So I just got out of the shower (go ahead, ladies, you may “whoo”), and something incredible happened.
     Okay, we just moved, you know, about a month ago?  And one of the showers in this townhouse has one of those showerhead attachments where the water goes from the original head, through a hose, and out of the attached showerhead, you know?  Maybe that’s too confusing.  Okay, here: the showerhead is attached to a hose, so it’s removable and you can spray the water in every nook and on every corner of your body.  There.  Got it?  Alright, now here’s where the incredulity happens:
     I was done soaking my muscular body with water (whoooo!), and so it was now time to put the hosey showerhead back on it’s holder thing, you know?  So I’m now facing towards the faucets, reaching up to the showerhead to place the hose thing back on it’s holder, and I knock down a bottle of shampoo (a rack that holds shampoos and the like hangs under the showerhead).  I knock it over, right?  And it starts to fall.  Oh no’s! I think to myself.  Now here’s the incredulity, here it is: My left hand, which was just a second ago hanging at my left side, reaches across my tightly ab’d stomach (whoooo!), goes under my right arm (which is still raised up towards the showerhead), and catches the falling bottle of shampoo.  It catches the falling bottle of shampoo.  Catches.  That’s right.  And the whole time–more incredulity, here–my right hand continued to put the showerhead back in its holder.  And it wasn’t even that difficult!

     Beginning next year, 2009, the period between the end of March to the beginning of October, for many Americans, will no longer be a time of merriment and great joy.  In fact, it could be said that that time frame will be a time of loss, tears, and maybe even some severe cases of psychological depression.
     America does not have a lot of originality to offer; most of our food originated in other countries, many of our musical styles, and nearly all of our sports.  Baseball is one of the few things we as Americans can take pride in.  It is a sport requiring precision, speed, cleats; the ability to catch balls; dead-on hand-eye coordination; and the occasional dose of steroids.
     But this year–however sad, however shocking and abrupt–will be baseball’s last.
     “This issue,” says baseball’s Cheif Secretary Chairman’s assistant to the Administer of the CEO’s Presidential Treasurer, “has actually been privately debated among all of us at the MLB for the past two years or so, but ultimately it was the choice of Bud Selig [Commissioner for the MLB].”
     Bud Selig, on a business trip in Chicago, was hounded by the Press for answers, but the only statement he made was this: “There are just too many players abusing steroids.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, steroids are great!  But we can’t have players being influenced by them during the games, and that’s exactly what is happening, and it will keep on happening.  [We have] no choice but to end Major League Baseball entirely.”
     All is not lost, however.  Jerry Watz, a carpet salesman in Omaha, NE, has responded to the public’s outcry to Selig’s decision by forming the AWA, or the American Wiffleball Association.
     “It’s pretty much the same thing as baseball,” he says, “but the field will be half the size of a baseball field, and instead of wooden or aluminum bats, the players for the AWA will use those skinny little plastic yellow bats.  You know the ones.  And of course baseballs won’t be used, but wiffleballs.”
     For those who do not know of these “wiffleballs,” it might be best explained this way: Grab a waffle.  Now wad the waffle up into a ball in your hand.  Look at the waffle.  What you now hold is essentially a wiffleball, except the square holes of the waffle are circular, the solidness of the waffle is hollow, the color of the waffle is white, and the edibility of the waffle is gone–it’s plastic.
     As far as who will make up the official teams of the AWA, notices will be posted in the windows of carpet stores nationwide starting May 1, 2008, along with a list of the legal requirements of players and the phone number at which you may reach the offices of the AWA (which is currently Jerry Watz’s mother’s basement).  The first 500 callers will get to meet Watz, enjoy his mother’s baking, and briefly demonstrate their talent for wiffleball at the Phelps baseball diamond in Omaha.
     Some guy from the streets of Manahattan, says, “I personally believe that wiffleball will greatly surpass baseball in popularity once the word gets spread around.  It will be great.”
     Let’s hope so, America.  Let’s hope so. 

     It is the universal question that we all ask ourselves at some point in our life: What does God look like?  And nobody has been able to offer up any reasonable answers to that question until now.
     Dr. Ronald Reingold, a Jew with a Ph.D. in biology and a B.A. in money-saving, has asked himself this question since he was a teenager.
     “I’ve always known there had to be a God,” he says, “but I just couldn’t fathom what He must look like.  I’ve been wondering since I was probably thirteen or fourteen.  I figured he must have a physical body in order to have made physical things, but that’s as close as I got.”
     In the early winter of 2007, Dr. Reingold set off on a solo mission to Antarctica to study the various species of penguins that live there.
     “That’s right,” he says.
     After living among the Emperor Penguins–the stars of the movie March of the Penguins–for only a week, Dr. Reingold was feeling ready to pack things up.
     “[The penguins] were acting as if they ruled the place, like they were the most important things on Earth,” the doctor says.  “I guess that’s what Hollywood does to some people.  Look at Lindsay Lohan and Gollum, for example.”
     But that’s when the revelation hit him.
     “But that’s when the revelation hit me,” he says.  “I had been studying the penguins for seven days already, and it was only then that I made my realization: not only can penguins not fly, but they are the only birds that look as though they are wearing tuxedos.  It was so obvious, I couldn’t believe it took me that long to figure it out: God is a penguin.”
     When asked, “What about ostriches?  They are flightless birds too,” Dr. Reingold had this to say:
     “Yeah, but they don’t count.”

     [To see pictures of Dr. Ronald Reingold and the snarky penguins he was studying, visit his site.

     Sometimes I like to pee with the bathroom lights off.  What I don’t like is having to clean up afterwards.

     I’m a quoteless bastard.

     Thou shalt not fart in the shower!

     Liberals suck.

     Quotes are overrated.

     Overratings are quotes.

     Do you like carrots as much as I like asking if you like carrots?

     I remember when Will Farrell was funny.  And then I woke up.

     I’m giving up chores for Lent.
   
     My mother is the best dad in the world!

     But first I’d like to mention that I just had me some fourthmeal.  Mm-mmm!  (Taco Bell, for the laymen.)  Seriously, why do they call it fourthmeal?  Retards.
     My bedroom.  Total chaos.  Awful.   And smelly.  The scene of the crime was unlike anything one might see on CSI: Miami.  Unless, of course, the scene of the crime was

A PUTRID BOG OF DIARRHEA!!!

     One of the freakin’ dogs projectile shat all over the freakin’ place,

AAAAND

threw up all over two of my bed comforters, soaking

RIGHT THROUGH TO THE MATRESS!!!

     In brighter news, I created a Blog*Spot account (yes, the site uses an asterisk like that).  Here’s the link: Chris Graham’s Photoblog, a.k.a The Christopher Show.  It’s gonna be a smash!.

     It was fascinating: my dog just threw up his breakfast, and now he’s re-eating it.
     Long story short, a 26-year-old lady moved in with us last night very suddenly.  And with equal suddenness, she moved out this morning some time around five or six.  Possibly the shortest renter in the history of renting (homes, that is).
     My mom is the one who discovered that the girl was gone when she saw that her room was completely empty, save for a watter bottle on the night table (actually, I discovered that when I went into her room to smell it) and her wet towel and washcloth in the bathroom (which I have not yet smelled, and probably will not).  More details on her moving out in a moment, but first: the aroma!
     This girl–let’s call her Samantha–smelled holy.  Actually, wait, let’s not call her Samantha, ’cause that’s her real name.  Let’s call her Beverly.  Beverly smelled holy.  Actually, it was more than that.  Okay, imagine that you’re smelling a turd.  Now imagine the complete opposite of that smell.  Now subtract seven and add five.  Multiply it by beauty, divide it by weight, and put a halo on top.  That’s what she smelled like, this Beverly, and that’s why I went into her empty room this morning and smelled the air…and her sheets.  But it wasn’t weird of me or anything….
     Anyway, the reason Beverly moved out is possibly the greatest reason one could give for having lived in a place for no more than eight hours.  See, my mom called me this morning and informed me of all this, so that’s how I know.  So here is Beverly’s reason:
     First, let me say that I am not joking.  In fact, let me embolden that: I am not joking.  I kid you not, folks, I kid you not!  This is no lie, this is no joke, no prank, no fooling, this is the complete and utter truth.  I…kid…you…not, this is what Beverly said to my mom, I’m dead serious:
     “I’m sorry, but your son is just too hot to resist.”

     Nah, I’m just kidding.

     The girl was in my dreams again.  We spoke on AIM.  And I remember thinking to myself, Okay, Chris, remember that screen name!  But now I forget it.  There were three letters in the beginning, possibly her initials.  There was an e in there, I know that.  Anyway, my mom’s being a dick, so I’m leaving.

Bids are being placed left and right, up and down, on eBay, as we speak, for a very special item.  It is a bid for…

THE GREAT ILLINOIS CORN FLAKE:

Two corn flakes happily swimming in a bowl of milk…possibly…I’m not sure:

So, if any person out there would like to own this magnificent, crispy piece of breakfast history, I have provided the link below to the Web site at which you may place your bid (the current highest bid is $193,300 as of my writing this).  And for those of you who do not wish to purchase this Frosted Flake, you may want to make note that this Flake will surely go down in the books of breakfast lore for many, many centuries, and that God will, in all likelihood, look favorably upon he who stands in this Great Illinois (Frosted) Corn Flake’s presence.

The Great Illinois Corn Flake

I had a dream early this morning.  It was good.  There was a girl in it.  She was either two years older than I, or four.  I don’t know how we met.  I think maybe my mom knew her mom or something.  No, that’s not right.  I remember I had broken ribs throughout most of the dream; the right side of my ribcage was as if someone had hooked his fingers underneath the inside and pulled outward, causing the ribs to snap and stick out.  It was uncomfortable, nearly painful.  Or maybe that was part of a different dream.  Anyway, I was at the girl’s house, just hanging out with her.  We were new friends.  She was taller than all the other girls I had ever liked, and I told her this.  She was probably five-seven or -eight.  She had very dark hair, nearly black.  But it couldn’t be mistaken as black.  It was definitely just a very, very dark brown.  It was short.  Shoulder length.  I normally don’t like that as much as I like longer hair.  But I liked it on her.  It was wavy in parts, straight in others.  In other words, it looke slightly messy, very different.  I loved it.  She wore glasses: black, squarish frames–the stylish kind.  Except at one point, she was wearing a dull-silver-colored pair.  I didn’t like them as much.  I told her this.  So I’m at her house.  She lived in an apartment complex with her mom.  She used the computer a lot for AIM and social-networking sites.  The computer was in her room.  I think she didn’t like me at first in that way, but I was “growing on her.”  We had fun.  She wasn’t a girlie-girl, but she wasn’t a tomboy.  She was simply a strong, independent person.  I don’t know if she was a Christian.  She seemed to be of no faith.  But she was open.  She told me she sent me a letter in the mail, just a small, simple note.  This attracted me to her even more; I love handwritten letters.  Especially short, cute notes.  She was so pretty.  Very different than other girls.  She told me that she will have decided by the end of the week if she wants to go on a date with me.  She smiled about it.  That leads me to believe she would have said yes eventually; would have given me a chance.  She also said that if I can do something–I forget what–then she will definitely go on a date with me, and give me a kiss after the date.  Darn it.  I wish I knew her name.  I have a feeling I’ll be seeing her again.

     This is my interpretation of many of the girls all over the Internet, including, but not limited to, MySpace, Xanga, and Facebook:

“Heyyyy, L0Lz!  my name is Jessica but my peeps just call me CRAY-ZEEE!!!!!!!!  i have brown hair but i’m a blonde @ <3 (at heart) hehe!  music is my life if it wasn’t 4 music i don’t know where i’d be!  oh, and oh yeah, i love movies and i love alllll sports, so i’m not a girlie-girl L0Lz!  i have the best friends and they all call me CRAY-ZEEE and i love my family and i would do anything for them, oh, and oh yeah, i have an AMAZZZZZING boyfriend named Donald, but he lets me call him Donnie, i <3 u babayyy MUAHZ!!!!!  well that’s pretty much me so if you want to know anything else just ask!  oh, and oh yeah, I also drive a Dodge Stratus, i looooooove it, it’s my babyyyyy, and so is Donnie, my boyfriend, and my family who is the best in the world, and my friends who call me CRAY-ZEEE!!!!!  Wellz, byeee hehe <3 xoxo”

And here is what I would love to say to such girls if I ever had the opportunity to interview them for a date (or for any reason, for that matter).

“Hey, Jessica.  What?  What’s so funny?  Alright, well you wanna begin now?  Alright, here we go: Do your friends really call you “CRAY-ZEEE” or are you actually trying to sound like an idiot?  Oh, some of them call you CRAY-ZEEE?  As a name or as an adjective?  An adjective, huh?  That’s what I thought.  So they don’t address you as CRAY-ZEEE?  That’s good.  And what sort of CRAY-ZEEE things do you do?  Oh, you make people laugh easily?  That’s good.  What other CRAY-ZEEE thing do you do?  You laugh a lot?  I see.  Give me one more thing, what other sort of CRAY-ZEEE things do you do?  You talk about boys a lot?  Wow, yeah, you’re quite the wild one, aren’t you?  Another question for you: Why do you say you are blonde at heart?  Oh, it’s because you’re so CRAY-ZEEE?  What do you mean you “guess”?  Oh, I see, you also stub your toe sometimes, huh?  Well, that certainly would make you blonde at heart.  Let me ask you something: Are you aware of the rules of punctuation?  What do I mean?  [sigh] Nevermind.  Alright, moving on: You’re a big music fan, I see.  What kind of music do you like?  Oh, you hate Britney Spears and stuff?  “Not a fan of bublegum pop”?  Oh, you like more underground things?  Like what?   Kelly Clarkson, huh?  Yeah, she’s pretty CRAY-ZEEE herself, isn’t she?  Haha, alright, moving on:  You like movies, you like sports…good, good….what kinda sports?  Oh, you don’t really like to play sports, just cheer for them?  Mkay.  Well, I could stop right there, but I’m just dying for you to tell me more about yourself.  So, you’re not a “girlie-girl,” huh?  Do you like snakes or spiders?  No?  Then I beg to differ.  Sounds like you really love your family.  Here it says you would do anything for them.  Would you take a bullet for them?  No, no…I don’t mean would you “steal” a bullet; I mean would you get shot for one of them?  “Not if you didn’t have to”?  Oh, but you would if you absolutely have to?  Hmm.  I’ll bet.  Tell me about Donald, or Donnie, what’s he like?  Yeah, I know, you already mentioned that he lets you call him Donnie.  Anything else?  Oh, he likes sports as well?  Does he play?  Oh, he’s the school’s football quarterback, eh?  You say he’s good enough to be in the pros without even playing for college?  Well, I’ll bet he is.  Wow, so he must be some quarterback!  Alright, my final question is, What kind of car do you drive, ’cause I really need to know that.  Oh, a Dodge Stratus, huh?  Hmmm….You know, Jessica, I gotta be honest with you here–I really was not too impressed with this interview.  Not at all, in fact.  But then you mentioned that you drive a Dodge Stratus and, well, you see, I’ve actually been searching my entire teenage years for a girl who drives a Dodge Stratus!”

Seriously, people, why do teenagers insist on telling us what kind of car they drive?