There is one thing I will never understand about men. No matter how many years I spend as a man, I shall never comprehend our (me not included) complete inability to raise the toilet seat, nor our apparent nonexistent aversion to sitting in the remnants our own piss. I have never lived in a house where fewer than 50 percent of the males living there pissed on the seat.
Anytime I ever enter a bathroom and see piss all over the toilet seat, I want to punch a hole in the wall. There is not a man on this planet whose penis isn't at least a little bit wonkey, thus rendering it impossible for him to shoot completely straight and avoid any drizzlings upon the seat. Perhaps 1 in 4 or 5 pissings can a man accomplish such a feat. It isn't even so much the piss on the seat that makes me angry, but the utter simplicity of the act of reaching down with one's arm, touching the most minute portion of the seat with a tiny section of pinky, and then performing a simple lift. The fact that such a facile motion would thwart all of pisses prodigious efforts to end up on the seat (yes, I just referred to urine as a sentient being) is what makes me so angry about it. So simply avoided. Use your foot if you have to.
Today a horrible line was crossed. I entered the bathroom to find a small smattering of shit smeared upon the back end of the toilet seat. I stood there dumbfounded, staring at it. I have periodically seen this occur throughout my career as a human being, and it is always supremely baffling. I can not wrap my mind around what a person must be doing while defecating, in order to leave feces upon the toilet seat. And it is always the same; a small smear somewhere on the back end of the seat, flowing down towards the water. Like a tiny fecal waterfall. A. I don't understand the mechanics of how that can even be accomplished. and B. I don't know how that can occur unnoticed by the culprit. Or perhaps it happens more often than I think, and he usually does catch it, but simply missed it this time. That line of thought has disturbing implications.
Well. For the record, I lift the seat ALWAYS. So, women of planet earth, there are actually men who do that. And I have NEVER, ever ever shat upon a toilet seat. Never ever.
Men are confusing. Raise the seat, assholes.
27.5.09
Perpetually puppies
As one who has graduated with a degree of questionable value, I have been trying lately to think of some businesses that I could start.
Today, I saw a couple playing with a darling little puppy. Which made me think about how much I enjoy a good puppy. In fact, I would say that I would love to have a puppy. I find that I only have such desires for an animal when I see a puppy. I never see a gnarly old grown up dog and think, "I'd sure like one of those lying around the house and shitting in the yard." Only puppies.
Which lead me to one of my first ideas for a company: Perpetually Puppies. I can't be the only person who really only wants a dog during the puppy phase of its existence. People are always so excited to get a new puppy. Then it grows up a bit, waxes exponentially less cute with age, and suddenly becomes that creature that you would probably essentially forget exists, except for the accumulated feces and obnoxious barking. Once it reaches this stage, you then realize the magnitude of your decision to adopt and or purchase that once adorable little beast; you just made a solid 15 year investment. I mean, if you (assuming you are a female) dropped a baby out of your womb the very day you brought home that little, furry bundle of yapping joy, the fruit of your loins may very well move out of the house before that 4 legged creature gets buried in the back yard.
So. Why not create a program where people get puppies, and then get rid of said puppies once they are no longer puppies? Perpetually Puppies. "We put them to sleep so you don't have to." Once your puppy starts to mature, you simply trade it away for a new puppy. I haven't quite figured out yet what happens to the expired puppies. This is a new business model, mind you, and there is still a lot to work out. Perhaps they can be sold to china for meat? Or they can be simply turned loose south of the border, as nobody would notice a few thousand more dogs a month showing up on the streets amongst hundreds of thousands. Perpetually Puppies. "Enjoy them while they are still truly enjoyable." Perpetually Puppies. "Pooping in manageable proportions."
Perpetually Puppies. I want this to exist.
Today, I saw a couple playing with a darling little puppy. Which made me think about how much I enjoy a good puppy. In fact, I would say that I would love to have a puppy. I find that I only have such desires for an animal when I see a puppy. I never see a gnarly old grown up dog and think, "I'd sure like one of those lying around the house and shitting in the yard." Only puppies.
Which lead me to one of my first ideas for a company: Perpetually Puppies. I can't be the only person who really only wants a dog during the puppy phase of its existence. People are always so excited to get a new puppy. Then it grows up a bit, waxes exponentially less cute with age, and suddenly becomes that creature that you would probably essentially forget exists, except for the accumulated feces and obnoxious barking. Once it reaches this stage, you then realize the magnitude of your decision to adopt and or purchase that once adorable little beast; you just made a solid 15 year investment. I mean, if you (assuming you are a female) dropped a baby out of your womb the very day you brought home that little, furry bundle of yapping joy, the fruit of your loins may very well move out of the house before that 4 legged creature gets buried in the back yard.
So. Why not create a program where people get puppies, and then get rid of said puppies once they are no longer puppies? Perpetually Puppies. "We put them to sleep so you don't have to." Once your puppy starts to mature, you simply trade it away for a new puppy. I haven't quite figured out yet what happens to the expired puppies. This is a new business model, mind you, and there is still a lot to work out. Perhaps they can be sold to china for meat? Or they can be simply turned loose south of the border, as nobody would notice a few thousand more dogs a month showing up on the streets amongst hundreds of thousands. Perpetually Puppies. "Enjoy them while they are still truly enjoyable." Perpetually Puppies. "Pooping in manageable proportions."
Perpetually Puppies. I want this to exist.
20.5.09
Pokings
So I have been thinking about selling my body for quite some time now.
To science, that is. Lock me in a room with books and DVD's, bring me food, give me drugs, test my blood, pay me a couple thousand dollars. I'm in. However, Andre has been trying to convince me to get a spinal tap for $5500.
I have written before of my thoroughly irrational fear of needles. I am willing to kick that fear in the ass for a couple grand and some holes in my arm. My spinal column is a completely different story.
First of all, he wants me to do this so that we can go visit Argentina. Now, as much as I am thrilled by the prospect of visiting a country where most dogs suffer from a flesh eating disease and wander through the cities in packs unabated, and where the summer heat stokes the pernicious stench from the open sewers to the extent that entire neighborhoods and city blocks reek like the festering bowels of a rotting corpse, where people suffer from "liver attacks" "golpes de aire," and eating watermelon with milk is universally thought to be a deadly practice...I will not willingly allow some crack pot "medical professional" to bury a needle in my SPINE.
I can't think of many things I would rather not do than take a needle in the back. I think even if you offered me a million dollars, I probably couldn't lay still for the procedure. I would probably start hyperventilating, and then they would puncture something they shouldn't have, and goodbye motor skills.
So I was thinking today of a lot of terrible things I would rather allow to voluntarily occur, rather than a spinal tap.
I'd rather let somebody break my arm with a baseball bat. I'd stand there, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and CRACK.
I'd rather spread my legs and let a pissed off girl kick me in the groin. Bring on the foot.
I'd rather kiss a drunk girl who vomited in my mouth.
This one, I couldn't quite make a decision on; getting prison raped. As soon as I think about the needle sliding between my vertebrae, I think that I would rather get raped. But then I think about getting raped, and want the needle again. I think if ever I found myself in a situation where I had to choose one, I'd change my mind about 50 times before I finally settled. I'd be bent over, and as the prison monster would approach, I'd be like..."Wait! Wait! The needle! Gimmie the needle!" And then, once curled up on a ball, as the needle descended, it would be..."No! Wait! White Power Bill! Send back White Power Bill!" I think, ultimately, the needle would win. But I'm like...60/40 at best there. Worst scenario ever.
I'd rather listen to Rascal Flatts for a year straight, at least 3 hours a day.
I'd rather jump off a 2 story building naked into a pile of stinging needle.
You get the idea. I wish I wasn't so terrified of needles, because 5500 dollars in 4 days is pretty awesome. However, abandoning dignity, screaming like a girl, and thrashing around on a cold metal table in a hospital gown while fluid is drained from my spinal column, is just something I think I was never meant to do.
Sorry Andre. I'd like my spinal fluid to stay right where it is.
Hell no.
To science, that is. Lock me in a room with books and DVD's, bring me food, give me drugs, test my blood, pay me a couple thousand dollars. I'm in. However, Andre has been trying to convince me to get a spinal tap for $5500.
I have written before of my thoroughly irrational fear of needles. I am willing to kick that fear in the ass for a couple grand and some holes in my arm. My spinal column is a completely different story.
First of all, he wants me to do this so that we can go visit Argentina. Now, as much as I am thrilled by the prospect of visiting a country where most dogs suffer from a flesh eating disease and wander through the cities in packs unabated, and where the summer heat stokes the pernicious stench from the open sewers to the extent that entire neighborhoods and city blocks reek like the festering bowels of a rotting corpse, where people suffer from "liver attacks" "golpes de aire," and eating watermelon with milk is universally thought to be a deadly practice...I will not willingly allow some crack pot "medical professional" to bury a needle in my SPINE.
I can't think of many things I would rather not do than take a needle in the back. I think even if you offered me a million dollars, I probably couldn't lay still for the procedure. I would probably start hyperventilating, and then they would puncture something they shouldn't have, and goodbye motor skills.
So I was thinking today of a lot of terrible things I would rather allow to voluntarily occur, rather than a spinal tap.
I'd rather let somebody break my arm with a baseball bat. I'd stand there, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and CRACK.
I'd rather spread my legs and let a pissed off girl kick me in the groin. Bring on the foot.
I'd rather kiss a drunk girl who vomited in my mouth.
This one, I couldn't quite make a decision on; getting prison raped. As soon as I think about the needle sliding between my vertebrae, I think that I would rather get raped. But then I think about getting raped, and want the needle again. I think if ever I found myself in a situation where I had to choose one, I'd change my mind about 50 times before I finally settled. I'd be bent over, and as the prison monster would approach, I'd be like..."Wait! Wait! The needle! Gimmie the needle!" And then, once curled up on a ball, as the needle descended, it would be..."No! Wait! White Power Bill! Send back White Power Bill!" I think, ultimately, the needle would win. But I'm like...60/40 at best there. Worst scenario ever.
I'd rather listen to Rascal Flatts for a year straight, at least 3 hours a day.
I'd rather jump off a 2 story building naked into a pile of stinging needle.
You get the idea. I wish I wasn't so terrified of needles, because 5500 dollars in 4 days is pretty awesome. However, abandoning dignity, screaming like a girl, and thrashing around on a cold metal table in a hospital gown while fluid is drained from my spinal column, is just something I think I was never meant to do.
Sorry Andre. I'd like my spinal fluid to stay right where it is.
Hell no.
19.5.09
Panic
I did it again yesterday. For the second time ever. I completely and utterly forgot about a table I was serving.
I had 3 guys at the pizza bar, and a table of 2 at another location. I took very good care of both, until at some point my mind just simply erased all thought of the 2 guys at the table. Gone. Obliterated.
I proceeded to have about a 20 or so minute conversation with the wine guzzlers at the bar. Seriously, more than an entire bottle of wine each. After that, I headed back to the bar and began cleaning. About the time I was wiping crusty espresso grounds from the machine, I suddenly remembered table #2. You can not imagine the sheer panic that washes over you, upon realizing that you have not been by a table in more than half an hour.
I said several choice words.
Dropping the rag, I ran out to the table, fervently praying to baby Zeus that they had magically disappeared, lest I face a very awkward moment. Merciful baby Zeus, nestled in his cradle of lightening somehow heard my pleas, and they were gone. My guess is they asked someone to get them their check, as I do not recall actually giving it to them. And then they left cash. I was able to deduce from the 6 dollar tip that they, through some miraculous means, were not entirely pissed. But oh the wretched panic.
I've only done that one other time. It was a Sunday. I was in the bar. I had a guy at the bar. I dropped off his fillet, and forgot about him for 30 minutes. Except for he was actually there once I finally remembered, holding his credit card with a look of utter disdain plastered on his face. At that point asking how his meal tasted was a panic reaction, and made me look an even bigger fool. The worst part is, he comes in at least weekly, so I avoid him like the plague every time he brings in his wife to get wasted. Seriously, who gets plastered at Carrabbas? Embarrassing.
Please bless that I wont ever do that again.
I had 3 guys at the pizza bar, and a table of 2 at another location. I took very good care of both, until at some point my mind just simply erased all thought of the 2 guys at the table. Gone. Obliterated.
I proceeded to have about a 20 or so minute conversation with the wine guzzlers at the bar. Seriously, more than an entire bottle of wine each. After that, I headed back to the bar and began cleaning. About the time I was wiping crusty espresso grounds from the machine, I suddenly remembered table #2. You can not imagine the sheer panic that washes over you, upon realizing that you have not been by a table in more than half an hour.
I said several choice words.
Dropping the rag, I ran out to the table, fervently praying to baby Zeus that they had magically disappeared, lest I face a very awkward moment. Merciful baby Zeus, nestled in his cradle of lightening somehow heard my pleas, and they were gone. My guess is they asked someone to get them their check, as I do not recall actually giving it to them. And then they left cash. I was able to deduce from the 6 dollar tip that they, through some miraculous means, were not entirely pissed. But oh the wretched panic.
I've only done that one other time. It was a Sunday. I was in the bar. I had a guy at the bar. I dropped off his fillet, and forgot about him for 30 minutes. Except for he was actually there once I finally remembered, holding his credit card with a look of utter disdain plastered on his face. At that point asking how his meal tasted was a panic reaction, and made me look an even bigger fool. The worst part is, he comes in at least weekly, so I avoid him like the plague every time he brings in his wife to get wasted. Seriously, who gets plastered at Carrabbas? Embarrassing.
Please bless that I wont ever do that again.
10.5.09
Dear mom,
You have been a patient woman to have raised me all these years. Thank you for letting me puke apple sauce all over your shoulder while you carried me up the stairs. Thank you for convincing my father that, even though I was into mohawks, aquamarine hair, studded belts and punk rock, I was still probably a good person and not out participating in all manner of clandestine, devious activities. Thank you for, upon finding out that I had thrown a plethora of pumpkins from the overpass, not telling father and further incensing his already stoked conservative wrath against me, for realizing that boys will be boys and no harm REALLY was done. Thank you for holding my hand while the doctor shoved a needle in my neck and then cut a marble sized cyst out of it. Thank you for always sending me home with leftovers, even though I have never ever even one single time returned a container. Thank you for making homemade ranch dressing whenever you know I am coming for dinner, because there is a SLIGHT possibility that I might be able to choke it down on some salad. Thank you for letting me have the front seat sometimes because my legs are super long and yours are super short. Thank you for loving me despite skinny jeans and a rat tail. Thank you for every delicious meal you have ever cooked and know that I have appreciated every one, even if I haven't said it. Thank you for raising my 3 amazing siblings, and taking care of my wonderful father. Thank you for supporting him through long years of countless hours divided between the foundry, church callings, scouting activities, hunting trips, and every other thing in which you weren't personally involved. Thank you for letting us get on motorcycles and drive through Yellowstone, Utah, California, Idaho, Wyoming, and all over Juab county, even though it scares you to death, because you know it makes us happy. Thank you for keeping a clean home, a relief and refuge from the world that is always a joy and a comfort to come home to.
Most of all, thank you for your unconditional love, even though I am, at times, not very good at reciprocating it verbally or through my actions. Know, however, that it is always there, and that I think the world of you. You are indeed the best mom an adopted boy could have hoped for, and I'm indeed lucky you are mine.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Happy mothers day.
Love,
Me.
Most of all, thank you for your unconditional love, even though I am, at times, not very good at reciprocating it verbally or through my actions. Know, however, that it is always there, and that I think the world of you. You are indeed the best mom an adopted boy could have hoped for, and I'm indeed lucky you are mine.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Happy mothers day.
Love,
Me.
6.5.09
Sexy talk with the fuhrer
About once a week, I am awakened by my buzzing mattress at approximately 7:12 am. I think groggily, "Hmm...who could be texting me at this ungodly hour?" And because of that insatiable nagging that will set in if I just roll over and try to ignore it, I have to look to see who it is.
At that hour, it is always none other than Barnes and Noble, and it pisses me off.
For months now, I have been meaning to simply click on the option to remove myself from their mailing list. However, I can never quite get myself to do it, as I invariably think, as my finger hovers over the "cancel" button, twitching in anticipation, "but what if someday I really do want a 10% off coupon?" And so I endure the 7:12 am wake up buzz once a week.
A couple of weeks ago I decided to mark Barnes & Noble as spam, hoping that thereby all further emails from them would simply end up in the spam folder. That way, I could go in there and sift around through all of the penile enlargement advertisements and letters from various African kings offering me free money to make deposits, to find my 10-20% coupons.
Apparently that didn't work, as indicated by the wake up call. Curious, I decided to look in my spam folder to see if any prior Barnes & Noble emails had ended up there. As I am scanning the various offers, I notice this one: How To Talk Dirty To Your Girl And Send HHer Into Overdrive. Now, my eyes function less adequately that I would like. Especially my right eye. There is almost an ever present twinge of blurriness haunting that eye. So, in my casual, semi-blurry glance, my mind read "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."
Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that the ad really didn't concern Hitler at all. But I also thought that perhaps I had stumbled upon a little bit of marketing genius. If ever there was a spam headline that might make me curious enough to further investigate its contents, it was "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."
Sign me up.
At that hour, it is always none other than Barnes and Noble, and it pisses me off.
For months now, I have been meaning to simply click on the option to remove myself from their mailing list. However, I can never quite get myself to do it, as I invariably think, as my finger hovers over the "cancel" button, twitching in anticipation, "but what if someday I really do want a 10% off coupon?" And so I endure the 7:12 am wake up buzz once a week.
A couple of weeks ago I decided to mark Barnes & Noble as spam, hoping that thereby all further emails from them would simply end up in the spam folder. That way, I could go in there and sift around through all of the penile enlargement advertisements and letters from various African kings offering me free money to make deposits, to find my 10-20% coupons.
Apparently that didn't work, as indicated by the wake up call. Curious, I decided to look in my spam folder to see if any prior Barnes & Noble emails had ended up there. As I am scanning the various offers, I notice this one: How To Talk Dirty To Your Girl And Send HHer Into Overdrive. Now, my eyes function less adequately that I would like. Especially my right eye. There is almost an ever present twinge of blurriness haunting that eye. So, in my casual, semi-blurry glance, my mind read "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."
Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that the ad really didn't concern Hitler at all. But I also thought that perhaps I had stumbled upon a little bit of marketing genius. If ever there was a spam headline that might make me curious enough to further investigate its contents, it was "How to talk dirty to your girl and send Hitler into overdrive."
Sign me up.
5.5.09
Pressure
As a graduated creature, I find myself ever fonder of the idea of moving away. I feel as though I have squeezed all of the adventure possible out of Provo, and have been left with a dried out husk. I feel like staying in Provo means I have to settle down and figure out precicely what I am going to do. You know, make a 5 year.
But I'm not ready to make a 5 year just yet. And I hesitate to do that until I have someone around whom to plan those 5 years. I do have a plan, per say. However, it just doesn't sound too terribly solid to those who would like me to be beginning a career of some sort.
Graduation/successful siblings puts so much pressure on a guy.
Graduation was kind of a let down. I realized, as I sat through the nearly 4 hours of combined convocation and commencement, that I had probably really missed out on something. I was sitting there with my graduating class, and I knew almost nobody. Granted, mine was the history department, not generally known to be teeming with attractive unmarried females. Graduation wasn't fun, because I wasn't graduating with a bunch of friends. It was difficult to really get into all of the cheering and fist pumping when I felt like I was cheering and fist pumping with myself.
Perhaps others were more excited because they actually do have their 5 year worked out. Grad school. A career. Whatever. Maybe it is time for me to buckle down and make some big decisions.
But I'm not ready to make a 5 year just yet. And I hesitate to do that until I have someone around whom to plan those 5 years. I do have a plan, per say. However, it just doesn't sound too terribly solid to those who would like me to be beginning a career of some sort.
Graduation/successful siblings puts so much pressure on a guy.
Graduation was kind of a let down. I realized, as I sat through the nearly 4 hours of combined convocation and commencement, that I had probably really missed out on something. I was sitting there with my graduating class, and I knew almost nobody. Granted, mine was the history department, not generally known to be teeming with attractive unmarried females. Graduation wasn't fun, because I wasn't graduating with a bunch of friends. It was difficult to really get into all of the cheering and fist pumping when I felt like I was cheering and fist pumping with myself.
Perhaps others were more excited because they actually do have their 5 year worked out. Grad school. A career. Whatever. Maybe it is time for me to buckle down and make some big decisions.
29.4.09
When choking isn't the answer
I hate talking to machines. I also hate having to talk to 7 different machines, followed by 7 different human beings to figure out my insurance woes. And then not figuring them out. I'm going to die; if not old and alone, then probably by some absurd accident, the effects of which I won't be able to counter through a probably simple, yet insanely costly medical procedure, since I can't seem to get a hold of anyone who can help me figure out this insurance mess or, furthermore, gives a shit.
The thing about those machines that really gets me, is when they ask me a question with a yes or no answer. Then I say 'yes,' because I indeed do desire to talk to a real live human being, even if they are in Mumbai. And, of course, in that obnoxious androgynous mechanical voice, the machine says "I'm sorry, I didn't get that," and then repeats the question. How did that machine not understand "yes?" I mean, it was created with 2 simple functions; to ask me that question, followed by understanding either "yes" or "no." Which both sound pretty different. It isn't like "yes," or "bless."
"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you want to 'yes,' or 'bless?'
"Bless! Bless dammit!"
"I'm sorry I..."
And then you feel like a phenomenal jackass, yelling yes or no into the phone 12 times. Even upon observing the sympathetic looks of everyone in the immediate vicinity that knows exactly why you are yelling a one syllable word at your phone over and over, you still want to either choke a baby machine, (not a baby making machine, but rather an infant machine) or the poor Indian that will eventually pick up from across 2 oceans.
But I wouldn't even dare choke that damn machine. Why? Because if I were to injure my hands attempting to wring its durable, metallic neck, I have no insurance to fix them. And if I can't afford insurance on my own, I certainly can't afford the plane ticket across oceans to choke an Indian.
So I guess choking is out of the picture.
The thing about those machines that really gets me, is when they ask me a question with a yes or no answer. Then I say 'yes,' because I indeed do desire to talk to a real live human being, even if they are in Mumbai. And, of course, in that obnoxious androgynous mechanical voice, the machine says "I'm sorry, I didn't get that," and then repeats the question. How did that machine not understand "yes?" I mean, it was created with 2 simple functions; to ask me that question, followed by understanding either "yes" or "no." Which both sound pretty different. It isn't like "yes," or "bless."
"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you want to 'yes,' or 'bless?'
"Bless! Bless dammit!"
"I'm sorry I..."
And then you feel like a phenomenal jackass, yelling yes or no into the phone 12 times. Even upon observing the sympathetic looks of everyone in the immediate vicinity that knows exactly why you are yelling a one syllable word at your phone over and over, you still want to either choke a baby machine, (not a baby making machine, but rather an infant machine) or the poor Indian that will eventually pick up from across 2 oceans.
But I wouldn't even dare choke that damn machine. Why? Because if I were to injure my hands attempting to wring its durable, metallic neck, I have no insurance to fix them. And if I can't afford insurance on my own, I certainly can't afford the plane ticket across oceans to choke an Indian.
So I guess choking is out of the picture.
27.4.09
Nerdery in numbers
Here's what I read this, my last and final semester at school.
We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. -353 pages.
Voices from S-21: Terror and history in Pol Pot's secret prison. -159 pages.
Hitlers willing executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust. -483 pages.
Survivors: An oral history of the Armenian Genocide. -192 pages.
Century of Genocide: Critical essays and eyewitness accounts. -632 pages.
The Native American Holocaust. -200 pages.
Now, here's what I read, and still, God knows how, managed to win college.
The Shadow Rising. -1006 pages.
The Fires of Heaven. -992 pages.
Lord of Chaos. -1011 pages.
A Crown of Swords. -880 pages.
The previous 4 are by Robert Jordan.
The next 4 are by Brandon Sanderson, the guy who is finishing the former's Wheel of Time series.
Elantris. -615 pages.
Mistborn. -647 pages.
The Well of Ascension. -781 pages.
The Hero of Ages. -755 pages.
Watchmen, by Alan Moor & Dave Gibbons. -pages numbered by chapter, so I have no idea.
The point is, I am a phenomenal nerd, and it is a miracle I won college. Or managed to do anything else, for that matter. I read all of that and still managed to have a semblance of a social life, in addition to working 30 plus hours a week.
Woot!
We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. -353 pages.
Voices from S-21: Terror and history in Pol Pot's secret prison. -159 pages.
Hitlers willing executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust. -483 pages.
Survivors: An oral history of the Armenian Genocide. -192 pages.
Century of Genocide: Critical essays and eyewitness accounts. -632 pages.
The Native American Holocaust. -200 pages.
Now, here's what I read, and still, God knows how, managed to win college.
The Shadow Rising. -1006 pages.
The Fires of Heaven. -992 pages.
Lord of Chaos. -1011 pages.
A Crown of Swords. -880 pages.
The previous 4 are by Robert Jordan.
The next 4 are by Brandon Sanderson, the guy who is finishing the former's Wheel of Time series.
Elantris. -615 pages.
Mistborn. -647 pages.
The Well of Ascension. -781 pages.
The Hero of Ages. -755 pages.
Watchmen, by Alan Moor & Dave Gibbons. -pages numbered by chapter, so I have no idea.
The point is, I am a phenomenal nerd, and it is a miracle I won college. Or managed to do anything else, for that matter. I read all of that and still managed to have a semblance of a social life, in addition to working 30 plus hours a week.
Woot!
Dear fake baked blonde girl
You aren't fooling anybody.
Listen girl, when you are 29 and your skin looks like that of a 7-11 hot dog that has been turning under the heat lamp for about 36 hours, you are going to wish you had avoided the temptation of an unnaturally tan body during January.
When I saw you tonight at a dessert party, I wondered if perhaps you fell asleep in the tanning bed, as your face was bronze to the point of looking ridiculous and I was wearing a COAT.
Do you realize that you are going to probably die at age 37 of melanoma, all for the sake of looking absurd? And if you don't die, forget about looking like anything but that hot dog. Like a haggard old cocktail waitress at a Wendover casino. Like your friend's mom in high school with bleached blond hair and skin like leather, still dressing like her teenage daughters. That is your future.
It isn't worth it. There is nothing wrong with being pasty when it is cold outside. So, save yourself a little dignity and realize that nobody but the bro's find that flattering. People are laughing at you.
Love,
Fishkins
Listen girl, when you are 29 and your skin looks like that of a 7-11 hot dog that has been turning under the heat lamp for about 36 hours, you are going to wish you had avoided the temptation of an unnaturally tan body during January.
When I saw you tonight at a dessert party, I wondered if perhaps you fell asleep in the tanning bed, as your face was bronze to the point of looking ridiculous and I was wearing a COAT.
Do you realize that you are going to probably die at age 37 of melanoma, all for the sake of looking absurd? And if you don't die, forget about looking like anything but that hot dog. Like a haggard old cocktail waitress at a Wendover casino. Like your friend's mom in high school with bleached blond hair and skin like leather, still dressing like her teenage daughters. That is your future.
It isn't worth it. There is nothing wrong with being pasty when it is cold outside. So, save yourself a little dignity and realize that nobody but the bro's find that flattering. People are laughing at you.
Love,
Fishkins
Scenester cafe
I usually loath the crotch melting heat waves that emanate from my lap top, but right now I'm so into them. My room is an ice box. Where the hell did spring go, and why did winter return with her bitter, whorish touch for one last cold, cruel embrace? Get outta here winter, I'm so done with you.
At least my crotch is sufficiently warm.
Tonight, around 1 am I ate at Cafe West. For those of you who aren't part of the scene, that would be the Provo hospital cafeteria. It's open 24 hours and they serve up one hell of a foot long corn dog. Everything there is super cheap. Except for the BBQ sauce. God forbid they give that stuff away. 25 cents a pop. Get out.
Cafe West is always an interesting adventure. I have never been there before 11 pm, and I have also never bitten into a corn dog without being surrounded by at least 7 people with whom I did not arrive wearing skinny jeans and scarves. For whatever reason, Cafe West seems to be the preferred indie/hipster/scenester/whatever you prefer to call them, post midnight place to be.
About 50 percent of the time, at some point in the evening the noise level rises above what is apparently acceptable for a hospital cafeteria. At which point a hospital rent-a-cop enters with his hand poised near his yellow taser pistol, ready to zap the shit out of any unruly pretentious asshole in a V-neck who might dare challenge his authority. Then, in a voice bordering on irrationality, the rent-a-cop yells "Hey! Listen! This is a hospital cafeteria. There are patients and people dying in here. (presumably he does not mean there are people specifically dying in the cafeteria. If he does, I've yet to see them.) There are families visiting sick people. If you can't be quieter, I'm going to have to kick you out. This is a hospital cafeteria." At which point, it gets all quiet and awkward for about 3 minutes. Then, having forgotten the awkward "You-are-disrupting-people-several-floors-up-and-multiple-walls-away" speech, due to the distracting nature of the succulent tube steak wrapped in deep fried corn bread, conversation picks up again and it's business as usual.
I usually try to leave at that point, as I feel awkward getting yelled at like that. It takes me back to high school drivers ed course, when Mr. Sperry, one of the most quiet and soft spoken councilors to work at that school, totally lost it. And I mean LOST IT. I went to high school with a lot of pricks. Lots of redneck cowboys who harassed their fellow students, and who showed little respect for teachers. One night there were a couple of the aforementioned a-holes chatting all throughout the driver's ed class. Finally, with about half an hour left, Mr. Sperry just blew up. His face turned purple as he screamed about an inch from Kenneth Winn's ear, after irrationally knocking poor Ken's hat off of his head. It was horrifying. Try going back to explaining 4 way stop etiquette after that with any dignity.
This is what I picture whenever that cop comes in yelling, as though we were a bunch of unruly teenagers. That's when you know it's time to just pound that corn dog and get the hell out.
I guess my point is...if you are a loud mouth, please stay away from Cafe West and allow me to finish my corn dog in quiet dignity.
At least my crotch is sufficiently warm.
Tonight, around 1 am I ate at Cafe West. For those of you who aren't part of the scene, that would be the Provo hospital cafeteria. It's open 24 hours and they serve up one hell of a foot long corn dog. Everything there is super cheap. Except for the BBQ sauce. God forbid they give that stuff away. 25 cents a pop. Get out.
Cafe West is always an interesting adventure. I have never been there before 11 pm, and I have also never bitten into a corn dog without being surrounded by at least 7 people with whom I did not arrive wearing skinny jeans and scarves. For whatever reason, Cafe West seems to be the preferred indie/hipster/scenester/whatever you prefer to call them, post midnight place to be.
About 50 percent of the time, at some point in the evening the noise level rises above what is apparently acceptable for a hospital cafeteria. At which point a hospital rent-a-cop enters with his hand poised near his yellow taser pistol, ready to zap the shit out of any unruly pretentious asshole in a V-neck who might dare challenge his authority. Then, in a voice bordering on irrationality, the rent-a-cop yells "Hey! Listen! This is a hospital cafeteria. There are patients and people dying in here. (presumably he does not mean there are people specifically dying in the cafeteria. If he does, I've yet to see them.) There are families visiting sick people. If you can't be quieter, I'm going to have to kick you out. This is a hospital cafeteria." At which point, it gets all quiet and awkward for about 3 minutes. Then, having forgotten the awkward "You-are-disrupting-people-several-floors-up-and-multiple-walls-away" speech, due to the distracting nature of the succulent tube steak wrapped in deep fried corn bread, conversation picks up again and it's business as usual.
I usually try to leave at that point, as I feel awkward getting yelled at like that. It takes me back to high school drivers ed course, when Mr. Sperry, one of the most quiet and soft spoken councilors to work at that school, totally lost it. And I mean LOST IT. I went to high school with a lot of pricks. Lots of redneck cowboys who harassed their fellow students, and who showed little respect for teachers. One night there were a couple of the aforementioned a-holes chatting all throughout the driver's ed class. Finally, with about half an hour left, Mr. Sperry just blew up. His face turned purple as he screamed about an inch from Kenneth Winn's ear, after irrationally knocking poor Ken's hat off of his head. It was horrifying. Try going back to explaining 4 way stop etiquette after that with any dignity.
This is what I picture whenever that cop comes in yelling, as though we were a bunch of unruly teenagers. That's when you know it's time to just pound that corn dog and get the hell out.
I guess my point is...if you are a loud mouth, please stay away from Cafe West and allow me to finish my corn dog in quiet dignity.
20.4.09
I'm a little bit curious about the got2b Magnetik gel that I found in the bathroom; curious about the who and the why of it.
The front of the bottle says: Styling Gel [with pheromones]
The mission statement on the back is this: b warned: this goes beyond your ordinary styling gel. got2bMagnetik styling gel contains pheromones--a man's secret edge to make the ladies take notice. So get your game on...because this stuff delivers firm hold and natural shine--AND gets the ladies revved up.
Which roommate purchased said gel under the impression that his "game" would indeed be improved, and why said roommate thought that such a thing might truly improve his mating abilities, is what I'm wondering.
I smelled it and was not turned on, therefore I would assume it is strictly a heterosexual gel. And lets be honest; no self respecting gay man would put that foul concoction in his hair, because it smells like ass. Nobody is going to be revving anyone up with this stuff.
I don't believe this was an accidental purchase, but one that was rather well thought out. Being a recovered gel user, I know the thought and scrutiny that goes into the purchase of a gel. There exist a plethora of different gels in the world, and this particular one claims no inherent special ability beyond that of a pheromonal draw. I mean, its a hold, polish, and shine gel. NBD. In other words, besides that of containing a supposed female attractant, it's just your average gel. And likely a 6 dollar bottle at that, since it comes from the got2b breed. Which is like...your high end mega-store/grocery store brand. Beyond that, you start getting into actual Salon products, and you can kiss your pheromones goodbye. One must then rely upon style, and well placed pelvic thrusts to rev up the ladies.
I know my gel from the embarrassing spiky hair and/or faux hawk days in which I employed the got2b glued gel. So what I'm saying here, is this gel was most certainly purchased with the express intention to improve his game and help him "get chix," as such a person would likely say. I mean, if the shine and medium hold were the only aim, he would have just gone with the ever economical L.A. Looks, or the dollar store tub-o-gel.
This brings up all sorts of disturbing questions and dilemmas. How many pheromones must be present for a company to legally claim the employment of them in a product? Who is regulating that? Does the existence of such a product undermine a woman's ability to think coherently? If so, will the distribution of rufies and other essential date rape sedative drugs decrease along side this new, legal form of "game" enhancement? Will the got2b line come out with a comparable pheromonal gel for gay men? If pheromones can truly be placed in something as simple as a hair gel, why not employ them in all aspects of cosmetics? Why am I not bathing in pheromone soap, or slathering myself up with a pheromone enhanced lotion every day? What can this mean for me, who has been so unsuccessful in the dating realm?
The possibilities for good and evil are endless.
The front of the bottle says: Styling Gel [with pheromones]
The mission statement on the back is this: b warned: this goes beyond your ordinary styling gel. got2bMagnetik styling gel contains pheromones--a man's secret edge to make the ladies take notice. So get your game on...because this stuff delivers firm hold and natural shine--AND gets the ladies revved up.
Which roommate purchased said gel under the impression that his "game" would indeed be improved, and why said roommate thought that such a thing might truly improve his mating abilities, is what I'm wondering.
I smelled it and was not turned on, therefore I would assume it is strictly a heterosexual gel. And lets be honest; no self respecting gay man would put that foul concoction in his hair, because it smells like ass. Nobody is going to be revving anyone up with this stuff.
I don't believe this was an accidental purchase, but one that was rather well thought out. Being a recovered gel user, I know the thought and scrutiny that goes into the purchase of a gel. There exist a plethora of different gels in the world, and this particular one claims no inherent special ability beyond that of a pheromonal draw. I mean, its a hold, polish, and shine gel. NBD. In other words, besides that of containing a supposed female attractant, it's just your average gel. And likely a 6 dollar bottle at that, since it comes from the got2b breed. Which is like...your high end mega-store/grocery store brand. Beyond that, you start getting into actual Salon products, and you can kiss your pheromones goodbye. One must then rely upon style, and well placed pelvic thrusts to rev up the ladies.
I know my gel from the embarrassing spiky hair and/or faux hawk days in which I employed the got2b glued gel. So what I'm saying here, is this gel was most certainly purchased with the express intention to improve his game and help him "get chix," as such a person would likely say. I mean, if the shine and medium hold were the only aim, he would have just gone with the ever economical L.A. Looks, or the dollar store tub-o-gel.
This brings up all sorts of disturbing questions and dilemmas. How many pheromones must be present for a company to legally claim the employment of them in a product? Who is regulating that? Does the existence of such a product undermine a woman's ability to think coherently? If so, will the distribution of rufies and other essential date rape sedative drugs decrease along side this new, legal form of "game" enhancement? Will the got2b line come out with a comparable pheromonal gel for gay men? If pheromones can truly be placed in something as simple as a hair gel, why not employ them in all aspects of cosmetics? Why am I not bathing in pheromone soap, or slathering myself up with a pheromone enhanced lotion every day? What can this mean for me, who has been so unsuccessful in the dating realm?
The possibilities for good and evil are endless.
15.4.09
351
Dear blog,
I have neglected you for several days due to the fact that my dear grandfather, George Dewey Fish Jr. passed away on Friday morning. To be honest, I didn't think of you much these last few days, my dear blog. I was too busy eating pulled pork (thrice) and fettuccine and lasagna from Olive Garden (blehk ((twice)) and a huge tub of generic jelly belly's, and illegally watching 3/4's of Wolverine movie, and sleeping on a supremely uncomfortable air mattress in between a night moaner and a snorer, and playing croquette about 20 times and winning NEVER, to give you any attention. Oh yes. And a lovely funeral; the reason behind all of the aforementioned items. You were the furthest thing from my mind as the Honor Guard played the taps at his grave side and made me cry.
I regret to inform you, dear blog, that you shall remain the furthest thing from my mind for the next 7 days, as I a) do my taxes, b)finish a plethora of reading and write a 4 page paper, c)research my little heart out and fix a 16 page paper, half of which needs serious work, d) work 7 shifts, e) attempt not to kill myself, all so I can win college, not go broke, and avoid notice from the IRS.
So, dear sweet blog, should I survive the week, I shall give thee all manner of attention and sweet affection. Why? Because I'll never have to feel guilty for spending time with you again, for never again shall I be neglecting things of greater importance (college) to update you. No college, no girlfriend. It's just me and you.
The sun shall rise upon a whole new world for us, dear blog.
3:51 am should explain this post pretty well, I think.
I have neglected you for several days due to the fact that my dear grandfather, George Dewey Fish Jr. passed away on Friday morning. To be honest, I didn't think of you much these last few days, my dear blog. I was too busy eating pulled pork (thrice) and fettuccine and lasagna from Olive Garden (blehk ((twice)) and a huge tub of generic jelly belly's, and illegally watching 3/4's of Wolverine movie, and sleeping on a supremely uncomfortable air mattress in between a night moaner and a snorer, and playing croquette about 20 times and winning NEVER, to give you any attention. Oh yes. And a lovely funeral; the reason behind all of the aforementioned items. You were the furthest thing from my mind as the Honor Guard played the taps at his grave side and made me cry.
I regret to inform you, dear blog, that you shall remain the furthest thing from my mind for the next 7 days, as I a) do my taxes, b)finish a plethora of reading and write a 4 page paper, c)research my little heart out and fix a 16 page paper, half of which needs serious work, d) work 7 shifts, e) attempt not to kill myself, all so I can win college, not go broke, and avoid notice from the IRS.
So, dear sweet blog, should I survive the week, I shall give thee all manner of attention and sweet affection. Why? Because I'll never have to feel guilty for spending time with you again, for never again shall I be neglecting things of greater importance (college) to update you. No college, no girlfriend. It's just me and you.
The sun shall rise upon a whole new world for us, dear blog.
3:51 am should explain this post pretty well, I think.
9.4.09
What the hell is this Twitter nonsense? Could someone please explain it to me? Could someone also give me a little insight into why anybody thinks everyone gives a damn about what a person is doing every 15 minutes?
I'm loosing my mind here.
Okay. So I'm on Facebook. Who isn't? My 80 year old grandmother has an f-book account for crying out loud. Which, throws a new question into the meat grinder--am I a terrible person if I deny friendship with my grandmother on facebook? I guess that shouldn't be a conditional question, because I DID. I'm sorry, but I just don't think grandmas belong on f-book. I don't need grandmothers or parents or friends of my parents, keeping tabs on my college life, vapid though it may be. I'm getting off track here.
Every time I check facebook (which, is multiple times a day due to being able to carry the internet in my pocket) there is this guy who has like...15 status updates. I have been informed this is happening via Twitter, the sole purpose of which is to update planet earth as to one's constant goings on. Like..."Class over. Should I go pee or eat some beef jerky?" I don't give a shit. But...maybe pee, and then eat beef jerky? No! Wait. Ugh, can't get sucked in.
I just really, really don't care. And the apparent narcissism involved that would compel one to feel the need to constantly update people is astounding. I mean, I suppose were you Britney Spears, I would obviously want to know EXACTLY what you were doing ALL THE TIME. But really Provo guy...give it a rest.
Am I missing something? Please explain this to me, as I am lost to the point of it all.
I'm loosing my mind here.
Okay. So I'm on Facebook. Who isn't? My 80 year old grandmother has an f-book account for crying out loud. Which, throws a new question into the meat grinder--am I a terrible person if I deny friendship with my grandmother on facebook? I guess that shouldn't be a conditional question, because I DID. I'm sorry, but I just don't think grandmas belong on f-book. I don't need grandmothers or parents or friends of my parents, keeping tabs on my college life, vapid though it may be. I'm getting off track here.
Every time I check facebook (which, is multiple times a day due to being able to carry the internet in my pocket) there is this guy who has like...15 status updates. I have been informed this is happening via Twitter, the sole purpose of which is to update planet earth as to one's constant goings on. Like..."Class over. Should I go pee or eat some beef jerky?" I don't give a shit. But...maybe pee, and then eat beef jerky? No! Wait. Ugh, can't get sucked in.
I just really, really don't care. And the apparent narcissism involved that would compel one to feel the need to constantly update people is astounding. I mean, I suppose were you Britney Spears, I would obviously want to know EXACTLY what you were doing ALL THE TIME. But really Provo guy...give it a rest.
Am I missing something? Please explain this to me, as I am lost to the point of it all.
3.4.09
Misplaced pronouns
So me and bread have this cycle. It begins at the grocery store, when I suddenly have really great intentions to start eating lots of sandwiches, rather than eating out. I usually attempt to seek out something from the wheat genre. I purchase the bread, usually along with a few sandwich accessories. Like a meat. Maybe a cheese. Possibly something green, if I'm feeling fat.
This little sandwich splurge usually occurs when I am hungry, and have made the mistake of shopping in such a weak, lustful state. When I get home, I create a delicious sandwich. Bread goes in the top shelf of my cupboard, perishables into the fridge NOT located in the kitchen, as anything that goes into that particular fridge that hasn't been sealed by the hand of God himself in some from of cryogenic sealing unit, is ultimately tainted by some malodorous flavor, the source of which is a mystery.
At this point I forget about bread for a few days.
Days later, I remember I have a loaf of bread slowly rotting in the cupboard. After thoroughly checking for mold, I build a sandwich. Upon consumption, I realize that the bread has a strange flavor. At this point, I assume that the bread is probably teeming with mold spores, just waiting to visibly flower upon the bread proper. Generally, I finish the sandwich, and then throw away the rest of the loaf.
That's what happens with me and bread.
Today, I created a chicken burger, roasted red pepper hummus, and laughing cow Swiss cheese--a French favorite, mind you--sandwich, and sat down to eat it. Immediately, even through the intensely potent amalgam of various flavors, I was able to pick out that all too familiar "weird" bread flavor. "Son of a bitch," I thought. "I just bought this bread like...a day ago."
So I ripped off a small corner, and ate that by itself in an attempt to place the taste. I ripped off another one. As I sat there chewing, I thought "Huh. This tastes like tranquil lavender. Why the hell does my bread taste like tranquil lavender?" m
Then I remembered. "Oh. Maybe because you store your bread in a cupboard, sitting on top of a box of tranquil lavender dryer sheets, idiot," I said to me.
I guess I've been consuming tranquil lavender essence for months now. I'm just thrilled to know that my kitchen cupboard really isn't a time bending bread trap, that somehow miraculously ages bread faster than the average cupboard.
Mystery solved, tranquil lavender sheets moved, one more bread loaf in the garbage can.
Me and bread are going to have quite a different relationship from here on out, methinks.
This little sandwich splurge usually occurs when I am hungry, and have made the mistake of shopping in such a weak, lustful state. When I get home, I create a delicious sandwich. Bread goes in the top shelf of my cupboard, perishables into the fridge NOT located in the kitchen, as anything that goes into that particular fridge that hasn't been sealed by the hand of God himself in some from of cryogenic sealing unit, is ultimately tainted by some malodorous flavor, the source of which is a mystery.
At this point I forget about bread for a few days.
Days later, I remember I have a loaf of bread slowly rotting in the cupboard. After thoroughly checking for mold, I build a sandwich. Upon consumption, I realize that the bread has a strange flavor. At this point, I assume that the bread is probably teeming with mold spores, just waiting to visibly flower upon the bread proper. Generally, I finish the sandwich, and then throw away the rest of the loaf.
That's what happens with me and bread.
Today, I created a chicken burger, roasted red pepper hummus, and laughing cow Swiss cheese--a French favorite, mind you--sandwich, and sat down to eat it. Immediately, even through the intensely potent amalgam of various flavors, I was able to pick out that all too familiar "weird" bread flavor. "Son of a bitch," I thought. "I just bought this bread like...a day ago."
So I ripped off a small corner, and ate that by itself in an attempt to place the taste. I ripped off another one. As I sat there chewing, I thought "Huh. This tastes like tranquil lavender. Why the hell does my bread taste like tranquil lavender?" m
Then I remembered. "Oh. Maybe because you store your bread in a cupboard, sitting on top of a box of tranquil lavender dryer sheets, idiot," I said to me.
I guess I've been consuming tranquil lavender essence for months now. I'm just thrilled to know that my kitchen cupboard really isn't a time bending bread trap, that somehow miraculously ages bread faster than the average cupboard.
Mystery solved, tranquil lavender sheets moved, one more bread loaf in the garbage can.
Me and bread are going to have quite a different relationship from here on out, methinks.
Bobcats
I find myself quickly approaching a crossroads. Well. Perhaps not a crossroads. A crossroads would imply that a specific decision must be made, between at least 2 viable options. Or would it be 3? Straight, left, or right? Or 4? Because I suppose one could always turn back around.
I guess, rather than a crossroads, I am approaching a great and spacious "unknown." It's like this; throughout one's life, there are constant and attainable milestones littering one's future. Maybe the first one is starting school. My first was probably becoming a Bobcat. Oh, how I anticipated drinking the wretched bobcat juice, which might have consisted of any number of fanciful boyish fantasies; creature blood, vomit, actual bobcat excrement. It was probably more along the lines of sugarless Koolaid, but oh how I was excited to sup from that fake coconut and twist my face in disgust at whatever it was. So all the other pre-bobcats could writhe in jealousy. So I could be a big deal. A bobcat bitches.
Maybe the next one was high school. You wait your whole life to get there, and suddenly wham! You have 3 friends, none of whom are "cool," and you get made fun of my rednecks all day. Real cool, that goal.
Four years. Such an unbelievably long time. High school was like...forever. The drama, the intrigue, the loneliness, the mischief...seemed like it would never end. Then suddenly it did end. And, despite all of the horror, I liked it. But so what? One more milestone down, one more right around the corner.
I was a missionary. I learned Spanish. I got fat. I baptized people. I didn't eat tacos or grape flavored ANYTHING for 2 years. Suddenly, that too was finished. So what. Now college and a wife.
I assumed the whole wife thing would happen way before college would end, thus giving my life a "purpose." I mean, when you have a wife, then you have kids. You get a job to support said wife and kids. You start buying a house. You get a better job. You acquire "things," and go on vacations, and start your kids on the path to become bobcats and brownies.
But what happens when you accidentally skip the wife part, and just finish college? And with a degree that guides you in no particular direction?
Suddenly, you feel out of readily attainable milestones, and you wonder how it happened.
It's all been so easy to this point; one bobcat after another. Now, the bobcats are much more elusive. I'm not entirely certain which ones to seek out, or where exactly to seek them.
And so, here I sit, ready to (in theory) graduate in 30 days. Do I stay here and languish away in Provo, strapped down by the "where the hell else will I get married" mantra? Do I seek greener pastures?
Gimmie a bobcat here.
I guess, rather than a crossroads, I am approaching a great and spacious "unknown." It's like this; throughout one's life, there are constant and attainable milestones littering one's future. Maybe the first one is starting school. My first was probably becoming a Bobcat. Oh, how I anticipated drinking the wretched bobcat juice, which might have consisted of any number of fanciful boyish fantasies; creature blood, vomit, actual bobcat excrement. It was probably more along the lines of sugarless Koolaid, but oh how I was excited to sup from that fake coconut and twist my face in disgust at whatever it was. So all the other pre-bobcats could writhe in jealousy. So I could be a big deal. A bobcat bitches.Maybe the next one was high school. You wait your whole life to get there, and suddenly wham! You have 3 friends, none of whom are "cool," and you get made fun of my rednecks all day. Real cool, that goal.
Four years. Such an unbelievably long time. High school was like...forever. The drama, the intrigue, the loneliness, the mischief...seemed like it would never end. Then suddenly it did end. And, despite all of the horror, I liked it. But so what? One more milestone down, one more right around the corner.
I was a missionary. I learned Spanish. I got fat. I baptized people. I didn't eat tacos or grape flavored ANYTHING for 2 years. Suddenly, that too was finished. So what. Now college and a wife.
I assumed the whole wife thing would happen way before college would end, thus giving my life a "purpose." I mean, when you have a wife, then you have kids. You get a job to support said wife and kids. You start buying a house. You get a better job. You acquire "things," and go on vacations, and start your kids on the path to become bobcats and brownies.
But what happens when you accidentally skip the wife part, and just finish college? And with a degree that guides you in no particular direction?
Suddenly, you feel out of readily attainable milestones, and you wonder how it happened.
It's all been so easy to this point; one bobcat after another. Now, the bobcats are much more elusive. I'm not entirely certain which ones to seek out, or where exactly to seek them.
And so, here I sit, ready to (in theory) graduate in 30 days. Do I stay here and languish away in Provo, strapped down by the "where the hell else will I get married" mantra? Do I seek greener pastures?
Gimmie a bobcat here.
29.3.09
Tongue in cheek
So a few days ago I had a black man arrested for interrupting my lunch. Okay not really. But actually kind of.
Let me explain, for I realize that sounds pretty absurd. I mean, you are likely thinking..."What? A black man in Provo? Preposterous."
Colin and I were eating at Sam Hawk for lunch. Its located right next to that really awesome dollar store called Honks. 88 cent Tuesdays. Get outta town.
So we're eating, and this black guy comes in. (I only point out that he is black, due to the anomaly of actually interacting with a black man in Provo.) There was only one other table in the restaurant, besides Colin and me. So the guy approaches the table and assaults me with a flood of incoherent, drunk smelling conversation. All I could really understand was something about talking to him around the corner. I responded that I had no idea what he was talking about.
He then, incoherently, asked for money for food. I replied that I had no cash. He then asked me if I would just buy him a pizza. I told him I would think about it, hoping he would just go away. Due to his incoherent drunkenness, this entire exchange took about 2 minutes, by which point I was becoming rather annoyed. After I told him I would think about it, he then grabbed a chair and sat down and stared at me.
"Hell no," I thought. I'm eating lunch.
So while sitting there staring at me, he started harassing the poor little Asian waitress, mumbling something about stealing her bike. Realizing that the Koreans obviously weren't going to do anything about the situation, coupled with the fact that the Provo city police department certainly didn't have anything better to do, I decided to head to the bathroom and give them a call.
Like...53 seconds later, two cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. One of the cops came back in and asked what happened and who called. I explained the situation, and then the cop asked the waitress if the man had ever been in there before. She responded that he came in and bothered them EVERY DAY. Every damn day, and they had never done anything about it.
This is America, dammit. You can kick people out of your store when they act like and/or are drunken assholes. So really, I was sort of a hero. The cops told the owner that if the man returned, they would arrest him and take him to jail. Who knows how long those poor Koreans would have put up with that.
Upon arriving home, it suddenly dawned on me why the guy said he had talked to me around the corner.
Because he had. At my house. Like...2 months ago.
He showed up on the doorstep, asking about the room for rent in the basement. I informed him that such a room didn't exist. He sat there confused for a minute, and then asked me if I was sure. I let him know that I was fairly certain that there existed zero hidden rooms in the basement for rent, but that he would be welcomed to stay in the creepy dungeon room with the dirt floor, stone walls, and spiderwebs draping from the ceiling, for a small stipend. I asked him what address he was looking for, and he gave the first half of my address, but on 1st west. I informed him he was a block off.
So I had this little epiphany after I called the police and got him handcuffed. I hope that he was drunk enough that he thought the Koreans called the police, and therefore doesn't retaliate by stealing my bike. Maybe he will just steal the waitress's bike, which certainly can't be as expensive as my bike.
Moral of the story? Don't drunkenly interrupt my lunch.
Let me explain, for I realize that sounds pretty absurd. I mean, you are likely thinking..."What? A black man in Provo? Preposterous."
Colin and I were eating at Sam Hawk for lunch. Its located right next to that really awesome dollar store called Honks. 88 cent Tuesdays. Get outta town.
So we're eating, and this black guy comes in. (I only point out that he is black, due to the anomaly of actually interacting with a black man in Provo.) There was only one other table in the restaurant, besides Colin and me. So the guy approaches the table and assaults me with a flood of incoherent, drunk smelling conversation. All I could really understand was something about talking to him around the corner. I responded that I had no idea what he was talking about.
He then, incoherently, asked for money for food. I replied that I had no cash. He then asked me if I would just buy him a pizza. I told him I would think about it, hoping he would just go away. Due to his incoherent drunkenness, this entire exchange took about 2 minutes, by which point I was becoming rather annoyed. After I told him I would think about it, he then grabbed a chair and sat down and stared at me.
"Hell no," I thought. I'm eating lunch.
So while sitting there staring at me, he started harassing the poor little Asian waitress, mumbling something about stealing her bike. Realizing that the Koreans obviously weren't going to do anything about the situation, coupled with the fact that the Provo city police department certainly didn't have anything better to do, I decided to head to the bathroom and give them a call.
Like...53 seconds later, two cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. One of the cops came back in and asked what happened and who called. I explained the situation, and then the cop asked the waitress if the man had ever been in there before. She responded that he came in and bothered them EVERY DAY. Every damn day, and they had never done anything about it.
This is America, dammit. You can kick people out of your store when they act like and/or are drunken assholes. So really, I was sort of a hero. The cops told the owner that if the man returned, they would arrest him and take him to jail. Who knows how long those poor Koreans would have put up with that.
Upon arriving home, it suddenly dawned on me why the guy said he had talked to me around the corner.
Because he had. At my house. Like...2 months ago.
He showed up on the doorstep, asking about the room for rent in the basement. I informed him that such a room didn't exist. He sat there confused for a minute, and then asked me if I was sure. I let him know that I was fairly certain that there existed zero hidden rooms in the basement for rent, but that he would be welcomed to stay in the creepy dungeon room with the dirt floor, stone walls, and spiderwebs draping from the ceiling, for a small stipend. I asked him what address he was looking for, and he gave the first half of my address, but on 1st west. I informed him he was a block off.
So I had this little epiphany after I called the police and got him handcuffed. I hope that he was drunk enough that he thought the Koreans called the police, and therefore doesn't retaliate by stealing my bike. Maybe he will just steal the waitress's bike, which certainly can't be as expensive as my bike.
Moral of the story? Don't drunkenly interrupt my lunch.
22.3.09
No dignity part VI
Pleeeeaassseee. Please. Puhhhllleeeease. For the sake of your own personal dignity, and my sanity, PLEASE don't ever, whilst dining in a restaurant, ask if something is FREE. Like, for instance, if I ask you if you desire an appetizer. Rather than simply saying, "Not today," PLEASE don't say something to the effect of, "Do you still bring out the free bread?"
And then please don't proceed to convince the others at your table that an appetizer is unnecessary, because he (me) is going to bring us (them) free bread (damn you.)
When you are at Denny's, it's probably okay to ask if something is free. Like if you are worried that all those little jelly's that come with your grand slam toast are free or not. But not in a restaurant where there exist items upon the menu that exceed 20 dollars. And where wine is sold. And where the servers aren't wearing jeans, but pressed white 100% cotton shirts and ties.
Have a little dignity, and avoid the word "Free."
I guess I should have seen 4 dollars on 37 coming.
And then please don't proceed to convince the others at your table that an appetizer is unnecessary, because he (me) is going to bring us (them) free bread (damn you.)
When you are at Denny's, it's probably okay to ask if something is free. Like if you are worried that all those little jelly's that come with your grand slam toast are free or not. But not in a restaurant where there exist items upon the menu that exceed 20 dollars. And where wine is sold. And where the servers aren't wearing jeans, but pressed white 100% cotton shirts and ties.
Have a little dignity, and avoid the word "Free."
I guess I should have seen 4 dollars on 37 coming.
20.3.09
Waterfalls
Does anyone else feel like this picture is rather baffling?
Every week I go drown myself in nerdery for about an hour and a half at BYU. I am attending a "how to write science fiction and fantasy" class, filled with the greatest collection of world of warcraft indulging dragon lovers that I have ever encountered. There is one guy in there who changes his computer screen back ground at least 3 times per class, usually starting with some sort of mystical dragon imagery, and ending with a scene from some absurdly beautiful elven realm.
After explaining some final requirements, Mr. Sanderson asked the class if we would prefer him to talk about how to create short stories, or to look up other people's self published fantasy books online, and rip them apart/fix them. Obviously the latter was what the majority chose. He would google search for self published fantasy novels, find one, and then find the first chapter online. He would then have someone in the class read the chapter out loud, and then he would critique it.
This was funny, because people in the class would be snickering and mocking the ridiculousness of what people were writing about, or their writing style, or whatever. Mr. Sanderson implored people not to laugh, to just learn. All I could think about, was that here was a heaping bundle of aspiring fantasy writers, making fun of crap that was more than likely just as bad as whatever they were writing. I mean, the whole class was laughing. And unless Mr. Sanderson some how put together some truly magnificent, crack squad of prodigy amateur writers, chances were that at the very least half of those scorners' own stories sucked.
As people made suggestions on how to better improve these stories, I could see them just seething with pretension. I could practically hear them thinking, "I am someone credible because I am taking a class from fantasy master Brandon Sanderson." Yeah, so am I, and I'm a nobody, just like you. I guess all I'm saying is, the guy with the World of Warcraft t-shirt and the flaming unicorn battling an orc screen saver really shouldn't be making fun of anybody, for any reason.
So on my way out of class, I noticed the above picture. It is one of those pictures that are located in pretty much every BYU edifice, portraying the building's namesake. And this is certainly the weirdest one I have ever come across. If the picture is of 3 siblings, then that is one strange set up. It seems to me, however, that the 2 snuggly old people are married. And then there is the other guy. Just standing there. With the snuggly married couple. Just right there. Happy as a clam to be included. Not to mention the painting of the strapping old fellow striking a rather swarthy pose behind them. Its like a suit waterfall, cascading into a turquoise pool of old lady.
Cool. I guess. Or something.
16.3.09
Kissing and stuff
As previously mentioned, I came across my old journal. This little gem was written about a girl on whom I had a most intense crush.
"Amber Isaac. Isn't that the best name you ever heard? That is the name of the girl I plan to mary. She or if she is taken, maybe her sister." As Mormons, it would appear the desire to get married is instilled in us at a rather young age. "After my mission, she will be about 20. And if shes not already taken, I'll hit on her hard." I have no idea what exactly I meant by that. At that age, quite possibly I was planning on shoving her into a bush or giving her a white wash to prove my love. "But if she is taken, I have some alternatives. Its like this. Her sister, is most likly going to be a babe. She is younger than me, but when she gets more developed she will be hot." That statement would be rather incriminating and pretty perverted, had I not made it before I even had more than 7 public hairs. And yes, I misspelled that on purpose. Sounds less filthy that way. Who left the publics on the toilet? See? Way less harmful. "But any way, if Amber is taken, her sister will be about 18 or 19. It will work out well. Like I said, I have it all figured out."
I read this journal entry to a friend tonight. As I read that last part, it dawned on me that the person to whom I was reading was barely 20. So...When I was 14, I was writing about how I would marry a girl who was the age of the girl I was sitting next to...which means the girl I was sitting next to was approximately seven when I was making that entry. Yikes.
"The time I look most forward to, is waiting for my ride. That is about the only time of the day I get to talk to Amber. (When she is there.) I also get rides with her quite a bit. I love talking to her. I can be having the worst day, but if i talk to her, My day flips a Uie. I am going to right some info that I have found out about her: her b-day is June 11, her favorite band is No Doubt, and she also likes Oasis, and Bush. She likes the radio station x-96. She moved to nephi about 2 yrs ago. She likes to roller blade at the old gym on saturday nights from 6:00 to 9:00. I am thinking about asking her to go with me mabey this sat. or the next."
I was quite an adept little stalker, it would appear. I love that I referred to it as "info" I found out about her. This actually reminds me of a crush I had on a girl when I was like 10. She was my piano teachers daughter. Her name was Mandy McClellan. My crush consisted of calling her up, and then hanging up, (which tactic I still currently employ, although it is way less dramatic since there is not actually a phone to slam down, just a button) and spying on her house from behind a parked car, and throwing little pebbles at her door. Which, turned out to be the wrong house entirely. It would appear that I would become greatly disoriented in the 6 block car ride to get to my piano lesson. I was off by like...3 cul-de-sacs.
This entry was the best though: "Today was so boring. I probably went through my, well the conversation that I am goin to have with Amber tomorrow a ton of times. (or when ever she is waiting for her ride next time wich will hope fully be this week.) First I will go up to her an casualy ask when again the time on saturday that the place to skate opens." So phenomenally incoherent, that last sentence. "Then I'll ask if she goes there often. Then ask if lots of people go. Then I'll ask what kind of roller blades she has. And I'll ask how good she is. Depending on that answer, if she says she is not very good I'll ask her a couple of questions then I'll say do you want to go this saturday? Mabe I could show you how to do some stuff. Or if she is good, than I'll just ask if she is going on Saturday. Then if she say's no, I'll say, mabe well have to go togeather some time. it will work out quite nicly."
The sad thing is, I still do this very thing. Honest to God.
The next entry, 2 months later, bears sad news. "Well, I'm over Amber Isaac now. A ton of stuff has happened since I last wrote and stuff. I found out that Amber really liked me. She even wanted to go out with me and stuff. So I a asked her out but she couldn't because of her parrents and stuff. So we got really close. We even kissed once. Then once i put my around around her and stuff. We would go on walks and stuff alot. We would hang out alot and stuff. Then once saturday we were at classic and I asked her out again. But she blew me off. Now we are barely even school friends. Mean while I started to like this girl Julie Martinez. But she really likes one of my best friends alot so I don't got a chance." Story of my life.
So, in three consecutive entries over a span of 2 months, I found my true love, the girl I wanted to marry, planned and apparently successfully executed a stellar conversation with her, and then lost her. Apparently, when 14, somehow the kiss proceeded the arm around step. Well, I guess that was probably because it was an arm-around-and-stuff. The kiss wasn't even a kiss and stuff. Just a kiss. So, I guess the "stuff" is what made the difference there. Although, I can't for the life of me remember what the stuff was. Boy, it must have been great though. So great, that I had to codify it with "stuff." You know, In case my journal ever fell into the wrong hands.
Dear God, no wonder I lost her.
"Amber Isaac. Isn't that the best name you ever heard? That is the name of the girl I plan to mary. She or if she is taken, maybe her sister." As Mormons, it would appear the desire to get married is instilled in us at a rather young age. "After my mission, she will be about 20. And if shes not already taken, I'll hit on her hard." I have no idea what exactly I meant by that. At that age, quite possibly I was planning on shoving her into a bush or giving her a white wash to prove my love. "But if she is taken, I have some alternatives. Its like this. Her sister, is most likly going to be a babe. She is younger than me, but when she gets more developed she will be hot." That statement would be rather incriminating and pretty perverted, had I not made it before I even had more than 7 public hairs. And yes, I misspelled that on purpose. Sounds less filthy that way. Who left the publics on the toilet? See? Way less harmful. "But any way, if Amber is taken, her sister will be about 18 or 19. It will work out well. Like I said, I have it all figured out."
I read this journal entry to a friend tonight. As I read that last part, it dawned on me that the person to whom I was reading was barely 20. So...When I was 14, I was writing about how I would marry a girl who was the age of the girl I was sitting next to...which means the girl I was sitting next to was approximately seven when I was making that entry. Yikes.
"The time I look most forward to, is waiting for my ride. That is about the only time of the day I get to talk to Amber. (When she is there.) I also get rides with her quite a bit. I love talking to her. I can be having the worst day, but if i talk to her, My day flips a Uie. I am going to right some info that I have found out about her: her b-day is June 11, her favorite band is No Doubt, and she also likes Oasis, and Bush. She likes the radio station x-96. She moved to nephi about 2 yrs ago. She likes to roller blade at the old gym on saturday nights from 6:00 to 9:00. I am thinking about asking her to go with me mabey this sat. or the next."
I was quite an adept little stalker, it would appear. I love that I referred to it as "info" I found out about her. This actually reminds me of a crush I had on a girl when I was like 10. She was my piano teachers daughter. Her name was Mandy McClellan. My crush consisted of calling her up, and then hanging up, (which tactic I still currently employ, although it is way less dramatic since there is not actually a phone to slam down, just a button) and spying on her house from behind a parked car, and throwing little pebbles at her door. Which, turned out to be the wrong house entirely. It would appear that I would become greatly disoriented in the 6 block car ride to get to my piano lesson. I was off by like...3 cul-de-sacs.
This entry was the best though: "Today was so boring. I probably went through my, well the conversation that I am goin to have with Amber tomorrow a ton of times. (or when ever she is waiting for her ride next time wich will hope fully be this week.) First I will go up to her an casualy ask when again the time on saturday that the place to skate opens." So phenomenally incoherent, that last sentence. "Then I'll ask if she goes there often. Then ask if lots of people go. Then I'll ask what kind of roller blades she has. And I'll ask how good she is. Depending on that answer, if she says she is not very good I'll ask her a couple of questions then I'll say do you want to go this saturday? Mabe I could show you how to do some stuff. Or if she is good, than I'll just ask if she is going on Saturday. Then if she say's no, I'll say, mabe well have to go togeather some time. it will work out quite nicly."
The sad thing is, I still do this very thing. Honest to God.
The next entry, 2 months later, bears sad news. "Well, I'm over Amber Isaac now. A ton of stuff has happened since I last wrote and stuff. I found out that Amber really liked me. She even wanted to go out with me and stuff. So I a asked her out but she couldn't because of her parrents and stuff. So we got really close. We even kissed once. Then once i put my around around her and stuff. We would go on walks and stuff alot. We would hang out alot and stuff. Then once saturday we were at classic and I asked her out again. But she blew me off. Now we are barely even school friends. Mean while I started to like this girl Julie Martinez. But she really likes one of my best friends alot so I don't got a chance." Story of my life.
So, in three consecutive entries over a span of 2 months, I found my true love, the girl I wanted to marry, planned and apparently successfully executed a stellar conversation with her, and then lost her. Apparently, when 14, somehow the kiss proceeded the arm around step. Well, I guess that was probably because it was an arm-around-and-stuff. The kiss wasn't even a kiss and stuff. Just a kiss. So, I guess the "stuff" is what made the difference there. Although, I can't for the life of me remember what the stuff was. Boy, it must have been great though. So great, that I had to codify it with "stuff." You know, In case my journal ever fell into the wrong hands.
Dear God, no wonder I lost her.
15.3.09
Hey asshole
OMG. One of the funniest things I have ever witnessed occurred today, and I fear I completely lack the writing ability to do the story any justice.
This afternoon I and 5 friends long boarded the canyon. Somewhere near the bottom, there is a bridge. Adjacent and parallel to the bridge, there is a large cement tube extending over the river. Upon arriving at that particular spot, I mentioned that I had always wanted to skate across the cement tube. So David, on an old school neon pink board called "Turbo II," did just that.
So there we found ourselves, all on top of the tube, looking down at the fish. After about 20 minutes, we all climbed back down to the bridge and were looking at the water. Mark climbed down over the side of the bridge, and was attempting to untangle a piece of fishing line in hopes of finding a lure. Apparently he is suddenly into fishing.
Joe was standing to my left, and Andre, David and Holly to my right, and Mark was below us on a small ledge near the water. Joe, holding onto the rail, suddenly leans back. I hear a squealing of breaks, and I look to the left just as a man skids to a stop on an old, orange mountain bike. With his left hand on the handlebar, he turns the rest of his torso around and says, "Hey asshole!"
I immediately noticed that this man looked remarkably similar to Napoleon Dynamite. So, if you will, picture a slightly more retarded looking Napoleon, curly hair smashed under a helmet, yelling "Hey asshole!" If he did not sound exactly like Napoleon, may God strike me dead where I type.
At first, I thought he was scolding Joe, for having leaned out and possibly almost caused him to wreck. However, Napoleon was looking at Mark with a really bewildered, angry look on his face. The next thing he yelled was, "What are you doing down there!?"
"What?!" yelled Mark. But in a really ridiculous, exaggerated voice. One would probably have to know Mark to get a complete grasp on what was about to follow. Mark is the guy who used to, and not at all subtly, change the words in church hymns to things like, "skowdle dodle skeedle dee, treedle dodle dee." For example, Angles We Have Heard On High might go something like this: "Angels skeedle deeeeedle dee, skodle treedle deedle dee, and the mountains skowdle dow, hum bum skeedle, deedle dee." Plenty loud, for all to hear. Mark is also the guy who, in a talk in church, advised the congregation that we were to "commit none such murderings, or stealings. Nor robbings, nor stabbings, nor plunderings, nay, not even one plundering." Mark is also the guy who used to go to parties and play "game killers," which consisted of him going up to a sweet bro talking to a girl, and attempt to kill his game. This task was completed by proving his own fabricated higher level of douchebaggery, usually accomplished by explaining how sweet his car was, and how his dad had totally hooked him up with a Costco card and a big screen TV.
That is Mark.
"What are you even saying to me mister!?"
"What the heck are you doing down there?" Asked Napoleon.
"What?! Because I can do what ever I want!" ridiculously exclaimed Mark, as he dramatically threw his fishing line down into the water.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?! That water is col..."
"What?!" As Mark cut him off in mid sentence with another what, he slapped his hand down on the rail, and then climbed back over the rail. It would appear that at that point, Napoleon didn't really know what to do, and so pedaled away, looking over his shoulder every few feet. He stopped again, about 50 yards down the trail and stared for another few moments, before continuing on.
I was barely able to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Part of what was so funny was the irony of calling someone he thought was going to possibly kill himself an asshole.
It is quite possible that this is funny to nobody but me. As I said, it is difficult to convey the particular humor of this situation through writing. It would be like writing out Will Ferell's Cow bell skit on Saturday night live. It just wouldn't be as funny, because the tone and particular nuances that he employs just can't quite be conveyed in writing. I don't know if I could even tell this well in person, because I have a hard time impersonating Mark. But if nothing else, the line "Hey asshole," directed at Mark who was minding his own business, by a person highly resembling Napoleon Dynamite, is a pretty funny mental picture, and I've been cracking up every time I think about it all night.
I've never heard a funnier, more well placed asshole, and I never really expect to.
This afternoon I and 5 friends long boarded the canyon. Somewhere near the bottom, there is a bridge. Adjacent and parallel to the bridge, there is a large cement tube extending over the river. Upon arriving at that particular spot, I mentioned that I had always wanted to skate across the cement tube. So David, on an old school neon pink board called "Turbo II," did just that.
So there we found ourselves, all on top of the tube, looking down at the fish. After about 20 minutes, we all climbed back down to the bridge and were looking at the water. Mark climbed down over the side of the bridge, and was attempting to untangle a piece of fishing line in hopes of finding a lure. Apparently he is suddenly into fishing.
Joe was standing to my left, and Andre, David and Holly to my right, and Mark was below us on a small ledge near the water. Joe, holding onto the rail, suddenly leans back. I hear a squealing of breaks, and I look to the left just as a man skids to a stop on an old, orange mountain bike. With his left hand on the handlebar, he turns the rest of his torso around and says, "Hey asshole!"
I immediately noticed that this man looked remarkably similar to Napoleon Dynamite. So, if you will, picture a slightly more retarded looking Napoleon, curly hair smashed under a helmet, yelling "Hey asshole!" If he did not sound exactly like Napoleon, may God strike me dead where I type.
At first, I thought he was scolding Joe, for having leaned out and possibly almost caused him to wreck. However, Napoleon was looking at Mark with a really bewildered, angry look on his face. The next thing he yelled was, "What are you doing down there!?"
"What?!" yelled Mark. But in a really ridiculous, exaggerated voice. One would probably have to know Mark to get a complete grasp on what was about to follow. Mark is the guy who used to, and not at all subtly, change the words in church hymns to things like, "skowdle dodle skeedle dee, treedle dodle dee." For example, Angles We Have Heard On High might go something like this: "Angels skeedle deeeeedle dee, skodle treedle deedle dee, and the mountains skowdle dow, hum bum skeedle, deedle dee." Plenty loud, for all to hear. Mark is also the guy who, in a talk in church, advised the congregation that we were to "commit none such murderings, or stealings. Nor robbings, nor stabbings, nor plunderings, nay, not even one plundering." Mark is also the guy who used to go to parties and play "game killers," which consisted of him going up to a sweet bro talking to a girl, and attempt to kill his game. This task was completed by proving his own fabricated higher level of douchebaggery, usually accomplished by explaining how sweet his car was, and how his dad had totally hooked him up with a Costco card and a big screen TV.
That is Mark."What are you even saying to me mister!?"
"What the heck are you doing down there?" Asked Napoleon.
"What?! Because I can do what ever I want!" ridiculously exclaimed Mark, as he dramatically threw his fishing line down into the water.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?! That water is col..."
"What?!" As Mark cut him off in mid sentence with another what, he slapped his hand down on the rail, and then climbed back over the rail. It would appear that at that point, Napoleon didn't really know what to do, and so pedaled away, looking over his shoulder every few feet. He stopped again, about 50 yards down the trail and stared for another few moments, before continuing on.
I was barely able to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Part of what was so funny was the irony of calling someone he thought was going to possibly kill himself an asshole.
It is quite possible that this is funny to nobody but me. As I said, it is difficult to convey the particular humor of this situation through writing. It would be like writing out Will Ferell's Cow bell skit on Saturday night live. It just wouldn't be as funny, because the tone and particular nuances that he employs just can't quite be conveyed in writing. I don't know if I could even tell this well in person, because I have a hard time impersonating Mark. But if nothing else, the line "Hey asshole," directed at Mark who was minding his own business, by a person highly resembling Napoleon Dynamite, is a pretty funny mental picture, and I've been cracking up every time I think about it all night.
I've never heard a funnier, more well placed asshole, and I never really expect to.
13.3.09
Rummaging
An unsuccessful trip to the DI has got to be one of the most depressing things ever. For those of you not native to Utah, Deseret Industries is Utah's version of a mega chain thrift store. DI seems to draw from 2 main demographic pools for employees; the mentally handicapped, and the scary demographic. I commend DI for the former, and am slightly annoyed by the latter. I guess they are just trying to give everyone a chance. Today I saw a guy exiting the dressing room area. There were a pair of dress shoes sitting on the floor of one of the dressing rooms. One of the scary employees gruffly asked the patron, "Hey. Are those your shoes?"
"No," replied the patron.
"They aren't? You didn't just leave them there?"
"Nope."
"Yeah. Sure. Rrrriiight," quoth the asshole, as he was scrutinizing the patron's shoes, as though the guy was really going to trade the nice dress shoes in the dressing room for the disgusting hiking boots with the massive hole in the toe.
Or perhaps he was upset that he would have to return said shoes to their proper place. But since when was that task located outside the parameters of his job? What the hell else does he do in there all day, but put crap away? They certainly aren't washing or cleaning anything in that store, I'll tell you that much.
Which brings me to why being unable to find anything on a DI visit is so annoying. I never feel dirtier than after having rifled through a bunch of clothing at the DI. It all has a distinct, musty odor. Seriously, touching one article of clothing in that store leaves me feeling like I just slapped a leper. I can just mentally visualize all of the bacterial creatures mingling on my hands in an orgy of filth. And my eye always itches while I'm in there. But I am terrified to bring my hand anywhere near my ocular organ, for fear of contracting pink eye. Or maybe blindness.
So, as I walked to my car, rather than leaving with the satisfaction that I a) found a killer article of clothing for less than 6 dollars, b)contributed to the financial autonomy of various handicapped people, and c) probably furthered an alcohol addiction, I just left feeling dirty. I started putting my hands in my coat pockets, but then recoiled as though burned; the last thing I want to do upon leaving DI, was transfer my hand filth into my pockets.
Are there any quality thrift stores in Utah? Ones that won't make me feel alienated and depressed while shopping?
"No," replied the patron.
"They aren't? You didn't just leave them there?"
"Nope."
"Yeah. Sure. Rrrriiight," quoth the asshole, as he was scrutinizing the patron's shoes, as though the guy was really going to trade the nice dress shoes in the dressing room for the disgusting hiking boots with the massive hole in the toe.
Or perhaps he was upset that he would have to return said shoes to their proper place. But since when was that task located outside the parameters of his job? What the hell else does he do in there all day, but put crap away? They certainly aren't washing or cleaning anything in that store, I'll tell you that much.
Which brings me to why being unable to find anything on a DI visit is so annoying. I never feel dirtier than after having rifled through a bunch of clothing at the DI. It all has a distinct, musty odor. Seriously, touching one article of clothing in that store leaves me feeling like I just slapped a leper. I can just mentally visualize all of the bacterial creatures mingling on my hands in an orgy of filth. And my eye always itches while I'm in there. But I am terrified to bring my hand anywhere near my ocular organ, for fear of contracting pink eye. Or maybe blindness.
So, as I walked to my car, rather than leaving with the satisfaction that I a) found a killer article of clothing for less than 6 dollars, b)contributed to the financial autonomy of various handicapped people, and c) probably furthered an alcohol addiction, I just left feeling dirty. I started putting my hands in my coat pockets, but then recoiled as though burned; the last thing I want to do upon leaving DI, was transfer my hand filth into my pockets.
Are there any quality thrift stores in Utah? Ones that won't make me feel alienated and depressed while shopping?
12.3.09
Thirteen
If I could have one wish, it would be to be able to go back in time to visit young George Andrew Fish, circa 12 years old, and implore him to keep writing in his Journal. My second wish would probably be to have infinity packs of Gushers. Followed closely by a cake room. And not just any cake room, mind you. An infinity cake room. A room in which there is a continuous, ever replenishing, constantly changing flow of cake. And having used the word flow, now that I think about it, an actual flow of cake is precisely what I would want. Like a river of cake, slowly meandering through the middle of the room. And when I saw a particular flow that suited my fancy, I would simply lay on my belly and bury my head in it. Or maybe just dig out a chunk with a shovel designated specifically for that purpose. A midget would live in the room, on standby at all times, just waiting to clean that shovel off in between cake scoopings. And to scratch my back, if I asked. But never with the shovel.
But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.
As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.
The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."
Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.
It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."
Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.
But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.
As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.
The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."
Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.
It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."
Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.
11.3.09
Orphans
Recently I think everyone has just given up on doing dishes. I guess that it is simply too onerous a task to pick up the heavy, jumbo sized bottle of orange anti bacterial dish soap, and squirt a small amount upon a plate/cup/bowl. Which I can understand completely. I mean, it is quite the stressful venture, attempting to squirt just the perfect amount of soap upon said eating implement. Mentally trying. Too much detergent means too many suds, and an unnecessary amount of chemicals wreaking havoc upon the environment. Plus too much soap makes for a difficult rinsing process, which will add an extra 8-13 seconds to the overall washing experience. Not to mention that wielding the toilet-scrubber-made-dish-scrubber can cause unnecessary elbow and/or wrist trauma, if one were to be overly vigorous with one's scrubbing. And then we have hospital bills to worry about, all in the name of avoiding a rotting, mephitic nightmare in the sink.
I mean, I like sauntering past the sink and nearly passing out from from a nasal assault by a funk redolent of a rotting corpse, just as much as the next asshole.
Am I an asshole because I refuse to clean up after my roommates? I keep my own bowl, spoon, and cup in my cupboard. That is generally the extent of my utensil/dishware usage. I eat cereal. And the occasional quesadilla. And I always wash the plate immediately after quesadilla consumption. It isn't hard. It really bloody isn't.
I guess I am used to living without a dishwasher and a mother, and therefore I have grown accustomed to taking 30 seconds after I eat something and washing it. Do I have a multitude of other flaws? Yes indeed I do. But I am an impeccable dishwasher. Nothing is more frustrating than having the desire to immediately consume something that requires a fork, and realizing that every fork in the house has been discarded and left for dead in the sink, like abandoned Armenian orphans.
Even orphans deserve to be washed once and a while.
I mean, I like sauntering past the sink and nearly passing out from from a nasal assault by a funk redolent of a rotting corpse, just as much as the next asshole.
Am I an asshole because I refuse to clean up after my roommates? I keep my own bowl, spoon, and cup in my cupboard. That is generally the extent of my utensil/dishware usage. I eat cereal. And the occasional quesadilla. And I always wash the plate immediately after quesadilla consumption. It isn't hard. It really bloody isn't.
I guess I am used to living without a dishwasher and a mother, and therefore I have grown accustomed to taking 30 seconds after I eat something and washing it. Do I have a multitude of other flaws? Yes indeed I do. But I am an impeccable dishwasher. Nothing is more frustrating than having the desire to immediately consume something that requires a fork, and realizing that every fork in the house has been discarded and left for dead in the sink, like abandoned Armenian orphans.
Even orphans deserve to be washed once and a while.
10.3.09
Embarrassing.
I would assume that most of you have, at one point in your life, thought of a really stellar gift to give a friend around Christmas time. After putting considerable thought, and possibly even money into said gift, you deliver it to your friend. Your friend then gives you some lame, half assed excuse for a gift. Something in which they put no thought, nor care. At which point you feel snubbed. And hopefully your friend feels embarrassed.
I hope Mr. Obama feels embarrassed.
When you are the leader of the most powerful country on planet earth, not to mention a personally rich man, how on earth are you going to give the bloody Prime Minister of Britain a bunch of DVD's? Are you kidding me? Especially when the man gives you as priceless, and thoughtful a gift as was given to our dear, God-King president. Would it be un-PC to say that was a white trash thing to do?
Perhaps our Lord and Savior was ill aware of the caliber of the gift which he would receive from Mr. Brown.
So what. That isn't the issue.
The issue is, the leader of the free world gave his biggest ally a sack full of DVD's. I believe Mr. Brown's attempts to keep the gift a secret from the press speaks pretty loudly; he was embarrassed to have received such an absurdly ridiculous gift. "Hey Michelle? Do you think Mr. Brown is looking for a change in his cinematic viewing experience? I think as a gift, I'd like to offer him a change from that British crap that he is used to. I want to give him not only a change, or a new hope, but a change in hope. I hope he enjoys this change from what he is accustomed to viewing, and that he can find a new hope in that change. Because, Michelle dear, nothing inspires hope like a night of ET and the Godfather. Now let's change our clothes and go buy some DVD's."
And don't bother bringing up idiotic things George Bush did to insult or offend world leaders. Those things are irrelevant. The question here is, why would Obama snub such an important man? Obama is not an idiot. He wouldn't make a mistake like this. I guess all I am saying, is his recent pandering to the Muslim world, coupled with his snubbing of the Prime Minister, possibly starts to paint a worrisome picture.
Do you really think that had Bashar Al-Asad, or Asif Ali Zardari, or Mohamed Hosni Mubarak visited Mr. Obama, that they'd have left with 25 DVD's?
Call me crazy, but the man worries me. Funny, also, that the story is nowhere to be found on CNN.com. BIG surprise.
I hope Mr. Obama feels embarrassed.
When you are the leader of the most powerful country on planet earth, not to mention a personally rich man, how on earth are you going to give the bloody Prime Minister of Britain a bunch of DVD's? Are you kidding me? Especially when the man gives you as priceless, and thoughtful a gift as was given to our dear, God-King president. Would it be un-PC to say that was a white trash thing to do?
Perhaps our Lord and Savior was ill aware of the caliber of the gift which he would receive from Mr. Brown.
So what. That isn't the issue.
The issue is, the leader of the free world gave his biggest ally a sack full of DVD's. I believe Mr. Brown's attempts to keep the gift a secret from the press speaks pretty loudly; he was embarrassed to have received such an absurdly ridiculous gift. "Hey Michelle? Do you think Mr. Brown is looking for a change in his cinematic viewing experience? I think as a gift, I'd like to offer him a change from that British crap that he is used to. I want to give him not only a change, or a new hope, but a change in hope. I hope he enjoys this change from what he is accustomed to viewing, and that he can find a new hope in that change. Because, Michelle dear, nothing inspires hope like a night of ET and the Godfather. Now let's change our clothes and go buy some DVD's."
And don't bother bringing up idiotic things George Bush did to insult or offend world leaders. Those things are irrelevant. The question here is, why would Obama snub such an important man? Obama is not an idiot. He wouldn't make a mistake like this. I guess all I am saying, is his recent pandering to the Muslim world, coupled with his snubbing of the Prime Minister, possibly starts to paint a worrisome picture.
Do you really think that had Bashar Al-Asad, or Asif Ali Zardari, or Mohamed Hosni Mubarak visited Mr. Obama, that they'd have left with 25 DVD's?
Call me crazy, but the man worries me. Funny, also, that the story is nowhere to be found on CNN.com. BIG surprise.
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