Q: What do you use to fuel a cheese fire?
Let's say you offer to cook dinner for some people. Maybe, oh, chicken enchiladas. And let's say you completely unwrap a four-pound hank of Tillamook, grab it in your grubby fist, and start grating that sucker fast enough to start a cheese fire.
If anyone who's going to be eating those enchiladas is within eight feet of you, you need to at least
pretend to wash your hands first. Because two of those people remember what you were doing to your ears five minutes ago. Cheese grating is a full-contact sport, bro. At least run some
water in the sink. At least
lie to me.
FIRST: Congratulations to
Amanda and Dave on the arrival of their brand new beautiful baby girl! Go look at the pictures of gorgeous Genoa because seriously, she's so attractive that there's no way I'm having a baby now. Between Baby Genoa and Big Brother Alex, I simply can't deal with that kind of superior genetic pressure.
SECOND: Several weeks ago I found out that
Cindy creates these amazing glass pendants out of... yes!
Glass! I know, I was surprised to learn that glass pendants are made out of glass myself. I had this little purple glass cherry (it may have in fact been a blueberry, but damnit, it had a stem) that I bought in Venice a million years ago on a whim, purely because the color was so amazing that I couldn't put it down. I managed to snap the stem off the poor thing pretty much the second my plane landed, so since then I've just had this weird purple lopsided glass ball lying around doing nothing constructive except being pretty and rolling off of assorted shelving.
Tell me you know where I'm headed with this.
Ta da! Cindy turned my cherry/blueberry/maybe a grape into this fantastic pendant! So now instead of lolling listlessly on my bookshelf and causing dissension in the "what fucking fruit is it" ranks, it can live around my neck while
I loll listlessly and cause dissension! Even if you don't have any busted up tiny weird fruit balls, you can still get in on
Cindy's awesome glass action.
THIRD: The next time I pluck my eyebrows, someone remind me to set a timer for ten minutes. Nothing good ever happens with tweezers after ten minutes.
The family sat down earlier in the week and had a very serious, very stressful, very honest conversation about the season finale of Lost and our commitment to it and to each other. We came to the gut-wrenching conclusion that watching it "live" as it aired on Wednesday night was not worth the messy intravenous nourishment tubes and embarrassing catheter installs that we discovered were requisite during that bullshit two-hour Grey's Anatomy couch hostage nightmare two weeks ago.
We make it a point to watch the show together so that a) we can pause and discuss pertinent and/or compound plot points with each other, b) I can fucking explain everything to everybody for like the fortieth time, and c) there are extra people lying around to bully into getting the rest of us some ice cream. So in order to stick with tradition, we decided that we would record it and then all meet on Saturday to watch and ask questions and fuck around on the Hanso Foundation website. After all, it's just a stupid television show. Truly, it's more a reason to schedule some quality family time with each other, some time to catch up and check in, than it is about watching something silly on TV.
Having said that, it's been made inexorably clear that anyone who is discovered to have watched it, listened to it, or looked up anything about it on the internet will be immediately shunned from the gathering and killed.
$10 each for earthworms, $15 for things with legs.
(UPDATED BELOW.)People who are (or who consider themselves to be, which is so much more annoying) animal savvy will tell you that a dog needs a "job" in order to feel satisfied. A dog
without a job will slink around the house digging up the carpet, drinking all the Absolut and going over his mobile minutes crying to his headhunter. The Jake has experimented with various "careers" over the years, and while he really enjoyed the "Maneuver Insanely Large Shit Through The Dog Door" gig, he found that the overtime was excrutiating. Plus, once he successfully completed the queen-sized memory foam mattress project, he felt like he'd hit the glass ceiling. Which, let's face it. With no king-sized beds in the house, there was really no place to go but down.
The older Jake gets, though, the more he's looking for something a little less... movement-oriented. Something flexible, something non-strenuous, something that doesn't get the shit kicked out of him. And it looks as though he's settled on Rolling. He can Roll pretty much anywhere, he can actually sleep for extended periods of time in the Mid-Roll position, and Rolling (I know this for sure) feels fantastic. Rolling by itself is great, but In Stuff is way better, In Stuff is like the platinum benifit package of the Rolling profession, and all of those bennies mean that Captain The Jake smells like a giant cat shit sandwich. I'm not allergic to dogs, but I
am allergic to pollen and grass and mold and turds and spores and crap, so I'm allergic to Jake.
I called the groomer this morning after my last-straw run in with a piece of chewed Hubba Bubba on Jake's matted left flank.
"Hi, I was wondering if there was any way that I could get my dog in to be groomed today."
"Sure! Let me just check the book," the groomer said. I heard pages turning."What did you say your last name was?"
I told her.
She paused. "Oh," she said. Pages stop turning. Pages stand perfectly still. "Jake."
"Yeah," I answered. "That's us!"
"Well, I'm not sure," the groomer sighed. "I was really hoping to get out of here by early afternoon."
It was currently 7:40.
I looked down at The Jake who looked back up at me filthily, trying in vain to shove his leg in his ear. I scratched his head. Gross.
"Plus," she went on, "I'm here by myself today, and when I do Jake I like to have someone else here to..." She hesitated.
"Help?" I ventured, wiping my hand on my shirt.
"I was gonna say 'guard the door'."
We struck a deal: she agreed to groom The Jake if she could just shave everything and start over, and if she finds anything alive in there like last time it's twenty dollars extra.
UPDATE:
This is The Jake Who Is Shaved. I sheepishly threw out the lo-cal Iams and admonished the whole family to knock off the "fattie" comments. The Jake, as it happens, is quite reasonably sized... from the skin in.
I forgot to mention that in his spare time The Jake has been taking classes at Stare At That Fucking Goat All Day University. SATFGADU (Class motto: You Blink, It Wins).
He hasn't given up his day job, apparently. Wouldn't it be awesome if I said that he was actually
asleep like that? He wasn't, though, he was totally awake, so I won't. Say that.
Tabacon!
This morning I dragged out a dusty hot roller set from underneath the bathroom sink and I rolled my weird-ass short weird hair up on like forty pencil-sized rollers. I let them cool and took them out, and then I rubbed a bunch of Aveda shit in there.
And then Randy came home unexpectedly for lunch and made it pretty clear that I am not welcome at his office happy hour tonight until Something Has Been Done About That.
So if you need me, I'll be wetting my head in the kitchen sink.
In the meantime, here are some pictures of the
Tabacon Hot Springs.
For the record, I don't know that guy. So quit it.
Wait, who are you again?
When I was working on my masters I wrote a paper about
The GAP. It was for a Critical Theory class, and the paper pointed out how The GAP showcased multiculturalism and diversity in its marketing campaign to get "Everybody in GAP", the end result of which would of course be the polar opposite of any kind of diversity, what with everyone walking around in identical GAP
cords and
vests and
leather and crap.
(SIDENOTE: Actually, I wrote about half of that paper, or maybe more like a third, before I got distracted by lying on the couch with an ashtray on my chest and watching "Scream" on HBO again. I remember I got a C in the class, and it seemed like a pretty good deal given that a) my final paper drooled completely off life support mid-paragraph, b) my citations included an advertisement I'd gotten in the mail, part of an Oprah Book Club paperback and "something I heard my mom say", and c) this was a
Critical Theory class, and the paper, ergo, was probably supposed to be less about shopping.
SIDENOTE 2: A couple of semesters later I signed up for Critical Theory again because by that point I was taking classes based solely on whether or not they met after ten in the morning. I didn't realize I'd already taken it until about six weeks in (most of my time in that first class had been understandably occupied by forgetting to buy the book and being ridiculously late), but once that second class got to Freud a familiar light buzzed on. It was a
weak light, granted, and it burned completely out again when we got to
Strauss, but whatever dude, Strauss is fucking hard. Surprisingly enough, I can't remember what I wrote the paper on the second time, but I think it's safe to assume that it was 100% genuine academic brilliance. In fact, if memory serves, I do believe there was a parade.)
You know what? When I started this post I had a whole mess of points-- a veritable
gaggle of points-- that I was leading up to, but brace yourselves for the impossible: I've completely forgotten what I was going to say.
BYO... N! Or.... S? Or... shit, nevermind, just go to class.
I'm not sure when exactly I lost track of what the hell is acceptable behavior in this house, but last night Randy watched
24. And he didn't just
watch it, he motherfucking
recorded it. I was afraid the DVR might explode with horrified disdain.
I grabbed my laptop and made a break for The Office. "We have unspoken rules!" I yelled, marching down the hall. "We
don't wake up and decide to give black tar heroin a try, we
don't let the kids drop out of college, and we
DON'T give
Kiefer Sutherland a fucking
FOOTHOLD!"
"Hey!" he yelled back. "Come back! Jack's screaming into his cell phone! I think he's about to reposition the satellites!"
I'm trying to decide if I should talk the kids out of taking their finals and then throw a giant heroin party. Just to make a point.
Let's just pray there isn't an emergency that calls for me to make a bunch of Jello.
What Randy lacks in mechanical skills, he amazingly makes up for in breaking shit. He was up this morning cleaning out the garage, and he somehow managed to break a water valve. Or something. I'm not even sure
he knows, exactly, but what's clear is that we have no water coming into the house now. He came in and told me and, like the utility-spolied American I am, my brain refused to process that "no water" was even a possibility. I mean, I
nodded, right, I
got it, but even as he was explaining it to me I was turning the kitchen faucet on and off, on and off, on and off, ON AND OFF, why is there
nothing coming out? THERE'S NOTHING COMING OUT.
So there's no water. Okay, well, I guess I'll run a load of clothes then.
Oh, wait! There's no
water! What was I thinking? If you need me I'll be in the shower. Just let me go water the plants first.
It's been literally ten minutes without water, and my brain can't handle it. I'm going to have to lie down until the obsessive urge to powerwash the house or set up a
slip n' slide passes. Maybe I'll soak in the tub a while.
(When did they start putting the little protection cushion at the end of the slide? We always just slid off into the street or into the side of the house. Next thing you know they'll be advising parents not to roll it out on top of sprinkler heads and ant hills.)
We could pack everything we own and still loan you a garment bag.
For the past few days I've been busy packing up
The Room Where All Of My Shit Lives. For some reason we've always referred to that room as "The Office" even though it contains absolutely
nothing that would make it either convenient and/or possible to accomplish anything office-ish.
Remember
Blanket Cam? That's "The Office".
Makes you want to slide on in there and maybe knock out a budget PowerPoint, doesn't it? Just wait till I tell you that there aren't any lights! I know! You'd think I intentionally
set out to create a suffocation chamber. That lamp doesn't work and hasn't since 2002 so quit it.
Randy has been threatening for years to implement The Comprehensive Schematic Of Genius Room Configuration, and I was recently granted a brief and somber audience with the blueprints. As far as I can ascertain:
1) Once The Office is devoid of... my crap, all of the gym equipment that is currently taking up space in The Luggage Room will move in, and The Office will become "The Gym", or maybe "The Gym That Is Sort Of Actually An Office" because lately there's been hushed talk of a desk. I don't know. I just work here. At the kitchen table.
2) Once The Luggage Room is devoid of gym equipment, my step-daughter's furniture will move in there and it will become her bedroom. She is not particularly pleased with this decision because a) the room smells like wetsuits, and b) surprisingly enough, there's a luggage situation.
3) Once empty, Randy's daughter's old bedroom will become THE GAME ROOM. Everybody (save my would be step-daughter, who is holding out for an appeal) is very, very excited about this, and as I appear to be an intregal part of Phase One, I have been encouraged to HURRY THE FUCK UP.
All of this is completely irrelevant, and the only reason that I brought any of it up is because while I was packing I found a hook that I used to hang my keys on in my apartment. I'd forgotten about the hook, and when I found it I got all nostalgic and excited ("Yay! Hook!") and I hung it next to the kitchen door.
Randy thought that I was being a bit ridiculous about a stupid
hook (see: "Yay! Hook!") and so he made a little joke, like this: "Aw, it's just like you're living in your apartment again! Only you're not slowly starving to death."
For the first time in a long time I knew with absolute clarity where the fuck my keys were. I was jaunty and unconquerable. "Yes!" I answered. With a little celebratory kick to the wall. "
Just like my apartment! Only I'm not starving, true... and now I hide my porn."
"Please don't," Randy said.
He meant "please don't kick the wall," not "please don't hide your porn." As I determined moments later via two very regrettable back-to-back mistakes.
Roommates, man: they may not be down with impromptu porn unveilings, and they might be a tad rigid about the walls, but they sure as shit make up for it with... plans. Oh, and food.
HA HA HA HA HA HA I WIN.
When I left my job a couple months ago, my boss and I agreed that it would make shit easier on the office at large if we made nice with each other: she sweetly asked if she could call me (The Consummate Genius Queen with the Positive, Can-Do Attitude) with any questions.
I told
her (The Benevolent Mentor Who Doesn't Pronounce "Ethnicity" as "Enticity") that she absolutely could. Day or night. Of course, she also told me that she'd be happy to write a letter of recommendation for me (no), and
I assured
her that I wouldn't write my own exit interview, mail it to the head of Human Resources and copy the President of the Company (yes).
So. You know. Grain of salt.
But I have to say I've been a tiny bit surprised she hasn't called for anything in all this time. And then today she finally did. I let it go to voicemail (I would have answered but I was busy plugging my ears and chanting the rosary), and when I checked the message, sure enough, she needs help.
Apparently whenever anyone presses ctrl-B on my old PC, giant word art dances out across the screen. And, surprisingly enough, she has no idea how to make it stop doing that.
It's too bad I don't know anything about it. Because goddamn, that must be annoying as shit. I mean, every time you go to bold something? I bet that sucks.
I've had the same CD--
one CD-- in my car for maybe three months. Fourteen songs. Sometimes I listen to one song over and over and over, sometimes I listen to three or four songs in a row over and over and over, sometimes my "skip" finger gets lazy and I listen to that one song that I keep skipping and I'm pleasantly surprised. So I was driving around today trying to find this stupid bookstore that I had a stupid gift card for and I was having, like, the
worst possible time finding this goddamned store, even though I was less than fifteen miles from where I fucking
live, and at one point I couldn't tell east from west (this was maybe four in the afternoon, too, so I was really on my game, here) and I got all mad and ragey and I had a little mental breakdown and called the store and asked where they were EXACTLY, and then I called them back five minutes later and asked again, in a different voice, and we really fucking synchronized our definitions of "
exactly" in kind of a mean way that I'm not really proud of-- and wasn't really proud of pretty much right after it happened-- so when I finally found the stupid store I had to slink in behind someone else and then not talk the whole time I was in there so they wouldn't know I WAS
THE ONE.
Oh. So I was in the car for a really long time today, and at one point (maybe between sort of polite phone call one and "why didn't you fucking tell me you were next to David's Bridal in the
first place" phone call two) I absent-mindedly clicked from "CD" to "FM" on the stereo. And... another song came on. A song that isn't on my longstanding CD. "Song Fifteen", if you will. And I physically winced. I had to immediately turn it back to "CD". There WAS NOT ROOM in my mental catalog for a fifteenth song.
I keep trying to think of what analogous situation that reminds me of, like, "no thanks, I've gotten so used to these fourteen fruits that I don't think I care for a banana, ever, thanks though," or "I'm sorry, I already know fourteen people who I'm really familiar and comfortable with, and I'm sure you're nice and everything-- no reflection on
you-- but I can't introduce myself to anyone else right now. You know how it goes." And I
guess both of those analogies technically
work? IN CRAZY TOWN.
Broccoli is a dish best served to somebody else.
When I went to my parents' house to visit with the "GPs", my grandfather sat me down almost immediately. He sat back, stretched his hands across his stomach, and looked at me in the face with all of the investigatory cynicism that an 86-year-old retired Lieutenant Army Colonel can muster. Which, wow. I had to scoot my chair back.
"So," he started, "Are you in school? Are you working? What exactly are
you doing for your country?"
There's not enough leftover broccoli casserole in the WORLD, people. Trust me on this. Because I ate all of it this afternoon, all the leftover broccoli casserole on the surface of the planet Earth, like, if
you left a little triangle of casserole on your plate today? And it was cold and mainly bread crumbs? I ATE THAT. AND IT TOTALLY WASN'T ENOUGH.
Apparently eating mushroom soup-based casserole scraps-- even in incredible, eyebrow-raising quantities-- does not earn the United States Stamp of "doin' shit" Approval.
Costa Rica: Stories I Totally Forgot To Tell You
"The Carara National Forest is one of the most fascinating forests in the world," shouted Roy, our guide. He was perched in a tree at the time, which I thought was weird. That morning Randy and I had taken a vote: he had voted for this jungle tour, and I had voted for lying glass-bottle prone in the sun all day. I had cast my vote enthusiastically, and I may have voted more than once, I can't remember. But somehow I had lost. Again. I shielded my eyes and impatiently watched Roy scrape something off the tree trunk. The sooner we got this show on the road, the sooner I could be lying down somewhere drunk.
"Hey," I nudged Randy. "Can I have the sunscreen?"
Randy sighed. "You've already got sunscreen on," he said. "You're fine."
This was true. I was already well coated. But the longer I stood there the more I could feel the tropical sun blazing its way into my epidermis, breathing its fiery breath behind my knees and on the tops of my ears and on my eyelids, and hey, had I remembered the tops of my feet? Probably not, no, and I could actually feel my skin burning then, actually feel it turning pink and crispy and malignant...
"Just give me the goddamned sunscreen," I hissed.
Randy sighed and pulled the bottle out of the backpack. "You've got a sunscreen problem," he muttered. "You're SPF-arexic." The woman next to me, having eavesdropped on our exchange, now poked the man next to her in the ribs. He rolled his eyes, reached into a pocket, and handed her a blue tube.
We were both happily smearing when Roy bounced out of his tree. "Does anyone know what these are?" he asked the group, holding out his hands. Smallish gray bugs crawled across his palms and up his arms.
"Termites," answered Blue Tube Guy matter-of-factly.
Roy nodded and smiled. And then leaned down and licked a row of the scuttling bugs off his arm. "Uh..." I moved towards Randy and away from where Roy was now offering alive snacks to the crowd. "I can eat termites at home. I want a motherfucking recount."
"Excuse me," piped a slight woman with dark hair. She peered up at Roy. "Do you have wild pigs in this forest?"
"You mean peccaries?" asked Roy, shaking any leftover termites to the ground. "Oh yes, we have peccaries. Big, giant peccaries. Beautiful peccaries."
"My daughter and I were almost attacked by a wild pig yesterday," the woman said gravely. Her arms were folded so tightly across her body that I waited to hear a rib crack.
"We have large herds of peccaries," Roy continued, gesturing, oblivious. "The males will form a circle around their prey and click their jaws, like this."
The woman flinched and tightened her arms. I swear I heard a tiny snap. The teenaged daughter put her fingers in her ears and long-jumped back to the parking lot.
"But do not worry!" laughed Roy, "They will not hurt you. Unless they are hungry, or they feel threatened, or they are mating, or they have small baby peccaries with them, or they are uncomfortable in some other way." He shrugged and waved dismissively.
"Do you have those pitcher plants?" the daughter called, one finger free, perched on the hood of a Subaru. Apparently there was a checklist.
"Yes, the big ones?" her mother joined in. "The carnivorous ones?"
"Please don't tell me you were almost attacked by one," I joked, trying to make light of the fact that we were all about to be surrounded and eaten by a herd of wild pigs whose shirt collars were too tight.
The group tittered. The woman took a step forward and looked me straight in the eye. "I am from Kenya," she barked, as if this fact alone explained her dread interest in gigantic meat-eating flora.
The tittering was instantly replaced by an awkward silence. "Oh, are you really?" I murmured, wide-eyed, full of cocktail party interest, no longer the tension breaker but now the girl who makes fun of Kenya. She nodded sharply and marched off to drag her daughter down from the roof of the car. I turned to Randy.
"Way to make fun of Kenya," he whispered.
"I know, man, if I had a nickel," I whispered back. I poked him in the side. "Hey."
"What?"
"Give me the sunscreen."
From Bad to Better to Sleeping in my Car. On Another Street.
Randy:
[nonchalantly reading Men's Health.] "I think we've got something of a snake problem on the property."
Me: "What? Snakes? Are you serious?"
Randy:
[nonchalantly turning the page.] "Yeah. But they're just little small red guys. Not like
rattlers or anything."
Me: "Oh. That's... that's not so bad."
Randy:
[nonchalantly avoiding any and all eye contact.] "Yeah, I don't think it's a big deal. But just the same, you should probably stay out of the back bathroom."
And then I ran off with a sausage casserole.
I
just found the will to get out of bed. The Atlanta blogger meetup was awesome to a degree that I didn't think awesome could aspire to, frankly. The entire weekend was set in this cloud of resort-style hospitality that left me speechless. You may
think to yourself that you're a pretty good host, but unless you've studied under
CW and his beautiful sweetheart wife, you've got nothing. NOTHING.
People are
summing up the weekend better than I can, so I'll break it down into a list:
Why Bloggers Are Way Better Than People Who Don't Blog Or Who Don't Know What Blogging Is And Hence Think We're Stupid:
1) Bloggers are nice. Introductions are always friendly and forthcoming because we're internet folk and legitimately don't know who anybody is. Unlike non-bloggers, no one's sitting awkwardly around a table wondering what that one guy's name is. We know his name, his fake name
and his AIM name. We got his
back, motherfucker.
2) Bloggers take picture taking seriously. Non-bloggers become overwhelmed by their complete photographic ineptitude and they just try to draw shit real fast. This weekend I knew that I could sit back and relax, secure in the knowledge that
Brad or
Mark or
Mark or
Patricia was on top of shit with a camera lens three times bigger than a canned ham. And four times more intimidating.
3) Bloggers have much more informative conversations than non-bloggers. Witness:
Non-Blogger: "Well, history's shown that it's only a matter of time before this administration snaps under its own weight."
Non-Blogger 2: "Amen to
that."
Non-Blogger: "..."
Non-Blogger 2: "What say we turn on FOX."
As opposed to:
CW: "Well, history's shown that it's only a matter of time before this administration snaps under its own weight."
Caitlin: "I totally agree. Oh, and a
Cleveland Steamer, a
Hot Carl and a
Chili Dog are all pretty much the same thing."
Mark: "Oh my God."
CW:
[throws the shocker]
4) Bloggers love animals way more than non-bloggers. Even animals who don't really like us.
Michelle and I agreed that every time either tiny Millie or tinier Monty made grave movements to avoid our needy, desperate outstretched hands, our souls came that much closer to just signing the official paperwork already. But we kept trying. Because we're bloggers, damnit. We're persistant! And we don't take hints well.
5) "Drinking as Religion: Bonus Assignment Turned in by Bloggers". I hope this goes without saying. Using CW's mindblowing liquor stash,
Scott was able to create these drinks that floated and separated and mesmerized the photobloggers. I watched Caitlin throw back six shots in four seconds. Three in each hand. I'm not ashamed to tell you that I'm drinking right now, just out of reverence. And compulsion. But mostly reverence. Bloggers read that and high-five their monitors; non-bloggers read that and calmly suggest a forty-thousand-dollar isolation locked-down sleepover camp. Non-bloggers are pussies.
6) Six Is For Science!
Julia demonstrated first-hand the
mentos / Diet Coke miracle, and as Bloggers we were truly fucking obsessed with it. Much like her five-ear-old niece, WE WANT TO SEE THAT SHIT AGAIN. While non-bloggers would no doubt be complaining that those mentos were for dinner,
Snowy and LT and I were trying to figure out the best way to shove a tube of mentos and a straw down a person.
7) Bloggers don't have to hide their love of Karaoke and Playstation under a layer of listlessness; that shit's RIGHT HERE ON TOP, MOTHERFUCKER. I must admit that while my love for
Playstation is pure and unremitting,
K and I swore a pact to deny our blogging halves access to the karaoke machine. Two hours later I came downstairs and found K belting out Backstreet Boys and my resolve cracked like Whitney. "
Mickey" is apparently all about ass fucking. I know. I was as shocked as you.
8) Bloggers take fashion seriously.
a) When Caitlin showed up with a painstaking silkscreen of a water buffalo and a reality TV quote, we threw seven hundred and forty-four tee shirts at her. A reverant hush fell over the kitchen as she explained the process of photo-emulsion and transpancy replication. It was like listening to Marie Curie talk about... whatever shit she talked about. Bloggers aren't history buffs.
b) I can tell you from first-hand experience that
Leo wore a blue and sort-of-white sweatband across his dome from the house on Sunday to the airport bar and then through security. He might have taken it off after that, but I don't know why he would have. When you've found that tool that makes you simultaneously a genius and a hottie, you leave that shit be. On the way to the airport I worried that he was quiet, but he was just quietly working out space travel algorithms. Phew!
Mark was wearing matching wristbands when he left, too; I can only assume he made his 45-minute drive in eleven minutes.
c)
CW. White terrycloth robe. Monogrammed. It's burning. My brain.
The best weekend I've spent in a long, long,
long time. And the only proof I'll ever need that Bloggers can kick Non-Bloggers' asses any day of the fucking week. Except maybe in an actual
fight.
