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Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").
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inevitably Walmart Monday, July 7 1997
oday I cashed a number of checks and had over 500 dollars in my wallet. This was necessary to fund a few little purchases and bill payments. Firstly there was a $130 dental bill (some of which had been covered by dental insurance). Then there was a modem that I wanted to buy. Sadly, though, Walmart was sold out of modems. I thought I should maybe get a hard drive instead. But, not surprisingly, I ran into another snag. Walmart doesn't appear to stock any drives that need to be installed internally. This no doubt says something about the general capability that they have come to expect from their customers. I wasn't insulted of course. I'm not their usual customer. Their usual customers, however, were all around me. There's always at least one white woman who looks exactly like a stack of sacks of potatoes, one thick bag protuding in the back (her butt) one thin bag protruding in the front (her tits) and lumps everywhere else, especially on her inevitably sunburned face. "Junior!" she'd holler at her little crew-cut boy as he tossed a nurf football into the flowery pastel chinaware section. Meanwhile her little daughter would be screaming relentlessly about the pink plastic toy mamma couldn't afford. I wonder what they'd do if confronted with the task of installing an IDE hard drive in a PC. Walmart was selling parallel interface Iomega ZIP drives, however. The price was only $150. I decided on the spur of the moment to buy one of these. The capacity is 100 megabytes per disk and a box of three disks is only $50. I also did a little shopping at Barracks Road. In so doing I created for myself a small stash of vodka. It's nice to have a little lying around for making those vodka/tea concoctions of which I am so fond.
n installing the ZIP drive, I can see right now that I'm going to be needing a bigger hard drive very soon. The current drive is a 40 Megabyte IDE drive. The bathroom is leaking into the kitchen. We figure we'll call the landlord once we clean up the house a little. It's a complete disaster of course.
*******
atthew Hart had intentions of picking up a friend named Jody from Waynesboro. I came along for the ride, but four miles down I-64, he realized he'd forgotten his wallet, so we turned back. Then Jody called while we were at the house and said she couldn't come today, so the mission was scrapped. A plan to drink fruity girl drinks lived on, however.
Meanwhile, we at Kappa Mutha Fucka sat and drank beers delivered by an unlikely visitor, Diana the Redhead. She'd said she was going to be in New York all summer, but here she is still in Charlottesville. Not that I'm complaining, she's one of the more entertaining people who frequent my home. Indeed, I had very little to complain about; Theresa had come for the expressed purposed of fixing the broken screen door window, and it was only fitting that she help us with the fruity girl drinks whenever the Hell Nathan finally came rolling up on his bicycle.
Deya showed up from shopping and she'd bought me AC/DC's Back in Black on vinyl for a quarter. We slapped that sucker on the turntable right away and cranked it up good and loud. Say what you will about all that nice alternative music I listen to, none of it does that certain something that good old AC/DC seems to do almost as if by accident. (I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I found myself thinking the same thing about Foreigner later at work when I overheard it blaring from the Greenskeeper.) Nathan and I discussed how the others at the house (who are, on average, ten years younger) cannot possibly relate to 80s music like we do. We grew up on that stuff. To them, it's just history. It's either got kitsch appeal, or it's trendy in a retro way. Diana's interest in the 80s seems to fall somewhere in between. When I was their age, of course, my musical interests were firmly stuck in the early 70s.
e were forced out on a mission to find more girly-drink mix after the piña colada mixer ran out. We rode in the car Diana had arrived in, a largely restored 57 Chevy belonging to one of her fabulously wealthy girlfriends who is now touring Africa. There was something a little wrong with the car though, because noxious smells and smoke kept emerging from under the hood. Adding oil and water did little to help the situation.
Back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, the drinks continued until another run for rum was necessary. At about 10pm I started my pre-work nap.
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