Really Officer, I Swear its Just Apple Juice
Here one finds the obligatory, "look,
we have alcohol" shot. Obviously, on left is me, Eric D., with a small glass of, ahem, apple juice.
Heather Perez stands on the far right. See that sexy smile? Well, I'll tell you what. . .its not
for you so go on with your bad self. Finally, dead-center, well, is a geek. A sissyfied little
pretty-boy, Robert Schutt will often follow my friends and I at UVA out when we leave our fervent
studies for a brief respite on the town. Rob then spends the entire time fixing his hair and mentioning
to girls he doesn't know that, yeah, he is a volunteer fireman. No one likes you Rob (except for
that other guy down the hall who none of us have ever spoken to because of his offensive body odor).
Oh, yeah, thanks for buying that night, pal. . .
Stacey Hates Baby Seals. . .Except With Light Orange Glaze
Here we find a veritable plethora of my friends from the University of Virginia as we prepare for an evening of joviality. Do you see the semi-blank looks on our faces? From left to right you may find Andy (yes he is as weird as he looks), Kristin (hi Mom), Robin (that smile, wow, it just melts yer' heart, don't it?), Nicole (the first time I met her, I thought she was going to beat me up. Seriously.), Stacey (I like Stacey and all, but man, she is so mean. I mean, I thought that all of those people who beat baby seals were tough Nordic fellows. . .), me (yeah, I'm still a goof-ball), Krishna (language $%#@), Mai (I once saw her beat a man to death with an enormous sausage. No, no I didn't. Sorry.), and Rob. I hate Rob. He's evil, you know. . .
My Little Avacado
In this shot one may see yet another gathering of friends. Left to right, Carl (Nobel Prize for Mathematics, 1978), Mike (does nothing all day but think of little children and drink beer), Noha (who is on the Metric Hour, where one metric hour equals ten of our ordinary American hours, thus explaining her continual tardiness, ahem. . .), me (still a dork), Claudia (My little Avocado. . .), Claudia (no, I didn't mistype, dammit), Amir (I have never before met anyone with as much testostrone as this man), Heather (do you see her distinct pleasure?), and finally, Rob. Prissy, sissy little Rob. . .
The Red-Headed Stepchild, My Little Avacado, and Me
So there I was, trying to decide who I was gonna' take with me to the Oscars, where I would be recieving awards for "Best Musical Score," "Best Actor," "Best Special Effects," and "Best Director" for my phenomenal short film entitled Yezzziraitfti Smiffi, an autobiography of my experiences in the wastes of Xinjiang, fighting as a rebel leader among the Uighyr people. But dammit, I, in all my haste, had completely forgotten to get a date. And where would I find on short notice a date worthy of such an honor? No where. So as I ran out the door, I threw to the wind the possiblity of actually having a date to the function. . . nearly knocking over two of the most beautiful women I had ever met in the process. Colleen Rose Daley was a model for Budweiser's 1999 St. Patrick's Day Ad Campaign, and Claudia Mendez was their 1999 spokes model numero uno for the delightful Latin American nation of Bolivia. They were clad only in bikinis, and apologized for the violence of our collision. I immediately saw my opportunity, called the airport and had my pilot stall the take-off, helped them find some more apropriate clothing and BOOM. . . we were off for Hollywood. My only regret? Damn Brad Pitt and Keanu Reeves for taking them from me!!! Damn them to Hell!!! Er, yeah.
So, your tiny little attention span already lettin' you down, eh? Okay, dig. . . here you got three choices. . . choice numero uno: go Home. Choice numero dos: make for the beginning of the Post-Modern Version, and choice numero tres (pay attention, slacker), head right on the beginning of this here 'People' section. . . You got all that? Alright then. . . make for the Motherland, pooner (yeah Krishna, that one, that one is for you. . .). . .
Here one finds the obligatory, "look,
we have alcohol" shot. Obviously, on left is me, Eric D., with a small glass of, ahem, apple juice.
Heather Perez stands on the far right. See that sexy smile? Well, I'll tell you what. . .its not
for you so go on with your bad self. Finally, dead-center, well, is a geek. A sissyfied little
pretty-boy, Robert Schutt will often follow my friends and I at UVA out when we leave our fervent
studies for a brief respite on the town. Rob then spends the entire time fixing his hair and mentioning
to girls he doesn't know that, yeah, he is a volunteer fireman. No one likes you Rob (except for
that other guy down the hall who none of us have ever spoken to because of his offensive body odor).
Oh, yeah, thanks for buying that night, pal. . .
Here we find a veritable plethora of my friends from the University of Virginia as we prepare for an evening of joviality. Do you see the semi-blank looks on our faces? From left to right you may find Andy (yes he is as weird as he looks), Kristin (hi Mom), Robin (that smile, wow, it just melts yer' heart, don't it?), Nicole (the first time I met her, I thought she was going to beat me up. Seriously.), Stacey (I like Stacey and all, but man, she is so mean. I mean, I thought that all of those people who beat baby seals were tough Nordic fellows. . .), me (yeah, I'm still a goof-ball), Krishna (language $%#@), Mai (I once saw her beat a man to death with an enormous sausage. No, no I didn't. Sorry.), and Rob. I hate Rob. He's evil, you know. . . 
In this shot one may see yet another gathering of friends. Left to right, Carl (Nobel Prize for Mathematics, 1978), Mike (does nothing all day but think of little children and drink beer), Noha (who is on the Metric Hour, where one metric hour equals ten of our ordinary American hours, thus explaining her continual tardiness, ahem. . .), me (still a dork), Claudia (My little Avocado. . .), Claudia (no, I didn't mistype, dammit), Amir (I have never before met anyone with as much testostrone as this man), Heather (do you see her distinct pleasure?), and finally, Rob. Prissy, sissy little Rob. . .
So there I was, trying to decide who I was gonna' take with me to the Oscars, where I would be recieving awards for "Best Musical Score," "Best Actor," "Best Special Effects," and "Best Director" for my phenomenal short film entitled Yezzziraitfti Smiffi, an autobiography of my experiences in the wastes of Xinjiang, fighting as a rebel leader among the Uighyr people. But dammit, I, in all my haste, had completely forgotten to get a date. And where would I find on short notice a date worthy of such an honor? No where. So as I ran out the door, I threw to the wind the possiblity of actually having a date to the function. . . nearly knocking over two of the most beautiful women I had ever met in the process. Colleen Rose Daley was a model for Budweiser's 1999 St. Patrick's Day Ad Campaign, and Claudia Mendez was their 1999 spokes model numero uno for the delightful Latin American nation of Bolivia. They were clad only in bikinis, and apologized for the violence of our collision. I immediately saw my opportunity, called the airport and had my pilot stall the take-off, helped them find some more apropriate clothing and BOOM. . . we were off for Hollywood. My only regret? Damn Brad Pitt and Keanu Reeves for taking them from me!!! Damn them to Hell!!! Er, yeah.
So, your tiny little attention span already lettin' you down, eh? Okay, dig. . . here you got three choices. . . choice numero uno: go 