Buzz Cuts and a Totally Whacked-Out Music Video

I go to a private school, and we have hair codes. Just like--but not really like--in military school, whenever a guy's hair gets too long, the teacher will give him a deadline to cut it before he gets a detention. And you hear a lot of stories about guys who had to cut their hair at home in their bedroom with their younger sister's safety scissors because they couldn't make an appointment with the barber. They come to school with an extremely mutilated hair cut, everyone laughs and points at them, and the next day--they shave it all off out of embarrassment.

There aren't many things involving fashion or appearence that annoy me. I'm not like those girls in your Chemistry class who are always saying how much they hate this one girl in their homeroom because she never brushes her hair. But, for whatever bizarre reason, it annoys me when people get buzz cuts.



That sounds terrible in writing. It really does. But, having been raised in Georgia and Texas, I've grown accustomed to seeing them, and I've grown accustomed to discriminating against people who have buzz cuts.

I think it all started the first time I went to San Antonio with my grandfather to see the Alamo. I don't know why San Antonio is this way, but for whatever reason, there are a lot of kids with mohawks. I mean, when we went there, we saw entire families of mohawks. Little eight-year-old girls with mohawks, 300-pound daddies with mohawks, and sweet old grandmothers with mohawks. It was just insane. I guess it's like the effect of mixing city life and rural Texas. Buzz cuts and funky, urban hairstyles meet and shake hands. Then they marry, procreate, and have this bizarre baby.

Whenever I see buzz cuts, I think of the army, the Holocaust, and cancer. That's just my impression.

In conclusion, if YOU have a buzz cut, don't worry. I have nothing against you...except your haircut.

You've probably heard Muse's version of Feeling Good, right? That's all very well. It's a brilliant song, after all. But have you seen the video? If not, click on the link in the sentence before this conveniently colored purple for your sake. Anyway, don't ask me to explain the video to you. I think it's just as messed up as you do. The difference is, I love messed-up things. This video has been my #1 YouTube search in the past week aside from F*** You, by Lily Allen. (I've never been a fan of hip hop, but this all goes back to my England fetish. Something about British girls using the f-word makes me hot and nervous.)

Finally, I just want to clear something up.

A few posts ago, I got the following comment:

"Hon, honestly, I like your blog. You're a funny guy. But seriously, you can't always expect everyone to comment, because they don't always. And that's how blogging is."

Guys, what is this? An intervention? "Christopher, we love you. We really do. But this has got to stop." My favorite part is when I am described as "Hon."

I just wanted to clarify that when I whine and complain about how few comments I get--I'm making a joke. The self-pity and complaints are all part of the act, guys. I constantly have to remind people that I'm only joking. Never take me literally. Don't believe anything I say.

On that happy note, goodbye to you all.

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

An Imaginary Telescope and a Sobbing Fat Man in Panda Express

Want to know one of the things I like most about nerds? A lot of the time, they make really quality nerd jokes. Just like all the best gay jokes come from gay people, nerds make really good nerd jokes.

I was sitting with a bunch of friends today at--you guessed it--lunch. One of them at some point described himself as a nerd, and a few other people reminded him that everyone sitting at that table was a nerd. Hearing this, another kid at the table formed an imaginary telescope with his hands and started peering through it around the cafeteria, occassionally saying things like "I can see the world so much better through this handy telescope," and "Submarine Captain Sir, I think I just spotted a giant squid!"

At this point, a kid walks up to the table with his tray who used to hang out with us but doesn't really anymore. I could easily read the expression on his furrowed brow. He was scanning the guys at the table with his eyes and thinking, "Am I too cool to sit with these kids?"

I decided to help him make his decision by pointing an imaginary telescope at him and pronouncing loudly in a robotic voice, "Unidentifiable craft has just entered radar, Captain! Launch first torpedo! Bam bam bam bam..." Yeah, he was gone before I could launch that torpedo.

TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT IN AN OVERWHELMINGLY ABRUPT MANNER: Last week I e-mailed the editors of Teen Ink magazine saying that I had not been receiving the issues which I had already paid for. They responded saying they would send me all the issues no charge as soon as possible. The day after, I discovered that we had already been getting the magazines and my parents were simply forgetting to give them to me. So I sent the editor this e-mail back:

Mrs. Olsen,

Please forgive me. Our mistake. I just figured out that the reason we haven't been receiving the magazine issues is because my family has been vacationing in Panama for the last month.

Thanks,

Christopher

Yeah, easy problem to fix. FINALLY, I have to quote my friend in an e-mail he sent me last week:

"I ate at Panda Express last night. I saw some fat guy in the corner crying over his orange chicken as he shoveled it into his mouth. Then I realized I was looking at a mirror."

He's a genius, he is.

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

Some Astute Observations about the Blogging World

Escapism is a common coping mechanism in the dark and confusing world we live in today. Some seek refuge in mythical worlds of role-playing and magic. Others write murder mystery novels about Mexican-American housewives who are summoned to solve a double homicide case in San Antonio. Some find sanctuary in sanctuaries, while others watch re-runs of Leave it to Beaver while sobbing over bowls of chocolate ice cream to deal with their issues. There are a few of us, however, who deal with the world by BLOGGING ABOUT IT.

I am happy to be included in that select few. (Select few, of course, referring to the tens of millions of bloggers who infest the internet.)

I've been blogging for a few years now. My first blog, Reviews, Raves, and Some Other R Word, last a year before it crashed to the ground. No Right Opinions gathered controversy, showed some promise for success, then...crashed to the ground. The Chin Scratcher and The Nerd Archives are still technically alive. After all of these blogs I've managed, I've noticed a thing or sixteen about us bloggers.

1) The best blogs come from the socially handicapped. If you ever bother to read the blogs you follow, you'll notice that we really do have quite a few socially awkward bloggers on the World Wide Web. The bloggers that seem to actually have an exciting laugh are seemingly boring, undedicated, and uninteresting.

2) A lot of us quickly lose interest in the blogs we supposedly "follow." Look at my list of followers. My most dedicated commenters are all found in the most recent three rows. The top row, or the most recent followers of all, are all included that list of most dedicated commenters.

3) Sometimes we tend to behave like parasites. We visit other blogs in the very practical hope that the bloggers we contact will come back and visit our blog. After we make the decision to follow that blog we visit, we don't stop there. We visit the blogs that they follow and the blogs that their followers follow. We're like computer viruses. And no, I don't mind that we do that. I think it's kind of cool how thorough we are. It just ticks me off when I visit someone's blog, and they "follow" all of my followers' blogs and all of their followers' blogs, but still don't follow MY blog.

4) We're very, very friendly. Except when it involves political blogs, we're welcoming, gentle, and over-considerate of each others' feelings. Sometimes it seems like the blogging world is Utopia. Arguments are constructive, and there are no wars. Maybe that's because 9/10 of us are liberals, but I'm cool with that, you know?

5) Some of us are very skillful in the practice of gaining followers. Others are laughable. For example:

"Hey, cool blog you have here. Follow mine?"

Sometimes they don't even bother to use capital letters. Sometimes they misspell the word "cool." Yet another heads up: the tactic of following as many blogs as possible in hope that you get as many readers as possible isn't foolproof. For instance. Look at the seventh follower on my list of followers. Guy named "Teuvo." Finnish, middle-aged fellow, this Teuvo. I clicked on his profile picture, which led me to his profile. Turns out, Teuvo is following more than a dozen blogs just that begin with an exclamation mark. Not very considerate of my feelings, is he?

6) We have horrid habit of venting. That's all I'm going to say about that...

7) Often the most creative and intriging blogs have horrid, boring titles. Often blogs with the most spectacular and witty titles are the worst ones out there.

That's enough for today, methinks.

Thank you guys so much for commenting on all of my last posts! I finally seemed to have developed a successful process of motivating my readers to comment. It goes as follows:

Step 1: Whine.

Step 2: Whimper.

Step 3: Lather myself in self-pity.

Step 4: Rinse and repeat.

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

A Compilation of Random Stuff That Will Hardly Intrigue You

First and foremost, I have to quote from a blog called Comical Musings. I'm hardly in love with the title, but I think the blog is brilliant. Listen to this transcript between him a guy who knocks on his front door during the day:

Interrupting weirdo: "Hello sir."

Me: "What?"

Mr. Oblivious: Have you decided who you're voting for in the local bi monthly super fantasmical election?

Me: "I'm undecided." (just noticing the yellow badge screaming "LIB DEM" at the world.)

Mr. Lib Dem Lover: "Have you considered voting for the Liberal Democrats?"

Me: "Depends, do they have my rights in mind?"

Mr. Too easy to rope in: "Of course sir, we Lib Dems look out for the community."

Me: "Finally, a baby eating rapist like me can live in peace" (Cue look of fond remembrance).

Mr. Uncomfortable and insulted: "Sorry sir, I didn't quite hear that. Can I just leave these pamphlets?"

Me: "Of course, come back soon."

Mr. Can't be fucked to argue: "Take care."

Me: (Sinisterly) "Oh, I will. Trust me I will."

Judge me if you will. I loved this.

IN OTHER NEWS: Spanish class on Thursday, we were writing news articles about random, imaginary topics. One guy in our class wrote an article about "Little Green Men Discovered on the Planet Mars."

While he was reading the article, our Spanish teacher was falling into fits of uncontrollable, breathless laughter. When we finally prompted her to tell us why she was laughing, she enlightened us to the fact that "Green Men" in Spanish, (Hombres Verdes) is a slang term for pedophiles.

In short, this poor kid in our class had just accidentally written an article about "little pedophiles" discovered on the planet Mars.

ON A LIKEWISE TOTALLY RANDOM NOTE: Nearly had an aneurysm this last Friday. A bunch of guys at my lunch table were having a series of conversations about totally unrelated topics, when one kid brought up the fact that he was reading the Harry Potter series for the first time.

At the instant that he mentions this, three different kids at the table were shouting the endings to the books at him. He was covering his ears and singing "La la la" before they could reveal too much, but a nerve in my brain had just snapped. I was furious. I pounced on those kids and was pummeling their backs with my little fists before anyone could do anything.

That's unforgivable. Spoiling the ends of books is a terrible crime. Spoiling the end of HARRY POTTER is unspeakable. It's totally twisted. Sick. Revolting. Disgusting.

At the moment I got off them, they got to their feet (covered in black and blue marks), and tried to start spoiling the end for him again. It was like that scene from Minority Report where Agatha foresaw Tom Cruise killing Crow, but she couldn't do anything about it. This terrible crime was being committed in front of my eyes, but I was powerless.

In case you're curious, I did finally snap. I started screaming and batted at imaginary birds flying around my head, shouting "It's the Red Knight! Can't you see him, Jack? The Red Knight!"

The teachers had to pin my down. Yeah, it was pretty humiliating once I became conscious again. Don't ever spoil books for your peers, my friends. It's unforgivable.

Finally, here's the poem I wrote for that special someone I mentioned last post which no one read. I stowed it in her locker last Friday, so I'll see what she thinks of it then. Don't get bored during the first and middle part, because the last part is what I'm sure is going to make her fall for me.

Such Blue Eyes

Such blue eyes, you angel,
Girl with hair of flowing sunbeams
That splash onto your tiny shoulders
Like a waterfall of liquid gold

What a spectacular, rippling laugh
That wafts through the otherwise unremarkable air
As you listen to a joke that’s not
Even sort-of funny

A smile to make Mona Lisa quake with
Jealousy in her tiny portrait frame
And even a nose that crinkles when you’re
Happy like that of a cartoon baby rabbit

What is your secret, how are you so perfect
Flawless skin like clouds on a sunny day
Teeth that are somehow attractive by themselves
Teeth can’t even be attractive

Best of all are your eyes, eyes of icy warmth
Miles of glacier and uncharted ocean mixed in
With clear skies and freshly opened acrylic paints
Such blue eyes

How I long to hold you in my arms, goddess,
Slap you around a little to show you what’s what
And to have my sweet way with you
To make you my wife, bitch

Why do you avoid my eyes in the hallway
Is it that one time when I told you
I wanted to make you my little whore?
Forget that, my sweet, and jump into my open arms

I can't wait to see the expression on her face when I see her next Monday! Do you...do you think she'll want to kiss me?

This has been a long and totally meaningless post. I think it's because I'm trying to re-gain the attention of my un-commenting followers. 0 Comments for the last four posts. Tragic, my friends. Totally tragic.

Coming soon "My Blogging Pet Peeves," hopefully with a more creative title. It's going to be a really keen post! You just wait!

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

Crushes: Nothing Is Getting Crushed Except Fresh Mangoes Into Fruit Smoothies

"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."

What else would they call them, Mr. Baker? Because I'm pretty sure they wouldn't call them "squeezies." Would you ever leave a note in someone's locker which told them you had a squeezie on them? Would people ever say they had a celebrity squeezie on Brad Pitt? Do people have squeezies on the girl next door? No! That's not at all appropriate and oddly sexual-sounding.

Movies, such as Sixteen Candles, do make a good point about crushes. Most of the time, they're utterly hopeless and childish. They lead to nowhere except heartbreak and a lot of frustration taken out on your cat.

But let's explore the positive aspect of crushes, shall we?

The crushes/flirting stage of relationships for teenagers is, arguably, the most exhilarating. After that comes first dates, second dates, potentially sex, arguments, and the break-up. Most of the rest are typically uncomfortable, long, boring, and awkward. I think it's the fact that for a lot of us, after we get what we want, we don't want it anymore.

There is something oddly satisfying about drooling after a girl or guy who you know you stand no chance with. Something so satisfying that you don't mind that whenever you wave to this person in passing, they don't even look at you. All you need is to stare at their flawless profile during the entirety of science class (whoops--that's probably just me) and feel giddy and hopeful all day long.

Plus, you know that you can get out of the relationship anytime you want, because the "relationship" is pretty much limited to a lot of stalkerish gawking and stuttered compliments. In about two months at the very most, this person is going to be off your radar. That's oddly, (very oddly), liberating.

Still, there's always that aspect of crushes that Mr. Baker and other coming-of-ages always seem to discuss. When you like the other person too much, they're sometimes sickening. Like a disease, really. When the crush is deep enough, you feel both giddy and depressed at the same time, which often results in indigestion.

That's where I am. Remember the "goddess" I mentioned a while back? Well, she's still there, and she's no less majestic. She's also very popular. Alas, that brings us to the more unpleasant side of being a nerd: you can't date popular girls until after college when you start making the dough.

I've actually written her a poem. (That I haven't given her, of course.) I know, yes. It's very sweet and all that. "Adorable," some of you might suggest. "Cute" is a word a few of you will dare to utter.

Anyway, that's the end of that. I'm feeling the mingled giddy-depression I mentioned earlier. It doesn't feel good.

ON A DIFFERENT NOTE: I lost my flashdrive. Alas, that's not fated to happen to anyone except me. About a month ago, I lost all of my files. Now that I've given up on trying to recover them, I look for my flashdrive to re-download the files. And I can't find my flashdrive. I guess that's just how much God loves me.

A lot of "0 Comments" I've been seeing lately. I guess that's my fault, as my posts after been pretty pathetic. But I need your support, friends. I have a feeble self-esteem.

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

A Braves Game and the Flight of the Conchords

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted (at least in my units of time). I haven't even been very busy. The time has just slid through my fingers like a Turkish mud wrestler slides through the clutches of a frustrated police officer.

As you know, it's been Homecoming week at my school. We were dressing up for the pep rally with the theme of "SUPER." Each grade was assigned either "superhero," "super-villain," "superstar," or "Super Mario Bros." Guess which one my year was stuck with? Just my luck. The last.

While all the other high schoolers got to come to school in costume of everyone from Johnny Cash to Superman to Justin Bieber to Mojo-Jojo, we were stuck with Mario, Luigi, and Princess Peach. Hu. Rrah.

I tried to be original by making my own costume for Toad. Then again, I left it until 10:30 of the night before, so I ended up wearing a white t-shirt, purple vest, and red UGA cap with white paper spots taped onto it like a mushroom. It was pretty pathetic, plus there were dozens of my fellow nerds walking up to me during the day and correcting me on what Toad is supposed to look like in the games.

The pep rally was totally rubbish, I hate to say. I don't have bunches of school spirit to begin with, but it was just a terrible pep rally.

On Friday, though, I got to go to a Braves game with a friend, though. That was really fun. I got to hug a giant baseball while my said friend snapped pictures frantically, and I also ordered a blue slushie, (most of which arrives either in my shoes or down my shirt.)

The same night, I watched Se7en. Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman! Yeah, it was pretty bitchin', if you ask me. A horror movie of sorts. I thought it was genius, although considerably disturbing. You can find a plot synopsis here, if my use of four different adjectives to describe it has gotten you intrigued.

Lastly, and definitely the most importantly, ever heard of Flight of the Conchords? If not, now you have:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZbbxA8a_M_s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pY8jaGs7xJ0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVF1_qhLKDE&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGOohBytKTU

I feel like a young astronomer who has just chanced upon a faraway galaxy, or a home-schooled, Evangelical preteen who has just discovered masturbation. The Flight of the Conchords are my exact type of humor. They are so funny, I can't stand it. Every time I watched one of their videos, I'm always rolling around with laughter. And once I finish laughing, I want to hit something. That's how funny they are.

Check out the videos. Watch the show. I don't know when it comes on, so don't ask me, you drunken slob.

Cheers,

That Blond Guy

An Infinite Loading Bar and a Shockingly Purple Shirt

First I have to tell you about the loading bar. Remember when I told you all about how I lost all of the files on my computer? My dad bought this recovery software online. So I downloaded it and a loading bar popped up telling me when it would be finished. It starts out an hour, so I go off and mind my own business, come back in an hour, and it says three hours left. It's getting late by then, so I leave it overnight. I come back after school the next day: 24 hours. I, frustrated, leave the computer alone for a whole 'nother day. I come back 24 hours later and it says:

13 Days Remaining.

Is that not insane? Like something from a badly-scripted 90's sitcom. I'm so tired of this. I just want my files back.

So Homecoming was last Saturday--hence, purple shirt. (I was trying to decide, what shirt color will make me look both very homosexual and very attractive...and I thought, "Purple!") The first part was actually pretty fun. I went to this really snooty, driving club for rich people with a bunch of friends beforehand, and that was pretty righteous. We played soccer-golf on the golf course, which drew a handful of really annoyed looks from all the pasty golfers who were actually playing golf. We ate and got ready there, and we all liked the Beatles, so it was fun.

Meh, the dance wasn't so much fun. There were too many people there for my liking, (what happened to the sixteen hundred kids who all said Homecoming was lame and they'd rather be doing drugs???) and I outright hated the music. I hate very few things. Usually I just hate babies and people who are different than me and that's it--but the music was awful. Hip hop and rap and country. It was despicable.

And of course, I'm not much of a dancer at all, especially when I hate the music. I couldn't dance for more than sixteen seconds at the same time before giving up on myself and crossing my arms grumpily. I'm just made that way. Plus I kept getting distracted by the sight of my two crushes sucking the faces of two other guys much more handsome and athletic than me.

It wasn't unbearable, though, since I got to go with friends and since I had seen Sixteen Candles the night before, so I knew how to compose myself. (Then again, I kept asking girls I barely knew if I could borrow their underpants "just for like ten minutes" and that got out of hand.)

I slow-danced with this girl named Rachel. Very pretty, but not much of a talker. In fact, all I got out of her the whole night was her name. I think she was so incredulous that she was stuck with me that she couldn't bring herself to talk. That, or she was off in the head. That's rich--the only girl I can dance with at Homecoming is mentally insecure.

It's about the experience, though, right? Even if it was a pretty lousy experience. Sigh...

In other news, I think my Social Studies teacher was kind of out of it today. We were flipping through our text books and he saw this one picture of a Muslim ruler with an enormous turban. He smiled kind of dreamily and said, "That turban is really bitchin'."

HIGHLIGHT OF THE DAY: My mom made my brother and I carry the family couch from the basement to the porch, (no small feat, I tell you) to give to charity. My back hasn't been the same since, which is frightening because the last time I had back trouble, my doctor banished me from lifting actual weights so that I had to lift those wimpy, four-pound ones that yoga moms use. I can't feel manly lifting four-pound weights. Not as effective when I'm trying to admire my majestic, golden form in the mirror while working out.


My birthday's coming up. My mom is asking me if I finally want a cell phone. I'm reluctant. The only reason I would want a cell phone would be if I could make the ring tone the sound of a baby crying. Then I'd keep my cell phone in this big, black bag. Then every time my phone rings..."Shh...it's okay...shh..."

Important note: J.K. Rowling uses the word "slut" twice in the sixth book in the Harry Potter series.

And, in answer to your question, yes, I stopped following your blog. That's what you get, woman.

Good day to you all. Except the "you" mentioned in the previous line. I hope you have a really horrible day. A horrible month too. Not year, though. I hope you have a good year.