Obserlizations and Generavations

After having worked at Taco Bell for over two years now, I feel like I am pretty well qualified to make some generalizations of certain types of customers that I have noticed. Please remember that I mean no harm by these and that they are simply for entertainment purposes. If at any point you find yourself being insulted by my words, please punch your monitor in anger and get over it.

There are at least four major ethnic groups that come to Taco Bell. I'm sure there are more, considering the fact that Southern California is home to what seems like approximately 20 billion different races, most of which have either eaten or worked at McDonalds. You know it's getting bad when you pull up to a drive-thru restaurant and see things like "Baba Ghanoush" or "Khau Kalash" on the menu, and you are asked if you would like some hummus with that.

The four major ethnic groups that I see in the drive-thru are:

1. White
2. Black
3. Asian
4. Mexican

Let's start with the whitey-tighties. White customers span a broad range of the social structure, from rich to middle-class to poor to Wal-Mart Employee.

Many times, white drive-thru customers are distracted by many things, including kids, cell phones, driving, eating, putting on makeup, trying to find the location of their wallet/purse, trying to remember to ask for more mild/hot/fire sauce than they'll ever use, etc...

Cell phones, however, seem to be one of the main distractions for most white male and female customers, as you can see by this fictional dialogue of a customer pulling up to the drive-thru:

Customer: *talking on cell phone* Yeah honey, I'm on my way to pick up your industrial size pantyhose...I'm at the drive-thru right now...I'm at Taco Bell...No I didn't pick up Timmy yet...No I don't think you look fat...Honey, really, I've gotta go now...I have to order my food...No I'm not getting you twenty tacos...What do you mean it's just a light snack? That's enough food to last me a week!...Yes, I know it's glandular...Ok, I need to order now...BYE!

Me: *sleeping*

Customer: Hello? Hellllllo? Hello?!?!

Me: Hi, welcome to the Taco Bell Phone Booth, how can I help you?

Next, we have our black customers. One thing I've noticed that is almost always true about them is that they love anything that is not good for them. They will ask for extra meat, extra cheese, extra sour cream, extra everything. Sometimes I think we should offer little packets of Crisco instead of taco sauce for those people who just aren't getting enough cholesterol in their diet.

Also, black customers will often ask for fruity sodas, like Fruit Punch, Hi-C, Lemonade, Orange, Purple, OranguTang, and other sugary drinks. So basically, black customers will typically order the most unhealthy, cholesterol-filled, and/or sugary food they can get their hands on.

Coming in at number three are the Asian customers, or should I say, Asian customer. For some reason, many Asians do not pronounce the letter "s" when it used at the end of a word to show plurality. This can make it especially hard for the person taking their order, because on top of the lost "s", Asian accents are not the easiest accents to understand sometimes, so this oftentimes results in some greatly botched orders.

Fictitious Example:

Customer: I want two taco, three burrito no onion, two cheese "qwessadilluh", and two coke.

Me: Ok, what size Pepsi's did you want?

Customer: No Pepsi! Coke!!

Me: We don't have Coke.

Customer: Ok fine, two medium Pepsi.

Me: Ok, so I have a taco, a green burrito with no onions, a quesadilla, and two medium Pepsi's.

Customer: NOOO!!! Two taco, three burrito, two quesadilla, two Coke...or Pepsi!

Me: Ok, would you like any hummus with that?

Last but certainly not least, we have our good friends, the Mexicans. Oftentimes, Mexican families are very big and have a lot of mouths to feed, so they come to the drive-thru looking for a lot of food, and even more hot sauce. And since they are coming to a Mexican restaurant, many times they are under the false impression that the drive-thru order taker can speak fluent Spanish. Take myself for example. I can speak enough Spanish to take most orders, but when they start using really complicated vocabulary and phrases, sometimes there can be some problems.

Customer: Me da tres burrito supremes sin cebollas, un taco con crema, dos tacos suaves con pollo, y dos Cokas medianas sin hielo. (Give me three burrito supremes without onions, a taco with sour cream, 2 chicken soft tacos, and two medium Cokes without ice.)

Me: Algo mas Senorita? (Anything else Ma'am?)

Customer: Yo soy un hombre!!! (I'm a man!)

Me: Lo siento Senor! Me encanta su perro! (I'm sorry sir! I love your dog!)

Customer: Mande?!? (What?!?)

Me: Me gusta bailar. (I like to dance.)

Customer: Da me mi comida! Andale! (Give me my food! Hurry up!)

Me: Salud! (Gesundheit!)

Lastly, I have one pet peeve that I have come to realize over the years, and it isn't specific to any particular race of customers. I hate it when people lick their fingers in order to separate their money. I mean, I can understand how it does help, and it's fine if people can do it while controlling the amount of saliva they are spreading around that dollar bill which I am going to have to touch. But what I hate is when people generously lick their thumb, as one would do if there was some spilled BBQ sauce on it, smear it all over the bill, and eagerly hand it to me as if they think I'm just waiting to touch their dinero drool.

In fact, I'd prefer that they smear BBQ sauce on the money instead. At least that way I could have something to eat while I'm waiting to go on my break.

How To Age 5 Years In 5 Seconds And Still Look Young

Last Tuesday, I was talking to one of my bosses at work, Reyna. I don't remember what we were talking about, but at one point, she asked me how old I was. This is how the conversation went:

Reyna: How old are you? 15?
Me: *raises eyebrows*
Reyna: 16?
Me: *blank stare*
Reyna: 17?
Me: *blank stare*
Reyna: 18?
Me: *starts to laugh*
Reyna: 19?
Me: *shakes head*
Reyna: 20?
Me: Do I look 15 to you?
Reyna: *laughs* Well, I don't know.
Me: I'm 20.
Reyna: *looks surprised* Really? You look younger.


Maybe that's why kids seem to be magnetically drawn to me, because I look so young that they think I'm one of them. I even took out my wallet and showed Reyna my driver's license, because she didn't believe I was 20.

I guess I should be flattered, but I'm just confused as to why she started at 15. Taco Bell doesn't even hire at 15, unless they are illegal aliens with fake IDs, then it's fair game.

In fact, other people at my work have asked me what high school I go to. And when I tell them I'm in college, they are surprised that someone as wacky as I am at work can sit still long enough to even attend clown college.

Speaking of college, did I mention...?


THE SEMESTER IS OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SCHOOL IS OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!! PARTY TIME!!!!!!!!!!!! EXCELLENT!!!!!!!!!!! WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO *PICK SLIDE*

Illiteracy For Dummies

Let me preface this by saying that I love to read and write. I taught myself how to read at an early age, and though I haven't been reading as much as I would like lately, I still enjoy the experience of reading a book cover-to-cover, which is the style nowadays. I've enjoyed writing since 11th grade, when I wrote the poo-flinging monkey story, and I've been writing more seriously ever since I started this blog, which was nearly a year ago.

I guess I just have a knack for reading and writing. I don't know how else to explain it. All I know is, I must have something at least remotely special, because from what I've seen in my creative writing class this semester, reading and writing does not come naturally to a lot of people.

Take for instance our good friend, who will henceforth be called Evian. Or should I say, evïaN?Evian's writing talent has been mentioned on this blog once before, in my "The Grammar Police are on Duty" blog. He is a bright young man in my class who wrote the following educated comment about my short story, Darkside.

He wrote: "I came in late to class and only herd 1/4 of it. and new what this story was aimin toward. Awsome delivery soft and the begging hard punch in the middle and smooth drive at the end."

So when I heard that Evian was going to have his own short story read in class, I simply couldn't wait. And believe me, it did not disappoint. Well, grammatically, it was a travesty and an insult to the entire English language and all things sacred, but in the terms of being nonsensical and absolutely laughable to read, it did not disappoint.

Before I get to the main point of this blog, I just wanted to share some actual quotes from Evian's story, and analyze them. Rest assured that I have proofread these and they appear on this page exactly as they were "written" by Evian.

"We awoke in the morning so tired from the week we woke up at 12:00pm we went to hike up to a mountain that was only 20 minutes from the cabin and we toke two roles of Film in each camera we had two."

"We awoke in the morning so tired from the week"
OK STOP!!! The sentence actually makes sense up to this point, and is grammatically correct, more or less. Actually, compared to the rest of the story, this is a Pulitzer Prize quality sentence. But no, Evian had to continue on...

"We awoke in the morning so tired from the week we woke up at 12:00pm"
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but since when did 12:00 pm, AKA "noon", become "the morning"? I was under the impression that 12:00 pm was the start of a time of day called "the afternoon", also known as when Sean prefers to wake up. Personally, I don't think that the day should start until 12:00 pm, to ensure that all us night owls get enough sleep every night. But like I say, sleep is for the weak.

"We awoke in the morning so tired from the week we woke up at 12:00pm we went to hike up to a mountain that was only 20 minutes from the cabin"
It is unfortunate that poor Evian had to type this masterpiece on a computer that was made before punctuation was invented. Otherwise, this essay might actually make an itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy, itty-bitty, teeny-weeny bit of sense.

"...and we toke two roles of Film in each camera we had two."
First off, if you write like that, film isn't the only thing you're toking. I guess all that talk about film and cameras made Evian confused and thought he was talking about movie roles for a second. And why he took the time to capitalize Film when the rest of the sentence is already beyond repair baffles me.

Although I am impressed that he stayed in the past tense throughout the entire sentence. I'll give him that much.

As if that sentence wasn't bad enough, it is time for quite possibly the most ambiguous sentence ever written, courtesy of Evian.

"The wolf made a weird growl like two snowboarders around November I knew it was close to Christmas."

I love this sentence. Let's take a look at this as it is literally written.

First off, we have the wolf. The wolf made a weird (very descriptive word choice there, Evian) growl. The growl sounded like two snowboarders. Not only did it sound like two snowboarders, but it sounded like two snowboarders during the month of November, implying that snowboarders make different growling noises depending on what month it is. Because the narrator knows what the weird growl of two snowboarders in November sounds like, he is able to discern that Christmas is close, because he is also equipped with the knowledge that Christmas occurs sometime around the month of November.

Believe it or not, Evian wrote a 7 page double spaced story, with sentences just like those. What's even more amazing is that he actually figured out how to include double spacing in his paper when he can't even figure out how to use a comma.


Which brings me to my point. How can people get so far in school and yet be so ignorant when it comes to writing a simple sentence that doesn't contain glaring errors such as these? So I thought about it. I think the reason is that they goofed off too much in their earlier years of education, so that if and when they actually get to college, they are so far behind that they are actually more ignorant now than they were several years ago. So I think I may have come up with a solution.

Continue teaching English classes in junior high and high school for the few students who actually come to school to learn. But, in addition, for the less motivated students who maybe don't do as well in their English classes because they don't take the time or effort to do the work and learn the material, require them to take a class in the ever-growing field of Illiteracy. In this course, students will be taught how not to read and write, and they will be assigned homework requiring them to not read or write at all.

Now, you may be wondering what my reasoning for this is. As you know, students hate homework, just like cats hate dogs, fat people hate stairs, democrats hate republicans, ignorance hates knowledge (What? I didn't mean anything by putting those last two sets right next to each other! How dare you suggest such a thing!), and so forth. And if you are a fat democratic teacher who loves dogs, I'm sorry, but no one likes you.

Anyway, my reasoning for wanting courses in Illiteracy taught in school is that the students who don't do their work in school will be totally thrown off by this class. Their rebellious nature will become so confused because they want to do the exact opposite of what the teacher wants, but in this case, the teacher wants them to learn poorly and do nothing, so what are they going to do? Naturally, if they truly want to keep their rebellious allure, they'll have to do the opposite of what the teacher wants. That means they have to learn the correct way to read and write, and to practice reading and writing outside of class since their assigned homework is to not read or write.

Because you see, teenagers, for the most part, are idiots. And seeing as how I'm now 20, I can finally say this without insulting myself. I hated being associated with the word teenager, because it had such negative connotations that I didn't follow, like hating your parents and doing drugs for example, and I didn't like being blindly put in that generalization since those things didn't apply to me.

But anyway, back to my plan. Since teenagers are too busy trying to act cool, and since rebelling is cool, they'll get so caught up in rebelling that before they know it, the semester will be over and they'll have done more homework and learned more in their Illiteracy class than in all previous grades combined. It's almost too simple.

And for the people who don't feel the need to rebel in order to be accepted, they can continue on taking their normal classes and learning their way to college, so they can be the ones laughing at the "cool" rebellious kids who have suddenly made the awkward transition into "stupid" young adults. I'm so glad I'm not cool.

Adolescence

Last Tuesday, my two plays that I wrote were acted out in front of my creative writing class. "Meet the Blogs", and "Adolescence". I have never heard my teacher laugh so hard during the entire semester as she did when "Meet the Blogs" was read and acted out by a few of the students. She was laughing uncontrollably during a few parts. She said that she loved the Volkswheel part, and she really cracked up at the "stoned" part. Gee, I wonder why? At the end of the Blog play, the whole class let out a long, "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww".

The entire class really enjoyed both plays, and I had several students come up to me during the break and after class to say how much they enjoyed them and how good they were and how funny they were. One of the girls who acted out the Blog play told me how easy it was to read.

So, before I say anything more about my second play, Adolescence, here it is.


Adolescence

While walking around the grounds of a local middle school, three friends are talking. Fred, Billy, and Wayne have known each other since elementary school, and have hung out with each other nearly everyday for the last several years. They are still at that tender age where they are trying to figure out how to be cool and accepted by others, especially girls, yet, like most teenagers, they don’t have the slightest clue about how to be “cool”.

Billy: So…what did you end up doing with all those goose feathers?
Wayne: We chased down that Johnson kid when he was riding his bike home and glued them on him.
Fred: Stupid nerd. He got what was coming to him...Always wearing those stupid glasses.
Wayne: Yeah seriously, we should have made him eat the feathers instead.
Billy: Why do you guys always pick on little kids like that? What did he ever do to you?
Fred: He breathes my air, doofus. I don’t share my air with nerds.
Wayne: Yeah, he’s a little punk, he wouldn’t let me copy his homework today, so Mrs. Bungmeyer sent me to detention for not turning in my 17th straight assignment.
Fred: And I saw him eating an apple the other day. An apple! Give me a break, I’m surprised his mom doesn’t follow him around school so she can change his diaper too.
Billy: What’s wrong with apples?
Fred: Apples are fruit. Fruit is nerd food. If you eat apples, you are a nerd. Do I need to draw you a diagram?
Wayne: Hey look, there’s Donna!
Fred: Oooooh, she’s wearing that red shirt again.
Wayne: Are you ever going to ask her out?
Fred: Oh come on Wayne, she isn’t the type of girl you just ask out.
Billy: What do you do then? Wait for her to ask you out?
Fred: No dingwad, if I just went up and asked her, she would probably say no. She doesn’t know me well enough to understand the Fred Charm.
Billy: The Fred Charm? Are you kidding?
Fred: What Billy? You think you can get a date with her?
Wayne: Billy couldn’t get a date with a calendar.
Fred: Haha, burn!!! High five!
Wayne: Shya!

Billy: You guys don’t think I could get a date with Donna?
Fred: Billy, let’s put it this way. Donna is a majestic blue ocean, and you’re pond scum left over from a rainy day.
Wayne: Whoa Fred, where’d you come up with that gem?
Fred: It’s the Fred Charm baby. Whenever it kicks in, it makes my vocabulary…bigger…by…a lot.
Billy: Uh huh…
Fred: What’s your problem Billy? Just because I’m a super stud doesn’t mean you have to be jealous.
Billy: How can you be a super stud if you’re too much of a pansy to ask out Donna?
Fred: Who’re you calling a pansy? You’re just a stupid dinglewuss know-nothing.
Wayne: Hey now, let’s keep the profanity down to a minimum here guys, no need to get all excited over nothing?
Fred: Billy’s dissin’ my manhood dude, he called me a pansy.
Billy: Oh get over it Fred, Donna doesn’t want to date a crybaby.
Fred: Don’t make me beat the snot out of you Billy. You know I can too.
Wayne: Come on Fred, anyone can beat up Billy. He’s half the size of anyone in sixth grade. Even the girls push him around sometimes.
Billy: Can we just drop it and move on?
Fred: Once you say that I am a super stud.
Billy: (sarcastically) You’re a super stud.
Fred: You didn’t mean that!!! Say it like you mean it, or I’ll give you a dreaded Rear Admiral.
Wayne: *gasps*
Billy: You wouldn’t dare.
Fred: I’ll do it if you don’t say it.
Billy: Y-Y-You’re a s-super s-s-stud.
Fred: Scream it at the top of your lungs.
Billy: YOU ARE A SUPER STUD!!!!
Wayne: Fred! Donna looked over!
Fred: Oh crap, act cool, act cool. Be calm…
Wayne: Dude, she’s coming over here.
Billy: What’s the matter super stud? Got your panties in a bunch?
Fred: Shut up, durfwad.

Donna: Hey guys, what’s up?
Wayne: Hey.
Billy: Hi.
Fred: H-H-Hiiiiiii…
Donna: *looks at Billy* So, I hear you’re a super stud.
Billy: Wha? I…uhh…
Fred: NOO!! I’m the super stu…I mean, uhh, hi, my name’s Fred.
Donna: *keeps looking at Billy* Uh huh. So, what’s your name?
Billy: Billy.
Donna: Billy? I like that name. I’m Donna.
Billy: That’s a nice name too.
Donna: Thanks! You’re so sweet.
Billy: I, uhh, like your shirt too.
Donna: Do you?!?! Red is my favorite color! Say, do you want to come over to my house after school and hang out for a while maybe?
Billy: Sure, that would be cool.
Donna: Ok great, I’ll meet you outside in the amphitheater after lunch.
Billy: Ok…bye.
Donna: Bye bye Billy. *leaves*
Fred: *mumbling* You piece of monkey puke…
Wayne: Way to go Billy!!!
Fred: …kill you and your stupid name…
Billy: Thanks Wayne, I can’t believe that just happened!
Fred: …rip off your arm and shove it…
Wayne: So what do you think you’ll do at her house?
Fred: …twist it so far you’ll have to have it surgically removed…
Billy: I dunno, maybe watch a movie, go get something to eat.
Fred: …never walk the same way again…
Wayne: That’s so cool dude!
Fred: …dogs will look at you and run away whimpering…
Wayne: Fred! What are you mumbling about?
Fred: Oh, nothing.

Billy: He’s just jealous. Don’t mind him.
Fred: Shut up turdmeister.
Wayne: Billy and Donna sittin’ in a tree…
Fred: Shut up dorkwang.
Billy: Well, looks like I’d better get ready to go on my DATE with DONNA.
Fred: I’m gonna beat you so hard…
Wayne: Ok, bye Billy, have fun man.
Billy: See ya Wayne, farewell Fred. Don’t wait up. *leaves*
Wayne: Don’t worry Fred, there will be plenty of other girls for you. You’re only 13.
Fred: Only 13? You mean, I’m already 13 and I haven’t even had a girlfriend yet!
Wayne: I’m 14, and I haven’t had a girlfriend.
Fred: Yeah, but I’m a super stud, and it’s different, and…*trails off*
Wayne: Life goes on Fred.
Fred: But why does my life always have to suck though? I hate being a teenager.



My class actually liked this one more than I expected. I wrote this play rather quickly. I basically just came up with an idea and started writing, and in less than a couple of hours, I was finished.

They really laughed at the whole "apples are nerd fruit" part, Fred's uncharacteristic metaphor, and Fred's mumbling. When Donna ended up ignoring Fred and going for Billy, a few girls in the class gasped and got all excited. And at the end of the class, if you remember my blog about the comments I got from my Darkside short story, the "Flaming Cross" guy stood up and said, "Sean is busting out this drama stuff...A+ for that man!"

I guess you could say...

*In a Garth voice* "I like to write."

Meet The Blogs

It is finally finished. My first screenplay, written for my creative writing class. It will be acted in front of my class this coming Tuesday, and I will make a blog with reaction from my classmates when that happens. This took way too long to write. I hope you enjoy it!


Meet The Blogs

Narrator: After a hard day working in the local cavern, Blog the caveman returns to his cave. He lives in prehistoric times (the Stone Age to be exact) with his wife, Blogerella, and their daughter, Blogetta. Blog is of less than average intelligence, Blogerella is his overly critical and nagging wife, and Blogetta is their talkative teenage daughter. The scene begins as Blog enters the cave…

Blog: Hullo dear.
Blogerella: Blog!! Did you wipe your feet before you came in the cave? You got mud all over the dirt!
Blog: Blog sorry, Blog step in doo-doo.
Blogerella: Well, get the broom and clean it up.
Blog: Yes dear.

Narrator: Blogetta enters the cave.

Blogetta: Hi Daddy, hi Mommy, I…eww, what’s that smell???
Blogerella: Your father stepped in a brontosaurus burger.
Blogetta: Ohh Daddy, not again!
Blog: Blog no fall in this time.
Blogetta: Eww, I remember when that happened. Mom wouldn’t let you in the cave for two weeks! Your stench withered the plants in the garden!
Blogerella: Not to mention scaring half of our neighbors away.
Blogetta: I know!!! How was I supposed to get a date when my dad was sitting outside the cave, covered in dino dung?
Blogerella: There there honey, you’ll find someone soon enough.
Blogetta: Yeah right, I’ll probably end up with that guy who throws rocks at pterodactyls for fun…what’s his name?
Blog: Bloggo, he have good aim. Blog try to throw rock one time, but Blog miss and hit neighbor’s Volkswheel.
Blogetta: That’s nice dad. Anyway, I’ll see you guys later. I’m going to a rock concert with my friends and afterwards we’re gonna go get stoned.
Blogerella: Excuse me young lady?? What do you mean by “get stoned?”
Blogetta: C’mon Mom…Getting stoned is slang for a game I play all the time with my friends where one person has to avoid being hit by small rocks that are thrown by everyone else. It’s not like we have any good games to play – it’s the Stone Age. Why? What did you think it was?

***************

Narrator: Later that night, Blog and Blogerella are sitting at the dining room rock, having an argument.

Blogerella: …and if you don’t clean up that mess right now, when I’m done with you, you’ll need to see a roctologist to remove all the boulders from where I’m gonna stick them!!!
Blog: Yes dear! Blog go clean up now!!

Narrator: Blog leaves the room. Blogetta enters the cave.

Blogetta: Guess what?? I have a boyfriend!
Blogerella: You have a boyfriend???
Blogetta: Yeah!!! Isn’t it great?!?
Blogerella: Who is he?
Blogetta: I…uhh…well, he’s really nice, I met him tonight.
Blogerella: Uh huh, and what is his name?
Blogetta: His name? Well, umm, his name is…umm, Flog.
Blogerella: FLOG?!!?!!?
Blogetta: Yeah…he’s really not as bad as you think…
Blogerella: Not as bad as I think?!? Flog is a rocksucker! He beat my pet saber-toothed kitty with a stick and then drank the mammoth milk I put out for her.
Blogetta: Well, he is a little immature at times, but…
Blogerella: At times? I saw him moon a triceratops once! I’ll bet he learned his lesson after that one though. That poor dinosaur’s horn got lodged in so far that it nearly broke off when…
Blogetta: Oh Mom!!! That’s disgusting!
Blogerella: I know it is honey, that’s why I don’t think you should be dating him.

Narrator: Blog enters the room.

Blogerella: Blog! Our daughter wants to start dating Flog.
Blog: Blog no like Flog. Flog throw rocks at Blog all the time. Bad Flog.
Blogerella: Yeah, see? C’mon Blogetta, you can do better than Flog.
Blogetta: I knew you guys would act like this. Just because he’s a little different doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.
Blogerella: He’s more than a little different. He has a boar tusk nose piercing! He even braids his armpit hair for crying out loud!
Blogetta: Yeah well, so he is a little eccentric…
Blogerella: He eats raw woolly mammoth eggs, shell and all.
Blogetta: Eww, really?
Blogerella: I even saw him drinking out of the tar pits once.
Blogetta: Hmm, maybe you’re right Mom…
Blog: She always right.

***************

Narrator: The next day, Blog goes outside to go hunting for dinner. As he hunts, he chants this prehistoric song to himself.


Blog: Blog go hunting for triceratops
So family can eat dino chops
Blog run up to try and hit it
Blog no look and fall in a pit

The pit wasn’t so bad per se
Except for the spot where Blog lay
Piles and piles of dung
This’s where it gets flung

Blog escape from pit and decide to go hunt brontosaurus
Less chance of ending up with a horn wound and a sore ass
But Blog realize brontosaurus are big
They make Blog look like a little twig

Maybe Blog will go hunt something smaller
Instead of hunting something much much taller
Blog better hurry up and get something fast
Then maybe Blogerella will be happy at last

Narrator: Blog returns home to his cave after the sun has set, carrying something indistinguishable in his arms. He is greeted by Blogerella. Blogetta is also in the room.

Blogerella: You stupid Neanderthal! What could you have possibly been hunting that it took you all day?
Blog: I bring many tasty stones for you to cook your famous Rock n’ Casserole.
Blogerella: And it took you that long to bring home a few measly rocks?
Blog: But…Blog…
Blogerella: But nothing! I have had it up to here with…
Blogetta: Mom, why are you always so hard on Dad? He always tries his best and I think that you should be more understanding of him and less critical and negative.
Blogerella: Who asked you? This doesn’t concern you!
Blogetta: Yes it does Mom, I’m a part of this family too. And there are better ways to solve problems than yelling and criticizing.
Blogerella: I don’t have to listen to this. I can’t believe it, my daughter is telling me how I should live my life. Since when did you become Miss-Know-It-All?
Blogetta: I’m just saying you’ll get a better response from Dad if you stop yelling at him. I don’t even remember the last time I heard you say “Thank you” when he did something for you, or even a simple “I love you” from time to time.
Blogerella: That’s because he never does anything for me besides screw things up!
Blogetta: Come on Mom, you know that’s not true. Look, all I’m asking is that you’ll try to be more positive with Dad. Congratulate him instead of criticizing him. If he does something wrong, help him learn the right way to do it, instead of yelling at him for being ignorant.
Blogerella: (Sighs) Okay fine. Blog, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’ll try to be more understanding and positive with you in the future…I…love you.
Blog: Blog love you too.

In Cest We Trust

Sometimes I forget whether I live in Huntington Beach, California or Hicksville, Louisiana.

Case in point, I had a customer come through the drive-thru yesterday and order a chicken grilled stuft burrito with nacho cheese in it. He came up to the window and said the following to me:

"You gonna put that nacho sauce in there right? I like the cheese, I just can't have the chips because I ain't got no front teeth."

First of all, I'm loving that double negative. Second, after he said that, he opened his mouth and flashed me a very disturbing smile where he gave me a front-row view of his toothless upper gum, as if he thought I didn't believe that he ain't got no front teeth, or maybe he thought I needed further visual aid in order to get his dilemma across to me. In any case, I'm scarred for life. You would be too if you had this leering at you a mere couple of feet from your face.






I done seen you starin' at mah tooth!

The Grammar Police Are On Duty!!

About a week ago, I wrote my first attempt at a "serious" short story for my creative writing class. It is entitled Darkside, and you can read it if you haven't already by scrolling down past my last two recent posts. Today, it was read out loud in class by a girl who volunteered, since my teacher doesn't allow the authors to read their own story in class. I had to make 25 copies of the story so each student could have one to read along with and make comments on.

We spent from 11:30 AM until 12:10 PM on it. The girl read it, and then the teacher and my classmates discussed it and made comments about what they thought of it. Afterwards, everyone gave me back their copies so I could read the comments they wrote.

First of all, while it was being read, the class was pretty much silent while they listened and jotted down comments on their copies. Everyone was pretty much engrossed in the story as far as I could tell. And then we got to the part where the main character sat down to watch some television.

At first, with the Jerry Springer excerpt, only a few people chuckled, because not everyone was fully aware that this whole half of a page was put in as comic relief to give the reader a chance to relieve some tension, or to wake up and yawn, whichever. Then the soap opera excerpt drew a few more people into laughter, as they realized what was going on. And then the knife infomercial excerpt was read, and the whole class just became unglued. My teacher was laughing so loudly that the girl who was reading the story was drowned out, and she had to stop reading for a second because she was laughing too hard also.

So yeah, it is a "serious" story in that its overall plot is serious. But because I wrote it, it can't possibly be 100% serious. And I guess my class liked it, because they were discussing and praising it for nearly half an hour. One older student came over to me and said, "I thought yours was the best one of all the stories we've read." And there were just a whole lot of good things said about the story in general, and I really enjoyed hearing all their different perspectives.

Now, on to the more personal comments that my classmates wrote on their papers. Please bear in mind that this is a college level English course, therefore I assumed that most of the students enrolled in the class have at least a decent grasp on basic English grammar, and the English language in general. I had no idea just how wrong I was.

These are actual comments written by actual students on the actual copies of my actual story. I have meticulously copied everything exactly as it was written by the students. Have fun.

"I came in late to class and only herd 1/4 of it. and new what this story was aimin toward. Awsome delivery soft and the begging hard punch in the middle and smooth drive at the end."

"Dude, I loved the story. I loved the ending even more. Its hard to write about things using the first person perspective, bravo. Crazy to think something like that can actually happen. But yeah great dialog and once again awesome ending. Jesus Rocks." (And then he drew a picture of a cross with flames shooting out of it from all sides)

"I can see his point of view. Good persceptive."

"Good Beginnig"

"Your writing is very witty and I like that. This story scares me though! That this could happen maybe even from drugs - A lot of other people never even think of that - I like your message of awakeness." (Awakeness?)

"I've been waiting for a person to say all this! Thank You!" (Someone wrote this next to my TV excerpts part)

"it was a good story it was unicue and creative I hope their is no truth in it. I liked it :)"

"I like how it is so suddle" (Nice phonetic spelling...)

"The story leaves people wondering about wether or not such a possibility is possible + about the important things in life...which is the sign of a good story!" (Hmm, a possible possibility...)

"I like the honesty you can tell this character isnt completely sain"

"Does street monkey pay very well?"

"Right f*ckin' on!" (A girl underlined street monkey and wrote that above it, except it wasn't censored. Then, at the end of the story, she drew 2 crosses and in the middle of them wrote, "AWESOME". She must be a sweet and moral Christian girl...)


2 students underlined the part where I wrote "cherry-red Porsche" and wrote "Nice car" next to it. Yes, they were both guys. In fact, they were the same two guys who wrote the first two comments above (The guy who came to class late, and the "Jesus Rocks" guy). Great minds think alike, no?

Also, the girl who read my story out loud (and I must say that she did a really good job too) wrote this on her paper at the end of the story:

"I wasn't expecting that @ all. I love your story and the weirdest thing...recently, I found out what my "void" was as well. =) "

Taco Bell Stuffs, and Things to Come

If you know me, you know I like to see people ask/do/say stupid things, because it makes me laugh, and I like to laugh, hence the reason I write this blog. And tonight at my work, a customer took the proverbial cake for the Taco Bell Award for:

Winner of the Award for the "Stupidest Question Ever Asked"

I was at the first window tonight where I collect the money, juggle rolls of paper, twiddle my thumbs, and sleep. My manager, Reyna, was at the second window, taking orders. A lady came through the drive-thru, and was looking at the menu, trying to decide what to get. I could hear some inaudible whispering going on as the driver was talking to someone else in the car to try and figure out their order. After 15 seconds or so, the lady pipes up and asks Reyna a question.

"What's that thing with the sauce on it?"

As I peel myself off of the ground from laughing, I realize Reyna has finished taking the order, so I collect the money, and turn around to see Thaddus, my other manager, walking towards me. I meet him halfway, look him in the eye, and ask him, "What's that thing with the sauce on it?!?!?!!?" He just laughs and says, "That's half our menuboard."

If you ever want to make a drive-thru restaurant worker's day, stop by and make a total fool of yourself so we can laugh at you. C'mon, what was that lady thinking? Anything? Could she possibly have been anymore vague? Can anyone ever top that level of ignorance? I suppose only time will tell...

_-^-_-^-_-^-_ (Nice topic break, eh?)

At Taco Bell, we have tray liners which are pieces of paper that cover the dine-in trays to avoid contamination or something. I mean really, is a thin piece of paper going to protect you from anything? If there's some big ugly germ festering on the tray, it's not going to be deterred by a flimsy piece of paper. It will just laugh at you as it seeps through, jumps on your food, and makes its home in your intestines for the next month.

Another thing, that piece of paper gives people the impression that the tray is no longer just a convenient plastic barrier between your food and the table. It is now a trough with a replaceable covering that gives them implied permission to toss all manners aside and go nuts. Not only that, but the entire restaurant turns into a squalid farm where you can finally fulfill all your piggish fantasies. Suddenly, you become too lame to find one of the 7 trash containers in the store and are forced to throw your trash on the ground, or leave it on the table next to you thinking no one will be the wiser. You leave spilled taco sauce, soda, burrito squirtings, half-eaten food, and other inhuman messes for someone else to clean up. You begin to enjoy wallowing in your own crapulence, you notice a curly tail sprouting out of your behind, and you discover that the only audible sounds you can make are "Oink, oink, OINK!!!!"

Anyway, here's an interesting tidbit about the tray liners. They advertise the steak soft taco and have pictures of some of the ingredients that come on it. And there is a slogan in Spanish written on the lower right-hand corner of the paper. It reads, "No solo de pan vive el hombre". For those of you who don't remember your Spanish too well, or were foolish enough to take one of the joke foreign language classes in school, like French, Pig Latin, or Geometry, it means "Man shall not live by bread alone".

Now, I know Taco Bell means something else by it, but when I first read it, I thought about how interesting it was to see that at my work. Too bad they didn't finish it..."Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God" (Matthew 4:4). So Taco Bell is using it as a slogan to try and get more business, oh well. Maybe someone like myself will read it and be reminded of the Bible verse it comes from and be inspired by it.

_~-~_~-~_~-~_

Lastly, my story, Darkside, has not been read in class yet. Hopefully it will be this coming Tuesday though, and I will update with how my class liked it. Also, I am in the middle of working on a 3 minute play for the same class. I had a writer's block while trying to work on it, so I decided to come blog. Go figure. I will post it here when I am done with it in a day or two. I don't want to give too much away (considering I haven't gotten too far on it yet anyway), but lets just say it involves our good prehistoric friend, Blog the caveman. It will also be read outloud in class. I can't wait.

Who Needs Drugs?

So today, an hour before I went to work, I had a big slice of double layer chocolate cake that my mom made during one of her routine cake-making celebrations. These usually fall somewhere between her brownie-baking bashes and her pie-cooking parties. In other words, almost never.

But that's understandable. She has to work 12 hours days, which in the nursing world, means from 7 AM until a) All your patients have either died or escaped, or b) It's getting close to that time where the hospital has to pay overtime, so you'd better get your butt outta here...I don't care if you're in the middle of giving that old man a sponge bath, you can bathe our elderly patients on your own time if you care that much! What do you mean he isn't a patient?

Anyway, I had that piece of chocolate cake. And for the first time in quite a while, I was reminded of the simple joys of a sugar high. I got to work, and I was practically running from place to place, my hands were shaking, I was jumping up and down, bouncing off the walls, whistling, talking loudly, and just being extremely hyper and happy. I had the energy of a four-year old and some to spare. Not that I'm not energetic normally, it's just that I felt like I had my personal energy tank filled with Liquid Schwartz. But, just like there's a downside to every Schwartz, no sugar high lasts forever. (By the way, if you haven't taken the hint already, go watch Spaceballs. Right now. Well, after you finish reading this.)

So it occured to me that sugar could be the answer to many of life's problems. Don't get me wrong, I have lots of fun at my job, but having that extra energy boost really made things a lot more enjoyable during the couple hours I had my sugar high. Maybe you should try it sometime. Just eat a bowlful of sugar before going to work and see how much differently you act.

Something else I don't understand...when I was a kid, I ate candy like there was no tomorrow, and never got a cavity. As I got older, my candy eating days grew shorter and less frequent, especially when I got too old to go trick or treating anymore. I loved to go trick or treating, but I used to hate it when some little old lady would answer the door and ask you some smartass question like, "Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?" But hey, that's why God made toilet paper, eggs, and fragile pumpkins.

But somehow, even though I ate less candy than when I was younger, I still managed to get my first cavity a few years ago, as my little diagram illustrates the progression of events:

Increase in Age ---> Decrease in Candy Intake ---> Baby's First Cavity

My mom said it's probably because my teeth don't have the same protection from cavities as they used to when I was younger. Personally, I think my diagram holds the real answer. The reason I got a cavity was because I ate less candy, so my teeth were not able to build up a candy-based cavity-immunity from other harmful cavity-causing substances, like celery and spinach. So to all you soon-to-be parents out there, let this be a lesson to you. Learn from my mistakes. Never let your kids stop eating candy or sugar, unless you want them to have poor cavity immunity. Season your food with powdered sugar, stuff your Thanksgiving turkey with Milk Duds, spread icing instead of butter on your bread, make a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Jelly Sandwich, and never ever drink milk without chocolate syrup. Just be creative. Soon you'll be confectioning like a pro. Be sure to invite me over for dinner.

Oh, and speaking of sweet... (Check out the nice Paint editing)


Happy 17th Birthday Erica!!!!!!!!

Darkside - A "Short" Story

This is a short story I just finished writing yesterday for my creative writing class. It will be read outloud in my class by a volunteer (The author is not allowed to read his own paper) either Tuesday or Thursday. Once that happens, I will update this post with the reactions I receive from the class. Until then, enjoy the story. It is my first real attempt at a "serious" short story, so it was a real learning experience for me.

DISCLAIMER: This story is 8 pages long when double spaced, so if you have a short attention span, please take this opportunity to set aside the next 5 minutes of your life and glue your head to your monitor so you will not get distracted while reading it. I appreciate any comments you might have since short stories are new writing territory for me, and I can use any advice I can get. I hope you enjoy it...


Darkside


“Good night Anna.”

“Good night Dr. Stevens. See you in the morning.”

Anna is a good secretary - very organized, prompt, and reliable. She was the only one who didn’t make a pass at me during her interview. I do all the job interviews myself, seeing as how I’ll be working with them five days of the week, and considering how this is my own practice – Dr. Russ Stevens, Psychiatrist. That’s right, I’m a head doctor. My job is to deal with all the loonies of this world and somehow alter their self-perception to the point where they swear I’m a genius and practically throw their pocketbooks at me. I’ve always liked helping people, even if they are stark-raving mad. In fact, that just makes it more fun. I’ve always been proud of being level-headed, rational, and sober-minded, and I think that rubs off on my patients and is part of the reason my practice has been so successful.

I am 29 years old and have been told I am rather physically attractive, but I am not married nor am I looking. After having to listen to so many stories of heartbreak and ruined relationships in my six years of practice, I am of the belief that having a significant other just isn’t worth the emotional baggage.

I get into my cherry-red Porsche and drive away towards my house. I live alone in a nice neighborhood in Southern California, in a gated community. My house is big enough to comfortably have another person live in it besides myself, but not big enough to make it seem lonely or empty. I park my car in the middle of the 2-car garage, and enter the house from the adjoining door. I look at my watch. It reads 8:37 PM. I am not physically tired, just mentally tired from having to converse with so many patients today. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have such an easy job. All I have to do is listen to and talk with people. But what if I had some ball-busting-manual-laboring-type job, like a construction worker or a street monkey? Although I suppose even those jobs have their upsides…I could go on disability the minute after I break my legs from falling down an open sewer, or possibly after getting hit by a wrecking ball, and never have to work again. Ah, the tough decisions we have to make throughout our lives. I decide to grab a bite to eat, and go to bed.

As I lay in my bed, I think to myself. I think of myself as being a rather witty and smart person, always using humor to my advantage to get the best of any situation. But there’s a part deep inside of me that just feels empty, like I’m missing out on something critically important in life. I’ve been trying 29 years to fill that void with alcohol, drugs, women, work, school, anything - I’ve tried it all, and nothing has filled it for more than a few fleeting moments before it empties out and makes the void even deeper. Sometimes I wonder how I ever made it as far as I have. Sometimes I feel like I should be the one lying on the couch listening to the psychiatrist, instead of the other way around. Don’t get me wrong. I am a happy person. I enjoy life and am generally a nice person; it’s just that everyone has a dark side to them.

******************

I wake up, drenched in my own sweat; my heart feels like it’s trying to rip itself out of my chest. I look at the clock that sits on the nightstand next to my bed; it reads 11:57 PM. I have just been disturbed from my sleep by a recurring nightmare that I have been having at least once a night, without fail, for the last eight years…

My older brother Jason and I went to a local club, the Drug N’ Chug, to celebrate my 21st birthday. It was his idea. I didn’t know at the time since we were never very close, but Jason was dropping acid and doing other dangerous drugs on a regular basis, and he brought some acid with him to the club that night. Jason and I both dropped the acid together. This particular trip, combined with all his previous brain-alterations, caused his brain to short-circuit as he freaked out at all the excitement and activity inside the club. He pulled out a knife and just began slashing at anything, and anyone, within reach. The last thing I remember before passing out was seeing my brother being restrained and beaten to submission by the club security. I don’t remember much else about that night, but I remember waking up in a hospital bed, my shirt and jeans covered in someone else’s blood, and having a nurse tell me that my brother was dead. It was at that moment that I decided I would never try to fill that void inside of me with drugs again.

The recurring dream I have been having that has just woken me up again tonight was a short reenactment of that moment, only I am the one wielding the knife. And the part that scares me the most is that I have this leftover feeling of bloodlust and rage each night I wake up from the dream, and I really enjoy the feeling, even though I know I could never do something like that in real life. I wipe the sweat off of my brow, and return to sleep.

“Aggghhhh…”

A painful groan escapes my lips as I roll over onto my side to look at the clock. The luminous red lights say that the time is 8:13 AM. It’s too early. I roll back over onto my back, and in the process, I discover that not only am I exhausted, but my entire body is aching. I try to sit up but a sudden pang shoots through my abdominal muscles, encouraging me to stay right where I am. I place my hand on my stomach and discover I am wearing a T-shirt, even though I don’t remember putting one on when I went to bed. As I feel the shirt, I notice that it is a little damp on the front. As I lift off my covers to inspect it, I let out a scream.

The entire front of my white T-shirt is dark red, saturated with what looks like blood. Momentarily forgetting about my soreness, I quickly jump out of bed as if it had suddenly burst into flames, and discover that I am fully clothed – with a bloody T-shirt, a pair of jeans also complete with blood stains, and a pair of my old tennis shoes. I lift up my shirt to see if the blood is my own, but I have no lacerations that would constitute that amount of blood; however, I notice several bruises on my stomach, and as I inspect myself further, I find many other bruises and small cuts along the length of my body. Baffled, I try and remember what happened last night. I think back to my haunting nightmare, and wonder to myself if just this once, somehow, it hadn’t just been a dream.

******************

Unable to accept the notion that somehow I may have done the unthinkable last night without even having the slightest memory of it, I stumble out of my room into the living room, and plop myself down onto the couch. Still dressed-to-kill so to speak in my bloodied attire, I turn on the television to try and take my mind off of my worries and suspicions, not to mention my aching body.

“…walked in on mah girlfriend and I done saw her getting’ it on wit’ mah cousin, and…”
Jerry Springer, what a load of crap. I change the channel.

“…right Chet, we need to tell Bubbles that she is carrying your child…”
Soap operas. Seriously, who watches that crap and thinks up those names? Those writers need to be fired. Next channel.

“…demonstrated, this revolutionary knife can cut through shoes, bricks, telephone poles, bowling balls, and even this slab of cement! Watch how easily it *SNAP* …oops. Bill, is it supposed to do that?”
Idiots. I could sell elephant dung in bulk better than those numbskulls could sell that flimsy knife. I never realized how much daytime television really sucks. One more channel.

“…police say they have obtained the license number of the suspect’s car from a witness and are in the process of tracking him down. Witnesses describe him as being a white male, in his 20’s or 30’s, of average build and height, wearing a light-colored T-shirt and jeans. The name of the bouncer who was murdered at the Drug N’ Chug has not been released to the public yet.”
I turn the television off and set the remote down on the couch. It couldn’t be. It must be a coincidence, a horrible coincidence. My head starts to spin and I become disoriented. My head suddenly feels extremely heavy, as if my neck can no longer hold it up, and I rest it on the back of the couch. I wish I had someone to talk to.

******************

I am awakened by a loud rapping at my front door, and I hear someone yell, “Police, open the door now!” This is not happening. I pinch myself to try and wake myself up from this dream, but the very real pain greets me as I realize that in fact, this is no dream, but is surely a real life nightmare. I am still wearing my bloody shirt and pants. I’m as good as convicted if I open the door right now. I decide my only option is to get out of sight, and quick. I run as fast as my body allows me into my room, open the closet door, squeeze in amongst my formal suits and shirts I have to wear everyday, and close the door.

Seconds later, I hear a loud crash as the wood that used to be my front door shatters. My heart races as I hear footsteps pounding their way through my house. I hear voices shouting to one another, but I am too scared and confused to make any sense out of them. Soon enough, I am able to catch the tail end of an exclamation, “…out, we will release the dog.” Oh great, just what I need - bite marks to go with my bloody clothes and bruised body. I figure I’ve been through enough today, so I open the closet door, stick my hands in the air, and surrender myself voluntarily.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes sir,” I replied to the officer who had placed the handcuffs on me.

“Do you know why you are being placed under arrest?”

“No sir, I do not.”

“You don’t? Well, why don’t we ask your shirt?”

“I don’t know where that blood came from.”

“Probably from the bouncer you murdered at the Drug N’ Chug last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what you did.”

I didn’t. I don’t remember a single thing about last night besides the dream I had. I’ve read of people experiencing altered states of consciousness where they are awake but are unaware of their actions. But most of those people are druggies or mentally retarded or both, and I am neither. Could it be that my job is finally getting to me? After hearing so many stories of things that have gone wrong with other people’s minds, has my own mind lost its grasp on what is reality and what is fantasy? Being a construction worker doesn’t sound too bad right about now.
I arrive at the police station a short while later. After what seems like an eternity, I am brought into a small room presumably for questioning. A short and stocky man enters the room a few minutes later. He introduces himself as Lt. Perkins, and says that he will be conducting the questioning.

“Mr. Stevens, where were you last night at 2:10 AM?”

“In my bed, sleeping.”

“Is there anyone who can verify this?”

“Just myself.”

“I see. And how do you explain the blood stains on your shirt and pants?”

“I…can’t explain them. I don’t know how they got there.”

“Oh, well let me enlighten you. According to the police report and witness testimonies, you were seen at the Drug N’ Chug last night at 2:10 AM. Apparently, you drove there, parked your car in front of the club, walked up to the bouncer standing at the door, and stabbed him with a knife repeatedly. In case you don’t know where all those bruises on your body came from, you apparently took a pretty good licking from the other bouncers who were trying to restrain you, before you were able to get in your car and drive off. Fortunately for us, a witness remembered your license plate number, and we tracked you down in no time.”

“If you’re so sure I did it, why am I being questioned?”

“It’s standard procedure. If you’d like to forego the questioning and proceed right to jail, be my guest.”

And so I did. I was sent to jail for a murder I have no memory of ever committing. Some quack later diagnosed me with a neurochemical imbalance thereby supposedly explaining my altered state of consciousness. It seems like just yesterday I had everything I could ever want – A good job, a big house, lots of money, a fast car. It amazes me how fast it was all taken away from me on that infamous night. It made me think of how fleeting life is, and I started wondering if all those material things in life were really worth wasting 29 years to get when they could be taken away in an instant. I began to wonder if there was more to life than just pleasing oneself. And then it dawned on me. I remember one of my patients telling me once that she was a devout Christian and that whenever there was something wrong in her life, she would pray a certain prayer, called the Jesus Prayer, and it would fill her with hope and help her through her daily struggles. That concept has baffled me up until this point in my life, but I think I’ve finally found the thing that I’ve been searching for to fill that void in my life with…

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Good Ol' California

Well, Summer is over, Fall is here, and Winter is just around the corner. This means the start of the dreaded California Rainy Season. For those of you who are unfamiliar with California's weather, it does not rain very often here, and when it does, it usually means that I don't have to wash my car for another couple of weeks.

California's rainy season really isn't much of anything compared to the states that frequently experience hurricanes and tornados and blizzards and giant tarantula attacks. Ah, the things we miss out on by having our infernally temperate weather. All we get are the occasional wimpy earthquakes that don't even wake me up from my sleep at night. We're getting jipped!

But I think it's funny how the news media likes to try and inspire fear in us whenever they get the chance. For instance, it rained a couple weeks ago for the first time in several months, and it dropped a couple inches of rain, yet all the local news channels had breaking news stories about the "torrential downpour". And they all had unique ways of describing their ongoing coverage of the storm, like Storm Track, Weather Watch, Storm Watch, Weather Track, and other equally original ideas.

And then they would describe the storm as being extremely powerful and dangerous and capable of killing small children and the elderly in one swift blow. They would also give the storm names that classified it as dangerous, such as Death Torrent, Class 5 Kill Storm, Deluge of Destruction, Savage Showers, and things like that. Because they know perfectly well that an inch or two of rain isn't newsworthy, they have to Hollywoodize it and make it into a big deal. Meanwhile, every other state is laughing at us for being such pansies because we can't stand a little bit of rain.

It reminds me of a joke my Poli Sci teacher likes to tell. "One day God shook the Earth on its side, and all the fruits and nuts ended up in California." I guess that would explain the reasoning behind why I keep seeing so many commercials on TV as of late about these male-enhancing drugs on the market now. Drugs like Cialis and Viagra where on the commercial it shows this happy couple enjoying life together without a care in the world as a direct result of the man taking a pill. And then it goes on to list the side effects, including nausea, diarrhea, permarections, stroke, paralysis, Spastic Spleen Syndrome, oily discharge, and other lovely benefits.

Isn't anyone content with being who they are anymore? Why are we always bombarded by this constant striving to be the "perfect" person? We have shows like The Swan where women get complete plastic surgery makeovers because they just can't stand the way they look anymore. Oh cry me a frickin river. Maybe they shouldn't compare themselves to the standards of actors in Hollywood where you aren't beautiful until you have at least 5 pounds of silicon in your body somewhere. Maybe if they actually put some effort into staying fit and healthy, they wouldn't think so poorly of themselves later on in life.

Sometimes I wish I didn't live so close to Hollywood so I wouldn't be so directly affected by the mentality it tries to teach people, especially women. The Hollywood mentality basically tells girls and women that they should:

• Have the skinniest body with the least amount of fat regardless of how much you have to starve yourself to make it happen. And don't worry. If it gets too out of control and your butt and boobs get too flat, our good friend silicon will come to the rescue yet again.
• Wear as much makeup as possible to cover up any visible imperfections that may surface on your face. By all means don't let anyone get the idea that you are any less than perfect in any way. Cover every zit, wrinkle, and freckle up, because movie stars never have any visible imperfections, and your main goal is to strive to be like them in every way. Girls, don't be stingy with the lipstick and lip gloss. The more that gets on your glass when you drink, the cooler you are. It's not unattractive! No, not at all! Wearing lipstick doesn't make you look like a clown! Heavens no! Oh, and don't forget. You are in direct competition with every other girl on the face of the planet. If you ever see a girl who you think is prettier than you, imitate her in every way possible.
• Dress in revealing clothing, and flaunt yourself around wherever you go, because no guy will ever be interested in you if you don't. Always wear perfume to cover up your body scent, because no guy will want to know what you smell like normally.
• Never settle for someone who isn't the best looking guy in the world. So what if he lacks a personality, is an egotistical jerk, has nothing in common with you, and treats you like garbage? At least he's cute. And if worse comes to worse, restraining orders and divorces are becoming even easier to get nowadays. So don't worry about a thing.
• Remember that when you finally hook Mister Right, always tell him what he wants to hear. Lie to make him happy. Never tell him the truth if it endangers your relationship. Hide secrets from him when you don't know how he'll react to them. If he asks you about something you don't feel like sharing, avoid the question at all costs and change the subject, or pretend you didn't hear him. Honesty and openness in a relationship is a recipe for a break-up.

Gee, it's a wonder that so many marriages end in divorce. This whole charade couldn't have anything to do with it could it? You marry someone thinking you know who they are, and all of a sudden that person decides to stop pretending, and you see who they really are.

The moral of the story? Be happy with who you are, no matter what...To conform is to fail to be yourself...Honesty is the best policy...An open book will be read and understood while a closed book remains shrouded in mystery and suspicion. Maybe I should change my blog from Sean's Random Humor to Sean's Random Humor n' Wisdom. Or maybe I should continue the adventures of the poo-flinging monkey. Eh, either way.

The Comprehensive, Unequaled, and 100% Accurate History of Rap

After making my last post about that horrid Dance 360° show, I decided to take time out of my busy (hahahaha) life to do some research on the actual history of rap. And, unlike rap itself, the history of rap is quite entertaining and interesting. Please note that all of the information presented in this blog was tirelessly researched entirely by me and is 100% historically accurate, with a 1% margin of error, and only 85% of the statistics and facts were made up on the spot by me or the rubber chicken sitting on my desk.


The Early Beginnings of Rap
Many people do not know this, but from my very extensive research, I have found out that rap actually originated during the stone age. The exact date and time is unknown, but archaeologists have uncovered ancient cave writings which were written by a mysterious caveman who referred to himself as "Blog". For those of you who are loyal visitors to my blog, you will already know one of Blog's previous adventures (Scroll down to the last post, but feel free to read Mucus Man and my Modest Proposal on your trip down memory lane).

Anyway, Blog is the ancestor of all modern rappers, wannabe rappers who don't have the necessary skill involved to rap (i.e. forming a semi-coherent sentence, having basic motor skills, maintaining bladder control while speaking, etc...) but who still live the lifestyle, and little kids who try to hide their low self-esteem by acting tough, even though their mommies would wash their mouths out with soap if they ever cared enough to supervise them.

If you think about it, it makes sense that all modern rappers are descendants of Blog. After all, cavemen don't sound too particularly bright when they talk, and when you listen to what most rappers say nowadays, it usually consists of a main course of unintelligible dribble with a generous side dish of gratutitous swearing and a big slice of chocolate hate cake.

Getting back to the history of rap, those ancient cave writings that Blog scratched on the wall of his "cave sweet cave" were actually the world's first rap. Amazingly, it was very similar to the type of rap you listen to today. The main reason for that is because cavemen did not have a firm grasp on any language, not even their native tongue, Blogenese, which, conveniently enough, is exactly the same as English. And it's quite obvious to anyone who has heard more than a few seconds of a rap song today that no rapper has gotten higher than a "D" in any of their English classes. Though I'm sure they all did very well in P.E. (Prison Education). I'll bet they earned their stripes in that class.

So without further ado, here is the world's very first rap, written by Blog the Caveman.

"Blog go out of cave
Get hit by big wave
From where the water come?
Blog don't know, he be dumb

Blog go hunting for his dinner
So he doesn't get much thinner
He meet dino with jaws of steel
Make him slip via banana peel

Big bad dino fall down on its head
Should have killed something smaller instead
The dino fell and broke Blog's wheel
Now Blog's face is turning quite teal

You can imagine just how much Blog hurt
Like when he got mud all over the dirt
But he no need a wheel to travel
Just stay home and let life unravel

After all, Blog live in the Stone Age
No reason to even go outside his cave
Unless dino's brother find out what happened
And he come and make poor Blog all flattened"


Rap Throughout American History
Some well known figures in American history, I was shocked to discover, were also descendents of Blog the Caveman. That's right, even the founding fathers themselves were rappers. You know those powdered wigs they all wore? They just wore them because it made them look distinguished and smart. In reality, all they really did was they used the constitutional conventions as an excuse to get away from their families and get drunk. No one would ever have suspected them of doing that when they looked so dignified and professional in their powdered wigs. Also, it's not a very well known fact, but just before the U.S. Constitution was ratified, Thomas Jefferson freestyled the entire document in front of all the delegates:

Jefferson: Yo wiggas, this is how it'z all gonna slide. We da people be representin da United States ya'll. We be formin a more perfect union, establishin justice up in here, insurin domestic tranquilizzidy, and some other stuff I forgot. Oh yeah, drinkin beer too!!! Yeah yeah! T-Jeff is in da HOUZZ!!!


Rap in the Present Day
Somehow, this nation has persevered to where it is today. How? I haven't the slightest clue, but I know it's taken a whole lot of drinking to attain our current greatness. And that legacy still lives on to this very day. It is proven by our places of higher learning, or skools, for any rappers reading.

Take, for instance, the notorious party schools of our time. Schools that students yearn to go to not for their brilliant teachers or beneficial learning environments, but for their ever-important Alcoholics to Sober Students ratio, or the ASS ratio.

This critical ratio is carefully researched every year to determine which schools contain students who are more likely to become intoxicated on a regular basis, and who are willing to share that method of intoxication with others.

Per my research, I have discovered that there are many schools that have particularly large ASS ratings. One of these schools surprised me very much when I saw its huge, fat, pimply ASS rating - Oxford University. Yes, that's right. Oxford University, supposedly one of the most prestigious schools in the entire world and most of Canada, was actually founded by a drunkard! See what good a little research can do?

Oxford University was founded by Ox Ford, the younger, dumber, and fatter brother of Henry Ford. Ox was perpetually jealous of his older brother because of his success and fame, so he decided that he would do something with his life. Since he was a heavy drinker, the best thing he could come up with was to fly to London and try to topple over Stonehenge. Anyway, to make a long story even longer, he went to London and somehow got a University named after him, yadda yadda yadda, the end.


Conclusion
So I hope this thoroughly researched and very extensive history of rap will allow you to overlook my absence from blogging over the past few weeks. I hope that you all learned something by reading this. And remember, the next time you see someone trying to rap or trying to act cool like a rapper, just remember their background and take pride in the fact that, if given the chance, you could get a higher grade in English than they could. Plus, their ASS is probably bigger than yours too.

Yo, Lemme Break it Down For Y'all

During a lapse in my normally sound judgment, I found myself watching a show at 12:30 AM a few nights ago called Dance 360°, wherein participants drawn "at random" from the crowd are put in the middle of a "dance circle" and are told to "dance" to some "music" being "played" at a DJ table.

I ended up watching probably a grand total of 20 minutes of it before I couldn't possibly stand it any longer. From those particularly grueling 20 minutes, I have learned a few things about not just the show, but about what our culture has degenerated into lately.

Apparently, in order to get on the show, you have to meet the following requirements:

1. You must be egotistical, self-centered, loud, obnoxious, and you must have a firm grasp on all of the current cool slang words and phrases. Actual skill or talent in the art of dancing is not required.
2. When one of the hosts invites you to come dance, you must act tough and cocky in order to convince everyone that you really have no fear of breaking your 10 o' clock curfew and losing your TV privileges for a week.
3. When you introduce yourself, you must:

• Say what your name is (not the name you were born with, but a name that says that you are cool, like T-Bone or X-Ray or PB n' J or Tidycat or Alpo or Meow Mix)
• Don't just tell people where you are from. Tell them where you are "representing" from. I guess the reasoning behind this is that anyone who comes on this show probably doesn't possess the cerebral fortitude to find the address to the House of Representatives in the phone book, so it's not like they will ever actually represent something worthwhile in their lifetime.
• Talk in incomplete sentences using improper grammar, slang, double negatives (triple negatives earn big bonus points), and slur your words together - it's cool to slur your words together because it makes people think that you use drugs, and all of your favorite celebrities do drugs (Martha Stewart, Britney Spears, Bugs Bunny, Frankenstein, Homer Simpson, and that annoying "Get Smart" kid in the Smart and Final commercials), so it must be cool.

Example:

Host: "Yo wassup homie G dawg masta funk, whatcha name n' whereya representin?"
Audience Member: Yo, mah name's P-Dripple and I represent da Wet Side Slacks."
Host: "Yo man, I ain't sure I didn't hear you wrong. Ya mean da West Side Slacks?"
Audience Member: "Y'all didn't not not hear me wrong. Oh yeeeah, I be bustin da triple negatives."

Now that you are on the dance floor, it's time for you to show everyone your moves.

Dancing has drastically changed over the last decade or so. Nowadays, as long as there is music playing (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), pretty much any rapid movement of the body is classified as dancing, as infantile as it may seem.

Such moves as the "Spin on your head until you puke" and the "Flail your arms around like you're having a seizure" are gaining in popularity, along with the obligatory "Twirl around on your hands while spinning your legs in the air and kicking nearby people in the mouth" which seems to be a staple in the world of "break" (Gee, I wonder where they got the name?) dancing.

And the whole point of the show is to gain audience approval, and you advance in the rounds depending on how loud the crowd cheers for you. And the winner receives some joke prize like a piece of string or an Xbox or some equally dull and uninspired gift. So there really is no point to it at all, other than being able to make up an amazingly cool persona for yourself like P-Dripple of the Wet Side Slacks. REPRESENT!!

A Triple Dose of Taco Bell Stories

Hi, welcome to the Taco Bell Mountain Range!

A customer comes through the drive-thru, and orders:

• Bean Burrito, no sauce, w/ sour cream
• Nachos Bellgrande
• Soft Taco Supreme
• And a Medium Sierra Nevada

Now you too can experience the beautiful scenery and wildlife of the Sierra Nevadas in its new and more convenient liquid form. Mmmmm! I can really taste the Rattlesnake!

For Here or To Go?

Two days ago, at about 11:20 AM, a man came in and placed an order at the walk-up register. He was a little plump around the waist area, and if I were to be so bold as to take a guess, I would wager that this wasn't his first stop into a Taco Bell. He seemed to be a manual laborer (In other words, one step above monkeys on the proverbial evolutionary chain) by the looks of his hands and the condition of his clothes.

I was taking a few drive-thru orders when he was giving his order at walk-up, and when I walked over to where the food was being made to help out, I took a glance at the screen that displays all of the current orders yet to be made. This was his order:

• 14 Combination Burritos
• 14 Spicy Chicken Soft Tacos
• 14 Hard Tacos
• 14 Steak Soft Tacos
• 2 Bean Burrito Especiales, no onions, no red sauce, no jalapeño sauce, no cheese, with sour cream. So in other words, a burrito with beans and sour cream. Doesn't that sound good?

Subtotal: $66.81
Tax: $5.18
Total: $71.99

This order took about 12 minutes to make. While it was being made, the man got a plastic bag, went over to where the hot sauces are kept, and began stuffing the bag full of hot and fire sauce. When he finished, he must have had over 100 packages of sauce in there.

When the order was ready, it filled several bags, so I went back and got a couple of boxes to put it all in so it would be easier for him to carry. He then proceeded to throw the bags of food into the boxes without taking into consideration the ever-important Squish Factor. When he finished, he had one small bag remaining in his hands, containing the two burritos of nausea. He casually mentioned that the food in that bag was for his boss, and that he didn't care about the rest of the food's well-being. What a nice co-worker!

Shut the BEEP up!

At the second window, there is a timer on the wall that tells how long a car has been at the window. Thanks to Claudia, our regional manager, she recently had someone program it so whenever a car has been at the window for more than a minute, a loud, ear-piercing BEEP resonates throughout the store every four seconds. It can literally be heard from anywhere in the store, and if you are right next to it taking orders or collecting money, it is extremely loud and annoying and is probably causing me long term hearing damage and I wouldn't be surprised if it was slowly but surely disrupting my brain waves and causing me to slip into a state of dementia. Plus, it's really hard to take orders when this stupid thing is beeping every four seconds.

Customer: Hi, I'd like a bean burrito with BEEEEEEEEP ...decker taco with extra cheese, BEEEEEEEP ...onions, lettuce, and tomatoes, two soft BEEEEEEEEP ...esadilla, no sauce, and a medium BEEEEEEEEEP.

Me: Anything else?

Customer: BEEEEEEEEEEP.

And believe me, I've tried everything I can to stop the incessant beeping. I've tried hitting it, and I've even tried hitting it harder, but nothing seemed to work.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go buy a can of Sierra Nevada. Or maybe a bottle of Mountain Lion Droppings Dew.

Does Everyone Know What Time It Is?

IT'S SCHOOL TIME!!! That's right, I've been back in school now for 2 weeks, and already I've found 4 things that detract from my learning experience...

1. Seeing as how it is summer, or fall, or fell, or whatever season we're in right now, you would think that OCC would plan ahead and actually have working air conditioning units in all of their poorly ventilated classrooms. Or maybe a fan to circulate the stuffy, musty, suffocating, men's locker room type air. If nothing else, my Political Science teacher could open up one of the two doors in the classroom. But instead, she chooses to keep the doors shut in fear of letting some air in that could potentially be less than 120 degrees Fahrenheit. That's fine though. Sweat baths can be pretty invigorating when you don't know if you're going to make it out of the class before bursting into flames.

2. Also in my Political Science class, possibly due to the extreme heat, there is a clock made of pure evil which I suspect hails from deep within the depths of hell. Class starts at 12:45, but every day I enter the class, the clock always reads 12:10. So the class begins, and every day, at exactly 12:59, Mephistopheles himself enters the clock and makes it click the minutes by, one by one, until it reads the correct time. Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, 49 times, until it reaches 12:59. And of course, every time it happens, the whole class has to stop and stare at the clock in amazement, as if they've never seen a demon-possessed clock before.

Then the clock works perfectly fine again until 1:10, at which point it stops until 1:59, when the next demon on the 1 o' clock shift comes on duty. Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, Cha-CHUNK, 49 more times. And it does this 3 times throughout the 3 hour class, waking the entire class up from their note-taking induced sleep each time.

3. Yet again, in my Political Science class, we have these extremely small desks to sit in. The actual desk is almost big enough to fit one of my forearms on when it's naptime. And today, I was opening my folder to get out one of my previous pages of notes, and when I opened it on my desk, the left side of it slid off the desk, causing all of my papers that weren't attached to the 3-ring binder to crash on the ground. "Oh, this is really convenient," I was thinking. I can't sleep on the desk, I can't open my folder on the desk, what's the point of having a desk if you can't do such basic classroom tasks with it?

4. Leaving my Political Science classroom, we head over to my Creative Writing classroom. This room is properly ventilated, the AC works, the desks are actually big enough to fit a 3-ring binder, and the clock functions normally. You must be thinking, "Well, this class sounds perfect!!"

WRONG!

Sure, the classROOM is adequate, but the TEACHER of the class is, well, a bit kooky. First of all, let me preface this by saying that I have done some research about her by googling her name online. I found out that she is a "Friend of Barbara Boxer". That alone should give you sufficient reason to question her sanity. On top of that, she has told the class that she believes that all drugs should be legalized, BUT with a label on them detailing all the possible known consequences involved with taking the drugs, as if you can put a label on a joint of pot or a syringe of heroin. She is also an ex-hippie (go figure), is pro-choice (or anti-life, whichever you prefer), is an environmental freak, and has, quite possibly, THE ABSOLUTE MOST ANNOYING LAUGH IN THE WORLD.

The very first class, she starts talking, explaining the class, etc... Eventually, she opens her mouth, and out comes this fiendish, out-of-this-world, pee-your-pants-with-fear laugh that I really cannot do justice by just writing about it. It is so shrill and high-pitched and loud that it is almost scary sometimes. It really has to be heard to understand the significance of it.

There are basically two different versions of her laugh:

1. The long, drawn-out laugh: ahh HAA HA HUH HA HAA haha

2. The short, rapid-fire laugh: AH HAHAHAHA!

And then, when she laughs, her whole body laughs. Her body kind of shimmies all over the place, as if she is going into convulsions. Her head wobbles back and forth, her hair shakes around, her arms go flailing around in the air, and she laughs at anything and everything. She'll be laughing, and the entire class will be stone-faced, looking around at each other nervously, wondering if she is going to morph into some evil space alien and eat them all.

So that's what I've had to put up with so far this semester. I'm just glad my troubles are classroom-based, and not homework-based or read-this-500-page-book-by-Thursday-based like some college students probably experience. Personally, I wouldn't know. My biggest concern is remembering to wear my running shoes to my Creative Writing class in case my teacher manifests into her true form during one of the classes.

Top 5 Things I'm Going To Change When I Go Back To School

School starts tomorrow, and since I made a blog entitled, "Top Six Reasons Why It's Great To Be Out Of School", in the 05/01/2004 - 05/31/2004 archives, I figure I should make a blog "celebrating" my re-entry to school by listing the top 5 things I'm going to change when I go back to school.

5. I am no longer going to sleep in until 1 PM, 5 days a week. Now I will only sleep in until 1 PM on Friday, the one day I don't have school (excluding weekends). Well, unless my monotonous alarm clock fails to wake me up on a school day for the umpteenth time.

4. I am going to be eating on a more structured schedule. Breakfast when I wake up (as opposed to lunch when I wake up), lunch at school, Top Ramen at 4 PM sharp (this has become somewhat of a tradition for me...I almost always have a bowl of Chicken Top Ramen before work at 4 PM...I think it appeals to me because it only takes 3 minutes to make...plus the endless wait for the water to boil), dinner at Taco Bell, and as many snacks in between as I can get my hands on.

3. I am no longer going to be able to go for 3 weeks without gassing up my car. I just can't hold it in that long anymore.

2. I am no longer going to be able to spend as much time glued to the computer playing Diablo 2. I expect withdrawals to begin within the first couple of weeks, including improved vision, better circulation, and greater boxer shorts ventilation.

1. I am going to have to buy a smaller pillow. It's too hard to fit my current pillow in my backpack when I have all my books and folders in there already. However, I want to be prepared for all the upcoming lectures that this new semester will undoubtedly bring.

Updates, Stories, and Gripes, Oh My!

Updates
Ooooh, new colors...That's right, I've changed the color scheme of my blog from green to blue to better suit my new Blogger Navbar. See Aaron? It's not so hard to mess with your template after all. It took me all of 1 minute to add Meghan and Hannah to my "More Blogs" links.


Stories
This happened a few weeks ago shortly after I made my Taco Bell Awards, Part Deux blog, so I'll have to give it its own place in Taco Bell Blogdom:

Winner of the award for the "Best Slip-up"

An older man came through the drive-thru and placed his order. Towards the end of his order, he interjected that he wanted extra cheese. Since he had ordered several items, Miguel asked, "On everything?" And the old man replied, "Yes Ma'am...*pause*...SIR!!"

Of course I started to convulse with laughter which could be heard throughout the store, and Miguel said over the headset intercom, "Don't laugh Sean." I looked over at him and saw that he was laughing too except he was trying to hold it in at the same time so he could finish taking the order. I guess this gives me even more golden opportunities to jokingly call him Michelle instead of Miguel. At least I hope he knows I'm joking...hmm, why haven't I gotten a raise lately...?


Gripes
I'm not a hateful person. I don't hate many things. I am quite tolerant of most situations. However, there is one thing I have come to despise. Can you guess what it is?

Bills? Taxes? Gas Prices? Squirrel over-population? Hick-inbreeding? The color brown? Stupid people? Reality TV shows?

Why yes, you're right! Well, I don't mind the color brown really, except when it's in a toilet, and Survivor is entertaining to watch, but all the rest of them suck.

But what really gets me as of late are those obnoxious motorized scooters that have become so popular seemingly overnight. And something I've noticed is that about 99% of the people that ride them are guys who either aren't old enough or talented enough to drive a car so they have to ride these mechanical blunderbusses that you can hear from several blocks away because they sound like a motorcycle with a jet engine strapped on the back of it which is running on a pure concentrated formula consisting of mosquitos who were bred in captivity and solely fed beans and trained by the Farting Champion of the World, Windy McAnus.

It's really annoying when these, for lack of a better word, farts come riding past my drive-thru with their jet scooters while I'm trying to take an order.

Customer: "Hi, I'd like a bean burrito with no onions, a nachos supreme with....faaaaarrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrtttt did you get that?"

Me: "What?"


And then when they come around my neighborhood, I can hear them off in the distance before I can even see them on my street. By the time I can actually see them, the noise emitting from their gaseous motors is already ear-splitting, and I can finally cast my eyes on the half-breed, helmet-wearing, hearing-impaired, hyena-like hooligans. Ah, if only America's great technology was put to something useful like a portable-instant-pop-up brick wall or a death ray gun. Then I'd be happy. Yes Ma'am!

Microsoft Exorcist

For a couple weeks now, I have been set free from the drudgery of having to use my old demon possessed computer. This is due to the fact that I bought a brand spanking new Dell computer that is 99% demon free (It's a well known fact that no computer can be 100% demon free...there's always some stealthy little demon that manages to sneak in during the assembly or something).

It's like the difference between day and night. When I was forced to use my old computer, I had to put up with such peculiarities as:

• Not loading completely when I turned it on, forcing me to restart, occasionally I had to restart several times before the computer actually loaded.
• Crashing and locking up when I did such backbrea...err...hard drivebreaking things as running a program, surfing the internet, touching any part of the computer, getting within 10 feet of the computer, or trying to feed it by spreading tuna on a CD and putting it in the CD drive.
• Doing almost any task extremely slow as if to indicate that the acronym of the company who built my computer, HP (Hewlett Packard), really stands for Handicapped Processor.
• Having my firewall disable my internet connection at random for no reason.
• Making Diablo 2 stop working properly. It even tried to eat my CD when I put it in the drive a couple times. I put it in, it started to whir, and all of a sudden, "THUNK...crunch crunch crunch...BURRRRRRPP!!"
• Being demon possessed. Maybe that's one of the long term symptoms of a computer which has had Diablo 2 played on it for too long...

But this new computer is great. It runs fast, it actually loads when it's supposed to, I don't lag while browsing the internet or playing D2, and it came with a firewall that actually works! Although I'm not convinced that a firewall is the best thing to have on a computer. Seems to me that a FIREwall would be mighty attractive for demons to come hang out in...maybe I should get a ExorcismWall or an IglooWall or something.

Like my dad suggested, it's reminiscent of when Strongbad got rid of his old Tandy 400 in favor of his current Compy 386, "A spectacle of graphics and sound". My old computer was like the Tandy 400, with the duct tape keeping it together, and the cracked screen, and the top-left hand corner that looked like someone took a bite out of it. Except my computer monitor had a Walmart Smiley Face sticker on it, a toy figure of Bender the Robot from the show Futurama who was constantly wielding a flimsy piece of rubber at me, and a sticker that said "The beatings will continue until morale improves". But my new computer is like Strongbad's Compy 386, basically because it's new and it works. It doesn't have any stickers on it yet, but it does have a Godzilla figure on the top that my dad put there to continue the legacy of Monitor-Guarding Action Figures, and I have a miniature rubber chicken that sits on my desk and sometimes, when he's ambitious, will stretch out on one of my speakers to get a better angle for his suntan from my desk lamp.

So I am very happy with my new computer, and I'm glad I no longer am forced to use my old one. Now I just have to think of a way to get rid of it. Hmm...does anyone want a new computer? I'm sure it won't be too much of a problem to send the demons a forwarding address.