Savory soaps, lush gardens

As I spent the last 7 nights in sundry motels, I have come to realize that there exists a great deal of things I hate about them.

Where on earth to start.

Let's begin with the ass-bar. My first night was spent in a motel located somewhere in the God-forsaken land of far eastern Nevada. So this was one of the stranger motel showers in which I have ever sluiced off my filthy body. The shower head came out of the ceiling and faced the ass-bar. As I rubbed the horrible motel soap (which I shall touch upon shortly) all over my body, I was constantly wary of coming too close to the shower curtain. There is truly nothing worse than having a foreign shower curtain suction itself to your unsuspecting body. Because lord only knows how many other bodies that filthy curtain has been attached to like a leech.

So, as I bent over to wash my feet, I realized that my rear-end conformed perfectly to that handicap-helper-bar midway up the shower wall. I couldn't help but wonder how many other asses had been gently cupped by that ass bar, and just how many times Lupita--or maybe Steve, to be fair--had never even had the thought cross his or her mind to wash that unassuming bar. Or, the ass bar, as it were.

Why does motel soap have to suck so bad? I guess the answer to that lies in the question--MOTEL. Those practically microscopic mini-soaps always smell like lard. Maybe mixed with dirt and plastic. And heaven forbid you forget your best deep healing lotion, because those caustic little bars from hell will dry you out faster than you can say "caustic little bars from hell, oh, how I hate them."

And of course, they only ever provide you with one, never mind the room is being rented to 3 people. As though they assume that 3 disgusting men want to rub the same minuscule little bar of misery over their disgusting bodies. I suppose it is a bonding experience, the sharing of one's filthy body remnants--which surely clung to the soap--with everyone else.

Why are motel towels always about half the size of regular ones? Do they think only rail-thin midgets are patronizing the Motel 6's these days? I suppose when looked at upon a grander scale, cutting 6-10 inches off of the towel length probably saves them at least a few miles worth of towel washing per year. Thanks Motel 6 for helping save the whales at the cost of my discomfort. I guess if I make the mistake of leaving my clothing out in the main sleeping area, my travel mates will be thrilled to see my genitals on account of the whale saving. Belugas.

Lastly is something that I observed between our first and last motel stay. I think that if you are a normal, sanitary human being, the first thing you do upon entering a motel room is peel off the bed spread and throw it on the floor, thus avoiding the certain semen/vaginal discharges that have accrued upon that never-washed hunk of fabric. "Peter tracks," as my uncle shamelessly refers to them. Go ahead an mentally figure out on your own exactly what that one means.

Well, our last night was spent in an outwardly dumpy, inwardly decent motel. The beds were super fluffy, with large down comforters. You can certainly bet that those large, white comforters didn't immediately meet the fate of all of the previous crusty sperm rags. As I lie there upon my roll-away, eagerly awaiting the inevitable awakening with a crinkled spine, I thought "Huh. Why is nobody throwing the seemingly nice bed spreads on the ground? If anything, it is probably less likely that these are washed often, as they are filled with dead goose. Enjoy your comfy beds, buried beneath a mass of dried bodily fluids, pricks." (I lost the coin toss, thus sealing my fate with the roll-away.) As I lie there, smugly imagining them nestled in their cocoons of reproductive filth, the thought occurred to me that it was probably an even likelier scenario that my particular bed was rarely/never washed. It was probably simply folded back up and shoved into the closet, to await the next poor fool who lost the coin toss. At that thought, my bitterness was renewed. At least it wasn't likely that much sexual romping had occurred on a roll-away.

I guess I shall end this with a few photos from my favorite motel of the trip, The Seaside. Possibly one of the finest establishments in which I have lain my sweet head.
I believe it was the lovely mural of the Belugas that drew us into the Seaside. I like to imagine that they are dropping out of the sky, about to explode upon the pavement below (I blame them for my short-towel-woes.)And here, we have a rather quaint little lounging area, complete with jelly fish and sundry sea life mural, and a foam cup with fresh picked daisies on the table. Here, we had our 70's era snack machine, complete with peppermint Mentos and a package of Ramen noodles. Possibly a rice crispy treat. Knowing California, that Ramen pack was marked up at least 1000%.And last, but certainly not least--a small cannabis garden, dutifully manicured, right outside our bathroom window.

May Zeus smile down upon the good Seaside Inn, and ever bring her wealth and a healthy growing season.

White picket fence with graffiti resistant paint included

For the modestly exorbitant amount of just over $800,000, you can be the proud owner of this tidy little fixer. Located in a beautifully ghetto neighborhood where friendly Mexican gangs abound, and drug deals are as common place as the ice-cream man rolling through, this place is a steal. Probably at least 1,000 sq ft.

WTF.

Welcome to San Francisco.

Fret no longer

I once drove a van
To a far away land
I bought a fanny pack
To hold in my hand
To wrap around my waist
3 feet below my face
I wear it all day
This town is so gay

Be back monday.

Please pass the bandaid(s)

Apparently I have some form of previously untapped, super strength.

My house is the hottest place on planet earth. Especially my room, which has, until many fan installments, been the hottest room in the house. I mean, I don't know why I didn't enjoy living in such a hot environment, as nothing pleases me more than sleeping in a pool of my own sweat. Waking up with a soggy collar, disoriented and confused is nothing short of glorious.

So. A couple of mornings ago, I arose dripping from my mattress, ready to greet the new day with matted hair and a great attitude--it was my last day of school.

I decided that I should open my window as much as possible, as even outside under the blazing sun is more pleasant than my sweaty den. I knelt upon the couch which is located below my window and firmly placed my palms upon the glass and began to heave in a mighty upward motion.

Nothing happened.

As I had tried, and previously struggled to open my window more than a few inches, I thought "Well, I should just push harder." Seconds later, I was wondering what on earth had just happened as I was looking at my hand, which was covered in shards of glass.

Apparently, my left arm has some form of mutant gorilla strength. I shattered the freaking window pane. So there I sat, somewhat horrified, staring at my left hand covered in tiny glass shardlings, awaiting my life to summarily flow from my hand.

It started out as a trickle here...and then a trickle there...and then there and there and there and there. All in all about 7.

I began to panic, as I don't appreciate the sight of blood--especially my own. I thought, "Huh. I hope no glass shardlings are embedded in my flesh, as that will make for a rather unpleasant experience." I walked down stairs, watching the red rivulets begin to converge and pool in my palm. I ran it under water until I thought most of the shardlings were washed away. Water pretty much increased the blood flow. Afterwards, I tried to brush away any further shardlings with a Kleenex.

To my great and eternal relief, there was no glass embedded in my hand.

I also bought a fan to place in my now broken window, and another one to blow down upon me from the desk. With that set up, I now sleep like baby Zeus nestled in his bed of clouds, free from sweat, and the unpleasantness involved in waking up covered with it.

Sorry I suck.

Finals and whatnot.

Also sweating many bullets throughout the night due to living in a house probably built by Brigham Young's 67 children, which lacks any form of an effective cooling mechanism.

Also I threw away about 17 pounds of old frozen chicken that the previous (and future fall) owners decided to leave in the freezer. I put them in the trash can right outside our back door, which, I later realized, was a horrible mistake. It has been unseasonably hot(or possibly seasonably, not quite sure, ask Al Gore) the last few days. Thus, the old frozen chiggins quickly became a rotting, stinking curtain of filth that one had to pass through upon leaving or entering the house. I mean, it was seriously like wading through the rotting bowels of an elephant. My gag reflex was practically kicking me in the groin every time I had to pass through.

I am not entirely certain what that last bit had to do with my lack of posting the last few days, but surely something. I think the mephitic wave somehow permeated my brain upon passing through, and sent all my creative juices hurling past my gag reflex on their way down to reside in my useless appendix. Maybe that's what that thing is for; a place where one's creative juices escape to during a cognitive hiatus.

Anyways welcome summer.

Good news. Also bad news. I am going to San Francisco on Monday for a motorcycle trip. Good for me. For those of you who check this 17 times a day (I know there are at least one or two of you) this is bad news, as I shant have access to my computer, due to the utter lack of cargo space which exists on motorcycles. Or doesn't exist. Either way.

Good news again. After my return home from said motorcycle trip, I shall immediately be embarking on another, this time to New York. Double good news, as I shall be using my computer daily to do a small amount of work, and thus shall be able to document all of my sweaty New York endeavors.

I hope I get carried away by a rat.

Next comes the chop

There are very few things on this wretched, yet beautiful planet that irk me more than piss on a toilet seat. It angers me due to the completely unnecessary nature of the act. Let's see. Either I can spend a nano-second lifting the seat, followed by a pleasant urination--or I can be a lazy bastard, unleash hell all over the seat, followed by a feeble attempt to wipe it off--and thus enjoy sitting in the remnants thereafter.

I guess to me it's pretty much a no-brainer. I don't want to sit in the remnants of someone's piss. Ever.

This has been occurring at my lair. 57% of the reason why I changed that God-forsaken seat in the first place was because one had to hold the seat up with one's hand while pissing, which was nigh unto impossible, and thus EVERYBODY pissed on the seat. So, as documented a few posts back, I toiled through one of the most horrifying experiences of my short, pathetic life in order to remedy that.

And now this. People still don't raise it. Well, enough is enough. I bought and installed the toilet seat, so I feel like I reserve the right to alter its appearance.

The filthiness had better soon cease, lest I have to employ increasingly drastic measures.

How to shut a stranger up with awkwardness

Is that Stacy Burgerson?

Mentos Boosts Confidence With Ladies - Watch more free videos

Now that that is out of the way, there is this guy in my house who has been ripping apart the bathtub/shower for the last three days. Today he came in wearing headphones, and I have spent the last two hours on my computer in my room, listening to him sing in a rather off-key manner. "Baby baby yeah, I'm the one. Yeahhhh I'm the one." I don't know what on earth he is listening to, but that was not what I was expecting. I'd have presumed butt-rock, or maybe classic, as he fits the profile--38-ish, crapy old truck, reeks of cigarettes and wears Wal-Mart pants. And plumbs.

Anyhow what at first began as entertaining, soon morphed into annoying. Two straight hours will do that. So as he was working on the stairs, I went down and took a shower in the other bathroom. When finished, I decided to awkwardly punish him by having to squeeze by uncomfortably close, wearing only a towel.

I guess it worked cuz he shut the hell up.

Crimes against nature

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and it's the middle of June. Then I put on a sweater and a warm cap, followed by thinking out loud, "What the hell. It's June."

I hope global warming drop kicks mother nature in the chest today.

One more reason to avoid attending BYU/carry mace

Last night I bore witness to one of the more disturbing family home evening games with which I have ever come into contact. I am generally pretty anti family home evening games as it is, but this one pretty much pushed me over the top and made me really really want to move away and never come back. Or grow a mustache and become a sex offender. Either way.

While milling about, I heard whispers here and there of a kissing game that was going to be played. Being a relatively normal and less than pathetic person, I generally shun such tomfoolery. A girl began to ask people their names and wrote them down on small slips of paper. After all the prep work, the males lined up on one side of the yard, and the females on the other. This game was going to be played in the front yard, no less. Shameless.

A name was drawn, and that person sat in the middle. We will go ahead and refer to him as "Bill." Then two more names were called, one a male and one a female. Reginald and Shaniqua. Someone would then yell "go," and Shaniqua would then attempt to kiss Bill on the cheek, before Reginald kissed her on the cheek.

After a moment or two of silent, appalled observance, I decided the game was probably called "Rape Kiss." It was the most absurd activity I have ever witnessed at a church sponsored function. There was this ginormous, meat-head football player who was really adept at wrapping his meaty hands around the opposing female's skinny necks and going in for a vicious peck, followed by a good, hearty "mwahh ha ha."

Then there was the creepy giggler who would sort of hunch his back and prance along with T-rex arms and a hella disturbing look on his face. Most girls seemed quite able to evade his advances. I am not sure exactly what particular look was painted across my face during most of it--some mixture of disgust, projected embarrassment, and an overall what-the-hell-is-going-on-here look.

I realize we are all mid-twenties Mormons, and frustrated because we have sex NEVER. But do we really need to resort to playing Rape Kiss to placate our painfully unfulfilled desires?

Hang in there guys, marriage will come someday soon. Unless you get charged with a felony after failing to properly explain the real details of Rape Kiss to an unsuspecting prude.

Hello, Mr. W

Does anybody feel like this is a bit reminiscent of our current, bumbling head of state? Not much sleep? How much will you get as president? When you get the "3 am phone call," are you going to be bumbling and semi-functional the next day when you unconditionally meet with foreign enemies? What will you do without your teleprompter?

What the fuh is an inhilator? This guy is a joke.

How to win friends and influence people

Here is a little something that you may have never really thought about. If at ever during your earthly sojourn you happen to make a request of somebody which may involve the approval of multiple persons, watch for this phrase: "I don't care if nobody else cares."

What this translates to, is "I would really rather you didn't, but I don't have the audacity to actually say that, therefore I shall send you on to the next person, hoping they might."

Example.

This guy lived with us for about three weeks. He happened to be a recovering Heroin addict. So what. One night, he disappears. All of his stuff--gone. Doesn't say a word to anyone. Whatev.

Mid last week, he comes back. He asks roommate A if he can crash on the couch. "Yeah, well uh...I guess I don't care if nobody else does." He then proceeded to roommate B asking the same, with nearly an identical response. I really had no desire to allow him to stay on the couch, as I have nearly $4000 dollars worth of bike sitting outside my room. I guess the whole heroin I-would-sell-my-grandmother-into-prostitution-to-get-some thing kinda makes me a bit nervous. Relapse, ya know?

So obviously when it came to my turn, I, being too cowardly to overturn the other two "I guess so" votes, basically said the same thing. "Yeah, I guess if nobody else minds."

So I guess my point is this; if you ever ask someone something and receive a similar response, you should take that as a screaming declaration that they do not want you to do whatever it was that you wanted to do. That was a lot of do's, you's, and to's. And lots of w's. What a remarkable sentence.

However, that is definitely preferable to the loud-mouthed douche who came barging in the door at noon on Sunday, no knocking. He yells for two other guys who live here. I said, "Hello?" He demanded to know where roommates C and A were located. I said "Probably church." He said, "Oh. Well I live here in the fall, so I am crashing on the couch a few days." I said, "Huh." Then he proceeded to infest said couch and turn on baseball.

I don't like that man.

Wosrt news of the summer, possibly life

My bubble has been burst. Actually stabbed. Stabbed with a rusty, hepatitis encrusted blade with a serrated edge, each serration filled with a microscopic portion of flesh eating bacteria. Also dripping in acid, which somehow does not effect the potency of said disease/bacteria.

No, I didn't just find out that there are indeed a lot of homosexuals attending BYU, or the Lord's Academy, as it were.

Nor did I just learn that Walt Disney was an anti-Semite.

Early this morning, I awoke assuming that I would be attending my favorite out of two final classes that I am taking this semester. As Pinback's "Loro" gently caused the tiny hairs in my cochlea to wave to and fro, my eyes opened to blurry light streaming through my window. As consciousness gradually overtook me, pleasant thoughts about my eminent graduation in two weeks flitted about my mind like butterflies in spring. Big, fat, happy butterflies with rad designs, singing glorious anthems of peace on earth, and good will towards men.

Soon, those butterflies would become ravenous vulture-hawks, intent upon pecking out my eyes and nibbling my digits until only a wretched, miserable, blind, nub-of-a-man was all that remained.

I went to visit with the history department councilor to make sure he remembered to transform my Race and Minority relations class credit to an upper division history elective. Magic.

The man, whom I once considered extremely helpful and efficient, pulled up my transcripts. "OK let's see. Now...if I move this Race and Minority Relations credit here...it leaves a hole here..."

At this point, those butterflies began to molt away their beautiful colors, bodies cracking and decaying.

"Um...let's look here. Huh. Seems like were missing something..."

Black feathers sprouting.

"Uh...OK...Um...let's see. What did we do wrong here...."

Venom dripping claws, a beady red eye.

"Oh, yeah. Looks like here I thought you were still signed up for this history class. Looks like since you dropped that, you still need one more class."

Screeching vulture-hawk, dive bombing for my heart.

"Yeah, I wouldn't have told you that you only needed two classes if you needed more. I definitely wouldn't have done that."

But you did do that. You very certainly did tell me that I only needed these last two classes, hence I am only taking two instead of three.

So in case none of that last little bit made any sense, let me break it down. Upon awakening this morning, and every morning and day for the last month, I have been mentally graduating on June 18. Due to the eff up of this councilor, I am not taking three classes, which is actually what I needed. Therefore, I now have to spend an extra 600 bucks to take a class which I could have taken for no additional charge this semester, had this little mistake not occurred.

And I'm not bloody done in two weeks like I thought I was. This is the most disappointing news since I found out Santa was a fake.

A neat adventure

I totally got hit by a car today.

I was pedaling along 5th west on the sidewalk, which I guess was my first mistake. As I approached the hospital, there was a line of cars attempting to leave. One guy was pulled up past the side walk and almost into the road, attempting to turn right. There was another guy just a little bit on the sidewalk. He saw me coming, and backed up a smidge. As I passed in front of him, I gave him a small, wave of appreciation. In mid wave, another vehicle came careening into the parking lot from the road. We would be consequentially meeting in the middle.

Several things went through my head in that moment. Mostly, "oh shit."

I hit the breaks, which meant I pedaled in the reverse direction. It felt like slow motion as my back tire locked, and a loud piercing screech emanated from beneath me. I realized (somewhere between the shit and the screech) that I lacked adequate breaking power to avoid collision with the evil vehicle. Right about the time my tire/fender was directly in front of the vehicle, the collision occurred, sending me awkwardly spilling into the handlebars/driver's side car fender.

An expletive might have escaped my lips.

I look at the lady, who by this time had a rather horrified expression on her face. She rolled down the window and inquired as to my well being. I was OK. I asked her if she was OK. I looked at the car, and there seemed not to be any real damage done. Not being entirely sure who was at fault, I had a keen desire to make a quick escape. She seemed a bit confused as to what action to take, so I said, "Hey, if you're good, I'm good. Are you good?" To which she kind of nodded. At which point I said, "OK. Just move ahead then."

She did. I pedaled away.

Shortly after, I righted my slightly crooked fender, followed by a crotchial power cling with the front tire in order to straighten the handlebars.

In the end, no harm done. I am way more concerned with the fact that I have lost my two favorite lip balms this week. Now I am left with a lousy Burt's Bees honey stick. Which is seriously like wiping a crumbly bee hive all over my mouth. Except for less dusty, and fewer stings.

Quick poll

I've only ever really taken one other poll on here, but I am curious about your opinion as a reader. As 99% of those who read this do not leave comments, I would call upon that demographic to please respond. I mean, it will literally take you 17 seconds.

Is my new blog template too busy? If you prefer the old, let it be known.

If you have no idea what the old blog looked like, visit my song of the day blog on the right titled "Music is my hot hot sex," to get an idea. They were patterned basically the same.

Thanks for your time, and God bless the USA.

Yearning for denim

So me and T (T and I, how embarrassing) were sitting outside Sub Zero Witchcraft having a conversation. I got to thinking. People around the nation are all appalled by the FLDS polygamous sect in Texas. Everyone is making a big deal about a group of people who are just seeking a little multi-spousal affection. I can understand the appeal. I mean, the ability to bring not one, but 6 or 7 goo-covered children screaming into the world in one 9 month period would sell anyone on the idea, if they really sat down and thought about it logically. At that rate, one might create a veritable army in a matter of years.

An army of Zion.

But that isn't the point. I think people are really overlooking the main draw to join a polygamous sect. The real reason to trample all over the law and give normal society the middle finger (or several) is for the denim EVERYTHING that one is privileged to wear upon joining said lifestyle. Do you remember when you were young and your mother dressed you up in a sharp denim shirt and sent you skipping off to school, only to suffer untold shame and humiliation at the hands of the kids with No Fear and Mossimo shirts?

But secretly you liked that denim eyesore.

Well, now is your chance. With many a man likely to end up in jail, the Yearning For Zion compound will probably be doing some recruiting. And submissive, weak willed women are always welcome, several denim pieces tidily awaiting them in a newly fashioned pine wardrobe.

Have you ever been running through the sage brush spooked by a rattle snake, tripped, and scraped half the skin off your chest because your lousy cotton-polyester blend wasn't adequate protection against those sharp desert rocks and pebbles?

Denim.

First, you would not have been running at all, because the snake fangs likely wouldn't be able to penetrate your denim body shield. And what snake would disrespect a man in a denim vest?

Zero snakes.

I guess all I am trying to say media, is dig a little deeper. I don't think polygamy has much to do with sex, the apocalypse, or the great hairstyles. It is all about man's (and woman's) innate yearning for all things denim.
Bless their hearts.