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1. I don’t rinse things before I put them in the dishwasher. It’s called a dishWASHER, people! Rinsing things is what it DOES! You don’t roast something over a fire before you put it in the oven, do you? That’s like parking a car in your bedroom so you can drive to the car in your garage. Now, it’s true that I don’t have a bedroom, but I do sleep in my car. I have a bed. It’s sitting in the back of the somewhat derelict van that is parked in front of my house. I have actively chosen not to put it together since the end of July, because I, through my own sloth, accidentally discovered the greatest sleep-apparatus short of a hammock. Mattress on the floor is divine for the following reasons. 1: Endless nightstand. Do you really want to fuck around with a two-by-one-and-a-half-foot space for your alarm clock, cellphone, and everything else you’re way too lazy to put where it belongs? Stop, then! Your nightstand just became the floor within arm’s reach of your mattress. You have been liberated. I’m getting ready to start a lab when I realize that I don’t have any ethanol to wipe down my lab bench with. I am now faced with a choice: I can borrow ethanol from the guy to my left or the attractive girl behind me. Tough choice. The first option is definitely safer. I wouldn’t have to worry about my voice cracking, my shoe laces suddenly being tied together or my pants spontaneously falling down as the universe’s way of getting even with me. At the same time I would not have the opportunity to begin a dialogue with the girl that I spend most of the lectures staring at. Tough choice… tough choice. I could… tough choice. No wait… damn… tough choice. Well, let it not be said that I am a coward.
Few television shows directly cause domestic abuse. It is rare to find one that actually forces anyone to clock the nearest person in a fit of pure rage. But there is some evidence that television does cause violence. In the course of researching this article, my roommate was hospitalized for more wounds than I can count. He was suffering from a fractured collarbone, a split pelvis, a dislocated bladder, and an extra spinal cord. (For the life of me I can’t remember where I got that extra spinal cord.) And then he made the mistake to have Dougie Howser on when I came to visit his ward. God rest his soul… but I believe my point was, Dougie Howser makes you want to kill. nervestaple and I are taking a screenwriting class with a writer on par with Vincent Brown (search that name on this website if you dare). English isn’t his first language, but that’s no excuse for him failing to pick up on the formatting, failing to use the present tense, failing to not have his characters speak their exposition, or failing to not be racist. Important backstory: the black guy (“Blake”) was the part I was asked to read for. Our teacher is black. Koji is … not. Neither am I. It was the best thing ever. This’ll be my first corner post. I’m not sure yet how I’m going use this, so I guess I’ll have to experiment. For now I’m going to treat it as a blog, and for my first blog post I’m going to rant about one of my least favorite things ever: conspiracy theories. Personally, I think every single conspiracy theory is wrong. No, I’m serious. I’ve never seen any convincing evidence that any of these crackpot, connect-the-nonexistent-dots, shit-we-made-up “theories” is true. Let’s talk about the two big ones today: 9/11 and Kennedy. At a faith forum on Saturday, McCain answered a question about what a benchmark for richness was with a joking, “How about $5 million?” and a laugh. His next words were, “I’m sure that remark will be distorted.” I like putting down other people’s music. It’s a little hobby of mine, right up there with killing homeless people for sport. People sometimes ask me “Dude, could you stop being such a bitch?” which I assume means “Dude, how can I become as well-versed and musically cultured as you are?” Fact is, one cannot simply turn up one’s nose at any band that more than twelve people have heard of and call it a day. It took me years to master the subtleties and nuances in order to reach the level of elitism that I now enjoy. A play in two acts by Vincent Brown ACT ONE JIM and TOM are somewhere. TOM wants JIM to write about two things: either carrots, or BEES.
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