I was bored last night.

I am soooooo bad. Also, kind of obsessed with Craigslist experiments.

Hence, this.

( Looking for hot, amazing sex? )

(Obviously, this ad is not real. Everything about it is fake except that I'm a college student and I'm 20. That's about it.)

Here was my theory: I post this ad. The men who respond are so horny they can barely type a coherent sentence but are so determined to get this amazing-sounding, loosely defined NSA experience with this fictional co-ed that their heads EXPLODE.

As of 8:33 AM, I have received 77 replies, ranging from the grammatically perfect to hysterically challenged to the insanely amusing (someone wrote me a poem, and yes, I will share it with all of you). Even seven solid hours after I posted the ad, people are responding with the hope that their CL buddies are so inept that I have yet to stumble across the perfect response.

I'm sooooo bad. Seriously. I need a hobby or something.

Maybe this is my hobby.

Uh-oh.

(Also, a show of hands: who was surprised that I used the phrase "good dicking?" Anyone? Anyone?)

"Let us leave our bosses out of this, Bill, or I'll have to call yours. And you know how much Satan hates to be disturbed when American Idol is on." -- Keith Olbermann (my new favorite person)

From here, where Olbermann hands O'Reilly his ass on a platter.

So, tonight, Anne and I went to the Etiquette Dinner, hosted by the Career Center. We were told to dress as though we were going to an interview; thus, at five-thirty, donned in our suits (my long, dressy pants covering bright purple stockings and suit jacket a lacy, rather low-cut spaghetti-strap top; Anne looking fantastic with her bright pink hair and bright pink cast), we walked (well, she walked; I was in heels and thus stumbled awkwardly) to Mary Graydon Center.

We signed in, and picked up nametags from a table outside of the dining room. Once inside, we sat down at an empty table, and were soon joined by four other people. I poked at my decoratively folded napkin and with no small amount of apprehension at the seven different utensils. The setting may have looked something like this:



Once the room was generally settled in, we were introduced to our instructor, Michele Pollard Patrick. (One “L” in Michele, and “I never understood those women who took two last names! It just seemed to silly to me! But my children have my late husband’s name, and I wanted to feel connected to them. So now I use both.”)

"Hello, everyone. My name is Michele Pollard Patrick, and I am here to help you be the best you can be."

Silence. Blank stares. Crickets chirruping.

"I am a consultant in the social graces. Proper meal etiquette can make or break many opportunities in your lifetime. I'm so glad that you've decided to learn the art of polite dining. Let us begin!"

We started off the evening by taking a "Dining Awareness Quiz."

(Dearest Readers: This is an interactive LJ post. Can you guess the answers to these questions? Compare your answers to the ones below, and then laugh wildly at how little most of these things matter in the grand scheme of life. Oops. Did I say that out loud?)

T or F All dinner invitations require an RSVP.

True. Even when the invitation says "Regrets Only," it behooves oneself to respond. Written invitations should be responded to with a written RSVP; all other by person or by telephone. Failure to follow these guidelines may result in tiny marrow spoons crawling into your bed while you sleep and doing away with you, one uncouth sliver at a time.

T or F Prior to dining, it is appropriate to introduce yourself to others at the table.

True. One must be sure that one knows one's fellow diners before one begins one's meal.

T or F Nametags should be worn on your left shoulder.

False. "This is one of the best secrets in the industry!" declared Michele Pollard Patrick excitedly, waving her hands around in sheer delight. "If you wear your nametag on your right side, then people will follow the hand that you are shaking with up to your nametag! They are guaranteed to remember it then!" Especially, I thought wryly, if on the path from my hand to my nametag you pass 42 D breasts. With black lace. I thought about asking if this was also an acceptable way to be remembered, but alas, Michele Pollard Patrick had moved on.

T or F When leaving the table during the meal, place your napkin to the left of your plate.

False. Trick question! Napkins should be placed on your neighbor's lap. Or on their head, if you're feeling daring.

T or F When served something warm, it is permissible to begin eating immediately.

False. One must always eat before the item is served. Duh. *rolls eyes*

T or F When asked to pass the salt, you should also pass the pepper.

True. "Salt and pepper must not be separated!" Michele Pollard Patrick declared. After all, she further pointed out, what happens if the person who wants the salt also wants the pepper? They've been separated, after all. And, it appears that the pepper, having taken advantage of the salt's sudden absence, has absconded from his post and slid down the pant leg and into the purse of a duke's buxom wife, or something. His dream is to be a fashion designer, out there in the big world.

T or F Gentlemen should seat the lady to their right.

True. But, this is what I was wondering: What if there are an uneven number of men and women? What if your date is of the same sex? What if you're uncertain of your gender? What if the guy who sits next to you smells like over-ripened cheese and insists on talking about the merits of traditional gender roles? WHAT DO YOU DO THEN?

T or F While dining, cell phones should be set to their lowest ring.

False. Cell phones should be OFF. Otherwise, a call could come in, and the pacemaker of your elderly host would just cut out. SNAP. Like that. Dead as a doorbell. And that would be so difficult to gloss over. And you'd miss dessert. Which may or may not be parfait. Just thought you should know.

T or F The BMW is the vehicle that makes you a dynamic diner!

True. BMW, aside from being an overpriced car, is apparently a clever mnemonic device for BREAD-MEAL-WATER. It is supposed to aid the diner in remembering which plates/glasses are theirs. Unfortunately, due to a gross oversight by the staff, there were no bread plates, something that Michele Pollard Patrick pointed out repeatedly through pursed lips. "Normally, this where your bread plate would be, that is, if you had a bread plate, but since we don't have bread plates, we'll just have to imagine bread plates where the bread plates should be."

She continued to chat on about these and various other snippets until she was reminded that there was food to be served, and, indeed, we all looked hungry.

THE SOUP COURSE

As the soup came out, Michele Pollard Patrick explained how it was to be eaten- that is, the soup spooned away from you (a detail that indicates strong character, apparently) and gently slid into one's mouth to avoid the eighth deadly sin- slurping.

Unfortunately, like the lack of bread plates, Michele Pollard Patrick's plans were once again thwarted by the cooks. The soup course was a lukewarm light broth, with scallions and mushrooms and some kind of huge mass of crunchy noodles in the dead center.

I hesitantly tapped the noodles with my spoon. Realizing what was happening, Michele Pollard Patrick explained that we should gently crush the noodles into the bowl and then eat. I did so, and proceeded to let the soup slide into my mouth. She also told us that we should sip from the side of the spoon, not the front, to avoid sticking our elbows into our neighbor's "dining space." Naturally, Anne and I glanced lustfully at one another and proceeded to grab each other's thighs under the table, prompting the young woman to my right, an international student from South Korea, to ask me if we were "close friends." I nodded and we tried to keep straight faces as we felt the other one up underneath the white tablecloth.

We then went into a brief discussion of proper attire as we ate. Women could wear suits, but it was of the utmost importance to wear pantyhose. "Always wear stockings. This is Washington," Michele Pollard Patrick said with haughty disdain. "This is not NEW YORK!" She then also explained proper dinner conversation. "Men may want to discuss sports. Ladies, make sure to read up on the headlines before the meal so that you can discuss current events."

THE BREAD

We were then served a basket of rolls, which, of course, had no bread plate to go on. It was explained that we had to break off bite-sized bits of roll and butter each one in turn just before eating. Anne and I waited until Michele Pollard Patrick's back was turned before we quickly buttered and stuffed several bite's worth into our mouths.

THE ENTREE

Finally, the entrees came. I had opted for the carnivore food, naturally, and Anne the vegetarian meal.

My food consisted of carrots and zucchini decoratively arranged around a mound of mashed potatoes, and a GIANT chicken leg that looked like it had come from a genetically altered chicken-like beast that had definitely had teeth at some point. Not only that, but all of our careful talk about how to cut food went out the window as I realized that there was the small problem of a HUGE FRICKIN' BONE in the middle of my meat. Try as I might to skillfully navigate around this likely radioactive obstacle, I was soundly defeated.

Anne's meal was a rather unappetizing mound of white rice covered in mushrooms. She poked at it a bit, ate some, and then stared longingly at my mashed potatoes.

"You can have some," I whispered as I wrestled to cut off a bit of my half-cooked carrot. A chunk snapped off with a PING! and went soaring away from the table, much to my mortification.

Anne looked around the table furtively, to make sure that none of our fellow diners were able to watch her commit the grievous breach of etiquette that was coming presently. They were too busy wrestling with their meals, so her fork darted onto my plate and took a bite of potatoes. She savored it for a minute, then glanced back at my plate. I nodded.

She took about two more bites before we both looked up, simultaneously, to see Michele Pollard Patrick, microphone in hand, staring at us with the most scandalized expression.

"We. Are Going. To Etiquette. Hell," I whispered as she walked away. "Hell, I tell you."

THE SALAD COURSE

Besides Anne and I, the rest of the table had been performing rather well throughout the meal. Whereas Anne and I had managed to drop every piece of silverware and bits of food between us, the others had navigated around their chicken bones, kept their forks to themselves, and sipped their iced tea with their fingers properly positioned around the stem of the glass.

But the salad course was our undoing.

"Salad" is kind of a deceiving word in this case, actually. Imagine a half of a head of lettuce, propped up with two chunks of bread, covered in a wafer- a wafer- of baked cheese and covered in TDR caesar dressing. That, my friends, was our salad.

"Oh my," said Michele Pollard Patrick as she watched the servers place these monstrosities in front of us. "Oh my. A challenge!" she chirped, "it's like an etiquette challenge!"

The table collectively poked their salad-like-things with their forks. They rocked back and forth contentedly on our plates, as though unaware of their impending demise.

I helped Anne cut hers up, and then proceeded to attack (delicately feast upon) the salad (-like-thing) with the ferocity (politeness and good breeding) of a ravenous lion (lamb-dove hybrid). We all stared at each other incredulously as we attempted to force down the mostly-dry lettuce. I managed to fling half of mine on the floor, on my purse, and on myself.

"Etiquette hell," I said to Anne. "Tenth level. Even below people who talk in the theater."

DESSERT

Considering the state of the rest of the meal, dessert was shockingly easy to eat- a fruit-like strudel and coffee. We all relaxed at the idea of eating something that didn't require any major amount of brainpower, and chatted about my WVAU radio show and other things (though in doing so broke a very important rule against talking to anyone not to your immediate right or left). After dessert was over, our plates were removed and we were given a survey to fill out. We all briefly discussed where we would be going afterwards to eat, since no one was filled up by this four-course meal.

I told everyone that I wanted to get some BBQ wings, eat them with my hands and then lick the sauce off of my fingers. I also contemplated mentioning that if we were still hungry, Michele Pollard Patrick would make a nice post-meal snack. But I decided against it- after all, we didn’t have any marrow spoons at the table.

A fantastic quote from byakuganchick on customers_suck:

I work for a chain of bookstores that promise Millions of Books. They lie, but that's beside the point.

I had a woman come into today and swear that the last time she read Where the Red Fern Grows, the dogs didn't die.

Because the endings to books change all the time. Last time I read Lord of the Rings, Sauron got the Ring and Legolas ended up snogging some half vampire chick that fell into Middle Earth from California.

( spam gets more unusual every day )

Who else gets strangely profound and poetical spam?

South Africa Anecdote Number Two

After the week of camp was over, we spent our remaining time in South Africa at Pilanesburg, a game reserve about three hours from Lichtenburg. It was quite nice- we camped (we started sleeping under the stars, but the morning dew left us cold and wet, so we eventually moved into tents) at a small site at the far edge of the park. There's a "visitor's center" with a pool, restaurant, bar, giant chess set, gift shop, etc., and then during the day you get in your car and drive around the park at your own leisure, looking for animals. While the big animals are unable to get into the camp site, there are a number that can, including baboons, small deer, and... ostriches.

There are also very nice bathrooms, with showers and everything, in these little circular buildings throughout the site.

Which brings me to my story.

One morning, I went to the bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth. I finished up, then turned around to leave.

And in the doorway stood an ostrich.

Now, I don't know how many of you have ever seen an ostrich up close. They're BIG. And when I say BIG, I mean BIG, capital letters and all. I imagine that their actual height is somewhere between six and seven feet, but combine that with the nasty claws, ruffled feathers, and intimidating bald head, it's like running into a pissed-off Green Giant with a freakishly small head and an attitude.

It was blocking my only exit, and there I was, a pathetic human holding her Suave shampoo and Crest toothpaste.

But I wasn't worried yet. After all, I had a bigger brain, right? So I waved my arms at it. "Go away!" I yelled.

And then it hissed at me.

I could see it contemplating my soft pink flesh and lack of speed. And I became concerned.

It stepped closer to me. I kept trying to tell myself "It's just a big bird, it's just a big bird," but it was HUGE. It hissed again.

Just as I was contemplating barricading myself in a toilet stall and crawling out the little windows that lined the upper part of the building, the ostrich seemed to lose interest in me, and turned and left.

At which point, I dropped the Suave. Yes, I was shaking just a bit.

(A picture of the ostrich and his partner-in-crime is in the last photo post that I did. That's them wandering around the campsite at a later date. I steered clear of them both.)

Dear Chips Ahoy,

Congratulations. You've broken through every defense that I have, and I have consumed seven of you. Are you happy now, you tasty, chocolate-studded bastards?

Love,

Carmen

*sees that it is supposed to snow four inches*

Carmen: Hmmm, looks like some snow is on the way.

Carmen's Brain: BUY MILK! BUY MILK! BUY LOTS AND LOTS OF MILK OR ELSE YOU WILL DIE!

Carmen: *goes out and buys fifteen half-pint containers of milk*


I am the saddest person in existence.

There are no... words...

According to guyoverthere, who sent me the link, the song is Dragostea Din Tei by O-Zone, a Romanian band.

I cannot... even...

Wow. Just... wow.