Quick question: Why is it that every time someone mentions Big Love, anyone within earshot who has seen the show makes orgasm noises? I've now heard this multiple times, and it typically goes down like this:
Person A: ...kind of like that one episode of Big Love.
People within earshot who've seen the show (gutturally): Uuurrnggg. Such a great show.
Everyone else within earshot: What the fuck was that?
I'm generally a pretty stubborn person when it comes to heeding the suggestions of others. Never seen The Wire. Don't care how much you love Lost. Will not, for Christ's sake, put some pants on. But I might have to give Big Love a shot. Not many shows can claim to be getting orgasmic reviews. Maybe next time I'm hard-up for a date I'll check it out, and I'll be sure to have extra...everything handy. Apparently it could get messy. I'll report back sometime with some sort of scaled Uuurrnggg ratings system.
Anyway, this disturbing thought was made possible by the fact that school is back again. This semester is the first time since I up-and-decided to give gittin' ma edyewcaytion one more shot that I have been completely against the prospect of summer ending and school starting back up. I mean, in any given semester I become cynical and fed up a few weeks in, but this time it's been there from the get-go. It might just be that I know the drill. We parse. We talk about some apparently heavy duality. And one kid starts out the semester timidly raising his/her hand to squeak out an observation, is told "good point" one too many times by the professor, and suddenly morphs into the blowhardiest knowitallface this side of AM radio. Other students cower beneath the blustery assbaggitude. Anyone who raises a hand and speaks knows that there will be a response from the professor, and a response from Godcomplexzilla - and not necessarily in that order. I never offer my opinion in class anyway, but I used to just sit there in amusement while everyone else fantasized about the loudmouth's spectacular and well-deserved demise. And now I'm just tired of all of it.
None of which is helped by the amount of commuting I've been doing. I'll find out soon enough, but I'm pretty sure that if hell is made-to-order depending on what makes a particular person miserable, then my own personal hell will look something like the oil refinery in Commerce City. Yep. I'll be stuck in an endless traffic jam on 270 alongside the oil refinery. A little part of my soul dies every time I drive by those post-apocalyptic-looking towers, especially when they're all lit up at night. Anyway, my hell will be pretty much like my Wednesdays, except that in hell the refinery's skies are patrolled by horrible, gigantic mechanical vultures with glowing sulfur-yellow eyes, that feed on oily sludge and shit rusty bolts. And the flapping of their wings makes a terrible creaking, clanging sound as their razor-blade beaks blast Creed's greatest hits, on repeat, forever. And while one of the worst parts of the real commute past Commerce City is the disgusting, seemingly ever-changing smell that refining oil apparently produces, in hell it will be made even worse by the knowledge that the smell is actually the result of 2,000 huge, sweaty sumo wrestlers having endless sex with each other in an enormous vat of rotten eggs with the world's largest fan behind them, propelling the stench into my nostrils. Oh, and all the cars in the traffic jam will have homiletic bumper stickers plastered all over them, so everywhere I look I'll get uninvited life-lessons in the form of a lame rhyme or pun or creative use of bold letters and underlines. Suck on that, Alighieri.
In short: who's lookin' for a roommate? C'mon, it'll be fun!
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