Anger Management

Let us first, before anything else, enjoy my post title. It's relevant to the topic AND it's also the name of a recent movie with Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson. Eh? Genius. Every blogger must do this, by the way. It's in the rules that blogger.com makes us follow. We have to come up with blog post titles that are witty and relevant, or they kill us. That's why so many people do it, just in case you thought it was because every blogger sucks balls.

I get angry over the most stupidest retardedest awfulest things ever. When I'm doing poorly at something, I'm pissed. If my brain just can't wrap itself around a video game, for instance, I'll go absolutely bananas. And I'm not even sure what the hell that means. If I can't make something work for me, can't get something to "click," then I'm furious, and I sound like a little baby, though I look like a big, fat one.

It's really bad; just ask anyone who knows me. Keith probably knows this better than anyone, other than Jon, of couruse, who has the advantage of being my brother (and thus was present for all of my prepubescent tantrums over Pokemon and Metal Gear Solid). For some reason, though, I'm more likely to bust up in front of Keith than anyone else. I think it's because he, unlike everyone else, puts up with my shit long enough for me to come to my senses. Good man, that Keith.

During these situations, I occasionally gather enough self-discipline to shut up and think, calm myself, and try to sort through things. More often than not, serene contemplation yields excellent results and I return to the activity in question and dominate. Like when I'm just sucking balls at NBA Live 09 (basketball video game, if you're a noob): I'm yelling and whining and bitching and stinking shit up pretty bad(ly). But when I calm down, get a drink, turn the game off, and bring myself back to non-stratosperic levels of anger, I'm able to turn the game back on and win some games.

Or when I played Disney Think Fast Trivia (don't ask) the other day on my Wii, and Philippi and I were tied after two rounds: the third round consisted of picking the Hercules muse that was different out of a lineup, and it was competitive: whoever got it right first got the points. Well, I might as well have taken a dump in my pants; that might have been more effective. I was applying myself to the game in the wrong way and Philippi was getting EVERYTHING. I thought the hair was going to be a factor that changed during successive rounds and so I kept looking at the hair right away, even after four straight answers that consisted in determining who was wearing the glasses. I kept thinking I was going to be right that I messed it all up and gave Philippi four trillion points. I was pissed, of course. But then I settled down, concentrated, and went on to rape Philippi rather savagely in the next two rounds to win the game by a mile. He's still limping.

So when I turn into an asshole playing a game, I just have to calm down and, in the words of that black guy whose hand got bitten off by an alligator (crocodile? What's down there in the bayou?) in Happy Gilmore, "go to my happy place." My happy place, sadly, doesn't consist of that hot chick from the movie in sweet sweet lingerie, nor does it involve a little person, with the appropriate cowboy attire, riding a toy horse. It does, however, as in the movie, contain Shooter McGavin wearing a kiss mask while making out with my grandmother.

What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I'm a little bitch. I whine a lot. I get angry if I'm losing. And I blame everything and everyone (usually Fillman) but myself. But beware the moment when I shut up and my eyes glaze over: I'm about to whoop some ass.

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Live Update from that Philosophy Class Again

So the professor comes in late and starts messing around with the computer. After a minute or so, he decides he doesn't know how to get rid of that giant, loud clicking sound the mouse does whenever you, um, click. It wouldn't matter except the volume on the computer is at full blast, so every click is a sonorous roar. But the professor apparently doesn't know about computer volume adjustments, so we're stuck with it.

Next, he realizes he doesn't have his slides on the computer, and why? Because he forgot his flash drive, or, as he calls it "that thing (motioning a sword thrust with his hands) you plug into the computer." So we're going "old school."

This is a bad move. I'm taking notes on my laptop, and when my keyboard strokes are as loud or louder as his lecturing, we've got a problem. Even when you take into account the thunder my sausage fingers create as they rapidly tap out the veritable nonsense he's spewing, he should still be louder. It's a small room, for Stephen Colbert's sake.

Now, I made a vow (surreptitious, at best) to take good notes this class period to prepare myself for finals preparation. But I needed to type this blog. Fortunately, he spends the first fifteen minutes of every class going over what we talked about the last time (in a way that's easily as complicated and indiscernible as the first time we learned the material). So I have time to mess around, write a blog, read ESPN articles, etc.

In any case, his unnecessary preamble is nearly over. Back to the trenches kids.

Oh, and some ManLove. Well, it's ManLove if you're an awkward sadist (FILLMAN)
.

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BABY EYES! Another Update From School

So 'baby eyes' is everywhere. Through the power of Teh Internetszszsz, I have found baby twins for people I know. It's the most incredible discovery since those Dead Sea Scrolls, or whatever. The first baby, the one above, is just fuckin' crazy looking. Also, I think the father should really hire a private investigator to see if his wife had sex with any ALIENS. But damn, he ugly. I'd love a baby like that, though, because when you show it to people, they HAVE to say it's cute, otherwise they're dickheads. And no one likes to be a dickhead. And if I'm the dad, I know my baby is shit ugly. So it's hilarious when people have to lie to my face and tell me how cute my shit ugly baby is. And in other news, I'm still an asshole.



But on to the babies (right?). Here's Ben as a baby. I think it's a rather incredible likeness. This is the face Ben uses when he wants someone to shut up. But, I've also seen him use it when Keith rubs his Lion Belly. This baby is apparently hoping for the same. Ben should do this face more. Like, he should do it all the time. Can you imagine sitting in class with a guy doing this face for an hour? That would be awful.





Now, here's Keith. Keith loves doing this face: it's his sad panda face. This baby has it down. Keith does this face whenever he forgets the name of a state capital (for the record, he and I can name about 15, together) or whenever he has to eat Panda Express. I think both events are about the same in terms of how much terrrbleness is applied to the individual experiencing them. Anyways, here's to you, Sad Panda Keith.



And this last one is precious. It requires almost no introduction. I give you:

MICHAEL FILLMAN!

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