So there I was, sitting at the computer drawing cow udders in MS Paint, minding my own business. All of a sudden I get a friendly instant message from a stranger:

paulftfw (8:35:08 PM): ur a pussy
Brian (8:36:24 PM): You must be a teenager.
paulftfw (8:36:32 PM): no im 19
paulftfw (8:36:42 PM): u must be a queer
Brian (8:36:44 PM): Ha!
Brian (8:36:53 PM): Well, then, you're still a teenager, my friend
Brian (8:37:11 PM): sharp as a tack, too, I see
paulftfw (8:37:20 PM): yea but im an adult who are u pussy and where u from
paulftfw (8:38:35 PM): are u a niger
paulftfw (8:38:56 PM): nigger
Brian (8:40:57 PM): you're funny
Brian (8:41:02 PM): I think I'll put you on my web site
paulftfw (8:41:04 PM): haha right fucker
Brian (8:41:22 PM): so the whole world can see what a charmer you are
paulftfw (8:41:31 PM): ok douche
Brian (8:42:50 PM): you're wonderful
Brian (8:43:13 PM): I have no doubt that you're going to be one of those rare individuals who makes the world a better place
paulftfw (8:43:31 PM): ok quit messagein me im about to c some tits

Normally I just post these and run, but I have an exam tomorrow, so let's analyze this. Break that sucker down.

Section I

paulftfw (8:35:08 PM): ur a pussy
bri270 (8:36:24 PM): You must be a teenager.

He begins by calling me feminine, which is only true when I'm playing sports. Right away I know that he has no clue who I am. He obviously just wants to tango. I haven't danced in a while, so I take the bait and go for the obvious: this guy's thick as a post and almost as bright.

Section II

paulftfw (8:36:32 PM): no im 19
paulftfw (8:36:42 PM): u must be a queer
bri270 (8:36:44 PM): Ha!
bri270 (8:36:53 PM): Well, then, you're still a teenager, my friend
bri270 (8:37:11 PM): sharp as a tack, too, I see

I was right. Complete bozo. Scratch that, Bozo the Clown was a good man, and this moron could make Henry VIII look like a virgin preschool teacher. So, I continue to block his shots and throw on mild insults that he probably didn't get.

Section III

paulftfw (8:37:20 PM): yea but im an adult who are u pussy and where u from
paulftfw (8:38:35 PM): are u a niger
paulftfw (8:38:56 PM): nigger
bri270 (8:40:57 PM): you're funny

He's knows he's beat. He begins to notice his mistakes and corrects one of them. I begin a second assault.

Section IV

bri270 (8:41:02 PM): I think I'll put you on my web site
paulftfw (8:41:04 PM): haha right fucker
bri270 (8:41:22 PM): so the whole world can see what a charmer you are
paulftfw (8:41:31 PM): ok douche

Well, he started it. Now he seems confused and wants to bail. I've won. He knows he's an idiot and wants to move on.

Section V

bri270 (8:42:50 PM): you're wonderful
bri270 (8:43:13 PM): I have no doubt that you're going to be one of those rare individuals who makes the world a better place
paulftfw (8:43:31 PM): ok quit messagein me im about to c some tits

This is the best part. If you read it slowly and listen, you can hear the Mortal Kombat "FATALITY!" Good bye, little rat. His departing words are the best.

I will be in Dr. Chance's office in two hours. My headache hasn't gone away. I've had it for a month now with no other symptoms except for the new lump on my left eyebrow. My money is on sinus tumor.

So, last night while in bed I attempted to cheer myself up by asking Lindsey, "What do you like?" I expected to hear things like puppies and pink things. Without hesitation, however, she began her list by saying, quite seriously, "Smooth surfaces—" Of course she was unable to continue due to my thunderous laughter.

I never thought it would be possible for one person to say two things of this magnitude in the same day.

Lindsey was sitting in the recliner, blinking furiously.

"Lindsey, what's the matter?"

"I opened my eyes too hard."

Later that night in bed she was rubbing and batting her eyes. I stared at her for about 60 seconds until she said, "My eyes are easy to open. They're slippery."

My head hurts. And it has hurt for the past two weeks. At first I thought it was the result of prednisone withdrawal, but two pharmacists and two nurses later I was convinced I had a tumor and needed to let the doctor prescribe my imminent death. It was 9 A.M. and I couldn't get an appointment until 4:15, so I spent the rest of the day arranging the music for my funeral, focused toward the finale with Charlie Pride's "I'll Fly Away". I was sure I had a tumor or some other slimy, purple, murdering, pus-inducing, corrosive disease-virus-infection-syndrome. This fear was confirmed by signs from Almighty God as I drove to the doctor's office: eight dead animals, including dogs and cats; several of my favorite trees were being cut down; I passed a funeral, the house of the deceased, and the graveyard; and a Celine Dion Christmas song came on the radio. Surely God was telling me that everything must die and that I'm next.

Dr. Melo-Lizardo was very nice, despite my repeated "Excuse me?" "What was that?" and just plain "What?" His Indian accent combined with my bad hearing meant awkward examination exchanges.

He looked in my ears, nose, and other holes including my eyes; made me walk toe-to-toe; bopped my knees and Achilles tendons, and so on, and asked a million questions. "Do you live in an old house?" "Are you under a lot of stress?" "Are you unnaturally attracted to Jane Seymour?" Unfortunately my answers to these and a flood of other questions yielded nothing helpful to his diagnosis. He gradually deduced that I have tension headaches and gave me naproxen sodium pills. I don't believe him. I know I have a tumor, and when I'm finished with the medicine, the headaches will return, they'll find my tumor (much too big then to be yanked out), and he'll be all like, "My bad!"

The first pill was swallowed when I returned home, but not before I read the precautions. I was already nervous from the five warning stickers on the bottle, but then I found the list of cautions and possible side effects in the paperwork: bleeding in the stomach without other symptoms, which may cause unexpected death, stroke, heart attack, vomiting, headaches, blurred vision, abdominal pain, bruising, stomach/intestinal/rectal hemorrhage or other disorders, constipation, diarrhea, angina pectoris, difficult or labored breathing, dizziness, drowsiness, nosebleed, headache, hearing disturbances, vomiting blood, fainting, gallstones, joint pain, leg cramps, black stool, heartburn, indigestion, inflammation of the mouth, itching, light-headedness, nerve problems, nervousness, nausea, rapid, fluttery heartbeat, nail disorders, red or purple spots on the skin, ringing in the ears, muscle pain or weakness, skin eruptions, neck pain or rigidness, sweating, yellow skin and eyes, swelling due to fluid retention, thirst, vertigo, menstrual problems, vision changes, congestive heart failure, back pain, kidney stones, depression, hair loss, flu symptoms, infection, peptic ulcer, nasal inflammation, cancer, confusion, sinus inflammation, lung inflammation, digestive tract inflammation, emotional changeability, enlarged abdomen, inability to sleep, sore throat, urinary infection, kidney disease or failure, facial swelling, asthma, and shock. AND SHOCK. I think menstrual pain scares me the most.

Merry Christmas!

This is Olive, the spider who's lived with us for the past two months. Every night she makes a new web outside our door. We both normally dislike spiders (at least so close to us), but we've grown fond of Olive and her spidery ways.

Happy Halloween!

Also! I have a spooky story to tell thee, children, so gather 'round.

Actually, it's a dream I had last night, in all it's glory...and gory detail.

          I was with Lindsey and a bunch of other ladies in London, England. We were there to recruit students for my university. A strange, old building had been rented for the day. It was yellow with many small, round windows and creaky boards within the floor. The day went horribly, with no visits from students. At about 5 P.M., before we began to give up, I went out. I marched to the schools, made big, loud speeches, and returned triumphant with multitudes of students in tow. Everyone was so happy. I was the hero.

          If that weren't enough: afterward, we cleaned up, women still singing my praises. When I was the only one remaining, my cousin Nathan came a-calling. We spoke about trivial matters, girls, and the like, as boys tend to do, while I continued to clean. Suddenly there was a bear! He had been roaming the corridors, and we had to escape. I dropped cups and silverware, and the two of us ran in the opposite direction. After two hallways and a flight of stairs were behind, we naturally assumed our safety. Oh, how wrong! The bear reappeared! I had had enough, and exploded through a wall. Safety, at last.

          However, we were then in a large wooded area with my entire family. It was a desolate place, with only a few abandoned barns separating the trees and old shrubs. With not-so-great surprise I heard shouts. "Look, there!" "Oh, my God!" Alien spacecraft darted over the horizon, above the trees. Everyone was terrified, but, yet again, I was there to save the day. I led the lot of us to one of the barns, where we barricaded ourselves in. After a good while, I decided I should go out to investigate. My brother Carlyn volunteered to accompany me. Our journey to the ranger station was a safe one, until we opened the door. Bam! the bear was inside. He grabbed Carlyn, and in true dreamlike fashion I jumped on the mass of bear and man now rolling before me. I was able to sway the bear, we quickly returned to the barn, and then back to civilization with the entire family.

After a Star-Warsesque medal ceremony, Lindsey and I went to Cracker Barrel to celebrate.

OK, I made that last part up—I thought it was a nice addendum.

A guy nearly lost his manhood to a brick earlier tonight on America's Funniest Home Videos. I winced and let out a slow moan. I looked over at Lindsey on the couch, who simply said, "I'm glad I have everything on the inside!" and proceeded to pat herself to prove it.

I visited my parents house yesterday afternoon. On the walk to the lake, I passed this small firewood pile. Apparently, my brother tossed this CD there. Very appropriate.

I was watching the news two nights ago. It was the local news as evidenced by the call-in question: Are men really smarter than women? The answer was obvious after the first on air response made by a middle-aged male: "You know, half the things you see were made by men. So when it comes to—" The emdash represents the point at which my eyes turned red and I annihilated my television with my new rage-induced Cyclopsesque optic blasts. Half of things were made by men, huh? You just blew all other arguments out of the water, bud.

Lindsey is spending the week in Atlanta for her job. Our conversations while she's away are always fun.

Brian (11:25:16 PM): So, what are you doing in that room all by yourself?
Lindsey (11:25:17 PM): looking at Emily's pictures and watching Friends
Brian (11:25:28 PM): how did you know I'd axe?
Lindsey (11:25:42 PM): because i know you better than you know yourself
Brian (11:26:17 PM): that's not true
Lindsey (11:26:34 PM): umyesitis
Brian (11:26:43 PM): OK
Brian (11:26:50 PM): what am I thinking?
Lindsey (11:26:55 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:12 PM): whoa
Brian (11:27:18 PM): how about now?
Lindsey (11:27:27 PM): boobs
Brian (11:27:42 PM) GET OUT OF MY HEAD

Some pieces of e-mail make you smile, such as this one I received just now:

I have had a request for assistance from Locust Elementary School for help with some Mandarin documents. If you speak/read Mandarin, please let me know. Thank you.

Some make you laugh:

We regret to inform you that Jesus was not Chewbacca's first mate. We apologize for any inconvenience. Good day to you, my fine pagan.

Others bring pains:

Discover back your memory! bring down my wrinkles and sags. Find open more your thoughts you in republican. Find more days of the old democracy thru innerself. Build librares of knowledge by book knowning. Go years into Eons. Tag you? For the spain Goce de la vida que usted a sonada alreded.. todo regularmento.

P.S. Today's Word of the Day: scientificky

My new wife has been gone this week on business, and I don't like it. Apparently, she doesn't either. The first thing she said to me Monday night was, "When I left, the dancing girls didn't jump out of our closet and throw themselves at you, did they?" I hesitated.
        "No, but Scarlett just left."
        "Johansson? That's impossible, because I had dinner with her."
        "She was probably pretty hungry."
        "Asinine."
        "Think so?"
        "Yes. And by 'inine' I mean 'hole.'"

I've always been an adept bachelor, on every front. In the process of acclimating to married life, however, I seem to've lost my ability to clean and cook. Like a domesticated pig released into the wild, it didn't take long for me to harden to a life of survival. However, I make a very bad pig, or a good one depending on the metaphor.

So I've resorted to speaking aloud to my imaginary friend Scarlett, who silently coaxes me through the day. "That red underwear can't be washed with those white t-shirts. You washed your own clothes for years before this. Remember your training." Despite the pinkness, I've done fairly well. With this help I've remembered to take my vitamins, shave, and buy additional smoke alarms, too.

"Don't open four quarts of green beans. Despite your craving, you can't eat that much."

"America's Funniest Home Videos will come on again tomorrow. You need to go to bed."

"Here, watch me pout needlessly."

Still miss my wife, though.

The only thing I regret about my wedding is the impromptu speech I made. I hadn't considered speaking, but as my dad addressed the crowd I thought, "Say. Maybe I should get up there and say something." That was my first mistake. The second was actually doing it. I promptly molested the microphone into making an ungodly squeal and at once knew the immensity of my mistake. "Drop the microphone, grab Lindsey, and run like heckfire" was my initial response. But as I looked into a crowd of half-strangers I realized that I had taken Oral Communications in both high school and college, so I was prepared. I mean, I was the weatherman for our school for a semester, what's a little wedding speech? It's my own wedding after all—it's OK.

So like the true lunkhead, I listened to myself and stayed up there. As I began and then actually continued speaking, I realized that this was my worst decision since I tried to set off two dozen bottle rockets with a joint at noon in the Stanly County Sheriff's Office with a bag of aborted fetuses in the other hand and two dead bald eagles stuffed into my illegal immigrant's gay son's husband's hooker.

I fought the urge to impale myself for about three minutes, said lots of stupid things, and finally sat down. It wasn't until two days later that I realized my biggest mistake. I mentioned lots of people, mainly members of Lindsey's family, and thanked them and everyone for coming, and some other boring things. In my stupidity, I forgot to thank my own family. Not only my mom, dad, and brother, but also all the other members who had sacrificed loads of leisure time in order to attend my wedding five hours from their homes. I immediately fell face first into the sand and began swallowing in hopes of happy death. Fortunately, Lindsey recognized the problem and scooped me back up, brushed me off, and explained that it was OK—that I was nervous, hadn't planned the darn thing, and that everyone realized it. My family knew that I greatly appreciated their being at my wedding, she said, and that I can always thank them when I get home.

Well, even though few of my family know my blog exists, or even know what a mouse is, I thought this would be a good time and place to thank them publicly. I might as well. To my cousins, Justin, Josh, Nathan, Eric, and David, thank you for being my groomsmen. You were some of my best friends growing up and you mean a lot to me. Thanks to aunts and uncles—James and Cynthia, Susan and her daughters, great-uncle James and his wife Myrtle, Bobby and Lisa—I thank you also for taking the time and effort to be there; it means a great deal to me. It wouldn't have been the same without you.

And before I forget, thanks to my dad, mom, and brother Carlyn. Dad, you taught me how to play chess at age two, encouraged me whenever possible, and instilled a set of values and a commitment to learning that haunts me to this day. I'll never forgive you for it. Mom, you're weird and we don't get along a whole lot, but I think that might be because we're too similar—our mutual love of decorative wooden utensils and romance novels has put us at odds for years. Maybe it will be different now that we're not competing for stomping ground. Carlyn, even though a huge ravine of nine years divided us, I think it also helped us to bond. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm amazingly immature. In any event, thanks for all those years of video games, fireworks in the kitchen, the countless games of basketball, and generally taking my abuse with good humor. I'm sorry that I'll probably die many years before you do.

I need to go finish our thank-you cards.

Here is a lesson in creative writing.
First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

Well, son of a whore! I didn't know they were such bastards; I'll try not to use them as much, now. Oh, wait; I don't write creatively; so I; don;t need to worry about; it; Hahaha;aha;;

I'm a pretty smart guy, I'm told. Still, I have certain things I'm very bad at—things that even monkeys and four-year-olds can do. For instance, I can't order a sandwich at Subway. I don't go unless Lindsey is with me because if I tried, I would end up with a soggy bread blanket stuffed with five kinds of meat.

I also have trouble speaking when I'm excited or nervous. My mind shuffles and my mouth turns limp and lazy. Once, I was asked the question, "How do you feel about winning twenty million dollars and your own island?" Six minutes later I finally said "Good," after Lindsey broke three of my toes and pulled my nose ring out.

I also get the giggles pretty easily, probably because I frequently pretended to be a baseball bat when I was a child. I also laugh at inappropriate times. My friends dog died. I laughed. Lindsey has an infection on her butt. I laugh. I can't help it; things are funny. When I was a teenager I somehow got my butt stuck in a wall. It was funny for days.

Butt.

An hour ago I was feeling as though I might pass out. I hadn't eaten since 5 PM yesterday. For about an hour I had also endured the smell of pizza someone brought for lunch. On top of that, I read an article in Newsweek about food and dieting.

However, all of that still doesn't tell you how hungry I actually was. This will: I ate gummy bears. I went over a decade without eating gummy anything. They were the only things I could find in the back of the Student Center. I regetted it immediately.

Lindsey pulled into the service station and triggered the fuel door to pop out. Standing behind it, she pulled out her check card only to watch the fierce wind take it. As she fumbled for the piece of plastic with all the dexterity of an infant monkey, she continued the process of tipping out her marbles. Spinning up and around, her kneecap smashed the fuel door. "AAH!" Balancing time with embarrassment, she quickly grabbed the pump, forgetting to unscrew the gas cap, which she then had to pull off sideways and left-handed.

I love her, but her embarrassment brings me endless joy.

And yes, we still call them "service stations." No convenience stores down here. Heck, some still go to "filling stations."

I had heard of the ungodliness of MySpace, but I didn't believe it until I pulled up my page for the first time a couple days after I started using it. What are you doing, MySpace? I'm about to get married!

MySpace: "You are yet a free man."
Brian: "Do not tempt me!"
MySpace: "Behold! Emo children and the unemployed!"
Brian: "I thought you were going to say teenage girls with self-esteem problems."

I thought marrying my cousin would be wrong, but apparently not! And look at North Carolina. Come to find out, there's a major site dedicated to romantic love between cousins.

While we're on the subject, this chart is interesting. And here's a fun Cousin Calculator! I've been a little link happy recently.

I'm a big fan of Heather "Dooce" Armstrong's site. Recently, the world had the great pleasure of reading this post. The next day, I asked Lindsey if she would ever do such a morally reprehensible thing with me.

Her response? "I think you would be cute on pot." Word?

Have you ever wondered what time it is and checked a clock, only to turn away and realize you didn't even really look? So you had to look again. That time I made sure I remembered what the clock said.

This game is very fun.

The white house isn't going to work out. Simply stated, for what was to be given, too much was being asked. Besides, we'll probably want something up in the northern tip of the county so we don't have to drive 30 minutes to work and school.

Bambi II has been made. Unnecessary!

Lindsey bought her dress yesterday. I'm not allowed to see it or even hear about it. That's fine, because I want it to be a surprise anyway.

I hope it's white.

Lindsey and I had planned to be in Yorktown March 31-April 2. I learned shortly that Brian Regan is scheduled to perform in Norfolk that Friday night. I've mentioned Brian Regan a few times before, and he certainly deserves the credit. I guess I should include him in my personal agenda/wish list of things that should happen.

• Reformation of social structure
• Decrease personal and collective apathy while increasing understanding and empathy
• Religious tolerance all around, on every side
• Heal the bruises and patch the scrapes within our political bodies
• Get those thirdworlders some physiological and safety satisfaction¹
• For the kids: decrease high school dropout rates and drug & alcohol use; and make them know the extreme importance of education and cognitive/emotional development
• Convey the significance of history and the value it has for the present and future
• Destroy all McDonald's "restaurants" and anything similar
• Attend and redress the reputation of cats, especially in relation to dogs
• Spread the word about Brian Regan and increase his fan base, which should be larger than most other popular comedians performing today (if popularity is actually measured by the proper criterions)

I have opinions.

I have no idea what teams are playing in the Super Bowl, but I know about Bambi II. Surely I am a man's man. Whatever that means. You can't live around here without knowing that the Panthers aren't in it, though. I love college basketball, but I'm a pansy in the area of football—I know nothing. I always feel awkward when in a relative's house and a game is on television. "Go my favorite sports team, go! Yay! they scored a goal unit! Go squadron, do good! Beat the opponents...soundly!"

I know you want to click on one of those links.

Actually, the site doesn't do him justice. Listen to his CD or watch his DVD. Or heck, you can buy both together and save $3.95 off the standard price! I have not been paid to endorse Brian Regan. Brian Regan.

¹It must be odd to have the upper-middle 40% of the pyramid without the proper foundation.

²There was supposed to be a second; I don't know what happened.

Because of Lindsey, I now like a television show called Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I don't normally watch a lot of TV. I watch Family Guy, Futurama, old episodes of the Simpsons sometimes. The Andy Griffith Show, a few Comedy Central shows, the news, PBS. Oh, the National Geographic channel and the History Channel. Spongebob's pretty good. I used to like Unsolved Mysteries and things like that. Documentaries, biographies, and such are nice, too. OK, so I watch more than I thought.

Anyway, "SVU" is a great show. It's one of Lindsey's favorites, so I gave it a try. I love the stories and find the subject matter very interesting. Decent character development we find sometimes, too. Plus, I like Ice-T.

OK, all right. I'm a liar. Mariska Hargitay is why I like the show.

I've always had a thing for older women. Especially older women who are intelligent and witty, such as, oh, I don't know—Bonnie Hunt. You can find the other article(s) I've written about Bonnie if you want, but just know this here and now: Bonnie Hunt is mine, despite what Lindsey, Bonnie's husband, or any officers or documents may say. According to some lawyers, I'm required to say that I was not involved with the events that caused rumors of her and her husband's separation. Wink.

Am I going to Hell for this?

rare humorous videos
reminds me of L.A. Gear, only more stupid
the.. SUPER GREG CONCEPT SITE!
Best. 404 Error Message. Oh, Ever.
This will be stuck in your head for days.
So good.
Darth Vader's LiveJournal
swirl
Sobredosis! This is wonderful.

And a joke: A dyslexic man walks into a bra.

Katie had some questions (and corresponding answers) in her livejournal that a friend had asked. She wanted to do the same kind of deal with me, so here's what she asked.

1) Is there anything you owned as a child that is still accessible to you in a way that provides security (i.e. blanket, velveteen rabbit, etc.)?

My parents read to me a good deal as a child. My favorite book was A Brown Puppy and A Falling Star, which I still have (safe in a comic book bag and board). I would always ask one of them to read it to me. When I got old enough to read it entirely by myself, I would still ask them to read it, because although it was a very nice book, it wasn't the same. I loved when the brown puppy would speak with the other animals, the pictures were nice, too, and what a happy ending. I would stare at the pictures sometimes to make sure I got everything there was to get. That book always made me feel happy and safe.

2) Scenario: Every person on earth is required to have a word tattooed on his/her arm before the end of the year. What do you choose and why? (Leaving the planet is not an option.)

Recalcitrant. I don't want a tattoo, at least not this year. Plus, I'd want to make it as difficult as possible for them. Either that or 71th.

3) With what piece of furniture do you identify most strongly?

If you're asking about a specific piece of furniture, I'd have to go with the old rocking chair in our living room. It's old and ugly, but it has a great aura of nostalgia about it. It's like it's just sitting there, daring you to sit in it. Anyway, long story short, we both have rough exteriors, but pretty decent stuffing.

Now, if you mean furniture in general I'll say a chest of drawers, the poor man's closet.

4) Imagine the greatest day of your life. Describe what happens between 1pm and 2pm.

After a busy morning, we finally stop to eat. With our stomachs full we lie around talking about stupid things and laughing at nothing. Short and sweet. I love it.

5) Scenario: You are about to be locked in a dark coat closet for twenty-four hours. You cannot die or suffer severe bodily harm as a direct result of anything that happens in the closet. What do you least want locked in the closet with you?

This came down to either a skunk or Joan Rivers. I have to go with Joan Rivers.