It’s Time for the Luigiville and Robo-Granny Report.

I have news to report (believe it or not):

First off, Luigiville is receiving two apartment buildings for Valentine’s Day. Of course, they are designed for singles and couples and “friends with benefits” and such. Please keep your comments to yourself, this site might recieve hits from children.

Second off, Luigiville is getting a new fire station in the process. This is because the firefighters were threatening to set fire to the city if they didn’t get a fire station they could use. Attention Lego residents: Please don’t riot again. Look here, I’m getting done with this as fast as I can. I know many of your children have cancer and are homeless, but I can’t build any faster. OK? Please understand that I don’t want fires in the city, seeing as how our fire station isn’t even finished yet, as I already said. (By the way, to you Lego designers out there, I’m getting my parts from Toy Brick Brigade on Bricklink. I say this to mention that it’s safe to buy them there, it seriously isn’t a scam. I don’t think. I know I got most of the parts I asked for. Ahem. Check carefully.)

Finally, my grandmother just got out of the hospital after hip replacement surgery. I was concerned over this. For example, the first time she got her hip replaced, I received many reassuring comments. For example, one guy asked me, “So your grandmother is becoming a robo-Grannie?” Naturally, this comment definitely made me feel very good, even though calling my grandmother a “robo-Grannie” gives not-so-reassuring images of a 64-year-old woman shooting lasers from her eyes. This surprised me, even more so than after, in that same class (Health) this girl that had asked me to a dance once rejected me five times, saying she didn’t have good enough grades to go. Judging by the way she sometimes acted, I would believe it.

Anyway, so we went to the hospital, which is usually scary, but I had prepared myself by not going. In fact, I think I stayed up all night watching anime and people who spend most of their time dressed rather leisurely, not that that is all that unusual.

So anyway, my uncle Joe and my grandmother went to the hospital, and she got the surgery, and they signed all the disclaimers saying that if Grandma died that they wouldn’t be held responsible and that we would STILL pay for the surgery and pretend that nothing EVER happened and that WE, not the hospital, actually kidnapped the Lindbergh baby.

Now it was time to go to the store. We looked all around for Dramamine, the wonder drug that keeps most people from getting sick. We found it.

“Get that one”, I said. “Maybe if she’s drowsy, she’ll shut up for a while.”

“No,” my mother said. “Not that one. That will make her less drowsy.” I looked down at the tube and it said “Non Drowsy Formula.” So we got the original version. We don’t take any substitutes.

After she came home, it was time to contend with Screaming Lady with Five Cats at Home Who is Trying to get Drugs at the Pharmacy Without a Prescription. After sitting there for around three hours, we finally got to the front of the line, after which the pharmacist cheerfully told us they didn’t have her drugs. We went home after that, plotting for revenge.

Anyway, I’ll write the second half of this report (“The Granny Report”) next week. Till then, go visit Insert Site That is Actually Good Here site for really funny stuff.

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The Internet Can’t Top Girls with Personality Deficits

The topic for today is, if you remember from last week, the T.P. Girl. What I’m referring to is a girl who wrote into Teen People saying that her crush had found toilet paper sticking out of her underwear.

For those of you who don’t know, Teen People is a magazine for teenage girls who represent the “in” crowd, by which I mean girls with serious personality deficits. You may be wondering how I, as a male, came into contact with a copy of this girl’s teen magazine. It was not by my own choosing; my mother, not knowing that the magazine was made for girls (because it after all chose to name itself “Teen People” instead of “Teen Girls With Serious Personality Deficits” as I would have), got me a subscription for a year. I tried reading the magazine, because I knew it was an important literary work, as measured by the number of celebrity women wearing bikinis. I also wanted to find out “what’s going on” in girls’ minds. What I found, of course, is that most of them only care about celebrities and that time they tied up that nerdy girl in physics class using only her panties.

Which brings us back to the T.P. Girl.

The T.P. Girl is only one of a number of girls who wrote into the magazine with their “innermost secrets” in order to see them in a magazine read by millions of other teenage girls. Another I remember off the top of my head was one who was videotaped while singing the “Barney” theme in the shower and another was one who was caught while skinny dipping.

The issue here is not why I remember only articles involving naked teenage girls. Nay, the real problem I have (and you should too) is why they would want these things written in the first place. I know that most people, even those with an eggplant for a brain, would not want these things told, and might even deny them to, say, God, or Tom Bergeron. So, what would possess millions of teenage girls to write these things in the first place?

I’m going on a whim and blaming the thing that has caused all the problems in our society today, meaning people who use “LOL” more than five times per sentence: The Internet. I think the Internet has rotted these girls’ brains out further than a Jack O’ Lantern at Easter, based on a reliable source: the Something Awful motto: “The Internet Makes You Stupid”.

So I’m going to push for Internet licences. First, we’ll start with truly stupid websites, like chrisfortier.com. Then, we’ll start issuing licences to good ones (and Something Awful, because it gave me the idea); finally, we’ll get the worst ones, ones that rely on magazines to make fun of innocent teenage girls, like for example, this one.

Smelly shoes and colorful price tags don’t mix

Hey everyone. Today I’m going to tell you about my experiences at Goodwill, as opposed to those of the girl in Teen People whose “crush” found some toilet paper sticking out of her underwear, which I’ll talk about next week assuming I still care.

Anyway, in case you didn’t already know, Goodwill is a very important part of the American economy, which has the ability to get rich white people to give away sneakers so smelly that they must be handled with nuclear-radiation jumpsuits. It’s an ingenious operation, which can be explained as follows:

  • First, poor people give their clothes to one of those “Donation Centers” they have, in the hopes of helping the poor;
  • Next, Goodwill’s crack team of mentally retarded sales associates slap approximately 10,000 sales stickers on each product they receive, all in special colors so bright that they can be seen at the ends of the Milky Way Galaxy;
  • After that, rich people buy these clothes, which they put into the donation box at their church, synagogue, shrine, etc. to give to poor people, and the sales associates pocket the money;
  • Next, the clothes, after being placed in the donation box, are given back to poor people.

As you can see, this system gives something for everyone:

  • Rich people and poor people get the “good feeling” of giving to others;
  • The sales associates get money;
  • The poor people get their clothes back.

See? What an amazing cycle! I bet you’re all ready to go out and buy their $15 Betamax recorders as we speak!

Anyway, though, so we went to the local Goodwill on Coors, as opposed to the one on Unser in Rio Rancho, the latter of which has nothing but the old rotten shoes and furniture so old that it would be uglier than the furniture already in our house. This one (the one on Coors) tends to be nice, although we still use approximately one gallon of industrial-strength soap on our hands after we leave, and then soak everything we buy in at least ten gallons of Lysol. This particular time, we didn’t get a whole lot, but once we got a whole chair. I call it “The Governor’s Chair”, and I use it at my computer, playing video games, for party games, etc. It cost $25. It’s a good price, assuming the girl with toilet paper in her underwear didn’t sit on it, although sometimes it tends to give me a rash the size of Delaware.

That is not my point. My point is, I got a good chair one time, and I have to go. Remember to check for the T.P. Girl next week; until then, remember: Working on your computer too long can give you eyestrain!

The Luigiville Report: Cloudy, with a chance of showers

Luigiville is currently in good condition. However, every time I look at what I’ve accomplished and what I wanted to, I get worried. The original idea of the Luigiian Republic Project was to finish my apartment blocks, and was supposed to take 4 years (Luigiville is nine years old.) It was supposed to give housing to at least half the Luigiville population, and this probably isn’t going to happen, because by my estimates it’s going to take at least $1500 just to buy new baseboards for West Luigiville. I still haven’t figured out the problem.

Anyway, currently everything is going all right here, except for the Luigiville thing. I’m getting exhausted by the Current Pace Of Girlfriends (CPOG), which is still: zero. Then I see news reports saying that women cheat on their husbands more when they’re ovulating, and read a story in English class that talks about a woman who’s happy after finding out her husband died in a railroad accident, and I watch an episode of Dr. Phil about people who believe they’re controlled by evil demons, and I go: Huh?

I think I’m going to stab myself with a piece of string cheese.

AOL sucks.

I decided that since I wasn’t able to keep my promise to those of you on MOCPages (i.e. to post pictures before New Year’s), I needed to give an explanation. You see, I was expecting uploading photos to MOCPages to be easy. I had a brand new Polaroid digital camera, a computer and an Internet connection, what reason would I have not to believe it would be easy?

Of course, I forgot about the one thing separating me from a simple night of making a new LEGO Page: namely, AOL, by far the worst ISP in the United States. I went onto AOL’s “My FTP Space”; after taking twenty minutes to download a photo, I tried another (I understand that having a dialup Internet connection is slow, so I won’t knock them for that); and it KICKED ME OFF THE SERVICE FOR NO REASON. I swear. Not an error message requesting “more space”; this was simple. AOL had failed… again.

Why is it that every single moron on the Internet today uses AOL? It’s worthless. AOL is expensive, its software is hopelessly buggy (but who could possibly pass up making their own multicolored toolbars? Me, for one), and it’s by far the worst ISP on the Internet. Type in “worst ISP” (that means “Internet Service Provider” to the layman who doesn’t work at some computer store) and articles on AOL always invariably show up. In fact, on AOL Search (the worst search tool on the Internet, just try it) it shows up as one of their sidebar choices.

AOL’s parental controls are the worst. I have a 17-year-old friend who just got off the controls THIS YEAR. The fascists blocked everything worth looking at, from Maddox to Something Awful. In fact, I’m pretty sure they blocked MOCPages (A LEGO SITE) too.

Not one person reading this article today would shell out $25 a month for radio or local television (not even those buying satellite radio, because who would want variety in their music?), but almost half the Internet audience buys AOL’s faulty, worthless service every single month.

Thankfully, soon I may not be one of them. I asked my mom to take us off AOL; after seeing how long it took one of her favorite sites to load, I think she’s understanding why. I hope some of you on AOL will take heed of this warning; I think it’s time to boycott AOL until they get programs and service worth $25 a month. Until then, use the Internet as much as you can, AOL users; get as much out of your money as you can.