Life in Brief(s)

1.) A touch of class: I'd like to go on record saying that there is truly nothing classier than walking to the neighborhood grocery store with your girlfriend, only to browse through wines for damn near a fortnight, ultimately selecting a wine that, and I quote, "Goes great with lasagna, HAMBURGERS, and SAUSAGES." "Ahhh, yes, I'd like a double-double, animal style,... oo, oo, oo, and your finest glass of '87 Merlot please. I mean, they go so well together!"

2.) A touch of crass: In a blatant act of civil disobedience, I have recently chosen to ignore the 24th amendment, which bans the implementation of any poll taxings. Forsaken instead for the implementation of thinly veiled metaphors and not-so-clever euphemisms. Think about it for a second.

3.) A touch of mass: Socialization that is. Ever notice that all dishwashing soap bottles are shaped to resemble the female form? What's the deal with that? Talk about reinforcing gender stereotypes. I mean, what's next? Penis shaped scepters? Ball shaped basketballs? This is just ridiculous.

Another year, another spirit crushing blow...

2005 has finally arrived and I am wholly disappointed.

I don't know if you, my illustrious friend (I hesitate to use the plural form of the word) were aware of this, but this is the year that the Transformers movie took place. And unless things have drastically altered in the last 45 seconds, there is a very apparent lack of morphing robots battling over neon pink cubes of "energon." Man! I can't believe this. I can't believe movies lied to me. Again! For decades now, I have foolishly held my breath in anticipation of celluloid guarantees.

I spent elementary school, waiting for Chunk to come over and aid me in my quest for One Eye'd Willy's gold.
Then, I spent the first part of highschool waiting for Jake Ryan to finally ask me out. When I realized Jake wasn't actually interested in me, I spent the rest of highschool, waiting for my thousand dollar paycheck to arrive so that I could help the gorgeous yet kind cheerleader out of an alcohol induced financial fiasco involving her mother's suede garments.
Next came college, where my years were spent haunting the dining halls, in search of the ever-elusive human pimple. But it seems that, every time, I had just missed him.

And now this! No Tranforming Big Rigs. No youths spouting innocence shattering expletives. NOTHING. This is the last straw. My faith in film has gone the way of actually paying for music. I'm done with it. With you as my witness, I swear that I will never again believe anything a movie tells me.

Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! My phone's ringing. I think it might be Trent (whom, we, his friends, call "Double Down" Ha! "Double Down." I'll never know how Mikey thought of that.) calling me over for some NHL on the Sega Genesis or maybe for some drinks at the Derby. Gotta run!