The Three Levels of Road Retorts

Let’s say you cut someone off while driving. You’re a nice person and a good driver, but you cut someone off for some stupid, accidental reason. With everything in you, you wish that there existed some sort of message-relaying device on your rear window that flashed, “I’m sorry!” or “My bad!” or “I’m really late for work and I stupidly cut in front of you. I apologize.”

But you can’t. That would be distracting for the other drivers. It may become a cool fad for a while, but it would just end up outlawed…like gangsta tinted windows or blue headlights.

What you’re left with, I’m afraid, is a tremendous feeling of guilt for what you’ve done and no way to reconcile with the person behind you. You look into your rearview mirror to gauge their reaction to your sin. If this person is pissed, he or she will choose one of three reactions, all varying in intensity and emotion. I will list them in order of ferocity, from least to greatest.

1. The Bird

This one is standard. So standard, in fact, that it has lost all its zing and panache and ends up working against the person giving it.

The person who receives the bird will inevitably think, “Oh, this guy’s just a run-of-the-mill cynical curmudgeon. He didn’t deserve to be cut off, but he didn’t really deserve not to be cut off either.”

2. The Snarl

I’ve seen this one work rather effectively in a small number of situations. The point is to make sure that the person sees that you’re pissed. Or, perhaps, intimidate them.

[Also, according to the picture above, you must drive a car that looks like a gremlin.]

Now here’s the kicker: its effectiveness is in its presentation. Speeding up next to the person and making a nasty face is a far too attention-deprived demeanor. Bending your head out the window to catch the person’s eye may also make someone think that either you’re an a-hole or wish you were an a-hole. This decreases the validity of The Snarl.

3. The [Prolonged Sigh]

This is by far the most blistering reaction. The hurt that is being expressed is far more than you could even imagine. It makes you think, How could I have done that to this poor person? Who do I think I am? Why do I even drive? How could I be so cruel? The Road Retort that brought about these questions is this:

This person is legitimately hurt. Not angry, hurt. He probably just got unjustly fired from his job, dumped by his girlfriend because he was unjustly fired from his job, and was late for his grandma’s funeral. You see, he wasn’t very close to his parents and his grandma was the only parent-figure he had in the whole world, but once he started seeing his girlfriend he kind of let Grandma go to the wayside and she DIED without him being able to set things right, and now what does he have? Nothing, Brian. Nothing.  

As soon as possible I am going to invent Rear Window Message Machines.

Someday I Will Have a Need for Each of These (Whoa! Except Item #2. That Was a Close One!)

Every morning, since that day in June when I realized that The Hallmark Channel was playing it from 9am-noon, I’ve watched I Love Lucy with my breakfast.

I love this show. However, I’ve found that the commercials don’t necessarily apply to me. This is The Hallmark Channel, people. In the morning. Let’s be honest: a vast majority of the viewers at this time are bored, retired folks who switch there during the commercial breaks of The Price is Right, or stay-at-home parents who do the same thing. And Hallmark knows it. So, just in case these people flip on channel 46 and catch a commercial, they want to appeal to them. The commercial blocks between I Love Lucy scenes are a rotation of four ads:

(First: A special thanks to Christie for helping take all jokes too far.) 

1. The Snuggie + The Macarena = The Snuggarena.

 

Somehow, in someone’s mind, this was cool / okay / a good advertising idea. The bile in the back of my throat tells me otherwise.

I’m not purchasing a Snuggie until they add mittens to the ends of the sleeves. OOH! I should copyright that!

2. The Cami Secret

The miracle lie about what you’re wearing underneath your low-cut shirt.

And now…

The Probable Dialogue Between Two Singles Who Met at a Bar and Have Moved On To One of Their Apartments to get Steamy.

[He takes off her low-cut shirt to reveal a bra with a lacy napkinlike device attached to it.]

Him: Uh, what is that? Is it a lacy napkin to keep you clean while you eat spaghetti half-naked?

Her: No, silly! It’s my Cami Secret. I just hook it on to my bra to make it look like I’m wearing a camisole underneath. The ladies in the commercial reminded me of how horrible it is to deal with two shirts at the same time—all that pulling and adjusting! 

Him: Oh. Okay. I guess that’s okay.

Her: Oh, and this is my Breasts Secret. I don’t have any. I don’t have a disease or anything; they’re just completely and literally nonexistent.

Him: What does that mean? Oh, whatever. Okay.

Her:  Have you seen my Female Genitalia Secret? I’m actually a guy.

Him: Wha—

Her: And have you seen my Leg Secret? I’m an amputee!

This is the degree of manipulation that can come from a simple purchase of the Cami Secret. Give Satan an inch and he will be your ruler.

3. HDIS: Home Delivery Incontinence Supplies

This commercial shows an older woman embarrassed about buying Depends. She goes through a store self-consciously and bashfully goes to the check-out counter.

But here comes HDIS to save the day! Some old celebrity comes on screen and says something to the affect of “Are you tired of buying all of your grown-up diapers in public? Well, at HDIS, you can order all of it online and we’ll send it to you in discreet packaging, so no one will know!”

In the next scene a postman comes to the door of the old lady’s house and hands her a giant, unmarked box. She’s all, “Huh? What’s this?” but then realizes what it is and flashes a knowing smile to the camera.

4. Colonial Penn Life Insurance

Actual dialogue from the commercial:

It went something like that, anyway.  Nothing says “get life insurance” like explosions and murderous neighbors.

Eating Crap Causes Crappy Dreams.

My stomach is not what it used to be. In high school, one of my favorite snacks ever was to take the leftover taco fixings—excluding the vegetables—from  my family’s Taco Night, mix it all together, and microwave it.

Seasoned hamburger, taco sauce, cheese, and sometimes ranch dressing to really rake in the ol’ calories. A minute in the microwave later, and I would eat this brown slop with Nacho Cheesier Doritos.

It was my favorite.

Last evening my family had tacos. Around eleven o’clock, I found myself hungry for a little snack. I know! I thought, I should make my signature Taco Slop! 

So I did.

I was full and a little grossed out halfway through, but I still had so much left, so I forced it down.

Bad decision. A half-hour later, I felt like a jar of bacon grease.

I better at least get a good dream from this food, thought I. 

I didn’t, really. Nothing epic like Just a Flying Frog in Paris, or Groovin’ Vatican Style, anyway. The dream I had took place in Europe, where I was apparently traveling with my family.  I had pissed them all off by losing all of my train tickets that they had purchased ahead of time.

There was no way that we were going to buy new tickets, so I had to sneak on every train by lying to the conductors or creating some sort of zany diversion. One conductor, though, I couldn’t get past. This lady caught me red handed and wouldn’t let me on the train.

Me: But I bought a ticket! I just lost it.

Her: Thass juss too bad.

Me: But please, ma’am! My family’s going on without me!

Her: No way. No oness getting on the train wizzout a teekit.

Me: Can I work for it? Is there anything I can do?

Her: Vell, you could verk in the daycare car and tick care of the keeds.

Me: Okay. No problem. I can do that.

So the multi-accented conductor let me on a train and led me to a stinky, crowded train car full of little kids. I was just happy to be on the train.

But wait. There was something fishy going on here. And then it dawned on me. All the kids looked exactly the same! They were all identical, miniature versions of the actor that plays Seamus Finnigan in the Harry Potter movies! (He’s the ugliest character in the whole cast, even worse than the one who plays Mr. Filch. This is probably because he looks like one of my childhood friends who was always dirty and confessed that What if God Was One of Us? by Joan Osborne was his favorite song. I mean, who in their right minds would like that song? He probably grew up to like Nickleback too. Anyway...) Oh no!

[And yes, some of the kids were wearing earmuffs, okay?]

Then, simultaneously, every one of the Seamus Finnigans crapped themselves.

And then I woke up. It was obviously my stomach getting back at my brain for deciding to shovel that crap down my throat.

Dilemma. (Also: this post has very little point.)

I want a banana.

But as you can see, we have a bunch of green bananas and one that’s spotty and bruised. No middle ground. 

What am I going to do? I really want a banana. I’ve had problems with bananas in the past, but this is ridiculous.

I actually had a brainstorm that maybe I could open the old and a new banana, and then eat them both at the same time, somehow splitting the difference.

For some reason this yellow injustice brought two thoughts to my mind, which caused me great anger:

1. Jane Goodall probably never goes to the zoo.

2. I don’t understand how anyone can be comfortable blowing his or her nose with one hand.

And then I became really concerned about my brain, because these two things not only are not related to my banana dilemma, but are also not related to each other. 

WARNING: I AM GOING TO ELABORATE ON THIS. BEAR WITH ME.

Jane Goodall doesn’t have to go to the zoo because she lived in the jungle with chimpanzees for twenty years. She can just fly to her house in Tanzania and walk into her backyard and hang out with them. While the highlight for regular people at the zoo would be the chimps, she would be like, “Yeah, I’ve lived with them and made friends with them out in their natural habitat. I know many by name and I play with them and communicate via sign language with them. The relationship that you guys have with the chimps is merely a blip of nothingness compared to the one I have with a billion of them out in the wild. By the way, I’m pretty much against the fact that these guys are in a cage.”

I envy her.

And the second thought has always bothered me. When I see someone blowing his or her nose with a Kleenex in one hand, I can’t help but picture that person as a child with a snotty green nose, and his busy, overworked mother putting a Kleenex with one hand up to his face and saying, “Blow,” while she’s doing something with the other hand like making dinner or shopping or fencing. 

So when a grown-up person uses one hand to blow his nose, I just can’t handle it. Such a lack of control! I’m a two-handed nose-blower. My message to the one-handers:  Give your nose the proper attention. Two nostrils, two hands.

Okay.

There's still no connection. 

I walked away from the bananas in an embittered stupor, mumbling things under my breath about Kleenexes and chimpanzees. And still, after writing all of that, I don’t have a banana to eat...or any clue what's wrong with my brain.

Group Therapy For Fonts

This is something that I wrote for Christie when she was studying in Egypt and I had NOTHING TO DO.  I still think it's funny, so enjoy. Of course some PC's couldn't recognize my Mac's fonts, so I had to make them into a PDF and then a JPEG and upload them that way, so ignore the fancy dark gray picture borders. And you can click on them to see them larger. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Group Therapy For Fonts.

[The views and opinions portrayed in this story do not  reflect the views and opinions of their creator, Brian Schroeder. Especially once we get to the font Cracked. Viewer discretion is advised.]

Story Time

Okay, everyone gather around and sit cross-legged in a semi-circle on the floor. I have a story for you. It’s called, Why You Shouldn’t Ride Your Bike When There Are Jerks Around.  It’s a cautionary tale.

"Once upon a time, an innocent and ravishingly good-looking twenty-year-old student named Brian was riding his bike through the quaint and safe university of Bethel. The October breeze hinted that this would be one of his last rides before winter. It was late, but he had reflectors on his bike and he was wearing bright colors, so he had nothing to worry about. He was happy.

[The purple things could be leaves or stars.  I'll let you decide based on what makes you more comfortable.]

“What a great time to ride a bike,” He said to himself. “Not too warm, not too cold—homework can wait; it’s a beautiful night.”

Brian sensed headlights behind him, so he made sure to stay on the shoulder. As the vehicle approached behind him, it slowed to reveal a Bethel hunk driving a crotch rocket, with a blonde girl who looked remarkably like a hybrid of a Barbie and the Olsen Twins before they got all bony and gross. He recognized her because they were in the same Christian Theology class.

[The Perfect Couple.]

When he noticed that they were slowing down next to him, Brian waved at the couple.

The blondie on the back yelled, “Nice bike!” And they sped off laughing.

The end."

And this wasn’t a dream, my friends. This actually happened. Biking along, minding my own business, and I was transported into some strange, college version of Mean Girls.

For the remainder of my ride home, I came up with a bunch of comebacks I should have said, but couldn’t think of fast enough. Here are some of them:

“Oh yeah? Well, at least I don’t have to wear a helmet, soft-head!” (Some would disagree about this.)

“Oh yeah? Have you checked your gas tank in a while? I would check mine, but I DON’T HAVE TO BECAUSE IT’S A BIKE AND IT’S POWERED BY MY ECO-FRIENDLY LEGS.”

“Oh yeah? Your mom has a nice bike.”

“Oh yeah? I may get to my destination later than you, but at least I get to enjoy the scenery!” (That never would have worked.)

“Oh yeah? I may not have the money to afford fancy toys like that, but at least I have my creativity and smarts and a really cool blog!”  (This is where all my followers put their fists in the air and say, “YEAH!”)

“Oh yeah? I may not be as aesthetically pleasing as you two, but at least people don’t vainly strive to be me because of how I look!” 

My comebacks became much more political, cynical, and bethel- and society-hating after that. Needless to say, it took me awhile to come down from that encounter.

Don’t listen to the satanic Barbie, kids. Bicycles are cool. 

New Cool Texting Idea: SongBomb®™

The rules are simple.

1. Pick a friend who texts.

2. Pick a song you would like to get stuck in her or his head.

3. Find the lyrics for that song.

4. Every couple of hours, text him or her a stanza from those lyrics in the order and frequency they appear on the radio.

5. Do not reply to any questions.

6. Continue until the song is done. (This could take days.)

7. Conclude with, “This has been a SongBomb®™. I love you.”

[Yelling "TA DAAAA!!" is optional, but encouraged.]

The only fallback to this is that you may get the song stuck in your head while SongBombing®™ your friend. We’re looking into solutions to that problem.

My preliminary attempt at this was SongBombing®™ my friend Josh. The entire process took three days. For the first two days, I heard nothing back. I began to doubt myself. The following is the process of my thinking:

1. Okay, Josh works a lot during the summer. He’s probably just too busy to check his phone. That’s fine. How funny will it be when he checks it and has the entire Believe by Cher song on his phone?!

2. What if a family member died and he’s not texting me back because (a) he’s pissed because this is totally inappropriate right now, especially at this time when a member of his family has died, and (b) he knows it would be really awkward for both of us to text me back saying, “Um…Could you please stop texting me lyrics from that Cher song? It’s really not making my grieving process any easier to be singing, ‘Do you believe in life after love, after love, after love, after love? I can feel something inside me saying I really don’t think I’m strong enough now,’ in my head while attending the wake of my dead family member.”

3. What if he broke up with his girlfriend and for the same reasons listed in #2 he doesn’t really want to be receiving texts that say things like, “There’s no turning back. I need time to move on. I need love to feel strong…Do you believe in life after love,” while he’s driving in a snotty, tearful mess? This would not be good.

4. What if Josh died? How embarrassing would it be to be texting your dead friend and the way you learned about it would be from a family member sending a text back saying, “Stop sending these. Your best friend is dead. It would be great if you could at least stop harassing him now, since he’s dead and all.”  I would be devastated.

Nonetheless, despite all of the horribly morbid possibilities of why he’s not texting back, I pressed on. With three stanzas left, I received this:

OH THANK GOD.

But I had to stick to the rules, so I couldn’t explain it to him until it was done, even though all I wanted to say was, “Omigod Josh, I’ve been playing a joke on you with SongBomb®™ but when you didn’t reply for three days I worried that maybe you were heartbroken, grieving, or dead, but being the insensitive prick that I am, I kept texting you over and over these lyrics and I can’t get Cher out of my head or my dreams and I feel trapped and alone HELP SOS OMG, lylas.” Keeping my cool, I finished the song and texted rule #7, and he replied with this:

“Did you like it?” I asked.

SUCCESS!! Then I explained a bit of it. He said:

Rule #8: You may not SongBomb®™ anyone with the lyrics to Headstrong. That's just cruel.

Second Grade Journal #3: My Knowledge of Holiday Characters Revealed

When my parents told me that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, I cried. I was sad when I found out that the Easter Bunny isn’t real. When I figured out that Santa isn’t real, I was pissed. No wonder, given the amount of time and thought I—and my parents, and my teachers—had put into my believing in their existence.

Example #1: The Easter Bunny

 Transcript/Translation:

April 1, 1997

Dear Journal,

On Easter I heard the Easter Bunny. It was 12:00 at night and I was awake. Then I heard a “shh shh shh,” I knew it was the Easter Bunny so I quickly shut my eyes. Then I heard a “chhhhh,” it sounded like keys in an egg. Then I heard two of those noises like that. And then I opened my eyes and I herd, “thump-thump-thump.” And that’s all I heard.

Your friend, Brian

So the Easter Bunny carries keys. How happy my parents (the big fat liars) must have been when they saw how willing I was to believe that the Easter Bunny probably drove a KIA sedan from house to house.

Example #2: Santa Claus / St. Nicholas

Transcript/Translation 

December 5, 1996

Dear Journal,

Tonight, St. Nicholas is coming. I know how St. Nicholas got his job. There were three poor ladies that needed to get married, and then St. Nick came and dropped three bags of gold down the chimney.

Your friend, Brian

Apparently at this time we were taught that Santa Claus and St. Nicholas were two different people. This inconsistency should have tipped me off. When Christie heard about this, she was all, “You got two Santas?! Not fair!” And I was like, “No, Santa Claus gave us the big stuff; St. Nick only came for three years and put Sixlets tubes and Hershey Kisses in our shoes. He’s the lamer, less sanitary Christmas character. As for the three poor ladies, I have no idea where that came from."

How did I find this out in the first place? Was it my horrible teachers? Or did I get my information from some other source? I can just picture myself sitting next to a drunk Santa Claus and him telling me, “So there were these three broads who were in need of some cash, and I was all, 'I have some gold for you nice ladies'…”

What are the chances that St. Nick is a pimp?

EDIT: Upon further review and internet searches, the story of the “three poor ladies” is actually a legitimate tale from the St. Nicholas lore. 

UNRELATED SIDE NOTE:

Can I just say that

 I wish Americans would

 adopt Krampus into their

Christmas traditions?

 Austria does it.

And it sounds awesome.

Polka-Dot Fudge

Let me just say that, if it’s upsettingly beautiful outside after it’s been hellish for weeks and Weather.com gives no description of the clouds or storms or anything because the day plans only to be lovely but instead just states boldly that it’s going to be WINDY, you better go fly a kite, if you know what’s good for you.

Preferably on a giant bluff above Holmen.

With your dog. Trust me, twenty minutes in, she’ll start happily rolling in something stinky.

This is my new kite, by the way, the potential filler of the hole Mr. Wingsy left in my heart. Her name is Polka-Dot Fudge, because she reminds me of eating fudge at a nice little candy shop. And she’s polka-dotted.

She’s homemade, too, if you’re thinking Why would Brian spend his money on a piece of crap like that? Well, stop insulting this "piece of crap", because she FLIES. Can you fly? Didn’t think so. She has much more inherent value than YOU, you flightless nay-sayer.

(P.S. Second Grade Journal #3: My Knowledge of Holiday Characters, Revealed is on it’s way.)

Second Grade Journal #2: My Genderless Best Friend

My second grade self is a mystery. I’ve noticed a strange trend in my journal entries, which I think needs some investigation. It starts here, in the third week of second grade, in this confusing entry.

Transcript/Translation

September 17, 1996

Dear Journal,

Today we had P.E. and played Ninja Turtles. 

Today at recess we played Kick (?) …again, it was fun. 

When I get home my best friend is going to my best friend’s house and 

my best friend’s house is across the street from mine.

Your friend, 

Brian

This entry brings up many questions.

1. How do you play Ninja Turtles in Phy. Ed.?
2. What the hell is “Kick”?
3. My drawing skill hasn't changed much in thirteen years. More of a comment than a question, I suppose.
4. What’s the deal with this “best friend” business? I’ve narrowed it down to three possible meanings:
1. I am talking about one person. What I’m saying is that my best friend, who lives across the street from me, is going home.
2. I have two best friends. One of them is going to the other’s house which just so happens to be right across the street from my house. My two best friends hanging out together can only mean great fun for me.
3. I am simply relaying my two best friends’ after school schedules. I’m not involved.

This could have been a lot clearer if I had used some names. How I discuss this friend becomes more ominous later in the year.

 Transcript/Translation

January 9, 1997

Dear Journal,

Tonight I am going to play football with my dad. 

Tomorrow I am going to write a letter to the 49ers. 

Today I am going to play basketball with my friend.

Your friend, Brian.

A few things to note about this one:

1. It’s entirely about sports. And if you think back to what I wrote on this subject yesterday, you can see how entwined I become by sports’ sticky web. (There’s no future for you in sports, Brian! You can spend your time in more productive ways!)
2. I’m writing a fan letter to the 49ers. This was obviously to make myself feel better for being forced to write one to the Packers. (Suck on that, Mrs. Johnson!)
3. I’m going to play basketball with a “friend.” Nameless. This is strange because, mostly, when I wrote about my friends, I named them. Example:

Transcript/Translation

October 10, 1996

Dear Journal,

Today we had Art. We made a landscape. I got to paint most of it. 

At morning recess Andrew, Dustin and I played

 with a hoop thing that looked like this…

Three little boys playing together at recess. Names fully disclosed. But no, when I talk about this other “friend” of mine, I leave no name whatsoever. Who is this secret friend? Perhaps this entry from a few months later explains a little…

Transcript/Translation

April 2, 1997

The last day of our spring vacation, my sister received something in the mail. We got Beanie Babies. My sister got a bunny and I got a lizard. She was called Lizzy and it was a girl, but I changed it to a boy and I changed its name to LIZZER!

Eeeeeenteresting.

I remember now. This friend, my childhood best friend, the only one I lived close enough to play with every day, was a girl named Brooke. We hung out all the time, played all kinds of sports, and because I was apparently such a bigoted chauvinist, I withheld her name from my second grade journal in order to maintain my dignity as a man.

What a pig. 

Second Grade Journal: I tend to lie about my interests.

I’ve always hated sports. When I look back to all my days of being in sports—football, basketball, baseball—I always hated it. I went through probably two years of confusion, though, in second grade when my family moved to La Crosse. Everyone cared about football, especially the Packers, who my family told me I should probably hate because we’re from Minnesota and we have our loyalties already.

(A note on the Packer loyalty/a-little-more-than-loyalty/obsession: You have not seen team obsession until you’ve come to Wisconsin. Packer mailboxes? Yes. Packer license plates? Yes. Kids’ rooms with green and yellow walls, packer bedspreads, and memorabilia on the walls, including a cup of dirt from Lambeau field, which they treat like something more than a cup of dirt? Yes. THIS IS WISCONSIN.)

So when I came to school, I had to face daily the question: Do Vikings rule and Packers drool, or is it the other way around? For many of my classmates, that was their only argument; when asked to give a logical explanation, they would only be able to repeatedly quote that rhyming worldview and look satisfied, as if they had actually said something. My feelings towards football and team loyalties were much more about this argument than even about the sport. However, my dad told me to stand firm—as if I really cared—so stand firm I did.

Proof from my second grade class journal that I made it look like I cared about football.

Transcript/Translation: 

November 18th, 1996: 

Dear Journal, 

Tonight the big game is on. Packers vs Cowboys. I hope that the Cowboys win. 

Last night I went to Kyle's birthday party. We saw SPACE JAM. 

I didn't watch that game. However, I did receive the update from my dad in the morning. And I wrote...

Transcript/Translation:

November 19th, 1996:

Dear Journal, 

COWBOYS WON! You're probably wondering why I'm making 

football helmets on all the O's. It's because COWBOYS WON.

Notice my teacher left no comment on these two entries. This will be important knowledge later in this post. 

The Packers made it to the Super Bowl that year. To celebrate, my teacher cut out a bunch of green and yellow construction paper footballs, and told us all to write to our favorite Packer player. After sitting at my desk for a while and deliberating over what I should be doing about this, I walked up to my teacher and the student teacher.

Me: Uh, Teacher? [I didn’t know her name.]

Teacher: Yes, dear? [Smiling.]

Me: I don’t like the Packers.

Teacher: [Silence. Her smile leaves. Looks at the student teacher. They look back at me.] Um, well, just write to one anyway. Write one to Antonio Butler. He’s my favorite.

Me: [defeated] Okay.

If you think this story isn’t true, I have more proof.

Transcript/Translation:

January 7th, 1997:

Dear Journal,  

This morning it was 0 degrees outside! We had to write to the "Green Bay Packers." 

I hate the Packers! I had to lie, because we had to say "Your Fan," so I feel kind of stupid. 

Your friend, Brian.

Notice my teacher put a star on this one, right after I said that I felt stupid. 

Bitch. 

It’s actually a little horrible. Not “call-the-superintendent” horrible, but still kind of horrible. 

Blogiversary

A year ago today I created Popcorn Day, my beloved blog. [Looks blurrily into the distance.] Oh, how things have changed! When once I had no followers, I now have 24 (and some who are too afraid to push the "Follow" button)! When once I had a plain white background, I figured out how to edit my HTML code and I now have popcorn! When once I had no need whatsoever to be a Blog of Note, now it’s my only obsession! Where would I be without my Popcorn Day?!

[While I was popping a small amount of perfect popcorn kernels over the stove, they kept popping all over the place and my dog ate most of them.]

Anyway.  I’m glad you’re reading my blog. Because I like writing it. To many more years! [Raises his bowl of popcorn and dorkily imagines a crowd of people wearing tuxes and dresses also raising theirs. He steps off the podium and the crowd goes wild. Then he crowd surfs as the hired band plays Surfin’ USA and everyone laughs and joyfully cries as they carry him across the room while fireworks shoot somewhere in the distance. Then there’s a sentimental moment when most of them realize, Wow, this blog has really touched me. And it’s been a whole year! And Mr. Google comes and awards him a trophy that says BLOG OF NOTE and a giant check for all the money he’s ever needed. Then Oprah, Barack Obama, and Albus Dumbledore pick him up on their shoulders and crowds via satellite from his hometown, The White House, and Zimbabwe cheer as the song from the Where the Hell is Matt video plays. Confetti. Slow-motion. Shooting stars. And popcorn.]