You're somehow less creepy bringing a 12 year old boy with you

Yesterday there was a knock at my door, so I open it and there's a tall man standing next to a very bored looking child. The guy immediately jumps into his 'let's talk about God' speech, so I said I had to go, he gave me a pamphlet, and I closed the door. Run of the mill door-to-door God salesman, right?

Well then why he did bring a child with him?

Did he think walking around by himself would be creepy so he decided he'd be less creepy if he walked around with a 12 year old? The kid looked like he'd be happier selling magazines or, I don't know, not hanging out with an old guy all night.

The kid didn't seem to have any part in the guy's speech other than, 'Hi I'm Paul, this is a child, you want a fat bucket of God up in your bidness?'

Man, that guy sucked.

(work.)

If you're going to sell me God, at least tell me the kid's leprosy was cured or something.

"Look at Timmy here. Looks healthy, huh? Well, would you believe that Timmy used to be a dragon? A dragon that was Jewish. Timmy used to be a big, scary Jewish dragon addicted to children's Tylenol. Now he's a boy, all because of the Bible. So, you in?"

And I'd say, "No thanks, but that was a lovely story." I'd even read that stupid pamphlet he handed me, provided it had some sweet dragon illustrations in it.

"Where'd you get that little dragon book?"
"A Christian, can you believe it?"

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.

Vampire conspiracy email

I've made a huge mistake.

Yesterday I received word that my cog psy lab has been apparently burning people with the EEG. In response to this, my daring professor offered his own head up for experimentation by volunteering to get connected to the EEG.

Because I missed lab meeting on Monday, I sent Prof Gehring an email with my thoughts on the issue:
'My theory is that the gray goo we put on the caps is made with holy water and that our subjects have been vampires. They put on the caps, then oh no, their flesh is burning, and they blame US? WE aren't undead beings that walk the earth and feed on the blood of the living. I think those bat-people need to take their complaints elsewhere.'

This man is an esteemed cognitive psychologist and I emailed him about about Draculas. I have a feeling I'm going to be officially kicked out of science very soon.

(class.)

If you think that if you pioneer your own cognitive theory that you're incapable of receiving vampire conspiracy emails, then you are wrong.

For those of you nerds who watch movies with director's commentary, here is an alternate ending for that away message:

'But until then, I'm going to my class where we learn about video games and piss our parents off for wasting tuition money on Pac Man academics.

(Waka waka waka.)'

And, like an alternate ending, it is boring. Still, the fact remains that my mom fucking hates the fact that I have a class on video games this semester. Well, I hate the fact that she dated my 7th grade math teacher, so I guess we're even now, aren't we?

Unicorn fucked

Well, it's story time yet again, which means that with every word I type, I tell a tale of humanity and keg beer and drunk chicks and holy shit I am fucked. Fucked fucked fucked. Prison fucked.

Or worse: Unicorn fucked. This is when that mythical creature, in its infinite mystery, manifests itself before you for the sole purpose of sodomizing you with its magical horn.

So while you're off having your normal Sunday, a fantasy creature is raping me with its majesty.

(Fucked.)