An update on my life, and the world around me.

Since I last updated, quite a few things have happened. School started, I made out five thousand more times (each time better than the last), and New Orleans was submerged under sewage water by a hurricane named after a girl in my Academic Decathlon class last year. And, oh yeah, my high school won two more football games than they had won in the past four years combined. As Johnny C. would say, we need to watch out now; we might actually have real jocks to contend with at school.

In between all this, I'm actually finding the time to ponder about college, however momentarily, and in addition to that, am actually finding my classes to be rather enjoyable.

One of the most interesting classes I have is Contemporary Themes with Miss Sutton. In this class, I try to incite the Fobs (meaning the Chinese immigrants) to fight each other. Being the 12th graders that we are, Miss Sutton tries to treat us according to our age; that is why we have Sustained Silent Reading for half the class each day.

What do I read? Well, I'm either playing on my Playstation Portable, reading the Children's Picture Bible, or trying to make the fobs fight each other. I figured that if I was going to do something as dirty and sinful as read a picture bible, I might as well as make fobs fight.

A phenomenon that took place awhile ago was a series of recordings known as "Bumfights". The producers of this venerable television series would hand money to bums, namely homeless people, and make them beat the shit (literally) out of each other. Winner takes all. As you might imagine, it became quite brutal and the show was canceled when federal courts threatened to arrest the producers. Or something like that. I imagine the government is always trying to trample on the "pursuit of happiness" clause of the Constitution anyways.

At any rate, the show was canceled and a revolution killed. However, being the young Meixcan revolutionary that I am (my middle name is Zapata), I've decided that Fobfights will be a worthy successor to Bumfights.

So I had to think. What on earth could compel fobs to want to beat faces? I decided that it would be easiest if I sabotaged their educations. They're so serious about it. So of course, I started from the top: silent reading. Stage 1 comprises of me stealing their books and bookmarks and hiding them. As the befuddled fobs search for the reading utensils, Allen the Amorous spreads rumors of insubordination and treason within the ranks of the fobs.

It's quite the experiment. I assume we'll have some real bouts on our hand by Winter Break. Who knows; I could even work for the CIA if I get good at this.

My other classes are fairly extraordinary in a rather ordinary way. In French AP, I find myself watching the clock move and discussing the merits of sexual activity with mon ami Denise. In Contemporary Themes, aside from trying to incite a fob riot, I sleep on the couch and nobody wakes me up. In English AP, Miss Brown the Miracle Worker performs Boredom Miracle and somehow manages to make Anglo-Saxon epic poetry seem like a chore.

Seriously. Whoever makes the story of Grendel slaughtering soldiers by the dozens in their sleep, and carrying off with his "bloody booty" should win an award of some sort. What kind of award, I don't know; maybe a piece of shit on a stick will do.

In Critical Analysis, we've spent the better part of the last three weeks debating the merits and stereotypes of alcohol and homosexuals. They mix, they really do. Both figuratively and literally - but that's another topic for another day. In Journalism, I ponder the nature of the universe and invent equations that revolutionize every field of science as we know it.

Just kidding. In Journalism, I'm so bored, I honestly believe I should be doing something more productive. Like picking my nose. But instead, I find myself discussing the pros and cons of cellulite with Tiffany.

As for Calculus, I pay attention.

About twenty-six paragraphs or so ago, I mentioned Hurricane Katrina. Some of you, my dear audience, might also listen to a radio program that I listen to on a nightly basis: Coast to Coast AM with George Noory. This is not your regular late night talk show. Instead, George invites guests onto the show to discuss such controversial topics as:

1. The entirety of the right wing conservative government of America congregating in what is known as the "Bohemian Grove" to make mock human sacrifices and have orgies.
2. Aliens. Who can have a late night talk show without aliens?
3. Ghosts. Who can have a late night talk show without ghosts?

At any rate, Sir Noory the grandfather figure of my life accepts and processes each of the guests's preposterous theory with an equally preposterous amount of open-mindedness. One of the latest theories is that the hurricans currently buffeting the Gulf Coast of America the Beautiful are man-made. Engineered. Manufactured.

Yes, there are those out there who believe that governments around the world possess devices which can control the weather. And one of the functions of such a device is to put New Orleans twenty feet underwater, effectively killing off three things:

1. A whole lot of black people.
2. Mardi Gras.
3. A whole lot of white people. And by "white people", I mean the black people who are working as those insufferable mimes.

So the mime industry is dead. How will the economy ever recover? Somebody set up a lunch date with Alan Greenspan!

Unfortunately, this is the end of the line for you and me. In the words of Patrick Bateman, I have assessed the situation, and I am leaving.

Until next time, faithfuls.

The problem was science.

I was just guessing, at numbers and figures...pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science, Science and Progress don't speak as loud as my heart
- The Scientist, Coldplay

As I prepare to embark on the adventurous wonderland known as my senior year tomorrow, I look back at the three years prior and I realize what had so unceremoniously and ruthlessly derailed my high school career: science.

In years to come, when new and old friends ask me what was the one regret of my high school life, I shall somberly look them in the eyes and say "Twas science, my friends. Twas science." And who could disagree?

Every single year I've had a science class, my life was in a state of impending suckage. Do you want to know how I felt everytime I was made to talk about electrons, how I felt everytime I had to calculate a molar mass that had nothing to do with cute little moles? To quote a man far greater than myself, "I felt my mask of sanity was about to slip".

I believe that science derailed the makings of a once-promising teenage adolescence. Every year for second period, I had a science class. Every year, high school blew. Giving blowjobs to camels would have been far more pleasant than taking these classes. And you say to me: "Allen, how do you know for a fact that science classes ruined your life?" And it is to you I say: "If you have the same horrid subject for the same horrid period every year, and every year prostitution as a career grows more attractive, would you still believe in coincidences?" The answer, of course, is no.

In freshman year, I had the undeniable honor of taking Biology Honors with the loveable Mrs. Hake. However, two weeks into the class, I was wishing life were simpler: I asked myself, why can't these scientists just accept the theory of intelligent design? Why seek to know why? It was one of the rare instances when a bible would have been preferable to my textbook. Whether you believe it or not is one matter, but we could save our students a lot of grief if the collective educational body of America just solemnly swore that it was an old man named God who created the universe, not a European swindler named Darwin.

However, this did not happen, and I set down the road to perdition.

In sophomore year, I was taught the arts of Chemistry by a Jewish woman named Dr. Costello. There are many anecdotes I can recite concerning the dear "Doc" (as she demanded to be called...I believe she did not want to hear the word "Mizz" because she did not want to be reminded of her romantic status as a single 60 year old), but only one will suffice: when the good doctor discovered she was going through Menopas, she wasted no time in announcing it to the class. Innocence was lost that day.

My mask of sanity further slipped, and I descended the levels of Dante's Hell.

Junior year's science class was bearable because I played video games and read magazines all year due to...unforseen circumstances. However, the principle remains the same: the class very nearly ruined my life.

You cannot see me as I am typing this, but I can assure you with the utmost confidence that I am breaking out into cold sweat. Giving in to nostalgia and recalling the horrors of high school science is a task almost beyond me.

Most likely, you are chuckling. You say to yourself: "Science classes ruins a boy's life? Surely, it does not!" But I'm almost afraid to tell you: "Yes, yes it does."

Science had taught me, an unsuspecting boy not yet 6 years removed from the wonders of puberty, that it was okay and even admirable to ask the questions of why and how. It was to be encouraged; every facet of life was to be analyzed and deduced until the very fabric of existence could be narrowed down into its strings and fibers.

However, as tragedy upon tragedy befell me, it has occurred to me that the why and the how of things happening is not important. What is important is how you feel about it, and how you plan to react.

Do I much care why lightning happens, or how it does? Not particularly. It does not do me much good to know why lightning forms and acts the way it does because lightning has been around for far longer than I have, and will be around far after I'm gone. What is important is that I realize these streaking bolts of light will in fact render me dead as fried chicken, and that I stay away from them. That is all.

There is nothing to be gained from knowing why lightning strikes. And if you have some scientific fact, some anecdote, to prove the contrary, I do not want to hear it. Allow me to continue my ignorant existence undisturbed.

In fact, I rather liked it when people explained lightning (and other things like it) with cock and bull stories such as "The thunder god is angry". Such stories are much more romantic. The world, sadly enough, is no longer a romantic place.

I have strong reason to believe that science has ruined the art of human relationships. Far too often we want to know why something happened. Far too often do we ask why somebody acted a certain way to hurt people. Does it really matter? It's after the fact. What's important is that you react to it.

If I were to drop a glass bowl, scientists all over would step barefoot on the glass and cut themselves to death trying to figure out why and how I dropped the glass bowl. The why and the how is unimportant. Clean the damn thing up.

If I learned one thing from science, it's that the lessons of science are shit. They do not apply to my life. Do I particularly care why amoeba moves a certain way? No. Perhaps it does instill a certain "Master of the Universe" kind of feeling, knowing how life works.

But if the scientists have their way, nothing in life would remain a mystery. The excitement would be gone, and everything would be rendered meaningless. What do we live for, if not for the surprises that life affords us?

Anyhow. I'm happy to report that I do not have a science class this year. I have fulfilled my prison sentence of three recommended years, and have paid my debt to society. It is time to move on to better things.

And you may chuckle and say "Woot! Is this boy a bastard or what? Stupid child!" It is true that science may not be the sole cause of misery. It is true that I also had English, Math, and French classes every year; it is also true that I could blame my troubles on one of them. Just like it is true that the number of people who crash while sober is much higher than the number of people who crash while drunk.

My argument is full of fallacies, but that is quite all right. Fallacies are like ex-girlfriends; they are annoying, ugly, and full of shit - it is best not to ackowledge their existences.

Rock and roll, reader.

P.S. Nicole got me a shark keychain. I do say she's quite wonderful.

The Confessions of an Economics Major

Happiness is not good enough for me...I demand euphoria! - Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame, not Calvin Klein)

Ain't it cool? I got the euphoria I was looking for. I scored a stellar 87% on my Economics final despite not knowing the GDP from the NRA, but what-the-fuck-ever. And guess what? I scampered across the border of grades like a man from Mexico and made off with a B.

When it comes to the topic of euphoria, I suppose, sometimes...all you have to do is ask.

Recently I read another book hailing from the long, historically good line of "The Confessions of..." books. You know the type; for as long as there have been books, there have been authors writing fictional and nonfictional memoirs with titles that start with "The Confessions of...". More often than not, these novels provide insight into the workings of the humand mind and heart. And, well, sometimes they just suck like cheap whores.

The Confessions of Max Tivoli is a charming little novel about a monster. No, it's not a novel about a black man. Instead, it's the memoirs, or the confessions, as it were, written by a man who ages backwards. What does that mean? That means that when he was born, he was endowed with the alluring physical appearance of a prune. In other words, he was born with the look of an old man.

But then a curious thing happened. As Max matured, his physical countenance aged backwards. How unfortunate? Well, not really. You see, Max was thus afforded the chance of a lifetime: his curse was a blessing which allowed him to court the love of his life no less than three times, because due to his otherwordly condition, she fails to recognize him at each successive encounter.

According to Max, we are each the loves of someone's life. And Alice was the love of his life.

Love is such a loaded word, with so many connotations; perhaps it would be better if we called it something else for the duration of this amateur-ish bit of writing. Oyster, I think, will do fine. I refer to love as something else when I'm with my beau, but you lot aren't exactly my beaus, now are you?

Before we go further, I'd like to say to my dear reader: the land of oyster is so mysterious.

Sometimes you see two people together and you muse to yourself: how on God's good, green earth can two such non-compatible creatures be...well, compatible? Who's to say? Sometimes, mothers give birth to siamese twins and sometimes mothers give birth to Michael Jordans. Sometimes, mothers give birth to Albert Einsteins and Isaac Newtons, and sometimes mothers give birth to Adolf Hitlers and Jessica Simpsons.

And sometimes, I suppose, the land of love oysters gives birth to three headed baby relationships. Shit happens, as Forrest Gump would so beautifully say. This before he gets shot in the buttocks, of course.

If you haven't seen Forrest Gump, then, well, I just don't know what to say to your dumbass besides this: I hope you get beaten so bad and so ugly with a monkey wrench that your own mother would pass you on the street. Just joking, of course. Really. That having been said, it's a good movie and I sincerely hope you check it out sometime.

This hasn't, I don't think, been the first time I've tried to write about oyster. And this won't be, I don't surmise, the last time I fail miserably. I don't think it was something that was meant to be written and read about, but rather something to be experienced and recounted. So I suppose I can do no better than write a crime scene story of love for the classy lady who asked me to write this in the first place.

Love Leaves Innocent Woman Mangled and Maimed
Allen Tsai, Associated Press
Good-looking sex machine
Legs of Lance Armstrong
Abs of Apollo

Monterey Park, CA - It was the scene of a vicious crime , as the serial killer known only as "Love" left the heart of yet another high schooler in shattered pieces (like those of a poorly-made mosaic, if I do say so myself) over the summer. Since his crime spree began in 154135460 B.C., Love has left little more than broken hearts and shattered dreams in his wake, frustrating police and hookers the world over.

Love's latest victim, Bloody Sindy (her name has, of course, been changed for reproductive privacy purposes), was felled by a Lover (one of the legions of Love's nefarious agents of crime and deceit) after a smattering of unreturned calls, cold shoulders, and general incompetence on his part.

Prior to her untimely and unfortunate demise, Bloody Sindy lamented the fact that she had fallen for such a duckbrain. Lovers, you see, usually have qualities about them that make them such deceivingly good agents of disaster: they are either usually good-looking, charming, or good-looking. However, this Lover was none of the above. He was also rather lacking in bodily hygeine, if this reporter does say so himself.

However, for whatever reason, through the mysterious connections and workings of Love, Bloody Sindy fell for this Lover. I was blind to it at the time, and I regret not shooting her with a Magnum Pistol and putting her out of her misery sooner - because in short time, Sindy was what you would refer to as "whipped".

Being whipped in the 21st century and beyond, as I soon learned to my dismay, is much worse than being whipped in the 19th century and before.  I'll have you bear in mind that pre-19th century whippings consisted of the lashings of black slaves, usually with whips barbed with unsavory barbs. And I'll also have you know that 21st century whipped is much worse than pre-19th century whipped because, well, lashing for the heart hurt much more than lashings to the hide. Especially for me, because I bear witness to such things.

In any case, this ugly duckling of a Lover had somehow wormed his way into Bloody Sindy's heart like a bad computer virus of sorts. And believe you me - she was infected. I tried injecting Mcafee's Love Antivirus into Sindy's system, but unfortunately for you and me, the only thing Mcafee's Love Antivirus has in common with Mcafee's Computer Antivirus is that, well, they both suck at catching viruses.

On the ladder of Lovers, it would appear at first glance that Bloody Sindy is much higher up the ladder than this ugly duckling of a Lover. But as it were, male Lovers tend to get heady with their own prowess (or lack thereof) and start overlooking sweet girls like Bloody Sindy. Love, you were always a bastard.

So in short, Bloody Sindy's Lover stopped calling her. And eventually, they stopped talking via instant messanger, too. Bloody Sindy has received from Love, instead of the happiness and everlasting joy that she was looking for, what is akin to the Dementor's Kiss from Harry Potter - she is a husk of her former self, all vistages of a soul gone and vanished: she nows spends her days pining for a Lover that never was and apparently never will be.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, I said, but who knows of such things?

But I do know enough to ask the classy lady, and my sweet readers in general, to follow their hearts. It's not a particularly hard thing to do. My fat brother, for instance, follows his heart all the time - straight to the chips lying on the counter. Dogs follow their hearts (and their noses) to their houses, and I follow mine to Nicole.

It's not all that hard at all, and sometimes, you may get a few bloody knees and bruises along the way. But of course, according to Franklin Roosevelt, there's nothing to fear but fear itself. This line was unfortunately and unceremoniously butchered in Batman Begins, but that's all right.

Next time, you may fall for an ugly duckling. Next time, you may even fall for an ogre. Or you may not. Once again, to you I say: Who knows of such things? It is so mysterious, the land of love. And being seventeen, as most of us are, we are so ready and willing to take its fruits that sometimes we get rotten apples.

But is that any reason to become depressed and start doubting your own self-worth? Not particularly. As Alfred the Butler (Michael Caine, great guy) says: "Why do we fall?" The answer, of course, is "So we can learn to pick ourselves up." Michael Caine does this line a lot more justice with his lovely British accent, but we'll have to settle.

There is another example, of course, to be found in the agriculture industry. If you would care enough to read two paragraphs in the upwards direction, you'll find that I compared Love to fruit. Well, when the illegal Mexican workers picks a bad fruit, what does he do? He says "Holy huevos, Batman!", throws the fruit away, and picks another one.

There are lessons to be learned here.

Love, apparently, is still on the loose. But with the Confessions of Max Tivoli, you too can become educated in the mannerisms of Love and hopefully make it out of Love and its menstruations alive. Now go make like the best type of worm and read.

I hate explaining my jokes, but I feel like I must. The best type of a worm is a bookworm, and reading is what bookworms do.

Some would say that earthworms are the best, and some yet would contend that Earthworm Jim is even cooler than that. To those people I shout foreign obscenities and give the finger.

Until next time, Lovers.

July 25, 2005: Guesses and Conjectures as to Why I Suck at Economics.

After I wrote the above title, the gravity of the situation hit me as the apple hit Sir Isaac Newton; it has occurred to me that I've been starting every entry for the last year or so with the date, and introductory topic...this in spite of the fact that half an inch above the date I so happily and heartily inscribe with electronic messaging, Xanga has already done me the favor of putting the date for me.

So of course, as my daily contribution to makind's neverending quest to iron out his idiocies, I suppose I'll have to stop writing the dates in myself. So let's start over.

Guesses and Conjectures as to Why I Suck at Economics.

If you know me, you know me to be a straight and rather un-homosexual kind of boy. Therefore, you would logically assert to yourself that sucking cock would be a wholly unpleasant experience for me. And you would be right.

Unfortunately, I have been sucking the green cock of economics for the better part of the last week or so. I can tell you that it does not taste very good, and the job does not pay well either. As I was leaning against my desk and mulling over the cosmic consequences of my latest 40% today, I realized that my economic world is in a state of impending and immediate suckage.

Economics and I have not gotten along since our messy divorce post-Academic Decathlon. Economics, it seemed, was disappointed that I had not made the effort to know her as a person, and I was disappointed that the only curves she had to offer me were supply and demand curves. So in short, we decided that we were better off as "friends", and communication had been scarce until Miss Hernandez and summer school came sauntering into my life.

I think that there could be listed a variety of reasons as to why economics bitches me around and walks all over me like I'm her nigger. A variety of reasons, I repeat...as to why the relationship between the two of us has all the meaning of Tom Arnold and Roseanne.

Possible Reasons as to Why I Suck At Econ:

1. I don't study or read the material. I heartily reject this as a possible explaination regarding my martial issues with economics. Through sheer good looks, charm, and masculinity, I should be able to at least scrape 60% mediocrity as opposed to the 40% Hiroshimas I'm being saddled with. Come now; I got an A in French without studying, and I'm not even a Frenchman. And with all things being equal, do we believe that all subjects are created equal in the eyes of God? Is there no equity in the world of academia?

Speaking of the Frenchmen, as a bit of a sidenote, American testicular dominance of the French nation continued yesterday as Lance Armstrong the aerodynamic one-testicaled wonder won his 7th straight Tour de France. The Tour de France merely means "Tour of France", but somehow the French manage to construe and twist that until it sounds snotty. After his victory lap and chamapagne, Lance Armstrong declared that the French were too easy and that he would dedicate the rest of his life to fighting cancer and spending time with Sheryl Crow.

2. I sleep during class two hours out of the five - on my more constructive days. Vehemently, I shall reject this explaination as well. It's a proven scientific fact that sleeping is beneficial, not harmful. Now if you were to test this theory and sleep on some train tracks just to prove me wrong, I suppose you had it coming.

3. Miss Hernandez is on the South Beach Diet. So far, I believe this to be the most realistic of the possible explainations as to why I suck the almighty dollared cock of economics. I believe that Miss Hernandez promotes an unhealthy learning environment through her advocacy of no-carb diets; I simply cannot work in an environment where the teacher takes it upon herself to crusade against the very fabric of the food pyramid and the middle class moral values for which it stands.

4. Miss Hernandez plays mind games. Miss Hernandez is not only destroying the middle class values for which our Founding Fathers shed blood and tears, but she is meddling with my mind. Every morning, we have 50 question "quizzes" on the previous day's material. This obviously does not bode well for me on so many levels. However, my failures are in fact due to no fault of my own. By merely referring to these wheels of torture as "quizzes", Miss Hernandez wages total psychological warfare on my unsuspecting and hapless mind. The CIA could not do a better job. If you ridicule this allegation as ridiculous, consider this:

People prepare for tests and quizzes in different ways. Tests are generally regarded as the more strenuous and taxing of the two; quizzes, on the other hand, are usually brushed off as nothing more than the junior varsity of the exam world. The studious student such as myself would obviously allocate more of his or her study time for the tests as opposed to the paltry amounts delgated for quiz-studying.

Do you now see through Diana Hernandez's nefarious schemes? By telling us that these 50-headed monsters are quizzes as opposed to tests, she is handicapping our studying abilities and manipulating as unwitting pawns to her sick psychological experiments. I refuse to be just another number, just another statistic, in her sick game.

At this point, you may be scratching your head and saying "But tests and quizzes are both exams. What difference does it make?" To you, I say "Surely, you jest!" It makes all the difference in the world, my dear!

If you and I were to inhabit a fictional house, it would be a rather dandy set-up. If you were to tell me that there was a cat in the backyard, and that you wanted said kitty-cat, I would of course hurry on outside with a kitty treat in one hand and a ball of yarn in the other. However, if you had failed to designate the kitty-cat as the lion that it surely is, I would return to your open arms mauled, maimed, and surely mangled for life.

Another example would be meeting people. If you were to tell me that there is a nice man waiting for me in the parlor, I would no doubt saunter on into the parlor wearing naught but comfortable clothes and a smile on my face. However, if you likewise fail to designate this man as a thrice convicted child molester, I would not only come back to you mauled, maimed, and mangled, I would come back to you mauled, maimed, mangled, but mostly molested.

Now I say unto you: the lion and the kitty are both cats, but would you tell me they are the same? The nice man and the molester are both men, but are they the same? Before thrusting me into such situations, you must give me adequate warning and specific instructions so I may prepare accordingly.

By not doing so, Diana Hernandez has destroyed my life.

I'm just kidding, at any rate. One more thing. A day or so ago, I had the great pleasure of watching Willy Wonka and the War of the Worlds with the ever-so-charming Nicole the Nice. The illiterate fool would no doubt exclaim the following:

"Wow! You saw a movie where Willy Wonka was the main character, and aliens took over the planet and your sweetheart Nicole made a cameo experience! You are a lucky man!"

It is for these people that I must rewrite the last paragraph.

I saw Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Then I watched War of the Worlds. I did both of these things in the extraordinarily pleasant company of a sweetheart named Nicole the Nice.

There are some who would say that Johnny Depp based his Willy Wonka act on Michael Jackson. To these people I say: "Johnny Depp seemed to hate kids so much that he wanted to eat the kids. Michael...well Michael loves the kids, and he doesn't want to eat the kids so much as he wants to eat them out."

Tom Cruise, to his credit, was actually rather good in his recurring role as Hero in War of the Worlds. Good enough, at any rate, to make me forget his antics on Oprah for two or three hours.

But I must say...good as the movies were, the company was infinetly better.

Toodles.

July 23, 2005: Fits like a condom.

It's been very nearly three months or so since I last ventured here. But you know what they say about old habits - they fit like condoms; so here I am again, hunched like Quasimodo over my humming laptop and my mind full of strange and wonderful ideas. Like the wonderful little closet that lead the children to Narnia, my mind is.

Needless to say, oodles and oodles of magnificient and fortunate events have occurred since we last corresponded, you and I. I say fortunate because, well, many of them have been; for example, it wasn't much more than two days ago when the limeys (that would be the British) shot dead a man suspected of having intentions of intentionally blowing himself up. Which is one way to look at it. Another way to look at it would be "to martyr himself" and another way yet would be "a man with the intention of heading to the Arabian sexual paradise".

It is, by now of course, a well-known fact that these martyrs believe that by sacrificing themselves in the name of Jihad, they will receive 40 dark-haired virgins (no word yet on the age brackets of said virgins) and a lunch date with no other than the Prophet Muhammed.

Now, Jihadian beliefs aside, I don't blame the Brits. I, too, would shoot the man whom I knew was headed for the loins of 40 virgins. Fucking bastard.

But then again, why would I want to do that? Nicole's enough woman (I mean this in the most flattering way possible) for 40 handsome dark-haired men such as myself, and Arabian women really don't float my boat anyways. So as far as I'm concerned, Osama can have his women.

Speaking of Nicole, boy is she a doozy. A doozy, by Allen's Dictionary (which I believe to be a much more reliable source of definitions than that poor bastard Webster's...his parents must have really hated him to name him after a dictionary) is something that is so marvelous, so extraordinary, that it makes his head spin. And sure, I know Webster wasn't name after a dictionary, I know he wrote the thing. So stop sniggering, before you knock your head and name your kid Encarta.

Of course, you can't talk about Nicole without also talking about Harry Potter. I don't know whether or not I should be jealous about her infatuation with a fictional boy. I kid, of course. But that does seem to be a problem, doesn't it? This wave of Harry Potter hysteria that has swept the nation has, quite possibly, made J.K. Rowling the single most influential artist on the face of the planet.

It is rather absurd to think that a single-mother on welfare can write a series of stories about juvenile wizards and fat boys and create a multimedia empire that would flatten Julia Roberts with the flick of a wand - only at Hogwarts, my friends. Conventional wisdom would say that it is impossible, but six books and one billion dollars in sales say otherwise.

So how does that make Rowling the most influential and most powerful woman this side of Hilary Clinton? Well, J.K. (whose intials, unfortunately, do not stand for "Just Kidding") has a stranglehold on the livelihoods and futures of, well, the future. I kid you not. According to Nicole.com, a dude killed himself because a friend spoiled the story of the sixth book for his stupidass. I don't know if this beats the story of the one chinaman who killed the other chinaman because chinaman #2 sold chinaman #1's video game sword online.

But let's not sidetrack.

Has it occurred to you that Harry Potter is, for all intents and purposes, is the most influential literary character since Jesus Christ? And yes, Jesus was a literary character. What other books, outside of Harry Potter and the Bible, have forced children to exile themselves into reading marathons so that they can better know the story of a fictional man? Sometimes I wonder if Rowling has hexed her books with a charm of sorts that makes them so charming. If only Rowling would put more subliminal messages in her books - perhaps a few passages with underlying themes of horniness would do us all some good.

I kid! "I'm such a jokester", as Jasmine would say.

The books are all right by me; I suppose I'll have to square with the success of J.K. Rowling someday. But what I don't have to square with is the absurd choice of Rupert Grint as Ronald Weasely in the mediocre Harry Potter series of movies.

By and large, Rupert Grint is an unbearable imp. Ronald Weasely, to some extent, is an unbearable imp as well, but Rupert is in a class of his own. I wish I had the time, resources, and effort it requires to make a collage of all of Rupert's bewildered expressions - but that one picture will have to do.

I must say that Ronald has never been a favorite character of mine, but Rupert has intensified my hate for red-headed idiots even more. Loads of underlying things lurking there, but let's stay away from that. Suffice to say, I wish the gods of the filming industry would do my five senses a favor and set Rupert Grint's career aflame, and banish him to the land of Kurt Russell and straight-to-video productions.

Did you miss me?