky. But still, we've got two girls comming. Not too hard on the eyes either. Not that I'll notice, what with the fragging of n00Bz and boasting of my superior penis size and the resultant boost in gameplay skill.
  

• Next Few Days: I'll be in Jerseyville. On Thanksgiving I'll be as drunk as the Golden Girls at Mardi Gras, so don't expect to be able to contact me. I believe the quote was "So break out the Bailey's because I plan to be two bottles deep before we even cook the bird." I think that pretty much covers it. Other than that, I'm open for shenanigans as always. If you want in, you know the digits.
  

Enjoy T-day everyone.

- Scott

The Early Adopters

I recently saw something that really took me back while I waited at the train station on my ridiculously delayed train. That something? L.A. Lights. Remember those? The shoes with the light up heel? I do. I used to wear them almost exclusively. I think that phase was somewhere beginning in 2nd grade all the way through 5th. But they didn't make them in bigger sizes for reasons I couldn't imagine. Sure they kind of gave you away when you were depositing a twosie in the school john (which was frowned upon, and by frowned upon I mean you got made fun of, apparently these kids were the target demographic for "Everybody Poops"), but they were a good shoe damn it. Now I've figured out why they didn't catch on in the upper age ranges.

Gangstas. That's right; gangstas. What makes a shoe executive decide to make a shoe is whether or not thug-ass gangstas will buy it. Why wouldn't they? Well it might have something to do with the easy to follow red flashing lights as they run from the crime scene. I mean, at that point, why not just leave a number and address where you can be reached at. Also they couldn't bring themselves to tiptoe to avoid setting off the lights, thus saving the batteries for a while longer, the way I could. But this early adopters policy isn't just for shoes, it's for everything.

For instance: the broadband. Know why we have such lovely high-speed connections readily available to the public? Porn. Guys just needed to get their porn at a more reasonable speed. As much as you can as fast as possible. So much internet traffic was taken up by porn it was deemed nessary to increase the speed at which this traffic can move. And it doesn't end there, bought anything online with a credit card lately? You can thank porn. Seen any schweet animated GIF's? Porn was there. Enjoying that new webcam Rob? Porn.

So what I'm saying here is that if we want things we love to endure, like the internet, shoes, and Arrested Development, we need to get pornographers and gangsta's behind it. I think I'm going to mull that over for awhile and debate whether or not I should just run everything.

- Scott

Shootyz Groove: wise beyond their spelling.

"Riding on the train, riiiiding on the EL train. I don't got no problems no more, no more, no. Riding on the train, cruising on the EL train, I will reach my destination for sure I know."

I have to agree with the lads, on the El it does seem like I've got no problems at all. I don't have to steer, I don't have to talk, I don't have to do a damn thing. It's a lot like mowing, except for the steering issue. Both times to chill out and do some deep thinking. The topic of this weekend's sessions of free thinking? Well they were largely centered around Lauren Sharpe, the beautiful pixie improvisario. I caught her and her team, Otis, at IO on Saturday night in Chi-town after the Video Games Live concert was canceled, the one Tim, the Ryder 'Rents, and myself rushed through dinner to attend, only to arrive to a dark and deserted Chicago Theater. To quote Tim "Life is funny sometimes".

It is, especially to me. This causes problems at funerals, police interrogations, and any time I have to pass through customs. And let's not even get into my SQL class in which the professor often uses the word "query". But for all my laughing at inappropriate times, Lauren Sharpe produced laughter at all the right times, and did it looking hot. Whilst sitting at the bar watching her I couldn't help but think: "This girl is f*&king BEAUTIFUL. And funny. More so than Sarah Silverman, on both counts." Then I laughed that I bothered to censor myself in my own head. Then I thought about how much I hate censorship and interjected the word fuck between all words in my internal monologue for the next few sentences. I stopped only because it was too easy and I could see it developing into a potentially debilitating speech problem.

Anyway, you can imagine how much I freaked out when I, not 20 minutes ago, saw her in a Long John Silvers commercial. I decided that it was a sign. I must now move to Chicago and follow her around until she too is in love with me. I anticipate that this will take no more than two weeks. Tim, if you see her could you give her my card? That way she'll be pre-seduced for when I eventually manage to track her down.

- Scott

P.S. Keri, you get to take that other guy to formal, I get to have unrealistic, shallow crushes. What we have is sooo much better, I promise you have nothing to fear.

P.P.S. Tim, if you find Lauren, don't mention anything about the above P.S. Thanks.

P.P.P.S. Keri, I'm just joking telling Tim that. You're still my favorite.

P.P.P.P.S Tim, seriously though.

Word.

I have a confession to make: I can be a bit of a wordsmith. It will really irk me when someone repeatedly types the wrong word. For example: then, meaning than. I was just reading one of my frequented blogs, Joe Likes Crappy Movies, and he (who owns a website) constantly uses the word "then." So what the people in the hallway just heard was: "DAMN IT. IT'S THAN! THEN IS A TIME, THAN IS COMPARATIVE. If I hear that one more time... gaaah, FUCKING PUBLIC SCHOOLS!" Then they got very quiet, presumably because they were afraid they might use poor grammar.

But my word standards don't just apply to others, but to myself. Stringently. For instance, I really wish I loved Cola because it sounds way cooler to order a Coke, than to say "I'll have a rootbiier" (spelled the way it sounds if said a nerdy manner). Not only that, but one of my favorite ice cream fixin's is sprinkles. There needs to be a more masculine form of this word. I think that might just be the reason I thought that going to get ice cream in the middle of the day for no reason was so... alternatively...oriented? I'm trying not to say "gay" here, but that's about the most succinct way of putting it. And seriously, ssssprinkles? The word itself begs to be said with a lisp.

So for the above mentioned reasons, from this day henceforth, I shall call sprinkles, manly-flakes. And rootbeer? Fake brew. And when someone says "then" meaning "than"? Punch them in the face. Then explain that it's because they're being more annoying than I could stand. I don't think it's too much to ask. While you're at it, any other word peeves feel free to bring up.

- Scott

Short bus? More like FAT BUS

Left late for school today. That's not exactly strange. But I always, always, always make it out in front of the damned school buses. Always until now. I was 15 freaking minutes late because the bus in front of me had to stop every twelve feet to pick up some little fat ass off the stoop in front of their house. God forbid they have to march their chubby little thighs down the street to a central collection point. No! Why don't we just drive across the grass right up to their doors where the forklift operator will lift their 300 pounds of latch-key lard into the bus. Maybe that would be more convenient. Do we even need the pop-out stop sign anymore? They don't even cross the street, the bus turns around to let them out on that side. And really, I think the real danger is bouncing one of the little Gloops into an intersection, which they would completely clog.

In short, I hate buses and the fat-ness of children they promote. Thank you for your time, and good night.

- Scott

Hey moron, you can't even read this.

I was recently at the airport getting ready to board a flight. It was a Southwest flight so the usual cattle feeling of flying a commercial jet was amplified 100 fold. They accomplished this through a series of branding, prodding, and forcing us into three gated lines funneling into the same terminal. One girl was standing next to me and looked up to see she was in the B-line instead of the C, where she was supposed to be. She hurried away saying "I'm dyslexic", while I called after her "I think illiterate would be more appropriate!"

This brings me to my topic: Adult illiteracy. A terrible, sad thing. Even their commercials are sad, with children reading simple things to their parents. But there exists one commercial that isn't sad. One that is, in fact, hilarious. This commercial plays on the radio and I hear it every time I tune in to 89.9 WLCA, College Radio's Best. Here is the paraphrasing of this commercial from memory:

Illiterate Woman: Today I read a birthday card. It was funny and sweet like all birthday cards I guess, but this one was special, it said "I love you" and though I had received it many years ago today I read it for the very first time.
Smug Announcer: If you are an adult who has reading difficulty, you are not alone. Go to www.get-an-idea.com and sign up for our adult reading class.

First of all, no one reads birthday cards. You open them, see if money falls out then put them on the mantle. If the person happens to be watching you, then you put on the reading it and laughing ritously over the contrived, painfully obvious punchline inside act, then thank them. What a fantastic new world she's opened for herself. Secondly, the website? THEY CAN'T READ! How the hell are they supposed to get anything out of your site? Is it all in audio? Because if they can't read I doubt they're pulling down the money for a broadband connection. Also, how are they supposed to spell the URL? Speaking of which "get-an-idea"? Haven't they been through enough, do you really have to rub it in? Why not "public-school-educated-trash.net"? Geez.

And they put it on the radio, so you're sure to understand it. It's not like they could afford a TV spot, or it would have much impact in the paper. Because writing jokes about illiterate people is like shouting offending statements at the deaf. Who, incidentally, can read this. To them I say this: I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking.

Your thoughts?

- Scott

I wish

I totally wish I had something to post about right now. I don't want the readers of Bufford the Wonder Blog to feel like they're dealing with a Jake here. I keep the content a-commin'. But mostly what I'm doing right now isn't blog worthy. It's a lot of the "Oh my God, I have to graduate from college soon... what will I do with the rest of my life" sort of thing. That's what you find on other blogs, I'll have none of it here. Instead, I'll tell you about funny things I've recently overheard at the apartment.

First up: Since Rob is moving in to an apartment here, I decided it would be fun to shout at the office that "he's been living here for months! He isn't moving in at all!" At which point I hear one of the voices of the bitch neighbor's from the third floor saying "Shut your mouth. No, just shut it. Yeah, I want you to shut your big mouth." As this applied to me I was at first caught off guard, then I was ready to hurl insults toward her, before I heard the other roommate fighting with her right back. It had nothing to do with me at all! After I got over the blow to my ego, I eavesdropped until it bored me and went to get a shake. All in all, a good day.

Second: Earlier last month, my upstairs neighbor and I randomly decided to go to the bathroom at the exact same time, the time being 3:00 AM made it all the more random. So I was being quiet trying not to tip her off to my presence. It's always a bit odd being in the bathroom of an apartment with another one stacked on top. You can hear things. In this case I heard what I can only assume was quite a tuba performance. Ever so often there'd be a nice bass note accompanied with a cry of relief, sometimes to the tune of an "oh lordy". ...Shortly afterward I had to leave the bathroom because I was dying of laughter. I'll tell you, being immature is like being drunk. It's fantastic!

- Scott

Most. Describable. Days. Ever.

I just got back from the National College Media Convention. It was awesome. I met quite the cast of people along the way. I ran into people from my past, and quite possibly made some contacts for the future. The convention is basically all the colleges from the US sending their newspaper/yearbook/radio station/broadcast people to learn new things and to meet each other. That's the official story anyway. The real reason is clearly to have hilarious session names such as: "How Not to Offend Black People in 3 Easy Steps" or "Fakin' it with Photoshop, or 10 Ways to Destroy Your Credibility" and "You Don't Need Class to Publish a Student Newspaper". There was also a Lesbian Round Table Discussion, which I insisted should have been a Triangle Table Discussion. There was also a hilarious event involving the daylight savings shift.

That's the end of the story, though. I think we should start at the beginning. If disjointed chronology works for Falukner, I see no reason it wouldn't work for me. The man was a hack! However rather than steal directly, I intend to steal and modify. That's the basis of all creativity I'll have you know. The modification: headings.

Day 1: Most Random Day Ever.

*Doodly doo doodly doodly doo* Wavy lines, vaguely underwater-esq going back in time fadeout *Doodly dee doodly dee doodly dee*

Time: the start of the trip. Walking around the convention I saw someone familiar, so I went up behind her, put my head next to hers and said "what the hell are you reading". She turned to me and was as shocked as I was to see her. Her name: Molly Schell. We took a minute to reflect on the randomness, then I profusely appologized for past wrong doings. It happens. We chatted a bit, then I went to check out the convention center. Inside I mosey-ed past a booth and I watched a drawing, the lady in charge of it was saying "Come on, no whammy, no whammy..." which prompted my asking if she had seen any game shows in the last 15 years or so. She ignored me and then revealed the winner: "Molly Schell from Evangston" at which point my head would have exploded if I didn't know she was there. Because there's random, and then there's "this must be scripted random". That's the kind of random I was dealing with.

As we were arriving in Kansas City I mentioned that I would like to see a movie at some point, if it's possible. I really enjoy going to the movies on vacation, checking out the different theaters, observing new and exotic snack bar selections (this one had beer), and generally spreading the gospel of shouting "BOO COMMERCIALS" at the screen before the movie starts. It turned out that I wouldn't have to worry much about that. There were to be 4 advance screenings. First was RENT, then Shopgirl, then Grandma's Boy, and finally The Aristocrats. I saw them all. Here's my reviews in the order I saw them:

• RENT: Phenomenal. Sorry, just had to use Beauchamp's word. The movie itself was very very good however. Despite the opinion of one of the members of my paper staff (he's a republican, they hate RENT anyway). We got to see it on the 27th of October and were the first general audience screening of the film. Before us there was just a screening for people involved in it. There were a few changes, but the changes they made were minimal and necessary for it to work on the screen. All in all 4/4 Hand Turkeys.

Day Two: Most Cinematic Day Ever.

• Shopgirl: Ummm... good. Yeah, I'm definitely going with good. Well. No. It was good. I think. Yeah, didn't suck. I wouldn't praise it like I did RENT but it wasn't offenive to see. I liked it much better than the movie it's most compared to: Lost in Translation in any case. Plus Claire Danes is far hotter than the lion-faced Scarlett Johansson. I think she's famous just for her cool name.Saw this one on the 28th (Quien's birthday for those in the know). Summary: a solid B, within the curve of modern cinema. So sayeth the hand turkey.
  

• Grandma's Boy: Horrible movie. Good experience. It gets a paragraph. I was ditched by my RMC compatriots who wanted to go to a club with a guy that Gloria, an RMC-er from Chi-town, met online a week ago. He was going to come pick her up in a black Yukon Denali, and take her to a club to give her free drinks and... presumably rape and murder all of us. I was out. So wandering around I hopped the last bus to the screenign of this movie at a casino. Riding on the last bus, alone I met the organizer of the entire event. He looked familiar and I'm sure it was because he's been on one of the talking head shows I watch, but I really can't place him. Anyway, he asked me if I was a reporter. I said I was and gave him my card. He laughed (it's a ridiculous card) and asked me if I wanted to interview the stars of the movie after the screening. I said yes, of course. I then proceeded to spend the rest of the movie thinking "what the shit am I going to ask these guys?" Continued in the next bulleted point.
  

• Fortunately I have seen all the movies Allen Covert, and Peter Dante have been in and had some pretty insightful questions. After the obligatory "So... I bet you've heard this enough to kill, but... how do you know Sandler" question (it's a Happy Madison production) I moved on to more specific stuff. For instance, Nick Swardson's standup features prominently Gay Robots, which are in the movie, and old people/grandma's. So I asked how much was derived (except I said "ripped off") from his act. They laughed. I had about 15 minutes with the boys, and we hit it off pretty well. Well enough to take pictures in compromising gay-love embraces, which I always rate as being top shelf. In fact, here are those pictures now:

Center: Me and Peter Dante, clockwise from top right, Paul Provenza (we'll get into that later), Allen Covert and I, and then two more Scott/Dante's.

It should be noted I also went to some sessions on these days that I'm not getting into because... honestly this is long enough.

Day Three: Most Aristocratic Day Ever

• And finally, The Aristocrats. Another 5/5 Hand Turkeys. I got to meet and chat up Paul Provenza after the show. I told him he is now my patron saint of free speech. He then pondered just how fucked up that religion must be. It was hard to disagree. The movie itself had me laughing pretty good a few times. And I don't think Sarah Silverman ever looked that hot, or was that funny, at least from what I've seen. Although, I'm eager to be proved wrong.

And after that I flew home. One more funny thing happened though. And it was this: daylight savings time. I forgot about it. So when I woke up I had a 15 minute minor flipping out session. Afterwards I returned to my calm, aloof manner, but still insisted we get to the airport a bit early. It turned out our flight was later than we thought so we were severely early. About an hour before take off we saw a man frantically running through the terminal. It looked like he was looking for his kid and found the tot near the gate we were at, but he blew past him. Now we could hear him. He was frantically repeating "Oh no, oh no" and then screaming "WAIT!" he ran to the door that leads to the plane and tried to open it but it was locked. "No. NO! I can't miss this flight" he moaned as he pounded on the door.

At this point we were all watching, so was the flight attendant at the gate that was boarding next door. Flight Attendant (FA):"Can I help you sir?" Dumb Ass (DA):"I need to be on that flight!" FA: "Sir, that flight doesn't leave until 11:20" DA: "I know, I still have 1 minute. (turning to door) WHY IS THE DOOR LOCKED?!" FA: "Sir, did you forget about daylight savings time" DA: "... oh." He then sat down amid sarcastic applause and my cackles from being doubled over in laughter.


Ah, done. Tell me what you think.

- Scott

Currently

I'm frantically typing this post instead of packing for my trip. To add procrastination to procrastination to that other thing I'll name when I look it up, I'm constantly running back and forth from my computer to Rob's room to watch the Trailer Park Boys. Basically the Canadian version of the Soprano's. But it's Canada so they're in trailers. It's also pretty hilarious.

However not as hilarious as the article I read earlier today prominently featuring a certain Mr. Woo Suk Hwang, prominent scientist and walking Asian name joke. It's particularly good if you pronounce Woo as 'Who'. I heartily reccomend it. I just wanted to tap out a quick alert that I have not yet fallen off the face of the earth. But I am about to go to Kansas City to be a part of the National College Media Convention. When the plane touches down in Kansas City... then I've officially fallen off the face of the Earth. When I return I shall be the journalistic equal of Steve Corbert... or at least Rob Courdry, throw me a frickin' bone.

You know in sit-coms when they're not feeling like writing an episode so they give you a montage of past episodes? That's what this is. So if you're missing me while I'm incommunicado these next few days I reccomend you check out these past gems and reflect on the Scott-shaped void in your life until I return.

1. Revenge of the Slytherin
2. Conning a pilot part 1. And part deux.
3. Oh the hairmanity!
   
4. The impossible dream.
   
5. Junk in her trunk. The first Scott post graced by Tara D.
   

And that's that. Enjoy the montage, I'll be back Monday.

Bus-iness as usual

Man, more photos for you. You should cackle with glee at this insight into my life! Because honestly, this is some premo stuff. This weekend I attended a hockey game my brother was playing in. I got there a little late due to Springfield's inexplicable desire to repair all the roads at the exact same time. Questioning why they are repairing the roads will lead you to the conclusion that they pick the ones in the best shape, and endeavor to keep them in such impressive condition by constantly digging them up and resurfacing them to appear exactly as they did in the first place. It really is a marvelous system.

Anyway, once there most of the parking spots were taken. Including some especially good real estate up front by none other than the visiting team's bus. And the rat bastard was taking up about 9 really great parking spots. This I could not tolerate, roads may not be under my influence, but a charter bus is well within my capacity for revenge. I shamed the poor fool with this beauty:

I consider it another tool in the arsenal in the war against idiotry.

It was glorious. Especially considering how covertly I managed it. I prepared the bumpersticker, then pretended to be kneeling to tie my shoe and slapped it on under-the-leg style. I stood up, started walking to the rink and got about 4 steps before some of the opposing team (as identified by their "I'm better than you" track suits) rounding the corner. My face betrayed nothing except marvelous breeding. The best was timing my exit from the rink after the game/brutal pummeling and seeing them all milling around the bus completely oblivious. Just keep advertising it to the world guys, like the tracksuits didn't handle that already.

- Scott

Tacky Triad

Recently, I picked out a trend among some blogs I frequent. The subject: tacky things. Not that it was exactly addressed in this way, but that was the gist. The first was Tara D., she ranted on one of the words she loathes most be-boppin'. The second wave consisted of Wendyloo Pseudonym looking down her surly nose at fannypacks. And to this anti-tack I add my own voice. And that voice says: DOWN WITH WOLF SHIRTS!

You know what I mean. Wolf Shirts. Those graphic tees that rural women wear to the strip mall to look around and maybe pick up something at the Dollar Store to go with their new cowboy boots. And you even know the type I mean. Lives in the Mid-West but dresses like she's from an Indian reservation episode of Quantum Leap. Probably a bunch of "authentic" Navajo blankets thrown about her "rustic, log cabin on the inside" split level in the woods, filled with dream catchers and pine scented candles. Gaaah, just look:

How the world sees us.

In keeping with this I have founded the A.W.W. Anti-Wolfshirt Worldwide. It needs to be worldwide because people in other countries don't quite get why it's so terrible. Like my beautiful Irish friend (an attractive Irish woman, and I'm not even drunk!) Our goal is to inform the whole planet, and eventually the galaxy. DOWN WITH WOLF SHIRTS!

...We expect bumperstickers shortly.

- Scott

Your cover's blown

Today I had an oddly brotherly time of it. My brother and I don't often get along. We're a pretty righteous team when we're both after the same goal, so long as we're not after the same thing. As in, something there isn't two of. Think a toy, a girl, a person's attention. Fortunately the battle over who is the favorite was won long ago. They still claim they love him, but it's like having Jesus as your half brother. A lot to measure up to.

Anyway, Ross came over today and we hung out for a time. Then his roommate, Brent, came over with their other roommate's ex. There had just been a pretty brutal breakup (on account of their other room mate, Dallas, being an asshole... but one who can convince multiple women to sleep with him. Funny how that usually works out.) So Brent decided to covertly cheer her up, specifically by offering ice cream and my company. The funny part came when Dallas called him to see where he was. "I'm just getting some ice cream" he said. At this point I was taken to the morgue because I had died laughing. It was quite possibly the gayest thing (in the orientation sense) he could have said, next to "I'm riding a scooter and wearing short shorts. Wanna listen to the Rent soundtrack for the next 10 hours with me in my room, silly?" Comming from him, it was hilarious.

I'm clearly out of touch with exactly what gay people do for entertainment in Springfield, aside from wishing they lived somewhere with some sembelence of a theater community. I too wish this, especially after repeated bad experiences with what Springfield has to offer. Fiddler on the Roof will never be the same for me. At least pronounce the names right, I mean Teev-yee? Come on!

- Scott

P.S. Brent, if you have something to share with us, or you ever just want someone to, you know, talk to, we'll understand. We just want you to be happy.

In the bag

I am in the planning stages of a massive Euopean undertaking. I'm going backpacking across that most sexy landmass, and as such I'm going to need a few things. Most glaringly, a backpack. So it was that a few days ago I set out to see if I could find the one I want at a not insane price. Suddenly I know what it is to be a woman after a purse. Fortunately, thinking like any quasi-poor college student, eBay came to my rescue. Or attempted to. On a whim I decided to check there and to my complete lack of surprise they had the bag I wanted for cheap. Just one, and the auction was shutting down in 20 hours. Best of all, the thing had no bids on it! Fantastic!

So I placed my bid, and proceeded to go back and forth mentally over whether or not I actually wanted the damn thing (a conversation I often have with myself over eBay purchases). With a minute to go I decided that I did indeed want it and it was good that I had bid on it. So I refreshed, and refreshed. 10 seconds left! Sweet Judy Blue Rat, I've won! 8 seconds left, I'm in the clear, 6 seconds left, still on top. 5 seconds left: YOU HAVE BEEN OUTBID!

Insert obscenities. Some worthless bastard stole it with 5 seconds left, there wasn't even enough time for me to put in a higher amount. So now I'm not going to Europe, instead I'm using that cash and tracking down that rat f*cker and punching him repeatedly in the face. Feel free to share opinions on suitable revenge ideas.

- Scott

Japan, you've let me down

I once considered anime to be a sort of art. One I'm not overly into, although I do enjoy a nice Trigun or Cowboy Bebop as much as the next fanboy, I think of most of it as ridiculous, obscure, and the fast track to not having anything interesting to say. So as an art it ranks right just above those girls who write their own poetry in high school. But now they've gone into painfully cheesy territory. The new Cartoon Network anime show? BoBoBo-Bo Bo-BoBo. And my parents thought Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was a stupid name. What the hell kind of kids are we raising on this crap.

I suppose you're wondering about the plot. Perhaps they gave it a stupid name, but it has a plot of gold! Like me wife Audrey. If that's what you're hoping for you're not only mistaken, no sir, you're sorely mistaken. Here's a brief plot synopsis:

In the 31st century an evil emperor has organized a hair hunt to fuel his ruthless power. The citizens are in fear of losing their locks to vicious Hair Hunters. One man has decided to take a stand, that man is BoBoBo-Bo Bo-BoBo. He has a golden afro and Nose Hair Karate techniques and... someotherridiculousshit.

It's official, I'm debating whether or not I can still have faith in humanity's right to exist. Thanks alot Japan. But honestly, what are they saying about grooming? That it's evil? Because really I thought hygene was all the rage over there. Damn you Japan conform to my stereotypes.

- Scott

Dad is going to disown me

Have you ever signed up for something and completely forgot about it? Like a mailing list, or a CD club, or the National Guard? And then did you ever not remember it for six years? Because the other six years ago, I did. I think a little exposition is in order.

*Exposition Fade Out Music*
*Nostalgic/Irreverant Voice Over*
I have a bit of a confession to make. I used to play EverQuest. I have a bigger confession to make. I once went to an EverQuest Convention. God help me, I once went to an EQ convention. I think it was there that I had this epiphany: "If I keep playing this, I am never going get laid, or even acknowledged by any female... ever." Seriously, looking around the room it was like these guys had been virgins for so long they completely forgot there was another sex. It's going to be hard to show you this but I want you to know what I mean:

Image stolen from a security camera that was present at the convention. You might ask me how I got this? Just call me Mr. Universe, all signals go somewhere and I go everywhere. (Or Steve was at home hitting "Print Screen.) In case there's some confusion, I'm the scared looking plaid lad in the center. Behind the guy I'm assuming dressed up as Grimace.

Wow, I looked like a little kid back then. I'm so manly now it's hard to remember I wasn't born like this. Which would have been disgusting. Anyway, you can see the type of crowd I was dealing with. I'm painfully dissapointed that there aren't any of the cosplayers in view. Especially the guy with the tinfoil "armor". Here's a quote from one of the nerds present at the convention when hotel staff shooed EverQuesters out of sight: "They kicked us out the lobby for camping the spawn." (Nerdy laughter.) Between that, people greeting each other by saying "Hail" and the "real life quest" (AKA scavenger hunt) I realized that I needed to stop playing. Immeadiately.

Not terribly long after that I stopped playing. It really was for the best. I moved on, got sexier and sexier but still remained just as awesome and humble as I started. Well... probably more awesome. I played other games of course, did more things in what is known as 'real life', and went to college. But all the while there was this nagging feeling that I had some unfinished business. Well the other day I figured it out... I never actually canceled my subscription. See what reading your billing statement can get you? So six years later, I'm completely free of the beast. And I have to say, it feels good.


- Scott

P.S. This comment section is likely to turn into a complete nerd fest. Just so you know.

I wonder if there's a union

With Tim shipping out, presumably to persue his dream of making people laugh and getting paid for it, I find myself asking "just what is it I want to do with my life?" I've thought about it a long time, and I've finally decided: I want to be a smuggler. I haven't decided just what I plan to smuggle, but it looks like something I'd enjoy. Hell, who ever gets to decide what they smuggle? As far as I can tell, the smuggling greats ie Han Solo, Mal Reynolds, and to a lesser extent Them Duke Boys, all have to smuggle whatever people are paying them for. Now most times for the Duke boys it was moonshine, but I distinctly remember a time Boss Hog outlawed Seventeen magazine, it was dark times for all involved.

But where to start? I feel like I need smuggling contacts before I can break into the industry, and participate in the American dream of doing somewhat illegal things. Smuggling in Illinois alone is a $1 billion dollar* a year industry. I wanna get me a slice of that. The thing about it is, I bet there's a union. And your uncle or your father had to be in it to get you in. It's not like just anybody can smuggle things. You need to be part of a crack team. (It should be noted that, on occasion, it literally is a crack team like... with crack.) Preferably you should surround yourself with colorful savants each having fun character flaws that belie their genius level of skill at their particular speciality. That's SO one of those things a union, or guild, would hook up for you.

Don't get me wrong here, I realize I'm not going to *start* in a ship like Serenity or the Falcon, I recokon I'll get myself something simple. Like a conversion van, or a pontoon boat, and get my feet wet in that. I could probably make due in my car, the ever classy 1990 Chrysler New Yorker. I do have the optional dead hooker class trunk. In fact, push come to shove, I could probably fit 4-7 dead hookers in that trunk. Now I just have to figure out what I'm gonna smuggle to make the law man look all manner of stupid. Any suggestions?

- Scott

* Figure made up by me to sound cool.

And they say letter writing is dead

Well I've finally done it. My actions have brought about utter panic and nashing of teeth from the Robert Morris College administration. It came in the form of witty banter. Me and some of my friends from the Graphic Arts program were making fun of the "backyard BBQ" event my school was having. It should be noted that talking to a person of another major at RMC is practically like being a diplomat, my school is so damn cliquish. Anyway, I think the letter speaks for itself:

The institution that we call college has forced upon us the means to socialize. In laymen's terms this means that they make the student body pass a large mass of tables and fatty foods in order to get to their cars in hopes that the students will stop and chat with other students outside of their fields. I am sorry to say that this concept has failed. Not to say that the student body is not appreciative of free meals since most of us are paying for things in nickels and dimes, but the fact that you expect such difference in opinions to interact is slightly obtuse.

If you look at the different fields at this school, you will see that all the clicks are different. Graphic designers are the laid back, mellow, joking gang that is usually late and proud of accomplishments aquried. Business groups are more straight forward, always busy, conservative, and eager to get things done right the first, second, and third time. Networking students are more of the kind to always see working in the labs, talking computer lingo, and playing computer games while trying to look busy on projects. And so on and so forth. When trying to put these contradictory individuals together in a close proximity, you will see that the animal behavior of keeping to your own sets in.

Although, you will see a small few of students meander from their group to one or two others, these individuals either have to or they know others they are approaching. For instance, the great Scotty will approach others he has had classes with or knows from being around them while talking to those he knows (and just because he's a friendly guy like that). Again, not that the student body is not thankful for the free food, it just that the atmospheric tone of having to socialize with people you wouldn't talk to even if you were three sheets to the wind and loved everyone, just realize that we will socialize in our own way when we want. But keep the free food comming.

First of all, that "the great Scotty" bit was completely unsolicited. I also might friggin' love this girl. (Just kidding, I am married after all, and nothing can compare to Keri. Perfect Dark? More like Perfect Wife!) Her stereotypes of the majors, while somewhat biased were in fact, hilarious. Especially if you read into them a bit. There was apparently something of a screaming match over the publication of this letter, as if the carefully crafted facade of perfection was starting to crack. If only they realized that it doesn't need to crack. It's pretty much a screen door. All in all I consider it a good day's work.

- Scott

P.S. Goodbye Tim, Springfield will miss you. But don't pretend I won't show up unannounced at some point.

Quick Sunday Night Hilarity

H'ok. So I was trying in vein to find the podcast of my dear friend Jacob (which is suspiciously impossible to locate by any means) when I, in desperation, went to Google and tried his name along with Podcast. I also tried the name of his post "Voice of the Orange Belt". No dice. But, then thinking that Jacob wouldn't want his last name "Eyers" blasted around the internet, I went with his pseudonym "Jakey MacJake" and threw in "Podcast" to help narrow the field. Well... this is what I got.

I then laughed a ridiculous amount. Yes Google, I somehow mistyped Jackie MacJuke. Because that's so much more likely than Jakey MacJake. What was I thinking? Maybe it was this: I think, when I write my novel, I'm going to name my heroin (should there be one) Jakie MacJuke. The name is just too hilarious to pass up. I say this to Google. GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

- Scott

Liars, Blood and Comics

Well... I skipped a day. And a half. So the goal was lofty, but the results left something to strive for. But you've gotta cut me some slack. It's not like I took that day off or anything. I got married! That's right, my blushing internet bride is Keri Thompson. You might remember her from the last comment on the previous post. If not, you should really check her out. You'll notice she's listed as my wife. She really is a peach, let's go over some of her awesome qualities: likes good music as defined by me (and her), loves Perfect Dark, and finally has called Joss Whedon a god. I pretty much had to marry her. It it wasn't even up to me.

Other than that (and despite Tim's pre-emptive reporting of the event) I gave blood. Well, I attempted to give blood. You see every 56 days the local blood bank calls me like very polite daytime vampires and asks that I donate some blood to their cause. You know, whatever I'm not really using. As a lark I brought along Tim. Because if there's one thing he needs it's more substance of any description, taken out of his body. It's like mosquito's are looking at him, shaking their heads, and finding some Ethopians to feast on.

Interestingly, it was I who failed to save lives that day. You see, when they stuck me I watched. I always watch the needle go in. How can I not? I like to know when my skin is pierced. I asked a smartass question about anti-coagulants and then settled down to the race I was having with Tim to be done with giving blood first. I won. By a long shot. Apparently there's just too much in the way of muscle in my arm for me to squeeze safely. After about 2 tablespoons of blood had left me, I squeezed to help the process along and had the needle forcibly shoot out of the vein. It turns out I'm just ridiculously strong. Hopefully some Borrower will need a transfusion and we can hook him up. I've seriously lost more blood shaving.

Now back to my Firefly marathon.

- Scott

Back to back!

I'm posting every day this week. I hope you're excited. They won't all be long, but I'm going to try to post something every day until Serenity comes out this Friday. After that, I promise nothing. NOTHING! But first, a little about my day. Today I met a new subject for blogging. Actually I think Rob met the same person, but he met her about 2 years ago. That subject? The hot Asian girl. In my Stats class today (which I totally blew off) whilst I was checking out the freshmeat lo and behold I came upon her. So I'm now charting my opinion of her. This will replace the now defunct Top 5/Bottom 5 on the sidebar. Just for the record: Physical Attributes: 8. Non tangibles: currently 9.5.

The only other thing I did today besides thinking lecherous thoughts, and entertaining throngs of freshmen in orientations (Seriously, I rock. If you go to Bobby Mo, you want me orientating you.) was to fill out the below survey. I like to think the HAG would have liked it. Whoa, terrible Hot Asian Girl acronym, but not as bad as my second choice which was Fine Asian Girl.

What is your name:
Harry Scott Gresham

What do you like to be called:
Sir

Phone Number:
91237489374

Program of Study:
CNS

What, if anything, is likely to interfere with your attending every class for the full time?
Hoards of women throwing themselves desperately at my feet.

Is there any reason you cannot contact me everytime you cannot attend class?
Just the women. See above.

What is the last or hardest math class you have taken?
The hardest involved paying attention in spite of the Bock Twins.

Do you feel that you will need extra help with this class?
No.

Are you interested in helping other students during class or working as a student tutor outside of class?
One in particular.

Is there anything else you would like to tell me or ask me?
How is it that you look so nice every day?

And that's all I did today.

- Scott

Say whaaat?

Ok, I could do one of my monsterously detailed posts of what my weekend was like and what I did and the consistency of my stool, but instead I'm going to post some quotes from it. Some with setup, some not. How's that sound? (What a stupid question, I can't hear you. And if I could, I wouldn't care!)

• Emily H: "I'm like a camel; I drink alot." (Pause) "And I spit alot!"
• (Pause)
• Scott: "And you let men ride your humps."
  

• In reference to a friend of Barrett's:
  
• Scott: "He's the guy with really big... eyes." (Funnier aloud)

• In reference to Facebook chain letters:
• "Oooh, I've been hit by the beautiful truck, and the alcoholic truck, and the sex truck. WELL YOU'VE BEEN HIT BY THE HOMO TRUCK! QUIT SENDING ME CHAIN LETTERS"

• A large group of black football players is comming toward us down a dark sidestreet.
  
• Barrett (in undertones to Emily): Keep your head down, don't make eye contact.
  
• (Emily does so.)
• Barrett (two seconds later): Yo yo yo, what's up? High five! Alright. *Runs through the middle of them laughing madly getting high fives while they look bemused at his drunken antics*

• In a store trying on hats. Wearing a small fedora:
• Scott: "I look like a Jewish man getting on the train... to Auschwitz."
  
• Scott: (in a beanie) "Hey ese! Let's lower our cars and talk about how we're different from other demo-graphics. I'm Carlos Mencia!"
• Scott: (silly hat) "Don't that look cunning?"

• Scott to Maggie: Hey Kati... damn it. I mean Maggie. It's just that you look like...
• Maggie: Fuck you.
  
• Scott (the rest of the night, Irish accent on her name): Margaret Mary McGuinness... more like McGODDESS! Maggie is the best name ever! I'm going to name my kids Maggie. All of them!"
  
• At one point I actually took contact cement I found and wrote "MAGS" on my arm. Then super glued a bible onto it. I do not recall how I intended to make up for calling her Katie in this manner. I do remember that it was, in fact, hilarious.
  

I'll cap this post with a picture of three big, strapping men. Men who drink 40's. Men who like women, and boobs and beer! Men who, because the women refused to drink them succumbed to the temptation of delicious, but candy-ass, girl drinks.

Yarr, Captain Morgan be hangin' his head right about now.

Tomorrow's topic: being less concise, possibly in relation to copyright laws.

- Scott

Home

Few things can rile a man like disrespecting his home. I'd reckon the other things like it are disrespecting his woman, and disrespecting his family. You do any of those things and you've officially pissed him off. Not a lot will legitimately piss me off so you'd best pay attention when it happens. Tonight it happened.

Remember those skanks? The ones from this gem of a post. Well, seems they needed a little Wednesday night company in the form of a bunch of thug ass wipes who aren't like to be able to form a complete sentence, let alone say anything worthwhile in that sentence. This chaffes my patience. The thug squad also finds the best way to express their invaluable contributions to conversation is to hoot and yell in my hallway at 1:30 AM while I'm trying to watch my pirated episodes of Firefly. This chaffes my nerves and piques my interest. Seems if I want to stop this I'd best have some good intel to take to the management. So I pause my stories, and mosey to the peep hole. What I see pisses me off.

Some worthless asshat of the thug people decides that, having come from an apartment of ladies and such, the best place to relieve himself is across the hall from my apartment. He pissed on the gorram wall. As if apartment hallways don't smell bad enough. I waited until they left snuck out into the hallway to get a picture of it, then stalked to my window to see which cars they got in. Ones I recogonized. You don't mess with a man's home. And you don't mess with my home. These fools are in more trouble than they're worth. God help them.

- Scott

What's in a name?

An even number of vowel's and consonants? Four letters? A topic cliched by Shakespeare and nameless writers before and after him? No, what's in a name is ammo. Ammo for people to make fun of you in grade school. Like if your name is Duncan, you can fully expect me to call you Duncan Donuts in clever and cutting ways until you cry. And that was in kindergarten, just imagine the horrors he went through when the Highlander TV series took off. Looking back, I'm still not sorry; you shouldn't have taken my girl brah.

The reason I bring it up, as you've all had the good luck to avoid discussing thus far, is because Britney finally squeezed out her little hellspawn and gave the demon-seed a name. That name: Preston. The last time I heard that name was the in-class reading of a narrative in which I constructed the most twisted, demented person you could imagine... and named him Preston. The time before the last time I heard the name was in reference to Preston Kirby, and those of you who recogonize it can attest to it's... unique effect. For those of you who don't, think of the worst kind of hoodlum. Now you're with us.

So I have this to say to Britney: you're well on your way to being poor white trash (again), and you're the kid's responsible parent. Then you go and name it Preston. Congratulations, now he just has to wait until your sex tape comes out round about 5th grade and his life will be effectively ruined.

This I have to say to all parents: whatever you were going to name your child (especially daughters, they end up with the dumbest names imaginable) don't. I know you want to give the kid some name that's different, or new, or based on some pop icon (do we seriously need people named Shakira running around?) just don't do it. Oh and to you hyper-conservative parents, whatever you were going to name your kid, also don't. If I meet another Emily, Lauren (or Lauren based name), or Sara(h) I'm going to freak the hell out. These names are fine, but they've had their run. Let them go.

As long as we're on the topic of girl names, whatever you name the kid DO NOT give her the middle name Ann. And if you're feeling really creative, also don't give her the middle name Ann spelled with an 'e' i.e. Anne. It's not a name at all, it's a boolean operator mispronounced. If you say "Umm" when the nurse asks for your daughter's middle name, Ann is the name they write down. Nicole is what they write down if they've already had 10 Ann's that day. So the point is, before you name a kid check with me. Please? Run your children's names past me at will below.

- Scott

P.S. Today is international talk like a pirate day. Avast!

Whoa, retro

So I'm watching Billy Madison on Comedy Central, and aside from noticing how it didn't really stand the test of time for me (the last time I saw it I think I nearly peed my pants, clearly I'm much more snobbish about my comedy these days) I noticed one minor, minor scene that sparked a montage style flashback for me. It was when Richard fell over a bench and some extra quipped "Oh! Did you see that guy's nuts?" If I were heckleing myself I would say "Yeah that really narrows the number of flashbacks." And then I would tell myself "Hey shutup, I'm telling a story here!" And then my readers would get tired of this particular device and I would move on with the story.

The montage showed flickers of my stripper phase. I don't think we've really discussed it here and I think we need to. You see, one fine day at some multi-high school event I was attending, I had a little time to kill. In fact, many of my friends and I had some time to kill, and you all know what that means. It means I had an audience. So, randomly, serendipitiously I picked a song on the jukebox in the cafeteria of whatever school we happened to be at. The song was "Like a Virgin" by Madonna. ("Naturally!" Hey voice in my head, I'm trying to type a post. Be good and I'll let you rip on Tara Reid. "...fine.") Anyway, at this point I just felt some primal, in-born need. A need I couldn't control. A need so deep it was like the laws of nature didn't apply to me anymore. I was to strip. And strip I did. On a table. In front of everybody. It was as if everything I was boiled down to seducing everyone in the room. Women swooned, men laughed, children cried.

Wait a second, children cried?! Yes, sadly I think I spooked one little girl I hadn't even seen. So about two minutes into my routine (when I was running low on ideas for new and exotic ways to bust a move) I decided that I should stop... to applause. So it was that I began what is warmly recalled as my "stripper phase". Other high lights of the era include bursting through the door at the girl's only cast party and promptly stripping to my boxers.

My best attempt at a suave look. Good lord. What was I thinking?

I'll tell you what I wasn't thinking; that in about 30 seconds I would be made fully nekid by two of the fine ladies pictured (technically, one is taking the picture). Caroline and Kylie totally de-boxered me. Much to the arousal and surprise of the present ladies. In fact Andrea Sherman wept for the beauty of the thing. I choose to ignore that she ran away weeping. I think I remember her saying "that's the first time I've seen one of those!" Anyway this performance was so good it demanded a second performance. I really didn't want to do this one as by now the schtick had grown old for me. But since it was for such a special girl (one I had been faux hitting on to aggravate her for the past year or so, oh and she was my show choir partner) I did it anyway. The first part of the gift was a series of pictures. Here's the only digital copy of those photos:

I went with the ever classy naked folk singer draped in the American flag motif. In the others it actually IS draped around me, this time it's my backdrop.

The socks you might ask about, well, they're a subtle homage to a girl who had earlier posed naked in my school. She was underaged so it caused a big hullabaloo, but I thought it was funny that she kept her socks on when she was otherwise naked. Anyway, the gift of a series (of about 7 nekkid pictures) was presented, but the guy who put me up to this wanted more, in fact everybody wanted more. So I stripped (I really hadn't anticipated the need and didn't wear boxers that were... appropriate to my exotic needs). All was well until I lifted my leg, in my haste to be seductive I forgot how loosely my boxers fit around my legs. I had basically flashed 40-ish people. Including teachers and one special girl who screamed "That's the second time I've seen it!" Sorry Andrea, but you know where your eyes were. It's was a big room, and brag as I may, I only fill so much of it.

If you, or anyone you know have memories of this most excellent era of my life, feel free to share them below.

- Scott

Game or Alternative Life Style?

First of all, I'm wicked pissed that I didn't get to post until today. But over the days since my last post I've been, in no particular order, manicured, unconsious, and shanghai-ed. Quickly I'll elaborate; manicured: I ended up being the last hot guy in town so two fine and sexy ladies called me up to join them at one of their houses... to watch Lifetime, paint our nails and talk about how you should never leave your kids with Major Dad. I pretended the clear coat nail hardener I put on my nails made my nails into adamantium... it was at that point when I realized that I was being too gay to attract these ladies, and too nerdy to attract the gays. Damnation!

So that shot Memorial/Labor/Kasmir Pulaski Day weekend, next up was Tuesday, which I completely phoned in. I did find out that I was allegedly told I would be going to Chicago today. So that's what I did. I took a nice little dinner cruise, ate some squash ravoli (much more appealing than squashed ravoli, which was what I thought they said in the first place). As we boarded I hopped in a picture with a random guy, then liked it so much I actually bought it (for a raping). Here's the picture:

To people asking me about him I always say: "He's my half brother; I don't like to talk about it."

But onto the topic of this post. The thing leaching my time lately is a brilliant little game demo called F.E.A.R. What that stands for isn't important, the gist is it's a scary game. And really, it's just scary how good I've got at it. Where a battle of overwhelming odds against 20 clone soldiers was once frightening, I now laugh at the sheer mayhem possibilities. You see, I'm now good enough to pin people in... interesting poses with the spike gun... let's just take a look.

Clone troops love acupuncture! And I gleefully give them their fix. This one is being treated for excessive hunger, memory improvement, and also wanted to see if I could shoot one through his Doc Marten's.


Here we have a lovely example of F.E.A.R. Yoga, I believe this position is called the "Blooming Lotus"


What have we here? Is one soldier helping another into the "Slinky Descending Stairs " position?


He is! And look how he nails it! It seems these soldiers are a close knit group. I wonder how they deal with the immense tension that must come with their evil henchmen gig?


Oh good Lord! Right in the hallway you guys? Seriously, don't ask don't tell is one thing, but you people aren't even trying! So this is why the Republicans aren't boycotting this game; it's guns and queer killing!

And that's all for now.

- Scott



Warning, the post you just viewed contained graphic depicitons of people I quite literally nailed to the wall. The squeamish may have wished to look away.

The Shower is Scary Again

I've noticed a trend in recent cinema, and that trend is that bathtubs have become the most terrifying implement of modern hygene. Think about it, The Ring, The Ring Two, Dark Water, Constantine, The Skeleton Key, Hide and Seek, they've all had major horror moments in bathtubs (not to mention the biography of Howard Taft). I guess the modern crop of directors and writers think they're being clever. "Hitchcock didn't think of this! He limited his vision to the unscary shower! What a hack."

Well let me tell you, the shower is a terrifying place. I was just in there, actually thinking about how it's been completely overlooked in favor of the tub, and then I got into a tangent about how just once I'd like to not know the scary parts of a movie before I went and saw it. No advertising, and all the test audiences get silenced. And as I was thinking about how to silence them, and what kind of scary movie it might be the shower head (which I was facing away from) broke off, hit me in the shoulder, and a jet of high pressure water blasted into my back. I screamed like I had been shot.

Then laughed for like 10 minutes.

- Scott

Offending the system, one drone at a time.

I'm not too big on corporate buzz words/terms/ways of thinking/well, corporate anything more or less. Especially the whole interview ritual. Because let's be serious for a second, it really is just a ritual. If the anthropologist aliens are studying it, they probably look at it the way we look at baboons fanning their asses at one another. In a way I'd prefer it to be so simple. Here's the thing, I'm charming, good looking, humble, and completely qualified for any job you can think of. So such trivalities as actually working, or being bothered to interview for a position is a bit below me. Perhaps it wouldn't be, if it were actually what its supposed to be. I.e. Go in, present your abilities, get selected on the basis of how good a job they think you can do.

But noooooo it has to be a whole fashion/etiquette howdy dow. My Carreer Development or Job Management or Some Shit Related To Working (I hate that class and refuse to memorize the exact name) teacher makes it all worse. She has us stand up and critiques us based on what we wear to class. Publically. As a result, I dress as poorly as I possibly can on those days. It pisses her off. I recently turned in an 'informational interview' we were supposed to (and this was assigned directly out of the book) go out and interview a person in a job we want. As this is work, I didn't do it. Instead I took the opportunity to fabricate a person and have them say the things I wanted to. Here's a sample of that work:

ME: What is the typical entry-level position in this field?
Made up person: The typical entry-level position is doing bitch work for someone like me. After a few years you move up to delegating bitch work to others.

ME: What skills do you use the most? Least?
MUP: Most: Technical, troubleshooting, working on the problem at hand. Least: I don’t know, I guess using that fruity corporate speak they teach you in college.

I was understandably eager to see what kind of feedback I would get on such an assignment. I mean, I can't censor my interviewee can I? What kind of fair and impartial reporter would I be if I did that? I expected something about language. I expected some kind of loss of points because I blatantly made up a person and had them say outrageous things (which only seem interesting if you're in the class, or I would have included them). What I didn't expect from her was a letter about her 'feelings'. I must have missed the class where I married this woman.

Continued in comments: