I know you want to keep us in suspense regarding your upcoming deals, but trust me when I say that there is no need for your treasure chest and question mark when they are paired with "hints" that are clearly references to seasons of Friends. Please try again.
In recent Four Loko news, my friends and I have been expressing our views to the press. Two friends contributed to this article, while I submitted a question that got posted in this chat.
My question concerned the unlikelihood that the people getting sick after drinking Four Loko were ONLY drinking Four Loko. If there's any constant in the world, it's that college students are idiots (oddly, this point got cut out of my question before publication). They're idiots who make horrible decisions to get as drunk as they can as fast and as cheap as they can. This means drinking eight cans of Natty Light in an hour. It means making a rum and coke that's 3/4 rum. It means being the primary buyers of Everclear. And it means mixing vodka with their Four Loko.
What's lost here is that just because some aren't drinking Four Loko responsibly doesn't mean they can't. And it doesn't mean that they'll drink anything else responsibly, either.
And that is not the government's responsibility nor is it the company's fault.
Disclaimer: I've never tried Four Loko, and the closest I've ever come to seeing it in action was when I witnessed some high schoolers shoplifting a case from 7-11 last year. Of course, I do intend to try it before Prohibition sets in, because the government has made it unbelievably attractive.
I went out to dinner last night for a friend's birthday. She was celebrating her XXX birthday, an important lesson to us all that roman numerals can be used for more than stealing back your town's lemon tree. She chose one of our kickball bars for dinner, which may seem like a surprising move to some. That's understandable, as kickball bars are usually dive bars that smell like heavy amounts of bleach on a good day and beer-soaked, vomit-encrusted bad decisions on a bad day. This one, though, has surprisingly good food on the menu, and amazing food if you're lucky enough to be offered something off the menu.
Now, I've never run a marathon. But I think that my experience last night was as long, difficult, and ultimately rewarding as one, if not more so. (This point was proven when our resident marathoner could not finish the rib eye, though perhaps she had begun her sprint to the end too soon when she cheered enthusiastically for the mass consumption of baby cow) And more exciting than the wonderful feeling in my stomach was the reminder that there is damn good cooking in this city, and not necessarily in the most recognized places.
MTV’s The Situation recently released his long-awaited opus entitled Here’s the Situation: A Guide to Creeping on Chicks, Avoiding Grenades, and Getting in Your GTL on the Jersey Shore. In the coming days, I’ll post what I’m sure will be one of thousands of academic reviews.
Introduction The book opens, as so many great works do, with a quotation from another famous Italian. The lines chosen from Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations remind us of our own fleeting existence in this world, an existence that will most likely be forgotten by all in 100 years time. Will The Situation, like Aurelius himself, avoid such a fate? Will Here’s the Situation be recognized as one of the greatest collection of thoughts of our time? Will my first edition be worth millions one day? The Situation has given himself 133 pages to attain immortality.
Before beginning the main body of his work, Sitch (if I may be so cavalier as to use such an informal nickname in this review) addresses the first of what I’m sure will be many pressing issues in the Italian-American community: the use of the word “guido.” While he admits that it is not a word he employs frequently, he also champions the right his fellow Italians to reclaim the word, much like the GLBTQ community has reclaimed “queer.” In fact, he challenges Irish-Americans to find their own terminology to rally around by addressing this section to “Freckles McGee.” By doing so, he reminds the Irish of the racism they faced decades ago, and challenges their belief that they have been truly accepted as part of White society.
While he recognizes that guido can be used in a derogatory fashion, he rejects the idea that it is, by its nature, an insult. It is a word that is part of Italian-Americans themselves, representative of their lifestyle and heritage. Sitch argues that the spirit of guido goes back to youth, “To the days prehistoric kindergarten when we all thought the tooth fairy was alive.” (p. X) This quote raises fascinating questions: Those days of kindergarten, what made them “prehistoric”? Is The Situation making a subtle point about the loss of innocence? Was learning of the tooth fairy’s death so traumatizing for him that it marked the birth of his pessimistic view of life evidenced by the quotation that opened the book? Was the realization that such magic was not real so damaging to young Sitch that it led him down a path that resulted in the methodical training regimen he employs today? Having learned of the mortality of childhood figures, he perhaps set out to avoid his own mortality as long as possible.
Such an argument may seem farfetched, but let me add an additional piece of evidence. In the season two episode “Sleeping with the Enemy,” The Situation says the following regarding the unhealthy Sammi-Ronnie relationship: “And, uh, ya know, she just took it and smiled. Just like when you’re little and you want to believe Santa Claus is alive. F*ckin’ Santa Claus is dead.” Clearly, the wound is still raw for The Situation. He wonders why everyone won’t wake up and realize that Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and (we assume) the Easter Bunny are dead. Why do we cling to these figures? Are we afraid to see how the world really is? Only the Sitch knows that the truth will lead to our empowerment.
Last Saturday, I walked into the YMCA in downtown DC to see that the TV was set to Al Jazeera, as part of Obama's plan to make sure that's the only channel received by schools, churches, and community centers. I texted YOC, since she majored in terrorist studies, to learn that she had spent the morning at a Veteran's Day parade in...Florida, I think? (Can't keep up...somewhere in the South) Anyway, a parade that featured Shriners and assorted corporate mascots.
I had no idea towns still had parades for Veteran's Day, although I suppose we'll take any chance to honor our troops and McDonalds.
If that story doesn't summarize America, then I don't know what does.
We're all aware of the abomination that occurred Tuesday in Delaware.
Well. It seems O'Donnell's Democratic opponent was a Republican until his early 20s, when he went on a life-changing study abroad.
In which country did this transformation take place?
KENYA.
Where, obviously, he was recruited by the anti-colonialist Marxists to be Obama's right-hand man in handing America over to the Muslims. IT'S ALL IN THE ARTICLE, PEOPLE. Christine is the only person standing between us and Sharia.
I give it 3 days before the crazies take this and run, alleging a conspiracy that involves Obama, Coons, Joe and Beau Biden, and Castle.
A year ago, I brought you this tale of my fight against the Man. Last week, I was faced with a similar battle, this time against the powers at the University of Delaware. I received a ticket dated July 21 of this year, for a car with my father's license plate, addressed to me at my former Delaware address.
A couple things.
I haven't been to UD's campus in about five years. My father's 5-digit license plate has been sitting in a drawer at my sister's since 2006 (Delawareans have a bit of an obsession with license plates. The lower the number, the better). The plate was never on a car registered in my name.
Luckily, resolving this issue was much easier than my DC experience. Instead of going to court and listening to others' tales of police ineptitude, I simply called the University and within minutes they took it off my record, no evidence needed. I really miss Delaware at times like these.
I was going to start a paper that's due next Wednesday, but then I saw that it's 5-7 pages, not 7-8, so forget that. There are more pressing things to deal with, like the vodka in the kitchen.
Oh, hey, Metro says it's "very unlikely" they'll have aboveground service tomorrow....looks like no class tomorrow, either!
Finally, I support this arrest, and commend the officer in question. Damn hipsters.
Quick question: when you load the dishwasher, do you put knives in handle down or up? I always put the handle up, and implore you do the same, lest you end up like me with a wound from her sister's cutlery. *shakes fist at sister*
Life has been a tad crazy lately, what with work, school, kickball, skeeball and the like. I'll try to update more often now that kickball's over for two months.
Labor Day weekend was a great break from not laboring. I went to Dave and Busters for the first time and scored a sweet Jonas Brothers locked diary for 375 points.
A great addition to my life, I think.
Saturday was extra special, because I was left dumbfounded and speechless, something that does not occur often, let me tell you. I made an innocent comment about how my laffy-taffy fruit roll up thing looked like bacon, when one of my companions remarked, "eww...I hate bacon."
I may have spent the rest of the night staring at him and asking things like, "ALL bacon? Bacon bits? Turkey bacon? Why do you hate life? Are you suicidal?"
Two international students talking over lunch, one attempting to impart wisdom on living in the US to the other:
"What does 'Buffalo' style mean?" "Oh, it's another term for Tex-Mex. Like Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, you know."
"There's a good place to buy organic food that's cheap. It's Joe's...something. Uncle or something."
It took all of my willpower not to turn around and correct the guy. Actually, it took all of my willpower not to fall on the floor in a fit of laughter.
I woke up at 7:30 today, researched and registered for classes, then slept from 10:30-1:30. And I'm beat.
This past weekend was a blur of orientations, driving, crab feasting, and kickballing. The annual crab feast was as good a time as ever, and even included a random fireworks show from the next town over (and not from my aunt's yard, as is sometimes the case). I drove back to Wilmington in the worst rain ever, so bad that I had to pull into the parking lot of a CVS for 20 minutes. It made me miss brunch the next day, since I had to get up early on Sunday to drive back to DC. I hate missing brunch.
Anyway, I need to go to bed. But enjoy this informative link: http://iscaliforniaonfire.com/
Well done, Post editors! It's not like he's from a district that might matter to any of your readers, right? Michigan, Montgomery County, all the same!
Not working is all well and good, until Tuesday evening comes and you're bored out of your mind. I've already tried my top boredom solution, taking a nap, so now I'm bored and well-rested.
I got up at 7 today, which is earlier than I had been getting up for work these last few months, and took my car in for an oil change in one of the saddest strip malls in the greater Wilmington area. There's only so much time you can kill at Sears. There isn't, though, a limit on how many sandwiches you can get from Wawa, and so I had it for lunch for the second day in a row. I have a feeling it'll be calling my name this weekend as well.
Changes have been afoot here at the M Slash compound, as last Friday was my last day at work and this Friday is grad school orientation. I have spent my free time bedazzling shirts and hanging with kickball kids, so I feel it's been a good few days.
I head reffed a kickball game yesterday, and was flattered when someone on the losing team said I did a great job, "except for that one missed call." Wanting to know about any mistakes I made, I asked what it was.
"Well, bases were loaded, and I was on third. When I was running home, the catcher never tagged me, he just touched the base, so I should have been safe."
I kept asking him to repeat this, thinking I had misunderstood. "But, bases were loaded, right? And you were on 3rd? And he tagged home plate?" His answer: "Yeah, but since it was a force play, they had to tag me, not the base."
I, obviously, started laughing hysterically and telling everyone on the patio. A bitch move, yes, but if you don't know a rule that's taught in T-ball, dude, I can't help you.
I was hanging out with some people on Thursday, two of whom were relatively new to DC (6-8 months here). I forget how we got on the topic, but we started talking about Wonderland, which I said I didn't like because there are too many hipsters there. One of the newbies piped up with, "Hipsters don't go to Wonderland! It's a dive bar!"
...
Yes. According to this very nice, if misled, young man, Wonderland is not a hipster bar. For those of you outside DC, Wonderland is a bar in a gentrifying neighborhood that serves beer in goblets to people wearing ironic clothes. In fact, I believe anyone who dares to do anything un-ironically while there is thrown out. They offer the right mix of "exotic" beers and, as they call them, "great American standards":
Jesus, they have an exclamation point after Pabst Blue Ribbon! PABST BLUE RIBBON! Or, as you may know it, THE hipster beer of choice. (Although I guess they also enjoy Miller Highlife? I'm gonna say it right now: Keystone will be next.) This is damning evidence, because no one would get that excited about PBR unless they're wearing skinny jeans, converse high-tops, and a flannel shirt.
Hell, type in hipster and DC in Yelp, and look at what you get:
