Inglorious Basterds

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

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

Gimmie savings or i'll murder you with my feet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ethnic cleansing

I feel like a leper, graciously cleansed.

Farewell inadequate, barbaric anal wiping techniques.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frat bros

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

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

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

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

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

Nocturnal mysteries

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so confused.

Dear Observer

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

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

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

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

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

Was this thin skinned enough for you?

Love,

Fish

Bastard

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry.

Bastards unite!

A new age

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

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

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

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

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

God help us.

A gift from a true friend

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

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

Not a chihuahua.

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

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

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

And he has crazy eye.

We're screwed

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

A thorn in my side

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

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

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

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

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

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