Never do card tricks for the group you play poker with.

Hi friends.  It's been a while.  I'm not good at commitment; you should know that by now.  Let's just suppress our true feelings and act like nothing's happened.  That seems healthy.

To jump right in, there are a few things I feel the need to cover from the past few months.  Namely, how much I hate the Geico pig.  I get it, all company mascots have a shelf life, but I feel like we're really going downhill with this one, and that's not a pun about the zip-lining commercial.  The cavemen were entertaining, and it was a witty catchphrase scenario.  The lizard was cute, and who doesn't love a British accent?  The pig though?  This talking swine might be the most obnoxious thing on television since Snooki.  (Is she still alive?)  The pig is basically just a play on the American kid: fat, ugly, smug, and annoying as hell.  And he doesn't even talk about insurance in the commercials either.  What the shit Geico?  And like I'm going to take financial advice from a freaking farm animal anyway?  Old MacDonald never said shit about having any insurance reps on his farm as far as I remember.  Honestly, if that pig wanted to be useful he would voluntarily turn himself in to be bacon, and even if he did, I'd probably just throw him away.*

*No I wouldn't.  I don't waste bacon, I'm not a monster.

For those of you that don't know, I spent early May and the better part of June traveling across Europe because I'm better and more cultured than you.  Also, because I have no concept of money or the repercussions of crippling debt.  Anyway, this trip went about as smoothly as you would assume.  To cover the big details:  I went completely and totally broke just before halfway through the trip, I was nearly drugged at 3am at a train station in Italy in an attempt to steal my luggage and female friends, and I totally missed my flight back to America.  Successful venture, I'd say.  I won't go into the gory details because I'm sure there's at least one person with a soul that reads this thing, but it was an entertaining trip.  And to clarify, I absolutely DID do all the sightseeing stuff and tours and culturally necessary stuff, so I'd appreciate if you wouldn't assume I'm just another trashy American.  How many concentration camps have YOU been to in the last three months?  How many Roman Colosseums?  Buckingham Palaces?  Yea.  That's what I thought.

So in January I moved to Phoenix as I may have mentioned, and currently in July, I am regretting more than anything I have ever done in my entire life.  Don't get me wrong, I have a great job, amazing friends, and a roof over my head.  The problem is that the job is basically a sweatshop, all my wonderful friends are dying of heat exhaustion, and I'm pretty sure the roof started melting last week.  IT'S HOT AS F*&K, if you get my drift.  I did not think this move through in the least bit.  Everything was fine when I got here in January, and was even bearable all the way through May.  Then I went across the pond.  When I came back it was like I had gotten on the wrong flight and accidentally landed on the surface of the sun.  The heat that we deal with daily is the kind usually reserved for the third or fourth ring of hell.  Screw frying an egg in the shade, I'm pretty damn sure you could grill shrimp kabobs, asparagus, and a 16oz steak.  At 9am.  And it doesn't help that all the delusional locals that for some insane reason have decided to stay here despite the sweltering heat terrorizing them at all times are constantly reminding me that "they remember their first summer here."  No you don't.  If you truly remembered your first summer here, you wouldn't still live here you ignorant jerk.

That's it for the day.  I've got a lot more, but I've been told to shorten these things up.  Apparently either I'm only manageable in small doses, or you people have just as short of an attention span as I do.

Fact of the Day:  Romans used to wear wreaths of celery to protect themselves from hangovers.

Shout out to Mitzi Lea.

I think it's wrong that only one company makes the game Monopoly.

This is how it begins.

You sit down to play Monopoly with your loved ones. You've got some cold beverages, some snacks, and a comfy seat. Great! You playfully choose your piece. Your brother goes straight for the dog, as always. You buy your first property. Elated, you fan yourself with the cards you've collected. Then a sense of creeping discomfort arises. You notice that people around you are changing. As the family works their way around the board, it's clear that there's a strategy in place. There's tension on the air. Your dad lost the battle for the Top Hat piece, and will take his revenge.



How long have you been playing for? Time passes so slowly when you're trying to get all the Utilities. Or the railroads! You could then catch the train out of this game, far far away. The banker looks shifty. What kind of banker doesn't keep their notes organized? Beads of sweat form on brows as illicit IOUs are passed under the table.



This isn't Monopoly. This is war.



Rent rises, and hotels are built with no regard for health and safety regulations. You reach a stalemate. All properties have been taken. You wander around the board, waiting for something. Anything. You begin to mull on committing a crime. Just so you can sit quietly in jail for a while. You float the idea of creating social housing - a better, more equal world. Nobody listens.



While you go to the bathroom, your sibling raises your rent. You declare bankruptcy, in shame. The group becomes split between 'lifers' and 'sore losers'. Neither will concede. Uncle Moneybags taunts you from outside the box, rubbing his hands as he sees a once-happy group of people, reduced to haggling over hotels. There's an uprising. The game ends in tears. As ever.



Monopoly ruins lives.

Honk if you love peace and quiet.

Hello Tablets, did you miss me?  I did.  In case you didn't notice, I forgot I had this blog again.  Turns out when you move across the country and have zero plans of how you're getting there, where you're living, or how you're paying for any of that, you get a little distracted.

Anyway, now I'm in Phoenix, where apparently winter is lazy as shit and only lasts two months.  I mean I know I shouldn't be one to judge for laziness, but you think it'd stay cold past, you know, New Years?  If a year ago you told me I'd be sweating just from going outside in the middle of January I'd probably have slapped you and told you about my irrational fear of going to Africa while trying not to sound racist.  I'm sure everyone here is exceptionally tired of me bitching about the dry heat, and I guess I deserve it.  Especially because my inability to logically weigh benefits vs consequences led me to move here to avoid humidity, which is about as rational as joining the army to meet Muslim chicks.  Gotta think of everything else that comes with it.  I probably could've chosen somewhere just as dry, just slightly less mind-blowingly hot.

Speaking of phones, I finally got the iPhone 5.  Just kidding, I still have a shitty little Nokia brick.  Just kidding, I'm not going to let you know what kind of phone I have.  It's part of the mystery.  Anyway, a couple months ago my roommate at the time did actually get the iPhone 5, and needless to say we all reacted like an eight year old opening a Nintendo 64.  Unfortunately, I didn't realize how demeaning this little handheld computer would end up being.  It probably doesn't surprise you that I judge my own self-worth on a series of incredibly trivial situations, such as how long I can balance a golf club vertically on my palm, the amount of medium-heat wings I can eat in one sitting, or in this instance whether or not I can calculate a word's score faster than the computer on Words With Friends.  Up until this point I was unerringly victorious, and thus was confident in all areas of my life.  Then the 5 came.  I can only assume that Steve Jobs heard of my competition with his beloved iPhone, and worked around the clock until his stupid little device was faster than me.  Well, you win, Jobs.  I will go on forever surrounded by a cloud of insecurity, doubting my very existing.  Way to be a jerk.

Over the past few years I've realized that Facebook has officially ruined birthdays.  When people used to say "Happy Birthday!" you felt good about yourself, like "Wow, that person really cares about me." Now when somebody says that, my first thought is either "They probably just saw it on Facebook this morning…" or "Who the shit is Kevin Phalange?!*  And it doesn't end there.  How about when it's someone else's birthday?  It's just weird now.  You see the notification and have to go through a stressful series of questions:  Do I know this person?  I know them, but do I know them well enough to say happy birthday?  Did they write on my wall when it was my birthday last year?  I definitely am friends with them, but do I just write on their wall, or am I close enough that I should text them?  Is it weird to do both?  Do I call them??  No wait, fuck calling anyone.  I'll just text.  What if they don't have my number?  Then I just seem creepy... oh god I don’t know what to do!  I'm just going to delete my Facebook for a few months and drop off the grid, then I can just skip the whole process.  I think I know a guy in Memphis that makes new identities… SHIT I FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY LAST WEEK.

*Seriously, if anybody knows this guy, please let me know.  I have no clue who he is, and it's starting to freak me out.

Does anybody else think it's weird when food at the grocery store says it's "70% Organic"?  I mean if you have peanut allergies and something says it's 70% nut-free, you still can't eat it because 30% of it has nuts in it.  Being seventy percent nut free has absolutely no benefit.  So when something is 70% free of pesticides, it still has effing pesticides in it.  It's not organic; it's all a facade.  Sneaky little bastards.

Speaking of sneaky little bastards, I've composed a list of a few reasons of why I have trust issues:

- Banana bruises that don't show through the peel.

- "Skittles" that are actually Runts.

- Boxes of chocolate that all look the exact same.  Fucking coconut...

- Ketchup containers that look full because they're painted red, but are empty, like the hearts of their creators.

-Turkey bacon.

Fact of the Day:  Today (Feb17th) is the birthday of Michael Jordan, Michael Bay, and Larry the Cable Guy.  Happy Birthday to the first two.

Shout out to Joy Prewitt.

Experience is a cruel teacher. It gives a test before ever presenting the lesson.

Well the world didn't end.  Or, if it did, the afterlife is weirdly similar to my regular life.  It didn't though, because I'm pretty sure hell would have a permanent Justin Bieber soundtrack.  Anyway, I'll stay away from all the apocalypse and Mayan jokes, mostly because I've been abusing them on Twitter.

First off, Merry Christmas everyone!  Or Happy Holidays if your Jewish or just generally hate people wishing you the best.  You know what?  I take that back, I hope your holidays are mediocre at best you scrooge.  Anyway it's Christmas today, and I am fulfilling my annual tradition: Spending the entire day in airports and planes.  Except this year I actually have people traveling with me, so it looks slightly less pathetic.  Anyway this year I met my family up in Beaver Creek Colorado for one of our favorite white-person traditions: skiing.  As you probably don't know because why the hell would you, I haven't been skiing in about four or five years (rough estimate as my memory is essential that of a senile 90 yr old).  Since then I've been snowboarding once, but that's it.  I figured it'd be pretty easy to get my ski legs back because I've been skiing a lot over my lifetime.  I was very wrong.  It turns out I am significantly worse at skiing than I was a couple years ago.  For those of you following me on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, or just generally following me around in person, you've probably seen the picture I posted showing that I hit 52.8 mph on skis and would say, "Well you seem pretty good..."  False.  This is simply a misrepresentation of information.  While you might see that statistic as showing my confidence and control at high speeds on the mountain, what it actually means is that I am an utter pansy who's too afraid to turn, and instead simply closes his eyes and waits until he comes to a stop via the run ending, hitting a tree, etc.  Zero skill involved.  Of course, as soon as I successfully maneuver my way down two or three runs I immediately assume I'm qualified to hit the Winter X Games runs and professional crap.  And you know what assuming does.  It kills you.  Or at least severely injures you.  As is what happened when I decided to go into the terrain park and mess around while waiting for Salomon and Rossignol to bring the contracts.  Terrible, TERRIBLE decision in retrospect.  The first run down I nailed it.  (Possibly due to the fact that I slowly cruised down the side of the run, not touching a single feature.)  The second run.....well, it escalated quickly.  With completely unearned confidence flowing from every pore, I got off the lift, turned into the park, and bee-lined for the closest jump.  A jump that was far bigger than ANYTHING I'm qualified to hit.  I don't want to say I was ungraceful whilst in the air, but a fellow skier may have compared me to a set of broken windshield wipers.  I landed, way off from where I was supposed to, but I landed nonetheless, and in my absurdly irrational state of mind I took that as a good sign and thus continued on towards the rails and boxes.  With a head full of wrong decisions, I made for the second rail down, again moving way too fast.  I hit the little entrance jump thingy (scientific term), went into the air, hit the rail WAY too hard, immediately shooting my skis out from under me and absorbing the brunt of the fall with the my head.  I was pretty stunned and may have lost awareness for a minute or so, but I didn't cry, despite what Mr. Biggie Fries Skier says.  Who cares what he thinks anyway.  It freaking hurt.  Go back to doing you Double-Triple McFlurries you jerk.  Long story short I think I'm just gonna stick to sledding from here on out.

You know that WOPWOPWOPWOP sound when only one person rolls down their window in the car?  Firstly, fuck that guy.  Second off, can you imagine how bad it would be if you could roll down airplane windows?  Assuming of course we didn't all immediately die from lack of oxygen.

Speaking of traveling, this is the first time I've been on a plane since August, which is a pretty long time for me, and I'm kind of getting nostalgic.  Nothing feels like home like a warm scripted greeting, a homey instructional video, and a nice prepackaged serving of pretzels.  Of course one of my favorite parts of flying, as I've said before, is texting at least twenty people then immediately turning off my phone for the flight, that way when you turn it on after landing (make sure it's on loud), you sit there helplessly while being continually notified of your unimaginable popularity.  Hey 4B, do you hear that?  That's the sound of me having friends.  Yea, go back to your Sudoku you pathetic friendless loser.  (4B was a jerk anyway.)  Anyway, the one thing I've never been able to do is sleep on an airplane.  Up until a few days ago I thought that was a curse.  I would've given anything to be able to sit down and immediately go unconscious instead of dealing with the tiny little Hitler behind me screaming for two and a half hours because it's too much of an idiot to know how to pop his ears.  What I found out last Friday, however, is that for me, not being able to sleep is a blessing from GOD.  Is it an exhausting and frustrating blessing?  Absolutely yes.  But it is a blessing nonetheless.  Why, you ask?  Because God have mercy on the person sitting next to me when I wake up in a total panic from a dream.  As you may be able to guess, my imagination is slightly.... well, insane.  On the way to Denver I had the kind of dream that Stephen King would go to a therapist over.  M Night Shambangala cries about this kind of stuff.  Of course I can't remember every detail, but you know the feeling when you wake up and even though you don't really know what happened, you still have this gut feeling that something has gone horribly wrong inside your head?  Like a little bit of your soul was just deep-fried and eaten by a demon?  Yea, that.  Basically the last thing I remember is sitting in an abandoned DMV being attacked by what I can only describe as a fear monster with insanity scales chewing on me with teeth made of secrets.  Yea, you try being in that situation and not waking up flailing every limb outwards and screaming for Jesus.  Lady, I'm sorry about your new jacket and for the loss of your ginger ale, but I was in a very dark place.  If it matters that much, your next Schweppes is on me.

Let's move on to something a little less life-ruining.  Two days I found out I got into another college, and I'll be moving to Phoenix.  Huzzah!  I've got the major details covered, like what I'm eating for lunch when I get home (Zaxby's) and my first couple stops on the drive to Arizona (also Zaxby's).  It's the smaller details I've got to worry about now, such as where I'm staying during the four day drive, where I'm going to live once I get there, how I'm going to afford the gas, getting student loans to actually pay for college, and registering for class.  So far I've got literally none of those things figured out.  Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if any of you people live in between Columbia, SC and Phoenix, AZ and aren't going to murder me and wear my skin, hit me up if you've got an extra bed/couch/closet space.  I'm not picky and I'm pretty low maintenance.  Please have bacon available.

Fact of the Day:  Astronauts have a small piece of Velcro inside their helmets so they can scratch their nose.

Shout out to Emily Moore.

A closed mouth gathers no feet.

Hello Tablets.  Honestly, how have you people gotten along without me?  Have you forgotten how to laugh?  It's been a solid month and a half since I wrote the last post, and I apologize.  I've gotten distracted, but I have a life too so back the hell off.  Also, I'm cripplingly afraid of commitment, and yes that even reaches into my online life.  I don't like expectations, and deadlines terrify me.  Moving on, a lot's happened since September 22nd, most importantly Halloween, which is easily my least favorite holiday by far.  Why, you ask?  Luckily for you I just happen to have a list of why Halloween sucks:

1) I am, at heart, a complete and total fucking pansy.  I saw The Ring once when I was 13 and have cried nightly since then.  Of course when I say I "saw" the movie, I mean watched it through squinted eyes behind a quilt with covered ears curled up in a ball behind the lay-z-boy.  And I've never looked back.  I understand that "scary movies" are supposed to scare you.  What I don't understand is why the HELL you want to be scared in the first place??  What wires are crossed in your brain that makes you want to trick yourself into the same state of mind that makes you involuntarily pee, scream, and cry?  I don't get it, and I have absolutely zero problem admitting that.  Do I want to go see Paranormal Activity 4?  Do I want to go through the haunted trail?  No.  Very no.  I have the terror threshold of a paranoid schizophrenic and the emotional stability of a toddler.  You have fun though.

2) When the shit did Halloween become a weeklong thing?  I mean this is an ordeal now.  When we were kids it used to last about two and a half hours then it was done, and we couldn't have been happier.  Now you plan more for Halloween than you do for your thesis paper, and probably have about the same number of references.  There is no possible way I can be held responsible for the quality and originality of my seventh costume.  The first night out I'll be in legitimately thought-out and creative attire, like a homemade transformer costume that actually transforms into a fully functional cement truck, but by the last night I'm usually going as a guy that is mind-blown that people are still even conscious at this point.  I mean shit guys, even God rested on the seventh day.

3) It’s way to effing cold.  Not to be even more of a bitch, but the temperature being eleven degrees really puts a damper on my evening.  Especially when I'm dressed in my slutty judge outfit.  Don't get me wrong, I love to have a good time, but I also enjoy feeling in my extremities and the absence of icicles on my eyelids.  Next year I'm just going to go as an Eskimo for all seven nights.  

Speaking of cold, I never officially got out all my thoughts about the fall/winter.  Throughout the past couple months I've been seeing an incessant amount of posts online about how ready everyone is for the colder seasons, and honestly I agreed with them at the beginning.   You're always ready for the next season, at least until it hits, then you want the old one back, but that's just because you're an ungrateful twerp that's impossible to satisfy.  Anyway, the main problem I have with the cold weather is.... well, the cold part of it.  To be clear, I love cold weather, but only at certain times, like between the hours of 11am and 8pm.  I'm rarely happier when it's chilly outside during the day and I can wear jeans and a jackets, roll the windows down and pump the heat in the car.  What I'm not okay with is the morning cold.  It makes it incredibly hard to get out of bed in the morning, and damn near impossible to get out of the shower.  How am I supposed to get back into the frigid air when I'm currently standing motionless and sleepy while thousands of tiny little warm angels massage my back? I mean I get dangerously close to comatose when I'm in that zombie position with my eyes closed, chin on chest, with hot water hitting my back, and the only reason I'll move is to turn the heat up because I've used nearly all the hot water for the entire house.  And it doesn't help that for the first couple weeks it was literally warmer in the refrigerator than it was in the rest of the house.

I've been having some extremely quirky dreams recently, and to no surprise, most of them have been about bacon.  A week or two ago I had one where I was diagnosed with serious heart problems, and was told I could never eat bacon again.  Earth-shattering to say the least.  You’d think that'd be pitiful enough for one dream, but it didn’t stop there.  It ended with me on the kitchen floor cuddling with a bag of bacon bits singing "It must've been love".  Then, last night, I had another one where I dreamt that a pig was elected to be the President of the United States, and that I was arrested because I assassinated him in an attempt to get bacon.  Just out of curiosity, at what point do I go see a therapist?

Have you ever gotten really busy working or something and not been able to check your phone, then you finally do and have a ton of texts/calls/etc?  As shallow as it is, that's one of the greatest feelings ever.  The worst is when you’re on a plane, you finally land after a long flight, and turn on your phone and don't get a single notification.  Talk about bankrupting your self worth.  That's why every time I travel, right before the flight takes off I send out twenty or so texts, tweets, and everything else.  Then when I land I make sure my phone's on loud and let the sounds of my popularity ring out for the whole plane to hear as I sheepishly shrug at people in a fake air of embarrassment.  Pathetic?  Maybe (definitely), but nobody gets hurt and I get the sense of long-lasting fulfillment that really keeps me going.

Fact of the Day:  When glass breaks, the cracks move at speeds up to 3,000 miles per hour.

Shout out to Allison Renth.

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.