When the wheelie bus smells not like stale urine and smokes but blueberries and cream oatmeal, you know you're in for strange days. I'd like to investigate further -- I have a working theory about the cause being the rotting corpse of Wilford Brimley, for do not healthy oats run through his veins? -- but I'm afraid it would be an unnecessary distraction in my quest to reform health care. That doesn't mean I'm in favor of you spying on me, because I'll be damned if I'm held liable for your death via boredomitis.
Incidentally, if you've noticed a sudden proliferation in YouTubes chez Randal, you're not blind. No, they haven't been surreptitiously procreating in the backseat -- at least I haven't noticed any condom wrappers and even electrons practice safe sex -- I'm simply preoccupied with offline writerly endeavors and since my brain cannot multitask, well, witness the numbing coma suffered by this dump.
Well, back to holding the hands of newly-minted freshman. Apparently, computers mutate into flesh-eating monsters when used for something other than OMG!NOOB!LOL!teenageMySpace fucking.
If only the world would get off my lawn.