Do it yourself Protechnics!

I went and saw the Trans-Siberian Orchestra last night.

Flippin' AMAZING. If you have the chance, GO SEE THEM.

So, my father and I were cooking tonight, and managed to recreate the stage show effects in our kitchen.

The lazers were a bit of a bust, but I did manage to get a large open flame. In my oven.

Note to Martha Stewart: olive oil on 'high broil' explodes into a nice flame. Who knew.

The french bread toasts quickly became something more akin to paving stones.

The oven, being a modern appliance and having more sense than its users, started beeping. Ever the great natural leader, my father and I where handling the crisis brilliantly.

By panicking.

Just like the Trans-Siberian Orchestra often brings the spectators excitement to a fever pitch, our panicking quickly grew into all out chaos.

Which may have been handled better if damn would just stop beeping.

In a burst of rational thought, my father quickly deposited the flaming bread outside, so that the smoke alarm would not join in a duet with the oven.

There is now smoke everywhere, I'm racking my brain for the smoke alarm code for when it goes off, Dad is trying to stamp out the remaining flames.

Then, in the midst of this chaos, the frog prince (via the door open to try and let the smoke out) hopped on the scene. Due to both the resident cooks laking the correct pair of cromosones to try and help, we left him to the mercy of my cat. He had my cat cornered in seconds.

Finally, most of the smoke has billowed out, and I have enough sense to ask Dad to get the instructions for turning the now desperately beeping oven off.

As most of you out there know, the instruction manual was no help, so we started flipping fuses at random to try and get it to turn off.

After making our house look like it was possessed by at least 2 ghosts, we finally flipped the right switch and turned the stupid oven off.

Then rescued my cat from the hostage situation he was in.

In conclusion: french toasts a flambe was a total failure

Finals

F.I.N.A.L.S.

That's F!$@ I Never Actually Learned S!$# for those of you who aren't members.

Its a group on campus. I'm a member.

In no final is this more apparent than math.

I can do dervatives. I can do integrals. Limits? not so much.

And none of these when my professor is trying to trick me with questions that have sudden pitfalls in them and require creative solutions.

Guess what I was doing all last night?

Eating pancakes. But before then I was studying calculus. Lots and lots of calculus. I went to the final exam review sesson, I worked through all the questions he posted on the internet. So, when I woke up at 6am this morning, I knew one thing: It was Gametime, bitches. (oops, B!#$%es)

2 problems. I know when the math final is (8am) but not really where (Science building, its across the parking lot!) And the fact that I really can't fail this because my grades have not been the best.

Oh, don't worry. Passing probably would happen. I wanted at 3.2 GPA in the class.

This is when all you folks at home that took calc freshmen year go "Ohhhhh. Yeah that's hard."

Anyway, its gametime. I put on the gametime music on my computer, took my shower, printed out a bunch of problems to go through before the exam started, grabed money to buy a pack of doughnuts and a coke from the vending machine.

Problem A is solved when I find a building that in size 10 billion font has written on the side "SCIENCE BUILDING"

I walk to room 1001. Its 7:36, more than enough time before my final. I open the door and...

A bunch of kids with an exam and graphing claculators look at me.

Slightly controlled panic: unleashed. Time slowed down, my brain kicked into overdrive. Little details, like the pink ribbon in the girl's hair that is sitting in the back corner of a lecture hall, become very apparent.

She didn't study.

Dude giving the test: "Can I help you?"

Inside Relimited's head: "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD"

Deciding that that was not a god reply, I failed to swollow my fear and went with my insticts.

Relimited: "Whoops. Wrong Room. Sorry."

Insert Tactical Retreat Here.

Now, after that debacle, I hadn't calmed down at all, so I sat on a bench and tore through my math book, looking for the right room.

Math Book: "Math Final. Rm 1001 Science Building. 10am-12"

Oh.

Well then.