Your results:
You are Will Riker

Will Riker 75% James T. Kirk (Captain) 65% Spock 59% Worf 55% Geordi LaForge 50% Jean-Luc Picard 50% Chekov 45% Data 40% Beverly Crusher 40% Deanna Troi 35% Leonard McCoy (Bones) 35% Mr. Scott 30% Uhura 25% Mr. Sulu 25% An Expendable Character (Redshirt) 25%

At times you are self-centered but you have many friends. You love many women, but the right woman could get you to settle down.

Click here to take the "Which Star Trek character am I?" quiz...

I have arrived.

Better facilities so far, we'll see how that goes.

Found internet in under 1 hour of being released.

Woot!

I saw this image while scrolling down Mitch's LJ, and thought, "Hey, there's a picture of Heather!"

(She has the best Kaylie outfit *Rowr!*)

In about 9 Hours, I'll be a married man!

09-f9-11-02-9d-74-e3-5b-d8-41-56-c5-63-56-88-c0

Josh needed to go to Hobby Lobby to buy a decorative hinge.

Josh: This Hobby Lobby sucks. The one in Stillwater has more stuff.
Me: What are you talking about? They have the same inventory.
Josh: No they don't. I'm going to tell the people here to order more of the stuff we like.
Me: Like what?
Josh: Like knick-knacks and shit.


Later at the bank teller drive-thru

Josh: Tell them I need $200
Me: Do you have a withdrawal slip?
Josh: No. Just tell them I want $200
Me: You'll have to write a check for 'CASH'.
Josh: What?! Why?! I've never had to do that before!
Me: Just trust me.



On the way home:

Josh: I wish Edmond had some parks.
Me: What are you talking about? It has, like, 4 parks.
Josh: Nuh-uh!
Me: We live next door to one. You walk by it on your way home from school!
Josh: I mean big, *fancy* parks.

1. Don't Microwave Tinfoil
2. Don't turn on the garbage disposal when there is a spoon in it.
3. Really Hot Water hurts.

As a side note, Josh had to clean out his keyboard, in the sink, because of the melted peanut butter that got in the keys from his grilled peanut-butter, chocolate, and honey sandwich.

He still hasn't explained why there was a jar of peanut butter in the bathroom, and the jar of nutella in the couch. He just giggles whenever I ask.

Sorry I fell off the grid, Josh gave me the super monkey-virus he's been breeding.

Your results:
You are Apocalypse

Apocalypse 67% Dr. Doom 64% Lex Luthor 64% Juggernaut 61% Magneto 60% Kingpin 58% The Joker 52% Dark Phoenix 45% Mr. Freeze 43% Poison Ivy 42% Venom 40% Catwoman 37% Green Goblin 29% Riddler 29% Mystique 21% Two-Face 13%

You believe in survival of the fittest and you believe that you are the fittest.

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.

The Eleventh Day
Eleventh Day. Eleven pipers. Piping. Not a-piping, mind you. But piping hot. Like soul-searing New Orleans jazz. Like a boiling glass of absinthe. Like me. Happy Holidays.

The Twelfth Day
On this Twelfth Day, I am filled with ennui. Twelve drummers, merely drumming; too easy, perhaps. Which is why I have, at great personal risk, imported drums made from human skin. They produce a sound like no other; the sound of a tiny bamboo cage in a fetid jungle prison, where hope dies anew with each cruel dawn. It's the sound of pain, frustration and disappointment. The sound of Christmas.

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.

The Eleventh Day
Eleventh Day. Eleven pipers. Piping. Not a-piping, mind you. But piping hot. Like soul-searing New Orleans jazz. Like a boiling glass of absinthe. Like me. Happy Holidays.

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.