Archive for September, 2005


Friday, September 30th, 2005

On Mar 8, 2002, at 3:29 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

Yesterday at 5am I was jarred awake by this high-pitched squeaking. Of course, this happens every night, because Mikey is always whining about something at 5am.

Yesterday, however, the culprit was a frickin’ cricket. This thing wouldn’t shut up. After 15 minutes of listening to Mikey complain about his fear of crickets, I finally decided to rescue him. Being the nice, sensitive Tranconian that I am, I dutifully chased the cricket out of our room and placed it in Peter’s room.

It’s 3am the next day. Cricket is back. Cricket is back with a vengeance. I hate Cricket. I can’t even find cricket. Cricket is hiding so deep under Mikey’s crap, I have failed to find him after 30 minutes of poking around with my cricket detector (magic ski pole). Cricket is squeaking non-stop at at least 40 decibels. I hate cricket. Since it’s 3am and I can’t sleep, I am forced to let Trancos feel my pain through email.

This email actually has a point. Since this cricket fiasco is clearly going to become a regular event, I’m looking for a futon to crash on whenever Cricket decides to stop by and torture me. Don’t worry about Mikey, he sleeps better with relentless noise.


Keaka and Mikey.

P.S. This is Mikey. Keaka is a pansy and woke up scared as hell when he heard Cricket peeping. I told his ass to go to bed, but he proceeded to turn the lights on and that’s why I’m in such a bad mood. I didn’t get enough sleep and am incoherent. I hate Keaka. I looooove Cricket. I love hearing Keaka wake up and in dead seriousness say, “FOOOCK YOUUUU CRICKET!” I’m going to turn in now while Keaka nods off between Cricket’s mating calls. Dear god, Cricket is horny tonight.

P.P.S. This is Keaka again. I hate Mikey even more than I hate Cricket. Mikey just told me he is actually turned on by Cricket’s mating calls. I need a futon now more than ever, as Mikey is finally going to be getting a little action in my room.

P.P.P.S. This is Mikey. This is Mikey’s room. Keaka is a little leaching hobo. He needs to go back to his little shack out by Sand Hill. If all of you could only hear what he’s whispering to himself. He’s going delirious with his little whispers under his breath, “Cricket? Cricket! Cricket? Crickeeeeet… ”

P.P.P.P.S. Keaka here. This is definitely my room. I won it from Mikey fair and square in a Timmy fighting contest. And you have no idea how edgey Cricket is making Mikey. Mikey is such a pansy. A few minutes ago, Mikey basically pissed his pants just because Glenn came into the room. Then he went nuts screaming about how Glenn was really Zack. At this very moment, Mikey is standing on his dresser with a ski pole stabbing behind the bed yelling, “He’s right here. I know he’s right here. I’m going to get him. Cricket must be so scared!!” A few minutes ago, he was yelling the same thing while sprawled on the floor in a different corner of the room. Mikey’s survival skills aren’t very honed. Now he’s begging me to get on the case. I’m off to save Mikey’s ass again.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Keaka is going to sleep in the lounge. Now who’s the pansy? I even had to correct Keaka’s spelling of “pansey.” And I’m just trying to save Timmy from sleep deprivation since he can’t sleep. Uh-oh. I think Cricket’s asleep now.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Only a pansy worries about the spelling of pansy at 3:30am. And the only reason I’m going to sleep in the lounge is because Mikey won’t let me have my turn at Cricket hunting. I could catch him in 10 seconds, but Mikey has to try to save face. He just proclaimed he’s “Going back into action.” I’m going to sleep in the lounge. I hate Cricket. Timmy.

[Editor’s Note, September 30, 2005: In our vocabulary, the word pansy refers to a wimp. A wimp is a weak, cowardly, unadventurous person. Like Mikey.]

Things I Hate

Friday, September 23rd, 2005

On Sep 23, 2005, at 1:38 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Why can’t I eat grass? Cows can do it, why can’t I? I waste so much time buying soup, opening the can, and sometimes heating it up. Think of all the time I would save if I could just step outside and chew on my lawn.

While researching the possibility of modifying my stomach so that I can digest hay, I learned something astonishing: cows are like microbreweries! A cow’s forestomach is a huge 50 gallon fermentation vat with 500 trillion bacteria. If I fed a cow malt, hops, and a bit of yeast, would it produce beer instead of milk? I think it’s worth a shot. How convenient would it be to pre-party by milking (beering?) the cow in the living room and downing a few cold ones from the cow’s 50 gallon tank? On second thought that doesn’t sound convenient at all, but it would still be pretty cool.

I have a long list of things I hate besides cows. I meant to post them all here, but I’m feeling a little ill. I just ate a full pound of Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Now I have to go curl up in a ball and try not to think about how all that warm doughy goodness will look if it comes back up. You’ll just have to wait for the next installment to find out what else I hate.


Where the heck are my keys?

Tuesday, September 6th, 2005

On Aug 27, 2005, at 5:45 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

It’s been well over a month since my last mass email, so here’s the latest unsolicited update on my fabulously exciting life.

On Tuesday night I stumbled home after a long, hard evening of drinking.

As usual, opening my door gave me quite a bit of trouble. I have a dozen keys, ten of which look exactly alike. I don’t even know what nine of the keys are for. But I certainly can’t throw them away, because they might unlock something important. Anyway, that wasn’t a problem on Tuesday night, because when I got to my door it came to my attention that I didn’t have any keys at all.

After standing outside in the cold for a few minutes pondering my difficult situation, I came upon a simple and elegant solution. I simply turned the handle on my door, which was apparently unlocked, and walked inside.

I’m accustomed to losing something every time I go drinking. Such as brain cells. Or my dignity. Or my clothes. And I almost never make it home with my cell phone, which spends more time under seats in friend’s cars than it does in my pocket. However, I believe this is the first time I’ve lost my keys. Nothing to worry about, I thought. I was a Boy Scout with numerous merit badges*, so I know a thing or two about being prepared. Surely I have duplicates of all my important keys! Unfortunately, after rummaging through my drawers, the only spare key I found belongs to a bike lock that I haven’t seen in three years.

I decided there were three possible reasons that my keys didn’t make it home:

  1. A clever friend, probably Otis, stole my keys from the bar table while I was in the bathroom.
  2. I dropped them in the gutter with my change while trying to flag down the bus to get home.
  3. I never took them drinking in the first place, and the keys were buried in my well organized room.

It’s been a little over three days since my keys disappeared and none of my co-drinkers have confessed to the theft. Thus, tonight I calmly accepted that I would never find the purpose of those nine mystery keys that look exactly like my apartment key. While debating what type of funeral ceremony to prepare for my beloved keys, I picked through my jeans on the floor in search of chapstick. And of course, there were my keys, right there in my pocket! Yes, I’m sure everybody is thrilled for reading all the way down to this exciting conclusion.

I have several pairs of jeans on my floor, all of which look alike, so it’s unclear whether the keys were in the pants I wore out on Tuesday. It’s possible that I left the house on Tuesday without my keys, which means I lost them while I was sober. I find that hard to believe, so I’ve concluded that one of my fellow imbibers stole my keys on Tuesday, then snuck into my house and placed them in my pants a few days later to avoid confessing.


* Well, I was definitely a Cub Scout. I think I only made it through a few weeks of Boy Scouts.