TFA and the Life Therein

Issues

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 18:19:00 +0000

My thoughts on contemporary issues facing America.

The War in Afghanistan
I don't think it's wise to fight a war in a country that the majority of Americans can't name a single city in. Go ahead, try to think of one. See, nobody knows. (If you said Kabul then you're a smartie-pants! Now name another.) I don't even think the U.S. Government knows the names of any of the cities. That's why we're having such a hard time over there.

Soldier: Sir, we've found Bin Laden! We are mere feet from his hideout!
General: Fantastic, soldier! Where are you?
Soldier: Uh... we're by a mountain. It's big and pointy. There's a lot of sand.
General: Not helping, soldier. I need names.
Soldier: Wellll, I can tell you that it's not Kabul; we had deployment brunch there this morning. Probably not Moscow either. It's possible we're in Phoenix.

I think we could be far more successful fighting a war in a country that we're familiar with, such as, say, Canada. I know the whole point here is to combat terrorism but don't even try to tell me that Canada hasn't been infiltrating our country with agents of terror for decades (I'm looking at you, Bieber, Avril, Keanu, and Celine).

Gay Marriage
I don't believe in gay marriage. Not because of the false claims that it will undermine the institution of marriage, that it's an unstable environment for raising children, or even that it's a slippery slope that will inevitably lead to people marrying animals and their electronic equipment (indeed, I have half a mind to consummate a marriage with my Macbook right this moment). Rather, I am opposed because all the gay people I know have such wonderfully joyous spirits and I don't want to live in a world where they too become sucked into a black hole of marital routine and fatigue that invariably ends each day with "Dammit Bradley is it so much to ask that just once in your life you iron the jeggings!?"

Jeggings
I'm actually pretty cool with this trend, but I have an idea that's going to one-up it completely: Skeggings. Basically you custom tailor a pair of leggings to perfectly match the color of your skin, even going so far as to meticulously patch into the fabric every freckle and body hair you have in their precise anatomical locations. At least that's what I told officers I was wearing when I went to Burger King last week without any pants on. Judging by my court order I don't think society is ready yet for skeggings, but I'm confident it's only a matter of time before I can order my Whopper without being escorted from the premises.

North Korea
I get it. North Korea is troublesome. Closed off. Angry all the time. Friends with a bad influence. I used to be like that. I hated the world for its materialistic views and the hedonistic, consumerism lifestyle that its society engendered. I rebelled in much the same way by turning to thievery and vandalism; small attacks upon the world around me. So I know exactly where North Korea is coming from. They're right in the middle of that proverbial iconoclastic teenager phase. What got me out of that phase was I fell in love with a girl who rejected me and I subsequently became depressed and withdrawn. "Emo", if you will. What we need to do is send a killer babe Kim Jong Il's way. It's a pretty simple plan. She woos him, makes him hear the music, and then just when he's feeling like he's on Cloud 9 she leaves him for Chinese president Hu Jintao. If all goes according to plan life will lose all meaning for floundering Kim Jong, he'll spend all day in his room writing angsty poetry, and the national song will be changed to "Screaming Infidelities" by Dashboard Confessional. Either that or he'll wage a war on China of Helenistic proportions, but I don't think anyone has a problem with the two of them duking it out. It's win-win. Let's get on this. I nominate that hot Korean girl from Lost as our agent.

Wikileaks
I don't think this is as big of a deal as people are making it out to be. I bet the information being leaked isn't even that accurate. Like these diplomatic cables, I don't trust any of them. Things get reported from one person to another, and so on and so on until finally the reports land in Julian Assange's anarchy-horny lap. It's like a giant, international game of Telephone. Let's say Secretary of State Hillary Clinton casually remarks to a fellow diplomat that Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin "has cute jowls", which is then reported to another official as "Putin plays the flute loud" and so on until finally being transcribed and released as "Putin has nukes in Moscow", which causes a great international fuss. That's probably why Clinton is so upset with Wikileaks, but she's too embarrassed to just admit that she has the hots for the subtle looseness in Putin's jawline to correct the mistake in the leaks, and so she admonishes the organization as a whole. And that part about Medvedev playing "Robin to Putin's Batman" that caused such a stir? The original statement actually said that Medvedev keeps "robbin' Putin in games of Backgammon". It is widely known in Russia that the two are fierce backgammon competitors. I don't think we should let ourselves be bothered by such silliness.

The National Deficit
Do we raise taxes, or cut spending? Ever the debate in this land, but never a consensus. The only thing we can agree on is that the other side's point of view would be better put forth by a diplomatically inclined eggplant. I was thinking about this the other day while fermenting in my shower, when suddenly I was struck with a solution, one that requires no tax increments and no program cuts whatsoever: we sell California. No I'm serious. Who wouldn't want Californ-ah-yay? Superb beaches, sexy women, famous celebrities, unbeatable weather. I'm sure there'd be many suitors willing to pay a pretty penny (or 1,000,000,000,000,000 pennies? Please?? Please.). We won't tell them this, but California's a dead arm for us anyway. Their economy is limping like an arthritic leper who's just been open-field tackled by Ndamakung Suh, and "The Big One" is set to happen any day now (not a reference to Michael Moore's post-Chipotle flatulence, though that may well be the trigger). My idea: let's be that dirty car salesman and sell this lemon off to some unsuspecting foreign consumer who doesn't know any better. If that's not the American Way, I don't know what is.

Global Warming
So many questions surround this perennial political lightning rod. Are global temperatures really on the rise? Are ice shelves really melting at record rates around the globe? Is Al Gore really putting on 400 pounds to better be one with the polar bears? These questions of course lack definitive answers, otherwise there would be little debate. It's up to us to gain what facts we can, and make informed opinions. Here are mine.

Let's start with the obvious. Al Gore is a gargantuan mass of blubber. I don't think it has anything to do with wanting to resemble a polar bear, otherwise he'd be using more 'Just For Men: Touch of Albinism' to complete the look. As for the fading ice sheets, I think there are two possible explanations. Either they really are melting due to increased temperatures, or after watching 1989's hit Disney movie "The Little Mermaid" they decided that life truly would be better under the sea. Al Gore's graphs look pretty convincing, but so is Sebastian when he's in full Rasta song and dance mode. I can see how the glaciers would be compelled.

In summary, I think when you get right down to it the solutions to this nation's crises are pretty straight-forward. We're so focused on partisan politics that we neglect the real answers sitting right in front of us. Our checklist is simple: invade Canada, keep gay marriage illegal so that our homosexuals stay happy, legalize skeggings, send Yunjin Kim to Korea, ignore Assange's petty cries for attention, sell California, and make a sequel to the Little Mermaid where Sebastian clearly explains how much the sea actually sucks (in song form, of course). Utopia, we are but a breath away.

Sakurity!

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 23:06:00 +0000

I'm currently plopped comfortably in a well-fashioned chair at the equally well-fashioned Albuquerque Sunport (a misnomer if you ask me, seeing as how the establishment provides zero transportation through/to the sun), pondering what to do with the 3 hours I have ahead of me before my flight (not to the sun). I thought a return to the blog could prove time-worthy.

I forget how fascinating airports can be. If you enjoy observing humanity's full spectrum of behavioral phenotypes, there is not a better venue on the planet to do so. I have been here no more than 15 minutes and already the variety of mystifying organisms has struck a palpable wonder inside me. As I type, there is a grown man across from me playing World of Warcraft, shouting nonsensical MMORPG babble into his headset, shifting his weight every 30 seconds in an attempt to find comfort in a chair that was meant to support a rumpus 50% less porcine than his.

One of the more interesting people I've come across in my brief quarter-hour tenure is the man I stood next to at security. The traffic was by no means dense despite the holiday season, which I found to be quite a pleasant surprise. I was a couple of decades ahead of schedule though and wouldn't have minded even if there was. This man, however, was not as content to be alive, and made a point of letting everyone else around him know.

If you haven't flown in the past few months, things have changed just a little bit. The security is of course beefed up due to recent events involving TSA/Homeland Security somehow allowing bombs to get on a plane (though in the agencies' defense the bombs did have valid passports) and passengers are required to step through a few more hoops than they were when, say, boarding a crop-duster in 1964. I was fully expecting this, and in fact was rather looking forward to my pat down just so I could see the look of shock on the agent's face when he/she patted my crotch and discovered I was harboring a full-grown butternut squash in my boxer-briefs (as far as I know, this is not illegal. In fact I was hoping to create a new rule). However, they apparently have these new machines that look like bona fide teleportation booths from the future, and by going through them you can avoid the pat down. Not wanting to miss out on this adventure, I of course opted for the booth. After the procedural removing of my shoes, belt, wallet, phone, laptop, butternut squash, pocket-gerbil, gladiator helmet, etc. I excitedly stepped in and blurted with zeal: "Shanghai, awayyy!" I received a room full of stares and was sternly told to just put my hands in the air while they scanned my body. After that, it was pretty much over. I was a little disappointed I didn't get zapped into a wormhole to China, but overall the process was quick and I went through largely unperturbed.

But back to the man with the ants in his delicates. He went through the exact same process as I did, but grumbled cantankerously the whole time. In fact he kept looking at me for validation after every one of his complaints, clearly wanting an act of solidarity on my part, but I merely smiled and looked the other way as he continued to grouch and fart himself. When the TSA agent reminded us that it was necessary to remove our shoes, belts, laptops (and domestic fruit, she added, while looking queerly at me), he growled with a chiding "This is what we get for a few shitty terrorists."

I had many things I wished to say to the man, but instead just turned away because he had begun to fart himself so obnoxiously that the stench was hard to bear. But I was mystified at how entitled he felt to a free passage through the most supple terrorist target on the planet. I really don't think he had thought about his comment in the slightest. First of all, I'm pretty sure the terrorists responsible for the added security weren't very shitty. In fact I bet if you visit the Terrorist Hall of Fame in Afghanistan/Yemen/Virginia you will find them as the premiere inductees (except in the case of the ones who recently got the bombs on the plane, in light of the mandatory 5-year waiting period). I don't mean to be insensitive, I'm just saying they were probably pretty good at what they did. A shitty terrorist wouldn't even get past the first checkpoint.

Check-in Agent: Good afternoon. Are you carrying with you any foreign or hazardous materials today?
Shitty Terrorist: Yes. Damnit!

Secondly, and most importantly, is it really that big of a deal that you have to wait an extra 10-15 minutes, remove a few surplus articles, and walk through a badass booth ostensibly taken from an episode of Star Trek in order to guarantee that the millions of people traveling every day get to their destination safely? It's amazing how quickly life has inconvenienced you, never mind the fact that you are about to fly through the air at several hundred miles per hour in a cylindrical tube of metal with a few wings glued to the side. That's pretty fucking remarkable! You could take any human born during the first 99% of our existence and show them a mother-fucking passenger jet taking off and I guarantee you that they shit their pants. Probably three or four times. You could at least act excited that you are about to make Newtonian physics your bitch while casually eating a bag of peanuts. These are the thoughts which coursed through my brain, but I kept them in because I wasn't in the market for confrontation. And besides, I was fascinated by this man and I kind of hoped he said more to amuse me, which he of course did.

Once I was reunited with my shoes (and was decidedly not in Shanghai), I took one more look at the man before we parted ways in time and space. He was having trouble getting his bag off of the conveyor, which caused his mouth to snarl and his gassiness to continue unabated, and I wondered, "What could possibly make this man's day seem good?" Knowing the answer to that question, I carefully removed my butternut-squash from beneath my pants and empathetically bequeathed it this poor, disgruntled traveler. He looked at me like I was trying to give him rabies, and in a short, exasperated breath, said "Next year I'm fucking driving," before taking off hastily down the corridor. And as I stood there, wafting the contrails of his flatulence, squash still held to my chest, I couldn't help but smile at how delightful human creatures can be.

Minutes later an agent told me I needed to move, I was blocking traffic and creeping out the other travelers.

Profundity

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 03:54:00 +0000

I've got 2 hours to write the most impressive blog-post I've ever written. Which is like saying I've got 2 hours to create the greatest Michael Bay movie ever made. Needless to say I don't feel too pressured to come up with anything superb, however I would like to impress, nonetheless, lest this literal mess be considered an unworthy best. Yeayuh, maybe some poetic friction to spice things up? Probably not.

So I'm trying to think of profound things to say, revelations of such a magnitude that they will cause your entire metaphorical earth to shatter in Armageddon hell and spit, however the only words that are coming to my brain at this moment are "Cal.uh.forn.ya girls we're undeniable! Fine.fresh.fierce. we got it on lock!" Which isn't to say that I've been listening to that song on infinite repeat on my iPod since 8:01am this morning at all. It's the radio's fault, really. Because that's ALL THEY EVER PLAY. And nothing bothers me more than when I am in a vehicle with peers/colleagues/strippers and that song comes on and I involuntarily start singing along, which inevitably prompts the response "You like that song?? Omg." To which I say, "Just because I know the words to a song doesn't mean that I like it." It's like if you are flogged with a freshwater puffer fish four times a day for eight consecutive weeks, you are going to become familiar with the contours of each and every spike whether you intend to or not. Indeed, that is a flawless analogy.

But back to my quest. Life-altering revelations. So far I have been stalling and I still have no clue what to discuss, so I Googled "random noun" and found a website that dispenses, ironically, random nouns. The noun that it chose for me was: sock.

Yeah I didn't feel like that was enough so I Googled another one to discuss in conjunction with socks and stumbled upon the fortuitous noun: handicap. Now we're getting somewhere.

Do I feel as though handicap people should be allowed to wear socks? Probably not. Currently the U.S. legal system permits such behavior because they don't want the handicapped to feel like they're in any way inferior to the rest of the citizenry, and creating such a law might promote public outcry. But by not having any laws against it, the handicapped feel obligated to put on socks, lest it appear as though are incapable of doing so, and are thus inferior. It's a vicious cycle. I see handicapped people everywhere trying to put on socks in difficult circumstances simply because they feel that they need to in order to be perceived as normal. Just like week in fact I saw a double-leg amputee (an old war vet) buy a pair of low-cut athletic socks at Wal-mart. I hung my head in despondence over the crippling (no pun intended) social pressure that that man must be under. I approached him kindly and said in my most affectionate tone, "Sir, you know you don't have to do this right? It's okay to not wear socks. You are a beautiful individual just the way you are. Also I don't know if you're aware but you're in the Women's department."

He looked at me with eyes that swelled with years of repressed sorrow and said, "These are for my fucking wife you asshole." I lamented the shell-shock hallucination of marital bliss that he had created for himself, but made no aim to rob him of his illusory reality. "Of course, sir," I replied, then slowly backed away. But not without nodding my head in a soothing rhythm while whispering "Your stumps are magnificent as they are."

Now, if we had simply banned socks from the disabled, this whole tragedy could have been avoided. The war-vet amputee would feel no pressure to buy socks like other ankle-possessing persons, and thus would have no need to contrive the intricate delusions that allowed himself to logically do so. That's all I'm saying. I don't know why there have yet to be any marches on Washington for this. Let us rally.

Well, I now feel as though my task has been fulfilled, and in little more than a quarter of the time I allotted to myself! I should probably also mention that I am several beers in and it is remotely (entirely) possible that this has contributed to the writing of this post.

This message is brought to you by Samuel Adams Boston Lager

Humble & Grumble

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:53:00 +0000

This job is truly a humbling experience. For all my satire and sarcasm—satasm, if you will (or maybe sartire. Satasm sounds like demon worship, an activity in which I do not engage... unless we're counting Beelzebub Bingo Fridays)—I find myself in a constant lock-jam between the selfish and the selfless. TFA sends its constituents to the most malnourished of American soils (literally, in the case of our wonderfully arid New Mexican landscape), places where things like prosperity and education never really stopped to plant a seed. And always in their absence comes poverty, that opportunistic weed, to suck whatever nutrients may be left out of the land. Are you liking this metaphor? I agree with you, it is sexy.

So who would come to a place like this to establish a career? Are you kidding? Nobody! That's the problem. That's why TFA takes fresh, young, optimistic college graduates who have yet to be weathered by the realities of the world and dumps them where the weathering is worst. I can't speak for other TFA regions, but out here the sticks stack far higher than the carrots. Why would a good teacher ever come out here, and more importantly stay out here, unless they had some freaky masochistic fetish for crippling stress and failure? Supposedly, that's where we come in. Not because we're kinky like that, but because we believe in this ideal that poverty should play no role in the development of any child's learning. Except it does play a role. It plays a huge fucking role. It's mother-fucking Rocky in the movie Rocky. Our job is to work hard to give it fewer lines, and with hope one day cut it out of the script completely. Hot damn I am on fire with these metaphors...

As you know, the job ain't easy. Nobody wants to do it. Even us, a lot of the time. It's funny to see how rapidly our idealism wavers when confronted with the stark realities that lie in opposition. Every single one of us applied to Teach for America with this statuesque hope, knowing full well that our jobs would not be easy, but at the same time never really knowing it. Mere months into the gig and we're these jaded, floundering creatures, wondering what in the name of Almighty Sense we got ourselves into. As the boulders mount higher, we begin to fantasize about what we could have been doing. The selfless meets the selfish. Round 1, fight!

I endured Round 1. I certainly didn't give it everything I had, but I didn't up and leave either. It was a bitter struggle with victories and defeats. Overall, I did okay. Round 2 for me is a tougher battle. You're supposed to be better in Round 2. But it's hard to throw your best swing when you know that if you wanted, this round could be your last, that you are mere months away from legally tapping out. Why not just take a few selfish punches and then exit the ring? Sounds great, but then you have to ask yourself why you ever got in the ring in the first place.

For me, I got in it because I was tired of feeling like a waste of a human being. Prior to TFA, I had made a professional career out of shirking responsibilities and gliding on the effortless wing of whimsical living. Probably the greatest adversity my life ever faced was when I went to Wendy's at 2:01am one day and they were closed, thus depriving me of my crispy chicken sustenance for the night (It was so bad I resorted to eating my own shoelaces to avoid scurvy). Call it guilt if you want, but I was unable to live comfortably knowing that such a stark contrast existed between my luxurious existence, which I had done nothing to deserve, and the dark, anorexic existences of others, which they had done nothing to deserve. I wanted to help level the field. I wanted to work. Tirelessly, til the glass cracked clean through. That was my ideal. We all had our ideals, and that was mine. And now it flickers in the face of its realities.

You may ask, "How could you just give up on the faces of these kids, for all that they have to deal with, for all that they have against them? How could you just give up and walk away?" Easy. Oh it is so easy. That's why everyone in their lives do it. I could just walk away and it would be so, so easy. What keeps me here is this one simple fact: if I leave, then I am the evidence that change will never come. I will be proving that the power-status hour glass is simply glued too tight to the table to ever be flipped. After all, if I, this capable individual with privilege, education, and dedication can't keep my roots in the soil for even a lousy two years, then who will? Maybe a few superhuman, supercapable individuals, but this is not a job for the superhuman, supercapable few. For all their talent they won't get it done. I hear they're all tied up doing movies anyway. We need regular, capable humans, and a lot of them. So if I leave then either it's because I am a detestably selfish human being, or because humanity just won't ever get it done. This is not a false choice dilemma. Those are the two interpretations of my departure, should it hypothetically occur. I do not care for either.

But simply sticking around isn't enough either. At times, that's been my mindset this year. That I just need to stick around until it's over. I've let my attachments to this place wither because in the back of my head I keep telling myself I'll be gone soon and I can forget about all of this. But what I'm really forgetting is why I came out here. It certainly wasn't to complacently sit in idle until May comes and lands me a "Get out of jail free" card. As I said, last year I kind of sucked as a teacher. This year I could be good. Really, really good. The only problem is that it's going to take an industrious amount of work, something I'm more than capable of doing if only I'd disallow myself the sweet, sweet thoughts of things I'd rather be doing. Because there are a TON of things I'd rather be doing. Like seriously, I could write a romance novel on all of the things I would like to do right now. It would have Fabio backpacking through Prague on the front cover. But those aren't the things I NEED to be doing. What I need is to realize that this place is not some ephemeral way-point to be traveled and forgotten, but right now and in this moment my home, one deserving of my full diligence and ability. For all my jokes I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea, including myself. I may grumble, but I am humbled by the task.

Obsession

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 01:00:00 +0000

Have you ever been so consumed by an obsession that it begins to dictate who you are as a person, changes the way you act around your friends, and causes you to behave in ways you never would have thought conceivable? I've been stricken with a compulsion of this kind, one that I find, to my disgust, pervading my thoughts at every second, and like an obnoxious streaker at the Macy's Day Parade no matter how hard I try I can't look away. The identity of my obsession shall be revealed, right after this commercial break.

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Sorry about that. Gotta make money somehow. Anyways, I was talking about something. Oh yes! My mind-controlling obsession! No, it's not Paraslave. In fact it's almost the complete opposite. My obsession is: napping. I should clarify.

Napping is a process undergone by human beings when they experience high levels of fatigue during abnormal sleeping hours. Historians largely agree that the first napper was a peasant during the mid-1300's who, during a back-breaking day in the fields, saw a cat reclining idyllically on the corpse of a plague victim and thought to himself, "I wonder if I could do that?" Try as he might though, he was unable to die of plague. Days later, he again saw the cat and wondered if he could do that to ease his work-day woes. He lay down upon the diseased body, closed his eyes, and within minutes was fast asleep, all thanks to this serendipitous kitty (for this reason naps are often referred to as "cat-naps" or "pussy-sleep"). Since that day, napping has become a ubiquitous behavior in human culture, enjoyed most often by babies, the alzheimic elderly, or anyone enrolled in college.

Okay hopefully we're on the same page now. However I should point out that since I was once both a baby and a college student (not at the same time) I am no stranger to napping. In fact napping and I have a long, steamy history. But seeing as how I am no longer a college student (nor baby, though this has yet to be confirmed by doctors), I am technically not supposed to nap. I had no designs to rekindle the ashes of our salacious affair, but after a particularly draining day at school the other day I laid down on my couch and before I knew it I had inadvertently engaged in pussy-sleep. I have been unable to stop since. I find myself doing it everywhere, and if not doing it, then actively thinking about doing it. When I'm around friends, when I come home from school, even DURING school. Sometimes I hide underneath my desk and turn out the lights during my break so that I can nap without being caught.

True story.

It's beginning to control my life. I tried to find help, but after unsuccessfully searching for a local NN group (Nameless Nappers) I realized that I would have to take this on alone. It will be a bitter struggle, one of small triumphs punctuated by soul-defeating failures, but if I persevere, if I power forth with the determination of an egret and the will of a purple-spotted swallowtail, then there is no thing on hell or earth that could ever...

Sorry I fell asleep. Okay I'll allow myself just that last one. But from here on out, no more! It's on to better horizons my friends. Starting now, I set sail for the promising future with a ready mast and a steady breeze, a vast ocean of hope to carry me swiftly into a grand

Strong Finish!

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 03:34:00 +0000

Every so often I will go through my blog and re-read my old entries and stumble upon horrendous grammatical boo-boos that cause me to recoil in self-disgust. I can only imagine how you, the reader, must feel when stumbling upon those very same boo-babbies. For that I apologize. However, I can guarantee you that my ineptitude will continue to prevail so I can only ask that you—when stumbling upon said bib-boobies—recall that I was not classically trained in literature. In fact I've only been classically trained in two things: mathematics, and seduction. Unfortunately the latter is only with regard to range animals as part of an experimental anti-terror tactic, whereby one extracts the jihadist's schemes by first getting romantically involved with his flock. But that is neither here nor there.

There are those who know me only by my alias, Hugh Heifer.

Anyway, I've been giving a lot of thought as to what I'm going to do when my two-year commitment is over (which parades gloriously closer with each new passing day) and what I mean when I say this is that I have officially submitted my letter of intent to join the NBA draft. Don't laugh; despite my complete lack of basketball skills I think I have a good chance of sneaking in somewhere around the 5th round. At the very least I can probably bank on the Cavaliers taking me because A) They have zero hope now that Lebrozzle Jameson is gone and could use a fresh young black star such as myself (I submitted this personal photo in my letter of intent)—

I hope they don't dismiss me when they find out I don't wear briefs.

—and B) I'm attempting to con my way into the NBA; what could be more cavalier?

Okay let's be real that won't work. Anyway, I had a point to this. Didn't I? Crap, I didn't. I actually have a hard time coming up with "points", mostly because the majority of my weeks pan out the exact same way and leave me with absolutely no creative source to draw upon. There's a reason the paparazzi doesn't follow teachers around. Our lives are strikingly unglamorous and monotonous, and they adhere to the same repetitive cycles of mild hope mixed with crushing defeat, as exemplified by the graph below:

(Click to enlarge)

Obviously, I exaggerate. Sloppy Joe Thursdays are way more exciting but I ran out of space at the top. But I think you feel me. It's difficult squeezing a nugget of novelty out when you spend your Wednesday afternoons regurgitating pipe-cleaner and steamed peas. But that's the life I've elected to live, and troubles be what they may I made a commitment to this life and if there's one thing I don't ever do it's quit, except that one time I drunkenly tried to have relations with a stop sign, mistaking it for a lady of the night. (At first I just thought she was playing hard to get but I soon realized that her "stop" really did mean "stop"). Anyhow, so now I have no choice but to power forth, reinvigorating myself in whatever ways manageable/legal, and finishing strong with the heart of a champion. And if that doesn't strike awe in the hearts of Cavaliers coaches, then I'll just have to send more duplicates of this:

Purpose

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 04:30:00 +0000

What is the ultimate purpose of life? Like many, I have pondered this for years, coming up with answer after answer, only to have each and every one shot down by the anti-aircraft guns of philosophical quandry. Well, today I came up with THE answer. No, for real this time. And since I write all of my blog entries stream-of-conscious, I am now forced to come up with that answer. Okay here goes: the answer to our ultimate purpose in life is to shake and bake. Hmm. That was not what I was expecting.

But seriously, we all search for purpose in our lives, whether it be as bright-eyed college graduates contemplating their sweet beginnings, or as disillusioned middle-aged burnouts debating the wisdom of their life choices, or as, say, 24 year old middle school math teachers still wearing their pajamas at 7pm on a Sunday (originally put on at 4pm on Friday).


For real.

The thing I like about pajamas is that they force you to ask the imperative questions. You start by asking the obvious: Seriously, why have I not put on clothes yet this weekend? Then you're compelled to probe deeper: Is my lack of hygiene a cry for help? This prompts heightened queries of self-discovery: Am I or am I not a hobo trapped in a respectably-employed man's body? And finally, you arrive at the enlightened question: If I eat this moldy peanut off the ground will I die?

Probably.

So it's Sunday evening, and I'm asking these questions of absolute significance, but then I get tired and realize that all I really want to do is put an orgy of pizza in my mouth and watch football. Is this the action of a higher ape, of a species that has evolved from reckless mating and poking things with sticks to reckless mating and poking things with slightly more technologically advanced sticks? What if Einstein had sat around all day and watched football instead? Well, we would have probably developed nuclear footballs, which would be AWESOME, but we also probably would have never developed the A-bomb in time and this blog-post would be deleted by German censors. Kacke.


But now that we've won the war, let's get on this, science.

It seems the easy thing to do is just avoid the questions and watch football, because really, we can't be expected to think that much. We already have to make countless difficult decisions on a daily basis, for instance, whether we should buy lunch at Wendy's or at Taco Bell. Needless to say, our brains are tired. Is it really all that paramount to our existence to think about why we're stuffing an 8000 calorie burrito into our digestive tract? To what end, other than a BM capable of striking envy in a brontosaurus?


Dr. Sattler: Whatever dinosaur did this was clearly diseased. Dr. Grant: Oh no I dropped this about 4 hours ago.

There are competing philosophies on this matter. Some say to just enjoy the moment and let come what may; rationale is a needless complication. Others will tell you to divine a purpose and seek direction, for only then can you truly achieve fulfillment. I find myself compelled by both ideals. The former is an intoxicating liberation from responsibility, a responsibility that is perhaps contrived and not even necessary to bear. Why stress under the burden of Atlas when you can simply shake the weight of the world off your shoulders? But on the other hand, the people who find their purpose are the people who have passion. They get things done, they make the world go round, and at the end of the day they feel good about what they have accomplished. There are no half-baked ideas. Indeed, one could say that everything they do is fully baked. So who is the happier? For is not happiness that zenith to which we all aspire? Is it the weight-shakers, or the idea-bakers?

The question I ask (as prompted by my pajamas) is: need these two groups be mutually exclusive? We have such a habit of casting things into discrete categories that we leave no room for the overlap. Why not shake and bake? Personally, I rest content with the fact that I have no idea where I'll be one year from now, and in fact I find that rather exciting. But that is not to say that I am without my goals. I have lots of goals, such as putting on real clothes.

But not yet.

I think what we need is a careful blending of the two. Call it guided misguidance, or misguided guidance, however you want to slice it. We are not stick-poking chimps, but neither are we precision-tuned robots. Let us throw caution to the wind, so long as we have a general idea of its bearing. Let us fester in our pajamas, so long as we are asking questions. Let us shake-n'-bake. What more purpose does one need?

Why I Suck - A Happy Post

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 00:54:00 +0000

Today's post title I feel could have at least one bajillion reasonable answers, certainly no less than half a gagillion, but today I want to focus on one area in particular: Why I suck as a teacher.

I'm in my second year now and by all accounts I should be a savvy well-oiled professional in the classroom. Not so. I mean technically I am well-oiled but this is merely because I lather myself in bodybuilder grease at the beginning of each day so as to appear more muscular and fearsome to my eleven-year-olds. No but seriously, last year was largely defined by me running around the classroom like a headless chicken, constantly placing important papers in illogical places (i.e. trashcans), grabbing random objects in lieu of dry-erase markers (where did this hot dog come from? And why won't it write "x = 6" like I want it to?), and stuttering every time I try to say something profound or important. I thought that this year those things would be of the past. Not so. In fact, if the first few weeks are any indication I have accelerated my incompetence to soaring new levels, previously considered attainable only by the comatose and high-aptitude blocks of cheese.

What are the reasons for this? Why do I continue to flail about while my peers and coworkers cruise through year 2 with (relative) rhythmic ease? Well for one I am fairly convinced that my brain is a peanut. No, not the size of a peanut. An actual peanut which by freak accident developed mild cognitive abilities, just enough to keep me sliding under the radar until I landed a job that required me to do more than two things at once. If you want to be a good teacher you have to be able to do at least one bajillion things at once (certainly no less than half a gagillion). I am not capable of doing more than two things at once, much less half a gagillion. There's not much I can do about that; that's just biology. I rest comfortably with that excuse. But secondly and more discouragingly, I decided to take it easy last year. While my contemporaries were busy slaving away during their first year I boldly proclaimed "Ha! Lesson plans! I'll show you what I think of lesson plans!" and then proceeded to use my planning templates for various things around the house, such as: decorative origami swans, toilet paper, mattress padding, kindling for burning other lesson plans, etc.

I now rue the days. For now I'm essentially re-starting with nothing to build on but what little I can recall (refer to peanut-brain). Not only that, but my classes are far more challenging than they were last year. I have 40% more students, their academic status is mind-bogglingly low, and they make my delinquent ruffians of yore seem like Mr. Rogers on a gorilla tranquilizer. On top of it all I now know what a good teacher looks like (and I don't mean physically, though I like to imagine Brad Pitt in an argyle vest) and I really can't in good conscience teach the same sloppy way I did before. That's right, I'm making lesson plans, and though it is the proper thing it consumes my soul.

So here I am, flailing about, writhing with envy as my peers come home at the end of the day and have carefree banter while I crack under the titanic pressures of my perfectionism and sense of guilt. In a nutshell: it's going to be a tough year. Fortunately I can confidently bank on it eventually getting better because at some point last year I did start making lesson plans. If I remember correctly it was late May. No just kidding, I think I wrote one or two in February just to see what it felt like (death).

So where's the good in all this bad? After all, I did say this was a happy post. The good is that all this stress is unquestionably hastening my descent into Alzheimer's by at least 20 years. If I'm really lucky I will be senile come Christmas break, in which case I can totally look forward to shamelessly crapping my pants and thinking every relative at the dinner table is a mystical wizard.

Me: Gindalfa, cast me a mighty spell!
Gindalfa: Kyle, this is your mother.
Me: Lies! Prove yourself by changing my pants. I seem to have cast a wicked incantation of my own.
(Repressed sobs of loved ones)

Okay, so I exaggerate slightly, but I honestly do feel at times as though my clarity is slipping. The other day I was trying to take a vitamin during my lunch break. In front of me I had two things: the bottle of vitamins and a jug of water. My first attempt was a scarcely averted disaster as my arms tried to pour the water into the bottle of vitamins. My last properly functioning neuron must have shouted "NOOOO!" in a valiant death-rattle and impeded the catastrophe at the last second. But after his noble sacrifice it was just me and the peanut upstairs. And it was a tired peanut. I must have stood there for a solid 20 seconds trying to divine the correct process for getting the vitamin to go down my mouth. You'll be happy to know that I eventually got it, but the sheer difficulty was alarming.

Not every day is like this of course. Like everyone, I have my good days and bad days. On good days I'll come home and watch a happily diverting show on TV, or at least think I am until I realize two hours later that I never actually turned on the television. But this feel-good procrastination leads directly to bad days, whereby the successful tying of my shoes is considered a monumental victory and often goes down in my diary as the highlight of my day.

You may at this point be asking why I am blogging at all right now, what with my self-described mountain of labors to take care of, but to you I say "Avast ye wizard! Remove thy accusations, lest I cast my liberatus defecatus!" And by that I mean that if I did not take the time to do something that makes me feel like anything other than a set of friction-weary gears and cogs I would seriously lose my mind. And thus I close in peace, catharsis complete.

(Edit: apparently 'catharsis' has two definitions: the purging of emotions, and the purging of bowels. What a lovely coincidence!)

Survey

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 02:22:00 +0000

I just learned that my blog title is grammatically incorrect. Apparently, according to "scholars" with PhD's in "English", the word 'therein' is actually an adverb, so to say "TFA and the Life Therein" would be a dire mistake worthy of sixteen hundred floggings by gratuitously large dictionary. But I'm going to keep it as it is, because that's just how much of a badass I am. Also I injected at least three other grammatical errors into this paragraph just to further emphasize that I am a rebel. See if you can find, them!

The first week of school I gave my students a survey in order to get to know them better: their likes, their dislikes, their inclinations towards murder, etc. You know, the usual questions.


"What does this picture make you see?"

It's always important to get to know your students at the beginning of the year. This way if they ever get disruptive/go postal you already have the upper hand of knowing their deepest intimacies and can shout "Matthew, your favorite color is green. Uh, shit what now?" Matthew will then go around stabbing anything that isn't green, but cleverly you put on a green work shirt that very morning (green underpants too, just to be safe).

I only kid none of my students are murderers, unless we count intangible objects as allowable victims in which case every one of them has killed my will to live at least six times (the local police do not appreciate my crime reports)

Me: There's been a murder!!
Operator: Okay sir we need you to calm down. Where are you?
Me: In my house, drinking vodka.
Operator: Is this Mr. Guillet again?
Me: Yes.
*click*

Some of them did give me very interesting answers on their surveys though, and I do love to dote on my kids' razor sharp senses of humor. So without further ado, let's get to know my students. (For privacy purposes, all names have been replaced with famous rappers whose name starts with the same letter).

Question: What are you most proud of about yourself?

Being a boy.
-R. Kelly

We're off to a good start.

Question: What is the number one thing you would like to change about the world right now?

The HP oil spill.
-Master P

Either he's attempting to reference the catastrophic gulf oil disaster or his deskjet printer is causing some serious problems at home.

Go back to 1998.
-Sister Souljah

That being the year she was born, I can only assume that she still wishes she was a fetus. I moved her seating assignment into the storage shelves so she'd feel more like she was in a womb.

Question: What do you want to be when you grow up?

I would like to be in war (Iraq).
-Missy Elliot

I tried to help her pursue her dream, but apparently you can't enlist 11 year-old children in the Army. And now I have a "file" on me.

Question: What do teachers do that make it hard for you to learn?

Hit you.
-Timbaland

I hope he meant that hypothetically.

Question: Who would you like me to tell when you do something especially well?

Yes.
-Sweet Tee

This is awkward. Now I have to ask her if Yes is her Mom or her Dad. (Side note: Sweet Tee is the only female rapper I could find whose name starts with an 'S'. She is best known for her 1988 album, It's Tee Time.)

Well anyway, there were many other great responses, but I have enough papers to grade to fill a whale bladder and should probably don my grading toolbelt (complete with red pens, a calculator, and brightly colored stickers that say "You will never accomplish your dreams"). And in case I've made it appear otherwise, I really do love my kids. They make vodka taste so much better.

Week 1, Year 2, Should I Grow a Fu-Man-Chu?

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 18:49:00 +0000

I just wrapped up my first week back to teaching—the official kickoff of year 2 on the job. I was unsure for a while whether or not it would be my final year, but after this week, allow me to say that I am now sure. I actually played with the idea of leaving immediately, citing sudden onset of cancer, ebola, or perhaps some tropical degenerative disease as reason for departure. I even toyed with faking a pregnancy. To fill you in on the saucy goodness, I teach 3 double-hour classes, two of which I should mention are phenomenal and make me feel like I should be on the cover of a Wheaties box. But in the craft of teaching it just takes one horrendously behaved class to ruin the whole thing. It's kind of like when you're at a party and every person there is super cool, but then that guy—yeah you know that guy—he shows up and everybody starts making plans to covertly move the party somewhere else. My last 6th grade class is that guy.

"Okay Girls, group photo! Damnit Ted, what the fuck are you doing?"

"But Kyle, they're 6th graders. Don't be a fluffy-butt. What's the worst they can do?"

Oh I thought you'd never ask let me tell you. The first day of school, which is the money-in-the-bank day for teachers because students are guaranteed to be shy and still within their shells as they test the new middle school waters, these students barge—I'm talking Cosmo Kramer barge—into my room and act like it's a zoo, they're the animals, and I'm the guy who cleans their poop. One student in particular sent me into psychotic rage, mostly because he himself was literally psychotic. He kept giggling maniacally at everything, and it wasn't just some quiet repressed giggle so much as a bellowing cackle that seemed to feed off of its own noise through some demonic positive feedback loop. If I ignored him it would just grow louder on its own. If I told him to be quiet, then it really got loud. If I even made eye contact he would slacken his jaw to allow more volume to escape his windpipe. At one point, as if by miracle it began to die down, but then he fell out of his chair and at that point any semblance of control was forever lost and gone.

The rest of the class wasn't really any better. One student decided he would like to be a human earthquake, shake uncontrollably, and at random intervals scream "YEEEAAAHHH!!!!"; another pair decided to their endless amusement to swap names just to make me look like an idiot; still another thought "work time" meant "arm wrestle immediately"; and one student had good intentions but asked a question every five seconds and I almost wished he would just put his hand down and cackle maniacally instead. At least then we'd have a chorus.

I think I got more mad at this class on the first day than I did at any other through all of last year. And I had some gnarly days last year. To give you an idea of just how much rage they induced in me I have created the following chart:

(Click to enlarge)

The rest of the week I was slightly more prepared to handle the brouhaha, but every day is a test of willpower and it is entirely possible that this class is an envoy from Satan sent to collect my soul for some unpaid debt. I frequently get devious thoughts in my head and think "Oh my, that might get me fired." But then I get struck by this piercing ray of hope and think "Oh my, maybe that will get me fired!" And I wouldn't even have to fake a tropical disease! The bad part is that usually the things I think of I'm not actually willing to do. In fact it's actually quite difficult to think of things that are both within my conscience and capable of getting me canned, as exemplified by the diagram below.

(Click to enlarge)

I guess one idea meets both criteria, but I wouldn't call it a clear winner. Failing its execution I'll either need to get diseased/pregnant quick or bank on Yahoo! Answers to solve all my problems:

Establishing authority
(Despite my amusement I sometimes feel bad for the people who take my questions seriously)

Notes

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 06:11:00 +0000

- Tomorrow is our first day back to work. We aren't doing any teaching yet, thank goodness, but I have to wake up super early. I don't like waking up super early. I think one of my ancestors must have been a bat because I am fairly certain that I'm a nocturnal species. I spent the entire summer sleeping the day away and going out at night to party and eat bugs.

- I talked to my mom recently and she asked me if I was happy. I said "Sure," to which she responded "I will always love you, even if you decide to get a boyfriend." So that was my mom's way of telling me that after 23 years, she still thinks I might be gay. Awesome. Maybe she knows something I don't and that ancestor was a fruit bat.

- In an attempt to eat healthier this year I went to the store and bought a lot of hummus. Supposedly it's good for you, and I figured it would make a good substitution for pretty much anything I've been putting into my tortillas. What no one told me is that hummus is crack-cocaine. Within hours of purchasing it I had devoured both of the tubs I bought, without tortillas. I just ate straight hummus. I'm still waiting to see if I turn into a garbanzo bean, which I think would be awesome. I bet garbanzo beans know how to have a good time. That's why hummus tastes so good, because it's full of beans that like to party.

- I finally have my own house to live in this year (for the casual reader, I lived in a friend's living room all of last year due to lack of reservation housing), and I must admit I am enjoying the privacy. I don't wear pants and I cry openly a lot more. The two are not related, but sometimes they are.

- I thought I wrote a really great song this summer that could have potentially earned me millions of dollars, but then I realized there was a tragic mistake. Here were the lyrics to the chorus:

♪ I think about you all the time,

Your mind is always on my mind,

Girl you got me tied in chains.

So call me Mr. Cuckatoo,

Cause when I am with you,

Girl I got birds for brains. ♪

It was going to be a duet and then the girl would sing the exact same lyrics except replacing "Girl" with "Boy" and "Mr." with "Mrs." I got really excited about a Tim McGraw/Gwyn Stefani power-duo until I realized that a cuckatoo is not a bird. I had combined cockatoo and cuckoo-clock. I have never felt so defeated in my life.

- I went for a jog today to try and get back into shape. What I forgot is that the elevation here is 7,000 feet higher than it was back home. It felt like there was an elephant on my back. Which is ridiculous, because there are zero elephants in New Mexico. I looked behind me just to check and see. As it turns out it was a bighorn sheep. "That's what I thought," I muttered, and carried the sheep into the mountains.

- I have to wake up in 6 hours so I should probably go to sleep. It's really hot in my place because we don't have A/C out here, so I have to turn on an electric fan. I always make sure to sleep directly facing the fan so that if anyone breaks in during the middle of the night they'll see me and I'll look like I'm in one of those breezy photoshoots. I'm not sure what this accomplishes, but if they're going to kill me at least I'll die in style.

How To Be An Effective Planner

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 06:23:00 +0000

Planning for the new year is always an exciting time. I personally like to get very comfortable before I start my planning. I begin by preparing myself a cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice, then get in the mood by playing an appropriate set of songs on my iTunes home entertainment software. I typically prefer something from the jazz or swing era, but death metal is fine. T-shirts are not allowed when I'm in the plan-zone as it's very hard for my nipples to percolate when they're being shielded by a layer of cotton. Percolated nipples are the single most important factor in setting an effective planning mood, and if ever the nipples begin to de-percolate it is necessary to stop whatever I am doing and gently flick them back and forth until I am once again at full mast. You might think that this sounds strange but I like to think of my areolas as antennae that receive packets of ambient chi energy. To keep things feng shui I make sure to always face my antennae in a westerly direction.

Once I'm feeling nice and situated, it is time to begin. I ask myself good, solid starting questions like "What is Lindsay Lohan up to today?" or "Who got kicked off of last night's episode of The Bachelor?" Once I've figured out these answers my mind is warmed up and ready for Phase 2. Phase 2 is usually a game of Text Twist but is sometimes substituted for porn depending on whether or not I am alone. Completing Phase 2 ensures optimally activated brainpower for the initiation of Phase 3. Phase 3 is a nap. This can take anywhere between 1 and 6 hours. After my nap I watch an episode of Iron Chef while I allow my eyes to completely re-open, as it is a known fact that one cannot do a bit of planning with closed eyes. This usually gets me pretty hungry, so I decide to be my own Iron Chef and create a dish in the kitchen. I select my theme ingredient by putting a blindfold on and reaching into the fridge, and choosing whatever I happen to grab. Usually I just throw my theme ingredient into a tortilla and call it a day. It sucks when I grab a tortilla, because then I'm just eating a double tortilla, but that's the wild danger of playing Iron Chef. The possibility never fails to give me a rush.

My mom always tells me to wait 30 minutes after I eat before doing any activity so that I don't get any cramps, so I typically fill this time by either checking Facebook or staring at a wall and massaging my abdomen. At this point I'm starting to get a little antsy about having enough time to come up with an effective plan-jam, but I can't afford to worry because fear is the mind-killer. I relax my nerves by taking a bath. My body is feeling really good now so I know I'm going to get a lot of productive work done. I sit down at my desk and strap ice-packs to my nipples to ensure long-term percolation. I open my planning notebooks and assess the situation. The sheer volume of work that I need to do provokes massive hyperventilation, but fortunately my ice packs counter the quickened breathing by slowing my circulation to dangerous levels and I recover within the hour. I boldly refocus myself on the large task at hand and begin to plan a lesson. I write down "INM", a clever acronym I came up with that stands for "Introduction to New Material". I pause for several moments and applaud my own genius. Then I begin by listing Key Points to the day's lesson. A typical rough draft of Key Points looks something like this:

The denominator of a fraction is always the number on the bottom.
Denominators like it on the bottom.
You wouldn't think that, because denominator sounds like dominator and one would assume that a dominator would impose its power from the top.
Unless it was a power-bottom.
I wonder if I would be a power-bottom?

At this point I realize that my mind has wandered inappropriately and I scrap the whole thing. Fatigued, and having had a long day, I look at the clock. It's usually past 8pm by now and I am straight-up cruising through bedtime. I make a final note in my planning books indicating where I left off and sneak into my favorite pair of Disney-themed pajama pants (A tough call between The Loin King and Pajama Montana). Finally, I brush my teeth, hit the bed, and slip peacefully into slumber after one last hearty game of Text Twist.*

* Porn.

Answers

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 16:30:00 +0000

Concerning my last post, I am now feeling much better after a good night's rest but am still very mad at my tonsils for making me sick. They do it all the time, they get all inflamed and stuff and then comes the fever and body aches and delirium. I was talking with a friend and decided that it's about time I removed my tonsils, however I don't have much money for surgery so I decided to take it upon myself. She told me that the first thing I would need to do of course is knock myself out, however I wasn't sure of the best way to do that so I turned to the world's greatest source of information, Yahoo! Answers.

My Question

With the exception of "Google Face", people were not very helpful and altogether sassy. I now need to go find some dry ice.

UPDATE: More Yahoo! Answers fun.

Spoiled Meat

Keys

I Got A Feevah

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 06:08:00 +0000

Aye! I found it! I'm so sorry my laddies for the lack of upadtes, but I put my blog down a couple weeks ago and completely forgot where I placed it. All I could do was stand back and watch my readership plummet exponentially to zero. We are now back to just me, my mom, and a cool cat I met on the town last weekend. His name was Whiskers. Hey Whiskers! Mreoww! -- inside joke, he knows what it means.

So right now I am in the midst of a fever delirium, whereby my body pumps massive amounts of energies into its immune response, leaving the rest of it to sort of hang out and do its own thing. This includes the brain. It's kind of a radical feeling, so I thought I would capitalize on the opportunity and write a blogpost under the influence.

Unfortunately I don't have much to talk about, although two seconds ago I did come up with a name for the coolest creature to walk the earth, Ostelomegatops. I hope they find a dinosaur like 8 times the size of a brontosaurus and call it Ostelomegatops. Or Fred.

In two weeks I journey back to Mecca and resume my position as educator and role-model. It's a strange feeling, after inhabiting the summer as a complete good-for-nothing, or as my parents call me, "a destroyer of oxygen". I had hoped to spend the summer finding my talents and discovering my future, as I wrote in a post a couple months back, but as it turns out I just drank a lot of soda and played Nintendo instead. But the season wasn't entirely fruitless as I just now came up with Ostelomegatops, which when it is discovered will reap me all sorts of worldwide fame. My browser's spell-check is telling me that Ostelomegatops is not a word, but I know better.

Pardon me while I down a few liquigel painkillers. Damn you, spell-checker, liquigel is a word. It's right here on the bottle. Right next to "Take 2 pills every 4 to 6 hours," which of course I always ignore and just hold the bottle over my mouth until I can't hear it rattle anymore. That's if I can undo the child safety mechanism of course. Thankfully this bottle of Advil is no Fort Knox, unlike my Flintstone vitamins.

What were we talking about? Space-chimps? I think space-chimps are pretty cool, but space-bonobos are a lot cooler. They're basically the same as the chimps except they do it a lot more. In space. Don't you ever wonder what that would be like? I mean according to Newton's laws of motion every action has an equal and opposite reaction, so I'm pretty sure that with every pelvic thrust you would just fly apart from each other. You could probably tie yourselves together but then things get kinky and besides I have an irrational fear of twine. I hope science is thinking about this. Did you know that bonobos penis-fence? For real, they hang from trees and joust with their penises. I wonder if anyone has tried that in space. I bet the Russians do it all the time.

I'm starting to get sweaty. I don't know if it's the fever or because I was thinking about doing it in space. I always get sweaty when I think about that. Or geese. Migratory, of course. Are there any geese that aren't migratory? I thought all of them flew south for the winter. Maybe there's an angsty group of geese that say "Fuck you, you don't get me! I'm staying here for the winter!" and then put on My Chemical Romance as they honk at one another. Then freeze to death because Canada gets pretty cold. I don't understand why people are so happy up there. It's too cold. If I were them I would hibernate like a bear. Although that would be a bad career move, as I would have to tell my interviewers "Why yes, March through October I worked as senior designer at Ambitech, then I hibernated for four months, and if I may be frank I'm still a bit groggy and could really go for some honey" and I don't imagine it would give me the edge. Speaking of the edge, did you ever see that movie The Edge with Alec Baldwin, Anthony Hopkins, and that black dude from Lost? It was about bears. The black dude got eaten. It must suck to be black and in a movie. If I were black and in a movie I would jump on top of a white person's back, that way I would know that I'd be safe or at least take one of them down with me.

I kind of want to keep writing but I think I might start discovering important secrets of the universe if I go on at this rate so I will adjourn and wish you all a very good night. Keep an eye out for dinosaur bones, you might be standing over Ostelomegatops and not even know it.

Insomni-act

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 13:03:00 +0000

I haven't updated in a while. This blog is silly. Speaking of silly, it's 7:30am right now and I didn't go to bed last night. Why did I stay up all night? Let's make this multiple choice:

A) I was listening to covers of Bryan Adams's "Heaven" on infinite repeat while embracing my pillow and pretending it was Shakira (Shakira).
B) I accidentally ate a fermented peach as a late night snack and was suddenly compelled to hallucinate at a wall for 8 hours.
C) I was jazzercising.
D) I tried to wikipedia "poontang" but the closest thing I could find was "poon tree", which I of course clicked on and proceeded to article hop until hours later I found myself on the page for the "blood-testis barrier"and realized that the sun was up.

Sadly, the correct answer is one of these four. Such is the glamorous lifestyle I inhabit.

I just thought of some things that were really funny to me but then my brain shut down and I can't remember what they were.

Wait wait I remember one: The Sleeping Baguette. It's an invention I thought of. Basically it's a sleeping bag made of baguettes. You crawl inside for the night, and in the morning when you wake up you eat your way out. Food and shelter. Pure genius. I just hope NASA doesn't steal it. Does NASA even read my blog? Probably.

Prose can't adequately express my fatigue right now, so I will have to resort to the high art of poetry, in the form of a haiku:

Too tired now to type

Brain failing like gulf oil well

Goodnight, my bitches.

I will probably delete this post once I get some sleep.

Paging Dr. Pete

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 08:05:00 +0000

I just spontaneously took a 10 mile jog at one o'clock in the morning. Well it was supposed to be 10 miles. As it turns out my knee had other plans and kamikazeed itself merely 2 miles in. I've had problems with my knee in the past, but it had been so good recently that I thought we were friends again and I trusted it to support me. During the first two miles everything was fine, and then, mid-jog:

Me: You know, I'm so glad we're back to being friends again.
Knee: Herro yes I rike friends...
Me: There's just so much we can do together now, like long hikes, hard games of football, and like now, jogging!
Knee: Oh why yes I rove to jog...
Me: I'm really looking forward to our exciting futu—
Knee: Most honorable suicide!!!

As if miraculously transforming into a sack of potatoes I fell to the ground to the sound of nothing but the small creak in my knee, which I swear sounded like maniacal laughter. Fortunately it was about 1:30 in the morning and there was no one there to see me do it, so I hoisted myself back up and gingerly walked home.

By all accounts I should probably see a doctor about my lingering condition, but I'm quite wary of doctors. Not because I make less than $30,000 a year (although that is a stellar reason), but because I don't trust anyone who knows more about something than I do. How do you know that when they're hitting you with those mallets it's not just to fuck with you? Hell, that's what I would do. "Come on in Mr. Johnson. Please take off your shirt and get comfortable, I'm going to hit your nipples with this hammer here for several minutes. No, I just want you to breathe deeply and if you feel like you need to, let out a soft moan. Quite the contrary, this has everything to do with your irritable bowels."

The point being is that knowledge is power, and I don't want anyone having the upper hand on me when I'm wounded and vulnerable. For this reason I have all medical procedures done by homeless people. They may not know much about medicine, but you'd be surprised how astute they can be in their diagnoses. Hobos have seen it all. When I suddenly fell ill one night about the town they got it right away. Well, the first person told me I was pregnant with Space Godzilla, but the second had it spot on. Handsome Pete was his name. He's the guy who hangs out by the Piano Bar and puts shrapnel up his nose for nickels. He is anything but handsome. Anyway, I went right up to him, sensing he had a touch of the clairvoyant as he snugged a used M16 cartridge up his left nostril, and asked him to help me. "Did you eat any a' 'em Hot Pockets today?" he asked. I nodded yes. "Was it in theh trash?" Thinking back, I shamefully nodded in the affirmative once more. "You cain't eat dem trashed Hot Pockets, mahboy. JammyB tried dat last week and nurly threwd up her ov'ries! If it older dan six hours you gost to leave it be. Quicky, eat dis and you be fine." He held out a finger that was covered in some dark, viscous fluid that looked curiously like melted chocolate from the pavement (it was). I was a bit disgusted, but I wasn't about to second-guess his prescription. I ate it right off his finger and, immediately, barfed everywhere. Spectacularly, I felt much better! Now if I had seen a doctor for that service it would have cost me at least $50. This cost me a nickel (two if you count the one I gave him for the M16 cartridge). Pardon me for cutting the superfluous, but I think I'll keep my business to the streets.

So it looks like I'll have Handsome Pete take a look at my knee. Maybe he can find a way to quell its little rebellions and ritual suicides while I run. I sure hope so, because out on the reservation there aren't too many ways of staying in shape other than running, or some form of legular motion (legular isn't a word, but just roll with me here). Technically there is a lake that I could swim in, but it is called Red Lake, and aptly so. Kind of like an aqueous mood ring it changes shades throughout the day, but it always maintains its rusty tint and from what I hear if you dip an appendage in it it will dissolve within seconds. So I'm putting my money on Pete to get me taken care of before Fall. Otherwise, it's off to an expensive session with Dr. McDouchenMallet and I will not be held accountable if I curtly demand he tap my nipples. Or if I spontaneously give birth to Space Godzilla.

Stir-Crazy

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 06:51:00 +0000

School has passed, mandatory snow-day makeups have passed, co-teachers have left and passed, and I am still here on the rez. Why would I do that? Primarily because it is absolutely beautiful out here and I wanted a few days to enjoy the scenery, do some formidable hikes, and spend some time with #1 (myself, not my pee). I'm a few days in now and I think I may have spent a little too much time with myself. I'm startin to get the crazies, methinks.

It started the other day when I decided to camp on top of the local mountain, Mt. Fuzzy. I have no idea why it is called Mt. Fuzzy as it is neither fuzzy nor particularly mountainous—it's only about an hour and a half's hike to the summit. Nonetheless I gathered my newly purchased camping gear, eager to give it a trial run, and meandered myself to the peak. Along the way I saw an elk, or rather it saw me, and we both scared the living #2 out of each other (this time I am referring to bodily functions). It bolted into the brush and I stood in awe of its massive antlers and even more gargantuan behind, which it displayed to me in the midst of its escape. If you have never seen an elk in person, those animals have junk in the trizzunk (Fergie actually wrote My Humps from the viewpoint of an elk). I counted my blessings that it ran in the direction that it did, and continued on.

When I got to the apex, I found a nice campground and did the usual things: I set up my tent, built a fire-pit, and jubilantly performed the Full Monty to my audience of zero. Or so I thought. For as twilight slipped and all to be seen was the flickering of the flames before my face, a loud, obnoxious snort could be heard in the near proximity. Alone and having left my night-vision goggles at home, I was afeared. Whatever it was, it trounced about in the brush, and then emitted another snort, even louder than the first. I gripped my tiny, two-inch blade I had brought along for protection and wondered what the largest animal I would be capable of taking in a fight would be. My estimations landed somewhere around the realm of a turkey. And this was no turkey. Assuming it could see me, I stood tall and flexed my biceps so as to increase the apparent size of my body. Fortunately it worked. Either out of fear or sympathy for a clearly enfeebled creature, the animal left and was not heard of again. But it was enough to put me on edge for the rest of the night. I kept to my fire for some time, but most of it was spent imagining packs of wolves attacking me or worse, a desperate struggle with a turkey. I told myself I'd wait for the stars to come all the way out, and then I would retreat into my tent. So that is what I did, and brilliant the stars were. The "milk" of the Milky Way spilled itself into the night sky for me to see, and I thought briefly of our galaxy being a lactating boob. Then I went inside. But even in my tent I was wary. The sound of my rainfly in the wind mimicked footsteps about my camp, and every 5 minutes I wondered if the elk had returned for vengeance or, perhaps, some creature of undiscovered taxonomy was traipsing about my camp, ready at any second to reveal its hitherto-unknown terrors. My imagination got the best of me. Worst of all I'd been watching a lot of Lost lately (I just started the first season not 5 days ago, watching about 4 episodes a day) and I pictured myself as characters on the show making dramatic dialogue.

Me, as Charlie: Just what in the hell is out there??
Me, as Jack: Damnit Charlie, I don't know! But whatever it is, it didn't come for the company...
Ominous music, cut to commercial break.

I think this is about where my insanity begins. I made it through the night with nothing worse than a cold sleep and a bad dream about Regis Philbin being my grandmother, then packed my stuff and wandered back down the mountain. I was done camping, but I was still locked in isolation. All my neighbors had left and I wasn't set to go for still another 3 days. I decided that watching more episodes of Lost would probably be a poor decision for my state of mind, so I took up other activities. I cleaned a little, practiced my juggling, and then contemplated whether or not I would have any friends left if I became skilled at juggling. This prompted me to take up another, more image-enhancing activity: knife-throwing. Except I didn't have any good throwing knives. Apparently their weight needs to be centered between the blade and hilt, and none of the available kitchen knives fit that bill. Also was the issue of where to throw the knives. My teacherage is directly next to the elementary school playground, and it is impossible to go outside without seeing a metric gaggle of my students. Clearly it would not be a good idea for them to see their teacher fanatically hurling sharp blades into wood while ripping his shirt and screaming "I AM THE MOST POWERFUL HUMAN ALIVE!!!" So naturally, I decided the best idea would be to throw them inside. And what better to use as a target than my bedroom wall? You can see where my lucidity is slipping. I grabbed a knife, stood a respectable 15 feet away, and with a valiant force threw it full speed into the wall. It missed by about 5 feet, hit the bookshelf and exploded. A logical man would call it quits right then and there and declare the whole thing a bad idea. But at this point I am not being a logical man. I grabbed another knife and repeated my efforts. This time, as if by magic, it overrotated, hit the wall at the hilt, and exploded.

I contemplated grabbing a third knife when my cell-phone rang. I crossed my fingers that it was the producer of Glee calling to tell me that he had bugged my house and heard me singing in the shower, prompting an invite to be the new male lead with a romantic role opposite mega-hottie Quinn Fabray. But it was just my mom. She asked how I was doing and I replied, "Pineapple." She kindly recommended I take some Tylenol PM and get some sleep, and I said "My God you're right, Chewbacca" and hung up the phone. At this point I started categorizing pieces of furniture based on digestability and was displeased to find that oven coils are surprisingly lacking in fiber. Still with a few hours in the night left to kill, I decided to cap the day by blogging about my recent exploits, but I found that what I wrote started out truthful but became increasingly fictitious and stupid. I blame any absurdities on the stir-crazies.

Things I Hate

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 20:38:00 +0000

I'm in my classroom right now—not because I have any lingering attachments to it but because we are doing our required snow-day makeups whereby the teachers come to school and do nothing for 8 hours—and I am bored off of my buttocks. Which is a great excuse to blogginate. As I was sitting here, thinking about how much I hate sitting here, I wondered to myself, "What other things do I hate?" So I came up with a list.

Things I hate:

1.) Men whose beards are cleaner than they are. This can be upsetting in two ways. Either your beard is extremely clean, or you are absolutely filthy. As to the former, a man's beard should never be clean. Your beard is the essence of your ruggedness, and if you're busy combing, treating, or coloring your essence, you might as well shave the whole thing off and strap a french poodle to your chin. Or a vajay-jay. Yeah, I said it.

Suave, yet emasculating.

If it's the case that you are simply that filthy, well then I mean you just need to bathe. Beards are like sponges for filth though so I don't know how you would become dirtier than your beard, unless you were rummaging around in a dumpster while wearing a beard-net.

2.) Waking up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. No, not Ke$ha's #1 hit song; I secretly like that song. What I hate is literally feeling like P. Diddy when I wake up. That guy's a douchebag. It ruins my whole day.

3.) YouTube arguments. Nowhere else in the world will you find a higher concentration of illiteracy, irrelevence, logical fallacies, or unwanted plugs for crap music that will never make it. Nothing puts the suck in my day like when I'm watching a delightful live performance of Kenny G and I look below to see this:

SmallNSillyGurl: idc wut u think, lady gaga is an artist!!!! she is more talented then u will evr b!!
MastaCummer32: yea yea fuck u bitch. The apaculips is comin! JESUS is fake! Hey check out my rhyyyymes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9JElvxpFeg

Not only did none of that have anything to do with Kenny G's exhilarating mastery of the saxophone, it made no sense with respect to anything and I have no idea how it even got posted on that video.

4.) Butt-hair. Proof that there is a God and He hates us. Don't even try to tell me that having anal locks was somehow evolutionarily advantageous. Someone way up high was thinking, "Mankind will one day learn to clone himself and invent pizza-bagels. How can I keep him humble? Ah, yes. Butt-hair." (I have a similar theory for the existence of cankles.)

5.) Getting out of showers on a cold day. Who in their right mind would ever willingly go from a warm, moist paradise into a freezing arctic tundra? Even if your house is heated, those fucking bathroom tiles still find a way to maintain sub-zero temperatures. It's like being exiled into a concentration camp every single morning. You stay in the shower for as long as you can, refusing to admit that at some point you have to leave. Then the hot water starts to go, and for five minutes it is a desperate opportunity-cost analysis. Logic tells you to leave before the water gets lukewarm, but like a fool you hold on until bitter the end, your shower water now even colder than the outside air. Stripped of hope you give up, miserable and defeated, and step into the frigid bathroom air more disgruntled than when you came in.

If you listen closely you can hear them conspiring.

This list could continue, but I have successfully killed the rest of the day so I am no longer angry. I'm goin home!

The End Is Here! Kind Of.

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Fri, 28 May 2010 20:37:00 +0000

Oh, hey blog. I don't know if you know this or not, but I am done with year 1 of teaching. Like done. Finito. La fin. Acta est fabula. Does it feel good? Yes, in many ways. There are but two things holding me back, in fact, from pure and total bliss. One of those things would be the distant but ever looming cloud of August, which stares at me with eyes of peril from 3 months away. But I am safe enough from its gaze to lark for now, much like Frodo and crew larked with joy whilst in Rivendell, still far from the evil Eye of Mordor. NERD REFERENCE! Ahem. The other thing would be the idea that my future is still very much in the fist of a whimsical vapor. When August comes, and goes, as do September through May, what then shall my fate portend? To put it philosophically: I haven't the fucking foggiest.

I think I could easily find myself as that jaded geriatric pedagogical tale who said, "Yeah, I'll do this for a while," but just ended up sticking around and never went for the bigger dream. Trouble is, I don't know what that bigger dream is. I mean strictly speaking my dream is to bed with Penelope Cruz in a Spanish country manor, but let's be real. After so many rejection letters you have to get rational about things. I wouldn't say I have any great talent, unless you count an uncanny ability to consume tortillas as a marketable act, but even then, would the fame and fortune be worth the price of my diabetes? Possibly, but not worth the gamble.

So I'm stuck in this disconcerting rut. The summer, while intended to be a limitless playground for my merry escapades, actually ought to be spent in deep consideration of how to solidify my peskily fluid future. For if a cerebral consensus is not reached, then school will start again and months will slowly pass each by each, until at last May has come once more and I am still without a clue, borderline penniless and in need of a reliable check. And so I'll say, "Yes, I will be back for another year. You know, until I figure out what I would like to do." In which case bring on the the special-formula Depends, because I'll be in this gig until my sphincter gives way to time and dust.

And so I hope to spend much of this summer dreaming. Mostly about Penelope and our country manor, but some too about potential futures. Perhaps I will make blogantries in times of lesser care for shit that matters, and perhaps I will bury myself into wilderness, divining my inspirations from the smells of pristine pines and ungulate dung. The latter case implying that I won't update much, what with my nose preoccupied with a fresh mound of pony poop. But I don't think I could handle an entire season of seriousness, so I'd put my guess on a hearty combination of both. For after all, laughter if not loosed converts to cynicism.

And you know, maybe teaching is my bigger dream, and I have half-wittingly reached my destination. I'd like to think there's more out there to explore and do—reasonably so—but perhaps it will all wind back to here. There's something about this job that gives me an affirmation of the conscience, of the soul, and I imagine that's a rare thing to find. My perspective of the world is one of resounding silliness but also mass injustice, myself the mighty white king of unfair birth (not that I am particularly mighty/kingly... which aids my point nicely), and I may very well end up proving myself wrong a few years from now but I don't think that I could comfortably rest if the majority of my time was spent pursuing further self-advancement. I may at times loathe my position with a shudder and a girly squeal, but morality has not asked me of my disposition. And I feel most comfortable treading in its path. Well, unless I'm looking at porn. Or breaking traffic laws. Or coveting my neighbor's donkey. Whatever, fuck it.

Big thoughts on near horizons. Have a hot summer, peepy-pappies.

One Crazy Night

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 17 May 2010 14:51:00 +0000

I'm currently bogged down with the last few days of teaching (2 weeeeks my cheese-biscuits!), so this week's update shall be a short story I wrote many moons ago. It has action, romance, mystery, and bearded homeless people. It's a kinda long, so go to facebook if you don't have a few minutes. But then you would be lame.

_______________________________________

One crazy night a while back I had a fabulous dream where I was lathered up in canola oil, doing a crossword puzzle in the kitchen. Just then, I saw the silhouette of a nude body walking slowly down the stairs. Inexplicably excited, I held my breath as this phantom beauty tiptoed closer towards the light. Whoever it was, they approached slowly with delicate maneuvers, calmly taking each stair with erotic poise. As the vixen moved forward and the overhanging lamp shed its beacons upon my mystery lover, as each skin cell became apparent beneath the glistening light, I grew more and more enchanted. Then I realized it was my brother.

"Damnit dude, why are you ruining my dream!" I shouted with fury.

He immediately shrieked and exclaimed, "Sweet gorilla's chest you scared the crap out of me. I thought you were asleep!" He deftly grabbed the nearest linen and covered his exposed bodice. "And you're not dreaming, it's Saturday night" he said. He took a long pause, and then stared skeptically at me before asking, "Why are you lathered in canola oil?"

I didn't have much to say for myself, because quite frankly I didn't know. A barrage of questions soon flooded into my head. If I'm not dreaming, then how did I get here and how did this happen? And what in God's name was I doing a crossword puzzle in canola oil for? I glanced at the unfinished grid, and then a blurb in the margins caught my attention. It was a poem, elegantly crafted with fine red ink that smelt of raspberries and penicillin. It read:

I love the way you spoon and nuzzle,
You complete me like a crossword puzzle,
Together, you and I are 2 Down,
The way that we elope is world renown,
And in the sac we gaily toss,
You fill me with your 8 Across.

I was disgusted. Clearly there was only one answer: I'd been drugged. There was no telling what had happened in my lapse of memory, but one thing was for certain: my brother had a hand in this. He and I had been the only two in the house for the past three days. Nothing could have happened without him knowing. I grabbed the crossword and hoisted it into his view. "What do you know about this!?" He eyed it carefully and then laughed.

"I don't know man, but someone thinks you're well endowed."

"This isn't funny," I remarked. "What happened to me last night?"

"How should I know? You left at like 8:30 for that Malibu Barbie collection party."

Suddenly a storm of memories came rushing into my cerebrum. "Oh. Right."

"Got pretty wild I take it?" he said with a snicker.

"Shutup," I shot back. "By the way I can still see your giblets." He quickly re-covered himself with the cloth and then ran upstairs to put on more. I thought back about the party. My mind felt like a movie reel that had been doused in hydrochloric acid. I remembered only fragments, little spurts of what had happened. I remember someone there had a finer collection than I did. I got jealous, to the point of anger. I remember going for the keg to drink my emotions away, filling my pink dixie cup only to empty it into my bowels, over and over again. After that things got hazy, but I recall meeting a guy named Boberto much later. His name was ringing like a thousand bells in my head; he must have had something to do with what happened to me. But I was lost, confused, and bewildered. How would I find the means to get in touch with this Boberto? I didn't know his phone number, his address, what he looked like, who his mother was, the last person he'd slept with, nothing. I knew nothing about this man. I put my chin in my hands and pondered hard. As I did so, I couldn't help but accidentally get some canola in my mouth. It tasted good. Real good. I licked myself a little more, immersed in the ferocious deliciousness of oil and ink. Ink? Gross. I took my hand out from my tonsils and was shocked at what I saw. Written in fine ballpoint pin was a list of information concerning Boberto. His telephone number, address, a full portrait of his face, the name of his mother, and the last three people he'd slept with, marked with a wink.

I knew what I had to do. I picked up the phone and dialed the digits, my fingers shaking like an epileptic who's just had a doubleshot of caffeine and crack. A voice answered. "Ello?"

I gave the sturdiest voice I could. "Hello Boberto? It's me, Nare, from the party last night."

"Ohh my barbie friend!"

"Don't call me that."

"Que pasa amigo? I hope you had a good time last night; I know I did!"

"Yeah about that Boberto, I wanted to ask you..."

"Hold on, I've got another call. It's probably my parole officer—I be right back, I promise."

Dial tone. Something very fishy was going on. The oven made a sudden buzz. My fishsticks were done. I got some ranch dip out and nibbled on a few. Then I called Boberto again. This time I was answered by a strange voice.

"Moshi moshi!"

"Hello? Is Boberto there?"

"You want the Boberto Steamer? That twenty dollars. Where you live? I come to you."

"No, no, I want Boberto. Not a... steamer, just Boberto. Where is he?"

"I don't knoow, but I can show you good theng for long time!"

"I just want Boberto."

"I make it fifteen dollars."

"I'm hanging up." I didn't. "When can you be here?"

--------------------

I woke up in a crotchless unitard strapped to a bed made of bamboo and spandex. Not again. Boberto's information was still written on my hand, only slightly smudged. I must have misdialed the second time last night. I would call him later. First, I needed to get out of here. I wasn't even going to ask what happened. I was pretty sure I already knew, and that I could no longer truthfully say I've never had a Boberto Steamer.

The rope was tied so taut it burned. I was virtually incapable of any movement whatsoever. I couldn't help but think desperately, where was MacGyver when you needed him? Just then MacGyver walked in. He pulled out of his pocket two swedish thongs, a spatula, and a frosted mini-wheat. He ate the mini-wheat and then meticulously built four bombs with the spatula and thongs, setting each one to the bamboo posts where my rope was tied. The entire time he hadn't said a word. He set the fuses by rubbing the bed's spandex together. The bombs exploded, my ropes came undone, and then he said with a smile, "Now that's how you pull a fuckin' MacGyver." Chuck Norris then came in on a horse and they rode off into the sunset together.

I would have shat my unitard right then and there but a japanese woman immediately entered. She was gorgeous, but seductively hostile. "Are you trying to escape?" She inquired. It sounded like the woman I talked to last night. "You leave so soon. Please stay a little longer." She pulled out two throwing daggers from her kimono and eyed me sexily. I began to doubt if my unitard was originally crotchless. Outweaponed and slightly seduced, there was little I could do. Perhaps, I thought, if I seduced her I could gain the upper hand. Feeling more confident, well, my sphincter must have relaxed again because I shat my unitard. Amazingly, it worked with flying colors. I have never seen a woman more hot and bothered. Now in control, I took advantage of the situation and got her to let me tie her to the bed. I won't speak of how I did this, but I maintain that there was no other way. Besides, if you close your eyes and plug your nose it feels just like a hot slurpy running down your chest.

Where was I? Oh yes, Boberto. I ran to the nearest gas station and threw 35 cents into the pay phone. I once again dialed Boberto's digits; this time the right ones. I got his voice and told him it was me.

"Hombre! Where did you go? You had a question for me last night, no?"

"Yes I did. I was wondering, do know what happened to me the night of the Malibu Barbie collection party?"

"Ohh do I ever! Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, it's important."

"I think it's best if we discuss this... in person. Can you come to my casa?"

"Of course, where do you live?"

"I think you know; look on your hand. Meet me at 5:46, sharp." He hung up.

I had a few hours to spare so I took a stroll around the city. It was a nice day outside, so I ventured to the park and offered to pay a hobo five dollars to catch a bird and eat it. He didn't catch any, but one got away with a chunk of his beard and used it to make a nest so I bought him a bottle of scotch. We drank and shared stories about the good times when the aliens didn't probe earthlings and Russia was not run by a fish named Stanley. Well, he shared the stories, I just listened. Before I knew it, my watch read 5:23, and that could only mean one thing: I had exactly three minutes to grab a hot pocket before I had twenty minutes to get to Boberto's. I bade my hobo friend farewell, got my hot pocket and headed out.

At exactly 5:46 I knocked. He answered the door and said, "You're a punctual man, I like you more. Please, come in." His house was immaculate and huge. Mahogany was everywhere, and where it wasn't there was marble. "Now that I have you here," he said, "we should dine together."

"Oh no, I just had a really big hot pocket--"

"Oh hot pocket I love hot pocket! You eat my fucking food."

"I'm famished."

We had chopped sirloin, steamed vegetables, and a mysterious meat I couldn't quite place, but I recall a package on the counter that read: Best if clubbed by March 17, 2007. I decided it best not to think about it and ate my meal. Afterwards, Boberto finally confronted the elephant in the room. "Dumbo, get out of here! You are huge and you smell. Andele, andele!" That being taken care of, he turned to me and said, "So, you want to know what happened at the party Friday night do you?"

"Yes."

"I cannot tell you everything," he said, "but you were with me for a while at a bar downtown. Quite fer-shnicken if I do say so myself. Very late in the night you were confronted by a beautiful girl, she smelt of raspberries and penicillin."

"Yes! That's who I'm after!"

"She was a waitress at the bar. You had peed in a telephone booth because you thought it was a urinal. When you asked why it didn't flush when you hung up the phone she came and grabbed you away. That's the last I saw of you. I assumed she took you to the bathroom to get cleaned up but you never came back out."

"That's all you know?"

"I do know the name of the woman, and her hours at the bar. I can give you this information, but it will come at a price."

"What do you want?"

"Take my elephant. I'm sick of it. It just sits on things and breaks them. He does it on purpose I tell you. Anyway, that is my offer, take it or leave it."

I had no choice. I needed this information if I was to solve this mystery. Reluctantly, I took the elephant and the information and left. The name of the girl was Joviana McDouchenbag. A German, British, and Eastern European girl who happened to be working that very night. I would go to the bar and confront her, and put a rest to this wild train of events. But first I had to get rid of this elephant, so I went to the park and gave it to the hobo. I heard later that he successfully robbed a bank with it in what was one of the most bizarre hold-ups in recent history. He's doing fine now, and still writes me bimonthly, always signing with "I'm still working on that five dollar bet."

I needed to kill time until tonight, so I went to a local bookstore and bought A Time to Kill. It wasn't that great, but it got the job done. At a quarter past eleven I made my way to the Muggers' Cup, the place where I had been two very long nights before and where Joviana reportedly worked. It was as I walked in that I realized I had no idea what this woman looked like. My heart raced as I realized I would have no way of recognizing her. I played it cool though, and went up to the bar and ordered a glass of milk. On the rocks. I said to the bartender, "Say, do you know if Joviana's working tonight?"

"Sure is. I think she's in the back. She'll be out in a bit if yer waitin' for somethin'."

My throat was swollen like a watermelon and my palms were wetter than Niagra. It had come to this. I had no idea what I was about to face but it was the culmination of 48 hours worth of action, mystery, and Boberto Steamers. Suddenly, as my back was to the bar, I caught a waft of mango and petroleum jelly. Could it be her?

"Joviana," I heard the bartender say behind me. "This guy wants to see you."

I swiveled slowly. As I spun round my eyes caught hers, which widened with instant recognition as she ran to me and gave me an embrace. For all I knew she was a psychotic sociopath, but she didn't look too bad and I wasn't going to stop her. "How did you find me??" She squeamed. "After I left you the other night I realized I had no way of knowing who you are. The only name you gave me was Pocahantas, Queen of the Honda Store. I hadn't realized my mistake until it was too late, but I'm so glad you've found me instead!"

She felt warm and soft, like a teddy bear just out of the dryer. But before things got too crazy I needed to sort this whole thing out. "Listen," I said. "Aside from six lines of inappropriate verse and a story told to me by a man on parole who owns an elephant, I don't know anything about you. The reason I came here to find you is because I want to know what happened between us on Friday night."

"You mean you don't remember?" She said, with eyes that swelled with disappointment.

"I came to Saturday evening, smothered in canola oil, staring at my brother in his birthday suit doing a crossword you obviously had something to do with."

"Yes, you were very smashed that night, so I took you out of the bar. In your stupor you recited the entire Old Testament up until 2nd Job, where I, being radically turned on by a man who knows his verse, interrupted you and took you back to my place. There we made hot love for the rest of the night, violating seven of the ten commandments you had previously quoted--eight if you count yelling 'Who's your daddy?' as a dishonor to one's father. Afterward you said you like to follow up with a good cigarette, but I didn't have any. So you said a crossword would do. We didn't finish much of it but that is when I wrote the poem to you, and directly after you said you must take the transit home. I said goodbye and soon after wailed and mourned when I realized I did not know your name, aside from your car-salesman alias Pocahontas."

"My God," I exclaimed. "And the canola oil?"

"I don't know anything about the canola oil. You must have done that yourself."

So there it was. The true story, laid out and bare. Joviana and I got married shortly thereafter, and her last name was quickly changed from McDouchenbag to Ator. As for the rest of the gang; Boberto, my brother, the japanese woman, the hobo, MacGyver and Chuck Norris, we all get together every year for a reunion. The rule is someone has to get so fer-shnicken that they pass out, and the next day they have to figure out what happened to them. Last year Chuck Norris was a little peeved to wake up in Rwanda, but in his rage he dethroned the militant leaders and restored peace, reportedly unleashing the most ferocious roundhouse kicks ever seen. In his wake was left only a note that read, "That's how you pull a fuckin' Chuck Norris."

Digressionary Winds

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Mon, 10 May 2010 18:31:00 +0000

There are times when a man must be bold. When a man must look unto the heavens, feel himself for the molecule that he is, and dare to resist his insignificance. When a man must power the wheel of civilization when all is broken but for one remaining bicep, for no one else but he will rise and pump the crankshaft to subsist.

I am that man. I alone have emerged from the depths of the toxic swamp, wrestled the anaconda queen, and pried my fading person from out the jaw of the gator-beast. To emerge triumphant. My dominion over opposition now complete. For today, when all was still in the hearts of quiet men, when the wisp of destiny was lost upon its errant kings, I stood a steady stone and did... what could not have been done.

I ate 9 cheesy gordita crunches from Taco Bell.

Okay that's a lie I haven't even gone to Taco Bell this week (this week has been all kinds of weird). I just spontaneously wrote those first two paragraphs and I kind of liked the way they sounded but then I realized that it wasn't going anywhere because no, I have not done anything brave/miraculous (unless you count using the Taco Bell restroom as brave... which is defendable), so I had to end it with some anticlimactic fabrication.

I find that I do things similar to this in the classroom all the time. I'll feel some intangible breeze of inspiration to say something magnificent, and so I catch that breeze and ride it like Seabiscuit, except I quickly realize it's not Seabiscuit I'm riding but Lightning from that movie Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken (you know the one where that blind girl rides the horse), except no it's not Lightning I'm riding it's the actual blind girl and we're heading straight for a very tall cliff. An example:

________________

Me, spontaneously rising in thunderous poise from my desk: "Children! We are at WAR! At this very moment, as you sit upon your chairs in idle laze, there is a battle to be fought. It is not a battle of swords or guns, but a battle of the mind. WHO WILL STAND AND FIGHT THIS BATTLE?!"

Two students hesitantly stand, the rest looking at me in bewilderment as if my fly is undone and a trout has emerged through the zipper. No, not a metaphorical trout for my penis, an actual freshwater trout.

Me, continuing on: "Yes, brave warriors! Enlist! (Oh God where was this going?) For soon the line shall be drawn and... those who side with evil shall... receive spankings. (Shit...) Victory is so near I... I can taste it! (Okay okay, you're doing fine.) It tastes like blueberry pancakes. (You lost it.) With a touch of maple syrup.

The two students have now sat down and they too, by their expressions, are seeing a trout in my pants. I must end this quickly.

"Oh... oh my! The battle it seems is suddenly over! How unfortunate. Let us return to our worksheets."

________________

"Zackeus why are you looking at me like that?"

And that's a typical day in the classroom. That is also why I don't get any respect from my students. Well, that and the fact that I wear corsets to school on Mondays. It helps keep the week interesting.

How I came to school last Monday. Corsets do wonders for cleavage.

I'm not going to lie that is one of the more disturbing pictures I have ever photoshopped myself into. I don't think I can write anything after that. I honestly don't know whether to barf or touch myself.

Edit: I did both.

Ice Curling, Immigration, and Gingivitis. Sounds like a Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Wed, 05 May 2010 04:02:00 +0000

I've recently revamped some of the behind the scenes features of this blog, and I can now see how many daily page views I get as well as how many people are subscribing to read my blogantry. Narcissistic? Yes. But so are Chippendales dancers, and yet I keep going back to them.

At any rate, when I looked at my subscriber count and saw that it had skyrocketed to 15 I was overcome with joy and masturbated into a loofa. 15 people in this world found my blogantry entertaining enough to say "Yes, I would like to be inundated with this man's nonsensical babble at every possible moment." Then when I looked once more a week later and saw that it had dropped to 12 my heart sank and again I masturbated into a loofa. That meant that 3 people said "I've made a terrible mistake/Upon further reading, this person should probably die/I thought this was the ice curling Kyle Guillet's blog." Times were tough for a few days, but I tried to keep myself together. I jazzercised to keep the stress away. I took up ice curling. Although there isn't any ice out here so it was pretty much me just telling my students to breathe coolly on a stream of water and then giving them zeros out of frustration when it didn't freeze.

I'm only kidding. It eventually froze.

A few random words on the Arizona immigration law: I'm not a fan. It treats hispanics as if they were subhuman, which is an outrage. Personally, I've always considered hispanics to be SUPERhuman because of their ability to shit fire. If anything we should be hailing them as overlords before they decide to unleash their powers upon us oppressive white people. No, not all white people are oppressive, but not all hispanics are illegal so you get what you give. Fucking Arizona.

Does anyone actually like living there? I'm pretty sure even the residents of Arizona hate it, but they've long since melted to the ground and are incapable of leaving. I spent all of last summer there; it sucks. If you've never been to Arizona, imagine that a volcano is projectile vomiting on you at all times. That's pretty much how it feels. The only good city in the entire state is Flagstaff, but only because it's 7,000ft above sea level so it basically isn't in Arizona so much as it hovers over it, much like one hovers over a public restroom toilet because they don't want to filthy their buttcheeks by sitting on the seat. My proposal is that we build a canal from the Gulf of California directly into Arizona and flood the entire state. Everything will turn to ocean, except of course for Flagstaff because it has the higher ground. This way Arizona is transformed from a sweltering fever-house to the coolest fucking public pool in the country. Flagstaff would become a resort island, and Mexicans would be more than welcome because A) they're excellent swimmers, and B) they're great at cleaning pools.

I'm not helping my case that I'm pro-hispanic, am I? I think it would help if I said some disparaging things about myself to even the score:

I masturbate into loofas
I once had a dream that I punched a blind kid and from the blow he contracted diabetes. I cried when I woke up, disappointed that it wasn't real.
When no one's looking I wrap myself in my yellow bed-foam and pretend that I'm an enchilada. That eats enchiladas.
I cry every time I watch Titanic. Not because Jack dies at the end, but because that fucking iceberg never saw it coming.
I once told my dentist that I floss every day, but really my fingers were crossed because I meant that I was a P.I.M.P. A month later he told me I had G.I.N.G ... I.V.I.T.I.S. It wasn't as cool when he said it.
When I was young I thought "Lysol" was pronounced "Lice-All" and so as a prank I sprayed it into my brother's hair. He didn't grow any lice. Probably because he lost all of his hair.
I take women's multivitamins in the hope that I'll grow a uterus. So far no results, though I do get aroused every time I turn on Bravo.

Yeah that should be good.

Sin of Sloth

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Sat, 01 May 2010 01:04:00 +0000

Okay take all of the good things that I said in that last post and burn them with fire. This job sucks. My kids called me boring today. Boring! And if you think getting offended by the words of a 12 year old is being too sensitive, you are wrong. 12 year olds are like little fork-tailed Mephistophelettes. They will say things just to make your eyes water and lower lip quiver. You of course try to save face in front of them by playing it off cool: "I'm not boring YOU'RE boring and I HATE your face!!" But it doesn't work. They always win.

Okay it wasn't that hurtful. But I'm using it as my excuse for having no will to do anything today, as all that I have taken care of since getting home is grading a quiz. That is one quiz. Out of a total of 40. And it was easy to grade too because the student already put his score at the top. A big fat zero, because he answered precisely none of the problems. I just nodded my head agreeably and put a check-mark next to it and then gave myself a much deserved break.

Can you go to hell for being lazy? I sure hope not. Though sloth is one of the seven deadly sins. I have no idea why, either. I can understand the others: wrath, greed, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. But sloth? Really? I think sloth actually undoes the other sins. I mean think about it. Say you're some sociopath of an unsurpassed genius and you come up with this nefarious scheme to produce a nuclear warhead in your own underground laboratory. Then you think, "But goddamn, that would take a lot of work," and you go back to getting your sadistic jollies out by watching people open the $1 final case on Deal or No Deal. Sloth negates wrath. Or say you are exceptionally famished and you are overwhelmed by a coursing urge to devour every piece of food in your refrigerator, but just as you are about to do exactly that, you realize that you would have to cook all of that food, and that could take at least 15 minutes. Which is ridiculous. So you eat nothing and go to bed hungry (this actually happened to me last night). Sloth negates gluttony.

I could easily come up with a situation for each of the other sins (Sloth negates lust:"Well, I do want to get into your jammy-pants, but that would force me to spend the entire afternoon with you.") But try to mix any two of the other sins and you have a fucking supernova of evil. Lust and gluttony? Eating someone out... literally. Pride and wrath? Don't fall to the dark side, young Anakin. What if we do three? Lust, envy, and wrath?? BLUTO.

A perfect storm of cardinal sin. Popeye/spinach should be canonized.

So I'm thinking all of these things, and it just makes me wonder: why then did the Catholic Church choose sloth as a deadly sin? I mean did they or did they not have a vendetta against this precious animal:

"Why is it so wrong to be me??"

My theory is that some pope had an affair with a sloth, and the sloth, being carefree and lackadaisical, never called him (carrier pigeoned him?) back. I hope the Church makes a formal apology and replaces their choice for the 7th sin with something more suitable. Like Deal or No Deal. Seriously, that show is stupid. There is no skill.

I leave you with an actual document stolen from the Vatican archives.

Sloth was about to reply "Nothing lol" but then found a cluster of delicious shoots and promptly forgot.

Rueday Tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 21:39:00 +0000

Most people would say that Monday is the worst day of the week. This is hogwash. Tuesday, I'm 99% certain, takes the cake. Don't get me wrong, Monday is a veritable suckfest. But at the very least Monday you are mentally prepared for. You spend your entire Sunday evening in mourning of the coming of dawn, so while it is still unbearable when your alarm clock tears your cochlea at 6am the next day like Hulk Hogan would a poorly woven t-shirt, you were in some way ready for it. Tuesday comes barreling out of a cave like a ninja freight train. WHA? OH GOD WHAT'S HAPPENING?? IS IT TUESDAY? BUT FRIDAY IS STILL SO FAR! CHOOOO-CHOOO!!!!

"Wake the f*#$ up!!"

Wednesday follows closely behind Monday and Tuesday as an ideal day to experiment with ritual suicide, and Thursday, while initially unfriendly, finally begins to show a glimmer of hope. The dynamic of daily emotions can actually be quite confusing, and I don't feel like words do it justice, so I've included the following chart that relates how I feel each day to how one feels after watching a movie that elicits the equivalent emotion (you may click to enlarge).

I've actually never seen Singin' in the Rain, but I do know a guy frolics jubilantly about with an umbrella, which is generally how most Saturdays wind up.

Being the worst day of the week, I traditionally spend most of Tuesday neglecting responsibilities and thinking about things that I would rather be doing. This is not difficult, and I often come up with so many situations that I become mildly nauseous. Common fantasies include: ostrich farming, casino cruise-ship cardsharking, gazebo building, uranium enriching, snuggie peddling, and Pope aspiring, just to name a few. I guess you could include blognastics in that list, although that's not an idle fantasy so much as what I am currently doing to further establish myself as a negligent teacher (it's okay, I don't actually have to plan anything for tomorrow because we're having a 45-minute staring contest).

To be real though I do enjoy the teaching gig, despite the perpetual guttural noises I make about all the hassles. I mean the hassles are there, I'm not shitting you about wanting to commit seppuku twice a week, but I think I'm kind of a masochist. There's something about being brought to the brink of my patience, intelligence, and creativity that gets me all hot and bothered. I'm consistently depressed and enraged, but these negatives must be multiplicative in nature because looking back at the rest of the year, I've had a fucking great time. And when I make babies years (days?) from now I'm going to tell them the sweetest stories they've ever heard. I'll probably throw in a few fictions here and there ("And on the first day of school your daddy fought and killed a bear to gain the respect of the class"), but most of it will be true. Although maybe I shouldn't be speaking in hindsight yet. I still have 5 weeks left in this joint, and then a whole 'nother year after that. For all I know this is some illusory quiet brought on by lack of sleep and/or impending death. This is rather likely, seeing as how I stayed up recklessly late last night perfecting my new "yoga" moves and I ate a tortilla that had ostensibly grown a lime-green beard.

"Yoga" is my secret word for battling low fiber. I call this position Downward Clog.

Well, if I am in fact on the verge of my death throes don't think for a second that I won't go out in a spectacular blaze of glory. I haven't decided how it should happen yet, but I think doing something like wrestling a bear for real would be a good way to go. Unless the Reaper comes swiftly, in which case I won't have time to stage the fight and will have to do something impromptu, like air-wrestling a bear. So if you happen to see me at a bar and some dude shanks me in the chest for the contents of my wallet, do not interfere with me as I spend my final seconds awkwardly grappling an invisible beast. Just let me blaze to my glorious end.

Preservation of Sanity

noreply@blogger.com (K Remmy) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 03:02:00 +0000

One of the most difficult things to do out here in the isolation of the reservation (Hey that rhymed! Rap song forthcoming) is preserving your sanity. As if the high stresses of being a first year teacher weren't enough, out here there are simply no societal checks and balances. In an urban, or even mildly rural area, you have other people to tell you "You're weird," or "Don't put that in there," or "I'm posting that on Youtube." Out here, nothing. I could go streaking 100% in the buff and it would take the police at least an hour to get here, by which time I would already be riding a sheep to safety. Humans are a very social species. We kind of need other people to tell us what to do, and in the absence of such people, it's a very anything-goes world.

Which is why I've started wearing a turban. These things get a lot of bad wrap (get it? bad wrap? Ahahahahaha... it has begun), but they are actually quite comfortable and extremely stylish! Think of the practical applications: it keeps my hair meticulously kempt on breezy days, protects my scalp from harmful solar energy, makes women sizzle over what could be underneath it (Fabio hair? Leprosy? A zucchini?), and most importantly I constantly have that "Girl who just got out of the shower" look, which we all know is sexy.

Don't tell me I don't look sexy. And yes, that is a zucchini underneath.

Another thing I've started doing is experimenting with my eating habits. There aren't any doctors out here to tell me "You probably shouldn't put that in your mouth," so it's really no holds barred. Although I haven't really started trying new things so much as I've stopped eating entire food groups altogether. I've discovered a new food pyramid which I find to be highly superior to the old one, which by the way, was developed by the United States Deparment of Agriculture. Of course they want you to eat bread, fruits, and vegetables. They farm that shit! My pyramid eliminates the superfluous.

I used to have an entire level for Tabasco sauce but after the fire droppings of Little Boy and Fat Man decided to eliminate that too from the pyramid.

I've submitted this revised (aka perfected) version to the USDA in the hopes that they will implement it as the new standard, but we will have to wait and see if they choose to be smart about it. I swear by its powers, although as anyone with a sweetooth will inevitably do, I occasionally stray from the guidance of my pyramid. I try to keep to its teachings, but my actual food consumption for a given week looks more like this:

Once I found a tortilla under the couch. I'm not sure which category that goes in.

Well anyway, this is only the beginning. I still have a little more than a year out here, and if things deteriorate slowly I will be baptizing prairie dogs come next spring. If not, I can't even begin to imagine what I will be like, though it will more than likely involve naked dragon-hunting. Until then, we'll just have to wait and see.