The confusing nature of my gender

There is one thing I will never understand about men. No matter how many years I spend as a man, I shall never comprehend our (me not included) complete inability to raise the toilet seat, nor our apparent nonexistent aversion to sitting in the remnants our own piss. I have never lived in a house where fewer than 50 percent of the males living there pissed on the seat.

Anytime I ever enter a bathroom and see piss all over the toilet seat, I want to punch a hole in the wall. There is not a man on this planet whose penis isn't at least a little bit wonkey, thus rendering it impossible for him to shoot completely straight and avoid any drizzlings upon the seat. Perhaps 1 in 4 or 5 pissings can a man accomplish such a feat. It isn't even so much the piss on the seat that makes me angry, but the utter simplicity of the act of reaching down with one's arm, touching the most minute portion of the seat with a tiny section of pinky, and then performing a simple lift. The fact that such a facile motion would thwart all of pisses prodigious efforts to end up on the seat (yes, I just referred to urine as a sentient being) is what makes me so angry about it. So simply avoided. Use your foot if you have to.

Today a horrible line was crossed. I entered the bathroom to find a small smattering of shit smeared upon the back end of the toilet seat. I stood there dumbfounded, staring at it. I have periodically seen this occur throughout my career as a human being, and it is always supremely baffling. I can not wrap my mind around what a person must be doing while defecating, in order to leave feces upon the toilet seat. And it is always the same; a small smear somewhere on the back end of the seat, flowing down towards the water. Like a tiny fecal waterfall. A. I don't understand the mechanics of how that can even be accomplished. and B. I don't know how that can occur unnoticed by the culprit. Or perhaps it happens more often than I think, and he usually does catch it, but simply missed it this time. That line of thought has disturbing implications.

Well. For the record, I lift the seat ALWAYS. So, women of planet earth, there are actually men who do that. And I have NEVER, ever ever shat upon a toilet seat. Never ever.

Men are confusing. Raise the seat, assholes.


Perpetually puppies

As one who has graduated with a degree of questionable value, I have been trying lately to think of some businesses that I could start.

Today, I saw a couple playing with a darling little puppy. Which made me think about how much I enjoy a good puppy. In fact, I would say that I would love to have a puppy. I find that I only have such desires for an animal when I see a puppy. I never see a gnarly old grown up dog and think, "I'd sure like one of those lying around the house and shitting in the yard." Only puppies.

Which lead me to one of my first ideas for a company: Perpetually Puppies. I can't be the only person who really only wants a dog during the puppy phase of its existence. People are always so excited to get a new puppy. Then it grows up a bit, waxes exponentially less cute with age, and suddenly becomes that creature that you would probably essentially forget exists, except for the accumulated feces and obnoxious barking. Once it reaches this stage, you then realize the magnitude of your decision to adopt and or purchase that once adorable little beast; you just made a solid 15 year investment. I mean, if you (assuming you are a female) dropped a baby out of your womb the very day you brought home that little, furry bundle of yapping joy, the fruit of your loins may very well move out of the house before that 4 legged creature gets buried in the back yard.

So. Why not create a program where people get puppies, and then get rid of said puppies once they are no longer puppies? Perpetually Puppies. "We put them to sleep so you don't have to." Once your puppy starts to mature, you simply trade it away for a new puppy. I haven't quite figured out yet what happens to the expired puppies. This is a new business model, mind you, and there is still a lot to work out. Perhaps they can be sold to china for meat? Or they can be simply turned loose south of the border, as nobody would notice a few thousand more dogs a month showing up on the streets amongst hundreds of thousands. Perpetually Puppies. "Enjoy them while they are still truly enjoyable." Perpetually Puppies. "Pooping in manageable proportions."

Perpetually Puppies. I want this to exist.



So I have been thinking about selling my body for quite some time now.

To science, that is. Lock me in a room with books and DVD's, bring me food, give me drugs, test my blood, pay me a couple thousand dollars. I'm in. However, Andre has been trying to convince me to get a spinal tap for $5500.

I have written before of my thoroughly irrational fear of needles. I am willing to kick that fear in the ass for a couple grand and some holes in my arm. My spinal column is a completely different story.

First of all, he wants me to do this so that we can go visit Argentina. Now, as much as I am thrilled by the prospect of visiting a country where most dogs suffer from a flesh eating disease and wander through the cities in packs unabated, and where the summer heat stokes the pernicious stench from the open sewers to the extent that entire neighborhoods and city blocks reek like the festering bowels of a rotting corpse, where people suffer from "liver attacks" "golpes de aire," and eating watermelon with milk is universally thought to be a deadly practice...I will not willingly allow some crack pot "medical professional" to bury a needle in my SPINE.

I can't think of many things I would rather not do than take a needle in the back. I think even if you offered me a million dollars, I probably couldn't lay still for the procedure. I would probably start hyperventilating, and then they would puncture something they shouldn't have, and goodbye motor skills.

So I was thinking today of a lot of terrible things I would rather allow to voluntarily occur, rather than a spinal tap.

I'd rather let somebody break my arm with a baseball bat. I'd stand there, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and CRACK.

I'd rather spread my legs and let a pissed off girl kick me in the groin. Bring on the foot.

I'd rather kiss a drunk girl who vomited in my mouth.

This one, I couldn't quite make a decision on; getting prison raped. As soon as I think about the needle sliding between my vertebrae, I think that I would rather get raped. But then I think about getting raped, and want the needle again. I think if ever I found myself in a situation where I had to choose one, I'd change my mind about 50 times before I finally settled. I'd be bent over, and as the prison monster would approach, I'd be like..."Wait! Wait! The needle! Gimmie the needle!" And then, once curled up on a ball, as the needle descended, it would be..."No! Wait! White Power Bill! Send back White Power Bill!" I think, ultimately, the needle would win. But I'm like...60/40 at best there. Worst scenario ever.

I'd rather listen to Rascal Flatts for a year straight, at least 3 hours a day.

I'd rather jump off a 2 story building naked into a pile of stinging needle.

You get the idea. I wish I wasn't so terrified of needles, because 5500 dollars in 4 days is pretty awesome. However, abandoning dignity, screaming like a girl, and thrashing around on a cold metal table in a hospital gown while fluid is drained from my spinal column, is just something I think I was never meant to do.

Sorry Andre. I'd like my spinal fluid to stay right where it is.
Hell no.



I did it again yesterday. For the second time ever. I completely and utterly forgot about a table I was serving.

I had 3 guys at the pizza bar, and a table of 2 at another location. I took very good care of both, until at some point my mind just simply erased all thought of the 2 guys at the table. Gone. Obliterated.

I proceeded to have about a 20 or so minute conversation with the wine guzzlers at the bar. Seriously, more than an entire bottle of wine each. After that, I headed back to the bar and began cleaning. About the time I was wiping crusty espresso grounds from the machine, I suddenly remembered table #2. You can not imagine the sheer panic that washes over you, upon realizing that you have not been by a table in more than half an hour.

I said several choice words.

Dropping the rag, I ran out to the table, fervently praying to baby Zeus that they had magically disappeared, lest I face a very awkward moment. Merciful baby Zeus, nestled in his cradle of lightening somehow heard my pleas, and they were gone. My guess is they asked someone to get them their check, as I do not recall actually giving it to them. And then they left cash. I was able to deduce from the 6 dollar tip that they, through some miraculous means, were not entirely pissed. But oh the wretched panic.

I've only done that one other time. It was a Sunday. I was in the bar. I had a guy at the bar. I dropped off his fillet, and forgot about him for 30 minutes. Except for he was actually there once I finally remembered, holding his credit card with a look of utter disdain plastered on his face. At that point asking how his meal tasted was a panic reaction, and made me look an even bigger fool. The worst part is, he comes in at least weekly, so I avoid him like the plague every time he brings in his wife to get wasted. Seriously, who gets plastered at Carrabbas? Embarrassing.

Please bless that I wont ever do that again.


Dear mom,

You have been a patient woman to have raised me all these years. Thank you for letting me puke apple sauce all over your shoulder while you carried me up the stairs. Thank you for convincing my father that, even though I was into mohawks, aquamarine hair, studded belts and punk rock, I was still probably a good person and not out participating in all manner of clandestine, devious activities. Thank you for, upon finding out that I had thrown a plethora of pumpkins from the overpass, not telling father and further incensing his already stoked conservative wrath against me, for realizing that boys will be boys and no harm REALLY was done. Thank you for holding my hand while the doctor shoved a needle in my neck and then cut a marble sized cyst out of it. Thank you for always sending me home with leftovers, even though I have never ever even one single time returned a container. Thank you for making homemade ranch dressing whenever you know I am coming for dinner, because there is a SLIGHT possibility that I might be able to choke it down on some salad. Thank you for letting me have the front seat sometimes because my legs are super long and yours are super short. Thank you for loving me despite skinny jeans and a rat tail. Thank you for every delicious meal you have ever cooked and know that I have appreciated every one, even if I haven't said it. Thank you for raising my 3 amazing siblings, and taking care of my wonderful father. Thank you for supporting him through long years of countless hours divided between the foundry, church callings, scouting activities, hunting trips, and every other thing in which you weren't personally involved. Thank you for letting us get on motorcycles and drive through Yellowstone, Utah, California, Idaho, Wyoming, and all over Juab county, even though it scares you to death, because you know it makes us happy. Thank you for keeping a clean home, a relief and refuge from the world that is always a joy and a comfort to come home to.

Most of all, thank you for your unconditional love, even though I am, at times, not very good at reciprocating it verbally or through my actions. Know, however, that it is always there, and that I think the world of you. You are indeed the best mom an adopted boy could have hoped for, and I'm indeed lucky you are mine.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy mothers day.




Sexy talk with the fuhrer

About once a week, I am awakened by my buzzing mattress at approximately 7:12 am. I think groggily, "Hmm...who could be texting me at this ungodly hour?" And because of that insatiable nagging that will set in if I just roll over and try to ignore it, I have to look to see who it is.

At that hour, it is always none other than Barnes and Noble, and it pisses me off.

For months now, I have been meaning to simply click on the option to remove myself from their mailing list. However, I can never quite get myself to do it, as I invariably think, as my finger hovers over the "cancel" button, twitching in anticipation, "but what if someday I really do want a 10% off coupon?" And so I endure the 7:12 am wake up buzz once a week.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to mark Barnes & Noble as spam, hoping that thereby all further emails from them would simply end up in the spam folder. That way, I could go in there and sift around through all of the penile enlargement advertisements and letters from various African kings offering me free money to make deposits, to find my 10-20% coupons.

Apparently that didn't work, as indicated by the wake up call. Curious, I decided to look in my spam folder to see if any prior Barnes & Noble emails had ended up there. As I am scanning the various offers, I notice this one: How To Talk Dirty To Your Girl And Send HHer Into Overdrive. Now, my eyes function less adequately that I would like. Especially my right eye. There is almost an ever present twinge of blurriness haunting that eye. So, in my casual, semi-blurry glance, my mind read "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."

Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that the ad really didn't concern Hitler at all. But I also thought that perhaps I had stumbled upon a little bit of marketing genius. If ever there was a spam headline that might make me curious enough to further investigate its contents, it was "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."

Sign me up.



As a graduated creature, I find myself ever fonder of the idea of moving away. I feel as though I have squeezed all of the adventure possible out of Provo, and have been left with a dried out husk. I feel like staying in Provo means I have to settle down and figure out precicely what I am going to do. You know, make a 5 year.

But I'm not ready to make a 5 year just yet. And I hesitate to do that until I have someone around whom to plan those 5 years. I do have a plan, per say. However, it just doesn't sound too terribly solid to those who would like me to be beginning a career of some sort.

Graduation/successful siblings puts so much pressure on a guy.

Graduation was kind of a let down. I realized, as I sat through the nearly 4 hours of combined convocation and commencement, that I had probably really missed out on something. I was sitting there with my graduating class, and I knew almost nobody. Granted, mine was the history department, not generally known to be teeming with attractive unmarried females. Graduation wasn't fun, because I wasn't graduating with a bunch of friends. It was difficult to really get into all of the cheering and fist pumping when I felt like I was cheering and fist pumping with myself.

Perhaps others were more excited because they actually do have their 5 year worked out. Grad school. A career. Whatever. Maybe it is time for me to buckle down and make some big decisions.