Where's my spark?? You know... that little thing which allowed me write all that wonderful crap for the past year -- that little thing which allowed me to vent and rant on a regular basis -- purge my mind of the nonsense within? Where is it?
I don't know where the urge went... but it's loss, for me at least, can be expressed with one word: Tragic! Like a bashful squirrel in a pile of pancakes, I can't even form a decent metaphor anymore! Oh the shame!
...Well... at least I still have onomatopoeia
. BAM BOOM WOOF POOP!
Hey -- Wait a sec...
That last one was't onomatopoeia... it was simply a childish noun... NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Onomatopoeia, have I lost you too???
Uh... yeah... OK, short recap -- This week is set to rape me, so I've got to get this out now:
This past Saturday was the Burke house Christmas party, and even though I'm not technically
part of the house anymore, I was allowed to show up anyway... AS SANTA!!! I've got to say that it seems to me that whenever you're Santa, no matter who you are, you automatically feel like a pimp. Well, I guess that's wrong; I should hope
that department store Santas don't feel like pimps, because with all those children around, that'd be sort of... gross. But I know I
felt like a pimp. Bitches and Ho's indeed.
So anyway, when Martin gave me the cue to come over, I stopped working on my labs and bolted the whole length of the 10-minute run to Burke. I got there, put on the suit, and -- wait. The suit needs a little aside. [This Santa suit was the mother of all ghetto-style suits I've ever come across. The only way it could have been more welfare were if it had been made entirely out of foodstamps. All we could find was the old hat and jacket, so we improvised a beard and pants, using synthetic snow and a pair of bright pink sweat pants which -- oddly enough -- we'd found in the corner of Martin's room.]
So, while banging a drumstick on a cowbell, I entered into the dimly lit downstairs lobby where everyone was "socializing" (ie. getting their booze on). As soon as I came out, all the drunks started yelling and crowding and touching. As I squinted above my mustache and tried to make sense of all the drunk-talk that was flying around, my first thought was this: "I am WAY
too sober to be here."
But it worked out! It was actually so much
fun giving out the presents, even in the stone-sober state I was in at the time. And then after that, there was bunny-juice. Good times. So all in all, it was a good night.
Oops, I thought that I'd explained bunny juice on this blog already, but when I went to link it, I couldn't find anything. Here's the quick down-and-dirty. If you're one of the lucky 12 who are picked to make bunny-juice for Christmas party, this is what you do:
- Take $1000 in hard liquor and pour it into a recycling bin
- Everyone takes a shot (called the death pill).
- Pour in $100 in concenterated juice mix, Tang, and fruit slices (this is done in waves, taking a shot after each addition until all the juice mix is added).
- Stir the whole shebang with a giant wooden paddle.
- Serve chilled.
I did this last year and it was SO much fun! You have like 20 shots of progressively weaker drink, and by the end you don't know how to pronounce your own name. Only in residence...
Sorry if this is a tad incoherent, but it's rushed, owing to the fact that I've got to get back to work. No time to proffread! ... heh... I'm so tongue-in-cheeky.