Don't eat me because I'm beautiful

Have you ever laid your eyes on something so cute that you just want to do strange and paradoxically unkind things to it?

For example, when I see this picture...


...I am so overcome with the cuteness (like, Level 11 Danger Cuteness) that I just...I just want to scoop those little babies up and just pop 'em in my mouth. For no apparent reason, either—just because they're just so darn cute! I'd be really careful to make sure no harm came to them, but I'm sure they'd be horribly, yet cutely, confused nonetheless.

Is that so wrong?

Thursday Challenge: Beautiful

I had written and even posted a little diddy for today when I saw that today's Thursday Challenge was 'Beautiful,' and this picture I took last year came immediately to mind. I'll re-post my piece on baby chickies and kittens tomorrow.

My electric monkey runs on electricity

I got my first utility bill today, isn't that exciting? Xcel Energy graced my aluminum mail slot with a $30.86 statment for services rendered unto my Jiggawatt Moon Cratering Laser. Actually, my laser only used $2o.86 worth of electricity, but they decided to express their gratitude to me, a new customer, with a $10 "Service Processing Charge" for typing my name into their computer and hitting Enter.

They also included a handy dandy newsletter that has a Scratch 'n Sniff circle on it that smells like what they put in natural gas to make it smell like sulfur. Is it wrong that I'm now addicted to this smell, scratching every last square millimeter to release that sweet aroma, breathing deeply to fill my lungs with that delectable odor? I'm fairly certain that the only sounds during my lectures tomorrow will be the droning of the professors and the scratching and sniffing of a lone junkie in the back of the theatre.

I wonder what would happen if I were to strike a match right as I scratch the Scratch 'n Sniff. Would there be a fireball? Would my eyebrows at least get singed off?

Well?

Landon's Great Adventure, Part I

My friend has a baby cousin with the biggest, most spherical head I've ever seen. It's perfect. Behold.

Look at him! His head is so perfect in every way! Furthermore, he's in an inflatable duck bathub! Isn't that freaking adorable? Ever since I first saw this picture, I have never been able to get the image out of my head. I blame the Landon (the child in the photo)—with a head like that he obviously has magical powers of mind control. I'm sure world takeover will commence as soon as his nap's over.

Anyways, in the true spirit of Sunday procrastination, I present to you Part I of a multipart photoshop photo series, Landon's Great Adventure.

Landon's Great Adventure, Part I

Wake Up!

The time was 9:00 A.M. and I was nestled gently in my Most Comfortable Bed in the World™, dreaming of kittens and other children’s playthings. Then, suddenly:

Whooooooop! Whooooop! Eh eh eh eh eh! Honk! Honk! Honky tonk!

I drew my naked, twitching form from my soft, warm covers and peeked out the blinds in the style of creepy old man. Lo, there were college children-kind lining the avenue in front of my apartment! In the street separating them was situated a Flying V of motorbiked police men, activating their sirens in random and not-so-random intervals (Some of them coordinated songs with their sirens).

I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so I slipped on my jeans, grabbed the camera, and sat by my living room window to watch and take pictures of what I quickly realized was my University’s Homecoming Parade.

I watched, I enjoyed, and when it was over at 10 o’clock I resumed being passed out in my bed.

I’ve posted pictures of the parade for anyone who cares!

The Unversity of Minnesota's Homecoming Parade

Fight For What's Right, or FFWR.

Excuse me while I elevate myself unto this rickety, dilapidated box which is conspicuously labeled “SOAP.”  There, that’s better—and soapy.  

My fellow creatures known as “humans,” I regard each and every one of you in a vocal tone both severe and overly poignant in order to convey to you a sense both urgent and overly poignant.  In our quest for deeper understanding of the human condition, it is both necessary and needed that we each acquire causes for which we are willing to lay down our lives to defend.  To some, that cause is that of civil rights.  To others, the cause is political in nature.  And to others such as yours truly, undersigned, it is the use of labels to oppress.  I will discuss one such infraction presently.

That thing which controls your television from a distance I do not call a “remote control.”  Nay, to me it is called a “channel selector.”  

I have been verbally chastised and emotionally imprisoned in what I can best call an electronic-convenience partite.  All my friends call it a “remote control,” and they bespeckle me with their spittlings whenever I call it by its other name, “channel selector.”  This has consistently been the case for both me and my forbears, including my grandfather.  Indeed, he has been known to alternate between regarding it as a “clicker” and a “beeper.”  Unfortunately, this has caused much cruelty to be delivered unto him, and wrongly so.  Sure, such terms are antiquated and are now considered taboo in our modern society; however, we must celebrate each other’s differences instead of using them as an excuse to drive a wedge between us!

Only when the lines drawn between remote controls, channel selectors, clickers, and beepers become permeable will we be able to truly advance together as a civilization.  Ad astra per aspera, my fellow world citizens.  Ad inifitum.

Sincerely,
Erik Lee Axdahl

P.S. Next time: Finding common ground among ice boxes and refrigerators

Thursday Interlude

So evidently we now have mounted police patrolling the University of Minnesota campus:

I saw them on my way back from class totally layin' the *WHIPCRACK* down on a fellow riding a scooter. Hardcore. Papers were being exchanged and examined and everything—I saw it all with my own eyes. Then he drove away and they sauntered down the street in the opposite direction. It was totally awesome. I wonder when it'll be on Cops...

Do you think anyone has ever fled from the mounted police? I bet you that if it has happened, the mounties didn't pursue it. I mean, first of all, those equines look more like work horses than racing horses. I'm pretty sure they got the biggest horses they could find just for the intimidation factor. I'd venture to guess that if you were to try to spur the wily beast into action, it would just throw an indifferent glance back at you. Actually, it would probably instinctively meander towards the nearest mill's turning wheel.

Plus, I don't think they have the same "stopping" power as a squad car. Try blockading the road ahead of a suspect with a line of horses and see where that gets you. A whole lot of gore, I'd imagine.

I know that at least one vegetarian/vegan reads this blog, so I apologize for that imagery.

So in conclusion, I would really like to see a car chase with the horsies involved. I mean, just picture those beautiful creatures with red and blue light beacons on top of their heads as they trot along!

Time to plan for Halloween

Last year:



This year:


What are you going to be?

Coche

I drive a White, 1995 Pontiac Bonneville, a fact which is usually only interesting to those I know personally and to the blue canaries issuing an APB for my arrest.

Everyone loves the Bonneville. First off, it has plush, cream-colored, leather upholstery. Sit in the back for a moment. Comfortable? Yes, I thought so. How did I know? Because you fell asleep within one second of sitting down. I also invite you to stretch out your legs. What are you afraid of—stretch them out, already. See? The 1995 Pontiac Bonneville offers 12-foot leg room for all passengers as a standard feature.

The most popular aspect of my car, however, would be the sunroof. People love to stick all sorts of appendages out my sunroof. I encourage this—it facilitates commune with the air elementals.

What’s that? Oh, I turned my car off but left my sunroof open? That’s alright, I meant to do that—I’ll just leave it open. I know we’re in a bad neighborhood, but I’ll just—haha, I got you good! Look! It’s closing automatically! Haha—I’m laughing at your expense.

*winks at sunroof*

Sometimes when I’m coasting around in a quiet residential neighborhood I’ll lift my butt off of the driver’s seat so that my head sticks out the sunroof. Before doing so, however, I’ll put a corncob pipe in my mouth. Then I pretend I’m a tank commander, making explosion sounds with my mouth as I drive by houses of people that have wronged me in some way.

Ten Sounds I Like

1. A woman’s high heeled shoes as she walks across a hardwood floor


2. An idling jet plane on a tarmac


3. A french horn playing a poignant melody


4. Distant thunder


5. When, in the movies, a large group of armed people lock and load their weapons all at the same time


6. Sectarian choral chants


7. The half-purr/half-gurgle my cat makes as she rubs herself against my leg


8. Crickets in the bushes


9. My fluid mechanics professor’s voice (a la Sean Connery)


10. That very faint, high-pitched noise I hear when someone else is in the room (any body else experience this?)

In honor of my brothuh, bricotrout

I Now Pronounce You Squirrel and Tissue

First of all I’d like to thank everyone for their kind comments on last Saturday’s post.  Even if you just read it and didn’t comment—which I can sympathize with as I really didn’t leave much room for discourse—I still thank you.  It was a hurdle for me to put that out in the open as I’m traditionally a very private person.  Thanks for your support, fam!  

Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming: stream-of-consciousness thoughts.  

If Spring is the season of love and romance, what does that make Fall?  If Fall is the opposite of Spring, does it make it the season of anti-love?

This evening I was walking towards a central part of my University’s campus to play a rousing game of Ultimate Shillely.  We don’t play with frisbees up here in Minnesota; rather, we embrace our strong, overpowering Irish heritage and throw around the ol’ shillely.  And then we dance around the Mexican hat.  

But that’s beside the point.  What was my point?  Oh yeah.   Is Fall the season of anti-love?

I was pondering the idea this very evening.  Just as I was drawing conclusions, however, I witnessed a squirrel humping a stray tissue that had floated into the grass.  

O, Fall is not the season of anti-love!  Yea, love is strong year round, even if it’s the abominable love between squirrel and tissue.  

And He saw it was good.

Half-Nekked Thursday...tron

Happy HNT, 3rd Edition, my precious little ducklings.

Precious, precious little ducklings...

Today is one of those rainy-pants days in The City of Lakes: overcast, raining on and off, gray. You leave for class and as you walk on the street the rain goes drip-drop-drip onto the top of your head. When you finally reach the campus the rain stops, but there's trees everywhere so residual drops on the leaves go drop-drippity-smack onto your forehead as you make your way to class.

Then you sit incredulous for 50 minutes.

As you walk back to the apartment from class you sploosh sploosh through pudgles in the street and narrowly avoid being splished by passing and turning vehicles.

Also, the moods of all the pretty girls are soured, so even less than usual return your friendly visual acknowledgements. And the bottom of your pants get wet, because it's a rainy-pants day.

Then you get home and watch TV and try not to be in the same sour mood as those pretty girls.
Happy HNT!

Yeowch!

I was in lab yesterday and I got one of those cuts.

I was putting my little circuit board away and neglected to notice that there was a small sheet of loose, useless metal that came with my kit. I also failed to notice that it was looming perilously close to my fingers. Therefore, I mindlessly slit it across my thumb and received a paper-esque cut from the aforementioned sheet of metal.

Five to ten minutes of thumb sucking later it stopped bleeding. Unfortunately, I managed to sap all blood from the wound as well. All I was left with was one of those clean cuts that stay lightly tacked closed as long as you don’t move your finger. However, as soon as I would flex my digit in any way the battle wound would creak back open with a cringe-worthy feeling accompanying it. You know what I mean?

So in conclusion, and in memory of Dorky Tuesday, here's a picture of me in my halloween costume two years ago:

Dorktronic Tuesdaybot

Today is the first day of the fall semester at the University of Minnesota. It is also Dorky Tuesday. Behold.


My friend there (in the light shirt) is a physics and mathematics major. I am, if you didn't know, an aerospace engineering major. Normally we're pretty metroscientifictual looking, but this one day we decided to play the part of what our kind should look like, being sure to adopt the mannerisms as well. Look at that exquisite face contortion on my part. Those aren't even my glasses—I have perfect vision.

The Divine Battle

As long as I can remember I’ve had the habitual problem of scrubbing too far back on my tongue whilst engaging in my ritual tooth brushing.  In the spirit of saving my friends and loved ones from the legendary beast halitosis I try to ensure the scouring of every square inch of real estate in my mouth hole.  Cleaning Gamma Sector Alpha (i.e. the back of my tongue) is always a dangerous affair that requires careful adaptation and attenuation to the contours of the area in order to avoid tonsils and uvula alike.  It’s usually standard procedure for me to contact my animal spirit guide, the Eagle, to lead me in the path to proper tongue brushing.  

One memorable day I did not heed the advice of the Great Eagle Spirit and I struck a vulnerable spot with my bayonet of a toothbrush.  I immediately felt the gateway to my stomach, the mighty sphincter it usually was, quaver with a queasiness that was unquestionably malevolent.  I could feel the pathways of my back throat opening for an unseen enemy.  So I sat down.

My mouth was becoming juicy, so I had no choice but to keep swallowing, a repetitive act that was aggravating the gatekeeper with each gulp.  But I was able to stave off the exodus enough to stand up.  I felt slightly better.  I walked to my bedroom to lie down and briefly rest this hideous feeling off.  

Suddenly, I felt flushed once more!  Run, Erik—run to the restroom before its too late!

When I returned to the tiled sanctuary, however, I felt that beastly feeling drain away from me.  False alarm, perhaps?  I spun on my heels and walked out.

Treachery!  The feeling came back in force and the demons within my stomach mustered all their strength to break free before I could re-enter the vomitorium.  Then I made my mistake.  I instinctively clapped my hands over my mouth, but the volume of fluid I was expectorating could not be held back.  Instead, imagine putting your thumb over the opening of a hose, and that’s exactly analogous to what happened to me.  A sphere of vomit emanated from me and painted the hallway a new, unsavory color that you’ll never find in Home Depot’s home improvement department.  

Checkmate, foe.  Checkmate.

I really have to go

So here I am in my new apartment. Our Internet port isn't working for some reason, however, so I've had to revert back to my pirate ways in the form of stealing someone's wireless internet connetion. Yar! I know that I'm a really, really good pirate. I even have a tooth that looks like a piece of corn (no I don't--that's a lie. I have perfect teeth).

Yesterday's trip from Duluth to the Twin Cities (140 miles) was smooth except for the fact that my body rebelled against me and decided to have an overactive bladder for the entire duration of the ride. This was for absolutely no reason, as I was barely sipping my Propel Fitness Water: Peach. I was also listening to Dane Cook, so the jocular gyrations of my tummy box was not helping the situation one durn bit. At one point the urge to egest the fiery contents of that disobediant satchel of mine was so great that I became temporarily atheistic over the great pain that I was enduring. But thanks to the grace of a lone Burger King, I was relieved of that great burden. I have seen the darkness, and now I can embrace the light once again.

Amen, O my brothers and sisters.

You can paint with all the colors of the wind...I'll just watch.

This weekend Mother Axdahl and I made the three-hour trek all the way up to Grand Marais, MN for a couple days of R&R. This is why I have been incognito. I've posted some choice pictures from the expedition at the end of this post, including a photo of a rock monkey and an image of an incoming wave before completely drenching Your Humble Narrator.

I also saw something in a restaurant in Grand Marais that I hadn't seen for years. Does anybody else remember those money-eating charity robots that used to always crop up next to gas station and restaurant cash registers?

Now, I'm not referring to the mean, money-eating robots that rove the streets nowadays—the kind that run up to you when you least expect it and laser a hole in your wallet-pocket, devouring your supply of cash in a red-eye-glare'd frenzy. Nay, I am talking about the little yellow cans with eyes and a mouth that stand patiently next to a photo of a child with blind-cell-sickle-colon-halitosis-arexia. You first put the coinage in their little disc hand and push it down in what can best be compared to a high-five with your index finger. Suddenly, the machine comes to life, eyes bobbling around, and the coin is flung directly into its robo-gullet! It then makes a show of chewing thin air in order to make it seem more human to us, but we all know that robots actually swallow their food whole. Then, in the piece de resistance, it rolls its eyes back in its head and pants its tongue as if it had just gone through the most exhilarating, currency-driven climax a robot could ever have.

I really liked those things.

Photos from the North