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?