The blackest of fridays

The existence of Black Friday and genocide convinces me of one of three things:  

either a) there is no god

b) god doesn't like anyone very much

or c) god is as bipolar and wrathful as evangelicals think he is

I must say, I hope for option c the least.  

As part of my "take back my life from crippling high interest debt" plan, I have been moonlighting as a Best Buy home theater "specialist."  I've always been cognizant of the horrors of Black Friday, in the same sense that I've been, via the media, aware of the hideousness of genocide.  Youtube videos of humans devolved into something worse than feral, pathetic animals, clawing and scraping and herding for some piece of shit something made in China, have always caused my stomach to writhe with loathing and disgust.  And I say worse than animals, because I've never known animals to trample other animals to death over some unnecessary frivolity.  And last time I checked, we are capable of moral cognition.  

Animals: 1  humans: 0

On Thursday night, I was finally able to experience first hand the moral genocide that is Black Friday.  

Thanks to glorious, holy consumerism, Black Friday has been slowly encroaching upon Thanksgiving. Which is the absolute epitome of contradictions.  And is probably testament to the devolution of Thanksgiving in and of itself, into a holiday which revolves around gluttony and football, rather than any sort of thanks giving.

So, I found myself at Best Buy, around 10:50 pm, having risen from a hasty nap, heart more full of dread than I recall ever experiencing in relation to a job.  As I walked quickly past the seething multitude of greedy humanity, I had this mantra on a loop in my head: "Don't get fired.  Don't get fired. Don't get fired.  It's just 12 hours.  Don't get fired.  Don't get fired.  Don't get fired....."

Upon arrival, I discovered that it was my duty to go out and hawk a 55" Samsung TV on sale for $799, to people waiting in the line.  Which is apparently what we were doing with most of our major door busters.  As I began wading amongst the throng, I discovered that the majority of people only really had interest in 1 thing; a 40" Toshiba on sale for like, $180, down from 5 or 600.  

Obviously, we only had like 23 of these, as they are merely a trap to lure thousands of idiots into the store, where they will proceed to give Besty like, a million dollars in a 24 hour period.

So as I'm freezing my ass off, grumpy as...a decent human being, torn away early from Thanksgiving with family, having to* freeze his ass off to help a bunch of greedy shittheads satiate their need to increase credit card debt, person after person is inquiring about this Toshiba.  And I continue to tell, person after person, that I don't know shit about it.

All along the line, people are literally about to come to blows over people cutting ahead.  Some woman grabs my arm, and angrily asks if I have the Toshiba.  In as oily a manner as I can manage, I say, "I sure don't.  It sold out.  SORRY."  And this woman proceeds to tell me how this is bullshit, and she has been waiting in line since 6 pm, and that next year, we need to have people out here by 4, making sure nobody cuts in line, because all of West Valley had cut in front of her.

Pardon the vulgarity, but this is where I was mentally, in that moment.

And I marveled, that this woman had the audacity to tell me that I should tell one of my superiors that several peoples' Thanksgivings needed to be cut short next year, so this manatee of a woman could get her grubby flippers on a discounted TV.  

And that was the theme and feel of the night; a store full of entitled shoppers, perplexed and choleric when they didn't get the exact deals they deserved.  I didn't get physically trampled by the stampede of human animals who burst through the doors like people fleeing machete wielding Hutus.  But my soul felt trampled.  

I like buying things.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't.  But I will never fight other humans for things.  I will never line up for hours in the cold on a holiday, for things.  I will never turn into a raging, angry lunatic over things.  I definitely lost some faith in humanity.

*I realize that "having to" is debatable, as I choose to do this job to get out of debt.  However, there are a lot of people that "have to" do this very thing, in order to survive.

Happy tears

I think it fair to say that most Americans, during this past election, were mainly concerned with economic issues.  I had democratic leaning friends who said they were voting for Romney based solely upon his economic qualifications.  Other people were planning on voting Obams because they felt like corporations as people/a tax code that favors the wealthy isn't a system that will do much good for average Americans.

Ultimately, my reasons for voting came down to social issues.  Eventually, I think, regardless of who is in office, the economy will right itself.  Now, depending upon who you are, "righting itself" may signify different things.  And in the end, I don't really care too much about those things.  But here is one poignant example as to why I give way more shits about social issues than about how many dollars are in my wallet at the end of the day.

As I arrived at school on that lovely Wednesday morning, after the [not so shocking] vote, I couldn't help but smile at the fact that finally, after an entire year, KSL's (a local news station) unmitigated raging Romney boner would finally be rendered flaccid.  Surely, the Lord, by this point, had wearied of all of the local prayers and supplications for Romney's triumphant ascendency to the presidency, so I'd imagine maybe he was smiling too.

I exited my vehicle, and took a deep breath, the crisp cool Erda air filling my lungs with the clean scents of a small town.  No smells of burning decay, despite America's proverbial death the night before.  Life would go on.  And as I contemplated this life, going on, I started attempting to formulate a way I could, (as much as possible) in an unbiased way discuss some of the election results with my class.  Because I was definitely pleased with the outcome.  But I suspected that I had at least one Mittens supporter in my first class, and so would have to choose my words carefully.  And that student aside, ethics require that I at least appear to be somewhat unbiased.

Class began, and the girls filed in.  Immediately, a few of them brought up the election.  After a few moments of discussion, it dawned on me that we had ended the previous class talking about the fact that homosexuality had been included in the DSM until the 70's, when it was shockingly discovered that homosexuals were no less mentally healthy than anybody else.  In this moment, I recalled reading that both Maryland and Maine had passed gay marriage initiatives by popular vote.

I said, "the President stayed the same.  The balance of power in congress largely remains unchanged.  But I think the most significant thing that occurred last night, was the fact that Maine and Maryland both legalized gay marriage, by popular vote, for the first time ever."  As I said this, I had my back turned to the class, because I was writing Maine and Maryland on the board.    I heard what sounded like a sob.  I turned around to see my transgendered student with her face buried in her hands, weeping tears of joy.

I said, "Wait...you didn't know yet?"
She said, "No, I hadn't heard if it had passed."

To add a little bit of context, this is a student from whom I had never previously observed any sort of emotional response—PERIOD—about anything.  And knowing that a majority of people, somewhere, even though far away, had collectively shouted "we don't know you, but we love you, we support you, and we do not fear you," was enough to shatter her emotional barriers.

There was almost a palpable feeling of love in the room, a feeling of pride.  A shared instant of enlightenment.  In that moment, we all knew that somewhere, despite the odious storm of political bullshit that we had all weathered over the previous months, America had done something right, something profound, something beautiful.  I spent the rest of the class desperately fighting back the happiest of tears.

This is why social issues mean something to me.

Because I will never see someone weep tears of joy over a tax break.

Because I will never see someone weep tears of joy over cheaper gasoline.

Because i will never see someone weep tears of joy over being able to purchase assault rifles.

Because I will never see someone weep tears of joy over invading one more oil rich country.

Because I will never see someone weep tears of joy over a government surplus.

Because things are just things.  We can all learn to be happy and survive with fewer things.

My President supports love.  My President supports equality in love.  Sorry 1%.  But I care about love, more than I care about your money.

I support my President.

Sorry orphans

I suppose November is as good a time as any to resurrect this blog, as though it were easter. Or a zombie apocalypse. Either of which is just as likely to occur, in any given November. My life has taken many an odd turn over the last couple of months. I sold my death trap, blew through 8 grand, got a roommate almost twice my age, started working at Best Buy, and lost a best friend.

 That probably requires some explanation.

 As summer drew nigh, the reality of crushing, crippling student debt began to stare me in the face, with its soul withering, 7.8% interest rate face. Which is something maybe not to dissimilar from what it would be like to wake up every morning, in the pre dawn glow, with Steven Tyler staring at you, inches away.   Nobody wants that.

 I began to contemplate what it would feel like to grab 9, 50 dollar bills every month, and set them on fire, in front of starving [insert random poor country] children. Or, better yet, the parents of those children. While setting some candy on fire in front of the children. Or if they have no concept of candy, like maybe a favorite rock, or a stick. Ah, I digress. Anyways, as one would suspect, that thought was much less appealing than the one Obama certainly feels when he is firing his money cannon into outer space, just for the hell of it, thus increasing our national debt.

 Anyways.

 I began attempting to formulate a plan, which would render me financially solvent within a year. Which was one hell of a task, with 27k in graduate debt. Since I'm not very good at making methamphetamine, I thought maybe living in a trailer in someone's driveway for a year might be a good idea. Until I thought about it for like 6 or 5 minutes. Where would I empty the septic tank? Would I freeze to death? Would anyone I know allow a homeless human to occupy their driveway for a year? Would I ever manage more than a first date? WWZ[ombie][Wizard]JD?

 Before I had to really contemplate all of the many sad ramifications of living in a trailer, a wonderful, benevolent co-worker offered me a free room. Suddenly, this crazy-assed plan seemed less crazy-assed. All I needed to do then was find another job. And preferably one that wouldn't thrust me to the brink of alcoholism and/or suicide (or possibly suicide by alcohol), with poor tips from ingrate patrons.

 Turns out, having a master's degree was enough to get me hired at Best Buy, and so I was able to begin an exciting, illustrious part time career talking poors into buying enormous TV's they can't afford. Oh, the cognitive dissonance. And the utter paradox of working your ass off to get out of debt by working your ass off to convince others into acquiring frivolous debt.

 So I was living for free, and shooting a bi-weekly money cannon right into outer space. The first couple of $1000 payments sure felt really shitty. All I could think, was that $1000 is a lot of shoes and liquor. But eventually, I made a mental shift into hating the debt more than I hated lighting thousands of dollars worth of candy on fire in front of hideous orphans.

 I'd also been contemplating, for some time, decreasing the likelihood of ending up with a crinkled spine, and a severely diminished mental capacity, by selling my motorcycle. I couldn't help but think, over the last few months, that ending up as a wheeler with a damaged brain would put a severe damper on my life's goals. And, loading that money cannon with three and a half thousand dollars would sure feel great to launch into the dark abyss. So I sold it.

 And now, 2.5 months have passed, and I've managed to burn about 8000 candy bars in front of weeping orphans. And so, largely, life is pretty okay. I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to be in this position. I'm busier than I've ever been, I think. But I feel like I'm making real progress, and putting my life in a position where, in the not too distant future, the adventures and possibilities will be as endless as some metaphor that has a bunch of seemingly endless possibilities.

Today, i'm ashamed to be a utahan

This week, our beloved Utah State legislature has taken an enormous step towards state mandated head-sand-burial, by passing an archaic law that would forbid public schools from addressing sexual education from any angle other than from DON'T EVER DO IT EVER UNLESS YOU'RE MARRIED. Oh, and also mentioning in a class that homosexuality is a thing that some people do, would also lead to a burning death at a stake, surrounded by fiery torch wielding moral-champions from capitol hill.

I understand that, because most members of our state congress are part of a particular religion, that sometimes we are going to get laws that feel very theocratic. But really? This? THIS ONE?

Obstructive, obnoxious laws that make acquiring alcohol either more difficult, or more expensive for those responsible adults who wish to partake of said wicked, vile liquid, are one thing. That is a mere annoyance. Legislating policy that has vast, destructive, life-altering consequences for teens, and the state as a whole, is something on a totally different plane. A really, really embarrassing, unbelievably sad, how-in-God's-name-are-we-having-this-debate-in-2012 kind of plane.

Let me clarify something really important: there is nothing wrong with emphasizing teen abstinence as the best, surest, safest route to avoiding unwanted pregnancies and STD's. HOWEVER—and this is a really big, really important however—some kids are going to have sex anyways. They need to be informed that, should the unthinkable happen, and on prom night, little Bobby forgets that he has to pass the sacrament the next day, and Sarah forgets that she has to give the prayer in sacrament meeting, that MAYBE—just maybe—one of them will remember that "the girl on top can't get pregnant, because gravity saves the day" rumor was debunked in sex ed class. And maybe they will resort to dry humping (Levi-sex, zipper sparking, DFing, whatever the kids are calling it these days), as opposed to the real thing. Which everyone—the state tax payers, the Bishop, the parents, Bobby and Sarah, and all of the potential, unrealized Bobbys blown all over the inside of his pants—can be grateful for.

Rejecting abstinence-only education does NOT mean you support teenagers having all of the sex. It just means you care about the ones whose parents are too stupid or too afraid to explain that if a penis accidentally falls into a vagina, a baby/STD might get in there.

I understand that a lot of people worry about "some teachers injecting their morality into the lessons," and whatever. But how that is somehow worse than the entire STATE forcing a moral blanket to be wrapped around EVERYONE, is beyond my comprehension. I get it—some people don't want their kids learning about sex from a teacher. TOTALLY COOL. YOU CAN OPT OUT. But to bar sexual education from everyone, because some think that an "if we don't talk about it, it will all go away/wont exist" policy is best.

So...should we stop teaching about the effects of drugs in school? Oh no! If a kid hears about the existence of a particular drug, then he or she will DEFINITELY be more interested in using it! We better just pretend they don't exist, and if a student asks about them, say "Sorry. Just don't do them. That's all you need to know."

This bill WILL cause teen pregnancies to escalate. This will WILL foster the spread of STD's.

Let parents and churches teach teens what is moral and what isn't, involving sexuality. But let the schools educate teens about how all that stuff works, so just in case those kids end up accidentally following their natural urges, and have some brief moral lapses, they at least might not create babies, and spread around some really cool diseases.

I teach 15 year olds with children. Children, who have children. Contrary to what common sense dictates, being a teen parent doesn't really help them succeed in life. Many of these kids fall through the moral cracks, as well as the educational. PLEASE—let's not make the educational crack into a gaping pit, welcoming any and all who aren't lucky enough to have parents who give a shit.

Give Herbie a call, or shoot him an email, and let's help him make the responsible choice to veto this bill.
801-538-1000 or 800-705-2464,
www.utah.gov/governor/contact

That obama again!

If one were to listen to the likes of Sean Hannity, and other pundits, one would expect to see a photo on the evening news of Barak Houssein Obama, standing on the prow of a boat, angrily driving a gleaming harpoon into into the eye of a religious whale, à la Captain Ahab. Maybe that religious whale could be Newt Gengrich. I don't know. But whatever the image conjured, listening to the rhetoric, it was hard not to grab my bible and my gun, and seek out the nearest anti-government militia.

What Hannity et al were sensationalizing, and referring to as "Obama's latest assault on religion," was the Department of Health and Human services requiring most insurance plans to cover contraception. What they typically fail to mention, is that churches and places of worship are exempt. So don't worry Catholics; Obama isn't going to kick down the doors of your local cathedral, and force you by chest-bomb-and-turban-point to give any people you may employ, insurance provided spermacides or cervical sponges. You can continue on with your archaic notion that every sex act should result in a pregnancy.

What the religious right wants, in addition to church exemption (which singularly is totally their prerogative) is employer exemption. In other words, if I am a Catholic employer (or any other religion) and I think providing contraception (which, surprise, surprise, isn't exclusively used for preventing pregnancy, but also myriad other health uses) is wrong, I can dictate, on some level, my employees' access to such. This is no different than, say, a Jehovah's witness refusing to provide employees with an insurance plan that could cover a blood transfusion. Or an orthodox Jew refusing to use an insurance provider that will cover medical emergencies on Saturdays.

It just seems to me, that as an employer, you shouldn't get to force your moral values upon your employees. If you hate contraception—more power (and babies) to you. But why does this have to be considered an assault on religion? Why is EVERYTHING with the religious right an assault on SOMETHING? Gay marriage is an assault on marriage. This is an assault on Religion. Planned Parenthood is an assault on every baby who wanted to live, ever. The Obama presidency is an assault on the constitution. I just fail to see how giving someone the right to choose, is anti-religion.

Yes, people can still choose contraception without it being covered by insurance. But that is assuming they can afford it. I get the fact that, on some level, by you providing the insurance, you are sort of partially paying for it. But, simply by virtue of paying taxes, we pay for a lot of things we don't agree with. And you are also, by providing a paycheck, probably funding lots of things your employees do, with which you don't agree.

Providing insurance is part of a payment package. What the employee decides to do with that payment, should be up to the employee. Just like a paycheck.

Man, I didn't even get to Richard Santorum, stewardship, and the global warming hoax.

Hey guys. i'm still here.

Looks like I'm returning from my hiatus with one of the stupidest topics about which I've ever blogged.

Every time I buy a product that has some sort of a price tag on it, and upon peeling it off, I find that said shitty tag has left white sticky crap on the item, I can't help but be angry that some company, somewhere, is still making tags like that. And that whatever company from whom I purchased whatever thing, is using these asininely developed tags.

The thing I find most frustrating, is that there exist tags that don't even do that thing. The technology for a non-stick residue tag exists, but many companies choose the ones that take up to an assload of seconds to scrape off. Common IKEA, I didn't spend .49 cents on this plate to have to spend more cumulative seconds than the pennies that plate costs to scratch at a sticky spot like I don't live in the United States of America. It just seems like capitalism would have rendered hard to remove, overly viscous sticker producing companies obsolete. Slay those companies with the mighty sword of the free market, o' ye capitalism!

That compelling piece of blog fodder out of the way, I suppose an explanation of my absence is in order. Because I'm sure that all 120-something of you have been checking this blog every single day over the last however many months, wondering why I ceased to enrapture you with such thought provoking material. The truth is, I just sort of forgot I had a blog for a while.

I found that between working as a new teacher, and finishing grad school, doing anything on the interweb besides researching shit and ruining America by stealing music was less than appealing. Also, most of the times when I have had the itch to write something, it has concerned the abominable cesspool of a Republican primary process that has been occurring.

And it seems like those who read this (or who did) would probably tire pretty quickly of my Newt-Gengrich-is-a-fatuous-puerile-narcisistic-out-of-his-damned-mind-crooked-sonofabitch rants. Or maybe how Andrew Jackson was probably also referring to Native Americans when he said, "What do Americans do with our enemies? We kill them." Take that, women and children. Good one, Newt, you slimy tub of lard.

Or maybe how much I hope Richard Santorum will have the opportunity to eradicate the abomination that is contraception, that the earth may literally flood with all the babies that should have been conceived since people figured out how to have something other than just business sex. Or how much I hope that he can stop all the homosexuals from destroying marriage with their pledges of fidelity. Or how much better off we will be keeping those same homos from sullying uniforms and bullets with their infectious gay blood.

Or maybe how the one sane, rational, reasonable Republican candidate just dropped out and endorsed Romney. Or maybe about how I've never know a Rick that wasn't a douche.

Anyways, THAT'S WHY.

xoxo

3 cheers for death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adults only

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

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

I knew I shouldn't have gone that route.

The imprudence of postponing the removal of a cyst

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how I waxed cowardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah. I guess I do."

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

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

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

Sad shins

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

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

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

I want to be where comrades are

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My final post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







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

Fighter jet wake boarding and swimming with babies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AWESOME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

¡Cinco de mayo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

61 questions marks, in case you were curious.




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

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

The morning after the morning after the night i found out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think we are better than that.


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

No more eating on the moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyways.

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

Serving.

Obama save me.

You're welcome

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

It's like, several-zero.

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

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

Anyways.

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

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

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

TSA sanctioned molestation

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

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

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

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

I got molested at the airport because of this.

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

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

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

At which point, I got super annoyed.

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

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

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

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

Getting jimmered way hard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pervs and bitter regrets

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, the bitter, burning regret.

Throwing in the towel

My life is about to get very complicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death by wolves or death by creed. coin flip.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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