It's not delivery, it's TAKING FOR FUCKING EVER.

Pizza Luce. Selby Avenue. St. Paul, Minn. Where the beer is cold, the people are friendly and the waiter, who looks strikingly like the guitar player for Incubus, takes 15 minutes to give you refills and an hour to give you two small pizzas.

One hour. Two small pizzas.

That's one small pizza per half hour.

That's one small half of a small pizza per quarter hour.

For ease, I've made the following pie chart. It's functional, and shaped like the whole pizza that took an hour to get to my whole face.



















Had he not been an incredible replica of Mike Einziger, I might've been more pissed. Oh wait, I was pissed.




















These Incubus references working for anyone?

-eb

My heart is on fire

Seriously.

I was going to go on a lengthy tirade about how the U.S. education system is nothing more than an attempt for the state providing said education to receive federal funding, but I can't concentrate on anything else besides the wretched pain that my heart is experiencing.

I am literally pouring everything that could even be considered edible into my mouth so my stomach has something to process besides my own life organs.

Oh yes. All of those items listed have been shoveled down my gullet in the past three hours. I don't know which one of them caused the initial outbreak of lava to course up my esophagus, but I know that none of those items have helped to put an end to my suffering.

If you females think you have it rough by stretching your crotch for child deliverance, I suggest you take a walk in my shoes and experience what heart erosion truly feels like. I guarantee you'll be wishing you could have chosen labor over the grueling death my aorta is currently going through.

(I'm very aware as to how much trouble this picture will get me in.)

I seriously need an IV of Tums at all times to maintain a decent life.

Also, congratulations to our three winners. Your names escape me, but I believe they are featured somewhere in this update along with your likeness. Thanks for playing.

-ab

My thermostat is r-worded

My apartment doesn't have a thermostat. Instead, it has a fan. A fan that blows hot air or cold air ceaselessly unless we adjust the mystical "ON/OFF SWITCH."

Just so everyone knows the difference. Here's how a normal thermostat works:

And here's how the thermostat works in my apartment:

When I consider why anyone building any sort of modern living quarters would not include a self-monitoring temperature system, the only answer I can think of is honest stupidity. 

As you can see by this scientific Venn diagram, at the intersection of heat, the constant flow of hot air and the knowledge that Hamline just straight up did not want to properly install a temperature monitoring system is me being pissed off. 

So while I'm sweating my dick off in bed, you guys are probably wondering: BUT ERIK WHAT ABOUT KIDS IN CHINA WHO DON'T EVEN HAVE HEATING LET ALONE CLEAN WATER EVERY DAY TO BATHE AND DRINK?!

To which I respond: That is just inaccurate, probably racist, and also I don't care. 

-eb

My walk to school

Yes. You are correct. Nothing significant has happened to me in the past two days that allotted enough material to construct a witty and insightful blog post. (NASA's press conference about aliens isn't until tomorrow, goddamnit.) So you get to read about my 7 minute walk to school. 

I seriously hate walking to school, specifically in the winter. It's fucking freezing, the sun is always in my eyes, the wind is always blowing (gusts do not exist when you live in a wind tunnel), I hit every fucking red light ever created ever, and the cold is not enough to scare away the bums.

I know what you're thinking: "Andrew. You always wear shorts, tissue paper is thicker than your jacket, which is the only article in your winter ensemble, you refuse to take the skyway, and you live in fucking Minnesota. You don't reserve the right to complain; you bring this upon yourself. If you want to get warmer, start dressing for the season."

My response to that: "No."

Is this a giant middle finger to our fans? Maybe. Erik will probably hate this post. But I spent three hours coloring a picture for you to look at. Seriously. Three hours. All for you. Because I heart the readers.

(Click for a MUCH larger version)

Contest: Take a screenshot of this picture as your desktop background, send it to theblourg@gmail.com, and win a chance to have your name featured in my next blog update. How exciting.

-ab

A road paved with babies

I was going to post something about this, but I figured the only people that care are those that are politically involved in America -- so, about four.

Instead, I will talk about dead babies.

My drives between Grand Forks and the Twin Cities are always filled with greatness: taking my jacket off, letting the wind sneak in through a crack in the back window, singing along to Elton John, stopping for gas at the same Holiday. (Ain't nothin' like pissing in the same urinal every time you stop somewhere. Feels like home.)

But the commute between my homes is always punctuated with moments of utter disgust, because for some reason, ProLife Across America (along with the Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life) seem to have bought out that entire stretch of I-94. So for miles upon miles, I get to read about how precious life is and how babies should be allowed to partake in such activities as riding motorcycles and growing up with drug addictions.

Now, I love a good motorcycle romp and heroin high just as much as the next leather-studded American cowboy, but there are some things seriously wrong with these billboards:

1. They are propaganda. Plain and simple. They use age-old propaganda techniques such as:

Glittering generalities -- using virtue words that mean different things to different people such that they can be interpreted in different ways. 

Eg: What is "happiness"? What are "human rights"? They didn't have room to define these words on their billboards. It's unfortunate that these words take up the entirety of the ad space.

and

Emotional appeals -- appealing to the fear, anger, joy etc. of a person instead of to their logical abilities. Like the use of giant close ups of baby faces for which the MCCL seems to be just smitten.

Other propaganda techniques include:

Transfer -- carrying out the authority, sanction or prestige of something we respect to something else. 

Case in the point: the Bible.

2. Aside from being propaganda, they frustrate me at how incredibly one-sided they are. Let us say we are considering every human life, when in fact, we neglect the life of the mother, the father (or baby daddy, let's be honest), the parents of the parents, etc. 

How will going through with the birth affect the mother? Her family? Doesn't matter. You're having this goddamned baby. And it's going to be fucking precious. 

The MCCL's website claims that since 1973 (Roe v. Wade), "well over a million unborn children have been killed each year from abortion while their mothers are left to suffer in silence."

Would you rather they suffer in public? That's called 16 and Pregnant, and it's not pretty. Seriously, I'm trying to enjoy a night at the cinema here, and teen mom behind me can't keep her kid quiet because she's 14 years-old and has no fucking idea what life even is. 

Further, instilling fear into young women is about the worst method to get them to reconsider pregnancy options. Instead of considering safe alternatives for abortion -- like consulting a real doctor in a real hospital -- they might be too frightened or ashamed of their choice because they have 300 square feet of plywood egging them on like Dr. T.J. Eckleburg, burning holes of shame through their pregnant bodies.

What the MCCL fails to realize -- or just straight up ignores -- is sometimes the circumstances are such that an abortion is warranted, and that the choice to do so is based on a person-to-person basis, and saying that one scenario/option fits all people is ignorant and childish. Remember how you used to put a Band-Aid on every injury you sustained when you were 7? Well, you're a fucking adult now; some incidents require Band-Aids and some require you to remove the human being from inside your stomach because you can't afford a goddamn baby right now.

It's not like the world population needs it right now anyways, and I could go for a few less eyesores on my otherwise exhilarating commute between my two homes.

-eb

The biggest disappointment in my life

Life is full of disappointments: missing the last shot of the championship game, Dad couldn't get out of work to see your spring jazz concert, getting stiffed on a tip for a large catering order, sitting through all 110 minutes of M. Night Shyamalan's Lady In The Water, etc... For me it was the unfortunately sharp contrast between the movie Jumanji and its subsequent board game.

The year was 1995, and I was 8 years old. My after school hobbies included eating cinnamon flavored Pop Tarts, watching any fast moving animation regarding genetically altered animals, and making sure that my brother knew his place in our household hierarchy. I wanted to be an actor when I grew up a la Robin Williams. (Yes, the ADHD thespian was my false prophet.) Jumanji had just hit the theaters a couple of weeks ago, and it was Saturday -- family movie day.

I was completely entranced by the movie's CGI wizardry. Those monkeys were fucking real, and they were driving a police motorcycle. Jumanji was my prepubescent acid trip, and I was fucking rolling.

After the movie, the only thing I wanted to do was hop a one way charter to "the jungle" and make it my fucking bitch.

Just as we were exiting the mall theater, my father pointed out the promotional flyer in front of Target advertising the release of the Jumanji board game. I immediately voiced my opinion.

My mother was scared shitless by the thought of owning this game. She let out a blood curdling scream at my father that could only be rivaled by a new parent waking up to crib death. "JEFFREY, I DON'T WANT THAT GAME IN MY HOUSE!"

This only further enabled my naive imagination, "If Mom is scared about the spiders coming to life, then they HAVE to be in that game."

Knowing that my mother wanted to have no part in exhuming Disney's Animal Kingdom to modern civilization via Milton Bradley voodoo, my father decided to purchase the game.

My first clue that the inevitable let-down was going to short my dopamine receptors for the next two decades of my life was: there were no sub-audible war drums during the car ride home.

I should have known right then and there that my house wasn't going to be visited by any monsoons. But I had convinced myself that it just needed batteries. My mind had not even double checked with the facts that a.) the opening scene of the movie was during the Revolutionary War; no batteries, and b.) it was a fucking movie. I was far too busy imagining how my new friendship with Robin Williams and David Allen Grier was going to turn out. We were going to be best friends because my father payed $29.95, and that's a lot of money.

(Robin Williams was obviously excited because I had rescued him from the jungle. David Allen Grier was a little upset because this highly resembled slavery. However, upon eating Fruity Pebbles, David would cheer up.)

My anticipation made the car ride last forever, but we finally made it home. I took the game into the living room and started vehemently tearing away the shrink wrap. My mother reiterated her stance on the game as she went upstairs to hide. I wanted to inform her that upon rescuing Robin Williams from the jungle everything would be just fine, but opening that game and transforming my house into the dark continent was the only thing on my mind. It would only be a few more seconds before I realized the lies and deception.

A cardboard box? The top comes off? Cards? Polyhedral dice? A fucking sand timer? Colored pawns? Where was the beautifully carved wooden case that unfolded open? Where was the holographic center piece? WHERE WERE THE SICK ASS IVORY ANIMAL PIECES?!

I was crushed. I grabbed the dismal chess piece replica and set it on the game board. The piece didn't remain stationary; I could very easily remove it from the board. I grabbed the cube dice and rolled them over and over while staring at the center piece waiting for it to form a malevolent visage of my impending doom. Nothing happened.

I can't even begin to imagine the amount of disappointment received by the children who obtained the Zathura board game after seeing the movie. You have my sympathies.

-ab

I know a guy

The Thanksgiving marathon of Pawn Stars made me realize two things:

1. Every guy that runs a pawn shop is a certified asshole,
and
2. Every guy that runs a pawn shop knows a guy.

Point 1:

No matter what item was brought in to Gold and Silver Pawn -- the featured store on History Channel's Pawn Stars -- the owner Rick would scoff at the starting price proposed by the customer, then suggest at most 10% of that price.

$3,000 for a set of autographed Beatles' albums?
*scoff*
I couldn't go much higher than $100. Tops.

He's trying to run a business here folks. You know what the turnover rate is on 1909 authentic army cadet uniforms?

It's actually not bad. But this guy's got a camera and priorities.

Point 2:

Again, no matter the item in question, Rick would need to get their item "checked out" by an expert in the appropriate field. Someone brings in a Civil War era gun, he has a friend who specializes in Civil War era weaponry. Someone brings in a 1951 signed Yankee's baseball, he's got a friend who specializes not only in baseball, but in signatures in general -- in writing your fucking name in cursive.

After watching roughly 8 hours of the program, I realized when Rick says he "knows a guy," he's talking about "every guy."

-eb

Harry Potter and the Half-the-fucking-screen-is-covered-because-Frankenstein-sat-in-front-center

After my recent viewing of half of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One -- which I suppose makes it a quarter-viewing -- I've decided Daniel Radcliffe is perhaps the most undesirable person for whom everyone is willing to give their lives.

Had a human dirigible not been in my way, I might've been able to formulate a full opinion on this matter.

-eb

Introduction

Introduction

Andrew and Erik Burgess have been brothers since around spring 1990 when Erik was born. (Though some Christian scholars would argue that it was actually Fall of 1989 when Erik was conceived. However, they also believe a bush was set ablaze and started talking.) They have been brothers to this date and have no intentions of breaking that contract.

Due to the overwhelming amount of Facebook "likes" and comments, (usually anywhere from 5-10 "likes" and 5-15 comments per post) they have decided to go public with their banter to share their commentary with the world, and attempt to raise their numbers to about 20 "likes" AND comments.

Segments you will find within include:

Introduction: You're reading it.

EOD: Andrew and Erik's guarantee that you will be informed of the importance of their lives "every other day."

Redefined: A look into our ever (d)evolving vernacular. Learn our lingo and communicate like a degenerate.

Revisited: Andrew and Erik share their past. It's kind of like The Wonder Years.

BTV: Media transmogrified through our eyes. You have been warned.

Point/Counterpoint: Andrew and Erik don't always agree on the same things.

Real Talk: Andrew and Erik know best. Don't disagree with these posts.

Who Is Baggins?: Seriously? Who is this prodigious business novice? I haven't even met the guy and he's taken four of my jobs.

Welcome and enjoy.