James Edward Olmos does “Previously…”, and “previously” is a lot of clips from the miniseries. “As of this moment … we are at war!” Also: clips of Tigh. “Last thing I need is a one night drunk.”

Heart beating. Black dude from Alias. Sweating.

Oil painting of Baltar? Looks like they’re almost finished reorganizing Colonial One. Baltar’s painting over the toilet.

Adama has been in the Colonial Fleet 45 years. That includes the time he was out of service. Billy prepared Roslin a dossier on Galactica - Adama’s previous command was the Battlestar Valkyrie.

“Pursuit?” Two raiders chasing a third.

“What the hell are they doing?”

Oooh, Starbuck back in the pilot’s seat, with Kat. “Don’t know, don’t care.” Both in Mark IIs. Cylon chasee heading right for Galactica. Human voice … from the Raider. “This is Bulldog.” Vipers ordered to hold fire, escort Raider in. Everyone looks confused. Um. Hello. I dunno. It’s being chased by other Raiders, something’s odd, dummies.

Colonial Marines! (Couldn’t tell if they had MP5s or UMPs).

I guess Raiders don’t have landing gear, huh?

I guess Starbuck ain’t the only human to figure out how to fly a Raider.

Oooh. He knows Bill Adama. And Adama knows him. “Is it really you, sir?”

(more…)

I couldn’t believe my ears this afternoon as I listened to WYPR 88.1 and listened to a new story about the signing of a nuclear treaty between the U.S. and India. I couldn’t believe it as I listened to a clip of the-voters-don’t-like-him Senator George (”I support an ammendment to ban gay marriage after I didn’t”) Allen describing the relationship between the United States and India (in light of the signing of the India Nuclear Accord) as a “marriage.”

Wait.

Hold on.

Isn’t marriage supposed to be between a man and a woman? Now, apparently, soon-to-be-former Senator Allen has decided that marriage should be between two nations.

So, let’s get this straight (no, uh, pun intended): marriage between two peoples of the same gender is bad. Marriage between two nations of the same — or, for that matter, different — genders, good.

Well.

I’m confused.

One of my coworkers at the Indy, Zap, decided to role-play as Robert Mitchum. Or if you don’t get that reference, try this alternate title: “He decided to role-play as Captain Nemo.” At about 3pm, he was trying to deliver when he realized the puddle of water he was driving into was really deep. He tried to back up, but the water level was at this point too high and his car continued to move forward. He’s fine, thankfully, but his drenched Cobalt is awaiting the insurance company adjuster’s report, and Todd at Brooks-Huff nearly lost his big mighty tow-pickup pulling Zap out.

Needless to say, when I texted Zap this afternoon, “So, I hear you were role playing Robert Mitchum yesterday?”, his two letter reply was a very characteristic “FU.” (He wasn’t in today because he wasn’t able to get a rental car). I’m hoping he’ll forget about my text by Wednesday, the next day we both work, otherwise I might find myself with two .22 rounds in the base of my skull (joke).

If I had known this had happened — this was about the time I got into the Franchise yesterday — I would’ve declared the conditions far too unsafe for delivery, and gone home. But I didn’t know about it, and things turned out okay, but there were a few puddles I would’ve avoided had I known about Zap’s troubles.

***

In other water related news, Gary’s Jeep went into the shop Wednesday for an electrical problem. He left the side panels off the top and his dash got wet. He was none to happy: “When the fuck is Chrysler going to motherfucking waterproof Wranglers?!” I mean, seriously, drain holes in the floor are awesome, but waterproofing the electrical shit is sort of a no-brainer.

***

I bought an umbrella a month ago. Press a button, it unfurls automatically. PIECE OF SHIT. The first day I needed it, yesterday, it broke. I couldn’t even get it to open manually. Sufice to say, I was one wet motherfucker by the time I made it to lot seven from Linthicum Hall. Fucking fifteen dollar piece of a shit umbrella.

***

Most Unbelievable Moment of the Night:

Lady hands me $20 on an $11.50 order. Asks: “Is that enough of a tip?” She’s serious. I scream “yippee!”, jump up and down, and thank her profusely as I run to my car before she can change her mind.

The “UP” series is one of the most fascinating documentary films you can watch. They follow a group of British children from varying social classes over the course of some forty-years, with films beginning when they’re seven, and updated every seven years. Since Broadsheet introduced me to the series, it makes sense that we’re going to watch the DVD of the latest entry in the series — 49-Up — together on Monday night.

Anyway, no big deal, I stuck 49-Up on my Netflix Queue. When the DVD was released Tuesday, it went from “Not Yet Released” to “Short Wait” when I checked my queue between classes. Tuesday night before leaving campus? “Very Long Wait.” Er. Great. No big deal, I thought. I’d just swing past Best Buy and pick up a copy to make sure I had it.

Leave it to me that imagine Best Buy would stock a critically acclaimed documentary that few Americans know about. Because, of course, they didn’t. Neither did Target, when I stopped there. I guess Borders or Barnes & Noble would probably have it, but it was late Tuesday night and it had been a long day and I just wanted to go home, so I did, and forgot to go to Amazon until Wednesday morning, when I ordered the DVD, two-day shipping to have it here by Friday, and hoped it wouldn’t get snarled in some fuckup or something.

What was on my doorstep when I got home from class Thursday afternoon? Yep!

Anyway, the films are all available on Netflix and I highly recommend you add them to your queue. Really, just an amazing series of documentaries that you won’t soon be able to forget.

Roads closed due to flooding. Other roads open yet nearly impossible to use because of flooding. One-lane bridges closed because they were swamped. Idiots driving too fast for the conditions wrecked and closed other roads. Meanwhile, high water — y’know, the flooding — kept swamping my battery, causing the stupid idiot-light to flash and me lose my a/c (which was all that was keeping my windows de-fogged) and power-steering.

I was at one point talking about wanting to leave. I hate delivering in severely inclimate weather. Flooding is one of those weather conditions, snow is another. Bossman teased: “Don’t you want to make money?” I don’t know how long he’s worked in the pizza biz, but you very rarely make money in really bad weather, and that’s because the people who tip really well generally either don’t order or come to pick up the food. It’s the shitheads, the retards, the inconsiderate fuckwads who don’t tip in good weather or shitty weather who tip, because, quite frankly, if I skid on ice and kill myself by wrapping my car around a tree on the way to dropping them the cheapest order they could get to meet the minimum delivery, they wouldn’t give a fuck. Why wouldn’t they give a fuck? Because they’re asstards who should get a few hollowpoints in their flappy couch-potato inbred butts.

Speaking of hollowpoints, I had to resist the urge to throw a few into the windshield of every car I saw operating in this shitstorm without headlights. Of course, I don’t carry a gun with me, so I would’ve had to resort to throwing half-empty twenty-ounce bottles of diet coke, but I was pissed off enough I was tempted to do that. Visibility, you retarded motherfuckers. Plus, state law. Don’t you want people to see you speeding up Jarrettsville Pike doing seventy miles an hour as if its a bright sunny day and the pavement is dry? Wrong motherfucker, don’t expect me to pull over and offer to call you an ambulance when you hydroplane your moronic tardastic self around some bewildered bovine.

Here’s a note to the first six houses I delivered to:

I hate you. I hate all of you. Almost all of you said some variant on, “Wow, thanks so much for delivering to us in this ridiculously crappy weather”, and then proved just how very insincere you were when you tipped an amount not adequate for a bright sunny day. Two dollars is not a good tip when it has taken me thirty minutes to drive round-trip to your shitty house because of all the above-mentioned traffic snarls. To the first six houses I delivered to: I hope you all drown in my putrid feces. Hopefully, some day soon, I’ll be heading on a triple up in your direction and can make sure your order is delivered last. Remember on that day, when I’m smiling and making up some excuse, that what I actually mean is “You’re a piss-poor excuse for a human being, fuckcunt.”

Here’s a note to the last seven houses I delivered to:

Love ya’ folks. You tipped great, had your lights on (except for those of you without power), were gracious even when it took me awhile to get to you (because of those stupid road closures), and you will always get the fastest possible service when I’m taking your deliveries. Most importantly, you showed appreciation through the only way that matters: you tipped teh good. Danke.

Note:

I got yelled at by one of my tardfucking coworkers because on one of my deliveries the kid who answered the door asked for “four or five back.” I gave him four back because, c’mon, given the choice, I’m going to take the bigger tip. Then he called back to complain. What? He’s the one who offered me the choice! And I did say, “four back?, you got it”, giving him plenty of time to say, “five back.” Even with five back he was still a good tipper, so no hard feelings, dude.

(Another thing to be pissed about: I reordered checks and didn’t scan my address information very carefully so I now reside at building 1 apartment 1, as opposed to apartment A. Not the first time this has happened, gaaaah me for not stopping to double-check! Thankfully, they’re on their way as I’m out of checks and have bills do early next week. That’s me: living on the edge!)