Shocking News

I still have two readers.

I'm Sorry...

...that my blog sucks.

I'm Back...

... but not for long.

I can't write much...

I'm off to help my brother do some unpacking, and then the old lady and I are going to Disneyworld, but only for a day. All that to say, I apologize that I can't write much.
But don't get down. I'll be back.

Meredith, I hope you are now safely among Orientals.

For Scott, Who Thinks I Lack Originality

Nick has maybe one ball.

Nick has absolutely no experience with picking up chicks in bars. Couple that with the fact that his personality goes as flat as his ex-girlfriend's chest when talking with cute girls, he should have known it would be an interesting and trying evening.

He arrived at Jeff's (the bar's name) around 9:20 with two friends, his wingmen. Naturally at this time there was almost no one there. They situated themselves along the wall, facing the window, thinking that they could perhaps catch a glimpse of this girl as she was walking into the bar, and possibly make a quick getaway with a string of knotted bed sheets if they spotted an effeminate Australian man making his way up the stairs to them (who is he kidding? Nick salivated at that mere prospect). They sat and chatted for quite some time, making sure to keep a close eye on the street below, had a few beers, and about an hour later, Nick turned to find the place packed. He has no idea where these people came from. There must be a back entrance.

Nick looked around to see if she was there, and finally spotted her at the bar flanked by two very talkative guys. He decided he hadn't laid much claim on her, so he'd let these guys have their way with her, and if they cleared off and a seat opened up, great, if not, well it wasn't meant to be.

You see, what had happened was that Nick found this pic of Andrea Dworkin online when doing research for a debate on feminism over here, and his balls retreated somewhere in the upper-reaches of his chest cavity. They were nowhere to be found at this point in the evening, or rather, there was no means to appropriately relocate them; Nick brought his scalpel, but forgot resources for sanitation, and what good are balls if gangrene (or inexperience in/inability to pick up chicks) doesn't allow you to enjoy them?

So finally around 11:30, with his wingmen a little worn-out from all the bed sheet tying, Nick figured he would take the doughty way out and leave quietly. However, after consulting with his comrades, Nick figured it would be ungentlemanly of him to leave without saying something to her. The best course of action, they decided would be for Nick to tap her on the shoulder as they were leaving and tell her something like "sorry I didn't get a chance to talk with you this evening, but I've got to head to another party now." So Nick said something like that.

It was actually kind of cute, she seemed really disappointed, and said she was so sorry, but she didn't recognize Nick with his haircut (I forgot to mention that he buzzed his head earlier this week-- completely shorn). She seemed, well, frantic's not really the word, but maybe really anxious not to let Nick leave. Nick said he saw her over here, but she seemed pretty engrossed in conversation, and he didn't want to disturb her. She protested that this was only her friend who tagged along because she didn't want to go to a bar alone. Yes, Nick agreed, that would be pathetic. He shuffled his feet. He told her, well, this make-believe party of his is in Japanese, so he probably wouldn't understand much of it anyway; perhaps a conversation in his native tongue (Australian?) would be a more productive use of his time. Plus you're a girl, Nick explained, and girls are invariably better company than male coworkers. (At what? And how does Nick know?). Nick waved off his companions. The three of them--she, he, and her friend--talked for a bit, and then the friend said, obviously having fulfilled his mission as caretaker, he had to call it an early evening. That left an empty seat.

They talked for about 2 hours, and Nick completely forgot to drink, which was probably for the best. She was definitely cuter than he remembered which is to say that she was cuter than a fuzzy flesh-colored oblong sphere resting atop an amorphous blob. They didn't delve into anything too deep, mainly covering the typical "why did you come to Japan" type questions. Nick doesn't know any of the important stuff, like if she's religious (Nick's Mom), her political beliefs (Meredith, among others), whether or not she hates minorities (Scott), or whether she likes plaguing other people's blogs with inane links that nobody cares about (Cliff), so don't ask.

Around 1:30 she said she needed to head out in preparation for a semi-early morning tomorrow. She decided to walk because it was a nice evening, and Nick said he would accompany her, for protection. She sized him up (about three inches) and laughed, and Nick said, no seriously, he's really Captain America in disguise; all he needs is 5 minutes in a phone booth with you to prove it. It was a good joke.

When it came time to part ways, she asked if Nick had a cell-phone, to which he replied that, no, he didn't because he was afraid if he got one no one would call him (he's right). Don't let these good looks fool you, Nick told her, it has not been the most productive month-and-a-half in terms of social climbing; he is probably not one of the top-10 most popular people in Kumamoto (but he is number 897,385). Well, do you, Nick, have another number, she asked, and Nick gave her his apartment number, along with his email address, for which she also asked. Finally having completely spent the awkward clichéd parting phrases, Nick leaned forward and hugged her, thanking her for a wonderful evening, topping it off with a little kiss on the cheek. It was then that Nick felt his left testicle descend. Why not both, he asked? His one ball didn't respond. She asked who Nick was talking to, but he pretended not to hear her. Nick told that, though his sister was coming, he'd still give her a call this next week, and maybe they could do something. Then Nick turned and fled. Now if that's not a manly course of action, then Nick doesn't know what is. Nick doesn't what more his right testicle expects from him.

New Blog Theory

I've been doing some thinking, and I've decided that instead of type anything meaningful on blogs, I'll just go to the comment section of various blogs, mock any attempt at discussion, and peddle stupid links that people really don't care about.

A(n) Heartfelt Apology for the Hiatus

Dear Reader(s),

As you well know, Great New Look, Same Old Crap... prides itself on its excellence in blogging. We the staff attempt to bring you updates concerning the life and times of Andrew T. Arndt in as timely a manner as possible. You will notice that this blog has a nearly flawless record of posting on consecutive days.

Nevertheless, difficulties arise in any venture, and many of you must realize that the arduous world of blogging offers neither exemption nor exception. While we at Great New Look, Same Old Crap... promise the finest quality blogging experience, we unfortunately cannot promise perfection. With this regret in mind, we do understand that our fan(s) has/ve become accustomed to our impeccable posting, and we certainly cannot and do not ignore the deep responsibility with which our prior achievement has encumbered us.

Therefore, we must address the egregious inactivity to be seen on this fine publication. It has not escaped our notice that Great New Look, Same Old Crap... features a paucity of bloggerature over the past three days. Those of you most familiar with this fine institution can obviously appreciate the embarrassment we feel; it is most definitely not in line with our creed to leave our reader(s) in the dark for an entire three days. We must not equivocate: we have failed you.

But we would be remiss not to point out that these last few days, the staff at Great New Look, Same Old Crap... has been in transit. While no excuse, our collective lack of access to the internet at least serves as a valid reason for what to the public eye must appear to be negligence. But you, dear reader(s), know better than to blindly assume negligence following our run of blogging excellence; you know that had we access to the internet, this catastrophe would not have occurred, and we appreciate your tolerance as we fire those at fault for this fiasco. We respect that any further incident may cause you to re-evaluate your reading of this blog, and we trust that you will be pleased to hear that we the staff have dubbed the upcoming period of great scrutiny and accountability "Crunchy Time."

Thank you for your support of this blogging venture. We know you have a choice of blogs, and we appreciate your readership.

Sincerely,
The Executive Staff at Great New Look, Same Old Crap...

Yikes

Not long ago, Meredith orally emasculated Cliff.