Wednesday, January 31, 2007

You wanna get high?

Last week in pharmacology we had lectures on opiates and drugs of abuse. Here's a picture of the lecturer, who I shall refer to as Dr. Towelie:

I think we have two options for his doppleganger. First idea - he's a smaller version of Tenacious D's Kyle Gass:

Second idea (suggested by Rich Man Alert) - a larger version of Wallace Shawn, aka Vizzini from The Princess Bride:

Inconceivable! I think he looks more like KG.

Regardless of whom he reminds you, I think he's got a problem. He spent about 60% of the opiates lecture describing why heroin should be legal. "For medicine" he says. Right. I'd think his motives were totally scientific/altruistic, but his behavior implied otherwise. He refused to show me his cubital fossa and he kept asking to borrow 50 bucks. And I'm pretty sure he had heart vegetations and talc in his lungs. I'd confront him, but it would probably go like this:

Montgomery: Why are you throwing your life away on this junk, man? It's not worth it! Your mother and I love you, and we hate to see you this way. You need help.
Dr. Towelie: The only help I need is 50 dollars.
Montgomery: Get out of my house!
Dr. Towelie: Fascist! (he storms off)
Dr. Towelie's mom: (played by D-Rock) You're being too hard on him. He's still your son!
Montgomery: I'm going to be hard on you! (they start making out)

Fin

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Catharsis

*WARNING: this post won't be funny in the least. and it's very long. it's more for me than you guys. sorry.*

Normally I try to keep my personal life out of the blog. At least the negative things from my life. Obviously there are exceptions, but for the most part I want to keep things happy and fun. I don't want to seem like the whiny emo guy desperately seeking attention from my online diary. I prefer to be the no-talent writer desperately seeking attention from my online journal. But I've decided to make an exception for this post. I'm not looking for sympathy or condolences (seriously, please). I'm just using writing as a means of clearing thoughts I've been dwelling on too much. Hopefully it will also explain why I've been missing, physically and mentally, as of late.

When Legal Counsel and I returned from Europe we were told that while we were gone my grandfather had been diagnosed with Stage 3 adenocarcinoma of the lung. To be honest, this was quite depressing but not entirely surprising. He smoked for probably 50 years and was diagnosed with COPD about ten years ago. It was only a matter of time before further lung problems developed.

So I tried to accept the diagnose and started visiting more frequently. That's right, I tried to accept the diagnosis. He didn't seem to care. He's never been afraid of death, or at the very least he never showed it. He'd always say , "It's just death," which actually made this whole ordeal easier. He also used to say, "it's not the cough that carries you off, it's the coffin they carry you off in." He was very amusing.

Shortly after the lung cancer diagnosis, he developed severe constipation. He really felt as though he needed to poop, and he was in a lot of pain. My grandpa never says he's in pain. Ever. So seeing him admit it this time, we knew something was really wrong.

The doctors he saw wrote it off as just constipation and prescribed laxatives. My mom tried telling them that he shouldn't be in pain from constipation since he hasn't eaten anything in weeks, and laxatives wouldn't help that. Finally she convinced them to look further, at which point they discovered the problem.

A massive (6+ inch) colorectal tumor was obstructing his GI tract, and creating the pressure which made him feel as though he needed to poop. So his bowels were empty, but the tumor created the sensation of fullness. And what was assumed to be a primary lung cancer was actually metastasis from the colon/rectum.

The decision was made to perform a colostomy to relieve his symptoms and make his remaining months more pleasant. I couldn't get up to Phoenix in time to see him before the surgery, but I was able to give him a call. He was so excited to hear my voice that he pooped. That makes me feel special.

The surgery went well, and I got to Phoenix just as it was ending. The surgeon, who was a great guy, gave us the low down. He performed the colostomy and removed some previously undiscovered ileal tumors. They kept him intubated while he recovered, since he had about a dozen risk factors. The intubation would make recovery easier. We had to wait a few days before they could extubate and bring him out of sedation.

But things are never that easy, are they? He developed MRSA and became septic. The prognosis went from a few more months to a few more weeks or days. So they transferred him to a hospice, and Legal Counsel and I drove up to see him get his tube pulled and get woken up.

At least that's what I thought. Turns out they never expected him to wake up - things were worse than I realized. Instead of driving up to be there when he finally woke up after surgery, we were driving up to watch him pass away. We got there and sat with him for a while before the social worker came in and started talking about the dying process and funeral arrangements. That was quite a surprise.

Before I go on, let me just give kudos to the hospice for putting him in a gown that looked like a polo shirt from the front. Such a small detail that meant so much. He looked more like himself and less like a dying patient.

Once the family had gathered, they removed all the little plastic tubes and it was time to let him go. My uncle brought some scotch (his favorite drink) and we used the mouth-moisteners to spread it in his mouth while he slipped away. He's so tough, I half expected him to surprise us all and wake up once the scotch hit his lips.

But he didn't. After a few hours, he stopped breathing and he was gone. It was horribly depressing and we all cried. Multiple times. But we all realized that it's better this way. It was his time.

And if there is anybody who was ready to go, it was him. He lead such an amazing life. He grew up in England during World War II, with accompanying memories of bombings and war. He joined the merchant marines and sailed the world. He worked on the Queen Mary, he was arrested in Argentina for swimming between ships (he got on the wrong one). He moved to America and started his own business. He raised his children. Then he helped raise his grandchildren (I feel that he and my uncle stepped up and acted in place of my own absent father).

He had experiences that have fueled countless authors and artists throughout history. And he was an artist himself. Not painting or sculpture or stage. He was a storyteller, and a great one at that. He always had a funny story to tell, whether he knew you or not. He was so social; everybody at every hospital he visited knew him by name.

He also always had a song to sing. He loved to sing. Everybody's favorite was a previously unnamed song that I just learned to be "The Old Sow Song" from the album "Dinner Music for People Who Aren't Hungry" by Spike Jones. I'm laughing just thinking about him singing it.

He was great with adults, but he was especially great with kids. Kids loved him. I remember wrestling around with him when I was a kid. And even after his lung problems began, he would still talk their ears off and play with them as much as his body would allow.

He was an amazing man.

That's not to say he was perfect. He was greedy, he was racist and he was addicted to gambling. But he was our greedy, racist gambler. As much as we complained about his behavior, we always loved him. And we always will. He'll be missed.

And at least I can always remember that I was responsible for his last poop.

I'm getting all choked up. That means I should stop. But writing did make me feel a lot better. Looks like Dr. Racy was right about using writing as a means of release.

I think I'll finish with grandpa's favorite poem.

The Soldier
by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Tea for Dong!

I get lots of email spam. My inbox consumes more spam than Guam and Hawaii combined. It wasn't always that way. When I first obtained my university email account it was spam free. Now I get more spam than actual mail. But I suppose that's what I get after using my real email address to gain access to websites dealing with cheap ink cartridges, interspecies erotica and..."male shortcomings."

Most of the spam is boring, but every once in a while I get something I'd like to share. Here is the most flippant spam email ever, quoted word-for-word:
Title: pump your weenie!

Hello chap

I don't care why your meat is so small, but 89% of women do.
They are pretty sure that bigger member will make their desire
stronger. You have the chance to change your life.

Here [website removed] you can get the thing.

It will help you for sure.
The remedy can be sent worldwide.
If you wont be satisfied - we will return all you money.
No bullshit.

Nice, right? If this doesn't make you want to go out and buy cock pills, I don't know what will. Let's analyze it, shall we?
  • The title is "pump your weenie!" Looks like they've got those sweatshop kids writing for the IT department, promoted from sewing shoes.
  • I do like being referred to as "chap." It's very British, and the British are well known for their large members. Trust me ;) Unless he's using "chap" to refer to my cracked, rough and sore penis, in which case: Not Cool!
  • You don't care why my meat is small?? Isn't that the heart of this whole communication? Maybe you should start expressing an interest in my junk if you're trying to sell me a product directed at it.
  • I can pull statistics out of my ass, too. 93% of women think my penis is big enough, so take that.
  • If they're only "pretty sure" that they want my paackage to go from tall to venti, then I'm only "pretty sure" I want to buy your product. Good day, sir!
  • No bullshit, eh? Does that mean you're not lying to me, or does it mean that your product contains 0% bullshit. It's good either way, I just want to clarify.
Online male enhancement vendors just don't seem to care anymore. It's a shame, really. It used to be about helping people. You sold out, penis pill vendors. Now it's all about the money and rock-and-roll lifestyle. For shame...

Friday, January 19, 2007

Against all odds

I was going to write another music-themed post, but I have to drive to Phoenix so I don't have enough time. Also, I've run out of music subjects. Instead I'll leave you with a quick observation.

In our microbiology class we're learning about bacteria. Under the heading of "Origin of the Normal Flora" it reads:
Shortly after birth, the baby is exposed to the mother's genital tract normal flora...
So really it's a miracle that D-Rock even survived his own birth. It's like biosafety level 4 down there. Bravo, sir.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Conversations from The Edge

103.9

The other day I happened to catch a snippet of Saturday Night Live. Don't worry, I just kicked my own ass for using the term "snippet." Anyway, the musical guest was The Shins. I like The Shins; that one song, "New Slang," it'll change your life I swear. But I've never seen them perform live and it was interesting. The lead singer James Mercer doesn't really sing as much as he stands there and speaks melodically. And this makes me wonder - what would a conversation with him be like?

[Our play opens in the reading room of palatial Montgomery Manor. James Mercer sits in an antique Brewster Chair surrounded by mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound first-editions and rarities. He picks up a newspaper and begins to read. Soon, Montgomery walks in.]

Montgomery: Hey Jimmy, I hope you enjoyed breakfast. Sorry we didn't have any condor eggs on hand. What's going on in the world?
James Mercer: God speed, all the bakers at dawn. May they all cut their thumbs...
Montgomery: Did you just put a curse on bakers? How Shakespearean.
James Mercer: They bleed into their buns...
Montgomery: Wait..does that mean they really did cut their thumbs? I thought you were being weird. The bled into their buns? That's just unsanitary.
James Mercer: 'til they melt away.
Montgomery: Gross! Anyway, how are you?
James Mercer: I'm looking in on the good life.
Montgomery: I know, dude. Isn't this place sweet? I was thinking of
James Mercer: I might be doomed never to find.
Montgomery: Way to interupt, Debbie Downer.
James Mercer: Without a trust or flaming fields. Am I too dumb to refine?
Montgomery: Okay, you're a little too weird. I'm going to look for Thom.

-----

[Scene 2. Montgomery approaches the polo grounds behind the mansion. A game is in progress - it's the middle of the 4th chukker. Thom Yorke, that guy from Radiohead, is on a pure black horse with a single white circle around it's left eye, obviously a metaphor for something. Thom Yorke sees Montgomery standing at the edge of the field. A timeout is called and he approaches Montgomery on his mount.]

Montgomery: Hey Thom. I was just talking to James and he was getting all wacky on me. I came out here looking for a sane conversation.
Thom Yorke: Karma Police! Arrest this man!
Montgomery: Whoa whoa, what the hell?
Thom Yorke: He talks in math, he buzzes like a fridge, he's like a detuned radio.
Montgomery: Oh, I see what you're doing. Well if you didn't want to talk, you could've just said so. You're a real jerk, you know that?
Thom Yorke: This is what you get, when you mess with us.
Montgomery: That's it. i'm going to have to axe you to leave. And please leave your gift bag with the butler. You don't deserve bath salts.

-----

[Scene 3. Montgomery, obviously agitated, is stomping through his abode in a full blown huff. He stroms into the conservatory. The room is full of plants, both exotic and domestic, and standing in the middle is Frank Black, who happens to be throwing tennis balls at butterflies.]

Montgomery: I can't believe this crap. I invite these people over and they all act like weirdos and jerks. This is the last time I invite the superstars of alternative indie-rock to my place for a weekend of relaxation!
Frank Black:Oooooh - stop
Montgomery: Oh, hi Frank. I didn't see you there. I was too busy being in a tizzy. "Busy in a tizzy" - you should use that in a song. Oh god, I can't believe I said that. I swore I would do that. Sorry. But like I said, I'm in a mood.
Frank Black: With your feet in the air and your head on the ground.
Montgomery: Yeah, I'm all over the place. I feel so turned around.
Frank Black: Try this trick and spin it, yeah.
Montgomery: You're right. I need to get myself straight before I start forbidding indie-rockers from the estate.
Frank Black: Your head will collapse.
Montgomery: Of course. I'm in a self-destructive hate-spiral.
Frank Black: And there's nothing in it.
Montgomery: So true. I overreacted. I knew about these guys when I eVited them. I have no reason to be so angry, and no right to making rash decisions.
Frank Black: And you'll ask yourself, "Where is my mind?"
Montgomery: You're so wise, Frank. Lets go to the grotto and make some mojitos for the gang. Give the butterflies a break.
[The men hold hands and walk off stage]

Fin

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

I liked it better the first time

This episode of I like it better the first time is brought to you by My Chemical Romance and their hit song "Welcome to the Black Parade." I really like the song, but I liked it better the first time when it was called "Come Sail Away" by Styx.

Don't see it? Let's take a look:
  • Both songs start with slow vocals over a keyboard background.
  • Both songs then progress to a more rapid, rockin' beat.
  • Both songs tell a story involving youth and adulthood.
    • "I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had"
    • "When I was a young boy, my father took me into a city"
  • Both songs deal with the supernatural.
    • "A gathering of angels appeared above my head"
    • "Will you defeat, your demons, and all the non-believers"
  • Both songs are played by Gary Busey while he murders hobos in order to use the bodies for framing "communists and other un-American subversives."
  • Both songs have themes of taking somebody or something with you.
    • "Come sail away with me."
    • "Your memory will carry on."
  • Both songs were written in 1952 by Chuck Norris when he tried marijuana for the first time at the tender age of 12. Immediately after writing them, he locked the sheet music in two separate steel boxes and buried them in two separate locations, 20 feet underground. After realizing the potential of his work, he started hiding clues to their location on the back of cereal boxes in 1972, promising eternal fame for those who find and produce them. "Come Sail Away" was found almost immediately, prompting Chuck to make his clues more difficult. As a result the second box was not uncovered until 2002, exactly 50 years to the day after it was buried. Rumor has it that a third box is buried somewhere in the Ozarks, containing the script to the greatest movie that will ever be made. Oh, and when he smoked that marijuana he didn't get the munchies. But he did eat three bars of gold to "feed [his] sweet tooth."

But it doesn't end there. The two bands, Styx and MCR, share more than a few traits:
  • Both bands feature performing brothers: Chuck and John Panozzo in Styx, Gerard and Mikey Way in MCR.
  • The only letter shared by the two band names is "y." Y? Because they're the same band.
  • Lead singer of Styx is Dennis DeYoung; rearrange to get "needy sounding." Lead singer of MCR is Gerard Way; rearrange to get "weary drag." Essentially the same thing! This can mean only one thing: Gerard Way is actually Dennis DeYoung in disguise. Be more obvious next time, jeez...
  • Both bands were created by Satan's armies in order to infiltrate our good Christian society. But they were both turned to good after reading Chuck's lyrics.


As you can see, "Welcome to the Black Parade" and "Come Sail Away" are the same song. But this makes sense, considering that Styx and My Chemical romance are the same band. And now you know the truth. Spread the word on menus nationwide!

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

So delicious

ambivalent adj. having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone

fergalicious adj. 1. make them boys go crazy 2. of or relating to Fergie

I hate the hit single "Fergalicious" by Fergie, currently #2 on the Billboard charts. It's an awful, awful song. Read the trashy lyrics here.I hate the conceited, self-praising lyrics. I hate that Fergie sings about putting boys "on rock, rock" - slang for an erection, which is really trashy and pretty gross. I hate that they count down from four in alternating languages ("four, tres, two, uno"), which is illegal in Arizona after our last election. And most of all, I hate the fact that will.i.am spells tasty "T to the A to the S-T-E-Y." Somebody needs to spellcheck that shit.

But despite all those things, I love the song and I have to listen to it when it's on the radio.

To be fair, I should list the things I like. I like that the video has a Willy Wonka theme, and that it features women wrestling in iced cream. I like that she's very clear about being non-promiscuous (even if it is a filthy, STD-filled lie). I like that it borrows elements from JJ Fad, Afro-Rican, James Brown and (best of all) German electronic supergroup Kraftwerk. And most of all, I love the use of the portmanteau "Fergalicious." Mmm...portmanteaus, my favorite linguistic entity.

So it has lots of good things going for it, but it's not enough to save the song. It's so damn narcissistic. Quite undeservedly so, I might add*. Beyonce might be able to get away with it, but certainly not you.

She sings about boys wanting to eat her, for Xenu's sake. Jibbly. Two words: dental dam. She also spends time explaining that she is "up in the gym just working on [her] fitness." No amount of time on the treadmill is going to fix you, Butter Face.

Okay, that stuff came across as pretty mean. I apologize; it's probably just my secret desire to work in the catty field of celebrity gossip seeping through. I don't actually feel that strong about anything Fergie-related (aka fergalicious).

My personal feelings about Fergie aside, I do like the song. God knows why... I suppose it has a good beat, and I do appreciate the ironic lyrics. It would be like Elton John singing about loving the ladies. As a quick side note: Elton John needs much more radio time. I love that guy.

Anyway, I'm completely ambivalent about this song. I have a love/hate relationship with Fergalicious. So I'll keep listening to it, but I'll keep hating myself for doing so. And before I forget, let me tell you the best thing about writing this post. I looked up Fergalicious on Wikipedia, and this is what popped up at the beginning of the article:
"Fergalicious (adj.): Of or resembling hip-hop sensation "Fergie". For example, instead of saying "Wow her skin looks like old leather" one could say "Wow, that skin is Fergalicious". If someone is wearing trampy clothes like white short shorts that ride high with a thong sticking out of them one could say it is a "Fergalicious" outfit. Earrings that one can fit their feet through are also "Fergalicious"...and offer a nice resting place for the feet between customers....you get the point...FERGALICIOUSLY!!!" - Andrew Walker
Wow...saucer of milk, table two. The comment has since been removed, but it was up long enough for me to see and reproduce. Sounds like Andrew Walker is one of the guys who got put on "rock, rock." I think he's upset that "[he] can see [her], [he] can't squeeze [her]." Get over it, Andrew. It's not worth the hate. Don't go to the dark side for Fergie. That last sentence has multiple meanings, all equally true.


*reasons for this statement: she's used to do meth, she urinated on stage in 2005, and of course, her face.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Today's post brought to you by the letter C, for cancer

And by the number 6, which is how many months you have to live.

I'm in pharmacology right now and we're smack dab in the middle of a lecture on cancer drugs. Not a very happy subject...unless of course the cancer patient is Hitler or that BTK guy. Excellent...

Fortunately, our lecturer (who I shall call Dr. Rook) has managed to move the mood away from depressing and closer to downright creepy. Her speech tone and mannerisms are identical to those of a children's television show host.

Everything she says is in a very kind-hearted and caring tone, and she brings up the end of her sentences like questions, as though she's trying very hard to make sure we get every concept. The same way you teach a child how to tie their shoes. It's really weirding me out. Jibbly...

Imagine Elmo trying to explain to a child why their mother is dying. Or Big Bird staring into the camera and explaining which drugs dad has to take to battle his cancer. It's like some kind of surreal nightmare made real.

But it's also little comforting. A familiar voice in a dark cloud...like a child singing in a concentration camp. Actually that's probably the most depressing thing I've ever heard. Forget I said that.

But honestly - wouldn't we be making better doctors if we taught all the material in the form of children's television show? Their focus on flashy colors and ability to maintain short attention spans is perfectly suited for my particular needs. Plus, they're always happy. Here are just a few examples of how life can be better:

Pathology
Help Blue find the lesion!
That blue pawprint would make things much easier. Not to mention the chorus of children yelling answers at me.

Pharmacology
♫Procarbazine in given over 14 days orally in the treatment of brain cancer♫

Microbiology
"Thomas is transporting a third-generation cephalosporin, which is effective against many gram-positive and gram-negative bacteria. This is quite fortunate, because Mr. Conductor has gonorrhea."


See, isn't that more fun?

In writing this post, I did a search for "gonorrhea" followed by a search for "Thomas the Tank Engine." I hope nobody's tracking me, or I could be getting a visit from the feds soon.

PS - Dr. Rook looks a lot like (no offense) Ugly Betty. I wish I could find a good picture...

PPS - This is one of the best McSweeney's articles yet.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Reunited and it feels so good

When Legal Counsel and I were in Rome waiting for our bags, we watched the luggage belt go 'round and 'round dozens of times before losing all hope. During those last minutes of hope, I watched a broken luggage handle without a bag go 'round and 'round dozens of times and I thought to myself, "Haha...suckers." And no matter how upset I was that we lost our bags, I always thought back to that handle and realized we were better off than those losers who only had a broken handle delivered.

Well it looks like we should have picked up that lonely grip. That's right, our final bag was delivered (hooray!)...minus one handle (boo!). Looks like we were the losers. Kind of funny actually. Oh well, it's a relief to be reunited with our belongings. I'm happy.

The best part was watching Legal Counsel open the bag. She was all full of cheer and amazement. It was like watching Rene Belloq open the Arc of the Covenant. Plus, it made my face melt.

Required Reading

Medical students are asked (forced) to read a lot of books and notes. The purpose of all this reading is to build our knowledge and skills. You know: diagnostic skills, patient interaction skills, bowhunting skills. But there's one set of skill that has been completely ignored on the literary front, and I'm not talking about sexual prowess. We were told to develop that on our own, but I find it difficult given our contradictory lessons on the G-Spot. Jerks. No, I'm talking about the critical skill of perception.

Before entering medical school, all students are forced (asked) to sign a form which states that the entering student possesses sufficient ability in detecting symptoms and subtle clues, and that all our senses function properly (available in Braille). But after signing that form, they leave us to our own devices for developing our perceptive abilities. Sure they show us what to look for, but no readings on how to look better (aside from the fashion classes, of course).

You might be saying, "Montgomery, there are no books which improve your eye sight or ability to see things." To which I reply, "Au contraire, jackass" (pardon my freedom). There is a book which has improved young eyes for years*. you all know what I'm talking about: Where's Waldo?**.

For years, Martin Handford has stepped up in the world of "Reading is Fundamental" and "Take a look, it's in a book" and "Book 'em, Danno" to say, "Books don't need words! Books need simply drawn cartoon scenarios with an oddly attired gentleman hiding in a crowd!" Mr. Handford takes a more traditional view on education, and I applaud him. In this case, traditional means "from the 17th century, when reading wasn't viewed as a critical skill." Ultra traditional.

Where's Waldo? Single-handedly eliminated the phrase "go ahead and pick any book you want" from parents' vocabularies. It also introduced the phrase "if you keep staring at that damn book I'm going to kick your skull in" to my parents' vocabulary.

And thanks to these books, I'm extremely well prepared to find a bespectacled fellow in a red-and-white-striped beanie and shirt carrying a cane. If I ever find one (who will undoubtedly be hiding from the neck down behind an overweight downhill skier), I'm going to point and scream, "There he is! I found him!" That'll be awkward... And if he's standing in a crowd of similarly attired folk, I know to look for the one missing a shoe.

Unfortunately I won't be able to read the "don't walk" sign, and in my excitement I'll probably be struck by a a large truck transporting danishes.

Another accomplishment of the books: it greatly skewed my idea of how much red-and-white-striped fabric exists in the world. If you believe the books, that shit is everywhere.

Aside from contributing to generations of illiteracy and fabric choices, Where's Waldo? has left an indelible mark on the world of modern art. Who wouldn't recognize that familiar field of soulless cartoon faces fighting in a castle, playing rugby or deep-sea diving? I commend the artist responsible for this work. It takes great patience to draw one thing with slight variation hundreds of times across two pages. Or they just hired some dude with a very specific manifestation of OCD (OCD is another consequence of the Waldo books, FYI).

In short, I'm suggesting that Where's Waldo? be introduced at medical schools nationwide. It will improve future physician's ability to detect subtle symptoms of disease. Especially if those symptoms are a red and white rash, or a tumor wearng glasses.


* actually not true. squinting at that damned book for hours did permanent damage to many a child's ability to accomodate.
** contrary to popular belief, Where's Waldo? is not sold internationally. But there are cheap knock-offs in most western countries. In Spain and Mexico, ¿Donde Donald?. In France, Ou se trouve Trevor?. In Germany, Wo Ira Ist?. In Italy, Dove e il Ilan?. In Portugal, Onde esta o Oliver?. In the Middle East, Kill Waldo!.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

For the sake of equality

Blog Blargh

Ugh. I say ugh. Sorry for not blogging yesterday, but I feel like crap. It's just a common cold, but it's kicking my ass. And not just my ass, either. It's kicking my whole body, especially my brain. It's making me all loopy. Well...more loopy than usual.

I think I brought back some kind of European super-bug. Probably the same one they used to take over this god-forsaken hemisphere. Damn you, biological warfare!!! I take this as an attack on the US; go get 'em, Bush!

If all forms of the common cold were reclassified as "T-Birds" then my cold would be Danny Zuko. Ahh! See what I mean about being loopy? I never make Grease references! Although that might be a consequence of my newly found devotion to Scientology. Hail Xenu!

But I shouldn't be complaining...it's my own fault. I turned all my cold medicine into meth last weekend. Now I'm really paying for it. But boy, what a weekend.

I may not be a doctor, but this cold has taught me one thing: my body is completely filled with green goo. No matter how much comes out, there's always more waiting. Here's my new theory: I'm not human. I'm actually Muckman wrapped in a thin pale-pink wrapper. And the inner me is trying to escape. Let's hope that TMNT reference balances out the Grease reference.

I'll try to write something more entertaining and less whiny soon. Until then, enjoy this video about a very special Christmas gift. You've probably already seen it, but it's funny so you should watch it again.



Oh, before I go let me tell you that Muckman is my all time favorite TMNT action figure (aka "doll"). Just thought I'd let you know.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Your dreams were your ticket out

School's back in session and that means it's time for me to start ignoring school by writing on this monster. It worked out pretty well last semester, so I'll keep it up. But before I go back to talking about Snorks, zombies and the idosyncracies of the elderly, I'll give you a summary of my winter break. I'll keep it brief, since I've learned that people don't care about vacations they weren't on. But I feel like writing about it.

Montgomery and Legal Counsel's World Tour '06

Travel
Number of planes taken: 7
Number of snakes on said planes: 0 (sadly)
Number of trains taken: 2
Number of snakes on said trains: 0 (thankfully)
Number of times one gentleman threw another gentleman off the train, then turned to me and said "No ticket": 1
Number of bags taken: 3
Number of bags lost by British Airways: 3
Number of bags returned during the trip: 1
Number of bags returned back at home: 1
Number of bags still missing: 1

Rome - 2 nights
Highlight: tie between the Roman forums and the Vatican
Lowlight: spending way too much time (read: any amount of time) shopping for toiletries, clothing, etc
The rest: coliseum, Capitol Hill, Bocca della Verita, Quirinale, the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, Pantheon, juiceboxes full of wine, gelato, 1 brazillion churches, ∞ things dedicated to popes

Paris - 3 nights
Highlight: the Louvre (absolutely amazing)
Lowlight: the French
The rest: Notre Dame 2 blocks from our hotel, Eiffel Tower and my fear of heights, Arc de Triumph, delicious cheese and wine, Place de la Bastille, Moulin Rouge/Chat Noir, Sexodrome, Sacre Coeur

London - 3 nights
Highlight: the food*
Lowlight: everything was closed because we were there on Christmas Day and Boxing Day
The rest: palaces, pubs, Piccadilly, The Monument, Tower of London, christmas crackers, Harrods, Hamley's, double decker buses, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, London Eye and my fear of heights

New York - 2 nights
Highlight: Evil Dead the Musical**
Lowlight: way too many people
The rest: Rockafeller X-Mas Tree, Central Park, subways (eat fresh), Times Square and seeing where the ball would drop after we left, FAO Schwartz

Misc
International flights on BA give you free alcohol. Score!
Europeans hate it when you walk around in an American Flag/"God Bless America" shirt.
They also hate it when you ask for free stuff because "without us, you'd all be speaking German."
When in France, don't ask for Freedom Toast or Freedom Fries. They don't appreciate it.
In fact, if you just ask for toast and it'll come out dipped in eggs and fried.
My brother won an XBox 360 on the radio and gave it to me for Christmas since he already had one. Then my mom gave me Dead Rising. I'm in heaven. My family is awesome.
Sites I modified to be cat related in my own head: Sacre Fur and Westminster Tabby
Number of x-mas gifts directly related to zombies: 2
Number of x-mas gifts indirectly related to zombies: all of them



The trip was amazing and totally worth going bankrupt for. But now it's time to buckle down and get back to the important things in life. Blogging and killing Zombies.


*Everybody thinks I'm crazy for saying this, but I love English food. Yorkshire pudding, drool...
**seriously. Greatest work of art in our generation