I'd like to Bond with some of that James!

Things I want to tell you but that I'm too lazy to put in paragraph form.

Currently my viewing count of Casino Royal is up to 3, with the possibility of a 4th by the end of the week.

One of those times involved a fire-alarm not potent enough to pull me and Haras out of our perfect seats.

We may or may not have cheated our way into extra rain checks after said showing.
And by 'we' I mean Haras. I, on the other hand, was forced to quickly stifle a "well yes, my good man, we have in fact received the proper dosage of rain checks that you were so obliging as to bestow on us earlier, and no we are not in need of any additional ones because that would be deceitful, and dishonest."

It came out as "Wuuuhhh yeeeaaaahhhshssup"

The only thing worse than being in a theater filled with couples, is realizing that you and your roommate are still wearing your ugly Christmas sweaters from a party earlier that night, and that you actually do look like the sad lesbian couple you always joke about being.

With each viewing I’m convinced that Haras and I will undoubtedly fill the show with multiple inside jokes that will entertain us for months, but I end up becoming too flustered by the magnitude of Daniel Craig to be witty.

Instead I find my self grinning stupidly for two and a half hours and giggling every time he has his shirt off.

The lessons I've learned from Bond have given me a sense of reckless abandon which allowed me to successfully navigate my way around a possible encounter with a friend I did not wish to talk to.

Said encounter may have involved frantic tiptoeing through isles, numerous back flips while pondering the paradox of being half monk half hit man executing all moves with Bond-like composure, and finally seeking refuge in the Spanish section of the library.

But without the back flips.

I only do back flips when no one is watching.

Something D-O-O Economics

It was my first year attending Education Week at BYU. The few years previous I had stayed at our friends house, babysitting, while my parents left before dawn and came home looking like they had finally been voted off the island. For some unknown reason I found this terribly appealing and I anxiously awaited the year that I turned 14 and was eligible to attend. For those of you who have not been fortunate enough to attend Education Week, let me explain one thing; Education Week, while wonderful and uplifting, has the innate side effect of sucking a persons will to live. It's what your week would be like if you tried taking 40 credits each semester. It's like the tour de France of classes, but without the shorts. It's like that scene in the Matrix where Keanu "learns" kung fu, except that you don't know kung fu. You don't even know your own name. And by the end of the day, all your capable of is slinking back to your car and praying that your auto-pilot will take you someplace with a recliner.
Most of the week had been spent listening to analogies about dating and football, and scribbling illegible notes in a water damaged notebook. On a whim my Mom and I attended a class together, what it was actually about I have no earthly idea, but apparently it sounded enticing at the time. What I do remember is a story the speaker told about a support group that uses laughter as therapy. But instead of watching funny movies or telling jokes, they participated in a group activity guaranteed to produce loud, obnoxious, unrestrained laughter for the enjoyment of all. Sitting in a circle, the would in unison recite the mantra "Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. . . " until the entire group had broken form and were laughing of their own volition.
Needless to say I found this wildly funny, and in my Education-Week-induced-delirium I spent the next several minutes trying (unsuccessful) to muffle the sound of my hysteria. For a few moments I was under the misapprehension that I might get away with it, but It wasn't long before my Mom realized that I wasn't having a seizure. After trying (unsuccessfully) to shush me without attracting too much attention, the inevitable happened. It only took one sideways glance at each other, and soon we were both shaking with full 6.0 magnitude. Somehow, despite our obvious knack for inconspicuousness we attracted the attention of several other students surrounding us, and just as an earthquake begins at the epicenter, so did the ripples of laughter begin with our inability to contain ourselves. It started in the back corner of a classroom that holds 900 people, and within seconds it had traveled all the way to the podium where the speaker was forced to pause in her dialogue and question (unsuccessfully) what was happening. That did nothing to quell our fits of giggles, and in the end we had to mutually agree not to look at each other throughout the remainder of the class for fear of an aftershock. We were unsuccessful.

A bear in his natural habitat, a studebaker.

You Are Fozzie Bear

"Wocka! Wocka!"You're the life of the party, and you love making people crack up.If only your routine didn't always bomb!You may find more groans than laughs, but always keep the jokes coming.

The Muppet Personality Test

The Jig Is Up: Part Deux

A while ago I was kindly reminded that I have neglected to include one of my most infamous experiences as an incompetent person. And since I have no online-shame, I'll share this experience with you as long as you understand one thing; I've learned my lesson. That said, allow me to set the scene.

The year was 2004, a crazy year for me at BYU. I had been keeping myself busy with school, work, tutoring at a nearby high school, and trying to start prank-wars with my nocturnal roommates. Things had been going well, and my roomie Nicole and I had decided to go out to dinner. We sat down, and were pleased to see that the restaurant was not very crowded and that we could talk undisturbed about what was going on in our lives, and how we were coping with living in Provo. Dinner came and we talked some more, and throughout the meal I began to notice a buss boy clearing the tables near us. For some reason he seemed very familiar, and I was sure that I had seen him somewhere before. At the time I was working a job on campus which required me to help many students in person. As a result I was constantly making claims that I had seen someone before, and that I somehow I knew them. Nicole was no stranger to this, so when I mentioned that I recognized the buss boy she rolled her eyes as if to say "here we go again!" And indeed we did.

After we had finished our meal, and after much debating, Nicole convinced me (in that special way that only Nicole can) that I should leave a note with my number for the cute buss boy. "What the heck!" I thought, "what's the worst that could happen?" Silly Janay. So quickly I scribbled a note on my receipt hoping that our waitress would take pity on me and hand it over to the desired recipient. Note: I want to point out that it was not even an option that I would actually TALK to this guy, because anyone who knows me know that I don't talk to guys, particularly if I'm interested. I'd much rather ignore them to make sure that they don't know of my interest . . . and it usually works. I can honestly say that most guys I'm interested in have no idea that I even exist, so . . . success!

On the way home Nicole and I were laughing about my "daring" move, and began to wonder why we didn't do things like this more often? I mean, we are in Mormon town here, most of the guys we're going to meet are going to fulfill at least our BASIC qualifications.

A couple days later I got a phone call. He told me his name and that he was from the restaurant; I had no idea what he was talking about, but I played along like I knew exactly who he was and eventually my inherent intuition kicked in.

The conversation was going well, albeit very awkwardly, when he asked me "so how old are you?" that's when I knew something was wrong. I was feeling very young at the time so I told him that I would be 21 in a few weeks, and as soon as I said that I realized my mistake. My suspicion's were confirmed when he told me that he also had a birthday coming up . . . he's 17th birthday. Worse than knowing that I had just hit on a minor was when I realized where I knew him from.

He was a student I tutored at the high school for troubled teens.

For once I realized that my inability to approach people of the male persuasion had saved me from potentially an even MORE embarrassing situation.

The conversation ended with asking me to call him back sometime (though preferably before 9pm if possible). After I hung up, I looked over at a curious Nicole and said "THIS is why we don't approach guys Nicole, because of things like this."

Needless to say I never tutored at that school again.

Revenge of the Nerds

Today I took my first step into a bigger, nerdier world. Before I tell you exactly what that step was let me first say a few things in my defense. I have seen Lost. I have believed that something might actually be answered in a future episode, and I've learned that no matter how much people talk on the internet about their theories about the show, that doesn't give them anymore of a life. That said, it's confession time.

With the promise of new and wonderful shows for this fall season, I was feeling optimistic about television. I soon found that my week would scheduled around ANTM, Biggest Looser, Studio 60, Grey's Anatomy and, you guessed it, Heroes. In the past I've had, what I consider, very good taste in TV shows. (for proof of this I will refer to the mutiple seasons of Arrested Development, News Radio and The Office that I own (BTW those are supposed to show that I have GOOD taste)) But this fall's season has me a little caught up in the moment (Live in the now!) and thus my downfall.

After experiencing the deadly mix of a Hero's marathon, and being bored at work, I found myself perusing online forums which postulate about what's in store for the new cult-classic. (it gets worse) After scanning for a few moments I was surprised to see that no one had mentioned the one plot twist that I saw as completely obvious, and I was shocked that it had not even been addressed as a possibility! Well. Being the consciencous television viewer that I am, I could not simply stand by, and let these spoiler-hounds remain in the dark. So I did the noble thing, and I did it with as much humility as I could muster up (I even included a disclaimer that someone may have already pointed out this oh-so-obvious plot twist, and I had just neglected to see it)

I thought that at most I would get a polite response saying that my idea was interesting, or even unfounded. Boy was I wrong. Within 5 minutes my natural curiousity got the best of my, and I logged back on to see if anyone had responded. At first I was confused because I couldn't find my original post, then I discovered that it was about three pages back. Three pages of responses by the Uber-nerds who rule that domain, berrating me for bringing up a topic which had already been debunked by their larger-than-life-super-computer-like-minds. (although they failed to cite their sources, I guess uber-nerds don't NEED to take English 110) Apparently my idea would have been a great one if I had "come up with it TWO WEEKS AGO" I'm ashamed. I guess I'll just take my 12 sided die and go back to playing D&D in my basement.

Walk Like An Egyptian

MySpace. A place for friends. And also a place where men from foreign countries can share their secret pain and confess their undying love for you from the comfort of their own homes, through the anonymity of an online message. Ahhhhh. Isn't the internet great! (or The Web, as I like to call it)

Most of the time these messages are from someone who could rightly be referred to as a Senior-Crazy-Bitey-Hands (read March 28th) type man, but this time, I was amazed by the blunt eloquence of this humble Egyptian man's request.

Subject: Please . . . Janay?
I was looking soooooooooo hard, I was looking everywhere and anywhere untill I realized that she doesn't exist, she really doesn't exist at all....... So I decided to stop looking and give up about women forever forever forever..... The princess of my dreams doesn't exist, that's for sure!..........BUT.......When I looked at your charming eyes, I felt a spark running all over my body, I felt that I'm living in heaven......And when I looked at your warm irresistible smile, I felt that I'm the happiest person on this planet, I felt that this world is smilling to me.......And when I looked at your beautiful angelic face, I felt that I'm flying in the sky, I felt that this world is mine!!..... But unfortunately, I don't live in USA, I'm not american, I'm not even the same religion as you are....so of course you are not interested in me!!!......**SIGH!!**
-Mero

Mero-
Curse the infernal fates who conspire to keep us apart! I'm sorry that you took yourself on a wild-goose chase only to find out that the princess of your dreams does not exist! I know exaclty how that feels. When I was 7 I spent hours in my backyard setting leperchauns traps. Boy was I disappointed. But keep your head up Mero! You, and I? We are the same! We may yet find that princess (or prince) of our dreams! It's like you say in your ABout Me section. There are four kinds of people. But me, Mero? I'm the second kind. I'm still searching for my soulmate and so must you! I will not let you quit! Be strong and perservere and in time, you might just get that chance to propose to Nicole Kidman in front of all her body guards, but then, the answer will be up to her. . . **SIGH**

I have yet to get a response . . .

The Jig Is Up

Upon reading my recent blog about my general incompetence as a human, I was overwhelmed by the amount of remarks I got from friends and family, kindly reminding my that I had neglected to include some very key experiences. Now, lest I deceive you into thinking that I am more competent than my initial analysis claims, I have obligingly decided to include these additional proofs of my stupidity. Why? Because I'm just that smart.

*Courtesy of Nicole*
When I came home one night I noticed a grasshopper the size of a Buick resting comfortably on my from door. Well, I decided, this measly invertebrate would not best me! So I causally swatted the beast away with the back of my hand. What I didn't know was that Mr. Jiminy Cricket was not going down so easily. Without warning he leapt from the door and dive-bombed my head with the speed and accuracy of a . . . well, of a grasshopper I suppose.

Not to be out done, I also whipped into action and dodged in the only direction I could (my Matrix move is woefully under-practiced, so I had no choice but to bend forward). Unfortunately the bug had cornered me, and my rash decision to dodge resulted in me scraping my head along the brick surface of my building as the bug flittered away smugly into the night. Besides my hurt ego that I had to nurse for days, I also had perfectly parallel scratch marks on my forehead as a constant reminder of my encounter.

Upon reflection I can only assume that the cricket was exacting revenge on me for all those little grasshoppers I used to put in jars with bits of grass when I was little. Next time I'll be sure to add a twig.

PS If you can think of any other memories I might have repressed that would befit another blog entry on the subject, please don't hesitate to remind me . . . I have complete faith in your ability to do so.

The Blog of Eternal Stench

In the past I've felt that I needed to blog about SOMETHING. But no longer. From here out I vow to blog about EVERYTHING and NOTHING as I see fit. And if you don't like it? Too bad sucka! You'll have nothing and you'll like it!

Let the nothing begin. (Cue the rock man and his friends, man on snail, and hamster/bat thing. All together now? "The Nothing . . .")

I recently had two conversations with two friends. Who also happen to befriends with each other, but for the purposes of this blog, shall remain independently anonymous. One friend said "what's the point of a blog? The only people reading your blog are your friends so you can't write all the personal stuff you'd want to because it includes them, and so you have to censor yourself and what's the fun of writing something that you can post online for the world to see if you have to censor yourself?" Needless to say this friend has a tendency for run-on sentences.

The second conversation I had with my second friend has no relevance to this blog and therefore I will not give you the details. In the end though I couldn't help thinking, friend number one has a point.

Although there ARE ways around the anonymity problem such as giving all your friends alibi's, but in the end you're forced to use an alibi that you can actually remember; such as spelling the name backwards, or something else completely original and sure to keep the true identity under wraps (once again, a shout out of thanks to my BFF Haras)

So what's to be done? There are two options left.

Option #1: admit defeat and blog only about things that your friends (and family) will approve of, namely anecdotes of wild adventures that you highly over-exaggerate in order to make your life sound more interesting and exciting than it actually is.

Or.

Option #2: scream triumphantly and without reservation "social graces be damned!" and steel yourself against the barrage of angry comments (or lack of comments) that will plague your blog as you brazenly flout your opinions of your friends and family (and acquaintances) bad taste in clothing, movies and all things you consider yourself an expert in. (Harry Potter trivia?)

Personally I'd opt for option #3: (I know, I know I said there were only two,but if I told you there were three it'd ruin the dramatic suspense THAT IS this blog) Ah hem.

Option #3: Tell all your friends, family, and acquaintances (and pets) that you have an amusingly charming blog, dutifully update it with humorous accounts of your utterly mundane life, then secretly, and without reservation upkeep ANOTHER blog where you can vent your stress, resentment, or sheer glee concerning the events of that utterly mundane life we talked about earlier.

Granted, not everyone's life is as utterly mundane as my own, and therefore these parameters may not apply to them. I, for example, have never punched myself in the face and so I do not have that kind of experience to draw from. But let me just say this. If someday in the near future you see a mysterious link to an even more mysterious blog, full of secrets and indiscretions you never before thought your mild-mannered friend was capable of, rest assured, it's not mine.

Special Guest Blogger!!!

Upon request, here is my blog. Why is Kari stupid, you ask? We may never know. We can only refer to the symptoms and endless examples that only scratch the surface of the unknown bottomless pit that is the stupidity of Kari. You want some of these examples? Either because I’m that nice or that stupid, I will acquiesce to your request.

1. I’ve been crazy about the same guy for nearly four years. He doesn’t know.
2. He stands me up on at least a monthly basis. I still let him get away with it.
3. I keep expecting him to get his act together.
4. I keep hoping that he’ll ignore the two gorgeous girls that want him, and pick me instead.
5. I keep applying the B.S. through everything principle of high school, although my grades clearly reflect the fallacy of utilizing such an idea beyond public school.
6. My back really hurts. If I do daily exercises, it feels better. Once I actually did the exercises on my mission and my back stopped hurting. And so I stopped doing the exercises.
7. I still somehow believe in the idea that personality will get you farther than looks.

Mission moments of stupidity
1. I wore two different shoes—one brown, one black for a whole day on accident.
2. I shot an elder in the eye with a rubber band.
3. Because of me, missionaries are no longer allowed to play foozball at the institute building in Leeds, England.
4. I killed Kenny (the car) the day we got him.
5. I locked the keys in the car twice (although this was Walter). Actually the second time I didn’t, but I thought I had, so we spent thirty minutes trying to break into a car that didn’t actually have the keys in it.

Post-mission
1. This was over general conference. I asked Sterling at the conference center where the SLC temple was, and it was literally RIGHT IN FRONT OF US. Cool, huh.
2. ITRYSOHARD. That’s stupid.

These are just a few of Kari’s moments of stupidity. I hope you enjoyed them as much as they embarrass(ed) me!

Kari

I'd Make A Better Ape Than A Human

Over the last few years I have come to realize that if something strange and bizarre is going to happen, it's going to happen to Sarah. But if something utterly idiotic is going to happen, it's probably my fault. Don't believe me? I didn't think you would. Therefore I have compiled a list of proofs of my general incompetence as a human being. Enjoy.



When I was the first person to use the bathroom at work, I did not notice the toilet seat was still up from the cleaning crew, and I promptly sat directly IN the toilet bowl.

No matter how many times I look it up, I always misspell the word "necessary",or is it "neccesary"?

The first formal dance I went to in college, I tripped and fell face first down 2 flights of stairs, leaving my date behind in the dust.

When my friend said "I don't think I have your number" I assumed he said "I think I have your number", and then wondered why he sat there awkwardly fiddling with the seatbelt, looking at me expectantly.

I have spent entire days being angry with someone for something they did in my dream.

After I broke my full-length mirror, Sarah bought me another one as a gift, which I shattered not two days later in exactly the same way.

I have never gone an entire winter without falling, butt first, on the ice.

When I left a notebook containing some personal entries at my auto-maintenance class, I decided not to ask my teacher about it, on the off chance that he had read it, and would therefore connect the ramblings of a bitter psychopath to myself.

I am so OCD about folding wrappers that I don't like to eat Hershey's Kisses, because the wrappers always tear.

Everytime I wash dishes by hand I get a wet spot across my waist from leaning against the counter. It has never occurred to me to use a towel.

One of the first times I wore heels in public, I punctured a hole in the floor of my local rite-aid. I've never worn heels in a drug store since.

I panic when my alarm goes off and I won't push any buttons until I'm sure I have the right one because I'm scared that the wrong button will some how result in a huge catastrophe.

Every time I try to use a USB drive, it takes me at least 3 tries to figure out which direction it goes in.

When pickin up my curling iron, I yanked the cord which then pulled my basket of make-up off the shelf, and into the toilet. Then I went eyeliner-fishing.

Sometimes when I'm asleep, I snore so loudly and abruptly that I wake myself up.

Right now I would rather work on my blog than go over to my boss to ask for something to do, because that would involve walking by the cute guy's cubicle. And I'd rather be bored than have another awkward look-in-look-out-look-in-look-out situation.

After spell-checking this blog, I noticed that I accidently changed 'Hershey kisses' to 'horse's kisses'.

I think I've made my point.

To the office, he's lazy. But he'll soon become the most ambitious man with a club. NextPage software developer Jack Bauer can't afford to always play by the rules. As a participant of the 1st annual golf tournament, Jack must stop engineers, testers, and programmers, usually while releasing the newest build of R12. What follows is an account, unfolding in real time, of each consecutive hour, in what is about to be one very bad day.

HOURS UNTIL TEE TIME:21:23
Tuesday, September 19, 2006 10:37 AM

To: EVERYONE
Subject: Golf Tournament
Bob, Jean, Alan, and I look forward to taking the winners stand at the end. John assures me that his recent shoulder operation will not limit his ability to sign autographs at the end. So, don’t be shy about asking,

David

HOURS UNTIL TEE TIME:
21:16
Tuesday, September 19, 2006 10:44 AM

To: EVERYONE
Subject: Golf Tournament
David, your group is more than welcome to come to the winner stand to congratulate Charlie, Joe, Carol and I on a thoroughly dominating victory.
Sam

HOURS UNTIL TEE TIME:
20:29
Tuesday, September 19, 2006 11:31 AM

To: EVERYONE
Subject: Golf Tournament
Folks, sometimes you have to remember it’s the littlest dogs that bark the loudest. Don’t let them faze you. When a chance comes along, you watch it approach, then stalk it like a hawk stalks the mouse scurrying across the bare ground on a cold, dry moring in January. When the sun rises in the east and peirces your gaze with it's glowing rays of promise, that is when you look to the west, and measure the length of your shadow against the length of your courage. And when the day comes that you find that you've surpassed your own will of character; the day that your bravery overshadows your fear; the day that small men become taller, and tall men become giants, that is the day that I will TEAR IT UP ON THE GOLF COURSE!
Jack
AKA: NextPage software developer, Jack Bauer
PS Nothing but the furries of hell will deter me from victory!PPS And those furries will have to BRING IT! Victory, it will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.

HOURS UNTIL TEE TIME:19:44
Tuesday, September 19, 2006 12:16 PM

To: EVERYONE

Subject: Golf Tournament
I know most of you are going to be very sad but we are going to cancel the golf tournament this Friday due to the high chance of inclement weather (rain and really cold temperature).
Carol

Whaaaaaahhht??

Golf Time!!



To go, or not to go. That is the question. The question that every employee asks themselves on the fateful day the get the first notice of the annual office golf tournament. As a part time employee I usually revel in knowing that I'm not invited, which also means I get to leave early, during the awards ceremony, and enjoy the tournament in solitude. But unfortunately this company has outsmarted me. Without prior consent my name was added to a roster of company teams competing this year. "No experience needed! Play for fun! Get to know your co-workers! If you don't have clubs we'll pay for you to rent them!" The messages beat me into submission before I know what's what; the room starts spinning and all I see is a blur of computer monitors whizzing by, the servers taunting me with their replicas and their email clients. Then I realize the room isn’t spinning at all, my chair is. And I’m squealing like a 6 year old on Space Mountain.

So who are these illusive teammates of mine? Three middle-aged computer programmers, out to show the world, or the company, that they DO know the meaning of fun, and that they DO have other interests besides computer games. In truth I've never met them . . . even less of an incentive to go. True, we could bond over the drama of Commander Worf falling for a girl who's half Romulan, but alas, Star Trek antics only get you so far in life. Then you're forced to turn to golf. The dark side, as we Trekkies like to call it (I'll be stoned to death for that later). So the ultimate question remains: to go, or not to go.

After careful consideration I've decided that although there is great potential for a memorable outing (and accompanying blog) that's not enough to entice me to get out of bed at 7am to "get to know" my alleged co-workers. I've been here for two weeks, and thus far I don't see any evidence that there actually are other people working here besides the 4 people I know. APPARENTLY this whole floor belongs to our office, but the howling wind, and rolling tumbleweeds is beginning to make me suspicious.

The Joys of Employment . . .

There are many small joys in life that come with something new. Wearing pair of socks for the first time; the first scoop of icecream from a fresh carton (when you can still fool yourself into thinking that you'll only have one dishfull); and that first crack in the spine of a good paperback. Most of the time, first are exciting, refreshing, and enjoyable. The first day of a new job for the intelligent, modern woman, however, is much different. In order to appreciate this in full, we will examine my entire first WEEK of work.

>>It all starts when you spend two hours filling out a page and a half of HR paperwork, listening to the roar of the air conditioner, and trying not to laugh when the other newbie says to your, I'm *this* close to retirement boss, "ummm . . . don't be mad buuuuuut . . . I don't have like my social security card with me . . ." Apparently these high-tech software companies have some sort of SUPER-copy machine that requires at least 20 minutes of individual attention per copy . . . it's good to know that your drivers license picture will be immortalized in the records of your HR department . . .until you die.

>>Introductions happen at a break-neck pace. You know it, and they know it. No one was listening. Now when you see them you'll look away in an awkward moment because ASKING for a name is out of the question. Office camaraderie at it's best.

>>Incorporating the office jargon is always a challenge, new words that make you feel like a natural woman. Things like "upload it to a Domino server so we can set up a monitor system", or "We need to wer-ify the location of Moe-hoe at Pawey's" (a sad attempt to phoneticize an accent).

>>Secure buildings are particularly interesting; where you need a key-card to get in any door, you get the lovely task of pacing-outside-the-office-waiting-for-someone-to-come-to-the-bathroom-so-you-can-harass-them-to-let-you-in-while-you-try-to-position-yourself-so-that-the-receptionist-in-the-office-across-the-hall-will-stop-looking-at-you-like-you've-just-stolen-the-last-doughnut-in-the-break-room-which-you-couldn't-get-into-if-you-wanted-because-you-still-don't-have-a-key! Hypothetically.

>>Finding the women's room can be difficult enough, but then discovering that it has a motion sensor, so that if you sit too long on the can, you'll soon be sitting in the dark. Then someone else comes in a finds you there . . . they know how long you've been there, they've timed the lights themselves . . .now you're both hoping that the air-freshener sensor will kick in soon.

>>And finally, the icing on the cupcake of employment, that first time you accidentally say something inappropriate to your boss. Like when he's training you on a program and offers to demonstrate it on a computer and you sweetly ask, "Your place, or mine?" Needless to say, we went to mine.

PACMAN TAKES A BACK SEAT

I found a new favorite game. It's kind of like Dance Dance Revolution except that instead of moving your feet you move your hands (and there aren’t QUITE as many pale skinny guys participating in a “dance off”) No question it’s better than the $10 knock off DDR that I bought on ebay. For some reason I have yet to comprehend the thrill is a bit diminished when all the songs sound like an Atari game, and no matter when you step on the pad, you’re always wrong. It’s an obsessive compulsive’s nightmare. But I digress. After you get over the initial embarrassment of the cheesy but insanely loud music, it's kind of addicting. But then you watch the other people playing it and you can't help but think, "Wow. Do I look that idiotic and uncoordinated when I play? Answer: No chance in hell. I'm much more poised and classy." At least that's the lie I tell my self to justify another session. I look almost as classy as I do when I play the game where it senses your moves, and when you want your guy to hide behind the couch while villain numero uno is popping caps at you, you have to literally pop a squat. There’s a lot of ‘popping’ in that game. That's just another think that I have to add to my list of things to do in the privacy of my own home after I'm a millionaire. Right after the swimming pool full of pudding.

MySpace Strikes Again!!

The other night Sarah and I were bored. I mean BORED. After our favorite show failed to air, we decided it was time to photograph Sarah’s bruise. (Remember I said BORED) After several attempts with her camera phone we got annoyed with the artificial shutter clicking, and decided it was time to break in my new digital camera.

Don’t be deceived, all that is digital is not gold.

This camera in particular measures about 1”x2”, can only hold 20 pictures, has a viewfinder that is activated by manually pushing it up, and runs on a AAA battery. Eventually we got Sarah in a very compromising position, and had some minor success. (Which is reflected in Sarah’s blog)

And then it was time. LET THE GREAT EXPERAMENT BEGIN! For all you MySpace-ers out there, you may recognize what you’re about to see. Personal photography at it’s finest. When meeting people online it’s best to know as little about them as possible, and those myspace angles are all about the deception.


Thus behold my eye. Is it my right eye? Did I flip the image and my hair is actually parted on the other side? The world may never know!!!






Why is Sarah looking up at the ceiling? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it Brandon Routh in spandex?










And finally, why is Sarah playing the bagpipes, while I play with bio-hazardous materials?






Answer=

BORED.

Ok this is just too much. On Sunday hundreds of people flocked to a hospital in India to see a man holding a piece of his own skull. . .which FELL OFF! I don’t know about you, but if any part of me fell off I would NOT be that calm, especially not if it was my SKULL! The good news is that now those costume designers for the inevitable He-man movie won’t have to worry about finding a mask for Skeletor. (Haha. Sorry) Apparently this guy burned himself . . .uh . . .on his head . . .so bad that his skull died and started to rebuild a new one. FYI 007, you might want to inform Q that his new lightning-rod-hidden-in-a-fedora might not be such a hit. But it is guaranteed to shock and amaze! (wow, sorry again.) The one thing this story has taught me is that my idea for rubber “soft hats” might not be such a bad idea . . .although the Styrofoam toupee might still need some work. Oh, and if you’re like me, closer inspection reveals that he has a bandage on his head, and that he is actually not frying bacon using his electrically enhanced brain waves.

I recently had the play-sure to attend a restaurant of such notoriety it’s typically only featured quality cinema such as The Cable Guy. That’s right. You fellow green-knight supporters know phenomenon of which I refer. Medieval Times has regaled patrons with authentic dinning experiences (minus the Pepsi) and the medieval version of swashbuckling sword fights and dramatic excitement.

Never before in the history of these dignified patrons have they willingly donned cardboard crowns with such loyalty and excitement. At least not since their 10th birthday party at Burger King. The energy of the area is the closest thing we have in America to the European world cup fans. Each group cheering unquestionably to the knight bearing their designated color, and shouting profanities at the competing knights, then secretly giggling when their own knight falls dramatically into single un-removed pile of horse doo. The food is almost pointless, but to aid the ingestion of beer, once you get caught up in the action in front of you. Indeed my co-attendee Emily waved her little green banner so vigilantly and so enthusiastically that by the end of the tournament she had nothing but a frayed, green fuzz ball on a stick.

Before going we decided that we were going to make the most of this experience by paying the extra $4 to be in the "royalty" section. This entitled us to the afore mentioned banner, a dvd of the performance, and the play-sure of listening to the drunked menopausal women to our left complaining about not getting a flower from our knight, and the spoiled, prepubesent, mall-rat sisters to our right literally bludgening each other over a hankerchief from the princess. If you're curious, the 7 year old won.

GO GREEN! GO GREEN! GO GREEN!

This is my dramatic entrance to the blogging community. Prepare to be dazzled.