Iota Chi DOES NOT Suck

I realized that I didn't make it completely clear that I, in truth, rather like the social club Iota Chi. It was simply graffiti that I found entertaining.

More: after posting those song lyrics, my site receive no more hits than usual, and I remain mired in mediocrity and nigh-obscurity. And it's worth noting that more web site hits would only change ONE of those.

More: my new friend Mary now knows a lot about me through reading my blog, and I realized that new readers may have trouble just jumping right into the entries, so I will now produce a small autobiographical section, primed and ready to be cut-and-pasted into the future Wikipedia article chronicling my rise to fame and subsequent drug addiction and grisly death.

Autobiography: I was born a poor black child.

CRAP CRAP CRAP this is all wrong. And probably copyright-protected.

Anyhoo, I remember when I first decided to kidnap the former Lucas Matthews and steal his identity and life.

CRAP CRAP CRAP

No, actually this is pretty good.

Anyhoo, today wasn't half-bad. I'm pretty glad for that. I hope your day was good, too, dear friend out in cyperspace.

A Short Story

Well, as intellectually stimulating as the conversation surrounding the last post was (thank you, Megan, for writing; to everyone who reads this and doesn't write: up yours), I thought I'd post for the last time before break by sharing a stupid short story that I wrote in my head while on a road trip once. I tried to make it as bad as I could.

Just kidding about the "up yours" part.

Here it is:



The white lanes of the road rushed by him into the dark night like hundreds of bunny rabbits strafing him at high speed. Gordon had lost count of them long ago. His CD player lay by his feet, motionless and useless due to the short lifespan of his overused rechargeable batteries.

Gordon didn't mind the silence; he could use this time to think.

But thinking made him sleepy.

Three tears rose to his eyes as he bemoaned his situation. His cell phone was low on battery and no one was calling anyway.

Gordon needed a miracle.

"God," he prayed. "I am getting sweepy, and I still have a couple of hours left to drive. Please rescue your servant! If you follow through on this, I'll so owe you big time."

He amen-ed the prayer and looked around for a sign that he had been heard. Figuring the billboards were a good place to start a search for signs, he stared intently at invitations to rest well, eat well, spend well. There was nothing obviously divine here, although he was mildly intrigued at the prospect of joining "Midnight Disco, a Gentleman's Club." Sadly (on many levels), Gordan was not technically a gentleman as he was not a landowner.

Running out of options, he turned on the radio to find his Sign. Static-surfing yielded no results until he switched to FM. He stared so hard at the console that the car began to weave about the lonely road. If the lanes had actually been white bunny rabbits, they surely would have been destroyed.

Searching the high end of the spectrum, his hand froze on the dial when the distinctive bass-and-beat of Tag Team's "Woop (There it is)" filled the car.

Three more tears rose in Gordon. Only these were happy tears, like when the grocer gives you too much change in return or when no one notices that you farted at a dinner party.

Gordon was elated.

"Now I know that God exists."


THE END


I imagine that you think less of me now.

I'm fine with that.