CasaChristy Words

2003-04-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

Arch-May Adness-May

We all got up to dance,
But we never got the chance—Don McLean

I spent a lot of time this week watching basketball. In person. This is not something that I do normally, but I enjoy college basketball tournaments and was able to score many free tickets to this past week’s Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.

I’m a Saluki fan. This is because I graduated from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and for no other reason. I suspect that if I’d gone to Creighton, I would be a Blue Jay fan. So, it seems like splitting hairs to be all jacked up over the fact that we (that is the Salukis) took a beating last night. Nevertheless, it was dismal.

It was dismal from the beginning. Creighton was 10 points into the game and die-hard Saluki fans were still standing, blocking my view, waiting for Southern (that’s what we Salukis call it) to score our first point. “Little Dudes In Front,” I said, “Whatever Mojo you think you’re sending to the team by staying on your feet Does Not Seem to be Working.”

They stared at me blankly. I’m pretty sure that all they knew from Mojo was that she made it to the Final Four on Joe Millionaire.

In the middle of the first-half groaning, the Saluki to my right suggested that Coach Weber was employing the Sean Astin strategy. “See, he’s going to trick Coach Altman into putting in all his Rudys and then we are going to KICK ASS.” I suggested that this might also be called the Corey Haim strategy, but that I hoped Coach Weber would employ something far more workable and predictable, like the Adam Sandler strategy, because the only way it looked like SIU was going to win is if the team had a secret-weapon Waterboy hanging out in the locker room.

Like I said, I only watch basketball during tournament time. Once, for the NCAA tournament I considered getting a T-shirt made that said, “Don’t ask me the score…I’m only here to watch boys watch boys play basketball.” But, by then, I’d found a boyfriend, and he thought the T-shirt was a bad idea. Of course, I met him in a liquor store, so I’m not entirely sure this idea could be worse. Instead, he made sure the tournament maintained my interest by betting huge amounts of money on teams so I would have someone to root for. Or, in most cases, just a score to root for, since he wagered a lot of over-unders.

One of the reasons I enjoy the NCAA tournament is the tree. It’s very big, with lots of branches. Every year when the brackets are published, I tear it out of the newspaper and diligently fill it out. I prefer those trees with numbers of games lost and won in parentheses, even though I rarely rely on them. Then, I hang my tree in a prominent place and if I can, enter it into a pool. I’m always for the underdog. Which is a good thing. Unless you live in North Carolina and your number one pick beats Carolina in the first round and you walk into your local barbeque joint and say, “How ‘bout that Weber State?”

The MVC tournament doesn’t hold quite as many surprises because it is much smaller and everyone gets to play. Creighton always seems to win, but there are often near upsets, like Saturday’s Jays Vs. Fighting Trees game. I discovered, because I sat with the former head football coach at Indiana State and his wife that what I always thought were little gold pompons lining the shorts and jerseys of the Fighting Trees’ uniforms are really sycamore leaves. Additionally, I learned that the Indiana State mascot is not in anyway supposed to resemble a Fighting Tree, but is actually a fox. One of those legendary Indiana Blue Foxes—vulpes azura—his name is Sycamore Sam. He’s very intimidating. Much in the same way that our floppy-haired Salukis are. It is a shame, I think, that it is no longer appropriate to use Indian Chiefs as mascots. Tomahawks are intimidating; I think this is what caused the rash of head shaving among basketball players years ago; subsequently, tomahawks became less intimidating and therefore merely a mockery of Native Americans, which in turn led to Indian Chiefs everywhere getting the axe. Quite frankly, I wish someone would do something about that stupid Wheat Monster from Wichita State. He reminds me of something from a David Lynch movie.

Another thing I learned this year, is about foul shot progression (which is a fancy term that I just made up). I didn’t realize that after a certain number of team fouls, certain foul shots are given. What a beautiful rule. However, I still received odd looks from fellow basketball patrons when I yelled such things as: “Where’s the flag on that play!” or “Man, did you see him recover that fumble?”

Last night’s game was humiliating. Or would have been humiliating had I not previously determined that being for one team rather than another was merely a matter of a rash choice made as a high school Junior. Lest you scoff at this, I know at least one person who opted to go to one school in North Carolina over another simply because he thought it was cool to say he was part of the “Wolf Pack.” No, what was really humiliating was asking what P3 stood for on the back of the Saluki Booster shirts worn by the marching band (can you call them that, even if they don’t march?). “Oh, it’s a bar in Carbondale,” the young kid behind me said. “Well, that’s a bar that didn’t exist when I went there,” I replied. “Pinch Penny?” he asked, thinking, I’m sure, she can’t be THAT old. “Oh, Pinch Penny Pub,” I said. I knew Pinch Penny all right. I think I got engaged there once.

Halftime was the highpoint of the game. Specifically, the Frisbee Dogs. Unlike the Salukis, the Frisbee Dogs caught all of their passes. I suggested to my strategy-trading seat mate that we substitute a couple of those dogs for a couple of our Dawgs. The man behind us suggested that the first team to 50 will have statistically won the game. With Creighton up 40-something to 22, I figured we’d take our leave before the end of the game. Especially when neither Adam Sander nor Turbo the Frisbee Dog made it into the post-half lineup. These same statisticians booed me for leaving early. I explained that if I’d traveled the 100 miles from Carbondale, I would stay, but I live five minutes away and since it was obvious no post-game celebrations would be blossoming at our end of the arena, I could just as easily watch them lose from the comfort of a bar stool.

We watched the rest of the game, sucking dollar drafts, rather than 6 million dollar drafts, at the corner tavern. Having left the same bar in high spirits before the game, my fellow tavern patrons expected to see me dejected. “But why?” I said, “After all we came in SECOND.”

2003-04-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

Horatio Alger Works for Fox

I admit it. I was a Joe Mill Junkie. I told my boyfriend last night that all other operations at CasaChristy would cease between 7 and 9. Thank God for TiVo, or the pizza delivery boy would still be standing outside.

Essentially, Joe Millionaire is a rags to riches story. Horatio Alger couldn't have done better. First, the fiction: we have Evan, the poor heavy machinery operator, who suddenly inherits 50 million dollars, a chateau in Paris, a jet, etc. And now he needs a woman to share this with. Someone who will love him for him.

Next we have a bevy of women hoping to go from Rags to Riches. They are weeded out, first based on initial chemistry, then by the possibility of sticking around after the truth is revealed and then by virtue (Zora, who refuses to even french kiss is chosen over Sarah, who believed the true path to his cash was in those woods somewhere).

But then Evan must tell Zora the truth. He is just a poor heavy machine operator. He has nothing to offer but his heart. Does she want it? Can she forgive him?

Zora, either out of genuine forgiveness or out of a necessity to save face on National television forgives him. They are both as poor as churchmice (except for the potential earnings that will subsequently follow through exclusive interviews and the inevitable endorsements), so she can relate, they will get through this somehow.

But there is a reward for both of them. (Besides the diamond ring which she plans to sell, along with all the other jewelry given her so that her aunt in Yugoslavia can be cured of her cancer). $500,000. Granted, 500 grand is a mere drop in what must be, for Fox, the biggest damn bucket it's ever seen, but the moral is still there--virtue and goodness are rewarded.

Zora went from rags to riches based--in the fictitious setting--on her virtue, her honesty, her genuine lack of guile and then, in reality, on her capacity to forgive (or at least her capacity to fake forgiveness). Evan's meteoric rise probably has more to do with his tousled dumb giant look and a contract with Fox. Nevertheless, I'm fairly certain that our dear Evan isn't such a thespian as to fake the reaction to that check.

And how does it end: Zora, like any real Alger hero, is even getting her own parade back in Smallville, New Jersey. Evan probably buys several acres of dirt and a bulldozer and spends his days moving earth, making small roads and villages. Smoothing them over. Maybe he'll build a ballpark--whoops, wrong story, wrong author

2003-04-06T12:55:00.000-07:00

2002-05-24T06:32:00.000-07:00

How I Met My Boyfriend in a Liquor Store, Version 1

I met my boyfriend in a liquor store. I swear I only went in for liquor. By no means did I consider I might be in store for Something Else. This place has bars on the windows for chrissake.

Nevertheless, in an alcoholic desperation for beer and Jack Daniels, I pulled into the gravel lot. Outside, around a giant, smoke- belching barbeque pit, a slew of men stood menacingly, one of them with only one eye. Eh, they were no match for me, tiny-miniskirted, tight-shirted, slide-shod me (it was still light outside). I marched (as well as slides allow one to march) right inside (after asking permission).

A large, Teutonic, steel-toed-blue eyed man, and a no-toothed, but-smiling black man stood ready for my order.

"Bud Light--No! Wait." The Teutonic man growled low. "Guinness bottles, please."

"ACHTUNG!" said the big guy to the black guy who hadn't stopped smiling.

"Yassuh."

"Vat else you vant!" demanded the Teuton.

"J-jack D-daniels."

"Viskey trinker? Bah! Real man trink schnapps!" I hesitated to point out that I was no real man and quite happy about that.

And the Teuton poured me a large apple schnapps. "Trink! Trink! You trink t'at, maybe I feed you. Barbeque very succulent," he said invitingly, nodding toward the barbeque pit. By now, the menacing men from the sidewalk have congregated at the stainless-steel counter.

"Trink! Mein Gott, Voman, Trink!"

I picked up the plastic cup of bile green liquid and quaffed. I nearly made it. Dribbles of schnapps dripped down my chin.

"NO FOOD FOR YOU!" Instead the Teuton made me hop onto the counter which resulted in my flashing the menacing men and the no-toothed, but-smiling black man my green panties. "You sit here," he commanded in a tone I took to mean my other alternative was an iron maiden in the back. I sat.

"Are you Irish?" the one-eyed man asked. I nodded. "Well, then," he said, "How about a Guinness for an Irishman?" Seeing his eye drift toward my six-pack, I lunged.

"No!" I said, "You don't understand. I only want to go home. I don't want to be kidnapped here. I don't want to eat succulent pork barbeque. I have an oyster grinder and blood pudding in the car."

"Blood pudding!" the Teuton screamed. "She t'ink we haff no blood pudding!"

"Bread. Bread pudding," I wailed.

"Ja wohl, and we haff succulent pork barbeque! Ah hahahahahahahahaha."

And he poured me more schnapps. And he fed me barbeque. And he made me hang out with homeless people. "Don't get too attached," he warned me intimately, "dey around only very short time. Dey yust come for barbeque."

"Why am I here?" I wailed.

"I try to decide if I like you. Trink schnapps."

Later he said, "Time to valk dog!" He led me upstairs to a warren of rooms with sparse furniture and propaganda on the walls. From a closed door, somewhere in the dark, I heard the growling of a very large animal. "Utz!" commanded the Teuton, "Sitz." He confided to me, "Utz kicked out of police academy. Too mean." Not for the first time, I felt true evil emanating, though the source continued to elude me.

And then I was tackled by a very large, very loud, very strong German Shephard. I passed out in fear. I came to, the Teuton crouching above me, his large Teutonic head looming. "Utz likes you. I like you. Now we make out."

Some 10 hours after my arrival I left with a boyfriend, but without any liquor.

It was the best barbeque I ever ate.

2002-05-02T14:40:00.000-07:00

Break-Up Rules Part 1

The day before yesterday, my boyfriend, the Pissed-off Bastard moved out suddenly, ostensibly to find himself or some kind of melodramatic nonsense, and left me to pick up the pieces. There should be rules for this.

Rule #1 Clean up after yourself. Like you MUST clean the toilet in your bathroom before you leave. I mean, it just adds insult to injury to your long-suffering, sweet-as-can-be, now-broken-hearted girlfriend when you leave it for her to do. On the other hand, cleaning your bathroom might move her current mood from hurt and depressed to disgusted. It's pretty bad in there. In fact, in those times of emergency when she couldn't possibly wrangle the 15 stairs up to her bathroom without peeing in her shoes and used your first floor throne instead, she did her business in the dark. And refused to look down.

Rule #2 Take all your shit with you. Your girlfriend does not want to be responsible for your dirty socks, undies, etc. There is no point in letting her do your laundry, if you still need to find yourself. If even you don't know where you are, how can she possibly locate you to give you your clean clothes? On the other hand, she has spent many, many hours examining your psyche--she probably knows where you are better than you do. Perhaps you should enlist her help in creating a roadmap.

Rule #3 This means all your shit. Except for those pieces of clothing that she has appropriated for herself. Don't shrug and say, "Just throw the shit out." She shouldn't have to be responsible for any extra trips to the dumpster on your behalf. You don't want it, you toss it. Don't argue about this. Look in the dryer and under the bed and behind the door in the bathroom. Take everything but your favorite sweatshirt and that gray henley that she thinks you look so hot in. Not only does she look very cute in it, she doesn't want other girls to see you in it. And, if you buy a new one, don't ever let her find out. Remind yourself of the day she ruined a dirty, but just broken-in pair of whitey-tighties and the best slab of ribs you ever cooked by combining them on the hood of your car. And remember, you left two whole bottles of Sweet Baby Rays for which she can't imagine another use.

Rule #4 Did I mention all your shit? This means Emily the Body Pillow. Your girlfriend and Emily have never gotten along, despite the fact that your open, warm-hearted girlfriend introduced the two of you in the first place. Remember how often they fought in bed? Well, Emily glared at her all last night in reproach, as if it is the girlfriend's fault you lost yourself. The girlfriend, concerned she would be suffocated in her sleep, eventually had to push her under the bed.

Rule #5 I said, ALL your shit. Like your left sandal that found it's way into a box of miscellaneous stuffed toys on the floor. How did that happen? The road back to you is going to be terribly uncomfortable if you're only wearing one shoe.

Rule #6 Consider taking things that don't necessarily belong to you. Like the book you were reading left face down between pages 134 and 135 on the nightstand. She is not so cold-hearted that she would begrudge you the ending of a mystery. You can even promise you'll bring it back (even if you have no intention of ever doing so). But, now she has this unread, underappreciated paperback keeping her up all night with its whining.

Rule #7 Take everything she's ever given you with you. This, of course, includes Emily, and all your toiletries, but also her recently-published Uber story that features yourself, even if it wasn't in the best light. Under no circumstances should you leave your Dear John note on the back of one of the pages, you bastard.

Rule #8 The note. Don't write in light green ink. You've left her, remember, don't force her to go blind reading your "it's not you, it's me" drivel. Be a man. Use a Sharpie, for chrissake. And don't thank her for everything. It's too late. Perhaps if you'd showed her a little more gratitude for taking care of you and putting up with all your shit for a year, she wouldn't have been so damn irritated every time you used a dish you didn't wash or change clothes you didn't launder. And don't condescend to her. Of course she knows that you're the one that is a mess. Did you honestly think she believed you had all your shit together? Right. She met you while you were hanging out at the liquor store. This isn't exactly the hallmark of a person with his shit together. She's known about your issues from Day One, bud, don't you forget it. She just preferred to overlook them, since considering them forced her to reevaluate her own good sense.

Rule #9 At this point, you should have made certain that there were no tasks she needed you to complete-moving furniture around, taking heavy boxes upstairs, cleaning out the refrigerator, putting together her patio furniture, taking out the trash. These would have been nice, special things to do before you left her high and dry and after she gets over this, she would remember you with fondness, instead of as the Lazy Pissed Off Bastard with a Drinking and Gambling Problem She Picked Up at the Liquor Store.

Rule #10 Don't tell the cats goodbye. Don't even hint that you aren't coming back. Both of them freaked out. One of them hid for over 24 hours. When he emerged, he merely sat at the end of your side of the bed and stared at the girlfriend all night in reproach. She tried to stick him under the bed with Emily, but he wiggled his way out again and again, howling in despair. It was a noisy night, full of hostility and your already tear-wearied girlfriend couldn't sleep at all for the din.

Rule #11 Don't leave your keys. If you are such a loser that you think that having them might be more temptation than you can handle then perhaps you shouldn't be leaving in the first place. She didn't ask for them back. If she cares that you might capriciously return, she'll get the locks changed. The note, once she found her special green-ink decoder ring, was plenty indication of your intentions, there's no point in overkill.

Rule #12 Just come home. You know you always do. Probably for no other reason that her place is way cooler than yours. Plus she has cats and everyone knows cats are cool. Plus, she makes an killer meatloaf. And you know how much you like meatloaf, especially the next day.

2002-05-02T14:12:00.000-07:00

I think we now have comments...

2002-04-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

The Toothbrush Portent

From my bathtub, I have a ring-side view of the sink. In the arena of the toothbrush holder, our toothbrushes are facing on another tonight, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if they are involved in an imbroglio. It is my belief from not only my vantage point in the bathroom, but also from the knowledge of my own habitual behavior of turning my toothbrush towards the outside of the cup, that it is no accident that they face each other like pugilists.

I wonder about this:

Every morning, I'm first in the bathroom and brush my teeth with the blue toothbrush. I used to use a green toothbrush, but He, either not aware or just not concerned that our toothbrushes are color-coded, opened and used the green one on new-toothbrush morning. So, though it feels like a shoe on the wrong foot and though I have to consciously THINK about which is mine, I now use the blue.

Despite the color switch, I still brush, rinse and spit as usual. I don't like tooth-brushing detritus falling into the holder and so I turn my toothbrush out. He-of-the-green-toothbrush, judging from His brush's slatternly appearance, is completely unconcerned about tooth-brushing detritus and so drops His toothbrush pell-mell into its hole. (Interestingly, we ALWAYS, without fail and without regard to individual compulsions about tooth-brushing, use the same holes.)

So, sometimes, His toothbrush faces away and all day our toothbrushes stand stubbornly back-to-back. And sometimes when this happens, one toothbrush might slightly bend toward the other in a tentatively apologetic posture. And the other times, His toothbrush faces mine, which, due to my regard for toothbrush-holder-hygiene, faces away and it appears as if His green toothbrush is eternally chasing my blue, and again, occasionally, mine tilts slightly in, as if giving up or being reigned in, or His might tilt slightly back as if pulling away (or reigning in especially uncooperative quarry).

But tonight, mine, the blue one, is cringing slightly beneath His, the green one, as if His has an especially important point to make. ("No wire hangers!" I can imagine Green saying, "What's wire hangers doing in this closet when I told you no wire hangers?! EVER!!!! ")

I wonder how the position of our toothbrushes relate to the outcome of our day or the resultant atmosphere in the house. Are we positioning our toothbrushes subconsciously based on subtle changes of our relationship barometer? Or, after we've brushed, rinsed and spit, do our toothbrushes process our essential vibrations and adjust accordingly? Are we destined to fight tonight because our toothbrushes resemble a Tyson-Spinks round? Or is it perhaps only a pre-sexual parry and I'm destined to get lucky?

Yes, I'm a believer in portents. But I feel slightly ridiculous using the position of our toothbrushes as a prognosticator of the future.

C. ONeill

(note: this was previously published at Uber)

2002-04-19T10:24:00.000-07:00

Terror on Purple Shuttle 2

Almost immediately, I knew something was wrong. Sure, the morning started off normal enough. I commuted my five minutes to work, parked a mile and a half away from my building, ran across the street to catch the Purple Shuttle, only to have it drive away from the stop even as I was running next to the bus, waving and shouting. As usual, I sat dejectedly on the bench to wait the 8.633333333333 minutes for the next one. That should have been the first sign, the next shuttle showed at exactly 8.4297 minutes later.

It wasn't, however, until we turned RIGHT instead of LEFT at Baton Boy (resplendent in his green velvet ice skating costume and fishnet stockings, twirling and twirling and twirling) that I knew Something Was Wrong. I immediately wrote "Help" in the condensation on the shuttle window-backwards.

Ron, the shuttle bus driver looked in the rearview mirror and said, "Who wants to go to work today? Anyone? Come on show me your hands." Nonplussed at the lack of poll participation he continued, "Who doesn't want to go to work today?" Sixteen hands went up. The shuttle suddenly lurched forward across the Metrolink tracks.

I looked at my fellow passengers. My fellow passengers looked back. Something Was Wrong. "Who wants to go to Jefferson City?" Ron asked. No one answered. By now, we're west of Forest Park and ambling at shuttle-speed towards the highway. "Jefferson City is the State Capitol. It has lots of cool stuff. And Politicians." At the last, I thought I heard a vague menace in his voice. It was then I noticed the Uzi behind his seat. "What's that for?" I asked.

"Oh that's nothing. That's just a symbol for my lord and saviour, John Ashcroft."

Miles down the road, a lady wearing brown tweed and patent leather pumps said, "Um, Ron? I have to tinkle."

Ron pulled into the Foristell 66 Truck Stop and let the 16 of us take a potty break and grab a pickled egg from the Buffet. I tried to use the payphone but the phone company wanted like 6 bucks to make a local call. Back on the bus, I used my cell phone to call the operator. "I think my bus has been hijacked," I said. Before I could say anymore, Ron was pulling back onto I-70 and I lost connection. "Let's roll" he said, humming the "Battle Hymn of the Republic."

An hour later, while I'm making honking signs to passing truckers, Ron spoke again. "I can't wait to show you all where John Ashcroft eats."

"Um, Ron? Uh, John Ashcroft isn't in Jeff City anymore, he's in Washington."

"Oh. Oh. OH."

A half-mile later, Ron pulled off onto Rte. 100 and drove to the Hermann Wal-Mart. Ron called the authorities. Meanwhile, the 16 of us hitchhiked to the Stone Hill Vinyard and drank bottles of wine and ate Brie.

Brie tastes like human feces, but on a cracker it has unlimitless appeal.

C. ONeill

(This was previously published at Uber)

2002-04-18T11:29:00.001-07:00

Beer Buzz
My neighborhood smells like cornflakes, the way cornflakes smell when you're sick and have to let them soak in the milk before you eat them. That cornflake smell.

This is a good smell, a comforting smell, not because it reminds me of my childhood but because I know it means that beer is brewing. And that means I can drink another, because like Bill Cosby said, "There's always room for beer" and Jay Leno's corollary, "We'll make more."

In its prime, my neighborhood boasted no fewer than 50 breweries. Every day, I walk on hallowed beer brewing ground. I find, still, ancient ring tabs in the spaces between the sidewalk bricks. (Despite the nostalgia, I do refrain from throwing them in my beer can-you can slice your tongue off that way, did you know that?)

It's a comforting thought that I can sit three blocks away from the brewery and drink beer while I smell beer being brewed. Mind you, I won't, I mean won't, be sucking down the beer being brewed today because it's Natural Light, and that's only one step up from drinking your own urine. I know it's Natty Light because I Know People Who Work At The Brewery. Natty Light's the only corn brew in these parts. The rest of them have rice as their main adjuncts, I'm told. But it's still comforting.

Not uncannily, Natural Light is the state beer of North Carolina. Seriously. I lived there. For 13 months. (Note the similar time frame to an average tour in Vietnam). My first weekend there, at a semi-upscale (read: no guns, concealed or otherwise permitted on premises) tavern, a young couple approached the bartender and asked for Natural Light.

"Don't have any. I have Michelob, though."

The couple looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders in resignation and nodded their heads, not without some obvious irritation. Undoubtedly, they were from Concord or Rockingham or some other town built around a NASCAR track. (I have found, even within miles of Anheuser-Busch's Flagship Brewery, that NASCAR and Natural Light go together. Maybe it's because sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble...)

Immediately, I felt homesick. The concept entitled Moving to North Carolina morphed into A Bad Idea, the Worst Idea Ever. Who are these people who prefer the scourge of Anheuser Busch rather than that crown jewel, the steadfast Budweiser? Are these people still so 18th century that they are afraid of anything that reeks of monarchy, even if it is just the King of Beer?. It isn't the price. Even in two-toothed bars in rural North Carolina, Natural Light is the same price as any other beer, despite the fact that even the brewery bills it as subpremium. In fact, Natty Light's only redeeming quality is that as the first light beer ever brewed, it paved the way for Bud Light (whose name was changed from Budweiser Light by marketing gurus, who in sampling the product, found the longer version unpronounceable after the equivalent of a 6-pack, which might hamper sales of the product in taverns).

My boyfriend, The Pissed-Off Bastard, often brings home Urine-in-a-Can. I'm not sure why. Except he is from south St. Louis, which is basically North Carolina with more teeth, more Catholics and fewer trees. With few exceptions, South City denizens are even fanatic about NASCAR. But probably, he drinks it because, unlike in North Carolina, Natural Light costs about 4 dollars less for a 12-pack than Bud Light and he's a Cheap Pissed-Off Bastard With a Drinking Problem.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not really taking any high moral beer ground. I'm drinking a Busch even as I write this. I eat gas-station burritos too. But, in doing research for this piece I could not find a single ingredient list for Natural Light. Drinkers of this beer should be disturbed by this. Perhaps they are hiding the fact that Natural Light really does contain urine.

(Warning: you cannot, I repeat, cannot, make your own homebrewed Natural Light by mashing up cornflakes and pissing on them).

C. O'Neill

(note: this was published at Uber on 4/22/02)

2002-04-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

So, this is where I'm going to put odd bits of writing that don't belong in the journal. Comments won't be available until next week sometime, so email me if you have something to say!

Thanks!