State of the Union Reunion

Mike and I hosted a State of the Union Reunion party at our apartment tonight. As per tradition, we got rather drunk, sipping each time a buzz word like "freedom," "democracy," "Iraq," or a reference to God or 9/11 was made. That pretty much did everyone in.

But shit, by the time the Democratic response rolled around, none of us were prepared for Tim Kaine and his crazy eyebrow.

Anyone who watched had to have noticed that thing leaping about his face. Who knew that Stan Sitwell was governor of Virginia?



In an effort to make my blog more like Maury, I've decided it's time for some guest updates. Previously, we've seen their stories and shared in their struggles; now, it's time to see how they're doing.

I'm sure no one has forgotten our favorite Crunker for Christ. Her entire profile referenced her love for Jesus and the fact that guys kept hitting on her even though she wanted nothing to do with it. Well, I'm pleased to announce that Mz. Buttascotch is finally in a relationship! Apparently, now that she's decided she was "okay with being single," she hopped back on to the dating scene. All right, then. Though most of the content on her site is different now, it's good to see that some things don't change like the obnoxious scrolling text. Get cha praise on!!!

Thanks for keeping us in the loop, Mz. Buttascotch!

Now for our next guest, Rachel. When we last left Rachel, she was frustrated that no one would post a comment on her blog. As Kim pointed out recently, someone named Amanda finally responded. (By the way, Kim's latest post on the Hawaiian beefcake calendar had me chuckling for minutes.) Initially, I thought that since Rachel had finally received a comment, she was content and decided to end her blog on a high note. But today, after nearly a month of silence, Rachel posted again. Unfortunately, the news is a bit distressing. If you'll notice, on January 8th, Rachel had just gotten a puppy name Coco Bean. Apparently, she already killed it, because today she got an even newer puppy named Cappuccino. She should really just stick to penguins.



While we dined at the Mudd Hole, Andrew spotted someone in the corner reading a giant textbook entitled Cattle: An Informal Social History.

This is why I love a liberal arts education.


We Don't Need No Stinking Pants

I got caught with my pants down.

At a party last night, someone spilled a drink all over my lap. Drenched in alcoholic stickiness, I was forced to take the pants off. When it came time to make the walk back to my apartment, I found that my pants were still far too sopping wet to put back on, so I made the decision to make the trek back in my boxers. Skipping merrily along the unoccupied sidewalk, I managed to make it almost all the way home unhindered when I saw the security watchperson approaching. Afraid, I sprinted the remainder of the way to my door and shut myself inside.

That makes it two days in a row that I've been forced to flee from confrontation in an effort to avoid having wet pants.


Doo Doo Dean

I'm very much about breaking down gender barriers. Also, I am very much lazy. For these reasons, when I find a (seemingly) unoccupied women's bathroom to be closest to me or, in some cases, less smelly at a given moment , I'll proudly take the urinal-less option.

Last night, finding my bladder overflowing and the men's bathroom to be all the way down the hall, I enter the women's room. I was well-behaved: I didn't pee on the floor, I flushed, I put the seat down, and I washed my hands; most females wouldn't treat the place so nicely. Then, while exiting the restroom, I came face to face with the dean. The dean gave me the most horrified expression ever, as if I had committed the world's worst crime. Here was my opportunity to defend myself and my principles and explain to the dean that this act was of defiance to our gender-segregated society. I could speak so passionately that it would inspire the dean to change policy at our school. I would turn this awkward encounter into one of the most worthwhile experiences of both of our lives.

Instead, I sprinted out of the building. I'll fix the world tomorrow or something.


Old-Fashioned Value

Grocery card shopper saving cards are the biggest scam. To save 30 cents on a spaghetti sauce, I've had to fill out every imaginable piece of personal information so that the supermarket can track my every move. Frankly, I find it a form of distortion - they're appealing to my sense of cheapness in order to obtain market research. Not fair.

Well, I'm sick of it. Until the grocery store can prove to me why they need both my home and cell phone number, I'm withholding this information; I don't need to be emailed about a clean-up on aisle four. A while back, I found on the ground a Ralph's Senior Rewards card, which offers special discounts to the elderly. Though I can never seem to pass for twenty-one, no one seems to have a problem with me pretending that I'm 65. Finally, I've been excited to shop and save again; gone are the days of having to walk to the grocery store through the snow, uphill both ways, like I did when I was a youngin'. Each time I pick up my usual assortment of Double-Stuff Oreos, chicken nuggets, cinnamon rolls, and Bacardi, it excites me to know that the researchers, back in whatever cave they live in, are undoubtedly confused when they study my purchases. "This fogey sure loves Lucky Charms." Ah, there's nothing more deliciously passive aggressive than skewing a corporation's data. Take that!

Oh, and if anyone is looking for an affordable way to obtain prescription drugs, you know where to find me.



Someone just alerted me of a sticker on my rear end. Peeling it off, I discover that it's a label with small text reading: "If You Are Pregnant Or Considering Becoming Pregnant You Should Discuss The Use Of This Medicine With Your Doctor Or Pharmacist."

My ass is like medicine: soothing, slightly addictive, and grape-flavored. Also, proximity to my booty apparently causes miscarriages, so, you know, watch out for that.


Oh, Canada

Laura found the following on her friend's instant messenger away message, which she then emailed to me, which I proceeded to post on my blog. That, folks, is the crazy, fast-paced action of the Internet.

actual sentence in my brother's HS project about canada:

While many people may believe that smoking marijuana is bad, I have been a firm believer in the "Hey man, its cool…" theory. However, the government believes otherwise. With this new development in the medicinal uses of marijuana, the government (of Canada, at least) finally figured out that cannabis can-a-be-used as a painkiller.


Your Mom

For the first time possibly ever, I made a "your mom" joke that amused myself.

M: I always asked for Apple Newtons, but my mom would only buy Fig Newtons. Damn her. Damn her to hell! (pause) Whoa, that was weird calling my mom "her."
K: Only because you spend too much time with me. Did you mean to use a gender neutral pronoun?
M: No, not like that, just that the word "her" seems so distant and impersonal for my mom.
K: I always make it personal with your mom.


The Pen Is Mightier

About to write the phrase "one monotonous tone," Amelia asks, "Is that too redundant?" Probably, but the double redundancy (is that term redundant, too?) make it quite amusing. As Amelia attempts to write it anyway, midway through, the pen dies. Further proof that tools have become smarter than humans.


More Spandex!

I found this old photo in San Francisco this past Thanksgiving. Admittedly, she's no Nancy Kerrigan, but cute nonetheless.


Child Molester

Two semesters ago, I joked with Ted that we should create a Facebook profile for him using just a sketchy photo and giving him the name "Child Molester." This summer, bored at work, I took the initiative myself and set up the account. Because I used his email address, it required a confirmation from Ted himself before it was activated. Alas, Ted "thought better of it" or some crap and it never was processed.

Today, several months later, Ted decided to finally activate a real account. He entered his email address, provided only the most basic of information about himself, and began inviting friends to be listed as his friend. It was not until afterwards that he decided to look over his own profile and discovered an interesting error: his name was listed as Child Molester. Indeed, Facebook must have greeted him when he first signed in with the requisite "Welcome, Child." Being a novice to Facebook, however, Ted probably took Facebook to be a parental figure rather than addressing him by name.

Ted knew to run immediately to me to straighten out the mess. Before I could help his problem, I had to take some time to enjoy it. Checking my email, I saw a subject line announcing "Child molester has listed you as a friend." I nearly peed my pants. Following the instructions, I accepted Child Molester and it was wonderful. Elsewhere, others were finding the same invitation, and not being as savvy to the joke, were probably confused as hell as to why a child molester was soliciting their friendship on Facebook.

To change his name, it required a password. Since I initially set the password, Ted was unaware. When I showed him that the password was "molester," he didn't seem to find it nearly as funny as I did.

Oh, but Facebook threw a wrench into the plan. For some reason, name changes have to be approved by the Facebook staff before changed. Of course, this procedure leads me to wonder how Child Molester was ever approved as a name in the first place, but whatever.

Hours later, Ted is still a child molester. And I couldn't be happier.



Somehow I failed to recognize Martin Luther King Jr. Day this past week. Ever since then, I've felt like a racist. But I'm not a racist: I even like some ethnicities. In an effort to prove this fact to you, I thought I'd pay tribute to Dr. King . Of course, I'm highly inappropriate, so I can't actually take this task on myself.

Instead, I turn to Angela. Angela is a truly talented six-year-old from Harlem who made a record in the early 70's in the hope of spreading positive messages to the world. The song entitled M-L-K actually moved me tears, though not in the way you might think. In my opinion, it takes a morbid turn when she focuses so much on MLK's death.

If you can't get enough of Angela, and I assure you that all of her songs are magical, you can find more at the good folks of wfmu.

And much credit to Alex who brought Angela to my attention.


Take a Bite out of Crime

While laying on the grass today, Desiree and I talk about our classes. During a lull in the conversation, Desiree asks me, "Do you know what this campus needs?"
"A crime-fighting dog."
"What?!" I ask, laughing.
She looks all around as if to verify such a thing doesn't already exist before restating, "A crime-fighting dog."
"It would be entertaining."
Well, she's got me there. The idea of a canine, preferably in uniform, pouncing on criminals brings a smile to my face. But then, on campus, we don't exactly have armed robbers.
"What kind of crime?" I ask.
"Oh, you know... plagiarism."

We'll start raising funds tomorrow.


Yes, Deer

A snippet from today's lunch conversation:

Someone: Was Bambi a girl or a guy?
Ted: A guy! They're not going to make a movie about a girl!
Kevin: Remember, his love interest had eyelashes, so obviously she's a girl.
Amelia: So there are no lesbian deer?
Kevin: Not without eyelashes.
Alice: Did you know male reindeer lose their antlers in the fall while females keep theirs until spring? That means Rudolph and the others must be girls.
Ted: (said as though Alice were the stupidest person in the world) Yeah, but Bambi's not a reindeer!



Alex, upon discovering that Hindus milk the cows that they worship:
"If the Virgin Mary came back to life, I wouldn't milk her."


Deal Maker

My dad stops me. "I like your shirt," he says. It's all right, I don't wear it often. "Is it from Nordstroms?" I got it from a thrift store. "Check the label," he requests, so we do. He's right, it's from Nordstroms. "I remember that shirt," he says. "It's like a 70 or 80 dollar shirt, and you probably got it for what?" A couple bucks.

Guess who has a new favorite shirt!


Search Me

Periodically, I check up on this blog's statistics. In addition to keeping track of the hits, it also reports on the keywords people use on search engines that lead them to my site.

The previous five search terms that linked to Kevin Babbles are:

1. gross face piercing
Someone was apparently looking for freaky pictures of dumbasses who have marbles coming out of various orifices. Instead, ey had the pleasure of reading about the time I had a booger string dangling from my forehead. Hopefully that person read Susan's testimonial in the comment section for extra effect. We can only be certain that I didn't fail to provide in the grossness department.

2. comedian heckles
Admittedly, this one isn't funny; I debated whether to even include it. I could have easily just said that there were four search terms and left this out, but in the interest of being honest, I'm keeping it. I hope you appreciate it, as well as how boring the explanation in these last three sentences have been. Just be thankful I employed a semicolon in the first sentence or it would have been four sentences. Of course, by rambling about my attempt at brevity, I'm certainly not contributing to it, and by discussing my punctuation use, I'm not making it any less boring - except for Amelia.

3. difficulty wrapper charms blow pop
I enjoy this search because I can relate. Darn it, they make it impossible to get the wrappers off! Come to think of it, that's probably contributed to me treating my Blow Pop like a super hero in the first place. I leave it attached because it's a hassle to do otherwise. It's fun to imagine some poor sucker (pun alert!) struggling so much with eir lollipop that ey turn to Google for some solution. Instead, ey just find a new way to play with eir food.

4. nancy kerrigan spandex pictures
You know, I've been suspecting my blog has been missing a crucial element, and I finally know what it is! Though it may be too late to provide for that one searcher, I think we can all benefit from a delicious picture of Nancy. Heck, let's throw in Tonya Harding, too, to make up for the fact that I couldn't locate their porn.

5. naked fat pregnant midgets'
Aren't pregnant people invariably fat? What do these midgets possess? There are perhaps too many questions, including why this search even leads to my site. I draw the line at Nancy Kerrigan! Whoever was driven by this fetish apparently got desperate enough to click on my blog five times using those keywords - unless five different people all were searching for these naked fat pregnant midgets' over the course of a couple hours. Considering the sick freaks that read this site, I suppose anything is possible.



After receiving an insurmountable number of porn emails advertising barely legal girls getting wild on farms, my AOL-using high school friends and I were disturbed by the blatant glorification of bestiality. For the life of us, we couldn't determine why an eighteen-year-old would be attracted to a goat. Deciding that something must be done about this atrocity, I headed up an awareness-raising group called "Stop Humping Sheep," with a goal of getting people to quit ramming rams. Conveniently, the group's acronym, SHS, was also the initials for our high school, so we could shout our slogan throughout the day under the guise of school spirit. Come to think of it, me exuding school spirit was probably highly suspicious in its own right, but I digress. In addition to SHS, we had other catch-phrases like "We don't love ewe." Ultimately, our campaign was highly successful; to my knowledge, not one person in my graduating class spent eir nights doing anything in bed with sheep aside from counting them.

For my efforts, when it came time for superlatives, I was nominated for Class Activist. Initially, I found it amusing that my crusade against mounting piles of wool put me as one of the top three vote-getters; now, however, it's rather pathetic. At that point, I didn't advocate much of anything publicly. It's indicative of my school that you could hardly find anyone representing a worthier cause. But we're talking about a group of people that couldn't even bother to take its yearbook superlatives seriously, so how can we expect them to champion human rights?


Family Feud

I witnessed a delightful moment on Family Feud.

They asked 100 people: What would you hate to be on when it breaks down?

Sensical answers included a plane or a bus.

One family member, however, guessed a great one: an escalator.

Speaking from personal experience, I can assure you that having to step the remainder of the way on my own was one of the most terrifying ordeals of my life.


Out of Order

My sibling, Laura, and I went out to dinner tonight. Laura got stuck in traffic, so for a while it was just Alison and myself sitting at the table. I shared that it would be funny if we had just been pretending that a third person was coming to hide the fact that we were on a date. Like every time I bring up something incestuous, Alison was disturbed. If this denial persists, I fear this relationship won't succeed.

When Laura finally arrived, she asked what I was planning to order. I pointed to the tortellini and chicken gratinati; she glanced at it, declared that it sounded good, and shut her menu. Wait! She can't do that! That's my order! I hate when people do that! I had made up my mind long before she arrived, and she just waltzed in and stole it; she didn't even try to find something else on the menu.

The server returned and Alison seemed pleased to verify that we were not together. Naturally, when it came time to order, that "ladies first" bullshit applied, and Laura was able to declare, "Tortellini and chicken gratinati" before me. Great, now I had to be the copycat. I had to give the faux cute, "I'll have that, too." I had to be the one that doesn't seem original enough to select my own meal. The server smirked, I could sense the judgment. Flustered, I blurted out that I had chosen it first, as a point of clarification. Unfortunately, I made the statement just as the server inquired whether I wanted a salad, and either the server didn't catch what I said or pretended not to, instead giving me a confused stare. Now I looked extra stupid. And it's all because someone couldn't order her own freaking dish! Gahhh!!


Buried in Struggle

You wouldn't believe the drama in my life recently.

Being the antisocial freak that I am, I've been running through DVDs like Kate Moss with cocaine. Primarily, I rely on the public liberry to support my habit, but when I need my fix during non-business hours, I have to scavenge for survival. In the cabinets, I find the first season of Six Feet Under, which my dad got as some kind of freebie from work. Unsurprisingly, it's still shrink-wrapped. I've heard that it's good, but I don't want to start a television series that I'll never be able to finish. Since I have seen copies available at the liberry, I figure if I am to get hooked, I can keep on rolling. All right then, all systems go. Turns out, I do really like Six Feet Under and I watch the entire first season, thirteen episodes, in a little more than 24 hours. Whoops. Shortly thereafter, I head to the liberry, only to find the second season is checked out and I go Hulkish at this setback. Instead, I decide to borrow the first season of The Sopranos, even though I do not want to watch it. Theoretically, I'd like to see the show, but the last thing I want is to start yet another television show I will not have time to finish. Optimistically, I put the second season of Six Feet Under on reserve at the liberry and pray it will come in before I break down and watch The Sopranos. Later, after returning an undesired Christmas gift to Barnes and Noble, I head to the DVD section to see if the store credit can cover the cost of the second season. Heck, I might even be willing to chip in some extra dough for this purchase. Though I would hate to own something I'm sure I will only watch once, I need to do this to establish some kind of equilibrium in my now crazy life. Well I'll be jiggered! Each season of Six Feet Under costs $99! I'll be damned if my own funeral costs that much! I search everywhere to see if any other DVDs are that ridiculously overpriced, but the second highest amount I can find is $60, meaning that HBO must be smoking those cremated bodies if they think they can charge that amount for a single season. I mean, the show may be good enough to send me into withdrawal, but it's not $99 good. Meanwhile, The Sopranos sits on the table for days, staring at me, taunting me. I swear, the very idea of watching The Sopranos makes me want to vomit. Days pass: I've held strong on not watching The Sopranos, but Six Feet Under has not yet arrived. Out of desperation, I begin searching other towns' liberry catalogues. Most districts have their copies checked out (damn small-town Connecticut and its taste for necrophelia!), but good old Bloomfield has all of the second season, except for disc one. I can't just skip the first two episodes! But damnit! So I make the drive, check out discs two-five, and much to my displeasure I read synopses of the first two episodes so that I'll be appropriately caught up. (Honestly, TV should not involve so much reading!) I watch episodes three and four, I'm feeling good, and suddenly I receive a phone call -- from the liberry. My item on hold is in. Flippin' cripes! I put this viewing off for days, and if I had waited just a couple more hours, I could have watched them all in order. But no, now I don't even care to watch the first two episodes because I already know what happens, thankyouverymuch.

Gosh darn, my life sucks.


I Wave My Rights

When I was young, I loved doing the wave. Half the fun in going to hockey games was anticipating that activity. If the wave hadn't come by the time the third period rolled around, the night was a waste.

Since growing more cynical, I've come to deplore the wave as a clear symbol of mob mentality in an already stupid world. If your neighbor is standing up, then damnit, you best stand up, too. I face enough peer pressure as it is, I don't need the asshole in a beer-stained shirt yelling to me about how important the wave is and how our section needs to prove we are the biggest fans. I'm even less likely to participate if I know that a lousy, self-important fucktard is in charge of the operation. Really, who finds standing up and sitting down to be so impressive?

Last night, I watched Murderball, a commendable documentary on the intense sport of wheelchair rugby. Toward the end of the film, the American and Canadian teams face off in the Paralympics. Going wild, the crowd repeatedly does the wave around the stadium. Now as dumb of an activity the wave is, this setting is probably the least appropriate of all. Referring back to my earlier question: Who finds standing up and sitting down to be impressive? People who are paralyzed! To me, it came across as the crowd taunting the athletes. "You think you're the shit because you play wheelchair rugby? Well look at me standing up and sitting down!"

The wave: once moronic, now insensitive.


My Two Cents on Two Cents

After greeting my mom this morning, she informed me, "You didn't write your thank you notes."
"You didn't tell me to!" I replied defensively.
"I just assumed you would," she said. Knowing that I'm that both unmotivated and ungracious, that is probably the stupidest assumption she has ever made.

Initially, I didn't understand the sense of urgency, but then I discovered that I only had a couple hours before it was too late... after today, the postage will be raised by two cents! With five letters to compose, were I not to act quickly, I could lose our family a whopping ten cents. Poverty surely looms.

Though I sass a bit, ultimately I'm in support of all acts of cheapness, so I hastily scrawl my gratitude and mail them. I'm sure FDR would have to leapt with joy off of the dime I had just saved, were he not crippled from polio. I suppose there's also the fact that that's merely an imprint of his profile on the coin, but let's not get too technical here.

Later, Moop reported that the post office was especially busy today, with everyone trying to take advantage of the last minute savings. I'm amazed that in a town populated by people living in homes in new developments costing around half a million dollars, two cents matters. Not just amazed, but proud, as would be the pair of Abraham Lincolns on those pennies. Just think, that's twice the emancipation proclamations. Twice the log cabins! And twice the envelopes marked with the Gettysburg Address - complete with thirty-seven cent postage, of course.


It's a Squirrel!

Each summer, the town of Claremont, California gussies itself up for its 4th of July celebration. There's even a competition amongst locals to see who can decorate their house the best. Amelia and I frolicked about the town, posing for photos in front of our favorites. We were particularly intrigued by this home:

The house had a cute arrangement with children of different ethnicities playing together. Though we found it cliched, we were particularly taken by the figure between the Native American and the Hawaiian. With all of these children, why is there a squirrel in the mix? And why is it playing a drum? After joking about the squirrel for a while, we dismiss it as someone's silly vision of patriotism: individuals of different races and... and species coming together to celebrate the country's indepedence.

Upon closer inspection, however, Amelia made an interesting discovery. That thing we were so certain was a squirrel turned out to be a black kid.

We laughed and laughed and laughed, and then felt a little horrible about it. I swear, that is only the second time in my life I have mistaken an African American child for a squirrel.



You're bound to find them in the audience of most stand up comedy routines: the nodders/clappers. When the comedian says, "Fellas, you know she's only interested in your wallet!" there's that one gentleman who bangs on his knee and flashes an especially goofy grin. When the comedian says, "And sure we say size doesn't matter..." there's the woman who bobs her head furiously and gives her friends a knowing glance while applauding wildly. And when the comedian says, "Every time I'm driving next to a Mexican on the highway, they have eight people in their car," there's that Mexican person stomping and mouthing yes to indicate that ey drive everywhere with a posse.*

The nodders/clappers are those individuals who take it upon themselves to let their fellow audience members know that what the comedian is saying is both funny and true with their vigorous nodding/clapping meant as testimony. It's worth noting this phenomenon is not limited to comedy shows: You can even find these people at boisterous** churches after the preacher says, "And you know the Lord has been good to you!" Several loud people nodding and clapping in the front few rows make the rest wonder what religious ecstasy they're missing out on.

And now - the point of today's rambling. (Regular readers will be surprised that for once I'm actually including one.) On Comedy Central recently, some random comic was doing a routine about herpes medication. Though you probably haven't seen this particular act, you already know the jokes. Herpes must be wonderful if it leaves you wanting to run through meadows! With that whole list of side effects, why would you ever try it?! Anyway, the original commentary the comedian makes is mentioning one of the side effects that says not to take the medication if you are currently being treated for AIDS. "If you have AIDS... herpes really isn't your problem." The joke can be spotted a mile away, but it's slightly funny nonetheless. But here's the kicker: there's a nodder/clapper in the audience. Some person is nodding and clapping as if to proudly indicate, "Hi, I have both AIDS and herpes and can understand what you are talking about." I'm in disbelief. Either this person is unaware of the nodding/clapping etiquette and its implications, or their AIDS must be so full-blown that they've gone completely crazy.

* This is a stereotype I don't understand and wouldn't even know existed had I not heard it mentioned in numerous comedy routines. I honestly had no clue that Mexicans could drive. Oh, I'm kidding. Though it is reminiscent of another inappropriate comment I made.

** Here, I find myself using the word "boisterous" in place of "black." And you thought it wasn't possible to get more politically correct than "African American."

*** All right, there was no third footnote, but I feel that after the previous two, I should be an equal opportunist and make fun of white people, too. Hey, whities, you suck, too! Way to be boring and quiet in church, and unable to ride in the carpool lane!


A Miner Offense

Is it too soon to joke about this?

I know, I know... If you have to ask...

Such a succinct headline and yet never have two words been so wrong.

My mom brings the paper to me this morning, well technically this afternoon, but currently that's equivalent to my morning. Glancing at the page, I laugh a bit too maniacally for the subject matter. I think my mom had anticipated telling me that they printed it incorrectly, so instead she asks, "Do you think they went to press too early?" I was awake last night to hear that a genuine dozen of the baker’s dozen didn’t survive. I had only watched part of it, and only for that brief time because of Anderson Cooper, so I wasn’t even aware of the miscommunication that had occurred.

I suppose it’s easier for me to see the humor here because I refused to care this time around. I did that last time. I stayed up all night until I knew the previous bunch of miners were alive; I was very emotional invested: I even jumped up and cheered. But not this time. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, especially not below the earth’s surface. I sense the public’s interest is waning toward these types of incidents, too. Mining companies are going to have to start employing more women if they expect their next accident to be made into a film. Though the story may be compelling, that script isn’t going to be produced unless it can include Jessica Alba’s dirt-crusted cleavage.

But come on – this error is kind of funny. No I’m not sick enough to snicker at the emotional rollercoaster of the families, but the very idea that a mistake can be immortalized as fact by a newspaper is quite interesting. Currently, the media is outraged, repeatedly asking how this blunder could occur. The answer couldn’t be more obvious: Haven’t we all heard that our neighbor is pregnant only to later discover she’s merely fat? Haven’t we all played a game of telephone where “Tucans live in the rainforest” becomes “Demons ate my underwear”? And in both of those cases, don’t we choose to laugh afterwards?

Well, not everyone. Though I can understand the anguish, the news reported that family members were threatening to “bring arms” to have their questions answered by officials. Clearly, they’ve learned a thing or two about the preciousness of human life! My gosh, it’s almost as if these people live underground.


No Power

My house lost electricity today. This occurrence is frequent in my town, especially during snowstorms. No heat (brrrr), no television (gah!), and because we use a well, no running water. In this circumstance, even toilet water becomes precious. (In case this statement warrants clarification, I mean in terms of flushing, not drinking water.) Consequently, I was caught preparing to pee outdoors, you know, for conservation's sake, not the joy of writing dirty words in the snow.

I enjoy power outages as forced times to live simplistically. Reading by candlelight seems so appealing, but I could never bring myself to do that when I could otherwise be watching episodes of "Family Feud." During sophomore year, I had an assignment to spend a night without any electricity, providing me the excuse to read by candlelight, but I still didn't do it. Instead, I left all of the lights on, played on the internet, and made up my experience. Besides, creative writing is a far more valuable exercise.

Because my house is in the boonies, we're so low priority, it usually takes days before our electricity returns. For this reason, we make arrangements to stay at a family friend's house with other families. The idea of snuggling with other people and chatting with people I don't normally see, again, by candlelight, is exciting. Soon I realize that we're going to a house that still does have electricity, which actually makes a lot more sense than leaving one cold home for another. Still, it seems significantly less fun than I had anticipated.

Bzzzz. The power comes back on. Looks like we won't be heading for warmer pastures after all. With the electricity, I'm able to stay indoors all day, making no social contact whatsoever. And the reading by candlelight? Sure, I gave it some consideration, but I ultimately opt for watching nine consecutive episodes of Six Feet Under, much to my own chagrin. I may have power, but I have no willpower.



While cleaning out my closet, I made another excellent discovery.

I've never seen Hercules. I don't remember this set of stickers existing, let alone posing for this photo. Nevertheless, apparently I am the strongest person in mythology. If any of you want one of these adhesive delights for your own personal collection, please let me know.


Crappy New Year

Well, it's 2006. I don't know why everyone gets so excited; it'll be May before I stop making the mistake of dating things with an '05.

Like the past several years, I spent my New Year's Eve in the basement covered by bubble wrap, surrounded by an armload of cereal, carrots, and string cheese. The true crazies are the people who store only non-perishables: practical individuals such as myself know you need just enough rations to hold you for a few days before heading above ground to eat the dead.

The dead, of course, being the millions of people who decided to party and not barricade themselves from the impending apocalypse. The mere fact that you're reading this entry indicates that armageddon didn't occur, but it'll happen one of these years.

Paranoid? Perhaps, but y'all bought into it, too, back during the Y2K scare. If computer errors were believed to be the cause of our destruction, who's to say that an additional computer error didn't get the date wrong? Some kind of arithmetical glitch made everyone panic about the year 2000, but when the real terror spreads in, oh, maybe 2007, the skeptics won't be prepared or protected.

At any rate, have a good year everyone... it may be your last.