Mixed WHAT?!

In my opinion, Mixed Nuts should be renamed "Cashews, Almonds, Pecans... and a lot of other nuts you probably don't like". I noticed most of them actually advertise that their blend is less than 50% peanuts, which is kind of an anamoly to me since I think most people are totally down with the peanuts. It's those annoying big ass funky nuts and the little round ones that throw me. That's some bullshit right there. What the hell are these things and where do you find them? And if less than 50% of these are peanuts, I assume they still are trying to tell you that, yes, there's more peanuts than anything else in there, but fuck it because they're still mixed up with some other things you might be ok with. I mean, why aren't they called "Peanuts... and stuff"? I'm going to be honest with you, I think they throw in the cashews to confuse you. Just to kind of create a diversion so that every now and again, you'll grab something else in there. And in my family household, whenever someone opens a can of them, you can bet they're making a bee line for the cashews. It never fails that by the time I get to them, they've been raided, leaving behind all the nuts you ONLY SEE LEFT BEHIND in a can of mixed nuts. Look Mr. Planter man, dancing around with your monicle and top hat and cane... don't pawn your crap nuts off on me. I know what's really going on, you son of a bitch you.

Law and Order

How come anyone who is questioned by detectives on Law and Order seems to have no problem continuing on with their activities while being interviewed by the fucking police?! I'm sorry, but it seems to me that would be a little nervewracking, but apparantly the man working in the office who is being questioned about a double rape or murder or whatever; he can't seem to tear himself away from the copy machine to talk to a couple of cops. I'll remember that if I ever get in trouble for something.

End Analog Transmission

Have you been seeing the commercials with the old lady sitting there, telling you how by law, all TV broadcasts will be exclusively in digital by February 17, 2009? If your TV is hooked up to cable, then "it will work just fine. But if you get TV through an antenna on an analog set, it won't work after February 2009." There's something seriously fucked up to me about all of that.
So my entire life, TV has been broadcast through the airwaves. Even though I've probably had cable since I was 5, maybe it was still comforting to me that there was radiowaves flying around my head shooting along a TV signal. When I was a kid, the only rooms in my house with cable were my mom and dad's and the den. I had a little black and white tv with these rad antennas on top that I would have to vigorously shake into position to catch the Arsenio Hall show or Married... With Children.
Perhaps those radio waves are the only thing keeping us from leaping into a homacidal state. Perhaps they're the only thing keeping us out of the sanitarium. Either way, technology advances and leaves everything else behind. I don't think I have any analog options in my current house, come to think of it. But I'm going to do my best to find one. And On 2/17/09 (which is a tuesday, by the way) I'm going to be sitting in front of a tv waiting for it to fall silent and see the picture snap into white noise for the last time.

My Weekend Days

I need to create something. I'm beginning to get starved for a creative output experience. How about that? Does that make sense? I don't know if that means I wanna create art or if that means I want to create destruction. I want to be impulsive. Reckless. And lose myself in your kiss. Which reminds me...
The other day, Aimee was in the back bedroom doing something and I was sitting at the computer in the living room, and we were getting ready to leave. We were going to Subway, where I would soon eat very slowly because I was nursing a hangover. But before that, I was in the living room, waiting to leave. I went to Youtube and played the following music videos, in high volume and in the following order:
Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive"
Mariah Carey's "Vision Of Love"
Celine Dion's "I'm Your Lady"

Aimee walked into the room, and I told her I wanted to have a swimming party where we had a very large stereo system only playing this type of music all day. She said she thought people would leave, but I told her I thought they would stay even longer. I get a little nostalgic for pop adult contemporary from 1990 - 1992. Had we had more time before my nauseating sit through Subway, where Aimee later said I was talking too loud (My ears were still ringing from the night before), I would have also played the following:

Cece Peniston's "Finally"
Jane Child's "Don't Wanna Fall In Love"
Roxette's "The Look"
Alanna Myles' "Black Velvet"

I couldn't finish all the soup I'd bought, so I threw everything away and brought the captain's wafers crackers with me and ate them in the car when we walked out.
I can't remember where we went after that, because I'm retarded. But Sunday, we went to the mall for the sole purpose of buying icees. Then we walked around the outside of the mall. I got the biggest Coke flavored icee they had. Both icees cost $6, to which Aimee said was pretty expensive for icees. Then we went to Target. Several times, I stood on the back of the buggy and made Aimee pull me. This ocurred near women's clothing, alongside the makeup isles, and eventually into frozen foods. A few people stared, but honestly not very long. Aimee shops very slowly, so I left her and the buggy and retrieved the following items:
wheat bread
hydrogen peroxide
contact lens solution
one onion
one bellpepper
a vegetable tray
deli-sliced turkey
pre-sliced apple slices

What a great Sunday.

Subur-Rude

A few hours ago, I was driving and was slowing down for a redlight when a Suburu Outback pulled up next to me. An older lady was driving. She looked over at me and sneered. What's up with that?

Life Goes On, and I Didn't Mean To Tear Up Your Painting.

Last night I was sitting up at the bar, doing some thinking. Nobody I really knew was there yet so I was just balancing the checkbook. Eventually, I started thinking about that retard from Life Goes On, the TV series about a family living and dealing with Downs Syndrome, starring Chris Burke as the central figure. The show was on from 1989 til 1993, and I remember being engrossed in it. I don't really know why. I also don't know how I somehow obtained a copy of Chris Burke's autobiography A Special Kind Of Hero but I did. If anyone wants to thumb through it, there's a copy at my parents house in my old bookcase. So anyways, when I got home I ran to the pc to check out Wikipedia, and I was happy to note that Chris Burke is living a normal life in New York. He fronts a folk band, which I have immediately started trying to book at NGT, and looks to be leading a pretty good life. Anyway, I guess I just wanted to share that with you...just in case you wanted to know.
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Last night I had a dream, where my whole family was in this mountain town. It was sort of like Las Vegas, so with that in mind maybe northern Nevada. Either way, my dad was driving me and Aimee and my brother and his wife around in a minivan, and eventually we hit this patch of ice and began sliding. It was weird because we weren't really moving very fast and there was no decline in the road, but we were just slowly slipping off the road. Eventually the van hit a sign and we all got out and walked. I saw this house where this huge party was going on, so we all went there to check it out. So my dad and I were walking around being introduced by people we didn't know to other people we didn't know, and we were all just laughing and having this great time. Well, I guess I started getting a little rambunctious, because I started climbing up this wall when nobody was around, and my foot slipped and I tore this painting up. Like, my foot tore the bottom part of the frame off which I was using as my perch to ready for the next step. I don't remember what I was climbing it for, but either way I eventually climbed back down. Then I passed out in a chair.
When I woke up, it was the next morning and the group of people who were at the party (I guess all of my family had left me) were cleaning up. I walked into the kitchen, and they all acted like I was some sort of just vagrant, kind of ignoring me. I was like, whatever, and started walking around to find a way out. As I was leaving I kept picking up pairs of sunglasses sporadically placed throughout the house thinking they were mine. Eventually I found the right pair, and also picked up a few of these strange looking jewels next to them. I was on my way into the next room and a group of them were gathered all looking up at this wall. I thought they were about to bust me for grabbing the jewels so I put them in my pocket. As I neared the group, the father of the family, this middle aged guy (kind of like the dad on Life Goes On) was on a ladder trying to repair the painting I had destroyed the previous night. They all looked at me dissappointed, like I had really let them all down. Then I woke up.
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So I guess last night was pretty eventful. The kid that played Corky is doing alright and I had a nice dream. Bonus. By the way, a really fast sketch of that painting I broke looks like this:





I'm pretty sure it's the bottom part of a tree. It was huge though. And it was like this tri-fold kind of deal.

School Days, School Days, dear old golden rule.. um, uh oh...

In early 1997, I moved out of my parent's house and into an apartment with Mac and Brandon. Legally those were the only people on the lease, but Jon also took up residency in the washer/dryer connections room, and Bubba usually took up residency in the hall bathroom nearly every thursday, friday, and saturday night. Coincidentally, we all attended Southeasten Louisiana University that semester and would usually carpool on the rare occasion all 4 of us went to school. One morning, Mac and I were in the living room about to leave when it slowly became more and more apparent the others wouldn't be arising from their liquor induced comas from the night before. And lo, we set out on the 45 minute trek down Interstate 12.
About halfway there, we drove thru a Burger King or something and got some sort of vile and potent fast food breakfast. That combined with the coffee, nicotine, and beer from the night before eventually proved a little more than even the strongest of stomachs could handle. Naturally, we were blowing it up in the car nonstop. I remembered when Bubba would be in the car, he often would say "Oh my God, it smells like a baby just shit in here.." which would ilicit laughter all around. Either way, this time it was just me and Mac. And good thing too - because I was about to need a co-pilot.
Over and again, we were just ripping it up, left and right. Riding down the interstate doing about 70 miles per hour, I eventually took it a little too far. Tragedy befell me. A wave of dread and dispair washed over me as I immediatley leaned forward, trying to get away from the minor catastrophe I'd just created. "Oh fuck" I said to Mac. "What?" "Um, I think I just crapped in my pants a little". Although I didn't just think it. I KNEW it. That's one of those things you just know.
Of course he started laughing hysterically at my misfortune as I kind of pulled myself off the seat, trying not to sit down. I didn't know what to do. We were almost to school. I wasn't going to turn around and drive another 40 minutes back to Baton Rouge sitting in my own tiny amount of poowater. This was a serious problem that needed to be corrected as soon as humanly possible. I looked over at him and said "We're gonna need to swap seats." I didn't want to pull over and have a cop show up asking questions. "Sorry, Officer. I just crapped in my pants." I was desperate. This isn't a situation you want to be in for very long. I needed to rid myself of this problem. I needed to get out of the makeshift non-diaper I'd just turned my pants into. This situation had to be taken care of. Time for the acrobatic tactics. We were gonna have to do this on the fly.
I set the cruise control of my 1992 Dodge Ramcharger, currently doing about 73 mph. I looked at Mac and said "Take the wheel". He protested such an idiotic manuever for a little while, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Eventually he consented and grabbed the right side of the sterring wheel while I dragged myself over to the center console and into the backseat. He climbed over the console and into the driver's seat. My truck at the time had a large storage area behind the back bench seat, so I climed over the little couch and landed in the very back of the truck between the back seat and the hatchback door like I was a wounded soldier crawling back to a foxhole. Luckilly I remembered I'd left an old white t-shirt in the back. As Mac laughed from the front of the car, I pulled my jeans down and leaning forward onto my knees, wiped myself off. The windows were tinted somewhat, but I'm sure somebody behind the truck could see violent thrashing about.
I took my underwear off, balled up the shirt with the clean part outside, and just wrapped duct tape all around the soiled linens. After I was about as clean as I thought I'd possibly be, I put the rest of my clothes back on and climbed back into the front of the truck. By this point we were almost to the freshmen parking lot at SLU, so I figured I'd let Mac just take us the rest of the way in. I was too traumatized anyway.
On the way to my first class, we strolled through the Union breezeway and I discreetly tossed the poo-shirt duct tape ball in the first trashcan I saw. I freeballed it the rest of the schoolday. Mac seemed eager to tell everyone of the adventure we just went through, but I begged him not to. Of course, we were at a party that weekend and I was just blabbering it to everyone, but at the time it seemed like quite a sensitive subject. So the moral of the story is: Don't poo in your pants while driving unless you have a passenger willing to risk their own life and a big enough vehicle to throw yourself all over. And leave a t-shirt in the back somewhere. You never know when you might need it.