Hey, Remember When You Were Run Over by That Bus?

Lame to post a link, but this is crazy. The good news is that this boy survived. The bad news is that he was run over by a bus.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/7598674.stm


I'm sure he's not thinking about this now, but this will be all that people ask him about for the rest of his life . . . probably. He now has two choices: 1.) Win nobel prize so he can talk about something else or 2.) spend the rest of his life explaining to people what it feels like to be run over by a bus. If I ever meet him I will probably call him Regina George and ask him if he remembers that time he was run over by a bus.

My Job

If you want to know what I do all day just watch this video. Make sure you get to the part where Jesus "Zaps" people.

If You're Happy and You Know It . . .

I drove into London today. No big deal. I've pirated a car journey to the centre of town dozen times or so, but every time it is its own adventure. I can guarantee you that I will get lost every time. If I have a SatNav, I will manage to make the SatNav get lost. I aggravate the other drivers on the road, scare the bejesus out of my passengers, and inevitably take a few years off my own life.

Other people only gain confidence in me when I utter such popular phrases as "This feels right" or "This just doesn't feel right" in the exact same tone that a blind man would say it if he were in a bisexual strip club. I don't know any street names in central London which is fine because it's near impossible to find where the streets are labeled when in a car. No matter. I don't need them. I feel my way around London like Jodi Foster in the end of Silence of the Lambs.

So, needless to say, today I was a little lost. I was also driving rampant enough to aggravate the Ferrari behind me. This Ferrari seemed to have a hard time finding second gear and his engine revved so loudly that it drown out the ABBA on my stereo, so I think my crazy driving was justified - like a Justin Timberlake album. Anyway, this Houdini managed to squeeze his £100,000 lifestyle around my £10,000 Vauxhall, and upon passing I realized that the man I was pissing off was Muhammad Al Fayed. This is the man who owns Herrods. For my US readers this is the man whose son was porking Princess Di before they both took a fatal drive through The City of Lights.

And as if this brush with (take your pick) fame/richness/don't-give-a-shit wasn't exciting enough, more excitement came when I drove past Hyde Park and was suddenly stuck in the middle of a street protest. According to their posters, these people were protesting Israel, but according to their chant, they were protesting - like all Europeans - Grorge W. Bush. Their chant was to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It" but the words were: "If you hate George Bush, clap your hands" and the slightly more disturbing second verse "Burn in hell Mr. Bush, clap your hands."

The moral of my story? Nothing makes me feel more at home than people who hate G.W.

If it wasn't called "Snowdonia" more people would probably go there.

Hello friends, and yet again forgive my absence.  I assure you that I will get around to writing about all my misadventures, pointing out the ironic intracricies of both the English and my family from the week I spent back home - and yes it includes both photos of poo in the toilet and wild lizards - but I can't tonight.  Tonight I have to get ready to go to Snowdonia.

Now for most of us Snowdonia is that place that the ugly little kids from the Narnia movies go to eat Turkish Delight, but for the British it is an actual place.  Apparently there is a mountain in Wales called Mt. Snowdon and I'm going to climb it.  I'm not exactly sure what I'll need, but I'd imagine it includes all the arrows that my quiver can hold.  I leave at 6:00am tomorrow by a trusty mini-bus which I call Shadowfax, and shant return for 4 whole days.

In the meantime, perhaps you can research the question that has bewildered many a fine American: What the hell is Wales when not referring to a giant sea mammal?

A Warm Welcome Home or Whose Been Shitting In My Bed?

I've spent the last 26 days trekking the urban jungle of Sydney, the extreme sport jungle of New Zealand, and the actual jungle of the Blue Mountains, and I'm sure, dear reader, that my future blogs will cover my adventures down under, but for now it's all about my homecoming.

I personally believe that trips are not about the destination but the journey, except when flying to opposite corners of this round planet. Then it is all about the destination. New Zealand is so far away from England that the plane could not hold enough fuel to make it in one jump. We stopped to refill in Hong Kong. This provided a good opportunity for me to not only reset the time on my watch, but the date as well. On my way home there were 53 films available on the flight, and I think I watched them all. That's how far away New Zealand is. So when I finally arrived home last night I was excited for many things, but none more than a night in my own bed.

I had a warm welcome home with a few surprise gifts from friends at work, but nothing was more surprising than finding out that I have a new roommate. Apparently, since I've been gone mice have infested my room.

I wandered into my room after two days of traveling to see my bathroom was not quite as I left it. On the floor are what look like two fist sized, perfectly square lumps of poo. "That fake poo doesn't look real," I think to myself. "It's too square. But not a bad prank." However upon closer inspection I see that the "poo" is actually the remains of a large chocolate bar that was once on my living room table. The chocolate had been dragged into the bathroom, divided into two equal shares, and gently gnawed on all edges making the square bar somewhat trapezoidal in shape. I find the outer wrapper of the chocolate partially gnawed through, and genitally placed in the shower, but the foil that once encased the chocolate seems to have disappeared completely.

"Swear word," I think, "I have mice. But if this is a mouse then there must be it's leavings somewhere."

And so my scavenger hunt begins. It didn't take me long to remove the duvet from my bed and discover where my new roommate has made himself - or to be more accurate herself (grammatically itself) - at home. My bed is a hole chewed through the sheets, a large collection of ovular pellet poo, and fur.

But how, you may ask, can you tell the sex of the rodent from it's leavings? Simple. If among the poo, fur, and teeth marks your guest leaves a large stain of afterbirth on your bed, then it is a fairly safe assumption that the rodent lacks a y-chromosome. The remains of this miracle of birth has stained through my bed sheet and deep into my mattress. So on my arrival home, nostalgic for my bed, I instead throw away my sheets and call an exterminator to come by on Monday. I guess I won't quite be getting to my own bed just yet. First, I'll have to buy a new one.

Gone Baby Gone

My sister Amanda had her baby! There is something funny about your siblings having babies, but I'm not exactly sure what it is. Somehow it seems like revenge for everything bad they ever did to you growing up. Anyway, I'm off for 20 some odd days in Australia and New Zealand. Wish me luck.

Independence . . . so how's that working out for you?

Wagwan and happy 4th of July everyone. For me, this year I will not be throwing together a last minute Bar-B-Que and shouting "kablamo" as I watch fireworks. For I am in England. The very land which my forefathers declared independence from, and there are a few things I find peculiar about America's Independence Day in Britain.

First, everyone knows about the Fourth of July and seems to enjoy it as a holiday. In the past week I've been in two different London pubs who are throwing a 4th of July celebration. Now I'm no history major (actually as a Classics major maybe I am) but I thought The 4th of July marks the start of a war that Britain lost. It's like bars in the US celebrating the start of the Vietnam War - still too soon. Or maybe it's just English irony that they like to celebrate the start of the fall of the British Empire.

Second, British people seem to know what we do on The 4th of July. This is a great thing for me because I'm not entirely sure what I American's are supposed to do on the Fourth and would have a hard time explaining it. According to the British, on the Fourth of July Americans: 1.) Eat burgers - True 2.) Watch fireworks - True 3.) Buy fireworks to blow stuff up - True 4.) Drink light beer - True 5.) Sing songs about America of which there are no shortage - True (for me at least). I think that's a pretty fair assessment of The 4th of July and would only add 6.) Partake in watersports where possible.

For me this year I will be celebrating my independence from England by wearing my Uncle Sam hat while working at the Brightlights Festival - the Christian music festival that takes place where I work - and hanging out with American artist Matt Maher (who is apparently famous) and Canadian founder of L'Arche Jean Vanier (who is apparently a modern day prophet).

This reminds me of Fact About Me #62:
I’m a Christian, but I don’t like the sound of that.