Tim's Advice and Fitness Tips Journal

7:55PM - Post in which Tim Continues His Uplifting Practice of Habitual Masturbation

Sitting down to write this post has taken a concerted effort on my part. It's not that I'm doing anything else or that I even have anything else of considerable importance to do. I've just become so lazy that it's hard to work up enough effort to sit in front of my computer and tap random, inane thoughts and pointless stories into my live journal. That's the beast that I've become. How that makes me a beast, I don't know. The bottom line is, by this time next year I'll weigh at least 900 pounds.

And now to the meat of the post. By "meat" I mean the part of the post where I say things that are entirely inconsequential, but that I deem meaningful as part of my relentless pursuit of self-discovery and self-actualization as a competent, engaging and thoughtful writer.

Through what in hindsight appears to be the most random scatter of coincidental, opportune, and extremely fortunate events, I managed to get a job at Detroit Public Television (DPTV). By way of background, I have interned at DPTV for about two and a half months, and I have now been a paid, full-time staff member for about two and a half weeks. So far, I have learned two things from working there:

1. The job is at least 10,000 times better than my old job

2. Detroit is, in a general sense, 4,500 square miles of God's cruelest mistakes.

The first one isn't so hard to understand. I spent five years working in a car dealership where the average conversation revolved around one of two general subjects: boobs and professional wrestling. I have yet to hear any one at the office say the words "boobs" or "professional wrestling," much less endure an entire conversation based on these subjects. I have also not yet heard the question "working hard or hardly working?" which I heard approximately fifty times per day at the Southfield dealership. Unfortunately, no one has accused me of having a case of the Mondays yet, which, now that I work in an office, I would find hilarious, as I surround myself with Dilbert comics and endlessly forward emails with my favorite 9/11 poetry. This is the path I have chosen.

The second lesson took some time to learn. Like many young Metro-Detroiters, I had this annoyingly persistent optimism about the city, that it was on the brink of a return to greatness, a city on the rise, and other such empty, unqualified catch phrases that seem to appear in the News and Free Press and other literature that comes out of the city, but is never read by anyone in the city. Mostly that's because they can't read. Or because they are too busy screaming at their children as they cross the five lanes of Second Avenue without bothering with the crosswalk that pointlessly blinks fifty feet away. Or both.

If you would, try to empathize with me for a second as I describe the process by which I lost my optimism. See, the problem with having a groundfloor office with a window in Detroit is that you never know if the four to five people who you catch staring at you through it per day want to simply rob your office, murder you and rob your office, or rape you before murdering you and robbing your office. At any rate, shortly after a girl of about 10-years-old waved to me, then yelled "BOOYAH!" and danced outside my window, I shut the blinds almost all the way. A few days later, after I saw a woman who was adamantly committed to wearing bright purple and fusia floral patterns despite weighing approximately 350 pounds staring at my computer and then at me for several minutes, I shut the blinds all the way.

Let me elaborate further. The good part about working near the New Center inside the Fischer building in Detroit is the delicious sushi and fresh salad selections at the lunch time deli. The bad part is the throngs of homeless people and zombies you have to fight through to get to the deli. In the last two weeks I have been accosted by more homeless people than I ever thought possible, and been stalked by at least two zombies after my delicious brains. And they were zombies, alright. Trust me. They moaned and hobbled and had open sores.

Also, I stole a Cookie Monster sticker last week and gave it to Jess. That has nothing to do with how crappy Detroit is, but I feel refreshed and mollified having confessed it.

I would relate the story about David Carradine, but I don't think it would translate well to print. So we'll just pretend I never said anything and call it a wrap. Hooray for me! I updated!

11:04AM - The future looks grim, painful, and very poor

I registered for the Fall semester today. If everything works out for the best I won't be tempted to cut myself until at least mid-October. In all seriousness, though, if I stick with this schedule and finish all 16 credit hours, I'll be one class away from getting my degree. I'll also be very much in debt and very desperate, but that's been the norm for the last three years.

I would like to encourage everybody to tune into WTVS Channel 56 this Saturday night at 11 for NAS-Track Racing. In case you're one of the 6 billion people on earth not familiar with this incredible sport, it involves bikes, a track, and men that are in good shape for being in their mid 30's. The announcing might be impressive if you're very drunk or otherwise completely incoherent, and the interviews, conducted by an energetic, delightfully moronic young blond woman, include memorable quotes like, "It's fun," and "It wasn't fun anymore." The action is intense to say the least. To give you a little taste, there are eight two-man teams which makes sixteen bikes in all (figures checked and approved by Mathmatical Reviews), and these athletes ride around an oval-shaped track until one of them is randomly declared a winner and is then drawn and quartered. Exciting? You bet! Not to mention the Pit Crew (thankfully inaudible in the actual program), comprised of a guitar player and a bass player who tear up the stage with such classics as: the first 15 seconds of Day Tripper, the first 10 seconds of Satisfaction, possibly a third cover that they never play. These songs are played at completely meaningless intervals throughout the three torturous hours that the competition sprawls across, punctuated with pithy commentaries like, "Are we too loud?" All in all, it's a great way to spend a Saturday evening. Also, if you actually manage to sit through the entire half-hour travesty against God's creation and watch the credits, you'll see my name displayed in flaming letters under "Web Services Provided By." So hooray for me! I did something!

Also, I highly recommend that everyone go here because I also did this: http://www.detroitpublictv.org/watch/nastrack.shtml

For your amusement, the following are actual quotes from my family's 4th of July barbecue:

In greeting me: "Hi Tim! Freedom!"

"I loved it. It didn't have any swearing or sex. Praise God!"

"He said he wanted to be hung like a nigger."

"Where'd I put my beer?"

Thankfully there was pie, so I was alright. Also there was Jessica, who I would like to thank for not heckling me or throwing hot coffee in my face and screaming rape after meeting my extended family, which would have been perfectly reasonable.

5:08PM - Two words: Freeway Fritz

Here's the first picture that comes up when doing a google image search for Tim Rimer. In the interest of full disclosure, yes, that is me; yes, that is a soft-serve ice cream dispenser; and no, I am not drunk. Strangely, here's the only other picture that comes up. Apparently google thinks I am also a part of the Altus Rodeo team and that, like our adoring Kaiser, I know how to fly a military aircraft.

Tomorrow I go to Frakenmuth with the most eclectic group of gumshoes and scaliwags ever assembled. Of course, there's Jess, whose intoxicating beauty is matched by her stunning wit, deadly intelligence, and accuracy with a sniper rifle. Then we have Chris, a quirky addition to any social situation. His specialty is humorous, often self-effacing, always entertaining cocktail conversation and explosives. Don't let Racheal's disarming personality and lack of eye contact cause you to drop your guard. Her shy demeanor is only a clever ruse disguising a ruthlessly resourceful electronics expert and lethal martial artist. Lastly, there's Zach, codenamed Funkulous Macho. Our heavy-weapons guy, Funkulous is most comfortable behind the business end of a Gatlin Gun he calls Ol' Painless, with the trigger in one hand and a bag of barbecue chips in the other. Then there's me. I put ice cream down my pants.

Our mission is simple: eat delicious Frakenmuth chicken, except for Chris, and try to get Josh's girlfriend, Lyndsey, to admit that she's a lesbian and dump Josh. The enemy is tough, the odds are against us, and the outcome looks grim. It's the kind of mission we're made for. Also, there will be a lot of heckling and enough haughty, eltist pretention to choke everyone in the Bavarian Haus, or at least leave them all stricken with cancerous tumors. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to it as it should be the first day of the summer that I don't feel inclined to swallow handfuls of painkillers and mescaline.

Also, a special shout out goes to Aaron who could also have come along on this epic adventure, but instead decided to take a two-week vacation with that marvelous substance I call Dark Mistress, but you probably know as alcohol. On an unrelated note, Aaron told me the other day that he sometimes gets erections when watching Val Kilmer movies. This is by no means evidence that he is gay, although it certainly doesn't support the contrary.

10:03PM - Sorry, not dead yet.

This update is mainly to assure the three people that have undoubtedly given up on checking this journal for updates that I am still alive and no more horribly disfigured than I was when I made my last update. Obviously, my sentence structure has not improved either.

On the upside, I've been much too busy to feel wretched and melancholy the past two months, despite even the Biblical floods that are washing over the entire Midwest, and in particular, my bedroom. Also despite the flood of coolant that I noticed pooring out of my radiator this past weekend at the Detroit Festival of the Arts. (Note: I was not enjoying leisure time at the festival. I was working the PBS Kids tent. In essence, I was showing disinterested inner-city children how to spell their name with a crayon while they tried to eat glue sticks.) I also followed the NBA Finals series because I am a bandwagon sports fan, and I don't care what you think 'cause I do what I want. I also got (read stole) a top-of-the-line Korg Karma Music Workstation, which is sleek and fashionable with its shiny, salmon finish.

I promise the next update, which should take no more than eight weeks, will be interesting and worth reading. Odds are, it will involve at least two of the following: humor, excitement, Ronnie James Dio, republicans, coherent narrative structure. Also, in the last two weeks my dog has continued his pattern of defying all logic and scientific laws by killing another bird and somehow biting my sister on the lip.

9:24PM - A few reasons why you should avoid being my friend:

Last weekend I went to Kalamazoo (or as the kids are saying, K-ZOO!) with Jess to see a wedding. It ended up being a fairly traditional ceremony in a rather small church with a high, rustic ceiling and stained-glass windows depicting our favorite Bible heros and wacky Roman torture devices. Upon arriving, we dutifully signed the guest book and donned sack-cloth robes in mourning. I quickly noticed that there was no delicious cake or pie, but there was a small circle of chairs near the center of the foyer (or alcove or procenium arch or wherever) where several small children were innocently playing at their mother's feet, so I quickly sat my ass down with the mien of overly dramatic arrogance only I can muster. The chairs were clearly arranged in such a manner as to promote lively conversation, but I would have none of that, of course, since the other inhabitants of the circle were a couple of women who seemed to embody the soccer mom stereotype and an old woman that looked to be clinging to life solely to be angry and bitter. Oh, and children. I need to stress the children here. There were a lot of children. Innocent, lovely children dressed in their best miniature dresses and suits with pastel ribbons and ties and big eyes and rosy cheeks and clean, trim fingernails. There they were, plain for all to see while they giggled and played some imaginative children's game. So there I am, talking to Jess about my sister amongst children and old women in this little church, and that's when the turret's syndrom kicks in.

Now, bear in mind that I'm joking. I love and adore my sister. I respect her in the utmost and appreciate all the things she has done for me. She is a wonderful person with a fabulous sense of humor and a great personality that people find very attractive. At this particular juncture in time, though, I felt obligated to call her a "fucking whore." Now let me qualify this further by confessing that I have a rather unique sense of humor in that I find very offensive things humorous. For example, I thought it was endlessly funny in the weeks following September 11 to respond to the most minor inconvenience by shouting, "the terrorists have won!" The terrorists would win everytime I was stuck in traffic, couldn't sleep, or ran out of beer money. So when I say things like "fucking whore" it is well-meaning and all in good fun when understood in its proper context. Of course, no one in the little circle of chairs knew me nor paid any attention to the conversation until they experienced the deep, rich savor of my baritone profanity, so for all they knew I was referring to the Virgin Mary.

I would like to say here that I really admire Jess since, at this point in the story, she does not dump me/walk away in disgust/spray me with mace and tell me to never call her again. Actually, if I remember correctly, she just gaped at me for a second and then called me a moron or something. Or maybe that was me just thinking I was a moron. Either way, somebody was right.

Anyway, I had essentially created my own Vietnam since I had obviously lost the moral high ground and subsequently the hearts and minds battle. The only viable option was a full retreat, so Jess and I moved into the main chapel area where we could hide ourselves amongst pews and candlesticks and neutral-colored songbooks. Long story short: the old woman who now hates me ended up being the groom's grandmother, and the children I ruined were the flower girls and ring bearer (not Frodo lol!). At the reception all was forgotten because of the chocolate fountain and the dancing and making party.

I think I learned where all the karma I lose for my asinine stupidity goes, though. First it follows me around for a few days and studies my habits, then it forms itself into a jagged railroad tie and sits in a spot where I'm bound to park my car. I know this because I have had more flat tires then anyone else in the Northern Hemisphere and the flats are always caused from the most randomly shaped, supernatural objects I've ever seen. I know this because I work in a parking lot that has hundreds of cars parked in it and moving throughout it over the course of the day and the one parking space that has some fiendishly irregular shrapnel inadvertently laying exactly where a tire would go is the spot where I park my car.

This has happened twice, mind you. Last time I had to have the tire replaced because the gash was long and on the sidewall somehow. Today it happened again to the brand new tire.

So by my logic, everytime I swear in front of little kids, some shell fragment will lodge itself into one of my cars' tires and cause it to go flat. Either that or 3,000 North Koreans die. Either way, I clearly should have ended this entry after the "dancing and making party" line. Live and learn!

12:38PM - Clatto verata nicto

I watched Army of Darkness last night for the millionth time. I agree that this makes me a fanboy-geek who has deplorable taste which amounts to being amused by shiny objects. However, the movie is so cheesy and brilliant that I can't help but be entertained by it. For example, every time I watch the scene at the end when the tide of battle turns against the Deadites and one of the ridiculous, stiffly-puppeted skeletons yells, "Let's get the hell out of here!" I can't help but curl up into a ball and laugh like a hysterical mental patient. Now that you all know this terrible secret I'll expect you to judge me as harshly as possible since that's what I do whenever I read your journals. YOU HAVE BEEN JUDGED!!

Also, today on the way to school my friend Aaron apparently saw a red Duster on the shoulder of I-94. Since I am constantly having trouble with my shitty red Duster, he reasonably assumed that my car had broken down on the way to school, and being the considerate friend he is, he started scanning for me among the debris and roadkill that litters the side of the freeway. When he saw a person walking along the side of the road, he promptly cut off two other motorists and prepared to pick me up. Then he remembered that I'm not a fat black woman in a purple dress. So he decided to call me here at school about five minutes ago to tell me that, for a few seconds, he thought I was a fat black woman. I then made a joke about my broad shoulders and wide carriage. Now consider this: if these are the things I choose to write about, and if I try to write entertaining things in my journal (which I do), then the other twenty-one hours and forty-five minutes of my day must be even more mind-numbingly boring. Just take a minute and think about that if you will, then pity me, then judge me.

12:15PM - I don't know, faggot.

Lately I've been having random sudden cravings for the type of food that would turn me into Willam Taft, only a more bloated and bed-ridden version. No, I'm not a bored, aging housewife with nothing to do but wait for the kids and watch Animal Planet, nor am I pregnant as far as I can tell. I'm also not foolishly pursuing any trendy starvation diet, Detox Diet, or ridiculous Atkins/Pyramid/Scientology hybrid diet. I've been eating a fairly normal, steady intake of toast, coffee, and bagels punctuated by the occasional scrap of food lying near the garbage like usual. But for some reason my brain keeps getting these moronic ideas from some useless cluster of neurons probably left over from an extinct recently bipedal relative that tell me to eat as many hamburgers and meat lover's pizzas as my stomach can possibly contain. At this point they have me convinced that eating anything meaty that is either covered in or cooked in pure hog fat would be the culinary equivalent of acheiving orgasm while watching the cast of Angel and the Olsen Twins explode.

Also, this is genius:

"I took this right to the front desk and demanded a refund. They gave me a quarter and said they couldn't be held responsible for me being an idiot by putting fifty cents into what was clearly marked as a quarter machine. We gave each other cold stares, at least until some hobo waddled in and wondered loudly if anyone had a quarter to spare. Then we laughed. It all fit together so well."

That's all I got. I wish I could be more entertaining, but hey, at least I'm not a cripple.

12:08PM - Today's update narrated by Trotsky

Thursday, August 14, 2003

It was a relatively unremarkable summer day. The sky was clear, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and an antiquated power grid would suddenly fail us all at around 4:10 pm. The ensuing evening, dark, quiet and alien, was broken by points of light and thousands of obnoxious decibels eminating from the lucky few homes that had generators.

For some, the night was spent trying vainly to sleep while huddled under their powerless air conditioners, the sheets soaking up sweat. For others it was spent in the candlelit company of friends and family members playing Yahtzee and Uno and imagining if hell could be any worse.

For me, the night was spent drunk. And not your average kind of drunk, either. This wasn't the kind of Saturday-night-at-the-bar drunk that helps me make friends and deal with problems; this was a new and unknown half-a-beer-from-coma drunk that creates problems and causes friends to worry. It was epic and probably only happened because I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. Thankfully, I was with some good friends who thought they knew their limit as well, and we were able to encourage responsible behavior in each other.

So there was me, that is Tim, and my two droogs, that is Trotsky and Josh, Josh being really josh, and we sat on Trotsky's patio drinking cheap beer and washing it down with schnapps and Apple Pucker. Early in the evening, it occured to us all that there really should be a fourth droog present just to round things out nicely, and so a call was made to our friend and fellow droog Roms. As the evening gradually descended deeper and deeper into animalistic depravity, the call was made again. And again. This is why you should all weep for me.

Also, here's the obligatory rant about Atkins.

Now for an overcast weekend of confining myself to my room and doing homework. Three more weeks.

2:48PM - Hey Tim Rimer! Blasted by gamma rays!

Normally, birthdays are a time for celebration, honoring friends, reflecting on one's life and resolving to improve it. Twenty-first birthdays, on the other hand, are a time to introduce friends to the Nazi Taco, then heckle them while they paint the side of their car with vomit. They are also a good time to utilize any terrible "des nuts, mothafucka" jokes you overheard while toiling endlessly in a shop full of depressed mechanics and wacky black people (also known to the elderly as "jiggaboos"). That said, congratulations go to my friend Zach for not throwing up this weekend and for pouring water on my crotch. Since the words "my friend Zach" have no meaning for anyone who reads this since none of you know Zach or believe that I have friends, just click here, because he's just a slut from down below in Castle Grey Skull.

Besides birthdays, I hung out with Jess a bunch this weekend and played an awesome toy organ that Chris left at her apartment. It inspired many songs, none of which were good. Then we made ravioli from Trader Joe's which was good. Some other things worth noting that happened this weekend: Scooby Doo beat Jesus and a woman was shot while making fish sticks.

Also, in case you're one of the many average Americans that likes to make jokes about crashing planes into buildings while sodomizing women in wheelchairs, there's hope for the future! The equal opportunity, morally upright United States Air Force Academy will still take you! It's good to know that the men being sent to represent us overseas are of the finest apple-pie-eating church-going moral fiber. I'm sure the whole excusing multiple rape allegations tendency will go over well with those easy-going Sunni Muslims.

Ok, now for homework and coffee. One more week of Dombey and Son and then we move on to Fight Club. Change of pace = yes. Also, final papers are on the horizon, so count on me bitching endlessly in future posts, which I'm convinced nobody reads anymore anyway. Ah well. I still have daytime soaps and Hagen Das.

12:29PM - Fire in the disco! Fire in the Taco Bell!

Earlier I was on Fark and I saw a headline that I thought read "Man catches fire after falling three floors." At first I was amused by the fantastic image the headline conjured for me, then I remembered the scene in How High where that guy catches on fire while asleep, then falls out his window while on fire, then gets hit by a truck. Then I re-read the headline and realized it actually said, "Man catches girl after she falls three floors." This basically sums up my day thus far. Everything has been funny and interesting, but slightly less funny and interesting than I originally anticipated.

I only have one class today since two of my classes were canceled. That means I'll be spending the afternoon catching up on my reading, working on papers and, God willing, eating pastries until my stomach bursts. Then I can sleep and get started on this weekend which will be awesome not just because everyone will again be focused on the continuing Jesus v. zombies battle at the local cinema, but also because I'll be in Ann Arbor the whole time possibly eating toast with strawberry rhubarb jam.

Ok, I almost fell asleep just now because I'm actually starting to bore myself. Just because I want this entry to have something redeemable, here's this.

11:57AM - Beer? YES! School? NO!

I saw an albino today. He was walking unsteadily down some stairs in the CASL building at school with a look of extreme consternation and he was waving a dollar bill around in his left hand. What is the world coming to?

Speaking of consternation, I'm at school right now debating whether I should continue this journal entry or satisfy my steadily growing need to urinate. Notice that homework isn't even optioned. That is because at this point I have essentially given up on the semester as a whole and decided that whatever grades I have at this point will still be satisfactory by the end of April. This assumption is totally false, of course, since I'm convinced my parents will disown me if my cumulative GPA drops more than a tenth of a point, but living in the weird, deserted corner of the Meijer parking lot really isn't a bad alternative to reading Dombey and Son. Trust me.

Anyway, since I am neither funny nor original nor inciteful on the various political intricacies of our day and age, I'll just end this entry by plagarizing someone who is. Credit goes to Aaron who used to be a very fat man:

"Al-Qaeda is no longer the fresh hotness. In fact, Al-Qaeda never was the fresh hotness. So they blew up the World Trade Center and killed three thousand people in one day. Yeah, that was shocking, mostly thanks to television news. Do you know who else killed three thousand people in one day? Just about everyone. In fact, as wars go, killing three thousand people in a single day is not exactly an epic accomplishment. During World War II the US and England firebombed Dresden and killed (according to some sources) over 200,000 people over a three day period, and we were the GOOD GUYS. Let me slow that down and run that by you again Al-Qaeda, we firebombed the refugee filled city of Dresden killing hundreds of thousands of people and history still recognizes the United States as one of the good guys.

"Do you know why? Because we were better than the alternative. Do you know what's not better than the alternative? You."

If I had the ability to post pictures I would insert a photo of Aaron trying to put on his coat while drunk here, or of Aaron hugging a cement acorn while drunk, or of Aaron drinking beer and liquor at the same time while drunk.

5:43PM - The end is really fucking nigh

I was just sitting in the computer lab at UM-Dearborn a few minutes ago researching shit and minding my own bid-ness when I realized how cruel nature can be. Granted, I'm already jaded since it's been inexplicably snowing all fucking day and all I want is summer, but the true revelation came in the robust form of a fellow student. Think of Jack Osbourne, then add about 100-125 pounds, then add a sickeningly tight, bile-colored t-shirt that reads "Bring in da noise! Bring in da funk!" on the back and you'll begin to grasp what I was confronted with. He was printing what was most likely a 30-page description of his most recent D&D character, or possibly some overtly pornographic Dragon Ball Z fan fiction. He also kept licking his lips, which I found rather off-putting. His shirt was so tight and his body so amusingly rotund that it reminded me of the Seinfeld episode when Kramer and George's father invent the "Manzier." It was also impossible not to notice him since the shirt was so incredibly bright and loud that I considered filing assault charges.

*sigh*

I rationalized attending the same school as this person by assuming he's an engineering or computer science major. Ahh, the arrogance of liberal arts...

11:05AM - Hovering between lethargy and total apathy

I apologize for being so sparse with the updates of late as I'm sure you're all chomping at the bit to know what new pointless thing recently happened to me and what I think of it. Basically, I had the greatest spring break of all time because I managed to avoid every semblance of responsibility for over a week while gorging myself like a viking preparing for a trip to Valhalla (Aaron tm.). This week I abruptly returned to responsibility and school which, of course, wasted no time in grabbing me firmly by the shoulders with its sturdy Mongoloid hands before violently raping me in the ass with assignments. So far my only respite has been eating whole pans of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls and reading hilariously ingenious journal entries about Mike Tyson's Punch Out.

For those of you who aren't familiar, I have a friend named Josh who is both tall and angry. In a nutshell, Josh enjoys karate, Disturbed, beer, and boobs. He's not a complicated man, but I've known him for a long time. We get along pretty well, and hell, despite his impenetrable machismo I really like the guy. Anyway, Josh recently decided to sell his car, and this dude named Thad recently-er decided to buy his car. Now, for some reason, Josh has decided that everyone he knows needs to befriend Thad and welcome him into our socially retarded but incredibly elitist circle of friends, which we all more or less refuse to do. Also, Josh is a borderline alcoholic.

I've come to accept the fact that Josh calls me every couple days and, with admirably suppressed desperation, asks me if I'll go to the bar with him. Recently I've turned him down since I'm broke and my nights typically consist of forcing myself to read Dombey and Son, making sure to pause every three paragraphs to contemplate suicide. This doesn't matter to Josh, of course. I'm convinced that, as far as he's concernced, if something is not directly affecting his life, it doesn't exist to him. So he calls anyway.

JOSH: Hey

ME: Hey

JOSH: So... What are you doing?

ME: Just doing some reading. Hating my life. You?

JOSH: Not much... ... ...

ME: Ok. Uh... How are things?

JOSH: Eh...

ME: Hmmm... Well...did you need something?

JOSH: I was just wondering if you wanted to grab a beer or two with Thad.

ME: Yeah, no, not tonight. I'm broke.

JOSH: That's ok. I have money.

ME: Well, I appreciate that, but I'm sort of busy, too.

JOSH: What are you busy with? Being gay?

ME: I guess... I just have a lot of homework tonight.

JOSH: Gay gay gay! Why don't you stop being a fag and drink some beer?

ME: I wish I could, Josh, but I really need to get this shit done. Sorry.

JOSH: Fine. Be a fag. Have fun with your gay homework, fag!

I don't know how entertaining that is, but it's a typical conversation. I think somewhere this journal entry took a wrong turn and careened off an overpass or something. Odds are I would have had a funny story to tell had I actually gone to the bar with Josh on one of the many recent occasions he asked me to go. Instead I've only increased my knowledge of Dickens. Eh, I guess next update I'll just rant about Atkins again.

2:29PM - Kiss my ass. I'm on vacation.

I took a nap yesterday then drank a pot or two of coffee and started compulsively cleaning my room because I'm neurotic and need help. However, although it was all just a pointless attempt to keep myself from doing homework and being responsible (much like my live journal), it ended up being a pretty positive experience. Specifically, the entire endeavor was a total failure until I found some papers I had written for my honors composition class in 12th grade. They were all clearly half-assed and last minute, yet I laughed out loud while reading them. In one paper I basically tell the teacher that I don't care about her class and do all of her assignments at 1am the night before while struggling to maintain consciousness due to the total apathy I feel towards school. Another one of the papers contained the word "Pizot." They reminded me of how shrill and pointless highschool was, but also how wildly entertaining it could be at times.

I then discovered a movie poster of The Muppets Take Manhattan. I quickly deemed it the greatest thing I own next to my Freeway Fritz shirt and began showering it with kisses. Mmmm... Superficial...

Lastly, I found a picture of myself wearing a sombrero filled with nachos and cheese. The plan was to upload it and include the picture in this journal entry, but then I became slothful and indignant and decided to cut the entry short and eat a bagel instead. Ah, spring break.

5:08PM - This entry is about late-term abortion

I was reading through some of my old journals last night (the real kind that involved pen and paper) and I had this plan to copy one of the entries here since it was dripping with wit and style and raw sex appeal, but, since I just let journals pile up in my room like so much debris from semesters past, I ended up grabbing the wrong spiral-bound notebook. So instead of creating another pointless entry around random articles I grab off Fark, I'll try to actually say something interesting. And by that I mean I'll just rant again about diet fads because I am feeling fat and sassy.

On the way to school I pass a strip joint off Ford Road called the Toy Chest. It's a small, ugly building with purple trim, and occasionally I'll see some slouching office types skulking around in the parking lot or some skanky 40-something stripper standing outside chain smoking Newports. There's also a purple Cadillac that is always in the parking lot. Just to add to the depravity, we'll say the parking lot is littered with condoms and syringes. The Toy Chest also has a sign that advertises things which I assume the managment views as its strong points, like "Service with a smile" or "$10 lunch special." Today it read "Try our new Atkins friendly meals." So that's it. Every bastion of American society has mutated itself into a chemically altered low-carb....thingy. *sigh* I'm too lazy to think of a creative noun.

5:33PM - Warning: toilet humor and thinly veiled groin references to follow

 So today so far consists of drinking coffee and sitting for long periods of time. That's really no different than most other days I suppose. However, today is awesome because I have new purpose in my life. I realized today that I must move to Singapore as soon as possible, for they have Dr. Love Superbaby Making Show! It's like MTV's The Real World, only you replace hot tubs with bathtubs and horny American twenty-somethings with sex-starved Singaporean couples, then add Dr. Love! HOT!! See, Singapore has a falling birthrate, and if anyone knows the cure for falling birthrates it's Dr. Love (who was educated about the intricate mysteries of love in Australia, of course). Also, kudos to Aljazeera for putting the phrase "Firing up libidos" in bold face.

Now I know a show instructing uptight, probably middle-aged couples how to make babies in bathtubs sounds almost as exciting and slightly less awkward than the first season of Joe Millionaire, but wait! I've found something infinitely more entertaining for it not only involves a groin, but a horrific injury and an important moral! Here's the moral: don't stick shit into a bull because he'll gore you in your fucking groin!

Yes, it's that time again! Bullfighting season is underway, and once again we can draw two conclusions:

1. People in South America are still really stupid

2.It's really funny when other people get hurt.

But don't  take my word for it, watch the slide show! Notice that he is gored "After plunging numerous knives into the bull." I can only hope that after being carried out by his friends, the courageous bullfighter had a sensible Spanish doctor who said something to the effect of, "Hey dude, if you weren't such an asshole you'd probably still have most of your penis." Odds are he was showered with roses or something, though. Oh well. There's always Corona.

4:27PM - Bruce the big. strong moron

When all this first happened to me it was annoying as hell, but I gave the story a trial run last night and Jess gave it a pretty warm reception, so I figured I'd document it for the ages.

So in case you aren't aware, I live with a gigantic rottweiler mutt that generally serves two important household functions: he consumes endless resources and defecates on every square-inch of our yard. For the record, I fucking hate this dog; I wish ill things upon him on a daily basis; and I swear that he will somehow be my undoing. My parents, of course, love this dog with the type of annoying, bougeoise, whitebread love only a bored, aging suburban couple can bestow a pet. What I mean is they find the dog endearing when he "kisses" them by slobbering all over their faces despite the fact that he licks his own ass and balls.

Now my parents know that I hate the dog with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, so they're constantly trying sell me on his "good" points. The problem is the dog does nothing good. He just eats and shits, then sometimes rolls around in his own shit. But when he does something profoundly stupid like, say, bumps into a large stationary object or falls over while itching his ribs, my parents laugh hysterically and try to force me to acknowledge how adorable the dog is, which I flatly refuse to do.

So the other day I'm eating a delicious lunch I had just prepared while chatting with my parents in the kitchen. I'm leaning casually on a counter above some old cupboards we keep filled with countless numbers of tupperware bowls that all seem to have lost lids. Since I am holding food the dog is groaning and leering at me like a kiddie pornographer at a boyscout campsite. At some point the dog starts licking the floor around my shoes like I've dropped some crumbs or something and, because he is the worst thing since Hitler, bangs his head against one of the cupboard doors. He does this with the gusto of a sweetly retarded rhino on thousands of pain killers, and because he actually weighs almost as much as I do, it causes a ridicules amount of noise as the cupboard door is almost caved in.

My parents begin laughing hysterically while I shake my head hopelessly. Then they start trying to convince me that the dog is cute when it does moronic shit like slam its massive skull into things, and I respond, "no, it's really just depressing." My mother is intent on getting me to admit the dog is more than a constantly consuming shit-machine, however, and she begins grasping at straws, blurting out that having the dog around is kind of like having a little brother. I say, "Not really since, you know, HE'S NOT HUMAN!"

For some reason my parents latch onto this argument like there's some logical rhetoric that will prove to me the dog is in fact a human. They try to compare the dog to a two-year-old claiming that he has similar mental faculties. I say not true and remind them that a normal two-year-old doesn't eat its own vomit. My dad ingeniously replies, "What do you know about two-year-olds?" Of course, I know I don't like two-year-olds very much, but I don't get a chance to respond. See, this is the part of the story that causes my jaw to drop in befuddlement because it appears that the dog actually agrees with my side of the argument.

Now, bear in mind that during this conversation the dog has been in the kitchen walking around totally ignorant of his own existence and vaguely aware of where he is and what he is doing. Also bear in mind that I'm still trying to eat lunch despite the dog's constantly noisey, foul, fluid-ejecting bulk. As my dad finishes his accusatory question and I am thinking of my pithy comeback, the dog is standing directly between the two of us, facing my dad. At this key moment the dog is staring vapidly up at my dad, and then drops his head and proceeds to vomit all over the floor. It's so unexpectedly prophetic that the three of us stare for a few moments in utter disbelief. This shock gives my dog just enough time to smell his vomit and then begin licking-up his own vomit. I laugh hysterically. Then suddenly my dad gets pissed, pushes the dog away from its own tragic, sinful mess, and tells me to hold him while he grabs some paper towel. My appetite thoroughly extinguished since the actual process of digestion is taking place on the floor in front of me, I put my dinner in the sink and do as I'm told. When my dad comes back into the room with the paper towel I figure my job is done, so I let go of the dog. This time the dog decides to trot over to the other side of the kitchen for no reason in particular, making sure to walk through his own pool of stomach acid and trail it all over the room. My dad sighs, and I see on his face a weird look of rage and profound disapointment, like I had just told him that I was gay or that I would use my college degree to become a professional mime.

So my dog is really stupid. So stupid, in fact, that it's impossible to argue otherwise since he'll just do something amazingly stupid to undermine every word you say in his defense. Odds are, if he hasn't choked on a rawhide bone or human femur today, he'll do something stupid shortly after I get home. It's really quite amazing. I think his existence may serve as an argument against Darwinism. Also, I hate him. That is all.

10:20AM - Hooray for me! Hooray for Zoidberg!

Ok, so the terrorists are winning, planes are falling from the sky, and people are being impaled on trees, but here's my problem: I forced myself to come to school this morning even though I didn't get much sleep, fought through endless columns of traffic on I-94, and almost died trying to get a parking spot (ask Jess, she knows Dearborn students are worse than old ladies when it comes to parking); I did all that shit and hiked up three flights of stairs only to find that my first class is cancelled. Technically, I didn't even need to come to school today until 1:25. I could have had at least an extra four hours of sleep. True, I do have a bunch of time now to write a paper that's due this week, but instead I'm just reading depressing news and writing an innocuous rant in my livejournal. Here's to not budgeting time effectively!

But then I stop, I take a breath, and I recite this poem:
"The lines are drawn, the orders are in,
the Dance Commander's ready to sin.
Radio message from HQ:
Dance Commander, we love you!"
Ah, Electric Six! Where would I be without you?

Also, here's one more reason to hate police officers: THEY FILM THEMSELVES MASTURBATING!

Well, I should probably try to do something purposeful with my extra time now, like writing about broadcast news instead of spreading useless information around. Normally I would wrap this entry up by saying something clever, but I think invisible radiation from the monitor has turned my brain into a creamy, tasteless goo. It's also caused me to feel tremendous amounts of apathy. I humbly beg your forgiveness. Here's a randomly selected Futrama quote instead: "Yeah, well I'm gonna build my own lunar space lander! With blackjack aaaannd hookers! Actually, forget the space lander, and the blackjack. Ahhhh forget the whole thing."

1:31PM - An alcoholic's odyssey

I 'm on my way to work yesterday morning when I remember that beer is great, so I call my friend Trotsky and he agrees to go to the bar later.

I work, I come home, I shower, I dress, I drive to Trotky's. He is burning a CD of Beta Band music for his newly acquired girlfriend. I tell him that if he still loves me he'll burn me a copy too. He calls me a bitch but burns me a CD anyway whilst I watch the many videos of hippopotamuses that are inexplicably on his computer. Then we make love and go to the bar. I MEAN WE DIDN'T MAKE LOVE! DIDN'T!!

The bar is Gilleran's. It's perfect because it's located halfway between my house and Trotsky's and offers 32oz boombas of good draft beer for $2.50. It's basically God's voice thundering from the heavens the words, "TIM! TROTSKY! DRINK NOW!" I figure it's in my best interest not to piss off the Almighty, so I drank two boombas of Labatts.

While at the bar a kid I used to go to school with walks in with a hoe on each arm. His name is Patrick Donovan. I remember him as the guy on the soccer team that smoked a lot of weed. He also struck me as a kid I'd never see again after highschool since we really inhabited two completely different spheres of existence: he was a cool, athletic guy who got by on his looks and awesome charisma; I was a brainy, insecure nerd who attained everything through the pathetic manipulation of other people's sympathies. Yet Patrick Donovan and I were at the same bar, possibly drinking from the same keg. Trotsky and I made fun of how the soccer team was a bunch of drug dealers and we figured the rest of them were living out of dumpsters or at a NarcAnon meeting. Then we drove to Birmingham.

On the way to Birmingham my friend Mathew calls me. He says he bought Lost in Translation. After watching it, though, he decided that he didn't like it. So he tells me he'll sell the movie to me at a very affordable price. I rejoice like a little boy that just crossed the monkey bars for the first time.

Once in Birmingham I realize that I need to use the lavatory badly. We start walking to a little coffee shop while Trotsky heckles me mercilessly for wanting coffee. Right before we get to the coffee shop my willpower shatters and I decide that we'll instead go to another bar. We go to Dick 'O' Dow's where it's packed tighter than a barracks at Auschwitz. I work my way to the bathroom which is suprisingly empty, then work my way back to the door. Trotsky says that there's too many people in the bar so we leave. We decide a bar in Fraser would be better.

The bar is called The Hofbrau Haus. It looks like a dive, and really, it is a dive. We've wasted precious time on the road, though, and we only have an hour before last call, so for the experience and for convenience we settle in at The Hofbrau Haus.

It's smokey and dark and the other patrons appear to be either coal miners or serial rapists. One guy screams out "HEYOOO!" every five minutes or so and after awhile I consider the implications of stabbing him with a broken bottle. At one point a girl wearing a "Happy Birthday" crown comes up to the bar and orders some shot. Trotsky yells to her, "Hey! Happy Birthday!" She turns and says, "THANKSSS! YOUR SHOULD BUY MEESA DRINK 'CAUSEIT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" Trotsky responds, "I would, but I think you've had enough." After last call the owner of the place comes down to the end of the bar and strikes up a conversation with Trotsky and I. He says that he's going to have some blues band called The Aligators play in the near future. We tell him that we'll try to come. Then Trotsky decides it's time to eat. On the way out we see the birthday girl again and say bye. She shakes my hand for some reason while bracing herself on the table with the other hand. She still wavers, of course, despite the table. Trotsky asks her how old she is expecting to hear 27 or 28. She says she just turned 21. I think, "Maybe this is what the Hofbrau does to people..."

We go to Coney Island because it's open 24 hours and serves the best drunk food. I order some chili fries and a hani. Then I go to the bathroom where some drunk guy asks me if I want to hold his dick. I tell him no in a firm and decidedly heterosexual baritone voice, then I quickly leave. On the way back to the table I see Patrick Fucking Donovan again. After four years of never seeing nor thinking of the kid once, I see him twice in one night at two different local venues. I consider whether I would call that sarendipitous. I decide it's not since there's really nothing fortunate about running into this kid other than reminding me of how moronic the soccer team was.

After eating I take Trotsky back to his house. Then I return to my house and collapse onto my bed. I realize that I probably spent too much money. Thankfully, I'm too tired and drunk to care. I'm now realizing that I probably spent too much time on this journal entry, and now I don't have sweet alcohol to dull the pain.

12:23PM - It's the same as football, only it's ARENA FOOTBALL!!

Normally when it comes to distracting the great unwashed masses with mindless entertainment I'm the first on board. Reality TV shows, amusement parks, religious and non-religious holidays; underneath my high-brow, U-M student exterior I'm really a dirty, dirty slut for these things. However, I do have a line. For example, professional wrestling stopped being cool when the '80's ended and Hulk Hogan turned into a faggot. Also, I hate cars, I think cars smell bad, and I think we could all get around better if we had jetpacks, so anything car related is terrible hellspawn to me.

I'm feeding you all this pointless information really for my own benefit since I'm about to admit that I'm going to an arena football game. So...yeah. At this point I would like to request that you're at least constructive in your heckling and jeering responses to this post.

In case you're wondering how I got suckered into driving out to Auburn Hills to see a bunch of second-class athletes be crappy while some almighty disembodied voice thunders their names at me, well, let's just say I was worn down.

Here's the deal: my brother and his girlfriend typically spend their time at dog shows. She has dogs, see, and these dogs of hers enter shows where other people's dogs are, and then a panel of judges at the show watches these dogs act like dogs and picks which dog acted like the most bestest dog in the whole show and that dog gets a ribbon or money or a really good healthcare plan or something. This is what they normally do for entertainment. Not surprisingly, this doesn't satisfy all their complicated, intellectual faculties, and so this year they bought season tickets for the Detroit Fury. Their relationship really falls into the same category as US foreign policy: it's just a series of poor decisions.

Now let's just say you have tickets for a sporting event. Now let's say you come across some free tickets to the same sporting event. The free tickets are for seats that are much worse than the seats you already have tickets for. Would you in this case take the free tickets? If you're a reasonably intelligent person, the answer is no. If you're my brother, the answer is you would take at least four of the tickets. Why? Becuase they're free, of course!

So now that he has these tickets he doesn't need nor really want, he begins pushing them off on random people like a heroin addict trying to sell random garbage off the street. Because the tickets are for an arena football game, everyone says no. Except, of course, for me, because I am a stupid man. When originally offered the tickets I said no, but qualified it by saying that I would if I found someone really fun to go with. I then remembered that fun people don't like me. Then I thought about pie or something and forgot all about the game. A couple weeks later my brother starts bugging me about the tickets again, and this time I tell him no with a "NEIN!" added to emphasize the point. I've already bitten, though, and he knows that I'm half sold, so he starts buttering me up like a fresh baked biscuit and I eventually concede that I'll look for someone to take. I soon discover that asking someone to go to an arena football game is sort of like asking someone if they would like Ebola, and when my brother calls again I tell him I couldn't find anyone to go. He then throws down his trump card and tells me that he already told dad that I would go to the game with him. Now if I say no I'm an ungrateful son. I finally agree and feel the sting that Ving Rhames aptly describes: "That's pride fuckin' with ya!"

I'm sure it's not going to be that bad. I'll probably even have fun, though I'll have trouble admitting it. I just have this sinking feeling that my dad is actually going to be into the game and won't laugh when I point out some random drunk moron and say, "Are we in Tiananmen? Because I see a square!" At this point I'm really just hoping to buy a lot of beer and possibly become that drunk moron. Ok. You may now commence with the heckling.