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As of Monday my blog* was slowly but surely creeping up to the high heights of getting my 10,000th visitor. Shut up. I know it’s not a lot for most of you, but damnit, it means something to me.

I was pretty excited at this prospect and began coming up with things I could do to celebrate. I started formulating and contemplating, fornicating and coronating, fabulating and calumniating, and trying to come up with the coolest possible idea for a 10 thousand hit celebration**. But life never goes quite the way you want it to.

“But Andy, whatever do you mean?” you might ask. Well, due to my unfortunate foray into follicle folly*** and my over-active imagination I was featured on Gawker**** and, well, let’s just say I was blasted well over the 10,000 hit mark within about 20 minutes.

Then I got to thinking it would be kind of nice to illustrate my brief history of blogging. Since my first post***** my blog****** has changed******* a lot. Mostly though, I try to amuse myself. I figured my 10,000th post shouldn’t be any different. I mean, after all I’ve hated on Nickelback, ranted about techno, killed a fellow blogger 3 times in one post********, bashed america’s idol, I’ve pretty covered everything. I even managed to up my life expextancy********* by like 40 years…and I’ve died.

So far I’d say it’s been a pretty good run, and to all those people who come back time and again to read the senseless drivel I’ve become so consistent********** with, thanks. And I hope you’ll stick around and keep reading despite all the quirks*********** I’ve developed from being generally odd…and a trombone player.

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my blog************ as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it*************. It’s nice to know that people are willing to read the goofy ideas and silly scenarios I’ve been coming up with my whole life. Here’s to 10,000 more visitors*************.

Sincerely,

Andy

p.s. In case I mis-linked anything, I apologize.

*SUCKER!
**like trying to see if I could OD on the dictionary.
***OOH! that was a good one.
****For the third time
*****Bet you thought it’d be interesting. You didn’t? Oh.
******ba-zing. that’s twice.
*******the last time I tried to pin me down. I’m back to pretty much doing whatever.
********sorry about that Dade.
*********So you get more crappy posts like this one.
**********I’m not sure why I linked this post here.
***********and maybe continue coming back because of them.
************See? I know when a joke is dead.
*************No I don’t.
**************I just had to put one more sentence so as not to end on 13*************** *’s.
***************I’m very superstitious****************.
****************not really.

Every morning for breakfast I eat oatmeal. I think I made this clear in an earlier post, and if I didn’t, well, consider this the post in which I make it clear and you can now reflect on the first sentence if reflecting on the earlier post didn’t work for you. And if you don’t think its technically reflecting to refelect on a reflection reflected upon only from moments ago, then perhaps you can reflect on it now, as it’s been longer. At any rate I hope it’s clear now that I eat oatmeal for breakfast every morning.

I bring it with me to work, dump some water in there (Poland Spring – because I’m half Polish*), and then nuke it on up. Typically upon placing it at my desk I’ll then grab a fork** from our supply shelves to eat it. Then I return to my desk whereat sits said oatmeal.

Now I never claimed to have a great sniffer, but this morning was just different. Not unpleasant, just different. My oatmeal smelled like french fries. The beer-battered kind you get at The Deli (and then return because they’re cold since they’ve been sitting under the damn heat lamp for so long – or because you saw an employee wipe a booger on them). I couldn’t believe it. So I sat down in front of my oatmeal, thinking my nostrils were most likely being misled, only to find that the french-fry smell strengthened – like so many French people who-…ah who am I kidding? French people aren’t strong at anything.

Then I got to thinking about why my oatmeal smells like french-fries. I couldn’t come up with an answer. I don’t eat fast food a lot (practically never) so it’s not like I have an old Burger King bag sitting in the trash or elsewhere in the office. Potentially it could’ve been the toothpaste flavor I still had in my mouth interfering with the original oatmeal smell – or maybe it was the air conditioner – who knows?

Finally, I decided that if my oatmeal is going to smell like something other than oatmeal, french fries isn’t so bad. It could’ve been much worse. Here’s a brief list of other things I wouldn’t mind my oatmeal smelling like:

1. Chicken
2. Bananas
3. Apple Pie
4. Frank Stallone

*And all polish baby.
**We ran out of spoons long ago.

I’m not sure what exactly my problem is…well, let me rephrase that. I’m not sure exactly what Boris’ problem is. He’s the kind of guy who makes a stupid joke and you laugh at it, but only because he barely speaks English. The type of person who is always trying to make a “business” connection even though he is a barber. He wants people to come back. He wants people to take business cards. What he doesn’t want, is to do a good job.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate immigrants about as much as everyone else…alright, well, at least as much as White Dade. But damnit, when you are cutting hair, the broken English in some sort of Eastern European accent just won’t…cut it. It should really have clued me in. Especially my second time back.

The first time I went to this place to get my hair cut, Sergei did it. Despite the fact that I told him I just wanted him to trim it, he decided he was gonna go Jack Bauer on my follicoles – but he did a good job. In fact, when he was done I thought “Well this is the exact opposite of what I asked for but, at least it looks good.” Oh, if only Boris could’ve been so lucky:

Boris: Hullo.
Andy: Hi.
Boris: Ok. How you want cut, this hair?
Andy: Uh…which one?
Boris: How shall I cut?
Andy: Just take a little off and even it out.
Boris: Okay.

That’s what was said. Here’s how Boris interpreted it.

Boris: Hey there chappy, what gives? Gimme some skin!

Andy: Hi, I’m a stupid b-hole for coming back to this place. Take my money!

Boris: Ok. What can I do for ya today? I have to warn you, I really suck.

Andy: Uh…you know what? I trust you. People that are terrible at things? Why, that’s what I consider the foundations of a grade-A establishment. As long as you can read at a 3rd grade level, you’re classy in my book.

Boris: So then, any vague ideas at least?

Andy: Just take a little off and even it out.

Boris: Okay, I’ll cut off too much hair and leave it all lop-sided and weird looking.

Andy: That’d be perfect – say! You don’t happen to have some rusty, old, barely-functioning scissors around do you? I’d like to purchase them for $100 and do my own haircuts at home!

Boris: Oh, as a matter of fact, I do. (rummages in those weird barber-shop drawers that every barber seems to have) Ah ha! Here’s the pair I killed my wife and brother with, in order to sell their skin for the money I needed to move to America and start my lucrative, shitty, barber shop!

Andy: Lovely! Say, where’s Sergei at? He seems to have an equally poor grasp of English, but still manages to do a good job.

Boris: Oh, I killed him too! Here at Boris’ Barber Shop our motto is: “If you like your haircut, we don’t suck enough…and we’ll kill the person responsible!”

Andy: Why that sounds like a fine slogan Boris. You really have it all.

Boris: Yes, yes I do!

(Andy and Boris laugh uproariously together)

Long story short? I’m buying clippers tonight.