I've never actually been to the site, but that's not going to stop me from loathing it.  As a matter of fact, it probably helps keep the hate alive as I hate all things I don't understand (Hollanders, for example).  Nonetheless, let me give you a taste of just how exciting it would be if Karstensfandango Inc were to branch out into the wild world of twitter:

I just had to clean my cat's poop off the wall with a screwdriver.
Fuck my cat.

It's what I do.  That's why when my part-time co-worker Jim who has a "Ph.D. in allergenics" or some shit, tried butting in to scientific debate I had to be firm.  The basic premise was we were going to see how long Hank could survive on nothing but corn and corn products, and Jim was all like "We should have Hank eat no corn for a couple weeks, then nothing but corn after so that he can act as his own control group."
"His own control group?" I scoffed.
"Yeah, this is kind of what I do for a living."
"I tell you what we're going to do; clone Hank. That way we can just force the clone to eat all the corn.  Now that's science.  Plus, we get the bonus of listening to him plea for mercy in broken english, e.g. 'Why you hurt?' "
"and 'No more yellow' " Hank chimed in.
It's not fair of me to be hard on Jim though, really.  You're either born with the gift or you're not.

This is something I wrote the other day:

Déjà vu

It used to be that the experience of déjà vu was an unsettling one.  It was a feeling akin to a bad sickness, a perturbing sense of distance from oneself, a disengagement from reality.  Viewing oneself as an uncontrollable automaton whittles away at the belief that we are each independent agents acting on our own volition.  Or perhaps that is not quite right; maybe it is the feeling of intense freedom in these rare moments that so troubled me, the realization that although most conversations are pre-scripted, at any point I could say something wrong, discordant or impossibly better.  I wonder if this uncertainty is an echo of a not quite forgotten time when every action seemed new and self-defining.

Whatever the cause of the unease, the sensation was always so powerful that I would immediately struggle to regain control, as one would start from an unpleasant dream.  Although my disquiet would persist for several minutes, eventually I would fade unthinking into well-established routines and mental comfort.

Yesterday I found another way.  Instead of resisting the sensation of repetition, I followed it to its conclusion.  I walked where I was supposed to walk.  I smiled at the familiar joke.  And when it came time to look out the window, I marveled at the ever-present the sky and the distance of the clouds.  The difference was my actions now seemed preordained rather than predetermined; that is to say I have spent the entirety of my life judging how best to behave in the world and, more importantly, that this time was not wasted.  The person that I am now unconsciously is also the person I would be by choice.  With a sense of calm I slipped back into my day.

I like to think of myself as an introspective bloke, able to at least fabricate rationale for my actions ex post facto, even if my reasoning at the time was murky. For example, I recently purchased a stupidly large monitor for my stupidly powerful computer.  While this would strike many as a frivolous expenditure, I would hasten to inform you that I only bought it so I could get rid of our television, thus freeing the space needed for us to purchase a piano; in other words, a wholly selfless act.  Almost saint-like really.  There are still, however, those actions that leave me at a complete loss.  That I went to the trouble to find, download and then watch Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End is one such inexplicable act.  The first Pirates movie I thought was an over-hyped piece of garbage.  Nonetheless, being the eternal optimist/shitty summer movie connoisseur that I am, I did not hesitate to watch the sequel, Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Davey Jones is a Weird Octopus Dude.  To the surprise of probably no one, the sequel stunk up the place a fair deal more than did the original, and I was angry at myself for wasting my time/bandwidth.  Maybe it was the scientist in me that pressed on to the third movie, needing a full three shit movies to establish a pattern.  It could also have been my moron aspect that forced me to sit through all of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Steady Worsening.  To be honest, I don't really care who was responsible anymore, I just hope they are left swabbing the mental decks for the rest of their miserable lives... not that that would be much of a punishment, seeing as they are such fans of pirate fiction.

This summer, though,  I've subjected myself to more than my fair share of Hollywood slop.  My reviews are as follows:

X-men Origins: Wolverine 1.8/10
It should of been a .8, but it got bumped a star for its ballsy (no pun intended thank the christ) use of Hugh Jackman nudity and manly struts away from explosions.

Terminator 4: Slumm'n It  2.5/10
As much as it pains me to say it, Lindsay is totally right and Christian Bale is crap.  And who the hell is the city planner for the Terminators? Why are there goddamn fireballs everywhere? I'm going to guess it was that robot wearing a bandanna (no joke).

Star Trek 6/10
I can only partially understand the hype on this one.  Sure, plenty of the main characters are way, way better than their original counterparts, but then that's not asking for the moon, now is it?  The plot, on the other hand, was wholly forgettable sci-fi mumbo-jumbo. Time travel, alternate reality blah blah blah at least those fucking Vulcans are almost extinct.

Fortunately, some of us were gifted with the necessary creativity to produce really good films.  Alex and I recently re-imagined the end of the Back to the Future after a typically bizarre exchange at budget.  The new scene goes something like this:

Delorian roars up in front of McFly's house with flames and shit. MJF and his squeeze get all excited and run outside and hop into the back seat.

MJF: Holy pantaloons is it great to see you doc, where have you been blah blah blah

Doc, face hidden from view continues to stare forward.

MJF: Doc? You OK?

Doc rotates slowy towards MJF and Squeeze, revealing a face caked with dried blood and two gory sockets where his eyes had been.  MJF's Squeeze pukes into her lap.

MJF: JESUS FUCK!  WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR EYES!
Doc: Eyes?  Where we're going, we don't need eyes.

The Delorian's engines roar, and the car disappears in a burst of flames. Maybe show some footage from Event Horizan if we can get the rights.

Something I forgot to write about this morning, though whether or not it is a "small, graceful literary sketch" remains to be seen.

Nick recently informed me that a friend of his just had his second child. The significance of this birth? Aforementioned friend gave the kid "Danger" as its middle name. At first I laughed and was impressed, but upon further reflection I couldn't help but feel sorry for the older child. While his younger sibling can dream of someday being the man/woman (gender was not specified) of the hour,
"Don't go in there John/Jill! It's too dangerous!"
"Danger is my middle name," (kicks in burning door and rushes into legend),
the older child will spend its entire life waiting for a situation that is "too Malcom" for anyone else to handle.

I drank too much the other night. What began as a four beer bike ride (namely those beers I was carrying in my backpack) soon morphed into four beers, brandy, whiskey, and cigarettes. I returned home to discover the night was still young and a message from Pete asking if I wanted to go out for "a couple." Thanks to an alcohol-induced can-do attitude, I soon found myself out on the town yet again, this time with Pete, Lindsay and Madeline establishing that the "couple" Pete had been referring to were pitchers. By the time I got to bed at three a true friend would have taken away my walking keys.

8:00am came far too soon. After several glasses of liquid courage (orange juice in this instance), I grimly set off to work. Although I was still fairly competent at my job, it was clear I was not operating at full capacity. At one point, a customer asked me if there was anything he could have done to have prevented his bike from breaking, and in order to reassure him I responded as follows,
"No no no, there is nothing wrong you did."

After a short pause and a guffaw from Mr. freaking Mountain I added

"...I mean, you didn't do anything wrong. Jesus, I'm starting to talk like Yoda."

But that wasn't quite right. Like Yoda, yes, but there is someone else... someone far more embarrassing...

Or to his friends, Mr. freaking Mountain. It all began on our trip to the Adirondacks. Of the four of us, Sam and Ryan had extensive back-packing/camping experience, with little winter camping experience, Cavan had some camping experience, while I had my charm and good looks to depend on (by the second day the bottoms of my feet were covered in blisters/falling off and my spirit was wholly broken). Soon, however, we detected an unsettling trend: Ryan seemed effortlessly good at everything he undertook. We marveled at his thoughtful and delicious trail snacks, and watched in awe as he sailed up the various peaks. "Good show, Mr. Mountain!" we cried while clapping him on the back as he continually dazzled us with his poise and ability. Sadly, admiration soon turned envy and envy to resentment. As I slowly gimped up one mountain after the other on hobbled feet, Ryan tap danced by; while Cavan clutched his back after another long night sleeping in the cold on a log, Ryan composed a sonnet to the wilderness; and as Sam tried in vain to pound in a tent peg into frozen ground with my nalgene bottle, only to shatter the bottle and douse himself in icy water, Ryan was busy fashioning a functional short-band-radio out of pine boughs and power-bar wrappers. And so "Mr. Mountain" turned to "Mr. freaking Mountain," a pejorative muttered under one's breath.

Not content with besting us in the wilds of New York, Mr. Mountain has continued his dominance in every event since our return. At a corndog eating competition I ate 10, Mr. Mountain ate 16. During road rides Mr. Mountain breezed by, and then had the nerve to wait politely at the end of each stretch. We went bowling, and Ryan shows up with his own ball and shoes, and doubles the score of his nearest competitor.

But this time he finally gone too far. The other day in the shop, I was working quietly on a bike while Ryan helped a mother and her five year old son order some bike parts that they needed. A totally innocuous task one would think, and so I paid them no heed until the child suddenly drew attention to himself by half-yelling at Ryan,

"Hey... Hey! You know, I think you're a pretty cool guy!"

Ryan, somewhat taken aback laughed "Well, I think you're a pretty cool guy too!"

I waited until the pair was gone and approached Ryan.

"You suck," I informed him. I then wondered aloud if maybe some doves were going to alight upon his shoulders, or maybe a baby fawn would seek solace at his feet. I'd stop hanging out with the asshole if that damned kid weren't right, who, by the way, returned with his mother yesterday and told Ryan loudly about his plans to write him a letter.

Mr. freaking Mountain.


Thanks to all of those of you who have left comments, and Emilie I'm surprised and pleased to hear from you again. Ah, the livejouranl days. So long ago.

I know we've all been there. Something totally sweet comes on TNT, like say Terminator 2. You say to yourself, "Alright, fucking Terminator 2! I'm going to watch me this cocksuckingmotherfuck," not realizing that had you said this in the movie, it would be edited as "Alright fantastic Terminator 2! I'm going to watch me this old-time classic!" with the italicized portions read by a middle-aged whiteman. So you sit through all five minutes of Terminator 2 they deemed ready for prime time, which is basically a kids movie about a retarded man in leathers who smiles awkwardly and his ten year old side-kick.

Sadly it doesn't end there as I've recently seen first hand how even the most harmless of movies don't reach the public unscathed. Last night, I watched Rainmanon PBS, and was horrified at the soulless mess they had created out of an american classic.  And lets bear in mind, this actually IS a movie about a retarded man who smiles awkwardly and his kid brother. Some examples you say? Ok, how about the iconic scene where Tom Cruise learns his business is bankrupt and screams to the Nevada desserts "I don't need this!!!!" Or how about the hilarious scene where he and Dustin Hoffman are pressed together in a phonebooth and Rainman proclaims "Uh oh, I passed gas." You can't say fucking fart on television?  This truly is the land of the free.

"Uh oh, I passed gas."
"Hold on a second, Raymond, did you just pass gas?"
"Uh oh, I passed gas."
"I can't freaking believe that you just passed gas."

It's not all bad though. Often scenes are improved with their newly nonsensical dialogue. Emily tells me that whenever Samuel L. Jackson says "motherfucker" in Do the Right Thing it's replaced with "Mickeyfickey," as read by the same middle-aged whiteman, one can only hope. My personal favorite came while watching Good Will Hunting; the scene is four friends in the car, Ben Affleck has a bag of fast food in the front seat:

"Give me my burger sandwich! I want my burger sandwich."
"Stop freaking around! Give me my burger sandwich."

Initially I thought maybe this was some Boston colloquialism I was unfamiliar with until I realized they were saying fucking sandwich. Awesome.

My cat wakes me up every morning at six. She accomplishes this by stepping on my hair, chirping in my face, plucking at my lips with her paw, attacking my feet, using any number of the seemingly unlimited annoyances at her disposal. Being a stubborn, unpleasant person, I initially try to stave off the inevitable with some good old fashioned cat elbowing, booting, or throwing. Undeterred, Elly marches cheerfully on with her campaign and eventually rousts one of the human feeding devices. Now, on a good day, I stagger into the dark kitchen, get a scoop of her meat cereal, dump it into her bowl to a reassuring clattering noise, then shuffle back to bed. On a bad day I dump the food and am greeted with silence. The water bowl. I watch the pellets spread across the top of the water. I look at Elly. She looks at the bowl in disapproval. I think maybe she's hungry enough, maybe she'll eat it anyhow. Elly looks at her bowl. Then she looks at me. No dice.

You begged. You wheedled. You pleaded. You offered your mother's sexual services (Seriously, no. Not now, not ever. I'm looking at you KT). And now, nine months after our doors slammed shut, the magical journal factory has once again whirred to life, churning out mediocre tripe sheer brilliance to the delight of all the girls and boys. You see what I just did there? Well this is web 2.0 baby, and strike-through is hot! And good lord do I hate it. Of all the artless, stupid ways to make a stab at humor. So you can kiss your precious strike-through good-bye, along with any other modern day trappings. I'm mean christ, this is livejournal here. Not exactly bleeding edge.



MS paint is also here to stay. Also, I still hate Winston Churchill, and no, that's not my best penis. I'm out of practise, what can I say. But back to the beginning, the only person who requested I start this again was Jess, and the chances of her reading it are next to nothing. So we are in a way going back to the beginning of it all, to a time when I wrote mildly amusing things to myself out of boredom. Only this time I can recycle large portions of old material, because lord knows I was a prolific little bastard at one point.

Well, you guys will get all my stuff if I go, so I guess it's not all bad. Except for my slaves and wife, who I want killed, then buried with me. Hey, call me traditional.

You see that? I wrote that shit like a bazillion years ago, and with a click of the mouse I was able to take up space with it again. Fucking easy. I'd put it in context, but then I'd have to read the entry, and that stuff is super poor. No thanks, I've got a life.

Though not a very challenging one at the moment. I'm still at the bike shop, and winter isn't the most happening time for bikes. Tomorrow, for example, the high for the day is -5. Adjusted for windchill, we're not going to crest -30. Wisconsin, yeah! And a big congrats to my parents for moving here and sentencing their children to this icy doom.

In other news, my application to graduate school is in. Two days before the deadline no less! Yeah, those comparative literature pansies are going to know that I mean business. Well, the timeliness of my application coupled with the enclosed picture of me brandishing a colt 45 should do the trick. I wanted them to know they were getting a real cowboy.

I was waiting for some kind of inspiration before embarking on this latest adventure Jouranlistastico, but since none seems forth coming, you get this. And you'd better thank your lucky stars for it you insignificant worm.

Anyhow, the reason I have brought us all together for this miserable little chat is I made a promise. And while my promises are usually little more than hot air in this forum, I'm arbitrarily sticking to my guns this time. And that's what you call good parenting. Now get you dad a beer before he gets the smacky hands again.

The promise I made had something to do with pictures and posting them once I had the requisite materials to do so, or so I think. It doesn't really matter at this point, because that's what's happening. I give you: Phewtews of ze Adeeroondacks. Schank you.

Yes, here again, writing. I've determined this journal to be too invaluable as resource for general nostalgia and time wasting to be left barren. I tell you this because I think it is important that you and I both know from the offset that it's not for your or my benefit, but for future me. I hope I finally got those crotchless rocket pants.

Rather than try impotently to mend the information gap since the previous entry, I think it will be far easier and more rewarding to list those things that didn't happen in the interim:

I'm not engaged, despite the recent vogue amongst my friends. I got back to back voice-mail messages from the Big S and Uncle Flanders that they had popped the question. Just don't go popping anything else until I see rings on fingers gentlemen. Call me old fashioned, but I fucking kill people. With a wrench.

I didn't beat my old record of ten corn dogs. Please know that I tell you this with a heavy heart, and a no doubt irrevocably impacted colon. Last night on April 5th, in the year 2008 I, Karsten Bernard Olson, only choked down eight measly corn dogs, heaping eternal shame on my ancestors. I would have performed hari kiri immediately had it not meant confronting all those corn dogs for a second time. To my credit, I did come up with the great idea of listening to la cucaracha every time someone started eating a corn dog. Considering we ended up eating a total of eighty corn dogs, that basically meant we listened to la cucaracha, disco edit, for a solid three hours. There is no need to thank me, truly.

I didn't get that gun from Charlton Heston after all, despite his death. Man, every is so going to make that joke, aren't they? So much for being original. Well, not everyone is going to do this:

There's a new video game sensation sweeping the nation! And by nation, of course, I mean five or so of my friends. The game? Garry's Mod for Half Life 2. What is this mod you scream feverishly at your monitor? Do I get to kill even MORE zombies!? Will there be more idiotic jumping puzzles? Only if you want there to be. For you see, Garry's Mod is basically whatever you make it; it's a sandbox mod that allows you to work on the mad scientist creations of your dreams! Basically it gives you a list of objects, a number of ways to attach them to one another, and then a list of attributes to give them. My first creation? BEHOLD AND TREMBLE IN FEAR! THE MATTRESS CAR!

The other night I noticed that Colgate had, once again, improved their flavor. This struck me as rather suspicious, so I did a little research. Colgate as a company has been producing toothpaste in some form since 1873.  And yet it seems that several times a year the flavoring of their "classic" toothpaste is improved. So let's say that on average, Colgate toothpaste gets tastier on average twice a year. 2*135 years gives us a staggering 270 improvements to the formula. In other words, the toothpaste you are enjoying now tastes nearly 300 times better than the original... toothpaste? I question the word, because the need to improve a flavor that much suggests that the original Colgate was, in fact, poop in a tube. So please, the next time some elderly person complains to you about how easy we kids have it, stop to remember that they had to rub poop on their teeth with a shoe brush (remember, toothbrush technology has also improved at a remarkable rate). At least it was probably minty-fresh poo at that point.

I'm afraid I've got some rather bad news though; while the Yves Gerard project is still going strong, Tim and my latest endeavor, Howes South Dakota was cut down in its infancy. People get so bogged down with their lust for "facts," that they can't even be bothered to stop and see the beauty in things. Now tell me, which of the following would you rather read?

Howes, South Dakota

Howes is an unincorporated community located in Meade County, South Dakota. Although not tracked by the Census Bureau, Howes has been assigned the ZIP code of 57748. The unofficial population of Howes is 2 people.


or this...

Howes, South Dakota

Howes is an unincorporated community located in Meade County, South Dakota. Although not tracked by the Census Bureau, Howes has been assigned the ZIP code of 57748. Lack of state recognition has not prevented this small town with a big heart from making quite a name for itself. Lying neatly between Rapid City and Sioux Falls, Howes saw a brisk trade during the 1940's; specializing in the leather trade and spectacular rodeos in the spirit of Buffalo Bill, the small community became a hot spot for tourists and cowpokes looking for fast money. Howes's major claim to fame was the Oklahoma Steer. Following in the footsteps of "Clever Hans," "Bobby the Educated Steer" painted pictures, jumped cars, and even solved simple logic puzzles. After the completion of Interstate 90 in 1956, traffic through Howes dropped off dramatically, effectively destroying the business that had briefly flourished there, eventually leaving little more than a ghost town. The current population of Howes is estimated to be 2 people.

Hell, we even had a visual aid:

I repeat, Yves Gérard is a go. Let me tell you a little story; one night a bored Karsten and Tim were wasting time listening to music when someone wondered aloud who Boccherini's contemporaries were. A short trip to wikipedia later, we had our answer. Well, would of had our answer if I hadn't insisted on doing a "dramatic reading" of the text (I screamed all the hyper-links. Yes, it is good to be my roommates!) Three quarters of the way through my reading, I noticed the name of Yves Gérard was red... yes, this poor man had no one to tell his tale. Until now. After probably at least six hours of brainstorming and research, Tim and I have completed the 100% fictitious account of the life and times of Yves Gérard. To truly enjoy our achievement to the fullest, I recommend you do the following.

1. Start here, with the original Boccherini article, moving on to old Yvesy when you come to him.
2. Keep track of how old he is throughout his adventures.
3. Check out our sources.

And finally, check it out soon, because this thing could be axed at any point. I'd also ask that you leave it for now as it is, pristine and beautiful.
Enjoy.

talked Lindsay into going to see Beowulf in 3D last night, and came to a number of important conclusions during the course of the movie;
1. Beowulf is one bad, bad mama jama.
2. I don't yell my own name half as much as I should. During my absolute favorite scene, Beowulf battles three enormous sea monters, killing two before the third swallows him whole. Moments later he erupts from the eye socket of the serpent to stand on its head towering hundreds of feet above the ocean. Dripping gore (and mostly naked, which is apparently just how he rolls), Beowulf roars "BEOWULF!" before plunging into the ocean. The tricky bit about me yelling my own name is I can't remember the last time I killed anything larger than a small insect. Lindsay and Tim suggested I could have yelled my name when I slipped off the pedals of my bike when the rear tire locked up and my groin was repeatedly nailed by the steel top tube, but had I opened my mouth during this incidence I'm pretty sure the only thing that would have come out is "mmphoooogghcOWOWOWooooooooh...(soft sobs/moans)." It occurred to me that maybe the bed room would be a good place, as at least that would be sure to befuddle significant others. It's hard to say, since my only living role model is
3. Steve Holt, son of G.O.B. Blooth,  the modern day Beowulf. God bless you Steve.

More importantly, stay tuned for the Yves Gérard project which Tim and I have been working feverishly on for the past two nights. Rest assured, it will be worth the wait.

Today friend and coworker Julie said she had a vision for the discount table. I told her to go on a vision quest for some inspiration.
Blank stare.
You know, dehydrate yourself and hang from you nipples.
WHAT?!
Long silence.
mumbling; It's a vision quest right... you know.... sit next to a fire in a small tent... Wait. I'm the one that that brought up vision quests, aren't I? You have no idea what I'm talking about?
No.
Oh man.

In other news, I'm in the process of founding a new band. It's called THUNDER SNOW and is going to be the world's (hopefully) first theremin choir, accompanied by Alex on steel drums to give it that necessary Jamaican flair, and Sam on toilet paper tube kazoo to ram home how much we suck. The tricky part thus far has been coming up with four or five theremins. Our last best hope is building them from kits, so hopefully that will come together in the coming weeks. Stay tuned, someday it'll be my name up there in lights. Or on youtube. Whatever.

It was the week before Thanksgiving. Lindsay and I were sitting up late watching TV, as we are want to do, when a commercial came on. In it, a man in a turkey suit danced around in front of strobing colors singing "gobblegobblegobblegobblegobble." Half to myself I mused "I wonder if this is for KFC." Lindsay stared at me in incredulous silence. "You do know that's supposed to be a turkey right?" And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am untouchable by the advertising industry; I am simply too far from this world to be reached. The poor man might as well have been screaming "TURKEYTURKEYTURKEYTURKEY!!!!" and I would have assumed it was a watch commercial. Oh, and for the record, "too far from this world" is shorthand for "dumb as a fucking post."

Sooooo gay. So... bewilderingly gay. Now as many of you know, I live in Madison Wisconsin, a veritable hotbed for THE HOMOSEXUAL LIFESTYLE along with countless other liberal hijinks (oooh, look at all the dots!). As a result of this rampant sinning in the eyes of our lord, the gay bumper sticker is ubiquitous. A little know fact, every third car in Madison is a HOMOSEXUAL. Don't worry, I don't park my little civic next to the blasphemers, I want her to stay the cock-loving minx she always has been.  Lately, however, I have noticed a disturbing trend; utterly baffling gay banners. No longer satisfied with the traditional rainbow stripe/triangle, these HOMOSEXUALS insist on "gaying up" a wide array of new emblems. So far I've seen a gay herd of cats, a gay group of dogs (ok, those were both on the same car) and a gay tornado. That's right. An entire tornado of gay. My blood runs cold at the thought.

Aside from living in constant fear of the gay apocalypse right wing pundits assure me is at hand, things have been going well lately. Lindsay started dating again a few months ago, and aside from the occasional shouting match, things have been going swimmingly.  I'm still working full time as a bike mechanic and trying to come up with a better plan for the future than stay-at-home-dad, thought that's far from off the table.

being the funny man. There comes a time in every funny (wo)man's life where you just feel like being normal, blending in, and enjoying the sun, the lake and the day. Right before your sister hands you what appears to be an enormous rainbow flag.
"What the fuck is this?" I ask.
"It's your towel man, remember? Mong let us pick them out and you thought this one was funny."
I opened the towel to find "I <3 surfers" written over and over again in huge letters, also in rainbow coloring.
"Shit," I muttered quietly to myself and tried to quickly lie covering as much of the writing as possible while avoiding the glances of the people nearby.

Fortunately for me and my overwhelmingly funny brethren, crazy people will often step up and provide comedy of their own, free of charge. The other day I was at work, as I am constantly it seems, when Jim, a shriveled man with coke-bottle glasses hunched his way into the store. Having already met my daily crazy bullshit quotient (CBQ), I faded out of the front lines, and began to concentrate particularly hard on a brake adjustment. Besides, I knew I wasn't the one he was after.
"JOHN!" Jim erupted behind me. John, our oldest mechanic by thirty years, is the quintessential crotchety old man and as such, my chief conversational partner.
"Hi Jim," John replied in his traditional the-light-went-out-of-the-world-fifty-years-ago voice. My focus then drifted back to the brakes and it was several minutes before I started listening again to their conversation. What had caught my attention was a phrase that just didn't seem quite right... followed by another. Then another. After about a minute of listening intently, I was forced to stagger off, choking silently with laughter.

Jim: John, do you want me to go under McDonald's
        and get a blue piece of styrofoam for us to live under...
        We'd have plenty to eat;
        I could go down,
        you could go up,
        it would be like we were 68 again.
John replied "Yep."

Thank god for crazies.

I'm sorry, but no science, not this time. Sure, you've done amazing things in the past, but you simply cannot tally this: