An Open Letter to People Magazine

Dear People Magazine,

First off, I would like to congratulate you on your circulation. Even though I'm not sure what exactly you do (profiles on each person as they go through life at least once? That must be tough with some of the infant mortality rates out there). I mean, I'm sure somebody out there knows what you do and reads you. Despite all of that, you seem to be putting up some pretty impressive numbers. Be warned, though- I've got over 12,000 page views from at least ten different countries, so I'm coming for you.

Second off, I'd like to congratulate Chris Hemsworth on being selected as your choice for the Sexiest Man Alive in 2014. He is certainly a fine looking man, and he's done some pretty great stuff in the movies I've seen him in.

Having this wallpaper on your computer may make it pregnant with a Terminator. Chris Hemsworth. He's so hot right now. Chris Hemsworth.

But is he really the sexiest man alive? I'm sure that there are some folks out there who would swear by various opera singers or older actors, and Sean Connery is certainly still alive and kicking, as is Harrison Ford. Out of all these options, is he still really the top pick? I'm getting a little off topic, but bear with me.

I can't speak too much to the merits of other performers and celebrities who may have been overlooked for the title this year. Maybe they all declined as a statement about the lack of male Asian romantic leads in American cinema. I can't say. I am, however, curious as to why I did not receive an application for this honor. I've been trying to work this out in my head with varying degrees of success, and I wanted to share my reasoning with you to make sure that I'm not missing any major points.

The title we're looking at is Sexiest Man Alive, right? So that means that the honoree has to meet all three criteria- that is, "Sexiest," "Man," and "Alive." Clearly I have been found deficient in one of those three categories, or else I would have at least received an invitation to apply. Otherwise, is the title really accurate? As a potentially popular periodical publication, People, I would  hope that you would have the integrity to thoroughly check your facts and only print such articles and information as have been thoroughly scrutinized for accuracy and content.

The first criterion is "Sexiest." Obviously, this is by definition a superlative adjective, so there can only be one.

Hence, Sean Connery. Unfortunately, he lost the following year to Clancy Brown, who in turn lost to Christopher Lambert.

Because it is a superlative adjective, this is obviously the criterion upon which the final award will be based. However, this also means that those invited to apply need only fall under the criteria of being sexy, as the judgment for whichever applicant is sexiest falls to the committee. Merriam-Webster defines "sexy" as "1. Sexually attractive. 2. Of, relating to, exciting, or expressing sexual attraction or desire," but Merriam-Webster is a bullshit dictionary, and I do not recognize its authority.

The fact of the matter is that I have been recognized by several independent observers as being sexy. I just confirmed with one that it is still the case. As I have mentioned before, my hair, despite its decision to gradually leave my head and thereby better expose my thinkspace, has been recently recognized as nice by a... lady at a local establishment. On a similar note, smart has been widely recognized as the new sexy, with multiple female celebrities and non-celebrities alike lauding the virtues of intelligent men. Personally, I am in the process of earning two terminal degrees, am conversant in multiple languages, and am a reigning champion in a local trivia tournament. People magazine, I don't what your criteria are for sexy, but I know that I pass any objective test of sexy (and if I don't, well, then that test clearly is not objective and is therefore beneath the use of such a lauded publication as People magazine).

"But, Rob," you may say, because I am a benevolent narrator who allows you an opportunity to voice your concerns as a strawman, "you don't have the rippling muscles of Christ Hemsworth or the dulcet voice of Sean Connery or the... something of Channing Tatum!" Oh, People magazine. Haven't you heard? Real women have curves. As such, because equality and things like that, my body is a wonderland and is beautiful and sexy without such hard angles. So I have child-bearing hips with a little bit of pudge in my butt- that just shows that I'm real. And real, People magazine, is sexy (but not as much as smart, which, let's face it, is what I'm really banking on here).

Now that we've established that I meet the criteria necessary to be sexy, we come to the second and more perplexing criterion: "Man." At first glance, this seems like a slam dunk, but that assumes that we're equating maleness with manliness. To be sure, I am anatomically male. I can assume that I am also chromosomally male (although I can't say with absolute certainty that there weren't some weird events in gene activation that may have resulted in the development of an anatomical male on a female chromosomal background). I even identify as male in terms of gender identity. But am I a man?

A lot of criteria are thrown out in popular culture as to what makes a man. Maleness tends to be a prerequisite, obviously, but there are plenty of rules that are set out there. The ability to cook various meats properly on a grill. A good chili recipe. The knowledge of how to fire a gun. A thirst for adventure. I say that these are all wonderful things for people to have. I also say that one of the most important things about being a man is ignoring bullshit rules like that and finding your own way. Can I cook meats on a grill? To a point- I'm better at preparing them for the grill, but I can get my tongs dirty when necessary. Do I have a good chili recipe? Alas, no- I have THE BEST chili recipe (well, it's more of an outline than a hard and fast recipe, but that's what makes it such a good chili recipe). I can certainly fire a gun, and I've been on plenty of adventures. I can tie a bowtie. I have an appreciation for good wine, nice shoes, and Impressionist art. I can wax poetic about comic books and nineties cartoons. I have scaled mountains and paddled along rivers. But does any of this make me a man in the eyes of People magazine (the only eyes that really count, because if you can't be the Sexiest Man Alive, why be a sexy man at all?)?

I dare to posit that, no, none of this makes me a man in the eyes of People magazine (which is a magazine and therefore doesn't really have eyes, but you understand what I'm going for here, right? Of course you do, People magazine. You're so understanding. Hold me.). However, I do have a pretty phenomenal beard, which I think is more than enough to grant me entry into the illustrious club of People magazine's Man Society.

Among other recent inductees is Kathy Bates.

So, to review. We've established that I at least meet the bare minimum requirements for sexy (if not sexiest, which, I mean, People magazine, come on. Having read this, you're probably pretty convinced already of my raw animal magnetism, which may explain all the flies that like to hang around in my room). We just established that I probably meet whatever arbitrary requirements may or may not exist for being a man (i.e., being male, not caring about rules of manliness but being willing to adhere to them when they suit your purposes, and having kickass beard).

Jeremiah knows manliness.

Why, then, did I not receive an invitation to apply to become the Sexiest Man Alive, People magazine? Well, given the aforementioned explanations as to how I meet the first two criteria set forth, I suppose that I should investigate the last one.

Am I alive? As I said, I have done and learned how to do some pretty impressive things in my time. I have seen the flower parade in Nice, have spent a spring afternoon in a Parisian park, have brought audiences to tears with renditions of Dickensian fathers, yes, but have I done any of that lately? All that makes me who I am is in the past, including the very words that I type here, People magazine. Someday, I may be a doctor twice over who runs races and climbs mountains and bakes amazing soufflés that bring those who eat them to tears, but all of this is potential that is as yet unrealized and may remain unrealized. I have been my past and I may be my future, but am I my present? Briefly, am I alive?

Well put, David After Dentist.

Given that People magazine is a magazine that is in good public standing; given that to be in good public standing, one must be honorable and honest, which means that honors are given to those that most merit them; given that People magazine grants an honor of Sexiest Man Alive; then, People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive must be the Sexiest Man Alive.

Given  that there are at least 3 billion men living in the world; given that the Sexiest Man Alive must be sexy, a man, and alive; given that 3 billion is too many to accurately judge without some sort of screening process; then all living men must be subject to some screening process for sexiness.

Given the above, given that Rob is both sexy and a man, and given that Rob did not receive any sort of invitation or screening materials for his sexiness, then Rob must not be a living man, but based on the second given in this paragraph, Rob is a man, so Rob must not be living.

Therefore, Rob is a zombie. People magazine, I'm coming for your brains.


Braincerely,

Brains

P.S. Please leave any doors to your offices open. I can't use the handles very well. Also, brains.

It's a rainy Sunday morning (well, technically- I'd still call it a Saturday night, but whatever). Since it's a Sunday and all, let's talk about something. What, exactly, I don't quite know yet. I need to get this written, though, because falling asleep needs to happen at some point too, and I would be remiss in Novemblogging if I kept putting off these posts until morning, tempting as it may be.

Screw it. Let's get gross tonight. We're going to talk about fluids. Not my fluids specifically (well, not entirely my fluids specifically) but the general grouping of fluids that may arise- this sentence has already fallen apart. Let me start over.

We're going to talk about fluids. More specifically, we're going to talk about giving fluids and the experiences involved therein. At times, we will be talking about my specific experiences regarding the giving of those fluids, because those are the only experiences for which I can vouch, what with cogitoing all the ergo sum and such.

"Gonna cogito some serious ergot, if you know what I'm saying. I'm going to do hallucinogens derived from a fungus in an effort to achieve some sort of euphoria, is what I'm saying. In French and Latin, though. Maybe some Greek if I'm feeling frisky."

I'm talking, of course, about platelets. Yeah, you could give blood, and you probably should. I don't, because I have a pretty common blood type that (apparently) isn't in super high demand (since the Red Cross doesn't hound me about it constantly), and giving blood takes a lot more out of me than giving platelets, what with the slower generation time for red blood cells. Platelets are good to give if you're eligible to do so, what with saving kids with cancer (and it's an easy-ish way to lose some weight in a hurry! Who needs to be able to clot?). Also, it made me feel pretty great afterwards, which makes me wonder if I should buy some therapeutic leeches for the next time I get sick.

Also, as a warning, some of these stories can get a little graphic in terms of description (well, as graphic as I can manage, I suppose), so don't read it if you are easily queased. I mean, I'll absolutely hold it against you for not reading, because you don't care about the artistic passion that burns within my soul, and you just can't handle how real and edgy my blog is.

So. You're going to give platelets. You raging fucking badass, you. God. You're going to save kids. Imagine that. You could totally walk into a bar that night and say, "Hey, ladies [or dudes, or yourself because we here at Novemblog do not judge on the basis of gender or sexual orientation so long as all parties are giving and are capable of giving enthusiastic consent in a safe and sane environment], I just saved some children with cancer. Who wants to buy me a drink?" You may very well drown in alcohol (which you should really be avoiding after giving fluids like that, but everyone knows that it's easier to get drunk with a little bit of volume depletion) that you did not have to purchase. You are a real American hero. Well, you will be if you manage to give platelets successfully.

You wake up, hopefully with plenty of time before your appointment. You'll want to start drinking water now and not stop until, say, an hour before your appointment. I don't care if you're full- you want as much volume in you as possible, or else your veins might start to collapse (more on what that means for you later). You also need to eat a decent meal. I've never been too sure about why this is, but, then, I usually make sure to eat a good meal. I've heard that you're more likely to pass out if you don't eat well beforehand, but, again, anecdotes are something that you need to make sure you anecdon't totally trust at face value (even though they can certainly nod suggestively towards the truth of the situation). Anyway, you've eaten something that you've defined as a good meal, and you're drinking plenty of water (which you should do anyway, because most people are at least a little bit dehydrated and don't realize it). I'd say you're good to go, and maybe you would be if you were giving whole blood, but this is platelets. This is not fucking around time. There are rules.

Your average Red Cross nurse.

And rules you'll read when you get to the donation center and check in. You get to read a whole list of medications that you better not have ever taken and countries that you better not have been in and jobs that you or your parents better not have had, or else you won't be drowning in free booze tonight. Then, you sit in a room while a nurse takes your vitals (which you hope are sufficiently normal to allow you to actually donate) and asks you questions relating to the rules and the materials that you just read. They'll stick your finger and take blood as an offering to the ghost of Clara Barton, who hungers for the vigor of the youthful. Nah, they're just measuring your hematocrit to see if you're anemic. If you are, then get the hell out of here. We don't want your platelets in kids. You're a disgrace to your family and your country. Have you been feeling sick? Leave. Now. We don't take kindly to your type. Had any gay sex (even once, as the questionnaire likes to say) or sex with someone who had any gay sex (EVEN ONCE)? You will be offered as a sacrifice to Clara Barton, so that she may stay fabulous in her afterlife.

But, for the sake of argument, all of this went well. By now, you probably have to pee. I mean, geez, you've been drinking enough water. So, by all means, go pee. And, hey, you're going to be in that chair for a while (oh, I didn't mention that it takes an hour and a half once they get you started? Whoopsie!), go ahead and pick out a movie from their shelf. Of course, you might want it to be a movie that is an hour and a half or less, because otherwise, you're probably not going to finish it (see: The Blues Brothers, In Good Company, Pan's Labyrinth). Also, you may want to see if the portable DVD player by your chair actually works, because otherwise they're going to play it on the big screen in the middle of the room, and all the nurses and other patients are going to be privy to your moviegoing experience (see: In Good Company, Pan's Labyrinth). Also, grab a blanket.

Mr. DNA will explain why, as is his wont. Hopefully it won't involve dino DNA.

See, for platelet donations, they're taking plasma and platelets, but you can't just ask nicely for the plasma and platelets to come separately from the red blood cells. To handle that, they take everything out of one vein, spin the ever loving crap out of it (thereby separating the blood cells from everything else), store the plasma and platelets, and then pump your blood back into you with a little bit of saline to keep your volume up. Unfortunately, the machines and tubing that they're using aren't warmed to body temperature, so you're going to lose some heat. You won't necessarily notice it at first, but after about twenty minutes, you're going to be pretty cold. So grab that blanket. You'll probably want it.

Now that they've got you in the chair, they'll confirm your name and various other relevant information before they start pumping up blood pressure cuffs and asking you to squeeze stress balls (today, I had a pickle stress ball. My nurse was a bit quirky.) to find your veins. They'll mark them with a pen, which might actually be a little uncomfortable. Ha. Oh, you, thinking a pen is uncomfortable.

Next, they'll sterilize the area, because nobody wants to get an infection at the Red Cross. That's just asking for... I dunno, gangrene or some shit. By now, hopefully your movie is playing. Watch that movie. Seriously. Don't take your eyes off of it. Just watch the movie and keep your arms still, because you are about to have a garden hose sticking out of it. They usually start with the inlet vein to get some saline flowing, which I imagine is to get your volume up so a.) you don't pass out, and b.) to keep your veins patent.

Hopefully, they actually hit the vein. How will you know, you ask? Well, if you've had needles in your arm before, you'll know what a good hit feels like. There should be a little bit of discomfort, but it should stay pretty normal. If they didn't hit the vein, you're going to feel some pinching. It'll start right around where they got the vein, but it'll expand before too long. You might look down at your arm, but you might not be able to see anything, because they're nice enough to put some gauze over the needle so you aren't looking at a needle coming out of your arm.

Like I said, a garden hose.

If you're feeling that pinching, before long, you'll notice the skin around the needle starting to bleb up. Bleb is not a word that ever has good connotations. They've missed the vein, so they're just pumping fluid subdermally, like a TB test, but with a lot more fluid. Usually, they'll take a shot at another vein (I say usually- this has only happened to me once, which was more than enough). So, hey, double the chances of bruising!

Once they've got the inlet going, they'll go for the outlet arm. It's the same process, and it usually isn't as bad, because you've already done all of this once, and your movie is probably through the opening credits by now, which is nice. The big difference with the outlet arm is that you have to squeeze a little ball periodically to maintain pressure so that your blood doesn't get a chance to clot off over the needle (more on that later). There's a helpful screen that hangs out next to your chair that'll have your inlet pressure (usually around 60 mm Hg, and usually not something you need to worry about) and the outlet pressure, which you want to keep between 0 and -100 mm Hg.

Hopefully, you remembered to drink a lot of water, because otherwise, your veins might collapse. This isn't a big deal on the inlet vein, since they're pushing fluids in, and veins are floppy enough to open right on up if you're putting something into them. If your veins collapse, your outlet pressure is going to keep rising (well, falling, I guess, since they're negative pressures), and you might get a soothing little alarm. A similar thing happens if your body tries to clot over the needle and occludes it. Now, when this happens, the solution seems to consist of a fairly simple method:

1. Confirm that the donor is squeezing.
2. If 1 is confirmed, confirm that there are no obstructions in the tubing.
3. If 2 is confirmed, grasp the needle.
4. Retract the needle. Watch to see if the absolute value of the pressure drops.
5. If 3 is unsuccessful, reinsert the needle.
6. Repeat steps 3 and 4, preferably in rapid succession, until the pressure drops.

Now, if that doesn't sound painful, I failed you, dear reader. Having a needle jammed in and out of your arm HURTS. Oh, and you can't move your arms, or else the needle might go through something that's actually important (because, dude, nobody likes veins). So I hope nothing important is happening in your movie, because you're going to be distracted by nurses ramming needles in and out of your arms like you stepped into a cross between a Hellraiser movie and Alien. Oh, and the bruises from THAT will really look awful.

But, hey, let's say you drank plenty of water. Good for you, drinking all those fluids. Your veins aren't going to collapse. Say, when was that last glass of water? And when did you last get to use the restroom? You went and picked Waterworld as your movie, huh? Rookie mistake. Yeah, you've still got thirty minutes to go. Are you going to make it? Well, just try not to think about water and waves crashing on the horizon and- Yeah, yeah, you can call a nurse and they'll unhook you. They might not be too happy about it, though. Be warned, unhooking you takes about 5 minutes, so you'd best be able to hold it. Those chairs are not designed with your bladder in mind.

If you managed to make it through the whole hour and a half without and occluded line or an urgently full bladder, congratulations! You just gave a full unit of platelets. They're going to unhook your various lines and put on some bandages and the weird compression tape stuff while they talk about the dos and don'ts of post-platelet donation. Once that's done, go use the restroom and get yourself a snack. You earned it.

And, oh, by the way, they went ahead and increased the flow rate, so you really gave two units of platelets, so you saved, like, three kids! Good work. Don't walk into any corners, though, or you might bleed out. Toodles!

The Lady is playing a Mario game. It looks very frustrating. Apparently there's a king in Mario. I mean, this makes sense to a point, given that there is a princess for any vaguely Italian plumber who comes to town. There are dancing palm trees and blocks that are jumping, but she leaves them (and by extension the distressed damsel) because she is frustrated. Kids today. They don't know how to rescue princesses from turtle things with hammers.

Now she's playing Super Mario Galaxy, which is an extremely colorful and well made game that is immensely frustrating to The Lady, because it will mess with gravity and platforms.

She points out that she would prefer to remain where she is, because it is peaceful. When pressed about Bowser taking over the Galaxy and kidnapping the princess, she said that she doesn't care about those sorts of things and just wants everything to be peaceful and fun and not scary.

But enough about Marios of various shapes, sizes, and pixelations. I had thought about liveblogging The Lady playing Mario, but I don't think that it would have gone particularly well, mostly because liveblogging rarely goes well for these sorts of things. I get too distracted by the shining lights, and it's frustrating for me to watch people make mistakes that I would probably make if given the opportunity (and probably did on my first playthrough). Also, she's not playing anymore, as she got frustrated and shut off the console. Bad for liveblogging, but potentially good for other topics.

Today, I discovered what is apparently the hot new hashtag with kids today. Now, I know what you're thinking- "Rob, why are you talking about drugs or breakfast potatoes?" Oh, reader. You're so old and silly. You need to start getting with the times and/or the lingo for the kids today. No, hashtags are... well, nobody's entirely sure what they actually are, but their mysterious power is able to drive the power of celebrity or music or news or what have you. But, by God, kids use them, and thus turns the world.

A lot of people give cafeteria lunches a hard time, and, to be sure, the food is not that great. I mainly got spoiled while I was in France, because, there, the school lunches are a friggin' ordeal and are actually legit food.

Usually it was fruit in place of flan.

I mean, look at that business. That is amazing. There's an actual main course that probably has  a fancy French name and has vegetables and real meat and everything. There's a cucumber salad- A CUCUMBER SALAD! There's bread and cheese and some sort of flan, and everything is great. It's filling, it's healthy, and it's just great.

The Lady is trying to watch a Hanson special. There is no God in the world. Wait, no, God is back, because the Oprah: Where Are They Now (which is an amalgam of two shows from the nineties that I have no desire to watch) that The Lady wants to watch isn't on for another 30 minutes.

We are now watching reality TV. It's something about somebody named Kendra. It showed for literally thirty seconds before cutting back to commercial. And now it's actually back. This is absolutely horrendous. There's drama over shoes and earrings and an utter lack of complete sentences.

Anyway, school lunches (before I dig myself into a hole over this if/when The Lady reads this). The quality of the food was pretty abysmal, but you can say the same about Taco Bell, and I will eat the bajeezus out of some Crunchwrap Supremes right now. I remember that every now and again, they'd have chicken wings. They were obscenely spicy and obscenely delicious to 16 year old Rob. Once, I was eating outside, and it had just rained, so there was a puddle near me. A little bit of chicken wing skin fell into the puddle. You could see the grease cascading off of the skin, and it was grotesque and disturbing, but mostly it was evidence of why the wings were so good. Even when there weren't wings, you could get enough to constitute an actual meal for somebody who needs to consume more calories because puberty. Personally, I was a big fan of the ol' chicken nuggets dipped in some sort of fruit slurry, because I was a strange kid like that.

Recently, Michelle Obama has decided to take on ending childhood obesity as her favored cause. Good for her- obesity causes all sorts of problems, and if it starts in kids, it's hard to get them back down to a healthy weight. It's a fine line, since kids need enough calories to grow and thrive and such, but once you get past a certain point, boom, you're the Michelin man, because in this case, you ARE the kids.

So how did she decide to fight obesity? Maybe get some more PE programs in schools? More athletic programs? Encourage more biking and walking programs for kids? Build some more playgrounds so the kids can be active during recess? Change up the infrastructure so there can be healthier school lunches? I mean, she wouldn't do something that might lead to the same vaguely crappy food but in smaller portions, right?

Hahaha no, the last one is totally what happened. I mean, I get it- that's certainly the easiest way to deal with the situation with the resources at hand. It's a lot easier to keep using what you're already using, but in smaller portions. I'd imagine that there are cafeteria food lobbyists who are just super persuasive. But, good God, that should not mean that high schoolers are being served this:

Everybody loves some cheesy bologna tortilla, right? That's all the rage! BUT YOU ONLY GET ONE.

I'm sure I ate way too much in high school, but I was still pretty obscenely thin. I think it took college for me to break 150, if even then. But I liked that I had the choice to say, "Why, yes, I think I WILL have double wings, a fruit cup, and some cookies today. Ring it up, my good fellow. Toodle pip." I was also very English in high school, which happens to have been in the 1880s, which is really lucky. I should have been mining for coal or something.

Bear costumes were never cool, but they were very warm in 1880s England.

And, you know, yes. Childhood obesity is a problem. It's a terrible thing that happens. In a perfect world, we could put forth the infrastructure needed to put French-style lunches in our cafeterias. Everyone could have cucumber salads (CUCUMBER SALADS, GUYS!), fine cheeses, and, I dunno, flan or some business, but because we cut P.E. out of the curriculum and keep everyone inside all day, they'd still get fat because they wouldn't ever get to be active.

Honestly, the stuff I'm seeing in some of these pictures is worse than anything I remember seeing during high school. Well, except for maybe the mac and cheese, which was somehow able to completely wreck anyone's colon, but even then, there's a picture of what appears to be radioactive sweet potato mac and cheese, which is pretty high up there as far as abominations go.

Is this what happens when you leave apple cobbler and macaroni and cheese in a room with some candles and Marvin Gaye?

I'm sure this is not reflective of what's actually available at any of these schools and that there are plenty of people who are satisfied with the overall flavor of the menu. The first lady (because, see, that's more words than Michelle Obama) probably got some solid expert advice on what constitutes a healthy lunch for different age groups. I'm sure that this will all work out for the best, and people will be able to complain about cafeteria food for years to come, and nobody will ever actually get cucumber salad (CUCUMBER SALAD, GUYS) with their school lunch. The bread will remain paradoxically inferior and superior to baguettes (because, guys, those rolls, especially if they weren't quite done yet? Oh my goodness they were so soft and bready you don't even know. You could take it and roll it up into a tiny little sphere of bread), and you'll still get little fruit cup things (well, maybe- I'm sure those have a lot more sugar, and carbs fat carbs protein fat carbs fat carbs carbs carbs spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam spam carbs are bad for you, so maybe they'll be on the way out). Hopefully whatever kinks are in the system will get ironed out, and kids will be lean and mean and ready to fight the red menace as it comes screeching across the skies from the East. What's that, comrade? Not ready for our healthy and strapping youths of the Wagener, South Carolina, Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps and International Double Dutch Forces? Ha ha, we'll be sipping Yuenglings in the Kremlin by nightfall. I'd say Pabst Blue Ribbon, but I think that overemphasizes the European aspect of this battle of the wills (and, besides, Pabst Blue Ribbon was sold to a Russian company a few months ago. Is nothing sacred to the Ruskies?).

So, yeah. That's my post about cafeteria lunches and how they'll help us fight the war on communism (or something along those lines). I'm going to go and try to get some sleep before I try to donate platelets tomorrow and try to actually finish a movie (I got through the Blues Brothers' first gig last time I was giving. At least I got to see some Nazis get run off a bridge. Sorry, Illinois Nazis. My mistake.). With this last sentence, I should have completed my word count with a few words to spare, so I hope to see you THIS VERY WEEKEND when I post another post tomorrow evening maybe why not?

Aw, heck, if we're being meta about the word count, I'll throw in a few extra one, just for a rainy day. Don't need you spending all these words all willy nilly on clothes and such. That's an obligatory episode of a mediocre teenage sit-com from the early 90s. And we're better than that.

Tonight, I may or may not have gotten hit on while in a bar. A (very inebriated) lady complimented my hair while I was closing out my tab and told me that I forgot to put product in it. I explained that I don't use product in my hair, because I have little enough as is, and I prefer my hair to be mobile and limber, like a mongoose ready to strike out at any Gorgons that may swing by. I think she may have been negging me. Of course, she was OBSCENELY drunk, so I'm not sure that her thought processes were even fathomable by that point.

But, hey, if negging can happen to me, then it can happen to you. I'm not sure how we should feel about it. I mean, it's really not a particularly constructive way to indicate any sort of attraction or openness to intimacy, but neither is a lot of what happens in elementary schools, romantic comedies, and the internet, so who are we to judge? I've already talked about online dating, though. I'm sure I have. I'm not going there tonight. That doesn't mean I know where I'm going, of course.

Now I do, though. See, Thanksgiving is coming up, so- Oh. You think I'm going to talk about Thanksgiving? No. No no no. We've already had an incredibly epic post about that. There have been demands for selfies from the drawer bed. There has been much confusion and speculation over said drawer bed. Thanksgiving dinner itself is absolutely amazing. People don't even understand. I think I'm bringing wine? I don't even know if I'm bringing wine. I should clarify whether or not I'm bringing wine, and I should also get my linguistic brain functioning enough to not attempt to type "weather" instead of "whether," because I know better than that, and this is just unacceptable.

But I digress.

No, Thanksgiving is coming up, so I don't want to make anything that will have a lot of leftovers, because I don't think they're particularly going to last through the holiday weekend without some serious health concerns, of which I need no more for this year, thanks. Due to my illness, I've been regularly thawing containers of miso soup that I froze down about a month ago. The soup itself is pretty solid and has protein and vegetable matter, I'm sure, so that's a big solid, especially with the surplus of health issues (see: every mention of my cough over the past week and a half). I was thawing a container today after lunch, when I used the last of my unthawed soup. (There are still multiple containers of soup in the freezer, because I had a lot of miso, seaweed, and chard to use up, because what other recipes actually call for either miso, seaweed, or chard?) When I got home from lab, a substantial part of the soup was thawed, except for the giant ball of frozen miso soup in the middle. So, for dinner, I had some pretzels and Biscoff spread.

Biscoff was discovered in the same manner as Cracklin' Oat Bran. Namely, by watching uppets slowly devolve into madness and debauchery.

For those of you who don't know, Biscoff spread is a cookie butter made by the lotus company. It's basically shortbread ground up and mixed with magic and leprechauns to form a smooth butter that tastes amazing and will magically transfer itself by the jarful into your stomach if you aren't careful. I AM fairly careful, and I know better, so I only ate half of the jar for dinner. With some pretzels. And some water.

Many of you are probably thinking, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Rob, easy there. Your pancreas needs rest. You need healthier food. You are going to develop hypertension and high cholesterol, and you'll be dead of a heart attack by 24." First off, I've already surpassed that landmark, so no worries there- it's all downhill from here. Second off, I am an adult, and these are the decisions I have chosen to make for myself.

That said, that decision was absolutely terrible and left me in a pretty rough state for most of the evening (INCLUDING RIGHT NOW, I'm sure). I've since added a clementine to the equation, as well as two PBR's, as they are cheap and I want to support local bars in becoming the number one sellers of PBR in the nation (screw you New York City).

NEW YORK CITY?!

In honor of my terrible decisions this evening, I give you, "Things Rob Could Have Done For Dinner That Would Have Been Better Decisions Than Biscoff Spread, Pretzels, Water, 2 (Okay, One And a Half, Even Though Rob Knows That You Should Never Leave a Beer Unfinished, But Sometimes You Have To Look Out For Your Own Well Being Over Niceties And Principles, Especially Those Relating To Whether Or Not One Should Finish A Beer When One Really Does Not Want To Finish a Beer) PBRs, And a Clementine Later."

1. Gone Out

There are plenty of restaurants in the area that I could have gone to to get some sort of food. I could have even just swung by a Taco Bell and gotten a delicious prescription of Delayed Release Regret. The bar has good sandwiches, in which I could have partaken (okay, fine, good might be stretching it, but they are certainly quite edible and delicious, because bacon). I could have gone and gotten grocery store sushi. (As an aside, I once walked out to my car at that store and found that someone's grocery store sushi had come open and fallen down, leaving pieces of sushi on the ground. This may have been one of the most bourgeois sad things I have witnessed.) If I had the time and inclination to spend the money, I could have had virtually anything that I could have wanted to eat. Out is a big place, and you can find such treasures Out there.

2. Gone to the Store for Provisions

I probably needed to pick up some carrots and milk anyway, so a trip to the store would not have gone entirely awry. At this point, I need to get some sleep. I figure that I'm a good 1100 (okay, fine, not quite, but I believe that this parenthetical might just get us over the 1100 mark if we BELIEVE IN MIRACLES DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES I WANT TO BELIEVE IN MIRACLES SO HARD RIGHT NOW) words in, and I can finish this up tomorrow.

It is now today, which was tomorrow yesterday. I have had five hours of sleep, and my stomach is replete with cereal and a bagel with bacon/scallion cream cheese, because God exists and wants us to be happy (and doesn't make a huge deal about pork products anymore). Anyway, to continue in the vein of last night's post, I could have gone to the store and picked up all manner of foodstuffs. Even if most of my culinary repertoire is based around leftovers, I could finish some leftovers over the course of five days or so. I mean, there wasn't a lot of time to cook anything extensive, but I'm sure I could have found something decent to work with. Worst case, I could have picked up a friggin' Stouffer's lasagna, followed the microwave instructions, and ended up with lasagna burned to shit all around the edges while I burned the ever loving bajeezus out of my mouth, but I would have had a far healthier dinner than pretzels and Biscoff. Also, I could have picked up ingredients for sandwiches of some sort, which would have prepared me for some sort of eventuality in which sandwiches are necessary. I can't give you gold all the time, especially on five hours of sleep.

3. Eaten Some Freaking Vegetables (Or Fruit)

As of last night, I still had several carrots just hanging out in my fridge. Carrots themselves do not make for the finest meal ever, but there was also some garlic and some onions, which really wouldn't have been all that appetizing either. I also had a few bananas, some of which weren't completely brown (so, um, aces) and several pounds of clementines. I'm not saying that any of these would in themselves make anything resembling an actual meal, but you know what? Neither do pretzels, Biscoff spread, one and a half PBRs, and a clementine later in the evening.

4. The Ramen Spectrum (haha because see it's a physical chemistry joke about inelastically scattered photons following interactions with a molecule's vibrational states)

If this text is still bold, then I have failed you all. I had to do some writing on my phone to avoid suspicion by the boss, so you're getting some gonzo blogging as well as (possibly) the unfortunate effects of my phone's auto correct functions. But I digress.

Ramen noodles get a bit of undeserved hate. Not a lot of undeserved hate, mind you, but a bit. Yes, they're cheap and high in sodium, and their flavor packets are pretty suspect, but in the right hands, Ramen can be okay. I don't know why my phone capitalizes Ramen, but maybe that's the correct way to do it? And now, welcome from the future which is now the past as I needed to take a roughly six hour break to handle things in lab. Huzzah. Anyhoo, yes, ramen/Ramen can be suspect as your run of the mill bachelor food, which in itself would probably have been better than the litany of malarkey that I was eating last night.

That's the taste of economizing, son.

But if you've got, say, some onions, some garlic (for example), and some spices to give it a little kick, then you've got something great going. Add in some eggs and fish sauce (which also happened to be hanging out in my fridge, just straight chilling, yo WOCKA WOCKA), and you've got something magical and amazeballs (although there were no balls of amaze in my fridge, which is unfortunate, because I'd imagine that they'd really pair well with ramen/Ramen).

That's the taste of economizing in style, son. You are now a man. Here's your man card. Don't lose it.

5. Defrosted the Goddamned Soup

Because, I mean, there's a microwave RIGHT THERE.

Goddammit, Rob.

6. Brinner 

Brinner, or breakfast for dinner, is a time honored tradition of small children, bachelors, and hobbits. It does, however, require rather specific breakfast ingredients. So, let's review what I had available in the house yesterday evening (in perhaps more detail than before):

-Some slices of bread
-A few eggs
-Some milk
-Some fruit
-Onions
-Garlic
-Probably some Swiss cheese or something like that
-Maple syrup
-Bisquick in the pantry
-Gingerbread pancake mix
-Vanilla
-Baking soda
-Cereal
-Other sundry goods

With those items, I could have made: scrambled eggs, an omelette, pancakes, French toast, a French toast omelette, cereal, scrambled pancakes, Bananarama, maple banana scrambeled omelette toast, a grilled Swiss cheese sandwich between French toast with a side of pancakes and scrambled bananas, straight up vanilla right from the bottle, and Cheerios.

In conclusion, my meal plan yesterday evening was a mistake and an utter failure. However, there was no way that my pancreas was coming out unscathed, and I am an adult, so I do what I want. AMERICA.

Leprechaun 2: The Curse of Curly's Gold

As you may or may not have noticed (and you probably haven't, because I posted it fairly recently, although with the lag on this laptop it may be tomorrow evening by the time I actually finish this post), I finally updated with the Election Day post that I had promised once upon a time. It only took me two weeks to do, so I mean, that's nice, right? That's some quality reporting by our intrepid teen journalist slash blogger, right?

But enough of me trying to pad the entry with words followed by other words. Let's get to the meat of this post, which I'm somewhat excited about, if only because I had an idea about it that turned out to be completely off, so we're flying by the seat of our pants. Is the seat of our pants particularly aerodynamic? Stay tuned and find out.

Several entries ago, I tried to interpret the plot of the "classic" horror-comedy Leprechaun (yes, I should probably use italics or underlining at some point, but I'm a rebel on the run from Strunk and White, heroes of the underrated buddy editor genre of films.) based solely on the poster and the trailer. Tonight, we're going to see what I can do for the sequel, Leprechaun 2.

In thinking up this post, I was torn on whether or not to treat Leprechaun 2 as completely distinct from Leprechaun and try to use entirely new characters and avoid any references to the first one. I've opted to keep at least some semblance of continuity, which may not be the best idea. Also, I'm sorry if I spoiled any of the blogger magic by revealing those secrets.

Yeah, that's about what blogger magic really looks like. Don't make me cast magic missile.

Part of the problem for this one is that I've identified three different posters, and they each tell a somewhat different story. Let's see what blogger magic I can work on this. Okay, I'm going to work off the most- oh. I'm padding, aren't I? Sorry about that. On with the show.

In case the tagline is not visible, "This Time... Luck Has Nothing To Do With It."

So we've got what I can only assume is the jolly, bar-owning frame of Warwick Davis holding a candle in front of a city. Is it Chicago? We'll say it's Chicago. Chicago is a good movie city. The Batmans are there. I feel like Age of Ultron might have been there. It's a good movie city. And let's see, he's holding a candle, and luck has nothing to do with it this time. There's the title, in the same old Irish pub font, but with a 2 scrawled out behind it. Of note, there is no Jennifer Aniston in this movie (probably because they didn't have the budget to afford anyone else after paying THE Warwick Davis' handsome salary. Guys, he was in Willow? Maybe you've heard of it? It had Val Kilmer?).

Young Val Kilmer, of course.

Okay. Picture this. Warwick Davis, flush with the success of Leprechaun's Irish Pub and Restaurant But Not In a Kitschy Bennigan's Sort of Way, has married his now longtime flame Jennifer Aniston. What can I say? Her quirky and offbeat ways have won his heart, and damn society looking down on their union by saying that redheads have no soul and need more anesthesia if they're women. If you prick her, does she not bleed? They buy a house. They go on picnics. They take care of the bar and achieve a degree of success that is above the norm (and even in the upper quartile for their area). There is marital bliss. Because Jennifer Aniston isn't in this movie, this is all obviously offscreen.

The movie- no, let's call it what it is- the FILM begins with Warwick Davis driving home, clearly exhausted from a day of running his business, but clearly invigorated by success and love for his darling wife. He pulls into the driveway, and he looks upon the home that he and his wife have made  just in time for it to explode in a demonstrative fireball with his wife inside. He is hurled backwards and watches, helplessly, as it is all consumed by the flames. His face has been horribly burned (hence the terrible scarring seen in the poster). His wife is dead.

Cut to a funeral. It is a sad day. The community has come out to honor the life of  wonderful woman. Generous, kind, caring- these words pale in comparison to the compassion embodied by this paragon of virtue and grace, Jennifer Aniston.

Rest in peace, Jennifer. "In the aaaaaaarms of an aaaangel."

After the funeral, Warwick Davis is greeting people, thanking them for coming, shaking hands, eating some finger sandwiches, anything to keep himself from thinking of the light of his life that was taken, his lucky star that just went out forever, his baby which was from his womb untimely ripp'd. As the well-wishers and mourners begin to thin out, Warwick is approached by two gentlemen in suits and sunglasses. They begin to ask Warwick Davis some questions about his insurance, whether or not he has any enemies, whether or not his wife had any enemies. In his grief, he is taken aback by such questions- who are these men? Do they not understand the depth of feeling he has- had, he must remember that, and yet he must forget, for as soon as she becomes a was, she is lost to him forever- for his wife? They explain that they are police officers, and they are investigating his wife's death. This was no accident- luck had nothing to do with it. They're investigating for possible arson... and MURDER.

The word rings in Warwick's ears. He stammers that he doesn't know anything about enemies or arson. The police understand and offer their apologies before leaving. After they go, Warwick has a soliloquy (because they're not just for Shakespeare anymore, and Warwick Davis is the thespian we need AND deserve), wherein he vows revenge for his murdered wife. All the pain he has known, all the pain that she endured shall be visited upon the perpetrators ten-fold. He knows he has never been a particularly religious man, but he feels guided by a spirit of divine vengeance that leads him towards his foes. He knows now that he was fortunate to have had as much time with Jennifer as he did. He knows that his happiness was a blessing that he can only recognize now that it's gone, but he was lucky to have it at all. This time? Luck has nothing to do with it.

Warwick leaves the restaurant in the care of an old friend and confidante. He can't afford to have any distractions on this quest for revenge. As he leaves the restaurant, he sees a shady looking fellow watching from across the street. Warwick calls out to the man, who proceeds to run. Warwick leaps into his car, and the chase is on. Fruit stands are knocked over, pedestrians are shooed out of the way, pigeons are disturbed, plate glass is broken. It is truly an epic chase, but like all epics from Gilgamesh to Naruto, it must end, with Warwick pinning the man in an alley. He demands of the man what he knows. The man is uncooperative. Some creative inquiring by Warwick quickly jogs his memory and loosens his tongue. "Chicago," he says. "The guys you want, they're the [insert criminal sounding organization or family name, I can't predict all the magic here. I'm a blogger magician, not a blogger clairvoyant.] out of Chicago. But they're too well connected! You'd have to be lucky or crazy to get to them!"

"Well," says Warwick as he pulls out his gun (purchased previously in a scene that was deleted from the theatrical release because it didn't really add much of anything beyond the explicit purchase of a prop that we've seen on him since after the funeral, but don't worry, it gets put on the deleted scenes on the DVD), "this time, luck has nothing to do with it."

Cut to a framing shot of Chicago. They show some landmarks. Maybe the bean. Maybe the Sears Tower. Maybe Ferris Bueller is riding down the street on a parade float. Whatever it takes to show that it's Chicago. Warwick Davis drives in, and it is clear that he is a badass and he means business. The next bit of movie basically consists of him working his way up the Chicago crime food chain. From the dealers on the streets to the crooked judges in the penthouses, nobody is safe. Well, safe is a relative term. He lets them all go, but with a message: "Warwick is coming for you." He's waiting for the big fish, and he's going to savor his revenge.

He walks back to his hotel when he gets dragged into a limousine. Sitting across from him is the big fish (we'll say he's played by Bill Pullman, because that would throw the audience for a loop). Bill says that he can give Warwick the men who torched his place. Warwick is clearly intrigued. He can have his revenge, and he can go home. He can rebuild his life. All Warwick has to do is leave him and his business alone, Bill says. Go back home. Run the restaurant. It's what Jennifer would have wanted. Bill hands him an envelope that tells him the names and locations of the men who caused the death of his wife. It would just be bad luck if someone happened to find those men and do something terrible to them. No harm, no foul. It's an olive branch. If Warwick takes it, they can be at peace and go their separate ways. If he doesn't, well... he's been lucky so far. Keep this up, and his luck might run out. Bill drops Warwick at a street corner and tells him to think about it. The offer stands through midnight.

Warwick gets to his hotel. "My luck already ran out once, Bill, and then I met Jennifer. You know, I might have let this all go, but you had to say her name. You think I got lucky? This time, luck had nothing to do with it." His path is set. He goes to the location that Bill gave him. He uses his prodigious interrogation skills (food and bev is a rough business) and records a confession. He leaves them and the confession at the local precinct. He thinks of his dead wife again. For the sake of my bride, he thinks, I have to kill Bill.

As an aside, this plot also sorta fits another of the Leprechaun 2 posters.

He makes his way to Bill's building (no pun intended) and carves a path through the security up to Bill's office. There is no longer restraint here. These men stand between me and the man who caused the death of my wife and dared invoke her name. This ends tonight. He finally makes his way to Bill's office... only to find it empty. Well, almost empty. On the desk, there is a note for Warwick. "Warwick," the note reads, "we could have had peace. Instead, you spurned my offer and chose the path of blood. Well, Warwick, blood you shall have." Enclosed with the note is a picture taken at a distance of Leprechaun's with Warwick's old friend outside.

Realizing what Bill is planning, Warwick rushes to the restaurant, only to find Bill holding Warwick's friend (who probably should have gotten a name by this point, but hey, sometimes you have to be avant garde in films) hostage. By now it is morning. Warwick is bloody and battered, and by all means, he should be exhausted. Yet some spirit of vengeance fuels his body, knowing that his quest is almost complete. "Bill," he says. "This is between us. Let my friend go, and we'll settle this." Bill seems to agree, but as Warwick's friend walks away, he shoots him in the shoulder. Warwick's friend collapses to the ground. Warwick retaliates by shooting Bill in the hand (to disarm him, of course, because, I mean, you don't want the guy to have a gun. He's clearly crazy. I know he's Bill Pullman, but that's no excuse for such a lack of gun safety.) followed by the knee, bringing him to the ground. Warwick drags his friend to the door and calls for an ambulance.

Warwick walks inside and blows out the pilot light. He opens the refrigerator. He pours all the alcohol from the bar onto the floor. He returns to Bill, who begins pleading for his life. "It wasn't personal- none of this was personal. I can give you whatever you want. Is this what Jennifer would do?"

"You know, it's probably not. Jennifer might have understood that it was just business. She was always the pragmatic one. She's dead now, though. She is- she was my wife, and she's dead because of you. You can't give her back to me, and you can't give me my life back. No one can." Warwick turns his back on Bill and walks outside.

He pulls his friend to the other side of the street. They hear the sirens as Leprechaun's ignites. The flames warm Warwick and bring him some solace and closure, knowing that he has finished what he started, knowing that that chapter of his life is over. He and Warwick's friend explain that there was a mugger and a struggle. The paramedics say that he was lucky to have gotten out of there alive.

"Luck had nothing to do with it."

Cut to black.

Well, that was depressing.

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.