Death by Mouse

I’m home alone this Saturday night because my mom went to a funeral party.

Funeral party? Seems rather abstract. Someone dies, so you invite all of your best friends over to boogie down. I love it.

In fact, when I die I request, nay, demand that my funeral be held at Chuck-e-Cheese. I realize the games are worse there than say, Celebration Station, but they serve beer there. I wouldn’t want to deny anyone their God-given right to drink themselves into a painless stupor following the death of a dear friend. In fact, to maintain the quazi-cheerfulness of the occasion, it’ll be a costume funeral. That’s right, no one gets in without a minimum of dyed hair and a silly hat. So if you’re a crabby McGee who won’t play, you can stay out of my funeral and hang out at the Burlington Coat Factory next door. Party pooper.

I left my funny in San Francisco

So, today as I leave school on the bus, I’m explaining transcendentalism to Trizis when, two blocks away from school, our bus driver screams, “Aaah!” Actually, it was more like, “Aaaaaaghagahagahhhahahhhhahahahahahhhhhhh!”

And then the brakes slam on; apparently a car ran a stop sign and hit our front end.

No big whoop, our driver was crying and made sure everyone was okay, we were. And so, the great quest of May 14th, 2004 to get home was on.

You would assume that another bus would come, and shortly after the fire engine and highway patrol car came, one did come. It pulled up. And sat there. Three minutes went by, and it drove away. Ugh.

While waiting, our bus driver asked through a flood of tears: “Is everyone sure they’re okay?!?!” We responded that we were, and she would turn around. Then, twenty seconds later she would inquire again: “Is everyone positive they’re okay?!?” Again, we said we were. This endless cycle went on until the lovable fireman came onto the bus and went to every seat and asked, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” Needless to say, we were a bit miffed but we understood that such a line of questioning might be necessary for insurance purposes.

Then, the school administrators came in golf carts. Well, only Liem was in a golf cart; the others were in a Saturn, but that’s essentially the equivalent to a golf cart. Then each of them came into the bus and asked, you guessed it, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” About this time, an hour had passed and we had moved zero feet and filled out two pieces of paper. We were bored, so Trizis and I played Indian War with 48 cards.

Then the bus came, and according to Greglass, it was the same bus that pulled up and then went away before. How’s that for efficiency with gas costing 2 dollars per gallon these days?

By the time I got to the bus stop, I had made a reputation for myself on the Indian War front, gaining many cards having only started out with one. Then I came home at 3:30PM EST and ate a sandwich.

Public Restrooms

By their very nature, public restrooms are very awkward places.

If you’re a guy, urinals have the capability to backfire on you. Sure, they’re convenient. Sure, they don’t require a lot of work on your part, but they have the potential of disaster. I’m not complaining about the fixtures themselves; running water is a commodity that we as a society could never teach ourselves to live without. However, the people who indulge in the porcelain handiness can make your experience a nightmare.

It never fails: Sometime in your life you’ll be standing there, minding your own business, when all of a sudden he comes in. Sure, there’s a row of twelve urinals and you’re the only one in the bathroom, but he takes it upon himself to come and do his business right next to you.

It’s not like a Boy Scout helping a little old lady across the street to earn his Merit Badge or anything, but this fellow apparently thinks you need help. You’re nervous and you want to empty yourself as quickly as possible to alleviate the tension between you and this overly friendly stranger who’s exposing himself just eight inches from you, but the stress that has just been created makes you stop. You can’t do it. Thus, the encounter is elongated.

The worst kind of neighbor is the talker.
“How about those Mets?”
“Some weather we’re having.”
I’m not at all an unsociable person; if someone talks to me on the street or in the local convenience store, I’ll converse with him, if only for a short time. But this is taking it too far. When a man is doing his thing in the only place he sees fit, when he’s gotten an iota of time to himself, it is simply deplorable for another to ruin that solitude.

But no matter, you stand there… waiting. Waiting for something to happen. You’re not quite sure what – for your newfound friend to leave, for you to get the courage to bolt, for a ton of bricks to fall on your neighbor’s head, something.

But then what? After you’re done, do you stick around to wash your hands? That would make the encounter even longer. But if you don’t you risk being thought less of by the others in the room. Either way you’ll have to make some sort of sacrifice, which makes bathrooms a social disaster for men.

But it’s not just for men, oh no. Women have it rough, too, sitting in those little stalls with so much to worry about:
What if someone peeks through the 1 inch crack between the door and the wall of the stall? Will you smile, ignore it, or make some quip about looking at your crack?
What if the lock fails and someone swings the door wide open? After that, will you have to hold the door closed with one leg as an added reinforcement?
What if you run out of toilet paper? Do you call to the person in the stall next to you and violate the unwritten law of no talking in bathrooms?

The woman’s restroom is a ticking time bomb for disaster, just like men’s. A hoard of strange people cramming into poorly kept, unclean rooms and emptying themselves is not my idea of fun. Potential confrontation with the unknown masses scares me, and that is why bathrooms are strange, weird places.

Adventures of Armando

The other night, my grandmother (who is normally the very reserved Southern type) came to the door. I greeted her with, “Hi, grandma, how’re-

“I need your father out here right now.”

Well, so much for friendly hellos. I sent my dad out and, as would be expected, the rest of my family followed. All except me. You see, my family has a tendency to make scenes. Not so much my family as my grandmother. Well, anyway, everyone went out and I was a curious onlooker from the window.

In my grandmother’s car parked in the street, there sat an elderly Latin American man. He looked rather comfortable – we had given him bottled water from the refrigerator in the garage and he just sat there, talking with my brother.

His name was Armando.
He was from Cuba.
He didn’t speak English.
And he forgot where he lived.

Somehow, in my grandmother’s mind, an inclination to talk to this fellow spurted up and here he was. We called the police and soon an officer came.

She was the most beautiful police officer I have ever seen. I forget her name, but I’m sure it was sexy. There’s just something about a woman with a gun in uniform that strikes me as, well, awesome.

She came and went, as did Armando. I miss them both. I hope they’re okay.

———-

In other news, some freshman thanked me for that Web site for English vocabulary lists I made last year. I had forgotten about that, so I went to check out the site. Being a 2-year old Geocities site, it’s riddled with pop-ups, so I moved all the files here as a final resting place. That should take care of things.

Distribution

Given:
1 Yearbook is approximately 5 pounds.
1 box of yearbooks contains 8 yearbooks.
There were approximately 1670 yearbooks to be sorted and distributed today.
There were 18.5 boxes of un-named books.

Conclusions:
1 box of yearbooks weighs 40 pounds.
There were 209 forty pound boxes to be carried and sorted.
There were 148 un-named books.
1522 books were alphabetized in the Destinations lab.
All in all, the yearbook staff lugged 4.18 tons of yearbooks around campus during the last two days.

If you find a problem with the yearbook, screw you.

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.

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.

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.

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

Anger Management

Death to Blinky