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