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?

Javier

Its no secret that I drive a real piece of shit.

Javier, with his euro tail lights, muffler which sounds as though an explosion (or a race with some guy in an accord with a mis-matched body kit) is eminent, and problems accelerating when under 3000 rpms. Like, real problems. Especially when the air conditioner is on. Lord save me, if it is hotter than 70 degrees outside and I need to go up a hill. On on a flat surface. Anything other than down hill, really.

While I'm a little embarrassed that my car has euro tail lights, when I bough Javier, I was secretly really excited. I mean, I would most definitely never actually instal such things of my own accord. But boy, did I secretly love those twin diamonds adorning the ass end of my sweet little Javier. It made him seem deceptively cool, and possible fast, which Javier is definitely neither.

There are often moments when, while stopped at an intersection, another man in a Javier-esque car will pull up next to me. He will have most definitely noticed the euro's, and will then start sizing me up. I've thought about duct taping a can of hairspray, or something, to the inside frame around the window, to give off the appearance that I may actually have NOS capabilities. But I fear getting caught up in the moment and forgetting, due to my heart of hearts wish that it was actually NOS, that it isn't, and instead spraying myself in the eyes and mouth with hairspray right before take off. Probably no way to salvage dignity when that happens.

So, rather, I look at the other guy. He looks at me. He rev's up his piece of shit. I give mine a couple of foot pumps. Light switches, and we both take off, accelerating at somewhere near the rate of 0-35 in 10 or 12 seconds. And, of course, I lose. Partially, because Javier just can't handle anything beyond a Geo Metro, and partially because I just don't really give a damn.

I feel like, as Javier and I are zipping around the valley, I periodically notice other Honda Civics and Accords that have altered body kits. That make them look lower to the ground, and obviously extra fast. With super tinted windows, and pretty often a massive Virgin de Guadalupe decal on the rear, if we're going to be honest. But one universal thing I have noticed about these "tricked" out cars, is the fact that they ALWAYS look just absolutely beat to hell. It's like, one of the main requirements for putting a body kit on your dumpy Honda, is to probably never actually paint it to match the rest of the car. But also, to bump and scrape it against every tree, cement barrier, rock, or child with which you come into contact. I feel like I have never seen one of these vehicles that isn't scratched and dented all over, with at least 1-3 sections being held on my black/duct tape.

I think my first order of business, upon finishing grad college, will be to give Javier the body kit he has always wanted. We may not go so far as NOS, but he might get some super premium gasoline pumped into his tank now and then, if he is good. I'll have to take a friend vote on whether or not to fix the exhaust pipe. Because I can only imagine that sitting in the back of my car, feeling like your chest/inner ear components are about to explode from the sonic vibrations, can only be an extra pleasant experience.

If you ever wanna see what that's like, let me know.

Things that make me uncomfortable

As I approached the front door to my house (I share a 3 way entry with the cat lady and the chola) I set down my dirty clothes hamper and searched for my keys. I heard someone fiddling with the locks and door handle. Is it the cat lady, coming out to remind me to take out the trash cans tomorrow, or the ever elusive chola, slathered in liquid eyeliner and headed out to the bar? I was hoping for the latter, because then I would avoid the possibility of getting stuck discussing cat dander, or something equally pleasant. Turns out, it was a dude, exiting the dark interior of the chola's abode. As he stepped out of the door and pulled it shut behind him, he reached down, and zipped up his pants.

"Huh," I thought.

Then we made eye contact. He said, "Hey."
I said, "Hey."
Then I awkwardly moved me and my clothing hamper out of his way, and off he went. He definitely saw me see him do the zip up. Maybe next time he will remember to zip up before he takes off.

Anyways.

I was listening to some conservative talk radio yesterday. Because I forgot my Ipod, and have listened to the NOFX album "Coaster," about 175 times, because it is the only CD in my car for roughly the last year, and is therefore the default if there is nothing worth listening to on talk radio and I don't have an Ipod. I was tuned in to 105.7 KNRS, family values talk radio, home of esteemed queen of moral values Dr. Laura Schlessinger, and Lord of all assholes, Rush Limbaugh. Glen Beck used to be on around 4, but has recently been bumped by a local guy named Ron Arquette. When I tuned in, he happened to be talking to Terry Jones, pastor of the Dove World Outreach center in Gainsville, Florida.

The church over which this abominable shithead of an imbecile pasteurizes, plans on declaring 9/11 "National Burn a Quran Day." Bigotry and hate. Cool. So, Ronald asks Terry what message he, and his churches congregation of primordial sheep hope to get across, by burning Islam's most sacred book.
"Well, we want to send a clear message that sharia law won't be accepted here in America, and that radicals aren't welcome."
Ronald asked Terry if this was his own idea.
"Well, it actually wasn't my idea. A member of the congregation came to me with this, and after a lot of contemplation and praying, I felt like this was the right thing to do."
Ronald asked Terry if he thought that maybe this would be sending the wrong message to moderate muslims the world over, and further drive a wedge between Muslims and Christians/Americans.
"Well, we believe that it might, but that the message is too important not to send. And, more importantly, the radicals will get the right message."
Ronald asked Terry if he thought that, by burning the Quran, Islamic radicals would twist the footage and story, and use it to show that America hates Muslims.
"Well, we believe that they will do such things anyway, and again, that the message is too important."
Ronald asked Terry if he would be offended by Muslims burning bibles.
"Well, yes, I would certainly be offended. But, again, this is different. We are sending an important message here. This isn't a message against moderate Muslims (which, throughout, he pronounced mawzluhms, which was super annoying), but rather against the radicals, and it is too important. The radicals will get the right message."

I don't even know where to start with this. I don't know how anyone with even 1/8 of a brain could possibly think this was any kind of a good idea. That this is anything less than pure, unadulterated bigotry, carelessly "hidden" behind the claim of "taking a stand," or "sending a message." These people are just as bad as the nefarious "Christian" refuse that pickets soldier's funerals with "God hates fags" signs. I understand that there is a national conservative fear that "we have become dangerously tolerant of radicalism," and that people fear that political correctness enables terrorist cells to grow and fester to the point of horrendous, deadly acts. But if nothing else, this sort of behavior CREATES AND LEGITIMIZES these cells. It, simply put, provides endless fuel for the "American infidels hate Muslims, and therefore must be destroyed," fire. How can these people not see that? Well, because they are blinded by pure, unfettered hatred. By the absolute epitome of ignorance. The fact that he said that he had prayed about this was even more infuriating. Maybe I'm just naive when I think that Jesus isn't a Muslim hating queer bashing condoner of common Nazi tactics e.g. book burning.

Burning a Quran doesn't send a message that "America hates sharia law." Burning a Quran simply sends a message of hate. Pure and simple. And the worst part is, the media plays right into it. If the media would simply ignore what this horse's ass is doing, nobody would ever know about it, and it would be a completely benign publicity stunt. I mean, if a church in Nephi Utah decided to burn every Quran in Juab country (which would probably be fewer than 1), if nobody reported it, nobody would know about it. So the media is pulling an equally stupid boner.

About 2 hours later, I was heading somewhere else, listening to the same show. Apparently, according to a Gallup pole, Obama is less popular among Mormons than among any other faith. He dropped from like, a 48% approval rate, to around a 23% since election. Whatever. So Mr. Arquette opened up the phone lines with a question: In one sentence, tell us why you like, or dislike Obama.

The overall tone and outcome of this question, I think, is pretty obvious, considering the station and the demographic. Me, I don't love Obama. But I think it is pretty silly to open up a "call us and tell us why you don't like Obama" forum. Maybe embarrassing, is a better word.
"I like Barak Hussein Obama because he is hastening the return of my Savior."
Sigh.
Followed by, "I dislike Barak Obama because he is a Gadianton robber." Not, he is LIKE a Gadianton robber (which would be equally ridiculous,) but he IS. (For those of you not familiar with the Book of Mormon, the Gadianton robbers were a group of, well, robbers and thieves and murderers who made a pact with Satan, essentially, to overthrow righteousness/the government, through secret combinations, or clandestine, underground groups, as it were.)
Double sigh.
And it went on, and on, and on. It just seems like such cheap, pathetic radio, to have a "Let's all call in and say why we hate the president" forum.
Here is the thing. If you want to sit at home, in your private little Mormon cottage adorned with every Greg Olsen painting ever created, and all of the various vinyl lettering inspirational sayings that Seagull Book and Tape ever offered, and think that Barak Obama is a Gadianton robber, effecting the complete moral destruction of the united states, and is, in effect, causing Christ to have to come even sooner than planned...can you PLEASE just keep that thought to your self? If that is what you believe in your heart of hearts, then God love you. It's your prerogative. But just don't make the rest of us (Mormons) sound like back woods, ignorant idiots, hunkering down for the eminent apocalypse. I'm not saying for people not to stand up for what they believe in. But have you ever heard any of the quorum of the 12 say anything about Obama being a Gadianton robber, or hastening the coming of the Lord?

No.

So shut your mouth, and keep it to yourself. Stop making me feel embarrassed to be a Utah Mormon. Don't get me wrong-I feel like I need to rephrase that. I'm not embarrassed to be a Mormon. I'm not embarrassed by my religion. I am, however, embarrassed to be culturally and intellectually lumped in with people pulling crap like the aforementioned...crap. You may think Obama is destroying America with his policies. But to compare him with a group of murderers who made a pact with Lucifer to effect the destruction of all that is good and holy, is simply ludicrous. Maybe think about what you are really saying there, before you open your stupid mouth and word vomit all over the Utah airwaves.

Maybe, just maybe, this illustrates a little tiny fraction of what moderate muslims feel, when their radical brethren pull shit like explosive martyrdom. It's a shaky comparison at best, but I think there were a whole lot of Muslims cringing when those towers went down.

I guess we all cringe sometimes because of those with whom we share a faith, a political party...or a front entry way.

Burning wagons and fashion dilemmas

I went to lake Powell last week, because the best thing to do when unemployed is go on a vacation. I was getting so tired of sitting at home, sweaty in a chair, reading fantasy novel after fantasy novel, eating maybe like a thousand grapes, and 30-70 otterpops. In like a week. I just needed to DO something.

Isn't it weird how whenever you are working like, mostly full time, there always seems to be at least 100 shit that you need to do on your days off? Like seriously...100 shit, every time. There was never enough time on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays for all of the biking, swimming, cooking, vegetable eating, motorcycling, responsible adult things that I wanted/needed to do. But as soon as I lose my job, I'm sitting there naked in my easy chair (because putting on clothing after a shower seemed like the worst idea ever) book in hand, wishing I had something important to do. Wishing someone would give me a task. Like maybe the mail man would knock on my door, and ask me for help re-sorting all of the junk mail that spilled all over my lawn when he tripped over Smokey (the cat lady's outside cat). He wouldn't even care that I was naked, that junk mail needed to be re-sorted so bad. People gotta get their coups.

Wait, I just remembered that such a scenario would be impossible, because Smokey is dead. After 15 years, he just finally succumbed to old age and maybe lung cancer. Although, he probably had less severe lung cancer (as comparable to her other 2-6 inside cats) due to being a mostly outside cat. God rest his little mouse catching soul. I'll sure miss the dead mice in the doorway.

Anyways, so when my friend invited me to go to lake Powell, even though I knew I would in all likelihood be spending 3 days in a sweet bro workshop, I finally felt like I had a task. Like life would be meaningful again. Lake Powell needed me. Which was a totally stupid thought.

So, to lake Powell I went, and boy oh boy, did I ever burn down the meat wagon. I really didn't think about it when I decided to go, just exactly what I was going to eat. Sometimes I forget that people don't eat like I do. There are still dudes in the world who want to eat every hotdog they can. And stuck on a boat, with nothing but Malt-O-Meal cocoa puffs as an alternative, sometimes even the guy who won't eat anything irresponsible breaks down and eats FIVE HAMBURGERS. Nothing ever felt so wrong, but at the same time so right. Especially when one was sandwiched between 2 slices of government texas toast (Walmart's G.V. ((great value)) brand always translates in my mind as "government" whenever I see it) with garlic butter slathered on both sides. The buttery saturated fat juices were literally dripping down my forearms. I guess if you have to fall off the meat wagon, that sure as hell is the way to do it.

I'm back on.

I think I ate more terrible food during those 3 days than I had in all the previous 3 months combined. Which I'm fairly certain caused me to gain no less than 5 lbs. And probably, unfortunately, in my neck/jowl region.

Anyways.

I started grad college yesterday. I feel like this is totally going to mess up a really good thing I had going, which was wearing basically the same 3 or 4 things, over and over again. Which made life really easy. I could get away with this because there are very few people I see more than once or twice a week. So I can wear like, the same pants and shirt 3 days in a row with no fear of social repercussions. And because I'm not a smelly dude. But now, I will be seeing the same people for 3 or more hours a day, every single day of the week. So now I have to come up with at least 5 distinct clothing combos. Which is logistically feasible, since I have no fewer than 20 pairs of jeans, and an assload of shirt that I never wear. I have a problem saying no to sub-$30 bargain jeans.

Anyways, in 6.5 hours I have to wake up and try to figure out what I didn't wear yesterday and the day before. Which may be hard.

Things are foggy for me before 10 am.

Solutions

So I've been thinking about this Islam cultural center that seems to be the big political controversy right now. In case you live under a rock, or watch nothing but E!, or whatever, Muslims are going to build an Islamic cultural center 2 blocks from ground zero. And a whole lot of Americans are pretty pist about it. Many argue that putting it there is insensitive to those affected by 9/11. That it is simply too close. Others argue that Muslims can put it wherever they choose, because of religious freedom and whatever. And there is also the question of, "how close is too close?" Which, honestly, I think is the only REAL question. Answer that question, and that will solve the problem.

If they were building it 10 blocks away, would that be too close? Or 5, or 8 or 20? Where is the real line by which this culturally sensitive question can be measured? Where does it go from making a so-called mockery of those who died on 9/11, to being just another place for people to pray on rugs facing east?

Sometimes, I wish they (they being "The Government,") would just call a random person, and say, "Hey, is this Phil?"
"Uh yeah, I'm Phil."
"Hey Phil."
"Hey."
"Anyways, it's us, 'The Government.'"
"Oh. Hi."
"Hey."
"Okay."
"Anyways, hang on, let me transfer you to a different department. I'm actually just in charge of getting a hold of people."
"Wait, what's this..."
"Hold please."
Then, about 10 minutes later, (due to the efficacy of "The Government,") "The Government" is ready to ask Phil the big question.
"Hey Phil."
"Still here."
"Great. Hey, it's me, "The Government" again."
"Okay."
"We just have a question for you. Were going to just let you decided the outcome. Whatever you randomly decide, that's what were going to do. Follow your big, American gut. Now, I'm going to ask you this question, and then put you on hold for the agency that will receive your answer."

Anyways.

If I were Phil, and "The Government" asked me about how close was too close, I think I could come up with a pretty simple equation for figuring that out, that would probably satisfy most Americans.

Put a New York Yankee on the very top of the freedom tower (that doesn't yet exist.) Now, it needs to be an American citizen. No Mexicans. Probably not even a Puerto Rican. And not just some naturalized player. A real live multi generational citizen. Now, let that Yankee drop hit a baseball as far as he can, from the tip top of the non existent freedom tower(s), and where that ball lands, is the closest that any Mosque may be built.

I feel like the whole argument has digressed about to that point. Can we fix the economy, and THEN maybe worry about how close is too close?

Dodging bullets

It's a pretty disheartening feeling when you are unemployed, and suddenly you rear end somebodies car. And it is down right utterly demoralizing, when upon looking up to see the car you just banged, it happens to be a Mercedes Benz. At that point, you mostly just want to say the f word and throw up all over the steering wheel.

But that would merely compound the horror of the situation, and be pretty much embarrassing when you had to get out of the car and confront the Benz owner, covered in puke.

"Good job asshole! Why didn't you wa....why are you covered in vomit?"
"I don't really know."
"Sorry."
"Me too."

Anyways.

My car was covered in bikes, and my sun glasses were covered in dust. There was one particularly prominent dirt splotch right in the middle of my left eye, which I had been hopelessly focused on for about 5 blocks. Stupidly, as I was coming to a stop at a light, I decided that it was time to remove my glasses, and look down to study the splotch. For some reason, I thought I was stopped. Apparently, as was made evident by the sudden "thud" in front of me, I wasn't. I looked up, and to my utmost horror, saw the telltale doom of the Mercedes sign on the ass end of the car in front of me. On the ass end I had just plowed into. Because the dirt splotch was bothering me. Good one, idiot.

The first thing I thought was, "Oh no. Oh oh oh no. No no no no. I'm unemployed. Ohhh no." The second thing was, "Of all the cars I never hit, why did the one I finally did have to be a Mercedes? I'm unemployed. You don't hit a Mercedes when you are unemployed. Or not unemployed. Ever, really." I think out loud, that was all compounded into, "Ohhhh SHIT. I don't have a job. I can't hit a car right now."

As we pulled over to the side of the road, I was really hoping somebody would plow into the back of me, wreck Javier into oblivion, and give me some mild whiplash. Then I could just sit in the front seat, with the air bag exploded, and maybe a bloody nose, and moan and hold my neck. Then maybe the dude with the Benz would just feel really bad, and leave. I wouldn't even have to puke all over myself, AND maybe I'd get a good settlement, which would take care of both the unemployment problem, and Javier's really, ultra loud muffler.

None of that happened. I got out of my car, and he stepped out of his convertible, hunched his shoulders, lifting his hands in the air, making a pretty good "what the hell?" gesture. Which I took to mean he was going to probably be a real jerk about the whole thing. He walked over and checked out his bumper, which seemed to be completely fine. He said, "It seems completely fine." I said, "Yeah. It sure does." He said, "well, no harm no foul."

I definitely didn't expect him to be so completely magnanimous. I said I was sorry, and told him about the dust problem on my glasses. He seemed sympathetic. We then shook hands, and parted ways. I'm not sure why he shook my hand, since I certainly did my damnedest to wreck his bumper.

I think last time I felt so relieved, was when I was 14 years old. I had just moved to Nephi several months before, and was still absolutely enamored with the idea that I was going to school with a ton of polygamist children. I was in the school choir. We were heading up to a competition in Orem, on a bus. As we were passing the plig colony, just south of Santaquin, I wanted to yell something clever about the fact that we were passing a colony full of Big Love. Something like, "Hey! Look! It's the polygamists! So many wives! Baahahahah!" Something REALLY clever. But something inside me said, "Don't do it, asshole." So I didn't.

On the way back down from the competition, our bus made a detour directly into the heart of the colony. Bewildered, I wondered just what the hell was going on. Upon reaching the deepest bowels of the compound, the bus stopped, and half the kids got up and went home to their moms.

The "no harm no foul" Mercedes Benz crash felt about like that. Like I just dodged a big, fat, polygamist bullet.

Naked and jobless

Normally, at 6:54 pm on a Monday, I am certainly not recently post shower naked, writing a blog, and dreading putting on clothing in this sweltering hades we call Utah. Also, I am usually not a part of the 10+ percent of Americans who are currently unemployed. No, today is certainly an abnormal day, to say the least.

Let me tell you what it means to work in corporate mega chain restaurant America.

Apparently, a manager can tell a female that she has terrific, big boobs in front of several males, and also the female with said big boobs, with little or no consequence. Or he can tell a girl that she "needs to lose some weight," because she said she can't get her fingers down into the wine glasses to properly polish them. Or he can wrap his arms around a male employee and proceed to, for lack of a better way to say it, hump said employee, saying "**** just needs a hug, and a hump." Or he can tell another employee that he finds his wife attractive, because she isn't like other girls, she has "some meat on her bones." Or he can look at porn in the office. Or about 100 other things. He can get 2 corporate complaints, and chance after chance after chance. And after all that...what happens to him? Waaaaaiiiit for it........drum roll please.....ba dum da da dum boo beep boo....
A transfer to another store in Vegas.

My, how it kicks ass to be a Corporate mega chain restaurant manager. Apparently, sitting in his basement, looking at orc porn and playing World Of Warcraft for hours on end has somehow lent him freakishly potent powers of persuasion, and a slimy, snakelike ability to slither his way out of a sticky situation. That, or corporate mega chain restaurant America is more concerned with keeping their investment, than with actually meeting out punishment in the vile mire that is acceptable restauranteur jargon. Where anything goes, as long as somebody else is saying it too.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means that, if such a person as the aforementioned dirt ball happens to be your manager, and happens to commit all (and many, many more) of the previously stated infractions, and then gets transferred to another store, the remaining proprietor will defend said bag of shit, to the tune of firing at least 3 employees.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means that the previously described bag of douche can have endless opportunities to say all manner of vile things to or about employees. However, if one of these employees happens to mention just how spectacular a dickbot this porn loving creature happens to be on Facebook AFTER said fiend has been transferred, in RESPONSE to the firings of 2 fellow friends...well folks, we have yet another corporate mega chain restaurant fatality.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America ultimately means, that money is more important than people. That sticking up for a man who can't get through a shift without making someone feel uncomfortable is more important than people. That bending over backwards for customers is more important that taking care of YOUR people. That maintaing a clean managerial image is more important than people. Even when these people you dump on are the ones who brought you success.

Working in corporate mega chain restaurant America means YOU don't matter. Only the money matters.

Which, upon reviewing this little rant, I imagine the first comment will be,

"No shit buddy."

Coexistence is not an option

I thought for certain that living above a cat lady would provide me with an impregnable barrier against rodent infestation. This false sense of security lulled me into a blind, slothful state of indifference to the crumbs that may have occasionally ended up on my floor.

I was in my kitchen last nigh at about 1 am. I had entered with the intention of steaming some veggies, and then eating them. The problem with staying up until the post 1 o'clock hour, is that the last time I ate was probably at least 5-7 hours previous, which means my body thinks that it is time for another entire meal. I had a mad craving for french toast, but had decided that eating bread dipped in egg, and covered with butter, syrup, and strawberries would probably go straight to my neck if I ate it right before bed. So I made a compromise, and decided to go with the veggies.

I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, and didn't think much of it. But then that something emerged from my periphery, became a mouse, and ran across the counter top and behind a cutting board leaning against the wall by the sink to take, what I was hoping would be, a suicidal leap behind my stove. Unfortunately upon inspection, after I was done swearing and being acutely disgusted, I found that the creature did not in fact commit mousicide, but was indeed still living somewhere in the vicinity of my kitchen.

At least I didn't want to eat anymore.

Upon inspection of my food cupboard, I found several rat shitlings scattered throughout the lower shelf, and a gnawed through Ramen noodle seasoning packet. At least the little bastard had bad taste, and stayed out of my almond slivers and cliff bars.

I feel so violated. I feel like everything in my kitchen is tainted, and that I therefore must spend copious amounts of time cleaning and disinfecting everything. What the hell good is it having my own cat lady, if her useless felines can't keep mice from invading our home? She has upwards of 5 cats, for heaven's sakes. That delusive aura of kitty security has caused me to be a little too lax in my kitchen cleanliness, mostly in the sense of "I'll clean this dinner mess up in the morning." No more.

Off to get some rat poison. I don't want to use a conventional trap, because I have this grisly vision of a mouse getting its head snapped off, and spraying blood and haunta virus all over my kitchen like a Tarantino film. I may be a vegetarian, or a responsible omnivore, or something, but I refuse to coexist with rodents.

Pioneer day refund

I think I was smitten with a food poisoning on pioneer day, and I think it was for possibly making one too many Brigham Young/pioneer jokes.

I couldn't really help it, you see. I went with some friends up to Ensign peak, which overlooks the Salt Lake Valley. Where, to my knowledge, whether correct of false, Brigham Young stood, raised his broad sword in the air, and declared, "By the power of GraySkull, this is the place." I'm not sure how accurate the location is. I really know nothing about Ensign peak. It simply seemed like a good place for a broadsword to be raised, and a Mormon nesting location to be declared. And I know it is in some way significant to pioneer history, although for the life of me I can't remember anything about it from my Utah history course a few years back. I suppose I could spend 13 seconds on Wikipedia and figure it out, but I rather enjoy the pristine image in my mind of brother Brigham, a broadsword, and a line from He-Man.

I went there with Adam in the evening, in order to watch the fireworks from a higher vantage point. Which where fireworks are concerned, it turns out, is a pretty shitty vantage point. It's probably about like watching them on TV. Totally lame, unless a magic carpet, a princess, a lying street rat, and a spectacular Disney song are involved. So mostly, I acquired a sore ass from sitting on dirt and rocks for about an hour, a slightly sweaty upper torso, an itchy nose from wind and dust, and a chance to sit under Brigham's watchful eye (and sword.)

Later, about 1 am, I decided that eating a Beto's burrito sounded like a hell of an idea. I don't know why a burrito the size of a small infant always sounds good about that hour, but for whatever reason, post midnight is really the ONLY time they ever do sound good. About half an hour later, I was in bed. At approximately 4am, I crawled to the bathroom, convinced that I was going to refund that burrito, and every other thing I have ever eaten into the toilet, via my cranial sphincter, rather than the more common route. After laying on the floor for a time, I thought maybe it was possible the cursed burrito would remain where it was. So I crawled back to bed, snagging a rather large plastic bowl in route. 5 minutes later, I rolled out of bed onto the floor, and did a pretty commendable job filling up that plastic bowl with a whole lot of stomach acid, eggs, and pico de gallo.

I could just imagine brother Brigham watching me heave my stomach lining into that bowl, and saying, "Who's laughing now?" And then maybe he'd poke me with his ethereal broadsword. And all I could think, was "I'm sorry about the jokes. Please stop smiting me now." In conjunction with, "I swear in my wrath, I will never be poisoned by another Beto's burrito AGAIN." Not necessarily because I think I will never eat one again. Simply, because I won't ever make pioneer day jokes and then subsequently eat one. I felt pretty nauseated until I woke up Monday morning for work. So like, a 30 hour poisoning. All because of a few jokes.

I'm SORRY.

Birthday hypocrite

As of July 13th, I had consumed no meat for an entire month. Ages longer than any other previous meatless interval. My previous record was probably somewhere close to 12-15 hours. Possibly fewer.

So when my birthday came along, and Carrabbas wanted to buy me a filet in celebration of being 28 and not dead, I suddenly began to panic. It has been easy to say no to chicken, ribs, shredded pork, and a myriad of other meats since June 13th. And it has certainly been easy to not purchase any steaks. But to be offered a Filet. A free filet. The God King of all meats. This was a conflict.

Put 100 free chickens in front of me, and I'll say no every time. Easy. I even turned down halibut (which I love) at our quarterly work meeting where we try all the new specials. NBD. But I have always loved steak to the max. As much as my little brother, I believe I have previously stated. It has been slightly hard, delivering steak after steak to table after table over the last month. Slightly, because said meats were never offered to me. Not until now.

A free filet. DAMMIT.

So I stewed it over in my mind for a few hours. Weighed the pros and cons. Cons being, eating the filet will sort of compromise my moral position and make me feel like a hypocrite. Also, perhaps I will enjoy it so much, I may slide back into my former life as an indifferent, apathetic carnivore. I thought about the pros, and besides the enjoyment that would come from shoving an extremely tender, bloody hunk of cow flesh down my gullet for the first time in over a month, I couldn't really think of any real pros.

In a moment of weakness, I decided that eating one measly filet, in the whole grand scheme of things, wasn't really a big deal. Who could even know where our Carrabbas cow meat comes from? Maybe it was ethical. There was roughly a 30% chance it might be. Probably not. But maybe.

As I sat at the pasta bar, waiting for my filet to cook, the only thing going through my mind, over and over again was, "Please, for the love of God, don't let Bob over cook this thing." I thought this, because likely this was going to be the only filet I would be eating for a very long time. If I was going to sink to the level of a hypocrite for 10 minutes, I wanted to enjoy it. I thought that after a long, meatless month, this filet would probably be one of the best things I had ever put in my mouth. It was my birthday. Couldn't I be a hypocrite?

Upon cutting into it, besides cursing Bob's name for slightly over cooking it, I marveled at the tenderness. I didn't even need a knife. A spoon would have sufficed. I put the first chunk in my mouth, expecting an explosion of palatal ecstasy, a veritable mouthgasm, I expected to think, "Man, have I missed this. Meat is so terrific. I wish I could eat 100 meat, every single minute. Wrap me up in a meat blanket, and feed me to myself."

Rather, I thought, "Huh. This is tasty. But so is a chipotle black bean burger. And felafel. In fact, I could eat a tomato stuffed with mushrooms, red peppers, garlic, and goat cheese over this any day." In other words, it wasn't blowing my mind. At all. Yes, obviously it tasted good. And was something that I would certainly enjoy eating on occasion. However, the experience was altogether lackluster. A let down. Which was AWESOME.

While part of me regrets descending to the level of a weak birthday hypocrite, I am ultimately glad I ate that filet. I realized that honestly, I am not missing much. I can think of about 15 things right off the bat that I have enjoyed the last month just as much, if not more, than I enjoyed that filet. I think as we come to decide what our favorite foods are, and the values placed upon them, whether cultural or familial, we build these foods up to mythical proportions. I attached meaning, value, and importance to a filet because, being an expensive chuck of dead cow, it was mostly a special occasion commodity. So, after abstaining from all meat for a month, and delving into an entirely new realm of the food chain, I realized that a filet (and meat in general) is really only as good as we mentally make it to be. When something suddenly is no longer a choice, other things take its place. Other foods can inherit an abandoned food's value and meaning. A caprino stuffed tomato is my filet.

I guess what I'm saying, is by eating a filet, I realized that I truly don't miss meat. I may miss the meanings I attached to different meats. Like a summer tri-tip bbq with friends. But now that I realize it is more the meaning that I miss, I can quit missing the meat itself, and begin attaching new meaning, memories, and feelings to new foods.

Sometimes being a hypocrite works out okay.

Birthday bars and mixers

When Fish children get married (I only know this through sibling hearsay) they are given a Bosch mixer. For those of you unfamiliar with what that means, it is like the Mercedes Benz of mixers. Or maybe more like a Range Rover. The 800 watt motor will gladly spin up to 15 lbs of dough. Won't even be pist about it. Just try to do that with your 575 watt kitchen aid. Get real. Some scooters have 800 watt motors.

I am fast approaching my 28th birthday, a day I thought I'd never live to see unmarried. Well, 4 or 5 years ago, anyway. The last couple years I have resigned myself to the fact that I should probably reevaluate my vow to kill myself if single at 30. It is easy to make drastic, personal ultimatums when you are half a decade away from something. "Either get married by thirty, or kill yourself man. Those are your options," I'd threaten me. Now that I'm a paltry 2 years away, 30 doesn't seem so bad.asjkdl;wa;e Not nearly so bad as the gnat, or whatever it was, that just flew into the corner of my eye, causing the startled key mash above, and the trip to the bathroom to dig it out, which nearly interrupted the fluidity of this paragraph. You shant have the satisfaction of that accomplishment, you asshole gnat.

Anyways.

So apparently my parents have given up on the possibility of me ever getting married, and therefore went ahead and awarded me with my very own Bosch mixer as a gift for making it to 28, without any major drug addictions, nor children born out of wedlock running around. And I'm a little embarrassed about how excited I got/am about a mixer. To this point, I have been mostly a stove top (the range, not the shitty brand) kinda guy, so baking is going to open up a whole new world for me. Breads, cakes, cookies, and...breads. I don't know what on earth to do with a mixer besides those things. And considering my current eating choices, cookies and cakes are pretty much out. So mostly bread.

Speaking of new things and healthy eating, I experienced today, for the first time in my 28 years of life, the brief, relative joy of a big hunk. Brief, because I felt gross almost immediately after consuming it, and relative, because it brought me joy relative to, say, a kick to the groin. Or to be fair, more like a plain celery stick. To be even more truthful than fair, I enjoyed the Big Hunk about 100 percent more than I thought I would upon making the decision to actually eat the thing. Which was not at all.

The Big Hunk was discovered by a server, after being discarded on a table, or in a garbage can by a Carrabbas patron. I heard conflicting stories as to the origin. A slip of paper was taped to one side that said, "Priesthood holders are..." I was more bothered by the fact that "Priesthood holders are...Big Hunk," didn't work grammatically, than by how stereotypically BYU cheesy the whole thing was, or whether it had spent some time in the trash can or not.

I am pretty good at not buying garbage. And by garbage, I mean things like Big Hunks, and other candies and treats. Come to my kitchen, and you won't find anything that your dietitian would yell at you for. However, when candy, or treats, or deserts are placed in front of me, I sometimes struggle with control. I can usually completely abstain, but if I eat one of something, pandora's gummy box is opened, and I eat most of whatever that something happened to be.

I was reaching into the martini cooler for a glass, when I spotted the Big Hunk. It was about 8pm, and I was bored and hungry. It was pretty much a given that I was going to eat that Big Hunk. I pulled it out of the fridge, and wondered just what the hell was in there. I really had no idea what to expect, as the big hunk doesn't offer any sort of picture or illustration on the package, cluing you as to what lies within. Because they know if you knew that it looked like probably the most unappealing candy bar you had ever seen, you probably would never give it a shot. Even the claim of "Low fat!" on the wrapper probably wouldn't be enough.

I flipped it over, and was thrilled to see that corn syrup and sugar were the 2 main ingredients. I knew right then that I wanted to put it in my body immediately. I tore it open, and stared at the almost chalky white bar with peanuts nestled here and there. "This doesn't even look remotely good," I said to no one in particular. But hunger prevailed, and I snapped a piece off. It mostly tasted like a marshmallow with peanuts in it. Which was about 100% better than what I had expected. My plan was to eat about 3 bites, but that was thwarted by the aforementioned hunger, boredom, and general lack of self control. By the time it was finished, my stomach felt sick, and I completely regretted eating the whole thing. Sort of like I regretted eating 5 pieces of birthday cake yesterday.

Whoops.

It's my 28th birthday week, I am in the best shape of my life. I can be a little out of control.

With liberty and guns for all

My oh my is the political right good at making themselves look like imbeciles and rednecks sometimes. Reasons such as those that follow make me, at times, embarrassed to have some conservative views, and therefore be lumped in with "conservatives."

Rep Stephen Sandstrom of Orem has decided that, along with championing a bill similar to the mind numbingly idiotic piece of immigration legislation recently enacted by the Arizona state legislature, he will put forth a bill that would eliminate the need for a permit to conceal a handgun in the state of Utah. Now, Utah residents may already conceal a weapon in their car, or homes, and can even, God help us, open carry. In other words, any redneck jackass can wear a gun on a holster and scare the hell out of those who aren't accustomed to being around firearms, while ordering a burrito at Del taco. So Mr. Sandstrom is proposing that any person be able to pack heat where nobody can see, no questions asked.

I own a .45. I sometimes conceal it. I have a permit to do so. I grew up around guns. I am familiar with them. I'm not going to accidentally blow my nards off, nor the nards of any other person. In order to get said permit, I had to take a class familiarizing me with the different gun laws of the state, and handgun safety in general. All pretty necessary things, I think, in order to be a "safe" carrier.

This dummy of a right wing conservative said this:"It's just like freedom of religion: You do not have to go and get an exercise-of-religion card." Did I copy and paste that right? Did he really say, "exercise-of-religion card? " Does that even make sense? Or is it as incoherent as I think it is? And is he really comparing the right to carry around a deadly weapon to the right to worship? Last time I checked, you can't blow your own nards off with a bible. Nor the nards of your fellow church goers. Unless, of course, you are an Islamic extremist, and you filled a bible full of C4, and strapped that to your genitals. I guess what I'm saying here, is this is ridiculous.

People on the KSL comment board, bless their little ultra conservative hearts, were saying things like "The bad guys are gonna carry guns anyway. They don't care about permits, blah blah blah I have tunnel vision."
Well, while it is certainly true that "bad guys" will carry guns regardless, that doesn't mean that I want just any moron to waltz into Cabbellas' and buy his first 9mm, and walk out the door with it stuffed in his waist band.

"It does not say you have the right to keep and bear arms as long as you have a permit from the federal government or your local or state government — it just gives you that right. Bearing arms means carrying them." While I agree that the constitution certainly gives people the right to carry weapons, there is nothing wrong with the fact that we have added a little responsibility to that right. The founders didn't say, "You have the right to keep and bear arms unless you are a felon," but we certainly have added in that clause. So I guess if this "purist" Sandstrom wants any asshole to be able to pack secret heat, then he should probably include felons in his crusade. Or is he simply going to pick and chose what he likes vs what he doesn't like? Typical.

The bottom line is, I want responsible people to carry guns. There is an inherent responsibility that goes with requiring a permit. It isn't expensive to get. People aren't being truly limited, or even overly regulated. I think the state is just trying to make sure that those who chose not to exercise their right to bear arms, aren't harmed by idiots who do, but are too stupid or lazy to learn how to do it right.

Since we're obviously shooting for a more wild west friendly state theme, maybe if we arm everyone, we can just force all those pesky immigrants out at gun point, and then we wont even need to emulate Arizona's legislation.

Kill every bird with one stone.

Heber school district fail

There seems to be a pretty common hiring criteria for the hostesses at my place of employment. Blonde (whether fake or real) thin, and "attractive." Attractive, of course, being a relative term. Attractive in a general, "that girl is thin, blonde, and doesn't look very intelligent," sort of category.

During the hours of 1:30-5ish I really don't have much to do at work. I typically spend this time acquiring, what seems to be, a pretty stellar dose of carpal tunnels in my hands from chatting with amigos via iphone gtalk. Sometimes, I will venture on over to where the hostess stand is located and sit on the bench for a while. It was during just such a time, when I was asked by one of the aforementioned 18 year old dream babes, "Hey Fish. Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Okay. Well. Umm. So, what is a heterosexual?"
This is where the incredulous "are you really asking me this question you poor, poor imbecile" look was splayed clearly across my face.
"Are you seriously asking me this?"
"Yesuh, I don't know! I never had sex ed classes in school, and I grew up in a small town! Common, it's not my fault!"
"What town did you grow up in?"
"Heber!"
"Get real, I grew up in Nephi. You excuse is invalid."
"Okay whatever, just tell me."
I had to think for a minute how to best explain this, because I was worried that saying, "a heterosexual is a person that is attracted to the opposite sex," may further confuse her, as she may not understand what I meant by "opposite sex," or sex at all. Like, maybe I was saying that it was a person who was attracted to the opposite of sex. Which made me sort of confused, because I didn't know what the opposite of sex would even be. Seriously. If someone said to you, "Hey, lets do the opposite of sex," what would that mean? You can't just say, "Not have sex." Because that would be doing nothing, and the opposite of doing something would have to be doing something else. Man, I really digress.
"Well. As a heterosexual female, you are attracted to men."
"Ohhh. Haha. Okay."
"What the hell did you think it meant?"
"I just like, thought it was a guy who like, liked girls, but was like way femmy."
"Well, that would be a metro-sexual. But that isn't even a real word. It is a slang term. Heterosexual can actually be found in the dictionary, and is by all means a word you should have probably learned in junior high. Perhaps sooner."

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when she later approached me in the bar and asked, "Fish. Can I ask you another question."
"By all means."
"Umm. What's like, a good drink, but that doesn't really taste like alcohol?"

This question is made more humorous (or possibly sad) by the fact that our sweet little darling here is dating a dude with 2 or 3 illegitimate children running around the valley. I'm certain at some point, this sperm launching sex fiend will probably tell her something like, "Don't worry baby. If we have seh standing up, you can't get pregs." And thanks to the Heber school district, she won't recognize that for the terrible lie that it is, and 9 months later, numero cuatro will come sliding out of the birth canal, hopefully not soaked in alcohol.

I'll be sure to tell her about fetal alcohol syndrome, even if she doesn't ask.

Move over meat

One of the dilemmas I think a lot of people have with the concept of vegetarianism, is a fear of getting bored with meat avoidance. I've always thought, "how does a person eat only veggies? What they hell do they eat? Boring."

A few days ago, I was driving around, and noticing a lot of restaurants and fast food joints. And I started thinking about all the things I had always previously eaten at those locations. Everything involved meat. I saw a Del Taco, and thought, "Shit. No more tacos." I saw a subway and thought, "Shit. No more $5 foot long broth injected chicken-breast-that-contains-rib-meat sandwiches." I saw a couple of Chinese buffets and thought, "Shit. No more Chinese buffets."

Granted, I had been eating very little meat, comparatively speaking, for the last several months. But I had been eating mostly the same things. Lots of chipotle black bean burgers, salmon burgers, boca burgers, and hummus. I had been dabbling in some cooking, mostly curries and stir fry's. Then, with salmon eliminated, I was pretty much just down to the black beans.

In a society where most menu items in most restaurants contain meat of some sort, we get pretty used to a lot of variety. I mean, go to Chili's and try eating something meatless, besides a salad, or a deep fried cheese stick. Or chips and queso. Not that Chili's is, by any means, a bastion of good food. But go anywhere, and unless you want to eat a salad, meatless choices are slim. Even ethnic foods which are probably traditionally meatless, have been americanized and meated. Let's face it, we are a carnivorous nation. We eat more of it than any other country, and probably more than many countries put together.

But it doesn't have to be that way. It is perfectly possible to eat well (and by well, I mean delicious, satisfying meals) and avoid meat. Does anything really compare to medium rare filet wrapped in bacon? Well, I guess not. But there are plenty of other things that are delicious in their own right, although completely different. For example, tonight I made goat cheese stuffed tomatoes. I would say I enjoyed that concoction every bit as much as I have ever enjoyed a filet. But in a different way. Equally delicious, but different.

So, at the risk of being cliche, I have decided to start a cooking blog. Today, I bought a big, thick, blue oven mit. As I stood in my kitchen with that thing on my had, looking at it bathed in the unfortunately harsh glow of my fluorescent kitchen lighting, I knew it was time to start a new blog. If it goes largely unread, I don't care. If it helps just 1 or 2 people enjoy vegetarianism a little bit more, that is good enough for me. Either way, if I want to maintain a meatless lifestyle, I have to keep it interesting. And even if you still eat meat, but are just looking to eat things that are more healthy, this might be a good place for you to look, as most things will probably be relatively good for you. If you would like to go there, click HERE.

I promise this blog isn't going to turn into an anti-meat soap box. I promise.

It's raining golden calves

If you have been reading this blog for the last year or so, you are probably aware of the fact that I have been graduated for over a year, and have been suffering from a fairly acute level of cognitive dissonance caused by the fact I am still employed at Carrabbas. If you have just recently joined this, well, simply mind bogglingly important blog--the dissonance has indeed been acute, and been suffered for the better part of a year. Which is maybe why, quite unexpectedly, grad school suddenly sounded real appealing.

Which is weird, because I have mostly been of the disposition for the better part of the last 3 years that, upon finishing college school, I'd rather be chewed to death by a bear, starting at the crotch, than go back to school.

I sort of, well, loathed school. I mean, not the actually going to class/learning part. That part I rather enjoyed (mostly, minus didactic lecturers with God complexes.) But the endless, tedious assignments and research papers I hated. Over the last year, whenever a friend or a co-worker told tale of a huge test to take, or a research paper to be written, I would get the most ominous, dreadful feeling. Sort of like what I get whenever I see a neighborhood with an assload of cookie cutter housing. The sort that summer sales bro's target. The sort that I targeted 3 years ago, during my 2 month stint as, well, a summer sales bro. Seeing a neighborhood ripe for a corporate raping takes me back to the feeling of misery I experienced during those 2 months. And hearing about other peoples' school assignments made me feel the same way, thus ever solidifying my anti-more-school position.

So when a grad program actually sounded like a desirable course of action, I felt like It had to be the right thing to do. Because, even as I type this, thinking about my undergrad still gives me that despicable summer sales swindler feeling. But, curiously, not when I contemplate this particular program.

I have felt lost for the last year. Graduated with a seemingly useless degree, wondering what on earth to do. I mean, this blog was an obvious fall back, since I make just stupid amounts of money maintaining it. Or should be. I guess I was waiting for either that to happen, or for a big golden calf to fall out of the sky, come crashing through my house, and land on my leg. So then I could sue whoever dropped that golden calf out of the sky, broke my leg, and ruined my ceiling. Hopefully for enough money to just live an extravagant life of blogging and eating expensive fruits. Grad school gives me real direction. Finally.

I applied for a Masters of Arts in Teaching at Westminster. I was worried, because they only accept 15 secondary ed students. So, having been accepted, that either means that I am simply a spectacular bastion of scholarly material, or that there just aren't that many people who want to pay a boatload for a masters degree. That golden calf crushing my leg would really be welcome right now.

So, after a couple years of avoiding my destiny as a secondary education mind moulder, I have come back to it. Over the last year or so, I have come to the realization that I need to love what I do. I need to feel fulfilled. Meaningful. I want to make a difference, to help people think critically, to love education. Pending the golden calf incident, I may not end up rich. But I will be happy. And that is what is important.

I'm ready for you, August 25th. No ominous feelings here.

Tight wad

Today, a guy came into the carside door and ordered a chocolate cake desert thing. The total was 6 dollars and 47 cents. He pulled a ziplock plastic baggy out of his pocket, and proceeded to pull out a 10 dollar bill.

"A crafty substitute for a wallet, that ziplock bag," I thought.

He handed me a crinkled up 10 dollar bill. I opened the carside cash drawer, and was annoyed at finding no coins. Typically when this occurs on a carry out order, I try to look and sound real put out when I tell them, "hang on a sec, I'll go look for 37 cents." Or 15 cents. Or 62 cents. Or whatever the cents may be. And often times, people will say, "Don't worry about it." Partially because they realize that you should tip on a carry out order at a legitimate restaurant, and partly, I think, due to the fact that "who really gives a shit about 33 cents."

I owed him 53 of those cents. I assumed he wasn't going to say, "go ahead and keep it," as he had fished that $10 out of a plastic bag. So I said, "Hang on a sec, I'll go find you some change." I walked away, immediately calling out, "does anyone have 4 quarters?" I found 4 quarters, and returned to the guy. I owed him 53 cents, but gave him 50. Because I don't carry quarters, let alone pennies. In fact, in my entire serving career, I have never given anyone coins. If it is 15 cents or less, I eat it. If it is more than that, I let them eat it, and tip me less if they are pist.

Nobody has ever been pist.

What sort of person really would care about 3 pennies?

The answer to that question, apparently, is a person who carries his money around in a plastic sack.

Upon handing him the 50 cents, I turned away to go back to whatever else I was doing. He said, "Um...it was fifty-three cents." Dumbfounded, I sort of just stared at him for a moment. "Okay. I'll find you 3 pennies."

So I walked away, yelling "Does anyone have three pennies? Anyone?"
"What the hell do you need 3 pennies for?"
"Just gimmie the damn pennies please."

So I walked back over, and said, "Here are you 3 pennies."
"Thanks."
He put them in the plastic sack, and left.

I wonder if, on dates, he transfers his money into something more respectable. Like a velcro wallet.

Eating animals

This post is probably going to be a little out of line with the general tone of this blog, so bear with me on that.

I finished a book, about which I had some pretty strong feelings, and I share those at the risk of possibly alienating some, and pissing off others.

Let me preface with the fact that I love a good steak as much, possibly, as I love my little brother. Although I rarely eat them, a good filthy burger, slathered with goat cheese is something for which I would possibly trade a kidney, if I didn't probably need both kidneys to process all that sodium. I love ribs, I love chicken, I love a good pork chop. Seared ahi tuna, I'd most definitely trade that kidney for. A fat shrimp, grilled or chilled or covered in cocktail sauce, is the sweetest of delicacies.

Which is why giving up meat is certainly going to be a decision not lightly made, and very difficult to maintain.

I have been gradually avoiding meat for the last few months, not on ethical grounds, but because I simply wanted a healthier diet. I have been bothered by the fact that as Americans, we seem to revolve our meals around a meat dish. I decided that I never wanted to fall into the routine of, "this will be the meat, now what goes well with that?" I wanted meat to be something that sometimes goes with a meal, but most of the time it doesn't.

From a Mormon standpoint, (sorry if you aren't a Mormon, and aren't familiar with the theology) I have always been slightly bothered by the disconnect that devout Mormons have when it comes to the Word of Wisdom. The Word of Wisdom, being, the reason why Mormons abstain from alcohol, tobacco, and other addictive and/or judgement altering substances. The disconnect comes with the part where meat is to be eaten "sparingly" and "in times of famine." For whatever reason, that part seems not to matter to many Mormons. It certainly didn't matter to me for a large portion of my life.

But it should matter.

Eating large quantities of meat (what the Average American certainly does) is simply not a way to maintain a healthy lifestyle. But meat is easy, and cheap. It is much easier to spend 3 bucks and 5 minutes (more like 30 seconds) at McDonald's on double cheeseburgers, than the time, effort, and thought it takes to cook something wholesome. My point is, it isn't good for anyone to consume a good sized portion of meat, every single day. Ask any dietitian, or look it up on the interweb if you think I'm wrong.

Recently, I read the book Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, and pretty much fell in love with it. I found it to be a deeply moving, highly entertaining book. He recently published a book called Eating Animals, and having enjoyed Extremely Loud so much, I decided that I wanted to read it.

I knew it was about the American factory farm. I knew that I risked my love affair with with meat by reading it. But I also knew that I needed to really know what I have been eating my entire life, and what I would potentially continue to eat.

Eating Animals was not written by a PETA activist. It was written by a guy who has loved meat, and been an on again, off again vegetarian throughout his life. He chose to write the book when his son was born, because he realized that eating meat was no longer a personal decision, but one he would be making for his son. He wanted to find out if feeding his son meat was the right thing to do. So he set about doing 3 years of intensive research, which included breaking into factory farms, visits to actual sustainable, truly free range farms (the very few that are left,) and attempted contact and (legal) visits to some of the nations largest factory farms such as Tyson (none of which responded, nor allowed him to visit, for obvious reasons.) What he ended up with, I think, is a truly powerful (and truthful) exposé on the American meat industry.

A few years ago, my sister watched a short film online called 'Meat your Meat.' I had seen it previously, and dismissed it as extremism. I told her she was stupid for giving up meat, because there was no way that such a video was indicative of the industry as a whole. The video shows animals being treated and tortured in the worst ways imaginable. Now, after reading this book, I believe that this video is more the rule, rather than the exception. Or at least something close to it.

But, for the sake of people who will argue, let's pretend for a moment that it isn't. Let's go ahead and say that most animals aren't beaten with metal rods, aren't slammed upon the concrete until they die because they are too sick to move, and they aren't unnecessarily and often sadistically prodded with electric prods (much more than necessary) or a plethora of other common abuses, don't often occur. Sadism aside, there is plenty of inherent cruelty in the factory farm system that other potent examples are simply vegan icing on the shit cake.

Fact--factory farm animals (especially chickens and other poultry) are confined to small, disease ridden, shit infested spaces. Fact--through factory farming, genetically altered birds have been created for maximum growing potential and efficiency--the average broiler, (the chicken you eat) is slaughtered in 42 days. Sometimes 39. Can you even fathom the growth hormones and antibiotics necessary to create a succulent chicken breast in 42 days? Growth hormones, because nothing on this planet could naturally grow so fast and be ready for consumption, and antibiotics, because of the filthy conditions in which these birds are kept. Have you ever seen a 42 day old kitten, or puppy? Puts things in perspective...

So. We know (from government provided statistics, and obvious math ((if 30+ thousands birds are confined to a warehouse the size of a grocery store, it can't be any other way)) that animals really are unbelievably confined to small, filthy spaces. So why is that okay? Everybody, at one time or another, has seen an evening news story about some man or woman, who was discovered to be hoarding dogs or cats. We all look on in sadness, disbelief, and disgust while filthy, shit covered feral cats, with sores and scabs are being captured by animal control men wearing face masks. Why is that scenario punishable by fines and even jail time, while the same thing (just a different animal) ends up in your frying pan, or in between a bun, and slides happily down your gullet without ever a second thought?

These are questions that need to be asked. These are things that need to be thought about.

I think the problem, is the average american has no idea where his or her chicken, beef, pork, or fish is coming from. The idea that anything you purchase at a grocery store, or a fast food restaurant (or virtually any other restaurant, for that matter) is coming from a farm as you know it, is pure fantasy. I think if people really knew what the American factory farm was doing, and how meat actually gets to the end of your fork, there would be many more hesitant people when it came to meat consumption.

If you knew that children were used as the chief source of labor in the production of Ipods, and were terribly abused in the process, would you keep buying or using an Ipod? I know that animals aren't children. But the concept, I think, is fair. Meat is by no means a necessity, just like having an Ipod isn't a necessity. CD's play music too. So, upon finding out that there is extreme inherent cruelty built into the system (with factory farm demand, and the desire for cheap meat, things can be done in no other way) what can one do?

Again, let's set aside cruelty. Factory farms are probably going to be the cause of the next big pandemic. Because of the amount of antibiotics preemptively fed to factory farm animals, new strains of highly virulent, antibiotic resistant viruses are being, basically, farmed. With every bucket of KFC chicken, we are giving money to an industry that is inadvertently probably creating the next pandemic.

Do we need to even talk about how problematic 1.37 billion ton (not lbs, mind you) of shit per year produced by American livestock is?

I guess when it comes down to it, I am not opposed to the consumption of meat--sparingly. I do not think that the actual act of eating meat is wrong. However, what seems unequivocally wrong to me, is the manner in which our meat is derived. Which makes me feel that eating meat from a factory farm (which is most meat) is wrong.

Eating Animals, I think, may be one of the most important things I have ever read. Here is an excerpt, and one of many contained therein that I think lend credibility to his argument, and overall "agenda."

"My decision not to eat animals is necessary for me, but it is also limited--and personal. It is a commitment made within the context of my life, not anyone else's. And until sixty of so years ago, much of my reasoning wouldn't have even been intelligible, because the industrial animal agriculture to which I'm responding hadn't become dominant. had I been born in a different time, I might have reached different conclusions. For me to conclude firmly that I will not eat animals does not meat I oppose, or even have mixed feelings about, eating animals in general. To oppose beating a child to "teach a lesson" is not to oppose strong parental discipline. To decide that I will discipline my child in one way and not another is not necessarily to make a decision I would impose on other parents. to decide for oneself and one's family is not to decide for the nation or world."

If you read this book, I think you will be surprised by what you read. It doesn't feel preachy. It feels honest, and rational. You may disagree with most of what I have said here. And I get that--I have been there for most of my life. But I think I was there because I never had, what I felt like, were the facts presented to me. Meat consumption is one of the most polarizing subjects out there. Vegans and hardcore vegetarians are adamantly opposed to the cruelty and lack of animal welfare, often to the point of extremism, while meat lovers vehemently defend their steaks and God given right to exercise dominion and eat all creatures bond and free, while a lot of people in between just do what is easy, and mosey along in an ignorant, carnivorous bliss.

Meat is probably a large part of your life--it was certainly a large part of mine. Don't you think you should know a little more than "chicken comes from a chicken, and chickens live on farms"? If you are going to be an eating animal, you should know what that really means.

Ho, canada!

Turns out, Canada is a pretty cool place. And mostly like America in a lot of ways. This is pretty much what I expected from Canada previous to arrival:
--Flannel
--French speaking babes
--Big pine trees
--An abundance of beavers
--My money to be worth more than their money
--Bear attacks

I was disappointed in all but the big pine trees. They sure had a lot of those.

I decided while packing, that wearing a red flannel long sleeved shirt was probably the best thing that I could do upon arriving in Canada, in order to not appear as a lame tourist. I expected a land of merry lumberjacks, stomping through the streets yelling things like, "Ho there friend!" or "Ho brother! Watch oat fer bairs aye!" Turns out, I was the only asshole walking around in flannel. But I wore that flannel proudly and filthily, 4 out of 5 days backpacking. Which may be why #6 never occurred--the bears could smell that my smelly sweat/smoke saturated vestment wrapped body was something they would rather not shove down their gullets. Or they felt a sense of camaraderie, like I was a flannel bearing illiterate Canadian of old, before they all got into fashion and the metric system.

I sure do like the metric system, even though my brain is too stupid to translate it. I constantly had to convert things to miles/feet/gallons/inefficient in order to figure anything out. "Wait, we have to go 150 kilometers? Shit, wait, how many is that in feet?"

Somehow or another, during the 5 days of our hike (on the Juan de Fuca trail, which occupies about 30 miles ((49 kilometers)) (((it's hard to know how many feet))) of the south-western coast of Victoria island) my trusty calculator watch with the gold band managed to be about an hour and 25 minutes off real time. Which I guess would explain why it seemed like the sun was setting at about 11:30 at night. Which I simply attributed to Canada being weird and way far north. I think towards the end, I finally figured out that my watch was wrong, and I really had no clue what time it was for 5 days. Which was sort of awesome.

One gentleman on our journey forgot deodorant I think. I wasn't previously aware that arm pit stench had the ability to drift upwards of 50 or more feet (like 15 meters ((I'm learning))) through rain forest to penetrate, nay, rape the nostrils of the unfortunate soul (generally me) walking behind. Which is why anytime I was bringing up the rear of our 3 man expedition, I ended up walking a good distance behind, probably setting myself up to be straggling bear meat. Or cougar meat. Which I think would be preferable to being bear meat. I feel like a cougar would probably go straight for the jugular, and end it rather quickly, whereas a bear is probably as likely to start with the crotch as with anything else. Anyways, it was really just an unbelievable stench, worth possibly dying to avoid.

At one point, I found myself trapped for a time in a sleigh bell B.O. sandwich, from whence there was no escape. We passed this weirdo German couple with sleigh bells attached to their walking sticks. Upon passing them, I was unable to maintain my usual 75 foot buffer zone. Which essentially felt like being herded into the stench by a sleigh bell wielding German shepherd (person, not dog.) Wanting to vomit while feeling extremely annoyed is a weird, bothersome combination.

Ripping mussels off of rocks, while getting soaked by cold sea water is rendered a much more disappointing culinary experience when said mussels are subsequently cooked in a Bear Creek minestrone/Santa Fe chipotle chicken soup mix. In other words, minestrone and Santa Fe chipotle chicken are 2 soups that don't combine well, and are not in any way improved by tossing in a couple dozen boiled mussels. Whoelk (that was a puke sound.) I should have stuck with sticking the whole shell in the coals of the fire with my leatherman, and eating them plain. Or maybe just purchased 6 matching soups, rather than 6 different. Idiot.

They (Canada) only give you .95 Canada cents for every American dollar. Which made virtually everything which was already more expensive, more expensive. That problem would fix itself if we would just turn them into a state already.

I saw one beaver, which was simultaneously the happiest and most disappointing moment of my trip. Happiest, because I got to watch a beaver, the literal Frank Lloyd Wright of the animal kingdom, swim around like 2000 centimeters in front of me. But this was basically my last day in Canada, and was the only beaver I saw, which made it disappointing. A bitter sweet moment.

I didn't run into any French speaking babes, but there sure were a lot of beautiful women walking around Vancouver nonetheless. Seriously. There must be something in the water. Get real Beach Boys, Vancouver girls are what you should be wishing for.

After completing the trail, we had to hitchhike the 30 miles back to the trailhead at Port Renfrew. We had the good fortunes to be picked up by the "Mayor" of Port Renfrew--a 63 year old pot smoking Vietnam draft dodging ex-patriot. Here was an excerpt from a conversation:
Adam: "So there is a doctor you visit?"
Mayor: "Ah yeah, but I don't even take none of the shit he gives me."
Adam: "So you are more into holistic medicines?"
Mayor: "I smoke a lot of pot."
Me: "Cool."
Also:
Mayor: "The prettiest girl I ever dated was a Mormon. She was always tryin to get me to go to church on Sundays. I was always tryin to get her to do drugs. Neither of us really had much success." It was a fun 30 miles.

Possibly the thing I loved most about Canada, was the Maynard wine gummies. My selection of said gummies had nothing to do with the fact that they were supposedly wine flavors, and everything to do with the consistency. I was hungry on a ferry, and saw a package of gummies. Upon careful examination and after various squeezes of the gummies through the bag, I deduced that I had possibly found a gummy with the perfect consistency. Which proved to be true. And, thankfully, they tasted nothing like wine.

I went on this trip assuming that I would starve for the duration of the backpacking experience, and lose a few pounds. Upon making a visit to my bathroom scale this morning, I found quite the opposite--a slight weight gain. Maybe something to do with eating pizza twice, hamburgers twice, a gigantic Ben and Jerry's ice cream waffle cone, 3 bags of Maynard's, plenty of fries with said hamburgers, more fries with a greasy Po boy tuna sandwich, and virtually zero fruits and veggies. Which, those things combined, are worse than the sum total of the WORST things I have eaten during the last 2 or 3 months. Maybe those were my last burgers. Ever. And my last albacore tuna. Ever.

More to come on that development.

Almost done aye

I haven't yet died in Canada.

Sorry I disappeared.

Be back very soon.

Sweet revenge

Today I went for a bicycle ride upon a mountain in Salt Lake. It was a big loop that started at a park on 1300 e and 11th ave, wrapped up through the hills, dropped down a river bed, and spit me out back on 11th. Upon arrival back at my cousin's truck, I noticed that there were some ladies out walking their dogs through the park.

As I was sitting in the cab, removing my gloves, helmet, and ugly assed narrow Spy shades circa bro core 2004, I noticed that one of the dogs had hunched over, and was producing what was turning out to be just an absurdly massive pile of shit. It was a medium sized pooch, yet somehow its digestive tract was ridding itself of something I'd have imagine produced by something more akin to a horse.

"Typical," I thought.

The lady noticed that said animal was defecating, and sort of moaned an "ahh man." She didn't appear to have any sort of a feces retrieval device, so I suppose she had plans to leave it there, for some unsuspecting 4 year old to mistakenly fall in, be completely absorbed, and never heard from again. Her dog was connected to one of those retractable leashes with the plastic handle, that sort of looks like a tape measure. With an added handle.

For reasons I can not fathom, she dropped the handle on the ground, put her hands on her hips, and finished watching her dog take the colossal shit. She was standing about 6 feet away from the dog. Upon completion, the dog began to walk in a south-by-westward direction. Since she was standing north-by-slightly eastward of the defecation, this consequently caused the trajectory of the leash handle to commit to a collision course with the shit pile. In the brief moment it took her to deduce this, her window of opportunity had passed. Upon realizing what was inevitably going to occur, she made one last sad, desperate, and hesitant bend over-reach combination for the handle, while saying, "oh no no no NO NO NO!" It was an impressive crescendo.

It was almost like a movie, watching that square plastic leash handle wiggle its way through the grass, and slowly drag perfectly centered over one of the biggest piles of shit I've ever seen. At which point the woman threw up her hands in exasperation, and shamefully trudged over to the handle, studied it for a moment, and realized there was nothing to do but pick it up.

Witnessing this left me with a pretty terrific feeling of vindication for all of the shits thus far left upon my lawn this spring.

I'm not entirely certain, but I think that I may have witnessed the most perfect thing that ever happened. Not even the big bang could have been executed so perfectly. Somehow, I think, this proves there IS a God. And that he is really, REALLY funny.

Water jihad

Apparently there is a Persian living on my street who has declared a jihad against a very crazy old woman.

Friday morning, I was packing my car to go to Moab. Tent and sleeping bag in the trunk, bike on the roof, gun under the seat. NBD. As I am about to close the trunk, a woman comes shuffling towards me up the street. She is wearing a faded bathrobe, slippers, and looks moments away from dropping dead in the middle of the asphalt. Her hair was stringy, with a multitude of baby blue and pink plastic-foam curlers dangling at various lengths around her skull. A lost cause for sure.

She approached me and said, "Do you live here?" She was pointing at the house next door to mine.
"No. Not here. But I live there," pointing to the cat lady's house. Which is also my house.
"My house got broke into last night. I can't even call the cops cuz they will lock me up in a crazy house."
"Okay."
"You know what, it's that damn per-zee-an, he's the ringleader you know." Apparently, there is a man with a dark complexion, whom she has determined is a Persian. She, being an obvious imbecile/redneck, pronounces it 'per-zee-an,' with a rather healthy twang at 'an' part. Typically attached to an expletive.
"I just needa find someone to come look, so I got proof. They're comin in through the ceiling and stealing my water. I know they was, their door was open all night."

At this point she was doing a lot of pointing, and was also talking rather loudly, which had me worried that if this so-called per-zee-an did indeed exist, and was in fact sneaking in through the ceiling, stealing this (maybe not crazy) old woman's water, I certainly didn't want to be seen associating with her, thus possibly incurring a jihad through association.

"Maybe you should call the police?"
"I cant! Do you know what the cops'll do to old ladies? They'll lock me up, cuz they think I'm crazy."
"Uh huh." I think throughout, I pretty much had the same look on my face--half squinty eyes, mouth slightly ajar, trying very hard not to laugh/semi nervously looking about.
"I have great water you know, good pipes and all. They just wanna scare me outta here so they can get my good water. I have great flow."
"Wait. Why do they want to get your water? Why don't they have their own water?"
"You don't know about this? Bout whats goin on round here? They got them Hebrews all up in here (pointing at some apartments, apparently infested with 'Hebrews')that damn per-zee-an, stealin my water, bathin them Hebrews!"
I wondered what in the hell that could possibly mean.
"What in the hell does that even mean?"
"They are stealin my goddamned water!"
"I see."
"You better keep an eye on your car, this seems like a nice neighborhood. Well it's not! That damn per-zee-an is the ringleader, they got teasers standin out here all night long, I took down their license plates and everything."
"I think maybe you should probably call the police. I'm going to Moab in 15 minutes. I'm sort of useless as a vigilante at the moment."

At that point, I immediately regretted telling her I was leaving for Moab for the weekend, lest somehow that damn per-zee-an find out, and maybe steal my 12 boxes of soy milk, since my tap water isn't worth a damn, and they are apparently in the business of stealing liquids.

Once she realized that I was useless to her cause, she shuffled back down the road, muttering all the way. Part of me mostly regrets not going into her house to see the "evidence" of the water jihad. However, the other part of me really just wanted to go to Moab. Also, I feel like that may have simply been an elaborate plot on her part to get me in her house in order to murder me. I mean let's be honest, weighed against anything besides Moab, I'd have been in her house in a second. So as far as murder plots go, she had a pretty compelling story.

Sometimes I think I'd be way to easy to lure into a ridiculous situation, resulting in murder.

Not beary brave

I'm going to be consumed by a grizzly bear, and it is all thanks to the fact that Canada hates pistols.

My friend and I are planning a trip to the Canadian Rockies June 3rd-the 12thish. He just got done with medical school, and wants to do something celebratory/adventurous before beginning 4 years of residency slave labor. I want to do something adventurous with the hopes that at some point during the 9 or 10 days, I shall be afforded the opportunity to do something like, way heroic, and save his life. Which will then make him feel on some level indebted to me, which will hopefully make him my future cool trip/maybe-a-really-nice-carbon-frame-mountain-bike-someday-benefactor. Or if he dies tragically young at around 40, I'd like to be the guy upon whom he bequests all of his assets. After all, I did save his life. From drowning in a freezing river. Or a falling tree. Or whatever.

I think the extent of my heroic desires are pretty much curtailed at the point of grizzly bear involvement. I'd probably like, take a bullet in the leg. Or get my hands all sappy and probably pull a muscle lifting a tree off of him. I'd even carry or drag him for miles through the wilderness, in order to save him from a lonely, cold death upon a mountain. But I just don't like the idea of getting chewed up by a grizzly.

Think about it. Getting chewed to death. I can't think of too many worse ways to get killed. I guess if I was captured by a grizzly, and neither the bear spray nor the playing dead thing had worked, I suppose I'd probably try to strategically place myself in a position where chewing would be most effectual in causing a hasty death. I'd make sure to try to get my neck in a very convenient position for biting, with hopes that he would just maybe chew my head off real quick or something, rather than casually gnawing at my thighs for a while. Which is probably what the bear will be naturally drawn to, as they are probably the choicest cuts of meat on my body, due to months of biking and running.

So I was looking at the possibility of carrying a .45 in the Canadian wilderness, so that I didn't have to rely upon bear spray to ward off a bear attack. Bear spray? Get real. Can you imagine a 1500 lb grizzly bear being in any way deterred by pepper spray? "Hmm," thinks the grizzly bear, "185 pounds of easy meat accompanied by an itchy nose and teary eyes, or walking my ass into a freezing river to try to snag a few salmon. DUH."

Apparently, pistols are illegal in Canada. I think that maybe one of the unintended consequences of this, is a healthy bear population, which flourishes upon the tender meats of unarmed foreigners. Anyways, I guess my point is, I'm willing to be a hero in any circumstance which does not involve bears.

I'm sorry Adam, but when it comes to a grizzly, it's every man for himself. Which is probably a terrible philosophy, since he has longer legs.

C-ya, dignity

The thing I love about toilets, is that they only require occasional maintenance. The thing I hate about toilets, is the occasional maintenance that they require is a real pain in the ass. And typically involves the installation or removal of a toilet seat. Which sucks because, I don't care how well you clean it nor how often, it never feels okay to get real intimate with a toilet.

A sober person never feels okay wrapping his or her arms around a toilet, fiddling around with the super long plastic screws. When puking into it, mind clouded in a hazy fog, the last thing an inebriated person probably thinks about is who was pissing there last. The first thing a person thinks about when unscrewing those screws is ALL of the people pissing there last.

My toilet has been slowly breaking over the last few weeks. One of the two arms connecting the seat to the porcelain broke about 2 weeks ago, which made for a pretty wonkey sitting experience. Yesterday, the other arm finally broke, which simply made the whole thing a pretty stellar hazard. I bought a new seat last week, but have yet to install it, due to the aforemntioned intimacy problems.

So I was sitting on the closed toilet seat, clipping my toenails on the floor. My phone was sitting on the shelf behind me. Somewhere in mid clip on my toe which neighbors the big guy on my left foot, my phone buzzed, indicating a text message. So I twisted my body around to reach for the phone, forgetting that the toilet seat was merely perched on the rim, attached to nothing. Which caused the toilet seat to obviously gyrate in the same direction. Which then not so obviously caused one end to dip slightly into the bowl, sort of dumping my ass into the toilet, at which point I threw one hand down onto the toilet rim, and the other wildly flailed sort of behind me and to the right, attempting to grab something, but instead just slammed into the rack, knocking deodorant sticks, contact lenses, and bottles of lotion all over the floor. At this point, having grabbed nothing with right arm and being somewhat off balance, the toilet seat slid off the rim, both of us landing on the floor, and my hand which was formerly on the rim of the toilet, instead just ended up in the toilet.

I then spent a few incredulous moments, sitting on the floor amidst a host of personal hygiene products and toenail clippings, wondering just where the hell my dignity went, and why it went there in such a flamboyant fashion.

I guess it's time to fix the toilet seat.

Change or keep?

Is my back ground (blog, not life) distracting?

Part of me wants to change it, part of me doesn't.

What do you think?

If you have an opinion, make it known. On Wednesday, I'll go with the consensus.

Bomb fail

Thank God for people who want to blow up a lot of other people, yet happen to suck at making bombs.

One of my friends was visiting Times Square when the bomb fail occurred yesterday. She told me about this, as I was writing an article titled "The Key to a Healthy Lawn is in the Length." She was in the midst of a failed terrorist plot, and I was writing about the proliferation of soil microbes via letting the grass grow long, and why mulching is better than bagging.

Which obviously led me down the thought path to, "How come I don't ever get to be part of a failed terrorist plot?" (Insert a very whiny voice, like a kid whose older brother wont let him have a turn at Nintendo saying, "How come I don't ever get a turn? You don't even ever give me even one turn".) I just wanna turn.

This would be my ideal terrorist encounter. I'm standing in like, the DMV or something. Suddenly a guy bursts through the front doors with a bomb strapped to his chest, throws his hands in the air, and screams, "Allahu Akbar!" And then it gets real silent. He's standing there, eyes pinched, breathing heavily. He then slowly opens his eyes, and looks down at his chest, a look of real bewilderment on his face. And then some 7 year old kid walks over and punches him in the crotch.

You know your job is boring when you start day dreaming about Islamic terrorists in failed bomb vests getting punched in the crotch by kids.