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.

Can you imagine the conversation between Mike Jones and an owl?

It'd be about as intelligent as Kanye's lyrics.  Or anything Larry the Cable Guy has ever spoken.

Reasons Zaxby's is better than friends:

-When you give Zaxby's money, you get something in return, and it's better than money.

-Zaxby's doesn't get angry, moody, depressed, or irrational.

-If you get angry, moody, depressed or irrational, Zaxby's can make you feel better.

-If you eat Zaxby's you won't go to jail.

That's all I can think of due to the extreme hunger that writing this has caused, but the long and short of it is that Zaxby's is possibly the greatest human achievement in the history of history, and if you disagree you either are a satanist, the most extreme case of nonconformist ever, or have been victim to a horrible accident which resulted in your taste buds being removed and/or sever mental damage.

I've got to say, the Yellawood commercials have got to be the most idiotic advertisements I've seen in a long time.  For those of you that haven't been blessed with the magnificent acting that is Yellawood, it is the equivalent of a local car commercial, but it's all over the South.  And it doesn't stop there.  They attempt to include riveting plots to keep you on the edge of your seats.  The only problem is that this advertisement has all the finger-biting excitement of a slow motion chess game played by two monotone chemistry professors.  I'd say that they were ranked as the most hated commercials in the South eastern United States, but I'm not sure that's true and I promised myself I'd never do any more research past what Yahoo Answers could tell me.

I think one of the most depressing things commonly seen on college campuses is bicycle tires sitting locked to a rack by themselves.  I have a personal bias, as I had a bicycle stolen from me a year or two ago (if you'd like to see my retaliation, click here).  Honestly though, how would you feel if you locked up your bike, went to class (or Zaxby's), and came back to see only a front tire?  You have to admit you kind of deserved it for not knowing how to lock it up, but that's besides the point.  It would suck.  That's why, in the off chance that I forget to lock my bike in the correct thief-deterring fashion, I have decided that I am going to wire a few 1 million volt taser devices to my bike that will only be deactivated when the bike is correctly unlocked.  I can see the headline now.  "Bike Thief Incinerated After Trying To Steal The Wrong Bike."

Word of the Day:  Humility.

Shout out to Kayla Blofsky.