Poor life decisions

Yesterday, In a moment of boredom and frustration, I penned "I hate Mathis," across my chest. I immediately regretted this decision, as I realized that I don't hate Mathis even a little bit. As I was thinking about this in the shower today, I decided that that is probably how I would feel were I ever to acquire a tattoo. At one point in my life, I thought those Nor Cal nautical stars on my forearms would be pretty bitchin.' I realize now, as a wise and mature adult that I was completely wrong. One morning I would have awakened, glanced down at my forearms and thought, "Well there are 2 prominent poor life decisions." I think that any rational human being probably has similar thoughts about their tatticular choice at some point in their life.

I don't even regret making up the word "tatticular" just then.

You know how sometimes you see ridiculous old people with lots of disgusting arm/neck tats who are still dressing like someone in their 20's and it sort of makes you feel uncomfortable/sad for them? You think, "Lady, you are 57 years old. It is probably time to loose the Metallica tee, nose ring, and the mohawk." Here is what I wonder; do some people continue on a certain path of rebelliousness and ridiculousness in order to validate their tattoos? I mean, at the point when most people make the adult clothing shift from trendy to stretchy, do these people miss that boat because their tattoos dictate to them on some mental level that they must continue dressing in a way that matches said tattoos? I don't know which is more absurd--an old grandma in a cardigan with neck tats, or the punk-rock'n-roll grandma with the mohawk.

One thing is for sure--I will never tattoo "I hate Mathis" on my chest. Never ever.

Donny osmond and I have the same phone

Don't worry about it.

My bike took a proverbial dump on my chest yesterday, almost sending me into apoplexy. It was almost the worst day of my life. Or possibly almost the worst day within a period of 3 or 4 days.

I pedaled my little heart out going up the hill from Provo to Orem. I've been in a rather Olympic mood of late. So I charged it. Upon sweatily reaching the crest of the hill, my bike would no longer shift into higher gears (meaning it was ridiculously easy to pedal.) I traveled to the nearest bike shop, where my friend Chad happened to be working. I told him what happened. He looked at my bike and said, "Sweet bike. Hey. Donny Osmond."

There he was, the iconic Mormon legend himself. He was so beautiful.

So turns out the sorta cracked out drunk who sold me my bike had installed an incorrect dérailleur and so something got stripped that shouldn't have been stripped. So worst case scenario, I was looking at having to convert it to a single speed or fixed gear, on top of basking in the holy light of Donny Osmond for about 20 minutes. Best case scenario, a new dérailleur might work, and again, soaking in the effervescent glory of Donny Osmond. So a win/win situation really.

In the end, Chad installed a new dérailleur for me, thus saving me from the cruel fate of a single speed commuter bike. Aaaaannd I got to observe his Mormon majesty, Mr. Donald Clark Osmond, out amongst the common riffraff, pretending to be a real person.

Why doesn't he have an i phone?

Give my room a condom

So ever since I shattered my window with my considerable strength (not really) my room has become, "attack of the creatures." While sitting here working (on my bed, because I work from my bed ((I'm a freaking sloth))) I have been attacked/crawled upon by no less than 3 distinct creatures. I can't take this. My room is relatively clean, so slobbery isn't the issue. Also, I never eat in here, with exception of an occasional can of low sodium V8.

What's the point? Why keep drinking "heart healthy" V8 if small bugs are just going to crawl through my ear canals while I sleep and burrow their way down into my chestal cavity and nest in my heart? I bet the sodium would have created a protective salt layer around my coronary region, thus rendering it impossible for the bugs to penetrate my palpitating blood engine. But now I'm screwed, all in the name of healthy heart valves.

But really. What do I do about these bugs? I doubt there is much to make one feel like his life has descended into a low level of squalor than when one is attacked by bugs in bed. I have no window, nor a screen on my window. Creatures have an all access pass to my lair. I am reminded of the AIDS video that we had to watch every year in Elementary school. There was this house with a white picket fence guarded by white suited men (white blood cells) which would turn away all of the evil colored creatures (diseases.) But, suddenly AIDS sneaks in because of premarital sex! Because whenever you have premarital sex, you will get AIDS. So I believed until I was about 15. Anyways, suddenly the gate keepers were transformed into evil red ones. "Come on in, Mr. Cancer. Sure thing Mr. Pneumonia, get in here." And so a flood of multi-colored scary creatures overtook the house. And that, kids, is why you only have sex when you're married.

How very appropriate that, as I was writing that last paragraph, an ant crawled on my shoulder.

I totally grew up thinking that one contracted AIDS arbitrarily through sexual intercourse, and that it was impossibly to become infected after one was married. In other words, I thought that AIDS was a consequence of premarital sex, instead of having sex with an infected person. As much as people may laugh at that thought, it actually holds a lot of truth. If people didn't have premarital sex, nobody would get AIDS. (ok, ok, I realize I am leaving out needles, but the principle still applies.) It is pretty absurd that one of the greatest scourges of our time is completely and 100% preventable.

Keep your treasures in you pants, avoid the AIDS dance. Until you are married, of course. Then you are immune.

Man this post took a random turn.

Crimes against nature

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and it's the middle of June. Then I put on a sweater and a warm cap, followed by thinking out loud, "What the hell. It's June."

I hope global warming drop kicks mother nature in the chest today.

Yearning for denim

So me and T (T and I, how embarrassing) were sitting outside Sub Zero Witchcraft having a conversation. I got to thinking. People around the nation are all appalled by the FLDS polygamous sect in Texas. Everyone is making a big deal about a group of people who are just seeking a little multi-spousal affection. I can understand the appeal. I mean, the ability to bring not one, but 6 or 7 goo-covered children screaming into the world in one 9 month period would sell anyone on the idea, if they really sat down and thought about it logically. At that rate, one might create a veritable army in a matter of years.

An army of Zion.

But that isn't the point. I think people are really overlooking the main draw to join a polygamous sect. The real reason to trample all over the law and give normal society the middle finger (or several) is for the denim EVERYTHING that one is privileged to wear upon joining said lifestyle. Do you remember when you were young and your mother dressed you up in a sharp denim shirt and sent you skipping off to school, only to suffer untold shame and humiliation at the hands of the kids with No Fear and Mossimo shirts?

But secretly you liked that denim eyesore.

Well, now is your chance. With many a man likely to end up in jail, the Yearning For Zion compound will probably be doing some recruiting. And submissive, weak willed women are always welcome, several denim pieces tidily awaiting them in a newly fashioned pine wardrobe.

Have you ever been running through the sage brush spooked by a rattle snake, tripped, and scraped half the skin off your chest because your lousy cotton-polyester blend wasn't adequate protection against those sharp desert rocks and pebbles?

Denim.

First, you would not have been running at all, because the snake fangs likely wouldn't be able to penetrate your denim body shield. And what snake would disrespect a man in a denim vest?

Zero snakes.

I guess all I am trying to say media, is dig a little deeper. I don't think polygamy has much to do with sex, the apocalypse, or the great hairstyles. It is all about man's (and woman's) innate yearning for all things denim.
Bless their hearts.

Gracias por los chestal vibrations

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

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

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

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

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

Going along with my former Nickelback question...

Scenario

So due to the somewhat inconsistent and serious nature of my last blog, I decided that I should post something extra ridiculous to try and balance it out. So here it is. Extra ridiculous. However, it is something that has been on my mind of late. And I think it semi-appropriate due to a previous post. I have probably, in fact asked this very question (or one similar to it) to many of you in person. I am weird. This proves it.

Question. This is an either or. There are no modifications. Either once a week (at a random time) Nickelback bursts out of your chest, sets up their gear and plays a 90 min set. They play "Rockstar" at least 3 times. You are not allowed to in any way inhibit your ability to absolutely enjoy this experience i.e. no ear plugs, no narcotics. If you stab out your ear drums, they instantly regenerate. After the set, they climb back into your chest, and sew themselves back in. You can not turn this into a lucrative venture. On the bright side, once a year the lead singer of Creed also climbs out of your chest for a cameo appearance. A 60 min loop of "Higher" ensues, followed by a 30 medley/duet of "Higher" and "Rockstar," the ultimate hybrid song.

or

Every 24 hours you give birth to a litter of baby snakes. No epidural. You are not allowed to give them away or kill them. If people come asking for the snakes, they are allowed to take up to 27% of the litter. You may not advertise. Otherwise, you lead a completely normal existence.

Please answer the question. This is important. Probably to a lot of people. I suppose my great curiosity in all of this is, could there be anything worse than a weekly personal concert by nickelback, alien-esque chest bursting aside?

Also, I promise this is not the beginning of this blog's digression.

Friday Five: Top five things that I don't want to ever happen to me involving snow

#5. Getting pegged in the eye with a snowball by a cool kid in front of friends while wearing the gold rimmed glasses as seen in "Bonerville broncos never give up." OK, well that actually happened. Seventh grade. One of the cool kid a-holes was the culprit. He smoked weed. That's why he was cool. I am sauntering down the sidewalk minding my own business, butt-crack-parted nearly-platinum blonde hair stirring in the gentle breeze. Suddenly from out of nowhere ....wham! All I could see was red. Glasses went flying to the ground. As any true friends in Jr. high would do, they only laughed until I said "gosh guys, this isn't funny...stings." Mostly they just felt real awkward as uncontrolled tears streamed from the assaulted eye. They were mostly involuntary...
What a jerk. He could have blinded my already half-worthless eye.

#4. Frostbite on Mt. Everest. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I feel like I am one who enjoys a great deal of adventure. Freezing until my digits turn black and fall off, however, is not appealing to me in the least bit. Climbing a mountain will never be worth a life of nubs.

#3. Falling into a tree well. Oprah taught me that this is a real sucky way to die. Apparently when one falls into a tree well (real loose powder surrounding a tree, several feet deep) one's first act is generally a sharp inhalation. As the ice crystals blast their way down the throat and into the lungs, the gag reflex is triggered, which causes one to then vomit, followed by drowning in one's own vomit. Why not simply not climb out? Because the snowboard acts as an anchor and it is nearly impossible to turn over unless one can somehow escape their bindings. Which is hard. So you die.

#2. Dragging a rickety hand cart through the mountains in 4 feet of snow with inadequate winter clothing, topped off with starvation and eventually eating my friends. R.I.P. Donnor party.

#1. Getting man-raped in the snow. First of all, getting raped by a man probably tops my list of least desirable occurrences even in the best of conditions. But in the snow, I feel like the horror of the situation is severely amplified. Frozen chest, face scraping on the crusty snow...I'll leave it at that.