Calendars Suck: A Treatise

Have you ever gone into a store, or opened a gift, and gotten a really cool calendar with nice pictures that you know you'll never use anyway, and realize that it's from the wrong year? Then you go through all the trouble of returning it, getting the right year, and still end up never actually writing in it? If you have, you're probably not alone. Are you ever confused that some months exactly four weeks in them, while others have almost five? And what's up with that frickin poem dealy "30 days has december..." or whatever. What would it take to memorize that!? A genius, probably. That's right, I used the neuter pronoun! Sometimes my birthday is on Thanksgiving. Sometimes. But how in the criminelly am i supposed to know without looking at an infuriating calendar with little puppies or babies in terra cotta pots, and little fortune cookie-esque words of wisdom. If I wanted to know that people are attracted to my initiative oriented personality I wouldn've gone out for chinese! Or ordered in, factoring in sloth. Is anyone else as flabberghastedly frustrated as me about this egregious corruption of calendar companies in their forcing us to buy new calendars every single flippin year!? Well, as you might have guessed, I have a solution.
I will start out by taking the three digit number 365 and unto it perform some mathematiques. You might recognize this number as the quantity of days tradtionally thought to be in one calendar year. Like most people, your recognition is just plain wrong, and uninformed. I will remedy both forthwith. there are actually 365.25 days in each earth year. This is why every four years, we have leap year. But since we're going to be dealing with leap year a bit later, your error will be retracted. For the time being. So anyway, there are 365 days in a year. If we divide that by 12, we get 30 and 1/12. That means there is an average of 30 sum odd days in each month. So why doesn't each month have 30 and 1/12 days in it? Because, people are frickin dumb. That, and it would be weird if the month switched mid-day, at a different two hour increment every month. Although the way the current calendar is set up now is so screwed up anyway, I wouldn't be surprised if this alternate system was considered by the Romanian Empire or whoever. So why twelve months? Well, I heard a rumor that little caesars (that's Romanian for czar, which is Czeck for tsar) Augustus and Octaviopus had a fight about who's month would come before little caesar Septum, and then they forgot that the number of months in a year needed to be a prime number, and therefore let all subsequent members of modern civilization suffer the humiliation of receiving a calendar adorned with a fine collection of animals rear ends, every holiday. The question is burning in your mind like pure capsaicin. How many frickin months then, if not 12!? The answer is 13. Why? Because it's one more then 12. Divide 365 by 13. Go ahead, I'll wait...Gosh, you're lazy! Fine, I'll do it. The answer to that gem is 28, with a remainder of 1. Bear with me. Forget the remainder for a moment, and focus on a wonderfulness that is the number 28. Picture it. Every, single month of the year, 28 days. That means each month has exactly 4 weeks. The first day of every month would be a Sunday, or maybe a monday, whatever, and the third tuesday of everymonth would always...and i mean always, be the 17th. I think. How cool is that? No confusion! Okay, what about that extra day? Well DUH! It's will be New Years Day! That's all. It's not part of a month. It doesn't have a date. It's just new years day. And on leap year, we can have two! All we have to do now is come up with the name of the 13th month. It's okay. We can call it Jaketember. I won't mind. I mean, I did come up with the idea. Oh yeah, and if a member of an ancient race with an affinity for the Yucatan says otherwise, don't believe them. They're probably dead anyway.

Twisted: Mind and Tongue

Nice mice thrice heist lice pies from a mouse house and roused a louse, a grouse, and sour cows

Jumping Off Chairlifts: A How To Guide

It is a widely accepted statistical fact that when spending any time at a snow resort involving repeated significant changes in elevation, you will spend ten percent of your time enjoying yourself on the slopes, and the other 90, but what seems like 1000, percent of your time waiting in line or sitting on your arse in a chairlift. I believe the only reason people put up with chairlifts is that you're so bloody tired of waiting in line for the damned thing, waiting in line for food, for restrooms, even for urgent medical attention, you praise the lord when you finally get to rest on a spongy thing of some kind. But once you've realized that this huge waste of time dangling 30 feet up in the air going five miles an hour, you'll have none of it. This chairlift stuff has got to become more interesting, or it has got to go. Only helicopter tours from now on. Okay. So here's the solution.
Jump off the chairlift. Oh yes. You've held the fear in the back of your mind for far too long. Bring it out and confront it. You'll also be able to share the experience, and force the other passengers you might be riding with to confront such terror, as they watch you dangle off the chair before you plummet to the slopes below. There is a small problem with this though. Jumping off when there are others present, not jumping off period. Jumping off is perfectly fantastic. Period.
First, the mechanics of your drop: if you ski, abandon your poles. Let somebody else carry them or leave them behind completely. Jumping 20 feet through the air is cool. Getting impaled at the bottom of the leap is less cool. If you are an innovator of snow sports, a snowboarder, be sure to strap both feet in. I know, this is commonly held as blasphemy by chairlift operators everywhere, but as you will soon see, most of them are wankers anyhow. You'll thank me when you merely hairline fracture your fibula, instead of additionally snapping both tibias, smashing at least one femur, and obliterating most of your carpals. Believe me. You will thank me. Now you're ready to get into position. You should load the chairlift on the far left side. Once you're approaching your optimum drop point, which will be discussed later, grab onto the vertical part of the chairs armrest and slide you're butt off the seat. Ignore any screams of strangers who may be sitting next to you. They may grab at you to keep you from sliding off, but this only poses a real problem when you're initiating the drop as the spooked idiots may keep a tight grip on you as you plummet in the final stage. Avoid this by going at it alone, or with people you know. When you get more drops under you belt, however, there's nothing like the induced stress of a stranger to add to your experience. If you go with accomplices, have them help you by moving their weight to the left of the chair. This will dip the corner you're dropping from even more; we don't want to go for height there - the less height, the less serious danger, and it will freak out witnesses if you're dropping ten feet just as much as if you were dropping twenty five. Well, maybe. But you get the point. Now, I actually have never tested this particular technique, and it might compromise the integrity of the connection between the cable and the chair arm. Who the hell knows? So watch it. Okay. Now you're dangling. Just let go. There are many different techniques, but you essentially want to last upright, or tilted slightly downhill. Practice on monkey bars to acquire you're personal style. You cheeky monkey!
Okay. When Jumping off chairlifts, it's just like dealing in real estate. Location, location, location. And sex. Just like real estate, and sex. Actually, there are lots of parallels, but I'll save that for another issue. First concern, obviously, is a safe landing zone. Fresh powder is obviously preferable, but a thin layer of shavings is enough if other criteria is met. Be sure to get to know the surrounding area on a preceding run, as to know whether the landing area is actually powder, or hardened snow that has not been touched, so it looks like powder but is really icy death. Obviously, sapplings, untrimmed branches, rocks, and small children should all be avoided in a landing area. Slightly larger children are okay. Good for breaking falls. And don't fight back as much as adults. Or small children. The ideal topography for your landing area should involve elevation lines to be reasonably close together. For you non-topo graphiers out there, that means there should be a good slope going. Right in the middle. like 30, even 40 degree incline...if you're feeling daring. Too shallow, tibial fragments end up in your secum, too steep, you never stop falling. For the sake of your lower digestive tract, and that recurring dream of the bottomless pit that will haunt you for always, choose a good mid-range slope. Finally, wait until you're exactly between the two support poles. That way, you're weight has brought you the closes to the ground possible.
One last thing, if you're stupid enough to try this, don't. I could get in trouble when you get hurt. That being said, have fun!