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:

As I promised...

Being a man of my word I felt I had to come through on the pictures. Why are you laughing?! I'm serious! I'm totally a man of my word. It just has to be a serious word. Most of the time I don't mean what I say. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that in general I don't mean what I say. I say it, then later on decide if I want to mean what I just said. It's a bit of a retroactive decision. Unless I'm giving my word. In that case it's premeditated. Like I said, doesn't happen all that often. So be glad. And enjoy the pictures.

In the larger picture you can clearly see the impact point in the upper right hand side of the window. In the inset you can see that the cracking inexplicably spread to EVERY PORTION OF THE GLASS. Science is still boggling over it.

I've got another post lined up, but I haven't finished the visual aids, so this is all you get for today. Hope you like it.

- Scott

It turns out, people outside glass houses shouldn't throw rocks either.

I was going to name this post 'F*ck it'. But I refuse to use that word on my blog. You can still call it that if you want. It's the general message. Currently I'm quasi-drowning in loads and loads of crap and I don't really care. In fact, I find it pretty funny. Here's a quick rundown of what's going down. I went to J & A's place to set up their Tivo and in the process broke the internet. The entire internet. Luckily I fixed it (with a minor assist from Nick) the next day. Whatev. That same day I decided, being on such a roll, I would go set up my brother's home network. That's where the bulk of this story takes place.

You see, my brother wasn't home. And his apartment complex locks the exterior doors. So if you don't live there you can't even get into the hallway. A good precaution but maybe they should make sure the FUCKING INTERCOM SYSTEM WORKS if you plan to do that. Did they? No. It doesn't work. Not even a little. My favorite part: they designate which button goes to which apartment by taking a sharpie and writing on the wall. It's a textured wall too, so it looks like the ghetto. But not quite as ghetto as it would look when I was done.

Think for a second, what would a guy who is at times the personification of a sitcom do in this situation? If you said "fall back to the grade schooler in love schtick of taking pebbles and throwing them at the window of the one person who's home" you're right! So I scooped up some of those tiny purple landscaping rocks and started flicking them at Webb's (second story) window. Sadly web was both looking at porn AND listening to music. So no joy on that one. (Pure speculation on the porn, but that's my backstory on him.) On a whim I decided that he may be in the living room, so I was flicking rocks over the balcony and against the siding when one missed the narrow strip of siding I was aiming at. Despite hitting the door with the least amount of force you can imagine, defying all logic, rewriting whole sections of Einstien's theoretical physics, it chipped the glass. "No way" I said looking at the tiny chip. Half a second later the entire window makes a completely fake sound and spiderwebs into amazingly tiny cells of glass.

So in the span of two days, I twice went to a house to fix something and broke it. I'm currently searching for a dead bird to throw against the door to support my "I think a bird flew into it" cover story. If you see one let me know.

- Scott

P.S. I'm heading over now to get some pictures.

Have you heard?

Quick post admidst all the things I'm doing today (which gets a post of its own later tonight or tomorrow). At the state fair I got my hearing screened. That should give you a rough idea of exactly how boring it was. Anyway I've always thought (since a few early concerts) that my right ear is a bit deaf. Just a little more than my left ear. So I got them tested.

Turns out I have perfect hearing. A slight loss on the right side. But still above average by far. So I've been asking people "You know what I just heard?" then after the inevitable pause: "EVERYTHING."

"Fair" and Balanced

I just got back from the State Fair. Let me tell you, that was some of the edgiest entertainment I have ever seen. It makes Rent look like The Music Man... Ok, I'm lying. It was quite possibly the corniest thing you can imagine. Except for one small facet of it: my MC-ing the Robert Morris College Jeopardy. It was actually the RMC Computer Jeopardy, another person did the Business Jeopardy, she drew a crowd of 5 or 6. When it was my turn, we're talking like 20-30. The first time went great, everything worked. I had good contestants, good rapport with them, they played along with my ridiculousness. It was perfect. The crowd enjoyed it.

Then came the second round. Contestants... not as good. Apparently my mistake was choosing two adolescent brothers who would rather punch each other over missing questions than play the game. And because when we get to double Jeopardy I call up "the Nerds" TM, to help them with hard questions, they were just mashing the buzz in button and turning to their nerds for the answer. So they got faster and faster at the buzz in. Eventually they would buzz in before anyone selected a category and I forced them to pre-emptively answer the question a la Carnac the Magnificent. Once again, completely lost on them.

Eventually, in the midst of this anarchy (that was actually quite funny) a well placed comment from a Nerd caused a minor problem. I kind of... dropped an f-bomb. It's just my reflexive reaction to any comment from that particular nerd. However this time, I was on the mic (rophone like a Boss DJ). And most of the audience heard it. And laughed! It didn't matter, I just made some joke about how sensitive the mic was and moved on. Even people from my school cut me slack over it. In fact one of my professors said that "the show was just so damn good other than that I don't think anyone will care". And even though I didn't talk to the dean after that, I don't think she's going to expell me for it. Good times were had by all.

I'd like to cap this post with a few bulleted things I thought were funny at the fair:

• How far they put Germany from France in the international food section.
• The country of BEER in the international food village.
  
• The fact that Jamacians will jerk anything.
  
• Old woman completely not hip, not with it, not even seemingly sure of where she is, wearing a shirt that said "Math is Hard" Hilarious.
  
• I was blown away at how far we've come in shake-up technology. We've now advanced as a civilization to the point where we aren't just limited to the lemon shakeup. No! There are now Strawberry shake-ups, Peachshake-ups, Orange shake-ups, Rasberry shake-ups, and any combination there of. God bless America.
  

Ungrateful Skanks!

I don't care that Rob mentioned it. I'm blogging it myself. I went out of my way (and my daily amount of exercise) to maybe flirt with some girls moving into my apartment complex. First, how it went down: I was opening windows to let in some of the temperate pre-fall air, and I noticed two passably fine women struggling to get a heavy sofa out of the back of a truck that was also too big for them. Being the charming man I am, I decided to go get something out of my car and then offer to help them. Suave no?

Well before I got the chance Skank #1, we'll call her Sara, shouts "Hey you! Come help us move this couch." I kind of laughed, and said something to the effect of "Well since you asked so nicely..." while thinking Well since it's the reason I'm out here... I quickly recruited the help of Rob, it was pretty heavy. So Rob and I try to make conversation with these MTV-fed moron girls, who it turns out were nary as hot as I thought from my breif glimpse. They didn't even try to support their end of the conversation. All the while we're pushing/pulling this brown turd of a couch up three flights of stairs. When we got it up we barely got a thanks of any sort. Not even a trite, meaningless obligation thanks. Just kind of a mumbled 'yeah.. thanks.'

Our pleasure, thanks for being ungrateful skanks! Next time you need some help from me you can expect me to show up with a tool belt on, out of which I'll gladly pull a ball peen hammer and smash your teeth in. Oh and welcome to the neighborhood.


P.S. If anyone out there is curious, their names are Sara and Jessica (and Parker) they live at

DELETED!
(they were nice to me in the hallway, I decided I didn't want to chance them getting killed)

Feel free to visit if you're unbalanced. Or just send them junk mail. That's my tact.

An inspiring 'Summer of Junior Year' effort

Tim, quit blogging so much. I'm going to start calling you Rob. Rob, blog more I'm going to start calling you Scott. Scott, blog just the right amount. I'm going to keep calling you my sexy self. And finally, SPAMMERS, prepare for underhanded WAR! Failing that, just stay the hell out of my comments.

Now for the topic of this post. You may have noticed if you pay attention to reviews of new albums that after a group gets big, the next album they put out is called their 'Sophomore Effort'. Naturally, I think this would be a wicked awesome band name. And just after the band got famous, they intentionally put out a terrible record so that they can laugh at reviewers predictably making fun of their name.

But as awesome as my Glam Folk band: Sophomore Effort would be, it got me thinking about the whole naming convention. Their next album isn't called their Junior Effort, and after that it isn't their Senior release. What's the deal? Why can't we stick with this high school metaphore, and even extend it. Shouldn't the tracks themselves represent various stages of the high school year? Like if the reviewer was talking about the third track on the album shouldn't he call it the Homecomming track? Or if it was the second to last, maybe the After Prom Deflowering track?

And it can definately extend beyond highschool, for instance, there could be a 'Going to State College' release, and then a 'Changing my Major to Art History to Piss off my Dad' album, capped by a 'Got Drunk Listening to Dave Matthews and Knocked Up That Butter Face' effort. But I think I've just scratched the surface of what could be a whole new categorization of music.

Feel free - nay- feel obligated to leave your own album release euphemisms.

Advocate Anonymity? Perhaps. Just not right now.

I fully expect that in one way or another, I'll eventually be famous. Or infamous. That's more likely the word for it. But when that happens I'll really miss the fun things I could only do as a member of a large, faceless crowd. Like Tuesday, I went for a nice long roller blade. I hadn't done it in a while and by the end of it I felt like a rickshaw driver pulling Rosie O'Donnell. So I took a break on a bus stop bench. The bench in question was about 8 inches off the road. I could literally touch passing cars. It was a good position to enjoy the breeze that comes off the cars as they speed down Chatham.

Eventually they hit a red light, and who should I see but a girl named Sarah. You might remember my interview with her. If not, too bad. I'm hardcore and being hardcore, I refuse to repeat myself. Anyway she was a few cars back in the lane closest to me. And she somehow hadn't recogonized me. But to be fair I was wearing a Chicago Sanitation shirt and sunglasses, so I looked pretty working-class hot. Normally I'm white collar hot, the poor girljust couldn't reconcile the two. Anyway the light turned green and she was passing slowly by (5-10 mph-ish) I practically stuck my head in her car and yelled "HI SARAH!" Then was treated to my first ever driving-away-from-me scream of terror. It was great. I even fell over laughing, mostly because of the rollerblades and the hill but I was laughing at the time.

But these are small shenanigans, I've got some bigger stuff lined up for the next few months. Like next week, I'm MC'ing an event at the State Fair. That should be fun. Except that it's related to my school, so not only am I flirting with tar and feathering (we're talking Springfield people, it's basically 1850 here) but also expulsion. After that, I've got my largest MorrisCode assignment yet: on location in New Orleans. I'm down there for the National College Media Convention, from October 27th to the 30th. If you're going to be in town look me up, I'll be the really attractive guy.

- Scott

Nobility, Wise Ruler

The name for those ideas is the reason for this post. And that name is Avery. And Tim is currently about to open a vein on me for thinking thoughts reguarding any of it. I find this very limiting. On the one hand, Tim is a good friend. I like him, he's funny, and he's tall. So he can see things comming a long way off. Like stampedes, or a posse. Or other things you might encounter in the Old West. He's great for that. But on the other hand, Avery, she's hot. Plus she's kind of exotic. And only slightly underaged!

Compairing alcoholic activities I found that she makes her own Absinthe, which almost trumps even those people who have at some point in their lives made moonshine. How cool is that? In fact, I think I'll sing: (it helps if you play my background track, which happens to be Across the Sea, by Weezer)

Avery is a 17 year old girl who live in small city of Denver
She saw me at the hitchin
About four days ago and you’re itchin to know
All about me
And my hobbies
My favorite booze and my birthplace.

Why are so far away from me?
I'm good for you, and why can't Tim just see?
I could never touch you, Tim thinks it would be wrong
I’ve got your first name,
You’ve got my blog.

They don’t make women like this where I’m from – so fragile, so refined
So I flirt
And I drool
When I see you and fall to little pieces everytime
I wonder what things you do at home
I hope you don't drink absinthe alone
I wonder how you dress yourself
And curse myself for not living in the D

Ok, I'm done. That's it for the Avery schtick. That is until I see her again. At which point all bets are off. But until then, I lay it down. Just like I'm going to... Damn it, NO! That's it I swear. Until someone else brings her up, I'm done. I hope you're happy.

- Scott

Silence is Golden

But rocking out is platinum. And once again it screwed me over. You might remember the last incident involving my car, a couple of fine chicas, and a John Hughes style payoff. If not, you should read up, it was quite the post.

Today, as I do every friday, I put on my green visor, fake mustache, suspenders, and partially smoked cigar that never seems to ash. You see, I'm the editor for my school rag, the MorrisCode. Like that name? It's just so clever it makes me want to punch somebody. Anyway, as it is a silly and thankless job except for the whole having-free-reign-to-print-and-title-articles-as-I-so-choose thing, I always bring my iPod to keep things rolling along nicely. Or at least just nicely enough that I don't develop editorial coprolalia and just start printing four letter words all over the paper. So this morning, I put on the headphones, hopped in the Yorker, and drove to school.

I looked pretty badass if I do say so myself, and the CAKE serving itself up in the form of driving bass and quirky lyrics in my ears was really helping the illusion. So I didn't pay close attention to things. Like my lights being on... all morning. Don't worry I found out... the instant I tried to start my car. Make that the second instant. The first time around I just though "Wow, when I can't hear my car doesn't even feel like it's on." When putting it into gear didn't work I became suspicious.

So now my car is taking a breather in a parking lot at my college and I had the joy of walking back. Two good things came out of this: 1.) I perfected my pimp walk while listening to "Like this and like that" by the capital S, oh yes, the fresh N-double O-P, D-O-double G-Y D-O-double G, ya see and 2.) I was still listening to my iPod and sitting at the computer when Rob got home. I had no idea. He talked to me for about 15 minutes and thought I was ignoring him. He says he said so many times. Then I turned around, saw him and said "Oh when did you get back." He was so angry. It was wonderful.

For now though, off to Josh's wedding. It's on the other side of town so I'd better get to walking.

- Scott

The Taco Gods Smile Warmly On Me

Four wise men called 311 once quipped "One million people come and go, through a person's ebb and flow and faces keep on changing, yeah they're changing." How true. But it would be even true-er if they had sung it about Taco Bell's menu. Because one of my dear, dear friends was stolen from me a few months ago. All of a sudden ripped out of my life like so much idiom.

But then, just as I had recovered from my terrible loss, the Taco Fates smiled down on me, and heralded the return of my friend with a grand banner: "The Cheesy Gordita Crunch is back!!!" I went to Taco Bell immeadiately. Apparently a lot of people loved the CGC, because the place was packed. And even if they weren't there for it... they sort of were. Taco Bell really only has 11 ingredients combined about 30 different ways. 60 if you count the addition or subtraction of sour cream and tomatoes. They call that "supreme" and with all the Supreme Court stuff in the news lately, Taco Bell is all I can think about. Damn subliminal marketing to hell!

- Scott

Silver Tongue, Poker Face

Damn. I'm exhausted. What a friggin' weekend I've had. It featured what is quite possibly the most exercise I've gotten since I was training to run with bulls. But I've learned some important lessons along the way. Such as, when Rob says he's going to bring over "maybe four or so" girls, that means that they'll be a party featuring 24 girls and 4 or 5 guys along as well. Also a complete furniture re-arrangement. It went over nicely, so nicely infact... well let's just say there were two girls in my bed by the end of the night. The next day I drove home in hopes of getting my brother's nice paintball gun.

On the way down I managed what is quite possibly the best roadway "what's up" to Josh Ryder on the highway ever. It was really quite perfect. Perhaps from the excitement of that perfect 'what up' to Josh I didn't pay too much attention to anything else on the way home. Including tell-tale alerts all good drivers look out for. For instance, the car ahead of me suddenly and for no clear reason slowed down to 55 mph from a healthy 60-63ish. Not only that they got in the submissive "pass me, just don't take my money" far right lane position. Ok I says to myself, I'll pass the slow fool. I saw I had enough room to pass them, got out in the lane next to them, gave them a glance... then saw why they slowed down: State Trooper dead ahead.

Crap. I none too subtly slammed on the breaks and got behind the 'slow' person again. I knew I was screwed, he had already crept forward just a bit. So, I beat him to the punch: I pulled myself over. From where he was camped out he probably had to drive about 12 feet. He didn't even get to turn his lights on, nor did he get to ask for my license and insurance. I handed him both as I muttered "I'm an idiot...". He cracked a partial smile, then spoke for the first time to ask me why I got back in the lane behind the car ahead of me. So I told him, exactly what I told you in the last paragraph. There was a slight pause and he said in a hearteningly genial voice "Well, that's an honest answer". He asked me about prior tickets and I told him I had rolled a stop sign and said "Ok I'll have you out of here in just a minute." After he got back from his crusier he gave me a written warning and told me to watch out for his colleagues down the road and I was on my way. Total stopped time: 3 minutes.

Later that day I went skiing, then the next day it was paintballing and poker (I was in the final four of our tourney of 12). Yesterday I was in and out of sleep all day long from the rigors of being dragged behind a boat, dodging paintballs, and bluffing. And now? Back to the grind.

- Scott

Fish picker.

If you recogonize the reference in the title of this post, I'll give you a cookie. A good one. Not that oatmeal rasin shit. We're talking the mall-foodcourt-unhealthy-as-cancer-type cookie. Anyway just a few things to bring you all up to speed on me and my goings-on. I'm actually doing a short post today. What the hell right? To make it even more succinct we're rocking the bulleted points.

• I have not eaten in since 4:09-ish last Sunday. Nada (Spanish for 'nothing'). A few potato chips out of habit, but I quickly stopped myself. Why this supermodel-esq turn? Do I feel unpretty? Am I fasting for religious purposes? No (Spanish for 'no'). I just haven't been hungry in as long as I can remember. So I didn't eat. Strangely (alarmingly) I'm still not hungry. But at least I don't have to worry about twosies as often.

• I bought a trenchcoat to shoot people in. Wait, not like Colombine or anything. Wow, that sentence sounds pretty anti-social. I'm pretty sure I have a file at the FBI on that sentence alone. (Or not. Are we still worried about high school kids shooting people? Or is it only if they're Muslim? The people we fear jumps around alot.) Anyway, it's just to play paintball this weekend in. I figure all the movie badasses have trenchcoats they bust their guns out of, why not me? WHY NOT ME?!

• If you have the time, I recommend Jesus Christ; Vampire Hunter and Six String Samurai for bad/whacked out movie night. The first one just because the title is so appealing, and I've read good things about it. The second one has actual merit as a movie in addition to being so bad it's good.

• I'm pretty sure Dane Cook is going to sue me for stealing his "why not me" bit. But what are you gonna do right? I might even get to meet him. Or his lawyer. I could be two degrees of Dane Cook.
  

So that's what's up with me at the moment. And it really wasn't as short as I had imagined. Anyway, right now I have to clean El Casa Guapos, because Rob is bringing no less than 4 girls from camp back here tomorrow. I better get half credit damn it.

- Scott

Fight The Power!

I had a bit of trouble with the title. I don't know if you noticed, it was subtle (and now I've changed it, but I like this intro). In any case the body of this one is stellar. I've come to a revelation about movies, and it is this: that their purpose is tri-fold. First, to sell you things. Secondly, for you to show off all the cool seating positions you've learned to your date/fellow movie goers. And finally, to entertain you. Note that this is last, it's also the only one that I'm totally ok with.

It's the first that really pisses me off. I've been going to a lot of movies lately, and what I can no longer stand are the "cinematic commercials" they sit us down and FORCE us to watch. They dim the lights and like cattle (or some animal that gets quiet when they turn the lights out) we become silent and watch commercials that we usually mute at home. If it weren't for my weakness for the Fantanas I would have spoken out a long time ago. That damn Sophia Fanta (the one who likes Grape) I hate the commercials before movies but would probably watch 15 minutes of them just to see her... But be strong Scott, damn the commercials!

And that's what I've been trying to do. Ever since I heard someone 'shhhh' another person over talking during a commercial, for the last few months I've made a point of yelling "BOO commercials!" (ask around, it's true) any time they come on. The time has come to rise up my blog brothers and sisters. I will personally pay a dollar to anyone who also shouts their dislike of commercials at movies while they're running.

In other news, I had to write a bio for my school to print up and distribute to new students. I had another before this one, but it was largely based on Highlander, and I thought that the bit about "taking the head of my greatest enemy" might have sent up a few red flags. So here's the one I actually had them print. This is what they're distributing to new students to welcome them to the school, and no one proof-reads my stuff. I love my position, without further ado:

"Born in 1985, Scott displays a wisdom that stretches far beyond his years. He is currently working as a coal miner and going to school full time. Despite these commitments, he still has time to water his Aloe Vera plant, perform monologues from the movie Flashdance, and mentor new students. Feel free to ask him to share some of his hard earned, earthy wisdom; you'll be glad you did."

I.
Can't.
Wait.
For an administrator to read that.

- Scott

So you think you can harmonica.

I seriously wish I played harmonica. There's no situation in which the harmonica sounds out of place. If you're sad, play some blues. If you're traveling, play one of those harmonica interludes you hear as they do the pioneer wagoning montage. If you're happy, play any of the five Blues Traveler singles. But know ahead of time that you'll only make one album and promptly dissapear off the face of the earth, later to be noticed again because you're no longer morbidly obese. I guess the only time it would actually be inappropriate is if you were at the funeral of a man who died from choking on a harmonica. And even then it's more of an ironic thing.

The worst part of it is that when you play "air harmonica" you either look like you're blowing on you just-painted fingernails (and I have Vietnamese women do that for me) or Mr. Peepers eating an apple.

That aside, I've recently been taken in by the new "reality" series So You Think You Can Dance. If the title wasn't bad enough, add to that the show airing on Fox. It's a pretty vicious double whammy. And often a funny one. I enjoy making fun of modern dance to start with, Parish School of dance gave me some great material for that (now they've produced some other great material). But this show (despite no offering of porn stars) might just be even better fodder. I really enjoy my theories about dancers.

For one, I wonder if, before dance audtions and performances, the dancers ever get really drunk. Like to give them the edge. I know it makes me a better dancer, I can remember one night in particular when I was busting some pretty great moves. Moves I could never have thought of, and/or attempted sober. But there is a fine line to this liquidy talent, I think we've all seen the girl in the bar who's convinced that the sexiest thing ever is to throw her arms in the air and swing them wildly around yelling 'Whooooo'. At any point before that, you're golden.

I also enjoy anytime when the contestants break out 'Jazz Hands'. Ah, the Jazz Hands, is there any better body part/style of music juxtaposition?I think not. I mean, the Goth Torso and the Classical Pelvis just never really caught on. Although the Celtic Elbow had a breif run of popularity in the mid 1800's. Anglo elbows notwithstanding all pale in comparison to the mighty jazz hands. But if you think of a better one let me know. For now, I'm off to corrupt some young minds at the Bobby Mo' open house.

- Scott

Dinner with Heather

If you're like me, and pray you are, you frequently make up backgrounds and characteristics for people you meet. Entirely construct/guess their tastes and personality. Apparently Rob and Josh do this as well, because we spent a really kick ass dinner today as we wildly conjectured (now a verb) about our waitress. It started innocently enough as she laughed a fake, fake laugh at my seating preferance which was deadpanned: "First available". It happened to be an empty restaurant. Sure it's funny, but it's filler funny. Just rolling along between the good stuff. She - on entirely the wrong beat - decided to laugh as though it was hilarious.

This is probably the quickest way to lose standing in my eyes. If you don't laugh, I'm actually spur-ed on. It means that I can't sit back and coast though this, I have to bring my A-game. This lady laughed when I was saying unfunny stuff like when she brought our drinks and I used the word "kat-sup". This was shortly after I announced my theory on her 'tip laughing' and a potentially failed acting career. You ain't winning no Oscar's lady. At some point we started wondering things about her. And then betting on which one of us was right. The first one cropped up casually, what her favorite Disney move was. I went with Aladin, Josh went the Snow White route, and Rob picked something random like the Little Mermaid. We actually asked her. I was right. I'm not so sure whether or not she was creeped out at this point, but my celebration probably didn't help things.

The next round (as she brought us straws) we found out the results of her high school sports status. Josh one this one with his disarmingly accurate 1-2 years in Volleyball guess. Then, wanting to break this tie (I have heard Josh doesn't like to leave things unfinished) the last time she came around we went into the 'lightning round'. Which was simply what CD she last listened to, or what CDs she listens to in heavy rotation. When J asked her the question her answer just about KILLED us: "I don't know... I don't listen to Heavy Rotation (TM) CD's." Made my night. But sadly, no one won the contest as we weren't right about the CD choices. I had Skynnard, Josh went with Guns 'N Roses, and I think Rob went with early nineties power pop. When she gave the answer we were all pretty disappointed because we could have got it if we took closer note of the shaved back of her head. That's right. It was Slipknot. We let her go after that, but I highly advocate posing personal questions about your waiters and betting on the outcomes. It really does pass a dinner nicely.

- Scott

Wotcher!

Ok, a few confessions. Yes I did go to the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Even geekier, I finished it like the day after I bought it. For a 642 page book, this is truly an act of nerdity. However I don't think it's anywhere near as nerdy as my unwelcome attraction to one Nymphadora Tonks. I was just having a discussion about it. With myself. I said "Way to fall in love with a fictitious character, self. Because that really has possibilities, that's going places." Still, she's my favorite girl from the books. And if JK Rowling would just write me in to the final chapter, I'm pretty sure I could hook that up.

Anyway, I think now (like Tim thought yesterday) is a good time for a picture post. I'm feeling lazy, and having just gotten back to school, is the right and proper way for me to feel. And maybe a little sadness, but that's because I didn't like the ending of Half-Blood Prince. Quite the downer, very much like The Two Towers or The Empire Strikes Back. As a pick me up, here's some of my favorite stuff, namely pictures of me!

I feel I really captured the moment here. Jacob waxing philosophical, Stephen being exuberent and Rob laying his A-Game on Molly. Hear that Ro? Yeah. Stole my post AND macked on another woman. Where did we find this guy?


More scenes from the Blogaversary. Thought I'd toss a few up. Don't think I didn't catch the bird as I took it. Having snuck a few in myself it's the kind of thing I'm quite an expert on.


And we get to the freak pictures. Here I am making the guy in the bad Dumbledore costume feel awkward. I don't feel bad though. He was scaring the normal people. Normal being situational mind you.


Ah, an expression as good as "Pensive Potter". Look at the grace and elegance I portray as I pretend to read. At this point I was on page 4. A scant 24 hours later I would be finished. How the time flies.


And finally, here it is, my Reading Rainbow Colation. Liberals, Republicans, Women. There's no group too ridiculous for us to allow. Even more farcical we continued to sit and read in this position even after the picture was taken. For like five minutes. Eventually I decided it was just too 'Brady' and broke it up.

All in all, another awesome time that Rob was only at because he lives with me.



- Scott

Of good parties and bad movies

First of all, sorry for not posting in the last forever or so. However I'm impressed you could all supress the undoubtedly overwhelming desperation for new Scott-material for so long. I mean it's been like five days. You must be going nuts at this point. So let Dr. Scott perscribe a healthy dose of Sco-loft, and get you back into better spirits. Here goes, starting at the beginning: le par-tay.

The first ever blog based celebration went off quite well. What with games, and food, and shenanigans. I will say however that I brought things down a bit when I lost at Mafia and then started cussing at the person who brought about my demise. But I contend that I was so deeply into the character of my mafia persona, I couldn't distinguish reality from the game. Also, sorry Molly. Threatening to kill you in real life might have been a bit extreme. And I'll admit it. My bad.

Moving right along, the rest of the night was pretty hilarious, especially when it became like 2:00 AM and people didn't want to drive back to their homes. So I had no less than 10 people sleeping at my place. Given that I live in a 1,000 sq foot apartment in theory everyone should have had their own one hundred feet of personal space. Somehow it didn't really work out like that. I'm at a loss to figure out why, but all signs point to shoddy math. Computer Science majors don't need math right? As a sidebar: my hatred of computer sciences (which isn't to say I'm not good at them, I currently have a 3.91 GPA) is part of the reason I'm going into writing, ideally comedy writing.

Anyway, after the party I came back to J-ville and saw Fantastic Four then promptly wished I hadn't. I loved the comic books, and even the Saturday morning cartoon. But the movie didn't really do them justice. But it wasn't so bad that I couldn't watch it, nor was it so bad that there were several unintentionally hilarious scenes. For that, I watched another movie. A movie so bad it prompted the first weekly "Bad Movie Night", a movie called "Bury Me An Angel". Even the tagline for this movie is hilariously awful: "A howling hellcat humping a hot steel hog on a roaring rampage of revenge". I think now would be a great time for a movie montage of ridiculous scenes from the "film".

I so thoroughly ripped apart this movie, I think I deserve my own satellite of love. Basically the plot of the film is that the alleged biker "woman" - who in close up shots more closely resembles a post-op tranny, which nicely compliments her lower-than-yours voice and oddly mannish frame - is on a quest to avenge her brother whose head you can see bleeding in the top right of my collage. Funny that it's even there at all considering in the special effects shot it was blown off. There's the things obligatory to all biker movies including the bar fight (in this case the most ILLOGICAL bar fight of all time. Seriously, people who were friends sitting on the other side of the bar just turned and started fighting each other. Then the run-in with the inept "Yosemite Sam" Sherif who absolutely cracked everyone up with his high pitched voice shouting "What in the cornbread hell is going on here". Finally there's the doubly obligatory hippy psychic/satanist/wise Indian figure who surprisingly advocates peace and the fact that she's not flammable.

All in all I give it a 10/10 for hilarity but minus several billion for the HALF HOUR CROSS COUNTRY BIKE SCENE. Next week's film? Death Race: 2000!


- Scott

Junk in her trunk...

Quick story before I review the Top 5 posts of the 2004/2005 Blog Year. Yesterday I was driving to my newspaper meeting - being as I'm the editor, I figured it would be a nice thing to show up. However on my merry way to the college I was rocking out to some happening track on my iPod. I forget which... I really have no idea... it could have been any of them. Zepplin, Linkin Park, the Carpenters. Ok, fine I do remember. It was Bon Jovi (literally french for "Good" Jovi) and the song was "Livin' on a Prayer" which I am, baby.

Anyway, I'm at a stop light and I notice these girls vibing me in a really weird way. Kind of smiling, maybe a titter of laughter. Now you could chalk it up to my air-drum solo, but I prefer to think they were deep into my style and attractive-ness. The light in our lane - a turn lane - turned green and people started to go. I looked ahead breifly, then back at the girls and continued to throw them my seductive look - having done it in the mirror I can tell you it's pretty effective, seriously I'm just glad Rob didn't walk in when I had succumbed to myself and made out with my reflection. But as I'm throwing them the seducitve look and continuing to rock out to Good Jovi, I become aware of one critical element that I had thus far overlooked: whether or not the car ahead of me had decided to go through the light. It hadn't.

I hit the car pretty hard, just barely having noticed it and slammed on the brakes an instant too late to be effective. Best of all, the girls were laughing so hard by this point they had to stop and wait for the next light with me and the old lady I had just plowed into. So, I get out and do my "Omigosh! I'm so sorry. Are you alright. I can't believe it. Some other statement about my being sorry and hoping that you aren't the type to call the insurance companies" bit. Fortunately (as I might have guessed from her license plate "GRAMMY 86") she was a grandma. I might have alternately guessed that she was the recipient of a 1986 Grammy, but I would have been wrong.

There was no damage to my car and just some minor scratches to hers, its amazing what kind of damage granny cars can sustain and not look any worse from it. I once ran over some mailboxes and had no idea, I also hit Sara T.'s car and pretty well screwed up the front end of it, with no damage to mine. So, Granny-mobiles being the tanks they are, we both went our seperate ways, no harm no foul. But damn, were my chances shot with those girls. At least they laughed.

- Scott

Ready for a Scott lengthed Post?

Great. Alright then... Call me Scottmael. Many days ago, having little or no money in my pocket and very few singe marks on my clothing, I set out to have a fourth of July celebration. All the while neglecting to study for my finals. Despite the perils of being burned alive, and/or failing out of collge, I felt I had to try. And try I did.

I loaded up my vehicle, and with a bad case of "stoned-camera-face" managed to set out into the night. As a side note, how exactly I managed to get in this picture when I'm clearly behind the camera is beyond modern science. Beyond even post-modern science as well, and that's quite a thing.

Anyway, stoned-face driving is hard and hungry work. So shortly thereafter, I decided it was time for some healthy nourishment. When we gave up on that we went to Steak 'N Shake, where I am apparently 6'1. My height varies greatly depending on which convience store I'm at. At Amoco I'm 5'10, at Shell 5'11, and at Steak 'N Shake 6'1. I like to go to all of them in a day and pretend I'm on growth hormones.

It's like the last supper, just with more women, and no one is going to die later. (SPOILER!) But if they did die, they pretty definately wouldn't be back three days later. Oh, and for the hell of it, here's a picture of Henry's chest.

After all the sammiches, shakes, and boobs, it was time to hit the dangerous and winding road once again. Our goal: illegal Missouri fireworks. We got across the border vith our forged papers. Then stealthily and tactfully infiltrated the explosives facility, as you can see below.

If you look close you can see my badass burn from the pipes on my 'hog. I tend to forget which things are hot. Burns like that are good reminders. They're also good for making me just that much tanner. As you can see, they do nothing to affect my maturity level, which is pretty much maxed out as high as it can go. Anyway, fireworks in trunk I sweat bullets as I had to make it through customs with my smuggled cargo. Fortunately all went well. And the very next night we went to see the fireworks in St. Louis.

Sadly, we got there pretty late, and all the best spots for watching them were taken. Moments like this are when my intrepid-ity comes into play. I started scouting around and found a primo location that was completely unoccupied... It was a vendor tent. Apparently the vendor just cleared out. And so, I took it over. Take a look:

We're right between the Arch and the Capitol Building in the middle of Market Street. Perfect location. Perfect view of the fireworks. As you can see I later invaded the neighboring merchant's tent and stole a couple of chairs. Also, a few people followed my lead and popped a squat next to us. I look down on that, because while we're squatters, we're really original squatters. They're poseur squatters, and that's just sad. Despite them, it was a great spot. Check out the view:

Money? Yes I think so. And so patriotic, it makes me wanna enlist. However until we attack a country that makes a good backdrop for my memoirs I think I'll pass. That arching dark thing in the silhouetted in the background is the Arch, Gateway to the West and everpresent challenge to those who have suction cup suits. (I love that guy).

Finally, we had our own celebration in which I used those fireworks I bought in the 4th picture. It was pretty good in spite nearly sending a mortar shell into the master bedroom of a house across the lake... or maybe because of it. I also put the girls to good work and had them go sparkler crazy while I took long-exposure time pictures. The effect is pretty good, but next year? I'm lining up four people and we're spelling four letter words.

- Scott

Blogging powers... ACTIVATE!

Good news everybody. As of 21 days from now, my blog will be one year old. In celebration of this monumentous occasion, I'm going all friggin' out. We're throwing the first annual Blog Bash at El Casa Scott (y Rob). This is the official invatation. I'd like to have it on the 11th or 18th of June. Festivities kick off at my place around 7:00. And what festivities they'll be. I'm saving the details for later, but trust me they'll be pretty extravagant. Hit me up in the comments with your prefered day.

As far as blogging for today, I like Joseph of the Bible, turn to dreams for inspiration. And quite a dream I had. Basically I inadvertantly stole a little girl's bike. I didn't realize I was on the wrong one for quite some time, but when I did the tires started smoking, then caught fire. I paniced, because the little girl was my cousin and I was ruining her bike (somehow). In response I threw it into a soupy, chest deep, undried concret quagmire, which completed the ruining. I then explained the situation to Caroline Holmes as a laugh track went off every time I finished speaking. Later on, I was at the mall with three guys from my college perfoming a very beautiful version of Adoramus te Christe as we looked for the Gap. Later I met up with Tim and Josh Tapeworm (who were dying whilst playing a Jester, and being over-enthusiastic for Tim's antics as he ran a hand through his giant, faux-red flock of Seagulls hair... respectively).

Then I woke up. I think I was crying at the time even. Weird dream. I looked up the meanings behind everything and it turns out that I should sacrifice my firstborn, and store seven years worth of grain. So yeah, I should be getting to work on conceiving a first born (and while I'm at it, three or four children, I'm all for the attempt!) And also on that grain thing too. I think I'll just raid the personal stores of Tom Cruise. What? I know he's not fat. But he's batshit crazy. You just know he has some kind of stockpile, as dictated by L. Ron Hubbard in what he intended to be a science fiction book. And that's all for now. Be sure to RSVP.

- Scott

I throw myself on the mercy of the blogosphere

And I do so knowing that there is none. But allow me to apologize anyway. I know. I know. I'm pulling a totally Tapeworm here. And not the kind that comes out of an infested person. The Timmy kind. And really, that's the worse of the two.

So I'm sorry for not posting as regularly as usual this week, we're headed into finals here at Bobby Mo (also known as Bizarro U.) And I'm loaded down like a rented mule with back homework, studying for finals, and gi-normous projects. One of my projects is just a dream, I got promoted to group leader after our hissy-fit-man-bitch of a group leader took his THIRD vacation of the 10 week quarter. And even when he was here he was a total tyrant. So, now the group's mine. And he's demoted. Man is he pissed at me. So it's probaby not the healthiest, most productive group of all time.

I also have to create a presentation on the Liar's Paradox for my Discreet math class. I choose not to be insulted that the teacher selected "what she thought we would enjoy most" and then gave me something about lying. What are you saying Prof. McKinstry? Huh? Let's get it all out in the open. Although she made up for her potential insult the day she came in hopped up on steroids and pain killers waving her arms around and acting really hyper. To see a 65 year old woman, who is normally reserved to the point of making Mother Teresa think "Hey bitch, loosen up", say "Don't want to alarm you guys or just be like GRRRRRR (while she raised her hands over her head in the "monster scaring you"position) was hilarious beyond words. I laughed so hard there were tears. TEARS!

But anyway, this is just a quick "I can't post, post" and I'm doing it in an SQL class. Hopefully I'll be able to tell you all about my theories, the WADWUS, and some pretty great stories later in the week. That's all for now kids. Stay tuned.

- Scott

BOOMshackalacka

Why the title? No, I'm not brewin' some boomshine, although that does sound like a good idea. Seriously, as advertised in GTA: Vice City, you really can get messed up just smelling it. And how I know that... isn't important. Nothing to talk about in print anyway, damn you Patriot Act! You and your capitalization on national panic and jingoism. Ok, enough hating on an act of congress, on to the post proper:

Brace yourself. I, Scott Gresham, the man, the myth, the blogger, may have a job. A job where they allow, nay, encourage me to work with explosives. A job in a fireworks factory. Now if only I were the Human Torch, then there would be the kind of danger I'm really after. Also I'd get to do a trailer closing one liner with Maria Menounos. And I'd love any interaction with Maria, even if it was just a bit part in a potentially cheesy movie, or apologizing to her in court for breaking into her mansion and hiding all those cameras. Jessica Alba is right alongside her in that respect.

And as long as we're on the topic of celebrities I have something to get off my chest. Yeah, we all find their lives interesting. We like hearing about who they're dating, what they're buying, whether or not there's naked pictures of them available online. Hell, we even like watching them play poker. Poker is fine, there's money involved. It's interesting. But now AMC has gone and crossed the line; violated all that which we hold sacred. They've brought us celebrities playing Charades. CELEBRITY CHARADES!

I now expect the celebrity appeal to die off, we've seen it all. From celebrities leading lives of the rich and famous, jet setting around the world, drinking the blood of the exploited working class as a chaser for their 400 dollar shots of vodka, to playing the same game normal people break out when a party is completely dead. What's next AMC? Celebrities getting together at 7:14 on a Friday to hang out in the living room of their parent's place and say "What do you guys want to do tonight?" "I don't know, what do you want to do tonight?" "How about a movie" "Nah, nothing good is out" "Ok how about bowling" "We did that last week" "Fine, let's just stay in and watch Runaway Bride on TBS, and then catch the Runaway Bride update on CNN." Because we're almost there.

- Scott

Livin' Large

Well, I just got back from a pretty insane weekend. Here's a run down of what happened, a friend from high school became a porn star, she's shot 3 "pictures" and has a non-exclusive 6 picture deal with the illustrious Cherryboxxx Productions. I'd like to take a minute to thank her for never showing any interest in me whatsoever. I mean, it's not like your standards are THAT high, you're now having sex with anonymous people for money. I had money. And what's more I had time. So thanks alot for not even offering to sleep with me if I paid you. Not that I would have, that would look bad for me. But seriously, enjoy the "work" while it lasts, it can't be very hard. As the woman in the porno your obligations are to lay there, take it, and wonder how you all of a sudden got sooooo naked.

The other insane thing that happened this weekend was that my brother, who is apparently the Donald Trump of his age group, bought a very nice 20 foot power boat. I tried to find a picture of it, but none of them are the right model. Suffice it to say it's a pretty ridiculous purchase for him to make. The most ridiculous part of it was that he only started talking about wanting a boat about a week ago. It's like we were driving down the road and he saw a boat for sale and decided "I want a boat, I think I'll buy one". Despite not dealing drugs he somehow had enough for half of it and convinced my parents to finance the other half. Enjoy the interest on your yacht P. Diddy. I'm sure you'll really enjoy it. I know I will...

One last thing, if you're going to go skiing in the foreseeable future, start doing "grabbing on to things" exercizes. I found out during the course of the day that I apprarently have the grip of an arthritic sherpa. By the end of the day skiing behind Ross's big new boat I couldn't make a fist to save my life. My fingers decided that they're not getting overtime for this crap and promptly punched out. The last time I went to ski behind the boat I couldn't hold onto the bar long enough to get up on top of the water. It was pretty lame considering I usually clock a grip like my name was Dolemite. (See my bottom five list #2.) Oh well, next weekend I'll own that sucka. Then we'll see what's up.

- Scott

P.S. I have a tiny summer vacation comming up (July 8th through the 22nd). Hit me up with some summer vacation ideas. The less practical the better. Thanks in advance.

Ramblings, just ramblings

Ok, a few things on my mind today: First off, why is it that so many new bands are shooting for names that get me really excited when I misinterpret them? The bastards trick me into comming to their show, and when I find out what's really going on I'm always dissapointed, but too proud to admit I was tricked and leave. Confused? Let me explain, I recently attended the Jerseyville Music Festival (which consists of a flat bed trailer for a stage, a beer tent, and an empty parking lot as a venue). In the adverts they talked about the bands and the food, nestled safely near the bottom was "Free Corndogs". They had me at "free corn-", I was so going to this thing. So when I get there I have the fantastic discovery of Free Corndogs being a band. A shitty band. Fantastic.

I haven't been this dissapointed since 10,000 Maniacs turned out to be 5 rapidly aging mod rockers. How cool would it have been for a whole town of maniacs to become one band? I mean, by default they would have been a ska band (any band that outsizes its audience is most likely a ska band), but still awesome. I'd hate for anyone else to fall victim to this kind of n'er do welling, so I'll warn you ahead of time: Bloc Party is not a place to go and watch your teachers get drunk.

In other news, Rob and I went and laid out like the succlent pieces of grade A men we are at the pool today. Actually I should say Rob laid out, I swam, then laid out. It's pretty lame, but he gets severely cold. I'm pretty sure he's cold blooded. And I'm also pretty sure that he's some got some kind of huge secret, because as he laid on his stomach staring at the ground one ant carried another on its back, stopped right in front of his gi-normous face, dropped the carried ant, and ran away. I decided it was an ant virgin sacrifice and further, that Rob is the God of Carpenter Ants. Two more things before I go:

"10,000 Maniacs and One Stoned Raph". Now that's a band.
In fact, One Stoned Raph on it's own is a wicked awesome band name. Wow, I'm really creative without really trying. Double wow, this is the longest caption of all time.



It's Blogger Man! TM with the power to entertain the masses through describing seemingly normal activities seen through the eyes of a madman! He also has a pretty awesome pirate face.

- Scott

California: No longer allowed to make decisions

I don't know if it's from all the gold digging idiots (literally) who headed out in the 1840's, or it was the damn Okies who set out west to chase the illustrious dream of... picking fruit, but something somewhere along the way produced the abosolute dumbest population of any people outside of special institutes. (And some of those people could people whip the average Californian's ass at Boggle). By now you've all heard the verdict(s) that inspired this tirade. But in case you hadn't here's the gist of it: "Michael Jackson is innocent of all charges, and upon further deliberation, he also farts rainbows. It's because he didn't have a normal childhood!"

Fantastic. I don't know what's more annoying, the jurors, or the media. For 30 minutes before the trial they desperately tried to kill time until the trial verdict was read. I kid you not in one exchange an 'expert' explained that we should listen close because even if they say "Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty, they might then say Guilty, and that means that he owes 1,500 dollars in fines and must prove that he can still moonwalk". Or some other obscure shit no one cares about. These anchors need to take some improv classes. I'd like to hear some games played while we wait.

Announcer: "Ok, in this scene Matt Lauer will play Michael Jackson. What should he be doing"
*Crowd*Mowing the yard! Baby sitting! Playing with Mr. Potato Head! Stealing Cable!*End Crowd*
Announcer: "Alright, I heard 'playing with Mr. Potato head'. Lauer take it away"
Lauer as Jackson: "Oh hello Potato Head. How are you? Uh ho, your nose fell off. Here have mine.
(Puts his nose on the Potato Head)
Lauer as Jackson: Now I'll wear yours.
(Puts Potato Head's Nose on)
Lauer as Jackson: Hey look now I'm black, white, and Jewish!"

And scene.

Now isn't that more entertaining than a half an hour of finding 82 new ways of saying that the judge will announce the verdict whenever they finish? I like to think so.

- Scott