The State of Hymning: 2008

Here's the current condition of our familial hymning ability:

• The losers of the family: me, my dad, my mom. And my brother...he's some unheard of form of Super Loser. You've heard the term, "Can't carry a tune in a bucket." He can't even carry words in a bucket. The poor sap.
  
• The star of the family is M.P. Echo. Who is a guitar. A piece of wood- wood which is not an animated marionette by the name of Pinocchio- is better than all three of us combined. (Actually, all three of us combined is worse than just one of us.)
  

My goal is to, somehow, some way, teach me and my family to sing. It will be a terrible journey, and I'll be working with oafish loons who will go backwards on me the entire way.

One of them has a horrible phobia of singing...

...and the other has to unlearn 15 years of formal Muppet Choir training.




I go into this knowing that I will not accomplish my goal. But I'll have tried. And in this dreary, platinic world of sentient engravings, that's all that matters.

Until then, humble fools.

"Hey! It's Michael "Kev" Jackson!"

Yeah...remember the wound I have in my hand? It's starting to heal, but is still bursting apart and hurts. It likes germs.


Well, I had to go to church with this wound. And ever the do-gooder I am, I felt I should wear a glove. I did not wear one while playing guitar, but I wore one later. My reason for not wearing one while guitaring? Michael "Kev" Jackson. See the picture.



It began slowly enough. I think Mrs. Bruckner was the first one to mention it- "Are you Michael Jackson?" Then Lisa dataDyne mentioned it ("Are you trying to be like Michael Jackson?"), and pretty much everyone mentioned it, none seeming to hear that someone had already asked me this question, except for the Row of Four, which is The Hitman's and Carrot Top and his wife. I was trying my best not to give them all a horrible case of the contagious tetanus, and they thought I was Michael Jackson!

Then I had to get my bible bag. But I was smart this time: I whipped out a second glove. "I'd rather be Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny with two gloves than Michael Jackson with two!" I rushed into the room and out again as fast as I could, but I couldn't avoid the swift questioning of one girl.

"What's with the gloves?" she asked. "Well," I began. "I have a wound in my right hand, and I don't want everyone getting tetanus, so I wore a glove. But when I wore the one glove, everyone thought I was Michael Jackson. So I decided I'd rather have two gloves and be accused of being Mickey Mouse than to be accused of being Michael Jackson. That's why I have two gloves on now. I hope I explained that well." I exited the room; silence. I spoke very quickly, and I think I left them dumbfounded, wondering how I went from tetanus to Michael Jackson to Mickey Mouse.


That's about it. As a final sword-to-the-heart...as my guitar teacher drove away...I heard the chorus racketing from his car: "THRILLER!"



I hate [most] flesh wounds.

Mixed Company

I was listening to a pastor preaching the other day (for several hours...ugh, drone, drone) and he was talking about...well, let's not say what he was talking about. He said, "...and all the rest, were associated with people getting their clothes off, and there's not really but one reason you take your clothes off, folks, [when] in mixed company."


I've always thought "mixed company" meant people you don't like, or people who can't be trusted- backbiters, hatemongers, rumor mills. I looked it up...it doesn't only apply to males and wives, but males and females in-general. That's where I got the skewed definition from: thinking it applied only to wives.





Happy Father's Day. Today, my dad found a lid to add to his Paint Can Lid collection. Happy Father's Day, pops.

Part I --- How I Somehow Deleted Everything on my Laptop (and then found it again)

Today I decided I would scan my computer with AVG, do a complete clone backup to my My Book 500 GB external hard drive (because I didn't bother to backup my laptop), and then utterly commit a fresh reinstall of Windows. I need some way to get another year out of my laptop without having to expand my hard drive. (If anyone has a laptop hard drive that's 100+ GB and at least 5400 RPM, and you have no use for it but to give it to me for free, please do that now. My HD is 80 GB, and another 20 GB would be great.)

Anyways, the problem really occurred when, well, let's just say I skipped to step three, that is, the "commit a fresh reinstall of Windows" step. The problem is, in this context of skipping the first two steps, it now read as "Reformat Hard Drive and reinstall Windows (to make matters worse, you forgot to backup, fool). Resistance is futile. We are the Borg."


A bit more detailedly, I examined my PC recovery software. I have a 13 GB recovery partition on my hard drive. It does stuff (and takes up space), so I decided to see precisely what it did, to assess my abilities in terms of backup and formatting. My experimenting with it caused a process to begin. "Quit or begin?" it said. I figured I'd see what it does. I've followed this pattern for my entire life and it's never once went wrong...except with women. Works fine with men.

"You look very haggard today." "Yes, I do look haggard, I did not shave. I am a man." You walk up to a woman and tell her she looks very haggard- and that she forgot to shave- and that she's a man- well, she'll say "Yes, I look very haggard," but she'll spell it "halberd." It never works with women, especially at medieval weaponry displays in museums. My question is this: just what do they expect to happen? Stabbing somebody with a weapon will get you in big trouble, it's not a great way to vent your offended feelings. Stop this madness before I am eventually killed.


Anyway, the non-interruptible process began, but me being me, I interrupted it, Alt+F4 style (that will close windows, don't do it right now). Turns out, it was 90 seconds into deleting system files. You...need system files. My laptop shut down very naturally...but when I started it back up, it wouldn't continue because of hal.dll which it informed me was missing. I'm sure there were lots of other startup/stability files deleted. Thus I turn to my recovery discs. They're scratched up (how did I let that happen?), but they still work. I did not need them, because the 13 GB recovery partition was still there, but I sure had them. Y'know, had I needed them. Totally.


Sadly, then the confusion set in. Microsoft, on their website, says that System Recovery- the NON-REFORMAT and NON-PARTITIONING, standard version- will not delete files. Problem is, in-between these comforting words are words like "backup before attempting" and "recovery will cause all programs installed to need to be reinstalled but will not delete DATA FILES."

Whatever Data Files are. What does this craziness mean! I guess the moral of this story is, "Backup often to multiple sources."

I woke my mom from a sound nap. "Mom, my computer will not start." "Call Norry, our company's IT guy and bother him on his Saturday." "OK." I got in contact with Norry. He said I could A: go ahead and do the recovery- AS LONG AS IT DOES NOT SAY REFORMAT OR PARTITION- or I could wait until Monday and he could copy my HD contents onto a drive and get it to me and I could go ahead and do a destructive reinstall of Windows.

I decided to try the recovery. After all, it said nowhere that I would lose data (unless I chose "reformat"), and I don't need my computer down for a week where I tediously hand-pick files to reinstall. Not when I have no choice in the matter, at least. If I have a choice? That's fine, I'll take the tedious hand-picking any day. That was a complete and total lie, I apologize.

So I did the recovery. It took around an hour to complete...then after an ABSOLUTELY MIND-BENDINGLY LONG startup and setup process, I...






...oh. It thus ends in a sorrowful cliffhanger. See Part II --- How I Deleted Everything on my Laptop (and then found it again)

Note: Part II was not here on Saturday, I actually had a bit more written but I redid it on Monday and incorporated it into Part II.

When City Folk Visit the Country

Yesterday, I told the(sic) Hitman that some city folk came out to visit. He asked, "Do you guys think I'm a city folk?" I said, "I don't know, not really," or something to that effect. Later in the night, my dad asked me, "They think we're hicks, don't they?" I said, "Just tonight, the Hitman asked if we thought they were city folk. They don't think we're hicks." (As a sidenote, apparently Frenchy French made contact a few days ago, and through a thorough questioning process of the contacted, I determined that they're neither divorced or dead.)


Anyways, a couple of city folk came out to our house. Like, a couple. Not as in two, but as in, an "adv. itam," a "boxolofoos," a "pair of mismatched socks," a "sideways box of cracker crumbs." You know what I mean?


She, let's call her "...uhh, I don't...I don't know what we'll call her. Um...let's see...


"Yulette." Let's call her Yulette...then shorten it to Yuley. There. You've witnessed the process of me nicknaming others. Yuley happens to work with one of my parents, and just happens to have experience drawing blood from the defenseless elderly in old folks homes. We needed to do blood draws on like 15 of our goats to test for a disease.


The weird thing is, they brought their clothes. Their dirty clothes. These they would wash and dry as payment for their laboring. They do not have washers or dryers, we have several. We do not know how to draw blood, they have several. We made the trade and it worked out just fine. For the most part. I guess they travel around, hanging out with different people, using their washers and dryers.

The husband's name is Norry. He's a tech guy. They actually thought everything was OK- no cries of "OH NO, KILLER AMERICAN PIT BULL TERRIER!"...then it was time to draw the blood. Yuley was shaking very badly. Like, half an inch of shake. I'm not quite sure how she managed to successfully draw the blood. I guess if you jab enough, hard enough, and fast enough, you can get most of what you need if your need is blood. After that, everything was fine. Several hours passed- we had to do that many goats- and it was my turn to learn to draw blood.

Some goats didn't freak out and it was over quick; others were harder, and decided it was best to push as hard as they could on the restraining bars, thus lengthening the process and causing (themselves) pain...think of it as trying very hard to stand up in your car, chronically crushing your head against the roof as hard as you can. Eventually your neck muscles lose strength, then your head flops sideways, and inexplicably you're still crushing your sideways turned head and neck against the ceiling. The car swerves and swerves.


And I just happened to have one of the hard ones. My mom got a lesson shortly before me, and I think she got a hard one, too. I missed the vein (on the hard ones, it's hit-and-miss), but got a quarter-draw of air. I took the needle out then released the air. Yuley said, "OH man, I'm so glad you didn't let that air go in the goat. If it got into its bloodstream, it would have died." The conversation made its way over to an air bubble causing massive heart attack. I asked, "So, you could dispatch a goat by injecting it with air?"

She's one of those people that concentrates really, really hard on responding, while doing something else. "Well, it would be a...lengthy death," she said. I said, "So, do you think it would be better to shoot the goat, and kind of miss, and it's only kind of dead, and have to shoot it again, or to let it die of a heart attack?" "N-...OhhWHat?" she said, with horror. "Well, it would probably be stunned from the first shot..." she reasoned, recovering from what seemed to be a near breakdown. Norry is great moral support. "JAB, JAB, JAB THAT GOAT, JAB IT HARD THEN GLOAT GLOAT GLOAT! DRAW DRAW! DRAW DRAW! DRAAAW!" he cheered.




Poor city folk, can't barely handle shocking "I shot it and it was still alive, but its face had blood dripping all over it, and it was still moving, and its eyes were soulless and cold!" stories. Pssh.

If you've never had to shoot a turkey in the head five to seven times, then empty its blood into a wheel barrow, see the coagulating blood, then a mere several days (on Thanksgiving) later eat that fifty-five-pound turkey you shot five to seven times, you've never experienced a botched slaughter. Especially when it tastes horrible. Worst Thanksgiving ever...

:(

Kev Gets Pulled Over By Five Police Cars and Trucks; Police Grip Guns Warily

This story is true. Remember my last encounter with an officer of the law?


So, it was like any other Bible study night. Except that my dad scraped the paint off of The Hitman's car. While in California in February, The Hitman scrapped (I'll get that in editing) another car. It turns out, that car's paint was on his car, it wasn't a scratch. He was driving around with a "scratch" until my dad wiped it off. His car looks like a fighter (think: Arwing), but isn't as great as Don Horsegoggle's car, which I deem Light Suit. I was in the Pathy, and pa was in the Red Beater, as he was somewhere working and met me at church.

I followed him home. Long drive. 10 miles from home, about 30 lights go off behind me. They have so many lights. "Oh, this is weird," I said to myself. My dad kept going straight, I pulled into the turn lane. The officer still had his lights on. The light lasted for a long time, at least a minute, maybe more. The lane is not designed for left turns. Let me put it this way: by the time we turned left, my dad had gone straight and turned back to watch me pull over.

I turned, then pulled into the nearest lot. The officer turned his spotlight on as I turned. I stopped, so that he wouldn't turn his siren on, which is the dreaded "OK, you're in trouble" signal. The officers slowly approached in a crouched, readied position, lights drawn, hands on their guns. They looked into the back of the Pathfinder. This is what they saw:


He slowly walked up. "Good evening," he said. "Hi," I said. "Do you have your registration with you?"

"Yeah, should be in a wallet in the glovebox." In the Red Beater, the registration is in a wallet in the glove box. In the Pathfinder...well, let's just say that there's one-too-many birthday cards in there. I could have wished the officer happy birthday with a card that's already signed, but I don't think that would help matters. Another police car pulled up. He asked me whose car this was, and I said "My mom's." I told him, "I was actually following my dad home when I got pulled over."

He explained that why he pulled me over was because of broken license plate lights. He said, "You have a lot of cargo tonight, Kevin." "Yeah, cans...something for my mom's job." "Ah." It took around two minutes before he finally decided he just wanted to see my license. "Do you have your license on you tonight?" "Yeah." "Let me go look at that while you find the registration." I handed him the license. I started getting nervous about the time that I couldn't find the registration.

It took about the same 2 minutes for them to run the license. I looked in an empty field adjacent to the lot we were in, and THERE'S MY DAD, LIKE AN IDIOT, PARKED 4-6 CAR LENGTHS AWAY WITH HIS PARKING LIGHTS ON! Three more cars/trucks pulled up, one of them checking out the suspicious vehicle sitting FOUR OR SIX CAR LENGTHS AWAY, one of them providing backup for that suspicious vehicle, and the other joining the forces against me.

An officer walked up to the passenger door. I rolled down the window. "Is that your dad over there in the field?" "Yeah...sorry." He radioed "That's his dad," then said "That's OK" and walked away. When he radioed, the police vehicle approaching my dad- running his plates and such- drove away. Now, my dad isn't stupid, he just didn't expect five vehicles to show up, or to be a source of suspicion. But that's just what happens when you're a suspicious vehicle watching the results of someone pulled over and you just happen to be a half mile from the police station.


Officer Mark II (nobody will get that) walked back. By this time, I had found several prospects. How should I know what a registration looks like? These things change form more than...God help me, all the time, and everything in that glove box said registration, including the birthday cards! I said, "If it's not one of these, I don't think it's in here." "OK, see, this one expired in 2002...2003...2004...2005...2006...uhm, sir, this is a birthday card." (not in that order.) "Oh," I said.

"But, the vehicle is licensed to your mom, so that'll be OK. It's really your responsibility to be sure the registration is in the vehicle before driving it, even if you're just borrowing it, so be mindful of that." "OK." I would later find out that, of the 5-inch-thick slab of papers in the glove box, THE ONLY PAPER I DROPPED WAS THE CURRENT REGISTRATION. Man!


My charm had gotten me out of another bind. Or...maybe it was the fact that I had registration for the past six years. If I have those, it's probably not an unregistered car.

He then said, "Uh, but would you mind showing us what's in the bags?" "No, wouldn't mind that." I said. "Oh, you wouldn't?" he said, in the we-were-about-to-forcibly-search-this-vehicle-and-your-dad's kind of way.

I got out of the car, then opened the door. I took out my guitar. I'll post some Guitar updates soonish. "You play the guitar?" he asked. "Oh, I'm really learning...OK, first bag, second bag, and third bag." The third bag- made of cloth- was full of paper. I opened that and showed him. "This is for her job, too," I said. "OK. Can you open the can bag, or will that make a mess?" "I don't know, let's see," I said. I opened it, and it was double bagged. "Double bagged, nice," he said. "Yeah," I said, pleasantly surprised. That's like the Cadillac of cans, to have them double bagged.

He then asked if they could see the bags in the back of the car. Remember those?

Yeah.


I think the lollipops back there are a particularly nice touch.



I went back there- there were three officers watching me and probably two more in the cars- opened the back, and proceeded to take them out. "Oh, that's OK, we just needed to see them," he said, as he swatted them to make sure that they're cans. "OK," I said. "Now if you close the back (I did), see...this is why we pulled you over. Sir, please keep your hands out of your pockets while I'm talking to you. ("Oh.") Both license plate lights were out. I'm not gonna give you a ticket, just a verbal reminder." "OK," I said.

We walked back to the side of the car, where I first took the bags out. "OK, so you can put those bags back in now..."


[awkward pause]

"Go ahead and do that now..." "Oh, OK." I started putting them back in. Nothing ever quite fits back as it came out, do you notice that? I forget what went on then, but after I had everything back in, I got to ask a question. I says, "I actually have a question for you." "OK, sure, what it is?" "Did I do OK pulling over back there?" It seemed he lost his composure. "If only my son were as concerned as you!" he sa...I mean, sorry, I was exaggerating details, there.

"Oh, yeah, you did fine. Except the light wasn't the best, but you did good pulling into the nearest lot." "OK, I just wanted to make sure."


"Alright, you have a safe night," he said. "Thanks, you too," I said, as I extended my hand.


[awkward pause]

We shook hands. Come to find out...you just don't shake the hand of a police officer that pulled you over.


Aren't I so endearing?

Repairing a Porch

Today I will show you how to repair a porch. Last year- back when my mom finally acquired a Nintendo Wii- I repaired the same spot, but didn't do as thorough a job as I should have. That was on December 22nd, and my dad was still in jail at that point. Now I am reaping the fruit of my not fixing it thoroughly by having to repair it once more.


We begin by examining the spot that needs fixing.

See the large section of wood that's lighter colored? That's the piece that's becoming week. (Weak- we'll get that in editing.) It's cheap wood, and it's thinner than the rest of the porch, so you can understand the problem. Not to mention that it's on the most used part of the porch.


Now, I removed all the fastenings. Several screws, and a nail. I had to look for a hammer; failing, I used the miniature kiddy claw hammer we keep in the kitchen. It only has one claw. The other claw broke off in the process of trying to remove the single nail- this was one of the times I'm very grateful that I wore pants, as because of their protection I'm thankfully still capable of having children. So I had to spend another 10 minutes looking before I found a medium sized hammer that worked.


Take that, you cad nail. See how it looks underneath?

Note that it needs more cross braces. That's one of the most stressed portions of the entire porch, and it has little support. I know this because, well, it's the ONLY portion of the porch we've had to replace. Now we have to replace it a second time. Precious and either Tessa or Penny are in the picture; probably Tessa.

Next, we need a saw so that we can both cut the supports and the new plywood section.

No...that's too old.

AGH, that's WAY too old!

Ah! Just right! Ever used a table saw? I wish I could say "It's really quite simple" but I don't know either. Because I'm unrelentingly smart, I'll figure it out on my own. Oh...and before you think this is all easy fun and games...it's been over an hour so far. It's not easy, fun and games when you have to hunt down every tool you need, most of them not working very well. Pastor says that the only way out of this life is a .45 to the temple...don't have that particular caliber.

OK, here the braces are in. See how I positioned them? That's called a "Y-axis inward end support." So far, it's been another hour- almost exactly another hour, in fact. (It isn't really called a Y-axis inward end support, but why not?)

Now to the pile of wood for the plywood. The pile of wood was supported by two metal sawhorses, and one of them got mercilessly owned during removal of the plywood. I got very angry and frustrated during removal. There were 4 2x12x12's, and 3 1x4x10's, and 3 sheets of 5/8x4'x8' plywood. Then there were two picnic tables on top- yes, picnic tables- and two milk-crate-sized boxes of tools. Then two tarps covering it all.

It was the whole "Maybe I can remove this without removing it all one by one" attitude that owned me. I was very mad. I haven't cursed like that in months! And months! In the course of my cursing, I rethought some of the meanings of the words I was using. Those things are downright vulgar, especially when strung together in just the right way. No wonder I don't like them.

Anyway, here's the plywood cut. I believe it's called "ripped." Because you "rip" a sheet of plywood. I don't know why it isn't called "cutting." It's the 21st century, dudes...we have cool new words to use. Like "cut."

There it is. It's not a very straight cut...I don't think table saws are designed to cut ...er, rip plywood. It's sort of a wavy cut. If I had the circular saw, everything would be fine and dandy, and the Muffin Man would have dropped by with a basket of lemon fluff and orange creme muffins. But my dad has the circular saw at his job. Thanks a lot, Dad. You prevented a visit from the Muffin Man! ...and now I want to make a lemon meringue pie!

Here it is, finally in place. Isn't it pretty? I think it is. I simply screwed it down every so often along the sides. That worked out well. It took 2 hours and 53 minutes to get to this point (not counting break/phone time.) Seems very durable, but there's one problem...


Now the screen door is hard to open and shut. Thus, it needs to have its hangers adjusted; shouldn't be too hard. Also, part of the problem is that our screen door has nail heads sticking out on the bottom- don't look at me, I'm smart enough to use screws- and those nail heads rake across the wood until they've sufficiently cut themselves a groove to move in. That's where the term "Groovemovin" came from, you know. You know, from the song?...no? Come on, everyone knows the chorus to that song! It's as popular as the chorus to "Pear Trees Don't Bloom In August"! ...you know that one, right? About how partridges are left without a pear tree to hang in dur...oh forget it, you uncultured nail.


I was screwing and unscrewing on my merry way to having the screen door adjusted just perfectly, when something happened that I didn't expect.

The bit broke.


Oh, the humanity! Oh, the drama! Oh, the pain! Oh, the nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, and diarrhea! HEY PEPTO-BISMAL!...aw man, that completely ruined the whole "disastrous occurrence" effect I was going for. Anyhoo, time to find a new bit, right? E+Z divided by Z, right?

Once more, not that simple. By 1:50 PM I had given up completely. With no more bits to be found- my dad has them all except the ones which are too big or too small- my toiling was found to be in futility. In total, I spent 3 hours fixing the porch today. We'll see how effective my laboring was next year around this time.

Now, I am off to have a bowl of gumbo. Gumbo makes everything better. Including the fact that I should be milking right now, and dinner is nowhere near being started.

Water Day: Far 2 ez...except for the knee.

Today I got water. Since I am leaving on Friday for California, I need to pack on Thursday. If you can't figure that out, I need Thursday free of water getting. So I got water today. Problem, solution. I'm a solver.

The only problem is...my left knee joint is swollen. I think it was spinning like a hatter on Wii Sports baseball (it's fun that way!), but I also think that laying tile last weekend contributed to it. I can only bend my leg so far before my knee starts threatening to pop out of socket.

So, I only got two loads of water. Getting in and out of the truck was too much for my knee, what with it threatening to crack into pieces every five minutes. Just about the only thing I got was a picture or ten of LJ. He was laying in the only area of the yard that is free from garbage. I typically get lots of pictures...my parents will have to get the other two loads of water tomorrow or the next day.



As you may know, to bowl, you need to slide across the floor. This is hard to do when 50% of your support structure- one leg- could possibly break apart at any second. The pins need to be knocked down, sure enough...but...not with me. Not that I could slide that far; it'd mostly be my thrashing and gnashing and flipping about and violently, wildly attacking anyone who came near to help me that would get me to the point where I could knock the pins down myself. Then the machine would try to grab me, I'd start screaming like a girl because the evil machine is trying to kill me, and finally animal control would show up and shoot me with tranquilizers, and oh, it'd be a mess.

OH GREAT, look at this article! That's what my knee will look like in a few days! Assuming I have that condition, and assuming that it will take only a few days.

This is just fabulous. The last thing I need while in California is to visit one of their hospitals. "It's all these stupid Americans coming over here from Arizona with swollen knees needed to be amputated!" some official will say. Scapegoating at its finest. "No, it isn't my fault!" I'll plead. "SHUT UP, YOU! YOU'RE THE VICTIM! Now, act victimized and look sad for the camera!"


When I'm in a potentially tragic position, I tend to make a schedule of events so that I don't get surprised. Here's how I have it planned.

Friday morning: severe discomfort, trouble getting into car; will have to ride in car with more leg room. Frequent requests to stop at a hospital; denied by Pastor Raw Justice. "If you die in my car, I'm fine with that...but if we're one second late, God forbid!"
Friday evening: will have trouble walking due to being cramped up entire day; will realize that I don't need half of the stuff I brought along as I struggle to lug it "up" the elevator.
Friday night: will not be able to sleep properly.
Saturday morning: will be a wreck for the services. Invited to play tennis, baseball, go bowling, and kick box, I'll have no choice but to refuse. The chess court, checkers room, video game lounge, leg suspension and knee ice-pack arena, and staring contest hall will all be conveniently closed (LORD, JUST LET ME HAVE THE LEG SUSPENSION AND ICE-PACK ARENA!)
Saturday evening: will have to miss services; won't be able to bend leg properly. When attempting to bend leg down, leg will move up. Perplexed, I'll try to move leg up; unexpectedly, foot will shoot up and hit me in the face; I will be terrified of moving it again.
Saturday night: will only be able to sleep with two pillows tied around my leg.
Sunday morning: will make it to services, but miss two of the sermons; afterward, after struggling into the car, they'll be forced to take me to the emergency room.
Sunday evening: doctors prep me for leg amputation. I read Job chapter 3.
Sunday night: doctors either amputate my left leg, or the Hitman takes me to the Lord.


Very grim outcome, isn't it? And all for a Bible conference.




A thousand ill-conceived curses.

Uhm, yeah, so today's post is like, uhm...

...not done. I've been trying to make up my Sunday posts ahead of time, that way I can fulfill the commandment of "Sunday is the Lord's day all day long."


I'll just rattle on and on, how about it? Sounds good. Notice that today is not a Sacrilegious Sunday. Today is just a Normrilegious Sunday.


So today, as every Sunday, we went to church. First, my dad almost didn't go, then I almost didn't go. His "almost didn't go" meant that he probably wasn't going to go. My "almost didn't go" meant that I was in no state to go to church, but wouldn't have considered actually not going. The unrelenting assault of the teenage angst is really doing a number on me, but I think it's partly me getting all of my depression and drama out before we go to California.

I have to do some sewing before we leave. I have to put a leather patch on my favorite pants because my kubotan is rubbing on them, and they're almost raw right about my right pocket over my thigh. I might also take the bright orange tag off of them that says "I'm a gangster baby lol!" It's bright orange (didn't I already say that?) and makes me look like a hipster. Ugh. Good for Wednesday Bible study, not good for THREE WHOLE DAYS OF APPEARING HOLY AND SANCTIFIED TO REPRESENT OUR CHURCH HONORABLY. Very detrimental to that effort.)

I also need a haircut at some point. Mrs. Bruckner got a haircut sometime during the last week. I need a haircut so that my hair doesn't look uncut. Simple enough, right?

Oogh. There goes the teenage angst. The sermon was very interesting today. I wrote a lot of stuff down; I was still pretty depressed, though. I sent Manny, the Hitman's wife, an email requesting that she define the teenage angst for me. She sent an article (THANK GOD, SHE HAS GOOD GRAMMAR), which I'll mention when I make my "teenage angst" post.



Apparently, we've decided that we're not traveling with our Pastor to California. While being couped up with three other filthy men in a minivan is not my idea of a fun-filled weekend getaway, it's sort of edifying. At least in the "longsuffering" and "Thou shalt not kill" sense. It'd be an experience. Plus, Pastor wants to see how I'd do if forced to sit next to another teenager.



Or...OK, after an argument (I've learned to call these "arguments"; if I ever call them "fights," my mom grabs a frying pan, and my dad balls his fists, and they yell "YOU WANT US TO SHOW YOU A FIGHT?!") we've decided that we're going with our Pastor. Goody! As long as he's OK with it. If it turns out that there's an extra two people who need to go, we can be drafted to also take our car and take them with us. We're helpers.

I'll be bringing the camcorder. I need to make a list of things to bring...let's see...I'll publish that once it's complete, actually.

Now I'm going to end this post very quickl
[end]

Who loves church the most?

I decided to do a survey and find out who at our church loves church the most. Some people- I'm talking the Hitman, here, because he's the only one who can't read this due to his lack of online abilities- come in late. "Oh, I'm so late, I just don't care," they say. Others are cheery and early and say "Oh, I'm so early, I love you guys and I also love the message."

Needless to say, some of those...late attendees may find themselves a few places behind the early attendees. In heaven's line, that is. It also brings up the proverbial question (asked by my dad); If I get to heaven before you, can I shut the gate and not let you in?

Common sense dictates that no, you cannot bar anyone access to heaven, only the Lord can do that ("Oh, but if I could!"). Regardless, it is necessary to maintain lists such as these so that those who are in the gutter- the Hitman; again, he cannot defend himself and won't have a chance to be offended anyways- can see their dire position and possibly drag themselves out of the ditch of attending late. Since these would not be honest in their assessment of how much they love church, I had to do a visual assessment myself via their arrival order to church on Wednesday nights.

January 9, 2008
The Bruckners
Kile II
The Hitman
Dee Dee (I think she drives a motorcycle!)

January 15, 2008
The Fletchingbirds
The Bruckners
Don Feldick
Dee Dee

January 23, 2008
Don Feldick
The Bruckners
The Fletchingbirds
Kile II

January 30th, 2008
Don Feldick
The Fletchingbirds
The Bruckners
The Hitman

I asked my parents how to score this. My mom suggested 10 for first, 7 for second, 4 for third, and 3 for fourth. I suggest 10 for first, 7 for second, 5 for third, and 4 for fourth.

Therefore...

Bruckers 10 - 7 - 7 - 5 HP
Kile II 7 - 4 HP
The Hitman 5 - 4 HP
Dee Dee 4 - 4 HP
Fletchingbirds 10 - 5 - 7 HP
Don Feldick 5 - 10 - 10 HP

So...

• First place is... Mr. and Mrs. Brucker, with 29 Holy Points! Congratulations! Mr. Bruckner is still leading the singing. The most holy couple attending church! Behold their Holy Glory!
  

• Second place is... Don Feldick, with 25 Holy Points! He still has a blog, and he single-handedly out-holies even duets of holiness!
  
• Third place is... Mr. and Mrs. Fletchingbird, with 22 Holy Points! They are leaving mid February still. I'm gonna miss their clever repartee. With them gone, there will only be one or two people left capable of asking Holy Questions for Q&Holy-A.
  
• Fourth place is... Kile II, with 11 Holy Points! He still has a planet named after himself, and he still hasn't started his blog! That's OK; he's still the Fourth Most Holiest 2008!
  

Yes, the Year 2008 Holy Attendance Awards winners! Stand in awe at these holy pillars of Holiness for until next year when half of them are dead I am dead there's a hot new group of Holier-Than-Thou's! What a glorious time that will be!

I'll see you all same time... next year!

When Getting Water Isn't Easy. Again.

Two and a half weeks ago- that's two water days- I had a pretty rough time getting water.

I had previously also had some...mishaps, while getting water. I almost lost the tank, had to drive around like a loon looking for the pump station (which turned out to be poisoned), and spoke on the issue of what makes the Local Hairy-Man Operated Pizzeria slightly unnerving.


This time was not much different. Last week I actually had a normative water day. The Thirsty Wolf even got a new puppy. Things are looking up, but boy, the week I had two...




It all started out fine. Me and my dad were of course arguing over something- I forget what- so it wasn't the best of days to begin with, but he was at work and I was at home and water needed to be got, so off I went.

I got into the truck. It's a 1989 (same year I was born) Ford F-150 with some really good tires on it (it was given to us by my dearest Granny; thanks, Granny!). They're good for hauling water, that is. Not so good for driving on roads where there isn't 2 feet of mud. People routinely comment. "Wow, dood, thast a ton of water lol, how u carry it?" I do not correct them that it is in fact two and a quarter tons of water. "Prayer and supplication!" I say.

They jump backwards (even old ladies!), arch their backs and hiss. If you ever want to get out of an uncomfortable conversation, just say something like "Jesus rocks" or "Prayer is the answer" or something. I am convinced that murders have been committed by getting someone near the edge of a cliff and whispering "Jesus saves!" to which they jump back with such force they fly off the cliff. Cursing on the way down.


I drove out to the gate. Druh druh druh druuuuh. It dies. "What in Manhattan?" I ask myself. It is sprinkling by now. The Rice Cooker rain; it rains very lightly, failing to cool the environment down, thus creating steam from the moisture. You can put rice in a pan, set it outside for 20 seconds, then bring it back in and it's done. This goes against several laws of nature, but then, so does the 206 degree days we experience out here that create the steam in the first place.

I had to walk all the way back to the house- about 500 feet- to get a siphoning hose. I knew I was out of gas. We have two tanks on the truck, but one tank doesn't work so well. I would siphon from that tank, then deposit it into the main tank, and I'd be a happy, contented camper.

Little did I know, foolishness was about to get the best of me.


First, I had to get the gas can to siphon into.

Aha! Luckily, we have two real nice ones. With rust on them. That's no indicator of what's inside of them, right?
Oh, drat. I guess it is.

That's Little Jihad, or LJ, my mom's dog. He's a pit bull, and he still doesn't have the tag I made for him on.

That's Precious. She doesn't look too happy, does she? Strangely enough, The White Cats- we call Precious and Vicious "The White Cats"- don't seem to mind rain too much, unless it's a downpour.

Luckily, I found a Gas Can that isn't likely to have rust in it! Rust is like the mold of the iron world.

Gleg. It isn't the cleanest water I've ever seen, but it is not rusty. (The pictures are blurry because it is sprinkling, and there's water and water stains on the lens.)

Next, you'll need a siphonin-...oh, well, lookie there! That one will work. Get that. Grab it real hard and don't let it slip from your dread grasp:

...as you sorrowfully trudge your way back to the truck, which is...well, here's a picture.

Way out there.

Now, once you're way out there...get your hose...


...OH, A THOUSAND ILL-CONCEIVED CURSES, WHERE'S THAT DARNED HOSE AT?!

...drat!

I trudge back.

On second thought, do not rely on your feeble fingers. Tie it around your wrist real good. Take the time to realize...that...

There's a slash in the hose! Argh!

Get this hose to siphon with...then realize it won't work...

Then get this hose, which will, but only for about 3 gallons.


Dump the 3 gallons you got into the tank. Wildly, with your tongue flopping out of your mouth and a crazed grin on your face, check the gas meter with wonder.

Darn. Still not enough. But it is enough to drive back to the house and hunt for a siphoning hose which will actually get more than 3 gallons. Before that, though...

Get some water running out of the tank (we always have 30-40 gallons leftover).

• Wash your eyes out, which got gasoline in them.
• Get some water in your mouth and try to get the oily gasoline residue to leave, only succeeding in spreading it. Hope it doesn't hit your lungs.
• Wonder how much damage will be done to your lips. Gasoline rhymes with Vasoline, but they are different aside from that.
• Wash out your ears. Yes, your ears. This is how you know you siphoned the gas successfully.
• Wash your nostrils very well; I think sinuses don't like gasoline.
• Wash the spots on your shirt that got gas on them. That is, just go change clothes.
• Try to figure out the ratio between gas you got in the can, and the gas you got in your eyes.
• Start up the truck and drive closer to the house so that you're not in danger of being talked to by neighbors, who don't understand that, like as the gas station while pumping gas, their car should not be running while in the vicinity of you.

Once you're back near the house, ponder if you're dripping with rain water or gasoline. Shudder.


After this, I stumbled around until I found a really nice siphoning hose. It was great. In fact, it let me siphon most of the gas out. Hooray! Here is a picture of it working, below.

If you're happy and you know it gratefully keep your face two feet from the gas! If you're happy and you know it you'll actually be able to keep your face more than two feet from the gas! If you're happy and you know it- the gas that isn't in your eyes will show it- if you're happy and you know it keep your face two feet from the gaaaas! HOORAY!

I forgot how much water I got. This was the week that I had to go 2 miles to get the water, and I discovered that the truck weaves side to side when it's loaded down with 2 tons of water. Did I mention that our homemade bridge successfully can hold 4 tons of weight? Probably more, but I know something went over it that weighed 4 tons; it was 85 bails of hay on a trailer, and the trailer stopped with all 4 wheels on the bridge. Yikes.

I got to see some telephone pole repairmen in an argument. One of them left their lunch pail on the transformer, and...oh, it was just dreadful. (Post sometime.) Now, I'm off to do something useful, like cook and clean and get ready to study my Bible with the guys tonight.



I think I'll be wearing my cowboy hat in memory of Heath Ledger. He died. I haven't cared that someone died this much since that one lady died, uh...I forget her name. She overdosed on drugs in a hotel room or something? Everyone stepped on a huge, collective Drama Mine and the media couldn't shut up for months, sort of like how Michael Jackson did?

[I'll stop making such long posts here in a while, I promise.]

Crouching Spider, Dead Spider; thanks mom, and All the Strength of Hercules

Yesterday I made Jew Food Challah Bread Vegetable Sandwiches. I messed up the mayo sauce, so they weren't too extraordinary. See, when I went to get a bowl to make it in...


I found THAT pesky critter in it, wallowing in its own inability to climb the sides! At first, I considered just setting the bowl in the oven and turning it to broil, but then my heart warmed with tender love.



So instead of broil it, I just crushed it with a piece of aluminum foil. I have no idea how I managed to mess up the sandwiches as bad as I did. The spider must have cursed me.



In other news, today I went to work with my dad. It's pretty miserable work, as it's so dusty in the house...man, just glad my mom didn't have to go. If you've ever laid cheap imitation wooden flooring? Yeah. Now, imagine laying cheap, imitation, DISASSEMBLED wood flooring. They took it apart where the house divided in two, and it's yucko. Half of the pieces are broken, so we have to go buy new pieces, and they're not gonna match, so we'll have to make it look "designed" to not match.
Also, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put that tile back together again (they tried really hard, too), so me and my dad will have to do it by replacing some of it with new tile. That also does not match. The wonders of work.

While there, struggling to get one of the "slats" of wood into place (it's 7 inches by 4 feet), the floor suddenly- somehow, neither me or my dad can figure it out- was moved my impossible force and somehow shifted. Now, instead of a that-is-too-tight-the-floor-is-bowing-from-the-tight-fit fit, it was a 1/8" crack! My dad exclaimed, "Whoa! That took all the strength of Hercules!" and we both started laughing. I mean, I learned the definition of "rofl" today.

It's like my own personal form of "OVER NINE THOUSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!" We went to a Whataburger afterwards (I don't like Whataburger), and I said, "Man, ALL the strength of Hercules," and we started laughing. Soon, the whole place was looking at us. And HE wonders why I don't like going into restaurants. He just has to use the bathroom anytime, anywhere, universally, so that's his motivation to go in. It's the overactive bladder and 4 pots of coffee. Really, though...how he said it, "That took"...as in, it WAS all the strength of Hercules that made it move. It was the only thing with enough force.




Once I got home, I discovered- to my fantastic amazement- that my mom cleaned my room! Fantastic amazement! It almost makes me wish I hadn't written the post for this Sunday (look at me, mom! I'm beginning to make blog posts to post on days I won't have time to post, like a person with a brain!). She said it took her 1 hour. How amazed I was! Really, fantastic and amazed both fit!

I still am not over it. MOM, I LOVE YOU, THANKS. Hey...wait! Wait! Wait a minute! STOP THE PRESSES! I just had to admit my room was dirty! Darn it! How'd I let that happen?! Darn it!!! SHE TRICKSED (sic) US!

Not Much Sleep

How very good is that memory in that skull of yours? We'll find out.


I haven't been getting much sleep, lately. I was playing Final Fantasy I&II (I was grinding right before Tiamat, leveling and hunting for Death Machines) about a week ago, and I was also listening to sermons by our pastor. 5 hours later, after intensive concentration, the series was over, and I had encountered like 10 Death Machines and leveled to 95+. I thought maybe it was 11 PM, or midnight...but no, it was going on 2 AM!

I slumped out of bed, because I had to go pee. YOU try listening to someone blather for 5 hours! It's the frequency, or something... it does mysterious things to bladders. It makes me think of Gandrayda...that poor girl. You ever notice how whenever you despise something, you sometimes turn to having a real soft spot for it in your heart, more so than if you didn't hate it at one point?


Ever since that 5-hour session, I've been able to concentrate a lot better. In fact, I got up that morning only 3.5 hours after I went to sleep. Normally, when I get up after 3.5 hours of sleep, I fall back asleep. Now I was able to remind myself to stay awake successfully.

Now, I don't completely credit my ability to function on less sleep to the 5-hour marathon of sermons (this could also be rabid worker syndrome); I partway credit it to GIANT LEATHERY DOG MONSTERS JUMPING OUT OF PEOPLE AND THREATENING TO KILL OTHERS THEN REACHING AND TRYING TO SHRED THEM AND STUFF.


...well, actually, the 5-hour marathon did seem to be the thing that did wonders for my concentration. The giant leather werewolf demon just caused necessity. But we'll see how this "not getting much sleep thing" pans out.

I have talked about how I'd need to condition myself to be able to stay awake for 3 hours for the Bible conference, and this seems to be the way to do it. Q&A ran 3 hours, and it barely seemed like anything. The Sunday sermon ran about an hour, and it didn't seem like anything, either. Sort of how people get used to driving 70 miles one way, and it doesn't seem so far. I listened to a preacher named Ted Bellows last night...with a name like Bellows...

...well, you know. Now for the test!

DO NOT READ THE OPENING LINE AT THE TOP OF THE POST. In it, I asked how good your memory was. Now, let's see.



Which is the correct opening line:

1. How very good is the memory in that skull of yours? We'll find out.
2. How very good is the memory in that skull of yours? Let's see.
3. How very good is that memory in that skull of yours? We'll find out.
4. How very good is that memory in that skull of yours? Let's see.
5. How good is the memory in that skull of yours? We'll find out.
6. How good is the memory in that skull of yours? Let's see.
7. How very good is the memory inside of your skull? We'll find out.
8. How very good is the memory inside of your skull? Let's see.

If you dare comment, please let me know how what you guessed. I bet my mom will get it right. I'll probably stop by the store tonight and buy some cucumbers, instant coffee, and Ovaltine.

Walking on Eggshells

Lately, I have been walking on eggshells.

I get snapped at lately far too often, and for trivial reasons. Yesterday, I was yelled at because I cleaned the house. Yes. They want the house clean (particularly my dad; he lets us know the house is a horribly pigsty every chance he gets), and I have to do it because they work 13-hour days. That's very fair, indeed. The trouble comes in that they want the clean house, but they do not want the house clean. (Say what?)

They don't have time/ability to clean their own room. I understand...I don't want to clean my room, either. But when I clean the living room, it is required I take all of their valuables which can't be thrown away (and don't have a rightful home in the living room) and put them in their bedroom. I do the same with my things. But they...you know, let me stop using the word "they," and replace it with "my dad." My dad still seems to find fault because now the junk (sorry if this term offends anyone, I consider most of what I own junk as well, so shut your yap) is in their room instead of piled up in the living room. This happens to me, too. Let me say it again. This happens to me, too. It is common to all of us, and I am not picking on my parents unfairly.


My parents aren't pigs. They're good people. I wouldn't trade them for any other parents in the world. They're just really, really, extensively stressed out, and they don't know what to do with themselves. They also have horribly scarred childhoods (my dad's dad was a Satanist Christian...you know, like "[insert denomination here] Christian." I don't get it either, comrade.)


This puts me in a bad position; I'm damned if I do, and I'm damned if I don't. Me and my mom had a long, healthy (she said the term is "productive" or "rational," but I think healthy describes it better, as it denotes "productive" and "good") conversation about this. We came to the conclusion that we're both angry and upset about the same thing, and we need to have bean soup for dinner twice a week. Really, we have cans of beans piling up, and that's pretty much what the strife centers around. (We got in an argument about the pantry is overflowing with food we don't use and that should be donated. It's...part of the problem.)

My mom seems to understand that I can't do good except the good I can do. That complex sentence means that I can't do perfect, but I can do something. There's also another part; the plot thickens, as they say.

I am entering the stage of fetal development (uh, at my age, I guess it wouldn't be proper to call me a fetus) where I think I know everything. When talked to, I will realize I might be wrong; there are unseen implications in every action, is there not?

Regardless, this is a cause of endless strife between me and my dad. I am "contradictory"...for example, today, he was telling me about "chem trails." I asked him, "Well, why doesn't someone get a sample of the air up there?"

He said, "They have! It's aluminum oxide!" to which I replied, "Well then, why can't they figure out why they're doing it?" "Well, there's several theories...one says that it's to protect against an EMP blast." "OK, if that's the case, then why do they only blanket the entire sky with them once every 2-3 months?" "Uhh, I don't know, they also say it gives us cancer."

So I says, "Well, whatever...let the psychos figure it out, and once they figure it out, they can tell us." "Why do you call them psychos?!?"

"Because they're psychotic." I think he got up and left at that point, mumbling about "There you go again, being contradictory."


Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that somebody who devotes their life to believing in everything or the possibility of everything, and studies endlessly with no clear conclusion is psychotic. It seems that they just spin. Worse, if the psychos can't figure it out, why should we care? That's my basic point. And also, I do not want to fill my head about an "update" to something that even the psychos can't figure out. Another piece of the jumbled puzzle, I say. If they figure it out, OK, let's hear it. If not, shut up and toil with your group of spinning toilers. There I go, venting.


Honestly, and here I hold myself accountable, the root of most of this is greed and pride (on all our parts, but for now I'll focus on me); I could be a girl, and be going through fits of hormonal horror, causing me to turn on everyone and scream and yell then cry. And just to think...then I'd have no hope of exiting the "stage," short of the rapture or death. So I should be grateful, but instead of this gratitude I should be experiencing, I'm being prideful and greedy (I deserve "better.") I am...unsure if that's inappropriate; I tend to talk badly about men often, so I'll talk badly about women now, OK? No one be offended, OK? OK. Thanks. I said OK three times in that sentence, and this one makes four, and the word tends to calm people down. Calm down. That's right, humble fools...put away the pitchforks.






Pastor's doing a "series" on families. Last week he talked on the subject of slaves wives, and this week he's going to talk about easily manipulated fools husbands. I sure hope he does a sermon on hormonally-induced feelings of contradiction, and I think I have a case of the teenage angst coming on. Oogh. Woe is me...oh yeah, that's the teenage angst, for sure. Ah, wail wail, no one has it worser than I! Sigh. All is darkness. All is sorrow! Mournful bitterment...THAT'S IT, I'M GOING TO START WEARING EYELINER AND GET A BUNCH OF PIERCINGS




[so, in ending, I need to make it clear to him that just as he does not want to hear about video games, I don't want to hear about the newest conspiracy theory he's heard of...basically, I don't wish to waste my time on things he wastes his time on. I prefer wasting time in my own ways, which tend not to iffect my world view, TYVM. God help me, I can't grasp the difference between affect and effect, so from now on I'll use iffect. Go Kev!]

When you lock your keys in the car near Church. A survival story.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to Bible study. I wanted to stop by the local Fast Rite to get some coffee. Fate would be against me, it seems.


I overshot the turn by a bit, so I turned into a parking lot ahead of it. It was 6:25 at this point. Bible study starts at 7:00, but all the cool kids show up at 6:35-45, so I always turn up at 6:20. I was running late. However it happened, I thought I was going west, but I was going north.

I drove for over 20 minutes attempting to find the Fast Rite. I went 3 miles one direction, 3 miles back, 2 miles down this road, 2 miles back...on and on. I finally arrived at the Fast Rite at 6:55. I reached in my change pocket to get the change a mug of coffee costs. I opened the door, clicked the locks, then shut it within 2 seconds. I had to get that coffee fast so I could get to church!

I froze in place. Funny how I realized it subconsciously. I tried the door. It was locked. I tried, in a futile manner, to grip the keychain I clip onto my belt loop. No dice. Or in this case, no keys. I tried once more for good measure. Still no keys. I saw them hanging in the car...you can't get us...

I looked around cautiously. I had never stood outside of the Fast Rite very long; it provides such good service, it even provides convenience to robbers and carjackers. Call it a morbid level of accommodation if you will, but who else streamlines service for the robbing and carjacking industry?

I called my mom. "Momma!" I cried bellowed in a manly tone, letting everyone around me know that I am a man. "Yes, Kev? Are you at chur-" "NO MOM I LOCKED MY KEYS IN MY CAR I CAN'T BELIEVE IT COME RESCUE ME HELP MOMMY MOMMY I AM SCARED OH NO PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT ME HEEELP I appear to have locked my keys in the car, female genitor. I am unsure of options at length currently. May I request advise?"

"Did you call the Raw Justice?" "Uhh, I'll try that!"

I hung up and called my pastor. Ring ring answering machine. "Hello, chances are you're going to Hell, please leave your name and number and I'll try to save you as soon as possible. *bleep*." Drat. I called my mom back and had her give me the Bruckner's number and the Hitman's number. I called the Hitman. Ring ring...ring ring...ring ring...call refused. Answering machine. I think I called back. I am unsure.

I then called the Bruckners. Nothing. I called my mom back. "MOOOOOOM THEY AREN'T ANSWERING THE RAPTURE MUST HAVE HAPPENED AHHHHHHH! ARE YOU THERE?!?! MOM?! MOM?! OH NOOOOOO I AM ALL ALOOOONE WHY GOD WHY" I railed "Dear female genitor, it appears that they have their phones turned off. I am unsure of how to remedy this situation; would you consider delivering another key to me a reasonable compromise?" I proposed. "Kev, Kev, calm down. Look, we'll drive down there and help you out." "THANKS MOM YOU'RE MY HERO Very well. Meanwhile, I will walk to the church" "OK, Kev. See you then. Oh, stay on the sidewalk...the middle lane of the road is not for walking."

I flipped the phone shut. I knew that, I said to myself. I then hatched a brilliant plan; I would purchase a slim jim from the Fast Rite! Seriously, if they have a baptismal mustard pool, they'll have slim jims. Two female employees were out front cleaning the sidewalk (God knows why they do this every half hour, but it sure is interesting- like trying to figure out why they bother to clean tar). I walked up to them. "Excuse me, ma'ams, but do you sell slim jims here?"

"Uh...yep." "Like, car-opening slim jims?" "Oh, no, lol! I thought you meant the jerky." "Oh...OK. I locked my keys in my car." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that...no, we don't carry those, but there have been a lot of police officers around lately, and they carry them. If you see one, flag him down." "OK, thanks," I said. I turned and walked back to the car sniffling.

I then gathered my courage for the trek to the church. I went into the Fast Rite and bought a liter of water, a machete, and a snake poison removal kit. Chuck Norris was once bit by a viper and after 5 days of excruciating pain, the viper died a horrible death...but if a viper bit me, it'd be the other way around. I set off to walking.

Several minutes into my trek, I came across some other fool walking. He had his hands in his pockets, and he seemed to be on a course to intercept me...that is, he was on the inside of the sidewalk, and so was I, so I moved to the outside, and he did too. So I moved back to the inside, preparing to take his brain off his shoulders, and luckily for him, he didn't follow to the inside. We passed each other, and I wondered if he walked like this every night.

After what seemed like hours (technology somehow confounds me; according to my phone, it had only been 4 minutes! It must have something to do with space-time and wormholes), I came to a slim jim wrapper. The jerky. On the ground. I am unsure if that's just pure irony, or not. After another few hours, I happened upon the church. Once more...the phone claimed it had only been another 3 minutes. Electrostaticmagneticphantasmic radioradar waves jamming my phone, again. I trudged up the stairs.

I entered the room. "Hey, Kev," they said. Wonder of wonders, they actually waited for me! I trudgingly took my seat. Kile II leaned over. "How you doing, Kev?" he asked. "Oh, I'm just fine!" I said. RJ did a short sermon, as it was now 7:25. It was over at 8:10. After, he said "You know, when you're having a bad day...you got a flat tire, or your mustache itches like crazy and everyone mistakes it for being donut crumbs stuck to your lip, or-"

"Or you lock your keys in your car," I said. "Lol, yeah," he said. "Oh...did you do that?" "YEAH, AND NO ONE ASKED ME IF I GOT BIT BY A VIPER!"

Silence.


"IT'S A POISONOUS SNAKE!"

Dead silence.



The Hitman asked why I didn't call. He answered his own question when he realized his phone had rung about an hour ago! He picked it up and looked intently at it, holding it 2-3 inches from his face. Pastor also picked up his phone. I said, "That's why I was trudging up the stairs." Kile II got a good laugh out of that. Something about my suffering makes him laugh...I think that's why the planet named after him is so hard to navigate.

Then my mom showed up! "I'M HERE TO EMBARRASS MY SON LOL" she said. "Whoa, it's the mom," pastor commented. He didn't expect that one! My dad drove my mom to the Pathfinder, and my mom drove that to church where I was.

After church, me, my mom, the Justice and the Hitman hung around in the parking lot. I had to act like I was real embarrassed by what my mom was saying. "Truth be told," she said, "He only started driving by himself the last few months he's been going to Bible study!"

Apparently, I've only been going to Bible study since September 5th, 2007. So tonight will be my 17th Bible study. I don't think I've missed one yet; maybe I have, but I don't remember. Anyone remember if I've missed a Bible study?

On and on. "He did this, he did that, he can't keep his room clean, he makes stupid decisions." RJ got a pad of paper out. This was the time that the Hitman explained peace to me; I posted about that here: Peace? Sign? Peace sign?

Before I knew it, the Justice stated that he had been reading both me AND my mom's blogs for a while! "Whoo, Kev has a blog...bookmark!" and "Ooh, Kev's mom has a blog, bookmark (click!)"...then he informed me that he had started a blog himself. He hasn't made any posts, though. Nevertheless, I faithfully check his blog daily. Me and my mom are going to comment on his dad's blog about him not posting, and get him in trouble.

We talked for about an hour. Pastor also shared how elders Grace believers celebrate Thanksgiving: by gambling around a table with dice (or, "devil cubes"). At least it isn't Russian roulette, right? Right.

As we were driving home (my mom managed to convince them that I locked my keys in the car on purpose so that I wouldn't have to drive! Shame! The shame!...bright...shining...shame!), my mom told me that they probably needed to get going during the time we were hanging out, and that I was "holding them up." She comes out of left field with this stuff.

"What do you mean?!" I asked. "Well, it just seemed like they wanted to go..." she offered. "Well yeah, but if they wanted to go, why didn't they, y'know...go?" "I don't know, maybe they were trying to be polite."


I recounted to her how the Hitman was walking to his car, then decided to come back. "It's not my fault I'm such an engaging communicationalist," I said. "Uh...Kev, I don't think that's a word." "Well, it applies to me." "...yeah, sure," she said.


"You don't want to become known as 'the freak who talks people to death,'" she blurted. "WHAT? I didn't do anything! If they had to go, why didn't they go! They had no reason to stay if they didn't want to! Who in their right mind would think they offended somebody by truthfully having to go?!"

"Oh...I don't know, forget I said anything."

If you don't understand "Oh...I don't know, forget I said anything," then read this post here talking of my social ineptitude. I guess I have to learn somehow, and this is my parent's preferred style of teaching. I sat there, confused. I guess that's the next life lesson. Now to have it translated by Monks in Kenya... recently, Kile II showed me a little trick of his. It's called put an extra key in your wallet, stupid.

I think it just may work!

I didn't do it. SERIOUSLY. I DIDN'T.

Alright, really, I didn't do it. Seriously. I didn't. I swear! It wasn't me! It was the cats! See picture, below!


Now, just because it's my pillow that's urine soaked, does not mean that I did it! I have, to my knowledge, never wet the bed!


Now what happened is, I have a bean bag chair on my dresser at the head of my bed (in my closet; it fits well.) One of the kittens- I assume, as the adult cats have never done this- climbed on top and peed all over it. I guess it formed a pool, as when I drug the bean bag chair onto my bed...well, you can imagine what happened to the puddle of urine on top.

I thought maybe there was a dish of water up there I didn't know about...but when I smelled it...it smelled faintly of cat urine. I then realized it was also on my shoulder in addition to my hand. I got up, slightly alarmed...perhaps this puddle is semi-sentient, I thought, as it seemed to climb up my hand to my shoulder. I braced myself to deal with a Venom-like being, perhaps an Ing.

I got up, only to discover it had completely soaked my pillow, as you can see in the first picture! Appalled, I got up and ran through the story in my head. Cats peed on bean bag chair. I did not do it. I flipped the chair onto my bed, I did not pee on my bed. I did not do it. I then got up, but not to pee on my bed, which I didn't do, because I didn't do it!

I went and washed the chair off in the shower. I then put my pillow and blankets into the washing machine. I cursed the cats to Hell several times during all of this.


I really didn't do it. If I did, I would have had to either

• A: get up in the middle of the night and pee on the bean bag chair, sabotaging myself
• B: pee directly on my pillow; however, this doesn't fit, as it was more of a "splash." Therefore, I would have had to first pee in a dish, then splash that onto my pillow- while sleeping.
• Or C: I would have had to, through telekinesis, will urine out of the septic tank, up through the toilet, under the toilet door, under my door, and either onto the bean bag chair or onto my pillow, and I would have had to do it from a distance, AND I wouldn't of known I was doing it. I think I would know if I was willing a stream of urine out of the septic tank through the air onto the pillow beside me!
  

Therefore we conclude that I DIDN'T DO IT, IT WAS THE CATS! I DO NOT WET THE BED AND EVEN IF I DID, HOW WOULD I HAVE WET THE PILLOW? HOW OFTEN DO YOU HEAR ABOUT LITTLE TIMMY'S "PILLOW WETTING PROBLEM?" YOU DO NOT! THEREFORE, I DIDN'T DO IT

WHY DOESN'T ANYONE BELIEVE ME

When Getting Water Isn't Easy

So, our well is down. Which I found out today as I went to gather water for the little flock. Uhh, sorry. I meant to say, as I went to get water to sustain me, my family, and my neighbor's family.

A sign was on the door of the well. It said, "Dude, back off. No water getting kay? Go to another outlet plz. GG nubtub."

"Addresses" to the other well outlets were provided. Several of them were also down (I didn't know so many well outlets could exist in such a cramped world!). The reason I say "addresses" is because it wasn't so much an address, but a random, unheard of, 1-mile-long stretch of "road." That's just great.

Now, had they said, "The water is poisoned at the other wells, please chill out on the side until the 31st so you can get water then," I would have went home a happy, contented camper, having caught my share of fish. But noo. I went out in search of the nearest outlet...surely enough, it took my 35 minutes (we'll get that in editing, like men) to find it. I learned a new hymn. "He Lives." I now despise it, as I sung it at least 500 times in the process of finding the well. Oh, and now I've got "Used to know some people, who walked and talked with me. But since I found salvation, they turned their backs on me" stuck in my head. Ugh. Make it stop...make it stop!


I pulled up, very happy to have found it. However...there was a sign up. "Dude lol, the water is like, poisoned and stuff, so don't drink it alright? Feed it to your dogs lol and your carrots too dude lol it's great for gardens and fields but it will kill you."

I paused for a second to assess my feelings. Resentment, frustration, betrayal, sadness, a feeling of futility, and the feeling you get when you are happy then sad suddenly.

I drove off slowly. I came home and found, typed, then printed out some directions. The lost sheep of the house of idiocy (IE the segment of mankind that is lost and stupid) would surely not be able to find it if I were unable to. I made an error, so I will reprint them tomorrow. It's not grammatical, just something I didn't know about when I printed them.

Following my own directions proudly, I set off in search of the second well. As I was driving down the road a few miles from it, a jokepot pulled out in front of me. Picture, below.

I followed him very politely, as I always do when getting water. How much sense does it make to overtake them, spit dust in their face, then pull into the well and sit there for two minutes until they arrive with a crowbar and a bad look on their face? Not much, I reckon.

Then I saw the sign. No, locusts did not fly out of the earth and eat the rubber off my tires...but I saw the sign. "Dude, uh, hi2u, lol. Well uh the water here it's like...also poisoned, LOL. sory to get you out this far but it has waay 2 much floride and it'll kill you dead if you touch it so...no drinky aright?"


I drove away slowly once more. I decided that, instead of return defeated, I would go back to the first well that was poisoned and get some of their water. If we have 1500 gallons, that should dilute the poisoned 500 gallons. On the way there, I saw some water! And I mean for reals! Check it out, below, doug.

Spit spit spit spit spit spit endlessly spitting water into a small concrete trench. Ah, the life of a polyvinyl chloride pipe.

When I arrived, I found the accommodations to be...less than stellar. On top of the poor accommodations (razor wire), I found that my water tank was attempting a valiant escape! Boy, you KNOW water is poisonous when your inanimate, non-sentient water tank tries to escape to avoid it! Picture, below. Note that it is almost falling off.


Regardless, the pump pumped water and the rocks kept the mud from swallowing up the tires, thus it worked. It took a long time, though, probably 9 minutes. So I examined my knuckles. One is particularly bad. See picture, below.
Doesn't it make you wonder why I don't use lotion? It makes me wonder why I don't use lotion. Am I the only one who is wondering why I don't use lotion? I guess...I am going on an intensive lotion program. I'm going to wear a glove with a bunch of lotion inside of it, thus lotionizing (or is it moisturizing?) my skin...intensively.

While the water was pumping, I discovered some good news! Yes, the "sticker amongst the gnats," if you will. Yes, I found out that Christ died for us! Check the pic of our truck window, below.
Well, I guess I already knew that, but it bears repeating. Thanks, Lord!


Romans 5:8:
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.




Note: this is one of the only posts I have EVER not proof read.