Note to textbook authors:
When discussing the fundamental equation of Prandtl's lifting-line theory, don't start off with the phrase "It simply states..."
Believe me. It doesn't simply state a damned thing. Really. I promise.
(for anyone who's curious, what's apparently simply stated is that the 'geometric angle of attack is equal to the sum of the effective angle plus the induced angle.' This is "simply" stated by using 8+ variables and an integral here and there.)
Next on the list of 'phrases not to use' would definitely have to be the infamous "you may be asking yourself..."
In this particular case, I may be asking myself "what are the aerodynamic properties of a finite wing with an elliptical lift distribution?"
Good lord, textbook dude! You couldn't be more wrong. It's a fucking good thing this isn't a game show or you'd be SOL. The correct answer, for $5,000, is that I'm asking myself if I really neeeeeeed a degree.
Lastly, textbook people, don't use the word "interesting" if you don't mean it. An excellent example of this would be the following statement:
"The above equation states the interesting result that the downwash is constant over the span for an elliptical lift distribution."
Really, it's false advertising of the rest of the sentence. It's like I'm being tricked into reading the rest. And I DON'T like to be tricked, Mr. Textbook Man.
7.24.2004
7.23.2004
My Nearest Death Experience
Okay, I have a story. I feel like this story needs to be told not only for the profound lessons it imparts, but also because I don't feel like doing my homework.
That being said, here is My Nearest Death Experience:
(note, the names are changed, but the names aren't really changed.)
It was a dark, overcast day. Some friends and I decided to go see a movie. Ryan, Brian, Kai and I (wow, that rhymes nicely!) decided to set out for the theater. We knew what we wanted to see, and we knew where we wanted to go. Only one question remained: should we invite Josh?
Now Josh was... well, Josh had a bit of a temper. He was a great guy. Really funny. All around class act when he wasn't trying to kill you. And I don't mean that in a facetious or exaggerated manner. He really was a homicidal maniac waiting to happen. But man, could he ever kick some ass on Super Smash Brothers. When that announcer screamed "Melee!" you could always count on some hilarious commentary from his end. Until he lost and slammed you into the wall, that was.
We were in the mood for a stress and death-free evening, so we decided to leave him out. We met at the seedy bowling alley, as usual, and piled into Brian's car, leaving my car, and Ryan's car, there. Kai was to meet up with the three of us at the theater.
The movie was fine. The post-movie ice cream was fine. We were on top of the world... until we walked back to our cars under the cover of night.
We reached Kai's car first. On it was the kind of note you never wanted to see:
"Thanks for not inviting me."
The words were scrawled in what has henceforth been known amongst our group as 'serial-killer penmanship.' Beneath the words was a picture. Just as we were trying to decipher the crudely drawn picture, our attention was drawn to a noise off in the distance.
Like a bat out of hell, a car across the lot came to life. The headlights, turned directly at us, nearly blinded us as an engine revved. The tires squealed as it careened towards us.
We scattered in all directions as the car slammed to a halt. Out jumped Josh. "Thanks for inviting me, assholes. THANKS FOR INVITING ME!" he screamed. We backed away as he focused his anger on Kai.
Now, perhaps I should mention that Josh was by no means a tiny man. The approximate formula for 1 Josh under ideal conditions, at standard temperature and pressure is:
2 Ryan's + 1 Kai + 1 Candice - 2/3 Brian. Multiplied by pi, of course.
So you can see that we were in serious trouble. But back to the story.
Josh focused his gaze on Kai as Brian and I began backing away. Kai inched towards his car with intense caution. Ranting and raving like a 6 ton lunatic, Josh slammed his fists into the hood of Kai's Land Rover. He meant business and we were terrified. Josh grabbed onto a sapling and shook it violently, nearly uprooting it. Kai and Brian took the opportunity to dash to their respective cars. I inched towards Brian's car, but Ryan, being the model-UN kinda guy he was, was on a suicide mission to talk some sense into Josh.
"Run Candice!" Brian screamed as he started up his Saturn sedan. "Forget Ryan! He's dead to us now, woman! DEAD TO US!"
I had to make a decision. Should I risk my life to stay near Ryan, knowing full well that there was nothing I could do to stop Josh's madness? Or should I take the cowards way, I mean, um... Brian's way, and run to the safety of the car?
I bolted.
As soon as I jumped in, Brian slammed the car into gear and locked the doors. I thought about shedding a lone tear for Ryan, until I realized that I never liked him that much.
I turned around to see him one last time.
Josh lifted up his mighty fist as if to strike Ryan. But at the last moment, he opened his fist. His keys were flung into the brick wall, landing in a mass of shrubbery.
While Josh lumbered over to pick up his keys, Ryan decided it was time to cut his losses and bolted towards Brian's car.
"OPEN THE GODDAMNED DOOR YOU STUPID JACKASSES!" he screamed.
"MY BAD!" Brian yelled back in apology as he unlocked the car door.
As he frantically climbed in, we took off. Kai drove around the front of the theater, while we took the back way. Nearly crashing into each other where our paths met, we floored it onto the highway, ignoring the bright red stoplights. Surely reckless driving was less risky than having Josh catch up to us. We took a long detour, all around Tampa, to prevent Josh from following us home.
When we finally returned to the bowling alley, we were too terrified get out of the car. We made several rounds of the parking lot- there was no Josh to be found.
"Don't leave until you see us safely get into our cars, okay, Brian?" I asked.
"I wouldn't dream of it." he replied, reassuringly.
Comforted, Ryan and I lept out of the car, secret-agent style, and flew to our respective vehicles. Meanwhile, Brian sped off laughing maniacally.
Everything was fine, amazingly enough. There were no creepy notes, there was no Josh. Our tires weren't slashed and there was no visible graffiti.
I talked to Ryan the next day. Did he make it home okay? Was Josh waiting for him at his house? Was he hospitalized?
"Yeah, Josh came over." he said calmly. "We talked about it over some cereal. He was just feeling a little left out."
And that's it. That's the end of that adventure. What kind of crappy ending is that? I don't know. But that's how it went down. It's almost surreal thinking back on it. Brian, Ryan and I have sat around and chewed the fat on that one many times since. Would he have killed us if we hadn't gotten away so fast? I don't know. But he was ALWAYS invited after that.
That being said, here is My Nearest Death Experience:
(note, the names are changed, but the names aren't really changed.)
It was a dark, overcast day. Some friends and I decided to go see a movie. Ryan, Brian, Kai and I (wow, that rhymes nicely!) decided to set out for the theater. We knew what we wanted to see, and we knew where we wanted to go. Only one question remained: should we invite Josh?
Now Josh was... well, Josh had a bit of a temper. He was a great guy. Really funny. All around class act when he wasn't trying to kill you. And I don't mean that in a facetious or exaggerated manner. He really was a homicidal maniac waiting to happen. But man, could he ever kick some ass on Super Smash Brothers. When that announcer screamed "Melee!" you could always count on some hilarious commentary from his end. Until he lost and slammed you into the wall, that was.
We were in the mood for a stress and death-free evening, so we decided to leave him out. We met at the seedy bowling alley, as usual, and piled into Brian's car, leaving my car, and Ryan's car, there. Kai was to meet up with the three of us at the theater.
The movie was fine. The post-movie ice cream was fine. We were on top of the world... until we walked back to our cars under the cover of night.
We reached Kai's car first. On it was the kind of note you never wanted to see:
"Thanks for not inviting me."
The words were scrawled in what has henceforth been known amongst our group as 'serial-killer penmanship.' Beneath the words was a picture. Just as we were trying to decipher the crudely drawn picture, our attention was drawn to a noise off in the distance.
Like a bat out of hell, a car across the lot came to life. The headlights, turned directly at us, nearly blinded us as an engine revved. The tires squealed as it careened towards us.
We scattered in all directions as the car slammed to a halt. Out jumped Josh. "Thanks for inviting me, assholes. THANKS FOR INVITING ME!" he screamed. We backed away as he focused his anger on Kai.
Now, perhaps I should mention that Josh was by no means a tiny man. The approximate formula for 1 Josh under ideal conditions, at standard temperature and pressure is:
2 Ryan's + 1 Kai + 1 Candice - 2/3 Brian. Multiplied by pi, of course.
So you can see that we were in serious trouble. But back to the story.
Josh focused his gaze on Kai as Brian and I began backing away. Kai inched towards his car with intense caution. Ranting and raving like a 6 ton lunatic, Josh slammed his fists into the hood of Kai's Land Rover. He meant business and we were terrified. Josh grabbed onto a sapling and shook it violently, nearly uprooting it. Kai and Brian took the opportunity to dash to their respective cars. I inched towards Brian's car, but Ryan, being the model-UN kinda guy he was, was on a suicide mission to talk some sense into Josh.
"Run Candice!" Brian screamed as he started up his Saturn sedan. "Forget Ryan! He's dead to us now, woman! DEAD TO US!"
I had to make a decision. Should I risk my life to stay near Ryan, knowing full well that there was nothing I could do to stop Josh's madness? Or should I take the cowards way, I mean, um... Brian's way, and run to the safety of the car?
I bolted.
As soon as I jumped in, Brian slammed the car into gear and locked the doors. I thought about shedding a lone tear for Ryan, until I realized that I never liked him that much.
I turned around to see him one last time.
Josh lifted up his mighty fist as if to strike Ryan. But at the last moment, he opened his fist. His keys were flung into the brick wall, landing in a mass of shrubbery.
While Josh lumbered over to pick up his keys, Ryan decided it was time to cut his losses and bolted towards Brian's car.
"OPEN THE GODDAMNED DOOR YOU STUPID JACKASSES!" he screamed.
"MY BAD!" Brian yelled back in apology as he unlocked the car door.
As he frantically climbed in, we took off. Kai drove around the front of the theater, while we took the back way. Nearly crashing into each other where our paths met, we floored it onto the highway, ignoring the bright red stoplights. Surely reckless driving was less risky than having Josh catch up to us. We took a long detour, all around Tampa, to prevent Josh from following us home.
When we finally returned to the bowling alley, we were too terrified get out of the car. We made several rounds of the parking lot- there was no Josh to be found.
"Don't leave until you see us safely get into our cars, okay, Brian?" I asked.
"I wouldn't dream of it." he replied, reassuringly.
Comforted, Ryan and I lept out of the car, secret-agent style, and flew to our respective vehicles. Meanwhile, Brian sped off laughing maniacally.
Everything was fine, amazingly enough. There were no creepy notes, there was no Josh. Our tires weren't slashed and there was no visible graffiti.
I talked to Ryan the next day. Did he make it home okay? Was Josh waiting for him at his house? Was he hospitalized?
"Yeah, Josh came over." he said calmly. "We talked about it over some cereal. He was just feeling a little left out."
And that's it. That's the end of that adventure. What kind of crappy ending is that? I don't know. But that's how it went down. It's almost surreal thinking back on it. Brian, Ryan and I have sat around and chewed the fat on that one many times since. Would he have killed us if we hadn't gotten away so fast? I don't know. But he was ALWAYS invited after that.
Gettin' Lei-ed at the county fair
Apparently, Planned Parenthood has been taking some flak in the bustling metropolis of Medford, Oregon. It seems that they were handing out free condoms to teenagers at the county fair. Oh, but that's not all. That by itself, you see, is permissible. The outrage comes in when they arrange those condoms into decoratively sinful neckware.
At first, I was outraged at the outrage. What are they worried about? That a beer-swilling celebration of the turnip harvest might be demeaned by an honest discussion about STD awareness accompanied by a clever activity?
But soon, a local set me on the straight and narrow:
Slam dunk for Ms Wilkenson! Obviously, the problem isn't with the condoms or the necklace idea. Discussing safe sex with teenagers isn't the issue. You just have to find an appropriate venue. Location, location, location! Teenage girls should be making their condom leis at truck stops and bars! Where's your common sense, planned parenthood?!?
Count me as officially outraged at my original outrage over the outrage. Oh yeah, and you better believe that and I'm boycotting Planned Parenthood too, or something. As soon as I get me a free necklace.
At first, I was outraged at the outrage. What are they worried about? That a beer-swilling celebration of the turnip harvest might be demeaned by an honest discussion about STD awareness accompanied by a clever activity?
But soon, a local set me on the straight and narrow:
The presence of condoms at the fair outraged Niquita Wilkinson, 45, of Eagle Point. She said she saw two teenage girls stringing condom necklaces Tuesday night.
"It's not a bar, it's not a truck stop, it's not a bowling alley," said Wilkinson.
Slam dunk for Ms Wilkenson! Obviously, the problem isn't with the condoms or the necklace idea. Discussing safe sex with teenagers isn't the issue. You just have to find an appropriate venue. Location, location, location! Teenage girls should be making their condom leis at truck stops and bars! Where's your common sense, planned parenthood?!?
Count me as officially outraged at my original outrage over the outrage. Oh yeah, and you better believe that and I'm boycotting Planned Parenthood too, or something. As soon as I get me a free necklace.
7.19.2004
Correction to the "Oh, Arnie" post
It has been brought to my attention by an alert chicken reader that the term "chick" (when referring to chickens) IS actually derogatory.
Apparently, fowl do not appreciate having the same moniker as women as they feel it imposes a pansy-like image upon chicken kind.
You see, it could devolve into comments that a bird "throws like a girl" or even "cries like a girl." From there, it's a slippery slope to the utmost insult that they giggle and/or blush like "schoolgirls."
Before you know it, all manner of poultry might actually be respected less than women. You see the dire situation, I'm sure.
Apparently, fowl do not appreciate having the same moniker as women as they feel it imposes a pansy-like image upon chicken kind.
You see, it could devolve into comments that a bird "throws like a girl" or even "cries like a girl." From there, it's a slippery slope to the utmost insult that they giggle and/or blush like "schoolgirls."
Before you know it, all manner of poultry might actually be respected less than women. You see the dire situation, I'm sure.
His cheating [artichoke] heart
My husband, Mr. Wankershanks, and I frequent the local produce stand. It's a small place, only about 4 employees, you see. So they know our faces more or less, and we know theirs. Recently, I went produce shopping by myself. It really isn't a two-person job, and Mr. W was tired. So off I went.
As soon as I walked in the door, I could tell something was amiss. askew. catawampus, even. Instead of the friendly, heavily accented, "hello!" I usually receive, I was given a mere sideways glance and a friendly, if uncomfortable, nod. Okay, okay, someone's having a rough day. Perhaps that days eggplant shipment wasn't up to snuff. Who wouldn't be thrown off?
But it only got weirder.
"How is your boyfriend?" the owner asked me.
"Oh, uh, he's fine. He was a bit tired so he didn't want to come shopping today." I replied, thinking this to be a perfectly reasonable answer.
"aaaaaa..." he said, looking grim. "aaaaa haaaaaaaaa. I seeeeeeeeee."
Yeah. Okay Mr. Produce Man. The eggplant doesn't look that bad. Let it go.
But still, it got weirder.
When I finally reached the counter with my colorful array of bell peppers, tomatoes and citrus in tow, I was treated to a similar expression of concern by the cashier. What sort of strict produce-buying ettiquette could I have possibly sullied? Did I smell? More than usual? No, no I didn't. Then what could it be?
"Sooooooooooo" she began with a bang. "How is your, erm, brooooother?"
"Brother? I don't have a brother. You must mean my husband."
"Oh noooooooo!" she exclaimed with a look of pure horror. "He said he was your brother!"
"No, no. That's not possible. You must have mistaken him for someone else." I reassured her.
"Oh nooooooooo!" she repeated with a look that can only be descibed as tremendous pity overrun by morbid curiosity and a thirst. for. blood.
"He said he was your brother! He was in here with..." she dropped to a low, tantalizing whisper... "ANOTHER WOMAN!"
"Oh. Well. Um. I really don't think that's possible," I said. But it was too late. She was hot on the trail of that adulterous, produce-loving husband of mine.
"Oh dear. Oh dear. Now I've gotten him in... TROUBLE! Oh dear. I am sooooo sorry!"
Well, I appreciate the apologetic attempt to cover up the fact that you're a gossip hungry green pepper pusher. But really, I'll be okay.
So, I went home unsure what to do with this new knowledge. Clearly my loving husband, who would rather die than give up his video game time for another human being, was the worst 'player' in the world. Obviously, he had swept some poor woman off her feet by dazzling her with his knowledge of mangoes, and taken her to the one place in orlando where he would be instantly recognized by the staff. But, then again, what saucy mistress could resist a hot date filled with animalistic papaya-lust?
Touche, produce lady. Touche.
As soon as I walked in the door, I could tell something was amiss. askew. catawampus, even. Instead of the friendly, heavily accented, "hello!" I usually receive, I was given a mere sideways glance and a friendly, if uncomfortable, nod. Okay, okay, someone's having a rough day. Perhaps that days eggplant shipment wasn't up to snuff. Who wouldn't be thrown off?
But it only got weirder.
"How is your boyfriend?" the owner asked me.
"Oh, uh, he's fine. He was a bit tired so he didn't want to come shopping today." I replied, thinking this to be a perfectly reasonable answer.
"aaaaaa..." he said, looking grim. "aaaaa haaaaaaaaa. I seeeeeeeeee."
Yeah. Okay Mr. Produce Man. The eggplant doesn't look that bad. Let it go.
But still, it got weirder.
When I finally reached the counter with my colorful array of bell peppers, tomatoes and citrus in tow, I was treated to a similar expression of concern by the cashier. What sort of strict produce-buying ettiquette could I have possibly sullied? Did I smell? More than usual? No, no I didn't. Then what could it be?
"Sooooooooooo" she began with a bang. "How is your, erm, brooooother?"
"Brother? I don't have a brother. You must mean my husband."
"Oh noooooooo!" she exclaimed with a look of pure horror. "He said he was your brother!"
"No, no. That's not possible. You must have mistaken him for someone else." I reassured her.
"Oh nooooooooo!" she repeated with a look that can only be descibed as tremendous pity overrun by morbid curiosity and a thirst. for. blood.
"He said he was your brother! He was in here with..." she dropped to a low, tantalizing whisper... "ANOTHER WOMAN!"
"Oh. Well. Um. I really don't think that's possible," I said. But it was too late. She was hot on the trail of that adulterous, produce-loving husband of mine.
"Oh dear. Oh dear. Now I've gotten him in... TROUBLE! Oh dear. I am sooooo sorry!"
Well, I appreciate the apologetic attempt to cover up the fact that you're a gossip hungry green pepper pusher. But really, I'll be okay.
So, I went home unsure what to do with this new knowledge. Clearly my loving husband, who would rather die than give up his video game time for another human being, was the worst 'player' in the world. Obviously, he had swept some poor woman off her feet by dazzling her with his knowledge of mangoes, and taken her to the one place in orlando where he would be instantly recognized by the staff. But, then again, what saucy mistress could resist a hot date filled with animalistic papaya-lust?
Touche, produce lady. Touche.
Oh, Arnie
Believe it or not, folks, California's macho man governor made a sexist remark... and isn't sorry for it either, you snivelling, weak-willed feminists!
It's a good thing I'm not a woman, or I might be offended.
Wait a minute...
Oh, Arnie. You got me there!
For anyone who's given up following the astounding displays of assholery and general contempt for women that Governor Testosterone is remarkably proficient in, please see the following:
Behold the greatest insult a 5-year old has ever created!
That's right. He done called union supporters "girlie men." Now, I've come to expect from him the kind of stupidity that would allow him to view the words "girl" and "weak" as being synonymous. That's really not news to me. But using those terms towards UNION folk? That's a can of whoop-ass that even the terminator shouldn't be opening.
But the real tragedy in this sordid affair- the overlooked minutiae of this story-
is that
this speech
was delivered
IN A FOOD COURT!
Oh, snap! Even I wouldn't deign to deliver a speech in a flipping food court!
But sadly, that tidbit seems to have been passed over by all but me. I guess that's what you pay me for, right? To see through the glitz and glamour of glaring homophobia and sexism and dig in to the meat of the matter.
Literally.
Perhaps he confused the mall's Chik-fi-la with something a bit more raunchy. Really, how's an overly hormonal republi-thug to know that some people use "chick" in it's original, non-derogatory manner? (spelling issues, aside.) Next thing you know, someone will be using the term "bitch" to refer to, oh... I dunno, a dog?
I know, I know. I've really gone off the deep end here.
It's a good thing I'm not a woman, or I might be offended.
Wait a minute...
Oh, Arnie. You got me there!
For anyone who's given up following the astounding displays of assholery and general contempt for women that Governor Testosterone is remarkably proficient in, please see the following:
Behold the greatest insult a 5-year old has ever created!
That's right. He done called union supporters "girlie men." Now, I've come to expect from him the kind of stupidity that would allow him to view the words "girl" and "weak" as being synonymous. That's really not news to me. But using those terms towards UNION folk? That's a can of whoop-ass that even the terminator shouldn't be opening.
But the real tragedy in this sordid affair- the overlooked minutiae of this story-
is that
this speech
was delivered
IN A FOOD COURT!
Oh, snap! Even I wouldn't deign to deliver a speech in a flipping food court!
But sadly, that tidbit seems to have been passed over by all but me. I guess that's what you pay me for, right? To see through the glitz and glamour of glaring homophobia and sexism and dig in to the meat of the matter.
Literally.
Perhaps he confused the mall's Chik-fi-la with something a bit more raunchy. Really, how's an overly hormonal republi-thug to know that some people use "chick" in it's original, non-derogatory manner? (spelling issues, aside.) Next thing you know, someone will be using the term "bitch" to refer to, oh... I dunno, a dog?
I know, I know. I've really gone off the deep end here.
7.17.2004
The glories of the internet
Who said the internet never did nothin for you?
An alert reader named Flavian recently sent me this link, where you can send someone a personalized phone message from the one-and-only Hilary Duff. Get to it, people!
edited because blogspot is being screwy and the link won't work. It's www.acinderellastory.com. You'll just have to copy and paste it for now. I promise it won't kill you, you lazy buggers.
An alert reader named Flavian recently sent me this link, where you can send someone a personalized phone message from the one-and-only Hilary Duff. Get to it, people!
edited because blogspot is being screwy and the link won't work. It's www.acinderellastory.com. You'll just have to copy and paste it for now. I promise it won't kill you, you lazy buggers.
7.16.2004
Another PSA from Brian:
Regarding the last post:
-Brian
Okay, so my memory isn't perfect, people! I just combine you all into one big "friend." Today I call you Ryan, maybe tomorrow I'll call you Flavian. Just roll with it.
YOU SON OF A BITCH, THAT WAS ME NOT RYAN
-Brian
Okay, so my memory isn't perfect, people! I just combine you all into one big "friend." Today I call you Ryan, maybe tomorrow I'll call you Flavian. Just roll with it.
Back by popular demand!
Okay, not really "popular demand," per say. But at the request of a faithful, anonymous reader (aka, Ryan Kent) I will continue the series of strange but true stories involving my dear friend, 'Ryan.'
This time, our phantasmagoric (yes, it is a word) journey begins at a small suburban/rural high school on the north side of Tampa, Florida. There were birds chirping and children laughing... all unaware of the struggle that was about to unfold.
"Run, Phil! RUUUUUUUUUN!" We screamed at the portly, taco-weilding teenager as he darted amongst the enveloping foliage. Before long, the trees completely shielded him from our sights. Ryan and I would soon know what had become of him- no matter how grisly his fate. Would he emerge triumphant? Tacos in hand and running towards the saftey of the physics class room? Or would he be caught by the ever-watchful guards and made to suffer a horrible fate? Only time would tell.
Before I continue, perhaps I ought to explain a few minor details. Just a little insight on the "artistic license" I've taken with this story, you see. First of all, by "enveloping foliage" I am, of course, referring to the sparse landscaping around the school. A few spindly trees and some shrubbery, mostly. When I say he was "completely shielded from our sights" you must understand that, well, he was taking A LONG time to run and see, Ryan's attention span isn't all that great. Nor is mine. So we probably just stopped watching in favor of, I don't know, punching each other. Or something.
The "ever watchful guards" clearly refers to the two pimple faced freshman who were sitting at the kiosk to make sure no students left the school for lunch. And the "horrible fate" that Phil may have suffered? Well, being forced to bribe the afforementioned freshman really did suck. I mean, who wants to hand over a taco to some glorified hall monitor? Not I.
But back to the drama.
"Please, Phil. You... can... DO... this!" I whispered to myself, or perhaps to god. This was clearly out of my hands.
As the midday sun beat down upon the land, he emerged from the trees! Could it be? Was it really Taco Phil? Or was this just a cruel mirage?
It was him. As he darted and wove towards the physics classroom, I could physically feel the pride emanating off his glistening body. The pride... and the stink. I'm not kidding, it was like a wall of funk, people. And you better know it was all over the tacos.
God damn it, Taco Phil.
This time, our phantasmagoric (yes, it is a word) journey begins at a small suburban/rural high school on the north side of Tampa, Florida. There were birds chirping and children laughing... all unaware of the struggle that was about to unfold.
"Run, Phil! RUUUUUUUUUN!" We screamed at the portly, taco-weilding teenager as he darted amongst the enveloping foliage. Before long, the trees completely shielded him from our sights. Ryan and I would soon know what had become of him- no matter how grisly his fate. Would he emerge triumphant? Tacos in hand and running towards the saftey of the physics class room? Or would he be caught by the ever-watchful guards and made to suffer a horrible fate? Only time would tell.
Before I continue, perhaps I ought to explain a few minor details. Just a little insight on the "artistic license" I've taken with this story, you see. First of all, by "enveloping foliage" I am, of course, referring to the sparse landscaping around the school. A few spindly trees and some shrubbery, mostly. When I say he was "completely shielded from our sights" you must understand that, well, he was taking A LONG time to run and see, Ryan's attention span isn't all that great. Nor is mine. So we probably just stopped watching in favor of, I don't know, punching each other. Or something.
The "ever watchful guards" clearly refers to the two pimple faced freshman who were sitting at the kiosk to make sure no students left the school for lunch. And the "horrible fate" that Phil may have suffered? Well, being forced to bribe the afforementioned freshman really did suck. I mean, who wants to hand over a taco to some glorified hall monitor? Not I.
But back to the drama.
"Please, Phil. You... can... DO... this!" I whispered to myself, or perhaps to god. This was clearly out of my hands.
As the midday sun beat down upon the land, he emerged from the trees! Could it be? Was it really Taco Phil? Or was this just a cruel mirage?
It was him. As he darted and wove towards the physics classroom, I could physically feel the pride emanating off his glistening body. The pride... and the stink. I'm not kidding, it was like a wall of funk, people. And you better know it was all over the tacos.
God damn it, Taco Phil.
Save your soul! And leave the booty for me!
This was brought to my attention at a message board that I frequent:
Left Behind
A Novel of the Earth's Last Days
Passengers aboard a Boeing 747 en route to Europe disappear. Instantly. Nothing remains except their rumpled piles of clothes, jewelry, fillings, surgical pins, and the like. All over the world, in a flash, cars are left unmanned.Terror and chaos continues worldwide as the cataclysm unfolds. For those left behind, the apocalypse has just begun. Synopsis: In one cataclysmic moment, millions around the world disappear. Airline captain Rayford Steele must search for his family, for answers, for truth.
From leftbehind.com
Okay- so let me get this straight. The "rapture" (heavy emphasis on the quotations, indicating my subtle mockery) involves the immediate disappearance of right wing christians. They leave their jewelry, cars and other worldly posessions behind.
Does anyone see a downside to this plan?!?!
Sounds to me like God is playing one killer joke on these extremist followers. Really, I'm in awe of his sense of humor. It would take me a whole lotta weed to come up with this one. Way to hit that bong, Mr. Almighty.
I can't wait to melt down those fillings and create a nice golden idol out of... oh, say... http://www.grandstandsports.com/pages/8600.htm
Left Behind
A Novel of the Earth's Last Days
Passengers aboard a Boeing 747 en route to Europe disappear. Instantly. Nothing remains except their rumpled piles of clothes, jewelry, fillings, surgical pins, and the like. All over the world, in a flash, cars are left unmanned.Terror and chaos continues worldwide as the cataclysm unfolds. For those left behind, the apocalypse has just begun. Synopsis: In one cataclysmic moment, millions around the world disappear. Airline captain Rayford Steele must search for his family, for answers, for truth.
From leftbehind.com
Okay- so let me get this straight. The "rapture" (heavy emphasis on the quotations, indicating my subtle mockery) involves the immediate disappearance of right wing christians. They leave their jewelry, cars and other worldly posessions behind.
Does anyone see a downside to this plan?!?!
Sounds to me like God is playing one killer joke on these extremist followers. Really, I'm in awe of his sense of humor. It would take me a whole lotta weed to come up with this one. Way to hit that bong, Mr. Almighty.
I can't wait to melt down those fillings and create a nice golden idol out of... oh, say... http://www.grandstandsports.com/pages/8600.htm
7.12.2004
The mindboggling excitement of school
I'm going to fill you all in on a few little secrets about exactly how fun school is not.
I'm an aerospace engineering major. What does this mean, you ask?
First of all, let me explain what it most certainly doesn't mean.
It doesn't mean that I want to hear about how you think "planes are sooooo neat."
It doesn't mean that I care that your father's sister's bestfriend's mom was a janitor for NASA and could, like, totally get me a great job there.
It doesn't mean that I want to hear you blather on about the one related theory you read a book on 10 years ago.
But most importantly, it doesn't mean that I find school exciting, people. I want to get the hell out of there just like everyone else. So don't ask me about my classes. Really. Don't ask me what aerodynamics is about. I'm not a pompous ass, I swear. But if you haven't had 3 years of differential equations, fluid mechanics and dynamics, what can I really tell you that you don't already know? It's about... aerodynamics. Would you ask someone taking English what their class was about? No. No you wouldn't. Because they call it English for a reason, don't they? Believe it or not, aerodynamics isn't a made up word. It too, has a definition.
Now, how about what being an aero major does mean. Let's see. It means I'm tired. Really tired.
And I think up a lot of fart jokes while I'm in class. Must be the 'flow of gases' thing.
I'm an aerospace engineering major. What does this mean, you ask?
First of all, let me explain what it most certainly doesn't mean.
It doesn't mean that I want to hear about how you think "planes are sooooo neat."
It doesn't mean that I care that your father's sister's bestfriend's mom was a janitor for NASA and could, like, totally get me a great job there.
It doesn't mean that I want to hear you blather on about the one related theory you read a book on 10 years ago.
But most importantly, it doesn't mean that I find school exciting, people. I want to get the hell out of there just like everyone else. So don't ask me about my classes. Really. Don't ask me what aerodynamics is about. I'm not a pompous ass, I swear. But if you haven't had 3 years of differential equations, fluid mechanics and dynamics, what can I really tell you that you don't already know? It's about... aerodynamics. Would you ask someone taking English what their class was about? No. No you wouldn't. Because they call it English for a reason, don't they? Believe it or not, aerodynamics isn't a made up word. It too, has a definition.
Now, how about what being an aero major does mean. Let's see. It means I'm tired. Really tired.
And I think up a lot of fart jokes while I'm in class. Must be the 'flow of gases' thing.
I like the Spite in you
Is it possible to be so coldhearted and so hateful that you would create a blog solely out of spite?
Yes, it is. And it has been done. Thanks, brian.
Yes, it is. And it has been done. Thanks, brian.
7.11.2004
Public Service Announcement
From my good friend, Brian Pflueger:
If you're invited to a party with cake and ponies, make sure it's not poison cake. And make sure they aren't just sharks dressed as ponies.
You never can be too careful, people.
If you're invited to a party with cake and ponies, make sure it's not poison cake. And make sure they aren't just sharks dressed as ponies.
You never can be too careful, people.
My friend Ryan wants to be referenced in my blog
Hear that? My friend Ryan Kent wants to be referenced in my blog. Specifically, he wants a "cryptic reference." So, here goes, Ryan Kent of Tampa, Florida:
Not long ago, a 'friend' (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and I were on a road trip to Washington, DC. I'll call this friend 'Ryan.' On the way from Florida to DC, you have to drive through a little state called South Carolina. Now most people would have no problem with this.
Most people aren't 'Ryan.'
"Nooooooooooo!" he squealed like a newborn piglet as we passed over the state line.
"Haven't they constructed a bridge over this state yet?!?"
No, 'Ryan.' Not yet.
So, we entered South Carolina despite 'Ryan's' passionate assurance that nothing good could come from a state that kept reelecting Strom. He agreed to sit in the car and be good, rather than flinging himself onto the passing pavement, as long as I promised not to stop in South Carolina. I promised. Apparently his bladder didn't sign the contract though.
We decided to stop at a Subway for some sandwiches and a bathroom break. Surely nothing could happen at a nationwide franchise like Subway that would confirm 'Ryan's' prejudices! South Carolina was no cesspool! It was misunderstood! It needed a friend!
That's what I thought.
Until a spider descended upon my pristine veggie sub whilst the Sandwich Artist pretended not to notice.
That's what I thought.
Until a crowd of barefooted hooligans spent five minutes trying to wrassle some free cookies out of the cashier whilst I patiently waited to pay for my 'arachnid special.'
That's what I thought.
Until I saw the bathrooms. And that, my friends! That was the last straw!
The moral of the story, is:
"Ryan" may be an asshole, and he may be a pompous wanker. But he was right about South Carolina. And that wasn't really a moral at all, was it?
Fine.
I've got your moral. I just left it in South Carolina. Really I did. Go get it.
Not long ago, a 'friend' (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and I were on a road trip to Washington, DC. I'll call this friend 'Ryan.' On the way from Florida to DC, you have to drive through a little state called South Carolina. Now most people would have no problem with this.
Most people aren't 'Ryan.'
"Nooooooooooo!" he squealed like a newborn piglet as we passed over the state line.
"Haven't they constructed a bridge over this state yet?!?"
No, 'Ryan.' Not yet.
So, we entered South Carolina despite 'Ryan's' passionate assurance that nothing good could come from a state that kept reelecting Strom. He agreed to sit in the car and be good, rather than flinging himself onto the passing pavement, as long as I promised not to stop in South Carolina. I promised. Apparently his bladder didn't sign the contract though.
We decided to stop at a Subway for some sandwiches and a bathroom break. Surely nothing could happen at a nationwide franchise like Subway that would confirm 'Ryan's' prejudices! South Carolina was no cesspool! It was misunderstood! It needed a friend!
That's what I thought.
Until a spider descended upon my pristine veggie sub whilst the Sandwich Artist pretended not to notice.
That's what I thought.
Until a crowd of barefooted hooligans spent five minutes trying to wrassle some free cookies out of the cashier whilst I patiently waited to pay for my 'arachnid special.'
That's what I thought.
Until I saw the bathrooms. And that, my friends! That was the last straw!
The moral of the story, is:
"Ryan" may be an asshole, and he may be a pompous wanker. But he was right about South Carolina. And that wasn't really a moral at all, was it?
Fine.
I've got your moral. I just left it in South Carolina. Really I did. Go get it.
Purely hypothetical situation:
A coworker comes up to you and casually mentions, for no apparent reason, that his bio dad is incarcerated for armed robbery and his bio mom is a prostitute who lives in the woods.
What IS the proper response? Apparently a blank stare just doesn't cut the mustard.
Where's Ms Manners when it really counts? Some superhero she is.
What IS the proper response? Apparently a blank stare just doesn't cut the mustard.
Where's Ms Manners when it really counts? Some superhero she is.
Something that might interest you
Yes, we have security cameras where I work. And yes, the monitors are situated on my desk.
Why do you people feel the need to stare directly into security cameras? What goes through your heads as you're looking at one? Have you ever found a freakin' cupcake in one? Might there be a happy leprochaun living inside, just waiting to be found so that it can share it's pot of gold with you? Is that what you think?
Well, I'll tell you what really happens when you stare at a security camera. I stare back. AND I LAUGH.
Like I said, just something I thought you all might like to know. Now don't say I never did anything for you.
Why do you people feel the need to stare directly into security cameras? What goes through your heads as you're looking at one? Have you ever found a freakin' cupcake in one? Might there be a happy leprochaun living inside, just waiting to be found so that it can share it's pot of gold with you? Is that what you think?
Well, I'll tell you what really happens when you stare at a security camera. I stare back. AND I LAUGH.
Like I said, just something I thought you all might like to know. Now don't say I never did anything for you.
My worst fears have come to fruition
Check out the ads above this blog. Seriously. Look at them. Right now.
Vacuum cleaner ads! Fucking vacuum cleaner ads! Is this what it's come to? Am I the girl who does the Vacuum Blog? Sure, I've had two posts about vacuums, but that was purely coincidental. Now I've been branded the Vacuum Blogger by the almighty ad box. Who wants to read The Vacuum Blog?
This isn't me. I'm not some vacuum obsessed psycho. I don't need to be judged, man. And I know full well that I'm only digging myself deeper. Everytime I say it- V-A-C-U-U-M - I'm just adding to the longevity of the (vacuum) ads. This post alone could add another few months onto my sentance.
Perhaps I should accept my fate. I could have a "Vacuum Revuu" column where I discuss the latest and greatest breakthroughs in room cleansing technology. I could have an online tutorial wherein I discuss the finer points of vacuum care and maintenance. I could offer helpful housekeeping tips... like... "vacuum, people." Or, just as likely, I could buy a snowcone...
In Hell!
Ha! You actually thought I was considering it, didn't you? No, sorry people. You'll have to get your vacuum info elsewhere from now on.
I don't suck that much.
Vacuum cleaner ads! Fucking vacuum cleaner ads! Is this what it's come to? Am I the girl who does the Vacuum Blog? Sure, I've had two posts about vacuums, but that was purely coincidental. Now I've been branded the Vacuum Blogger by the almighty ad box. Who wants to read The Vacuum Blog?
This isn't me. I'm not some vacuum obsessed psycho. I don't need to be judged, man. And I know full well that I'm only digging myself deeper. Everytime I say it- V-A-C-U-U-M - I'm just adding to the longevity of the (vacuum) ads. This post alone could add another few months onto my sentance.
Perhaps I should accept my fate. I could have a "Vacuum Revuu" column where I discuss the latest and greatest breakthroughs in room cleansing technology. I could have an online tutorial wherein I discuss the finer points of vacuum care and maintenance. I could offer helpful housekeeping tips... like... "vacuum, people." Or, just as likely, I could buy a snowcone...
In Hell!
Ha! You actually thought I was considering it, didn't you? No, sorry people. You'll have to get your vacuum info elsewhere from now on.
I don't suck that much.
7.09.2004
Just when you thought republicans couldn't get any dumber...
I mean, really. I thought I had seen it all after that silly attempt to boycott wine because France didn't want to go off playing cowboys in the middle east.
But this... this is really something.
Who knew that jingoistic tomato paste was even possible? I'll bet these are the same shmucks who started frantically replacing their French's mustard with Heinz' mustard thanks to the urban legendthat the former was anti-american. That one really bit ya in the ass, didn't it, right wing freakos?
Eh... who am I kidding? I'm only outraged because I didn't think of it first. There's nothing more all-american than capitalizing on fear.
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