On a Scale From One to My Ass Is Sore

Back in the Fall of 1996, I went with my friend, Mike Wolfe, to catch a new art house flick. After the movie, I created a new scale on how much I hated a movie. A one meant that it was so/so and I wished I hadn't paid to see it. The worst grade was My Ass Is Sore, that meant I lost interest in even loosely following the film and instead focused on my aching posterior. Of course the film in question received the prestigious MAIS award.



Today, the director of said movie died. I don't wish anyone any misery, so I'm not reveling in it. I'm just glad that I won't have to give out another MAIS.

Moments In My Personal Music History

Back 1998 or 1999, Kyle and I were driving home at bar time after, well, drinking until bar time. As we plodded our way down North Sherman Avenue, Kyle turned the radio on to some horrid station. Right then, some dork was calling in requesting "That's What Friends Are For". The song started and he yelled "YES! I loved this song!" He immediately cranked up volume and started signing. Anyone who knows Kyle understands his decent into Kyle World (Now With Twice the Fun!) when he drinks even a drop too much. That was a very painful experience. He later told me that he hates that song. What the fuck!?! Anyway, I found something even worse:







I think that old guy in the front is Seth's drunkle who always walked around family events with a stiffy and cleared out the liquor cabinet at Christmas. Hip he ain't.

Seemingly Trivial Things That Piss Me Off

So don't be this person.



Leave Me The Fuck Alone

As I have an affable personality, I like people. As an introvert, I just don't like people. If you walk into a classroom, restaurant, lecture, etc. and I'm in the most inaccessible place with my back to the wall, please note my expressionless face and don't talk to me. I don't care about reminiscing about Brett Favre's career or that you hope the class will be good. You may think my silence means acceptance at first, but behind my placid eyes I'm imagining ripping your head off and shoving it up your ass. And when you finally figure out that I don't want to talk to you (which took five minutes as I'm a Midwesterner), don't sulk away like a scolded puppy. Unlike Iraq, you are the aggressor. I like dogs and forgive their eagerness; you should know better. I hide in corners for a reason.



Watch the Volume of Your Voice

Ok Pavarotti, you make like the sound of your own voice, but your audience at the Met is made up of one. Admittedly, I have been responsible for this transgression from time to time as has everyone (except my friend Adam), but don't be the exception to the rule. You probably don't mean to act as though I'm an encroaching predator, but you make me feel like pissing myself, dropping some twitching appendage, and running for the hills. Shhhhhh, for both of our sakes.



Your Miscreant Children Are Not Entertainment

I know that little Madison and little Ethan give you great joy and, unfortunately, much conversation fodder, but they look like poo-flinging monkeys to me. Actually, I like watching poo-flinging monkeys as long as I'm not hit, but your children are much uglier than the more advanced primates. The post office is not a playground, so take their fat asses to a playground. And don't say please when asking little Jacob to stop kicking the shin of the kindly-looking old man patiently waiting in line. Give the brat the stare of death (I've luckily inherited it from my mother). Grab his arm and drag him off. Plus, that old man isn't as kindly as he looks. He's probably a Midwesterner.



Chew With Your Mouth Closed

Just because I live in a state (and a noted region of said state) that is known for cows, I don't want to watch you chew like one. Perhaps the government should bring back those 50's film strips on manners. Pay attention this time. That burger that you're chewing like cud doesn't look so swift when it's being disassembled with compacted enamel and spittle. This is also true for you obsessive gum chewers. You look about thirty IQ points dumber than you are when chewing gum with ol' Yapper wide open. If you must appear laden with bong resin, breathe through your fucking nose. Nothing worse than listening to the squish AND cavernous wind of your affliction.



I know I sound like a grumpy old coot, but I'm not. I'm a grumpy, dejected thirtysomething, thank you.

Strange Indeed

Here's an article about some Russian skiers who inexplicably died. Creepy shit.

What The!?!

Someone else has my name, goddamnit! I thought I was the only one. Well, I'm probably the only Norwegian one.

Worst Singer Ever

Just what the title says. You can read about her here.

Another Mall

So I don't remember much of my dream. I was in East Towne Mall, but it was two stories in some parts and particularly cavernous. Oh, and there was that funky/artsy waterfall that appears in all of my mall dreams. Can't remember what I was doing.

I was also in a record store that was enormous. It looked like all of my dream record stores.

That's all I remember, but it is the first dream I've remembered in a while.