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