The Post I Forgot to Title

I have been up all night. That is, all at once, an excuse and an apology. That is to say, I'm not apologetic enough about what suck inevitably will follow to stop typing it. But heck, it was nice of me to warn you, at least, huh? And that's what this whole blog thing is all about. I'm lookin' out for ya, li'l buddy.

Caution: reading further will prove that you are incredibly stupid.

OK. Well, what am I going to do today? (See, it's a different kind of blog already. What AM I GOING TO do today, not what DID I do today.) Well, here's the plan. I'm sure that what will actually occur in my life today will be quite a bit different.

First, I am going to go to Christmas with the Kranks. I know, I know. "It's Christmas with the Kranks," you warn me. In response, I scoff and reply, "Oh, come now. How bad could it possibly be?.............."

Second, I am going to pay for my ferry ticket to the Shetland Islands. You see, I'm kinda going there for the next few days. So, no more Boyumblog until January. Aren't you sad? Of course, that's supposing that I pay for my ticket. If I don't I imagine something like this will happen. I'm sitting, enjoying the salt sea air from my deluxe, reclining (and free) seat on the observation deck, when a large and surly conductor-type comes up to me and asks for my ticket. When I inform him that I was too lazy to actually purchase my ticket, he punches me square in the face, which sends me through the plate glass window next to me and out onto the deck, bloody. After following me out onto the deck, he picks me up by the trousers and shirt collar and throws me into the ocean. When the wealthy passengers that are there despite the fact that they are much too wealthy to have purchased a mere deluxe, reclining, and free seat for the voyage are shocked by this, the conductor simply points a thumb over the edge of the deck and explains: "No ticket." At this point they all realize that he is actually Harrison Ford, and they, being old and forgetful, remember why they were here in the first place. They all get out their tickets in a mad rush, and ... well, go watch the movie, because I'm sick of writing more about it. Let's just say: I die a horrible death at the hands of Harrison Ford. And then a swarm of killer bees flies in and kills them all as well. Death, sweet death. Whoa. I'm starting to scare me.

Whew. Third, I am going to study for my physics final, which -- because I'm in stupid Britain -- is in stupid January, not before Christmas like around the rest of the bloody globe. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whoa, Mr. Cranky, where did you come from? I really don't hold violent thoughts in my head about the loverly Brits around me. I just hate having finals in January. Buck up, li'l buddy.

Too many links. I shall go hit my head against a wall now because I'm a bad ol' bear. If I'm back in January then you'll know I didn't damage anything permanently. Maaaybbeeee...

Merry Holidays and Happy Christmas.

And look forward to MOOP REVIEWS come January!

Fun with Christmas

Christmas time is almost here, so I'm obligated to dedicate at least one post to it, I suppose. Or at least a paragraph.

Christmas is that time of year when we get presents. Some are large, some are small. They come in many colors: black, white, brown, yellow, red, and green. But they are all equal in our sight and the sight of God, until we open them and find out that someone got us this instead of this. Then we realize that as bright and cheery as they may have seemed on the outside, they really were just full of crap the whole time--just like bees, bees that are full to the brim with fecal matter.

I apologize for that paragraph, which was nothing more than an excuse to link excessively to stuff neither you nor I care about anyway (with the possible exception of Halo 2).

What is infinitely more important, though, is the shocking realization that the very act of blogging presupposes that you actually -do- something about which you can write, which in my case could not be farther from the truth. Today I woke up, and I considered that alone an act requiring great sacrifice. Then, so that I could rationalize the consumption of a mountain of free Twix bars from the dorm vending machine that the company has not yet fixed, I went to the gym. There I realized that people who go to the gym four days before Christmas are of a similar physio-psychological profile: dumpy, mean, and glum. We are the few to whom Christmas means losing five pounds before Christmas so that we won't have to feel guilty about gaining it all back in one meal. After that, I came back to my dorm room, and I haven't done anything productive since. Including writing this.

Man, this one started off rather well, and now it's turning to crap just like all the others (I could be talking about this post, or I could be talking about the booger that I just finished eating). (Or did I just eat a booger at all?) (You don't know because I am separated from you by this wonderful thing called the Internet.) (Ha!) But really, I started off with incredible references to Christmas presents filled with feces and ended talking about the general lack of productivity that sums up my existence. How crapful.

Well, to everyone who reads mine blog, a group of people that may or may not exist outside my own mind, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

and... Happy Hannukah.

and... Happy Kwanzaa.

and... Happy I-don't-celebrate-the-holidays-because-I'm-an-angry-vegetarian-atheist Day!

and... if any of you angry, vegetarian or meatatarian atheists are considering celebrating Christmas--well, I don't think so. Deacon Fred says you shouldn't. The Nazis weren't the first people to think of burning people with furnaces, you know. No, no. God was one step ahead of 'em! Just keep THAT in mind when you're thinking of putting those candles on your tree. Think of your and your childrens' flame-ridden corpses--and be full of holiday cheer!

And always remember the true spirit of this holiday season: “Merry Christmas, And Fine Shooting, From Your Best Friend, Jesus Christ.”

Bum-badda-bum...

Well. The first-ever Boyumblog is here. Bet you were expecting a bit more, huh? But, I'm not as cool as Reinman.

Well. Boyumblog is a funny name, not only because it sounds funny to say. Go ahead. Try it. Especially if there are many people sitting around you, some of whom are intoxicated college student. And especially if you are an intoxicated college student yourself. In either of those two cases, they will inevitably ask you what it is that you have just said. At that point, you can do one of two things: (1) Try to communicate to them that you've come upon some stupid college kid's blog that you won't remember in the morning, or (2) call out, "Who's got the bottle of vodka?" Either one should lead to you forgetting all about reading this in the morning.

Well. As I said, Boyumblog is not only funny because it sounds funny, but because it is also a pun on my name. My last name is 'Boyum', and this is my 'blog'. Get it? I'm so incredibly witty. Witty in the way that Paris Hilton isn't. Gosh, I hate Paris Hilton. She snores really loud, she has a huge nose, and this squishy thing that lives in her pants.

Well. I am now realizing that me getting a blog wasn't the greatest thing to happen to twenty-first century entertainment, which I fully envisioned it being when I was filling out the on-line application. Man, was I suckered. And don't you feel suckered for reading it? You should. You've just wasted a good five minutes of your life, loser. Ha!

Go read about bees.