Polite beastiality discussion, beer pong

Last time I went to one of the Church St. girls' barbeque parties, I got drunk and told Jenna in graphic detail exactly how and why she regularly has sex with horses. I did this over a game of beer pong and many, many people overheard our polite beastiality discussion.

The problem with this is not that I talked about interspecies sex on a friend's front lawn. The problem is that last time I set a precedent.

When I show up tonight, the ladies are going to expect me to become intoxicated and verbally abusive within a half hour. They'll be all, 'Henry, what animals do I have sex with? Drink this bad beer and tell me about it while you throw ping pong balls into cups.'

So, I'm doing that, I guess.

(BBQ.)

Beer pong is just an awful bastardization of that cups game on The Bozo Show. The Bozo Show cups game ("The Grand Prize Game", I believe it was called) had kids from the audience dropping ping pong balls into increasingly distanced cups and then clapping their hands as they won bigger and better prizes. If the kid missed, a man in a clown suit would play it off like it was no big deal and the show would continue.

I think beer pong is kind of like that, only instead of winning a bike or the Skip-Bo card game, you get to brag about your wicked beer pong skillz. Losers, rather than being silently ushered offstage, get insulted by people who take great pride in throwing ping pong balls into plastic cups. Both winners and losers get to drink shitty beer.

Darryl's Happy Birthday dream

magusspire: my present to you is a summary of a dream i had last night
magusspire: i dreamt i was hanging out with this hot girl i know who has huge boobs
magusspire: and it turns out shes a hermaphrodite, and she wants to show me her wang to prove it
magusspire: and im like ughhh ok i guess, but first take off your shirt and let me play with your tits, so i can have like 5 minutes of enjoying your tits before i see your cockgina
magusspire: long story short, her tits were great and her cock was bigger than mine
magusspire: happy birthday buddy

(out.)

Darryl is the winner of the Best Birthday Message Contest. As winner of said contest, his entry will be posted in my blog just now. In addition to that, he can also borrow my book on dream psychology to find out what it means when you dream about big-tittied hermaphrodites having bigger penises than you.

I'm 22 today, plus vasectomy humor

It's July 28, which means I'm 22 today.

Amy's parents got me something for my birthday. Supposedly it's 'something that I don't know I need yet', 'something that will help me in adulthood.' I have a sinking feeling I'm going to open a box just to see a piece of paper with the word 'VASECTOMY' written on it.

But in all seriousness, it's probably one of those gifts you don't know you need until you have it, like a snake bite kit or a convincing blond wig.

(22.)

Amy's family ended up getting me a nice leather bag, and I think the best part about getting that leather bag was keeping my vas deferens.

Thanks to everybody who came to Dominick's and got drunk with me. You guys are all gold medalists in the Special Olympics of Friendship.

Sub shifts and dog parts up for grabs

Today my fellow consultants received the following email:

"Hey consultants!

Who likes money? Assuming Sites doesn't hire communists, I assume that everybody reading this likes money (even you!).

Tomorrow (Thursday) from 3:30pm to 7:30pm, fortune awaits thee, as I will bequeath unto you four - count 'em - FOUR Angell consulting hours. Imagine all the stuff you can buy with the money you'll make at this sub shift. Candy, hats, office supplies, and...

Oh! Do you like puppies? Well...um...they're really expensive, so you could spend your 30+ sub shift dollars on...part of one. A leg, maybe.

Do you want a puppy leg? Take my sub shift and find yourself one step closer to part of a dog!

-Henry"

(bed.)

Sometimes I'll think about taking off work, but then I'll stop because I don't have the creative energies necessary to tell my coworkers that certain hours are available for the taking. Most people send out emails that say "Hey! Angell shift open next Tuesday at 1:30. -Scott"

I'm pretty sure I just sold detached dog appendages to my coworkers.

Two words for easier dating

Guys, you tired of using conventional methods of attracting women? Sick of buying cologne, holding doors open, and taking showers? Well then, I've got two words for you:

Stockholm syndrome.

Kidnap a girl, then let her chill in your basement for a while. She'll be eating out of your hands in no time. In fact, she'll be doing that as soon as you kidnap her, because you'll have duct taped her arms to an office chair.

(work.)

Alternative ending: "She'll be eating out of your hands in no time, just as soon as you take the sock out of her mouth."

I don't know how some people can read some away messages that say things like, "Laundry!" or "around" and then be perfectly fine reading my away messages which are more to the tune of "Kidnap a woman and then she'll be your girlfriend!" or "Rich people like to poop!" I think that, to your brain, that's like getting out of a hot tub and then rolling around in the snow. It'd put your brain into shock so that it starts crapping all over itself.

How do you like that, loyal reader(s)? Your brains have anuses.

Chew on that while I'm over here with a non-pooping brain, lovin' life and feelin' fine.

Homeless people and Sea Monkeys

In this blog entry I talked about what would happen if I put homeless people in my car and then pushed it into a river. I wanted to create a graphic of homeless people in Sea Monkeys-like situations, but I don't have Photoshop on this computer, so all I did was save pictures of homeless people and Sea Monkeys to the desktop.

I've debated taking everything else off and just leaving hobo jpgs 1-5 and seamonkeys.jpg alone on the desktop, so that the next time my girlfriend uses this laptop she can wonder what the hell is wrong with me. And while she's doing that, I'm stealing her TV.

I am a genius.

(bed.)

Unfortunately for me, there are currently no academic institutions that define "genius" as "robbing your girlfriend." However, I've got some free time today, so maybe with a few phone calls I can make that happen.

I hate the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Part 2: a vase made of dinosaur fossils

The Art Fair, as fun to browse as it is, isn't as fun if you're buying the art.

'Wow, sir, this is a nice bowl.'
'That's no bowl! It's a vase made out of dinosaur fossils!'
'Sorry, my mistake. Well, the price tag says it's 8 dollars. I'll take it?'
'Where does it say it's 8 dollars?'
'Right there, on this tag.'
'That's an infinity sign.'
'I...am going to get a funnel cake now.'

Another thing: If Art is supposedly a classy thing, why is the Art Fair catered by every Fried Meat and Funnel Cakery in the state?

(Friday.)

Today I was supposed to sell the barely-functioning Crown Victoria to Ron, a man who owns a local garage. This involved the following steps:

1. I drove to Murray's to get a new bottle of power steering fluid. The Crown Vic leaks power steering fluid like a cranky, incontinent old man leaks urine. So I guess this means I was buying urine for the old man sitting in the street outside my house.
2. I went home and filled the Crown Vic with power steering fluid. The funnel I used dripped fluid on the front of the car, though. I didn't know if Ron would offer me less money if the car had some red stains on the front of it (I don't understand car people), so I figured this had to be fixed.
   
3. I wiped fluid off the front of the car, put away the funnel, and put the leftover power steering fluid in the trunk for future use.
4. I started the car and, to my surprise, realized the steering wheel would not turn. Turns out, Step 3 gave the power steering fluid enough time to leak out of my car.
5. I filled the car with old man urine again.
6. I jumped in the car and drove to Ron's Garage like it was some bizarre mission in a video game. "Drive your rusty noisebox to the garage while it's able to turn. The mission is failed when the fluid is gone and you've crashed into something. You may or may not be injured."
7. The guy at Ron's Garage told me that Ron had gone home. Yesterday he told me he'd be there until 5. I got there a little after 4.
8. I left the car at Ron's and walked home.
9. I wrote out the steps in my blog.
10. I included writing the list in the list itself because I'm so goddamn clever.

Getting rid of that dead car is exhausting. Maybe I would have been better off filling it with homeless people and driving it into a lake.

I don't even know why I typed that. It's just mean, and putting the homeless people in the car doesn't add anything to the car disposal process. Except maybe laughter.

I just mentally pictured homeless people being locked in my car and pushed into a lake. Then I pictured them growing gills and living happily at the bottom of the lake like the packaging for Sea Monkeys.

I wish that would really happen so I could justify dumping my vagrant-filled car into a body of water.

Visual opiate of the male masses

I'd say something mean about the Art Fair, but right now I'm playing Time Crisis 3 on Jarrod's gargantuan television, and there's no way you can be mad while looking at that thing.

That TV is like boobies: the visual opiate of the male masses. Only there's an input for DVD players and Playstations.

So Jarrod's TV is like Boobies++.

(Bang bang.)

Boobies++ is a projection TV, so we couldn't play Time Crisis 3. However, Lego Star Wars and Resident Evil 4 looked better than real life. Unfortunately, they lacked boobies, so you win this round, Real Life.

I hate the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Part 1

The Art Fair starts today, beginning its Reign of Terror, which will last until Saturday.

Not familiar with the Ann Arbor Art Fair? Run through this thought exercise with me.

Imagine your favorite city. Nice, isn't it? Now imagine that someone filled the streets with garbage, making travel by car into and out of the city nearly impossible.

Now imagine white tents pop up over the street garbage people begin selling the garbage for a lot of money. Seven hundred dollars for some wind chimes made out old Coke bottles? A thousand dollars for a bike pump glued to a dead guinea pig? Why not, Art Fair?

The townies think art should be done all year and celebrated locally, whereas Art Fair people come to down once a year to sell expensive garbage art. I say both of you camps of assholes need to get a real job and get the hell out of Ann Arbor, you fat dickheads.

(work, 8-6.)

A friend yelled at me because her parents bought really nice things at the Art Fair today. And if they got nice things, how could the Art Fair be bad?

I'll tell you how: The Art Fair exists not so much to display art, but to sell it. People fly out from all over the country to show off their art and then sell it for a lot of money. Why drive out to Ann Arbor if you're not going to make some sweet green selling your paintings of cityscapes and ceramic animals?

The paintings are of cityscapes and the animals are ceramic. Just taking a paragraph to clarify that nobody is selling paintings of ceramic animals. This year...

Anyway, people sell stuff at the Art Fair for a lot of money so it's worth their whiles. Students, however, do not have money, let alone money to spend on decorations fancier than a Fight Club poster. Ooooh, or how about that poster that looks like the Periodic Table of Elements, only instead of atomic weights and stuff, it has recipes for different shots? That's great art. Fuck tungsten and argon; the color-coded ingredients of the Slippery Nipple and the Gorilla Fart make cool, inexpensive college kid art.

College students can't spend an entire paycheck on a clay iguana, a stained glass Jesus face, or a serving plate made of authentic Ethiopian poop. All we see are tourists looking at overpriced art, traffic jams, tourists dragging their children through crowds, closed roads, and tourists eating fried foods. Why exactly should we embrace the Art Fair again?

Also, the friend whose parents bought Art Fair stuff lives in a house that has 7 bathrooms. Maybe they can enjoy the Art Fair, but those of us with 6 bathrooms or less aren't having a good time.

(Anne O' Nym, you know I think you're swell, so don't get mad when I talk about all your bathrooms.)

The terrorism club and privacy

You ever say something stupid and then think, 'Thank God that wasn't printed in the newspaper' ?

Well, sometimes you're not so lucky.

From the article:
"Other students also had mixed feelings [about privacy options for e-mail groups]. LSA sophomore Henry Birdseye said, 'E-mail groups can often reveal things about you, and if you’re in a group of private interests then you might want to keep it secret.

'I can’t think of anything that shouldn’t be hidden, but that might just be because I haven’t thought about it. Unless it’s a terrorism club,' Birdseye added."

The terrorism club meets every Tuesday. Bring your own side dish.

(productivity.)

A terrorism club? What was I thinking?

"Yeah, I'll just tell the newspaper lady about a terrorist group on campus that has formed an email group to better communicate its hate agenda via the internet. Then the members of that club should be public! I am an expert on privacy!"

Great, another entry about poop

Anne O' Nym's palatial estate has 7 bathrooms. I had no idea rich people spent that much time pooping.

I guess when you have enough money you can take a dump with variety. Although when you're poor, you've got to mix it up, too. If your toilet's clogged and you can't afford to call a plumber, sometimes you poop in the sink, or in your back yard!

Hooray pooping!

(work 'til 11:30.)

This away message prompted my buddy Future to tell me a story about how today he saw a homeless man pinch off a loaf on the side of Woodward Ave. in Detroit. Funny how my friend's mansion gets me to create an open forum on places people can poop. One second I'm saying "There are toilets everywhere!" and the next I'm reading a story about a homeless man squatting behind a bush near a main road.

We call him Future because at one point we believed he didn't have one, only now he's in med school, so I feel like we should call him something else. I figure we won't be able to give him another nickname until he graduates, becomes a respected doctor, and inevitably gets caught feeling up a patient during surgery. He can stay Future for now, but that's only because he'll be Fondler within 5 years.

Enjoy your cool nickname while you can, Future, because soon you'll accidentally bang an unconscious lady on an operating table, and then what? You're the Fondler, and that doesn't sound cool at all.

A party I can't hardly wait for

My friend Anne's having a party at her house. The geek will finally hook up with his dream girl, everyone will get drunk, the big jock will be called out for the jerk he really is, and in the end everybody will learn a lot about themselves.

Ok, so maybe only the part about everybody getting drunk. PLUS a few bonus parts, like the part where someone throws up in the pool and a couch gets set on fire in the living room.

(O' Nym estate.)

Nobody threw up in the pool and the couch was never set ablaze, but there was a minor throwdown in the hot tub. Drunk friends collided, then things cooled off and everybody just sat there in the hot tub not knowing what the hell to do next. Then Bora started the chant, "AWK-WARD MO-MENT (clap, clap, clap clap clap)" (to the tune of "O-VER RA-TED") and everybody laughed. Then the girls started motorboating each other and everybody calmed down.

I think every conflict should be followed up with girls going "Pbbbbbb" on one another's bosom.
Theft, injury, even genocide seem easier to deal with I can look at ladies nose deep in cleavage.

"Mr. Birdseye, I'm afraid you didn't get the job, but on the upside, look at that girl rub her face all over those boobies!"
"I am unfazed by your bad news. Good day to you, sir."

Love, a microwave, and three to five minutes

Marie Callender's fettucine alfredo takes me back to a time when my grandmother would take the freshest ingredients and tenderly make a delicious pasta dinner using only love, a microwave, and three to five minutes (depending on the microwave).

(Rock.)

What bothers me most about Marie Callender's Frozen "Meals" isn't that they're unhealthy. Oh no, frozen meals are notorious for causing heart attacks before they're fully digested. The packaging Marie Callender (personally) uses, however, is wildly inappropriate. Banquet's simple red packaging says "Here's food. Eat food." Hungry Man meals, which don't even try to be healthy, may as well be called "Fat Guy Dinners." Marie Callender, on the other hand, takes a different approach:

Marie Callender's home-cooked foods:
A grandmother made it. You love your grandmother,
DON'T YOU?

Don't lie to me about where my crappy food came from. If you make your food with machines in a factory, then don't talk about how the food's made. Don't come up with a charming story of an old lady who loves fresh ingredients. If you want to provide a cute "how your food was made" story on the box, just say "A robot made this." Or better yet, "A robot grandmother made this with her metal hands."

I'd buy frozen food that featured a robot grandmother, especially if the back of the box had a picture of her shooting laser beams out of her eyes while she fought a zombie Elvis in a post apocalyptic New York City.

Every meal she made with her robot hands

From a package of Marie Callender's 51g-of-fat fettucine alfredo (plus nuggets of truth):

Marie Callender was like a lot of grandmas (with morbidly obese grandkids). She put her love ('fat') and care ('sodium') into every meal she made (with her robot hands), using only the finest ingredients (off the assembly line) and her own special touches (a $3 price tag). Today, at Marie Callender's (windowless factory), each homestyle meal (to be covered in plastic and reheated in a microwave) is still made the same way (as all other food made in a factory). So, sit down (on the floor of your dorm room) . . . eat (alone) . . . enjoy (getting diarrhea)!

(bed.)

My hatred for Marie Callender's tricky advertising inspired me enough to sit in front of the computer and transcribe the writing on the back of a box of frozen pasta and then insert my own snarky comments. That's dedication. And sad. Mostly sad.