3 cheers for death

Sometimes, conservatives, you sure make it hard not to halt my slide into wicked, wicked liberalism.

There were two very poignant moments during the last two GOP debates that further convinced me that the far right wing is a wonderfully hypocritical place to be.

I think that the far right of the republican party can safely be called the party of Jesus. To say that far right conservative views aren't heavily influenced by Christianity would be like saying that the far left isn't influenced by Socialist Jesus, which the far right conveniently forgets existed.

So, what could possibly be more un-Christian, than clamoring for the death of a hypothetical uninsured man, and cheering Richard Perry's execution record?

Last night, as Ron Paul was given the hypothetical question, "What do you tell a guy who is sick, goes into a coma and doesn't have health insurance? Who pays for his coverage? "Are you saying society should just let him die?" At this point, you sort of hear a rising grumble in the crowd, that turned into quite a few people yelling "yeah!"

I totally understand the idea and importance of personal responsibility. This hypothetical person (me) should definitely have insurance. And by not having it—if he [I] can afford it (I cant)—he is definitely unfairly putting society at risk for an undeserved burden. Should he have been responsible? Yes. Does he deserve to suffer the consequences (death) of his actions? Not for me to say. Should we HAVE to take care of him? No. But what is the right thing? Cheering for someone's death because it affects your wallet sure doesn't seem like the right thing, and I'm pretty sure it isn't what Jesus would advocate.

The other thing that blew me away, was the wild cheering that occurred during Rick Perry's first appearance at a debate, when he was explaining that over 200 prisoners had been executed under his watch as governor. Seriously, the audience was euphoric that Texas had put its boot down and euthanized over 200 (hopefully) terrible people.

I can't understand how support of the death penalty largely comes from the Christian right (even though, in our country, more people as a whole support capital punishment than oppose it). I am aware that the bible says, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." But the Old Testament also says a lot of other crazy shit. Which is why, if my memory serves, Jesus came along and stripped the gospel of a lot of crazy. And I guess added a bunch of other ludicrous ideas like "love thy enemy." "Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who hurt you." Madness.

Can anyone give me one good argument FOR the death penalty? Just one really good one? Because if your argument is financial, you are dead wrong. It costs infinitely more to execute a human (because of the cost of appeals and whatnot) than to incarcerate one for life. Like, sometimes 10's of millions more.

Because they deserve it? Well, who are you to decide what anyone deserves? Does a human who maliciously killed another human deserve to be in society? Absolutely not. But do we have the right or responsibility to kill that human being? It seems like our ultimate responsibility to society is to keep it safe. That can be accomplished without capital punishment.

Does anyone honestly think that we get it right 100% of the time? That was the thing that first turned me off to capital punishment—knowing that our system is incapable of getting it right, 100% of the time. Can you imagine being on death row, knowing you are innocent, and knowing that nobody in the world believes you, and there isn't a thing you can do about it? All to perpetuate an unnecessary system? It makes me sick, thinking about that.

If the system euthanizes even one innocent human in 100,000, it isn't worth it.

When we euthanize a human, we are also making the ultimate judgement that such a person has no worth, and can never have a change of heart. We are essentially robbing from this person the opportunity to change—the very thing for which he/she is being executed.

Should a murderer with a changed heart be set free? Hell no. But by executing him/her, we are throwing away any opportunity for good that such a person can do for society.

Before a Utah state firing squad shot Ronnie Lee Gardner through the heart, he was working with at risk youth, setting a poignant example of where poor life decisions lead human beings. But, in order to satiate some visceral need for vengeance, we ended his life, and thus any good he could return upon society.

I just have a hard time imagining sitting down with Jesus, and having this conversation:

"Hey Jesus."
"Hey man."
"Who is going to win the Super Bowl?"
"Oh, you! Like I'm telling! But it isn't the Buffalo Bills."
"Oh! By the way. Check this out. There was this dude who killed like, 11 prostitutes, chopped them up, and shoved them under the floor boards of his house. Next week we're scheduled to stick a needle into his arm, and pump him full of chemicals that will render his heart, lungs, and brain useless, thus sending him straight to a fiery hell!"
- high five -
"Yeah! That dude TOTALLY deserved it. Trust me, I know. I've always regretted stopping that stoning a couple thousand years ago. I'm glad you guys are killing him, so you can speed up his judgement. God is just AGOG waiting for this one."
"So, make us some wine to celebrate?"

I am not saying that there exists any perfect, political ideology. There is hypocrisy on both sides. But from the side that uses Christianity as an ideological building block—these issues—or at least the attitudes that accompany them—sure seem to reek of inconsistency.


Adults only

Either I write a lot more about sex education than I remember, or my blog is way more pornographic than I thought.

I suppose it is fair that since this particular Mormon owned company eliminated in-room porn sales to insomniac patrons, the next natural thing would be to ban employees from blogs awash with lingerie and bikini photos.

I knew I shouldn't have gone that route.


The imprudence of postponing the removal of a cyst

Member when I used to be a blogger? Those were the good days. A time when America was awesome. When I was wrapped up in an American flag, cradled in the American dream. The world was my oyster. Jobs were plentiful, and there were just so many damned oysters to get. Then, all of the sudden I got a HUGE INFECTED CYST.

The cyst is in no way related to jobs, American dreams, or oysters. Unless of course (not having) health insurance is part of the American dream. Then, I suppose, infectious cysts and the American dream are terribly related. Where do oysters fit in? I just don't know.

So I have had this cyst on my neck for the better part of a half of a decade. A doctor tried to remove it previously, and for whatever reason, failed in the attempt. I don't know, I guess his cutting tool wasn't sharp enough, or he got tired of spending 7 minutes trying to do it, or he had a tee time at the Nephi golf course, or whatever. The point is, the cyst came back over the next better part of that half of a decade that I previously mentioned.

Gordon Franklin Elliot, the little oyster in my neck, grew to be about the size of a small marble. Or an incredibly large pearl. And I mostly ignored it, and passively hated it. It wasn't huge and gnarly to the point where anyone talking to me would be rendered unable to make eye contact. Often, people would never even really notice it. Until, that is, Gordon Franklin Elliot became angry and enormous.

Within about a period of a month, GFE went from being a small, semi-noticible marble under my neck skin, to a glaring red pist off half of a golf ball.

Conversations, when I'd meet new people, went something like this:

"Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Fish."

"Nice to meet you too. I don't really know anybody here. Who do you knooooooOOOOOHHHH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT?!?"

"Just a writhing pile of cancer, festering in my neck, moments away from sending me into an early grave. Thanks for reminding me."

Sometimes Gordon Franklin Elliot was a goiter. Or a spider bite. Or a nest of spiders. Or a parasitic twin. Or whatever. I got pretty good at immediately drawing attention to him, so as to avoid the insta-disgust/shock when anyone noticed it organically. It seemed like immediately bringing it up, and then lying and/or telling the truth about it made it easier to swallow.

Once I lost full (most) range of motion in my neck, and the mound hurt like hell, I decided it was time to visit the doctor. I got an appointment at a clinic. When it was finally my turn, I followed the nurse back, and stepped on the scale, at which point the doctor came by. She looked at Gordon Franklin Elliot, and said, "I'm not touching that. You need to go to the emergency room, and you need to go tonight."

Well shit.

So to the emergency room I went, and sat there for about 3 hours before they took me back. It is always fun, mingling for about 3 hours with lots of people who probably aren't going to pay for whatever thing the ER is going to end up doing to them.

I was excited and terrified when it was finally my turn. Joy! Rapture! This neck ailment would finally be removed from my life, once and for all.

Only, that was not the case. Apparently, when something is "just about the most infected thing I have ever seen," doctors are more concerned with removing the infectious waste than with removing that which harbored it. In other words, you have to drain the shit out of the bathtub, before you can cut out the bathtub.

So about the time that the doctor finished looking at my neck and decided that it needed to be drained, and then left me there for 45 minutes, I started thinking about how much I wasn't going to like having a needle shoved into the thing down which I swallow air and food. I don't like needles in the best of circumstances, and the neck just seems extra scary. I was trying to think of worse places to have needle penetration, and the list was short: penis, finger webbing, beneath finger/toe nails, belly button, eyeball, and maybe straight into the nipple.

I asked for some valuum or some such calming drug. Instead of giving it to me, they sent me back into the shitshow that was the waiting room, complete with some dude with a really terrifyingly messed up eye yelling at his mom on the phone, people hacking and coughing, and a really large old woman with blood soaking through a rather expansive tract of pants somewhere near where the ass and back merge together.

I spend another half an hour or so out there, until I was finally summoned back for that which I simultaneously dreaded and anticipated. I was lead to another room, deeper in the belly of the hospital. The whole 5 or so hours of waiting started to make sense, as I was re-checked in- meaning they did all the same nonsense they did over an hour ago- asking me why I was there, to what I was allergic, checking my blood pressure, etc.

I reminded the new doctor that I was expecting some valuum, and could they please hurry the hell up with it, lest the needle go anywhere near my neck in a completely lucid, terrified state. She assured me it was on its way, and then left.

A few minutes later, in comes my savior with the entirely too tiny dose of valuum. The drug had slid down my gullet fewer than 3 minutes before the doctor came back, ready to bury a needle in my neck. "NonononononoNOOOOO! Not enough time!, I screamed in my head, while nervously tapping my feet.

"Um...I JUST took that valuum like, 3 minutes ago. Is there any way you can come back in a few?"
"Well, I can wait I guess."
"Does this mean that I will wait like, 15 minutes, or another hour?"
"I don't know. It might be a while."
"Okay. Just do it."
"Okay. I will warn you, this is going to hurt. BUT, it should only hurt for a second, and then the numbing will kick in."
"Wait. Do you have to stick the needle in the middl of it, or just near it?"
"In the middle."
"Ugh. Okay. Well. Wait. Okay, just do it. No, wait. Ahh, I can't do this! Okay, just do it."

Oh, how I waxed cowardly.

But COMMON. A needle right in the middle of this enormous, infected, incredibly tender neck protrusion?

It is a strange feeling when you find yourself in a situation in which you have no choice to do something that seems like the worst thing in the world. When you have to be braver than you are. When you know you have to hold still while a needle parts the tender folds of your bulbous neck flesh, filling the protrusion with excruciating, fiery horror.

I'm glad that I didn't have some prescient knowledge of the excruciating, fiery horror part. I just assumed it was going to hurt. Not that it was going to hurt worse than any other thing ever hurt.

So I laid down, and said, "Okay okay, hurry, just do it."

She came over, popped the needle in, and I said, "Oh. That wasn't as bad as you said." At which point, she began injecting the numbing agent, which caused the whole excruciating fiery horror thing to happen. Seriously, like 1,000 wasps, stinging my neck all at once, for 45 seconds. I sweated. I writhed. I said some things that would probably make my mother, grandmother, and maybe Jesus cry. I didn't, however, move my neck an inch.

Once that was over with, I was abandoned again for about 10 minutes while my neck went numb. I thought, "alas, that sucked. But at least the painful part is over."

Again, a lack of prescience kept me from bolting out of the hospital, to die in the streets of a neck-to-brain-to-heart infection combo fatality. When the doctor returned, she looked like she was ready to operate upon a radioactive mutant covered in suppurating lesions. Face shield and all. At this point, Gordon Franklin Elliot felt hard as a rock. It seemed like one fell poke would cause a septic eruption never theretofore experienced on planet earth.

"Cool," I thought. "This will be over in no time. Poke, drain (explode), sew it up. I'll be home in time for the Daily Show."

There was a poke. There was a squirt. And then soooooo much squeezing. And, accompanying the squeezing, soooooo much pain. And, thus, more writhing, sweating, and swearing. It took about 8 minutes to drain that sonofabitch. During which, she said, "I bet you wish you took the oxycodone now, huh," as I had previously refused it, for fear of becoming nauseated, due to not having eaten any food in a ton of hours, mostly because I had been in the damned ER for tons of hours.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

Once she was finished, she sent one of her minions away to fetch me some opiates. I lay there sort of trembling, thinking as the world thought after the holocaust, "never again."

So, for the last couple of weeks, Gordon Franklin Elliot has been packed with long, ribbony gauze, which has been so tenderly removed and repacked on a daily basis by my dear friend Adam, and lately another dear friend Susan. God bless them, for saving me from daily visits to the hospital. Instead, we do the dreadful repacking in my kitchen. It is almost all the way healed up, and the sepsis seems to be gone, which means I get to go in for round two- absolute and final extraction of Gordon Franklin Elliot.

And after weeks of having gauze shoved into a hole in my neck with tweezers, with blood running down my chest (in the early days) in my kitchen....bring on the neck needle. My fear has abated.


Sad shins

It's sort of disconcerting when you wear shorts to work for the first time (casual Friday, obvi) and you urinate in the urinal in which you have urinated for the last 6 months, and you realize that the particular angle in which your stream has been contacting the porcelain (in no way irregular) has been, apparently, sending urine ricocheting back into your shins, probably every time.

The non-internal narration went something like this:
"What the? Wait, what the hell? Oh. ah man. Well, that sucks."

I think sometimes in life, you piss on your shins for a really long time, without ever knowing it.


I want to be where comrades are

Contrary to what may be popular belief, I was not raptured. I am simply more busy than I've ever been in my life.

Sometimes, for some reason, I get the Little Mermaid song "Part of Your World" stuck in my head. Honestly, what isn't to like about that song? It is incredibly catchy.

I also have the habit of talking to myself when alone, which I believe I wrote about years ago on this blog. Living alone has merely exacerbated this phenomenon. It isn't as though I sit and have conversations with myself. I simply sometimes narrate what I am doing. Like a real asshole.

So, I have found that lately, when the this song gets stuck in my head, I have begun to, rather than sing it, say the words, but in a Russian accent. I've realized that imagining that I am Joseph Stalin, whimsically saying the words rather than singing them, is really funny when you replace certain words with other words.

For example:

Right before Ariel breaks into song, she says this: "Maybe he's right. Maybe there is something the matter with me.
I just don't see how a world that makes such wonderful things could be bad."

Now, imagine Joseph Stalin, sequestered away from the common folk of the Soviet Union, in either an underground compound, or whatever (this definitely works best if you imagine him underground, for obvious reasons). And you HAVE to imagine this in a russian accent. "Maybe the comrades are right. Maybe there is something the matter with me. I just don't see how a world that makes wonderful things could be bad," says Comrade Stalin, as he wistfully imagines a country not raped stupid by communism.

"Look at this stuff...it is not neat? Wouldn't you say my arsenal is complete? Wouldn't you say I am comrade...comrade who has...everything? Look at this trove...stockpile untold. How many warheads, can one compound hold? Looking around here you think...sure...this comrade has everything.

I have gadgets and gizmos a plenty...I've got whose-its and whats-its galore. You want thermal bombs? I have twenty (said, as he waves a disinterested, dismissive hand in the direction of said thermal bombs) But who cares? Is no big deal. I want more....(said in an intense, sinister whisper.)

I want to be where comrades are. I want to see, want to see them marching. Standing around in those--how you say?--food lines. Riding around underground compound in party leader issued red Benz you don't get too far, a comrade must use legs for marching along on those--how you say--streets?

Up where comrades walk, where comrades run, where comrades toil all day under threat of nuclear fire storm...wandering free, wish I could be, part of that world..."

You get the idea. I think that maybe had Stalin been able to see the Little Mermaid, he'd have taken the Soviet Union in a different direction. He'd have realized that he and the little mermaid were the same person--just cooped up, misunderstood comrades, waiting for their chance to break free from King Triton/Communism's oppressive clutches.

This is where your mind goes, and what it produces, when you teach history, live alone, and are an apparently unsalvageable nerd.


My final post

As I woke up this morning about 4 am to a literally unbroken, 30+ minute peal of thunder, I couldn't help but think, "Did I totally blow it? Did the rapture come almost 38 hours early? I only maxed out one credit card. Dammit."

I guess I've just always felt like, should Jesus come, it would probably be sort of a surprise. I figured I'd probably be in the midst of reading some bullshit fantasy novel, and suddenly the walls would melt around me, and my shame would be made manifest to the whole world. Only, everybody's shames would be being made manifest in that moment, so I guess most would be less than likely to notice me reading a book with whimsical creatures adorning the cover.

When the walls melt around closet Magic the Gathering players, the world will truly writhe with shame.

The billboards announcing May 21, 2011 as THE Judgement Day, have been around for a while. It's been hard to see them and not inwardly chuckle, and outwardly say, with a slight head shake and a tone rife with sarcasm, "the Rapture. Common."

But as the day draws nigh, it's hard not to wonder—what if the Rapture comes, and I don't even get raptured? Because it seems like, to their standards—they being the people who have been running a very ineffectual warning campaign—I probably won't be raptured. In fact, I don't really know of anybody who will be.

When I was driving home from Erda on Monday, I passed a Winnebago covered in warning signs of God's impending drop kick of earth into a fiery volcano of misery. Shit totally got real right then. I thought, "Wait. So that's THIS Saturday? What am I even supposed to do? It is apparent pretty much everybody is screwed—an even larger ratio of screwed than what most religions typically predict for humanity—but is there some way I can avoid the embarrassment of not being raptured?" Damn Winnebagos and the inherent aura of credibility and seriousness lent to any message draped thereupon.

None of these signs really tell you what to do, but rather merely guarantee destruction. So I started brainstorming. What are the sorts of things I could do, to make apparent my faith in the impending Rapture? How can I get raptured, should this tiny portion of humanity be right, and our, in theory, loving Father is really going to, without a second thought, flush most of His children down the toilet into oblivion? All because they didn't believe some crazy, nonsensical numerical theory that some old doomsdayer concocted from reading, what amounts to be, the most tampered with, re-translated concoction of literature ever compiled on the planet?

Maxing out all my credit cards, and eating as much cheese, cream puffs, and creme brulee as I could possibly shove down my gullet came to mind.

Cleaning my house is out the window. I mean, what's the point? If I only have limited hours remaining before either being raptured, or not raptured, why waste even one of those hours doing something so mundane as washing a dish? I've just been throwing them (dishes) in the trash can after use, and then dumping the trash out the window.

Of course I have stopped paying any bills. Increasing my rapture points is worth possibly getting the water shut off for a few days.

I'm glad that, even though he believes America is going to be blown to hell for totally different reasons, Glen Beck gave me the idea to convert all of my assets to gold, via Gold Line (a company in which he SURELY has no financial stake). Because, obviously, for those unfortunate souls (most) who aren't raptured, gold will of course become the currency. Or human teeth. It's hard to know.

If you are wondering what is going to happen should you not be raptured: "And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented five months: and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion, when he striketh a man." Revelation 9:5

Scorpion stings for 5 months. That sounds horrible. I would say that, if I don't get raptured along with the rest of you, we can all take comfort in the fact that we were left behind together. But get real. I won't be thinking that at all, suffering those awful scorpion stings for 5 months.

Here are some images that I imagine capture the essence of Judgement Day, for those who don't get beamed into heaven.

I just want to be raptured. I guess this is goodbye?


Fighter jet wake boarding and swimming with babies

Now that facebook has become inundated with advertisements, besides just those for hot, single, large breasted scantily clad Christian women waiting for me with a secret message, the ad ideas are growing increasingly interesting/wonderful.

I guess saying "now that," in regards to facebook's deluvial advertisement bar is incorrect in implying that such a thing is a recent development. I think that the diversification, however, is something that is actually a newer occurrence.

My favorites are the ones which involve a specific numerical amount of things that one must do in Salt Lake City, sometimes before one dies. This is made apparent either by referring to said things as a "bucket list," or by more subtly saying, "(some amount) of things to do before you die."

I think I finally was clued into the fact that these are a scam when I saw one that involved a bunch of babes drinking, with palm trees in the back ground. I mean, there are not girls who drink in SLC.

But at the same time, there are some that seem like they could totally be happening in SLC. Such as these that follow:
This might be my all time favorite.

Now, I've done some searching, and I haven't quite been able to find the company that let's one wakeboard, towed behind a fighter jet. Honestly, I can't think of a single more bitching thing that could ever exist in this world. I'm not sure how one avoids being incinerated by the jet engines clearly powerful enough to create, what seems to be, about a 50 ft wake. But who am I to question science?

This next one, I discovered today:
Due to being unable to enlarge this image in anyway, I have to go with my heart, which tells me that this is CGI. If that is the case, then it would appear that some company has developed a virtual simulation (or maybe just a Wii game?) where you get to be underwater with an infant.


The real question is, does one have the option to be both the infant and the mother, or just one or the other? And if one is playing the infant, what does this entail? Must one wave the Wii wand in a certain manner to keep the baby holding its breath for a maximum amount of time? Or to flail the limbs, and avoid sinking to a point that it is out of mother's reach? Maybe one plays from the point of view of the infant, but is controlling the mother, and directing mom (via Wii wand and nun-chuck) into a watery, life saving embrace. Like guiding a plane into an aircraft carrier.

I also imagine that, should the baby drown, it's like when Mario drowns on Nintendo 64. If you are wondering what this looks like, http://youtu.be/UXCzeszG-I0. Skip to the last 15 seconds or so. I'm pretty sure this would be about spot on.

I don't know, this seems like it would only be fun like, 70 or 80 times.

Maybe this is a real life thing, where you get in a pool, and they (the baby-pool experience company, maybe called the Baby Pool Experience Expedition Adventure Miracle) toss you an infant. It would probably be sort of like a climbing gym, where you have to sign up for a membership and get training before they will let you lead a climb. In other words, if you want to be solo in a pool with a baby (not yours, company owned) you have to be a member/have some formal training. Otherwise, it is like skydiving- you have to be strapped to an expert if you want to play with an infant underwater.

The Baby Pool Experience Expedition Adventure Miracle shares similarities to a whole slough of recreational activities.

Even being a groupon, it's still probably just cheaper to find a pool, and BYOB. But since I (and a lot of other people) don't have our own babies to throw in a pool, here's to hoping it really is a video game.


¡Cinco de mayo!

Incase you were wondering whether or not that was the upper half of a Dora the Explorer piñata strapped to the back of my motorcycle...go with your instinct.

In the Spanish class that I "teach," the girls asked if we could do something fun for Cinco de Mayo. So I decided that making a homemade piñata full of awful Mexican candy would be a great thing to do. After searching for a Mexican market in west Salt Lake, we stumbled upon one sort of by the train tracks, almost under the freeway, behind a bunch of buildings. The only entrance was through a big bay door with thick strips of plastic covering it. Like sometimes you see in the back of a grocery store, indicating areas where normal civilians aren't supposed to go.

After browsing through the candy section, and checking out the staggering selection of piñatas, Colin talked me into splitting one with him, for a birthday party we were going to later on. He surmised that, after we beat the hell out of it, we could probably patch it up, and I could refill it with all of the candy that presumably, as adults (and given the nasty nature of Mexican candy in general) we wouldn't likely eat.

So I agreed, we strapped Dora to his bike, and off we went.

Because we ended up clubbing Dora around midnight in a friend's living room—who happens to live above a terribly grumpy old woman named Shirley, who does nothing but wander around the complex in a bathrobe, bitching about this and that all day—the piñata sustained pretty minimal damage. Nobody wants the wrath of a Shirley in a bathrobe at midnight because of a noise violation. Ultimately, the legs and crotch region were a total loss, but the upper torso area maintained a great deal of structural integrity.

So I packed up the remaining candy (which was most of it—one only needs to eat a single strawberry flavored hard candy with a salt-chili powder packed core to realize that he or she never wants to do that again) and took Dora home, and did some patchwork. I mostly just had to close up her gaping torso, which rendered her as good as an almost new, upper half of a piñata.

Albeit clearly a second hand, wind ravaged piñata, the girls were thrilled at the prospect of destroying a candy packed Dora with a cane, instead of studying subjunctive verbs.

The second thing that made Cinco de Mayo great, was a text I received from a mystery person, to which I decided to respond, due to its emphatic nature. (My responses are in the green.)((Also, "Can you," followed by 8 question marks, was the very first message I received.)

61 questions marks, in case you were curious.

And then I died. An infinitely better result than I ever could have hoped for.

I hope he/she found the Drake. I also hope the Drake gets kicked in the crotch for standing up a 9 year old. And on Cinco de Mayo of all days. FOR SHAME.


The morning after the morning after the night i found out

I think that the ubiquitous Osama updates on facebook are the only thing I have ever seen trump, in sheer volume and magnitude, all of the "I'm in Utah, it's snowing, and I'm bitching about it," updates.

According to Wolf Blitzer, before it was officially announced, it was going to be one of those things that when people heard it, they would always remember precisely where they were, forever till infinity.

Sometimes when I am laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and unable to fall asleep, I look at facebook for a moment on my phone, in hopes that I will grow utterly bored, and accidentally fall asleep. It was about 12:30, and I was noticing an abnormal amount of "AMERICA!" and, "I'm proud to be an American!" and, "Why is one network spelling it 'Usama,' while another is spelling it 'Osama?" updates.

I checked the NPR app I have on my phone and, sure enough, uncle Osama had been dispatched to, presumably, the deepest pit of a ham lined hell, via a bullet through the orbitofrontal cortex.

I think my main reaction was something like, "Huh. I guess they got him." And then I rolled over, and promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, or "The Morning After" as I have named it, facebook was absolutely inundated with American pride, and lots of digital interweb fist pumping. As one would expect, the conservative radio waves were a similar frenzy of chest pounding and double high fives, in spite of the fact that it was that commie bastard Obama that finally got him.

Which, I guess, I understand. America has been looking for Osama for a pretty long time. A lot of people have died to come to this culmination. But I guess the thing that sort of makes me feel weird, is the absolute frat-party-douche-bag atmosphere that was outside the White house, and elsewhere. Call me un-American, but I feel like all of the cheering, and dancing in the streets, shooting silly string, and getting wasted is a weird way to respond to a death, regardless of how vile and wretched the deceased happened to be.

I didn't know a single person who died in 9/11, so maybe that is what makes me lack the instinct to want to tear off my shirt, pour beer all over myself, and run around in a circle with roman candles in each hand. But I don't think so. I think that if, God forbid, my mother, or father, or a sibling was horribly murdered by someone, and 10 years later that person was executed (which I would actually oppose, because I think the death penalty is wrong, which is an argument for another day) I think going crazy in the street is the last thing I would be doing.

I realize it would be a different situation, because there would not be a massive, national, collective investment in the death of someone related to me. I think, however, that the principle is the same. It seems like the somber satisfaction and relief that comes with justice, is very distinct from the jubilation that comes from revenge. Justice incites closure; revenge is rarely satiated.

There was also an element on facebook that was advocating the idea that maybe being totally stoked on the death of a (albeit terrible) person was, perhaps, wrong. And the more I thought about it, the more I started coming to a similar conclusion. I do, however, think that looking upon Americans with disdain for celebrating is too idealistic at best, and at least a little unfair. I understand the country's emotional investment in this. I think rather than saying that American's reactions are wrong, I would rather say that I wish they were different.

I don't expect everyone to think like I do, or feel like I do. Everyone is different, and we all have distinct world views. I saw this quote pop up several times: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy.* Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out… hate: only love can do that." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Did something need to be done about Osama Bin Laden? Absolutely. Was the best answer killing him? It's hard to say. But was the best response, upon his death, one of exuberant, euphoric celebration?

I think we are better than that.

* I found out this evening that the part of the quote proceeding the * is actually falsely attributed to MLK. Jessica Dovey actually said the first part, and followed it with the MLK quote. Somewhere amidst the ka-trillion reposts on twitter and fbook, the quote marks were shifted to give the impression that MLK said the whole thing. Which, ultimately, is irrelevant anyway. I think it would be in the spirit of something he would say, and it is a powerful idea regardless of who said it.


No more eating on the moon

"...and thus saith the Lord, grad school shall be thy bane, devouring thy life. Shouldst thou peradventure survive the scouring fires of high learning, thou shalt inherit kingdoms, principalities, and 401K's, worlds without end." -Bible

There once was a time when I was not finishing up grad school, flying to different states for 3-4 days per weekend, and absorbing equal parts wisdom and horror while observing a middle school class for hours per week. Such was a time when this blog thrived. Thrived, I say.

There is good news upon the horizon. Firstly, being that I only have 3 more classes where large quantities of assignment must be turned in. Secondly, I shall not be student teaching in the abysmal, miserable pit of the deepest hell, which is middle school, but rather at the boarding school where I have been doing the other, infinitely more pleasant half of my observations. Thirdly, student teaching shall be accomplished over the summer, rather than next fall, and therefore I shall enter the hiring pool during the dreadfully difficult first of the year, rather than the horrifically impossible middle of the year. In reality, no time is a good time right now, but at least the fall is better, to a degree.

My time, over the last 3 months, as an ersatz photographer, has been interesting to say the least. I've come to despise airports and flying, which I never thought would happen. I have come to view them as giant dens of disease, filth, discomfort, and absurdly overpriced bagels and gummy bears. I have gotten sick at least twice during the last 3 months, which i attribute to being exposed to all manner of nefarious, foreign pathogens, with which I'd have probably not under normal circumstances come into contact. And charging 4 dollars for a bagel with cream cheese? Get real airport, this isn't the damned moon.

I hate the roll of the dice when you get on the plane, sit down, and wait for the person who is going to sit next to you. Nervously observing and scrutinizing each person as they make the long walk down the aisle, ever nearing your seat. Will it be the babe with the short hair and spectacular boots? Or the 432 lb man behind her? Will I get a screaming baby? A smelly person? The drunk guy on his way to the Nascar races in Vegas, who yells at his friends in other sections of the plane, informing them about how stoked he is, every time he gets stoked? Which is ever few minutes? So stoked, that guy.

I never got the babe with the boots. I did, however, on several occasions, have a panniculus contending for all of my arm space, and at least half of my seat space. And the smelly guy. And the nightmare baby. And the Nascar imbecile. Just never that babe. The Gods of Southwest airlines, or as I called it "The Peoples' Plane," ever conspired against me.

Sleeping in many different motels of varying degrees of shittiness also gave me anxiety. I feel like the bed spreads in cheap motels are nothing, if not veritable semen depositories. And even though I always remove the DNA blanket, I still feel like trace remnants of X and Y chromosomes have certainly taken refuge upon the remainder of the "clean" sheets.

I don't even want to think about the showers/tubs. I mean, no way are those in any way adequately cleaned. If I were a motel cleaning engineer, I'll be damned if I would do anything more than run a clorox wipe over everything. I've found that clorox wipes do not dissolve orphan pubic hair forsaken by the previous host occupants, and said motel cleaning technicians do not seem to go out of their way to gather them up. A large den of rats could build a fairly sturdy nest, with all of the abandoned hair I have found in bathrooms during the last few months.


Even though there were aspects of the job I enjoyed, I'm glad it's over. Although, this means that over the summer, I'm probably going to have to return to the true bane of my existence...the soul rending destroyer of all hope and happiness, killer of good moods and attitudes....


Obama save me.


You're welcome

The ratio gap between girls who date me, and then immediately marry the next guy they date, VS girls who date me, and then sink into a terrible depression, forever after wandering the earth, ever seeking an elusive something, and that something being, probably, me--is staggering.

It's like, several-zero.

Which makes me wonder--what is this power which I apparently imbue upon ex's, which makes them suddenly appealing enough that any given guy is ready to forever cast in his lot (or at least until the nasty divorce, *fingers crossed*) with this person, this dear ex of mine?

Lest I be crucified, the fingers crossed for the divorce was a tasteless joke, bred of something close to the most mild bitterness that one can espouse, putting one on the cusp of being a tiny bit bitter, and not giving a hot damn. In other words, I didn't mean it. I wish divorce upon no one. Except for a few people. But to none of whom this blog would apply. I typically only cross my fingers for divorce when someone I care about married someone who sucks the worst.


At this point, I do not have one single ex girlfriend that isn't either married, or engaged. And a great majority of these females indeed DID marry the next beaux that got past the 14th date.

I think, perhaps, that I need to seek out my female wizard counterpart (or witch, as it were) who also has this unfortunate ability to magically force ex romances to marry the next person who can coax them into dinner and a movie. If I find this person, perhaps we can cancel out each others' power, or we will simply bewitch each other, and marry whomever comes next.

That would make for some intense pressure, those post wizard/witch relationship dates.


TSA sanctioned molestation

When one has gained between 7-10 lbs, depending upon the time of day, it is a bad idea to dry one’s jeans on high heat, especially be they of the skinny genre.

Working for this photography company on the weekends has ruined my health. Where once I could be found eating fast food maybe once a month, I have digressed to the American norm of mass convenience consumption. I feel like my metamorphosis over the last 2 months provides a most cogent paradigm of everything that is wrong with America.

Seriously. I have gone from being able to furiously pedal for an hour straight with a healthy body weight, to having to pour myself into jeans, getting winded up 2 flights of stairs, and watching the scale present me with 10 lbs more than I have ever had to witness in recent recorded history.

All in a matter of a couple of months. And there are people who eat like this...indefinitely. I have a kangaroo pouch between my neck an chin, without even the benefit of actually having a baby kangaroo in there. Catching a profile view in the 3 way mirror is depressing.

I got molested at the airport because of this.

2 weeks ago, while flying to Vegas, I had the privilege of showing the outline of my genitals to the TSA, via one of those digital x-ray cocksticle exploration capsules. Which is fine. If that keeps me (potential terrorist) from wrapping a bomb around my penis and blowing a plane to hell...great. Have a look. I’ll give you a complimentary pelvic thrust and a shimmy, if you like.

However, I thought that going through said “humiliation” (for some) would in turn, exempt one from having to have ones body groped by a less than eager TSA grandpa(ma). The eve before the Vegas event, I made the mistake of drying my jeans, and being 10 lbs overweight. Upon exiting the voyeur machine, the TSA grandpa instructed me to wait. He then asked if I had anything in my pockets. I looked at the very clear definition of my thighs, and stated “Nope.”

“Are you sure?”
I looked down again, and could but see the outlines of my pockets, which were unfortunately more pronounced than usual, due to said heat/fat.
“I’m going to have to feel you to check.”

At which point, I got super annoyed.

Do I really care if part of this guy’s hands end up brushing my lower genital region? Not really. However, what in the HELL IS THE POINT of those ridiculous machines, if not but to avoid a potential pat down? It makes perfect sense to me, if one passes through a metal detector, beeps, and subsequently requires some groping. I get it. But this stupid machine that is the bane of Sean Hannity and good, modest folks everywhere, is supposed to find the sort of thing that the TSA grandpa CAN’T find with a thorough groping.

The following week, a terribly normal looking woman passed through the sexy-machine right after me, was stopped, and informed by the TSA that a boob examination. Seriously. The TSA lady had to grope all around her breast to look for....explosive breast implants? I’d have been LIVID, had I been this woman. Again, what is the point of this machine, if one still has to go through a rather invasive groping anyways?

At least getting through airport security more quickly is a good motivation for losing weight. I am DETERMINED to melt away this neck pouch over the next 2 months. Perhaps, I shall begin a photo journal, documenting the progress of thwarting this extra chin/neck that is attempting to take permanent residence on my chin/neck.

“Man was meant to have but one chin/neck. Be ye warned.”
-Christian Proverb


Getting jimmered way hard

I think the only really great thing about this BYU coug getting kicked off of the team for honor code violation, is the fact that the event has most certainly turned the obnoxious word 'Jimmered,' (-verb [gym-erd] 1. to get one's ass kicked by Jimmer, a rather high scoring BYU point guard, 2. to get one's ass kicked in anything, really e.g. "Dude, that team like, totally got Jimmered tonight!" "Dude, you totally Jimmered me at Tekken just then!.") into a wonderful euphemism for any "accidental" sexual act, e.g. "Davies totes shouldn't have Jimmered that babe." "After 7 minutes of intense zipper sparking, Davies Jimmered in his pants, thus disqualifying (*see also Jimmering) him from future basketball endeavors."

There are several sad things here. 1, being that this Davies guy possibly gets to go down in history as the guy who couldn't keep his Jimmer in his pants, and therefore Jimmered his team's chance at a #1 seed, and maybe a championship (see how that works? A myriad of uses exist for that one, wretched verb, all thanks to fortunate/unfortunate circumstance.) 2, being the fact that this situation even exists.

Let me first say, that I am glad that BYU is sticking to their holy guns, and not making an exception for a beloved athlete. However, I think that the fact that this situation even exists is completely absurd. Let me also say, that I couldn't care less about college sports. I am in no way affected by the fact that Davies got suspended. But I do think that ultimately the honor code is a coercive system which removes a critical element of agency from those who must adhere to it.

I completely understand that students who wish to attend BYU are well aware of the existence of said honor code before they ever decide to attend the holy university. But the honor code creates a system of "obedience through fear," and spiritual vigilantism that seems antithetical to the nature of the faith espoused by the university. Or, rather, that founded and to this day runs, the university.

Is forcing adults 18-30+ to be away from the opposite sex by the stroke of midnight (or 1 am on the weekends) teaching self control, or forcing obedience? What, exactly, is encouraging students to report the sins of their neighbors to honor police teaching them? I fail to see how such a principle coincides with the religion I was raised in. What about secular punishments for moral crimes? Or engendering fear in a person who would like to 'fix' or 'repent' for something, but is too afraid of getting kicked out of school for attempting to do the right thing?

I think perhaps the most obnoxious thing of all, will be, should the cougs win, all of the inevitable testimony bearing and church lessons built around the story of God blessing the BYU cougs to win the championship, because one player had the integrity to be honest about his zipper sparking at the dawn of March Madness. As though God in any way whatsoever cares about which college team wins the final 4. As though God is going to make one team play worse, and lend another greater skill because some fans pray harder and pay their tithing to a truer faith.

The truth is, BYU Jimmered itself on this one. All for a rule set that those attending the school should, (for the most part - no beards and a curfew? get real) in theory, be following anyway.


Pervs and bitter regrets

Sometimes, a fun thing to do, is browse the "Men seeking women" section of Craigslist. Either, you find your boss soliciting himself in an attempt to find someone just desperate enough to be, somehow, interested in World of Warcraft, 2 pitbulls, and this:

Or, this:
Because everything about this is pretty much the best thing, I will just start with most best, and move through least best (but still pretty best.)
Most best: "Want to get on my massage table tonight," in conjunction with creepy photo in a dark room.
Next best: He is not only in a dark room, but also shirtless in a bathrobe.
Third best, barely less best than the first two bests: "I am very trained well. You need one after a hard monday? Table is heated as well." This actually might become first best, if you read it with a Russian/Slavic accent.

Speaking of pervs, it is pretty hard not to feel like one, when wandering around workshops at a dance competition, making short video clips for a b-reel of girls 8-18 dancing around in what amounts to be sports bras and hot pants. Which is what I did all weekend, at the behest of Joe the homosexual vampire, director of this particular dance competition. I spent several hours, weaving in and out amongst young, dancing females, and then sifting though, editing, cutting, and moving 100's of clips to create a fairly pointless 3 minute video, so said females could scream and point when they saw themselves pop up on the screen for 3 seconds, at the end of the competition.

Over the weekend, I found myself filled with deep regret that I didn't somehow have an innate desire to be a dancer as a young lad, in conjunction with incredible resilience to homosexual jokes and the persecution which would inherently accompany any male child being a dancer in the 90's (and probably now.) Regret, because I think that when young, manly boys (boyhood me) are shunning all thoughts of dance, they (I) are not thinking about the fact that, while dancing seems naturally feminine, this isn't a bad thing--because one (me) will be constantly surrounded by females. Females that see you (me) as a novelty, being in the 3% of dancers that are male.

45 year old guy would not be having to lure females into massage traps via Craigslist had he been a dancer.

Oh, the bitter, burning regret.


Throwing in the towel

My life is about to get very complicated.

But, quite possibly, infinitely more interesting. Which is good news for blog.

While I was in Super Target on Saturday, 2 things of note occurred. The first, being the intensely obese woman I saw wearing the shirt with a cat on it that stated, "Cute but dangerous." Which reminded me of how much I love those kinds of shirts, and how they are typically worn by a pretty particular demographic. My favorite such shirt of all time, being the 3XL white T with an angry marching duck with a ball cap turned backwards, stating "I'm the boss."

This one, in fact. It is remarkable how this nearly verbatim image was pristinely mummified in my mind for the last decade or so, being that is how much time I am fairly certain has passed since I have seen one of these draping a human torso.

The second pretty great thing that happened, was I received a call from a man friend in New York, petitioning my advice about a date he had with a 55 year old incredibly wealthy dude with a house in the Hampton's. While I found this to be flattering--my advice being sought at the attempted genesis of a very awesomely taboo relationship--I also felt like the only advice I could give, was to do probably exactly the opposite of everything I EVER DO IN A RELATIONSHIP. Or, rather, concerning the attempt to begin one.

He gave me an all too common scenario--he felt like the date went well and great and lovely, but then at the end, Rich Man seemed indifferent and aloof, and left Man Friend with a feeling of, "WTF just happened or didn't happen and how did I do something wrong when everything seemed right, and not even a little wrong, except for the apparently unperceived wrongness at the end of so much right?"

At which point, typical overzealous me probably frets, and then subsequently attempts to pry and probe for possible reasons and motives of disinterest, or I make my thoughts and feelings way too obvious or available. I told him that I hate playing games, and I just like to be genuine with my feelings. Which, apparently, is the WORST THING TO DO.

It would seem members of the opposite (same)sex do not desire clarity and transparency, but rather are drawn to horrible games, reticence, and indifference. This, apparently, fosters interest. Or some such bullshit.

After a time, I began to realize that he and I think the same way about relationships and dating. So I implored him to ignore his every instinct, and do the complete opposite of whatever his heart told him. Because his (my) heart is an IDIOT, and does not know how the (fe)male heart functions. Or, rather, most other hearts, be they male or female.

I think I'm ready to try the asshole card.

Which, I now realize, in the context of this post, sounded like it meant something entirely different than what I meant.

I'm just going to be an aloof, reticent asshole, utterly disinterested in you (girl), devoid of all feelings, to see if that works for me (you).

If that doesn't, I suppose it is never to early to start my collection of 3-4XL Big Dogs and other sundry animals saying clever things shirts, for when I finally decide to throw in the towel and let obesity whist me away into a comfortingly happy existence as a McDonald's acolyte.


Death by wolves or death by creed. coin flip.

I'd say the following qualifies as a not only an early 2k11 miracle, but also as an important lesson. http://gizmodo.com/5739091/how-creed-saved-a-norwegian-boy-from-a-pack-of-wolves

In case you don't want to take the time to read that article, basically there was a Norwegian lad who was walking home from school. Apparently, a pack of wolves found him and contemplated devouring him. His mother, born of a long line of good viking stock, had taught little Walter that, if ever attacked by a (pack of) wild beast(s), running away is the worst thing that one can do. This apparently lets the wild beast(s) know it is okay to then attempt to devour the escapee. If one merely holds one's ground, and maybe plays CREED REALLY LOUDLY, the wild beast(s) may have second thoughts.

This is apparently what happened, when little Walter stumbled into the midst of the pack of wolves.

First, my mind is slightly blown that, of all things about which a mother must warn her child, what to do if one encounters a pack of wolves is at the top of the list. Man, but American moms are overly paranoid. Can you imagine, having to worry about your kid getting chewed to death by wolves while walking the 2 blocks home from school? I suppose they should have wolf guards, instead of crossing guards in Norway land. Dressed in the skins of beasts (mostly wolves) and wielding a wolf carved scepter hewn from the tallest tree in Norway in one hand, and an axe made from the cold bones of ancient Inuits in the other, s/he (they) would be the envy of all Scandinavia. And certainly local children would need not fear being eaten by wolves, or other sundry carnivorous creatures.

I certainly can't say that I am surprised that Creed served as an effective ward against a pack of blood thirsty wolves. I think that is the lesson we can learn here--whether faced with a pack of wolves, a pack of unwanted friends, bullies, Nazis, illegal immigrants--its a pretty small demographic of douchebaggery that is somehow immune to the repellant musical horrors of Creed.

I'd rather be consumed by wolves than to suffer even a small moment of Creed induced eardrum rape. Shame on that boy. He may have spared himself a violent death by chewing, but he has shamed himself in front of God, the world, and the animal kingdom.

Dirty finger nails and weird shit drawn all over the hands. That seems about right.


Satan is a tea party liberal

Sometimes I feel like the politics in this country are a festering lesion on Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate son's club foot.

Whenever national tragedy occurs, the analytical cogs immediately begin turning in the heads of political pundits and politicians, seeking the best ways to exploit and manipulate horror into a positive outcome. And they aren't even subtle about it anymore.

So many articles over the weekend began targeting (I better be careful, as the word "targeting" may have to be stricken from the political arena, since it be a word that could incite violence, obviously) the vitriolic political rhetoric coming from conservative talk radio, the tea party, and Fox news as fuel for violent and radial acts.

On my way home from trying to undo an entire month of sedentary, gluttonous damage, I tuned into Sean Hannity for about 5 painful minutes as he began his show. Immediately, he went on the offensive, pointing fingers, and playing quote after quote of negative, semi-violent rhetoric from the mouthes of liberals. I mean, all of his little cronies must have spent every waking moment from the time the first bullets penetrated flesh, till his Rocky Survivor theme rolled across the airwaves, scouring the archives for "violent" liberal quotes.

Why can't tragedy bring out the best in people, rather than a load of acerbic criticism and acrimonious rhetoric? It seems as though in politics, everybody thinks that the only way to make anything better, is to utterly vituperate and ultimately destroy the other side, and thereby prove that one's own side is infallible.

I am fairly certain, if this crazy asshole came out and said, "The night before I decided to kill the Congresswoman, Lucifer Satan visited me in a dream, and told me to do it. Also, to always buy local." that the political world would immediately begin discussion and speculation as to which party or faction Mr. Lucifer belonged.

Surely, the Dark Lord would be a liberal Democrat, since all are baby hating abortion loving morality despising mongrels. Or maybe Lucifer is a right-wing Conservative, since they are all greedy, gun loving and therefore murder promoting selfish capitalist scumbags.

Perhaps the Son of the Morning is a Tea Party activist, since they are all violent racists, seeking to violently and racistly overthrow the government. Or maybe Satan is a Muslim, since all those people do is strap bombs to their chests, and blow people to hell (home.)

Maybe the Dark One is actually a Christian, since he loves to hate people who are different (which would be everyone) and he thinks everyone is going to hell who doesn't think like he does (which is everyone.)

Shame on everyone who is trying to turn this event into some sort of a political advantage. But, I suppose, that is business as usual.

I think, ultimately, we have to remember or come to the realization that we don't live in a completely benign, sterile society. There will always be people who do despicable things, in the name of one cause or another. We can't and shouldn't stop people from saying what they want to say, acting how they want to act, living how they want to live, believing what they want to believe, simply because it rubs us the wrong way. Or because, occasionally, someone takes a specific message to the maximum, crazy degree, and acts out violently.

Even if this guy did happen to be a staunch, tea party activist--SO WHAT. If he was a left wing commie, WHO CARES. Christian, Muslim, Jew, Jedi Warrior. 99.99% of people aren't incited to violence when they hear so-called "radical rhetoric." Unfortunately, living in a free society means occasionally we have to deal with that really shitty .01% that are.


Dressing gay

Typically, when accused of being gay, the assumption is made by one of two parties, and for two or three reasons.

The first party, being extended family members. The second, young children in minivans leaving 7-11 in the summer time with mom. In the little bigot in training's defense, I WAS wearing incredibly short shorts, on an extremely hot day, riding a bike. Which, in case you weren't aware, makes yelling "faggot!" out the window totally called for. And 9 times out of 10, the little shit might be right.

I imagine the conversation in the van went something like this:

"Denton (pronounced Deh-uhn), roll up that window, air conditioning isn't free!"

"Ah, but mom its haw......Whoa, lookit! FAGGOT!"

"!Deh-uhn! Roll up your window! Don't ever draw their attention, you might catch the gay."


When accused, whether vocally or non by party numero uno, I think there are two main reasons. One, being the fact that I have somehow inexplicably been a complete and utter failure in the marriage arena, despite living in Utah Valley for way too many years. 28.5 year old men in Utah are obviously either mentally unbalanced, or gay if they aren't married.

The second reason, compounded with the first for an unprecedented level of possible gayness, is that I dress well. This, more than any other thing, bothers me. I don't care that my heterosexuality is put into question because I missed the 21-22 1/2 year old marriage bus. But what I DO care about, is being thought gay because I dress well, when in reality, I've never actually known a gay man who dressed better than I do. With the possible exception of ONE.

I don't know if this is a Utah phenomenon, but the stereotypical well dressed gay man is a mythical creature that is totally screwing all us straight dudes over. Not in the sense that being thought gay is something terribly (or even remotely, in my opinion) offensive, but because (most) Utah gay men dress, from what I've seen, atrociously.

Last night, I was in Smith's. I encountered 4 gay men, in 2 separate couplings. As I pulled a gallon of Kroger 1% out of the cooler, I stopped in mid removal and simply stared at the man next to me. American Eagle hoodie, which I guess isn't the worst thing in the world, and a pretty standard "I don't give a shit" piece. But coupled with flare jeans, and high heel clog boots? Ohhh girl.

Now, it wasn't as though he was going for a tranny look. He just somehow missed the memo, along with a lot of other Utah babes, that FLARE JEANS AREN'T A GOOD IDEA. I immediately wished that the gallon of milk in my hand was heavily carbonated, and that I could shake it mightily, stab the knife I wasn't carrying into the top, and spray his awful ensemble with milk, yelling "Stop dressing like a BYU coed!"

The other two dudes in the checkout line just looked like a couple of slobs. One guy in baggy jeans with frayed bottoms and a Mossimo shirt, the other with one of those awful olive green canvas belts with the 2 metal hoops at the end wrapped around come puffy tan cargo jeans, circa Aeropostale 2001. Common guys, step it up a notch.

I've let a few babes drag me to a gay club dancing in the past. On the way, I thought, "This could be great for 2 reasons. Certainly, I shall be in the straight dude minority, and there will most definitely be a lot of straight girls in attendance, looking for some non-threatening male dancing counterparts. And secondly, most of these gay men will probably be so poorly dressed, that the females shall veritably flock to me like the children of Israel to Moses in the desert."

Maybe I am getting different memos than the Utah gay man community at large, but I'm not sure why so many homosexuals think that wearing the tightest shirt into which one can feasibly pour oneself is a good idea, regardless of body type. I guess this would be the standard I'd assumed most of the world understood: If the shirt does not reach the top of one's pants, and one must have the help of 2 or more people to slide one's torso into said article, one should discard the offending article. I just don't know why gay dudes with bad bellies and love handles think they are exempt from this rule. NOBODY IS EXEMPT.

Silk shirts, shirts that button up the front with dragons or tribal designs, polos with popped collars, anything with a logo, in reality. COMMON! Rise to the stereotypical standard!

So I guess what I am saying, oh ye people who accuse me of "struggling with same sex attraction" due to the fact that I know how to put together jeans, vests, blazers, sweaters, and pocket watches in a multitude of ways that "work," is you don't really know what you are saying. I don't even remotely dress like a Utah gay man.

4, incredibly straight, well dressed doods.

THIS is the only one that I think offers up a good argument for "gay."

Utah gay men, you can do better.


How to make 2k11-infinity a better place

Every time a new year begins, I can't help but think of all the things I wish would go away permanently, thus making all years hence forth and forever a little bit better.

Sometimes, I wish Facebook would go away. But then I think, "Who am I kidding? I love Facebook. Don't strike me dead or delete my account for that blasphemous though/status update, Mark Zuckerberg." I think, rather than wishing for the annihilation of Facebook, I'd just prefer the banishment of certain features.

First, being the inane "check in's" that are constantly occurring. "Reginald Bojangles checked in at Bill's Taco Barn." While I would probably be typically interested in 98% of what a person named Reginald Bojangles would be doing at any given moment, I just can't care about where he is. Unless the update with the little red pin said, "Reginald Bojangles checked in on the Moon," and Reginald actually checked in on the moon, I don't give a shit. I don't care about when you check in at church, school, restaurants, massage parlors, whore houses, or Yosemite. STOP IT.

I really dislike, nay, abhor relationships that are more obvious via Facebook than the info section saying "Rodrigo is in a relationship with Don Julio." And some pictures together. But a constant relationship wall to wall, status to status cute-fest is nothing short of nauseating, if not completely repugnant. I am happy for your happiness, and like, totally interested in how much you love each other and shit. But maybe you could just like call me on the phone and tell me about it for 3 hours. Or blow my brains out. Either way.

Status updates about an omnipresent horrific weather condition. Even if I never emerged from my house EVER, I would be keenly aware of every cold, snowy, rainy, or otherwise blustery moment of the wintertime, due to the incessant bitching that occurs on Facebook, each time global warming takes a break from boiling us in our own carbon emissions. Unless an icicle falls from your roof and pierces your chest, I don't really care how cold and snowy it is. And please don't "check in" at the hospital.

Any Facebook statuses involving feces. Or flatulence.

I wish people would never send "Happy/Merry-insert holiday" mass texts. I don't need my phone vibrating my pocket 27 times on Martin Luther King Jr. day with generic "black power!" texts. If the text isn't personal in some way, it is annoying, rather than thoughtful. "Hey Fish! Black power bud!" is a text worth getting.

Over the last few weeks, I posted a series of statuses addressing some of these issues, using quotes from viable, authoritative resources to prove my point about some of the aforementioned items. Most of these were in the spirit of Christmas.

Some things not related to Facebook.

Newborns posed in everyday items in which one would never expect to encounter a newborn, e.g. buckets, boots, flower pots, ammunition boxes, etc. I know my mother (and probably most mothers) absolutely adore an infant wrapped up in a confederate flag and stuffed into the end of a civil war cannon, but I just find all such pictures creepy, unless I know the infant. I think if it were my infant, or a family infant, I might find such things weirdly cute. But I just want Anne Geddes to stop.
Would anyone care to explain to me what isn't creepy about this picture? Are the liver spots on the hands somehow endearing? Or is it the claw like fingernail on the left index finger with enough length to make Dracula, or a coke addict jealous that tugs at the heart? Or the fact that an infant which seems to be premature by at least a trimester and a half is gently sandwiched between said hands?I DARE you to try punishing baby Hitler. Too cute!

I think maybe just newborns in general, I am not a fan of. I wish they emerged from the womb as 8-10 month olds. I realize this would require considerably larger wombs, and even bigger birth canals, but I think we can all agree that skipping the lolling neck, spitting up, way too fragile phase would be well worth it.

I wish the Westboro Baptist Church would just go away.
Actually, going away isn't quite good enough. I wish Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, Boba Fett, and Santa Claus would get together and strike the WBC from the face of the earth. Preferably, in a way involving fire, lasers, and maybe a huge mudslide full of glass shards, liberalism, and homosexuality, so it be an ignominious death.

While this post has a slightly negative tone, despite the previous items, I actually liked 2k10. And am looking forward to 2k11. I just think the United States would be a better place if, rather than wasting time bickering about the economy, healthcare, and the Mexican invasion, Congress would address these paramount issues.