I still feel like getting eaten by a bear is an inherent risk one takes upon adventuring into the wild. Not to mention, when people have food in their tents, as ubiquitous warning signs inform them not to, bears want to go in and eat it. And then when they find fresh meat AND potato chips...well you know. So I guess maybe my argument isn't so much as to whether or not this lawsuit is actually legal or frivolous...my question is, is it right? Again, will suing the government, and ultimately you and I, bring back their son? Will it bring them comfort? Will it soothe their angry hearts and take away the pain? Certainly not. Only the Mormons can provide that true release from pain (tongue in cheek.) I guess the question is, when does it stop? When do we, as humans, accept the fact that we don't need a damn baby sitter in the form of the government for every single thing that we do? How much are we willing to degrade the wilderness and tame it until it isn't even the bloody wilderness anymore? Wilderness...lets break down this word. Wild= untamed, uncultivated, unrestrained, uncivilized. Er= the place you go when injured by the untamed, uncultivated, unrestrained, and uncivilized area a.k.a. the wild. Ness= a state of being. And in this case, the state of being wild. Hence, WILDERNESS.
My point is, when the so-called wilderness is completely regulated, it looses that wild quality which makes it truly sublime. I am sorry that people go into the wild unprepared, and do foolish things. I am sorry that wild animals act like wild animals. But really, should bear protection fall under the blanket of government regulation? Here is a novel idea--read that damn signs that the government already put up informing you to NOT bring food in your tent and to NOT leave garbage strewn about your camp and to NOT put your baby on top of a buffalo and to NOT do a myriad of other stupid things that idiotic campers seem to constantly do.
It is time that we take responsibility for our actions, and not expect the government to swoop on in and save the day in every situation. And when the government for whatever reason fails to do so, maybe we should think of distancing ourselves from said over-protection instead of suing and calling for even more protective regulations.
Inevitably, I end up listening to some KSL talk radio news. For the most part, KSL radio news seems to be full of overly repetitive, unimportant, who-gives-a-damn-type stories. Today, for example, the number two story of the day, and one to which was devoted more time than any other, was about some dog named Seven that was apparently tossed from a free way overpass. Miraculously, and by the good graces of the Virgin Mary, Seven was able to survive his brutal toss from the lofty point. Luckily, KSL had a correspondent live on the scene at the veterinary clinic where poor Seven was being treated. I wiped several beads of worried sweat from my concerned, furrowed brow as the vet announced to the public that Seven was going to be OK.
Really? Is there truly nothing of more import happening in Utah, let alone the World, that KSL had to devote the longest chunk of time to a story about a stupid animal that got Jack Black'd off an overpass? Are we not in the middle of one of the dirtiest, meanest, and most direly important elections of our time?
Thank God, seven is OK.
The story that most pist me off, however, was concerning the kid who was killed by a black bear last year up American Fork canyon. The source of my anger, in this case, was not KSL's reporting. I am angry at the family. They are apparently suing the forest service for nearly two million dollars. They feel that they should have been warned that a bear had been seen in the area a few hours before.
They are possibly right-perhaps they should have been warned (even though due to the area they were in, there was likely nobody there to provide any such warning.) They are understandably hurt and angry about the loss of their son. But for heaven sakes, is two million dollars going to bring him back? What kind of wretched people are they, that they are turning their son's death into a lucrative venture? How would their son feel, knowing that his tragic death eventually bought mommy and daddy a new beamer and a huge house? Two million dollars in blood money. People disgust me. Why do we live in such a sue-happy nation? Why are there so many people utterly willing to capitalize on the death of loved ones? If there were hospital and funeral costs involved, by all means sue for that specific coverage. But don't get rich through tragedy. Have a little decency and respect for he who died.
Because I am broke as a joke. That's why.
However, that's beside the point. Why does hot soup, or hot chocolate, or ridiculously hot anything make my nose drizzle?
Does the steam loosen up the muccoids and cause them to begin to flow? Does this occur in direct relation to the heat waves flowing up the nose, melting the resistance of the mucus, and thus causing it to drip and run?
Am I the only one with whom this problem exists?
Who am I? Where did I come from?
Many of you have possibly been wondering if the destroyer has been laying dormant for a time.
He has not.
His reign of filthiness has somewhat loosened its grip of late, but this is certainly but a short term phase.
The putrescence will surely return, in all of its repugnant glory.
Before, however, the destroyer went on his momentary hiatus from slobbery, he did leave me with one preciously bewildering photo op. As previously documented, the destroyer loves smoothies. Having been banned from my food processor due to allowing his fruit crustings to dry as lichen upon the walls my fruit liquefying unit, he bought his own blender. The general process went as follows: Leaking frozen fruit bag left upon counter top for hours, thus bleeding fruit juice all over said counter--Eventual creation of smoothie--Consumption of approximately half of said concoction--Leaving the remainder of said smootie to coagulate in blender pitcher on counter for many hours, followed by eventual placement in fridge. Now, at some point between the counter top congealment and fridge placement, there is a pitcher exchange. This would be where the pitcher in the photo above comes into play. As said pitcher sat in the fridge for two days with the remainders of the Destroyer's smoothie fermenting inside, fruit bits gradually cemented themselves all over the upper half of the container, rendering the whole thing extremely difficult to clean. Of course, the Destroyer despises cleaning in even the easiest of situations. Therefore, as the last curdled dregs of the smoothie slid down his throat, his mind was certainly far from forming thoughts of a proper pitcher cleansing.
The chunky remnants of his smoothie surely left him immediately desiring some other form of liquid sustenance.
Enter Crystal Light--the one thing the Destroyer loves nearly as much as his smoothies. Apparently his love of fake, sugar-free lemonade and his hatred of cleanliness were enough to thwart all sanitary thought. Hence, the fruit crusted pitcher full of Lemonade.
Needless to say, the Destroyer doesn't ever have to mark anything as his. One must simply look for the crusty remnants of previous foods or beverages to determine to whom anything belongs.
So I guess I have been searching for a proper man bag now for quite some time. Wait. Let me rephrase that a little bit. I have been searching for a shoulder bag for my laptop for quite a while now. As I was in
My father enjoys slaying animals, so Dick’s Sporting goods was on the list of our destinations. As we were leaving, I spotted a guy with a man bag I had seen earlier in Urban Outfitters. I grabbed my mother and said, “Hey! Down there! That guy…in the…um…pink hoodie.” Suddenly, my arguments as to the manliness of man bags were dashed like a tiny vessel upon the merciless rocks of a girlie pullover.
My memory is flawed.
Where to begin. I believe the single most impressing thing about the film, is the fact that only about 4 of the characters throughout the entire story, speak with an English accent. Robin Hood himself, most obviously does not. I think he was from the mid west. Or the wild west. Or the distant melted future. Either way, Kevin Costner has the same accent in every movie in which he stars; none accent.
As the movie arrived to near the three-quarter point, Kevin climbs out of a beautiful pond. He is naked. His crinkly 38 year old white ass shimmers behind the sheen of water cascading from above. At which point I remembered out loud, "oh. Yeah. Kevin Costner's white ass was in every movie he made during the 90's."
I was also extremely impressed by the fact that, after two casual hang-outs, a knee to the groin, and a dance, Robin Hood was ready to be launched 100 feet over a brick wall from a catapult, fight his way through hundreds of guards, swing off the top of a castle hanging onto a strip of fabric, smash through a stained-glass window twenty feet below, all for Marian. And, in fact pronounce, "I would die for you." Dear lord, what lust.
I believe the biggest surprise of the film occurred just after the catapult launch. My whole young life I was under the impression that, immediately after the successful launch, Will Scarlet, or the "talented Christian Slater," said "Buck me, he cleared it." Turns out I was not hearing that phrase correctly.
I could continue, but I'll just say this; all in all, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves was a pretty bucking terrible movie.
Who are these mystery men?
(thanks to Mark for taking the picture)
I remember being 15 and fantasizing (I wish it didn't feel like that word has filthy connotations) about taking a few bullets for this girl that I had a crush on. We would be walking home from school. Suddenly, a man from the bushes would jump out with a gun and point it straight at her chest. Just as he fired the shots, I would leap in front of Amber Isaac, bullets piercing my chest cavity. Fortunately, in my fantasy the wounds never hurt and the bullets just happened to barely miss vital locations. And apparently, for whatever reason, the would-be murderer would usually just run away after his attack had been foiled. And there I lay in a pool of my own blood, head cradled in the lap of my crush, tears of gratitude streaming down her face.
I was a friggin weirdo.
Well, Friday night room mate 1 and I nearly had our chance to be heroes. 2:30 am. We had just finished a two hour endeavor to destroy all enemy tanks on Wii play. That ridiculous game is addicting. I have not yelled at a t.v. screen so much since my Mortal Combat II days when I was but a blooming, pre-pubescent man-child. My throat hurt. From yelling. We couldn't pass level 18. So we quit. As I walked to my room, I heard what seemed to be crying and desperate yelling coming from the vents. Intrigued, I knelt down on the bathroom floor and stuck my ear up to the vent. Mostly I heard a female yelling/crying "get off me...please...effing get off me, I can't breathe!" Bewildered, I looked at room mate 1 and said, "are you hearing this? Do you think we should go down there?" He suggested calling the cops. I shoved my ear back into the vent to listen. The struggling seemed to have stopped. They were having some sort of discussion, she crying and effing this and that. We decided to listen for a bit to make sure it wasn't going to escalate again, before calling the cops or performing a vigilante rescue.
In the ensuing minutes, she basically told him that it was over, that she couldn't believe he threw her on the ground, and that if he didn't think it was over, well she would just kill herself and then he could never have her. All this time I was thinking..."Who are these wretched people? Our land lord is a douche. Why did he move these white trash, domestic abusing dirt bags down there?" Slash, "I better get my hatchet in case I have to go down there." Well, after some more F words mingled with emotional discussion, we heard them go through the gate outside. She was walking briskly up the street, in a seemingly feeble attempt to escape the meaty clutches of her fat trashy boyfriend. I, stealthily, followed out the door, exceedingly sharp Gerber hatchet in hand. Suddenly, she kicked him in the shin and ran. Fat-Hands darted (if one such as he could be said to "dart") after her and grappled her in his beefy arms. Room mate 1 decided in that moment that calling the police might be prudent. I stood behind my car, heroic visions of grandeur coursing through my mind, hatchet aching for the abuser's blood.
OK well not really, but I was watching to make sure that nothing got too out of hand before Provo's finest arrived. Which they did. In like, 1 min. So after a short while, she got in the car with the police and Abuser Mc'Beef walked back to our lovely basement.
What a night. Our neighbors suck.
Look. If you are witless enough to be a smoker in this day and age, when even the most ignorant small-town hick is well aware of the health risks, you deserve what is coming to you.
Fine. If you, Mr. Smoker, desire to end your life in screaming agony, lungs and throat rotting away, that is your decision.
But. When you encroach upon my personal health (completely leaving out the repugnant, invidious stench) then that is when your disgusting habit becomes despicable. Who are you, Mr. Cancer Promoter, to encroach upon the health of innocent people? What gives you the right to exhale vaporous death in the vicinity of those who are smart enough to avoid sucking deadly carcinogens into their fragile lungs? Nothing is more maddening than being at a concert or some other event, and the one person smoking in the crowd is standing right behind you, enshrouding your head in a cloud of smoke.
Actually. There is a worse scenario. Living in a 70 year old, drafty house above smokers. The cigarette stench has now permeated our entire house through the ginormous heat ducts.
That is bullshit. I am pist.
Justification- Secondhand smoke: It kills about three thousand non-smokers a year from lung cancer alone, which is 30 times as many lung cancer deaths that happen due to pollution
ü It causes 36,000 deaths a year from heart disease
ü It causes 330,000 lung infections a year in babies and young children each year
ü It fills the air with many of the same poisons found in the air around toxic waste dumps
ü It puts babies at risk for SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome)
Hmm. It would seem to me that there are several THOUSAND more casualties being caused by secondhand smoke than by Al Qaida and the insurgents in Iraq each year. Maybe instead of pulling the soldiers out of Iraq, the government should consider pulling the cigarette companies out of America.
Here are a few more pictures that I decided it would be wise not to post. Check em out smokers. Might be your future.
I hate research papers. They acquiesce absolutely no personal feeling, but protest mightily any personalization. It matters not what I think or feel, merely what proof historical documents seem to offer. Lame.
On an important note--it would appear that Triclear acne solution is more than meets the casual observing eye. I was on facebook wasting a small portion of my life, when I noticed an add on the left side of the screen. My attention was at first drawn to the revolting bulbous white heads on the face of some unfortunate person. I watched, memorized as they were wiped clean from his face by a magic line the drew laterally across the picture. Nothing is more repulsive than a white head, but I couldn't help but watch it over and over again. Not sure why. Due to my careful scrutiny, however, I was able to notice the true magic of the product--mustache removal. When the face had zits, there was also an ever-so-tiny mexi-stache incipient above the lip. As the wonder-line moved across the zits completely eradicating them, said stache was also pulverized.
What a wonderful solution. A product that will not only clear up my semi-sucky complexion, but also provide a clean shave. Well worth 70 bucks.
I Blinked. I was in bed. I checked my calculator watch. 7:30. Perplexed, I thought "why on earth am I awake at this ungodly hour?" As I lay there, musing upon what could have possible awakened me from that wretched dream, I began to assess my surroundings and current condition. My spine was mildly crinkled, but that certainly wasn't enough to account for the awakening. Small amounts of light were furtively peeking through my window shades. Not sufficient to waken me. I wasn't sweaty. I wasn't cold. Why was I awake?
I sniffed. Everything suddenly made sense.
There was nothing surreptitious about it; I had been blind-sided by popcorn stench.
As I lay there, nostrils being raped by the inescapable onslaught of popcorn redolence, I wondered, "what sort of person eats popcorn at 7:30 in the morning?"
I then thought, "Oh. Probably the same person who leaves dirty socks in the sink."
Early morning popcorn stench makes sleeping impossible. I'm Pissed.
Let me describe the process that goes on at my house. Food is cooked by me or room mate 1. Dishes are subsequently cleaned or loaded into the dishwashing unit. Food is prepared by the destroyer. Dishes remain in the sink until room mate 1 or I clean them.
The sink is also, apparently, a garbage can. The destroyer opens a can or bag of food. The sink, being much more convenient and nigh his meaty fist, ergo becomes a proxy garbage receptacle. There the garbage remains until I, or room mate 1, place it in its proper location.
When messes are made at my home, I, or room mate 1 clean them up. The destroyer never ever cleans. Never ever. He merely destroys. Occasionally, when something is brought specifically to his attention, he might take care of it. Socks in the sink, for example. I walked into the bathroom with designs to cleanse my teeth, when a pair of crusty, begrimed socks greeted me from the sink. "Hmm. Why are these socks in the sink?" I wondered. And then I laughed. The garbage in the sink...I see the logic. Never washing dishes...I understand the motive, or lack thereof. But I couldn't for the life of me imagine a reason as to why one would put socks in the sink. So I asked, "Destroyer? Is there a particular reason as to why your socks are in the sink?" "Wha...? Oh. I dunno, but thats gross though." He then removed them.
It never ends. Or makes sense.
How about the red Honda civic with the mostly painted gray stock car body kit, with the gargantuan spoiler and bubbly tinted windows? When approaching one of these cars, everyone automatically knows that a Hispanic male will be found in the driver seat. Just because I can feel his muffler reverberating through my chest as he drives by, does not mean I am impressed. Again, only those with equally shitty mufflers would feel inspired as their hearts and lungs are rattled in their rib cages.
What about the douche bag driving the Hummer H2? What is he trying to prove by getting 6 miles to the gallon, besides looking super tough and shnazzy with his oval Oakleys? For what is he compensating? How many people see his sweet rims and think, "I bet a really nice guy drives that thing. I'd sure like to meet him."
My question in all of this is, do these people realize that they are driving "profile cars?" Or are they completely oblivious? Are they so bent on placating their egos that they are blind to the fact that everyone is laughing at them or rolling their eyes as they drive by?
I think the answer to this query may be closely linked to the phenomena of why exactly bros think pink polos, a popped collar, and pooka shells are a good idea. Perhaps it will forever be a mystery.