This was GLORIOUS.

Almost as hilarious as the statement itself, is the response of all of the conservative pundits, i.e. Beck et al. They are all raving that this was some huge mockery of the system, that Colbert was making light of the very important immigration issue, and WTF were the democrats thinking?

First of all, if you/they listened to that and only saw a comedian making light of the immigration problem, I'm sorry that satire completely escapes you. And you are WRONG.

Secondly, if all you heard was Colbert making a mockery of the system...then you were SPOT ON. I think he very poignantly illustrated the fact that the system is a complete joke. That nothing gets done. The conservatives are all pist at the democrats for having him, but he made the democrats LOOK STUPID. A.) For inviting a comedian as brilliant as Colbert to speak to congress, and thinking that he was going to do ANYTHING but exactly what he did. B.) He flat out made fun of them. To their faces. And C.) he highlighted the ineptitude of Congress, which is chiefly run by democrats. Republicans, you should be smiling.

Except for, of course, the fact that he made you look stupid as well.

The point is, even though it was a joke, he made a very simple point. Nobody works together, nobody gets anything done. Picking beans and cherries sucks. The immigration issue is difficult and serious, and it is going to take some real live decision making to fix this issue--something our congress seems a bit incapable of doing. Perhaps they needed a public roasting to prod them into action.

Rather than doing this on his show, he did this to their FACES. I hope there were a lot of sweaty collars in that stuffy little room, because Steven Colbert punked them all.


Accidentally inappropriate shower songs

Turns out when you don't bike for almost 2 weeks, but instead train for employment at an italian restaurant, and eat massive amounts of pasta and cheese, it doesn't just end up being 2 weeks of carbo-loading, preparing you for the ride of your life. Rather, you gain about 5 lbs, and sweat and wheeze up the hill like it was the beginning of the season. Or something like it.

During the post sweat to death shower, for some reason I got the song "Beat It," by Michael Jackson stuck in my head. Upon writing that, and thinking about what I just wrote, I realize that the previous sentence inadvertently sounds REALLY SUSPECT. Honestly, just a coincidence.

Eventually, that song morphed into the Weird Al Yankovic parody "Eat it." Which unfortunately happens to songs, when there exists a Weird Al version that I listened to in my youth. And also, because I don't really know the words to Beat it. But I'll be damned if I don't know just about every line to Eat It.

There was always this one line in Eat It that I was unsure of. It went: "Your table manners are a crying shame, you're playing with your food is this some kind of game? Now if you start to dance, you'll just have yourself to blame so eat it." I never really knew what he was saying there, but it sounded like "now if you start to dance," which makes not one bit of sense. But for years, that's what it was in my mind.

Until I was standing in the shower, fairly annoyed that such a stupid song was going through my head. Upon arriving at that line, I stopped scrubbing my arm pits and thought about it. "Now...if...you...start...to...dance..." And then it clicked. After 20 years, it finally clicked. "Now if you STARVE to death."


Sometimes, when I get a song in my head and I don't really know the words, my mind just makes some up. Like the song, "Baby Come Back." The part where it says, "Baby come back, you can blame it all on me," for some weird reason becomes "Baby Tourettes, don't you blame your shit on me."

No idea why. But I'm not mad that it happens.


Throwing things a little kids

For college today, I had to go to this place in Liberty Park called Youth City. It is an after school program for kids whose parents want to conveniently get rid of them for 3 hours after school, racking up a grand total of 9 or 10 hours of kid free time on a school day. Smart parents. A far cry better than letting them be latch key kids, that's for damn sure.

Anyways, after 2 hours of orientations and whatnot, we all went outside to play some dodgeball hybrid, involving different colored balls, which accomplished different things. I was somewhat hesitant at first, because I wasn't really in the mood to run around with a bunch of kids 8-14, throwing balls around. Plus, I felt like maybe I would feel weird throwing balls at kids half my size, and (for some) 1/3 my age (shit.)

However, as the team captains were picked, something happened to me that never before happened in my life. I was picked first. Granted, I was a pretty damn obvious choice for a first pick, being the second hugest male there. But nonetheless, I went from being mostly indifferent, to very invested in who we were going to be picking for the rest of our team mates.

"No, June, don't pick him. He looks weak."

"Seriously June? Roger? You picked Roger? Did you not notice that he is slightly favoring his right leg? What happens when he can't pivot to avoid a grenade throw? Then what? Well, I'll tell you then what. Roger, his game leg, AND whomever is standing closest to him--gone. Dammit June, use your head."

For whatever reason, as soon as we started playing, I immediately snapped into "way serious dodgeball mode." A mode I wasn't previously aware that I had. I was entranced. Thoroughly invested. I was all over the field, blocking throws from weak arms with a ball in one hand, and then creaming the thrower with the ball from the other hand. Heads, bodies, arms, legs, stomachs. I can't aim worth a damn, so I hit whatever I could. I was ruthless. Effective. Deadly.

I think it finally dawned on me that I was being totally ridiculous when I drilled a kid right in the crotch with a mustard gas ball, and he curled up in the fetal position on the grass for 3 minutes. I think in the end, we both thought it was a pretty good joke.

Turns out, my team kinda sucked. When it came down to me and about 3 other kids, I let my guard down and got pegged right in the eyeball. I sat on the grass in shame, hoping someone would catch the purple ball so I could reenter the game. I tried to sneak back in unnoticed, but some 9 year old called me out.

Ultimately, my team lost. But I'll be damned if it was my fault. It was ROGER'S fault. He was the weak link. I told June. But she didn't listen.

And that, I think, was the lesson we were supposed to learn. Your war ball team is only as strong as your weakest Roger. So don't pick Roger.


Give the guy a break

Somehow, for the first time in the history of my life, I have managed to avoid acquiring even one mosquito bite this entire summer. Not ONE. It isn't that I have been lazy, or stayed indoors. Quite the contrary; I have been backpacking, camping, mountain biking multiple times per week, running, trail running, rope swinging, pond swimming, lake Powell dwelling, bicycle riding, summer sun laying, lawn mowing, bbqing, motorcycle riding, and many other things. Much of my time out doors was spent shirtless, in shorts that hit the mid thigh at best, leaving ample tracts of skin from which mosquitos could harvest vast troves of blood.

The truth is, I really haven't seen or noticed many mosquitos this year. And I'm going to go ahead and thank Global Warming for that.

I feel like global warming gets a way bad wrap, ALL THE TIME. I mean, he (we're going to go ahead and refer to Global Warming as a he, since mother nature gets to be a she) catches all kinds of shit for melting ice bergs, polar bears drowning, crying baby penguins, super intense hurricanes, massive floods, and extra sweaty fat people. He even gets blamed for things which contradict each other, like unseasonable heat, or record breaking cold, flood causing precipitation, or drought induced fires. Negative negative negative. How would you feel if you were global warming, and because mother nature bitched and moaned in front of the right people, Al Gore came and took your kids away?

Well global warming, whichever unseasonable, and contradictory phenomena caused there to be seemingly fewer mosquitos, and thereby made it possible for me to go through an entire summer without one single itchy lump on my skin--thanks for that. You are doing a bang up job.


Squirrel killer

Yesterday, I murdered a squirrel. Also, just now, it took me about 7 tries, and finally giving up and control-clicking the word to actually be able to spell squirrel. It started with squirell, and went to squiril, and up to 5 other moronic renditions including, but not limited to squrill, and squirril.


It was totally an accident, but I felt, on a scale from 1 to I-just-lied-to-my-grandmother-and-called-her-a-whore guilty, probably around a 5. It was weird, because my friend and I had been having conversations about squirrels earlier. It's like our topic of conversation was a mental tractor beam that just drew that little guy right in.

While driving up the canyon to go mountain biking, I was noticing an inordinate amount of squirrel activity. Like, they were running all over the place. I mentioned out loud to my friend, "There sure are a lot of trail beavers running around today." Because that is what I tend to call small rodent like creatures that run around the wilderness with large tails. They were running around with such unusual ubiquity, that I almost ran over one twice on my bike. Which would be quite a feat. A sad, sad feat.

So, after the ride, as I was transitioning from I-215 to I-80 west bound, suddenly a tiny little trail beaver darted in front of my car, about 5 seconds away. I immediately yelled, "No...NO! Run little trail beaver! Run for your life! No no NO NO WATCHOUT!" At which point, the trail beaver was thoroughly ground into oblivion, right beneath Javier's 2 left wheels. I couldn't help but bemoan the fate of the poor little trail beaver, who tried so frantically, during the last precious moments of his tiny life, to figure out just what the hell he was doing on that freeway. It was like watching frogger. He ran in the road, juked left, then right, then left then right the left then left then under my tires. All that remains of that majestic trail beaver, is viscera and fur, stuck to the freeway. A lousy, albeit quick way to go.

As to my knowledge, that is the only creature from the mammal section of the animal kingdom that I have ever murdered with my car. I came damn close to running over a goose once. I think that little pre-roadkill conversation I had with myself was a little different.
"Wtf, is that a goose? Get out of the road, you goose! Go get sucked into a plane engine and die with a little dignity, if that's what you are trying to do here." What an embarrassing way to go, for a goose.

Javier is just broken up over the whole thing. He refused to run the air conditioning the rest of the way home. Which I get. Those were HIS tires who sent that squirrel to a furry hell. Which is what I told him.
"Hey little guy. Don't fret. That squirrel was probably a real asshole. And may be in hell."

But deep down, I knew the truth.


Zombies and sleeveless shirts

Because I am obviously a supreme redneck with a desire to do a whole helluvalotta murder, and such, I decided last year that I wanted to get a conceal and carry permit. I PACK HEAT. Sometimes. Not every time, but sometimes. I just want to make sure that I am ready for the zombie apocalypse. Not that anybody would be checking permits, with zombies running around eating faces. But it's the principle which is important, I think.

Actually, the most disappointing thing to me about religion (mine, and others) is that there really isn't any doctrinal back up for an eminent zombie apocalypse. Sigh.

I found this on a friend's blog, and include it due to the relevancy and, I think, cultural importance:

I think this is something that everyone should really think about, because I mean, WHAT IF?

To my left: a shelf full of fantasy novels. While they may provide a lot of useful insight into how best one may fight in a rudimentary, medieval-esque fashion, (including varying weapon styles, spells, and witchery), as weapons themselves, they may prove to be somewhat wanting in efficacy. It would take an assload of books and a real firm commitment to the task, to beat a zombie's brains in with paper backs.

Today, for the second time in a year, I found myself doing fingerprints for a back ground check. Whereas last time, it was in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, today it was to be able to start student teaching. Which I think may end up being scarier than said apocalypse.

They do this FBI background check to make sure I'm not a pedophile, or a terrorist, or whatever. The really cool thing is, this background check/fingerprinting cost 85 bucks. And I had it done one year ago. And for whatever reason, the State can't collaborate with itself, and have a look at the previous check, even though they are good for 3 years. And done in the same place, by the same agency. Good job, government. Can we please make you bigger and in charge of more shit?

While I was waiting forever for like, 2 other people to get printed (excellent government efficiency at work), an older gentleman who seemed to have lost the sleeves to his shirt somewhere had approached the help window. I started paying attention to the conversation when he said this: "I ain't never had no possession of drugs. I just wanna get it off my record, cuz I wanna get a firearm."

"Cool," I thought. Me and that guy. We will obviously be ready. If, of course, he can get that pesky possession expunged from his record. 15 minutes, and 85 dollars later, I left that place in full confidence that a.) I was probably going to pass the background check, b.) I was justified in being annoyed about the incompetence of our government, and c.) that the woman at the help desk was going to do everything in her power to get that sleeveless man a gun.

1 step closer to teacherhood, and 2 steps closer to preventing zombie domination. Successful day? I think so.

What is to your left?