I'm starting to resent Lunch.

First I would like to say that I just realized that I haven't had a soda since Sunday! That's a new record.

I'm on this diet. Well, it's not really a diet, it's more a lifestyle change. (I totally stole that from my bff Jess.)

Because eventually one gets tired of being a lard-ass and decides to get off her hind-end and do something about it.

Lunch used to have to hide in amongst the foliage from me. Every day I would wake up and start planning how I could trap and ensnare Lunch. It would spend all morning quavering, wondering when I would pounce from my super-neat hiding spot and gobble it up in 2 minutes flat. Lunch, he was running scared.

Now, I feel Lunch jeering at me. Laughing and pointing with Dinner. 'Look at the fat girl now! MWA HA HAA,' Lunch now chortles. He doesn't even bother to hide anymore. He sits out in the open and taunts me.

'Yummy broccoli! Can you not wait to eat your yummy yummy broccoli, ANNA? . . . You do not even have a soda to wash it DOWN with! You must drink of the WATER! MWA HA HAA! Silly child, I no longer hide from you in fear. You no longer pose a threat to my well-being! I taunt you with my availability now. Be sad. Be very sad. Yes, I want to lick the tears of your sweet, sweet misery.'

Now I no longer attack Lunch. I merely sit quietly and masticate alone and silent. Where once there was the joyous euphony of the Angels singing their heralded songs of peace and goodwill now is just the cacophony and discordance of my ululations of sorrow at missing my Chef-Boyardee Mini Raviolis and Velveeta Shells & Cheese. Gone are the Meatball Subs and Pepperoni Pizza Hot Pockets. Lamented are the Code Red Mountain Dews and Cheddar Cheese & Sour Cream Ruffles.

I no longer look forward to lunchtime; I just groan and suffer through it.

And the first person to leave me a comment about how I can have the things I want in moderation or to treat myself once in a while, I swear to the Lord on my everlasting Soul, I will hunt you and down and maim you. We're talking ripping limbs from torsos. I can do that now. I've been weight-training.

Why I Will Refuse to Do Anymore Work Related Surveys

The University I work at is a public university and apparently public universities give a crap about EVERYTHING!

Within the last two weeks I have gotten invitations to surveys about the library, the library's research services (You can now skype with the reference desk. I don't even know what skype is.), dining services, the university budget and personal financial planning services. Oh yeah and that whole health survey thing that decided I was still too fat and crazy as well.

Obviously the university budget must be okay because they've been able to hire 900 hundred people to make, send and audit surveys about everything which would increase the demand for personal financial planning services that could be held at the library and then we could rely on dining services to cater the whole damn thing with healthy menu selections from the folks who care about nutrition.

The reference desk, they'll have to fend for themselves. Via skype.

I Hate Holidays! - The How and Why

I think it's time that I explain why I hate holidays. And  which holidays I hate so that you, friends and blog readers, know when and why I will be cranky.

Here is a list of Holidays I hate (in no particular order):

1. New Year's Eve
2. Valentine's Day
3. Halloween
4. 4th of July
5. Labor Day
6. My Birthday
7. Columbus Day
8. Easter (sometimes)

Here is a list of the holidays that I enjoy:

A. Thanksgiving
B. Christmas

I hate holidays because my parents are divorced. There are few holidays that can be stretched out into two days. So as I child I was the rope in a constant tug-of-war between my parents on holidays 1-8. Whichever parent I wasn't with I felt supremely sad for because they were alone and that was somehow my responsibility. At the age of 8 I had complete autonomy over the decision of where I was going and when. I merely had to speak up and say 'Parents, apparently you've missed the memo but I'm brilliant so please let me make decisions that could affect my personal safety and well-being. I think I'll go have a night-cap now.' So it was always my fault when one of them was alone on President's Day. My parents never did that whole 'Let's Holiday together!' It didn't work for us. I hate holidays because I always feel guilty on them, because as a grown adult if I'm not with both parents then one of them is alone and I feel guilty. Heaven forbid I not be with either of them, then I'm just useless.

Holidays A & B are holidays that could be celebrated over an extended period of time. Holiday A was split between that Thursday and the weekend. I was with one parent on the Thursday of Thanksgiving and the other parent got me that weekend. So I just got really fat and ate several Thanksgiving dinners. Holiday B was actually two days so that always worked out nice. One parent had me for Christmas Eve and the other had me for Christmas Day. Life was grand.

Here are the specifics for why I hate holidays 1-8:

1. New Year's Eve - That whole parent's being alone thing. To this day I still become nauseated whenever I see that God-AWFUL ball drop. My stomach churns and turns and moans and groans. This is also why I hate Dick Clark. I will never feel more guilty in the entire year than on New Year's Eve.

2. Valentine's Day is the day before my mother's birthday and I usually haven't found her anything brilliant yet so I'm all panicky. That and I'll be single forever. And I used to work at a florist and you will never feel the same way about Valentine's Day after you've seen the aftermath of a florist on Valentine's day. People, get over the red roses.

3. For serious? I have to dress up? Maybe I'll be a sexy something stupid.

4.My parents, for some reason, believe that their right to be an American is somehow tied to my involvement in their celebrations. That unless I am within eyesight they'll no longer be American. I think they're scared to become Canadian.

5. The summer is ending. No more beach time. Pout.

6. My birthday? Do I really need to become older? (Btw - I'm turning 23 again this year. For serious. Put it on my cake. And a balloon.)

7. Why should the banks be off but I still have to work?

8. I generally hate chocolate so Easter is a hard holiday for me. That and my memaw doesn't cook anymore. But there was that one Easter where she shoved chocolate cake in my mom's face. That was pretty entertaining. Maybe I will move Easter down to the lettered list...

So you see it's not that I'm always a cranky, Grinch type person, I've just got a lot of emotional baggage and it always seems so heavy on the holidays.

The day I almost, almost died.

Today, I almost died. Almost.

I didn't see my life flash before my eyes or anything so it was probably closer almost almost dying. But still, I could have died. For serious.

It all started when I was getting on the bus this morning and this skinny guy, wearing the ugliest jeans I have ever seen in my life, hefts up this cardboard box he's carrying and totes it onto the bus with him. He had it all taped up. I mean the entire thing was covered in tape. Not a spot was missing tape. It was taped up like he didn't want anyone getting whatever was inside the box out, or preventing whatever was inside the box from breaking out of the box unnecessarily. I'm thinking it was a bomb. (If you would have seen this guy's pants you'd understand why I thought it was a bomb and that he was tired of living his fashion-abused life and wanted to take as many people out with him as possible.) I mean why else would he have a box like that? It's not like he's shipping it somewhere. Why take it to Greensboro to ship it? What sense does that make? It was totally a bomb.

And I almost, almost died.

I know that bombs can be small and don't really need to be heavy but I figured that it was all the shrapnel wrapped around the bomb that made the box heavy. And packing it in tight would cause a bigger explosion because it would create more force by impeding the process of the shrapnel escaping the box. Granted he could have achieved this easier in a tight, plastic case because cardboard doesn't really impede shrapnel moving at a great velocity but he looked like an amateur. No camouflage and all.

I was so convinced it was a bomb that I sent my bff a text message and told her that I loved her. And that she could have all of my clothes. I IMed my other friend and told him to tell my mother that I love her and to also tell the sexpot neighbor that 'He'll never know what he missed.' My other friend I IMed to tell a description of what the guy was wearing and what he looked like because I feel like she'd be responsible enough to tell the police the details. She seems good under pressure while I hope the other two would be too busy wailing and gnashing their teeth and pulling out their hair to do anything functional.

What? I'm kind of big deal. I almost, almost died.

Mush Mouth

I used to enjoy going to the dentist. Honestly I did. When I was a child the dentist was yet another adult who would smile down on me and praise my general awesomeness because I never had a cavity. EVER. (Still haven't! Score!) Plus, it didn't hurt that I got to get a toy out of the toy bin because I was sweet child without a sweet tooth!

Then came the time to have my wisdom teeth extracted from my head. I say extracted from my head because the dentist had to cut them out of my jaw which is really just an extenuation of my head. And it was a tragic event requiring a hyperbolized account.

I want to start off by saying that I have never appreciated my mother more than I did in the debacle that was my wisdom teeth extraction surgery. She quickly proved her mettle.

Sooooo...off to the dentist I go. He mentions that I should probably go ahead and have my wisdom teeth extracted, even though the year before he said that I had enough room in my head for them and the rest of my 28 teeth. So...off to the oral surgeon I go.

My oral surgeon confirms his opinion and says that he'll have to cut them out of my head/jaw and that I'll need to be under 'light sedation.'

     Me: Light sedation?

     Him: Yes. Light sedation.

     Me: I want to be asleep.

     Him: You will be.

     Me: No, you don't understand. I Need to be asleep.

     Him: You will be.

     Me: Like for real asleep. I don't want to be conscious at all.

     Him: If you wake up you won't remember it.
      *Remember this last part.

We schedule the appointment.

My mother, at the time, was starting a contract job where she would be flying back and forth to Florida every week. It was under her strong suggestion that I move my surgery up to when she would be in town to take care of me because she thought I couldn't handle this without her. She was correct. She woke me up every hour to replace the ice packs on my jaw and slid pieces of bread soaked in chicken broth down my throat so I wouldn't die of starvation. (Never more in my life have I ever wanted to just die on the spot than when I was sitting in my mother's bathroom floor staring into the toilet, having just retched all the blood plugs out of the holes in my head, where I should have had teeth, because I cannot stomach prescription pain meds.  I just sobbed like a little child and my mother in her infinite wisdom just let me sit there and feel sorry for myself for a little while. She then collected me and poured me back into bed with several Tylenols and another helping of chicken flavored bread.) Previous to all of this I was living with my two bestest girlfriends and they should take time to say a quiet thank you to my mother for preventing me from lying in my bed at the house whining and bleeding everywhere. I'm not easy to deal with when I'm in pain.

The morning of the day of the surgery comes. I'm a little nervous. Mom makes me wear a button up shirt with my sweat pants; I look like a freaking retard.

Enter the nurse:

     Nurse Doom: Anna, we're ready for you.

We both stand up to go back with Nurse Doom.

     Nurse Doom: Ma'am. You're not allowed to go back with her. You'll have to wait out here.

      ---

     Mom: You'll be back out here in 5 minutes to get me anyway, so I'll just come on back now.

At this point I have pretty much reached hysteria. I'm about 3 burst blood vessels shy of a full blown apoplectic fit. Maybe it was the fear of being put under and dying that scared me, but I'm pretty sure it may have been that I saw my oral surgeon cackling like a mad man and rubbing his hands together in that whole 'I'm installing miniature spy cams in people's gums and taking OVER THE WORLD' fashion. Creepy. Panic ensues. I may have even begged for my life at this point; I can't remember. They finally get the IV into my arm and as I'm drifting off to Never-Neverland my mother is stroking my forehead and assuring me that I'll survive. I also think she mumbled to Nurse Doom that she may want to go ahead and restrain me. I don't know why.

An eternity goes by and I wake up. I notice a really bright light in my eyes. Then, there is a steady, striking, pressure in my mouth. Naturally I'm confused, so I open my eyes. They seem to not follow my instructions. As I start to regain consciousness I realize that the striking pressure in my mouth is Doctor Mengele pounding on my head WITH A HAMMER. My eyes immediately begin to work and I proceed to flip out.

In retrospect it's a good thing my mother had them restrain me because I was not a very happy camper that day at Camp Punish-me-ka-wa. I now know why cops are always afraid of people that are high. It's because they're insane and violent and often very very afraid and very very dangerous. Needless to say they pumped more drugs into me and off I drifted back to la-la land. All the while I was sort of awake I was mumbling very nasty things to Dr. & Nurse Pain. The key to this part of the story is that you'll notice that A) I woke up and B) I remember it.

Finally they get done. Apparently it took longer than anticipated and that's why I woke up, or it could have been that I was highly anxious when they administered the drugs or maybe because I was kind of drinking a lot at the time and my liver was the size of a basketball. Either way I woke the fuck up and as Nurse Doom is explaining what happened to my mother I'm yelling garbled obscenities as loud as humanly possible when one literally has 'cotton-mouth' (from the drugs and all of the cotton taking residence in my mouth to soak up the gallons of blood). Then I threw up on the wall just for effect. So now there is blood, vomit and cotton on the walls of the Concentration Camp Oral Surgery Center and the obscenities are no longer hindered by a mouth full of stuff. Needless to say, I was not invited back for another stay at Camp Castigation.

On the way home packed with fresh cotton and more blood, I finally pass out. My mother must have floated me into my bedroom at her house because I don't remember walking. Also she took off my shirt and put on my pajamas so I guess wearing the button up shirt was smart on her part because I didn't have to be involved in its extraction from my person.

My next memory is of my father, who has always had a very weak stomach, looking rather piqued at all the blood and gore. In my haze I realize instantly that my father doesn't know what happened! So I proceed to tell him the story and get all riled up again and the obscenities begin flying, again.  To his credit he affirms all of my suspicions of Nazi conspiracies in dental implants and agrees that Dr. Mengele should have his license revoked.

He then looks at my mother and says:

     'Pam, is she alright? I can't understand a word she's saying. She's got mush mouth.' 

Who then says:

     'Steve, she's so high on those drugs I don't think we'd understand her even without all the cotton. You should have seen the fit she pitched at the oral surgeon's office. She kept going on and on like that; I can't imagine that she's happy. Do you want a cup of coffee?'

Geez, I thwart a modern day Nazi scheme and all they do is drink coffee.

Premature Ejac..err... Peaking...err...Over before it begins?

Everybody knows that one person that they look at and think:

'You know, they're so great; they just haven't hit their stride yet. They'll be awesome in a few years.'

Sadly this isn't me. I totally peaked early. Got everything that needed doing out of the way by the time I was ten and now I'm just scrambling to not go sliding down the backside of the hill on my face and embarrass myself.

Seriously, my most prodigious moments were when I colored on my Cabbage Patch Kids with crayons because they needed makeup; which really pissed my parents off at first. Then they realized how brilliant I was because I colored them in the right spots where makeup would be. It was all sweetness and light then. I was no longer a 'smart ass' but a 'creative and precocious smart ass.' This occurred all over again when I shaved Barbie's head because she had 'leukemia.'  

What? I've been a science nerd my whole life. 

My mom still tells those stories to strangers. We meet new people and she says: 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's so smart! She shaved her Barbie's head when she was 6 and proclaimed she had leukemia.' At which point, people look at me like I'm a freak. Then comes the perfunctory, 'Awwww. What a smart little girl!' Except that now I'm almost thirty and they wonder what in the hell went wrong? 

One of these days I'm going to prove how smart I am by calculating just how many brain cells Jose Cuervo has consumed right there on the spot. I'll plot it out mathematically and take into account the change in brain cell number with respect to time and they'll be astounded. Or they'll call me an AA sponsor. All I'm saying is that it's starting to get a smidge embarrassing. It's not ever 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's curing cancer and saving the lives of starving African children!' The closest we'll ever get to that is when she says 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She could have went to medical school but she was too boy crazy.'

Let's not even get her started on that topic. Each holiday that goes by is even more depressing than the last because my entire family lines up by the door to see if I waltz in with a man. I figure if I give it a few more years I could show up with an albino circus dwarf and they would cheer. Only because he has penis. I give it until I'm 35 and then I figure I can have an illegitimate child without any shame or guilt from my family. They'll just be grateful that someone wanted to sleep with me at all. By the time I'm 40 my aunt will be hiding behind the door with the electric cord so my mom can go to work with the turkey baster. Men have it so easy. 

So there really is no hope at all for me. Little do they know that I met my soulmate when I was 7. He was the biggest black and white tomcat you've ever seen and I carried him around like a rag doll. Pea Pie (I don't know. I was an odd child.) was the only man to ever see and proclaim me his, unapologetically. True to form with every other man in my life, he disappeared one day to leave me stammering and quaking in his absence. I've been fucked up as a football bat ever since. 

When I was young I was motivated. Now I'm just lazy. When I was young I was full of optimism and joy. Now I'm just lazy. 

So if you'd please move a little to the left, you're in my path and the rock is going to roll back down this track in a few minutes.

Immersing Yourself in All Aspects of the Situation

The great thing about living in the South is sleeping with your windows open. Well, except in the winter, and the summer too, when it gets down to 95 with 98% humidity, but otherwise it's quite lovely to lie in your bed with the windows open.

It often causes a body to become introspective of sorts. That is until introspection becomes an abutment on the highway of self pity travelling to the city of self loathing.

Sooo, you watch TV. Do you know that I feel guilty about getting rid of my old clunky tv (that still works) for a newer skinnier model? I can totally justify it. I simply do not have room for the old clunky one. . .but alas. It's still here, in a chair, in the middle of my room because I don't have anything to put it on, because it's old and clunky.

But I digress.

I was watching Sex and the City and got tired of that because really, they put SJP in some crazy getups. I mean some of them are awesome, but she for serious had a bedazzled fanny pack on, at which point I physically said 'No more.' out loud and cut off the DVD player. Whereupon I found the late night self help guru.

Whose instructions are 'to immerse yourself in all aspects of the situation.' Sure thing gramps. Why don't you immerse yourself back into your prune juice and let me know if you want to be in all aspects of that situation? It sounds unnessecary to me. Doesn't he understand that immersing myself in all aspects of my situation is the reason why I turned on the dad-blamedt TV to begin with? I was so looking forward to not thinking about my inadequacies to do differential equations and derive permeability equations with respect to time, and also not thinking about having my motivation to work harder at the gym show up mid-workout and make me feel like shit even harder because I was finally gung-ho about half-assing it, and definitely not thinking about immersing myself in the half-eaten, hidden situation of Doritos that my bff has in the cabinet in the kitchen, which is a whole 10 ft away from my head, that I physically have to restrain myself from ravaging.

Seriously, this is why I drink. So I can avoid the aspects of my situation and immerse myself into the bottom of the gin bottle. It's not that I drink to forget; I drink so I can avoid all the aspects of my situation. And if I happen to be having a particularly happy situation with which I would like to be immersed. . .What's a little vodka besides a handy lubricant into that roiling vat of aspects?

An Open Letter to the Monkeys in the Parking Operations Jungle/Office

Attention Monkeys,

Yoo hoo! Over here. Lookie, it's a banana. Do you want the banana? Look, here. Here!

Damnit! You people really are monkeys. Quit picking your god-blessed nose!

Listen I got an email from the matriarch of your living group (I'm not sure what a group of monkeys are called. Geese congegrate in gaggles and Rhinos hang in out crashes but Monkeys?) saying that my last bus pass purchase was not debited from my pay check last month. For some reason,

Could you put down the toy car? Please? I'm talking here.

She seems to think that it should be compounded with this month's purchase and debited twice from this month's check. I'm not sure why the burden of your office to not do a satisfactory job lies on my head.

Do not climb on my head. Do not do it! Don't do it! NO!

As I was saying, I came over and filled out my paperwork correctly and accurately. I think that when I signed the form authorizing the payroll debit that it was assumed that the debit would be in a timely manner, and now that timely manner has passed. So, I do not feel as it is my responsibility to pay the past due debit. Yes, I do have my receipt and it indicates a pass for the month of September and that the debit will come out of the September pay check, which it did not. Need I remind you?

Did you just hurl poop at me? Bitch! (Why am I arguing with a monkey?)

Just try and listen. Look, over here. Back over here. Yes that's a happy monkey. No, not that happy. Quit spanking Bob.

You know what? Nevermind. I'm leaving. Do what you want. You're going to anyway. That's why they established a gang of monkeys in the Parking Operations office. So that no one has any recourse in the pursuit of their complaints.

Do me a favor will you? Do you think you could talk to the warthogs over in library sciences about my fines?

Sincerely,
Anna, The Small & Docile Reptile Hunter, Gray

Falling Down is Overrated

I have fallen down 4 times within the last week. All in painfully public places.

It's as if the cacophony of my emotional life is affecting the timbre of my gait. (I know that doesn't make any sense as cacophony and timbre are aural words and falling down is an often painful tactile experience but what's a little sensory obfuscation once in a while?) Or I'm just a klutz. Or maybe I'm a mess. It's like that Lady Gaga song 'She looks good but her boyfriend says: She's a mess.' Except that I have no boyfriend, which is probably a good thing for me right now.

This weekend was very interesting and probably one of the better ones I've had in a while; I think I got to see everyone that I currently love. Including sexpot neighbor. (Not that I love him or anything but it's always nice to see him, because he's pretty. It's kind of like my watch, I love looking at my watch because it's shiny and awesome.) I also saw 'He Who Must Not Be Named' and no it wasn't Voldemort, but Dipshit, which is why I'm grateful I don't have a boyfriend because I remember what it was like having a boyfriend like Dipshit who sucks at life even worse than I do which is pathetic. (God, it's amazing how unattractive someone becomes because their personality sucks.) Yes, we don't refer to Dipshit by name as I'm still currently angry that we're sharing the same atmosphere but that would require one of us to shuffle off this mortal coil and I'm not sure that I hate him That much. Close, but still...I'm trying to be an adult about all of this. Anyways, off to my bar I go and guess who's there?

Personally I'm somewhat proud of myself. The last time I saw him I was completely unprepared as I had just left the gym and Spruce Street was the last place I ever imagined seeing him, and do you know that this Asshat had the gall to try and speak to me? Who is he kidding? But this time I didn't make eye contact nor did I stress and hyperventilate. Okay maybe a little and I did try to sneak out the back door of the bar. I was prevented in this by my bff who informed the watching parties that we/I are/am 'VIP Motha Fucka' as we walked past him and his posse. She then chided me that I shouldn't be the one slinking around avoiding eye contact. As always, She's right about this too.

So oddly enough I'm strangely confident and have a renewed sense of awesomeness which I like to imagine never quite left but was there all along.


I haven't fallen down lately either.

But that may be because my unknown degenerative neuromuscular disease went away?

Faking It Until I Make It

Lately, I've been in a shit mood. Or so I'm told. I cannot refute or deny this fact as my modus operandi is generally a nasty, cynical, sarcastic, sour outlook on life. But don't get me wrong, I consider myself a realistic person. My evaluative powers are on point, I just suck at life. Duh.

For example, have I cured cancer? Rid the world of malaria and polio? Saved the tigers from being hunted down and turned into soup? Found a clean, cheap renewable energy source?

No. I haven't.

Maybe you're saying to yourself, 'Anna, those are very lofty goals. Maybe you need to be more realistic. Find smaller goals that you can accomplish within a reasonable time frame.'

Okay. How's this:

Have I seen the hot neighbor sans vetements yet? No, but I'm halfway there. Can I use a ruler to accurately measure things? Apparently I can only get two sides done, the third is a crap shoot. This is the email I got in response to my measurements earlier today:

"Can I check the 3.5 inches? That seems really small."

Yes, it is indeed really small. Really, really small. Be my guest.


BWAAA HAA HAAAAAA

When your lips are all tingly. . .

My lips are all tingly and I really wish I could say that it's because I was rubbing my super hot football playing boyfriend's leg with Ben Gay when things got a little kinky and went south, if you catch my drift, but I cannot say that's why my lips are indeed tingly. My lips are tingly because I hate the treadmill.

No, it's not like that time I had that stroke in spin class from screaming at that dumb bitch who insisted on talking to me throughout the entire class even though she showed up 20 minutes late and then proceeded to mock my poor, suffering uterus (What? I'm on the rag.) from the next bike over thus sending me into a blind rage where upon I questioned my entire existence and bled from both eyes. My lips were never really tingled during that debacle.

It's because I'm stupid. I came home from dinner with my mom and went directly to doing my homework after a mini-tantrum, but that was because my poor momma simply cannot drive. So I tried and tried and tried. For a solid two hours I tried, and the only successful thing I managed to get done was logic myself in circles for an hour and fourty-five minutes and spent the other fifteen minutes deciding I hate science. Then I decided to go for a run at the gym. Needless to say 6 months of spin class has obviously spoiled me and after about 2 miles my right quad is sc-Reaming at me. At which point I got on the bike and spun it out, which I'm honestly surprised that it actually worked but Hot Dog! It does!

Getting to my tingly lips, after my shower and hair masque I decide to put some bio freeze on my quad because I'm doing double spin tomorrow and I need it to be healthy. And like a dumb ass did I wash my hands before I put the vasoline on my lips?

Hell no.

So now my lips are tingly. But they do have a rather refreshing menthol smell.

No, no. Not that jar of jelly. That's your crazy cousin Lenny.

Apparently the newest green trend in post-death preparation and storage is called aquamation.

Yes, they take your favorite relative and sit them in a vat of fat reducing potassium hydroxide for 4 hours and then pour out Uncle Stan's viscera and munch up his now soft gelatinized bones and return them to you. (They recommend your loved one being dead before this occurs as I imagine it's probably pretty painful.) The article I read then went on to describe that the remaining potash hash could be used as fertilizer. Yes, this is a brilliant plan. I want my applesauce to taste like dead hippies.

Obviously our mates down in Aussie-ville have gone off the deep end and are now worried that they're going to run out of room to put dead people. Um, Hello. . .The Outback? It's a vast, barren wasteland where nothing will grow but rabbits. So barren that less than 10% of the Australian population lives in the Outback. It's essentially a giant collection pit for rabbit pellets and dead Australians.

I'm not sure what's wrong with dumping people in a pine box in a hole with a marble slab set on top of it. I get that coffins now-a-days are the renovated backseats of the muscles cars from the 70's and are plush and posh and all. Honestly, I would just like someone to shove me in a pine box and plunk me in a hole unceremoniously. If a pine box made by felons is good enough for Billy Graham and his wife, then who am I to demand that I require a soft silk lining to ease my transition into the afterlife? I think it's odd that even in death we feel that we must overcompensate.

And make sure you get me in the ground the next day. None of this waiting and waffling and 900 visitations and crap. I'm dead. I'm gone. Get it over with so everyone can eat and get on with their lives.

But make sure they serve barbecue. I really like barbecue.