Better Off Sledd

That title has absolutely no connection to this post. I wanted to make a play on the 80's comedy film Better Off Dead with John Cusack with the working title Better Off Red and make a joke about Native Americans in casinos, but I figured I'm already looking racist because my poll so far says all of my readers are white. Sledd, I'll have you know, is a surname that ranks #32822 in the United States. That's not an easy word to make a joke about, mind you.

"Ha ha. Better Off Sledd. Like a sled except it's a last name and it's spelled differently..."

Special messages I have for some people today:

If you're Lizzie: Are you alive? I'm thinking about you.

If you're Alex: That doesn't merit a reply.

If you're Danielle or someone who knows Danielle: Well, I hope not. That would be totally awkward 'cos I just wrote a love poem to you a few posts down.

If you're that kid who I ridiculed because of the way you sneezed: I'm really sorry, man. It's totally normal to sneeze blood and then brag about it to your buds in the locker room.

If you're that hick with the pick-up truck who drove by the Brake Pad and made fun of me for having nice hair: I'm still trying to think of a come-back for that one. So you just be ready, Mister Man.

Onto business!

I've chosen the worst possible choice of seats in art class. We're sketching this still-life of reflective objects, transparent objects, and cloth; and I'm sitting next to this insanely annoying sophomore who--although very popular--is I think mentally challenged.

We have these erasers that you can mold into any shape. About two weeks into the school year, he molded one of them into a slice of pie and shoved it into my face saying "It's pie! See? It's pie!" and demanding that I eat it. I laughed nervously and shrugged him off, but he persisted. After fifteen minutes of that, he finally shouted, ""Eat the pie, a******!"

Speaking of peculiar characters with Martini addictions and Hitler mustaches, a strange thing happened today:

I had about two and a half minutes before the late bell for sixth period rang, but I had also just downed six gallons of pink lemonade to impress a bunch of Varsity football players who were giving me the eye, so I ran into the bathroom really quickly. There was another guy in there, so I just ignored him as is custom. I used the restroom and darted out without washing my hands. Naughty, I know, but I was seriously pressed for time.

But before I could leave, I heard a voice shriek "Gross!" behind me. I swiveled around and there was that kid, (still with a hand crammed down his pants).

"You're not going to wash your hands?!" he asked incredulously.

"What? These?" I said, indicating my hands. "Nah, these aren't hands. These are prosthetic."

He must not have been all right in the head, though, because he didn't seem to hear me. Instead, he pointed forcefully at the sink, (with the hand that was not still down his pants secretly massaging his privates), and said "You just touched your penis! Wash your hands!"

I was too stunned to do anything except wash my hands obediently and thoroughly, give him a fearful look, and arrive two minutes late to math class.

He's probably still standing there. One hand still, you guessed it, down his pants.

To all Psych fans out there: YES!!! My life is finally complete. They could have done it to something besides an Elvis song, but if it had to be an Elvis song, they picked a good one.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy