Happy Spookaween

Wishing you and yours a most bountiful and spookiful Halloween!

*

*Okay, if I had a full-body picture
you'd clearly see I'm a gnome
and NOT Santa Claus

Petey Pantaloons Shall Never Find His Pantaloons

If you’re the story writin’ type, check out the WriAShorStorWe feature at defective yeti.  5000 words over 5 days, starting tomorrow.  

If you’re like me, however, you’ll get a head start, write for a couple hours, and subsequently say to yourself, “That had to have been at least a good thousand words!”

*Click* Word Count *Click* 555 Words

Honestly, I do have a great deal of respect for writers who have the diligence with which to tailor great novels.  Why, even the novella or short story writer is looked up to by me.  This is because I can’t really imagine having the patience to dwell on the creation of one large, cohesive body of creative work.  Ideas usually flit about my mind with a randomness far too great for such a task.  

I started writing a short story for this week called Petey Pantaloons and the Improbable Purloin.  It was going to be great.  He was going to lose his most prized pantaloons and then go on a great journey to recover them.  Unfortunately, within the first 555 words of the story I managed to make Petey Pantaloons a hyper-active and half-naked drunkard with an addiction to opiates.  So much for that!

So for your reading displeasure, I present to you the rough-draft of the first (and only) 555 words of Petey Pantaloons and the Improbable Purloin.

On Being a Gnome

So you want to be a gnome for Halloween, eh? I applaud you for your originality and bravery. Being a gnome for Halloween is a rare occurrence—most people just cop out to Elf-hood. I warn you, however, that being a successful gnome is no small task.  Well actually it is a small task, because gnomes are only one inch tall—but you know what I mean.  One wrong move and you'll be mistaken as Santa Claus, which is the equivalent of total Halloween failure.  I, like you, have chosen to be a gnome for All Hollow’s Eve, so I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. 
 
First—your pants.  Gnomes wear canvas pants, but a crappy pair of corduroy trousers will do as well.  Make sure they're earth-tone pants, and never choose a pair with cargo pockets.  Gnomes shun the fashion statement represented by cargoes, so it’s best just to go with the regulars.  Also, be sure there are no overt pleats on your pants.  This is an infraction punishable by death in the gnome kingdom.  Overalls are permissible if you want to be that gnome (hint: nobody likes that gnome).  For shoes, wear some hiking boots or, better yet, mukluks.  

Next, let us examine appropriate torso-coverings.  Gnomes wear comfortable, loose shirts that are usually hued to green, blue, or yellow (hint: only wear a yellow shirt if you want people’s corneas to be burned out when they look at you).  Also, make sure your shirt runs on the long side, as gnomes never tuck in their shirts.  It will be necessary to obtain a belt to fasten around the perimeter of your waist on the outside of the shirt.  While this will be unhelpful in keeping your pants in the “up” state, this fashion accessory has two purposes.  First, it will prevent hernias in the case you desire to lift heavy objects (as most gnomes do).  Also, it will accentuate your fat belly, fatso.  

It is very important that you not wear a vest.  This will increase the chances of you being mistaken for Santa Claus.  

Finally, how to adorn your head-bone?  You will need a beard, of course.  Unless you wish to be a juvenile gnome, in which case why don’t you just be an elf? Also, leave my site right now.  Your beard should be carefully selected to the proper parameters of length and color.  Gnomes may only have white, shoulder-length beards.  Any longer, and you could possibly be mistaken for a gnome-wizard hybrid.  Too dark, and you’ll just look stupid.  Don’t forget the corncob pipe!  

The issue of the hat deserves its own paragraph.  Remember, you are not a gnome without a red pointy hat!  The pointy hats are what protect gnomes from acorns and twigs falling from above.  While the hat should probably be erect, a floppy hat will give the same effect (such will be the case when you cannibalize a gnome hat from a Santa hat).  

Congratulations—you’re officially a giant gnome!  Remember, everyone loves gnomes, therefore be prepared for a lot of loving.  So get out there, and put the pirates and doctors to shame!

Learn the lyrics to David the Gnome.

Bugdar

I am invisible to the radar which bugs possess...a feature which I like to call "bugdar." This is a double-edged sword.

On one hand, I never got bit once by a mosquito over the last summer.

On the other hand, flies and bees fly directly into my facial features: nose, eyes, and even mouth sometimes.

Ptooey. Watch where you're going, buddy!

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If you're a fan of Jonathan Coulton (see sidebar links), you'll love his cover of "Baby Got Back." Check it out. Or not. Or fly directly into my facial features.

And now, James Bond: My Evil Plan...

Whenever I pick up a newspaper and read an editorial written by a smoker who is up in arms about smoking bans, I can’t help but laugh a little.  It usually starts out as a soft chuckle, but invariably it crescendos to a voluminous guffaw followed maniacal cackling.  For you see, every time a smoker complains about his or her inalienable rights being trodden upon, I am once again reminded that the wheels of my evil plan are still in motion.

Sure, some people checked ‘yes’ to that referendum for the supposedly noble purpose of protecting themselves and their children from that carcinogenic haze.  I, on the other hand, had a far greater agenda in mind.  Do you think that the ban will end at standing twenty-five feet away from the entrance of an edifice to indulge yourself?  [And by indulge, I mean smoking—public displays of intercourse are still permitted and encouraged.]  Nay, it is indeed a slippery slope upon which those hapless, ‘yes’-checking minions of mine set us upon!

You see, I will personally see to it that that boundary is extended until the only areas of smoking permit will be enclosed polygons (Smoker’s Islands, if you will).  Once a large enough group of smokers congregate to such a zone, a standard-issue fishing net will be cast upon them followed by cinching the opening and raising of the net via standard-issue crane.  These addicted souls will then be trucked off to an isolation camp in International Falls, MN for treatment within the confines of barbed wire and patrolling mutant attack dogs.  

Now, this sort of rough experience might prove to be an impetus for some to “kick the habit,” so to speak.  This will not be permitted, as such was not the intent of my plan.  Nay, by “treatment,” I actually meant “brainwashing into soulless world-domination attack army.”  

Why would I want such emphysemic troops, you ask?  

I concede that having soldiers that can only run ten feet—or, three meters—before resting on a strategically placed boulder is not the optimal constituency for a legion fit for rendering the planet defenseless.  However, I make do with my lot.  You see, the population group consisting of Smokers is one of the last groups you are allowed to publicly discriminate against and still be politically correct.  In fact, my evil research shows that they are the only group that I am able to openly segregate to the point of amassing enough of them in one spot to toss a standard-issue fishing net over them.   QED, an army consisting of brainwashed smokers is a cost-effective approach to world domination.  

I mean, I’m already footing the cost of having my pupils replaced with flames.  And hey, mutant attack dogs don’t come cheap.  Don’t even get me started on the gigantic, oblong, HD-Ready hat that I’m having specially made in Amsterdam.  I need to be creative with how I finance things.  

I just don’t see how the opinionated ones are seeing through my genial, Asthmatic Boy Next Door (ABND) façade…

Caption Contest

Boy was that a fun night!

This post is about chicken

So suddenly I’m Emeril Lagassi (although I find Alton Brown much more likeable and intelligent).

In this ever unfurling collegiate saga of learning how to cook well, I have successfully completed the chapter on sautéing chicken.  Last night I took generic brand chicken breasts out of the freezer, defrosted them, and melted some butter in my frying pan.  Then, I took out the paprika and Greek seasoning and incorporated both ingredients into the chicken matrix.  I added some frozen vegetables to the mix and let that baby go for a solid 12 minutes.  What resulted from this systematic process was the plumpest, juiciest, and most tender chiggen I have ever had.  I know it wasn’t a fluke either, because I had done it before the week previous.  This particular poultry palette pleaser, however, was my finest creation.  I seriously want to make this dish for everyone in the world.

If you make this dish this week, I humbly request that you don’t call it Chicken, but rather Erik’s Meat when serving it to your friends and loved ones.  You know, in celebration of my breakthrough into actually being able to cook great tasting things.  Do not misconstrue the meaning of Erik’s Meat, either.  Let’s not mar this joyous occasion with lechery!

I intend never to cook chicken in olive oil again.  Butter.  Yes.  Butter needs to be incorporated into more aspects of my life.  Starting now.  I wonder what would happen if I were to staple a butter wrapper to one of my homework assignments.  

I think those TA’s need a little spice in their lives.

Canada does something right

Of course, the correct solution to my last post is “Student #2.”  A hearty congratulations to Rachel for conveying the correct answer to me in person.  You win!

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Last night I witnessed first hand (not vicariously through Bravo) the visual and aural explosion that is Cirque du Soleil’s Corteo.  Never have I seen a more beautiful display of music and physics intertwined.  I dare say that my mouth was agape during the entire production!

Indeed, it was!

I informed my companion the day before the show that I would be dressing up.  I really don’t need much of an excuse to dress up, which I feel is an unusual trait compared to other guys my age.  

Cocktail Party?  I have a black shirt, black suit, and burgundy tie just for the occasion.  

Cirque du Soleil?  I’ll opt for the black suit, white shirt combo without tie and top button unbuttoned.  

Clubbing?  I have a white leisure suit with purple shirt and gold chains.  In addition, I’ll also add in a chest hair prosthesis to create the illusion that I’m bursting with it.  

All true except for the last one.  The last time I went to a club I’m pretty sure that I looked like a fish out of water.

Three Dumb Engineering Students Talk About Nothing

Just in case you were wondering, this is what the next generation of aircraft and spacecraft designers talk about amongst themselves during their free time.  I’ll admit that I am one of these students.  

Be very afraid?

Student #1 pulls a package of pop tarts from his backpack.

2: [Student #1], yet again, eats a Strawberry pop tart for breakfast.

1: You bet your sweet ass I am.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Only on Mondays and Wednesdays, though.

Student #2 extracts a squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his backpack

3: See, [#2], that’s why you should be eating pop tarts instead of peanut butter and jelly.  Pop tarts can’t get squished any more than they already are.  Anyways, a strawberry pop tart is basically the same as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—just without the peanut butter.  

2: Kind of like an incompressible peanut butter and jelly sandwich? [This is a reference to course material learned in class that day. –ed]

1: [laughs] As long as you put peanut butter frosting on the pop tart.

3: Have you ever eaten an Uncrustable?  I bet that if you compressed that, you’d get a pop tart.  

1: And if you compressed it past its Schwarzschild radius, it’ll turn into a black hole—a pop tart singularity.  

3: That’d be awesome.

2: Yeah, but how would you eat it then?

1: Good point.

3: [laughs]

2: [snickers]

1: [laughs] We should really be shot.

As long as people are making up games nowadays, the first person to guess which student is me gets seven minutes in heaven—with me!  The next time you’re in Minneapolis, that is.

Why Hello There Cough Hack Cough Wheeze Cough Cough

The elevator doors open and I step inside. Standing next to me is a very beautiful girl: squiggly blonde hair, probable back dimples...you know, the works.

Play it cool, Erik.

I lean against the rear of the elevator while bracing myself in a model-esque fasion.

Hair gently brushed out of eyes? Check. Genial expression? Check. Deoderant? Check.

She smiles and I return her token.

Then I breathe in some saliva down my windpipe and enter into that uncontrollable cough of expectoration that not even the Gods can stop.

Cross off one more prospective date from the woman list of the world.

A Plea

Oh sweet Jezebel I have the urge to floss so bad and I can't find any floss anywhere. Somebody please help me.

Help me, Jesus.

EDIT: Found some. Thank you, Jesus.

Who Wins When It's Squirrel vs. Hawk?

I would be remiss to not tell you what just happened. It was one of the most amazingly cool things I've seen in awhile.

On the way back to my apartment from class I am required to walk through what's called the Knoll Area. It's basically an part of campus where there's, well, knolls and trees surrounded by classroom buildings on one side and the fence separating the University from Dinkytown on the other side. In the Knoll Area lives a community of squirrels with distinct, peculiar social qualities (see Tuesday's post).

This morning I was approaching this area and witnessed something that I haven't seen on campus before: a hawk. He flew in and out of view and I had already forgotten that I'd seen him by the time I arrived at the Knoll. As I was walking, however, I saw him again, so I stopped to watch what he was up to.

He was harassing a poor squirrel, but couldn't quite nab him. So he sat in a nearby tree and waited for the next opportunity to catch what he deemed his prey. Suddenly, he swoops in and tackles the squirrel, bracing him in his talons while sitting in the grass. He just sat there, wings outstretched, doing what looked like some sort of a choking maneuver. To add insult to injury, he even pecked at the furry little guy once or twice.

Now, I'm empathetic towards animals. I'm definitely not the "hunter" type—I always feel depressed when I see one come to harm. So I was feeling pretty bad for the squirrel, but I let nature run its course, and so also were the handful of people that had stopped to watch this heartbreaking spectacle.

But then something amazing, daring, and outright hilarious happened.

A squirrel that had been watching this all go down from a nearby tree sprung in to action. He leaped from his branch and quickly bounded towards the hawk with all the aggression that one can possibly exude while bounding. Once at the scene, he lept towards the hawk. Now, all the hawk would have had to do was deliver one, good peck to the head and the agressor would have been off his back. But no, the hawk—most likely dazed and confused—tried to make his escape with his prey. Unfortunately for him it proved too heavy, so he dropped his victim and flew into a nearby tree. But it didn't end there. The daring hero ran up into the tree after the predator and subsequently spooked the hawk so much that he flew right out of the Knoll Area, possibly never to be seen again.

Of course, my attention was drawn to the little furry lump laying in the grass where the hawk was previously. I was happy to see, however, that lump finally stir, sit up, spin around in circles, and slowly bound around in what appared to be an uninjured, albeit sore, manner.

Furry, Forgetful Little Knoll Squirrels: 1
Hawk With Sharp Beak and Talons: 0

Here Comes the Tickle Monster

If I were a movie star action-hero, I’d want my moniker to be “The Tickle Monster.”

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t go around tickling people or anything. Rather, I’d have all the cool guns and stuff and the prowess towards manipulating technological devices. I choose this name mostly because of the fear it would strike into the heart of every villain in Minneapolis. I mean, who doesn’t have that twisted memory from childhood of your parents outside of your bedroom taunting, “Heeeere comes the TICKLE MONSTER!” while you jump up and down on your bed in an anxiety-stricken manner at the prospect of such a terrible, ticklish fate.

Or was that just my childhood?

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“Sir, I hate to interrupt your devilishly good world-takeover plans, but the TICKLE MONSTER has penetrated our defenses and he’s on his way to this very control room!”

“Eeeeee! Re-route all power from the laser to my electric blanket! Where’s my teddy? I surrender!”

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Plus, I’d have the best catch-phrase ever. Right before finishing off the villain, the camera would pan real close to my face and I’d grunt, “Tickle Tickle, M***** F*****.”

And that kind language would be okay because it’s an R-rated movie.

Merging Nature with Tortilla

So I’m walking back to my apartment from lab when I hear a small nose in the grass next to me…

Click-click……click-click……crunch-munch…

I stop in my tracks, look down, and what do I see but a little brown squirrel with glassy eyes who’s sitting on his haunches and staring right at me.  However, not only is he staring at me, but he’s also munching a delicious tortilla chip clutched in his paws…and barely making a dent in the snack to boot.  

Now even though I hadn’t had a proper meal yet and was hungry, I let the squirrel keep his treat.  After staring him down and wishing I had a camera with which to document this funny image, he bounded off with his mass-produced yum-yum.  

I can picture it now.  The squirrel bounced off to some shady spot and got full from the chip after two more squirrel bites.  Then, thinking that the chip was just some sort of funny shaped nut, he went to his nut burying area to bury the 99% of the tortilla he couldn’t finish.  Unfortunately, in true squirrel form, he’ll forget where he buried the tortilla chip for later consumption.  Therefore, in the next year or so, somewhere on the University of Minnesota campus you’ll find a tortilla tree sapling struggling to make its way in the world.

And in its sage years it will bear delicious, corn-based fruits for man and squirrel alike.

…

Is it bad that I’m dedicating a whole post to fanatical conjectures based on a chance encounter with a squirrel munching a tortilla chip?  

Barry Marshall

This year’s Golden Calf Award for Kickass Awesomeness goes to recent Nobel Prize winner Dr. Barry Marshall.

Barry Marshall, along with his colleague Robin Warren, proved that stomach ulcers are caused by the bacterium Helicobacter pylori, not stress “you idiots,” (His words, not mine). Of course, this finding was initially viewed with skepticism by the scientific community.  I mean, how the heck can bacteria survive in the harsh environment of the stomach lining?  So you know what Barry did to prove them wrong?

He freaking swallowed the contents of a petri-dish containing a H. pylori culture—and subsequently got a stomach ulcer!

I mean, holy cow—this guy is awesome.  His discovery was pretty cool, too. But I think he deserves the Nobel Prize, and also the GCAKA, for being the best pirate ever as well.

Note: it is inconclusive as to if he is actually a pirate.  But empirical evidence of his actions likely point to the conclusion of privateering on the side.

Don't judge me!

I love peaches, and I shouldn't have to justify my adoration for them.

I just got back from the store and I came back with White Cranberry Juice with Peach and Peach Fresca and if they made Kool Aid: Peach Explosion I would have bought that as well. Instead, I bought Black Cherry, the queen of the Kool Aides. Peach would be king.

I also have four cans of sliced peaches in my cupboard. Del Monte, you know. I always keep one on refridgerated reserve.

What is it about peaches that makes me as giddy as Roberto Benini and desirous to release doves from a pink zeppelin with a smiley face painted on one side and gorilla silhouette splashed on the other? This I can not explain, nor should I be required to. The important thing is I'm devoted.

I reslish the memory of the last peach I sank my cuspids into. The one with that tender, fuzzy outer layer holding in that sweet, succulent meat. Even the core is exciting, as it contains trace amounts of cyanide. When you're done eating the peach, you can play Secret Agent with the peach pit in your mouth and bite down on it when you're captured by the Soviets.

Me, John McCain, and Dennis Rodman

I’m a maverick, baby, not nothing can hold be back down.

What’s this? Take a Penny, Leave a Penny? How’s about I take two pennies with which to pay the cashier.  Yeah, that’s right.  And I’m not going to leave a penny, either.  As a matter of fact, I’m going to take yet another penny for my own personal use.

Hey, Squirrel!  Yeah, you!  What’s the matter—forget where you buried your nuts?  Oh boy, you sure look dumb bounding around trying to remember where you buried your nuts.  Why don’t you…uh…remember where you buried your nuts?  Haha!  I’m cool.  

What’s this, a one hour parking zone?  I think I’ll park here for two and a half hours, thank you very much.  What are you going to do about it, huh?  Oh…I guess you’ll leave a parking ticket on my windshield.  Well played.  Oh, wait—I’m a maverick!  I wish I could see their faces when they open up that envelope and find $34.00 in Monopoly money.  I am the best maverick ever.

The Privateer President

If I were the President of the United States (and also a Pirate Captain)…

…I would advocate a “Creationism- and Abstinence-only” curriculum in our public schools, where “Abstinence-only” = “Basic Lechery” and “Creationism” = “Stabbing Britons 101.”

…Paper money would be outlawed in favor of coin- and doubloon-only currency.  Also, I would get rid of pennies because they take up too much space.  Furthermore, all prices must be divisible by 5 so my no-pennies policy is not encroached upon.  

…I would re-invigorate the space program.  All astronauts will be required to wear tricorn hats either on their heads or on top of their helmets.  

…Every family in New Orleans would be issued standard pirate regalia and a schooner in order to facilitate more efficient looting.  

…Wallets and purses would be outlawed.  All doubloons must be towed in (3x1x2)’ Victorian chests.  

…I would ensure a 1:5 dancing organ grinder monkey to person ratio.  

…The welfare system would be reformed.  Food stamps will be eliminated and rations of bread, salted meat, rum, and lemons will be dispensed in their stead.  

…IRS audits would be done away with.  Instead, suspected tax evaders would have their houses pillaged in what I would gleefully and cacklingly call a “maraudit.”