Well, that's this semester's bailing-Beecher-out gotten over with. He's pretty good about getting arrested only once a semester or so, and so far has managed to charm his way out of anything other than a stiff fine and a few hours of community service. He says it's the kilt. I say it's being the scion of a long line of cops. When the chief's daughter used to babysit you to earn spending money and you grew up playing in the offices at the station, it's just easier to get off with a stern talking-to than it is for the rest of us mortals.
The Highland Games today was a bad scene. I asked when the last time he remembered taking his meds was and he couldn't remember taking them any later than Thursday. So you have Beecher with fucked brain activity going to an event full of testosterone-laden guys tossing large - it's not like he's even Scottish; he's Czech for God's sake! - telephone poles and hammers and generally trying to out-macho each other, mix that with a few beers and Beecher's natural tendency to piss people off, and it's a recipe for disaster.
I'm not sure I have all the details straight, since he was fixated on the fact that his opponent was wearing Adidas and kept returning to the subject of proper footwear with kilts (apparently it's that natural Scottish footwear, the Doc Marten), and since he always embroiders stories to make himself sound better, but apparently the chain of events went much like this:
Beecher gets drunk and insults a contestant's footwear, then trades a few punches with the insultee, the two are pulled apart. An hour or so later, Beecher is making what he considers 'pretty good time' with a female onlooker when his earlier opponent storms over and punches him again, and they have to be separated once more and sternly warned about a repeat of such behavior. Turns out the female is the opponent's girlfriend. Also turns out that the two have had a fight of some sort, and she is flirting with Beecher to punish her boyfriend. To any sane person, this is a female to get the fuck away from, but to Beecher this is merely a minor detail. Reminds me of one of my old girlfriends, but that's a different story.
Anyway, after the games are over and Beecher is standing in the parking lot with this female, who has just given him her phone number, her irate boyfriend attempts to run them both down in his Jetta. In the sort of moment that tends to happen to Beecher that he attributes to his stunning athleticism but I attribute to the Jetta not having enough room to accelerate to more than a crawl, he somehow rolls onto the hood screaming in rage and starts attacking the windshield with his Docs. He's cracked it but not gotten farther when in rapid succession the guy leaps out of his car, pulls him off the hood, starts whaling on him, and then two cops arrive, pull them apart, and slap cuffs on them both.
At least the female who was flirting with Beecher isn't an utter waste of flesh, though. She went to the station to make a statement to the cops and told them that Jetta-boy and she had broken up earlier that day, Jetta-boy didn't like it and tried to run down both her and Beecher. Apparently the officer on duty hasn't gotten laid in a while. When I showed up with Jason to get Beecher, slut-girl had talked Beecher's charges down from assault and vandalism to just drunk and disorderly, and had apparently forgotten about Beecher himself. We picked up Beecher's personal stuff, including his keys, from the desk officer and piled into my car to go get Beecher's jeep back.
Jason had to sit on Beecher's lap for the short drive to the parking lot where he'd left his jeep - remind me to give that boy a drink for going above and beyond the call of duty - and on the way back to campus I wormed most of this story out of Beecher. Got him up the stairs to his room, where he promptly passed out on the floor, and searched his pockets to remove and destroy slut-girl's phone number. That way lies financial ruin, if I have to bail him out again. However, I really don't want to hear him bitching any more than neccessary tomorrow about his hangover, so I stuck a pillow under his head. He can live with being on the floor. And I took back my iron.
What the hell? I get online to check my email before heading up to campus and Beecher calls to ask if I have an iron. He wants to iron his kilt of all things. Seems he thinks that a well-ironed kilt will help him snag a woman this weekend. I didn't have the heart to suggest that using soap would go farther in trying to attract a woman. Oh well. His loss. Carting this thing up to campus to loan him is going to suck ass, though. Anyway, it's almost time to head out.
Counterstrike and D&D. Our little Jason's getting quite the education lately. He'll never get himself a girlfriend now. Or a diploma. What next, what next? Ah -- paintball. This ought to be good.
Ok, I've calmed down a bit. And I can't sleep.
I went home last weekend and played good son at the parental units. I disinfected their computer. While I was at it I installed a remote access program so that in the future I won't be required to drive home to fix the machine. Cash tends to be forthcoming whenver something mysteriously fucks up the machine, but there's only so much face time with the units that I can stand.
The malnourishment plot worked. The maternal unit took pity on me and made the paternal unit take us all out to dinner on Saturday. Yeah, it's not usually a big deal, but it's food I didn't have to buy, so it's ok in my book. And the maternal unit slipped me a few bucks for food and gas before I left, and so did the paternal unit. Overall I made a profit this weekend and all I have to do was a 10 minutes software patch and listen to my parents blather. Not a bad day at all. Not that I want to do it again this year.
Man, it's late. I can't believe I'm still awake. I think I'm going to take a shot of whiskey and go back to bed. That'll help, I think.
So what the holy fuck is up with this 'This site is link free' crap? I have seen this phrase stuck up all over the web and in every single case they mean that it is ok to link to their page without asking.
But that's not what it /says/. 'This site is link free' says that THERE ARE NO FUCKING LINKS ON THE SITE! It doesn't mean 'this site is free to link,' it means exactly what it says.
Here's a little equation for the limited of understanding and the tiny of brain:
LINK FREE != FREE LINK
Is that so damn hard to follow?
Am I gonna have to strike a one-man blow here for the correct use of the English language here? Gah. Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, it's like ripping my guts out through my ears to see that millions of times a day.
The fucking alternator went out today. Coincidentally enough, though, the paternal unit got hit by the SirCam worm this afternoon and agreed to fork over enough cash for a new alternator if I come home this weekend and disinfect his hard drive, so the day is not a complete loss.
Weekends at the parental units' place are typically excruciating pains in the ass, but if I look pathetic and malnourished, the maternal unit usually slips me some 20s to buy groceries and I could do with a few more CDs.
2001-08-01 - 2:46 p.m.
Yummi Chow must die.
I shall destroy that building in a blazing conflagration of fire and brimstone. The service, while never stellar, was truly abysmal last night. Our waitress quit in the midst of taking our order. I don't know why. Just because there were 28 of us and we all wanted our orders special ... lazy bitch.
Some damned busboy that prolly isn't even literate came out to take our orders. In a very loose sense of the word. We wrote them down, and he took them to the cook. But of course they were out of every damned thing we wanted.
And to make it worse, Jenn... Not Jen, Jenn. The other one. The Bitch Jenn. Yeah, her. *sigh* Anyway, she tried cozying up to me again last night at Chow's. Man, when I want that kindda companionship, I know a couple real friendly hedgehogs that'd be right at home in my underwear.
Goddamn it. The neighbors upstairs are playing their country and fucking western music too damned loud. I don't *want* to hear about your achy breaky anything. Let's see how much you like a little Ministry in return...
Excuse me, I have capacitors to overload.