We should have listened to Bob Barker

The cat is in heat. I only recently learned what this means, and I must say, it fascinates me to know that all this whining sack of feline estrogen wants is someone (or something, as it were) to come and take it for a ride.

Two observations, though.

One, why don’t human females go through this stage? I must say, it would make things far easier on me if all women just walked around, ladyparts exposed and all up in my grill, vocalizing how much they wish I’d do what I’ve wanted to do to them for years. It would take out all of the formalities of dating, and would likely be cheaper.

As for the second thought, come on, Cat. Give me a frigging break. I’ve wanted to have sex since before I came out of my mother. You’ve been with us on this green earth for five months. Try nineteen years, you ungrateful varmint. You don’t see me parading around like the world owes me intimacy, with my hind parts raised toward the sky while I moan and groan for hours on end while other people are trying to sleep, do you? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

So seriously, Cat, get a grip, take a chill pill, and do whatever it is all of those other idioms that mean “relax” tell you to do.

Drive(a)way

Dear Friends,

If you know me, you know that I have a lot of weird, quirky pet peeves. I can’t eat popcorn. I like to set the volume on radios to increments of five, since prime numbers mortify me. And, of course, I don’t like people who turn around in my driveway.

I live one block east of a moderately busy intersection. It seems that if you want to go through this intersection, you have to be a complete idiot, since it seems like the vast majority of cars that pass through have to turn onto my street, maneuver their automobiles between the mess of cars that’s already in my driveway (At last count, we have five cars. This is unacceptable.), and back out. I normally wouldn’t have a problem with this, but lately people are getting more and more courageous.

People will pull into my driveway even when I’m in the driveway. If I’m taking the dog out or getting the mail, they completely disregard me and pull their two ton pickups right up onto my property. It’s especially bad when I get in my car to back out of the driveway and go about my mundane travels, and I can’t because some thoughtless old cow has proceeded to impede my ability to travel in favor of her own ignorance when it comes to basic navigation. It really ticks me off.

Therefore, I have lately been a master of the three point turn, such that folks would not see me in the same light that I see the dolts who rumble into my driveway multiple times every hour. And, my friends, I encourage you to do the same.

Yours,
Casey

Not meant to be funny, this is my gripe of the day

The Devil Rays, in an attempt to expand their regional fan base, relocated their series this week with the Rangers of Texas to Disney’s Wide World of Sports in Orlando. This distresses me, partly because I likely would have been in attendance to at least one of these games had they taken place at the Trop in St. Pete. But this isn’t really what annoys me about this series.

The front office says they want to increase their fan base across the state by bringing in the Rays, in sort of a traveling circus type atmosphere, to everywhere they need some television viewers, merchandise buyers, and bad bullpen lovers. This is all well and good, since I’d love to see more and more people live and die with this team like I do, but I think a rational move before actually temporarily relocating the team would be o give fans across the state access to TV broadcasts of every game.

In Gainesville, for example, I get to see about a third of all the games. Luckily for me, I’ve come home to eat my parents’ food for the summer, but had I stayed in Gainesville, I would be up the creek without a paddle. Or a bullpen.

Teacher's Pets

Holy God. I can’t take it any more. Listen to me, political science majors. Listen well.

NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT ANYTHING.

Okay, perhaps a bit harsh. But well-founded. Let me explain.

I am, for some reason, a political science major. I hold no fervent opinions either way on the political spectrum, nor do I engage in hardcore analytical thinking outside of copying notes that some overly-paid professor puts on a PowerPoint slide during lecture. For the other 165 hours each week, I’m a normal person: I sleep, I eat, I watch cartoons. I do not care about the woeful state of international relations, and I do not care about the world around me. As long as I have my Chef Boyardee, my Cartoon Network, and no place to go, I’m content.

But political science majors, they’re a different breed. While other kids go to the movies, they stay at home and watch their Tivoed copy of the State of the Union address. While other kids eat pizza, they refuse to stoop to such a level of ignorance while they munch on their ever-delicious tofu and meatless meat loaf. And while other kids just want to leave a class that has been held over for five minutes due to a long-winded professor who just wants to enlighten folks on the troubles of the country of Latvia, they all raise their hands in unison to make a myriad of “relevant” statements that do nothing more than show all of the normal-minded folks in the world of their intellect and superiority.

Seriously. Let me leave. I have some hedonism to get to.

John Q. Law is a CRIMINAL

Look, I know I’m a stickler. But isn’t it logical that policemen should have to follow the same traffic laws as everyone else if their siren is not sounding?

I don't dig his digs

I know. I know. I haven’t been markedly ambitious in the writing department during the last month. But look: I’m a busy man. Of course, by “busy” I mean “lazy.” And by “man” I mean “college student.” But hey, tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.

However, jammed between days of simply fantastic college football and absolutely putrid professional football are days where the unthinkable happens: I go to class.

Now, I’m a Political Science major this week. As such, I get to go to such wonderfully interesting classes as State and Local Government (taught by a professor that I think I could beat up) and American Federal Government. Now, the guy who teaches the latter is really, really smart. And I respect that. But what I don’t appreciate is his attire.

Every day, this professor shows up in shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt which customarily boasts clever little sayings about his (extremely rightist) views on politics. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that if I were given the opportunity to make a copious amount of money each year for enlightening more future politicians (because, as everyone knows, we need more politicians), I would take the time to, you know, put on a tie. Or at least a collared shirt.

The Obligatory College Post

I’m beginning to go through the deep psychological trauma of leaving home. Though subtle, thoughts of what I’m going to do with my life (read: without my parents around me every day) creep into my head. This happens especially at night. I’m pretty sure that it is this doubt of the future, in association with my obscenely whacked-out sleep schedule that keeps me awake here at 3:00 A.M.

But today, I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done: I vacuumed my room. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the fact that I never before vacuumed my room is disgusting. And it is. But let’s focus here, people.

This Sunday, I move away from home. And while it may only be two hours up the Interstate and I’ll be stopping in fairly often for visits, it’s still sad that I’ve packed up everything in my room except for my bed. As I vacuumed today, I looked at my room. It represented the last 18 years of my life. And what has it become? A cube with holes in the walls where pictures hung and a single, lonely bed in the corner.

Is that it? Is that all my childhood has become? A dusty old room with holes where the memories used to be?

Sure, they tell you that college will be the best years of my life. And I believe them. But I think that it’s the transition that gets us; we are trapped in the awkward purgatory between the long-passed memories of childhood and the not-yet-realized experiences of what is to come.

Perhaps, though, once I find whatever lies ahead on the road of life, I can finally sleep.

Let's go, Blue Jays

The other night, I went to enjoy a game of Single A Minor League baseball in Clearwater between the Dunedin Blue Jays and the hometown Threshers. Now, because of my rich and lucrative history with the Dunedin ball club, I sported my $18.00 Dunedin Jays cap and my glove, on the off chance that I might be able to snag an errant ball. No such luck.

But as I watched the game, I did all of the standard baseball spectator-type things: I would argue balls and strikes (a pastime that got the manager of Clearwater ejected for his billionth game this season), I would congratulate players on having a “good eye” when it came to watching balls sail by outside of the strike zone, I would cheer for my team.

However, the man sitting four rows up in the section adjacent to me did not appreciate that. I would say something innocent and innocuous and he would spout back words of annoyance. And I thought it was only because I was rooting for the Blue Jays, until a man sitting in the section on the other side of mine began expressing his love for the Threshers. At this point, my little angry friend became so irked that he bellowed a hearty “Shut up!” that was probably audible throughout the stadium. Remember: it’s a single A team. Sounds travel quickly throughout a small stadium, especially when the home team can’t ever win a game.

But I digress. Has this man ever been to a baseball game? Does he not realize that fan interaction, especially at the lower levels of the sport, plays an integral role in the mental development of the players? If we can’t prepare these boys today for the screaming and obnoxious fans of tomorrow’s major league level, what service have we done? We haven’t done anything.

So, take it from me, Mr. Zippy McShutup: maybe golf is a better spectator sport for you.

Nobody can drive but me

Plato once said, “You are young, my son, and, as the years go by, time will change and even reverse many of your present opinions. Refrain therefore awhile from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.”

Sorry, P-Daddy, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for some good old fashioned judging. Today’s defendant: the 60% of drivers out there who refuse to use their turn signal. It’s a real shame to drive down the boulevard to have a 2006 Ford Mustang cut right in front of you with not so much as a glimmer of the blinker. A nice car like that doesn’t have turn signals? I’d take that automobile right back to the shop so one of the helpful associates can take a look at the broken taillights.

I can see the argument against using turn signals when changing lanes – it’s not the law. Actually, my driving deviant friend, it is. The government here in the Sunshine State fixed this problem a while back. Observe:

“You must use hand signals or directional signals to show that you are about to turn. Turn signals are required when changing lanes or overtaking a vehicle.” (Courtesy of the Florida Driver’s Handbook)

Now, if your carelessness was actually a product of being misinformed, consider yourself informed. If your carelessness is a product of your disregard for anyone and everyone around you, I’d like to propose a hypothetical scenario.

You’re driving along. A Mac truck is in the lane ahead of you. A Mercedes merges into the gap created between you and Trucker Pete without using its turn signal. You narrowly evade death by swerving into the emptiness created by the Mercedes’ old lane. And while you may be safe, you are peeved. You spew angry words of hate, the likes of which your mother would never have uttered within 100 yards of her kitchen, and a fire of hatred builds in your heart. Mr. Mercedes speeds along his merry affluent way, while you’re left with an ulcer the size of a watermelon caused by the stress of the incident. Don’t you think the Mercedes could have used a blinker so that you would have ample time to either create room for the merge or speed up and ruin his day? And if he can go ahead and hit that lever on the side of the steering column, don’t you think you could return the favor?

I’m just saying that once everybody starts to drive in a uniform manner, more people will live longer as a result of reduced accidents and far fewer stress-induced sicknesses.

Mon-OH!

Well, my attempts to live a normal teenage life in the last few months have paid off. Ladies and gentlemen, I have mono.

It’s not great – that’s for sure. But, you know, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. The only bad things about mono are the enlarged (and pus-covered!) tonsils, sore throat, fever, stuffiness and constant sweat. However, the positives are pretty nice, too. The doctor says that I should take it easy for the next few weeks.

I am now sitting on the couch, watching the big screen TV, computing, eating and drinking loads and loads of Gatorade. And after the last two IB exams tomorrow, this is all I’ll have to do for the next month.

Oh, woe is me.