April in verse - what's new?

I love this Craigslist post. My previous favorite was a guy wanting to trade his HP printer for a pan of lasagna, but this one is even better:

will trade waffles for crochet (whiteaker, eugene)

Hello Folks!

I am needing a headband because my fro is getting pretty huge.
Please give me a call if you think you or anyone you know can help me out.
Dave @ xxx3972

I will trade really amazing waffles for this headband.

I would like to talk about my trip back to SD - and I will! - but first I have to post these pictures of the Lost-themed cube decorations bestowed on me by my friends at work. I was pretty shocked when I walked into work this morning. And this is why I never take my birthday off. I am way too spoiled:

So, there are two giant silk plants at the entrance of my cube, and this is the view through them. Well, after I parted the jungly-looking hangy stuff that was strung between them, closing off my cube like some kind of secret oasis of Lostiness. (Please forgive the mess under my desk. I was too excited to take pictures to actually move my crap first.)

Here's another angle, showing even more Lost pictures and the giant fly swatter that Lisa gave me - which I am going to use on the sales director. Repeatedly, and without warning. But, I mean, totally justified and everything.

My cube was the Birthday Station, you guys! Get it? The Birthday Station! Probably the coolest thing ever. Additionally, I can keep that sign forever because I bake for work a lot, so it can also be the Baking Station or the Cupcake Station...I'll think of something, but it's totally staying in my cube forever.

It is as though my printer grew up out of the jungle, in a miracle of technology coexisting with nature, against all odds and obstacles and nay-sayers. It's like Romeo and Juliet. Or Sawyer and Juliet. Hee.

Okay, so THEN Nica and Del took us out to dinner, but it turned out not to be just Nica and Del, but rather, like, all of the people I know (or five additional friends)!

Combined with the fact that I also got to celebrate my birthday on Friday with my family, this is pretty much the best birthday ever.

OMG---also! Steve got me an AWESOME crock pot for my birthday. It has the locking lid, the spoon rest, it's programmable, and get this: it has a setting wherein you put a meat thermometer through the lid and into the meat, and set the temperature the meat has to cook to, and then it cooks it to that temperature and switches over to warm after that. IS THAT THE COOLEST THING EVER OR WHAT??? (I'm a little obsessed with my new crock pot. Just sayin', it's awesome.)

April 1, 2009 - Things that should be April Fool's jokes, but, regrettably, are not

Note the mildew taking over the entire ceiling and part of the walls, the rippling linoleum, the rusty tub, and the peeling wall. This is all caused by the non-functioning ceiling fan shown here:

Isn't that charming? Oh, I'm sorry, what's that you said? You've vomited on your keyboard? Well, I can't really be held responsible for that, can I? Also, it can't be the first time my website has made you vomit. Am I right? Yes, I thought as much.

What's especially ridiculous about the state of this bathroom is that the tenant made other repairs that were more expensive than a new bathroom vent would have been. This particular style of vent is still sold at Jerry's for approximately $20. While she allowed this bathroom atrocity to take place, she replaced the kitchen faucet and put in a new toilet. Neither of those repairs was mentioned to the landlady, nor was remuneration ever requested. So...boggles the mind, doesn't it? As does the fact that this tenant was A WOMAN. I've done property management in the past, and the only thing I've seen that even came close to this was the result of college guys. But a 40-something-year-old woman? How does a person live like that? I just...I am at a loss.

It baffles and angers me that this tenant allowed her bathroom to degenerate in this fashion. Not only is it disgusting beyond all nightmarish imagination, it is negligence that will, in all likelihood, go unpunished since my landlady is too nice to attempt to collect money for this atrocity. I feel terrible that she's going to have to foot the bill to rehab a whole room because the tenant neglected to ask for a simple $20 repair.

In conclusion, I would just like to say that I consider this hideous tenant an affront to both womankind and tenanthood, and should I meet her on the street, I will punch her square in the throat.

I’ve had the unfortunate need to call a couple of customer service lines recently, and I've noticed an odd trend: call center specialists, clearly in India, are now sporting very American-sounding names for some reason. Let me just start by saying I have nothing against Indians or any other nationalities, but I'm sure they have perfectly valid names that are well suited to their nationality and country of origin, and I would rather they use their own names than try to tell me they’re named “Stephanie” or “Kevin.” I got an email from Travelocity today that was obviously written by someone whose native language is not English, and he signed it “Roger.” Um, seriously? Roger? Who exactly are you trying to kid?

I mean, really, what is the marketing ploy at work here? Do they think Americans are so stupid that if we hear an American-sounding name, we’ll feel more at ease with our customer service rep? Because I’m telling you, just because she says her name is Jennifer, that doesn’t make it any easier to understand her. And again—I am not being racist here, I’m just saying I honestly cannot understand half of the words these reps say, because they are, in fact, heavily accented. Which, all props here, because seriously: way better than I could do trying to speak another language.
But still. When I call a customer service center, it is because I have tried everything humanly possible to take care of the problem myself or just go through the website, so talking to someone I can’t understand is neither helpful nor pleasant for me. Even if that person is ostensibly named “Becky.”

I swear to God, sometimes I want to slap the collective public with a cast iron abelskiver pan. Which I do own, and use primarily for slapping and never for making abelskivers.

I went to Fred Meyer after work tonight because I was looking for whole wheat raw pizza dough (which I never did find anywhere, for the record, although I know they have it at Market of Choice, but there is no Market of Choice anywhere near me, and also I never shop there because they look at me with raw superiority and pure loathing in their eyes and I can't take their evil, soulless stares). As I pulled into a parking aisle, I saw a woman leave her cart in the middle of the parking lot, right behind her own car so that it took up part of her space and part of the adjacent space, and then proceed to awkwardly and time-consumingly back out of her spot, navigating around the cart that SHE HERSELF LEFT THERE.

And so I ask you: In what conceivable context is this type of behavior acceptable?

So I parked my car in the middle of the aisle--running, with Ring My Bell blasting through the stereo--got out, took the cart, put it in the cart corral, got back into my car, and parked in the now-available parking spot freed up by my ability to actually perform an act of simple courtesy that my unacceptably-slothful and unspeakably rude parking spot predecessor had found herself unable to accomplish.

My Slap-O-Gram business opens soon. There will be several slapping options available, including, but not limited to, the following:

Obviously, this is just a sampling. A full list of offerings is available upon request.

Before Christmas, I was browsing clothing on Amazon trying to find some things to put in my wish list for Christmas gift ideas, and I learned that Amazon retailers have some bizarre ideas about what kind of clothes will look good on plus-size gals. Browsing again today, I was again taken aback by the ridiculousness of the clothing styles for fat girls, so it was inevitable that I should post some examples here on my blog.

First of all, this mannequin has the hugest knockers I've ever seen on a plastic lady. Am I wrong? Look at those torpedoes! I especially enjoy the erect nipples. I mean, it's not unrealistic; there's very little coverage with this shirt, so the poor mannequin has gotta be chilly.

Now, aside from the fact that this shirt is just ridiculous, you have to remember that it's PLUS SIZE. So somebody out there thought it was a good idea to put a fat girl in a top that's a) sleeveless, b) yellow, c) banded at the bottom to show off the size of her butt, and d) um...OVERALLS. It's overalls, people. And you know this because the product description says, "Overalls are big this season."

What exactly are you implying, Amazon? Are overalls BIG because you're putting them on big women? Ha ha. Ho ho. You're so droll. I know you're not going to try to tell me that overalls are in fashion, because that is just a bald-faced lie right there. Unless by "this season," you mean fall of 1984.

This is charming, isn't it? Cap sleeves, to showcase the upper arm fat; draw-string empire waist, to highlight the ginormous rack; and a generous bottom, to hide the...er, generous bottom. And a hood! I think I'd remove the hood and use it to cover my cleavage, because dang.

This shirt isn't horrible in and of itself, but that pose--what the hell is that about? Ooh, I know! She's just executed the bend and snap!

Another post-bend-and-snap pose helps merchandise this fabulous lacy corset-style top. Strapless top. Because the only thing better than sleeveless is strapless. We fat chicks look AWESOME without any sleeves or straps of any kind holding back our jellowy upper arms.

My favorite thing about this one is how high those gigantic boobs are riding. You know what kind of boobs can stay that elevated without a bra? Plastic ones. So, I mean, great choice showing this top on a mannequin, because I'd hate to see this one on a real person. Ew.

Now, this I like! This would be great to wear to...well...church? A baby shower, maybe? Or how about a funeral? It IS black, after all.

But really--this is your wearing suggestion, Amazon? You were just like, "Oh, hell, we can't figure out what to put under it, either"? Seriously? Not even a tube top or something? Huh.

This is such a great idea. It's got all the elements of a good plus-size outfit: cap sleeves, shiny fabric, ruffles, and a nice short length to show off the muffin top. Mmm...I'm gonna look HOT in this one!

Okay, what the--who are you trying to--and what's with that--huh? This is for big ladies? And we want to show off the rolls? Is that the idea?

Well, at least the sleeves are a respectable length. I have to believe this is intended as a top layer. Seriously, it's the only way I can get through the night.

Ditto with this one, because...yeah. The only thing plus-sized about this shirt is the sleeves. And the boobs.

Yep, I'm pretty sure this vendor thinks "plus size" is synonymous with "large-breasted."

I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm totally buying all of these. I'm just sayin'. Maaaaaaaaaybe not the most thoughtfully-designed plus size shirts of all time. Then again, are we really any better off when they show them on an actual fat girl?

Ouch. Not in this case. Poor girl was so ashamed she asked them to cut off her head. Look at how she tries to cover up her arm fat by bending her arm at a ridiculous angle and practically turning her hand around backwards? I feel for this girl. And for the pink leopard who died for this tank top.

Just a few pics of my friend Regina rockin' tha house last night at a bellydancing showcase. Now, I am no expert at this stuff, but I can say--totally without bias--that Regina was easily THE BEST. No kidding around. I told Nica and Del that it was like going to a class recital and Regina was the teacher. Srsly, man.

Some photos (I did not take these photos. They were taken by a friend of Regina's, or maybe a photographer or something. If I find out, I'll post an update):

I forgot my MP3 player at work, so on the way home I had to listen to the radio, and I heard that song from the early 90s that contains the brilliant lyric: "Sh-pow-pow." Remember that one? I think it's the Fine Young Cannibals, maybe?

Anyway, I was imagining this songwriting session. How did "sh-pow-pow" come about? This is my theory:

Cannibal #2: "This part here, in the middle of the techno-twang guitarish solo?"

Cannibal #2: "Dude, words are so 80s. It needs Hammer pants. What's the lyrical equivalent of Hammer pants?"

Now that I've been going to the gym (sort of) regularly and lost 25 pounds so far (yay, me!), I've started thinking about how much time I've spent being fat. Hey, don't get me wrong; I'm 94% happy for the way my life has turned out because of my fat. I mean, I think about how I might have turned out if I'd grown up beautiful and sought-after, and I don't enjoy that alternate version of myself.

For one thing, I wouldn't have such a good vocabulary (you just have to trust me on that one, as I don't actually use much of my vocabulary in this blog), because I wouldn't have spent most of my teenage years reading quietly in my room. So I definitely wouldn't kick ass at Scrabble like I do, which would be horrible. Then there's the fact that I'd probably be hated by a lot of people. Not only because I was beautiful, but because there's a high probability I'd be a heinous bitch due to my sassy mouth. Even in my current well-padded package, I have to secrete a certain level of snark daily or I'll explode. It's kind of like pushing the button in Lost. To add the sense of privilege that comes with attractiveness would have been personality suicide. You know what I'm talking about; we've all seen it. And who wants to be that person? Not I.

But the personality benefits are pretty much the only good thing about fat, and that's why I'm trying to have less of it. But, okay, think about it--I'm 35 years old, so even if I lose a ton of weight (not a literal ton; just a lot), I'm not going to be wearing mini skirts or anything. I still have to be an adult, you know? Also, on What Not to Wear, they have a sign that says, "No mini skirts after 35," so it's, like, a rule or something. You don't want to go against those people or you'll end up on television.

And don't even get me started on swimsuits. I haven't worn one in over 10 years, because nobody needs to see that, and that's not something I'm going to change by losing weight. I'm still going to want to protect the public from my pasty flesh, even if there's less of it.

So, I mean, not to be depressing, but it's kind of crazy to think about how much of my life I've spent fat. Enough that I've missed whole clothing genres. It gets me thinking about mortality is all. Not in a "OMG, I'm totally freaking out because my life is half over and what do I have to show for it" kind of way, but the cocked head "huh; never thought of it that way" kind of way. Which I think is healthy. Contemplation is good, you know?

Anyone who knows me knows I've never particularly cared for "VD" (yes, I know what that abbreviation means, and I did do it intentionally), even though I've only been single for about 9 months out of the last 15 years. I just find the whole "holiday" forced and commercial, and I've never been much of a romantic, even though I think I'm supposed to be since I'm a girl. But whatever. You have to make the best of a bad situation, so a few years back my sister Beth and I decided to start a Valentine's box contest at work. This is its fourth year. I haven't made mine yet, but a couple of people already have theirs up, so I need to get started on mine. Beth doesn't work with me anymore (because she abandoned me to move back to South Dakota), so I can safely have the same theme as she does, and she's making hers look like an owl, so I think I might do that. A pink owl. Inexplicably, I have a bag full of pink feathers, so I just need to make an owl-like shape and then cover it in feathers and make some eyes and stuff. I should be able to do that, right? Yeah, it's probably going to look pretty crappy, but that's okay. I'm not in it to win it since I'm going to be the one buying the prizes, so there's no sense in me getting it. Anyway, I think it's a cute idea. I hope it turns out mostly uncrappy.

It's come to my attention recently that there are people out there who are my polar opposite, and it both perplexes and concerns me. I overheard a couple in Fred Meyer yesterday saying, "Look at these signs: 'Dream.' 'Believe.' These are so cool," and I thought to myself, "That is absolutely the last thing I would ever put on my wall. Clearly, those people are my opposites. If I pass them in the aisle will we all disintegrate?" I'll never know, because I ran away. Not because I was afraid of disintegration, but because I had to find Steve and tell him there were people out there who actually like those lame-ass signs. I mean, can you even imagine such a thing?

But anyway, I always knew there were all kinds of people, but some of them seem to have bought a book on personality stereotypes, flipped through it, stuck their fingers into random pages, and then used that as a guideline for developing their likes and dislikes. Am I wrong? I'm totally not! You've seen these people: they like NASCAR, wear t-shirts with Disney characters on them, and listen to country music. Or maybe they love forest green, have ruffly valances on every window in their houses, drive an SUV even though they only have one kid and don't even know how to turn on the 4WD, and have that two-toned hair that they think says, "I'm more than just a soccer mom--I'm sassy!" but really screams, "I've completely lost my personality and am trying to replace it with highlights!"

By the way, mom, I blame this entire rant on cramps. I mean, sure, I do think I'm better than these people, but that's probably just because I am. Er--because I am...having cramps, I meant to say. Yep.

(I'm not having cramps. I just said that. Now I'm a liar, too, in addition to being a conceited crank--which, incidentally, totally goes against my earlier assertion that I turned out to be a nice person because I'm fat. Sorry about that.)

Okay, well, time to work on that Valentine's box. It has to be perfect! Perfect!!!

I have two choices of activities. I can do laundry, or I can blog about Lost. Because doing laundry creates a lot of noise that my splitting head just can't take right now, I defaulted to Lost, which only produces the tiny little noises of typing, which are far easier to take. Due to the aforementioned headache, please forgive me if I spell any words incorrectly or say things that don't sound like me. I promise, I'm not drunk. It's the headache!

A few important-ish things happened on Lost last Wednesday. I will touch upon them here (and, of course, feel free to email me your additional thoughts, as I am bound to forget something in my altered state).

So, first of all, Penny's having a baby! And then she has him, and we'll fast-forward past the grape-jelly-newborn pics and show you this adorable one here:

And guess what his name is? Awwwwwww: it's Charlie, after...well, Charlie. I like this one much better than the old Charlie. I can already tell he sings better, too.

Faraday is all, "You okay, sweetie?" and she's like, "Yeah, fine," and we're all like, "We do not care. Please show some characters worthy of screen time. Or at the very least Sawyer with his shirt off."

But instead, we got some more Others, who tried to get all up in the kidses bidness, but them tables got turned.

Now then! Desmond is on a mission to go find Faraday's mommy, as instructed in a dream/memory. A dreamory. A meam. So he goes to the college and they're all, "Never heard of her," but he finds the lab anyway, and sees a pic of Faraday and his gf, Theresa, and is all, "This chick will know where Mizz Faraday is."

And a butch lady lets him in and is all, "Oh, you want to see Theresa, do you? Weh-heh-hellllll, let me just show her to you!" and we're like, "This does not bode well." And it did not, because Theresa was kind of a V8 smoothie. In that she was vegetablesque.

And butch lady was like, "Thank God for Mr. Widmore, who pays all the bills for no discernable reason other than that he is involved in everything ever," and Desmond and the rest of us were like, "Exsqueeze me? Baking powder?"

So! Desmond was like, "Dammit. I'm going to have to go see Widmore, and he never even offers me a drink." And off he went.

"I see you got the scarf I sent you. Let me be uncharacteristically helpful and tell you that Faraday's mom is in L.A."

Then he goes back to Penny and tries to lie to her, but she will have none of it, and she's all, "If you're going back to the island, then we're coming with you. Who else would make you your PB&Js with the crusts cut off?" and Desmond is like, "Sweetie!" and Penny rolls her eyes.

Back on the island, it's 1950 and Richard doesn't know Locke, just like he said he wouldn't, so Locke gives him the ~~friendship bracelet~~ compass as instructed in the last episode.

"You very clearly said that I was your leader. You also said I could have your comic book collection."

"Preposterous! I already promised that to young Widmore. And I also don't believe you about the leader stuff."

"Hey, I'm just telling you what you said. If you don't believe me, come visit me when I'm born in 2 years."

"You know what, man? I think I will. I really think I will. In the meantime, this compass seems kind of unwieldy and easy to lose. What do you say we get one of those necklaces that says, 'Best Friends' split down the middle and we each wear one half? I think that would be easier."

Hmm. I really thought I could care, but no. And how is the blood dripping down her face in that direction? Did she go into a cartwheel on her way down?

Us: "Call it! Time of death--oh, whenever. Just kill her already! But, I mean, too bad for Daniel and everything."

I have to go now, because I made some cinnamon rolls. I think carbohydrates are really good for headaches. Right? Am I right? No? Well, forget you.

As one of my Christmas presents from my sister, Marianne, I received a bank that counts your coins for you. Which is nice, because I tend to have a lot of change, and usually I just throw it at bums, but now I can actually save it up for a special occasion or a pony.

I didn't realize until a few days after Christmas that the best part of this gift was actually the instructions. Let's learn about jugs!

This is where I learned that Marianne actually cheaped out on me and gave me half of a gift. Did I get the big jug or the small jug? I may never know. All I know for sure is that I don't have to be a financial genius to make money with my jugs! Er, save money with my jugs. My Deluxe Money Jugs, that is.

Now, look out, luddites: the batteries are included, but not installed. In case you have never installed (or seen) a battery, they've included some step-by-step instructions. Ridiculously step-by-step. PERFECT!

Obviously I had to highlight the erroneous apostrophe. If I hadn't, a plane would've crashed.

Keep your jugs clean, people. Don't let them get wet! Don't expose your jugs to the elements! When you want to move one of your jugs, pick it up by the middle and support the bottom of the jug with your other hand (my fellow DD girls, you know what I'm talkin' about). Careful, now! If you take care of your jugs, they'll take care of you.

You guys, who wrote these instructions?? Seriously, is there any part of this document that is not a double entendre?

You know the old saying: "The bigger the jugs, the dimmer the display." I never knew there were batteries in those things. Thank you, Deluxe Money Jugs instructions! I learned something today.

Man, after I hit about 70, I don't plan to use my Jugs for several years. Maybe never again! I hope I can find the battery compartment, so as to properly decommission them.

Being the grammar Nazi that I am, that little "threw it's" jumped out at me immediately. Now I'm glad for that constellation of idiocy, because without it I might never have read the entire document.

And for what it's worth, you can place paper money in my jugs for safe keeping any time--without having to remove the lid or anything! Just stuff it down in there. The Girls will tally it right up.

I'm not even going to elaborate on this paragraph. I challenge you NOT to find perversion at every turn. Just be patient and go easy!

January 26, 2009 - Steve loves body pillows, and I'm telling the whole internet!

So funny: I was at Costco on Friday and finally bought myself this really soft chocolate brown body pillow that I'd had my eye on for months but was too lazy to actually buy. Well, I mean, they're huge. It'd be like carrying a giant teddy bear through the store. Anyhoo, I get home and show it to Steve, and inexplicably he says, "What?! Why didn't you buy me one??" So I went back after work today and got him one, even though they were no longer on sale. Yep, that's right. My love runs deep, like a vat of body pillows.

Okay, that's better. My washing machine was attempting a launch. A little unbalanced. Like me!

Anyway: Lost. Could I get some type of outline or graphic of some sort? Family tree? No? Well, fine then. I'll just figure it out on my own, using a really old computer and a chalk pendulum. It's all good.

Oh, and we found out that Desmond is special. No, no - not regular special. Reeeally special. And I'm going to tell you why. It's because of his...

So, finally we know why Desmond's shirt is always half-unbuttoned. Duh: it's a solar-powered magical chest hair!

But let's go back in time (har!) to earlier in the episode, when we learned that time be all jiggy on tha island. Finally, we understand why Farraday can't keep his shirt tucked in.

"It's not my fault, man. The left half of my shirt is in the past. It--sniff--never got a chance to be tucked."

And then everybody stole a line from Doc Brown and was all, "When are we?" and Sawyer was like, "Hey, what happened to my shirt?" and I was all, "Dude, what EVER happens to your shirt? Now you complain?" (Because Sawyer is always running around half-nekkid and nobody cared until now. Right?)

Ben: "Well, I wish I had some nice smoked gouda, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"

The hills are aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive with the sound of Lost fans saying, "Hunh? Whaa?"

January 19, 2009 - I finally removed that piece of thread that's been stuck to the bathroom floor for months

Yes, I'm really that lazy. It's not like I didn't know it was there, because I had a perfect view of it any time I was going potty. I knew it was there, and I left it there, and I don't really have any regrets, apart from the fact that my mother is reading this and shaking her head over a) the laziness, and b) the mention of private bathroom procedures for the whole internet to read.

Okay, to be accurate, it was two pieces of thread. One was blue and one was black. They were somewhat intertwined, but did not seem to make any kind of discernable shape. Believe me, I tried for months to discern one!

And now--a random set of rules, composed on the fly while listening to Antiques Roadshow and avoiding dishes!

(I should probably note that this entry has nothing to do with Steve and me, but was inspired by another couple I've heard of but will not name, other than to say that they're super cute and may have tattoos and/or piercings of an undisclosed nature.)

Having acquired -- and wishing to retain -- a new romantic interest, thou shalt abide by these rules of ex-paramour excisement:

Okay, I think I'm done with that for now. I think I'll go make some t-shirts for my Cafe Press store. I only made $26 last month. This is not shaping up to be a very good side business, I have to say.

So that was kind of a lame blog entry, but I figure something is better than nothing, right? IT IS IF I SAY IT IS!!!

Last night was New Year's Eve, and though I typically never do anything on New Year's Eve, the girls and I (meaning actual girls, not my boobs. Although, obviously, they were there, too, being inextricable from me and everything) decided to have a night on the town. This was somewhat distressing to the boys who go with the aforementioned girls (Regina, Nica, and me), but I think they will get over it. They will get over it, right? Well, here's hopin'!

Since one of the menfolk was out of town and the others were forced to stay home pining for us, we decided we needed a date. Just one date. Purse-sized. Enter Bobblehead Dwight.

Disclaimer for mom:
Not all of the alcoholic beverages pictured were consumed by me. I made sure there was no photographic evidence of most of my drinking.

This was a very large horse. My grandfather, Dwight Schrute, had the largest horse in the county. Twenty-two hands high. People will tell you you can't get a horse that large. Those people are incorrect. The secret is beet supplements.

These women took turns imprisoning me in their purses throughout the evening. I later managed to escape, using only my wits and a dime I found under the table when they weren't looking. They were inept captors.

This is not amusing. If I wanted to, I could kill you with those chopsticks using a technique I learned from my sensei.

In an attempt to assimilate me into their feminine culture, the women wrapped me in this metallic pink scarf. It did not work. I am all male, believe me. I tested myself with the Gaydar wand afterward, and, thankfully, I remain unaffected by the wardrobe aberration.

Despite its gargantuan size, this drink was no match for me. I've trained my bladder so well I can easily drink twice my weight.

In my off time--of which there is precious little, due to my unfailing commitment to my job, as well as my many martial arts pursuits--I occasionally costume myself as a Sith Lord. I felt that New Year's Eve was an appropriate time for this.

The owner of this vehicle would not allow me to drive it, despite the fact that Schrutes have been driving - and building - buggies for centuries.

I wish you hadn't released this photo. I will make sure it is henceforth stricken from county records. I have contacts at the Lackawanna County Sheriff's Department.

I don't recall this incident. I'm certain this picture has been tampered with. The only Schrute ever to live out of a shopping cart was my uncle, Gerhard Schrute, who fell on hard times after the beetle infestation of '64. Even then, he first performed a substantial retrofit on the cart; it had a full bathroom and kitchenette.

The women I was with insisted we visit random homes during the course of the evening. This one elicited much excitement for a reason I could not discern. I was feeling fairly intoxicated at this point, and must extend my apologies to the homeowners for the condition of their welcome mat.

Yet another alcoholic beverage. The Schrutes, despite their superior genes, do not have a high tolerance for alcohol. I began to feel the women were trying to get me drunk and managed to switch my drink for a Coke while they weren't looking.

I was led to believe this was the actual Princess Unicorn, but on closer inspection, I found her to be a fraud.

Someone put me in a basket against my will. I know for a fact I could garner much more than $2.00.

This gentleman was kind enough to read from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

This sign would have been much more effective had it been printed on Dunder Mifflin paper. Also, I've never cared for that font.

I was told this chocolate martini was quite delicious. Unfortunately, I could not reach the straw.

Why I was placed among all these bottles of alcohol, I don't know. At least my idiot captors managed to remove me before I was made into a mixed drink.

This is not the first time I've been accosted by more than one woman at a time. Superior Schrute genes.

My favorite is the one at the law office, because they will have no idea what it means.