Corporate Cornhole

About a month ago I was reading the much over-hyped blog Fark.com. There was a funny link to an article that talked about how a city was gathering around a beloved cornhole festival. The Fark comments were of the usual immature / hilarious variety. I was chuckling as I scrolled down the page to where the Southerners started writing about what cornhole actually is. It turns it out it's that game you played when you were at a town fair. You know, the one where you throw small bean (corn) bags into large holes cut into pieces of wood and were awarded points accordingly. You’ve seen it on the bozo show and at every circus in the world. Apparently, the game of cornhole is big business down here - the point that they sell tote bags to carry your cornbags around in. People play it all the time and, somehow, manage saying the word "cornhole" without snickering.

The title of today's entry is actually a double entendre. It refers to both me as a corporate cornhole who sucks because I've allowed myself to be swallowed up (again) in the testing suck and the fact that the corporation that has recently hired me has an entire warehouse filled with cornhole boards that nearly everyone in the company plays during lunchtime (I will get pictures of these boards soon).

I started up the working-making-money thing again today and boy, does it suck. Not even eight hours into my first workweek and I hate it. I understand its necessity (it only takes a glance at my checkbook) and its function, but it doesn't make me like it one bit more. But for now it is necessary. Take a solid year off for school and you'll have to pay the piper. And oh how the piper will be paid over these next few months. So this is it. No more bitching about my job. If you ever wonder about the job and feel inclined to ask, don’t bother. The answer is: It sucks.

Speaking of the piper, here's a little tongue-twister Mandy and I came up with on our way up/down to Grand Rapids / Cincinnati dedicated to Kliener and the humor he finds in street names for hard drugs:

How much crack could a backpack pack, if a backpack could pack crack?
A backpack would pack all the crack that a backpack could pack
If a backpack could pack crack.

Let's see. In other news. This passed weekend I went to a fantastic Flaming Lips concert with friends and family. I have a score of pictures I took as well as enough small, crappy resolution videos that I might actually blend them all together into something this blog has never seen before. A video update. Look for that later this week. Also, I am going to come through with my promise of some pictures of the apartment. While I was gone partying, Mandy stayed home and decorated the apartment, painting a section of it, and hanging some tapestries (how nice is that?) So it's definitely ready for some pictures to be taken of.... it. For which. Something.

We bought a kid tonight! Her name is Fatimata and she lives in Ghanna. Sponsoring a child is something Mandy has done in the past and wanted to do again for a long time, so we decided this would be a good time to try it out. Honestly, I have mixed feelings about picking a kid out through an internet site. It feels sort of overlordish. Like I'm some kind of space dolphin wearing a flexible clam shell as a toga reaching into a candy jar filled with African kids. Or it could be the Green Thai Curry Paste is still causing me to hallucinate. One of the two.