Please pass the incompetence

Once upon a time, I was peacefully sleeping. It was 11:30, so the cock had not yet crowed. Suddenly, I was ripped away from my placid slumber by a harsh pounding at the door. "Dear lord!" I cried. "Have people no sense of decency? Does the man outside, beating his arm to a bloody, pulpy stump not realize that I was in a state of quiescence most serene?" At which point, I realized I was yelling those thoughts out loud, and shaking my fist at the heavens. Abashed, I decided it might be a better idea to actually put on clothing and see who was pounding on my door, as though nobody were sleeping inside. I mean, 11:30 a.m. Have a little decency.

Roommate #1 happened to beat me to the door. He isn't as blind as a beaver with mud ground into its eye, and therefore does not have to fumble about with glasses or contact lenses. My, how I envy him.

Probably my second least favorite person to see upon waking up is a police officer, my least favorite being the fat man soaked in Axe, hovering above me preparing to strangle. He asked roommate #1 if he had the keys to the car in front of the house. Room mate one replied that it was not his car, but his room mate's. I wondered if, peradventure it were my car about which they were conversing. My personal query was soon answered in the form of room mate one turning around, giving me a look of dread, and saying "it's his car."

The officer bade me come and view my newly crinkled car. Might I just precursor with the fact that two of the three times my car has been struck, it has occurred while parked, and both culprits were females. The third time, I was actually in the car, again, hit by a female. I must have been wearing Axe.

Apparently, said brilliant female decided it was wholly unnecessary to check her blind spot before pulling out into traffic on our busy road. Which she quickly realized was a dire mistake, as her car subsequently slammed into the nose of another car, thus sending said vehicle careening into mine.

Dominoes from hell.

So, there I was, ripped from my sleeping nest, groggy and pissed, staring at my crinkled bumper. In horror, I realized that I had not set aside my tithing last night upon returning home from work, and therefore had been smitten by the Lord. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away, apparently. At least my roof rack was OK.

Of course the girl was real sorry. To which I responded, "OK."

The best part about the whole event, was the citation which I was awarded for failing to be able to provide proof of insurance. Why it was necessary for me to provide insurance when my car was murdered, is beyond me. I mean, do the police slap a citation on the wife of the husband who was murdered by a car when she can't provide proof of life insurance? I was incensed. My car had been brutally torn from my bosom by the cruel hand of an incompetent female driver, and that wretched cop had the nerve to cite me. I hope he crashes his stupid Charger into another cop's stupid Charger. A-hole.

I suppose the only solace I have found in the whole event lies in Fungus, an XM radio station that I have discovered in my Hyundai Sonata rental. The Dead Kennedy's, Decendents, Rancid, Guttermouth, Flogging Molly, and Bad Religion, have all sent me reeling back to my high school years. Hearing "Bitchen Camaro" by Dead Milkmen, almost made the accident worth enduring.

Dear female drivers of the world. Next time you hit my car, please do it after noon, as I would prefer to already be awake when said misfortune occurs. Thanks.

Oh so original

I feel like Native Americans are trivialized by being called "Native Americans." Why not give them the respect they deserve and go with "Original Americans?" When I hear the word native, immediate immages of brown people running around in loin cloths with their faces painted invade my mind. I picture the baffeled looks on their furrowed, painted brows as they watch the ships come sailing in. I hear the giant, collective mental "uh oh," as they observe the mysterious white creatures leaving their ships, preparing to wreak havoc with disease and culture.

When I hear the world original, I picture a not-so-helpless brown person, proud and noble, hatching plans to wreak a similar havoc upon the wretched white indruders with syphilis and other like diseases. I see farms burning, settlers running for their lives. I see the government of the United States not taking advantage of poor, ignorant, uneducated fools, but screwing over nation after nation of proud, intelligent Original Americans.

On a similar note, I feel like the Original Americans should really be the only people/race to have the right to a precursor to "American." I think everyone else should simply be an American. I think that unless one has moved to America, and subsequently become naturalized, they should just go with American. One who has come from Mexico, and gained citizenship can be a Mexican American. Or from China, a Chinese or Asian American. If from Africa, an African American. But for goodness sakes, I don't call myself a Polish American, because my ancestors were from there. Why must we distinguish? There are already enough inerently distinguishing characteristics that plague our society without having to add in the most blatant--that of obvious race. I am not a Polish American, nor am I am Mormon American. I am an American, who happens to be a Mormon, and my ancestors were from Poland. If we all want to be equal as Americans, then let us call ourselves as such, and quit distinguishing between white, black, yellow, or red-headed Americans.

Except, of course, the Original Americans. Any sector of people who have among them a group called the "Ho Chunk Nation," can do whatever the hell they want to.

On a scale from 1 to nature, Provo canyon might as well be my back yard

I wonder if there are truly any places in existence where one can completely escape the clutches of humanity. I rode my bike up a mountain yesterday. I have done very little riding during the last three weeks, so I had to stop two or three times before I arrived at the top, in order to spend a few minutes wheezing and trying not to puke. Early season mountain biking always makes me feel like an overweight, arthritic grandmother. I also breathed in some manner of flying creature, which is always an unpleasant ordeal. How in the world, with an entire mountain to fly around on, especially this time of year when the insect population is sparse, does one manage to fly into my mouth? I don't consider my mouth to be overly large. I suppose it is similar to animals getting their lives crushed away on a road. Of all the places a creature could roam, they manage to pick that thin stretch of pavement, and cross at just the wrong time.

Silly animals.

Anyhow, after many such wheezings and near-pukings, bug breathings and muscle fatigue-ings, I arrived almost at Squaw Peak. Such a phenomenally PC name, Squaw Peak. Passing through a stretch of meadow/trees, I felt alone. There was a huge rock off the trail, so I laid down on it and pondered the mysteries of the universe for a while. As I lay there, my heart rate steadily slowing, the desire to puke gradually dissipating, I tried to listen to the nature around me. The rushing wind, blowing through the trees. The occasional creature, meandering through the underbrush, crunching across the dead forest floor.

Thank the lord these little guys are far away from roads.

After a while, my ears picked up on a subtle creaking sound. It was the sound of two dry limbs rubbing together in the wind. I wondered if anyone had ever stopped at precisely that spot on a windy day, and sat there long enough to hear that exact sound. As my ears adjusted even more, I began to pick up other noises.

Distant cars. Planes. Gun shots from a rifle range.

I realize that I was by no means in the deep forest, but is it ever really possible to truly escape? I would postulate that there are very few locations where there is absolutely no plane traffic in the heavens above. Even when hiking to a remote location, one still probably follows a man-made trail. It is almost impossible to be truly alone with our thoughts. There are nearly always man-made distractions somewhere in the vicinity.

I need to disconnect. I need a real hiatus.

Creative Mental Hiatus

I appologize for the sparse posting lately. I also want to precursor this with a disclaimer--I am not typing this on my computer, therefore this is not being spell checked as I go. I lack good spelling skills, ergo this could get a little rough.

I have just been ridiculously busy the last week or so. Let me break it down.
First, I had a committee member for my senior thesis who hated me. This, as my head committee member informed me is "every senior's worse nightmare." So on wednesday morning I defended my thesis. Committee member Dr. A-hole was "deeply troubled" by my paper, and attempted to fail me. Actually, he is not a Dr. Luckily I had Mormon God, Jewish God, and I'm not entirely certain which other God on my side, and was able to squeek through with a B. In other words, I'm going to graduate. I had a few doubts.

I now currently have three jobs, and write for a magazine. This clutterizes my life, and leaves me very little spare time to come up with new words like clutterize.

I started working for Apex alarms this week as a reporter/writer. I wish it were writer/reporter, as I am more accustomed to the former, but hopefully this will be a good opportunity to take my pursuits in a new direction, and provide developemental opportunities that I wouldn't otherwise have. Plus it pays damn good. Anyways, I will be writing a minimum (unless I suck at it and get fired) of 6 articles per week. Which may, ultimately, cut into my every so precious blogging time. I mean, I may actually have to start being responsible.

I still work for Macaroni Grill. I still wish I was dead upon walking through the doors on most nights.

I have submitted one article for Square Mag summer edition, and have another due by wed.

I spent today reminding myself why I have not yet quit college. Also, reminding myself how much I hate manual labor. Not to be confused with Manuel Labor, patron saint of the toiling man. Which brings me to my third job; driving to Nephi, bending over, digging around trees, pulling weeds, driving around a lawn mower that is probably more akin to a tractor than anything, and hating St. Manuel.

Lastly, as if everything else weren't enough, my computer has contracted some form of STD. I live and die by my computer, so this is a highly unfortunate circumstance. I initially bought my computer from a guy who builds them in Nephi. Picture a computer geek version of comic book guy, and you will be spot on. He informed me that switching from Norton to McKfee or however the hell its spelled, is akin to "using a condom with a hole in it." I like him.

All in all, I have sort of been on a creative mental hiatus. Too much going on. Brain no like.

On a completely unrelated note--my downstairs neighbors whom I so dearly adore, are constantly coughing. Like, a sickening, black lung, phlegm-hacking cough that makes my spine crinkle every time I hear it. I can't help but smile inside a tiny bit (amidst the shuddering) and think, "serves those filthy smokers right." Does this mean I am a terrible person? I do not believe that I necessarily feel that way about all smokers. I mostly just dispise these ones, because I hate smelling it, and it directly affects me.

I am semi embarrassed to even post this, due to the extremely journal-esque nature of the whole thing. I have tried to, until this point, wholly avoid allowing my blog to turn into a, "hey, this is what I did today. Neat huh," blog. Not that there is anything wrong with such blogs. I just don't want mine to be one of those. I have a different agenda. Thanks for sticking with me. I swear in my wrath that this is not the ultimate demise and digression of my blog. Once I get through this up and comming week from hell, and school starts again (May 3) and I get a hang of journalism, my blog shall return to it's normal, glorious, mystifying, compelling, prodigious, brilliant, non-narcissistic, and utterly riveting state.

Stay tuned.

My last wish

When I woke up this morning (if one can truly refer to 10:30 as "this morning,") I thought about and decided upon the manner in which I would least like to be murdered.

I don't want ever be choked to death by a fat man in the snow.

First, death by asphyxiation would be unpleasant even in the best of circumstances. The panic, the burning lungs, the slow, agonizing drift into unconsciousness.

Snow, because it would suck to get choked in the snow.

The worst part, however, would be the part about the deed being done by a fat man. Allow me to back track a bit in order to explain why that is.

I awoke this morning to the sound of shaving. I needed to sluice myself off, due to a relatively sweaty night. Last night my room was hot. So what.

The next noise to vibrate my ear drums was the sound of spraying. Dread began to creep up my spine as I anticipated the fate which shortly awaited me in the bathroom.

Finally, after several more shavings, and one final spraying, the destroyer left the bathroom, and ultimately the house. I lay in bed, wallowing in dread for a few final moments, before I grabbed my towel and ventured into the bathroom.

Choking and gagging were my body's first warning signs that I had entered into a deadly situation. My lungs burned as I gasped for clean air. Through stinging, blurry, watery vision I managed to fumble my way into the shower.

An open window and a blazing hot shower were not enough to overpower the Axe body spray, which brings me back to my original point.

The worst part about being choked to death by a fat man, would be the joint choking/asphyxiation caused by Axe body spray.

For whatever reason, I believe the demographic that keeps Axe in business is the fat man. Also the trailer court. But mostly the fat man.

Is there a single female on this God-forsaken planet that finds the scent of Axe in any way appealing? Seriously? Were I a female, or a male for that matter, I would rather snuggle a sweaty, shit covered ox than a man soaked in Axe.

What is that stuff made out of? I was literally choking for 10 min in the shower, because the Axe refused to dissipate. How does the wearer of the Axe not choke all the day long? Who are these cowardly women who are unwilling to tell their boyfriends about the truly revolting nature of Axe? One might as well soak themselves in 409. Or some other frigging chemical spray.

Please, if there be anyone out there within the humble reach of this blog who is currently supporting the Axe body spray industry, please stop now. Spare yourselves any further silent ridicule by those who are forced to be in your presence, or by those who are too blinded by love to tell you that you smell like a chemical fire.

I don't want the last thing that I smell in this world, as my life is being steadily choked away by the fat man, to be Axe body spray. Please...at least spare me that.

No laughing matter

Whilst strolling through the kitchen this morning,
my nostrils were assaulted by a rather horrific funk. This is not a terribly uncommon occurrence, as the destroyer often leaves rotting refuse mouldering about the sink area. For example, the completely moldy orange, mingled with the rest of his not-quite-yet-rotten fruit sitting on the counter. Also, the huge bag of cheese that has been sitting out for 4 days with said fruit.

Stenches are to be expected.

I had supposed that the destroyer's previous delving into the abysmal depths of filthiness could not be topped--or go any deeper, as it were.

Allow me to explain this picture. The first layer of crust is from some form of berry smoothie, as discussed in a previous post. The second, darker material is yet another crust, from a different smoothie. Chocolate, I presume. The third, and final liquid, which is busily soaking in the previous two crustings, is some form of citrus drink. Possibly crystal light. How many layers will there ultimately be, before he finally decides to give it a half-assed scrub?

The cycle never ends.

I am no longer surprised by such findings. I merely laugh, and then try not to vomit while laughing.

(I recommend actually clicking on the photo, as the smaller version does not truly do it justice.)

Please pass the hair foam

I am 87% certain that I made more money than any of the other servers last night because my
hair looked like this.

Fortunately the destroyer had some moose on hand, and I was thus able to achieve this tidy, provocative do. Soft to the eye, yet durable. Shiny, but not waxy.

Hot beefy Mc' D.

I must say that Mc'Donnald's approach has changed over the years. And, for the first time since Super Size me...I actually want to eat there.

If Mc'Donnald's wants to bring back a generation of jaded, fast-food fearing semi-healthy people, they need to go back to the giant puppets and dancing throngs of people.

The fat addicted people...they will continue eating that vile, unhealthy slop regardless of the advertising techniques. But how will they bring back the millions like me who are well aware that eating Mc'Donnald's food is merely a hastening of ones ultimate, overweight demise?

Theatrics, thats how. Give me Alexander and give me death!

Please pass the lard stick

From my perspective, there is only one truly baffling thing about the mobile ice cream industry. It isn't wondering how on earth one pays the bills and affords drugs by selling $1 ice cream snacks from a 1983 ford model rapist. Nor would it be how driving all day long could possibly be profitable when gas is nigh unto 4 bucks a gallon. I am not even perplexed by the high pedophile to kindly-old-retired-grandpa as the local ice cream man ratio.

To me, the most enigmatic quality that the ice cream man possesses would be the apparently universal, innate ability to not be driven suicidal by the blaring tune, "It's a Small World After All." How can one be subjected to that invasive, unrelenting song for multiple hours on end, 7 days a week, and not end up choking someone to death on a nightly basis? Or for that matter, choking one's self to death? Or stabbing out one's eardrums with a leftover Popsicle stick? The latter which, I might add, would be wholly ineffective, due to the pervasive and ingraining nature of that wretched, nauseating tune.

Perhaps the answer lies in the completely rewarding nature of the job. I mean, American children are certainly not getting enough sweets at home. Thank heavens there is someone out there willing to deliver frozen fatty delights right to these poor, emaciated children's doors. Also, the ice cream man helps children exercise, by inducing them to sprint out the door, away from their Nintendos, all the way out to the street.

Lastly, the ice cream man brings global awareness. As the fat little child consumes his tasty treat, he is reminded that hey, it really is a small world after all. He doubly enjoys his frozen prize knowing that, as each delicious, sugary, lard-filled globule slides down his throat, he is truly blessed. There are certainly starving children in Africa, or Afghanistan who shall never enjoy the bountiful harvest offered by the ice cream man. It is then, that our little over-weight 9 year old vows to make a difference in the world...right after he finishes beating the boss.

Thank you, Mr. Ice Cream Man. Keep up the good work.

(I previously had a picture posted, which I subsequently deleted. I found that I lost all desire to read my own post when I looked at it.)

Welcom back, long lost friend.

So. Due the the possibility of shady activities going on in our basement, room mate #1 and I visited the Provo police station yesterday. We just wanted a bit of info on what exactly it smells like when people are cookin crack.

I guess it isn't crack.

Essentially all we accomplished was to waste about an hour and a half waiting for a chubby cop to pedal his bike from Zeus knows where, in order to tell us "hey, they are probably not cookin crack."

An interesting thing occurred while we were waiting for our portly bearer of useless news to arrive. First, into the office walks a man in his 50's. Dad jeans, hiking boots, leatherman and cell phone at ready on belt, plaid-ish button up dad shirt, tucked in. He marched purposefully to the front and counter and asked, "Where do I go for the Citizens Academy?"

After he disappeared behind the impregnable door which could only be opened with a swipe card or by the kind lady-cop behind the counter, other would be vigilantes began to trickle in. I was surprised by the diversity of the people coming in, as I expected most of them would be middle-aged-pocket-knife-wielding-flannel-donning-ultra-conservative Republicans. There were obese old women, nerdish BYU-esque skinny guys, an attractive young female, and of course the 30 year old douche with the crew-cut and self-important air, his demeanor revealing his inner ache for purpose.

One of the last, was another flannel bearer with a pocket knife. The gate keeper bade him enter. He stood at the door, staring at it for about 30 seconds, waiting for it to magically open. Apparently the light morphing from red to green, and the simultaneous "click" were not enough to cue Dr. Flannel to open the door. I kinda timidly tossed out, "umm...I think it's open...uh...you just need to..." At which point I sort of faded off, having realized that he was completely ignoring me, and was more intent upon awaiting the opening of the door.

Please give this guy a can of mace and turn him loose upon the neighborhood.

I can just see the recruiting poster:
"Tired of local crime? Want to possess nun-chuck pepper spray skills? Join me, Dwight Shrute, and the Citizens Academy Justice League of Vigilante Justice of America, where we shall wash away evil, one can of mace at a time."

The second, and more important thing of note occurred due to hunger/intense boredom. I approached the candy machine with no intent on making a purchase, but merely to lust after the double-barrel beef log and the Skittles. Suddenly, a 15 year search I have been randomly conducting came to a glorious end. I finally found them; Pizzaria's.

Does anyone remember this blessed chip? I have sought them in every grocery store's chip aisle, and never to any avail.

As I stood there in resplendent shock, I was immediately transported back to Mikey Engberg's house when I was 10. There was a big bag of Pizzaria's on the table. My mother never bought them because they were expensive. Mikey always had them. He was conquering the elven world of Warcraft II. Amidst the orcish battle cries, he was too enthralled by the bloody mayhem to notice the crinkling of the bag, and the quiet, stealthy crunching coming from the kitchen.

I loved those chips.

My hands trembled as I tore open the bag. The sweet, cheezy pizza....ish scent greeted my nostrils like a long lost lover. As I bit into the first chip, my world was complete. They tasted exactly as I had remembered.

Unfortunately, I could still taste them when I woke up the next morning, ultimately deciding me against any future indulgence in said chip.