04/11/2005 - 11:25 p.m. | and still retain my fascination with jenny mccarthy's boobs

I do not like it in dreams when Taye Diggs is gay and aggressively tries to have sex with myself.

He just kept offering me drinks and aggressively humping things near me, and I was afraid to tell him no, as he might have gone ahead and done it anyway. And the soda machine was complicated as all hell.

You stay away, Taye Diggs. You stay away for good.

I've got a bad case of carlag; I have not been willing to move unless absolutely necessary. Mostly I just lie around in my tepid room - not even sleeping, just lying. I also rose to take today's PR test, which was much more fun the way I do it. On written exams, I think it's sort of lame to just take the answers you were given in class or on study guides and dump them back on the paper. That's OK with multiple choice, as that deals with straight, boring facts, but it's a lot more interesting to go into a test with only my background (and whatever skill I maintain with the English language) and see how my critical thinking (in glitter pen!) matches up against the questions. Also, I did not have any time to study. Let's see how it goes!!

Smacko had this to say about eMall.com: "JEREMY MANCINI HAS CASH FLOW TO SPARE AND SO CAN YOU! QUIXTAR SAVED MY LIFE AND MY MARRIAGE." That will be a t-shirt, I can guarantee that. Whether I have the balls to wear it to an eMall meeting or not remains to be seen. Which reminds me: We have some DVDs that need to be watched. And drunk to.

I don't care about your verbs.

Here are some recent trends that make up my world:

1) The past 3 times I have gone to cross the guard, I have been stuck behind the slowest god damn van in the world. Same one. I know, it's good to be a safe driver, but I would much rather be following someone too crazy rather than too cautious. They go half the speed limit! Everywhere! So, when we get in front of the school, and the limit drops to 20, they go down to 10. And their stops are not just complete; they are complete plus a 5 second cushion on either side just to really fuck with everyone's heads. I don't even want to explain the involved process it takes for them to turn. God, I hate them so much. I hope they see me in their rearview mirrors, waving my arms about frantically.

I bet they are religious.

2) New friends while crossing the guard. This big flock of girls has gone by the last two afternoons - I can see them egging the one girl on until she finally gets up the courage to sing, "My hands are high, my feet are low, and this is how I giggalo / Gigg-a-loooo gigg gigg-a-loooo" I am going to surprise them tomorrow by singing along. Dance moves included.

How was this weekend? "Stupidly expensive" is what first comes to mind, but we'll try and not be so negative, all right? So, I was driving along, yelling my Streets out or whatever, maybe 35 minutes away from St. Louis on 70, when all of a sudden everything starts shaking wildly. My first (very logical) thought was that it was an earthquake (or LOCUSTS: SWARM OF TERROR), but I looked around and realized it was only me who was vibrating, so I pulled over. I open the door and am blasted by the overpowering smell of burned rubber. Go and look at my front left tire, and the thing is exploded as all hell. Not just a little flat; it's like I ran over a landmine or something. So I hunt around, trying to figure out where Oldsmobile would hide my spare tire, eventually just tugging on random panels ("Wires? Nope.") until I found it. I'm glad that the one thing my dad taught me about cars was tire changing. My oil could be boiling black tar by now, and I would have no idea, but I know how to do some wicked fast tire changing. Unfortunately, people are not so kind with me as they are with the police and will not change lanes if I am pulled over, so huge semis are flying by about a half foot away from my head, my car rocking dangerously on the jack. You're on my bad side as it is, semi drivers; every long trip I have been late for has been due to your ridiculous need to pass one another. "I am going 56. I will pass this other truck going 55 even if it takes aaaallllll day!" Some sort of statement must be made, but apparently firing flare guns at a moving vehicle is some sort of "crime."

So, the donut is on, but already seems shaky, so I'd best find a place to get me a new tire quick snap. Two exploded tires would depress me to the point of leaping in traffic. Problem is, it's already nearly 7, and fucking Larry's Tire in podunk Highland, IL, is already long closed. Incidentally, Highland has the most insane traffic device in the world. Called a "roundabout" (by the local yokels at least), it is just this huge insane circle that only goes one way, and you can only go so far on it before you have to exit it and get back on, and is possibly made up of about 90 "Wrong Way - Do Not Enter" signs. It was so illogical I laughed in spite of myself. And then knocked over about ten of the signs trying to get out. Google Maps has no record of it, however, so maybe it is a psychotropic illusion the local townspeople use to gain citizens. "Well, you're stuck here now. I heard Larry's Tire needs a new greasemonkey."

So I drive on, going 50, which is about as aggravating as anything can be, and I finally end up in Edwardsville, which I figure might be big enough to have places still open. I am right, but unfortunately they are so slow as eff that they have tires to replace from that morning still. Finally, I talk to a pretty nice guy at one place, and it seems like he really wants to help me get back on the road that night. Problem is, in the resulting crash landing I had after the tire blew up, the wheel part itself got all bent out of shape. Oh! So glad I hauled that stupid heavy motherfucker into the back of my car then! Looks like we'll need a new wheel altogether! What does this entail? More time and money, of course! Yes! I have so much to spare! Here, take it all, you cretins! Buy some singing bass fish!

Luckily, Justin and Lisa live in Edwardsville. Unluckily, neither of them are answering their phones. So I hang out in Target for an hour or so, avoiding the pimps when possible (No, really. They was some pimps out front, all be sellin' some underage Target ho's like they was saltine crackers!) until they thankfully are able to get ahold of me. I've talked to Missy, and she is pissy as hell that I won't be there that night, but at least I didn't have to stay in no hotel. I most certainly would have been shot and raped.

In the end, it wasn't a bad little detour. I had some Arby's and some good wine and finally got to see Justin and Lisa's house and their ridiculous cat. Actually, it was not so much the cat that was ridiculous, but rather the fact that the place had been cat-proofed. Pretty much every door in the house had something on it for the cat to play with, but mostly he just wanted to eat my jalape�o poppers. He has little cartoon paws, though, and Justin can make him smash his head into the wall by chasing a laser pointer beam. Best of all, I got my first Nick GaS fix in about forever, intercut with 2 Fast, 2 Furious whenever they tried to show us "Finders Keepers."

Additionally, this resulted in seeing pretty much the best episode of "Double Dare" ever. As I'm sure most of you know, the host, Marc Summers has some badass OCD issues, such that he more or less hates getting messy and will freak out if he stays that way for too long. Looking back on these old game shows (involving pretty much as much gross sliming as they could manage) with this knowledge really adds to the whole experience, especially for the episode in question. So, it was a special wrestling edition of "Double Dare" with 2 apparently famous people neither Justin now I had ever heard of in our lives. Needless to say, they were fat and gross and mean as hell. So, blue team won, and they were going through the obstacle course, and all of a sudden the red wrestler grabs the blue kid and holds him in a headlock. Red wrestler grapples with blue wrestler, and they both get dumped in a pile of sludge. Marc Summers runs up, "Stop the clock! Patricia, stop the clock! ... EVERYBODY WINS!!!!" Uh, what? That was insane as hell. So they start rolling the credits, and the wrestlers joke around with Marc, one of them pretending like they are going to throw him in. "NO!!" The man had a look of abject terror on his face, like he'd just seen his child blasted in the face with a shotgun. Luckily, they threw him in anyway, and I'm sure he's still scrubbing his flesh off to this day trying to get the brown crap off.

It's fun to jest about other people's emotional problems.

Gumshoes?

Ah, non-sequitur. How I love thee. So I crashed in Lisa's room for the night, forcing the two of them to sleep together (Sorry, guys!) Stupid cat kept trying to bust in and get in on my business, so I eventually propped like seven books against the door. About a hundred calls in the morning later, my car was finally all ready to go. We stopped at some diner for gyros (God almighty, why did I think gyros were a good idea?) as well as pretty much the coolest store I have ever seen. Called "Bingshop" for reasons beyond me, all the place sold was crazy weapons. Like, the real thing. Collapsable nunchucks and $7 ninja stars and actual damn swords and and $400 soft pellet machine guns (Why would you buy this when you can get real gun for as much?)and this crazy Klingon arm weapon that Justin wanted so bad. Personally, I would have liked the deadly throwing cards, but I am poor as eff (now more than ever), and it is not in my best interest to learn the deadly arts. Unless one of you needs someone killed and is willing to pay me to do so. Then we shall get right on it. But! I will return there someday, with money, and I will buy so much ridiculous shit.

So, I got back on the road - $142 poorer and wiser - but it was nice out, and I had my "Adequate Mix" on, and I was in a pretty damn good mood. Too poor to run the air conditioner while paying $2.30 a gallon for gas, I cracked the windows a little bit and laughed as my ass got sweatier and sweatier. The ribbons are arranged only on the driver's side of my car, so only about 50% of the world was pissed off at me. 4 hours through horrid traffic, and I had arrived. Only a day late.

Here is a bad mistake on my part: Mr. Barmann tried to give me a hug when I arrived, but I had my hand already stuck out for a handshake and sort of accidentally intercepted him on it. And I didn't say "happy birthday" at first, either! Jesus, don't I feel like an ass. Missy was cute, of course, and in a much better mood now that I was actually there. I had been surviving on scrounged food for some time and wasn't really hungry at all, but her parents invited us out, and I managed to cram in a plate of meat ravioli from the Olive Garden and then immediately poop it back out. The things I do to seem appreciative. was the only one to clear my plate, though - maybe it's some crazy Italian thing. To complete our archetypal date night, Missy and I then went out to see Sin City. I was thinking about this - this must be one of those movies that kids under 17 want to see so bad. The damn thing is nothing but swearing and violence and boobies. Hell, I bet they'll start using it as an example for the kind of film kids should not be seeing. "Hookers enacting their own brand of violent justice?! The MPAA shudders at the thought!" So, I'm sorry children.

With the Nick GaS bug firmly back in my system, we sat around and watched that for a while, finally crashing for the next day's big party. Ran around for a ton of errands, which I didn't really mind, as it was with her, and because we were in a whole new market for magnetic ribbons.

He scratched his forearm with a dime he'd pulled out from his pocket.

Perhaps to make up for the whole hug thing, I tried to find this eulogy for the pope that Dick Cheney had made and that Missy's dad enjoyed a lot for some reason. All I could find was a recording of the speech, however, so I had to transcribe it on my own (much to Missy's chagrin, as I sat there for half an hour, rewinding over and over again). Also registered for my classes next semester, using the same bullshit process as before. It's hilarious how many psych classes I've taken - I scrolled halfway through the list before I found anything I could even try and take. Unfortunately, I am encountering major restrictions all over the place, so I had to pop in a creative writing class: Creative Nonfiction. I figure I'll have a knack for it if nothing else. Now all I have to do is hope I can get into that advanced creative advertising class - which, in turn, requires me to actually apply for it and do a non-shitty job. Here's hoping!

Speaking of applications, I wasn't considering it before, but now I might try and be a supervisor at the telemarketing place next semester. The pay is a hell of a lot better, and I wouldn't have to face nearly as much rejection as I do now. Save that for the ladies, am I right?

That night, there was the party. I got dressed up in my own mussy way - an incorrectly tied tie, jeans, and flip-flops will do the job nicely. Most of Missy's family was in town, except for her brother-in-law (who was nicest to me at Christmas) or her brother Jim (who I wanted another shot at impressing), so darn my luck there. Missy was fairly sure I would be in full-on judgmental mode for the evening, but I've been surprisingly out of character lately. I was even all chatty and stuff, befuddling everyone with how Missy and I were together. "So, do you go to K-State?" "Uh, nope. University of Illinois in Urbana!" "????" One guy was even from Waterloo, IL, and it seemed like he might have known Shelly's family. Weird. Another guy - with liver spots on his head - was sort of drunk, I think (I watched him as he poured himself a glass of wine the size of which I've never matched even when I'm trying to get trashed), and kept recommending this pizza place in St. Louis. The best ever, he said. I later talked to Missy's sister about the same place, and she said it was horrible. Either one works. Missy, for her part, had a couple of beers with mother's permission and was getting all giggly and talkative and tipsy. I wisely decided to stay sober, as Missy had already told her parents about Sean D. Mills, and I didn't want to seem like a complete idiot lush. I was the most adept with a wine opener there, however, and word quickly spread. Strange French dishes were served ("Eat these mashed up potatoes covered in superheated cheese with either a dill pickle or cocktail onion!" "Uh. No."), and all of Missy's family stayed up too late - well past one - and we were all antsy because we wanted to Make Out.

But that's gross, so forget I said anything.

The next day we tried to slow time, but you know how ineffective that is. More errands - some t-shirts for me to paint her, and the most hilariously-named Dr. Pepper ripoff in the world. Dr. Spice: Spicy Cola! Too bad pretty much all Dr. Pepper impersonators make me want to crawl into a corner and die. The chemicals!! Also, have you guys ever been to Cold Stone Creamery for ice cream? It seemed so innovative to me: You pick an ice cream flavor and then you can mix whatever shit you want in with it. Missy had banana ice cream with strawberries, and I combined my two favorites - mint and cookie dough - in a strange brew. The mint overpowered the dough, but it was still worth the effort. Also tried some red licorice ice cream, which was bizarre as all hell. Just like chemical-y Twizzlers. And the music they played included the Ben Folds Five cover of "Barrytown." So big points overall.

Left at about 4:30 (making sure to give Mr. Barmann a hug this time!) and tried my very best (e.g. sped) to get home in time for bingo. What a long long long drive. And, oh so brilliantly on my part, I left my fucking phone in the parking lot of a gas station in Lake St. Louis, MO. How did I know it was there, even before I got the message from my dad? Because it was the only place I stopped the whole time, genius. Anyway, as far as I know, my phone is now in the clutches of a mildly-retarded gas station attendant named Arthur. As I was sort of scared, my mom called them and tried to work out some system for me to get the phone back, but it's still going to be a bit, so if you be callin' I prolly won't be 'ceivin'. But give Arthur a shot - boy could use some attention at this point in his life, I should think.

Made it back home with no time to spare and only a little piss in my pants, and it was immediately off to bingo. There seems to be a mild lovefest between new bingo caller and Shelly; I tend to attribute it to the fact that they are both females in positions they clearly do not belong in. For instance, Tony came back that night with Buttsex (and actually sat at our table!) so they let him call the shambo, and dunno, his voice just commands more attention than new chick's. She just seems constantly drowned out, and Smacko yelling about what a cunt she is certainly doesn't help. I won a cock clock, though, and Shelly got trashed beyond reason, puking with her 17 man support time behind her, although not until she had told me how much she missed me a few dozen times. Also, when they heard about my flat, Kyle and Spritz both called to make sure I was alive; ah, to be cared for. And Tony threw his orange at me and no one else, which clearly means I am his favorite. This is how it should be. I should have studied, but had rum and pineapple juice instead. Tomorrow Smacko and I will attempt to get temping jobs. Or possibly work at Jimmy John's - whichever ends up being more horrible and soul-crushing.

It was a fair weekend overall.