Because nobody ever suspects the butterfly

I've got midterms starting one week from today. How did I prepare this weekend? The same way any med student would - by going to see 'Butterfly Magic' at the Tucson Botanical Gardens. Before you ask: no, I didn't see Amy Smart, Ashton Kutcher or that dude from Boy Meets World.

The first rule of 'Butterfly Magic' is that you don't take butterflies out of their sealed environment. It is a federal offense. They had guys with M-16s standing by the entrance and exit...waiting. Some dude tried to run out with a butterfly smuggled in his mouth. I think he's in Gitmo now.

We saw another butterfly in the airlock-style entrance area about to fly out the door. Legal Counsel spotted it and told the guard. He got one of the guests to use the comically oversized butterfly net to catch it and put it back home. Home in this case is used to refer to an artificial environment designed to house the kidnapped butterflies. As it was being returned, I saw the little flyer make the "knife across throat" gesture at Legal Counsel. It was both creepy and majestic.

Why can't you let the butterflies go? Because they aren't native to Arizona. It's bad to introduce a new species to an environment (see Australia for an example). We're ignoring the fact that butterflies would probably burst into flame upon contact with Arizona's hot, dry air. I'd actually like to see that. If they did survive, they'd reproduce with no natural predators and take over. I learned that in BIO182. They'd multiply and take over the whole sonoran desert. Imagine a Hitchcockian world ruled by evil butterflies. Eating all our crops, flapping in our hair, sucking the juice from our eyes and causing millions of tornados in Japan. It's terrifying.

That might be the reason for Legal Counsel's tone for the rest of our time there: fear. That's right, She's afraid of butterflies. The most delicate of all nature's creations. You're not allowed to touch them because it would destroy their wings. They have no feeding parts at this stage in life. If the Family Feud had a category of "Name an insect or animal that isn't frightening at all," butterflies would be the number one answer with 95 people choosing it. Number two (with 4 votes) would be bunny rabbits, because people have no idea. Third (with 1 vote) would be lions, because they interviewed a smartass.

So we were in the fake environment and every time one of god's Wimps would fly by, Legal Counsel would duck out of the way. She's adorable. She would also tense up whenever she saw one. Unfortunately, she was holding my hand. She broke three metacarpals and my scaphoid. Although it might have been a butterfly. Evil little bastards.

The only one actually worthy of fear was the Atlas Moth. It scared the bejeezus out of my. It was as big as a baby...elephant. Yes, as big as a baby elephant. It had fuzzy little antennae and a wingspan rivaling my own. It could probably have picked me up and carried me to its lair. Good thing I killed it before it could kill me. I knew I brought a flame thrower for a reason.

Here's the crazy thing, though. She's afraid of butterflies but she isn't afraid of bees. As we toured the rest of the gardens, there were bees around various plants. She'd squeal, "Ooh, bees!" then run towards the deadly little insects and play with them. Okay, it wasn't like that. But it was close. There was much less fear in her eyes when bees were around as compared to butterflies. So if we're attacked by bees, she's on defense. If we're attacked by butterflies, I got that shit under control.

Later that day, I really got down to test prep...by watching MTV's "True Life: I'm a professional eater." It was disgustingly impressive. Maybe I'll blog about that in the future. I can even discuss my 13.5 pancake eating experience. For now, I'll just say that I really want this shirt.

Happy Birfday, D-Rock!

So today isD-Rock's actual birfday. As we speak, he's probably sipping Bacardi in a manner consitent with that fact. So I figured I'd write an apology blog post slash actual description of D-Rock. Largely because he is cool, but mostly because I've received frightened looks from my roommates and my gff, Legal Counsel. I thought I might have been a little too mean, and they confirmed it.

So here's the skinny. If you think I'm funny, you'd think D-Rock is funny. Probably funnier. He's one of the coolest guys at the med school. I'd say smartest, but I really don't know anybody's grades. Thankfully. Law school competition scares me. He doesn't have any foul odor about him, either. I never get close enough to smell. Again, thankfully.

He's also a hell of a foosballer. D-Rock + me rock = unstoppable. Except when somebody stops us.

And he does the best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression ever. And a great pirate voice as well.

So that's the truth. More truth? Studying for midterms sucks. Sorry your birfday is mid study season, D-Rock.

His mom really is a whore, though.

Damnit Derek, I'm a coal miner, not a professional film or television actor.

D-Rock approached me earlier in the week with a demand. He frequently makes demands of people, since he lacks what most people consider to be the basic social graces. He informed me that his birthday is saturday (tomorrow). Naturally I assumed he was begging for gifts. But what he wanted was for my blog post on friday (today) to be about him. Narcissistic, I know.

Initially I was going to write about his mom. But I figured we all know about his overweight, promiscuous mother and I wouldn't want to belabor the point. If you're unfamiliar with the "lovely" Mama Rock, just go down to Miracle Mile pretty much any time of day. I can't really describe her, but you'll know her when you see her. At least that's what Potter Stewart said.

So I guess I have to talk about the "man" himself. What can I say about D-Rock that hasn't already been said in various police reports (mostly indecent exposure and loitering around middle schools, if you're curious). I suppose I'll start with a picture:

Please try to stifle your laughter long enough to finish reading. Here's the quick and dirty background. D-Rock was born in the bed of a Chevy S10 stuck in a ditch sometime in 1983. He was born the same way he'd spend most of his life: unwanted, unloved and unnoticed. Seriously. His mom was way to high to tell she gave birth. He spent the first twelve years of his life taking care of himself: scrounging through garbage cans for cheese stuck to pizza boxes and crusts of bread loaves. Around the age of 12 he strangled a well-to-do young man named Rockington Worchester Smythe and stole his life. By this route, he was able to get into high school.

D-Rock's "education," if you can call it that, is a testament to the joke that we call public schooling. He passed his classes by selling home made meth to most of his teachers and sleeping with the others. Most of the ones he slept with were creepy old men. None of the other students liked him - a trend which would continue throughout his life. He was a champion varsity wrestler, only because his poor hygiene caused the other wrestlers to concede so they wouldn't have to touch him. He was also on the debate team, where he excelled at screaming profanities and throwing straplers at his opponents. He also loved pottery.

When senior year rolled around, the school didn't want to give him a diploma. They figured he was actually dumber now than when he entered. But stronger than their respect for a quality education was their hatred of D-Rock. They graduated him only so he would stop hanging around the school. Ironically, he spent the next 2 years wandering the campus asking for money. As a desparate measure, the administrators submitted an application for him to the University of Arizona. They wrote glowing letters of reference in an attempt to get their lives back. He wasn't going to get in, but let me say that a crazy meth-addicted wrestler strapped with dynamite has a way of convincing anybody to see his way.

At the UA, he majored in communication. He was famous for going to frat parties and screaming, "Hey Frat Boys, I'm ready for you" or "I'm so drunk, I don't know if I could resist any frat boys who come after me." He was also a groupy for the Extreme Frisbee team, much to their chagrin. Through a series of lies and manipulations, D-rock eventually became an RA. His hall was one of the most well behaved, so his hall director loved him. The reason for the good behavior? Nobody wanted to leave their rooms for fear of running into him. Most of his residents claim to have "an unofficial major in awkward conversation with a minor in breath holding to avoid stink." He constantly offered them drugs and alcohol, but he murdered the one student who acceptedhis offer.

Somehow, he graduated. By "somehow" I mean "by kidnapping Peter Likins' family." After graduation, he married a woman named Jackie. I'm not going to describe her in detail, but I'll say she married him to win a bet. She stayed with him because he's a master of hypnosis. They live in an apartment with their 832 cats. He counts and re-names them every night. The apartment is the definition of filth and squalor. The government would quarantine the place, but most agents are too afraid. And the Haz-Mat suits melt as soon as they get within 50 ft of the place.

At some point, D-Rock decided to enter medical school. When asked why, he said, "I want to touch the girlies." Gross. On his application, he claimed to have cured polio and that his farts were a vasodilator. During his interviews, he cried in the admissions office for 4 straight hours. They let him in, figuring they could deal with him later. And this is where I met him.

If I had to describe D-Rock in one word it would be "vomitrocious." He's honestly the most disgusting human being on the planet. You can't tell from the picture, but his facial hair is enough to make a nun cry. It's this nappy, patchy black mess that is oly good because it serves to obscure his already gnarled face. Imagine a black cat that ran through a fire so that half of its hair burned off in random patches. But it has to be a grease fire, because D-Rock is greasier than Darrel Curtis. I always imagine his fleas and lice using his face as a Slip n' Slide. I can't look directly at it without feeling queasy. I have to look at the rat's nest he calls hair so I only get a peripheral blast of his "beard."

Beyond his obvious physcial nastiness you can find his horrendous behavior. It all started when I watched him eat an oreo. I'm getting the jibblies just thinking about it. He twisted it in half and licked the cream center like a 90 year old man licking his mother. Watching that filthy tongue of his..oh god...I just threw up. And he makes this disgusting smacking noise when he eats. Shiver. It probably comes as a result of him eating with his mouth open (again, no basic social graces). It's like watching a diseased cow eat peanut butter.

It got even worse yesterday. Somebody brought in bagels with cream cheese. D-Rock loves him the cream cheese. I had to sit there and watch him jam his big, gross sausage finger into the cream cheese and scoop out a blob the size of a large mouse. He crammed the goo into his maw and the smacking began. It was one of the worst things I've ever seen, and I had to disect a human. So there he was, smacking away with a mouth full of white ooze. Like mother like son, I suppose. I never wanted to gouge out my eyes and rip off my ears so bad in my life. The best analogy I can come up with is a bulldog getting into a jar of mayonnaise. That almost begins to describe how gross it was.

So, that's D-Rock. Unwanted and disgusting. But he makes a good joke every once in a while. And helaughs at mine, so i keep him around. Toss him a dog treat every once in a while. But if I ever see him eat something white and creamy again, I swear he's dead.

Happy Birthday, D-Rock!

I want to play a game.

So I've got this physiology professor. His name is Dantzler. William Dantzler. William Dantzler, M.D.. William Dantzler, M.D., Ph.D.. Usually when you say his name you have to put the emphasis on the "dance" part of the name and use jazz hands/spirit fingers. I also call him Dantzler Dantzler Revolution. I believe that he secretly runs a choreography studio, based entirely on his name.

Dr. DDR has a unique look. Big bushy beard and an even bushier mustache. It's really quite glorious. Here, take a look:

Nice, right? I love the fact that his mouth is recessed a full inch behind his beard hair. I dream of jumping on his back and grabbing his 'stache like the reigns of a horse and riding him around the med school. Oh, by the way, he's always happy. Always. And he wears a pocket protector.

For whatever reason, his face draws a plethora of comparisons. For example, he looks like a schnauzer. Obsoive:

Uncanny, isn't it. Not 5 minutes ago, he was showing the respiratory response to blood pH changes - i.e. excessive breathing. It looked like he was panting. Hilarious.

One day it was noted that his mustache doesn't move when he talks. It's just one giant extension of his upper lip that covers the sides of his mouth. As a result, only his bottom jaw moves when he talks. Which begs comparison to a ventriloquist's dummy:

God those things are creepy... He might look more like a nutcracker:

The problem with this comparison is that you'd have to see him talk to fully appreciate it. However, if you combine the dummy/nutcracker analogy with a recent film, you get the most disturbingly accurate comparison yet:

The device you are wearing is hooked into your jaw. When the timer in the back goes off, your mouth will be permanently ripped open.

I'm sitting here looking at him and getting the jibblies. It's so disturbing. Ih he had a little more blush to his cheek I'd run screaming from this room right now. And with his degrees, he probably knows tons of elaborate ways to kill people. Yikes. How I long for the days that I saw him as a schnauzer...

It's all about helping kids.

Random Cartoon Memory o' the Day: ProStars



Does anybody remember this show? For some reason it popped into my head and now it's just rolling around there. I'm hoping that writing about it will bring me back to sanity. (this post is based mostly on jumbled memories and slightly on Wikipedia facts)

If you don't remember, here's the premise: professional athletes travel the world fighting crime and helping children. Totally realistic, right? That's exactly what athletes do with their time - help people. I don't even know why I liked the show. I sucked at sports and never watched them on TV. Mostly I stuck to soccer, which wasn't even represented in this show.

I know you're dying to hear the lineup, so here it is: Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky and Bo Jackson. They each represented their respective sports. You don't know them? Sigh. Michael Jordan - basketsball; Wayne Gretzky - curling; Bo Jackson - football and baseball (the only reason he was chosen = two sport representation).

Jordan and Gretzky will always be famous. bo Jackson might be largely forgotten. Bo played both baseball and football, which was a pretty big deal. And I guess he played both well, not like when Jordan tried his hand at baseball. Bo knows football. Bo knows baseball. What is Bo up to nowadays? Does anybody know? Bo knows welfare.

They each had their own archetype personalities, as is the standard in 80s and 90s cartoons. Michael Jordan was the smart, Leonardo-esque leader of the team. Bo Jackson was the short-tempered, Raphael tough guy. Wayne Gretzky was the comic relief Michaelangelo character, who always wanted to eat. Their boss "Mom," whom I don't remember, was a Q type gadget maker - a combination of Splinter and Donatello.

As a side note, I find myself frequently grouping people based on what Ninja Turtle they would be. When applied to TV show or movie characters, it works every time. But I also use this in the real world. Most people can be described using one or two turtle characters (I also use villains like Krang or Rat King and secondary characters like Ace Duck, too). Dr. T-Bag is probably Raphael/Baxter Stockman, for example TMNT has played a major role in sculpting my life...and my appreciation for Vanilla Ice. In case you're wondering, I wish I was Donatello but feel like I'm more of a Michaelangelo.

As a side not to my side note, my all time favorite TMNT action figure was Muckman:

Back to the task at hand...

So these altruistic athletes would spend their magically overlapping off-seasons fighting crime and pollution (roughly 95% of peri-1990 cartoons fought pollution, why does it still exist?). To accomplish this feat, they'd use sports-themed gadgets. This is probably what intrigued me about the show. I love gadgets (or anything) disguised as other something else (Transformers). So Bo Jackson would hit a baseball at the enemy, which would split apart with a rope between the halves, acting like a bolo t snag the enemy. Jordan's basketball would explode with sleeping gas. Gretzky could...eat his hockey pucks. Or something.

The weird thing about the show was that the actual athletes were affiliated and even appeared, but they didn't voice their own characters. H*R, you hit the nail right on the head. They'd show up live action style to deliver "And knowing is half the battle" style messages to the kiddies. But they couldn't be bothered to voice their own avatars. Probably because they can't read. And I bet Bo Jackson destroyed a sound studio with his baseball bat and a bucket of steroids. The people who actually did the voices have rich children's cartoon resumes. I think the constitution says that if you do voice acting for one cartoon, you have to do it for at least 30 others.

Well, it was good to get that out of my brain. If you remember the show, you may have been amused. If not, you were probably bored. Either way, I hope I infected you with early-90s cartoon fever. It's fatal, FYI. So...yeah. Make the most of your time before Captain Planet bursts from your skull. Now my mind is clear of childhood cartoon memories. Let's hope it lasts. Uh oh. I feel a new one coming...must...resist. Blargh! Stunt Dawgs...damn it! A team of stuntmen who fight crime. And probably pollution.

Now I feel motivated to write about the Mutant League series of games...




If the fact that I just spent 700 words (2700 if you count the pictures) describing a cartoon isn't evidence that I should go into pediatrics, I don't know what is...

Making a choice to take a different road

I'm currently in a Physical Examination class as a subsection of my Preparation for Clinical Medicine class. In the class we learn such valuable skills as: palpation, auscultation, inspection, awkward groping, cuddling, heavy petting and rubbing. Some time (maybe not this semester), we'll learn rectal exams, pelvics, and breast exams. Finally I'll actually know what I'm doing when I go to local high schools and college campuses offering to perform these services for free. People trust the white coat.

In this class I feel the need to be amusing. Hell, let's be honest. I always feel the need to be amusing. I'm a whore for laughter. Even cheap laughter, including but not limited to jiggling keys in front of a baby and tickling D-Rock. In this class it's especially bad because my exam partner Zed (name changed to protect anonymity) approached me to be his partner because he thought I was funny. Now I have to step up to the task.

My general approach is just to make random jokes throughout the class. Example: he was using a tongue depressor, so I thanked him for putting his wood in my mouth. The nature of the class makes the jokes sexually charged. It makes Zed both amused and frightened, which is a common feeling around me anyway. I also sing love songs whilst he examines me. The two girls in the room as well as the preceptor also seem amused...I hope. I know, I know...I'm that guy. Normally it's all harmless fun. But this Friday, though, an innocent bystander was caught in the crossfire.

As I said, I went to see the Vergina Monologues last week. At the show, they were selling tattoos which read "Vagina Revolution" and they only cost a quarter. Knowing that my class the next day would involve dressing in a gown and examination of the back, I decided to purchase one. The next morning, with the assistance of Legal Counsel, I applied the tattoo to my back. I set off for class with this proudly emblazoned on my skin:

I consider it a lesson in expecting the unexpected. As an ER doc, you never know when you're going to see a tattoo of a...banana...stuck in a...pot roast. It's the best I could come up with, folks.

I was all atwitter the whole day. I was sitting in class, hoping for a good laugh that afternoon. The time came. I stripped to the waist and threw on a gown. Cloth, not paper unfortunately. As Zed went to percuss my back, he saw the offending ink. He laughed and commented, "That's fabulous." not with a lisp, as you might have interpreted. My preceptor was similarly amused. And hopefully the one girl there that day was as well. She didn't act offended. We all had a lugh and moved on to the actual practice and learning.

Then Dr. Rappaport came in. I like to call him PaRappa-the-Rappaport (because I'm weird). He's one of my favorite professors - you know, smart, good sense of humor, cool stories. He's the one who didn't even hesitate when I asked how to perform a tracheotomy with a pen knife and a ball-point pen. He came into the room to watch us demonstrate the techniques. I was sitting on the butcher paper as he entered, so he walked around to my back to watch Zed work.

His reaction was hilarious. He kind of stopped, smiled and looked down. The look of unexpected amusement. He laughed and said, "I know you're a bit of a jokester, but this seems a little much." I've got a reputation with the professors! Sweet! I assured him it wasn't real, and he replied with "Okay, good." Hilarious. Of all the days for him to come in and observe, he chose Vagina Revolution Day. Good times. We're doing chest exams this friday. I need to come up with something good...

---Congratulations! You have written 100 posts.---

Would ya look at that! 100 emails. I had no idea! I lost count around 51. Well, I suppose I should do something to celebrate... uh... ooh! I'll type "post" 100 times!

post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post post

Here's a message from 1920s Montgomery:

Well done, my doppelgänger! Stop! By the time you read this telegrammaparcel, I'll be long dead! Stop! Therefore, I've enclosed half of my moustache therein. Stop! I bid you good tidings, and may you continue to flummox those less fortunate than you!

That's enough H*R ripoffs for now. What's in the future for Montgomery Road? Food in pill form, flying cars, moving sidewalks, robots, talking dogs. At least that's what I hope. I'm also hoping to return to my beginnings - strings of jokes and pop culture references rather than narratives of my life. It's a mandate from the people. I get a lot of man dates.

It's so angry!

Last night, Legal Counsel asked (from out of the blue), "Do you like vaginas?"

I responded with, "Are you going to ask me that every time you see me?"

"Seriously," she replied. Feeling like the slow wildebeest singled out by the stalking female lion (they're the hunters, you know), I didn't know what to do. Is this a trick question? Did I do something wrong? What's she going to do to me? Will castration hurt? Calm down, old boy. It's just a question. Think fast.

"Oh, cutie. I don't like vaginas. Vagina. Singular. Just yours." Or I imagine I would, I thought. She doesn't let me touch her or look directly at her.

"Do you want to go see The Vagina Monologues?" she inquired. That's a relief. No entrapment, just an appreciation for the arts.

"Sure," I answered, feeling as though the imaginary boa constrictor around my neck had just loosened.

So Legal Counsel and I went to see The Vagina Monologues. It was an interesting experience. As you can probably guess, the ratio of women to men was roughly 50 to 1. I felt like I was sitting in a Taco Bell. I was a little out of place.

There were vaginas everywhere. And not just with the audience members. They were selling chocolate vaginas, which i would feel ridiculously awkward eating there. There were shirts for sale which read, "Vagina Warrior." I should have gotten one for free in recognition of my pioneering efforts in the field of lady parts. They even had temporary vagina tattoos. On an unrelated note, I had a dream last night that I was piloting a rocket-ship alone through a vast field of black holes.

So what did I learn last night? Women love vagina. Let me rephrase that: women love vagina. Way more than guys do. If guys think about it every 8 seconds, girls think about it every 4. At least. And they take it way beyond love. It's an obsession. Here's a litle SAT analogy for you:

Male love of vagina : female love of vagina
Casanova : John Hinckley, Jr.

Guys will do a lot of things to get it. Women will shoot Ronald Reagan in a misguided effort to get its attention.

So what were the topics of Vagina discussion?

• How does it look?


• How does it smell?


• How does it feel?


• How does it taste?


• If you put your ear up to it, which beach would you hear?


• If it could talk, what would it say?


• If it was on a deserted island with one movie, one album and one book, what would they be?


• What clothes would it wear?


• If your vagina was the chairman of the U.S. Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on Agriculture, Rural Development, and Related Services, how would it feel about the fiscal year 05 budget, especially with regard to drought preparedness?

You get the idea.

Legal Counsel loved it. I think she is required to, seeing as how she has two X chromosomes. She laughed, she cried, she felt empowered. A genital tour de force. She later commented that there needed to be more discussion on the breasts. "Boobies Monologues," she said. I corrected her, saying that they would need to be dialogues.

I don't think this would work with penis. No "Penis Monologues" beyond the realm of satire. Sure, men obsess about size. but that's just because they want women to like it. Guys don't care that much about penii, except for maybe 10% of the population. I just don't think men are that obsessed with their junk. Of course, Freud would say differently. He'd say we have a president whose monument is based on that one thing. We smoke tobacco from them. The French have a giant metal one. We kill with things shaped like them. But then again, Freud was a coked up psycho.

But it's an interesting thought. Would things look different if women were in control (beyond the subtle control they've always had over men)? Would the Martha Washington monument be a well? Can you smoke tobacco from a donut? Would the French build a giant metal oval? Would wars be fought with Xena-style chakram weapons? Would we count "1,0,2,3,4..."? I guess we'll never know.

FYI, Legal Counsel castrated me anyway.

Soy Bomb

I'm about to offend my more carnivorous friends. The Deej, and maybe Marana Lawdog, you may want to skip this post if you're reading. The menu description of my lunch yesterday is as follows:

A grilled soy burger topped with crispy soy bacon strips and melted vegan cheddar vegan with soy mayo on an organic whole wheat bun

Try not to throw up, D-Rock. As disgusting as it sounds, it was actually rather delicious. I got it from Lovin' Spoonfuls, a recently opened vegetarian restaurant here in Tucson.

If you would have approached me two years ago (from the future) and said I'd be grooving to soy foods one day, I probably would have stabbed you in the duodenum. Why? Because you're probably here to commit crimes, and I need to regulate until Van Damme gets here. I also don't want no goobacks takin' are jabs (sp). But mostly I'd stab you because I'm a red-blooded American and Americans eat meat. If you don't eat meat, yer a terrorist. If you don't like it, you can git out!

But over the past year, I've gained the mentality of a scientist in the 50s imagining the future. I now see that soy is the food of the future. This is partially due to Legal counsel's open-minded, semi-vegetarian habits. It's also partially due to my realization that soy is the future, and you can't fight the future (no matter what the X-files tells you). And maybe it's because I fell asleep in a soy field last year. Oh god, i shouldn't have said that. The brain pods are going to be upset...

If you have yet to embrace soy as both your food and master, allow the mighty Wikipedia to convince you. And I quote:

The small, inconspicuous, self-fertile flowers are borne in the axil of the leaf and are either white or purple; The fruit is a hairy pod that grow in clusters of 3-5, with each pod 3-8 cm (1-3 inches) long and usually containing 2-4 (rarely more) seeds 5-11 mm in diameter....The hull of the mature bean is hard, water resistant, and protects the cotyledon and hypocotyl (or "germ") from damage. The scar, visible on the seed coat, is called the hilum (colors include black, brown, buff, gray and yellow) and at one end of the hilum is the micropyle, or small opening in the seed coat which can allow the absorption of water.

Set your mouth to salivate.

My history with soy is a long and boring. Well, short and boring. When I first went to sushi with Legal Counsel, the waitress brought out a tasty little treat called "edamame" (pronounced ed-uh-maym). They were delicious. But when i found out they were soy, I nearly burned the place down. Legal Counsel had to bare-knuckle box me into submission. Queensbury Rules. She's stronger than me. Anyway, I accepted defeat and the fact that straight up soybeans are delicious. They also serve miso soup, which I didn't realize was soy until about 5 minutes ago. Wikipedia says:

Miso is a thick paste, similar to the Korean doenjang, made by fermenting soybeans with sea salt and kōji, itself the product of fermenting rice, barley or soybeans with a mold culture, kōji-kin (Aspergillus oryzae).

I know - delicious sounding again, right? Those soy people have the best marketing...

So initially I accepted soy on its own as pure flavor crystals. But since then, I've done something I never imagined. I've embraced soy as a substitute for perfectly good regular food. I've been getting soy milk instead of regular milk at Starbucks. But I always remember what Lewis Black says: "There's no such thing as soy milk. It's soy juice." Nobody would drink soy juice, even though it's soy delicious. Now I've replaced beef with soy patties. I'm pretty much consuming a whole soy cow. I'd actually like to see that. With that soy bacon, I'm eating soy pig. Soon, I'll be consuming a whole soy barnyard. I want to visit the soy petting zoo!!

It's just so versatile. You can make: milk, flour, oil, TVP fake meat, tofu, infant formula, soy sauce (which I honestly didn't think of as soy until just now), cheese, yogurt, cosmetics, plastics, inks, crayons, biodiesel and even vodka. horribly disgusting soy vodka. It's illegal in Russia...

But it might not be perfect. I know, I know - I'm shocked, too. There's a whole group of terrorists out there who hate the stuff. Some studies say that soy reduces cholesterol, reduces cancer risks, battles menopause and is all around healthy. but these communists say otherwise. They claim protease inhibitors in soy can harm your pancake-reas (pancreas in layman's terms). Phytoestrogens can mess up your endocrine system. Phytates can cause scoleosis. But I think they're just jealous. Nobody is cultivating and processing them for consumption...except for soylent green. Don't hate the legume player, hate the legume game.

I for one embrace our soy overlords. And you should, too. It's quite delicious. When we're living miles above Earth's surface in those Jetson houses, it'll be our only food source. Well, that and talking space dogs.


That was a rather long soy rant...

Morally Bankrupt

Legal Counsel had a massive report due this week that she needed to work on over the weekend. I provided assistance, data entry style. Specifically, I entered assets (which is a summary of everything you own). Here are some of my observations:

Everybody in bankruptcy land has $150 in their bank account and $500 worth of clothes

No people filing were members of Arizona Federal Credit Union. My "bank" rocks!

A vast majority of cars were from 1991 or 1995. Weird...

One guy owned $50,000 in assets and owed over a million dollars. He's my hero. How do you even do that??

Guns are crazy cheap

"Cash on hand" quantities seen: $1, $5, $6, $17, $20, $25

One woman was owed over $60,000 in child support. The guy is apparently going for the gold medal in Dead-Beat-Daddery in this year's Olympic games.

One filer owned a BMW X5. Holy crap. You shouldn't have that car if you're filing for bankruptcy. You should just give it to
Montgomery so he can give it to Legal Counsel. On the plus side, there were no Scion xB owners. I'm just sayin'...

It was a fun day of data entry. Until we went to dinner and Taco Bron tried to kill Legal counsel. I shall have my revenge! But she got better and managed to give me some awesome stuff for Valentine's Day. I stand by yesterday's statement that she is the best.

I'm in physio lecture right now. My professor has a big bushy beard and an even bigger, bushier mustache. It's awesome. His 'stache doesn't move when he talks and it covers his cheeks. As a consequence, you only see his chin moving up and down while he's talking. The result? He looks like a ventriloquist's dummy or a nutcracker. Physio has the coolest professors. And by cool I mean goofy.

I have a heart on for VD

Happy Valentine's Day, readers!

I know, I know - Valentine's Day is just a holiday created by corporations to make people spend money, either for romance or in an attempt to mask the crushing loneliness. But so is Arbor Day and I don't hear anybody complaining. Besides, VD is an excuse to go out and have fun, and I'm always looking for those.

For some real Valentine's fun, go check out Brandon Bird's selection of SVU Valentines. Hilarious. My favorites are I "Huang" to be with you and Guilty! Of being my valentine. The one that made me feel dirty? You're extra special. Horrible. Horribly funny.

Let me just take a moment to express my admiration for Brandon Bird's art. He might look familiar if you read McSweeney's. He's done work for them; of particular note, their awesome Abe-Kido shirt. And maybe the equally awesome giant squid shirt - I'm not sure if that's him. Anyway, he's a good artist with an appreciation for pop culture. Rock, rock on. Where else can you get paintings of Bea Arthur battling raptors, Mr. T walking the Elysian fields, Christopher Walken building a robot or a whale being attacked by a squid and a T-Rex.

I'm getting off topic. It's Valentine's Day. Hooray! Hearts, candy, flowers, candy hearts, candy flowers, candy candy. What're the odds I'll be able to find a dinner reservation tonight?

I made a little paper mailbox and affixed it to my chair, but it's empty so far. No med school valentines. But I don't need any! My valentine is in law school. (it's Legal Counsel, if you didn't know).

I've been accused of fawning over Legal Counsel in my blog, and that's probably true. But if I can't do it today, when can I do it? If you have a weak stomach, just skip the next stomach...err, paragraph.

She's amazing, I have to say that. Beautiful and brilliant and funny and sweet...everything I could ever want. She makes me happier than I've ever been. I had no idea what I was missing until I met her. I'm glad that Goolia hijacked us into going a blind date. Thanks, Goolia! Since then, every day has been better than the last. I love you, Legal Counsel!

Okay, that's out of my system. Now I can go back to paying attention in class. We're learning how to make a hormone. Giggle...

So gimme that toot toot, I'll give you that part 3

We're on to the last day of the weekend. Sunday, if you don't know. I've managedto stretch 2 days of activities into 4 days of blog material. I'm the Nathaniel Hawthorne of bloggers. Without the talent or recognition. Just the long-windedness.

Legal counsel and I slept in late, then went to D-Rock's casa for the Super Bowl. It's some sort of gentlemen's sport competition, I'm told. When I entered D-Rock's place, I must admit to being pleasantly surprised. It was much nicer than reckoned. I was expecting a third world level of squalor, at least. Maybe fourth world - it'd be so filthy it would require a new nomenclature. Since D-Rock himself is like Pigpen from "Peanuts," I imagined a thin layer of filth covering every surface of the place. Piles of old newspapers, boxes of expired MREs and rusty old bicycles littered the chez D-Rock of my mind. Shirtless children in diapers were running around and there were no less than 4 potbelly pigs. But none of that was true. It was nicely decorated and had Ikea furniture. Props to D-Rock.

So we arrived and started watching the pre-pre-pregame show. It was a mix of prestidigitation for the upcoming game and a history of Super Bowls past. Honestly, football fans are bizarre. Why would you want to watch that much analysis of a single pass thrown in 1986, or the predictions of some overweight turducken lover? We spent most of that time making jokes at the expensive of those on the telly.

Speaking of making jokes, I made plenty. D-Rock had several friends over (I'm as suprised as you are that he has friends) which to me is an audience. Hence, I made with the yuk-yuks. I think I either made a good impression or drove them crazy. Whatever the case, I was amused.

Before the game started, D-Rock cooked up some burgers and veggie burgers on his collection of George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Reducin' Grillin' Machines. Watching this process and eating the result just further strengthened my love of George Foreman and his grill. Everything tastes better if it touches George foreman before consumption. And it really does reduce the fat! How do I know? I watched the horrible blobs drip off the device. Disgusting. I wished I had my digital camera. The whitish-brown blobs oozed down the grill like artery clogging slugs. And the mass that formed in the collecting tray was enough to put me away from red meat...for about an hour, at which point I ate a real burger instead of the veggie burger I ate first. D-Rock was almost drunk enough to eat the fat collection. I'm a little disappointed I didn't get him to eat it.

Finally the game started. I don't really remember what happened....

The commercials were pretty fun. There was a fair amount of slapstick comedy, which I appreciate. I think my favorite was the FedEx dinosaur commercial. The Bud Light secret fridge was good. And I love the shear randomness of Emerald Nuts. Looking for links to these ads, I just realized my real favorite is the MacGyver Mastercard commercial. His first name is Angus. Pirates of the Caribbean and Cars both made me giddy as a little girl. The big losers of the ads: anything GoDaddy related, annoying Full Throttle, the Whopperettes (the woman dressed as the meat patty reminded me of the George Foreman fat glob) and especially Hummer. No, I don't want to drive a homicidal robot-monster. And thanks for rubbing it in our faces that your trucks are destroying the world.

Well, that was a bit of a downer. So I'll bring the mood back up with two words: Puppy Bowl!!!! That's right, Animal Planet decided to compete with the Super Bowl by showing puppies playing in a mini-football field for 3 hours straight. Well, not 3 straight hours. There was a kitty halftime show. It even had a fake audience with little flashing cameras. It was downright adorable. There was also a puppy ref. I joked that he made a call for "unnecessary ruff-ness." I'm awful proud of that comment, I must admit.

As much as I loved the Puupy Bowl, I have to say it was kind of a crazy idea. Imagine the guy who pitched it:

Animal Planet Owner: How do we compete with the Super Bowl?
Only guy with logic at meeting: Umm, I think we have vastly different target audiences. We don't need to worry about it.
APO: You're fired. Any other idea?
Puppy Bowl Creator: How about we show puppies playing for 3 hours?
APO: Brilliant!
OGWLAM: You're shitting me.
APO: I thought I fired you. Puppy Bowl is a go. And where's my pot?
PBC: Here you go, sir.
APO: Score. I thought that kiln would never finish.

So yeah, it's a crazy idea that just happened to be fun. But did anybody actually watch the whole thing? I think that would qualify you as legally insane. You'd have to be stoned or tripping on Ritalin to sit and watch for that long. To be fair, though, it was actually more entertaining that the Super Bowl. If you moved the commercials over, it would be better in every way. I can't wait for the Puupy Cup, Puppy Series, Puppy Olympics and Puppy Wimbledon.

I almost forgot: D-Rock's wife, Lady-Rock, made a chocolate cake in the shape of a football. Unfortunately, I spiked it during a moment of excitement in the puppy bowl.

All in all, a fun day: overgrown men, undergrown dogs and watching D-Rock drink 12 beers. Can't beat that.

No I'm not tryin' to be rude, but hey readers I'm in part 2

When we last left our hero, he had rocked the gem and mineral show. The next stop on his Freakin' Weekend tour was a little Italian restaurant call Fio Rito's for a birfday celebration.

That place didn't know what it wanted to be. From the outside it looked like a meth house with a sign that reads "Fio Rito's" in front (which is common for meth houses). Oh, and before I forget: meth = death. The door to get in was hidden, much like a meth house, which caused Legal Counsel and I to do a lap around the building before getting in. During said lap we found a drive thru, making it the most convenient meth house ever.

So we entered the restaurant/drug den and it looked pretty fancy. People were dressed nice, the lights were dimmed and there were no giant singing mice. This wasn't any good for me, since I wasn't dressed up. Just my usual speedo and mesh tank top. But I steeled my nerves and sat down at the table. The menu revealed fancy-sounding, expensive dishes like "spaghetti" and "lasagna" and "salad." The price further made me feel like I was out of my element. But I realized that if I felt underdressed I should just remember that it has a drive thru. We learned this equation in my quantum physics class:

Drive thru = not fancy

*quick aside: I did a Google search while writing this. D-Rock chastised me for properly spelling "Creutzfeldt-Jakob" but not "pronunciation." That is a little weird...

The restaurant had a big book of birthday meanings and what your personality is like based on when you were born. It pretty much described the exact opposite of Montgomery. And since birthday-personality matching highly technical and scientific, I must be adopted. I'm not surprised.

The final stop of the evening was the C&C Music Factory (the actual factory aka house, not the duo of the same name). The evening's plans called for watching Flynnerson and J-Bone get tore up while playing a game called "Descent." Not the classic mid-90s computer game, but a massive board game/RPG hybrid from the makers of Runebound (which I've never actually seen or played). Sounds nerdy, you say? Yeah it probably is. But I'm really a nerd at heart...and openly. But it may not be too obvious since I'm a nerd without opportunity. I'm sure I'd play more games like this, but I've never really prowled with packs of people who do in the past.

The game was actually quite fun. It took a while to figure out the rules, which is true of any game, but it was fun once we figured it out. My ADD kicked in at one point and started playing with monster figures that come with the game. Mostly puns and a couple Brokeback Mountain jokes (one ogre said to the other ogre, "I wish I knew how to quit you"). Some people were amused, others not so much. Which is always the case with Montgomery. Eventually the male half of C&C Music Factory won. Or more precisely, handed us our asses. It was everybody against him and he still won.

All in all, it was a fun day and night. I think I'm done writing for now. The last part of the weekend was the Super Bowel, or even more importantly the Puppy Bowel. Maybe I'll write about that tomorrow.

It's the freakin' weekend, I'm about to have me part 1

I had something to write about today, but I forgot what it was. I suppose I'll just recount the weekend.

Saturday morning, I studied for my physio test. I forced myself to study because Legal Counsel was away at traffic school. I knew that as soon as she finished she'd force me to study harder and whip me for not accomplishing enough . It sounds like traffic school is an excellent use of time and resources that helps people drive better. Although she said that at one point the class just devolved into the students attacking the bicycler for all the things bikers do wrong. I wish I was there. So jealous. It sounded like he had all the typical biker excuses: "I don't care about road safety" "I should be allowed to swerve in front of the 3000lb (1360kg) killing machine" "They gave us a specific lane but I don't wanna use it!" "I want people to get hurt." Jerks...

So she finished around 3 and I totally gave up studying for the rest o' the day. I decided a better use of my time would be to go to the gem and mineral show. If you're not in the lapidary circles like myself, let me tell you: Tucson loves things that are pulled out of the ground, then shaped and polished. This means gems, minerals, fossils, and potato sculptures. At the end of January and beginning of February, all of Tucson's hotels, convention centers and skate parks are taken over by mineralogists and gemologists. And you can't get them to leave until they want because they learned to fight from...(wait for it)...Rocky.

The show was pretty cool. When I mean "show" I really mean "collection of vendors trapped in booths trying to sell their way to freedom." The first area I saw was the "Amber Zone" - I was immediately on Amber Alert. I wanted to buy some amber with a bug trapped in it, preferrably affixed to the head of a cane, a la Jurassic Park. They had the bug amber, but no canes. I didn't look at the prices for a chunk of prehistoric flypaper, but I assumed it wasn't worth it. So I stole one.

Next we walked through an area of southwest jewelry. Both Legal Counsel and I agreed - southwest jewelry is ugly. Not only ugly, but fugly. Butt fugly. Massive chunks of turquoise crudely attached to vast slabs of silver carved and bent around your wrist do not a bracelet make. It's like somebody set Santino free in a jewelry store. It makes Arizona and its less important neighbors look bad. We need a new trademark jewelry style. Might I recommend Trace Adkins-style four finger rings? Or we can put the southwest touch on an old favorite: silver knuckles.

Next we took a stroll through Bead Alley. So...many...beads. It was interesting. And I couldn't stop taking my shirt off. Doug Stanhope followed me around with a steel drum. And Snoop Dog taped it.

The next leg of our epic journey was through Precious Gem Row. Tons of diamonds, sapphires, topazes, emeralds, quartz and amethyst. And also tons of Foreigners. I felt like I had Double Vision. All the dealers were from Brazil or Italy or Japan or New York or London. I was hoping to here this (in a strong accent):

A moissanite is an artificial diamond, Lincoln. It's Mickey Mouse, man. Spurious. Not genuine. And it's worth... Fuck-all.

But it didn't happen. There are some really nice deals on stones, though. Check it out if you need something in which to trap a demon or channel your powers.

The last stop was the carved stone area in the back - my personal favorite. Stonware kitchen stuff, sculptures, fossils, ways to kill Piggy, stone boxes, etc. All pretty cheap, too. Legal Counsel got some cool fish bookends and we got Areenos some cool looking oil incense candle holders with Ganesha carved into the side. I wanted to get a stone mortar and pestle for a low, low price. Why would I get that, you ask? 1. They're cool 2. I can pretend to be an alchemist C. I can try to make my salsa using the Guadalajara Grill Method. But I didn't get them because they were too small. Oh well, I shouldn't be spending money anyway. So instead I bought the $15,000 slab of petrified wood.

That's all for now. Stay tuned to read about the festivities of that evening and about the most adorable event in sports history.

Case of the Mondays

Not really, but it was an interesting day...

I took a test this morning. Specifically, a physiology test. More specifically, a physiology test on the cardiovascular system. Not that bad, but tests are never fun. One weird thing about the test was that it had 24 questions. Who does that? You're that close to 25, just go for it. You can even give me an impossible question like "Which answer are you not choosing?" - I just need that good number. Instead of having a nice, even 4% per question we've got a horrible, disgusting 4.166666666666666667% per question. Freaks...

I was hoping for an essay test anyway. For example:

In 3-4 pages (single spaced) explain why you're glad you have blood."

When I was done with my test, I walked back to my car to get my genetics notes. On the way, I saw two dogs just wandering around together. A big one (maybe an Anatolian Shepherd) and a small one (maybe a Bull Terrier). The first thing I thought was that they were a couple of hooligans: the small one one is the brains and he bosses around the big dumb one. Then I thought that it was more like in Casino: the big one was a gentle(ish), Robert De Niro hoodlum with an angry Joe Pesci sidekick. The last thing I thought was, "Man, I'm weird." Then the dogs bit me.

The nest event of the day was an ethics discussion for genetics. At one point I played devil's advocate and argued in favor of insurance companies. I'm not sure where I actually stand on the issue, though. Honestly, they're just businesses trying to make money. You could say they're doing us a favor, and they're a scapegoat. Except HMOs. They're the Devil.

On to the final part of this entry:

THE DISGUSTING DISCOVERY DU DAY

Walking from my car to the house, I happened to look down at spot this little gem:

That's right folks, an empty condom wrapper right in our very own driveway. Dis-gusting. But not only is it a condom wrapper, it's a chocolate flavored condom wrapper (that's a wrapper for a chocolate flavored condom, not a condom wrapper flavored like chocolate). It's delicious and nutritious.

I can't say that I'm surprised, though. I've been expecting this for weeks. Every time I look down and see something shiny, I imagine/hope it to be a condom wrapper. It's usually just a 3 Musketeers or Hershey bar. But I finally hit the latex jackpot. This is the best of both worlds. And it also probably means D-Rock's mom was working Dodge Blvd recently. At least she's finally wearing them...

In case you were wondering, there was no flavor left in the wrapper.

0.454 Kilogram Puppies

CNN Story o' the Day

Some no-goodnik was using puppies to smuggle heroin. They're the cutest little drug mules ever! Ten puppies were apprehended and six of those were carrying more than 3 kg of heroin (21 kg in puppy metric). The other four just gave in to puppy peer pressure and lied to be cool - "I totally swallowed those heroin balloons. It was ruff."

One of the puppies, known only as Scruff, seemed aloof during his arrest. "I'm a minor, it'll be off my record as soon as I turn 2.57." Long time mentor McGruff declined to comment.

I think the best part of the story is that they refer to them as "puppy smugglers." I haven't heard that term since I tried wearing a Speedo™ to the beach. It was also stated that they were using purebred labradors. Wouldn't that be way more expensive than a mutt? Purebreds are expensive. Maybe the drugs are worth more if they come from a purebred.

Dealer: Man, I've got some black tar bulldog-shih tzu.
Patron: Don't give me that bullshit, I needs the pure stuff. Labrador.
Dealer: Right away, Mr. Bush.

This article isn't all fun and games and cheap shots at the president. There's an adorable picture of puppies, but a little lower in the article it says that not all the puppies survived. Way to bring down the mood, CNN. They died just like Hendrix, man. Those puppies knew how to party...

On to livelier topics:

Hip-hop word o' the day: Grill
Definition o' the word: the teeth; also used in a general sense to refer to the face
Use o' the word: "I put my money where my mouth is and bought a grill" - Nelly; "Get the fuck outta my grill, bitch" - Montgomery
Etymology o' the word: arises due to the similar appearance of the front grill of the car and one's teeth. Especially if you've been hit in the face by a Cadillac

The Ballad of Walt Flannigan

I like dispensing nicknames. Sometimes they stick; see D-Rock and Wi-Fi. Sometimes they stick so well that it replaces that person's name entirely; see Bear. And sometimes they are so well loved that they leave my control and form an independent consciousness. I present to you: Walt Flannigan.

One day, fellow student Andrew Duarte asked why he had never been given a nickname. This came after I referred to D-Rock, wi-Fi, Ah Jota and Bees by their nicknames. I sensed a little jealousy. I had to explain that his nickname would evolve too quickly for me to control (a premonition of things to come). I described what would happen, "First, I'd call you DeWalt. I'd spend a brief amount of time referring to you as a tool, then I'd feel bad. DeWalt would become Walt and Walt would obviously become Walt Flannigan." I don't know why I said that name, but I did.

It immediately took off. Walt Flannigan became the name on everyone's lips. It spread like wildfire. But it quickly became more than a nickname. It became an identity. We (and by "we" I mean mostly D-Rock, Montgomery and Wally himself) started developing a backstory for old Walt Flannigan. Duarte no longer existed. There was only Walt.

Here's the basic story on Walt. The one word that describes him best is "grizzled." His past is mostly a mystery and he's pretty angry at...everything. He lives in a cabin in the woods with his unnamed wife. She's only known as Mrs. Flannigan. She nags him frequently with such phrases as "Wally! Take out the trash!" She's sounds like Edith Bunker. She's the only person in the world able to call him Wally without receiving severe spinal injury.

We've only been able to piece togethers mall bits of his life. Here's the list so far:

• He isn't one fer book learnin'


• He did 2 tours in 'Nam, but won't talk about it


• Keeps a squad of Taiwanese hookers in his tool shed. Mrs. Flannigan may or may not know.


• Is a registered member of the Bullmoose Party, but refuses to vote


• Doesn't wash his hands. Ever.


• Only shops at Home Depot. Even for food and clothes


• Doesn't cotton to "city types"


• Only scores a 12 on the Glasgow Coma Scale


• Drives a 1994 Chevy Pickup Crew Cab with a camper shell


• Is a kindergarten teacher


• Buys a newspaper every day just to read Marmaduke


• Is a Practicing Buddhist


• Solves all his problems with a shovel and length of rope


• Always wears a holster containing a gun, even when totally naked


• Is waiting for decisions in no less than 8 lawsuits


• Favorite movie is Pootie Tang


• Middle initial is P, but nobody knows what it stands for. not even him


• His life motto is "Corpses tell no lies"


• Wears only flannel

We've come up with lots more than that. Those are just the snippets I've written down. He also has a theme song. It sounds a little like the "Davy Crockett" song.

But the story doesn't end there. Old Walt left a legacy with his son, Chauncey Flannigan (which must be said in an English accent). Chauncey was born when Duarte came into class with most of his facial hair shaved off, making him look roughly 30 years younger. Walt hates Chauncey.

Chauncey was completely home schooled (graduated valedictorian of Flannigan High School, class of 1995). Mrs. Flannigan taught most of the "traditional" subjects - math, english, etc. Walt would step in to teach him "useful" skills such as skinning, leather curing, trap building and hooker seducing. Despite his home schooled background, Chauncey went to Oxford. Most say that his father pulled some strings, but nobody knows what strings he would have pulled. Threats are much more likely. Walt says he sent him away to "get little Lord Fauntleroy out of my hair," but most believe he wanted Chauncey to have the opportunities Walt never had.

You can see why Walt hates Chauncey - book learned city boy. But it can also be saidthat Chauncey hates Walt. Years of emotional abuse have left Chauncey with a deep rooted hatred for his father. But at the same time, he loves and respects him, secretly wanting to be like him. Almost everything Chauncey does reflects this hatred/respect for his father. He wears suits, but only with Red Wing boots. He's a CPA living in Grafton, Vermont but he too lives in a cabin in the woods. Like his father he has facial hair, but it is much less.

Here's a few tidbits about Chauncey:

• Doesn't respect anybody, except zombies (his greatest fear)


• Loves to watch Lingo


• Wakes up every morning to "I ran" by Flock of Seagulls

And thus you have a picture of my bizarre med school life. Here's a picture of the muse that inspired this post: