Lewis and Clark were fine on their own

You know what else really grinds my gears?
I went to the post office to ship off the last load of Christmas whatnot. Priority mail had better be worth it. My total comes to $21.65. I pay with a twenty and a ten. Instead of simply getting back exactly change, the woman at the front desk stiffs me three bucks. I point out her statistical mistake and she stares at me as though I just ordered a salad in a steakhouse and says "No. The change is correct. Look!"
So I look at my palm and in addition tot he 35 cents are three strange coins.
Son of a bitch. She gave me Sacagawea dollars.
Son of a bitch. I hate the US Postal Service!
Seriously, folk. Who the fuck uses these golden atrocities? They look like quarters, but they're not. Vending machines get confused when you use them (thinking that they're quarters). And they're so damn rare that you can never bring yourself to spend them. When you do decide to use them at a store, the clerk will stare at you for a few moments before realizing "OHHH! This is worth a dollar!"

I was about to request three paper dollars before I realized something myself: It's not the post office's fault that they're handing out crappy currency. It's not even the fault of the US Treasury who issued these coins. Who to blame?

I BLAME THIS WOMAN!

SCREW YOU, SACAGAWEA! Did you do anything worthy of being on a coin? All you did was tag along to two perfectly brilliant, white explorers during a trip to the new world. Basically, you were the Horace Grant and Scottie Pippin to Lewis and Clark's Michael Jordan.
Worst of all, what type of currency is she attempting to replace? The $1 bill. And who appears on that bill? George Washington. An American Hero. The Sacagawea dollar is just another ploy by the liberal media/conspiracy to ruin the world. They can't stand that a white man is on the most used bill in the nation. So they first bring in the most famous lesbian before Melissa Ethridge, namely Susan B. Anthony. When Susie fails, here comes Sacagawea. Who's next? Hillary Clinton? Sheryl Swoopes? Oprah?!!!?
I assure you, whenever I take over this land, Ronald Reagan is going to be on every bill, coin and treasury bond. And maybe Barry Zito. Yeah. Reagan and Zito will BOTH be on the $100, as a matter of fact.

Screw you, Cookie Monster

What do I love most about the holiday season? The gifts? The music? The Jesus? Scrooge and Marley? Vacation? Tickle-me-Elmo? The menorah? A Muppet Christmas Carol?
The answer to all of the above question marks is: No.
What I most revere about this sacred time is the beverage known to mortals as eggnog. It's cool. It tastes good. It has a twinge of flavor at the end that makes you remember what exactly you're drinking. When enjoying a cool glass of...water, let's say. You can easily slip out of consciousness, let your mind wander and forget that you're currently swallowing some h20. If you attempt to transcend this plane of being while a glass of eggnog is in your right hand, you are instantly brought back to earth by the thought of "DAMN! This is good!"

Now, what bothers me about eggnog is the social taboo that it can only be consumed during the yule tide. Two words about that: BU and LLSHIT. I want to have a glass of eggnog with every meal from now on. I want Collins Dining Hall to have an eggnog dispenser right in between the soy and non fat milk.
SPEAKING of which...has anyone else noticed how damn slow the milk is at Collins? Other dining halls seem to have the concept of milk dispensal down (I'm talking about you, Frary). But at our dear Collins, it takes upwards of one minute to fill your glass. And I'm talking about the NORMAL sized glass. Not the miniscule, diminuitive ones that they try to pass off during weekends. Speed up the milk. Some of us could use the calcium. Imagine if a woman with osteoperosis went to Collins and said "Oh, dear heavens. My doctor said that if I don't get some milk immediately, I may break in two!" Well, lady, I'm afraid that your bones might as well be made out of glass since the dairy demons at Collins want us to suffer before we get our daily dosage of Vitamin D.

Similar to Cookie Monster's recent betrayal of all things sweet, Egg Nog is deemed a "sometimes food." Yeah, and Bill Clinton only "sometimes" got a blow job in the oval office.


Long story short, faster milk, more eggnog and I'll be happy.

I got friends in low places

Does anyone else remember Chris Gaines? I was discussing an old episode of SNL with Marco and Ben Jr. when I discovered that Mr. Gaines is a forgotten relic of pop culture gone wrong. Allow me to elucidate the situation...

Gaines was born in 1967 in Australia to a pair of Olympic swimmers. He dropped out of high school to form a band called Crush, which released a popular song called "My Love Tells Me So", being inspired by, not surprisingly, the work of Garth Brooks. After a band member died in a plane crash, Gaines was dormant for several years before releasing a solo album, Straight Jacket, which remained in the Billboard Top 40 for 82 weeks and won four Grammys. Gaines then was involved in a serious car accident and required numerous plastic surgeries over the next two years, before releasing two more solo albums and being declared "the new Prince".

Since that day, what has become of Mr. Gaines? Some say that he is now a world champion curler for the Swiss national team. Others argue that he is residing in a small trailer park in Wisconsin, where he still writes his masterful songs and only shares them with the squirrels who surround him abode. My opinion? I think that after reading 'The Da Vinci Code,' he joined the priesthood and became a member of the Catholic Illuminati. You never know with Chris Gaines....you never know....

By the way, if I talked to you in any way, shape or form last night, I apologize.

The man who will NEVER Die

Apologies to everyone who's been bitching about me not updating my blog. Maybe this is indicative of how militant people without blogs are....until they decide to start one and get understandably lazy. Let me put it this way: the grass is not as easy to mow on the other side of the fence. And that was too awful of a metaphor for me to use. Moving on....

Recently, the New York Mets offered a two year deal to this man:

Julio Franco

I know what you're thinking. "Max, I really don't care about baseball to begin with. Why should a two year contract even interest me? By the way, Max, you're incredibly good looking and your bench press is SOOOOO impressive." Why should this deal excite you? Mr. Julio Franco, who has played first base for the Atlanta Braves over the past 5 seasons, is currently 47 years old. Yes. 47. As in the number after 46. When he fulfills his contractual obligations, he will be a 49 year old professional baseball player. Let me put it to you this way, the average NFL player retires around the age of 36. You are considered over the hill in the NBA if you're pushing 38.
Julio Franco has also continued to put up good numbers despite the fact that when he broke into the league, Ronald Reagan was president. In 2004 at the ripe old age of 44, he hit .309 with 57RBI and a slugging percentage of .441. Long story short, this man takes better care of his body than Sting. His entire corporeal form should be insured by Lloyds of London.
I have come up with the following theory:
In the case of a nuclear holocaust, only three things will survive: Cockroaches, Hostess Twinkees, and Julio Franco. He's going to keep on playing until at least the age of 66. Our children's children are going to say "Grandpa, was Julio Franco playing when you were a boy?" And I will gladly answer "Yes, sonny. He was. And back then, you could get a 20 minute phone call for only 99 cents!"
Some think that Jesus is an incredible figure because he died and came back from the dead. PSST. EVERYONE has done that. Jack Bauer died and came back in Season 4 of 24. Numerous superheroes have cheated death. Nikki Sixx, the drummer of Motley Crüe, was legally dead for half an hour before he was brought back.
Basically, coming back from the great beyond has been done before. Death is easy. Living is difficult. And Julio Franco is the oldest, hence the greatest, human being to ever live. His contributions to the world are going to be amazing. Imagine when he donates his body to science. His immune system has probably already cured cancer and AIDS and we'll just have to wait until he gets assassinated by a crazed Braves fan or when he decides that he has taught the world all that he can, and decides to ascend to his reward in the sky.
I would follow this man into battle.
Basically, Julio Franco died for your sins and no one has taken the time to say 'Thank You.'
Julio Franco may be the most underappreciated thing in the world since A-Ha's theme for the James Bond film 'The Living Daylights.' Download it. I dare you. It's pretty sweet.

So, that's my blog entry for this night of procrastination known as Monday. Wish me good luck on my Calc final.


"WHO WANTS TO HAVE SOME FUN! Now, are you just saying that you want to have fun or do you really want to have fun! Right now, there are 600 Titleists that I got from the driving range in the trunk of my car. Why don't we drive down to Rockaway and hit them......INTO THE OCEAN!"
-Cosmo Kramer

To forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race

So, I've decided to take a break from my James Joyce paper to talk about my candidate for President in 2008. He is a man of convictions. A man with a stellar record of military service. A man who knows how to get things done. A man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty in order to set the world straight. A man who also has a talk show on FoxNews and frequents the Sean Hannity radio program.

Col. Oliver North

Argue with me if you dare. You'll lose. Do you want a strong leader like Colonel North or Hillary? That's right. I'm glad you see it my way.


With that being said, I'll go back to my boy Stephen Dedalus.

SERENITY NOW!!!!!

I would be the smartest man if I was invisible.....WAIT. I already am.

Why do I hate this queer little man?
an essay by Max Davison

Clay Aiken. Both his first and last names sort of rhyme with "gay." He deservedly lost to Mr. Ruben Studdard during season 2 of Idol. His song 'Invisible' is sadly one of the most played on my iPod. It is so damn catchy! It's the greatest ode to borderline stalking since Rick Springfield's 'Jesse's Girl.' But that's not saying that Clay is even close to the level of godliness that Rick possesses. He sings to overweight minority women in his music videos. And for some reason, women love him. These are reasons enough to dislike the man. But I use the word 'hate' in the title to this piece. Why the hatred? Why the increased degree of intensity in my disapproval? Consider the following lyrics from his (only) hit single, 'Invisible.'

If I was invisible
Then I could just watch you in your room
If I was invincible
I'd make you mine tonight

Do you notice anything wrong with this stanza? And I'm not talking about the fact that finding Clay Aiken watching you in your room is the creepiest thing in the world. Actually, scratch that. Finding Chris Kaman in your room is creepier. But that's not the important thing. There is something far worse than Mr. Aiken's hunt for women....or men.

Clay Aiken is singing about a hypothetical situation. He currently is not invisible. He is expressing a wish or desire to be so. In this case, he should use the SUBJUNCTIVE TENSE to describe this situation. It is NOT, and I repeat NOT "If I was invisible." The subjunctive requires that you change the verb tense to express the abstract nature of his wish. It SHOULD read:

If I were invisible
Then I could just watch you in your room
If I were invincible
I'd make you mine tonight

This is why I can't stand Clay Aiken. He is contributing to the death of American society. Young children who are looking for an AMERICAN IDOL now find an effeminate girly man with bad grammar. What's even worse is that they do not understand his fallacious speech. They don't know better. So, they are going to refrain from using the subjunctive during everyday conversations. Their friends will pick up on this and so on and so on. It's bad enough that the Europeans laugh at how uncultured we are. We can at least mock them back while using proper grammar. WERE you to say to a Frenchman "I wish your country was still overrun with Nazis," all you would get in return would be a snooty laugh.
Beware, my fellow Americans. Beware.

I got my back against the record machine...

Frosty the Snowman

Knew the sun was hot that day

So he said let's run

And we'll have some fun

Now before I melt away


Frosty the Snowman

Had to hurry on his way

But he waved goodbye

Saying don't you cry

I'll be back again some day


Did anyone give any thought to the possibility that Frosty the Snowman represents the story of Jesus? He came around Christmas time, showing the children the way to live life properly. How to enjoy themselves while attempting to "catch him." He is destined to melt/die for your sins. Only at the end, he offers a message of hope. "I'll be back again some day." We have to sit and wait for the return of Frosty and the love that he brought. Sounds pretty biblical to me.
Taking Jack Evert's advice, I have decided to write an exposition on this subject as well as my thoughts on how "Mary Had a Little Lamb" is about the Liberal conspiracy to keep religion out of public schools. And I use the word 'liberal' in the insulting way that Senator Vinick employs the word. Not as in the badge of honor that Rep. Matt Santos wears.
Anyway, I'm going to write this thesis and send it to some extreme Right Wing publication and get it published under the pseudonym "Reverend Ronald W. Rockefeller."

I have also downloaded every James Bond theme song, and after much research and careful deliberation, I have determined that Carly Simon's "Nobody Does It Better" from 'The Spy Who Loved Me' is the greatest. If you disagree with me, I live in Marks 120, and I will fight you. Any time. Any place. I'm an angry Lit major who can bench 245. Bring it.


Church was very cathartic today. I feel happy once more.

Right now, I have a feeling as thought this coming week is going to be great.
What's ironic is that last Sunday I said the exact same thing to myself.

So it goes.....

Love is like an itching in my heart and baby, I can't scratch it

Oh, Linda Ronstadt. You may be a dirty communist, but I love you.
So this is how my Saturday night ends. This is how my formerly promising Saturday night ends: writing on my goddam blog while listening to Linda Ronstadt.

I know that it's depressing, but allow me, for a moment, to vent about all the crap that really bothers me right now:
Barry Zito is going to be traded.
Lonely.
Finals Week.
Phonenite tomorrow.
Going to dances with the mentality of "I don't need alcohol to have a good time" only to realize that you're only lieing to yourself.
Alone.


Yeah, when you write it down, it doesn't look like much. But it sure feels like it.


A man once said "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you'll find you get what you need." Yeah, Mick Jagger was full of bullshit.

Hopefully I'll be more jovial by the next time you see me.




I've had bad dreams too many times
To think that they don't mean much anymore
And fine times have gone and left my sad home
And the friends who once cared just walk out my door

But love has no pride when I call out your name
And love has no pride when there's no one but myself to blame
-Linda Ronstadt