That’d be a good name for a band. But now for what I really wanted to write about.

Someone was talking about renting DVDs, and I misheard something most important. I heard it as BVD rental.

Gross!

With this eczema, I think I might know how The Incredible Hulk feels when he hulks out and grows in size - or at least his shirt. I want to say pants because it’s funnier, but his pants never seem to burst.

My eczema is mostly on the knuckles of my right hand, and when it flares up badly, I can feel my skin stretch tight over them. And by feel, I mean pain. I feel like if I grip a pen too tightly, my hand will explode right out of its skin.

A funnier take on this whole pain thing though, my hands can look somethin’ awful bad with splits and cuts, and a general redness on the affected area. It’s as if I could start some shit with some toughs and they’d take one look at my hands and back off. “No way man, you’re a bare-knuckle boxer. No pussy’s hands look like that, and I’m not risking getting my ass kicked over this. We out. Peace.”

This story highlights what a dork I am and the way I think tough guys talk. Also I called them toughs.

Late.

Turkish: Well, do you want to do it?
Mickey: That depends.
Turkish: On what?
Mickey: On you buying this caravan. Not the rouge one, the rose.
Turkish: It’s not the same caravan.
Mickey: It’s not the same fight.
Turkish: It’s twice the fucking size of the last one.
Mickey: Turkish, the fight is twice the size. And me ma still needs a caravan. I like to look after me ma. It’s a fair deal. Take it.

I’d never eaten at a Grandy’s before until Monday morning. I had dropped Ame off at work and taken the car to the shop for an oil change. I know how to do it myself, but it can be messy and the price is right to have someone else do it for me while I stay at home watching TV or playing video games… which is what I did, ha!

Anyway, before the short quarter-mile walk home, I stepped into the Grandy’s right there. I had always seen their advertising marquee with different specials for lunch and breakfast, so I figured I’d check it out.  Honestly, I was expecting more of a sit-down setting than what I was presented with. The front area was a lot like McDonald’s and a bit to the side was the breakfast buffet. I stood in line for 15 minutes and ordered that up with an orange juice.

The bacon was good, the sausage patty was okay I guess. I don’t think that’s a fault of Grandy’s though. I’ve never really, really enjoyed sausage patties ever. It must be just me, so I won’t fault them there. The scrambled eggs were runny though. Gross. And the orange juice was awful. I had mistakenly ordered a large. I mean, orange juice is not hard, and I really like orange juice!

I won’t be going back for breakfast stuffs, but I did notice they have a chicken fried steak meal platter, which, if you don’t know me, I love chicken fried steak. I’m sure you Texans know exactly what I’m talking about, and it’s really weird when you think about what makes a chicken fried steak good. Basically, you take a pressed steak of questionable quality, and then deep fry it like you would a piece of chicken from KFC. Make sure you deep fry it fairly poorly, but you still want the batter to stick to the meat. Serve with mashed potatoes and white gravy. Bonus points for Texas Toast (hobo garlic bread) and corn on the cob.

mmmm…

Gahh! No time for any real content. Two tests next week, the game design bug has bitten me hard, now I have work, and oh my god oh my god oh my god.

In semi-real news, celebreality on VH1 blows donkey balls. “Real Chance of Love?” Gross.

In REAL news, I’m an early voter. McCain? Obama? Nope! Libertarian party, suckas!

LATE

Of all things, it was dog crap.

Last Thursday, I was driving back home from taking Ame to work, and there was this smell. It was bad, but it wasn’t totally awful. Just… every now and then, I’d get a whiff of it. I thought it was this little jacket that I wear a lot had gotten smelly over time, and it just needed a good laundering. In an effort at narrowing down the smell, I wore a different jacket to school. The smell continued.

What the hell was it? Where was it coming from? Was it the car that smelled? I parked the car and went to class. After a few minutes of class, there it was again. Oh god, it was me. Good thing I had already taken a seat in the back away from other students. I got home and had a very good shower and put on all new clothes.

On the way to pick Ame up from work it was there again! Well what the fuck. The jacket hypotheses came back. I suspected the cat had goo’d all over these garments and made ‘em smell bad. The solution at this point is to dry-clean the jackets.

Then, Friday morning at work, it was there again. I wasn’t even wearing a jacket. I know my chair smells of farts, and sometimes when I reposition or sit down a little roughly, some ancient farts of the Navaronne come out to haunt me, but this was that smell. My right shoe, there it was. Poop at least 36 hours old. Why hadn’t I noticed it immediately when I stepped in it? Gross. After a good scraping with a pen I’d never use into the trash can that isn’t mine, the smell is mostly gone. I don’t recommend taking a big, (un)healthy whiff of my shoe: The smell is still there as well as my nostrils.

I want to blame Snickers, but I don’t know if it’s his or even canine. Oh well. Shit happens. HAHAHAHAH. sorry…