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  • I got me a Chrysler, it's as big as a whale!

    Being the busy worker bee that I am, I have not had much time to peruse my favorite haunts lately. Especially the blog of Wil Wheaton, aka Ensign Wesley Crusher of the USS Enterprise. Wednesday, I made time for him, and found that not only had he changed the layout of his blog, he had also designed a t-shirt for sale at Woot.

    I'm not a t-shirt buyer, although I want to be. I'm large and forever thinking that "someday," I will be thinner, so why waste all that money on stuff I won't be able to wear without looking dumpy, later? However, Wheaton's shirt is so full of win, I decided instantly that I. Must. Have. It.

    The deal was sealed when I learned two things: one, it was only $10, and two, for another $5, I could have "overnight" shipping.

    And so I ordered one yesterday (Thursday morning). I'd never before purchased anything from Woot, so I was unaware of this lovely little caveat of theirs that warns its customers after their cards are processed that the actual processing of their order may take as much as five days.


    But guess what was on my doorstep today? Uh-huh, that's right. My. Very. Own. Wheaton. T!

    **Will be updated with the photo of me, wearing my Wheaton Shirt, once I find that damn camera!

    Perhaps not.

    Back in Ole Virginny, Mister was into karaoke. He had his favorite place and his favorite KJ. He even had a list of all the songs he'd done before, and, for a while at least, on which nights he sang them.

    Here in the asscrack of America, Mister is into trivia. There are literally a dozen or more places to go, and there's trivia every flaming night of every flaming week. He even has a favorite trivia master, a guy who used to be (or may still be, I can't get a straight answer) a radio DJ.

    We used to go out on Wednesday nights for "miscellany" trivia to this restaurant that specialized in Argentinian cuisine. It was open for precisely one year. Unfortunately, being the buckle of the bible belt, the liquor license was more than they could take, and they closed rather than renew.

    A few weeks later, Trivia Man finds a new Wednesday spot, a little redneck dive on the south side of town, past the "Motor Mile" and just before the ghetto. They host karaoke every night as well. Yes, even Mondays. Mister likes this, because on Wednesdays he can get both trivia and a song! This bar also serves food, but after this week's fiasco, I think they just need to stick to beer, even though their beer list can be recited by the waitress. Yes, it's that short. You better like Michelob.

    This past Wednesday, I was witness to a horror no one should ever experience. It was such a nightmare! There was pain and humiliation, a big chick and Ichebod Crane, bad food and an announcer giving a play-by-play as the whole thing unfolded.

    At the half time of the trivia game, Trivia Man gets everyone's attention as Ichebod goes on one knee and produces a ring box for his girl. She immediately responds with, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! OMG!! STOP EMBARRASSING ME!!"

    There was absolute silence in the place as Ichebod just looks at her like a deer caught in the headlights. A few moments go by, and he finally accepts the situation. He gets up, puts the box back into his pocket, takes out his wallet, throws some money on the table (I assume for their meal) and walks out.

    The silence is now very heavy. Big Girl gets up a few minutes later, says a few words to Trivia Man, and leaves as well. Finally, people start talking, and the game slowly resumes.

    That was, most definitely, OMG.

    spit take **possibly NSFW language

    You know me. I'm always on the lookout for badly-planned license plates. My favorites are the personality plates that people think up themselves, thinking they're cute, cunning, or funny but really aren't.

    On the other hand, occasionally the state can think up a few doozies themselves.

    I was following a car recently whose license plate read, among other things, "DPSH9X."

    Obviously, I thought it meant to say, "Dipshits."

    Considering that the plate was a disabled-driver plate, that actually pissed me off initially. I got over it, however.

    I will say, though, that while Virginia's need to encourage everyone to think up their own plate went too far, Georgia practically stifles the creativity of its citizenry. I'm so bored on the road now. No sense in going out some days.