The scale for measuring a pet peeve - mosquito bites, idiot drivers, idiots in general - stretches for theoretical and figurative miles. Mine clocks in somewhere in the billions, I'm sure, if not to some other astronomical number with a number of zeroes behind it such that they could be assembled into a binary army worthy of universal conquest. The zeroes would do my horrible beckoning, and surely the commas would have their place in command as well, particularly as we did battle with the evil (and this is stolen from a friend of mine) "Kurtzoids from planet Penny-Arcadia." I assure you he has a valid reason for saying that, and truthfully it's a splicing of two seperate comments, so I guess that makes it a bit of a false statement. Also, I happen to Love Penny Arcade with a capital emphasis on the letter L, such that one of my life goals is to meet the venerable Tycho and Gabe, and hope I don't explode in glee. But I digress.

I write these blogs for several reasons. First and foremost it's my PsOV, which can be either humorous or annoying or pure rant. There are other types of posts that defy any catergorization, and it would be a waste of time and data to list them all. In the end, I'd say the majority of my posts will be rants of "teh angars," such that the machines I rage against will feel some virtual verbal wrath. It's no secret that I exhume part of my anger-ness on this blog, and I feel no reason to keep it all in. I know hardly anyone will care about my tribulations, but it's worth a shot. At the least a number of close real and 'net friends will read them and get an inside view on my devils and angels, but that's being romantic about it.

Sigh.

So where to begin? I could write volumes on the subjects swimming in my synapsi, but I don't have the time or energy, so I'm going to try and keep it short. So I'll cut to the chase. Tonight I had to waste two hours of my life watching Van Wilder. Two whole damn fucking hours that I'll never get back. If you could sue people for time lost to their trash, then I'd be at the fucking office now, at three-thirty in the morning, waiting for some jagoff ambulance chasing "has-months-of-experience" chowderhead laywer to lay my case down before whatever fucking court took such cases, which probably exist in Bizarro World.

The movie is insane. It's a mindfuck. If my mind had an anus, it would be barking up that quarter, and probably without any kind of...ease-in-goo. If you don't know what I mean, I MEAN IT WAS AN ASS RAPE FOR MY BRAIN, AND IT DIDN'T USE LUBE. And by the way you clueless jackass, don't fucking come back to this blog, because I'm obviously talking above your damn intelligence quotient, and I don't need banana fucks like you reading it. You probably like Van Wilder, in which case I hope God has mercy on your soul in the same way he might display it towards hemorroids.

Again I digress. I actually do have an itenerary (sic), so let's get to it.

The movie's plot is pretty simple: There's a fast talking kid that spends seven (!) years in college because he loves it. He has an awesome apartment, his own golf cart for transportation, hundreds of friends, a personal rent-a-cop, lots of women to have sex with, etc etc. He never studies, doesn't care about grades, his dad pays for it, etc. In short he's living the MTV life. He's young, he's hot (I'm comfortable with my heterosexuality, thank you), he's popular, he's carefree, etc. Anyway, he does all this. A girl comes in. He tries to score with her. She eventually shows him the idiot he is. She then proceeds to love him (sigh sigh sigh). He almost gets expelled. He doesn't get expelled. He graduates. Yay. More explanation for each segment I choose to rip apart.

Let me start off by saying the entire movie is a metaphor for what is wrong with America.