If you can read this, thank a teacher.

Or if you were home-schooled, thank a parent.  Probably one of yours.  Unless you were home-schooled under another persons parents....which is essentially what a normal school is.  Nevermind, just be happy you can read.

If you didn't hear, this blog got deleted.  I had to go back and repost all the blogs, but don't feel bad for me, I'll be okay.  I do need something from you though.  See right over there? ------>  I need you to go over there and click that little white button that says "Follow".  Even if you already did it, you were deleted when the blog was removed, so I need you to do it again.  I'm not happy about it either.  Don't let it ruin your day.  Please do it now.  Thanks.

One of the more recent hobbies I've picked up is messing with people on airplanes.  Obviously I'm not talking about yelling bomb while in the airplane bathroom.  That jerk Bin Laden took all the fun out of that.  I'm talking a smaller scale, like just messing with the people next, behind, or in front of you.  There is really an infinite list of ways to do this, but here's one for you newbies, and to be honest it's kind of my favorite.  Stay completely silent for the entire plane ride, not a single word.  Pack up as people are leaving the plane and be sure you are absolutely ready to leave.  Then, and this is where you have to be convincing, say something to the person that was next to you.  A good example is, "Hey it was great to talk to you.  Good luck in Dallas and I hope everything works out with the food shelter."  Are they even going to Dallas?  Have they ever even seen a food shelter?  Who knows?  Who cares?  Keep a straight face and calmly walk off the plane.  You'll probably never see them again.  Maybe at the baggage claim but then you can just act like nothing ever happened.  Or hide behind the trashcan.  Your call.  For the bolder of you, you can always go with something like grabbing their arm semi-harshly, looking powerfully into their eyes, and softly but angrily whispering "Remember, do NOT let them know we were ever on this plane.  NEVER."  When that happens, it's best to leave the airport at a brisk jog with sketchy glances backward at random intervals.  I'm not insane.  Try this and tell me it's not fun.

As of now I am on a month and a half countrywide journey.  Currently I am on the West Coast in northern California.  On the way here I flew into Phoenix to visit some amigos.  Let's just say that was an interesting trip.  In the first four hours I was picked up, I saw most of my friends went to a Young Life function, and, oh yeah, saw a horribly gruesome accident, was covered in other people's blood, held a severed arm and watched a girl die.  Okay, slight exaggeration.  In fact, most of that is not true at all.  But that's what it felt like.  I didn't even really see the accident, but me and my friend who I shall call Dr. Seuss were the first on the scene.  The car had been t-boned, one girl was trapped in the car, one was bleeding from her face, and one was completely okay.  Naturally, we stopped to perform our civic duties as critical first aid until the ambulances got there.  There were a few problems with this.  Firstly I have very little, scratch that, NO medical experience at all.  The extent of my medicinal knowledge ends abruptly at "Take two Advil every 4-6 hours."  Secondly, I got a busy signal when I called 911.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but that is not supposed happen.  To their credit, I think there were a lot of people calling for that accident.  Anyway,  Dr. Seuss immediately set to work on the bleeding girl to stop the bleeding and whatever else you do to save someone's life.  I opted to try and help slash calm down the girl that was pinned in the car.  I did my best to get her out (failed), and then just settled with calming her down and assuring her everything would be okay.  I'll never forget what she said to me when she could finally talk, "Who ARE you?!?"  I could just feel the love.

I was asked the other day I was asked what superpower I would have if I could choose.  Usually I go for shock value and choose what I deem to be the most useless though entertaining superpower I can think of.  My go-to for some time now has been the ability to anything I choose into a slushy.  However in a stroke of weirdness about an hour ago I realized that I had a new one.  From here on out, I will choose to have the ability to turn into a seahorse at any given time.

The whole reason I came out here initially is because two of my best friends just got married.  It was a beautiful wedding, a lot of fun, and now it's over so the world is back to revolving around me.  Seriously though, congratulations you two, who I'm pretty sure don't even read this, but hey, it's the thought that counts.  Anyway, I realized something through that journey which I honestly should've seen coming.  If you've ever been a single guy with multiple coupled friends, you've felt this.  For some reason, when the majority of people are in relationships they feel the need to "fix" the people that aren't.  I'm not bitter about this, as I've met several great people through it, I'm just saying that it's just what happens.  At a wedding, this is multiplied by infinity.  Instead of fixing all the singles, it seems as though the whole wedding party finds the one most emotionally inept, relationally crippled person at the wedding, in this case it happened to be me, and immediately start finding me a wife.  Let's be honest, I've got a long way to go before I get married.  I'm about as good at being in relationships as Pluto is at being a planet.

After the wedding, I shot up to Chico for a little bit, then made the 9 hour drive (AGAIN) back down to San Diego, or as I like to call it "North Mexico".  Whilst down there for one of my friends graduations, I discovered something about a certain form of common transportation.  I have determined that what type of bicycle you ride is directly proportional to the mood you are in while riding it.  I joked about it on the first day we  were down there, but as the trip went on I payed attention to the bikers that we passed and it held true for every one of them.  Here is what I found:  If you're riding a cruiser bicycle you are in a great mood. Seriously, have you ever seen somebody frowning while riding a cruiser?  No.  Well maybe if they're being chased by rottweilers.  Other than that, if you're on a cruiser, you've basically accepted the fact that you look goofy as hell and you might as well go with it.  Second, if you're riding a street bike, you're pissed.  Or really really concentrated/constipated.  I'm not talking like motorcycle street bike, I mean the Lance Armstrong kind.  And let's face it, there is a clear reason why people are angry when on those things.  If you're a guy, those bicycles are about as comfortable as the electric chair.  If you're a girl, why are you even on a street bike.  You're supposed to be happy, please go ride a cruiser.  Lastly there are the mountain bikes and everything similar.  Accordingly, the people riding them are about the average of the other two, none seem very angry, but no one is elated to be riding.  Most are just content.  And that's how it should be.

I want to know who the first person was that ever did the one dollar more thing on The Price Is Right.  You know the thing where you're the second to last person to bet and you go with $780, and the last person guesses $781.  Cause I still watch that and think, "Wow, that guy is a DICK."  But can you imagine the first person who ever did that??  I can only imagine it was a catastrophe.  The person who bet $780 probably just sat there shocked until they got enough nerve to throw a punch, the rest of the contestants probably just used harsh words,cause you know, they're not really affected.  Bob Barker I assume just threw his skinny little mic at the person and stormed off stage, outraged to be involved with such low ball playing.  I just want you to know, Mr. One-Dollar-More, you disgust me.

Fact of the Day:  Clans of long ago that wanted to get rid of their unwanted people without killing them would burn their houses down - hence the expression "to be fired."

Shout out to Olivia Lea.

Procrastination: Remember if you wait til the last minute, it only takes a minute.

Flawless logic.  As is the idea that the sooner you fall behind, the more time you'll have to catch up.  (You can see why I'm usually in a panicked frenzy to turns things in.)

It's Mother's Day.  When I opened this blog to start writing, I had the full intention of writing an entire post dedicated to moms, similar to my Valentine's Day blog.  However, I quickly came to the realization that I am both slightly cynical (gasp!) and sarcastic (no, never!).  Thus, I have decided to avoid the topic for the most part.  Mothers, take this as a compliment, as there are very few things I hold sacred enough not to mention, and you are one of them.  You're welcome, and thank you.

Today we went to church, of course it was about mothers, and like countless other churches, ours had a "present" to the moms.  The gift was a children's choir.  Whilst listening I came upon a few realizations about children's choirs.  First off, they all suck.  I'm not being mean, just being honest.  Would you buy a record recorded by a bunch of tone deaf midgets?  Neither would I.  Stop being hypocritical.  I realize that it's cute because they're kids, but we all have to grow up sometime, and the world doesn't celebrate mediocrity (unless you're Paris Hilton).  Secondly, there is a permanent rule, and that is that all the boys look completely miserable.  I can say this with confidence because at one point, I was that miserable boy.  Yes, even I once sat on the bleachers in front of a few hundred beaming parents while an overzealous middle aged woman tried her hardest to get me to smile.  Spoiler Alert: She failed.  Within this, there are always a few permanent roles in the choir.  There is always one kid that refuses to even sing at all (usually me).  There's also usually one that looks drunk, but that's a bonus and isn't included in all sets.  Then there is a child, usually a girl, who feels the need to sing roughly as loud as a jet engine, and usually has about the same vocal range as a jet engine as well.  And you can't forget the kid who loves singing, and is actually pretty good, but can't remember the words for his life (they won't let that stop them though, oh no).  All in all, the experience would actually be pretty entertaining if it lasted about 30 seconds, but they seem to last for the better part of a decade, and I can actually feel bits of my soul dying by the end.

I'm really in a thought drought today, it's getting obnoxious.  In other news "snortzenfraggle" is a funny word.

Also, I find THIS very funny.  And no, I don't think I've ever been that mad.

Fact of the Day:  Mother's Day is celebrated by more than 46 countries worldwide.

Shout out to Martha Thompson.

Alarm Clocks, because every morning should begin with a heart attack.

Have you seen those alarm clocks that run away from you when they go off?  I mean I guess that's a good in theory cause it really makes you get up to turn it off, but come on, really?  That's having a little too much faith in humanity, if you ask me.  I'm just saying that with how obnoxious alarms are in the first place, by the time I caught that thing, I'd probably turn it off with a baseball bat.  Granted I would be very awake, but I would also be starting off the day with a nice solid dose of rage and fury, and I can't believe that's healthy.  Also, I wouldn't have an alarm clock anymore.

You know how Superbowl commercials are considered the cream of the crop when it comes to advertisements?   Well whatever the polar opposite of "the cream of the crop" is, that's how I feel about the JG Wentworth commercials.  They seriously make me want to kill somebody.  "I have a structured settlement and I need cash now."  More like "I have a structured turret gun and need you gone."

Recently, and by recently I mean over the last decade, I've been having sleeping problems.  Normally I'd be a little overzealous and say that my sleep problems are based on world hatred and selfishness, but honestly I think it's just that my body hates me.  So to fix this I've tried everything from melatonin to voodoo.  Just recently I started taking Ambien at irregular intervals, and I've got to say, it's been heaven.  I fall asleep quickly and stay that way.  (Is it just me or do I sound like the commercial?)  Anyway, by far my favorite part is the complete and utter delirium that come right before the sleep.  It feels like everything is happily off balance, everything tickles, and it's kind of like I'm swinging in a hammock.  However, it's not til I actually fall asleep that it really gets interesting.  I won't go into to much detail, but the most recent dream I had put me in the middle of a Pokemon battle with an insane Paul Rudd and Pikachu vs me and a monkey named Bono in pool section of some apartment complex.  Yea, you try waking up from that and not doubting your sanity.

I think the next time someone says, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me," I'm going to through a dictionary at them.

I'm going to break this down into two very easy points so everybody can understand it.  (this mainly goes out to the numerous people who have told me money isn't important over the years.)

Number 1:  Whoever said "Money can't buy happiness" has never been poor.

And number 2:  You can't buy happiness, but you can buy bacon, which is about the same thing.

Fact of the Day:  In the early days of the telephone, operators would pick up a call and use the phrase, "Well, are you there?". It wasn't until 1895 that someone suggested answering the phone with the phrase "number please?"

Shout out to Austin Greer.

The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it’s still on the list.

Never thought of it that way, did ya?

Ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you've noticed, we are nearing the end of the semester.  For those of us still effing around in college, this is like a second Christmas.  For those of you who haven't been blessed with my incessant bragging, I will be done today, the 28th of April.  This is far earlier than anyone else I've heard, and thus I say to you, in the most mature and meaningful tone, "Nana nana boo boo, I win."  Unfortunately, I will be taking summer classes.  I completely disagree with the existence of them, because to me it's taking something pure and innocent (summer), and defiling it with something evil (school).  It's like taking a cute little baby and conditioning it so its first words are Sh!t, D@mn, @ss, and F^ck.  And while in all honesty I have to admit that that child would be YouTube GOLD, it's just not right.  Disclaimer: I would recommend that video to any/all friends in a heartbeat.  I'm getting away from my point.  Since I'll be participating in the unholy abomination that is summer school, I am forced to cram my entire summer's worth of traveling into the first month of summer.  I'll be heading west, slowly but surely.  Now I don't completely agree with the conceited self-righteous snobs out there that religiously proclaim "West Coast, Best Coast", but there is something to be said for a state that has beaches that actually have sand, and doesn't have mosquitos the size of small motor homes.  It's not that I don't love unwillingly donating pints of blood to little bugs, or don't enjoy beaches with shells that could cut diamonds, but every now and then a little change is refreshing.

I can't for the life of me think of a creative way to say this, or a story to tie it in to, but in my opinion, the PT Cruiser is the herpes of the automotive world.

There are a lot of good things about the end of the Spring semester.  It means summer is officially here, obviously school is over, and though I'm blanking for the moment, the list goes on.  One of my favorite things about the end of classes is that we get to sell back books.  It's like money that you complete forgot about.  That will come back into play in about nine lines.  This morning I had a final at 8am.  I finished it in 13 minutes.  I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, and I'll leave that judgement up to you, as that is not the focus of this particular story.  I finished the exam, and decided that I would grab breakfast, then print out my final paper for another class and turn it in early so I wouldn't have to worry about it.  So I did just that, I went home and printed out the final paper.  At home I realized I could now sell the textbook from the exam earlier that morning.  I didn't want the paper to get wrinkled as our professor takes off an entire letter grade if it is (irrational?), so I slipped it inside the book and went on my way.  If you haven't figured out where this is leading yet, I'll be frank:  I sold my book back with my final paper in it.  Normally this wouldn't have been a big deal, and I could've just printed out another copy and turned it in.  However, in true Tab form, the planets had aligned to make sure every possible thing went wrong.  The paper was actually due in the next class period three days later, but I was missing that day so I absolutely had to turn it in today.  The professor, Mr. Forgiveness, refuses to accept late papers or anything over email, and since fax machines are a completely useless invention, that only left the option of turning in hard copies.  I could run back to my apartment, unfortunately that was two miles away, uphill both ways, and I am slow.  I could print off another copy in the library, but being that I was on the way to the gym I hadn't brought my wallet and therefore wouldn't be able to even enter the library.  On top of all of that, the Prof was only in his office for another ten minutes until he had class then left for the weekend.  So after about thirteen seconds of completely irrational consideration, I hauled ass back to the bookstore, legitimately knocked a kid down to get to the front of the line, and used every skill of persuasion I possess to convince the staff that no, I am not insane, no, that kid fell down on his own, and yes, I absolutely have to hop over the desk and search through the returned books to find a paper that determines my grade in the class.  I found it, (of course it was at the very bottom) and with all the physical coordination and stamina of Fat Albert, I blazed a trail back to my professor's office and turned in the paper.  He was not impressed. The moral of this story is that there is no point whatsoever in trying to finish work early.  Apparently, God likes procrastination better.

If I started spelling my name Tab Hir$chey, would any of you still talk to me?  Yea, I wouldn't either.  In fact, I'd probably mail myself something deadly.  Now I don't blame Ke$ha for the whole thing, but why is it that so much of the American music world thinks they need to spell their names like a bunch of intoxicated preteen girls?  Is it to be unique?  If so, you're missing the idea.  "Unique" is the set of African American albino twins, boy and girl, that I went to school with at Ole Miss ,and let me tell you, you will NEVER be as unique as those two.  You make it look like it's okay to be a shitty speller if you can dress like a prostitute/gang member and get relatively close to rhyming.You're setting a bad example for the children.  Go eat a pipe bomb.

Whoa.  Just reread that last one.  If someone else had written that and I had read it, I would've envisioned a crotchety old man in a rocking chair on a porch ranting to anyone around him.  Oh well, at least I'll be prepared.

Fact of the Day:  President Gerald Ford worked as a model during college.  He also worked at Yellowstone National Park directing traffic and feeding bears.

Shout out to Robyn Damanti.

We live in a society where pizza gets to your house before the police.

And frankly I'm completely okay with that.  Side Note: The phrase "And frankly" makes me think of Anne Frank.  That has literally nothing to with the rest of this blog.  Enjoy.

I find "maturing" funny.  Not fun, just funny.  It's actually the exact opposite of fun.  It's like somebody telling you, "You know all those things you do that are fun and make you truly happy and innocent?  Well you can't do those anymore.  Welcome to society."  Anyway, I find it funny because of the constantly changing opinions of people as they age.  To illustrate, I've chosen the thoughts on school and work and how they change through the years.  Let's begin....

Age 4:

School- "PLEASE LET ME GO TO SCHOOL!  PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!"

Age 9:

School- "Yea, we had another birthday party after recess.  I love school."

Age 15:

School- "Ugh, I HATE school.  This place is a fucking dungeon.  I am way too cool for this crap."

Work- "Do I have work soon?"

Age 20:

School- "I LOVE this place!!  College is awesome! I never want to leave!!"

Work- "Oh that?  It's just a little job on the side so I have money to drink on the weekends and eat something other than Ramen."

Age 24:

School- "GET. ME. OUT. OF. HERE.  I hate school, I can't wait to leave and I never want to come back."

Work-  "I just quit, I can't wait to get a real job next year."

Age 25:

School- "i wish i was back in school...."

Work- "Work?!  You found me work?!?!  Thank the heavens!!!"

Age 40:

Work- "Well at least I'm settled in.  Stability is good."

Age 65:

Work- "Retirement.  It's so close.  I can almost touch it."

Age 66:

Work- "I have NEVER been this bored in my life."

Consistency is not one of the human race's best attributes.

I am Southern, and as so I have a set of manners ingrained into my being.  The first and most important rule is that a man never hits a woman. I will always abide by this rules until I die, save for two exceptions.  If I ever run in to either of these two women, I swear I will slap them.  The first is the lead actor from The Closer.  The second is Tim Tebow.  There is something about that Closer woman that makes me want to break things, specifically her face.  Tim Tebow, well, he's just the antichrist.

I find a lot of things entertaining, not the least of which are lower back tattoos, also known as LBT's, Tramp Stamps, etc.  I'm sorry if anybody out there reading this has one, but I just think a little better judgement could have been used.  The other day I was lucky/unlucky enough to see not only a tramp stamp, but a tribal tramp stamp.  And it doesn't end there, oh no.  It was on a guy.  To be honest, I don't even know where to go from here.  In fact I'm just going to let y'all take it from here.  I'll end it with some advice for the guy:  Either don't get one in the first place, or at least wear a shirt long enough to cover it.  You're scaring the children.

There are many reasons to run.  For example you could be participating in a track meet, playing a game of tag, or countless other causes.  Recently I was forced to awkwardly run for a reason I never knew existed.  Let's start with some background examples.  Have you ever been standing somewhere and you knew somebody was behind you and to your right, but then when you turned around they had moved to your left side?  It makes you jump.  Have you ever done this in a confined space, such as an elevator?  Have you ever done this while sneezing?  If you haven't figured out what happened by now.....well I thought the man was behind me on my right side, and my arms were full, so with no other options I turned to my left to sneeze.  He had moved.  Let's just say it wasn't subtle.  He may have been caught in the crossfire.  And by that I mean I coated him.  I've been in some awkward situations, but they have always been something that I could joke myself out of or change the topic.  I was shocked.  I awkwardly stared at the elevator doors until they opened, on the wrong floor nonetheless, and literally ran out of the elevator.  Needless to say I don't take elevators anymore.

Why is it that the only time a classroom is absolutely silent is after a teacher asks if there are any questions, and either everybody understands or nobody has a freaking clue what she's talking about?

Fact of the Day:  Due to earth's gravity, it is impossible for mountains to be higher than 49,000 feet.

Shout out to Dru Fickling.

There's no "i" in "Liar".

But there is a "u" in "truth".

Something I've realized in my lifelong quest to become a five star chef (I'm at one and a half stars right now but moving up), is that the timers are built into ovens for a very specific reason.  It's not what you think, though.  Actually yes it it is, they time things.  Specifically how long food has been cooking.  I, in my early stages of innocence and naivety (some call it ignorance), thought I didn't need to use the timers, as I could just look at the clock and know it's been around 15 minutes or whatnot.  I was wrong.  In fact, I was very wrong.  Being that I have the short term memory of a gnat with ADHD, I consistently forget what day it is, much less how long I've had food in the oven at 425 degrees.  I've finally started using the timer, but only after my apartment nearly burned down three times, and I'd completely ruined roughly 21 baked goods. (Not cookies.  I don't eat cookies.)  Anyway, I now have a note on my fridge with the wiggle room for specific foods in the oven.  For example, pizza has 6 minutes.  Jumbalaya has 11.  Bread and tortillas have 1 minute and 30 seconds (I don't have a microwave so I have to make toast in the oven, shut up).  The feeling you get when you realize something has been in the oven for far too long is almost as horrible as the food itself at that point.  It's like you get struck by lightning and self hatred at the same time.  Nothing that you speak in the ensuing minute comes anywhere close to making sense, and you're actions are completely irrational.  For some reason I always try to salvage the food, such as blowing on the charcoal-esque pizza, as if my holy breath will reverse the thirteen extra minutes of 375 degree heat the pizza has suffered at my hand.

This vaguely ties in to the previous paragraph, so bear with me.  While at home a week ago, I opened my pantry to find a glorious new development.  There was a box of popcorn.  Not just normal popcorn.  Oh no.  This was "Cheddar and Bacon flavored" popcorn.  Now anybody that knows me is not surprised that I instantly was brought to tears.  After the sobbing subsided, I canceled dinner and announced we were having popcorn instead.  I threw it in the microwave and hit the popcorn button (a wonderful invention, I might add).  Now since we all know that the difference between a house smelling like buttery popcorn and smelling like burnt corpses is about 24 seconds, I waited by the microwave.  Normally when you nuke something, you can tell if it's going wrong because it gradually hits you, like you can see something burning, deforming, or being struck by little bolts of lightning.  (Microwave tin foil to see this happen.  Disclosure:  Microwaving tinfoil will ruin microwave forever.)  This time I had no such warning.  It's as if I was donkey kicked in the face with one of the worst smells since [insert horrifying smell].  I was seized by the urge to vomit everywhere, and immediately turned off the cooking device, and opened all doors and windows.  The worst part was that the popcorn wasn't even burnt, which meant that this was normal.  I was enraged.  Not only had this company ruined dinner for the entire family, they had sullied the name of Bacon.  Unforgivable.  As a result, I have sworn off popcorn for life, and have mailed a bomb to the producers of the abomination.

As anyone that has ever lived with me knows, I am engaged in a lifelong war with showers.  Seven out of the top ten most destructive falls in my life have occurred in the shower.  There are many reasons, but nevertheless the shower has been the cause of the majority of physical pain in my life.  Just when I think I've finally conquered it, gravity flips upside down and I go careening towards the floor.  I've got to say, one of the most terrifying experiences is falling through the shower curtain.  When it happened I didn't completely panic because my mind saw the shower curtain as a wall with which to brace myself.  What I didn't realize in that split second is that shower curtains are deceptive little bastards, and though they stop water like it's nothing, when faced with saving a falling person and their dignity, the curtain folds like the Cubs in the World Series.  Upon realizing this, I immediately entered a state of panic comparable to what the Hawaiians felt during Pearl Harbor (that may be a slight exaggeration).  And of course the rods that hold the shower curtains up generally have the strength of a one handed child with arthritis.  Needless to say I crashed through the curtain and did my best to damage the bathroom floor.  Of course the whole time I was yelling a manly roar and not screaming like a four year old girl (not true).  The moral of this story is that shower curtains suck, and I have horrible balance when wet.

As many of you know, I am very picky about my writing utensils.  Pencils are for people that make mistakes, so obviously I don't use them.  When it comes to pens, I have strict criteria.  It must be what I call an "inky pen".  Even then, it has to have the right flow and distribution.  I'm writing about this because I feel like it, and I just found what could be my all-time favorite pen: The Uni-ball Vision Needle.  (I just realized how close virtually all pen types are to dirty jokes.)  Anyway, I love writing with them, as I do with decades old quills, except with quills my handwriting turns out more like pictures form the Rorschach Test.

Fact of the Day:  The electric chair was invented by a dentist.

Shout out to Amy Northrup.

I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted the paychecks.

This is the realization I had while preparing for the so-called "real world".  No, not the MTV show you ignorant son of a [CENSORED].

While we're on the subject of preparation.....well let's just keep talking about it.  There are many things in life worth preparing for.  Sports games (so you don't pull a hammy), jobs (so you don't look like Andy Dick), Zaxby's (so your head doesn't explode from the awesomeness), and the list goes on and on.  I do each everyday to keep a sharp mind and a sharper physique.  One more thing I try to do as much as possible is stay at Holiday Inns.  In fact, I only stay at the Holiday Inn when it comes to choosing a hotel.  Why?  It's not the quality of the food, or the mediocre service, I'll tell you that much.  One day, though I don't know when, will ask me a question and I will respond with a booming "No, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn last night."  I will maintain my composure until that person leaves, then I will immediately hug the nearest living creature, high five the next two or three, and continue on with my now complete life.

Readers, I've discovered another danger to the earth.  Ready for it?  Cows.  The five-stomached beings are nothing more than interestingly decorated earth killers.  They take up room, eat our grass, and fart methane gas.  Really?  Our lawns aren't enough?  You need to take our atmosphere with you too?  I'd say that's a little overzealous.  I would say that we should kill every single one of the little bastards, but it was pointed out to me that if we took such action, burgers would cease to exist, a situation so horrible I cannot imagine.  Plus, if burgers were gone, what would I put my bacon on?  Wait.  Halt.  I revoke that previous inquiry.  Silly question, bacon goes on anything.

Speaking of burgers, let's talk about something similar: "burgers"?  Confused?  Don't be.  I'm talking about McDonald's "burgers", not real burgers.  Right now you're asking yourself, "But aren't they the same thing?"  I'll give you a second to recognize your stupidity and hit yourself in the face with something hard.  Have you learned your lesson?  Good.  I'm sure we've all made the mistake of eating McDonald's "food" and I don't hold that against you.  We're just mortals, and every now and then we succumb to the devil's trickery.  Why the unjustified hate?  Why the stupid questions?  In an experiment done in the US (so you know it's done right), a Happy Meal (ironically named) was purchased, set out for a year.  Normally this would develop into a moldy green lump of something-or-other that smells like a combination of armpits, jalapenos, and a used urinal cake.  However, the Happy Meal look virtually undisturbed.  Pristine even.  Let's all say it together now....OH MY LORD THAT'S F*#&KING DISGUSTING!!  Yes, my dear citizens it is.  Go now, and be enlightened.

REMIX:  After writing that previous bit I let an ex-friend read the blog before I posted it.  The idiot brazenly stated that there was no proof the experiment was legitimate, and said that McDonald's does rot.    In all fairness, I admit McDonald's food does indeed rot.  About fifteen minutes before they serve it to you.  If you're reading this, you self righteous little twerp, I hope you choke on a Big Mac and drown in the special sauce.

You know what sucks?  Seizures.  Sure, there are some great puns to be made, including, but not limited to, Seizure Chavez Day, Seizing the day, etc) but I hate them.  Fortunately I've never had one, but I know someone who has, and I'm not okay with that.  I realize this is incredibly bold/stupid, but I don't care.  God, when you invented seizures, you really messed up*.  I like my friends how they are, alive, breathing, and without brain damage.

*I fully expect to be struck by lightening within the next seven minutes.

Did you know that the fly's reactions are actually 20 times faster than a human's?*

*Not actually true.  I just hate that I can never catch them.

Shout out to Mary Melissa Yohn.

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

You know what I'm getting really really tired of?  The wind.  Right now Atlanta is taking over the title of The Windy City.  It's getting ridiculous.  I'm just waiting to hear that the tiny little girl in my physics class blew away.  Legitimately it feels like I'm living in a grid systems of wind tunnels.  Wind is easily my least favorite Piece O' Weather.  Wind ruins everything.  (Besides sailing, but let's be honest, sail boats could disappear of the face of the Earth and there might be 14 people that cared.)   I like wind about as much as I like anything made by Tyler Terry.  I like anything made by Tyler Perry almost as much as I like shaving with a cheese grater.  Or trimming my finger nails with a chainsaw.  You get the picture.

Over the past couple days, I have confirmed that I am teetering on the brink of lunacy.  The other day I was viciously tricked into driving some friends to Athens, GA.  We'll call the group The Expendables.  Anyway, my valiant and generous trip to save The Expendables from certain demise, I hit traffic.  And I don't mean just normal "I wish this would clear up" traffic.   I'm talking about the kind of traffic that encompasses two wrecks, one set of construction, and two patches of the ever-infuriating traffic that has no explanation whatsoever.  I began as a patient, well mannered driver enduring a common problem on the highway.  When I came out of the fray, I had taken road rage to the next level, tried to run two people off the road, and developed at least two cases of tourrettes.  I actually thought to myself that as long as I didn't get hit by shrapnel, I really wouldn't mind if every other car on the road just exploded on the spot.  Things only got better from there.  Once I picked up The Expendables, most of whom were drunk and/or mentally challenged, we belong the long drive to Athens.  Being the expert driver that I am, I got us there safely, though I did it at an average speed of 95 miles per hour.  Not to mention one of my 6 passengers (in the 4 passenger car) felt the need to continuously grab my face/head in what must have been attempts at killing us all.  We arrived, finally, at which point I resolved to never drive The Expendables anywhere ever again, and holed up on the couch with a beer.

In one of my classes the teacher is granting us the chance to retake one of the tests.  That's great news, except for the fact that we have to retake it either on the weekend before finals, or during the final week, on top of the actual final we already have for the class.  She asked us which day we'd like, and said it was up to choose.  After a solid half hour of debating after which I declared that I didn't care anymore, I realized that choosing which day to have multiple finals is basically like having to choose whether to listen to Coldplay, Creed, or that asian guy from American Idol.

As many of you know, I have a recurring habit when eating M&M's.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, CLICK HERE and read the second paragraph before going any further.  Yesterday in one of my classes I had a package of Skittles, which like M&M's are also great for dueling.  It was the purple bag, so the blue ones were Raspberry flavored.  (Side Note: Why the HELL is there a "p" is Raspberry?!?)  Anyway, I was in the midst of a grueling set of Skittles Duels, and early on, a blue one established its dominance.  Not only did it win more than four in a row (which is usually the average), it made it through the rest of the pack.  WHOA.  Right?  It was mind blowing.  Thus, I have deduced that the blue ras-P-berry (it's SO WEIRD) skittles are injected with steroids.

Today is both the birthday of Booker T Washington and Thomas Hobbes.  It is also National Deep Dish Pizza day, which I believe to be far more significant.

Shout out to Guyton Porter.

Rock is dead. Long live paper and scissors.

There is a guy in my class who I'm positive has not been there for the last three months.  Normally I wouldn't notice or care, but there's something special about this one.  This guy's BO was inhuman.  Like the kind that could take down a tyrannosaurus rex.  Honestly bathing in Axe would be an improvement for him.  I don't know how to subtly convey my opinion, but if it doesn't change I'll probably just resort to a foghorn and a large sign.

It's official.  If you are a single male living alone, there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to buy cups.  There's no one there to care if you drink straight out of everything.  I'm actually thinking about selling them.

Here is my version of Heaven:

-In Heaven, it will only take one paper towel to completely dry your hands.

-In Heaven, pencil lead will never break.

-In Heaven, the remote will always be on the table in front of the television.

-In Heaven, fast food establishments will never get your order wrong or forget the extra ranch.

-In Heaven, there is no such thing as a stubbed toe.

-In Heaven, you cannot burn toast, and Hot Pockets come in tolerable temperatures.

-In Heaven, football is always on TV, and all commercials are Superbowl quality.

-In Heaven, there are no baggage fees on airplanes.

Here's an interesting Tab Fact:  What music I listen to directly relates to how fast I get to class.  I leave every morning 15 minutes before class, but my arrival varies.  If it's blues or slow music, I'm about five minutes late.  If it's rock or hip hop, I'm on time.  If it's swing, pop, or dubstep, I get there five minutes before I left.

I'm not sure how I feel about college students or above wearing their high school letter jackets.  I mean, I guess technically it's okay if it fits, but from my perspective, the older that you get the farther away your letter jacket should be.  It just starts looking more and more pitiful as the years progress.  It was high school, and it was a long time ago.  Let it go.

The other day I was watching an episode of Community, one of NBC's Thursday lineup and my personal favorite.  At the end of each episode there is a minute or so where two of the characters just be weird.  This particular show, the ending literally made me hysterical with laugher.  I actually cried.  Anyway, what I realized is that when we think something is comical, we chuckle.  When something is humorous, we laugh.  But when we think something is hilarious, I've discovered that we start laughing so hard that we stop actually making noise and start to resemble a retarded clapping seal.

Definition of the Day:  Suburbs (n)- Where they rip out the trees and name the streets after them.

Shout out to Kasey Krist.

Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.

It's never happened to me, but I thought I would just relay the warning.  I don't think I need to go into detail for you to see the possibilities.

I apologize, for this blog is going to be short.  I just don't have much to say.  I know it's weird, but put down your gavel and stop judging.  I don't see you doing any work for this either.  Hypocrite.

Hey, I've got an idea.  Let's talk about music.  Music is good.  Now let's talk about things that make me want to shoot myself in the face.  We'll start with Rebecca Black.  Congratulations, you have officially obliterated the saying "TGIF."  (That stands for "Thanks Goodness It's Friday" for you sheltered folk.)  Now when it get's to Friday I can't help but think of that song, and have on many occasions blacked out and punched the nearest person to me, which is resulting is a myriad of lawsuits.  Ms. Black, when you sing your song, I do thing "TGIF," but it's now standing for "Thank God It's Finished."  The next subject is Bruno Mars and his song "Grenade."  Now I'll be the first to admit I was a fan of this song when it first came out.  It's catchy, it's everywhere.  What am I to do?  What troubles me is the lyrics.  Bruno Mars, I realized you face the daily career challenge of finding new songs to produce, but you miiight have slightly more pressing issues.  Say, I don't know, the fact that someone is lobbing grenades at you and people you love?  Priorities man, just sayin.

Have you ever thought about how weird a laugh is?  Why, when we think something is funny, do we twitch and stutter a yell at loud volumes?  AH-HA-AH-HA.  Really think about it.  It's freaking weird.

Acronym of the Day:  MILF- Midget I'd Like to Fight.

Fact of the Day:  There are more telephones than people in Washington D.C.

Also, I'm thinking of changing the design of the site.  For once, I'd love to hear your opinions.  Comment below or send me a message with what you think.

Shout out to Ryan Fehling.

I didn't fight my way to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian.

It's not that I hate vegetarians, I just think they are a very, very, very confused species.  I wonder if PETA has dropped the lawsuit/restraining order.....

Reader, have you ever been shocked.  Not shocked like, "Oh my heavens, I can't believe The Daily Tablet hasn't won a Nobel Peace Prize yet!!"  I mean like physically electrically shocked, like fork in a socket, struck by lightning, or getting completely hosed down and having ten people touch you simultaneously with 9 volt batteries (*Not recommended).  Well I'm here to warn you about a certain place that you never want to get shocked.  Ever.  Hold up, don't be immature.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm talking about being shocked on the inside of your ear.  It's horrifying.  How did this happen?  Headphones and sweatpants, how else?  My headphones were in, and as I took off my sweatpants (calm down), they touched the headphones' cord, sending a light electrical pulse up the wire.  The problem is that this "light electrical pulse" hit my inner ear and felt like Zeus threw a lightning bolt at my brain.  Plus, I must add that it was the most awkward place I've ever been shocked.  How do you react?  Where do you clutch?  I resorted to punching myself in the side of the head, which does not help.  Overall, it was a terrible experience, and I hope you never have to endure that kind of pain.  Thus, I am adding static electricity to my list of Most Dangerous Things, right between Geese and Miracle Whip.

While we're on the topic of electricity, let's talk about weather.  Right now, for this particular paragraph, I am sitting in my bed typing at 3:45 am.  Fifteen minutes ago I was sleeping like a coma patient, as I usually do when it is raining.  Tonight, however, two of my bitter enemies (Lightning and Thunder) decided to interrupt my slumber.  Most times I can manage to get back to sleep upon waking up in the middle of the night.  Not tonight.  Tonight the lightning and thunder are so bright and loud and booming that it feels like a flash bang grenade is going off while it's strapped to my face.  I have to say, I am not a fan.

As far as I'm concerned mattress stores and trampoline stores are the exact same thing.  I don't care what that bastard at Serta says.

Another thing I've realized while laying here is my hatred for Geese.  And another thing, I hate them even more when they're dead.  Come to think of it, I probably wouldn't even hate them at all if they never died.  Let me explain.  As you're laying in bed or resting your head on a pillow, what is the one thing that ruins your relaxation with a stabbing miniature knife to your soul.  I'll tell you.  It's that one damn feather that is poking through the blanket or pillow cover like a little invisible needle.  It's nearly impossible to find, but as soon as you give up looking and return to lay back down, KAPOW!!  Punctured skin.  I have concluded that geese are the kamikazes of the animal world.  They are angry at humans, mostly because of our refusal to surrender our bread to them, and their retaliation is to allow themselves to be used for Goose Down, and to terrorize us interminably from the grave.

I understand that Chickfila is closed in Sundays because it's a Christian organization and holds to the idea of the Sabbath day.  But all I want is a real chicken sandwich, some waffle fries, a sweat tea and an ice dream.  Is it really too much to ask?  For trying to promote Christian values, they are really making me hate Sundays.

On my casual drive through the tornadoes in Georgia on Saturday, I passed a lot of interesting drivers.  My favorite one had to be one of the thousands of men in their midlife crisis.  This specific man was different though.  You commonly see the ones with Porsches and Corvettes, etc.  What made this guy special?  Well, this creature was driving a Mini Cooper S, with a personalized license plate that said "TH MINI."  As far as the midlife crisis goes, dude, you're just not getting it.

Fear of the Day:  Porphyrophobia.

Shout out to Molly Jeffers.

Nostalgia just isn't what it used to be.

I remember the good ol' days when remembering was really something.  Everybody just seems to forget that nowadays.  Oh well, times are changing and we can't dwell on the past.  Moving on!!

According to one friend of mine, whom I will call Jerkface, I am fat.  Jerkface has felt the need to attempt to drill this into my apparently overweight skull at every chance he gets.  At first, I chose to ignore him, to not let him get a rise out of me.  I have now revoked that decision, and have instead decided to retaliate.  Besides my incorporation of trace amounts of Colchicine and antifreeze into his daily diet, I want him to know how devastatingly bad of a human being he is.  Jerkface, there is no room for your judgement on this planet, whether true or false, and should you decide not to change your ways, feel free to throw yourself in front of the next train.  And to be honest, I fully expect the response to this to be "You're fat," to which my answer will be "Eat up, friend, life is short."  (Especially in his case.  He has maybe another week.)

Today was a very painful day for me folks, for today I went to the doctor, or via Stewie Griffin, "the man in white."  It has been a substantial amount of time since I have been to the doctor for a variety of reasons, probably the most important of which is that I am absolutely and incurably terrified of the doctor's office.  It's an interesting fact considering my stepfather is a doctor (go on Freud, have a field day).  In all seriousness though, I have the composure of a bratty 4 year old on heroine from the moment I step inside a health center to the second before I leave.  To put this in perspective, I can jump off a bridge with nothing but a large rubber band attached to my feet and I'm fine.  I would throw myself out of an airplane 20,000 feet in the air with a glorified table cloth attached to my back, and I'd do it in a heartbeat.  When it comes to needles, this 22 year old man turns into a 6 year old girl faster that you can say "you're a pansy."  Even as superstitious as I am, I would rather break a mirror with an open umbrella indoors under an open ladder, then go deep sea diving with great white sharks dressed in a wetsuit made of raw meat than have to get 2 shots.  One shot?  I get lightheaded and pale (crying is a bonus).  Two shots?  Swaying in my chair, possible vomiting, definite crying.  Three shots?  Don't know, I wasn't conscious past when they told me I had to get 3 shots.  Four shots?  See you in a couple years, my subconscious just threw me into a coma.

You know what's a very disturbing expletive insult to call someone?  Shit-for-brains.  Think about that for a second.  Not okay.

Today while walking around campus I saw a guy wearing a red shirt that said JUST DO IT in big bold letters. Not a big deal, we realize Nike owns the world.  However, after class I passed another collegiate male wearing a white shirt that in the same big bold letters said JUST DID IT.  One-upped like a champ.  I thought it was over.  I was wrong.  Less than twenty minutes after Guy #2 just did it, I walked passed the library and guess who I passed?  You got it.  Guy #3, wearing a similar shirt, but his was emblazoned with the words STILL DOING IT.  For the win.  These shirts are awesome, and it's incredible that I saw all three on the same day, but audience (that's you), we cannot ignore what these shirts are telling us.  There is clearly a Civil War happening inside the Nike Corporation.  Pretty soon this once whimsical catch phrase will be altered to more sinister clips, and I, for one, refuse to put my son in a pair of shoes with the phrase JUST KILL HIM.  Overdramatic or over-prepared?  You decide.

Here's an interesting bit of life that I stumbled upon the other day:  You can actually use string cheese to work your iPhone instead of your finger.  Yes, it's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, but it's still nifty dammit.  Not everything has to have a purpose.  Lighten up.

Fact of the Day:  Owls are the only birds that can see the color blue.

Shout out to Lindsey Harris.

I intend to live forever. So far, so good.

Well, it's either forever or I die at 35.  I'm really cool with either.

How bout that flight in?  Wait.  No.  I swore I'd never say that.  Excuse me while I head butt the wall.  Okay, better.  Seriously though, after my flying experiences, roughly 4,632 of them, I am finally excited to say that security is back to normal.  I flew recently and they after years of turmoil, we are once again allowed to bring finger nail clippers on the plane.  I understand banning knives and such, but I never quite understood the clippers.  Let's be honest, if you're someone that can hijack a plane with a set of nail clippers, chances are you can do it without nail clippers too.  Besides a gnarly pinch, there's not much you can do with nail clippers.

While we're talking about banning dangerous thing on airplanes, I'd like to talk about some other things I find sketchy.  I'd like to bring to attention one of the most prominent dangers to America (besides Oprah, memory foam, and Kleenex).  This is imminent danger is none other than tortilla chips.  Take it in.  Recently I was enjoying one of my ex-favorite snacks, chips and salsa, and then it all when south.  There I was, being a completely decent human being, indulging in a little junk food before dinner, and all of a sudden the tortilla chi[ps turned on me, ganged up and tried to take me down.  It subtly broke itself into a diabolical shape small enough to fit in my throat, but large enough to get stuck, and sharp enough to cut a diamond.  We cannot sit idly by while these lightly fried salted triangles unify against us!  Down with tortilla chips!!

Walking out of the gym the other day I witnessed an entertaining yet slightly confusing event.  There was a guy outside, and while I don't want to say he was fat, he was at least....misshapen.  What I'm trying to say is that he very clearly was not an athlete, meaning not one of those blessed individuals that can eat whatever they want whenever they want and still be in shape.  *Sigh*  Oh, to be young again.  Alas, I stray.  Anyway, this particular human had been working out while I was, and when I stumbled upon him outside he was eating McDonald's (yes Micky D's again) and smoking a cigarette.  Where to start......  I mean I can appreciate the effort, but all I'm saying is that in his case, smoking cigs and eating shit food, working out is comparable to polishing the deck chairs on the Titanic.  It's all gonna look real good while it's sinking into permanent ruin.

Today I happened upon and strange student, who I will call Happy Feet.  This guy was in in the Natural Sciences building and was dancing by himself in the upstairs hallway.  That's weird, but I guess it's not unheard of.  What took it over the line was that Mr. Happy Feet didn't have headphones in and there was no music playing.  I can only assume he was interpretive dancing to the singing of the voices in his head.  He was one of those guys that I would assume is waaaaaay out of his mind.  You know, like the ones that eat cotton balls on their smores and swear they never turned six, just went straight to seven.  Who am I to judge though?  Dance on, my insane fellow student, dance on.

Fact of the Day:  The word "queue" in the only word in the English language that is still pronounced the same way when the last four letters are removed.

Shout out to Adrienne Beauchamp.