Hell, yeah!

Actually, I don't like wine. Trying to get me to drink wine, would probably just piss me off more. So yeah, you're all screwed.

The great divide

All my life I have believed strongly in that line between exercise and masochism that should not be crossed by yours truly, under any circumstances. Despite this belief, I have a dark past as an exercise nut. At my worst, I would work out two hours a day, every day, seven days a week and I spent more time contemplating protein sources than I care to think about.

But I got better. Or maybe I just got lazy. Yeah, I think that’s probably it. Hiking with Pooch doesn’t count as exercise. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t.

So then the step-mum suggests that we start going to the gym together. Circuit training. It started regularly enough, with work-outs a couple of times a week followed by ice cream. So far so good.

I suppose I should also mention that this gym is…odd. They periodically like to play insane music like YMCA and Bee Gees. There are different categories of people in my gym.

First, there are the rich, fat people. They will come in with their friends, STAND on the treadmill and chatter for a bit before they say “oh, my legs are so tired” and move on to the next thing, and so on and so forth. After an hour of this, they will grab their MOSS water bottles, jump into their sports cars and no doubt feel very good about themselves for having spent a whole hour working out.

Second, there are the regular people. The sane ones that go 2-3 times a week and put in a moderate effort and then go out and buy an ice cream afterwards, or something.

The third type is the gym bunny. They’re the slim, perfectly toned people who look like they’ve never eaten a snack in their lifes, and they are always there, no matter what time of the day you decide to stop by. Most likely, they were all built in secret, underground laboratories. Some of them are models, all of them are annoying.

The gym bunnies never speak to anyone other than other gym bunnies. The other two categories are just slightly smelly air to them. Personally, I’ve been planted firmly in the regular people group. Then about three weeks ago, I started to notice a…shift. Slowly but surely I began to enjoy the process of using the gym equipment to inflict pain upon myself. I suffered and I liked it. And like any drug, you eventually need to move on to bigger doses and then even bigger ones.

So there I was the other day, buring through the exercise machines at breakneck speeds. Then a gym bunny enters, looks around with empty gym bunny eyes at all the free machines, before getting on the one right next to me. At first I thought that perhaps she simply didn’t notice me there, seeing how I’m a category two dose of slightly smelly air. The thought had no sooner formed in my brain, before the gym bunny made eye contact, smiled and said “hello” and drifted into whatever thought-dimension gym bunnies go to while they’re working out.

Mommy, I’m scared…

Science and such

On Friday I have a meeting with my thesis advisor to wrap up my big, fascinating research project. Now, it may not have been the most thrilling project on earth. It’s not going to fuel a Hollywood blockbuster anytime soon. The world would have to go through some fairly extreme changes for that to happen.

Then again, there are weirder science projects out there.

Like, for example, the one conducted at Wayne state- and Auburn university in 1992 which examined the effect of country music on suicide. That was odd.

Not quite as strange as “Love and sex with robots” by D. Levy at the university of Maastricht in 2007. He predicted that around 2050, the state of Massachusetts will be the first jurisdiction to legalize marriage with robots. “At first, sex with robots might be considered geeky, but once you have a story like ‘I had sex with a robot and it was great!’ appear someplace like Cosmo magazine, I’d expect many people to jump on the bandwagon,” Levy said.

Personally, there a few people I’d rather jump on than a damn robot.

Granted, that project is very odd. But there are even stranger ones out there. Like the “rectal foreign bodies: case reports and a comprehensive review of the world’s literature” by Busch and Starling in 1986. The citations include reports of, among other items: seven light bulbs; a knife sharpener; two flashlights; a wire spring; a snuff box; an oil can with potato stopper; eleven different forms of fruits, vegatables and other foodstuffs; a jeweler’s saw; a frozen pig’s tail; a tin cup; a beer glass; and one patient’s remarkable ensemble collection consisting of spectacles, a suitcase key, a tobacco pouch and a magazine.

The world has literature on rectal foreign bodies. Who knew?

Then there’s the “safe and painless manipulation of penile zipper entrapment.” I swear I’m not making any of these things up. Most of them are online, even. Then there’s “pressures produced when penguins poo – calculations on avian defecation” by Breno Meyer-Rochow and J. Gal at the international university of Bremen and Lorand Eotvos University of Hungary in 2005.

Last but not least, there’s “Farting as a defence against unspeakable dread” by Dr. M. Sidoli in Washington DC, 1998. According to it's author, "this paper describes some features of the behaviour of a severely disturbed adopted latency boy. Peter was born premature, suffered several early hospitalizations and surgical operations, and at 2 months of age was removed from his mother's care by Social Services for neglect and abandonment. When feeling endangered, Peter had developed a defensive olfactive container using his bodily smell and farts to envelop himself in a protective cloud of familiarity against the dread of falling apart, and to hold his personality together."

MY project is nothing like either one of those.

How to write a paper in college

Okay, so yesterday I just sent my thesis in to my thesis advisor again, for yet another look-over, or something. Writing a college paper of any kind, is nothing like in the movies. If I was a character in a movie, I'd sit at my little desk, with my hair in a very smart ponytail with calculated fly-aways, working like a little ant. This is how it really works:

1. Sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a well lit place in front of your computer.

2. Log onto MSN and ICQ (be sure to go on away!). Check your email.

3. Read over the assignment carefully, to make certain you understand it.

4. Walk down to the vending machines and buy some chocolate to help you concentrate.

5. Check your email.

6. Call up a friend and ask if he/she wants to go to grab a coffee. Just to get settled down and ready to work.

7. When you get back to your room, sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a clean, well lit place.

8. Read over the assignment again to make absolutely certain you understand it.

9. Check your email.

10. You know, you haven't written to that kid you met at camp since fourth grade. You'd better write that letter now and get it out of the way so you can concentrate.

11. Look at your teeth in the bathroom mirror.

12. Grab some mp3z off of kazaa.

13. Check your email. ANY OF THIS SOUND FAMILIAR YET?!

14. MSN chat with one of your friends about the future. (ie summer plans).

15. Check your email.

16. Listen to your new mp3z and download some more.

17. Phone your friend on the other floor and ask if she's started writing yet. Exchange derogatory emarks about your prof, the
course, the college, the world at large.

18. Walk to the store and buy a pack of gum. You've probably run out.

19. While you've got the gum you may as well buy a magazine and read it.

20. Check your email.

21. Check the newspaper listings to make sure you aren't missing something truly worthwhile on TV.

22. Play some solitare (or age of legends!).

23. Check out bored.com.

24. Wash your hands.

25. Call up a friend to see how much they have done, probably haven't started either.

26. Look through your housemate's book of pictures from home. Ask who everyone is.

27. Sit down and do some serious thinking about your plans for the future.

28. Check to see if bored.com has been updated yet.

29. Check your email and listen to your new mp3z.

30. You should be rebooting by now, assuming that windows is crashing on schedule.

31. Read over the assignment one more time, just for heck of it.

32. Scoot your chair across the room to the window and watch the sunrise.

33. Lie face down on the floor and moan.

34. Punch the wall and break something.

35. Check your email.

36. Mumble obscenities.

37. Midnight - start hacking on the paper without stopping. 6am -paper is finished.

38. Complain to everyone that you didn't get any sleep because you had to write that stupid paper.

39. Go to class, hand in paper, and leave right away so you can take a nap.

Just how effed up do things have to get?

I have a friend named Pete. Actually, his name isn’t Pete at all. It’s Albert. But I’ve decided to call him Pete in order to protect his identity. It’ll be a bit like Superman’s glasses. We all like those. Glasses make people look smarter. That’s why I wear mine. Not bumping into things is just the icing on the cake.

Aaanyways…

Pete has a dog named Little. That’s his actual name. There’s no point in trying to protect Little’s identity, because dogs don’t wear glasses. Little is an English mastiff of about 250 pounds. He does not live up to his name. There are three things that Little love most in this world; his daddy (Pete), pillow stuffing and visitors. When his beloved master leaves the house to go to work as a nightshift security guard at Really Big Company, the little darling aims all his attention towards the sofa cushions and their soft, snowy white innards.

Because of this, Clever Dogowner Pete set up a camera in his living room, so that he could keep an eye on the baby from his laptop computer. So now, although he wasn’t able to stop his Little Pumpkin from tearing the Super Recliner Sofa to pieces, he could at least witness the murder. Sure enough, when the time came go about his security guard business, Sweetie-Pie was digging in with great zest.

When he returned to his laptop 20 minutes later, the sofa looked like Einstein’s head. But what truly caught Pete’s attention, was the unkempt young man sitting in it, holding his television set in his lap. Seems that during his away-time, the house had been burgled. Little had thought “Yay! Visitors!” and it wasn’t until the fella tried to leave through the window where he entered, that the doggie smelled a rat, thus planting said visitor in what was left of the sofa and keeping him there. Being a fairly bright young man, Pete naturally called our equivalent of 911.

The operator was sad to inform Pete that nobody would be able to come by his house until later that morning, since he was the only officer working at the station that night, and he most certainly coulnd’t deal with the situation alone, because it might be dangerous. Naturally, Pete was slightly ticked off, seeing how he was supposed to go home in less than an hour and the situation might just happen to be a little dangerous for him, as well. Not to mention for Doggie-Woggie, but he didn’t say that. Finally, the policeman called a couple of off-duty officers and they took the burglar away.

Apparently, Little wasn’t all that keen to let them into the house. But I digress…

The burglar was placed in a jail cell where he gave a full confession of that night’s events. Right down to how he had taken a leak in someone’s birdbath... Eight hours later, he was released due to lack of evidence.

Insane as it sounds, this is not even an unusual story. I know two more people just in my own social circle that has experienced pretty much the same things, with a few variations to the plot here and there. Granted, we’ve just had the most serious financial crisis since the great depression, but still… Our particular corner of the world has only been slightly affected by this. It’s also one of the few bits on the globe that actually makes money – a lot of money – rather than sustaining themselves on loans. You’d think we could stick enough cops in the station to answer a 911 call. I also can’t help thinking that it must be frustrating to become a police officer and find that you’re not able to do your job. Maybe that’s why the flight of cops from the police force to private security companies, is now considered to be one of the major national problems that politicians get off on talking about. Not that sitting around in a tv studio, chatting about it while wondering if the cameras are capturing you from your good side, is helping the situation all that much.

It’s a helluva creepy though that our 911 should work a bit in the same way that Pete’s camera did. “No, we can’t really help you, but we’d be more than willing to witness you being minced up by the psychotic axe murderer, ma’am.”

Mad As Hell! Kinetic Typography from Aaron Leming on Vimeo.

A cunning plan!

In the not all that remote future I will be out there, looking for employment. I've decided on a very clever course of action, should someone be foolish enough to not be dazzled by my considerable charm and decide to actually reject me:

Dear ......,

Thank you for your letter rejecting my application for employment with your firm.

I have received rejections from an unusually large number of well qualified organizations. With such a varied and promising spectrum of rejections from which to select, it is impossible for me to consider them all. After careful deliberation, then, and because a number of firms have found me more unsuitable, I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your rejection.

Despite your company’s outstanding qualifications and previous experience in rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet with my requirements at this time. As a result, I will be starting employment with your firm on the first of the month.

Circumstances change and one can never know when new demands for rejection arise. Accordingly, I will keep your letter on file in case my requirements for rejection change.

Please do not regard this letter as a criticism of your qualifications in attempting to refuse me employment. I wish you the best of luck in rejecting future candidates.

Sincerely,

Choochoo

All you need to know

Me, myself and I.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going to leave the exciting world of the 20-something and become a 30. I know that this is supposed to be either a big deal or something that depresses the hell out of you, but I can’t say I’ve had many feelings directed towards it. It’s going to be a regular sort of family-thing, nothing that I need to think deep thoughts about. That is, until mention of a potential birthday activity came up.

Stripaerobics.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for exercise and family togetherness. I have no problem with stripaerobics. I understand it's all the rage. However, if I’m going to watch the mums and the step-sibling wiggle around, burlesque style I will have to develop a second personality call Joe and become a homosexual trucker in Alaska.

So… tomorrow is my birthday. Wish me luck.

Writing in water

When former astronaut Neil Armstrong returned from space, he said that “It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”

There are moments in life when we realize that something leaves us, most likely to never return. We’ll never again be able to restore some day or period of our life. Memories only stay in the confines of our minds, where they’re inevitable altered into something they never were or maybe fade away altogether. That particular epiphany can make you feel a bit like you’re staring at Earth from outer space.

So I have come to two conclusions, as a result of this philosophising:

1) Living is a bit like writing in water.

2) Blogging is a bit like farting in space.

Today I bring you.. english mysteries

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it's called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it's called cargo?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

In what other language do thay call the third hand on the clock the second hand?

In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it called a TV set when you get only one?

Why - in this crazy language - can your nose run and your feet smell?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane:

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume?

A writer is someone who writes, and a stinger is something that stings.

But fingers don't fing and grocers don't groce.

If the plural of tooth is teeth, shouldn't the plural of booth be beeth?

If the teacher taught, why isn't it also true that the preacher praught?

If harmless actions are the opposite of harmful actions, why are shameless and shameful behavior the same?

English is a language in which you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can't turn a light in

In which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down.

In which your nose can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you can fill in a form by filling out a form and in which your alarm clock goes off by going on.

English is a crazy language. What is it that when the sun or the moon or the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible?; and why when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I shall end it?

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet-engines

My thesis was officially finished and handed in for evaluation by my thesis advisor a few days ago and I am one step closer to being a real, live grown-up with a real, live masters degree. One small step for man-kind, one giant leap for Choochoo.

On second thought, I’m so surrounded (buried) in boxes, I probably can’t even manage a small skip right now, let alone a leap, giant or otherwise.

In a few short weeks I’ll officially be a molecular biologist. Who’d have thunk it. No, seriously. I nearly flunked science in high school. I think the only reason why I didn’t was because my teacher felt sorry for me.

But I digress. Not that digressing isn’t something that happens a lot around here, and you should all be well used to this by now.

But I digress again.

When I was a kid, I was ambitious on the verge of insanity. For my sixth birthday, the only thing I really wanted was a briefcase. I was bottle-fed episodes of LA Law, I dreamt of becoming a lawyer, just like the ones on TV, and I kept that idea right up until the time came for me to start applying for colleges. That was when it finally occurred to me that an urge to wear power suits and carry a briefcase probably wasn’t the best basis for a career choice.

I then focused on the second thing on my list of obsession: forensic psychology. I’ve always had a weird fascination with the criminally insane. Not so much that I’d want to get together and drink cosmopolitans with them on a Saturday night, but I wouldn’t be opposed to prodding around inside their minds under less intimate circumstances.

The following year I went to university on a scholarship, determined to become the world’s greatest forensic psychologist. Determined right up until the point where the professor walked in on our very first lecture and said: “You will not become good psychologists if you study here.” He then continued to explain that we wouldn’t be given the option to specialize unless we chose to complete our full educations abroad and even if we wanted to become general psychologists (which I didn’t) we would still have to graduate with honors and then wait for as much as five years before we would be allowed past the first year of the study. Needless to say that was a bit of a motivation-killer. Perhaps the system has changed since then, but that was the way it was at the time.

There’s a part of me that still wants to be a criminal profiler, but I do think that viruses and such can be every bit as cool as a serial killer, in their own special way.

Oh dear, I’ve digressed again, haven’t I? I meant for this to be a post on growing up and living up to your ambitions. My point was that, although I might have fancied myself an eagle when I was a child and although I am still very much a career girl at heart, I would rather not be sucked into a jet engine.

I've learned

I've learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life, but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes, after that, you'd better know something.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do, but to the best you can do.
I've learned that it's not what happens to people, it's what they do about it.
I've learned that no matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you'll see them.
I've learned that you can keep going long after you think you can't.

I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that there are people, who love you dearly, but just don't know how to show it.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow even over the longest distance same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I've learned that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgive by others, sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken, the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other and just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I've learned that sometimes you have to put the individual ahead of their actions.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter the consequences, those who are honest with themselves get farther in life.
I've learned that your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.

I've learned that writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
I've learned that the people you care most about in life are taken from you too soon.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe.
I've learned to love and be loved.
I've learned.

For Zan and Sanneh

I've spent most of the day going through sad goodbye sorta songs to do this post. But then I settled on this. If it wasn't for this song, none of us would have met in the first place.

I'm moving to Mars next week, so if you have any boxes...

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to live on a hill with grassy fields and trees and stuff. This was a big deal to me. Hills always looked sunnier and warmer than anywhere else, even in the dead of winter when everything was dark and frigid. For the past year, I have lived on a hill. I have learned something: hills are overrated.

Nobody ever builds anything of any real importance on top of a hill. Then everyone who doesn’t live on the hill would have to climb it in order to get to whatever-it-is. Let’s face it – sivil wars have started over less than that.

I also noticed something else odd… Ever since I moved up the hill, my food budget has swelled out of all proportion and no matter how much time I spent pondering this mystery, it remained just that; a mystery. Until this morning, when I suddenly experienced a brainflash.

It’s the hill.

See, whenever I need to do anything outside the house, the something that I need to do is always below the hill. So I need to go down the hill to get there, then drag my carcass back up to get here. Clearly I need more fuel in order to pull this off. Actually, things like grocery shopping makes it worse. First I need to buy food in order to eat food so that I can make it up and down the hill, but the more weight I carry, the more fuel I’m gonna need, so then I have to buy more groceries, which leads to more weight being carried and so on and so forth. It’s an evil circle, really.

Good thing I’m moving now, before I’m faced with financial ruin…

Today's theme song:

An aaalmost serious moment!

It’s been a good day, for the most part. Which feels odd. It’s been a ¤&?=#” bitch of a past few months. Hard to tell, as charming and witty as I am, I know. Hehe. One day things begin to sort themselves out – often not how you’d though. I haven’t had much headspace left over for blogging. Hopefully that’ll turn around, as well, now.

Aaanyways, brace yourself, people cause Choochoo’s back, baby!

Actually, I’m not so much back as I am hidden behind boxes. Once again, I’m moving. Now that I’m all edumacated and stuff (well, nearly) it’s time to get the hell out of Hellhole and go join civilization and search for a grown-up job. I know, it’s the end of an era, ain’t it? Just imagine all the absurdity I can spot and blog if I’m living in the city. Oooh. Once again I’m faced with the great mystery of packing: why is it, that no matter how much crap you stuff into boxes, the crap that surrounds you doesn’t seem to lessen one little bit? I think all my things come to life and sneak back into place while I’m sleeping.

I heard a song today that pretty much says it all. I thought I’d pull an Ally McBeal and make that my themesong for today while I’m packing up my stuff.

Of chips and toilets and friends and alien probes.

For some reason, I have a burning desire to eat chips. Not just any chips. The extra crunchy local type that looks a bit like wax. It’s not as disgusting as it sound. Actually, that’s not true. Chips are pretty disgusting. They make your insides feel greasy after you eat them. Not to mention that I stuff myself with the crap so rarely, I inevitably end up spending the evening on the big porcelain telephone, trying very hard to make a call.

I know all of this. It makes no difference.

Since I don’t have any chips, I’ll distract myself with a random brainfart. Lately (since I ran out of chips) I’ve been contemplating the fact that I have a certain selection of friends and no idea where they came from. I can’t remember ever having met any of them. Suddenly, they were just there. Like alien implants.

Hang on… alien implants aren’t really supposed to be sudden, are they? They’re usually preluded by the presence of little green men in your bedroom, whisking your pyjama-clad, half-conscious carcass into their big and flashy, yet subtle mothership, leaving you with an inexplainable memory of not being abducted by spacemen, but of seeing an owl or something.

I did see a fox once on my way to class. Or did I? Could it be that my mysterious friends from nowhere are my very own alien implants?

Choochoo thinks about spandex and soft, fleshy areas

Everybody has a mental list of things they would like to achieve in life.  My mum has always wanted to see Rome. I have a friend who dreams of owning a walk-in closet filled with nothing but high-heeled shoes. His name is Joe. Personally, I would like to develop an actual superpower. I think that’s the only hope I’ll ever have of being able to pull off wearing spandex. On the other hand, I don’t really want to wear spandex, so learning how to fly or to shoot lightning bolts through my eyeballs, isn’t really a big priority, all things considered.

 

Among my somewhat realistic goals, is learning how to drive a car. I would also like to drive the pope-mobile, but that’s more of a random that-might-be-fun idea, which is categorized along with things like going skiing in the mountains. The rational part of my brain – which I like to call Bergerac – knows that it will most likely end with screaming, pain and an extended stay in my friendly neighbourhood hospital.

 

Driving classes and such are ridiculously expensive in these parts, and the powers-that-be are completely anal about letting people get into a car without knowing how to “control the vehicle and blah, blah, blah.” I always figured I could just apply the same technique to my driving that I do to my skiing: go forth at ridiculous speeds and then hope to land on a soft, fleshy area.

Pooch's brainscape

Every now and then – and more and more often, unfortunately – it’s necessary for me to do my impression of a responsible adult. In my case, adulthood consists of reading research papers, writing research papers and growing gunk in petri dishes.

 

During these bursts of maturity, Pooch tends to get bored. So when I occasionally glance up from my Pile of Nerdy Brain-Melting-Papers, she gets excited.

 

And sometimes when she gets excited, she’ll spin around in circles. And sometimes, when she spins around in circles, she’ll bang her head on the wall and wobble a bit. She’s done this ever since she was a little puppy. By today, she will probably have had hundreds of blows to the head. This is probably why she’s the strangest dog I’ve ever met.

 

She’ll spend all day in the bathroom, staring at the laundry. Sometimes she’ll even cock her head and listen very carefully to it. She won’t eat her denta-sticks if they’re straight. I have to bend them for her. Then they’re wonderful. When we go for a walk, she has to stop in the exact same place every day to chase something that’s clearly not really there. Today she had a long grumbling exchange with her back paw, which ended with her sticking said paw in her mouth and staring into space for ten solid minutes.

 

I wish I could take a peek inside Pooch’s brain to see what she’s thinking. Then again, I’m not completely sure I really want to know…

Curse of the plastic bags. Or whatever.

Today I had an adventure. Grocery shopping does qualify as an adventure when judged by The Hellholian Scale of Excitement. Besides, when you’re living with Pooch, who has a habit of licking things that should not be licked and developing farts that smell just like the circus, a change of air might not be such a bad idea.

There I was, puttering around between the isles, my little, blue plastic shopping basket in one hand and my shopping list in the other. Ten minutes later, I had worked up quite an impressive selection of items, some of which I needed but most of which I simply wanted. And deserved, dammit.

“Would you like a bag?” the cashiere with the dead eyes asked me, after she’d finished the laborious task of ringing up all my groceries.

“No, hidden inside the dark bowels of my coat, I have more arms than an army of octopuses and would have no problem carrying a million things home,” I thought. I didn’t say that, of course, because I am a polite and civilized sort of person. In stead I simply smiled and said “yes, please.”

So the woman yanked out a plastic bag from underneath the registery, where it lived with its family and friends inside a little cardboard box, dumped it on top of my small mountain of groceries and then she quickly got up and disappeared through the plastic doors in the back of the store, labelled “staff only!!!”

That’s right: three exclamation marks.

I’m not entirely sure what sort of math went on inside her head to make her think that said mountain was going to fit inside a single plastic bag. It is, after all, exactly as big on the inside as it appears to be from the outside. It’s a typical, run-of-the-mill plastic bag – not the bloody starship Enterprise.

The thing is, they always give you one -1- plastic bag, regardless of how much crap you’re hauling with you. If you want more, you have to specifically ask and carefully outline how many you think you’ll need. I momentarily forgot this, and ended up standing there with 80 bucks worth of groceries, a tiny plastic bag and the distinct feeling of just having screwed myself over.   

I bet they all just sit in their little staff-only area, stuffing their faces with chips and watching the little surveillance screens to see how the customers try to work out this little equation. Well, I wasn’t going to be their lunch entertainment. I stole a plastic bag, I did. Hell, I stole TWO.

Thus my life of crime has started. You gonna do something about it, mate? I have a pooch with flatulence and I’m not afraid to use it.

 

Because we all go a little crazy sometimes…

And that, in turn, may lead us to come up with… oh, I don’t know…. say, an evil plot to take over the world.

STAGE 1:

To begin my plan, I must first devour Superman, thus stealing his super-powers. This will cause the people of the world to whisper amongst themselves, overwhelmed by my arrival. Who is this criminal mastermind? Where did she come from? And how can she look so good in her wizard’s robes?


STAGE 2:

Next, I must seize control of the moon (oooh, tides!). This will all be done from my underground secret headquarters of doom, a mysterious place of unrivalled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the people of the world will wet their pants, as countless hordes of computer programmers (or one really, really clever one) will hasten to do my every bidding.


STAGE 3:

Finally, I must tauntingly wave my secret death ray, bringing about pain, suffering, - the usual. My name shall become synonymous with “dear god no,” and nobody will ever again dare make me clean my room. Everyone will bow before my mind-boggling insanity, and the world will have no choice but to give me control of the planet.


All in favour say: Nyahahahaha!