I cannot believe how many swarms of cops have been buzzing around on this Memorial weekend. I drove by a car yesterday that had gotten pulled over by a cop who apparently had to call for backup. The same day I was walking down the sidewalk and I ran into a cop while I was crossing the street. In addition to various other sightings, I pulled out from a stop sign onto a lonely street later that day. Before I even got up to speed a cop came right up behind me with his bright, colorful lights flashing. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong, but you never know I guess. I wasn’t speeding, that’s for sure, and I stopped at the stop sign. It could be that my car is so out of date that it’s a crime. Or perhaps I look so immature and not old enough to have a license. So I pulled over to the side of the road and watched the squad car go by. Whew.
I’m starting to think that I have a very high tolerance for things. I take ridicule and mockery without saying a word; I let little kids beat on me mercilessly; I stand still without making a sound when someone carelessly grabs my severely sunburnt arm; I lend people my jacket on cold days without thinking twice, then shiver and freeze but insist that they keep it. Furthermore, the other day I was in my photo studio taking pictures, and with the combination of quartz-halogen lights and no ventilation, it gets quite hot in there. But just like every other time, I quietly and steadily did my work in the lonely fiery furnace without saying a word. After a couple hours, someone came by to check up on me. As soon as he stepped in the room, he gasped and said, “Oh man is it hot in here. I can’t stand it.”
Is it just me, or is the temperature just right in here?
My mission for today, whether or not I chose to accept it, was to buy milk and banannas from Kwik Trip. My mom gave me a quick briefing on the mission, and instructed me to get one bag of skim, and two bags of 1% milk. Simple enough. But when I arrived there I discovered one little problem: they don’t label their milk by milkfat percentage. Instead, it’s color coded and marked with either fat-free, low-fat, or reduced-fat. Undoubtedly an interesting method of keeping away customers who have been given specific instructions to buy 1% and skim milk. Consequently, I was forced to use logic, and I concluded that the fat-free milk is the same thing as skim milk. But who’s to tell the difference between reduced-fat and low-fat?
You rub against your fender and a huge pile of rust settles on the ground.
Your passengers have to get out and walk because you can’t make it up the hill.
You accelerate and brake really hard when you drive somebody’s new car because you’re used to sticky pedals.
You hold a contest to see who can make the biggest dent on your hood.
You can’t tell if the road is bumpy, or if the duct tape just needs to be replaced.
Changing your oil and putting air in your tires is a weekly habit.
You can’t hear the stereo over the rattling noises.
You’ve paid more for repairs than you originally paid for your car and the repairman knows you by name.
You no longer lock your car doors. Not only because you haven’t the slightest worry of your car being stolen, but because you’re afraid that you might not be able to get it open again if you do.
The only time your cruise works is when you are being towed.
I’m thankful for lots of things. Among those things are Sunday afternoon naps. And wrinkle-free shirts. The last time I took a Sunday afternoon nap, my shirt was more wrinkled than a…..really wrinkly object. And so I had to change my shirt before I could go to the evening church service. But not this time. This time I’ve got 100% wrinkle-free cotton.
I went to a golf tournament the other day, so people kept asking me if I was really good at golf. The answer was of course, no. I just went for the dinner afterwards and the nice, thick sunburn. My skin is really white, so I burn pretty easy. But my steak was even more red than my sunburn. Is it too much to ask for them to cook the meat before you eat it? My steak was rare, but at least I was well done.
I’m beginning to see how talented my mom is. You see, I was the last one to get to the ice cream, and so I had to put it back in the freezer. Ha, easier said than done. With such a large family, our freezer wouldn’t have room for a popsicle, much less a container of ice cream. I was lucky I caught it before it fell on the floor this time, but I squished it pretty good trying to fit it in between the pizza and the frozen peas. I just can’t figure out how my mom does it.
So I’ve been selected as a prospective juror. I received a questionnaire in the mail that I need to either fill out and return in ten days, or pay a $500 fee. Of all the dumbest obvious questions they could have asked, they just had to ask: “Can you understand the English language?” Is that really worth asking?
Have you ever wondered what Paul the Apostle would write about if he had a blog? Well I have. So I did a comprehensive internet search, and you’ll never believe what I found. Suspended far out in the realm of cyberspace; highly encrypted, and almost indecipherable; I found out that Paul actually did have a blog. I’ve decrypted it, debugged it, and published it at http://ifpaulhadablog.blogspot.com. It’s a very interesting blog with exclusive, never before seen writings and thoughts from the man himself. However, a giant rift in the space-time continuum created a little problem. Instead of all of Paul’s blog posts being decrypted all at once, the bend in the continuum caused each post to be published with respect to the time it was published. As a result, you’ll have to keep checking back to Paul’s blog as the decryption process continues.
I’ve been trying to figure out what my problem is. I don’t have time to go to the doctor, so I’ll just diagnose it myself. Here are the symptoms:
While somebody is talking, I can nod my head, smile, say “uh huh,” and not know a word that was just said. While reading a book, my mind often wanders a million miles away, buy my eyes continue reading the book and follow along and I’ll have no clue what I just read. People ask me to remind them of things, but it’s no use because I usually need them to remind me to remind them. My brain will be completely fried within fifteen minutes during a math test. And last but not least, I procrastinate.
I thought it might be Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), but it can’t be that because I don’t misplace things very often and I’m not restless or impatient. In fact, I’m usually a very calm person, and I can beat anyone in a staring contest. So I think I’m going to call it Simplified Attention Deficit Disorder (SADD). As of yet, there is no cure.