SRT #23

At work yesterday, we were discussing topics that might need to have reports drafted next year. The ingredient lavender came up as someone had sent an inquiry to the office as to its status in the industry. According to the inquirer, lavender may cause breast formation in young men. This turned into a scientific conversation which will bore you (as it did me) close to tears. While in the process of tuning everything out, I made a realization: If a young man is using lavender in such large quantities that it’s messing with his endocrine system, he probably wants breasts.

Who am I to stand in the way of a young man’s dreams?

Who's On Your Team?

I just finished reading The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead by Max Brooks. Half humor and half horror, it’s quite a good read, and I highly recommend it. While/after reading it, it got me thinking about who I would want with me in the event of a mass zombie infestation (or any other end of the world type scenario). Who do I know that would be useful in this situation?

Unfortunately, not too many people seem up for the task. I’ve been told that I would be good in an emergency simply because I generally have a knife and lighter with me at all times. So at least people would want me on their team. Also, I do have a tendency to try and figure out how everyday objects can be used as weapons.¹ So in case of zombie attack, pick me; I’m a good investment.

Who would I want on my team though? I’m going to stick with people in the tri-state area for the sake of convenience. My dad would be good for home base type operations. He’s low on mobility, but excellent at improvising in construction. Also, he can cook and do all of those outdoorsy type things that are helpful. I have a fake-me-out cousin who’s a doctor and in excellent shape. He’s totally in. Among my cousins, none are especially useful. I could probably take on one or two others, providing that all of us are able to stop acting like children in each others’ presence. However, they consist mostly of fatties and nerds who lack common sense/real world skills. Useful family members are lacking. Most are out, which is too bad, but shit happens.

Who else to recruit? I know a couple of sportsball type people and they could potentially be very useful. The thing about these dudes though is that they would most likely prove to have authority problems, which cannot exist when trying to survive the impending zombie invasion. They are second tier, providing they can demonstrate non-douchbag tendencies, in which case they will be bumped up to the top tier. Also, anyone I know that’s into guns/knows how to use guns has an automatic in.

In such an event, I will probably have to abandon my female friends.² I don’t need whining supply-whores who can’t fight and will most likely be unable to dispatch a zombie. Given whatever the situation may be, I might be able to bring a couple along. For example, if there is early warning and many of the obstacles that would impede a large group haven’t formed yet, I’d try to bring some along. Too bad that probably won’t be the case. It’s a shame.

In any case, I need to figure this out. I suggest you do the same.

¹ I get bored at class/work. Sue me.
² Sorry, guys.

Will Someone Please Think of the Eskimos?!

Dear Magic Hate Ball,

I've always had issues with my weight. I was the chubby kid, the "big-boned" teenager, and the easy fat chick in college. At my worst, I weighed about as much as an adolescent walrus. However, I've lost literally hundreds of pounds due to a strict diet, including gastric bypass sugery followed by a severe case of bulimia. I've successfully kept my weight in the range of 200-215 pounds. I'd like to show off my new slimmer body with low-rise jeans, mini-skirts, halter and tube tops, and other clothing of this type. My family is very against this. They say they are supportive of my dietary choices, and they're proud of my weight loss, but they refuse to support my new fashion sense. How can I tell them that this is what I want without alienating them?

Looking At Reflections Don't Offend

And the Hate Ball says: My eyes! MY EYES!!

Dear LARDO,

I suppose I'm happy for your dramatic weight loss. After all, the female walrus weighs about 1,900 pounds. That's an incredible loss. How did the surgeons ever reach your stomach to begin with? How many interns were there to hold the fat flaps back? You could have fed an Eskimo community for a week. But let's address your question.

There are a number of factors involved in this: your pride in your weight loss, the opinion of your family, fashion, and public safety. I'm glad that you lost 1,700 pounds. Losing the weight of an exceptionally large kindergarten class is quite impressive. In my opinion, however, that gastric bypass procedure is cheating. Instead of bypassing your stomach, you should have just bypassed those hams, cakes, and tubs of lard. That's just me.

But back to you. Your family's opinion clearly means a lot to you. Listen to them! They are not only looking out for you, but for the safety of my eyes. For you to wear tiny tiny clothes is a crime against fashion and humanity. There is a reason tiny tiny models wear these tiny tiny clothes: it looks best on them. You don't see Mo'nique wearing the same outfit as Kate Moss, it just doesn't happen. Also, it's just cruelty to the clothes to make them strain like that. A pair of jeans was not meant to fit around a thousand inch waist, that is why god gave us elastic. As for humanity, why would you subject innocent bystanders to such atrocities? It's just mean. Don't you worry about the well-being of my eyes? Seeing so many rolls on one person will send me into a fit of seizures from which I may never recover.

i write i

My Demise

I drink a Snapple almost every day. Lately, I've had a tendency to go for the Snapple white tea, which is delicious. Today's Real fact is:

In a year, the average person walks four miles making his or her bed.

Unless, of course, you're me. I never understood the point of making the bed, especially when the only one seeing the bed is you. If you're having people over, and for some reason or another, they're going to see your bed, go ahead and fix it up. However, if the next person to see the bed is you right before you get into it, thus messing it all up again, what is the point?

I suppose I could do with the exercise, as I'm quite lazy, and get out of bed only to get into the car, then bus, then office. After this long period of sitting, I sit on the way home, then on a couch, then go back to bed. Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise. In fact, the most walking I get in is when I go out, during which time I stand in bars and then walk from bar to bar. Unfortunately, the physical benefits of all this walking and standing is negated by the other activities I'm engaged in. This Snapple fact has led me to discover the cause of my future demise: Becoming a fatty.

Damn you, Snapple!

SRT #22

Grammar is vital. Without it, all of our extensive vocabularies and pseudo-impressive words are useless. I've been brought up to be a bit of a grammar whore, something that I now appreciate in my education. Unfortunately for most of my peers, grammar was not pounded into them day after day. Consequently, many have no idea what the difference is between a comma and a semi-colon. This ignorance is one of the many banes of my existence, keeping me up at night seething with rage and wondering why¹ can't my lab partner write a decent sentence? Case in point: I once spent a full lab period replacing semi-colons with commas after seeing what someone in my bio lab group wrote up. Apparently, he felt that these two punctuation marks were interchangeable. I wanted to stab him in the face.

In high school, grammar was the basis for my freshman English teacher’s vendetta against me. On the one day that she touched upon diagramming sentences, I corrected her placement of a gerund, which cannot be treated as a regular noun. From that day on, she found every reason in life to give me detentions, hold me up between classes, and slowly destroy my soul. In spite of this, I prevailed, and I stand before you today as the bitter being that I was always meant to be. But I’m getting off topic now. Correcting that mistake was worth it. If I hadn’t pointed it out, I’m sure it would still eat at me today.

I don’t mean to say that I’m the greatest grammarian of all time. Far from it, but I have a solid understanding of the rules.² I’m sure there are grammatical errors in this post right now, but there is nothing so horrible so as to detract from my purpose. If you can’t correctly put sentences together, it doesn’t even matter what words you use.


¹ Oh, why?!
² Thank you, Mrs. Lange.

Feenin'

Yes, I know I just bought two pairs of shoes recently, but I needed these. The craving for shoes just doesn't go away until I pick up at least one pair of Nikes. It's my crack. I figure this makes sense, though. If you're feenin' for some crack, some meth might work out for a second, but it really comes down to getting that crack. The Penguins and the Pumas are like meth, and Nike is my crack. I can't live without it; I will sell VCRs and shit for $1.99 just to build up my money to get my next hit.

Nothing can stop me.

Introducing the Magic Hate Ball

There has been a serious decline in how angry I am at the world. This is unacceptable, and I am annoyed to the point of anger. See how easy it was to fix that deficiency? So I'm bringing out something I've had on the backburner for a while: the Magic Hate Ball. Occasionally, people will ask for my advice, and I am usually at a loss. I mean, if I was capable of identifying good life choices, wouldn't I be a nice, well-adjusted person instead of this smoldering volcano of bitterness, whose inactivity is occasionally interrupted by the spewing of molten crazy all over everything in its path? There is nothing about me that says:

Ask me to help! I'm cheerful and all that bullshit!

Despite this, every once in a while I'll receive a question from a member of my (imaginary) adoring public. Normally, I simply toss such inquiries into my imaginary trashcan, but after reconsideration, these can be used as excellent blog filler. Here's what I'm gonna do: I'll read the question, shake my magic hate ball, get its answer, then extrapolate upon said answer. So let's get on with the show:

Dear Magic Hate Ball,

I’ve recently become fascinated with Asian culture and I want to get a tattoo with Asian letters, most likely Chinese or Japanese. I want to honor my girlfriend and get a tattoo of her initials (H.A.G. fyi). The thing is: she doesn’t want to do the same for me no matter how much I insist. I mean, it’s only fair, right?

I Do Idolize Overwhelming Tats

And the Hate Ball says: My god, you're an idiot.

Dear IDIOT,

There are a number of problems with your letter. I’ll make this easier for everyone and just make a list:

1. I’m “guessing” that you’re not Asian, and you probably know, at most, one person of Asian descent, who must deal with your constant greetings of “Nihao!” every damned time they see you. In general, it just makes us uncomfortable, especially if we're not Chinese.
2. Here’s the dirty little secret: Asia is not a country, it’s a continent, dumbass. And if you do realize this, China and Japan aren’t the only ones there. Look at a fucking map for once.
3. There are no Chinese or Japanese “letters.” I’m guessing you want to have very complex, very “Asian” looking characters tattooed on your idiotic skin. Why don’t you find out what something constitutes before you have it permanently embedded into your skin?
4. Just because you want to make a bad decision, doesn’t mean your [soon-to-be-ex-]girlfriend should have to make the same one. Especially after the fact when you find out from the Chinese delivery guy that while your tattoo is an everlasting homage, it is not to your girlfriend, but fried bull testicles.

Part of me wants to recommend against getting this tattoo, as it will be an extraordinary exercise in ignorance and bad decision making. In addition to this, it creates a horrible domino effect in which other ignorant assholes will be impressed by the physical manifestation of your idiocy and acquire their own horrible tattoos. However, the larger part of me (I'd guess around 98%) recommends that you do make the investment and hopes that the result takes up a large portion of your body, thus making it impossible to hide your stupidity from the rest of the world.In conclusion, I suggest you get the tattoo, then continue to persuade your girlfriend to do the same. Soon, she’ll dump you, and you’ll just be that dumbass with “Fried Bull Testicles” or something equally idiotic on his torso with no girlfriend. Good Luck!

i write i

SRT #21

I'm at a loss for topics today, so I'm going to take this opportunity to make a very important Public Service Announcement. Click here to learn an important life lesson. Take heed, children. Take heed.

The Root of the Problem

I have an unhealthy addiction to shoes. In the past, when faced with a choice between shoes and food, I have chosen shoes at least 75% of the time. When these stretches of starvation are accompianied by constant trips to the mall or South Street, it's a wonder that I was never forced into some sort of eating disorder program. Case in point: my freshman year of college, I lost 10-15 pounds. For the average freshman entering school, you'd think this is a good thing, since it is, in effect, the anti-freshman fifteen. Unfortunately for me, this means I ended that year under 100 pounds. But it was worth it.

That school year I accumulated at least 20 pairs of shoes.

People often wonder what it is about shoes that I love, and in all honesty, I'm not really sure. What mostly confuses people is the type of shoes that I enjoy. Most girls are into the whole heels thing (a la Carrie Bradshaw). They do not float my boat. Yes, I do own a couple pairs of heels, but these are only worn when absolutely necessary. If I could wear Dunks to a wedding, I would; if I could get away with Air Forces at job interviews, there would be no other option for me. I would feel a sadness the likes of which the world has never seen if my shoes were somehow taken away from me. (I've designated which shoes are coming out with me in case of a fire.) The real question, or at least the question of the moment, is: Why do I love shoes so much?

Personally, I think it stems from the fact that my mom was a big fan of the Payless when I was a kid. I hated it. I thought their shoes were ugly, but couldn't exactly explain why, so I could never convince my mom to not get me shoes from there. I now realize that Payless simply holds the market for shitty fake-me-out shoes. Until I started high school, I was forced to subside on Payless shoes, and I am still bitter about it. Perhaps the reason for this bitterness is connected to the fact that I've gone to Catholic school since the first grade. Catholic school equals uniforms. The only thing unique about your uniform was your shoes. At my particular elementary/middle school, the rule was girls had white sneakers, and boys were to wear black ones. When my classmates all had the new Air Tempos, I had some horrible Payless knockoffs of Asics. I was deeply ashamed of my god awful shoes. And then I got to high school.

Again, in Catholic school, the most freedom we were allowed in dressing ourselves was via footwear. Unfortunately, sneakers were only allowed when the Fall/Spring uniform was in effect (August-September, April-June), but I used this time to its full potential. The summer before school started, I acquired my first pair of Nikes,* and an addiction to nourish through the ages was born. I was hopelessly anal about these shoes. If anyone so much as touched them, I would flip the fuck out. Few things would annoy me more than seeing someone else wearing the same shoes as me, but instead of them being well cared for, they would be in shambles. It made my heart cry. What matters is since the age of 14, I have never stopped loving shoes.

Everything else is a distant second.



* Brownie points if you can pick them out.

My Latest Conquests

Beautiful, aren't they?

SRT #20

The Devil's Latest Endeavor

Crocs are perhaps the ugliest footwear to ever arise in the world of man. What asshole decided these things were attractive? Is it really necessary to wear horrible plastic abominations on your feet for the sake of comfort? I own approximately 50 pairs of comfortable shoes and none of them are ugly. In fact, none of them look like their materials were outsourced by PlaySkool. It is quite possible to be comfortable in good shoes, so don't try to tell me that this is the only thing that works.

On another note, these demons are supposed to be anti-bacterial. Now, I'm all for that, but want to know another way to avoid the bacteria? Keep your fucking feet clean! Wear the right socks with the right shoes! You don't need to wear antibiotics on your body. What the goddamnedshit?!

The worst offence, in my mind, is when these are worn in the workplace. I'm not going to tell you what to wear in the privacy of your home, but don't hurt my eyes with these demons.* When was it appropriate for hideous things to be worn in the office? This is actually the reason I've decided to speak out against these eyesores. I saw approximately 5 thousand pairs of these things today. Now, I work in DC, in the area famed for housing the largest and most powerful lobbyists. There are important/powerful people all over the place. Why would anyone in their right mind wear crocs here? Why!?

In the words of the immortal Tim Gunn:

I hate crocs. May they please go away.

Amen.

* I'm a visual learner.

We Would Have Gotten Along

Johannes Brahms

24 Hours Later: SRT #19

I’ve had a strange urge to kill lately. Not in the psychopathic deranged killer way, but in the I need to defend the future of my species way. So I installed Halo: Combat Evolved on my PC last night. Yes, I know it’s an old game, but I enjoyed playing it for countless hours when it came out on the Xbox years ago. Thankfully, killing the Covenant satisfied my violent urges. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as sneaking up behind an Elite and bashing its (his?) skull in with a pistol. It makes my (cold, shriveled, blackened husk of a) heart smile.

On the downside, I really suck at this game now. I’m not saying that I was ever super good at the game, but I was decent. I could hold my own against the boys and was quite adept with the shotgun/assault rifle combination. I blame having to use an Xbox 360 controller now. Even when the smaller controllers came out for the Xbox, I always preferred using the original giant controller. On the new controller, the spacing is different, and there are no black and white buttons. Also, I spent a good 20 minutes of the game just testing out different settings for the buttons trying to remember which button did what on the Xbox.

Hopefully, I’ll get decent/good at this game again. At least until I’m struck with a new urge, such as the desire to rollerblade and vandalize public property.

He Speaks the Truth

So I'm back in a recently resurrected chat room to pass the time at work. I know the people in the room in real life, as we're all somehow connected to an org from my Drexel days. So I jump in on a recap of a recent party where someone says:

its not a drexel party until someone wakes up in a hospital

So true.

Campus is Tiny, Unsightly, or Both

Drexel's campus is on Post Secret this week. I'm not quite getting the secret though. It is someone talking to himself? Is he confident about his own future? Is he actually speaking to Drexel? (But who would be confident in Drexel's future? I'm waiting for the day that UPenn swallows it up and I can say I went to an Ivy League School.) Very curious.