#4. Forced comedy. When I write something humorous, it is that way generally because it is spontaneous. When Friday gets here and I can't think of something funny to write about, I have to stop and think about what might actually be funny. Hence, the unfunny nature of this current post.
#3. Too much assumption that there is anything in my life that would actually fall into the category of a 'Top Five.' My life is boring of late. Top five...chicken burgers I ate this week? Top five...times I got pissed at "the Destroyer" during the last few days? (The destroyer is the name which I have given my room mate.) Actually, that one might work for a top 5. What the hell. Here we go.
#5. Wadded up rotting army cloths in the front yard. Not much explanation needed for this one. Its pretty much what it sounds like. Nothing projects classy like wadded up dirty cloths laying around the yard.
#4. Each day upon entering the bathroom, the rug is folded over into a wad in front of the toilet. This is apparently done so that the Destroyer might weigh himself. Instead of simply rolling it back when he is done...it remains folded over. Every damn day. Without fail.
#3. Moldy bagels on the counter. One day when I woke up around noon, I stumbled into the kitchen feeling fairly worthless, as one usually does upon waking up at noon. To my pleasant surprise, a half eaten moldy bagel lay upon the counter. The rest of his moldy friends were sitting contentedly in the bag, mold spots here and there, seeming to mock whoever ate half of one without noticing. Is it so difficult to, once one realized he has ingested mold, simply throw the bagels away? Or was there a hope that some other unsuspecting fool would accidentally devour one of the filthy bagels? Then he could say, "Hey! Guess what?! You just ate a moldy bagel! Dumb! You are dumb! Not me, but you! Mwaahahaha!"
#2. "Fish. Can I use your blender?" "Yes," said I, "as long as you clean it after." "Are there any secrets to cleaning it?" said he. "Umm...not really. Just clean it." I am pretty sure that the secret to cleaning the Cuisine Art food processor/blender is not to let it rot in the sink for 3 days. Finally I cleaned it. After which, there was a message left upon the board for the Destroyer. It said something like, "Dear Destroyer. Shall the blender be used again and not cleaned immediately after, you shall be banned forthwith from any future blender usage. This is your last and final chance. Love, Fish" He bought his own blender shortly after.
#1. Rotting George Foreman. I was craving a chicken breast. Not so much a breast-rib combination as found in the chicken burger, but real, pure, unadulterated chicken out of a bag. Frozen. Cajun seasoning, cracked pepper. I retrieved the jumbo-tron bag of frozen chiggins out of the freezer unit. I plugged in the George Foreman. Within moments, there was a filthy rotten stench that began to permeate the air. "Why does it smell like a mouldering pile of dead chickens?" I thought aloud. Because I do that. I mean, think out loud. Suspiciously, I walked over and opened up the G.F. Low and behold festering, mephetic chiggin crustings were cemented all over said Foreman. Later on when confronted about it, the Destroyer replied..."Yeah, had to eat and run today." As though any such repugnancy could be created in such a short amount of time.
Ever has the topic, "where did the dinosaurs come from?" been an exciting discussion amongst the Gospel Doctrine classes in singles wards. Probably any ward. Was there a former dinosaur planet that was used as material to create the earth? Were the various periods of creation so long that dinosaurs had plenty of time to live, die, turn to oil, and be millions of years gone? Well, the latter theory certainly does not work, since there was no death till Adam ate the fruit. Unless of course Jesus slew all the dinosaurs in order that we might have future oil reserves. (Why did they all have to be slain in the Middle East?) According to this painting, however, he seems to be fairly amicable with the dinosaurs. I don't know that I've ever seen a more content Brontosaurus. That little alligator looks pretty happy too.
Even though my religion does not give me the answers to the big dino-question, luckily modern Christianity has some pretty good answers. Ahem.
"Those who accept the testimony of the Bible are confident that men and dinosaurs did occupy the ancient earth at the same time. We are not dependent upon modern discoveries to confirm that for us. However, when clear evidence does come to light, we should not hesitate to accept it." I feel so foolish for having never realized that my biblical testimony automatically includes the knowledge that Adam, Abel, and Enoch were chillin with dinosaurs.
It gets even better.
"There seems to be a reference to dinosaurs in the book of Job. Reference is made in chapter forty to a creature known as 'behemoth.' Behemoth is so powerful that no man is able to capture him This descriptive can hardly apply to the hippopotamus for Egyptian monuments frequently picture warriors attacking the hippo single-handed. The vegetation of whole mountains is said to supply this behemoth’s food, yet the hippopotamus eats only about two hundred pounds of herbage daily, and he stays near the water." Elephant?
Job was clearly dealing with dinosaurs. Duh.
"Some people believe that the Bible is not a scientifically accurate book, and that it is only a 'spiritual book,' that forgot about dinosaurs or described them incorrectly. This is not the case. Nobody has ever proven that the Bible contains any inaccurately recorded information."
Smith. Erasmus. Luther. Tyndale. Most ludicrous thing I have ever read.
I feel like LDS art is getting boring. There are 10 different Greg Olsens, doing basically the same paintings. I suppose such a thing is understandable; how original can one be when painting virtually the same thing that every other Christian artist is painting? Well, as the first picture in this blog has shown, there actually is a largely unexplored aspect in Christian art--Biblical dinosaurs. Greg, here is your future.
Macey's was about 6 blocks away from my house. Back then, there were lots of fields and orchards around Orem. Not so much now. On the way to Macey's, there was a rather large field with a billboard in the middle. Grey and I, being natural scrounges, decided one day to go root around underneath it to try and find some quality garbage. I guess finding massive piles of pigeon feces was the next best thing. Whilst being amazed by the enormous amounts of excrement, we suddenly saw something flapping around in the weeds. It was a pigeon. After a few min of chasing it about, we finally caught it. We headed straight home, all thoughts of 10 cent Macey's ice cream cones abandoned. Flying rats are way cooler than ice cream.
Luckily Grey had an empty rabbit cage at his house (empty due to the fact that my cat had previously slaughtered it, I think) and so we kept the bird there. That wretched pigeon shat on me twice, so we named it Poo-geon. Quite clever.
All summer long we raised that stupid bird. We would take it out to Grey's enormous back yard and throw it up in the air in order to teach it to fly. As though the stupid damn pigeon didn't already know how to fly. Anyways, by the end of the summer, poogeon could finally mostly fly. We decided it was time to release him back to his pigeon world.
I approached the billboard in the field, Poogeon contentedly sitting upon my finger. "Are you ready little guy? Are you ready to be free once more?" Looking quite noble, as a pigeon naturally would, he seemed to look me in the eye and say, "sure. I'm sick of you throwing my ass into the air all the time and keeping me in a smelly rabbit cage." Whatever else, I felt like I had done a good deed over the summer. I had spent my valuable summer days nursing this majestic bird back to health. With a lump in my throat, I tossed Poogeon into the air one final time. His wings spread and up he soared, molting away his captivity. "Yes! Fly! Go! I cheered, as he drew ever closer to the landing on the billboard. Suddenly, within a foot of his destination Poogeon began to angle downward. I watched in horror as my entire summer suddenly dive bombed into the middle of state street, and was utterly crushed under a speeding car tire, blood, feathers, and viscera shooting out in all directions. I stood there in shock as the last feathers slowly floated to the earth. What kind of moronic pigeon commits suicide? How could he do that to me? I wasted my whole bloody summer taking care of him, and he goes and offs himself, first chance he gets. Filthy ungrateful bird. I vowed from that point forth to never help another animal. I would only shoot them with rifles and eat them. At McDonnald's. Or anywhere else.
I couldn't wait till the next time I ate pigeon Mc'Nuggets.
Question. This is an either or. There are no modifications. Either once a week (at a random time) Nickelback bursts out of your chest, sets up their gear and plays a 90 min set. They play "Rockstar" at least 3 times. You are not allowed to in any way inhibit your ability to absolutely enjoy this experience i.e. no ear plugs, no narcotics. If you stab out your ear drums, they instantly regenerate. After the set, they climb back into your chest, and sew themselves back in. You can not turn this into a lucrative venture. On the bright side, once a year the lead singer of Creed also climbs out of your chest for a cameo appearance. A 60 min loop of "Higher" ensues, followed by a 30 medley/duet of "Higher" and "Rockstar," the ultimate hybrid song.
Every 24 hours you give birth to a litter of baby snakes. No epidural. You are not allowed to give them away or kill them. If people come asking for the snakes, they are allowed to take up to 27% of the litter. You may not advertise. Otherwise, you lead a completely normal existence.
Please answer the question. This is important. Probably to a lot of people. I suppose my great curiosity in all of this is, could there be anything worse than a weekly personal concert by nickelback, alien-esque chest bursting aside?
Also, I promise this is not the beginning of this blog's digression.
alone year after year,
i need someone to climb on in,
i need someone to steer.
cyclical has been my yearly path,
my destination unknown,
so many times I've merely drifted,
wherever the wind has blown.
at times i fear this boat will sink,
and drown me in the deep,
a place from whence i can't escape,
a place of eternal sleep.
as the waters froth about,
and as the storm rolls in,
i fear my boat has entered a battle,
it can not possibly win.
even though the storm is fierce,
i hold on to this thought,
the wind can easily toss me about,
but defeat me it can not.
someday the storm will surely pass,
and then the fog will clear,
in the distance ill see the one,
who's ready to help me steer.
#5. Sweet spikes man. This goes back to my bucket-o-gel days. Dollar store, 70 oz. This is such a late-90's normal guy hair cut. My mom probably loves it. My face is fat. It is still fat.
#4. The butt cut. So around this time period (7th or 8th grade) the butt cut was all the rage. My friend Mikey had a butt cut. Grey had a butt cut (although his parents also allowed him to have a rat tail, of which i was infinitely jealous. So now I have one). There was an on going battle between me and Mikey about who had the thickest, bestest hair. No joke. One fateful day in Mr. McKnaughton's shop class, we were learning how to measure super tiny stuff. Like hair. So he asked for a few follicles from around the class. Mikey and I obviously volunteered. Rivulets of sweat were drizzling down my back, as we awaited the results. This was my one chance to outshine Mikey. Sure, he could kick my ass when it came to karate and wrestle fighting on the trampoline. Indeed he was a more proficient Teken, Warcraft II, and Day of the Tentacle player. But if I my hair was truly thicker....oh the glory. As the results of the various thicknesses were eloquently read by that truly inspiring shop teacher, I watched Mikey's head hang in shame, stringy thin hair covering his eyes like a cheap tattered curtain. Boo-ya.
#3. Embarrassingly enough, I believe this was 9th grade. Dear lord, what did my mother do to me. First mistake. Button up denim shirt. I feel like I have seen at least one denim-clad family photo in just about every Utah household I have ever graced with my presence. Why? How was "Hey, lets get the family together and wear jeans on our chests and take a picture by a fence somewhere" ever a good idea? Blue, from head to toe. The girls jeans probably didn't have butt pockets. Extra flattering.
I feel like this haircut is some kind of a wave-butt cut hybrid. It looks so smooth. Fluffy. Not hot. My teeth
look great too.
#2. At this point in my life I was know throughout the family as "plastic head." This was when the bucket-o-gel was first introduced to me. Much cheaper than L.A. looks mega-hold. At the end of the day it was always real fun to lift up small chunks of my hair and crunch the gel between my finger tips. My mom was pissed (and still is pissed I think) that I snuck that red and black bead necklace into the photo shoot. I guess it clashed with my shiny Alaska fish shirt.
#1. Denim shirt. Christmas sweater. High Sierra Jeans. Ocean Pacific "skate" shoes, complete with shiny black stripe. Hot model-esque pose. Gold rimmed glasses. Hair, fine as silk.
On second thought, this is probably the best Me ever.
(First, let me make a disclaimer. My parents bought me. I was not a product of my wonderful father's seed, nor did I slide out of my beautiful mother's womb. Cold hard cash baby. I like to imagine I was carried home in a big brown paper bag, like from the grocery store. Therefore, any disparaging comments concerning my homely appearance, reflect nothing upon the beauty of said parents.) Exhibit A. Imagine. This kid approaches you (and unfortunately he did slide out of your womb, dripping in goo) and says, "gee ma, can Santa afford to bring me an electric guitar?" Before your thoughts metastasize into "how will you ever play a guitar with those fat fingers?/we can't afford one," think about this: how will this poor child ever get a girlfriend, much less beget another goo-covered screaming man-child? Through mad guitar skills, that's how. I suppose that guys can now impress chicks with guitar hero skills to a certain extent. But I think the line, "Hey baby, how'd you like to be on they guy who spent 4 months of his life mastering Dragonforce on expert?" is likely only successful 15 or 20 times. However, "Hey, me and my bros are havin' a little Jack Johnson sing-a-long at my place later...just wear your swimsuit or whatever, it'll be chill," most certainly works EVERY time. Soon, your little butter face with the gold rimmed glasses will be providing you with all the heirs you could have ever hoped for, conceived to the smooth tunes of Jack. Ugly or not.
When a guy is 25 and not married, his friends and family naturally think he is gay, or can't play the guitar. A man with no guitar skills might as well be infertile. Like mules or ligers.
What a jerk. He could have blinded my already half-worthless eye.
#4. Frostbite on Mt. Everest. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I feel like I am one who enjoys a great deal of adventure. Freezing until my digits turn black and fall off, however, is not appealing to me in the least bit. Climbing a mountain will never be worth a life of nubs.
#3. Falling into a tree well. Oprah taught me that this is a real sucky way to die. Apparently when one falls into a tree well (real loose powder surrounding a tree, several feet deep) one's first act is generally a sharp inhalation. As the ice crystals blast their way down the throat and into the lungs, the gag reflex is triggered, which causes one to then vomit, followed by drowning in one's own vomit. Why not simply not climb out? Because the snowboard acts as an anchor and it is nearly impossible to turn over unless one can somehow escape their bindings. Which is hard. So you die.
#2. Dragging a rickety hand cart through the mountains in 4 feet of snow with inadequate winter clothing, topped off with starvation and eventually eating my friends. R.I.P. Donnor party.
#1. Getting man-raped in the snow. First of all, getting raped by a man probably tops my list of least desirable occurrences even in the best of conditions. But in the snow, I feel like the horror of the situation is severely amplified. Frozen chest, face scraping on the crusty snow...I'll leave it at that.
I feel like my arm needs to be severed from my body. Have you ever touched something so filthy that you have no idea how you will ever scour the putrid feeling from your fingers? I fear amputation is the only answer. Or a vat of boiling acid.
I guess one should never assume that common sense dictates the same things to everyone. I suppose I thought that most people were aware that laundry detergent was necessary in order to avoid one's clothes smelling like a foot, ass, and a dead animal all fused into one fantastically malodorous conflation.
This idea has apparently escaped someone with whom I live. Or his olfactory system is severely malfunctioning. Either way, my hand was the one who suffered the wrath of his filthiness. Needing to wash some clothing (with detergent,) I foolishly assumed that the clothes in the washer had been...washed. I plucked out a pair of shorts and tossed them into the dryer above. As said article whooshed (they were kinda whooshy shorts) past my face, I felt like I had just been punched in the nose by a rancid ham. If a rotting corpse could run 15 miles, peel off his sweat soaked vestments, and then toss them in a churning cauldron of sewage, the smell which assaulted my nostrils might be duplicated. Un-friggin-real. Unfortunately I was fresh out of sterile latex gloves, so a Wal-mart bag had to act as a feeble guardian for my vulnerable flesh.
Second thing. I ate at the Cheesecake Factory last night. (I won't go into the 2 and 1/2 hours it took to get there due to stalled cars and rubberneckers.) The food was good. The cheesecake was ridiculous. The place it self was nice--sort of elegantly hip. All this is somewhat tainted, however, by their musical choices. As I opened the door, I was immediately assailed by a squealing saxophone. "Sweet jazz flute," I thought, as I sat down at the table. As much as I enjoyed the food and company, I couldn't help but be turned off by the smooth jazz. I guess if they were going for a "hey, come eat cheesecake in an elevator" feel, they got it right on.
Rotting clothes and cheesecake. What a great day.
Mostly, I just want to read Time magazine without feeling guilty.
Lately, each time I have allowed myself to be transported to the tragically sublime world of "Into the Wild," I can't help but feel my curious delight begin to languish away due to the guilt that slowly creeps into my subconscious. All recreational reading becomes tainted in the face of the "higher priorities" that I am neglecting. It is like drinking a delicious glass of juice, and as the final dregs are sliding down my throat, I spot the filthy crust ensconced in the bottom of the glass, that has surely permeated all that I have just swallowed. It is the piece of toast consumed, that afterwards during the resealing twist of the bread bag, I realize surely had as much mold as the rest of the slices.
I'm tired of tainted recreational reading.
I wont even start on the cognitive dissonance that I feel every time I write a new blog. Well, maybe I will. I am starting to wonder if I should have been an English major. I've certainly done enough writing as a history major to warrant the depletion of a small forest. Probably a forest full of baby animals, now all homeless and cold due to my historical arguments. How many baby birds have been stepped on, and crushed into a miasma of bone, blood, and viscera due to a lack of higher nesting locations? I shudder to imagine how many small animals have been killed on my account, all for the sake of a writing style that will do me absolutely no good in the future. I mean if every time I wrote a blog an entire burrow of baby rabbits was flooded, I suppose I could shoulder that mental responsibility. I actually enjoy writing blogs. But the mayhem caused by my research papers...sickening.
What is one to do when they arrive at the threshold of their life, and realize that maybe they should have built a different house?
I guess all I can do is pick and choose a bit more carefully in the future which baby animals to kill, and for what reason to kill them.
Having once failed in an attempt to appeal a parking ticket from Provo's finest, I was hesitant to get my hopes up that an assault on Logan's system would be any different. I believed, however, that I had a good argument, and thus Madame Justice would jump right into bed with me.
My argument was presented as follows:
today. I arrived in Logan last night and was staying with a friend at pine view
apartments. One can not park there, or at any other apartment complex
without getting booted or towed. The roadside was my only option.
Not being from Logan, I had no idea that one could not park on the side of
the road. I looked all up and down the street, and there were no signs
indicating that one could not park on the road. I have never been to a city
before where it was illegal to park on the roadside, with the exception of
narrow or dangerous roads. Anytime such parking was illegal, it was well
posted and very obvious. I feel that a parking ticket, in my circumstance,
is unjust due to the fact that I had no way of knowing that it was illegal,
and there were no postings of said illegality. I can understand my car being
towed in the event of a storm, if my car was indeed in the way of a snow plow.
However, there was no storm, and I knew there was not going to be one, and
therefore common sense told me I could park on a public road. Please
consider this appeal.
careful consideration your appeal has been approved. No further action is
Have a great day,
Madame Justice has smiled upon me. Let this be a lesson to all; occasionally the appeals system works. Parking cops will forever be A-holes, but let it be known--there exists at least an infinitesimal spark of mercy amongst the hierarchy of parking ticket committees. So benevolent, so wise.
I suppose more than anything, I'm just glad there are people out there who can appreciate boiled cabbage.
Allow me to further explain. In the great state of
I do not wear a blue vest with the blazing, golden smiley face on the back. You will find no golden arches gleaming forth from my chest. What is the significance? This means there is no higher force paying me to smile at you. I am not being compensated by a monopolistic corporation to put up with rudeness and inconsideracy (I think I just made that word up). In other words, when you walk through those doors and sit at my table, you are essentially renting my services for the next 45 min or so. Which means when you walk out of there having left an 8% tip, not only did you waste my valuable time, but you also just slapped me in the face. You, by your ungenerous actions, have said that I did a poor job and my time was not worth your money.
I have heard people say that they can not afford to leave a decent tip. Well unfortunately tipping is part of the dining experience, and therefore if one can not afford to tip, then one should not go out to eat. It is a very simple concept. If you want to eat out but you can't afford to tip, goto McDonalds or Cafe Rio.
How much should one tip? Let me first clarify that tipping and tithing have nothing to do with each other. You are not paying me 10% of all of your wages, so therefore the argument that "I ain't gonna tip no more than what I pay fer tithin'" is rendered invalid. That said, the percentage one should tip depends upon the quality of services given. If you feel like your server did a good job, you should give them at least 20%. Try this: add two dollars to what you would have normally tipped. The difference between $5 on $30 and receiving $7 on $30 is huge. And honestly, in the whole grand scheme of your life, does $2 really make a difference? If it truly does, I submit that you should not be going out to eat. But $2 in that situation makes a big difference to how I feel when I receive that tip. To me, that extra couple bucks says that the table appreciated my hard work.
It is ironic that generally the most demanding and difficult tables turn out to be the worst tippers. I am more than willing to accommodate one's irksome caprices and whims, as long as I am compensated for it.
Let me present another novel idea. Servers are not sub-human degenerates, unworthy of common courtesy. If someone greets you in any given situation, do you generally ignore their existence? Of course not. Normal human beings, when greeted in a friendly manner, return said friendly greeting. Why then, 80% of the time when I greet a table, am I not afforded this common courtesy? At times I wonder if the hostesses tell my tables that I have a lazy eye, and to therefore avoid eye contact at all costs.
Lastly, please interact with me. That probably sounds like a lonely, desperate, childish plea, but seriously...your dining experience will be far more enjoyable if you simply interact with me. I can promise you that tipping is made much more pleasant when you find you actually like the server.
As much as receiving a lousy tip hurts monetarily, it is actually worse on an emotional level. My feelings for my job fall into a love/hate dichotomy . On one hand, I work with fantastic people and great managers. It is a fun environment to work in. It's nice having a job that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the chest before I go in to work. On the other hand, I have never had a job that was more emotionally upsetting, and that made me want to stab myself in the chest on my way out.
(sorry about the picture, this made me laugh for about 20 min at three am.)
No polar bears. No Eskimos. I feel like those are the two greatest redeeming qualities of ridiculously cold places. Without polar bears or Eskimos, those nasty penguin and seal populations just flourish out of control. Then what? We've got a continent full of skinny, starving, waddling, flightless birds running around with nothing to do. Not to mention emaciated seals sliding around all over the place on their slippery chests. They grow weak because they don't have to run away from men in furry suits with harpoons, or huge balls of white fur with gnashing teeth. I can just imagine the frustration one encounters when strolling along the Antarctic ice shelf, and suddenly out of nowhere a seal comes sliding across one's foot. Filthy seals.
My next thought was, Logan and Antarctica are basically the same.
My nostrils were sticking together. You know it is cold when that happens. I was carrying an arm full of blankets. I had no gloves, so in short order my digits were numb. It was about that moment that I remembered why I really don't miss Logan much.
I woke up with a crinkled spine. That generally happens when I sleep on a couch that is too short for me. Which is every couch. Which is why I avoid sleeping on couches.
Shit. This was approximately my 4th thought of the day, as I pulled the glaring orange parking ticket out of the frozen crack in my door. What a way to welcome me back.
Where is one supposed to park in Logan? Apparently it is illegal to park on the side of the road between the hours of 1-5 am. I suppose that should have been apparent by the lack of ubiquitous welcome signs attached to posts, warmly inviting people to park on the side of the road. My mistake.
It was a strange feeling of longing that overcame me, as I walked between the frozen snow drifts toward the archives. I nostalgically reminisced longboarding across campus, lying in the grass on the quad eating Haribo coke gummies, walking friendless from class to class. Logan was a brief, strange chapter in my life, one I at times forget even occurred. It sits faded in the fogy nether regions of my memory, rarely visited, almost surreal.
Where would my life be now had I stayed? Would I still be pursuing a teaching degree? Would I have a permanently crinkled spine and be sucking my food through a straw due to a longboarding accident? Would I ever have found myself naked atop the giant bronze bull, my genitalia mingling with God only knows what communicable diseases left there by previous true-blue-aggie hopefulls? All certainly possibilities. All I can say for sure, is that some of the most important people to ever wander into my life have done so during the last year. I have met people whom I love almost as dearly as my family.
I suppose only one thing is certain; I love a lot more people than I did a year ago.
I seem to do a great deal of ranting in my blog. I didn't so much notice until the last week or so, but I feel like many of my entries are negative to an extent. Perhaps it is due to some slight depression.
I believe the source of said depression would be a glaring realization I had recently; I'm turning 26 this year. I have been the residing patriarch of everywhere I have lived over the last year and a half. I think it really sank in when I was registering my roof rack online for the warranty. When asked to enter in my age group, I no longer fell under the comforting blanket of 18-24; I was taken into the cold, icy embrace of 25-34.
25 never sounded so old.