(no subject)

This morning I dreamed that I was in a big-ass shopping mall in New York. (Do they even have big-ass malls in the city proper? I dunno.) I think I was there for an interview. I don't know why it was in a shopping mall--maybe I was going for a position at Orange Julius. Anyway, I was walking through the mall, feeling all dapper in my interview clothes, when a bunch of dandies in expensive suits walked by. They were all so affected and perfectly coiffed, and I smirked at their foppish asses. Just then, one of them stepped in front of me and I had to stop to avoid walking into him.

"Too sexy for Milan!" I said with a sneer.

The smarmy little guy looked back at me and replied, "Too sexy to do your face in doo doo."

I had no idea what that meant (and I still don't), but I had the feeling that he'd just zinged me with a bitingly clever barb. So naturally I did what any real man would do: I reached over and messed up his precious hair, which he'd probably spent all morning moussing. Then I ran away so he couldn't have me arrested for assault, which I'm sure he would have. Sissy man.

(no subject)

Shit. I just got roped into driving the van to the company picnic later this month. I have to pick up supplies here, get ice from some joint in Madison, stay at the picnic the whole time, and bring the van back at the end of the day. I knew I was going to have to do this. I tried to get them to promise me that I could pimp out the van with curtains, a disco ball, and an airbrush painting of a chick riding a unicorn, dragon, or motorcycle, but I couldn't even get that.

"You'd think I'd at least rate a Michelob." Name that movie. NAME IT!!! I'll give you a hint: the next line is " . . . And it's warm, even . . ." Dedicated readers will probably remember my citing this movie before. OK, I've totally given it away now.

(no subject)

Actually this van thing could be kind of cool. At the very least I'll get to talk about "my van" for the day. I've always wanted to have a van that I could talk about in a raspy stoner voice. "Yeah, dude, I'll come by and pick you up in the van. Later." Just like Eric Stoltz in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, baby. And I can listen to that one Descendents tune while I'm cruising in my van. You know the tune: "Van."

At lunch today I went to three record stores looking for Speak English or Die, and not one of them had it. Incredible. They were all corporate-filth stores, so I shouldn't be surprised, but come ON--they should carry that disc at EVERY store, even crafts stores and Bed, Bath, and Beyond. They should have Speak English or Die vending machines, for crying out loud--it's that essential. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I don't own a copy of that album. I had it on tape for a long time, and I've been listening to a disc made from mp3s for years, and now I can't even find that. Bummer.

(no subject)

I just went to get my car to move it into the parking lot, and on my way around the block, I happened to notice a Yale kid ambling down the sidewalk. And I just happened to have a fig newton in my hand. So naturally I rolled down the window and chunked it at him. I didn't quite hit him, but it bounced off the hood of the car parked next to him and landed at his feet. In the rear-view mirror I saw him looking back and forth between my car and the newton.

Some of you might frown on this seemingly childish behavior, but think of it this way: I've given him something that will last the rest of his life. He'll be telling his grandchildren about the time some joker chunked a fig newton at him. Some people volunteer or donate money to charities; I do my part with acts of idiocy.

(You may have noticed my use of the word "chunked" (not "chucked"). I think that's a Southernism that may in fact be peculiar to my family, and maybe just my aunt. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things peculiar to my family.)