Animals are dumb. Eat them.

So I'm sitting here eating a handful of slices of deer bologna (mmmmmmm.... meat) for an evening snack and I'm thumbing through some photos pondering what I could type up for a new post. Because I can't just type
Hi. Today I woke up at exactly the same time I woke up everyday. Then I went to work like every other day. Then I came home from work. Then I did some usual after-work activities. Then I posted a blog entry. Now I am going to bed. Goodnight world.
Actually, that post wasn't half bad. Could use some explosions and a fast car and I think I've got a movie deal on my han-
I'm getting off track. Meat. Right. Animals. Dumb. Ever since I started driving I have had a hate for deer. Their stupidity bothers me. You slam on your brakes, and they stand there. If they were on the side of the road, they are now crossing in front of you because naturally you are letting them cross safely out of the kindness of your heart.
If you honk at them, their ears perk up as they wonder where the sound is coming from, assuming that obviously the noise is not directed at them. If you flash your lights, they stop in the middle of the road and stare (hence, deer in the headlights). If you honk and flash your lights, they slowly strut across the street because I think that they think they're so high and mighty and that loud, bright thing wouldn't dare touch a hair on its innocent little body.
Guess what Bambi, even our government might protect you with a few little laws, but there is one little exception.

Here are some pictures of other animals being stupid.

This squirrel was a moron. I caught him climbing my window.

Then he fell off the window and just stared at me. Because he was a moron.

This was later the same day. Could be the same squirrel. Or not.

This stupid goldfinch was repeatedly trying to fly through the closed window. Repeatedly.

Stupid comes in two's. These mates hung on this chain pecking for food. No food on the chain! Stupid birds.

I am awesome

That is all.

Things On The Road That Bother Me

This might be a lengthy post considering that there is so much on the road that bothers me. Let us begin.
I don't like SUV's. They're like the new van. Remember vans? They were big and you could carry lots of cargo and your 15 kids all at the same time. When I was little we did just that. Then me and my siblings grew up and my parents got a nice car that didn't chew through fuel at 4 miles to the gallon. See? We don't hate the ozone like some people. Ozone haters.
But who do I see driving SUV's? Definitely not soccer moms with 22 kids. NO! Sitting in the cockpit of these behemoths I see Depend-wearing Wal-Mart greeters who have the uncanny ability to thoroughly inspect their own teeth without the assistance of a mirror. Whatever happened to old people driving sensible cars? When did the Cadillac luxury sedan no longer look good with wrinkles? There's a reason it's called the Grandma Car!
The other type of person I see driving SUV's that really grinds my gears is the preppy kid (gender nonspecific) under 25 whose parents are way too rich and spoiling and who needs to be shot in the foot. Better yet, make that both feet. We don't want them limping off for help. I hope the SUV becomes the next Grandma Car so that a stigma of driving a never-seen-offroad offroad vehicle is cemented into the hearts of demographic (2).
PT Cruisers, dubbed the Midlifecrisismobile. Seriously. Try finding someone under the age of 45 driving one of these.
Scion xB's. They're trying to pass as an extreme vehicle with a look that says you're an individual. But what the look tells people is that you're ugly. Just like the car you drive. At least the Volkswagon Van was retro; what's your excuse for looking like a loaf of bread?
People with GPS devices annoy me. Don't get me wrong, GPS units can be horribly useful. But how often? Maybe once a year if you happen to be taking a family vacation to a destination you've never been before or something of the like. But I'm hoping that by now most would know by heart how to get to the store, or work... or home!
GPS users remind me of myself with my first multifunction digital watch. I would play with that thing constantly. If someone were to announce that a particular activity would last a minute, I would set the timer to a precise 60 seconds and hit go. Boy, it really bugged the heck out of them when it started beeping but their precious activity wasn't over. Tough. You're done.
I believe GPS doodads were devices intended to be big for about five months, then the following summer there's a really good deal on cars where the dealerships try to promote random road trips in your new 18 mpg SUV (*hack!* *cough!* *gag!* *acid reflux!*) and the start of their sales pitch begins with something like, "Dig that old GPS out of the closet--" or "Time to dust off your old GPS--". Implying, of course, that GPS devices are old and forgotten. Which they should be, because if the county on your plate matches the county in which you're driving, you should know where you are and you should know where you're going. I'm right.
Honda Elements. Ugly.
Chevy HHR. Ugly.
Toyota Prius. Fruity.
Jeep Patriot. I'm not really against these all that much. I just wanted to point out how funny I think these are. Apparently nobody at Jeep played Grand Theft Auto that much. Apparently nor did anyone who bought one of these.

New House Attempts Murder

Over the weekend I was moving some items into my new house. While moving my mattress into the house with the help of my brother-in-law, I bumped a ceiling light fixture, which broke and came tumbling toward the ground. In a split second my mind determined that allowing the glass fixture to fall to the ground and shatter was the worst possible outcome. In response, my reflexes kicked in and proudly declared, "I can catch that!" Little did these reflexes know that unhealthy shards of glass were already exposed and as I held out my left arm to at least slow the descent of the glass, one such shard made a clean perforation in my wrist. The blood you see here is in fact the result.

I mow and blog about it

So a friend at work (hi Kristel!) told me my blog needs to happen more frequently and needs more pictures. Well, we'll definitely have to see about the frequency of posts, but here are some pictures to go with me blabbing:

An over-the-shoulder view of me mowing.

The first bit of my mowed lawn.

I got COVERED in grass! Also, I'm kinda psycho.

My car in the garage for the first time.

I mowed my own lawn for the first time tonight! But before I did that, I parked my car in my garage for the first time! (See pictures) Then I received my first friendly wave from a stranger while I was mowing my first lawn for the first time! It was great!

Ahem

I have a cough. Not a terribly terrible cough as you might imagine. It cannot be described as a smoker's cough or be likened to black lung. Just a cough.
It's not even one of those nuisances of a cough that causes its afflicted to make as if he were to clear his throat every eight and three quarter seconds. It's just a cough. Although it does make me feel the need to clear my throat. Ahem.
And as I whittle away at the keys beneath my fingers, there rests a satchel of relief-coated lozenges a mere twenty-one inches forward, ten and a half inches off to the right, and thirteen and five eighth inches below the very throat to which I could offer instant, if only temporary, relief.
But at this moment it has been

As it turns out, I don't want to write about my cough anymore. At the moment, I don't really feel like writing about anything. My inspiration has presently ran dry. I was hoping to make a mildly amusing post about something rather trivial. So trivial, in fact, that the degree and nature of the trivial subject is trivial itself.
Here's a thought: if I were to pursue using the word 'trivial' more times an a sentence than anyone else, could I then consider that a game of trivial pursuit?

Recycled Laces

Sure, it's Friday night and I could be out chillin' on the town. But instead I'm here ranting about shoes. Well, I plan to go see Gran Torino later tonight. I heard it was good. Then maybe order a pizza. But about those shoes...

It was June and I was just hired to my new job. I needed a good pair of work shoes. Something that looked nice, as my Frankensteinish gray Sketchers just weren’t going to pass in the workforce. I compare my beat up sneakers with the Modern Prometheus due to the fact that the shoe’s leather – or whatever its composition may be – began tearing along one of the seams on the inner side of the foot; a problem I remedied by hand-stitching the fastidious fissure with black thread. Nevertheless, it is a good shoe and I still wear it to the day of this posting.
In preparation for the onset of my fledgling career, I paid a little visit to Target (pronounced tar-ZHEY for you French speakers). I wanted a shoe, and I wanted cheap. Surely the Zhey could provide. And they did. The brand, I believe, was Mossimo. I have a plain black Mossimo shirt, which is kind of dressy and I like. The shoes, on the other hand, suck.
Right from the get-go I remarked their lack of comfort. My heels grew calluses and my feet began to hurt. Oh, my aching sole! (Terrible, yes; but I had to do it) After months of wearing these, one of the laces snapped and something really caught my eye. Only the outer weaving of the lace had snapped; and the core around which it had been woven… was bright purple. PURPLE! On a stately-looking, professional man’s dress shoe!
After I had replaced both laces, a thought crossed my mind and I followed it on a whim. Taking the still intact original lace and a handy pocket knife, I sliced the outer weaving of the shoestring, emulating the snap of its twin. What I saw confirmed my suspicions. The lace’s core…was brown. I initially thought that maybe Mossimo was saving a dollar by going to their supplier, picking out the cheapest, most unwanted color of yarn, and using it as their shoelace cores.
As it turned out, that is not so! These laces are recycled! I can’t say enough bad things about these shoes. Even the material out of which they were constructed began cracking around high stress points; namely at the joints of the toes. One nice thing I can say is that even after my few months of wearing these, the solid rubber soles did not crack once, unlike a pair of dress shoes that I wore throughout most of high school.
But with the shoe string snappage, I deemed it time to upgrade to a far superior, if not much more costly, pair of shoes. Which, as it just so happens to be, is a wonderful segway into my review of the Dr. Scholl’s Harrington black work shoe.

Also view this highly educational video on shoes!
WARNING: language in this video is not very appropriate for anyone.