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