Hey, you hoser. Happy Christmas

Here's some good ol' Bob and Doug MacKenzie to get you in the holiday spirit.

http://aetherealforge.com/~aeon/humor/12days.shtml

Personally, I say, don't watch the stupid flash animation, or read the script. Just put it on, and minimize the window. Let it wash over you.

Now take off.

Funny

Click on the title of this blog entry. It's funny.

I'm just not sure yet

Here's why Ninjas are sweet.

Once there was this ninja who was hired by a fancy art museum to make some fancy art. They paid him over a billion bucks to do something with the garden. So the ninja took a simple hose and threw it in the middle and everybody was like, "Genius." And the ninja was like, "Yeah, and...?" Everybody was like, "...and AWESOME!" but later that night, when everybody went to bed, the gardeners didn't understand and rolled up the hose and put it in the closet with the other gardening equipment.

The Last.

The first big thing about senior year is over. (Football, idiots.) As my away message has noted for a while, Steve Canham had the idea to throw Tortillas at halftime. Everyone else threw marshmallows. He wanted to do this, because they fly like frisbees.

The following paragraph is taken from an ESPN.com article, about the game:

Notre Dame (8-2) needs to beat Stanford next week to remain eligible for its first Bowl Championship Series berth since 2000. Students threw tortillas back and forth throughout the game in anticipation of a possible Fiesta Bowl invitation. Someone also threw an orange on the field after an Irish touchdown.

That was us.

Additionally, here are some pictures from this year's football season.

http://community.webshots.com/album/503435565NfeJzj/0

Neato

Look we've seen this kind of thing before

Welcome to my party, take a look around the room, make yourself a drink. Let me point everyone out.

There's Wong, insulting you with obscure musical references. Actually, they're not that insulting, since you don't get them.

There's Kevin, pretending to quit smoking and making jokes consisting of lists ending in your mom and/or drugs.

There's Steve, pretending to be a squirrel, hiding behind jackets hanging on the door, screaming "YOU CAN'T SEE ME!"

There's Clayton, drinking alcohol out of a hollowed out piece of fruit.

There's Collins, not doing or saying much of anything.

There's Beverley, playing Madden before asking if you want to go to LaFortune.

There's Gwen, cutting the head off a small child to see if the body will run around headless.

There's Katie Hunt, trying to get NDSP to do the Great Race.

There's Manjamin, emerging from a sewer to climb the dome and throw a flaming snowball from the statue of Mary at the top.

There's Ricky, making friends with all sorts of hot girls, and writing up contracts for planned breakfast "dates."

There's Katie Bev, crying in the corner after hearing the entirety of "Get Educated" by the Beat Burglars.

There's Dan, calling you a big idiot, then shoving you.

There's Timmy, making up all kinds of ridonkulous nicknames. By the way, your new nickname is Robby Deluxe.

There's Brother Jerome, defacing the elevator and hall, all the while planning the email he'll send out the next morning.

My clothes smell like my dinner

I really don't know what to do with myself anymore

I've got something to say

Listen. LISTEN. I don't have to entertain you all the time. Ok? I'm not your friendly little blogger-monkey, alright? I don't have to just sit around here, trying to think of interesting things to say all the time, if that's okay with you, jerk. I don't have to just sit at my desk every hour of the day typing pointless words that resemble somewhat coherent sentences for your enjoyment, if you would be so kind as to admit. I don't have to wear the same pair of underwear day in and day out so that you may be mildly amused. I don't have to shower only once a week with conditioner because my shampoo ran out two weeks ago so that nameless faceless anonymous patrons of what I like to call the internet may, in passing, peruse the course of my life as elaborated in a series of short electronic notes.

But I do it all anyway, because I care.

REVISION: Halle Kiefer's Friend's Story

Some people say they're afraid of clowns. Maybe even you. The thing is, you're a liar.

You're not really afraid of clowns. Maybe they weird you out. Maybe you're slightly disarmed at best in the presence of a clown. But you're not truly afraid of clowns.

However, some people truly are. Enter the kid of the story, who I'll call Herbert because I don't know his real name. Herbert goes to school somewhere else. Herbert is terrified of clowns.

Herbie was walking down the sidewalk at midnight one night. He was alone. He could not see very well, for some reason (beyond the fact it was dark, he had some sort of vision impairment, but I never met him, so I couldn't speak to the nature or degree). Herbie saw someone coming towards him. The shape was hazy, but the figure was tall.

And then Herbie realized that the looming creature was wearing big shoes. Really big shoes.

But hey, it's cool. Come on man, it's just a clown. Just a guy dressed up in weird clothes. Keep it together. Keep it collected. Walk by him calmly. But then the clown talked--in a soft, creepy ass voice:

"You dropped your smile..."

Herb's reaction was not to dance and sing and chuckle with amiable glee. I'm pretty sure, in fact, it was the exact opposite of that.

Funny pictures

Random little stories

I once had a creative writing teacher that didn't believe in personification. She told me that "hair cannot 'scream infidelities,'" and regardless of what you think about Chris Carraba, I think he was in right with that one. I was all like, "What? Do you not believe in metaphors?" Seriously.

I had a pack of cigarettes recently, and I slid the plastic off the bottom half, but only half way, so that it was a little boxy plastic chamber. I took a lit cigarette and burnt a whole in the chamber, as I'll call it, then blew smoke into the little hole. Then I tapped the plastic, and it blew a smoke ring.

Until just last week, every karaoke song I have ever sung has been a Queen song. What broke the streak, you ask? I was co-opted into singing Don't Stop Believin'.

I was in New York City recently, and I had to get dinner. I was going to go to a deli on 7th, but then I went to a Japanese place. It wasn't very good.

I'm pretty sure I dig postmoderism; that is, the little I know about it.

My sister Laurie sent me a birthday card. It said, "Happy birthday, Chris. Here are some Corn Pops." Then there were Corn Pops in the envelope.

My other sister Ellie recently thought of the word "Jesusmas" for Christmas. She's 12.

Cya

Halloween and such

A to do list for last night:

1. Convince yourself after dinner that you'll do work rather than go and watch scary movies. CHECK.

2. Do work for about two hours, until someone calls you to come over to Castle Point for Halloween festivities. CHECK.

3. Once again don the guise of "Consultant Batman," this time wearing a black shirt to smooth the visual transition to my dark pants. CHECK.

4. Get there, in full regalia, to find three guys sitting on a couch playing Tony Hawk Underground. CHECK.

5. Shrug shoulders; have some jungle juice. CHECK.

6. Get convinced by some girls to go to Club 23, since you already went to the trouble of putting on a costume. CHECK.

7. Hook up with the first girl you see when you get there. INCOMPLETE.

8. Sing "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey in Karaoke. CHECK.

9. Totally kick ass while doing so. CHECK. CHECK.

10. Do the hold-the-burning-cigarette-between-two-fingers trick a few times. CHECK.

11. Leave the bar to find a cop arresting some guy for kicking the ass of the guy now sitting on the sidewalk, whose face is totally bloody and gross. Totally. CHECK.

12. Make retroactive to-do list to feel as though you accomplished something. CHECK.

13. Blog it up. CHECK.