Merry Giftmas

It’s the greatest feeling you’ll ever have.

Am I talking about true love? No. Am I talking about that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you see one of those “Puppies of the Year” calendars for Christmas? No.

You wake up in your bed and, knowing that your day is about to begin, you groan in disgust. Then, you look over at the clock. And what’s this?

It’s only 2:30, you have another 3 hours to sleep. Mother Nature’s gift to you.

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No Boat Drinks

We were on the floor, so we had to use a special entrance, which they opened up a little over an hour before show time. We went in right when they opened it, and the man in front of us was the most obese man alive.

No, not the same kind of obesity people are suing McDonald’s over, but the sort that affects the Earth’s rotation and tides. I was telling this story to a group of three friends as we walked to pre-calculus class in a line (sort of West Side Story-esque), and the man had a girth that spanned longer than our line of Spic-hating Jets. He was so insanely large, I sort of pitied him.

We figured, “Hey, the floor seats thousands of people – this guy won’t cause us any trouble.”

We figured wrong.

We walked up to our seats and what do you know, the man (who we shall refer to from now on as Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth) is sitting there and greets us with a smile. Luckily for me, Ian sat next to him. Unluckily for me, problem number two was waiting to show itself.

If you’ve ever been to a Buffett show, then you know how it is pre-concert in the arena. Beach balls, loads of drunks, and people who don’t come to their seats until two minutes into the first set.

I swear, two seats in front of me came Dikembe Mutombo, painted white and heavily intoxicated. I think it was God punishing me for making fun of Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth. In any case, my 5″6′ self was a bit miffed.

No worries though, Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth didn’t intrude much on our parade (except for taking up 1½ seats) and the Jolly Drunk Giant was dancing and left every 2 songs to get another cold one, so the show was prime viewing. Jimmy had an awesome set list (not that it matters to any of my non-parrothead friends that may be reading this) and during Fins they launched a giant inflatable RC shark that flew into the rafters of the St. Petersburg Times Forum and got stuck.

Love,
Casey

P.S. Sorry to the dude in front of me who got his beer knocked out of his hand by a beach ball hit by yours truly.

P.S.S. Sorry to the people in front of him who got doused with Corona. Don’t blame me, blame the moron who held his beer up above his head at a Jimmy Buffett Concert.

P.S.S.S. I would like to officially retract my apology to the man whose beer I spilled. You’re an idiot; drink it – don’t flail it around.

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Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

I’ve been wanting to post this for the longest time but never got around to it, but now it’s Saturday and I finished my English homework about a half hour ago, so I have the time (and ambition) to do it. Plus, Taryn keeps on yelling at me for not updating.

Totally unrelated to what I was just saying, my keyboard just clicked on and off. Odd.

Now then, digressing. I live in Clearwater; it’s the Largo to Palm Harbor and the Inverness to Pinellas Park. It’s medium ground in terms of economic stability, economy, and general public knowledge. I hold my fellow Clearwatereans to a fairly liberal standard when it comes to their education and the manner in which they convey their thoughts and advertisements. Sure, if in a classified ad I see an accidental apostrophe put on a word that is meant to be pluralized, I note the mistake and read on – in the words of Mike Meyers on coffee talk, “no big whoop.”

But this is beyond my tolerance level. I’ve been driving past this building on the corner of Old Coachman and Belcher for years now, and when I’m at the stop light in front of it, I play sort of a game with myself to see if I can spot all of the mistakes in the sign. Granted, there are no actual grammatical errors aside from the name of the business being in all caps, but the fact that whoever owns AMERICAN HOME MORTGAGE cannot fasten letters correctly to a building simply makes me stammer with anger. I would have expected more from my fellow citizens. I’ll point out all of the mistakes in the sign for you now:

1. The first “M” is backwards.
2. The first “E” is upside-down.
3. The first “C” is upside-down.
4. The second “A” is backwards.
5. The second “M” is backwards.
6. The second “E” is upside-down.
7. The third “M” is backwards.
8. The third “E” is upside-down.

Although, those two little American flags make up for everything. They must not be terrorists.

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Knobby Knees

Sort of like the white Tom Willis, this is my token post because it’s been about a week; I reinstalled Windows last weekend, so I had to reinstall all my programs and haven’t had much spare time.

You know what’s really amazing? Doorknobs. I was thinking the other day about how cool they are. Think about it: you turn a knob and, somehow, through a complex and interconnected series of gears and metal mechanisms, a little piece of metal moves so we can open the door. As if that were enough, you can lock the door. Just a flick of the wrist and you’re protected against intrusion. Which, incidentally, brings me to hinges. What genius figured that if you put two pieces of metal together you can move a giant slab of wood? Whoever he was, God bless him.

I just typed 102 words about the wonders of doors. Perhaps this is why I haven’t been posting much… When something worthwhile happens I should be sure to post it.

Bedtime reading.

-Casey

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Anger Management

Death to Blinky

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Bologna

Merriam Webster defines it as “a large smoked sausage of beef, veal, and pork; also : a sausage made (as of turkey) to resemble bologna.” And I would agree – its bologna.

But it’s pronounced “baloney.” Come to think of it, Merriam Webster also defines such a word in that whimsical book of theirs: “pretentious nonsense : BUNKUM — often used as a generalized expression of disagreement.”

So, what we have on our hands here are two different words! Up until five minutes ago, I thought it was “bologna” in all contexts. Like, for example, when that Flick character on A Christmas Story argues with Shwartz about the notion that his tongue would stick to the flagpole, he cries (phonetically), “BALL-OH-NEE!” For sixteen years I always thought it would have to have been written “bologna” in the script, and for sixteen years I thought that such a spelling would be outrageously aesthetically unpleasing. Now I have been shown the light.

But what about other uses of bologna, not necessarily relating to pretentious nonsense? Admit it, it’s a funny word, but you’re telling me, Mr. Webster, that I’m supposed to spell it like you say even when I know full well that’s not how it sounds? When one uses the word “bologna” in somewhat humorous ways, I find that it takes away from the comedy when one spells it as if it were a deli meat.

So, here I am, submitting that whenever we aren’t talking about meat or a city in Italy, we spell it “baloney.”

QED

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Rank Offence

O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,
A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what’s in prayer but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder’?
That cannot be; since I am still possess’d
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but ’tis not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
All may be well.

Had to memorize that beast for Powell’s class. And I made it cry to its mommy.

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