Happy Frickin Halloween

As of a few days ago (7, to be exact), this blog is officially one year old! I can't believe I've lasted this long. I thought I had enough material floating around in my head for maybe five or six posts. But here I am, several hundred posts and about 65,000 words later, and I think there are some people who actually read this thing! Yesssss!

I don't think there's a holiday in America about which I care less than Halloween. I'm seriously. That even includes Columbus Day and Pancho Villa's birthday. There's just nothing all that special about Halloween for me. Maybe that'll change next year when I'm legal, but I suspect not. If I hate things like "being dressed up" and "talking to people" and "not being antisocial" and "trying not to fall asleep while someone is talking to me" perfectly sober, then I'll assume I'm gonna hate them drunk, as well. (It's a joke, Dad. I know you're reading this. Jeez, it's like I have no privacy anymore...)

I always wanted to liven up my own Halloween experiences by dressing up like the Scream killer and chasing kids away from my house. Then, if their parents got all pissed at me for scarring their children for life, I'd shoot 'em in the face with a paintball gun. Now that's a good Halloween memory. Why can't I do stuff like that? Instead, most of my Halloween canon of memories is taken up by dressing up like a bum for like 5 years in a row. What a crappy holiday.

Anyone who says your favorite holiday is Halloween, stop reading now, log off the internet, write a heartfelt note, get a pencil, sharpen it, and please shove it in your ear. I mean, Valentine's Day sucks harder than Ryan Seacrest, but I'd still take it over Halloween. If Halloween is your favorite holiday, it's probably because you were ugly as a child, and once a year, you were able to go outside in a mask without people staring and pointing and writing emo songs about you. Now, I'm not completely insensitive. That's a very nice sentiment. OK, now that I've said that, shut up about it. Get over yourself. Grow up, move out of your parents' basement, stop playing role-playing games with your other 35-year-old friends, and stop voting Green Party.

I suppose I'd like Halloween too, if I were neglected by my alcoholic parents and forced to go to a trade school after graduating at the bottom of my high school equivalency test class. Hey, these things happen.

Your Parents Don't Love You

My sister loves the show "My Super Sweet 16" on MTV or MTV2 or VH1 or some other mindless channel. For those of you who have lives outside your televisions, I'll explain this gloriously inept turd of a show. Basically, it's a "reality" show about spoiled 16-year-old whores whose parents hate them so much they'd rather throw a lavish party than spend any amount of time with them.

They do stuff like send their daughter to Paris to pick out an original dress, or buy the girl a brand new Mercedes, or rent out an entire hotel and hire a nationally known band to play there, or allow the daughter to perform her very own whore-tastic dance in front of all her friends, Britney Spears style. If I had parents who hated me that much, I'd have become a heroine-addicted purse snatcher years ago.

These girls say things like, "I want everyone's attention to be on me all week," and "I think I deserve a brand new Mercedes. I've earned it." Have you now? What benevolent act could you possibly have performed in your entire prepackaged, sterile, privileged life that would warrant anything but but a hypodermic needle filled with air shoved straight into your shriveled heart?

Forget the terrorists. Let's nuke every 16-year-old girl who gets a brand new car for her birthday. Or better yet, napalm. Yeah, I like the sound of that. That way, you could still hear their cries of protest that "the heat is absolutely ruining my hair." Next time I see a girl who looks about 16 getting out of a car that looks like she'd have to turn tricks for 10 years to afford it, I'm gonna punch her in the boob.

Real Men

I heard a radio PSA about domestic violence or some such crap a few days ago. I can't quite remember all of it, but I used my handy-dandy digital voice recorder to remind myself of at least one bit. The thing ended with some woman saying, "Real men don't hit." I want to hit this woman. Real men hit ALL THE TIME. Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwartz... Shwarts.... that governor guy, Sylvester Stallone, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Bruce Lee, Hulk Hogan... They all hit people. And they're men. Case closed. Thank you. And now, for my next trick, I shall levitate a small marmot. While hitting that woman in the face. I highly doubt they were able to make that recording in a kitchen, which can only mean one thing...

I'm At A Disadvantage

I came to a sudden and jarring realization this morning. I just can't win as long as I live in the same town as the stupid Air Force Academy. I mean, all I have going for me is my intelligence, my marginal looks, my sarcastic attitude, and my killer sense of humor. How is that supposed to compete for the attention of college girls against the likes of military men armed with huge amounts of date-rape drugs? Totally unfair. Here I am, trying to compete with cadets, and it's like I'm using a water pistol against their tactical nuclear missiles. Jeez. Stupid rapist cadets. Give a guy a break. (OK, Ray, I know not every guy at the Academy is a rapist. There are some really nice guys who go there. But if I wrote about that, it wouldn't be funny, would it?)

"Hey, Look! I've Found A Bumper Sticker That Encapsulates My Stupidity!"

I was walking back to my car in the parking garage at UCCS when a strange little bumper sticker caught my eye. It read, "Hate is not a family value." Boy, was I glad to finally put THAT debate to rest. I can't tell you how many times my parents tried to teach me family values, only to get caught up in a heated argument over whether or not hate was one of them. Thank you, kind bumper-sticker man. For without your wise and noble words, I would be lost in a sea of confusion and utter disregard for the feelings of others. Oh wait. I forgot you're a moron.

I can only assume that the bumper sticker in question was referring to the answer most Bush voters gave for why they voted for him over John "I pick my butt with a ketchup bottle" Kerry. They said they were Bush boosters because of his strong family values. Fair enough. Apparently, and this is an assumption as well, the mindless drone who put that bumper sticker on his car was making some sort of wishfully erudite observation about the hilarious stereotype that Republicans "hate" people. This, my ill-informed friend, couldn't be further from the truth.

Amazingly enough, Republicans happen to have this crazy notion that all men are created equal. Now, where would we get a hare-brained idea like that? Surely it couldn't have come from the Declaration of Independence. On the flip side, liberals believe that certain people are owed certain things, whether they work for them or not. Then, they complain about how the government isn't digging deep enough into our pockets to pay for the federally funded programs that have no business being paid for by tax money in the first place. And why not? The rich are evil, oppressive people who deserve to lose every dime of their hard-earned money, and then be forced to suckle at the teat of the federal government. Yeah, that's really "open-minded," you sick communist bastards.

It is true that we hate some people. I hate fat people, for example. Others of us hate whiney, bleeding-heart liberals. Geoff Kruger hates black people. And the list goes on...

I Hate This Class So Much

I just got out of a class filled with third-graders. It was my nonverbal comm class, and it was being led by the nine hundred pound teacher's assistant, because our prof couldn't get out of jury duty. Apparently, she's on the jury for a murder trial. EXCITING! Whatever...

Anyway, I'm just so tired of hearing all the people in that class just talk and talk and talk. They won't shut up. It's like being in elementary school during a rainy day recess. Only there's no heads-up-seven-up to distract you from the stupidity of your peers. We were talking about time orientation systems, like being future-oriented or present-oriented. All of a sudden, every single person in the class starts yelling at the top of their lungs with some moronic story about how the Mexicans they work with have a different "time structure," and how they value personal relationships over punctuality and efficiency. Shut up. Sometimes, believe it or not, there are just lazy people. Sometimes, it can't be explained away with differing "time structures." Besides, did you ever consider the possibility, however slight, that no one cares about the people you work with? Too bad, 'cause it's probably true.

Later in the class, we were talking about environment and its effects on behavior. Doesn't require a whole lot of anecdotal discussion, right? Well, you'd think, but you'd be wrong. I kept hearing these people sitting around me talking about how you're supposed to act or dress a certain way when you go to a nice mall, but those restrictions, or mabe they're just guidelines, don't seem to exist in places like Wal-Mart. I can't believe it took us eighteen stupid personalized boring stories to figure that out. I knew that without even taking the class. I'm sure most of you did, too. I guess comm majors are, in general, just way stupider than the average UCCS student, which is saying quite a bit.

One girl was talking about how Casa Bonita is selling the experience instead of their crappy food. Nice one, Sherlock. Are you sure you aren't a CSI disguised as a retarded college student? Or maybe problem solving and "saying things that are obvious to a fetus" just come naturally to you. Then, she said, "And what about Starbucks?" as if there was a single person in the room who hadn't already made that connection. It took all my willpower not to shout out, "What about shut the hell up before I crush your larynx with my thumb?"

The faux-prof for the day even got in on the stupid-story-telling action. She told us about one time when she was standing in the first class line at an airport and some woman thought she was supposed to be in the coach line. She started the story by saying, "Never wear a denim jacket, sweat pants, and tennis shoes in the first class line at the airport." That immediately made me want to say, "How about just never wearing denim jackets with sweat pants EVER, you cow?" or "I'll give you a thousand dollars or a Twinkie if you promise to never speak again."

I guess I'm just really irritable around stupid people, and every word they say makes me want to shove a pen into my ear just to relieve myself from the pain of hearing them speak. If you heard things like, "That outfit makes her look like an extra on 'Newhart,'" or "Just wave some money in front of the Mexicans you work with. That'll make 'em work faster," or "I'm a big fat idiot who has to walk into this classroom sideways and I love to show people just how stupid I am by expressing my retarded opinions in a way that makes them sound like I just read them off a bathroom wall and Andrew would you please put me out of my misery and put some rat poison on the end of the pencil I'm constantly chewing on or maybe follow me to my car and set it on fire with me sitting inside it"... I, uh.... I seem to have lost my train of thought. But trust me, you'd feel the same way if you were in my position.

I'd Rather Walk

Today I went to the Phil Long car expo extravapaloozarama, or whatever, to browse at used cars. It was there that I met the only white guy in existence who spells his name S-H-A-W-N. Shawn apparently thought that he and I were the bestest buddies in the history of friendship, and he kept on asking me dumbass questions, presumably to take my mind off the fact that he was trying to sell me a car. Shawn introduced me to several of his "friends" around the lot, all of whom kept trying to sell me a Chevy Cavalier. When I first spoke to Shawn, I said I was interested in a Subaru, and he instantly dragged me off toward this stupid Cavalier. Maybe, Shawn, if you could forget about the fact that you're an idiot for one second, you'd realize that I didn't say I wanted an effing Cavalier, you big fat turd.

It was so weird. The whole thing. I realized that I hate car salesmen more then I hate French people. On the other hand, I thought his little ploys to get me to give him more information were pretty hilarious. I'd have never thought it possible, before today, to be so happy and so uncomfortable at the same time. He asked me what my favorite band was. I told him. He asked me if I had a CD with me. Yeah, I just happen to have their greatest hits in my back pocket, moron. He asked me, "What are you studying in school?" Why? So you can pretend you're interested? I don't want to tell you any more than I have to, Shawn. He asked for my phone number. I gave him a fake one. He asked for a backup number. Jeez, this guy doesn't quit. I gave him my real cell number. That way, if he calls the wrong home number, then decides I "accidentally" gave him the wrong number and wants to call my cell, I'll be able to tell him in person to please never call me again.

I know. I'm sick.

You're Not Impressing Anyone

Being in college, I hear people telling others about all the great things they did in high school, like, ALL THE TIME. Especially freshmen who don't know any better. It's not entirely limited to freshmen, though. There will always be those juniors and seniors who still haven't done anything worth mentioning in their post-high-school lives, and therefore have to lean on their "badass reps" from high school. Guess what, nobody cares.

Oh, so you were the editor of your high school paper that was only read by the principal and your own parents? Guess what, nobody cares. So you were student body president? Guess what, nobody cares. You had the bestest, most killer senior prank EVER? Guess what, nobody cares. Your mom loves you? Nobody cares. You have siblings? Or you don't? Nobody cares. You could have gone to Yale, but you decided to grace those of us at UCCS with your genius presence? Nobody cares. You just BS'ed your way through your college entrance essay? So did everyone else on campus, idiot. You're not special.

We don't care what crappy accomplishments you managed to cobble together in your four years at Mt Hicksville High. You're in college now, where you have to do something other than invent a crazy new fashion trend for yourself and all your loser high school friends to get noticed. You have to actually do something that's worth noting for people to care about what you've done. We're not impressed with your AP-class-assisted 5.0 GPA. We don't care that you hosted your school's talent show. Stop living in the past. High school takes up less than 5% of your life, jackass. Get over yourself. And shut up.

I have a pair of pants in my closet that have more interesting things to say than you, telling me you were a member of the National Honor Society. There are millions of people across the country who were part of NHS, and most of them are janitors now. How about stop telling all your new college friends about how great you were in high school and actually going to class in college? Or maybe you should just accept your fate, shut your mouth, and unclog my toilet, bitch.

The Worst Show Ever

I accidentally watched a few minutes of an episode of Sex and the City last night. I want my five minutes back. They would have been more effectively spent if I'd used them to practice throwing cashews into my sleeping brother's open mouth. I couldn't believe how bad the show was. I don't mean "bad" as in, "those people are going to hell for saying that on tv." No, what I mean is, "I'm stupider for having watched that" bad. I really think my IQ dropped a good ten points after I watched it. The writing was awful, but what really stood out to me as even worse than the writing was the acting. It was, I kid you not, the most poorly-acted show I've ever seen. I've watched high school drama class plays in which some of the actors don't want to be there and only took the class because they'd rather act than sing or play an instrument or draw a picture for their art requirement, and every one of those plays was better acted than this episode of Sex and the City. It was like there was this big pile of vomit, and then that pile of vomit took a crap, and then some retarded guy tried to describe that crap to another retarded guy, who wrote down what he heard, and then that description got picked up and mistaken for a tv script, and then that script was made into a show by a group of lobotomized clones of Forrest Gump. That's how bad the show was. Or, put another way, it was as bad as an episode of Stacked.

It's Still Hockey

So the NHL's back. La-dee-frickin-da. Apparently, they're trying to woo hockey fans back with a few changed rules. Let me be the first to tell you, NHL, that the rules of the game weren't the reason you only had forty people watching televised games. During the playoffs. No, the reason no one cares about your stupid sport is that it's lamer than Stephen Hawking with a broken foot. I've come up with a few suggestions on my own. Here's just a couple things the NHL could do to pique my interest:

1. Require Jessica Alba, Kirsten Dunst, and Salma Hayek to play. In every game. The whole time.

2. Guarantee that two or more players will die in each game.

3. Give out free hundred-dollar bills to every spectator, and free bags of gold and a king size Snickers bar to every person watching it on tv.

4. Instead of a puck, use a Democrat. Or an art major. Or anybody who wears crocs.

5. Make everyone play one period of their choice barefoot.

6. Two words: more explosions.

7. Four more words: shark tank penalty box.

8. For every goal scored, destroy a city in France.

9. Let those two old guys from the Muppet Show ref a couple games.

10. Get all the players drunk off their asses before the games.

11. Broadcast ANY SPORT BESIDES HOCKEY.

12. Give out free time machines. Until this request can be fulfilled, I refuse to watch. And even afterward, I'd only give it a 50/50 shot.

13. Change the name of the sport to Andrewball.

14. Integrate the Zamboni into the actual gameplay.

So there you go. If the NHL would just follow one or two or all of these rules, it would make for a sport that is not only tolerable, it's downright kinda sorta OK to watch.

How Would You Know?

I keep hearing these radio ads that start out with "Now one ever died wishing they'd spent more time at the office," and I can't stand it anymore. How the heck could they possibly know that? I'm sure somewhere out there, some guy is dying alone and penniless, wishing he'd spent more time working and less time playing Donkey Kong 64. There's GOT to be somebody like that. Not everyone is rich enough to say they could've taken more vacation days. Some people are going to have to work until they're too weak to stand without the aid of a walker. That's just the way life is. Get used to it.

Why Can't Charlize Theron Be In A Regular Movie?

First, it was the "inspiring" true story of America's most notorious female serial killer, and now it's an intense courtroom drama about the nation's first major sexual harassment suit. Alright, Charlize, we get it. You think "real" issues are "important" and you want to do poignant and powerful films about those issues. We're all sooo impressed with your devotion to the principal of choosing acting jobs based on their Oscar bankability. Give me a break. Why can't you just make a romantic comedy or a buddy film or a touching love story? Why can't you do anything simple? We don't care about all your political statements anymore. We just want to see you in nice outfits flirting with Vince Vaughn or Richard Gere. No more of this "movies with a message" crap. Get over yourself.

Now That's Useless

I just got out of a class in which I had to listen to a woman repeatedly use the word "orientate." I can't think of another word (yes, that includes "irregardless") that makes me angrier. It's a word that was backward-formed from "orientation," even though we have another, shorter word that means the same thing. Surprise! It's "orient." Amazing. I just lopped off an entire syllable from a word without changing its meaning at all. People say "orientate" when they feel stupid or inadequate and they hope the extra syllable will give them some cool points in the conversation. I've got a different strategy for those of you who feel stupid when you're talking to people: You probably are, so you should just shut up and hope someone mistakes your silence for thoughtfulness. "Better to remain quiet and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

Fatburger And Related Musings

I went to the grand opening of the first Fatburger in Colorado Springs a few days ago. My whole family went, actually. We didn't even know it was the grand opening, so it was really kind of an accident. Anyway, we saw a limo and a bunch of people crowded around a tv news cameraman. The subject of the shot turned out to be none other than... you guessed it, Montel Williams. That's right, because when I think greasy, fattening foods, I think about 90 lb black men. He's even shorter in real life than he looks on tv. The guy's seriously, like, 5'6". No joke.

So, anyways, we stood in line for what felt like six and a half hours to get a fatburger. Let me tell you, they do not disappoint. I'm for seriously. It was *almost* as good as an In-N-Out burger. Not quite, but almost. You can't find too many fast food places that'll put sweet relish on their burgers. It was awesome. Probably in the top ten burgers I've EVER HAD.

One thing I noticed was that there were quite a bit more black people at Fatburger than I've ever seen in one place anywhere in Colorado Springs before. It must have been every black person in El Paso county. I mean, there were, like, ten of 'em. Yeah. I'm serious. I guessed that Fatburger must be more popular in black communities than other burger joints. That made me want it even more.

There's nothing better on this planet than black food. Oh, sorry... I meant "soul food." Whatever. It'll always be black food to me. But anyway, I love it. You can't go wrong with chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and gravy. No sir. I look forward to a meal of fried chicken and waffles. Any of you people out in California who've ever been to Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles know exactly what I'm talking about. Oh, man, that's some good food. It'd be worth being black just to get some good soul food every day. I decided that it would probably be worth having a college education given to me for free and being hired as a top-ranking government official as a "token" African-American and getting reparations for something that happened to my great-grandfather just to get some good old fashioned homemade black food. Sure, that would be worth it. I wouldn't mind putting up with the horrific stereotypes about athleticism and genital size just for a good plate of chicken and waffles. It would be tough, but I'd put up with the extra points on my college admission consideration so I could have mashed potatoes every day. Quite a trade-off, but I think I'd manage.