Friday, April 29, 2011

As I Bit Into the Sweet Nectarine, I Appreciated its Crisp Juiciness--Until I Realized It Was Not in Fact a Nectarine--But a HUMAN HEAD!!!

Thank you, Jack Handy. If I actually had any friends, we would stay up all night in a fort we made out of bedsheets, reading his jokes late into the night with a flashlight. We'd laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. We would laugh until tears came to our eyes. Then my friend would say, "I'm bored. Do you want to play doctor?" And I'd say, "But I like doing this!" And he' say, "Too bad. We're playing doctor. I'm the doctor and you're the patient. Drop your pants!" And I'd shout out and run to the hallway bathroom and lock the door and he'd be chasing me all the way there, screaming, "You have to do what the doctor tells you! Let me see your penis!" And I'd jump inside the bathtub, hide my head in my hands, and cry softly. And he would keep shouting that same thing over and over again. Then all of a sudden it would get real quiet. I would be so petrified I would hold my breath. I would wait for fifteen minutes, absolutely silent, waiting for him to make a sound. After those fifteen minutes, I would tiptoe to the bathroom door, take a deep breath, and yank the door open. There, standing in the middle of the hallway with a top hat and red scarf, would be a snow man, slowly melting on the hard wood floor. His mouth, made of raisins, twisted into an eerie smile.

I know some of you guys have been telling me that all of my posts have been total bullshit lately. I'll have you know that all of my posts are based on a kernel of truth. So each and every one of my posts is like a giant piece of popcorn--salted, heavily buttered, and white like the luscious belly of an albino baby elephant. But if you nibble away at it like a little hamster or bunny rabbit, then you'll eventually discover the kernel. And it will get stuck in your teeth for a few hours, and when you do finally swallow it, it will go down into your stomach and grow into a watermelon.

But even so, I thought I might surprise you all with a totally true story about something that happened to me last week, just to give you a nice break from all of my posts that sound like acid trips I had while listening to the Beatles album Revolver. And I don't think you'll mind either, because this story is so insane it's going to sound like a lie.

Last week I was driving around downtown looking for a place to eat. I had been spending the whole day with this girl I met at Barnes & Noble who was nested in one of those big red armchairs reading a book by Neil Gaiman. I told her that I love his work, we talked for a while, and after lots of crooning noises and avoidance of sudden movements on my part, I finally convinced her to go get coffee with me. Turns out she goes to the same school as one of my best friends.

We had fun, and we spent a lot of the day wandering around Piedmont Park, but after a while she had to leave because her aunt, as it happens, was having a baby. We exchanged numbers and the whole deal, but I was left alone for dinner considering I have no friends and I couldn't go home because my mom's book club was there and they always want to do weird stuff like talk to me and ask how I am.

So there I was, driving around looking for perhaps a Panera Bread or Panda Express. It had been pretty cloudy and dismal for the entire day, and there was the sort of icy, ghostly mist hanging in the air that you get on those kinds of days. It was around that time, though, that it started raining. Like, really hard. Cracks of lightning and the earth-shaking thunder too. The whole deal. It got to the point that I didn't want to be driving in the middle of the city in that weather, so I pulled off into a sort of subdivision where I could just cruise around slowly until the worst of it passed over.

I could hardly see the road ahead of me as I drove on. The rain was pounding onto the roof of the car so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I don't see how it was possible, then, but I saw a little kid walking down the sidewalk with his head pointed to the ground.

It took every ounce of willpower in my body to do it, but I slowed down and rolled down the window, flinching as the rain flooded in onto the passenger seat. But I noticed then that the kid was sobbing and that he didn't have a rain coat or anything, so I decided I had no choice. Plus, he couldn't have been seven-years-old.

"Hey, kid!" I shouted out. "Need a ride?"

He was white, and like I said before--he didn't have an umbrella or rain coats or one of those ridiculous ponchos that my mom, at least, used to make me wear when I was that age. I could practically see the words "stranger danger" forming on his lips, but after a minute of standing there and gaping at me like an old donkey, he nodded his head. I reached over and pushed open the door, and he hopped in.

After he shut the door and I rolled up the window, I started driving again. Fortunately, the rain was starting to let up just a bit by that time.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Kevin," he said in this tiny, barely audible voice.

"Kevin. That's a good name. I'm Christopher," I said. "How come you were wandering out in the rain like that? Where are your parents?"

"Vienna," he said.

It took me a while to process the word. After a few moments I finally spoke.

"Vienna?" I asked. "So who are you staying with?"

"Nobody," he said calmly, looking out the window.

I couldn't believe it.

"What do you mean you're not staying with anybody?!" I asked with incredulity. "Your parents just left you in your house alone?"

"We don't have a house," he said.

This was getting worse and worse. Firstly, what was the deal with this kid? Secondly, what the hell was I going to do with him?

"So you're in Atlanta alone? With no grown-ups?" I asked.

He was a silent for a moment. Then he said, "There are no grown-ups."

I was sort of freaking out, but I tried to keep it together so I didn't freak out the kid as well. I glanced sideways at him and then said in a voice as calm as I could manage, "Okay, are you hungry?" It sounded pathetic, but it was all I could think of.

He paused. Then:


"Okay, is it too late for pancakes? No, it's never too late for pancakes. Let's stop by Waffle House and grab something to eat for dinner. Then after that, we'll...we'll...we'll figure out what to do then. Is that okay, Kevin?"

"My name's not Kevin," he said, turning away from the window to look at me.

"What?" I asked, glancing at him. "You said your name was Kevin."

"No," he said with a sigh, turning back to the window. "It's Toby."

I was confused.

"Oh," I said, unsure of whether or not he was joking. "Okay, Toby. Do pancakes sound okay?"

"I don't know," he said. "Let's ask Kevin."

With that, he turns to look in the back seat and is silent for a moment. Then he nods his head, swivels back around, and says, "Kevin says pancakes sound good."

Considerably freaked out, I drove the rest of the way to Waffle House in the drizzling rain. We sat in silence, the kid looking out the window and sniffling for the duration of the ride. When we got there, we walked into a Waffle House that was more or less deserted and found a booth near the back. I told him to sit down and not move a muscle--that I was just going to run the bathroom and be back in a minute.

I jogged to the bathroom and locked the door behind me as I entered. I looked at myself in the mirror in exasperation, running my hands through my hair again as I always do whenever I'm stressed out. I even thought about calling my mom or dad, but then I decided against it. Instead I just splashed some cold water in my face and thought about what do do.

Go to the police, I thought. That's all there is left to do.

With my mind made up, I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked back towards our booth. What I saw there nearly gave me a heart attack.

The boy was nowhere to be seen. The booth was empty.

Empty except for a large, buckeye hen perched motionlessly on the table. I gazed at it in horror. It cocked its head to the right and clucked twice.

"Toby?" I said, terrified.

The hen stared at me with its beedy black eyes.

"Kevin?" I tried.

It clucked three times and then cock-a-doodle-dooed.

Without a second thought, I scooped it up into my arms and rushed out of the restaurant, ignoring the stares of the other customers as I sprinted past them. I ran to the car, pulled open the trunk, tossed it in, and shut the door as quickly as possible. I hopped into the car and drove away, trying to the best of my ability to ignore the clucks of the hen that was flipping out in the trunk of my car.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in the waiting room at the nearest police station, clutching the hen to my chest and staring resolutely at the wall opposite me. I waited for probably half an hour, sitting there with the hen in my arms as the police lady behind the desk signed papers and made phone calls and gave me uncomfortable looks.

I had started to doze off when I felt a hand clap onto my shoulder.

"That's a nice-looking chicken you got there," a man said.

"TOM HANKS?!" I shouted. And it was. He sat in the seat beside me, wearing a pair of nice jeans and a checkered button-up.

"Yup, it's me all right," said Tom Hanks. "So what crime is the chicken guilty of?"

"Well," I said with a laugh. "I'm not taking it here to arrest it. It's a long story, really. It all started earlier today when..."

"Forget about the goddamn chicken," said Tom Hanks. "Do you like outer space?"

"Do I!" I exclaimed.

Before I hardly knew what had happened, we were getting suited up in orange astronaut jump suits. Man, were those things cool or what! The helmets were just like in the movies--like big old fish bowls. Speaking of fish bowls, did I mention Aqua-Man was there too? Yeah, he was. That guy is such a joker. Did you know he's Jewish?

After we had left the atmosphere, Tom Hanks surprised me by letting me take the wheel.

"Just make sure to watch out for babies," he said very seriously. "There are a lot of those floating around out here. And you don't want to get caught having run over a baby with your space ship. Very embarrassing ordeal."

"Sure thing," I said as I took hold of the wheel, not even bothering to suppress my smile. I dodged not only babies but also astroids and balls of space fire and hovering road signs like in the movie Space Jam. He even let me fly at light speed, which was fun, but I had to stop after a while because it gave me indigestion.

"Look out!" my stunningly beautiful monkey assistant named Angela yelled at one point. "A space alien monster!"

Sure enough, there was an enormous polar bear-tiger-shark hybrid space alien bigger than the planet Jupiter coming right at us.

"Quick!" Tom Hanks said. "Press the big red button to the right of the steering wheel!"

So I pressed it, and the space alien monster exploded into little pieces.

"Nice shot!" he said, patting me on the back.

"Oh, Christopher," Angela said seductively, caressing my face with her monkey foot as she said so. "You're so amazing and attractive and brave."

"All in a day's work," I said modestly. And then we kissed, but soon Tarzan showed up and asked me what the hell I was doing landing a big smooch on his smokin' hot monkey wife. I told him I didn't mean nothing by it. But then he challenged me to a show-down. So of course I had to accept.

And then we were at the fight and the whole Universe was invited because it was such an important fight and we were in a giant wrestling cage. As it turned out, it was a sumo-wrestling match. And whoever won would win both Angela's love and the entire Universe to rule over as emperor.

At that point I realised it was not in fact Tarzan I was wrestling but a two-headed lizard man, kinda like one of the bad aliens from Men in Black 2 except it had two heads. Which was cool, but it would only make it harder to wrestle him because one head could try to bite me while the other could whisper insults in my ear.

So a second after the alien referee blew the whistle to begin the match, I whipped a lazer gun out of my sumo wrestling pants and vaporised the two-headed lizard man into a pile of dust. The crowd, which consisted of all of the Universe, cheered and cheered as I kissed my new monkey bride, Angela, and was crowned as Emperor of the Universe. Don't worry, Tom Hanks caught up with me later and I thanked him for giving me the ride in his space ship.

That, more or less, was my story. Like I said, no more spilling out nonsense on this blog. I know how that annoys you guys. From now on I'm Mister Honest. No longer am I the boy who cried wolf. No I'm the boy who made the wolf cry because he was just so honest. Honesty. That's me. Honest Abe. Oh yeah, did I tell you my name is Abe?

That Blond Guy

Thursday, April 21, 2011

I Find the Whole Idea of Ice Cubes Overwhelmingly, Maddeningly Erotic

Ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ice cube ICE CUBE ICE CUBE ICE CUBE!!!! OH GOD!!!!



I really needed that.

In other news, I think all of you will be absolutely delighted to know that I found out the name of the song and artist played at the dance concert last Wednesday. This comes as an extraordinary relief to me, as I haven't slept for the eight days since I first heard the song. I had become agitated and irritable. I couldn't eat without feeling sick, and eventually I became entirely unresponsive. I fell into a coma. The doctors had to track down the song and play it on one of the nurse's iPod nanos to recall me from my coma. Then Helen Mirren had to give me a lap dance. Some time after that, I awoke as though from a deep hibernation and jumped up immediately to write this post.

If there's anything I find more attractive to me than a strong-willed, independent woman who's not afraid to speak her mind, then it's British pop singers. Lily Allen, Kate Nash, and Natasha Bedingfield being prime examples, female singers/songwriters of Great Britain seem to inhabit a certain place in my heart reserved for only true loves. (Although they have to squeeze in there with half of the Glee cast, Anna Paquin, and Iggy Pop.) Newest and most celebrated member of this list is Florence Welsh of Florence + the Machine. The song played by her at the dance concert was, in fact, The Dog Days Are Over.

I've also loved her songs Heavy In Your Arms and Kiss with a Fist. (Regarding the last one, yeah, Florence, don't think I didn't catch that momentary glimpse of red flash across the screen at 1:52. Don't think I didn't pause it either. And don't think I didn't stare at it for 30 minutes as I drooled and moaned quietly. And don't think I didn't also...nevermind. Yeah, I was about to take it way too far.)

But even when you look beyond her preposterously seductive accent, body, and disposition; she is a very interesting person. She was studying to become an art student before she started recording, and her music is genuinely interesting. There seems to be something more significant to her than just the bizarreness, which is more than I can say for Lady Gaga, Bjork, or Marilyn Manson. Or myself, for that matter, when I have my weekly, spiritually-cleansing rituals in a bathtub full of honey as I chant poems by Shel Silverstein in Latin and drink goat milk from a coconut shell.

If, for some stupid reason, you chose not to click on my link and listen to the song The Dog Days Are Over, then I'd just like to put it out there that you clearly have issues. Serious issues. You need to get your fool ass to the doctor and get yoself inspected, because somethin' is clearly wrong witchoo. Please listen to the song if you haven't already. It made me cry twinkling tears of bitter memories that exploded into the air like shards of glass as they kissed the ground. It made my heart choke with sparkling sentiment like an overdose of an over-the-counter cold medicine and at the same time open up like a flower blossoming in the spring breeze. Every time I listen to that song, I can't help but make love with the nearest woman in sight, even if it's Doris Roberts.

Have you noticed that one of the apparent trends of this past decade and this one is the tendency to combine a number of curse words into one enormous, compound curse word? It's no longer satisfactory to call someone a "bitch" or an "asshole" or a "bastard." If you really want to strike a nerve, you need to call them a "bitch-ass-punk-face." Or a "motherfucker-ass-bitch." Maybe it's just because I've been hanging out with so many Hispanic gangsters from the projects lately, but has anyone else noticed this?

Another thing: the word "rape" seems to have become a very common slang term in the English language. And it's not just teenage guys. You hear ten-year-olds saying things like, "Man, I really raped that pop quiz on the 50 states. How'd you do?" And the really innocent teenage Christian girls in SADD and the pep club are making comments like, "Hey, Susie, awesome job at that volleyball game last Thursday. You totally raped that serve." Even my math teacher stood up at the front of the class last week and said, "Class, I'm sure all of you will be happy to know that you every single one of you raped the math test like week. Everyone got an A or a B."

Isn't anyone considering the citizens of our society today who have been sexually abused and permanently scarred as a consequence? Who's looking out for the cheerleader who had a few too many Roman cokes at a party and woke up with the host's 36-year-old cousin Vinnie petting her hair and telling her that when the baby comes, he wants to name it Nicholas? For the attractive, half-Jamaican cashier at Walmart whose irrational fear of bald people failed to convince her out of agreeing to a candle-lit dinner in one of her customer's basements? For Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side if the movie turned out how I thought it would turn out? So think about that next time you feel obliged to use the line, "Man, I totally raped that game of internet solitaire."

Well, this week has been Holy Week, (making me feel guilty for the majority of this post.) On Thursday I went to the Maunday Thursday service at 7 and then the Vigil at 11:30 to 12:30 PM, where I reached enlightenment but then forgot about it because I was so sleepy. On Friday I went to the Good Friday service, where I munched on rice crispy treats in the back row as the rest of the congregation hid their smart phones behind the prayer books and texted or watched episodes of Burn Notice on Hulu. Today is Holy Saturday, my dad's birthday, Shakespeare's birthday, the date of Shakespeare's death, my half-birthday, Weird Al Yankovic's half-birthday, and my friend's younger brother's half-birthday. Tomorrow is Easter!!! On Easter morning I will wake up at 5 AM to acolyte at the 6 AM service. Fortunately for me, I don't have to actually wake up because I don't sleep during the night. Because I'm a vampire. Rawrr.

You know what all of you should do? You should make video blogs! There I made mine like a few months ago and it was awful but I thought, you know, at least I got it done. But nobody followed suit and now I just feel embarrassed!

Q: What's the difference between grocery bags and Michael Jackson?

A: One is plastic and dangerous for children and the other you use to carry groceries.

Here's another one:

Q: How many straight San Fransiscans does it take to change a light bulb?

A: All three of them.

Well, I better go now. I'm off to space for like the third time this weekend to battle space aliens for NASA. I don't know what they'd do without me.

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Lorenze and the Very Wise, Talking Goldfish

Once there was a dragon named Lorenze. Lorenze was a very good dragon who always brushed his teeth and held the door for other dragons, but Lorenza also had a problem. He ate too many jelly beans. Far, far, FAR too many jelly beans. Lorenze ate jelly beans until he felt sick, so he would sit in his bed all day clutching his aching tummy and moaning, "Owwwwww....."

Lorenze's dragon sister, Sister; his dragon father, Papa; and his dragon mother, Mama; were all very concerned about him. They would knock on his door and ask him to play dragon board games with them, but he would not open the door because he was always inside eating jelly beans. After a certain point, he did not even come down to breakfast or dinner because he was in his room eating jelly beans. For this reason, he soon got very fat and turned the colour of his favourite jelly bean flavour, root bear mango.

Because he had turned the colour of root-beer-mango-flavoured jelly beans and because he had gotten so fat, his family began to suspect that he was eating too many jelly beans. This was a problem, they decided at a family meeting. (Lorenze did not attend this family meeting, because he was in his room eating jelly beans.)

"He is simply eating too many jelly beans," Papa had complained with a sigh. "There aren't enough left for the rest of us!"

Furthermore, Lorenze became a different person when he ate his jelly beans. His grades were slowly dropping, he became nervous and agitated, and he suffered from severe mood swings. Worst of all was his health. He would emerge from his room, where he had been eating jelly beans, with red eyes. His root bear mango dragon scales were turning gray and flaking, and he had shadows under his eyes. He never seemed to have as much energy as he used to, especially because of all of the weight he was putting on.

Lorenze was become violent. His family considered themselves lucky if he arrived late from school and showed himself to his room without a word. Most times, however, they were not lucky. He would burst through the front door late at night and stumble into the dark house, usually clutching a fistful of jelly beans. Oftentimes he would smash plates and other china against the wall because he liked the noise. Most nights he would abuse his family members, both physically and verbally, usually bursting into tears after he did so. He would then fall to sleep, and Sister was soon given the task of dragging him back to his bedroom as he snoozed. She had also learned to place a bowl-full of her own jelly beans in clear sight, so that they would not bother them when he woke.

Finally, Lorenze awoke one morning to a mysteriously quiet house. He did not notice it was quiet, however, for he had a very bad heache and was also very hungry for jelly beans, even though it was early in the morning and much too soon to be eating jelly beans. He fumbled around his room in search of jelly beans, crying softly as he did so in the semi-darkness. Soon he found a couple of jelly beans under the bed and several more stuck to his pajamas, so he sat down criss-cross-applesauce to enjoy his feast, drying his eyes with the back of his paw and a small smile playing on his lips. It was only after he finished the jelly beans that he noticed the strange quietness.

"Where is my dragon family?" he wondered. "Perhaps they are in the kitchen, waiting to surprise me with more jelly beans."

But when he wandered into the kitchen, there was only a note taped to the pantry door. He waddled curiously over to it and plucked it off with a fleshy paw. It read as follows:

Lorenze: Out shopping for rain boots.
Will be gone for the rest of forever.
Please do not look for us.
With love,
-Your family

This note worried Lorenze. He was especially perturbed by the fact that they were not planning to return for the "rest of forever." Who would buy him jelly beans? he wandered with a sort of dull horror. He tugged open the pantry door and his heart sank as he saw that it was empty except for a single jelly bean, which was strawberry-marmalade-flavoured. He thought perhaps he should save it for later, but before he made up his mind he felt himself swallow it. He was not even aware that he had eaten the jelly bean.

Before he knew it, Lorenze was traveling door-to-door all throughout the neighborhood, asking for jelly beans.

"Do you have any jelly beans?" he would ask.

"No," they would reply. "You are much too fat anyway. You should not be eating anymore jelly beans."

"That's not true!" Lorenze would shout as tears stung his eyes. "And I know you have jelly beans in there! I can tell by the smug little look on your face. Let me in there or I'll...I'll...I'll eat you!"

They shut the door in his face and he remained there on the front porch, banging on the door and screaming that he would eat them until his throat would no longer allow it. He eventually left the porch, grudgingly, and disappeared into the woods behind the house. For days he remained there, like an animal, waiting for the family to leave the house so he could attack them and force them to relinquish their jelly beans. During the days he would scrounge for food. During the nights he would creep to the house and look in through the windows, calling to them softly and scratching the glass with one long claw.

After several days of this thoughtless repitition, Lorenze felt wretched. His stomach burned with hunger, his limbs ached from exhaustion, and a curiously discoloured fungus was growing on his elbow. More than ever before, jelly beans haunted his thoughts. They mocked him in his dreams and sneered at him in all of his waking thoughts. They danced around him, cackling madly. He would try to get up and catch them, but he was too tired and slow, and so they would laugh all the more.

One day he was stopping by a pond in the woods for a drink of water. He leaned over the water and was surprised to see his reflection staring back at him. He was horrified to see how different he had become. His yellowish-golden body was tiny and thin. His fins shivered in the water, his mouth was tiny and round, and his eyelids were both missing. His reflection called his name softly from beneath the surface.


It was then that he realised it was not his own reflection but indeed a tiny goldfish, floating mesmerisingly underneath the shimmering ripples.

With eager delight, he scooped it up with one enormous paw and into his mouth. He felt it slip down his sore throat and down into his empty belly.

Fleetingly, remorse shot through his veins. Remorse for taking the life of this poor fish, remorse for abusing a family that had loved him, and remorse for his old life. Most of all, remorse for the taste of jelly beans.

And so Lorenze sat there by the silvery water, the bitter wind chilling his scales and the clouds dancing above him in the sky.

And Lorenze thought of jelly beans.

That Blond Guy

Sunday, April 17, 2011

We're All Just a Bunch of Monkeys in Suits Flying Around in a Peanut Butter Spaceship

That's one of the most notable lyrics from my band's newest album, 1000 Reasons Why Never to Date a Norwegian. It's somewhat autobiographical, but mostly all of us just really hate Norwegians. That's why our band name is "Norwegians Are for Eating."

A lot has happened since my last post a week ago, when I was possessed by my great great great grandfather's disembodied spirit. By the way, being possessed by an old person's spirit is really rather dull. All he ever wanted to do is eat prunes, listen to Bing Crosby on Sirius XM, and gawk at fifteen-year-old girls at the neighborhood swimming pool. Luckily my mother, an ordained minister, was able to perform an exorcism that was relatively painless. There was a lot of flailing of the arms, biting, and spewing of unintelligble phrases in German, but all in all it turned out all right. I got a t-shirt at the end. "I was exorcised by my own mother and all I got was this lousy t-shirt?"

I've been feeling loads better after being sick. I actually lost roughly eight pounds over the period of time that I was sick. Not all of that was because I was sick--most was because I'm refusing to eat because I think I'm fat and ugly. But being sick doesn't help either.

My favourite line from the movie Heathers: "Come on, Heather. Bulimia is so 1987."

Interesting fact for you: when you type in the word "bulimia" into the Google search bar without hitting Enter, the first item that comes up on the list after the word itself is "bulimia tips."

Kind of sad, don't you think?

I had my last meet on Tuesday. I didn't do so well, as expected. In fact, I did so horribly that during the 400 m I was forced to start running in the wrong direction when they fired the gun. When everyone pointed this out, I just said, "Oh, really? Whoops. Well, that's embarrassing. I better head on home." It actually worked pretty effectively, so no hard feelings there.

Wednesday at my school was "Experience the Arts Day." I, being an art student, got the opportunity to miss all of my classes, sit outside, and draw for the entirety of the day. I was using coloured penciles to draw the upper half of a creepy mannequin lady. I then added some additional features to turn it into a surrealist painting, so it turned out pretty bizarre. I also, pretty much unintentionally, made her face look rather masculine, but she has these enormous breasts, so that just makes the drawing all the more disturbing.

It got kind of dull at points, and I got more sunburned than a vampire at a nude beach in South France, but it was pretty good overall. The dancers performed wonderfully, one of their songs being "The Call" by Regina Spektor and another was one that I really liked. In fact, that's an understatement. I absolutely adored it. It drove me insane not to know the name of it by the time it was over. I've tracked down some of the dancers and begged them to tell me the name, but they say they won't tell me the name unless I become a dancer myself. (I plan to do just that, but not quite yet. This is a cruel, judging world.) I'm going to find the name of it, though, so I'll report back to you.

I presented my science project with the girl of my dreams on Thursday, and that went all right. After we were done, I asked her to marry me in front of the entire class, under the impression that she would have no choice but to accept. Instead, she started laughing uncontrollably. The whole class joined in, including the teacher. I was furious and humiliated, so I struck her.

The class got sort of quiet at that point. It was my turn to laugh, then. And I did. Manically.

On Friday I got the opportunity to talk to another girl I really like. She asked me if the girl from the SADD assembly who died because of drunk driving, who had the same last name as me, was my aunt or something. I told her no--that would be stupid. She looked sort of embarrassed and walked off. I shouted after her that she was so dumb, her IQ goes into the negatives. I heard her burst into tears in the distance, so I don't think she liked the joke as much as I did.

Later on I caught up with her and engaged her in conversation. I asked her about lacrosse and she asked me about track. I asked her if she was doing anything over the weekend and she said no. I asked her if she wanted to catch a movie or something, and it was then that I realised I was talking to a wall.

Then today, my brother and I were making an announcement at my church for the youth fundraiser to babysit kids on Mother's Day to raise money for our mission trip to New Orleans. It involved both of us sitting in a stroller and making baby faces as a guy from Georgia Tech wheeled us around the sanctuary and talked about the event. It was humiliating, especially because my baby face is indistinguishable from my John Malkovich face. It was okay, though, because I got a Jack in the Box.

Q: How many women with PMS does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: One. Only ONE!! And do you know WHY it only takes ONE? Because no one else in this house knows HOW to change a light bulb. They don't even know the bulb is BURNED OUT. They would sit in this house in the dark for THREE DAYS before they figured it OUT. And once they figured it out they wouldn't be able to find the light bulbs despite the fact that they've been in the SAME CUPBOARD for the past SEVENTEEN YEARS. But if they did, by some miracle, actually find the light bulbs, TWO DAYS LATER the chair that they dragged from two rooms over to stand on to change the STUPID light bulb would STILL BE IN THE SAME SPOT!! AND UNDERNEATH IT WOULD BE THE CRUMPLED WRAPPER THE STUPID @*!#$% LIGHT BULBS CAME IN! WHY?! BECAUSE NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE EVER CARRIES OUT THE GARBAGE!! IT'S A WONDER WE HAVEN'T ALL SUFFOCATED FROM THE PILES OF GARBAGE THAT ARE 12 FEET DEEP THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE HOUSE. THE HOUSE!! IT WOULD TAKE AN ARMY TO CLEAN THIS... I'm sorry...what did you ask me?

I just watched the SNL skit Laser Cats for the first time ever, and I feel violated.

That Blond Guy

Sunday, April 10, 2011

He Who Hesitates Masturbates

First things first! I have to uphold my end of the deal. I'm really not fond of upholding my end of deals--I much prefer to cash in favours. For example: you're welcome for helping you study for the math test last week, now will you do me a huge favour sleep with my friend here? He may look obscenely overweight and deathly pale, but he's a cheetah in bed. Anyway, he has a really low self-esteem and I think he needs this. Remember, you owe me.

These are all of the blogs I know of that linked to me, but nobody else alerted me that they had linked to me. If I skipped you over, tell me so and I'll try to squeeze you in somewhere into my outrageously busy posting schedule. Consider yourself lucky if I link to you by July.

This blog also happens to be The Chin Scratcher's Blog of Specialness for this fortnight. It's very artistic, very eloquent, very insightful, and can always be sure to have multitudes of beautiful photographs. Thank you, Adrienne, from Love Philter.

As you will soon be able to infer from its bizarre yet somehow syllabically satisfying title, this blog is very original and never gets boring to read. Its one of the few blogs left in the world that I can read for fifteen minutes without losing focus and forgetting where/who I am. Thank you Eeshie, from I Don't Skinny Dip, I Chunky Dunk.

Everyone I know who I in a band, I think, is an insanely cool person. It's no exception with the author of this blog, who plays bass. The posts are funny and very relatable, and it's a really awesome blog. Thank you Boyd, from Boyd's World.

Although she's extremely modest about the superior quality of her blog, the author of this blog is a fantastic writer and her posts are always inspiring and/or interesting to read. Most importantly, she appreciates gay people for their general awesomeness, a trait which cannot possibly be undervalued in the world we live in today. Thank you Lexa Be, from Lexa's Insanity.

And that, I think, concludes my list of people to link to. This deal has no expiration date on it, so if you ever decide to link to me, give me a holler and I'll make certain to return the favour. I did not get as big of a turn-out as I expected, even though I appealed to everyone's self-centered side. And I need exactly 100 followers. I don't think you understand. I NEED 100 FOLLOWERS!!!

In case any of you were concerned about me, no, I did not recover from my sickness before the track meet last Wednesday. Despite the fact that I started crying and collapsed in my coach's arms before the start of the meet so as to convince him not to make me run, I did still run. As usual, I ran the 4X100, 200, and the 400. I felt really awful the entire time, and I didn't run well at all. I was scheduled to run the 4X400, but I threw a right little tantrum, banging my tiny fists on the ground and shouting "My mother will hear of this!" until they agreed to take me out of it. I went home early and haven't gone to practice since then.

Don't you hate it when you're feeling sick and you just KNOW you have a fever because you feel like you're insides are on fire and your very skin is being licked by yellow flames that are slowly consuming you and you're drenched in sweat and your hair is plastered to your forehead and you're ready to rip off all of your clothes and hop in a bathtub of ice cubes and you go to the school nurse to get your temperature taken and she plucks the thermometer out of your mouth and it reads 98.6? And the nurse just has that knowing smile on her face and she's like, "Well, okay, Ferris Bueller. How about I give you a cough drop and send you right back to class? Hm?"

And the nurse has always thought you're kind of weird anyway, ever since you asked her in third grade to check you for an STD. It was JUST TO BE SURE. Why can't she understand that?

Then today, I went to the coach to tell him I still wasn't going to be able to go to practice today on accounts of my asthsma ("Sucks to your ass-mar!") and he said fine, but was I going to be ready to go to the meet tomorrow? I told him I had no idea there was going to be a meet tomorrow. It was then that he informed me that this will be the last meet of the season.

I, of course, need to go to this meet. I have not yet lettered in track, and this is my one opportunity to save my reputation. I will run--rain, sleet, or snow. Even if I suffer from stomach pains during the day and go to the school nurse only to find out that I'm pregnant with an alien baby, I will still run in the meet tomorrow. Even if I swallow an entire bar of soap because what started out as a stupid joke turned out to be really tasty soap, I will still run in the meet tomorrow. Even if I am captured by neurotic Russians who emasculate me using the three-day-old carcass of a male goldfish, I will still run in the meet tomorrow. Even if I am hunted, slaughtered, and devoured on my way to school by a pack of traveling polar bears, I will still run in the meet tomorrow.

Last night at Youth Group there was a kid following me around who has some developemental disabilities. I had no problem with this whatsoever until I made one comment about how the 80's was such a spectacular decade for film, and the 90's were just not comparable. He somehow chose this as a good moment to ask me in astonishment, "You like porn?!" I told him that this was not an appropriate thing to say. He ignored me and went to tell the Youth Group leaders, my sister, and all the girls in the Youth Group that I like porn, and that I have Playboy magazines stacked to the ceiling in my bedroom.

They, thankfully, ignored him. It was a big surprise to them, then, when I admitted to all of it only moments later.

I hope some of you recognize my amazing title from The Cable Guy. I've been using it as advice on all of my friends, none of whom have seen the movie, and they all think I'm fantastically witty and an absolute genius. I didn't bother to cite my sources.

This last weekend was a weird weekend for me movie-wise. I watched The Cable Guy, Heathers, and Being John Malkovich. I'm pretty sure that's about as weird as you can get for a weekend movie fest. (In regard to the third movie, I just loved Charlie Sheen's appearence in the movie. It was moving right along, you're thinking this is a good movie even though it's pretty bizarre, and then all of a sudden out of nowhere--BAM!!! It's Charlie Sheen!)

I have good and bad news concerning my dealings with the ladies recently. Bad news, as a general rule, always comes first. Just like the man always...nevermind.

Anyway, the bad news is that I totally messed it up forever with one of the two girls I really like at school. You know, I have to come off as extremely suave, dark, and mysterious with her, because she's more popular than I initially realized. She is, in fact, extremely popular. She's practically a Heather. First impressions are everything between me and this girl. But you know how when you're sick, everything seems overwhelming and profoundly confusing? I got the opportunity to talk with her last Friday, the day after I came back from missing school, and what came out of my mouth made no sense whatsoever.

I have a decent ability to come up with jokes on the spot. Something ALWAYS comes to mind, even if it's insufferably corny or its happens to be the same joke I've been using over and over again for the past two days with anyway I come across in the hallway. But somehow, for the first time in ages, nothing came to mind. I couldn't even think of anything to say at all. All of a sudden I didn't know who I was or where I was, and I totally freaked out.

The words that ended up escaping my mouth were a compromise between "You forgot" and "How did it go?" Neither of these things made any sense at all, and were probably my subconscious' attempt at communicating with her subconscious. She stared at me in confusion for a moment, I turned furiously red, and then she walked off at an alarming rate in the other direction without a word.

On the flip side, I was assigned to be partners in a science project with the girl of my dreams. The girl with "such blue eyes" who I've been obsessing over for the past year or so. Actually, she didn't look too thrilled to be my science partner. But if she comes over to my house to work on the project, she's not leaving. I can see to that.

Whoever in the last post left me an anonymous comment warning me that there was going to be a big surprise at school on Monday and Wednesday, could you please, if not identify yourself, then tell me what you were talking about? I was expecting a surprise half-birthday party or something of that nature. I was bitterly disappointed!

Question: What does Michael Jackson love about twenty eight year olds?

Answer: The fact that there are twenty of them.

That Blond Guy

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Judd Nelson Whispers Things to Me In My Sleep

Question: Does it count as "scoring" when the girl in question is unconscious?

Don't you hate those kids who blurt out "That would make a great band name!" every two minutes or so while you're talking, as if they were a toaster oven that's set on 120 sec. to warm up the same blueberry scone over and over again a hundred times and are therefore obligated to make that comment every time you say anything between 1 and 8 syllables? I actually am one of those kids. Yes, that means I hate myself. GOD, CHRISTOPHER, WHY CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?! YOU'RE UGLY AND YOU'RE A LOSER AND NOBODY LIKES YOU!!!

So here are a list of band names I came up with for my friends' band which I wasn't invited to join. I actually think some of them are half-decent, so I thought I might post them.

-Panda Bear Subdivision
-Stalin's Babies
-Romulus and Remus
-Make Love Not War
-The Beat Poet's Toothbrush
-Biological Warfare
-Angel Veins
-The Pregnant Martians
-Ligne de Vie
-Scissor Roads
-the Moonbeams
-Polar Bear Republic

Man, I would love it so much to be in a band. Of course, I'd have to play the synthesizer because I can't play anything else. And in the movies about bands where a small band makes it big, the guy who plays the synthesizer is always the one who ends up with only one groupie, who's usually a really fat teenage girl with pigtails and Neanderthal eyebrows.

Today I found out that I sort of have a habit of zoning out whilst staring hungrily at girls from across the science classroom. It happened today and the girl eventually caught me staring. She kind of gave me a look like, "Do you need something?" I was still brain-dead and continued mindlessly drooling and staring at her. She shrugged and gave me the look again. It was only when she tapped her friend on the shoulder and pointed me out to her that I awoke from my deep sleep and mumbled an apology.

A few weeks or so ago in study hall, the study hall teacher (who is around 65 or so) was calling roll and came across a junior whose preferred name was "Starlight." He read the name from the roster, kind of confused, and said, "Your name is Starlight?"

She nodded. He, with a totally straight face, walked to the back of the classroom until he was hovering in front of her. He puts his hand on her desk, leaned in really close to her face, and growled in a voice so low barely anyone could hear it, "Are you turned on?"

I think he's a teacher many of the girls at my school will be avoiding from this point forward. I think it's safe for the boys to do the same as well.

Have you ever considered that maybe you're a schizophrenic and the entire world around you is just a hallucination? And you may think that you're reading this blog post and snacking on white cheddar Cheez-Its, but really you're in a padded room with no windows, drooling and glaring lifelessly at a wall?

I have.

Today at school I made a really embarrasing Freudian slip. I meant to ask this girl out to the movies and popcorn, but instead I asked her out to the "movies and sex. Maybe this Friday if you're not busy." I hate how when you're really nervous, the words "sex" and "popcorn" are so easy to mix up.

Man, I've been feeling so sick recently, and I have a meet tomorrow. I think it might have something to do with all of the brake fluid they put in that one Smoothie King smoothie I had this afternoon: Mango Banana Brake Fluid Splash.

On that note, I'd like to link to a blog that I think is okay, called iRadish. Like an iPod. But awesome. I'm mostly linking to it because she asked me to, but also because she's taken my children hostage. I love my children. Please tell her that. I love my children, and I can't bear to lose them. Please.

Along the same lines, I'm going to make a deal with all of my readers. Between now and the time I write my next post, I am willing to link to any blogger who first links to me. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. You bust me out of jail, I bust you out. You feed me, I bite your hand.

Why am I making this deal? Do I need more attention, more comments, and more followers than I have already? Yes, I do. Plus, I'm still eleven short of 100 followers. And I NEED 100 followers. It would be a landmark for The Nerd Archives, and landmarks are a thing that I like. Landmarks and even, three-digit numbers. So is it a deal?

The humans are dead. The humans are dead. We used poisonous gases. And we poisoned their asses. The humans are dead. The humans are dead...

That Blond Guy