Dear Spyware:

Go fuck yourself.

Now that that's out of the way, but before we get to the meat of tonight's adventure in insanity, I'll say that Thor: The Dark World is pretty entertaining. Tom Hiddleston and Christopher Eccleston are (of course or as always, depending on your personal philosophy) pretty incredible, the stinger has an amazing (albeit brief) performance by a certain mumbling dirty cop, and Sarah Michelle Gellar gives her best performance in years.

Dark elves, vampires, same thing. She looks oddly different, though.

There was also a preview for Captain America: Winter Soldier, which has me oddly excited about it. It looks like Chris Evans is actually pulling off the paragon aspect that I previously mentioned as why it's so hard to Captain America interesting in a solo series. It doesn't hurt that they're somewhat strawmanning other folks in the series, but keeping him as a symbol seems like it might work. Props to Marvel Studios for making that happen.

Also, unfortunately, it looks like they're making a Need For Speed movie. I never played the game, but if memory serves, it's a driving game. How do you make a movie about a driving game? "Oh, man, you've got to win this race in Arizona. Now you've got to win another on the Vegas strip. And one more in Hawaii. You really were... Cruisin' USA." That sounds terrible and ridiculous and, unfortunately, I might have to see this one. "Rob, what could possibly drive you to such a terrible, terrible idea?" you may ask.

Goddammit, Jesse.

 If (and likely when, but hey, stranger things have happened (even if it would be a terrible travesty if Need for Speed were the first good video game movie since... um... (fact checking AND achieving the triple parenthetical) ever?)) the movie ends up being a total bomb, I hope that it turns out that Aaron Paul just signed on to get to drive around in nice looking cars. Possibly a nice paycheck, too, I guess.

Anyhoo, now that the previews are over and the lights are going to drop a bit, let's get to the fucking point, shall we? Oh. Sorry, Mom and Dad. Let's get to the freaking point, goddammit. (Close enough, right?)

The point of this post is that The Sandlot is an absolutely terrible movie, and I want it to die in a fire.

The sequel can stay, because it's probably not worth it.

Honestly, if I were the only one to have seen The Sandlot, I probably wouldn't have had such a visceral reaction to it. But geeeez, everyone in my generation seems to have seen it and seems to hold it up as a movie of our generation. And, yes. It is a movie of our generation. So is Super Mario Bros., and so is Double Dragon. That does not mean anyone needs to suffer through those rice water stools of movies.

And we were surprised when The X-Files wasn't as good with him. Okay, fine, we weren't.

Yes, I have moved into medical terminology. I could barely think of a foul enough term to describe such abominations of cinema. Despite my need for a bigger word count (which we all know feeds my soul like the delicious tears of a thousand starving orphans), I cannot do the same with The Sandlot. I cannot sully medicine's good name forever by associating it with The Sandlot.

"FOR. E. VE-" Not you, too, Hippocrates!

Look, let's compare it to the closest counterpart movie that I can think of: A Christmas Story. They both are centered around a seminal (but somewhat absurd) coming of age experience, they both speak to a simpler and more innocent time (which, surprise, wasn't all that innocent when you look at some of the things the kids do), and they both have a cast of kids rounded out by a couple of decent adult actors.

First off, we'll start with the actors. James Earl Jones has a great voice. Darth Vader and Mufasa were both pretty incredible performances. I don't know that I could list another movie where he did particularly well. Well, I'll amend that. I don't know of any live action movies where James Earl Jones carries the movie. I don't know that he can. Likewise, Dennis Leary is funny, but aside from Rescue Me, where he was supported by a good ensemble and solid (albeit absurd) writing, he's not a good go-to man to keep a movie afloat. Darrin McGavin, on the other hand, was Kolchak (or so I'm told)!

Okay, mostly that's just me being biased against child actors and/or adult screenwriters not being particularly good at writing children and not being partial to James Earl Jones. I will say that McGavin's performance alone could carry A Christmas Story to be as good of a movie as it is. (That said, Peter Billingsley DOES do a pretty solid job, although I haven't seen him in anything else. Plus, the script has some good lines.)

A Christmas Story works because everyone can relate to the holidays. Most families have some sort of gift-giving holiday tradition, and those that don't know folks who do well enough to understand what's going on. It's relatable. And every kid had something that they really thought they might get, but then they got worried they wouldn't get it, but (spoilers) they got it.

Guess what mine was?

The Sandlot, on the other hand, deals with sports. Yes, they give a nod towards the "nerdy" kids, and they try to make the protagonist seem like he doesn't know anything about sports, but then why is he trying to play baseball with these kids? Yes, everyone wants to fit in at some point, but who does that with sports? For that matter, WHO THE HELL PLAYS BASEBALL IN A SANDLOT?

This guy. Don't you want your children hanging out with this guy?

Everyone plays Little League. Well, okay, let me revise that. Everyone who plays baseball these days plays in Little League. They might not be particularly good, and their league might not be particularly well-funded, but you usually don't play in an empty property lot next to a lot of other houses. That's just asking for trouble. You know, like breaking a window or losing an important ball. The very premise of the movie is, "Hey, let's look back at this simpler time that you can totally relate to," but nobody can relate to it. Okay, maybe some people can, but they're not me, and since I'm writing this, I'm assuming nobody else can.

Technically, the movie is about "a real pickle." They don't ever open up any Vlasics to my recollection, so I can't say that they had a real pickle.

Speaking of simpler times that people can relate to, let's get to the second point, shall we? Yeah, they both take place through a nice lens of nostalgia and go back to the 50s or so (ignoring all the Red Scare stuff, because, you know, kids. They can't be communist.).

At least not with our sterling public school systems!

But, oh, hey! Things aren't all as they appear! These kids are doing *gasp* adult things! Wacky fun. In A Christmas Story, there's some swearing, leaving a kid with his tongue stuck to a pole to get frostbite, and burgeoning cynicism (after being scammed by Little Orphan Annie).

You know, the thing about Little Orphan Annie, she's got... lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye. When she comes at you, doesn't seem to be livin'. Until she bites you and those black eyes roll over white.

Yeah, the frostbite bit is a bit jarring, but the kid knew what he was getting into. They freaking warned him, and he went ahead and did it anyway. Most importantly, there's the scene of Ralphie vs. Scut Farkus. Blah blah, Scut bullies Ralphie, Ralphie snaps and BEATS THE EVER LOVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF HIM. Now, bullying is not something that should be trivialized, nor is violence. But good Lord is that scene satisfying. We all had some kid who made our lives miserable growing up, and there were plenty of times where we wanted revenge. Ralphie, the doughy underdog who just wants a freaking BB gun for Christmas so he can be a cowboy, takes it to the paint and scores a touchdown right in Farkus' weasly face. (Note: Rob is not a sports guy. This may explain his antipathy towards The Sandlot.)

It didn't hurt that their casting department was apparently INCREDIBLE.

In The Sandlot, there is a somewhat similar scene of overcoming bullies. The "scrappy" bunch of "underdogs" beats a team of yuppie kids with whom there's a rivalry for rather vague reasons. They have better uniforms? Is there even an organized league among these kids? Why do they need uniforms, then? Did they even have uniforms? Regardless, the kids are kinda a bunch of dicks. Yes, trash talking is a thing, but they're a bit extreme about it. Then, celebrating their victory, they decide to chew tobacco. So, we've got verbal abuse and drug use. I wonder what else could make these kids awful?

Oh, just some good old fashioned sexual assault. Wacky fun!

And I'm not even talking about the actors.

They're all at the pool, and there's a pretty lifeguard. A very pretty lifeguard. Remember that kid from earlier? The one who you would TOTALLY want your kids hanging out with in an empty lot? Yeah, you remember the one. You scrolled up just to check again. Well, he maybe fakes drowning, and then this happens.

Family fun!

There's really not much I can say about that. I get what they were going for, and I get that it's a trope that has been used, but it still doesn't sit right.

At least they learn about how to make S'mores (because kids needed to know that?), which is more than could be said about the folks at the fair.

Anyway, kids, leave the baseball movies to the professionals. You know, like Madonna.

Such a professional.

I have been informed that tonight, I have to be motivated about my topic du jour, because otherwise, I will "ramble about stupid shit."

Have you read my blog? It's all about stupid shit. The best shit is stupid shit. I could add a whole new classification to the Bristol Stool Scale, and it would be called Type Rob, wherein the shit is entirely stupid and all over the place.

Just like Justin Bieber! HIYO! Don't try jokes like this at home, kids. I'm a trained professional, or at least that's what I tell people.

(In the lady friend's defense, she DID say that it came out wrong, but that was pretty much a direct quote. She has since apologized (somewhat) and has said that she "likes reading [my] words" and "didn't mean to call it stupid shit," which I suppose means that she meant to keep that to herself.)

However, enough of my girlfriend's insistence on trying to carry on a conversation while also being upset that I'm not typing. Women are complicated. So are men, or so I'm told.

Dogs are just adorable, though.

Anyway, what I was going to talk about before I was so not so rudely interrupted (she's now twiddling her thumbs, because apparently I'm just that boring) is fairs. Not ye olde Renaissance Faire, because that's not something that I ever did or plan to do (unless I can pull a Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal and cosplay as a gentleman from the distant future of 1899).

I guess we wear a lot of goggles in the distant future of 1899.

Yeah, we're getting into full on county fair territory here.

When I was younger (so much younger than today), we got the day off to go to the fair near where I lived. It was a pretty solid fair, too. I mean, it was regional more than county, and there was a whole farm section. That means that you're getting into rural Tennesseeans, Mississippians, and Arkansans, who (despite what the Yankee Godless Liberal Nobama Media would have you believe) had more than three teeth between them. Yes, we're barefoot, but that's because we don't have to worry about frostbite.

Also, space. Who knew that this was a thing? I worry that this is a sign that National Geographic is going the way of the History Channel, but I'd care more if I watched either of them.

It was a pretty legit fair. I mean, it had all the usual stuff (terrible generic and probably unsafe rides, terribly delicious unhealthy food, farm animals all over the place, weird craft area that never really made sense to me, and some weird auction thing if I'm remembering right), but it was on a pretty grand scale. I would post a Google Maps picture of the fairgrounds, but apparently it moved to Mississippi. What the hell, guys. What the hell.

Anyway, today we went to the fair that's indigenous to these parts. Let's see how it stacked up.

1. Venue
For one thing, this fair seemed a lot smaller than the one from my youth. I mean, yes, I've grown and gotten all bitter and jaded since then, but I like to think that I have my ways of retaining my childlike naïveté.

If only I could blame the Cemetery Strangler on this.

But we'll go more into how small it seemed later. For the moment, what's more important is the means of ingress and egress for the fair.

First off, it's on a state highway. That's a solid start. Can't have a proper fair unless it's on a road that is defined by numbers preceded by some sort of location name. Unwritten rules and such.

Second off, it took us a good twenty to thirty minutes to drive around to where we could park. I mean, we circled pretty much the whole fairground (not of our own accord, of course- there were people in vests with neon batons telling us which way to go). Again, good start. Shows that there's space and capacity to work with.

They looked marginally happier than this.

Then, we parked in a field. PAVED parking lots? At a county (okay, fine, regional) fair? What sort of big city bullshit are you trying to peddle here, son? Admittedly, there was pavement along the sketchy tunnel we had to go through to get from our parking space to the fair, but the tires stayed on grass, like the good Lord intended.

Did I say "Lord?" I meant "Ford."

As for the fairgrounds themselves, meh. They were a bit small. There were some good buildings with the obligatory animal and craft exhibits, and there was a nice pond with paddle boats and such. It probably would have seemed bigger if we had sampled the board of fare around the rides, but that wasn't on the agenda for the day.

2. Prices

 Well, this is a fair, after all. Between renting out fairgrounds, paying some acts to come, getting security, and paying Jedi to convince you that this is the parking space you're looking for, the fair needs to turn a profit somehow. Still, the tickets weren't THAT bad for what they were (the obligatory overpriced fair tickets). We didn't look at rides, but food prices weren't horrendous, I guess (more on that later). The one thing we actually bought from the fair seemed like we were getting a little bit gouged, but it was a pretty high quality product, and I don't really know what the comparison for it is.

3. Attractions

I will be perfectly honest. I didn't care to look at the rides because they probably would have tempted me, and I really didn't want to shell out the money for ride coupons. I think roller coasters are absolutely amazing, and if you don't, I will fight you. I will go all Greek god on you and make your hubris be your downfall. Probably while shaped like a bird.

Fabio knows what will happen.

As for music and the like? Meh. I never really bothered with that when I was younger, because there are better things to do at a fair. Like rides. Today, though, we didn't really bother with the rides. We did bother with pretty much anything involving animals.

It was, of course, depressing. I mean, you hope that the petting zoo guys are treated well the rest of the year, and there were certainly hilarious moments involving a donkey who had figured out where the food dispenser was and decided to cut out the middle man. The cows and horses and goats were what they always are- standing there (or sitting down) waiting for the fair to be over and to get their blue ribbons. Okay, fine, the goats were mildly depressing, because they were meat goats and are basically being told, "Who's going to be delicious in a few years? You are! You are!"

The most depressing part wasn't even in one of the main animal tents. It was in one of the other vendor things. (Yes, I'm feeling articulate tonight.) Someone was selling ducklings for four dollars to carry. I don't know about the rest of you, but when I was an age where I would want to buy a duckling for four dollars, I would not have known what to do for that duckling. Same thing with the chicks that some folks give kids on Easter. Okay, you're going to pet it for the weekend, maybe even on Easter Monday, but soon it will get big, and the fluff will grow into feathers, and you're stuck with a chicken. You're stuck with a big (and not particularly cute) bird that serves no purpose beyond being eaten or breeding and having its offspring eaten.

Unlike other Big Birds, who teach us who to vote for shapes.

There were also bees. Thankfully, they were neither stinging me, nor were they in my eyes, as killing me will not bring back your goddamned honey.

We did end up getting bogged down in one of the vendor tents, because we lingered a bit too long near a vinegar table. It was actually really nice, because the folks were pretty groovy and nice about giving us samples (probably knowing that we were too nice to turn them down when they asked which ones we wanted to buy), but the samples were really legit. Of course, now I have two rather substantial bottles of balsamic vinaigrette that I need to find uses for, so there's that. Yay commerce?

4. Food

Okay, I know you've all been waiting, so let's get this over with.

A FAIR IS A VEEEEEEEERITABLE SMORGASBORD, SMORGASBORD.

Now that that's done, let's talk about the food. First off, fairs smell delicious (except for the aforementioned animal tents, which tend to smell like barns). This one did a good job of putting the food carts on the perimeter so you couldn't really avoid the delicious fair food smells. Yeah, there were some issues with the wind that meant you'd pick up the smell of one cart about a hundred feet after you passed it, but my point stands. Like the food stands. Wocka. Wocka.

"Please leave this to the professionals. Even I cannot bear your puns." But, see, imagine the bit in quotes in Fozzie's voice.

We figured that we had to try something, so we circled the fair to check out our options. Yeah, there were the obligatory corn dogs and burgers and funnel cakes, but you can get those at a church fundraiser. This is a REGIONAL FAIR. This is where all the terribly delicious fried food purveyors of the world come together to show their A-game and say, "We will not go gently and with unclogged arteries into that good night. Today, we celebrate our Food Dependence Day!" (Coming July 2016.) We did finally decide on a place that seemed to have most of the terrible things you hear about (fried Twinkies, fried Snickers/Milky Ways, fried cookie dough, fried S'mores)- Wait. Fried S'Mores? That's got to be good. Boom. Decision made.

It was mediocre? See, what we found out is that a fried S'more is mostly marshmallow, albeit with a little bit of chocolate, covered in dough and fried. None of these things is bad on its own, but the astute ones in the audience have probably noticed that something is missing.

Loathe as I am to admit it, these folks could have learned something from (ugh) The Sandlot.

Where the fuck were the graham crackers? We took one bit into that think and it collapsed. There was no structure to it, and it just turned into a deflated mess (much like our dreams of what a fried S'more would be like).

"Next time, choose me (or one of my various knockoffs now that I'm dead), dumbass."

 So, how would I rate this carnival?

I'd say it was pretty fair.

Today has been an educational day of lessons and learning. Unpleasant ones, to be sure, but lessons nonetheless. I could tell you about them and the shitshow that was my morning and early afternoon (or should it be "shit show," for the sake of my word count if nothing else?), but I don't think that you really want to hear about the joys of stomach bugs and/or hangovers, nor how some cosmic forces (be it God or random chance) seems to want me to not give platelets (and I mean, come on- they're kids (and probably some adults, too) with cancer! What the fuck?), nor how Denny's seems to be my stomach's favorite place to just throw a freaking rager. No, these aren't things that I think you actually want to hear about, so I won't talk about them.

Of course, that leaves me without a ready-made topic for the night.

Unless we count cereal. Does cereal count? That's a tough call. I guess I can only leave it in the hands of one man. I would go for Prof. Harold Hill (he's a professor, after all, and they're supposed to be here to answer the important questions, perhaps regarding boys' marching bands), but he's off ranting about how he's looking for the emo DeviantArt girls rather than the bubbly Tumblr types.

He didn't say anything about his feelings regarding trans women, though.

 So who could I go to for some sort of nod of approval? Maybe someone with a rugged beard whose name starts with a J? Perhaps a character with an alliterative name from some sort of period piece?

Sorry, Dad. I was trolling you HARD right there. Jeremiah might appear later.

Well, with Jon Hamm's approval, I guess we'll talk a bit about cereal. By a bit, I mean, of course, that we'll talk for about one thousand more words or so. By we, of course, I mean I. I will talk. You will listen. What do you think this is, some sort of actual dialog? Have you not gotten used to my sudden shifts among (not between, what with the three options, or so I would imagine) first-, second-, and third-person? This is just some crazy dialog between me and my bizarrely abusive inner voices. And by cereal, I mean maybe we'll talk about cereal, and maybe we'll just talk about that for a little while and then flow into other topics as they arise.You know, the standard operating procedure for this blog (if not all blogging in general).

And here I thought that it said, "Erect Blog," which would really confirm some of my early suspicions regarding its etymology. I'd also wager that I don't really follow anything in this mini guide, albeit more from incompetence than from rebellion.

So. Yes. Cereal. Maybe. But quite likely, what with signs pointing to yes. Time to change the blog's name to Magic 8 Blog. That and, you know, write a post about cereal.

Not about cereal conventions, though. No need for that degree of GAH.

Cereal like, for example, CRACKLIN' OAT BRAN.

Artist's rendering.

Cracklin' Oat Bran is pretty great. It would probably help if I'd averaged more than one word per minute on this post so far. WHY AM I NOT ABLE TO WRITE FASTER? Ha. No, we all know why that is. It's because I keep insisting on having Netflix on. Who could have guessed that it's terrible for creativity?

But great for looking for pineapples.

Yes, Cracklin' Oat Bran is delicious and (probably) nutritious. OR SO KELLOGG'S WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE! And we all know that you can't really trust Kellogg- the man thought he would live forever because he has a clean colon. Plus, he was played by Hannibal. Not the Carthaginian general or the guy from A-Team, mind you. No,we're talking full on Lecter.

"A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some corn flakes and a nutritiously balanced breakfast."

Let's see... more fat than I might like (11% of your daily value, including 15% of your daily value of saturated fat, but no trans fats and a greater overall amount of unsaturated fats), but a fair bit of fiber and B vitamins. So, okay, yes, they're pretty delicious and nutritious. They also have coconut in them. Who has coconut in cereal? Preposterous. I will confess that it makes the texture a bit odd, and you DO run into some flaking in the bowl, but it still retains a good bit of crunch. AND WHO DOESN'T LOVE CRUNCH?

Okay, fine, I'm honestly not a huge fan of the crunch. I mean, if you want your cereal crunchy, why would you even put milk in it? I'd rather it be a bit easier to chew. You know, think Cheerios, Froot Loops, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Rice Krispies, etc. after about fifteen minutes in a bowl of milk.  Apparently I'm an old man who can't chew things. That's a thing now.

You're about to enter a world of soggy. Sweet, delicious soggy.

But, yes. Cracklin' Oat Bran, despite its mild textural flaws, is wonderful. "Wow, Rob," you're probably saying (but you're not because, as I said, this isn't a dialogue, because that would just be absurd for a blog), "you seem to have strong feelings about cereal. You must eat them a whole lot." To which I say, of course not. That takes way too much time and milk, and it doesn't pair nearly as well with orange juice, which is an important source of vitamin C. When the hell else am I going to get substantial amounts of vitamin C? With my lunch? Don't be absurd. Lunch is clearly a carb and fat soluble vitamin meal. Breakfast is all about the water soluble business.  Also, the text keeps disappearing, which is making it very difficult to keep writing this post.

So, somehow I got really effusive about Cracklin' Oat Bran when I don''t eat a lot of cereal (and frankly, rarely even eat Cracklin' Oat Bran- that shit is expensive, and I can be much better served by toast on most nights). In this case, for once, advertising worked. Man, did it work. It wasn't even a good ad by some standards. It says nothing about the actual cereal. It pretty much just repeats "Cracklin' Oat Bran" in various sentences that make varying amounts of sense for about two straight minutes.

It occurs to me that before I continue elaborating about the ad, I should give you a chance to find it. If you go to Youtube, and if you enter the search criteria "Cracklin' Oat Bran," and if you pick the result that has puppets generated from Dr. Seuss and Jim Henson's worst nightmares, then you've probably found the right ad. That first image from the page? Straight from that ad. Well, at least, it's a screen capture straight from the ad that I found on a Google Image search. Also, for proper credit, the ad is by Filmcow, who also did Charlie the Unicorn, Detective Heart of America, and charlie teh unicron (slightly less well known, but still extremely funny). It is not associated with Kellogg's in any way, which is really a shame. I have a strong suspicion that sales of Cracklin' Oat Bran in the 18-35 demographic SKYROCKETED after that ad came out, because the box itself isn't particularly distinctive, and we're far too jaded to buy cereal just because there's an apostrophe. We at least need a funny/beloved mascot (see: Tony the Tiger, Toucan Sam, Sonny the Cuckoo, and the Cinnamon Toast Crunch guy), a good catch phrase (see: "Reese's for breakfast," "Hey, kids, these don't taste like apples," (or alternatively, "We eat what we like!" which is possibly the most inane catchphrase ever. No, kids, you eat what you hate, and then you become what you hate, and the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon is doing something unspecified in the lyrics that I remember (Rob is bitter at 3 in the morning, apparently)) and "They're grrrrreat!"), or both. Cracklin' Oat Bran, officially, has none of these. I mean, it does have pretty decent box art?

But, really, are you more focused on the nicely airbrushed cereal in glue or the doll-eyed killing machine that thinks it's just playing a nice, friendly game with you? That's what I thought.

This video added in a sea of soulless, Lovecraftian puppets that shill Cracklin' Oat Bran like it's the reason C'thulhu naf'l f'thaghn. Don't get me wrong- the cereal has enough of its own merits to work, but it needed a foot in the door of our stomachs. Our terrible, terrible, churning stomachs.

So, I guess what I'm getting at (because there's TOTALLY an underlying theme to this blog post that has taken me over three hours so far, go Rob and Netflix) is that Cracklin' Oat Bran is people. Wait, no, that's not what I'm getting at at all, because I certainly have not been replaced by a representative of Kellogg's Black Ops Cereal Division to prevent any of these sorts of baseless accusations which dishonor a proud family business (for families, by families) that has been around for well over a century. Nope, I am certainly the writer of this internet writing log just writing his or her internet writing log like a normal male or female does (it sure is hard to tell after the totally nonexistent Black Ops Cereal Division doesn't finish that work that it doesn't do on males or females like me, your internet writing log writer). The totally existent underlying theme to this post to this "blog" (we're guessing that's what the kids call these internet writing logs) is that
Kellogg's cereal is your friend and you should buy more Cracklin' Oats.

Fuck you, General Mills. Nobody cares about Post.

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.

Hey everybody.

I have a presentation tomorrow. It's late, and I'm under-prepared.

Tonight's post will happen tomorrow.

Tyrion represents what you were all probably thinking right then.

Sorry, guys. Have a picture of-

GAH!

Have a pictu-

I get it. You're upset. Look. I'm tired, and I need to-

Okay, A.) I wasn't even done yet, and B.) I'm strangely okay with this one.

Good night, everybody.