I use pens, pencils are for people that make mistakes.

I have used that quote, which I "penned" myself, various times throughout the years.  Sometimes directed to friends in a joking atmosphere of superiority, and and a few times to teachers and professors in a serious sense of superiority.  Yes, I am conceited, everybody is, I'm just better at it.  Get over yourself.  Most of the time the receiver of this statement, usually in the math area, takes it in the humorous light.  However, I have had the misfortune of meeting one of those people that manages to take everything under the sun WAY too seriously, and I was "excused" from the class.

I have begun to notice something that happens every time a certain professor of mine walks into the room.  I am obviously always there before him, as is the benefit of being an unbelievably overachieving student (and having the bus get to campus 40 minutes before the class starts).  Everyday, he walks into the classroom and immediately casts a very wary, unbelieving, and even slightly scared look in my direction.  It's like one day he expects to walk in and see me laughing hysterically at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or be performing my best Scarface impression with a stapler (it's actually quite good).  Anyway whenever this happens,  the natural questions run through my head:  "Is he looking at me or someone else?  WHY is he looking at me?  Is there something on my face?  Is my face missing?!?" You know, the normal stuff.  Oh well, maybe one day he'll let me know, til then I'll just fine tune my Al Capone imitation and wait til the last day of class....

Last Monday I forgot to write about our new kid.  I don't know how he got into the class when it's past the deadlines, but from the look of him it was a combination of blackmail and murder.  He might be the single most intimidating person that I've seen in my entire life (though I do have a short memory).  Seriously though, I had to hand him the role sheet, and was legitimately scared that he was going to turn into the Predator and eat me.  He didn't kill me though (yet) and class went on as normal...until the professor asked him a question.  First off, the question was somewhat off topic, and one that related to constitutionality and morality.  Second off, this guy looked like he had all the caring, sensitivity, and moral fiber of the Unibomber on meth.  He proceeded to mumble angrily until the teacher backed off, and I can honestly say that for the rest of the year, I will be choosing my seat based on the farthest possible opening from him, in case he decides to simply explode.

I think it would be hilarious if someone was allergic to sneezes.  Talk about a vicious circle.

Today was a very entertaining day in economics for various reasons.  First off, our teacher, who on a normal day makes Goofy the cartoon look like a sane and composed person, was having issues.  Serious issues.  Throughout the whole class, he was struggling to write and speak anything.  Normal examples for him were like trying to decided which wire to cut to defuse a bomb in a orphanage.  No joke, he had the decisiveness of a paranoid schizophrenic with daddy issues.  Then, in our class of somewhere around twenty, he realized that we have two girls named Alecia and Alicia.  Just as any normal human would do when dealing with supremely insecure young women, he nicknamed them.  He noticed that one name had one "i", and the other had two, so he called one "Cyclops".  Wow.  May god have mercy on this guys daughter.

Later on in the class, while paying immaculate attention to the lecture about shmeh, I began to think about Harry Potter, like all of you should be doing.  I began weighing the options for the opening night of the new movie (Nov 19) and was thinking about dressing up.  Judge away, if you're not at least considering it then I do not value your opinion at all.  Anyway, I noticed that this release will be comparable to a combination of Christmas and Halloween.  Halloween because everybody will be in costumes, and Christmas because, well, it's obviously the best present I will be getting this year.

Fear of the Day: Phobophobia- The fear of being scared.

Shout out to Sarah Tanner.

Flying is learning to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

Holy shizzle.  On the bus today, one of the peeps sitting somewhere near me definitely smelled like weed.  No scratch that, that guy (or girl) was growing it.  On the bus.  It was strong.  I'm pretty sure just on that ride I got contact high, passed out, sobered up, and got high again just from being in the same area code as that person.  California, you're doing your best to fulfill stereotypes.  At least the bus is a constant source of entertainment, cause if I didn't have all those ridiculous fellow companions, that bus ride would rank somewhere between sticking my hand in a toaster and stapling my lips together.

Sleep is a great way to listen to an economics lecture.

The one thing I have noticed is that I'm pretty sure I live in the tv show "Scrubs".  As in when I put on my ipod, everybody begins living in pace with whatever song I'm playing.  Like everything from people bobbing their head to the same beat, to the bus driver methodically pumping the brakes on time with the drum, even the grandma behind me kicking the seat perfectly in sync.

I am offically creating a tradition for Sunday football where I am bringing my mattress into the living room,  stocking up on snacks like the nuclear apocalypse is the next day, and basically going into some half-conscious form of hibernation for the following 12 hours.  Trial Run 1 was a huge success, and there look to be many more in the future.  Feel free to join, snacks are required, and probably bring your own mattress unless you are not a guy (I'm not homophobic, but I am selfish).

After watching the movie "50 First Dates" I am convinced of two things: One, that Lucy Whitmore (played by Drew Barrymore) is the second most perfect girl for me (right behind any character Kate Hudson has ever played), and Two, that Eggo Waffles should merge with Lego toys and create buildable waffles. First off, the slogan could then be "Leggo my Lego Eggos" which is obviously amazing.  Second, aside from then making it impossible for parents to teach their kids not to play with food, breakfast could actually be fun (like those lying bastards at Cheerios company tricked me into thinking all those years ago...).

Regardless of the absolute ridiculousness and absurdity that ensued during the opening games, and nevermind the actual outcomes of the games, I am unbelievably excited that regular season football is upon us.  My life just got two to three times better.

A quote that I recently heard from my late friend Mark Twain is becoming increasingly true as life goes on, "The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not."

State of the day:  Confusion. (And Connecticut.) 

Shout out to Meredith Roberson.

Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks.

I feel like this is very true.  My close personal friend J.K. Rowling once wrote, "It's a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up."  I don't know why I'm even upset, as if I even get any checks in the mail.  I'm pretty convinced that there are little machines somewhere that transform the millions of dollars in checks that I should be receiving into bills.  It's the only logical explanation.

In accounting, while writing this blog, a male and female saw what I was doing and sparked a conversation about blogs.  The male, who will go by Mickey, and the girl, Minnie, began verbally vomiting on me about their ideas for a blog.  Besides the fact that I was barely restraining myself from slapping them in the face with a big ol' handful of "Who Gives a Shit", I was able to painfully endure their conversation.  It was towards the end of the class, so class had basically ended and after pelting me with their "brilliant" ideas for music, fashion, and self-help blogs, they eventually asked me what I blogged about.  As I packed up the last of my things, I calmly told them that I blogged about what would happen if a cow exploded on a commercial airline flight, and walked out of the class.  I have a creeping suspicion that Mickey and Minnie will be sitting on the other side of the room next Tuesday (though I'm not devastated about the idea).

On campus today I was walking by the library, passing all of the vending machines, and noticed that we have a a vending machine for Doritos.  No, not like a snack machine that includes Doritos, I mean an entire machine devoted Doritos.  Whoever is in charge of the Doritos company is getting a little big for his/her britches, in my opinion.  Also, the sheer number of vending machines present was slightly disturbing.  At this point, I think we should just through formalities to the wind and go ahead and start making vending machines selling pure cholesterol, or at least cheeseburgers (McDonald's, hop on it).

On the way back from school, I once more passed what could be my least and most favorite billboard ever.  It's not that it's design is outrageous. It's an advertisement for a casino here in California.  No biggie fries there, still normal.  It's the guy in the picture.  Phenomenal.  Of course he is playing poker and wearing some seriously bad looking sunglasses, but that's not even it.  I think the only way I can describe this to you is, and work with me here, if you took Chandler from friends, The Situation from Jersey Shore, and that "Check out my new haircut" guy, and mixed them all together.  If your brain didn't just explode from the ridiculousness of this mental image, then you have a general perception of what this guy looks like.

Also, if you frequent this blog then you will be up to date with this next part.  If not, please recede back to the last blog post and refer to the section on "morning people".  Anyway, this morning I had the exceptional pleasure of having a one-on-one experience with what I call a "Morning Demon".  Our rendezvous went as follows:  I was calmly and half-consciously walking towards the business building.  Captain Insano was storming down the hill from the other direction, with enough force to break the sidewalk.  We come upon the age old conflict of walking straight at each other and not knowing who's going which way.  I begin to give the semi-awkward smile, acknowledging our plight, when Mr. Gonnakillyou, with all the grace and composure of Andy Dick after a 13 day coke binge, screams at me (voice crack included), "Get the f**k out of my way G*******t!!"........  Wow.  Good morning to you too, sir.  Please feel free to walk in from of the next available train.

House elves.  House elves should be a legitimate commodity.  How sick would that be.  I have to admit that this was not fully my idea, but that of my roommate, whom I shall call Shaggy.  Our apartment would be infinitely cleaner if we had house elves.  Yes, this was a Harry Potter reference, and if you did not get it, or have not read the Harry Potter series, do not attempt to make any form of communication with me until you have done so.  If you haven't read Harry Potter but have read Twilight, follow the last sentence of the previous paragraph.

Shout out to Davis Paul.

The average person thinks he isn't.

Not me though, I don't think I'm average, I don't think I'm not average either, I think I'm just over thinking this.

I highly doubt that the saying "the path to hell is paved with good intentions" is true.  In fact, I am very skeptical that there is even a path to hell, and even more skeptical that it would be paved.  That would be optimism at it's absolute peak.  Unless it was paved with bear traps.  That sounds more reasonable.

In the past few days, I have come to realize that sleep is a very important part of my daily (or nightly) life.  In fact, when I decide not to partake in this little hobby, my life begins to fall apart at an alarming rate.  It's relatable to a black hole of sleeplessness and emotions.  The less I sleep, the more irrational and angry I get, then I get angry at myself for being angry at nothing.  Then I'm pissed when I try to go to sleep, and eventually spiral downwards into an abyss of self loathing until I implode.  That, or I take a nap and everything goes back to normal. I can see it now:"E! True Hollywood Story: I Have A Sleep Addiction."

A wise man once said "Nothing is wrong with California that a rise in the ocean level wouldn't cure."

I've recently noticed that nobody really gives a shit if you're miserable, so you might as well be happy.

As I walked to my accounting class this morning, I noticed something else about the students there.  And I mean real world morning, not the college student morning (aka noon-2 pm).  Anyway, I've noticed for the most part that there are only two different kinds of people that early: There are the pleasant, awake, and ready-to-go people, and then there are the rage-pumping, absolutely infuriated people who look like they are one wrong look from legitimately bursting into flames and spewing napalm on everyone within a 15 foot radius.

After I made my way to my class (had to take to long route to avoid the abnormal number of "I-hate-the-world"-ers this morning), I sat down to indulge in some high quality and extensively learning.  In other words, I sat down and immediately opened my computer, opened Safari, and partook in my Fantasy Football Draft.  Also, I have what I call my "Anti-School Journal" which is basically a notebook that I use to distract me from school (drawings, crosswords, etc).  Learned a lot today, needless to say.

Every day I get up and look through the Forbes list of the richest people in America.  If I'm not there, I keep looking for a job.  If you can help, call me.

Random Fact of the Day: The most money ever paid for a cow in an auction was $1.3 million.

Shout out to Robby Paine.

If you live everyday as though it's your last, eventually it'll be appropriate.

That's very true.  It's just the other several thousands of days that people would think you're raving lunatic.  Especially if you live like Chicken Little.  I'm pretty sure I could've shut him up (if I had the services of a deep fryer and some Louisiana Hot Sauce).....wow that was morbid...

As of yesterday, I noticed that I am actually being taught the Principles of Macroeconomics by none other than a Leprechaun.   Seriously, he can't be more than five feet tall, has remnants of red hair, and has the weirdest speech patterns of anyone I've ever met.  He wore a bright green shirt today and I almost lost it.  All he needed was the top hat and he'd be perfect.  I kept waiting for him to start dancing around the room, throwing marshmallows and then run out the door screaming "They're after me Lucky Charms!!"  Probably would've made the class a little more interesting.

Tips:  If you can't fix it with a hammer, you've got an electrical problem.  Either way, if you can't fix it with WD40 or Duct Tape, you're absolutely screwed.

Last night, me and a couple friends decided to have a movie night.  We chose "Where The Wild Things Are".  For the most part, we all had the same reactions after the movie (except for one guy who ditched in the middle of the movie, I'll call him "Benedict Arnold").  Regardless,  me, Will and Grace finished the movie like champs, and upon it's end, sat in a state of awkwardness.  I'm not really sure how I felt about it as a whole because it was a little weird for me, but I'll be damned if I didn't experience an emotional roller coaster that rivals that of a ninth grade girl who was just cut from the cheerleading team on the same day her boyfriend dumped her, and then won a million dollars.  Oh well, next week is Wall-E, so that should be a little more uplifting and manageable.

This morning on the bus ride to class, the bus driver (a 45-50 year old woman with a rat tail) decided that she wanted to change the radio station from the more-than-bearable classic rock station, to EXTREME oldies.  I just want you to envision with me how awkward it is to be sitting next to three football players, each roughly the size of Goliath, one 60 year old could-be grandmother, and two extremely young japanese people, all while "When a Man Loves a Woman" is screaming over the speakers.  Yea, not a situation I plan on being in ever again.  (If you've never heard the song, YouTube it for the full experience.)

Right now I am in accounting, and my accounting teacher, a messy redheaded nerd with glasses, just did an entire problem based on the movie Legally Blonde.  Is this real life?

In the words of Ricky Bobby, "If you don't chew Big Red, then fuck you."

Shout out to the "Diabeetus" guy.

Organized people are just too lazy to look for stuff.

So technically cluttered people are the better species.  Suck on that,  Container Store. We don't need you.  Albert Einstein once said, "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?"  (I have absolutely no creditable sources to prove that quote was actually from Albert Einstein.)  I love that quote, though.  I love any quote that means I can be lazy, messy, etc.  Quit with your judgement.

For all of you that don't religiously follow my facebook status updates, you need to start.  Just kidding.....but seriously.  Anyway, I can forgive.  What you've missed is the hilarity and chaos of a roadtrip I took down to San Diego.  Actually, not even the whole trip, just the ride back, if you can even call it that.  I was traveling with three friends, whom I shall call Hermoine, Fred, and George...... Let's begin:

In short, everything was going swimmingly until George's car went on a killing rampage.  We barely escaped with our lives.  First the alarm went off.....for roughly 13 consecutive hours.  No, that is not a joke.  It completely killed the battery.  So we did what anyone would do, we jumped the car.  Then the alarm came back on and killed the battery again.  So after about an hour and a half of jumping the battery with three different cars, starting it, and having it die because of the goddamned alarm, we decided to start fighting back.  And we did it with one of the deadliest weapons of all time: A pair of purple Crayola brand kindergarten scissors.  Oh yea.  Shit went down.

After hours of extensive research (5 mins on an iphone), we started cutting wires.  Surprisingly, and I mean VERY surprisingly, it worked.  Huzzah!  Well, kind of.  We took the fuse out of the horn, cut the LED lights to the alarm, cut all wires to the siren, completely took out the alarm system, and just for good measure, cut two more wires and took out some box that does something or other.

          

Now for the physical activity.  At this point we have established two things:  We can push start the car, and this car is the automotive spawn of Satan himself.  Hey, I like that.  I'm going to refer to the car as "Spawn" for here on out.  So after pushing Spawn a couple hundred yards off of the main road and into an apartment complex, we began sprinting, well "sprinting" is a relative term.  Anyway after four or five more tries we finally got it started, and proceeded to keep it turned on a running for the next 5-7 hours, including while filling up with gas (yes it's possible, I felt like I was on mythbusters).

          

So we get on the road, and are making our jolly way up the 5, perfectly on schedule to miss my economics class, when Spawn remembered that it hates us.  Seventy-five miles an hour down I-5 and BOOM!  What else could possibly make this experience better than a blown out tire at four in the morning.  Shoot me now.  It actually went okay for being stuck on a busy interstate in the middle of God-knows-where in the wee hours of the morning.  Our new mexican friend name Caesar was a very efficient and skilled worker, and we were right back on the road an hour later at full speed.

         

Oh wait, that's not true at all.  Because of our flawless planning and safety net plans, we were now cruising on an emergency tire with a maximum recommended speed of 55 mph.  Speed demons, that's what we were.  There go all my hopes and dreams of making it to my 8am econ class (Oh darn) Honestly though, there are very few things in this world as humbling as being passed by over 50 semi trucks and minivans.  I felt like a fat kid in a race.

          

Regardless, in our state of Stage 7 Delirium, we manage to get all the way to Elk Grove, where we could finally indulge in the one thing on this planet that can cure everything from hunger to insomnia to cancer (maybe): Chik-fil-a breakfast.  The glorious holiness of a chicken egg and cheese biscuit provided us with the stamina needed to push on, make Spawn our bitch, and finish the trip home.

And I can't forget to mention that during this whole adventure, George was battling with a severe, near death-inducing case of the Whooping Cough.  Thank you Halls, we owe you one.

The only other redeeming factor was that while we were flying down the interstate at the blazing pace of handicapped molasses, I am sufficiently convinced that we were passed by at least 6 out of the 10 main autobots and decepticons.

That was a long story, thanks for sticking with me.  If you didn't, then leave, you are not welcome here.

Screw the flu, AIDS, and the common cold.  The yawn has got to be the most contagious thing in the entire world.  The yawn is the slut of all natural bodily actions.  Quote me on that.

I don't know if you've ever watched the show Community, but you should.  It's hilarious.  Also, it's scarily accurate.  The student body at a community college is probably the most diverse thing I've ever seen, bar none.  Here are some examples:  There is a girl that finds it necessary to wear cat ears and a tail everyday.  It's like your six yr old Halloween costume, except she's 20 years older and fat (it's not mean if it's true).  Second, there are countless Japanese people fulfilling stereotypes perfectly.  For example, their hair looks like they just got beat up by a freaking rainbow.  Some of it looks good, but some people look like they ran headfirst into the wall of spray paint cans at Walmart and kept it that way.

God bless America.

Shout out to Virginia Hirschey.

The lottery is just a tax on people who are bad at math.

I'm sorry if this offends you (no I'm not), but some people blow my mind.  If they spent half the money they spend on lottery tickets on things they actually need, they wouldn't need to win the lottery.  A scratcher or four every now and then is fine, but it's the people that get 5 scratchers for $4 each and a state lottery ticket everyday.  These are the people that make me think that humanity's gene pool could use a little chlorine.

I find that almost all generalizations are false.

I also find it very ironic that I saw a Snorkle on a Land Rover the other day.

I would like to proudly claim that I have officially found the easiest class in all of college: History of Motorsports.  Hold your horses though, cause I know you already have an idea of how easy you think it is.   Do me a favor, however easy your perception was, quadruple that.  Then multiply that by 62.  First off, the class is taught by Duke Buzza (yes, seriously), a man who I'm convince is the redneck brother of Albus Dumbledore.  Duke has three things that really make him stand out as a winner in my book: 1- He refuses to fail anyone, 2- He gives out Snickers in class as rewards (welcome back to kindergarden), and 3- He loves NASCAR (vomit).  Anyway, "The Buzz Saw" as I like to call him, has decreed that during the semester there will be 3 quizzes and 1 final exam.  If you decide not to take any of these, but still make it to every class (it's a once a week class), then you will receive a C.  Legit.  I can literally show up to class, and not take a single quiz or even the final, and still pass the class.  This is how I want life to be.  Furthermore, The Buzz Saw doesn't like words.  How do I mean?  I'm talking like every quiz/exam is made up of multiple choice PICTURES.  When he dropped this nugget of information on me I actually got choked up.  Needless to say, this will be the most valuable class in my entire college career, and I am more than happy to suffer through it.  Side note: I have reason to believe that two of my classmates are actually members of ZZ Top.

While we're on the topic of schooling, I have come to realize that taking a year off of school has some repercussions.  Besides the obvious, I have noticed that not only does my hand get tired after approximately six words, but my handwriting has regressed to that of 1st grader with random hand spasms.

Blue Jolly Ranchers may be the greatest achievement of all humanity.

So last night, me and a few friends were graced by one of their brother's connections.  For privacy's sake, I will call the brother "Okobojo".  Anyway, so Okobojo now manages a new club/restaurant in San Diego, The Beachwood.  To start, the Beachwood is incredible.  Okobojo comped all drinks and services, roughly amounting to the price of a small airplane.  We had our own personal bouncer and bartender who catered our bottle service.  I don't want to say it went to my head at all, but I may have started telling people I was Johnny Depp's younger brother and that I was on "Forbe's Top 100". Besides getting felt up by a 35 year old, and some people that "get a little jealous sometimes" (inside joke and you're not cool enough to know), it was a relatively calm night.  Actually that's a bold faced lie, but I'm not going to elaborate on a public website.  Stop trying to poke your nose into other people social lives.  You disgust me.

A guy I know, let's call him "Herald", wants to start an underwater minigolf course and name it "Sub Par".  I want to start a carpet selling business called "Carpet Diem" with the slogan "Seize the Rug!".  Me and Herald would have the punniest businesses ever.

Saw a bumper sticker the other day that said "Only God can judge Osama and Hussein, but it's our job to arrange to the meeting."

Animal of the day: Horse

Shout out to Peter Grap.

I used to be a butcher, but I backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in my work.

Wow I almost butchered that one.  I'm just kidding though, I have never been a butcher, I've never even gotten to meat one. Oh well.

If you don't listen to anything I have to say (which is probably a good idea), then at least listen to this.  Go get bread, bbq sauce, ranch, and black pepper Kettle Chips, and put all that together.  If you don't want to be blown away by the sheer awesomeness of this sandwich, then do not eat it.  Don't even look at it.  Call somebody with a bigger set of balls to come get it for you.  On the other hand, if you are ready to have your taste buds rocked in a way you've never even heard of, then by all means, eat away.  And you're welcome.

So today was the first day of school for me and most of my homies (yea, I said it).  For most that means just school, but for me it means a lot more.  To me, it means I wake up at 6am (I didn't even know that time existed), walked to a bus stop half a mile from my house (cause I'm an idiot and dont have a car), ride 45 mins to school, and get to an economics class at 8am.  Yes, that is the whaaaaambulance you hear, and it's comin in hot.  I've noticed two things about 8 in the morning.  First off, I might be one of two normal guys in my class. The rest of the class is either girls or football players.  Secondly, I am coming to realize that at 8am, I have the learning capacity of a blender.  This should be an interesting semester.  Can I get a hoorah for classes without attendance policies?

The bus, however, could be the most diverse situation I've ever been in, but I won't go into that now.

Another thing I noticed today was the damn near unfathomable awkwardness of the first carpool with a new person.  To explain, I'll narrate the thoughts and words of each the driver and the passenger.  Let's begin:

[spoken]

Driver: "What's up."

Passenger: "Hey man, thanks for doing this."

Driver: "Not a problem, it's all gravy."

[thought to themselves]

Driver: "Did I just say "gravy"?!?  Why the hell did I just say gravy?!?"

Passenger: "Did he actually just say "gravy"?!?  I hope this guy's not a rapist."

Driver: "I hope this guy's not a murderer.  I wonder if he's gonna pay for some of my gas."

Passenger: "Shit, I hope he doesn't want me to pay for gas."

Driver: "Should I turn on music?  I have no clue what he likes..."

Passenger: "Well this is a pretty solid awkward silence."

Driver: "Screw it, I'll just turn on the music, skip a few songs, and then say, "Here, you can choose.""

Passenger: "I don't know what to do with my hands.  It feels awkward to just have them in my lap.  Should I hold the "OH SHIT" handle?  Is he gonna be offended if I do?"

Driver: "Is he holding the OH SHIT handle? Why?!  Am I really driving that badly?!"

Passenger: "Crap. I don't know what to listen to! Why did he have to hand me the ipod?! I'll just put it on shuffle..."

Driver:  "Holy shit you have to be kidding me.  Of all 7,436 songs I have on my ipod, N'Sync WOULD come on."

Passenger:  "Seriously? N'Sync? Get me out of this car."

Driver: "Shit. Traffic."

Passenger: "Shit.  Traffic."

Driver:  "Should I talk about class or something? I literally have nothing in common with this guy."

Passenger:  "Please don't say anything to me, we've already passed the point of no return with awkward relationships."

Driver:  "There it is! I can see his house!"

Passenger: "Ah! Home! I'm so close!"

[spoken]

Driver: "Later man."

Passenger: "Yea thanks for the ride."

Driver: "No problem."

[thought to themselves]

Driver: "That cheap bastard didn't even offer to pay for gas..."

Passenger:  "Time for some nachos..."

That's a rough summary at least.

Movie of the Day:  Shrek.

Song of the Day:  "Let Me Clear My Throat" by Funkmaster Flex & DJ Kool.

Shout out to Kaitlin Wheeler.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge." -Albert Einstein

Good.  Because I have the imagination of a 4 year old on acid. (Slightly weird mental picture there.)  Unless it's referring to useless knowledge, I'm chock full of that crap.  If you ever need to know how blimps there are in the world (13), or how many calories you consume when you lick a stamp (1/10), you're only one text away from being enlightened.  Or you can keep reading this blog, it's really your decision.

I recently realized that I like making people laugh.  However, when I hear a joke and decide to remember it for later use, I do not think about whether my friends would think it's funny.  Instead, I legitimately think, "In twenty six years, when I'm in a business meeting with several men of equal or greater age, and the meeting cannot start yet due to a certain person's tardiness, could I tell this joke to ease the awkwardness?  Would it be funny, yet not diminish my professional appearance?  Yes? Then store that shit away."  I call those "meeting-beaters".

Imagine if you were a drummer, and you accidentally picked up two magic wands instead of drumsticks.  There you are, keeping the beat, the next thing you know, your bass player turns into a can of soup.

That last one was not me.  That was the late Mitch Hedberg, I was just thinking about that joke and decided to borrow it.  I miss you, Mitch.

I'm glad everybody's getting back to Chico.  Before recently, I've had the social life of a waffle iron.   It's been somewhat repetitive.  I can finally leave my apartment again.  Hooray for populated cities.

I bet Spiderman is amazing at making hammocks.  In other news, has anyone seen my hammock?  It's been missing for about 2 years, so I realize this is a little late, but it doesn't hurt to try.  And I could really use some in-tree, suspended relaxation.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said "JESUS SAVES, at Bank of America."  Thought that was humorous.  Also, there is a bone called the humerus, which I think is the scientific "funny-bone".  GET IT?!?  Score one for anatomy puns.

I'm starting to notice things about people when they text.  Maybe I'm just a chapter behind, but I feel like you're either a "lol" person or a "haha" person.  There is no overlap.  It's like, subconsciously, we are dedicated to our team, and refuse to support the other.  It's a rather funny battle.

Well, it's early in the morning (12:17pm) and I am running out of creative juices.  If I were an airplane, I would be crashing and burning.  Okay, that's a little dramatic, I would probably just be landing earlier than planned at a closer airport.

Word of the Day:  Nom.

Shout out to Mr. and Mrs. Blofsky.

A professor is simply one who talks in someone else’s sleep.

Who's ready for school to start?!?!  If you answered "yes" then slap yourself.  If you answered "no", congratulations on not being stupid.  At one point, I was delirious enough to actually think I was "ready for school start", that I was "ready for a routine".  All it took was fifteen minutes in front of my computer to fix that.  I might be an anomaly, but just making my schedule was enough for me to start craving winter break.  (Then again, I am the kind of student who gets "senioritis" in sixth grade.)

Last night, during an epic showing of Kung Fu Panda with some of my dearest relations, we stumbled upon an important bit of information.  Some, if not all, of you might already be enlightened to this fact, but for those of you who aren't, I must forewarn you of one of the most overlooked yet traumatizing dangers of the modern world: Hot Tamales.  Yea, those seemingly delicious bits of cinnamon goodness have a secret: they're deadly.  Have one? Delicious.  A second? Amazing. Third, fourth fifth, even a sixth? Better and better.  The seventh? All of a sudden you are part dragon, spewing fire out of your mouth and trying not to incinerate everything and everyone around you.   Your mind races, thinking "Why would any human create something like this?!"  Eventually the misery ends, and our pitiful human minds decide we'll give them another shot.  Now if only I could stop eating them....

So I know I'm probably the six millionth person to vent about this, but I promise I'll keep it short.  There are certain things in this world that really make me question the IQ of humanity.  Things such as the Pet Rock, the Shake Weight, or in this case, Snuggies.  To keep it simple, I'm going to now tell you how to make your very own Snuggie: (Preemptive apology for language, please censor for small children)

Step 1: Take a thin, cheap robe. ( Not plush, maybe made of something crappy, I don't know...felt?)

Step 2: Turn it around.

Step 3: Slam your head against the wall for being a damn idiot and buying a Snuggie.

I'm starting to notice things about my typing skills.  I type exactly how they say not to.  That means hunched over, pecking with single fingers (what is "home row"?), staring straight down at the keyboard, and only looking at the screen every three or four sentences.  Also, I have a very articulate vocabulary, but apparently, when it comes to typing, I adopt some form of stage 2 dyslexia.  Long story short, Hooked on Phonics = Waste of Money.

Can somebody please explain to me the logic behind both Daylight Savings Time and/or the Income Tax?

I want to get a helicopter with one of those huge buckets that they use to extinguish forest fires, fill it with red paint, and literally paint a town red.  Just once before I die.  Probably later on in life, cause I'm pretty sure I'm gonna go to jail afterwards. Miiiiiiiight be considered a tad bit of vandalism.

Shout out to everyone in the world except Thomas Grap.

Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.

I was a sad man when I learned that yesterday was in fact the 33rd anniversary of Evlis Presley's death.  I would now like to ask everyone to have a moment of silence in honor of him.  Actually I'm not sure that cuts it, because I'm pretty sure you're always silent when you read these things, unless you're THAT PERSON in the library that is reading out loud, in which case somebody thinks you are very, very strange.  Regardless, I'm not sure I'm a fan of "moment of silence" because I know, at least for me this is the case, as soon as somebody says, "Please have a moment of silence for the [shmeh]", the first thing that goes through my mind isn't that shmeh, it's "How long does this last?  Who's going to end it? Am I disrespecting Shmeh if I cough?"  Nevertheless, we must honor them in some way, so assuming the last couple minutes of your life have been silent, I would like to propose a "moment of loudness".  On the count of three, everybody just scream "Elvis Presley".  Seriously do it.  Don't suck.  Ready? 1......2........3,  ELVIS PRESLEY!!!........Did you actually do that?!  Now everybody in the library thinks you're even weirder than that guy reading aloud to himself.  At least he's not randomly screaming about deceased rock stars.  You need to work on your public etiquette.

If you feel the need to have another moment of loudness for something, but do not know what your should do it in honor of, let me recommend bread bowls.  Last night, as I was sitting in my unfurnished living room on the floor indulging in some of Domino's finest delivery cuisine, I realized that on my list of greatest inventions EVER, bread bowls rank about number  (right behind Rainbow Sandals, Bubble Wrap, and Ranch Dressing).  Seriously awesome stuff.  Pre-invention, if you had asked me if I would like to eat my soup and then be able to eat the bowl, I would respond by slapping you in the face. "All my bowls are glass or plastic," I would say, "and eating those would be painful, don't be ridiculous."  If you were to ask, "What if the bowls were made of bread?" I would probably still scoff at you.  Nowadays, put one of those heavenly creations in front of me, and I damn well might tear up.

Recently, it was brought to my attention that someone that I know through someone else, I will not mention any names (cause I forgot who it was) is what I like to call a "Reverse Vegetarian".  This means that this person ONLY EATS MEATS.  Whoever you are, I would like to congratulate you on two things: First, on being the most awesome and most carnivorous person that I have ever heard of, and Second, for being number one on PETA's hit list and surviving this long.  Keep it up.  SIDE NOTE: I was recently involved in a scuffle with a PETA member over there meaning.  We had a minor misunderstanding, and to clarify, it stands for "People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals" not in any way "People Eating The Animals".  My bad.

At this point, if we were all ages 6-10, this is how the rest of the conversation would go:

You: "I bet you don't have anything else to talk about."

Me: "Yes I do, I have a ton of stuff to talk about!"

You: "Then tell me."

Me: "No."

You: "Why not?"

Me: "'Cause I don't feel like it."

Random Fact of the Day: Heinz Ketchup leaves the bottle at the furious rate of 25 miles per year (that's .003 mph for you math junkies).

Shout out to Michelle Sjodin.

Uncle Kracker was spot on.

"Follow me, everything is alright.  I'll be the one to tuck you in at night."  Well not so much that last part, I don't do much tucking in unless the person is my child or my significant other, and seeing as how none of you fit the criteria, your chances don't look good.  Nevertheless, I can get paid for this if I have enough followers, and though my number one priority is to make sure all of you are entertained*, I sure would love to make money off of this thing**.  All you gotta do is move about four or five inches that way ---->, an inch up, and click that white button that says "follow".  Thank you. Now that that's done, we can let the fun begin.

FUN!

Now that the fun's done, I can just talk (this is my favorite part).

So today was the first day of soccer for me, and once I finally managed to get through the masses of reporters, scouts, fans, and convinced Ronaldo that yes, I would let him name his son after me, I made it to the soccer field promptly 4 minutes late (that's 11:34am PT).  After throwing on my cleats and hitting the field at 11:37, I worked vigorously at bettering myself at the game.  After an intense session and almost dying of heat exhaustion, at 11:54 I sat down, completely done in, to take a break.  For those of you keeping track, that's a grand total of 17 minutes until I died.  At this point, I've discovered that Larry the Freaking Cable Guy has more athletic stamina than I do.  Talk about boosting your ego.  I did, however, manage to finish the practice though (with the intensity and vigor of a 72 yr old asthmatic grandma).

You know what really grinds my gears?  Nothing. I don't have gears.  I have ears, which is a similar word, but nothing grinds them for that would be painful.

Also, my hips have never actually spoken a single word, so therefore they don't lie either.  I don't see what the big deal is, Shakira.

Let's talk about Cost Co. for a little bit.  If I didn't have a SERIOUS addiction to the samples and $1.50 hot dog/soda combo, I would hate that place (in theory).  The concept that Cost Co. is based on is exactly why America is fat: quantity is the most important part of everything.  SPLURGE, SPLURGE, SPLURGE.  It is based on somebody that simply wants 35 bottled waters for $3 (still ridiculous) that's wAndering through the store and thinks to themself, "You know I guess I could use 467 Cherry Stems, and that's a great price for 3,014 Luggage Tags, I DO need those."  Let me break this down for you:

NO.

YOU.

DON'T.

That's all I got for now, thanks for playing.

Shout out to Laura Dwyer.

*Not actually true.

**100% true.

If you die in an elevator, be sure to push the "up" button.

How bad would that suck?  I don't want to die in an elevator. I don't want to live in an elevator either.  In fact, I'm going to completely boycott elevators, at least until I need to get to the next floor of a building.

So yesterday I was hanging out with some friends (names and locations have been changed for legal reasons).  Anyway, me, Crash Bandicoot, Sarah Palin and some others are chillin in a house that Ms. Palin was house sitting, and there was a dog.  Well they said it was a "dog".  SIDE NOTE: If you don't appreciate people talking meanly about animals, skip the next several lines (or put on your big kid pants and deal with it, your choice).  Most of you know, but I have a strict personal rule about so-called "dogs".  It's called the "Ten Foot Rule".   This simply means that if I can drop-kick the "dog" more than ten feet, I do not consider it a dog.  More so it's proof that every now and then Mother Nature drops the ball.  Nevertheless, I was nothing but cordial to this miniature abomination, and just stayed away.  Oh, and contrary to the accusations, I had nothing to do with the little rat being put in the microwave (not that I disapproved of it, in my opinion, if it fits in the microwave, it belongs in the microwave).  The ONLY redeeming factor of the little yipyaps is that their existence solely disproves the Darwinian Theory, because according to that theory, the little punks should have been overrun and eaten by larger more sophisticated animals such as, but not limited to: mentally challenged squirrels, handicapped rats, or any other naturally superior being.

And while we're talking about furniture, it has been brought to my attention that my living room has the comfort and leisure qualities of a 13th century dungeon.  So naturally, me being the King of decorating, interior beauty, and all around hospitality, I have done nothing.  So far I have three options:  The first is to go thrifting and yard sale shopping in an attempt to legitimately furnish the living room area.  The second (which, let's be honest, is far more practical), is to buy around 25 bean bags and coat the floor with them.  Thirdly, after thorough research, I discovered that 500 plastic ball pit balls (found in any fast food playplace) costs a mere $109.50.  I am open to any ideas, but I implore you to crank up your imagination and work with me here: You get home, drop your school bag, keys, hamster, or whatever else you're holding at the time and run at a full sprint and swan-dive into your living room.  Yea.  That's what I'm talking about.  If that didn't result in a mental explosion of unbelievable happiness, then I recommend Zoloft (talk to your doctor to see if Zoloft is right for you).

Besides miniature sorry excuses for animals and living room plans, I don't have much on my mind.

I am however, worried that I've lost the ability to eat breakfast.  Maybe it's a fear, I don't know. I just googled what a fear of breakfast would be called, and it didn't come up with anything.  It would probably be something like "breakphobia".

Anyway, aside from my battle with breakphobia, I'm just ready for everybody to make the grand return to Chico, I'm getting bored here.

You stay classy, Planet Earth.

Shout out to Lexi Wilson.

Astronauts and Doctors be Damned, I Wanna be a Janitor.

Moral of the day: "Set your goals low, then you can only exceed them."

You can quote me on that.  Until I have kids, then it'll change to "Get a good job and pay for your own stuff, THEN you can leave your room dirty."  But that's a good ways off, no baby-mommas for me in the near future.

This would be a lot easier if there was a sarcasm font.

So the other day I saw a building housing a business called "Starting Over" and it was closed because it was being redone.  There are very few thing in this world that are that awesomely literal.  I believe that rivals a forklift hoisting a box of forks.  Suck it, Mitch Hedberg.

I have a question, and this kind of goes along with my note on Facebook about random things I notice, but seeing as I am now obviously much more mature and technologically savvy, I'll post it on this blog.  As I walk around my apartment in my palm tree boxers eating flaming hot cheetos (try not to get too excited ladies), I realize that I could build the Taj Mahal of box forts (which I intend on doing) with all the boxes here.  When I needed them 3 months ago, however, I could've had Bill Gates's funding and still wouldn't have been able to get an effing box.  This leads me to believe one of two things is true:  1) The 2 initial boxes that I somehow managed to posses must have only been holding other boxes, or 2) My apartment has some weird magical talent where it can produce hollow cardboard cubes at will.

Well, that's 2 down, only infinity to go.  That seems obtainable.

Oh, and if you're wondering why unlike other bloggers, my posts are not lengthy and do not include so-called "deep thoughts" and "feelings", you can go ahead and get down off your high horse and join the rest of us mortals down here.  I write in the same style I think, so take off your judgement shoes.

Now to counteract that last rant, here's something happy: Disneyland.

Shout out to Hayley Whitesell.

The beginning of the end.

Okay, let's see how this works.  See, I figure I like talking a LOT, and believe it or not, some people actually get tired of hearing me talk (that's the myth at least).  Anyway, I thought I'd give this a shot as an outlet to get rid of all those random streams of thought zooming around in the old noggin.  Yes, I did just use the word "noggin".  Finally, a view of what I think about from the inside (3D glasses not included). While I'm on that note, if you know me, then you know this could get messy, so please take a moment to print out, read, and sign this release form: Release Form

Okay now that we have the formalities taken care of we can talk about the fun stuff.  OOH, I know!! Laundry. Today was laundry day, and I really learned a lot about myself.  First off, minus the jackets, I can fit every single bit of clothing that I own in the world into a single laundry bag.  Nomadic? Frugal? You be the judge.  Secondly, laundry sucks.  Who knew, right?  Yea, that's enough about laundry.

Shout out to Joe Grap.

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You have GOT to be kidding me.  I have writer's block.