An Apple a day keeps the doctor...........shit.

As many of you know, Steve Jobs passed away today, hence the reason I'm writing this.  I don't know if it's because he was a technical mastermind and a genius visionary, or that I bashed iPod on yesterday's blog and now I feel guilty.  Either way, he deserves a tribute.  Steve Jobs was the god of the consumer world.  He had me more figured out than I do, which is slightly unnerving to be honest with you.  Now let's be straight here, I'm just as much of a consumer as anybody out there, but I used to think that I have a tiny bit more control over myself in that I can realize when something's just plain stupid and can deter myself from buying it.  Then Mr. Jobs came along and completely butchered my self-control.  If I had my will power on a leash before, then Apple cut the leash, gave it a shot of adrenaline, and drop kicked it out the door.  Basically Apple ruined my chances of every having a respectable savings account.  And this can all be attributed to Steve Jobs.  From slightly overpriced but amazingly awesome Macbooks to a different size of iPod for every hour of the day, Apple covers every area of need, convenience, and entertainment possible.  Just when I think my phone is bordering on ridiculous because of how advanced, handy, and uselessly awesome it is, a new version comes out.  Usually I'd be pissed about this because I just bought the old newest one, but not with Apple.  They come out with these new ideas that blow my mind like a nuclear bomb in a two story apartment building.  As much as I hate to admit it, we as human being are going to be about as physical useless as Stephen Hawking within a couple decades because of brilliant minds like that of Steve Jobs.  It's too bad his Apples didn't keep the proverbial doctor away.  Okay, I'm sorry for making jokes at a time like this.  Death makes me weird and this is how I deal with things.  Anyway, that's really all I have to say, I just wanted to give a tip of the hat as we send off one of the greatest game changers in the history of material consumerism.  Thank you, Steve Jobs, for everything you've done.  iMiss you.

Fact of the Day:  Steve Jobs's stake in Disney was twice as big as his stake in Apple.

Shout out to Steve Jobs.

It's okay Pluto, I'm not a planet either.

Which is bullshit, by the way.  I spent nearly an eternity filling out the paperwork and it got tossed because of a technicality.  On the upside, I have been warned that in lieu of a Christmas present my cousins may be entering me in a political race.  I don't know where or what for, but either way I will be selling tshirts and buttons with "Vote for Tab!" and other slogans on them.  Designs to come.

Based on the music that emanates from my apartment, I'm pretty sure my neighbors think an entire family of people lives here.  Not that a playlist that goes directly from Taylor Swift to Tech N9ne to the Rolling Stones to Backstreet Boys to Black Keys to Sugarland isn't completely normal.  Judge away.

While we're on the topic on music, I'd like to bring up a problem I have with Apple products.  "A problem with Apple?!  That's blasphemy!!  Impossible!!"  Wrong again, it's possible.  Now don't get me wrong, I'd still sell my soul if it meant I'd get every new release from Apple.  Hell I'd probably throw in my brother too.  However, I seem to have a reoccurring problem with iPods.  Every time I get an iPod it works flawlessly for the first year or two, then it starts acting funny.  It doesn't break, mind you, it just starts messing with me.  I'm sure you've all come across the problem on a computer or a lesser mp3 player, where some of the songs play louder than others.  To be frank, I hate this.  Also I hate school buses, but that's another story.  Anyway, it's really obnoxious because you have to keep adjusting the volume.  For me, it's not that simple.  The songs, every one of them, play at the exact same volume on my computer.  It's a beautiful thing and it makes me very happy.  I put them on my iPod and everything works magnificently for a while.  Then the world implodes.  Keep in mind that this happens randomly and over night.  There is no warning at all.  One day I'm walking through campus, usually through a crowded area because there's a Safe Sex and Chicken rally in the courtyard (or something of the sort).  Anyway, there I am, cruising along in a mild manner listening to my music at a very reasonable volume when all of a sudden BAM!!  I'm now listening to Modest Mouse scream about the salty breath of the ocean at a volume roughly as loud as my little sister's scream when Justin Bieber comes on the TV.  Don't get me wrong, I love the song, but I like my eardrums more, and hearing is one of those talents I was planning on holding on to for a while.  And while my mind is tuned into to the searing pain coursing through my ossicles, eustachian tube, and cochlea, the rest of my body is doing a spastic combination of the Tango and the Stanky Leg.  Sometimes I'll even yell out of shock, and if you're lucky it'll be the first few lyrics of the song.  I have no control over this or anything that happens within that first minute.  I am in excruciating pain, and everybody near me has what I believe is called the "bejeezus" scared out of them.*  Nobody wins.

*Holy hell.  "Bejeezus" is legitimately a word.  My faith in humanity is thus restored.

One of the benefits of living in a very large and diverse city comes in the form of people watching.  Now many of you know I am a huge fan of people watching, or as Steve Irwin (rest in peace) called it, "Sapien Stalking".*  Anyway, I've found a new species.  I haven't thought up a name for them yet, so I'm open to suggestions.**  This particular species is predominately male, around 40, and usually Caucasian.  They are dressed in business attire from head-to-toe save for one detail:  The eyes.  Known as the gateway to the soul, the eyes are always covered, which leads me to believe these creatures are soul-less, or that they don't have eyes.  Either way, on every specimen I've found so far the eyes are protected with sunglasses.  Not just typical sunglasses, though.  These middle-aged white businessmen are sporting sunglasses that should only be worn by Alpine skiers, Lance Armstrong, or a combination of the two.  I realize that was probably not where you thought his was going, but these guys really are ridiculous.  You're not in the middle of a triathlon.  You aren't an athlete.  You're not even an Oakley rep.  You're forty-five, fat, and have a receding hair line.  The only reason you'd run is if the oven timer was beeping and even then it's more of a power-walk.  You're not fooling anyone Mr Businessman 2.0, now go get some normal sunglasses.  I'll even let you have a pair of Maui Jim's.

*Do not research that.

**Except stupid ones.

I've added something else to my Hate List.  For those of you keeping track, it currently looks like this:

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

2. Mayonnaise

3. PETA

4. The Smurfs

5. The little hole in the airplane window

6. Flamingos

7. Wheelbarrow Races

8. Cereal

9. School buses

The list is FAR longer than that, trust me, but those are the important ones.  Anyway, the new addition to my Hate List is anybody that drives VW Golf (the car).  The thing is, I don't hate them when they aren't driving the car, and probably couldn't even pick them out of a lineup.  As soon as they get in that car, though, my only desire is to see them run over by an unusually fast steam roller.  I have absolutely no reasoning for this whatsoever.

I was in a gas station the other day and was reaching for my usual Nestle Strawberry Milk, and realized I hadn't had a Yoohoo in forever.  I went for a walk on the wild side and grabbed the Yoohoo.  After the experience I came to decide that Yoohoo's target demographic is people who haven't had a Yoohoo in a while.

Fact of the Day:  The cheetah is the only cat that cannot retract its claws.

More Interesting Fact of the Day:  In Scotland it is illegal to be drunk and in possession of a cow.

Shout out to Mallory Schwartz.

Marraige: Betting someone half your shit that you will love them forever.

I've always been a gambling man, but that just seems sketchy.

I was recently made aware that The Daily Tablet has been officially submitted to Stumble Upon.  If we were at a restaurant or bar, this is the point where I would buy a round of drinks in celebration.  Seeing as we're not though, you'll have to settle for a mental high five.  Congratulations to me.

Now as you may or may not know, I'm not big on awards shows.  To be completely honest, I don't even know the difference between the Grammies, the Oscars, and whatever the other big one is.  I'm pretty sure the only actual difference is the shape of the statue/award.  Admittedly I will watch the ESPYS, but that more because it's only about sports and is hosted by comedians.  That being said, I was off in imaginary world and found myself hosting my own awards show for people that have been breaking ground over my life span.  Here's who got the awards and why:

Jeff Foxworthy, for being the first comedian ever to actually be funny using only clean humor.

Chuck Norris, for being Chuck Norris.

Steve Jobs, for taking over the world and then retiring instead of become a planetary dictator.

John Madden, for proving that you can actually be successful/famous with a serious mental disability.

Steve-O, for still being alive.

And Jeff Dunham, for showing that being a ventriloquist can result in something other than getting your ass kicked.

I realize that I'm not the most fashion savy male out there, in fact I'm not even close.  I'm actually pretty okay with it too, because I'm convinced that the group that's coming up with the new styles is a combination of three drunk homeless people, Lady Gaga, and this guy.  Anyway, what brought on this assesment isn't even the incredibly ridiculous clothes I see people wearing around in Atlanta.  It's actually something that people really don't even noticed anymore, because while it hasn't become normal, it has least become accepted.  My only three questions are these:  (1) Who came up with leaving the 5 inch tags on the outside of hats while wearing them?  (2) When did this become okay?  (3) When will it become legal to kill these people?  As I said before, I accept that I am probably not up to date with whatever's "in" nowadays, but I'm pretty sure that's not it.  I may not know what looks fashionable, but I damn well know what's stupid, and that, my friends, is way past stupid.  I didn't say anything when people bought those pro baseball hats and left the sticker under the bill, and I mostly stayed quiet cause I figured that fad would go away or the people doing it would choke on something and die, but this is getting out of hand.  I watched someone in the mall the other day get hit in the eye with his own tag three times, and he still did't get the hint.  I want to stab that man.

As many of you know, I enjoy Zaxby's.  For those of you leading deprived lives, Zaxby's is a restaurant, nay, a Heaven sent eatery that has blessed this earth with it's own style of chickeny goodness, and is all around a safe haven for taste buds of all races and age groups.  After eating there, I frequently find myself fighting back tears of pure joy as I cap off the last bite of Texas Toast dipped in Zax sauce.  Anyway, I'm telling you this firstly because I want to change your life, and secondly because last week I ws informed that the library on campus has a Zaxby's inside of it.  I literally screamed when I found out.  I struggled through the rest of class bouncing in my chair like a kid who can't open christmas presents til everyone has finished breakfast.  The speed at which I left that classroom and traveled to the library was nothing short of phenomenal.  At one point I'm pretty sure I knocked over a handicapped person, but he was in a wheelchair and therefore didn't fall very far so it's okay.  Long story short, it took me roughly nineteen seconds to get to the library from across campus, I blasted through the security gate, hauled across the study room, hurtled down the stairs, and then died.  Well I didn't actually die, but a part of my soul did and I nearly started crying.  Why?  Saxby's.  SAXBY'S.  Saxby's Coffee is why.  It was the let down of the century.

I've picked up a new hobby.  Maybe it spawned from me being single and slightly bitter, or maybe it came around because I have a natural tendency to make others uncomfortable.  Either way it's fun.  And simple.  Basically I go to a grocery store, bookstore, or anywhere that is a populated public area, and simply wear something slightly out of the ordinary.  Now to clarify I'm talking about something only slightly weird.  For example long colorful socks with sandals.  (I live in the South, so that's weird here.  I'm talking to you JM.)  The whole point is to go to these areas, like the store, and just count how many girls lean over to their boyfriends and whisper something along the lines of "Promise me you'll never wear something like that."  Here are a couple things to keep in mind:  One, the reactions aren't life altering, it's just a fun little thing to mess with people while you're places you already needed to be, such as getting groceries.  Also, the whole point of the game is lost if you wear something completely out of control.  For instance, it doesn't count if you go into a bookstore naked from the waste down with the top half of your body looking like a terrifyingly mangled version of Winnie the Pooh on meth.  Instead of getting smirks and judgement, you'll scar little children and get arrested.  That's not fun for anyone.  However if that does happen, I look forward to seeing it on the news.

Fact of the Day: In the United States, a pound of potato chips costs two hundred times more than a pound of potatoes.

Shout out to Minoru Kato.

“Mixed Nuts” just means that I have obstacles between me and my cashews.

Everybody loves a good cashew.  If you don't, you are clearly a communist.

I recently found out something very exciting about my biology class.  Our teacher is a very interesting man.  (That's not the exciting part.)  He comes off completely normal, and in all honesty is a pretty cool guy, but hidden beneath that pleasant exterior is a core of bold pessimism.  In the first day of class alone he proved how both Spiderman and 95% of the fashion product world is complete bullshit.  I won't bore you with the details.  (Mostly because I didn't really process anything he said because I was busy thinking about how I could turn in to a blog.)  Anyway, his teaching methods are unique as well.  He heavily relies on group projects and group learning, so on the first day he let us choose groups and group names.  (We're the Biologizers.)  Just after we finished what I like to call the Biolodraft, I thought to myself, "What if my group turns out horrible and the people suck?"  But not to worry!  He proceeded to tell us that if we had a rotten egg in our group, we should take it to an outside trashcan and throw it away, as it might make us nauseous.  Also, if we had a troublesome group member, we could vote them out of the group. I want to make sure you got that, so here it is again in bold:  We can vote to kick people out of our group.  Oh yeah.  Survivor Fall 2011: Biology Class.  So as I'm trying to stifle my preemptive power trip,  I immediately begin sizing up my group to decide who to make alliances with.  Then he goes on to say that not only can we kick someone out of the group, we can kick them out of the class.  Not permanently, of course, but for the day.  Still, that's giving us some power.  I have literally been praying for someone to be a dick so we can kick them out.  And the best part is that we vote with the remote clickers, so it's anonymous!!  The only negative side is that I'm having a very hard time focusing on the material because I'm so obsessed with the idea of expelling a classmate.  I think I'm just going to frame someone.

I think S might be the the most important letter in the alphabet.  I came to this conclusion whilst making pasta for dinner, and I said to myself out loud, "I need more pot."  Of course I meant to say "I need more pots", but that's not how it came out, and if that had been in a different scenario, say a police department cookoff, I could have had some serious explaining to do.

I think my least favorite thing about parking garages is driving down them.  Especially if it's driving down more than two levels.  It's kind of like a slide, but instead of fun, smooth, brightly colored plastic, it's rough grey concrete with obstacles on every side and cars speeding towards you around blind curves.  Actually, besides the dizzy factor, slides and parking garages are nothing alike.  I don't even know why you thought that in the first place.

I know I've been ranting a lot about music lately (I really haven't though), but I've got one more for you. I've decided that we have got to start getting a little more creative with our lyrics.  And I'm not counting rap, cause that wouldn't even be fair.  Specifically, I'm talking about slow emotional-ish songs.  I've also decided that if I hear another song with lyrics even remotely similar to: "Some people laugh, some people cry/ Some people live, some people die" I'm going to track down the writer and personally maim him/her.  Seriously though, you can use lie, buy, deep fry, anything but those lyrics.  The only thing I haven't decided is whether I'm going to use an aluminum or wooden bat to beat the crap out of them.

I realize this has been discovered by nearly every human in the nation, but in my opinion, the serving sizes for food on the sides of the packages are only applicable for anorexic midgets.  Thirteen Cheezits?  Yea right.

Going down the stairs with limp arms is much more fun.  Try it next time.  You won't be disappointed.

I am starting to doubt the legitimacy of certain sayings in the English language.  The first one brought to my attention is this:  When a male is being skittish or girly, other males with usually say something along the lines of "Come on man, grow a pair!"  (A pair as in male genitalia, not pear like the fruit.  That would be ridiculous, confusing, and generally unhelpful.)  As pointed out by a comedian, this makes no sense at all.  "A Pair" is the most sensitive part of the male body, thus growing another pair would make you far more vulnerable.  Along these lines, after kicking a curb (by accident), I broke off two toenails and was bleeding.  I asked for a bandaid when we got to the apartment, and I was told to "Rub some dirt on it."  I didn't, obviously, as I'm not a huge fan of gangrene or hospitals.  Yes, I understand the meaning of the saying, which is to suck it up and stop whining because you'll be fine, but I do have to question the origin of the phrase.  We all know that when you get an open wound, the first thing you're supposed to do is clean and bandage it so it doesn't get infected.  How then did someone come up with the advice to "rub some dirt on it"?  That seems amazingly contradictory and downright stupid.  Even decades ago when the medical practice was questionable at best, I have a hard time believing people thought it was anything remotely close to a good idea to rub the wound with dirt.   It just seems ridiculous.  

Fact of the Day:  "Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo"  is the longest grammatically valid sentence in the English language that only uses one word.

Shout out to Pat Murray.

Butter is slippery, that's why you should eat as much as possible to lubricate your arteries and veins.

Speaking of which, the other day I was looking at the stats for this blog and came upon the page where it tells me the referral sites.  (Like what websites are sending people to this blog, for example: google, facebook, twitter, etc.)  Long story short, there was a website that's sent 11 people in the last week to The Daily Tablet, and I'd never seen/heard of it so I clicked the link to see what it was.  It was a diet website.  A DIET WEBSITE.  What the hell?!?  How is that even legal.  First off, look at the title of this post.  Seriously??  Secondly, I make it a point to reference bacon at least once per blog.  Third, I hate PETA.  I'm not really sure what that has to do with dieting, but I hate them nonetheless.  Fourth, my overall opinion of dieting is that it sucks.  Unless of course there's some diet out there that I've been missing that promotes shameless carboloading, protein-ingesting, grease-inhaling, and a general stance of gluttony.  And I'm pretty sure there's not, which is why dieting is stupid.  Anyway, I just found that slightly ironic.  I honestly don't know how comfortable I am with being advertised on that kind of site.

Is Tobey Maguire dead yet?

When it really comes down to it, I absolutely hate the Smurfs.  They have got to be the most self-entitled little bastards in the entire cartoon world.  Honestly think about it.  Name one other race, creature, whatever, decides they are going to completely replaces entire parts of the english language with their own damn name.  How is that acceptable??  And there's no pattern to it at all.  I hate it.  That's like me having a normal conversation and just throwing in a "Tab" every now and then.  Let's see how that would play out....

Friend: "Hey man, how's it going?"

Tab: "Pretty well, you?"

Friend: "I'm decent, just finished a psych test, so that's an up side.  How was your weekend?"

Tab: "It was completely Tab.  Like off the Tabbin' chain.  We went out downtown and when we got home we order 17 and a half pizzas and totally Tabbed all of them."

[This is the point where there is an awkward silence as Friend stares and thinks, "Did he just use his own name as an adjective and other parts of speech that I'm not particularly familiar with?  Maybe I misheard....No, I'm pretty sure he did.  This guy is a freak.  Man this is a long silence.  How can I get out of this increasingly awkward situation?  Can I just turn and run?  He's clearly insane, and probably has some kind of weapon with him.  Oh god, there's no way out.  I can't live trapped in a basement for the rest of my life!  *starts hysterically crying*]

So there you have it.  In short, Smurfs lead to insanity, and all because they can't seem to find the decency to learn the rest of the language.  You make me sick you arrogant, vertically challenged, off-color, deformed mutants.  Smurf you.  

My new hobby is now going to be sitting fully dressed in running gear in a sauna for about ten minutes, then jumping into a marathon for the last mile.  It's all of the fulfillment and congratulations without the majority of the work.  Plus you look like a badass when you cross the finish line at eight times the speed of anyone else.

Speaking of colored things that bug me......STOP THAT.  STOP BEING RACIST.  I know exactly what you were just thinking!  You are a horrible person.  I was talking about bananas you mentally deranged racist.  Anyway, back to what I was saying, I am getting increasingly frustrated with bananas as of recently.  As we all know, a green banana means it's not ripe, a yellow banana means banana pudding is in the near future, and according to Mitch Hedberg, a red banana means "Where the fuck did you get that banana?!"  My issue does not lie in the banana color scheme though.  Rather, it's in the time frame in which the color wheel spins.  I feel like when I buy a pack......a bushel?.....a herd?.....Okay, I googled it, and apparently a group of bananas is called a "bunch", but just to clarify, my "bunch" only consisted of a few.  Regardless, when I buy a bunch of bananas I usually get the ones that are greenish so I don't have to eat them immediately.  What gets me though, is that it seems like the bananas stay green for three weeks, are ripe for approximately 12-14 hours, and then immediately spoil.  What the hell bananas?!  Would you rather go to waste than let me indulge in a healthy smoothie or a peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich?  Have I wronged you in some way?  I just don't understand.

Fact of the Day:  Dairy Cows produce more milk when listening to music.

Shout out to Courtney Gilreath.

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.