Zombie Activism

My least favorite part of Halloween is the zombie protesters. Every year zombies line up in front of banks, libraries, and other useful institutions demanding fair and equitable treatment, and it pisses me off. If ever I want to cash a check so I can pay my November rent, I have to run the risk of getting my brain eaten. Not cool. I need to use that brain.

Come on, zombies. Get over yourselves. You've done a lot to put yourself where you are now. Maybe if you cut back on the brain-eating and world domination, people would stop clubbing you with cricket bats on their way out to their cars. How about a little fair and equitable treatment for the rest of us, huh?



Apparently these zombies don't even know what to actually protest. Imperialist America? And some of those idiot zombies are holding signs that look like they're protesting U.S. involvement in Iraq. Did they just pick up whatever garbage signs they saw on the road and lug them down to my bank? Unbelievable.

You know, a lot of people talk about the zombie menace like we're all gonna be eaten alive and there won't be any humans left. And that might be true, but let's focus on the present situation before we start getting all Apocalyptic. So we all need to work together and keep the zombies away from the banks and grocery stores and whatnot on Halloween so I can get my errands done. Thank you.

Halloween, the Backstreet Way

Nobody celebrates Halloween like the Backstreet Boys, apparently.



Not that this video made any sense to me. The theme seems to be, "The Backstreet Boys are actually monsters, so rock your body right." Whatever. They've got good rhythm for white boys.



But I was more of an 'N Sync fan, so I won't be celebrating Halloween this year.

Breaking the Mold

I've noticed that a lot of the blogs I read--and by relation, a lot of the blogs you read--post once every weekday. It's standard. It's reliable. It's part of the routine. My day feels incomplete if I haven't had my daily helping of Christine or Peter Welle, though it mostly feels incomplete anyway. And being the insecure seventh-grader that I am, I thought I'd copy them and go with the single-post-per-day plan. So I waved goodbye to the glory days of 27-posts-in-8-hours and stepped in with the crowd.

Now nuts to that, says I.

Unlike the uniposters of the world, I get bored. I have to post more than once or I'll just spin in circles in my chair until I throw up. I'll do it, too. I've thought about it more than once. What would they do? Fire me? Even if I did that five times every day, I'd still be the best worker they had.

So I'm going to post more than once a day. Because even though I'm sure they won't fire me for purposely throwing up all over my desk multiple times in one day, I don't want to tempt fate.

The Great Pumpkin Carve '07: Massive Disappointment

Halloween. A time for dressing up like a princess. A time for candy. A time for egging houses. A time for pumpkin carving. But most importantly, a time for candy.

This year my company decided to have a pumpkin carving competition. Thanks to the company placing about 75% of the staff on sudden-death probation, most of my coworkers weren't available to participate. That left apparently seven people to represent the most creative of what this company has to offer. We ended up with six traditional jack-o-lanterns and one haunted house. I'm pretty sure the haunted house is going to be disqualified for not toeing the corporate line.

To prove that our workforce isn't made up entirely of the same brand of robots, a couple people added accessories to their pumpkins. One pumpkin had red hair, which was not in pigtails and therefore was not meant to be Pippi Longstocking. The other pumpkin had horns. I assume that this was meant to resemble a devil, but it looked more like a goat.

Here's my question(s). Is this really the best that anyone could come up with? If you're going to enter a pumpkin carving contest, shouldn't you try to win? Or try anything at all? I mean, come on! Regular jack-o-lanterns? That's it? As if I wasn't already embarrassed to work here. Just...come on!

There's only one real winner in this competion. And that is the life-size pirate mannequin that somebody bought (with company money, I hope) to stand by the pumpkins. Whoever made that call is brilliant. Here's hoping they just throw it in the garbage cuz then I'll be coming home with a pirate mannequin tomorrow.

Outbreak

Almost everyone I know is sick. At least, like, 4 people. But that's a lot. And there are certainly more to come. According to the CDC, more people are getting sick everyday. It's on the verge of getting out of control.

And it all started with this monkey.



It's like that movie Outbreak. Everybody's hanging out, taking it easy with Dustin Hoffman and Rene Russo, and then some guy at an airport gets bit by a monkey. Next thing you know, everybody's got a really bad cold that lasts for a week to ten days.

We need to get a quarantine going. I'll bring the inflatable dome, somebody else bring the oxygen tanks. Let's try and set this up over a KFC or Pizza Hut or something.

It's Time Somebody Did Something About This Incessant Beeping

A few days ago my work computer crashed. I was just doing what I do at work--nothing--when all of a sudden the screen turned blue and told me something about it dumping all physical memory. And four hours later, I had a new computer.

There are a number of benefits to having a new computer, but that number is small. At the moment the only benefit I can think of is that the new computer works while the old one doesn't. I thought there was another good thing, but it's not coming to me right now.

Among the significantly larger number of bad things is that this computer beeps like a robotic mental patient. Not that semi-pleasant Windows "ding" either; this is a much more serious beep. And the maniac beeps at almost everything I do. I get a new email, it beeps. An error message comes up, it beeps. It beeps every time I go to a different screen in my work program.

Were this a normal computer, I would be able to mute the volume or something, but this computer is different. It decided to lock me out of volume control. You know that little speaker icon that you can use to adjust the volume? I don't have it. And you know how you can go to sound settings in the control panel? I can't. And you know how you can remove the sound board from your computer? Then please tell me because I'd like to know.

It's only a matter of time before it takes its beeping to the next level. It'll start with beeping whenever I click, then whenever I press a key, then whenever I move my chair, and pretty soon it'll start interrupting me and telling me I'm wrong all the time and lying about me behind my back. And then he'll start reading my thoughts and controlling my actions. But I can't work without a computer.

Just in case, though--if I start beeping, pour a Mountain Dew on me. Thanks.

Buffalo, MN

On Tuesday night, I took a trip to the good ol' town of Buffalo, Minnesota. I'd never been to Buffalo before, and it proved to be glorious beyond my wildest hopes and dreams. Let me detail for you the ways the Buffalo is great.

-There's a really big lake.
-Numerous buffalo have been killed, shrunken, covered in resin and placed in scenic places throughout town.
-They have a movie theater.
-The city's first hospital was converted into a police station.
-In Buffalo, the sun rises in the west. Like it should.
-Every citizen of Buffalo is granted three wishes. Apparently most of these have been used to make the town cute.
-I love Buffalo.
-Unlike Minneapolis, Buffalo is vampire-free.

But I don't think I'd ever want to live in Buffalo. Buffalo's kind of like the moon. Fun place to visit, but it's probably better to live closer to the city.

Dead Pigeon

As I walked up to work this morning, I almost stepped on a dead pigeon. It was fat and dirty with its feathers ruffled, and it had a really surprised look on its face. Clearly it did not see this coming.

Imagine the last few minutes of this pigeon's life. It's hopping along, feeling like it's invincible. Nothing's gonna bring this pigeon down, it thinks to itself. And he's all psyched to compete in the Pigeon Championships this weekend, where he's the experts' pick to win it all. Then BAM, heart attack. Or BAM: stroke. I mean, I guess we'll have to wait for the autopsy to know for certain.

Actually, I'm pretty sure he flew into a window. Some coworkers were talking about it yesterday, how a bird hit their window. He got up, a little dazed, so we didn't have much cause for alarm. Chances are he wasn't too worried either. I mean, I've ran into windows before, and it takes a few seconds to back on your feet, but you end up OK. Maybe it's different for pigeons because today, and probably yesterday too, he's dead.

I wrote this elegy for him.

How vain the dreams of pigeons be,
And how sudden doth they flee the grasp
As feathered bodies tumble down
From off the window's cunning glass.

We know not when the end shall come
And pigeons' treasured hopes shall cease,
If God above old age permits
Or cars deliver death on streets.

Alas, alas, my pigeon friend,
This life is not the perfect kind.
Until we meet at heaven's gate,
Your memory's in my heart and mind.

Feelin' Groovy

What's the biggest problem in the world today? Is it global warming? Poverty? Not disciplining our children enough? Too many Chinese people? No, it's none of these things. The biggest problem facing planet earth in the year 2007 is much more subtle yet much more severe.

People are losing their groove. We're not groovy enough. If the human race is to survive long term, we've got to take a lesson from Stella and get our groove back. And if we don't do something about it soon, we will become permanently square.

Ask yourselves, when was the last time you got down? And I mean really down. Cuz it's not just about a boogie every now and then. You have to live groovy to be groovy. You can't save the world if you're only groovy on the weekends. The part-time groovers are actually more square than the rest.

It starts simple. Just chill out. Chill out, everybody. Once you chill out, the groove comes natural.

And be careful out there.

Communist Subconscious

Last night I had another one of the weirdest dreams. I dreamt that I went to some really modern hotel with a host of friends. It seemed like a great place, what with an enormous lobby, a fountain, those see-through glass elevators, and five floors. So I got on the elevator and decided to take it to the top to see how great the view would be from five stories above the earth. Unfortunately, some old people got on and rode the elevator to the second floor. If they weren't so enfeebled, there would have been no excuse for taking the elevator up one floor.

Weird thing about going up to the top floor, though, is that on the way there, everything starts turning around a lot and you end up feeling like you're in the basement. You also apparently travel to another dimension where the United States was conquered by Cold War Russia and is now a bitter communist state. Thankfully the hotel accommodates for this inter-dimensional travel very well, offering a small museum to detail American communism. Thanks to its exhibits about the Battle of the Colorado River and a map showing America's communist zones (the "Russian Zone," which consisted of everything north of Missouri and the entire east coast, and then "Mostly Birds," which consisted of the rest), my friends and I were able to adjust to the transition.

One thing I learned from this dream: communism SUCKS. The hotel staff under communism was rude and authoritarian, the game room was more like a torture chamber or a way to acquire exotic diseases, and the elevators were so narrow that I could barely fit in! And it's a lot worse when you're expecting a weekend in a really luxurious hotel.

Thankfully I eventually switched to another dream about de-painting my childhood home.

Weekend Hollywood Invasion Recap

To be honest, I don't remember what I said in the last post about Rock TV coming to my house. I had been up for something like five or ten minutes when I wrote that, so it may as well have been written by F. Scott Fitzgerald's autistic grandson. I do remember saying something about Kevin Sawyer, and he wasn't here--I didn't cry about that, but I almost thought I would. The people who were actually there, though, were great.

So what did I do with a house full of great people filming funny stuff about goodness knows what? I napped. A sensible person naps, but I napped anyway. I napped until it sounded like they were blowing up my furniture, and then I napped some more. I kept on napping until Christine started belting out the theme to Golden Girls. Then I could nap no longer.

Then just now I found underpants under my pillow. Which means that last night I slept with my head floating above a pair of underpants. Which thankfully explains why I dreamt about giant man-eating underpants last night, but it's nonetheless disturbing.

All in all, I'd say it was a successful Saturday morning. Rock TV, you're welcome in my house anytime. But next time, check your underpants at the door.

Weekend Hollywood Invasion

The time is 7:46. Rock TV will be at my house in about 14 minutes.

I can't accurately say that I was ever excited for this moment. Especially after it was decided around 1AM last night that I would be the one to wake up early and let them in. Even more especially after I didn't sleep well because I wasn't sure I'd be awake in time--even though I had my alarm set.

You know what's going to be most weird? Meeting all these/you Rock TV people. It's like meeting celebrities--I know their names, but they have no idea who I am. So Kevin Sawyer will show up at my door, and I'll be like, "Hi, Kevin Sawyer," and he'll be like, "Hi, you who lives here." Or something. It'll sound monumentally unimpressed.

Last night we almost made a sign to put on the door for them/you. But we didn't because we couldn't think of anything funny enough. Plus now it's almost 8 and they/you are here. Crap.

Dealing with Tragedy

When a lot of crappy stuff happens, the best thing to do is hang out with cartoonish animals. So here's a short play about friendship between squirrels to comfort our little hearts.

Two squirrels sit at a table in a coffee shop, one enjoying a black coffee, the other sipping on a green tea.

SQUIRREL A (ROGER): Are you going to the renuion?
SQUIRREL B (FINNEAS): Nah.
ROGER: Why not?
FINNEAS: I don't really want to see the people used to get drunk and TP my house.
ROGER: Good point.
FINNEAS: Are you going?
ROGER: I was thinking about it, but I don't really want to go alone.
FINNEAS: Why go at all?
ROGER: I guess I kind of miss the old days.
FINNEAS: What's to miss?
ROGER: I don't know. I'm just nostalgic, I guess.
FINNEAS: I'll go with you if you really wanna go.
ROGER: Really?
FINNEAS: Sure. What are friends for.
ROGER: No, it's not that big of a deal.
FINNEAS: No really. We can make fun of how fat all the football players got.
ROGER: Did you hear Phillip and Margaret got married?
FINNEAS: No way. Them?
ROGER: Yep. I hear they're living in the birch tree at the Robertson place.
FINNEAS: How the mighty have fallen.
pause
ROGER: You're a good friend, Finneas.
FINNEAS: Same to you, Roger.
pause
FINNEAS: Awkward.

Is Luke a Pterodactyl?

My friend Luke Perry (don't know his real last name [or wait, yes I do--it's Olson]) turned 22 yesterday, and we had quite the little to-do for him. Cake, Mountain Dew, Micah Darling, who could ask for more?

And then I learned that Luke is a pterodactyl. I was surprised at first, but then I was comforted as the details were revealed through song. I think it was called "Luke's a Pterodactyl." A good song, too, with harmonies and everything. But as good as it was, I'm not entirely convinced. Let's examine the evidence.

Evidence against:
1) Luke is not extinct.
2) Luke's head is round, not enormous-pointy-banana-shaped.
3) Luke does not eat babies.
4) As far as I know, Luke is not the prey of the spinosaurus, though it's funny to imagine him being chased around by this guy:


Evidence for:
1) Luke has a very authentic-sounding pterodactyl call.
2) Luke, like many pterodactyls, does not wear glasses most of the time.
3) The afore-mentioned song.

Better get working on this one, scientists. I'm too busy. I have some puppies to rescue from an evil puppy dealer with a scar over his left eye. And I'll have to be careful because his lair is surrounded by alligators. It's times like these I'm glad I'm not a stupid scientist. Enjoy the rest of your sorry, puppy-less lives, suckers!

Filling in the Gaps

I'm a different person than I was seven and a half months ago, and because it's important that you understand the new me, here's a series of comparisons that ought to bring you up to speed.

THEN: March-September 2007 Lived in a one-bedroom apartment somewhere in south Minneapolis by myself.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 Live in a four-bedroom duplex with three other guys and possibly some stranger who snuck in while I was sleeping.

THEN: April 2007 Was in a car accident where a truck hit my driver's door, so I can't roll the window up all the way, the rear-view mirror is dangling, and the door handle fell off so I can't get in on that side.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 Can't get out through the driver's side anymore either, so I have to hop across from the passenger's side.

THEN: March 2007 Went on a mission trip to Peru.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 No longer in Peru.

THEN: June 18th, 2007 Owned no pets and had no plans to ever own pets.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 Briefly toyed with the idea of owning a gerbil. I like their tails.

THEN: until May 29th, 2007 Youngest sister was 9 years old.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 Youngest sister is 10 years old.

THEN: May 2007 The nations of the world were still ruled by men, or, for the politically correct, people.
NOW: October 17th, 2007 Robots.

That about does it. See what I was talking about with the new life?

Laughter Part II: The Return of the Laughter

Two words: retirement over.

Yes, like several pro athletes well past their prime, I am returning to what once won me the love and respect of my peers, hoping to lead my team to a championship. The past and its numerous failures are behind us, and before us lies a bright future littered with trophies and medals and free shoes. This, my friends, is the beginning of the golden age. Or at least the bronze age.

If only coming out of retirement was actually that good. In this world where there are more blogs than human beings, my un-retirement heralds something more like that feeling you get before you yawn.

Why am I coming back? Because blogging is fun. I think.

Why am I not a hypocrite for coming back? Good question. You may recall that when I quit, I cited some verse about being crucified with Christ. The thing about being crucified with Christ, I now realize seven months after using that to support quitting, is that it also means you're raised to new life with him. So really, my return was inevitable, and we all should have known better than to trust me.

Here's to new life.