Window scraping in the future

One of my favorite things about my dad, is the fact that he always has the most ridiculous, state of the art, vehicular ice removal devices.

When I started my car this morning, I was dismayed upon realizing that Colin had borrowed and not returned my window scraper before I headed down to Nephi. How ever was I to remove the 5 inches of snow and ice encrusting my car? My father had just left in his truck, taking his scraper with him.

Then I remembered I was at my father's house, and there were bound to be multiple ice scraper options at my disposal. I returned to the garage, and immediately spotted the most amazing window scraper I had ever seen. I thought a few years back when he purchased several 3ft long, heavy duty scrapers, with a comfy hand grip, extra thick bristles, and a perfectly angled scraping head, that ice removal technology had pretty much peaked.

Lordy was I wrong.

Never could my mind have fathomed the need for a steel coil shock supporting the scraper head. Not so rough on the wrists, that way. A small button extension release allowed for an impressive maximum reach of 52 inches. So whether driving a Neon, or a jumbo truck, one is absolutely set for length.

Not one, but two thick, molded hand foam grips were wrapped around either end, allowing for maximum comfort and utility. If you were thinking at this point that there couldn't possibly be anything more to add to an already seemingly perfect snow removal device, you were sorely mistaken.

On the same end as the snow brush, lies a superbly crafted mini shovel/scraper hybrid. Its slightly concave shape allows for a perfect ice/snow scrape and toss combo move. I can see why my father bought at least two of them.

I had a weird desire to walk down the street, and scrape every car I could find, because with the Ultimate Maximum to the Max Ice Ass Kicker 2040, ice removal is fun. In fact, using this new scraper technology as a model, I think Nintendo Wii's next game should be a window scraping game. You know, for all of those people who never have the opportunity to scrape ice off of a car.


Unidentified creatures

I am really just wondering what sort of sub-human creature from the abysmal pit of the netherworld goes out to eat on Christmas eve, and leaves a sub 15% tip. I mean really.

Whatever phylum these particularly wretched creatures happen to fall under, they sure flocked to Carrabbas' last night. Perhaps a winged genus, hence the flocking. One that also has natural protection from the snow. Perhaps a thick layer of blubber. Or just cold blood. And a very very cold heart.

Okay, so whatever. People want to eat out on Christmas eve and I'm mostly okay with that. But for goodness sakes people. Your little familial gorging indulgence is causing me, and many a server/restaurant worker across the nation to get home to our families late. Which, again, I am mostly okay with, because I have to pay the bills somehow. However, when you come in and leave a sub par tip and CHRISTMAS is the next morning...Well, I pose this question; Does such a person really have a soul? How can a person feel good about keeping, albeit a total stranger away from their family on Christmas eve, and not be generous?

This is the first Christmas eve I have ever worked, and I will just say that I was astounded. I really had hoped that humanity would step up. Luckily, I was in the bar and so most of my cash intake wasn't entirely dependent upon the writhing mass of inconsiderate, slimy mystery creatures, which I'll just go ahead and call cheap bastards. I believe actually the Latin name would be Cheeapus Bastardus.

One other thing. If you come in to eat, don't express to me how very deeply sorry you are that I am having to work Christmas eve. Because if you really were sorry, you wouldn't be patronizing my place of employment on Christmas eve. You aren't sorry. You just feel like a terrible person for keeping me from my family, and are thus trying to placate your sense of guilt by apologizing for being the cause.

Even though you are the cause, as I said, I am mostly okay with it. Just don't say you're sorry (because you aren't) and leave a generous tip (because you should.) Very simple. I don't know how many times I heard people apologizing for us having to work last night, and how many servers I heard complaining about poor tipping.

So, cheap bastards of the world; if you must continue to be terrible tippers, at least crawl out of your embarrassing stingy holes for one night during the year. Just add like, 3 or 4 dollars to your normally pitiful sum, and your server will at least feel like you are a semi decent person and that you truly did appreciate his/her service on the eve of the pretend birth of our Lord.

Merry Christmas friends.


Vegas no parents 2008 cheese factory christmas adventure miracle featuring robert jordan's lord of chaos (no dignity part IV)

Sometimes I drive all the way to Vegas to watch a friend scalp some lousy BYU tickets, eat at a Carrabbas affiliate, purchase 1 pair of jeans and 1 pair of corduroys, gorge myself at a wretched $11.5 dollar buffet, watch 4 episodes of arrested development, eat Christmas tree shaped biscuits, play Clue with a 4 and a 7 year old, eat free economy salsa curd at the Beaver cheese factory, eat a cinnamon roll, a pint of highly fattening vitamin D milk, 2 scoops of Dryers ice cream, and an In-N-out double double all in a 5 hour period, and think, "Well that was a waste of a day and a half/a series of poor life decisions."

But then I recall the euphoria swelling within my breast as I felt the waves of sound bursting forth from David Hasselhoff's most blessed vocal chords wash over me in an orgy of musical majesty. I've never heard a more beautiful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

When Patrick told me that he had tickets to the Vegas Bowl and wanted to go down I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go." However, once I found out that David Hasselhoff would be rendering the crowd speechless with the national anthem, I was suddenly very interested in that wretched, mindless, waste of a Saturday night.

Somehow, David Hasselhoff slipped free of my mind over the ensuing tip grubbing, ass kissing hours at Carrabbas. When Saturday morning arrived, and Patrick informed me that he would be scalping the tickets I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go."

I can't go through southern Utah without stopping at the Beaver cheese factory. Or perhaps I should say, the cheese factory located in Beaver. I suppose one could make cheese from a beaver. Anything that could be milked, really. And everything that produces milk for an infant can be milked? (Question mark inserted because I am not positive as to the truth of that statement.) And milk can always be made into cheese. So I guess a beaver cheese factory isn't really all that preposterous a notion.

I love salsa curd. I approached the sample table just in time to see Scott shove his filthy hand right into the curd pot. "Getta toothpick you dirt bag." Moments later, as I was reinserting my toothpick into the curd bucket, I was similarly called a dirt bag by the aforementioned dirt bag. I maintain that it was less a filthy gesture than the initial fingering of the curd.

After conversing with an apparent elderly BYU fan while I pissed (weird) we were ready to head south again. I guess he was wondering what brought a man with purple slacks and a P coat to the Beaver cheese factory. "Scalping, sir." I zipped up and left.

After the fourth black man at the stadium offered to purchase Patrick's $50 tickets for 10 bucks, I began to feel like selling them was a waste of our life. Also, like a scum bag.

Scalping. No dignity.

It was somewhere between hearing the frat douche Arizona fans cheering in the form of the F word cleverly mixed in with their school letters, and witnessing a possible drug deal from a Winnebago, that it hit me like a ton of flaming bricks; I was going to miss Hasselhoff. I suddenly, for the first time in my life, wished I was a organized sport fan and had fought Patrick's supreme executive authority to scalp those tickets.

As I was standing outside the stadium gates, amidst the scalping scum of Vegas, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the announcement of Hasselhoff's pending musical number. I realized that although I would miss being able to actually bathe in his vibrant glow, to bask in his vivacious essence, I would still be able to hear him take Vegas' collective breath away.

It was absolutely beautiful, and EVERYTHING I had imagined. So powerful, so raw. I saw tears streaming forth unabated from the scalping dregs of the Vegas underbelly.

After the emotion wore off, I remembered that I was, if not necessarily personally scalping tickets, an accomplice to a scalper. No freaking dignity. I had not felt quite so humiliated in a long time, as I stood there amongst the ticket hustlers trying to make a couple of bucks. Or rather watched Patrick try to make a couple of bucks.

H&M was a disappointment. I didn't get to eat at the Winn buffet. I left almost an entire jug of Simply Apple in my cousin's fridge, as well as my phone charger. I didn't get to gawk at the Bellagio fountains, nor ride the big shot on top of the stratosphere. I didn't find a black P coat, nor shoes to my liking.

The whole trip seemed a waste, except for that one magic moment, that 2 minute slice of time when the heavens opened up, and Hasselhoff's voice rained down from above.

Worth it? Hell yes.


No dignity part III (absolutely unrelated to no dignity parts I-II

Let me throw this out there; I know that times is tough. I know the economy is down. I know people around here are all hearing that things are pretty bad. All of that, however, does not make it okay for you to pay me for a cup of soup with a sack full of nickles.

Seriously. I went to collect the checks from a table of 3, where everyone was paying separately. I picked up the 2 waiter-wallets with credit cards, and then one bulging wallet. Dumbfounded, wondering why it was so thick and clinky, I headed to the back of the restaurant. I looked inside and beheld a form of payment I had never heretofore encountered; a sack full of nickels. Mildly incensed, as I was extremely busy with 3 tables and running the bar, I walked back to the table. "How many nickels is this? I'm not trying to be an ass, but I really don't have time to count them out." "Oh uhh...like 5 bucks. No wait...$5.50."

"Thanks." He at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed. What the hell am I supposed to do with over 100 nickels? I am not a bloody Wal-Mart cashier, nor an effing Coinstar.

I am sick of the average people in Utah feeling like they are seriously affected by the economic woes of the nation. Yes, eventually all of that is going to trickle down and kick us in the chest; however it really hasn't yet. Last I checked, gas was $1.40 a gallon, and there weren't too many big bank CEO's patronizing the Orem Carrabbas, nor too many auto industry workers who were worried about loosing their $50+ an hour blue collar jobs. So really, this isn't so much affecting the Orem Carrabbas patrons, as of yet.

But, dear patrons, you are certainly acting like it is. I can perfectly understand that people are hesitant to spend their money on frivolities such as eating out right now. I mean, eventually we are all really going to feel the pinch of this ludicrous bailout(s). So really, it isn't the people who are eating out less, to which I am referring. Perhaps they are wise to conserve their money. I am referring to all of the bastards who are still coming out to eat, still ordering their fillet's and appetizers, smoothies and martinis, yet skimping on the tip. Seriously, it's unreal. We are pretty much as busy as ever right now. However, receiving 10-15% tips has become the rule, rather than the exception.

I've mentioned this before; 15% is not a good tip. It is the bare minimum one should leave, even if not entirely pleased with the service. Most servers probably rarely deserve less than that. So I guess it is so supremely frustrating because the only thing people are really curbing, is their generosity. The $5 tip has become standard on anywhere from $30-48. On $60-90, people are leaving $10. It is ridiculous. People; if you can afford to drop $90 on a meal, you can afford to leave the necessary tip.

And please, for the love of baby Zeus, don't pay someone with a sack full of nickels. Try to conserve at least a shred of dignity.


No dignity part II (although completely unrelated to no dignity part I)

Church seems to usually be one of 2 things; either a really great, uplifting experience, or a total circus. It seems as though when one odd thing happens, oddities abound. Which, can either be really entertaining, or wholly annoying.

Yesterday was a fun church day. First, the choir. There are just certain songs that a really really small, mediocre choir should not sing. Like, anything super complex that has like 6 different parts going at once. The issue isn't that a small choir can't possibly handle something complex; the problem lies in the fact that almost every ward choir has the 1 or 2 token members who sing VERY strongly, and a little terribly. Not terribly enough that they don't rightfully belong in a choir; just painfully enough that you don't want to hear their voice rising above the rest. And when the rest are, say, 2 other guys or girls...it makes for a rough recipe.

Most of the songs were fine. But there were a couple, which I can't exactly recall (probably due to a subconscious mental block that my brain threw up) that were pretty painful, where our token rough little stars shone rather brightly above the mass. I appreciate that there are people who want to sing in the church choir. I just wish that all were aware of where their particular strengths/weaknesses lie. I myself have a decent choir voice. However, I am well aware of the fact that I should never ever be heard above the rest.

There was a really funny honker in sacrament. He would always blow his nose at the most inopportune moments. Like...in a transition between singing and speaking. No dignity. Silence would fall, and like clockwork a small, dull, delayed honk would pierce the silence. It was unique, in the sense that one could not actually hear any blowing occurring; it was pure honk. Usually there is a mixture; it is easy to tell that a nose is being blown. Not so, with this particular honker. It sort of sounded like a really small, depressed goose. And the only reason I ever figured out it was a male doing the honking, was because he continued it throughout priesthood (man class.) And he also fell asleep while texting in a not so clandestine manner, arm propped up on the back of the chair next to him, squinting at his phone held up for all to see. Again, no dignity.

Some good elder's quorum (man class) quotes: I think my favorite was an announcement for a small Monday night activity. "So, were gonna have a party out our place. Come screw off for an hour." So inappropriate and weird.

"I'm okay with the occasional quorum pie time." Whatever the hell that means. This was in response to a query on how more quorum unity might be achieved.

"How many of you have ever put your foot in your mouth? Oh, and I mean figuratively, not literally." Really? has anyone ever meant that literally?

Some member of the relief society (girl class) brought us treats to man class. When the treats were about to be passed out, these 2 loud, vocal clowns in the middle (who always had something "clever" to say about everything, always followed by raucous personal laughter, declared that the treats should begin in the middle, with them consequentially. This declaration was pretty much overridden by everyone else, and so on the treats went, down the left side, far from the middle. Their greedy eyes never left the basket, even though there were clearly enough treats for all. Anytime the basket was anywhere near, they would unabashedly call for it to head in their direction, even when such a change in trajectory would cause it to skip half the people in the room. No freaking dignity.

At least this Sunday there wasn't a talk from a crazy, 26 year old bitter, unmarried prude declaring that any priesthood holder who kissed a girl passionately wasn't worthy of his priesthood. But that is a story for another occasion.


Rub downs

Somehow or another, I have managed to dwell in Provoland for 5.5 years, yet I have never discovered or been aware of the fact that one may receive free massages on Friday nights and Saturday mornings from the Provo college of massage therapy. I feel just a little bit cheated.

Colin found out about it, so we went this morning. Which was cool because, A. free massage, and B. it got me out of bed before noon. Double bonus.

Fortunately, Ricky knew his business. Tall, dark and, I'll be honest, not incredibly handsome, Ricky had a quiet demeanor. I apologized immediately for my lack of ovaries and mammary glands. I think, were I an aspiring masseuse, I would be pist every time I had to give some dude the rub down. To be honest, as the receiver, I prefer to be man handled, and for a few reasons. A. Stronger hands probably means a better, more thorough massage. B. I feel like when lying under a sheet in nothing by my skin, having a mans hands kneading dangerously close to my groin is a little less awkward than a female's. C. I'm not going to feel inclined to hit upon a man who is touching me everywhere but my special purpose. Were it an attractive female, I might feel some sort of pressure to make a move. Which, being naked under a sheet, could not be done in a manner dignified/not perverted. "Hey, ya know, while I'm naked here under this sheet, I thought I might mention that you have really nice eyes." Creeper. D. With a guy, the only fear is an NRB*, which I have basically grown out of, and therefore that whole embarrassing possibility sort of just flies out the window.

About 3/4 of the way through the massage, the people in the next curtain over started having a conversation. I can't think of a more awkwardly obnoxious thing, than having a conversation while someone is kneading your naked ass through a sheet. I mean, common. Have some self respect. It was easy to hear that the aspiring therapist was not terribly excited about talking to the women whom she was rubbing down. Nakedly. It sort of reminded me of the time when Onyon the 16 year old scab pedicurist awkwardly talked to me whilst massaging my calves. I just think that when one is being rubbed nakedly, one's mouth should be kept shut, and conversation should be non-existent. Whenever Rickey had to ask me if the pressure was okay, he did so surreptitiously, with a sort of low, breathy voice. Which, now that I think about it, was sort of creepy. But better than naked conversing.

All in all, it felt great, and I think I shall find myself an at least monthly patron of the free morning massage.

*If NRB is a term foreign to you, urbandictionary.com can help you out.



While driving on Orem blvd a couple of times over the last month or so, I noticed a rather curious building. It is located on the west side of Orem blvd, around an area that seems a little shady. Painted upon the entire northern side of the building is a rather child-friendly mural, with large letters proclaiming it a "Children's Museum."

Every time I have driven by, I have always found it a little odd, because I never see any children coming or going from this "Children's Museum." Moreover I have always thought the location a bit strange as well. Why is this "Children's Museum" located in such a shady part of Orem? Why does it look sort of like an abandoned warehouse? Where are the children? The parents? The science? Today as I drove by, one of the large bay doors was open. I grew extremely excited to finally discover the contents of this mysterious museum.

It was full of white vans.


Stay away children, it's a trap.

Border disputes

Today I went to Smiths to get a movie out of the Red Box. I feel like since I am strictly working with a machine, no sabbath breaking is actually occurring. While browsing through the movie selection, there was a small man child running wildly about. His mother yelled, "Raiden! Raiden! Get over here! Raiden! Raiiiden! Get over here and get your sack. Raiden!!"

At first I thought that I heard "Braiden." I listened very closely to make sure that I was correct. I was indeed hearing "Raiden." As in, the Mortal Kombat guy. The China man that could shoot lightening bolts from his hands, and fly through the air like superman.

They named their child after a video game fighter. I imagined that the father was probably at home, powering up his World of Warcraft guild right at that moment.


On a completely unrelated note, I have a new dilemma occurring in my life. Back in June, I had some roommates that were unable to urinate without pissing all over the toilet seat. Somehow, the idea of simply raising the seat completely escaped them. They couldn't grasp the concept that A) no man can piss straight, and B) sitting in the remnants of one's own piss, much less that of someone else, is unpleasant, if not wretched. So, I wrote an anti-pissing message in permanent marker on the seat, and the problem has been solved ever since.

Well, when I purchased my bidet, I decided to install it in the downstairs bathroom for a couple of reasons; less anal traffic, and easier installation. The upstairs bathroom is more akin to a closet, and just changing the toilet seat was the most miserable experience of at least the month of June, if not most of the summer. Downstairs bathroom was to be my new bastion of cleanliness.

Down stairs guy pisses on the seat.

Or somebody.

The rub is, there isn't much I can do about it. It technically isn't my toilet, and I was sort of invading when I set up the bidet in there. I could tell he wasn't too excited about the installation. In other words, I feel as though I have crossed an illegal border, and therefore his seat pissings are out of my jurisdiction. I mean, if a Mexican comes into this country illegally, and he doesn't like the fact that I walk into his house and steal a Corona out of his fridge every day, tough bananas. He isn't legal, and therefore can't complain about my obnoxious habit of stealing Coronas out of Mexican fridges. Just like my situation.

So I guess I just grin and bear it? The whole thing is so mind boggling because I can't understand why everyone doesn't hate sitting in piss.

I am really starting to feel bad for that Mexican.


No dignity

I think being flipped off is one of my favorite things. I guess because it generally involves someone loosing control and being completely unable to think of any rational, thoughtful way to express their frustration. So, they do the one thing that instantly pops into their mind; they flip the bird. And then hopefully realize how silly they look, face contorted in anger, a rictus snarl and an effff youuuu upon their lips, waving their middle finger as though it were capable of shooting lasers and incinerating me where I drive/stand/sit/jump. No dignity.

Yesterday I was journeying to Jamba Juice. As I approached the roundabout near 24 Hour Fitness, there was a car ahead of me. As he arrived at the yield sign, there was not a car to the left in sight. Now, as simple as a round about is, I can sympathize a little bit when there are like...infinity cars around. I mean, having to watch cars coming from one direction is tough. It really is. However, as he approached, there was but one vehicle to his right. So he slows down and basically stops at the yield sign. I then proceeded to honk my horn one time. Not several exasperated honkings, nor even a drawn out honk. Just a quick beep to remind him that it was safe for him to proceed on into the scary, horribly confusing roundabout.

At that point, he drastically increased his speed, and flew through the roundabout as quickly as possible. I could see him checking his rear view mirror in a manner that suggested irrational anger. The quick, exasperated head snap, rapid multiple looks at the mirror, followed by a couple of head shakes. As soon as he was out of the roundabout, and clear of the first 2 cars parked on the side of the road, he dramatically swerved to the side of the road, and locked his breaks and came to a screeching halt. He then rolled down his window about 4 inches and shook his bird finger at me, snarling in anger. I looked at him and smirked/chuckled.

First, he was mad at me because I reminded him that he was too ignorant to understand the basic function of a roundabout. Second, rather than acting like a rational human being and continuing on his projected course, he pulls over and does the one thing that an apparently less than intelligent individual can think to do in such a supremely frustrating situation; he flips the bird. How embarrassing.

Remember this; flipping the bird is offensive never. It is merely embarrassing. So, if you happen to be a frequent flipper of the bird, by all means, please continue flying your finger of stupidity and entertain the rest of us with your ineptly expressed anger.


Worth it

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

I love everything about this; Little Gary Coleman in overalls and a cowboy hat, descending from the hugest dodge pick up I have ever seen. From which, he apparently tried to run over a poor man named Colt. Such a quintessential small town Utah name. Sounds like Mr. Coleman has settled into his Utonian habitat quite nicely. "Celebrities can't go nowhere or do nothin'..."

God bless you, Mr. Coleman. May the money from your childhood/Mormon movie stardom ever provide you with huge trucks and overalls.