Heavy-Handed Bananas

Normally, about now, I'd be queuing (like that one, Chantal?) some lovely music on the ol' Youtube for a nice accompaniment for my typistry. Yes, I am aware that typistry is not in fact a word (yet), but I find it to be an accurate portrayal of what happens here.

However, the Youtube is being exceptionally slow for me tonight, and I do not rightly know why. I blame the general inanity of Youtube commenters. I mean, seriously. I'm TRYING to queue up the 1812 Overture here, and you're arguing over, "Oh, well, you see, the Russians were really better because they had cannons." "No, you see, the Austrians and the Germans really put their EMOTIONS into it." "No, you're wrong. It's all about the French, because they really made the ethereal and absurd nature of life apparent in their music." "Ethereal and absurd nature of life? What the hell are you smoking?" "I smoked your mom last night." I mean, at least it took 4 exchanges before we resorted to those sorts of comments, but seriously? Do you think Tchaikovsky is feeling honored by this up in his music pantheon with Saint-Saëns and Freddie Mercury?

Further proof that Keanu Reeves is immortal. Also, "WE ARE NOT AMUSED BY THESE TUBES OF YOU."

 Is it queued up now? I have high hopes. Hopefully we won't have the terrible quasi-rap National University ad that I've been seeing so often lately. Looks queued up, and looks like there aren't any ads attached. Let's do this.

Hmmmmm mmm mmm mmm MMMMMM. Hmm mmm MMM. Mmmm Mmmm MM MM M MMM MMM MMM MMM MMMM MMM MMM MM MMM Mmmm MMMMM.

Come on, Tchaikovsy, get to the good part. Enough with the strings, here. This is a bit absurd. Bring out the freaking cannons. Yes, I get that there's something about the ravaged countryside and all that going on in here, but really? I'm not here for that.

Oh ho! We have some woodwinds over the strings now (I think- don't kill me for this, musical friends). Oh, and hey, the strings are changing up and starting to crescendo a bit.

SUSTAINED NOOOOTE!

Uh oh, it's a key change! And now there's a possible clarinet and some deep strings? Maybe?

Okay, but seriously, where's the good part?

Get out of here, you no talent ass clown. But seriously, I like that song.

While I was captioning that picture, there might have been some brass that added in. There we go.

Anyway, the point of this was initially to try to provide onomatopoeiae (screw you, Firefox) to indicate the general triumph going on here. I'm rocking (for a given value of "rocking," because we have yet to get to the good part) some 1812 Overture, in case you didn't guess by, you know, my explicit statement of such.

More importantly, I need to stay focused, keep my head down, and keep my eyes on the prize. Even more importantly, once again I need to figure out a decent topic for this business. It was for a brief moment going to be that onomatopoeia of music idea, but boy howdy did that not work out for me. Zelda offered the option of phoning a friend on this one, but it's the last one of Novemblog. I can do this solo. Maybe not Han Solo, but solo nonetheless.

LADIES.

I will say that whatever happens tonight, I am most likely going to go take the weekend off to catch up on sleep and store up some ideas. (Oh, Tchaikovsky- are you about to get ready for the good part? It's sounding like you might. Maybe  you just are.)

I KNEW I could find an image of this. I had no idea it would be a gif. That just makes it even better.

MUTHAFUCKIN CANNONS, MUTHAFUCKAS. Ahem. I'm sorry. Artillery in orchestral pieces does that to me.

BA DA BA BA BA BUM BUM BUM or some such. I don't even know. CANNONS. CANNONS EVERYWHERE. OH MY GOD THIS IS JUST SO EPIC AND TRIUMPHANT YOU DON'T EVEN KNOOOOW. WORDS FAIL ME. THEY SHOULD HAVE SENT A POET. BUT INSTEAD I'M HERE, SO I'LL JUST KEEP TYPING AND HOPE THAT SOME STROKE OF INSPIRATION HAPPENS SHORTLY. OR THAT PARLIAMENT OR BIG BEN OR SOME SUCH EXPLOOOODES.

Ahem. That's enough of that, then.

So, options for tonight. There's the fallback of talking about ways in which to never end a relationship with a person (including real and true Rob Cameron anecdotes!), but I want to save that for when I don't have the word requirement. There was also the possibility of a general recap of Novemblog, but while conclusive, it seems like a bit of a cop out. There's another possibility of talking about cartoons or comic books, but that's a definite soapbox, and I don't need to be dealing with that right now. It's late, and I have to lead some folks about a merry chase in Charleston tomorrow.

You have no idea how much yaoi DeviantArt I uncovered in a Google Image search for this. Oh, fangirls.

You know what? Why not. (There I go again, using punctuation as a means of indicating intonation rather than as an indication of the meaning of the sentence. See what I did there? That's something approaching chiasmus right there. Yes, I did initially put chiasma, because I have been in medical school for too long.)

We're going to talk about the mindf**k.

Obligatory warning: Here be spoilers.

First off, good movies with mindf**ks. You could argue that ANY movie has some degree of a mindf**k, because there should be SOMETHING that's left to the audience to figure out. But we're talking about the big ones here. Examples like Memento, Blue Velvet, Inception, Mullholland Drive, Fight Club, maybe Zodiac, Eraserhead, (from what I hear) Brazil, and others. Out of my understanding of the ones listed (admittedly, having not seen Brazil, I'm going by hearsay), it seems like there are three main categories.

The first is where the reveal is concrete and happens midway (or at some climax) through the movie. Fight Club and Memento come to mind- the reveal was vital to the plot, and it forced you to shift what you thought was going on up to that point. That said, the reveal is very clear, and while repeated viewings will reveal new details and will make you watch the earlier scenes in a new light, you know exactly what was going on in the reveal.

The second time we met Mr. Jameson, he was stepping through the old halls in his bathrobe and slippers. We could hardly say why he held a paper from three days past. We could only hope that it held a fresh bit of tuna steak rather than his recent predilection (or was it obsessioN?) with cod? ONly wheN he turNed away from us did we realize the gravity of the eveNt.

His lovely wife, loNg since passed, had always preferred tuNa. Was this a sigN of the temperiNg of his grief or somethiNg far more siNister?

AloNg a wall stood three large spiders, separated by iNtaNgible filameNts that, to our eyes, coNNected all the rooms of those old halls. ONe could simply reach out and expaNd oNe's miNd, aNd all would be revealed. So it seemed oN that day.

Alice began to turN to leave, but Mr. JamesoN wheeled about to say, "I recall your potatoes. They twereN't NuffiNg special. They was filled wiv preteNtioNs, delusioNs of graNdeur what had No place iN a tuber iN the earf.

"I dreams, iNNa Nights, of times of scieNces aN sammiches. Times of rot allegories fr'a shag. I kNows what I seeN. Bad spells of bad spelliN'. I remembers me a geNt iNNa fiNe suit, prattliN about some game of the devil by the Thames.

"I seeN a maN's beard shift 'fore my very eyes. I seeN a boy say what he wouldN't Never say, aN' I seeN him break that most capricious promise.

"I heard tales of tha world arouNd us, wha? There was pretty paiNtiNs aN a fella wiv a sigN. TwereN't NuffiN wroNg wivva sigN, aN' it doN't say much, but peoples waNted t'read the sigN. Wossa sigN wivout the people what caN reads it? Wossa story wivout those what hears it? Wossa taste wivout a toNgue?

"I heard the dead rise aN' those what lived worshippiN' those what raised 'em. The dead 'uNs, Not the live 'uNs. Such behavior'd be uNseemly, thas what it'd be."

Mr. JamesoN sighed, wistfully. Alice aNd I dared Not move. We saw the sea water drippiNg from the cod through the Newspaper. The pretty pictures were lost to memory, shiftiNg to the grotesque before our very eyes. This was no accideNt. Mr. JamesoN, for all his posturiNg, was the calcuatiNg sort. There was always a reasoN, but for the first time, I woNdered if those reasons might Not be his owN.

"I remembers me a time wheN there was little but food, fiNe cakes aN' pies, the likes of what you lot haiNt Never seeN, Nor will you agaiN. Theys was each uNique. I remember whats wheNs we all came about. Food aN' rage, there was. Rage agaiNst the poor-maNNered folks what helped form us from the whassit... miasma? Ether? NuffiN?"

With that, Mr. JamesoN trailed off, gaziNg at the threads of the spiderwebs as they braNched between oNe another.

Some time later, perhaps days, perhaps minutes, I asked Mr. JamesoN of his reverie. What exactly HAD he seeN? What horrors, what woNders lay beyoNd the hall, beyoNd the boardinghouse, iN that great beyoNd? How had he left, and uNder what circumstaNces had he returNed? Was there some meaNs of escapiNg the cycle of drudgery in these oNce thriviNg halls?

He leaNed close. He cleared the spittle from his lips. He gazed iNto my eyes, aNd, perhaps approviNg of what he saw, he revealed what he kNew.

He called it "The Aristocrats."

THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.

Burble Burble Y'all

Hey everybody!

First off, as I'm sure you've noticed on the Facebook or some other means by which I've been spamming this out there, my lab from the summer is up for a MAJOR AWARD!

No, not that, unfortunately.

We do some imaging of cells and such, and we're up for national consideration for one of our images. There's not really anything in it for me (as far as I'm aware) beyond bragging rights for being in the lab. That said, you should totally vote. There are 20 days left, so you have time, but as they say, "Vote early. Vote often."

Here's the link to the contest. We're under "High Content Analysis" with the caption, "Image description: HEK293 cells expressing fluorescent GPCR (green) and β-arrestin (red) fusion proteins with DNA staining (blue)." Because we get to do these sorts of thing. No big deal, y'all. No. Big. Deal. I would show a picture of the image, but I'm not sure how much of it is GE property and such at this point. It's a type of image that I know only all too well.

However, despite all indications to the contrary, I'm not here tonight to talk to you about how my lab is up for a MAJOR AWARD, nor how the INNUENDO SAUSAGE is still amazing, and don't you wish your boyfriend - could - cook - like - me.

Well that was a close one. Thank goodness for the auto-save function in Blogger, because otherwise, you would have lost ALL that bloggy goodness. No, not boggy goodness, because if you're having a boggy feeling, you should see a doctor. I'm not sure what exactly a boggy feeling would BE, but I assume that it would be neither fine nor goodness.

Back to the point at hand. No, I have bigger fish to fry. Oh, Rob. You and your ability to subconsciously use idioms and clichés to better transition to the point at hand. That's right.

We're talking about potatoes. I blame Chantal, but it should be fun anyway. Besides, I've killed at least a few hundred words on my initial ramble. Three hundred and fifty-five, to be exact. Now I just have to handle the other one thousand four hundred on that topic.

For you, Chantal.

Well, let me tell you- there are quite a few fun facts for potatoes. For one, you can not only boil them BUT ALSO MASH THEM AND STICK THEM IN A STEW. These are true statements, folks. That's at least THREE (count 'em, THREE) ways in which you can prepare potatoes. And hoo boy, rest assured, there are others. But we'll get to that in a bit.

First, in honor of the dear Chantal, who so graciously provided me with this topic, I would like to say a few words (or, rather, borrow them from Wikipedia) about Irish potato candy.

Before tonight, I had no idea this existed. Tonight is full of possibility.

Ahem. "Irish potato candy is a traditional Philadelphia confection that is not Irish and generally does not contain any potato." There you have it, ladies and gentlemen- the Irish potato candy is made by lying Philadelphians. Since we know that Will Smith cannot tell a lie, this is clearly the doing of the nefarious Pennsylvania Dutch. I mean, come on. First you wacky Germans are blaming your hijinks on the innocent and noble Dutch. 

The Dutch in what I assume to be their natural state.

Now you're blaming the Irish for your weird coconut filled candy. What's next? Being up to no good and starting to make trouble in the neighborhood? This sort of tyranny must stop. Dutch for the Dutch. GO DUTCH FOR THE DUTCH! Or something. Not that I'm insisting on the abolition of certain gender roles (because I do love the game of getting the check first, and I have come against several worthy adversaries in my time). I'm just saying that maybe the Germans are being shifty, and we should maybe purchase weapons for our protection against them.

Last weekend, I was told that I somewhat resemble Jason Statham. I don't see it, but thanks?

Did you know that potatoes are deadly? It's true! They contain several toxic compounds called glycoalkyloids (namely, solanine and chaconine). These are apparently used as a defense mechanism, especially in green potatoes, to ward off insects and fungi. (Funny story- I'm in a bar, and this thermophilic dimorph comes in and says, "Hey, can I get a beer." I say, "No, you can't. We don't serve your kind here." He says, "Why not? I'm a fun-gi!" To which I respond, "First of all, sir, our establishment reserves the right to refuse service to any customer. Second of all, your kind is responsible for a wide variety of skin and respiratory diseases that can debilitate those without a properly functioning immune system. Given that it is a bit chilly outside and those in the bar are drinking, I would prefer not to expose the other patrons to the possibility of severe illness or death. Third of all, that was a terrible pun. I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR.") However, for reals. You should cook your potatoes, because high temperatures will usually break down these things.

This nasty looking little bugger's full name is (breathe): beta-D-Glucopyranoside, (3beta)-solanid-5-en-3-yl O-6-deoxy-alpha-L-mannopyranosyl-(1-2)-O-(6-deoxy-alpha-L-mannopyranosyl-(1-4))-chaconine. But you can call him chaconine for short. He will cause weakness and confusion, and if Pokémon taught me anything, that means that you'll hurt yourself in the confusion.

 Also, another fun fact. You, of course, knew that potatoes grow in the ground (I hope. God do I hope you already knew that. I'm not in full "science educator" mode tonight.), and you surely knew that they're harvested somehow. But, see, during the harvest process, you have to separate the potato itself from the plant. One of the ingenious devices they use for this purpose is called a "Flying Willard."

Apparently the Flying Willard is quite elusive, so here's Crispin Glover as a Willard that will hopefully never fly. I think the TSA won't allow it.

 "But, Rob," you may cry, "you're just telling us about the harvest of potatoes. We want to know some fun and interesting historical tidbits about potatoes. We won't rest until you give us our due. We know how to find you, yes we do." Well, that got creepy in a hurry. I suppose it is only just after last night's extravaganza. Sure, I'll give you some history.

According to my erstwhile ally Wikipedia, the potato originated in western South America, but once it was introduced to Europe, it was responsible for a quarter of its population growth and urbanization from 1700 to 1900. This, I can only imagine, is due to the potato's many eyes, which allow it to see what it's doing from multiple angles, thereby allowing it to be an effective stockbroker as well as an unparalleled architect. By investing and designing the proper infrastructure, the potato was thereby able to house the growing European population and still make a tidy profit.

Seen here with Antoine Parmentier and its early comrades corn and wheat, the potato received its first big solo break with Parmentier's publication of Examen Chymique des Pommes de Terre in 1774. This brought attention from the French aristocracy and the funding (and freedom) to pursue its own ends. Always popular with the populace, the potato provided a needed foil to Marie Antoinette, and, upon his arrest in 1793, he reportedly said, "Yo, they can eat ME!"

Unfortunately, as its wealth grew, so did its hubris, and its later years were spent laboring on an expansive manse in Ireland. As discontent grew within the Irish population, he retreated from the public eye and became more sedentary (entering what is now known as "The Lumper Phase"). Critics at the time called the potato "bland, wet, and poorly resistant to the potato blight, but yield[ing] large crops and usually provid[ing] adequate calories for peasants and laborers."

The potato originally uttered this phrase, popularized by Alan Moore. He has nothing to do with the rising popularity of the Grumpy Cat.

As we see throughout history, the Irish equated "adequate" with "unacceptable," and, in 1845, attempted to employ an Italian mercenary group, known as "Phytophthora infestans" to eliminate the potato. Despite a long conflict, the potato was able to summon his reserves and rise proudly again.

The potato now is known for his work in oils and pottery (because, see, you bake pottery. It's an attempt at humor, you understand.). While he may be found in the occasional stew, he prefers a nice massage with some butter and garlic. Hey, I never said that he hadn't acquired some odd tastes over the past millenia. He's the goddamn potato. He will end you, and all you love. You just have to eat enough of him to accumulate toxic levels of those aforementioned glycoalkaloids. He's very big in Africa and Canada (but not Candida, due to his dallyance in the same kingdom as the dreaded Phytophtora infestans, against whom he still holds a powerful grudge).

While he was once lauded as a powerfully nutritive vegetable, potato has recently taken a backseat to his old friends from the New World- namely, rice, wheat, yams, and sweet potatoes. He will still gronk to a funky jam with other crunchy vegetables, but as a solo artist, he leaves something to be desired. Collaborations with cheese, bacon, green onions, and even remixes of tomato (colloquially known as "ketchups") have gained significant popularity.

The Dutch (the real ones this time) have even been known to accompany them in a white greasy oil. Okay, maybe the Germans should keep impersonating them, because that is just ridiculous.

Throughout this long road, potatoes have taught us many lessons (food for thought, if you will), and they may yet teach us many more, if we will but listen.

And, yes, you can boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew.

Well, thank heavens for that, old chap.

I bid you good fluggl

Author's Note: Well. This escalated quickly. There's some rather blushworthy stuff in here, so read at your own peril. You have been warned.

Good evening, everyone (assuming that you are in fact reading this in the evening. I mean, come on. I'm writing it in the evening. Haven't you ever heard of common decency? Geez. What are you thinking. And don't you give me any of that malarkey about "time zones" or that sort of nonsense. This is America. I know people from Philadeplp-Philadehp-a city in Pennlys-Peenseyl-a northeastern Mid-Atlantic state. I mean, they believe in God.). I am quite tired. But before I get into the possible reasons as to WHY I'm tired (and really, there can only be one), we have some milestones to celebrate.

First off, at some point today or yesterday, we surpassed 2,000 page views. And with this post, we should be surpassing 50,000 words and thereby fulfilling the Novemblog requirements. Yaaaay! (Say it in a Kermit voice. You know you want to.)

She's trying so hard to do a Kermit voice, and I'm trying so hard to not dislike her for not being excited about confetti. It's an imperfect relationship.

This is just wonderful, isn't it? Well, I (like the MEETING STREET PIGGLY WIGGLY) have got some great news for you. I'm going to tell you why I'm so freaking tired. And you will totally understand why.

See, I forgot that alfredo sauce (well, really, alfredo-like sauce, because I don't quite know how to make a true alfredo sauce) is heavy.

That's right. We're breaking out the old Regalia. And since I'm so freaking tired, I'm going to fix myself a glass of something that may be beer, but it may be bourbon. Time will tell. Time. Will tell. (In my absence, discuss the merits of utilizing punctuation as a means of indicating pauses and inflection rather than sentence structure. And go.)

It ended up being beer. We are out of the small glasses that I would want for such a beverage, and I'm honestly not up for that business tonight. Because I'm tired.

The plan today was a simple on. Get done with my hospital visit, come home, make dinner, eat said dinner, and then read some ethics and generally study. Well, Murphy decided to butt in by making my arteries rage war against my taste buds until both passed out in exhaustion/ecstasy. I am, of course, talking about my meal, to which a clever name will be applied shortly.

That meal was... INNUENDO SAUSAGE.

Before I talk about the process that made... INNUENDO SAUSAGE, let's talk about what INSPIRED... INNUENDO SAUSAGE. See, it all goes back to Chez Paul. Chez Paul is an incredible restaurant in the Bastille area in Paris. It's a bit on the pricey side, but when family visited and was like, "OH HEY COME OUT TO DINNER BECAUSE WE'RE YOUR PARENTS," or "HEY COUSIN ROB, I'M LEADING A COLLEGE GROUP OF YOUNG COLLEGE WOMEN TO PARIS, AND YOU'RE COMING TO DINNER," I will jump at the call. It's... wow.

Seriously. That's the menu. WHAT.

Anyway, when I went to Chez Paul, I had the, ahem, (puts on French hat) "Cuisse de lapin farcie au chèvre et à la menthe fraîche." Yes, it's rabbit. Yes, there's goat cheese. Neither of these things is bad, because good Lord was it delicious.

So flash back to Sunday, and I'm thinking, "Hmm. What do I want for dinner?" Then I saw some goat cheese, and my course was set. This was at the MEETING STREET PIGGLY WIGGLY, of course, where I don't believe they sell rabbit, so I improvised with kielbasa.

The results... may surprise you.

THE INNUENDO SAUSAGE

 

Let's Get These Ingredients Into Something More Comfortable

The innuendo sausage requires a fair few ingredients, most of which are shown to whichever side I decide to put the photo. We'll go with left. You know, start you off with the familiar to just ease you into things before we ramp things up and it gets a bit freaky. But yes. The ingredients. Oh god my eye is itching what is this. I don't even know. HOWEVER, I need to endure to give you ingredients.

3 red peppers
1 lb and some change of kielbasa sausage
2 onions
A whole bunch of garlic. I think I used something like 6 cloves, but they were smallish cloves. I hardly notice the garlic anymore anyway, what with it being such an integral part of EVERYTHING I COOK.
8 ounces of mushrooms. Aren't you glad I'm not using metric measurements anymore?
Some of whatever those noodles are. I just recommend wide noodles, but it's whatever strikes your fancy.
1 pint of heavy cream
Some amount of goat cheese
An appropriate amount of dijon mustard. No, none of this yellow nonsense. We're not savages, and we're not trying to win a hot dog eating contest. Well, not today at least.
Olive oil

Now, first (thanks for this, Suzanne), you're going to start out by dicing the onions and the garlic. Start slowly, just gently rocking that knife back and forth. You don't want to go too fast at first, but you can gradually pick up the pace. I like to move slowly at first to get those nice fine cuts (which, as I've said, make me feel like a man. No, I won't link to that post, because it's somewhere in here, but I cannot recall where), but once that's done, I really cut loose and go fast and hard on them.

Oh yeah. Push it real good.

Now, once they're nice and chopped, you can start warming up a bit of that oil. Really spread it along the bottom of the pan, because you don't want the onions or garlic to have any trouble gliding around the pan. Heck, add some Italian seasoning to them to just really spice things up. Use a nice medium heat to sauté those guys.





Getting the Veggies ALL Hot and Bothered

Now, while the onions and the garlic are starting to sauté on that hot pan, take the knife and slowly chop those peppers. I prefer getting them into 1/6 pepper lengths before I start chopping more finely, but it's whatever you prefer. Either way, once you get them ready, you're going to toss them and the mushrooms onto the pan with the onions and garlic.

Like so. I bought pre-sliced mushrooms, which were not chopped as finely as a true man would. I will have to accept this failing of an otherwise adequate convenience.

Stir them around to get things nice and mixed up. Let the vegetables slide across one another ever so gently.

Wherein Rob Starts To Get Very Uncomfortable

Yikes.

Well, okay. There's no way around this part. You're going to need a good serrated blade for this bit. You're going to start by gently but firmly grasping the sausage. Then, you're going to work your way around the sausage (or along the length of the sausage, depending on its inherent curvature. As you can seen, mine had quite an awkward angle to it, but I persevered nonetheless). You want to slice it into manageable pieces that you (and your fellow dinnergoers, of course) will be able to fit into your mouth. Obviously, this will depend on your own abilities and the size of your respective sausage.

Once it's cut, you can toss the pieces onto the pan. I drained the juice first, because it was just getting a bit too moist in there. Then, I reapplied a bit of olive oil to keep things gliding smoothly. By now, things should look somewhat like the picture below.

A regular culinary middle school dance.

Oh, you saucy minx OR Mmm... Creamy. (I couldn't decide, and it pads the word count.)

Well, at this point, I had my doubts about this meal. I mean, all the parts on their own seemed delicious, but those red peppers didn't smell like they'd work with the cream sauce. As I pondered this, I added a copious amount of Italian seasoning and Cayenne pepper to the pan. After all, sometimes, when you're not sure or you feel like you've worked yourself into a rut, you've just got to spice things up a bit.

I decided that boldness is the way to get what you want in the kitchen, and I took a shot at it. Of course, my initial plan was to go with cream and goat cheese alone. It occurred to me that mustard tends to go well with sausage, and I thought I might throw that into the mix.

I did not regret it.

My strategy for the sauce was one of adding the mustard first (a liberal and firm squeeze to really get it to shoot out of there), then the goat cheese (which, mercifully, was flaky rather than the gooey crap I've seen before), and finally... the cream.

I don't mean to shoot my wad with these pictures, but I just couldn't hold back anymore.

Once the sauce is intertwined with the sausage and the vegetables, just let it simmer for a little while. Let the anticipation build as the flavors blend.

While you're doing all this, you should probably be working on the noodles, too. I know, it's hard to multitask sometimes, but if you're going to do things properly and for everyone's enjoyment, you've got to bite down and keep going.

And then, once you're finally done, you can toss the noodles on there and stir things up. I know, you're probably a bit frantic to start gobbling this down, but give it a bit. It's just so hot right now.

Oh yes.

 Of course, that brings us back to my point at the beginning. Back to the thrust of the matter, as it were.

I did not have a huge portion of this wonderful business, but I took my time on even those small morsels. It is delicious. It is delightful. Until you finish, you just want it to keep going.

But, like any red blooded male would, once I finished, I just wanted to go to sleep.

Sweet goggled goggles, that is some delicious business.

There are words for those, but I don't know that "sweet" is one of them.

Sorry about that. I'm drinking some hot chocolate (or cocoa, depending on which of those two god forsaken phrases you prefer), and it tastes quite delightful (despite the horrendous name. Seriously. Can't we come up with something better than that?).

Anyway, I thought that I would start this off with a delightful story of potential woe. See, I currently have a headache. My first thought was, "Oh, Rob, when will you learn to get things done early enough that you might go to sleep at a reasonable hour? You're only causing yourself great discomfort and woe. Hence the potential woe. Also, Neurotic Self-Deprecation is back! You cannot stop me."

Excuse me, folks. I'll be right back.

Just need to return some videos.

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. My first thoughts went to fatigue. That was ridiculous, because while I got to sleep later than usual, I also got a few hours more of sleep. I have a rather serious snooze button problem. Well, really, I don't. If I were to admit it, that would mean that I did have one, so I really don't have a problem. Unless the denial itself means that I do in fact have a snooze button problem. Mais bref.

Of course, then I thought a bit more. I mean, I haven't exactly been eating my usual fare the past couple of days. Speaking of, blueberry break.

Don't act like you don't want them.

THEM'S SOME ANTIOXIDANTS, FOLKS.

But yes. I haven't exactly been eating my usual fare. I mean, yes, I've been eating more Cheez Its (read: any Cheez Its, because while I may or may not have a snooze button problem, I most certainly DO have a Cheez It problem, because those little baked crackers of cheesy goodness are delicious. Plus, they have no cholesterol, so they're actually healthy, right? That's my story and I'm sticking to it. You can't make me give them up. WE'RE IN LOOOOOOVE. But someday, I'm going to run out, and there will be rainstorms and darkness and all sorts of depression.)

John Cusack is for chumps. He's not related to WEDGE "I Killed A Death Star Without The Force" ANTILLES.

Well, it's not Cheez-Its. What could it possibly be, then?

Let's talk about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. See, most folks make a nice even split between the peanut butter and the jelly. They might even use a variety of jellies or jams. Maybe grape or (God help us) blackberry (ew. Nothing against blackberries. The seeds just bother me.). Rob, though? He's a preserves kind of guy. And not just any preserves. STRAWBERRY PRESERVES. You get some of that red goodness into play, and I will end that sandwich in about 2 minutes. Seriously. People have seen me do it. It's not pretty. It's really an act of great carnage.

For some reason, this picture and the one of Locke with an orange came up for "peanut butter and jelly sandwich carnage."

Rob enjoys his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. However, he does not use mere mortal proportions of peanut butter. Hahaha no. He uses absurdly gigantic proportions of peanut butter. Positively preposterous proportions of peanut butter that might even be called Brobdignagian (because Rob loves that word). I mean, there's practically peanut butter dripping off the sandwich. Well, dripping might imply a less viscous material. Again, hahaha no. We're talking a giant tub of Peter Pan peanut butter that Rob just slathers onto his sandwiches. Well, not the whole tub at once. That'd be preposterous. However, there is certainly quite a bit of peanut butter on these sandwiches.

Now, of course, there are some potential problems that might arise in such a system. For example, I might run out of bread. Well, then I'm quite screwed, now, aren't I? I can't very well make a sandwich without any bread, much less a delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The very notion is preposterous. Times like that, I'm forced into eating some leftovers or (worse) buying a bit of food at the cafeteria or one of the many local eateries and eatery franchises. Likewise, I can't make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without jelly. Sometimes, well, I run out of jelly and haven't made it to the store yet. Thankfully, this is America, and we can work around such problems. That, friends, is why we make the peanut butter and honey sandwich.

There's a point that comes back to the whole beginning thing, I swear. We're a bit more than halfway there.

I AM POSITIVELY CONSTIPATED WITH ANTICIPATION.

These things have happened before, and I've worked around them. Like I said, leftovers and honey are super helpful fixes for these things. Well, there's one issue that I thankfully haven't run into yet. I've never actually run out of peanut butter and been out of leftovers. Again, we get these ginormous buckets of Peter Pan Peanut Butter, which are incredibly helpful and will last me, oh, a couple of months. Even if I run out, I'll surely remember to go to the MEETING STREET PIGGLY WIGGLY (if you'd been there, you'd understand), and I'll pick up a smaller thing of peanut butter to tide me over (see, the giant ones are from Sam's. It's seriously, like, a gallon of peanut butter.), and everything will be great until I need to get more or Joe and I get to go to Sam's.

Well, after Thanksgiving, something terrible happened. Really, several terrible things happened.

First off, I had cleared out the fridge beforehand. In itself, this isn't bad. I mean, I needed to go to the MEETING STREET PIGGLY WIGGLY and pick up some fruit, milk, and supplies for the next meal I'm going to make. (It'll be tomorrow. It's going to be some kielbasa in a goat cheese and possibly cayenne pepper cream sauce with mushrooms and other vegetables over pasta, because I am a sassy bitch like that. Tonight, I've got trivia and am going to munch on a delicious half-price quesadilla.) Well, okay, so that's a problem, but that can't be that bad, right, Rob?

Haha, that's only the first terrible thing.

The second is that Joe has been out on away rotations and interviews, which is awesome. He's got lots of good things going his way, and it's all very exciting. Of course, this also means that his Sam's Club membership is many hundreds of miles away, making it utterly useless to me.

Really, JOOOOOOOOOE!

This means that I haven't been able to get any peanut butter. Normally, this wouldn't be bad, but I mean, I'd be pretty screwed if I ran out of peanut butter, because, as I said, I haven't made anything from which to derive leftovers yet. But, hey, it's not like I'm about to run out of peanut butter or anything. That would be patently ridiculous.

Guess what happened.

Yep. Ran out of peanut butter. Did so pretty much right after I got BACK from the MEETING STREET PIGGLY WIGGLY.

It is truly an amazing place.

Well, that was Sunday. It is now Tuesday. Rather than spending money on cafeteria food, I made an interesting discovery in the freezer.

I am, of course, referring to magic noodles.

I think I had seen these things once before in the freezer.

Like this, but more magical.

These were a bag of noodles with some assorted stir fry like vegetables. You throw the bag in a bowl. You put the bowl in a microwave. You heat up the bowl. It steams the whole thing. It works wonders and becomes absolutely delicious. Well, at least at first glance.

See, while these things are delicious, they're a bit on the dubious side. The vegetables get all soft and such. They're all bland and questionable. The noodles remain delicious, but there's some sort of mysterious brown sauce on them of which positively no good may come. I'm sure that they are chock full of some sorts of vitamins and minerals, the likes of which the world has never seen. (You know, the "miracle vitamins discovered by the great Dr. Krebs that will cure cancer, AIDS, lupus, acne, and your broken arm all for the low low price of $99.95. Act now, because only one small Asian man knows how to produce this miracle vitamin, and his pancreas is starting to fail AS WE SPEAK CALL NOW.")

Well, wouldn't you know it, I ate a pack of those yesterday and today. And now I have a headache.

There's only one conclusion that could be made. No, don't be ridiculous. It's not as if these preserved and wonderfully artificial noodles and vegetables could be causing any sort of headache or anything of the sort. No, that's poppycock.

Okay, I need to go to trivia. This is an egregious loss of flow, but it has to happen. I'll be back as soon as I can.

And that just happened. Congratulations to Ajax and his team, who won a hard-fought contest (well, for us- they just breezed on by).

Meanwhile, back to the story at hand. Yeah, those noodles probably caused that headache, which is still here, by the by, and it is the worst. I mean, it's pretty terrible. Here's a cranky-ish Bill Nye (happy birthday, by the way- I never really watched your show growing up, but you seem like a pretty legit sort of fellow).

My finger was up a butt today. You can deal with the lazy image posting.

So these noodles are currently causing a pretty terrible headache. Assuming it was actually even them. Maybe it was the prostate exam, or even my socks. I've taken them off, and the foot airing is making me feel slightly better. Seriously. It's the headache cure we've all been waiting for, and it's only available for a limited time (i.e., until you take your socks off anyway AND TRY TO MUSCLE IN ON MY RACKET, YOU SWINE).

However, there was a point that I was getting to before I was rudely interrupted by trivia, and it is basically the following:

I've got the Futurama worms.

THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.

Wherein Rob Has Tawdry Times With Baked Crackers

Once again, I am behind schedule. I even stopped studying early (well, at like 8:30) to come home and start on this so that I could go home, get this done, get some sleep, and then get up tomorrow to make it to the gym. (Before Novemblog, I was making it about 3 times a week (okay, fine, that was for like the month preceding Novemblog), but since it started? I've made it maybe 3 times total. That's even being super generous.) Then, well... I started looking at funny pictures on the Internet. Some of them were quite impressive.

This one, for example. Partly due to puppies.

But, well, then I looked at the time, and I figured that it was time to get down to business. You know, really pound this one out in a hurry so I can get up tomorrow and wander out in the cold to the gym, because who ever heard of locker rooms? Not this guy. This guy can walk. This guy can run. Well, once he gets to the gym. If he's running outside, then people for miles will be wondering, "My god, what is that jiggling mass? Is... is that attached to a man? Someone should warn him that he has some sort of red colored porous tumor coming out of his behind! Oh. It is his behind? Why didn't he make it to the gym? How could he let himself go like that? I would blame his parents, but no parent would want such a fate for their child. My god. It's- it's so hypnotic. I just can't stop staring at it, even though I should be keeping my eyes on the roa-," and that, kids, is why South Carolina doesn't have a problem procuring organ donations.

That ass. Which ass is it? Well, you decide, America.

So, yeah. It's time to write. But Rob is also incredibly hungry. Well, not starvingly so, but just enough to make it quite naggingly inconvenient. As such, siiiigh, I'd better feed that ass, because otherwise I'm going to feel all kinds of weird when I work out tomorrow (since that's totally happening and there's no conceivable way that I might sleep through the alarum bell).

Well, it took some deliberation, some swallowing of guilt, and an all-out brawl between Id and Super-Ego (Super-Id was the referee, and Id came out on top, despite a last minute tag-in of Ego. It was truly a fight for the ages), a decision was reached. And since Rob can be just the worst at pairings, we're looking at a mug of cocoa/hot chocolate (neither one is a particularly appealing name, so take your pick) and a plate of Cheez-Its. Not just any Cheez-Its, though- we're talking Sharp Cheddar AND Parmasean in a mix box, so the little cheese dust starts to intermingle betwixt the two. It's quite delicious. And warm, which is important, given that I'm typing this up from the safety of my own room. I figure I can count on no small animals or snakes trying to live here during the winter. If they did, though, we'd be looking at some straight up Milo and Otis shit. Well, maybe we'd do it without the ambiguously depressing ending.

Thanks for ruining childhood memories, brain.

Well, okay. I take that back. Apparently, because I have not seen Milo and Otis in a very long time, I had forgotten that, no, the ending is apparently not all that depressing and is in fact quite happy (if you ignore the fact that Otis is fighting against BEARS (but he wins, of course, because he's awesome. There's probably some sort of political allegory about Japan and the rest of the world that could ruin things all over again, just like the allegations of animal cruelty in the making of the movie, which is why we're just going to put an end to that train of thought right now with another adorable picture).

I can always feel a "DAWWW" coming on in the eyebrows.

Don't even act like you don't think that's cute. I don't care what your opinion is of pugs or of cats. This picture has an adorably fuzzy dog and an adorably inquisitive cat looking at an egg. An egg! Dogs and cats don't lay eggs. (Then again, this IS a Japanese movie we're talking about. Also, these Cheez-Its are like a more mature version of my old high school's sweet potatoes. If memory serves, the phrase I used was, "It's like Heaven's hot older sister making sweet love to your taste buds." Seriously. Those things and the wings. They were delicious. I never understood what people had against cafeteria food. It was delicious, and if Doctor Who is to be believed, includes oils that will make you much smarter.)

Possibly involving this guy, who can't possibly be evil, because he's Giles. And a headmaster. You know, like Dumbledore, who we all know was just the paragon of goodness and openness and smart decisions.

Seriously, guys. These Cheez Its. I remember a party wherein I was having some beverages with White Cheddar Cheez Its. I enjoyed them SO thoroughly (that's right, stealth pun and/or bilingual bonus) that they were just going all over the place. I think some went on a dear friend of mine and the young man on whom she was hitting. It didn't work out, and I sometimes wonder if the allure of those White Cheddar Cheez Its as they seductively sprayed from my distended mouth (because, see, I was eating so many of them BECAUSE THEY ARE FRIGGIN DELICIOUS GUYS) wasn't to blame for the end of that relationship. Hey, I said I couldn't talk about MY exes. Other people's are fair game.

And now there are no more Cheez Its. I am reminded of what that one guy (it was me, okay, I admit it) said at Epcot upon buying a Guinness. "The only thing that can put a damper on my spirits is that at some point I will no longer have any Guinness." Truer words were never spoken. Thankfully, they also apply to Cheez Its, Americone Dream (the Stephen Colbert flavor from Ben and Jerry's. From Ben and Jerry? I don't know. I DON'T KNOW.), and a Walt Disney World Vacation (FULL CIRCLE).

That fanny pack was extremely useful, I'll have you know. It's hard to carry all those pamphlets in just pockets. Later that day, I would learn the infamous Get Warm Dance, and the dancing world was never safe again.

There's surely a moral in there somewhere, and it's probably not a good one. I mean, I guess, "Enjoy a lot of material things and then be sad that they're gone because you can't have them any more," is a better moral than, "Take candy from strangers in windowless vans. It's even got a sweet painting of a dragon on the side. Who doesn't like dragons? Not you. Besides, candy! Maybe he's even got a Twix. You know how much you love Twix. You couldn't eat them for a long time because of the braces and you wanting to follow the rules so they didn't break, but didn't you just want a Twix so badly? Then remember when you were living on your own and money was super tight, but you bought a box of like 8 of the Twix packages? And then you'd stave off eating one for as long as possible, but when you did, it was just SO GOOD. I think there was even some pelvic thrusting involved, and heaven knows you told that one friend you supposedly met that one time but now only really talk to a little bit on Facebook, anyway you know the one, but you told her about how good it was. You remember all that and how good those Twixes were? And now there's a free one right in front of you! There might even be a whole box of them in it for you!" Well, it's certainly shorter. Still, I don't think it's quite up there with, "Hey, man, you shouldn't call that girl ugly, because she might be really hot later in life, and how could you hope to have a chance with her at that point?" Well, the spirit of that one is what's important, I guess. Maybe not the actual content. Who writes these morals, anyway?

Because that's who you want writing about morals. Also, um, sorry, ladies, for posting this without your express permission. Knowing how pictures have been working on here, this probably won't show up anyway.

Also, if wordcounter.net is to be believed, I have somehow surpassed 2000 words tonight. Now, I can either stop writing like a bum and wash some dishes and crash, or I can give you a satisfying conclusion.

The original Goofus.

Hahaha, just kidding. See, wordcounter.net is in fact to be believed, but what with my loose morals and my astonishingly fatter face (well, maybe it's just the hairstyle), I managed to copy and paste the whole first part of this post over again. I knew there was a reason I didn't trust that 2510 word count. It made no sense. I mean, it's not THAT bad- I'm still in the mid-1400s, so I guess I'll have to meet Joan of Arc, get on the good side of the Inquisition AND the House of Lancaster, and hop on the boat to America so I can wait about 600 years to get back here and CONTINUE THIS VERY POST. Thankfully, I don't have too much to worry about in terms of the plague, so that's a bonus. Plus, Joan of Arc. Me-ow. And of course, everyone knows that nothing important was happening east of France or in the Southern or Western hemispheres until the Europeans civilized those places. It's quite a burden. But you don't have to take my word for it.

"You do, however, have to take mine."

Freud vs. Wells

Hey, gang, take a knee.

I am certain that I will get to a riveting post (or at least the riveting portion of this post) soon enough this evening. However, before I do so, I have some... disturbing news for you. But, hey, I don't want to give it all away right off the bat. Here, just take a look at this picture. WARNING: THIS PICTURE MAY SHOCK YOU.

NOT A GRAPH!

 Now, I'm assuming most of you can handle a line graph like that. For those of you that can't, I will do my best to explain with minimal snark. The y-axis (the line going up and down) indicates page views of my blog (which I assume you are reading right now, given that you're reading this sentence). The x-axis (the one going left to right) indicates the time at which these page views occurred.

Now, clearly there have been a lot of views in November (or, rather, Novemblog), because I've been doing a post a day for the last twenty-five days now. That's as many as five fives! And that's terrible. I've also accumulated a goodly few more readers of this blog, and that's always pretty groovy. But we're not looking at November right now. See, when was my first post? If you're looking at the graph, you might think, well obviously it was late November or early December 2009. You know what I was doing in late November or early December 2009?

Right after I asked a question, too. Skills with a z.

"Well, okay, Rob. You were a terrible student who made terrible decisions. We knew this. Why is this disturbing?"

Wh- Bu- No. No, you are quite incorrect. I was a good student who made well-reasoned decisions. I was doing a chemistry major and a French minor. I wanted to have more time for research in the spring semester, so I took five classes rather than the usual four to finish up my minor and core requirements. Yes, this meant that I pulled a bunch of all-nighters (especially with my attempt to apply to MD/PhD programs then). It was the right decision, and how DARE you judge me for making that choice. I mean, what the fuck? (OH NO ROB MADE A SWEAR. OH LORD HAVE MERCY IT'S A SWEAR. NOBODY HAS TIME FOR THAT.) Here you are, just chilling out in my subconscious, and I give you a chance to make it into the blog. Do you know how many parts of my subconscious don't even get that chance? There's Libido, Teen Angst, Family Issues, and, of course, Super-Id. I gave you a shot to make it onto the page, and you just blew it. What makes you think you're better than Super-Id? Super-Id is a saint and is STILL more fun than you. We went out drinking just the other night. Where were you? "Oh, hurdy gurdy, I'm the dick Neuroses part of your subconscious, and I'm going to stay at home and think of witty retorts to you whenever you leave me an opening to make myself seem better than you." Shut the fuck up. Get out of here, because nobody likes you, and you smell.

Well, um. I wouldn't want to be a part of any club that would have you as a member, Rob, because you have minimal social skills with women. Take that.

 And based on that caption, you also are incapable of ad libbing. Get out of here, because nobody wants you here, and I think it's high time we move on from this argument with you. You're not worth it.

Anyway. Yes. The reason for that information being disturbing. Well, go to the nice little set of options on the right. Yeah, the one with the months in French and the years and the whatnot. Go on ahead and find the earliest post.

Okay, or I can just post it here for you. Ta freaking da. Rackum frackum can't even find the first entry rackum frackum.

Now, take a look at the date of that post. Why, it's around Christmas, so December. Of 2010.

This- I- Wha- ILLOGICAL. IT'S ALL ILLOGICAL.

So, what could be going on here?

Well, the obvious response is time travel (because setting computer calendars to different dates is utterly impossible. Plus, you would think that the servers would have clocks that would have the right year). BUT WHO?

Well, obviously. And no.

Okay, so future people and/or aliens are looking at my blog. But to what purpose? Let's take a peek at some of the potential options out there.

1.) I am William S. Preston, Esq. AND Theodore Logan.

Quiet, Ted half.

For those of you that don't understand this reference, there were some movies (and comics, and a TV show) about Bill and Ted and their various adventures. See, because they formed a band called Wyld Stallyns, they were able to create music that brought a new era of peace and enlightenment to the world. To prevent history from preventing itself from occurring (and now I'm all cross-eyed), the future sends George Carlin to give them a time machine (and seven dirty words, I suppose) so they can do their history homework. It's... surprisingly good.

Anyway, this theory would maintain that I do something SO awesome that time travelers are keeping tabs on me, but not SO awesome that I get a time machine of my own (just yet). But when I do, oh HO, you'd better watch out, Rosalind Franklin, because I'm buying you a few drinks, you underappreciated minx.

You can interpret MY crystal structure utilizing space groups. Rawr.

However, the problem here is that there's really no reason to avoid giving me that time machine right now. Heck, if I know what they need me to do in the future, then I can make plans to make that happen. I have little doubt that I'm better equipped for the task than Alex Winters and Keanu Reeves (with all due respect to Keanu- he seems like he could use a nice break. You seem like a good guy, Keanu, and you've done some pretty good movies. You can come with me on a time traveling adventure).

2.) I am John Connor (or Sarah Connor)

Okay, if you aren't at least passingly familiar with the Terminator franchise, I can't do much to help you here. You're pretty much on your own. Basically, machines go back to kill this one guy at various points (i.e., pre-conception/in utero, as an annoying teenaged skateboarder hacker, and as Nick Stahl).

Robert Patrick is disappointed in your lack of knowledge.

So, apparently, I save the future somehow? Or I'm a direct ancestor to said savior, and taking me out of the picture will cause minimal damage to the likelihood of emergence of the parties that said savior opposes? Well, regardless-in our case, I guess that Skynet really has shoddy access to records? Or that the records can be transported through time? Either way, this means that there's a killer robot on the loose. I guess I'll have to stick around dogs (because they can sense that business, because they're dogs. No word on cats. Cats probably know but want to see you fight it out for their amusement.), and maybe I'll have to find whatever human/android/cyborg they've sent back to protect me. I mean, they WOULD send someone back to protect me, right? Right?

Welp. I'm thoroughly screwed.

Ahem. Well. THANK GOODNESS I TOOK THAT TRIP TO JAPAN AND LEFT ALL THOSE GENETIC SAMPLES NEAR FUKUSHIMA. IT WOULD CERTAINLY BE A SHAME IF ANY TIME-TRAVELING ENTITIES (MECHANICAL OR OTHERWISE) WERE TO SEND WAVE AFTER WAVE OF FORCES IN THERE ON MARCH 11, 2011, TO RETRIEVE AND/OR DESTROY SAID GENETIC MATERIAL. THEN ALL HOPE WOULD BE LOST.

(Let's hope their records are REALLY bad.)

3.) I'm the next Rory Williams/Amy Pond/Donna Noble/Martha Jones/(sigh) Rose Tyler/Sarah Jane Smith/Captain Jack Harkness

Or, you know, save lives. Like I'll be doing. No big deal, though.

Or whatever other Companion you happen to like. And no, I'm not talking about Inara.

Although... On the other hand, let's talk about Inara.

No, we're talking about The Doctor, so you'll just have to wait your turn. I'm not sure if this would mean that The Doctor is coming to find me based on this blog, or if Future-Rob (possibly without facial hair but WITH a badass scar or cybernetic hand) is traveling with The Doctor and mentioned this blog, which in turn tickled The Doctor's fancy. I'm not entirely sure as to why, but hey, who's to argue with the TARDIS?

Yes, this was all just an excuse to post pictures of pretty ladies in nerd culture. Problems?

And, yeah, I suppose you shouldn't argue with The Doctor either. But, again, this only raises the question of why The Doctor would want to read my blog, because I mean, really. There are more important things for The Doctor to do, unless (okay, screw it- there hasn't been a female Doctor yet, so I'm going to start using some gendered pronouns. PROVE ME WRONG, BBC) he decided that it WAS the most important thing for him to do, in which case- why? Fish fingers and custard?

Of course. What's wrong with fish fingers and custard?

Of course, by posting this, any associated parties that ARE watching me from December 2009 will either a.) make their move and we'll figure things out, b.) move to some point of observation after December 23, 2011, or c.) stop observing altogether. Choice c is unlikely for theory 2, and honestly, if 1 and 3 are really in play, they're unlikely to go with c either. As for choice b, the only one where that really makes sense is theory 2, because Skynet doesn't need me to know that they're coming. BECAUSE I TOTALLY DON'T, SKYNET. I WAS JUST NOTING THAT IT IS TRUE THAT THERE ARE NO GIRLS ON THE INTERNET AND IT IS TRUE THAT ALL FAN FICTION WRITERS ARE GIRLS. FAN FICTION IS POSTED ON THE INTERNET.

Meanwhile, choice a makes sense with all three theories, because if Skynet decides to make a move, it will want to do so even more once I've said something about knowledge of its plans. In theory 1, the future guys will want to make sure that I don't screw things up by indicating any more foreknowledge of their society. In theory 3, well, The Doctor does like clever people. Maybe this makes me look clever?

Well, George Carlin. Skynet. Doctor. I'm going to bed now. May the best time traveler win.

He ahlreadeh deed.