that morning
Classes have started out rather strongly, which is a first. The quality of the classes is, as per usual, weak (though I'm having a lot of fun as I've been cut loose like a rabid pit bull in a field full of rabbits and young, limping boys who like to pull my tail), but the quality of the stupidity is (as also per usual), top-notch.

We began the very first hour with the insidious speech, only without the insidious part, which I, while very thankful, was rather shocked about. Oddly enough, she gave the talk pretty much verbatim to normal, so I'm forced to believe either she caught on that she was being taunted about it, or I've just unwillingly heard it so much that my mind now blocks it out. I'm sure you're as bored of that story as I, however, so I'll quit with it now. She needs to evolve to the plague or something of a similar manner.

later that day
Yellow boy has struck again. This is, in fact, the last time I may refer to him as such. At the start of each year, we take a note card and write our name on it, placing it on our computer so that people know to keep their greedy mitts off, as it is claimed. I was walking by his computer and I was unexplainably drawn to read his note card. There it was, and scrawled in some tight script, boldly read "Corey 'Yella Fella' Whateverhislastnameis." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life...especially not in anyone's face (not to say I haven't often laughed in people's face, as that seems to be my curse...when I laugh, there will always be a face to do it in). While there's no denying he's "yella", and he very possibly could be a "fella", I can't even begin to fathom why anyone would want to be called that. And I don't just mean the lack of proper grammar, as "Yellow Fellow" is little better, if not worse. Like that comedian who talked about how bold Sting was for telling people to call him just that, "Yella Fella", who I will now again refer to as Yellow Boy just to spite, is equally so, though not in the "people know who I am so I'll call myself something not-normal" fashion. I'm waiting for him to start writing his name as just a big symbol, in the vague yet unmistakeable shape of a lemon or piece of cheese.

I mean, if I went up to someone on the street and said my name was Yella Fella, they'd punch me in the face. If it had been "call me Yella Fella" instead of "call me Ishmael", old Ishmael would have been cast into the unforgiving sea.

and later still
Leaving class that day, I saw the fencing class was being held on the front lawn, unlike the normal practice of being around back, safely tucked out of sight. I certainly don't mean that as "fencing is embarrassing and stupid, hide those freaks", but rather as a concern for the students. Nothing makes you more uncomfortable than trying something of that nature, be it fencing, martial arts, or other, than doing it, and doing it badly, in front of a bunch of strangers who keep walking past, snickering as you lunge, losing your weapon, and it humorously goes flying into the butt of a person bending over to pick up their books. Sometimes it can be enough to cause one to never return, and that's no good.

I used to think fencing would be rather fun, but I like different manner of such sports, and besides, the instructor looks so frail, his wrist would snap in two before he could manage to plunge the rapier/foil/whatever into your flesh (yes, I'm aware that is not the goal of modern-day fencing). Of course, looks often fool us; especially me.

At any rate, as myself, and two women-friends of mine, were exiting the building, the fencing teacher was to be seen a bit ahead, holding the door for them. Or so it seemed until Jan stepped into the threshold and the door came crashing into her as the instructor let it slam onto her face. Chivalry is indeed dead.

a week later
I caught an unlucky glance of Smells funny, mumbles and won't repeat himself, incoherent sentence boy looking at porn in class one of the first days as well, not two feet from the teacher who was giving a lecture to a group of people gathered around the computer directly next to him. Now that's some guts. At first I thought he had, by an unhappy chance, wandered into the ghetto of the internet world and been unrelentingly bombarded with ads, spam, and of course, porn. That is until I saw him scrolling up and down the images to get a better look at the legs on the women, and then click a big "next button" to reveal yet more butt-humpalousness.

and now for something completely different
On a final, unclass related note, my step-father bought a box of Girl Scout cookies yesterday. At first, I was "ohhhh, Samoa's, mmmm" but that was until I found out that his definition of "a box of Girl Scout cookies" isn't the same as normal people's. True, he did buy a box, but not the box you and I do; not the box of 24 cookies. He bought the box of 24 boxes of cookies that contains 24 cookies. I'm no math expert but according to my calculations, that's well over 30 cookies, which is a damn lot of cookies. The scary part is (besides knowing he WILL eat ever last one of them) is that four boxes are already gone... and I've only had one. One cookie, not one box. I enjoy a good cookie like any other person, but when the closest you can manage to getting one in your mouth is to just leave it in the box, you've bought too many.

devolve | evolve