Kill New Year's Eve

I’ve never really cared much for New Year’s Eve.  For me, it’s always been just another day.  When I was little, it was an excuse to stay up late, but my family was boring.  What’s the use?  When I finally got taller than my parents (12 or 13?), I started to exert my will (read: act like a dick) and just go to sleep at like 9 or 10 o’clock, shunning tradition.  What did I have to look forward to?  Every year was as crappy as the last, I never had a girlfriend to kiss at midnight, and the family didn’t drink, so I couldn’t even sneak any booze.

Life got a little better in high school when I started hanging out more with my friend Amanda.  Everyone would go to her house for NYE and party in the basement.  I still didn’t care much for NYE in particular, but many times in high school the Lovely basement was my Shangri-La, so this was just another one of those times.  I got to be with my crazy-ass friends instead of my boring-ass family.  I had a girlfriend at one point, so I finally got that midnight kiss.  Oh yeah, there was sure to be some kind of alcohol too.  Matty likey.

Times change though, right?  Sure they do, but this is actually one of those cases where the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.  Amanda started dating Hairy Parry.  We all went our separate ways to college.  We started to drink legally.  But getting together on NYE was always a given.  Lots of times we still invaded Casa de Lovely, but we also made good use of Parry’s cabin on at least one occasion (we all decided to streak through the snow and ice).

Now, three years into grad school, it’s all gone to hell.  As far as I know, Amanda and Parry are just going to be hanging out (in their own house this time) tonight.  Mala’s going to be with her boyfriend and cohorts.  Jared sold me out to play with the mountain folk tonight.  But hey, I sold out too; I’m going to be partying with the BioSci grad school nerds in Debby’s basement.  Now, there’s nothing wrong with anyone’s plans for the evening, but things have finally changed, and it feels like they’ve probably changed for good.  This depresses me.  Good thing I’ll be drinking about 4 gallons of alcohol tonight.

2006 better not suck.

You Don't Always Have to Bump

Every group of friends I’ve ever been part of has had it’s own language. I’m sure you’ve all noticed this in your own lives. There’s that one word or phrase that is said and everyone picks up on it. When you hang around a lot of guys, I believe this becomes more pronounced. At least this has been my experience.

From what high school memories I can recall, my friends and I used the word “slacker” quite a bit. That was our common greeting for each other, “Slacker!! How’s it going?” Another expression I remember is “punk a b”, which stands for punk ass bitch. I’m sure there were other expressions, but I don’t remember them. Those memories are forever lost much like the sight of Bob Krause’s feet to his eyes.

We had quite a few expressions in college, notably “Kill you!”, “uh YEAH!” and “…..and shit.” They are still used to this day and in most instances, these phrases have been picked up by the new groups to which we became members. Dave Hayes and I had many people in Louisiana saying “Kill you!” and “uh YEAH!”.

I want to focus on the group speak from Louisiana, mainly because it’s freshest in my mind and I don’t remember things too well anymore.

Skurps – Courtesy of Jeff Brooks (more to come on this Arkansan homeboy in the future). Here’s an example of how this would be used.
Jeff: I hooked up with Little Red again last night.
Everyone else: SKURPS!!!!!!

Jared: I don’t think she shaves the beav. (You guys from Louisiana know who I’m referencing).
Jeff: SKURPS!!!!


Oh my god – Courtesy of Dave Hayes. An expression used to denote approval or liking
A hot girl walks by and Dave Hayes says, “Oh my god.”
I think Fluker put it best when he said that he loved this expression. “You can say it, but no one really knows what you are referring to.” This is true depending on how much tact you use in saying it.


Bow-wang – Courtesy of Jeff Brooks. Congruent to Wayne and Garth saying “Shwing.”

Dave Hayes: Oh my god.
Jeff: Bow-wang!


Goddamn fucking kill you! – My own variation on “Kill you!” I said this at the bar a lot, so much so that they put it on a birthday cake for me.


Fucking right doggie – I think this came from American Wedding. Used to convey agreement.

Anyone: Wanna get drunk?
Jeff: Fucking right doggie!


What it is cap’n? – Courtesy of Jeff Brooks. Hello.

You call Jeff on the phone…ring ring ring ring ring
Jeff: What it is cap’n?


Hey brother – Courtesy of Buster from Arrested Development. Generally used between Ashley, Amy, Dave and myself as a greeting.


What it do? – Courtesy of David Medlin. Ghetto Louisiana speak for “What’s up?”

David: What it do?
Jared: What does what do?
David: What’s up?
Jared: Oh.


And last but not least, You don’t always have to bump. This isn’t so much an expression as much as it is an action and a philosophy. In our group, instead of shaking hands, we would bump fists. I’m not sure why, but I think Baranasaki started it. Bumping fists was our hello and goodbye. One night, Fluker decided that, “You don’t always have to bump.” Instead Fluker came up with the clinched fist twist. Basically you make a fist, aim it toward a person and twist back and forth. This took laziness to a whole new level.

Frank via Darren

I just got off of the phone with Darren Moser, an amazing human being.  Chronologically, he’s a year younger than me, but his liver is an old man’s compared to mine (and that’s saying something).  Darren has the world’s greatest metabolism.  He drinks no less than 384 oz. of beer every day, never really exercises, but maintains a six pack instead of a beer belly.  The guy’s a child prodigy of beer, and he works in a brewery in Berkeley now.

When he called, he was driving through Napa while thoroughly pissed.  All he wanted to do was drink, and when he drove into the valley, there were wineries as far as the eye could see.  Unfortunately, he was trying to meet his old roommate Natalie that was on the other side of Napa.  So here he is, stuck in traffic, getting further and further from alcohol, and he’s lost.  He reaches under his seat looking for a map and instead fishes out a full beer which he promptly drinks to allay his rage.

This is about where I caught up to him.  We exchanged holiday pleasantries, wished each other many happy brown ales, and then he hits me with a story:

A few weeks back, his buddy Frank from home (eastern PA, worst place on Earth) went to a holiday party that his boss threw.  It sounded pretty good; the guy rented out one of those go-cart places and brought in some kegs of beer.  I guess the old man was trying to convey that there’s nothing better than drinking and driving.

Well, Frank gets retarded, as friends of Darren tend to do, and it’s time to leave.  He’s shit housed drunk but gives a co-worker a ride home.  In the process, he plows into the back of some girl’s car.  She was very cool about it, told him insurance didn’t even need to be involved since her car wasn’t too bad off, but Frank insisted that his insurance company would take care of everything.  They exchanged information, and he sped from the scene.

This all happened in a residential area, so the girl’s neighbors called the cops, but they couldn’t find Frank anywhere.  He was hiding out at another friend’s house.  So, the next day after he filed the claim, the cops caught up with him but now had no proof he was drunk, and because his insurance was taking care of anything, he was in the clear.  Police action avoided, he calls the girl to tell her that the insurance claim is being processed, and she says, “Do you come up this way often?  We should get a drink some time...”

Frank’s boss knew it, and now he does too.  There’s nothing better than drinking and driving.

The Manhattan Project

I like to cook, and depending on who you ask, some would even say that I’m good at it.  I make myself a full dinner almost every night, which is pretty necessary because I don’t eat much during the rest of the day.  I haven’t eaten breakfast regularly since high school, and my lunch is usually just some leftovers or a sandwich.  This week’s been a little different as I’ve gone out to lunch 3 days in a row.  Tuesday was supposed to be a working lunch with Debby, but I think we talked more about personal stuff than we did about science.  Wednesday was Asian cuisine with Mala and Dave the Jew, post-Bog People.  Today was lunch with the family.

My aunt and uncle (and pretty much the entire Bochman clan minus me, the old man, and the sisters) live in Jamestown, NY.  With both of my dad’s parents and two of his three siblings dead, my uncle Phil is really the only link to the original Bochmans that my dad has.  Now, the old man isn’t really a social creature, but he does keep in quasi-weekly contact with his brother.  They talk on the phone, and usually once a month, Phil and his wife Barb will drive down for lunch.  For some reason (?), these visits always happen on Thursdays, and because I’m always busy with work/school, I can seldom attend.  But finally, after more than a year, I finally just skipped work for a day and drove to the Saxonburg Hotel for lunch with my dad, aunt, and uncle.

Uncle Phil is one of my favorite Bochmans.  He’s got a good head on his shoulders.  He was full of questions since I haven’t seen him for so long.  How’s school going (crazy)?  What do I think of the South Korean stem cell debacle (love it)?  Do I ever go to the museum (just yesterday)?  Does my car have all wheel drive (4WD bitches)?  You know, the normal stuff.

I guess most of all I like to listen to my dad and uncle talk.  They jog each other’s memories, so I get to hear stuff that they individually never would’ve thought of.  For instance, I never knew that my dad loaded nukes onto bombers when he was in the Navy.  

My dad, a confusing cross between a hippie and a northern red neck, had access to nuclear weapons…

My dad, the man who’s still heartbroken that the Genesee brewery discontinued its 36 pack, was in close proximity to megatons of destruction…

My dad, who asked me what “anal retentive” meant, who asked my little sister what “the shocker” was, who occasionally sharts (runs in the family) while wearing cutoff jean shorts, was keeping the Red Menace at bay with Fat Man and Little Boy on an aircraft carrier…

If nothing else, I guess the radiation at least explains my birth defects since my mom still refuses she took any thalidomide.

Jew Jerky

My friend Dave the Jew was in town today and decided he wanted to go see “The Mysterious Bog People” exhibit at the Carnegie Museum in Oakland.  Of all the perks I get for being a grad student at Pitt, free admission to the museum and free health insurance rank last in usage by me, so I decided to disrupt that trend to check out these bog guys.  Dave, a cynic to the bone, was pretty psyched for the exhibit, probably so he could laugh at the mummies.

First things first: I haven’t been to the museum since I was but a wee Bochman.  I think my grandmother and great-aunt took me to see the dinosaurs and rock/gem collection.  As a nerd, you’d think I might go more, but don’t forget, I’m lazy too.  I have to say though, I wouldn’t mind going back to check the whole place out…especially since it’s free for me.  

Dave might be a real Jew, but the way I save money could earn me a Star of David on my Boy Scout uniform.

Anyway, the Bog People were indeed mysterious.  So much so, that the exhibit didn’t really give you a whole lot of information about them.  I guess you can only tell so much from shit you find in Northern European bogs.  It looks like the mummified bodies they found were the victims of some kind of ritual sacrifice…or just some assholes that got lost and died in the muck.  I will say this though, they looked like beef jerky.  

Needless to say, the Mysterious Beef Jerky Bog People made us hungry, so we hit up the noodle shop on Craig St. for lunch.  After, Dave and my roommate went back to the museum to look at the animals, and I made the mistake of going back to work where I got stuck doing actual work.  What kind of world do we live in where I’m forced to go to the lab and do things (while sober, mind you)?  Ah well, we did interview some people for a tech position, so if we can get some more bodies in the lab to throw around, I won’t absorb all of the punishment anymore.

Seeing Dave was fun.  He’s graduating this year and will hopefully move back this way to bring amusement to our lives.  Just seeing him for a few hours reminds me of a bunch of stories that Dr. Yeti’s millions of fans may enjoy (many of these stories feature mammal penises).  Check back soon.

Hardy belly laugh

Every year, I tell myself that I’m going to send out x-mas cards. Apparently, every year I lie. What can I say, I’m a douche. I do like to receive the cards though. This year, I got the two greatest cards ever.

The first was from Jess, and although most of it’s top secret, I can say that Jared was represented by a My Little Pony sticker. It was superb.

The second was a surprise waiting for me when I got home from the lab today. It was in an envelope from Becky, and I assumed it would either be an invitation to her party or some sort of silly Hanukkah poem. Instead, in green and silver glitter, I received the following message:
KILL YOU
Kids these days…they learn fast…

Fort Necessity

When you were a kid, did you ever build a blanket fort?  You know, drape a few blankets over some chairs, maybe make some pillow walls, pretend to camp out in it and shit?  My sisters and I used to do that all the time.  We’d literally take over an entire room in the old barnesque house we grew up in, rearrange the couch and chairs a little, and box everything in with blankets and pillows.  It was great; we’d sleep in there for a week, have lunch in it, read quasi-erotic horror stories…you know, whatever came to mind.  Sometimes my dad (apparently being oblivious to the structural integrity of the fort) would sit in the chair that comprised one of its main supports and recline.  This obviously destroyed the fort and resulted in me giving my dad a swift rabbit punch to the neck to teach him a lesson.  When you’re lying on the floor with a dislocated Adam’s apple, you have just enough time to regret ruining your son’s architectural endeavors before you pass out from the pain and humiliation.

Eventually, I got too old and gangly to fit in a simple blanket fort comfortably, but saying hello to pubic hair didn’t mean I said a final goodbye to the fort.  Sometimes, I’ll climb under the covers in my bed with a flashlight to make a ghetto blanket fort for a while.  It’s not the same, but even a little hit of fortjuana is enough to tide you over.  Also, at some point in war-torn Bosnia, I found myself in an impromptu blanket fort and stole my first kiss from HWCG.  

See, blanket forts are badass, but they can be scary too.  My friend Amanda is also a great fan and master builder of forts.  Once, while she was in college, another friend of mine (and current roommate) Mala went to visit Amanda at Pitt.  For the occasion, Amanda had turned her dorm room into a blanket fort.  She and Mala had a great time until the conversation turned toward Jesus.

Now, imagine this.  You’re in a dark room in the middle of the night inside the confines of Fort Blanky.  Your mind goes back to your childhood when watching Unsolved Mysteries scared the piss out of you…especially the crazy religious ones with demons and statues that cry blood.
     Amanda: Dude, what if Jesus walked in right now?
     Mala: Oh my god…
     A: I’d shit my pants.
     M: But isn’t Jesus nice?
     A: Not always…
     M: Ahhhh, I see him!
Now granted, Mala didn’t have her contacts in, and she could’ve just been looking at a white mug across the fort, but at the time it was an angry Jesus out for vengeance.  It’s one of those instances when you don’t want to open your eyes so instead you just squeeze them shut and fall asleep in terror.  “God is love” is BS.  The Christian God wouldn’t hesitate to turn you ass into a pillar of salt and ruin your shit Old Testament style.

Anyway, I’m agnostic, but I got a blanket for x-mas, so I figured I might make a fort soon.  Anyone interested?

A Very Mountain Christmas

Hello world!!  It’s been a while.  I took a temporary hiatus from writing any posts because I was too busy planning my family’s demise.  It’s no joke; I really have been planning how to destroy everyone.  You see, in the mountains, family ties can be fucked up.

Friday night, we had the annual Naugle (My mother’s family) family Christmas party.  This year it was held at my parent’s house.  I spent most of last week trying to clean the basement considering that both of my parents seem to be pack-rats.  I think my father has a fetish for cardboard boxes.  He especially likes to save cardboard boxes to take and exchange with the Amish for flowers and plants in the spring.  It’s a noble enterprise and he does get a lot of flowers and all from them for really cheap, but it still pisses me off.  If it were up to me, I would have thrown much of the stuff in the basement to the curb (well, it’s not so much a curb up here as it is the place where our driveway intersects the “main” road).

So the big day finally came and the family descended on our house.  I had spent most of the day preparing Yeti gumbo.  I wanted to make a dark roux, which I did.  My arm was a little tired from this endeavor (If I were Matt Bochman I would not have tired so easily, but then again he gets more beat time in).  After about 2 ½ hours of constant stirring, my roux reached the desired color.  I needed to let the roux cool, so I went downstairs and helped my sister decorate the basement with decorations that I swear my parents have had for twenty years – years.  Skip forward several hours and yes, the family was there, the whole lot of them.  I should first tell you this about half of the family is uber-religious and the other half takes a much more lackadaisical approach to the subject.  My parents are part of the uber group, of which I want no part.  Anyhow, this all makes for an interesting interactions and relationships.  Mostly you have the religious side looking down on the others, who I might add, drink a lot, especially Uncle Peebag.  Uncle Peebag did show up drunk to the event, which wasn’t at all unexpected.  This particular year, the party was rather dull.  We used to do a gift exchange; I think they called it a Chinese gift exchange or something.  Basically you bought a male or female gift, people draw numbers, you pick a gift and then you can exchange with anyone.  Not until everyone has a gift, can they be opened up.  Well, Uncle Peebag ruined this for everyone.  It seemed that he always brought that large tin of popcorn.  You know, the one with buttered, cheese and caramel corn.  This really pissed the religious side of the family off and rightly so, his gift cost considerably less than the $25 mark set by the matron and patrons of the family.  So this evolved into everyone watching to see what gift Uncle Peebag would bring and then making sure that he got stuck with what he brought.  It was a lot of fun watching all of this play out.  One year, a religious uncle from Kentucky brought religious videotapes.  Miraculously Uncle Peebag got these.  He wasn’t too pleased.  After two or three years of gift exchange sabotage, the family decided against it because everyone was getting pissed off.  I’m sad that it’s gone, not so much because it was fun, but more so because it’s a lot more boring without it.  I really don’t have much to say to most of my family and the one’s that I do have something to say to (KELLY) left early to go hang out with friends, which I myself do not have.

Well, the meal started and was over.  That was pretty much the highlight of the evening for me.  The family loved the gumbo.  I am everyone’s golden boy after all.  So I talked a while to some cousins, all guys, who are about 21-22 years old.  And then all the younger kids started running around, so I headed upstairs to get away from them.  This lasted all of about half an hour before they found their way upstairs as well and were running and screaming all over the place.  But then they all left.  Except for one aunt and uncle.  I like this uncle, he’s my mom’s brother, but his wife gets on my nerves most of the time.  All she does is bitch and moan about everything that she doesn’t have, yet she doesn’t go out and get a job.  You do the math.  They stayed until about 11 o’clock or so and then the party officially ended.

Christmas day came and passed without much glitz or glamour.  It’s just another day to me anymore.  I remember a time when I was excited about Christmas, but now it’s just blatant consumerism.  What really pisses me off is the fact that people ask me what I want.  I don’t really want anything (well, I do want some things, but the family is able to give these things to me).  And besides, where’s the creativity.  I’d rather have a gift that some thought was put into as compared to me telling them what to get me.  I’ll step down from my soapbox now.

And since it has been a while since I’ve written anything, I need to reply to David Medlin’s comment.  It got down to some low blows.  The neighbor story was below the belt, but then again, I did deserve it.  But contrary to what Medlin said, the neighbor was not my only female friend outside of the bar.  Hell, I wouldn’t even have considered her a friend, maybe more of an acquaintance.  All things considered, it was a funny comment, albeit a little truth stretching.  I will share a story sometime this week about the neighbor girl’s brother.  But for now, I bid my readers farewell.

crazeye

My mom has worked for about a million years as a maternity nurse.  She’s got lots of great stories about people popping out babies, which she’ll candidly share with you in any situation.  We’re talking about hermaphrodite babies, babies born without assholes, babies born as giant assholes (Dr. Yeti?), and other freak show things of that nature.

A few years back, her hospital closed down, so she did a bit of a journeyman thing, moving to another hospital, working in a pediatrician’s office, etc.  Well, one thing leads to another (Can I get an OTLTA <finger crux> amen!?!) and my mom is working back at a hospital.  She applied for a position in the maternity ward, but I guess they had enough nurses there, so she got placed in the psych ward…

Yeah, she works with crazy people now.  I’m a little afraid she’ll get too comfortable there and want to stay.  I’m also afraid that if I go visit, they won’t let me leave, because let’s face it, I ain’t right in the head.

The only good thing about the psycho ward is that my mom has even more great stories to tell at the dinner table.  I guess there’s some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality thing even with nurses and nut jobs, so in future stories I’ll change the name of anyone involved to protect the identities of their multiple personalities.  For now, I’d just like to say that yes, crazy people do have sex in the psych ward, and they often move in together when they get released to make crazy babies.

Oh well…I was going to write more, but I’m pretty tired and depressed today, so I’ll just leave you hanging.  Kill you Jared.

Tiny Tim sold his crutch on eBay

Oops, I never got around to posting on X-mas Eve; I was too busy cooking dinner and tolerating my family.  (Right now Jared’s thinking, “Matt Bochman is the most intolerant person I know.”  That may be true, but even I soften up a little around the holidays.  Don’t think I didn’t almost get in a ninja fight with my grandmother though…)

Anyway, merry X-mas kids.  I’ll post something more substantial tomorrow…about crazy people maybe…but now it’s time to play with all the toys that Santa dropped in my yard when I started throwing empty beer bottles at him.

XX vs. XY, grudge match of the century

Earlier this year, I was writing a book about all of the women I know and how they’re slowly driving me to the brink of insanity.  I can’t say that it was a great book, but the writing was pretty therapeutic.  See, aside from my beer-bellied dad, my family is all women.  I’ve got two sisters, a bunch of aunts, and a bunch of female cousins.  As I’ve gotten older, the majority of my friends have turned out to be women.  Hell, even my program in grad school is like 99% women.

That’s a lot of estrogen to deal with.  That’s a lot of emotions, back stabbing, burnt cookies, tampons, and kicks to the crotch to deal with.  Don’t get me wrong, I love these women (except the ones I’m related to because they genuinely hate me back), but goddamn…they ain’t right in the head.  “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” is bullshit; there’s no way we’re that closely related.

Anyway, writing helped relieve all the stress.  I looked forward to it at the end of the day.  Unfortunately, I’m using the past tense here because I haven’t worked on the book in a long time.  Mainly, I got busy at work, but there are a thousand other things I could blame too.  So, I guess I’ll just blame Jared…kill you Jared!

Thankfully, this whole blog thing happened.  I can write almost whatever I want (damn my discretion), and you, one of Dr. Yeti’s millions of fans, burns a few brain cells reading it.  It’s helping to keep me sane.  If it wasn’t for this, I may have dismembered Jared and subsequently beaten everyone in my path with his yeti extremities by now.  Or maybe I would’ve gotten like “Rainman-depressed” and dug a hole under Dave’s doublewide to live like Red Fred (remind me to write the Red Fred story some day).  I guess to stay warm, I’d need a yeti pelt for a blanket, so either way, Jared’s lucky that this blog makes me happy.

Where’s this rambling bunch of quasi-literary nonsense going, you ask?  Nowhere in particular, so shut the hell up.  I will say this though, after years of the women in my family treating me like a Cassandra, they’ve actually started listening to me a little.  So tomorrow, after decades of holiday dinners that my mom and grandmother have overcooked and under-seasoned, I get to make the food.  

Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re saying, “but Bochman, now you have to do all the work while they sit on their asses.”  Of course I realize this (my IQ is almost 78), but at least I get to eat a badass flavorful dinner now.  I swear to god though, if anyone complains about the meal I make, I’m going to go berserk.  

Sincerely,
Bochman’s Y-chromosomes

A Christmas Gift

Ladies and gentlemen, once in a great while, an author writes something so profound that it changes the face of the world.  This my friends is just such an occasion.  I present to you the story of the first Christmas as written by Christy Marie Reedy:

Once upon a time, long, long ago there was a little boy named Marie.  His friends teased him because he had a woman's name, but he didn't care.  They were just jealous as all little girls are.  They loved him in their own ways, he knew.  This little boy was special.  Like Rainman, curious, random facts were stored away in his brain.  And like Merriam Webster, his vocabulary was vast and encompassing.  Much of his downtime was spent tooling around on the internet (which although is thought to be a recent product of technology, has really been around a long time.  Instead of cable or dial-up, you sent your mule with the Google search terms to the monastery where the monks looked up the information for you and sent it back with the mule.  So things were slow going but worked the same.) looking for things which would appall the senses.  One day, while deep into the world wide web (these were some kick ass monks), he came upon a kangaroo scrotum change purse for sale.  "Now this," he thought, "is a really great gift for someone really special."  And at that moment, the skies opened up, and an angel appeared.  "Hark! That someone special has been born in Bethlehem, and you are to bring him gifts.  Just follow the pseudo-rainbows that you can find along the way."  Well Marie was amazed by this revelation because he thought that as the resident atheist chaplain, he did not believe in angels but alas, here was one.  (And a very beautiful angel she was, he thought.  He would have to get her number...Maybe she liked camel chops)  Anyway, while he was thinking about what to cook the angel to put her under his spell, he remembered a little hut which  made fantastic enchiladas and their pseudo-rainbows out front.  It MUST be a sign he thought.   Marie gets lonely sometimes so he decided to put up with the antics of Apple and Stupid-head Julia and invite them along.  Maybe they could even have a margarita or two along the way.  So, packed onto Julia's mule, the three rode off into the night.  It was a long and trying trip, as Julia's mule was on the slow side and kept pissing off the other mules by walking on the wrong side of the desert path and holding up traffic.  But Apple and Marie tried to keep her on track, and there was lots of chocolate to keep them happy.  Eventually they reached the restaurant which was closed, but had a sign saying that they were closed for the Christmas holiday and would open again after the New Year.  "What is this 'Christmas' they speak of?" the trio wondered.  It must have something to do with the angel's proclamation because, well, what else could it be?  So the trio continued on towards the rainbow of light in the sky, far, far to the east.  Marie had his kangaroo scrotum change purse safely tucked into his G-string with measuring tape for safe keeping.  (Because he knew no one would ever go there).  And he had made Julia and Apple wear some of his new socks in case he couldn't work his magnesium flint stick like Survivorman.  After days and days of traveling, through many of Apple's rage black-outs, after repeating the funny things to Julia when she missed them, they finally arrived in Bethlehem.  The yellow brick road was waiting for them, and there was an old man with a gray beard and little wooden shoes as their guide.  Asking if they brought presents, the group showed the little Dutch man their kangaroo scrotum change purse and vitamins (Julia and Apple were always thinking of people's health) and the Dutchman was satisfied.  "Grab the beer and come along then," he said.  And the three wise (ok, fine, one wise little boy, a red and black appleheaded bundle of joy and a TB/phage-loving little girl) all came to a shoddy inn where Apple was appalled at the lack of valet parking.  Nonetheless the group was led to the manger where a little child lay.  And there were banners of allllll the colors of the rainbow proclaiming greetings like, "Happy Birthday Jesus!" and "Congratulations Mary!!!!" and an open bar with midget bartenders.  It was a festive site.  The trio presented the boy with gifts, and Mary, his mother, was very thankful for the vitamins.  She wanted Jesus to grow up big and strong and TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!, I mean, be healthy so that he could heal the sick and give strength to the weak.  The kangaroo scrotum change purse was indeed honored as the gift of the gods and given to the little boy so that he could put his marijuana, I mean, healing powder in it.  And it was that little kangaroo scrotum change purse which led baby Jesus to greatness.  To all the world, he became a symbol of faith and hope.  And who do we really have to thank? The little boy named Marie with a woman's name and a knack for finding the perfect gift.  The end.    

X-mas presents so far...

From Christy, Julia, and Shruthi:
Mini fridge
This thing can fit 5 bottles of wine, keep things hot or cold, and has a car adapter.  I’ll never leave home without it.
Socks
I asked my mom for socks for X-mas, but she hates me, so these ladies got them for me instead.  This pack includes a bonus black pair.  Some day, I’ll write a whole post about how and why my mom hates me.
Men’s vitamins
Everyone’s always afraid I’m going to die.  Some people, like Jared, actually wish for just such an event every day.  The other day, Christy made me schedule an appointment for a physical.  I haven’t been to the doctor’s in a decade, so I might freak out when he whips out the blood pressure cuff.
Magnesium flint stick
Now I can be just like Survivor Man and light the hell out of fires wherever and whenever I want!  If you haven’t seen at least one episode of Survivor Man yet, your life is stupid.

From Becky and Debby:
Kangaroo scrotum change purse
     It’s naturally seamless.  I bet there are some sad kangaroos down under.
Sad wiener gum
     It’s been a long summer.
G-string with measuring tape
Now I can practice my dancing and measure my windows for new curtains all at the same time.  It fits pretty well, but I’m going to need a Brazilian if you know what I’m saying.  A tan wouldn’t hurt either.

Just one pitcher

What a day for blogs!  All of Dr. Yeti’s blog affiliates have been updated today.  Check out the links to the right and Jared’s post below this one.  Happy reading.

------------------------------------------------------------

It’s well known all over this great nation of ours that the yeti and Dr. Snail are quite the dynamic duo.  What some of you might not know is that Dave Hayes and Matt Bochman were also once a team to be reckoned with.  We’ve got a lot of things in common other than the science and Pennsylvania Dutchitude.  We’re both hungry, good with firearms, reincarnations of Jesus, and dirty drunks.

Aside from parties, we didn’t mean to be drunks.  It just kinda happened.  We always had good intentions when we went to the bar.  We’d stop in at Boxers for just one pitcher, maybe a plate a fries with malt vinegar, and then we were going to head back to work on shit.

Like clockwork though, we’d drink that pitcher, and then something would go wrong.  To this day, I still don’t know what it was.  Maybe Yuengling Black & Tan is just too delicious.  Maybe one pitcher just didn’t have enough volume to satiate the thirst of well over 12 feet of PA Dutch.  Maybe we’re alcoholics.  Whatever it was, we had to get a second pitcher.  And let me tell you, it went down just as smooth and fast as the first.

Now we come to a crucial moment.  We’ve effectively had one pitcher each.  So technically, our “just one pitcher” goal hasn’t been violated.  The problem is, another beer each, and we could be drunk.  Really, what’s the point of drinking that much if you’re not going to follow through?  So, we did the only reasonable thing, we ordered pitcher #3.  

I think you can see where this is going.  It usually ended with two drunk scientists with no money in their pockets but smiles on their faces.  So, if you ever want to get just one pitcher with either of us, strap yourself in; it’s going to be a long night.

A Tribute

I can't think of a person more deserving of a tribute blog than Ron Popeil. How could anyone overlook what this man has done for our kitchens, not to mention our Sunday mornings?

Ron Popeil, as you may or may not know, is the founder/owner of Ronco. Ronco makes and or markets kitchen products. Well, mostly kitchen products. He does market the Pocket Fisherman and that hair in a can and shit. My most favorite of his inventions is the Showtime Rotisserie and all of the accompanying accessories, most notably the solid food injector. Here's a little device that let's you put whole cloves of garlic right into the center of any roast or chicken that you may be making. Amazing!

But enough of my drooling over Ronco products. Let's talk about what this man means to me. Ron Popeil is a God. Let me tell you why I think this so.

Every Sunday morning, little Matty Bochman and I would wake up around 9ish or 10ish from a hard night of drinking. After showering and dressing, we would usually have to wait between a half hour to an hour for Baker to open for Sunday lunch/brunch. Usually, this tended to be our favorite meal of the week. But what were we to do during this down-time. Lord knows wet weren't going to watch Billy Graham preach about how we are going to hell (I cherish the thought of going to hell. I mewouldn't wouldn't want free beer and cigarettes. Oh yeah, and a can of Grizzly chew just for you Jeffro) (One other thing, if you check out the Billy Graham link, please tell me that you also think he looks like the judge played by Dan Aykroyd in Nothing But Trouble). But anyhow, all things considered, there really wasn't much to watch at this time of day on a Sunday, till that one miraculous day that we fell in love with Ron Popeil. It really was love at first sight. How could we not love a man that had 20+ Showtime Rotisseries set up in a kitchen making chicken, salmon and beef roasts. Oh, how our mouths watered. Almost immediately we were in tune with the show, shouting "Set it and forget it!!!!" We were hypnotized and mesmerized by the juicy foods and Ron Popeil's cunning smile. This became a ritual for us. Every Sunday morning, just before lunch/brunch, we would watch Ron Popeil and his Showtime Rotisserie, slowly but surely increasing our appetites as each minute wore on. By the time we got to Baker, the only thing I can liken our behavior to is Tim Enedy at the Allensville buffet. If it weren't for Ron Popeil and his Showtime Rotisserie, Matt and I would have been forced to watch something else, possibly some Sunday church show. Our meals at Baker would never have been the same. We owe it all to Ron Popeil and his amazing inventions.

To this day, anytime I am flipping through the channels and I see that weathered face, thinning, well-groomed hair and devilish smile, I am frozen. Ron Popeil could be selling dehydrated shit (which is quite possible considering that he also markets a food dehydrator) and I'd still watch. I think the man may even be able to sell ketchup popsicles to a woman wearing white gloves. What would my Sunday mornings be without him? I love you Ron Popeil.

Uniform

Today, I wore a maroon shirt and jeans. So did Julia, and so did Christy. I think Molly and Pallavi did too, but I’ll leave them out of this debacle. We didn’t plan it, it just sort of happened. On Friday, Julia and Christy were both in my room, so I blame them. I put negative 3% effort into what I wear. Basically, if it’s at the front of the rack or on top of the pile, it’s being worn that day. I figure that they arranged my clothes in such a way that this shirt and pair of jeans were on deck for Monday. I know, I know, you think I’m paranoid, but you don’t understand my life. I have to be on alert around these women all the time. If I drop my guard for one second…BAM!...I could be attacked by ninja pirates that they hired to assassinate me.

I need to go on a vacation. I need to abduct Jared and drive him to Phoenixville. He and I need to distribute homebrew to the natives. He and I need to destroy the city of Philadelphia, absolutely level it, and then reconstruct a proper city in its place which we’ll call Pittsburgh Jr. This city will feature a University of Pittsburgh campus that will enroll me in its Biological Sciences program, and include a Gerontology program for the yeti. It will need to be stocked with socialites and the things that socialites find pleasing. Squirrel Hill Jr. will also need to be properly Jewed out, or up, or whatever way they do it. Hanukkah bushes all around!

When we reconstruct the city, we’re still going to include hills. None of this making it flat and laying it out on a grid shit. That would make it like Cleveland Jr. Nobody wants that. Ohio is the Canada of Pennsylvania for Christ sake. Think about it. That makes New Jersey PA’s Mexico, and New York is our Atlantic Ocean; it’s perfect.

What does that make West Virginia? A bunch of sheep fuckers.

Happy Weekiversary

Well kids, we did it.  Dr. Yeti is now a full seven days old, and anything that lasts for a week, is here to stay…just like my herpes.  And what a week it’s been!  Who can forget Jared’s epic tale of napping or the triumphant arrival of Dr. Snail?

I just finished watching The Alamo.  I’m usually not a big fan of Billy Bob Thornton, but he makes a pretty good Davey Crockett.  Plus, it’s funny to see the Mexican Army get their asses kicked in eighteen minutes by Sam Houston.  Sure, they killed all the guys in the Alamo, but those couple hundred good old boys killed like ten Mexicans each.  It’s like a Bobby Walters wet dream come true.

I dropped my bagel on the floor, but it’s ok because I just Swiffer Wet Jetted with some sort of antibacterial nonsense.  

Chocolate milk is delicious.  I may be slightly lactose intolerant, but I still love the stuff.  Dean’s is a lot better than the Giant Eagle brand.  My little sister Goiter likes to cut hers with a little normal milk, and I’ve got to admit that that’s a pretty tastey treat too.  It’s like making a black & tan out of milks.  I guess you could call this mulatto milk…?

Writing this post stream of consciousness style isn’t really working too well is it?  Sure, I’m no James Joyce, but I can usually come up with something readable (see Julia’s collection of notes).  So, I’ll stop subjecting you to this horror.  Maybe I’ll come up with something that’s not the verbal equivalent of Jared’s taint this week.

Trusty Steed

I don’t know if this counts as part of my psychic bond with Jared, but I also got drunk last night. Big surprise, right? However, unlike my sasquatchian counterpart, no one put a time limit on my boozing, so I was able to spread it out and stay coherent. Well, I was mostly coherent. While giving people directions to my house, I only told one or two people that I lived at their apartments…

Anyway, the hurricane known as Dr. L, PhD was in town. She destroyed my apartment, wrestled & partially disrobed two women on my floor, and pissed off the landlord. That’s fine though, I was retarded off of homebrew. I drank so many hard ciders that my urine had a definite odor of apples and cinnamon today. L is a handful, but she came bearing gifts. Everyone got a hand-painted pint glass; mine had my initials ringed in by the epithets “Master Brewer” and “Trusty Steed.” The latter refers to the incident about a year ago when L decided it was a good idea to ride me at a party.

It wasn’t a long night (probably because we started drinking at 3 PM), and since both Jared and Dave & Trapper have already posted, this isn’t a long entry. I’ll try to come up with something better for Sunday. Have a good one kids.

Billy Hole

More Southern Rant, By Dr. Snail, Adjunct Blogger

Hello All, I will be an adjunct writer in the School of Rant founded by Dr.Yeti. For this segment, I was inspired by the Yeti’s southern rant. Since I was there in Louisiana and now am residing in Arkansas, I am well versed in these musings.

Large and In Charge - Fat people flock to the south like your grandparents to an early bird dinner. Not that I have anything against fat people, but the south has come up with some pretty inventive ways to keep that cottage cheese look to their thighs.

First, a Sonic on every corner. For those of you unfamiliar with Sonic, someone thought that walking into the fast food restaurant took too much energy and burned valuable calories so they came up with a solution: You eat in your car. You never have to get out of your seat and instead, you can work on the ass-groove in the bench seat of your rusty 1981 Chevy pickup while eating. Sonic menu items include super sized orders of french fries or tater-tots which come in a box which can only be described as a foot-long boat setting sail to a triple bypass. If that’s not enough for you, for an extra $1.50, you can get meaty chili and cheese on top of your order which will soak through the box and add more stains to your acid washed jeans. Top it all off with a liter of sweet tea which no doubt contains half a pound of pure cane sugar.

Second, deep fry everything. The yeti and I would indulge ourselves once in a while at the local buffet, Barnhill’s. While we were enjoying our meal, a morbidly obese black child was sitting at the table next to us. On his plate was a pyramid of unidentifiable fried items so high that his chubby little arms almost couldn’t reach his chubby face. It didn’t matter what the food items beneath the crust were because if they were breaded and fried, he was eating them topped off with half a bottle of ketchup and of course, sweet tea. (Hercules! Hercules!). This sight set a stoney Yeti into a giggling fit that almost led him to choke on a piece of roast beef.

Finally, if it swims, grows, crawls, or walks in a swamp, cover it with enough spices, throw it in a stew and you can eat it. In no other place in the world do they love to eat invertebrates as much as they do in the south. Shrimp, crabs and crawfish are a food group in itself here in the dirty south. Sucking the digestive tissue and juices out of the head of the animal is optional. Any kind of meat which can be ground up and put into a lard tube is also consumed. Someone got the bright idea to put rice and organ meat into a lard tube and call it edible. In southern Louisiana, you can indulge in nutria, a cross between a groundhog and a beaver which was accidentally introduced from South America by the manufactures of Tabasco.

More Southern Rants to come from Dr. Snail....

Free Beer Friday

I’m running on 5 days with no sleep, and I’ve got a lot of work to do in the lab before I can get cantankered at Free Beer Friday, so Christy has convinced me to just post my latest departmental email here:

On the fifth day of BASH emails, Matt and Henry gave to you:

‘Twas the night before Friday, and over in Squirrel Hill
Matt Bochman was awake; he had insomnia still.
His pipetmen were hung over the lab bench with care,
In hopes that some data would one day be there.

The third years were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Debbie Chapman danced in Apple’s head.
And Julia with her phage, and I with my yeast,
Had just finished making a delicious BASH feast.

The next day at work, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
The fire alarm had gone off, so I flew like a flash,
It was that time of year, flaming finals in the trash!

Laura and Steve were outside, in the freezing cold air,
But they still had fun; the Arndt Lab was there.
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a lab cart stacked high with today’s BASH beer.

With a white-bearded driver, so lively and quick,
The Brodsky Lab thought for a moment, and declared him Saint Nick!
But Heather looked closely, at the man pushing the beer temple,
And promptly exclaimed, "Ah ha!  It’s really John Hempel."

Now Qian! Now Shruthi!
Now John Jr. and Mick!
On Jacque! On Xiaoxian!
On Adam, Regina, and Rick (Relyea)!
To the front of the cart!
Avoid the fire and fear!
Help pull it through the snow,
Please don't spill the beer!

With disaster averted and everyone alive,
The Solarium was decorated, the BASH starts at 5.
Now I'll leave you alone, I promise, you'll see,
This is the last invitation from Matt & Henry.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sweet fancy Jesus, they love me.  I feel so appreciated <tear>:

Dear Matt,
Thank you for all the joy you spread with your emails!  You make us smile all year!
Happy Holidays!
Pat Dean
Fiscal Office

*APPLAUSE*
~ Sarah

EXCELLENT....you should never sleep....it stirs your creative juices.
Stephen Hancock

Thanks for the poem!  I loved it!!!  Your insomnia fuels my  amusement... ALWAYS.
have a great weekend!  Lisa

BRAVO!
Beth Stronach, Ph.D.

Brilliant! A true inspiration!
I see this one being handed down from year to year.
Tim

That was fun!
Amrita Balachandran
                  

Some thoughts on Lowsyana

As some of y'all may awlready know, I spent (wasted?) two years of my life in the great state of Louisiana, Pappy O'Daniel, Governor. No wait, he was the governor of Mississippi. Same difference anyhow. In any case, what follows are a few of my rants on my experiences while living in the heart of Dixie.

Civil War = War of Northern Aggression
Yes folks, it’s true. They call it the War of Northern Aggression. Hell, they’re taught this in school. We are such evil, evil people up here and we are quite aggressive. I guess that’s why we wanted to free all the slaves from oppression because we are mean, nasty sumbitches.

Most Southerners believe that the North is one big metropolis.
There were people I talked to that found it hard to believe that I, the yeti, live rather far away from civilization. Considering that they love Wal-Mart so much down there, they really couldn’t fathom the fact that it takes me half an hour to get to one.

Snow is the neatest thing since sliced bread.
I never saw a larger group of assholes than the ones that had to go outside and get pictures taken with their friends when snow fell in Monroe. If you want to call it snow. I would consider it to have been more of a white rain. Fucking tards.

I dislike Texas very much.
This is a very biased opinion. I was in school with two girls from Texas. They both pissed me off to no end. One was just as tall, if not taller than my yeti self AND SHE WORE HEELS! The other half-breed sported a mustache that puts any facial hair grown by Matt Bochman to shame, by a long shot. The main reason I hate Texas is the fact that these two ladies thought that the universe was born out of their assholes, and for that matter, that Texas was the center of said universe. “We have Texas shaped pasta and Texas shaped crackers” and blah blah blah. Who gives a fuck? We should have let them form their own country and then bombed the hell out of them. The United States declares war on the Bush’s!!!!

Most Southerners know absolutely diddly squat about beer.
You walk into a bar and your choices are Bud “Heavy” (Budweiser in local lingo), Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors Light. The claim to be the most patriotic people down there, but they might as well be a bunch of communists considering that they don’t know anything about beer. KILL!

Everything in Louisiana is flatter than piss on a plate.
I need mountains, ‘nough said.

Vegetables? You mean potatoes, right?
They loathe any vegetables that do closely resemble and taste like potatoes. Although corn has been found along side crawfish. Which brings me to a positive….

Crawfish are awesome!
You haven’t had crawfish? Are you some kind of asshole?

Shwag? Yeah, we’ve got that.
No good bud to be found around the cultural mecca known as Monroe. The only thing seedier than the guy you purchased from was the actual product.

It’s hot. Really fucking hot and really fucking humid.
We all know that yeti’s are not suited to the Southern climes. You walk out of your house around 8AM on an April morning and you can’t breathe. I’m convinced that the weather is why Southerners are so lazy.

Hair gel can be used as a sexual lubricant.
It’s been documented. No word from either party though on whether it burns, but in a pinch, hair gel will work.



That’s all for now, but I will have plenty more observations on the dirty South which I will share. It must also be noted that not all people are assholes. I mean c’mon, we’re not talking about Jersey here. I made many good friends down there, but they were the exceptions.

Pittfinger

It’s shaping up to be a busy day, so I’m just going to jot down a quick note here for our millions and millions of fans.  First, Christy and Julia, despite hating the blog, have insisted that I write in it every day.  Oh yeah, they say Jared is a better writer too.  Kill you Jared.  Second, the once defunct http://doctoryeti.blogspot.com has now become a repository for ridiculous emails that I send the Biological Sciences department here at Pitt.  Most of what I write is true, albeit sometimes exaggerated, and there’s a good chance if you’re reading this, you may have been the topic of one of those emails.  I’m trying to find someone that saved the classics from last year, but I’ve posted the most recent ones in reverse chronological order.  Take that Father Time!

The legend of the Ruster

A couple of Fridays ago, I was drunk.  And then I got drunk again on Saturday.  That’s nothing out of the ordinary, but the Saturday drunk was in honor of my buddy Crock.  He was back in town from Chicago for the weekend, so we all got together at the Lovely-Parry residence.  The wine flowed like water, the beer flowed like wine, and the stories flowed like a bunch of drunk people telling stories.  For those of you that were there, this was not unlike the Scientist and the Yeti reminiscing about Juniata during breakfast, post-Frumpkin party.  At times like these, people tell stories that you’ve known for years, but simply forgot.  I think that’s a shame.  These legends need to be preserved for future generations.  Thus, I give you the first in a series of posts dedicated to lost and found great stories:

I know this guy Jason that used to own a Plymouth Duster that had seen better days.  It was the kind of car that backfired every time you started it and sported primer and rust instead of paint.  You can imagine why he called it “the Ruster.”  I’m using the past tense here because this is the tale of the Ruster’s demise.

Jason was in the teaching program at Pitt.  I was never quite sure if it was grad school to get a master’s in teaching, or a program tailored to getting a high school teaching degree, or what, but he was learnin’ to learn other people.  My friend, the lovely Amanda Lovely, was in the same program (with Cliff of Bob Krause fame), and that’s how I met Jason.  He and Amanda were the lucky ones from their class that got stuck student teaching in ghetto schools.  If you want to be depressed about the future of America, talk to them about the hoodlums they had to deal with.

Anyway, Jason comes home one night from a hard day of trying not to physically abuse the douchebags in his class, and all he wants to do is kick back and relax.  He’s well on his way to getting middle-of-the-week drunk when he hears something like a gunshot.  Being desensitized to such things from teaching a bunch of gangster wannabes, Jason doesn’t think much of it.

This is where things get squirrely.  His roommate comes in and this famous conversation takes place.
     Roommate: Umm Jason, someone stole the Ruster…
     Jason: Dude, no one would steal the Ruster; it’s a piece of crap.
     Roommate: I heard it backfire, looked out the window, and it’s gone man.
     Jason: <running to the window> Oh shit.
Sure enough, out of all the cars on the street, some nimrod had stolen the Ruster.  I guess having the skill to boost a car doesn’t equate into the intelligence to steal a good one.  Well, Jason does what he can.  He calls the police to report the vehicle stolen and calls off of work for the next day because he’s got no way to get there now.

The following morning, as he’s eating his Frosted Flakes and wondering what life’s going to throw at him next, the cops call.  It’s Detective Yinzer, and he needs Jason to come to the Police Impound Yard to ID the vehicle.  He hops on a bus down to the station and only then starts to wonder why a detective was calling him about a simple stolen car instead of your average Joe Blow cop.  It becomes abundantly clear as soon as he gets into the station and is assaulted by questions. They get through the normal vital stats, proof of ownership, insurance stuff, and Detective Yinzer decides it’s time to be frank with Jason.
     Dick Yinzer: Son, can I be frank?
     Jason: Ok.
     DY: Son, your car was stolen and used in a bank robbery last night.
     J: Uhhhh…
     DY: Son, they wrecked the car and left it on the side of the road, son.
     J: Uhhh…
     DY: Son, would you like to look in your car, son, to see if anything was stolen,
son?
J: Ok.

They take him out to the impound lot, and sure enough, there’s the Ruster with the front end all smashed in and pink dye all over the inside.  The pink dye was from those exploding dye packs that banks hide in stacks of money when the place is being robbed.  Unfazed, Jason gets in, shuts the door, and checks to make sure all of his CDs are still there.  It doesn’t look like they stole any of his stuff, so he decided to see if the car will at least start now.  He turns the key, and two things happen: 1.) the Ruster springs to miraculous backfiring life with the air conditioning on full blast, and 2.) Jason starts to choke.

It turns out that modern exploding dye packs not only contain an indelible ink to stain and make people/stolen money easily identifiable, but they’re also made of the stuff in pepper spray.  So, when the pack explodes, the perp is temporarily blinded and incapacitated.  When this happened to the bank robbers in the Ruster, they crashed it.  That afternoon, when Jason turned on the car, he effectively maced himself when the pepper-dye in the car vents shot into his face from the air conditioning.

So here’s our intrepid hero, gagging and clawing at his own eyes because the police didn’t tell him to leave the car as is.  They also neglected to tell Jason that the car was effectively totaled, so the fact that it could start was meaningless; it was undriveable.  The poor guy left the station with a swollen face, no car, and a backpack full of CDs coated in pink mace paint, but he did learn several valuable lessons.  

People are stupid, the cops don’t care about you, and exploding dye packs are exceptionally effective anti-theft devices.

Why Nap-time is Fun

Greetings, y'all! I've been thinking about what I should talk about on this here blog. Should I talk about my day at work? Should I mention killing Matt Bochman? But like all good things that happen in one's life, this one came to me unexpected. It came to me, almost as a dream....

Okay, so it wasn't a dream, but the idea did come to me after I woke from an impromptu nap. The calendar is closing in on winter and as we all know, it is during this time of the year that yeti's tend to bed down for a little longer than normal...similar to hibernating, but yet different. You see, unlike bears that hibernate and are out for many many moons, yeti's simply collect sleep whenever possible.

This brings me to my topic, naps. I feel asleep while watching PTI on ESPN (a really good show if you like sports, I might add....also, if I were more computer literate and didn't have mountain internet, I would add a link to their website, regardless, bear or should I say, yeti, with me....). When I woke, the topic of sleep was fresh on my mind. Naps really are wonderful things. Let's think back a bit. Who among us never took a nap as a child? Your mother encouraged the nap, and we all know, mother knows best! Before I get to my main point, I am going to give you a brief history of napping in my life.

My love affair with napping started early. It seemed that every day when little Jared arrived home from school, books in hand, worn out from an eager day of learning, that he bedded down until supper. This was a daily occurrence. Then little Jared (in the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies), packed up the truck and moved to Huntingdon. During my second year of schoolin' at the big university, I got mixed up with the likes of Matt "My Baby's Daddy" Bochman, Bob "I Like it Raw Mom" Krause and Shannon "Frumpkin" Brown. It seemed that these young scalawags enjoyed napping just as much as myself. Everyday, we had naptime. Naptime became an institution among us. An institution more important than all those I've studied in my sociology classes. Everyone had their spot. The windows were wide open and the Halloween theme song played in the background. This practice continued for my sophomore year, but evolved my junior year. By then we focused more on the nap and less on the napping accessories such as the music, although the window was still open, polar bear sleep as we called it. This was done most every day without fail. One time we had to bitch at the Frumpkin to turn down his Pearl Jam (he's a big Pearl Jam fan almost borderline schoolgirl obsession). Matt and I continued to nap our Sr. year, although it wasn't the aura was depleted. I moved to Monroe, LA after we graduated (another story for another time). I would leave work (GA at ULM) and take a two hour nap everyday after lunch. Then I moved back to PA and now I work doing manual labor for the time being. The only nap I can sneak in during the afternoon is on the one hour drive home, if you want to call it a nap. I'm usually only allotted five minutes until my brother jerks the wheel and yells "Over there's a deer!!!", effectively making me shat the shit I've been holding in all day because I refuse to use the portajohns at the job site (another story). The funny thing is that I am forced to nap BECAUSE of my brother, considering that he's such a fountain of conversation and barely speaks more than Neanderthal grunts at seeing wild animals.

So as you see, napping has been part of my life for a very long time and I will say boldly today, that napping will remain a part of my life. This brings me to the crux (finger twist into the air) of my argument. Everyone needs to nap. Napping can be a social encounter, such as it was for me in college. Napping replenishes much needed energy. Energy that I needed to write this post. Best of all, napping creates two days in one!!!! How wonderful!!! In closing, I will leave you with a poem written by the possibly late and always great Robert James Krause.

Why Naptime is Fun.
by bob Krause 11/28/00
Every afternoon there is something that we do.
We grab a bunch of pillows and then kick off our shoes.
We go to, my friend, Jared's room.
And strip down to our fruit of the looms.
We all are excited for what is in store;
we open the window and close up the door.
Jared and Matt crawl into their beds.
I pull the "snuggle blanket" up over my head.
Shannon is cozy, lying on the floor next to the sofa.
We all are quiet, just like we're suppos'da.
The lights are out and the whole world is right.
Its like the afternoon has been transformed into night.
Its definitely silly, its definitely fun.
Now close your eyes and slumber; its Naptime everyone.
Happy Napping


PS If any more details are wanted on our naptime fun, just as us here at DrYeti. We'll be more than happy to entertain you with tales pertaining to our most favorite of institutions.

Oh my dear god...

I just had lunch with Julia and Christy, and this is what I looked like afterward.  They gave me 6 simultaneous brain aneurisms.

That’s not a new thing though.  I work in a department that’s approximately 4 billion percent female, so this happens all the time.  You’d think that would be good for a single guy like me right?  Guess again.  I thought I knew what I was getting into when I came here.  I saw the female to male ration, and figured I might have to kill some spiders and open a few jars.  Turns out, they just want to keep my nuts in a jar.

Did you know I’m maladjusted?  Did you know I don’t eat enough?  Did you know I have various and sundry medical problems?  Neither did I, but these women were kind enough to inform me.  For some reason, Julia and Christy hate this blog too.  They hate it.

Maybe they won’t hate it now though.  I hope not, because it’s going to be hard to be creative and keep Dr. Yeti’s millions of fans happy if they’re ninja kicking me in the neck all day.

Let’s face it though, sure my life is like going to a buffet every day and not being able to eat, but these science chicks keep things interesting.  And at least they’re concerned about my health instead of apathetic like I am.  I think they’ll eventually enjoy my ramblings here too, since the book they were encouraging me to write has been put on hiatus for reasons of discretion.  Who knows, maybe I’ll even post something that doesn’t suck a cheetah’s dick one of these days.

Don't make me take you to church young man!

Kill you Jared.

Jared and I have a psychic friends network thing going on, except without Dionne Warwick and the rest of her pals whose 15 minutes of fame were up long before I hit my last high note.  Jess describes this as us being like little school girls.  I agree, but I’ll at least claim that we’re the badass Village of the Damned psychic school girls.

This web log, or “blog” as you youngin’s call it, was created by Jared on Sunday based on a conversation he and I had Saturday afternoon.  We both thought it would be a good idea to have a forum for our ramblings.  Thinking that Jared would be a lazy yeti, I started to create http://doctoryeti.blogspot.com on Saturday night, but then got lazy myself and didn’t post anything.

When I woke up on Sunday and saw a link to Dr. Yeti on Becky’s blog, I couldn’t understand how she could know about it already.  And I was completely dumbfounded as to how Jared had already posted on it without having the username or password.  Then I noticed that it was dryeti, not doctoryeti.  Is it sick that we thought that much alike?  We gave the same hangover advice that day too, but this whole blog nonsense seems a little more than coincidence.  

Oh well, you win this one Jared.  What should we do with the other blog now though?    

Our (my) first post...

First off, KILL Matt Bochman. Second, welcome to our blog. In our coming posts, we hope to entertain our readers with tales from the lab and tales from the mountain, or even tales from the mountain lab, aka uncle peebag's loins (most definitely a story for another time). I don't really have much to say or much that I can think of saying, but be patient, Matt Bochman I'm sure will entertain everyone with a story of one of his recent debacles or of his latest debauchery....

So, I bid you farewell for now. But please return to see what events are happening in the lives or your favorite scientist and your default favorite yeti, because face it, you don't know any other yeti's!