Well, I don't mean to brag here, but someone feels a little less likely to start vomiting blood! My post-Mexico trip sickness lasted for a long time and was very, very unpleasant, but it didn't kill me. Take that as a lesson, international assassins: the only way to get to me is through explosives and wild animal attacks. You can scratch giving me the plague right off that list.
Last Thursday was like the perfect storm when it came to that crap. I had a big test that day, so I had stayed up pretty late studying. By the time I got to bed, I was pretty worn out and so I expected to go right to sleep. Not the case. I felt kind of weird, and I could barely get to sleep because of it. When I finally woke up for class, I felt terrible, probably the worst I've felt in a few years. Really, if I trusted my cat with fire arms, I would've told her to put me down, Old Yeller style. Nevertheless, because of the test, I had to go in to school. It wasn't until I got to the bus stop that I realized it was 40 degrees and raining, and that I had no jacket. By the time the bus came 20 minutes later, I had begun climbing inside the garbage can so I could die with some dignity.
When the doors to the bus opened, I could've burst out into song. In fact, I started to, but when I tried to field a volunteer to accompany me on the harpsichord, a transvestite stabbed me in the neck with a rusty corkscrew. Things continued going downhill until the actual test began, on which the only thing I got correct was the first letter of my first name. By then, the hallucinations had set in and I was proposing marriage to the pencil sharpener. Somehow, I made it into work afterwards for roughly 45 seconds, before giving up entirely and going home. In light of all of that, the fact that I made it back home with my pants on counts as a triumph.
Hey hey hey, it's some more really old stuff that I never posted here! This is from the early '01 era.
Since Thursday, I have lost my student id, my glasses, and a book I checked out of the liberry. I used to be so proud of the way I didn't lose things. I used to say to my friends, "If I ever lose this here cotton-pickin' wallet, I'll give you all the pig ears you can stomach!" But then some voodoo temptress put the hex on my not-losing-stuff skills and made me go all Losey McGee. So, if you have any human organs you need kept track of, don't give them to me. CAUSE I'LL LOSE EM!! Ha!>
In ninth grade, I took theater because I didn't want the metal shop kids to stab me. As our final project in the theater class, we had to put on a class play. The play was, without question, the dumbest play ever; it made Tiger Beat magazine look like the Brothers Karamazov. I can't remember the specifics, but think Saved by the Bell set in the old west, as written by a group of delusional schizophrenics.
I was supposed to be the comic relief in the form of the grizzled old Assayer. That would've worked, except the lines weren't funny and I'm a terrible actor. The theater teacher was a step ahead, though. Her great idea was for me to act like Steve Urkel so no one paid attention to that part. Okay, sounds great so far. Well, one of the characters in the play was supposed to be my son. The guy assigned to that part was the school hoodlum; I think he was in his early 40s. In our only previous conversation, he told me that he killed a guy by running him over in a jet ski. All of those factors led me to believe that he wouldn't really get into the production; boy, did I have another thing coming.
During rehearsals, he was feeling it. He wasn't going crazy or anything, but he was definitely putting some work into the whole thing. In a way, it was kind of heart-warming, like all this delinquent needed to bring his life around was a part in a really crappy play. The day of the production, he stepped it up a level. When he took the stage, he was like Dustin Hoffman, living his part as Baby Irving. It was a little more than anyone could deal with. He progressively got more and more wound up in his role, and soon he was like Robin Williams out there. No one else would participate, and he was making up lines and hamming things up. I thought he was going to start crying at the end of it; it was seriously disturbing. I think everyone in the class wanted to make fun of him, but all of us pictured him coming back to class the next day with his killer jet ski. Instead, I took the safe route: wait several years and then take him down on an unpopular website. Game set match , Powell.
No entry today. I feel awful. Clearly, an operative in Nuevo Laredo infected me with some sort of time-release death flu. To prevent international incident, I will shoulder my load quietly. America, please recognize the sacrifices I make for you.
Tomorrow brings test #2 of my newly reborn academic career, and I'm slowly verging on a "Screw them, they can't take my degree away!" level of apathy. It occurs to me now that taking a class is sort of like taking care of a sick person. There are sometimes when all you want to do is to kick your feet up and watch some Dr. Phil, but the sickie won't let you do it. "Bring me some soup! I'm hemhorraging blood," they scream, and so you have to put all of the fun on hold to cede their demands. That's not enough, though; this sick person hallucinates a lot and babbles nonstop. Not only do you have listen to this, you have to write it down and then take a test over it. After 6 long months of this, they either recover or die, and you get to offer your home up to another one of these people. (Of course, this does not apply to my current professors.)
A few folks have recently asked me if I'm still posting stuff over on my programming-related site, the vlog. You better believe I am, buster! As if writing something that's completely incoherent to 98% of the population is going to stop me. After all, I have been doing Goulash now for like 100 years. Literally, 100 years. Who can forget the entries, way back when, where I took William Howard Taft to school? I didn't care if he was President, he's still a fatso!
Anyway, my point is that the vlog will continue. I don't care what the mainstream media and the fatcats down on Wall Street think, the people will always have access to my incomprehensible views on programming esoterica. I can't make many promises, but that is one of them. Another is that I will always hate black jelly beans. What are those flavored like? I'm guessing either crude oil or a tire fire.
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.
No work today on account of President's Day, and I lazied my butt off! How lazy did it get? So lazy, I am posting something here that's several years old. Explanation: I found a stash of really old posts that never made it to cp.com and since I'm both really busy AND really lazy, I may start shovelling these into the gaping maw that is the internet.
I think we should abolish getting dressed up. When the aliens come down and see our neckties and the creases in our pants, they will give us a planet sized dunce cap. They will use our starched shirts and suspenders against us to make earth the septic tank of the universe. That may sound kind of bad, but I am guessing I will get one of those shiney silver space suits out of the deal. I hear those things are easy to clean, plus I bet they have all kinds of pockets.
I think the only piece of dress wear that redeems the concept of dressing up is the bowtie. Nothing gives a guy that accountant-with-a-screw-loose look better than the bow tie. Not only that, but I think it means something to wear a bow tie. You wear that thing and it is obvious that not only do you know how to tie a bow tie, which I imagine is hard, but you know of a place that sells bow ties. Thus, not only are you wise, but you are also resourceful. Suddenly, you're the guy to be around!
I think we overexaggerate the greatness of our time. We build up this big, fancy economy like it's the greatest thing since the polio vaccine, but I think I'd rather be a worker back in the middle ages. As it is now, you dress yourself up in elaborate clothes and do something difficult 40 hours a week for 50 years. Back in the middle ages, you got to dress yourself in a burlap sack and do something easy 10 hours a week until you died from the Plague or were burned as a heretic. Tell me this: have we really progressed? Come on, man!
If you were sitting in a bar in America and a man came in from off the streets to sell you tamales, you'd politely decline and then inform the police. If, however, you're sitting in a bar in Mexico and a man comes in from off the streets to sell you tamales, you must buy two dozen. And when he whips out the Clamato bottle filled with salsa, well, you realize what a good decision you've just made.
There are loads of stories and pics I could share, but the consulate has requested I keep most of those to myself. I will only share the following.
Today featured the first test of my reborn academic career, and it wasn't easy. The questions themselves weren't too bad, but I wrote one down incorrectly and came up with a really strange answer. I knew it was strange, you see, because I happened to prove that exponents were completely useless. I went back and reworked this like 5 times, and each time I got that you could raise any number to any power and the answer would always be 1. Coincidentally, this would mean the square root of every number is 1, so all numbers have to be equal to 1, etc. You can see why this would be a troubling result on a math exam, particularly when I have first-hand knowledge of numbers like 2, 3, 4, and 5. I kept coming up with the same result, though. Just as I was about to strut into the math department and tell the chair he was a chump because I disproved his entire field, I looked at the exam again and realized that I had written the problem down incorrectly. Yeah, so good news, everyone: I have verified the existence of numbers larger than 1.
I always dread exams, not because of the difficulty of the questions, but because I very rarely do the right questions. I'll either skip questions inadvertently, or I'll write the wrong problem down. The worst occasion was in a math course in college when I happened to write the first problem down incorrectly. The way I wrote it down, it was way, way harder than what was on the exam. So, instead of doing a little 8-step proof like I was supposed to, I ended up with something that was like 80 steps long. I finished just as the exam was over, thus leaving me with the distinction of being the only person in the history of academics to turn in a test where the only problem attempted wasn't even on the test. And somehow, I thought continuing my studies was a good idea.
All of this is a moot point, of course. By the times these exams are graded, I'll have much larger concerns, like trying to translate into Spanish the phrases "I am in urgent need of a urologist" and "Release me from this cell, and you can marry my sister". Good Lord willing, I'll be back on Monday with some stories, both kidneys, and hearts of many adoring senoritas.
I was driving home for lunch today, and there was a delivery van parked in front of my neighbor's place. After I passed the van, I glanced in the mirror to see who it was, and I could've sworn it said 1-800 WEREWOLF. Immediately, my brain was flooded with questions. Would you call in to that number for werewolf prevention, or to order werewolf attacks? If they offer both, isn't that a conflict of interest? Had I missed out on a 10 o'clock news expose, detailing the North Austin werewolf problem? Was 1-800 WEREWOLF so powerful that it now controlled the media?
Whatever the case, I felt vindicated by my decision to fill my glove compartment with silver bullets. Really, what is proof of insurance going to do during an attack by an army of monsters? An attack that would, I must note, probably be phoned in 1-800 WEREWOLF (or a subsidiary, like 1 800 DRACULA or 1 877 SWAMP MONSTER). Anyway, after this 5 second bout of mania had passed, I looked back to see what the van actually said: 1 800 FLOWERS.
Before a petition is started to institutionalize me, remember that I originally read that backwards, and flowers and flowerew (werewolf backwards) are awfully similar. Unfortunately, this explanation doesn't really cover why, a few minutes later, I set a UPS truck on fire, thinking it was full of mummies. If I'm on monster patrol, I take no chances; I'll leave it at that.
I don't know if I've brought this up yet or not, but this weekend is George Washington's birthday. In keeping with the most dangerous tradition around, the Goulash All-Stars will be invading Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, to serve as hot dog inspectors and temporary mediators between the drug-runners and the police. Lest you think hot dog inspectors is some sort of homosexual inneundo, I mean actual hot dog inspectors. Nuevo Laredo has a lot going for it (cheap alcohol, people selling chiclets everywhere, 15 year olds wandering around with machine guns), but the true pinnacle is the hot dogs they sell on the street. It's like Kobe beef wrapped in a bun, with a slightly more rat feces. The things are so good, though, you don't even care about the rat feces. In fact, while eating them, you begin to think, "You know, animal refuse has gotten a bad wrap."
This trip promises to be a little more dangerous the previous 90000, simply because a lot of people have been kidnapped there lately. In spite of this news, I'm not scared. First and foremost, it's very difficult to kidnap someone if they're already in Mexican prison. So, I've got that going for me. Second, if anyone did abduct me, they'd immediately give me back because I have no money. They'd get me in the van, go through my wallet, and immediately write an outraged letter to the US ambassador, the gist of which would be, "Aren't Americans supposed to be rich?" What some call poor fiscal decisions, I call planning ahead.
So, yesterday's entry sucked and today will too. Things with work and school are starting to get awfully hectic, and I can no longer slide by on my good looks. That begs the question: when could I ever slide by on my good looks? Well, I'll have you know that when I am in the company of sideshow performers, I have caused many a lady to swoon. Granted, some of that may've been because I was standing next to Inside Out Boy, but I think my devilish visage played a small role. Tomorrow, we get back to the good stuff. If that turns out not to be the case, you are cordially invited to my house to poke me fiercely with sharp sticks.
The next time you begin doubt the idea of cosmic justice, consider the following. Last Sunday, I made fun of Ice Cube starring in XXX 2. This Sunday, I had to go see Ice Cube's newest masterwork, Are We There Yet? The universe works in strange ways, and Ice Cube appears to be in the center of the whole deal. If I investigate any further, I will get struck by lightning.
I realize how quickly this site is turning into Cody's Wacky Public Transportation Adventures, but I will share another bus story anyway. Today, when I got on the bus, I sat down in front of two individuals who were having a rather animated conversation. After just a few moments, I gathered that one of the guys was planning to beat someone up. I'm no expert when it comes to assault, but this guy had concocted a really well thought-out plan. He knew where it was going to happen (in front of a convenience store), how he was going to start it (shove the guy into the bike racks), and how long he had before the cops would arrive (30 minutes). I was so impressed, I think this gent should go to work for NASA as the chief planner behind the space shuttle trips. If he did, we'd go to Mars in a month, it'd cost $78, and when we left, all of the Martians would have broken ribs.
Sadly, like most of the other bus riders I meet, he was a little unhinged. Every few minutes, he'd shout out a completely nonsensical description of how badly the other guy would get beaten. His favorite was, "I'm going to beat him so bad, you'd think he was selling something!" Selling what, I wanted to ask. Red blood cells? The need for urgent medical care? Anyway, as the talk continued, I got swept up into the mania and began conversing with the guy some about the big fight. When we reached my stop and I got up to exit, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have a good day in class, young man." Overwhelmed by emotion, I replied, "And good luck to you beating that guy up." It was a good start to the day.
Valentine's Day is coming soon, and tomorrow will feature my own inept attempts at romance. In case anyone out there could use a few hints, I will now borrow a few words from the love master himself, Barry White. As Barry put it, "There's only way day to treat her right / to love her good / to buy her fancy cheese / and then grate that cheese / and put the grated cheese on tortilla chips / with some jalepenos on the side / Serving up the love nachos, bay-buh / It's Valentine's Day / and you gotsta gotsta eat up." I really have nothing to add there.
Good evening, sir or madam. If I may bother you for a second, I have just one question: how large of a concern is elephant feces for you and your family? Judging from the smell of the place, I'd say it's pretty large. Really, as I was walking down the block, I got a whiff and thought, "Someone's got a compost heap!" And then I walked further and thought, "Someone's got a compost heap that makes up their entire house!" And then I reached your lawn, took a whiff, and reconsidered. "Someone's got a compost heap that makes up their entire house, and is refilled constantly by elephants with intestinal problems!" If this is the case, as I suspect it is, then today is your lucky day.
I don't need to tell you what a hassle elephant poop is. Our large friends produce tons of the stuff, and what can we do with it? We can't make sculptures from it. We can't throw it at our enemies. We can't sell it to crazy billionaires from Dubai. All we can do is let it sit there and stink up the joint. Well, what if I told you that I had created a way to eliminate elephant poop entirely? No, not by legalizing poaching, but through the world's first elephant toilet.
Yes, to answer your question, I realize how outrageous it is. Just imagine wakig up one morning, going into your bathroom, and finding your friendly neighborhood elephant already in there, going to town. To put it politely, you better put on your galoshes and ready the plunger. However, through recent advancements in animal toiletrology science, I have found the solution. Will the elephants use it? Well, let me share something with you. The very first elephant to test the elephant toilet loved it so much, he tried to give me his tusks out of gratitude. I refused, but he wouldn't hear of it. "What about predators?" I asked him. He said, "Hey, I'm fine with being mauled, since I found heaven in your elephant toilet." For just $9995, you can reside there with him. What do you say? Agree, or I unleash the elephants.
First, I would like to extend a completely ludicrous offer: if anyone can help me get Rhapsody working properly on my computer, I will give you something good. It was working fine for months, and now whenever I go to play a CD or something, it just randomly starts skipping tracks. It skips all the way through some CDs. I've uninstalled and reinstalled, and the problem remained. On other machines, this account works fine. People of the Internet, I am not a rich man, but some things are worth a little something something. If you help me, the world is yours*. A comely young lady from Russian? Done. A year's supply of pinto beans? My pleasure. A ride on the lunar rover? Certainly, and the astronaut ice cream is on me.
* Please note the world will not actually be yours, but I will give you something interesting for any help you can provide.
Lately, I've been readying myself for the moment when my car's steering wheel falls off and I plow into a bus full of orphans. So, I've gone out a couple of times to look at new cars, just to see what's out there and how much it's going to cost. I have discovered there's a lot out there in terms of automobiles, but the cost for each is many, many moneys. My conclusion: I will soon be riding to and from work in a horse-drawn carriage. Full-sized horses are too expensive, so it'll probably be a shetland pony pulling this caboose. If it's not too much to ask, everyone in Austin should carry a bag of oats in case I get stopped in traffic next to you. In the event Shetland ponies cost more than regular horses, I'll just throw caution to the wind and get my little pony anyway. Some things are worth the extra expense.
I'm going to do some other web stuff tonight, thus a short entry today. Maybe I'll have something to show for it tomorrow! Unlikely!
Ever since the copper market cratered, I've been without a secretary. Clearly, this has been a great loss for me. First, my Ziggy comics no longer sorted by both date and subject. Second, if I emerge from my room at 4 AM and shout, "Soft tacos!", not only do I go taco-less, but my neighbors think I'm a madman. Anyway, as a result, all of my personal paperwork (insurance paperwork, subpeonas, nude pictures of the Austin city council) is in total disarray. This weekend, with taxes and all of that crap approaching, I resolved to get down to business and sort some of that crap out.
Lodged deep inside my folder full of Popeye's receipts, I discovered something interesting: the paperwork I received when I adopted my cat. I learned, for example, that my cat was vaccinated right before I got her. That's good, because she's just getting bitier since I moved her over to an all Hamburger Helper diet. I also learned how old the cat is. I've speculated on this many times before, and come up with an age anywhere between 1.5 (because she wouldn't know a multiplication table if it bit her on the rump) and 74 (because of her love for Andy Griffith). Her actual age, as it turns out, is a little over 3 years.
With this bit of information, I did some research. Apparently, a cat year equals 7 human years; from that, I reason that Octopussy is in her earlier twenties. I gather two things from this. First, I need to start building a dowry in the hopes of marrying her off in the near future. Second, in another year, she'll be older than me and a power struggle will erupt in the apartment. Let me put it in print here: I don't care how old the cat is, she's not putting me on a curfew or an allowance. A litter box maybe, but a man has got to have some dignity.
Rather than putting together some sort of cohesive, grand Super Bowl entry, here are a few thoughts I had while watching the game.
1. So, we all remember last year's half time show, when Janet Jackson mentally scarred us all with her crazy boob jewelry. What are the odds that this year's half time performer, Paul McCartney, will try to top her? I see his pants just spotaneously flying off midway through the first song. Let us hope that, unlike last year, we will not see a piercing.
2. Apparently, there's a sequel coming out for that Vin Diesel movie, XXX. This time, though, the star of the show will be Ice Cube, not Vin Diesel. I don't buy Ice Cube as an action star, largely because he's like 5'3". The only way they could pull this off is if the villains in the movies are a band of hemophiliacs and the dwarf from Carnivale.
3. The Patriots have a player with the last name of Gay. Why is this man not a homosexual icon? In my opinion, strutting around in a Gay jersey is a much better statement that putting some lame rainbow sticker on your car. The downside is that Patriots fans would start getting solicited a lot more. Nonetheless, I stand behind this idea.
4. Donovan McNabb just ran a play with his helmet unbuckled. I think that emphasizes the difference between most NFL players and myself. Those guys can go out there and play without a secured helmet, whereas I won't even enter the stadium unless I'm in some sort of foam-insulated bubble equipped with an IV of morphine.
5. My plan all year was to count how many times the word 'football' was spoken during the game tonight. It's the second quarter, and I'm already in need of a supercomputer to crunch the numbers. If this game goes into overtime, I'll bet heavily that Cris Collinsworth strips down to his underwear and says football over and over again until his mic is cut.
6. I just read something amazing in one of Peter King's Super Bowl columns on SI.com. In said column (too lazy to locate link), he claimed that everyone considered the coach of the Patriots, Bill Belichik, to be the biggest genius since Einstein. If you ask me, that's a great comparison. Is there anything more similar to bossing around millionaires than discovering that gravity is a consequence of curvature of space-time? It's a travesty that the Nobel Committee has refused to honor Mr. Belichik's accomplishments. Kudos and kudos again to Peter King.
7. Who would win in an actual battle between a patriot and an eagle? I'm tempted to say patriot, since they could carry guns. However, the bald eagle is the national bird, and thus bound to be revered by patriots. Thus, the eagle could easily swoop down and peck the patriot's eyes out; the patriot would probably even consider it an honor. Of course, the entire situation changes if the patriot refers to that Mel Gibson movie, "The Patriot". In the director's cut, Mel's character gives a 15 minute monologue on how nothing soothes his soul like throwing a tomahawk at a baby eagle. I guess it all depends on how much angst the eagles of the world carry against Mr. Gibson.
Enough of this, some of us have hot dogs to eat.
For once, I have something wonderful to share with you regarding my trips on the bus today. Today, when I was coming back from school, a mid 20s couple got on the bus and stood over next to me. I looked at them for a second and then thought, "Hey, they're wearing matching shirts." And then I looked a second longer and thought, "Wait, those are matching jumpsuits!" Five seconds later, "WITH MATCHING SHOES!" It was almost too much for me to bear. It was all I could do not to pull on the Please Stop cord and throw myself into oncoming traffic.
On MTV before, I've seen rappers who have jumpsuits that match their shoes; I liked the look, and I gave it a solid A-. Never did I think I'd ever come into contact with someone like that, though. That's largely because I am lame and white, thus most people around me are lame and white. Forget about seeing two people dressed like that, on the same day, riding the bus, holding hands and whispering to each other. It makes sense, though; your clothing coordination is racking up a bill like that, public transportation is the only affordable option. You know you've got it together when you can wear something like that while maintaining some fiscal responsibility.
Anyway, after I noticed all of this and recovered from the subsequent dizzy spell, I couldn't stop thinking what it'd be like if I had, by accident, worn the exact same thing. (Let's assume for one moment my wardrobe consists of more than 4 t-shirts, all of which are stained by horsey sauce from Arby's). I see three possibilities. The first, and most likely, is that they'd see me and immediately begin looking for another bus. That's fine, I won't begrudge them such weinerbiscuitry. The second is they board and then ignore me when I walk over and begin planning tomorrow's wardrobe for all of us. The third is they board, I see what they're wearing, I become enraged, and then I strip my jumpsuit + shoes off and throw the clothes at them. I then finish my bus ride in disgrace, clad only in my underwear.
I realize I'd have to buy one of these jumpsuits and then sit on the bus all day, every day, in order to figure out what would happen here. No one ever said being awesome would be easy, though.
Hey turkeys. If you noticed a bitter edge to the salutation, it's because SOMEONE'S DVR (a Tivo-like device) didn't record the end of Arrested Development on Sunday. Time Warner, if you want to provide crappy products and services like that, I suggest you focus solely on leper colonies and the state of Mississippi, not the mean streets of Austin, TX. And I don't want to see you trying to sneak in here by claiming that Austin has a leper colony. If it does, I'll just go ahead and set up a cable company specifically for the lepers in Austin. Our slogan? "Service that won't cause your parts to rot, at least not any quicker than the current rate!"
I had a mildly terrifying episode on the Capital Metro bus yesterday. I had ridden back from class to where I had parked, and as I got off and walked towards my car, I heard footsteps behind me. Since I wasn't prepared to give over my money without a token amount of defense, I got ready to soil myself. I know, it's an unorthodox fighting style, but I've found other people are far less likely to rifle through my pockets immediately afterwards. Anyway, when I got to the car, I turned around and saw my would-be attacker.
He was an old man, with only a few teeth. "Hey boy, you got 60 cents? I want some KFC," he said. He seemed like a character, and I'm always willing to give money to characters. I didn't have any money, though. "Sorry, I'm tapped out," I said. This man didn't care. "I want some popcorn chicken and mashed potatoes and a butter roll," he declared. "Good luck, but I can't help you," I told him. He paused a moment. "You know what?" he said, looking profound. I sensed some wisdom coming on, maybe something about man's duty to humankind. I had found the Confucius of the KFC parking lot; I got ready to commit his next line to memory. "You know what?" he said again, "I want two butter rolls."
I shook myself loose, got in my car, and drove away. Shortly thereafter, I proceeded to enter the drive-through at KFC and buy up every single one of their butter rolls. I didn't give them to that guy, nor did I eat them. Instead, I ran them over several times with my car, and then set them on fire. NO ONE gets butter rolls when my time is wasted.
Hippo: Hey turtle, I've seen you here before.
Turtle: I could believe it. Turtles, while great orators, can't move very quickly.
Hippo: Oh, you can shake a leg; you just don't want to, not when you're around me.
Turtle: I don't understand.
H: You know exactly what you're doing, you big tease. Drop the act.
T: I think you have me confused for another turtle.
H: Oh no, I'd recognize that shake from anywhere. Get over here and let's see what we can get cooking.
T: What? What is this? If you don't leave me alone, I will sound my Turtle Sexual Assault whistle. In a matter of days, these hills will be crawling with my brethren, looking to snap you to bits.
H: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean all of that. I just didn't know how to approach you. Look, I have noticed you around the savannah and I'd like to get to know you a little better.
T: Why? You're a hippo, you probably just want to relieve yourself in my shell.
H: Never. I've been watching you for weeks now, and I just can't get over how many common interests we have. You like grass, so do I. You're fond of wallowing in the mud, I am too. We both dislike hyenas. I just can't stop thinking of us together.
T: You're talking about the love that we dare not speak its name?
H: I'm just going to say it: Hippo and Turtle, lovers for life. We could make this work.
T: Like ebony and ivory.
H: Or Oprah and Steadman.
T: But what about the others? They're going to laugh at us; this just doesn't happen around these parts.
H: I don't care what they think! When I'm around you, my soul sings like the Jackson 5. If anyone wants to mock that, I'll gore them and then I'll fling their corpse into a tree as an example for the others.
T: But there are other problems.
H: Like what?
T: Well, I'm 120 years old.
H: Perfectly aged, if you ask me.
T: And I have a musket ball lodged in my shell from the Shaka Zulu era.
H: If it's part of you, I'll love it.
T: Okay, I'm getting to like the sound of this. You really think you could make an honest man out of me?
H: What'd you say?
T: Hmm, sweetheart?
H: You're male?
T: I am. Didn't you know that?
H: Go back to San Francisco, you big nancy.