Sometimes posts don't need titles.

What else is there to do on a Saturday, when I have a huge speech due next week? There's a time to blog, readers, and then there's a time for silly shenanigans. Graduation can wait. You dreamboats sure can't.

I winked charmingly just then. Permission to swoon.

So here it is. I like to think it needs no introduction, but strangers in airports get all iffy about abrupt knife stories.

The Knife and Me: A Tale of Woe, Adversity, and Rue.

As a young lad, roundabouts age 10, I wished most seriously for a trampoline of my very own. Being a poor child - all I made was sandwiches - I couldn't purchase one myself, so I had to make do.

My boyz and I scouted the streets of Troy for an abandoned trampoline (this is the street name for it, but don't say it unless you're street-savvy) or something shiny that would make us forget about it.

We came upon a specifically gross one. And I don't just throw out that adjective all willy-nilly.

We jumped for hours on that eyesore before realizing we could make the setup more interesting by moving that playhouse over there and positioning it in such a way as to create a makeshift Boss Throne that we could jump off of.

It wasn't mine. I swear. I would never own a girly playhouse like that. Yeah, no, we stole that. From a little girl - a baby. She cried and we socked her a good one in the jaw for it. Man up, we said. Definitely not mine.

Next to the trampoline (careful) was a glorious tree. It had obviously been around for ages. It had stood the test of time. If it had a brain, I like to think it would've contained a deep and powerful wisdom.

Naturally, we would have to cut that baby down to arrange the throne situation.

But we had no brawn. And we had no axe. Before we could think of anything else that actually gets trees horizontal-like, I bolted for my house. I returned no later than two seconds after, with a massive butcher knife in hand - a grin plastered on my stupid face.

You think that's bad? I was greeted with cheers.

My brain had envisioned each of us taking turns bouncing up and, gravity be damned, taking a few dozen whacks at the tree whilst suspended in the air.

If that isn't genius, then I'm not wielding a knife. Oh snap, though.

My plan could not come to fruition, however, because through divine intervention God saved my dignity.

As I climbed onto the trampoline, I noticed it was a bit tricky, what with the knife in my hand. But I couldn't put it on the ground, because I wouldn't be able to reach it once I'd gotten to the top. And I couldn't put it up on the trampoline, as it would slide towards me once I'd gotten to the top - resulting in injury.

So I kept it. In my hand.

At the exact moment when I should have used my weight and momentum to swing my body over the metal poles and onto the safety of tarp - I instead used my weight and momentum to plunge the knife into my shin and, upon reaction, wiggle it around a little bit.

I don't think I've ever passed out before, but if I had to pick a moment when I may have - it was then.

I honestly don't know how I got from this moment to when I was recovering on my couch.

I'll end the story here, cause this is when my mom beat me.

Funny enough, it didn't leave a scar or need stitches. This leads many people to thinking I made the whole thing up. To those people I say "HEY" really loudly, to startle them.

I have nothing to add.

Bees, indubitably, is bees.

Let me start by clearing something up. Our - you and I, handsome reader - definitions of "bee" are different. I use the word to collectively dub any insect that can fly, sting, and is atmospherically evil - whereas you are brutally technical in your description.

"Actually," you graciously point out, "'bee' probably isn't what you mean. It's wasps and hornets you want to look out fo-"

But you know what? I interrupt you. Because I have already decided.

Bees is bees.

I'm not taking this lightly - they freak me out. All of them. Their presence brings me to my knees and increases the pitch of my voice until it summons heroes and heroines alike, prepared to rescue the distressed little girl from whatever is distressing her.

They are very unpleasant, and I will proclaim it with unwavering confidence until one gets near me.

They will too, I bet.

Now comes the tale of woe.

Many years ago - I don't remember exactly how long ago, but I do know Mambo #5 was my favorite song. So it may have been earlier today.

It was a hot summer day, and I went to visit my friend Taylor. His mom had just cut the grass, so the air smelled of grass that has just been cut. To this day, that smell just does me bad. Can't stand it. Icky.

Taylor had just gotten a new kitten, so I darted for his room as soon as I was allowed on the premises. Our moms sat in the living room, discussing nonkitten things. Hunter, Taylor's brother - who was too young to know that parents just don't understand - sat with them, eating chocolate muffins.

When I kicked open Taylor's door, I found him playing with the fluffiest kitten ever, as some arbitrary Nickelodeon show blared in the background. Being met with this scene, I was filled with an emotion I couldn't verbally express as a small boy, so I just screamed real loud.

The room quickly became too tiny to contain all of the cute that was going down in there. We evacuated - cute in tow.

When we reached the great outdoors, we laid the kitten down in a little impression in the grass. The kitten immediately began to wiggle like crazy. We thought it was just the best thing to ever happen.

Not to make anyone frown, but we later found out it was squirming because it was being stung repeatedly. It lived though, and is now probably a fatcat.

After a few minutes of slight confusion - but mostly adoration - at this, Taylor told me to check the mail, probably because he was supposed to.

I did.

Looking down at that mail was the last thing I did before I turned into a spineless vespaphobic dweeb.

As I was perusing his federally protected stash, I heard a scream. I looked up to see Taylor - who had his shirt off - running towards the house wearing what seemed to be a pitch black shirt. A buzzing one.

About this point, I felt an unpleasantness all over my hands area. When my eyes reached my extremities, they got sad. Covering my hands were dozens of little yellow jackets, percussing their fannies on my skin.

This is when my trademark "snapping" was born. If you've ever witnessed me and a bee in the same vicinity, you've got your visual.

I bolted for the door, screaming. And while I ran, I snapped my fingers and flailed my arms about. When I reached the open front door, I saw quite a ruckus.

Sitting on the couch directly in front of the door was a petrified Hunter; face caked in chocolate, mouth agape, eyes transfixed on what was enfolding in front of him - but would soon note with horror that he'd dropped his little muffin.

Yellow jackets swarmed every inch of the house. Jackets saw spots where there were no jackets, and thusly advanced to put jackets there.

There were caboodles, basically.

Taylor was cowering in his mother's arms and bawling, while my mom was up on her toes, doing her best to kill the villainous bugs.

I found a comfy spot where there were not yet jackets, and collapsed, swatting and crying.

Once they all died and we calmed down enough not to alert the authorities, a pediatrician was called.

He informed us that if you hold a raw onion against the stings, the layers soak up the venom and fall off, one by one. Everyone in the room was pretty impressed by this, but I wasn't. Because onions suck, and they have to be on this earth for some reason. That reason might as well be to instill fear and doubt in the tiny minds of otherwise fully able rabble-rousers.

I ended up with forty something stings.

I will say, though, that the number increases every time I tell the story, but I'm pretty sure it was at least one sting.

And that's it. True story.

It scarred me so bad and so unreasonably, that I often imply that I'm deathly allergic to bees, as that's the only way I could ever be so afraid of those precious honey-bringers.

Post Script, yo.

Hey guys, what you just read was written and edited over several months, starting pretty much when I promised it would be finished... in May. That being said, I can no longer promise a steady flow of blogposts.

Obviously.

I love you guys, and your undying support is incredible, and a lot of the reason I'm even still coming back here.

This whole thing started because "I just felt like it", so it's apt to return. Be patient, friendo.

You guys are my claim to fame. I've always wanted that, so thank you.

The poll is up for the next post, due in 2013! I am probably joking.

An update. Click the word update to read this update.

As many of you know, I have been absent for a whole month, tomorrow. That's a long time to not blog. But it's a really short time if you never expected me to blog again.

Do you see what I did there?

Also, you guys are pulchritudinous. I hope I didn't offend any babies. It is not a swear.

It means beautiful. Isn't that absurd?

I apologize for the extended distance I've kept between you and I, but it hasn't been for naught.

I'll have you know that I got a job at a movie theater. Hopefully someday, when I'm famous or the president, I will conduct interviews consisting of myself and my Golden Retriever. He or she will ask about my movie theater job, and I'll answer them. Sometimes we'll laugh. I'll laugh extra hard when people walk by. Hopefully this will result in jealously instead of the funny farm.

What I mean by all of this is that I am currently working on a new post. It's a story post. Not a stalling-because-I-am-too-lazy-to-post-but-if-anyone-asks-I'll-just-remind-them-of-this-filler-post post. And it's the one you voted as the next one.

Bees.

After bees, another poll will begin. Because the other two tied. There is no such thing as poll tie breakers, and if there is, tell me.

So be excite. But not too excite, friends, because it may not live up to the high expectations that I'm sure have arisen. But hopefully there will be something in it for everyone.

I try to keep a drawring in each post, so I shall include a real photograph of my new Kindle - with which I am having a strange love affair and am quite satisfied.

Isn't it pulchritudinous?



I end on one note that I hope your noggins absorb. I am typing this at 4 in the morning, which is, as you know, the time that both sense of humor and judgement deteriorate.

That said, I have no clue how to conclude this. So I guess I'll ju

This egg is not real.

Even though I'm not a fan, I figure most of you enjoy these. So use it as a visual as you eat your Peeps and dream of better treats. Happy Easter, all!

If you don't read this, I'll know.

Hey, look to your left. Do you see the poll? It's there for you to intuitize my next post. Do this.

Also, I have added buttons below each post, allowing you to quickly and easily address the attack on your respective funny bones that I may produce with a blog post. This is for you, loyal reader who doesn't know how to Follow me. It's okay. But you may have to subsequently comment, depending on your choice of checkbox. Good luck. We're all counting on you.

The bird is a gift. Treasure her.

Business in the front, rodent in the back.

In pre-school, I had an arch nemesis.

I can't for the life of me recall his name, so we'll go with Scooter. Scooter had a rat-tail.

If you don't know what that is, it's a hair"style". It's pretty much a mullet that is twisted together into a fancy little pigtail that sticks straight out the back of the victim's head. The tip points down to Hell, an extra outstretched arm pointing to its creator.

If it's any evidence, Anakin Skywalker had one in his bachelor years and shortly became Darth Vader.

Scooter was also, because of his intense caveman properties, the "school biter". Picture a living can-opener who has a thirst for blood and paste. Not together. He was classy.

Scooter's tusks would go to town on anyone who gave him any funny business. Scooter was serious, you guys.

Then came the day he approached me. He wanted my swing real bad. I had just conquered it and there was no way I was giving it up so I put on my "I'll frickin' tell" face. Not saying a word - he didn't know many - he advanced on me, jaw unhinged.

Realizing I was about to be eaten - or lose my swing - I did the only thing I could think to do. I ducked his strike and chewed on his arm.

His face twisted up into a mixture of rage, confusion and shame. His wee arms flailed. His feet pawed the ground. He twitched a little. I just swung on my prize silently - yet triumphantly - as I watched the progression from hard-featured little boy to baboon. It did not take long.

From that moment on, Scooter was demoralized to what he really was - just some weird kid with a pseudo-mullet.

This next bit I would be positive was Scooter's clever retaliation, if not for the use of clever in this sentence.

Weeks later, Scooter claimed to have learned a new word. We didn't believe him, but all we had to do was drink sippy cups and flirt with the ladies, so we gathered around him.

He jumped up on a table and began ascertaining that if a movie is ever based on this story, it will be rated R.

This alarmingly unethical behavior was what us kidz wuz all about - so I hopped on the table, bellowing the very same word. In fact, the only ones who didn't join us were the select few who already knew the word was bad.

Teacher: Ms. Wells?

Mom: Hi! Is everything okay?

Teacher: Yes, well, you see..Trey learned a new word.

Mom: Oh no, it's fine - he just can't say SIT right yet.

Teacher: That's all well and good, but this word starts with F.

Mom: I see.

After a stern talking-to from my parents, I decided that cursing resulted in people like Scooter.

I never said that word again until 7th grade - for fear of growing a very small, but very prominent, rat tail.

Life, uh...finds a way.

At a much younger age, I had a good friend named Will. He was a cool guy, but he was kind of - to put it lightly - a pansy.

Will was just one of our four-, sometimes six-membered group. We were made up thusly:

Will
Sometimes Will's brother Joey
Angelo
Sometimes Angelo's brother James
Lloyd
T-Bone (They called me this because I was awesome)

Now, being young boys, our filters were not yet fully developed so we often did mean things to each other just to assert our primitive male dominance. Sometimes it went too far. But if you cried, you turned into a girl.

Guess who is still a boy?

Anyway, these frequently hurtful antics (which I would never take part in now, and I hope the same goes for them) included; things being stolen, randomly deciding to gang up on one of the others, fabricated laws of physics, purposefully excluding the younger brothers and then laughing too loudly from our big boy corner, etc.

Before I continue, I just want to clear up that my nickname wasn't T-Bone and that I wish it had been.

Around this time a movie called The Lost World: Jurassic Park came out. Inspired by the events of this film, I came up with a fantastical scheme that was sure to produce a girl or two.

Working alone, I had to set everything in motion. The prank was completely absurd, so it wasn't applicable to just anyone. I needed a pansy.

Again, I must stress that I am not this devious now. This story has been told quite a lot by my family because of the sheer audacity of my plot, so I decided to put it in my own words - hopefully to the enjoyment of you lovely, understanding people.

Will's younger brother, Joey, was almost comedically tougher than him. I decided to use him, too, figuring that a reputation of taking down the toughest kid in the group would earn me the long-awaited T-Bone title. I politely invited them both over for Lego's and popsicles. They had no idea.

As we sat quietly, slurping our dripping treats and creating our sticky little cities, my mind was racing faster than my Buzz-Lightyear light-up sneakers. I began the first step of my glorious inception.

I leaned in close and uttered the carefully chosen words of subtlety.

Me: You guys. I can see the future.

Joey sniffed. Will gaped, until he saw that his little brother was nonchalant, then he pretended to blow it off. On the surface, I'd failed. But I knew I had planted the seed. I smiled.

A few hours later, they had to go home. I offered to walk with them.

Once we'd hit the road, I stopped them both and sat in the middle of the road. I pulled out some old dice I'd found in the house.

Me: Remember how I said I could see the future?

Upon bringing it up again, Will seemed convinced. Joey just watched me patiently. I continued.

Me: These are future-seeing dice. You guys. If these land on five, dinosaurs are coming back. Big ones. The ones who eat only people. Connivores.

And that was that. The meat of my grandiose brainchild. I tried to look grave as I stared back at the brothers.

They didn't react so I began shaking the dice dramatically. This resulted in some discomfort from their end. Good.

I let fly the tools of destruction and was shortly alarmed to see that they'd landed on twelve.

This next part truthfully happened, we were this young and gullible.

I looked up and put on my best faux horror face. I pointed behind them.

Me: AHH!

As they turned, I quickly modified the results of my reading to correctly display dinosaurdeathtime. When they turned back around, I shrugged it off and then became overly aware of the dice.

I pointed.
I gasped.
I winced.

As soon as I had both of them doing the same, I loped back towards the house so they wouldn't see me laughing.

My tale was so horrifying - duh - that they followed me back inside. My mom, surprised to see our trembling guests, asked if everything was okay. They informed her that dinosaurs were back. After a heavy glare at me, she sat them both down and explained why they were wrong.

Mom: Have you ever SEEN a dinosaur?

Joey: I guess not.

Will's look of terror disallowed him to speak.

After a few minutes, Joey calmly realized he'd been had. He beckoned for Will to come home with him. Will's eyes shifted from Joey, to the door, to my mom, to what I assume was the comfort of my bedroom. He eventually opted to follow Joey.

I slid out the back door and prepped for my final strike against the Brothers Ironic. I positioned myself behind  a storage shed right next to my house. The boys would have to pass my camp to reach their house. I was ready.

Once I saw them exit the front door, I could hardly contain my giggles. To me, this was the most brilliant thing I'd ever come up with. I lifted my arms and waited for them to reach the perfect spot - just far enough from both safe havens that they may actually explode from over-stimulation.

As soon as they'd hit the mark, I began to slam my clenched fists against the thin metal shed, roaring madly - barely containing intense guffaws. I'm still not sure why I found this so funny. I'm sure it had more to do with how clever I thought I must be and less with human suffering. Man, I hope so.

The two boys split up perfectly. Joey bolted for his own home, while Will marched grimly - sure he would be eaten - towards my own abode. After a few more bangs of the shed and just another T-Rex screech, he evolved into a steady canter.

Several (probably painful) minutes later, my mom exited the house with a very paranoid Will in tow. They walked around the corner and out of sight.

And that is the story of me being the biggest jerk ever.

If you're still not convinced, he and Lloyd ended up stealing my bike a few days later.

Mutillidae sounds like Mutilate.

My grandparents live on a massive hill. When I was a kid, that junk was basically a theme park. They had dogs to ride around on (they LOVED IT), a massive precipice looking over the rest of the town which I always planned to roll down, Reading Rainbow on EVERY TV, candy, and they even let me drive their golf cart through the woods. Also there were probably fireworks upon entrance.

The creators of this nirvana were none other than Didi and Pawpaw.

Their Names:
I couldn't say Dianne at a young age but still wanted to call her what I heard everyone else calling her, so Gramma - or whatever you normal people use - was out of the question.

I think the origin of Pawpaw's name is similar to most other boys' in the south. It's easy for babies to say and it makes one visualize a tough grandpa with an even tougher grandson. And they're gonna build a birdhouse together. For falcons.

One day, whilst meticulously eating Lucky Charms and playing with my totally awesome Hotwheels, I noticed a loud grinding noise from outside.

I hopped up to look through a small window and gaped at a tractor that was dumping huge mounds of dirt onto the grass. It only took seconds for the whole scenario to transform into "a nice man in a grown-up toy is giving me a playground". And since Pawpaw was directing the man in the tractor,  that was all I needed for a permission grant.

I grabbed my favorite toy trucks and made sure to pick up a few tiny toy soldiers - small enough to be run over - and bolted through the house to reach the dirt.

By the time I'd gotten there, the tractor was gone. I don't see how that happened, but I probably got distracted by a cool bug on the way.

Pawpaw grinned at me, which only proved that the dirt was a giant toy for me to play with. Before he left he told me something about being safe - whatever. That dirt was practically glowing with merriment, I didn't have time to take heed.

I plopped down in my new kingdom and surveyed all that was good. I began to play, mostly pounding the trucks into walls of dirt. And that's when I saw the coolest bug ever.

It was a prodigious ant, who crawled very slowly and was covered in bright red fur. That's right folks. It was furry.

It might as well have been a target. My wielded truck made a U-turn and made its way towards the newly dubbed Monster-Who-Will-Eat-Your-Babies. I had to save them.

Narrating at the appropriate moments, I reached the point where I was to run over the beast, but in a hasty decision, decided to draw out the execution by swerving to miss.

I made another turn and faced my prey, who was continuing its trek across the desert - unphased.

At about this time you're thinking "Oh no, that poor minuscule ant." But I'm here to tell you that you should never worry about these monsters.

I promptly smacked my little toy against the sumo-wrestler. Nothing happened. The ant trekked on, and if anything my truck was the one scarred, both physically and emotionally.

I stared down at the ant, trying to figure out what it's problem was. It should have complied to my death offer.

At that very moment, a caterpillar approached the dirt pile. Being very supportive of a real life bug that actually evolves like a Pokemon, I had no interest in hurting the little guy. But that didn't mean he still couldn't star in my play.

I plucked him from his obvious confusion and placed him gently in the bed of my truck - I had found my protagonist!

With that business handled, I scanned the playing field for my bad guy. He was nowhere to be found.

Readers, I'm going to let you in on some dramatic irony. I could not find the leviathan because he was on my arm. Okay, now let the scary commence!

I gave up too quickly on the search, and focused my attention on my truck driver. I debated whether or not he should get into a terrible crash, live, and become a super hero when something struck me. It was a flush of warm on my left arm. As I turned to see what it was, it escalated to pain. Horrible please-cut-it-off pain.

I turned to see the creature I had once loved and employed in one of my very first productions had taken a bite out of my arm.

I instinctively whipped my arm and flung him into who-knows-where, and began shrieking like a banshee.

Pawpaw came tearing around the house, his face pale white. When he saw me crumpled on the ground clutching my arm and bawling like a baby with no immediate danger in sight, the color returned to his face. He tentatively asked what happened to which I replied stupidly;

"I got bit by a ant."

He was not happy with me.

If you have never seen these ants, you are very lucky. I can't do it justice with a drawing and also the horror of the real thing may adequately wring out all of your sympathy for my ordeal.

And, in looking up the picture, I found out what blitzkrieged my arm all those years ago. It's a freaking WINGLESS WASP.

Mutillidae are a family of wasps whose wingless females resemble ants. Their common name velvet ant refers to their dense hair which may be red, black, white, silver, blue, or gold. Their bright colours serve as aposematic signals. They are known for their extremely painful sting, facetiously said to be strong enough to kill a cow, hence the common name cow killer or cow ant is applied to some species - Wikipedia

All in all, I may have deserved the sting - but whatever. It should have been a measly ant bite.

I basically got rick-rolled by nature.

I drew you this.

Even though I didn't reach 20 followers - I still did it.

That feeling you're feeling is guilt.

I dunno how to draw unicorn bodies, so a head will have to do. Don't act like you deserve an unabridged unicorn.

They see me rollin'.

In high school, rolling someone's house with toilet paper is the height of borderline-illegal entertainment. No one admits that they think it's cool - cause that'd make it lame. But we all did.

The tricky thing is that it can be construed as a compliment or a startlingly pathetic insult - so you want to plan wisely who you're going to assault.

For example, I decided to roll my buddy Ford once. I took a few friends and we did a pretty excellent job.

The next day, as most Rollees are, he was upset. But then we noticed he was more upset than we thought he had a right to be. So we tactfully asked what was wrong. Apparently the same night, someone broke the door on his garage. Of course, they thought the rollers (big, dumb us) and the vandals were one and the same.

It eventually got worked out that we were innocent, but to this day that hasn't been solved. Hopefully this post will help locate the culprit. If any of you have seen a prowler who only targets garage doors of houses that have recently been rolled - please call this number;

9

Thank you.

One night, a few weeks after I got my license, we rolled someone else. I can't remember who it was - but that doesn't matter much.

Ford, Jarrett, Warren and I donned our black clothes, jumped in my black car, and set out for no good.

When we got there, we parked my car at a safe distance and sat there for a few minutes to prep for what lie ahead: Absolutely no danger, and with almost no consequences, period.

As we were about to make a break for the yard, Jarrett decides it's too hot and starts to take off his hoodie. Now, Jarrett was our token black friend. That is only important right now because Jarrett took off his appropriately black hoodie to reveal a blindingly white tank top - which I'm pretty sure had characters from Winnie the Pooh on it, but I don't want to say for sure.

So this was Jarrett.

Three guys eventually got him to take off his shirt. That was a proud moment.

When we had finished, we ran back to my car as if anyone knew or cared we were there, and sped off into the night.

As we approach our hometown, Jarrett says something unpleasant.

Jarrett: Hey, I think that's a cop behind us.

Ford: No, it's not a Crown Victoria.

Then, as my heart was beating up my eardrums, they politely argued about whether or not a police officer could drive a car other than a typical Crown Vic in our small town. After a few seconds it gets quiet, then suddenly;

Ford: Nope. That's a cop.

Blue lights penetrate my vision as I realize with dismay that I was seconds from turning into my driveway.

FACT: Cops are attracted to turn signals like a moth to the flame. Do not use them.

As I pull to a stop, my selfish feelings are put aside when Ford slowly says;

Ford: Wow. Look at all this toilet paper.

Before the cop can leave his car, we play a quick game of hot potato with a hastily TP stuffed duffel bag. It winds up in Warren's lap, who looks positively terrified about this. A knock on my window snaps all of our faces up to meet our maker.

That man saw four boys, one shirtless, all in black - and the one in the toboggan has a big black duffel bag.

I can't even draw that.

The rest was a routine traffic stop. He saw me go over the yellow line a couple times and he let me go with a warning.

The moral of the story doesn't really exist. Except, hey parents, at least we weren't setting anything on fire.

TallBirdStory.

As a child, I was all for animals. I thought they were little magic angels, immune to parents and bedtimes. If I saw a dog, I would pet it - really hard - and being licked in response only stimulated my desire for its attention. Even when I was scolded for petting against the dog's hair, he still LICKED me. I couldn't disappoint animals.

I would later find out that this so called "licking" was really an attempt to punish my hand.

This next part is called

THE BETRAYAL

I really liked the idea of a zoo, where animals conglomerated together. However, the fact that I couldn't pet them didn't appeal to me. Plus it was always too hot and smelly. Like igneous tuna.

So instead, I was taken to a tiny locally owned petting zoo. I bet its still there, just look for the sign "Awful Lie-To-Children Folks LLC".

I don't remember anything except for this next part, because it was pretty scarring - and I liked the Backstreet Boys, so I was tough.

On those terms, imagine I walked right up to the ostrich, totally ignoring the neat wolves and dragons.

Eye contact is made.

Wait no, he looked more like this.

Notice the cold, calculating eyes. These eyes do not understand trivial matters such as pain or birthdays.

Also, note the horns and matching goatee. Alarming!

And those are not extra Stranglin' Limbs sprouting from his neck - that is a boo-boo from his glory days in the Jurassic era. The cavemen called him la chupacabra. I don't know what that is, but it sounds scary, so this thing was totally that thing.

Once our eyes meet, a statement is made. I don't understand it, but I gather it is mostly a poor attempt at trash talk. My innocent eyes see past the threats.

I start to reach for the monstrous bird, but just as he is about to fulfill his quest for blood, the petting zoo owner reminds me that I have no food. He only delays my fate. I grab a handful of the offered ostrich food as he fills me in on the correct feeding position.

Now, here's the kicker;

I guess he feels the need to say something to me, so he unnecessarily states "Go on, he doesn't bite."

I reach again for the living fossil, this time with a great big motive in hand.

The bird wastes no time and clamps down on my baby hand. He then LOCKS his beakjaw. Probably. I was crying more than studying the situation.

Thinking quickly, and may I say efficiently, the pet owner then shoots the beast with some sort of awesome gun. The bird evades the bullet, flies above our heads, squawking something like "Hail Hitler", and then plummets back into the depths of Hades. Where it so belongs.

Actually that's the only part that didn't happen, and the only part that should've.

I don't really recall what happened after that, because my unblemished childhood was pretty much over. That dinosaur violated me.

Animals now, en masse, give me the stink eye and I just can't impress them. I think it's always been this way, but now I am aware.

As a sub-story, years later, walking through a ZOO - ironically - I'm telling a couple friends this very story. I finish as we approach the emus. They look the same as the aforementioned satanbirds, but they're shorter and I'm pretty sure have self-esteem issues. Not seconds after I say the words "But emus are completely different birds", the freaking thing lurches at my stomach, luckily only accomplishing a slight shirt-bite. This forever seals the reputation of long-necked birds.

I started an organization, a lot like PETA. All you have to do is say mean things to ostriches and emus when you see them. Roadrunners acceptable.

Look what I did.

I have now added an exciting banner that took me at least several minutes to create. It has no deep meaning behind it, I just decided to draw a rainbow. Then grass. Then, as I realized it may misrepresent myself as a ninny, I drew tough-guy scissors who are showing that rainbow what's up. They cut that rainbow.

My first post has explosions.

I desperately want to be thought of as funny. In my opinion, humor is one of the most important traits a human can have, along with the ability to be comfortable in a conversation, the ability to specifically make me comfortable in a conversation, and puppies. All of these things - important.

The worst part about all of this is that some people think I'm hilarious. Which is either not true, or I just suck at harnessing my skill. And in any case, since I don't think so, being told I'm funny usually results in me thinking I have to spit out a joke to, like, prove it or something. And the complimenter ends up wishing to either erase their words or evade me.

On that note, if I ever *try* to be funny - sweet potatoes - watch out. It's an agonizing sock hop of emotion that very closely resembles those baby sea turtles that never get to the ocean because a stupid albatross is hungry. I am the lowly babies - all of them, collectively, to more easily convey sympathy - and my friends are the ravenous birds. I wind up resenting them for a few minutes because they didn't think highly of my outdated popculture reference about Michael Jackson.

On the brightside, and a completely different train of thought, you know that thing that you consider a personal weakness? My weakness is hearing, and subsequently *listening*. Anyway, I'm sitting here typing, and I hear a ruffling noise. It sounds like someone went to Walmart without me to get candy, and instead of taunting me with their plunder, they crinkle the plastic bag in my ear.

I let it be for awhile, but then my brain is telling me that the sound is coming from calculating roaches around me as they plot. This type of thought generally leads up to me hopping out of bed - maybe too girlishly - and combing throughout my dorm-room for the source of this devilnoise.

So it turns out that it's a broken sprinkler, sparsely slapping the sidewalk outside of our dorm, three floors down.

Now, the reason this is so exciting for me is that my bed is on the opposing side of the room to the window. Also, once I found the sound, my roommate still couldn't hear it - even standing right next to the window.

I have deducted, since I've been practically deaf until now, that I was bitten by a radioactive-spider. Or, no, probably a radioactive-something-with-ears. But I don't like to think of something evolved enough to have ears being close enough to my bed to bite me in the night. Spiders either, actually. I'm rambling.

In conclusion;

There's a chance I'm funny.
But I definitely have superpowers.