I often get into fights and arguments with people whom I don’t know. But these people are usually around the age of 12 and the arguments are usually about “who is better: Panic At The Disco or Led Zeppelin”.

So you’d think that getting into a huge argument with a 30-something middle school teacher over “who is at fault: me or you, dumbass” would be a nice change of pace.

But it’s not.

It all started a couple of months ago. I was walking along, minding my own business, when suddenly my phone started beeping. I looked at the screen - I had gotten a new email.

The email was from one of my teachers. It was asking me if I wanted to get involved in a project with some middle schoolers for extra credit. The project would be about natural disasters. I was a little “ehhh” about the topic, but the prospect of extra credit was too much. I wrote back “sure” and continued on my way.

For the next few weeks, I heard nothing about the project. The middle school teacher (let’s call him Mr. B) who was in charge of it was supposed to tell me when project meetings were, but I had heard nothing. I just assumed that it was taking a while to get going and forgot about the project altogether.

Then, a few days later, the teacher who recruited me for the project asked me if I had gone to the meeting that had just happened. I thought “say WHAT?” and asked “What meeting?”.

It then hit me: OH MY GOD There have been meetings going on and I knew nothing about them. Why? Because nobody had informed me about them.

I told this to the teacher and he said that he didn’t know either until a few minutes ago. So Mr. B had been keeping us both out of the loop, had he? Very interesting.

I was informed about the next meeting, so I went to it. I had apparently missed 4 weeks’ worth of work and was, to quote Mr. B, “falling behind”. I wanted to kick him, but opted instead to draw something obscene on a piece of paper and tape it to his back.

After that meeting, I was kept in the dark for about 4 weeks. Then I was finally told about a meeting, which I attended. I was told by Mr. B that I had “missed the past 4 meetings” and that I was “falling severely behind”.

I was in a state of disbelief. I was tempted to say something snarky, like “Well, excuse me, Pompous McBastard-Face, but it’s not my fault I’m falling behind. It’s your fault for being too much of a thickhead to tell me when to show up,” but alas I was in no position to do so. So I said “Whatever” and carried on.

When the meeting was over, I went outside and kicked over a trash can.

A week later, I awoke at 10 AM, my usual wake-up time for Fridays. My phone was beeping off the hook. I had missed a phone call. I checked it out - the phone number was unfamiliar to me. But the caller had left me a voicemail, so I listened.

To my absolute horror, it was Mr. B.

“Hello, Katie? This is Mr. B. I was wondering if you were going to actually come to the meeting today. It’s at the middle school, second floor, at 8 AM. If you’re not going to come, call me back. Know that you are falling severely behind and are on track to not earn credit for doing this. If you miss any more meetings then I don’t know what to tell you.”

At this point, I was thinking several things.

1. What the fuck is he doing, calling me that early? A meeting at 8 AM? Message left at 5 AM? I am not going to get that thing in time.

2. How come the one time he remembers to tell me when the meeting is, he does it ON THE DAY OF THE MEETING? I like to be prepared.

3. Even if I wanted to go to the meeting, how does he expect me to get there? He knows my family only has one car - I told him this. Obviously my family needs that car for work on a Friday morning, so… what does he want me to do?

4. I already know that I’m falling behind. It’s the only thing he’s ever said to me, the dipshit.

5. How the fuck did he get my cell phone number?

Just as I finished collecting my thoughts, the phone rang again. I looked at the number. It was him.

Me: “What do you want?”
Mr. B.: “Katie?”
Me: “Who else would it be?”
Mr. B.: “This is Mr. B.”
Me: “Does not compute.”
Mr. B.: “Mr. B., from the middle school.”
Me: “Oh. I’d ask what’s up but I don’t care.”
Mr. B.: “Anyway, are you coming to the meeting?”
Me: “Are you insane or just drunk? The meeting’s halfway over already. By the way, thanks for calling me at 5 AM. I’m totally going to be awake at that hour.”
Mr. B.: “So you’re not coming?”
Me: “Not even if you promised me free coffee.”
Mr. B.: “Well, just know that you are missing a lot of work and I’m disappointed in you.”
Me: “Not my problem.”
Mr. B.: “Yes it is, you are neglecting to do your work.”
Me: “No, you’re neglecting to inform me about the work.”
(silence)
Me: “Oh, come on, you set yourself up for that one.”
Mr. B.: “Shape up, young lady.”
Me: “Shape up, old man.”
Mr. B.: “Don’t get snarky with me.”
Me: “Don’t get stupid with me.”
Mr. B.: “Be at the next meeting.”
Me: “Are you going to tell me when it is now, or are you going to wait until 5 minutes before it starts?”
Mr. B.: “Goodbye, Katie.”
Me: “Goodbye, sir. Watch out for the door; if it’s as closed as your mind is, you’ll walk right into it.”

Satisfied with my quick wit and deadpan delivery, I hung up the phone and continued making my cereal.

But my phone rang again a few moments later. I didn’t pick up once I saw who it was (guess who), but I got a voicemail.

“You are out of line and I could get you in trouble this fast, you know that? I’m tired of you being irresponsible and rude.”

I called him back. Before he could even speak, I went off.

“You can get me in trouble? I don’t think so. This conversation is not taking place at school or during school hours. It’s not regulated by the school. So what are you going to do? Sue me for standing up for myself? Take me to court for pointing out your obvious flaws? Try again, buddy. It’s not my fault you’re neglecting to inform me about these things, and it’s therefore not my fault that you’re so upset. I’m placing all the blame on you, where it belongs. Don’t call me anymore unless it’s to say that I’m right, because I don’t want to have to stick my head any more up my ass in order to see your point of view.”

This morning (one day later), he called me again. I didn’t want to talk to him, but I knew that he would just keep calling, so I put on one of my fake accents and tried to confuse him.

Me: “Hello, dis Bob’s House of Chinese Chicken, for all you Chinese fast food needs. How I help?”
Mr. B.: “Hello, is Katie there?”
Me: “Hello? Bob’s House of Chinese Chicken. I can take you order?”
Mr. B.: “What? I’m trying to reach Katie.”
Me: “You want Chicken Char Siu? Chicken Char Siu only $24.99.”
Mr. B.: “No, I need to reach Katie! Do you know her?”
Me: “I know what you want. You want best deal on Chinese chicken in town. You come to right place!”
Mr. B.: “Sir, please put Katie on if she is there.”
Me: “You want make reservation? 24 hour in advance.”
Mr. B.: “IS KATIE THERE?”
Me (choking back laughter): “Today special is Charbroiled Chicken Ass, delicious ass of chicken only $32.89!”
Mr. B.: “SIR!”
Me: (uncontrollable laughter)
Mr. B.: “Fuck you.”

Wow. I know I was being immature, but really now. A middle school teacher swearing at a high school student on a weekend over the phone. Uncalled for.

And so the drama shall undoubtedly continue as the weeks go on. I predict a victory by me. After all, smart always triumphs over stupid.

Earlier today I was looking through some random magazines at the grocery store. I decided to look at some teeny ones for laughs.

I laughed at many of the articles, not because they were funny, but because they were completely and utterly ridiculous. Here are some of the more memorable pieces of crap.

What His Clothes Say About Him!

Ooh, if he wears white sneakers, he must not be brave enough to express himself. NOT! It just shows that he likes the color white, maybe? Or perhaps it shows that he doesn’t care for giant rainbow striped ones. Maybe he just wanted simple shoes. His shoes don’t say jack about his personality beyond maybe what his favorite color is.

These kinds of “decoding guys” articles are pointless. No guy (and hopefully no girl, either) tries on a shirt and thinks, “Ooh, I’m going to buy this because it will show that I am very talkative” unless the shirt actually says “I am very talkative”.

Most Embarrassing Moments!

“OH MY GOD One day I wore this hot skirt that was like 4 inches long to school and I tripped and the hot football guy I liked could see my embarrassing underwear!!”

That’s not interesting, and neither are the 20 other similar ones displayed alongside it. Everybody has embarrassing moments that they want to forget, so why are they being published in a magazine for the world to see?

Your Monthly Horoscopes!

Now, is it just me, or is it a little weird that I seem to get a wonderful new boyfriend in July, get the attention of a cute guy in August, get a new “everlasting love” in September, and then in October rebound from my last horrible relationship with a “hot new hookup”? The stars in the sky don’t change positions every year, but that’s exactly what my future seems to be doing. Consistency please, almighty astrologists!

How To Flirt!

Smile, but not too big. Look up at him, but don’t look away until he does. Joke with him, but don’t make too much fun of him.

NO, DUH! All of the stuff in these sorts of articles is common sense. You don’t give the guy a death stare, and you don’t smile like Krusty the Klown. If somebody can’t figure these things out on their own, maybe they shouldn’t be trying to pick up guys.

So basically what I’m saying is these teeny magazines are full of junk. Even I, a member of their target audience, can see this.

… whenever it rains really hard, you get a river in your backyard.
… whenever it rains really hard, you get a river running through the dirt road near your house.
… whenever it rains really hard, giant fucking lakes a quarter of a mile long form near your house, blocking any way out.
… whenever it rains really hard, you find hundreds of chickens on your porch, trying to get out of the rain.

For the past week, it has been raining. Not like the little wimpy sprinkles either, the huge raindrops that never end. The ones that cause floods that make you miss school, and the ones that pile into giant puddles five feet deep.

Now, I like the rain. But come on. This is Hawaii. It is not supposed to start raining one week and not stop all the way through the week. It is supposed to be paradise. Being stuck in my house for a week is not my idea of living in paradise. I want to go to the beach and not get drenched before even getting into the water. I want to walk outside and not be knee-deep in a puddle. More importantly, I want these chickens off my porch. It wouldn’t be so bad if they only stayed for a few minutes, or if they could control when they crap, but they don’t and they can’t.

Next week I’m going to Oahu for a day. I know, 1 day is more than enough to see everything worth seeing, but it’s for a school thing. I leave mid-morning and this thing starts at 3 PM, so at least I’ll have a little free time. This school thing (I’m hearing it in my head as “thang”) is basically getting up in front of a bunch of state legislators and talking to them about bills they’ve written. I will get to boss the suits around for once, and I’ll be able to write on my resume, “Told a bunch of authority figures that their legislature is crap”.

I hope it stops raining so that I can get on my plane.

Recently I guess there’s been some technical difficulties with my server, so the site’s been down. It’s back now, obviously. There’s a new layout too. Can you tell?

A lot of the site is out of date - most of it is from last year! Gotcha, didn’t I? It’s only the 9th of January. I’m good.

I’ve done absolutely nothing over the past few days. I hung out with my duck, watched Family Guy reruns, and repaired my computer. What was that last thing you said, Katie? Repaired your computer?

So basically my sister used my computer to play a game and download stuff. I realize now that allowing her to do this was a huge mistake. Not only did her game eat up major bandwidth, but she downloaded some kind of virus and my computer started crashing randomly. By the time I got rid of the virus, parts of the computer were permanently damaged (or something) and I had to repair it myself. The day I let some 40-something who lives in his mother’s basement fiddle with my computer is the day my duck stops trying to eat me.

I pushed a couple of buttons and everything was fine. Oh, and my computer thinks it’s November 15, 2007. I didn’t think that system restore could do that.

I’ve gotten more emails from people I don’t know wishing me a happy new year in the past week than I have normal emails in the past month. It’s bugging me to death.

I don’t like wishing people happy anythings. It’s not like they care. Whenever somebody says “happy new year” or “happy halloween”, I don’t care. I don’t remember it 5 minutes later, and I doubt others do. It’s just a waste of breath on behalf of the wisher.

I also don’t like firecrackers. 5 seconds of rainbow colors and sparks is not enough to make up for an hour of coughing due to the smoke. I don’t mind fireworks in the sky because normally you’re not right next to them, but when it’s raining every single new year’s eve, there’s not much point to them.

New year’s resolutions? The last resorts of the procrastinator, the insecure, and the lazy ass. I tried making one a few years ago. I forgot about it within the week. Tell me, why do I need a new year to get me to lose weight, improve my grades, or “lern 2 spel betr”? Why can’t I just do it when I feel like it? I don’t need some holiday to make me do stuff. Why do others?

Yesterday I had a random person show up at my doorstop to wish me a happy new year’s. As a general rule, I tell every person who comes to my door to go away, unless I happen to know that person. I did not know this person, so I turned her away.

And she came back.

In the end I ignored her knocking and taped a sign to the window that said “LEAVE”. Eventually she left.

Finally, I’m tired of people saying, “Oh, I’ll miss 2007! Waaaahhh!” It’s dumb. So what if you did cool stuff in the past year? Does that mean that you can’t keep doing stuff in the new year? The year is such a random number, anyway - 365 days. That could easily have been 465 days, or 23 days. But would that have altered your experiences? No, because nothing happened! All the new year means is the 7 in 2007 changing to an 8. Big deal.

I don’t think that the new year itself is stupid. I couldn’t care less about it. I think that a majority of the festivities related to it are stupid. And I’d say I have every reason to.

I hate Christmas because I’m a Jew.

No, I’m kidding. I’m not a Jew. But I do hate Christmas. This is why.

I don’t like Christmas music.
The world does not need 14 billion renditions of “Little Drummer Boy”. It’s a crap song to begin with, but when you walk into a store and all you hear is a teenybopper star going “bah-rum-bum-bum-bum” over and over again, you get pissed. The only good Christmas song? Feliz Navidad. I wrote a version of it about cars:

A car for Christmas
A car for Christmas!
That’s what I want
It’s my only thought
This time of year

A car for Christmas
A car for Christmas!
Maybe a Saab
With a custom paint job
Sitting under the tree

A car for Christmas
A car for Christmas!
How bout a Benz
Don’t care how much you spend
‘Cause that’s my one wish

Sing it when you go caroling tonight. Oh, wait…

I don’t like carolers.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are nice people who go caroling. But then there are those who go caroling because that’s the community service the court is forcing them to do. I don’t know if that actually happens or not, because I’ve never seen carolers before, but if it did I wouldn’t like the carolers any more than I already do. And I don’t like carolers. Look, I just went in a circle. Kind of like what you’ll do while looking for a parking spot this time of year…

I don’t like having to spend an hour looking for a parking spot.
I also don’t like highway traffic this time of year. There is absolutely no reason why it should be going so slowly. Turning car? Who cares? Kill time by ramming into it.

I don’t like presents.
They’re just sitting there under the tree, all wrapped up in holly-jolly wrapping paper. The only problem: You can’t open them. I’m not talking about having to wait until Christmas day to rip the paper off. I’m talking about after you unwrap them, you can’t get the thing out of its container. Whether it’s one of those clear plastic things glued onto cardboard, or a box that the company has taped a bazillion times over, you can’t win.

Here’s a scenario: I unwrap a large box to find an awesome video game in it. I then attempt to open the video game box, only to find that I can’t! My video game is trapped forever in the box it came in. I hate presents.

I don’t like the fact that I keep typing “Christmas” as “Crhistmas”.
It’s not my fault. The stupid word is spelled so weirdly that I focus more on typing the second syllable than I do the first. So I keep having to type and re-type it. Stupid.

Today I walked into the bathroom at school and found myself a stall. I sat down only to find myself staring down onto the floor at a magazine. Somebody had left the latest People magazine on the floor of the bathroom. Of course, I’m a very suspicious person, so I wondered if somebody had poisoned the magazine and left it there for an unexpecting bathroom-goer. But I picked up the magazine anyway.

I was very curious, as I had never read a People magazine before. The phrase “Sexiest Man Alive” was plastered all over the cover, and it was accompanied with pictures of unsexy men. Wondering whether there would actually be sexy men inside, I flipped through the pages.

I didn’t see a single sexy man in there. I didn’t flip through the whole thing, but from what I saw there were lots of old guys and cigarette advertisements. Nothing remotely sexy. I wondered if People magazine always had crap in it.

I placed the People magazine back on the floor, deciding to leave it for someone else to take. Because I sure as hell didn’t want it.

So I just finish making an awesome design on the computer. Like, seriously, really awesome. I love it so much that I want to print it out and show it to all my friends. I load some paper into my HP printer, set up the image for printing, and press the “print” button.

The paper starts out white and comes out black. Mind you, the background of the image is light blue. I figure I hit the wrong button on the print setup and try again.

Black. Black ink everywhere. At this point I’m torn between anger, frustration, hunger, and sadness. The printer was doing it wrong! I worked so hard on this! I want food! Why won’t this work?!

I wonder if perhaps putting the image in negative will make it come out properly. It doesn’t. The paper still comes out black.

I turn the printer off. I unplug it. I restart my computer. Nothing. The paper comes out black every time. I try printing out a black square. That was kind of stupid, because it would’ve come out black anyway.

All the ink levels are good. There’s nothing wrong with my image. There’s nothing wrong with the settings. But whenever I try to print, it comes out black. This didn’t happen last night when I printed out my research papers. This is a newfound problem. And, like most printer problems, it won’t resolve.

I can’t blame myself, because I’ve done no wrong. I blame HP for making crap like this printer. I feel a little bad for saying this because the printer has held up okay for a couple of years, but what kind of printer renders everything sent to it as “PRINT IT ALL BLACK OK? OK”?

It’s midnight now. I’d call customer service, but I’d be redirected to somebody in India. “HELLO HP CUSTOMER SERVICE HOW MAY I HELP YOUUUU?” and then get put on hold for hours.

This design was going to be a surprise for someone special too. Shoots. Looks like I’ll have to figure out some other way to get it out there.

As promised, the next volume in the “Stupid” series has come. Last time, we took a look at stupid car names. This time, though, we’re doing some stupid TV shows. Note: these are all shows that air in the U.S.

First, there’s The Big Bang Theory. It’s a sitcom about a couple of nerds who live next door to some ditzy blonde girl (who they naturally fall for). It’s hardly an original concept - since when is there a sitcom that DOESN’T have sexual tension as a key element? I was looking forward to the geeky dialogue, but it turned out to be so forced that even some of the funnier lines didn’t even elicit a smile from me. I have come to the conclusion that if I wanted to see a bunch of nerds try to hook up with girls, I’d just go to the computer lab at school.

I’d like to know something. I’d like to know the name of the genius who came up with Dancing With The Stars. The concept: a bunch of has-beens whom nobody has ever heard of dress in trampy outfits and try to dance. Now, it’s pretty much just a regurgitation of various other TV programs. If I wanted to see a bunch of has-beens, I’d watch their respective talk shows on obscure cable channels. If I wanted to see people in trampy outfits, I’d open up a tabloid and look at Paris and Britney and Mick Jagger. And if I wanted to see some dancers, I’d go to the ballet. It’s an all-in-one crapfest!

And finally we have Survivor. It involves rounding up your typical bunch of reality-show stereotypes - the ditz, the player, the nerd, the backstabber, the control freak, and the underprivileged fellow - and forcing them to live in the wild and complete such tasks as assembling puzzles and climbing trees. Picture the monkey house at the zoo except with more evolved (or in the case of some, devolved) monkeys. Somehow there’s a neverending supply of exotic locations for the show to film in - China, Fiji, Panama, the Amazon, Australia, Kansas. Next season I’ll probably see the filming crew here in Hawaii. Contestants, you’re going to Hawaii! You’ll live off of pineapples and taro leaves, and stay in grass huts. Did we mention the active volcano 20 feet away?

This concludes this volume of “Stupid”. Tune in next week for the next volume: Stupid Rap Lyrics!

These days you can’t even walk out the door without seeing a car with a stupid name. More often than not, the car is weird-looking or just plain ugly. Car companies are running out of ideas for car names. If they weren’t, then would we have such cars as the Scion (Scion means “heir”), the Skyline, the Viper (a viper is a snake), or the Monte Carlo (to be fair, I’ve ridden in a Monte Carlo, and it’s actually quite nice, but the name, the name…)?

Why, next thing we know we’ll have the Toyota Book, the Chevrolet Refrigerator, and the Dodge Lizard! All of them will be flat and as far from aerodynamic as can be. They will all come in tacky colors like bright pink and lime green. Airbags will cost an extra $600, and brakes will be an extra $1000. And that’s on top of the $40,000 price tag!

Who names these cars? Really. Who thinks of these names? Who flips a dictionary to a random page and chooses the first word they see as the car name? Who gets their 6-year-old child to write down seven random letters for the car’s name? I’m dying to know.

This has been the first installment of the “Stupid” series. Tune in next week for the next volume: Stupid TV Shows!