When choking isn't the answer

I hate talking to machines. I also hate having to talk to 7 different machines, followed by 7 different human beings to figure out my insurance woes. And then not figuring them out. I'm going to die; if not old and alone, then probably by some absurd accident, the effects of which I won't be able to counter through a probably simple, yet insanely costly medical procedure, since I can't seem to get a hold of anyone who can help me figure out this insurance mess or, furthermore, gives a shit.

The thing about those machines that really gets me, is when they ask me a question with a yes or no answer. Then I say 'yes,' because I indeed do desire to talk to a real live human being, even if they are in Mumbai. And, of course, in that obnoxious androgynous mechanical voice, the machine says "I'm sorry, I didn't get that," and then repeats the question. How did that machine not understand "yes?" I mean, it was created with 2 simple functions; to ask me that question, followed by understanding either "yes" or "no." Which both sound pretty different. It isn't like "yes," or "bless."
"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you want to 'yes,' or 'bless?'
"Bless! Bless dammit!"
"I'm sorry I..."

And then you feel like a phenomenal jackass, yelling yes or no into the phone 12 times. Even upon observing the sympathetic looks of everyone in the immediate vicinity that knows exactly why you are yelling a one syllable word at your phone over and over, you still want to either choke a baby machine, (not a baby making machine, but rather an infant machine) or the poor Indian that will eventually pick up from across 2 oceans.

But I wouldn't even dare choke that damn machine. Why? Because if I were to injure my hands attempting to wring its durable, metallic neck, I have no insurance to fix them. And if I can't afford insurance on my own, I certainly can't afford the plane ticket across oceans to choke an Indian.

So I guess choking is out of the picture.


Nerdery in numbers

Here's what I read this, my last and final semester at school.

We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. -353 pages.

Voices from S-21: Terror and history in Pol Pot's secret prison. -159 pages.

Hitlers willing executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust. -483 pages.

Survivors: An oral history of the Armenian Genocide. -192 pages.

Century of Genocide: Critical essays and eyewitness accounts. -632 pages.

The Native American Holocaust. -200 pages.

Now, here's what I read, and still, God knows how, managed to win college.

The Shadow Rising. -1006 pages.

The Fires of Heaven. -992 pages.

Lord of Chaos. -1011 pages.

A Crown of Swords. -880 pages.

The previous 4 are by Robert Jordan.

The next 4 are by Brandon Sanderson, the guy who is finishing the former's Wheel of Time series.

Elantris. -615 pages.

Mistborn. -647 pages.

The Well of Ascension. -781 pages.

The Hero of Ages. -755 pages.

Watchmen, by Alan Moor & Dave Gibbons. -pages numbered by chapter, so I have no idea.

The point is, I am a phenomenal nerd, and it is a miracle I won college. Or managed to do anything else, for that matter. I read all of that and still managed to have a semblance of a social life, in addition to working 30 plus hours a week.


Dear fake baked blonde girl

You aren't fooling anybody.

Listen girl, when you are 29 and your skin looks like that of a 7-11 hot dog that has been turning under the heat lamp for about 36 hours, you are going to wish you had avoided the temptation of an unnaturally tan body during January.

When I saw you tonight at a dessert party, I wondered if perhaps you fell asleep in the tanning bed, as your face was bronze to the point of looking ridiculous and I was wearing a COAT.

Do you realize that you are going to probably die at age 37 of melanoma, all for the sake of looking absurd? And if you don't die, forget about looking like anything but that hot dog. Like a haggard old cocktail waitress at a Wendover casino. Like your friend's mom in high school with bleached blond hair and skin like leather, still dressing like her teenage daughters. That is your future.

It isn't worth it. There is nothing wrong with being pasty when it is cold outside. So, save yourself a little dignity and realize that nobody but the bro's find that flattering. People are laughing at you.



Scenester cafe

I usually loath the crotch melting heat waves that emanate from my lap top, but right now I'm so into them. My room is an ice box. Where the hell did spring go, and why did winter return with her bitter, whorish touch for one last cold, cruel embrace? Get outta here winter, I'm so done with you.

At least my crotch is sufficiently warm.

Tonight, around 1 am I ate at Cafe West. For those of you who aren't part of the scene, that would be the Provo hospital cafeteria. It's open 24 hours and they serve up one hell of a foot long corn dog. Everything there is super cheap. Except for the BBQ sauce. God forbid they give that stuff away. 25 cents a pop. Get out.

Cafe West is always an interesting adventure. I have never been there before 11 pm, and I have also never bitten into a corn dog without being surrounded by at least 7 people with whom I did not arrive wearing skinny jeans and scarves. For whatever reason, Cafe West seems to be the preferred indie/hipster/scenester/whatever you prefer to call them, post midnight place to be.

About 50 percent of the time, at some point in the evening the noise level rises above what is apparently acceptable for a hospital cafeteria. At which point a hospital rent-a-cop enters with his hand poised near his yellow taser pistol, ready to zap the shit out of any unruly pretentious asshole in a V-neck who might dare challenge his authority. Then, in a voice bordering on irrationality, the rent-a-cop yells "Hey! Listen! This is a hospital cafeteria. There are patients and people dying in here. (presumably he does not mean there are people specifically dying in the cafeteria. If he does, I've yet to see them.) There are families visiting sick people. If you can't be quieter, I'm going to have to kick you out. This is a hospital cafeteria." At which point, it gets all quiet and awkward for about 3 minutes. Then, having forgotten the awkward "You-are-disrupting-people-several-floors-up-and-multiple-walls-away" speech, due to the distracting nature of the succulent tube steak wrapped in deep fried corn bread, conversation picks up again and it's business as usual.

I usually try to leave at that point, as I feel awkward getting yelled at like that. It takes me back to high school drivers ed course, when Mr. Sperry, one of the most quiet and soft spoken councilors to work at that school, totally lost it. And I mean LOST IT. I went to high school with a lot of pricks. Lots of redneck cowboys who harassed their fellow students, and who showed little respect for teachers. One night there were a couple of the aforementioned a-holes chatting all throughout the driver's ed class. Finally, with about half an hour left, Mr. Sperry just blew up. His face turned purple as he screamed about an inch from Kenneth Winn's ear, after irrationally knocking poor Ken's hat off of his head. It was horrifying. Try going back to explaining 4 way stop etiquette after that with any dignity.

This is what I picture whenever that cop comes in yelling, as though we were a bunch of unruly teenagers. That's when you know it's time to just pound that corn dog and get the hell out.

I guess my point is...if you are a loud mouth, please stay away from Cafe West and allow me to finish my corn dog in quiet dignity.


I'm a little bit curious about the got2b Magnetik gel that I found in the bathroom; curious about the who and the why of it.

The front of the bottle says: Styling Gel [with pheromones]
The mission statement on the back is this: b warned: this goes beyond your ordinary styling gel. got2bMagnetik styling gel contains pheromones--a man's secret edge to make the ladies take notice. So get your game on...because this stuff delivers firm hold and natural shine--AND gets the ladies revved up.

Which roommate purchased said gel under the impression that his "game" would indeed be improved, and why said roommate thought that such a thing might truly improve his mating abilities, is what I'm wondering.

I smelled it and was not turned on, therefore I would assume it is strictly a heterosexual gel. And lets be honest; no self respecting gay man would put that foul concoction in his hair, because it smells like ass. Nobody is going to be revving anyone up with this stuff.

I don't believe this was an accidental purchase, but one that was rather well thought out. Being a recovered gel user, I know the thought and scrutiny that goes into the purchase of a gel. There exist a plethora of different gels in the world, and this particular one claims no inherent special ability beyond that of a pheromonal draw. I mean, its a hold, polish, and shine gel. NBD. In other words, besides that of containing a supposed female attractant, it's just your average gel. And likely a 6 dollar bottle at that, since it comes from the got2b breed. Which is like...your high end mega-store/grocery store brand. Beyond that, you start getting into actual Salon products, and you can kiss your pheromones goodbye. One must then rely upon style, and well placed pelvic thrusts to rev up the ladies.

I know my gel from the embarrassing spiky hair and/or faux hawk days in which I employed the got2b glued gel. So what I'm saying here, is this gel was most certainly purchased with the express intention to improve his game and help him "get chix," as such a person would likely say. I mean, if the shine and medium hold were the only aim, he would have just gone with the ever economical L.A. Looks, or the dollar store tub-o-gel.

This brings up all sorts of disturbing questions and dilemmas. How many pheromones must be present for a company to legally claim the employment of them in a product? Who is regulating that? Does the existence of such a product undermine a woman's ability to think coherently? If so, will the distribution of rufies and other essential date rape sedative drugs decrease along side this new, legal form of "game" enhancement? Will the got2b line come out with a comparable pheromonal gel for gay men? If pheromones can truly be placed in something as simple as a hair gel, why not employ them in all aspects of cosmetics? Why am I not bathing in pheromone soap, or slathering myself up with a pheromone enhanced lotion every day? What can this mean for me, who has been so unsuccessful in the dating realm?

The possibilities for good and evil are endless.



Dear blog,

I have neglected you for several days due to the fact that my dear grandfather, George Dewey Fish Jr. passed away on Friday morning. To be honest, I didn't think of you much these last few days, my dear blog. I was too busy eating pulled pork (thrice) and fettuccine and lasagna from Olive Garden (blehk ((twice)) and a huge tub of generic jelly belly's, and illegally watching 3/4's of Wolverine movie, and sleeping on a supremely uncomfortable air mattress in between a night moaner and a snorer, and playing croquette about 20 times and winning NEVER, to give you any attention. Oh yes. And a lovely funeral; the reason behind all of the aforementioned items. You were the furthest thing from my mind as the Honor Guard played the taps at his grave side and made me cry.

I regret to inform you, dear blog, that you shall remain the furthest thing from my mind for the next 7 days, as I a) do my taxes, b)finish a plethora of reading and write a 4 page paper, c)research my little heart out and fix a 16 page paper, half of which needs serious work, d) work 7 shifts, e) attempt not to kill myself, all so I can win college, not go broke, and avoid notice from the IRS.

So, dear sweet blog, should I survive the week, I shall give thee all manner of attention and sweet affection. Why? Because I'll never have to feel guilty for spending time with you again, for never again shall I be neglecting things of greater importance (college) to update you. No college, no girlfriend. It's just me and you.

The sun shall rise upon a whole new world for us, dear blog.

3:51 am should explain this post pretty well, I think.



What the hell is this Twitter nonsense? Could someone please explain it to me? Could someone also give me a little insight into why anybody thinks everyone gives a damn about what a person is doing every 15 minutes?

I'm loosing my mind here.

Okay. So I'm on Facebook. Who isn't? My 80 year old grandmother has an f-book account for crying out loud. Which, throws a new question into the meat grinder--am I a terrible person if I deny friendship with my grandmother on facebook? I guess that shouldn't be a conditional question, because I DID. I'm sorry, but I just don't think grandmas belong on f-book. I don't need grandmothers or parents or friends of my parents, keeping tabs on my college life, vapid though it may be. I'm getting off track here.

Every time I check facebook (which, is multiple times a day due to being able to carry the internet in my pocket) there is this guy who has like...15 status updates. I have been informed this is happening via Twitter, the sole purpose of which is to update planet earth as to one's constant goings on. Like..."Class over. Should I go pee or eat some beef jerky?" I don't give a shit. But...maybe pee, and then eat beef jerky? No! Wait. Ugh, can't get sucked in.

I just really, really don't care. And the apparent narcissism involved that would compel one to feel the need to constantly update people is astounding. I mean, I suppose were you Britney Spears, I would obviously want to know EXACTLY what you were doing ALL THE TIME. But really Provo guy...give it a rest.

Am I missing something? Please explain this to me, as I am lost to the point of it all.


Misplaced pronouns

So me and bread have this cycle. It begins at the grocery store, when I suddenly have really great intentions to start eating lots of sandwiches, rather than eating out. I usually attempt to seek out something from the wheat genre. I purchase the bread, usually along with a few sandwich accessories. Like a meat. Maybe a cheese. Possibly something green, if I'm feeling fat.

This little sandwich splurge usually occurs when I am hungry, and have made the mistake of shopping in such a weak, lustful state. When I get home, I create a delicious sandwich. Bread goes in the top shelf of my cupboard, perishables into the fridge NOT located in the kitchen, as anything that goes into that particular fridge that hasn't been sealed by the hand of God himself in some from of cryogenic sealing unit, is ultimately tainted by some malodorous flavor, the source of which is a mystery.

At this point I forget about bread for a few days.

Days later, I remember I have a loaf of bread slowly rotting in the cupboard. After thoroughly checking for mold, I build a sandwich. Upon consumption, I realize that the bread has a strange flavor. At this point, I assume that the bread is probably teeming with mold spores, just waiting to visibly flower upon the bread proper. Generally, I finish the sandwich, and then throw away the rest of the loaf.

That's what happens with me and bread.

Today, I created a chicken burger, roasted red pepper hummus, and laughing cow Swiss cheese--a French favorite, mind you--sandwich, and sat down to eat it. Immediately, even through the intensely potent amalgam of various flavors, I was able to pick out that all too familiar "weird" bread flavor. "Son of a bitch," I thought. "I just bought this bread like...a day ago."

So I ripped off a small corner, and ate that by itself in an attempt to place the taste. I ripped off another one. As I sat there chewing, I thought "Huh. This tastes like tranquil lavender. Why the hell does my bread taste like tranquil lavender?" m

Then I remembered. "Oh. Maybe because you store your bread in a cupboard, sitting on top of a box of tranquil lavender dryer sheets, idiot," I said to me.

I guess I've been consuming tranquil lavender essence for months now. I'm just thrilled to know that my kitchen cupboard really isn't a time bending bread trap, that somehow miraculously ages bread faster than the average cupboard.

Mystery solved, tranquil lavender sheets moved, one more bread loaf in the garbage can.

Me and bread are going to have quite a different relationship from here on out, methinks.


I find myself quickly approaching a crossroads. Well. Perhaps not a crossroads. A crossroads would imply that a specific decision must be made, between at least 2 viable options. Or would it be 3? Straight, left, or right? Or 4? Because I suppose one could always turn back around.

I guess, rather than a crossroads, I am approaching a great and spacious "unknown." It's like this; throughout one's life, there are constant and attainable milestones littering one's future. Maybe the first one is starting school. My first was probably becoming a Bobcat. Oh, how I anticipated drinking the wretched bobcat juice, which might have consisted of any number of fanciful boyish fantasies; creature blood, vomit, actual bobcat excrement. It was probably more along the lines of sugarless Koolaid, but oh how I was excited to sup from that fake coconut and twist my face in disgust at whatever it was. So all the other pre-bobcats could writhe in jealousy. So I could be a big deal. A bobcat bitches.

Maybe the next one was high school. You wait your whole life to get there, and suddenly wham! You have 3 friends, none of whom are "cool," and you get made fun of my rednecks all day. Real cool, that goal.

Four years. Such an unbelievably long time. High school was like...forever. The drama, the intrigue, the loneliness, the mischief...seemed like it would never end. Then suddenly it did end. And, despite all of the horror, I liked it. But so what? One more milestone down, one more right around the corner.

I was a missionary. I learned Spanish. I got fat. I baptized people. I didn't eat tacos or grape flavored ANYTHING for 2 years. Suddenly, that too was finished. So what. Now college and a wife.

I assumed the whole wife thing would happen way before college would end, thus giving my life a "purpose." I mean, when you have a wife, then you have kids. You get a job to support said wife and kids. You start buying a house. You get a better job. You acquire "things," and go on vacations, and start your kids on the path to become bobcats and brownies.

But what happens when you accidentally skip the wife part, and just finish college? And with a degree that guides you in no particular direction?

Suddenly, you feel out of readily attainable milestones, and you wonder how it happened.

It's all been so easy to this point; one bobcat after another. Now, the bobcats are much more elusive. I'm not entirely certain which ones to seek out, or where exactly to seek them.

And so, here I sit, ready to (in theory) graduate in 30 days. Do I stay here and languish away in Provo, strapped down by the "where the hell else will I get married" mantra? Do I seek greener pastures?

Gimmie a bobcat here.