06/15/2005 - 1:30 a.m. | missy b upside down

The remaining day is beyond me. Days? Gah, this is why I should write every night instead of taking one off to play �Final Fantasy III� until 4 instead. This would have been��.. Monday, I guess. We went out for Chinese food, which was pretty mediocre, I recall, and then off to Osco for even more matches. Oh, did I not discuss that with you? A while ago Spritz was telling me about this thing he�d heard about in The Anarchist�s Cookbook or something. Apparently, if you take a tennis ball and fill it completely up with matchheads, you can then throw it against something really hard, the matches will strike each other, and boom. Fiery death. Well, had to see this to believe it, so Missy and I had been working hard the past three days, finagling gas stations into giving us countless free matchbooks, swiping some from her parents (and getting caught), and now this. A box of 1,000 more matches on top of what we already had in there. We had a little system going � Missy would cut their heads off, and I would cram them in. By the time we got to the bottom of the box, it was getting so hard to cram them in there that my thumbs were raw. This shit had to work.

Tensions were still high between the Barmanns and myself, so we got the fuck out of the house and did more errands. We love errands! Bought her dad some socks and had some really subpar Italian food (What the fuck, Fazoli�s? All you had going for you were those breadsticks and suddenly you go and make them thin and nasty? Fine, fine � increase the cost of living without complementary increases in wages. I can handle that. But when you fuck with my unlimited breadsticks, you�d best be ready to pay, society!) and wandered about Hobby Lobby and then what? Back to Tracy�s aunt and uncle�s for a rousing game of Taboo and some ice cream. That stupid dog with his idiot smile has all won me over and shit. I didn�t even want to pet him, and he smells terrible, but there I go doing it again. At least I don�t let him lick my feet like Tracy. On the way to the ice cream, we stopped in the elementary school parking lot (from what we saw apparently a hotspot for pot smoking and premarital sex) to try and toss the tennis bomb around and create some death. No dice. We threw it, hit it with bats, bounced it off walls, and nothing happened. What a fucking gyp.

I�m finally corrupting Missy to my ways. When we were driving around suburban hell the other day, trying to find this mysterious aunt and uncle house, Missy noticed this stone pig that we decided we should probably take at some point in the evening. So after Taboo and shit, we go there and make our move, all running around and trying to be sneaky and all. Well, turns out the stone pig weighed about 90 pounds and was awkward as hell, so there was no way we were going to drag it to her car. Fine, at least they�ll be sort of confused the next day when the pig has seemingly moved ten feet of its own accord. So then, we�re driving around after this, and we both notice we�re sort of itchy, and I happen to glance at my hands under a streetlamp, and they are covered with all these red spots or hives or something. Did they leave that fucking pig right in some poison oak, just for intruders? Who is that paranoid? (Well, with good reason clearly) So we stop at a gas station for a lighter, and we both have these spots, and Missy is freaking out, all �They�re going to be everywhere � they�re all inside my car and all over us, we�ll never get rid of them our whole lives!� but I am less ruffled. We wash our hands and, thankfully, the spots start to disappear. Now we can focus on our main mission: Exploding that damn tennis ball.

Missy�s theory was that igniting the ball would eventually ignite the matches, so we drove out to some church parking lot at like 1 in the morning and tried lighting the fuzzy part of the ball on fire, but it was too windy (Nice night, though). So we drove to a grocery store and got a thing of lighter fluid (NO not suspicious at all!) and then drove to the industrial sector or something and hid out in the parking lot of Kraft TeleRobotics (Clearly a drug front there!) and freaked out about security guards and cars while once again trying to light that fucker. We got it going this time, a long time actually with the lighter fluid, but the matches never went up, and we were left with a charred black object that smelled vaguely of steak. Next plan was making sort of primitive fuse to the matches and then soaking the whole thing in lighter fluid again (�Just use a bit this time, OK?�), but still nothing happened, and we sat waiting in Missy�s oh-so conspicuous car, expecting to be arrested at any time. Fine, fuck it. This ball idea was bullshit. I still want to see what fifteen hundred matches going off at the same time looks like. So we cut the ball open, made a pile, and set it aflame. Wholly unimpressive. I was at least expecting a small crater or maybe to go blind temporarily, but it was just foof. Stupid ball. Oh well. At the very least it�s nice to have a partner in crime.

My last day was equally unimpressive, watching stupid shit on TV, getting handjobs in the back alley, that sort of thing. The drive home was better this time. Yes, I stupidly left right when rush hour traffic was forming, but the roads were mostly empty, and I could just cruise and try to learn new Fiona Apple songs. The plan was originally that I would leave just in time (so at like 6 am - yes, I am that dedicated!) to meet Kyle and Shelly as they were driving down to Memphis, and we would all go together to see the Old 97's at some dive bar or something, but noooo... They had to go and puss out, didn't they? "You couldn't reserve tickets, they're playing in Chicago in July, blah blah blah." And that right there, friends, is why I am a Top Ten fan. and they are just poseurs.

And God damn it, why are all of my roommates cretins? How hard is it to plunge a fucking toilet? Answer: It is not very hard at all. And yes, perhaps it could be argued that I may have been the offending shitter who clogged said toilet this time, but I could count on fingers and toes the number of times I�ve had their nasty shit water spray up on me when I am plunging it for them because they allegedly don�t know how to. Well, deal�s off, kiddos! You want to skip out on that shit, you�d better start paying me!