Tongue in cheek

So a few days ago I had a black man arrested for interrupting my lunch. Okay not really. But actually kind of.

Let me explain, for I realize that sounds pretty absurd. I mean, you are likely thinking..."What? A black man in Provo? Preposterous."

Colin and I were eating at Sam Hawk for lunch. Its located right next to that really awesome dollar store called Honks. 88 cent Tuesdays. Get outta town.

So we're eating, and this black guy comes in. (I only point out that he is black, due to the anomaly of actually interacting with a black man in Provo.) There was only one other table in the restaurant, besides Colin and me. So the guy approaches the table and assaults me with a flood of incoherent, drunk smelling conversation. All I could really understand was something about talking to him around the corner. I responded that I had no idea what he was talking about.

He then, incoherently, asked for money for food. I replied that I had no cash. He then asked me if I would just buy him a pizza. I told him I would think about it, hoping he would just go away. Due to his incoherent drunkenness, this entire exchange took about 2 minutes, by which point I was becoming rather annoyed. After I told him I would think about it, he then grabbed a chair and sat down and stared at me.

"Hell no," I thought. I'm eating lunch.

So while sitting there staring at me, he started harassing the poor little Asian waitress, mumbling something about stealing her bike. Realizing that the Koreans obviously weren't going to do anything about the situation, coupled with the fact that the Provo city police department certainly didn't have anything better to do, I decided to head to the bathroom and give them a call.

Like...53 seconds later, two cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. One of the cops came back in and asked what happened and who called. I explained the situation, and then the cop asked the waitress if the man had ever been in there before. She responded that he came in and bothered them EVERY DAY. Every damn day, and they had never done anything about it.

This is America, dammit. You can kick people out of your store when they act like and/or are drunken assholes. So really, I was sort of a hero. The cops told the owner that if the man returned, they would arrest him and take him to jail. Who knows how long those poor Koreans would have put up with that.

Upon arriving home, it suddenly dawned on me why the guy said he had talked to me around the corner.

Because he had. At my house. Like...2 months ago.

He showed up on the doorstep, asking about the room for rent in the basement. I informed him that such a room didn't exist. He sat there confused for a minute, and then asked me if I was sure. I let him know that I was fairly certain that there existed zero hidden rooms in the basement for rent, but that he would be welcomed to stay in the creepy dungeon room with the dirt floor, stone walls, and spiderwebs draping from the ceiling, for a small stipend. I asked him what address he was looking for, and he gave the first half of my address, but on 1st west. I informed him he was a block off.

So I had this little epiphany after I called the police and got him handcuffed. I hope that he was drunk enough that he thought the Koreans called the police, and therefore doesn't retaliate by stealing my bike. Maybe he will just steal the waitress's bike, which certainly can't be as expensive as my bike.

Moral of the story? Don't drunkenly interrupt my lunch.


No dignity part VI

Pleeeeaassseee. Please. Puhhhllleeeease. For the sake of your own personal dignity, and my sanity, PLEASE don't ever, whilst dining in a restaurant, ask if something is FREE. Like, for instance, if I ask you if you desire an appetizer. Rather than simply saying, "Not today," PLEASE don't say something to the effect of, "Do you still bring out the free bread?"

And then please don't proceed to convince the others at your table that an appetizer is unnecessary, because he (me) is going to bring us (them) free bread (damn you.)

When you are at Denny's, it's probably okay to ask if something is free. Like if you are worried that all those little jelly's that come with your grand slam toast are free or not. But not in a restaurant where there exist items upon the menu that exceed 20 dollars. And where wine is sold. And where the servers aren't wearing jeans, but pressed white 100% cotton shirts and ties.

Have a little dignity, and avoid the word "Free."

I guess I should have seen 4 dollars on 37 coming.



Does anyone else feel like this picture is rather baffling?

Every week I go drown myself in nerdery for about an hour and a half at BYU. I am attending a "how to write science fiction and fantasy" class, filled with the greatest collection of world of warcraft indulging dragon lovers that I have ever encountered. There is one guy in there who changes his computer screen back ground at least 3 times per class, usually starting with some sort of mystical dragon imagery, and ending with a scene from some absurdly beautiful elven realm.

After explaining some final requirements, Mr. Sanderson asked the class if we would prefer him to talk about how to create short stories, or to look up other people's self published fantasy books online, and rip them apart/fix them. Obviously the latter was what the majority chose. He would google search for self published fantasy novels, find one, and then find the first chapter online. He would then have someone in the class read the chapter out loud, and then he would critique it.

This was funny, because people in the class would be snickering and mocking the ridiculousness of what people were writing about, or their writing style, or whatever. Mr. Sanderson implored people not to laugh, to just learn. All I could think about, was that here was a heaping bundle of aspiring fantasy writers, making fun of crap that was more than likely just as bad as whatever they were writing. I mean, the whole class was laughing. And unless Mr. Sanderson some how put together some truly magnificent, crack squad of prodigy amateur writers, chances were that at the very least half of those scorners' own stories sucked.

As people made suggestions on how to better improve these stories, I could see them just seething with pretension. I could practically hear them thinking, "I am someone credible because I am taking a class from fantasy master Brandon Sanderson." Yeah, so am I, and I'm a nobody, just like you. I guess all I'm saying is, the guy with the World of Warcraft t-shirt and the flaming unicorn battling an orc screen saver really shouldn't be making fun of anybody, for any reason.

So on my way out of class, I noticed the above picture. It is one of those pictures that are located in pretty much every BYU edifice, portraying the building's namesake. And this is certainly the weirdest one I have ever come across. If the picture is of 3 siblings, then that is one strange set up. It seems to me, however, that the 2 snuggly old people are married. And then there is the other guy. Just standing there. With the snuggly married couple. Just right there. Happy as a clam to be included. Not to mention the painting of the strapping old fellow striking a rather swarthy pose behind them. Its like a suit waterfall, cascading into a turquoise pool of old lady.

Cool. I guess. Or something.


Kissing and stuff

As previously mentioned, I came across my old journal. This little gem was written about a girl on whom I had a most intense crush.

"Amber Isaac. Isn't that the best name you ever heard? That is the name of the girl I plan to mary. She or if she is taken, maybe her sister." As Mormons, it would appear the desire to get married is instilled in us at a rather young age. "After my mission, she will be about 20. And if shes not already taken, I'll hit on her hard." I have no idea what exactly I meant by that. At that age, quite possibly I was planning on shoving her into a bush or giving her a white wash to prove my love. "But if she is taken, I have some alternatives. Its like this. Her sister, is most likly going to be a babe. She is younger than me, but when she gets more developed she will be hot." That statement would be rather incriminating and pretty perverted, had I not made it before I even had more than 7 public hairs. And yes, I misspelled that on purpose. Sounds less filthy that way. Who left the publics on the toilet? See? Way less harmful. "But any way, if Amber is taken, her sister will be about 18 or 19. It will work out well. Like I said, I have it all figured out."

I read this journal entry to a friend tonight. As I read that last part, it dawned on me that the person to whom I was reading was barely 20. So...When I was 14, I was writing about how I would marry a girl who was the age of the girl I was sitting next to...which means the girl I was sitting next to was approximately seven when I was making that entry. Yikes.

"The time I look most forward to, is waiting for my ride. That is about the only time of the day I get to talk to Amber. (When she is there.) I also get rides with her quite a bit. I love talking to her. I can be having the worst day, but if i talk to her, My day flips a Uie. I am going to right some info that I have found out about her: her b-day is June 11, her favorite band is No Doubt, and she also likes Oasis, and Bush. She likes the radio station x-96. She moved to nephi about 2 yrs ago. She likes to roller blade at the old gym on saturday nights from 6:00 to 9:00. I am thinking about asking her to go with me mabey this sat. or the next."

I was quite an adept little stalker, it would appear. I love that I referred to it as "info" I found out about her. This actually reminds me of a crush I had on a girl when I was like 10. She was my piano teachers daughter. Her name was Mandy McClellan. My crush consisted of calling her up, and then hanging up, (which tactic I still currently employ, although it is way less dramatic since there is not actually a phone to slam down, just a button) and spying on her house from behind a parked car, and throwing little pebbles at her door. Which, turned out to be the wrong house entirely. It would appear that I would become greatly disoriented in the 6 block car ride to get to my piano lesson. I was off by like...3 cul-de-sacs.

This entry was the best though: "Today was so boring. I probably went through my, well the conversation that I am goin to have with Amber tomorrow a ton of times. (or when ever she is waiting for her ride next time wich will hope fully be this week.) First I will go up to her an casualy ask when again the time on saturday that the place to skate opens." So phenomenally incoherent, that last sentence. "Then I'll ask if she goes there often. Then ask if lots of people go. Then I'll ask what kind of roller blades she has. And I'll ask how good she is. Depending on that answer, if she says she is not very good I'll ask her a couple of questions then I'll say do you want to go this saturday? Mabe I could show you how to do some stuff. Or if she is good, than I'll just ask if she is going on Saturday. Then if she say's no, I'll say, mabe well have to go togeather some time. it will work out quite nicly."

The sad thing is, I still do this very thing. Honest to God.

The next entry, 2 months later, bears sad news. "Well, I'm over Amber Isaac now. A ton of stuff has happened since I last wrote and stuff. I found out that Amber really liked me. She even wanted to go out with me and stuff. So I a asked her out but she couldn't because of her parrents and stuff. So we got really close. We even kissed once. Then once i put my around around her and stuff. We would go on walks and stuff alot. We would hang out alot and stuff. Then once saturday we were at classic and I asked her out again. But she blew me off. Now we are barely even school friends. Mean while I started to like this girl Julie Martinez. But she really likes one of my best friends alot so I don't got a chance." Story of my life.

So, in three consecutive entries over a span of 2 months, I found my true love, the girl I wanted to marry, planned and apparently successfully executed a stellar conversation with her, and then lost her. Apparently, when 14, somehow the kiss proceeded the arm around step. Well, I guess that was probably because it was an arm-around-and-stuff. The kiss wasn't even a kiss and stuff. Just a kiss. So, I guess the "stuff" is what made the difference there. Although, I can't for the life of me remember what the stuff was. Boy, it must have been great though. So great, that I had to codify it with "stuff." You know, In case my journal ever fell into the wrong hands.

Dear God, no wonder I lost her.


Hey asshole

OMG. One of the funniest things I have ever witnessed occurred today, and I fear I completely lack the writing ability to do the story any justice.

This afternoon I and 5 friends long boarded the canyon. Somewhere near the bottom, there is a bridge. Adjacent and parallel to the bridge, there is a large cement tube extending over the river. Upon arriving at that particular spot, I mentioned that I had always wanted to skate across the cement tube. So David, on an old school neon pink board called "Turbo II," did just that.

So there we found ourselves, all on top of the tube, looking down at the fish. After about 20 minutes, we all climbed back down to the bridge and were looking at the water. Mark climbed down over the side of the bridge, and was attempting to untangle a piece of fishing line in hopes of finding a lure. Apparently he is suddenly into fishing.

Joe was standing to my left, and Andre, David and Holly to my right, and Mark was below us on a small ledge near the water. Joe, holding onto the rail, suddenly leans back. I hear a squealing of breaks, and I look to the left just as a man skids to a stop on an old, orange mountain bike. With his left hand on the handlebar, he turns the rest of his torso around and says, "Hey asshole!"

I immediately noticed that this man looked remarkably similar to Napoleon Dynamite. So, if you will, picture a slightly more retarded looking Napoleon, curly hair smashed under a helmet, yelling "Hey asshole!" If he did not sound exactly like Napoleon, may God strike me dead where I type.

At first, I thought he was scolding Joe, for having leaned out and possibly almost caused him to wreck. However, Napoleon was looking at Mark with a really bewildered, angry look on his face. The next thing he yelled was, "What are you doing down there!?"

"What?!" yelled Mark. But in a really ridiculous, exaggerated voice. One would probably have to know Mark to get a complete grasp on what was about to follow. Mark is the guy who used to, and not at all subtly, change the words in church hymns to things like, "skowdle dodle skeedle dee, treedle dodle dee." For example, Angles We Have Heard On High might go something like this: "Angels skeedle deeeeedle dee, skodle treedle deedle dee, and the mountains skowdle dow, hum bum skeedle, deedle dee." Plenty loud, for all to hear. Mark is also the guy who, in a talk in church, advised the congregation that we were to "commit none such murderings, or stealings. Nor robbings, nor stabbings, nor plunderings, nay, not even one plundering." Mark is also the guy who used to go to parties and play "game killers," which consisted of him going up to a sweet bro talking to a girl, and attempt to kill his game. This task was completed by proving his own fabricated higher level of douchebaggery, usually accomplished by explaining how sweet his car was, and how his dad had totally hooked him up with a Costco card and a big screen TV.

That is Mark.

"What are you even saying to me mister!?"
"What the heck are you doing down there?" Asked Napoleon.
"What?! Because I can do what ever I want!" ridiculously exclaimed Mark, as he dramatically threw his fishing line down into the water.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?! That water is col..."
"What?!" As Mark cut him off in mid sentence with another what, he slapped his hand down on the rail, and then climbed back over the rail. It would appear that at that point, Napoleon didn't really know what to do, and so pedaled away, looking over his shoulder every few feet. He stopped again, about 50 yards down the trail and stared for another few moments, before continuing on.

I was barely able to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Part of what was so funny was the irony of calling someone he thought was going to possibly kill himself an asshole.

It is quite possible that this is funny to nobody but me. As I said, it is difficult to convey the particular humor of this situation through writing. It would be like writing out Will Ferell's Cow bell skit on Saturday night live. It just wouldn't be as funny, because the tone and particular nuances that he employs just can't quite be conveyed in writing. I don't know if I could even tell this well in person, because I have a hard time impersonating Mark. But if nothing else, the line "Hey asshole," directed at Mark who was minding his own business, by a person highly resembling Napoleon Dynamite, is a pretty funny mental picture, and I've been cracking up every time I think about it all night.

I've never heard a funnier, more well placed asshole, and I never really expect to.



An unsuccessful trip to the DI has got to be one of the most depressing things ever. For those of you not native to Utah, Deseret Industries is Utah's version of a mega chain thrift store. DI seems to draw from 2 main demographic pools for employees; the mentally handicapped, and the scary demographic. I commend DI for the former, and am slightly annoyed by the latter. I guess they are just trying to give everyone a chance. Today I saw a guy exiting the dressing room area. There were a pair of dress shoes sitting on the floor of one of the dressing rooms. One of the scary employees gruffly asked the patron, "Hey. Are those your shoes?"
"No," replied the patron.
"They aren't? You didn't just leave them there?"
"Yeah. Sure. Rrrriiight," quoth the asshole, as he was scrutinizing the patron's shoes, as though the guy was really going to trade the nice dress shoes in the dressing room for the disgusting hiking boots with the massive hole in the toe.

Or perhaps he was upset that he would have to return said shoes to their proper place. But since when was that task located outside the parameters of his job? What the hell else does he do in there all day, but put crap away? They certainly aren't washing or cleaning anything in that store, I'll tell you that much.

Which brings me to why being unable to find anything on a DI visit is so annoying. I never feel dirtier than after having rifled through a bunch of clothing at the DI. It all has a distinct, musty odor. Seriously, touching one article of clothing in that store leaves me feeling like I just slapped a leper. I can just mentally visualize all of the bacterial creatures mingling on my hands in an orgy of filth. And my eye always itches while I'm in there. But I am terrified to bring my hand anywhere near my ocular organ, for fear of contracting pink eye. Or maybe blindness.

So, as I walked to my car, rather than leaving with the satisfaction that I a) found a killer article of clothing for less than 6 dollars, b)contributed to the financial autonomy of various handicapped people, and c) probably furthered an alcohol addiction, I just left feeling dirty. I started putting my hands in my coat pockets, but then recoiled as though burned; the last thing I want to do upon leaving DI, was transfer my hand filth into my pockets.

Are there any quality thrift stores in Utah? Ones that won't make me feel alienated and depressed while shopping?



If I could have one wish, it would be to be able to go back in time to visit young George Andrew Fish, circa 12 years old, and implore him to keep writing in his Journal. My second wish would probably be to have infinity packs of Gushers. Followed closely by a cake room. And not just any cake room, mind you. An infinity cake room. A room in which there is a continuous, ever replenishing, constantly changing flow of cake. And having used the word flow, now that I think about it, an actual flow of cake is precisely what I would want. Like a river of cake, slowly meandering through the middle of the room. And when I saw a particular flow that suited my fancy, I would simply lay on my belly and bury my head in it. Or maybe just dig out a chunk with a shovel designated specifically for that purpose. A midget would live in the room, on standby at all times, just waiting to clean that shovel off in between cake scoopings. And to scratch my back, if I asked. But never with the shovel.

But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.

As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.

The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."

Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.

It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."

Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.



Recently I think everyone has just given up on doing dishes. I guess that it is simply too onerous a task to pick up the heavy, jumbo sized bottle of orange anti bacterial dish soap, and squirt a small amount upon a plate/cup/bowl. Which I can understand completely. I mean, it is quite the stressful venture, attempting to squirt just the perfect amount of soap upon said eating implement. Mentally trying. Too much detergent means too many suds, and an unnecessary amount of chemicals wreaking havoc upon the environment. Plus too much soap makes for a difficult rinsing process, which will add an extra 8-13 seconds to the overall washing experience. Not to mention that wielding the toilet-scrubber-made-dish-scrubber can cause unnecessary elbow and/or wrist trauma, if one were to be overly vigorous with one's scrubbing. And then we have hospital bills to worry about, all in the name of avoiding a rotting, mephitic nightmare in the sink.

I mean, I like sauntering past the sink and nearly passing out from from a nasal assault by a funk redolent of a rotting corpse, just as much as the next asshole.

Am I an asshole because I refuse to clean up after my roommates? I keep my own bowl, spoon, and cup in my cupboard. That is generally the extent of my utensil/dishware usage. I eat cereal. And the occasional quesadilla. And I always wash the plate immediately after quesadilla consumption. It isn't hard. It really bloody isn't.

I guess I am used to living without a dishwasher and a mother, and therefore I have grown accustomed to taking 30 seconds after I eat something and washing it. Do I have a multitude of other flaws? Yes indeed I do. But I am an impeccable dishwasher. Nothing is more frustrating than having the desire to immediately consume something that requires a fork, and realizing that every fork in the house has been discarded and left for dead in the sink, like abandoned Armenian orphans.

Even orphans deserve to be washed once and a while.



I would assume that most of you have, at one point in your life, thought of a really stellar gift to give a friend around Christmas time. After putting considerable thought, and possibly even money into said gift, you deliver it to your friend. Your friend then gives you some lame, half assed excuse for a gift. Something in which they put no thought, nor care. At which point you feel snubbed. And hopefully your friend feels embarrassed.

I hope Mr. Obama feels embarrassed.

When you are the leader of the most powerful country on planet earth, not to mention a personally rich man, how on earth are you going to give the bloody Prime Minister of Britain a bunch of DVD's? Are you kidding me? Especially when the man gives you as priceless, and thoughtful a gift as was given to our dear, God-King president. Would it be un-PC to say that was a white trash thing to do?

Perhaps our Lord and Savior was ill aware of the caliber of the gift which he would receive from Mr. Brown.

So what. That isn't the issue.

The issue is, the leader of the free world gave his biggest ally a sack full of DVD's. I believe Mr. Brown's attempts to keep the gift a secret from the press speaks pretty loudly; he was embarrassed to have received such an absurdly ridiculous gift. "Hey Michelle? Do you think Mr. Brown is looking for a change in his cinematic viewing experience? I think as a gift, I'd like to offer him a change from that British crap that he is used to. I want to give him not only a change, or a new hope, but a change in hope. I hope he enjoys this change from what he is accustomed to viewing, and that he can find a new hope in that change. Because, Michelle dear, nothing inspires hope like a night of ET and the Godfather. Now let's change our clothes and go buy some DVD's."

And don't bother bringing up idiotic things George Bush did to insult or offend world leaders. Those things are irrelevant. The question here is, why would Obama snub such an important man? Obama is not an idiot. He wouldn't make a mistake like this. I guess all I am saying, is his recent pandering to the Muslim world, coupled with his snubbing of the Prime Minister, possibly starts to paint a worrisome picture.

Do you really think that had Bashar Al-Asad, or Asif Ali Zardari, or Mohamed Hosni Mubarak visited Mr. Obama, that they'd have left with 25 DVD's?

Call me crazy, but the man worries me. Funny, also, that the story is nowhere to be found on CNN.com. BIG surprise.



I have really only one flaw that might be keeping me from marriage. I am a phenomenal coward when it comes to dealing with spiders.

Tonight I was showering. For whatever reason, everything important in my life (I only write about supremely important things on this blog, obviously) has been occurring in the shower. I stood with my back to the mist machine, allowing the hot water to scour my neck for a pretty long time. I finally decided to turn around and get down to business. Business being the cleansing part. I realize that could be taken to mean a few different things. Just cleaning.

My eyes instantly latched upon a spider running down a pole that is connected to the shelf that holds all of our cleaning implements. I immediately gasped in a great deal of steam and mist, and lurched for my bottle of Dove brand Beautiful Body Wash, quickly smashing the but end of it over the spider. That horrible, malefic little creature was sent hurdling back behind all of the items upon the shelf. I started moving things around, trying to confirm death.

Upon not finding anything, I looked down and saw it making a b-line for my feet. I scurried to the back of the shower, and that little bastard just scampered towards me. I frantically began kicking water at it, to no immediate avail. That little spider was determined to murder me in the shower. Finally, water over came him. You know you are victorious against a spider when it suddenly crinkles up. Except for sometimes they try to trick you. They crinkle up, and then as soon as you think they are harmless, they scamper away again. I never trust a crinkled up spider. I kept kicking water at it until it was safely down the drain.

I hate this irrational, crippling fear. Whenever I see one I immediately panic. I wasn't always afraid of spiders. Or bugs in general. I recall catching grasshoppers with my hands in elementary school, and storing them in jars. Perhaps this irrational fear was a curse from God, for allowing so many innocent grasshoppers to languish and waste away as specimens in my jars. Or for all of the ants that I burnt with a magnifying glass. I just want me and spiders to get along and be friends again. No more fear, no more animosity.

Or, just stay out of my damn shower.


A matter of supreme urgency

After stepping through the stiflingly cold, obnoxious shower mist today, I reached for my poof. I grabbed it by the string, and then gave it a mighty downward swing in order to eject the cold water that had accumulated therein. Upon reaching the apex of the swing, the poof broke free of its strings and plopped upon the bathtub floor.

After a hasty retrieval, as I would dare say that anything beyond feet remaining upon the shower floor for longer than a second is probably a lost cause, I started to wonder at what point one should replace a poof.

Being a recently deflowered ex-virgin in the realm of poofdom, I am still not entirely savvy to poof etiquette. How long might one use a poof before it is time for a replacement? Does the answer depend upon the manner of usage to which the poof is put? If said poof is generally used as a generator of foam, rather than as an exfoliate, is the time frame where one may use it with dignity lengthened? Or does the generaly wet, mold and bacteria fostering nature of the shower area curtail any extra poof-life that might be hoped for upon avoiding actual contact with the filthier regions of the body?

I never knew that the poof commitment was such a multifaceted venture. This I know; I shall never mend my divorce with bar soap. The benefits of poof usage are far too multifarious. Ever since the switch, I have fallen in love, I have been promoted at work and am making way more money, my friend base has increased 10 fold, and my skin is never dry. Albeit only one of those last things is actually true, the switch was entirely worth it. God bless you, Deep Moisture Dove Beauty Body Wash.

But seriously, I need to know what to do about the poof. Was the broken rope a sign that I have neglected for too long a necessary purchase? I don't want any answers from men. If I were to use men as my judge, I would use the poof until it rots apart. I have been in countless showers over the years, and have watched a stifling number of poofs molder and decay with never a thought for replacement. I know there are women who read this blog. I want several opinions so that I can make an educated decision. If I like your answer best, I'll buy you a poof.

This post was such drivel.


Can i just kill the planet in peace please?

Some "green" products sort of make me want to kill the planet even harder. Like, for instance, the green shower head that one of the roommates decided to install. It curbs the flow of water, forcing a rather large stream through a very small hole, thus causing it to be more of a mist, than an actual shower. This makes entering the shower, especially in the winter, rather unpleasant. As the mist hits the cold bathtub, it is rendered instantly cold. So getting into the shower now involves stepping through a cold mist. This mist also causes the shower curtain to billow. The last thing I want touching my body is that rancid shower curtain. Mostly, due to the fact that it is rancid, but also knowing that said moldy, malodorous curtain has been also latching on to every other unfortunate soul who attempts to bathe at my house. Should I simply install a new shower curtain? Probably. But that still wont solve the flesh-to-curtain orgy going on in there.

Also, the water ejection is super wide. I like a more concentrated stream. And for those of you mentally berating me for being a water-waster, I actually turn on the water pressure about 1/3 of capacity. I don't need the water to scour the skin away from my spine. I just hate this stupid green shower head forcing me to do what I was already doing, and causing the pleasantness of my shower to decrease by at least 62%.

Green roommate also thought it would be a good idea to install "green" light bulbs. The particular bulbs he chose to install, bathe the house in a nice, weak, sickly, yellow glow. I feel like I'm living in an old, dilapidated Ma & Pa store, where they are using a minimal amount of like...20 watt light bulbs in order to cut down cost, and you buy some generic toothpaste from them, just because you want to make certain they'll have enough money for cabbage soup that night. Seriously, I don't want to live with Ma and Pa anymore.

I swear there have to be more eco friendly light bulbs that won't make me feel depressed and alienated in my own house.

Just shut up already jose

I guess missing church because I had to go stand around for 4 hours, coupled with cleaning out a beer fridge that didn't need to be cleaned, in conjunction with reading about all of the reasons and ways that Nazi fascist bastards socially, culturally, and physically murdered de facto several million Jews, has put me in a rather foul mood. And as a little rancid bit of icing on the crap cake, the girl with the most spine curdling laugh on God's green earth is down stairs. Laughing. I've come to prepare and mentally brace myself for that laugh on a weekly basis, each Sunday night. However, no amount of preparation can actually prepare one for this laugh. The cackling fusillade penetrates my room from all the way downstairs, as though my home were constructed of balsa wood. There is no escape.

As I was scooping up a bowl of soup today, and simultaneously ignoring the practically unintelligible Spanish chatter coming from across the counter, I thought about how I wouldn't be mad if I never saw certain people again. Mostly that thought was directed toward the guy across the counter we'll call Jose. Jose enjoys asking me most days why I am ignoring him, and why I am in a bad mood, and where is my boyfriend, and do I like sausages, and do I think the hostess has a nice ass, and whether or not it's fake, and a plethora of sundry obnoxious drivel.

Part of the problem, is I can not hear him well enough to understand half of what he says. The other part, is I can't bring myself to give a damn about what he says, because the majority of it is either repugnant, or annoying. I get the boyfriend question, due to the fact that I have come in to eat with guy friends a few times. Which apparently, in Jose's world of telephone pornography (don't ask) equates to being gay. I try to be civil. I pretend to be in a bad mood whenever I am dipping up soup, or tired, in order to have a valid excuse as to why I don't seem to want to talk to him.

There are a lot of people in my life that, were I to suddenly never see them again, I would be sad, or disappointed, or periodically wonder about what they were doing. Other people, however, I would be more than thrilled if I never had to see them again. Like Jose. And the pestiferous laugher. And Rick Fish, the history teacher who tried to sabotage me. And maybe one specific person who dwells in this house (not you Dan, I love you.)

Genocide puts me in such a bad mood.