Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Christmas Lights? In your ROOM??!!
I currently have Christmas lights in my room. Yes, I do. Don't ask me why; I wanted to. They're strung all over the bookshelf in my room. Yes, I have a bookshelf in my room. Don't ask me why; I wanted to. The Christmas lights actually look pretty, though, and the bookshelf has some books and some crap. They're both quite useful, I think. Unlike my dog, Belle.
Belle is a very, very easily upset old doggy. She's about twelve, and she is a cross between a border collie and a cocker spaniel, making her one of the few purebred spanleys. Yes, we made that up. Don't ask us why; we wanted to. (In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm going to repeat that alot throughout this blog post, and end it with that, because it will be funny. Ohhh... I shouldn't've said that. I should NOT have said that...) She has mental issues, and hates lightening, loud noises, and small girls. Also, she detests high pitched noises, and (Andy says she doesn't, it's just that I'm not nice enough to her) me. She's all black and white. And she's oh so cute. She's a lapdog, but she's getting really old, and it's just about all she can do to jump the four feet or so up to my bed. She does it though, just about every single night, every single time; what a cute puppy!
Well, back on subject, I have Christmas lights in my room. It makes it kind of bright, but I actually like the light; I don't like pitch black yet. Not quite yet. Andy does; yes, he really does. Don't ask him why. He won't tell you. Neither will I, for that matter. Not like I could. I don't know either. In fact, I don't know about a lot of people. I don't know how to write, either.
See, to write a good humorous blog post, you have to have material. It's mostly something you see somewhere; a crane truck stuck in the mud, sledding accidents, your dog falling down the stairs, etc. (No, that didn't actually happen. Yes, I think it would be funny. No, she probably wouldn't.) If you don't have material, you turn out with soem kind of vague slushpile, something nobody actually wants to read, something like this. After all, you don't actually want to read this, do you? It's getting boring, isn't it? Don't worry, I wouldn't dare to even ask you to continue reading as I launch into a dramatic and hilarious part.
If you really thought I was going to, you were wrong. Congratulations. You found out that you're wrong. You were wrong about the Christmas lights staying on the tree. You were wrong about the calendar not ripping on a nail. You were wrong about the car having enough gas. You were wrong about how strong that rocket thrust should have been. You were wrong with how much you were supposed to send the IRS, and now you're wrong about this. Yes, you most certainly are. Don't ask ME why; I wanted to.
Make fun of you.
Belle is a very, very easily upset old doggy. She's about twelve, and she is a cross between a border collie and a cocker spaniel, making her one of the few purebred spanleys. Yes, we made that up. Don't ask us why; we wanted to. (In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm going to repeat that alot throughout this blog post, and end it with that, because it will be funny. Ohhh... I shouldn't've said that. I should NOT have said that...) She has mental issues, and hates lightening, loud noises, and small girls. Also, she detests high pitched noises, and (Andy says she doesn't, it's just that I'm not nice enough to her) me. She's all black and white. And she's oh so cute. She's a lapdog, but she's getting really old, and it's just about all she can do to jump the four feet or so up to my bed. She does it though, just about every single night, every single time; what a cute puppy!
Well, back on subject, I have Christmas lights in my room. It makes it kind of bright, but I actually like the light; I don't like pitch black yet. Not quite yet. Andy does; yes, he really does. Don't ask him why. He won't tell you. Neither will I, for that matter. Not like I could. I don't know either. In fact, I don't know about a lot of people. I don't know how to write, either.
See, to write a good humorous blog post, you have to have material. It's mostly something you see somewhere; a crane truck stuck in the mud, sledding accidents, your dog falling down the stairs, etc. (No, that didn't actually happen. Yes, I think it would be funny. No, she probably wouldn't.) If you don't have material, you turn out with soem kind of vague slushpile, something nobody actually wants to read, something like this. After all, you don't actually want to read this, do you? It's getting boring, isn't it? Don't worry, I wouldn't dare to even ask you to continue reading as I launch into a dramatic and hilarious part.
If you really thought I was going to, you were wrong. Congratulations. You found out that you're wrong. You were wrong about the Christmas lights staying on the tree. You were wrong about the calendar not ripping on a nail. You were wrong about the car having enough gas. You were wrong about how strong that rocket thrust should have been. You were wrong with how much you were supposed to send the IRS, and now you're wrong about this. Yes, you most certainly are. Don't ask ME why; I wanted to.
Make fun of you.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Christmas? Oh my, Christmas...
"Oh cwap! I set my alam fo ten o'clock P.M. instead of A.M. again!"
Those immortal words, spoken by Homestar Runner, entirely explain the meaning of "Decemberween." Or, as the average normal human knows it, Christmas. As for us kids, it's generally known as "The Biggest Event Since the Vietnam War. Or possibly Last Christmas." This is because we generally receive presents. Face it, you all, you know you want to understand the meaning, you really do, but you just plain don't. To us, it means more expensive things for free, supposedly brought by Santa, who is also known as St. Nick, Father Christmas, Davey Jones, etc. What he did to award himself saintdom, nobody will ever, ever, ever know. But he is apparently a saint. (Rumor is he saved the reindeer from a wolf by feeding them magic corn which made them so fast they could escape the other assailent, prehistoric zucchini. They were then exposed to radiation, from which they gained wings, but then they fell off. Of course, the reindeer could still fly. History said so. They thanked Santa profusely, but then, of course, he turned around and put the bit in their mouths.)
Everybody is always wondering how Santa knows if you've been good or bad. The obvious reason is, of course, parents. He has a big secret collaberation with them, and that's how he manages everything. Then his computer prints him up a list, sets everything into his GPS, and then picks some random elf to dress up like Santa while Santa eats Mrs. Nick's cookies. So in reality, Santa is just a figurehead. He doesn't actually do anything, which many people take to be proof he doesn't exist. They're wrong. It's just that Santa got too old to do it anymore about thirty years ago, every since he came down the chimney the wrong way, hurt his head, and lit it on fire, as if to add insult to injury. So he stays at home and the elves do everything. They don't complain; they can't. Santa's big thing is he controls the existence of the elves. If he's not happy, poof, the elf's an iguana. In the words of Hobbes, "One can think of a miriad of uses for a hand-held iguana maker."
Now, think about snow. Everyone under the age of about sixteen (which age limit, in my opinion, has something to do with the ownership of a driver's license) loves snow. It can be shaped into various things, like snowmen, snowballs, and snow forts. If you're an entrepeuner, then you can always try snow art, or assemble an army and take over the neighberhood (or, if you really are desperate, France) with snowballs. Of course, various teams with real weapons will respond ("Put DOWN the snowball and step away from the snowman!"), so I'm suggesting against it. Stick with a snow war.
Presents! Everybody loves presents. If you really want to get a good present, get your kid an elf. If you wait long enough at the chimney, one dressed up as Santa will arrive. Then you jump 'em. If he doesn't show up, well, he must've figured it out somehow. Don't give up; there's always next year. Clothing, when too much is awarded, is not a good present. Only give clothing if it is actually needed; kids would much rather have toys. They will be ripping open their presents, excitement building, the wrapping paper is falling off, the package is kind of soft, it finally comes off and there's a box, so they rip open that, and finally, in an excited rush, discover: A pair of Winnie the Pooh socks. Males will be saying, "Why thank you ever... so much," but they will be thinking, "Jeez, and you got me this instead of a paintball gun?" Girls might like it, but, of course, we all think that they're kind of weird. Don't blame us; it's young male nature. Oh well.
Anything that makes loud noises is good. This is generally the last thing that parents will get, but grandparents (thank you!) will get grandkids all the guns, explosives, knifes, firecrackers, etc. that a parent wouldn't allow them to get. They, of course, never provide batteries for the little toys that have the miniture air horns that work almost exactly like the real thing. Batteries never come with anything.
After Christmas, things wear down. You actually have to go to school again *uhhh* and do all sorts of horrible things, like get off of the sofa. Paper is thrown away, decorations are taken down, and spirits drop like rocks made of pure lead. Children go into school shock, in which almost nothing is accomplished because they got used to accomplishing nothing. It is hard to wear out of; I myself recently recovered from the summer practical hangover. It's hard to go back to school.
*sigh.*
Those immortal words, spoken by Homestar Runner, entirely explain the meaning of "Decemberween." Or, as the average normal human knows it, Christmas. As for us kids, it's generally known as "The Biggest Event Since the Vietnam War. Or possibly Last Christmas." This is because we generally receive presents. Face it, you all, you know you want to understand the meaning, you really do, but you just plain don't. To us, it means more expensive things for free, supposedly brought by Santa, who is also known as St. Nick, Father Christmas, Davey Jones, etc. What he did to award himself saintdom, nobody will ever, ever, ever know. But he is apparently a saint. (Rumor is he saved the reindeer from a wolf by feeding them magic corn which made them so fast they could escape the other assailent, prehistoric zucchini. They were then exposed to radiation, from which they gained wings, but then they fell off. Of course, the reindeer could still fly. History said so. They thanked Santa profusely, but then, of course, he turned around and put the bit in their mouths.)
Everybody is always wondering how Santa knows if you've been good or bad. The obvious reason is, of course, parents. He has a big secret collaberation with them, and that's how he manages everything. Then his computer prints him up a list, sets everything into his GPS, and then picks some random elf to dress up like Santa while Santa eats Mrs. Nick's cookies. So in reality, Santa is just a figurehead. He doesn't actually do anything, which many people take to be proof he doesn't exist. They're wrong. It's just that Santa got too old to do it anymore about thirty years ago, every since he came down the chimney the wrong way, hurt his head, and lit it on fire, as if to add insult to injury. So he stays at home and the elves do everything. They don't complain; they can't. Santa's big thing is he controls the existence of the elves. If he's not happy, poof, the elf's an iguana. In the words of Hobbes, "One can think of a miriad of uses for a hand-held iguana maker."
Now, think about snow. Everyone under the age of about sixteen (which age limit, in my opinion, has something to do with the ownership of a driver's license) loves snow. It can be shaped into various things, like snowmen, snowballs, and snow forts. If you're an entrepeuner, then you can always try snow art, or assemble an army and take over the neighberhood (or, if you really are desperate, France) with snowballs. Of course, various teams with real weapons will respond ("Put DOWN the snowball and step away from the snowman!"), so I'm suggesting against it. Stick with a snow war.
Presents! Everybody loves presents. If you really want to get a good present, get your kid an elf. If you wait long enough at the chimney, one dressed up as Santa will arrive. Then you jump 'em. If he doesn't show up, well, he must've figured it out somehow. Don't give up; there's always next year. Clothing, when too much is awarded, is not a good present. Only give clothing if it is actually needed; kids would much rather have toys. They will be ripping open their presents, excitement building, the wrapping paper is falling off, the package is kind of soft, it finally comes off and there's a box, so they rip open that, and finally, in an excited rush, discover: A pair of Winnie the Pooh socks. Males will be saying, "Why thank you ever... so much," but they will be thinking, "Jeez, and you got me this instead of a paintball gun?" Girls might like it, but, of course, we all think that they're kind of weird. Don't blame us; it's young male nature. Oh well.
Anything that makes loud noises is good. This is generally the last thing that parents will get, but grandparents (thank you!) will get grandkids all the guns, explosives, knifes, firecrackers, etc. that a parent wouldn't allow them to get. They, of course, never provide batteries for the little toys that have the miniture air horns that work almost exactly like the real thing. Batteries never come with anything.
After Christmas, things wear down. You actually have to go to school again *uhhh* and do all sorts of horrible things, like get off of the sofa. Paper is thrown away, decorations are taken down, and spirits drop like rocks made of pure lead. Children go into school shock, in which almost nothing is accomplished because they got used to accomplishing nothing. It is hard to wear out of; I myself recently recovered from the summer practical hangover. It's hard to go back to school.
*sigh.*
