A post that is completely neces

When I hear a bunch of unneces and hid abbrevs, it def makes me want to vom.

If you understood that sentence, it's absolutely guaranteed that you must be some combination of:
a) Under the age of 25,
b) Texting so much you're under NSA surveillance,
c) On Verizon's most expensive phone plan, or
d) A person with a phobia of whole words (which, in a semi-ironic twist, isn't a word yet).

In today's youth culture, word abbreviations are as common as a sassy teenager or a drunk college student. They're everywhere you look. No longer is a d.b. a dead body, but rather an intoxicated catty coed (to put it lightly). We've become a generation of LOLs, OMGs, IDKs and BFFs (though it's a wonder there are BFFs without communication). We've gotten to the point that we don't even laugh out loud anymore. Now, we just tell people that we're supposed to be. I wish I could tell someone I'm crying on the inside or smiling like it's my job without actually doing it, but COTI and SLIMJ don't exactly have a ring to it.

Have we gotten to the point where we're really so ADD that we can't even finish words anymore? Can you imagine if Thomas Jefferson used the language of today when writing his famous letters to John Adams?

Yo JA,
What's the deal BFF? I know it's kinda unnecess, but be4 I finish the Dec of Ind 2nite, can u come by n read it 4 me. K thx bye.
TJ

Needless to say our Declaration would be a lot shorter. Maybe if our founding fathers had used abbreviations, then Jefferson could have spent more quality time with the Mrs. and Ben Franklin could have spread the syphilis epidemic.

Feel free to LOL at that sentence.

And back to the ranting....

Editors note: This return to ranting was inspired by the superb piece of controlled blabbering by Mr. Sean Ely.

One of my favorite books is "Catcher In The Rye." Ignore for the moment the fact that I tried re-reading it this summer and didn't finish it. It's not the actual writing of the novel that's a treasure, but the story behind the story.

What I love about the book is that it's a story about an incredibly fascinating period of time that every young person goes through. It tells the tale of a young boy who is right in between the innocence of youth and the harsh reality of adulthood.

I bring this up because I'm fascinated by the innocence of children (in a completely non-pedophile way). When I look back on my early childhood (ages 0 to about 14 or 15), I had very few "adult" worries or experiences. My main concerns at the time were daily Sportscenter re-runs, making the middle school basketball team, and playing football with the neighborhood kids.

For that relatively short period of time, life was uncomplicated, easy, and blissful.

But that's not the case anymore. Take for example a five minute slice of my life this past Thursday.

I was sitting at work, just doing my job, when two young girls (I'd guess about 13 or 14) came into the store where I work. To make a short observation: they were dressed like $5 hookers on the corner of 8 Mile and Woodward. They had less clothes on than a swimsuit model. I repeat, they were still three years away from being able to drive a car.

After they came in, they proceeded to use their cell phone four times in five minutes, check each of their Facebook pages, and look at clothing that they could not afford on 10 weeks of allowance (though knowing their background, their allowance is a tiny bit heftier than mine was at that age).

They looked like they were ready to score with some dude down behind the tennis shack. At that age, the only thing I wanted to score was a touchdown on NCAA Football 2000.

In sum, they were sluts in the making.

Which brings me to this point: Our society (and primarily, parents) has morphed in such a way that the innocence of childhood is constantly shrinking. And that's a damn shame.

Young people have decades ahead of them to be adults with serious problems. In fact, I yearn for the days when my biggest problem was the handicapped kid making fun of me for wearing short shorts (true story) or the kid on the bus telling me that Santa Claus was an asshole (whoever you were, fuck you).

The moral of the story: I better never have a girl. If I do, the only skin I better see on her until she's 28 is the skin on her face (and if she has the porcelain skin and bubble gum lips enough for John Mayer to write a shitty song about her, I'm making her wear a ski mask. Even if I live in fucking Arizona.) And while she may hate me for that and go out and shack up with some dude behind the 7-11 the second she turns 18 (we won't be rich enough to belong to a country club on the path I'm on), I'll know that I'll have done enough to preserve her innocence, even for a little while.

Because innocence is like a case of the chicken pox: once you have it, and you get rid of it, you can never get it back.

Man, I wish I could get the chicken pox again. Those were the days.

That's What They Said

The past week or so has been rather uneventful as the start of the school year approaches. To make up for this lack of entertainment, I could have done a bevy of things — get into shape, read thought-provoking books, and continue to research my beat for work for this fall, for example.

But I chose to do something more important. I chose to re-watch season 2 of "The Office" in preparation for the release of the season 3 DVDs and the season 4 premiere.

In doing so, I found myself asking the following question: Of all the great lines provided by "The Office," what are the best?

Now, this is like picking between Natalie Portman, Jessica Simpson, Eva Longoria, and Jessica Alba for a one night stand (or, say, marriage, assuming Jessica Simpson never opened her mouth).

You just can't go wrong no matter your choice.

But still, I'm giving it a shot with my top 10 "Office" quotes from the top of my head. I know I'll forget something absolutely priceless, so let me know if I do.

With that, here's #10.

10. "Two queens on Casino Night. I am going to drop a deuce on everybody."

If only he knew what it meant to drop a deuce.

9. "There are a huge number of yeast infections in this county. Probably because we’re down river from that old bread factory."

A forgotten nugget from "E-mail Surveillance." Hands up, Agent Michael Scarn!

8. "I enjoy having breakfast in bed. I like waking up to the smell of bacon, sue me. And since, I don’t have a butler, I have to do it myself. So … most nights before I go to bed, I will lay six strips of bacon out on my George Foreman grill. Then I go to sleep. When I wake up, I plug in the grill. I go back to sleep again. Then, I wake up, to the smell of crackling bacon. It is delicious, it’s good for me, it’s the perfect way to start the day. Today, I got up, I stepped onto the grill, and it clamped down on my foot, that’s it. I don’t see what’s so hard to believe about that."

This quote is very long (that's what she said) and not very memorable on its own, but it tells everything you need to know about the brilliance of "The Injury."

7. "A boss is like a teacher. And I am like the cool teacher. Like Mr. Handell. Mr. Handell would hang out with us. And he would tell us awesome jokes. And he actually hooked up with one of the students. Um, and then like twelve other kids came forward. It was in all the papers. Really ruined eighth grade for us."

Teachers are always told to make education a more hands-on experience. Mr. Handell apparently didn't know that that didn't apply to sex education.

6. "You know what else is facing five Goliaths? America. Al-Qaeda. Global warming. Sex predators. Mercury poisoning. So do we just give up?"

Sex predators? Mr. Handell just couldn't catch a break in "Business School."

5. "I taught Mike some uh, some phrases to help with his interracial conversations, you know, stuff like, “fleece it out,” “goin’ Mach 5,” “dinkin’ flicka,” you know, things us Negroes say."

I can just PacMan Jones explaining that he was just "goin' Mach 5" when he was making it rain in da club. Dinkin' flicka.

4. "Michael said, 'We must deceive them, so as not to hurt them. And in that way, we honor them.'"

"Casino Night" was just cash money, take it to the bank, buy a Bentley and ride it dirty.

3. "Um, are you free for dinner tonight?"

Admittedly, I'm a little leery about how the whole Jam thing is going to work out. Like a construction zone, please proceed with caution, writers. But I did get a little butterflyey at this. I just lost what manliness I had left (pause for "You're a dude? I never woulda guessed." joke).

2. "So you're PMS'ing pretty bad, huh?"

If I had to describe Dwight in four words: Hardworking, Alpha male, Jackhammer, Merciless, Insatiable, Master Of The Female Body.

1. "Bros before hoes. Why? Because your bros are always there for you. They have got your back after your ho rips yours heart out for no good reason. And you are nothing but great to your ho, and you told her that she was the only ho for you, and that she was better than all the other hoes in the world... and then... and then suddenly she's not yo' ho' no mo'."

Nuff said. Preachin' to the choir brotha.


Honorable mentions:
- "I hate so much about the things that you choose to be."
- "I want to be married and have a hundred kids, so I can have a hundred friends, and no one can say no to being my friend."
- "I am King of Forwards. It’s how I like to do business. Everybody joking around. We’re like friends. I am … Chandler, and … Joey, and uh, Pam is Rachel, and Dwight … is Kramer."
- "What has two thumbs and likes to bone your mom? This guy!"
- "Once I’m officially regional manager, my first order of business will be to demote Jim Halpert. So I will need a new number two. My ideal choice? Jack Bauer. But he is unavailable. Fictional. And overqualified."

A Tribute To A Giant

A couple nights ago, I decided to stay up and watch Barry Bonds make his run at tying Hank Aaron's home run record of 755 dingers. Bonds hit an opposite field shot to draw even with Hank that night.

What a waste of a night.

So, naturally, I was asleep when Bonds hit his 756th home run last night.

But that got me to thinking, "What would I rather be doing, besides sleeping, than watching Bonds' record-breaking home run?"

So in tribute to the greatest home run hitter of all time*, I have come up with 75.6 things I'd rather do than watching Barry Bonds' 756th steriod-filled home run.


1. Watch a cement truck rotate for an hour.
2. Hear Pistons P.A. Announcer Mason bellow, "And now, starting at power forward, number eight, Antoine Walker."
3. Watch repeats of CNN's coverage of Paris Hilton in jail.
4. Wake up in a threesome with two other dudes.
5. Fondle Rick Majerus.
6. Get in a cage match with one of Michael Vick's pitbulls
7. Be Inmate #329483 in this prison: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMnk7lh9M3o
8. Wear a Grady Sizemore jersey.
9. Learn how to play curling.
10. Sleeping in a bed filled with earwigs.
11. Snort crushed Nerds.
12. Be Jason Grilli.
13. Attend a Justin Timberlake concert.
14. Go a day without the Internet (gasp!)
15. Listen to a Nickelback song.
16. Watch Charles Barkley play a round of golf.
17. Listen to Rob Parker's radio show.
18. Vote for Hillary Clinton.
19. Sit on the tarmac in a Jet Blue airplane.
20. Live in Montana.
21. Be related to Hugh Grant.
22. See "Gigli."
23. Be David Wells' personal chef.
24. Pay taxes.
25. Be a contestant on "The Singing Bee."
26. Be at the mercy of Jack Bauer.
27. Be a soccer trainer for the Italian national team.
28. Paint the White House.
29. Go to the Secretary of State office.
30. Sit in jail with my 6-foot-5 250-pound cell mate, Bubba.
31. Be Linsday Lohan's publicist.
32. Clean rest stop urinals.
33. Run a marathon in Arizona.
34. Get in the ring with Mike Tyson.
35. Watch season 3 of "Gilmore Girls."
36. Hear the words, "Now pinch running, catcher Bengie Molina."
37. Sit next to Star Jones.
38. Tell Pacman Jones that whatever he makes rain is now officially mine.
39. Film Victoria Beckham's reality show.
40. Call Delmon Young out on strikes.
41. Stand in front of a Randy Johnson fastball.
42. Call Jeremy Shockey a wuss.
43. Be Sergio Garcia on the 18th in the final round of a major.
44. Watch "Tommy Boy."
45. Coach the Oakland Raiders.
46. Carry Rae Carruth's baby.
47. Piss off Tom Coughlin.
48. Own 5-year-old Enron stock.
49. Lie outside naked at night, covered with honey.
50. Be the best man of the guy marrying Jessica Alba.
51. Psychoanalyze Tom Cruise.
52. Be Jan Van De Velde's caddy, circa 1999.
53. Tie a rubber band around my testicles. (My drunken great uncle and his drunken factory buddies did this to his cat. R.I.P. Pete.)
54. Be the child of Alec Baldwin.
55. Own a NFL Europa team.
56. Be a Knicks fan.
57. Wear a "I Heart USA" shirt while visiting Pakistan.
58. Pierce my tongue.
59. Attend the University of Michigan.
60. Discover Jenna Fischer is married. (She is. Damnit.)
61. Meet Fergie. (I would punch her. Hard.)
62. Be Tim Donaghy's bookie.
63. Style my hair to look like Steve Nash's.
64. Work for the IRS.
65. Be stalked by a 45-year-old who lives with his mother.
66. Watch "Billy Madison" eight times in a row.
67. Get an STD.
68. Have that STD be crabs.
69. Go skinny dipping in the Arctic Ocean.
70. Stick my finger in an electric socket.
71. Get into a domestic dispute with Sebastian Telfair.
72. Cheer for the Cubs.
73. Try to tackle Brian Urlacher.
74. Listen to Skip Bayless.
75. Be Greg Anderson, Barry Bonds' personal trainer/jailbird.
75.6. Watch six innings of a Devil Rays - Royals game in September.

Off Base-ball

Baseball is so screwed up. Take a look at this stat line:

Zach Miner (W 2-3)
IP: 0.1
H: 0
R: 0
ER: 0
BB: 0
SO: 0
HR: 0
Pitches: 1

The guy threw one pitch and got the win in a nine-inning game where nearly 300 pitches were thrown. Baseball is so screwed up. And I love it.

My New Mastering

You can become a "master" at pretty much anything. You can be a karate master (cool, numchucks). You can be a chess master (uh, laaaaaaame). You can be a master carpenter (bonus points for that). You can be a master-bater. (You had to see that coming.)

Seriously, do anything extra special, and you can be a master at it.

But while each of these things produces a reward (a black belt, an incurable case of the losers, a certificate, and, well, you know the last one), there is one master that has yet to be quantified.

That, my friends, is a master of the English language.

Being that I plan to spend the rest of my life using the English language to pay the bills, it only seems fair that we are able to judge on what level a person has the ability to correctly execute the intricacies of the English language. I mean, if auto mechanics can earn the title of "master," then anybody should be able to.

Thusly, I proffer (that's a erudite way of saying "offer"...isn't that stupid!?) the following: A rating system that quantifies one's understanding of the English language. With this, we'll be able to separate those who can't string together a coherent sentence (I'm looking at you, Rob Parker) from the true wordsmiths of the most confusing language in the world.

Using the following scale, you will be able to determine your ranking and abilities in relation to your verbal capabilities. See where you rank and let me know.

1. Slack-jawed yokel: If you watch "The Simpsons" and know Cletis, and you think you might be a direct decedent of one of his kin, then you probably rank in this area. You are completely unable to understand verb tenses, your vocabulary is limited to words containing four letters or less, and you haven't understood half of the words in this sentence alone.

2. Rod Allen: You are sufficient in occasionally stringing together sentences of a coherent nature, but struggle with the content of what you say. You often use abbreviations that nobody understands (ex: Ain't no stoppin' this D-train now.) and are probably oblivious of your nebulous phrasing (ex: If he keeps hitting like that, he's going to put up a lot of steaks. And by steaks, I mean ribeyes. And by ribeyes, I mean RBIs. [Source: Tom Keller, MLB.com]). People are often mildly entertained by your ineptitude, which prevent you from learning the difference between "was" and "were."

3. Chad Kroeger: Your sentences typically are overly cliche, and as a result, has no meaningful value. You like to think that your verbal capabilities are bolstered by speaking about the harsh aspects of life (love, death, being a rockstar with a front door key to the Playboy Mansion). Stereotypes that often fall into this category include prog rockers, valley girls, dumb blondes, those obsessed by celebrity gossip, and anyone that listens to Nickelback.

4. Rosie O'Donnell: You often offer semi-thought out irrational arguments and defamations of people who are smarter than you. You typically talk and nobody listens to your coherent drivel. Consider yourself a near-English master that nobody gives a shit about.

5. Chris Berman: Everything in your vocabulary has a nickname. There's no such thing as a simple pronoun (see: Jake "Daylight Comes and You've Got To" Delhomme and T.J. "You Say Houshmanzadeh, I Say T.J." Houshmanzadah). Many of your attempted words come out as meaningless beat-box-like sounds coming from an fat, aging television personality. Much like the Rosie O'Donnell ranking, except with a little Hebrew and fewer cow noises.

6. Yoda: You pontificate brilliance on a persistent basis, but your sentence structure hinders your effectiveness. Also, you most likely are small, green, and have pointy ears. Elves, the Jolly Green Giant's children, and midgets dipped in green paint can fall into this category.

7. A master of the English language: As long as you don't fit into one of the above categories and you can distinguish the difference between "it's" and "its," then congratulations, you're a master of the English language.

But still, let me do all the writing.

A Grave Mis-Scape

On a serious note:


Barry Bonds has worn many hats during his 21-year playing career. He's donned the crown of baseball's greatest and most hated home run hitter of all time. He's sported the cap of media curmudgeon while whipping up a 24-7 frenzy surrounding his every move. He's even proudly displayed his cap as San Francisco's athletic darling during many-a-curtain call. And he's done all of this for more than two decades while trotting into the outfield with only a Pirates and Giants hat atop his head (size 7 1/8 and size 7/14, respectively, of course).

But most importantly, and perhaps unfairly, America's most hated athlete has shamefully worn the hat of baseball's scapegoat for the most tarnished decade in America's pasttime. Bonds' march to 756 (or crawl, as it is unraveling at this moment) has become so disgraced that the sport's commissioner, the slimy Bud Selig, has contemplated a leave of absence from the sport's greatest individual achievement of all time. In sum, Barry Bonds has become baseball's most loathed pariah since the Pete Rose era.

And it's a total shame.

With a personality as hardened as the protective armor that clings to his elbow before during each at-bat, the San Francisco slugger has shunned even the most diehard of baseball fans. A resounding chorus of boos has followed the soon-to-be home run king ever since he left the bay for a short road trip. And it is even hard to imagine that amongst the thousands of fans exclaiming their displeasure during every Bonds at bat, Pedro Gomez is probably chiming in somewhere in the stadium.

Given, there's plenty to hate about Bonds. He's adamantly decreed that he will not become the face of the steriod scandal, instead letting such low-life former players as Jose Canseco and Ken Caminiti to take the brunt. He's about as friendly as a former Alcatraz inmate, and probably twice as guilty. The Giants outfielder continues to idly stand by as his former trainer, Mark Anderson, idly waits in jail for refusing to sell out the man who has sold out stadiums across the nation.

But for all the hatred spewed towards the tainted titan of baseball, Bonds, more than likely, is just one of tens, or even hundreds, of the inflated athletes who have deflated the game's image in the past decade. Somewhere, Mark McGwire looks in the mirror and ponders his place in the game's history, given his refusal to answer to Congressional hearings regarding his past use of performance-enhancing drugs. His former smash brother, Jose Canseco, toils in sleazy obscurity, left only with his self-authored books and memories of his time on VH1's wholesome "The Surreal Life" (a time of his life he shared with such upstanding members of society as Janice Dickinson, half of the girl group Salt N' Pepa, and that she-devil from "The Apprentice"). Even at home, Detroit Tigers designated hitter Gary Sheffield has heard his name tossed around among the steroid debate. And for my money, catcher Pudge Rodriguez has yet to explain the 25 pounds he dropped one particularly scandalous summer.

Yet while McGwire has faded into total oblivion, Canseco has continued to make a monkey of himself, and Sheffield has gone on spouting about racism in baseball, Bonds has kept on hitting home runs. In that same time period, the baseball fan base has kept on jabbing at Bonds and his pending record. True, Bonds proves an easy target — his power numbers are still relevant, he's about the dethrone one of baseball's greatest heroes, and he's still a callous jerk — but he's not the only target. Piled atop Bonds' comic-book-like superhero shoulders is the blame for all of baseball's problems. But while the Atlas look alike continues to stand, commissioner Bud Selig keeps slithering away from his role in allowing the growth of performance-enhancing drugs. Members of the player's association are still as mum as the years when steroids crept their way into the muscles of league's players. And most importantly, many current and recently retired players who are as guilty as Bonds is assumed to be retain their innocence in silence (save such disgraced athletes as Canseco and Yankee left-hander Jason Giambi).

So when you watch Barry Bonds hit his historic shot in the days to come, if you look closely enough, you'll see an entire era resting on the shoulders of baseball's home run king. Bonds will not only solidify his asterisk in the record books soon, but also establish himself as the sole scapegoat of baseball's greatest scandal. And that, for what it's worth, will go down as one of sports' greatest and gravest mis-scapes.

More things to do before death...dum dum dum

Resuming the list:

90. Have Rod Allen call me "country strong" - In the words of some, I'm very "j" of Marcus Thames and Mike Hessman. "Them boys is counnnnnntry strong!" Ahh, the grammar and ingenuity of an Emmy winner never ceases to amaze. Actually, Rod Allen can pretty much yell whatever he wants, as long as it has my name in it.

89. Go parasailing - This seems like a nice thrill on my less-than-thrilling (ha! pun!) resume (I don't know how to do accents on a Mac). It's halfway between skydiving (Does jumping out of a moving plane sound smart? I didn't think so.) and jet skiing (what's with the whole skis part of it? Be a man, go barefoot, and then get back to me). Plus, I figure if Ely has done it, it can't take that much testosterone.

88. Go to Bonnaroo - Does it get any better than standing in mud in the middle of Tennessee (Tennessee and "the middle of nowhere" are interchangeable here) with thousands of stoners listening to drunken musicians for four days? The answer is no. Not to mention I'd fit right in wearing my Dockers polo shirt, cargo shorts, Adidas sandals, and Titleist visor.

87. Live to see MSU in the Rose Bowl - This task almost fell victim to the "If It's Not Plausible, Don't Count It" clause, but what the hell. In Dantonio, I Observe Trust. That, and Drew Stanton has to have a kid someday. Here's hoping SirDarean never does, though, for the good of MSU football and the future of evolution.

86. Be a contestant on Jeopardy - I'll take "People That Aren't Funny" for $800, Alex. "Answer: This journalist started his career trying to mix comedy with sports in the Michigan area, before eventually becoming a famous alcoholic and moving to tend to non-existent sheep in Montana." *Alex calls my name* "Who is Tom Keller?".......I'd totally kick ass on that show.

85. Snort coke with Lindsay Lohan - Because apparently rehab didn't fix her.

84. Learn the meaning to the lyrics of any song by The Shins - Don't get me wrong, I really like their sound. But I don't understand a damn word they say. Tell me what this means:

"A dual tone under wall
Selfish fool and hoped you’d save us all
Never dreamt of such sterile hands,
You keep them folded in your lap,
And raise them up to beg for scraps,
You know, he's holding you down,
With the tips of his fingers just the same,
You'll be pulled from the ocean,
But just a minute too late,
Or changed by a potion,
We’ll find a handsome young mate,
For you to love."

......huh?

83. Spend an entire month without visiting Facebook - Can you go 30 days without stalking people or seeing another "Hey, let's put a camera in front of our faces for the 149th time and take a picture" picture? It's like that movie "40 Days and 40 Nights"...except with 30 days...and without the Lenten-prohibiting sex...and without Josh Hartnett...unless he had a Facebook...in which case I'd totally be friends with him...

*This task must be completed by the age of 25 in order to count. Unless Josh Hartnett has a Facebook. Then everything's all good.

82. Erase the post-Toxic Britney Spears from my mind - Remember when Britney was just the girl next door in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit and skin-tight red space suit? Me too. I miss those days. I really miss those days. Can't you just be that wholesome lipped-glossed pop singer who was closer to dating me than some dead-end self-loathing rapper? Please, baby, one more time?

81. Meet Hillary Clinton - I don't know what I'd do if I met her. I'd either slap her and run (because I'm pretty sure she could beat my ass), ask her how her marriage is going with Ol' Willie, or kick her in the groin, thus exposing the pair she's got to be packing down there (I can already see the headline: BALL-BUSTED) I'm guessing I'd do the first one, even though the third sounds more riveting.

More to come.

You're Going To Die! Now What?

It may be a morose thought, but it's probably as probable of a statement as you can make: You will die at some point. So now what?

I say, "Death, take your grimness and shove it." Which leads me to this point.

What would have to happen in your life for you to die a completely happy and fulfilled person? What memories, events, and successes would have to be a part of your life in order for you to sit on your deathbed and say to yourself, "Well, there's nothing I didn't do that I wanted to." Can you even put a number of the amount of things that you would have to experience to be content with the inevitable fate that belies every single human being?

Well I'm going to. I've been inspired by my best friend Andy to make a list of the 101 things I want to do before I die.

You see, one of Andy's things was to do a stand-up routine (you can witness the event in previous posts). I applaud him for being able to tick off number 14 on his list. I also worry about the fact that his other 99 things involve sleeping with women way out of his league (the other one involves a similar task, but with Orlando Bloom. He's kind of got a thing. Don't ask.) So we'll see how that works.

Ok, that story was totally made up. But whatever.

So over the next few days, I'll list the 101 things I want to do before I die. I'll omit the things that are totally implausible, even if they would be on my list (even though I refuse to believe that I won't end up getting freaky with Jessica Alba at some point).

101. Shoot a harpoon - Those things look so awesome. I'd say "Shoot a harpoon at a living animal," but those PETA people are fucking crazy and will track me down and cut off my hands off so that I cannot shoot a harpoon. In that case, I will amend Task 101 to "Shoot a harpoon with my feet."

100. See the dissolution of PETA - I'm not kidding, I really hate those people. Give me a T-bone over your tofu any day. And those alligator shoes I have make me look like a total pimp. Seriously, when a cow can fight back and slaughter humans in mass numbers, give me a call and I'll protest KFC's torture of chickens. Until then, take a nice filet and shove it where the sun don't shine.

99. Travel to the World Cup - My loathing of soccer has been well documented via Gmail statuses, but the World Cup brings together constantly drunk Aussies, douchebag Italian floppers, Frenchmen who actually stop smoking and run for once, Africans from countries in the midst of Civil War, and Americans unaware that they went to the wrong type of football game. That sounds like an amalgamation of uncontrollable fun and entertainment.

98. See France become a second world country - I really want to know how the French exist. They barely work, they all smoke, they drink constantly from the age of 5, they refuse to fight anybody, they make really shitty movies, their most famous athlete is a headbutter (or buttheader, which sounds a lot more juvenile), they riot in their own streets, and they actually celebrate people who ride bicycles. If they didn't have French bread named after them, they wouldn't actually be a country.

97. Get an Irish accent - American is so boring. Give me an accent where you can't understand a damn word I'm saying. And Bostonian doesn't count. Oh, and I want to be able to say "laddie." That'd be kick ass.

96. See Nickelback fall off the face of the Earth - I don't want Nickelback to die or anything, but can't they just develop a heroin habit and spend the rest of their life in rehab? Or just fade into oblivion where they are found out to be Cuban immigrants? Or just make a duet with Fergie? Something that makes their careers so totally irrelevant and disgusting that their very existence is wiped from the minds of every man, woman, and child with ears.

95. Spend a day watching every Scrubs episode in a row - If "The Office" is my lovechild, "Scrubs" is my step-lovechild. Even though some of the new episodes suck, nothing brightens my day like a good, solid laugh from "Scrubs."

94. Ending this list early - This seriously takes forever. I'm only on number 94. This one is really just an attempt to waste things I have to think of. But no, I must persevere. My loyal readers demand excellence.

93. Punch someone I hate in the face - How cool would it be to take someone you just hate with a burning passion and break their nose with a roundhouse sucker punch? Antoine Walker, you better watch your face. By the way, how did the guy that held him up not shoot him? I mean, c'mon, he's a big giant douchebag. On the douchebag scale of douchiness, he's got to be at least a 9.8. Somewhere in between Michael Vick and that from "Survivor" who molested his kid.

92. Elevate myself to Chuck Norris status - One of my life-long dreams is for one young adolescent in 15 years to say "Jacob Carpenter doesn't do push ups, he does push downs." Or "Jacob Carpenter can divide by zero." Or "My wife yells Jacob Carpenter's name in bed." You get the idea. (Special shoutout to ColeHamelsFacts.com, for all your Chuck Norris-like facts.)

91. Weigh 175 pounds - As one of my most encouraging compadres once said, "You look like Nicole Richie two weeks into a tapeworm infection." Well, I want to look like Nicole Richie all right: The "Simple Life" era Nicole Richie, back when she looked like she knew what a hamburger tasted like. Only 45 pounds to go!

I'll be back later with Nos. 81-90.

I'm Finding A Life Mate

So this morning I spent a good 30 minutes filling out an eHarmony.com questionnaire.



Now that I've lost my self-respect and Y-chromosome, let me explain.

I'm working on a business plan similar to that of an eHarmony.com. It's going to make me rich. My dad asked me last night if I would consider dropping out of school to pursue this plan. In the words of my Chip, my RA last year: What? Are you serious? Are you furreal?

That's right. But that's not the point of this post. The real point is what I found when I filled out the questionnaire. (Keep in mind this is all an educational tool for me. I'm not looking for my life partner.)

First of all, they rejected me because I wouldn't have enough agreeable matches. Maybe it's because I'm 18. That or the fact that I sought a Mormon between the ages of 18 and 24 who makes more than $100,000 a year and is willing to get freaky before marriage. I really don't know.

But here is what I do know: The put a picture of a guy next to each of the five reports categories (Agreeableness, Openness, Emotional Stability, Conscientiousness, and Extraversion) and each one of these guys looks overly gay. Check them out:

I just thought I would point that out. The rest of the "personality profile" tells you all your shortcomings and where you suck at life. But I already knew all of that stuff.



This post really has no point at all. I think I'm done.

Would the real Nickelodeon please stand up?

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Checkbook, Please!

One of the nice things about being home for the summer is that I make money.

One of the not-so-nice things about being home is that that money will be spent on tuition.

One of the really-not-so-nice things about being home is that that money that will be spent on tuition is the result of overtime pay since I spend too much money that should be saved.

But as a wise philanderer once said, a penny saved is a penny that could've been spent on clothes.

So I decided it would be wise to document my spending for the past two weeks. The following is that documentation.

6/12 5:45 p.m.: Tiger Tickets ($18)
It's been about two months since I've seen my favorite Jesus-freak/future roommate. See him below.He's the one in the green. I thought the church frowned against stuff like that.

6/15 4:30 p.m.: Kinkos ($45)
Went to Kinkos to make a life-size color copy of this picture.
I especially like my tenacity. Also I like the look of the douchebag from U of M in the background. Also, Highfield's adjusting himself from behind my arm.

6/16 12:45 a.m.: Lady of the Night ($15)
She said I didn't tip well. I said she wasn't worth the $10 up front.

6/17 3:45 p.m.: Victoria's Secret ($25)
Last minute gift. Can't believe I almost forgot Mom's birthday.

6/19 5:30 p.m.: Picture frame ($30)
A picture like that deserves its own frame. Woooo self aggrandizement.

6/21 11:00 a.m.: Avril Lavinge CD ($9.99 on iTunes)
"You're so fine
I want you mine
You're so delicious
I think about you all the time
You're so addictive
Don't you know what I could do to make you feel alright?
Don't pretend I think you know I'm damn precious
And hell yeah
I'm the mother fucking princess
I can tell you like me too and you know I'm right"

Oh Avril, you doth speak what my lips cannot say.

6/24 11:45 p.m.: Decaying fish heads ($20 on the black market)
We'll see if Colman ever makes an ass out of me. He better watch his back.

6/26 4:30 p.m.: A new pair (price based on estimate)
Just in case anybody actually takes this post seriously

Apparently I Complain A Lot

So it was brought to my attention today that I'm somewhat of a curmudgeon in my blog posting. An 18 year-old Jack Nicholson circa "As Good As It Gets" if you will.

I'm not going to reveal the source of this observation, in true journalist form.

But this red-headed State News reporter may have had a point.

Thus, I set about writing an inspirational tale of an event that occurred today that rejuvenated my deteriorating home in the good-natured manner which people go about living each and every day. One filled with enough heart-warming, chill-inducing details to make you want to curl up with a good book next to a crackling fire in the heat of the winter.

Then I realized my job is a soul-sucking labor to serve some of the Earth's slimiest scum which pretty much occupies my life at the moment.

Once I made this observation, I decided curmudgeon be damned, I like bitching about everything from anteaters (Go UC-Irvine!) to xylophones (why the hell doesn't that start with "Z"???).

With that in mind, my newest semi-rant observation comes as I fulfill my college student obligation of shallowness and stalkerness realized through the wonder and amazement of Facebook.

Facebook itself was fine enough as it was a mere two months or so, give or take.

But something of a good thing is never enough of a good thing. Just ask Joe Dumars what happens when you don't change a damn thing besides a stool-pigeon of a coach for four years — here's a hint: you get your ass handed to you by a 22-year-old, Sideshow Bob, and Baldy McTuft and his merry band of freakshows.

So Facebook appeased the Red Bull-driven college population with hundreds of meaningless "Applications."

Below I have ranked the most prevalent Facebook Applications from worst idea to best idea, with a heart-warming comment or two to brighten your otherwise gloomy day.

5. "Trakzor" Ok, this one just scares me because I know I'll find a 23-year-old guy from Montana who dropped out of Eastern Montana State Technical Institute for the Mentally Handicapped who's secretly stalking me and planning to abduct me for a sex slave/English paper-writer.

That or Esther will find out that I'm secretly stalking her from afar. Ok, maybe I'm not. That's just my plug to get interviewed for her blog. But seriously, I am.

4. "Top Friends" Like Oh My Godddd guys. Today, I found out that Sarah didn't have me in her top 8 friends and I'm like, totally not talking to her anymore. I mean, like, how could she do that to me? I mean, like, when she was a total b and I carried her home from that frat party, I totally was, like, there to make sure she got home safe. And this is how she thinks of me?

Tell me you can't see that. I dare you. I double dare you. I physically challenge you.

3. "Graffiti" If I've seen one demented looking dinasour or one attempt to make a person with severe deformities, I've seen four of them. You can't draw all of you Picasso's on crack with a mouse.

2. "Superpoke" I don't want to tickle you. That'd be kinda gay. I don't want to spank you. I'm not into that. I don't want to grope you. That's called sexual harassment. I don't want to lick you. You taste bad. I don't want to bone you. That'd be bad to tell you through Facebook.



Wait, "bone" isn't an option?

1. "iLike" Ok, this one is sweet. Mostly because I have a better percentage on the iLike challenge than all y'all. Partly because music sharing is cool. But mostly because I kick your ass.

Feel free to debate. And don't say I was never warm and fuzzy inside — you all are worthwhile enough for me to be friends with you on Facebook.

Wait, what did you just say?

A direct quote of my dad, talking about my 16 year old brother, the world's biggest tool (pause for Maggie laughter):

"Your brother would fuck a snake if he could."

Wow. If you need a spork to gauge your eyes out after that visualization, I totally understand.

If nobody cared about Nickelback

I consider myself somewhat knowledgeable about the music scene of the 21st century: I can tell the Shins from Snow Patrol, Green Day from the Goo Goo Dolls, and Fergie from a piece of crap.

But there's one band that absolutely blows my mind in how much they themselves blow: Nickelback.

The following is an excerpt of lyrics from recent hit single from the group:

"I love you
I loved you all along
And I miss you
Been far away for far too long
I keep dreaming you'll be with me
and you'd never go
Stop breathing if
I don't see you anymore

So far away
So far away
far away for far too long
So far away
So far away
far away for far too long

But you know, you know, you know
I wanted
I wanted you to stay
'Cause I needed
I need to hear you say
I love you
I loved you all along
And I forgive you
For being away for far too long
So keep breathing
'Cause I'm not leaving you anymore
Believe it
Hold on to me,and never let me go
Keep breathing
'Cause I'm not leaving you anymore
Believe it hold on to me never let me go."

Inspiring, huh? A cokehead chimp with a brain defect could write that.

Their newest single, Rockstar, goes as follows:

"I want a brand new house
on an episode of Cribs
And a bathroom I can play baseball in
And a king size tub big enough
for ten plus me
--(Yea, So what you need)--

I need a credit card that's got no limit
And a big black jet with a bedroom in it
Gonna join the mile high club
At thirty-seven thousand feet
--(Been there done that)--

I want a new tour bus full of old guitars
My own star on Hollywood Boulevard
Somewhere between Cher and
James Dean is fine for me
(So how you gonna do it?)

I'm gonna trade this life for fortune and fame
I'd even cut my hair and change my name

'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars and
Live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars
The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap
We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat
we'll hang out in the coolest bars
in the VIP with the movie stars
Every good gold digger's
Gonna wind up here
Every Playboy bunny
With her bleach blonde hair
And well...

Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar
Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar."

While slightly more verbose than their eloquent "Far Away" above, the group seems to forgot that they are rock stars. This song might as well be called "We're rock stars and you're not. Suck on that." Of course it never would, because that would imply they knew that rock star was two words, not one.

Nickelback might very well get the most out of very little better than any awful top 40 band out there right now.

And yet I still listen to them.

"Thoughts from my head"

"Thoughts from my head"

Ok, that up there says "Thoughts from my head"

Which leads me to this:

Who the fuck wants to write in Webdings?

It doesn't make sense. For example, how the hell are you supposed to know that Shift+apostrophe will give you a pentagon connected with a bunch of lines?

I mean, whenever I want to type a pentagon connected with a bunch of lines (and trust me, this happens about as often as that brilliant EMT truck that represents "H"), I know to immediately go Shift+apostrophe since nobody in the entire world doesn't know that. I mean, even frickin Spiderman would know how to type his own pentagon-shaped web.

Ok, for real this time. This is the first irrelevant blog in my currently irreverent summer life. So while I've been sitting behind the counter of a golf shop servicing exorbitantly rich people of the Jewish faith, these have been my thoughts on the world in general (feel free to provide answers):

If all the world is a stage, then where is the curtain?

If there are no small parts, just small actors, then what happens when Tom Cruise has just one line in a movie?

How can a country have two names, like Curacao and Netherlands Antilles? I mean, you don't see France calling itself both France and Country of Giant Pussies.

For that matter, how can a place have two capitals, like La Paz and Sucre in Bolivia. Rhode Island doesn't have Providence and that other city in Rhode Island as dual capitals.

Nomination list for the bands with the worst names:
- Hoobastank
- The New Pornographers
- The Red Jumpsuit Appartatus
- Fergie
- Keller Instinct

What is "How I roll?" Have you ever rolled? What is it "to roll"?

How come some people can pull off the one name thing (Cher, Madonna, Dubya) and others can't (Daughtry, Fergie, etc.)? Who decides that?

From work: Who's the dumbass who thought to himself, "Let's charge people $45 for 12 golf balls." Eff him and his big bag of money.

Those are my thoughts from the week. More to come.

What I'm listening to at this very moment as I type and the song changes because I've spent too long typing and get pissed off at iTunes: Portland Is Leaving - Rocky Votolato