Afraid of Girls? Definitely Not. I Eat Girls For Breakfast. With Sauce.

But I didn't mean that in a creepy, Ted Bundy way. I am not at all a violent person. When I eat girls for breakfast, it's all entirely sexual, and I'm always very gentle.

Without further ado, here is a picture of a bunny rabbit.



How are you all today? I hope The Nerd Archives finds you well. Many of you have not been commenting as often as you should. Father Christopher is very disappointed. Oh so very disappointed. He is taking notes, and he can separate the faithful from the unfaithful. Father Christopher rewards those who are faithful to him, but he is not so forgiving of the unfaithful--the spineless traitors who infest his precious blog like diseased rats. Yes, Father Christopher is oh so disappointed.

I, personally, am very well, thank you for asking. I just ate eleven boxes of twinkies, six double-patty hamburgers from Wendy's, the chicken tender plate from the Kid's Menu at Carnegia Deli in New York, and downed a five-gallon container of Mountain Dew, but I'm still feeling a bit peckish. A bit peckish?! you might repeat with incredulity. Yes, I'm still feeling a bit peckish. The reason that I have eaten so much and am still feeling a bit peckish is because I am an ogre. Bet you're feeling kinda foolish now for making fun of me, huh?

I know some of you around this week are receiving acceptance letters from college. I didn't even have to apply to any colleges. They totally recruited me. Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Oxford, etc. were all competing furiously to admit me. I'm having trouble deciding, so each university has selected a champion to fight to the death in a caged-in boxing ring to decide who will get me. The match is this Thursday, so let's see how it turns out. They've also been bribing me a lot recently. Most notably, Harvard offered me a life-sized chocolate elephant, Princeton offered me ninety minutes alone with a heavily drugged Paris Hilton, and the University of Chicago sent me through UPS a $3,400,000 monkey which can talk, dance, and recite entire scenes from any movie ever directed by Harold Ramis.

Then again, there's one part of me that just wants to say, "FUCK IT ALL" and become a rockstar. That's also the part of me which insists I walk around the local mall wearing nothing but cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, and Aviator sunglasses; so I don't listen to that part of me very often.

Last weekend I went on a mindless iTunes spree, because I haven't bought music in over six months. My mind went blank for a while, and then when I woke up three hours later, I had bought five hundred and thirty seven songs, about a quarter of which were by Madonna or Lady Gaga. It's charged to my parents account and I'm supposed to give them the money in cash, so I'll just have to them the dollar's worth in shoelace tips and Pepsi Max can tabs.

I have a track meet tomorrow, and I'll be running the 200m, 400m, 2X100, and 2X400. All of these races will be particularly difficult for me considering I have no feet, but there's really no excuse for not trying your best, right?

I was making a move on a really smoking hot girl today, and I was totally rejected. I can't see where I went wrong, because I carried out all of the classic movies flawlessly. I offered her the rest of my half-eaten turkey sandwich and complimented her very respectfully on her bodacious melons. I even told her than whenever I think of her, I think of the song Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? by Rod Stewart. But I think it was when I started making out with her ear that she slapped me.

But yes, I have been struggling a lot with the ladies recently. Nothing I've been doing seems to work anymore. Even the oldest stuff in the book. Standing outside her bedroom window and watching her sleep? Tried it. Finding her cell phone number, calling her, and breathing heavily into the phone when she picks up? Tried it. Mailing her photographs of herself talking to her friends and eating breakfast with a cursive note attached reading "I'm watching you" in red ink? Tried it. Sitting naked on her living room couch with all of the lights turned off and a knife in your hand waiting for her to get home? Tried it. It's just that nothing works on girls anymore.

I know none of you want to read The Chin Scratcher because you think you're better than me or because, as it turns out, you're absolutely illiterate, but do me a favour and just read and comment on this ONE post I wrote recently. I'm taking a poll, and I want to hear as many responses to my question as I can. Thanks so much.

As a side note, I'd like to add that if your name is "Sam" and you're here against my wishes even though I was generous enough to link to you in the last post, then I'd like to let you know that you're not welcome here. So you and all of your sexually-confused Mormon friends can just go back to Vietnam and sit tightly until this blog rolls over and dies. Thank you.

Have you ever had a really, insanely good day where everything seems to go all right, and then you get home and think to yourself, "Maybe she called. Today has been perfect, so maybe she called. Surely she called." But she didn't. And part of you knows that she never will.

I hate those days.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Ching Chong Ching Chong--A Post on Racism Partially Narrated by Sixteen Candles Star Long Duk Dong

Two days ago, I was born again.

I stared into the face of God, and it was Morgan Freeman. Morgan Freeman made the world, and he saw that it was good. Then he blessed his children with an appearence in the movie Driving Miss Daisy and the voice part for March of the Penguins.

"Hello, children. My name is Morgan Freeman. I like penguins. Why? I am a penguin."

Morgan Freeman. Hoke. Nelson Mandela. Joe Matheson. God. Carter. President Beck. Detective Somerset. Ellis. Need I reinforce that HE IS GOD?

Actually, he refused to even talk after the screening. In fact, the only times he said a word at all were when three different people asked a question specifically for "Mr. Morgan Freeman." The third was mine, and it was, "I have a question for Mr. Freeman. Can I touch your face?"

The reason he chose not to talk after the screening was because his grandchild goes to the primary school, and a couple of years ago he went there for Grandparents' Day. Everyone wanted his autograph and was taking pictures, and the other grandparents thought he was hogging all of the attention, so they complained to the school. The school, for some idiotic reason, informed him of this. He was so embarrassed, he vowed to never return to my school. We had to promise him that there would be no autographs or pictures so that he would come here again. They didn't even announce it to the school--it sort of leaked out. And he didn't talk. I wish I could track down the grandparents who complained about him and just beat them to the ground. Even if it's an old lady with a walker. So I guess I do have a dark, violent, Grand Theft Auto side to me.

Afterward, I stood on the curb of the driveway by the chapel and watched him drive by. I was about five feet from him, but he kept his eyes on his phone. I even flashed him, but that was when I was at home in my dark bedroom watching Bruce Almighty on Instant Netflix. Either way, we never made eye contact.

To clarify, there were two screenings that I went to. One was for the high school students only. The next one was for parents, teachers, alums, and any high school students who were willing to sleep with the guards in order to get inside--and that's the only screening that Morgan Freeman went to. The directors of the movie went to both. They were allowing time for questions toward the end, and then the directors asked the students about their experiences of prejudice in their lives. Five students answered. Two had serious answers. The other three? Not so much. One claimed that he was half-Jamaican--(in his words, "Jamaican, you know? Like Bob Marley?")--which of course he was not. He said that because he was half-Jamaican, people are always saying that he smokes weed and eats wheaties.

Another was a black student. He stood up and said, "Well, my friend and I were in the woods, hunting, and some random guy called me the n-word. Then, next thing we know, we're sitting in a cold jail cell for four and a half hours." The director replied, "Hold on--why were you arrested?" The kid answered, "Well, we were at the mall--" The director interrupted and said, "I thought you were in the woods, hunting." The kid said, "No, we were definitely at the mall."

The last student was a Cambodian-American girl who is notorious for talking like the stereotypical black person. She has said on multiple occasions that she wants to be a comedian, and it was showing here.

"Well, hi. My name is Lilah. People look at me all the time and say that I'm Asian. I'm not Asian--I'm Cambodian!!! I'm like at the mall or something and Asian people walk up to me and they're all 'ching chong ching chong.' And I'm like, 'What'choo talkin' about?' And also, people make fun of me because I talk like I'm black. And the only thing I can say to them is, 'Hey, that toy you're holding in your hand? That's mine.'"

The director was so astounded he hardly said a word. Our school ended up looking really racist, and I don't think any celebrities will be coming here in the future. Besides maybe Rebecca Black or the guy who invented the car phone.

Speaking of Rebecca Black, if you haven't heard any of her songs yet...nevermind.

Yesterday, my friend and I invented a really awesome game where you see who can get the most people to say hello to you. You can say hello to them first, but you have to know their name. I got 82, and he got 104. I started to feel like I was manipulating people, though, because whenever they said hello back to me, I would sometimes shout involuntarily, "Yes! 44!"

It also convinced me to go talk to this girl that I really like who I'm always really nervous around. Usually I'm not usually too nervous about talking to girls, even though I'm really shy. But when I was talking to her yesterday, I was so nervous--I could hardly get any words out. I was slurring a lot and repeated the same question once or twice. Absolutely mortifying. I don't think I'd stand a chance with her, but I found her phone number and home address, so it's only a matter of time.

Sorry I haven't been able to respond to your comments for a while. Believe me, I've tried. I've written the most poetic, lengthy, heart-warming replies you've ever seen. But every time I try to publish a comment, it says that blogger was unable to complete the request. I'll try again soon.

You guys were making so many jokes about how white I am in the last post! Today, I got home from track practice, ate a snack, curled up on top of the washing machine and took a nap, drew a long, hot bath, ran a marathon, built a house for a homeless man, built a school for crippled orphans, cured cancer, and then golfed in space. After all of that, I signed onto The Nerd Archives and I was like, "Hm...I think I'll read the comments. Oh, I remember I posted a picture of myself, which I haven't done in a while. I wonder if anyone will think I'm pretty." But then there everyone was, suggesting I use bronzer and telling me how white I am in the picture. Of course I'm white--I'm in an AQUARIUM! That's how people look in AQUARIUMS! Even a black cat would look white in an AQUARIUM!

I'm actually very tan. I was voted tannest German-American in the city of Greater Atlanta in 2007 and 2009. When people think of me, they think of tanness. When people talk about Christopher K, their friends say, "Oh, is he the tan one?" I have a brand of Tanning Lotion named after me, Christopher's Desert Mist Tanning Lotion, and a chocolate milkshake nick-named after me at the local Burger King. My parents locked me in the wine cellar for three days to prevent me from getting any tanner, and I'm wanted by the FBI for being just too tan.

Where am I going with this? I don't know.

For any of you interested in video games, do me a favor and check out the blog of a couple of my friends of mine who write video game reviews and news, Red Platoon. Whatever you do, just don't refer them back to me, because I'm still trying to mantain this blog's anonymity best I can. For those of you not interested in video games, WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU READING THE CHIN SCRATCHER?!

Socks, Drugs, and Rock'n'roll, by Buffalo Daughter

How It Ends, by DeVotchKa

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Aquarium Pictures, Penis, and Getting High Off of Theater

I really, honestly wish I was a theater geek.

Half of the kids in my drawing class are only taking this course because they're trying to cram in visual arts credits before they go to college. Many of them are fans of Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga, are attractive and socially adequate, and have no valid interest whatsoever in expressing themselves through art. Artists should be slightly freaky-looking, shy people who hunch, dye their hair vibrant colours, and go to poetry slams on the weekends. At my school, most of the kids who take art are cheerleaders/lacrosse players, have good hygiene, and possess absolutely zero creativity.

Theater kids, on the other hand, are passionate. They are fully aware that they might be persecuted for choosing an elective that might be considered, as the young ones say these days, "lame." Guys might be called gay, and girls might be called square, but they choose to do it still. And because they choose to do it despite their reputation, you know that they are passionate.

I saw the school musical last Friday. It was absolutely phenomenal. I cannot even begin to imagine the work they have to go through to prepare for a play like that. Furthermore, it astounds me how one can so totally and completely adopt the role of a total stranger and pull it off for an hour and a half. And the look in their eyes after the play was over and they went out to shake hands and give hugs to everbody? It was the happiest look in the world. That night, I wanted nothing more in life than to give up art and join the school musical.

On a different note, I promised you guys aquarium pictures, so aquarium pictures are what you're going to get! If you're not comfortable seeing any nude photos, skip the third, sixth, and ninth ones on this list. If you're put off by photographs of great white sharks eating scuba divers or dolphins procreating, then...well, there's just nothing left for you, is there?


This is a jellyfish trying to touch its toes. It's been slacking off of exercising for the past couple of weeks, watching Judge Judy and eating nutella ice cream, so it's having difficulty, in case you can't tell.

This is a grayish-whitish-bluish shark of some kind looking mean and scary because it's a shark and sharks are mean and scary.
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This is one of the two only whale sharks kept in an aquarium in the entire world, except for Japan's, and it's reminding me intensely of the big torturo in the movie Torturo.
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This is a penguin making me feel guilty for going to the aquarium where they imprison innocent penguins because I'm remembering the movie Happy Feet.
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This is my brother, Kevin, hunching because he's given up on life and is suffering from severe depression.
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This is an octopus trying to give me a hug and failing miserably.

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This is a beluga whale named Bertha. I don't know if her real name is Bertha, or if she really is a she, but doesn't she remind you of a Bertha? She also has a huge forehead. Actually, maybe that's what we should call her: Forehead.
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This is a bunch of stuff.
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This is me trying to catch the eye of a muscular, Italian guy at the other end of the room who doesn't look like he's into guys, but how could I really know unless I make a move on him?

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At the end of the day, we left the aquarium with smiling faces and stomachs full of fried fish. Our day took a turn for the worst, however, when we walked through the revolving doors and ran into a young lady who was violently sick. Just like how I'm a sympathetic crier, yawner, sneezer, and laugher, I start to feel really sick when I see people throw up. I never actually throw up, but I feel queasy all day until I go home and eat a bowl of my favourite Fried Chicken Chunks Ice Cream, which always somehow manages to settle my stomach.

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On an absolutely unrelated note, I really love my Youth Group. I feel almost more at home there than anywhere, as corny as that sounds. I don't know why, because I pretty much despise all organized religion at this time in my life, but I really love my Youth Group. We get some cool kids there every once and a while too. This last Sunday when we were doing a free car wash in Downtown Atlanta, there was a girl who attends ballet school in New York and flies to Atlanta one Sunday every month to visit family. I asked her if she thought I would be a good ballet dancer, and she said yes. Then we made out.

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There was also an Exchange Student from Ecuador. I had a lot of fun talking to her in Spanish. (Even if she didn't.) She asked me in Spanish if I had a car. I told her that I did at one point, but I don't anymore. She asked me why. I replied, "UN MONO GIGANTE SE LO COMIÓ!!!" She laughed. Then I laughed. Then we made out.

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Morgan Freeman is coming to my school tomorrow. I'm so excited, I can feel it in my toes. It's sort of a tickling, prickly, warm sensation. Very enjoyable. I also saw him last Saturday afternoon. We had coffee--it was nice. He put his hand on my hand, and I looked into his eyes. Then we made out.

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Music for a Found Harmonium, by Penguin Cafe Orchestra

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Elenore, by the Turtles

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Cheers,

That Blond Guy

Light It Up!

That's right. That's the slogan for this year's prom. I don't know how it was approved by the teachers, unless they're secretly trafficking cigarettes throughout the high school. Which would be a first, because usually they're trafficking underage Brazilian-American prostitutes.

I then suggested to the prom committee that they instead choose the slogan, "Just do it," but they seemed pretty set on this one.

In case any of you are wondering--yes, I am going with a girl to prom. No, the girl is not imaginary. And yes, she is over the age of 30.

After nearly a year of waiting, I've finally watched the It's Kind of a Funny Story movie. I have read every single one of Ned Vizzini's books, contacted him five times, bought the soundtrack to the movie, received a signed photo of Ned Vizzini which I gave to a friend (who I now more or less despise), and watched the move trailer six times. Once I saw the cast and the trailer, I was starting to think the movie would ruin the book for me. Emma Roberts and Zach Galifinakis in a Quasi-serious movie portraying the experience of a sixteen-year-old in a mental ward?! That couldn't possibly work. I was pleasantly surprised, because I think they somehow pulled it off. Not unlike how Christie Brinkley pulled off all of her clothes halfway through National Lampoon's Vacation.

"I understand there was an incident this morning. Would anybody care to talk about it? Something about a breakfast burrito?"

In fact, that was an understatement. I think the movie was incredible. Absolutely stunning. So, so, so, so, so, SO creative. The Under Pressure scene was maybe my favourite. It definitely had a different feel to it than the book, but so did a lot of great movies, right? The ending felt like a smoking hot angel punched me in the fast and then my brain had an orgasm. Most importantly, Emma Roberts makes me feel hot in my pants. Noelle, I'll answer your question to Craig for him. YES, I AM A SCHOOL UNIFORM PERV.

This has been a decent week so far. On Tuesday I got home from track practice and my entire family was gone. For a while I was worried because I was under the impression that I made my family disappear, but then I stared straight into the camera, relaxed, and realize that, yes, I made my family disappear.

You may be wondering why this is such a big deal for me to be in my own house by myself for one day, but in a family of five where two of the other members are the exact same age as me, that's actually rare that I get the house to myself for half a day. I get to do everything I can't usually do when my family is around, like blast Vampire Weekend on my brother's stereo, walk around the house naked, and have noisy shouting matches with my cats in French. (Yes, I actually do all of those things.) So it was nice, especially since this week has been so stressful. It was awkward, though, when my entire family walked through the front door and there I was carving a nude sculpture of the Greek goddess Alethia out of mashed potatoes.

Wednesday I had my first track meet of the season. For whatever insane reason, I chose to be on the short distance team, despite the large number of people who would walk up to me and say,

"So, you're running track this year?"

"Yeah."

"Righteous. The new long distance coach is Mr. Reid. It's going to be awesome."

"Oh, I'm doing sprints."

"...what? I don't understand."

"I'm running sprints. I thought I'd try something new."

"But...you're white."

"So?"

(Gives embarrassed look.) "I just don't understand."

So even though I've had to deal with a lot of reverse-racism and the fact that I'm one of the slowest on the sprints team, I went to the meet yesterday and I actually did half-decent. Just half-decent, though. I think it was because I drank so much Oceansplash Cran-Grap juice like ten minutes before I the event and because I was wearing those ultra-tight compression shorts which split my sperm count in half at the very least. They also kind of aroused me, but they also mostly just slowed me down. I was wearing my spikes, though. Man, running on spikes makes you feel like you're flying. But then when you shout at the top of your lungs, "Embrace me in your arms, wind, for I am a soaring eagle! A hawk! A falcon! A dragon! Let me fly away with you!" suddenly you don't feel like you're flying anymore. I learned that the hard way.

You guys really need to check out my other blog, The Chin Scratcher. If The Nerd Archives was a young, vibrant male who was only just beginning to go to parties and test out his sexuality, then The Chin Scratcher would be the wheezing, deformed Benjamin Button baby that was practically dead before it was born. Comment, follow, and read it as though it was a cool new edition of the Bible that just came out which incorporates words like "dude," "bitchin'," and "pimp" into scripture. If you're into poetry, movies, books, writing, etc. just do me a favour and check it out, hm? You might just surprise yourself. And it won't be because you opened what you thought was a container of cheeze ballz and springy snakes popped out at you. It will be because you read my blog. And it was awesome.

I love you all. You know that, right?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

When Life Gives You Lemons, Draw Little Faces on Them and March Them Around the Room Chanting "GET READY FOR THE LEMON SHOWDOWN!!!!"

If I had the option to punch anyone from all of history right in the face, it would be whatever airheaded, extroverted attention-grabber who invented the speaker phone. Definitely the most ridiculous thing invented since the electric lotion-warmer. It is so awkward and difficult for me. You never know how many people you're talking to, who all is there, and what their reactions are to what you're saying. Everyone is talking at once. Usually I freak out, hang up on them, and then stumble to the corner of my room, where I sit and rock back and forth for about an hour until I can calm down.

Yesterday my friend called me using speaker phone. We talked normally for a minute or so until I heard bursts of laughter in the background. I asked who was there and he said, "Oh, did I forget to mention? My brother, mom, dad, and a couple of my friends are here too. We were actually hoping you didn't pick up. We wanted to hear your voice mail message in French." (It used to be in Spanish, but too many people I know speak Spanish and are quite aware that my Spanish is not that good. French is much better, especially for when I finish the voice mail message with the words "Why don't you go impregnate a pigeon and leave me alone? Thanks again!")

But yes, I think I've developed a complex from all of the bad experiences I've ever had with speaker phone. It's like Ivan Pavlov's experiment with the boy and the furry animals where Pavlov rang a loud, jarring bell every time the boy encountered a furry animal, and so the boy developed an unconscious fear of furry animals. Every time someone mentions speaker phone, I get all hot and sweaty and keep throwing nervous glances over my shoulder.

Remember that haunted house I mentioned a few posts ago that was just in the middle of the woods? Well, guess what. I went there with a friend yesterday. Before, my brother and I had just gone as far as the shed in front of the house and peeked in the shed, which had its windows broken out. Inside the shed there were a load of old, empty liquor bottles and a rusted, run-down refrigerator.

Yesterday we went closer to the house, and we saw the windows were boarded up and the car parked to the right of the house had no wheels and the roof was bent in. The house was surrounded by an old barb wire fence with a "No Trespassing" sign on it. We spotted yet another shed on the other side of the house and started walking over to it.

Surrounding the shed were about a dozen piles of torn-up, fresh white bread--evenly spaced from one another. If that's not weird enough, we looked inside the shed, which was more like a giant lean-to, and it was filled with about twenty bales of hay, a dozen gallon-jugs of water, and an empty bathtub. We were pretty freaked out, and ran away squealing--screaming things about pedophiles and giant chicken monsters.

We also saw the movie Red Riding Hood in theaters. It was okay, but not that great. I heard it was directed by the same person who did Twilight. I wouldn't be surprised if it was. Everyone in the town was extremely attractive and mysterious. All of the guys in the movie had sparkles on their cheeks and slick hairstyles. I even found the grandmother kind of attractive. This was a European village in the 1600's--the people should be deformed from years of inbreeding, not suave and attractive.

Without realising it, I broke my fast for Lent and ate both a giant Wild Cherry icy and an ice cream from Coldstone's. I haven't eaten since as penitance, but any minute now instinct might take over--my mind will go blank for a moment, and when I wake up, I'll have eaten most of my couch.

Thank you guys so much for not hating me for my last post. As I explained in the comments, I realized that it was rather too mean and attacking and immediately felt guilty. But I couldn't delete it, because I thought it was a decent post. Sorry.

This past month has been a period of time for me to re-discover the Beatles, who I've actually neglected for the past few months. I think I've now officially listened to every song they've ever recorded. My favourites this week include She's Leaving Home, Fixing a Hole, Norwegian Wood, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, and Bad Romance.

Today's the last day of Spring Break.

I just can't do this.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

You Hate Me, You All Hate Me--I Know You Do

Bloggers really are like parasites. They're like computer viruses. Rats, diseases, vampires, anything you can think of that latches onto another source of life, feeds on it, and then leaves it drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness as it wheezes and coughs, bleeding on the floor.

Authors of blogs have good intentions--or understandable ones at the very least. A great majority of them are girls between the age of 13 and 17 who say they have a passion for writing, when in reality they only have a passion for saying they have a passion for writing. On their profile you will find their list of interests, which will include the following items: "fashion," "reading my Bible," and "Facebook." Most of these girls have seen the movie Julie and Julia and are under the impression that they are the next Julie Powell. None of them are, of course. They will grow up to become schoolteachers, stay-at-home moms, and orthodontist's assistants, and altogether uninteresting people. Some will still write in a journal every few weeks or so, but their diary entries will open with the same sentence every time: "Can't believe it's been so long since I've written. Anyway...James just got home from soccer practice and I have to drive Ashley to ballet in less than an hour, so this will have to be a short entry..."

A category of bloggers exists that is nearly identical to the aforementioned one, but can be distinguished by the fact that all of their posts are "motivational." On the blogspots of these female teenage writers you'll find dozens of posts with around three or four motivational pictures with little motivational sayings on them such as this one, which the blogger spent a grand total of fourteen seconds searching for on Google:




They'll then post a short poem typically seven lines or so in length, usually just one stanza, about either family troubles, a boy, or nature. It will often go something like this:

Why did you have to leave me
That one night under the moonlight
I'm sorry for the things I said
You know I need you and can't live without you
Come back to me and let's just
Live together forever under the stars

The poem always seems to be referring to a certain "you." I always want to shout to these bloggers, WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?! I have never taken a walk with you on a beach at sunset. I have never wiped the tears from your eyes on the day your cat died. I have never taken you to your favourite coffee shop and then broken up with you. My name is Christopher. Christopher. I don't even know who you are. Why am I here? I'm hungry.

There are infinite more categories of bloggers. In addition to the teenage girls who think they are artistic geniuses, there are the iron-willed autism moms and cancer moms, movie-review bloggers who post about three times and then stop writing entirely, the political junkies who somehow never seem to get tired of arguing, the supposed family blogs which really only the mother writes on, the anorexic or self-mutilating teenage girls who are desperately seeking attention and support from total strangers, and then there's also a category of men anywhere from their late teens to early fifties who are somehow under the impression that they are hilarious. They often write very long posts with absolutely no pictures or links to good songs, and their sense of humour is so dry that you'll chap your lips trying to swallow it.

FOLLOWERS. What a strange thing this has become. Why do I bristle with pride every time I see that another blood-sucking blogger has just made the decision to "follow" my blog? And why do I feel especially delighted when that same faceless blogger posts a comment like,

"hey cool blog you got here. follow me?"

They all want the same thing. For you to open your mouth wide enough so that they can stick their arm down it and fish around for a while until they find what they need. They follow your blog knowing that you will follow them back--that much is obvious. But they will not stop there. They will track down every person who has ever commented on your blog and do the exact same to them. Soon they're running a blogger monoply, with connections everywhere and hundreds of followers at their mercy for them to feast on.

And commenting--that's another thing. If I was Holden Caulfield, I'd say it was phony. Since I'm not Holden Caulfield, I'll still say it's phony, because that's a word I like to use--mostly because I think it'd be cool to be Holden Caulfield.

How many of you, show of hands, actually read the posts you comment on? A great many of you probably don't. You skim them. Skim skim skim skim skim skim skim SKIM!!! Even right now you're skimming this post. If there are any of you who I didn't offend with this controversial blogger bloggy blog post, what are your comments going to be like?

"i agreeeeee about bloggers being parasites. who's holden caulfield? lol. follow me?"

I'm remembering that stunningly steamy scene from Almost Famous where William is in a hotel room full of beautiful, bored, and totally stoned girls looking for a good time. They march into the bathroom, chanting that they're planning to "deflower" William. They drag him out and toss him onto the bed, tug off his clothes, and dance around him, pulling off their shirts and skirts as they chant.

Then the next morning they wake up to the phone call from Rolling Stone magazine, and the dialogue goes something like this,

Stoned and half-naked girl #1: "Just think. In any other city in the world, you would still be a virgin."

Stoned and half-naked girl #2: "Coffee. I think I want some coffee."

Stoned and half-naked girl #3: "Yeah, coffee. William, would you get the coffee? And on your way down, would you get the laundry?"

William: "The laundry? You want me to get the laundry?! What am I to you? Answer me now. WHAT AM I TO YOU?"

The next scene flashes to him in the hall with the laundry bag over his shoulder.

But that's what I feel like I should be asking now. What am I to you people? If I stop commenting on your blogs, would you all desert me?

Hm...what was I going to say next? Something about bloggers being parasites or something. Have I said that already? I don't know. Bloggers are vampires and parasites--hear me? They are. It's true.

I'm sleepy.

I would wish all of you a Happy Ash Wednesday, but I guess it's not really a very happy occasion, is it? I have the ashen cross on my forehead. During the service, when the priest put the ashes on my forehead and said, "From dust you came, to dust you shall return," I started crying, because I don't want to turn into dust.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Chacun Voit Midi à sa Porte

Et les plus sûrs du sexe n'est pas le sexe.

I have a rubric for the Nerd Archives post imprinted so vividly on my mind that I can close my eyes and read it word-for-word. First on the checklist is a bizarrely obscure or peculiar title that exceeds four words. Check. Next on the checklist is an opening sentence and/or paragraph which compliments the title not by explaining it, but by making a slightly more humorous but equally disturbing/confusing/obscure remark somewhat related to the title. Check. I also get bonus points for the foreign language. The third item on the rubric applies only during holidays or nation-wide current events, and it involves me addressing it and then choosing whether or not to base the rest of the post on that holiday or current event.

So at this point in the post, I would wish everyone a pleasant Mardi Gras, perhaps mention my family's tradition of eating pancakes for dinner on Mardi Gras, and then totally abandon the topic. I, however, refuse to wish anyone here a Happy Mardi Gras.

Mardi Gras, the French translation of "Fat Tuesday"--Mardi being "Tuesday" and Gras meaning "Fat"--is the most sacreligious holiday in existence, excluding Halloween.

Halloween, or All Hallows' Eve, was a holiday so trivial that it was not even mentioned on the Christian calendar, the eve to All Saints' Day. It involved the children dressing up as demons or witches and parading around town for a grand total of nine and a half minutes. It was, however, commercialized and celebrated so heartily that it, mixed with the materialistic culture of today, became one of the most popular holidays in the year. All Saints' Day, however, which has genuine religious and spiritual value, was left in the dust like the third Bronte sister or the fifth Beatle.

Mardi Gras, similarly, was a day during which families would use up the remainder of their oil and butter and sugar before the day of Ash Wednesday and the liturgical season of Lent, a forty-day period of fasting and reflection. Soon, however, it turned into a celebratory occasion. After that, flipping New Orleans laid its fat little eyes on it and turned it into another Halloween. Lent, like All Saints' Day, is still observed by some denominations of Christianity, but ignored by most Protestants and unheard of to the general public.

It used to be balanced: one day of celebration and then forty days of self-discipline. Now all that's left is the day of celebration. Furthermore, in consideration of commercialism in our society today, it's more like two and a half weeks of celebration for Mardi Gras and no mention of Lent or Ash Wednesday. You should not celebrate Mardi Gras unless you observe Ash Wednesday. There, I said it.

This is the point where I finish raving like a lunatic and foaming at the mouth and look around the room, panting slightly with a wild look in my eye, and realize that every eye in the room is on me. Kind of like this scene in Back to the Future except in my situation, some people are crying.

Sorry, I'm in a phase of my faith where I'm more doubt than faith. In fact, there's so little faith that when other people talk about their faith in God or how much God loves us, I squirm like I'm possessed and the Exorcist is flinging holy water on me. I have to over-compensate by criticizing the rest of the population fiercely and unmercilessly, as if I were a Baptist.

I hope none of you were too weirded out by my last post. It was pretty out there. I summed it up in my explanation to Mandy Thomas concerning the influences for the post: a psychological thriller movie fest I had on Saturday, Stephen King novels, and a lot of LSD.

My Spring Break has been great so far--thanks for asking. One problem with going to a private school where all your friends are rich is that they're always vacationing in places like Italy or the Bahamas and so you never see them during breaks. I, however, am antisocial and don't mind too much. This Thursday we think we're going to go to the Georgia Aquarium, my favourite tourist attraction in the state and one out of two aquariums in the world to hold whale sharks. (The other is in Japan.)

On Friday, then, we want to go to the Breman Holocaust Museum so my brother and I can hug a Holocaust survivor, the very first item on our Bucket List. I probably won't see any of my friends until Saturday, when we're planning to vandalize some old lady's home and then mugging some cripples. It should be a fun time.

I've been in a horror-movie mood for the past few days. First of all, it's been cloudly and chilly for the past week or so. Also, my brother and I discovered a haunted house in the middle of the woods behind our house. It's seemingly abandoned and surrounded by liquor bottles from the early 20th century. Very creepy. And for me, visiting a haunted house and not watching a horror movie is like having a bite of cheese cake and not coming back for more later. Or re-reading the first book of the Harry Potter series and not re-reading the rest. Or watching thirty minutes of the sci-fi channel and not wanting to run to the bathroom to get some moisturizing lotion and...nevermind.

Anyway, I have to go to this party with super-rich and super-popular people. Yeah, I know it's lame, but since I'm so super-rich and super-popular and good-looking as well, it's kind of my obligation to go. If you haven't voted on my poll yet, please do so. And I'll see you leprechaun demon babies later.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Part 1 out of 312 of the Dialogue with an Imaginary Winged Girl Named Philemon

-Hello, Philemon.

-Oh, hello, Christopher! You gave me quite a fright. I almost didn't see you there.

-I expected as much. Nobody ever notices me.

-Oh, pish posh! I notice you, Christopher. You're my best friend. You just caught me off guard is all.

-Am I really your best friend, Philemon?

-Why, of course!

-That is kind of you to say. Are you busy? Would you like to talk? I've been feeling lonely, Philemon. I want to talk to you. I like talking to you. I like our talks. Do you like our talks, Philemon? Tell me you do.

-Yes, I do.

-That is kind of you to say. Oh, how I do like talking to you. The other children cannot see you, Philemon, but I do like talking to you. Why can the other children not see you? And Aunt and Uncle cannot see you either. Why is that so?

-Perhaps they are not so intelligent as you, Christopher.

-That is so very kind of you to say, Philemon. What would you like to talk about?

-Oh, anything, really.

-You cannot just say, "Oh, anything" like that. You know how it aggravates me when you do. How it aggravates me. When I ask you a question, I expect you to provide a helpful answer. That's why I asked the question, Philemon. That's why I asked the question. That's why I asked the question, Philemon. That's why...I...asked...question...

-I-I'm quite sorry, Christopher! I didn't mean anything by it! I have an idea: cats! Let's talk about cats!

-No, Philemon, I do not want to talk about cats. I want you to tell me what it's like to fly. Tell me like you usually do.

-It's the most wondrous feeling in the world. To feel the wind stroke your face and run its cool fingers through your feathers. To gaze at the world below you as the sunlight warms your back. It's so freeing--

-NO, STOP. STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP.

-What's wrong, Christopher? What have I done?

-YOU FORGOT THE PART ABOUT HOW THE AIR TASTES. YOU FORGOT TO TELL ME HOW THE AIR TASTES. I TOLD YOU TO TELL ME LIKE YOU USUALLY DO, AND YOU FORGOT TO TELL ME ABOUT HOW THE AIR TASTES. YOU'RE RUINING EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING IS RUINED. HOW DOES THE AIR TASTE, PHILEMON? TELL ME QUICKLY.

-It t-t-tastes like honey! It tastes like honey!

-Oh, does it really? That sounds magnificent. I really should like to fly some time.

-Yes, Christopher. You ought to.

-I think I must have your wings, Philemon.

-Wh-what?

-I believe you heard me, Philemon. I should like to have your wings. I should like to fetch a long knife from the kitchen, hack them off, and bind your wings to my arms with rope. And then I shall fly away to a magic land where no one will ever bother me and you and me can be together forever.

-But...but...I can't...well, if you have my wings, Christopher, how shall I get to the magic land?

-Hm. That is a very good point, Philemon. You always do make such very good points. I think perhaps I will not use your wings, but instead find a sorcerer to put a spell on me so I can fly. Yes, I think this is what I will do.

-Ooh, that is such a very good idea, Christopher! Such a very, very good idea. I think that is what you should do.

-Do you think so? I think so as well.

-Yes, Christopher! Such a very good idea.

-Philemon, I no longer wish to talk about flying. I wish to talk about something else instead. What should we talk about, Philemon?

-I, uh, well, would you care for me to tell my stories about pirates and mermaids?

-NO, PHILEMON. I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT PIRATES AND MERMAIDS. I DO NOT LIKE PIRATES OR MERMAIDS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS, PHILEMON? I DO NOT LIKE PIRATES OR MERMAIDS.

-I'm sorry! We don't have to talk about pirates or mermaids...I'm sorry...please...

-You have adopted such a disrespectful tone, Philemon. I think it best that you start calling me "sir." Yes, that is what you shall do. You will start calling me "sir" from now on. That is what you will do.

-Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Yes, sir.

-Stop crying, Philemon. Stop crying this instant. Stop crying or I shall strike you. Stop crying, Philemon, or I shall strike you. Why are you crying? Stop it this instant.

-Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. So sorry. Please do not hurt me, sir.

-As I was saying, Philemon, I really cannot wait until we fly away to the magic land together. We will have such a splendid time. We really shall. I grow so tired of Aunt and Uncle, Philemon. I get tired of Sister as well. I do not like them. They do not pay attention to me like you do, Philemon. You are so good to pay attention to me. But they do not. I think I will have to kill them.

-Wh-what, sir?

-I think that is what I will do. I think I will kill them all one by one. Slowly.

-Sir, please...

-An axe. I think I will use an axe. Yes, I think that is what I will use to kill them. I think an axe is what I will use. I think I will first kill Sister with the axe. Then I think I will kill Aunt and then Uncle last. I think that is what I will do.

-Sir...

-I think I will kill the bullies at school also. Yes, I think I will kill them. How they torment me, Philemon, because I look differently and because I do not talk so much as the other children. They are not good children, so I think I will have to kill them. I will kill Teacher too. She looks at me like she thinks I am insane, Philemon. I am not insane. Why does she look at me like that? Why do people look at me like I am insane? I am not insane, Philemon.

-Oh, sir...sir...

-You are crying again. I told you not to cry, Philemon. I told you not to cry or I would strike you. I shall have to strike you.

-Please! No!

-I have to, Philemon. I will strike you know. Now I will strike you.

...

-Philemon?

...

-You are not moving, Philemon. I think it is because I have struck you too hard. I also struck you many times. At first I thought I would only strike you once, but then I struck you and I could not stop. I think I will continue talking to you.

...

-You are such a very good friend to me, Philemon. I do appreciate you so much for it. Am I really your best friend, Philemon?

...

-I would also like to tell all of my readers to vote on my new poll, Philemon. It can be found on the right sidebar. It is a poll about languages, Philemon. It is a poll about languages. Speaking of languages, I am learning to speak French from Teacher. It is a shame that I have to kill her then, because I do like learning French.

...

-I should also like to wish a pleasant Spring Break to all others who are on Spring Break. And I should also like to invite everyone to have tea with me some time during the Spring Break. Yes, I think that is what I will do.

...

-I have to go now, Philemon. Thank you for being such a good friend. You really are such a good friend.



Cheers,
That Blond Guy

A Blessing in Disguise: You Sneaky, Sneaky Blessing

So there I was, standing in the lunch line, and a kid walks up to me and asks for a dollar. Now, this kid is black, I might add. I said, "No way, man. I don't do any favors for your kind." He reminds me--as dozens of other kids had done that week when wanting a dollar, potato chip, or to borrow my shoes--that it is Black History Month. I, admittedly, felt like I automatically owed a debt to him and his race simply because I was white. You just can't beat the race card. So I decided to give him the dollar. Our conversation went something like this,

Me: "No way you're going to pay me back."

Him: "I seriously will. I swear to God."

Me: "If I do, hypothetically, give you the dollar, then I would need you to pay it back by tomorrow morning. No exceptions."

Him: "Yeah, man."

Me: "And you're going to use it responsibly, like to buy a Pop-Tart, right? Not on drugs or alcohol or women?"

Him: "Nah, man."

Me: "Fine."

I think I made him swear roughly three trillion times that he would pay me back. Finally I hand him the dollar and proceed to watch him through my binoculars as he waltzes off the snack bar to buy a box of jelly beans or a Wild Cherry slushie or whatever his people like to eat.

So the next day I track him down to get my money. I find him, tap him on the shoulder, and ask him for my money back. He gives me a blank stare. I gently remind him that I loaned him a dollar and he said he would pay me back the next morning. He says he has no idea what I'm talking about. At this point I was getting a little frustrated. You know our conversation which I just posted above? Yeah, I recited our entire conversation to him. He just shakes his head and says he has no idea what I'm talking about. Then I pounce on top of him and start beating him until he's out cold.

Once he came to, I gave him a glass of warm milk and asked him one last time in my most agreeable, gentle voice whether he wanted to do this the easy way or the hard way. He finally caved and said that if I met him in our science teacher's classroom after school, he would give me the money. "The money" referring to a single dollar bill. Or four quarters. Or ten dimes. Which is pretty sad.

After school, I then went to the teacher's classroom. She, not surprisingly, is zoned out staring at her computer--undoubtedly on Facebook or playing internet chess. The kid is there. He sees me, shivers a little and touches a hand involuntarily to his bruised face, and fishes through his wallet for the money. He looks up at me with his stupid look, like the look goats give you when you catch them eating a candy wrapper, and says, "Do you have change for a $50?"

Yeah, Black History Month was over. I beat him up again and this time I think I might have killed him. (I felt like destroying something beautiful.)

So here's the part where I reveal this situation as a blessing in disguise. I'm walking away feeling bitter because I've been deprived of my dollar, which I could use to buy anything from bubble gum to a box of matches, when the girl walks right up behind me.

The girl. The one with such blue eyes? The one with a face carved from a petrified moonbeam with a dentist's silver sword? My dream girl? It's after school so the halls are deserted. It's just me and her.

And there couldn't have been a more perfect time. I'm wearing my extra-self-confidence underwear, which is pretty much like normal underwear, except it's cooler. I have my athletic bag with me so she can see I do a sport, but she doesn't know it's track so it could be baseball or lacrosse. I felt spontaneous this morning and washed my hair with this silky pineapple conditioner, and so my hair is fluffy and smells delicious.

Our conversation was brief. Two to three minutes at the most. But it was a conversation, and that's what counted. A conversation with the most beautiful girl in the world. With the only Jewish blonde goddess I can think of off the top of my head. (Ooh, except Athena. Yeah, definitely Jewish.)

I hardly remember what we talked about. Something about me being a triplet. I didn't say a single clever thing, and in fact I don't think I said a thing at all. Now that I recall, I'm pretty sure I just drooled a little bit and then pet her hair while she was turned away. I might have murmured, "You is pretty. Me wants you" once or twice, but that might have been it.

But that was fine for me. Definitely the highlight of my week. It almost compensated for the fact that we were running hills at track practice today. It was on a busy street too, so we had to dart over to the side of the road every nine seconds. There was this one Hispanic man that drove by in a car with his mother in the passenger's seat. He was honking like crazy and shouting, "Get out of the way, bitch-asses!!!"

I nearly fainted by the end of the workout, it was so exhausting.

Coach: "You feeling okay, Kennedy?"

Me: "Yeah, Coach."

Coach: "Because you looked a little light-headed coming up off that hill."

Me: "Nah, I'm just really stoned."

The results of my newest poll have revealed that I better get my act together and be more consistent with responding to your comments. Which I will do. None of you will be neglected. All are exalted in Christopher Land.

God, I'm tired. Have I been sounding loopy during this post? Because I'm feeling loopy. I have to go finish my term paper.

Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy