Those who live by the sword get shot by those that don't.

So I have officially lived in South Carolina for a month now, and I guess I can say the Honeymoon period is officially over.  It's not that I don't like this place anymore, just that kind of Christmas-esque feeling of excitement from moving to a new place is gone.  Now's when you start realizing that certain things annoy you, like not having a disposal or sharing a house with a demon-possessed street cat.  Actually, that's not completely true.  When I think of something blog-worthy, I immediately have to make a note of it in my phone because I have the memory of a mentally challenged goldfish.  I wrote the part about the cat a week ago, but guess what??  Satan's kitty is GONE!!  I know, right?!  If I wasn't bankrupt in four states I would have bought a cake and Power Ranger Plates and had a party.  Actually, wait, screw that.  Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for sure, eff the Power Rangers.  Anyway, the point is that the animal is no longer a member of this household and I can't say I'm angry about it.

BREAKING NEWS:  As of September 20th, 2012 I can officially say that I have met the most excruciatingly painful person to spend time with.  I'm going to call him Lima Bean, because that was the first thing that came to mind when I thought about how to describe his personality.  Honestly though, if this guy had a patronus, it would be an earthworm.  If he were a color, he'd be a soft grey.  He’s like the human version of Crocs but with less to make fun of. Being around Lima Bean is like being subjected to 24 hours of Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercials.  Anyway, I think you get the point.

Have you ever been in a place like a college cafeteria or public restaurant and spilled a drink?  It's like your group of friends becomes a Chinese family and you've brought horrible shame upon all of them.  You immediately feel like everybody in the entire place is staring and muttering insults/harsh judgmental stabs, even though there's a 98% chance they don't even know you exist.  Your friends will help clean it up, but only after everybody jumps back from the table and offers a  "DUDE, what the hell?" or sarcastic "NICE man."  They've got to establish that they had nothing to do with the actual spill, just in case the judges were watching this time.  Shit I'm insecure.

You know what we haven't revisited in a while?  The Hate List.  For those that don’t know, this is the running list of things I hate most in the world.  Here's the updated top ten list with a few links to specific rants, just in case you're really bored:

1.  Anything associated with the University of Florida (namely Tim Tebow)

2.  Mayonnaise

3.  PETA

4.  The Smurfs

5.  Bongo players

6.  The little hole in the airplane window

7.  Flamingos

8.  Wheelbarrow Races

9.  Cereal

10.  School buses

Really the only change since last time was the addition of bongo players.  I'm sure everyone reading this already follows me on Twitter and gets personal alerts every time I release 140 character bits of genius hilarity, but for those of you who don't for some reason, I think bongo players are some of the most pompous douche bags on the face of the planet.  I mean honestly, think about it.  Every time you see a bongo player, they have this infuriatingly smug look on their face, like they think they're the best thing to hit the musical stage since the effing Beatles.  Holy shit, I get so pissed when I think about this that my hands are literally shaking right now.  (That also might be because I chose to sit here and write this instead of eating today.  That's how important you are to me.  I love you.   Don't smother me.  You’re being clingy, I need my space.)  First off, you don't "play the bongo".  You slap a piece of wood and animal skin that, at it's very best, can make a whole two different sounds.  (Three if you hit the side, sorry I didn't mean to downplay your magnificence in the world of musical innovation.)  The only requirement of the bongo is your hands, and you can still probably play it without those.  It's literally the only instrument that an infant enjoys as much as an "expert", and it basically sounds the same when either of those two play.  The bongo essentially ranks on the musically talented level of the triangle.  Yea, that stupid little piece of metal used in second grade band class and sometimes to let cowboys know dinner's ready.  The worst part is that the bongo players are always up on stage next to the real musicians playing actual drums or guitars, yet they always look confident that they are the glue holding the band together.  Dude, you're the guy with little-to-no talent that they didn't want to feel left out.  At the very best, they needed something to keep time, and couldn't afford a drummer.  That's what you are, you're a glorified metronome.  I bet you like the opera and crumpets too you pretentious dick.  Man that was angry, I really need to eat.

Law of the Day:  It is illegal to sing off-key in North Carolina.

Shout out to Cambria Eber.

To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles.

Also, it helps to not have principles to begin with.

So for those of you that don't know, I recently moved to Columbia, South Carolina.  I'm going to optimistically assume that none of you are cereal killers and won't abuse that information.  Anyway, almost two years ago I moved from California to Atlanta, and even though I was back on the eastern side of the country, Atlanta didn't really have that Southern feel I was used to when I lived in Mississippi or central Georgia.  Well, now that's over.  South Carolina has made up for it and more.  About a week ago, I participated in something about an hour north of Columbia, called The High Cotton Classic.  And if we're embracing stereotypes, and The Daily Tablet always does, it's pretty obvious that this event is about as Southern as it gets purely because it has "cotton" in the name.  Anyway, The High Cotton Classic, or "High Cotton" as us locals call it, is a skeet shooting competition.  If you don't know what skeet shooting is, it's when these clay discs get launched into the air and you shoot them with shotguns.  If you don't know what shotguns are, then you're an idiot.  I know what you're thinking:  "So basically it's bunch of rednecks with loaded guns running around shooting them in the air just to see shit explode?"  No, that’s not "basically” it.  That’s exactly it.  And it's AMAZING.  Turns out, as extremely surprising as it was, I'm a natural when it comes to shooting shotguns.  As awesomely terrifying as it is, I'm like goddamn sniper out there.  It was a nice change of pace, considering how when I first stepped out there, I had to turn to the guy next to me and ask him how to load the shells, how to turn off the safety, and whether or not he closed one eye when aiming.  Pathetic start I know, until I fucking NAILED those clay bastards out of the air like they burned down my family tree.  Beast mode whatup.  Damn, I did it again.  I wrote an entire paragraph just because I wanted to say one thing.  Consider all that an introduction.  I wanted to talk about a certain guy at High Cotton, at least until you distracted me.  Anyway, when we were lining up to get started with the competition, this guy drives up on a four wheeler, decked out in camouflage, shotgun on his back, and wearing the most nerve-wracking sneer on his face that I've seen in a very long time.  Now I don't mean to judge a book by it's cover, but have you ever looked at somebody and thought, "I am confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that this human being in front of me has killed a man."  I have.  And of course I'm sitting on the back of the cart, forced to face the probable axe-murder armed with a shotgun.  Now I'm no pansy (*yes I am), but this was thoroughly disconcerting.  It was all I could do not to load up and shoot him right there in a preemptive attempt at staying alive.  I didn't though, I just sat there calmly with closed eyes, muttering prayers and clutching my probably unloaded shotgun.

I'd like to take this time to rehash my hatred for small animals.  Rats, squirrels, small dogs, and my roommate's cat.  If I could rid this planet of every rat, mouse, gerbil, shitty little dog, and Pluto the cat, I would do it in a heartbeat, then spend the rest of my incredible life celebrating.  Actually, so far there are two crappy little dogs I wouldn't kill.  One in southern California because it is quite possibly the funniest looking creature I've ever seen.  I’m pretty sure it’s a distant cousin of the Taco Bell chihuahua, and it clearly took fast food eating to a whole new level. It’s not as much “fat” as it is “perfectly spherical.”  I have actually kicked this dog across the yard because I thought it was a soccer ball*.  It’s far too entertaining to execute.  The second mutt is in northern California, and I wouldn’t exterminate this one simply because this particular owner is even more obsessed with their dog than most microwaveable-dog owners, and wouldn't stop bitching for the rest of eternity.  The cat, on the other hand, I would have no qualms about slaying.  It pissed in my room TWICE less than 24 hours after I moved in, has bitten two of the four houseguests we've had over, and meows extruciatingly loudly and high pitched every 1.6 seconds.  To be clear, I will give $50 to whoever offs this cat.  I don't even want to know who you are, just come to my house, eliminate it, and slip your address under my door.  I will mail you cash, burn the address, and the world will be a better place.

This summer was an interesting one, for good and bad reasons.  I was scheduled to moved into my house here on August 20th, after renting a U-Haul trailer, packing up, and driving from Macon, GA (about 4 hours).  What made this interesting was that at 9:00pm on August 19th, I was about 2,600 miles away in Chico, California.  I made it work by driving to Sacramento, taking a red-eye flight to Charlotte, NC, then another flight to Atlanta, a shuttle down to Macon, then renting the U-Haul, packing, and driving to South Carolina.  And all of this with no sleep.  Well anybody that follows me on Twitter knows how my flying experiences tend to go.  I've basically established that flying is the way God retaliates for everything wrong I've done in my life.  I have yet to have a single flight without a screaming baby, a kicking child, a fantastically sweaty and obese neighbor, or vomiting passenger within arms reach, and these two flights were no exception.  This time I won't go into detail, though, because that's not what this post is about.  In my sleep-deprived, slightly angry and completely delirious state of mind, I started thinking of what my ideal flight would consist of.  The list escalated quickly and this is what I came up with, or at least the stuff I remember thinking… 

Ladies and gentlemen, we know you have a choice when it comes to flying, and we’d like to thank you for choosing Hirschey Airlines.  Here’s what your flight will consist of:

-There is no first class restriction, and the front is a soundproof room with Tempur-Pedic mattresses

-Coach is just one big beanbag.

-There is a plane-wide Rochambeau tournament (that’s “Rock Paper Scissors for you uncultured folk) to determine who gets to try to land the plane.  (Don’t worry, we land in a giant ball pit so you’ll be fine.)

-Babies, dogs, and fat people ride in the cargo hold.

-There is a mandatory mid-flight freestyle rap contest between two randomly selected passengers.

-The tray folds down and already has a plate of freshly cooked bacon on it.

-Anyone deemed overwhelming annoying or high maintenance by a majority vote must sit in the bathroom for the remainder of the flight.

-There's an option to drag behind the plane for the duration of the flight while it's at cruising altitude.  (Yes, I know this isn’t possible right now, make it happen NASA.)

Also, on this plane, to hell with the oxygen masks.  If the plane's going down, the only thing dropping from the overhead compartments are jellybeans, cause let's be honest, when your plane's about to haul ass into the ground at five hundred miles an hour, putting a yellow cone over your face isn't going to do shit.  Unless of course you're trying to imitate a duck, in which case they can be located at the front of the Tempur-Pedic section.

Fact of the Day:  There was once an underwater post office in the Bahamas.

Shout out to Victoria Shao.