The Melting Pot.

5 Feb

I need to get my headlights fixed. My transportation is being dictated by the light of day and when the sun goes down. I just don’t have time for these things. I’ve got studying to avoid and sleeping to do.

I’m bothered by individuals who claim to have obscure heritages. Everytime I hear an outrageously average looking, complete Caucasian go off about their mixed backgrounds, I want to slap them until their white ass skin is dog dick red. When asked about your nationality, you should not be telling me that you are 5% Irish, 8% German, 23% Dutch, and have some Somoan in there somewhere also, especially when it is obvious that you were born and raised in the whitest Suburbian, “Leave It To Beaver” neighborhood the Midwest has to offer. If you have to break down your background in minute percentages, you aren’t that. You’re white. You were born in America. You’re American. Shut, the fuck, up.

Why is Billy Mays always yelling? If you don’t think you know who I’m talking about, you’re wrong. You do. “Orange Glo. OxyClean. Kaboom.” Still don’t recognize him? Maybe you’ll recognize this:


Who does he think his audience is? Helen Keller? Marlee Matlin? Everytime I’m exposed to one of his many household-cleaner-related commercials, I feel like I’m being verbally assaulted simply because of the tone and volume of his intrusive, timbering voice. Billy Mays REALLY wants you to clean. What about stain removers gets this man going? Is his pitch to intimidate his customers into purchasing his products, or is he just trying to excite us? Whatever his angle, it’s disturbing. He could never sell a Tempurpedic mattress or Advil PM, that’s for sure.

Last night I watched The Holiday. For starters, Jude Law can work me like a 9 to 5 if he so chooses. Someone let him know. Next up: when Jack Black is not obnoxiously rubbing his hairy belly or taking psychadelics, I don’t know what to think. He needs to stick to dropping acid and wailing on guitars in inappropriate settings and keep it regular. Like Activia.

The freaks that inhabit the IMU computer lab are neverending. Yesterday as I was entering the lab to do homework, I passed a man who was leaving carrying a toilet seat and lid like it was a textbook. I have no further comment, for reasons which are obvious.

In 96 hours I will be puking my brains out and screaming like an asshole at Veishea. Someone mark the calendar. I’m ready to croak.

WELL, I’m off to la clase. Voy a la clase. Spanish can be fun from time to time. I like to use it sparingly, like sugars and sweets.

Or shrooms.

Jeremy: “…where are you?”
Me: “At the IMU doing homework.”
Jeremy: “Oh. I just got to your place. Nobody’s here and there are two deathly knives on the couch. I was worried.”


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