A RACE AGAINST TIME (that Rob lost)

Seventeen minutes until I have to retreat cells. Forty-five minutes until there's a meeting I should go to (possibly involving MONEY MONEY MONEY).

Oh, no, it's a CASHNADO.

I managed to forget rule number one of blogging- don't let the formatting fuck you over. Well, the formatting just about fucked me over. Who does that? Here's this bro just typing along in his blog, and along comes formatting to just screw everything up for the day. How rude.

But, yes, in this seventeen/forty-five minutes that I have left, maybe I should try my hand at starting a blog post to make up for the one that I missed last night. CAN ROB TYPE THAT FAST?

Probably not, but let's see how this goes. Worst case scenario, there's the good ol' "Save" button.

It probably means "as draft" rather than "me," Freddie. Nice try, though.

Anyway, I would like to talk to you about something. I don't know what, though. Ties is (yes, is, because it's only one topic. Yes, I probably should have put quotation marks around it or preceded it with "the topic of" in order to increase my word count a little bit, since we're working under a time crunch and all (TWELVE MINUTES LEFT), but there's no time for that now, despite the ample amount of time spent on this parenthetical. But you know what? That's like fifty words right there. That's writing by the word, holmes)

Il aime la taille de mon foc.

 certainly a frontrunner. That's right. You forgot that I was in the middle of a sentence. That's art, buddy friend guy (or girl- no sexism here after all, as has been previously established in the canon). Taking you away from where you are and just, you know, really immersing you in the character. In this case, it's the character of a reader reading a blog being written currently, which means you're in the future but also the present which possibly presents a paradox (no pun intended, mind you) and I'm in the past which means that I don't exist as I anymore which in turn

Crap, we've lost another one.

SEVEN MINUTES REMAINING.


Okay, if I were to start writing about ties or something like that, odds are that I wouldn't finish the word count before the timer went off. This means that I'd either a.) lose the flow, b.) write too little, or c.) misuse the word "either" by trying to include three categories, which is just silly (but it DOES increase the almighty word count, which is a nice little perk to get on such a fine and cloudy (I guess because I'm in a hallway that has windows but the blinds are all down so I can't really tell, but it was sunny earlier so maybe I should amend that statement), I mean, sunny day). I could try to take a look at my word count to see how we're doing, but with less than five minutes remaining (that's right, two minutes to basically write a nested parenthetical, LIKE A BOSS), I don't know if that would be wise. Likewise, it's very tempting to post a picture right now, but that would take more precious time from this post, and we just can't have that, now, can we?

I'm sorry, have you met me?

Yes, I know, there's a ton of white space up there. I couldn't get to the actual webpage to copy and past the image without all that. Truly, I am the worst. Just the worst. Worse than the worst, really. Worse than Worcestershire sauce, which is pretty bad, because there are like, three extra letters that aren't even said in that word. Truly, this is a ridiculous and terrible word that should be brought up on charges of crimes against humanity. Of course, since I've brought this grave matter to your attention, doesn't that mean that I deserve some modicum of mercy in the form of full immunity and perhaps some sort of medal, why not, Worm Your Honor?

"IN ALL MY YEARS OF JUDGING I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH AN ESOTERIC REFERENCE. OVERRULED."

Yeah, that might have gone a bit overboard, but my timer just went off, so time for a quick word count, a save, and another treatment.

"For a little while."

Seven hundred eighty-five, and the treatment starts now.

And now I'm back, but only for a few minutes, because this whole meeting thing starts in eighteen minutes, and it's like a five minute walk to get there (at least). On the bright side, though, the part of the meeting that's important to me won't be until halfway through or so, so, you know, bonus! Also, double so because I said so.

Also, bright side, no class today, because I wouldn't be here writing right (or should I say... write yuk yuk yuk (and each of those "yuks" counts towards my word count, again, like a boss) now. Nor would I be splitting common phrases like some sort of verbal lumberjack, regardless of my beard.

Either way, this post will not get finished yet, but it should be finished early this evening. Come back and see, children.

Yeah, you thought I'd leave on a Weeping Angel note. Ha ha ha NO.

But for now, I must go. My planet needs me.

Also, there's apparently an invisible picture that my mouse is holding onto. I can't see it, so I can't get rid of it. Oh, blogger. Why you gotta do me like that?

Oh, by the way, I'm back from the meeting. No big money money money for Rob. I maintain that I got Wonka'd. "Wonka'd?" you ask. Yes. Wonka'd.

Oh. Maybe you wanted a definition with that? I'm sorry that you can't keep up with whatever is going on in my big dumb brain. Okay, maybe not dumb. I'm sorry, I just got out of an award ceremony where I lost to a guy who literally read the script to his presentation out of a binder. Sure, his data was good, but have you seen me give a talk? It's a magical experience of way, way, WAAAAAAY too much excitement that is just ridiculous. That's my job. I make shit amazing.

But, yes, anyway, Wonka'd. Wonka'd? Wonka'd. So, we've all seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, right? WRONG. We've all seen Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. (Look, I know that's nit-picking and a bit of a dick move, but Rob needs this one, okay guys? Let's just let him have it and we'll all move on. He never was good at losing.)

So, yes, Oompa Loompas, a world of pure imagination, he's got a Golden Ticket (not in that order of course), terrifying possibly-a-Nazi chocolatier (I would have said chocolate maker, but I figured could spare the words from the word count, just this once)

Like you didn't think this was the same guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark...

(AND STILL THE PICTURE TRIES TO FIND ITS WAY.

But where was I? Ah, yes.), vaguely creepy possibly a pedophile chocolatier but played by Gene Wilder so it's mostly okay, and kids are dropping left and right because they can't help themselves (almost as if they're kids in a candy store). At the end, there's just Charlie, but OH HO WHAT'S THIS? Wonka seems to have the least ethical lawyer ever (see also: Oompa Loompa contracts) and a grasp of informed consent that is tenuous at best. Citing absurdly fine print in the contract from earlier in the movie, he maintains that although Charlie made it through the whole deathtrap of a factory (where the fuck is OSHA?), because he and his grandfather tried some sort of terrifying flying soda that almost got them both killed, he is ineligible to receive the prize in question.

Of course, that's not how he puts it. No, what he says is:

Since there are no subtitles, "YOU GET NOTHING. YOU LOSE. GOOD DAY, SIR."

On the one hand, I guess he's sorta polite at the end? On the other hand, dude. It's a kid and an until recently crippled old man. They both love chocolate. They pretty much won your silly contest. You are literally stealing candy from children. If this is your world of pure imagination, maybe you should imagine a decent PR department to take a look at the insane shit you say and keep you from driving your chocolate factory into a hole. Maybe you should hire some goddamned human factors psychologists to take care of the layout of your factory. MAYBE YOU SHOULD HIRE SOMEONE TO CLEAN OUT THAT FUCKING TUNNEL OF NIGHTMARES YOU DRIVE YOUR BOAT THROUGH.

Anyway, yes. Rob got Wonka'd, tuberculosis tie and all.

"If there's one thing that drives the ladies wild, it's ties with TB on them." -The Author of This Very Blog, LADIES

So, I'm running out of steam at this point and am about to go to a wine tasting with some friends. Not the classy type with the spittoons, though. We're talking the type where twenty somethings go try various wines and look at fish (I intend to point out to my girlfriend that, yes, sharks DO have two penes (the plural of penis for those of you not in the know), because I'm the greatest boyfriend ever). However, I do intend to do a second post after I am nice and lubricated. We'll see how well that works out this evening.

Tally ho.