I'd Lick It If I Wasn't Afraid the Comet Would Kill Me

Headbutt.

First things first: dragging one's significant other to a Kelly Clarkson concert is okay. Unless you're a dude. Then you're just kind of sad.

Alumni weekend is a big time in the life of most Roanoke College alums. There's the nights of endless drinking, the reliving of BELLLLLLLLLLTTT stories, and the seeage of old friends you never talked to in college and don't really want to talk to now.

It's also a time to find out that you have a decent sized cult following.

Yes, that's right. Turns out, I am followed by my own cult-crazy mass. I never realized that I was indeed some kind of cult leader (but not a crazy cult leader. That's something totally different, although by reading these things you probably imagine that it's not far out of the realm of possibilities. And it isn't. It's a big realm, with a stream, and a jungle, and a playground for the kids. Just like the Wu-Tang).

Being a cult leader like I am, I feel like I should be entitled, even impressed upon, to make some demands. After all, if there are large swarms of people reading my every word, analyzing it, following my ideals to the "T", then the world is in for some serious trouble, and I had better make these demands before I take its slow and inevitable end by turning the chaos dial up to 11. So in no particular order, here are some of my demands. Write ins and freebies are always acceptable.

-17 cases of Arizona iced tea. A man's gotta drink, and I want to drink in style.
-17 cases of Budweiser. A man's gotta drink, and this has nothing to do with style.
-a pet monkey to sword fight with when I get home from work.
-a case of baseballs.
-an abolishment on the ability to change lanes on the interstate without the use of one's turn signal. Attempting to do so should cause the offending car to beep very loudly, all 4 tires to blow out, and a two small men in green shorts to leap out of the steering wheel and pull the driver's ears. Oh yeah, and the car should explode into confetti too. I like confetti.
-my own personal soundtrack to life. Playing constantly. With DJ Clue spinning the records.
-a personal teleportation system. Like on Star Trek, but not as geeky.
-a palm tree in the front yard. For the dwarf to play around.
-a trip to Mexico in November. Oh, wait....
-a lifetime supply of sandwiches from The Deli. Not quite Mr. V's, but close enough.
-orange striped tube socks.

Keep in mind, this list is only part of my master manifest. To read the entire 816 page document, you'll have to stay awake for a couple days in a row on a combination of coffee cake and navy beans.

It's the only way to do it.

K bye.

The Phoenix Rises

Headbutt.

First things first: I could regale you with stories of my narrow escape from the jungles of Brazil, but I'll save that for another time.

I believe I've come up with a solution for all of my problems at work. You know: the dead arm, the constant shifting in my chair, the inability to exercise. My idea?

Touch screens.

If my computer were nothing but a giant touch screen (or even better, a giant touch screen with lots of smaller, virtual touch screens along it's peripheral), things would be much smoother. My arms? Now buff from waving them around (in a constructive manner mind you, not in the normal "he's talking again and about to fly off the handle" kind way). The constant shifting? Still happening, but now it's not from being uncomfortable. The dead arm? Not so dead.

Will this happen? Probably not. I think I have to wait until the scientists get done with the tube technology. Hell, I'm still trying to convince people around here that I need an intern (they are slowly starting to see it my way. Okay, only Milton does, but that's one more than before). And then there's my idea for a ball pit in the backwoods cube section. And the people movers. And the robotic monkeys.

They wouldn't even need to be fed bananas. Only motor oil and screws.

K bye.