A Little Bit of This...

Chapter ONE

Today the living and thinking sky decided to rain hardest while I commuted home. By the time I got to my room I was soaking wet due to the fact that in the land of on-street parking, parking two blocks away is as common as insert similie here. I decided to banish the rest of the dryness from my clothes by going to the corner store because dammit, I wanted a Hot Pocket. This means that I will spend the rest of the night in my shorts (the other kind), giving my roommates a view that is normally only reserved for midway through my 11:50 getting-ready-for-bed routine. That roughly translates to an old-timey boudoir photograph for you:

Laguna Beach was on the television when I turned it on, so I guess I'll add that into the boxer-shorts mix. Oh, my roommate and his girlfriend just walked in, and yet I still shorts it. Well...maybe I'll put on a hawaiian shirt for decency.

But I will never put on pants.

Chapter TWO

I'm 20 and I'm still called boyish by some. I can see where they're coming from.

For example, while my labmates dine on reheated dinners and asian food for lunch, I brown-bag it. What's in the brown bag?

1. One (1) peanut butter and jelly sandwich
2. One (1) Kool-Aid Jammer Pack
3. One (1) Hi-C Fruit Snack Pack
4. One (1) Star Crunch

I like to much on these items while I read the daily comics ("Hello, professor!").

I have a childlike attraction to kittens. I like them so much that my voice rises one and a half octaves when they're presented to me. Everyone else in the room disappears to me while I muse things to the creature. Things such as, "Hello puff!" Sometimes I like to two-fist kittens in my hands and rub them on the side of my face. It's just a thing I do. My little brother (of year 3) does similar things. I don't squeal when I see them, though--never have, never will.

One of my favorite games at the moment is a game called Flicky that I got when I bought a small Sega Genesis 6-in-one system from Target. Flicky is an 18-bit game starring you, Flicky, a small blue bird who wants to save his little chirpies from cats collectively named Tiger and lizards named Iggy.

I want to be a Moonbase Commander when I grow up.

I could say more, but I won't.

Oddly, I've also been compared to having father-like mannerisms. Not in the over-protective sense, but in the vocabulary and joke-telling sense. For example, using words such as "dadgum" and excusing myself whenever something near me makes a sound that resembles a fart.

Behold, I am human dichotomy.

Interlude

Chapter THREE

Currently occuring to the right of shirtless and pantless me:

Chris: "What is a 'fallopian tube'? *pssh* People don't have those..."

Catherine: "Salpingo Oof Oof-erectomy."

Epilogue

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some Harry Potter to read.

Bonus DVD Material

So, there's these two guys in a bar...

...wait, that's not right. Let me see...

OK.

So, there's two cows in a field, right?

I mean, I know that premise isn't very realistic because a dairy farmer actually needs about 500 cows to be competetive in today's market, but let's just say that the cows' owner is just a hobbyist. There's only two of them.

This is a joke, by the way.

So, there's two cows in a field, and one turns to the other and he says, "Hey, I read in the human newspapers that"--okay, so cows can't read, but I guess you'll have to grant that premise as well. This joke isn't scientific at all, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not good at this. I'll just tell the joke already.

So, the cow turns to the other and says, "Hey, I was reading in the human newspapers that there's this 'Mad Cow' disease going around. I'm really worried about contracting said disease."

And the other one replies, "OH YEAH, BUT I'M NOT WORRIED--I'M A HELICOPTER!"

haha! Get it? The cow's actually a helicopter...right? Wait, that can't be right...

Break Time

Hello friends,

I really should apologize for being delinquent in updating my blog this past week; however, I need some personal time off of writing. I'm sorry that I can't say more, but I hope you all understand.

I promise I'll post again on Monday, July 25th.

xoxoxo,
Erik

P.S. If you are saddened by this announcement, go here to become happy again.

Why Am I Not cool

I walk out of the corner store, a Hot Pocket Burrito in one hand, and air in the other.

"Excuse me, sir--but could you spare some change?"

Knowing that I have $0.51 left in my pocket, I hand the man two quarters and a penny.

I smile at him, "Here you go, buddy--have a good one."

"Thanks, man!" He raises his hand in what I percieve to be an initiation of a low-five on my part, so I open my hand ready to recieve the slap from above from his.

But rather, his fist comes down in my hand! I was completely wrong, he was meaning to bump knuckles with me!

I am able to recover slightly by tapping my fist with his head on, but the damage was done.

"Thanks again, man--I really mean it, thank you," says he.

I smile, but it is only external. Inside, I am wilting for looking so not cool in front of the homeless man, failing to follow through with his cool knuckle bumping routine.

All Aboard the Hogwarts Express!

I am quite looking forward to this Friday/Saturday at Midnight, when the new Harry Potter book is released. I think the presentation of the book (a la Barnes and Noble), however, will leave something to be desired.

When the last book came out, I had just graduated from High School. I was very (and of course still am) into science, and volunteered for my school's chemistry department's "Magic Show" at the event. Before I describe the highlight of the show, let me describe the release party.

Duluth has a building that is called The Depot. There is a community theatre/stage attached at one end, Duluth-area history museum in the building itself, and a train museum in the basement. Now, I'm not talking little model trains in a sterilized room--I'm talking the original, huge engines that used to run up and down the tracks in and out of Duluth. Furthermore, the floor in this part of the museum is cobbled and the entire level is reminiscent of something that you might find in a romantic movie of the early 1900's. In essence, it has the perfect ambiance for a Harry Potter party. The day of the party, banners displaying the crests of the different dormitories of Hogwarts were unfurled over the various paths meandering around the train engines. A lady from the local aviary brought a live owl. Finally, all the books were loaded on a caboose that was to be backed up into the museum at the stroke of midnight. What a show!

Anyways, that fateful night two summers ago I was stationed at the Magic Show display. With the guidance of our teacher, myself and a couple of students performed some basic chemistry gimmicks to entertain those in line or milling around. Children clamored up to the table, waiting for the next potion to change color or the next flash of light.

Ah yes, flash of light.

There's a trick where you can soak cotton balls in a chemical (of what nomenclature escapes me), let it dry for later use, and then make it disappear in a harmless, hand-held fireball when a heated object touched it. My object was a Wand (read: glass stirring rod) that I surreptitiously heated using a torch moments before. But alas, science only goes so far. You need to be in your best game as a performer, and I neglected to think up a name for the gimmick before hand.

A child speaks up.

"What are they called!"

I improvise.

"Uhm...why, these are Dragon Balls!"

Then, I feel a snap in my head as I realized what I just said. My teacher, over in a corner, became wide-eyed. Giggles emanated from the gaggle of children and the parents in the back row shook their heads in shocked bemusement.

I've been relegated as an example to the student volunteers of this year's release.

The state of my home

This morning I awoke with the urge to use the bathroom. So I rolled off of my air mattress, put some slippers on my feet, and walked to the bathroom. Someone was using it, so I waited.

After a couple of minutes, a disgusting creature emerged. It was no taller than 3' and was pigmented a vile shade of green-brown. Small arms dangled limp at its sides, and it grinned at me with a disproportionate smile 1/3 the size of its head. The teeth in its mouth were rotting chiclets interspersed at random intervals along the beast's black gums.

I choked, "Excuse me, have we met?"

It replied in a gruff, cockney accent.

"Allo ther, mate! I don' believe we 'ave! The name's Tuberculosis." It took a disgusting bow, tumbling it's right hand in the air in an unendearing display of showmanship. "Your roomies invited me over by not cleanin' up they'selves and by leavin' their dishes unwashed. Dey acquiesced to me self-invitation by leavin' out beer bottles from last week's party. Why, they welcomed me with sweaty, lazy arms!"

Unsurprised, I replied, "Well welcome, Turbey. Mind if I call you that? Chris and I are moving out of this house in a month, so afterwards I'm sure you can stay in our room if you like. Just stay out of my way in the meantime and we'll get along just fine."

I then proceeded to use the bathroom and flush the toilet sanitarily by kicking the handle.

THE MORAL: Damn the messiness of our roommates.

Human nature at its most vile

Today there was an letter to the editor in the Minneapolis Star Tribune that read as follows:

Enough whining

With growing frustration I read yet another article on the ridiculous claims that Muslims' religious rights are being trampled upon by claiming that their employer is not making adequate provisions for prayers (Star Tribune, July 7).

We have separation of church and state in this country. Why not separation of church and work? Why should employers be held ransom to ridiculous claims of religious persecution by a group of people whom we never asked to come to this country?

I have a simple solution: If you feel you are being persecuted, go back to where you came from and leave us alone! We have many larger problems to deal with than to cater to you.

Note: I censor the author's name because I care about his privacy. Ironically, however, I'm sure he's a proponent of the Patriot Act.

I wasted no time writing a response. Because it may or may not be published, I transcribe it to you as follows:

I am writing in response to the saddening bigotry displayed by a July 11th letter entitled "Enough Whining," where the author rails against Muslims desiring accommodation to pray during work hours. Furthermore, in a shocking digression, he further insinuates that followers of Islam are unwelcome outsiders in our country. Had the group in question been Christians demanding time off of work in order to celebrate Christmas, I doubt that they would have been treated to such castigation by the pen of Mr. Heinle. In fact, I'm sure that the mere suggestion of being without such an accommodation would cause the letter writer to abandon his argument for "separation of church and work" without delay.

As an Orthodox Christian, I can appreciate that Muslims regard both Christians and Jews as "Brothers of the Book." Perhaps it is this acceptance of others that is one of the true meanings of being an American--kinship, not xenophobia, regardless of religious affiliation or lack therof.

Erik Axdahl, Minneapolis

It originally has the post-script:

If I was a pirate, instead of a ninja, I'd sail my pirate ship right into your anus to show you just a little bit of the pain that American Muslims have to feel because of nut-cases like yourself. Feck you fecking fecker.

...However, I thought better of it.

But seriously, fecking nut-cases...

Hail Tater Chippers

A lady recently sold a potato chip that looked like Jesus on eBay.

The final price? $2.25

Remember when a grilled cheese sandwich that looked Jesus sold on eBay for thousands o' dollars?

I bet that my ice cream cone that looked like the virgin mary would have fallen somewhere in between.

Better Luck Next Time!

Sorry for the lack of updates this week--I promise I'll do better next week. I promise, okay? Please, quiet down. People are starting to stare. Why do I bother to take you out anymore?

The Second Amendment

I don't care who you is, that's just funny right there.

Trailers

I love inter-tubing. I love riding in a fast boat. I like putting my hand in the water as a boat is moving and watch the consequent wake or spritz.

I hate boats when I'm on the road, namely their trailers.

I was in heavy traffic on the interstate while trying to make my 4th of July Weekend Pilgrimage to my hometown of Duluth. I'd like to attribute the delay to record-breaking traffic on a popular vacation weekend, but as we all know, Minnesota has recently had its state government shut down by our friendly neighborhood state legislators. Therefore, I'd imagine that the slow-down in traffic was caused by a post-apocalyptic roadside scuffle over a box of mint-condition Ho-Ho's. At least, that's where my imagination lead me while I was stuck behind a boat trailer. Greetings from the Great Anarchy State of Minnesota!

I studied the paint chippings on the boat's propeller edges, imagining the cavitation bubbles that were formed by the propeller while it was in use. I saw in my mind's eye the implosion of the bubbles causing delicate paint to erode off of the propeller. Then I castigated myself for "thinking about such things, you nerd." Then I thought about how castigation sounds like something that a eunich does, and I laughed. Oh how I laughed. Stop looking at me, Geo Metro!

As my car was only doing 10 miles-per-hour, I figured it would be okay if I took a quick nap and let the car drive itself. I woke up 20-minutes later to the sound of screaming. I looked around and I was in someone's living room. Whoops! Sorry about that. I proceeded to back out of the convenient car-shaped hole in the side of the house.

Once I got past the bottleneck, a merging area where I-35E and I-35W combine back into I-35, the delays still didn't end. I outright blame our trailer-laden traffic overlords, whose driving capabilities tend to remind me of a mix between a seizure and mental manchild. Let me outline their thought process:

"Oh no, my shadow! *spooked* I'd better slow down to 10 m.p.h. for no good reason. la la la. I like cupcakes. Whew, that was a close one. Now I will speed up very slowly, and I'd better not forget to drool while doing it! D-D-DORITOS! Oh no, my shadow! *spooked* I'd better slow down to..."

Ifinallygottoduluthateightthirtytheend.

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Middle School Girls in the Front Row,

Thank you for patronizing the 8 o'clock showing of War of the Worlds! We are sure you will enjoy tonight's show, as it was directed by Steven Spielberg and stars Tom Cruise. As you have no parent or guardian present (this being an PG-13 movie), we suggest you take this time to enjoy the movie to its fullest. May we hubly suggest the following activities:

1. During the quiet and tense scenes, be sure to to make just enough noise so everyone can hear you mumbling and tittering.
2. Whenever dead bodies are portrayed in a dramatic and sober manner, do not in any way try to stifle your laughter.
3. Be sure to kneel in front of your friends to take pictures of them with the flash on so that you may blind the theatre audience seated in all rearward rows.

Remember, you are the center of the universe! Be sure to tell boys later in life how much more mature you are than them.

Sincerely,

The Audience

(ed.- War of the Worlds was a great movie. I highly suggest it.)