No dignity part V

Really? I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to come across this as I was in Vegas, since there are so many insta-chapels in that town. I guess I just can't fathom why a person would want to be married in Vegas. It's like sort of putting a hex on the whole thing from the start. I mean, Vegas is the absolute symbol of say anything/do anything/no consequences/no parents/no fidelity/getting married here is a joke. I mean, the idea that a Vegas marriage is going to be long term and meaningful is somewhat laughable. I realize there are exceptions to the rule but...

Come on. Do you really want your wedding photos in front of the uber cliche welcome to Vegas sign? I mean, the girl has a dress, which means they thought about this decision for at least five minutes. Perhaps they should have devoted twenty...

No dignity.

Sniffings

Over the last week or so, I have been busy being other places. I'm going to have to say that snoogling/wrestling/jumping on the air mattress/story book time/giant Costco churro consumption/early morning yelling/arbitrary screaming with little cousin Dylan was my favorite part of the trip. I want a 1.5 year old.

I also really appreciated, while walking through China town, observing several Chinese folk digging their hands into sundry forms of dried sea product (mussels, fishlings, shrimp, etc.) and then shoving their noses into whatever they dug up. Early in the stroll, I passed a fruit stand with the most humongous, delicious looking red grapes I have ever seen. However, after observing the way that the Chinese shamelessly, with no regard for communicable disease, pick up everything with their hands and then shove their noses into it, I was glad I passed. Who knows what they were doing with the grapes. I simply can't fathom how one would desire to place one's nose any closer to those dried fish products than absolutely necessary. I'm a rather tall fellow, and 3-4 feet of nostril to fish product distance just wasn't cutting it. I don't know how China town hasn't been quarantined for a massive hepatitis out break.

Speaking of Asians, yesterday in church a really funny thing happened. There were some new Japanese students in the ward. There was a girl who was sitting about three rows in front of me. As church began, she whipped out her camcorder and started filming. I love being witness to the validation of stereotypes. Especially in church.

A few pictures for my parent's sake.

Superficial discoveries

I'm sitting in San Francisco, waiting for Adam to get out of the bloody shower. I think my greatest discovery of the trip concerns the womenfolk of this town. Whereas New York has a seemingly disproportionate number of ridiculously gorgeous women as compared to every other place I have been, San Francisco seems to run the opposite direction. I am not saying that there are disproportionate levels of ridiculously ugly women here, only that the attractive female to unattractive female ratio seems to tip heavily towards the latter end.

I realize that attraction is relative, but I am speaking in a rather general, superficial sense. I walked/cycled all over that city yesterday, and only turned my head about 3 times. Not that I was on the prowl for attractive women, mind you. I am simply surprised that San Fran isn't teeming with head turners like New York. I though all cool cities were supposed to be that way. Like on TV. Perhaps the men fall into a similar ratio here; I am not certain. I tend to only check out men when they are with beautiful women, in order to superficially judge whether or not they are attractive enough to be with said beautiful women.

I guess my point is, I should really move here in order to remove a great deal of temptation in my life.

Window scraping in the future

One of my favorite things about my dad, is the fact that he always has the most ridiculous, state of the art, vehicular ice removal devices.

When I started my car this morning, I was dismayed upon realizing that Colin had borrowed and not returned my window scraper before I headed down to Nephi. How ever was I to remove the 5 inches of snow and ice encrusting my car? My father had just left in his truck, taking his scraper with him.

Then I remembered I was at my father's house, and there were bound to be multiple ice scraper options at my disposal. I returned to the garage, and immediately spotted the most amazing window scraper I had ever seen. I thought a few years back when he purchased several 3ft long, heavy duty scrapers, with a comfy hand grip, extra thick bristles, and a perfectly angled scraping head, that ice removal technology had pretty much peaked.

Lordy was I wrong.

Never could my mind have fathomed the need for a steel coil shock supporting the scraper head. Not so rough on the wrists, that way. A small button extension release allowed for an impressive maximum reach of 52 inches. So whether driving a Neon, or a jumbo truck, one is absolutely set for length.

Not one, but two thick, molded hand foam grips were wrapped around either end, allowing for maximum comfort and utility. If you were thinking at this point that there couldn't possibly be anything more to add to an already seemingly perfect snow removal device, you were sorely mistaken.

On the same end as the snow brush, lies a superbly crafted mini shovel/scraper hybrid. Its slightly concave shape allows for a perfect ice/snow scrape and toss combo move. I can see why my father bought at least two of them.

I had a weird desire to walk down the street, and scrape every car I could find, because with the Ultimate Maximum to the Max Ice Ass Kicker 2040, ice removal is fun. In fact, using this new scraper technology as a model, I think Nintendo Wii's next game should be a window scraping game. You know, for all of those people who never have the opportunity to scrape ice off of a car.

Unidentified creatures

I am really just wondering what sort of sub-human creature from the abysmal pit of the netherworld goes out to eat on Christmas eve, and leaves a sub 15% tip. I mean really.

Whatever phylum these particularly wretched creatures happen to fall under, they sure flocked to Carrabbas' last night. Perhaps a winged genus, hence the flocking. One that also has natural protection from the snow. Perhaps a thick layer of blubber. Or just cold blood. And a very very cold heart.

Okay, so whatever. People want to eat out on Christmas eve and I'm mostly okay with that. But for goodness sakes people. Your little familial gorging indulgence is causing me, and many a server/restaurant worker across the nation to get home to our families late. Which, again, I am mostly okay with, because I have to pay the bills somehow. However, when you come in and leave a sub par tip and CHRISTMAS is the next morning...Well, I pose this question; Does such a person really have a soul? How can a person feel good about keeping, albeit a total stranger away from their family on Christmas eve, and not be generous?

This is the first Christmas eve I have ever worked, and I will just say that I was astounded. I really had hoped that humanity would step up. Luckily, I was in the bar and so most of my cash intake wasn't entirely dependent upon the writhing mass of inconsiderate, slimy mystery creatures, which I'll just go ahead and call cheap bastards. I believe actually the Latin name would be Cheeapus Bastardus.

One other thing. If you come in to eat, don't express to me how very deeply sorry you are that I am having to work Christmas eve. Because if you really were sorry, you wouldn't be patronizing my place of employment on Christmas eve. You aren't sorry. You just feel like a terrible person for keeping me from my family, and are thus trying to placate your sense of guilt by apologizing for being the cause.

Even though you are the cause, as I said, I am mostly okay with it. Just don't say you're sorry (because you aren't) and leave a generous tip (because you should.) Very simple. I don't know how many times I heard people apologizing for us having to work last night, and how many servers I heard complaining about poor tipping.

So, cheap bastards of the world; if you must continue to be terrible tippers, at least crawl out of your embarrassing stingy holes for one night during the year. Just add like, 3 or 4 dollars to your normally pitiful sum, and your server will at least feel like you are a semi decent person and that you truly did appreciate his/her service on the eve of the pretend birth of our Lord.

Merry Christmas friends.

Vegas no parents 2008 cheese factory christmas adventure miracle featuring robert jordan's lord of chaos (no dignity part IV)

Sometimes I drive all the way to Vegas to watch a friend scalp some lousy BYU tickets, eat at a Carrabbas affiliate, purchase 1 pair of jeans and 1 pair of corduroys, gorge myself at a wretched $11.5 dollar buffet, watch 4 episodes of arrested development, eat Christmas tree shaped biscuits, play Clue with a 4 and a 7 year old, eat free economy salsa curd at the Beaver cheese factory, eat a cinnamon roll, a pint of highly fattening vitamin D milk, 2 scoops of Dryers ice cream, and an In-N-out double double all in a 5 hour period, and think, "Well that was a waste of a day and a half/a series of poor life decisions."

But then I recall the euphoria swelling within my breast as I felt the waves of sound bursting forth from David Hasselhoff's most blessed vocal chords wash over me in an orgy of musical majesty. I've never heard a more beautiful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

When Patrick told me that he had tickets to the Vegas Bowl and wanted to go down I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go." However, once I found out that David Hasselhoff would be rendering the crowd speechless with the national anthem, I was suddenly very interested in that wretched, mindless, waste of a Saturday night.

Somehow, David Hasselhoff slipped free of my mind over the ensuing tip grubbing, ass kissing hours at Carrabbas. When Saturday morning arrived, and Patrick informed me that he would be scalping the tickets I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go."

I can't go through southern Utah without stopping at the Beaver cheese factory. Or perhaps I should say, the cheese factory located in Beaver. I suppose one could make cheese from a beaver. Anything that could be milked, really. And everything that produces milk for an infant can be milked? (Question mark inserted because I am not positive as to the truth of that statement.) And milk can always be made into cheese. So I guess a beaver cheese factory isn't really all that preposterous a notion.

I love salsa curd. I approached the sample table just in time to see Scott shove his filthy hand right into the curd pot. "Getta toothpick you dirt bag." Moments later, as I was reinserting my toothpick into the curd bucket, I was similarly called a dirt bag by the aforementioned dirt bag. I maintain that it was less a filthy gesture than the initial fingering of the curd.

After conversing with an apparent elderly BYU fan while I pissed (weird) we were ready to head south again. I guess he was wondering what brought a man with purple slacks and a P coat to the Beaver cheese factory. "Scalping, sir." I zipped up and left.

After the fourth black man at the stadium offered to purchase Patrick's $50 tickets for 10 bucks, I began to feel like selling them was a waste of our life. Also, like a scum bag.

Scalping. No dignity.

It was somewhere between hearing the frat douche Arizona fans cheering in the form of the F word cleverly mixed in with their school letters, and witnessing a possible drug deal from a Winnebago, that it hit me like a ton of flaming bricks; I was going to miss Hasselhoff. I suddenly, for the first time in my life, wished I was a organized sport fan and had fought Patrick's supreme executive authority to scalp those tickets.

As I was standing outside the stadium gates, amidst the scalping scum of Vegas, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the announcement of Hasselhoff's pending musical number. I realized that although I would miss being able to actually bathe in his vibrant glow, to bask in his vivacious essence, I would still be able to hear him take Vegas' collective breath away.

It was absolutely beautiful, and EVERYTHING I had imagined. So powerful, so raw. I saw tears streaming forth unabated from the scalping dregs of the Vegas underbelly.

After the emotion wore off, I remembered that I was, if not necessarily personally scalping tickets, an accomplice to a scalper. No freaking dignity. I had not felt quite so humiliated in a long time, as I stood there amongst the ticket hustlers trying to make a couple of bucks. Or rather watched Patrick try to make a couple of bucks.

H&M was a disappointment. I didn't get to eat at the Winn buffet. I left almost an entire jug of Simply Apple in my cousin's fridge, as well as my phone charger. I didn't get to gawk at the Bellagio fountains, nor ride the big shot on top of the stratosphere. I didn't find a black P coat, nor shoes to my liking.

The whole trip seemed a waste, except for that one magic moment, that 2 minute slice of time when the heavens opened up, and Hasselhoff's voice rained down from above.

Worth it? Hell yes.

No dignity part III (absolutely unrelated to no dignity parts I-II

Let me throw this out there; I know that times is tough. I know the economy is down. I know people around here are all hearing that things are pretty bad. All of that, however, does not make it okay for you to pay me for a cup of soup with a sack full of nickles.

Seriously. I went to collect the checks from a table of 3, where everyone was paying separately. I picked up the 2 waiter-wallets with credit cards, and then one bulging wallet. Dumbfounded, wondering why it was so thick and clinky, I headed to the back of the restaurant. I looked inside and beheld a form of payment I had never heretofore encountered; a sack full of nickels. Mildly incensed, as I was extremely busy with 3 tables and running the bar, I walked back to the table. "How many nickels is this? I'm not trying to be an ass, but I really don't have time to count them out." "Oh uhh...like 5 bucks. No wait...$5.50."

"Thanks." He at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed. What the hell am I supposed to do with over 100 nickels? I am not a bloody Wal-Mart cashier, nor an effing Coinstar.

I am sick of the average people in Utah feeling like they are seriously affected by the economic woes of the nation. Yes, eventually all of that is going to trickle down and kick us in the chest; however it really hasn't yet. Last I checked, gas was $1.40 a gallon, and there weren't too many big bank CEO's patronizing the Orem Carrabbas, nor too many auto industry workers who were worried about loosing their $50+ an hour blue collar jobs. So really, this isn't so much affecting the Orem Carrabbas patrons, as of yet.

But, dear patrons, you are certainly acting like it is. I can perfectly understand that people are hesitant to spend their money on frivolities such as eating out right now. I mean, eventually we are all really going to feel the pinch of this ludicrous bailout(s). So really, it isn't the people who are eating out less, to which I am referring. Perhaps they are wise to conserve their money. I am referring to all of the bastards who are still coming out to eat, still ordering their fillet's and appetizers, smoothies and martinis, yet skimping on the tip. Seriously, it's unreal. We are pretty much as busy as ever right now. However, receiving 10-15% tips has become the rule, rather than the exception.

I've mentioned this before; 15% is not a good tip. It is the bare minimum one should leave, even if not entirely pleased with the service. Most servers probably rarely deserve less than that. So I guess it is so supremely frustrating because the only thing people are really curbing, is their generosity. The $5 tip has become standard on anywhere from $30-48. On $60-90, people are leaving $10. It is ridiculous. People; if you can afford to drop $90 on a meal, you can afford to leave the necessary tip.

And please, for the love of baby Zeus, don't pay someone with a sack full of nickels. Try to conserve at least a shred of dignity.

No dignity part II (although completely unrelated to no dignity part I)

Church seems to usually be one of 2 things; either a really great, uplifting experience, or a total circus. It seems as though when one odd thing happens, oddities abound. Which, can either be really entertaining, or wholly annoying.

Yesterday was a fun church day. First, the choir. There are just certain songs that a really really small, mediocre choir should not sing. Like, anything super complex that has like 6 different parts going at once. The issue isn't that a small choir can't possibly handle something complex; the problem lies in the fact that almost every ward choir has the 1 or 2 token members who sing VERY strongly, and a little terribly. Not terribly enough that they don't rightfully belong in a choir; just painfully enough that you don't want to hear their voice rising above the rest. And when the rest are, say, 2 other guys or girls...it makes for a rough recipe.

Most of the songs were fine. But there were a couple, which I can't exactly recall (probably due to a subconscious mental block that my brain threw up) that were pretty painful, where our token rough little stars shone rather brightly above the mass. I appreciate that there are people who want to sing in the church choir. I just wish that all were aware of where their particular strengths/weaknesses lie. I myself have a decent choir voice. However, I am well aware of the fact that I should never ever be heard above the rest.

There was a really funny honker in sacrament. He would always blow his nose at the most inopportune moments. Like...in a transition between singing and speaking. No dignity. Silence would fall, and like clockwork a small, dull, delayed honk would pierce the silence. It was unique, in the sense that one could not actually hear any blowing occurring; it was pure honk. Usually there is a mixture; it is easy to tell that a nose is being blown. Not so, with this particular honker. It sort of sounded like a really small, depressed goose. And the only reason I ever figured out it was a male doing the honking, was because he continued it throughout priesthood (man class.) And he also fell asleep while texting in a not so clandestine manner, arm propped up on the back of the chair next to him, squinting at his phone held up for all to see. Again, no dignity.

Some good elder's quorum (man class) quotes: I think my favorite was an announcement for a small Monday night activity. "So, were gonna have a party out our place. Come screw off for an hour." So inappropriate and weird.

"I'm okay with the occasional quorum pie time." Whatever the hell that means. This was in response to a query on how more quorum unity might be achieved.

"How many of you have ever put your foot in your mouth? Oh, and I mean figuratively, not literally." Really? has anyone ever meant that literally?

Some member of the relief society (girl class) brought us treats to man class. When the treats were about to be passed out, these 2 loud, vocal clowns in the middle (who always had something "clever" to say about everything, always followed by raucous personal laughter, declared that the treats should begin in the middle, with them consequentially. This declaration was pretty much overridden by everyone else, and so on the treats went, down the left side, far from the middle. Their greedy eyes never left the basket, even though there were clearly enough treats for all. Anytime the basket was anywhere near, they would unabashedly call for it to head in their direction, even when such a change in trajectory would cause it to skip half the people in the room. No freaking dignity.

At least this Sunday there wasn't a talk from a crazy, 26 year old bitter, unmarried prude declaring that any priesthood holder who kissed a girl passionately wasn't worthy of his priesthood. But that is a story for another occasion.

Rub downs

Somehow or another, I have managed to dwell in Provoland for 5.5 years, yet I have never discovered or been aware of the fact that one may receive free massages on Friday nights and Saturday mornings from the Provo college of massage therapy. I feel just a little bit cheated.

Colin found out about it, so we went this morning. Which was cool because, A. free massage, and B. it got me out of bed before noon. Double bonus.

Fortunately, Ricky knew his business. Tall, dark and, I'll be honest, not incredibly handsome, Ricky had a quiet demeanor. I apologized immediately for my lack of ovaries and mammary glands. I think, were I an aspiring masseuse, I would be pist every time I had to give some dude the rub down. To be honest, as the receiver, I prefer to be man handled, and for a few reasons. A. Stronger hands probably means a better, more thorough massage. B. I feel like when lying under a sheet in nothing by my skin, having a mans hands kneading dangerously close to my groin is a little less awkward than a female's. C. I'm not going to feel inclined to hit upon a man who is touching me everywhere but my special purpose. Were it an attractive female, I might feel some sort of pressure to make a move. Which, being naked under a sheet, could not be done in a manner dignified/not perverted. "Hey, ya know, while I'm naked here under this sheet, I thought I might mention that you have really nice eyes." Creeper. D. With a guy, the only fear is an NRB*, which I have basically grown out of, and therefore that whole embarrassing possibility sort of just flies out the window.

About 3/4 of the way through the massage, the people in the next curtain over started having a conversation. I can't think of a more awkwardly obnoxious thing, than having a conversation while someone is kneading your naked ass through a sheet. I mean, common. Have some self respect. It was easy to hear that the aspiring therapist was not terribly excited about talking to the women whom she was rubbing down. Nakedly. It sort of reminded me of the time when Onyon the 16 year old scab pedicurist awkwardly talked to me whilst massaging my calves. I just think that when one is being rubbed nakedly, one's mouth should be kept shut, and conversation should be non-existent. Whenever Rickey had to ask me if the pressure was okay, he did so surreptitiously, with a sort of low, breathy voice. Which, now that I think about it, was sort of creepy. But better than naked conversing.

All in all, it felt great, and I think I shall find myself an at least monthly patron of the free morning massage.

*If NRB is a term foreign to you, urbandictionary.com can help you out.

Snares

While driving on Orem blvd a couple of times over the last month or so, I noticed a rather curious building. It is located on the west side of Orem blvd, around an area that seems a little shady. Painted upon the entire northern side of the building is a rather child-friendly mural, with large letters proclaiming it a "Children's Museum."

Every time I have driven by, I have always found it a little odd, because I never see any children coming or going from this "Children's Museum." Moreover I have always thought the location a bit strange as well. Why is this "Children's Museum" located in such a shady part of Orem? Why does it look sort of like an abandoned warehouse? Where are the children? The parents? The science? Today as I drove by, one of the large bay doors was open. I grew extremely excited to finally discover the contents of this mysterious museum.

It was full of white vans.

Wtf?

Stay away children, it's a trap.

Border disputes

Today I went to Smiths to get a movie out of the Red Box. I feel like since I am strictly working with a machine, no sabbath breaking is actually occurring. While browsing through the movie selection, there was a small man child running wildly about. His mother yelled, "Raiden! Raiden! Get over here! Raiden! Raiiiden! Get over here and get your sack. Raiden!!"

At first I thought that I heard "Braiden." I listened very closely to make sure that I was correct. I was indeed hearing "Raiden." As in, the Mortal Kombat guy. The China man that could shoot lightening bolts from his hands, and fly through the air like superman.

They named their child after a video game fighter. I imagined that the father was probably at home, powering up his World of Warcraft guild right at that moment.

Sad.

On a completely unrelated note, I have a new dilemma occurring in my life. Back in June, I had some roommates that were unable to urinate without pissing all over the toilet seat. Somehow, the idea of simply raising the seat completely escaped them. They couldn't grasp the concept that A) no man can piss straight, and B) sitting in the remnants of one's own piss, much less that of someone else, is unpleasant, if not wretched. So, I wrote an anti-pissing message in permanent marker on the seat, and the problem has been solved ever since.

Well, when I purchased my bidet, I decided to install it in the downstairs bathroom for a couple of reasons; less anal traffic, and easier installation. The upstairs bathroom is more akin to a closet, and just changing the toilet seat was the most miserable experience of at least the month of June, if not most of the summer. Downstairs bathroom was to be my new bastion of cleanliness.

Down stairs guy pisses on the seat.

Or somebody.

The rub is, there isn't much I can do about it. It technically isn't my toilet, and I was sort of invading when I set up the bidet in there. I could tell he wasn't too excited about the installation. In other words, I feel as though I have crossed an illegal border, and therefore his seat pissings are out of my jurisdiction. I mean, if a Mexican comes into this country illegally, and he doesn't like the fact that I walk into his house and steal a Corona out of his fridge every day, tough bananas. He isn't legal, and therefore can't complain about my obnoxious habit of stealing Coronas out of Mexican fridges. Just like my situation.

So I guess I just grin and bear it? The whole thing is so mind boggling because I can't understand why everyone doesn't hate sitting in piss.

I am really starting to feel bad for that Mexican.

No dignity

I think being flipped off is one of my favorite things. I guess because it generally involves someone loosing control and being completely unable to think of any rational, thoughtful way to express their frustration. So, they do the one thing that instantly pops into their mind; they flip the bird. And then hopefully realize how silly they look, face contorted in anger, a rictus snarl and an effff youuuu upon their lips, waving their middle finger as though it were capable of shooting lasers and incinerating me where I drive/stand/sit/jump. No dignity.

Yesterday I was journeying to Jamba Juice. As I approached the roundabout near 24 Hour Fitness, there was a car ahead of me. As he arrived at the yield sign, there was not a car to the left in sight. Now, as simple as a round about is, I can sympathize a little bit when there are like...infinity cars around. I mean, having to watch cars coming from one direction is tough. It really is. However, as he approached, there was but one vehicle to his right. So he slows down and basically stops at the yield sign. I then proceeded to honk my horn one time. Not several exasperated honkings, nor even a drawn out honk. Just a quick beep to remind him that it was safe for him to proceed on into the scary, horribly confusing roundabout.

At that point, he drastically increased his speed, and flew through the roundabout as quickly as possible. I could see him checking his rear view mirror in a manner that suggested irrational anger. The quick, exasperated head snap, rapid multiple looks at the mirror, followed by a couple of head shakes. As soon as he was out of the roundabout, and clear of the first 2 cars parked on the side of the road, he dramatically swerved to the side of the road, and locked his breaks and came to a screeching halt. He then rolled down his window about 4 inches and shook his bird finger at me, snarling in anger. I looked at him and smirked/chuckled.

First, he was mad at me because I reminded him that he was too ignorant to understand the basic function of a roundabout. Second, rather than acting like a rational human being and continuing on his projected course, he pulls over and does the one thing that an apparently less than intelligent individual can think to do in such a supremely frustrating situation; he flips the bird. How embarrassing.

Remember this; flipping the bird is offensive never. It is merely embarrassing. So, if you happen to be a frequent flipper of the bird, by all means, please continue flying your finger of stupidity and entertain the rest of us with your ineptly expressed anger.

Worth it

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

I love everything about this; Little Gary Coleman in overalls and a cowboy hat, descending from the hugest dodge pick up I have ever seen. From which, he apparently tried to run over a poor man named Colt. Such a quintessential small town Utah name. Sounds like Mr. Coleman has settled into his Utonian habitat quite nicely. "Celebrities can't go nowhere or do nothin'..."

God bless you, Mr. Coleman. May the money from your childhood/Mormon movie stardom ever provide you with huge trucks and overalls.

Inglorious Basterds

Let me just say that Quentin Tarantino, Brad Pitt, and Nazi hunting is probably the best recipe for a film that I have ever heard of.

I'm so excited I could puke. In on my $450 mattress. Almost.

Gimmie savings or i'll murder you with my feet

I think I have arrived at the conclusion that Thanksgiving is an overrated holiday. I am glad that it exists; I love the excuse to have a family gathering. For some reason though, I feel like that day has lost its luster. I guess a holiday, in which the entire point is to shove as much food down one's gullet as is humanly possible, seems sort of silly.

I suppose that isn't supposed to be the point of Thanksgiving. I guess in theory, Thanksgiving is about being thankful. But I think that whole idea gets mostly glazed over by the impending lard fest that has come to embody it.

I find myself being less excited about the whole Thanksgiving dinner as well. Don't get me wrong; my aunt and mother created a wonderful meal, that was up to the Thanksgiving par in every way. But I suppose it's the Thanksgiving meal specifications that I don't get too excited about anymore. Corn, mash potatoes, turkey, gravy, yams, cranberry sauce...I'm just not that into it. Perhaps if I didn't eat those things multiple times per year (minus the cranberry sauce, which I eat never, not even on Thanksgiving)I might be more apt to want to pack my stomach till I puke.

I remember growing up, being almost as excited for Thanksgiving as for Christmas. I would starve myself the whole day, so that I could eat as much as possible. This year, I found myself stuffing my face with cheese balls, cauliflower, and creme flavored starbursts until about an hour before dinner. After consuming a plate of the usual Thanksgiving fare, I wasn't at all disappointed that I only had room for one. Although I did eat about 7 orange rolls.

I guess overall, I am excited that Thanksgiving is over. Bring on Christmas, the holiday where people finally turn into quality human beings for a month and think about something more than just themselves. Perhaps a lot of the goodwill and spirit of giving comes from the utter remorse at acting like complete monsters on black Friday. Seriously. Humans sink to their lowest level of humanity on that ridiculous shopping day. Well, maybe not as low as one who would strap a bomb to his chest, but fairly low nonetheless.

It is amazing that people will turn into scrapping, seethin animals, just for the possibility of saving a couple hundred dollars. Did anyone read about the guy trampled to death at a Wal-Mart in NY? Good lord. As the doors were opened, a tidal wave of the lowest dregs of our society flooded through the doors, and stepped on this guy to death. A herd of ravenous cows, trying to get their filthy hooves on a plasma TV, or an effing vacuum.

When shoppers were told to leave because they had murdered somebody with their frantic shopping, people screamed out, "But I've been in line since yesterday morning!" And continued shopping. Unbelievable.

It isn't just the morning crowd that is crazy; there is shoving and muscling for deals, all day long. I found myself in Target about noon, hoping to score some cheap DVD's. Everything had been pretty thoroughly picked over by then. Suddenly, these 2 girls pushed out a couple carts full of DVD's to restock the ransacked shelves. People swarmed the carts like ravenous vultures, completely ignoring the girls' pleas to just wait. I understand how people feel; I felt drawn to that cart, stoked on saving 6 bucks on a copy of Juno. It's frightening how possessed we become by material items, and the prospect of savings. I felt pretty disgusted with myself as I elbowed my way into the churning froth of humanity to lay hold upon my discounted copy of Juno, once the girls placed a few upon the shelves.

Thank goodness we have the Christmas season in which to redeem ourselves.

Ethnic cleansing

I feel like a leper, graciously cleansed.

Farewell inadequate, barbaric anal wiping techniques.

I dared not hope that it would arrive before the middle of this week, possibly later, so I didn't even think to check on Saturday. Sunday night, I was walking through the front room towards the stairs when I spotted it; a rectangular package. My heart went into an epileptic seizure as I halted, staring at it. Could it really be? Had it miraculously arrived days earlier than scheduled? I changed my trajectory and slowly approached the box. I was so afraid to read "Dan Criddle," on the tag, as 94% of packages arriving at our home bear that name. I gently hefted the package, and scanned the label. Andrew Fish. Bingo.

I think I probably made some sort of a girlish squeal, as I carried the package into the other room, and stabbed it open with a pen. I couldn't stop laughing. My joy was full. The words "Go Bidet," in red, white, and blue greeted me upon peeling back the box flaps. As though there is anything American about a bidet.

2.5 hours later, after cleaning, and ripping apart the toilet, I was the proud new owner/user of what my rectal region has been so greatly missing for the past 5.5 years. No more will I harm the environment with my excessive toilet paper usage. No more, will trees have to be chopped down for my anal cleansing. Just good, clean water from the earth, as the French intended.

Does it have enough pressure to clean the ceiling? Check.

The only unfortunate thing, is our toilet water is frigid (the Go Bidet usurps the water that normally flows into the toilet.) So I can't say that, in the wintertime, using the Bidet is a wholly comfortable experience. It is somewhat akin to ramming a cold chisel up there, if one is not cautious with the spraying power. However, it is infinitely better than wiping, so I'll deal with the cold finger of death.

For the record, I've never rammed a cold chisel up my rectum. Nor a warm chisel. Nor anything, for that matter. Just to set things straight.

Thanks Marc-Antoine Jacoud and Christophe des Rosiers for the one useful thing to have ever come out of France; an ethnic cleansing device.

Caress

Sometimes there comes a point where a man has had all he can take.

It seems like it was so long ago. Such a brief, fleeting period of time. There was nothing that could have prepared me for you, your sweet caress. When the time came, as ready as I was to move on, the thought of loosing you was nearly the death of me.

How would I make it through my day to day? After a particularly tough moment, what would I do without you there to ease the burden and wash away my pain?

Sometimes there comes a point when a man breaks down and buys a bidet.

I did it. After 5.5 years of walking about this land of Provo unclean, all is about to change. Sam's Club, online, $80. It's called the Go Bidet, and it attaches to the toilet bowl and connects to the waterline. After defecation, one simply pulls a lever which swings the arm out directly beneath ones anal region, and wham! Clean as a whistle.

The only thing to which I am not looking forward, is winter time. I doubt that I have the plumber savy to figure out how to connect it to the hot water, so it shall ever be a cold cleansing. And during the winter, it can get to the point where it really feels like one is shoving an icicle up one's rectum. Still, more pleasant than conventional wiping. I'll do whatever it takes to stop simply smearing it about.

It should be arriving early this next week, and I'm as excited as a fat kid at Christmas. I have a feeling that this may easily be the best $80 I have ever spent.

Frat bros

I haven't spent a whole lot of time around frat guys, but on the few occasions in which I have found myself in their presence, there seems to always be one striking common denominator. Well, besides the beer and mild to thorough retardation. And the scoring of chicks. And the high fives and fist pounding. I guess there are a lot of quintessential elements to the frat bro. But there was one that was at the forefront of my mind as I left the Jazz game on Monday night.

We had $5 upper bowl tickets. For whatever reason, the upper bowl at a Jazz game (and I would assume any sporting event) fills up with all manner of drunken morons, shouting obscenities and really a whole lot of things that don't make sense to average human beings. Lots of fist pumping, booing, and personal insults towards the players 200 feet below. Also lots of scandalized Mormon families who thought it would be a good idea to take the kids to a Jazz game for family night. I suppose the fact that a cup of beer is more expensive than the upper bowl seats has a lot to do with who is sitting up there. If the frat dudes and other sport loving miscreants sit in the five dollar seats, they can still possibly afford to get wasted.

There were 5 or 6 particularly rowdy frat dudes sitting in front of us. Whenever something went well for the Jazz, we would cheer and they would turn around for high fives and fist pounds. At one point towards the end of the game, we started chanting USA, to which the frat bros wholeheartedly joined. Throughout the whole night, we were not so subtly mocking them. So here is the common denominator; frat bros never catch on when one is making fun of them. They really never do. I don't want to sound cocky or pretentious, but if someone is mocking me or my friends...I figure it out. But for some reason, these meat heads just never get it. As long as you are joining in the fist pounding, and say, "Hell yeah!" a lot, they remain clueless. Like small children.

Perhaps I am a jerk for mocking them, but common. When one of them has a tattoo on his forearm that says, "Without struggle, there can be no progress," and he's WHITE, mockery is warranted. Or when a girl asks to see his arm in order to read the tattoo, and he instead holds up his opposite and sort of flexes and says, "Pretty huge huh?" Doi. Mockery is absolutely justified.

Maybe I really am being too harsh. I mean, the frat bro with the Skin industries shirt was probably just kidding when he urged his fellow brethren to keep the cups so that they could play beer pong later on.

Nocturnal mysteries

A weird nocturnal phenomenon has occurred in my bed, and I don't quite understand it.

When I bought my new bed about a month and a half or 2 ago, I also purchased a new comforter. At IKEA, their comforter heat levels were scaled from 1-5; 1 being the lightest, 5 being suitable for the coldest freezing hell. For whatever stupid reason, I decided to go with a 4, even though I rarely get cold during the night. I suppose I was planning on running the heater basically never during the winter, and so at the time thought that a 4 would be a good choice.

Turns out, for the first month.5 that I had it, the 4 was a poor life decision. I woke up most mornings with a sweaty collar/spinal column. I kept thinking, "Soon winter shall descend upon us, and the sweatyness shall have an end." Well, the weather grew colder, yet I was still waking up half the time with a damp shirt. This was annoying mostly because it made for extra frequent sheet/blanket washing, and caused the morning shower to become a necessary staple.

Suddenly Obama was victorious, and the weather grew colder. Despite my best efforts to keep the furnace dial in the off position, someone in the home keeps turning it on, and thus our house has remained at basically the same temperature as during warmer, pre-Obama era. Yet somehow or another, over the last few days the sweating has ended. I wake up in the morning, (11ish) completely buried beneath the comforter, Hot Pocket nestled under my armpit, with a completely dry collar. No longer have I half kicked the blanket away during the night; the comforter is no longer overbearing. Just comforting.

Did my body finally just self-regulate and adjust to the heat? Our house is definitely not any colder than what it has been, maybe by 5 or so degrees at the most. If so, thanks body. You sure are great. If not, damn you IKEA for producing a blanket that has already lost its heat integrity in so short a time period. Or maybe thanks IKEA, because I bought a blanket that was too bloody hot in the first place.

I'm so confused.

Dear Observer

The more that I think about your comment, the more humorous I find it. To be perfectly honest, the comment initially upset me. I find that I have a rather emotional connection to my writing. I feel as though when someone judges what I have written, they are judging a piece of me. I suppose that is because a great deal of what I write is self indulgent. But what is a personal blog, if not self indulgent? I am not attempting to write pieces that will change the world, or start a new and revolutionary way of thought. I simply write because I enjoy it. I am sorry that such an idea is completely foreign to one so apparently real, humble, and creative as you apparently think yourself.

It's funny that you point an accusatory finger, calling my blog narcissistic. Yet you label yourself a hypocrite by making such a broad, generalized statement such as "I think I speak for nearly everyone in saying I am not excited for the 'book' you are writing." You clearly think rather highly of yourself and your apparently flawless judgment.

Furthermore, stating that nearly the entire hipster scene is uncreative is simply an ignorant, haughty, baseless generalization. You sound like a bitter, self proclaimed intellectual; a person who thrives on tearing down anyone who can't be as naturally creative or innovative as you apparently find yourself to be.

The funny thing is, as obviously narcissistic as you must be, you hide behind anonymity, thus nullifying any of your arguments and simply making you look like a hater. What have you done which could be publicly labeled as innovative, authentic, or creative? You are very brave, leaving mean spirited comments where nobody can see a single thing you have done to back up your hubris.

Am I further validating your comment? Perhaps this blog is self indulgent. Perhaps it does get narcissistic. But that is a blog, my friend. Thank you for validating my writing through your hateful comments. I don't care if everyone loves what I write. It's just as great knowing someone hates what I write enough to take the time to actually comment upon it. And if you claim that you commented upon the only post you have ever read, then you are even more ignorant than I thought, judging 174 posts from 1.

Was this thin skinned enough for you?

Love,

Fish

Bastard

Sorry my blog has been a rather large disappointment of late. Although, it may be a bit pretentious of me to suppose that very many people are actually "disappointed" about my lack of blogular input. The truth is, I have been working a lot lately. And when I am working a lot, my life is relatively boring and repetitive, and therefore my idea pool has been a little shallow of late.

Also, as silly as this sounds, I have begun to write a book. Ugh. I hate the way that sounds. I really feel like a pretentious bastard every time I say it. Actually, I am writing a book about a pretentious bastard who is writing a book about a pretentious bastard.

Okay, so that isn't true. Except for the part about feeling like a pretentious bastard. Although, I suppose I could add the "bastard" tag to just about anything concerning myself, since technically I am/was. My birth father was a teacher who knocked up his student, thus earning me the title of "bastard." Actually, the first time that I realized that the technical term "bastard" applied to me was when I was about 16. I was watching Oprah, and the theme was "bastards," or something. As I was reveling in Oprah's wisdom, it suddenly occurred to me that, being born out of wedlock, I qualified as a so called "bastard." My mother was in the kitchen baking a food. I turned around and said, "Wait a second. So I'm a bastard? I'm a bastard, aren't I?" To which she replied, "Well...not really. Uhh...we sort of saved you from that." To which I said, "Huh. I'm a bastard."

So, I suppose one could correctly call me a "lucky bastard," or an "ugly bastard," or even an "awesome bastard." I guess my point is, you may call me pretentious for writing a book, but you might as well not bother adding the bastard tag. I've spent the last 10 years coming to terms with the fact that I was probably conceived on a desk, or in a broom closet, so if you feel the need to offend me, try something else. I have accepted my bastarditity.

So really the whole point of this seemingly crass post (although it really isn't, because bastard isn't an expletive when used in proper context) is that I have been doing a lot of book writing, thus my blog is suffering.

Sorry.

Bastards unite!

A new age

During this time of election, I have done a great deal of soul searching. There have been a lot of really tough issues with which I have had to deal, and a lot of ideas and ideals I have had to examine. Such as where I stood on Prop 8, even though I didn't get to vote for it. Or for whom I was going to cast my vote; a crinkled old dishonest, mud-slinging Bush-replica, or a scary left wing liberal God-king?

I voted for neither. Bob Barr got my vote. And Superdell. But that is neither here nor there.

As I listened to Obama's coronation speech, victory speech, let us heal our wounded, divided hearts speech--call it what you will--I couldn't help but really really want to believe in him. I wanted to believe every syllable, smoothly and eloquently sliding out of his mouth. I wanted to be able to bask in the ecstasy of hope, in which so many millions were reveling. I wanted to love him; to finally really love a president.

But then I snapped out of it. I realized it was suddenly snowing outside and that fall had abruptly been wrenched from my sweet embrace by the cold, cruel hand of winter. It was like a light bulb suddenly illuminating my weak, sheep-like mind; a mind that had nearly been duped by the wily, sinister, mind-raping tactics of that most persuasive and incontrovertible of speakers. I had nearly been tricked just as 63 million other fools had been. It was made clear to me in that precise moment--an epiphany of sorts--that everything bad occurring in my life, and the lives of every American from this point forward is, and will be Obama's fault. Not the cold, cruel hand of winter; the merciless, obdurate hand of Obama.

The weather in Utah has been perfect for nearly a month and a half. This has been one of the longest falls I can recall. Each morning, I joyfully tore my sweet head from my pillow, and relished the perfect temperatures, frolicked in the auburn leaves, and was absolutely thrilled to be alive. Then, just like that, Obama wins the election. And that very eve, in the midst of his victory speech, it begins to snow. An obvious correlation for anyone even moderately observant. Obviously, Obama caused the snow. Which, I think, is rather metaphorical to his pending reign of terror. Just as the snow was the death of a glorious season, thus is Obama's eminent appointment to the white house the end of all that is good and holy. If the United States does not sink into the sea a moldering, socialistic heap during the next 4 years, I'll eat my confederate flag.

God help us.

A gift from a true friend

Colin gave me a present a few days ago, and I think it is probably my favorite thing that anyone has ever given me. I pulled into our driveway after work, just as he had returned home from a trip to IKEA. He bought like...a million plants. Anyway, he approached my car with his arms hidden behind him and told me that he brought me a surprise, and bade me guess what it was.

"A chihuahua?" Because I wanted more than anything for it to be a tiny, gray chihuahua.

Not a chihuahua.

At that point, I was about to say "A beaver?" But instead just decided to give up, assuming that I would simply continue to guess incorrectly. "I don't know. What is it?" At which point, he pulled a beaver from behind his back. A plush beaver. I then was probably the happiest I've been in weeks.

Beavers are absolutely my favorite animal. I mean come on. They chop down trees with their faces for goodness sakes. And then build dams and houses. What other animal in the whole kingdom builds a beaver den that floats in the water? None animals, and that's why it is called a beaver lodge, and not a tree cutting animal lodge. Because only beavers cut down trees. With their faces.

So, am I a 26 year old man who sleeps with a stuffed beaver named Hot Pocket? You're damn right I am.

And he has crazy eye.

We're screwed

This man is a scary fool. He sets himself up to be the lord hero of the working class, yet does he not realize how this policy will completely cripple thousands of small business who won't be able to afford to pay this arbitrary "carbon tax?" He obviously doesn't understand that the government already taxes small business nearly into extinction, and that some absurd tax on carbon and other emissions will grind many of them right into the ground. So much for your hero then. And who are those most affected? Small business owners, and the working/middle class whom they employ.

A thorn in my side

I guess I have a love/hate relationship with all of the puncture weeds that adorn the outside of our home. They create a rather impregnable barrier all around the yard and parking lot, warding off all unwanted cyclists/cougs who would think to park their bike there and walk to school. Unless of course, one knows how to navigate around them.

The problem is, those who actually are welcome in the home, inadvertently track untold numbers of those wretched thorns all over the place. Sort of ironic, really. I find myself stepping on them constantly, and consequentially cursing, followed by either minor bleeding, or possibly just more cursing.

I have found that Visa seems to be the Lee brand of credit cards. Maybe even High Sierras. As a restaurant tech, I inherently swipe a lot of credit cards, many of them Visas. I have found that I have more problems with Visas than with any other card. Rarely will a Visa work on the first swipe. Lee's may look fashionable and great at first glance, but upon further crotchial scrutiny, one comes to realize that those jeans were really not made to fit any sort of ass. Similarly, a Visa may at first appear to be flawless; no creasing, an impeccable magnetic strip, and 2 years before the expiration is up. No matter the perfection, chances are I will have to work myself into a lather trying to get it to work.

American Express? Even the grimiest, most haggard Amex card always works the first time. I think that Amex card holders may be more monetarily responsible as well. In the last 2 days, I have had 4 Visas decline. Yesterday, a young man and his girlfriend/fiancee came in. Upon termination of their meal, she went off to the bathroom to poop, which I surmised by the fact that she disappeared for about 10 minutes. Her chubby boyfriend gave me a Visa, which was promptly declined. So I returned, and explained to him that I couldn't get it to work (I try to make it seem like it is the fault of our machinery, rather than the fact that he didn't have enough bloody money in his account, and was too daft to realize it.) So he shoved his meaty fist back into his pocket to retrieve yet another Visa, or High Sierra, if you will. That one declined as well. Once I explained to him that a second "malfunction" had occurred, he informed me that we would have to wait until his fiancee finished defecating so he could acquire her card.

Finally, she finished up and gave me a card that worked. Now, I call her his fiancee due to the fact that she was wearing a ring, and he was not. And I really, really wanted to say, "are you sure? Really? Are you really really sure?" I guess I just can't fathom having 2 different cards, and not having any clue that both accounts were overdrawn/marrying a numb skull who was that oblivious.

Of course, I was punished for his poverty/stupidity and was tipped $2 on 30. What did any of that have to do with puncture weeds? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.