Operation: Update

Just to let everyone know, won't be many updates for the next couple of days. Got memo writing to do. Have an engagement party to go to. Have me "expert" week in Con Law coming up next week also.

And apparently, a bumble bee was just outside my window trying to burrow into a crack on the outside of the window frame. Sorry, bee, but fuck you. I can't deal with all that buzzing and scratching crap whilest I try to work. So I open the window and doused the area with bug spray. I heard flurry of buzzing before silence, so I'm gonna assume the nerve gas did its job.

Anyway, that's about it, people. If ya got links, send them my way. Other than that, I'll be back in a few days to update. Adios!

Pro-Life? Pro-Choice? Pure Bullcrap!

Thought I'd just point out that people who take opposing sides on the abortion debate often label themselves with bullshit "spin" to make their side... feel better? I sure as hell know it doesn't make them look better because honestly... each side knows what the other side is about. So by labelling yourself as one thing (like pro-choice) and the other side as the opposite (anti-choice, I guess), who the hell are you fooling? Yourself?

The other side sure doesn't give two shits if you call yourself pro-choice, pro-life, anti-baby killing, or pro-fucking over women's rights. Hell, they probably don't even give ONE shit, and that's saying a lot.

The issue is abortion. You're either pro-abortion or anti-abortion. If you were a pro-rodeo, you would probably wear a cowboy hat and ride a bull that just had its testicles tied together in a knot and slapped... but that's irrelevant. The relevant part is that terms like pro-choice and pro-life are not actually answering the issue at hand.

They skip the answer and go straight to the persons reasoning, which is pointless to know... UNLESS YOU KNOW THE ANSWER!!! Cause hell, last time I checked, I didn't like killing people. Guess that means I'm pro-life. B-but... I also like freedom! Maybe I'll rent Passion of the Christ this weekend. Maybe I'll go bowling. It's my choice, bitches! I'm pro-choice!

Hell, I am officially waiting to talk to someone about abortion and ask them where they stand.

Person: Oh, I'm pro-life.

Me: Yeah, I hate war too. So how do you feel about abortion?

Person: Umm, I said I'm pro-life. Don't you know what that means?

Me: Sure. You're against the death penalty. By the way, I didn't apprecaite that rude tone you just gave me. I'd suggest that if you are pro-YOUR-life, you'll watch that attitude. Now... for the last time... are your for or against abortion?

Person: I'm sorry, but this is ridiculous, you asshole! You know wh-

Then the person gets cut off as I tackle them through the nearest window or onto the nearest table. I just hate the spin, folks. If these people are so sure of their convictions, then they should just be able to say where they stand and THEN give me reasons if I want to discuss it with them. Instead, they skip straight to why they're right and the opposition is wrong with an overly braod statement that actually says... NOTHING. Pro-abortion. Anti-abortion. That's all there is to it.

And as a reminder, I'm pro-links. So keep sending me links, mi amigos. Oddi already sent me one to joeandmonkey.com that contains a fairly funny comic strip where a guy interacts with a talking monkey.

Guess that means I'm pro-monkey... or perhaps I'm pro-talking-monkey. Oh yeah.

Drop Your Links in My Bucket

No, the title to this article is NOT a sexual innuendo.

Please look to the right of this webpage. See where it says "About Me"? Look a couple of inches down, and that is my link section. Right now, all I have there is a link to Google that comes standard to this page, and a link to Eddie's blog.

I need more links, bitches. It doesn't even have to be a link to a webpage of yours. You can just send me a link to a page you think is funny, insightful, or just plain cool. Now if you do have a webpage of your own that would be ok to link to, that's cool as well.

Hell, I already know some of you have Facebook and MySpace sites, BUT I'm not going to link to them without your consent. I wouldn't want to link to someone's site and then have them send me a mail bomb because their site is not something they wish to "public" (as in, something that puts a face to the names used in my blog).

Because as you may all have noticed, I never use anyone's full names. Either a first name or a last. Why? Because I respect anonymity. If "anonymity" isn't a word, then I guess that I respect stuff. YOUR stuff.

Yeah... so anyway, send me links.

That's One Big Post

If the last post looks a bit daunting, here's a helpful hint:

Read everything leading upto the devil picture. Then skip ahead and read the last three paragraphs. Not too shabby, if I say so myself.

A Fool and His Bucket Are Soon Parted

So before I drift off to la-la land (the state of consciousness, not Los Angeles), I'll give you lovely people a short recap of how my day went. Which is kinda the point of this whole "blog" thing, but I have been known to talk about things completely irrelevant to my daily life. Whatever. Let's just push onward because I really am pretty damn tired.

OK. So as I'm leaving law school, I check my voicemail and see that I have a message from Kelly. Her day had been going kind of poo-ish, and she was hoping mine was faring better. Indeed, mine was. I was feeling confident as a cat, and even remembered to turn in a Legal Professions paper early. So I sned her a message back telling her that my day's been just fine and dandy, but that I was really hoping later this night that I wouldn't accidentally write "sned" instead of "send" while describing my voicemail in Operation: Bucket. I then wished her a good remainder of the day, told her I would chat with her once she got off work, and pressed the end button.

But the end button on my cell phone is deceiving because the impact of my words had ramifications that did not "end" with that voicemail relaying how well my day had went. Oh, sweet irony.

Three minutes later, I'm merging onto the highway, and I have one of those assholes who changes speed on me while I'm trying adjust MY speed to get into the lane. So I finally slow down and let him pass me and ba-CRACK-bump. What in the name of shit that is holy was that!?!? Definitely felt like I ran something over that was... metal? I quickly check my rearview mirror just in time to see what appears to be a wrench-like object richocheting off the pavement behind me.







Devil, thy name is Wrench.





Not exactly sure why things that look like wrenches are in the middle of 4-lane highways. Perhaps it had been following its momma wrench along with its siblings in a migratory path across I-75, seeking the protection of the woods beyond. Or perhaps some jackass with a pick-up truck just didn't lock his tool box down properly on his rush to get home, watch NASCAR, and neglect his kids.

In any case, I drove on...

... for about a half mile before I noticed my steering was getting shakey. And then there was the sound of rubber being dragged across pavement as my car slowly began to... uh... slow down. Gravy. Great. Splendid. Terrific. Blown tire. And absolutely no where suitable to pull over where I could safely get out and change it. So I had to drive a full mile and a half to the next exit. Wouldn't be so bad if the tire was just leaking air or had a puncture in it, but this tire was fucked. More fucked than that chick from my Con Law class.

So I finally get to pull over, and I'm telling you. Whatever I hit really did a number on that tire. There were three gaping holes in the side of the tire... or better yet, the shreds of rubber that used to be the side of the tire. No wonder it instantly deflated on me. What didn't deflate? My confidence, baby. Because guys like me stay confident. Confident like a cat. Not confident like racist slurs suggested by Paul's comment to the last article.

Quick side note: For the love of God, Paul. I know I made you a groomsman, but I'm telling you upfront... if you plan at making any speeches or toasts at my wedding, I'm gonna have to censor your ass like mother fucking FCC.

Back on topic, the tire's appearance reminded me of the end of the Kennedy presidency: shot. So I whipped out my mad tire-changing skills and got that mangled heap outta there, replaced with a lovely donut. Just stable enough to get my ass to a car shop and buy a new tire. Boo Yah.

I then decided to treat myself with self-medication. The doctor? Me. The pharmacy? Stevie B's Pizza Buffet! It's like a slightly... ever so slightly... better version of Cici's. Not high class stuff, but I just wanted to stuff my soul with greasy cheese and fart out enlightenment. Had six slices of variantly topped pizzas, two bread sticks, a slice of dessert pizza, and three cinnamon-roll-stick-sugar things. The cinnamon things are typically way too sugary and covered in like a layer of syruppy brown sugar as well. But today, they were even worse, which worked for me.

The bottom of the pan holding them was a molten layer of liquid cinnamon, so that each cinnamon thing was doused on the bottom. And on top? About a centimeter-thick layer of powdered sugar. I'm not even shitting you. It was that thick, and to top it off, the sugar was practically into being SOLID... and I ate three of them. Whatever my original day to die was, I just shaved a good three years off of that. Fair enough? Always is.

A Bucket in Time Saves Nine

I've been feeling very confident today, yet I'm not exactly sure why. Just this sense of total self-assuredness. Maybe it's due to that venti-sized Star Bucks frappucino I had after lunch. Excessive amounts of coffee must have a medicinal effect of some sort. Possibly of some kind. Maybe even of a variety or somesuch.

Anyway, girl in Constitutional Law has missed class TWICE during her week to be an "expert". Basically certain weeks are divied out to certain students, and during those classes, the selected students are expected to be really familiar with the readings and cases. These expert weeks are assigned at the beginning of the semester, and trust me... no one forgets what week is theirs.

When Professor Oedell asked what the deal with the girl was, some of her section members said, "She's known for not showing up to class much."

Hahahaha! Not sure what the hell this girl is doing, but she'll soon be answering to the bow tie-wearing wrath that is Oedell. He looked pissed. Seriously pissed, and he's generally a very cool and casual teacher. Ah well. C'est la vie (which is french for "that chick is fucked").






I bang you, n'est pas?






Haha... "bang". I'm confident that will make you laugh. Hmmm. Know how if someone is acting crazy, they can say, "Crazy like a fox!"

Well, what would be the corresponding animal for confidence? Like if someone said, "Damn, you seem confident."

Would you respond with, "Yeah, I'm confident. Confident like a elephant!"

Gah. That doesn't work at all. You can crazy like a fox, happy as a pig in shit, hungry as a bear, and have to piss like a race horse. But what do you get for being confident? Nadda. That's shabby as hell, people. Confidence deserves better. I just have to figure this out using my intellect and good old fashioned stream of thought... starting now!

Confident like a(n):

ox?
hippo?
lion?
rhino?
jackass?
mule?
mouse?
rat?
cat?

Whoa... "Confident like a cat." That sounds pretty fucktastic. Just say it a few times outloud. "Confident? Confident like a cat!" I seriously impress myself sometimes, especially since the saying makes sense! Cats are confident as hell most of the time. Just look at how they gaze at us. As if they know their life is better than ours. Hell... if I could sleep 18 hours a day, eat whenever the hell wanted, have the body of an olympic athlete, and lick my crotch for kicks, I'd be pretty confident too. Fair enough? You bet your ass it's fair enough.

A Heavy Bucket Is a Bucket Full of Dreams

I'm pretty sure that I've mentioned my abstainment from cookies for Lent, but if not, I just did. Two nights ago, I actually had a dream where I was eating cookies, and halfway through the dream, my dream-self realized this and had an "aw fuck" moment. When I go to grocery stores, I have to constantly remind myself NOT to get cookies. I'll seriously find myself looking at a box of some new cookie and thinking, "Damn, that looks delicious. I'll grab a box and- SHIT! Almost blew it there!"

I'm not even an obsessive cookie eater or anything. I'll buy a pack of cookies ocassionally and devour them over the course of two weeks. But I'll be damned... the second I "gave them up", I began to go crazy for them. Hell, I'm even hankering for things that have cookies in them. Such as the Oreo Mint blizzard at Dairy Queen. Those commercials are plain cruel. The blizzard sitting there... open and vulnerable... going to absolute waste with heaps of Oreo just exploding out of the top of it like some sort of crazy cookie-mint orgy was occuring inside the cup.

Speaking of orgies, what the fuck is up with the pollen this year? My car looks like it was vomitted upon by Mother Nature. Splotches of yellow-green pollen are all over the damn place, and while my allergies aren't acting up to a significant degree, my ears do feel like they need to be popped constantly.

Interestingly enough, my Google image search for "vomit" brought me this picture. Fair enough.

Operation: Quick Update

1) School? Good.

2) Sopranos? Good stuff.

3) Kelly? Doing good.

4) Bridal shower for Kristin? Went good.

5) Classmate telling me about a dream where he played a game of flag football against Guns N Roses? Good story.

6) Feeling like I tore something in my arm while moving a marble table into my parents' garage? Not good.

7) Engagement party coming up? Good times.

8) Kelly's solo at church? Wicked good.

9) People who drive 55 miles per hour in the FAST LANE of the high way where the speed limit is 65 mph? If I was super fast, I woulda jumped outta my car, ran up alongside theirs, opened the driverside door, punched that idiot in the face, would have quickly told him that "this is the FAST lane, you insufferable piece of shit," and then ran back into my car just in time to swerve out of the way as he plowed straight into the concrete barrier... good.

Waiting Rooms

People often take the comfort and entertainment of waiting rooms for granted. I've been to two in the last two days (once for a haircut and once for an oil change), and you just hear interesting things.

The other day, I sign in to get a haircut and take a seat. There are about three people around me, and one of them is this chick with a cellphone who is talking loudly enough that everyone can at least hear her side of the conversation. I myself was preoccupied with reading over how America sucked it in skiing for the 2006 winter Olympics when a select grouping of words catches my ears.

"A problem with my ovaries."

YES! Now we're talking, lady. This is much more interesting then some Olympic bullshit about the Koreans vindicating themselves for blowing their shot at gold in 2002. Apparently, phone-girl says that this fill-in-the-blank ovary problem is common among young women like herself. Absolutely fascinating. Honestly... how often do I ever get to hear about maladies that deal with ovaries? Like in a serious conversation, even. Because I've probably talked about punching women in the ovaries in the past (I'm gangsta like that), but overhearing serious ovary talk? Good times.

Maybe she was being so loud in hopes that one of the other individuals in the room would be a doctor... a nurse... perhaps a med student who could delve into the vast jumble of confusion that are her ovaries. In any case, I got my hair cut, bid her ovaries ado, and was about to get out of the seat I had just got my hair cut in when... the haircutter man rubs my head to get loose hair off... AFTER he already took the hair-to-body protective tarp off of me. Y'know, that weird poncho thing that keeps hair from getting all over you? Yeah. The back of my shirt was fucking drenched, covered, and possibly smothered in hair. So the other thing I bid ado was his tip. Hahaha. Score one for Chris.

My next waiting room venture was nowhere near as exciting as I waited for my car's oil filter to get changed out. But just as I go to pay for my shit, the guy says, "Know what I saw in a zoo in Hawaii once?"

With an eager hope that "ovary problems" would be his response, I asked, "What was that?"

"A white peacock. Totally white," he said as he ran my credit card through.

How the fuck do you respond to that? Here's how: I nodded as if interested and said, "You really don't see something like an albino peacock often."

He chuckled and replied, "No, but there were TWO of these peacocks. Two all-white peacocks."

At this point, hearing the word peacock so many times in a short span was getting to me, so I had to break the tension the only way I knew how. Taking back my card, I slid my wallet intyo my back pocket and casually uttered, "Tastes like fruit when you hit it... Gotta have bread to get it... Smoke all night, sleep all day... That to me's the American way."

OK, so maybe I didn't spout off the lyrics of Three 6 Mafia to the autoshop guy, but I did bid him a fucking ado. And that, my friends, to me's the American way. So roll that shit which we call life... light that shit, hit that shit, hold that shit, blow that shit out slow. Then pass it to me, bro.

To me, that would be fair enough. Peace!

Ridin' Along in my Automobile

On my way back to the apartment from law school today, I witnessed an extraordinary sight. I saw a homeless man struggling to push TWO shopping carts. The man was moving (against the wind, no less) to take his bounty of scavenged items back to... well, I have no clue where. He is a nomadic individual as one might guess, but he certainly must have somewhere to store all those random items.

I bring up this man's endeavor because some people like to put down the homeless as being "lazy". Basically, the idea is that people become homeless due to a lack of effort on their part. There must be a job somewhere, right? Must be some bootstraps to pull yourself up by, so get pulling!

But honestly, let's take a second and think about all the homeless people we've ever seen. How many were pushing shopping carts? How many of those pushing actually had more than one cart?

Exactly. This guy is going the extra fucking mile. Against the wing itself, he's pushing (often pulling) these two carts full of (to him) essential items. He's not going to lay down and die in some ditch. This guy is gonna fight to the very end. Meanwhile across the vast stretches of suburbia, some lazy bastard college student is probably back at home enjoying the Spring Break of his 6th year of college. Maybe he'll go out to a few clubs... get trashed... and spend most of the week in bed all day. Then one day he'll graduate from college and get a cushy job either with one of his rich parents or one of their rich contacts.

That's the critical flaw with believing that the poor reap what they sow. Because a lot of rich people didn't sow shit, yet they're rich. What makes the lazy rich man more deserving of wealth than the lazy poor man? I guess the fact that someone is born into a rich family gives them a free pass at life?

Not really offering any solutions here, people... I just don't like this "get a job" mentality held by so many.

On a lighter note, Deepak's away message reads: 3 blades was great, now 5 is awesome. But I have to ask, why didn't they just go for gold and put the full 38 blades on the Super Cold Fusion Razor?

Fucktastic! I had been thinking of this very issue last week. Manufacturers went from one blade on razors... to two... to three... to four... and now five. Why the fuck are they taking so long? Why not just skip to 10, 20, or 38? The razor companies aren't exactly dealing with stem cell research here. It is ethically ok if they by-pass blades 6, 7, and 8 and go straight to 10 without seeing how previous blade quantities and configurations held up.

A good example of this, you ask? Why... I just happen to have one. Pepperidge Farm 15-Grain bread, bitches! 15 GRAINS!?!? I can't think of anyone who actually could name more than seven grains, and Pepperidge is tossing out 15 at us like it ain't no thang.

Now, I have seen 9-grain bread before. I even recently saw a 12-grain, which itself is a vast improvement over 9. But 15 is just above and beyond all expectations. In baking such a loaf, grains may have in fact been created soley to match-up with the bread's name.

I mean, just imagine if tomorrow Burger King announced its follow-up to the Triple Whopper would be..... the Octuple Burger. You would shit. Your. PANTS. The fact that Burger King would skip 4 levels of beefiness without a rational basis would numb the mind. Warm the soul? A faint possibility. Smell delicious? Take that shit to the bank and CASH IT because it is assured to be the truth.

Fair enough, my people. Fair enough.