Whenever you think of a riot, you think of disorganized
chaos. I think this is because there is no real central authority in a riot. I
think a riot would be a lot more successful if everyone got together the day
before and just had a planning session. I think it would go a little something
like this...

 

Okay folks, I know you're all very pissed off at the
establishment right now, but let's just use today to get everything in order.
So, it looks like we've got quite a nice crowd building up here. That's good.
The more the merrier, as those punks in the establishment would say. Ha ha, but
seriously, we're all going to gather up at the end of Second Street and then
start moving toward the city center. I want you guys with the planks and bats
to take the front line. If you have any baseball experience, that would be
great. You could hit back any projectiles. You big, burly guys, I want you on
the flanks. You can flip over any cars that might be parked in the street.
After that, I want the rest of you in the middle as rock and Molotov throwers.
Make sure you work on your accuracy before turning in, okay? The rest of you
rest up. I want to see you all here bright and early tomorrow. Let's set the
meeting time for, oh... let's go with 7 o'clock. When we get to that city
center, we'll show those black suits just how angry we are. Okay?

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!

I'm starting to think that people in my state
never actually learned how to park. They learn all of the important skills,
such as cutting across three lanes of traffic and flipping the bird, but proper
parking seems to elude them. It's a very simple concept. All you need to do is
park in between the lines. Not over them. Not beside them. Between them. It
seems the "line" concept doesn't mean much in a parking lot to these
people. They stay in their lanes while on the road, but once they reach the
wide, open parking lot, their brains go into bumper car mode. They go
everywhere. There's also a lot of illegal parking. They park everywhere from
the front of fire hydrants, to the front of loading docks, to rooftops, and
even in the middle of car dealership showrooms. I don't care if you are going
in for just one item, it does not justify parking in the produce aisle. Let me
also mention those schmucks that sit there playing their "hip-hop" so
loud that it actually starts to put cracks in the pavement. Those guys can –
(post cut short due to lack of interest)

I was looking at my hands recently (because I
have an active and exciting party life), when I came across a scar I did not
recognize. I can pretty much identify all of my scars, but I simply could not
remember that one. I have my one scar I got as a little kid that involved
falling off of a hanging chain onto a sharp rock (don't ask). I have another
from when a saw bounced off of a knot in a log and cut a nice gash in my
finger. I'm rather proud of that one, as it's really long and cool-looking. I
tell people that I got it from a knife fight and that they should see what I
did to the other guy. I also have one from where I had to freeze off a wart.
That leaves me with my last, unidentifiable scar. It's rather small, so it
probably wasn't anything with a neat story attached. I guess the only thing I
can do is make up a story for it. I'm thinking of something along the lines of
stopping a bullet with the back of my hand and then pulling it out with my
teeth.

I am sure that there are a bunch of conspiracy
theorists out there who would like to make you think that the government is
constantly beaming subliminal pro-government massages directly into people's
heads. While I think this is doubtful, I think there would be better uses for
this kind of system. Instead of being a constant annoyance, it could be more of
a nationwide PA system. Once the government makes some important ruling, they
could send the results directly to your brain. One major issue I would love to
have immediately solved is the proper pronunciation for the word
"gyro". Y'know, it's that roasted lamb lunch wrap of extreme
tastiness? Anyway, I always pronounce it "jai-ro," but I've heard it
pronounced "jii-ro," "gii-ro," "gai-ro,"
"geh-ro," "wang-chung," ad nauseam. I want the government
to make an official ruling on this matter. I don't want a wishy-washy answer
like "let the people decide." Clearly the people can't decide! The
same thing goes for Ikea.

As if the sugar coursing through my system was not enough, I
now had a shot of adrenaline from sprinting across a busy intersection. As soon
as the light changed to the "walking" figure, I had about two
microseconds to hit the asphalt before the red hand of rejection started
blinking. Now, I can see you are getting tired of me and these posts, so I'll
speed things up with a few one-word bits: Blockbuster, success, Miyazaki, rent, water,
buy, drink, go. So with my goal accomplished, I began the trip back home to let
my tired muscles resume their atrophy. I did hit a little snag when these guys
in a van jumped me, bound me, threw me in the back, and drove off. It wasn't
until later that they realized they had the wrong person, so they let me go.
Fortunately, they supplied me with a map, compass, and a box lunch, so the trip
home wasn't too difficult. I hope those nice gents find who they were looking
for. (Note: the last half of this post was complete fabrication for your
amusement. You're welcome.)

I finally left the suburbs and entered into a small
commercial district. It was really just five strip malls jammed into one area.
The first thing I did was get some sugar. I'm not the most physically fit
person, so I was feeling a bit tired. I decided to get some ice cream at a
Dairy Queen. Now, when I last entered one of these stores, my age was in the
single digits, so it was something of a nostalgia trip. What I did not expect
was Dairy Queen's transformation into a cheap burger joint. I don't know if
this was a recent change, or if it had always been this way. I always thought a
place named the Queen of dairy would be all about ice cream, and ice cream
products. Maybe they top their burgers with chocolate syrup and jimmies. I
didn't ask. I just ordered my vanilla soft serve and went on my way. I decided
my last destination would be Blockbuster.

After walking a little more, I reach the older neighborhood.
Judging by the number of cracks in some of the driveways, I would say most of
them were built during the Roosevelt
administration. The most interesting part was everyone's lawn. While the houses
were being built, the soon-to-be owners all decided to flip a coin to see if
they would care for their lawns. Some got heads, while others, invariably, got
tails. I would see one house that has a beautiful lawn. The grass would be a
vibrant green and carefully cut, every tree would have a thick ring of mulch,
the stoop would be bordered by blooming tulips, and the anti-hobo BB gun would
be resting behind the decorative column by the door. Then, just next door, you
would see the family that landed tails. You would see a primarily brown lawn
with a few areas of green about a foot tall. The shrubbery would be in
desperate need of a trim, as was the six-foot high, active termite mound. In
between the two homes was a clear dividing line. It was a perfectly straight
line where the lush green lawn met with the decrepit brown lawn. It makes me
wonder what kind of families occupy these homes.

Fairly recently, I made the arbitrary decision
to leave the soft-white lit safety of my home and go for a walk. I went on a
"walk-about," if you will. I began my walk in my residential
subdivision, which was quite possibly the warmest part of my entire walk
experience. You see, my entire neighborhood is fairly new. By "fairly
new" I mean it probably is barely a year old. If you Google mapped my
house you would see a patch of dirt (I'm serious). With that being said, there
are no actual trees. Oh sure, we have our dinky little saplings, but since they
are even shorter than my 5-foot-5 being, they offer very little in the shade
department. Most of them didn't survive the transfer over to their new homes,
and do not have even a single leaf. Such a dishonorable death, dying in the
hands of the enemy. Anyway, it wasn't until I left the capillary roads and
reached the large, arterial road that connects my subdivision to the rest of
the world that I could enjoy some shade. It seems that trees make excellent
sound blockers, and thin stands of tall trees surround much of the busy road.

Due to a lengthy preparation time (and a dreadful internet connection), today's post will be postponed until this afternoon or tomorrow. Please hold...

EDIT: Today's post has been aborted. Will retry again at a later date.

I think it would be a little fun to see a taciturn and
somber character mix up the contestant roster on some game show like Wheel of Fortune. I'm thinking someone
like Yuki Nagato from The Melancholy of
Haruhi Suzumiya (a quiet and terse character from a popular anime). It
would probably go a little something like this.

So,
let's introduce our contestants. First we have Jed from South Carolina. Why don't you tell us a
little about yourself?

Howdy,
I'm Jed, and I'ma student gyneeecologist at the Un'aversity of South Carolina.
I'm hoping tah win here so's I can pay for my teeition. Maybe I could meet up
with Vanna and get a little prac-.

Sorry
Jed, but I'll have to stop you there. Let's move on to contest two... Yuki
Nagato.

...

Um...
Yuki?

... Yes?

How
about you tell us about yourself?

...
Yuki Nagato. First year high school student.

...

...

Yuki
Nagato everyone!

 

...Okay, maybe it wouldn't be as amusing as I thought.