Off the Record

I pride myself on maintaining a different blog than most. At the end of the year, however, every other blogger posts eir "Best of" lists and... and... I want to, too! Before I start whining, I'm just going to post my top 40 songs of 2005:

40. Bloody Motherfucking Asshole - Martha Wainwright
39. Greatest You Can Find - Keren Ann
38. Be Gentle With Me - The Boy Least Likely To
37. Speed Of Sound - Coldplay
36. Walking With A Ghost - Tegan & Sara
35. Strange Goodbye - Frank Black
34. Love Is An Unfamiliar Name - The Duke Spirit
33. Inside And Out - Feist
32. Gold Digger - Kanye West & Jamie Foxx
31. My Humps - Black Eyed Peas
30. Waltz - Fiona Apple
29. 1 Thing - Amerie & Jay-Z
28. Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz
27. Mr. Brightside - The Killers
26. Rollercoaster - Sleater Kinney
25. 1 2 Step - Ciara & Missy Elliott
24. You're Beautiful - James Blunt
23. Back To Me - Kathleen Edwards
22. Over My Head - Fray
21. Better Version Of Me - Fiona Apple
20. Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani
19. Because Of You - Kelly Clarkson
18. I Turn My Camera On - Spoon
17. Nobody's Home - Avril Lavigne
16. The First Day Of My Life - Bright Eyes
15. These Words - Natash Bedingfield
14. These Are The Fables - The New Pornographers
13. Can't Stop - Missy Elliott
12. Trees - Marty Casey
11. Extraordinary Machine - Fiona Apple
10. Jesus Of Suburbia - Green Day
9. Worked Up So Sexual - The Faint
8. Man Who Sold The World - Jordis Unga
7. Landed - Ben Folds
6. Fall To Pieces - Avril Lavigne
5. Move Along - All-American Rejects
4. Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
3. Boulevard Of Broken Dreams - Green Day
2. The Bleeding Heart Show - The New Pornographers
1. Since U Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson

I beg forgiveness - for the list, not for Kelly Clarkson. There is no shame in liking that song. None.


Move Over, Mr. Popper

Today's entry brings another blog you should be sure to bookmark!

Rachel's Penguin Pen

If you were wondering? Rachel loves Penguins. (The word is always capitalized because it's so important.) She's eleven. She plays the flute, just like Penguins do on her Pink shirt. The other night, she slept over at her grandfather's house, but woke up at 9:20 am when the alarm sounded. She wanted to go to visit her cousins in Tennesse (sic), but her dad didn't want to have to pick her up. She wanted to go shopping, but her dad wouldn't drive her. (I'm sensing a theme.) For Christmas, she got "Chapstick flavored Twizzlers." Either candy is getting grosser or Rachel is dyslexic.

I love the post about her sister "Abigial." Abby doesn't like Penguins: She loves puppies, but not dogs because they are "big, weird, and... mean."

Also, because she's eleven, she doesn't realize why this photo is funny:

But the best part of all is the desperation. More than anything, she wants someone to comment. At least fifty percent of her content is pleading with readers to leave a message. She gives detailed instructions multiple times about how to make a post. She asks specific people, by name, to make a post. She states explicitly that she has a blog "to get comments." Lately, she's relying on guilt trips by withholding new facts about Penguins unless someone makes a comment.

All of that, and still no one has commented. Part of me wants to ask something ridiculous about Penguins, but there's no way I can ruin the tremendously hilarious silence.


The Myers Family!

At the top right corner of this blog is a button that says "next blog". Click it and it will
take you to another random blog in the blogspot universe. Unsurprisingly, most of it is shit; I'm sure anyone who randomly stumbles upon mine thinks similarly. Sometimes, however, a precious gem appears that is so horrible, it makes the other shit look like pieces of chocolate.

Myers Family News

It's the place to go to keep up to date with the Myers family!

The thing that strikes me the most is the photo of the "letter from Santa."

Why does Santa never finish the cookies? He's a well-traveled man, he knows about starving people and why one shouldn't waste food. And the way he's eaten half of the cookie's body, it looks like it was consumed by a psychopath, not a jolly fellow.

The note itself is manipulative, with "Santa" asking the kids to obey their parents. Talk about a hidden agenda. Santa must be egotistical, signing his name in all caps. Also, it's spelled "Rudolph": Santa should know that.

In an earlier entry, "if you haven't heard," Evan might have broke his arm roughhousing! Thank goodness for "ex-rays" (sic)!

Scanning through the photos is fun: the homoerotic dynamic between the sons is enticing -- I only wish my sibling was as touchy-feely with me.


I'll Give You a Dime Not to Give Me That Nickelback

Enough time has past that I feel I can officially announce a success of mine: After nearly five months, I still have avoided listening to the newest Nickelback song, "Photograph."

If that doesn't seem like a big deal, let me assure you that it is. As a recovering pop culture addict, I used to require myself to know all of the top songs. Were I still as ill as I once was, I would have "Photograph" downloaded and memorized, regardless of whether I enjoyed it.

This summer, when I found myself about to download the tune fully expecting mediocrity, I stopped myself, realizing that while this move would be one small step for someone with musical taste, it was one large step for Kevin-kind.

Since that day, I have yet to hear it. On the few occasions I've been listening to the radio and the song begins to play, I promptly change the station. Proudly, I have no idea what the song sounds like. Of course, chances are that I more or less do know what the song sounds like, as this website proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that all of the band's songs are alike anyway. Remarkable, isn't it?


The Un Simsboring

Recently, I discovered what is probably my first attempt at journalism, The Un Simsboring. The title refers to my town's nickname, Simsboring, with the "Un" part alluding to the fact that my content would be about exciting topics - you know - like raking and Barney the Dinosaur.

If only I could still think of headlines like "Leaves Fall in the Fall"; the top story is certainly an important one. I love that it begins with an existential question. "Why do the leaves fall?" is perhaps too profound for a newspaper article. Also, I seem remarkably bitter toward my dad about him watching football while I raked, which might have happened once, but definitely not to the extent to which I reported it.

Read that caption. Now read it again because it's so delicious. Rakers are mad... AND fed up... with raking of all things! Doesn't Alison look positively furious in that picture? I must have had her pose for this picture because if fathers can get away with not raking, you can be sure princesses didn't have to either.

I'm not sure why the world of graphic design has eluded me. This is a startling expose on the institution of Halloween if I've ever seen one. I mean, hello, it's the 90's, we don't do scary anymore: it's all about being sexy. Ghosts and goblins are going to need to find a new profession. Clearly, I had journalistic integrity: rather than share my opinion about whether Halloween is scary or not, I left the question unanswered, leaving my reporting to speak for itself.

I'm "suprised" to find that my love for writing about the media started at such a young age. Damn, I sure stuck it to Barney. Take that, PBS! Aren't you chagrined now?

Unfortunately, this front page is the only one that seems to have survived over the years. I wish I could read "No More Pools!" because I can't tell whether it is merely about the conclusion of summer or, as the title suggests, a blistering editorial against the existence of pools entirely.

Gosh darn, I'm precious.


White Washed

In silly liberal California, my friends often doubt the prevalent prejudiced mentalities I’ve observed in Connecticut. Back on the east coast, in the span of ten minutes, someone I know, who we’ll call Ingra to protect her ignorance, illustrates everything that is wrong with the world.

Walking by a nail salon, Ingra expresses embarrassment. A while back after having her nails painted there, Ingra was handed a punch card that could be redeemed for a free session on her tenth visit. Except that Ingra didn’t understand what she was told because “they don’t speak English,” and after hearing the word “free,” she left the store, only to be chased down a moment later and asked for payment. When told not to worry because the salon is now under new management, Ingra says she couldn’t tell because “they all look the same.”

Next door to the salon is Carvel. Ingra thinks Carvel has gross ice cream and knows why: it’s run by Indian people (which she punctuates by pressing a dot on her forehead). Someone points out that Indian people also run the Hartford, a wealthy insurance company in town. Ingra clams up – for maybe a minute.

At Ingra’s dorm at school, one of her suitemates moved out because she hated Ingra and her friends. Can’t imagine why! The vacant room will be filled by someone random, which frightens Ingra. “You’re afraid that you’ll get a foreign exchange student, aren’t you?” I guess, based upon her previous statements. “Well, not just that,” she says. “What if they’re black? Or Jewish?” My mouth drops. I don’t even know where to begin with the former statement, so I start with the latter. “You’re friends with Jewish people!” I declare. “I know, but we’re all Christians!” says the non-practicing Ingra. “Our suite has only Christmas decorations! It’s just a difference in culture.”

A difference in culture. And that, my friends, is an example of why like-minded affluent Caucasians attending school together are not actually receiving an education.


Snot a Problem

While walking with Susan today in the cold air, my nose filled with snot. I searched my pockets for a tissue to no avail. Alas, I’m too full of boogers to ignore it, so I pull off the sidewalk. Pressing my finger firmly against the right side of my nose, I blow furiously to empty my left nostril. A stream of yellow mucus jets out, but doesn’t break free, instead dangling about waist-length from my nose. At this point, Susan notices, and I’m excited that someone can see what I’ve managed to produce. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t share my excitement. Unsure of how to get the snot string off of me, I swing my head, hoping it will set it free. Instead, the motion sends the booger cord upwards and back at my face, with the loose end landing just above my eyebrow and the other end still firmly in my left nostril, leaving me to look I have some kind of bizarre mucus face-piercing. I’m sure I’m never looked so attractive. I assure you that discreetly wiping your nose on the sleeves of your coat is far too underrated.



I am notoriously awful on the phone. Last week, I placed a horrendous call and got the person’s voice mail. I began stammering a message about how she was going abroad, so I might not see her again. Oh, but I’d like too! But if not, oh well… It was coming across horribly; if I hadn’t realized that fact on my own, I had about a dozen people sitting in the room with me, listening to me go down in flames and giving facial expressions to indicate their horror. Still, I had to push on. The other thing is do you still have my tape of The Blair Witch Project? ‘Cause I want it back… if you have it… Ummmm… all right… bye. Groaning can be heard from every corner of the room. Someone even slapped emself on the forehead. Finally, I learned that I wasn’t as bad on the phone as I had previously suspected: I was worse. Also, I learned that if you push #, it’ll cancel your message in progress. That’ll come in handy.



Change is good. I realize this fact and could wax philosophically on the topic for paragraphs on end if you’d like.

That said, I also hate change. Oh my gosh, when certain things in my life change I want to vomit in rage.

Two things have changed since the last time I was at home in Connecticut and I cannot handle them:

Cable channels. Cripes, they’ve gone and renumbered all the stations so I have to consult a guide rather than my memory to find VH1, Comedy Central, AMC and the like. If I were interested in reading, I wouldn’t be watching television, thank-you-very-much.

Silverware. My parents have gone and replaced our old silverware with new, shiny, ridged utensils. It sounds ridiculous, but I have trouble eating with them. It’s like eating in an entirely new way, as if my tongue itself were replaced.

That’s just my two cents. Keep the change.


Plane Plans

Hating airplane chit-chat, I always choose my seat discriminately. I take an aisle seat in a row with a kid wearing headphones, assuming he’s too disengaged to want to talk. Still, the middle seat remains, and I size up the boarding passengers deciding what types I’d most prefer to have next to me. Several quiet-looking elderly people pass by, much to my disappointment. Then I hear a guy walking down the aisle making instrument noises with his mouth. Please don’t sit here. Please don’t sit here. Please don’t… No, no one is sitting here.


“Where are you going?” he asks. “Home,” I say. That’s a one-word response, a good indication that I’m not interested in talking. “I’m going to get engaged!” he proudly announces. He’s a thirty-year-old wearing chains and a Tool t-shirt, so I pay him the proper respect by not responding. “I already asked her to marry me,” he explains, as if I had done anything to indicate I care. “But she asked for a ring.” I bite my bottom lip to avoid laughing; sounds like she’s superficial. Then again, she can’t be too superficial if she’s considering marrying him. Besides, is it really so much to ask for some jewelry from a guy with a face full of it? This moment is usually where the person would whip out the ring to elicit ohhs and ahhs, but he doesn’t, unless it’s the big one he’s wearing on his lip.

“Oh marriage,” he says aloud. “Marriage, marriage, marriage…” Though he’s clearly trying to maintain a conversation, I focus on my magazine. “Since she knows it’s coming, when do you think I should ask her?” Now, I can’t help but give him a quick puzzled glance. “Like should I just do it right after I get off the plane? I could get on one knee, I’ll get on one knee.” The best I can mutter is “I don’t know.” I don’t want to be even remotely associated with this ill begotten proposal. The kid wearing headphones finally pipes up, suggesting that he wait until the last minute before he gets back on the plane to leave again and make her sweat it out.

Drum roll please. (If Noisy were here, he could make the noise himself.) Noisy decides, “Dude, that is a great idea!” Together, they discuss how awesome it’ll be to mess with his fiancĂ©e-to-be’s head for the next week. When asked my opinion, I don’t even look up, instead giving a shrug and continuing to read my magazine. Does he not notice that I’m reading something political? Furthermore, does he not realize what a colossal mistake he’s about to make in toying with the only person in the world who might consider marrying him?

After the landing, as I grab my bags, Noisy stops me to shake my hand. “Thanks for your help; good luck with your life.” My help? If I wanted to help, I’d have advised him to propose in a nicer manner. While shaking, I realize I should exchange the same sentiment, wishing him good luck with the engagement, but it would be entirely insincere. Truthfully, I don’t wish him well: he’s as much a tool as the band on his t-shirt. “Thank you,” I say instead. As I disembark, I can hear the untalented sounds of beat-boxing behind me.



Shooting the breeze on the night before everyone departs for winter break, my friends and I break into an impromptu game of CharAIDS. CharAIDS is just like charades, but you have to act out someone who either has AIDS or died of it. As you might expect, Magic Johnson is the first performance. Next, Amelia acts out a painter. No one can remember the painter’s name other than “that artist with AIDS.” As it turns out, Amelia doesn’t actually recall the artist’s identity either, so we clap and move on. Excitedly, Ted hops from his seat and pantomimes dribbling a basketball. “We already did Magic Johnson” the crowd heckles, so Ted sits down, looking no less dejected than had he just discovered he was HIV positive himself. A long pause ensues. If AIDS is really killing so many people, how come we can’t think of any? Maybe the AIDS epidemic is as much an exaggeration as the Holocaust.

Finally, I recall the Real World activist Pedro and take a turn. “One word.” “Two syllables!” “Second syllable!” “Boat?” “Row?” “Row!” “First syllable.” “Money?” “Buy?” “Pay?” “Pay!” “Pay-row?” “Payro?” “What’s Payro?” If you were to attach the proper equipment to me, I could generate electricity from my furiously spinning hands. At last, Lacey guesses Pedro. “Who?” From the Real World, I say indignantly. A light bulb goes off in Mike’s head. “Sounds like… sex… fuck… Puck!” Puck didn’t have AIDS, I groan. “Sure he did,” Mike retorts. “They got grossed out at him for sticking his fingers in the peanut butter ‘cause he had AIDS.” Firstly, they were mad at him because he had been picking his nose. Secondly, AIDS from a peanut butter jar? Could it be more obvious that Mike went to Catholic high school?

After a brief hiatus, we try CharLupus. Seal. Mercedes from America’s Next Top Model. And… we’re out. No one else has Lupus? Previously, my perception was that diseased celebrities can’t sit still (Michael J. Fox, I’m looking at you) and have to promote their own causes. Clearly, however, they’re not working hard enough if our games are so lacking for subjects.

Maybe next time we should play CharParisHilton. Instead of guessing the person, we’ll guess Paris’s diseases. That might keep us going all night.


Kitchen Sink

If someone has everything but the kitchen sink, does that include a bathroom sink? Because I'd like to be able to wash my hands, not get screwed on a technicality.



Vitriol Vegas

In Vegas, Mike, Michael Michael, and I took a shuttle to get between one place and another. (This is where I should name-drop two high profile casinos, but after entering more than three of them, you realize how they all look the same.)

Anyway, Mike and I took a seat, while Michael Michael opted to stand, holding on to a pole. Two women in their 30's entered and sat beside us. The louder one looks at Michael Michael and says, "Thank you for standing." Then, after glancing at Mike and I to indicate judgment, adds, "Thank you" to Michael Michael again.

It wasn't Christmas, but she sure cooked my goose. Firstly, there were enough seats for everyone, meaning that everyone could sit if they so chose; Mike and I were not depriving anyone of anything. Was she looking for us to stand up so that she could lay down? Secondly, I think the notion of chivalry is ridiculous and contributes to detrimental gender norms. If she were elderly, pregnant, or handicapped, I would have gladly offered my seat, again, had that even been necessary. In fact, I fancy myself a nice enough person that had there a lack of seats, I would have offered it to another person regardless of who they were. Instead, because she's cranky, self-important, condescending, and looking to take a seat simply because her excessive weave was weighing her down, I'm not likely to be sympathetic. Thirdly, if it were to come down to any one person having to stand, I'd nominate her seeing as it would free up the most space given the size of her ass.

When the shuttle came to a halt, after what was no more than a minute-long ride, the woman passive aggressively said "thank you" to Michael Michael yet again, finally turning to Mike and I to say, "You could learn a lesson from your friend." That's when I nearly lost it, but being as drunk as I was, I didn't want to regret making a scene. Did she really expect us to feel bad for not standing when there were vacant seats? Why doesn't she go take a seat on a rusty nail?

Now, as I reflect back on the incident, I wish I had sassed her thoroughly. My real drunken mistake was in not making a scene and telling her what a deluded twit she is. There was no reason for her to even be on that shuttle, considering she was already riding her high horse.


Viva Las Vegas

Last semester, my friends and I made a trip to Las Vegas, my first visit since turning twenty-one. I've always had a bizarre fascination with gambling, afraid that I'd come to love it a bit too much. I had genuinely hoped I'd lose a bunch of money, have a bad first experience, and never want to gamble again. Instead, I came out ahead by $130 and got stinking drunk off the casinos free drinks to boot. As great as it was, I've been intensely afraid of my strong desire to go back and win another small fortune.

Yesterday, Mike, Michael Michael, and I decided to make a return trip. For some reason, finals' week always seems like the most appropriate time for these travels. To our credit, we studied heavily during the car ride. To our discredit, we were studying The Experts' Guide to 21 and The Little Big Book of Gambling to learn all of the statistically advantageous moves to make in Blackjack. In all honesty, I probably haven't crammed so hard since my sixth grade test on rock classifications.

Hitting the blackjack tables upon our arrival, I had confidence that I could succeed with my newfound knowledge. Except that I can never memorize anything, meaning I completely froze. Split what? Double when? Stand why? Suddenly, I was down $44. That was it. That was the lesson I needed to learn in order to never want to gamble again. Though it hurt, it was certainly beneficial.

Of course, we drove a long way there, so we weren't leaving anytime soon. Michael Michael encouraged me to start drinking and playing craps since that was the secret to my success last time. Why the hell not, I figured, I might as well have some fun.

One drink turned to eleven, maybe twelve. Apparently, alcohol tastes better when it's free. I babbled about nothing and flirted with strangers, especially old people, whom I chose to play beside at every opportunity.

Senior: (after watching me get carded) How old do you have to be?
Me: Twenty-one. (Get ready for the clumsy pass) Are you old enough?
Senior: Oh ha ha ha. I'm four times that, actually.

For the record, and to indicate what kind of catch I was reeling in, I would have guessed only three times that. Hot!

And just when I stopped paying attention, my luck rebounded. My chips were multiplying faster than the old folks and me; soon, I had earned enough to actually be $97 ahead for the night. So much for learning a lesson. Who wants to go gambling? You can't lose, I'm telling you. You can't lose!


Blind Luck

At first, I felt bad about yesterday's entry. It's not nice to make fun of blind people. More importantly, it's not nice when blind people get angry at you for making fun of them. But as I sat down to write an apology today, I realized that blogs are on a medium that blind people can't read. Last I checked, they don't have braille on the Internet, as if bumps would pop up on the screen much like acne on a teenager's face.

Come to think of it, a blind person could enjoy internet content if they had one of those programs that reads text to you in a funny computer voice. Those are so cool. Suddenly, I'm jealous of the blind. I turned on that function, closed my eyes, and began listening to my old entries read by a robot. Life just turned wonderful. I assure you, everything is funnier when spoken by a robot.

Hence forth, I recommend you no longer read this blog: have it read to you.

Clearly, I'm not entirely safe making jokes about blind people. Let's move on to the comatose next.


Blind Justice

Some of my friends are heading a political journal on campus, and they're looking for submissions that somehow relate to national policy. After contemplating topics for a while, I stumbled on to my brilliant idea: It's time our government banned seeing eye dogs. Why should my taxes go to buying someone else a pet? You don't see Uncle Sam giving me the parakeet I've always wanted. Furthermore, I hate being in public buildings and having to endure the smell of dog. You know how sometimes dogs have that scent... of dog? It's gross. Clearly, I'll have to develop this argument a bit more.

Wait, I have a better one. With so many American people unemployed, why are we providing work for pooches? Let's give this job to citizens and title it "Seeing Eye Professional." Frankly, sight is a skill that even the most incompetent of individuals possesses. (Well, except for the blind, but I digress.) Now, good-hearted American folk will lead our visually challenged to the bathroom and supermarket; leashes will be optional, flea baths mandatory.

Vote Kevin, '08.



1: He died last year.
2: Oh no, why?
1: From cancer.
2: He got that again?!
1: No, he always had it.
2: Oh, that would make more sense.


Fill My Holes

For our presentation in my Media & Sexuality class, my group made shirts with risque slogans on them to challenge the safe topics to which our class discussions usually adhere. Some of the shirts included Sister Fister, I [heart] Mormon Pussy, and I'm Okay with Gay Marriage as Long as They're of the Same Race. When I showed up at class, I had my choice of a few shirts. About to put on "I Wish I Had a Cock" as a sort of ironic statement, someone else highly recommended "Fill My Holes" instead, so I obliged. With two shirts left over, I suggested giving them to the professors. That's right, we gave shirts that read "1.5 Years of Titty-Fucking" and "Felch" (click to learn the definition at your own peril).

Naturally, I forgot to take the shirt off after I was done with class and headed to the cafeteria. In the context of class, it's funny; in the context of the outside world, I appear slutty. It's one of those things that, in retrospect, I can recall a greater number of people staring at me than usual, but didn't think much of it.

Alas, no one tried to fill any holes - not even one.


Yes, Nanny

I'm overwhelmed with papers right now. Consequently, I'm also overwhelmed with trying to find new ways to procrastinate. The more work I have, the more distractions I need to keep myself entertained. While writing my twelve page paper now, I've run out of fun websites to browse, having already hit my usual assortment. Unwilling to resume actual work, I'm letting my mind travel to its most random points to see if it provides any inspiration. Finally, it occurs to me: Google Image Search for "Muppet Babies."

This one is cute:

This one, too:

Oh no, be careful in space, friends:

I might have to keep this banner at the top of Kevin Babbles permanently:

Yeah, this paper is going to turn out great.


Pick on Me

Why is there a stigma attached to picking one's nose? I hate the notion of having to grab a tissue if I'm certain I'm just going to have to ultimately reach in there to finish the job. Sometimes, the situation is far too sticky to use anything but a digit. I'm quite certain everyone resorts to this measure in private, but in public, you'll be judged. That's like disapproving of someone taking a crap on the sidewalk: we all know you do it, too, behind closed doors. If nose picking offends you, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't sneeze in public either, seeing as it only serves to remind me that boogers exist.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a rescue mission to attend to: I've got to evacuate the troops from the caverns of my face.



Have I already established that I'm cheap? Because I am: I decorate my apartment with things I find in dumpsters.

While walking home today, I passed one of those people with those arrow-shaped signs announcing FREE TANNING. For the record, I am very against vanity and spending money on something you could achieve for free by sitting in the sun. I suppose cancer isn't exactly cool, either. Unfortunately, I am also against passing up something free, so it didn't take much convincing to get me to try 10 minutes in a tanning bed.

Stripping completely naked, I enclosed myself in the tanning bed. It turned out to be fairly miserable, because not only was it hot, but I was forced to listen to people singing karaoke just outside in the hopes of attracting a crowd. Now, I'm not a marketing major, but I'm pretty sure out-of-tune renditions of "I Shot the Sheriff" accompanied by steel drums will only serve to keep the customers at bay.

After my time was up, I was asked to sign the waiver, which I unintentionally left blank. Not thinking, I complied, even though I totally could have claimed some kind of horrible burn after the fact and sued them for everything they own. Then again, I want neither steel drums nor a tanning bed, so perhaps it's for the best.

Apparently, as of 1:45 pm, I was the first person of the day to take them up on their free tanning offer. They informed me of the raffle they were holding at 2 pm, and being the only one there, I had a "pretty good chance" of taking home a prize. Frankly, I was not about to wait another fifteen minutes to win what I could only imagine would be additional visits to the tanning bed. Besides, habitual tanning isn't really for someone who's so unconcerned with eir appearance and racist like me.

Years from now when I'm diagnosed with cancer, I'm going to look back at this incident and realize how my cheapness finally killed me.


Trust the Midget

Recalling the comedy show I had such a blast at, I note that the advertisement poster featured all of the comedians except for the midget. I make the unintentionally offensive comment that they probably did it so as not to "attract the wrong crowd." Some take that to mean that I didn't want other midgets to show up, but I clarify that they wouldn't want people coming to specifically laugh at a midget, to which Alec astutely points out that his whole routine revolved around having people laugh at him for being a midget. He expresses irritation, because the first thing the midget did when walking on stage was to point to Alec and say, "See, that guy is looking at me and saying, 'Oh look, a midget!'" and act as if Alec had been making fun of him all along.

Alex declares, "Oh please, the midget wouldn't just make that accusation out of nowhere." As Alec tries to explain that he was just a patsy in the midget's bit, Alex loudly screams, "I trust the midget! I trust the midget!" And that - that was funnier than anything that happened at the comedy event itself.


Veg Out

Vegetarians: Would you rather eat chicken or be a chicken? How's that for some not-dead-animal food for thought, suckas?


90's Party

Yesterday, I questioned my decision to make a Nazi joke in my paper. Looks like I should have followed through on my doubts. Today, my paper from last week was returned and the professor didn't like it. The task was to be a critic of something, and being a smart ass, I chose to review a party from the perspective of a social critic. I used more alliteration than anyone ever in the history of literacy, and I still only got a "B." Oh well, I had fun writing it anyway, so I'm going to share it with you now:

90's Party: One Hell of a Time!

The 90’s were a time of teenage rebellion, decadence, and sex. An age of unapologetic hedonism. An era where just about any questionable action could be justified with the phrase, “Hey, it’s the 90’s.”

Leave it to Mead dormitory’s Involvement Tower to adequately bring Pitzer College back to everyone’s favorite decade! After a string of sub-par social events on campus this year, November 5th’s 90’s Party located upstairs in the Gold Student Center was the perfect occasion to redefine a party of both quality and substance.

Jenna Goldfein, the up-and-coming social planner, coordinated the party. She aptly achieved a simultaneous vibe of casual diversion and debauchery and quickly became the toast of the campus for her wildly successful celebration. No one enjoys a themed party more than myself, and the guests’ campy costumes added an aesthetically appealing element to a lively Saturday night.

Though the party’s ornamentation was on the trashy side, it did provide a solid example of how to decorate while on a budget. The computer-printed signs featuring text and endearingly grainy images served as excellent fodder for reminiscing, reminding us of Arsenio Hall, the attack on Nancy Kerrigan, and the phrase “All that and a bag of chips.” Additionally, the dozens of balloons strewn about the floor provided a welcome diversion during dance breaks, as well as the hilarious moment when Student Senate Vice President Alice Tavener screamed because of a self-professed fear of balloons.

At the snack table, a delicious cake with frosting as it is meant to be: sweet, not buttery. For those who haven’t exercised since the 90’s, an ample vegetable platter provided a delectably healthy option: this writer promised himself at least one carrot stick to every piece of cake! The sole dining drawback came from the traditionally salty option: too many chips and not enough dip! Fortunately, however, the spirits kept everyone spirited. Finally, someone didn’t skimp on the keg, with the beer featuring a rich, non-watery taste. In addition, the surprise appearance of three jugs of wine appeased the classier attendees such as myself.

Naturally, the music was the most crucial element of the evening, bringing us back to our favorite dance songs by Ace of Base, Right Said Fred, and Green Day. An overwhelming sense of “I can’t believe I used to listen to these songs” appealed to everyone’s guilty pleasure side; I even conjured up some ironic appreciation for Alanis Morissette. When Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” played, there was such merriment to be had in the mass moshing that I momentarily became unconscious of what it might do to my hair.

Moshing was hardly the only phenomenal dancing. The community’s dancing elite was out in full force, including Kat Conour with her mesmerizing hip swivels and fan-favorite Preston Johnson performing his patented elbow punching step. Claremont rugby star Alex Boskovich’s apparent lack of inhibitions, as exhibited through her wild movements earned her a Troll Doll as a prize, the perfect trendy gift to commemorate her unbridled 90’s beats.

As is the case at any hot event, the party read like a who’s-who of Pitzer’s campus. President of the Iranian Students Association, Raumene Rahatzad, performed his Michael Jackson dance impressions that were so spectacularly spot-on that had any children been present, they’d have been promptly removed for fear or molestation. Socialites Amelia Neptune and Daphne Churchill, a duo that always knows how to make an entrance, received rave reactions after putting their pants on backwards during Kris Kross’s “Jump.”

As usual, senior Ted Carmichael showed up absolutely trashed, causing a ruckus on the dance floor.

“I told him if he touches me again, I’m going to slap him,” complained Neptune, though the threat never came to fruition.

Fortunately, no one was about to let one sauced individual ruin the fun for everyone, and the dancing continued in spite of his presence.

Student body President Michael Pearson came wearing his trademark bandana and ripped pants, looking positively garage band grunge. His date, First Lady Jessica Davis donned a glittery red spandex suit that was so daring, so revealing, so inappropriate that it was exactly what the Spin Doctors ordered!

Of course, Davis’s outfit wasn’t the only thing that had people talking. Her provocative dancing with freshman debutante Amy Callahan added an appreciated amount of drama and scandal to the evening.

“We’re old friends, we go way back,” Davis commented when confronted with the rumor, only adding further fuel to the fire of quickly spreading gossip.

The party was so amazing that even the guests who left to attend Claremont McKenna’s over-hyped Black and White party returned rapidly to the 90’s shindig, undoubtedly recognizing it to be the night’s more colorful option.

At 1 AM, Mead Hall Director Chris Brunelle appeared to ensure the event would be ending as scheduled, eliciting a collective groan from the party-goers, including an especially loud one from moi, who thinks Mr. Brunelle should quit being such a stickler for rules and recognize that some parties, particularly those that involve going back in time, are meant to last all night!


A Trippy Trip

For my Creative Journalism class, I have to write a travel piece. This assignment poses a problem considering that I like to leave the house as little as possible. Oh how fun it would be to get so fat that I could only venture to the out of doors when the fine folks at Home Depot volunteered to lift me by crane. After briefly contemplating composing a piece about crippling agoraphobia, I decide it's best to do a serious topic, like a trip to the supermarket, or something significantly more serious than that even. San Francisco could work, but I know so little about the locale aside from that big orange bridge from the Full House intro. A description of my European vacation would be apt, had National Lampoon not already told my story. I suppose I could write about the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont since that's been an annual destination of mine for almost my entire life. As much as I want to just make a lot of Sound of Music jokes throughout the piece, I know I could approach it from a legitimately journalistic manner and then get a good grade. After behaving throughout the entirety of the four pages, I can't help but tack on the final sentence "Even the Nazis wish they had come."

Two questions:
1) Why do I always sabotage my own academic pursuits?
2) Why don't travel publications more regularly utilize Nazi jokes?

'Tever. You can hiss at me for my poor sense of humor, but if you do, I'll come after you! Oh, who am I kidding? I'm not about to leave the house.


Super Pop

Whenever I have a Blow Pop, I peel the wrapper from the top so that it is still attached just below the sucker and then spread it out so that it dangles like a cape. Then, if no one's looking, I fly it around like a super-hero. Sometimes I even eat it after I'm done playing.



Unwilling to take the flight back to the East Coast, I had a family-less Thanksgiving this year, opting instead to road-trip with friends to San Francisco to visit the hilarious Kurosh. It was great, but the whole time I kept comparing how my experience would be different if I were with my family. Together, the seven of us comprised a group of people who are not the most competent cooks. I had never peeled a potato before: I managed to not only cut myself, but stab Desiree in the process -- there were probably no knife wounds at my family's. None of us knew how to cook a turkey, so we tried the ol' guess and check method in the oven. Unsure of how to baste it properly, we dumped any available liquid on top to keep it moist. Furthermore, there was difficulty discerning the bird's head from its ass, leading to a genuine fear that we might have shoved the stuffing up the butt rather than the neck -- there were probably no anatomy errors at my family's.

Surprisingly, everything turned out fantastic: both the potatoes and the turkey were perhaps the best I've ever had. The dinner conversation consisted of Joan regaling us with stories including the time she got her first period and when her cousin once secretly traded her soiled panties with Joan's so that she wouldn't get in trouble. Now I can't be sure, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say those topics were probably not discussed at my family's.



In Celeste's high school psychology class, the teacher had the class do an exercise in imagination and the subconscious. The students were asked to picture themselves approaching a house and then describe it, as well as things they discovered inside. It sounds like fun except that Celeste missed the part in the prompt that said they were exploring their "dream house," instead believing she was inside of an abandoned house and writing her answers accordingly. So while others' houses were gigantic and beautiful, Celeste's was rotting. On top of the kitchen table, many found feasts and expensive electronics, while Celeste only saw cobwebs. Hence, when it came time to analyze everyone's answers, Celeste looked rather fucked up, which, I can assure you, is somewhat untrue.



Well, I feel better about my family.


I Just Called to Say I Lard You

A while ago, I found an abandoned sweatshirt that I've taken a liking to, so I wear it sometimes, particularly when it's cold. After hearing that it might belong to someone specifically, I did my best to conceal the fact that I was wearing it whenever I was around her. Finally, my secret was revealed, but fortunately, it turned out the sweatshirt did not belong to her. Shortly thereafter, I expressed relief to her that it was not hers, because if it had been, I would have had to tell her she looked fat in it so that she wouldn't want it anymore.

Apparently, some people found this comment offensive. But here's the thing: I would never make a "fat" reference to anyone I thought was actually fat in the slightest. So you see, essentially, if I'm calling someone fat, it should be taken as a compliment. Understanding this rationale, Tanya said, "You can call me fat anytime." Then I called her "lard" and we embraced. I'm such a charmer.


Hi, Dan

Everybody, please welcome Dan to this blog. After learning of Kevin Babbles existence and providing the requisite "You have a blog?" in both disbelief and disgust, Dan says that he reads blogs not to learn about other people, but to see what other people are saying about him, which he attributes to "egotism."

It occurs to me that this phenomenon is true of most of you reading these entries. You all come back from time to time to see if I'm talking about you. Under the guise of entertainment, I am reporting stories about friends, who then feel compelled to verify that I am not entirely discrediting their respective reputations.

With this concept in mind, I'm implementing a new strategy to boost ratings. At a higher rate of frequency, I will be badmouthing the people who play roles in my life. You'll just have to load this site regularly to make sure it's not you.

We'll start with our newest member, Dan. Dan sucks. Not only does he acknowledge he needs my blog to be about him for him to find it interesting, but he is the inspiration for the ridicule about you that is sure to follow. Remember, blame Dan. We all hate Dan.


Random Thought on Children's Literature

The Berenstein Bears... are they Jewish bears?

That would explain why Mama Bear would never let the kids eat candy, having to keep kosher and all.



On Monday, my Media Studies classmates brought wine again. Prior to going, I had committed myself to not drinking, because I didn't want to make imbibing a weekly habit. Figuring it wouldn't be best to demonstrate any alcoholic tendencies in front of my professor/thesis reader, I opted to slowly sip on one glass so as not to seem too anti-social. Midway through class, however, the professor, also participating in some wine tasting, expressed what a great idea it is to turn class into a "symposium-style" and that ey hopes this tradition will continue in future senior seminar classes. That, combined with the fact that I learned this class would be the last time we would meet together as a large group, was enough to sway me to "catch up" to the fellow lushes and enjoy class in an altered state. Returning home on my bicycle (which though illegal, is significantly less lethal than a car), I failed to notice until I was nearly back that I had accidentally turned the gears into the most difficult position, making my uphill ride a complete disaster.

Tonight, I went to an event where two professors screened and discussed some of their video projects. It was great and, you'll never believe it, also featured an immense amount of wine. The Media Studies department is facilitating a rapid descent from intellectualism to alcoholism. Who needs grad school when the Claremont Colleges are handing us the tools to move straight to tortured artist status?


A Fun Mental Image!

Mariah Carey pleasuring herself with a rusty nail.


Stop It, Bobbitt

After being unable to locate Tonya Hard-On, I decide to watch John Wayne Bobbitt: Uncut instead because Pitzer’s AV department owns a copy. I ask to watch the movie and there’s some snickering from the staff as they direct me to a private room in the back. Normally, students view movies in the front, in public view, but clearly I’m being labeled a pervert and must conceal my scholarly pursuit.

“If you don’t turn the volume too loud, you can leave the door open,” I’m told. As much as I don’t want to leave the door open, I definitely don’t want there to be speculation as to what I’m doing with the door shut, so open it stays. Before the feature presentation begins, the video contains sexually explicit advertisements with naked women bouncing.

“What are you watching?” I hear. I turn to see a professor standing behind me. I tell him that it’s for class, to which he responds with a look of disbelief. “What kind of class has you watch that?” Before I can explain, he’s asking several more questions, including “What do you hope to get out of this?” After informing him that I need to write a paper analyzing it, he asks what I’ll write about, to which I can only say, “I don’t know, I haven’t watched it yet.” Another professor joins him and asks questions of her own. Though they’re clearly judging my viewing habits, they’re also staring at the breasts on the screen.

“Sorry,” I say, shutting the door, effectively ending the conversation. Frankly, I’d rather have everyone think I’m masturbating.


Get a Room

In the corner of the dining hall, two people sit, paying more attention to each other than their food. Between each bite, they kiss. He won’t keep his hands off of her, stroking his arm up and down her leg. Together they share food off the same plate. She cuts his meat for him, which might seem unnecessary until you realize that his hands are otherwise occupied, nearing closer and closer to her crotch. Throughout it all, they never speak a word to each other: presumably, their lust is enough to sustain a quality relationship. Besides, why speak when they can rub their partner’s buttocks in public? Of course, my friends and I can’t stop staring. If they’re going to be so openly amorous, I think it’s only fair to make them the object of our ridicule.

When he gets up, a family with several young children sits at the adjacent table. Returning, the guy brings two slices of pie, having so chivalrously chosen the dessert for his beloved. They exchange bites of their pie via some intense mouth-to-mouth action, not of the CPR variety. She pats his back extensively, not of the Heimlich variety. Though it does seem like they should be choking, the way they’re gnawing on each other’s tongues. Now, even the children are watching. Stop it! Stop it!

“Are you watching that couple?” a stranger at the table next to mine asks.
“It’s pretty disgusting,” I acknowledge.

Evidently, the entire wing of the dining hall is mocking the spectacle. Amazingly, the couple remains oblivious to anything but one another, inappropriately touching for the remainder of the meal.

Get a room, and by that, I do not mean the cafeteria.


Shooting Stars

Wow, what an amazing night. In New England, it's not unusual to see a sky ripe with stars, but here in smog-central, it's difficult to even make out the moon some nights. Not tonight, however. Tonight, I see stars everywhere. Before entering the dorm, I stop and sit on the steps, deciding to take advantage of the rare view. As I marvel, I notice that one of the stars is moving. A shooting star! And look, that one is moving, too. And that one is blinking a red light! And that one... is most definitely an airplane. Come to think of it, they're all planes: the sky is littered with them. Initially, my instinct is to stand back up in disgust, but I choose to enjoy it instead. In LA, I suppose that's as close to a natural experience as I'll get.


Go Spread Your Seed Elsewhere

En route to school, I passed a student sunbathing alone in the middle of the rugby field. Bikini-clad, she had a shirt covering her head, so she couldn't see me. More importantly, she couldn't see the groundskeeper, only a few yards away, staring at her body intently. As I approached, the groundskeeper quickly ran to the closest bush as though he had been pruning all along.

My goodness, perverts sketch me the fuck out. From now on, I'm planning on peeing on every plant I see to make this guy's life more difficult.


Wine Whine

At senior seminar class on Monday, my classmates brought seven bottles of wine for about a dozen of us. As I understand it, it's a sophisticated ritual for mature adults to discuss intellectual matters over cocktails. For this reason, I agreed to partake, otherwise, I totally don't think it's appropriate for students to drink in class... or anywhere, really.

As time passes, one glass of wine turns into... oh, I don't know, but it might rhyme with my name, Kevin. I'm not classy, so I don't usually drink wine, so I was pleasantly surprised to find how, let's say "educated" I became toward the end of the class. Under some circumstances, this state might be wonderful; alas, I had to give a presentation worth 10% of my grade at the end of class. Truthfully, I can't recall what exactly I said, but it certainly all went downhill when, mid-presentation, I began choking on a freshly Foreman-grilled grilled cheese. How high society of me.


Tonya Hard-On

My Media & Sexuality class is slowly killing me. Earlier this week, I watched the infamous Deep Throat, the highest grossing pornographic film of all time. It’s about a woman who doesn’t receive pleasure from sex. After one last attempt wherein she has intercourse with no fewer than a dozen men, she decides it’s time to see a doctor. The quack diagnoses her as having her clitoris at the back of her throat, insisting that she will orgasm if she gives fellatio, which, of course, he promptly demonstrates. In the end, out of nowhere, she accepts a marriage proposal from a man who wants to rape her. Presumably, they live happily ever after. Meanwhile, I ran to watch The Amazing Race: Family Edition to cleanse my pallet.

For a paper for the aforementioned class, I’m looking to obtain a copy of the film Tonya Hard-On. Apparently, it’s an exciting romp featuring a threesome between actors portraying Tonya Harding, Nancy Kerrigan, and that guy that busted Nancy’s knee. (I suppose it’s likely that said knee-buster might be playing himself, considering he’s probably not up to much better, except for maybe a prison sentence.) In the flick, Nancy Kerrigan, not having enough attention paid to her, whines “Why not me?” or so I’ve read in the cleverly-titled article “Crackers and Whackers: the White-Trashing of Porn” in my Porn Studies text. Unfortunately, in my journey to two sex shops today, I found it at neither one. At one location, when I asked if they had “Tonya Hard-On” in stock, the two cashiers laughed at me. Excuse me? If I asked them for a DVD of a leprechaun mounting a pig, they would probably direct me to aisle five without passing any judgment, but when I request a little movie about consensual sex between rival figure skaters, I get laughed at. Fuck them! Actually, no, they’d probably enjoy it too much.



Well aren’t we a bunch of negative nancies? California voted no on all of the Propositions. Should minors have to get consent to have an abortion? No. Should teachers have to wait longer before getting tenure? No. Should we provide discounts for prescription drugs? No.

Here’s how the next election will go:

Proposition 81: Should we give all children access to a good education?

Proposition 82: Should we forbid people from shooting puppies in the head without a license?

Proposition 83: How about free candy for everyone?

Please, California. I want candy.


Look Ma, I'm on TV

My episode of The Price Is Right aired this morning. I was on screen frequently, looking rather bored. For a show so full of fanfare, it was one of the most lackluster, underwhelming experiences of my life. If you’ve taped the show, you can play Where’s Waldo and spot me picking my nose, doing a monkey dance, and making an evil face.

Still, the one to watch is Kim. Poor Kim: it was her birthday and she couldn’t be more miserable after standing in line since the night before. When the show first begins, you can spot her laughing, not out of enjoyment, but rather at the absurdity of the unfolding scene and the realizations that she waited thirteen hours for this. Later, when a contestant “coming on down” was wildly slapping high-fives, Kim recoils, clearly frightened by the flailing arms.

Since I wore a gaudy shirt announcing Kim’s birthday to the show, I decided to wear it again today, knowing that Kim would want it that way. Actually, she’d absolutely hate that I wore it again, which is a more accurate reason for me wearing it. I wore the shirt to: the 99 Cent store whereupon a kid gave me a funny face, class whereupon I was asked who Kim was, the voting location whereupon they knew I was named Kevin without showing my ID, and the cafeteria whereupon I met some television groupies who wanted me to pose for a picture and explain how great Bob Barker is, neither of which I did. Later when I noticed an email had been sent to the entire school advertising a Price Is Right trip later this week, I immediately removed the shirt, not wanting to condone such an action. It’s worse than pooping your pants.


I'm Better Than You

Flipping through an old celebrity magazine, I learned that Paris Hilton stole Mary Kate Olsen's boyfriend shortly after splitting with her fiance. Intriguingly, the fiance and the boyfriend are both Greek shipping heirs. Is this a fad I'm missing out on? Are Greek shipping heirs the new Kabbalah? Furthermore, what exactly are Greeks shipping that's making them fortunes? The only Greek export I'm aware of is John Stamos, which is most definitely a Freudian explanation for how Mary Kate wound up with one in the first place.

From another source, I learned that Paris Hilton's boyfriend (which I'm guessing is neither of the Greek shipping heirs because the stories were dated a month apart and we all know the only things Paris commits to are frequent yeast infections, unless of course it's a new Greek shipping heir entirely given how desirable they seem to be) paid a homeless person $100 to pour a soda on his own head. It's quite disgusting that anyone would flaunt eir wealth for a laugh of that sort, but what would one expect from someone who dates Paris Hilton? It's all quite despicable.

Tonight, I shared a late-night snack at The Hat. The Hat offers "world famous" pastrami; I had a cheeseburger. Short on change, Mike asked if he could have three cents. Grabbing the money out of my wallet, I accidentally dropped the first penny on the ground. After he bent down to pick it up, a mean streak came over me and I threw the others at his feet as well, forcing him to take my charity in a manner like the bum he is. And you know what? It was fun. Maybe I have it in me to date Paris Hilton after all. Plus, I once transported the film My Big Fat Greek Wedding to and from the video store, which practically makes me a Greek shipping heir in my own right.


I Don't Endorse Endorsements

Call me old fashioned, but I take my voting privileges seriously. This Tuesday, California has its special election, and I've been reading up on all of the propositions. While most people seem to trust the recommendations of their affiliated , I like to reach my own conclusions on this type of thing.

Prop. 77 is about the exciting topic of redistricting. Someone came up with the ludicrous idea that we should let a trio of retired judges impartially determine districting lines instead of the politicians themselves. The commercials against this proposition feature three scowling old white men in black robes. These are the same actors that play the greedy insurance lawyers in the commercials that deliver the line "They hired Maloney and Maloney? We better settle this one." One of the main arguments against it is that the judges, since not directly elected, are not held accountable to the voters' scrutiny. Has anyone ever not voted for someone for something as unglamorous as redistricting? If anything, redistricting is manipulated in such a way to force people to vote for certain candidates. Propaganda is hilarious.

Since many seem to rely on what others tell them anyway, here are the Kevin Babbles official endorsements:
73: no
74: no
75: yes
76: no
77: yes
78: no
79: yes
80: yes

Keep in mind, I also endorse bestiality, so you should really make up your own mind.


I'll Be Coming on Down Soon

If you'll recall, I made a sad trip to The Price Is Right a while back. For those of you who have sat by the VCR ready to tape the event, your time is near... this Tuesday is the big morning!

To locate me, look just behind the (stage) right of contestant's row. After growing so disgruntled for the length of time they kept us in line, I decided to behave like a nut in front of the cameras, frequently picking my nose, beating my chest like some kind of gorilla, and shouting "Poooooop!" to the contestants as if it were the price of the bracelet on which they were bidding. If any of my theatrics make it on television, I'll finally attain the level of the excitement we as the studio audience were expected to express. Of course, I'd also settle for a nice shot of the petite old woman in pink behind me who was sagging in every area except for her breasts which were lifted so high she could have rested her chin on them. Those boobs were about as natural as Bob Barker's skin tone.

That's right, Bob Barker is gross and orange. Please do not be fooled by his charm, he is a creepy, sexist man. Half of the women in the studio audience were begging for the opportunity to give/get a kiss from him, as if it would cure leprosy or something. His "beauties" are totally the same women from the We Are 18 phone sex commercials; apparently, blonde and slutty-looking passes for beautiful these days. But what do you expect from a society that deems The Price Is Right a valid form of entertainment?



I have discovered the funniest site on the internet:
Bad Scrabble Hands

It will have you laughing for hours.



Looking 'Tarded in 'Tards


A Fickle Exchange

Kevin: You're a very fickle person.
Mike: No I'm not!
Kevin: Sure you are, you're always talking one way about one thing at one time, and then a week later you're the other way on that same thing.
Mike: Oh. I kind of think being fickle isn't necessarily a bad thing.
Kevin: I didn't say that it was, just that you are.
Mike: Yeah, I am fickle.
Kevin: That didn't take a week.


Go Fete!

As a media studies major, I'm expected to attend the Media Studies Fall Fete. Fete? Why not just say party? I think it's just a way to make an often belittled discipline seem more scholarly; I'm also an English major, and I had to check the dictionary to verify that fete meant party. (It's important to confirm these kind of things, lest I show up at a Media Studies Barn Raising event - though I suppose that wouldn't be very likely considering the Amish's sole critique of films would be "the devil's work" or some other crazy quip from their button-less selves.)

En route to the fete, I encounter some douches from the football team. Sorry, I'm assuming and that's unfair of me: they might be douch-y sumo wrestlers instead. These gentlemen have acquired a frisbee and are heaving it at parked cars to amuse themselves. Why, I bet they haven't laughed so merrily since that night they poured acid on a stray cat. After needlessly dinging many a vehicle, they decide on a new target: me. "Hit that kid!" I hear, followed by Cro-Magnon laughter. Shortly, a frisbee whirs by, landing five yards ahead of me. (Judging from their aim, they most certainly are on the football team.) Quickly, I trot past the frisbee as the thugs shout to me. "Hey, a little help!" "Throw it back, dude." First they try to strike me with the frisbee and then they expect me to toss it back? That's less likely than them having gotten into college on academic merits. If I had any intention of returning the frisbee, it'd involve inserting it up their asses.



The dining hall was gussied up for the holiday today. With dim lights, spooky music and sound effects playing in the background, and fog machines, the cafeteria exuded the Halloween spirit. Over the course of dinner, a projector appeared. Excitement mounted for a scary movie to be screened on the wall. Oh, it's scary all right: footage of torture on the part of the U.S. government meant to incite anger for a protest on Wednesday. In the Halloween context, however, it plays as a sort of slasher film with the overlying music and lighting effects, and is actually extremely distasteful.

I love it.


Murderous Rage

Fact: The U.S. murder rate is at its lowest level in 40 years.

Opinion: I still know a bunch of people worth murdering, so as Americans, let's not drop the ball on this activity altogether.


Do You Want to Fight?

"Do you want to fight?"

Um no, I don't resort to physical violence. I don't ever articulate myself in that manner. Of course I'm not going to fight.

That would be my sober response. Let's try my drunk one.

"Do you want to fight?"

WHAM! Punch to the head.

Not two minutes later, I was so embarrassed that I cried. Part of it was realizing how ridiculous my actions were; part of it was realizing that it happened while I was wearing a full-body flamingo costume.


The Warm Tapioca-Filled Balloon

I wore a super costume tonight, Superman to be precise. What made it a bit less super was that it was made for a five-year-old and didn't quite fit. The pajama-y feeties were torn open and hung just below my knees, the back was wide open like a prom dress, and the suit was so tight that it provided a very unflattering view of my penis. As the night wore on, I started to look more like the Hulk because my buff bod was tearing through the skimpy outfit, creating holes in all sorts of inappropriate places, notably my crotch. Eager to get free, my testicles got loose, fortunately masked by my boxers. Some things are best left to be seen by those with x-ray vision.

Throughout the night, the costume led to some interesting encounters. Because the outfit included bulging pecs and abs which people wanted to touch, they also assumed certain other areas were stuffed as well. Most notably, after the hole bust open, Rachel stooped down to fix my costume, believing the stuffing to be falling out. As she unwittingly cupped my testicles before I could stop her, she asked, "What is that?!" "You just touched my balls," I said. Disturbed, she told me she thought it was a warm tapioca-filled balloon. Wow, just like the real Superman!


This Just In

Farts are funny.


Taste Test

I've always had this odd habit of putting random things I find on the ground in my mouth. A paperclip lying in the dirt, for no sensical reason, looks like a yummy treat, despite the acidic taste against my tongue. A broken piece of plastic on the pavement seems more secure in the hollows of my mouth than my more reasonable pocket.

Today I found an unidentifiable brown blob on my mattress. After it passed a sniff test (used to verify that it was not poop,) I popped it in my mouth. No sooner had it entered did I spit it out: I immediately realized that blob was a piece of chocolate. For whatever reason, in that moment, discovering the object's taste was recognizable proved so disconcerting to me that I couldn't stomach it.

That's why I'm weird.


R.osa I. P.arks

Why is everyone so sad that Rosa Parks died? She was ninety-two; if I live to be that age, please kill me. She had a long life, and a nice one at that, save for that one unfortunate night in the drunk tank. Furthermore, Outkast wrote a song about her, so her chances are pretty good that she'll earn her spot in history.

In sixth grade, when I had to write a biography on someone for Black History Month, I chose Rosa Parks because, at that age, I was hardly original. The only detail I can still recall is that when Rosa misbehaved, her grandma would whip her with a switch. In fact, I think 90% of my biography focused on her childhood because that was as far as I read in the research books; I imagine she amounted to something in her adult life, I just never got that far. Still, I can honestly testify that she was one hell of an adolescent.

Here's to you, Rosa. I hope they let you ride in the front of the Hearse.


Lactose Intolerant

I'm done being nice. When I tried to feed Sabrina Ereshefsky cheese today, she played the "I'm lactose intolerant" card. You know what? If she's going to be openly intolerant, I see no reason for me to be tolerant of that decision. It's bigoted and I won't stand for it. I don't accept institutionalized racism or homophobia; why should I accept prejudice against dairy? I don't care how much ice cream makes her sick, there's no way she gets as sick as I am toward her blatant hatred. Dairy cows are some of the gentlest creatures, meaning there's no reason for anyone to be intolerant, especially not for someone whose name forms the anagram "Key heifer sans bras" (an important, topless, virgin cow).


Trick or Treat?

Each Halloween, my parents kindly send me a themed care package. Typically, they include either candy or cookies and, because I'm only a twenty-something, a toy of some sort. Last year, I received a jack-o-lantern-shaped doggie chew toy. When I called to ask my mom whether I should be insulted, she said she hadn't realized it was a dog toy. Whatever. Deciding to get revenge, I chewed it thoroughly and told her so, knowing it would be embarrassing for her to picture her child walking around campus gnawing on a squeaky toy.

This year, amidst a box of frosted ghost cookies, I found a spooky sounds cassette tape. Oh geez, just what I've always wanted! Resisting my initial urge to toss it in the trash, I played it to amuse my friends. The first noises were dumb: half-hearted witch cackles and dogs growling, most likely upset from having not received their pumpkin chew toy. Then came a long sequence of heavy breathing. As the panting continued, it sounded progressively less frightening and more sexual. Soon, sounds of moaning alternated with the breathing, contributing to the erotic tone. When these noises finally stopped, it culminated with a woman screaming. Turning to the other side of the tape, we heard a chain saw, organ music, and what was probably supposed to be bat wings flapping. The flapping faded to multiple cracks of a whip with someone groaning after each crack. Once the whipping was over, it was time for some firm smacking, the distinct sound of spanking, each of which was followed by moans. This ritual carried on for more than five minutes. Now, I'm not saying that S&M isn't scary in its own way, but are these really the "spooky" sounds one would be expecting when buying this tape?

I think I'm going to send this tape back to my parents and demand that they play it loudly for the trick-or-treaters and find out how long it takes before they shut it off in mortification.



"An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away." - P.G. Wodehouse


A New Pick-Up Line

Kevin: Aww, that looks like my bunny before it got fat. She'd always try to run away, and I'd say, "You can try, but you can't get away from me: you're too fat."
Mike: I use that line at parties.


God, You're Socially Awkward

Tickle me Joan Osbourne, but what if God were socially awkward? Even though it’s an omnipotent figure, God just can’t make a decent conversation happen. Worse yet, because God’s all-knowing, it realizes that others are judging its lack of social skills, which sends it into hiding. I mean, God’s like best-buds with Moses, but it still can’t face him face-to-face, instead appearing as a burning bush. A burning bush? Only a socially awkward deity wouldn’t realize that this is a hostile, inappropriate manner to approach someone. When it came time to ask Mary if it could impregnate her, God chickened out and asked an angel to make the inquiry on its behalf. “I can’t talk to her… she’s… she’s… she’s a girl!” Being socially awkward, possibly agoraphobic, was probably the main incentive in God having a son in the first place. With a child, God could send him out to face all the nay-sayers that had asked for a reason to believe, in addition to picking up some groceries while he was out. Yup, Jesus was the answer to all of God’s anxieties. Of course, it might have worked out better if Jesus weren’t such a pushover.


What the Dilly?

At Scripps College, the dining hall staff puts out these ridiculous table tents that supposedly promote better living. With helpful suggestions like “exercise,” “eat in moderation,” “make friends,” and “get sleep,” they offer the most mindless advice since “dance like nobody’s watching.” If I had to guess, “dance like nobody’s watching” will be next month’s suggestion.

In response to these ridiculous things, each time I sit down at a table, I tear them up. If I’m feeling particularly rowdy, I’ll tear them up at other tables. Generally my friends are embarrassed, but I will not stand to let this ridiculous crap be put out to us. Given that they are so banal, I suspect that there are subliminal messages contained within them.

Here’s a recent one that makes me laugh:

Who tries to teach college kids about the existence of slang words, especially since they consider colleges to be the “hottest of hotbeds of slang”? Because I was curious how they would enlighten me on this topic, I went to their website and found some of these gems:

“Yo!” Do you have enough “lettuce” for a cup of “joe? When you order eggs do you ask the cook to “wreck em”? Or do you feel “vexed” after reading this? “For real?”

Language is one of the best ways to get to know a culture. The words people use reflect values, attitudes, and needs. When a librarian says, “Check out that book” he means, “Borrow that book.” When your friend says, “Check out that book” she means, “Take a look at that book.” A mature speaker and writer adjust language to the intended audience. Context also helps make meaning clear. If someone walked toward you and said, “What’s the dilly?” you would recognize that the phrase means, “What’s up?” or “Hi, how are you?” If someone looked in a jar and said, “What’s the dilly?” you would think that person was planning to eat a dill pickle.

I’m still vexed, for real. Check it out, I’m hungry for the dilly.


What's in a Name?

My middle name is Van Deusen. There was once a time that I wouldn't admit that because it sounded funny and wasn't "normal." In elementary school, it seemed like the most humiliating thing in the world, perhaps worse than if I were to have webbed fingers. Frequently, kids would try to guess what the V stood for (Victor? Vincent? Vagina? giggle giggle), but I held firm on its classified status. Only close friends knew, and they were sworn to secrecy. Once, I was sold out by my friend to find out who his crush liked. Now, I take it as a compliment that my middle name was considered a powerful enough currency to obtain that kind of information, but at the time, this Van Deusen was ready to whip some traitorous ass.

For the record, Van Deusen is a family name, my mom's maiden name, in fact. Last summer, my mom and her cousin were discussing embarrassing nicknames in high school. Her cousin said, "And of course there was 'V.D.'" I turn to my mom and ask in the most innocent way, "Did anyone ever call you V.D.?" She gave me a disturbed, insulted look and said, "No!"

I didn't understand her response. It wasn't until a few hours later that I remembered what else V.D. stood for. I'm familiar with V.D.; I take medication for it, even. If I had been thinking, there's no way in hell that I would have asked my mom if she was called venereal disease in school, especially not so casually. For all these years, I never realized how embarrassing my middle name is; now I'm embarrassed for ever ceasing to be embarrassed by it!


This Little Piggy Caused Me To Freak Out

This morning I looked down at my left foot and saw six toes. Anxiously, I counted again. One-two-three-four-five-six. Shit, still six toes. I freak out and try counting again. One-two-three-four-five. Five. Five's a good number. My breathing begins to steady and I decide to double check that last count. One-two-three-four-five. Once more. One-two-three-four-five. Yes, five. There are only five toes on my left foot. I'm too afraid to even look at the right foot. But my left foot has five, as it should. All is right.

Oddly, this kind of thing happens to me all the time.


Ding Bong

Last year, Mike, Preston, and I rescued a three-foot green bong from the donation bin. I'm not sure who thought the Salvation Army could use such an item, most likely it was gifted just moments after its use, but it was funny nonetheless. Considering my entire wardrobe consists of secondhand items, I figure I've contributed enough of my money to the charity to swipe this one thing.

After the bong spent a summer in storage, I took it out and contemplated filling it with birdseed and hanging it as a bird-feeder given its striking similarities to the other bird-feeder hanging outside my apartment. Ultimately, I placed it on top of the television set, thinking it made a funny decoration and made me look like one of "those" college students. For nearly two months, there it sat, never being used. I'm sure regular marijuana smokers would be more diligent in not leaving their paraphernalia out, but since I had no negative stigma attached to the piece, I left it out when maintenance, the RA, and the internet fixer came on separate occasions. It didn't occur to me until after those incidents that people wouldn't realize it was being displayed in an ironic manner, and that I should be more cautious about that kind of thing.

Recently, the RA taped the following notice to our door:

Illicit Materials - Just so you all know, smoking, of any kind, is prohibited in the apartments. Don't forget the college officials can come into the apartments on official school business unannounced. This means if you have things you know you shouldn't have, don't leave them lying around in plain sight. Enough said on that.

Oops. I really have become one of "those" college students. I'm officially, in the school's eyes, a pothead. With the shame I should have had all along, I've put the bong into hiding. Maybe I'll just donate it to the Salvation Army.


Cuckoo for Cocoa

The cafeteria served funny cupcakes yesterday, decorated with frosting and chocolate chips to form a smiling face. Given their novelty, Michael Michael, Amelia, and I all had to help ourselves to one. Quickly, we discovered that these were the richest, chocolatiest (a word? spell-check doesn't think so) cupcakes in the world. Since I'm not one for chocolate, after taking a few bites, I declared myself a vegetarian, or more accurately, decided I would no longer eat anything with a face.

Before Amelia began hers, Michael Michael offered her a dollar to eat it in one bite. After some basic negotiations of the terms, Amelia attempted to shove the cake in her mouth. Alas, there was so much that when she tried to cram it in the middle, cake came pouring out the corners of her mouth. While trying to chew, she snotted herself, unable to clean the mucus off her face because the cake caked to her hands, as well as her hair, and possibly, her brain. Eventually, she had to admit defeat and spit it out. While trying to clean herself up, she said it was the most miserable experience ever, vowing never to accept a bet from Michael Michael again. Never ever ever!

Spying my partially-eaten cupcake, Michael Michael offered her $1.50 to try again with mine. Amelia asserted there was no way she was doing it, that there would be no further bets between the two of them. $1.60? No! Never! $1.65? Before you know it, Amelia was shoveling the frosted mess into her mouth again. This time, though, she nearly threw up. Dejectedly, she had to spit the entirety into a napkin and, again, declared that she would not accept another bet.

A dollar sixty-five says that won't hold true.


Good News

While a group of us was talking about a mutual friend in prison, Joan interrupts to announce, "In better news, my boobs look bigger today."


Homosexual Haikus

I just learned that Connecticut, my home state, now allows gay civil unions. Better yet, CT is the first state to license homosexual partnerships without being forced to do so by a judge. This move is especially important because on last week's America's Next Top Model, Bre thought Kim (gay!) should give up on modeling and "stick to what she knows... liking girls and having girls like her." Apparently, "lesbian" is a full-time profession, so we should really recognize her ability to do her job.

Ted, Mike, Amelia, Joan, Alex, and I noticed that along with Vermont and Massachusetts, New England was the place to be for civil unions. Trying to determine the reason for this forward-thinking, the best we could do was attribute it to New England's colorful foliage, which inspired the following haiku, a collaborative effort:

Crunch crunch go the leaves,
crunching under the feet of
gays in New England.

Because we don't like discriminating, we proceeded to compose haikus about homosexuals in other areas as well.

Whoosh, the waves! Speedo
covering the cock and balls
of gays in So. Cal.

Squeal goes the pig or
the gay during anal sex.
That's the Midwest way.

In celebration of civil unions, I asked Amelia if she'd gay marry me in Connecticut. She said that might be a problem, because we're different sexes. Connecticut might have avoided lawsuits previously, but mark my words, if the government tries to impede on our right to a gay marry just because we're a heterosexual couple, that's bigoted and they will feel my wrath... in haiku form.


No Update

Sorry I have no update for today. I've been up all night having lesbian love affairs.


The Locksmith

Art Collective's closet has been locked for about a year and a half due to a missing key. Because I rarely contribute anything of an artistic nature to the organization, I volunteered to take care of installing a new lock. This idea was stupid on my part because while I'm not artsy, I'm not handy either. Honestly, I felt accomplished after merely finding the lock by myself at Lowe's.

I naively head to the laundry room where the closet is, thinking I can install it with relatively little trouble. Of course, before I can install the new lock, I have to get rid of the old one, a major problem that didn't occur to me beforehand. Hmm... maybe a hammer will do it. I hammer at the lock for a few minutes; though it's not any closer to coming off, I have managed to dent it beyond recognition. Good thing I have a new lock waiting! I ponder new ways to approach the problem to no avail. Well, hammering was fun anyway, let's keep doing that. It's loud. A freshman comes in. "What are you doing?" I'm trying to break this lock. "Are you supposed to be doing that?" Are you supposed to be washing your whites with your colors? Shut up. I keep hammering for nearly ten minutes until I've knocked the front of the lock off the door. Woo hoo! But wait, the back of the lock is still attached!

Because the closet walls do not come all the way to the ceiling, it is possible to climb over the top. I push a dryer against the closet and use it to hoist myself over the edge, dangerously dropping myself into a pit of art supplies. Am I bleeding? Scratches are okay, blood is not. Seeing no blood, I hammer at the other side until that has fallen off in a crinkled metallic mess. Alas, the bolt is still intact, and that's what's keeping the door locked. Plus, I'm now stuck in the closet. I stack art supplies into a pile high enough to hoist myself back.

A hammer is not going to do for this last part. Pliers? I ply at it for several minutes until it becomes a withered mess and breaks off. Perhaps not the most efficient way to take care of that, but a success nonetheless. Let's put this new puppy in. Damn, there's a lot of pieces. The instructions are of no help because they're not in English. Sure, there's a section labeled as being English, but the series of codes and numbers is not a dialect that I speak, and I'm an English major to boot, so I wing it. It works! It works! For some reason I have at least four pieces leftover that should have been a part of this lock, but it seems to operate without them, so we're just going to pretend they were bonus materials or something.

Later, when I go to make the proud announcement of having successfully replaced the lock, I misplace the keys and break into a total panic. They were in my pocket all along, but in that moment I wanted to take a hammer to my own head.

If you're ever locked out of your home, give me an hour and a hammer and I'll take care of it for you.


Pardon My German

Having befriended many a German exchange student during my high school years, I got a bit excited when I was introduced to one at Pitzer recently. I tried to impress her with my knowledge of the German language before realizing the extent to which I am lacking. "Du schieBe bockstein!" I told her, which I think means "you are a shit brick." Fortunately, I did not offend her because apparently that expression doesn't actually translate. When I try "fettes brot" (fat bread), my pronunciation causes her to wince; she's unimpressed. I search my mind for something better and remember that in my favorite German hip hop song, they say the word "Plexiglas."

"Plexiglas!" I throw out there.
"What?" she asks.
"Plexiglas. It's the same in German and English."
In her harsh German accent, she condescendingly says, "When are you ever going to need to say Plexiglas?"

Well, that shut me up. Still, I hope a plate of Plexiglas falls on her head.



Last night we went to haunted mazes located on the Queen Mary (I smell a story line for Arrested Development's Tobias), but unfortunately I couldn't get scared. Each time I turn a corner, I know there's a good chance that something's going to jump out at me. I'm too aware of what's going on and can't escape from my own head in order to get into the moment. Kat suggested that I'm too smart for this kind of thing, then proposed that I squint as I walk through the mazes because that definitely makes it scarier. Apparently I'm not that smart, because I took her advice with no success only to find out she was completely bullshitting me.

Later we met some drag queens by Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (for those of you from the east coast, it's a phenomenon you just wouldn't understand) and they asked us to join them at a bar somewhere; Alex guessed it was located in "Tranaheim." Instead, we opted to go home, but we were approached by some sketchy character asking for a jump. Preston said sure, and we were directed to bring the car back to a dark alley. After not being frightened all night, suddenly I had something to legitimately be scared of. A quick consensus was reached: speed away and don't look back. It was possibly a mean thing to do, but I kind of like not being shot in the head for my wallet. Kind of.


Fallen Angel

Yesterday at lunch, we were discussing 7th Heaven. Making fun of 7th Heaven is like making fun of the mentally handicapped: it's just so easy that it's not fair. I always found it funny how a self-billed wholesome show promoted such crappy lifestyles. Rather than addressing the issue of premarital sex, they married all of their kids off by the time they reached puberty. Rather than addressing the issue of birth control, the parents proceeded to have seven of the brattiest kids in an age when we need to start worrying about population control.

Someone referenced Jessica Biel as being the "hot" one on the show. Since Biel went to Simsbury public schools for a short period of time, I declared myself the expert and stated, though she is typically attractive, she is not, in fact, "hot," but perhaps slutty.

Today, I discovered that Esquire has named Biel the sexiest woman alive. I suppose this choice goes to show how out of touch I am with the rest of society. Apparently, if you're on television and willing to pose in your underwear on the covers of Maxim and Stuff, you earn the distinction of sexy -- supposing you're willing to pose again for Esquire. And look, it's all part of the "Women We Love" issue, which makes sense, since I couldn't imagine loving a woman for anything but her sex appeal. Certainly acting talent had nothing to do with the decision.

Our media is pretty screwed up. To garner attention, Biel has to either be entirely chaste or a whore. She's chosen the path of objectification. If only her reverend parent could see her now. Oh well, at least he's got half a dozen more to work with.


Forever Independent

Tonight I asked many of my friends on a date to see a double feature of independent films. Because we were being cultured, my dates and I dressed up fancy and walked to the theatre. It was just like Elimidate, but without the gratuitous making out. You see, our making out is never gratuitous.

Sometimes there's a reason why independent media is rejected by the mainstream.

I had heard that the first film, Mysterious Skin, had a heavy subject matter, but I was not prepared for the graphic depiction of molestation, gay prostitution, and rape. Worse yet, I had not prepared my dates. As uncomfortable as I felt during some scenes, I was feeling even worse knowing my invitation was causing others to flinch. Generally, it's best to save this type of material for a third date. At least Kat loved it. She's a sick freak, though.

Next was Funny Ha Ha, a concept film. Rather than having a plot, it's just a sequence of random, awkward events in the protagonist's life. While some of the scenes caused discomfort, others were so horrible to watch that it was painful. At one point, I was twitching so much in my chair that I said aloud, "This is worse than molestation!"

Worse yet, because the date went so poorly, I felt obligated to put out.


A Conversation with a Groundhog

Once upon a time, I fell in love with the lead singer from We Are Scientists because he's dreamy and has feathered bangs and sings about robots. He and his bandmates are alumni from the Claremont colleges and over the years have paid their dues by playing shows everywhere. Currently, they have a contract with Virgin and get video play on MTV, which is quite a feat considering MTV doesn't even play videos anymore.

Following that introduction, I must share the following with you because it made me laugh until I cried at work this summer. It is stolen appropriated from WeAreScientists.com.

A Conversation with a Groundhog

Let me speak in understatements and explain to you the life of a groundhog. A groundhog's life is harder than eating two hundred trees in one hour. It is more strenuous than running around Earth two hundred times in one hour. It requires greater strength than putting the moon into a milk bottle. It is like the life of a gopher but two hundred times harder. It is more trying than putting Mars inside Earth twice in one hour.

My happiest memory from growing up is when an eagle dropped from an overcast sky and snatched up three of my siblings, its knife-like talons shearing off legs and paws and an ear and leaving them behind in a great gust of rancid eagle scent.

My favorite dinner is a stick. Once while I was eating a stick I was shot in the face with a BB.

My mate fell through the ice in the lake last winter and was under water for several minutes. When I dragged her out she was still alive but she lost her sense of hearing. In the summer she was surprised by a farmer's thresher, its knife-like talons flinging her everywhere in the evening air. I did not need to tell our cubs because they had died the previous year in a mudslide. Still, I went to the hill where they were lost and gazed into the weeds wondering what I would have told them if they were still here.

I found a child's backpack. It is torn and has blood on it, but the blood is long dry and I sleep inside the big pocket.

I am most afraid of dogs.