CAS is over!

To complete my mandated CAS hours for IB, I worked my tail off during these past two weeks at the Hospice Thrift Shop in Clearwater. I tell you, nothing beats multiple 8-hour days with the grumpiest, oldest people on God’s green Earth. Except maybe Root Canal Thursdays.

Anyhow, every radio in this little dirty store is constantly tuned into 105.5 (WDUV), which is apparently my choice for easy favorites. You know, old peopley stuff like Herb Alpert and Neil Diamond and Anne Murray. Now, I’m not saying that all of this music is bad. Heck, in fact, I love the majority of the songs they play (minus Anne Murray, of course). I’m a bland and uninteresting guy who is about as clueless to pop culture as people from Alabama are oblivious to the fact that the South lost the civil war. No, folks, the South will not rise again. Get over it.

But I digress. Like I said, I’m down with most of the songs on 105.5. But, folks, once you’ve stopped yourself from singing along to the same Peter Cetera song more than two times during the same shift, you know that you’ve been volunteering way too much.

Boy, am I glad to be done.

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The Return of the Clapper

If you recall, last Christmas I told you about the greatest Christmas gift I had ever received or ever would receive. Santa gave me my Clapper, and all was right with the world.

What I didn’t tell you, however, was the perilous tale of how I managed to break my Clapper mere weeks after getting it. A word to the wise: never vacuum with your Dirt Devil plugged into a Clapper. It’ll work, but as you get closer and closer to the electrical outlet, the Clapper mistakes the moaning and groaning of the vacuum for innocent bouts of applause, causing the vacuum cleaner to turn on and off so much that the fuses and electronic components of the Clapper end up fried. In honor of Clapper #1′s memory, therefore, I have refused to clean my carpet for a year. It would be too traumatic.

This Christmas, though, I got a replacement Clapper. I have yet to hook it up to anything, though I think I’ll just put it on my lava lamp and this neon Corona Extra sign that my Mom stole from a bar for me.

The point of this story, though, is that Santa did it once again. Right when I thought that nothing could be worse because I had to undertake the arduous task of flipping a switch to turn on my lamp, good ole Chris Cringle came through in the clutch to brighten my life. And for that, I am forever grateful.

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Grayscale Blogiversary

Dear Web site:

Sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately. I’ve been really caught up with other, more pressing issues. Like sleeping. And school. But mostly sleeping.

But I didn’t forget your birthday! Here’s a brand new outfit for the new year. It’s black and white, too. Very classy.

Love,
Casey

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Well, they don't offer Baseball 101

Like most of the rest of my graduating class, I got accepted into the University of Florida. So, I had to get a bunch of scholarship things taken care of yesterday as to facilitate my ability to attend.

I had to call the office of Chuck Murphy (president of the Florida State Baseball League) yesterday to see what I needed to do to get my scholarship check from the mascot gig this summer, and I got the information from his secretary.

I said goodbye, but this lady would just not stop talking. I don’t know if she felt that she had to make conversation with me to be nice or what, but this lady talked to me about everything there is to be talked about. Baseball, college, my career path, everything.

And I think that she was genuinely offended when I told her that my major is probably going to be political science.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with baseball!”

Listen lady: I’m a 5’6″, 140 pound IB student with absolutely no physical prowess. Plus, I’m a football man. And heck, there’s no money in baseball anyway.

About 10 minutes later, I was finally able to coerce her into hanging up the phone, but not until after I had spilled my life story to this complete stranger.

The holidays do some crazy things to people.

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