mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Ryan's Gang Killed My Brother. Ok. Ok. I must admit something that is probably kind-of unethical in the blogging/diarying world. I didn't really write that last entry. In fact, I didn't even know what it was going to be about until I actually read it for myself. I knew it was coming. I just didn't know the content of what was coming. So, forgive the constant use of the dreaded 'F' word. I'm ashamed, bla bla bla. The person who wrote that last entry was none other than my partner in travelling crime, Nicole (who does, in fact, have some amazing boobage). And in exchange for me allowing her to grace the presence of my diary, she let me write an entry in her diary over the weekend as well. It was kind-of like "Trading Spaces," but for diaries. You know... that would be neat. Have two people who are somewhat decent at designing have access to each others' diaries in order to do a complete redesign. Look at me. I'm all ideas tonight. I was quite the constructor this weekend. My dad called Saturday and asked if I wanted to come out to the farm to help build a dock out into one of his ponds. Since I didn't have anything more important to do all day than pick lint out of my belly button, I said, "Yes, Dad. Boy howdy!" We started at around 1:30 in the afternoon. I don't know if any of you people have been in the South in the past millenium, but 1:30 in the afternoon in May translates into an air temperature of 90+ degrees. Add humidity and an extremely reflective aluminum boat and see how good of a mood you will be after an afternoon of dock building. Now, I have been living quite a bit north of Mississippi for five years. This is why I make no excuses for the color of my legs in this picture. That's my dear ol' dad putting up some of the frame while I watch. I really did do a lot of work. It just doesn't seem like it in this particular picture. More people than I was expecting asked how the wine tasting went with my mom on Friday night. Pretty good, thanks. After drinking several glasses (they were quite liberal with their wine "tastes") of wine, my mom and I decided to go through the daiquiri drive-through. Louisiana has drive through shops that give you frozen alcoholic drinks for you to enjoy while on the move. As Drew Carey said, "it's for the drunk driver who is constantly on the go." By the time we got home, I was feeling a little warm and care-free. No worries, I wasn't driving. It was dark. The bugs are critters were out. I was just making my way to the front door when all of a sudden I felt something under my foot and I heard something that sounded like, "Wrek!" In my drunken stupor, I carelessly walked without looking down. Had I looked down while walking, I would have noticed the frog -- the poor, innocent frog -- who was minding his own business, enjoying the warm weather, and eating some of that nice Friday night bug action. All it took was that one careless step for Mr. Frog to be no more. One second, he was at the top of his froggy game. The next second, he was dead last. Boy. It kinda makes you think, don't it? So, goodbye dear friend! I'm sorry I brought your promising life to a sudden, tragic end. Perhaps your mom can create Frogs Against Drunk Walking. FADW lives! I went to eat lunch with my mom today at Ryan's Steakhouse, the backwood Deliverance-type person's Five-Star Restaurant. I think the only food they serve there that doesn't come from a can are the salad fixings and the meat, but even the meat is questionable. My biggest pet peeve when eating out is when the restaurant of choice has a standard "Happy Birthday" procedure. This procedure dictates how many wait staff surrounds a table (usually all of them), how loudly they will sing (usually loud enough for people outside of the restaurant to hear), how loudly they will clap (see "how loudly they will sing"), and what song they will sing (usually some varient of "Happy happy birthday, we're all so glad you came! Happy happy birthday, from the Ryan's gang!"). Not only do you have your quiet, relaxed meal interrupted by loud claps and singing, you have to wait on your sweet tea getting refilled so someone can be wished a happy birthday by the Ryan's gang. I hear the Ryan's gang is treading on the Blood's turf, yo. There will be many caps in asses, my friend. Many caps in asses. And what I don't get how the people who get sung happy birthday to by the Ryan's gang think it is the funniest thing they have ever seen in their entire life, like it is a huuuuuge surprise. Like the Ryan's gang was tipped off by Deep Throat that Jimmy-Bob's birthday was today, so they suddenly showed up to wish Jimmy-Bob a happy, happy birthday. When I was a kid, I thought it was fun to have the whole restaurant look at me when it was my birthday. Now, I'm all like, "Just give me the free cake, shut up, and leave me the hell alone." Why people insist to have the Ryan's gang sing happy, happy birthday every 7.5 minutes blows my mind. They should set up a box at the entrance that has it recorded. If it's your birthday, you press a button and a pre-recorded version of the happy, happy birthday song -- sung by paid artists and not the Ryan's gang -- will be played just for you. That way, I can eat in peace and get constant attention paid to my sweet tea refills. That's how I would make this world a better place. Well, for me, anyway. Ok. That's it from Picayune for tonight. I have to go to Louisiana tomorrow morning to chat with my new "temporary" recruiter. Hopefully I've lost a pound or two this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Hopefully on my way there tomorrow I won't have a rock shoot up and break my windshield like last week. Remember that day I didn't update due to a lack of anything nice to say? Well, that was the best thing to happen to me that day. 11:49 p.m. - Sun., May 4, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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