Today I went for a bicycle ride upon a mountain in Salt Lake. It was a big loop that started at a park on 1300 e and 11th ave, wrapped up through the hills, dropped down a river bed, and spit me out back on 11th. Upon arrival back at my cousin's truck, I noticed that there were some ladies out walking their dogs through the park.
As I was sitting in the cab, removing my gloves, helmet, and ugly assed narrow Spy shades circa bro core 2004, I noticed that one of the dogs had hunched over, and was producing what was turning out to be just an absurdly massive pile of shit. It was a medium sized pooch, yet somehow its digestive tract was ridding itself of something I'd have imagine produced by something more akin to a horse.
"Typical," I thought.
The lady noticed that said animal was defecating, and sort of moaned an "ahh man." She didn't appear to have any sort of a feces retrieval device, so I suppose she had plans to leave it there, for some unsuspecting 4 year old to mistakenly fall in, be completely absorbed, and never heard from again. Her dog was connected to one of those retractable leashes with the plastic handle, that sort of looks like a tape measure. With an added handle.
For reasons I can not fathom, she dropped the handle on the ground, put her hands on her hips, and finished watching her dog take the colossal shit. She was standing about 6 feet away from the dog. Upon completion, the dog began to walk in a south-by-westward direction. Since she was standing north-by-slightly eastward of the defecation, this consequently caused the trajectory of the leash handle to commit to a collision course with the shit pile. In the brief moment it took her to deduce this, her window of opportunity had passed. Upon realizing what was inevitably going to occur, she made one last sad, desperate, and hesitant bend over-reach combination for the handle, while saying, "oh no no no NO NO NO!" It was an impressive crescendo.
It was almost like a movie, watching that square plastic leash handle wiggle its way through the grass, and slowly drag perfectly centered over one of the biggest piles of shit I've ever seen. At which point the woman threw up her hands in exasperation, and shamefully trudged over to the handle, studied it for a moment, and realized there was nothing to do but pick it up.
Witnessing this left me with a pretty terrific feeling of vindication for all of the shits thus far left upon my lawn this spring.
I'm not entirely certain, but I think that I may have witnessed the most perfect thing that ever happened. Not even the big bang could have been executed so perfectly. Somehow, I think, this proves there IS a God. And that he is really, REALLY funny.
31.5.10
21.5.10
Water jihad
Apparently there is a Persian living on my street who has declared a jihad against a very crazy old woman.
Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.
She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."
At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.
"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."
At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.
Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.
Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.
Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.
She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."
At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.
"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."
At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.
Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.
Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.
18.5.10
Not beary brave
I'm going to be consumed by a grizzly bear, and it is all thanks to the fact that Canada hates pistols.
My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.
I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.
Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.
So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."
Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.
I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.
My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.
I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.
Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.
So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."
Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.
I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.
10.5.10
C-ya, dignity
The thing I love about toilets, is that they only require occasional maintenance. The thing I hate about toilets, is the occasional maintenance that they require is a real pain in the ass. And typically involves the installation or removal of a toilet seat. Which sucks because, I don't care how well you clean it nor how often, it never feels okay to get real intimate with a toilet.
A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.
My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.
So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.
I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.
I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.
A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.
My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.
So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.
I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.
I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.
2.5.10
Change or keep?
Is my back ground (blog, not life) distracting?
Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.
What do you think?
If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.
Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.
What do you think?
If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.
Bomb fail
Thank God for people who want to blow up a lot of other people, yet happen to suck at making bombs.
One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.
Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.
This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.
You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.
One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.
Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.
This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.
You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.
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