He who walks among us.

In one of my classes, specifically which one shall remain a secret, there sits a young man behind me that has helped to set the benchmark for the dumbest things I've ever heard. So dumb, in fact, that I wonder 2 or 3 times per lecture if I'm on some variety of "candid camera" show, or perhaps, as I live in Montreal, "Just for Laughs: Gags". The nature of this class requires the use of elementary calculus, the particular application being quite simplified. Now I am not particularly adept in mathematics, and the list of who I had to sleep with to pass university calculus may induce vomiting for some, but even I can comprehend taking a partial derivative. So of the array of hurdles that might prove difficult in an intermediate economics class, I would certainly not have guessed that the most trying of these is dividing by fractions or, what resulted in a frustrated 5-minute long explanation, square roots. How does such a man get to this point? How is it possible that the university administration allowed this specimen to slip through the cracks for so long? How does he manage to find his own ass in the morning so that it can fill the seat behind me? Moreover how is he not so frustrated, and so bewildered that he hasn't burned all of his books in a massive ritual surrounded by a hundred drumming men, with torches and guns and people in masks screaming profanities...and stopped attending?
Such questions don't have answers and so I beg of you, the facilitators of this cruel joke, come out from your places of hiding. Explain that this has all been an elaborate scheme, a hilarious yarn, because frankly the entire study of economics depends on it.

Why Lionel is Now Eating Off a Napkin

Lionel says: "I got these dishes, you know, plates, bowls, smaller plates, the works. Anyway, they're made from clear glass, you know what I mean? I mean they're glass, but they're completely clear. I'd say I love them, but since I put them away I haven't been able to find them."

I wish I could green up the grass on this side.

Often, after awaking from what some might refer to as a scotch-induced 8 hour coma, also known as a night's rest, I sit down at my computer. The power still on, but in some sort of stand by mode, I jiggle the mouse and wait for a reaction. and wait. and wait. nothing yet. and then, some action, the desktop is visible. I double-click on a program.
"Snog off," the computer might say with a harsh lower-class tone of 18th century Britain, as if rolling over in bed with a snorty in-breath, "I'm not in the mood"
"Come on computer," I could say, "I wanna run an application."
"I said snog off! Come back another time."
Foiled by technology, I revert to antiquated entertainment methods, such as books. But even as I go about pretending that I don't care, I do care. I want to know if I have any emails. I want to know what the temperature is today. I want to waste an hour reading articles about things I've never heard of. I want to compare fares for flights I won't be going on. I want to do these things but I can't, and it's killing me, and my computer knows that, and it likes it.

I can say, with a great deal of certainty, that given:
-enough crackers
-a 2 to 3 hour program to watch
-2 glasses of beer

I could eat an entire cheeseball in one sitting.