36 hours in the life of Fish

Some times I wake up by 7 am. Not often, mind you, but sometimes. This really only occurs for one of two reasons--A. Because I just experienced the most wretched night of my life, and awoke in the pre-dawn writhing in a miasma of misery, sweat, crustyness and stuffyness, never previously heretofore experienced. And B...well I suppose there really isn't a letter B. I don't ever get up by seven.

So on this rare occasion which I have found myself awake at this ungodly hour, I find myself pondering upon the last 36 hours of my existence.

They have been an interesting 36 hours.

Lets go ahead and start with about 6:20 pm on Thursday night. Did I arise that day thinking to myself, "I certainly cannot wait to stand up in front of 20 people and talk about techniques for overcoming particular sexual dysfunctions tonight." Let me say this--try standing in front of a class and talking about ways to overcome orgasmic and erectile dysfunction by such techniques as "The Squeeze," or "The Pause," or "The Tease." Put that in your crack pipe and smoke it without laughing. How about masturbatory satiation? Just try saying that word. I do not believe that I have ever uttered the word "masturbation" more times in one fifteen minute period.

After that enjoyable lecture, I decided that It was probably time to hit up Wal-Mart and purchase a new toilet seat.

I am sick of sitting on the one that we have and nearly being dumped off the side of it, as one half of the seat is not connected to the pot, and therefore when one sits down in a rush and slightly off balance, wham! Let's just say that ending up on the floor wedged between the toilet and the wall with one's pants around the ankles is not the most dignifying experience.

So I wander through the great whore of the earth until I find what I am seeking--an $8 padded toilet seat. Also a jug of orange juice, 3 bags of frozen broccoli, and a Stouffer's frozen skillet meal for $3.98. A random purchase at best.

I arrive at my lair, dually excited to eat said frozen skillet and perform what I assumed would be an easy toilet seat installation.

Had I conceived of the hell which I was about to experience installing said toilet seat, I think I would have stuck with the demeaning broken-seat accidents.

I found a screwdriver. I pried open the piss-crusted nubs which housed the toilet screws. As I began unscrewing them, I quickly realized that this was having no effect. I grew frustrated. I began attempting to rip the toilet seat off, to no avail. The seat seemed to mock me with its belligerence, seductively whispering, "you'll never get me off. I've been ensconced here for years. You're not the first one to try, nor shall you be the last. Asshole."

Not one to be bested by a toilet, especially one which was verbally mocking me, I put all of my considerable might and power behind one, triumphant, wrenching twist. Off popped the seat, and the toilet and I stared at each other in silence, the only sounds permeating the air being my ragged, shallow breaths.

Those frigging screws were still stuck in there.

In righteous indignation, I grabbed my Leatherman and proceeded to savagely rip the plastic nub off, which consequentially caused the plastic screw to also break. As I saw it fall to the floor, I realized that there was something that the screw actually went into beneath the toilet seat. For whatever reason, the remaining screw was metal, and being completely rusted, I could not simply hold the washer on the underneath side and unscrew it. So there I squat, awkwardly attempting to hold the washer with the leatherman, and unscrew that horrible, uncompromising screw. Meanwhile, the smell of stale piss was about to knock me over. I decided that if I were to be able to complete the job without puking/killing myself, I would need to clean the toilet. So I did. Long story short, I had to get someone to help unscrew it as I got real cozy with the toilet and tried to grip the washer underneath with all of my, what turned out to be, inconsiderable might. Installing the new one was almost equally as difficult, as the screw was about 4 inches long, and had to be screwed in with a screwdriver. I ended up with a crinkled spine, but one damn fine toilet seat.

After my lengthy, and hard fought triumph, I desired to eat my skillet. The toilet adventure was made even more annoying by the fact that I am sick.

So I cooked up the skillet and headed into the TV area and proceeded to watch 3 hours of the top 100 songs from the 80's. You know how that is, each hour they do twenty, and each hour you find yourself really really needing to know who is number one.

I found out two things. First, Bon Jovi "Livin on a Prayer," was apparently the #1 song from the 80's as voted by the good people of the United States. And second, I hate the 1987 Bon Jovi just as much as I hate 2008 Bon Jovi. Which is quite a bit.

Also, I find girls in the 80's to have been strikingly attractive. Weird.

After that, I went to bed. The night was long, sweaty, and miserable. Anytime I was half asleep, suddenly my nose would pick that particular moment to drizzle, thus causing me to wildly reach over and grab a tissue before said drizzlings deluged my pillow. This would inevitably awaken me fully, and there I would have to lay for many more minutes, attempting to re-relax and again attain sweet slumberings.

I had to get up for a 9:30 meeting. Upon awakening, I felt like I had been kicked in the head by a gorilla. My nose was plugged to the max, and I believe due to the Nyquil binge the night before, my brain was foggy and semi-functional. In this anything but lucid state, I found myself driving down University with a jug of orange-juice nestled between my crotch and my legs. As I neared somewhere around the half way point, unthinking I picked up the jug and gave it a good hearty shake. I do that when my orange juice rests for a moment, thus agitating the sediments from the bottom of the jug. And, in my not-s0-coherent state, I happened to shake it without the lid on, thus sending Orange Juice erupting all over the side of my car/pants/crotch. The little door handle thingy had two inches of orange juice in it. Needless to say, my first profanity of the day gently slithered its way out of my mouth.

Pointless meeting, waste of my energy.

After that, on to school, covered in orange juice. Just great.

In class we were shown pictures of these previously uncontacted natives (way to go government) from the Amazon forest. Seriously, these people have never had any contact with any from of civilized society and the first thing they see is a bloody HELICOPTER. What on earth was running through their heads at that very moment? "See Steve, I told you there was probably more out there than bugs and coconuts. How might we acquire this flying technology?" "Hold on Bill. Don't get ahead of yourself. Maybe we should start with some form of incandescent bulb, made of a hard yet clear material, that thereby we may give artificial light to our homes. Maybe something we can attach to a bow."

Seriously. Un-freaking-real.

The other compelling piece of photography to which I was exposed was that of an elephant lynching. Apparently in 1914ish some moronic elephant trainer thought it would be a great idea to get between Mary (the accused) and the wall (the accomplice.) Crunch. Dead. So what do we do in the south when something is misunderstood and a white man is killed? Why, we have ourselves a lynching, obviously. Apparently they lacked bullets large enough to penetrate an elephants skull, and decided that the solution would be to lynch poor Mary from a crane. And so, after a wonderfully fulfilling life as a circus creature, Mary's tragic end came at the end of a crane. And so it goes.

After all of the pictorial excitement, I was ready for a wee nap. Upon awaking I went to eat at the Bombay Grill on State. It is located right next to Zurchers. I hate that bloody store. The clown creeps me out, and the name drives me nuts.

So we ordered this sticky rice and peanut sauce. Holy delicious.

As I was rolling my little ball of sticky rice, I couldn't help but think about how much it resembled a little bundle of ant eggs. Which got me off on the weird mental tangent...I sorta wish humans laid eggs. I mean, wouldn't it be great if a woman would just lay and egg, and then roost upon it for like a few hours a day to keep in incubated? I can just picture a woman in a moo-moo taking her egg to the office and sitting atop it while typing up the monthly reports. Am I weird?

So at the end of the meal, after an hour of sheer neglect, we flag our pitiful server down and ask for boxes. When she brings them out, she also leaves an extra little treasure on our table--a chewed up broken tooth pick from another table. Sick.

After that, we went to Sub Zero to get some ice cream. For those of you unaware, you tell them the flavor, fat content, and additions, at which point they pour liquid hydrogen or something into the bowl and mix it up. So one of two girls actually doing the wizardry was making sure she had a pleasant and engaging conversation with each customer. Highly annoying. Especially when the place is packed, and it takes long enough as is. Am I a jerk? No. But I don't necessarily need to have a discussion about how frozen gummy bears might explode, sending freezing bits of gummy shrapnel careening into one's eyes. Nor about how maybe we should use frozen gummy bears in warfare, instead of conventional weapons. Listen girl, just bite your tongue, do your witchcraft, and let me be on my fat merry way.

Which basically brought me to last night, worst of my life. I probably slept three hours amidst bizarre dreams, sweating, and sniveling. Which brought me to 7 am, the beginning of this post, followed by a two hour meeting at the Macaroni Grill where I won 30 bucks in a drawing, to this very moment, where I shall be wrapping up at least the second longest post I have ever published.

Thanks for hanging in there for 36 hours in the life of Fish. I probably love you.

Observations

T-Mobile just earned my burning, fiery hatred in one fell swoop. I received a notification from them that my $50 dollar mail in rebate was rejected due to missing requirements. The missing requirements to which Mr. Mobile was referring was a bar code panel from the side of my box. The paper with said requirements states that the SKU sticker panel must be cut from the side of the box and sent. There are about 8 different bar codes on the side of the box, and one which was labeled "SKU." I erroneously presumed that they wanted solely the bar code labeled "SKU," and therefore cut out only that one, and sent it off to the corporate rebate gods.

OK. So I am one of those (and I presume there are plenty) morons who doesn't read all of the fine print, and then gets pissed when he gets screwed because of it. Here is my observation--amongst all of the fine print, there is a part at the very bottom which states, "white sticker with all bar codes required." At the top where the three required items are listed, it says "SKU sticker panel cut from the side of the box." Does that not appear to be a blatant attempt to trick people? Why, for the love of Zeus, could they not insert "with all bar codes" in between "panel" and "cut?" Because they know there will be people who won't read all the fine print. Yes, it is my own damn fault for not reading everything. But boo to T-Mobile for being sneaksy little hobbitses.

As I was pedaling away from the Provo Towne Center, I passed a triad of people who seemed to be having a rather intense conversation. As I pedaled towards them, I thought to myself, "Well they don't appear to be particularly intelligent." My thought was crystallized as, upon passing, I heard one woman say, "It was a total fiaskle!" in a very exasperated tone. I chuckled my way through the rest of the parking lot. I suppose that one falls right in there with "supposably," and "irregardless." Don't do that.

Which brings me to my third observance. I mean, the pedaling. As I was returning home from about two and a half hours of pedaling about Provo, I passed through the 7-11 parking lot. I had finally maneuvered my way through the abnormal amount of cars milling about the gas pumps, and was on my way back into the street when I see a mini-van pulling out behind me onto the road. As we are parallel, I hear a kid yell, "faggot!" The mini-van quickly sped away, as though the "faggot" in the ridiculously small shorts was going to pedal after them and kick some ass. Here's the deal. I could care less about being called a homosexual, and I was completely un-offended. Yeah, my shorts were short. I may have even been riding with a man bag. But who is this mini-van crusading mom who sits idly by while her prepubescent son calls someone a faggot out the window? The cowardly woman merely sped away, and her little bigot son was likely applauded with silence. Hey mini-van mom--if your kid called some one a spic or a nigger out the window, would you have sped off then? What is the difference? Hooray for Utah County intolerance and the parental perpetuation of said intolerance.

Oh, If I could only see how many people got pissed and mocked me as they read, "I could care less." Please let me know if you did. And for those of you who thought nothing of it...please stop saying it. You couldn't care less. If you could, you wouldn't be putting it in that context now would you?

Yo soy apx

Once again, I have an article published in Square. This one is a bit larger and much more enthralling than the first, I must say. For those of you not living in the warm and cozy confines of Utah County, the article can be found here. I submitted two articles for it, and to be perfectly honest I thought one of them kinda sucked. It didn't make the issue, thus proving my assumptions correct. That or someone simply submitted something better.

I suppose whilst on the subject of writing, I might as well add that I currently have a summer dream job. I was hired on a while back as a writer/reporter for Apx Alarms. It started out as me, aspiring writer, being paid $50 for writing 400-800 word creative reporting pieces about various sales managers and reps. It has now evolved into me being a reporter/quasi-writer but mostly just reporter. Which I am more than OK with, due to the absolutely redundant nature of the material about which I am required to write. So I pretty much just work outta the home.

Even though most people think of Apx as the root of all evil, I love them for this phenomenal opportunity which they have bestowed upon me. I also love Bear Naked granola, and Bolthouse Farms fruit drink.
I pretty much write about these guys.

Music is my what?

Even though the song of the day blog goes largely neglected, I am going to try to be more consistent about posting on it. Perhaps its new, edgier name shall gain it more attention. Actually it will probably be detrimental. Oh well.

Thanks for jiggling to help our bellies jiggle

Are there any people on the planet earth who appear to be more miserable and dejected than those who hold signs out in front of businesses, proclaiming stellar deals? Because if so, I have yet to encounter them. If anyone is not sure to what I am referring, just drive by a Little Caesars Pizza and look for the hopeless soul holding the sign that states the extremely well known fact that the $5 pizza is the only thing worth purchasing at that wretched establishment. Their current sign is fashioned in the shape of a guitar. I have driven by that place a couple times during the last few days on the way to school or Joe's house/R.V. and it has been the same guy out there holding it both times. There he stands, alone on the corner, a look of complete boredom/what-has-my-life-come-to? painted across his face, giving little half-hearted shakes to the sign. The quivering advertisement seems to mock him with each shallow joggle, as his efforts do not quite match the flamboyant tone of said sign.

These poor sign holders seem to generally fall into a similar profile--that of those kids you used to see at school who were awkward and appeared to be somewhat friendless. Friendless, that is, until they meet the guys that gather nightly in the Provo park and dress up like Medieval warriors and participate in epic mock-battles until the wee hours of the night. All in all, they usually seem to have an awkward air about them. But I suppose that could stem from the completely awkward and unrewarding nature of the job itself. Even a sweet bro would have a difficult time looking cool, chill, or sweet while participating in such a demeaning task. Unless he took off his shirt.

I guess the thing that I find most curious about the whole sign jiggling phenomenon, is the fact that there are people willing to do it for 5-7 bucks an hour. Let me add that not all sign jigglers make such pitiful wages. I have a dear friend who jiggled for a mortgage company and they paid her like 60 bucks on Saturdays to go stand on a corner for 4 hours, shaking away. Not bad for working the corner.

But there is no possible way on the planet that Little Caesar's sign shakers are making more than $7 in Utah Country. Anyhow, I admire their efforts at finding meaningful work. I mean, how else are we fat Americans going to know that we can purchase 2300 calories and 90 grams of fat, packed into one, delicious, cheezy, saucy delight, all for $5? I dare you to find more calories for less money, without simply eating a stick of butter.

Little Caesar's is pure, cheap, caloric bliss.

Sleeves are for sissies and church goers

How come every time I see a guy driving a Camaro circa 1990's, his hair is slicked back and he has no sleeves? Seriously, these guys are all alike. They are sporting the L.A. Looks Megahold slick back, probably a diamond earing (presumably fake) or a couple of big, thick stainless steel loops. And God forbid they wear a shirt with sleeves. I don't believe that the sleeveless shirt is merely an arbitrary decision; I think that upon purchasing a 90's Camaro, one must provide proof of ownership of at least 3 or 4 sleeveless relics. An old WWF tee would be splendid. One might even acquire a discount on said automobile if such a tee were worn during purchasing agreements.

Lets not forget the oval Oakley's.

It was interesting, as I was en route to Nephi on Saturday in order to fulfill my weekly manual labor detail, a legend in a Camaro blazed past me. Albeit a convertible, the man's hair was stiff and unwavering. One could almost hear the wind whistle as it rushed through his rows of crusty, slicked back follicles. As he drove by I thought out loud, "Well look at that."

As I pulled into Nephi 3 minutes later, I was more than pleased to see he had pulled into the neighborhood adjacent to mine.

Camaro, slick hair, no sleeves. So very Nephi-esque. We probably graduated together.

Please pass the demolition crew

Am I the only person in this wretched valley, let alone the planet that thinks the Y on the mountain is a big, stinking eyesore? Are there more people who would like to look at one of the most beautiful mountain ranges in the west, and not have to see a ginormous man made chunk of glaring white cement in the form of the second to last letter in the alphabet? Seriously, if I am the only one who is annoyed, somebody tell me. And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that it is BYU, or that I attend UVU. I couldn't care less what exactly is up there, only that there is something up there.

The huge "G" on the mountain irks me even more. I love Mt. Timpanogos, I think it is an absolutely stunning mountain. And probably one of the most beautiful mountains in a metropolitan area, if Utah Country can truly be referred to as such. Cruising on the freeway, one can not help but admire the sheer, rugged beauty of said mountain...until one's eyes drag across the festering man made boil heralding Pleasant Grove's superiority for all to see.

Way to go Pleasant Grove. One more reason I hate that town. The first being that it always smells like rotting death/feces whenever I drive by the freeway exit.

Anyways, I think that giant mountain letters should be banned, and those already in existence should be destroyed. Why should anybody have to look at them? Why mar the unique mountain beauty with man made eyesores?

How to destroy your credit score quickly and efficiently

I have had two extraordinarily unfortunate wake up calls during the last month. The first, being the a-hole cop who pounded on my door at 11:30 on a Saturday morning, told me my car got hit whilst parked, and subsequently gave me a citation.

Number two happened today. I maybe applied for a small loan over the internets. No, that was not a typo, I meant to say internets. This morning, instead of Elliot Smith gently nudging me from my slumber with the sweet melody "Say Yes," Radiohead hit me with the Karma Police. Which means I got a phone call. It was a kindly loan officer. She informed me that I would not be approved due to bad credit. Perplexed, I asked how that was possible, as I have a good credit score. Or at least did 6 months ago. She told me that I had a delinquent balance on a Bank of America credit card in the sum of 130 dollars. I sat there for a moment in silence, raking my mind for any memory of a credit card transaction.

As far as I knew, I didn't even own a Bank of America credit card. So I frigging called them.

After 10 unbelievably frustrating minutes of talking to a machine and getting nowhere, I finally had to say that I was interested in opening up an account in order to talk to someone with flesh and ear drums. By this point I was pretty pissed. I explained my dilemma, and he informed me that I did indeed have a delinquent balance. I asked what in the hell from. He informed me that I had made a 45 dollar credit card purchase at Urban Outfitters in November.

With a sickening sense of dread, it all came rushing back.

I bought a $100 dollar coat. I had an old B of A checking account with $50 still in it, and I wanted to clear it out. Apparently I foolishly assumed that the card used was a debit card, as I did not recall ever applying for a credit card. Coat purchased, I went on my merry way, without ever giving it a second thought.

As my Bank of America mail all still goes to North Carolina, I never received any delinquent notices. This was basically a ticking time bomb on my credit. Actually more like a blood sucking leech. A huge, vile, blood sucking leech that attaches itself to your nether regions and you never know it is there until one day you think, hmm. I have quality blood. I should go donate it. You saunter into the blood bank, ready to save humanity. "Gee sir. I'm sorry, we can't accept your blood. You have that filthy leech there, sucking away and you don't have enough blood to give. Also, you owe us 130 bucks. Pay or die."

I am just glad I randomly applied for a loan, as the leech would have likely grown to lethal proportions, and completely flushed my credit score down the toilet to China. I don't know how I would have ever found out.

I guess what It all boils down to is I bough a coat which ended up costing me $230 and over 100 points on my credit score. That is one expensive damn coat.


It's not even that cool.

Summer night abnormal psychology class

makes me want to die. Possibly abnormally.

Frozen bags of loneliness

I've made a few fascinating observations during the last couple of days. Well, let me preface this by saying that I have recently found comfort and solace in the online dating scene. Not by actually participating in the scene, mind you, but in the fact that the online dating stigma seems to be fading away like I hope to God Nickelback will soon fade away. Only, I hope Nickelback's demise is one that involves a great deal of screaming and plane crashing. What once was considered an utterly ludicrous and shameful way to meet people, is now blossoming into a ripe orchard, prime for picking. Now, I only say this gives me comfort due to the fact that, if I can't find a female the conventional way over the next few years, I'll at least have another option that is not completely taboo.

Two things made me arrive at this conclusion. First, on Sunday I was browsing Craigslist in San Diego, looking for housing to sort of get a grasp on what it would cost one to live there. Also, checking for restaurant openings. Just curious. On the left column of the page, I noticed that there were personal classified adds. Wondering what sort of creepers I would find soliciting themselves on Craigslist personals, I dove in. As I began browsing the various mid to late twenties, I expected to encounter all manner of mutants and undesirables. I was pretty shocked, to say the least. There was no shortage of seemingly normal, attractive females. Sure, there were your anticipated creatures and gorilla biters, but I would venture to say that it was probably a 50/50 ratio. And it was all so casual. Nobody was saying..."Geez. I can't believe it has finally come to this. Online man shopping. Please don't call me if you're a rapist with a mustache. Or just a normal guy with a mustache."

My second reinforcement came during the brief minutes before my race and minority relations class started. While setting up my laptop, I overheard a small piece of a conversation. Says one girl to another, "So what did you do this weekend?" Female two replied, "I went on a date on Saturday." Said the first, "Oh, who was it?" Female two, as casually as a sweet bro picking up on a swollen chested hottie replied, "Oh just some guy I met on LDS linkup."

Out popped my blackberry; quote archived.

She may as well have said, "I went to Wal-Mart and bought a bag of frozen chicken." So matter of fact, as though there was nothing socially deviant about hooking up with a guy from LDS linkup.

So I guess what I am getting at here, is that if I continue on in my course of unsuccessful conventional dating, I may have a future in the online game. All I have to do is find a good shirtless picture (I have at least one from two years ago when I was in shape) and suck in my gut during the first date (I assume I'll have a gut by the time I resort to internet courtship.) Then, all I have to do is win her over with my charms and wit, thus blinding her to the fact that I am chubby.

My loneliness shall have an end.I am probably going to catch a lot of flack for this picture. Deservedly so.

Ode to the best woman alive

My mother is one of those people for whom it is very difficult to buy gifts. Mostly, because if there is something she needs or wants, she gets it. I think store bought cards are lame. They require no thought, beyond the last min..."uh oh. Birthday, or Mothers day, or Martin Luther King Jr. Day...I gotta get a card...or something." Anyhow, I was trying to think of the most meaningful thing I could do for my mother, the thing which she would most appreciate. This may sound stupid, but I think publicly recognizing her for the stellar mom that she is on my blog is probably the best thing that I can do. So. I have the best mom ever. Sorry to the rest of planet earth, but mine happens to be the best. I am sure there are certainly some close contenders, but...yeah. So I decided to write a poem real quick, as part of my mothers day treat. I'll be the first to admit that my poetry skills are elementary at best. So I guess what I am saying is don't judge my poetry skills. This isn't for you anyways. Unless you are my mom. And she would love it even if it sucked. Because she is the best. (So that this makes sense to people ignorant of my life-I was adopted. Birth father-college music teacher. Birth mother, student. Wahbam! Me. Born. Bought. Here I am today.)

Twenty-sixish years ago,
In a magical far away land,
A woman hesitantly approached her man
and took him by the hand.

I think we've got a problem dear,
I hope your not too pissed,
I think you might just curse the first time
that we ever kissed.

You may have noticed I've grown fatter,
well thats not entirely true...
I think that there's a baby in here,
and the father...well...he's you.

Damnation woman! What are you saying?
That I'm potent after all?
What to do? I'm terribly screwed,
This babe shall be my downfall.

I guess this means we have to get hitched,
I guess this means you're mine,
I'll make arrangements with the state,
We'll be married for all time.

Sorry sir, that will not work,
I'm a Mormon in case you forgot.
Marry a guy lacking a belief in God,
I most very certainly shall not.

Fine then woman, what to do?
We have an accident to fix you know,
Should we keep it and trade it off,
taking turns watching it grow?

Don't be absurd you foolish man,
He shant be passed to and fro,
I'm going to give him to someone else,
Who'll give him a stable home.

Little did they know another woman
In another far away land,
Not so hesitantly approached her man
And took him by the hand

Listen here my darling man,
I'm sick of having no kid,
I want a child to nurture and love,
I want to watch one grow big.

Don't get me wrong, your company is great
It's just that I'm ready for more,
I'm ready to finally pay the cash,
For a child whom I'll adore.

Nine months passed quite quickly,
The other woman found her self in a room,
Surrounded by doctors and nurses,
Helping me erupt forth from the womb.

Sad she was to let me go,
But she knew I wasn't her own,
The other woman had waited so long,
to finally have a child to take home.

Finally the woman had the child
She had so desperately waited for,
She gave him unconditional love,
He could never have asked for more.

Many times I tried her patience
yet she only loved me more,
she is certainly the greatest mom,
I could have ever asked for.

To this day I couldn't give enough thanks,
to the woman who gave me away,
for sending me to the perfect mom,
I hope to thank her someday.

Happy mothers day mom. You are the best.

When penguins die the indebted cry

I had a funny, yet frightening conversation with a dear friend yesterday. We went to a yogurt establishment. Yoasis, I think it's called. As far as I'm concerned, I paid an exorbitant amount of money for what tasted exactly like frozen vanilla Yoplait. And then a dollar for a bite of mango. Yes, it was tasty. No, it was not worth the cash. Anyways, the topic of politics inevitably reared its greezy head. I asked for whom she was planning to cast her vote. She proclaimed that under no certain terms would she vote for Hillery. I asked if she were going to vote for Obama, to which she replied with a maybe. I also asked if she knew a single thing about him beyond his baseless "change" rhetoric. Of course she, like most of the rest of America, did not. After explaining a few of my thoughts about said candidate, she said, "Well, are you gonna vote for McCain?" I replied that I might, as I feel like he is, to an extent, the less of three evils. The other two being socialistic evils.

I strongly disagree with socialism, for the most part. Do I love McCain? Hell no. But I hate him the least. That, however, is not the point of this post. The point of this, was her immediate response. "But...I heard that McCain is like...really terrible." To which I said "OK, pause right there. Listen to exactly what you just said. 'But I heard that McCain is like...really terrible.' You are going to completely base for whom you vote on 'heard McCain is terrible.'"

This, I believe, will be the way most of America votes. "I hate Obama, I heard he sucks." "I'll never vote for Hillary, people say she is evil." "McCain is just another Bush. Thats what my bff said." Damnation people! (There it is, I have been caused to use an exclamation point, which I think is the most stupid, incorrectly and ubiquitously used piece of punctuation in our language. Few sentences truly necessitate an exclamation point.) Don't let opinions you have HEARD cast your vote. Look at their policies! Listen to what they say, or more importantly what they are NOT saying!! OK!

This is scary to me. I suppose that uninformed voters elect most of our presidents. I feel this is one of the most direly important elections of our time. There is the conundrum of a horrifying war to be solved. The economy is beginning to spin out of control like a dizzy penguin slipping off the side of an iceberg into the open mouth of a greedy Orca. On an energy level our country has become a cheap Saudi whore, willing to do anything for the next oil hit. $3.55 a gallon. Eff that. There are supreme court justices to be chosen--do you want liberals or conservatives interpreting our constitution? Some candidates want to socialize our health care--others simply don't give a damn.

Figure it out. This is not one that we can ignorantly vote upon. Get informed. Visit their websites. Read their policies. Listen to different sources of opinion about the candidates. Quit overly using exclamation points. You are not doing good. You are doing well. "We was" is never correct. "I seen" is never OK.

I love you.

You want to stick that where?

I rode my bicycle with the ever flattening back tire to the magical land where people pay for sundry traffic violations. Fortunately, there is a plasma clinic en route to said magical facilities. It always warms my heart to see people stumbling out of there--mainly college students--thirty bucks in their pockets, and happy as beavers on a newly built damn. They look like heroine addicts, with their arms all taped up concealing the gaping needle wounds perforating their elbow nooks. As I am not exactly aware of the proper medical term for that bendy section between the upper forearm and lower bicep, I shall stick with the elbow nook. I feel like one of the last areas where I want some quasi-nurse shoving a needle the size of a pencil is the tender tract of flesh known as elbow nook. Known as by me, that is. And now you.

I have a rather irrational fear of needles. I am not certain from whence this stems. All I know is, I spent many a childhood clinical visit screaming and thrashing about on the butcher paper whilst some unlucky doctor, and several unfortunate nurses attempted to hold me down, whilst said torturer stabbed a needle into my leg or arm. At which point I would continue screaming and thrashing until one of the abusers would inform me that the puncturing had taken place probably a minute before, and I was indeed going to live. This was my strategy, you see. Scream and thrash and raise hell to the point where I would be unaware of the pointy object entering my flesh, injecting the life saving serum. I was a wise, cowardly child.

I continue to be a wise, cowardly man. Now, rather than thrashing about to avoid feeling the pointy affliction, I wisely evade selling my body all together. Also booster shots. I am probably due for any number of diseases due to my complete shot evasion. I was supposed to get a TB test 5 years ago upon returning home from Argentina. I should probably take care of that.

I had a point to all of this. As I was merrily pedaling along, I saw a man of a disparate sort stumbling out of the clinic. He had the tell-tale elbow wrapping, labeling him as a lifesaver. He was not your typical plasma donor--BYU apparel, 18-24 male, earning date/marital prospect money. This guy was probably in his 40's or 50's, and he had a questionable look about him. Maybe that was just judgmental me, rearing my ugly judgmental head. But he looked shady. As we stood there, awaiting the miniature white man in the box to beckon us across the street, he whipped out a cigarette. He took a few puffs, at which point several of the nastiest, most phlegm filled coughs I have ever witnessed erupted from his chest and crinkled my spine. I shuddered, imagining that, in one form or another, some unfortunate human being was going to get this guys plasma pumped into their system.

From the BioLife website: "To donate plasma, you must be a healthy individual at least 18 years of age or older, weigh at least 110 pounds, and pass all other required donor eligibility criteria. Following a well-balanced diet and drinking plenty of water before donating is also recommended."

What are the criteria? That one must not actually cough up the entire lung while donating? That as long as one is not pissing mostly blood, their plasma is good to go? Can one count ingested phlegm as part of a well-balanced diet?

I guess I just thought they'd be a bit more selective. Maybe I really should start donating. Although, lacking that TB test and eating 30 quesadillas a week, I may not meet the proper criteria.

To much educations

I think we, as Americans, need to stop complaining about the illegal immigration problem and start pro actively fixing the it. This is a self inflicted conundrum, you see. Allow me to elaborate.

The reason why such an absurd amount of people crawl, swim, and sneak their way into this country is because there is an over-abundance of work.

What? How can this be? We are in an economic slump, for goodness sakes. Unemployment is up. How can one claim that there are ubiquitous employment opportunities in this country, enough so that hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants are employed every year? Because they are doing the jobs that nobody else desires to do. This, however is not a new argument. The true source of the problem-- the rotting, putrescent root, has been misidentified.

Parents are the problem. The school system is the problem. Here's why.

All throughout a child's young life, he or she generally grows up grossly misinformed. Children are told that they are smart, that they can do or be anything. This is a devious fabrication on multiple levels. What happens when the young creature surprises his or her parents with the announcement that, "hey, I wanna work at the Jiffy Lube and change oil as my future career." Or, "I've decided that being a beet farmer is a logical career choice. High school is enough for me." Suddenly, the parental figure becomes alarmed. How can this be? My child cannot possible desire to invest his or her life in such a lowly trade. Why, little Cletus needs to be a doctor, or a lawyer, something more noble.

Apparently little Cletus can not do anything he wants. (I am sick of the he/she nonsense, I am going to stick with he.) The endless possibilities mantra obviously only applies to trades of a highly educated order.

Which brings me to another point. Children are too coddled, too pampered. This is dangerous, due to the fact that overindulging them with wanton praise and adoration may lead them to think that, no matter what, anything is possible. Well, sometimes things just aren't possible. For example.

A child might excel in sporting endeavors. Parents, instead of heaping upon the child endless greasy fawning, should be a bit more practical. "Hey, you know Cletus, you sure are good at running with a ball and knocking people over. But you should be aware that a car crash could change all of that in the blink of an eye. Or if a shark bit off your legs, it would all be over. Then where would you be? Same as all the rest of the kids who just don't try. Only they wouldn't miss their legs so much. Do you really want to miss them that much?" Much safer. That way, children never try too terribly hard and are never greatly disappointed.

"Mom? I think I wanna go to Harvard." A parent might wisely respond, "Well Cletus, that might work out for you. Unless of course you fall out of a tree, the impact rendering you mentally deficient, thus sealing your fate as a potato picker." Children need to understand that there is nothing wrong with being a potato picker, whether mentally deficient or not. And that they might fall out of trees. Or something.

What happened to the good old days, when fathers taught their sons the family smelting trade? Why does everyone have to go to college? Why are parents horrified at the thought of their children apprenticing honest trades, such as milk men, pool cleaners, or lawn care services? This is the reason why unemployment is up. Mom and Dad have convinced little Cletus that he is above such menial tasks. Therefore, rather than filling a spot in said type of labor, Cletus gets an education. Maybe Cletus really isn't so intelligent. Let's be honest. Any idiot can get a degree these days. The problem lies in the fact that, due to having a degree, our brave Cletus feels like he is above the many "uneducated jobs" that exist, therefore creating the demand for labor, which is subsequently filled by our amigos from across the border. Why does he feel this way? Because mom, dad, and the public school system convinced him that he was just too damn special to run a back-hoe.

If we really want to solve the illegal immigration problem, we need to eliminate the excess menial labor opportunities. If, after sneaking across the border, illegal aliens found that their situation was just as hopelessly destitute here as in Mexico, due to a lack of jobs, they would simply stop coming. No need for a fence. Or a moat. Or sea monsters in the moat. This can only be made possible if our American parents teach their children that they really aren't so special. That the Abe Lincoln "Pass it on" billboard that says "Failed, failed, failed, and then..." should continue "...got blasted in the head for trying. Beware of trying."

Less educated Americans with a lower level of self worth= fewer illegal immigrants. Simple as that.

Pass it on.

Farewell to a legend

Today is a day of complicated, mixed feelings. On one hand, I am elated that I shall never have to live another moment with the destroyer. His legendary filth shall forever rest atop the "award for the person/creature with the most squalid lifestyle I have ever met" pedestal located in the dark recesses of my scarred memory. On the other hand, he has provided me with an inexhaustible river of material about which to write. An odious, sludge-filled polluted river teeming with three-eyed fish and tiny mutant mer-people, with webbed appendages and gills. Probably bald.

As we were clearing out all of our possessions, I had to pass by his door multiple times. The usual stench was rendered doubly potent, due to the fact that 8 months worth of vile filth deposits were finally being disturbed. Let me provide a similar scenario. For those of you who have ever mowed a lawn/had dogs, this will make sense. When one mows over a pile of dog feces, whatever bacteria causing the odor are greatly stirred up, thus creating a potent miasma in the immediate area. I believe the smell created by the shifting about of furniture and other items was engendered upon similar principles.

Either way, it was a mixture of rotten meat and unwashed ass. Also sweat.

I have now moved into a large house named "Radio-Tron." I have yet to learn why it received such a name, as most of the people living here are currently in the process of moving out. I shall be residing here during the summer months, as all current occupants will be returning in the fall, unfortunately. This house is amazing. More to come.

All I can say is, farewell dear destroyer, and thank you for the material. May your life one day be filled with the joy of cleanliness. Until then, kudos to you for having the ability do endure the stench of rotten meat and Axe body spray. No particular order on that one.

To whom it may concern...mainly Mark

As previously mentioned, I was able to enjoy a little taste of XM radio for a couple of days. On Saturday, I had the unfortunate experience of doing a little service for a dear friend. During the moving project, and subsequent buffet indulgence, (which may or may not disqualify it as service in the Lord's eyes, although I had no preconceived buffet notions when I volunteered for said services) my dearest of friends Marcus Sorrenson VIII made me aware of his appreciation of the slang word "bitchin." I do not fault him for this, since I find it to be an amusing word myself. Praise of said word lead my thoughts to the Dead Milkmen track, "Bitchin' Camaro," which Mark had never before heard, which I found wholly disconcerting, as Mark was from California and should have been familiar with such a classic punk rock anthem. So basically, this post is merely an announcement of the fact that I have most recently uploaded "Bitchin' Camaro" to my songofthedays blog, which can be accessed from the right had side of this page under "Canciones de los ultimos dias." And I suppose this dually serves as a reminder that such a blog exists, for those who may be interested. I have been a bit indolent in my song posting of late, due to my state of busyness. Also a general lack of public interest in said song blog. So, as a reminder...it exists.

I love Mark. And Dead Milkmen. Not so much Camaros, however.