No. Put that down.

Consider this a preview for a verbose rant on how much I hate Saint Paul's Skyway Patrons. My school is only four blocks away from my apartment, and those four blocks are the worst fucking part of my entire day. I'm constantly blocked by rotund administrative assistants - who just wouldn't be able to sleep at night if they couldn't block the entire fucking walking path to browse the gourmet chocolate kiosk inside of Macy's - amongst a myriad of other failures that do nothing but cause me extreme anxiety. I've got about 12 pages of college ruled hate ready to be thrown on the internet; I just need to get better acquainted with Adobe Illustrator. (Seriously. The drawings below took me two hours because Illustrator does NOT have a "paint bucket" tool; Illustrator is just that fucking future.) However, today I just had to update about the homunculus I saw during my lunch break.

I was browsing for a cheap Chinese take out place, when I saw a new side cart; it's specialty was ice cream. I started to walk towards it to get a better glance at its name, but I was almost trampled to death by a foul beast as it stormed to the ice cream cart to make sure it arrived at the diabetes water hole before the rest of the herd. It was short, dense, and I couldn't find it's feet with my eyes. This is a rough sketch of what I had seen.

After I realized it was a fat, middle aged secretary, I became filled with rage; I was ready to boast that I had successfully escaped a feral razorback onslaught. For a brief moment, I watched her shovel the vanilla scoops (Seriously? All that fucking effort and energy for a cup of vanilla?) down her throat. This was my reaction:

 

I hope you at least had time to taste it. Moo cow.

- ab 

Well.

I said that I'd update this thing at midnight and I didn't.

I promised myself that I'd finish it tonight. It probably won't happen. (I'm going to see Mozart's Magic Flute in its entirety. Fucking stoked.)

I have a good chunk of it written out, but the problem I am facing is whether or not I want to draw pictures for the update. I don't want to use pictures because it's symbolic of the point I'm trying to make in it. But goddamnit, there are sooooo many good picture ideas I have.

So. I decided to draw pictures. This will take me longer than planned.

Yes. This is your fail of an update. 

But! I will give you a preview of it. Here is a quote of one of the funnier lines from the post currently being written:

"The squatty, plum of a human waddled her way to the front of the classroom and spoke to us in a voice that would make Mother Goose purr."

Enjoy that.

To keep you more entertained, I will post a picture below. This picture seriously had me laughing for about 5 minutes; I was crying.

(Do we have the same sense of humor?) 

Thanks for your continued patience. I just want to make sure that I have a quality product for all seven of our followers. Let me know if I should list more rationalizations.

I love you.

- ab

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 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

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