Greetings from the Past

Happy election day, everybody. Did you vote? I voted, despite my longstanding distrust of the whole electoral process. That dates back to second grade, wherein a sleazeball running for SGA president promised to change the school mascot, the paint on the walls, and possibly even add a new M&M color.

I'm sorry, what? I mean, he's in 5th, maybe 6th grade? Who the fuck does he think he is? More importantly, who the hell did my classmates think he was? Because he won. And I'm sure that he did just a bang-up job as a 6th grader heading up an elementary school SGA (you know, an association that really serves no purpose beyond giving faculty a student mouthpiece, even under good conditions), where he probably organized, I dunno, some sort of bullshit. Maybe a bake sale? A Scholastic book fair (I mean, those are pretty great, so if he organized one of those, props and snaps to him)?

The greatest day in elementary school, aside from Field Day.

So, yeah, elections, man. And you know what? I probably shouldn't have voted. I am basically the opposite of informed about any sort of politics, especially at the state and local level. What business do I have in deciding who should be on the school board? County assessor or whatever? More like county... I have no idea about who you are or what you do. But, hey, I did something resembling my civic duty, and I voted for libraries and raffles. I think I thought they were waffles, but I mean, either way, churches should totally have them. I mean, church waffles- they're not awful! Church waffles- they're what Jesus would do! Church waffles- they're sinfully redemptive! Church waffles- the body of Christ, but with butter and warm maple syrup! (See, there was an amendment about whether or not non-profit organizations (such as churches, fraternities, and their ilk) should be able to hold raffles for charitable purposes without being considered to be illegal gambling or some such. Raffle is just a letter away from waffle, which is a delicious breakfast pastry of sorts. I mean, these jokes almost write themselves, except that I have to write them, so I guess they really don't write them at all. Thanks for nothing, waffles.) I will say that I DO know something about the gubernatorial and senate races in South Carolina, but that's mostly due to an encounter with an incredibly butch and incredibly inebriated lesbian who was ranting at me about how Lindsey Graham and Nikki Haley hated gay people and were keeping them from getting married (which may or may not happen soon, and it's about time, you know? Charleston needs more weddings, after all). Mind you, this was possibly one week after I had returned from a year overseas (okay, fine, 9 months, yeah, yeah, we all read those posts, and if you didn't, well then maybe you should, because you're missing out on some pretty classic ranting and some snazzy recipes for potentially decent baked goods), before which I had not even remotely lived in South Carolina.

Oh, wait, The Lady's internet went out or something, so this post isn't saving, which means I can't publish it yet. Thankfully, I still have eleven hundred words to go through before I can actually get away with publishing anything. Unfortunately, this also means that there might not be any pictures for me to use as a crutch for the post. You know, rather like how I spell out numbers or make sure to ramble on and explain things ad nauseum to increase  my word counts. Those sorts of crutches. Thank heavens I don't actually use them. That might make this pretty unbearable to read, what with all of the somewhat winking humor and the like. Humor should really probably be in quotes right there. Yeah, it'd be unbearable. (Right there is probably where I'd put some sort of picture of a bear, if I had working wireless right now.) (Author's note (because someone else writes these posts- I just make the notes): The internet appears to be working on my phone. However, I would rather not try to retype all of this onto my phone, because that would be fucking miserable.)

Having pretty well exhausted my options about the election (because, really, do you want to hear about how I went into a polling site with a minimal line and really didn't have many problems, aside from not know what the hell was going on in the various races? I didn't think so.) and about the internet being down (which it still is), and since I want to try to get to bed at a reasonable hour before tomorrow, I've decided to shoot for a random blog topic generator. It asks, "Dear Rob, is flossing necessary?"

Sure. Next question.

Okay, fine, I'll elaborate, I guess?

Flossing is important because it prevents the buildup of undesirable material. Without proper flossing, these undesirable elements will begin to erode the necessary structure of the- no. No. I'm not going to do this to you. I'll cut to the chase. It was going to be a long and drawn out paragraph that would slide into some nautical metaphors and then I'd say something like, "Oh, wait, I thought you meant FLOGGING! Ha ha, what a hilarious and entirely accidental mistake, because, see, those words only differ by a couple of consonants, and it's an entirely easy mistake to make. Oh, wow. That's funny. We have fun. We're having fun right now, guys. This right here, this is fun. Wow."

This would likely continue, because I'd stay lazy and unmotivated, and then there would be pitchforks and torches at my doorstep because, wow, turns out Sean Bean really didn't appreciate being made into Gaston the other night, so we're going to have to fight to the death, likely in a rainstorm amongst some gargoyles on the roof. I'd probably comment on the absurdity of this and how he's really doing this to himself, but then again, since I'm writing this, I'm really the one in charge of his destiny. I'm sure there's some sort of allegory in there, but I'm too tired to make it. How tired, you ask? Well, I keep looking at allegory and seeing Allegheny, which is a mountain range that I believe is in Pennsylvania. These are the things that happen in Novemblog. These are the sacrifices we make for mediocre posts that meet a word quota. Masel tov.

We're now entering 20 minutes without internet access. Morale is low. The meager rations and the grueling pace have caused an axle on the wagon to break, and Poo Pants was bitten by a snake, and Snake Fodder has dysentery. Truly, we live beneath the whims of a capricious god. The conditions are somewhat alleviated by the obscene amount of buffalo meat that we have collected through frequent hunting minigames. One day, we might reach Oregon, or maybe we'll just decide, screw it, and go to Sacramento instead. I know we won't get the same bonus, which is a shame, but we weren't in it for the bonus. I started as a banker, for Pete's sake, you don't get a bonus for that. It means we don't have to deal with the freaking Columbia River, which just frags your wagon into oblivion, and we won't have to deal with quite as many hipsters hundreds of years down the line. Sacramento will have Steph Curry, too, and that's a pretty sweet gig. Whoa, what? Sacramento has a different team? Man, fuck this noise. I'm going back to Independence.

That was an Oregon Trail Interlude in No Internet. As the internet outage continues, you may begin to experience symptoms such as irritability, vampirism, progeria, irritable vampirism, and ascent to a higher plane of existence. Please say hi to Dave on our behalf. He's out there doing something, we're not really sure what, we were really young when we saw that movie and we really don't remember most of it beyond the fact that there were some incredibly bizarre parts and there was a fight with a computer (possibly with katanas). Yes, the obscure references will continue, because there aren't any pictures to explain what I'm talking about. You're going to have to cope with it, because it is now tomorrow, and there is still no internet and this is just the worst thing ever. Children, these are the dangers of not outlining your work to begin with and trying to fly by the seat of your pants. It really is a terrible idea, because then you'll run into a block and not know what to do. Of course, even if you outline your ideas, you might realize that they really weren't that great after all (see: flossing vs. flogging and Ginsburg's dissenting opinion), and you might peter out before you hit your quota, and the quota is everything kids. Always be closing. Third place is fired. FIRED UP, THAT IS, BECAUSE THEY'RE GOING ON A TRIP TO ARUBA. I mean, being third best at something is still pretty great, because, I mean, what are the odds that either of the two people who can do it better are in the same room as you?  I mean, if you're at some sort of competition or convention for this skill, then yeah, maybe you shouldn't be talking about how you're the best around (and nothing's ever going to keep you down), but in normal social settings, that seems pretty unlikely. Plus, nobody's really gunning for the spot at third, so you should be in pretty good shape for a while. Just lay low, and take that bronze medal to the bank. Well, maybe not literally, because I don't know that bronze is actually a currency anymore, and I doubt that the banks could do much with it. Maybe put it in a safety deposit box? But then you need to keep a hold of the keys, and that just gets so annoying. Vinz Klothor knows what I'm talking about, right?

Yeah, he knows what I'm talking about.