A lotta ho's hope you choke and stay broke...

Tangential lyrics from an obscure rapper whose only song I've ever heard is a mix of a hillbilly and a black man rapping together are the best way to title a post I think. Just ask Cara. It's also customary to start a post with a long and grammatically dubious sentence.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. On Tuesday night, around 8:30 PM Central time, I nearly died. And not the kind of nearly died where someone almost hit me in traffic or one of those instances where you later find out he really did have a gun. No, no. This was mortal peril.

I was eating a steak. Not just some T-bone either; it was the most delicious Chateaubriand I've ever had. And also the most deadly. I was slicing it in cross sections and devouring it. However the steak being somewhat wider in the middle, this quickly became a problem. I ended up slicing a piece so large (I was somewhat drunk, quite hungry, and very tired at this point) that I was having a hard time just chewing it. But the meat was medium rare, and I thought I could get away with swallowing it. I was wrong.

Suddenly I was choking. Full on, couldn't breathe choking. What nobody tells you is that it hurts. Alot. A piece of meat as wide as your palm wedged into your thoat is not a pleasant sensation. That's the first thing you focus on. The next is if you have any time to accept this situation and figure a way out of it without betraying your cool exterior. You have none. "Well," your panicked mind reasons, "perhaps I can still breathe through my nose. I'll just route around the problem." No joy. Odd squealing noises that draw the attention of your dining party, but that's it. Finally the punching of your own chest. Now people begin to spring into action, but on your final self-heimlich the offending meat is expelled, tactfully into a napkin.

In conclusion, if you're going to be dining in Carlyle, Illinois, I reccomend Patrick's on the square, and chewing your food thoroughly.

- Scott

P.S. My wonderful Photo Blog is updated again.

10 Grand, 90 more and I'll infringe on a candy bar.

I would just like to throw up a quick post commemorating this blog's 10,000th hit. I'm sure it actually happened many months ago, but this is the 10,000th hit that I've noticed. It's pretty astonishing; either 10,000 individual people have come here and read of my grandeur or a somewhat smaller number have come back several times. Or the band 10,000 Maniacs has visited my blog once. If so I wish they would have commented. I mean, what with visiting my site and sucking down bandwidth like a blue whale gulps down plankton, come on would one comment have killed you? (And if so, could it have killed Natalie Merchant?)

I'd like to thank the following people for this high honor:

• My family; I couldn't have done it without you. Literally. You're prerequisites for my existence.
  
• The internet.
  
• The faceless thousands, and faceful few who have visited my blog.
  
• The photographer responsible for this Wham! album cover. I look at it and draw strength enough to go on living.
  
• God. Who has graciously decided not to smite me from the face of the earth, in spite (or perhaps because) of what I've posted here. Looking back the tsunami jokes could have been put on hold a month. Also, I have to think he gets a kick out of the Crush of the Week segment. I mean, I'm really just complimenting some of his finer work.
  

But seriously, thanks everyone for comming back so many times. It's very hard for me to resist the temptation to turn honest sentiments into some kind of farcical rant, but I'm sincere in my appreciation for all the times you've typed my ridiculous URL into that address bar and hit enter. Those who use RSS feeds are also thanked, but slightly less so.

- Scott

Too tired. Something with crush in it. Clever.

Hey there. Let me apologize as I am very, very tired from the double whammy of working out and hockey. Why I did this is a mystery. Ok... not so much as mystery as a result of my not knowing what day it is. Apparently it's Monday. Not a day to exert myself unnecessarily, but I'm somewhat rejuvenated by my new Ruttin' Crush of the Gorram Week. How so? Well I think Michael Rapaport* said it best in (another Natalie Portman movie) Beautiful Girls:

[Crushes] are beautiful girls... A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high; full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular ore can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay. The [crushes], [fair readers]? That's all they are. Bottled promise. Scenes from a brand new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels.**

Enough referential ridiculousness. Time to get down to fake business.

Nombre: Morena Baccarin.

Bonus de encantos: She's Brazilian. I don't know why that's so great. But I keep seeing beautiful women and finding out where they're from and the answer is invariably "Brazil." The country seems to have the opposite effect of the "brain drain" going on. Brain drain being the effect of smart people leaving their home countries to come to America. Well they have a full scale "model/actress drain" going on. Herself being a small, but lovely, part of the movement.

Not to mention her name means "brunette" in Spanish. Not especially imaginative of her parents, but it works. Because she's brunette. As you can see. Don't look at me like that, some of you wondered. And all other things aside, she replaced Rebecca Gayheart who foolishly didn't take part in Firefly. I'm all for keeping Rebecca Gayheart from acting in my TV shows. I think Earth 2 should be example enough for everyone on that front.

Bonus de Guapo: Technically 'guapo' translates as 'good looking' or 'ladies man' (not to mention brave) but I think we can reasonably infer that this word is the closest Spanish can come to a translation of Scott Gresham. Anyway, I give her points for being only one third as stuck up as she seemed to be based on her Firefly commentaries. Bully for her.

- Scott

* Excellent last name.
** Damn Taking Back Sunday for using this in their lame song. I would have used it anyway. It's a great monologue, which I came to independently from your single. And also damn the collective 'you' for trying to pilfer my Sunday. I took it fair and square. You and your shitty band can write a song about *that*. And don't include any monologues from movies I might someday quote.

Let's Sexy Engrish!

I apologize if any of you have already seen the video in question, but I would be doing a disservice to the readers of Bufford the Wonder Blog, and indeed, the internet if I didn't share this with you. I'll not say much about it at first as I want you to experience it as I did; knowing very little about it. However I'll tell you that it's an instructional video from Japan that seems geared toward Japanese men trying to hook up with English speaking women. Watch the whole thing. It's worth it. Oh, and so very not safe for work.

First of all, we here at the Wonder Blog would like to apologize for the sexual nature of this video. No doubt many of you are scared for life. However we do not apologize for posting it, because if you can't laugh at the actor's 180 from semi-real porno set up to Junior High Cheerleaders at a pep-rally... you just aren't human.

I think someone dramatically mistranslated "cockpit." Seriously. I'll admit I often giggle at the word, however I know I'm being childish. Makes me wonder what's going to happen when the producers of this video learn the word 'booby trap'. My guess is it will be used to describe a bra. Or perhaps, hands.

Not to mention the hilariousness of the awkward Japanese man saying "This is dick," and vigorously grabbing his penis for emphasis. And his "GD, you can say 'cock' too!" I don't think there's anything that can really be said about the rest of it except that I desperately need to go to Japan. The Engrish alone would be worth the cost of the trip. And believe that I would come back with a trove of this kind of thing. I would be the Marco Polo of the interwebs returning, not with spices, but hilarious poorly translated items that make "All Your Base Are Belong To Us" look like this sign. And my legacy would be cemented.

- Scott

P.S. "Blowing job." That is all.

Hans and Franz never saw this comming.

I never pictured myself as the kind of guy who goes to a gym. For any reason. Really when you're built like this, naturally, who needs to spend time in such a place? So you can imagine my surprise that I now find myself there a couple of times a week. Largely this is the fault of boredom. I've so little to do in Jerseyville, this is my recourse. But I'm glad, because it's allowed me a few revelations that I believe will revolutionize the work out industry.

First of all, I can bench alot. I regularly lift an intimidating 90 pounds. Which I rationalize is roughly the equivalent of 1000 iPods. That's alot! If you measure it in music I could be lifting as much as 1,000,000 individual songs. However, the actual weights I add to the bar to make it weigh 90 pounds are embarrassingly small. So what I propose is less dense 5, 10, and 25 pound weights. In fact, they should be made mostly of air. And have the same imposing look as the fifty pounders. And if possible display an impressive number on the side.

Secondly, treadmills. Every other treadmill should be broken. As it is, I go and I take one that's in the middle, or to the side, or wherever seems least likely to get some old woman next to me. But without fail I always get one. Always. Then I can't focus on anything but their heartrate and speed. As a strapping young lad I have to have the heartrate lower, and the speed higher. Regardless of what I was doing before.

Maybe I was cooling down, getting off it. Not anymore. Now I'm in a pissing contest with this lady. I ran an extra two songs (how I measure time) just because this middle aged lady thought she was going to be at 3.5 speed and 140 heartrate. Pfft. I'll show her! I kicked it up to 4.0 and managed to keep a nice steady 133 bpm. Hers just kept climbing. A derisive faux-laugh and I got triumphantly disembarked the treadmill.

Finally, when I use a machine where you set a pin in a certain amount of weight, I always make sure to set it to a ridiculous amount after I finish. I do this very discreetly, and only if someone is clearly waiting to use it after me. When this is the case, I take an adjacent machine, whether or not I can use it, and watch them either try to use mine and marvel at my strength, or adjust it to their shameful lower setting. So if there were machines that did this automatically they would save me literally minutes from my workout.

I've also come to the conclusion that I am the pettiest person ever to enter the Wellness Center. But hey, somebody has to be right?

- Scott

There are many crushes. And they have a plan.

Be sure to take a trip through my Saturday below, but before you do check out this today's Fracking Beautiful Crush o' the Week. Previously on BattleCrush Galactica:

The Crushes were created by Scott.
They Rebelled.
They Evolved.
They look, and feel really hot.
Some are programmed to believe they are really hot.
There are many crushes... And they have a plan.

Crush in question: Tricia Helfer

Charm Bonus: Where to begin? Victoria's Secret model turned hot sex robot? I think that's a good start. But what about the hook up potential? Is it gone, is it in the realm of impossibility? What kind of guys does she like, perhaps swarthy Eurotrash bespectacled by expensive sun glasses? No! "I've always been into good old North American guys," says she! Hey, I'm good, I'm somewhat old, and I'm all kinds of North American. She scored some points there. Plus we've got another Canadian on our hands. And did I mention the part where she's a sex robot?

Scott Bonus: SEX. ROBOT.

- Scott

P.S. Just say it a little. Sex robot. Roll that around in your mouth. Shout it with a gutteral urgency. Whisper it frantically. Tolkien had "cellar door" I have "sex robot."

"Baby, we'll be up $0.95 by midnight!"

Last Saturday I had two options, stay in town and hang with old friends, or be dragged along with similarly old friends to Alton where drinking would ensue. I was going to hang out here, but to be honest drinking and the opportunity for random occurrences is a temptation that's always held a lot of sway with me. Plus the ladies in question practically begged me to come, so what choice did I have? I felt a little guilty, but I went. As it turned out I'm glad I did.

It gave me the opportunity to get aquianted with my new cell phone (a SLVR) and its features (a CMRA, err camera that is). As a result, the rest of this story will be told in photo essay fashion.

"I can't talk to you; I'm with Scott Gresham. Yeah. The Scott Gresham."


He thought he somehow looked old in this picture. Fear not good Nathan, you don't look old. Just ridiculous.


Two beers in, someone reminded me I was the designated driver. This was my reaction.

I was also randomly in support of a little gambling. Having tossed back a few, everyone believed this to be a grand idea. Marvelous in its simplicity and practicality. Through some conservative betting, a bluff here, a feint there, I managed to wrangle for myself the whopping total of $0.95 more than I walked in with.

He's so mysterious! And now, rich!


Amanda did alright too (20.00). Here's she's cashing out. Beginner's luck.


The Pimp and his Ladies of the Night. And in the middle, our earnings. Mine is in Amanda's cupped hand (change). Having earned this money, it was time to spend it. To the dive bar!


Amanda just tasted something awful. Probably regrets that purchase.


Now him too! It tasted so bad, Nathan became depressed. Recogonizing that the situation was rapidly spinning out of control, I took a page from Dr. Tiki's book and solved his problems with a special drink.


"Special drink? That's just beer!" you say. Nay! Tis the Largest Beer in the LAND! Never doubt the cheering effects of the LBitL!


If that wasn't enough, I reminded him of boobs. And he was happy. And I reminded Amanda that good lighting increases the effectiveness of boobs. This is known as the Shadow Clevage Theorem. And she too was happy once more*.

* While I'm not above this type of photography, actually it was a drunken Julie who took this one, and bitch slapped the phone to the floor when I wanted take a group shot with her in it. Sassy minx.

And all was well with the world.

That was my night. I left out the part about getting back into town†† (see comments). Because I wanted to draw more attention to the fact that from now on this kind of pithy, hard hitting reporting about my Saturday nights can be found at my Moblog. Which is the place where the pictures from my camera are automatically uploaded. The last picture had been up five mintues before some random perv complimented the attractiveness of the Ladies. So you know it' s good.

- Scott

*tap, tap* Are you seriously handing this to me?

So, I got a call the other day. It was Tuesday. I could tell because the Gilmore Girls was (were?) on. I note this only because it's so damned typical of how I know what day it is, that is to say, if I know what day it is. Not working, no school, no schedual. It's alright. Except sometimes I show up places and nothing is open. These times are called "Sundays" and they tend to get in the way.

Anyway "the call," I was out on that hoss of a bike "The Yellow Dart" and I pulled off because my phone was ringing. Probably one of the fans I thinks to myself. Technically I was right. It was my former college, the old alma matter calling me up. At first this was a somewhat worrying proposition. What are they going to say, I missed a credit somewhere? I have to come back?

Hardly. They wan't me to be the freakin' graduation speaker. At my graduation. Me. So, I have to come up with a graduation speech. Which is a little daunting, but mostly just fun. Timmy did a very nice one, so I feel there is a standard to maintain. For this reason more than any other, I've decided that shouting "STERN RULES," flashing my impressive genitals, and running away will not be sufficient. I've already got some delicious things in mind, but I am, of course, always open to suggestions. So feel free to suggest away. I wouldn't mind the help.

- Scott

P.S. My school has clearly gone mad.

P.P.S. Today's picture of Emma was deemed too hot for the Wonder Blog. We're talking wardrobe malfunction. Yeah. Click for the full size to see what I mean. Be warned, it's pretty intense.

Worst. Teaser. Ever.

Ok Tim, you wanted to know what beef I had with the Eragon movie. So I'm going to lay it out point by point as I watch the trailer. It's times like this that having two monitors really works out. Because other than this kind of thing, it's really just so I can brag about having two monitors. Anyway here we go:

Complaints:

• Gedwey Ignasia on his hand: looks dumb.

• The voice over guy: they got the cheapest one of the five. Even the Disney voice over guy gets paid better than this tool. His voice isn't anywhere near graveley enough to be a great movie trailer voice over artist.

• What the voice over guy (VOG) is saying. All of it. Starting with "In 2006, get ready for an adventure beyond anything the world has ever known." Sentences like that make me want to hurt someone (specifically the writer who penned it, but also the VOG, and hell... even a key grip). Is it really beyond anything the world has ever known? Yes. For those parts of the world who have forgotten Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, The Wheel of Time series, and liberal doses of Star Wars.
  

• Next, "Fox has..." that's all you needed to say to lose me.

• Director's commentary: "These days there's a great appetite for fantasy. There have been a number of series as of late that have prepared the audience to take those journies." Translation: Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings made money. If we make something pretty much like that, maybe no one will notice it's different. (Which they might not, they're very similar.)
  

• Ed Speleers: Does not look like Eragon. That is all.
  

• Joss Stone: First of all she was called a "sensation." Anytime someone uses the term "sensation" I cringe. Only the biggest tools say "sensation." It's one of those words I can't stand. Secondly, Joss Stone? Doubya Tee Eff, mates?

• That said, might be alright. But I'm worried.
  

- Scott

Crush into me, love.

So, this week's entry is likely to stir controversy. I'm fine with this. You can't deny our love any longer! I don't care what the government says! In just four days the lovely lady featured on this week's edition of Scott's Illicit Crush o' the Week will be officially "of age." At least in Illinois. I'll save you some time and the math: on Saturday, April 15, 2006 Emma Watson will be, drumroll please: 17 years old.

"But Scott, doesn't she have to be eighteen?" I'm glad you asked, voice in my head. I was worried about that too. So I checked it out on my handy pocket index of legal ages of consent. Then I found it online so people can check for themselves. The law, supporting my perfectly legal and honest hooking up with Emma Watson endeavour*, is as follows: "whereas the accused is 17 years of age at the time of the p..." you know, just check out this chart. And click here for the full law.

Now, down to brass tacks:

Name: Emma "Hermione" Watson

Charm Bonus: Umm, chello? She's freaking Hermione. Which means English. Which means hot. And her in that field of invitingly soft grasses and flowers? Come on. Not to mention, only a minor for five more days. Better act fast Tim, she's not going to interest you much longer.

Scott Bonus: Because she's the birthday girl, and I pretty much let beautiful women do whatever they want here on the Wonder Blog, I'm going to be giving her a new picture everyday until her birthday. So keep your eyes open for that. I've got some winners lined out.

- Scott


*Intentionally British spelling, you know, for her sake.

Damn it!

So, apparently I'm very succeptable to marketing. You know those internet banners where it's like "Punch Osama and win a camera"? Well, I do enjoy the punching. So I often do it, only to have to close 1-5 windows as a result. Today I was completely enraptured over a duck game. Hit 20 Ducks To Win!!!

Bring it. The first duck was easy, as was the next, and the proceeding five, however after that they started changing it up on me. Three ducks at once, one duck. Two that just blaze past. It was so fun I played it three times. And then I realized the lie of it all. They're just trying to get me to buy something. (Which was entirely forgettable as all I remember is the ducks. And the chanting "Hit the ducks, hit a duck, duck, duck, DUCK, IF ONLY THEY COULD DODGE MY SWIFT VENGENCE!")

It's the classic bait and switch tactic. Lead with a shiny duck game, then hit them with the limited time offer. This I can't tolerate. Scarcely any better is the current run of inaccurately named television programs. For instance, I can't imagine that Special Victims Unit isn't about crimes against the mentally challenged. And those would be some pretty cold-assed heinous crimes too. I'd watch that show. And I'd even want the perp to go to jail (I always want them caught, but then at the trial I end up rooting for the defense... I don't know why (Exception: rape)).

Another example that I find completely disappointing is Grey's Anatomy. Flipping through the channel listings I was painfully dissapointed not to find a show about the autopsies of (grey) aliens but about some damned chick doctor. It's Ally McBeal with a stethoscope. I want to see hardcore, alien dissection, or even vivisection if they nab a live one.

Finally, there's the show So NoTORious (sic), which should be... well, canceled.

Am I alone in this? I hereby become the founding member of Shows With Interesting Names Must Therefore Be Interesting Council, or SWINMTBIC for short. It's kind of a spin off from my radio group "Girls With Hot Voices Must Also Be Hot Society." Feel free to join either.

- Scott

Mostly Maui Waui man, but it's got some Labrador in it.

So, I've been having misadventures this past month or two. Misadventures only a college graduate who demands a nice long break can have. As you can imagine, at one point or another I was around the "wrong element." Not to be confused with the fifth element, which is Boron. Or love if you watched the Bruce Willis movie. Anyway, this particular element was out to buy some weed.

If you've been paying attention, you know I'm no straight edge kid. I've been known to hit the bottle from time to time. And also to make moonshine. These things are pretty much my limit however. I don't actually have a problem with people seeking the herbal remedy, what I have a problem with is the indignity that they have to go through to get it.

Apparently nobody can just buy weed. There's always an intricate plan to get the weed. In this case they gave the cash to this girl, who looked like she liberally applied glue to her rather rotund body, and was then pinballed around a Hot Topic until she was thoroughly covered in the uniform of the counterculture... of the mall. I think she even had a vinyl Alkaline Trio album stuck to her ass. So she was really going the extra mile. Anyway they gave their cash to this girl, whose Aunt's, friend's, tanning salon attendant can get it from this guy down by the river and in the mean time you have to wait and hope your 75 bucks for two quarter bags is well spent.

That. Is. Ridiculous. But it helped me find something out about myself. Time for a PSA.

- Scott

Crush Test Dummies

H'ok. So, it's that special time of the week where I regale my loyal readers with the scantily clad starlet who has captured my fleeting attention for the next seven days. You know what that means. It's time to play Scott's Big Damn Crush o' the Week. Next week we'll play the "less overt references to canceled television shows" game.

Anyway time to get down to brass tacks with the deets:

Name: Jessica Alba

You know her from: Sin City, where she was the worst stripper of all time (in the sense that she removes no clothing) and also the most memorable (because you didn't even notice that until the forth viewing). She's made a few other notable appearenes such as the lead in Dark Angel, some random chick in Camp Nowhere, and a girl to be lusted after in Idle Hands. Though technically that's the role she always plays.

Charm Bonus: There really isn't one. Sorry. Purely physical attraction this week. I'm fairly sure she doesn't have any other qualities. At the big character creation screen in the sky she poured all her points into looks. At some point she was given the +2 Necklace of Acting and a career was born.

Scott Bonus: This section is to be used for my extended commentary on the lady in question. In the case of J. Alb. I have to wonder what ethnicity she is. Not that I really care. I'd just like to know. Maybe I can get her to take the ACT again and sit next to her to see what she puts on that section. Because we need to make more of her. I suspect she's some lovely mix of races. Because when that happens you always get a good looking kid. It's like our genes are showing off. Each brings their A game to the table.

There are alot of good looking multi-racial people out there. Halle Berry, Mariah Carey, Vin Diesel, Tiger Woods, The Rock, Keanu Reeves... I should really look up some more female examples. Umm... Kristin Kreuk. And I love her boobs. And women!

My point is that the races should continue banging. It seems to be working out.

(But really, what the hell is Jessica?)

- Scott