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.

Taco Bell Awards, Part Deux

Full of some brand new ones from tonight and some classics that I recently remembered, here is part two of the coveted Taco Bell Awards.


Winner of the award for the "Most Original Food Request"

Customer at the drive-thru: Do you have a Quesadilla with beans?

My manager Miguel and I had a good laugh and a shudder over this one. For those of you who don't know, a quesadilla is a tortilla folded over with cheese in the middle, and it's grilled. The idea of inserting beans in it is...well...rather nauseating.


Winner of the award for the "Most Mixed-Up Customer"

A lady in a van along with her family ordered a grande combo, a chalupa, and some other things at the drive-thru, and pulled up to the window. I asked her if she wanted any hot or mild sauce, and she said, "Can I get another chalupa?" So I put another chalupa on her order, collected the money, and handed her the bag of napkins that normally contains hot/mild sauce if the customer asks for any. But since she didn't ask for any when I asked her, I just gave her the bag without sauce.

She said, "Oh, can I have some sauce?"
I said, "What kind?"
She said, "Either, it doesn't matter...Hot...Cold..."

I looked over at her quizzically to see if she was joking, and she was turned to her family obviously too distracted by some conversation to realize what she had just said.


Winner of the award for the "Customer Who Could Benefit From a Dictionary"

Guy in Drive-Thru: I wanna Beef and Potato...no red...no white.

Me: You want a Beef and Potato BURRITO with no red SAUCE and no SOUR CREAM?!?!

Guy: Yah.

I really made a point of stressing those capitalized words to show him that it really wasn't that hard to say them, even though it would have been funny to read it back to him the way he said it and make the cooks decipher it for themselves.


Winners of the award for the "Crazy Old Ladies of Taco Bell"

Old Lady Story #1:

An old lady came to the walk-up, and I took her order. She said, "I want a Chupalupa." I looked at her, and asked, "You mean a chalupa?"

Meanwhile, I was fighting the urge to break out and sing the Oompa Loompa Song, only changing the words to Chupa Lupa.

Old Lady Story #2:

I was towards the back of the store prepping some pizzas, and one of the hispanic girls who works there and who doesn't speak English very well (that really narrows it down, I know) came up to me and asked me to take an order up front. I was puzzled as to why she wanted me to, but I figured she probably didn't understand what the customer wanted.

I walked over to the customer, who happened to be an old lady (go figure), and asked her what she wanted.

She said, "I'd like a Nachos Bell Grande with avocado."
I said, "You mean Guacamole...?"

Maybe she really wanted slices of avocado on her nachos...too bad this isn't the Ritz Carlton.


Winner of the award for the "Guy Who Takes Advertising Too Seriously"

Some guy drives up to the drive-thru in one of those big gas hogging Dodge "HEMI" (Hype Engineered by Money-Driven Industrialist) trucks which are advertised as being testosterone incarnate. The bigger and more powerful your engine is, the smaller your wallet becomes. Not so manly after all is it?

Anyway, he comes thru, and the automated message plays:

"Hi, can we make you a Chicken Quesadilla today?"

He replies, "Would you like to?"
I say, "Oh, I would love to."
He asks, "Is it free?" (Strapped for cash, eh? Wonder why...)
I reply, "It's almost free."
He asks, "How close to being free is it?"
I say, "$2.36"
He retorts, "That's not close to free."
I say, "It is compared to that truck you're driving."
He happily says, "It's a Hemi!"

I could almost see the joyful glee on his face after he told me what kind of engine was in his truck, as if I actually cared. After all, if he's going to pay the extra money for the advertised name, he might as well take every chance he gets to show off that he has a loud engine that runs on twenty dollar bills as opposed to gallons of gasoline.


Winner of the award for the "Most Clueless Customer...EVER"

This also happened earlier tonight, and it was the highlight of the night. This one will be hard to top in terms of utter ignorance on the part of the customer.

Customer at the drive-thru: I want 2 hamburger...low cal
Miguel: What was that?
Customer: I want 2 low calorie hamburgers
(At this point I just start laughing hysterically. The other employees were looking at me funny, and Miguel was trying to keep from laughing while talking with this guy)
Miguel: I'm sorry sir, but we only have tacos and burritos here.
Customer: Oh...(Drives away)


When the customer first said, "I want two hamburger..." I thought he was going to say something like I want two hamburger tacos or something, because that's happened before and it's a good way to clarify the type of meat that you want. But instead he kind of paused and said, "two hamburger...low cal."

First of all, why would you come to TACO bell for a HAMBURGER?
Second of all, why would you want a low calorie hamburger? What does that even mean? The bun and the lettuce only? Maybe he meant low carb and what he really wanted was one of those sissy burgers that have lettuce in place of buns. Why don't you just go eat a head of lettuce and gnaw on a cow you Atkins Diet Freaks.

Taco Bell Awards

I think it's about time that I start recognizing some of the customers who have made my day by coming to my work and making me laugh...though usually they don't know it because I usually am the one laughing at them when they can't see me. Sneaky sneaky!

Here we go, the first ever Taco Bell Awards:


Winner of the award for the "Question That Should Never Have Been Asked":

Taco Bell Recorded Message: Hi, can we make you a new 1/2 pound Beef and Potato Burrito today?

Guy at the Order Menu: Is that the burrito with the beef and potatoes in it?

Me: Yeahhhhhh...(trying to keep from laughing) (I was tempted to say "Yeah, hence the name "Beef and Potato Burrito", but I decided not to)

Guy at the Order Menu: (Completely oblivious to the fact that he just asked what was quite possibly the stupidest question ever) Ok, I'll take one of those.


Winner of the award for the "Person Who Can't Grasp A Simple Concept":

Customer: I'd like a number one.
(A number one has a burrito supreme, a taco supreme, and a large drink)
Me: Ok, one number one, what kind of drink?
Customer: I don't need a drink.
Me: Oooookk, so you just want a burrito supreme and a taco supreme?
Customer: No, I want a number one: The burrito supreme and the taco supreme, without a drink.
Me: Ok, one burrito supreme and one taco supreme, $3.00 at the first window, thank you.


Winner of the award for the "Person Who Thinks I Can Read His Mind":

Customer: (Orders some food...) ...and a large drink.
Me: Any kind in particular?
Thaddus: (my manager, who happened to be standing a couple feet away) *Starts laughing*
Customer: Umm, I'll take a Dr. Pepper.
Thaddus: *Continues to laugh even harder*
Me: *Trying to keep from bursting into laughter* Ok, anything else?
Customer: No, that's all
Thaddus: *Still laughing...he lowers his head to try and regain his composure, but it doesn't work*
Me: That'll be $$$ at the second window.
Thaddus: *Walks away into the office, still laughing*

That one makes me laugh just thinking about it because Thaddus doesn't laugh too easily, but my innocently sarcastic question really cracked him up.


Winners of the award for the "Customers Who Don't Believe In Making Good First Impressions":

Taco Bell Recorded Message: Hi, can we make you a new 1/2 pound Beef and Potato Burrito today?

Actual Customers Responses:

• A BEEF AND POTATO BURRITO???
• What did you say?
• A Beef and Potato Burrito? Hmm, is it any good? (My responses range from "It's breathtaking" to "Yes, it is" which usually elicits a response like "You're not lying to me are you?")
• A WHAT!?!??
• Hell no!
• No thanks, it's not good for you.

I wish I could remember some of the gems from some of my earlier years working at the bell. Those four are recent ones that have stuck out in my mind as being funny for me to witness first-hand. I'd write more, but my miniature rubber chicken that is perched atop one of my speakers is looking at me suspiciously. I think he's up to something fowl.

Career Shmeer

Well, after putting it off for as long as possible, I suppose it's time to give some thought as to what I want to do for a living. I've never really had a clear-cut vision as to what I want to do...I've had ideas but nothing has ever really struck me as being "The Thing" for me.

So I went to the career center at my college to do some "Career Assessments", which are basically tests which are supposed to give you some insight as to what you might like to do. Of course it didn't do diddly-squat for me. Though I did enjoy browsing through different jobs types...
 
For example, one of the tests was an online quiz that asked me some incredibly general questions like "Are you interested in activities that use tools, machines or objects, in working outside, or physical labor and using your hands?" (i.e. manual laborer, street monkey) and "Do you add, subtract, multiply and divide whole numbers, decimals and fractions with little difficulty, or can you work with abstract numbers and complex mathematical relationships?" (Mathematical Relationships?)
 
This last question threw me off because I didn't know math had any relationships. I thought math was just a lonely subject that always got picked on by the cooler subjects and sat off in the corner by itself during recess. Since when does math have any outside relationships anyway? It must be having a secret affair with an equally boring and nerdy subject like Astronomy (Ok class, which Power of the Cosmos made THAT star?) or Health Education (Basically, what you learn is don't eat anything that tastes good, exercise 15 hours a day, never drink alcohol, and you should live a long and healthy life of boredom.)
 
But this new revelation of mathematical relationships does clear up some things. This explains why math went from "2 + 2 = 7" to "Find the circumference of a hemorrhoidal circle using proofs to show the congruity of the imbedded right angle within the OH SHUT UP ALREADY!!"
 
Simple adding and subtracting math must have BRED with some corrupt and devilish subjects to produce the math of today, like Geometry, Trigonometry, Calculus, and Mormonism. Basically, anything with the suffix "metry" is inherently evil and should be banned from teaching in public schools. Also, it would be advisable to make special alterations to certain subjects to have them banned from schools also, like Calcumetry, Frenchometry, Astronometry, and Barbiemetry (Cheerleading).
 
Anyway, back to the quiz I took. As I expected, freelance writer, journalist, novelist, editor, and careers like that were on there. But there were also much more strange and down-right weird career suggestions for me, like clown, perfumer, tattoo and body artist, ballet dancer, storm chaser, and so on. You know, the types of sucker jobs that people who don't do well in high school end up with, like joining the armed forces.
 
Also, something I noticed was that if you didn't answer any of the questions, and you went straight to the career selections, there were a bunch of jobs that basically required next to nothing skill/talent-wise. These included trash collector, farm laborer, aggressive inline skater, window washer, and quite possibly the worst job in the world: Medical Transcriptionist.
 
The description of a Medical Transcriblahblah is: "Listen to recordings made by medical doctors and put their words to paper. You'll translate medical terminology into everyday language." Then deeper in the description, it says: "Transcriptionist T.J. Currey says it's more demanding than people think...Some physicians insist on eating or shuffling papers while they are dictating. It makes it awfully hard to hear them sometimes."
 
Good night. As if trying to understand what customers are saying in the drive-thru wasn't hard enough. Plus you have to memorize all the cryptic medical terminology and deal with all the accents of the crazy foreign doctors with names like Arabuyyah Montousson III, Killum N. Run, and Miya Carisexpensive.

So I guess knowing what I don't want to do is a step in the right direction. Maybe if I eliminate every job I don't want to do, I'll be left with my one dream job. Or maybe my blog will become famous world-wide and I'll get paid for blogging and I'll be inducted into the Blogger Hall of Fame and and and...Or maybe I'll just have to find a real job. Shya, and monkeys could fly out of my butt.

Happy 7th of July!!!

Ok, so I'm three days late. So what.

I had an interesting 4th of July. My parents and I got in the family car around 6:15 pm to head down to Main St. to get something to eat, and ultimately watch the fireworks show at the beach which was scheduled to start at 9:00 pm. Of course, even with our exceptionally poor planning, there was absolutely nowhere to park within flying distance of the beach. My dad was driving, and my mom and I were his crack-parking-spot spotting team. One of the conversations that we had went something like this:

Dad: Ok, you guys have to look for parking spots because I have to concentrate on not crashing or running over anybody.

Mom: Sean? Are you looking?

Me: There's a spot. *Points*

Dad: You mean the place in front of the fire hydrant?

Me: Oh...

So several false alarms and half a tank of gas later, we finally found a spot, got out, and hailed a taxi to drive us to the airport so we could go to the beach.

Eventually, we made our way down to Main St. which happened to be more crowded than I've ever seen before. And strangely enough, we weren't the only people with the idea to eat dinner here at 7:00 pm. We were originally thinking of going to some sit-down restaurant, but after seeing the crowds, we decided fast-food might be better suited to this situation. So we walked down to Taco Bell (Oh boy, something different) and looked inside. At first glance, there didn't seem to be many people in there. So I started to get hopeful and began to think about what I wanted to get. As we walked to the end of the building, we realized once again that our idea was far from original. Sure, the inside of Taco Bell wasn't too populated. But the line that led outside of the store and halfway down Main St. was another story. Time for a change of plans...again.

Since we didn't want to risk being in that line and missing the fireworks show, we decided to try going to Subway. The good news was that there was no line. The bad news was that they closed at 6:00 pm, in respect for July 4th according to the note on the door. I think that was just their excuse for avoiding the mad dinner rush. So instead, we got in line for some hot dog place next door. 2 minutes later, we got impatient and decided to go back to Taco Bell and brave their unmoving line. 2 minutes later, we decided we weren't that hungry, and decided to go to Jamba Juice. I got a regular size Strawberries Wild, after about a 15 minute wait.

After we all got our Jamba Juice, we went down to the beach to wait about an hour and a half for the fireworks show. If I could have done three things differently, this is what I would have done:

1. I would have gone to the bathroom first.
2. I would have brought something more than a flannel shirt to wear over my t-shirt.
3. I wouldn't have gotten a drink made from ICE to have at the beach when the temperature and the wind were already freezing cold and the sun had almost set.

That's a killer combination. A big drink + no bathroom trips for over 3 hours + sub-arctic temperatures + inadequate clothing = 1 frozen bladder. And oh was I feeling it.

At a little after 9 pm, the fireworks started. They were launched off of a barge in the ocean. However, the people putting on the show had some tough competition. Some people about 50 feet to the left of us had a fireworks launcher and were shooting them off into the air during lulls in the show. They were getting more cheers and attention than the people actually doing the show. The real show was rather lackluster for the most part. It had its moments, but it also had a lot of downtime and it progressed really slowly. And it was only about 20 minutes long, if that.

The end of the show meant the beginning of two things. The search for the car, and the search for an unoccupied bathroom. Of course, my mind was more focused on the bladder, err, I mean the latter. So along I waddled, gritting my teeth as I tried to go as fast as I could without making any sudden moves. Of course all the public bathrooms had lines, along with the port-a-potties and the bathrooms in one of the parking structures. Eventually I realized that I was just going to have to make my own bathroom.

So as my parents and I were trying to find our car, I was on the lookout for a secluded spot to do number 1. Unfortunately, there were hundreds of other people trying to find their cars too, so there weren't many secluded spots anywhere. Just as I was about to give up hope, we came upon an alley that only had a few people in it down at the other end. So I frantically looked for a good spot, and came across a dark driveway with a fence blocking the view of the house, and it was far enough in to hide me from the people in the alley, unless they walked by. Perfect! So I started to run to where the fence was, and ended up tripping and nearly falling over a practically-invisible foot-tall metal fence enclosing a garden or something...it was too dark to tell.

Anyway, long story short, I peed like a horse, and several minutes later we were back to our search for the car. At one point as we were looking for it, I was trying to see a street sign, so I took a couple steps off of the sidewalk and stopped to look at the sign because I couldn't see it from the sidewalk. Evidently this reckless action of mine scared some lady riding her bike because she rang her wimpy little bike horn at me, even though I wasn't even in her way and I had clearly stopped before she was even within several feet of me. I even saw her before I entered the street, which is why I made sure to stop before I got in her way. But nooooo, according to my parents and some slack-jawed yokel at a stop sign in that intersection, I "almost got ran over!" Oh dear me, a girl riding her bike with the wimpy bell-like horn going 5 mph nearly flattened me. Except for the small and seemingly insignificant fact that I STOPPED BECAUSE I SAW HER COMING AND I WASN'T IN HER WAY! OH DEAR LORD, I ALMOST DIED!

Since we didn't get to eat at the Taco Bell on Main St., we decided to go to the one that I work at to get some late-night snacks. When we got there, it was a little past 10:00 pm. By the time we left, the drive-thru line was stretching out and around the parking lot.

The next day at work, I talked to the manager that was working there last night, Thaddus, and asked him what it was like. He said there were non-stop orders for several hours, and that they were mostly huge $10-20+ orders, including a whopper of a $30+ order, from drunk people who probably had little idea of what they were doing. He said they were all really loud and obnoxious and there were even drunk people walking up to the window asking for free tacos throughout the night.

Just when I thought I really missed out (Yeah right), that day at work, after Thaddus told me that, the same basic thing happened. There were non-stop orders from about 5 or 6 pm to 9 pm. I was supposed to get off at 9 pm. I ended up getting my break at 9:30 pm, and leaving at 10 pm. So yeah, I had an eventful July 4th and 5th. Whew, this was a long blog. If you read it all the way through, congratulations, you win a free taco! Go get drunk and walk up to your local Taco Bell drive-thru window and claim your prize.

Cash, Charge, or Cerveza?

20 minutes ago today marks the first day in my cashiering history at Taco Bell where we will be offering the convenience of ATM machines at both the drive-thru window and the dining room. 16 hours and 40 minutes from now, I will go to work and eventually ring up an order using an ATM card. Ideally, this will prevent future mishaps from occuring, like:

-The customer comes through the drive-thru, orders $20+ worth of food, comes up to the window, flashes a shiny rectangular card, and gets upset when I tell him/her (usually her, for some reason) that we only accept cash. Apparently, those customers in question, using their brilliant powers of deduction, assume that since a couple other fast food restaurants take ATM cards, that EVERY fast food restaurant must take ATM cards, and therefore we are apparently required by law to take ATM cards or else we are subject to such degrading insults as being "behind the times" and "stupid".

Of course, it's not the customer's fault that they ordered a bunch of food, and that at least half of it is ready by the time they get up to the window, and that they neglected to ask if we took ATM cards before placing their order, and that we end up having to waste a bunch of food because of their assumption. Of course not. Insert eyeball roll here.

Unfortunately, having ATM machines doesn't prevent every customer-related catastrophe from happening, such as:

-Customers forgetting their wallet and having to pull apart their car scrounging for change to buy an 85 cent bean burrito. Not to mention the fact that they are illegally driving without a license. But that's for the courts to decide. And even if they were arrested for driving without a license, they don't have much to worry about. The way our court system works, by the time they actually get sentenced to prison, several decades will have passed and they will probably be too old and senile to remember what they did wrong.

-Customers coming through the drive-thru with an open bottle of beer sitting between their legs (Yes this has happened, and yes this has happened more then once, and no they were not willing to share)

-Customers coming through the drive-thru wanting a refill on their drink that they didn't buy here. Some lady came through once with a type of 32 oz. cruiser cup that we don't sell and said that she had bought it here earlier and asked for a refill. I told her to hold on one second, and I went over to the front of the store, picked up the type of cruiser cup we sell, and went back to the window. I showed her the cup and said, "Here's the thing...we don't sell those kinds of cups here, we sell these kinds of cups, so we can't give you a refill through the drive thru. You'll have to come in if you want a refill." She gave me a blank stare and nervously looked over to the person sitting in the passenger seat, and managed to mumble OK before she sped off. She didn't come in to get a refill.

Anyway, I'm sure ATM machines will be a nice addition to the store. But I'm waiting for the day when we start selling beer at the drive-thru. Just imagine...our sales would soar! Of course, so would some of our drunken customers if they forget to put on their seatbelt.

Me: "Wow, 67.4 feet with a 35.2 foot skid distance. That's a new Taco Bell Alcohol Influenced Crash Record!!! I'm so proud! *sniff*"

Therapy Anyone?

Two days ago, at work, I'm doing the drive-thru as usual. Up comes a van driven by a mom and occupied by lots of hungry pre-teen boys. At the order box, the mom orders a grande combo (10 items, a combination of soft tacos, hard tacos, and bean burritos), a couple tostadas, and some other stuff. It came out to just under $20.

When she gets up to the window, I ask her if she wants any sauce, and she says she wants a lot of mild sauce. Well, if you read my Taco Bell essay already, you know how I feel about that. But anyway, I gave her like a dozen mild sauces hoping she would be content with it, and of course, she drops the ever-popular line, "Can I have some more sauce?"

I suppose there wasn't anything wrong with it in this case since there was a lot of food ordered. What annoys me is when people come through, order something like 2 tacos, and ask for A TON OF SAUCE!!!!!!!! I DRINK THE STUFF, NO SERIOUSLY "BRO", I PUT IT IN A FRICKIN GLASS AND CHUG IT! SOMETIMES I MAKE SOUP. IT'S REALLY QUITE DELICIOUS. I DON'T ACTUALLY EAT THE TACOS. THEY ARE FOR MY DOG.

I hate it when most people call me bro. Because the majority of the time, they are the "meathead" type of people who would have flunked out of high school if they hadn't cheated on all their homework and tests, who wear their hat sideways because they think it looks cool to have only one sunburned ear, who talk really slowly and with an attitude while slurring half of their words, and who do so many drugs that they could actually substitute their brain for scrambled eggs as a breakfast meal without any noticeable change. And I would rather jump into a swimming pool filled with man-eating monkeys, flesh-eating butterflies, and little hamsters brandishing toothpicks than be related to someone like that.

One time, somebody come through the drive-thru and ordered a taco with no lettuce, and when they got up to the window, I asked if they wanted any sauce, and they said, "No thanks, it's for my dog. And can you make sure they put no lettuce on there? He doesn't like lettuce." Umm, I guess he doesn't like a little something we call DOG FOOD either??!?!

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, do you remember that lady in the van who was asking for the mild sauce? Me neither.

Oh wait, yeah, she said, "Can I get some more mild sauce?" So I was like sure, why not, I don't have any opinions on that subject.

Then the clincher. As her defense for asking for more sauce, she said, "I've got a lot of boys in the car, and they like a lot of sauce...but they're women boys, so they like mild sauce.

...

Do you ever wonder how young pre-teen boys can seem so promising, so full of potential, only to grow up and turn into flaming homosexuals? Well, there's your answer.

I can see the future psychiatrist visits now:

Psychiatrist: Now Timmy, can you try and pinpoint any specific moments in your life where you may have acquired your, shall we say, flamboyant behavior?

Timmy (in a rapid, high-pitched, blonde ditz type voice): Well, my mom was like always getting on my case about using mild sauce like whenever we went to Taco Bell, and like she would say like why don't you like hot sauce Timmy and I would be like oh my god mom I've told you like a million times it burns my tongue and she would say like you're going to turn into a women if you keep eating that mild sauce Timmy and I was like WHATEVER mom.

Psychiatrist: Hmmm, this could account for a lot of things, including why you are wearing pantyhose and a pink skirt.

Timmy: Do you like my skirt? SHUT UP!! I love it too! You wanna go to the movies?

Psychiatrist: Well, technically I'm not supposed to go to any social events with patients. I could be fired and sentenced to practice psychiatry for life in Psychiatrist Prison.

Timmy: Psychiatrist Prison? What's that?

Psychiatrist: The Osbourne's house.


The best part of the whole ordeal aside from the mom's comment was what happened after the mom said that. The boy sitting in the front seat looked over at me and his mouth opened in shock at what his mom said and he had a puzzled expression of fear and embarrassment on his face that was priceless. I could only imagine what was going on inside of that boy's head. It was probably something along the lines of, "Women boy am I? I'll show you mom! As soon as I get home, I'm going to shave my peach fuzz, put on some cologne, and change my name to Chuck Diesel, manliest man ever to...ahh screw it. I wonder if any of mom's pantyhose fits me?"

Married with...Turtles?

Well, I went to visit my grandchildren today.

Yes, you read that right. Grandchildren. I have grandchildren.

Well, not necessarily children by today's definition. More like grandtortoises. I have a pet male Russian Tortoise, Floyd, and we recently put him out to stud with a female Russian Tortoise who is owned by one of the families at our church, the Dullaarts. We let Floyd stay over at their house for about a week hoping that it would give him enough time to do his duty.

The only conceivable problem with this is that the female Russian Tortoise, Ethyl, is about twice as big and twice as fast as Floyd. So you can imagine the frustration this caused Floyd, because Ethyl wasn't too keen on being "studded". Occasionally, Mrs. Dullaart would find Floyd upside down in the yard, presumably flipped over by Ethyl since her shell is taller than his and it makes it difficult for Floyd to "assume the position".

But I guess Floyd was successful at one point or another, because shortly after his visit, Ethyl started laying eggs. And just a couple of days ago, 2 of the eggs hatched. So my parents and I went over to go see them.

Note: We were offered to take one of the babies, but my mom is whole-heartedly against it because she says one tortoise is hard enough to take care of. And she's probably right, but it's too bad, because they are really cool. They are maybe 2 inches in diameter, with little tiny heads, little tiny feet, a little tiny tail, and if they are anything like Floyd, they also will have gargantuan elephant-like turds. We have to be careful walking around the house because we let Floyd roam around wherever he pleases, and he is far from being potty-trained. It's very dangerous to walk around the house without wearing some heavy-duty boots and long pants because if you step in one of Floyd's immense gorilla-sized turds or one of his lakes of pee, you'll be knee-deep in despair.

It was interesting to see the differences in the two turtles. One was considerably more passive and didn't care to move around or explore too much, and the other was a miniature replica of Floyd...running around, exploring, digging, climbing, and being aggressive. And I was holding him, or trying to at least. He would try to crawl from my hand onto my arm, or he would go to the edge of my hand and look around nervously as if to say, "I don't want to go down there..." Then when I set him down on the sofa, he immediately made a beeline for the back of the sofa where the pillows were, and started to climb up them. So here is this tiny tortoise climbing a pillow 50 times larger than him, and he ends up getting about halfway up the pillow before it starts to get too steep to climb, so being the brilliant problem-solver that he is, he burrows into where the two pillows meet and goes to sleep.

Ah, how I envy Russian Tortoises sometimes. Not a care in the world. They can just eat and sleep all day if they want. Now I know when my parents read this they'll be thinking, "How is that any different than what you do everyday?" And they may have a point! But still, being a turtle would be really cool.

But no matter how hard I try, I'll never be as good at being as lazy as Floyd is. Sometimes just looking at him makes me sleepy...all sprawled out, basking in the sun while sitting on the porch in our back yard. And when he yawns (yes, turtles yawn) he looks a lot like Godzilla doing his patented roar.

So hopefully all the other eggs will hatch successfully, as I think there are 8-9 in all. That way, there will be a bunch of little Floyd's running around, climbing things, and making out-of-proportion messes in the worst places. But Floyd is a very unique turtle, and he's given me a lot of great memories, and he fits in just fine with our family. Now if he would just learn to do his business on the ground outside like everybody else, it would be perfect.