My Interview With Charlie

This weekend, in case you were lying under a rock, sleeping or watching a guy get coconuts dropped on his head, Notre Dame suffered an ignoble defeat at the hands of the mighty Orangemen of Syracuse. Presumably, if you were under that rock, fabricating a lifestyle in preparation for your parents' imminent arrival, you might not know that Syracuse is pretty much the worst team in Division IA football.

Amazingly, though I have very little in the way of press credentials, I was able to secure an interview with the larger-than-life head coach of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Stunningly, the coach was very candid in his interview, though I was a bit no-holds-barred in my questions. Thanks for the Sports Information Department at Notre Dame for getting me in with the coach, and allowing me to reprint the interview.

MJenks: Coach, a lot of fans are angry after this loss.

Weis: I'm angry, too.

MJenks: What's caused you to be so angry?

Weis: I can't see my forehead. What's your problem?

MJenks: Well, most of the fans are upset over the lack of running game, development of the offensive line, regression of the quarterback, repeated failures by the defense to stop one of the most anemic offenses in the country...all of this in spite of the number of high-level recruits that you seem to be bringing into the program. Any thoughts?

Weis: What's wrong with you people? Afraid to look ugliness in the face? Well here, look at it! It's ugly, isn't it? Here! You look at it! Look at it! Look at it! Look at it! I want all of you to look at it! I bet there's no line at the snack bar!

MJenks: Do you have any plans for how to address these issues?

Weis: Hmmmm...I'd get an ice cream.

MJenks: One other criticism is that your team seems to make very few halftime adjustments, as was evident during the UNC game through today's game against Syracuse. Are you getting out-thought by the other coaches, are your adjustments just not making a difference, or are the other coaches able to adjust fast enough to counter your adjustments?

Weis: So you mean to say they’ve taken what we thought we think and make us think we thought our thoughts we've been thinking our thoughts we think we thought? I think...

MJenks: Uh...

Weis: You know what the problem is. You've got it set to M for Mini, when it should be set to W for wumbo! I Wumbo, you wumbo, he, she, we, wumbo, wumbo, wumboing, I'll have three wumbo, wumbora, wumbology, the study of wumbo? Its first grade, SpongeBob!

MJenks: Moving on...you took over offensive play calling from Mike Haywood recently and you said you would do it until the end of the year, yet the offense has continued to sputter. Are you going to try and mix things up, perhaps get a little more fancy in your playcalling, put some more air under the ball?

Weis: Do you mean she puts on airs? That's just fancy talk. If you want to be fancy, just put your pinky up in the air like this. The higher you hold it, the fancier you are. Higher! Now that's fancy!

MJenks: Are there going to be any changes to your starters going into the last game of the season and a possible bowl game, or are you going to stick with the same guys who got you here?

Weis: It's for me to know and for you to never find out. You may be an open book, but I'm a bit more complicated than that. The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.

MJenks: Have you seen the stat line for today's game? I have it right here, in case you don't have a copy.

Weis: Hand over the goods, BoxBandit, and prepare for your most unpleasant pillow fight of your life!

MJenks: I'm sorry, Coach. It shows that you guys only gained 41 yards on the ground, but they [Syracuse] have allowed an average of over 200 yards per game. Is there something wrong with the offensive line?

Weis: Pretty good, SpongeBob, but its lacking basic construction, and your perspective leaves a lot to be desired.

MJenks: It seemed that Syracuse and even Navy, Boston College and Pitt all wanted the games more than you did. Is there any way to try and get the team fired up? Like, maybe a pep talk or a good chewing out?

Weis: Classy sophisticates like us should not stain our lips with cursing.

MJenks: What about a team meeting where you sit down and try to talk about the direction the team is going? Motivate them, maybe?

Weis: I know what that word means! That's one of those sentence enhancers. You just sprinkle it on anything you say, and Wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich!

MJenks: Switching gears a little bit, what are your plans for this week? Will you be having a Thanksgiving dinner with the players or are you focusing only on the upcoming USC game?

Weis: It’s just all fun and games with you. Nothing really matters. Oh, let’s go jelly fishing! We don’t have any work to do. Life’s just a big bowl of assorted cashews and nobody has anything to dust or to clean or to wipe… or fabricate!

MJenks: So then, you'll be scheming all through the week to try and find a better game plan. Will you be tapping into some of that renowned Robot Genius?

Weis: But don’t genius live in a lamp?

MJenks: Does that mean you'll be changing things up, and, if so, can you give us a glimpse of what to expect?

Weis: Hmm...Yeah...I've got it! Let's get naked!!

MJenks: Perhaps I'll leave the genius scheming up to you. What about the team's pre-game meal?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: And for you?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: Doesn't that seem excessive?

Weis: I'm a big man, Sponge. A big, big man!

MJenks: Given the schedule this year and the expectations not being met, are you feeling any heat from the hot seat?

Weis: No...I'm warm.

MJenks: With the results on the field and the fanbase souring toward you and the coaching staff, do you feel any danger of losing your team?

Weis: Hmmm. I sense no danger here. How can they be dangerous? They're covered with free cheese!

MJenks: Have you heard any of the names of other coaches that have been put out there as your possible replacement, guys like Brian Kelly or David Cutcliffe?

Weis: Nobody likes those guys. All they do is blow, blow, blow on their stupid whistles, rub, rub, rub that white stuff on their noses, and show off their grossly misshapen bodies. I'm going to the snack bar.

MJenks: Some have said you're not qualified for the job as you never had head coaching experience before.

Weis: I thought this was Spanish class.

MJenks: Some have speculated that losing to Syracuse like you did could sound the death knell for you and this program. Losing to Syracuse was also the "final straw" for your predecessor. Any thoughts?

Weis: What’s so great about being a big pink loser? Exactly. I was never closer to an award than the minute I started copying you.

MJenks: So, do you think you've improved this program since the day you inherited it?

Weis: You know what's funny? My pickle started out in a jar, and now it's in one again! It's like a pun or something.

MJenks: What would you like most right now in order to help fix this team and set them in the right direction?

Weis: I know, you want olives. Oh, I’m sorry. I was just talking to my old community college buddy, Flats. I bumped into him at the soda store, isn’t that funny? It must have been years since we’ve seen each other. Well, let me get going. He’s got to go back to school soon. He says he’s going to kick somebody’s butt. Hello? Is this Pizza Castle?

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. II

See what I did there? Yeah, those are Roman Numerals, bitches. While I know quidquid latine dictum sit, altum sonatur and all, I'm sure the same holds true for things numerated in Latin. Am I right? Of course I am.

Anyway, I thought maybe I'd get back to my roots today...no, no, I'm not munching haggis and gutting uppity Englishmen (as much fun as that may be...), but I'm instead reflecting on the very reason for this blog being here. It was, at the very beginning, a way of tracking my literary endeavors (actually, it was so I could impart my pithy wisdom in the comments sections on Big Willy's blog, and then this just sort of happened). Since the initial work of tracking my word counts and discussing character and plot development, the blog has spiraled down into stories of fuck-me boots, dick jokes and epics centered on raw turkey erotica. Mmmm, classy. My mother would be so proud if only she knew how to follow the link I include in the sig file on my emails...

Sexual humor notwithstanding, it's time to focus on today's Latin phrase. I'm not sure which will offend my good man Noel more, the discussion of my friend's broken gay-dar, or this Latin phrase. My apologies ahead of time, my friend.

Frazz's initial argument shouldn't focus on the meter, but should be this:

Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.

Pronounced: "Noan cur-oh. See mate-room non hobbit, noan est po-aim-uh."

Remember, translation is in the hovertext.

Fashion Post Fallout

Remember last week when I asked, nay, begged for fashion advice for my friend who was going on the blind date with someone who apparently should be titled a "Culinary Wasteland"? Remember how a lot of you talked about how she should wear the right shoes, and then one of you went and made a whole new blogpost about this, rife with comments and not one but two snazzy surveys? Twelve shades of awesome, that.

Anyway, remember what a lot of you were discussing? The fuck-me boots? Yeah, I see that spark of recollection in your eyes. Naughty, naughty. And by "naughty naughty" I mean "The doors at Casa del Jenks are always open for you!"

Also, remember way back when I talked about my anniversary? How I bought my wife a gift card to the shoe store because it's something she'd like? And how awesome I am for getting her something practical, rather than the traditional "bronze and pottery" gift (or better, Bronze Age pottery)?

And, did you guys know my wife reads my blog? Faithfully? And, better yet, she reads the comments that you people make? Oh, I can tell by the look of fear and worry in your eyes that you didn't know that. Hey, it's okay, though. Nothing to fear. If anything had happened, I'd be up in Naperville now, driving up and down the road in a John Deere Green car trying to get someone's attention.

Daydreams and blogcentric fantasies aside, the other day my wife took the kids to school and hung out in Raleigh for the day. Ever the savvy one, she took her gift cards with her and she found just what she was looking for. Making the purchase, she came home and left her booty (heh) on the dining room table. Later, she had to go to work or something like that, and she was like, "Oh hey, I used your gift card today. I left my purchase on the table!" as she was ducking out the front door. I waved good-bye and everything and then went to see what she had picked up.

There, on the table, still in the box resting in the bag, was, you guessed it, a pair of fuck-me boots.

Awww.
Fucking.
Yeah.

Now...if you'll excuse me, I've got to go limber up.

So, Here's How It Went

I was out Monday, but I'll write about that later.

I didn't get back to the lab until Tuesday, and then we had a lecture to attend yesterday morning, so I didn't get the poop until yesterday afternoon. As my computer at home (the one built during the Clinton Administration...I shit you not) is slowly but surely gasping it's final breaths, I didn't write this up last night (I did something else on it last night, but I'll write about that later, as well, and no, it wasn't what you're thinking, pervert). This morning was dominated by attending safety meetings followed by a good bout of herding cats rounding up the lunch bunch (I'm a natural born leader), so that's why you're not getting this until now. That's right, I have altered the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.

Apparently, Friday night went alright. They had dinner and some drinks, generally had a good time, laughed, joked, punched each other in the face...you know, typical first date stuff. Saturday, the guy (henceforth known as Pepe) texted my friend (whom I was going to refer to as "the black cat with the white stripe painted down her back", but felt that was a mouthful), but she had other plans for that night already, so she declined his offer to go out again.

Sunday afternoon, my friend is doing her typical Sunday routine of laundry, sweeping, delousing and crack when she receives a frantic phone call (might have been a text...that was lost in the subsequent gales of laughter that spilled forth from my torso as more of the story was revealed unto me) and the conversation went something like this:

Pepe: You can cook, right? You said you can cook.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Yeah, I can cook.

Pepe: Okay. Good. I need help. I have a friend coming over and I have a turkey I'm trying to cook and, uh...INEEDHELP!!!

TBCWTWSPDHB: What's wrong?

Pepe: Well, the guy at the store said that I needed to thaw the turkey out for a day before I tried to cook it and that I couldn't cook it frozen, but I thought I'd prove him wrong. But...my friend will be here in a while AND the turkey's not looking so good and I need help. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease with sugar and honey and crushed up almonds on top?

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Fine. But if this is just some lame excuse to lure me over to your place, it won't end well for you.

My friend, who is a very accommodating personality (in case you couldn't tell), went over to help this guy out. She walked in and, sure enough, there were candles everywhere and Barry White was crooning something fabulously sexy. And by candles everywhere, I mean that there was smoke billowing from the oven and by Barry White crooning, I mean that there was a moron running around in the middle of the apartment screaming "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod..." over and over again. So, my friend opens the oven up to assess the situation and finds an 18 pound turkey shoved into a brownie pan sitting in the middle of the oven, the outermost layer of the bird charring and crackling. My friend looks over her shoulder and the following took place:

TBCWTWSPDHB: Have you basted this thing?

Pepe: Uh...what's that mean?

*friend pulls the turkey from the oven and inserts a knife into the carcass; the outermost layer of char peels back instantly and falls away, revealing the frozen inner shell of the turkey*

TBCWTWSPDHB: I'll take that as a 'no.' Hey, where's the pop-up timer?

Pepe: The what now?

TBCWTWSPDHB: The pop-up timer. They put the timer in the turkey so that when it gets done the red button pops up and tells you it's safe to eat.

Pepe: Oh. That thing. I took it out. I didn't know what it was, so I thought I didn't need it.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *vein throbs in forehead; left eye twitches furiously* I...see.

At this point, my friend digs through the remains of the turkey, carefully slicing away the parts that seem salvageable, using the one small knife that Pepe owns to do the cleaning, mangling and slicing of the uncharred remains of the turkey. She then puts whatever pieces make the cut down in the pan and opens the cupboard, hoping to find some broth or some soup or something. Instead, much like the barren wastelands of the tundra, she finds nothing. No food stuffs. No Les Stroud. Not even mammoth bones. Nothing.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Do you have any chicken broth or bouillon or anything like that?

Pepe: Uh, why would I need that?

*my friend spends five minutes bashing her head against the nearest appliance, hoping that one of the blows would end her misery then and there*

She drains what little juice is left in the brownie pan along with the hunks of turkey that haven't been tanned into leather yet and pops them back in the oven.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Okay, how much time do we have?

Pepe: Well, my friend Louis (not his real name, but, shit, why not?) will be here in two hours.

TBCWTWSPDHB: I guess that gives us some time. What else are you having?

Pepe: I have this box of instant mashed potatoes.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Okay. What do you have to cook them in?

Pepe: I have this bowl...

*my friend fights the urge to rip the hair from her scalp and instead decides to help the guy with the presentation of the "dinner", such as it was*

My friend then discovers that Pepe owns all of four plates, and all of his "silverware" is of the camping variety: aluminum, flimsy, holes drilled in the handles. He had a couple of bowls, which she used for whatever side items she had managed to cobble together for Pepe's meal with Louis. Finally, at the end of the ordeal, my friend is trying to excuse herself so that she could get back to her laundry and crack, but Pepe's trying to let my friend know how much he appreciated her help by pouring on the pathetic telling her how he really needs someone because he can't cook. This revolves around the afternoon of her ducking and weaving out of the way of his clumsy attempts to kiss her, because we all know how romantic raw poultry is. I mean, yeah, I understand, some people like to work food into their *ahem* extracurricular activities, and I know that certain parts of the male anatomy have that "last chicken in the shop" look to them. Seriously, though. Raw turkey is not a turn on.

Needless to say, my friend has decided to let this one go. And by "let this one go", I mean that she's decided to run fast and furious for the hills and avoid him like a plague-ridden, diseased rat carcass.

As my boss pointed out, though, she doesn't need to worry because he'll be dead in a few days from poisoned turkey.

So, thanks to everyone who helped out with the fashion advice. I'll call on you all again if needed. And I'll be sure to tell more happy dating stories as they come to me (and I get permission to recount them here).

Friday Morning Latin Lesson

Thanks to all who helped my friend out with her clothing choices. When last I spoke to her, she was planning on wearing a black miniskirt, fishnets, boots, and a tube top. Or an attractive sweater and some very nice black slacks. She does want to thank Zibbs for giving her the okay to rub her ass against his junk, should the evening turn sexy.

Now, today, let's have a little bit of learning, shall we. Today, I'm going to teach you a handy little phrase in Latin. What? It's been dead for 2000 years? This is true, but let me just add that "quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur."

I think you see my point.

Here's today's phrase:

"Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure."

Pronounced: "Tay oh-deer-ay no poe-sum. Moose-uh sap-ee-en-toom fix-ah est in ore-ay."

And here's Jon Arbuckle*, to show us the phrase in action:


* translation in the hovertext