The Week in Review: 11/02 – 11/09

Sorry for the delay. Got caught up in homework and other things. I also found out something semi-interesting regarding Haley, but there’s no need to blog about it. People who want to know will ask or already know. So without further adieu, I present to you THE WEEK IN REVIEW!

A new feature for the best blog in the universe (right after 15 Minute Lunch and Maddox, that is) has finally arrived! Y’see, I’m rarely inspired to update this silly blog, but people often say my updates are fairly awesome. So I’m going to try out this thing where I’ll write a little bit about my day as it’s drawing to a close, do this for every day of the week, and post the resultantly svelte masterpiece at week’s end.

And because I am so awesome, my weeks begin and end on Wednesdays. Mostly because something interesting happened this Wednesday (11/02) so I’ve finally got something to write about.

Wednesday – November 02, 2005

Apparently, a Five Minute Drive is Enough to Ruin My Mom’s Life

I can’t exactly just dive straight into this story, so, a little background info is necessary on what’s been occurring for the past week or so. Stricken with a crippling bout of apathy (its potency rhino-virus enhanced), the forces that be had decided I was going to miss another week of school. It was beyond my control – God, or the gods, or the randomness of quantum mechanics (or whatever the hell you believe in) had me in a headlock I couldn’t escape. In retrospect, I was lucky to escape with my life.

The consequence of these absences was lots of homework. Which I put off until the very last god damned minute possible (three hours before school started on Monday), and then ended up not doing because I decided sleep sounded like a good idea. Tuesday I was able to get some of my homework done, but not nearly enough. And right now I’m unwinding/relaxing (which is rare) by listening to music and writing this (and the blog about my eyes deceiving me). I still have 2 chapters to read for AP US History and an essay to write for AP Lang, and a test to review for in AP US. Anywho, that’s a tangent.

I come home today and decide to nap for an hour before I go to work. I set my phone alarm to 4:25 and doze off. Apparently, my phone alarm hates me and/or sucks ass and/or is broke, because it didn’t go off. What ended up waking me from my beauty sleep (and I seriously did get about ten times more beautiful after that sleep — man, I’d totally bone me if I were gay and also a doppelganger of myself) was a call from work at 7 PM. Let me paraphrase the conversation:

Josh: Hey jackass, where are you?

John (groggy): Uhm… uh… what?

Josh: Didn’t you know you were supposed to come into work today?

John (still groggy, possibly groggier): Of… course… because I’m on my way right now bye *click*

Sucker. He had no idea I forgot at all. (True story.)

Now, to the point: I run upstairs to ask my mom if she could give me a ride to work because forgotten that I had to go in. She says yes, and I don’t detect any signs of resentment or dissatisfaction in her voice — whoops. I get into the car and get a 5 minute rant that basically consisted of how I was ruining her “whole fucking life” because I’m “always asking for rides” (never mind that this is the first time in a long time I’ve asked for a ride TO work, and I would walk home but my mom doesn’t like me walking home in the dark). Insert casual references to my worthlessness as a son/human being and my insatiable greed (and subtle references to how I must be the bane of my mother’s existence, seeking only to cause her misery). We arrive at the Valley Market and I get out of the car and say “Thanks for the ride” with as much sincerity as I can muster. Ah, to turn the other cheek — I’m a lot like Jesus!

Guess What? I’m a Boy

I’m sure most of my rabid fan base is aware of the fact that I think post-feminism smells like bullshit…it might be due to the fact that post-feminism is actually a synonym for “brain matter consisting largely of fecal content,” but that’s just wild speculation. If that was too pedantic for you, then try this on for size: post-feminists have shit for brains.

But that’s completely irrelevant to the story I’m going to tell now. I’m browsing MySpace, which can only mean one of three things:

  1. I’m feeling bad about myself and need to see how low humanity can go to cheer up
  2. I’m corresponding via MySpace mail with people I otherwise have no way to talk to
  3. I’m looking for juicy blogs to make fun of

Today was a blog day. And I found a marvelous one where the content read a little something like this: “I HATE >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> BOYS BOYS BOYS (repeat x50 whilst breaking the internet).” Ahhh, wonderful — a sweeping generalization about how boys probably suck from a stuck up bitch! Better still, this is someone I know! Did I ever hit the jackpot. I fire off a quick comment:

“Sweet. Way to break the internet, by the way. I hate girls girls girls girls girls.”

This quickly elicits an email from the poster of the blog (which is an unusual response to my comments — they tend to just be ignored, as they should be):

“Why did you put a comment on my thingy if you were jsut going to be rude. i really dont care if u hate girls sorry that you dont know what i was talking about and further more i dont really care. Sorry… you broke it.”

Oh boy, where to start. In retrospect, I missed some things in my reply, such as: where does she get off thinking anyone cares that she hates boys? Just as much as no one cares if I hate girls (which isn’t entirely true), nobody’s going to give a shit if she hates boys. Just about every girl bitches about boys being stupid at one point or another in their teenage-angst years, and she doesn’t even have a juicy story to accompany her rant. (For your information: I wasn’t really pissed that she hated boys. I couldn’t give a flying fuck what she cared. I was bored and needed someone to antagonize.) Yawn! Here was a bit of my reply:

“Ah, see, it’s not so much fun when I use sweeping generalizations to say that I hate your gender, is it?”

Which earned the following response (and provided me with the title for this short anecdote):

“Well thats kinda annoying since i said i didnt care whether or not you liked girls since you didnt know what i was talking about… i dont like boys… i like men and obviously if your affended y it then your jsut a boy and then youd understand i suppouse…. i really dont care.”

And there you have it, folks. Irrefutable evidence that I am, in fact, a boy masquerading around as a teenager. I’m probably impotent too, because I try to debunk baseless generalizations about how my whole gender sucks. Apparently men suck because some dumb bitch dates a shitty jock boyfriend who she cheats on with a crazy drug addict (on occasion) — guess I missed that memo.


Thursday – November 03, 2005

The Path of the Valedictorian

It’s a commonly held misconception that the hollow space in my skull is actually occupied by a human brain, when, in fact, the center of MY nervous system consists of a paper clip, a length of string and two toothpicks. Crafted by McGuyver, of course.

I like to call the spiffy contraption my “McThinker.”

That’s why I laugh when people think that I’m going to be valedictorian of my class. First of all, valedictorians don’t miss damn near 20 days before midterm. Second of all, valedictorians usually sleep before big tests, and eat three square meals a day. Currently, I’m running somewhere in the realm of 7-8 total hours of sleep in the past four days whilst averaging about .7 meals a day. I also had a mammoth test today in AP US History. I used the McThinker to craft a brilliant essay, and upon finishing, to defuse a nuclear bomb that was in the janitor’s closet.

On Second Thought

The McThinker doesn’t have much competition. Some of the students in my AP Language and Composition class lack a certain special something that they probably should have…what’s the word again? It’s like, um, you know, a word that means like to know a bunch of like words that like describe something and elicit this like feeling of like knowledge being imparted on like you and um it like is, you know, deep…oh yeah, a fucking VOCABULARY.

True story: One girl used 27 instances of the word “like” while making the most muddled point in 2-minute soliloquy history. I counted, with my own hands! Of course, this happened a while back…but today, my colleague Ryan counted again when she was talking, and she broke another record! 17 instances of the word “like” in the most irrelevant (due to redundancy) 1-minute soliloquy ever. And for those of you who appreciate a little hypocrisy with your dish of moron: the girl sitting next to my colleague and I casually insulted Queen Like I Like The Like Word Like, but then proceeded to use the damnable word 9 times herself.

Coincidentally, this anecdote contains 17 instances of the word like.

Friday – November 04, 2005

On the Job With Dr. Deezee

I speak for convenience-store-bitches (or, more accurately booze-stockers) everywhere when I say that Beck’s makes the worst God damn cardboard boxes that man has ever known. First the Germans bring us the Holocaust, and now this!? The box is made out of some hellish combo of cardboard and slippery plastic (I’m no chemist, damn it) that is just an accident waiting to happen. This problem is compounded by the lack of handles on the box (most other boxes have pieces of cardboard you can push in to create holes for handling). Furthermore, the box is a non-uniform size — it’s much smaller than all the other boxes. It suffers from cardboard impotency, I guess. This means this thing is most safely stacked on top of all the other boxes. And damn if it won’t be there a long time; in my store, Beck’s hardly ever sells. This means you have to jostle the piece of crap around all the time. Last, but not least, the thing breaks down into about a million pieces*.

It’s a wonder that we can engineer rockets and ICBMs and still manage to get this garbage not only beyond the blueprint stage, but into mass production and use! Good job, German engineering.

* This is a rough estimate. My counting is none-too-good.

Saturday – November 5th, 2005

Mid-Weekend Crisis

You know how sometimes you miss about 20 days of school in the first two months, and you’re taking a bunch of really hard classes — that give lots of homework — but you don’t feel like doing any work? That basically sums up what happened to me on Saturday at about roughly 4 PM (when I got out of bed). So instead of doing anything productive, I went into town with Mark, Cody, and a couple of Mark’s pals to eat some crappy mall food and see Jarhead.

Jarhead was about as good as I was expecting it to be. That is to say I didn’t like it much. It’s a good movie, to be sure, but I just wasn’t in the mood to see a story about soldiers and their hardships. The ending was also kind of “meh.” I do think every woman on the face of the planet, however, should see this movie. It’ll explain why no man will trust you farther than they can throw you, ladies.

After the movie Cody and I stopped off at Fred Meyer and I purchased Civilization 4, thus putting the final nail in the coffin of any semblance of a social life that I might try and maintain. God damn it.

Sunday – November 6th, 2005

End Weekend Crisis

Here are my thoughts as I woke up on Sunday: “I better start homework by 6 PM so I can get it all done by 6 AM.” Here are my subconscious thoughts as I woke up on Sunday: “I better put off my homework until 9 PM, and then do about half of it, and then spend the rest of the 3 hours playing Civilization 4.” Guess which side won out?

Although I did kick some ass in Civ 4. Some dick tried to start a war with me, so I burned his capital to the ground. Then I declared peace but made him tribute all his gold to me. He “begrudgingly” accepted. Damn straight. If you can’t take the heat, get out the kitchen; if you can’t take the axemen, get the fuck out my continent.

Monday – November 7th, 2005

Deja Vu

Go read Wednesday’s first entry again to see what happened on Monday. Only part that’s different: I had to walk 3 miles (total) in the cold and dark because my mom wasn’t in town. On the plus side, I didn’t suffer any shrinkage.

On the negative side, I reached the previous conclusion only because it was so cold I couldn’t feel my balls anyway.

Tuesday/Wednesday – November 8th-9th, 2005

So Nothing Interesting Happened

Plus I forgot to write about what did actually happen. So instead of boring you with tales of debauchery, illegitimate children, drug abuse, alcoholism, and general mischievousness… I’ll instead bore you with whatever comes to my head.

I’m pretty sure that I’m going to be going along with Plan Provo. However, I received an interesting message from Nate recently that might throw those plans astray — I’ll be finding out more this weekend. Don’t know what Plan Provo is? Well, that sucks. Perhaps I’ll tell you sometime, or perhaps not!

In other news, it’s been about 2 months since my birthday, and good ol’ Rossco (affectionately referred to by my brother and I as “Ross Boner”) still hasn’t come through with his promised birthday gift. I don’t even care, actually. In fact, the only reason it’s on my mind is because I just got an email from him that said that he’s sorry he couldn’t get me anything yet — but something should be coming soon.

Why do we call him Ross Boner? Well, you may want to cover your children’s eyes, before we begin the following anecdote:

So, John, How Big Are You?

You see, a few years back, when my brother was living with my dad (his step-dad) unhappily in California, I got a weird call. It was from my brother. I can’t remember if we chit-chatted for a bit before he popped the big question, but man, what a question it was:

So, John, how big are you?

To which I responded “What the fuck?” I think my response was rather appropriate, considering. He says something to the effect of “Just tell me.” I respond “Dude… what the fuck. Seriously.” He says “Well, according to Sandy, Ross is 9 fucking inches long! That must mean you’re huge, you freak of nature!”

This had to be the most awkward conversation I had ever had, and that I’ve ever had.

“I’m not telling you how big my penis is.”

“Fine, cockbiter.”

End anecdote.

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