heybarmold

You know what really grinds my gears?

International keyboards. Where the fonz is my ampersand? And for that matter, my -at- sign? And how do I generate quotes?? This thing is teh sux, quote unquote. My shift key is the smallest key on the keyboard. I hope no one likes apostrophes. European keyboards are essentially worthless. Anyways, I guess this could use some explaination...

I'm in London. And I just discovered my apostrophe, thank you. Thank you. Don't ask me why I'm here, unless you've got about a half a day to listen to a sordid tale about gifts and curses, camping trips, the mentally insane, standby tickets, stimulus checks and the job that just wouldn't fire me. If you can wait, we're submitting the screenplay to pre-production, and this epic comedy will be hitting theaters in early December. I'll make a long story a little less long. Denise and I are en route to the Madeira Islands of Portugal to visit the land of her Forebearers. Through a really bizarre chain of events we ended up with a 3 night stay in London, which thus far we have milked for just about all it's worth.

The best part of the trip, however, was the fact that Denise and I are on seprate flights, she possesing an actual legit ticket, and me with a Employee 1st class standby ticket out of Oakland, by way of Denver and Chicago, booked about a week ago. Apparently I'm not the only one traveling this summer, as I was bumped from my first 3 flights starting at five in the morning, barely squeezed onto a flight to Denver, and took my chances on non-stop London flight leaving late that night. They weren't expecting me to get on, as every flight out of Denver for the next 3 days were oversold by almost 10 people each. United = Awesome. Let me tell you, that marks the second time that I have spent 9+ hours in the Denver Airport. That place rules.

Well, thanks to a freak thunderstorm causing mass landing delays, I made my flight no sweat. 1st class would have been sweet if I'd only been told of the dress code for those on employee tickets, and thus I was bumped to coach due to my shameful brand new Converse Chucks.

Meanwhile, Denise is FREAKING OUT because we can't communicate while she's in London due to a lack of international calling plans from verizon, so she's imagining this horrible catastophe where I arrive in London two days after she flys to Portugal, where I would get to enjoy two weeks here with no hotel, and no money.

But, as always, the universe revolves around me, and therefore Denise also. So I land in London just about an hour after she landed. We met up at the border, played good cop/bad cop the the border patrol officer, and lived happily ever after.

In the end: Denise has a heart attack, Arnold gets 4 hours sleep in 3 days, and the trip couldn't have worked out better thus far.

Dear America,

Hey, what's up? It's me Arnold. Yeah. Just like that TV show. The one with the football head. I've never heard that one before. LoLz. RofL and stuff. How goes it? You doin' alright?

Ok, I'll cut the crap. Look, it's over, alright? It's not funny anymore. You've crossed the line. Some jokes are funny no matter how many times you hear them. Like Helen Keller jokes, or dead baby jokes. Even my fiancé laughs at them. Seriously. She does. They're gold. But not this one. It's old. It's played out, America. It's not funny anymore. It's like when Andy Dick tells a joke. Cricket... cricket. But listen to me, America:

Sanjaya has to go.

Yeah. So I watch American Idol. There, I said it. I know all about Haley's legs and Melinda's awesomeness. I know it all, but don't you dare judge me. Look. Don't even say it; I know what your thinking. Yeah, it's Fox Media. It's THE system. A well oiled machine run by capitalist corporate conglomerates who's aim is far from fulfilling the dream of an unknown and unrefined American entertainer but rather seizing the many opportunities to con millions and millions of Americans into giving them more than a few dollars. I know. It epitomizes the darkness of American voyeurism also known as reality television which falsely exhibits yadda yadda yadda, whatever. I know.

Putting Sanjaya in the top 12 was a pretty good joke though. LMAO. But you need to stop, ok? It's getting out of hand. You sent Gina home tonight. What. The. Freak? Are you high? Do you know what you're getting yourself into? Yeah, I hate the system as much as you do, blah blah blah, but you can't win. He'll never make the top 3, Simon won't quit, and you won't burn this behemoth corporate machine to the ground. It's futile.

However, you will kick yourself in your posterior when you find yourself watching commercials for Sanjaya's major label debut album which I know you're not going to buy, and he's gonna be promoting his US tour with billboards across the country which will stare you in the face while you fight traffic during your 75 minute commute to the city, giving you plenty of time to regret ever giving United States corporate media the idea that for one slight moment you actually wanted to put money in their pockets via a spokesman like Sanjaya. He'll also be on the walls of your 13 year old daughter's bedroom beckoning them to buy his promotional merchandise, which in the end will come out of your pockets. You like his voice? Your daughters will be blasting it out of their stereo. You don't know what your getting yourself into.

Anyways, in the end, I don't care about the results so much. It is what it is, and it's not like I'm gonna buy the new Jordan Sparks record or anything. Did any of you buy William Hung's CD? No. Nobody did. It doesn't matter. I'll still watch it. Ironically, I think I like it because this whole thing embodies everything that is wrong with America in the first place, and that is that millions of people are willing to spend money calling in fake votes for a fake singer. You think it's funny now? Just wait till Sanjaya makes more money in a week than you've made your entire blue collar life.

And I'm still mad. Gina was freaking cool.

Mad California Wishes,

Arnold Stovall

I've got a theory...

Ok, I'm not an english major anymore. I think that's pretty obvious when you read my gramattically askew blogs. Irregardless, I did take an english class in high school once. At 7:35 a.m everyday of my senior year I'd walk into Mr. Wallach's class ten minutes late for a bit of a reminder that english really, really is not that much fun to talk about. Which is why Mr. Wallach usually would joke around and tell us that if we wanted to be happy in life, we should just do meth and get it artificially. And most of my friends who do meth are pretty happy, you know... no job, no apartment, no rent, no school... no problem.

I did learn a few things about the english language though. I did pretty well in my english classes... I graduated, didn't I? I remember we had a french kid in our french class, who was getting a D. A real life Frenchie was getting a D in Madame Kamei's french class!!! Sounds a bit retarded, I know, so we asked him what's up with the suckiness, and he was like, "well, what grade do you guys get in English?"

Well played, Frenchie. Well played.

Seriously, we've been speaking English for a while, and I think it's working out for us. The average American has a vocabulary of about 20,000 words. That's a lot. I think there are about that many grammatical rules too. It's something so complicated and ridiculous that unless you grew up learning it, why start now? No one else who comes here to America seems to want to speak it. Well, don't worry, cause in just a few years, it's going to get much easier.

Every time you use the f-word, it pushes a word out of your vocabulary.

Seriously. Think about it, the f-word is like some kind of a grammatical wild card, or trump. Its like the skeleton key of the english language. It's pretty much a synonym for every single word ever used, ever. It can be used as a noun, a verb, adjective, interjection, conjunction, whatever you want. You can substitute it for any word in the english language and sadly, the average 4th grader will know exactly what you're talking about. And if South Park has any truth in it, which it totally does, they'll probably say it right back to you. If you say it to a fourth grader though, pity yourself.

So every time you use the f-word, you've decreased your vocabulary slightly. It's like that Homer Simpson quote: "Everytime I learn something new, it pushes something old out!"

You ever seen Papa Roach live? The singer's pretty much got 3 words in his vocabulary. And two of em are papa and roach.

I know we've all seen A Christmas Story. Classic of American film. 100% brilliance. No one is going to wash our mouths out with soap if you say it. This isn't an attack on anyone so don't be offended, I think it's hilarious. It aint no thing. I just hope we don't become a society of Homer Simpsons... "Marge, where's that.... .... metal.... dealie...... ... you use to ... dig...food...?"

Don't believe me? Go back to high school and ask any kid who doesn't have his hair combed what they're going to do after school. And take count. You'll only need one hand.

I've got a theory.

OK, so a long time ago I was feeling a little bit nostalgic and went to visit my old elementary school. Mind you, this was when I was in 7th grade. I was like 40 pounds overweight, wore the same 3 shirts repeatedly and my favorite music was the mega man theme song. I remember being generally aware that I just wasn't cool. I know that most of you that had the... priviledge(?) of going to high school with me are probably noding your heads. Yeah. I remember being pretty cool in 2nd grade. But since then, not so much.

Ok, so I went back to my elementary school to visit my old 5th grade teacher, Mr. Richwood, and they were having some kind of chess tournament. I walk in, and it's like I'm some kind of celebrity. I used to be in that same club, so everyone remembered me. These kids were the typical nerdy chess-lovin socially-awkward geeks, and I was the coolest, most popular person in the room.

By Default.

Even groups of losers have the cool one. Er, relatively cool, at least. It's like, the person is still a geek, but in that groups sphere of existance, he's the coolest guy ever.

Ryan Seacrest, I'm looking in your direction.

Ok, so you're on a show which is really popular. Reality shows are all the rage and American Idol really entertains people. It gives the average dude the opportunity to get on a stage and impress millions of people. And it also gives the average dude the opportunity to get on a stage and show millions of people why they will always live broke and alone. People are going to watch this show even in spite of the host.

Ok, so you have Paula Abdul. She's great. She had that song... the one back in the 90's, like, it had that wolf in the music video... I think that was her. Yeah, she's great.

There's also Randy Jackson, Paula's sidekick, and probably the only reason that Simon is alive, since Paula seriously wants Simon grilled for lunch. Not the poster boy for American Idol, certainly. He actually is pretty cool, because he's a bass player. But I've got a theory on bass players that I'll tell you later.

And Simon. The most hated man in America. The only time President Bush ever gets nervous about his own safety is when Simon is in town for DC auditions. We'll call him the villain of the show. Paula gets 1st dibs on killing him, she called shotgun on that, but pretty much everyone else in America is in line for a shot.

So, Ryan. You're quite busy nowadays I can imagine. You've got American Idol, a radio show, a new years special, and a show on the E! channel. Good for you. I'd trade places with you in a second. I just wanted you to know that you have all this because you're the best looking loser on the most watched telivision show in the world. It could have been Tom Arnold.

I've got a theory.

Girls. I've almost got you figured out. I'm pretty close. And I'm paranoid. You see, I watch a lot of 24. A lot of 24. Anyone who's seen that show knows what I'm talking about. Whenever a character that isn't Jack Bauer stumbles upon some new information, leaked names, or they find out they know something crucial, they usually have less than an hour before they get a sniper shot to the back or something. It's ALWAYS something. I think the average character on 24 has a lifespan of like, 4 hours. Maybe a little less. So I'm watching my back.

Girls. You're all weird. I know we're weird too. We may eat over the sink and gross you out in a million different ways, but you... I dunno.

The comfort factor of your clothes is directly inverted to the ugliness of your outfit. Seriously. The more comfortable your outfit, the uglier it gets. I finally figured out a practical application for algebra, as this can be expressed in a simple equation:

Ugliness = Comfort to the power of x.

I dont even have to justify that with any kind of explanation, because we all know that it's ture. But check this out anyways. Sweatpants. Bleh. I've actually seen a few of you leave your house in these things!!! Brandi, I'm looking in your direction. I know they're comfortable, especially when they're brand new. I've worn them a few times myself. But I'm not 7 years old anymore. Picture it!! They got big ol' baggy thighs, and tight elastic ankles. Do you see what I see? They're like non-shiny hammer pants. And MC Hammer was way cool back in the 2nd grade, but listen. They are not the brand new hotness.

Exhibit B: Pirate pants. I know I've beaten this to death before, so let's just leave it at this. If you wear pirate pants, then go to Safeway and pillage me some ramen. Ahoy.

Next up: Overalls. There's nothing really wrong with overalls per se. My niece Karen looks adorable in overalls. She's absolutely precious. She also wears diapers, because she's like 14 months old. I think if you wear overalls, youd better be delivering my newspaper.

And then there are turtlenecks. Very snug. Very cozy. And very very ugly. Holy cow. And let's not forget coats and shirts with shoulder pads, toe socks, gigantic parkas with fur hoods, or anything you used to wear while running track.

Combine any of these fashion faux pas with Ugg boots, and youve got a very comfortable girl who looks absolutely hilarious.

Honestly, all I'm doing right now is looking around the Ohlone College library where I'm typing this and describing the girls I see. Do you ever notice though that when a girl dresses to impress she can't walk right cause her 3 inch heels, super tight pants and the Kleenex shes using for a shirt kind of impede her gracefulness?

Look, I'm really not that superficial. I dont think that girls were put on this earth as eye candy or anything. And I'm certainly not going to be featured on House of Style if they ever bring it back from the dead. Who do we blame for all of this horrible awfulness? I blame guys. We're just plain jerks. So I apologize! I don't think that a girl needs to defy laws of physics to look hot, but they dont have to look like they gave up on life just to be comfortable either. I feel for ya, I'd hate to be a girl and have go through the hassle of shopping for presentable clothes cause unless you work Sunset strip or Las Vegas Blvd, it's hard to find an outfit.

And if it's any consolation, consider this equation for guys: Guys minus girls = Useless times retarded times pathetic all to the power of infinity.

I've got a theory.

I really need some people to understand this. I'm on to something. Seriously. I mostly just need a few specific people to understand. My boss, and my parents. Everyone else, meh.

Listen. The day doesn't start until you wake up.

Do you remember how horrible Christmas was as a kid? It was awful. The holiday itself was kinda nice, commercialism aside. But when you're 7, it doesn't matter anyways. That IS Christmas. The worst part? Christmas eve, right before bed. Oh man. It was horrible. My parents would get me all wound up by letting my open one single present. So I usually grabbed what I imagined would be the best present ever. The one with the biggest box. So here we are, 9:00 at night... which for a kid is more like 1 or 2 in the morning with the inflation of time correlated with age.. and I get some kind of awesome toy. And what, I'm just expected to go to bed now? Great. I'm having this anxiety attack just thinking of the loot I'm gonna get from Santa, I'm all wound up from this kickin toy I just got, and I'm supposed to go to bed and sleep it off huh? I always figured I'd just wait till Santa drops everything off, and just go downstairs right away. Cause once it's in my stocking, or my name is on the present, it's fair game. It doesn't matter if I get em before bed or after I wake up.

But Santa follows a really good rule for people my age.

See, Santa makes everyone go to sleep before he shows up. So if you stay up all night, he's not coming. Christmas day doesn't start until you wake up in the morning. That time in limbo between midnight and whenever you go to bed is technically still Christmas eve.

No, for reals. This is a great idea. The day can't start until you've gone to bed. It can't. Its still the day before. If I could just get my boss and my parents to subscribe to Santa's methodology. Think about it!!

Yesterday Nick Chivers threw a party. Just for the heck of it, you know, since his parents were gone. Although we were observing that he got his hilarious misdemeanor embezzlemnet charges dropped like I dropped sugar from my diet. But, since it was Dave's birthday, we ended up celebrating Dave that night. So I show up at 11. Technically, according to "rules" and crap, his birthday ended at midnight. So after midnight, people are like, hey he's not the birthday boy anymore. Its not 420 anymore. Its like sayin, HEY! Dave. You're not special anymore. You were special 5 minutes ago, but a hand on a clock shifted slightly, and well, frankly, you're just one of us now.

Lame.

As if life doesn't move fast enough, dudes. Slow down! What is the freakin rush to get to the next day? Its gonna come anyways! Don't rush it. It just means I have to get up and go to school, ok? Don't remind me.

I've got a theory...

Ok, so I'm probably gonna tread some thin ice on this blog. I've got it written up complete in my noggin, I just don't know if the translation into words will do it justice and make it seem less offensive. I hope I don't offend anyone. Actually, I don't really care. I'll try not to. Actually, I can't promise I'll try. But I'll try to try.

Girls. What is it with these people?? You know, I do think of girls as people in there own right. And in many ways... they are. However, sometimes you just have to wonder. Its just these little things in life where you wonder if maybe you're about to get punk'd. I swear, one of these days Ashton Kutcher is going to come out, probably on Oprah or something, jump up on a couch and we'll all kinda understand what's going on.

I think that girls are secretly cold blooded reptiles.

Seriously. Cold blooded.

I mean this in the most literal way. They're very warm, loving, caring creatures. They're incredible. They complete our lives, they're beautiful, they do pretty much run society, and they have hearts of gold. Except these golden hearts are pumping out cold blood.

You know how you'll be chillin with a girl, watching a movie or something. You're inside, you're out of the sun, cuddling together, so you reach over like a P.I.M.P and take her hand, and somehow manage to find the slab of ice that must have fallen out of the sky, like we get here in Oakland. And then you realize its her hand!!

Sick, dude. Girls hands and feet are always freezing cold. Doesn't matter where you are, what time it is, or what. Freezing cold, all the time. Seriously, its like they have to absorb heat from the sun to retain energy for their day, which could explain tanning, sunbathing, and extreme grumpiness during cold cloudy winter months.

Dude, think about it. Cold blooded creatures are much more active in warm climates than cooler climates. So when it gets cold here in California, you know, like mid 50's, girls throw on their parkas, scarfs, hats, mittens, and that awful skirt and fuzzy ugg boot combo, and then sit down while we serve them hot chocolate, so they can conserve their body energy. But in the summer, it's always shorts, a shirt and flip flops and these girls are all over the freakin' place. They've got energy to spare. We can't keep up with em. I'm telling you the truth!! It's because cold blooded reptiles take the temperature of their surroundings.

Oh, and check this out. Cold blooded creatures turn most of their food energy directly into body mass. And girls always tell me that when they eat chocolate or sweets it goes straight to their hips, thighs, or derierre. How much more proof do you need?

How about this: It's a well known fact that women don't sweat. They don't cool down through water evaporation like us humans. Women "glow." Hmm, which is interesting cause cold blooded reptiles don't sweat either!! They cool off by seaking shade, opening their mouth and changing their skin color. Kinda like how girls like to cool down after they start glowing by lying under an umbrella and open their mouths to eat the grapes we feed them. Or by runnin their mouths non stop. Maybe that's why girls tend to talk alot sometimes. They're not just talking. They're sweating!!! And they warm up by lying in the sun. So every time I got to the beach, girls are always tanning, soaking in the sun's energy while they can so they can save it for later. Meanwhile, the guys are running around in the sand sweatin it up.

Like mammals. That's why you call us dogs and pigs I'm assuming. And that's probably why we refer to some of you as snakes. And it could explain why you all love turtles so much.

We're animals. And you're reptiles.

And we love you thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss much!!!

I've got a theory...

A while ago I had a pretty close call. A little too close for my comfort. I'm a bit edgy right now just thinkin about it, so please bear with me. I really hope all of this comes out right.

I almost bought myself a Gwen Stefani sweater. Seriously. It was within my grasp. I thought it'd actually be pretty cool. Its GWEN! Girls would love it. I'm pretty sure that girls are more attracted to her than guys are, at least the girls that I know. You know those myspace surveys that ask like, hey if you were to hook up with someone of the same sex, who would it be? Gwen Stefani. Sometimes Angelina Jolie, but she sucks.

So this sweater is in my hands, and I pause, compose myself and start to think rationally. 40 dollars. Fourty dollars. 4000 pennies. That could be construed as a lot of money to some. Some people I know haven't made that much money in 6 months. To others, myself included, it really isn't that big of a dip into our financial pockets. Its just fourty bucks. Not a big deal when you consider my behemoth truck takes almost 60 dollars to fill up. And do you know what I use pretty much all of my gas to do?

To drive to work. Uhm, I'll think about that later.

So, I hold in my hands a 40 dollar sweater. I picture myself being the envy of all these girls wearing their idol on my chest. I can picture the compliments, the self-esteem boosts, and I eventually make a decision. I'm in. So I sling it on my shoulder and turn around to walk to the cashier. I remind myself that its no big deal, its just 40 dollars, which at my pay rate is about 3 hours of work.

Wait a tick... what? 3 hours? Three hours!!! Whoa. Hold on. 3 hours of work. One eighth of my day overall. One third of an entire day's earnings. 3 hours?!?! That's 3 hours of in front of Lexus, parking a plethora of cars, driving someone to Milpitas, and probably about 45 minutes of pure stress when I have like 10 things to do all at once. It happens a few times a day. So sometimes I'm craming like, 4 hours of work into three hours. THREE HOURS!! Thats alot of customer service there. What if part of those three hours was spent seaching for parked cars on a huge lot in the pouring rain? I might have had a punk customer trying to scam the dealership over a scratch on his SC430 convertible that we didn't cause. And I was probably cold, incredibly hungry and really tired from another long night playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

Three hours?!?! I don't think I can afford this stupid sweater. Time really is money. Its not money the way Nick Chivers is money. It's not money like Barry Zito of the A's is money either. Its actual money. Hard earned money. When you think of money in terms of time, things can get really expensive. We're gettin ripped off all over the place here. I don't have that kind of skrill to throw around.

And in hindsight, I think that sweater was kinda gay.

1999 was an epic year for music. Not quite as perfect and signifigant as 1994, which was the year that crappy music ended and good music started... but for many people, that year can be summed up in 2 words. Britney Spears. A girl with a message. And a powerful one at that. Everyone who makes music has a message which is personified in its lyrics, its art, and its delivery. Sometimes its profound, and sometimes... not so much. Even Blink 182 had a message. Lil' John, probably the most powerful man in the world right now has a message too. But Britney. I like to think of her as an artist. Maybe even a poet....

Email my heart!!

It was pretty much the anthem for the year 1999. Seriously.

Ok, so sometimes music doesn't say much. It always says something, but alot of times its like that guy in your anthropology class that just wont shut up about who created the universe and put man on the earth. I'm not gonna disagree with what he's sayin besides the fact that you're in ANTHROPOLOGY stupid!! They just keep runnin their mouth all day long and well, sometimes you just wanna smack em.

Sometimes people talk, and I wonder why they talk.

Anyways, so about messages. Hardcore bands are pretty much the only people in music today with something signifigant to say. You watch a hardcore band, and the lead singer talks for about 10 minutes about the next song they're about to play, you know. The singers pacing back and forth across the stage, short on breath and ranting something like"this song is about making your own choices. Its about not letting people hold you down, and letting society's problems become your own. Its about your own life, your own rules. Its about everything that they wont tell you, and everything they don't want you to know. Its about freedom." And after about half their alloted set time, they play a blistering 25 second song. And you know what the message comes out as? I can only describe it in this one word.

Throat.

I love hardcore music. I respect the ideals, the lifestyle, the positive attitudes, the scene, the music, the ethics and the great bands that it has givin the world. Forget about fashion core, mall hardcore, and all that crap. Its kids making music for kids, and its pretty much the only music today that has something signifigant to say. The lyrics are positive, and the energy is incredible. Its like a brotherhood. Not to say that music with a message about how girls are evil or whatever isn't good music. I like most of those bands too.

I just think its hilarious that it takes 10 minutes to introduce a 30 second song with no real lyrics.

I've got a theory.

After a hard day's work yesterday, you can imagine that I was pretty tired. Yes. Hard work. Lexus. Parking cars. Driving luxury sedans. Tips. Hard. Work. Yes.

More than likely it was because I stayed up until 3 in the morning playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Ok, so after this epic day of poppin caps and parking cars, I ended up at my homeboy Stevo's house. I'm sittin on his couch watching The History of White Men in America, which is hilarious. It’s the only thing I've ever seen that's more honest than Chris Rock and funnier than Undercover Brother. Anyways, I'm having trouble getting comfy cause there’s a definite grove in the couch, a grove caused by steady routine of one said person lounging on the couch for hours, maybe even days. You had to be a certain size and sit in a specific slouch to be able to fill the groove, and I didn't. I probably messed up the groove a little, and so they're gonna have to sit there for a while to re-mold that groove. Sorry dude. And it reminded me of something...

Everything about life can somehow be related to a Simpsons episode.

Dude, I don't know how many times I will make a Simpsons reference in response to an occurrence in my everyday life. I think I probably do it more than I say the word dude. Dude, do you realize how many times that is? A lot. Dude.

Even mundane details about our day can be referenced to something hilarious on the Simpsons. Just think of anything... our morning routines, the way we drive, school, work, church, neighbors, love, hate, revenge... anything. Anything that you can think of, you can think of a funny moment from the Simpsons. I defy you to come up with something that isn't.

I find myself quoting the Simpsons a lot in response to some parallel in my life. And it does two things. It unites and equalizes me with the people that get it. One of us makes a Simpsons reference, and we both laugh. There's some eye contact and more laughter as we are reminded not only of that one reference, but we both mentally can replay all the jokes from that episode concurrently and laugh at that too. And our day is that much better. We're friends now. We may not know each other, and we may never see each other again, but we do know this: We both have incredible taste. There’s this understanding that we're both trying to make the world a better place. Imagine the possibilities! President George Bush is meeting with a foreign diplomat of some kind. The meeting is tense and there’s an obvious lack of progress. Well, if some kind of danish is served and someone's all like, "mmm, danish..." and they both laugh... well freak, let’s get President Bush some danishes!

It also alienates you from people who don't watch the Simpsons. Because they have no idea what you're talking about. You know the look that they give you, that weird shifty, "I'm not sure if this guy is retarded… he must be at least a little brain-dead" kind of look. Which is great, because you don't need people like that in your life anyways. They just take up empty space and make for awkward silences when you should be jovial and happy. They all just kind of take the fun out of living life.

I've got a theory....

Life is based on rules. It's that simple. I know, I know, I used to walk around with anarchy patches on my backpack and what not, and freakin Anthony Edwards, the most annoying guy I ever knew in high school would always tell me, "Hey, I don't know you, you just hang out with my friend Greg, but you're not an anarchist. You suck." Point taken, Anthony. I don't think anyone is an anarchist after your like, 15. Maybe 16 if you were held back.

But seriously, Anthony, you're still a fembot.

Rules are important though. Especially when it comes to cars. You know, important rules. Stop at stop signs. Use your freakin signal. Drive on the right. Don't buy American cars... these rules all keep us safe and help maintain order in the universe.

I think the most important rules in this life, relating to anything, the rules that constitutes the make up and model for all that is right in the world are shotgun rules.

And yet, they're the most commonly broken rules of life. And theres nothing worse than having to call somoene on it, its embarassing for everyone involved and people can really get defensive on shotgun ignorance. Its what started the Spanish-American war. Its really simple. Shotgun = the front passneger seat of a car. Its the most coveted position in the car that is available, since a drivers position is permanant in a given vehichle. So you call dibs. You see it and call it. Its pretty simple. I'm not too proud to admit that I have some friends that more often than I care to admit violate these natural laws. And so for their benifit, I'll define them.

#1. You must say "Shotgun." Its got power. Use it. No shotgun nicknames. Its already pretty short. Shotty is not valid. And say it loud, since it can only count if you've got a witness of some sort.

#2. You must be outside to call it. None of this calling shotgun while still in Jack in the Box ordering some food. Dude, you're about to eat the most delicious cheeseburger ever created. Don't ruin it by reminding us that eventually the burger will be gone and we'll have to get back in the car and leave. Theres nothing worse. It gets you banned from shotgun for the next ride. Oh yeah, and if you were outside to begin with, maybe going on a hike or something, the car must be within line of sight for shotgun to be called.

#3. If you rightfully call shotgun, and then preemptively lift the door handle as the car is unlocked and cause the shotgun door to remain locked, guess what? You lose. And if the position is necessary, you sit biotch in the back seat. So don't jump the gun, understand?

#4. Remember, possesion is nine tenths of the law. If you're hand is on the door handle before shotgun is called, then shotgun is rightfully yours. You don't have to call it, and you're rewarded for your efforts.

#5. The Abandonment Rule. If you're sitting shotgun and for any reason must exit the vehicle, you have officially given up all rights and privledges to the seat and the position is up for grabs to the next person who calls it. The only exception for this is if the person riding shotgun gets out of the car to do something for the driver, in which case the seat is saved.

#6. Signifigant others. This is my least favorite rule, and has probably cost me a relationship or two. If the signifigant other, or potential signifigant other of the driver of the car is along for the ride, then the driver has every right to void any calling of shotgun and let the signifigant other ride up front. Thats just how it goes. The reason I don't like it is that it completely contradicts the "bros before hos" rule and just creates drama and chaos. And lets face it, the world doesn't need it from me. Or you.

#7. Any discrepencies on calling shotgun, like a tie for instance, can be settled by a winner take all game of rock, paper, scissors. It its law, and must be followed. The driver can not intervene in the case of a tie, he can only serve as if the supreme court, and interpret the laws and legality of the days shotgun procedures, but the rules must be followed. And again, the only exception is them signifigant others.

#8. The shotgun rule is an eternal truth. You see something, you call it. It's yours. You see a dollar on the floor... call shotgun. You own it. You see a seat on a couch thats open, call it. It can be used for anything who's ownership is up for grabs. Bunk beds, free stuff, bedrooms, whatever. And in the most non-offensive way possible, people can be called. Sometimes. If you're in a social situation and the purpose of the activity is to meet people, then a person can target a new potential friend and call shotgun, which then gives you the first attempt to talk to this person.

These rules maintain order, peace, and goodwill among men everywhere. Please, for the benifit of everyone, learn these and obey with exactness.

Edit! - Thanks to Wendy for reminding me... Rule#9. If a couple is hitching a ride with a person and they are the only passengers, then one of them MUST ride shotgun. Look, I know I'm a professional chauffeur at Lexus, but I don't take my work home with me. Someone is gonna sit up front and keep me company.

I've got a theory...

Remember like 2 months ago I was kinda frustrated with all those random people who add me, don't know me, don't talk to me, and then delete me like a month later? Forget it. I didn't even know them. I'm over it.

Ok, so you know what IS the most frustrating thing in the world? Goin on this little website, seeing a profile of someone you actually know from your friends list. You know them personally. Its like, your next door neighbor or something. And then you kinda realize that you haven't seen a bulletin from 'em in a while. Like, they used to post all the time, but not anymore. You kinda think for a second and realize that theres 2 possibilities here. The person could have just actually found better things to do. Hey, I'm just sayin maybe. Like, maybe they got a job, and with school and all they never get online. Maybe they actually got their crush, who'd been dangling at the end of their top 8 for months, to finally go out with them, and thus MySpace is pretty much useless.

Yeah, who are we kidding? People go pretty far out of their way sometimes to get on MySpace. Its not that. None of us have anything better to do. Sounds pretty pathetic, I know, but welcome to the 21st century. I know for a fact that there's a few people on my friends list who declare every day that surveys are their only antidote for boredom at their desk job. And their surveys are my antidote for insomnia, so the system works.

Anyways, so uh, they didn't go anywhere. So you kinda get this little anxiety attack and click the add me button. And everything makes sense... YOU GOT DELETED!!! Holy cow. Slap to the face. I write this mostly cause I was just tryin to find people from High School, and coulda sworn I was friends with most of those people on this thing at one point. There was like 10 at least. At one point since high school, after having no contact for 3 years, we were MySpace friends. I made the cut. It was nice. Life was grand. And then, continueing with the no contact that we'd maintained for more than 3 years, we're not friends anymore. Cool.

Haha, so what do you say to them now? Isn't that kinda weak? Especially when the person has like 700 friends. How do you not make that cut. It really makes you feel special. But like, the Ralph Wiggum special, not the kind your mom always called you. I know I've sent a few people a message like, so yeah, if you ever want to be friends again, you know, cause we're not anymore apparently, then hey, you know where to find me, ok? You know... the same place where you dropped me like 3rd period French.

Screw that. I just realized something today. You know how they call it myspace? Like, obviously, cause you can customize it however you want, so that your profile is this little corner of the interschnitzzle that you can control completely. You know, cause it's yourspace. Ok, so as king and dictator for life, you get to make the rules. And we've all got em. Some people on one side of this little spectrum just add anyone who's profile they've ever seen in their life and have like 50,000 friends. D'ok then. And some people way on the other side have like 5 friends cause they only add the people they hang out with on a daily basis. I'd say most of us are somewhere in the middle, limboing on either side.

We've all got these weird standards for our friends list. I only add people that I've actually met in real life at some point. Like, we used to hang out, met em at church, maybe just met em cause they're a friend of a friend. But yeah, I'd consider all of these peeps on my list my friends. I don't even add bands unless I know em, unless they're my all time favorites. I wish I was friends with the Get Up Kids though.

Ok, so I think sometimes we just assume that eveyone else has the same... qualifications if you will, regarding their friends list, since the make up of the site is pretty standard. But when they don't have the same ethics, you kinda get thrown for a loop. Like you know how much it sucks when you see the page of a guy you used to be cool with till you graduated and stopped going to his youth group, and so you add the guy, and the friend request stays in limbo for like 3 weeks and you end up getting rejected? Harsh. its like when your at a mormon church dance, and ask a girl to dance with you, and she says no. This is at a church dance. I didn't think it was allowed. ( I assume that, because I've never actually asked a girl to dance before. Never found the need, I did pretty well. )

Well, most of you were probably way ahead of me on this one, but I was just thinkin today. Who freakin cares? If someone doesn't want to be your myspace friend, theres probably like 50 different reasons why they say no or delete you besides the one you were thinking of. So don't trip. And if someone deletes you cause they think they're better than you, well thats pretty tight cause now you just decreased the hate percentage on your page a little.

Either way, just do what I do now. Just put em on your favorites list and start obsessively stalking them for it. You hear that? You can only run so far on MySpace....

Ok, so to get the real imagery and voice of this entry it needs pictures, and I don't have the time or resources yet, so go to http://blog.myspace.com/barmold to get the real deal.

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Ahoy mateys! There be a mighty dirty trend storming the sea, that'll knock your land-lubbin socks off! Shiver me timbers, our women be embarassing themselves like the time I lost me eye! Avast, I be talking about pirate core.

That's right. I said pirate core.

Ok, so let me give you a little history on pirate core. Fast forward past the pirates themselves, living quite a life among the fishes and pioneering fashion trends with cut off pants, stripes and parrots. Geniuses. Modern fashion, ironically, is a little bit late as "pirate-core" was actually started in 2000 by a band called the Mad Caddies. Yo ho ho... they did it first.

Ok, so it didn't take off like they wanted it to. One might attribute that to the fact that there was really only 1 reference to pirates on the whole cd, or you could consider that everyone and their mom knows that Ninjas are better than pirates anyways. Regardless, lets fast forward about 5 years later. Pirate core is back, and it kinda reminds us why it never caught on in 2001.

It sucks.

Hey, what is the deal with pirate pants? I mean, come on people!!! Are they shorts? Are they pants? Are they capris? It looks like these chicks are going to storm the hardware store and pillage the place for some peg legs, amirite??!?! They look like something straight out of the movie Hook. And hey, I liked that movie. But you know what, I don't think I'll be wearing an eye patch anytime soon.... altough, that actually sounds pretty cool. But only if my parrot would talk, and not poop on me all the time.

Look, I don't have anything against pirates. I thought Pirates of the Caribean was pretty cool. But you know what? You can't fence sit here. Pirate core is not for the office, school, or anything. Its for pirates. If you wear the pants, get a parrot, buy a sword and sweep the poop deck, cause you sure aren't gonna find any booty working your cubicle.

They're also ugly. That's why pirates typically had to pillage towns and make off with women, they weren't usually the attractive types. They didn't all look like Orlando Bloom, people. In fact, alot of them looked like the lead singer of Nickleback. Except remember, I said pirates were cool.

To all the girls who care about crap like this... ( who MIGHT be the types to wear expensive pirate pants... ) it also makes your butt look big. Seriously, it gives you more booty than Treasure Island.

Take off those silly freakin pants!

You know what'd be even worse.... pirate pants with fuzzy uggs. Please. Girls. I don't think I could handle it. I'd keelhaul your scurvy bum off the Jolly Roger and introduce you to my cat-o-nine-tails, you scallywags!

OK, so heres a not to detailed account, plus or minus a few details of Minus Vince's Get Dumb Tour 2006.

- 7 hours sleep in 72 hours. And I wasn't on speed thank you very much.

- Although I'm not much of a gambler, I started out with 60, lost it all, used another 40 to try and break even, won it all back plus 15, which I then used to buy myself a new pair of sunglasses from Walmart.

- Minus Vince plays a resturaunt floor at the exact same time that Voodoo Glowskulls is playing the main stage at Jillians.

- Through a combined effort by Kyle, Chris, Don, and a hussy named Cookie, Nick, Scott and I do absolutely nothing after the show. Bedtime = 7:00 a.m.

- Minus Vince hits the stage at Take One Nightclub and rocks the socks off Aaron Barrett of Reel Big Fish, who leaves the club after 2 songs. The Toasters stuck around though.

- 7:00 a.m. roulette at Circus Circus. I break even. Kyle sells his soul, Nick buys it back.

- Nick and I drive 20 minutes, walk 15 minutes and wait 10 minutes to find out the fountains weren't working at the Bellagio. Since we wern't paying customers, we shake our fists hard as we walk back up the hill to our car.

- GETTIN DUMB from Vegas to Fremont. Ghostride! Uhngh! Git er Dumb! Look for our photos to surface on the internet sometime.

- Still not sure if Scott is still alive. If anyone sees him, let me know.

DDing for a 7 peice ska band. Hung out with Reel Big Fish, Suburban Legends. Pulled a slot machine. 6 hours sleep in 48 hours.

1 night left.

My good friend Flo, probably one of the coolest girls on ANYONE'S MySpace page randomly opened her book of 1001 passages to get my creative juices flowing and gave me quite a random idea:

Here we go...

Once upon a time in an enchanted land not too different from a little place called Colby, Kansas, our protaganist, who's name is not Bobby but goes by it nonetheless, wakes up, as he does everyday at the crack of 4:30 and weeps bitterly. The dreadful thoughts of another day as employee #98547953 at a prestigous computer company seep into his skin as he reluctantly lets go of the dream he was enamored with not more than a minute before. To say that Bobby was unhappy with his life was the understatement of the year.

Like any normal kid in the fabled land similar to the breadbasket of America, he idolized 3 people. His dad, Bart Simpson, and Indiana Jones. That is to say he idolized his dad until his 16th birthday, when instead of getting the car he wanted for his birthday, he and his mother found a note on the kitchen table. "Took Bobby's new car for a spin. Be back soon." It was the last they ever heard from him. And besides the hints that he might become a supreme court justice, its never officially revealed what Bart Simpson will be when he grows up. But Indiana Jones...

Look, he didn't just admire Indiana Jones. It was more than that. But to make a long tangent story short, after he was found by a search party in a place similar to northern Oklahoma and nursed back to health, he ended up a software engineer for a the computer industry. He never did get rid of his leach scars. Or his tribal tatoo.

He sat down at his desk, put his backpack down and turned on his computer on. Nothing but TPS reports and secret games of Runescape were on his agenda. His archnemises, Mr. Freeman walked by. The man who promised him a perfect life full of 401ks, stock benifits and job security before stabbing him in the back an arsenal of job evaluations and performance reviews. There was nothing more than a quick glance between them. Mr. Freeman smiled his trademark evil smile, and whistled a tune. The Indiana Jones theme.

That was that. There was an audible pop as Bobby completely snapped. He immediatly tore open his backpack, and removed what he'd kept inside it for 4 years. A derby hat and a long leather whip. It was over. He hopped up on his desk and with a flick of his wrist his whip was wrapped around the ceiling rafters. He jumped across 2 desks, crashed through the window and slid down the slanted overhang, just as he'd dreamed of doing since day one. With a strategically timed jump he was atop a passing car.

It was official. He was never going back. Never. He had unfinished business in northern oklahoma. And somehow, undiscovered history and the future of the world depended on him, and him alone... plus his long lost love and his sidekick from Denver.

The End.

So as some of you know, I wasn't feeling too creative last week and asked for a few requests. I got tons. So I'm gonna try and get to em all eventually. My friend Holly asked me to write about "diet foods and womens obsession." So this on goes out to Holly, property of some guy named Danny.

Its interesting sometimes where we find truth and honesty in this world. People have devoted much of their lives in pursuit of it. Urban lyricist Aaron Barrett of the philosophically intellectual Reel Big Fish put it best when he penned, just perhaps, the most true statement ever. If I may quote:

How come all girls think they're fat?

Hey. Hey. Hey.

It is kinda weird. Its something I've often pondered over my Martenellis late at night after the Daily Show. We've been talking in sociology class about culture type personalities, which is basically American cultures "ideal" woman, you know, her looks, intellect, and her stomach. A girl so perfect she's only a cultural ideal and can't exist. Well,she does. Her name is Elisha Cuthbert, from 24.... and don't try and argue or I'll smoke you like a philly blunt.

Every generation in every culture has one of these. Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable, its nothing new. Ok, so this plus a plethora of other factors seems to drive girls to this consistantly unsatisfied self image which often leads to discontent, insecurity, and instability, which then leads to diets and excercise, and sometimes eating disorders.

Lame!

Maybe my unhealthy obsession with Elisha Cuthbert is misleading, but girls everywhere, you're NOT FAT!!! And to the ones that are... well you know what? I'm not gonna say anything. I'll even compliment you when I see you. Unfortunatly theres like, what... 150 million other guys who have opinions, but you know what? Screw them. Get fit, not thin. Get fit cause its healthy, not fashionable. Get toned so you can play soccer. Cause right behind Elisha Cuthbert, in my opinion, is womans soccer players. In general. That's right. All of em.

If you wanna diet though, I gotz the perfect diet for you. None of this Atkins bunk, or south beach diet which never works anyways. You know what sucks about diet foods? If it works, the only reason people lose the weight is cause the junk they eat is probably making them forget that food is a necessary element of life and they're starving cause they haven't had real food in a long time. Diet Foods = Grossness x 2. Every had a snackwell TV dinner? Its like eating cardboard with gravy. Fake gravy. Its no wonder they don't even work that well, cause lets face it, when that's what we have to look forward to... I'd rather be a fat lard. But this is different. This is the Barmold diet. And it works. I went from a fatty 240 pounds to the incredible 185 pounds of deliciousness I am today in just 4 months. And I stabalized. This diet, which I wont even call a diet, IS rigorous and takes self discipline, cause it's a lifestyle. But it works.

One of these days I'll write a blog on how lame this society is for driving women to crap like this, how lame women are for falling prey to it and mostly how lame men are for creating this situation in the first place, but for now, courage.

Ok I lied, so it is like some other diets. You basically just cut refined sugars from your diet. No candy, ice cream, no soda, no chocolate, and worst of all, no sour straws. Nothing with added sugar. Its not so bad though. Once a month, you can take a day off. You get a 24 hour period similar to Mardi Gras... the powers that be turn a blind eye and you can eat all the sugar you want for 1 day. So you can eat natural sugars, like honey, fruit, bread, milk, splenda, whatever else you want, just no added sugar. Sounds hard, I know, but thats typical when you think about how incredibly unfair life is. Combine it with 2 reps each of situps, pushups, and pullups 4 times a week, and seriously, it just melts the flab, and leaves nothing but FAB.

Theres nothing worse than a pretty girl complaining about her weight, looks, her rack, or whatever. Makes me sick. Seriously. I don't think we'll ever understand it, and I don't think its gonna change anytime soon. My only advice to everyone is this. Chill the freak out and be healthy. And compliment the fat girls. Theres more of em to love, so start loving. And you know what girls do when they get depressed? They eat chocolate. And they can't do that on my diet. So substitute chocolate with compliments.

D'Okay?

Ok. Listen to me.

There are 168 hours in my week. I'm not sure how many hours are in yours, but lets just assume, for the sake of argument, that we both share the same sphere of existance and both exist in linear time.168 hours. To maintain health, we're both in need of at least 8 hours sleep per day, wether its all at once, spaced through strategically placed naps or whatever, so thats about 56 hours of sleep a week. Lets also assume we both eat. I need to, or I die. So between 3 meals and a few snacks, we'll estimate and round down to 1 hour per day eating. Thats just eating, doesn't count setting the table or putting your corndog in the microwave. So 7 hours a week eating. I'm also slightly hygenic and pray that you are too, so we'll say that we spend 1 hour per day either in the shower, putting on clothes, doin our hair, gathering stuff for school, and gettin out the door. Another 7 hours a week.

Even though I go to community college and pay less in tution than most educated people, they did raise tuition signigigantly in the last few years. I've also developed some expensive habits, like eating, and sleeping in doors. So I need a job. Even kids who live at home mooching off their parents can rack up some debt, unless their parents are way rich and cultured and put them through school. But typically, and I don't mean to stereotype, but I don't think those types would be at Ohlone. I'm thinkin they'd shell out some skrilla for Santa Clara University, or, you know, a real college. But that's neither here nor there.

We need jobs. To just buy your books for two semesters of school you need to work overtime. But we'll just assume that most of us full time students work part time. Cause I don't care what you hear on loveline, you can't do everything full time. You can't be a full time mom, a full time student, and work full time. Unless you have more hours in a week than me. So we'll assume most of us should work like, 25 hours a week. Maybe 30 if we plan on having signifigant others that tend to dig a bit into our financial pockets.

Now, being a full time student, I'm taking about 14 units. So I'm at school quite a bit. And unless you're lucky and got a perfect schedule, you probably have your classes spread out through whatever part of your day. So I'm sayin if you're in school full time, you're on campus about 15 hours a week, probably more.

Oh yeah, and most of us don't work from home, and don't take all our classes online. So theres some travel time here and there. And we live in the Bay Area, so traffic is one of life's inevitables. Death, Taxes, and Traffic. So driving to work, school, and back, we can pretty much guess about 7 hours a week driving, or skating, or just traveling, and that's just to school and work.

Ok so all this was just to prove one point. Out of 168 hours in my week, just to survive, eat, and what not, is about 125 hours hours a week. Just to live!! Some people have friends, they have church, they have ambitions, they might have laundry, and we have 43 hours a week to do EVERYTHING ELSE. And lets also keep in mind that this is not in blocks of time. It's like, an hour here, a half hour there spaced throughout various times during the week.

So my point is this. College expects us to spend between 3-4 hours per unit at home studying, doing homework, and preparing for exams. Lets says you do 3.5 hours. Pretty much the minimum, cause some of us do lead a life of mediocrity. Thats 42 hours a week doing homework. 42 hours!!! Another full time job! Which leaves me one hour per week to live the rest of my life. And I watch 24, which officially takes that hour every monday at 9:00 p.m. And if I want to watch Lost, well, then I need 169 hours to life a 168 hour week.

Ok, my point is actually THIS. Screw that. I'm probably not gonna do my homework today.

Martha Stewart and Donald Trump: Fussin and fuedin = http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/TV/02/22/people.trump.ap/index.html

OK, this article reminds me of this one time, back in high school. I'm chillin with some of my homeboys on our BIG FREAKIN TABLE, probably discussing some kind of food product, when someone around the corner yells out "FIGHT!!!!" Keep in mind, we were like, 17, (although, I'd probably do the same thing today at 23) so we dropped everything and ran as fast as we could to see what we had already pictured in our heads as some sort of improved version of Ultimate Fighting. So we see the crowd, push our way through, and... its some kid from my pre-calculus class, and he's on the ground with some other guy, i don't even think he attended our high school, and they're slappin each other while tryin to hold the other down on the ground. If you want a better visual, think like, Kip and Napolean Dynamite, each a little fatter, with Napolean attempting some kind of sleeper hold while Kip's arms are flailing about hoping to connect with Napoleans face by sheer luck and slop. Needless to say, we were all kinda disappointed that afternoon. I don't remember who won, as we all got pretty bored pretty quick.

Anyways...

So Martha Stewart and Donald Trump. A verbal fight, through the media, and each person has absolutely nothing to say.`, but they wont shut up about the nothing that they're saying.

I'm gonna be honest, I've yet to find a single person who has something positive to say about Martha Stewart. Even calm pacifistic conservative housewives are demanding her fingers to be broken, maybe worse for, well, you know, I'm not really sure. Probably for raising the homemaking bar a few hundred feet for women across the world.

And Donald Trump... uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhm I can't decide wehter to talk about your hair, your ties, or you trying to copyright the phrase "your fired." Lets just leave it at this, you are a self-esteem booster to the thousands of balding men in America. It could be worse for them. Including Clint Howard, star of the upcoming mormon sports thriller Church Ball!



Who would have thought that these to, with as many people who are probably dying to take a shot at them, would go at each others throats. Even though its a fight, its like the fight between those two kids in high school that no one liked, so you didn't really care who won. In fact, you didn't even really care that they were fighting and honestly, you were kinda shocked to realize that they even had problems, much less big enough problems to fight about.

Anyone here watch American Idol? I don't. But on my birthday last week, I found myself watching it. I've got a bone to pick with that show. Not really, it just got me thinkin about something. I think there might be a chance that American Idol isn't really being completely honest and straightforward with us. And if thats true, and reality TV looses its cred, then I don't know what to think about life anymore.

Ok, heres the thing about American Idol. What you see on TV is audition #2. Anyone who makes it on TV has already auditioned for a bunch of suits who make the first cut. They weed out the boring people, the mediocre singers and leave the PC kids and contestants with heartwarming stories and/or the worst voice in the world. I guess thats fine. I mean, it does make for an entertaining episode. My only question is this: When an ugly, overweight dillusional kid comes and sings "Unbreak My Heart" without hitting a single note on key... why does Simon always look surprised?

Is Simon not in on the joke? Poor guy, cause a joke is never funny when someone has to explain it to you. I know he's a foreigner, and might not be too familiar with american tv, but what if he really thinks that they're indulging into the true talent pool of American entertainers? Yeah, I'd probably be pretty grumpy too.

So on this particular episode, a kid comes onstage; blue jeans, black hoodie, black hair... and announces that he's gonna sing a song by a band called Silverstein. What followed was probably the greatest moment of American Television thus far. I'm not sure what Randy and them were expexting, as they don't strike me as Silverstein fans, but they obviously didn't see this coming. So he starts screaming at the top of his lungs. It actually sounded REALLY close to the original. It was accurate and genuine. Somehow tho, the judges didn't go for it. I think Randy's impression was heartwarming.

Again though, why did Simon look shocked? I think someone should tell him that life, every now and then, sometimes isn't quite as real as reality TV.