52 Inches of Wholesome Goodness

Headbutt.

My weekend was better than yours. Normally if I say this you should absolutely assume it to be true without any more info, but I'll even validate this one.

Friday: (5 days left until the end of the world)
-Turb comes home and says, "hey Rich, you want to go buy a TV?" I proceed to look at him funny and get my car keys. 30 minutes later, and we are the proud owners of a new 52 inch TV. At this point, we load the TV into Lisa, which required the TV to be half hanging out of the trunk. I proceed to drive no faster than 20 while Turb calls me retarded for the 4 block ride home. We then revel in its glow.

Saturday: (4 days left until the end of the world)
-United game. They lost. It was ugly. End of that recap.
-Pour House. Oh the Pour House. If you ever come visit me, we are going to the Pour House. Behind the bar were two guys, Todd and Milton. Todd's Irish, Milton isn't. This is evidenced by the fact that Todd can put a shamrock into the froth of a Guinness. Milton cannot. But Milton can put a smiley face in the froth. But the real story is that they like to buy shots. Of Jaeger. A lot. And for multiple people too. Like the group of three ladies that was sitting at a booth behind us. Who then came over and sat with us. Stacy (blonde) didn't really say much. Some redhead (whose name no one can remember) talked to Turb for awhile. She was cute. Jeannine (who would wind up as "J 9" in my phone) got to talk to me for most of the night. The pattern kind of went like this: talk, shot, talk, someone gets up, talk, shot, person comes back, more talk. Turb fell asleep at the bar, so we said goodnight, and proceeded to somehow: find the Metro, get off at the right stop, and get home. Don't ask how we did it, it was magic.

Sunday: (3 days left until the end of the world)
-My brother came up to visit. We barbecued. Nothing too exciting, nothing crazy, just solid times.

Monday: (2 days left until the end of the world)
-My brother left. Alexis came to visit. Back to the Metro for a Nats game. I like baseball.
Back to the Pour House. Todd proceeds to make fun of both of us. Good times. On a side note, as we were leaving, a cop either radioed in to the station about an aggressive panhandler or an aggressive manhandler. I would like to note that I had not manhandled anyone aggressively at that point in the day.
-Burcher comes home, sees the TV, and lapses into a coma.
-Burcher is saved by the dwarf in our TV that spins the color wheel, who it turns out knows life-saving techniques.
-Burcher tells the dwarf to get the hell back into the TV so he can watch it.

K bye.

Some Kinda "Smart" Bug

Headbutt.

Lot's of little things. First, I hate you DirectTV. We were watching "Starship Troopers" and you cut out after only an hour in. If you've ever seen the movie, you know why I was so mad. Speaking of that movie, Dina Meyer. Ho-ly smokes. Could they get rid of Denise Richards and just have kept Dizzy in the movie all the time?

They're back. You all left them for dead on May 6. But they aren't. Like some kind of phoenix, they are back and they aren't going anywhere except straight to the top. Mark my words. Long live the Empire.

Danica Patrick. Do we need to see/hear more about her? Yes, yes we do.

I should start some work, so k bye.

The Dangers of Knee Juice

Headbutt.

My knee hurts. My knee hurts because of a slide tackle. There is a back story, and here it is.

Happy hour. Great invention. One of the best inventions in the world. Free wings, also a good invention. Put the two together and you have sheer bliss. Throw in a cute waitress (editor's note: not our actual waitress. Ours was shorter, and looked slightly scared after serving us) and several limes and you've got Coronas squirting all over the place, lots of laughter, a phone call about a security clearance, and more good times than you know what to do with.

But that's not where the hurt knee comes in. That's how we got to being in a really good mood so we could go home and play college hoops. The next thing you know, we've played three games, and for some reason I feel like slide tackling.

I had tried before to slide tackle Turb, but didn't get much of a slide involved in it. So the next time, I slid hard. And it was a beautiful slide tackle.

Until Turb landed on me. Then my knee really hurt. And there was knee juice on my khakis. Not sure where the knee juice came from, but there it was.

So I was down, Turb was down, my knee hurt, and I've got knee juice. Somehow not what I envisioned, but then again, I'm not really sure if I had a vision to begin with.

K bye.

The End of An Affair, or The Death of My Beloved

It all started after my freshman year in college. That was when I met her. Her name was Ginger, though we almost weren't meant to be. I almost started out with another lady before I had even seen Ginger. Once I saw her, though, it was love at first sight.

We spent a lot of time together those few months. Most of the time it was me doing the talking, her sitting in relative silence. Silent, always silent, but still listening. It was the good kind of silence, not an awkward "I don't know what to say" type. She would listen while I talked, she would listen when I didn't say a word. All the while Ginger knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling, and I knew the same.

She became more boisterous as the years went on. No longer did she always sit in that silence of hers, she would respond now. Talk back. Answer. Sometimes the answers weren't the ones I wanted to hear, but I didn't care. I loved her, she was mine.

Our relationship was a mutual one. I took care of her as best I could, and she took care of me. There were many a night when I took my problems to her, and she would sit and listen. She was always good about knowing when to just listen. But more than anything she gave me my first real identity. She helped me to discover who I was. We became associated with each other, Ginger and Rich. I now knew who I was, and she was right there with me.

Then the sickness came. It hit Ginger hard. I did the best I could to take care of her, but once one thing got better, something else failed. Ginger tried the best she could, and complained so little. She was a fighter, and never quit on me. But it got to the point where I could do no more for her. I couldn't take care of her anymore.

I'm leaving Ginger. Ending our relationship, ending our affair. But one day Ginger, I promise that I'll find you again. I'll find you and restore you to your former glory. And it'll be you and me, Ginger and Rich, once more. Goodbye Ginger. Goodbye.

This Post Has No Title

Headbutt.

I was going to tell you some kind of story, or write some remarkably intellectual piece on somethingorother, but then I saw that it's 4:30, and that means that it's time to go home. So you bastards will have to wait until we get internet at the house. ("Wait", you ask, "you still don't have internet?" No, we don't. You know who's fault that is? Goddamn Cox Cable. They are almost as bad as Comcast. In fact, they suck. Kind of like your math skills.)

Read up on Josh Wander. He's not as polished or as tall as I am (read: midget), but he's a good kid nonetheless. He's still living in Pittsburgh because he's an idiot and, even though he says Pittsburgh sucks all the time, refuses to leave. But he can drink like a fish. Like a really short, alcoholic fish. Minus the gills and all that. I hope if he stays there he at least grows a mullet to fit in. (Is that a dig on Pittsburgh? Yes, yes it is.)

K bye.

Who Knows How To Remove An Enter Key?

Headbutt.

I'm at work. Turns out I can't use the enter key at work. Why? Because if I press the enter key, the software I use completely freezes up since it tries to search a database that's bigger than your mom (editor's note: if either my brother or my sister are reading this, I do not mean their mom in that case, since their mom is my mom, and I don't want to insult my own mother. Even I'm not that mean.)

I think I've been sitting here for 20 minutes waiting for the system to unlock itself. This wouldn't be all that heartbreaking normally, but in this case I was actually working. Accomplishing things. Great things. Can I accomplish these great things anymore? What do you think?

Well, system un-frozen. Back to work. Hey, stop reading and go get a job. Even I have one. Slacker.

Out. Of. House.

I've Got An Idea, Let's Race Elephants!

Headbutt.

Kentucky Derby just ran. It was over an hour of hype for the race to start late, last under two minutes, and be won by a total longshot. Blah blah blah.

Why do we even care about horse racing anymore? You want to know the last time horse racing was a major "athletic" event in this country? Put it this way, Frank Sinatra was still alive, in his prime, and really young. Can you even name 5 racetracks in the country? I can name at least twice as many baseball stadiums.

Fact is, most people only care about horse racing a maximum of 3 times a year. It's not something people can grasp onto easily. Do you know how they pay out the lines? How they set the lines? How many weeks are between each race? Who the last Triple Crown winner was? Did you know that every single horse in the entire world celebrates their birthday on January 1, even though they might not have been born on that day?

So what's the point? The point's this: horse racing is dead (editor's note: I have never myself personally killed a horse (be proud mom!). I have, however, almost gotten killed by a horse in a stampede on a horse farm. I wish I was making that up, but I'm not. Don't take a shortcut while running through a horse farm. Horses don't like that.). Gone. Kaput. So people, let it die, quit pretending you care, and we can all move on.

On a completely different note, I got a job. I like it, I get to play company softball, and I get free Coke (editor's note: the drink, not the drug. I'm not some kind of Niebuhr or something (who wants to bet I take hell for THAT one?)). Good times all around. Plus, now I have coworkers to badger into coming out for beligerent ridiculousness on the weekends. Oh baby.

That's it, out of the house.

The Case For Public Domain

What is public domain, you ask? Well, according to Lolly Gasaway (editor's note: that is the person's real name. I couldn't make that name up if I tried), public domain is a creative work that is not protected by any copyrights and can be used freely by everyone. Nice thing to know.

So what the hell is the big deal? Why am I writing about public domain? Why should you even care? Because this, this forum, this virtual paper, this way of expressing ideas and thoughts and semi-intellectual expressions(though it delves into completely non-intellectual expressions more and more every day. Thanks Prozac! (editor's note part deux: I have never taken a Prozac pill (be proud mom!) I do not believe in taking medication, especially over-the-counter stuff to medicate (read: place into a stumbling, slumbering stupor). Hell, I don't even like taking Advil when I have a headache.) is public domain. It's a public forum. Even though only I can place my thoughts right here, you could very well get your own and write whatever the hell you want.

Again, what's the big deal? Why am I writing this rambling drawl about all of this stuff? The reason why is this: I want people to read this. You might get a kick out of it. You might hate it and sent me threatening emails, to which I'll laugh and tell you to meet me and my baseball bat outside (editor's note: I don't have a baseball bat, yet. But I will by the time you send me the threatening email). If I didn't want all 4 of you to read this, I would do one of a few things: a) stop writing on here, 2) click the little private button so only a select fewer number of people could read this, or H) stop writing on here.

This, or any other blog, is a public forum. A chance to read up on the comings and goings of people that you might not be able to talk to all the time, but maybe through their writings you get an idea of the slice of life that they happen to be eating at the current moment. I do it all the time, especially to catch up on what my sister is doing. (I'm going to guess that I'll get a phone call within the day telling me to remove that link.) If I don't want people to know what I'm up to, then I won't write it in such a public forum. And I would want me to know what I'm up to, since there's no reason to be embarrassed about anything I've done because everyone else has probably done it before (or something remotely resembling it.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get off my soapbox and go attempt to hit on the incredibly attractive girl that sat down near me. So get out of my house.

P.S. Did you know that I can't get the spell checker function to work on here? What kind of service are you running when your spell checker won't even work? I swear, if I wasn't so unmotivated (see the last post, unless you too are unmotivated, then just say you did and pretend to know what's going on) I'd write these people and give them a piece of my mind. Again, done, out of the house.

Where Do Cost Analysts Go When They Die?

They don't go to heaven where the angels fly. They go to a lake of fire, and they fire. But don't worry, we'll see them again come the 4th of July.

Cost analyst. It has no ring. No flare. If you heard it, you'd go, "why are you telling me this?" But as of Thursday, that's my new job title. Cost analyst. Why is it my new job title? Because I'll have a job, that's why.

Do I actually have the job? No. No I don't. Could I be counting my chickens before I fry them into some tasty concoction? Yes, I could be. Is there a chance that I'll absolutely blow this interview spectacularly and wind up being thrown out of the building onto my ass because I got into a scrap with three of the current employees? Never say never, my friends, never say never (editor's note: this scenario has never happened yet (be proud mom!). However, given the proper prodding, I could be talked into it. Just keep that in mind.)

So why won't that happen? Because I'm money. Someone tell me the last time I royally blew something in the clutch (besides those two times I got beat at the line in ODACs for third place, as Turb (read: the other roommate) will point out. In my defense, I had done approximately 5149 events prior to that. And it's not like I tanked it like some other people out there ::cough::DANA::cough::) . Point is, I'm golden tomorrow. Golden I tell you, golden. So no more unemployment for me, which lasted all of 3 days.

No more unemployment = I need to get up off my ass and finish unpacking. "You aren't done unpacking?" you ask. Of course I'm not. It's going to take me days, nay, WEEKS, to finish. It could take a couple of hours if I was properly motivated, but unless you know a good looking brunnette, the motivation will continue to lack, whether you like it or not. And you like it, you know you do.

I'm gone before this battery dies and all my work is forever lost into wherever work goes when you don't save and the power goes out. Oh internet in my house, how I miss you. That's all I got. Get out of my coffeeshop.

The Problem With Towing Companies

I'm in Virginia. Nothing new there, you knew that already. I like it here too, but again, you knew that. It's better than Pittsburgh, but then again, anywhere is better than Pittsburgh.

I haven't figured out where everything is yet, but no problem. That's why they invented this.

As far as jobs go, well, since I'm writing this right now, I don't have one, now do I? But there appears to be some light on the horizon. Either that or it's someone coming to get me. Hope they realize I'm a feisty bugger who kicks. Alot.

Towing companies. They suck. Why do they suck? Because they tow your car from right under your nose, that's why. Ginger did not get towed (thank God, because if they tried she'd probably fall apart into two pieces. I love my car. Seriously, I do.) Jeremy's car got towed (side note: Jeremy, from here on out known as Burcher, is one of the guys I live with. Good kid, otherwise I wouldn't live with him. Go read his stuff). Keep in mind, his car got towed while both of us were in the townhouse. Then the towing company did realize they towed his car, and told him to report it stolen. Then they went, "Oh, wait, it's not stolen, come pay us money so you can have your car back." So we trekked out there to get his car back. Next time you see a tow truck, you are forever required to slash its tires. Unless it's towing your own car because you asked it too. Then wait until it's done to slash away.

Why aren't you people commenting? Seriously. Oh, wait, that's because nobody reads this.

I'm done here. That's all I got, get out of my house.

P.S. I'm in a Panera (read: chain coffee shop, but more importantly, free wireless!) right now, and do you know they have a fireplace in this sucker? And it's lit? It's May, why do you need a lit fireplace in your place of business? Why do you even need a fireplace? Alright, now I'm done, get out of my house.