Tender of meese

So I'm going to Chipotle, of course, and on my way I have to drop off my mom at Kohl's so she can make a return. So I drop off the parental unit, then merry on over to the Big C for an even bigger B. I get my B to go, then merry back on over to Kohl's to pick up the mom. She hasn't come out yet, so I figure I'll just lodge myself in the parking lot and dive into some deliciousness while I'm waiting. As I'm doing so, some guy taps on my passenger window and scares the absolute crap out of me. I look at him like what the monky fudge, but then he cooly points to the Chipotle logo on his shirt sleeve. The windows are up so I communicate by pointing at him and making a "Hey alriiiiight" face, along with a righteous nod. He walks by, and I get back to my heavenliness, thinking that was pretty cool. Thirty seconds later, he taps my driver's window and I just about wreck my pants. Now I'm really thinking what the monkey fudge, but I open my door obligingly and ask what's up. He says "I just pulled up and saw you eating that burrito and I thought that was pretty cool. I'm buying your next lunch." He hands me what looked like a playing card at the moment, but on the face side was the Chipotle art and it said, "Good for one free burrito." My eyes widened with absolute glee and I told the man I loved him after thanking him three times. He said absolutely, then went on his way and that was the conclusion of perhaps the best moment of my week.

Man I love Chipotle. What other restraunt does that kind of thing? Nobody, baby.

We are now going to have four Starbucks in a one mile radius of each other. FOUR. Capitalism scares me.

In ultimate frisbee, we have a term called "D-Bab", which stands for "Don't be a bitch." It's used when your team is very close to the endzone, and everyone is being greedy by running in the endzone because they want to score the point. But it clogs the throwing space and only ends up hurting the team. So when that situation occurs we say D-Bab; don't be a greedy bitch. I think the corporate world needs to adopt a D-Bab policy. In ultimate, and in most sports, it's always team first, personal gain second. Likewise, in today's business world it should be the people first, then profit. But that's not how it works, as is evidenced by Starbucks's mongering behavior. And not to crap on only Starbucks or anything, I could crap on just about any booming megacorporation. They're all bitches. They want that prize for themselves, and so they clog every avenue and lane they can possibly get their hands on. And while they may get a little extra, it's hurting the little guy, their employers, local residents--the "team" or society in general.

This doesn't just apply to store locations either. D-Bab can be applied to all facets of business. Don't treat your workers like lard; it's their well-being first, then the extra dime in your executive pocket. And for the love of God don't invade the third world with your multinational schemes you sniveling tycoon weasels. Not everyone wants to cash in their culture for fast food, especially at the cost of exploitation and disgusting wages. Yeah, it means a little less money. But is that too high a price for well-being? We have businesses larger than some governments, and any good government should aim to serve its people. You megacorporations can handle it, and the reins of the future are in your hands, so I hope you step up to the plate and steer us in a good direction.

People are first. Don't be a bitch. Don't let moral capitalism be an oxymoron.

Welcome to today's edition of, "When Things Go Terribly Wrong".


Well, that's it for today's edition of, "When Things Go Terribly Wrong". Tune in next week, when little Timmy finds Grandpa's secret lockbox.

I think I would be a lot cooler if I had a pet ferret. Then I could mate with it and we'd have little baby Kerrets, pronounced like "carrots". But I suppose if we mated it wouldn't really be my pet so much as a taboo lover. Which would make us rebellious. We would have to move to Canada where the law permits us to marry. I'm not very big on marriage, but it has its financial benefits and neither I nor my ferret will want to miss out on the tax breaks. I'm actually not sure what the Canadian law states, so we might have to go elsewhere, someplace like Haiti where we can pay a nominal fee to do whatever freaky deaky crazy thing we want. They don't care as long as we pay. I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend any Haitians. I feel for your struggling country, and I think that your chronic economic, social, and governmental problems lie in your lack of Chipotles. Think about it. Who can cry, or even be upset, when they have a burrito in their mouth? Nobody. That's what the third world needs. That's what will solve the problems in the Middle East. Instead of dropping bombs, we should be dropping burritos. With little tin-foil parachutes. The people will gather in the streets and forget their woes as they dance with joy, praising the day that burritos fell from the sky and filled their mouths with glee. The Israelites and Palestinians will gladly share their pinto beans. Democracy and Communism will munch upon the same tortilla. The lettuce leaf will become a new international symbol of peace. And guacamole will be discovered as a cure-all cream for venereal disease.

It starts with a burrito. It starts with a dream. Vote Kyle for governor--He's married to a ferret.

Notes:

• I just got done reading Slaughterhouse 5. It was pretty good. I like the Tralfamadorians, they've got things figured out.
• I must be getting really old, because I find myself intensely liking Billy Joel music. That and I've lost control of my sphincter.
• I've somehow fastened an A in my partial differential equations class, despite my complete lack of effort. I swear that there are divine forces protecting my virgin GPA. Sometimes I wish I just got the B that I deserved. Yeah I know, boohoo. I could cry about better things. But really, why is fate so insistent upon me keeping a 4.0?
• This semester has been an interesting experience. I can't say I've grown as much as I wanted to, but maybe that's a necessary stage in the process of doing so, and in fact I've grown far more than I realize.  Then again maybe not.
  
• Sometimes I wish my carhorn made a barnyard animal noise. Nothing would be cooler than to warn Johnny McTailgater with a swift Moo on the open highway. You don't mess with a car that Moo's.
• I wish that I could Moo.  Sometimes I practice it in bed at night.
  
• In possible relatedness, my roommate keeps telling me about his recurring nightmare of rabbid cows.
• When I grow up I want to have two kids, a boy and a girl, and name the boy Jay and the girl Kay. I would have them for the sole purpose of going up to them when they're older one day, shaking my head regretfully, and saying "j/k...". I think deep down they'd find their purpose funny too.
  

I leave you with a favorite Douglas Adams quote: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be." May everyone's life be a wild journey into the spontaneous, the unexpected, and the new. I think that in the end you'll find you wound up exactly where you wanted to be all along, even if it takes you the whole journey to realize it.

Sing me to my dreams, sweet Billy.

I don't see why people tan themselves so much, specifically popular high school girls. Do they go to the tanning salon and say "Find out what's going to kill me, and then take it down a notch. I want to look like leather." Awesome. If I got turned on by leather then having a wallet in my pocket would pose a lot of problems.

Anywho, that was just a thought. Tan can be sexy, but when your skin starts to look like my chaps you've gone way too far. Moderation is key. Speaking of moderation, I've been spending way too much time in front of Señor Computorro, as I've named him. Don't get me wrong, he's a fantastic fellow, a great friend. But the sedentary lifestyle is simply not for me. I get really fidgety and easily irritated if I'm not out running amuck. Being chambered like this makes me into what scientists like to call, a "bastard". It also makes me into what doctors can only label as... *uses thesaurus to find good synonym for 'weakling'* a "jellyfish". Thesaurus.com, you inspire me.

For anyone who doesn't know, or more likely, doesn't care, my legs still haven't fully healed. I haven't been able to play ultimate in a VERY long time, not to mention get exercise in general. The last several months have been extremely tormenting. I fought depression for a long time. For those who don't know, Depression is the name of a hobo nearby. He stole my wallet, said he had a fetish for leather. I just hope he doesn't get near a high school. So yeah, after I beat Depression I started moping about my condition again. This happened back in October, and when I thought I was better a few months ago I got the exact same stress fracture in another leg. I think this is God's punishment for that Christopher Reeve joke I made a long time ago. In any case, my message to everyone out there is to never take any of your appendages for granted. You never know when your most beloved limb(s) will get taken from you, sending you into a spiral of alcohol and syphillis until you wake up one day in the mysterious arms of an affectionate druglord named Carlos. For those who haven't been, Columbia is a very beautiful country.

There are many things to take seriously. Life is not one of them.

Alarm clocks suck. Wouldn't you much rather wake up to one of ( these )

These spam emails are getting a lot smarter on me. I'm talking in just the past couple of months here. At first all I got was a bunch of nonsense, like "Subject: JKD:fjdkafd, From: heislfj jornda". Yeah, let me open that right up. Oh what happened!? Deleted? Oops.

Then they slowly evolved into the less nonsensical, although still grammatically flawed. "Subject: biig savvinngs, from: Micheaal McNuugget". Thank you Mr. McNugget, but I'm saving dinero just fine. Occasionally though I'll come very close to being lured into the "Yourr peniss is 2 small! Click herre!" campaigns, but then I quickly stop myself when I remember that my penis is actually quite--who am I kidding. *CLICK*. Oh damnit.

But anyway, those are easy enough to ward off. Anything spelt with six t's in a row is a breeze to avoid, and I know not to click on anything of a sexual nature; I mean it's not like anybody I do email with would send me something like that without me knowing (grandparents excluded). But recently these devils have gotten very tricky. They start sending me things with perfect spelling from names that are actually believable. Usually the subject gives it away, like "Missing kitten found", when I've never owned one, or "We still have your kitten. Reward?", or "We're holding Mr. Meows hostage and we want money damnit!", or even "You'll find Mr. Meows in a pizza box between Cyprus and 21st Street, be there at noon with $4000 in unmarked bills. No cops or Meows gets it". It starts getting really hard to tell if it's spam or not when they send you stuff with "Re:" in the subject, because you can't not look at a responded message! What if you sent them something? I find things like "Re: Erotic Toys Inquiry", in my inbox and I don't know what to do. It's of a sexual nature so I know not to click on it, but then I start thinking, had I made an inquiry on erotic toys? I mean I really can't remember every email I've ever sent, maybe this is someone getting back to me about an urgent question. I can't just leave them high and dry. *CLICK*. Shickledips.

The ones that are truly tricky beasts though are those that are spelt just fine, are from a name that you may just want to be hearing from, like "Mr. William Botsworth", and give you the "Re:" with a very generic title. Mr. Botsworth sounds like an upstanding gentleman. Maybe he's from a corporation I recently sent my resume to, or maybe he works for the government and they've seen me practicing kung fu in my underwear at night and are ready to offer me a position in the CIA. You never know, so I still have to look for more clues. The only thing left to look at is what's beyond the "Re:". And when they give you really generic titles that could apply to anything, that's when I just go nuts wondering what to do. Emails like "Re: Position", drive me wild. My imagination cuts loose. It is the government recruiting me! I of course click on it in my excitement only to open a wonderful "10-Step Stretching Guide to Kama Sutra's SECRET Position!" I write back in my fury and tell grandma to stop sending me dirty things.

Fortunately, I rarely get emails that are that deceptive, and gmail does a pretty good job of keeping the goods separated from the nasties. Every once in a while though they miss one and it gets in my inbox, or an important email gets into my junk folder, which defeats the purpose because then I have to check my junk folder just in case. I think if junk mail senders were just up front and honest with themselves they'd do a lot better. I mean who are we trying to fool here? If you want people to go to your dirty, dirty webpage, don't masquerade it as something like "Homeowners Loan Notice". The internet thrives on porn, there'd hardly be a net without it. Instead, why don't you write in the subject: SPAM! Porn enclosed. NSFW. Quick, your wife is behind you, and it could go in a specially designated folder that people who really don't want it can just delete, and people who do want it but need to act like they don't can reserve for a more private moment. You hear me spammers?? I don't want your porn, and I don't want your hippie herbal supplements to augment my breasts and/or penis. Maybe my breasts, I wouldn't mind some larger man-boobs, but I suppose that's why we have Bowflex.

One crazy night a while back I had a fabulous dream where I was lathered up in canola oil, doing a crossword puzzle in the kitchen. Just then, I saw the silhouette of a nude body walking slowly down the stairs. Inexplicably excited, I held my breath as this phantom beauty tiptoed closer towards the light. Whoever it was, they approached slowly with delicate maneuvers, calmly taking each stair with erotic poise. As the vixen moved forward and the overhanging lamp shed its beacons upon my mystery lover, as each skin cell became apparent beneath the glistening light, I grew more and more enchanted. Then I realized it was my brother. ( What happened next? )

We were walking down 6th street today and passed a pub where this band was playing some really good Irish music. The line to the door was absolutely enormous, but we stood in front of an open window that was just behind the band and listened. That violin sounds amazing when played that way. I love Irish music.

I think they call this the crazies. You get all locked up in this joint, nothin to do, nowhere to go, and things start... gettin to ya. Time flies by but ticks maddeningly slow. Fingers start twitchin' like a lizurd's tail. Your eyes keep shiftin back and forth, but they're not lookin at anything in partic'lar. Sometimes you just wanna jump up and scream, but then you remember you're not in this can alone. There's that matey of yours you're sharing this joint with. The person who keeps you from hollerin out like you want to, but at the same time he's your only source of man-to-man interaction, for whatever the small talk may be worth. After a while though, you start gettin par'noid of 'em. Like he's always spyin on you er somethin. Wonderin what you're doin. Even now I can feel his peripherals beamin through me like a lazer. He's a surreptitious cad, stealthy as a hawk. But he's watchin me. Wonderin what I'm doin. Because I know he ain't doin nothin either--I look from time to time. We both just sit at our cells, absorbed by the only thing that passes time in this joint: our notepads. So here I sit scribblin things down, there he sits falsely immersed in God knows what, both pretendin we got pressin matters on our hands. But no one gots pressin matters at the institution. Nobody. Every day's a fight to find somethin to do. Somethin to shake the cabin fever from our heads. Somethin to remind us that we're still alive, and better yet, why. Yersterday I found a rat chunklin round the floor. I chased him a good fifteen minutes til he scurvied inside a hole I couldn't get to, but it was the damndest thing I'd done all week.

I don't know how everyone else survives it here. Nobody else seems to worry about passin time so much as me. App'rently they all got "assignments" or whatnot. Always busy with stuff I don't know about. The institution don't give me no "assignments". They don't look partic'larly fun, but somethin to do around here is somethin to do, and I kinda wish I had some. I tried to help a few lads with theirs but it was all convoluted and incomprehensible to me. I couldn't figer it out and lost interest. So here I am, scratchin my skull and inkin up my notepad to keep the crazies away, always hopin a rat might scurvy on by so I can try and catch it. Them crazies, they can get ya here.

Himzhow pow wow pop! I don't know what that noise is supposed to sound like, but I just made it. Well it's 1:06 on a beautiful Friday morning and I am prepping for some serious quilt-cuddleage, upon completion of which I will pack my baggies and head out to Baton Rouge for some Mardi Gras/Ultimate Tournament action... mostly ultimate. I'm still slightly in the recovery of the Whooping Cough, although it might have been the bird flu, I'm not sure. The only diagnosis I got was from my dear C.S. friend Yonatan who insists I had acute bronchitis, which admittedly is probably far more accurate a conclusion than the whooping or the avian thing. Well, hopefully tomorrow the howling coughs will be gone, but if not I can at least look forward to infecting each of my teammates as we cram to 7 people per minivan and then a horrendous 12 people per hotel room. That's right, 12 men piled upon one another in a two-bed accomodation. Thank you for choosing Hotel Brokeback.

At any rate, actually what in the hibbleshibble is "at any rate" supposed to mean? If you think about it that makes little sense in such a context. Or more importantly, what does hibbleshibble mean? I guess it's best not to think about these things, so I suppose I'll just live and let live. At any rate... I am now going to crash into my luciously soft pillow and dream of sweet things. And I leave you with a small comic:

( It's a little fruity )

What many people fail to recognize is that today is also National Midget Awareness Day. So the next time you're sad and lonely because you don't have a date, think of the midget who not only has no date but who is also forgotten about on his or her own day because everyone is so obsessed with themselves.

Please, be a philanthropist. Date a midget.

Sometimes, I just want to be naked. But you know what? The Man keeps me down. Don't do this and don't do that. Why must pants be a required commodity? I'm not looking to flaunt anything, I just want to liberate myself from the confines of clothing. Because sometimes clothes are downright uncomfortable, even awkward. So if it's a beautiful 80 degree day outside with the sunlight just beaming down through the blue sky, why put on the superfluous? That cloth isn't keeping anybody warm. No, it's hiding something that society taught us to be embarrassed of. Well you know what society, I won't be your bitch. You can't tell me what to think, how to act, and what to feel. If I want to be naked so help me God I will proudly walk the streets in my birthday suit. But I can't do that can I? No, because society has laws, and policemen to enforce those laws. And as long as nobody else has the same mindset as me I'll just be labeled insane and live a very lonely, naked life.

It's that kind of sacrifice I'm upset about. And no I can't just go join a nudist colony. First of all, those people are weird. I don't always want to be naked. Just sometimes. And you can only do so much in a colony. I want to do other things in life besides sit around in the buck with people who don't do anything except... sit around in the buck. I want to go to class and stuff. Maybe naked, who knows? If it's a nice sunny day outside why the hell not? I will not be bound by the shackles of linens and cloth, damnit! Sometimes a man just wants to feel the wind blow gently between his legs as his every hair rustles softly in the breeze. Sometimes a white ass is simply not attractive next to a finely bronzed torso in mid-summer. Why must we make such sacrifices? For the insecurities of bigwig policy makers? No! I strip in defiance! You can make me work a job I hate, you can make me go the speed limit on an open highway, you can even tell me where I can and cannot be intoxicated, but by the biceps of Moses you can't stop me from taking it off when the moment is supple.

Always keeping me down, he is.

Big news. I went to the doctor today for the final verdict, and she said I was healthy. That means I am now free of my broken leg, as well as hepatitis and the claps! The last two I wasn't even expecting, it's like finding your wallet after its been missing for three months, only to discover that somehow two hundred-dollar bills magically slipped in while you were away. Remember kids, always apply your topical ointments and take your venereal medicines daily. Anyway, I was very overjoyed with the news that I can run again, so I wrote this ode to my beloved:

Dear frisbee, I've missed you like an arrow from its mark,
My evil shin hath schemed and put our love in park,
But now the mongering bone can neither bark nor bite,
No longer can he keep us from embracing in mid-flight.

I've missed your firmness and your smoothness as I tightly hold my grip,
I've missed the curves and the concavity of your captivating lip*,
I tell you frisbee you're the one, there is no other disc,
I could never have more fun, except maybe with my... playstation 2.

Oh how jolly it will be to jump again so high,
Together you and me will find defenders we can sky*
Like a liger with great majesty I will leap to you once more,
Though it hurts how others grab you like a filthy frisbee whore.

But I know that you and I are one,
I know our blissful days together are still yet far from done,
Oh how graceful it will be when I send you flying with a huck*,
Oh I tell you frisbee, if you were human, you and I would... be good friends.

I love you, and I've missed you.

*
lip - the underside groove on the outer edge of the disc that feels like a baby's buttox to an experienced finger. Not that I have experienced fingers in feeling baby's buttoxes.
sky - When one catches a frisbee over the heads of one or many opponents. It is quite possibly the sexiest thing one can do, other than rubbing themself with Crisco and then laying on a well heated stove, allowing the Crisco to simmer and grease slowly into a vat of sensual fluids.
huck - A very long throw where the thrower must put a tight grip on the lip and apply a large amount of thrust and spin. Hopefully it's intended receiver skies a defender in catching it to add sass and appeal.

I'm not sure if I should thank God or global warming, but it is mighty nice outside today.

You know what really tastes great? Razor blades! Unfortunately, they aren't very good for your health if you eat them, but if you get sick like me it feels like you just did!

So new years was a bash, although I wish I wasn't sick, because that severely inhibits the amount of fun one can have slash energy they can expel. Now I feel like my entire body has been rigorously stepped on by one of those asian masseuses, except this asian masseuse was in clear violation of the "must not weigh more than client" policy. Add that to the aforementioned razor blades and a splitting headache and it's easy to see why I'm developing a permanent grimace. Seriously, my throat is a hotbed for bacterial infestation. Those bacteria are having one heck of a party in my mouth right now. I really wish I could join, but I'm the host. I'm expelling all my energy supplying them with party provisions (i.e. my warm, moist, flesh).

I did take a bubble bath which was mildly alleviating, but other than that this entire day has consisted of me flopping about the house with all kinds of groaning. I am also well on my way for breaking the world record for most chloraseptic lozenges consumed in one day. They taste like shit, but you'd think they were candy the way I freely embrace their presence in my mouth. I would seriously consider giving away one of my appendages for a bottle of liquid novocaine right now. Preferably my left leg, seeing as how it refuses to heal; although that might have a lot more to do with me refusing to sit still... Maybe I need to be comatose for a few days. Maybe this illness is a blessing in disguise! Perhaps, but I'm still going to moan like a sissy.

Well, seeing as how I'm physically inept for the next day or two or God forbid three, I see no alternatives other than one huge Whose Line Is It Anyway marathon. Laughter is the bestest medicine.

Note to Self: Do not eat the remaining third of your friend's burrito immediately after you have finished yours. Your stomach does not have that kind of capacity, and quite frankly, neither will the toilet. What happened to the days of yore when I could chase a chipotle burrito with another four tacos?? Metabolism, you disappoint me.

In other news, the Darkness has ascended from "funny band with a cool hit single two years ago" to "this band is quite. kick. ass". Notice the punctuation for extra emphasis. I wish I could sing like a eunuch.

I went to bed last night at 6am. That's not even night any more. I have a final tomorrow (well, technically today) at 9am, for which I have to wake up at 8. I won't even be able to wink until at least 5. Granted I did fall asleep on the hardwood floor for a solid hour, but I am nevertheless screwed like a black and decker drillbit. It wouldn't be too big of a deal, I can typically function on little sleep if it really comes down to the twine. However, I also severely underestimated the amount of time I needed to study, and learning material is not something I can do in a sleep deprivated state. Shiat! This is what happens when you give up before the race is over. I am the sleeping hare, and the tortoise is my probability final slowly walking by laughing its ass off. Hopefully I've got enough mustard to finish strong, but in either case, lesson learned.

And holy crap, Requiem for a Dream is crazy. I have to say though I don't want to crawl into a corner and die nearly as much as people had me thinking I would, but it was a really moving movie. It makes you stone cold sad for all those people who put their hopes into chasing dead end roads. And it's always the same people. The poor, the abused, and the alone. It's a self-perpetuating cycle, people should do more to step in. God forbid that us priveledged lose a little bit of our hard earned time and money though. Okay, rant discontinued, I shall keep my soapboxed opinions to private entries until I decide that actually I believe in them enough to be proactive about it. That time seems to be approaching faster and faster though.

Annnnywho, the semester is finally over! Jolly day! It's been good, awful, shitty, and great, which means I had an awesome time and grew up a little bit along the way. *tears* "Oh Kyle, you're growing into such a man!" I wish the cafeteria lady would stop telling me that, it's really creepy.

This is really good.