Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesday: Alcohol!!!

In chemistry, we teach you that there are five simple reactions:  synthesis, decomposition, single replacement, double replacement, and combustion.  Synthesis is bringing two or more pieces together to form a new unit.  Decomposition is shit falling apart.  Single and double replacement reactions are pretty straight-forward:  they're just switching things out for something new.  Combustion reactions, however, are the stuff of dreams.  Or the dreams of Tuesdays, at the very least.

I have a new lab assistant.

Within chemistry, there are different divisions which add a different layer to the five basic types of reactions.  Myself, I'm an organic chemist.  Despite what several of my dates have thought over the past years, organic chemistry has nothing to do with being a perv.  Yes, I've been accused of being "like that" when I tell a woman I'm an organic chemist.  I mean, take a spin around my blog and you'll know that I'm "like that," but usually not on the first date.  Or the first fifteen minutes of the date.  Maybe.

Organic chemistry is the study of the element carbon and all of its myriad fascinating compounds...with the notable exceptions of carbon dioxide and calcium carbonate (and other metallic carbonate salts...mostly...sort of...um...let's move on).  These compounds are usually considered to come from non-organic, or non-living, sources...even though animals exhale carbon dioxide and plants take carbon dioxide and form it into sugars.  Oh, and sea creatures make a literal shit ton of calcium carbonate that we use to build things with and as decoration.  Um...again, let's move along.

One thing about organic compounds is that they feature carbon and hydrogen.  Usually, they feature a lot of carbon and hydrogen.  We chemists, always a clever lot, refer to compounds that feature a lot of hydrogens and carbons as "hydrocarbons."  Brilliant, eh?  I thought so, too, as did many of my predecessors!  Now, when you mix together hydrocarbons and oxygen and add in just a touch of flame, something wonderful and enchanting happens!



*inhales deeply*  Magnificent!

What you are seeing here is the mixture of ethanol--yes, the same ethanol that causes you text some gorgeous red-headed girl in the middle of Pennsylvania at three in the morning--vapor, oxygen, and just enough of a heat source to get this thing going.  Since the neck of the vessel is narrow, the fire cannot reach all of the vapor at the same time, so that's why you see that lovely cascade of fire sliding down the insides of the plastic bottle.  The ethanol has pooled a little in the bottom, which is why the bright yellow flames dance in the middle of the bottle once the cascade has reached the bottom.  Heat from the fire has caused the air to warm and rise toward the opening of the bottle, which is why the dancing flames are climbing toward freedom as the fire begins to extinguish itself.

Now, I know I just talked about hydrocarbons, and technically ethanol is not a hydrocarbon; it's an alcohol, which means it has an oxygen inserted between one carbon and one of its hydrogens.  In theory, you could do this with any hydrocarbon with a low enough boiling point that it's a vapor at room temperature.  Butane comes to mind.  As does gasoline (octane)--both of which are hydrocarbons.  Unfortunately, I personally would not try that; the combustion reactions of these gases are pretty spectacularly exothermic (they're hot), and that could cause some issues.  What kind of issues?  Let's find out.

Caveat time:  the "whoosh bottle" is a pretty simple experiment, but you need to make sure you're safe doing this.  After you swirl the ethanol around inside the bottle, dump out the excess liquid.  Make sure the bottle is not cracked or structurally compromised.  And, for the love of God and anything else you might find even the slightest bit holy, be fucking careful.

Why?  What happens if you're not careful and don't follow the instructions?  You'll end up like this dipshit here: 



Fortunately, no one was hurt.  I don't know if the bottle was cracked or if there were any other issues, but the excess ethanol was not dumped out.  That left way too much fuel for the fire and the expansion of the gasses trapped inside the bottle was too rapid for the bottle to hold together.  Thus, kaboom.

In the top experiment, the phenomenon witnessed is called "deflagration," where the fuel is ignited and burns away until no more fuel is left to consume.  It's like a very fast, very hypnotic, very pretty log burning in the fireplace.

The second is a detonation, because the container couldn't hold it and everything went boom.

And notice, aside from some bad glasses on the teacher's face, no safety equipment was used (although flannel shirt girl did have the fire extinguisher ready and handy for the teacher to use).  Safety first...or, somewhere in the top five.

American Gods Reviewed

For Christmas, I asked for my very own copy of Neil Gaiman's American Gods. Fortunately, when Father Christmas squeezed his fat, jolly ass down my chimney, he had in his mystical satchel the book I had requested. And I only had to sit on his lap once!

Anyway, I started reading it last week and...

Oh.

My.

Gods.

This could be my new Lord of the Rings. This could be one of those books that I pick up once a year and re-read. I don't find things like this very often. Neil Gaiman seems to have cornered the market on writing stories that I like to read and re-read. American Gods is one of those books; the Sandman series is another.

Which makes a lot of sense. There's a lot of similarities between the two stories, though sadly neither Dream nor Death make an appearance in American Gods--though Delirium and Barnabas make a cameo appearance. When I say that there's a lot of similarities between Sandman and American Gods, I'm referencing the latter parts of Sandman, when things began to be more fantastical and less horror-oriented.

The story is brilliantly imagined. When the first settlers and people began to populate and settle in the New World, they brought with them their ancient gods. As the people thanked their deities for helping them find the new land, they prayed to their gods and offered up sacrifices and other rites, the old gods set down roots in America. As the older mythologies began to die in the old world, the old gods remained here in America, where they've kind of stayed. And, in order to retain any of their powers, they've had to make amends to their rites and ceremonies to fit the new world.

Enter the main character, Shadow, who is recruited by a charismatic old "hustler" named Mr. Wednesday, who hires Shadow to be his assistant, to drive him from place to place, protect him if needed, and to hurt people only if they needed to be hurt. Also, in the unfortunate case of Mr. Wednesday's death, Shadow would perform his vigil.

However, as with all stories such as these, things are not that simple, and a "storm" is coming which will sweep up the ancient gods. The storm is an approaching battle between the old gods and newer ideas that resemble deities, and Wednesday is busy, criscrossing the country looking to recruit people to his side to fight in the battle. And Shadow finds himself caught in the middle.

There's a second plot, more of a subplot story, that revolves around a town in Wisconsin where Shadow finds himself staying for a little while that is interesting, but for the greater part of the story seems a bit extraneous. Gaiman says in an interview that he conceived of the subplot at a different point in time, but wove it into American Gods, and it does serve its purpose, but at the end of the story seems like it was unnecessary.

Overall, I was very satisfied by the story; even the subplot works. Like a lot of stories like this, I was able to see where the story was going. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a writer, too, and so I can see through the plot hints and storyline, or if it was a weakness in the story, or if it was more an artifact of knowing the various pantheons and ancient mythologies that allowed me to see the ending. Being that my wife didn't recognize a few of the characters right off, I'm going to say that it was more my familiarity with the subject material that helped me figure out the ending.

In the end, American Gods is an awesome story. You don't need an exceptional knowledge of the subject material, nor do you need to be American, to truly appreciate the story. You don't even need a healthy amount of suspension of disbelief in order to read the story, which is a hallmark of Neil Gaiman's stories. It's well-written, it's fun and very entertaining. It's an easy read and, combined with a cast of characters that you legitimately care about, this quickly becomes a page-turner. I highly recommend it.

Now, if you'll excuse me...I have to go start rereading.

Memoir Monday: Tequila

I know some of you have seen this picture several times before. I've used it on forums boards for my avatar, I've used it on social sites, I've even thrown it around just for shits and giggles.

This picture was taken in grad school, during my first semester, before I had entered a lab to do my research, and before I had even met my wife. In those halcyon days before my life was dominated by "research" and "reaction mechanisms" and "14 hour days" and "chemistry 24 hours a day" and "fevered dreams of cyclopropanes and benzene rings", and even before an angry God or panoply of angered deities saddled me with a powerful allergy to hops, I was able to drink.

And, boy, did I.

However, in all that time, I hadn't really "experimented" with alcohol. I knew what was out there, and I knew what I liked (and that vodka did not like me). I knew the slow burn of scotch as it crawled down my gullet, I knew the fiery burn of Jameson, and the slow warming of bourbon.

And before you go all smartass on me, I know that they're all types of whisk(e)y.

I like whisk(e)y. Which is why it was my sipping liquor of choice.

Rum, however, was my "get drunk and hit on my undergrad students" liquor of choice.

I had, however, managed to avoid the creature known as "tequila". I knew of tequila, but had never imbibed. Mostly because my friend, the guy who woke me up shaking the bed when we roomed together in college, got drunk off tequila once. I remember it distinctly.

*ring*ring* went my telephone.

Whoever could this be? I thought, idly picking up the phone.

"Lock up yer daughters and sisters and wives, lubbers, 'cause Captain Rummy is coming ashore!" drunkenly drawled screamed a crude imitation of a pirate's brogue into my ear.

"[name redacted], is that you?" I asked, innocent as a schoolboy.

"There is no [name redacted]; there is only Captain Rummy, and he's comin' ashore, lubber!"

And then the phone disconnected.

"[name redacted]? [name redacted], are you still there?" I asked into the phone.

The response I got was the front door to the dorm (I lived one room away from it) flying open and smashing against the brick facade of the building.

"Captain Rummy, has boarded yer vessel!" I heard, bellowed in the hall. "Avast ye, and say yer prayers!" And, still holding the phone to my ear, I looked out in the hallway as my former room mate went tearing down the hall, screaming about how Captain Rummy was here, and he was there was rapin' and pillagin' to be done. Curious, I stepped out into the hallway for a better look, and all I saw was the north end of a south-bound former room mate. I saw him go around the corner, at full tilt, and I heard the back door of the dorm fly open, bang, and then slowly shut.


And silence.

This, my friends, was the result of tequila. Or so it was revealed to me later. And, if tequila could lambaste a hardened drunk like my former room mate in such a manner, then it was not something I wanted to mess around with.

"Try it," insisted my Bulgarian friend, while I was hanging out in his apartment on campus at Notre Dame. "It's a very good drink, baby. I'm sure you'll like it." He offered me the shot glass filled with the clear, slightly green beverage.

"Just make sure Captain Rummy doesn't go looking for some rapin' and pillagin'," I said. And then I took the shot.

Holy wow. It burnt, it cleared my sinuses, but damn, I didn't feel even slightly drunk--you know, that feeling like you just threw down a bunch of alcohol? Yeah, I didn't have that sensation at all.

"Would you like a margarita, baby?" my Bulgarian friend asked.

"Set me up, baby," I said. So he did.

And he did again.

And then again.

Let me take a moment here to pause and encourage you that, if you ever get the chance to drink a margarita made by a Bulgarian, go for it. They like to put a lot of alcohol into their drinks.

So it was with these margaritas. Aside from the shot, I think I had three, maybe four margaritas, with at least one more shot thrown in, to boot. Tequila and I were getting along famously. I was snuggling down in her bosom and getting comfortable. It was so warm and muzzy in there, and her breasts were so pillowy soft and full of alcohol.

Unfortunately, while I was getting sleepy, I was also getting hungry.

Fortunately, Dr. Assy had a bucket of cheeseballs sitting in the living room (he shared an apartment with my Bulgarian friend), so I grabbed the bucket, tore the lid off, slid my hand in to feast myself. After the initial couple of handfuls, I slipped my hand back in there, and then I succumbed to the warm, pillowy bosom of tequila.

My friends, who love me oh so much, decided it was picture time. And, honestly, I can't blame them. Plus, I'll always have this lasting memento of the night I first encountered tequila.

Well, to go along with the cirrhosis, that is.


Memoir Monday is a wholly-owned subsidiary of I Like to Fish... and as such is the brainchild of Travis. I would have used the bookish button that he normally furnishes to go along with Memoir Monday, but as he claims that today he will be showcasing a new button to the blogging world, I'm just writing up this somewhat parodical disclaimer with inclusive links so that he won't sue me. The stories therein cannot be rebroadcast, retransmitted, or announced without the express, written consent of Major League Baseball."

Clearly, I Am 'Father of the Year' Material

Did you know kids are impressionable? It's true. Like, if you tell them something, no matter how outrageous it sounds originally, they'll believe you? And someone thought it'd be a good idea to let me raise not one but TWO of them? (Three, if my aim was off the other night...)

The other night, I was out in the yard with the kids. Now, my yard consists mostly of a hill in the front and a floodplain in the back. It's the kind of thing that would make my cities in Civ III rich, but for me, it's a pain in the ass to mow. That's not the point; I just felt like bitching.

There's a stream at the back of my property and woods all around, which means my back yard is cool, sometimes damp, and shaded. This is a perfect mushroom/toadstool growing environment, apparently. To that end, my son, Tank, had discovered a couple of toadstools in one section of the yard, and so he and I went looking for more. We found quite a few in a variety of colors--browns, whites, oranges--but since I'm not a mycologist, I can't really identify any of them. Plus, thanks to Tori Amos, I think mushrooms look like peezers, so I'm not really inclined to study them intensely.

So, there Tank and I am, wandering around the yard, searching for mushrooms, when I'm struck by a bit of inspiration to joke and kid. What can I say? I'm a fun guy! *rimshot*

Ahem.

While I wore a younger man's clothes, I spent, maybe a few hundred hours playing Super Mario Brothers on the original Nintendo system. This, of course, clouded my mind while we were searching for mushrooms and toadstools, and so I turned to Tank and said:

"You know, you really gotta watch out for those mushroom people. If you're not careful, they'll get you."

To this, he responded, wide eyed, with a gasp. "Really, daddy?" he asked.

Because I'm not above lying to a child to amuse myself, I responded with, "Oh yeah, and if they get you, it's all over. They're poisonous, so when the first one hits you, you'll shrink. If the second one gets you, it's game over."

Another gasp. Had I ended it there, things might have been alright.

"Normally, they travel in groups of two or three, so you've always got to watch out." Now he's getting a little frantic, so I figure it's time to tell him how to defend himself. "However, if you just jump on their heads, you'll be fine. They squish down and don't bother you anymore. If there's too many of them, just find some Italian guy to do the job for you. Ask for Mario."

All of this latter bit of advice went sailing over his head. All he took from the lesson was "Mushroom people...attack...poisonous...all over..."

Fast forward a couple of days. My wife is in the backyard with us. Tank finds some mushrooms and is terrified. He climbs into my wife's lap, frantic, telling of how the mushroom people will get him. She looks at me, unadulterated fury seething in her gaze.

"This is your fault, isn't it?" she asked.

Feigning innocence, I splay my fingers across my chest and with an angellically pure voice, I ask "Oh, why would you ever assume that?" A second later, I espy two more mushrooms growing up next to one of his toys.

"Oh no, Tank," I say aloud, "looks like they're going to get your banana car. Look there's two of them there." This sends him in to an apoplectic frenzy of fear. He tries to climb higher on my wife's lap, apparently satisfied to throw her to the ravages of the evil mushroom people in order to save himself (I've taught him well). The mushrooms, as they are wont to do, simply stand there, digesting the organic material at the base of their stems...menacingly!!!

My wife then tries to calm Tank, explaining that I'm being an asshole a jerk. I feel at this point that I should try to rectify the situation, so I walk over to a pair of mushrooms. They continue to do nothing.

"See, Tank, there's nothing wrong here. They're not attacking me. Come on over. You'll be fine." After several minutes of coaxing, he finally climbs down off my wife's lap and timidly crosses the grass, but won't get any closer than two feet away. "No, see, they're fine. They're not moving. They're just sitting here. You'll be okay."

He takes a step toward the mushrooms...and that's when I scream "OH MY GOD, TANK, HERE THEY COME!!!" and I kick the mushrooms at him. Screaming and crying, he dives back onto my wife's lap, climbs up her body, and sits on her head. I am, of course, hysterical with laughter, partly because of his reaction, but mostly because of my wife's reaction to the scene.

Finally, I talk him down and I find another pair of mushrooms, which I stomp. "See, that's how easy it is to take care of these things!" We spent another ten minutes stomping everything even remotely fungal.

After having rid the yard of those dastardly mushrooms, I sat back down, Tank on my lap now, my wife in the chair beside me. "See Tank," she says, "you don't need to be afraid of the mushrooms. They can't move."

"Yeah," I agreed, "you shouldn't be afraid of the mushrooms. However, you've really got to watch out for slime molds."

Does anyone know if the health care reform covers therapy for traumatic childhood experiences?

Constant Vigilance!

Remember back when I told you about going to see Miss Saigon in Raleigh? One of the things--aside from all the mostly-nekkid chicks grinding in front of me--that made me love the show was that it reminded me just how much I missed being on the stage. From my senior year in high school on through the end of my college career, I had been fairly active in pulling off live productions on the stage. Whether it was plays, musicals, one-acts or doing improv work--or even the time spent doing student-run television shows--I've had an active career in the dramatic arts.

And, now that I'm out of it, I miss it.

So, I've found a way to get past this: reading to my children.

Shortly after the Miss Saigon viewing, I started reading The Tale of Despereaux to my kids. The good thing about Despereaux (the book, not the movie--the movie is an abortion of the story) is that most of the characters (since it's written for kids) are achetypes. So, it was pretty easy to get into character by varying my voices. And once I started getting into character, well, then I felt like that piece of me that void in my life that had formed since I left the stage had been partially filled.

And, honestly, it was fun. The voices were easy to create: Miggory Sow had a heavy, gravelly, cockney accent; Roscuro had a slimy, evil, plotting voice dripping with vile and revenge; Despereaux had a soft English accent; Despereaux's brother had a bit heavier English accent; Despereaux's father had an even heavier English accent; Despereaux's mother had an over-the-top dramatic French accent. And so on.

Well, we finished Despereaux months ago, and, well, I've had to find other ways to work this stage-presence-cum-narrator persona. For some reason, the same Thomas the Tank Engine books over and over again don't work quite as well, though my son has decided to begin with the Magic Treehouse Books. Again, the characters are largely the same, and therefore don't really offer much of a creative outlet.

Fortunately, my daughter is having me read her the Harry Potter books.

Since most of you are familiar, I won't have to rehash the wide variety and depth of characters here. A lot of the characters are easier to do than others: Hagrid's part is written for him; McGonagall's voice is slightly lilting with her words clipped; and Snape I try to do my best Alan Rickman because, seriously, it's Alan Fucking Rickman.

So, we're currently working our way through Goblet of Fire, and last night we got through the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. In case you've forgotten, this is where Mad-Eye Moody shows the class the Unforgivable Curses and how to prepare for them. The best preparation for the Unforgivable Curses? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Now, when I do Moody's voice, I give him a gravelly sort of voice, lower and rougher than my normal reading voice. It's not quite Christian Bale doing Batman, but it does convey a bit of the crotchety old man that is Mad-Eye Moody.

So, last night, I'm going along, reading away and my daughter is flipping through an American Girl magazine looking at the pictures. She's listening, but she doesn't know what to expect. When we get to the proper place, I fire off a loud, booming "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I thought she would jump out of her skin! It was so entertaining to have her jump, catch her breath, and then stare at me with those big, blue eyes that convey the question "What the fuck was that?" oh so well.

We continue reading, and she lets her guard down and goes back to flipping through her magazine (she's a multi-tasker, that one). We come to it again. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar. Again, the same satisfying jump, the same satisfying "What the fuck was that?" stare.

Finally, we come to a break, and I close up the book and she's like, "Is there going to be much more of that, with Moody shouting and all?" she asks as I'm tucking her in.

"There might be," I said, bending down to kiss her pure, sweet, angelic forehead. "You know what the best way to prepare for the yelling is, though, right?" I ask her.

"What?" she says, her face the very picture of angelic charm.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar once more.

I thought sure she was going to wet herself the third time.

Parenting skillz: I has 'em.

Seven Awe-Sum Ways to Die

A while ago, Cora gifted me with this Awesome Award and told me to tell her seven awesome things. Well, actually, she told me to tell her seven times I've crapped by drawers, so here goes:

Monday.

Well, that was effing boring.


In lieu of yarns spun about self-defecation, I thought I'd put up something even better: Seven Awesome Ways I'm Terrified of Dying.

As a mortal, I think about death. I can't help it. What will I see when I'm going down that long, dark tube with the light at the end? A thousand Carl Carlson's, beckoning to me with open arms? I certainly hope so. Hopefully he'll have boxes of Nutty Bars waiting for me. Mmmmmm. I love you, Carl.

To that end, let me present the Seven Awesome Ways For Me to Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil:

7. Being Crushed by an Animal Carcass While Driving on the Interstate: Right away, I can hear you laughing, but I know a guy who knows a guy who knows someone who was killed this way. It's frightening to think that you can be sailing down the road, rocking out to some P!nk cranked WAY up in your car, when suddenly--BAM--a dead deer comes flying down out of the sky and crushes your widdle skull and it's all over. I guarantee you're not going to want all the free jerky you can eat in the hereafter if that's the way it ends for you. And, apparently, this happens somewhat often, when a semi or a large truck of some kind collides with an animal and throws the carcass into the air and it lands on a car going in the opposite direction. Now you're going to be watching the road AND the sky while you're driving along, aren't you?


6. Death by Cosmic Rays: Again, here's something that happens all the time, but no amount of defensive driving will save your soul. More frightening than an asteroid or comet impact--only because something will most likely survive after that--a burst of cosmic rays from some where else in the universe could be hurtling toward us right now. And nothing, not even Galactus, will stop them. These things occur when stars or masses of stars or whole galaxies just suddenly decide they no longer wish to live and they...explode...sending out all manner of high energy rays that would reduce the Earth to one bigass charcoal briquette. Good news for the environmentalists: the heat will be enough that it will burn off the atmosphere and all those pesky greenhouse gasses, and after heating up to a million degrees, the Earth can only cool down afterwards. Hooray for silver linings.


5. Being Gored to Death by Some Animal: Again, I'm looking at deer for this one, since I have ten thousand of them living in my yard and the woods adjacent to it. I figure it'd be my luck that I'll take the trash out some night, blundering along in my typically oblivious fashion, and I'll inadvertently disturb some horny buck in mid-coitus. I would totally understand it if he were to go all Pamplona on my ass and eviscerate me as payback for interrupting his special time with the Mrs. I'd do the same. Being that my ribs will be crushed from the impact, thus puncturing my lungs, I'll lay there in the grass, gasping for breath to call for help, but I won't be able to form the words. To add insult to injury, I'm sure a squirrel will bite my testicles off, just for spite. If not a deer, then there's a chance it could be a wild boar. If that happens, please refer to me only as King Baratheon at my wake.


4. Septic Anal Fissure: As much time as I spend on the toilet, I'm surprised this hasn't happened yet. Or something close to it. Although, anal fissures usually are a side effect of straining too hard to push the poo out through the poop chute (I swear to you, I did get an A in Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy). Being that this occurs where poop is constantly sliding out, the crack can get infected with all sorts of nasties, which can then run rampant through your body, eating things they shouldn't...like my liver and my soul. The thing is, the lower GI tract is filled to bursting with these little beasties that can seriously fuck you up if they escape from the intestines and get into your body. Coupled with what Mike Perry told me about how lots and lots of people die on the toilet, and this all adds up to be rather worrisome. I can see the coroner's report, too: Cause of Death: Infected lesion in the ass.


3. Poisonous Spider Bite...While Asleep: You know how, statistically, the Average American eats five spiders a year while they sleep? Fuck you, I don't care if it's an internet rumor and urban legend. Five of the little bastards go crawling over our faces and fall into our mouths, being swallowed down to oblivion. Well, in North By God Carolina, we have both of the poisonous types of spiders. It would be my luck that one of them would decide to strike his revenge on the way down my windpipe, taking me with him to the big old web in the sky. You can bet your sweet ass that I'll be writing Some Pig in that thing...and then the next week I'll write Some Bacon in the web.


2. While Doing the Nasty: I've always joked that it would awesome to die during sex, that way I could cum and go at the same time! Tiddy-boom! Thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal. But, seriously. I can't imagine the ignoble notoriety that I would garner for firing off some sweet release and then giving up the ghost. Now, I won't lie; I'm a man of ample proportions, and I can only imagine that it would do my partner no good to suddenly have my bulk crushing down on top of her. Not only that, but I like to drink a lot of coffee and eat a lot of bacon, so you can imagine what ELSE would come shooting out of me shortly after I began sleeping the sleep of eternity. Yeah, no one's going to forget--or forgive--that, should it happen. Although, it would be awesome to go all rigor mortis with a stiffie. Maybe if this does happen, they can prop me up in a public restroom somewhere and flick off the lights.


1. Being struck in the head by a meteorite: You might think it's a freak thing that a chunk of space rock makes it all the way to the ground. Most of them burn up in the upper atmosphere, leaving dust trails glowing across the sky and causing people to ooh and aah over their majestic beauty. However, some 10,000 to 20,000 meteorites actually make to the surface each year! Most of these land in the oceans and we never see them again, but sometimes, they will hurtle through a house, punching a hole in the roof, stairs, chairs, beds, and curious bystanders wondering "What the hell is that racket?" If this happens to me, I will, of course, be sitting at my computer, and most likely will be doing something lascivious. The coroner will come and find me, and there on the screen with be Teutonic Beauties wearing See-Through Nipple-less Lederhosen and spanking each other with wooden paddles in a tub of whipped cream. Naturally, I'll be sitting there, without pants, dick in hand, a beatific smile on my face, and a meteor lodged in my skull.


So there you have it, my Seven Awesome, Irrational Fears about how I'm going to die. I hope this satisfies your curiosity, Cora, and makes up for the fact that I only crapped myself once in those seven.