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I had just come home from a late class. After eating and working on an english reading I sat down to do my algebra homework. It was 10:00. For most people this is not a problem, but my brain stops working at 9:30. I can play checkers or read, but math is out of the question. None the less, I fought the fog and started working.

(3/X+1)+ (4/X^2) = (17/5X)

I wondered who came up with this stuff. I understood the problem, and knew given enough time it could be done, but it seemed that these problems were created by sadistic monsters. I looked at the beginning of the book. It showed smiling middle-aged mathematics professors. There were 5 of them. This was quite surprising for some reason. It made logical sense that a book that takes us a year to skim should take several people a long time to write, but for some reason I had always assumed that mathematics professors sit in small dark rooms alone and write this stuff.

The clock blasted seagulls. I yawned, it was 11:00. That clock was bugging the crap out of me. It had been playing its seagull and wave sound every hour, every night, even at 2 in the morning. I got up and took the clock off the wall. Turning it over, I looked for some way to stop the acursed beach sounds that did not involve a welding torch. It had two battery cases; one with one AA and another with two AA's. I took out the single AA. The clock stopped. I put it back in and took out the other two. The annoying soundtrack stopped. I shook my head. When it takes twice the power to make a wave crashing noise than it does to run a clock 24/7, you know the noise is too loud.

I went back to my algebra. I wondered if I could get away with finding the address of one of the publishers and sending them some hate mail. I decided it would probably not be a good idea, unless I used untraceable e-mail or something. I then wondered if I could get away with calling them up and pretending to be writing an article for the school newspaper. This was slightly more appealing, as it would give me an excuse to question their life's goal without sounding rude. The only problem was that they would probably want to know a little about the article, and there would be no article since our school doesn't have a newspaper.
I finished the last problem and got up. If I ever use some algebra that I don't make up myself, I'm going to put on a little pink tutu and invite people to "Eat at Burger Heaven!"

I think the only effect will be a drop in business at Burger Heaven.


In the unlikely event that you are wondering, one of the answers to that problem is 4. I know that because I made the problem up. There are probably 2 answers, since it would end up as a quadratic equation. If anyone finds out what the other answer is please tell me.

Today I went shopping.

What a boring sentence, let me rephrase that; today I made a 15 minute descent into the bowels of hell. There we go. Same meaning, but much more colorful.
I was sitting around doing nothing when I realized I needed a few basic items such as shampoo, certain foods, lined paper, etc. I knew that to remedy the situation I would have to get them. To get them I would have to go shopping. I went shopping.
My great journey started at the front door. I walked up to the sliding doors and demanded entrance. The doors said "screw you". I stepped closer and demanded entrance. The doors sighed, and calmly filed their fingernails. I was momentarily distracted by the sight of doors with hands, but I pressed on. I stepped still closer, making sure that this was not an "exit". The doors tensed visibly, as if I had invaded their personal space. They looked up with a professional glare and asked me if I had made reservations. "Reservations?!" I said. "This is a supermarket, not a fancy restaurant!” I closed my eyes and walked forward with a suicidal determination. At the last second the doors opened, brushing my sleeve as they did so.
Once inside I realized that the shopping carts were outside the doors. I panicked momentarily, and then saw a stack of baskets. I quickly calculated how much stuff I needed, then took one.
First I went for the shampoo. I felt boundless joy at the thought of new shampoo. New shampoo meant that I didn’t have to feel the nagging "getting low on shampoo" feeling each morning. It meant that I didn't have to hold the bottle upside down for half an hour to coax the shampoo out. These feelings carried me past the angry employees with the "can I help you" buttons, and into the isle of shampoo. The joy left, quite suddenly, when I saw the items in question. There was shampoo. There was a lot of shampoo. The problem arose with the type of shampoo available. There was fruity shampoo, and shampoo conditioner, and shampoo for balding men, and shampoo for graying men, and shampoo for models that came with a neat brand name, and shampoo for breast feeding mothers, and shampoo for your neighbor’s dog. The only thing that was entirely missing was shampoo for teenage guys who aren't breast feeding, like me.
I eyed the selection from a distance, pacing back and forth like a general in front of the men. I would see a likely candidate, but then find out it was "fortified" with peanut butter or something like that. Finally I selected a more or less benign bottle, one with vitamin E, some kind of a silk thingy, and fragrance that came from used perfume bottles.
I got the other things on my list and headed for the ATM. I like the ATM. It is my friend. I put in a useless plastic thingy and it gives me money. We are good for each other like that. I went to the ATM, but found it was gone! I asked one of the angry people with the "May I help you?" buttons where it had gone. "The bank took it" she said. "What should I do, oh goblin from the deep?" I asked. She gave me a weird look. "To find the cold hard cash which you seek, you must get cash back at the register, oh ignorant fool" she said.
I went to the register. "Oh wise and honorable checkout person" I said. "How may I, the ignorant fool, get cold hard cash from this wondrous interactive touch screen?" "What?" she asked. I swiped my card. "Press YES if you want cash back" it said. I pressed yes. "Is 37.50 correct?" it asked. I looked up. Indeed, my total came to 37.50, but I wanted cash. I looked for another option, but found none. YES I did press. "THANK YOU" it beeped. It then returned to its cold dark state of inactivity. "Oh wise and helpful checkout person" I said. "Why, pray tell, did this wondrous machine with its colorful interactive touch screen ignore me?" "You had to press yes" she said. "I pressed yes" I said. "You had to enter an amount" she said. "It didn't let me." I said. She began mumbling curses under her breath. "Never mind, wise and merciful checkout person" I said. "I shall return to the place from whence I came." She continued mumbling to herself as I walked up to the doors.
I braced myself for impact and ran for the doors, bags swinging from each hand. These were, however, exit doors. They slid open willingly. "Have a nice day!" They said with a bright professional smile. Flames followed me out, and bats flew about my head, but I knew I had completed my journey, for this week at least.

Boldly we stand here, facing all challengers with our chins like baseball bats and our chests like small boulders! We press onward into the land of short, creepy peasants for king, country and congressman! We have sworn to defend, protect, and bleed watery ketchup all over the place (except on our carefully waxed armor). We shall fight, barbeque, sing in rich baritones, and do lots of other manly stuff like that! HA! We will follow our grand leader, the only one who can barbeque, sing in a rich baritone, bleed all over the place and redecorate all at the same time; Martha Stuart! HA!

For honor!
For glory!
For the pursuit of women with explosive bust lines!
Charge!

Today an auction of historical (and modern) kkk and nazi items was cancelled because someone distributed kkk recruitment fliers in the area. Good move I say, especially since the auction was already drawing fire for being insensitive. What doesn't make sense to me is the attitude of some of the people in the area. One man is quoted as saying "Why bring a bunch of old dirt up that we don't care about anymore?” This is the basic problem; we are failing to recognize a basic human character flaw. We will always care, one way or the other. There is no way to stop racism and discrimination, it just isn't going to happen. People will always want to blame their problems on someone else. They will always want to feel better than everyone else. One thing that isn't going to help is pretending it isn't a problem any more.
The American nazi party currently has a membership of over 600,000
Their goal, as they state it, is
"As the world enemy wages war against the White Race and Western Civilization in every corner of the world, we have found that the ONLY WAY to shock our people awake is through BOLD ACTION. Too many others would rather try to TALK the problem away, while we realize that the time has come to FIGHT!"
And these people are the nuts! We still have problems with society! don't kid yourself.

"First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist, so I didn't speak up;
Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew, so I didn't speak up;
Then they came for the trade unionists, but I wasn't a trade unionist, so I didn't speak up;
Then they came for the Catholics, but I wasn't a Catholic, so I didn't speak up;
And then they came for me, and there was nobody left to speak up for me.
--Martin Niemoller, Holocaust concentration camp Survivor

I'm no macho man. I do, however, have more testosterone coursing through my veins than the average male, at least statistically. Perhaps this is why my arms are bleeding.
FEMALES ARE NOT INVOLVED IN THE FOLLOWING STORY:

I was in the back yard throwing baseballs against a piece of plywood, and doing pretty well for once, when I heard voices next door. Looking behind me I saw two of my neighbors playing in their back yard. One was five, the other about eleven. Being bored, I walked across the lawn and asked them if they wanted to play catch. "I don't have a glove" said Mike, the older of the two. I sighed and began walking back to my side of the line, but stopped halfway. There was a foam football on the ground, the kind that has the fins and whistles on the sides. I picked it up and tossed it at Mike, who caught it. "Go long!" he said for effect, and tossed it. The ball almost made it to me, but not quite. I picked it up, then looked around. There were fences on two sides, and a house on the third. Not the best place to throw a football up in the air. Of course this thought made me want to throw the foot ball even more. I wound up and threw the small ball as high as I could. It whistled hard, then stopped, spun, and began the return descent. Unfortunately there was large pine tree in the way. The ball landed lightly on a top branch, and began rolling slowly from one branch to the next. It did this almost all the way to the ground, then stopped. It was still about 20 feet up.
"I'll get it" I said. "Yeah right!" said Mike. I looked at the tree, and was almost forced to agree with him. It was a large white pine, about three feet in diameter, with the first stub of a branch 12 feet up. "No, I can get it." I said. At that moment the ball remembered the law of gravity, and fell down. "Let's see you do it" said Mike. I looked at the tree, then at the ball in Mike's hands. Pointing out the fact that he already had the ball would, of course, lead to ridicule, which is annoying even from an 11 year old.
I walked around the tree a few times. There were a few bumps in the bark where small branches had been, two of them still had small branch stubs sticking out. "Just admit you can't do it" said Mike. This is where most guys would point out that Mike is eleven, and therefore not worth listening to, but I took the challenge. I stuck my fingers into a crack in the bark with one hand, and around a bump with another. With great difficulty I lifted myself up, then gripped the tree with my legs (yes, that is possible with a tree that size, it just takes more practice than most people are willing to waste). I inched my arms up one at a time to new handholds, and slowly but surely pulled myself up. After repeating this process a few times I was able to rest one foot on a bump about 6 feet off the ground and rest. To the left was a rather large branch stub, but it was out of reach. I considered moving around the tree, but opted against it since the cracks were getting smaller and the bumps were gone. To the right was a branch that was easier to reach, but required that I switch which foot I had on the bump. This sounds easy to a person who doesn't climb often, but it is very difficult on large trees. I put my arms as far around the tree as I could; about half way, and gripped. The bark dug into my chest as my weight fell on it, and my fingers grew numb from pressure. I quickly switched feet, then grabbed the branch stump. Unfortunately it was barely within reach, and I only had it with one hand. I grit my teeth and swung out, putting all my weight on that one hand. With great difficulty I reached up with my other hand, and then pulled my self up till the branch stump was at chest level. From there it was almost easy.
I climbed to the branch the football had been on, and then back to the stump. I jumped all twelve feet to the ground, then stood in front of Mike, vindicated.
I had proved two things; one, that I am willing to do stupid things because I kid several years younger than me dares me, and two, that bark is rough. I stared down at my hands, and saw they were bleeding from 5 cuts. My arms weren't much better. I hope I don't start doing crack because some eleven year old says "Prove it".

Maria was sitting in the family room a few minutes ago watching 3ABN, or at least trying to. There is a problem with 3ABN around here that has something to do with the local cable company and low original quality and digital junk and short Swiss men in the CIA, the end result of which is static. Whenever there is a light background there is static and a loud buzzing noise, which is why I generally don't bother watching 3ABN. 3ABN almost always has "happy" colors, so there is almost always static. Besides, I hate happy colors. They make me tired.
Maria had only been watching for a few minutes when the static began. With a rather loud exclamation of disgust she turned the volume up, which turned the static up, which caused her to turn the volume up some more, which made the static louder, until the television was at max. The blaring buzz brought me from the other end of the house. I stood in the doorway and watched her predicament with silent amusement. She was covering her ears and trying to listen to the TV at the same time, the results of which were comical. Suddenly she turned to me and said "Turn it!" I tried to explain to her that it was cable, and that the fault lay with the company, not the television set. What little she heard was lost in translation so to speak, so she repeated herself "Turn the television!" Asking her to turn down the volume, I again explained that the fault lay with the cable company, and that turning the television wouldn't do any good. She stared at me. "Turn it!" she said, then turned up the volume again. Sighing, I went over to the television and turned it. The static stopped. "PRAISE GOD!" Maria said. Instantly the static began again. "Turn it!" she said. I turned it. The static stopped. "PRAISE GOD!" exclaimed Maria in her high screechy voice. The television waited for the joy of the moment to pass, then went about its normal duties of static and buzzing. "Open the cupboard!" said Maria. I tried to explain to her, again, that it wouldn't do any good, but apparently the issue lay with the word "cable". Since "cable" was the only word I wanted to communicate, I opened the cupboard. The static stopped. "PRAISE GOD!" said Maria. I glared at the television and asked it what part of "cable" it failed to understand. The television responded that it felt very "BWAAAAAAAAAA!!" at the moment, or static to that effect. "Open the other door!" yelled Maria. I opened the other door to the cupboard. The static stopped. "PRAISE GOD!" yelled Maria in a voice that set my teeth on edge. I began wondering if perhaps my lack of faith was causing the television to be staticy. The static began again. Without being asked, I turned the television. Still static. I closed the cupboard. Still static. I left the room.

"PRAISE GOD!" I heard Maria yell.

The Oath of the Cultural Christian

I will, to the best of my ability, be the best cultural Christian I can be. I will uphold the Bible, but never actually read it. I will go to church on such holidays as Christmas, Easter, and whenever mother comes to visit. I will fervently pray whenever something bad happens, but never at any other time. I will honor the president as Vicarus Filii Dei, especially if he caters to the evangelical vote. I will hate gays, jews, muslims, buddists, liberals, and people from New York. I will never actually speak to these people, or try to witness to them (except for the liberals). I shall forever stay faithful to my home church, Laodicea, and the values it upholds.

Comming soon! "Oath of the Cultural Adventist"!

There were happy people in the hallway
And a few that were sad
Most were tired, it was Friday,
And they had weekends planned
Just then a scratchy voice was heard
Loud on the intercom
And though its tone was quite absurd
The students remained calm
"Good morning students, nay, my pawns. I have one things to say. If you would listen, darling brats, and then be on your way. The game will start at six o'clock, the party is at nine. If you do come, please leave your thoughts, I'm sure they will be fine. The ho's are at the front door and the weed is at the back, and if you've paid your monthly dues then we can get you crack."
The service was quite beautiful,
The crowd was quite well dressed
Perhaps a tad pontifical,
But all said they were blessed
And as the sermon ended
A man stepped to the front
His attire was quite splendid,
Though his tone was rather blunt
"Before you leave, my bretheren, I have one thing to say. We provide some comfort here, and I think it's time you pay. The standard charge for habit and for egos is the same. Pleasing mother is half off, if that's why you came. The music was quite beautiful, but it all comes at a price, so if you think you're dutiful a fifty would be nice. If you came to get your share of looking down on sinners, please remember tax is doubled, and that's just for beginners."

Did it have to be this way?
Did it have to go away?
Did I take so long, and journey far
Pass the time from day to day
Just an empty place
Just an empty face
An empty feeling, hard and dry
Can I ever leave this place?
And all I feel
The empty people
The hardened walls
The joyful calls, with only thoughtless passions felt
For things from dust to dust
But here I stand
I know I must
I'm not sure why
They never say, they never speak of life or living
My hands they bleed
My heart is dry
And all I need
Is time to try,
And time to live
And time to die
And time to give
And time to cry for all the empty people
Go to the wall, and see the cracks
Look at the stains of blood and tears
The whispers of unspoken fears
Why are you running now?
Please don't go
Can't you stay?
I'm all alone, the voices call
The chorus loud, "Bring down the wall"
And then they fade, though they still call
Replace the vain and thoughtless smiles
Of friend and foe, both are the same
For both have gone
Both are to blame

Today I engaged in a multitude of noble and valiant pursuits; I promoted world peace, I saved a small country from starvation, and I convinced myself not to eat the ice cream in the freezer.
Ok, so I didn't manage to save anyone from starvation, and I didn't promote world peace. In fact, the only reason why I could resist the ice cream in the freezer was that I had already eaten it, making it..... no longer an issue.
I am a deacon at my church. I'm not sure why. I'm certainly not a model Christian, though I suppose no Christian is. I guess the people who voted on the new deacons just thought I looked nice in a suit and didn't vandalize buildings.
Being a deacon I have certain responsibilities. This month it is my job come to church a half hour before everyone else and start everything up. I unlock the doors, turn on and adjust the sound system, unlock the classrooms and turn on the lights, and do other interesting things like that.
I came to church with high expectations. Not that starting things up would be interesting, or that everything would go smoothly, but that I'd screw up and have something interesting to write about. I failed miserably. I did have the opportunity to view old ladies arrive half an hour early and sit in the pews for no reason at all, but that's not new.
After church I went home, took a nap, and after sundown went online. I randomly started messing with the google image search filters. I turned the filters up to "strict" and counted the number of hits. I then turned it down one level to "moderate" and counted the results again. Still searching the same term, I turned them off all together, and counted the results. To my surprise there were fewer hits on the lowest search level than on the highest. In other words, when the pictures of sexy nude chicks, marijuana and Rush Limbaugh were left in, there weren't as many pictures. (Before you ask, I was searching "Hong Kong", sorry if you were expecting something juicy.)
I sat back and scratched my head. How could this be? There must be a secret society of porn sites putting their wares on the screens of grannies and church school kids across the country, but taking them off the unfiltered levels. Or better yet, the strict filtering left in things like "big bird" and smiling families, but the unfiltered setting took them out. Who wants to see big bird when looking for porn? Then again, who uses google image search to look at porn anyway?

Some time ago I made a major purchase. I gathered up my meager savings and walked ten miles UP HILL through the blinding blizzard to the general store. Once I got there I stood and admired the row of bright, shiny, new, pencils.
Ok, ok, so I drove to the ATM, took out 50 bucks, put all but 10 of it in my wallet, and went to Shaws. At Shaws I bought a few useful yet mundane items such as batteries, milk, tortillas, and yes; pencils.
I must admit I stood there and admired the abundance of school and office supplies; still in their wrappers and cases. No one had chewed the pencils, no one had let the markers dry out, and no one had crinkled the edges of the paper. There they were, ready to serve and protect. At least the box cutters were ready to protect, the rest were rather unprepared in that department.
I put a package of mechanical pencils in my basket and headed for the checkout. When I got home I took them out of their shiny plastic package and put them in my backpack. There they sat; all twelve of them. They made a nice little bulge in the side pocket, where there had been no bulge before. It gave me a feeling of confidence to know that I would not run out in the middle of a test or quiz. POWER WAS MINE!!!!!
I walked to school the next morning, as usual. I spent a little time throwing baseballs against the backstop on the field, then went inside. It was 7:40. I sighed and reminded myself to get a life. Walmart had good ones, I would be sure to stop by.
Pretty soon the bell rang and class began. Kevin leaned forward and asked “Milton, do you have a pencil I could borrow?” After a moment’s hesitation I said I did, and handed him one. A dead silence fell upon the room and all eyes turned toward me. I shrank back as the gathered crowd prepared to pounce. Brandon was the first to strike; “Could I have one?” he asked. I shuddered as I took out another pencil. It never had a chance. The requests flew fast and hard, till by the end of the period I was short five pencils. Kevin, true to his word, had returned the first, but there were many more.
We ran to our lockers in a vain hope of getting a book or two before the next class, but failed. The bell rang just as the doors came into view. We knew we were doomed.
We went to our seats and sat down. Before I had even reached my seat it began again; “Milton, could I have a pencil?” They didn’t even bother to say “borrow” now, they just took. “What happened to the last one I gave you?” I asked. “I lost it” they said, truthfully enough. By the end of the period I had lost two more pencils. I knew what would happen to them; they would be chewed, trampled, left under couches. I grit my teeth and let it pass.
The next day I made a major purchase. I gathered up my meager savings and walked ten miles UP HILL through the blinding blizzard to the general store. Once I got there I stood and admired the row of bright, shiny, new, pencils.