Monthly Archives: March 2009

National Douchebag Day

“I just wanted to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by embracing the inner nerd in all of us and taking the liberty of researching a short history of our good friend, St. Patrick!

St. Patrick was born in 340 A.D.  He is the official patron saint of 30 year old male douchebags who drink for fifteen hours straight; wear ugly, plastic, green hats; and go to college bars and try to sleep with innocent 21 year old girls who just want to be left alone.  You can find his complete history at


I sent that email out two years ago and my feelings on the holiday haven’t changed at all.  It’s still a fake holiday full of absolute tools getting wasted for no reason whatsoever and terrorizing the people who weren’t fucking dumb enough to throw some green on.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn orange and/or plaid to show how painfully WASP I am.  I know it’s crazy to say, but wearing green doesn’t make you Irish, it makes you retarded.
In short, my Bible.

In short, my Bible.

1) All of you are American, regardless of your heritage.  Irish people are embarrassed of you for claiming to be Irish today.
2) I had an African-American coworker in college who wore green on SPD.  When I came to work in a purple oxford and a madras tie, she called me out on not wearing green, saying “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!”  I stared blankly at her.
My heritage is Scottish, Swedish, and German; in short, I couldn’t be more Protestant.  Catholics wear green and Protestants wear orange.  Not that I even identify with the Christian faith any more.  To be honest, it’s more a “fuck you” to American society.  You can not force me to wear green simply because of the impending threat of a fucking pinch.  How dare you kowtow children into wearing this color every year?  There is no designated color for Cinco de Mayo (which, coincidentally, doesn’t even matter in Mexico), nor for any other ethnic or racial holiday we have in America.  Why should the Irish be so fucking special?

To sum up, I have always and will always hate St. Patrick’s Day.  So go fuck yourselves.

How charming.  Discuss.

How charming. Discuss.



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Then There Was Surgery

So if you’ve been following along this semester (hello to my six faithful readers!), then you know that it hasn’t exactly been the best.  Hell, this year in general has been a bit of a slap in the face.  Shitty bosses, worse colleagues, a joke of a program, a school full of ass hats, and pretty much every problem you could think of to make my graduate school experience shitty.  Well, you can add another item to the list.  I’m having surgery in a week.

Sexy, kinda.

Sexy, kinda.

That’s right, friends, I have ripped my cartilage up.  What the septuagenarian male nurse thought was Lyme Disease two months ago was my articular cartilage yelling at me.  See, I have somehow ripped a piece of it off, which is now floating around my knee cap.  The swelling is intense, with my knee looking almost perfectly round at all times, and sometimes even ballooning out.  The shittiest part, though, is the unexpected pain.  Since the piece is still in there, sometimes it can catch on certain parts of the joint and it feels like there is literally a shred of plastic digging into my joint from under the skin.  Other times when I’m walking, particularly involving stairs, the bones will connect in just the right spot and grate against each other.  Turns out that articular cartilage serves a purpose after all.  Like not letting the tibia and the femur touch.

So a week from Monday I go under the knife, so to speak.  My med student friend is dropping me off at six in the morning for my 7.30 appointment, which is when they wanted me there.  Then they drug me to hell, cut open my knee, hopefully fix it, and release me to my [fun] bosses, who will inevitably point and laugh at me under the influence of anesthesia.  I will be on crutches for six weeks and won’t fully recover for another four months or so.  Not to mention the fact that the MRI alone cost $2700.  That’s right, the test I needed to prove that surgery was necessary was almost three grand; let’s hope that student insurance kicks in at some point.

Two other things before I sign off…Firstly, no, we don’t know what caused it.  Most likely it’s a mixture of bad genes, the wear and tear from two decades of running, and a more acute injury (drunken dancing, anyone?).  And secondly, you are so, so lucky I didn’t use other pictures I found in this post.  Shit, I’m still wincing just thinking about them.

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The LOST Effect

So I’m on Spring Break and life couldn’t be better.  Despite the tundra-like weather in Virginia right now, I am back home and all is right with the world.  Yesterday was a Snow Day and I had a huge, delicious, home-cooked breakfast, then watched seven straight episodes of Summer Heights High, and followed it up with some Duck Hunt.  The best part so far, though, was writing the questions for Trivia Night at my old bar with one of my best friends, where I proceeded to get drunk, watch my friends struggle to answer my questions, and then bask in the bitter loathing that followed.  Categories for the night?  General Knowledge, Sports, Science, 1980’s trivia, Music Match (1984), Celebrity ID’s – Oscars 2009 Red Carpet, and Reality TV.  Domination Station, much?

But that could be a blog post in and of itself.  What my focus today is a story that happened to me on the way back to VA.  My flight from Nashville to Charlotte was going decently well, but I must admit that turbulence had been a pretty constant problem.  We hit some heavy clouds about twenty minutes outside of Charlotte and the turbulence only worsened.  A little while after the pilot announced we would be landing in fifteen minutes, our plane was struck by lightning.  Let me type that again – our plane was fucking hit by fucking lightning.  There was a huge flash of a light, a massive, all-encompassing wall of sound (seriously, Phil Spector had nothing on this shit), and the plane even shook a little.  An old woman screamed out “Oh, shit!” and I started laughing maniacally.  My immediate response to the lightning itself was to look around and assess the other passengers.  I went into total LOST mode and tried to figure out who would be an asset on the island when we crashed.  Because islands exist in the greater Charlotte metropolitan area.

I am Jack Shepard.

I am Jack Shephard.

When we finally touched down, I texted a bunch of my friends “My plane just got hit by lightning.”  Predictably, everyone freaked out, but I just told them that it was quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to me; they responded somewhere along the line of “You are insane, and that response is so typical.”


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