Monday:
I am relaxed and refreshed from a solid forty-eight hours of sleeping/goofing off/drinking/playing video games/laughing and maybe even refraining from doing fun things because it's the weekend and I don't have to do ANYTHING if I don't want to. Bring it on, Monday! I LOVE EVERYTHING!
Tuesday:
Hey, it'll be OK, lobby full of angry customers. It's just pizza. Maybe if you didn't start bitching on Monday like everyone else, you'd be in a better mood.
Wednesday:
Man, why am I the only one here during the day. This place is understaffed and I don't enjoy being behind all day. It can't be good that I've started to resent every single customer that I talk to. I'm just gonna crash so hard when I get home. Fuuuuuhhhh...
Thursday:
OK, only one more day of this shit and then it's the weekend. But I don't even know how I'm going to make it through nine hours of work today to get to the weekend so I can WHAT?!? OH MY GOD IT'S ONLY THURSDAY. WHY!!!!!??!?!? WHYYYYYYYYYY why why why why why WHY!!! GOD DAMMIT!
Friday:
I'm quitting. I am seriously going to quit. What if I just got in my car and drove back to my apartment. Or drove to Canada. I'll just go be a lumberjack. Make my own hours, take a few whacks at a tree, take a sandwich break, go home. What are they gonna do? Tell me I have to come back? I don't have to come back. I DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING EVER. EVERYBODY LEAVE ME ALONE.
Saturday:
[Stare at computer screen for hours on end, yet somehow completely ignore .txt file with my constantly lengthening to-do list. Watch cartoons. Forget to eat lunch until 7pm. Stay up too late playing ridiculous flash games meant for 12-year olds.]
Sunday:
[Get up super early (10:00am) and go eat an unnecessarily expensive lunch as "fuel" for all the errands I'm going to run today. Get stuck in traffic on I-5. Text Indiana friends and brag about the weather here. Give up after one errand. Go home and waste time with roommates. Stay up until 3:30am for no reason.]
Conclusion
You're wrong, and Mondays are awesome.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Greatest Hits, Volume 1
Saturday, 30 July 2005
My first pair of glasses had thick punk-rock black frames. They also had the misfortune of being prescribed to me shortly before I turned 21. Here is an insurance report-style chronicle of their demise, complete with hyper-realistic mspaint renderings of each incident.
1) Smacked off my head by one Rachel Miller at a house party in Bloomington. Presumably a direct repercussion of a lewd/impolite comment, though the record cannot confirm or deny that.
[Result: Permanently lopsided.]
2) Scratched to all holy hell during a sidewalk face-plant while giving an official "Top 5 Drunks" piggy-back ride to one Allison Caye which ultimately precipitated an ambulance ride to the hospital and a substantial contribution to my general poverty.
[Result: Prominent series of scratches on left lens.]
3) Accidentally stepped on by one Zula Mills post-Afternoon Delight, in spite of the fact they were on her coffee table. It is around this time that I seriously started considering LASIK.
[Result: Severely bent; repaired later that day by me.]
4) Pummeled off my head by one Amanda Buckles during a "Party Sam" gone awry/plea for attention in the downstairs area of Harry's Chocolate Shop (which, despite the name, is a college bar.)
[Result: Left lens unaccounted for.]
5) And finally, lost by one Sam Tyner while over-enthusiastically "Pete Townsend-ing" upstairs at Harry's. It should be noted that Item 5 occurred within 30 minutes of Item 4.
[Result: Totaled.]
Oddly enough, the next pair of glasses I got have lasted me over five years to the present day. I'm beginning to think that original pair was cursed, or maybe suicidal. Either that or I'm just not fun anymore.
Sam's Glasses: A Brief & Violent History
My first pair of glasses had thick punk-rock black frames. They also had the misfortune of being prescribed to me shortly before I turned 21. Here is an insurance report-style chronicle of their demise, complete with hyper-realistic mspaint renderings of each incident.
1) Smacked off my head by one Rachel Miller at a house party in Bloomington. Presumably a direct repercussion of a lewd/impolite comment, though the record cannot confirm or deny that.
[Result: Permanently lopsided.]
2) Scratched to all holy hell during a sidewalk face-plant while giving an official "Top 5 Drunks" piggy-back ride to one Allison Caye which ultimately precipitated an ambulance ride to the hospital and a substantial contribution to my general poverty.
[Result: Prominent series of scratches on left lens.]
3) Accidentally stepped on by one Zula Mills post-Afternoon Delight, in spite of the fact they were on her coffee table. It is around this time that I seriously started considering LASIK.[Result: Severely bent; repaired later that day by me.]
4) Pummeled off my head by one Amanda Buckles during a "Party Sam" gone awry/plea for attention in the downstairs area of Harry's Chocolate Shop (which, despite the name, is a college bar.)
[Result: Left lens unaccounted for.]
5) And finally, lost by one Sam Tyner while over-enthusiastically "Pete Townsend-ing" upstairs at Harry's. It should be noted that Item 5 occurred within 30 minutes of Item 4.
[Result: Totaled.]
Oddly enough, the next pair of glasses I got have lasted me over five years to the present day. I'm beginning to think that original pair was cursed, or maybe suicidal. Either that or I'm just not fun anymore.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
VOTE OR DIE, AMURICA!!
Mah fellow Amuricans. I don't think I even need to tell you what an important election this is. And I know you'll participate because voting has somehow become as cool as skinny jeans and Conan O'Brien. And I'm sure I don't have to tell you that you should be voting for the Republicrat candidate. Since the beginning of time, the Republicrats have stood for all that is good and wholesome. They have forever defended against the single greatest threat to our beautiful and perfect country: The Dempublicans.
The Dempublicans want to repeal Christmas, and make babies and rainbows illegal. And if you don't vote this November, they'll get their way. They will come to your house and take your bibles from you and use them as kindling to roast our honorable Amurican flag. Then they will sprinkle the ashes of our beloved flag like confetti during a Rape The Statue Of Liberty party. They're LITERALLY going to rape the statue. And then they're going to rape your freedom. LITERALLY.
The Dempublicans would like you to believe that they're also regular people with slightly different opinions from ours, just trying to make their way in the world and carve out their slice of the Amurican pie. But we Republicrats know better. These people are nothing less than minions of the Devil himself! They are not human! Why just last week I saw a Dempublican supporter in a Nazi uniform biting the head off a baby kitten! It's true!
Why, even that one celebrity you like, they're a card-carrying Republicrat. And we all know that you have to be very politically savvy to be a movie star. Don't you want to be like that celebrity? Don't you like celebrities? DON'T YOU LIKE AMURICA?
And so, mah loyal Republicrats, I urge you out to the voting booths. Since I want to seem like a fair and reasonable person, I won't tell you who to vote for, but if you still believe this country is the only perfect and holy beacon of freedom in a world that has no other sensible forms of government or any kind of freedom in any country around the world, you will vote Republicrat this November.
The Dempublicans want to repeal Christmas, and make babies and rainbows illegal. And if you don't vote this November, they'll get their way. They will come to your house and take your bibles from you and use them as kindling to roast our honorable Amurican flag. Then they will sprinkle the ashes of our beloved flag like confetti during a Rape The Statue Of Liberty party. They're LITERALLY going to rape the statue. And then they're going to rape your freedom. LITERALLY.
The Dempublicans would like you to believe that they're also regular people with slightly different opinions from ours, just trying to make their way in the world and carve out their slice of the Amurican pie. But we Republicrats know better. These people are nothing less than minions of the Devil himself! They are not human! Why just last week I saw a Dempublican supporter in a Nazi uniform biting the head off a baby kitten! It's true!
Why, even that one celebrity you like, they're a card-carrying Republicrat. And we all know that you have to be very politically savvy to be a movie star. Don't you want to be like that celebrity? Don't you like celebrities? DON'T YOU LIKE AMURICA?
And so, mah loyal Republicrats, I urge you out to the voting booths. Since I want to seem like a fair and reasonable person, I won't tell you who to vote for, but if you still believe this country is the only perfect and holy beacon of freedom in a world that has no other sensible forms of government or any kind of freedom in any country around the world, you will vote Republicrat this November.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
In Memoriam...
Thank you all for coming. Recently my hair has been threatening to cut itself, like an unruly teenager. So, I (my hair's loving family) have staged this mock funeral to show how much we (the editorial "we") care about it.
(After taking this introductory photo, I realized that I should maybe give my hair a little more credit, and that it was all right to admit that it could be sexy. So I channeled Desperado-era long-haired Antonio Banderas and came up with this)
See, hair? You can totally pull it off.
I think my hair feels better already. Its hairy heart is being moved by all the pretty words we are saying about it. Let's have a look back at some of my hair's travels.
Here's a picture of my hair at the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. There were many cowboy hats to try on, but my hair wasn't feeling very thin that day and trying things on probably would have just made it feel worse.
Ah and here's my hair posing with a burrito in Mexico. My hair is a bit of a racist, and its social commentary on the "dirty" Mexicans was to not be washed for most of the time. What an asshole. What? Oh AHEM HEM HEM... but we're here to remember the good times. Moving right along...
Here's my hair in a rare artistic piece. The photographer wanted to shock you with the contrast between a long, flowing head of hair and a bald, green head. Or perhaps one could interpret the receding hairline of the human subject to challenge the viewer to imagine him becoming the bald anthropomorphic reptile skilled in the arts of stealth and assassination.
And here is my hair taunting what it believes to be an Ewok. My hair is a Star Wars fanatic of almost religious devotion, and it was not pleased with the Ewok spin-off movies cashing in on what it considered to be non-essential and "stupid" characters. Don't even get it started on Jar Jar Binks.
Here is my hair when it was younger, embarrassing itself at a party. This was one of the many times my hair forced me to base a transition into a closing paragraph on a pun. After three beers, I told my hair I'd have to CUT IT OFF.
I can see that in your grief-stricken state, you're not in the mood for puns. Well of course it's the grief. At any rate, my hair is feeling a little better about itself, and has come out of its suicidal depression long enough to remind me that I'm in a rock band, and that if I cut it off, how am I going to get to be as sweaty on stage? My hair has greatly overestimated its understanding of things I like.
(After taking this introductory photo, I realized that I should maybe give my hair a little more credit, and that it was all right to admit that it could be sexy. So I channeled Desperado-era long-haired Antonio Banderas and came up with this)
See, hair? You can totally pull it off.I think my hair feels better already. Its hairy heart is being moved by all the pretty words we are saying about it. Let's have a look back at some of my hair's travels.
Here's a picture of my hair at the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. There were many cowboy hats to try on, but my hair wasn't feeling very thin that day and trying things on probably would have just made it feel worse.
Ah and here's my hair posing with a burrito in Mexico. My hair is a bit of a racist, and its social commentary on the "dirty" Mexicans was to not be washed for most of the time. What an asshole. What? Oh AHEM HEM HEM... but we're here to remember the good times. Moving right along...
Here's my hair in a rare artistic piece. The photographer wanted to shock you with the contrast between a long, flowing head of hair and a bald, green head. Or perhaps one could interpret the receding hairline of the human subject to challenge the viewer to imagine him becoming the bald anthropomorphic reptile skilled in the arts of stealth and assassination.
And here is my hair taunting what it believes to be an Ewok. My hair is a Star Wars fanatic of almost religious devotion, and it was not pleased with the Ewok spin-off movies cashing in on what it considered to be non-essential and "stupid" characters. Don't even get it started on Jar Jar Binks.
Here is my hair when it was younger, embarrassing itself at a party. This was one of the many times my hair forced me to base a transition into a closing paragraph on a pun. After three beers, I told my hair I'd have to CUT IT OFF.I can see that in your grief-stricken state, you're not in the mood for puns. Well of course it's the grief. At any rate, my hair is feeling a little better about itself, and has come out of its suicidal depression long enough to remind me that I'm in a rock band, and that if I cut it off, how am I going to get to be as sweaty on stage? My hair has greatly overestimated its understanding of things I like.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
THE PBJ
Being a proud bachelor/poor/awesome, I have logged many hundreds of hours making and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Not many other cheap foods can consistently deliver the way a solid PBJ can. They've evolved about as much as sharks or AC/DC and are just as much a piece of the very fabric of American life. Thus, I would like to share what I have learned so that you may enjoy your sandwiches as much as I do.
THE INGREDIENTS
Now I could rattle off brand names of specific breads and where you can purchase a certain kind of jelly, and we could argue smooth versus crunchy peanut butter until I punch you in the chest because you say crunchy. Crunchy peanut butter is gross. I win.
But the three ingredients of an enjoyable PBJ all adhere to three guidelines:
First, ingredients to make PBJs for a week should not cost any more than $10. Making an expensive PBJ is like putting peanuts in peanut butter. WHY DO IT. Second, they should be easy to utilize. Now this is where I half break one of my own rules. Obviously jelly in a squeezable container was an international revelation and should have its own commemorative day complete with parades and awkward family gatherings. But peanut butter needs to come in an old-fashioned screw-top jar, and I'll tell you why. Did you ever wake up one picturesque winter morning to a fresh snow so completely brand new and untouched by anything that you had to suit up and get out in it to be the first to upset the pristine white surface with your giddy, excited-for-Christmas-presents energy? Yeah me neither. But that's pretty much what the first stab into a new peanut butter jar is like for me. Perfectly flat smooth brown surface BUTTER KNIFE DESTROY!! It's an important piece of your formative childhood memories that I get to live whenever I feel like it. By stabbing something.
INAPPROPRIATE PARAGRAPH BREAK
And then third and finally, ingredients should be plentiful and easy to find. Half the appeal of the PBJ is that headaches are allergic to it. Nothing about it says "I'm stressful" or "give up." You should never have to drive to a second store to round up ingredients. If you do, you might as well go ahead and buy yourself a turkey to cook in the oven for seven hours or whatever.
A CAUTIONARY TALE
You may make it to the end of a loaf of bread and find that you're left with an odd number of slices. You may be tempted to employ the well-worn sandwich adage "bigger is better" and attempt a double-decker PBJ, peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other side. I'm here to tell you the result will leave you angry, confused, and likely to throw your sandwich off your sixth-floor balcony. The bread buffer between your PB and your J violates the most important PBJ rule: the peanut butter and the jelly MUST be touching. The bond between the two is half science, half magic, and all amazing. Don't disrespect it.
THE FUTURE?
Recently, I've been flirting with the idea of adding another ingredient into the mix. But every time I go to make myself a sandwich, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm to desecrate something so holy. And now I'm sad because I'm afraid I've offended mayonnaise by calling it a desecration. But I think the mark of an advanced civilization is that sometimes it's not already extremely hungry when it prepares its food, so it might get adventurous and tamper with the sanctity of jelly and bread and peanut butter. I, however, am not an advanced civilization and I am starving. I think I'd better go make myself a turkey club and apologize to mayo.
THE INGREDIENTS
Now I could rattle off brand names of specific breads and where you can purchase a certain kind of jelly, and we could argue smooth versus crunchy peanut butter until I punch you in the chest because you say crunchy. Crunchy peanut butter is gross. I win.
But the three ingredients of an enjoyable PBJ all adhere to three guidelines:
First, ingredients to make PBJs for a week should not cost any more than $10. Making an expensive PBJ is like putting peanuts in peanut butter. WHY DO IT. Second, they should be easy to utilize. Now this is where I half break one of my own rules. Obviously jelly in a squeezable container was an international revelation and should have its own commemorative day complete with parades and awkward family gatherings. But peanut butter needs to come in an old-fashioned screw-top jar, and I'll tell you why. Did you ever wake up one picturesque winter morning to a fresh snow so completely brand new and untouched by anything that you had to suit up and get out in it to be the first to upset the pristine white surface with your giddy, excited-for-Christmas-presents energy? Yeah me neither. But that's pretty much what the first stab into a new peanut butter jar is like for me. Perfectly flat smooth brown surface BUTTER KNIFE DESTROY!! It's an important piece of your formative childhood memories that I get to live whenever I feel like it. By stabbing something.
INAPPROPRIATE PARAGRAPH BREAK
And then third and finally, ingredients should be plentiful and easy to find. Half the appeal of the PBJ is that headaches are allergic to it. Nothing about it says "I'm stressful" or "give up." You should never have to drive to a second store to round up ingredients. If you do, you might as well go ahead and buy yourself a turkey to cook in the oven for seven hours or whatever.
A CAUTIONARY TALE
You may make it to the end of a loaf of bread and find that you're left with an odd number of slices. You may be tempted to employ the well-worn sandwich adage "bigger is better" and attempt a double-decker PBJ, peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other side. I'm here to tell you the result will leave you angry, confused, and likely to throw your sandwich off your sixth-floor balcony. The bread buffer between your PB and your J violates the most important PBJ rule: the peanut butter and the jelly MUST be touching. The bond between the two is half science, half magic, and all amazing. Don't disrespect it.
THE FUTURE?
Recently, I've been flirting with the idea of adding another ingredient into the mix. But every time I go to make myself a sandwich, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm to desecrate something so holy. And now I'm sad because I'm afraid I've offended mayonnaise by calling it a desecration. But I think the mark of an advanced civilization is that sometimes it's not already extremely hungry when it prepares its food, so it might get adventurous and tamper with the sanctity of jelly and bread and peanut butter. I, however, am not an advanced civilization and I am starving. I think I'd better go make myself a turkey club and apologize to mayo.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
I probably don't have ADD.
Prologue:
It took a little longer for me to find a job after moving than I thought it would. About two months longer. So I was broke. Well, college student-broke. I still have things like an apartment and an internet-connected computer and guitars and an obnoxiously over-powered cell phone, and $6. But I was broke. So I wasn't able to pay my car payment. I'm also horrible with calling companies and wading through phone menus and talking to representatives, especially companies to whom I owe large quantities of money.
Chapter 1:
At the behest of my mom, whose credit rating will also suffer by my inaction, I finally call the company that owns my car until I give them enough money. My goal is to defer a payment or two until I'm back on my feet a little. They tell me that the payments need to be current before I can do that, so
This is boring I'm gonna go play Halo.
It took a little longer for me to find a job after moving than I thought it would. About two months longer. So I was broke. Well, college student-broke. I still have things like an apartment and an internet-connected computer and guitars and an obnoxiously over-powered cell phone, and $6. But I was broke. So I wasn't able to pay my car payment. I'm also horrible with calling companies and wading through phone menus and talking to representatives, especially companies to whom I owe large quantities of money.
Chapter 1:
At the behest of my mom, whose credit rating will also suffer by my inaction, I finally call the company that owns my car until I give them enough money. My goal is to defer a payment or two until I'm back on my feet a little. They tell me that the payments need to be current before I can do that, so
This is boring I'm gonna go play Halo.
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