Spoon me, grind me

A new evil has come into my life. An insidious attack upon my pocket book, and very soul.

Spoon Me frozen yogurt.

Seriously, ruining my life. I can't get enough of it. It's located on bulldog blvd. It's like a healthy oasis, floating out amongst of sea full of fatty slop. If an oasis could float, that is. I suppose that was rather nonsensical. Oasis' exist in the desert. Not the sea. Doi. It's the yogurt poisoning, befuddling my mind.

They have 3 flavors; natural, green tea, and acai. The tea flavor taste like the normal, only mixed with dirt. Dirt, as in that sort of earthy taste that strong teas often have. All 3 are delicious to the taste, and won't add much to your gut. At 90 calories per serving, how can one not overindulge?

And therein lies the problem. Overindulgence of the aforementioned deliciousness is a rather costly venture. The smallest size with 3 toppings is a little over 3 dollars. The large, 6+ if you go with acai or green tea. But how can you not? With mango, strawberries, peaches, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple, and a plethora of other toppings, the small size is just a huge disappointment. Just enough to piss off your palate, and leave you desperately unsatisfied.

So, knowing that it is relatively healthy, I can't help but constantly crave it whenever I desire something sweet. Which is ALL the time. 3 times last week I pedaled my pitiful carcass to that place and ordered the largest one. The only downfall; that place is seriously sweet bro nation. Despite the quality music played there (The Shins, The Sounds, Kaiser Chiefs, and all manner of indie rock) Spoon Me is a constant bro fest.

Saturday night there was even a DJ. And possibly one of the worst DJ's I have ever heard. He "spun" from his ipod, with the choppiest, most random song transitions. As much as being surrounded by all manner of collar popping, aeropohollicrombie wearing, fauxhawking, douchebaggery is a rather spine crinkling experience, it makes for some entertaining people watching. Like, observing the bro with the red popped collar and cargo pants grinding his genitals all over the behind of some two bit skank in a mini skirt--priceless. Or the dude with both a pink and purple shirt on, to the end that he might have 2 collars for popping (for emergencies) gettin' his bro on, bumpin' his fitch ensconced crotch all over every platinum blond in sight. Cringes turn to smiles, then to all out laughing, as one wonders how people buy into all of that. To each his own, I suppose.

I would absolutely love to read a blog, written by a bro who was observing me.

Burnings

The worst part about typing in bed with a lap top, is all the heat emanating from said device causing my belly button to sweat. I love everything about having a laptop except for the immense heat it puts off. If I'm reclined, it's a sweaty belly. If I am sitting flat, it's a blazing crotch. The unpleasantness never ends. But oh, how I dislike sitting in a chair tied to an over sized desktop.

I find being more blind in my right eye than my left to be annoying at best. In fact, I might just go so far as to say that I hate my right eye a little bit. Whenever it's dark out and I am looking at any light producing object, it is always slightly blurred. That, due to righty. If I close my lefty, It is sort of like looking at three of the same thing, or one distinct thing with a blurry colored line connecting it to a slightly faded same thing. I can't imagine that made any sense to anyone but me. Or someone else with an equally pitiful eye.

I found today that hammering a carpenter nail into a cinder block wall usually results in a bent nail, and a failed attempt to hang whatever I was attempting to hang. Also, ironically enough, I discovered for the first time that there is no such thing as a carpender. Who knew there was a "t" in there? The ironic part was learning that from a guy from Idaho who uses the word "fetch" on a regular basis and has likely never pronounced "mountain" using proper phonetics in his life. Mao-un, in case you were wondering.

Lastly, this evening Colin and I dropped by Jamba Juice so that I could indulge in a Pink Star. Best flavor ever. It's a secret one. As we were exiting, there was this guy sitting outside talking on the phone. Right when we walked out he said, "Yeah, we're gonna hang out with some chicks. But we need one more bro, dude." I couldn't believe my good fortune. I mean...we constantly make fun of these guys, and to actually hear such a stereotypical thing smoothly glide its way out of his mouth...priceless. It completely validated a month's worth of mockery. I got to the car, which was about 8 feet away from him, and just laughed. He knew it. Nothing feels better than embarrassing a bro.

And nothing feels worse than a belly/crotch combo inferno.

Damn you laptop.

Better than crack, i freaking swear

Annnnnd 100.

Sometimes, while chugging along on the sad train, I hear word on the street that the Springville whore of the earth is packin' Fun Pops. So, there I drive. My dear friend and I wander all over that wretched people zoo filled with golden smilies and blue vests, wife beaters and fat butts. Fun Pops, nowhere on the radar. I start to feel dismal. I pass an associate with a popped collar and think, "Gee. What a jackass. Oh wait, my bad. That shirt was meant to be worn with the collar popped, as 'Hollister' is imprinted in gold lettering on the back of the neck, and wouldn't be visible without the collar erection."

Silly me.

After combing that place up and down, I gave up. As I walk toward the automatic doors, very nearly in a lachrymal state, a glint of color catches my eye. The magnificent sun, shining through the windows, and splayed across the colorful glory which I was seeking--a whole bin full of Fun Pops. "I wonder how many bags I can buy with $20," I thought.

Apparently 7. So I bought 8. Enough to eat 1 Fun Pop per day for 280 days. Or, a more likely scenario, 5 a day for 56 days.

As we pushed the cart out towards my vehicular device with 16 bags of Fun Pops and then loaded them in the trunk, I thought, "Well I'll certainly be pissed if I get rear-ended in the next 15 minutes. Freaking juice explosion."

After that splendidly glorious acquisition, I read that Myspace sold for 580 million dollars last year. What in the world does a person do with 580 million? I'll tell you what I would do. First, I'd go buy the most expensive bicycle that the collective world had to offer. Then, before I even took it out of the box, I'd run over it with an SUV. Then I'd run over that SUV with another SUV. At which point, I would drive that SUV into a fire. Then, I would put out the fire with liquid gold. Because I could. Because I had 580 million dollars.

So speaking of Fun Pops and liquid burning gold--this is my 100th post. I feel like that is a pretty big benchmark for me as a human being. I started tracking my blog at the beginning of April, and 1,061 absolute unique visitors have taken time out of their lives to read my rantings since then. For those of you who give me the time of day--I sincerely thank you. 1,000 people may be a tiny little chunk of the world, but I guess everyone has to start with some tiny little chunk right? Morbid obesity doesn't happen over night.

Thanks, from the bottom of my lonely, loveless heart.

A toughgaybro?

I Feel like this picture is kind of an anomaly. At first glance, one would think...bro. Closer scrutiny of the driver, and the fact that it is not a crotch rocket possibly causes one to think...tough guy. But what self respecting tough guy rides a cruiser with a shirtless bro on the back, in 45 degree weather? Or what self loving bro is willing to ride Santa Clause (referred to as such, due to the driver having a "sack" on his back) with a tough guy? I've never seen a bro put himself in such a compromising position. It just wouldn't be chill. A bro would find him self shirtless on a bullet bike, complete with hot girl and thong showing on the back. Perhaps gay? I doubt it, because A.) it is too cold for a shirtless gay man to be cruising about on a bike, and B.) the driver does not have enough fashion sense to be gay.

Who are these mystery men?
(thanks to Mark for taking the picture)

Gracias por los chestal vibrations

Does the moronic redneck driving the mega-tron-jacked-up pick-up truck with the huge shiny silver "No Fear" slogan emblazoned on the tail end, above huge mud flaps with erotic-nude female silhouette, not realize that everybody knows exactly what sort of person is driving it--because he is a moronic redneck? Or does he simply not care? Does he realize that the only people impressed are those who are similarly slithering around at the bottom of the smart pyramid?

How about the red Honda civic with the mostly painted gray stock car body kit, with the gargantuan spoiler and bubbly tinted windows? When approaching one of these cars, everyone automatically knows that a Hispanic male will be found in the driver seat. Just because I can feel his muffler reverberating through my chest as he drives by, does not mean I am impressed. Again, only those with equally shitty mufflers would feel inspired as their hearts and lungs are rattled in their rib cages.

What about the douche bag driving the Hummer H2? What is he trying to prove by getting 6 miles to the gallon, besides looking super tough and shnazzy with his oval Oakleys? For what is he compensating? How many people see his sweet rims and think, "I bet a really nice guy drives that thing. I'd sure like to meet him."

My question in all of this is, do these people realize that they are driving "profile cars?" Or are they completely oblivious? Are they so bent on placating their egos that they are blind to the fact that everyone is laughing at them or rolling their eyes as they drive by?

I think the answer to this query may be closely linked to the phenomena of why exactly bros think pink polos, a popped collar, and pooka shells are a good idea. Perhaps it will forever be a mystery.

Sweet bro, could you pass the game kill?

As the last fleeting images of Jerry Sloan screaming at me for sucking at basketball flitted away from my groggy mind, my eyes opened to a new, yet familiar vision; blurriness. As I lay there focusing on nothing (since I can't) I had two thoughts fluttering through my mind; being half blind sucks, and I sure hope I don't get game killed by a bro today. Little did I know that the latter was in my immediate future.

I'm riding on the bus towards my car. I'm sandwiched in between a bro and an attractive female, whom I shall refer to as Girta. Girta pulls out some anatomy flash cards. Even though the infectious waves of coolness emanating from the bro were practically crippling my ego, I decided to strike up a small conversation with her. After I broke the unwritten "Thou shalt not talk to attractive strangers on the bus" law, the bro was exceedingly quick to slide on into the conversation. "Ahh, sweet dude, I like totally took anatomy once," at which point I sat back to enjoy the spectacle. The bro quickly swept Girta off her feet with many well placed "sweets" and "totallys" and by using "like" at least 14 times per sentence.

How can I compete with that? I guess I learned two important lessons today. A, Don't ever strike up a conversation with a female when a bro is in the vicinity. And 2, waking up half blind doesn't ever stop sucking.