Eight pints.

A gallon, exactly. Which makes me wonder why it's always given as 8 pints. Also, it makes me think of a gallon milk jug. You open the fridge in a vampires kitchen, and find a gallon jug marked "Ted". I don't know anyone named Ted, so the shock value would be pretty low. But if it was marked "Someone you know", I might be a little frightened. But then I'd start to think "Hold on then, how does Mr. Dracula here know who I know? He might have assumed that I knew someone because I loaned them a cigarette, and put them in that gallon milk jug. Wouldnt that be kind of an anti-climax?

"I hold before you the polished skull of your freind Chuck Denmore!' says the monster.

" Hmmm..." says I, checking my Phone Numbers & Adresses Book. "Nope. No Chuck Denmore in here. Rick Denby, Steven Dennig, but no Chuck Denmore..."

"Oh. Well forget I said anything then. Can I borrow that book?"

"No."

"Dang."

Then it'd go back to it's crypt and try to hatch more evil plots. But after a bummer like that, it'd just watch a few infomercials and go to sleep.

I watch infomercials some times. I think the problem is, while the product may do what it is advertised to do, it has rather a limited usage. After you've blended the majority of the fruits you can find at the local market, and you have come to the conclusion that you have spent $29.95 make something that has the consistancy of paper pulp and the flavor of a moldy potato, that bitch will be sitting on the shelf for a while. Eventually you'll take it apart to make a bong. But these things still get bought, because at three in the morning, the decision making engines are not at full capacity.

Frying pans that nothing will stick too. People who are up at 3 in the morning don't cook.

I suppose the point is that late night add space on TV isn't terribly expencive.

You'll need a special order form for that, sir.

If you've read this far, someone is very probably dead. I don't think it was a causal effect. I'm pretty sure it wasn't, actually. But it's safe to say that at least one person has died. Probably more. It's strange. Two sides to every catastophy. If one of my loved ones is in danger, then it is the most important event ever. But if I don't know them, I am simply annoyed by the traffic jam they have caused. I don't think this makes me a bad person. The fact that I pushed the corpse into the street with my bumper after having run him down, broken both their legs, and peeled out on their solar plesxus is what makes me a bad person. Well, it's what qualifies me as a bad person. I think it's the booze the makes me a bad person.

You're concern is touching, but I will still have to skin you alive and make a charm out of your eyes.

Under the proper set of circumstances, God would have most certainly done things differently. But he was having company, so he had to rush things to make the deadline. Hence there were errors in his work, minute at the time. Comparatively speaking, they are still minute, but they seem important in the context. The fabric of being was supposed to have gelled up a bit better, but it didnt have the time, so it came out a little more fluid than one would have hoped for. Like runny jello.

If you could count all the grains of sand in the ocean, it still wouldn't reduce the urge to torch your house, kill your family, move to Nepal and start over.

God, I would love to be Bond. He is the walking Man-God. He's so cool the thermostat kicks in. I'm sure the members of Metallica are under they impression that they are cool. But James Bond makes them seem like the Dow Syndrome Chess Club. He is the All-Father of cool, he trancends existence to become an event. Nothing can survive the Touch of the Bond-Hand and remain unchanged by His will. God asks his permission before he lets catastrophies occur, and it is by the Divine Will of Bond that the Laws of Thermodynamics are allowed to function regularly. If he snapped his finger, Entropy would grind to a halt, and every bean counting scientist would build 4 perpetual motion machines. But He knows that these must stay in place, lest the Divine Balance of Oprah Winfrey be thrown out of kilter. Then, she would eat Chicago.

I wish I were more menacing, and less a lump of corned beef hash eating slovenly white america ages 18-45.

More people are dead. It comes as less of a surprise this time. These ones saw the last batch, and knew they had it coming. A few of them tried to prevent it. No use. The bomb cannot be diffused. The angry nehibor cannot be calmed. The oncomming truck cannot apply it's breaks quickly enough.

Don't look now, but you are dying. Geologically speaking, you will be dead in a matter of moments, maybe less. Your metabolism is burning out of control The toxins in your body are filling up to maximum capacity faster than a small city under a breaking dam. You forget to promplty send oxygen to your brain for a matter of only a few minutes, and you exit stage left. After a few days, they may simply throw away the petri dish. The path of least resistence. Under said circumstances, why did you get out of bed? Wouldnt it have been a lot less fuss to lay there and wait to die? And if you do, can I have your furniture?

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I think it's probably because the cure was made in Canada. Not The Cure, they are english. Lowercase cure. Nevermind.

Stop.

Where was I?