The Man-Ape Demands Updates!

Do you really want to fuck with a gun-wielding man-ape who is using his English degree to plot global domination? I know I don't. Updates are coming soon.

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Posting an update about delayed updates caused three readers' heads to explode.

For Tomorrow We Diet

In the last two and a half years, I've lost about 70 pounds. I'm quite pleased about that; however, most of that loss happened about a year and a half ago. Since I entered grad school, I haven't lost anything. In fact, I've gained about 10 pounds since I started grad school.

It's certainly not exercise that's the problem. I get to the gym about 3 or 4 times a week. My problem is simple: FOOD IS DELICIOUS!!

Milkshakes, pizza, ice cream, Salt and Vinegar potato chips, cake, pie... holy crap, I haven't had pie in forever! And Thanksgiving is coming up! It's going to be so sweet (pun intended)! And pie is only the tip of that top space on the food pyramid. Don't even get me started on my love affair with doughnuts.

I seem to have very womanly eating habits. I overeat when I'm stressed or upset... and these two emotions run rampant in grad school. I even have certain foods that are my weaknesses. Christ, the only reason I don't sit down with a carton of Ben and Jerry's is because I'm trying to hold onto the few strands of manliness that I've somehow tricked people into thinking that I have.

Eating healthy can be disheartening too. I went to the store a few weeks ago and purchased a few healthy things - salad, cucumbers, rice, Healthy Choice frozen dinners, fat free ice cream, etc. My small, but very healthy cart of food cost me about 50 or 60 bucks. Meanwhile, the woman in front of me had a cart full of frozen pizza, sugary cereals, processed fried meat, and enough bagged French fries to feed an elementary school - 25 dollars!! Damn woman was the size of a toothpick too.

I do my best to eat well, but there are so many tasty things to eat. My only consolation is when I imagine what sort of walrus I'd be if I didn't exercise.

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The weight scale - creating new vulgarities since man first created it

I'm Getting Taken for a Ride

On Saturday I took my car in for its annual inspection. My 1999 Ford Escort (picture looks a lot like it, doesn't it?) may not be flashy or even big enough for giant ass, but it's a pretty reliable vehicle. I wasn't expecting any troubles, but I should have known better. My car failed the inspection.

I was in the mechanic's waiting room, which looked like a white trash version of a doctor's office. This was a Kittanning mechanic, so trucker magazines were littered all over the place while the LSU/Kentucky game played on an outdated TV. As you can imagine, I was bored (again, I'm not gay). I'd been here before, so I knew what to expect and came prepared. Nothing makes me fit in better at a car repair shop like reading Southern Reconstruction magazine articles.

The mechanic came in, glared at my copy of "The Goophered Grapevine," and then told me about the failings of my car. As usual, I had no idea what he was talking about:

"Well son, your trilithium resonator has been completely fried. Your flux capacitor is rusted through. I think you may need a new Heisenberg compensator, and your photonic resonance scanner is totally shot."

Really, the guy could tell me that I have too much caramel floating in my chocolate engine, and I'd probably buy it. I had remembered that he said something about cords being exposed on my tires. Well, my technologically feeble brain interpreted "cords" as "wires," so when I got home, my dad asked me what was wrong with the car, and I said, "Well, I guess there are some wires sticking out of my tires."

This is why I avoid heavy machinery regardless of whether I take cold medication.

Anyway, after the mechanic gave me his car diagnosis, I just stared at him blankly and said, "So what to do I do about all that?" He honestly said, "You fix it." Here's my sign. So I made a new appointment for today, and I guess it's going to be fixed by this afternoon. Otherwise I better start hitchhiking back to West Virginia.

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Car Mechanics - Taking advantage of the mechanically disadvantaged since 1914.

Smallville Must Die

"Me am Bizarro! Me am going to cause Smallville to jump the shark for the tenth time!"

Why can't I quit you, Smallville? Every time I think that I can safely leave you behind to rot for eternity in the purgatory of the CW, you draw me back in with some awesome plot development that keeps me watching the cringe-worthy, ill-plotted, cliched tripe that makes up about 95% of your show.

I thought I could leave you in season three, when that guy that everyone thought was Batman but was just a nobody with meteor powers showed up. But the awesomeness that is Lionel Luthor kept me around. Then I thought I could turn on you in season four, when you introduced that lame British woman and her weird son who wanted Lana Lang, who was embodying the spirit of a witch (or something). But then Brainiac showed up and all was forgiven. I thought for sure I could leave in season five when your crappy show was slated to move to the CW the following season, but then General Zod took over Lex's body, burned down half of Metropolis, and trapped Clark in the Phantom Zone. I should have known that you'd eventually disappoint, but you had me at "Kneel before Zod!"

Then Season six was the worst of all. Awesome stuff happened, but the writing was so terrible that it would make one of my English 101 students cry. The season ended with Bizarro showing up! Fucking Bizarro! That's a choice move right there! Unfortunately you screwed the pooch with lines like, "I'm just like you, Clark, only a bit more... bizarre." That's practically Shakespearean guys.

Season seven started two weeks ago, and what character did you add? Was it someone awesome like Darkseid or Metallo? Or how about Green Lantern or Wonder Woman? I'd even take Bibbo; at least he's good for comic relief and some quality trout fishing. No! You added Supergirl! SUPERGIRL!! Am I the only one that remembers the crapfest that was Supergirl: The Movie? That's like using David Spade to boost the ratings of a sitcom. It just doesn't make any damn sense.

But even Supergirl won't keep me away, Smallville. You're like the abusive husband that I can't leave because you showed me love during those first few years. I'll take all the abuse and never report it to Mariska Hargitay. Why just yesterday I watched an episode in which Supergirl enters the Smallville Harvest Festival's beauty pageant, and happens to stop a pair of crazed hotties who have weather-controlling powers. No matter how many different colors of kryptonite you come up with, no matter how many times you change the characterization of Lana Lang, no matter how many times you convince me that THIS is the time that Lex Luthor REALLY becomes evil, I just can't stop watching your horrible show.

Please, just let your series die! It was supposed to end in five seasons, and we're now starting the seventh. I've heard rumblings of a possible eighth season. Don't do that to me, because I'll have no choice but to watch. I can't watch anymore, but for some reason I can't look away. Have mercy on this pathetic Smallville addict. Put your show out of its misery.

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Smallville - like receiving a blowjob and a swift kick to the balls at the same time.

Tuesdays with JP

Despair.com describes the above poster as being perfect for boxing enthusiasts, Dr. Zachary Smith, reconstructive surgeons, and disaffected college students (they're the target audience for a lot of their posters). Well, on Tuesdays, the word "disaffected" does even begin to approach my mental state.

Most of my week is pretty cozy. I teach on Thursday afternoons, and I have a lot of homework to do, but my time is pretty much mine to do with as I please. I can do my work whenever I want. But my freedom and general malaise comes at a price... and that price is paid in full (plus interest) on Tuesdays.

Behold my Tuesday:
12:00 - 1:00 > must be in my office for the office hours that no student ever comes to
1:00 - 2:15 > English 101 - first class
2:30 - 3:45 > English 101 - second class (keep in mind that I have to teach the same lesson in a row)
4:00 - 7:00 > Old English
7:00 - 10:00 > 19th Century Magazines

Doesn't that sound fun? Doesn't that ten hour mass of classroom time just fill you with enough envy to turn you four shades of green? Usually I end my 2:30 class a bit early so that I can run across town to grab something to eat, but sometimes I end up eating a package of Pop Tarts out of the vending machine... my healthy diet is the envy of bodybuilders everywhere.

It gets better. Most of that time is spent in Stansbury Hall - home of the English department, the psychology department, and the ROTC (quite the sense of humor the building planners had). For the last six weeks or so, the air conditioning has been broken. That might not be so bad if there were any windows in the building! So those last six hours get to be really pleasant. And you can imagine the mood of everyone else in the building too.

But wait!! There's more!! The last classroom I'm in is in the basement of Stansbury, and this room, for whatever reason, reeks of urine. There's no mistaking that rich, pungent stench of pee. Yesterday, because of a torrential downpour, that room also flooded. So the earthy aroma of mildew spores was added to the already putrid stench of pee to create an assault on the senses that would send Pig Pen running for some deodorizer.

I don't know if the rest of the week makes up for just how unpleasant these Tuesdays are becoming. Suddenly the 9 to 5 world doesn't seem so bad.

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English Majors - twisted enough to piss in a classroom to show their disdain for the program... but too dimwitted to realize that they have to sit in those same classrooms for hours at a time.

My Cat is Evil

Don't let her appearance deceive you. My cat is pure evil.

I have a kitty cat. Her name is Miss Cleo, like the Jamaican fortune-teller ("Cahl me now!"). She's a soft, pretty, calico cat that is about ten months old.

She's also the most diabolical, sinister, ferocious feline that I've ever encountered. And I've got the scratches to prove it.

I didn't think having a cat would be very difficult. Cats are fat and lazy, and they tend to do nothing but eat, sleep, and shit all day. This is a life that I can relate to, so I thought things would go well.

Enter the Cleo.

From the day I got her, this feline fucker has never shut up.
"MEOW MEOW MEOW" -- I want fed.
"MEOW MEOW MEOW" -- I want attention.
"MEOW MEOW MEOW" -- I want to play.
"MEOW MEOW MEOW" -- Pet me, human slave!
"BITE!!!" -- You weren't petting me properly.

Fur Face never seems to be content. Sometimes I think she bitches at me just to prove who's the boss. If this is what marriage is like, maybe I'm better off being single. Although, wives don't tend to bite (unless, of course, that's the kinky game of the night).

I'm convinced that this cat is nothing but an organic food processor. She eats constantly (and voices her objections loudly if her bowl is empty), and she must take a shit at least 12 times a day. Christ, I empty the cat can every two days, and it always looks like a walrus took a dump in it. You know what that disgusting cat was doing yesterday? She was relaxing in the litter box. What the fuck is wrong with her? That would be like me taking a nap in the toilet... after I'd used it!

I tried pawning the cat off on my parents once. My parents have a nice big house with plenty of room for the cat to prowl around in. This ideal situation (for me anyway) was not to last. Turns out that Miss Cleo has a severe personality conflict with Shelby, one of my parents' cats. Shelby and Cleo get into fierce cat fights. This just goes to show that even other cats can't stand Cleo. So Cleo came back to the apartment.

No food is safe from this cat either. When I first got Miss Cleo, I had her eating the usual dry kitty kibble. When she was at my parents' house, however, my mom got her hooked on canned cat food, which kitty now demands. That wasn't good enough for the furry fucker either. Now she wants our human food. She doesn't care what it is either. She'll shove her fat face into whatever we have. Iced tea, cheese sauce, broccoli, chicken, ham, sandwiches, peanut butter... nothing is uninteresting to this feline food fiend.

Vivek and the cat don't get along either. I think it stems from the time that kitty almost clawed off Vivek's testaculars while he was getting out of the shower. That might sour my attitude toward the cat as well.

I'm not sure what to do about kitty. I think I could end up with the ASPCA on my ass if I start drugging her. So the adventures of JP, Vivek, and Miss Cleo will continue. I can't promise that we'll all come out alive.

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The Ancient Egyptians - any civilization that worships cats instead of drowning them in a burlap sack loses historical cool-points in my book

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

Probably the classiest wedding Kittanning has seen in ages... and there wasn't even a shotgun involved.

This post is probably several days late, but oh well. This past weekend, two friends of mine, Dave and Leanne, got hitched. A good time was had by all, and nobody died.

The wedding almost became legendary when we discovered that McGruff the Crime Dog was supposed to be in a parade taking place at the same time as the wedding, but unfortunately it was on the other side of town. I didn't get to take a bite out of crime.

I was in the wedding party. That's me on the far right. As such I got to participate in the festivities of a full-blown Catholic wedding. After that experience, I have an enormous amount of respect for Catholics. To endure such pure monotony and drudgery must require the patience of a guy waiting for a stall to open up after wolfing down three boxes of prunes.

I mean, I know God likes prayers, but the Catholics must think that God has low self-esteem or something. The chants, prayers, incantations, and songs just wouldn't end. Then there were the strange rituals. The waving of the hands, the ringing of bells, an old Italian man slugging down a goblet of wine. I mean no disrespect, but having never seen a full-blown Catholic ceremony before, I thought I handled myself admirably by not bursting into uproarious guffaws.

I did get into some trouble during the rehearsal. We were told to walk down to the front and then bow before taking our seat. Someone asked, "Why do we have to bow?" I said, "Because you're paying respect to God," which was a good answer. However, not willing to leave well enough alone, I pointed to the giant "Christ nailed to the cross" fixture that was hanging at the front of the church. It was your typical Christ pose - nailed to the cross, thorns on the head, and head dangling in misery (understandably so - what with the nails through the hands and all). I pointed and said, "See! He's bowing back!"

Were I not already condemned to hell by at least ten major religions, that would have been the nail in the coffin right there (or perhaps the nail in the cross... aw damn! I just dropped down another circle).

But aside from me sullying the sanctity of the wedding with my mere presence, everything was very nice. I got drunk both nights (always a pleasure), danced a lot (always an embarrassment), and ate assorted foods (always expensive for the host).

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To Dave and Leanne! Joe, Fryar, and I were all in your wedding party, Totos was present, Jon gave a best-man speech, and nothing went horribly wrong!! If that doesn't bode well for your future, I don't know what does.