Marc
Eminem and Elton John? Together? Playing "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me"? With the Boston Pops? Huh? I don't get it.
I'm hoping to issue a statement that might be followed tonight, and I have to admit that I'm inspired by a close friend. Scooter McBoober, where would the world be without you. From here on, I would like this site to be referred to, if at all possible, as a BLARG. It's not so much to ask, but I hope the asking will be all I need do.
So tonight, I find myself tired, cold, and BLARGING. And you know, I didn't realize Jon Stewart was hosting the Grammy's tonight. What a lovely suprise. His book, the very funny Naked Baby Photos of Famous People, is still the only book I've ever read in one sitting. I know, I know. It wasn't hard reading. It was bathroom material, but I wasn't in the bathroom, nor was I sitting. I was laying, and trying to force myself to put it down and go to bed. But I couldn't, and I didn't.
Note to self: I hate Cristina Aguilera.
Today, I went to Canada. Yeah, for me, I say. This is the first time I've ever been in a foreign country, and although it was a mere four miles from the post office that I finished the day at, it still felt foreign. I had been getting tips on how to deal with the border guards all day long. "Just be honest". We had a lot of expensive equipment in our car. "Tell them where you're from, why you're here, and just be honest and say that you've never been to Canada before and you want to go take a picture". So, we pull up to the border crossing and wait for the green light. It goes on, we drive up to the window and are confronted by an older male, with greying hair. "Hello, gentleman. How're you doing?" Fine. "Where you from?" I'm from Normal, Illinois and he's from Aurora, Minnesota. "What's your purpose for going across the border?" I've never been, sir. "Oh! Okay, go ahead." And boom, I'm in Canada. Immediately I was confronted with problems like having to drive 60 Kilometers Per Hour (which rougly translates to like 38.6 MPH), and having to judge distances that I didn't quite understand. And on and on. So, we stopped, took a picture of me in front of the WELCOME TO CANADA sign, stopped at a gas station for some Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and headed back to Old Glory and her ample bussom. Ironically, the American border guard took up ten minutes of our time, as opposed to the ten seconds from the good ol' Canadians. "Where you from? Why you here? Let me see your ID? Do you have any government ID? Why'd you say you were here? Pull down your pants. This will only hurt a little bit. What's that bump? Jimmy, you've gotta come see this, it's HUGE! Bend over further, I think I've almost got it. Oh my God, what did you eat? GO! JUST GO! Jesus, that's disgusting." You know? I guess that's just a typical crossing, or so they tell me.
Now, a point to explain: taxpayer money does not go to the post office, at least not directly. That's all I really know about the whole situation. Bruce, my partner for the week, used to be a postmaster. Maybe I can be a little more clear on it tomorrow, if I get a chance to BLARG at all. I'll be shuttled all over Washington, and on the way home at 11pm. Cutting it slim there, aren't you? Oh, fat boy flying through the sky so fancy free. Did I get that line right?
Eminem and Elton John? Together? Playing "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me"? With the Boston Pops? Huh? I don't get it.
I'm hoping to issue a statement that might be followed tonight, and I have to admit that I'm inspired by a close friend. Scooter McBoober, where would the world be without you. From here on, I would like this site to be referred to, if at all possible, as a BLARG. It's not so much to ask, but I hope the asking will be all I need do.
So tonight, I find myself tired, cold, and BLARGING. And you know, I didn't realize Jon Stewart was hosting the Grammy's tonight. What a lovely suprise. His book, the very funny Naked Baby Photos of Famous People, is still the only book I've ever read in one sitting. I know, I know. It wasn't hard reading. It was bathroom material, but I wasn't in the bathroom, nor was I sitting. I was laying, and trying to force myself to put it down and go to bed. But I couldn't, and I didn't.
Note to self: I hate Cristina Aguilera.
Today, I went to Canada. Yeah, for me, I say. This is the first time I've ever been in a foreign country, and although it was a mere four miles from the post office that I finished the day at, it still felt foreign. I had been getting tips on how to deal with the border guards all day long. "Just be honest". We had a lot of expensive equipment in our car. "Tell them where you're from, why you're here, and just be honest and say that you've never been to Canada before and you want to go take a picture". So, we pull up to the border crossing and wait for the green light. It goes on, we drive up to the window and are confronted by an older male, with greying hair. "Hello, gentleman. How're you doing?" Fine. "Where you from?" I'm from Normal, Illinois and he's from Aurora, Minnesota. "What's your purpose for going across the border?" I've never been, sir. "Oh! Okay, go ahead." And boom, I'm in Canada. Immediately I was confronted with problems like having to drive 60 Kilometers Per Hour (which rougly translates to like 38.6 MPH), and having to judge distances that I didn't quite understand. And on and on. So, we stopped, took a picture of me in front of the WELCOME TO CANADA sign, stopped at a gas station for some Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and headed back to Old Glory and her ample bussom. Ironically, the American border guard took up ten minutes of our time, as opposed to the ten seconds from the good ol' Canadians. "Where you from? Why you here? Let me see your ID? Do you have any government ID? Why'd you say you were here? Pull down your pants. This will only hurt a little bit. What's that bump? Jimmy, you've gotta come see this, it's HUGE! Bend over further, I think I've almost got it. Oh my God, what did you eat? GO! JUST GO! Jesus, that's disgusting." You know? I guess that's just a typical crossing, or so they tell me.
Now, a point to explain: taxpayer money does not go to the post office, at least not directly. That's all I really know about the whole situation. Bruce, my partner for the week, used to be a postmaster. Maybe I can be a little more clear on it tomorrow, if I get a chance to BLARG at all. I'll be shuttled all over Washington, and on the way home at 11pm. Cutting it slim there, aren't you? Oh, fat boy flying through the sky so fancy free. Did I get that line right?
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