Death and Guinea Pigs

I had yesterday off of work for President's Day, and it was awesome. I had nothing at all to do, so I decided to spend some quality time in front of the post office, yelling at everyone who approached. "It's closed, idiot! Maybe you've heard of a little something called President's Day? Now go home and put on a stovepipe hat before I beat you to unconsciousness with George Washington's bones." The same thing would've worked at most banks, but I feel much more comfortable doing it in front of the post office. I wouldn't want to mess with someone coming to the bank to cash in a pillowcase full of Sacajawea dollars, after all. One cross word directed at that individual and suddenly I'm wearing sweat pants and eating nothing but jello for the rest of my life. Not that I don't find that prospect enormously appealing.

What else? Hunter S. Thompson died, and while I liked his work, he won't be getting a eulogy here. That's a job better left to others, I think. When I go out (most likely squashed by a giantess during the robbery of a donut store), would I like to see a paragraph of uninformed commentary about me on a bunch of idiot blogs? I don't think so. The only tribute I want is a chorus of extremely attractive women interrupting my funeral so they can sing "You're the Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me". Failing that, a cookie cake with my name on it.

Switching topics abruptly, I skipped my first class of the semester today and it was awesome. Like most other delinquents, I spent the time off eating a cinnamon muffin and watching the weather channel. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, truancy officer! I am also thinking of turning my TV into a guinea pig habitat. There's just nothing I watch anymore. If that means I'm missing out on something special, let me know in the comments. If instead you think I have a point, send me a guinea pig.