Dance on, christian brother

Being a mostly noon person, I despise the moment when I must finally drag my worthless carcass out of bed and begin my day. Especially if I have no pressing reason for which to get up. It is usually a process of intense self mockery, calling myself lazy, sloven, useless, etc until I can't take the ridicule any longer. At which point I peel the sleeping mask from my eyes, bask for a moment in the light induced blindness, followed by the barely functioning eye induced blindness. At this point I usually wonder if there is perhaps a stranger in my house, somebody there that I can't see. Possibly right there in my room, waiting to murder me the instant I put on my contacts. As the first one uncomfortably suctions itself to my eye, there he would be, seemingly popping out of nowhere, right in front of me. Upon seeing the sudden look of startled shock on my face, he would yell, "Surprise!" At which point he would murder me, however one who does that sort of thing murders someone. In all likelihood it would be in some horrible fashion, as he would probably be pissed that he had to stand there till nigh unto noon, waiting to perform his jack-in-the-box murder.

Point of all of that, I hate waking up. Showering is another part of the morning ritual that I oft less than thoroughly enjoy. I like being clean and having the water basically blast the flesh away from my spinal column, due to our overly zealous fire hose of a shower head. But it's the whole process that I find annoying. Getting wet, going through the soapy rubdown, attempting to avoid any bodily contact the the rotting sheet of hepatitis which we lovingly call "shower curtain." Followed by the rinse, the towel off, and then going through the hellacious process of trying to decide what to wear amongst so much clothing I am bored with. (I realize one shouldn't end a sentence with "with," but get over it.) In summation, it is the whole process, the wasted half hour that I find irksome. I mean individually, I for the most part love each one of those things--clothing, water, soapy rubdowns. All together they become drudgery. I have however, found a way to allay much of unpleasantness found in said process.

The shower dance party.

I have found that there really is no better way to start one's day than with a shower dance party. Not necessarilly with others, mind you, but alone in one's own naked glory. Standing under the fire hose, listening to my favorite dance rock or electronica causes me to forget the process and simply shake what my birth mother gave me (I appologize if that provides a rather horrifying mental immage.) All I am saying, is lathering and rinsing while dancing starts my day off on the right foot. The dancing foot.

I feel like my religious audience would argue that something spiritual would be the most benifical way to start my day, ergo scripture study should be my first order of business upon wakening. As I was dancing in the shower this morning thinking about just that, I had an epiphany. Why not dance AND read scriptures, thus combining the best of both worlds? "Hello little Nephi little Lehi, your's are the dreams we're believing..." I'm think I'm feelin' a little Shiny Toy Book of Mormon booty shake.

Suddenly scripture study is fun and rockin. Now, I don't feel as though scripture study and dance rock/electronica should be a permanent mixture. But I do feel like a little morning-scripture- dance- party does a spiritual body good.



The worst part about typing in bed with a lap top, is all the heat emanating from said device causing my belly button to sweat. I love everything about having a laptop except for the immense heat it puts off. If I'm reclined, it's a sweaty belly. If I am sitting flat, it's a blazing crotch. The unpleasantness never ends. But oh, how I dislike sitting in a chair tied to an over sized desktop.

I find being more blind in my right eye than my left to be annoying at best. In fact, I might just go so far as to say that I hate my right eye a little bit. Whenever it's dark out and I am looking at any light producing object, it is always slightly blurred. That, due to righty. If I close my lefty, It is sort of like looking at three of the same thing, or one distinct thing with a blurry colored line connecting it to a slightly faded same thing. I can't imagine that made any sense to anyone but me. Or someone else with an equally pitiful eye.

I found today that hammering a carpenter nail into a cinder block wall usually results in a bent nail, and a failed attempt to hang whatever I was attempting to hang. Also, ironically enough, I discovered for the first time that there is no such thing as a carpender. Who knew there was a "t" in there? The ironic part was learning that from a guy from Idaho who uses the word "fetch" on a regular basis and has likely never pronounced "mountain" using proper phonetics in his life. Mao-un, in case you were wondering.

Lastly, this evening Colin and I dropped by Jamba Juice so that I could indulge in a Pink Star. Best flavor ever. It's a secret one. As we were exiting, there was this guy sitting outside talking on the phone. Right when we walked out he said, "Yeah, we're gonna hang out with some chicks. But we need one more bro, dude." I couldn't believe my good fortune. I mean...we constantly make fun of these guys, and to actually hear such a stereotypical thing smoothly glide its way out of his mouth...priceless. It completely validated a month's worth of mockery. I got to the car, which was about 8 feet away from him, and just laughed. He knew it. Nothing feels better than embarrassing a bro.

And nothing feels worse than a belly/crotch combo inferno.

Damn you laptop.


Tiny superhuman country pleasers

This morning while watching synchronized swimming, I heard something pretty ridiculous from one of the commentators. Now, that in and of itself is nothing surprising, as I can seriously sometimes hardly stomach the drivel that spouts from these moronic commentator's mouths. The Chinese swimmers were in the middle of their routine. The male commentator told a story about how one of the Chinese swimmers asked her Japanese born synchro swimming coach if she could have a weekend off. Baffled, her coach asked her why she wanted the modest vacation. Her reply, "Because I have not seen my family in 12 years."

Because she had been training for 12 years. Because China is nuts.

So what does captain commentating ass say to that? "Now that's dedication."

No. That is not dedication. That is something else entirely. Having been training for 12 years, that would probably put her anywhere from 8-12 years old when she began. Do you think any child that age voluntarily agrees to or feels happy about basically NEVER seeing her family again? I feel like this highlights China's seemingly ruthless willingness to do whatever it takes to look good on a world scale, even if it involves taking children away from their families for years on end.

Earlier in the games, one person commented on how the Chinese coaches had to sign forms promising that they wouldn't allow their gymnasts and other athletes to be injured from being overworked or excessively pushed. Again, there is something wrong with this. It's a little bit sick that that actually had to be dictated. It shows the lack of regard that China has for its athletes on a personal level, and how all that matters is making it to that podium with precious metals gleaming around their necks in the name of the motherland. How much of this sort of thing is going on throughout the world? I sort of feel like children are being exploited for the world's collective entertainment and to promote national salience.

Now, don't get me wrong. I do love the Olympics. I love that, for 20 days or however long, the world really seems to cohere (minus Russia and Georgia) and differences are set aside while personal achievement is collectively celebrated. But I still feel like the question should be raised as to the ethics of some sporting practices. Everyone has been witness to the crazy high school sports parents that are so much more emotionally invested in their children's achievement than the actual athletes. It just makes me wonder, when these Olympic child athletes can perform some of the most unbelievable feats on planet earth, how many of them have been ruthlessly pushed along by their parents. Sure, some of them are winning gold medals, (which would be absolutely amazing) but at what price? Is a childhood lost worth it? What about the complete abandonment of family? I think it's a different scenario entirely when young teenagers find a sports interest and then pursue it to Olympic perfection. But I just wonder how ethical it is to push small children to such extremes. 4 year olds aren't interested in anything. Parents (maybe countries) invest children's tractable minds with interest.

Collectively and as a whole, I think the Olympics are a marvelous event. But I feel like there may be a dark underbelly that goes overlooked due to the general positive feelings that are engendered by so much phenomenal achievement.


Cancer cans

Do the rednecks of Nephi plan on converging at Conoco at 8:30 pm on Friday night, or is it just an arbitrary occurrence? I was there for about 5 minutes filling up, and no less than 4 gigantic dinosaur guzzling trucks, complete with rust spots and No Fear stickers arrived. Also at least 3 out of 4 of them with a female riding "bitch" position. Don't get pist. I didn't come up with that name.

As I walked to the counter, there was a redneck purchasing his Grizzly chew. I saw him and thought, "Neat. His pants are as tight as mine." Except for his were probably about 7 inches too long, thus creating wrinkles from ankle to crotch. Also, complete with the worn out left ass-cheek circle from the cancer can, and the gleaming belt buckle legitimizing the whole ensemble. Cool.

As I walked out, there was another truck already parked, and by the time I entered my car, 2 more had arrived, seemingly randomly. I guess that is the cool place to go on a Friday night, to pick up one's chew and Conoco's equivalent of a Big Gulp.

Although, who am I to judge? I am currently writing a blog and watching Olympic diving by myself. Why can't the effing Americans ever get in without a splash?


Piss. there. i said it. that's what this is about.

I find it a curious thing that there are only (referencing my vast wealth of knowledge and experience) a few foods that will cause one's piss to absolutely reek. 3 that I can think of. I would propose asparagus as the first and foremost that jumps into peoples' mind upon pondering about stuff that makes piss stink.

Asparagus I can live with. I probably eat that stuff fewer than once or twice a month. I think perhaps I may be mistaken about the second one--Cheerios. I think rather than causing one's piss to smell different, Cheerios actually just smell like piss. When they are soaked in milk, that is. Honestly, so many times throughout my life I have been standing at a urinal and thought, "Why am I suddenly craving Cheerios? Oh. Wait. All of these collective piss dribblings combine to trick my mind into thinking that Cheerio consumption would be a good idea right now. Duh."

I think the most insidious of all piss tainting agents would be Golden Puffs/Honey Smacks. After consuming said delightful cereal, one's piss completely absorbs the scent of soggy Puffs. For me, when that smell hits my nose, it sort of drop kicks my gag reflex in the chest, attempting to incite a reunion between the puffs' smell and the actual regurgitated puffs themselves. Which I hate. Because I really like those puffs. I try to remember to hold my breath upon post-puff consumption pissings, but usually I either forget, or can't hold my breath long enough, as my lung capacity can't quite cover the actually drizzling and subsequent washing of hands. And our sink is practically hovering above the toilet, so the scent isn't easily evaded.

I realize this is a rather filthy post, which probably makes me sound like a person with stinky piss, who often suffers due to the pungency of said piss. This is not true. This is really only an issue upon consuming the afore mentions items. Am I the only one who has noticed this?

Perhaps I am the only one, and this is just one more attempt by the Universe to cause me untold misery. Damn you, Universe. Why couldn't it be Cocoa Puffs? Cocoa Puffs, I could walk away from and never look back. Honey Smacks, however...hook me up to a Honey Smack iv and let me live in peace.

Here's an interesting occurance (not really)

One time (tonight) I was wondering why my house (my room) smelled like bacon. I then realized (saw) that there was a 1 lb bag of jerky on the other side of my room (less than a foot from my bed.) I then thought (said out loud) "What sort of person keeps a pound of meat in their room?" (within arms reach of the bed.) I then said (thought) "Probably someone who really likes meat (someone fat.) Then, in order to feel good about myself, I quickly disposed of said meat (not really) and went to sleep (laid in bed for an hour.)

After that (the end.)


Swords perpetuate laziness

I think today I may have reached the epitome of human laziness. I was laying on a couch attempting to work on my computer. Colin was sitting on the couch furthest from the tv and I was on the one closest. We had previously put I-Robot into our DVD mechanism, which happens to be a total piece of shi. There is no remote, so one must simply wait patiently for all of the previews and other nonsense to pass before the movie starts.

Once the option screen finally came up, we both just sat there in silence for a moment. Then Colin said, "Turn it on. You are closer." I had no desire to remove myself from the couch. I said, "No. I always turn it on. You turn it on." He said, "Well. I can wait 20 minutes, it will just turn itself on." I thought for a moment, then replied, "Pass me the sword."

Because we have a ridiculous medieval sword laying around the house.

So, Colin handed me the sword. I stretched my arm outward, steady as a tree limb. I deftly touched the blade tip to the play button, thus initiating 2 hours of Will Smith one-liners and guilty pleasure.

I hope to someday bury that sword into the chest of someone who murdered someone that I love. Well, if someone I loved is ever murdered. I suppose I should rework that statement a little bit.

I hope that, if ever someone I dearly love is murdered, I may satisfy justice by burying that sword in the offender's heartless chest. Since there is no heart, I'd probably just have to just poke a lung or something.

Who am I?


Good news for people who love bad news

Instead of carrying a backpack loaded with a pound of beef jerky, 6 packs of ramen, and a bed sheet down into the depths of the grand canyon, I found myself sitting in a car driving between St. George and Provo for the second time in less than 24 hours with two cheese burgers sitting in my gut. They were depression burgers, acquired from In-N-out. Nothing perks me up quite like greezy slabs of meat sliding down my gullet.

Apparently, the Universe smote the Havasupai tribe with a rather hefty flash flood, which wiped out every wigwam and swept away all the stray dogs in the valley. Dice and poker chips are floating their way to Mexico as we speak.

Actually none of that is true. Except for the part about the flood making Havasupai inaccessible. Also, stray dogs may have perished. But the point is, instead of loving my life and sleeping on a flotation device with a sheet, I am angrily nestled in my bed. It would appear that the Universe was apparently confused about the time frame in which I would be arriving, and attempted to kill me a bit too early. The day was right, just not the time.

Nice try, Universe.

Now, my fingers smell like the beef jerky I consumed on the car ride home (after the hamburgers) instead of smelling like the beef jerky I ingested upon the trail. I find that whenever my fingers smell of something obnoxious or disgusting, I can't help but continually sniff at them. Sometimes I pretend like I am scratching at my nose, put really I am just seeing what my fingers smell like.

What is the matter with me.


I'll see you all in hell (said with a german accent, similar to the councelor tied to a tree in heavy weights, as honey is being applied to his chest)

Dear good people of the earth,

I am leaving. Today, I go into the wilderness. I am going to Havasupai, possibly to die. If I decide not to die, I will be back Thursday. As the Universe has been particularly cruel to me of late, I expect that it might try to destroy me there. Perhaps a wild creature attack, or maybe a tomahawk to the chest. Possibly being pounded to death against the rocks beneath a waterfall. Or chewed to death by many small rodents. Giardia, maybe? Being smitten by falling boulders or pebbles that fell from a great hight, thus rendering them natural bullets, fired from mother natures bosom? So many possibilities.

One thing is for sure--I shall have the time of my life. That, and Michael Phelps will probably win another gold medal. Also, countless trinkets will be created in Chinese factories, emblazoned with a "made in China" stamp, and shipped all over the globe. Probably mostly here. And thank heavens those little tiny gynmnists won a gold medal, so they didn't get sent back to the orphanage/shoe factory to toil out the rest of their days in shame.

Anyways see you Thursday.


Actually, let me leave you with this. So much funnier if you understand Spanish, or are slightly familiar with Mexican vulgarity/slang.


Take it easy on the bunions

I would hypothesize that there aren't too many experiences more awkward than that of getting a pedicure from a 16 year old boy. Me being a man, I mean. I was feeling a bit flamboyant, and all my female cousins/sister were doing it, so I thought, "Well my feet are generally gross. Why not allow a nice Asian female to remedy that?"

Go ahead, call me a racist. But you can't tell me that when you hear the word "pedicure," you don't immediately picture a nice little Korean lady. That, or maybe a platinum blond female who probably has a difficult time differentiating between "then" and "than."

It's tough. It really is.

So I sat down in what turned out to be the most painful "massage chair" that my spine has ever experienced. More like, scrape-a-jagged-rock-up-and-down-my-vertebrae-chair. It never could quite muster up the electrical efficiency to actually vibrate, though it gave a good college effort. I could hear a subtle hmmmmttttttttttthhhmmmmmm-tut-tut, when I pushed the vibrate button. Oh well, at least it tried. I attempted to stop the painful spine bludgeoning after a few minutes, only to gleefully discover that the stabbing mechanism wouldn't retract into the chair once shut off. So I "enjoyed" the remainder of my pedicure with two balls shoved into the middle of my back. My cousin had previously begun the treatment next to me. There was a tiny little Korean man deftly clipping at his toes with tiny little scissors. I could have felt good about a 45 year old man giving me the work down.

Then this 16 year old kid sits down in front of me, and starts awkwardly directing me about how the torture chair works, and where to put my feet. My pedicure began in silence. The 45 year old next to me was making broken, though pleasant conversation with my cousin. After about 5 minutes of silence, 16 year old asks me what my name is. I tell him. He responds, "Hello. I'm Awn Yon. Nice to meet you," in barely a whisper. The whisper effect somehow made the whole thing seem somewhat creepily sensual. After this, there was mostly silence. Awkward, painful silence.

Every time I met his eyes, we would both immediately and awkwardly look away. I think mostly because...what the hell was a 16 year old boy doing giving me a pedicure? After one particularly uncomfortable eye lock, I asked how long he had been doing it for. "Oh, I don't. I'm just helping. But...I've done this before."

As I then continued receiving the worst (and only) pedicure of my life, I couldn't help but be jealous of my cousin's treatment by 45 year old steady hands Mc'Cho. That guy obviously knew what he was doing.

Probably the biggest waste of $24 ever, but dammit my feet are smooth.


Donny osmond and I have the same phone

Don't worry about it.

My bike took a proverbial dump on my chest yesterday, almost sending me into apoplexy. It was almost the worst day of my life. Or possibly almost the worst day within a period of 3 or 4 days.

I pedaled my little heart out going up the hill from Provo to Orem. I've been in a rather Olympic mood of late. So I charged it. Upon sweatily reaching the crest of the hill, my bike would no longer shift into higher gears (meaning it was ridiculously easy to pedal.) I traveled to the nearest bike shop, where my friend Chad happened to be working. I told him what happened. He looked at my bike and said, "Sweet bike. Hey. Donny Osmond."

There he was, the iconic Mormon legend himself. He was so beautiful.

So turns out the sorta cracked out drunk who sold me my bike had installed an incorrect dérailleur and so something got stripped that shouldn't have been stripped. So worst case scenario, I was looking at having to convert it to a single speed or fixed gear, on top of basking in the holy light of Donny Osmond for about 20 minutes. Best case scenario, a new dérailleur might work, and again, soaking in the effervescent glory of Donny Osmond. So a win/win situation really.

In the end, Chad installed a new dérailleur for me, thus saving me from the cruel fate of a single speed commuter bike. Aaaaannd I got to observe his Mormon majesty, Mr. Donald Clark Osmond, out amongst the common riffraff, pretending to be a real person.

Why doesn't he have an i phone?


About a million and counting

After sitting in front of McDonald's for nearly 2o minutes at 4 am waiting for a southern style chicken biscuit, I thought to myself, "Well that was a poor life decision."

Damn you McDonald's.


The child most loved

I have recently found myself at the horrifying age of 26. As well as becoming a menace to society in the eyes of the church, I have also found myself floundering in the unfortunate, shark filled pool of uninsured Americans, since my parent's policy kicked me off this month. As I flew down a mountain on my bicycle Saturday, I couldn't help but think that, were I to wrap my spine around a tree, I would probably just have to be put to sleep, as I couldn't afford the subsequent spine straightening and Vicodin.

I went to lunch with my insured mother and sister on Thursday. I was being lectured on why I must acquire insurance as quickly as possible, in case of a bike/tree/spine crinkling incident. I thought, "Well I can't afford bloody insurance."

Suddenly the subject changed. Our dear, dear Taco had experienced some recent dental work. She was sent to the groomer for her monthly tune-up, where they put bows on her ears. So darling. My mother requested that her teeth be brushed, due to her breath smelling like a rotting bag of chicken. Upon looking at her teeth, the groomer informed my mother that Taco would need some teeth pulled.

$500 and 14 teeth later, Taco was cracked out on pain killers and basically good as new, if rather lethargic and toothless.

Should I feel unloved by the fact that my parents were willing to expend a rather absurd amount of cash on Taco's dental work, yet my spine is in current danger of a monetarily irreversible crinkling? Is it because I am adopted?

Well so is Taco. And at least I am not completely nuts.


Gimmie organic crack

How come there are people that can make this:

Yet we can barely get cars to achieve 35 mpg? This freaking thing was invented by an 18 year old. It's like a motorcycle/segway hybrid. The only control on it is an on and off switch. Everything else is controlled by leaning, similar to the Segway. Is it ridiculous, dangerous, and probably not very practical? Damn straight. But the point is, it exists. There was an 18 year old with enough brain power to create this absurdly futuristic vehicle, yet we are still living in a virtual petroleum-guzzling stone age.

Not to mention this petroleum we happen to be guzzling is costing us our first born children (for some people literally.)

If we truly can't come up with the technology to solve our love affair with petroleum, then why are we so content to pay out the rear end for it?

Why are we in the Middle East? I mean really, what is our interest in that God-forsaken hot desert full of people who are constantly pissed off at the West? Is it because American presidents really just thoroughly enjoy tea parties with Saudi princes? Is it because we really need a base somewhere over there so we can cock-block Russia's nukes?

Oil. Obviously. No revolutionary thought there. Sure, we invaded Iraq under the guise of instilling democracy in the Middle East, but really we want to be able to access oil in a democratic manner. We want to create stability in a region that pumps the blood through our veins.

First of all, let's not talk about the evils of America's petroleum-crack addiction. Because unless you are cultivating all of your own food using a donkey and a plow, you are a part of that addiction. Save you sew all of your own clothing from the cotton you picked with your own hands, or from the beaver pelts you trapped all by yourself...you are a part of that addiction. Do you not shop at stores? How do you think the Natural Village is able to sell you your "organic" tofu and garbanzo beans? Delivered by petroleum. So, that said, unless you are completely self sufficient--shut up. You are still part of the problem.

Are you one of those tidy little elitist hybrid drivers, patting yourself on the back because your "No more blood for oil" bumper sticker like...so makes a powerful statement? Well ponder this for a moment. Why do we have to so often pay for petroleum with blood? Because so many of the same people who are adamantly opposed to "The War," and any Middle Eastern occupation are the same idiots who have thwarted all effort to drill our own liquid sin. So in a sense, those who are blocking our efforts to drill our own oil because of some irrational environmental fear, are really just fueling our Middle Eastern escapades.

Do I think that our over dependence on oil is healthy and good? Hell no. I am all about cutting back to reasonable levels. But my point in all of this is we shouldn't have to trade our way of life, or downgrade. Nor should we be doing it simply because the opulently brilliant Al Gore thinks the world is going to burn down and all the polar bears are going to explode.

We should do it because we should be able to without having to decline into communism. We shouldn't have to stop traveling. We shouldn't have to cease to live the lives for which generations of American's have toiled. Because of petroleum and because of capitalism, our lives can be anything we want them to be. But again, going back to the space bike from the future...we are living in the bloody future. Instead of acting as a full-on wheel chair, why can't oil be reduced to a crutch? If we can create pens that can write upside down, we should surely be able to do that. The problem is, there is never cohesion amongst our leaders, or among the masses. Everyone is fighting for their own agenda, which only causes the problems to augment and ill feelings to exacerbate.

Is there anyway we can start using organic petroleum? That burns clean and has been raised free, not in a Middle Eastern cage? That way, when it delivers itself to us, we can feel good about the delivery as well as the subsequent consumption.


Pigs in a wallow

Dear Mizzzz Pelosi,
I found your comment to our dear, dear bumbling President just a little befuddling. The part where you said, "Bless his heart, President of the United States--a total failure, losing all credibility with the American people on the economy, on the war, on energy--you name the subject." Now, I guess the confusing thing would be where you, Mizzzz Pelosi, get off saying anything to our dear, dear astute head of state.

I guess, Mizzzz Pelosi, that it would seem just a tad arrogant and hypocritical for the leader of the most intensely unpopular congress in history to have the gall to slander the President in such a way. Now, I certainly have no love for this man, and can similarly agree that he has failed on many levels. But so has your "most honest, most open and most ethical congress in history." Perhaps when your group's alleged honesty, openness, and ethics are replaced with action, accountability, and integrity, your approval ratings might soar above 14% and THEN you can say what you will about captain Bush.

Until then, shut your mouth. A pig covered in shit slinging shit at another shit covered pig is ridiculous at best. Americans are starting to realize that it isn't simply the President who runs this country. You, Mizzzz Pelosi, and your tidy little group of inept cretins are just as accountable for this country's current slurry of problems as is Sr. Jorge Boosh.




Sometimes I question whether or not life is worth living. In such moments, I quickly assess my options of locations where I might acquire the most potent STD's in existence, in the shortest, most efficient manner possible. Wal-Mart and brothels are usually the first places that come to mind. But sometimes also I feel the need to shove as many gummy hamburgers down my gullet as is humanly possible. So I guess when I want a superfluously virulent mixture of hepatitis and gummys, the Nickelcaid is the only logical destination.

Tonight Colin and I decided to be active wardly participants. As I have basically avoided all wardular activities thus far this summer, I figured the Nickelcaid activity was a great place to begin my post-Sunday activity reactivation. Prior to arriving at disease nation, we met at the church for a spiritual moment. You know, to prepare us for the old school digital spirituality of which we would soon be partaking. I mean...reading the Book of Mormon/playing Dig Dug...pretty much the same thing. I always imagine that when I am pumping up the creatures with the jet pack hose, I am inflating them with the holy spirit, and blowing them into Christian oblivion.

Anyhow as we are awaiting our mini spiritual feast, there is this kid who is preparing for a mission and extremely over zealous in every way to the max. So he is walking around talking to many of the females and excitedly telling them, "Hey. You wanna see the hot girl I'm going out with lately?" After which he would provide a glamor shot by Deb, thus confirming her formerly alleged hotness. She certainly had some pretty sweet bangs. But seriously, he had like...a whatever the size is just up from wallet size, professional portrait of her.

This ward is amazing. So many legends.

Once at the N' Caid (the Nickelcaid's underground name) I delved right into the filthiness. As I played Cowboy Contra, I wondered how many festering lesions would be covering my hands the next morning. At one point I made the dire mistake of rubbing my eye to abate some intense itchiness. I can already feel the pinkeye threatening to overwhelm my inner bodily defenses. I'll probably wake up looking like a mutant tomorrow.

That place is seriously amazing. I think what most people do there is first and foremost get an overabundance of nickels. After playing several arcade games, most people probably think, "What the hell am I gonna do with all these nickels?" and realize that they will never use the 700 that they have, and so end up trying to acquire as many tickets as possible. Gummie hamburgers. 25 tickets. Get out.

As we were wrapping up our ticket acquiring endeavors, this Hispanic family came in and monopolized what were apparently the most lucrative machines in the place. 50 dollars in nickels later, they had about 3500 hundred tickets, and were about 1/5 of the way towards winning this little girl's bike which would have cost them that mere 1/5 had they gone to that haven of all communicable disease--Orem Wal-Mart.

There was this little tiny girl wandering around aimlessly with no shoes and an expired bag of nickels, one pig tail in, one out. I feel like her parents were probably like..."Hey. Monies is a little low this month, so let's just drop little Lupe off at the Nickelcaid with a sack of nickels for 4 hours." Kinda sad. Truthfully, I think they were winning her the bike.

9 dollars, 4 tattoos, gummy hamburgers, and friendship bracelets, 5 trans fats (flavored tootsie rolls) a spaceshuttle, Wal-mart truck, and a jet-ski ride later, we had had all the fun/HIV we could handle.

This may be my final post. Screw you universe.


Hoppers and pervs

So yesterday I was mowing the lawn and a grasshopper tried to murder my neck. Any of you who actually know me are likely aware of my irrational fear of bugs. Seriously, everything from caterpillars to wasps, moths to grasshoppers. Very few bugs escape the umbrella of my irrationality.

So I was driving the mower and suddenly this devil grasshopper makes a b line for my jugular. I felt it hit, experienced a mild freak out, and then continued mowing. As I chugged along, I started to foster a mental image of this horrible little creature stealthily burrowing into my neck. Even though I could no longer feel it, I started to fear that it was probably still latched on there. So I reached up and felt where it had hit, and sure enough felt grasshopper spines. I re-freaked out, and slapped it away from my palpitating neck artery. It consequentially landed almost in my line of travel, and I slightly veered to the left, triumphantly blending it into oblivion.

Filthy grasshopper.

Speaking of filthy things. Tonight Colin and I ate at Hoppers. As we walked in and sat down, I noticed this decently cute girl practically burrowing into the arm pit of this gigantic creature of a man. He had one of the sickest goatees I have ever seen. Big hulky fellow. Bald, tats, earings. Had to have stank of sweat and beer.

Whatever. Occasionally one encounters cute girls hanging out with freaks of nature. That wasn't really my concern. The horrifying, and supremely baffling thing was the fact that he was most definitely at least 30, while she couldn't have been more than 19. And I think I'm being pretty generous in that estimate. I was pretty disgusted throughout the meal and just kept saying to Colin..."How? How does this happen? I'm so confused right now."

I don't ever want to have daughters. I fear that if my little girl ever brought that gorilla biter home I would probably steal my father's golden rifle and bury a flaming bullet of righteous indignation in his chest. I'm sorry, but no man 15 years her senior shall ever date my daughter. Assuming I ever manage to procreate. Also assuming I don't do that very thing when I'm 33 and unwed.

I hate grasshoppers and pervs.