Chunky, phlegmy pieces of blog

If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me if they bury me someplace I don't want to be, you'll dig me up and transport me unceremoniously away from this swollen city breeze, garbage bag trees, whispers of disease and acts of enormity and lower me slowly and sadly and properly, get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy.

Ugh. I just had pasta from one of those food vendors in University Center. I was better off starving.

It's strange how comforting seeing a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey can be for an expatriate Canadian in Texas. I'm not sure if the guy who is wearing it is a fan, or if he can tell Curtis Joseph from Joey Jo-Jo Shabadoo, but it doesn't matter to me. The odd thing is that I hate the Maple Leafs (and everything else about Toronto, for that matter).

One of the managers at work was laid off. Normally, this wouldn't bother me. In fact, normally I wouldn't care. This time, however, I do. It turns out that the manager in question was a micro-managing, sweater vest-wearing cunt, who had pissed me off on more than one occasion. Goodbye, cunt. Have fun in your new career as a middle-aged, unemployed call center manager.

I'm watching The Fly on HBO right now... Jeff Goldblum's ear just fell off. Sexy.

Happy MLK Day.

The doctor said that Fungushead may have broken her foot. Ugh.

I forgot to send a "fuck you" out to the Unter-UTA Parking Gestapo. Oh no, I drove through. That'll seal my fate come Ragnarok time. "Sorry mates, can't join you in Valhalla... I got that parking ticket last January."

A few notes about my real first day of classes...

My U.S. Government prof refused to pass out syllabi (I love that word) today, stating he'd prefer to wait a week or two, in case some of us elected to drop out. Interesting concept. I also bought the textbook for that course, only to discover that each of the 12-or-so sections to the course has its own textbook. Thankfully, mine seems to be as common as shit on a pig farm, so I was able to find a used copy relatively easily.

My Intro Chem course is a joke. I'd rather shoot myself in the groin than sit through it for the full semester, but self-inflicted gunshot wounds will get me a psych evaluation, not a degree. Fuck.

Thankfully, the prof I have for my Oceanography and Carbonate Petrology classes seems to be decent. He's animated, and likes the word "syllabi" too. Good enough by my books.

Maybe this is a UTA thing, but all of my courses have three or four term tests and a final exam in lieu of the midterm-final-assignment-term paper format I'm used to. It's not that I'm arguing, but it'll take a bit of adjustment...

Finally, here's a big "fuck you" to the guy who almost hit me on Abrams St. today. Pay attention to me before nosing your piece of crap boat into the intersection.

My English prof didn't show for class. Bitter rant to follow.

Goddamn Kinkos. I went to the local Kinkos to photocopy some transparencies for the wife, but the outlet was closed. On the door, there was a sign stating that, as of mid-December, the store would close at midnight and reopen at 6 a.m. Fuck. The bloody canopy still reads "24 hours," too.

So off I went to Irving to do my photocopying.

School starts today. The only class I have today is my crappy Expositional Writing class. Something tells me that I won't get terribly much out of this class.

It's also Karen's birthday tomorrow. She doesn't know that I'm planning to surprise her at work with a cake. We'll see how it goes over :)

My dog just had another seizure, poor thing. At least she didn't piss herself.

Caramelhead and I saw Orange County this afternoon. It was an amusing movie -- not anything I'd want to pay a full seven dollars to see, but worth the matinee fare. A few things struck me as odd about the movie...
-- Some radio spots were devoted entirely to Jack Black's role in the movie. Yes, Tenacious D is the new favorite band of teenaged boys (the Bloodhound Gang for 2002), but he's hardly carried the movies he's been in. Shallow Hal bombed, Saving Silverman hardly registered and High Fidelity barely used him.
-- Three teenaged girls sitting a few rows in front of me were very annoying. Shut the fuck up, you training bra cunts. I saw the trailer too, but you don't hear me shouting out the lines. I don't see Tim Curry on the screen and I'm not wearing lingerie. That means use your "inside voice" for the audience participation.
-- I wonder if Schuyler Fisk has done any porno. She's Sissy Spacek's daughter (which explains the hair), so it's very doubtful...

By mistake, I ordered pizza from Pizza Inn instead of Pizza Hut. Pizza Inn happened to be immediately after Pizza Hut in the Yellow Pages. We got a lukewarm, round slab of shit (in the proverbial sense, of course). Never, ever order from this place if you live in the DFW Metroplex.

Heh. My wife bought me a pair of tacky orange boxer shorts and a white t-shirt for our anniversary. The boxer shorts aren't plaid...they're a candy corn print, which makes them even better. Now I just have to find a way to show them off to people...

My wife's ankle looks like an abstract painting of Prince's closet, circa 1987. She's doing her best to convince herself that her ankle is fractured, even though the x-rays came back negative.

On a different note, let me add that MW4 rocks my universe. I'm almost able to compete in online games, even while connected to the Internet on an old 28.8 kbps modem. I bought the modem third-hand two years ago, and the thing still is plugging away. The thing must be older than half of Sierra Leone by now. (Yes, that is a tasteless joke, but disturbingly accurate. If you are unfamiliar with the geopolitical situation in sub-Saharan Africa, then disregard the last three sentences.)

The wife and I are celebrating the fourth anniversary of our first meeting. Yes, four years ago today, I stumbled out of my room half-awake, wearing nothing but a sweaty t-shirt and orange plaid boxer shorts, only to meet the woman I'd marry. So, what does Fungushead do to prepare herself for our anniversary? She falls off a big horse and sprains her ankle. Fuck.

I spent half an hour talking to the Financial Aid people at my university this morning. Like most immigrants, I'm learning a new language. But unlike most immigrants to the U.S., my English is fine; I'm being forced to learn "studentloanese." The grammar is simple enough, but the vocabulary befuddles me at times: Stafford subsidized, Stafford non-subsidized, EFC, the dreaded question 35...

I spoke too soon...there they go again.

My shitty downstairs neighbors just finished their band practice. Yes, that time is correct. You'd think that two complaints to the cops would be enough, but there's no accounting for the ignorance of some of the walnut-brained fucks that share this world (and apartment complex) with us normal folk.

I just saw a commercial for one of those "electrocute-your-face-in-infinitesimal- amounts-so-you-don't-look-haggard" devices. I wonder if the actors who get hired to have these instruments clipped to their facial muscles bother to check how ridiculous they look prior to cashing their cheques. I thought that facial ticks were signs of neurological conditions, but now I realize that they're simply cheap alternatives to plastic surgery.

My wife gave me a pair of socks, Rockford Red Heels to be exact, for Christmas. I'm wearing them now; they're very comfy.

Two days ago, I turned my car radio to what I thought was 93.3 Merge FM, but it wasn't. Without warning, the station had changed formats, and had assumed its new guise, 93.3 FM The Bone. "Classic Texas rock that rocks!" Ugh. "The Bone?" Who was the Ph.D. that dedicated his thesis to that gem?

I really liked Merge. I was starting to love Merge. They featured E-Merge-ing artists. On Sunday nights, they broadcast Submerge, a program that features alternative, electronic and underground music. Where else will you hear bands like FC Kahuna and The Avalanches on Dallas-Ft. Worth radio? Fuck.

Here's the page. I'm watching a documentary on the life (and death?) of Jimmy Hoffa. I'm sitting here naked, scratching my nutsack.