not here to help, only to observe and pass judgment

I take pictures for buzz net all the time. I like to call it “Netting Buzz,” because while I have been keeping a blog for nearly five years now and only ‘netting buzz’ for two of those years, buzz net has a more vital community and you get more response from it. I have ten people who visit my buzz net daily, opposed to two hundred views on the blog – but I get more comments at Buzz Net. I am looking for attention people; step up.

Today it occurred to me whilst I was out, and about, snapping pictures as I went along, that not everyone has a buzz net and these people have no idea what I am doing. I stopped, in the middle of taking a close up picture of something and realized that everyone was looking at me and no one was whispering, “That’s him! That’s Alex Vance, the famous buzz netter!” No one was ignoring me while Tom Dog sped by snapping a far more clever shot. Everyone was looking at me taking a picture of a bag of potato chips.

My mother was on the phone with my aunt yesterday when we were in Madison, and when my aunt apparently asked what I was doing, Mom said, “I am not sure why he’s doing it but he’s taking a picture of someone using a pay phone.” I know they have never had much faith in me but now I am sure they think I am retarded.

(Flesh-Kincaid Level 7.7)

I was looking at my Buzz Net profile because Tiny Elvis mentioned that you could track your statistics there. I enjoy statistical information and the more useless the information the better. I debated in High School and College – in an all-out effort to never get laid – and we kicked around and manipulated statistical information like pros.

No one has added me as a favorite – although my photos have nearly thirty-five thousand visitors and I have forty-three people who have added me as a friend. If you think about it, the break down is: everyone in Montana has visited my page once and everyone who can read there has added me as a friend.

It shows my sign as, “Pisces,” which is annoying because I cannot remove that information without removing my age. I do not believe that a star, billions of miles away, has an effect on my daily life and if it did I do not believe that it would be something could be discerned to be printed in the papers AND that everyone else born in the same month as I am would have the same fate. Let us look at this week’s horoscope, courtesy of The Onion:

Pisces: (Feb. 19—March 20)_The technical details are still being worked out, but executives promise that your first few hilarious and heartwarming years will soon be released as a deluxe DVD package.

It bothers me that the same people who say I am stupid for believing in intelligent design (when did we stop calling it “creationism” and since when can George W. Bush pronounce two polysyllabic words in a row?) believe in their horoscopes to the tune of it bothering me that the same people who support the death penalty oppose abortion and those who support abortion also think that you should not exercise the death penalty.


I want school to start (for the kids) so I have something to do! Enough of this!

At my second job, you know ‘where the magic happens,’ our Manager is on vacation. Usually the saying goes, “when the cat’s away the mice will play,” and during this cat’s vacation the mouse at play has been Mini Mo.

Our assistant manager has gone from, “Where the hell is he?” to, “Why the hell won’t he go home?” in the short time our fearsome leader has been gone, ostensibly on vacation but we all know she is reporting to her master, Darth Adipose. During the time I should be eating my weight in nuggets and flaunting Mo’s authority, I have Mini Mo under foot. I am annoyed, not by Mini Mo, but having children around when I am not teaching.

Aric (my erstwhile nemesis) is more annoyed than anyone at the ubiquitous presence of Mini Mo and has been plotting to kill him. Yesterday at work he pulled me aside and said, I am going to stuff him [Mini Mo] in the microwave! I said to him, Aric, you can’t just stuff some kid in the microwave… He looked at me as if I had just revealed the secrets of time travel or something else profound to him and he said, “You’re right! I had better poke holes in him with a fork so he doesn’t explode.”

This would be unfortunate because it would put us back decades in human cloning research, Bangladesh is after all the Silicon Valley of such science. Besides, Allah would shit if he found out.

Swiped from my real journal at type pad

The question of what to wear to the wedding has been irrevocably resolved! Due to the ethnicity of our last name, the Princess and I have decided that we should attend the wedding in kilts. Our last name has over two hundred plaids, or tartans, to choose. Unfortunately, we decided this without enough time to commission them – since each one is made to order and the Stepford Kilts-R-Us closed when the haberdasher, in a heroin induced rage, headed William Wallace’s call and slaughtered the English family who ran the fish and chips stand. This is when the City of Stepford got serious about the drug problem, ousted Richard Pryor as mayor, and built a methadone clinic RIGHT OUTSIDE MY APARTMENT.

I would seriously wear a kilt, and so would my sister. There is nothing unattractive about that outfit, except the models they show wearing them. Our favorite part is having a knife strapped to your leg. However, the real vetoes came in for the kilt when the Vice-President (Kipp) stated that I could not wear a skirt, no matter what it was called, lest I look better in it than she would. This sentiment was shared by her recently appointed personal assistant Madeline Albright. Madeline is perfect for the job because even on Kipp’s worst day Madeline will always be fatter and uglier, not to mention insanely incompetent. Thankfully, Madeline is always dripping in bling - maintaining her street cred. Thank God for Condi Rice, without her we would not know that a woman could not only be appointed to a high office, but also be able to do that job and be exceedingly attractive.

The final reason that I cannot wear a kilt is not that no one I know or am related to is Scottish, is that I would not only look better in the skirt than Kipp or the Princess, but I could possibly outshine the Bride. It is her day and the Major (my father) has made it ‘pretty-damn-clear” that my normal antics and trouble making are unwelcome this weekend and unbecoming for someone my age.

Now, I am going to get my hair cut for the wedding. I am not to be a shaggy hippie at the nuptials.