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The One That Ends With A Bunch Of Bottlecaps

2003-02-25 - 9:06 p.m.

Mood: Approaching Autumnal Star-Exploding Pain In My Head - thus, not a Good One

Listening To: Bob Marley, TMBG, Weezer, S & O, Ben Folds Five, George Harrison, The Breeders, R.E.M.

Quote:"Dammit! Will all those with a fake mustache please leave now." - Principal Cinnamon J. Scudworth

Right. Here. Typing. For. Fun. And. On. Another. Note. Can't. Believe. Steve. Martin. In. A. Buddy. Comedy. With. Queen. Latifah.

Hi. Any suggestions? I'll take 'em! Not that I don't have plenty to write about. Ha ha. I was just being non-sensical, but seriously, that gave me a good idea. Although I feel rather shy about springing good ideas, or at least intriguing ones this early in the race. But here goes. I will take suggestions on a theme for a future entry. Oh man! My brain is doing cartwheels because I'm thinking too fast. Ok, ok. Ok. It's open to everybody (except Pat Chase, she's too fat). Anyone can choose a theme or topic for me to write an entire entry about. It can be a request for a funny story of days gone by, perhaps one could ask me to discuss the finer points of fucking with a customer without them knowing it within the fine sphere of retail, it can be asking me to detail explicitly why I despise Kirstie Alley (which is something I might do under an assumed name! Ahahahahah! Damn. It'll be kinda obvious now), maybe a treatise on Neoplatonism in Renaissance Drama?? Although, I'm gonna be honest with you, that would really suck hardcore, since I already have to do that every Monday and Wednesday and I have a big paper due on Friday on that very thing and really, who other than Cyprus Hill would want to read about it anyway? So anything's game. You can post your suggestions, however long-winded or brief, however gory or fluffy soft by clicking the Comments link at the bottom of this entry. That will bring you to a screen where the comments are. I know that seems obvious, but some of you monkeys wet your pants when the automated response system asked you to confirm for Notify List. I'm not naming names . . . Monique and Fred. If none of you suggest anything than I will be forced to explain why NBC sucks ass and how they fucked NewsRadio and how . . . well, I'm pretty sure if anyone has ever met me for 30 seconds they have already heard something similar and I imagine it's simply torture each additional time. So don't tempt me! [A Disclaimer: People, now if I get 74 suggestions for an essay on "POOP" left by the name D. Marshall don't expect me to feel obligated to expound on said POOP for pages. Cause it ain't gonna happen. Besides, even if I was gonna write about POOP, it would involve a KFC and a Post Office, and my guess is, D. Marshall would be the last person that would want such a story read by the masses.]

I hate those fucking soda caps that say, "DRINK COKE. PLAY AGAIN." How about a simple, "Thanks for playing." or, "Have a good one!", or "It's now 9:30 pm and the Fox Run Mall is closing." I mean, it's all in caps and is so rude to you after you just payed $1.27 (damn bear tax) to drink it. Whatever. That's all I have to say about that. I just remember getting that cap and thinking, "I'm gonna mention this little number in my journal." And now I just did. For bottlecaps that I feel are zillions times better than Coke ones please refer yourself to the bottom of this here entry.

What else was I going to talk about as I continue to push back my reading for my Shoemaker's Holiday quiz tomorrow? (No relation to Buddy, Phyllis, Arem, or any of the other myriad Shoemakers) Oh I know . . .

A bit of an Update: For those of you who are curious how things panned out as far as the great Zap Mama debacle. #1 - I still can't tell the difference between a turnip and a Zap Mama. Though after a little research, as little as my lazy brain would allow me, I found that Zap Mama is a music group. Hmm, fancy that. #2 - I overheard Konker telling Fucky this morning that he was "sorry that he called so late, but he didn't get home until late." Ewwwwwwwww. So gross. I'm pretty sure there's rules in the books about these two carrying on some not-so-clandestine affair, and I'm gonna root it out. #3 - I didn't get in ONE LICK of trouble for my Denio-esque walk-out. I knew I wouldn't. Ok, I won't say I knew I wouldn't. Cause I actually wasn't so sure. But I didn't. If anything, they were all clearly envious that I got away with it! Fools! That'll teach 'em. Maybe next time they'll change their escargot-loving tunes. And maybe next time Secret Crush can get a tattoo that says "I hate Helen Hunt" and buy me lots of canolis! Man, that sure would be swell. #4 - I ran into some of my old Section 2 compadres, and after I filled them in on what went down they all assured me that not only would they have come with me, but that they did the same thing that day too. Awwww, bless their little souls. There is a God. #5 - Now, despite the slight hope I seemed to promise back in #3 (see #3) I'm afraid I have some bad news. Secret Crush is off the market. For Good. She's fucking engaged. Isn't that just like a girl? To go and get engaged when you are fostering a secret crush on her! The nerve! Anyway. #6 - We had an exam on Monday and I totally B-O-M bombed it and afterwards Fucky came up to me and tried to make small talk and be all non-Fucky and friendly and I was just like, "I'd rather give a Popple a sponge bath than talk to you for another 5 seconds."

"Awwww yeah baby, get all my nooks and crannies. Awww yeah, come on bitch, every last cranny!"

Seriously friends, you can't be grossed out by that. It was a Popple talking dirty. That's just funny shit.

Just finished watching tonight's Real World. Seriously, these people are such synapse stunted melonheads. I have to laugh at the shit Steven says, even if it's not intended to be in the least bit funny. Trashelle proclaims that she, "has never been single this long." . . . . . . . WHAT?! Since last fucking episode? Plus, I'm starting to believe the rumors that Brynn really did get kicked out during the "fork incident" and has just been spliced in occasionally by the editors ever since. And Trashelle is so fucking trashy that I can't even force myself to make trashy jokes about her trashy trashy self. But, a picture can sometimes say what words cannot:

"Daddy don't even know yet that me a cocktail waitress! I said cock! Hyuck! I so lonely. Oh wait. I'm having sex with a stranger. Oh wait. Now me lonely again. Hyuck!"

As far as Challenge goes . . . sweet lord in heaven, we are talking some QUALITY fucking tv. I don't care what the Jimbo-led Watchdog Groups for Quality Television say, I FUCKING LOVE IT. And machetes in apples?! High drama people. High high drama. And my once loved Emily falling further in her descent to unredeemable evil? Captivating! Ruthie's burden of concealing Aneesa's pseduo-treachery? Scintillating!! Dan's return from the dead only to be vanquished yet again! Odd! The welcome lack of "Ellen = AntiChrist" propoganda? Sublime! Actual Melissa screentime? A popsicle on a hot July day! Speaking of that self-same popsicle, if you want to read how that last episode really went down, then go read about it at her site, as it is quite a bit different than what we actually saw. As usual.

The cat. The cat the cat the cat. Yes. So Saturday morning, before I left for work, Ben informed me that we were getting a cat. That he was going to the humane society later that day and getting a cat. Later down the road a puppy too, but for now, just a cat. Cat Cat Cat. I had a cat once. For 17 years. I am in no hurry to have another one. Not because I didn't love my baby cat thiiiiiiiiis much, but because I feel like I'd be betraying her (like my mother and father already have, SEVERAL times over) if I got a new cat. So I told Ben that if he absolutely had to get a cat to please make sure it wasn't long hair, wasn't a girl, and wasn't all white (visions of evil Snowball McLaughlin dancing in my head). He succeeded on all points. He got a gray, short-haired boy cat. Who doesn't quite have a name yet. I'm not good with sticking with one name for a pet. As my cat face, girl cat, baby girl, kitachi, mickde, kichoochi, kitty knew all too well. So as soon as I met the cat I came up with a million ideas for what we should call it. Charlie, Bucky, Smokey, The Bandit, Cool Shit, Bullit, Slippery, Funkmaster C, Malacho and many more. Ben came up with one. And he had his heart set on it. Muckluck. I repeat, Muckluck. Full of Krusty's Komedy K's. I told him no. But it was his cat so it was his final choice. Besides, I told him, no matter what he picked, I'd call the cat something different all the time anyway. Except I've mostly been calling him Malacho. Ma-LA-cho. Or just Malach. It seems to have stuck. When Ben remember's it, he usually calls him Malacho. Or Monchichi or something close to Malacho. I haven't let myself really like Malacho yet. I don't hate him, I'm just feeling him out right now. I'm not used to boy cats or litter boxes, so it will take some time. He'll be an outdoor cat eventually, but we're waiting for the weather to get less Hoth-like first. {And no Justin, I'm not giving you credit for inventing Hoth jokes. You made a good one, you didn't coin them though}

Nanny, my mother and I went out for lunch in Portsmouth this afternoon. Shockingly, it was INCIDENT-FREE!!! Besides Nanny's usual conversational oddities involving everything from how she thinks the Rhode Island fire was a terrorist attack to insisting that my love for Garfield is unending (despite it ending long ago) they both made for good company. We ate at The Oarhouse. It was good if not a tad pricey. And I had a Monte Cristo! ME! A Monte Cristo! Fun fun.

One of my professor's looks just like Johnny Sack and the girl that sits in front of me in that same class looks just like Valentina . . . is someone going through Sopranos withdrawal?? You tell me. (Hint: YES)

Yesterday, when I burped I did that thing where you almost puke but you manage to hold the vomit tsunami off at the last minute. But I had chocolate milk that morning so it tasted like chocolate puke! Mmmmmmmmm! Actually, not really so mmmmmmm. It was pretty gross.

Oh yeah, how Ben made me reek last week - Medium length story short: He did his load of whites in the laundry while I was taking a shower. All the bleachy water kicked back through the shower drain while I was still in it. The bleach soaked into my skin. Bleach smells. Strongly. And so did I. For the rest of the day.

Oh yeah, and I got frostbite. And it hurt. For a couple of days. But I'm ok now.

Oh yes, and the star exploding pain. I don't think many of you have to guess. Those rascally impacted / nerve intermingling / narcotic needing / painfully inflamed rascals in my mouth are back. I don't know if you remember all the fun and hilarity last time. But I do. And I just can't wait for Round 2. JUST. CAN'T. WAIT.

And now, what you've all been waiting for - my favorite bottlecaps!!!! Huzzah! Huzzah!

I dedicate the Peach Soda one to Kate and I dedicate the TAB to 1983. Come on people - SMACK. And you thought Coke was blatant marketing.

It's been real,

Bajazeth

ps - don't forget those entry suggestions. As little POOP as possible please!!

pps - Yes, I am installing this general comment section to be cool like Justin. Except I'll never be quite that cool. But yeah, the suggestions can go in the comment area, but the actual Comments Section will be sticking around in the future and will be available for thoughts on my meanderific blatherings. It's open for everyone, not just Diaryland users, like that rascally Notes Section.

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