Window scraping in the future

One of my favorite things about my dad, is the fact that he always has the most ridiculous, state of the art, vehicular ice removal devices.

When I started my car this morning, I was dismayed upon realizing that Colin had borrowed and not returned my window scraper before I headed down to Nephi. How ever was I to remove the 5 inches of snow and ice encrusting my car? My father had just left in his truck, taking his scraper with him.

Then I remembered I was at my father's house, and there were bound to be multiple ice scraper options at my disposal. I returned to the garage, and immediately spotted the most amazing window scraper I had ever seen. I thought a few years back when he purchased several 3ft long, heavy duty scrapers, with a comfy hand grip, extra thick bristles, and a perfectly angled scraping head, that ice removal technology had pretty much peaked.

Lordy was I wrong.

Never could my mind have fathomed the need for a steel coil shock supporting the scraper head. Not so rough on the wrists, that way. A small button extension release allowed for an impressive maximum reach of 52 inches. So whether driving a Neon, or a jumbo truck, one is absolutely set for length.

Not one, but two thick, molded hand foam grips were wrapped around either end, allowing for maximum comfort and utility. If you were thinking at this point that there couldn't possibly be anything more to add to an already seemingly perfect snow removal device, you were sorely mistaken.

On the same end as the snow brush, lies a superbly crafted mini shovel/scraper hybrid. Its slightly concave shape allows for a perfect ice/snow scrape and toss combo move. I can see why my father bought at least two of them.

I had a weird desire to walk down the street, and scrape every car I could find, because with the Ultimate Maximum to the Max Ice Ass Kicker 2040, ice removal is fun. In fact, using this new scraper technology as a model, I think Nintendo Wii's next game should be a window scraping game. You know, for all of those people who never have the opportunity to scrape ice off of a car.


Unidentified creatures

I am really just wondering what sort of sub-human creature from the abysmal pit of the netherworld goes out to eat on Christmas eve, and leaves a sub 15% tip. I mean really.

Whatever phylum these particularly wretched creatures happen to fall under, they sure flocked to Carrabbas' last night. Perhaps a winged genus, hence the flocking. One that also has natural protection from the snow. Perhaps a thick layer of blubber. Or just cold blood. And a very very cold heart.

Okay, so whatever. People want to eat out on Christmas eve and I'm mostly okay with that. But for goodness sakes people. Your little familial gorging indulgence is causing me, and many a server/restaurant worker across the nation to get home to our families late. Which, again, I am mostly okay with, because I have to pay the bills somehow. However, when you come in and leave a sub par tip and CHRISTMAS is the next morning...Well, I pose this question; Does such a person really have a soul? How can a person feel good about keeping, albeit a total stranger away from their family on Christmas eve, and not be generous?

This is the first Christmas eve I have ever worked, and I will just say that I was astounded. I really had hoped that humanity would step up. Luckily, I was in the bar and so most of my cash intake wasn't entirely dependent upon the writhing mass of inconsiderate, slimy mystery creatures, which I'll just go ahead and call cheap bastards. I believe actually the Latin name would be Cheeapus Bastardus.

One other thing. If you come in to eat, don't express to me how very deeply sorry you are that I am having to work Christmas eve. Because if you really were sorry, you wouldn't be patronizing my place of employment on Christmas eve. You aren't sorry. You just feel like a terrible person for keeping me from my family, and are thus trying to placate your sense of guilt by apologizing for being the cause.

Even though you are the cause, as I said, I am mostly okay with it. Just don't say you're sorry (because you aren't) and leave a generous tip (because you should.) Very simple. I don't know how many times I heard people apologizing for us having to work last night, and how many servers I heard complaining about poor tipping.

So, cheap bastards of the world; if you must continue to be terrible tippers, at least crawl out of your embarrassing stingy holes for one night during the year. Just add like, 3 or 4 dollars to your normally pitiful sum, and your server will at least feel like you are a semi decent person and that you truly did appreciate his/her service on the eve of the pretend birth of our Lord.

Merry Christmas friends.


Vegas no parents 2008 cheese factory christmas adventure miracle featuring robert jordan's lord of chaos (no dignity part IV)

Sometimes I drive all the way to Vegas to watch a friend scalp some lousy BYU tickets, eat at a Carrabbas affiliate, purchase 1 pair of jeans and 1 pair of corduroys, gorge myself at a wretched $11.5 dollar buffet, watch 4 episodes of arrested development, eat Christmas tree shaped biscuits, play Clue with a 4 and a 7 year old, eat free economy salsa curd at the Beaver cheese factory, eat a cinnamon roll, a pint of highly fattening vitamin D milk, 2 scoops of Dryers ice cream, and an In-N-out double double all in a 5 hour period, and think, "Well that was a waste of a day and a half/a series of poor life decisions."

But then I recall the euphoria swelling within my breast as I felt the waves of sound bursting forth from David Hasselhoff's most blessed vocal chords wash over me in an orgy of musical majesty. I've never heard a more beautiful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

When Patrick told me that he had tickets to the Vegas Bowl and wanted to go down I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go." However, once I found out that David Hasselhoff would be rendering the crowd speechless with the national anthem, I was suddenly very interested in that wretched, mindless, waste of a Saturday night.

Somehow, David Hasselhoff slipped free of my mind over the ensuing tip grubbing, ass kissing hours at Carrabbas. When Saturday morning arrived, and Patrick informed me that he would be scalping the tickets I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go."

I can't go through southern Utah without stopping at the Beaver cheese factory. Or perhaps I should say, the cheese factory located in Beaver. I suppose one could make cheese from a beaver. Anything that could be milked, really. And everything that produces milk for an infant can be milked? (Question mark inserted because I am not positive as to the truth of that statement.) And milk can always be made into cheese. So I guess a beaver cheese factory isn't really all that preposterous a notion.

I love salsa curd. I approached the sample table just in time to see Scott shove his filthy hand right into the curd pot. "Getta toothpick you dirt bag." Moments later, as I was reinserting my toothpick into the curd bucket, I was similarly called a dirt bag by the aforementioned dirt bag. I maintain that it was less a filthy gesture than the initial fingering of the curd.

After conversing with an apparent elderly BYU fan while I pissed (weird) we were ready to head south again. I guess he was wondering what brought a man with purple slacks and a P coat to the Beaver cheese factory. "Scalping, sir." I zipped up and left.

After the fourth black man at the stadium offered to purchase Patrick's $50 tickets for 10 bucks, I began to feel like selling them was a waste of our life. Also, like a scum bag.

Scalping. No dignity.

It was somewhere between hearing the frat douche Arizona fans cheering in the form of the F word cleverly mixed in with their school letters, and witnessing a possible drug deal from a Winnebago, that it hit me like a ton of flaming bricks; I was going to miss Hasselhoff. I suddenly, for the first time in my life, wished I was a organized sport fan and had fought Patrick's supreme executive authority to scalp those tickets.

As I was standing outside the stadium gates, amidst the scalping scum of Vegas, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the announcement of Hasselhoff's pending musical number. I realized that although I would miss being able to actually bathe in his vibrant glow, to bask in his vivacious essence, I would still be able to hear him take Vegas' collective breath away.

It was absolutely beautiful, and EVERYTHING I had imagined. So powerful, so raw. I saw tears streaming forth unabated from the scalping dregs of the Vegas underbelly.

After the emotion wore off, I remembered that I was, if not necessarily personally scalping tickets, an accomplice to a scalper. No freaking dignity. I had not felt quite so humiliated in a long time, as I stood there amongst the ticket hustlers trying to make a couple of bucks. Or rather watched Patrick try to make a couple of bucks.

H&M was a disappointment. I didn't get to eat at the Winn buffet. I left almost an entire jug of Simply Apple in my cousin's fridge, as well as my phone charger. I didn't get to gawk at the Bellagio fountains, nor ride the big shot on top of the stratosphere. I didn't find a black P coat, nor shoes to my liking.

The whole trip seemed a waste, except for that one magic moment, that 2 minute slice of time when the heavens opened up, and Hasselhoff's voice rained down from above.

Worth it? Hell yes.


No dignity part III (absolutely unrelated to no dignity parts I-II

Let me throw this out there; I know that times is tough. I know the economy is down. I know people around here are all hearing that things are pretty bad. All of that, however, does not make it okay for you to pay me for a cup of soup with a sack full of nickles.

Seriously. I went to collect the checks from a table of 3, where everyone was paying separately. I picked up the 2 waiter-wallets with credit cards, and then one bulging wallet. Dumbfounded, wondering why it was so thick and clinky, I headed to the back of the restaurant. I looked inside and beheld a form of payment I had never heretofore encountered; a sack full of nickels. Mildly incensed, as I was extremely busy with 3 tables and running the bar, I walked back to the table. "How many nickels is this? I'm not trying to be an ass, but I really don't have time to count them out." "Oh uhh...like 5 bucks. No wait...$5.50."

"Thanks." He at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed. What the hell am I supposed to do with over 100 nickels? I am not a bloody Wal-Mart cashier, nor an effing Coinstar.

I am sick of the average people in Utah feeling like they are seriously affected by the economic woes of the nation. Yes, eventually all of that is going to trickle down and kick us in the chest; however it really hasn't yet. Last I checked, gas was $1.40 a gallon, and there weren't too many big bank CEO's patronizing the Orem Carrabbas, nor too many auto industry workers who were worried about loosing their $50+ an hour blue collar jobs. So really, this isn't so much affecting the Orem Carrabbas patrons, as of yet.

But, dear patrons, you are certainly acting like it is. I can perfectly understand that people are hesitant to spend their money on frivolities such as eating out right now. I mean, eventually we are all really going to feel the pinch of this ludicrous bailout(s). So really, it isn't the people who are eating out less, to which I am referring. Perhaps they are wise to conserve their money. I am referring to all of the bastards who are still coming out to eat, still ordering their fillet's and appetizers, smoothies and martinis, yet skimping on the tip. Seriously, it's unreal. We are pretty much as busy as ever right now. However, receiving 10-15% tips has become the rule, rather than the exception.

I've mentioned this before; 15% is not a good tip. It is the bare minimum one should leave, even if not entirely pleased with the service. Most servers probably rarely deserve less than that. So I guess it is so supremely frustrating because the only thing people are really curbing, is their generosity. The $5 tip has become standard on anywhere from $30-48. On $60-90, people are leaving $10. It is ridiculous. People; if you can afford to drop $90 on a meal, you can afford to leave the necessary tip.

And please, for the love of baby Zeus, don't pay someone with a sack full of nickels. Try to conserve at least a shred of dignity.


No dignity part II (although completely unrelated to no dignity part I)

Church seems to usually be one of 2 things; either a really great, uplifting experience, or a total circus. It seems as though when one odd thing happens, oddities abound. Which, can either be really entertaining, or wholly annoying.

Yesterday was a fun church day. First, the choir. There are just certain songs that a really really small, mediocre choir should not sing. Like, anything super complex that has like 6 different parts going at once. The issue isn't that a small choir can't possibly handle something complex; the problem lies in the fact that almost every ward choir has the 1 or 2 token members who sing VERY strongly, and a little terribly. Not terribly enough that they don't rightfully belong in a choir; just painfully enough that you don't want to hear their voice rising above the rest. And when the rest are, say, 2 other guys or girls...it makes for a rough recipe.

Most of the songs were fine. But there were a couple, which I can't exactly recall (probably due to a subconscious mental block that my brain threw up) that were pretty painful, where our token rough little stars shone rather brightly above the mass. I appreciate that there are people who want to sing in the church choir. I just wish that all were aware of where their particular strengths/weaknesses lie. I myself have a decent choir voice. However, I am well aware of the fact that I should never ever be heard above the rest.

There was a really funny honker in sacrament. He would always blow his nose at the most inopportune moments. Like...in a transition between singing and speaking. No dignity. Silence would fall, and like clockwork a small, dull, delayed honk would pierce the silence. It was unique, in the sense that one could not actually hear any blowing occurring; it was pure honk. Usually there is a mixture; it is easy to tell that a nose is being blown. Not so, with this particular honker. It sort of sounded like a really small, depressed goose. And the only reason I ever figured out it was a male doing the honking, was because he continued it throughout priesthood (man class.) And he also fell asleep while texting in a not so clandestine manner, arm propped up on the back of the chair next to him, squinting at his phone held up for all to see. Again, no dignity.

Some good elder's quorum (man class) quotes: I think my favorite was an announcement for a small Monday night activity. "So, were gonna have a party out our place. Come screw off for an hour." So inappropriate and weird.

"I'm okay with the occasional quorum pie time." Whatever the hell that means. This was in response to a query on how more quorum unity might be achieved.

"How many of you have ever put your foot in your mouth? Oh, and I mean figuratively, not literally." Really? has anyone ever meant that literally?

Some member of the relief society (girl class) brought us treats to man class. When the treats were about to be passed out, these 2 loud, vocal clowns in the middle (who always had something "clever" to say about everything, always followed by raucous personal laughter, declared that the treats should begin in the middle, with them consequentially. This declaration was pretty much overridden by everyone else, and so on the treats went, down the left side, far from the middle. Their greedy eyes never left the basket, even though there were clearly enough treats for all. Anytime the basket was anywhere near, they would unabashedly call for it to head in their direction, even when such a change in trajectory would cause it to skip half the people in the room. No freaking dignity.

At least this Sunday there wasn't a talk from a crazy, 26 year old bitter, unmarried prude declaring that any priesthood holder who kissed a girl passionately wasn't worthy of his priesthood. But that is a story for another occasion.


Rub downs

Somehow or another, I have managed to dwell in Provoland for 5.5 years, yet I have never discovered or been aware of the fact that one may receive free massages on Friday nights and Saturday mornings from the Provo college of massage therapy. I feel just a little bit cheated.

Colin found out about it, so we went this morning. Which was cool because, A. free massage, and B. it got me out of bed before noon. Double bonus.

Fortunately, Ricky knew his business. Tall, dark and, I'll be honest, not incredibly handsome, Ricky had a quiet demeanor. I apologized immediately for my lack of ovaries and mammary glands. I think, were I an aspiring masseuse, I would be pist every time I had to give some dude the rub down. To be honest, as the receiver, I prefer to be man handled, and for a few reasons. A. Stronger hands probably means a better, more thorough massage. B. I feel like when lying under a sheet in nothing by my skin, having a mans hands kneading dangerously close to my groin is a little less awkward than a female's. C. I'm not going to feel inclined to hit upon a man who is touching me everywhere but my special purpose. Were it an attractive female, I might feel some sort of pressure to make a move. Which, being naked under a sheet, could not be done in a manner dignified/not perverted. "Hey, ya know, while I'm naked here under this sheet, I thought I might mention that you have really nice eyes." Creeper. D. With a guy, the only fear is an NRB*, which I have basically grown out of, and therefore that whole embarrassing possibility sort of just flies out the window.

About 3/4 of the way through the massage, the people in the next curtain over started having a conversation. I can't think of a more awkwardly obnoxious thing, than having a conversation while someone is kneading your naked ass through a sheet. I mean, common. Have some self respect. It was easy to hear that the aspiring therapist was not terribly excited about talking to the women whom she was rubbing down. Nakedly. It sort of reminded me of the time when Onyon the 16 year old scab pedicurist awkwardly talked to me whilst massaging my calves. I just think that when one is being rubbed nakedly, one's mouth should be kept shut, and conversation should be non-existent. Whenever Rickey had to ask me if the pressure was okay, he did so surreptitiously, with a sort of low, breathy voice. Which, now that I think about it, was sort of creepy. But better than naked conversing.

All in all, it felt great, and I think I shall find myself an at least monthly patron of the free morning massage.

*If NRB is a term foreign to you, urbandictionary.com can help you out.



While driving on Orem blvd a couple of times over the last month or so, I noticed a rather curious building. It is located on the west side of Orem blvd, around an area that seems a little shady. Painted upon the entire northern side of the building is a rather child-friendly mural, with large letters proclaiming it a "Children's Museum."

Every time I have driven by, I have always found it a little odd, because I never see any children coming or going from this "Children's Museum." Moreover I have always thought the location a bit strange as well. Why is this "Children's Museum" located in such a shady part of Orem? Why does it look sort of like an abandoned warehouse? Where are the children? The parents? The science? Today as I drove by, one of the large bay doors was open. I grew extremely excited to finally discover the contents of this mysterious museum.

It was full of white vans.


Stay away children, it's a trap.

Border disputes

Today I went to Smiths to get a movie out of the Red Box. I feel like since I am strictly working with a machine, no sabbath breaking is actually occurring. While browsing through the movie selection, there was a small man child running wildly about. His mother yelled, "Raiden! Raiden! Get over here! Raiden! Raiiiden! Get over here and get your sack. Raiden!!"

At first I thought that I heard "Braiden." I listened very closely to make sure that I was correct. I was indeed hearing "Raiden." As in, the Mortal Kombat guy. The China man that could shoot lightening bolts from his hands, and fly through the air like superman.

They named their child after a video game fighter. I imagined that the father was probably at home, powering up his World of Warcraft guild right at that moment.


On a completely unrelated note, I have a new dilemma occurring in my life. Back in June, I had some roommates that were unable to urinate without pissing all over the toilet seat. Somehow, the idea of simply raising the seat completely escaped them. They couldn't grasp the concept that A) no man can piss straight, and B) sitting in the remnants of one's own piss, much less that of someone else, is unpleasant, if not wretched. So, I wrote an anti-pissing message in permanent marker on the seat, and the problem has been solved ever since.

Well, when I purchased my bidet, I decided to install it in the downstairs bathroom for a couple of reasons; less anal traffic, and easier installation. The upstairs bathroom is more akin to a closet, and just changing the toilet seat was the most miserable experience of at least the month of June, if not most of the summer. Downstairs bathroom was to be my new bastion of cleanliness.

Down stairs guy pisses on the seat.

Or somebody.

The rub is, there isn't much I can do about it. It technically isn't my toilet, and I was sort of invading when I set up the bidet in there. I could tell he wasn't too excited about the installation. In other words, I feel as though I have crossed an illegal border, and therefore his seat pissings are out of my jurisdiction. I mean, if a Mexican comes into this country illegally, and he doesn't like the fact that I walk into his house and steal a Corona out of his fridge every day, tough bananas. He isn't legal, and therefore can't complain about my obnoxious habit of stealing Coronas out of Mexican fridges. Just like my situation.

So I guess I just grin and bear it? The whole thing is so mind boggling because I can't understand why everyone doesn't hate sitting in piss.

I am really starting to feel bad for that Mexican.


No dignity

I think being flipped off is one of my favorite things. I guess because it generally involves someone loosing control and being completely unable to think of any rational, thoughtful way to express their frustration. So, they do the one thing that instantly pops into their mind; they flip the bird. And then hopefully realize how silly they look, face contorted in anger, a rictus snarl and an effff youuuu upon their lips, waving their middle finger as though it were capable of shooting lasers and incinerating me where I drive/stand/sit/jump. No dignity.

Yesterday I was journeying to Jamba Juice. As I approached the roundabout near 24 Hour Fitness, there was a car ahead of me. As he arrived at the yield sign, there was not a car to the left in sight. Now, as simple as a round about is, I can sympathize a little bit when there are like...infinity cars around. I mean, having to watch cars coming from one direction is tough. It really is. However, as he approached, there was but one vehicle to his right. So he slows down and basically stops at the yield sign. I then proceeded to honk my horn one time. Not several exasperated honkings, nor even a drawn out honk. Just a quick beep to remind him that it was safe for him to proceed on into the scary, horribly confusing roundabout.

At that point, he drastically increased his speed, and flew through the roundabout as quickly as possible. I could see him checking his rear view mirror in a manner that suggested irrational anger. The quick, exasperated head snap, rapid multiple looks at the mirror, followed by a couple of head shakes. As soon as he was out of the roundabout, and clear of the first 2 cars parked on the side of the road, he dramatically swerved to the side of the road, and locked his breaks and came to a screeching halt. He then rolled down his window about 4 inches and shook his bird finger at me, snarling in anger. I looked at him and smirked/chuckled.

First, he was mad at me because I reminded him that he was too ignorant to understand the basic function of a roundabout. Second, rather than acting like a rational human being and continuing on his projected course, he pulls over and does the one thing that an apparently less than intelligent individual can think to do in such a supremely frustrating situation; he flips the bird. How embarrassing.

Remember this; flipping the bird is offensive never. It is merely embarrassing. So, if you happen to be a frequent flipper of the bird, by all means, please continue flying your finger of stupidity and entertain the rest of us with your ineptly expressed anger.


Worth it

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

I love everything about this; Little Gary Coleman in overalls and a cowboy hat, descending from the hugest dodge pick up I have ever seen. From which, he apparently tried to run over a poor man named Colt. Such a quintessential small town Utah name. Sounds like Mr. Coleman has settled into his Utonian habitat quite nicely. "Celebrities can't go nowhere or do nothin'..."

God bless you, Mr. Coleman. May the money from your childhood/Mormon movie stardom ever provide you with huge trucks and overalls.


Inglorious Basterds

Let me just say that Quentin Tarantino, Brad Pitt, and Nazi hunting is probably the best recipe for a film that I have ever heard of.

I'm so excited I could puke. In on my $450 mattress. Almost.


Gimmie savings or i'll murder you with my feet

I think I have arrived at the conclusion that Thanksgiving is an overrated holiday. I am glad that it exists; I love the excuse to have a family gathering. For some reason though, I feel like that day has lost its luster. I guess a holiday, in which the entire point is to shove as much food down one's gullet as is humanly possible, seems sort of silly.

I suppose that isn't supposed to be the point of Thanksgiving. I guess in theory, Thanksgiving is about being thankful. But I think that whole idea gets mostly glazed over by the impending lard fest that has come to embody it.

I find myself being less excited about the whole Thanksgiving dinner as well. Don't get me wrong; my aunt and mother created a wonderful meal, that was up to the Thanksgiving par in every way. But I suppose it's the Thanksgiving meal specifications that I don't get too excited about anymore. Corn, mash potatoes, turkey, gravy, yams, cranberry sauce...I'm just not that into it. Perhaps if I didn't eat those things multiple times per year (minus the cranberry sauce, which I eat never, not even on Thanksgiving)I might be more apt to want to pack my stomach till I puke.

I remember growing up, being almost as excited for Thanksgiving as for Christmas. I would starve myself the whole day, so that I could eat as much as possible. This year, I found myself stuffing my face with cheese balls, cauliflower, and creme flavored starbursts until about an hour before dinner. After consuming a plate of the usual Thanksgiving fare, I wasn't at all disappointed that I only had room for one. Although I did eat about 7 orange rolls.

I guess overall, I am excited that Thanksgiving is over. Bring on Christmas, the holiday where people finally turn into quality human beings for a month and think about something more than just themselves. Perhaps a lot of the goodwill and spirit of giving comes from the utter remorse at acting like complete monsters on black Friday. Seriously. Humans sink to their lowest level of humanity on that ridiculous shopping day. Well, maybe not as low as one who would strap a bomb to his chest, but fairly low nonetheless.

It is amazing that people will turn into scrapping, seethin animals, just for the possibility of saving a couple hundred dollars. Did anyone read about the guy trampled to death at a Wal-Mart in NY? Good lord. As the doors were opened, a tidal wave of the lowest dregs of our society flooded through the doors, and stepped on this guy to death. A herd of ravenous cows, trying to get their filthy hooves on a plasma TV, or an effing vacuum.

When shoppers were told to leave because they had murdered somebody with their frantic shopping, people screamed out, "But I've been in line since yesterday morning!" And continued shopping. Unbelievable.

It isn't just the morning crowd that is crazy; there is shoving and muscling for deals, all day long. I found myself in Target about noon, hoping to score some cheap DVD's. Everything had been pretty thoroughly picked over by then. Suddenly, these 2 girls pushed out a couple carts full of DVD's to restock the ransacked shelves. People swarmed the carts like ravenous vultures, completely ignoring the girls' pleas to just wait. I understand how people feel; I felt drawn to that cart, stoked on saving 6 bucks on a copy of Juno. It's frightening how possessed we become by material items, and the prospect of savings. I felt pretty disgusted with myself as I elbowed my way into the churning froth of humanity to lay hold upon my discounted copy of Juno, once the girls placed a few upon the shelves.

Thank goodness we have the Christmas season in which to redeem ourselves.


Ethnic cleansing

I feel like a leper, graciously cleansed.

Farewell inadequate, barbaric anal wiping techniques.

I dared not hope that it would arrive before the middle of this week, possibly later, so I didn't even think to check on Saturday. Sunday night, I was walking through the front room towards the stairs when I spotted it; a rectangular package. My heart went into an epileptic seizure as I halted, staring at it. Could it really be? Had it miraculously arrived days earlier than scheduled? I changed my trajectory and slowly approached the box. I was so afraid to read "Dan Criddle," on the tag, as 94% of packages arriving at our home bear that name. I gently hefted the package, and scanned the label. Andrew Fish. Bingo.

I think I probably made some sort of a girlish squeal, as I carried the package into the other room, and stabbed it open with a pen. I couldn't stop laughing. My joy was full. The words "Go Bidet," in red, white, and blue greeted me upon peeling back the box flaps. As though there is anything American about a bidet.

2.5 hours later, after cleaning, and ripping apart the toilet, I was the proud new owner/user of what my rectal region has been so greatly missing for the past 5.5 years. No more will I harm the environment with my excessive toilet paper usage. No more, will trees have to be chopped down for my anal cleansing. Just good, clean water from the earth, as the French intended.

Does it have enough pressure to clean the ceiling? Check.

The only unfortunate thing, is our toilet water is frigid (the Go Bidet usurps the water that normally flows into the toilet.) So I can't say that, in the wintertime, using the Bidet is a wholly comfortable experience. It is somewhat akin to ramming a cold chisel up there, if one is not cautious with the spraying power. However, it is infinitely better than wiping, so I'll deal with the cold finger of death.

For the record, I've never rammed a cold chisel up my rectum. Nor a warm chisel. Nor anything, for that matter. Just to set things straight.

Thanks Marc-Antoine Jacoud and Christophe des Rosiers for the one useful thing to have ever come out of France; an ethnic cleansing device.



Sometimes there comes a point where a man has had all he can take.

It seems like it was so long ago. Such a brief, fleeting period of time. There was nothing that could have prepared me for you, your sweet caress. When the time came, as ready as I was to move on, the thought of loosing you was nearly the death of me.

How would I make it through my day to day? After a particularly tough moment, what would I do without you there to ease the burden and wash away my pain?

Sometimes there comes a point when a man breaks down and buys a bidet.

I did it. After 5.5 years of walking about this land of Provo unclean, all is about to change. Sam's Club, online, $80. It's called the Go Bidet, and it attaches to the toilet bowl and connects to the waterline. After defecation, one simply pulls a lever which swings the arm out directly beneath ones anal region, and wham! Clean as a whistle.

The only thing to which I am not looking forward, is winter time. I doubt that I have the plumber savy to figure out how to connect it to the hot water, so it shall ever be a cold cleansing. And during the winter, it can get to the point where it really feels like one is shoving an icicle up one's rectum. Still, more pleasant than conventional wiping. I'll do whatever it takes to stop simply smearing it about.

It should be arriving early this next week, and I'm as excited as a fat kid at Christmas. I have a feeling that this may easily be the best $80 I have ever spent.


Frat bros

I haven't spent a whole lot of time around frat guys, but on the few occasions in which I have found myself in their presence, there seems to always be one striking common denominator. Well, besides the beer and mild to thorough retardation. And the scoring of chicks. And the high fives and fist pounding. I guess there are a lot of quintessential elements to the frat bro. But there was one that was at the forefront of my mind as I left the Jazz game on Monday night.

We had $5 upper bowl tickets. For whatever reason, the upper bowl at a Jazz game (and I would assume any sporting event) fills up with all manner of drunken morons, shouting obscenities and really a whole lot of things that don't make sense to average human beings. Lots of fist pumping, booing, and personal insults towards the players 200 feet below. Also lots of scandalized Mormon families who thought it would be a good idea to take the kids to a Jazz game for family night. I suppose the fact that a cup of beer is more expensive than the upper bowl seats has a lot to do with who is sitting up there. If the frat dudes and other sport loving miscreants sit in the five dollar seats, they can still possibly afford to get wasted.

There were 5 or 6 particularly rowdy frat dudes sitting in front of us. Whenever something went well for the Jazz, we would cheer and they would turn around for high fives and fist pounds. At one point towards the end of the game, we started chanting USA, to which the frat bros wholeheartedly joined. Throughout the whole night, we were not so subtly mocking them. So here is the common denominator; frat bros never catch on when one is making fun of them. They really never do. I don't want to sound cocky or pretentious, but if someone is mocking me or my friends...I figure it out. But for some reason, these meat heads just never get it. As long as you are joining in the fist pounding, and say, "Hell yeah!" a lot, they remain clueless. Like small children.

Perhaps I am a jerk for mocking them, but common. When one of them has a tattoo on his forearm that says, "Without struggle, there can be no progress," and he's WHITE, mockery is warranted. Or when a girl asks to see his arm in order to read the tattoo, and he instead holds up his opposite and sort of flexes and says, "Pretty huge huh?" Doi. Mockery is absolutely justified.

Maybe I really am being too harsh. I mean, the frat bro with the Skin industries shirt was probably just kidding when he urged his fellow brethren to keep the cups so that they could play beer pong later on.


Nocturnal mysteries

A weird nocturnal phenomenon has occurred in my bed, and I don't quite understand it.

When I bought my new bed about a month and a half or 2 ago, I also purchased a new comforter. At IKEA, their comforter heat levels were scaled from 1-5; 1 being the lightest, 5 being suitable for the coldest freezing hell. For whatever stupid reason, I decided to go with a 4, even though I rarely get cold during the night. I suppose I was planning on running the heater basically never during the winter, and so at the time thought that a 4 would be a good choice.

Turns out, for the first month.5 that I had it, the 4 was a poor life decision. I woke up most mornings with a sweaty collar/spinal column. I kept thinking, "Soon winter shall descend upon us, and the sweatyness shall have an end." Well, the weather grew colder, yet I was still waking up half the time with a damp shirt. This was annoying mostly because it made for extra frequent sheet/blanket washing, and caused the morning shower to become a necessary staple.

Suddenly Obama was victorious, and the weather grew colder. Despite my best efforts to keep the furnace dial in the off position, someone in the home keeps turning it on, and thus our house has remained at basically the same temperature as during warmer, pre-Obama era. Yet somehow or another, over the last few days the sweating has ended. I wake up in the morning, (11ish) completely buried beneath the comforter, Hot Pocket nestled under my armpit, with a completely dry collar. No longer have I half kicked the blanket away during the night; the comforter is no longer overbearing. Just comforting.

Did my body finally just self-regulate and adjust to the heat? Our house is definitely not any colder than what it has been, maybe by 5 or so degrees at the most. If so, thanks body. You sure are great. If not, damn you IKEA for producing a blanket that has already lost its heat integrity in so short a time period. Or maybe thanks IKEA, because I bought a blanket that was too bloody hot in the first place.

I'm so confused.


Dear Observer

The more that I think about your comment, the more humorous I find it. To be perfectly honest, the comment initially upset me. I find that I have a rather emotional connection to my writing. I feel as though when someone judges what I have written, they are judging a piece of me. I suppose that is because a great deal of what I write is self indulgent. But what is a personal blog, if not self indulgent? I am not attempting to write pieces that will change the world, or start a new and revolutionary way of thought. I simply write because I enjoy it. I am sorry that such an idea is completely foreign to one so apparently real, humble, and creative as you apparently think yourself.

It's funny that you point an accusatory finger, calling my blog narcissistic. Yet you label yourself a hypocrite by making such a broad, generalized statement such as "I think I speak for nearly everyone in saying I am not excited for the 'book' you are writing." You clearly think rather highly of yourself and your apparently flawless judgment.

Furthermore, stating that nearly the entire hipster scene is uncreative is simply an ignorant, haughty, baseless generalization. You sound like a bitter, self proclaimed intellectual; a person who thrives on tearing down anyone who can't be as naturally creative or innovative as you apparently find yourself to be.

The funny thing is, as obviously narcissistic as you must be, you hide behind anonymity, thus nullifying any of your arguments and simply making you look like a hater. What have you done which could be publicly labeled as innovative, authentic, or creative? You are very brave, leaving mean spirited comments where nobody can see a single thing you have done to back up your hubris.

Am I further validating your comment? Perhaps this blog is self indulgent. Perhaps it does get narcissistic. But that is a blog, my friend. Thank you for validating my writing through your hateful comments. I don't care if everyone loves what I write. It's just as great knowing someone hates what I write enough to take the time to actually comment upon it. And if you claim that you commented upon the only post you have ever read, then you are even more ignorant than I thought, judging 174 posts from 1.

Was this thin skinned enough for you?





Sorry my blog has been a rather large disappointment of late. Although, it may be a bit pretentious of me to suppose that very many people are actually "disappointed" about my lack of blogular input. The truth is, I have been working a lot lately. And when I am working a lot, my life is relatively boring and repetitive, and therefore my idea pool has been a little shallow of late.

Also, as silly as this sounds, I have begun to write a book. Ugh. I hate the way that sounds. I really feel like a pretentious bastard every time I say it. Actually, I am writing a book about a pretentious bastard who is writing a book about a pretentious bastard.

Okay, so that isn't true. Except for the part about feeling like a pretentious bastard. Although, I suppose I could add the "bastard" tag to just about anything concerning myself, since technically I am/was. My birth father was a teacher who knocked up his student, thus earning me the title of "bastard." Actually, the first time that I realized that the technical term "bastard" applied to me was when I was about 16. I was watching Oprah, and the theme was "bastards," or something. As I was reveling in Oprah's wisdom, it suddenly occurred to me that, being born out of wedlock, I qualified as a so called "bastard." My mother was in the kitchen baking a food. I turned around and said, "Wait a second. So I'm a bastard? I'm a bastard, aren't I?" To which she replied, "Well...not really. Uhh...we sort of saved you from that." To which I said, "Huh. I'm a bastard."

So, I suppose one could correctly call me a "lucky bastard," or an "ugly bastard," or even an "awesome bastard." I guess my point is, you may call me pretentious for writing a book, but you might as well not bother adding the bastard tag. I've spent the last 10 years coming to terms with the fact that I was probably conceived on a desk, or in a broom closet, so if you feel the need to offend me, try something else. I have accepted my bastarditity.

So really the whole point of this seemingly crass post (although it really isn't, because bastard isn't an expletive when used in proper context) is that I have been doing a lot of book writing, thus my blog is suffering.


Bastards unite!


A new age

During this time of election, I have done a great deal of soul searching. There have been a lot of really tough issues with which I have had to deal, and a lot of ideas and ideals I have had to examine. Such as where I stood on Prop 8, even though I didn't get to vote for it. Or for whom I was going to cast my vote; a crinkled old dishonest, mud-slinging Bush-replica, or a scary left wing liberal God-king?

I voted for neither. Bob Barr got my vote. And Superdell. But that is neither here nor there.

As I listened to Obama's coronation speech, victory speech, let us heal our wounded, divided hearts speech--call it what you will--I couldn't help but really really want to believe in him. I wanted to believe every syllable, smoothly and eloquently sliding out of his mouth. I wanted to be able to bask in the ecstasy of hope, in which so many millions were reveling. I wanted to love him; to finally really love a president.

But then I snapped out of it. I realized it was suddenly snowing outside and that fall had abruptly been wrenched from my sweet embrace by the cold, cruel hand of winter. It was like a light bulb suddenly illuminating my weak, sheep-like mind; a mind that had nearly been duped by the wily, sinister, mind-raping tactics of that most persuasive and incontrovertible of speakers. I had nearly been tricked just as 63 million other fools had been. It was made clear to me in that precise moment--an epiphany of sorts--that everything bad occurring in my life, and the lives of every American from this point forward is, and will be Obama's fault. Not the cold, cruel hand of winter; the merciless, obdurate hand of Obama.

The weather in Utah has been perfect for nearly a month and a half. This has been one of the longest falls I can recall. Each morning, I joyfully tore my sweet head from my pillow, and relished the perfect temperatures, frolicked in the auburn leaves, and was absolutely thrilled to be alive. Then, just like that, Obama wins the election. And that very eve, in the midst of his victory speech, it begins to snow. An obvious correlation for anyone even moderately observant. Obviously, Obama caused the snow. Which, I think, is rather metaphorical to his pending reign of terror. Just as the snow was the death of a glorious season, thus is Obama's eminent appointment to the white house the end of all that is good and holy. If the United States does not sink into the sea a moldering, socialistic heap during the next 4 years, I'll eat my confederate flag.

God help us.


A gift from a true friend

Colin gave me a present a few days ago, and I think it is probably my favorite thing that anyone has ever given me. I pulled into our driveway after work, just as he had returned home from a trip to IKEA. He bought like...a million plants. Anyway, he approached my car with his arms hidden behind him and told me that he brought me a surprise, and bade me guess what it was.

"A chihuahua?" Because I wanted more than anything for it to be a tiny, gray chihuahua.

Not a chihuahua.

At that point, I was about to say "A beaver?" But instead just decided to give up, assuming that I would simply continue to guess incorrectly. "I don't know. What is it?" At which point, he pulled a beaver from behind his back. A plush beaver. I then was probably the happiest I've been in weeks.

Beavers are absolutely my favorite animal. I mean come on. They chop down trees with their faces for goodness sakes. And then build dams and houses. What other animal in the whole kingdom builds a beaver den that floats in the water? None animals, and that's why it is called a beaver lodge, and not a tree cutting animal lodge. Because only beavers cut down trees. With their faces.

So, am I a 26 year old man who sleeps with a stuffed beaver named Hot Pocket? You're damn right I am.

And he has crazy eye.

We're screwed

This man is a scary fool. He sets himself up to be the lord hero of the working class, yet does he not realize how this policy will completely cripple thousands of small business who won't be able to afford to pay this arbitrary "carbon tax?" He obviously doesn't understand that the government already taxes small business nearly into extinction, and that some absurd tax on carbon and other emissions will grind many of them right into the ground. So much for your hero then. And who are those most affected? Small business owners, and the working/middle class whom they employ.


A thorn in my side

I guess I have a love/hate relationship with all of the puncture weeds that adorn the outside of our home. They create a rather impregnable barrier all around the yard and parking lot, warding off all unwanted cyclists/cougs who would think to park their bike there and walk to school. Unless of course, one knows how to navigate around them.

The problem is, those who actually are welcome in the home, inadvertently track untold numbers of those wretched thorns all over the place. Sort of ironic, really. I find myself stepping on them constantly, and consequentially cursing, followed by either minor bleeding, or possibly just more cursing.

I have found that Visa seems to be the Lee brand of credit cards. Maybe even High Sierras. As a restaurant tech, I inherently swipe a lot of credit cards, many of them Visas. I have found that I have more problems with Visas than with any other card. Rarely will a Visa work on the first swipe. Lee's may look fashionable and great at first glance, but upon further crotchial scrutiny, one comes to realize that those jeans were really not made to fit any sort of ass. Similarly, a Visa may at first appear to be flawless; no creasing, an impeccable magnetic strip, and 2 years before the expiration is up. No matter the perfection, chances are I will have to work myself into a lather trying to get it to work.

American Express? Even the grimiest, most haggard Amex card always works the first time. I think that Amex card holders may be more monetarily responsible as well. In the last 2 days, I have had 4 Visas decline. Yesterday, a young man and his girlfriend/fiancee came in. Upon termination of their meal, she went off to the bathroom to poop, which I surmised by the fact that she disappeared for about 10 minutes. Her chubby boyfriend gave me a Visa, which was promptly declined. So I returned, and explained to him that I couldn't get it to work (I try to make it seem like it is the fault of our machinery, rather than the fact that he didn't have enough bloody money in his account, and was too daft to realize it.) So he shoved his meaty fist back into his pocket to retrieve yet another Visa, or High Sierra, if you will. That one declined as well. Once I explained to him that a second "malfunction" had occurred, he informed me that we would have to wait until his fiancee finished defecating so he could acquire her card.

Finally, she finished up and gave me a card that worked. Now, I call her his fiancee due to the fact that she was wearing a ring, and he was not. And I really, really wanted to say, "are you sure? Really? Are you really really sure?" I guess I just can't fathom having 2 different cards, and not having any clue that both accounts were overdrawn/marrying a numb skull who was that oblivious.

Of course, I was punished for his poverty/stupidity and was tipped $2 on 30. What did any of that have to do with puncture weeds? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.


Sluts, bro's, and acne woes

I have a love hate relationship with Halloween. I love costumes, and I love dressing up. My costumes for the most part are usually rather lame, generally involving short shorts and some form of eye makeup. I like short shorts. So what.

I appreciate clever costumes. What I don't appreciate however, is all of the sluttyness that goes on. It isn't even so much the annoying "Mormon girl's excuse to be slutty once a year" that really bothers me. First, it is the utter lack of creativity. I mean, how hard did you have to think to wear your underwear with some blood on your face? And I guess I feel like any girl who needs to have her tits exposed and hanging all over the place, wearing nothing more than a panty bottom is seeking some pretty pitiful validation.

I hate even more the sweet bro's who pretty much just wear their underwear, or who find a really un-clever way to expose their rippling abs. Tonight I went to a "Dead Man's Party," which was pretty much exactly what it sounded like--a party where everyone dresses dead. Doi. Which virtually 98% of the people did. Except of course, for the bro in the underwear with the faux hawk and the chiseled abs. Some how, this moron didn't feel like an idiot wearing virtually the only non-dead costume, if little boy's panties and a pacifier can be referred to as such. Nor did he mind grinding his rather pitiful display of genitalia all over the few rather whorish females in attendance.

Enough of that. Is it weird that I find fake-dead girls generally more attractive than plain live ones? There have been so many instances where I have met a girl who was dressed as some form of a dead human being, and thought she was really super attractive. And upon meeting her in normal life, was sorely disappointed. Just once I'd like to meet an ugly dead girl, and then be pleasantly surprised later on.

I hate Halloween makeup. Oh, how I love using it. But it totally ravages my face. I have come to accept the fact that I shall battle with acne my whole life. I get it. I have long since given up on ever having nice, clear skin. I mean, I thought that when I hit oh, I don't know, mid twenties I'd have long since left behind the teenage bane. Not so. Halloween makeup merely exacerbates the problem. And like...really really badly. As in, I had some cheap Smith's pirate makeup on my face for like 3 hours, and upon washing it off I found all manner of new acne erupting forth upon my face. Ugh. Damn you pore clogging face paint. All progress I have made over the last 3 years shall be ruined in a mere 2 night period.


Attempted murder

I was talking to a friend tonight, and somehow or another she mentioned the fact that when she was 5, some douche toddler stole her big wheel. In retribution, she plucked a board from off of a gate that had a nail in it and whacked the kid on the head, thus sending him to the hospital bleeding, and consequentially incurring the wrath of her mother, who took away her rat for 3 weeks. Despite that, and having been tied to a chair by her oldest brother who was baby sitting her, so that she couldn't go and dig out her other brother who had been buried up to his neck in the sandbox by the aforementioned eldest a-hole until 3 am, she turned out to be a rather sweet girl. Really.

This made me think of the one time in my life that I actually hit somebody in the head with a rock.

I was about 10. Grey and I were looking for some lawns to mow for the summer. Earlier that day, my mother had mentioned to me that my little brother had been attacked on his way home from school by some little no-good neighborhood ruffian. The little rat-bastard had been throwing rocks at my brother.

So as I entered a cul-de-sac on the way to a potential client, I saw the kid. He was about 3 years younger than I was. As I passed him by, I said "Hey. My little brother doesn't like rocks." To which he replied, "Okay." To which I retorted, "Yeah. He really doesn't like rocks." "Okay." I felt as though I had quite sufficiently intimidated him by that little exchange. Really, I think he was probably too stupid to have any clue as to what I was referring.

Upon exiting the house and passing him again, I once more reiterated my brother's disdain for rocks. As I reached the opposite end of the cul-de-sac, I noticed a plethora of small, smooth, decorative stones adorning the corner of a yard. They were about the size of a cue ball. I thought that it would probably be a good idea to lob one of those in his general direction, in order to assure that he really got the message. You know, the one about my brother's hatred of rocks.

So I chose out the smoothest, most roundest stone I could find. I had no fear of actually hitting the poor fool, as I was accounted a rather poor baseball player. I mean, I could scarcely throw a catchable ball to an alert human being with a glove, let alone actually hit someone with a rock from all the way across the cul-de-sac. It would bounce near him, nothing more.

With my considerably pitiful might, I lobbed the stone in a high, arcing toss. As the stone began to descend, I suddenly realized that I had just made a really poor life decision. I watched in horror as the geologic projectile came down directly upon the crown of his head. There was a loud "pop," as sand stone met skull, at which point he immediately crumpled to the ground in a screaming heap.

"Shit," I thought.

I ran over as fast as I could, wondering how soon all of the neighbors would come pouring out of their homes, wondering who had murdered this kid in the head with a rock. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! Are you okay?" Obviously, he was not okay. He just kept screaming. And every now and then amidst the awful screams he would add a "just leave me alone." I was less concerned with his possibly cracked cranium, than I was with his father finding out. So in a frantic attempt to assuage the situation, I did what any good person would do. I offered him a dollar.

"Hey, I'll give you a dollar if you won't tell your dad." To which he screamed that he didn't want my dollar, and to leave him alone. "Seriously, here, take it, a whole dollar. Just don't tell your dad." To which he yelled that he didn't care, and to leave him alone. At which point I decided it was probably time to run away. I pulled the crumpled dollar out of my neon green shorts, and sort of laid it on his quivering, sobbing carcass.

For whatever reason, the kid never ratted me out. I'd like to think it was because I gave him a dollar. But really, it was probably because he was afraid I would murder him in the head with a rock again. I suppose we both learned a valuable lesson that day. He, not to throw rocks at my brother ever again. And me, hitting a kid in the head with a rock was okay, as long as I had a dollar handy.


Heathens be damned, superdell is our man

Good news planet earth. "Super" Dell Schanze is running for governor of Utah! And you know I am legitimately excited about this, because I used an exclamation mark. The first best part, is that when one clicks upon his name on the official Utah Government candidate list, it brings up this. Which, in case you don't click on it, is an adobe copy of the certificate that Mr. Schanze signed, officially declaring his gubernatorial candidacy. And it looks like a 7 year old filled it out.Because he has the heart of a child, pure like the driven snow.

I am so elated about his candidacy. I was really fretting over the choices. I mean, Common. Jon Huntsman Jr. again?? The guy did nothing for 4 years. And Monty "Millionaire" Nafoosi? Wtf? Who ever heard of a millionaire democrat? Democrats are too benevolent to be rich, as they prefer to spread the wealth. Obviously, a shady character. And Charles "Chuck" Smith? First, I believe that most Americans are pretty damn aware that "Chuck" is a derivative of Charles. The quotes probably weren't necessary. And I just don't think I could respect a governor named Chuck. Just can't do it. Common Utah state government. Have a little self respect. Did nick names really need to be included on official candidate descriptions?

So, amongst such a vast sea of obvious fools, praise the heavens that we have one shining beacon of light and truth, a veritable bastion of democracy. I believe that SuperDell is the only truly qualified candidate for the governorship-nay-the presidency. Mr. Schanze is the answer to America's problems, and let me tell you why.

Here is a direct quote from SuperDell's blog, which can be found linked to the page with all the listed candidates. '“As ye keep my commandments ye shall prosper in the land”. God told me personally that if we end abortion we will be able to discover and use the unlimited supply of oil right here in Utah." Let me just say that I want a man in office who is communing directly with God, and finding out where all the secret oil is hidden. So what this is really saying, is that thanks to all of you filthy, vile baby killers out there, we are in financial crisis. All ye lovers and advocates of abortion are the cause of our woes at the pump. Shaaaaame. Boooo. Quit killing babies and we will have enough oil to warm the whole globe.

"Cars will also run on water. This technology has been around but suppressed for over 10 years. Imagine how much gas will cost when cars run on water. First keep the commandments, and then we will indeed prosper in the land. It is both a promise from God and a promise from SUPERDELL. " Now, if you aren't absolutely THRILLED by the water car promise, then you are a crapy American, and I hope that you get smothered under a ton of aborted babies. See how you will like that one, liberal scum! Taste the wrath of God! (Also notice that it is not God, but rather SUPERDELL in all caps there. Don't you forget who the true mediator of that promise shall be.)

So who really is this Superdell? I mean, we all remember him from his zany computer commercials. And who can forget when he pulled a gun on some dude and his kid, after being violently confronted and threatened after blazing through a residential zone, doing 80 in his lambo? That just shows he will really fight for our rights. With a pistol, if necessary. "Who am I? Who exactly is SUPERDELL? I am a child of God and am ordained to be a king and priest unto the most high God dependent on my living worthily in this life and fulfilling the covenants I’ve made with God. I fear only unrighteousness before God as it is the only thing that can harm me. I am filled with energy, love and the spirit of God to such an extent that I would make the very best governor of Utah that any good person could possibly ask for." Doi.

"In order to know me you must first get to know God extremely well. Otherwise I will be very difficult to comprehend." Now, I assume some of you reading this have been thinking, "Golly! This man sounds craaaaazy! I mean caaarrraaaaaazy! Who would vote for such a crrrrrrraaazy person?" Well you, John Q. Filthy Liberal, obviously do not know God. Unfortunately you, Mr. Steven A. Heathen Godless Socialist, cannot comprehend one so obviously filled with the spirit of revelation as one Superdell Schanze. Water cars, remember? Secret oil troves? Helllllo?

"I am so dang Totally Awesome that Satan encourages his angles to fight me every where he can as I am one of his greatest enemies. That is why you see so many horribly false news stories along with negativity, hate and jealousy directed at me. I am the nicest person you could ever meet, super friendly and very open about what I believe." People like you, Ms. Jane Baby Slayer, are the Devil's personal angles, swathed in darkness and trying to tear down SuperDell with your liberal lies and socialist doctrines. You would probably get pist when you aggressively confronted him about his moderate speeding and got the barrel of a gun shoved in your soon-to-be-not-so-pregnant belly. Sorry babe. The Hammer of the Lord (SuperDell,) shant be so easily deflected from the work of righteousness.

"Charity is NOT charity if it is forced. It is called socialism. Charity is of God, socialism is of Huntsman." Obviously, Huntsman is a socialist. Being the only non-socialist on the gubernatorial ticket, Schanze is the only logical choice. Huntsman supports the welfare that promotes promiscuity, and leads to that mother of all abominations--abortion. "Women have the freedom of choice. They can choose NOT to be a slut." Booya.

Still thinking about governor Huntsman? Want to reelect him? " What kind of completely spineless satanist would allow the federal government to tell them child executions are ok and then go along with it??? Jon Huntsman Jr. That’s who." Think again, bitches. "God told me if we end child executions in our state we will get nearly free energy for all. If we don’t we will suffer the wrath of God. Some choice huh!?" Think about it. I mean really, how hard can this choice be? A man so in tune with the spirit that he can provide us with unlimited energy and magic water cars, not to mention the eradication of abortion, homosexuality, God-less schools, and low speed limits?

"If you don’t vote for SUPERDELL you WILL suffer the wrath of GOD and the consequences of your own ignorance and stupidity." Finally, both in caps as equals. In other words, if you don't vote for him, you will probably be casting your next ballot from hell.

The choice is singular people. Think of the future. If we can just get him in the governor's office, the presidency will be a breeze. Because, who in their right mind wouldn't vote for the man who found the infinity oil supply in Utah? You may have the next 4 years liberals, but I'll be damned if SuperDell doesn't surf into office on a landslide in 2012. In fact, We'll all be damned if he doesn't. He said so.

Enjoy his blog here.
List of Utah Candidates here.
Call or text him here 801-631-1731


Well okie dokey then yer darn tootin' ya betcha gosh darnit

I was watching Fargo the other day. That movie made me realize that all people from the Midwest are stupid and ignorant. Something about the accent. And the ignorance.

Okay, not really. I am sure that there are many bright and intelligent people living in the Midwest. Fargo however, portrays them all in a rather moronic light. I found that the film aroused in me conflicting feelings of sympathy and annoyance. On one hand, I couldn't help but feel bad for the obviously uneducated and naive Midwestern folk. And on the other hand, the way their accents made them seem moderately retarded was uber annoying.

So upon watching some clips from the Biden/Palin debate (which I unfortunately missed) I couldn't help but immediately notice that she sort of sounds like a moron. I mean, while watching Fargo I just assumed that the accents were pretty much a joke. I know quite a few people from the Midwest, and none of them talk like that. I figured it was similar to how extremely redneck accents are often joked about. I mean really, there aren't too many people who REALLY talk that way. Granted, I went to school with some who did, but they mostly did it on purpose, because for whatever reason talking like a redneck somehow gained one some form of "tough" status. Or whatever. I hated it then, and I hate it now. My point being, I figured the portrayal in Fargo was simply exaggerated.

Palin sounds just like someone from Fargo. And I found myself getting really annoyed, really quickly. She sounds ignorant. Everyone is sick of listening to Bush, because bless his heart, he does a better job at putting on an extremely ignorant front than probably any political leader in history. I don't know if I can handle her in the spot light for 4 years. And possibly REALLY in the spotlight if McCain keels over. Ohkee dokey then doncha kno.

I suppose the deeply buried, quasi intellectual within me cringes at even the front of feigned hey-I'm-just-a-ignorant-town-folk-just-like-you-ya-betcha. That doesn't win me over. And I think (laying her ultra conservative ideals aside) that sort of thing completely turns off all of the know-it-all I'm-so-much-smarter-than-the-average-earthling liberals out there. And maybe some of us moderate, or conservative, or libertarian, or constitutionalists out there who would like to think we are of at least an average level of intelligence.

It seems like the McCain/Palin ticket is a sinking ship anyway, so she probably won't be in the lime light much longer. I'm just heart broken that there are no good options this election. I'm so incredibly disappointed in the candidates that I could grow a mustache. A mustache of shame.

And I hate watching them debate. I hate the little self assured, "psh, oh geez yeah right, are you hearin' what this guy is sayin'?" looks on their faces as the other is going over policy or voting record, or the other's flaws. Their haughty little smirks. Because every damn thing one of them says, the other refutes it with a completely different story. It's like, they are either both bold faced liars, or insane. Perhaps, God help us, they both just have such a warped sense of reality that they both really think that all of the drivel they are spouting is the absolute truth. Like in this argument. I'm so over it.

I just want to go to sleep, and wake up with the next president so we can just move on.

Not like...literally with the next president. I can't imagine the horror that would clench the chest of one who woke up nestled next to John McCains grizzled old corpse. Or what it would feel like to have my face melted away by Obama's holy messianic elitism upon opening my eyes and finding my head buried protectively in arm pit*.

I leave you with this.

*It's 3 am and I'm a little tired. Thus, a little nuts and possible incoherent.


Please pass the organic pain killers

Moab is great. It really is. Where else can one be surrounded by an entire town full of people absolutely content to live in mobile homes, work at local pubs and bike shops, pay double what the average American pays for bread and milk, and wear nothing but Chacos and cycling jerseys? Not to mention all the dreadlocks sporting, bra-less granola women infesting every corner of that blessed town.

Okay, so maybe there are other towns just like that. However, Moab is absolutely one of the most unique places on earth, as far as scenery goes. Whenever I go, despite the bruises, scrapes, and goose eggs I inherently acquire through mountain biking, I can't help but be tempted to completely abandon my life and take up the hummus munching, trash recycling, work-simply-to-fund-my-adventures, sword. Something about all the sandstone contrasted with the green of the trees that just sucks me in. The red cliffs. The muddled, churning river. The lack of a single house larger than 3,000 square feet. I wonder if Moab would loose its magic if I resided there?

On Thursday, I found myself sitting at a coffee shop, staring at the wind blowing through the trees. I was there due to having been abandoned in my hour of need by a friend. Remember this, and remember this well; Friends don't make friends ride 30 mile loops. Meaning, when your friends ride a rather jarring 15 mile ride, and you previously stated that you would pick them up...well dammit, pick them up. I, being rather fat and out of shape, was absolutely done by the end of the Porcupine rim trail. I mean, this old body can only take so many bone jarring flights over uneven, rocky ground, mixed with ledge dropping, and butterfly inducing obstacles. Having ridden nothing over 6 miles during pretty much the last YEAR, it was a cleansing ride to say the least. By the bottom, my wrists felt like I had slammed them in a door repeatedly, my knees had been reduced to throbbing jelly, and my thighs were burning. Not burning in a, "Oh, this feels like a nice work out" sort of way. More like a "Dear Fish. You are fat and worthless and should never have pushed us so far. We're going to go ahead and shut down now. Enjoy the uncomfortable fire of our indignation. Love, your thighs."

So I'm a little pathetic and out of shape. So what.

Anyway, this particular trail emerges at the bottom of Negro Bill canyon. So PC, I know (one more reason why I love Moab.) One must then ride through the canyon on the road, back through Moab, and then back up to the trail head 15 miles, unless one has found a reliable friend for shuttling. Which we had. Which turned out to be not so reliable.

Luckily, Adam was used to riding 40-50 miles at a time on his road bike, so he volunteered to make the trek. And thus I found myself sitting outside a coffee shop for 2 hours. I had this thought while I was sitting there staring at the trees for like...ever. Have you ever thought about the fact that every time you watch the wind blow through a tree, you are observing an absolutely unique occurrence? The wind will never make those leaves dance in precisely that manner ever again. Similar, yes. But exactly the same? Impossible.

Freaking Moab makes me think like a granola.




In 20 minutes, I shall journey to Moab. If I survive, and suffer not a massive brain contusion, there shall be many such writings Sunday. Please pray for my safety, as I am currently uninsured.


A great way to kill someone(s)

While recently watching Troy on the television, and thoroughly enjoying staring at Brad Pitts beautiful, chiseled features (gentlemen, I don't care how gay you are or aren't, you can't tell me that you don't at least secretly enjoy looking at Brad Pitt) I was also inherently subjected to all manner of obnoxious commercials. Occasionally I love commercials. Such as the Jack Links Sasquatch Mt. Biker add. Totally worth it. Others just piss me off. Such as anything with a jingle parody derived from a horrible song. "Don't drive that car, that achy breaky car..." Blow my brains out please. Others leave me absolutely indifferent.

Some commercials just thoroughly convince me to never ever purchase a product, or to cancel any affiliation with a company. In between Brad Pitt's nephew's throat being hacked open, and the former subsequently burying his sword in Hector's chest, I was subjected to just such a commercial. It was from Geico. Generally, Geico leaves me with a feeling of indifference. I'm not annoyed, yet I don't love the gecko, nor find their adds particularly clever or witty. This particular commercial showed a bunch of elderly women talking to the gecko. The Gecko was trying to convince them to go with Geico insurance, offering them a discount for the elderly.

Immediately I was pist. Why is Geico doing anything to convince elderly people to continue driving? I think that the elderly of our nation (and I'm generally speaking of people in their 80's and 90's) have way too much freedom behind the wheel. Which is essentially robbing the rest of us of our freedom to be safe on the road. Everyone has seen the shriveled old crone creeping down the street, barely able to see over the steering wheel of her Cadillac Deville, Coke bottle glasses burning a hole through the dash with the reflected sun, not to mention scorching out the retinas of any person unfortunate enough to meet that peeping gaze. A freaking fire laser.

How could this person be deemed a safe driver? Think of all the close calls and evasive maneuvers that you have had to make throughout your driving career. Do you really think that this poor old woman, who happens to be knocking on death's door, is really able to mentally and physically make those split second decisions that are so often the difference between a heap of twisted metal and gore, and driving away with your stomach in your throat, shaking your fist at some moron? Absolutely not.

Now, I think that there certainly exist people in their 80's and 90's who still have the reflexes of a liger, and the mind of a puma. But there needs to be some sort of filtering process. I think that once a person hits their 70's, they should have to go through some sort of rigorous driving test each year, to make absolutely sure that they are fit for the road, and not needlessly endangering innocent people, not to mention themselves. I sympathize with them, I really do. It would obviously suck to loose the freedom of driving. But when you get old, that's exactly what happens. You can't always do everything that you once could. It's part of life. And death. We (and by we I mean the government, and the people of planet earth) are foolish to simply assume that because a person has a laminated slip of paper containing their photo, weight, and fake hair color, said person is fit to operate 2000 lbs of careening metal.

Anyway, I decided that my affair with Geico auto insurance was quickly approaching its end, as are a great many of Geico's target clientele.


Through the belly of the beast

I decided that since global warming could only bless us with this wonderful October weather for so long before mother winter drop kicks us in the chest with bitter, freezing weather, I needed to go for one last motorcycle ride. So I went down to Nephi with a friend, and up the canyon we drove.

I decided upon the Nebo loop. About 1/4 of the way up, we passed some cowboys herding cows along the road. Which meant there was all manner of cow feces splattered upon said road. Which meant all manner of evasive maneuvering ensued, as I had a constant mental image of my tires spinning out over a pile of excrement, and consequentially ending up on the ground in a confused, wrecked heap. Possibly at the bottom of a cliff. So I was wary of the poo.

On the return trip back down, as we arrived at the bottom of the canyon where the road is relatively flat and straight, those few cows had multiplied into hundreds. I don't know where they found them all, but pretty much every cow in the county was suddenly congregated in a congested, mooing heap in front of me. Not entirely certain what to do, I slowly approached the mass of trotting hamburger, hoping one of the 4 or 5 cowboys would do something about the situation.

One of them looked at me over his shoulder and waved me to follow him. He then began whipping at the cows, and driving a path through the center of them. I was soon engulfed by a swirling mass of pist off bovine. Sometimes you forget just how huge cows are, until you are surrounded by them on a motorcycle. Which probably isn't a terribly common occurrence. They were all milling about in frantic confusion, with many angry moos and lots of rolling eyes. Not to mention fecal drizzlings. I kept waiting for a addled cow to confusedly lumber into the motorcycle, and thus send us spilling to the earth, wallowing in fear and excrement, awaiting the humiliating death by cow trampling. "So...how did Fish die?" "He got trampled to death...by cows. Seriously. By cows. They just walked on him till he died." Mortifying.

So finally, after several nerve racking moments, we burst forth from the bovine womb, miraculously unscathed. Seriously, it was like 100 yards worth of cow. A great wall of cow. A hamburger fortress. A steak border fence. A barrier of flesh and hooves.

I'll stop now.


Damn you government and your vile conspiracies

I can't fathom why our government makes it so bloody difficult to vote. First of all, registration is a total pain in the arse. How, when living in the day and age in which we do, is it not possible to register to vote online? Having to print off that thing and actually mail it in is the most asinine thing amongst a governmental avalanche of asininity.

Don't get me wrong; I am very grateful to be living in a country that actually proffers me the opportunity to have some sort of say about whom shall be governing me. However, I feel that in this day and age, with the technology available, there is no reason why one should not be able to register online. Lasers exist people. I mean for goodness sakes, every other thing known to man can be accomplished online, even purchasing groceries. I can understand not being able to vote online; that one is obvious. Fraudulent voting would abound. However, merely registering should be made easier than having to actually print and physically mail something.

I can scarcely recall the last time I actually used the US Postal Service to send anything. I believe it was when I incorrectly mailed T-Mobile my mail in rebate, and failed to send in one of the 36 required bar codes. And previous to that, when I was in love with some dumb girl in Hawaii to whom I mailed all manner of sappy letters. All bills I pay online. I'll tell you what it is; it's a damn conspiracy to give the postal service business. Every 4 years they get a quick boost in revenue that carries them over until the next election.

I think a lot more people would be inclined to vote if the registration process was but a bit easier and more convenient. Any person with a slightly indolent nature will probably find themselves procrastinating their voter registration until it is too late. Then, they shant be privileged to cast their ballot for the man least sucky.

Obama or McCain. What a freakin choice.


What next, big mouth billy bass?

I had an interesting thought whilst strolling through Sam's Club in search of hummus. As I was approaching a rather large center aisle display of inflatable haunted castles, and other sundry blow up devices I thought, "With the crashing economy, failing banks, and Wall Street taking a collective dump on American tax payer's chests, who is still buying this stuff?" I mean really. Who can spend 70 dollars on a life size, mechanical Dracula? Sure, it waves. Its eyes may even glow upon one entering a specified proximity. But really, I would have to think that with everything that is happening, the inflatable decoration industry must be reeling. How many more Christmases will pass us by before we never see another inflatable Santa, encased in a glowing, snow filled sphere? How long before inflatable baby Jesus, surrounded by blow up shepherds in an illuminated egg, becomes a mere relic of a prosperous past?

Please Madam Pelosi, hear our cries. We beg of you, oh wise and effective Democratic majority, turn thine ears to our pleas. Dearest President, with thy magic scepter of truth and righteousness; spare the corporations responsible for the creation of our treasured blow up novelties, and suffer not that they fall under a foreign buyer's shadow, or dwindle away in unbelief/bankruptcy.

Trivialization nation

A few things. First, I have heard a few comments from a few women over the last week or so, comparing the horror of a kidney stone to a period. As though menstrual cramps were even on a level with passing a kidney stone. Let me just say that I have never seen my sisters or any other woman, for that matter, rendered absolutely immobile for a couple of hours, writhing, panting, and screaming in pain from period cramps.

I am not a stranger to pain. A few years ago, I fell 10 feet onto a pile of rocks and landed on my wrist, causing my radius to fracture and shift out of line with the scaphoid and the lunate. Translation; I broke my wrist and it hurt like hell. That pain however, was but a drop in the bucket compared to that wretched stone's fateful journey through my ureter.

Now, I am not here to trivialize the period. I mean the blood and gore, the sickness, the Always pads with wings, the cramps...I feel bad about that, I really do. Women sort of got the short end of the stick as far as that goes. All men have to deal with is being horny practically ALWAYS (and the occasional kidney stone.) I am not here to create a big male vs female argument, about whom treads the path most difficult. All I am saying, is don't trivialize the kidney stone. It is not comparable to a period, unless every woman I have ever known has an astronomical pain threshold that I am just not comprehending. Again, my intention is not to open up Pandora's box here. I don't want a million (and by a million, I mean all 15 or 20 that probably read this blog) pist off women ripping into me and calling me insensitive to the female lunar cycle. I just doubt that cramps hurt as much as a stone. That's all I'm saying.


Spoon me, grind me

A new evil has come into my life. An insidious attack upon my pocket book, and very soul.

Spoon Me frozen yogurt.

Seriously, ruining my life. I can't get enough of it. It's located on bulldog blvd. It's like a healthy oasis, floating out amongst of sea full of fatty slop. If an oasis could float, that is. I suppose that was rather nonsensical. Oasis' exist in the desert. Not the sea. Doi. It's the yogurt poisoning, befuddling my mind.

They have 3 flavors; natural, green tea, and acai. The tea flavor taste like the normal, only mixed with dirt. Dirt, as in that sort of earthy taste that strong teas often have. All 3 are delicious to the taste, and won't add much to your gut. At 90 calories per serving, how can one not overindulge?

And therein lies the problem. Overindulgence of the aforementioned deliciousness is a rather costly venture. The smallest size with 3 toppings is a little over 3 dollars. The large, 6+ if you go with acai or green tea. But how can you not? With mango, strawberries, peaches, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple, and a plethora of other toppings, the small size is just a huge disappointment. Just enough to piss off your palate, and leave you desperately unsatisfied.

So, knowing that it is relatively healthy, I can't help but constantly crave it whenever I desire something sweet. Which is ALL the time. 3 times last week I pedaled my pitiful carcass to that place and ordered the largest one. The only downfall; that place is seriously sweet bro nation. Despite the quality music played there (The Shins, The Sounds, Kaiser Chiefs, and all manner of indie rock) Spoon Me is a constant bro fest.

Saturday night there was even a DJ. And possibly one of the worst DJ's I have ever heard. He "spun" from his ipod, with the choppiest, most random song transitions. As much as being surrounded by all manner of collar popping, aeropohollicrombie wearing, fauxhawking, douchebaggery is a rather spine crinkling experience, it makes for some entertaining people watching. Like, observing the bro with the red popped collar and cargo pants grinding his genitals all over the behind of some two bit skank in a mini skirt--priceless. Or the dude with both a pink and purple shirt on, to the end that he might have 2 collars for popping (for emergencies) gettin' his bro on, bumpin' his fitch ensconced crotch all over every platinum blond in sight. Cringes turn to smiles, then to all out laughing, as one wonders how people buy into all of that. To each his own, I suppose.

I would absolutely love to read a blog, written by a bro who was observing me.


Open for business

I have decided to make the members only blog public access. As previously stated, the flavor of the content is a bit different than this blog. I feel like most anything of quality ends up on Fish Hatchery, and the other one is sort of a spillover. So, there you have it. It was private for about a month. Now it isn't. Hooray for you. Or maybe not.


Goodbye winter. (probably not)

I have found that the worst part about working in a restaurant, are the ensuing restaurant night terrors that plague you upon sleeping. It's like work is inescapable. I go to work all day long. I come home, sluice the grill baste smell from my skin, and the sweat stank from my feet, and crawl into bed. I then pass out, and suddenly I'm back at the food hell. It's like it never ends.

The dreams are always supremely frustrating. They generally involve either an unmanageably large section, or I'm serving a table that I forget about for like an hour. Or the people whom I serve are nuts and ask for outrageous things.

Today I returned home from the most useless lunch shift I have ever worked. I decided to take a nap until I was back on at 6. I woke up sweaty (because my comforter is too hot, and my room is not yet the frozen hell that it shall shortly be as soon as this infernal state finishes fast forwarding through fall and plunges us into a premature winter.) Sweaty and pist, because I had just been yelled at by a woman ordering the gargoyle gumbo. She was upset, because I offered her a salad, and she hadn't had enough time to consider whether or not she really even wanted to consider considering a salad. At which point I woke up and groaned. Because even in my dreams, I can't escape work. Because similar scenarios really do occur. Because people who eat in restaurants are ridiculous and expect way more than for what they are actually paying.

Dance monkey, dance.

I also don't make any money at my job. This is apparently the down season. In theory, it really picks up in October, so I guess we're all just hanging in there till then. So for the last two weeks, I have just had the attitude that, "Hey, I'm getting paid to hang out." Only by keeping that idea at the forefront of my thought process, have I been able to not be pist all the time. This is a pretty big step for me. Usually I get really pist off at work when I don't make very much money, or the situation isn't going my way. It is pretty revolutionary that I am keeping a positive attitude throughout all of this. Perhaps Fish is turning over a new leaf, or swimming through a new shoal, if you will. Maybe the long winter of pessimism is finally being dissipated by the warm spring currents of positivity. Tiny green shoots of positive thought are fighting their way to break free of the frozen ground of negativity that so often plagues my life. At least usually it is humorous negativity and pessimism. Either way, perhaps things are going to look up from here (probably not.)

In fact, I made 11 dollars at lunch today, and $20.87 at dinner. And I wasn't even mad. Seriously. Put that in your "Fish is nothing but a whiny pessimist" crack pipe and smoke it.



2:15 Sunday. I sit down on the couch to eat a bowl of Rice Krispies. The ones with the dried strawberries. 2 hours later, I'm lying on the floor outside the bathroom, curled up around a garbage can, sweaty and semi coherent, wondering what the hell just happened.

I can't say that I woke up thinking, "I hope I pass a kidney stone today, to the end that I might truly feel alive through a long bout of nearly unbearable pain. I really just wanna feel alive." I hear that emo kids cut themselves for that reason; to feel validated through the pain. When one feels nothing inside, pain reminds one that they he/she really exists, that life blood isn't futilely pumping through veins numbed by sorrow.

Well, tiny emo kids--you wanna really feel alive? Quit that cutting nonsense and brew up a kidney stone. I'll tell you this; you can't possibly feel more alive than while earnestly wishing for death. Because that minuscule hunk of calcium (or a plethora of other mineral combinations) feels like a tiny little man is wearing ice climbing cleats and playing DDR inside your kidney. And when he didn't get a perfect score, he proceeded to remove his cleats and then stab and bludgeon everyone in sight with said cleats. And by everyone, I mean every visceral organ boxed in between your lowest left rib, down past your belly button, on towards the groinal area, and then left around to the region just above the pelvis. And he's pist for about 2 hours.

In the midst of eating the second bowl of Krispies, I began to feel a sharp pain in my lower back/side region, just above the top of my pelvis. I dismissed it as back pain from spending most of the night crammed on a couch. I realized that I was sorely mistaken about 3 minutes later as I stumbled over to our hideous long/wide child birthing/kidney stone passing couch, pain erupting through my side. Not waves. Not a throb. Just constant, like a knife twisting in my flesh methodically, robotically.

Panic ensued, as I tried to frantically recall in which side dwelt the appendix, that most worthless time bomb of an organ. I called my friend in medical school. He didn't answer. I sent a rather desperate text, "For the love of God, call me," to which he responded rather quickly. He informed me that the aforementioned useless organ was located on the right side. "Oh good," I said (panted,) "I guess it's just a kidney stone (shit.)"

I tried calling both parents, to no avail. I recalled that while passing a kidney stone, the poor forsaken soul will often vomit mightily, due to the intensity of the pain involved. So I got the biggest bowl I could find in the kitchen and then staggered back to the birthing couch, panting in agony.

When one has cramps or an upset stomach, curling up in the fetal position alleviates the pain somewhat.

Not so with a stone.

Every position hurts. I tried the side, curling up, sitting down, hunching over, and all merely exacerbated the pain. Laying on my back with my knees bent was the only position that didn't augment the misery.

I called Andre. He and Jared came over to give me a blessing. When they arrived, my toes were curling in agony. Unfortunately, (for me) passing a kidney stone is a situation rife with comedic opportunity. I mean, it's like an alien is going to burst from your chest. Obviously Jared began cracking jokes, at which point I had to beg him to stop, as laughing caused the pain to multiply.

The pain slowly seemed to move from my side, into a section just above and a hair to the left of my belly button. By this point, Andre had fetched me a small garbage can in which I could empty out the 3 lbs of Rice Krispies that I had previously consumed. As I lay there, toes curling, one hand clawing the couch, the other crinkling a water bottle over and over again, panting and grunting, I could feel my stomach start to lurch. My stomach throbbed, my arms tingled. It seriously felt like a creature was going to claw its way out of my stomach, and then dance a jig on my chest. I could feel the bile begin to climb up my esophagus, and my mouth filled with anticipatory saliva. I panicked, because I knew if I threw up those Rice Krispies, I'd never be able to stomach them again. And dammit I love those things. That, and I had just purchased 5 boxes of them the night before. Plus, the thought of rolling over on my side, augmenting the pain, and retching into a garbage can for the first time in over 14 years was less than a pleasant thought. So I swallowed it back, over and over again, focusing on not letting it escape. Somehow, I succeeded.

Slowly, the pain seemed to move to my lower abdomen, just above the groin. Eventually I sent all who still remained away. There was no point in them further witnessing my pitiful, writhing state. After they left, I decided to attempt to piss the stone out. I hobbled my way into the bathroom and collapsed upon the toilet. I couldn't piss, and the pain only increased in that position, so I drug myself back into the hallway and collapsed on the floor. After 10 or 15 more minutes of increased pain, it finally began to die off, and I passed out for about 20 minutes. And there I awoke, sweaty and alone, except for the garbage can and the many micro creatures living in our filthy carpet.

26 with a kidney stone. Just kill me now.

I started drinking exorbitant amounts of water. About an hour after the episode, I finally had to urinate. I assumed I would piss it right out, and that it would be a rather agonizing experience. I have never been so nervous to let urine begin its cascading journey towards the toilet bowl.

No pain, no stone.

Throughout the rest of the day, and through a lot of Monday, I dwelt in fear of the final passing. Or that perhaps it wasn't done moving through my kidney, and I would have a gut wrenching repeat.

About 4 o'clock, I had to piss. I almost didn't strain it, as it wasn't going to be much. Upon completion, I looked down, and there he was; a tiny, black, newborn baby boy. The blessed seed of my womb, almost carelessly shot into the toilet, never to be noticed or found. How on earth could something so small cause so much pain? I didn't know a human being could be in that much pain, and not be dying. It was one of the most exciting moments of my life, holding that little guy in my hand and knowing that I wasn't just a ticking time bomb, waiting to crumple to the floor at work with another episode.

I don't know who the mother is, but once I find out, I shall avoid her like the plague.