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In the Residence Hall I’m living in this year, people actually lock the bathroom and shower doors, which means that I have to unlock the door every time I need to spend a penny. I don’t understand this precaution. What the hell are they worried about happening if they keep the bathroom doors unlocked? Somebody sneaking and stealing a quick piss? Honestly, that wouldn’t affect me in any way. Community bathrooms are just simply one of those rooms that you don’t need to lock.

I also feel that planners and notebooks could do without including a list of “frequently misspelled words,” because no one ever consults this mysterious chart. Nobody’s ever been like, “Oh, I can’t spell ‘conscience’! What am I going to—wait! Frequently misspelled words, you’ve saved me once again!” Additionally, I don’t need the following in my notebooks: multiplication tables, linear measurement conversions and graphical listings of time zones in the USA. Come to think of it, I don’t really need the notepaper either. Christ, I shouldn’t have bought so many damn notebooks.

Incidentally, I now have what the kids call “AIM” on my computer, so if anybody wants to chew the fat with me while I’m for some reason on the “internet,” I am listed as wickensworth. I prefer goat fat, but any fat will do as long as isn’t baboon fat. I can’t stand baboon fat.

Speaking of baboon fat, it’s good to see that is back on the trolley. I don’t know how that relates to baboon fat, but I couldn’t think of a better segue. Keep up with the Kool-Aid metaphors, Adam! Kool-Aid is both poetic and delicious! Oh hell yeah!


Has anyone else noticed that the Olson twins are aging at a faster rate than humanly possible? When I was ten, they were maybe two or three years old. Now that I’m nineteen, they’re somehow already fifteen. At this pace, they’re going to be older than I am when I’m thirty. Also, there’ll probably be three or four of them by then.

Another weird thing that I noticed today is that, when I’m driving alone, I tend to call all the other drivers on the street “buddy.” I’ll be like, “let’s go, buddy, go ahead and switch lanes,” or, “way to go, buddy, you just ran that red light and totaled my car! Well, you’re my buddy, I forgive you.” But these people aren’t my real buddies, because my real buddies wouldn’t need to be reminded that they’re the first person at a four-way stop sign, or that it’s a green light and they need to start moving. These people are really just jackasses.

In conclusion, the Olson twins are mutant children who age faster than anybody else, and I call everybody else on the road my buddy.


The most shameful thing about me is that sometimes I like to watch a show on the Disney Channel called Bug Juice. It’s the true story of a bunch of kids who go to summer camp and have to deal with such issues as having to wake up when they don’t want to and having to go hiking when they don’t want to. Ultimately, they learn the true meaning of what summer camp is all about, which is that summer camp is very special.

Watching Bug Juice always reminds me of how I never went to a real summer camp when I was a child. This always makes me very sad. I mean, suppose I somehow get transported back to medieval times: I will be completely lacking in the archery skills taught at summer camp. If somebody challenges me to an archery contest in the Middle Ages, I’m as good as fucked. Or what if I get stuck in a tree one day, and the only way down is by walking across a bunch of carefully laid out ropes? I have no rope course experiences whatsoever, which consequently also means that I’ve never learned that I can conquer any challenge that stands in my way. But the worst part about having never been to summer camp is that I’ve never discovered the true value of team spirit, which is the greatest lesson of all.

Anyway, I’ve got to go back to Michigan State next Saturday for about my second or third year of college—I don’t know the exact year, but it’s some shit like that. I know that I’ve already been to college once, so it can’t be my freshman year, and I don’t think I’m old enough to be a senior. Either way, I’m looking forward to school this year, as it will give me an opportunity to skip classes and avoid studying for tests. I miss not going to classes and not studying.


It used to be that when somebody wanted to make a children’s show, all they had to do was take a disheveled old man off the street and force him to mingle with a few retarded puppets for a half an hour. Mr. Rogers, Mr. Dress-up, Mr. Wizard—all of these shows were about senile men who hung out with puppets in their living rooms, except for Mr. Wizard, which was about a senile man who made rockets out of baking soda and milk cartons. But you could definitely tell that Mr. Wizard wanted a puppet.

I imagine that these shows were first created with loftier goals, but then the producers were always just like, “Well, we ran out of money, so instead of that awesome cartoon we were going to make, all we can afford is an old man and a few socks.” And kids bought that shit up. We were all, “An old man and some puppets? Well, fuck, I’m only four years old, I don’t care what the hell I watch.” We were so lame.

On another topic, I think every movie should be like The Princess Bride in that they should all be interrupted every fifteen minutes by Fred Savage telling his grandfather what he thinks of the story. Imagine how much greater Jurassic Park 3 would have been if, right when a dinosaur was about to eat somebody, the scene suddenly switched to Fred Savage sitting on his bed and saying, “But the dinosaur won’t eat them, grandpa, I just know it!” Then his grandfather would say, “Do you want me to continue telling the story or not? Now, as I was saying, the tyrannosaurus was chasing after them, when all of a sudden …” And then it would switch back to the action. This would make any movie way more interesting—in fact, I now find it difficult to watch a movie that isn’t being told to Fred Savage by an old man. And that’s a hell of a lot of movies.


As a general rule, if you have arrived at eKarjala using Google, this page is almost certainly not what you were looking for. For example, according to the hit-counter at the bottom of my page, today somebody staggered onto this site looking for “vicodin pictures.” I don’t know why Google thinks that I specialize in pictures of Vicodin, but I really don’t. Meanwhile, another person recently came across this page using the search “gifts after getting your wisdom teeth pulled.” This guy was apparently looking for a gift to generously give their poor friend who just got his or her wisdom teeth pulled, but instead they ended up listening to me call a bunch of things retarded. I feel bad about this, and incase this person comes back, I would like to suggest that they get him a caramel apple, and then delight in watching him struggle to eat it. Then they should get him a book about airplanes, because airplanes are neat.

What some people may not know is that this is not the only site called eKarjala on the Information Superhighway of Fun. For the discerning viewer, there is, which makes way less sense than my site does, possibly because it is written in Finnish. Their slogan is Maakuntaportaali, which I wish I had thought of first, as it is a clever double-meaning: It refers to the fact that their site is concurrently both Maakunta Port and Taport aali aali aali. Additionally, it raises an interesting question: Can anything truly be Maakuntaportaali without first being Maakunt Ali Port, or is that an oxymoron? Then again, Maakun Portaali Kunta. No pun intended!

If you don’t understand, I recommend checking out this page, which is a random list of gibberish that may help clarify things. Here is an actual quote from this page:

Intra 3



Thanks a lot,, that really answers a lot of my questions about Asian Tuntijas. However, you forgot to mention the following:



teenage mutant ninja turtles cereal

In conclusion, Maakuntaportaali.


It has occurred to me that I have not updated this site in a while. While I’m not at liberty to reveal the complete reason for this, I will admit that it has everything to do with ninjas. But ninjas aside, here are some more reviews of old sayings, with one dollar sign being the least totally rad and five dollar signs being the most.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat: I think that, no matter how you skin a cat, you’re still a sick person for mutilating an animal. I’d hate to meet the person who first said this. I picture a crazy guy who lives in somebody’s basement, and who always has a bunch of sharp tools spread out around the floor. “Must … skin cat. There are … several ways … to do this.” I have no idea how this saying got popular. There’s more than one way to kick a dog in the head, but you don’t hear me going around mentioning that. $

Don’t cry over spilt milk: Until I heard this quote, I would lose myself in a fit of tears every time I dropped a glass of milk. I’d say, “My glass of 2% milk! No!” I was an emotional wreck until this quote came along. It taught me to suck it up and keep all of my tears bottled up inside, and now I’m unable to cry. Thanks to this saying, now I just get really depressed whenever I spill milk. $$$

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones: If you live in a glass house, there’s a lot of things you shouldn’t do. For example, you should never go upstairs, because you’d probably just crash through to the first floor in a horrible mess of glass shards and blood. If I lived in a glass house, I’d be more concerned with affording a real place to live than with throwing stones. Not even the three little pigs were retarded enough to build a house out of glass. Hell, I recommend throwing stones at your crappy little house. That place is a goddamn health hazard. $$

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink: I hate when this happens. I’m leading my horse to get her some water, and she’s walking along behind me with no noticeable problems. Then when we finally get to the water, that little bastard doesn’t drink. I’m always like, “Damnit, Ginger! If you weren’t thirsty, why did you make me walk all this way?” Horses are very stubborn animals, but also very wise. $$$$$

You can’t have your cake and eat it too: The hell you can’t. If I bought a cake, I’m going to eat that son of a bitch. You have the cake, and then you eat it. You do both. Or you eat half the cake, and keep the rest, thus fulfilling both the act of having and the act of eating. Or you just buy two cakes: one for having, the other for eating. There’s a lot of ways to simultaneously have and eat a cake, and none of them are that difficult to figure out. The guy who said this was probably an idiot. $

The pen is mightier than the sword: The obvious argument denouncing this adage would be that nobody has ever won a sword fight using a 23 cent Bic pen, but let me play devil’s advocate for a moment and say this: “I’m the devil’s advocate! Ahh! Go to the dark side! Trust the devil!” So you see, the pen really is mightier than the sword. $$$$

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks: For some reason, this saying reminded me of those paintings of dogs playing poker, and I laughed for about twenty minutes. This saying is hilarious. $$$$$

Beggars can’t be choosers: Beggars have gone through enough hardships in their lives without people telling them that they don’t have the ability to chose. When somebody begs me for something, I make it a point to give them at least three choices. I’ll say, “Here you go, pal, take your pick.” It’s always good to raise beggars’ spirits in their time of need. $

A dog’s bark is worst than its bite: This saying sounds pretty accurate until a dog actually bites you. Then it’s just kind of like, “Well, hey, that was much worse than the bark was. I’ve … I’ve got to get to the hospital.” These dogs aren’t bluffing: Their bite is pretty much as bad as you inferred it would be from their bark. This is why some people are afraid of dogs. They’re very scary animals. $$

Curiosity killed the cat: Curiosity didn’t kill the cat, that guy who skins cats in his basement killed the cat. And anyway, from what I know about cats, they’re not very curious, as they always seem really, really tired. Whoever said this must have been thinking of the monkey Curious George, and he’s not even dead. $$


The best part about game shows is when the host consults a mysterious panel of judges. For example, Alex Trebek will read his little clue card and one of the contestants will give their response, but then, instead of Alex saying that their answer was right or wrong, there’s this awkward silence. At this point, nobody knows what to do, and Alex starts looking around the studio real nervously because he’s so confused. Then he’s like, “... Judges?” Somehow, these judges know the answer to everything you could ever want to know. They’re never actually shown or heard, presumably because they prefer to have their identity be kept in secrecy, and they’re almost never needed. I want to know exactly how much they get paid for doing this, because being a game show judge has got to be the easiest job you could ever have. “Uh, yeah, we’re going to need you to sit on this chair for a half hour and, when Alex is unsure of the validity of a response, give him the old thumbs up or thumbs down.” Hey, if you know the answer to every question in the world, you could probably do something more productive in your life than ensuring that Jeopardy is run democratically. These people know the cure for cancer and they’re just sitting around working for a dumbass game show.

Personally, I don’t really watch games shows due to their inherent retardedness. I’ve been spoiled by all of the Nickelodeon games shows that I used to watch back in the ‘80s. Double Dare may have seemed like a normal trivia show on the surface, but you never knew when the host would make the contestants dig around in a giant cream pie to find some sort of red flag. But the most interesting thing about Double Dare is that it was hosted by a man named Marc Summers, who was later revealed to have been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which caused him to have an unhealthy fixation with cleanliness. This makes me question his career choice. If you’re worried about not getting dirty, perhaps it might not be that wise of a move to host a game show where it is routine for a participant to jump in a vat of pudding. In fact, that’s perhaps the second worst job you could ever have in such a situation. The worst job, of course, would be to host a show called What Would You Do?, which Marc Summers also did. For somebody who likes to keep clean, this guy certainly picked a fascinating profession. I’m not knocking his disease, but if I was afraid of heights, I’m probably not going to want to become a goddamned tightrope walker.

What Would You Do? was another Nickelodeon game show, only when you did something wrong on this one, you would be strapped down to a contraption that simultaneously hit you with four cream pies. It was a little thing known as the Pie Pod, and, depending on your opinion of pies, it was either one of the worst or one of the best things that could ever happen to you.

The other Nickelodeon game show that I used to watch was called Wild & Crazy Kids, which is actually pretty self-explanatory. If you’re looking for a show where kids do wild and crazy things, most of which involve cream pies, look no further. As a change of pace, this show wasn’t hosted by Marc Summers; rather, those duties were fulfilled by the three dullest people Nickelodeon could fine. Compared to them, playing T-ball would probably seem pretty wild and crazy. Especially if, instead of hitting softballs, they hit cream pies. Leave it to Nickelodeon to figure out every possible way to make use of those things. I’m not sure where they ordered them from, but you can imagine the pie company’s bafflement when Nickelodeon first figured out that lots of cream pies equals good ratings. “What’s that? Nickelodeon wants to order another 15,000 cream pies? But they just ordered 10,000 last week! What the hell are they going to do with all those cream pies?”

You don’t want to know.


There’s a ragtag group of dogs in my neighborhood who enjoy having barking contests at about four in the morning. These dogs have absolutely no consideration for other people’s well-being. What I want know is this: What could their barking possibly do that would benefit them in any capacity? What are they hoping to have happen? If their goal is to keep me awake, mission fucking accomplished. I don’t know if dogs can sense fear or not, but I do know that they can sense the point at which I’m about five seconds from falling asleep, because they always know to bark exactly at that time.

My favorite part about dogs is that they’re always extremely enthused about everything they do. They’ll walk down the street on a leash and just be like, “Oh, hell yeah. Walking down the street is so awesome. I haven’t had this much fun since I chased that stick a few hours ago. Being a dog kicks serious ass.”

On an unrelated topic, sometimes I accidentally read Dear Abby, which is a syndicated advice column that appears in newspapers whose editor can’t seem to find anything cool to put in their paper. I am very offended by how insane the people who seek advice from this column are. For example, there was a letter in a recent edition from a woman who was pissed off because her coworkers brush their teeth in the public rest room sink. She wrote, “Could you please share the appropriate rule, if any applies, and assist me in scolding such offenders?” There’s a rule for that type of shit? What the hell is she talking about? Here’s somebody who is so upset that people are brushing their teeth next to her while she’s washing her hands, she actually took time out of her day to write a letter to a newspaper columnist. She is actually concerned with the fact that people are brushing their teeth next to her. That’s her big issue. The thing is, she’s not alone. It’s astounding how many people write to Dear Abby with their absurd problems. “Abby, I need help! I can’t figure out which hand to wipe my ass with, and now I can’t sleep at night because of it! Ahhh! I’m crazy! Ahhh!” It turns out that the answer to nearly every one of these people’s questions should be that they need to just chill out a little bit.


The good thing about being 19 years old is that now I’m legally old enough to enter Canada. Me and some other people who weren’t me went to the Windsor Casino the other day, and I have to say that this was the most confusing place that I’ve ever been to. Maybe I’m retarded, but I didn’t understand what the hell was going on the entire time we were there. For example, we dedicated about 20 minutes to walking around looking for a blackjack table, but the closest thing we could find was Spanish 21. What the hell is Spanish 21? My guess is that it’s like blackjack, only with some kind of zesty Spanish twist. Gracias, but no gracias.

Eventually I just went to the roulette table, because I understand colors pretty well. Being the high-roller that I am, I put ten dollars on black, but then they were like, “Oh, you just lost ten dollars.” Casinos are fun! After they denied my request for a do-over, I decided to put another ten dollars down. Now, I’m no statistician, but I was one hundred percent sure that black would be the next color that the ball landed on, because there’s only two colors and red was just used. According to algebra, it was simply black’s turn. After I was proven right, I took my original ten dollars back and moved to another table. Here was a game that was kind of like roulette, only instead of colors, they had numbers, and instead of understanding it, I didn’t understand it at all. However, I put five dollars down on the number 1, and then they spun the magical wheel of destiny and I pretended to know what I was routing for. After the wheel did it’s thing, they handed me two five dollar chips, suggesting that I had won five extra Canadian dollars (or roughly 20 cents American). That’s when I decided to get the hell out of there.

You know, a lot of people like to make fun of Canadians, but this is merely because of those people’s own self-esteem issues. Another reason is that a lot of Canadians are kind of dumb. However, I feel that we could all learn a valuable lesson from our neighbors to the north about friendship, loyalty and, most of all, trust.

I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore.


My cousin recently told me to grow up. She’s six years old. You know you’ve got a problem when a six-year old tells you to act more mature. I would have disagreed with her, but I’ve found that it’s impossible to argue with somebody who’s that old, because they always know how to simultaneously insult and baffle you. For example, when I told her to put her wrapper in the trash while I was baby-sitting her the other day, she quipped, “You went to Jupiter to get more stupider.” I was like, “How dare you! I did no such thing!” Another time she put her hands out about two feet apart and asked, “Are you afraid of a person this big?” I said, “Somebody that big? Why, no, I don’t—” Then she clapped her hands together and was like, “You blinked! Ha, ha, you’re afraid!” I was all, “What? But I … h-how does … what?” See, you can’t argue with something like that. It’s just too bizarre. I mean, since when is fear represented by blinking? And even if I was startled by her clapping, who’s to say that this has any relevance to being afraid of a person of a height equal to the distance that her hands were apart prior to slapping them together? Still, somehow my cousin has proved that I’m afraid of midgets, and I can’t do anything about it.

The weird thing about kids is that they all have a collective obsession with wanting to dig to China. I remember wanting to do this when I was a kid, too, but I had no idea why. It’s like, what the hell were we planning to do once we actually managed to dig to China? Overthrow the Chinese government and then proclaim the country to be a no-school zone of awesome fun? It’s not a bad plan, but I just don’t think it’s very realistic. Call me a skeptic.


I’m not that big a fan of computer games, but back in 1994 the only things a computer could do were word-processing and running Myst. This was a game that let you walk around what you soon recognize to be the most boring island ever created. The goal of Myst was to try to kill yourself so that you didn’t have to continue walking around, but this was impossible, as there was no way to die. In fact, there was no way to do anything that didn’t involve walking around. You’d be like, “Hey, there’s a forest path I can walk through. Oh, wait, I don’t want to walk through a forest path. Fuck this.”

The only good computer games I’ve ever played were back when I was in elementary school. Occasionally the teacher would be like, “Alright, class, you can either work on your spelling packet or go play some Oregon Trail. It’s your call.” For those of you who’ve never heard of it, Oregon Trail was based on the actual adventures of people from the 1800’s who were walking around Oregon for some unknown reason. The object of this game was to try to cross a bunch of rivers without losing your entire supply of wheat and 20 goddamned oxen. This almost never happened. You’d see a river and be like, “Oh, shit, here comes another river. Dear God, please don’t kill off my oxen. I’ll do anything if you please just let me cross this one river without losing half of my freaking oxen.” Then the game would be like, “You have lost 12 oxen and have received the syphilis virus. Also, you are dying. Oh, and by the way, 3 more of your oxen have just died.” It was like, “Hey, screw you, Oregon Trail. I really don’t need to deal with this bullshit right now. I’ve got to go play some kickball to clear my head.”

What’s interesting is that, although schools nowadays are very uptight about not having guns represented in class, 50% of Oregon Trail involved hunting down various animals with a rifle. It didn’t matter how much food you caught because you knew that you’d lose it all the next time you tried to cross a river, but this was OK. Anything was better than working on some kind of packet that the teacher wanted you to do. In those days, teachers loved giving out work in the packet form.

My all-time favorite game to play was Number Munchers, which was about a frog who enjoyed doing math. The twist was that you had to deal with a bunch of monsters who seemed to be really pissed off that this frog was doing math, and they ran around chasing after you. They were like, “Oh, so you’re doing math, are you? Well let’s see how you like doing math after I kill you!” The game didn’t really make any sense, but it did teach me a lot of real-life skills. Now I can not only perform basic arithmetic, I can also perform basic arithmetic while a monster is chasing after me. Eventually, this is bound to come in handy.


Tomorrow is Independence Day, where everybody gets together and celebrates America’s history by lighting off fireworks in the grand Chinese tradition. But the fourth of July is not simply just a day to celebrate our nation’s independence from Canada; it’s also a day to get me gifts in preparation for my birthday on Friday.

Speaking of Steven Spielberg, a lot of people are talking about the movie A.I, which is apparently about a robot struggling to find his place in the human world. I liked this movie better when it was called Short Circuit, which is a film that chronicles the adventures of a robot who escapes from a factory and then reads books really, really fast. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to watch a robot read a book really fast? See this movie. (Insert Reading Rainbow sound effect here).

Short Circuit was made in the ‘80s, which was a good time for filmmaking because about half of all movies that were made during this decade featured an inventor who was having trouble in his inventing career. This was a smart move by the movie industry as it allowed for the audience to be treated to seeing all of the inventions that didn’t work out. For example, if there was an invention that was supposed to automatically turn oranges into orange juice, you can bet that the oranges would start shooting out at everybody in the room in a very hilarious, very intimidate fashion. Gremlins is a movie with one such hapless inventor. It starts off with said inventor looking for a Christmas present for his son, and so he walks into a mysterious shop. This is his first mistake. It used to be that the premise for nearly every single movie is that somebody buys a strange relic from a mysterious shop, only to find out later that the item in question has some sort of mystical power. In the case of Gremlins, the item is an animal who is capable of spawning off an entire race of monsters if water lands on his fur. The two other rules are as follows: The gremlins evolve immediately if they eat food after midnight, and, just like in real life, they instantly die if they appear in direct sunlight. The director was clearly focusing on realism.

The most inexplicable thing about this movie is that whenever somebody sees a gremlin, they’re like, “Aww, it’s so cute! What’s it’s name?” What’s it’s name? Are you retarded? It’s a bizarre animal that you’ve never heard of before! Nobody in this movie ever stops and says to themselves, “Now wait a minute. There’s no such thing as a gremlin. Shouldn’t I be surprised to see one of these things?” If you saw a gremlin in real life, you wouldn’t say, “Hey, that thing’s pretty cool. Where did you get it?” You’d probably say, “Holy shit, what the hell is that? Get that hellish beast out of my sight and burn it before it comes any closer!”

On a different note, F sharp. Also, a special shout out goes to all of the strange people who have been signing my guestbook. God knows how you found this thing.


I recently watched a movie called Stigmata, which is about a woman who is suffering from some sort of Jesus disease that causes her to receive wounds for no apparent reason. After receiving these injuries, she usually runs into a busy street and starts screaming like a maniac before one of her friends tackles her and drags her to the sidewalk. This cycle of being wounded and then running into traffic repeats about four or five times throughout the movie before some guy finds an old scroll written by Jesus and then she stops receiving mysterious injuries resembling the crucified body of Christ. I didn’t really understand this movie, but I did think it was funny that she kept running into traffic. “Ah! My face is bleeding for no reason! Now I have to go run into traffic!”

None of this is truly relevant to anything, but I wanted to mention it because it reminded me of how I’ve never really been physically injured in my entire life. This is my greatest regret. Occasionally I’ll see somebody with a cast over their arm, or somebody hobbling along on crutches, or somebody strutting around with a black eye, and I’ll just get really jealous. In my entire life history, I’ve never gotten wounded in any way. I’ve never broken or even sprained a single bone and I’ve never needed stitches, and in fact the last time I was the patient of a hospital I was being born. I’m either very durable or a big wuss. While not receiving injuries may sound like a good thing, you must consider the fact that I have no stories to tell about fantastic bicycle accidents, or about falling off of trees, or about having knife fights in the street. The single scar I have is a small one on the side of my right hand, but that doesn’t count because I was only a small baby when it happened. Apparently, as I was still learning how to keep my balance while standing up, my parents thought that it might be a good idea to let me run around the room with a glass bottle in my hand, and eventually I fell down and the bottle broke. I’m currently looking into whether or not this incident can be considered a form of child abuse, but I do know that it doesn’t count as a viable injury.

People with injuries really piss me off. They’ll hobble up to you on crutches with their leg all up in a cast and just look at you, waiting for you to ask what happened to them. Then you have to just roll your eyes and say, “OK, what happened?” They’ll say, “Well, I was skiing in Vermont while you weren’t doing anything cool at all, and then my leg broke while I was being awesome. Want to sign my cast?” It’s like, alright, you went skiing in goddamned Vermont and were being extreme. Do you have to rub it in with your broken leg? I’d really like to kick these people’s asses.

I’m very bitter about this. If you ever see me on the street, feel free to sneak up behind me with a baseball bat and bash my shoulder. That would be sweet.

By the way, I'm just kidding. Don't really do this. I'm going to be very angry with you if you bash my shoulder in with a baseball bat.


I used to hate when people said something was “the greatest thing since sliced bread.” I was always like, “Sliced bread? What the hell’s so great about bread that is cut into slices? You take some bread, and then you slice it. Big goddamned deal.” Then I actually had some sliced bread, and let me tell you, I take that all back--it’s some good shit. With this “sliced bread,” you can have sandwiches, toast, French toast--you name it. The entire bread world is opened up for your dining consumption. In my opinion, nothing will ever be greater than sliced bread. Now I know why ducks are so into it.

Saying “this is the greatest thing since sliced bread” is but one of the many old sayings that people use in their every day life. What many people don’t realize is that almost all of these old sayings are really retarded. As proof of this, I will now list several of them and rate them on a scale of one to five dollar signs, with five dollar signs being the least retarded.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Since I’ve never personally received a gift horse, I can’t say whether or not this is good advice, but it sounds pretty solid. Horses would probably bite you if you looked at them in the mouth, or maybe spit on you. I really don’t know that much about horses. Rating: $$$

“The proof is in the pudding.” This one doesn’t even make any sense. Where is this magical pudding of theirs? And what proof are they even talking about? I’ve never heard of a lawyer saying to a judge, “Your honor, to prove that Timmy didn’t murder Sam, I’d like to call my first witness: A batch of pudding.” Rating: $

“Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” I’ve noticed that the earlier I wake up, the more money I have and, additionally, I tend to be smarter on those days. However, it burns when I pee no matter what I time I wake up, so I don’t think it makes me healthier. Either way, this saying gets an extra point for rhyming. Rating: $$$$

“A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.” Apparently, the bird exchange rate is very confusing. What I want to know is, if you have a bird in your hand, but your hand is in a bush, approximately how much is your bird worth? Also, what makes you think I even want a little bird? I’d rather leave it in the goddamned bush. Rating: $$

“The early bird gets the worm.” This statement is probably pretty true (unless the bird is trapped in your hand), but you’ve got to think that the early worm is just going to get eaten by the early bird. However, my real problem with this saying is that I think many birds are taking the advice. There’re outside my window every morning at about 4:30am, keeping me awake with their musical chirping. I’m always like, “Seriously, guys, chill out. They’ll be worms at 1pm. Get some sleep.” Rating: $$

“A picture is worth a thousand words” I think this statement was first made by painters who were going poor because nobody wanted to buy their stupid paintings. They started going up to people and saying, “Oh, look at my picture! Did you know that pictures are worth ... about, uh, one thousand words?” That’s good and fine, but how much is a thousand words worth? They don’t tell you. This saying should have been, “A picture is worth ten thousand dollars.” Rating: $

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” This saying means that, if you throw an apple at a doctor, he won’t go near you. I’ve never tried this, but since it rhymes, you know that it has to be at least partially accurate. If you want to attempt this, I recommend throwing the apples at their eyes to blind them, and then running. Rating: $$$$$

“When it rains, it pours.” This statement is the stupidest thing that anybody could ever hope to say. I mean, it isn’t even true: What if it rains lightly? What then? It would be raining, and yet it wouldn’t really pouring, which neatly disproves the whole idea. This saying would be similar to somebody stating, “When it’s 80 degrees, it’s 100 degrees.” It’s like, no it isn’t. Rating: $

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” I’ve never really owned a basket, so this advice doesn’t really apply to me. However, if I did own a basket, and if for some reason I had a strange compulsion to put eggs in it, I probably wouldn’t put all of them in. It would just get too heavy, and some of the eggs might fall out of the basket. I’d buy a few extra baskets just to be safe. Rating: $$$$

“Don’t count your chickens until they hatch.” This was probably made by the same guy who said the egg/basket thing. My objection to many of these statements is that they’re so negative. I mean, I can’t count my chickens until they hatch, I can’t put all my eggs in a basket, I can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s like, what the hell can I do? Can I go downstairs and eat a Pop-Tart right now, or is that against they rules, too? Is there some saying that says “Don’t eat Pop-Tarts on Thursdays”? Screw that. Rating: $$


This past week I went to Florida, which you might remember as being the state that ruined the entire country during last year’s election. Florida is also home to the fire ant: nature’s asshole. These are ants that, in addition to being stupid, have also developed the ability to be extremely mean, thanks in no small part to natural selection. The human equivalent to a fire ant would be somebody who walked up to everybody they saw and just punched them right in the face. Fire ants don’t care whether you pose a threat to them or not, they just want to bite you. It’s their favorite thing to do. I’m not OK with that.

According to recent studies, Florida is also really, really hot. This makes it an ideal place to go to, as you don’t have the energy to do anything but go swimming all day. I much prefer this to the cold winters of Michigan, because being cold gets old real, real fast. Snow’s pretty cool when you’re about seven years old and want to make a little fort, but after that you don’t have the patience for any that nonsense. There’s nothing cool about being cold.


Congratulations to everybody who graduated from high school this past week. Now instead of going to classes and taking tests in high school, you’ll be going to classes and taking tests in college. It’s way different. To give you some hot college advice, I’ll refer to my “Been There, Should’ve Done That” college tip book which I received at orientation last summer and have been keeping in pristine, unread condition. According to the author’s advice on choosing courses, you should “sit in on a class the term before or stand outside the classroom and talk to students as they come out.” Actually, don’t do this. You’d probably just embarrass yourself and waste your time. Good luck!

Speaking of high school, I was reflectively looking over my senior yearbook the other day. For some reason, not only do I look like I just woke up in every picture that has ever been taking of me and put in a yearbook, I also look like I’m about to kill somebody. While it is usually true that I just woke up, I’ve never planned to kill anybody during the taking of any of these pictures. So what the hell’s wrong with me? It’s like, Christ, at least you could smile for two goddamned seconds.

These days, I have a new policy of smiling for every picture that is ever taking of me from now on. Since this is a personal webpage, I’ve taken the liberty of including a new example. Also, I’m still trying to justify having spent $800 last year on a digital camcorder that I never use.

Here's a picture of me demonstrating a zest for life. Inset: Godzilla.


Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I’m just like, “What the hell kind of dream was that? Am I really stupid enough to have thought of that?” My dreams make David Lynch’s movies seem like an abridged version of Dick and Jane, and I can never figure out what the hell is going on in them. It’s frustrating, because there I am trying to get a decent night’s sleep, and all of a sudden I start seeing insane images of people I know occupying bizarre, surreal settings, and everyone’s talking in retarded riddles. “Go not to the cave, Eric! Heed the words that were written in stone!” In the dream, these things all make sense to me, but then when I wake up, I’m confused as hell. It’s like, wait a minute, wasn’t I flying around in a police car with TV’s ALF? Then how the hell did I end up in what appeared to be a castle/factory hybrid looking for stolen jewels? And why do I always get violently murdered at the end of my dreams by a darker, twisted version of myself, only to wake up in a cold sweat with a pounding headache?

You know, dreams wouldn’t be so bad if you got to choose what you dreamt about, but you really don’t. It’s not like I’m laying down on the bed before I go to sleep and thinking, “OK, tonight I’m going to dream about bowling with a talking metal penguin and my 8th grade algebra teacher, only instead of using bowling balls, we use dictionaries. Oh, and we’re in outer space.” Yet, sure enough, there’s the talking metallic penguin and Mrs. Miller, and we’re bowling with dictionaries in outer space. Call me crazy, but I think that I should have control over my subconscious.

Also, I demand to know who came up with dreams in the first place. I want to know who said, “Alright, let’s have the subconscious take a bunch of fragmented ideas, choppily edit them together, toss in some random characters from one’s past, and then let people watch that while they’re sleeping.” I mean, it’s not like dreams mean anything. A lot of people like to sit there saying, “OK, let’s see, the Jello represented my struggle battling adversity, while the cast of UPN’s Moesha was a metaphor for--” No, I’m sorry, there’s no meaning to any of that nonsense. And if there is meaning to it, it must be some kind of dumb, ridiculous meaning that doesn’t make any sense. To be perfectly frank, I don’t have time for that.


I apologize for the infrequent updates as of late, but you have to understand that during the summer I can only do one thing per day. For example, last Sunday I checked the mail (I forgot it was Sunday) and on Monday I watched a show on the Discovery Channel about roller coasters. These things occupied my time quite neatly, and I didn’t have the energy to do anything else, so I just sat on the edge of my bed the rest of the time, mentally preparing myself for the next day’s activity--which in today’s case is updating eKarjala. Tomorrow I plan to either get a job or eat a bagel.

You know, as I walk by people downtown, I’ve been noticing how retarded their conversations are. If you pass by people and they’re talking with somebody, nine times out of ten they’re going to be saying something really stupid. This one guy said to the person he was with, “There’s no ‘R’ in [some French word that sounded like ‘bavari’].” There’s no ‘R’ in bavari? What the hell does that mean? Granted, I didn’t hear the context it was being used in, but I don’t think knowing that would have given this guy any added credibility. Was the girl he was walking with asking him how to spell bavari? Was he regaling her with a story about some sort of bizarre French spelling bee he had participated in? Either way, chances are that this guy is kind of an idiot for saying something like that. If I ever said “There’s no ‘R’ in bavari,” I’d expect everybody in hearing distance to laugh in my face and say, “Bavari? What the hell are you talking about?”

What we’ve been doing lately is, after passing by people on the street and overhearing their conversations, we comment on what they’re talking about in an audible, semi-sarcastic tone. For example, after passing the Bavari guy, I said, “There’s no ‘I’ in team” really loudly. None of us looked back at him, but you have to imagine that he had to be sort of thrown off by this statement. As he should be--how dare he talk about there not being an ‘R’ in the word bavari. Or maybe I just need to get some sort of a real hobby, like bass fishing or collecting old-fashioned radios. Something dumb like that.


My favorite part about getting my wisdom teeth pulled is that now there aren’t those bothersome teeth in my mouth. My least favorite part is probably ... hmm ... that’s a tough decision. However, I guess I’d have to say that it’d have to be the insane, mind-numbing pain from hell that’s associated with it. Yeah, that’s definitely it.

Actually, it isn’t that bad. This may be the Vicodin talking, but once you get over the fact that you’re constantly swallowing blood, your cheeks are puffed out like a little chipmunk and you can’t eat anything other than applesauce and soup, having your wisdom teeth pulled isn’t that bad. You really get a lot of time to relax. For example, yesterday I slept a total of about 21 hours. Even my cats, who sleep almost all the time, are looking at me like I’m lazy. They said, “Christ, are you going to sleep all day? You’re freaking pathetic.”

Changing the subject a bit, does anybody remember freestyle walking? This may have been a regional thing, but about four years ago a lot of young people went through a phase where they thought it was really rad to do tricks with their feet. This entailed them jumping off of benches and then twirling around in the air and then giving their friends high-fives afterward. It was kind of like skateboarding, only without the skateboards or the dignity. I wish I was kidding, but people actually thought that they might look cool by jumping up in the air and then spinning around. Could they not afford Rollerblades? Were they unable to ride a bike? If so, why would they do this in public? I mean, Screech from Saved by the Bell could have walked by these kids and have rightly called them a bunch of losers.

Speaking of Screech, did you know that the actor who played him is now living in a small house with his father, the very person who swindled all of his money several years ago? That is so like Screech.


I’m going to go get my wisdom teeth pulled out next Monday. Thanks a lot, evolution, I really made use of those extra teeth. As I understand it, they’re going to knock me unconscious, violently rip out all four of wisdom teeth using the latest in ripping-teeth-out technology, steal my wallet, and then let me wake me up in a world of newfound pain and anguish. You’d think they’d be able to just use laser robots or something to get the teeth out, but this isn’t so. I may as well just use an ice cube and a pair of pliers and save myself the trip over there. You see, the world’s scientists are too busy trying to figure out how to stuff more cheese inside of Pizza Hut’s Crazy Crust to invent new ways to improve on any kind of dental procedures. They can fit cheese, breadsticks and even tiny little villages inside the crust now--I’m actually updating this site at the moment using Domino’s Internet-Equipped Compu-Crust. But for all of this crust technology, dental surgeons are still pulling out teeth the old fashioned way--by pulling them out. Now I know why they call them “wisdom” teeth--they’re really, really stupid.


Because the Breslin Center doesn’t pay very well, they decided to give us special incentive gifts if we ushered a lot of events. For example, if you work 20 events you get a very, very special glass. That may not seem like much, but you have to understand how very special this glass is. “Hey, my paycheck didn’t provide enough money for me to purchase even a single text book, but look! A glass!” Personally, I had received an email a couple of weeks ago which notified me that I had qualified for the level 2 incentive gift, which meant that I was eligible for my choice of either a mountaineer knife, a CD case or a travel mug. You can imagine my excitement! I practically raced down to the Breslin Center to claim my prize. As I was walking down there, I had decided on the knife, so that I could then threaten the person working there with it and make him give me the CD case and the travel mug also. As far as I could tell, it was a perfect plan. There was only one problem: The guy said that I was one point short of qualifying for level 2. I said, “But--but the email! The--the knife!” The guy just shook his head.

I’m alright, now. After failing to attain the magical mountaineer knife, I was emotionally damaged for several days, but now I’m fully healed, and I have even begun to look for a summer job. The question is, where should I get that job? I’ve already eliminated all jobs that relate to sales, food services or doing any kind of real work, but that doesn’t really leave much left. In fact, it doesn’t leave anything left. That’s why I might just have to go get a job at a random place. But where?

A little known fact about me is that I have recently sold out. The pressures of remaining a unique individual had become too great, and so I decided to just go ahead and sell myself out to The Man. That’s why now I sometimes where a shirt that says “GAP” on it, and that’s why I listen to Top 40 music nonstop. That’s also why I might get a job at the Briarwood mall, because where else could I work that would express my newfound conformity? However, I’m not fully committed to work there yet, mostly because I always get lost within five minutes of entering the mall, and I’d never be able to locate the store that I worked at. So I may also get a job at a video store, or maybe a movie theater--somewhere dumb like that. If anybody out there can think of a better idea, feel free to notify me. I strongly dislike looking for jobs.


Did you know that the Monopoly game piece you prefer is revealing of your personality? According to this chart I made instead of studying for my finals, it is. Do not argue with my findings—I have spent a very long time making these careful guesses and random, unfounded claims. Because I like Monopoly, and I’ll tell you why: It’s so realistic. In real life, when you own a hotel or a house, people have to legally pay you money when they’re just walking by. Also, most people’s main source of income is passing Go. This level of realism is in contrast to the board game Life, where I can’t drive half a foot without having three goddamned children. By the time the game is over (at which point I guess your peg dies), I have so many kids that there’s not even holes for all of them in my car, and I have to just precariously set some of them on the roof and hope they don’t fall off. I feel bad about that, but what can I do? They don’t let you buy another car. They don’t let you do anything in Life. Life’s a bitch.


Next week is Finals Week—or Sweeps Week, as I like to call it—and for a lot of people that means three things: studying, studying and studying! Personally, however, I’ve never been hip to this whole studying tactic. Instead, I always opt to come to class on the day of the final completely unprepared and then—and only then—do I break out my patented secret: a panel of four of the most renowned guessers who live inside my head. I read a multiple-choice question and then the four of them interpret the tricky double meanings each answer possesses, analyze the merit of each choice based solely on wording and then, finally, compute the statistical probability of whether an ‘A,’ ‘B,’ ‘C,’ ‘D’ or the tricky ‘E’ is most likely to be the correct response based on previous guesses (“Sir, we’ve just answered ‘B’ twice in a row—there’s no way they’re hitting us up for a third ‘B’). For the first few questions, this method usually works fine. However, by around the 6th or 7th question, a split decision almost always arises—it’s either two vs. two or, in some rare cases, 1 vs. 1 vs. 1 vs. 1. These split decisions are usually followed by a ten-minute battle of internal fisticuffs, after which many panelists are too injured to continue guessing. I then must recruit some Spanish-speaking expert guessers, which always leads me down the path to confusion, as I don’t speak Spanish, and neither do any of the other panelists. They’ll say, “Did you say the answer is ‘C’ or ‘Si’? And quit using complex verbs, Carlos. We can’t understand you.” Having Spanish-speaking panelists is probably the reason approximately one third of my write-in answers are written in Spanish. More importantly, it’s probably the reason I usually do poorly on tests. I mean, how can I consult a guessing expert who lives inside my head if he can’t speak my language? Give me a break. So, basically, I’m either going to have to start studying like everybody else or simply learn Spanish.

I won’t be sure if this post makes any sense or not until tomorrow, because I haven’t gotten any sleep in the last 30 cubic hours. (Scholar’s Note: One cubic hour equals time * the Residence Interval (RI) of floods in Arizona * the % hypertextuality—which is almost always 100.) Fortunately, in only 218.7 cubic hours, I will be done with Sweeps Week. That’s a relief, because Sweeps Week is awful waffle.


Somebody pulled the fire alarm Thursday night at about four in the morning, and so everyone had to go outside and wait for the imaginary fire to be put out. Nobody’s sure who pulled the alarm, but I highly suspect it was Jerry Seinfeld, because who else could be capable of just fantastic wit? Pulling the fire alarm when there is no actual fire is an absolutely brilliant social commentary. I mean, think about it: Whether they wanted to sleep or not, everybody had to go outside at 4am and wait around. That’s comedy, man. Unless … wait a minute, pulling the fire alarm when there is no fire isn’t funny at all. In fact, it’s kind of the trademark of an asshole. The irony is that, if it turns out the Christians are right about the afterlife, the person who pulled the fire alarm is going to burn in hell.

Speaking of religion, the film Hollow Man is really stupid. I say “speaking of religion” because the characters kept making references to “playing God.” He turned invisible. How the hell is that playing God? If you’re cloning things, people could make an argument that you’re playing God. If you’re tinkering with genetics in future children, alright, fine, people could remark that you’re playing God there, too. But if you simply become invisible to the naked eye, that’s not playing freakin’ God—that’s just turning invisible. Nobody thinks that any God created existence by turning invisible. You just can’t make existences that way.


Looking for a fun way to increase your risk of dying every day by about 2,000%? I recommended Rollerblading. Personally, even though I’ve had my Rollerblades for years, I’ve managed to almost die every single time I’ve ever used them. The problem lies in their design: they’re shoes with wheels on them. This makes it impossible to stay balanced or stop on command. You are not allowed to dictate where you go with these things—you merely make suggestions. Sometimes my Rollerblades don’t feel like stopping at my classes, so I just kind of ride it out and see where they’re taking me. Usually it’s to a busy intersection, or to Canada, or to a busy intersection in Canada. This often leads to memorable adventures, but it rarely leads to me getting to class on time.

Oh, sure, you might see people on in-line skates who look like they’re in control, but it’s all a facade. These people are merely pretending to be elegant, when in reality they are fearing for their lives. I know. I’ve been there.

On another topic, there has been an incredible amount of ants running around my dorm room lately. Since there’s not really anything to eat, all they are able to consume are their dead friends. After they do that, they usually run around some more and look for a place to die, whereupon other ants eats them. Somehow, they’ve managed to survive all of this, and in fact they seem to be multiplying. I don’t know where they’re coming from, but they’re getting really annoying. This morning, for example, I woke up early because one of the ants had bit my goddamn leg. He bit my leg! Excuse me for trying to sleep in my own freaking bed. What, did he think he would kill me? There’s no way a little ant could have killed something that’s about eight hundred thousands times bigger than he was. Man, ants are so stupid. It’s a miracle they’ve survived as a species as long as they have. What’s they’re secret? They never know where they’re going, they only eat the dead bodies of their family, and they’re constantly trying to kill animals that are way bigger than they are. And think about it: If you were the queen of an ant colony, you would send out your smartest ants to scavenge for food. This means that the ants we see are the most clever ants alive, and that somewhere down in that little anthill are ants who don’t even know how to run around in a circle looking for dead insects to eat. And how long have ants been around? Forever. Maybe this whole “science” thing humans are working on isn’t the answer. Maybe we should mindlessly run around and try to bite wild bears on their legs. It certainly couldn’t hurt.


Due to circumstances beyond my control (laziness), I am now in a position where I must write no less than six analytical essays over the course of these last four weeks of school. Thankfully, for some of the essays due in his class, my English professor helped everyone out with some pointers in an engaging piece of email he sent. “These are all texts,” he wrote, “that have a distinct hypertextuality about them: does this mirror how we read?” You see, sometimes he forgets things, like when he forgot that “Hypertextuality” is not a word. He’s from Canada, though—maybe that’s a word in Canada. All I know is that I looked the word up in 20 different dictionaries and they all just shrugged back at me, adding, “As far as we can tell, that’s just one of those words retarded people say to sound like they’re talking about something important.” I said, “Oh come on, you’re just being hypertextual.”

Here’s a quick recipe for insanity I developed: stay up all night reading a book written by Jean Baudrillard (a name pronounced using about a third of the actual letters) called America and then write an essay on it. Here is an actual sentence from the text: “Akin to the nostalgia for living forms that haunts geometry.” If you’re wondering, no, I didn’t take that sentence out of context. It was written out of context. It doesn’t relate to anything, and it is impossible to make sense out of, let alone write an essay on.

So to combat this problem of having to read books that were written by authors who randomly banged their heads on a keyboard, I have developed several surefire tips for writing analytical papers:

--Randomly locate an obscure word in the dictionary that nobody has every heard of. Next, stick the prefix “quasi” in front of it and the suffix “ism” at the end of it and include it in your thesis. Make sure that the resulting sentence doesn’t make any sense.

--Call lots of things paradoxes. Bonus: call the fact that something is a paradox a paradox in and of itself.

--Use old-English words like “therefore” and “thus" until your essay reads like an old Shakespearean play.

--Instead of using periods, commas or the letter ‘k’, use semicolons. They make you sound smart; semicolons are fresh.

--Say that the book you read had a lot of “hypertextuality.”

--Start every single paragraph with the word “ultimately.”

Using only a few of these tips, here is an example of a sentence you could make: “Ultimately, the quasi-calcitrationisms of Baudrillard’s America lead to a paradoxical hypertextuality.” What does this sentence mean? Hell if I know. The beauty lies in the fact that your professor wouldn’t know either, but would pretend like he did in order to sound smart. No professor will ever say, “Wait a minute, this sentence is just a bunch of meaningless literary buzzwords randomly strung together,” because this is exactly how English professors talk themselves. In this way, they’re very hypertextualized.


When they began making an all berry Cap’n Crunch, I was sure Jesus Christ would intervene. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, all berries? Seriously, guys, don’t you think you’re over doing it?” That many berries just seems unhealthy. They don’t make an all-marshmallow Lucky Charms for a very good reason: You would die after eating a single bowl. But if a bowl full of Cap’n Crunch’s berries isn’t bad for you, why couldn’t they have done that ten years ago? Why did they hold back on us? Was the world not ready for all berries until now?

I’m retarded, so I decided that it would be a good idea to spend five minutes of my life visiting the Cap’n Crunch website for some more information. However, upon going there, I discovered that you have to register a Cap’n account to access the “exclusive cool areas.” Why? According to their registration page, “For security reasons.” They might have been kidding about that explanation, but I couldn’t tell—these Cap’n people are pretty subtle. So after a long internal debate, I decided that it wasn’t worth registering in order to access the exclusive cool areas (including the questionably named “Fun Zone”), so I instead went to their “Support” section, where I was shocked to discover the answers to every question I have ever asked in my life. For example, question #3 is: “After years of adventuring, why isn't the Cap'n an Admiral yet?” Their answer:

"It is a little known fact that the Cap'n WAS an Admiral at one time. After a tremendous outpouring from his fans, the Quaker Oats Company decided to promote the Cap'n. But Admiral Crunch quickly became bored with his desk job at Crunch Headquarters. And after a small mishap with the Crunch Berrie and Crunch Biscuit machine (at the hands of two recently promoted new co-Cap'ns) he decided that he was truly the best one suited for the role as the Cap'n. He soon requested his old position again, and he went back to being the best Cap'n that Crunch Headquarters has ever had. He is much happier now!"

I had no idea that the Cap’n had so much history behind him, but this answer just raises more questions. What was this “small mishap” they refer to? What is a Crunch Biscuit machine? Who were these two new co-Cap’ns? These queries are all answered in the response to question #4: “Where did 'Oops! All Berries' come from?”

"Despite popular belief, 'Oops! All Berries' did not come from an incident at Crunch Headquarters with some mischievous kids. This flavor actually stemmed out of the Capn's promotion to Admiral. When the Cap'n was promoted, the Quaker Oats Company had to find new Capn's to fill the positions vacated by the newly promoted Admiral Crunch. During training at Crunch Headquarters, two new Capn's--Cap'n Scrinch and Cap'n Munch--were trying to learn how to man the Crunch Berrie and Crunch Biscuit mixing machine that put the two flavors together in the Crunch Berries boxes. While trying to impress Admiral Crunch, they fought over the control handles, breaking them, and creating Cereal Boxes with JUST Berries. Thankfully, the Admiral had his Art Department slap together a box front for the new cereal, which is now enjoyed by millions."

I guess that answers my question about why they waited until recently for an all berry Cap’n Crunch. Wait a minute, no it doesn’t, that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever read. Can you believe somebody actually got paid to write that down? “Hi, what do you do for a living?” “Well, I’m the guy who invents Cap’n Crunch’s storied history. Remember the Soggies? That’s right—I created them.”

I think I just figured out what I want to do for a living.


Is it possible to have a Monopoly-themed lunch? According to the West Circle cafeterias, yes, it is. I don’t know how they did it either, because the board game Monopoly is in no way affiliated with food. One of the cafeteria attendants was even serving food behind a make-shift jail. It was kind of funny, but more than that, it was really sad. That person gets paid next to minimum wage to serve food through fake prison bars, and all because of the cafeteria’s sick desire to confuse everyone.

What is with themed meals, anyway? “Welcome to Landon cafeteria! Today is Spring Day!” Oh, Spring Day, eh? Is that why I’m paying over $1200 to eat at a crappy cafeteria? For special table clothes? “Hey, welcome to Landon cafeteria! Today is Construction Zone Day!” Construction Zone Day? What the hell does that even mean? I don’t understand! How does that relate do anything? If they insist on having themed meals, though, I have a suggestion: Edible Food Day. If they really wanted, they could even throw in some wacky hats to make it Edible Food and Wacky Hat Day. That way, everybody would win.

On another note, back when Tripod took Slacker Wannabes down, I emailed them and asked why. Recently, long after I stopped caring, they sent me this message:

Hello Eric,

Your web page was removed for Remote Loading, the practice of storing files in your member directory for access from other domains.

This practice is wasteful of our resources and inhibits the service levels that Lycos members with actual homepages can receive. As a result, your account was removed.

Remote Loading is specified as a violation in the Terms of Service that you agreed upon at the time that you registered with Lycos:

i) Use of a Member Web Page as storage for remote loading, or as a door or signpost to another home page.

For more information regarding our policies about Remote Loading, please go to the following link:

I’m not a big fan of computers, so I had no idea what Remote Loading was until they sent this. The funniest thing about them saying that I Remote Loaded or whatever was that I clearly didn’t, as I don’t have any other non-Tripod domains with which to access my member directory with. But, whatever, I don’t really care anymore. You win, Tripod—I Remote Loaded, and you caught me.

My favorite part about their message is when the say, “This practice is wasteful of our resources and inhibits the service levels that Lycos members with actual homepages can receive,” which cleverly suggests that my site was not an “actual homepage.” They’re like, “Hey, why don’t you get an actual homepage? I’m sick of you goddamned kids and your fake homepages.” I bet you there’s a part of their Terms of Service that’s like:

2b-17) A Tripod member shall herein not register a Tripod Member Directory for use with a false homepage, or a homepage that is not otherwise real in all capacities. False homepages are to be removed immediately and without notification, as agreed upon in the Digital Millennium Copyright Act.

In conclusion, Tripod is insane.


I’ve figured out the problem with most of my classes: my professors are all complete idiots. Oh, I’m sure they’re nice people and everything, but they’re just so stupid. I swear to God not one of them can figure out how to operate the light switch panels. Every single time we watch a video in any of my classes, it takes them at least ten minutes to figure out how to turn on enough lights for us to take notes and stay awake, but not so much that the video becomes difficult to see. They fumble around forever before calling their semi-retarded TA’s over, who always eventually settle on the worst possible combination, such as having the light nearest to the screen turned on and all of the other lights turned off, so that we can’t see what’s going on or take notes. And the microphone system? Forget about it. If they actually manage to turn on their microphone on a given day, within minutes they’ll be an ear-churning squeaking sound, and then the professor will start looking around the room real quickly, as if to say, “Who’s doing that? What’s going on?” Well I don’t know, maybe you’re speaking too close into the mike for the 48th consecutive time in a goddamned row. I wouldn’t be mad with all of this, but these are supposed to be smart people. I don’t understand what’s wrong with them. How is it that they are teaching at the college level when they can’t operate a VCR or focus a projector? And how come they can’t learn how to do these things after 30 years of teaching? I’m sorry, but I can’t learn anthropology from somebody who can’t operate any technology that was created after 1973.

Incidentally, MSU lost their Final Four basketball game to Arizona, which I think means that students who attend Arizona University are, on average, better at playing basketball than people who attend Michigan State. The good news is that if Duke ends up beating Arizona, I’ll receive no less than $10 in MadCash thanks to a Pepsi bottle cap promotion. I’m not sure what MadCash is, or what one can purchase with it, but I’m pretty sure that this would be the greatest thing I have ever won.