Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Great Rambling Wednesday

Today was the last of the Quiz Bowl meets.  It was held at my school's sports rival (but sports rivalries don't really matter in Quiz Bowl or band.)  Anyway, at every Quiz Bowl meet, there is a buffet of delicious goodies.  Rival High had their buffet of delicious goodies in their library.  When you enter the library to partake in the deliciousness, you are confronted with this sight:

I call fail.

On with the story.

When we finished partaking in the wonderous delights of the buffet, we went to the rooms where the matches would be held.  In our first match, there was a guy who had a varsity jacket for Quiz Bowl, band and something else that I can't remember.  What I do remember, though, is that he is also a Drum Major.  I was wearing my band t-shirt, which has Drum Major written across the sholders, and I really wanted to show him, but I felt that it would be slightly creepy and weird, so I didn't.  Anyway, the rest of the meet went on and we won all of our matches.  The end. 

Or is it?

Obviously not, because I'm still writing.

After our meet, we went out to eat.  I rode with my friend, the Professor.  We had a grand old time.  When we got to the restaurant, (okay, it was more than likely a bar.  What do you expect?  The region I live in was founded by Germans and the Irish) I went to the bathroom, where the water mysteriously flowed diagonally out of the faucet.  When I got back to the table, we all ordered our food.

Our coach (yes, there is a coach for Quiz Bowl) bought us appetizers.  Before they came, the waitress brought us some sauces to dip things in.  This is what I saw:

It is, quite obviously, a face.

Anyway, we had wonderful dinner conversations about not committing murder at the dinner table (murder should only be committed at the murder table.  Dinner can, however, occasionally be served at the murder table.)  We also talked about how I could kill people with my knitting needles.

On the ride home, I rode with the Professor again.  Here is a slightly paraphrased recounting of part of our conversation:

The Professor: Those are leaves.  I would drive through them, but I don't know what's underneath them.  There could be small children.
Me: Or worse, gremlins.  Or, even worse, small gremlins.
The Professor:  Yeah, it's the small gremlins you've got to watch out for.  People think it's the big gremlins, but no, it's the little ones.  Silly gremlins
Me: Trix are for kids
The Professor:  You think they want Trix, but they're really after your organs!

We laughed, then went on to talk about zombie deer (hide your grass!) and how Dead End Gulch would be a sweet name for and old-timey western town and how Chuck Norris punches with his feet and kicks with his fists.

It was a grand old time.

Then we went to the Youth Center, where I played Kumcha with my friends (the Stellar Miss Moon, The Great Bobini, the King of Marching Band [he actually prefers "Archbishop of Marching Band"] and Mother Duck.) and all was merry and bright.

The end.

For reals this time.

Scout's honor.  (You can't see it, but I'm doing the scout finger holdey-uppey thing.)

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