Harry Potter and the Unfortunate Case of Chlamydia. Oh, and how your mother was involved. Kinda.

Welcome back to GAoDWYM. True, i have not posted in awhile, but its also true i was visiting the great state of Maine. Now, i know most of you are now thinking, "Maine, great???" First, you are obviously ignorant of the greatness of this state because you are using 3 question marks to phrase your thoughts. Yep, 3 question marks = you have no opinion on the subject matter. Now your next thought is, "I can always have an opinion." No you can not. That is what is great about Maine, scat gnats (tm E&J '07) like you reading don't have opinions in Maine, and its not communism either, because we are in the U.S.A. Deal with it.

Second, which you probably guessed, is that if you don't like Maine, fuck you.

So lets talk about what has transpired while i was out on hiatus.

The current itunes top 10 most downloaded songs is very unimpressive-except that it is impressive that sean kingston is #1, because he is horrible. Plain White Tee's must really be terrible to let him have the number one slot. Lucky the Ealges didn't release an album, because it would tragically be on top with competition like this.

SPOILER ALERT
for those of you who have not yet read the last harry potter book, i'm going to spoil the ending for you, although it may not be quite what you expected. Harry goes off on his quest to destroy the dark wizard Voldemort, only he gets caught up in the middle between wanting to destroy evil forever, for eva ever, for eva eva. He decides to take a short stop at the burrow, where he proceeds to knock-up Ginny. Twice. She then has his two babies a week later (some mind blowing wizard shit), and he goes back and does it again, only this time with a strange muggle in london. Guess who? Thats right your mother meets the famous Harry Potter while she was on a trip in london, and gives Harry a curse of a different kind. Unfortunately, wizards arn't any further along with curing STI's, and Harry dies of a cold before he ever gets to confront Vodemort. However, the dark wizard visits Harry's dead body in the morgue-and lets just say six to ten months later he is in the same spot. Dumbledore then comes out of hiding to find both dead. He is so disgusted he stops using magic, and becomes what he was destined to be, a pimp. So basically your mom killed Harry Potter.

William Shakespeare is fondly remembered as the greatest writer ever to use the English language, author of masterpieces such as Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Macbeth, and Romeo & Juliet. But there is also a darker side to Shakespeare. I don't mean his homosexuality. He was gay. Who cares?

Instead, I'm referring to the true dark side of Shakespeare. Prepare yourself for a frightening exposee. Are you braced? Are you ready? Have you steadied yourself to be buffetted by massive winds of truth? Are you certain they won't blow you away? Can you really be certain that you will maintain your footing? And if you do blow away, where will you go? Are you prepared for the terrors that await you miles downwind?

Don't you think it would be a good idea to tie yourself down? Good, that's better. Now wear a warm coat because they'll probably be cold winds. No, not that one. You'll need one that's a bit more weather-resistant, since there's going to be rain involved, too. Maybe. Don't take that tone with me. I have your best interests in mind. Anyway, are you sure you're ready?

Here it is: William Shakespeare embezzled and laundered money. From the Globe Theatre. From the British government. From you and me today. Let that one sink in. I am prohibited by court order from telling you how because he did it so ingeniously, in such a foolproof manner, that he is still reaping the rewards of his crimes four hundred years after his death. Not only that, but it is the source of much of his literary reputation. Would anyone really read A Midsummer Night's Dream if not for the massive wads of cash its author stole from Mahatma Gandhi? I thought not.

And if you really want to know how Shakespeare did it, here's a clue:


Next week's blog: What is to be done about the similarity of the words "next" and "newt"

-Eleanor

I'm just going to throw this out there and see what you think about it: Walrus fetish pornography.

You're probably asking now how I am going to know what you think about it if it is the first line of a three-to-four paragraph blog I am typing. Or at least that's what I would be asking, but I can't know for sure what you're asking since I typed this before you even read it.

Except that, though you may not know this about me, I have an intuitive sense for what you're thinking. And what you're probably thinking about walrus porn is: where can I get some of that?

Let me clarify, although since I know you already know what I am thinking, there is no real reason for me to attempt to clarify anything. But, just so that my exact meaning can be recorded safely, I don't mean "walrus porn" as in the first result on google, which is "walrus butt forum." I don't really know what that is. I don't want or need to know. It's not what I am after.

What I am after is explicit photography and video of tusked pinnipeds. But there is a maddening lack of good odobenid erotica out there. Someone needs to rise up and fill the void that leaves in all our hearts. I know what you're saying (that pretty much goes without saying I guess). It's "Eleanor, why don't you do it?" Well, I'll do my part, you have no reason to doubt that. I promise to photograph any walrus sex I see in the next two months, although since I'm spending them in Hawai'i, I don't know how much that promise is worth.

So it falls to you, readers. I don't even need to tell you what. I can state, though, that it's definately not photographing walrus sex. That's a job for a professional. But you know what I mean. Just to insult your intelligence, here's a clue:



in the next installment: why Shakespeare was a money launderer...and you should be too.

-Eleanor

So my mother was telling me today about how offended she was that they put chocolate in everything these days. I couldn't help but agree with her. I mean, how common is it to open up a newspaper and find reports of a congressman, actor, or businessperson getting himself or herself fitted with chocolate chips? Do they want us to eat them or something? It makes me a little bit sick inside. The other day, my friend picked me up so we could go to the beach and I noticed ants crawling all over the car.

"Where did those ants come from?" I asked.

"Oh," he replied, "they're probably just after the chocolate chips."

And then, when we got out of the car, I realized that my entire back and the seat of my pants were covered in melted chocolate. We are no longer on speaking terms. And by "we," I mean both me and my friend and me and chocolate.

But maybe, I think to myself, I shouldn't be so mad at chocolate. It's not chocolate's fault that every time you see a baseball game, at least one bat shatters because it's made out of chocolate. I bet that hurts the chocolate more than anyone. I mean, who is it that thinks it's a good idea to make bats out of a substance that is significantly softer than wood, melts, and attracts insects? And I certainly don't blame the chocolate when my morning newspaper becomes unreadable because the lightbulb in my house has melted. Why am I reading the morning newspaper at night time anyway?

And just as I think that I might like chocolate after all, y eft dde fger ets ad cat ctne tyng ths st. (translation: my left middle finger melts and I can't continue typing this post). But chocolate is not as bad Lindsay Lohan (pictured below)


in the next installment: the paucity of good walrus fetish porn sites.

-Eleanor

There is no need to title this post. You see, the greatness of this text will elevate the reader to something beyond the metaphysical realm. So let the heavenly prose steer you through that failing vixen, that pompous heifer, that audible mime otherwise known as life.

You may wonder what qualifications i have to make such boastful claims, so let me serve it to you on a deep-fried platter with honey on top. I survived my first(known) trip to the ghetto. Yes i was a tweed-bit anxious, yes i was slightly on-my-guard, and yes i was poked by a crack/meth/insert other drug here/ head, but i survived because i could not let Eleanor, "go it alone." Although he may be the closest thing we here at Graphic Accounts of Dates With Your Mother have to a Luke Skywalker, he still hasn't accepted the force as a "real" phenomena, mostly because he isn't clinically insane. Also, neither of us have seen a real live wookie (unless we count your mom! hoo-ha!) As to where we have seen a dead wookie, lets just say the previous statement holds true, the only change being there was an enormous train involved between the before and after process. Oh, and if the above paragraph were to become more accurate, you might change "tweed-bit anxious" to "nauseated with fear," "slightly on-my-guard" to "ready to run to a secluded undisclosed point in the upper northeastern part of the united states(Maine)," and "poked" to "poked." Weird.

So what about this elevates you to a higher plane, puts you in the 14th dimension, allows you to travel around the world in 80 days. Oh, and it isn't a hot air balloon and a can-do attitude. Also, star wars may be bullshit in theory and on paper, but practically, its golden. That was here, but not there, there being cloud-10.

So does this float you on up to cloud-10?
No, but the 4:51 spot gives me great joy.

Does this?. Could be, but probably not if you are (not) a rational human being. Oh, and on GAoDWYM we use double -'s, Deal with it. Oh and i also just used a - to represent the word, Negative. If you didn't understand please go do something with your life.

This is kinda just sad, so no.

So i guess the answer is none of the above, don't you hate it when that is the answer to a multiple choice question? So hopefully you are not telling me to go to hell for wasting your precious time. But do you know who is?



-Jake

In my dream, your mother was torturing bigfoot. That's what she did in reality too.

What would other writers do with the subject of cockroaches? To answer that, I guess we need to think about the salient points of a cockroach--it is brown, durable, dirty and an excellent mariachi musician. Some writers might go on to lament the cockroach's durability, to lament the fact that, of all the creatures that God could have chosen (you'll notice that other writers, even atheists, like to refer to God. I don't, not because I don't believe in Him, but because I am forward-looking and forsee a day when He becomes a licensed character and the other writers are sued for using His name. Another reason is that going back and capitalizing His Name and His Pronouns all over the place is difficult to remember.) to endow with the ability to survive a nuclear blast, the one He chose had to be a cockroach.

I don't lament this. I don't even know where people would get off lamenting it. After all, other writers aren't going to survive a nuclear blast themselves, so what do they care if there are cockroaches scuttling around afterwards. I, on the other hand, will survive a nuclear blast. That claim probably seems a bit bombastic to you (I didn't intend that pun and I'm thinking about changing that word to eliminate it), but you have never met me, so you are in no place to decide what I can and cannot survive. The last known person to survive an atom bomb blast was the Burgess Meredith character in that one Twilight Zone episode. I mean, aren't I just a small man with glasses who wanted nothing but time, or failing that, a mediocre actress and astonishingly poor musician who starred in Mean Girls?

Presented with this evidence, a hypothetical jury would probably find that I am better-placed than most to complain about cockroaches, since I'll still be dealing with them when you've all been vaporized. But note that I haven't been complaining. Perhaps that's because I've been providing explanations for the last two paragraphs. I couldn't tell you, really. But after taking the moral high ground I did three sentences ago, I would look like a "damn nerd," or for those of you not versed in the vernacular of my college dorm room, a hypocrite making an embarrassing climbdown. But come on, cockroaches?

At least it's not as bad as this:

I knew i had seen your mother somewhere else. Turns out it was in my wet-dream about sasquatch.

So i think our relationship is strong enough to tell you that i dabble in Cryptozoology, which is the study of "hidden animals." Yes i know i did not give credit to where i found that definition. If you can find it, then you spend far too much time on wiki-oops, i've said too much. I lied, its cryptozoology.com.

"Where is this post going?" I think the question you mean to ask is, "did you actually have a wet dream about bigfoot?" I think the last word in that sentence all to clearly explains my plight. So clearly my plight is that i have too many E-lektrolyts. It ebonics, don't worry about it, i picked it up off a guy.

"Are you drunk?" Let me respond to the next obvious question with an equally obvious question, "Is the pope catholic?" Yes, but i'm not intoxicated, just inebriated.

I i think the most annoying question in the world besides, "Is that a beached killer whale or am i just looking at Rosie O'donell?" is "If a tree falls in the forest does it make a noise?" The answer is yes, because i chopped it down on all the people who have ever phrased that question to me, and their blood-curdling screams of "no" are only comparable to when the audience at an Eagles concert is asked for an encore.

And that is true terror.
But you know what isn't...



-J.A.

When your mother and I entered the theater, I caught an enchanting whiff of her hair. It turned out that I was actually hallucinating in the bathroom

It's common knowledge that creating and maintaining a MySpace page is the raison d'etre of every rational man and woman. MySpace provides an outlet through which people can express themselves in a way far more profound than anything possible within the framework of mere face-to-face meetings. Such luminaries as Lindsay Lohan and Former United States President Franklin Pierce use it after all. I daresay that the invention of the internets would have been in vain if MySpace hadn't been created.

It's a funny thing about sarcasm...oh, actually I forgot what I was going to say about it. Anyway, some people, I'm sure, who don't think they can find "their type of people" there. I can sympathize. I have a (now thankfully neglected, for the most part) MySpace, but I always felt that my caterpillar wasn't finding the coccoons it needed to emerge as a beautiful butterfly there. I longed for somewhere in the internet community where my humble seedling could bed among the dirt clods it needed to blossom into pungent flowers. But where could I go if I wanted my pile of decomposing plant matter to find the additional decomposing plant matter of the same type it needed to spontaneously combust into a raging inferno?

I found a place where people exactly like me are on the internet. CafeMom, the social networking site for moms! It's a place where mothers can meet to talk about their children and swap "war stories." And by "war stories," I mean tales like mine of starving within the city walls of fourteenth century Calais under the booming of the English cannon. CafeMom is great. Just register a profile, like mine, then provide short descriptions of each of your kids, like the ones I wrote of Cigarette, Darling McWonderface, Faeces, Missus Toad, Slobodan and Obese with their mother/my sister, and then you've got it. So please, give it a try. I promise you'll love it:



And if that don't do it for you, I know someone who will. Gladly:

-Eleanor

Your Mother has a Huge Panis!

Your mother's Panis is huge! Deal with it.

I'm glad I got that off my chest.

Literally.

So now I would like to shamelessly discuss my life. I was on a trip to large city, and deicided to look for work. There was a nice opportunity for me to work at a local bakery, which only pays a stipend. Turns out, when you recieve a stipend, hours are no longer of importance, so basically, if I was payed hourly, I would be considered a "sweat-shop worker." This would make my father happy, and outrage everyone else in the world (middle-to-upper class people in the United States who will never actually do anything about it themselves). So instead of presenting accurate detailed information, I will give what is affectionately called "its not you, its me." To oversimplify, something that might not be 100% accurate-but close.

So I live in paradise, middle-america, (Springfield oregon). I have 2 children, both of whom are lovely. I have a beautiful wife who I am madly in love with. I also have a dog. However, in my world, it is actually a Karlien Bear Dog, trained to only know my family, so if the Joneses' little boy Danny walks over ("what a cute little tyk") and wants to pet Snuffles (my dog's name (not really)), Snuffles will treat Danny like a giant brown bear casually patroling the former U.S.S.R's territory and proceed to rip his head off and then devour his soul, then breathing out fire and tourching the whole neighborhood, burning everything and leaving no survivors. When I say don't pet the dog, I really mean it.

But something I hope is not really meant is the concept of never. We learn from mistakes, but I will never say, "I will not get another Karliean bear dog." I didn't say never.

Think of the upsides! I haven't.
But what I have thought of is this...

-Jake

I gave your mother a bouquet when we met up that evening. She gave me a v.d. when we met up that night.

I don't normally like to talk about my personal life in this blog. Why? Well, for one thing, I don't want it turning into one of those blogs. You know the ones. The personal diaries that detail, boringly, the lives of the boring about whom nobody cares, you ask? No, not at all. I'm talking instead about the blogs--I'm sure we've all seen at least three or four--that are just full of exciting stories of Himalayan climbs, fights with kangaroos, escapes from stalled airplanes, and the like. I mean, come on! Everyone knows there's no place in a society fuelled by big-budget films for written accounts of exciting events. The written word is now the province of consumer guides on yarn and price lists for beard trimmers.

What does all that mean? What am I trying to say? None of that is important, because I'm going to make an exception to the talking about myself rule today. Today, I'm going to hike up a very tall mountain and attempt to sleep there. Why am I making an exception to tell you this? Well, not too get too sentimental about it, but if I die, I'd like to thank all of you.

And by "all of you," I mean the 1950s film director Ed Wood, Jr. I don't know why it's contingent on my dying either. I think we all owe Ed Wood a debt of gratitude for what he's done. Me specifically. You see, once I was in the supermarket trying to pick out a dental floss that would work on ten-inch tusks. I don't have ten-inch tusks, I swear, although you ought to be suspicious, since that picture of me doesn't show my face, but anyway, I turned in the aisle to ask a guy about it and he pointed to one that turned out to work pretty well.

Three years later, I saw Glen or Glenda (starring Lindsay Lohan?). Maybe that story shows why I never talk about myself in this blog. If you're not clever enough to figure it out from what I've said already, I'll spell it out for you:

-Eleanor

When your mother and I went on our first proper date, I thought it was to the opera house. It turns out I confuse the words "opera" and "slaughter."

Yeah, I use Wikipedia sometimes. So? It can be entertaining if you have nothing better to do (better things to do include: going to the beach, competing in facial hair-growing tournaments, working for a living, napping, sitting outside and watching traffic, getting information from reputable sources). One of my favorite Wikipedia activities is looking up movies I have seen recently.

Unfortunately, one of the films in that category was the second Fantastic Four movie. Looking it up on Wikipedia, I made a shocking discovery: in the 1910s, "Italian" was a slang term for "coward." At this point in the writing of this blog, I have the option of expanding this into a meditation on the parallels between this archaic usage and the modern usage of the word "fag." I also have the option of spending the next two paragraphs talking about Spam.

Spam was invented in the 1790s by an inventor called Eli Whitney. It completely revoluitionized the economy of the Southern United States and proved to be a major factor in the Civil War. It was a firm believer in the spoils system who became the 21st President of the United States when James A. Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau. Among its most notable programs in office was an anti-Chinese immigration law. It was praised for its uncannily realistic descriptions of battle in the Civil War and is still considered a classic. It was also unconvincing in A Prarie Home Companion as a suicidal kid folk singer.

Some of that, theoretically, may not be one hundred percent accurate, but that's no more than one expects of a text for which all the information comes from Wikipedia. They probably don't expect something like this, however:

-Eleanor

I began a long and passionate relationship with your mother, but only so that I could recover my medication...at least that's how it started

I can't be bothered to segue into this topic. I won't waste time beginning with the turning of the key in the ignition of my mind, the accumulation of gears before my engine finally reaches its top speed and the discussion gets to its most exciting. This film doesn't begin with the trash-talking before the race or the dropping of the checkered flag. It starts one hundred yards from the finish line with the cars neck-and-neck.

I know what you're thinking: movies about auto racing are kind of lame. I would beg to differ. Even if no other films in the racing genre had been remotely worthwhile, it still produced the true classic Herbie: Fully Loaded. Those who have no time for Lindsay Lohan's heart-stopping acting career have obviously never seen her best work.

But who, seriously, wants to talk about Lindsay Lohan? I had something important to talk about and I blame you entirely for leading me astray. Well...not entirely. I guess it's more like a massive reader-Lohan conspiracy. But there you go getting me off-topic again.

The topic is: octopi. It has recently come to my attention that octopi have eight tentacles. That's mind-bendingly unfair on people like me who have only one or possibly no tentacles. Write your congressperson and tell them that there needs to be something done when such a small portion of the population has a monopoly on the tentacles. I know it can be daunting to go up against the powerful mollusk lobby, but I have done it before and won.

And no, I'm not going to explain that. You'll have to do a bit of your own research, but as a hint, here is a graphic in really good taste:

-Eleanor

An Explicit Enlightenment of a Rendezvous with your Father

You thought June 17th was a day to appreciate your father for all the sweat, hard work, and elbow grease he has put into your life--I am about to change that.

Rapidly.

Lets just say that one time when you were five years old and your father was supposed to be outside hanging the wash, and you decided to sneak into his room for whatever reason your five year-old brain wanted to (heroin, baseball cards, full-size billboards), that thing you saw wasn't an armadillo, and the person in the bed was not your mother. Oh, however, he was quite literally "hanging the wash."

I have no idea what "hanging the wash" literally means. One can only assume he was helping your mother with a mundane household chore. What a great guy!

So that explains why your dear old dad cries while watching movies like The Last Kiss, and enjoys musicians like Elliot Smith. Hint: he's gay.

And prose like this is probably why my father is severely ashamed of me. That and the fact that I look up pictures like this:

-Jake

I wondered whether I should call your mother that morning and wouldn't have if I hadn't realized I left my heart medicine with her

Heart disease is a serious issue that I wouldn't even think about making light of. Not only would I not entertain the idea, I would pay someone to find out when it was coming to town and schedule my vacations accordingly. And I'll tell you why--heart disease is so easy to make fun of that I would actually have to install new, lower gears in my ridicule transmission to accommodate it. But seriously, heart disease sufferers are really terrible at working the stock market and ugly to boot.

See, the thing of it is that I would go to any lengths to avoid getting around to what I feel duty-bound to write about--the theme for "Graphic Accounts of Dates with your Mother." Maybe the idea that I'm even asking this puzzles you. Perhaps you will say that you weren't even aware that it (they?) had a theme. After all, none of the topics we have covered so far seem even remotely connected. I mean, except that the one about the Eagles was immediately followed by one about shit. That wasn't a coincidence. But we don't want to keep writing along that vein.

Or maybe what you thought was that the theme, such as it was, was in the title. You would be wrong again. The title is just an attention-grabbing ploy and a disguise for the lack of pithiness that makes it difficult for Jake and I to write headlines. I mean, if you really want to hear about what I did with your mother, you should consult the police report. And it was worse than that makes it sound, if you wondered.

So what do I mean? I mean that we fully plan on having a theme that unifies all of our blogs. It will be great and you will enjoy it (there I go making bombastic promises). But I'd just make fun of people with heart disease rather than devote any serious thought to it. Another thing I would rather do is:

-Eleanor

That intimate time with your mom was good, but it paled in comparison to the feeling of relief I had after dropping an enormous “deuce” the day after

Yes, the time with your mother was excellent. Normally that would have been the highlight of my week. However, the massive poop I took the next day made that night with your mother forgettable.

So allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Jake. You may think it odd to say "pinching a smurf" is better than sex. I didn't say that. You wrongfully inferred it. What I said was that "taking the Cleveland Browns to the Superbowl" was better than that time with your mother. Yes I had a stressful week. Yes it had been a while. But I was also very backed up.

You see, part of the reason I enjoy the act of scatting so much is that I think I am at my best while in the act. I often have my best thoughts while on the toliet. So it is very conceivable (as in, I would have sex with this thought's mother in order to make her pregnant with it) that I came up with the idea for this post while on the toliet. In fact, count on it.

The are varying degrees on my bodily functions. If I am constipated, my creativity is probably at a 1 out of 10, and I am not enjoying myself. However, if I have just eaten some raw meat that has salmonella, and to go with that I'm sick with the flu (shakes, sweating, all that) and what is coming out of my rectum can only be described as "butt piss," then am not just enjoying myself, but I am also thinking about what to write for the next blog.

So I realize this probably wasn't a good time to discuss the politics of my shit, but when isn't it a good time to hop on the Night Train?

-Jake

The next day, all I could think about was calling your mother, mostly because she'd forced me to get her number tattooed onto my arm the night before

There are a lot of things to write about, many of them profound and interesting. In the blogs we have written since I opened this site, Jake and I have contemplated our own mortality and just who it is we are. That's great. They are definately within the sphere of questions about which writing is worthwhile. I hope to continue in a similar vein with today's topic, which is: one reason I hate the Eagles.

Not the Philadelphia Eagles, mind. I don't care enough about football to hate any team especially. My feelings for NFL teams are like the ones you have for one of those moles you are barely conscious of until it turns out it's a malignant skin cancer (I think everyone's been there), but I have no special hatreds for any team (Except the Jacksonville Jaguars and I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out why.)

Instead, I'm talking about the California (I think) rock band, but the previous paragraph does says something about your Freys and your Henleys. When making a rock band, you have four options, or legitimate options for the name: quasi-poetic (the Rolling Stones, the Doors), slightly funny (the Beatles), descriptive (the Beach Boys, the Monkees), or wierd (Seattle Symphony Orchestra, and yes I went there). Names shared with sports teams named after fierce animals (Eagles, Falcons, Lions) or demographics (pirates, cowboys, giants) should be avoided at all costs. In addition to being a counter-lameness maneuver, this also would help resolve my personal confusion, which ought to be the aim of all movements aspects of pop culture.

I mean, Leroy Wolfgramm, who played with the Jets in the '80s, would have wanted it that way. What position, you ask? Keyboard. Another thing he would have wanted would have been:

-Eleanor

That "thing" between your mother and i probably took place before i was 24, because, evidently, i will die by age 24.

I had my palm read the other day. Within 2 seconds of looking at my palm, my friend
Mark said, "your going to die in 5 years." Great!

I should probably just end my blogging days here...
...but I won't
...
I enjoy ... way too much
...
sorry i'll stop

So now I really don't care about the whole thing with your mother--even though I told her that I loved her. Ha. Did I mention your mother was an idiot. I should probably throw in alcoholic, coke addict, and in love with meth, but I'll save her the last vestiges of respect from the community. We'll, I guess I didn't anyways. But to sum up, I don't really care, because I'm going to die.

I apologize for the last paragraph, just getting out the frustration of my imminent death.

So now that I have come to grips with my death (I haven't), you are probably wondering what sort of life-changing values I am going to start living by in hopes of redemption. You would expect me to get a new perspective on life, relationships, death, love, comedy, tragedy. It would be expected that, while I am improving the quality of life of those around me, and trying to leave the earth better off than it was when I was born, I will also be figuring out the mysteries of life. Who are we? Where did we come from? Is there a God? In short, I would become the start of a profound new change around the globe that would bring people together around a common goal, and then further my dream by becoming a martyr for something I believe in.

I haven't...remotely (and i'm well aware of the ... usage) so here are my 5 goals before I go to meet my maker in 5 years.
1) Own a sweatshop
2) Eat 37 egg rolis in one sitting (not influenced by drugs)
3) Solely account for 3% of the world's greenhouse gas emissions
4) Trip Scruff McGruff while he is off-duty
5) Become the Mother Teresa of the cashew industry
Oh and getting to that one point with that one person about that one thing that I have always wanted to get to in the overall context of that would be nice, if you know what I mean. And, if not, this will help:

-but even though I pretend otherwise, I'll always remember that one time with your mother

-Jake

What happened next between your mother and myself would have been far more enjoyable if you hadn't walked into the room

The rest of the story involves least one of each of the following: startled leaps from beds, violent impacts on your mother's beloved erotic pumice stone, triumphant emergences from comas and crying, confused five-year-olds soon to spend much of their adult lives recounting this traumatic incident to mortified psychiatrists. I'll spare you another telling because I'm sure you are vivdly aware of the details. But you probably still don't even know who I am and that I can help you with.

My name is Eleanor. Some people ask me where someone who is, seemingly, male gets the name Eleanor. Despite the obvious possibility that this subject holds for comedy, I consider it a very grim, serious matter. You see, Eleanor was the name of the brave little cocker spaniel that swam out into the middle of a lake to save my mother from drowning after her boat capsized. But the effort was too much and it died of exhaustion as soon as they reached the shore. She and my father vowed, through tears, to name their firstborn after that noble animal, regardless of gender.

The above story is not true.

I could tell you the one that is, but it's mundane and you'd probably think less of me. Here are some stories in a similar vein that aren't so boring: Sid Vicious was named after a hamster. John Wayne was so called because his real name was Marion Morrison. He squandered a wonderful name in doing so. I would kill to be known as Marion Morrison. In fact, is it too late to start referring to myself under that name?

Probably. But it's never too late for an outrageous handlebar moustache:

-Eleanor

When I woke up next to your mother, I was immediately confused, a little startled, and still very aroused

When I (re)met your mother for the first (second) time, it was obviously awkward. That was probably one of the biggest understatements I have ever made. This goes beyond the realm of saying "that girl is really hot" and, when you get closer realizing, it's your best friend's 15-year-old sister or having to explain to mom what "that" stain is on your pants is (Hint: it probably involved another akward phrase to a special someone like "I ___ in my pants." Fill in the blank). So yah, Awkward.

I guess I should get around to introducing myself. My name is Jake. I enjoy Goldfish crackers and escalating conflicts. I came (not in the same sense in Para. 1) to my friend Eleanor with the idea of a blog and he was only too game to join in. He said, "sure," with the enthusiasm of a wheelchair-bound person being asked to walk again. But then the doctor says "just kidding, you're a paraplegic!" afterwards. We started out the blog by doing what we--even though I cannot speak for him-- do best, procrastinating.

But what motivates us?

Some people are motivated by money, others by improving the earth. Each individual person is different--someone might be motivated to be the best at an individual skill, like counseling or hitting home-runs. Eleanor wants to be a professional journalist. As for me, I am motivated to be the best father I can, and to provide for my 5-year-old son, Chris. However, this would only be true if I was the main character in The Pursuit of Happyness.

Oh, and when you see your mom, don't mention me. Sensitive subject. Did you ever think that the words "urine" and "uranium" must be so similar for a reason? You can really see why:

-Jake

I met your mother when I was blacked-out drunk and when I woke up next to her, I was ashamed

Hi, my name's Eleanor Tomchak and me and my friend Jake Welcker have wanted to create a blog for a long time. It was his idea but I was only too game. Maybe I'm doing it to get noticed as a professional writer. Maybe I'm doing it because it's a lot of fun. Maybe I'm doing it because I respect my buddy Jake and am tragically willing to give in to peer pressure. Maybe I'm just doing it because I'm bored.

As for Jake's motives, that's for the man himself to reveal. That makes it sound pretty interesting and quasi-mysterious. Neat.

Anyway, our original idea for the blog was to write the first installment drug-addled. The idea of journalism influenced as much by narcotic herbs and spices as by your standard Bernsteins and Murrows was enticing. It might have been uproarious. It might have been brilliant. It probably would have been incomprehensible. In the end, what it was was difficult. What I'm saying is, we weren't able to remember we were going to make a blog long enough to get to a computer. Then we fell asleep. We might have also run from the cops, but it wasn't exciting like you think it was.

So instead, you have a slightly more pedestrian introduction. And, because I have a three-paragraphs-and-change limit to contend with, it's looking increasingly unlikely that the important questions the first piece should answer--what it will be about, who the writers are, why anyone should bother to read it--will actually be answered. Or will they?

Think about it. Learn about it. Deal with it. Here is a random pop-culture image associated with the word "Zulu" that might help:

-Eleanor