On Parents and Cell Phones

When I become a highly respected academic scholar, I'm planning to offer a class that will educate mothers on how to operate their cellular telephones. The cost of enrollment will be $10,000 per head and we will maintain a strict no-refund policy. This may seem a little steep, but I feel like children would be willing to pay any amount if it meant that they wouldn't have to deal with the level frustration that comes with parental cell phone ownership.

And, even though she doesn't know it, my mother is already signed up for the first semester.

Neighborhood Noises

My neighbors are screaming at each other again. "I'll fucking kill you" is this evening's motto and, from the sound of his voice, he means it. I'm straining to eavesdrop, but their conversation is suffocated by a passing train. I can hear a nearby basketball game though. A car door opens then closes. An engine. An airplane. An ice cream truck. Tires squeal. A gunshot. Someone is cutting up a body with a band saw. A rocket ship. A coffee grinder. A pair of dogs have captured and killed a small child. A boombox. A science fiction ray gun. Laughter. And whatever the opposite of laughter happens to be.

All of these things exist inside of my head, but they may also exist in the reality just outside of my window. I could poke my head outside, but my neighborhood would suddenly become somewhat less interesting.

Besides, they're obviously enjoying their privacy.

College Students are Regular

I've noticed a strange phenomenon since I started attending the University of Minnesota. If you walk into the bathroom between 12:30 and 1:00, you would find that every stall is occupied by a set of sneakers which have been partially concealed by a crumpled pair of pants.

Also, the room sounds like a brass band just before an important performance.

If only the U offered a Methodical Pooping program.

(It occurs to me that, until now, I may have been spending far too much time with old people.)

Tomorrow, I Will Become Irony

My buddy Dave is quite the salesman. While discussing the logistics of our trip to the Minnesota State Fair, he somehow managed to trick me into making the voyage from his house in White Bear Lake to the fairgrounds in St Paul by bicycle.

By bicycle. Ridiculous.

Actually, this whole thing is probably my fault. For some reason, I decided to admit that I had been trying to cycle for exercise this summer, and only after I had hung up the phone did I realize that I wasn’t an expert in decision-making.

I mean, the State Fair is supposed to be a happy place, a place of endless food and very little responsibility. It’s an unquestionable mélange of gastronomy. Fat people from all around the country have drawn a huge greasy circle around the dates on their calendars and are planning their one yearly trip outside of the house.

And Dave wants to ruin this utopia by forcing exercise into the mix.

This irony is compounded by the fact that Dave himself is quite an accomplished eater. Last year, within 45 minutes of our tickets being torn, he had managed to consume over a pound of bacon.

So, tomorrow I will embody both self-discipline and gluttony. The real question is: which will I regret more?