If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.

That's pretty much my approach to everything.  It's actually working out pretty well too, you should try it.

Follow the blog with that button over there-->.  You can use your Twitter, Google, or Yahoo account.  It's that easy.  If I'm wasting my time writing these things, you can damn well spare 45 seconds to follow the blog.  Much appreciated.

Freedoms suck.  Well not really, I'm actually quite a fan.  Laws about freedoms suck.  They've got to be the most contested thing ever, and frankly I'm sick of it.  Freedom to marry, freedom of speech, right to bear arms, etc, etc.  I'm exhausted from hearing about picketers and protesters whining about this and that, and everybody starting this whole to-do about something I could give a shit about.  However, seeing as I'm a blogger, I guess I have to say I hate censorship.  Well not all of it, some people deserved to not only be censored, but to have their entire right to speak revoked.  I mainly just hate censorship when it's dealing with me.

I don't mean to blow things out of proportion here, but stick with me.  One of my favorite feelings ever, besides eating bacon and looking at this huge metal thing on the side of Highway 99 in California, is this:  So you're on a plane and the lights are all on, you move to your seat, settle down, and wait for the plane to get moving.  Usually I'll pick up Sky Mall or whatever the other magazine is called and start browsing.  Without fail, right when I get caught up in some article about the top ten places to get a steak in Zimbabwe or something, the captain turns the cabin lights off to start taxiing.  Of course I'm only at number 3 right now, and I know for a fact that Mutare doesn't have the best steak, and I absolutely must find out the remaining top two places.  This is when I slowly reach up toward the roof and softly mutter "Let there be LIGHT!"  Boom.  A little ray of light shines down directly at my magazine like a sniper from heaven, telling me that the best steak spot in Zimbabwe is found in Harare.  I knew it.  Anyway, as good as the Amanzi Hotel & Restaurant may be, the real prize here is the little feeling I got when I turned on that light.  Is that what God feels like?  Maybe on a slightly smaller scale, but I have to admit, when I hit that button I feel like the all powerful owner of light.  The next time your on a plane, try it and really revel in the moment.  You'll see what I'm talking about.

Peronally, I don't trust lip syncers.  They have no creativity, originality, or honor.  Their job is to ride on the coat tails of others' accomplishments.  They feel good about themselves because they can make their lips move well.  You know who else can do that?  Hookers.  And professional whistlers.  And I'm pretty sure nobody likes either of those.  Go get a real hobby.  You are an embarrassment to the world of music.  Your entire profession is built on a body of lies.  You disgust me.

Speaking of hobbies, I've found a new one.  During my recent involuntary stay in the Milwaukee airport, I have discovered how fun it is to analyze the people getting off of the plane from Las Vegas.  Some clearly just had a connecting flight through Vegas, so I ignore those.  Some just live there.  (Yea, I didn't know that was legal either.)  The good ones are those who are getting back from a vacation.  Here are my favorites:  (1) The classic men that just lost their dignity, life savings, and sometimes their wedding ring.   (2) The girls who look like they just lived through a hurricane.  A hurricane of partying, creepy older men, free drinks, and free roofies.  Those are always funny too.  (3) Lastly, and this is rare, is what I call the Family Package.  If you pardon the cliche, this is the jackpot of Vegas-goers.  The Family Package consists of at least one young child, an older daughter (one of the hurricane girls), a husband (freshly in debt), and an infuriated wife holding the hand of the younger child, wondering why the hell she agreed Vegas would be a good choice for a family vacation.  Oh yes.  Pure gold.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, these are still all blogs based on my summer happenings.  During the later part of the summer, me and two friends decided it was a good Sunday to fly to Chicago.  I'll call the friends Benedict Arnold and Sgt. George Cornsfellow.  Person 1 gets the name Benedict Arnold because he betrayed us, bought a flight the day before, and left us to suffer the turmoil of standby flying by ourselves.  What a bitch.  Person 2 gets Sgt. George Cornsfellow for no other reason than I think that's a funny name.  Anyway, after me and Sgt. Cornsfellow got over the betrayal of Benedict, we ventured to the airport and began what would be a 23 hour and 39 minute trip, 13 hours of which would be spent on the floor of the Milwaukee airport, which, by the way, is exactly as comfortable as it sounds.  To burn time, we did everything a normal person would do while waiting in an airport.  We had margaritas and beer at 9:30 am at Chili's, snacked, paced, ate, played ping pong, snacked some more, saw what could be the single worst children's play area on the planet, Skyped some friendlies, slept on the ground like a pair of well-dressed homeless people, and waited.  A lot.  That was my first experience in Wisconsin, and you can be damn sure it will be my last.  After that miserable adventure, I can confidently say that Wisconsin, in my opinion, is no longer a state.  Congratulations, Wisconsin, you have joined the ranks of Nebraska and New Jersey.  You've got some good company there.  Try not to kill yourself.  (Or do, I don't really care.)

Again, I'll have to postpone the rest of the summer blog.  There's just too much, and I don't want to overwhelm you.  See ya next [insert time interval].  Thanks for playing.

Fact of the Day:  Jimi Heselden, owner of the Segway Company,  died from driving a Segway off a cliff and drowning in the river at the bottom.

Shout out to Carlie Ernenwein.

You are the result of 4 billion years of evolutionary success. Act like it, dammit.

Actually, in most cases that's very depressing.  Then again, maybe I just have some very stupid friends.  Kind of makes you wonder what we started at, huh?  They must have been some serious assholes.

I realize it's been a while since the last blog, but I went on vacation.  Sue me.*  For those of you who haven't forgotten about me, lost interest, or been hit by a car, I thank you for sticking with me.  Don't forget to click the white button over to the right to Follow.

*Please don't.

So we're officially back in the school year.  As I recently tweeted, if your fifth year in college is called a Victory Lap then I'll be doing a Victory Mile.  Luckily for you people going to college is and endless source of Daily Tablet material.  But let's not get ahead of ourselves, we still have my wonderful summer to talk about.

This is a long story, so I'm breaking it up for you.  See if you can hold on during the page breaks.

As some of you may know, I recently went to California.  I basically traveled the entire state and had many wonderful experiences.  However, wonderful experiences are rarely funny, so you don't get to hear about those.  Instead, I'm going to tell you about one of the most hellish adventures I've ever been on.  

Have you ever thought that some place was only an hour away, but a friend corrects you (they've always gotta be right, don't they?) and says it's not one, but four hours away, so naturally you google it to see who's right.  Smarty McJerkpants is right, of course (he's such a douche), and you're left to ponder how you managed to forget about three whole hours of the trip.  Don't feel bad, you probably just have short-term memory loss or amnesia.  Either way, you were wrong.  Very wrong.  This is essentially what happen to me, except in my case being wrong resulted in me losing movement in my legs and getting more dehydrated than I have ever been before.  I didn't cry though.*  

*Might be false.

So the apartment that I was staying at, we'll call it Never Never Land, is a bit farther than, well, any other place of residence in the entire city of Chico.  Actually, it might not even be within city limits.  I don't have the evidence to prove that, just go with it.  Anyway, the story begins when jolly old Tab wakes up one morning alone in the apartment.  I knew the roommates were at work/gone/etc for a while so I figured, why not go on a little run?  I thought I'd just take a nice little relaxing jog back to my other friends' house in Chico.  It's only about a mile, right?  WRONG.  SO WRONG.  SO WRONG IT HURTS.  If I could go back in time (and I'm working on it), the first thing I would do is go back to that exact moment and threaten my own life to deter me from going on that excruciatingly painful "jog".  I honestly might even knock myself unconscious.  However, time travel does not yet exist, and thus I left on the run.  Oh yes, did I mention that I elected not to eat anything before I went?  Yea, and we all know how well I function without food.  It's like the planets aligned to ruin my life.  

Anyway, I took a couple gulps of water and took off without stretching (cause everyone knows stretching's for pansies).  Off I went, like Little Red Freaking Riding Hood off to her grandmother's house.  In hindsight, I would have gladly taken on a talking wolf rather than finish that run.  So there I am, running at a completely irrational pace with twice the grace of a gazelle.  That lasted for about the first mile, if even.  Then I start thinking to myself, "This road is a lot longer than I thought it was.  I don't even recognize this area."  I even thought I was lost at one point, so naturally I kept running straight.  A couple miles in I'm really starting to overheat, keep in mind I started this run at a full sprint.  Also, it's roughly 97 degrees outside, which to me felt like the inside of a brick oven, which for those of you who don't know, average out at about 3,000 degrees.**

**Complete guess.

  Another mile passes and I start to recognize where I am, but at this point I'm not even excited about it.  If I hadn't recognized where I was, I probably would've started walking but since I did, the male ego reared its idiotic head and said, "Keep running, bitch.  Only nancy boys give up when you're this close."  Of course I listened and kept running.  I make it about four more blocks before I realize that I'm so dehydrated that I'm not even sweating anymore.  That's right, I'm completely dry.  Normally you would stop here, but my twisted mind approaches the situation by pointing out that because I'm dry, people will see me and think I haven't been running long at all.  Yes I realize that's absolutely retarded, but I'm not exactly thinking straight at this point.  So I keep moving.  I call it "moving" because what I'm doing here can't even be called "running".  

Now, if you can believe it, is where it gets interesting.  Usually when I run I avoid people in wheelchairs/motorized scooters like the black plague.  Why?  Because when I jog pass them I feel like I might as well dance in front of them for a couple seconds singing, "Look what I can do!!!  I can do this and you can't and that's why you suck!!"  Irrational?  Possibly, but that's how I feel.  So I see this elderly lady in a motorized scooter driving down a cross street, directly toward my path.  I panic, there's no way I'm gonna let her get there before me cause then I'd have to pass her.  So I pick up speed, probably to about 1.5 mph but it felt like I was sprinting, and the only thought is to beat her to the corner, then I can slow down again.  

You can stop holding your breath cause guess what?  I beat her there.  Usain Bolt would've have even been impressed.  Now I can slow down again.  Problem solved, right?  Wrong again.  You're 0 for 2 here.  I didn't realize that this was no ordinary old lady, this was Danica Patrick driving a motor scooter with six gears and a turbo boost.  This lady was haulin like the Grim Reaper was hot on her tail.  It took about seven seconds before she started catching up to me.  I don't know if this was some kind of sick twist on Karma or something but I almost broke down.  Screw the planets, it's like the galaxies aligned to kill me.  Literally the only thing that saved me was that she was going to a grocery store one block down.  I have never loved Safeway more than I did right then.  

After all this, I'm on the home stretch.  I can virtually see the finish line.  I am less than eight blocks away, and I'm starting to feel a little better.  Honestly that was probably just the dehydration making me a little delirious.  Regardless, I feel better and just as I'm thinking, "I've got this shit" I get a knock out punch.  A little kid on a mother effing Razor Scooters goes blasting past me.  And that's not even the worst part.  The real kick in the nuts came when he chuckled as he rode past and asked, "Havin' trouble there?"  DAMN THE RAZOR SCOOTERS.  All of them!  That's like somebody passing you on a pogo stick or a fucking unicycle..  It only solidifies the fact that you are traveling at less than 1 mph.  I didn't give up, but I did turn the corner.  There was no way I was going to watch that little punk ride off ahead of me.  If I'd had a stick, rock, or grenade, I would've thrown it at him.  After that nothing really interesting happens for the rest of the run, besides my face plant into the hardwood floor at my friends house.  The whole point behind this is that I just wanted to teach you all a very valuable lesson:  Razor Scooters are the devil.

I didn't realized that'd take up so much room, so I'm gonna break it up and put the rest of the shtuff on the next blog.  Deal with it.

Fact of the Day:  Club Direct, a travel insurance company in Britain, provides insurance plans for protection from falling coconuts.

Shout out to Cxadi Angus.