I'm going to go back to a 4-plus-post-a-week schedule. Blogging full-time takes so much of my alloted computer time that I'm barely having enough time to enjoy other's blogs or websites, and I also need to take the time to focus on the transition from Sacrilegious Sunday to Sanctified Sunday. Plus, the guys are always telling me to close down the blog, so I will meet them halfway and cut down on my blogging. That will be 16 posts a month. More than manageable.
I also need to practice my singing. Solo, I sound like a wet dog that got ran over by a cat with its tail on fire (seriously), but I imagine I'd sound OK in a group of 4 or 5. Especially if I didn't sing, but just stood there looking efficient. I look efficient very well. God forbid, I might be able to be taught to sing, but I doubt it. I talked to Kile II about it today; he said that "I [Kile II] sound[s] like a dying cat that's being strangled by a fireman." Fair enough. Since everyone has more-or-less abandoned ship, me and Pastor are going to do duets. Wait...that's not nearly manly enough.
We're going to do "Manliets." That's better. Man-lee-ette- WAIT, the "lee" is too girly. Manmanets. Man-mahnets. That's better. Manmanets.
To better perform these feats of pure unrelenting manhood- not girly duets, or feminine-sounding manliets, but manmanets- I will need to learn to play the guitar. GEEtar. My mom seems to believe in me wholeheartedly. "Guitars are a girl magnet! I'll have grandchildren in no time!" she exclaims. "Yeah, but Mom, I'm not getting married until I'm ready to, and that will be years and years."
"Not if you get to playing that guitar! I'll have so many grandchildren, I'll have to start raising them en-mass like goats!"
"Uhh, yeah. About that...anyway...I'll be heading to the guitar store today."
"The guitar store?! Today?! Wow! That means I could be as little as 9 months from a grandchild or five!"
"Uhm, yeah...I'm pretty nervous, though-"
"Come on, now! You practically went to California alone! You can handle a guitar store! You're a saint of God, now act like you're not going to Hell! GET OUT THERE, AND BRING ME HOME SOME GRANDCHIL...ER...A GRAND GUITAR FOR YOU!!!"
My mom has good pep talks when her receiving grandchildren is involved. I think I learned a thing or two over the weekend. When combined with Bits Kibble's sermon on Romans 1:11- it's on Pastor Crude Justice's website- I learned three things. As he says, we are soldiers. We are in a battle. This is important to understand, as soldiers have much different training than civilians.
Pastor Vertigo- the main speaker last weekend- reminds me very much of a soldier. He is an ex-marine, and he looks the part. At least 6'5", around 260 pounds, and he carries a 15" Bowie knife with him "at all times." His signature greeting is to hold it to your throat and ask if you want to die. When you say "No, sir!" he says "ALRIGHT, just let me know if you want to die in the future," and gives you a card.
This guy is scary. He's the kind of guy who punches through a glass window, and the one left bleeding is the glass. When he goes riding in the wilderness, if the horse gets tired it simply rides him. One time, he took a drink from a lake, and his reflection ran from him. He chased it down and told it not to try anything funny again. He also did this with his shadow numerous times. It is unclear if he can harm either beyond somehow grasping them to keep them from running.
When there's an emergency or hostage situation, the police call him. When the boogeyman goes to sleep at night, he prays to his lonely "wall god" that he didn't scare any of Pastor Vertigo's kids during the night, and then checks his closet and under his bed for "The Vertigan." The Godfather calls him for advice half of the time.
When he preaches, the congregation trembles not from "preaching power," but from his tendency to make entire rows wet their pants from fear. He throws his bowie knife like a boomerang in front of them, and the real scary part is when it comes back behind their heads; defying the laws of physics is not as scary as defying him.
When he used to smoke, he gave the cigarettes "Vertigo breath," and they had to pop mints to keep from smelling like him. It didn't work as well as they'd hope. When he drinked, the whiskey would pass out before he did. He would crush beer cans on his eyes, not his forehead. Thieves break into his house, and end up getting robbed themselves at "fistpoint."
His children were born with beards and well-developed biceps. This is a scary man. When he goes to the zoo, the predatory species observe him cautiously; the others run. At football games, he is often recruited to fill in for one of the motors that opens the roof of the stadium; typically, they just shut down all the others to save electricity and he pushes it open himself.
One time, he got a flat tire, and he changed it with one hand. While it was going 65 MPH. When he raises his eyebrows, he exerts as much pressure as a full grown man does doing pushups. Once, he knocked a guy cold with a "piercing stare." Three others nearby experienced heart palpitations.
When he would develop cavities, he dug them out with his tongue then chewed steel to fill them. This is a powerful man. His pulpit is made of brick because he stabbed, shattered, and burned the wooden one during a particularly enjoyed sermon.
He chews wood instead of gum (and he can blow a "wood bubble"); he picked this up from his days as a lumberjack in which he would "chop" the trees down with his teeth. He never got accurate enough to make 2x4s, but he did make several rough canes. Yes, he does whittle with his teeth.
He's so much of a man, that all of his children were boys, and one of them may be a new sex that is somehow beyond man, but scientists will not be sure until he fully grows into adulthood, which they expect to be within one year. He is currently two years old.
As you can see, Pastor Vertigo is the kind of guy you avoid, but God forbid if he does find out you avoided him. It's best to not avoid him, but to just not be around him. Call in sick, feign a suicide attempt, whatever you have to do. Hide behind his wife, but don't let him know you hid behind her. Don't shake his hand, because then he's got you. But don't not shake his hand, because then he'll get you. This was the most nerve wracking part of the California trip.
Anyway, I swung by the local Music Planet. They said, "Dude, you need a dreadnought. Classical guitars are for SPANISH PEOPLE!" (I think they're called dreadnoughts, at least.)
Now, I am not a Spanish person, so I have no business in owning a classical guitar. He said that they are classical because you don't play them with a pick. According to Jehoshaphat, my mom's friend who used to work with her, classical guitars are the best to get because they sound a lot better. But the Music Planet guys say the exact opposite. I'm not saying that they couldn't have purposely played the classical quieter, but it sure did sound quiet. I don't see a reason for them doing that.
We'll see how this pans out. Update sometime soonish. I'm still wondering if "pan" is a play on "dish."
Actually, I think I should force questions like that out of my head...ah well...I'll expound on this more later. For now, I am hyper for some reason. I had a burrito for dinner, and a claw machine owned me. To be smart, you DO NOT waste your time on a machine if most of the
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