Kelly

So lately Kel has been complaining (or "bitching") that I don't write enough about her in this bad motorscooter. She's really quite demanding, and her bitching (or "complaining") is a powerful force to behold. Also, since my reading audience is comprised of about 96% Kel (measured in body mass), I might as well give the people what they want. So here it is--everything you always wanted to know about Kel, but were afraid to ask.

1) Kel is an eating machine. She is like a manatee, spending 95% of her waking hours in the pursuit and consumption of food. You may have wondered why virtually all of my many nicknames for her are synonyms of the word "fat"--it's because by all reasonable accounts, she should be 800,000 pounds. All my disposable income is allocated to her belly. Every meal ends with the words "Ohhhhhhhhh...I aaaaate too much again. Oh God, I can't move...please roll me onto the couch." Then we go get ice cream. One time she was marooned on this island, and she crawled down into a hatch and this gun-toting Irishman locked her in a food locker, and instead of trying to escape she just started stuffing her face with chocolate bars. I'm pretty sure that was her.

2) Kel talks ALL THE TIME. You don't believe me. I know. The Kel you know communicates entirely through sporadic nervous laughter. Rest assured she has plenty to say--mostly about what she's eaten or plans to eat that day--she's just saving it all up for me. I say the words "Uh-huh" and "Mmhmm" a combined 768,987 times a day. There is no need for anything else in my vocabulary.

3) Kel loves it when the names of things appear in other things. If you have the same name as someone on a TV show, you'd best prepare yourself for a freak-out. If she sees swedish meatballs in the grocery store, she will immediately shout "Stephen, look! Swedish meatballs! You're Swedish!" God help you if you're driving through Alabama and Lynyrd Skynyrd comes on.

4) Kel is both obsessed with and desperately frightened of ghosts. She'll watch every "Haunted Hotel" documentary on the travel channel, but cannot make it all the way through the commercial for The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

5) Kel spent several years as a hobo. Before coming to ND, Kel spent her days riding the rails, wearing shabby clothing and trading tall tales for hot meals. Back then she was known as Texas Jack, and had male genitalia.

Headliner, I Challenge You To A Game Of Horseshoes

My Grandpa died a week or so ago, so I went home this weekend for his Memorial Service. Not to worry, I wasn't particularly close with him, so I shant be getting all weepy. I had never been to a Memorial Service before--I'm not sure what I expected, somber people in black I guess, but it was pretty much like any other family gathering. My cousin Alex MCd the whole thing sporting a powder blue seersucker suit with a pink shirt and tie. Hot! The tone was pretty casual, lots of joking about my grandpa's idiosyncrasies. He was the stereotypical gruff old man, constantly stating his old timey opinions in old timey ways, so there was plenty of fodder. Alex ended the proceedings by saying "I know that if Grandpa were here right now, he'd just have one thing to say...YOU DAMN KIDS!"

The Memorial was during the Washington game, so I missed most of that. I Tivo'd the whole thing, but I'd left the Bend at about 6 on Saturday morning and didn't get a chance to turn the game on until around 10 that night. Apparently I no longer have the ability to stay up longer than 16 hours because as soon as I sat down to watch I totally zonked out, six year old style. Typical trip home otherwise. Donatos, the Lube, babies and puppies. Gwen is still super cute, although I fear she's not quite as uber-fat as she was. She's smiling all the time though, and responding joyously to such hilarious things as lifting her arms into the air or making fish faces, so that's a lot of fun.

My poor dogs. They got these things which dogs apparently get called hot spots, which are just kind of like raw areas of skin on their faces. Oscar, who has never had any concept of anything other than the desire to have things in his mouth, dealt with it pretty well, but poor Phoebe didn't know what to do. My mom said she spent the first day sitting in the center of the room, staring dead ahead and not moving a muscle, presumably under the impression that the hot spots would eventually get bored and leave. The second day she spent hiding under a table. Thankfully, on the third day she discovered that she could soothe her face by laying it directly on an air conditioning vent, so she's been hanging out there ever since.

We finally got a noise complaint at Chili's Monday night. Hilarious. After four years of legitimately earning noise complaints but never getting them, we manage to offend some family by laughing too much or dropping a fork or something. Seriously, there were only three of us, and the shiznittery index (as measured in decibels) was at an all-time low. Anyway, we felt bad despite our relative innocence and declared an emergency hundred percent tip night, so hopefully that smoothed things over with the staff.

So what in the hell is Desmond doing in the hatch. It's outrageous. It's outrageously outrageous.

And what's up with Family Guy lately? You're really letting me down, Seth MacFarlane. It still has its moments, but it's lost that special quality that makes me want to soil myself. Get on it, jerk.

Lost Season 2 Tonight

Nine.

Sad Face

I have a splendid football schedule (thanks, Goat) with all the team graphics up on my cubicle wall, and in my never ending--Oh man. In Osco last night they were playing a muzak version of the Neverending Story theme. It doesn't get much sweeter than that. Anyway, in my never ending campaign to make everyone think I'm gay, I've been putting little smileys next to our victories instead of, say, a W or the score. The anticlimactic point of this poorly executed introduction is: I now have to put a sad face next to the big green S. Son of a bitch.

I'm not too upset with the team, except for the fact that half of them left without raising their helmets. I'm not too upset with their performance though. It could have easily been a win, and it was a ridiculously exciting game.

The rest of the weekend was a good time as well. Our place didn't end up being quite so packed as anticipated, as several people ended up finding other accommodations. Lots of people were in for the game though, one or two of whom actually had tickets. Sneaky McSneakerson (name changed to protect the innocent from blog-roving ND administrators) managed to slip into the stadium ticket-free and ended up sitting with me and Kel--I didn't know such a thing was possible. Fortunately we caught the ushers lounging in our seats when we arrived, so even if they had noticed the extra booty vying for bench space, I suspect they would have been reluctant to say anything. The pre/postgame tailgate was a good time--as anticipated, I was by a wide margin the last person to arrive (except Kel, who decided to forgo the whole thing in favor of studying), still sound asleep long after everyone else had started to party. I caught up quickly enough though, downing beer and bratwurst at an enormously unsafe rate, and in short order proceeded to tackle an ex-girlfriend to the ground. Haha! Oh self, you're so wacky and unpredictable. Whew!

As soon as the masses headed out on Sunday, Ball and I immediately got down to business, watching about 9 hours of Lost. And...yeah, that was my entire Sunday.

Kel had her big anatomy test yesterday (which she whooped ass on) so she actually came out to Ritas and boozed it up last night. Her med school buddies were all out too, though at a somewhat less rowdy table. Man, if I am in a different world from my crazy undergrad self, they are in a different galaxy. Judging by Kel's activities, they had all done nothing but study for the past 172 hours--if I ever put that much effort into anything, you can bet I'd be ready to seriously let loose when it was all over. Their big release was taking an hour off for an alcohol free dinner at Chilis before heading home to study other subjects. Mother of God. Fortunately Kel is not quite so far gone and boozed it up pretty heavily, leading to some hilarious post-Chilis adventures which, I'm sorry to say, she has forbidden me to write about.

Lost!

Mothball buying the first season of Lost on DVD is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.

When I was 16 or 17, I used to work at Red Lobster. One night this hairy behemoth looking mofo was causing a scene because the table was taking too long or some such nonsense--I thought maybe I could calm down the situation, so I walked over and said "Sir, is there something I can help you with?"

"Actually" the behemoth grunted, "it's Ma'am."

Awkward. Fortunately, she broke the tension by savagely beating me with a tray stand.

Getting Lost on DVD is the exact opposite of that situation. It's even better than the time Ball and I were standing outside TC with a queen mattress, scratching our heads wondering how the hell we were going to get it to Oak Hill in our inebriated state, when Sea Bass, who we hadn't seen in like 8 months, just randomly drove up in a pickup truck.

I've watched four episodes a night for the past four nights. I've stopped eating and bathing to make more time for Lost. It's like a ridiculously awesome movie that just keeps going. I was skeptical of Matthew Fox as the lead, but the show has somehow turned that whiney bitch from Party of Five into a rugged man-beast. He still whimpers a little, but usually only when he's hanging one-handed from a cliff or trapped under rocks or something.

I have actually pooped my pants seven times just thinking of the season two premiere next week. Eight.

By the way, if you're in town for the game this weekend, come find us in Library Lot--Ball's hosting a jismatastic tailgate. White Rav4, flag says "Goehler" on it. Listen for the sound of flowing beer.

Weeeeeeeee

You asked for it, and now you must bear the consequences. Behold! The Mothball Post-Michigan Victory Happy Dance of Joy:

AAAHAHAHAHA!!

I just bought my 5th iPod--6th if you count the one I got for Kel. I'm sick. I have a sickness. When a new iPod comes out, I can't stop myself. I'll be reading a book or donating organs to foster children or something and everything will go hazy--then suddenly I'm in front of a computer with my credit cards strewn everywhere. I've had really good luck trading up on eBay though. I had the 10GB, then the 15GB, then the 20GB, then the 20GB Clickwheel, and now the nano--each time I've sold my old one for only $20 or $30 less than the upgrade's education price. After shipping and eBay fees it ends up costing more like $50, but considering that's what an iPod battery replacement costs anyway, I think it's definitely the way to go.

About the nano: freaking sweet. I'm not sure about the whole headphone jack on the bottom thing, but I'm sure I'll get used to it. In addition to being small and awesome, I'm pretty pumped about a color screen and high-capacity flash card. I only have about 4 gigs of music anyway, and as much as I skip around my playlist, constantly spinning up the HD on my 4th gen ate a lot of power.

What I don't understand is why Apple released the Nano as a replacement for the Mini, rather than a new line. Why would you get rid of a distinctive and wildly successful product line? Priced at $199 and $249 for a 4GB and 6GB compared to the same pricing for the Nano's 2GB and 4GB, I'm positive there would still be a huge market for the Mini. Plus, some people like the funky colors. HDs are getting smaller and cheaper at a much faster rate than flash memory--the mini has a lot more potential to advance than the nano. The only thing I can figure is that they'll re-release the Mini down the line with a color screen and bigger HD.

To Michigan--I wrote you a haiku:

Ann Arbor, you whore
It must hurt to fall so hard
And land on your nads

And one for the Big Ten:

Many nights I dream
Of video evidence
And awake aroused

And for Kel:

Fat fat fat fat fat
Fat fat fat fat fat fat fat
Fat fat fat fat fat

After Me, There Should Be No More

Rappers have it down. They just sing about how freaking sweet they are, how their ability to rap about how sweet they are is unmatched by other rappers, and the crimes they have committed or are willing to commit--and then wait for the money to roll in. I wish I could just write here about how awesome I am, and how other blogs can't match the awesomeness of mine, and then big bags of cash would fall into my arms. That'd be spectacular.

First I'd need a sweet blog I guess, and my blog, as I think you'll agree, is a piece of shiat. For one, I don't update it much lately. I'm still busy at work, and loving it. The start of term rush has died down, but lately I've been working like mad on some adjustments and additions to the way departments submit new courses--I'm trying to make it paperless. Anyway, I haven't put anything out, and that is the first sign of a shiatty blog. Secondly, I have nothing meaningful to contribute--I believe the day Katrina hit, I wrote about losing faith in a God who would allow my sewage ejection pump to break. Nice one, self.

Still, knowing I have nothing meaningful to contribute puts me ahead of a large number of bloggers, who are convinced that their thoughts and opinions on current events are actually valued in some way or even noticed by the internet community. Maddox wrote a pretty amusing bit which covers that phenomenon, and he's about 700 times more clever than I am, so I'll just forward you on and end this paragraph right here.

So that said, even though my blog is clearly a large piece of feces (pronounced FEK-uhs), I think I'll hold onto it for a while. I find it to be a great way to keep in touch without the hassle of actually keeping in touch. If I emailed all my old buddies every day with the boring-ass details of my life, they'd probably punch me in the eye...but they'll read it here, suckers! And I'll read theirs--it's like a big awesome message board where no one is particularly shy to talk about anything--which brings me to my most painful shot to the nuts.

Every guy has gotten nailed--really nailed--in the nads at least once; most several times to varying degrees of pain. My worst was a water bottle. Actually my worst was the stair-racing accident, but that was more of a long-term wrecking, and not specifically directed at the nuts, and far too horrible to be put in writing anyway. So back to the water bottle...I was playing tennis with Andrea and asked her to toss me the water bottle, and she thought it'd be funny to just wing it at me--and it would have been, had it not jacked me straight in the manhood. It doesn't sound like a water bottle could cause a lot of damage, but it might as well have been a mace. I've gotten wrecked in the nuts a few times--bike seats, monkey bars--and this was something very special. I could probably injure myself worse, but I'd have to use a vice grip or fire. Somehow, there was a ricochet involved, and bits and pieces were whipping into other bits and pieces and--uuhhhghgh...I'm getting queasy just thinking about it. Actually, looking back on it, it was funny. Water bottle just flying at my crotch from 30 feet away, next thing I know I'm writhing on the ground in agony. I swear, I could actually taste the pain. Haha! Classic.

ND football is back, of course. Cock came back in for the game, so that was pretty awesome. I haven't seen the Irish look so good in a long time--perfect for my little niece's first ND football experience. 14 weeks old and already a rabid Irish fan--and you won't see any wee cheerleader outfits on her, she's going to be a QB. Check her out, she's already practicing her throwing motion...and when my brother tried to take that football away from her, she bit his ear off.

And on the subject of football--if anyone else needs a place to stay for MSU, you might as well pile in with us. We somehow grossly overbooked the condo, potentially cramming in 13 people, and more bodies with no sleeping space can only add to the hilarity. I'm thinking of turning off the AC and hiding all the soap to maximize everyone's discomfort, so come on in and bring your BO with you--it's going to be a hell of a party.

You Son Of A Bitch

Lunchbox, you have sullied my voicemail inbox with your hilarious profanity, and from Katie's phone no less--normally such a kind, sweet, innocent girl. In the spirit of tenfold, I must now ask you to be a groomsman in my wedding in the most heinous way possible...through my blog. You shall fly out, acquire a tux at your own expense, and dance awkwardly with a bridesmaid of my choosing in front of many old people you do not know. How does that taste? Is it delicious? I'll expect an answer by horse or telegraph on the morrow.