For the beggars

This summer started off with such flair, such promise. From the day I exited my last final I knew I had ended my first full year back in college well. I posted a solid 3.4 GPA for the combined semesters. Of course it's not my best work, but when you realize that one of my professors was a self-absorbed Mrs. Doubtfire look-alike who probably killed more trees in one semester's handouts than the production of the Bible has to date, you begin to understand that a C isn't so bad as long as you escape her class with your sanity still intact.

The madness is actually worth mentioning I suppose, as it began annoyingly enough with a trip down memory lane to kindergarten when on our first day of class we were treated to our choice of candies out of a bucket. I chose the Smarties. I simultaneously realized this woman was mental.

I fucking love candy, but this bitch is nuts.

It dawns on me now that throughout the rest of the semester we systematically drudged through a reenactment of the entire education timeline, beginning with a spelling test the next class and culminating in a group presentation before the college's "Board of Governor's." While that sounds important, it was in fact, a 5 minute power-point given to only one person who wasn't even remotely a board member (with short, gray, curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses). The topic that she chose for us was how commencement ceremonies could best be shortened.

I don't want you to miss out on the key detail here that we ALL gave the SAME speech to the professor who had chosen the assignment. Having only sat through one or two UCM graduations in my life, I can say I was never so bored that I sat around contemplating how to shorten one of the most important moments in the graduates' lives, but my professor clearly had. Against our will we created surveys (which she lost), submitted proposals (which she degraded) and repeated everything the group before us had said (which she constantly interrupted).


I digress to mention a late semester assignment wherein we were required to participate in a mock interview with the university's Career Services department. I donned my newly purchased suit and with résumé in hand I strode in with confidence and completed the interview with flying colors, not that it mattered since it was simply pass/fail. After a few critiques of my résumé from the interviewer (yeah I'm being a pompous ass and including the accent marks in résumé. Fucking deal with it), I revised the document and turned it in to my professor for her evaluations.

Try not to fuck this up, okay?

As I was handing it in, Mrs. Doubtfire turned to me and asked me what I thought about Career Services. Before a single utterance had left my lips she filled in my answer for me, "They don't know a damn thing up there do they?"

Uh.... I hope they do. Because you just had me go spend an hour kissing their asses and having them review this piece of paper I'm turning in to you for a grade...


***A few days later***

As was custom, I came into class and sat down at my group table where our graded assignments were laying face down waiting for us. Yippee, I thought as I silently contemplated how this woman hadn't been fired yet. I flipped over my résumé to find a sea of red. My first thought was that she must have picked up her red pen and it leaked all over her fingers so she wiped them on my pages to clean them off. Slowly the scribble became coherent, and I realized the ink-leak theory was bust.

I started to pore over the bullshit that she had mixed in with my bullshit.

Scanning... scanning... Well I got my name right

That was apparently where my success stopped. The summary section. I've never been much of a fan of the summary section. If you need me to summarize everything you're going to read over the next 30 seconds, then fuck you. Seriously, just take my résumé and recycle the thing up your asshole. What the fuck can I tell you about me that you're not about to read? Yeah, my name is Mike and I used to read Goosebumps books and I think that this summary is worthless.

Of course I didn't write that. I actually tried. I'd like to tell you I succeeded, but I somehow managed to even fuck up talking about myself. Actually, that's not entirely true. My summary section had a big red slash through it. Several words written nearby in chicken scratch. Most of the rest of page had been decoded already. I squinted my eyes to read the two words "written" near the -5 points of my summary section.


It read: "Self-Centered"

No, really. What the fucking fuck is this shit?

You know that moment where you think you have met the stupidest person you've ever met in your life, and then someone comes along and proves you were wrong? This was that person for me. Crazy-ass Mrs. Doubtfire was my new stupidest person. I had been docked 5 points on my résumé for being self-centered in my summary section. There isn't enough what the fuck in the world to satisfy how I feel about this event in my life. I hope I never find another stupider person. Ever.

Take a look at this dumb ass, he didn't even write a summary! Oh he got an A? Well fuck me then.

Put away the scissors

Just a quick entry of a thought I had today.

I've come to the conclusion that if I were the only man in an all female society, they'd probably try to cut my dick off so I'd stop bugging them with it.

No, Diana, I will not pass you the butter knife.

Where do villages get their idiots?

This picture should set the tone properly.

So I was reminded today of my time delivering pizzas almost 10 years ago in a small town in central Missouri. The town I was working in was no larger than 5,000 people, and I'm pretty sure that included the inmates of a rather large state penitentiary. Technically though, we delivered to a few surrounding areas that were even smaller, some as small as 200.

Before I get too far into this rant I want everyone to know that my dad lived in, I lived in, and my grandparents still live in a town of only 500 people. I have nothing against a town where there may or may not be a local cop on the payroll at any given time. Or a town that makes you take the swimming test every single year growing up before you could jump off the diving board like you magically forgot how to swim over the winter... fuckers.

Back to our other town being of slightly smaller size and greater stupidity. It was a very rare occasion when we left our little tight-knit town to deliver to the surrounding areas, and this was my first time delivering to Moronville. The town's geography is not unlike many in rural mid-Missouri. Resting atop a steep hill, a state highway with a 45-mph speed limit divides the town into two halves with some kind or grocery store/post office combination on one side and a bank or what have you on the other. Frankly I'm not 100% sure about there being all those things, or even one of those things, but the town existed nonetheless.

As I topped the hill into town I realized I had failed to check the map for the road I was delivering to. No matter I thought, the town has about 6 east-west roads and 4 north-south roads not including the highway. It really can't be that hard to find Morgan St. in a quarter-mile by quarter-mile area... Well, dear reader, fuck that bullshit. This is the short story of trying to find that street.

There were really only two options as my Ford Explorer rolled into town slowing down to go either right or left off the main stretch. I turned left and drove one block and took a right traveling parallel the highway. Up in the distance I spot a family of 5 walking along the edge of the road. 2 kids younger than 10 and their parents just beside them pushing a stroller down the roughly paved road. The first street sign I spot is halfway between where I turned onto the side road and them. "Cappeller Ave."... whatever the fuck that means.


I continued on at a hasty pace of 5 mph toward the family, my thought process being that perhaps they knew where Morgan St. was, because it's a family that's walking their kids through the streets. There are like 10 streets. They should, by all intents and purposes be aware of at least the 2 streets I've just been on, and seriously, if they've been walking for more than 30 minutes they ought to know all 10 roads well enough now to sponsor a neighborhood hide and seek competition. It's that fucking small.

My vehicle pulls alongside them and I roll my window down. I can't tell whether they're staring at me because I'm an outsider or because they've never seen a metal buggy without a horse pulling. They seriously looked at me as though I were a damn alien. Okay, earthlings, where is Morgan St. They just... stared at me. Oh I get it, how could I not know where Morgan street is with only 10 roads? Yeah yeah jokes on me, I didn't look at the map before I left, now tell me where the street is.

Realistically, maybe they didn't hear me, "Do you guys know where Morgan Street is?"

"I think it's on the other side of town," said the mother.
"We're not from around here," said the father.

Uh... if you're not from around here... why in the fuck are you out with the family walking down one of the streets with any knowledge of the road at all? Either you're in town visiting family and you don't know where it is, or you live here and you know exactly where it is. For fuck's sake I could get out of my vehicle, pick up a rock and throw it and hit any street in the town from here, so how the fuck can you even say "other side of town" with a straight face? I feel like that inherently implies that your town is large enough to have more than one side. I'm sorry, dear people not from here, but you must realize that this town is a Mobius strip from hell and I implore to seek and find it's other side.

Gee, Billy Joe, are you sure you don't know the other streets in town?

"Okay," I said calmly as I rolled up my window and drove away from the crazy family. I let my questions about their reasons for being on that particular street fade away as I took a right at the corner back to the highway. I took a lazy left and went South a block and took a right. Sure, now I'm on the other side of town. Why not...

I continue West for a block and run out of room. No where to go but back to the North. I check upward for a street sign to see an empty metal post adorning the corner. How helpful. How fucking typically helpful. My eyes pan back down to the house on the corner where there is a woman sitting on her porch swing in a night gown. Of course if the porch swing had been on the porch it would have been less creepy than if were in the yard; too bad that's exactly where she was.

Okay, I know from the street sign on the highway that I'm at the corner of High street and some other random crappy street, maybe Ms. Public Pajamas knows where Morgan street is....

"Excuse me, but do you know where Morgan street this is?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

Ok, fuck this lady. You live at the corner of High street and the street I'm asking about and you wanna tell me that you don't know what street it is? YOU LIVE ON IT!

The only thing I could muster as a response was, "Oh..."
"Well do you know where Morgan street is?" I considered that this may have been the more appropriate question in the first place.

"No, I think that's back on the other side of town."

It's a fucking conspiracy... At this point I want to get the fuck out of this town pronto. Everyone is officially batshit crazy. If The Hills Have Eyes wasn't a remake of a 1977 film I'd say it was written based on this fucking town.

Creepy ass movie was creepy

For all I know the 1977 version might have been written about this fucking town. At whatever rate I needed to get right the hell out of there ASAP. People not knowing what fucking street they live on, that's some Wes Craven shit right there.

I had already made the right turn onto the unknown avenue so heading the crazy lady's advice (for whatever reason) I drove North along the road looking for the first place to turn around (and potentially a street sign so I can cross another street off my list). I came to the first corner and prepared to make a right hand turn back to the highway. I looked up to the bent street sign and tried to make out the wording. It was clear that the street I was going to turn on to get back to the highway was Moniteau street, but the bent part of the sign required me to round the corner a bit to make out the word "Morgan".

... that crazy bitch....

"Trolled!"

I sat there for a moment pondering how the woman wearing a night gown at 3pm could not only be unaware of what road she lived on, but also try to send me back "across town" when I inquired about Morgan street when in reality, both her house and my car were residing on that fucking street while we had our little conversation.

I whipped my car back onto Morgan pissed off that I had heeded the advice of anyone in this town at all and starting looking at the house numbers. The direction I needed to deliver the pizza was opposite the woman's house, lucky her. I pulled up out front of a nice little run down house with a picket fence out front and a sign that said BEWARE OF DOG. Of course there's a dog. I looked around, no dog found. I rang the doorbell and the sound of a large dog barking cause me to jump. There's the dog.

A bearded man in a trucker's hat answered the door and said, "Took you a little while." Fuck this guy

"Yeah well it's a ways from the restaurant and I had some trouble finding the street."

"Well you know where it is now for next time."

Bull fucking shit there's gonna be a next time. This town blows. I'll let one of the normal drivers take this shit next time.

After an exchange of goods I was putting his check in my money bag when he casually asked me how much money I carry on deliveries.



"Only $20. Gotta go have a good day." Get me the FUCK out of here NOW I thought as I hurried back to my car fully expecting the guy to pull a gun on me. Who would know? How the hell would they ever find me? It's not like there are street signs and clearly no one around here actually pays attention. This is the kind of place pizza delivery drivers disappear I figured. I was probably one of the lucky ones. But then again, that was so many years ago, and so much has happened to me since. This blog is full of evidence of that. Maybe a little bit of hell stuck to me that day..... ew.

A Tale for Your Enjoyment

It's this long and not nearly as good

In honor of one of my friends, I thought I would entice you with a tale of past mishaps once again.

It was a Friday night in the city, and my friend and I were planning a night of epic enjoyment. Knowing that it's much cheaper to pregame before heading to the Power & Light district in Kansas City, we engaged in an assortment (mistake #1) of heavy liquors and mixed drinks. We were drinking at his apartment and after emptying the Grey Goose we responsibly called for a cab to drive us downtown. We proceeded to continue with some bourbon, patiently waiting for the taxi.

Half an hour later without so much as a word from the taxi company, we called them back. I proceeded to be asked where we lived, and when I told them, they replied that they didn't have us listed. They took our address again, so we kept drinking.

Wash.Rinse.Repeat. We went through this process of calling and reordering a cab, followed by downing more drinks about 3 more times before after an hour and a half, a taxi finally pulled up outside. As you can imagine, we were fuuuuuuuucked up.

At this point in the story I need to inject some details into the reader's mind. It was a fall night I believe, and I had gotten into the habit of wearing a puffy vest when I went out. It looked a lot like this:

Yeah I don't know what the fuck I was thinking either.

The taxi delivered us promptly downtown to Kansas City's Power & Light district where we made our ways upstairs to our favorite place "The Shark Bar". As soon as we got there we started to pound some shots. Everyone around us was clearly more drunk than we were, which amazed us apparently to the point that we decided to try to catch up to them.

About 2 drinks the story starts to differ from your standard night out, as I started to get a little bit loose in the hips. The feet were tapping, the whole body was swaying and I began to have a pretty damn good time dancing with myself at the bar. Dancing so well mind you, that a girl came over to me and asked me if we wanted to hang out with her and her friends because I seemed funny. Funny.



Off to a great start.

Naturally we went over and I tried my hardest to literally charm this girl's pants off. Conversation in a bar, however, can be frankly impossible when you can't hear each other shout over the music, so I decided to go back to the dancing that got me in the situation in the first place.

For those who don't know this already, dancing vigorously while wearing a polyester casing of goose down can get pretty fucking hot pretty quickly. So I decide to take "the epicness" off mid-dance move. Shit didn't go so well. I get one arm out and the other is waving over my head and gets stuck. Next thing I know I'm starting to struggle and my free hand lands in my buddy's drink and knocks it all over him and myself.

*Brilliant idea!* I'll take my puffy vest to coat check! (In hindsight this was, in fact, not a brilliant idea.)

By the time I got back from coat check it was obviously that the ladies thought I was the suavest son of a bitch they'd ever met. 5 or 10 minutes later the lights came on and the bar was shutting down. I'm like, "Hey, I'm gonna go grab my vest from coat check." Which when said to attractive women sounds like, "Hey I'm gonna go call my mom and make sure I can stay out later" or "Hey, you should check out my sock collection."

They were gone. They were fucking Navy-SEAL-snuck-right-the-fuck-out-of-there gone.

To be fair, I expected as much. I was anything but coordinated and any sense of being funny probably went out the door when I decided to make it rain booze.

However, when I turned to look for my friend, he was no where in sight. Where the fuck do you suppose he went.

Well I haven't lost anyone since I was 12 at Six Flags when I lost my parents for 30 seconds. Long story short I wasn't keen on what to do when someone who was standing right next to you disappears. So I yelled his name for a couple of moments, realized I looked like a freak, then proceeded to call him. No answer. I'll go wait out in the main patio area.

A minute goes by, I call him again, still no answer. At this point I'm beginning to worry about how I can get home with my keys and car at his place and him not anywhere to be found.

I call him again, 23 times. No answer.

About 20 minutes have gone by, I'm obviously drunk to the point where I'm half-way laying down when I'm sitting. I'm trying to stare at the bricks in the courtyard to keep them from moving so damn much and my phone finally rings with my buddy on the other end.

I answer. He sounds chipper. Why the fuck does he sound so chipper...

"Hey, buddy, what's up?" he asks...

"Uh, I... Where are you?"

"I'm at home, I thought you were go to go with those girls."

Mother fucker

"Dude even if I were good to go with one of them, where the fuck was I going to go? My keys and car are at your place..."

Well after a few minutes more of arguing over whether or not I was capable of getting laid in my shanty of an apartment after breaking into it, we came to the conclusion that I should have been a part of the cab ride that took him to his place.

I was frustrated. I was drunk. I was disappointed. I was definitely not getting laid. I was ready to go back to his place and curl up on the couch and wait for morning's ass-raping of a hangover to arrive. Now it was going to cost me $30 just to get back to his place and achieve that goal.

I walked out of Power & Light and hailed the first cab I saw. I climbed in defeated. "North Kansas City, please."

"I like your vest, man," the cabbie announced happily.

Mother fucker

I can't name this one

I don't write in this thing unless I'm wrapped up in a veil of "fuck you"s and a slew of "no really, I hate what you're doing"s. I've been holding something in for a couple of weeks now, and a trip to a local grocery store gave me the proper determination to write my feelings down.

See I've been waiting on a rebate check from Sprint for a few weeks now, because I'm broke again. I know, I know, tough to believe, but it's true. Anyway, I take my $100 rebate check up to the counter of the check-cashing area of this grocery store and ask if they'll cash the check because my bank is sixty miles away in the city.

Well, technically the first thing I did was stand there for 30 seconds in line waiting for the two people behind the counter to finish talking about, I don't know, ponies or something, who fucking cares. Of course, by "stand in line" I mean that I was the line. I was standing right there, right in front of two customer service reps while they discussed the weather in Boca. After checking to make sure I hadn't put on the emperor's new clothes this morning I stepped a little closer to the counter, at which point I was actually leaning over into their area. I was no longer trying to get their attention. I now simply wanted to position myself properly to hit the guy in the balls for ignoring me. Unfortunately they finally acknowledged me and I asked them if they would cash the check.

They both looked at my rebate check for a moment. One of them poked it towards the other like it was a dead rat and I was the family dog. "You wanna take that?" he asked her. She looked at it for a second, mentioned some crap about how it was from a bank in Texas, as though Texas had seceded and wasn't really a state to trust anymore.




I was dumbfounded. Mostly because they were treating me like a con-man or a homeless guy from Houston.

Eventually, she decided to cash it. After which I very kindly thanked her and told her I appreciated it, because I realized that even though it was clearly a legitimate rebate check from Sprint, she didn't have to take it. Regardless of how grateful I may have appeared, she shot me yet another look of disapproval.

Well, bitch, fuck you, too. I tried to be nice, but you can shove the shredded remains of this check stub up your wrinkled ass. Knowing how tightly shut your anal cavity is, it will probably fossilize under the pressure and when people whisper, "What's up her ass?" I can proudly exclaim, "A stick! A stick is up her ass."


....


But alas, I only told you that story to tell you why I was in a bad mood. You see, the thing that I originally intended to write about happened last week. My sister and her family recently moved back into town, and I've been rather lethargic in my dealings with them. But when I saw them in a parking lot I was excited to see my niece who I felt as though perhaps I had neglected a little lately. It's partly her fault for being 16 months old, though. When she can finally throw a baseball we're going to get along great.

Nevertheless, I hurried around my sisters car to say hi to her. I poked my head in the back window like I always do to make faces at her while my sister does some boring mom crap, and what do you think is my reward for entertaining this adorable niece of mine? My sister rolls my head up in the fucking window.

Power windows. They roll up quite fast a new Focus. I'm so proud of my niece, too. She didn't even cry as I screamed at my sister that my cranium was being crushed by her lack of attention to details. The detail being that my fucking head was in the window while she was rolling it up, but ya know... easy mistake right? All I can say is I hope that my niece's first memory isn't of my head turned sideways about to explode as I screamed her mother's name in vain over and over praying to the gods of safety glass that it wouldn't break and be pushed upward into my temple. Hooray! Uncle Mike is funny isn't he?

I see that Low Rida go by, I say Oh My

Did I ever tell anyone that I'm not driving my car anymore? Around the time the world's greatest mechanic misdiagnosed my lack of brake lights as a broken door chime, I threw my arms in the air and said fuck it, and I sold that piece of shit.

Well, actually my dad sold it for me. His name was on the title even though I'd made every payment. I'm still not sure if I ever had any say in the matter. I believe somewhere along the line he suggested in a stubborn tone that I needed to get all my shit out of the car so we could sell it since it was starting to cost him a lot of pizza (did you know mechanics could be paid in pizza?). Well I never made time to clean out my car, but that doesn't change the fact that it's gone now.

.....

Come to think of it, I don't remember ever receiving any kind of monetary compensation for that "transaction".

.....

fuck. Swindled by my old man. Ouch. I suppose it's mostly fair by now. I've been driving his blazer or truck back and forth to and from campus for months now. On the days he needs one vehicle or the other I have to swap with him, other than that, it's not a big deal. The tire on the right-front of the blazer has a slow leak. So what? Airing up a tire every once in a while is a far cry from having to walk everywhere.

Until recently....

One day not so long ago while I was working at the bookstore my dad came in and asked me for the keys to the truck, which I had been driving. He said he had bought a camper for the truck and needed to go pick it up. I'm thinking this:



but what he got was this



WHAT THE FUCK!? Okay, fine. He'll put it in his driveway. That's what he said he'd do. Flash foward to three days later and I'm puttering around town in what can only be described as the rape-mobile. I'm driving around and people literally think I'm bringing my house with me like some sort or bizarre hippie or serial killer hermit man guy person. If you haven't noticed, Dad, I've been single for almost two years. Slapping a pop-up camper on the back of an old Ford and telling me to drive slowly because it might slide out the back is NOT HELPING.

Oh, didn't I mention? It's not secured with ANYTHING. Not only am I driving around with what was most probably seized in a child molestation investigation in the bed of the truck, but at any moment with the right luck (my luck to be exact) it could fall out in the middle of the road. Just fucking great. Then people can drive by and think:
Look at that poor bastard. He's so sick in the head he's trying to set up a heinous crimes command post in the intersection of Gay and Commander. What a perverted son of a bitch.

Cupid is a bastard

The next person who says or mentions anything to me about Valentine's Day is getting sodomized with the business end of a tennis racket.

Yo dawg, I heard you like intestines so I put cat intestine in your intestine so you can shut the fuck up

Which sucks because I don't actually own a tennis racket at the moment. Fucking corporate holidays. They always find a way to get you to buy something...

I don't like you

I've decided most people just plain suck. Mostly because they do, but hey what the hell do I know. Oh wait, I know that most people suck. As a matter of fact I've pretty much got a fucking PhD in knowing how much people in general piss me off.

If you are a foreigner, and you come into my store, and ask me a bunch of questions about Macs, I might hit you. If you come in to my store, and ask me a bunch of questions about Macs, then ask me the same questions about Macs three more times, then ask me what the price is, then ask me what the price is with tax, then change your mind about what you wanted to buy, then ask me what the price is with tax on that, I am going to shoot you right in the fucking face. Seriously, you managed to study-abroad and you can't figure out sales tax, or tipping for that matter? I'm beginning to believe that they don't have percentages in other countries.

I'm not saying the US is the most awesome country ever, but I found this awesome picture.



I've had lots of jobs dealing with people. I really don't like dealing with people, and for a while I thought the worst kind of people to deal with were those that were clearly just browsing around without the intent to buy so much as a candy bar. But I found out was that the worst kind of shopper is the snobby jackass that comes in and pretends as though money is of absolutely no consequence to him/her. He/she asks questions about Macs, but doesn't actually give two fucks about the answers. These jackasses just want you to know they're about to drop a few grand on something they could get in a PC for half the price.

What the fuck is that about? That's basically someone running into a room and screaming, "I have too much money! What should I do with it!? I know, I'll but a computer! Not just any computer, I'll buy one that says, 'fuck you, Haiti and Africa! My money is too good for Charity!'" and then running out and stabbing old people.

On a side note, does it become creepy when you shovel snow onto/around a cute girls car so she'll ask you for help getting it out of the parking lot, or is it just creepy to come up with the idea in the first place? If just thinking of it makes you creepy, then someone else thought of it. It was that guy behind you..... Get him.

Hopped up on hopes and sarcasm.

I know I've left you readers wandering in the fields for too long, so come hither my flock. Let my sarcastic mood lighten your day a give you a smooth feeling of who gives a fuck. Enough about you, here's what I've been up to:
It's 8:00am. I'm not at work and would get in trouble for goofing off at work, so once again, I'm not at work (I'm at work). I haven't slept much at all and it's put me in quite the mood. You see, yesterday after work I realized I had left the lights on in my truck all day, so with a full parking lot of cars I said fuck it and hoofed it home. On my way home, I contracted some form a cold, or pneumonia, or with my luck SARS or Bird Flu or some other such shit. So after an afternoon of sleeping my runny nose away (to no avail mind you) I woke up with more than my fair share of time with nothing to do and certainly no way to go do it.
At first I sat there pretending to want to be productive. But I played some video games instead, having hopefully made a few adolescents cry regarding their inability to effectively communicate with others over a fucking microphone.

You deserved to lose for using a CRT monitor.

After I was fed up with losing and satisfied that I had made at least one poor bastard smash his keyboard to bits, I resorted to actually being productive. I started laying out a new database and before long a wild though crept into my head: I should watch the Resident Evil Series.
That was the most herp derping idea I've had in ages. That's like someone coming up to me and asking me if I wanted to watch all the Arnold Schwarzenegger movies that had Danny DeVito in them. Would you like my kidneys, too? I watched the Resident Evil series from start to end and the only thing that kept me going through those four movies was Milla Jovovich's exposed breasts that I felt I was robbed of seeing in The Fifth Element. Oh yeah sure, there's that scene at the end where she's making out with Bruce Willis but there's all that blue lighting and it just wasn't working for me. Problem is, she showed her tits about 43 times fewer than would be required for me to watch that series again. Hell by the third movie I was ready to find something else to watch but then Ali Larter showed up looking like she wanted to win a damn Oscar for sexiest use of the "Haven't-showered-in-months-due-to-the-apocalypse" look, and I thought "Aha! Fresh bosoms!" (Seriously, why don't you try finding appropriate euphemisms for breasts that carry as much of an impact as the word "tits" and I'll give you a medal when you do. I figure I can get away with saying "tits" maybe once a year with my audience, and since I've already said it three times now and I'm fucking tired of thinking, you get bosoms. Enjoy.)

Why didn't I see more of this?

Well as anyone who's ever wasted their time watching the third and fourth installments of the Resident Evil series (yeah, that's right, four movies. Fucking four), Ali Larter isn't as generous with her goods as Milla. Well that just sucks, Ali. What the hell. What the helling hell.

That doesn't count as a shower scene, Ms. Larter.

You got your doctorate from a Fisher Price Speak-n-Say

I'm not really sure where my professors for Monday Wednesday Friday are from, but I think they're on the Council of Difficult to Understand Accents. It's an evil organization formed to piss me off. I'm relatively certain that my 8am professor is my nemesis. If there's one thing I hate, it's being treated like an idiot. I may be ignorant on some subjects, but I'm no fool. My nemesis, as he shall be known as from now on, is one of those fucking pricks who teaches you something in one sentence, and in the next sentence he makes a statement where he leaves out a key word and ends a statement as though it were a question. Let me give you an example.

He says, "Sociology is a stupid subject."

2 seconds later (quite literally 2 seconds have passed at this point. In a blog filled with exaggerations, this isn't one) he says with a questioning inflection, "Sociology is a stupid... Sociology is a stupid... Ah, subject. Yes, Sociology is a stupid subject."

Seriously, like 20 times in 5 minutes he stands there waiting for some poor shmuck to fill in the blank. Then when some tiny girl finally speaks up so he'll move on with the fucking lecture he repeats the keyword 5 more times as though we're all retarded or hard of hearing, in what is apparently an attempt to make us all pull our hair out. Clearly he's privately doing charity work for Wigs for Kids.

Picture this with more emotion and less enunciation.... much less.


After I'm done sparring with my nemesis, it's on to CIS class, which is a cakewalk. We're learning how to format things in Excel. I repeat, we are learning how to put the square block in the square hole. Of course the professor started locking the assignments until after she's through with the "lecture" because so many people were finishing early. It's like someone giving you a puzzle for 3 year olds but making you stare at them while they show you the difference between the edge pieces and the inside pieces for 20 minutes. Fuck you I can already tell it's a cat and there's part of the tail. Get the fuck out of my way, I'm gonna puzzle the shit out of this cat.