Fisty-fisting, trigonometry, perineum

3am, Pizza House:
Me; 'Ya know, in high school, everybody may not have been having sex, but they were all fisty-fist.'
Amy, with a horrified look on her face: 'fisty-fist?'
Me: 'I mean, um, there was a lot of -'
Our Waitress: 'Excuse me, lemme get these plates for you.'
Me: '- heavy petting. Thank you.'
Amy: '...'
Me: '...'
Waitress: (sound of picking up plates, silence)

And then I fisty-fisted the waitress.

There, I ended on a joke.

(Bed.)

I probably could have done without stating that the last statement was just a joke, but I'm sure a lot of younger kids have my screen name and the last thing I want is them thinking, "Oh no, internet man fisty-fists, whatever that is." I don't want to confuse them. (That's also why my away messages are never just a series of math equations.)

On second thought, I think I do want to confuse the 8th graders. Future away messages will use words uncommon to middle schoolers. And nothing else. Heck, let's start right now.

Rimming, trigonometry, felching, perineum (and grundle!), proletariat, evisceration, and teabagging.

There, that was like beat poetry for assholes. Wait, that was redundant. All beat poetry is for assholes.

So that was like beat poetry.

Four years smarter, I guess

Well, today I graduate with a BA from the University of Michigan. I feel four years smarter.

I came here as a fool, and I left as Batman.

And I'm not throwing my cap in the air, because that thing was freaking expensive, and I don't have the money to waste on fancy graduation caps and name brand cereal.

Also, to all other gradates, Congratulations, and I hope to Christ you're doing something with your lives so you have something to say to the dozens of people who will undoubtedly ask, 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE?!"

(Graduating.)

At graduation there were three screens that displayed, in text, what was being read onstage. In addition to the text screens, there was a woman doing sign language. I accepted that text screens were able to coexit with and a woman doing sign language, then got to thinking: Aren't text screens like digital women doing sign language? Why was the woman there if there those screens conveying the same information?

There's a chance that the commencement committee looked at the budget and said, 'Well, shit. We can only afford three of those screens that get words on them.' Then a fresh, new member of the committee piped up and said, 'Ya know, we can probably get one of those ladies.' Someone said, 'One of those ladies with arms?'
'Yeah, and sign language.'
'New guy, you're a genius. Three screens and an arm lady, it is.'

And that's why they just didn't have four text screens.

Personality over looks, my ass

This morning the news reported that when polled, men claim to want a great personality instead of a nice body when looking for the ideal woman.

That survey didn't prove a goddamn thing. If anything, it just proves that when polled in a survey situation, men will report to want personality over looks. You want honest results? Have them fill out those survey scantrons with their penises.

The news just wanted to make people happy with this survey because nobody thinks they have a bad personality. They say 'guys want personality' and EVERY woman will think, 'whew, I'm desirable, even if I'm fat,' and then they'll feel better about themselves.

...at least until they're thrown into a panic by the next headline, which is about the seven household items that may be giving you hepatitis while you sleep.

(Work.)

No man's ever had an intellectual discussion with a girl and then gotten really horny because she made a funny joke about Socrates. However, if she's already hot: bonus. If she's ulgy: then let's just talk online or something, funny ugly girl. I will accept your jokes as long as they do not involve eye contact.

Now I feel like any platonic lady friends that read this are going to suddenly get offended because I just said, "Ugly chicks, see you on the internet." A quick clarification before I end this post: I talk to most people I know on the internet, or so my overflowing buddy list would imply. If I talk to you online but we don't hang out, it's not because you're ugly. It's because the internet is a medium of communication that lets me talk to many, many people from anywhere in the world without me having to put pants on.

Also, you're ugly.

Email and finals and email

I have a problem that makes it so I can't get started on a paper until the laughing face of Death is looking me in the face.

I also have an exam at 4, and I have yet to start studying, because I have this paper due.

So what's going to happen is that Death's face will start bugging me around 3, I'll finish the paper a little bit before 4, then I'll go to my exam without studying.

To whose of you who are motivated: eat balls. Eat them stir fried, deep fried, rolled in sushi, slathered in hot sauce, or covered in chocolate and disguised as an Easter bunny.

I'm off to panic and check my email for the next 5 hours. Wish me luck (or at least new emails).

(Papers, exams, certain doom.)

No matter how finals are going, you have to ask yourself one question:
ARE YOU CHECKING YOUR EMAIL ENOUGH?

Fall Out Boy sucks, pirate tetris rules

I recently started playing an online game called Puzzle Pirates. Basically, you 'do' pirate stuff in the form of puzzle games that resemble Tetris or Snood. It's not as retarded as it sounds.

Oh, I'm sorry, is 'retarded' offensive?

It's not as horse-fucking as it sounds.

Anyway, the game appeals to broad range of ages, and sometimes this means I'll play with kids. And these kids will have handles like 'falloutboyy.' And I fucking hate Fall Out Boy. It's very bad music for very stupid people.

So I'll challenge these kids to swordfighting matches in the game and I'll usually win, because they're kids and they like bad music.

That's what the internet lets us do. We can passive-aggressively hate bands by beating their fans in games of pirate tetris.

Yet another aspect of the internet I'll never be able to explain to Mom.

(Smash Bros.)

I highly recommend you check out Puzzle Pirates. It's free, it's fun, and best of all, it doesn't cost any money. Because it's free. So play it.

Games copied in Puzzle Pirates include: Snood (Puzzle Bobble), Tetris Attack, Alchemy, and Chu Chu Rocket. There are other games, but I don't know how to explain them, so I won't.

In conclusion, play that game or I'll cut you.

Better average than fat, I guess

Sure, you may graduate and feel like you're destined for mediocrity, but at least you're not that popular girl from high school who went off to college and got fat.

Normal people: 0
People who hit their prime in high school: -1

(New nofx album, bed.)

Maybe I'm just a dickhead, but upon hearing that the girl I had a crush on in first grade became really fat, I smiled a smile of justice. It's entirely possible that God, in His ultimate sense of what is right and wrong, saw that this girl didn't want to get freaky with me when I was six (read: "kiss me behind the monkey bars"), so He decided to make her less desireable so that later in life nobody would want to kiss her behind the monkey bars.

Or maybe God had no part in this and this girl just likes eating. But I'm putting all my money on the God part, just 'cause it makes me feel special. And isn't that what God is for in the first place: making insignificant people feel special?

Note how all it takes is one fat chick for me to make sweeping, controversial statements about religion. Oops.

2nd grade Dave snorting coke

I'm at that stage in my life where I'm hearing about which of my former classmates have grown up to become drug addicts, strippers, and/or corpses. As tragic as it is, it can bring to mind some disturbing yet funny mental images.

Like I'll be talking to someone from high school and they'll say, 'Hey, did you know Dave Bond?' and I'll say 'Yeah, he was in my 2nd grade class.' Then they'll tell me that Dave overdosed on cocaine and now he's dead. That's not the funny part.

What is funny is that I'll picture the Dave I just mentioned, 2nd grade Dave, snorting coke and that's what'll shock me. 'Oh no, how could that happen? He barely knew his multiplication tables. Who the hell gave him cocaine?!'

A friend could say, 'Hey, did you know Mary Graham?' and you'd think, 'Wow, she was in my catechism class when I was 10.' Then your friend says, 'She's an exotic dancer now. She gets naked for money.'

Then you picture your catechism version of Mary dancing for dirty old men and you think, 'That's awful. She was so young. Though I guess she was dressed for it, what with that Catholic schoolgirl outfit and all.'

(Bed.)

Love note homework

Hey guys, you ever receive a love note from your girlfriend? You're flattered at first, then something happens.

You think, 'Ah, fuck. I just got a love note.'

Love notes are fucking hard to write. You know you have to return the favor, but it's going to be really hard.

Girls are much better at using words to write about their feelings. Some guys don't even have feelings, and now we have to write about them? Shit.

And love notes from your girlfriend are usually incredibly sweet, and before you even finish reading them you're brainstorming ideas about how you'll write your return love note. Only she's already said every sweet thing possible.

I've debating writing back with,
'Dear Amy,
Right back atcha!.
-Henry'

(Library.)

That love letter is currently sitting on my desk. Every time I look at it, I feel like it's taunting me. "Come on, asshole. Top this, I dare you." And I end up thinking, "You know what? Fuck you, love letter."

Of all the things someone could say to a love letter, I end up with "Fuck you." All because I suck at expressing myself. Can I write about farting, Batman, homeless people, the human taint, and igniting my genitals with hot sauce? Sure. But can I write a letter to a pretty girl? Not at all.

Bad electricity, dead eskimos

Today an electrician evaluated our power situation at the house. What we received was a pink slip featuring a list of errors and the words: 'Status: FAIL'
Among the other blunders of our housing group:
-When the air conditioning broke, they hired eskimos to walk around the house and hug everybody.
-When our ceiling had a leak in it, they just gave us a bucket to collect any messes. When our toilet was broken, we got the same thing.
-Our toilet is powered by crank, and our washing machine is powered by a team of hamsters on wheels.
-All the hamsters are dead.
-So are half the eskimos.

Christ, these long away messages are killing me. I told myself, 'I want to go to bed' but I replied with 'make a dumb list about your house in which half the eskimos die.'

Ta da! Now I'm tired.

(Sleep, then work 3:30 to 9:30am.)

While writing that dumb list, I was tempted to include real things they've done wrong, but I decided that'd be too easy. But for fun, here's a serious list of crappy things Cappo Management has provided:
-Our dishwasher leaves little specks of crap on and around our dishes.
-At first our oven had no knob, but then they got us a knob, and it was blank, so they gave us an oven thermometer.
-One of the outlets in our kitchen is busted, so we have an extension cord going across the middle of our kitchen.
-Our toilet spit nastiness all over the 2nd floor of the house. Our bathroom also leaks into one of the 1st floor bedrooms, just not mine.
-One of the parking spots behind our house is shared with some random girl. We don't even know her name, but we routinely curse her existence every time we pull into our back yard and see her stupid car parked there. This isn't even her fault; she was put there for us to hate her. Thanks, landlords.

Our real problems make our fake problems seem so much more fun. Kind of makes me wish for a pile of dead hamsters in the basement.

New Student Plus

After you beat some video games, they let you go back with all your abilities and experience and replay the game from the beginning.

Can you imagine doing that after graduation? You could go back to freshman year and know about dorm food and fraternities and really get the most of college because you've (hopefully) got your priorities in place after 4 years of personal growth.

However, there are people who stick around after graduation and and bang naive freshman chicks. These people haven't gone back in time to relive the good ol' days. They aren't time travelers. They're just douche bags.

So while my little 'what if' scenario may get you thinking, I don't want you becoming a douche bag because of it.

(Work 'til 11ish.)

For those of you who played Chrono Trigger (bam! now all references are lost on 99% of women), you may remember how you could replay the game with all your cool items and abilities. In college, that'd mean you have the self confidence of a senior in the same situations as the other freshmen.

To put this in perspective with video games, this would be the same thing as beating up really basic enemies with higher-level attacks. The challenge would be gone. You could woo every girl you ever crushed on, pass every exam easily, and open a beer bottle with your keyring.

So given my explanation here, conquering dungeons in a video game is comparable to getting laid.

And ladies, if only you knew how true that was.

The Batman of cognitive psychology

Two years ago I took a course with Professor Gehring, a man who made cognitive psychology fun. I shortly after decided to pursue cognitive psychology as my major.

Tonight I signed a card for him that said, 'You are the Batman of cognitive psychology. That is a good thing.'

He's young, he's hip, he's tenured, and I called him Batman. I think he can connect with that nickname, because everyone secretly wants to be Batman. Especially Aquaman. That guy sucks.

I also referred to him as 'Bill Mothafuckin' Gehring' during a toast. Funny how people go from strangers to dudes who think you're an idiot in only two short years. We went from never having communicated to me calling him Batman.

And you're all Batmen and Batwomen, dear readers. Each and every one of you. Except Aquaman. He still sucks.

(Bed.)

Special thanks go out to Sangria for that last post. Thanks, Sangria, because without you, I wouldn't have been intoxicated enough to call him Batman or write about it on the internet.

For you younger folk who don't know Sangria yet, know that she is a wonderful combination of wine and fruit that tastes like candy and makes your brain stupid and happy enough to socialize with anyone, no matter how little you actually know them.

T-Bone is everywhere because he lives nowhere

Last night I was with some friends and we saw T-Bone, the homeless man who wandered into the fishbowl one fateful night and told me he wanted to learn about computers.
Had we all openly shared our actual past experiences with this man, our exchange would have gone like this:
One friend said, 'Awww, man, that guy sleeps in my apartment's hallway.'
The other one said, 'That guy had sex in my apartment's laundry room.'
And I said, 'I showed that guy pornography and then he asked me if I had AIDS.'

Then this morning a coworker came in late because T-Bone was sleeping in her hallway and she had to wait for the cops to arrive and shoo him away.

This guy's like a celebrity, only he's not rich and he doesn't have a mansion (or even a condo!).

No real point to this, other than to say 'Wow, homeless guy, you sure are busy. What with all the sleeping and sexing and porno-watching. Good for you.'

(Out.)

I think about homeless people a lot, and I think there isn't really much left for me to say about them. They smell bad and they're usually drunk. Sure, there's that tragic aspect of them that includes facts like "Nobody cares about them" and "They have sad stories" but I don't care about that stuff because if someone smells awful and bothers me, then I'm not going to ask any more questions. You're already on my shit list, mister, so you should go sleep in your box and leave me alone.

I think I'm going to litter every away message with links to other stuff so that you have to click on eight things to understand one sentence. This is an internet technique known as "being a dickhead" and it's popular on websites such as Metafilter.com. (Also, for the record, I like MeFi, I just don't like clicking fifty links to get one joke.)

Anyway, I just wanted to catch everybody up on my hobo fixation. I think I've done that pretty well. Also this was another night where I came home drunk and decided to update the ol' blog. I imagine Hemingway would have done the same if he was around right now. But if Hemingway was around right now he'd be a freaking zombie and we'd have to chop his head off.

Do you have any idea how much money Hemingway's zombie head would go for on Ebay? No you don't, because a number that high hasn't even been invented yet.

Offend the horse bangers

The other day some DJs on 89x were talking about a recent controversy involving Tiger Woods.

In an interview, he talked about how he had messed up and described himself as 'a total spaz.'
People with cerebral palsy got all mad because 'spaz' refers to people with the palsy.
And the 89x DJ, without a bit of irony in her voice, said, 'That's lame.'
So I heard that and thought, 'Wow, she's retarded.'

Then someone read this and thought, 'Jokes about political correctness in an away message? That's gay.'

Think about it. We insult people by giving them culturally undesirable traits, some of which are inescapable.

Which is why I insult people by calling them horse fuckers. Nobody is going to say, 'Excuse me, I fuck horses, and I find that offensive.' And if they do, well, fuck them and the horse they rode in on.

(Work, double entendres, etc. Back by 11:15am.)

Alcoholism may be a disease, and homosexuality may be genetic, but nobody's going to come out of the womb yearning for horse sex.

Unless, of course, you live on a farm that raises horses that are really, really sexy. In which case, you stay in that magical horse farm and you bang those horses, but don't start picketing if I call someone a horse fucker.

Building fall down go boom (kinda)

I think it's appropriate to watch a university building get torn down after the last day of classes, don't you? Kinda symbolic.

Though I know that some of you reading this don't understand symbols, much less the English language, so let me summarize what I'm doing as simply as possible:

Building fall down go boom.

(Frieze building.)

Correction: The Frieze Building has not yet been torn down. However, there was a weird installation art exhibition in which images were projected on the walls on the Frieze Building while speakers played an audio track featuring people remembering what the Frieze Building meant to them.

If buildings could have funerals, this was the closest I've ever seen to one. Though it should be noted that many testimonials involved people getting drunk and/or sleeping in the building.

I hope that when I die, they project movies on my dead body while people talk about getting drunk and falling asleep inside my ribcage.

Goodbye class, hello death and frisbee

Well, as of today, many of my friends and I will never have to attend class at the University of Michigan ever again.

Now it's time to relax, take in some sunshine, and WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE?!

College is supposed to be the best years of our lives, and now it's almost over. You know what that means? We're going to be past our primes very, very soon.

Who can play frisbee at a time like this?!

(Nap, irony, etc.)

In response to my rhetorical question: Everyone. Everyone can play frisbee at a time like this. Christ, it's like the Frisbee Fairy went diarrhea crazy all over campus.

Also, could we all just wear little badges that say what we're doing next year? That question hovers over every conversation, just waiting to be asked. "So what are you doing next year?" It's kind of like asking, "What's up...UNTIL YOU DIE?"

Your badge could say "Law school" or "Engineering job." My badge would have a picture of a question mark made of tears.

Psychics love television

One of my aunts believes in psychics, so she got my mom and grandma to go to this guy who knows the future. Well, unfortunately for him, he gives people audio tapes so they can share their readings with their cynical children. Here are some gems from my mom's reading:

'Do you know a Walter...or a Wally?'
'No.'
(pause)
'Oh.'

'What does your husband do?'
'I'm not married.'

'Are you going on a cruise?'
'No, I'm not.'

'Do you know a Felix?'
'No.'
(pause)
'Did you ever watch that show, Felix the Cat? That was a good show.'

Great segue, guy. Just bring up a TV show whenever you can't continue your lie. I'm surprised he didn't talk about the Love Boat after my mom told him she's not going on a cruise.

At least with that trick, he can let people know that while he may be a bad psychic, he's watched a lot of TV.

(Bed.)

Here's another idea that wouldn't fit in the AIM away message window:
If my mom wasn't wearing a wedding ring, then why did he ask her what her husband does? This guy not only sucks at telling the future, but he sucks at telling the present, too.

I spent a decent amount of time Easter Sunday making fun of the psychic guy in front of my aunt, who refers to him by name ("Rod", the most mystical of trucker names).

"I'm picturing someone with hair. Do you know someone with hair? Or maybe they're balding. I see that they live in a house. Or an apartment. Do you know anyone like this?"

I read about a study where they showed people a list that consisted of both male and female names. The female names belonged to famous women, while the male names belonged to just random dudes. Subjects said that there were more females than males on the list, but in actuality there was an equal amount of both. This is because people are more likely to remember stuff that is the most relevant to them.

Knowing this, I made it my duty to point out every Walter and Felix in that dickhead's reading. While he talked about a "sensitive male who is about to go through some changes" and my mom "ooh"ed and "aah"ed at his accuracy, I was saying, "Hmm, maybe that's Wally. You can take him on that cruise with your husband."

Home is viruses, death, and pudding

Every time I go home for the weekend, a few things happen:
1) The neighbors are having computer problems and only I can save them. Someone was using KaZaA and they accidentally downloaded a zip file filled with tuberculosis. The problem is usually unfixable.
2) My mom tells me who died. I'll be eating cereal and watching TV and then she'll say, 'Did you know Ryan Berg? Because he was shooting up heroin in a parking lot when a drunk driver hit him, got out the car, and then shot him because he was in a rival gang.'
3) I eat like a pig. In college, you can't afford food amenities like candy bars and pudding cups, so I go home and it's like 'holy shit, this is where the good fat people go when they die.'

Be back tomorrow.

(Home.)

Norton firewalls, now with 50% more FEAR

I wonder who writes the safety alerts for Norton Internet Security: FE (Fascism Edition), the firewall/antivirus/popup blocker/ big brother on Amy's old laptop (which I am currently using due to my own computer blowing up).

Now, given that there are plenty of free safety programs for the learned, I'm going to say this now: Norton was designed for the computer illiterate. Now, given that, I'm sure whoever writes these alerts also writes for the evening news. Everything is a warning or a threat and it's all going over everybody's head so all they really remember from the experience is 'BE AFRAID.'

Saying 'Your computer has recently been ATTACKED by a BUFFER OVERFLOW to ITUNES AND QUICKTIME' is just as scary to the unlearned as 'Today we have an ORANGE ALERT because ANONYMOUS RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISTS may ATTACK US SOMEHOW.'

I don't watch the news, but Norton keeps me afraid.

(Meeting.)

Racial unity and cracker snatches

Two friends decided to visit me at 3am in the computer lab while I was working. Oh, and they were drunk.

So I tried to maintain balance between Professionalism and Not Telling Your Friends to Fuck Off, then we went to Bell's for pizza. However, the highlight of the evening was this:

My buddy Aaron Brown, who, coincidentally, is brown, wanted to see if some white girls would move if he walked down the sidewalk on their side, swinging his arms like a jackass.

He did so, they moved, and he called them racist. 'No, Aaron, it's not racist because you were in their way. It would be racist if you swung your elbows around and yelled 'gonna hit me some cracker snatch.'

So he laughed. Then he actually walked down the sidewalk singing, 'gonna hit me some cracker snatch.'

That's racial unity, right there: two people of different backgrounds walking down the street, joking about hitting one race in the vagina (with their elbows, somehow).

(Bed at 5am.)

Well that scared away any female readers I may have had. Or black readers. Or readers.

Though in cracker snatch's defense, cracker snatch sounds like a tasty after school treat.

Free food, free shirts, free agendas

Nutella? Goofy alien finger puppets? A V for Vendetta t-shirt? Keg root beer?

Today's winner is Free Shit. Thanks, Goodness Day.

Today's losers are those LaRouche activists who yelled at people who didn't want to hear their anti-Cheney agendas.

Keep whining, guys. Cheney will change whatever it is he's doing no matter how many pamphlets you hand to strangers.

I don't mean to sound superficial, but the worst part of being hassled by these people is that they're ugly. If they were at least marginally attractive women, people could at least debate whether or not they'd do them while they spouted hyperpolitical nonsense.

If you're missing teeth, maybe you should consider writing for more attractive people.

(Lunch.)

Intestinal evacuation and sleep deprivation

So I've been awake for over 27 hours straight. It is not pretty. Tonight I learned something about what sleep deprivation will do to your behavior.

I ate Thai food for dinner, and that was fine until my large intestine pulled the fire alarm. Small, burning things evacuated my body very quickly and all I could think was, 'My god, I hope everything's ok.'

Well, that finishes up and I realize I'm in the bathroom and we are out of toilet paper. So I do makes the most sense: take off my clothes and take a shower.

That's not normal. That's what a drunk guy does. A drunk guy poops and then gets naked and bathes.

So that's when I got my wake up call and knew I needed to go to bed.

(So, bed.)

No Myspace abductions 'til you finish your calculus

Myspace.com recently unveiled ads that warn users about sexual predators. Reportedly 22% of Myspace users are under 18, and Myspace supposedly provides 'special protections' for those 14 and 15.

You know how we could fix all this nonsense? Minors can't sign up for a Myspace unless they solve some really hard math problems. That way, if they get on, hooray! They're smart. The children are safe.

No one's going to help these kids cheat, either. No parent's going to do math problems to let their kid join a dumb website. Dad would get 5 seconds into the first math equation when he'd realize, 'Wait, am I doing calculus so you can get tricked into letting some online predator put his fingers in your butt? Fuck this, you're on your own.'

(Paper.)

So even if some brilliant 13 year old gets on Myspace and then gets abducted, it'd seem like it was his fault. His parents would be on the news, shaking their heads and saying, 'Jim seemed so smart, too. He knew parabolas, cosines, and he could count to any number you could throw at him. Then he went and thought some stranger was just going to give him a puppy if he got in the van. We were wrong. Our son is a fucking moron.'

'Come on, honey. Let's go make a new son, and this time he'll be smart.'

Then they'd bone, right on the news and everything.

I'm just trying to make the internet safer and the television more fun. If that involves making two mourning parents bone on the evening news, so be it.

So that's what the parentheses mean...

I'm tired to the point where I can feel my heart rattling around inside my ribcage, like a muffler being dragged behind a rusty '92 Crown Victoria.

It's time for food and a nap, or this may be my last away message EVER.

(I'm implying death. And no, this isn't what I'm doing. This is an explanation.)

(This is what I'm doing. And it's grabbing dinner.)

So that's what the parentheses mean. Didn't mean to spoil my enigmatic formatting tendencies for all of you.

P.S. This away message is based on the fact that my '92 Crown Victoria's muffler is nearing its death, as indicated by the fact that my car is making what sounds like a death rattle, only "screaming-er."

Stop fucking up the curve, bitch

This morning I was in the computer lab and I saw this very tall, very pretty woman picking up her printouts. Let me say, some dark thoughts entered my mind at that point...

You ever see a woman who's so pretty you just want to punch her in the face? Then, when she's looking at you, confused and holding her pretty bitch nose that you just broke, you want to yell, 'STOP FUCKING UP THE CURVE, BITCH!'

Seriously, there's 'hey, I'm pretty' then there's 'I'm so pretty that everyone else is ugly by comparison.'

If I'm standing next to a woman who makes me feel ugly before I can even understand why, I'm going to punch her in the teeth.

Humanity. Try it some time, you robot skank.

(Nap.)

Vikings on Segways

There's a handicapped parking spot outside my house and it shouldn't be there.

Which isn't to say that I hate the handicapped. You guys rock (and roll!), and it's cool if you guys get priority parking over my able-bodied ass.

However, the parking spot is there so a handicapped person could get into the Intramural Sports Building. And that's cool, you guys can play wheelchair basketball in there or whatever, but here's the catch:

The door to the IM building is fortified with steps. Tons of them. Like they're there to ward off Vikings on Segways. They'd come rolling up, waving swords and leaning forward, then they'd see all the steps and go home. 'To hell with this. Let's raid someplace wheelchair accessible.'

But Vikings aren't a threat anymore. So set up a ramp or move the parking space to the door that has one.

(Paper.)

Here's a picture of the entrance that so selfishly attracts the handicapped:
Step gauntlet for the disabled

I'm not even sure what the current PC term for "dude in a wheelchair" is these days. Handicapped? Disabled? Uprightly underpriveleged?

Personally, I want a term that's more endearing than one that highlights what someone can't do. That's why I'm in favor of something like "rolly friend" or "limpin' buddy." Take that difference in mobility and make it your pal.

All offensive euphemisms aside, I'd like to point out that all of this inappropriate talk about the handicapped was spurred because I've looked at that eternally unused handicapped parking in front of my house every time I've had to drive around the block for a half hour looking for a place to park. And I know it won't get used because dudes in wheelchairs don't play racquetball.

Tune in next away message when I bitch about how much I'm bothered by affirmative action, closed captioning, and those damn braille dots on ATM buttons.

Gestures and a Third Reich reference

So I've covered that whenever I say that my major is psychology, I do a wanking motion. But this isn't the only gesture I make with certain terms. Others include:

'talk to you later' - My fingers start typing, because that's how I talk to people. Hooray, internet!
'testes' - I hold my right hand out as if I'm giving an invisible scrotum a physical.
'make love' - My right hand makes an inappropriately violent insertion motion
'Greek life' - two words: Zeig. Heil.

I hope everybody knows what the 'Zeig heil!' motion looks like. This is a situation where knowledge about the Third Reich becomes your ticket to Giggletown.

Also, Giggletown sounds like a resort for gay clowns.

(Nap, work.)

Psychology and the wanking motion

Lately, whenever someone asks me what my major is, I say, 'psychology' and then make a wanking motion.

Not only is a BA in psych practically worthless, but it subjects you to awful, awful jokes made by adults. Among the most common:

'Psychology, huh? Take notes on MY family!!!'
'So, you getting a couch for people to lay on?'
'Are you going to analyze everything I do now? LOL.'
'Psychology? So, do you know what I'm thinking?'

Psychology is not writing books on wacky families or buying couches or having psychic mind-reading powers. Psychology is learning a little bit about addiction, memory, and mental disorders, then graduating and getting a job that has nothing to do with your degree.

Unless, of course, you go to graduate school, but that's much less common.

And nothing throws feelings of impending doom out the window like a satisfying Wendy's sandwich.
(Mmmm. Wendy's.)

I think most of all, majoring in psychology is about studying something because you it interests you, then realizing halfway through your mystic learning journey that studying what you like isn't good if it can't get you a job. Sell your dreams while you can, kids. They're all you'll have left after you sell your other stuff.

A celebration of puberty and orthodontics

Tonight at the all-ages Tally Hall concert, I was bothered by the sheer amount of younger folk there. They were all young, bright-eyed, and enthusiastic. It was a celebration of puberty and orthodontics.

I generally wanted these younger people to leave. Many of them sang along, and when you're standing next to someone singing along, it looks like you're enjoying the concert less than them, and that's ridiculous.

I just wanted to bust out the ol' pubes and say, 'LOOK AT THESE! I have earned them. Stop singing or I'll take them out again.'

And that's where growing older has brought me: making empty threats that involve my pubes. Getting older sucks.

(Bed.)

Fun fact: I wrote entry this while I was drunk last night, then added it to the blog this morning. I don't remember writing this one as much as others, and it kind of feels like someone else wrote it. It's like Drunk Henry was ghostwriting for Sober Henry. The most disappointing part about that is I can't tell if there's a difference of quality. Apparently I sound like a drunk guy all the time.

Remember that show Ghost Writer? This ghost would talk to kids, but he could only do it by moving letters around. Somehow he couldn't just possess people and say stuff like a normal ghost.

Anyway, you think he ever got drunk and abusive toward his kid friends? Like he'd scramble all the letters around on the drink menu and the kids would have to figure out what he's saying.

"'Hmmm, it says GO __CK Y__R S_LV_S"
"Ghost Writer, what could that mean?"
"I don't know team, but that's continue to stroke our chins in thought."
"I've got it!"
"Well then, what is it? Maybe we've solved the case!"
"I think he's telling us to go check our slaves."
"..."
"Alright, let's go check our slaves. Thanks, Ghost Writer!"

For those of you who love riddles but can't solve them, Ghost Writer just told the kids to go fuck themselves. It's kind of important to the slaves joke that you get that first, but whatever, I can only do so much.

Unnecessary audience blue balling

I don't know why the encore caught on as a concert tradition. I'm sure the first couple times it was a welcome surprise, but now, 300 years later, it's expected. The encore has just become this unnecessary audience blue balling.

Come on, you stupid band, I paid you money, I know it's happening, so how about you just play the last two songs right now and you don't walk away and pretend you're not coming back.

That'd be like marrying a girl, and then her making out with you, then pretending to fall asleep for sixty seconds before 'waking up' and doing you.

I paid you, so wake up and play me two more songs. With your naked wife body.

And that's why I hate encores: they cheapen the idea of marriage.

(Party.)

Every time a band leaves and then comes back to play songs, I feel like it's Christmas Day and I have to open presents while saying "Thank you, Santa" because I'm not allowed to admit that I know the secret of Christmas: that Santa isn't real and that the band is coming back. Like if I told the people around me that the band was definitely returning I'd be spoiling the concert for them.

However, some people really like clapping, so me telling them the truth may ruin their fun. I also feel this way at football games. "THEY'RE MAKING YOU CLAP BECAUSE NOTHING IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW." People clap between plays in football games because the cheerleaders tell them to. All the goddamn clapping accomplishes nothing. The next play will continue just like how the band is coming back. So stop hitting your hands together, you morons.

Now that I think about it, has clapping ever accomplished anything? Think about that, internet people. (The last three paragraphs were written while I was drunk. I feel like that's an achievement.)

Bathroom seduction

The other day I found evidence that implies that a couple boned in a 24-hour computer lab bathroom.

I found a newspaper that had 3 messages written on it:
1) '¿Wanna do it?'
In purple pen, so it was probably written by a woman.
2) '¿Quieres?'
Maybe the boyfriend only speaks Spanish. Heck, maybe he works at Wendy's.
3) 'You have to seduce me.'
Bitch, you just ruined it. You are about to suggest that you and a dude bang in a bathroom. If people poop there, chances are it's not a romantic venue.

No woman's been seduced into being humped in a public bathroom. Think of it this way: Your chances of getting sweet, forceful love are positively correlated with the probability of your man lighting candles for you.

And a man's only lighting candles in a bathroom if he's planning on taking a huge dump, not sexin' you down.

(Bed.)

Ya know, Wendy's is in the same building as this particular computer lab. There's a chance that some hot lady got 5 chicken nuggets for a dollar (a stellar deal!) and then decided to invite Miguel, no longer fictional, downstairs to the computer lab for some sweet talking and email checking.

But Miguel, being a simple, often made-up man, probably doesn't have an email address.

When I think about people who don't have email addresses, I initially think, "Oh, those poor souls." Then I remember that I hate having to check email and I come to envy them for not having an email address, the internet, or even a computer, and I think "Well, fuck them for having it so easy." Then I remember that I like the internet and my computer, so I combine the two feelings and get "Those poor souls, fuck them."

Less ice, amigo?

Sometimes I wish I'd taken Spanish. French is ok if you want to order a baguette in France, but Spanish is everywhere in America. I wish I had taken Spanish so that I could travel America and connect with more of its peoples, share ideas, and maybe get less ice in my fucking Pepsi at Wendy's.

If I could become friends with one of the guys at Wendy's, maybe they'd give me less ice. If you were at home and you got a drink for a friend and then filled it with a Wendy's-esque amount of ice, he'd swat it out of your hand and say 'What the fuck is wrong with you? That's too much ice.' You don't give friends that much ice.

So if I was all 'Hey Miguel, what up? I'll have a #3' in Spanish then they'd give me a fair amount of ice and I could live happier.

In conclusion, take Spanish for the sole reason of talking to fast food employees.

(Class.)

This is something I've seriously considered. And I'm not being racist here; the staff at the Wendy's in the Union is primarily Mexican. I feel like as long as I speak only English, I'll never be on their good side. So as long as I can't fluently say 'Hello friend, I like your ponytail today' I'll always be just another customer.

If I ever wanted to start being a (bigger) dick, I could start pouring people drinks consisting of 95% ice. Then I could hand a friend his Coke or whatever and he'd look at it and say, "You asshole, I can't fucking drink this. You've only slightly flavored all the goddamn ice." Then he'd look up at me and see that I'm wearing a Wendy's visor that I stole or something. Then we'd both laugh for a while, and later I'd have to go make the friend another drink.

Fun fact: The #3 combo is actually three patties of low grade meat and mortal humans (such as myself) usually aren't able to eat food reserved for Greek gods and the morbidly obese. However, I used the deadly #3 combo as an example order because if I said 'Hey Miguel, what up? I'll have a #2' people might think I want Miguel's poop.

This is ridiculous because not only do they not serve poop at Wendy's, but Miguel doesn't even exist. Sorry, Miguel. You are fiction.

Dictionary words and oral sex from Hitler

Here's a conversation with a fan from yesterday:

siickbiiitch: haha emo fuckkers are usally sxe haha with pants so tiight their balls cant breath oo man their funny to watch
J aCkAs Skid: they have too many feelings
siickbiiitch: wtf? how the hell can u have to many feelings
siickbiiitch: they just use like dictonary words to describe thier feelings
J aCkAs Skid: um, most words are in the dictionary

...

siickbiiitch: like the word apathetic....who the hell uses that in everday speech
J aCkAs Skid: well, today I got drunk and used the word "allegory"
J aCkAs Skid: so I guess it depends on your level of education
siickbiiitch: lmao...allegory? i dont even know what that means
J aCkAs Skid: yeah, that one's hard

I haven't updated my website in over 18 months and I still get IMs like this. If I didn't love anonymous praise, I'd hate these people.

(Work, 3-11.)

That guy complimented my balls off before complaining about stuff unintelligibly. Just clarifying that he was a fan before he was an angry typo-monger.

So here's the deal with the love/hate comment.

People will IM me and give me praise for my eternally unupdated website, then they'll present some of the worst grammar, spelling, and conversation I've ever seen. Suddenly, I'm torn. I think these people are retarded, yet they love me. They're like confused puppies that love the big, upright-walking human with the fancy computer words. And that human (He's me!) is allergic to dogs. At least the dumb ones.

It'd be like Hitler going down on you. Man, that feels good, but at the same time, I HATE YOU, HITLER.

By the way, from now on, whenever someone uses a big word I'm going to yell at them for using a "dictionary word." I suggest you do the same.

Gnome with a speech impediment checking IDs

Dominick's is a place in Ann Arbor which serves sangria outdoors. Generally, it is wonderful.

However, there's one guy at Dominick's that scares the piss right out of me. On your way in, they check your ID, and sometimes you get this guy with a bulbous gnome nose and glasses. And try as you might, but you cannot understand a goddamn thing he says.

One day I went there with Amy, and she walked right past the guy. So he checks my ID and barks something at Amy, then makes small talk with me while she's on her way over.

'Hibbity gibbity dye dee?' he laughs.
'Yeah,' I return, smiling politely.

Well, turns out he just jokingly asked me if she had a fake ID, so when Amy shows him her license, he starts quizzing her on it. And since you can't understand a fucking thing he says, she had trouble answering questions about herself. I hate that guy.

(work.)

Their dialogue went something like this:
'Oogity backa wonka wonk?'
'I, uh, don't know.'
'Blurrga haaaah!'

So then she looked like a liar, he looked like a scary gnome, and I looked like a guy who hangs out with liars and gnomes. It was bad.

Sipping sangria at Dominick's is like drinking heaven in little jars, and you don't care that one day they're going to run out of heaven, because now you're drunk.

You just psych BAnged yourself in the ass

I think when you declare your major, they should show you a video clip of someone who made the same decisions as you and then graduated.

For example, when you declare political science, you see a clip of someone never shutting up about the LSAT, then taking the LSAT, then getting into law school and ultimately getting rich.

For the business school, you watch someone make excel spreadsheets all day, then roll around in a kiddie pool filled with a sort of crude-oil-and-small-diamonds soup, because hey! You got a job and now you're ridiculously wealthy!

Or when you declare psychology, you see one of two things, depending on your gender:
Women see a sorority girl marry an upper middle class guy who hits her. Guys see a video of a dude eating soup in a homeless shelter, because congratulations, you have one of the most common/worthless degrees in the world!

Hooray for my major! And hooray for Arby's hiring me in the future!

(Bed.)

With a psych BA, you can't even teach psychology, because there are already a kajillion people doing that. Enjoy psychoanalyzing yourself while you work drive-thru. I know you may not think you're that flexible, but somehow you just banged yourself in the ass.

If anyone knows how to turn a lame comedy blog into swimming pools shaped like dollar signs, please tell me.

Madden and the Da Vinci Code

Today I won 50 dollars playing Smash Bros Melee. To guys, it's a Gamecube game. To girls, it's just another sound and picture game on the TV box that boys use to establish nerd dominance.

But that's not the point here. The point is that the group that ran the event blamed the game for the poor turnout, not the fact that they don't advertise.

After the tournament was over, men with fat necks came in and wondered if they could get 'some Madden up in here.' Because to some people, that's all video games are. (Football franchise) + (year). And it's the same goddamn game.

Madden is to video games what the Da Vinci Code is to books.

'Hey person who doesn't play video games/read books, what's your favorite game/book?'
'Oh, it's Madden/The Da Vinci Code. Everyone should play/read it.'

In conclusion, I hate people.

(Bed.)

If they make a movie out of Madden just like they did with the Da Vinci Code, you know it's going to be popular. But then they'd have to make another movie the next year to update all the characters. And then one the next year. And the next year. And so on, until movies are beamed directly into to chips the government implants in our brains and they don't call them "movies" anymore, but rather "brain adventures."

You think I jest, but when everyone asks you to beam the Madden 2043: The Movie into your brain chip, you're going to feel very dumb. Or you'll feel whatever the chip tells you to. Whatever. Go read a book.

Lizards are expensive

So I was talking to Amy about ideal pets and she started talking about the leopard gecko, a friendly, easy-to-care-for lizard she worked with at PetSmart (it was for sale, not a coworker).

So I, trying to be a good boyfriend, debating buying her one to keep her company in Chicago. Then I learned the dark secret behind the leopard gecko:

They're fucking expensive.

No one should be allowed to put a price on life because life is precious. And if they do put a price on life, it shouldn't be 100 dollars for a goddamn lizard.

I'm appalled that someone could have the nerve to take an animal out of its native habitat and then lock it up in a store like that. The least they could do (if they had souls) was let me set the lizard free for free. Old school American leaders said freedom has a price, but that usually meant going to war, not spending half your fucking paycheck on a reptile. Assholes.

(Class.)

Until I strike oil in my basement, I guess I'll just have to roam the forest, looking for cute stuff I can give to my girlfriend.

I hope she likes rocks. And not the diamond kind, either (diamonds cost even more than lizards!).

"Vegan" just means "hungry."

'Vegan' just means 'hungry.'

Think of it this way: when you're a vegan, you can't eat anything. You can't eat turkey sandwiches or ham and cheese omelettes or barbeque ribs. You can't even eat Altoids because they're made from animal products.

But come on, if you eat an Altoid, is that really a big hit to the animal kingdom? One Altoid mint is like, what, a pig foot? Pigs don't need feet. Not if they're just going to be rolled in grease and fried up for breakfast.

I'd try being vegan, but then the next time I was at the supermarket I'd pass all the Beefaroni and Pasta Roni and other cheap college food (it ends in 'roni') and I'd frown. So I'd end up buying eight pounds of carrots because I have no clue what vegans are allowed to eat.

So if someone says they're vegan, chances are they're starving.

(Bed.)

So if vegans eat carrots and lettuce, and rabbits eat carrots and lettuce, then why can't vegans just eat the goddamn rabbits to get all the carrots and lettuce? It makes sense to me. I'm sure the rabbits wouldn't mind. They're stupid.

Maybe I'd be more tolerant of veganism if I had the money. I can't let my morals decide what I eat just yet. I'll get morals when I can afford them. Until then, I'm not recycling unless I get money for it and I'm not eating fancy tofu salads until they're affordable and they don't taste like Mother Earth's leafy farts.

Hardcore music can ruin new friendships

You ever meet someone and immediately get off on the wrong foot with them?

Back when I was planning rock shows, I was introduced to this guy named Daniel during an Enthura concert. Enthura is a hardcore band, and their instrumental work is quality, but their vocals are the screechiest, most unintelligible horse shit I have ever heard. It's like someone told the lead vocalist to make fun of bad metal vocals, then he forgot he was joking and kept sounding like an asshole.

Anyway, I see Enthura playing, and some kids start swinging their arms around (this is called 'hardcore dancing'), and this combination of high-pitched wailing and arm flailing was hilarious, so I turn to my new friend Daniel and say, 'These guys fucking suck.'

He must have misheard me ('suck' = 'rock'?), because he leaned in, smiled, and said, 'I live with these guys. They're awesome!'

I nodded, then left without saying anything else, because there's no recovering from that difference of opinion.

(meeting.)

Bonus content: Also, here's a video on the origin of hardcore dancing. The accuracy is frightening.

Also, Enthura is on Myspace. Check out their music, and do your best to ignore the vocals. They're like turds on an otherwise delicious chocolate cake.

Is it just me or do screamy hardcore vocalists sound a lot like that "You stole my fucking Cloudsong" guy?

For those of you who don't know what is happening in the Cloudsong video, let me explain:
A nerd playing an online game felt that someone stole his magical video game item, so he proceeded to freak the fuck out, in doing so making the other nerds very uncomfortable.

I think My Screaming Cloudsong would be a decent hardcore band name, assuming it isn't already taken.

Jesus puns to sell shoe repair

From an ad in the Olive Branch Press:

'Do your shoes look like this?
(clip art of cartoon shoe)
We will heel for you
We will save your soul (sic)
We will dye for you'

This ad cracks me up because it's obviously just making Jesus puns in order to sell shoe repair, and in doing so it trivializes Christianity.

'Hey, remember that time Jesus was tortured and crucified for the sins of humanity? How about we say that we'll dye for people? That way it sounds kind of like Jesus being mounted to a cross, only this time we're coloring shoes.'

'And let's not learn homophones and accidentally tell people we'll save their souls.'

'Great idea, Other Guy Who Wrote the Ad. We rock at shoe care and respecting religion.'

(Bed.)

These people italicized their puns, too, which is a good sign that they're really proud of themselves for being so clever. This results in them saying, "We'll save your soul, get it? Like a shoe." Only there's no one there to say, "You moron, that's the soul that lives in your chest and flies away when you die, not the one on your shoe."

Cut hair by faith

I picked up a Christian newspaper from the train station last time I was there, and let me tell you, it's hilarious.

This magazine is what happens when you take Christian values to the Mountain Dew X-treme. There's a section called 'Terri Watch', which is all about the Schiavo case (even after they've long since discovered she was severely brain damaged). There's also stuff that tries to be hip, like a music review section which seems to praise every Christian CD ever. Apparently if you say you don't like Christian music, people might think you hate God, too.

The ads include the Lord as well! An ad for Julius Barber Shop states 'We cut hair by faith, not by sight.' What the fuck does that mean? I don't want some Daredevil-lookin' jerk cutting my hair no matter how much he loves the bible.

I'll cover more on this later, as I'm going to work at 11:30 because I need money more than a night's sleep.

(Work.)

Two in a row: money to death

Is there a casual way to tell your grandparents that you can't make rent and that your computer's broken and you can't fix it because you have no money?

If yes, please tell me now, as there's a good chance that I'm trying to do that as you read this.

(Politely begging.)

My grandpa assured me that my money problems are over, at least for now. However, he casually mentioned that a relative recently had a heart attack, then told me that Birdseyes have really bad hearts.

So basically my problems just went from, 'I'm screwed, I have no money' to 'I'm screwed, I'm going to die.'

Looks like I've fallen out of the frying pan and into the ...um... thing that causes heart attacks at a young age. Damn.

(Working out.)

I'm not very good at metaphors.

Hippies hate dossiers

On my way toward the Diag today I overheard one Hash Basher expressing concern to another Hash Basher:
'Do you think people will be here taking our pictures and putting us in their dossier?'

Wow, guy. They say pot makes people paranoid, but I'm glad you're out there dispelling any myths with your example.

And do people even have dossiers anymore? I bet somewhere there's a guy with a dossier, and it's sitting right next to his rocking chair and rotary telephone.

Hippies made UM's political activism seem a hell of a lot more impressive. They made the 'Buy Coke and pour it out to protest Coke' student rallies look like full-blown revolutions next to the hippies' politically motivated signs about...um...something about hemp or the war or whatever.

(Updating my dossier with pictures.)

Somewhere there's a pet store where they sell dogs exclusively to hippies. They'd carry mostly dirty mutts that love wearing bandanas. And I'm sure they'd make a mint selling little hemp sweaters that you can put on your dog so it can walk around town looking like an asshole.

Hash Bash and a Ferris Bueller reference

As if watching people get obliterated at 7am for St. Patrick's Day only two weeks ago wasn't enough, Hash Bash is today.

These holidays are centered around drug abuse usually play out like really bad children's books. 'Today I got out of bed and it was a silly, silly day! Everyone wore green and threw up in the streets! Vegans smoked reefer would still not eat meats!'

Of course, that's a combination of the two holidays, but still, I expect today to play out like some kind of topsy-turvy Dr. Seuss book where everybody has a star on their belly and a bong in their hand. And I'm working all day, so I'll be around this mayhem on the clock.

(Work, 11-7.)

Someone pointed out that Hash Bash is not a holiday. To the common man, no, it's not another day, but to hundreds of smelly hippies, it's two Christmases, a Thanksgiving, and one of those days where you pretend to be sick but instead just ditch school to hang out with your friends.

Ironically, none of the hippies looked like they had ever had schools to ditch. Same goes for jobs.

Diarrhea milkshakes for your loved one

Sometimes your girlfriend is going to feel down. Now, you can ask her to talk about her problems, many of which cannot be solved with words, OR you can comfort her by talking about poop and farts. Guess which one I use.

I believe the term I found most reliable was 'diarrhea milkshake,' used in the phrase, 'Aww, sweetie, why don't you have a diarrhea milkshake to make you feel better?'

So guys, if your woman's feeling down, just talk to her about combining nasty poop with ice cream. That takes the problem from, 'Life is sad sometimes' to 'That's fucking disgusting. Please don't talk about diarrhea milkshakes.' And come on, it's a funny, so she'll probably laugh.

If she doesn't, dump her. She must respect the diarrhea milkshake. Or drink one.

(bed.)

One of these days I'm going to run a tally on how many away messages revolve around poop, farts, and/or butts.