Sinning never felt this good

I know, I know. It’s been a while.

I’m getting fat again. Well, let me rephrase. I’m eating like a genetically mutated cow that fills its four stomachs with whole pepperoni and mushroom pizzas rather than Bermuda Grass. Why? I’m guessing it’s a product of my new line of work and the metabolism that arises from a day on the job.

Either way, this week, I’ve eaten about 3 pizzas, which isn’t all that bad. But when you add in all of the other crap I’ve eaten, my eating habits look atrocious.

Normally, I would feel badly about my newfound diet habits. I really would. But I’ve managed to maintain my weight at a steady 140. Therefore, I’ve decided that as long as I eat when I’m hungry and what I eat is greasy and delicious, I will have no problems in the short run.

And the long run? Who cares?

Did I just hear a fat lady?

If you’re like me and you’ve grown up near Clearwater, since your early childhood, you have been privy to countless commercials for used cars from Dayton Andrews’ Chrysler/Jeep. Ever since I can remember, I’ve seen this old fellow by the name of Dayton Andrews peddling his automobiles from the angle of an honest, family-friendly car dealer. He attempts to appear as a good, old fashioned, nice old man as he ends every commercial with the same plea: “Come trade with me under my old oak tree.”

See, there’s this oak tree that’s been there (presumably) since the dealership opened 40 years ago. There’s just something about purchasing a car from an old Southern type under his famed branches that makes you feel like you’re getting a real deal, you know?

Well – and I absolutely hate to say this – Mr. Andrews, after your tree’s decade-long fight with old age, mother nature has emerged victorious. And it’s looked this way for more than a year. I beseech you: please take that tree out of its misery. It looks pathetic sitting there on the side of State Road 60, one of the busiest roads in the county.

The dream is dead.

!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/deadtree.jpg!

Revenge of the Sith

Dear George Lucas,

It is 3:06 AM, and I just got back from my local theater. Now that I’ve seen every Star Wars movie in the saga, I have a few suggestions that could make it even better than it is.

# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?
# You should remake Episode 1 so that Jar Jar Binks does not talk.
# Perhaps an intellectual Wookie? You know, one who wears glasses and gives the British equivalent of a hearty grunt. All of the current Wookies just sound retarded.
# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?

Love,
Casey

But not a drop to drink

As I was walking out of school today, I got to thinking about how much I’ll miss going everyday during the upcoming summer months. It’s not the friends that I get to surround myself with; Lord knows it’s not the overly exigent educational experience that beats the life out of my mind day in and day out; and no, it’s not even the new chocolate milk that they came out with at lunch this year. So, if it’s not any one of these things that keeps me coming back, what could it be?

Dude, do you know how many good looking girls go to school in Palm Harbor? Everywhere you look, there is a fine example of a prime piece of beauty. I think it’s primarily a product of two things: the location of my school and my general teenage hormonal activity. The former means that chicks at my school can afford to pretty themselves up. The latter references my low, low standards – but you already knew that.

Anyhow, thus begins Summer of 2005: months without unlimited eye candy.

PDA

New on the list of things that upset me: public displays of affection. And no, I won’t cloak the fact that this entire tirade is a manifestation of my own jealousy.

Now, I don’t mean to say that running off into a corner and sucking someone’s face off until they look like Inside Out Boy from the days of Nickelodeon past is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, compared with the alternatives, this form of affection isn’t half bad.

What’s really annoying is when people try to act normal while they are talking to you. Here I am, trying to have a conversation with you sexually charged lovebirds and you’ve suddenly morphed into what the Power Rangers would look like if they banded together into a giant ball of flesh and limbs. You think I don’t notice? When people do that, it’s like trying to talk to the last desperate people on earth who must repopulate its lands before they themselves die. And I must admit, it irks me like no other; just be a normal person for once.

I get it: you have someone and I don’t. Now go find a corner, because you’re just reminding me of what I’m not and doing a pretty fine job of making me sick in the meantime.

Play ball!

Hey, dude. Seriously, what’s your problem?

You know I’m talking to you, Fellow who Starts Applauding and Yelling before the National Anthem is Over. Honestly, does that last “and the home of the brave” really seem that insignificant to you?

Perhaps the whole situation is proof of the lack of American fortitude. People are expected to stop talking about how horrendous the Yankees’ record is while chugging down their Budweisers for _a whole song?_ Impossible. There’s always that one guy who starts having boisterous conniptions after “O’er the la-aand of the free,” and then, like within a giant herd of sheep the identical actions spread throughout a ballpark like plight through a corn field. Before you know it, the performer of the National Anthem is drowned out by the spectators of the national past time and the patriotic flare of the events before a game is snuffed out by the drunken ravings of a bunch of overweight and balding men.

Perhaps we Americans need to work on our collective stamina.

Paul McCartney ate Ringo's head unit

Last night, as the family had dinner at Outback Steakhouse, the topic of conversation meandered down the path of upcoming concert events. Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson are coming to town; so are the Allman Brothers and the remaining one-four-hundredth of Lynyrd Skynyrd; and, of course, who could forget Sir Paul McCartney?

My father asked me whether in my music interests I’ve come across Sir Paul’s first album, dubbed “The Cherry Album,” but more formally “McCartney.” I knew of the album and its cover art, but I had yet to listen to it fully. After obtaining it when I got home, I went to bed.

This morning, I burned a copy of the CD before I ran out of the door at 6:10 to initiate the carpool. I walked out to Ringo feeling refreshed and ready to start my journey to school (which, by the way, I only have to do once more this week, thanks to AP exams). I got in my car, put Sir Paul in, and was on my way.

However, the CD player spit out Paul like he was a giant bowl of that greenish marshmallow stuff my mother makes on major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. After picking up Angus and fiddling with my testy stereo for a few minutes, we noticed that there was a plume of smoke spewing from the head unit. I assumed that this was not a good sign, so I took off the faceplate and hoped that the short would not spark and cause a fire.

Now I know where my first few paychecks are going.