I’ll start from the beginning. Let’s call it a review.

….There is a planet that is just like Earth, only everything is bigger and more blue and has teeth. It is called Pandora. It doesn’t make sense that everything is bigger though, because there is no oxygen. The humans want to take charge of this planet because it contains a special ore called (prepare yourself) “unobtainium”.

…Really? Unobtainium?! If you haven’t grasped the stupidity and unoriginality of the word yet, I’ll break it up for you:

un-obtain-ium.

REALLY?!!!? They could have at least come up with nonsensical names for things like in Star Wars. ‘Nuff said. Back to the ‘story’.

At this point there’s something you need to know about that play a slight role in this movie: Navi. The Navi are blue creatures that resemble humans. They are around 12 feet tall and have tails that can plug into other animals like USB ports.

Now, it so happens that the Navi don’t like the humans taking over their planet, so they shoot them with special venom arrows that kill them in seconds.

How do the humans get around this? There are two ways: disguising as Navi by mixing their genes with ours (never heard of that before….), or shooting them.

First they try the former. They have specially trained soldiers for this job. For each soldier, they take some genes and mix it in with Navi genes, and KALABUNGA!, you’ve got yourself a human-Navi ready to go. They call them “Avatars”.

Here’s the twist: One of the soldiers died before the mission started.

OH, NO!

-Wait! He has an identical twin! How convenient! Continue as planned!

His identical twin’s name is-

-oops, I forgot (for real). I’ll just call him Hami. Why “Hami”? Because it’s Human and Navi combined. I figured it would go along with the rest of the movie’s creative names for things.

There’s something about Hami you should know: He is a cripple. But that’s cool because he doesn’t need no stinkin human body! He’s got an Avatar to get into!

How does he get in the avatar body? By falling asleep in a science tube, of course! His brain is now in the Avatar body.

Now it’s time to go on a mission! Mission: Explore Pandora!

To make a long story short, Hami gets separated from the troop, gets in a fight, and gets rescued by a naked blue indian lady (a Navi).

The Navi lady who rescues him (I forgot her name too…does she even have one?) was going to shoot him too, but she sensed that he “has a strong heart”, So instead of killing him she saved him. After killing all the creatures that were attacking him, she kneels down by them and blesses them…or something like that. Apparently they think that everything is god. So…to sum it up, The inhabitants of Pandora practice the religion of Pantheism. Wow, that’s also original.

After she blesses the carcasses of the slimy animals that she killed to save the fake blue indian, she takes him to their tribe.

whooop-de-doo.

When Hami goes asleep in the Navi body, he comes back to his human one. Next time he gets in his Avatar, it’s Banshee choosing time!!

A banshee is apparently a flying dino-type of a thing. For a Navi to become a “true warrior”, he must get a banshee. How do you know if a banshee is your banshee? It will attack you. If you subdue it, then you are “bonded for life” (you will hear that term a lot…). Well Hami gets his banshee alright. They are now ‘bonded for life’.

In the weeks that follow, Hami becomes a better warrior. The Navi lady (I’ll call her Blue Cheeks’) decides to show him some kind of magical place where you can talk to your ancestor Navi. There she tells him about “choosing your mate”. Once you choose a mate, you are “mated for life”. She gives Hami a list of nice, pretty little Navi ladies that he can choose. Hami says “I know who I have chosen”.

Guess who he chooses?

THAT’S RIGHT! HER! …How did you know. Oh, that’s right! That’s what happens in all of the movies! So yeah. They mate in the woods. They are now “mated for life”. There’s a problem, though: Blue Cheeks is the Chief’s daughter.

WHO WOULD HAVE THUNK?!!

I mean, that never happens in any movies, right?

The father doesn’t like their relationship, but the mother sees Hami’s “strong heart”, so he gets the girl.

A while later, one of Hami’s friends (also in an Avatar) is killed. Hami and all the other Navi try to save her by bringing her before “Mother Gaia”, but it doesn’t work and she dies. This is what happens when the writers of “Avatar” don’t know what to do with a character.

In the meantime, the army dude back at the human camp is getting restless. He wants to attack the Navi.

He does, and Hami decides to help the Navi defend against the “sky people”. Yes, that really is what the Navi call the humans. In fact, even Hami calls the humans “sky people”, even though he is one of them.

A little before the battle, Blue Cheeks (to whom he is “mated for life”) breaks up with him because she thinks he is a traitor. Oh, well. So much for “mated for life”!

During the battle, Hami decides that his banshee (with whom he is “bonded for life”) isn’t good enough, so he gets another bigger banshee. Oh, well. So much for “bonded for life”!

After some fighting, the evil humans set fire to the Navi’s “spirit tree”.

OH, NO!

In the final stage of the battle, the Navi have won, but there’s something wrong…

…The general (human) is about to kill Hami with his battle suit! Nooooooooooo!

I bet you can guess who rescues him. Yup, you got it again. His girlfriend came back to him!

Can you guess what happens next? Of course: his girlfriend gave him enough time to kill the bad guy but gets crushed by a tree in the process. But that’s okay, because his girlfriend is a main character, so she’s invincible (unlike Hami’s friends, 4 of which die in 5 seconds)!

At the end of the “evil cowboys vs. nature-friendly indians” fight, the Navi escort the humans back to their spaceships and everyone is happy.

Oh, and Mother Gaia decides to magically make it so that Hami can always be in a Navi body. The End.

PROS:

Good special effects.

Cons:

The whole movie is actually a con.

IN SUMMARY:

A bad movie, but so cliche and full of propaganda that you should see it “for the lulz”.

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It’s time to write again. “Already?!” you are probably saying. “I can’t be reading this! The Sporadical never gets updated! I had better stab myself with one of my claymores to make sure I’m not dreaming!”

Bad idea.

I know that nobody likes long entries like the ones I usually write, but the last one was what…five sentences? So wallah. Here’s the next post. Read it and love it. Or else.

Guess what!? It’s story time! Here it is:

You wouldn’t know, but I saved this as a draft a few days ago. I was putting it off a couple minutes ago while looking at facebook pictures. After waiting around 7 minutes for a picture to load only to find an almost identical one after it, I closed the demonic facebook and found this post lying around in the drafts section. “What the friggin stroganoff are you?!” I said to it.

“I’m a frebaugalooging post you idiot omg wat tha froth finish me you n00b!” It replied.

“Oh, okay……” I said. I think that if I don’t finish it by the time I go to bed it will eat me…

So anyway, I guess you want to hear about my life or something.

A few days ago my dad took my out to get some things for the upcoming soccer season for my school. Well, actually it’s not ‘upcoming’ because I already missed the first couple practices. Oh, well.

We first went to Wal-Mart. When I tried to get a cart, it was stuck to another one. I looked at the cart in anger and it melted. I continued.

We went to the ‘shoes’ section, which is in the back. We were chuggin’ speedily along the isle when two obese people appeared in front of us. One of them has a disgusting pink shirt on, and another had a black one that said “OH YEAH!” on the back. “Excuse me,” I said with a comma at the end of my sentence. They made no reply, but simply waddle-shuffled to the side.

We arrived at the shoe section. The only cleats they had were in a pile just like everything else in Wal-Mart, including the people. The cleats made me feel like I was in two Tupperware containers. ‘Nuff said.

Before we left the accursed place, my dad had some batteries and grapes to buy. There were only two check-out stations opened. Have you ever seen the movie, “The Ten Commandments”? There is one scene in which thousands of Hebrews are finally escaping bondage. They form a line, slowly but surely getting out of the horrible place. …This situation doesn’t fall far from the one we had at Wal-Mart. However, just as the Hebrews arrived at the promised land (after over 40 years), my dad and I arrived outside of Wal-Mart with our grapes and batteries.

If you have the ignorance dire need to go to Wal-Mart, or if you escape out to the parking lot alive, you will notice that there are as many carts in the parking lot as cars (maybe more). I name these ‘rouge carts’. They are carts that lazy people have discarded after loading their merchandise into their car, and in doing so disregarding everyone else in the vicinity. I don’t know why they can’t just shove the cart into one of the many cart stations in the parking lot; there are so many of them that you have a good chance of getting your cart in if you drop it from a helicopter. But yeah…anyways,

The next stop was The Sports Authority. Guess what we found there that we didn’t find at Wal-Mart? Well for one thing, better carts. I don’t know how, but just pushing the cart made me feel like I was driving a fast European sports car…

Oh, we also great cleats, and these rubber thingys that you put inside your cleat (under the heal) to make you more comfortable and to absorb shock (which I guess makes you more comfortable…).

That concludes the post.

…You know that thing that I always put at the end of my posts that make it a heck ‘o a lot better (except the last post; I forgot it)? Well instead of that, I have a story to share with you! Before you read it, you need to know something:

There once lived a fat hippo and an annoying bird who had a troubled past. The annoying bird was always sitting on top of the hippo, which was very annoying. Then, the hippo made a plan to kill the annoying bird.

There. Now try to enjoy the story.

FAT HIPPO: Hello, my annoying but sorrowful friend whom I pity because of his ever-growing troublesome past!

ANNOYING BIRD: Greeting, my rich and fat friend whom I envy so much! How goes it?

FAT HIPPO: All is well, thank you!

(silence)

FAT HIPPO: May I humor you with a joke this fine afternoon, my dearest acquaintance whom I loath with a never ending waterfall of consuming hatred?

ANNOYING BIRD: Go ahead, my vast friend!

FAT HIPPO: Alright then! What did the Zebra say when an earthquake came?

ANNOYING BIRD: Do tell!

FAT HIPPO: He said “THIS IS TERRABLE!”

ANNOYING BIRD: Oh…by Jove….I’m dying!

(the bird dies)

FAT HIPPO: Ah, well. He always was kind of……….ANNOYING.

THE END!


Oklahoma is not my homa.

August 12, 2010

Behold, I am back. As you can see, I wasn’t able to sneak a post into my time. I tried to write, and I did. I wrote 951 words. But it was 951 words of pure crap, and a good reader like you deserves something better than that. I think it was the state I was in: Oklahoma.

I don’t usually write about long trips that I go on, because they are all the same more or less; but I will say one thing and one thing only: Oklahoma fails.

It was always 95-115 degrees there, I always had allergies, and everywhere you look there’s a billboard¬†advertising for either a church or an adult movie store. …The mosquitoes are bad, too.

I thought Purgatory in Illinois was bad until I came to Hell in Oklahoma.

That said, I’ll never take the good ‘ole flatland to be gang infested, corrupt, boring, unattractive, too hot, or too cold again. Instead, I will focus on it’s nice prospects such as………

Oh.

Mickey Mouse Candy!

August 4, 2010

I’m leaving for eight days early tomorrow morning. This may mean that you won’t get any blog entries from me in a while, but not necessarily. I may be able to sneak one in.

The first thing I will write about will be something that happened a few days ago. I don’t know the exact date, but that isn’t really important.

A few days ago was a block party. A block party is not a party in which you make buildings from wooden blocks (although I do enjoy that activity). A block party is kind of like an open house. An open house is not a house with no roof. An open house is something that happens when someone has too much food. They invite 500 friends to their house and they basically just eat and drink. Well that’s what a block party is.¬† One particular block hosts a party that people from the surrounding blocks attend. One thing different though, is that everyone contributes to the meal. So I guess it’s more like a giant pot luck.

Our block has been hosting block parties for a number of years. My family has attended 3 of them, I think. The block party started at 3:00. Every year the block party is hosted, there is a jumpy. A jumpy is something like a trampoline, only not as bouncy and more chunky. The jumpy is usually in the yard of the people next door, but this year it was in our yard. There was also a snow cone machine, beer, more beer, and one of those things where you have to get the sack in the hole.

…The whole thing felt very ‘official’ because the street was sealed off. Later on, a firetruck and ambulance came for people to gawk at. The ladder was huge; I could see it from basically anywhere. Isn’t that a funny term? “Basically anywhere”

After a while, dinner began (even though people had been eating dinner ever since lunch ended).

I walked inside my house because I was bored. My sister Christina was preparing a chicken meal in the kitchen. She was on one of the final steps, which is to cover the meat in bread crumbs, spicy stuff, and flavor. She was getting it all over, and even under the skin. She’s a great cook; I think that she should go to culinary school instead of majoring in psychology. After that was done, she gave me the plates and I walked outside to have them cooked on the grill. As I walked out the door with two platters of meat that could be served at the best restaurant, it looked as if I had done it. Yay. Go me.

When it was cooked, I tried the chicken and it was amazing.

Some time later, it was “big kid time on the jumpy” time. “Why not?” I said to myself, and I got in.

A few other “biggy kiddys” were in there with me. I felt very childish being in that jumpy. We started doing crazy things that almost tore the whole jumpy down. Then we got told off by someone who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old. I sat in the jumpy in utter gloom, despite the rainbows surrounding me. Then, a thought occurred to me: “I already got told off by a teenager, why not do the whole package and rip this sucker apart?!?” …I never got to, though; it was the little kid’s turn again. Maybe next year!

GUESS WHAT TIME WAS NEXT?

YOU GOT IT!

IT WAS….

PINATA TIME!!!

Everyone had their turn of hitting it, until one buff lady struck it so hard that the bat broke. Not the pinata, the bat. My brother Jonathan went into one of the garages to get one of our metal bats to replace the other one.

After he got it, a man who looked to be eighty years old totally destroyed the pinata.

……And the kids swooped in. Nuff said.

I also swooped in to get a few pieces. “So, is it good candy or mickey mouse candy?” The elderly man asked me.

“Looks like mickey mouse to me….” I said as I examined the trashiest candy in the world resting in my palm.

As day turned into night, it was time to roast marshmallows. How do you disprove Greek mythology? Because if Greek mythology were true, then I would be Becranicus, the god of Marshmallow Roasting.

The marshmallows they had there were huge; 4 times the size of a normal one. I took one in my hand (which I could no longer see due to the size of the marshmallow) and put it on a metal skewer. The skewer has two heads at the end of it, and it took both of them to hold the marshmallow.

I slowly turned the marshmallow above the tips of the flames until the outside of it was a crusty golden brown, and the inside was turned to goo. I took it out of the fire and looked at it. It was the best marshmallow I had ever seen. Perfect in every way. And then…..

SPLAT! “That would happen, wouldn’t it” I thought to myself bitterly.

Even in destruction, the marshmallow was still glorious. It made a perfect dome on the ground, brown at the top, and gooey otherwise. Surrounding the Dome of Wasted Glory (as I call it) was the splattered remains of the rest of the marshmallow. “Whatever,” I thought. “I never liked marshmallows anyway”

I then walked away from the circle of drunken adults in lawn chairs who were still “haruckleboo-ing” at the phenomenon.

As I walked away, I heard someone talking about bowling. “Yeah, I just threw it at it and the pin just went BSHOOSH!” Those were his exact words.

I then went down to my room where I fell asleep and had the oddest dream you could possibly imagine.

Oh, did I tell you? I have been watching a neighbor’s dog, cat, and rabbit for four days. They came back yesterday night, and I got paid $40 for it a few hours ago. I will use it to partially pay for a black suit for the funeral that my family will be attending. I seriously have no other use for money, except wasting it on Starbucks.

And that brings us to…..THE PRESENT! I will end with a little poem. It is about a servant who is riding a horse to his master’s house to mop the floors, but his horse dies of mesothelioma. He then continues on foot, wearing flip flops. He arrives at his master’s house and does his job, but does not get paid because he was late.

Clippety clippety clippety CLOP.

Flippety flippety flippety FLOP.

Mippety mippety mippety MOP.

Nonono nonono nonono DOUGH.

~Fin

The Life of the Box

July 30, 2010

This post is too long. It’s approximately 1.5k words. So I have a plan to help you survive: After you read about the cockroach, STOP. Read the other part the next day.

So, here’s my latest news about yesterday…which isn’t really my latest news:

I woke up and I was in my pajamas. A common phenomenon. My pajamas are green and blue plaid. They are very baggy. I had a white shirt on. It is baggy too. I woke up early. It was 10:00 AM. I went upstairs.

When I got upstairs, I had a pleasant surprise awaiting me: cold scrambled eggs. …I hate cold scrambled eggs. Along with cold pizza. Speaking of pizza, have you ever had “Chicago style” pizza? Or as some weird people call it, “Party style” pizza? Party style pizza is a pizza cut by somebody very special. The kind of bad special. As in, “especially retarded”. You see, whoever cuts a special pizza (as I will now call it, as opposed to a ‘normal pizza’) is not satisfied with being able to eat properly and without a mess. That is to say, he does not cut it into triangles; he cuts the pizza into squares.

This. Sucks.

As you probably already know (because you are reading this blog, and are thereby very intelligent), there are a few ways to eat a triangular pizza slice:

First, there is the most common way, which is to hold the crust with your predominant hand, and eat the tip of the triangle without crust on it as your first bite. As you do this, your secondary hand supports the underside of the pizza triangle.

There is also the taco-style of eating a regular, triangular pizza piece. You simple role it up like a taco, and eat it. This works best with pizzas with few toppings, especially cheese pizza. However, this way of eating a pizza slice is considered disgusting and rude by some pizza-etiquette professionals like myself (though I sometimes do it in a dark corner when nobody is looking….).

Also, there is the viking boat style of eating a pizza slice. It is somewhat similar to the taco style, but all you have to do here is fold the pizza in half. This allows you to put all sorts of nice things in your pizza, like alligator meat and cheese dipped in cheap wine. This style of eating a pizza is frowned upon in all various cults (we are all in one, whether we know it or not) except for the cult of the NFL; the extreme Super Bowl watchers do not seem to have a problem with it. If you are wondering, I never do it. Not even in the darkest of corners.

……A special pizza slice, however, only has one way of being consumed: grabbing it in whatever way you can, and eating it. As you know, normal pizza slices do not require hands; special ones do. And here is the irony: special pizza slices are messier than normal ones! Why? because of the lack of crust, except on the outer regions of the pizza! It is ludicrous. PURE LUDICROUS. That is why whenever I go to a pizza party, I carry a triangulafier with me in my special microscopic triangulafier case that I hide in my shoe. This special tool immediately fixes a special pizza. PROBLEM SOLVED!

I once met a cockroach. “Do you believe in fairies?”, he asked me.

“No.”, I replied as I squashed him.

Anyway…as I was saying, I don’t like cold eggs. So, I heated them up on a skillet and put them in a tortilla. The eggs were too milky and the tortilla was stale. I threw it out. I waited until lunchtime and ate a grilled cheese sandwich (which I make superbly).

In the middle of the middle of the day, a crisis occurred; My brother suddenly felt that he needed a gargantuan piece of furniture in his already filled room. Yes, that is a crisis, because my mom listens to my brother. Me, not so much. I have too much logic (or in her defense, maybe she has more than I can handle). Either way, she didn’t listen to me when I told her it wouldn’t work out. You see, there are two ways of entering his room: you can either go down stairs (which has many tight turns), or you can go outside and through a little door which leads to my room, which leads to his room. They obviously chose the latter.

The only problem is that the door that connects my room to my brother’s room is too small to fit a piece of furniture so big. To prove this, I insisted that before he and my mom lugged the thing into my room, my brother would measure the doorway’s width and the furniture to see if it would fit.

He then rushed to my room and came back a minute later, holding is hands wide. He said it would fit. “Are you sure?”, I asked. “Did you use a tool to measure it with?”

“No, I used my hands.”, he replied. This was a face-palm moment for me.

When I told him to get a measuring tool and come back with the real answer, I was scolded. How could I, a lowly coffee drinker, challenge the vast knowledge of a 13-year old boy who uses his hands to measure things? I should have held my tongue…

To make a long story short, I now have an elephant-sized desk sitting in my room, my things are misplaced, and I don’t have a door anymore. Go figure.

After a while, it was time for VBS again. Today (not yesterday; I am talking about yesterday right now) is the last day of it. This time we took some of my little sister’s friends to participate. As usual, we played some songs and-

Did I ever tell you how much I abhor little kiddy-Christian songs? Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Christian…but I just can’t stand those little children singing those songs. They almost sound sassy, like they’re bossing you around or something. It’s 10 times worse if you watch their music videos. Usually it will be five kids (one of every ethnicity, of course; we wouldn’t want to OFFEND anyone?) with perfect little faces, makeup, and perfect teeth smiling at you. They are preforming mediocre little dance moves all together, almost like robots. The floor lights up, and they sing to you. They often sing of things that they are probably guilty of doing. I once heard one where they sang, “THE POOCHY LIP WILL GET YOU IF YOU DON’T WATCH OUT! …THE POOCHY LIP WILL GET YOU IF YOU START TO POUT!”. After the song, they probably had the “poochy lip” because they were only getting paid 900$ each.

-we also did the next part in the skit. I was the narrator, as usual. The whole thing went pretty fast.

Once it was over, everyone filed out of the church and went to the car. My mom unlocked it and someone opened the door, letting mosquitoes in. We waited for my dad to come. He was taking care of some final things.

Once we were all in the car, I was reminded of how crowded it was in there (I’m only used to nine people in the same car!). I was sitting in between two kids. If my two sisters wouldn’t have been on a sleepover, it would have been packed.

I am nice, so I started to hand out mini Altoids (mints). After I was finished, they were all gone. “Who wants the box?!”, I asked the general audience of the vehicle. The little girl to the left of me was excited for it, so I gave it to her. “Hey!”, she said as she tapped me on the shoulder. “It’s a cell phone!”

If someone gave me and empty Altoids box when I was her age, I wouldn’t have pretended it was a cell phone; I had hardly touched a computer. I probably would have pretended it was….an Altoids box, since Altoids boxes like that weren’t invented yet, and were therefore futuristic, and therefore cool.

She didn’t just stick to pretending that it was a cell phone, though. The little box I gave her kept her occupied the whole 30 minute trip. So, if you’re a baby-sitter, just remember to give the baby that you are sitting an Altoids box. Then you can do your homework, sleep, and consume the parent’s food while the baby happily plays with his little box.

…At one point in the trip, the little girl said to me, “I can hear the ocean through this”.

“Really?”, I asked. “May I try?”

She put it to my ear, and I could also hear it. Then, when she put it back to her ear, I asked her, “Can you hear people, too?”

“Yeah!”, she said.

“Are you listening to their secrets?”, I asked.

“Yeah!!” She said with glee. “I’m blowing wind onto them!”

Then, something happened. Something big. Something important.

IT DAWNED ON ME.

What if……the whole world…..is inside a little Altoids box. What if….the wind is just a little girl blowing into it.

I hope……

that nobody…….

drops it.

~Fin

The State of Moldova

July 29, 2010

…Inspiration, go away; come again another day so I can knock your block off…

Anyone who reads this little ditty of mine probably wants to join the ever growing number of people who want to kill me.

Chances are, you spend hours and hours just looking at a blank “Add New Post” screen. You are waiting for the Goddess of Inspiration to drift over you, enlightening you. …Giving you new ideas that will impress your vast collection of friends, and make the world a better place. But she never comes.

Well, she won’t leave me alone. I am constantly being slapped in the face by the hand of ‘Inspiration’. I am crossing the road, and am suddenly run over by the train of Inspiration’s long, heavy iron dress. I have so much inspiration that I have no inspiration. It all floods in, like a really big………..flood.

Why can’t Inspiration bother somebody else? Like the writer of this blog:

http://gpsnavigator99.wordpress.com/about/

—–

Today I slept in until 11:00. I got up and said “Good morning” to people, who immediately stated that it is the afternoon. I suspect that they felt very smart telling me that. Too bad it wasn’t true; the afternoon starts at 12:00. It was 11:49 when I came up the stairs. So, wallah-da-de-poo to them.

Want to hear a story? Great. No, you can’t sit on my lap.This is a true story, or based on one, anyways. Well, it’s more like a story that is based on a story that is based on a fiction that has things that can only happen in your imagination in it that is slightly based on a halfway true poem that doesn’t even rhyme.

I was once riding my bike to downtown, as I often do. As I was riding over the brick sidewalks of Waukegan, and it was quite pleasant. I was humming the tune to “I can see clearly now”, when out of nowhere a peasant appeared right in front of my bike. I crashed into him, and he yelled at me. “Do you know who I am?”, he said.

“No, but do you know who I am?”, I replied.

The man then clapped twice and six planes zoomed into view. They all had banners attached to them reading, “THIS MAN IS THE KING OF MOLDOVA.”

I looked at the banners, then turned back to the man. I was confused. “So you are the king of Moldova, and not a peasant?”, I asked.

“Indeed, and you have earned something from me that not very many of people do.”, he replied with a warm smile on his face.

“Really, now? What is that?”, I asked in suspension.

“The death penalty.”, he said. He was now scowling at me in satisfaction.

“But you don’t understand. Moldova is in Europe; I am not under your laws! Here in Waukegan, if you run over someone with a bike, they beat you up and shoot you in the leg. That’s just how it works over here. I’m sorry if I disappointed you..”, I explained.

“Well,” he said, now grinning maliciously. “That’s just why I’m here: Moldova is taking over your little town!”

“Well guess what?”, I said. I was grinning too, now.

“What?”, he asked in mockery.

“I win.”

“Oh, I never thought of it that way….”, he blabbered. “I will send the order…it’s back to Moldova for all of us, I guess.” He started to cry.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “Just hand the great thrown of Moldova over to me, and all will be well again.”

“Alright, if-if you say so…”, He whimpered.

I now own Moldova.

The End.

Eh?

July 27, 2010

It is time for another post. Feel free to read the last ones if you want. I try not to make them too long, but if it bores you after reading a paragraph or two, why continue reading? And if you are amazed by it after the first two sentences, why should you stop? So, I suppose how long it is shouldn’t matter that much. In fact, I take it back. This post will be long.

Today was not very eventful (doesn’t that sentence make you want to read on?). I woke up and proceeded to the next part of my daily schedule in the Summer, which is to fall back to sleep. An hour later I woke up again and turned on the radio, which is always on but is at zero volume when I go to sleep. This somehow motivates me to get up every morning.

I slapped on some jeans and a T-shirt (my usual look). I brushed my teeth (which takes extra care because of my braces and oral surgery). I fixed my hair (or, as some people think, I messed up my hair). I shaved (which I only have to do occasionally). This is a normal morning.

I live in a big house. It does not have big rooms, but a million little ones.Even with a big house, though, you cannot be alone with a family of nine. Everyone is always everywhere. Constantly talking, moving, playing, fighting. The ages range from 8 to 18, myself being the second oldest, and the oldest boy. There are always many cliques in a school. I have cliques in my family as well.

I will skip through the middle of the day since it was so uneventful and dull. I will just let you picture me doing whatever thing comes to your mind when you think of the word “dull”. I personally have two things that come to mind when I think of that word. The first thing is a young boy nibbling on a lukewarm pickle, while sitting in the middle of the street with nobody in sight in 90 degree weather. The second thing that comes to my mind is a young adult who inherited everything from his father. He is in evening attire and is sitting on a chair by himself. Amongst him are many party guests who are drinking his wine, eating his food, and taking advantage of his hospitality. He is running out of money, but the only way he can maintain popularity is by throwing parties, since he is unfashionable and has a boring personality. The party guests are chattering away, most likely gossiping about him. He asks a butler for some wine, but it is all gone. He then sits in his chair in utter sadness and humility as he watches his life slowly being consumed by people he doesn’t even know.

This evening was filled up with one single event: VBS. VBS stands for Vacation Bible School, and it is for children below 6th grade. It includes Bible lessons, crafts, snacks, and games. My father is the pastor of a church, and we are hosting it this week. The children in my family are helping in small ways; my sister Caroline drew amazing pictures for it (she seriously outdid herself) and all of us are putting on a series of skits (written by the VBS administrators, or something..). I am the narrator and the sound booth guy. You know, that one person in the back making sure you hear the pastor inform you that what you have been doing your whole life is a sin from the pit of Hell.

After that whole deal (which was actually sort of fun), we all went home. And that’s the end.

For closing, I have a great poem to share with you. It is very funny and you will laugh so hard that you will get all your friends to read it and send messages to your grandma, and all of your teachers so everyone can read the hilarious poem by Andrew Jumper. But, I won’t share it with you because I ended the last entry with a poem. Oh, well!

I will end this entry with a song. It is a short song and not written by me. It was probably written by someone who held immense love for his pony. You may recognize it.

My little pony, my little pony! I’m so glad you’re my friend!

Doom.

July 24, 2010

Excuse my absence; I forgot that this blog existed. I suppose you will want to hear about my time at my aunt and uncle’s house. Well sorry, you can’t. The reason I provide is that it’s been a while since then and if I made a post about it, it would be of the utmost poorest quality posts in existence. So, what will I write about now? My thoughts, I suppose.

It is a dark and stormy night, and I am being forced by certain people to attend a renaissance fair tomorrow. I leave at 9:30 AM, and it’s 12:46 right now. I am used to sleeping in, so I should feel very grumpy when I wake up. Besides making me go, they want me to actually put on a costume: A white fluffy shirt, a dagger, black pants, and boots. I am not so keen on doing so, but I fear that if I don’t do it my friends shall roast me on a spit. My older sister promised to buy me something at Starbucks, and maybe even some cinnamon-covered pecans at the fair if I do…so that’s also a bonus. Her name is Christina, and she has been an official ‘adult’ for just over a week, though in my opinion she has never ceased to be an adult from the day she came into existence. This is neither a compliment nor an insult, but simply a fact. It is like saying a crayon is blue (but I suppose that could be considered to be an insult in certain situations).

What else is happening besides my waterfall of lament pouring into a bottomless bowl of poison and sadness? Two of my four sisters are having two of another family’s four daughters over for a sleepover (in which nobody ever really sleeps, of course).

The two sisters are Christina (my older sister, and a photographer) and Caroline (my oldest younger sister, who is an artist). The two guests are Katie (the older one) and Maddie (the younger one).

To start the night, the game they decided to play (and let me play) was “Apples to Apples”. For those of you who live on the far end of the galaxy, I will explain the game:

There are red cards and green ones. Red cards have nouns (earthworm(s), fire, etc.) on them, while the green ones show adjectives (ghastly, dull, etc.). To start the game, seven red cards are distributed among the players (4 or more). After each player has seven red cards, one of the players then draws a green card and lays it out, faced up, in the middle. This player is the judge. All other players will proceed to look through their red cards and decide which one best goes along with the green one. They lay that card in the middle, face down, next to the green card. The judge will then look through the red cards laid in the middle and decide the winner. The winner gets to keep the green card from that turn. All players take turns being the judge, and the first to a certain number of green cards wins. Some say that the green cards you get describe who you are….

To make a short story even shorter, I lost, with only one green card in my possession at the end of the game (“heartless”).

After playing Apples to Apples, I broke from the company of the four girls as they cheeped and chattered their way upstairs to gape and giggle at their renaissance clothes.

Tonight, I will leave you with a small poem:

As the thunder rolls

and the lightning strikes

to burn small bushes

shrubery

and the like,

I sit inside

the warmth of my house

eating some cheese

like a poor little mouse.

~Fin


Ben Delatour

July 5, 2010

I am back from my camping trip, and it was Independence Day yesterday. Happy Independence Day. Well, I suppose you are just craving to hear about my trip, or at least want a small recap.

My Boy Scout troop (including my two brothers and my dad) went to Colorado for our trip. I packed everything I own (“be prepared”, right?), plus a few things I don’t. A handful of volunteer adults took most of the guys in their cars, but since my dad was coming with us to get away from ‘it all’, my two brothers and I got to ride separate, in his car. We still followed the same routs as the others, though. We also made the same stops as them, and it seemed like some kid had to use the toilet every hour.

To kill time, my brothers and I played two games over and over and over again: The Alphabet Game (“X for Xylophonist Shoppe! Take that, loser!”), and Cow. ‘Cow’ is a game you may or may not know of, so I will explain it to you:

As the car rolls along on the never ending journey to who-knows-where across bleak, flat landscapes, one must find as many cows as possible. If someone finds a cow, he then declares “COW!”. This means that he now owns the cow and that cow cannot be taken by anyone else. All cows in a place counts as one “COW!”, meaning you cannot say “COW COW COW COW COW” to get all the cows in the area. You may only count multiple cows if they are separated by a fence, or some other defining line, like the Great Wall of China. If two players say “COW!” at the same time, the cow is dead, caught between the crossfire of the two people fighting over the unfortunate cow. If somebody sees a graveyard, he may declare “I kill all of your cows!”. This kills all player’s cows but the one who says it. That is the sophisticated game of “COW!”. NOTE: If you live in a city, and there are no cows in sight, they may be substituted with other things, like vastly obese people.

The trip to the camp alone took two days, partly because some people in charge thought it a wonderful idea to spend 1 or 5 hours at the headquarters of Cabela’s. If you have never heard of Cabela’s, it’s only one of the biggest places to buy outdoor gear in America, much like Outdoor World. Everything is expensive there. For instance, they have knives for $400. …Seriously? No matter how sharp it is, I don’t think I want to buy a knife for that much unless it would grant me a crazy power of some sort. Almost nobody bought anything of value. It was almost a complete waste of time. I say ‘almost’, because my dad managed to find a cheap sleeping bag there for only…sixty dollars! What a bargain. He did need one, though; before that, he had to use a purple sleeping bag that was half his height (some kid from the family had placed it inside the case of his zero degrees mummy sleeping bag).

The camp that we eventually came to is called Ben Delatour. For the convenience of your imagination, I will paint a picture of Ben Delatour for you with words: The lake is at one side, and the camp is about 3 miles from it, going uphill. All the other things sit between them.

My troop, of course, was placed on the highest point in the camp, which is the farthest site from anywhere (dining hall, merit badge classes, trading post, etc.). “Whatever,” I thought. “…at least we don’t have to haul all of our gear to the top. Haha, that would be torture. Thank God for cars! Haha…”

What was the next thing I heard?

“Alright boys, each of you take one heavy object to the campsite and we get the badge!”

I went over to a pile of backpacks and picked up a green one. That was my mistake, for it was my scoutmaster’s backpack. I actually believe that he packed everything he owned, just like me. …Only I don’t own a house.

The nights at Ben Delatour were very cold, but I compensated for that by wearing five shirts, a scarf, two hoodies, two pairs of pajama pants, and 4 pairs of socks. No, I’m not a wimp; it really was that cold, and my sleeping bag basically failed (I got it at Wal-Mart). In Wal-Mart’s defense though, I did have a very comfortable cot that was purchased there. It was a great alternative to sleeping on the wooden platform that the tents are on.

The days at Ben Delatour were exceedingly hot. Never humid, though. The mornings started out cold, but by the time everyone gathered for breakfast (7:00) the temperature would escalate to around 70 degrees (and it got much worse as the day dragged on).

I had three merit badges that I wanted to gain while in Ben Delatour: Camping, Environmental Science, and Emergency Preparedness (all required for the rank of Eagle Scout). I got only two of them, though; my dad, two brothers and I had to leave early to be with family. This made it impossible to complete the camping merit badge, which required an over-nighter out of tents (which was on the last day). The instructor told me that I could finish it by simply camping in my backyard though, so (as lame as camping in the yard sounds) it’s all good.There are some other things that I could ramble about, like the yellow water they had there, but I will refrain. I will include my time with relatives (sounds exciting, right?) in my next post.

Sporadic tip: Don’t be sarcastic with a waitress (or hair stylist for that matter); they are prone to ‘accidents’ when you do this.

11 Day Famine

June 18, 2010

Because I have so many readers (and ‘followers’), I saw it the decent thing to do to remind you of an upcoming trip of mine to Colorado. I will be going with the Boyscouts, and I will be gone for 11 days (trips there and back included). I know that I only just started, and I have many, many horrible and uninteresting things to share with you that I will dish out sporadically in the near future..but for now, you will have to settle for lesser blogs, such as my older one: ‘ze blog of doom’. It’s the only link down there, so unless you are part of my Boyscout troop, are dead, work at Wal-Mart, Six Flags, or are the current president of the United States, you should be able to find it without too many problems.While you’re down there where all the annoying links that you care nothing about are, you might want to consider subscribing to this blog. After you subscribe, you can forget all about it for 11 days, then regret it when you get an e-mail about a post from a blog you don’t even remember reading.

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Sporadic Text: I may or may not sporadically or expectantly add or remove more or no features to or from this blog or my other blog in the near or distant future that will make your life better, or make you want to jump off the edge of a cliff with scorpions and octopi waiting to eat you at the bottom.