Episode V : The Mid-Terms Strike Back

And holy fudge, do they strike like the fist of an angry God.

Oh yeah I'll be taking down the cussing since Shaun made me promise I'd change my gamerspeach. Namely "F**K THAT *F***ING S**T TO F***ING HELL! YOU JUST SNIPED ME!HOLY ****** **** ****** SITTING IN A ******** **** ********* CHERRY COKE UP THE *** ********* ***** ******** MICHAEL KEATON!" and such. So yeah, I think I'll need a book of euphemism because oh God, will I need it.

Anyways, after coming back from the massacre known as 'College Mid Terms', the classroom looks emptier than ever. Which leads me to believe that either nobody cares about actually assisting after exams in order to take a break or that half the room commited suicide after realizing that college exams are not the ones you can BS your way through. The stuff you study in a half-hearted way in 20 minutes, teacher has studied for 20 years. So good luck with that. Turns out the only way to pass is to -GASP!- study and pay attention. Since I don't study ever -unless I happen to fall in love with the subject- I settled down for paying attention, which had FINALLY earned me a whooping bonus that allows my monthly fee to be lowered down. More money to the Battle Platypus Army I'm working on!

So I decided to buckle up and finish the mountain of epic homework and projects that were due for next month. Took me 2 entire weeks of dreamlessness. And sorrow. And coffee. And those spicy chips everybody eats to replace natural nourishment. And my God, I need a shave. After all that shizzle, I was finally done and decided to download -Problem, FBI?- some DS videogames to quench my thirst for digital stimuli. Surely enough, I ended up playing such jewels as 'Megaman Zero Collection', '999 : 9 Persons, 9 Hours, 9 Doors' and others. Which I don't remember due to the lack of sleep that day. That was Hardcore Gaming day. Next morning was Hungover Without Even Getting Out Of The House day.

So in short, the Mid Terms slaughtered half of the classroom and made some of them ragequit college at the revelation that "Oh snap! You've gotta actually DO stuff to pass?!". Well, I'd normally be relieved about lazybutts and idiots leaving but most of them had girlfriends OR were girls themselves. So with a whooping total of 27 males and 8 women ( securely voluntarily isolated in the left upper corner of the room ), the place has turned into a bigger sausagefest than Super Smash Bros tournaments.

I'll be updating on the upcomings of the week. If you need me, lit the signal in the sky. It's the one shaped like a giant pecker.

I love birds.

So Osama is dead...

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I mean, saving up for the JD-Mobile, the JD-Cave, JD-Computer and the JD-Suit has been hard enough. I was looking forward to start my own manhunt for the scoundrel and now he's gone. My nemesis-to-be. Not trying to sound sarcastic but yeah, shooting an unarmed bearded dude. Way to go marines. Sure, the man blew up people like a hardcore GTA gamer but I'd at least put on a nice soundtrack while doing the deed. Hell, I'd even give him a rapier and demand a shirtless duel on top of a skyscraper ( Soundtrack still playing ).

For the death of one of the most evil masterminds of our time, I gotta say I find it quite anti-climactic. Like the kid who finds out that Santa Claus is really uncle Larry with a rental suit. Don't get me wrong, I'm in NO way implying I sympathize or even pity the man. If anything, I'd draw a dong on his tombstone. But dude, he was gone just like...that. No witty banter exchange with the USA President, no Pre Mortem one-liner, no duel to the death, no mano a mano, no Michael Bay explosions, no NOTHING.

Just "Oh hi what's u-"*BANG*

Dead.

Really Ossie, at this point I'd at least expect your base to start a countdown to self-destruction upon your death. You've been in the "Kill people to decide who has the best imaginary friend" business for YEARS only to be taken by surprise and kick the bucket. You KNOW what planning is. You've been planning your attacks for YEARS, sittin on a leather chair, caressing a cat ( Or baby camel, I don't know how you guys do it there ) and looking all suave with that beard. America FEARED you. America. The world's spoiled fratboy. That's like a Football Quarterback getting shivers at the mention of the Janitor. And now you die. Just like that. No final battle. No struggle.

What a letdown. Whelp, enjoy your stay in muslim hell, where you'll probably be subjected to every single fucked-up fetish the japanese have invented.

Let's face it, you deserve it. Cheerios.