Friday, July 29, 2011

A Blogging Survey Named Nicolai


1) Please state your name for the record?

2) If you were a penguin, on the other hand, what do you think your name would be? Hypothetically speaking, of course.

3) Would you consider your ears to be smaller than average, average, larger than average, or freakishly large?

4) Are you more of a Beatles or an Elvis fan? (If you answer the latter, please proceed to go set yourself on fire and then die in a hole.)

5) Have you ever killed anyone? If so, did you do it with your bare hands?

6) If you could use any fruit to describe the size and shape of your head, what fruit would you use?

7) Is there any famous person you'd go gay for? Please state their name. This question is, of course, purely for academic purposes.

8) If you had the choice, would you rather go to space, meet Paul McCartney, scuba dive in the Pacific Ocean, or sleep with Carmen Electra?

9) How long have you had your blog? What made you start one?

10) What is your weirdest phobia?

11) Do you believe in God?

12) If you could start a collab. blog with any four bloggers, which ones would you do it with?

13) If you were trapped on a desert island with the same four bloggers you mentioned in the last question, which one would you eat first? With which one would you procreate?

14) What's your favourite 80's movie?

15) What kind of music do you listen to?

16) Imagine that you open your bedroom closet one day and suddenly a portal opens up. You can't see what is at the end of the portal, but there is a totoro inside it motioning you to follow him. Would you go inside, even if it might mean you'll never come back?

17) If you're a woman, do you find facial hair on men attractive? If you're a man, do you find facial hair on woman attractive?

18) Do you like babies?

19) What's the most violent thing you've ever done to an inanimate object?

20) What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?

21) Do you think the world will end in 2012?

22) Have you enjoyed this survey? Be honest, now.

23) Are you following The Nerd Archives? If not, DO YOURSELF THE FAVOUR OF DOING SO NOW.

I'm tagging everyone who reads this post with this survey. I also call to attention the new poll on the right sidebar. I'd also like to congratulate Bookish.Spazz for probably being my only follower who has completed the homework assignment, which can ALSO be found on the right sidebar. You can all learn from her. Bitches.

I'm also super-excited to say that PeaceLoveandSharpies put up my drawings on the Tribute to Doodlers page on her blog. And that's great, because now you guys can go look at them and then come back and tell me how much you love them! Isn't that fantastic?

Also, my beard is gaining some volume now and is starting to get insufferably itchy. I was worried that even though I've been working on it for a couple of weeks now, it would still be invisible because I'm so blonde. Fortunately, it's starting to turn red. Which is awesome, because now you can see it and I look way older. I just went to Yoforia and got hit on by the cashier who was at least eight years older than me and absolutely gorgeous. For realz. And this happened even though I was wearing my favourite Cookie Monster t-shirt. I wish I was joking about the t-shirt. I'm not, though. I'm wearing it right now.

I saw the last Harry Potter movie just a few hours ago, so you guys should know what this means. I, being LITERALLY the biggest Harry Potter fan on the blogosphere, am preparing myself to go on the longest, angriest Harry Potter rant you have ever witnessed. Brace yourselves, and don't bring any babies with you to the next post. I'm scared about what might happen to them.

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Part 3 out of 3 of a Very True and (I Might Add) Fascinating Tale Which Clearly Fails to Capture the Precious Attention of Olivia

I had for three days been under the clutches of the wicked, incurably insane Anabelle Walker, and what I really missed most was my toothbrush. I've never even really liked my legs anyway. I was already thinking about just getting some new ones. And the thumb? Who really needs thumbs? You know who doesn't have two thumbs? Christian Bale. That's a fact.

Sure, every once and a while I got a little bothered by the I Got the Hungries. Sure, my stomach hurt. Sure, I thought I was at one point passing a kidney stone. Sure, I had a fever from morning till evening every day I was there. Sure, I knew I was staring death in the face and there was a very slim chance I was about to escape this. But what I missed most of all was my tooth brush. My breath was just awful, I tell ya. And it was starting to get embarrassing. Not that I cared too much what Anabelle thought of my breath, but the impression I make on people is very important to me. And I badly needed a toothbrush.

I suggested this to Anabelle on the morning of the fourth day.

"Anabelle?" I asked softly as she entered the room with some new pills. "Do you think it's possible that you could bring me a toothbrush? I'm just worried about cavities."

She just stared at me blankly. The darkness was behind her eyes again. Very calmly, without saying a word, she turned around and walked back out of the room.

When she came back in, several minutes later, she was holding a pair of rusty, old pliers.

"You're worried about cavities, huh, Mister Man?" she said, smiling slightly. "WELL HOW ABOUT I JUST TAKE OUT EVERY ONE OF YOUR COCKADOODIE TEETH?!"

As she advanced rapidly, I tried to decide if the case was worth pursuing further or if I should just forget about it now. By the look in her eyes, I decided she really was prepared to go medieval on me, and I decided--reluctantly--that it was a lost cause.

I said the one thing that could have possibly diffused the situation without risking my life or my pearly whites.

"Anabelle, wait!!!" I shouted. "I love you!"

She paused, then, and look confused. She looked as though she was daring to hope, but afraid to have her heart broken. I knew that look. It's the same look I wore on my face the first time an advertisement popped up on the side of the web page informing me that there were singles in my area who wanted to meet me.

"Really?" she asked cautiously.

"I love you, Anabelle. And I always have. It's always been you."

Her face lit up as she smiled. "I feel the same way, Christopher. I think the time has come. Tonight I'm going to put on my Liberace records. Oh, the house will be so full of romance! We'll have a candle-lit dinner, I'll fix meatloaf, everything is going to be perfect. Then I'll load my gun with the bullets. One for you. One for me."

"What about Dennis, the goldfish?" I asked, laughing nervously.

She blushed. "Dennis? Well, no. I, well, I sort of ate him," she said hurriedly, before adding, "Oh, Christopher, tonight is going to be so perfect. I knew this was how it was going to end all along. God, I love you so much."

Then she stood up to leave. Halfway to the door, she paused, turned around, and smiled again. "I have a surprise for you, this afternoon, if you think you're going to be up for it."

I forced a smile. "I can't wait."

She grinned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. I waited a few moments to make sure she was gone, and then flashed the bird at the door. (And by "the bird," I mean my middle finger.) I wasn't about to die. But I didn't have to worry. I had a plan.

I spent the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon working out the kinks in my plan, getting less and less confident that it was going to work but at the same time coming to terms with my fate with quiet acceptance. If this plan failed, I would die. That's all there was to it.

To my surprise, the door flew open at a little past noon and a tall, young policeman stood in the doorway, wearing sunglasses and with his hands on his hips. I nearly had a heart attack, but was immediately flooded with relief. I sat up in my bed.

"Officer, thank God you've rescued me!!! She's crazy! Anabelle Walker is crazy!!! She's been keeping me here against my will!!! Now get me out of this hell hole!!!"

He remained untroubled, smiling eerily and staring at me behind his sleek, designer sunglasses. I stared at him for a moment in confusion. Then he seized his sunglasses and tossed them to the side of the room.

"Did somebody call...Officer Nasty?" he asked, beginning to shake his hips and dance over to me from across the room.

As realisation dawned on me, I was filled with horror. I shook my head over and over again. "No. No no no no no. NO!!!!" I said.

He held out one hand to calm me and used the others to unbutton his shirt. "Please, don't worry, sir," he said in what I assume he thought to be a tough cop's voice. "I'm certified........IN SEX."

Just as he tossed aside his shirt and moved his hand toward his zipper, Anabelle crept up behind him and tapped him on the back. He turned around, and for the first time, I looked upon Anabelle Walker with relief.

"Just a minute, Leonard," she said.

"Officer Nasty," he corrected her, fingering his handcuffs idly.

"Christopher, I'm sorry, I should have explained," she said as I stared in disbelief at the both of them. "This is the surprise!"

"I don't understand," I admitted.

"Christopher, I understand that I, as a woman, am unable to fulfill your physical needs. I do love you, and I understand that if you are of that persuasion, then I am willing to do anything to make you happy. So that's why I hired Leonard here. I figured that I might as well give you that pleasure on your last day on earth," she said.

Finally I began to understand, and I was filled with fury.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" I yelled in frustation, before I could stop myself. "WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'M GAY?!"

The pair of them stared at me in confusion. "You're not gay?" Anabelle asked slowly.

"No, I'm not gay!!!!" I said furiously.

"Oh," Anabelle said. "Well, this is going to make dinner awkward."

And it was awkward. After leading a disappointed Officer Nasty AKA Leonard from the bedroom, she left to go fix dinner. It only took about fifteen minutes, actually, and so she helped me into the wheelchair and wheeled me out into the dining room, where there were two plates, a candle, and a pair of wine glasses.

After Anabelle said grace, I put my napkin in my lap and hesitantly began to eat. It was meatloaf, as promised, along with a side of applesauce and carrot sticks. We ate in silence for a few minutes until Anabelle finally poured the wine. It was all going according to plan.

"So," I said finally, clearing my throat. "What do you do in your free time? When you're not, you know, chopping off my legs and stuff?"

"Well," she said, taking a sip of wine. "I used to kill a lot of babies..."

I glanced up.

"...but I'm trying to cut down on that," she added.

I seized this as an opportunity for dinner conversation. "So is it, like, exclusively babies that you murder or is it, like, a combination of babies and adults?" I asked, taking another bite of meatloaf and trying my best to look intrigued.

"That's a good question," she said. "It's pretty much a combination of the two. In fact, most of the people I've brutally murdered are adults. I only killed the occasional baby during my career as a nurse. It's been two, maybe three years since I've actually killed any babies."

Another minute or two passed in silence. Anabelle had finished her glass of wine. I, on the other hand, hadn't taken a single sip from mine. Although I was nervous and scared, I eventually decided that it was time to carry out the final part of my plan.

"Anabelle, I'm afraid your time is up," I said, trying to sound as bad-ass as possible.

With that, I picked up my glass and threw the wine in her face.

"TAKE THAT, BIOTCH!!!!!!" I screamed.

I was seized by dread as I watched the wine splash on to her and nothing happen. She just grabbed her napkin and started sponging it off of her face and clothes. Oh, shit. This was NOT going according to plan.

"What'd you do that for?!" she demanded.

"Well...I...I was hoping you'd melt. That was sort of the plan," I admitted.

"Melt?" she asked, angry and confused. "Like the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling foolish. "Kind of like that."

She dropped the napkin on the table and threw her hands up in despair, sighing heavily and shaking her head at me.

"You know, Christopher, I think it's best if you just go," she said frustratedly.

"Just go?" I repeated incredulously. "Really? You're just going to let me go?"

"Yes," she said. "At first I thought I really loved you and that it would be cool to make a suicide pact with you and die in your arms, but then I met you and you turned out to be a bit of a weirdo. You freak me out. And you shouldn't take that likely. You are really weird."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"So I think it's best if you just go," she said, motioning to the door. Stunned, I stood up to leave. I started to walk out the door before I turned around.

"Hey, are you busy next weekend?" I asked nervously. "Maybe we could hang out or something."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said sympathetically. "I really don't think you're my type. Let's just be friends."

I blushed furiously and stuffed my hands quickly into my pockets, feeling childish and idiotic. I walked out the door, said goodbye, and watched as she shut and locked the door behind me. I walked a little down the road, flagged down a cab, and rode the rest of the way back to Atlanta. And that was my weekend.

Even though I know that Anabelle Walker is out of my life, I still think about her sometimes. Namely when I can't reach orgasm. It took me a while to realise it, but Anabelle was really the only woman who has ever really paid attention to me. And, now that I think about it, I'd give two legs and a thumb to ANY woman who offers her love to me.

And so here I am, telling you my story, and staring at the moon. Somewhere out there, I know, is Anabelle Walker. I know it's likely that we'll never meet again, but I guess all I can do is bite back the tears and keep telling myself that there are other fish in the sea.

But I will never forget the days I spent with Anabell Walker.



Well, that's the end, folks. I hope you enjoyed hearing my story and can fully appreciate what I've been through. I can assure you that every word of it is completely true.

I better go to bed now. I just watched My Sister's Keeper and literally cried throughout the entire movie. I'm not even joking. I was crying in the first ten minutes. I'm dead serious. That is the saddest movie I've ever seen. I hugged my Winnie the Pooh pillow for at least forty five minutes after it ended. Finally it started to get uncomfortable, and politely requested that I leave.

I will say, though, that the poll has ended and I was very disappointed to have lost to Daniel Radcliffe by one vote. I feel betrayed by everybody here.

I also had an idea. Maybe I should write a blogger survey! If I did that, would you guys do it and send it on? Or is that a stupid idea? Am I really stupid? Do you guys think I'm pretty? I'm worthless, aren't I?

That Blond Guy

Monday, July 25, 2011

Part 2 out of 3 of a Story That Is Not Way Based on Stephen King's Best-Selling Novel "Misery"

Twenty-six hours had passed since the moment I regained consciousness and met Anabelle Walker, but it seemed like an eternity, especially because I was so drugged up. Turns out that she had more in her medicine cabinet than "Anabelle's Happy Pillz." In the day since I had woken up, she had fed me enough Tylenol, Zoloft, and Vagisil to tranquilize a wild stallion. Which, according to the tattoo I got on my chest last month, is exactly what I am.

Under normal conditions, the unbelievable doses of this medication she was giving me, coupled with my critical condition, would have instantly killed me. Fortunately, I built up an unbreakable tolerance against all three of these drugs during my brief but intense OTC drug addiction back in February. (Did you know that you can smoke Benodryl?) Thanks to that, the drugs just left me in a state of pleasurable numbness.

Anabelle came into my room three times in that twenty-six hours. The first time occured only fifteen minutes after she first left it. She rolled in a tiny, ancient, black-and-white television on a little cart, along with two ice cream sundaes and some more of my pills.

"I thought we could eat some sundaes and watch a movie together, Christopher!" she said hopefully, maybe even a little nervously.

"Well, that sounds great, Anabelle," I said gently. "You're so considerate."

She blushed a little and quickly handed me my sundae. After watching me take a few bites, swallow my pills, and force an appreciate smile, she stood up and put in the VCR, which turned out to be An Affair to Remember.

After she got it started up and sat down beside me, she took a few bites, I took a few bites, and then she started smearing the ice cream all over her face and arms. When I cast a startled, sidelong glance at her, she laughed loudly and said, "Look, Christopher! I'm a snowman."

I gave a terrified little chuckle and turned back to the movie, not knowing else what to do but hope she wasn't going to ask me to lick it off of her. She was probably one of the ugliest women I'd ever met: fat, masculine, and smelly. So it was all the more repulsive for me when she pretended to yawn and then slipped her arm around my shoulder.

It was all I could do to sit and suffer in silence when she ran her fingers through my hair and slid her tongue into my left ear.

The second time that she came to visit me was a few hours later, at what I assumed was dinner time. Her mood was drastically different. Somehow she had shifted from the cheerful, energetic personality she had adopted during the first visit. She was instead distant and removed, with a blank expression on her face. For dinner she brought me a raw egg on a plate.

"Here's your dinner," she said, placing it absently on my lap, causing pain to surge through my legs once again.

"And also, I brought you this," she added without emotion, holding up a enormous, dead rat by its tail. "You can have it now if you like, or I can just keep it for you right here." And she laid it gently on the floor.

"Anabelle, are you okay?" I asked, petrified.

In answer, she grabbed her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger and started twisting in until it bled. I watched her helplessly, paralyzed with fear. She didn't stop there, either. She unbuttoned her blouse in front of me, removed it, and ate it, sucking it up like a noodle of spaghetti. After her blouse, she went on to eat her humongous bra, her plaid skirt, and my underwear she had been wearing, all of which she sucked up with relish, slurpling noisily, with the same expressionless look in her face.

As she stood before my bed, stark naked and hideous, her eyes finally seem to adjust a little and land on mine.

"No. It's the rain. Sometimes it gives me the blues," she finally managed.

I neglected to mention, out of fear, that it wasn't raining outside. She continued talking.

"I have a gun in my upstairs bedroom. Sometimes I think about using it. Loading it with three bullets. One for you, one for me, and one for my pet goldfish who I named after Dennis the Menace, because I think he has a sort of mischevious exprssion on his face."

"No, Anabelle!" I said hurriedly. "It's not time yet. We should at least wait until the end of the month, shouldn't we? Suicide pacts should NEVER be carried out in the month of July. It's just bad luck."

"I suppose so," she sighed. "In that case, I think I'm going to go to my Laughing Place for a while. I don't know when I'll be back, but I think I should handcuff you to the bed and stick a rag in your mouth for good measure." She went on to do both of these things, without saying a word. The rag was disgusting and almost made me vomit, and she really shoved it far into my mouth, so far that I worried about choking.

After a moment she paused and said, "I really do love you, Christopher. Your underwear was delicious. Better than any I've ever had."

With that, she left. All of this occured in the first three hours of the aforementioned twenty six hours. She was gone for, I later figured out, around twenty three more hours. My stomach panged so painfully with hunger and my body hurt so profoundly that I thought about just swallowing the rag so that I could finally die and let it all be over with. But something kept me going.

I started drifting in and out of the darkness again, forgetting who I was, and all I could remember was Anabelle's terrible, ugly face. I did seriously consider letting myself choke on the rag, but in the end, I just didn't do it.

When she finally did come, I heard the car door slam loudly, and I awoke from my deep sleep. My stomach was stinging with hunger, my throat was dry and digusting, and my body hurt all over. I lay there in delirious fear as I listened to her throw open the front door and storm through the hallway toward my room.

She exploded through the bedroom door, marched up to me with a livid expression on her face, and tore the rag from my mouth.


I was sincerely puzzled. "Anabelle," I said. "Who is Misery Chastain?"

She paused and looked thoughtful. Evidently she had not considered this.

"I guess I don't know," she said finally. "But I'm still going to cut off your legs and left thumb, Mister Man."

I won't trouble you guys with the details, because I know that's not what you're here for. But I will tell you to imagine the most excruciating pain you've ever felt, multiply that by exactly six and a half bajillion, and then imagine that pain being administered to you by a young Kathy Bates. That, folks, is what I had to go through while Anabelle Walker lopped off my legs and left thumb with an axe.

After it was over and she left, I sat there, weeping and screaming at God. I had to get out of there, I thought desperately. One way or another, I was going to escape the clutches of Anabelle Walker. That, or die trying.


By the way, readers of The Nerd Archives, I'd like to remind the new readers of the blog to check out my other blog, Death is like a lemon, which can be found on the top of the page. I think you'll find it quite, how you say, enjoyable. I've recently written a poem series on the lake I stayed at this summer, so if you're into poetry, do check it out.

Also, everybody please look at the top of the right sidebar to notice 1) the homework assignment I've given all of my readers for this week which I expected EVERYONE to complete by next Monday and 2) my newest poll, which you should vote on promptly. If you'll look a little lower, you'll notice I changed my profile picture. I was aiming for sexy and mysterious, but ended up with something in between deeply disturbed and inexplicably furious. Don't make too much fun of me, okay?

That Blond Guy

Friday, July 22, 2011

Part 1 of 3 of a Post Dedicated to Simon, Which is What I've Named the Little Brown Mouse Living in My Bathtub

Well, I'm back. I had a wonderful time, but it really is a relief to be back home where my race car bed and all of my toys are. I had to go six days without my furby, because my mom made me leave it at home. First there was a lot of screaming and crying, and then there was just silence. I think the silence was the worst.

I bet you guys didn't even miss me. Don't try to deny it--I know you all hate me. I know you had a huge party together that I wasn't invited to. You probably talked about me too. Behind my back. I've heard you whispering. Plotting to steal something. Plotting to kill me in my sleep. DON'T TRY TO DENY IT!!!

I really did have a strange last few days. A day after I wrote the last post, I was driving around in the mountains of North Carolina in my maroon 1975 chevy camaro when all of a sudden the roads were starting to get very icy. The snow started to come down REALLY heavy so that I could hardly see. This was strange considering it was the middle of July, but these are the kinds of things that happen when you take as much acid as I do.

At one point I reached down for my stash of chocolate cigars, which I only dip into when I'm feeling really stressed out, and then before I know what's happening, the car is sliding off the road and then down is up and up is down and there's excruciating pain erupting all over my legs and I'm screaming but I can't even hear myself scream and then there's just darkness.

Absolute. Darkness.

I can't tell if minutes or hours or days or weeks past, but I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity. I never came out of the darkness, and I couldn't remember who I was or where I was.

When I did wake up, the first thing I noticed was the pain. My head rang with sharp pain, my arms were sore and stung terribly, I felt as if I had rocks sitting in the bottom of my stomach, and worst of all was the pain in my legs. Without even looking at them, I could tell that they were broken in numerous places. It was torturous. I looked down and saw that I was lying down in a single bed with a heavy quilt coming all the way up to my chin. I was in a small, modest bedroom with a single window and a single door.

The second thing that struck me was that the room was filled with hundreds pictures of ME. Posters, newspaper clippings, framed photographs. It shocked me so much that I wondered if I wasn't still dreaming, but the pain was real enough to convince me otherwise. There the pictures were, though, clear as day. Staring back at me.

Just before I was going to shout and find out what the hell was going on, the door opened and a woman bustled in, maybe in her late thirties, holding a tray with a bowl of soup and an apple. She was squat, with short brown hair and a square, plump face. She couldn't me any taller than 5'3, and she was almost as wide as she was tall. She was wearing a plain brown skirt and a white cardigan sweater. As she set eyes on me, her face instantly brightened and she offered me a big smile.

"Oh, you're awake! Well, it's about time. I was worried that I'd gone and let you reach the point of No Return, if you know what I mean. Here Christopher Kennedy, author of The Nerd Archives, literary genius, ends up on my very own driveway, sent by the Lord Almighty Himself, and I go on and let him die. And that couldn't happen, Christopher. It couldn't, because I'm your number-one fan."

I stared at her in confusion. "Where am I?" I croaked, surprised at how weak my voice was.

She smiled at me again. It was an unnerving, strange smile. "Why, you're in the very home of Anabelle Walker out in Cashiers, North Carolina."

I still didn't understand. "What happened?" I asked. "Why am I here?"

"What? You don't remember?" she said, setting down the tray on the bedside table and putting her hands on her hips. "Well, the roads were pretty icy, and you got in this big oogie car wreck. Thanks to God, I happened to be passing through, and I just happened to see you. Of course, I couldn't believe that Christopher Kennedy was on my street--I'm such a huge fan of your work--but I got you in my old Cherokee and to the house and got you warmed up and now you're just fine, aren't you?"

I squirmed by legs a little bit in answer, and pain shot through them like bolts. No, I was not fine. I was gonna fucking die, for God's sake, if I didn't get help soon. Also, a re-run of Dancing With the Stars was on that night, which I still hadn't recorded. I shivered as I thought about what would happen if I missed that episode.

"Anabelle, I need to get to a hospital very soon," I said desperately.

Her face darkened immediately. Her eyes went out of focus and it was if she was a walking zombie. There was a terrifying, dark emptiness behind her eyes that seriously scared me.

"No hospitals," she said absently but firmly. Then she brightened a bit and her eyes slid back into focus. "Besides! I'm a registered nurse. I'm taking great care of you. You get to eat a little something five times a day, and I've been giving you two of these pills every four hours to make all the pain go away."

She reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out a little canister with a sticky-note stuck on that read, "Anabelle's Happy Pillz." I could see even through the opaque, yellow plastic that it was filled with not pill capsules but small round pebbles. Which would have explained the pain in my stomach.

"Anabelle? Have you been giving those to me? Those aren't pills. Those are rocks!" I exclaimed.

"No, these are pills," she said. "See? Look at the label."

I decided not to argue. This bitch was clearly seriously crazy. I didn't want to mess with her. The consequences might be disastrous. Besides, I had just noticed something else I thought I might bring up.

"Anabelle, where are my clothes?" I asked, suddenly aware of my nakedness below the sheets.

"Healthy people wear clothes," she said mildly. "Sick people get to wear their birthday suits. Like little babies. Hear that, Christopher? You're my little baby."

As she leaned down to spoon-feed me the soup, I noticed by chance the thin white band sticking out of her plaid skirt. It was Calvin Klein.

"Anabelle," I asked slowly. "Are you wearing my underwear?"

She turned beet-red and straightened. She got the blank look in her eyes again.

"Healthy people wear clothes," she repeated absently. "Sick people wear their birthday suits."

She brightened again and smiled a little, bending down once more to feed me a mouthful of soup. (It was chicken noodle, and actually quite delicious.) "Have I mentioned I'm your biggest fan? I've read all of your material. Sometimes I stay up all night just reading and re-reading your posts. I just love them, Christopher."

"Yeah, I see the posters," I said delicately.

"Oh, you noticed them?" she said, as if there weren't half a million of them staring at me from every spot in the room. "I hope you like them. I never dreamed you were ever get to see them."

As she fed me my third spoonful of soup, my legs twinged painfully and my stomach wrenched horribly. Out of desperation, I whispered urgently, "Anabelle, I really need to go to a hospital."

Her face did not darken this time. She just smiled, sat down on the bed, and stroked my hair. "You're not going to go to a hospital. You're miles from even the nearest house. You're just going to stay here with me, my darling. Just you and me. Forever."

I stared at her face in terror as she leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"I love you," she said, and then left the room, leaving me alone with my stunned silence.

I laid there for minutes in horror and panic and dread, and then I pulled out a crossword puzzle, figuring that if I was going to be stuck, crippled, in the house of a total maniac for the next few months, I might as well keep my brain healthy.


That Blond Guy

Friday, July 15, 2011

Whenever I Have Trouble Going to Sleep, I Play Tapes of Children Crying, and Then I Miraculously Drift Off to Sleep

That's a true story. Now before you get the chance to digest that and become profoundly disturbed, I think I'll share a poem with you. It's a beat poem, really. Sort of a think piece, I guess you could say. In retrospect, it's about the human condition.

Ode to the Mildly Attractive College Student Who Played Briar Rose in an Amateur, Rock 'n Roll Rendition of Sleeping Beauty Performed At a Local Outdoor Theater

When you floated onto that stage like
A lilac riding a draft of autumn air
The humming spotlights ignited in your eyes
A moonlight blue, peering under a roof of
Thick and inky mascara, the expensive kind
As my eyes fell upon you and happened to suspend there
I felt a little something flutter in my stomach
Something bordering indigestion and half-hearted sexual interest
I did notice you could theoretically be described as attractive
Your eyes, sapphire stones, sparkled like a
Plastic cup full of flat sparkling water
Forgotten on a foldable lawn chair under the Mississippi sun
That is to say, they do not possess
An exceptional amount of sparkle
But, as sparkling eyes go, they
Are more sparkly than the average eyes
Your skin is sun-kissed and quite smooth
Like the bare, bald shins of a Columbian fisherman
Is that tan real? If so, I'm relatively impressed
All in all, I suppose you really are rather pretty
Your brief section in the Cast Biography pamphlet says
That you currently attend the University of Texas
That's interesting--my mother went there
Did I say my mother? I meant my ex-girlfriend
I'm not really the type of guy who talks about his mother a lot
I'm not really the type who talks about ex-girlfriends either
I just happen to find you attractive and
I guess I feel a little nervous--and bewildered to have found
Such a jewel of an actress in the glowing hills of West Texas
Yes, I have found the play to be entertaining so far
The jokes are a little weak and I suspect the plot
Was the result of a Monday morning acid trip
Involving the artistic consultation of an 8-year-old girl
The whole thing would be far more interesting if you
Performed without any clothes on
Perhaps lathered in peanut oil and French kissing
A hot brunette wearing a solid red bikini bottom
Although I suppose that would be rather misplaced
At a family establishment, especially this one
Well, finally, the play has ended
Everyone around me is leaving, swarming
Not unlike a colony of fire ants seeking refuge from
The icy water of a bright green garden hose
Alas, I alone must remain here in the theater
All this talk of peanut oil and French kissing has
Given me a massive erection
Looks like I might be here for a few extra minutes
Perhaps I will ask for your name, your phone number
See if you are busy this weekend
On second thought
Perhaps not.

I'm going to be gone for the next week. I've been invited to spend the next seven days hanging out at Elton John's flat in London, and I'll be unable to blog, considering I'll be so preoccupied experiencing all of the music and performing sexual favours for him.

While I'm gone, please read the post below this one if you haven't already, vote on my newest poll, and comment on this post promising to marry me. If you don't want to marry me, that's okay, I'll just hate you for the rest of my life.

Now here's a picture of Halle Berry in a bikini:

Didn't think I'd follow through with that, did you? Now you HAVE to keep reading my blog.

I'll miss you guys. Try not to accidentally eat your own heads while I'm gone, okay?

That Blond Guy

Friday, July 8, 2011

My Case Against Abstinence and a Photograph of a Demon Leprechaun

The fundies talk all the time about waiting until marriage to have sex. I think they're making a fair argument, and I can see where they're coming from. I've even considered it at many points in my life. But then I had this thought.

What if one day I meet the perfect woman. She's absolutely beautiful. She has gorgeous, feathery blonde hair that swoops and slides down to her shoulders, and it seems to radiate as though it were giving off sunlight. She has stunning blue eyes. They're icy, yet somehow they're warm. When I look into them, I could swear I'm looking into the eyes of some Ancient Greek goddess. She has flawless skin, a perfect form, and she's wearing clothes that are attractive--but without consciously being so. She's blonde, as I said, but she's also half-Jewish. Her name is French, which she also happens to be nearly fluent in, although she doesn't speak a word of Spanish. She's not an all-out vegetarian, but she refuses to eat any meat besides fish, chicken, or turkey. She's into both the classic rock scene--like the Beatles, the Stones, Pink Floyd, and Queen--as well as some indie rock and alternative, but mainly she loves music all around, and she's open to many different kinds of it. She's a fan of John Hughes and 80's movies in general, and she also enjoys the occasional horror movie, just as long as she has her man alongside her to hold onto when it gets scary. She's not a great cook, but what the hell? She's amazing in almost every way.

When it comes to sex, she says she wants to wait. You know, I think, I really don't mind. I've just met the perfect girl--why ruin my chances with her by insisting on it? So I wait. We go on to stay together for the next few months, and finally after half a year or so, I think, I'm ready to marry this girl. So I ask her to marry me, she giggles ecstatically, claps her hands, and says yes, and we get married. We have a modest wedding, but we invite a lot of family and close friends and, all in all, it goes perfectly.

We sneak off after the reception to our nice hotel room, which we booked for the night. It's late and we're both tired, but at the same time giggling and happy and excited. We get on the bed, and I help her out of the wedding dress. It's a difficult and bit of an awkward process, but we sort of turn it into foreplay. But finally I tug it off and we're both naked as newborn babies.

And she has a penis.

What then?

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I Just Bought a Pair of Ted Danson's Underpants on eBay for Just Under $15,000

Well, I'm actually relatively impressed. A majority of those who commented on the last post are indeed following Death is like a lemon. I'm so touched. In fact, a little tear just ran down my left cheek and fell to the ground, and a rose grew and then blossomed where it landed.

So the poll has finally come to a close. For those of you wondering, yes, the reason I posted that poll was because I have been becoming increasingly conscious of the unnatural amounts of hair growing all over my body. You have no idea how many hours I spend every week sobbing on the cold bathroom floor, an electric razor in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other.

It's gotten even worse in the past month or so. Maybe it's something I ate, or maybe the fact that I tried to cheat when I last played Jumanji. But it's gotten to be unbearable. I can't fit into any of my clothes, except for a pair of old gray sweatpants and an XXL t-shirt from Wal-Mart that reads "I PUT KETCHUP ON MY KETCHUP." I'm constantly burning hot and insufferably itchy, what with this thick layer of blonde hair covering my body. It takes me a full hour to comb my hair in the mornings, considering it's all over me. Worst of all, I haven't had sex in three weeks, largely because NO ONE CAN FIND MY PENIS.

It was getting harder and harder to hide as well. At first I thought I could just hang out in my house all day and never leave. I could do all of my shopping in the dead of night, or even pay someone to do it for me. But after several weeks of all of the isolation, I became desperate for human interaction.

Since it was the middle of the summer and blisteringly hot, I decided--what better way to meet some people and to relieve myself of the pain of this thick, heavy hair then to go to the beach?

I went heavily cloaked and with sunglasses and a big hat, so that nobody could see what I looked like. I couldn't possibly survive the embarrassment. The beach was pretty crowded, but I couldn't stand not to get into the water. Finally, I slunk as inconspicuously as possible through the herds of bathing suit-clad men and women and children and dived into the water. As I surged further and further into the water, I ran into less and less swimmers, so I shed my cloak and hat until it was just me and my fur and my Wal-Mart t-shirt. I swam deeper and deeper and further into the ocean and it was then that I realised I could breathe underwater.

There I was, nine or ten feet underwater and at least 25 meters from the shore, when I saw a solitary swimmer splashing somewhere above me--a girl, maybe a surfer, somewhere in her late teens. I didn't think much of it at first, but then there awoke inside me a feeling of ravenous hunger and overwhelming desire. Before I realised what I was doing, I was at the surface of the water up there with her, gnashing my teeth and growling noisily. When I came to my senses, I looked in the water around me and saw that it was a deep scarlet, and then there were a number of mutilated body parts floating freely on the surface. Horrified, I thought I should go get help as quickly as possible.

I swam breathlessly to the shore and started shouting that something had happened to the swimmer back there, perhaps a shark attack or something terrible like that. Then there was a woman screaming and pointing at me. In a matter of seconds, the whole beach was in a panic, everyone running out of the water and pointing at me and screaming.

I nodded. "Yes, yes, I know I'm rather hairy, but you don't understand. There's a girl back there who is dead! Something happened to her!"

A little boy of eight or nine yelled at me, "You ate my sister, you fucking sasquatch!"

I shook my head, filled with horror. "What? No I didn't."

"Then why is her blood smeared all over your face?" another woman demanded.

"That's not blood. That's ketchup!" I said, grinning weakly and motioning helplessly to my t-shirt. "See? Ketchup."

They all ran away, though, until I was the only one left on the beach. I heard men shouting in the distance and the sound of gunshots, so I decided to make a quick get-away. First, though, I waded back to that spot in the water and ate the rest of the body parts I found floating on the surface. I felt guilty and embarrassed, but I continued eating anyway.

I've had to spend the rest of my days in hiding, scavenging in dumpsters for food. I sleep during the day and travel during the night alongside the highway, dropping to the ground and holding my breath every time a car goes by. I have to be careful--I've seen the search parties hunting for me all day and all night long.

It's a hard life, and often I wonder what keeps me going. I guess it's just the hope that one day I might find a beautiful princess who will kiss me and turn me into a handsome prince. And even if I don't turn into a handsome prince, maybe she'll love me anyway. It'd be nice to have a wife to pick all of the bugs from my fur and eat them, and maybe bear me some hairy babies too. So I guess what I'm saying is that, at this point, I'm willing to sleep with a monkey to escape all of this pain. It's been a hard month.

Today has been a pretty good day, though. Since my dad is pretty good friends with an artist named Joel Barr, he went with my brother and me to see his studio and poke around for a bit. Afterward, we went to a little contemporary art museum and looked at all of the stuff there. We then went to Urban Plate for lunch, which was my first time there. You know what else? I hated it. If I'd wanted to eat all those vegetables, I'd be a rabbit.

I had a doctor's appointment today too. I'm in perfect shape, and in fact, they think I might even be superhuman. I tell you, doctors are getting more and more nosy these days. They ask you all sorts of personal questions.

"Personally, Christopher, I don't think it's healthy for teenagers to have sex when not in a serious, committed relationship. By the way, are you having sex? Is it good sex? What kind of sex is it? If you could use three adjectives to describe your last sexual experience, what would it be? What's the name of the last girl you had sex with? Is she attractive? Were you satisfied by her performance? Do you think she was satisfied with yours?"

Tonight, I watched Dan in Real Life for the first time ever, starring Steve Carrell with a great soundtrack of Sondre Lerche. For those of you who haven't seen it but enjoy sentimental albeit fun and light romance family films, then I definitely suggest you watch it. One of my favourite movies of the summer so far.

I think maybe one of the most raw and simple, yet somehow most satisfying and fulfilling, happiness that exists in this world is that when you watch a predictable, yet well-done, romantic comedy that has a great script and cast, but ends just how you think it should end.

I might add as a side note that, contrary to popular belief of readers on this blog, I am NOT gay. Wondering how that's possible? So am I.

I also had a lot of spare time today, so I sat down and surprised myself by reading every single word from the blog The Story, a blog written by a blogging team which features an ongoing narrative following a character named Bo and his wild, nonsensical, drug-induced adventures. They alternate who adds on to the story and then leaves it abruptly for the next member to continue.

They are almost--almost--as insane as I am, and it is hilarious and amazing and awe-inspiring to read that blog and see what happens to the story. The next time you have any free time at all, I suggest you sit down to it and start from the beginning with a bag of chocolate pretzles in one hand and a Diet Pepsi in the other. Actually, I read most of it with a hand down my pants, because it's just that amazing. I also suggest you read some of the comments, which are breath-takingly hysterical and perhaps the best part of the whole experience.

Bonne nuit, mes pr├ęcieuses, petits concombres.

That Blond Guy

Sunday, July 3, 2011

I Drove My Chevy to the Levy and THE LEVY WAS GONE!!!

I believe this is going to be my first ever picture post. If only Abraham Lincoln was alive to see me today, he would be so proud. I don't know what Abraham Lincoln has to do with picture posts, but I think it would be pretty cool if he was alive. Because of the, you know, beard.

Speaking of Abraham Lincoln, no, I am not going to post anything today or tomorrow about the 4th of the July. On accounts of me being a Communist, I'm not big on all of that patriotism business. The only fireworks I'm interested in is the song by Katy Perry.

I never really post pictures because most times my face ends up looking something like this:

I'll make an exception, though, because New Orleans is such a fantastic city and a lot of my experience of it was very visual as opposed to something I can communicate verbally, namely all of the topless women I saw at the night clubs.

And please, click on any of the pictures for better quality. After you're done, click on the swimming fish on the sidebar. It's been months since anyone has fed them, and they are considerably mal-nourished.

Our trip to New Orleans was amazing. We left Texas about two weeks into our trip to meet up with the rest of the mission group from our Church, consisting mainly of the Youth Group. We had to miss part of a family reunion, but I didn't mind, because sentiment makes me queasy. Although the camp we were staying at did have donkeys and chickens and carrier pigeons and ducks and horses and a pig and this adorable little fawn who I called Kiwi.

I just called most of the donkeys "Donkey."

That was also the week I got my first motorcycle ride. Nope, there are no pictures of me on the motorcycle. But don't think for a moment we didn't get some great shots of my brother, sister, cousin and me grinning uncomfortably and standing beside the motorcycle!!!

Yep, we're triplets. In case you can't tell. I'm the blonde one on the right, with the awesome hair. My brother is the one to my left, with the sandle tan.

But back to the city of New Orleans, the first night the whole group arrived, we didn't have time to start working on houses, so we went to a worship service at St. Anna's Episcopal. It's a pretty standard Episcopal Church, except for three things. The first is The Murder Wall, which you can read about on the site. The second is that it has more Catholic influence than the average Episcopal church, which I won't go into because only Catholics and Anglicans would understand. The third is that instead of just normal hymns, it has a band of jazz musicians which it hired after Katrina. Wait--did I say jazz musicians? I meant PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME JAZZ MUSICIANS.

...Okay, they may not look that awesome from this picture, but you should have seen them live. I almost died from happiness, but not without jizzing my pants first. Hurricane Katrina ruined some of their careers, but the fire was still there. And it was spectacular music. They had so much personality. The guy on the piano did this hilarious gag where he would take all his clothes off, that was pretty much it. He just took his clothes off. Which was kind of weird. Maybe that's why all those policemen were there.

We spent the nights at the University of New Orleans in one of the college dorms which happened to be specialised for the handicapped students at the University. It actually looked like a pretty standard college dorm, but they had a seat in the shower so you could sit down while you were taking a shower. Which I think is pretty hot.

Our group split into two groups of 14 the next morning when we were getting ready to work. We had two separate buses, which felt pretty pimpin' to roll around in all day. The city is improving, so some parts look completely normal, but other parts don't look so great. The house I was working on was somewhere around the Garden District.

All of the work we did was painting and scraping paint. It doesn't sound that hard, but I don't want to hear your opinion unless you also have spent six hours scraping paint of a wall under the hot sun in 105 degree weather with pneumonia. Well, I didn't have pneumonia, but if you did, I'd like to hear your take on the experience.

We called the guy we were working for Mr. John. He was pretty awesome, because he was nice and he brought us jumbolaya and watermelon, but I think there's another side to him. Here's a picture of his kitchen. Notice next to the sink there's a lead pipe, hanging loose. With bloodstains on it.

Anyway, I ain't askin' no questions. Mr. John's a nice guy, by and by.

It was tough work, though. Occasionally, some of us would strain ourselves a bit too hard, perhaps get dehydrated, and we'd lose them to the heat.

There I am to the right, thinking, "That's what you get for sitting under a ladder, tough guy." If you'll notice, I'm smirking a little.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha just kidding nobody died I'm so hilarious. That's actually a kid who I felt really bad for because he could literally fall asleep anywhere. He was also my roommate. One time I went into the room right before dinner and found him out cold on the bed already. I got all of the guys from our group to crowd into the room and watch him. Then we got some food and started piling it up on top of him and into his mouth. We put two pieces of pie into his hands. Then we crept out of the room, shut the door as quietly as possible, and then banged on it as hard as we could. We opened the door a second later and he was sitting there, befuddled. All he said was, "What's going on, guys? What's happening?"

One of the ways I kept myself entertained on the work site was by telling the guys on the team to punch me as hard as they could anywhere they wanted. (I was pretty delirious. I was pretty positive I was Tyler Durdon.) I had to ask them twice sometimes, but I was surprised by how many complied.

This guy punched me right in the chest--on my sternum--and you can see I just flew back a couple of feet. I got my breath back and said, "You punched me in the chest! That can kill!" He shrugged and grinned a mischevious grin, then pulled out a little fiddle, fiddled a little tune, and ran off into the distance, cackling madly.

Yes, for those of you wondering, we did go on Bourbon Street. I didn't get any pictures, because my mom had the camera and didn't set foot on Bourbon Street. I will say, though, that all of the teenage guys in our group went, accompanied by our two middle-aged, female priests. Before we entered Bourbon Street, I told everyone to wait for me while I ran into the restroom at this itty bitty diner. I had to pay for a drink from the soda fountain, go through the kitchen, go through the back room, go out the back door, through an alley way, and through a band of smoking thugs to find the little bathroom. No joke. And when I returned, everyone had ditched me except for one of the priests.

So I spent my first ten minutes of Bourbon Street awkwardly walking along the sidewalk with a large Sprite on tow, alongside a squat, fifty-something Episcopal priest.

Bourbon Street was pretty amazing. We went at 10 or 11, so everything was lit up, music was booming, and naked women were dancing in the doorways. Like I said, I didn't take any pictures, but here's what the street looks like:


This is what Google Images has to say about it:

Yeah, it was certainly a relief when we caught up to the other guys. And it was even more of a relief when we ditched the priests when at a t-shirt store which had sexual and drug puns on the t-shirts they didn't understand, so there was no moral conflict.

At one point a guy walked up to us who was clearly very high. He looked at all of us high schoolers and said, "What is this--fuckin' iCarly?" We started to walk away and he said, "No no wait. You guys wanna buy some fake pot?"

After half an hour or so of popping in and out of little shops and night clubs, we decided that it was time to get ourselves some prostitutes. We coughed up all of our money, which amounted to about $200, and we decided we could either buy a really cheap, unclean street hooker for each of us...or we could buy one really nice one who would screw one of us while the rest watched. We, of course, decided on the latter.

Unlike the gang of lustful teenage guys I was traveling around with, I actually walked around the French quarter with a purpose. I had unintentionally insulted this girl who I'm kind of interested in from my Youth Group by asking her to slice my grilled chicken salad and then after a minute or two of watching her clapping my hands twice and telling her to "Hurry up with it, bitch." I set out to the French quarter with the purpose of finding her an affordable but nice little gift to make her un-mad at me, but unfortunately we spent most of our time at Bourbon Street, so most of shops just had t-shirts like this one or Scooby-Do-themed bongs.

I finally settled on a reasonably nice New Orleans snowglobe. I knocked on her door after we got back to the dorms and gave it to her, apologised for my sexist behavior, and asked her to marry me. She giggled, thanked me, and slammed the door in my face.

All in all, New Orleans was a fantastic experience. We genuinely helped people who were eternally thankful for it, we ate a lot of red beans and rice, and we listened to jazz music.

I know this has been a long post. I'm sorry. I'd just like to conclude by reminding you to vote on my old poll if you haven't already, and by mentioning my other blog, recently renamed, Death is like a lemon. I would be SO grateful if you commented and followed. In fact, I will literally write you a love letter and send it to you if you follow that blog. I promise.

Also, here is a picture of me as a four-year-old!

Awwwww...maybe I should make that my profile picture. Cheer up, little man! You haven't even been through the worst of your childhood yet!

That Blond Guy