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Frea. King. Sweet. Finally, someone has come up with a good use for the internet.
I got hit in the face with a tube of beef flavored toothpaste this weekend. What are the chances that something like that would ever happen to me in my life? Some other chump gets his one-in-a-million moment and wins the lottery or meets Christopher Walken; I get nailed with unlikely toothpaste. I will assume Jani's aim is just very bad, because if it's very good I'm going to have to punch her in the ovaries.
The weekend was pretty standard fare, Fiddlers Friday, game night Saturday. We went to Olive Garden before heading over to University Park Saturday night--the server brought out the entrees and asked if we'd like grated cheese, and Kel said a little. The waitress gave her a very little, so I asked for a lot. I realize I frequently abuse hyperbole well past the point of reason, but I shit you not when I say she proceeded to grate the entire freaking block onto my meal. It took like 20-25 seconds. I sat there helpless, staring in horror, assuming each second would be the one she'd finally stop. When she ran out she said something like "Oops! Guess that'll have to do!" and skipped off whistling a merry tune, clearly well pleased at the destruction she'd literally rained down upon my once proud Fettuccini. The final product, I admit, was breathtaking. It was by far the largest pile of cheese I have ever seen, completely burying all traces of my meal--and I once ordered a big heaping plate of cheese at Chilis! Sadly I am not making that up. This whole paragraph is absurd.
Sunday was uber-productive day. Cleaned my car interior, bathroom, bedroom, got caught up on weeks of shopping, and made it through nearly an hour of the Oscars before dozing off for the night. Jon Stewart, I like you but you were very meh.
I got hit in the face with a tube of beef flavored toothpaste this weekend. What are the chances that something like that would ever happen to me in my life? Some other chump gets his one-in-a-million moment and wins the lottery or meets Christopher Walken; I get nailed with unlikely toothpaste. I will assume Jani's aim is just very bad, because if it's very good I'm going to have to punch her in the ovaries.
The weekend was pretty standard fare, Fiddlers Friday, game night Saturday. We went to Olive Garden before heading over to University Park Saturday night--the server brought out the entrees and asked if we'd like grated cheese, and Kel said a little. The waitress gave her a very little, so I asked for a lot. I realize I frequently abuse hyperbole well past the point of reason, but I shit you not when I say she proceeded to grate the entire freaking block onto my meal. It took like 20-25 seconds. I sat there helpless, staring in horror, assuming each second would be the one she'd finally stop. When she ran out she said something like "Oops! Guess that'll have to do!" and skipped off whistling a merry tune, clearly well pleased at the destruction she'd literally rained down upon my once proud Fettuccini. The final product, I admit, was breathtaking. It was by far the largest pile of cheese I have ever seen, completely burying all traces of my meal--and I once ordered a big heaping plate of cheese at Chilis! Sadly I am not making that up. This whole paragraph is absurd.
Sunday was uber-productive day. Cleaned my car interior, bathroom, bedroom, got caught up on weeks of shopping, and made it through nearly an hour of the Oscars before dozing off for the night. Jon Stewart, I like you but you were very meh.
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4:46 PM, March 08, 2006
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