Judging for the God Squad

Day One of Christian Nationals is over. The place where you can leave your car not only unlocked, but with the windows down, and your cellphone and your beloved iBook and your passport (no, I don't know why that was there, either) sitting in the front seat for three hours...and everything is still there. In fact, you're pretty certain that someone washed your windshield and left you a pocket Bible. With highlighted Gospel passages. John 3:14 4eva. No, seriously--that is the catchphrase of the Bible Study group that meets each Thursday at...3:14. That's comedy, folks.

At any rate, I bumbled on over in the morning and picked up my ballots, all stamped with the logo--two faces turning into the sun which is obscured by a large dove, flying majestically towards the horizon. It's like the logos at drug rehab centers. You, too, can kick the smack habit if you stare into the unmerciless, blinding sun! Be the bird--that bird flies high on something other than crank. Go figure. So, here I come, Miss Judge Pay Me Now, and find out that I have been punished for being such a heathen:

I'm judging three novice rounds. Two rounds of Parlimentary Debate. And then persuasion. Fuck. I totally didn't mean to challenge you on the shrimps, Lord. Be merciful, I beseech you! What's so bad with this schedule, you ask? Well, novice rounds, as a rule, are shit. And these rounds...well, I'm in negotiations right now with several local farmers to provide them with enough bullshit to cover their fields all summer. It was awful. It was awful, troweled on and compounded by the nasty truth that when the first round of shit was done...there was a second...and a third...

And no respite from debate. Parliamentary debate (or, as the freaks call it, "Parli") should be very cool, in theory. Two teams of two engage in a British Parliament-style debate with one side as the Government, the PM and MG, and the Opposition, the LO and the MO. Those letters stand for something...I dunno. Ask Clare. During the round, they get to pound on the table, say, "Hear, hear!" and my absolute favorite, "For shame." That can be hissed. In the middle they debate. Eh. And that first Parli (I'm not a freak, just lazy) round was...that's right, a novice Parli round. I did try to kill myself with a Bic pen. I was unsuccessful.

And the persuasion. Hey, Lahna and Schnug--I was told that America should "finish up its success" in Iraq and attack Saudi Arabia. And the kid was deadly fucking serious about it. I hope that sums it up for yall. I...don't want to relive it, please don't make me.

The last Parli round was actually very good. Yes, it is totally because the "Prime Minister" shouted out, "For shame, sir!" while her opponent ranted away. Hot, yall.

All the while, we are at Cedarville, where you can leave your car unlocked because Jesus Security is on the beat. That campus would guilt the sin out of even true evil, like Jent. It's the Spot Shot of the soul. People hold open doors. Give you free soda all day. Smile. Thank you for judging. Say "for shame!" Okay, only in rounds. They are sweet and sunshine. It's like being in some scary Republican Utopia.

These folks ain't serving shrimp at lunch, I bet.

One more day of Fun with Christian Nationals. Meet me tomorrow night at the city limits with a bottle of Jack. That's a start.

Bob Guinney is No Tiny Dancer

Oh, kids. Everybody go on over to Jent's site and leave him pretty comments about how cute and lovely he is. Why? Because tonight Bachelor Bob Guinney plays live at the Borders that Jent used to work at. Acoustic--it's an acoustic concert. Which means sensitive. Which Bob is, naturally. So, we need to be nice to Jent and convince him to go. I want Jent to stand there in the crowd, listening quietly, until Bob is in a song where he is staring meanfully at the audience, warbling about trust and love, making every vapid girl believe that Bob really, secretly has a rose for them. Squee!

Yes, Jent will wait for that moment and hold up a sign. "You're still fat. PS: Your girlfriend is all one color, have you noticed that?." That's right, Bobby--now I'm playing offense! You can be on my Us Weekly all you want to with your soap opera girlfriend, kissing and cutesing all over the pages where real celebrities should be, crowing about how much you love your life. And then you lecture us about the importance of privacy. Fuck off, Bob. Jent: I'll love you forever if you can make Bob cry. Or at least frown very hard, creasing his perfectly Botoxed forehead. I'll also give you pie. Deal? Alright. Channel your inner British soccer fan and get heckling.

Convert or Be Eaten!

No, I wasn't killed by the Asian mafia. God, I only wish! No, they have not found out about my expose--despite being good at math, they can't add two and two together and get "nefarious mobster ring brought to public's attention via internet journal" (and with that, Jent, I have now hit every Asian stereotype. What's my prize? And I swear to all that is Holy--which is anything but a shrimp, apparantly--that trunk was filled with chopsticks. Mob, Jent: this means that they do shady, mobby things. Like hoarde chopsticks. Duh). Instead, I have been held down by normal school bullshit and an added hurdle.

I am judging at the National Championship Tournament for Christian college speech. Dozens of teams flitting around with none of the fun of speech--no drama, no rampant drug and alcohol abuse (and that's just the coaches), no incestual dating (Jane is with Josh who was with Lisa who was with Dan who was with Paul who was with Anne who made out with Jane at a party freshmen year). No. They got Jesus. No gossip, no bitter judges snarking it up with their carcinogens, nothing but The Lord, Debate Style. Will it be wrong, then, to mentally murder the bad contestants as they speak? I mean, isn't that a sin?

Yeah, you're right. I'm way past being able to repent and go to heaven. I will sin away then...FOR FIFTEEN BUCKS AN HOUR judging. Bring it on, Jesus! Bring it on all the way to the bank. Amen, yall.

Sleeping With the Sushi

There is an Asian mafia on the loose in my apartment building.

They hang out in the parking garage, milling around their BMWs, their Porches, their Hummers, their little sportscars that go vroom vroom and scare the bejesus out of me when I am unloading the back of my car. They strut around in baggy cargo pants, Banana Republic tops, and the women have got an array of ass-hugging skirts. They are constantly on their tiny cell phones, barking orders. They always travel in groups of four. And whenever anyone else drives by or walks by, they will stop talking and glare at the intruder. Because God forbid people wanting to get to their car should interrupt a mob deal.

They are the mob! Seriously! The glaring? The expensive cars, the cell phones, the Groupthink? The trunk full of chopsticks? What was that...other than the black market at work! I have identified six cells here in my building alone. People. That's enough for two football teams. They are going to destroy us like we were the Arizona Cardinals! Oh, God, NO! First, they glare...next, they'll be knocking on my door asking for a parking protection fee, making veiled threats as to the health of my kneecaps, and as I pay them, they will say, "Domo arigato, Ms. Roboto," and force me to do kareoke until I swear alligience to their "family" only. They'll torture me with "Total Eclipse of the Heart," "It's Raining Men," and the complete works of REO Speedwagon. I'll be helpless to fight back. My spirit, it will be broken. I can totally see it.

So, yeah. Asian mafia at my place. Take the gun, leave the sake.

And Ye Shall Be Smited!

So. Shrimp are abominations, according to the Bible. No, seriously. Bible says shrimp are the way of the big sin. Go educate yourself.

I guess the shrimp won't be able to get married now.

The Continuing Tale of Terry Walsh, Pop Idol 2004

You thought that we were giving up? Pshaw, ye of little faith.

One minor aspect of Heather's weekend in the big, bad Ohio city was a discussion on our plot to make our Clare's little brother, Terry, into the next British Pop Idol (or Canadian, though that would take a little wind out of the sails and all--we're floating a trial balloon on getting Terry into American Idol, but that would require him to shack up here in the States for a bit and neither Heather or I are willing to go that far for fortune). Ah, Terry. He's prettier than most girls and is inordinately proud of his ass. He's got the "it" factor, for sure. Singing? Oh, he sings worse than a goat in heat. But, does that really matter? When has talent counted for success in the music industry? Please see: Spears, Britney; Boys, Backstreet; and Hair Metal, All of (except Def Lepord).

In fact, Ben has bought into our dream. It also could be that he's angling in on our 80% cut of all of Terry's profits and revenues (excluding operating cost reimbursement, naturally. Those pedicures and horse whips don't buy themselves, now do they?). Don't you see it now? Our next pop sensation for at least three months? Enough time for Heather and I to make a tidy profit and tuck away a good portion to buy that Caribbean island I've had my eye on. Terry is a modern-day Seabiscuit, and we're riding him to glory! Okay, ew.

Yes, I know, he still can't sing. Fuck off, dream ruiner person.

Annie's Totally Even

Annie's got a good one today. I hope I get a sparkly kidney card! Cause this donor registration card is all fantastic, but it doesn't get its Mariah on and glitter, you know?

The British Uncookie

If Clare is reading this, I'd imagine that she's already shaking her head, affirming my lame obsession.

You see, I am addicted to McVie's Milk Chocolate Digestibles. The digestible is a word for graham cracker, I guess, because all of the digestibles are basically graham crackers that are in a 2-inch circumference circle. Some are mixed with wheat--avoid those. They are dumb. At any rate, the really good digestibles are coated on one side with chocolate. But avoid the semi-sweet; either you go milk chocolate or you go home. Hate the player and not the game--be a digestible consumer, and learn its power.

In England, all I needed in life were Safeway's chicken korma and McVie's Milk Chocolate Digestibles. Game, set, and meal, kids. I was very generous in letting everyone try the McVie's, but after a certain point, c'mon folks. Go get your OWN digestible power. Don't mooch off of my McVie karma. This is the one cookie to rule the world, one cookie to bind us! It's my one, my precious.

What was that, Clare? It's not a cookie? It's a digestive? Whatever. Eat me. Or eat it. Yum.

Imagine my sadness in realizing that such an English niche foodstuff would never make it to Ohio. Maybe America, but Ohio is not America. It is where cultured dreams come to die. And die painfully--dude! Akron! Die already! I mean, neither the local Kroger nor the Big Bear groceries would carry something so cool. Nope. And actually, I did check. And...nope. But, the Big Bear chain folded and was purchased by Giant Eagle. Why does the grocery war in Grandview matter here? Because the newly christened Giant Eagle has McVie's. Yes, they were all sold out of the Milk Chocolate tonight, but...they have them! It's like manna from heaven. Or London. It's about the same, really.

I don't think I've been so excited for something since the expose TV movie about Three's Company. Me and Bobby McVie's. Wow. Someone could write a song called that. If only Janis didn't like the LSD so much. Bitch. It couldda been a classic.

Go McVie yourself.

Oh, Poor Columbus

Heather is in town--thus no updates until Monday. Oh, but what updates I will have...