I did have midterms. And I was still ill. Irony's just miffed because she's too much of a simpleton to create her own fun. And because she has no bagels. I also have no bagels; but I have the promise of bagels tomorrow. I did study for some of my midterms. Just not expatriate lit, because he didn't tell us what to study. I wasn't about to break out my divining skills. Jerk.

How's THAT for insightful?
Ohh....have just been informed that the dinosaur "had midterms!!" O woe is her. I happen to know she didn't study for any of them anyway so I refuse to throw even the slightest little bit of pity her way.

A Dinosaur is a mongoloid moron. She refuses to entertain me and I am bored. Just because she's tired because she's been skiving around all week doing the square root of fuck-all, she thinks she's free to rest. This is not so. I am devising a suitable punishment as we speak.

Right. Irony is relocating, so who knows when she'll be posting something insightful. We shall mourn her absence. Go on, mourn. In other news, orientation weekend has brought an obnoxious slew of tour groups, making it near impossible to get in and out of the suite. It took some expert maneuvering to get into the room with lunch. Later, as the Fruit Hoarder and I were standing outside telling an animated tale of the guy who spent ten minutes vomitting off the balcony above us last night, a large tour group walked by. Bet they don't want to live here now. As I write this, some people are peering under our curtains. One of them just said, 'I think that's a room.' I'm not sure what else it could be, as black holes don't have draperies.
The Fruit Hoarder just informed me that her mother works with Ben Folds' mother. I don't see why she didn't mention this earlier so we could get tickets when he was touring around here.
Perhaps I'll have to throw Cyril the snake at her again.
Oh yeah, and my biology professor is a tricky, sadistic psychopath. And Puppy isn't stopping to visit me on his way back Boston. I hate him. I'd say I'd never speak to him again, but that's a filthy lie as he is one of the few people whose company I can continuously enjoy. Plus he's pretty and one of the only straight boys who knows how to dress. Therefore, he is a resource that cannot be lost.
Who broke the weather?

Funny thing for Irony to be discussing the moral decay of someone else when her morals have disintegrated into a powder so fine that it can't even be inhaled for a euphoric effect. So today, somebody broke the weather. Seriously. It was hovering in the 60's and 70's for the past four days and then, bam, 35. Tomorrow it's supposed to be back up to 70. This weekend is an orientation weekend. Orientation weekend means three things: A. Good weather. B. Green grass and flowers, be it September or April (You think I'm kidding) C. Fresh pineapple. We're planning to do something outside; the system hasn't failed yet. Hmm, the glands in my neck are so very swollen that they hurt when I tap them. Of course if I go to Health Services they'll just say something off-color about my weight and if I have mono they'll send me home and I have entirely too much to do. Perhaps I'll go around coughing on my enemies You know what's a cool word? Agglutination. Think about that.
P.S. I just read that congress changed the name of French fries and French toast to freedom fries and freedom toast. I love eatin' liberty

A Dinosaur is always ill. I personally subscribe to a philosophy which states clearly that illness is a symptom of moral decay or some other pernicious character flaw. You know, I've tried my best with A Dinosaur but honestly. I wash my hands of her.
You know what else bothers me? Susan Sarandon. Do I even need to elaborate on this?

Hm. Irony's a bit bitter today. Well, so am I. I'm ill. And not in an attractive 19th-century-consumption-delicate-roses-on-my-cheeks type of way either. More like the flu type of way where I can neither breathe nor swallow. To add insult to injury, I'm at school and it's absolutely no fun being ill when your mother isn't around to get you soup and juice. Instead of benefitting from that lovely maternal instinct, I have to go to class where I will spend half my time freezing and the other half burning up. I don't, however, think that I will make it to religion. My professor won't care anyway. He says if you have something better to do, don't come to class and I feel that buying Nyquil and crashing on my bed is much more beneficial to my general well being than discussing Mircea Eliade. I didn't even retain the reading because I was reading it outside yesterday by the lake in the 75 degree weather and my thoughts ran more towards 'Tra la la, look at the duckies.' I also feel like blaming Torpedo Bob for my illness. He's a wretch. We'll have words when I get my voice back. For now, I'm going to go buy a yogurt and some orange juice (Because it's frigging impossible to find unadulterated grapefruit juice on this campus) and moan and groan my way through Sociology, as it will entertain the Fruit Hoarder.
Aaaarrgh

Today I noticed it was March. Oh bite me, I'm unemployed. More on that later. So yeah, March. I have a few things to say about March. It's got a lot going for it. For one thing, it isn't February. If you want proof of the ultimate existence of god, and indeed, that he is a is a cruel, vindictive, bitch god, then February would be it. It is bleak, dark, depressing and pointless, and that's just valentine's day. So score one for March. And another thing; T S Eliot was a moron. If anyone had asked for MY vote ,well... April? I mean, come on. I can think of so many things worse than April. February for example. And then there's January, December and let's not forget March. Give me a day of spring over 30 days of unrelenting soggy frigid crappiness any day. Bring on April. But, as it's March now, I just thought I would take this opportunity to say a big fuck you to February. May we never see its like again. Damn this neverending cycle of seasons. It's tyranny, plain and simple. Well I'm not going to take it anymore. From now on if it isn't a glorious day in May it's bloody well going to be a nice July scorcher. To this end I am now going to get the mail. In shorts and flip flops. Those two feet of snow? They don't exist. I refuse to be a toady to the arbitrary imperialism of the spinning of the earth. You know what causes all this? Torpedo Bob. There he is again! That settles it...I'm going to blow up Torpedo Bob. Yes, I know that the moon doesn't cause seasons. Well, not entirely. But I'm a Republican and as such I am quite competent in the finding and punishing of scapegoats. So down with Torpedo Bob! Think of it; with no tides there would be no surfers. No whinging floppy-haired 30-year olds acting like teenagers or pretending to be Buddhists. By destroying Torpedo Bob we could rid the world of an entire subclass of annoying, pretentious airheads.
On the other hand, a nice half-Torpedo Bob in the sky over the ocean is a pretty cool thing. And all that sticking my head out the window and howling would look rather odd without a good full Torpedo Bob to blame it on. So I guess he's safe.
For now.

One day, I was in FAO Schwarz with one of my dearest friends, who I shall call Puppy. Because...that's what I call him. We were there, well, okay, we were mostly there because we've not lost our sense of childlike whimsy. But we were also there so that I might purchase a giraffe. Not just any giraffe, a giraffe of sufficient grooviness, a giraffe who would be worthy of the name Baron von Groovy. We didn't find one. I also didn't find one of those Legolas arrow-shooting action figures. I was crushed. No, I was very upset. Okay, I was a bit put out. I went back to school Baron-less. Then, rejoice, my mother sent me a care package. One of the items was a small giraffe, barely the size of my palm. But oh, was he groovy. I immediately made him a tinfoil crown and placed him on top of the peanut butter. The Fruit Hoarder doesn't like him. Though that's probably because he tried to take over her desk so his serfs would have more room to farm. I told her we'd give her some of the earnings; but she'd have none of it. So you can imagine how happy she was when my mother sent me a tiger to be the Baron's friend. The tiger's name is Sir Seymour the Striped Who Conquered the Greeks in 877. All of Them. He enjoys attacking the unsuspecting.
In other news, I went salsa dancing last night and my very tall friend, who shall be known as The Boy Who Resembled a Tree, and I were getting our very-white groove on. We tried unsuccessfully to execute a strange twirl and his elbow connected with my cheek. Now I look like a victim of domestic violence. I hope his elbow suffered.
Maybe I'll send Sir Seymour his way.

Here's what's bothering me today: other people who are me. Haven't you ever gone to the bookstore or video store or whatever and some wretched people have just been there and took the last one of whatever you wanted? It never fails. No matter how obscure your taste, someone will beat you to it. I went to Blockbuster with A Dinosaur once and we were looking for...I don't know...some very odd movies. And they were all gone. All taken out by the same people. Now, I can't remember what movies they were but let me tell you, they were weird. Each itself was odd, and taken together the combination was truly...eccentric. And yet someone had taken them all. We came to the conclusion that it had to be Us. By some weird flaw in the fabric of the universe, possibly caused by some time traveler accidentally confronting his younger self and causing a rift in the space-time continuum, etc, we had already gone to blockbuster, taken out the videos, wiped our own memories of the event and hidden the aforementioned movies. I ask you. What are the odds? Anyone who thinks life is boring has never been to blockbuster. The natural laws of the universe do not apply there. You could be walking across the parking lot with your head positively brimming with the full contents of the IMDB, but the very picosecond when you cross the threshhold, you become bloody Nell from that crap Jodie Foster movie. All you can do is wander aimlessly through the aisles until you end up renting that thing with that guy with the hair that was in that other movie, and you didn't really ever want to watch it anyway, so you just go home and watch reruns of Knight Rider. Oh! We should bottle the air inside blockbuster and send it to Hollywood. Then perhaps all these actors who see fit to yarble on and on about War in Iraq and other topics of which they have absolutely no right to an opinion would forget what they were going to say, scratch their heads, and go the fuck home and stop clogging the airwaves with their puerile rants. More on this later.

Hullo all, this is A Dinosaur posting after a brief bit of confusion involving a second Ministry of Flailing, Cavorting and Evil that I posted on even though Irony insists that it doesn't exist. It's just a figment of my imagination like vampires, or eskimos. Anyway, the other day I was in Pilates and two things crossed my mind: the first being, of course, 'Why am I in Pilates?' and the second one being 'I want Zebra Cakes.' You know, those delightful treats from Little Debbie. I shared the second thought with my roommate, who had also found herself reluctantly in Pilates and later that night, we ventured out to Walmart. Now, you have to understand that I'm at school in the south and the only thing open after 10:00 is Walmart. It's also the only place to get Zebra Cakes -and- resistance bands, which we had decided we needed to further torture our muscles.
While looking for these must-haves, we passed the pet supply section which contained a fair variety of fish. My roommate, hereby known as The Fruit Hoarder, decided that we absolutely, positively must buy a fish three weeks before Spring Break. This logic appealed to me immensely and we ended up getting a lovely little black, teal and purple betafish. At first I wanted to call it 2.0, because, you know, beta. But then I decided to name it after my dear sister. Not her real name obviously, because that would be a stupid name for a fish. So I named it Irony.
All that damn fish does is hover near the top of the bowl and make as little movement as is aquatically possible. Several times, I thought it was dead. It was only while I was sitting in my religion class half-listening to my professor warning us never to get into a discussion with Socrates that I realized what its problem was. It was suffering from metaphysical angst. You see, by naming it Irony, we had introduced it to a slew of problems most normally-named fish never encounter. It doesn't know what it is. Further more, it doesn't know whether it's supposed to be the opposite of what it is. No wonder the blasted thing can't find the energy to move. So we either have to rename it something bland like Incendiary Dave or invite people in for a fee so it can lead philosophical debates.
Decisions, decisions.
A Dinosaur

The Moon is pissing me off today. All the other balls of rock out there get these great, exotic, Shakespearean names. What do we get? Ganymede? Iolanthe? Nope. The Moon. I mean, how incredibly dull are we that none of us has managed to come up with something better? I suppose we can excuse our distant forebears for not knowing there were a bunch of them out there, and if there's only one you can just call it The Moon, right? Well why hasn't this situation been rectified? I'm appalled. There's this big-ass shiny thing up in the sky all the time, you just can't get away from it, and we have nothing cool to call it. How about DeathBall? Or...RockMonster. Or if not something cool, at least something interesting. We could call it Mitch. Then you could look pensively up into the sky and say, "ahh look, Mitch is waxing gibbous again." And then, while people were staring at you, you could steal their wallets. Think of the possibilities. Well I for one intend to do something about this. As of now, the moon shall be known as Torpedo Bob. This proclamation will be strictly enforced. Anyone caught being unimaginative and going about the stupid moon will be summarily shot. All hail Torpedo Bob.

Also bothering me is reality tv. Not the shows themselves, but all the bitching about them. Yes yes yes, we all know that they're aimed directly at the lowest possible common denominator. But how come nobody has realized that this is a good thing? Think about all the sad, pitiful people who tune in to watch F-list celebrities dangling from clotheslines trying desperately to substitute spectacle for talent, or some guy who lets maggots crawl up his nose because he knows it's the only way he will ever achieve even the slightest, most fleeting and pathetic second of fame. Ok, we get it. But why exactly is this a bad thing? Think about it. If the lowest common denominator are all at home watching tv, then they are NOT out in public getting in my way. We should all bless the geniuses at Endemol and their American counterparts for coming up with such a brilliant way to keep all the morons at home, so the other 1% of us can quietly go about the business of running things and just generally having a nice civilized time without having to deal with the rest of the population. I say LET them eat cake- covered in rat dung- while the rest of us swim blithely around in a clutter-free gene pool. God Bless Survivor.

Oh yeah, so, that previous post is the first ever post and the whole reason we decided to do this. Basically we realized that we've been letting our fantastic wonderfullness just evaporate into the aether, and then we thought about it for a second, and then we had a snack, and then we forgot about it for a while, and then we decided that the world should be able to hear what we say. If it were a perfect world everyone would be Constitutionally obligated to listen to us, but until that great day comes, this thing will have to suffice. Hope you enjoy it, all seven of you.

A Dinosaur:
I had my philosophy exam today.

Irony:
Oh? How'd it go?

A Dinosaur:
There was one question that asked if, with my current ethical practices, I could get into heaven. Because we watched that movie with Albert Brooks about how they judged whether you got to move on by what you fear? I said that, given my current ethics, I was surprised they haven't sent me to hell already. Tonight at dinner this guy was talking about how most Christians live in third world countries and I said no one cares, they're not the ones giving money to the church collection plate so no one listens to them. And he said I was going straight to hell.

Irony:
Oh my god. You're a tit.

A Dinosaur:
Oh? Well you're a…Canadian.

(Irony gasps)

Irony:
well you're a …Belgian.

(Wild cackling ensues)

A Dinosaur:
What are you, some kind of....non-consumerist?

Irony:
Dear God. Why you...you Greenpeace volunteer.

(More gasping)

A Dinosaur:
I bet you belong to PETA.

Irony:
I bet you recycle. I bet you do it and you like it. I bet you go around trying to get other people to do it too. I bet you live in a house made out of recycled newspapers, and drive a smartcar, and have a big poster of Ralph Nader on your bedroom wall.

A Dinosaur:
I bet you moved to the Hague so you could protest war crimes.

Irony:
Oh, is that so? Well I bet you drink soy milk, and don’t walk on grass in case you squish worms, and never brush your hair and say "yeah, man" a lot and
I bet you have dreadlocks and wear flannel and sit on the street corner playing bongos.

A Dinosaur:
Well, I never. I bet YOU went to Seattle and chained yourself to a parking meter to protest globalization. And you probably boycott the GAP.

Irony:
I bet you're a Democrat. And you think Al Gore is actually really funny and why won't people just give him a chance?

A Dinosaur:
Well he has been funny lately. But I agree, it's too late for him. And anyway I bet you throw red paint on people who wear leather shoes, and tie your clothes with twine because buttons and zippers are Vanity. And you you put on elaborate performance pieces where you burn Burberry scarves and Prada bags to mock consumerism.

Irony:
Ok now you are going too far. Give me a second to recover from that image.

A Dinosaur:
You know, if I had had this conversation before my exam I could have just written it down for that question and written 'See?' on the top. I wonder if I could still hand this in...

Irony:
Quit plotting and insult me some more.

Irony:
I bet you want to be...a crustacean, because they don't own property and never hurt anyone.

A Dinosaur:
I bet you voted for Clinton.

Irony:
You know, sometimes you go too far.

A Dinosaur:
Oh I got a million of em. I bet that if YOU were a dinosaur you'd be one of those weak-ass herbivores because even though you'd get eaten in a minute, wouldn't it be nice to just trounce about eating leaves and basking in the warm volcanic glow all day.

Irony:
I bet you're a Mets fan.

A Dinosaur:
And you say I go too far. We're so cool.

Irony:
We're going to hell.

A Dinosaur:
I know. I told you that. Don't worry though, we survived Pennsylvania; how much worse could Hell be?

Irony:
A good point. Uh...I'm running out of insults. Oh! I bet you wish you really could paint with all the colors of the wind. Every day. I bet you'd get up early in the morning to do it.

A Dinosaur:
What does Early in the Morning look like?

Irony:
Not sure. I just got out of college, remember?

A Dinosaur:
Oh, yes. Good point. And I bet... I bet you stay up at night worrying about whether Noah really got ALL the animals onboard his arch or if their extinction is a result of his carelessness.

Irony:
on the... arch.

A Dinosaur:
Oh. Yes, I did type that didn't I. "Noah, you may save only the Perching Animals".

(Time passes)

A Dinosaur:
Hello? Are you there?

Irony:
Sorry, i'm still laughing at the perching animals.

A Dinosaur:
Maybe we should stop now. I think there might, at this point, be one group of people somewhere that we haven't offended. Let's leave it at that.

Irony:
Oh, for pete's sake. I bet you never leave your house for fear that you might offend, belittle, confuse or anger another human being.

A Dinosaur:
What a horrible thing to say! I bet you don't even have a house to leave because you feel that houses are cemeteries for trees and you can hear them screaming at night.

Irony:
Oh god. This is never going to end.

A Dinosaur:
I bet you eschew email. And crush all the cellphones you see because they're unnecessary excesses.

Irony:
I bet you give away half of everything you own at the end of every year, so you can cleanse yourself and gain closer communion with Gaia, the great earth goddess.

A Dinosaur:
Oh heavens that's a good one.

Irony:
Yes, yes it is. I bet you sleep in the forest to see if any squirrels will talk to you. And when they poo on your head you LIKE it. Because it's a blessing.

A Dinosaur:
I take back everything I ever said about you.