Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Have You Lost Weight?

I might backhand the next woman who tries to walk up and compliment me to my face.

My formerly chunky, fat face I might add.

For full effect, download Weird Al Jankovic’s remake “I’m Fat” and play at maximum volume. You may also find it by clicking here.

I don’t get offended usually. I am a pretty easygoing guy. But if I have one more female walk up to me and make an attempt at complimenting my size, I might stick a sharpie highlighter up her nose or any other open orifice that I can find.

Model John V: “Say Brock, have you lost weight?”

Seizure Boy: Disturbed that my blood temperature has substantially increased by a 6-word inquiry. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Model John V: “Yeah, you look good. Your face and neckline look like they’ve thinned out!”

Seizure Boy: Confused/Irritated/About to go William Wallace on this old hag. “Thinned Out?”

Model John V: “Yeah, you look great. Maybe now the ladies will start flocking to you!”

Seizure Boy: Hand shaking in my pockets while I mimic the violent shakings of an actual seizure, this time only holding back the unleashing of ‘Angry Seizure Boy’ upon her vertebrae. “Why thank you. Maybe they will.”

Cut to me drop-kicking a recently shaved poodle into an abandoned parking lot while pulling out fist-loads of hair and screaming out the words “SERENITY NOW!” in a Cosmo Kramer-esque fashion. Please Lord, let there be 22 computer monitors made in 1987 that I could bash to pieces with my elbow joints while I vent out my anger in such a dramatic fashion!

I look great?! I’ve lost weight?! My neckline has thinned out?! When’s the last time that you saw me Model John V, seven years ago? I mean I don’t do ‘The Regiment’ or anything, but for crying out loud did you mistake me for Fat Albert’s stunt double the last time that we met?

For the record, since July 2006, my 247-pound physical body has been the same size +/- 5 pounds (minus the malnourished month of brain surgery). Who have you confused me with? Drew Carey? Al Roker? Jared from Subway? Most people mistake me for Dane Cook, but that’s just because I’m a jerk, not because he lost a beached whale’s worth of blubber in six months.

Is the weight discussion a conversation pattern that women use when trying to compliment a man? Is the phrase, “Why, you look like you’ve lost weight?” an attempt at interaction which will be followed by “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” (LTT) The last time that I checked, this is not a topic of discussion that men even care about. I don’t remember the last time that I walked into work and was greeted by J. Black Hairpiece or B.E.P. Longhorn complimenting me on how my thighs look smaller in my set of khaki’s. That would just be a violation of the bro code.

On the converse side of things, is it alright for me to walk up to a woman and ask her the same question?

Seizure Boy: “My, Model John V. You look terrific. Have you been going to the gym to dump some pounds?”

This phrase would be followed by a slap to the face, an embarrassed blush, plus a regurgitation of the biggest possible loogie that the woman could conjure up with procedure of discharging onto my face. And yes I did just use the word loogie. Thank you Nickelodeon from the 90’s.

One would NEVER bring up the topic of weight with a woman. It’s just not possible to get any progress in any type of relationship with a member of the female community if your topic of discussion is her weight. Yet it’s ok for a woman to constantly ask me if I’ve thinned out? This makes no sense!

I remember when I was 11 years old and my parents took me to a place called, “Gold’s Gym” in good old Roy, Utah. I was starting to figure out why people went to the gym and worked hard on their physical appearance. As we finished our workout, my mother questioned me about what I thought about her while we worked out.

Mom: “Son, when you see me in there, compared to all the other Mom’s that are in there, do I look pretty good? Do I look like I’m in shape?”

Me (Not yet Seizure Boy): “Yeah Mom, you look great.”

Mom: “Well, do I look…fat…in there?

Me: No Mom, you look fine. There are a lot of women in there that are fatter than you are.”

Cut to awkward silence for the ride home.

My reward for trying to compliment my mother in this situation: I was grounded for two weeks.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Why Do We Blog?

Before I begin I would like to give a shout out to my boy in Mt. Pleasant, whose blogalias shall be Salem Ring Baker This is a dear friend who will one day raise my children when I die at the young age of 35. So to him I tip my hat in thanks for promising to be the best Step dad out there.

For full effect, download and listen at full volume Carly Simon's "You're So Vain". You probably think this post is about you anyway.

It is.

After a long weekend break I will ask you, the reader, a question that I have been puzzling over for the past 147 days or so. A question that will be the roots for my Masters Thesis defense this upcoming fall. A question that viral statistics managers have worried and contemplated about for the past few years.

Why do you read my blog?

Honestly though, and this is not an insult to your moral character or self-image. But why are you reading this? More importantly, why am I typing something for you to read? Is it because I am looking to fulfill an online journal of my life so that posterity (if I ever find any) will be able to look at who I am and say, "Such an interesting man our great-grandpa was. A man who wrote about Bad-breakups, Charles Schwab Commercials and Girl of Golds Rejections."

Nah, I don't think any one of those is a justifiable answer as to why I am sitting here typing these words at this very moment. You want to know why I blog?

I blog for you.

Not the way that you're thinking though. I am not blogging so that you will be able to have some type of comedic relief every day when you click on Randomity and find posts about the Naked Gadgets, or the meat market, or the bags of douche. I am not blogging to transform a rush of emotions triggered by heart-warming and courageous situations regarding people such as Jerry Sloan, my little sister or my Grandmother. Not to disrespect any one of those posts, but I am not blogging for them. I am not blogging so that you may have some type of gratification knowing that your influences as a teacher in my life have been succesful and you may see those manifestations as I jot away daily random thoughts.

I blog for me.

Again, not the way that it sounds. My blog is not a freelance haven where I can express my inner-most fears and fantasies. My blog is not an Interweb entaglement for me to relive memories of days and weeks writing newspaper editorials for kicks and giggles during my undergraduate studies. My blog is not an attempt at morphing into a Dr. Philian relationship evaluator as I post Week of Dating discussions. My blog is not a side job where I can make a few extra bucks week-to-week hoping to launch a new career in creative writing. No, none of these reasons are why I am sitting here typing away on a rustic grey keyboard covered in dust from the 1980's.

I blog for you to want me.

Don't act like you're not impressed (LTT). Or surprised. Or in disagreement. For those reading this post, and anyone who has a blog of their own, this is why we all blog. It is because you, and me, and all of us need that satisfaction of someone else caring about who we are as individuals. Someone else wanting to know about our lives. Someone else who comments about the difficulties of purchasing eyeglasses.

We blog for attention.

When I publish a post and then advertise the link via Facebook, I sit in my office and keep my broken fingers crossed that someone will click on the link and laugh to themselves at how witty and genuinely amusing my post was. I check the blog statistics every two hours wondering what time of day is the best to post my link, just so I will get the most readership out of it. I look at the most popular posts to date, and ask myself what are the most interesting subjects that my audience will be drawn to, so that my readership volume will only increase. Sad to say, 5 out of my top 10 posts overall were from the Week of Sex, but then again, we are all perverts and have dirty minds.

Am I wrong for thinking this? Am I taking something and putting a disturbingly selfish twist on it? I don't think so. Do I honestly care if someone is posting a play-by-play recount of their camping trip to Orderville and how much they love their hubby's? Am I going to spend longer than 3.4 seconds glancing at a page where someone has posted a personal review of their relationship development with a co-worker in Texas, and how eerily similar their relationship is to Ross and Rachel's? Will I sit and read unrhyming poetry and horrendous haiku's posted by someone with a background of a sunset-covered beach in the Pacific Islands to give the post a more dramatic feel to it?

No. I won't.

Because I want you to read MY blog. I want you to read about MY schizophrenic date mishaps, and MY tribute's to Mortal Kombat and MY finger surgeries. Heck, why do you think that I'm linking those pages to this post in the first place? And why do you think I will post the link to my blog twice on my facebook page. Even this blogpost, so that dedicated readers such as LTT will like it twice. (Thanks buddy by the way) Why do I change my Facebook status and update my page with new photos checking back to see who has commented or liked them? Why do I live in a digital world that is crushing my interpersonal skills, yet heightening my narcissism? Why do I do this? Because I am a vain, conceited bastard who loves the attention.

But then again, we all do.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Dora the $&%#-ing Explorer

A unique perspective was brought to light yesterday when B.E.P. Longhorn and myself were in deep thought and conversation about the more complex things in life. You know, things like Leonardo DiCaprio, being desensitized, and raising children.

B.E.P. Longhorn: “Did you like the movie The Departed, Seizure Boy?”

Me: “I loved that show. I thought it was a brilliant movie, and one of the best roles that Leonardo DiCaprio has played in his entire career. Did you like it?”

B.E.P. Longhorn: “Actually not very much. I was a little bit stunned at the usage of the F-word in that movie. But then again, I have two little girls, and I’m not very used to hearing that word as much anymore.”

Me: Shocked/confused/WTF/heart-broken look across my face. “Wait, what?” Keep in mind my response was given because of my concept of who B.E.P. Longhorn is. This is a Texas Football fanatic who probably won the pass, punt, and kick competition when he was in his mother’s embryo. A man who has biceps that I could more than likely do pull-ups on. A man who one could assume has been exposed to more rear ends, more foul language, and more dirty jokes while doing time in locker rooms throughout his entire adolescence and young adulthood. And he was stunned by the language in The Departed?

B.E.P. Longhorn: “Yeah, I wasn’t a fan of that movie, too crude and foul. I even walked out of The Taking of Pelham 1,2,3. I thought it was just as offensive and distasteful.” For the record, I would have walked out of The Taking of Pelham 1,2,3 as well, not for the language, but for the simple reason that the movie was a disgrace to filmmaking.

Me: “Too many F-words? I know they cursed a lot, but I thought you would be used to that seeing as how you’ve played football, and you’re from Texas, and you’re a…you know…guy and all.”

B.E.P. Longhorn: “Back in the day I wouldn’t have had a problem with the swearing. I was desensitized. But now, having a wife and kids and all, I just don’t want to have that language around them.

I could see the wise Texan sage’s reasoning. It was at this point when an even wiser sage made a very valid argument in regards to how our world/culture overprotects children. This character’s blogalias shall be The Royal Viking of Jericho.

The Royal Viking of Jericho: “I think that our kids are sheltered too much in today’s society. I think that we need to teach them what the world is all about before they hit college. Not like overexpose them to everything bad, but if they’re watching Dora the Explorer and she blurts out something like, ‘Hola, Mother $*%#-ing Amigos!’ I think that will help them out.” No curse words were actually made in this statement. The Royal Viking of Jericho actually spoke the individual signs.

His comment about the Spaniard explorer was made in jest, with laughs abounding following his dialogue that included the words, “dollar sign, asterisk, percentage, pound sign-ing Amigos.” However, he did have a point regarding the overprotective nature of parents, and clueless perspective that kids have coming into what the world really sounds like.

For the record, I used to be a Dora the Explorer junkie back in the day. Not that I had a secret crush on the Nickelodeon superstar, but the fact that I used to watch her while babysitting my little sister a.k.a. The Professor, who by the way is fluent in Spanish with great help to this cartoon explorer. In the three years that she and I spent adoring Dora, I never once remember her saying phrases such as “Holy $#*! Kids”, “Kiss my @$$ Swiper”, or “We’re lost, son of a %&#*!”

Okay, maybe her shouting out vulgarity to the swiping fox, or yelling out curse words to her cousin Diego would not help children become “better” people to help shape their lives. And maybe being exposed to the real world’s soundtrack will not help them become better future citizens, but I could see the point the Royal Viking of Jericho was trying to make here. Kids are sheltered. Kids are covered by a hypothetical blanket. Kids are given shades to cover their eyes on what the real world will be. And it’s crippling them.

Back in the day, I remember a gadget called TV Guardian that my parents had. The entire purpose of this device was to delete and replace any curse words or dirty language from the films or TV programs that we watched.

So when Jim Carrey was giving himself a bathroom beat down in Liar Liar and yelled out, “I’m kickin’ my @$$, do ya mind?!” TV Guardian replaced the word ‘@$$’ with ‘bum’. When Jeff Daniels said in Dumb and Dumber that he had crossed a Bulldog and a Shiatsu to make a Bull S***, TV Guardian replaced the word ‘S***’ with ‘Garbage’. When Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket gave his 6-minute tirade to his incoming Privates, TV Guardian deleted the entire scene.

How shocked was I when I started playing high school football my freshman year, and the TV guardian wasn’t there to bleep out every curse word that was uttered, vented, and screamed from a missed block, a dropped pass, or a blown tackle? Very much so. I’m not criticizing the revenue attempts that were made by a default company so that a 13-year old boy could not hear the F-word. Wait, yes I am. I thought that the little black box on top of my television made me think that every thing in my life was clean and pure.

But it’s not.

I guess the point of this discourse is to ask where the fine line of sheltering and protecting exists among parenting. Granted, I am not even close to being prepared to raise children whatsoever. How am I going to know what to do whenever that day arrives anyway? The Royal Viking of Jericho did make a good point when he stated that there are extremes to anything. Being extremely overprotective, or not even censoring your children at all are the polar opposites in this situation. Whenever that day comes when I have my own offspring, I just hope that they aren’t raised by cartoon characters that instill false images and backdrops in their minds that the world is a perfect place.

At the same time, I don’t think I’ll let Dora the Explorer’s singing terrain chart serenade a verse from its song such as, “I’m the map, I’m the map, I’m the Mother #%$&-ing Map!”

Location:600 E,St George,United States

Thursday, June 23, 2011

The Dragon

Five bucks to the first person that texts me the name of the above character.

I have met many unique and interesting comrades thus far on my journey through this congolmeration of events that some of us call "life". There have been a handful of chums that have baffled me with their balls-to-the-wall attitude. I have beheld specimens who have the same DNA splicing as Bear Gryls, Chuck Norris, Manny Pacquiao, Arnold (before politics) Schwarzenegger, combined with the ovum of Angelina Jolie's characters in Tomb Raider, Wanted, and Salt. None of these hard-hitting homo sapiens can hold a candle to the greatest of them all. I am talking about someone whose name Voldemort reverences. Even South Park would not disprespect this durable definition of true awesomeness. I am talking of the great...(wait for it)...Dragon.

Yes that's right kids, the Dragon himself. The Dragon needs no blogalias. His name speaks for itself. The Dragon is a person who I met my Freshman year of college. And in the first seven seconds following our introduction, mind=blown is a good description for what I was attempting to understand. If one were to make a list of the things that Dragon has done, there would not be enough paper to transcribe his glories. The creators of the Dos Equis beer commercials actually got the inspiration from Dragon. Those beer ads are merely a fraction of what Dragon has achieved. In the nine short years that I have known Dragon, I have either personally witnessed, or come to find out the following facts about who he is:

Dragon has read and translated both Mark Twain's novel "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and Leo Tolstoy's classic "War and Peace" from English to Klingon in exactly 24 hours.

The famous "Stifler", wanted to use the screen name of "Dragon" once he gained popularity in the film American Pie. However, Dragon respectfully declined and asked him to stick with the goofy sounding name of Sean William Scott. Who names their kid Sean Scott anyway?

Dragon was the backbone behind the popularity of POG's in the mid-90's. He in fact even came up with what the acronym stood for. Many assumed it stood for Pineapple-Orange Guava lids. When it actually stood for Papa's Old Goatee.

Dragon came before the chicken or the egg.

Hercules, Andre the Giant, Donald Trump, and Barney Stinson all have had full-size marble statues of Dragon in their bedrooms.

Dragon plays ping pong with the same 550 lb. balls that are used in The World's Strongest Man competition.

For a brief time period in his life, Dragon would tame wild ostriches who ran in herds on the beaches of the Canary Islands.

Dragon has cartwheeled up and back to the top of Mt. Everest, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Mt. McKinley, and Dixie Rock.

Dragon has a beard that could beat up any facial hair whisked by Tom Selleck, ZZ Top, or Santa Claus.

Before Dragon was married, we had a bachelor party for the old chum. He ate the entire cake before we could tell him that there was a stripper in it. Granted it was a cupcake, and the stripper was a midget, but still quite an accomplishment!

Dragon is the "who" for which the rock band "The Who" is named for.

While going to school, Dragon received a Magician's degree with an emphasis in Janitorial Science. He is one of four people to have received this degree in the history of humanity.

Dragon used to longboard both up and down the slopes of Foremaster road. His awesomeness was so great, that once he got to the bottom of the hill and his momentum had ceased, the gravitational pull of the Earth's motion would rotate in reverse in his favor.

Dragon's spit has been bottled up and marketed as a bottled water supplement to people all around the world. You may be familiar with it, it's called Evian.

Did I mention that his name is freaking Dragon?

Dragon's hometown where he grew up is Elephant Island, Antarctica.

For two years, Dragon served an LDS mission in Boise, Idaho where he spent much of his time participating in what he coined as "Shock and Awe Tracting." After he left, they renamed the mission in honor of him as the Dragon's Lair, Idaho Mission.

Dragon is Morgan Freeman's Godson.

Dragon makes motivational speeches have their own motivation.

The girl from the song, "My Sharona" is actually Dragon's Sharona.

Dragon was the teacher/mentor for Q, who is the teacher/mentor for M, who is the teacher/mentor for 007.

Dragon uses the Stanley Cup as a spittoon.

Dragon was the voice coach for Celine Dion. Heck, he even wrote the song "My Heart Will Go On" for the movie Titanic.

And finally, Dragon has hit a baker's dozen hole-in-one's. His 13th hole-in-one was with a pitching wedge on a par 6 hole that had an elevated sand-trap green in the middle of Lake Michigan.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

My Exact Opposite

I sat down to lunch last week with a good friend/co-worker. You all know him. He who shall be called, J. Black Hairpiece or as his second blogalias indicates, Keith Tronic. Don’t ask me why he came up with that one.

The two of us indulged in a romantic Applebee’s luncheon with a $7.99 soup and salad buffet filling our guts while cheesy managers came to offer their counterfeit salutations for selecting their restaurant.

Cheesy Manager: “Thank you so much for choosing Applebee’s. We really appreciate YOUR business.”

Me: “No you don’t, you Scrooge McDuck wannabe Michael Scott impersonator. It is your lispy saliva modules that are ruining my French Onion soup. Why don’t you go in the back and watch My Little Pony re-runs so we can finish our meal in semi-peace.”

Yes, I am a jerk. You all know this.

As I stared across the table at his big blue-greenish eyes, I came to the realization that J. Black Hairpiece is the complete reverse of me. The polar opposite of Seizure Boy. I have known this kid for almost a year exactly, and aside from our race, gender, job and religion, he and I are on entirely different teams. For the record, the above picture is being used to best visually imply how uniquely opposite the two of us are. By the way, I am the Black Spy. He was always the better one.

Here are just a few examples to show how different the two of us are:

J. Black Hairpiece cheers for BYU. I cheer for Ohio State.

J. Black Hairpiece has an adoring wife and soon to be two beautiful kids. I have an inflatable Russian mail-order bride, and two eh, somewhat semi-attractive roommates.

J. Black Hairpiece is a licensed real-estate agent in St. George. I still don’t know what the phrase “real-estate” means yet.

J. Black Hairpiece is half-empty. I am half-full.

J. Black Hairpiece buys leather couches to enjoy his quality spare time. I buy “Never Summer” snowboards to enjoy my quality spare time.

J. Black Hairpiece does “The Regiment”. I do P90X.

J. Black Hairpiece enjoys taking the boat out on a long and lazy afternoon, and sitting back with a fishing pole in hand hoping a deep-throat bass picks his line up. I would rather watch paint dry on the set of “The View” while listening to my Grandmother’s high school friend recount her tales of when she went on vacation to the Sierra Nevada mountains for three weeks and forgot her undies, rather than try to catch a fish.

J. Black Hairpiece lives, breathes and dies for Costco. I just shop at Costco.

J. Black Hairpiece is confused as to why I sit at a computer typing away at a “pointless blog”. I am confused as to why J. Black Hairpiece sits online reading about companies that are now considered to be in the “pointless Fortune 500”.

J. Black Hairpiece shoots the ball from long-range very well in pick-up basketball games. I give out great outlet passes in pick-up basketball games.

J. Black Hairpiece hablas Español. Ich spreche Deutsch.

J. Black Hairpiece gives a very professional, very expert, very formal presentation to audiences when he is on the job recruiting high school students. I tell knock-knock jokes and am one step away from dressing like a clown and blowing up inflatable balloon animals for my audience in presentations.

J. Black Hairpiece was a business major. I was a communication major.

J. Black Hairpiece sits down to lunch analyzing a local food joints “curb appeal”, “location” and “marketability”. I sit down analyzing our waiter’s body language, eye contact difficulties, and interpersonal skills.

J. Black Hairpiece has two blogaliases. I have one.

J. Black Hairpiece shakes his head whenever someone makes a dirty joke in public. I look for as many possible opportunities to say “That’s what she said” followed by “Giggity”.

J. Black Hairpiece wants to purchase 40 acres of land in Beryl, Utah as an “investment” for future generations. I have never been to Beryl, Utah and cannot foresee any possibility of generations in the near future.

As we sat in a comparison of our lives, much similar to a Freaky Friday-esque evaluation, and the soon to be released box-office flop remake, The Change Up, starring Jason Bateman and Ryan Reynolds, the doctrine came to mind that we always want what we cannot have. There are things about my life that J. Black Hairpiece semi-wishes were his; the snowboard, the knock-knock jokes, the affiliation with Ohio State. Likewise, there are things about J. Black Hairpiece’s life that I envy; the beautiful wife, the beautiful kids, the beautiful couches…wait a minute… ok, maybe just the wife and kids.

Time will pass, we will both grow older, go through phases of our lives that we love and hate. J. Black Hairpiece will become a successful businessman/entrepreneur who will one day be crowned Mayor of St. George. I will still remain a Toys-R-Us Kid who will one day be crowned the pessimistic dunce of St. George. But when all the cards have been laid down, one thing is for certain. I sure love and respect the great J. Black Hairpiece.

And I’m sure that the feeling is mutual.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The End of the W.O.D.

Just to keep those informed on the dating escapades that have evolved between SMS Hitchhiker Bicep and Mollybakes, I have just been informed that he is asking her to go up to Dixie Rock tonight. For those of you not familiar with St. George, Dixie Rock is the traditional “make-out point”, a place where plenty of tonsil-hockey gets started via literal face-offs. And for Mollybakes to think that she’s is traveling up to Dixie Rock for a nice hike, well, her lips are going to be overwhelmingly surprised tonight.

But as the week of dating has come to an end, so have the updates regarding Mollybakes and SMS Hitchhiker Bicep. I will say this, it has been fascinating to witness firsthand accounts of awkward first dates, project potential boyfriends, and awkward kissing contests on porches between the two of them. Not that I was in the bushes with a video camera the last time he dropped her off. It has been humorous to see and discuss these events that have turned into blogposts.

To wrap the entire W.O.D. up, I will share two pieces of advice that I have gotten in my life in regards to decisions on who we date. The first of which was given by the great man VRMPK, another by a sweet Virginian lady who looks at me like a son. VRMPK told me that I need to be picky in deciding whom I will date, because these decisions will lead to decide whom I will marry. He gave me this advice on my last day wearing a black nametag and cheap polyester tie.

VRMPK: “Be picky in who you choose to date, Elder Swamp Thing. You date because you are looking for someone to marry, not just for kicks and giggles. And that final decision will be the most important choice you will ever make in your entire life.”

Elder Seizure Boy: “Yes sir. So does this mean that I can talk to girls again?”

Aside from the kicks and giggles that you get from reading this post, the point that I want to make is this. Be picky. Yes, there’s no such thing as the perfect person. We are all imperfect. But I’m going to be as picky as possible, knowing that this decision will hinge how the rest of my life is going to turn out.

Read this post with the background music to The Shawshank Redemption, as I am doing with AMC running the classic Stephen King novella. It is the dramatic violin chords combined with Morgan Freeman’s intoxicating baritone voice that will give this post a more dramatic effect.

I guess I write these words as a pre-cursor to what next month’s topic will be about, the infamous M-word. But then again, what the heck am I going to know about that topic? Similar to the Week of Sex, you’ll just get to see a single mutt’s point of view on the bonds of holy matrimony. Whatever the heck those are.

The second piece of advice I will mention was received last night from a sweet woman who shall be known as VRM Frank Mechanic. The sweet lady text messaged me the following:

VRM Frank Mechanic: “The only advice would be never settle for anything less than you deserve.”

That is so true. VRM Frank Mechanic completely thwarted any project tactics that exist in modern-day relationships with eight simple words that I will hold true as I continue my search for “the one”, wherever she may be.

And so, thus ends the Week of Dating. A week where multiple-personality stories have gotten me out of bad encounters. A week of firsthand manifestations between SMS Hitchhiker Bicep and Mollybakes. A week of “projects” and awkward kissing encounters, online faux pas and Gold’s Gym girl rejections. A week where I tried to give the best advice possible to finding someone out there. But then again, what do I know?

I’m still single.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Online Dating is a Crock!

To keep those of you interested in the dating contest involving Mollybakes and SMS Hitchhiker Bicep, something new has developed between the two of them.

SMS Hitchhker Bicep pulled out one of the most slanderous tricks in the book via text message yesterday when he said he would take Mollybakes out to dinner because he “owed” it to her. Come on, SMS Hitchhiker Bicep, you “owe” her? Elaine from Seinfeld fell victim to the same tricks and was nearly in a committed relationship because a guy kept “owing” her something. It could have been a petty wager, or an attempt at thanks, but either way both he and Mollybakes are currently enjoying the evening together, and perhaps falling in L-word all because he “owed” it to her.

Back to live action.

As I sit back on my bed typing away tonight, a cheesy commercial proposing to improve my dating life airs during the commercial break of Tommy Boy. Thanks for ruining my 2-hour memoir of Chris Farley you petty advertisement. Match.com, they say is a one-way ticket to finding your soul mate. In the commercial, a cat-laden 40-year old, and a balding divorced 35-year old hold each other and sway across the screen, while the father of the felines recounts how they “just fit so well together, and it was all because of Match.com!”

Announcer: “Match.com leads to more dates, more relationships, and more marriages than any other site out there!”

Me: Raising my hand. “Excuse me, I think you forgot to add most divorces too. Just throwing that out there.”

When the online dating trend started to heat up, I vowed to myself that I would never fall victim to it. But then again, if I’m still single in five years, who knows what will happen?

Online dating to me is the digital version of my previous post on first dates. It’s the 1’s and 0’s of lying through your hard drive via the Interweb in hopes that someone will find you attractive. Think about it, what would someone put on their online profile? Do they tag themselves in a photo at the Star Wars convention with Jabba the Hut? What if their body is the same size as Jabba the Hut’s? Do they post an actual photo of themselves as their profile pic? I doubt it.

People lie all the time, especially on online dating. When filling out a profile, would the average Joe who has the entire soundtrack to Glee memorized admit that? Would a woman who has a combination of an eating disorder and A.D.D. discuss the difficulties of her lifestyle? Does a computer nerd who has a lifetime subscription to seven different porn magazines and lives in his mother’s basement state the truth?

Of course not! In online dating, one would only give the world a tip of the iceberg peek at who they really are, and later on down the road, that’s when the baggage starts to come to fruition once they have been ball-and-chained to a relationship.

Sure there are the success stories here and there, but has the world fallen to this crutch of having to use our computer monitors to find someone to date? Has the concept of having the balls to ask a girl out in public, even in Gold’s Gym mind you, been forgotten? Forgotten to the point where we all put on petty profiles and surf the web’s dating services in hopes that we can “wink” or “IM” or write on someone’s online wall?

Yes. Our society is that pathetic.

And here it comes again. Another online dating service advertisement. This one for eHarmony.com. “Love is out there. We can help you find it.”

No. No you can’t.

I will not sit on my butt watching these counterfeit couples give all hail and praise to a dating site simply because they lacked the interpersonal skills to go out and find a mate for themselves. Don’t you think they would feel insulted when their kids asked how they met?

Online Dating Dad: “Well, this one day, I was browsing around on the Internet, and I came across your Mom’s profile on this online dating service I was using. And it was in that moment, when I saw her square inch RGB profile window picture, that I knew that she was the one I would be with for the rest of my life.”

Online Dating Mom: “Isn’t that romantic kids?”

Rejected, depressed, ashamed child: “No. No it’s not.”

As much fun as it has been ripping this joke of a matchmaker to shreds, one day I will probably be a rejected, depressed, and ashamed individual creating my own online dating profile. Heaven help us all.

Back to Chris Farley.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Dating's Awkward Cousin, Kissing.

The hours are being wasted away at work as I finish up my office telethon. Please, cry for me, Argentina.

On a side note, J. Black Hairpiece has requested a second blogalias. When referring to him in a professional manner, he shall be known as Keith Tronic. Don’t ask me where that blogalias comes from, all I know is that he wants a second blogalias. Either that or he is suffering from the same disorder that I acted out in Monday’s post.

Take a gander at this tongue-in-cheek tale that happened last night while a good friend Mollybakes was experiencing an awkward first date. A manifestation of yesterdays post was in full view while I was entertained throughout our Ferris Beuller’s Day Off Anniversary celebration drinking shots of homemade strawberry lemonade stirred up by one, Derby S. Dundee.

Mollybakes’ date was an awkward creature who shall be called SMS Hitchhiker Bicep. I might add that they did drive separately and for a period of 25 minutes or so, SMS Hitchhiker Bicep left the premises for who knows where. Great way to make things confusing and awkward, fine chap. Once he returned, the following conversation occurred while we dished up dessert at the intermission of the film:

Mollybakes: “Do you want some cake Brock?”

Me: “No thanks, I hate cake.” For the record, I can’t stand cake. Unless it’s Better Than Sex Cake, get your Betty Crocker concoction out of my sight.

SMS Hitchhiker Bicep: “You hate cake? So does that mean that you hate rainbows, and butterflies, and puppies and little babies too?”

Blank stare from the remaining six people in the room.

Me: Pondering whether or not to throw a sarcastic forearm-elbow combo to his steroid-stuffed tentacles, or blatantly shout out the chorus to the song “Nugget” by the band “Cake” at him. (Ironic) “No. I am a bad person. I have no compassion at all. Ask my friends.”

The room consciously agreed. Especially you did, Derby S. Dundee.

The point of relaying that story is not to prove how sadistic and cruel that I am to a young Jack Russell terrier playing with a 6-month old infant clothed in pajamas littered in skittle-doused butterflies. It was just a comedic example of two awkward critters going through a first date.

Cut to actual blog.

The theme for this post will be on the subject of lip-dancing, tonsil hockey, making out, or getting to first base. Yes that’s right folks, kissing. The awkward exchange of saliva on doorstep scenes throughout the country. For full effect turn on Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl, and I Liked it.” For a G-rated version, just pop in the soundtrack to The Little Mermaid, and listen to “Kiss the Girl”. That will do the trick.

There will be two guest contributors to today’s post, who for some reason decided that their insight and knowledge would give my blog a fresher look. For this post, and for future posts to come, they shall be known as Howdy-Who Girl, and Jane Awkward.

The following dialogue occurred on the sub-topics of kissing while I silently sat and typed away their feminine wisdom.

On the first kiss:

Jane Awkward: “I think the first kiss has to be the boy. Always. Girls shouldn’t have to do it.”

Howdy-Who Girl: “Yeah, I don’t really follow that. For they guy I’m currently dating, I was the one who initiated it, not him. He was 23, and I kissed him, and he just froze.”

On random places to kiss:

Jane Awkward: “I once kissed a guy in a swimming pool. Not underwater mind you.”

Howdy-Who Girl: “I used to go and kiss a guy at his self-shrine/make out wall”

First of all, who in the world has a make out wall? I would like to meet this man and shake his hand. I would somewhat picture this cement barrier to be something similar to the wall of bodies in 300.

On awkward kissing moments:

Jane Awkward: “I went to kiss a guy once but I don’t know what happened. We kissed once, and I pulled back and said, ‘Sorry, I’m awkward.’ (Hence the blogalias) And then we kissed again, and as he was leaving, I yelled out, “I’ll practice.” It could be on my hand, on my mirror, or on a picture of Leonardo Dicaprio. That’s not what I meant to say to him though.”

Howdy-Who Girl: I have word-vomited too. My first kiss, I turned to the guy and said, “Did you just kiss me? I was 14.”

Thank you for the reference to Mean Girls, and I didn’t know that all girls made out with themselves in the mirror. Interesting…

On covering your tracks:

Howdy-Who Girl: “I lie about kissing all the time. I never tell my parents. One time I made out with a guy on our porch and lied to my Mom about it. Little did I know that my neighbor’s security camera was going to be videotaping our kissing. Which would later be given to my parents. Cue confession session number 1.”

Jane Awkward: “Dang, you lied that much? We should change your blogalias to Slutty-Who Girl.”

Please girls, no fighting.

On how many guys they had kissed:

Jane Awkward: 8

Howdy-Who Girl: 5

On unique analogies or experiences that define their kissing lives:

Jane Awkward: “Kissing, well it’s an acquired taste.”

Howdy-Who Girl: “I have been kiss-raped once when I was 14 and had a broken foot. I would have married the kid. Except for his tongue. He’s adorable. And then he stuck his tongue down my throat.”

For the record, all kisses taste different. And was the tongue-raper the same guy with the kissing wall? What kind of guys are you meeting Howdy-Who Girl?

On kissing advice for the viewers:

Jane Awkward: “A first kiss is always awkward. But you just have to go with it. Every kiss will be awkward regardless.”

Howdy-Who Girl: “Kissing is like baking a cake. You have to try it a few times before you get it perfect.”

Kissing is like cake huh? Well if that’s the case. I’m screwed!

Thursday, June 16, 2011

First Dates Suck

Before I begin, I would like to make a side note on the blogalias change of one who is known on Randomity as Fishmitts. It is from this sober day forth that he shall be titled, The Whovian Bullfrog. His contributions continue to impress, and he even has his own blog too. Some random scientific word that I cannot pronounce.

For background noise purposes, I would suggest turning on Pandora and switching to an R & B channel for the duration of this post. For the past hour or so, B.E.P. Longhorn and I have been sitting in our office being serenaded by Jon Secada, George Michael, and Kenny G. Oh the days of sweet 90’s L-word making music. All ruined and trashed by Michael Bolton. I curse your long-haired, pierced ears persona that scarred my early childhood. To think that there was nothing wrong with that name until that no-talent clown became famous and started winning Grammys. (LTT)

The topic of Thursdays contribution to the W.O.D. will be discussed in the most awkward, squirming, dishonest, embarrassed, false sense that I can think of. Something that we all dread. Something that is a fabrication from the opening of the initial front door. Something that Mystery Science Theatre 3000 would heckle and toss popcorn at if they were covering a live feed of it. Yes, I’m talking about the dreaded first date.

The steps of actually getting a girls phone number and formally asking her on a first date have been removed from this post. Not that I didn’t want to discuss them, but that I haven’t found much luck in accomplishing them recently, as seen from yesterdays post. But aside from that, there is something that I would like to state about first dates that makes me want to vomit in putrid disgust.

First dates suck.

Yes, that’s right. I’m talking trash about first dates. You heard me. I hate first dates. I despise first dates. I want to smash first date’s face into a car windshield, and then take its mother, Dorothy Mantooth out for a nice seafood dinner, and never call her again. (LTT)

The reasoning for my abhorrence for the interrogation procedure that takes place over dinner and a movie is because the people that we are on first dates are nothing like the people that we actually are in real life. As sad as it is, we all lie on the first date.

Think about it; when anyone goes on a first date, they are always trying to put their best foot forward, trying to show off their goods, trying to get their possible courting partner to see how amazing that they are on the surface. But there is much more to the iceberg than what meets the eye. We lie, we embellish, we exaggerate, we do anything that we can to woo the other into proving how appealing that we are. Conversations such as this occur:

Blind Date XX: "So, uh, have I uh, told you about how I can juggle flaming chainsaws? Yeah, I picked that up as a hobby while I was serving as a Marine in Bangladesh. That was a pastime of mine while I helped nurture children with cleft palates on the weekends. But that’s all a thing of the past now."

Blind Date XY: "You did all of that?"

Blind Date XX: "Yeah, but that was just over a summer. It’s been awhile since I’ve been back there. What, with me being so busy finding a vaccine for the Ebola virus meanwhile producing, directing, and scoring music for my own online cooking show for homeless people. My time is just consumed I tell you. Add to that my completion of an Executive Magician’s degree from Cambridge University. That’s actually a step higher than a doctorate. Only four people have them."

Blind Date XY: "Only four people?"

Blind Date XX: "Yep, and you’re talking to one of them. My Godfather, Morgan Freeman, was really proud of me for getting it. He took me on his yacht one time to celebrate but we were actually attacked by a 300-foot giant squid that I had to beat down. It’s a good thing my back-to-back state wrestling championships came in handy. Plus that I am a 7th degree Kenpo Black Belt who once put Chuck Norris in a headlock for 8 seconds, that helped too. But then again, I’m just your average joe."

Blind Date XY: "I’m so impressed! Lets make whoopee!"

Cut to the next morning where they both wake up in a putrid single bedroom apartment, and an overweight slob lies next to her in bedding that hasn’t been washed since the Cubs won a World Series. Desperately, the girl is craving a morning-after pill for falling victim to another first-date fiasco. These are the depressing results and consequences of her falling for his act. But that’s the way that it works. We all lie on the first date. We all paint this dishonest depiction of ourselves, deceiving our dates that we have these skills and talents which in all reality are just baggage, ball-and-chained to our ankles.

Why do we have to be so fake? Why is the first couple of months that we pursue a relationship with someone else an entire lie? Why don’t we just come out and admit that we are imperfect people with imperfect lives? I had someone semi-embarrassed text me yesterday that they were a work in progress. To which I replied, we are all works in progress. It’s just sad that on first dates we have to put on a Houdini act in hopes of attracting one another.

Cassius Clay summed this entire propaganda-like perjury process into a simple paragraph recounting how he wanted to find someone who L-worded his true identity. He said:

“When I get that championship, I’m gonna put on my old jeans and get an old hat and grow a beard and I’m gonna walk down an old country road where nobody knows me till I find a pretty little fox who don’t know my name, who just loves me for what I am. And then I’ll take her back to my $250,000 house overlooking my million dollar housing development, and I’ll show her all my Cadillacs and the indoor pool in case it rains, and I’ll tell her, ‘This is yours honey, ‘cause you love me for what I am.’"

Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. I just need to win a heavyweight title first. If not, I’ll just lie to her that I have one on our first date.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

How to Get Rejected

I am Ted Mosby.

For full effect, please download “Creep” by Radiohead, from iTunes, and play at full volume throughout the duration of this post.

Today’s insight into the world of dating will cover the topic of the difficulties of asking a girl out. Or as others may call it, how to get kicked between the legs and still manage to walk away from the crime scene. This will be another personal story regarding a character who is known by the rest of the world as Seizure Boy. And no, I am not proud of that blogalias.

Within the next 1208 words, a Ginger Aggie will be laughing in spite.

Let me paint the picture for you for full effect. Since the battle wounds have healed from prior relationships, I will say that I have been, “on the prowl” as those born in the 1920’s would call it. I have had my eyes open, been looking around for potential dates here and there. I’m not asking out absolutely anyone, because Seizure Boy is a picky person. (And yes, I did just refer to myself in third person, similar to “The Jimmy” in the 105th episode of Seinfeld did).

I’ve had my rounds over the last few weeks. First there was New Harmony Cardboard 5. Then there was Soulless Aquagirl. Neither one of them worked out too well. Only a couple weeks ago did I meet she who shall be named, “Girl of Gold’s”. It was only after having her check my I.D. as I headed into the gym when I thought to myself, ‘Hey Seizure Boy, that girl is pretty darn attractive. Why don’t you ask her out.’ Both the angel on my left shoulder and the devil on my right were in agreement to this fact. And so I made the goal that the next day when I went to check in, I would “make the move”.

Unfortunately she wasn’t there the next day.

And so, I went back.

And went back.

And went back.

And went back.

And went back.

For 11 consecutive days I went back to the gym to meet up with this girl again in hopes of retrieving the numerical code that would unlock her vault. At different times too. Sometimes on my lunch break, others at 10:30 at night. Heck, I even went to play ball at 5:30 in the morning just to see if she was covering the first shift. Call me crazy, call me a creeper, call me whatever you want to, I just think that I am persistent. And if there is something that I want to retrieve, I will work hard at getting that prize.

On Day 12, I was catching 40 winks after work when a text from Half-Empty Buffalo startled me. You see Half-Empty Buffalo anonymously and honorably took on the role of Wingman in this situation to assist me in accomplishing this feat. He was one of few who I had told about the persistent ventures in pursuit of Girl of Gold’s. And when I got a two-word text just after 6 p.m. saying “She’s here.” I was already in my car toting my gym shoes right on the verge of crossing the finish line.

My persistence had paid off I thought as I walked in, introduced myself and made small-talk with Girl of Gold’s. I thought I was playing my cards just right. You see, that is the difficulty and complex nature of initial contact and approach of a date candidate. One always puts on a façade about who they really are, and acts absolutely nothing like their original self. A pretentious, shallow, deceiving act that our culture has sculpted into the world of dating. But that discussion is for another post.

I ran the floor that night with a basketball in hand, playing with a confidence level unheard of. I was making steals, blocking shots, hitting contested layups and jump shots; making southpaw backhand bounce passes across court for easy baskets. I was on an entire different level. And maybe it was the energy I was experiencing for what I thought would be the victor’s crown. My confidence was through the roof, for in a few moments I would have that elite seven-digit code of Girl of Gold’s.

Walking out of the gym their seemed to be a small hurdle in the way, for Girl of Gold’s was attending to another customer, and for me to bombard my way in and flirt would only kill my chances. Therefore, I played the cool man’s role, and walked back out to my car.

But wait, what was I doing? I wasn’t going to just walk out of there without the prize that I had come for. If I had left, would I have to wait another 11 days for my next crack at Girl of Gold’s? NO! I was persistent! I was a man! I had gone to great lengths to get my shot at this girl, and I wasn’t going to blow a chance at a potentially great first date.

Walking back into Gold’s, I approached the counter, wherein the following conversation occurred:

Seizure Boy: “Hey, as douchebag-ish as this sounds, and I’m probably sure this happens to you by more than one meathead a day while you work here, but do you want to do something sometime?”

Girl of Gold’s: Flattered, blushing, holding back a smile. “Yeah, it happens every once in a while, but I’m actually seeing someone right now. Maybe some other time though.”

Cue testicle shot. Followed by gut-wrenching stomach pains while the sweat trickled off my forehead.

Seizure Boy: “Hey, that’s cool. Yeah, some other time.”

And with that I tucked my tail between my legs, grabbed my recently injured skin-coated urethra, and walked out the door in shame, who knows when I would be returning to that gym to play ball again.

While I was driving home, my mind stumbled around in a drunken sense of confusion. ‘She was seeing someone? What the heck?!’ For all I knew this someone was probably some other muscular meathead who flexed his Pecs on the way out while making sure that the frosted tips of his scalp stayed in place meanwhile listening to “Who Let the Dogs Out” from his iPod. She was probably seeing this eggplant excuse of a soul. What a load of crap!

My mind was in self-defense mode when it occurred to me that I had now fallen into the category of pompous pricks who Girl of Gold’s had to repeatedly shut down because they arrogantly thought that flexing their biceps brachii, pectoralis majora, and latissimus dorsi while hitting on her would achieve greatness. I was now classified as one of those popped-collar Mcdoucherson’s. I was now a Chase Loveridge.

After the dust had settled and a few episodes of Tosh.0 managed to comfort the fractured remaining strips of self-esteem I had left, reality decided to check me in the gonads and put things into perspective. The guy that Girl of Gold’s was seeing probably wasn’t a shallow cousin of a 10-point I.Q. inbred West Virginia family. He was probably a great guy. Probably was working hard on his degree. Probably treated her like a queen, like she was supposed to be treated. Heck, I’d probably be friends with the kid any other day of the week. The only difficulty in this situation was that I was too late.

And so I sat in the kitchen of my apartment with a bag of Sun Chips and a Mountain Dew (the male equivalent to Ben & Jerry’s) while two great men, Rock Steady and Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd consoled me and repeated that there were other opportunities out there.

“There will be other girls out there man.” Rock Steady prodded. “You just have to keep looking and remember that the grass is always greener.”

Yeah… I’m sure it is.

I am Ted Mosby.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Girls LOVE Projects

What this post shall cover will be classified in the same category that gravity and the trashiness that Oakland Raiders fall into. Something that will ring true until pigs sprout feathery appendages and hover over Old McDonald’s pitchfork. The topic of this post is doctrine.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

I often lay in bed at night bewildered at what I need to do to make myself more available to women around me, when suddenly out of nowhere it hit me like the back of Edward Norton’s sneaker while I bit the curb in American History X. The way to get girls is to be…wait for it…(Thank you Barney Stinson)

A project.

Shocked? Stunned? Disagreeing with my proclamation of truth for the Interweb world to see? Let me explain.

The female organism is a creature that enjoys and thrives on the concept of attending to someone in aid. 71% of all women aged 18-65 have chemicals release in their brain that respond to the assistance of others.

Kent Brockman: “Is that real, Mr. Simpson?”

Homer J.: “Oh, people can come up with statistics to prove anything. 14% of people know that.”

Alright, alright, so maybe that last statement is a falsity from a mathematical sense, I only wish that Fishmitts were out there somewhere putting together a chemical equation that would prove my previous point to the nth degree. (Come on Fishmitts, stay sober and help me out on this one.) But aside from comedic text and made up stats, one thing is certain. Women love accomplishing things. Women love to help. Women love to know that they have done something meaningful in their lives. Fueled by pride, fueled by bragging rights at Ben & Jerry’s parties, fueled by whatever chemical imbalances exist in their noggins, women love the concept of “projects”. These projects may be a family scrapbook, or a 20’x 20’ quilt, or a family history contest, or whatever. Women love working on projects.

Enter stage left your classic wife beater-wearing, curse word-blaring, uncaring, overbearing, filth-laden junkpot who’s favorite activities include placing bets on WWE Nitro, and having chewing tobacco spitting contests with a three-legged deer. At first site any man would think that this Larry the Cable Guy impersonator is the mascot for the Carolina White Trash Roller Derby Team. But to a woman, he is GOLD!

Gold, because she can fix him. Gold, because he has things that she can work on. Gold, because he is a…wait for it…PROJECT! (Cue Sister Act Hallelujah chorus while women rejoice at the hallowed site before them). Any woman would drool over the chance to change this man’s life. And to do so, she must engage into an intimate relationship with him in hopes that she will be the reason that he becomes a better person. She will date him with ambitions of making him the ideal character, the Herculean Rico Suave that fell from the sky to the gutter, one who she molded into a first-class gent. It’s almost like My Fair Lady reversed.

And why do women do this in their pecking order? Who knows? Why do high-class bro’s who have careers, educations, high self-esteems, low debts, good workout routines, clean cars, funny jokes, common courtesy, great ambitions, aromatic cologne, ironed shirts, and clipped fingernails get shut down? Because they are in fact, not projects. And women want nothing to do with a self-dependent creature that will treat them like a queen. They want the grime and filth and abuse that will come in years of frustration, hoping that some day their projects will change into the man they want him to be.

So as I go back to the gym, and walk down the streets, and look at all of the women around me that I potentially could date in the future, I will keep this stone-cold doctrine in mind: It does not matter if I work hard to impress the girls around me by treating them like goddesses in disguise. By opening their doors, complimenting them, listening to them, taking care of them, spending all of my waking hours to make sure that they are nurtured, and knows that I care for them. If I want a girlfriend, all I need to do is put on a popped collar douchebag shirt, call her a few curse words, and binge on my new drinking/drugs/porn/abuse problem. Only then will women begin to want to date me.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Best Threesome I Ever Had

We have all had bad dates. Dates that make us sick to our stomachs. Dates that make us cringe in putrid embarrassment. Dates where our molars are nearly ground to powder while we bite back sarcastic rebuttals to the pathetic discussion going on while seated at Chili’s. Oh yes, we’ve all been there. Care to hear about one of mine?

It was the winter of 2001 and I was a puberty-stricken teenager just coming to the comprehension that girls did not in fact have cooties. It was right after New Year’s when my good friend Y. Jazz Junkie asked me to accompany him on a blind-double date with two very ravishing, very gorgeous, very eye-candy-esque females from our rival, Bonneville High School. To help a brother out, I agreed and was soon knocking on the door of a random town house in the middle of the woods.

Y. Jazz Junkie’s prediction rang true as the physically appealing Venetian Laker opened the door.

“Hi, I’m Robin the Witch Turley. Nice to meet you.” She said. (For the record, Robin the Witch Turley is her blogalias. I was going to give her another one, but there are too many four-letter words to choose from.)

As I attempted to introduce myself she cut me off, attacking my fashion.

“You do not look good in green. I’m just sayin’. I think you should have picked a different shirt to wear tonight.” Robin the Witch Turley accused me.

Um…Thank you? I guess? Her next response was a jab at my eye color. Confused at the mismatch of tinting.

“It’s like your shirt doesn’t match your eyes.” She said. “But then again, I can’t figure out what color they are either. They almost look like the color of… vomit. Yeah, that fits them.”

Ok, well, I’m going to take off now so you can get on your broom and fly around with your pointed hat and wart on your nose.

As we walked out to my truck, I proceeded to open her door, the gentlemanly thing to do. Something that all men should do for women, when as I started up the truck, her initial response went something like this:

“You drive this P.O.S.? I mean, should we have called AAA to pick us up instead? I bet this won’t even make it to the restaurant.”

Alright, that’s it, I have HAD IT! You can make fun of my ugly green shirt, and my ugly puke eyes, but you will never, NEVER make fun of my dear old ‘Shasta’. The sacred ’92 Nissan pickup that had driven me to Hell and back. How dare you?! At that point I didn’t care if it was Reese Witherspoon in the passenger seat, I wanted out. A.S.A.P.!

As soon as we sat down at the restaurant, the two girls decided that they both needed to use the bathroom. For the record, an enigmatic constant exists that when one woman decides to use the restroom, there must be a simultaneous estrogen creature who needs to use the restroom as well. This includes discussion of the opening drive, and how much action the potential date may be receiving on the doorstep later on. While the Laker curse words were gossiping, the following conversation occurred:

Me: “Dude, I’m not gonna finish this date tonight. This girls a total stuck up jerk.”

Y. Jazz Junkie: “C’mon man, you can’t leave. What am I gonna do then?”

Me: “I don’t care. I’m not gonna pay for her dinner, go see a play, then buy her yogurt afterward. That’s like 30-40 bucks I could be saving. And I’m not gonna waste it on this freak.”

Y. Jazz Junkie: “Alright then, so what are you gonna do?”

Me: “You’ll see. Just go along with whatever I do. It will be classic.”

And with that, the two female fatale’s waltzed out of the restroom and were seated before us. I sat across from Robin the Witch Turley in my ugly green shirt, staring at her with my vomit-stained eyes. Out of nowhere I had a shocking idea that would change my nights outcome and make the evening one of the greatest date stories of all time. The following conversation occurred:

Me: “So, tell her that she looks nice in her shirt, no don’t tell her that, why not? Cause she doesn’t! I think she does. Well what do you know? Plenty! Oh yeah right. I only let you out once in a blue moon! You let me out? Oh no sir. I let you out you pumpkin pie-haircutted freak! Alright fine, just say she has a nice shirt on! Alright! I will!

That’s a nice shirt you have on.”

Robin the Witch Turley: Perplexed/stunned/shocked/WTF look across her face. “Umm…thank you?”

Me: “See, she didn’t even like that compliment. What a jerk. I know. What the heck?”

Awkward blank silence for the next ten minutes.

A few moments later our sizzling fajitas and double bacon cheeseburgers were brought out and served. The following conversation occurred:

Me: “So should I ask her how she likes her food? No! Why would you say such a thing? Well, I’m just trying to make conversation with her. But you never talk about food! Why not? Cause, if you ever bring up food with a girl, she thinks that you think that she’s fat! Well, she does have a little junk in the trunk, I must say. I know, exactly, that could hurt you from getting any action! Well, I don’t care what you say, I’m gonna ask her. Alright, suit yourself!

How’s your burger?”

Robin the Witch Turley: Perplexed/stunned/shocked/WTF/I am scared for my life look across her face. “Umm…good?”

Me: I told you she would feel bad. You are soooo screwing yourself tonight. Oh shutup! No you shutup! Look, only one of us was supposed to be on this date in the first place. Yeah, so why don’t you go home! Jerk!”

Awkward blank silence for the next ten minutes.

As the bill and tip had been collected, we were grabbing our coats and headed out the door to go see some dunce romantic play at the Egyptian Theatre in Ogden when the following conversation occurred:

Me: “You ready to go?”

Robin the Witch Turley: “You know what,” she said grabbing her stomach. “I’m gonna have to take a rain check on this one, I’m not feeling so good.”

Me: “Oh really, you want me to take you home then? I can take her home. Yeah, I think we can take her home. That sounds fun.”

Robin the Witch Turley: “No, that’s fine. I’m just going to call my Mom.” Stepping back in fright.

Me: “Are you sure?”

Robin the Witch Turley: “Yep. You just go ahead without me.”

Me: “Alright, we’ll see ya later. Yep, we’ll both see you later!”

It was at that point when Robin the Witch Turley ran screaming out of the restaurant and I hopped in to Shasta to grab myself a slurpee and catch the tail end of SportsCenter for the evening. I never saw Robin the Witch Turley ever again. Although rumor has it that she spread rumors about my schizophrenic personality all over Bonneville High School, and later on that year a few of the Bonneville Lakers were a little bit apprehensive when they saw me warming up to throw the javelin at a track meet, but so what! I didn’t have to waste my time with a girl who thought I was a steaming pile of cow dung with vomit-coated eyes.

And that kids is how I got out of one of my most epic fail dates ever. One day it might come back to haunt me. But until that day, I will always hold the upper hand to Robin the Witch Turley.

Both of me will.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

The W.O.D. (Week of Dating)

Last month having introduced the, wait for it, LEGENDARY "Week of Sex", I prefaced how I would be taking a specific topic and blogging about it for an entire week. Discussing unique points and angles of that specific topic. I hinted that I would be talking about the hallowed "M-word" this month, but then again, how am I going to know anything about the M-word? I'm still a single putz! Therefore I thought I would discuss the M-words precursor; Dating.

Oh yes, the game of love and war that we have all experienced, or will soon experience at one point in our lives. For the record, I currently am knee-deep in dating shenanigans with amusing stories that I will use to entertain my posterity in years to come at Christmas parties. I don't think I am at the point yet where I will sit down with my kids and recount how I met their mother in a Bob Saget accent, but then again, who knows.

The entire concept of dating is a mind-boggling conglomeration of amusement, frustration, and I-can't-believe-I-just-did-that emotions that run through our systems as we knock on a door, ask for her number, or open her car door. The world we live in now is advocating a revolutionary type of lifestyle called "online dating" in which we find our soulmates via the Net, or as Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd calls it, the "InterWeb". There will be an entire post dedicated to this glorious yet saddening outbreak later this week.

Relationship cycles between two people are fascinating to watch and understand as they are ignited, develop, blossom and or crash and burn in a matter of 3 weeks or 3 years. Just by watching my friends and peers, I almost get a sense of what to do, and what not to do in a dating relationship. I say this from a Dr. Philian perspective, but then again I don't seem to apply these same principles to my own life. I am the one who does create infamous blunders such as "Text-Gate". Yes, I am that stupid.

Lucky Day: Reading telegram: "Three Amigos, Hollywood, California. You are very great. 100,000 pesos. Come to Santa Poco put on show, stop. The In-famous El Guapo."

Dusty Bottoms: "What does that mean, in-famous?"

Ned Nederlander: "Oh, Dusty. In-famous is when you're MORE than famous. This man El Guapo, he's not just famous, he's IN-famous."

Dusty Bottoms: "Wow, in-famous? In-famous?"

Brock Bybee: "Yes, Text-Gate was In-famous."

More will come as I try to break down and analyze this classic concoction known as courtship. I'll do my best to give you my two cents, but then again I am a menace to society, a single creature who's just about pulling a Matthew McConaughey impersonation from "Failure to Launch". At the end of this week my readers may think to themselves, 'No wonder this freakshow is still single.' That's alright, I can handle that.

My Grandma says that phrase to me every day.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Trivial Things

Here I stand at the free throw line inside Gold’s Gym tossing up yet another one of my endless barrage against the rim before me. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay here. The only thing that comes to mind is the replicated procedure to which a ball leaves my hands.

Spin the ball from the right hand to the left.
Dribble once.
Adjust weight from left side of left foot to right side of right foot, counterbalancing each other.
Bend knees.
Take three small dips at the knee joint.
Raise arm to shooting position.
Finger pad control.
Follow through.

This 9-step process is something that has been adjusted and fiddled with for the last 19 years of my life, just so I can get to the point that I think will be my most successful attempt at making a simple free-throw. And I’m sure that there will be more adjusting and fiddling with over the next 50 years to come.

As I begin yet another free-throw cycle, a thought comes to mind that perplexes me to the point that I forget the order of steps I am using for this shot. A one word rhetorical accusation that every three-year old responds with every time they don’t get what they want. Something that we all wonder about, whether it’s regarding free throws or politics or the meaning of life.


Why am I doing this?

Why does a free-throw matter?

Why am I shooting free-throw 37,458, to be followed by free-throw 37,459?

The three-word response that seems to be the only answer to any of these questions is a phrase I have been using every time I step into a Math class, every time I overhear a politics discussion, or every time I break up with a girl.

I don’t know.

I don’t know why I shoot these same free throws that would seem monotonous to anyone not associated with Dr. Naismith.

I don’t know why I spend an hour in the gym working on the same post move; left side wing bank shot from 17 feet out.

I don’t know why I try to improve my ball-handling skills by doing cut drills and crossover dribbles up and down the court.

In the bigger picture none of this matters. My crossover dribble, my bank shot, my free throw. They are but frivolous insignificant pieces of my life that will not mean a thing once the fat lady starts warming up. At the end of my life, am I going to look into the eyes of my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren and say, “I hope all of you are proud of me for having a lifetime free-throw shooting percentage of 78%. I can die now.” Probably not. When it comes down to it all, my shooting percentage will not matter.

Yesterday afternoon J. Black Hairpiece, B.E.P. Longhorn, and The Glee President had a conversation with me about “big-kid” matters in regards to purchasing 40 acres in Beryl, Utah. Playing the Devils Advocate half-seriously I posed the question as to what motivation I would have in purchasing this nude land-plot catered with sagebrush and rabbit scat.

“Think about it, Brock.” J. Black Hairpiece loaded up, his business-persuading personality targeting my forehead to fire. “Don’t you want to be able to give your kids something? To be able to have something to your name? Something for generations to hold on to?”

“Yeah, you could even start an Alpaca ranch or something.” The Glee President prodded.

And to answer his question through a blog post 21 hours later, an answer that he will probably never hear; No. I don’t. Why should those 40 acres matter? Am I going to get to the other side and say to myself, “I’m sure glad I got those 40 acres. They are absolutely helping me now that I’m dead and buried.”

I don’t think I will ever say those words. But it’s not just the land or the free throws that I’m wasting my life with. There are trivial tokens all around me that I can’t figure out why my time is devoted to. My ipod. My car. My snowboard and winter equipment. My NBA Jam App. My purchasing of all five seasons of “Dexter”. My wardrobe. Heck, this blog even raises the question as to its purpose, undoubtedly because I’m trying to prove to the world that I’m a negative pervert.

Now I’m not trying to advocate a hippy lifestyle and try and convince everyone to give up all of these material wastes of time and move to a jungle community where we can all pinky dance and sing ‘Kum-Bah-Yah’. That’s not the point. I don’t even think there’s a point in this post at all. But as I step back up to the line and repeat the steps:

Spin the ball from the right hand to the left.
Dribble once.
Adjust weight from left side of left foot to right side of right foot, counterbalancing each other.
Bend knees.
Take three small dips at the knee joint.
Raise arm to shooting position.
Finger pad control.
Follow through.

The ball splashes through the net and bounces off to the side. While I’m the only one left in the gym staring at a glass opponent who’s attempts at defeat have been thwarted. It’s split-second moments like this when I look up to the sky at whoever’s watching me, and say to myself.

“That’s why.”

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Don't Touch That!

Here’s another story for you. One that will keep you laughing in the middle of your day, in the middle of your week, in the middle of your blog escapades. This afternoon J. Black Hairpiece, B.E.P. Longhorn, The Glee President and myself ventured out to their most cherished of all stores. The store that all three of them praise as holy as the offspring of Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul II. The store that is so great, even South Park won’t make fun of it. The store that shall be known, as Costco.

For the record, once a couple becomes betrothed, engaged, and married, they must then file an allegiance to the store Costco. A store to which they make vows and oaths, while staring each other in the eyes. I only imagine that wedding ceremonies must go as follows.

Bride: “Do you promise to be faithful, and loving, and care for me until death do us part, or until our platinum Costco membership runs out?”

Groom: “I do.”

Costco is the married duets utopia. The mother of all coupon-saving couples cornucopias. The store that takes Wal-Mart out behind the woodshed and gives it a good beating for its attempts at discounts. Costco is, as this younger generation would call it, the bomb.com

Cut back to the fearsome foursome wandering the polished cement floors of our local Costco, and admiring the ridiculously low lollygagging prices surrounding us. A 9-foot inflatable river raft with a built in tripod. $199.99. A 24 pack of Muscle Milk $15.99 A slice of pizza and sauerkraut covered hotdog, $1.50. But we were interested in the more important things that Costco had to offer; the free samples.

Kids, we live in a culture where we are always looking for something that’s free. Whether it’s free pie Wednesday night at Village Inn, or a 3-year subscription to Reader’s Digest for Kids, we want it. In this case, it was a traveling tour of tinsel-twined Grandma’s dishing out the day’s marquee items.

“Why don’t you try some of this nice potato salad, made with red skinned potatoes, and paprika seasoning.” Blurts out Grandma one. Why thank you, don’t mind if I do!

“Have a nice cup of this Grilled Chicken Mexican Stir Fry Salad, made with the finest mandarin oranges in Florida.” Grandma two proclaims. Wow, you’re right, these oranges are delicious!

“Have a taste of this nice cilantro coated hot dog. If there’s one thing I do know it’s you can’t beat this meat!” Heralds Grandma three. I’ll take a swipe at that Chicago delicacy, minus the sexual innuendo.

And then, I saw it. A natural oil coated piece of Italian bread toasted to the supreme temperature, giving it the primal impact on your taste buds the moment you gulped it down. Grandpa one was dishing out the steaming bread and dousing it with a tablespoon of oil for the frolicking shoppers to ogle over.

‘Mmm…That looks good.’ I thought to myself as I reached over to the Italian mimicking yeast creation, hoping to top off my strolling buffet. When out of nowhere, Grandpa one’s spatula appeared, and slapped me quick across the hand like I was a disobedient 3rd grader.

“Don’t touch that!” The Hitlerian Grandpa smirked at me. “When I’m ready to put the tray out, I will.”

And with that, I put my tail between my legs, and joined my married comrades in their march to the front of the store. I didn’t know what to think, what to say. I had just been told off by a George Burns impersonator holding a wooden cooking tool, rejecting my attempts at loathing in flavorful goodness. And why? My mind raced in circles while we passed cartons of peanut M&M’s and Dockers khaki pants while 3-year olds screamed that they wanted another root beer.

‘What was it?’ I thought to myself as we walked out of the Cyclops known as Costco’s cave and crammed back into my Silver Bullet. Why would the cryptkeeper reject me from that American blue-collar delicacy? And then it hit me harder than a Red Bull/Monster concoction at 3 am, the real reason for my rejection from this store.

I’m not married.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

We Live For Facebook

We live for attention. We live for recognition. We live for people liking, and commenting and following our lives via the Interweb. Heck, what do you think we have blogs for? The only reason I have Randomity is so people can digitally stalk my life. I love the attention! It is because of these reasons though, why we all live for Facebook. Therefore, inspired by one of Fishmitts' most recent and most brilliant blogposts, I thought I would keep the chain-blog letter rolling, and give you insight as to what creeps up onto my Facebook wall each day. Of course blogaliases will be added to protect people's identities.

As of June 7, 2011, at 11:40 AM, these are the following top news posts in the following order. Banter following the posts.

* Rocksteady alerted the world of his breakfast. Reeces for Breakfast! Along with a picture of a classic college students meal. Somewhere, my stomach is punching myself for drinking a protein shake this morning.

* Whojagger submitted that Hollywood Undead is one of the coolest bands out there. I'm sure they are Whojagger, but how come every trend these days MUST be related to something Zombie-ish?

* Homecoming Prototype lamented about someone posting a dating ad about her on Craigslist, accusing the creepers out there for their misdeeds. Deep down HP, every guy your age is a creeper.

* SBJ Cheercrush is wondering whether he should have a "birds and the bees" talk with his 3-year old son Chipper, after he tried to make out with his 10-year old babysitter. You might want to talk with him about chewing tobacco too. I hear most Major-leaguers named Chipper can't kick that one.

* Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd quoted Chief Kent by saying, "Dirk Nowitzki is like an Aryan God. When Hitler was trying to make the master race, that's what he was shooting for." Hmm...If all Aryan God's do is flop left and right and whine after every play, then Dirk's already been elevated.

* Icon Bay Neighbor recounted his checklist: Mountain bike, check. Helmet, check. Camelbak, check. Moab.......BIG FAT CHECK!!!! I think we all want to have a big fat check.

* Oboe Castro quoted Green Day with his line, "Another turning point, and a fork stuck in the road." There are always forks stuck in the road.

* Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd compared the restaurant Smash Brothers to a positive pregnancy test: depending on the situation it either makes people either really happy or really upset. Good analogy, but at this stage in my life, there is NO WAY I would feel happy after walking out of Smash Brothers.

* Half Empty Buffalo wrote "For some reason my spin instructor seems to believe that every song that she plays need to have a techno beat... "Who Let the Dogs Out" is terrible enough without adding a stripper beat to it..." For some reason Half-Empty Buffalo, I would never put the words spin instructor, techno, stripper, and who let the dogs out, in the same sentence.

* Future Sister Dirty Bird lamented about wanting to vomit after watching "Super Size Me" and that she'll never eat fast food "for the rest of my life." Oh Shutup, you will too. Now get me a Double Whopper with Cheese while you're out.

* Meredith Millville is sad, stating that it's a terrible thing to know what you want and to know you can't have it. For the record Meredith, I think Mick Jagger put it best when he sang, "You can't always get what you want."

* Leif the Twin Talkie wrote, "Driving home shirtless with windows open: enjoyable for me, terrifying for everyone else." LTT, I love your boobs. Even if they are bigger than my wife The Swede's.

* The Ogling Thunder posted a picture about Crown Burger with the phrase, "Still the World's Best Burger." I hear you on that Thunder, and at least when I'm done eating it I'll never feel pissed off.

* Benedict Marsh angrily posted "Why dont you knock your crap off? Contrary to what you think, what happens has nothing to do with your trashy ass. Just because you are lonely and have nobody does not mean you need to try and make everyone else that way. fourty year old pathetic woman. grow up and take care of your own life before you worry about someone else. Stop trying to kid yourself, lay off, go screw yourself." Are you mad at Facebook for being a forty year old pathetic woman, or what? Somewhat lost on this one buddy.

* Miss William Dixie praised AM/FM by saying, "If you are looking to advertise on the best radio stations in Southern Utah let me know!! Radio is the way to go." I think not Miss Dixie. Radio is on its way out.

* VRM Sly Shortie asked "Who wants to watch the Red Sox beat the Yankees with me?" No one. There's 161 other games to pay attention to this season anyway.

* Double K Crazy Hair advocated the Jerry Springer show, and advertised that whoever wanted to be on it, needed to call the 1-800 number below. It is posts like this one that make me realize how white-trash and ghetto my fellow RHS alumni can be.

* Unicorn Cooler asked, "What's on your mind?" Well, according to male gender statistics, sex every 7 seconds.

* VRM Spanish Traveller posted that he would be taking a week long Facebook fast. HA! I'm going to go ahead and call you on that one. We'll see you back on here in 72 hours at most!

Monday, June 6, 2011

I Don't Get My Freak On

Two nights ago I sat on the curbside of Tabernacle and Main outside the Electric Theatre. It was 11:37 at night and my big-kid persona plopped itself on the cracked cement, while the bass of some song by an artist known as Ke$ha pounded behind me. In the Electric Theatre that night a joint-birthday party was being held for two dear friends who shall be called The Raging Royal, and Meredith Millville.

It was a momentous occasion for the two of them as they cut cake, drank Rockstars, and boogied down on the neon-light flashed dance floor below. The term "boogie" will be the subject of today's post. And no I am not referring to what little kids think they get when they pick their noses. I am talking about "getting down", "cutting the rug", "shaking one's tailfeather", "busting a move", and "getting funky like a monkey".

Amidst all of the booty-shaking, I sat at the bar of the Electric Theatre nursing back an Arrowhead water bottle while watching recaps of the 14-inning Boston Red Sox marathon victory on ESPNEWS. What can I say, I have to keep up with one of the 162 games on the schedule this season don't I? I was having the "time of my life", as they call it. Every 7 1/2 minutes however, the following dialogue would occur with another empathetic sweaty person.

John or Jane Doe: "Brock, why aren't you out there dancing?"

Me: "That's easy, I don't like dancing, and I'm not good at it."

John or Jane Doe: "What? Whatever! I'm sure you're a great dancer."

Me: "No, the reason that I know I am a bad dancer is because I have two things working against me. 1. I'm a guy. 2. I'm a white guy. Hence, I will never be able to dance."

This was followed by scoffs and attempts to drag me on to the neon dance floor. They were all futile though, because if there is one thing that I am certain of, is that I suck at dancing. Plain and simple.

I think this stems from my physical appearance, which in my book is a logical explanation for not being able to re-enact "Saturday Night Fever". Being a tall 6'5" creature such as myself make my lanky/awkward arms and legs look even more lanky/awkward. I can't help it. Add to the fact that there are dance "moves" that make no sense to me. The "sprinkler"? A move in which one grabs the back of their head, sticks their other arm out straightforward, and moves in a rotating movement to the sound of the beat. That's supposed to be cool?

Or what about the infamous dance move to which I shall call the "smorgasbord of confusion", in which one grabs the ankle of one of their legs, meanwhile dropping their head down to their waste, and their knee up to to their face, followed by an expansion of this gesture, which is repeated in rhythmic sync to the bass-beat of whatever techno song your ear drums are being brutally exposed to. You know what I'm talking about. Why don't you try and mimic these dance moves while reading this and see if you get laughed at like Elaine did from Seinfeld. Go on, do it!

These are some of the goofiest motions that I have ever seen, and it is moves like these, combined with my race and gender which make me a part of the anti-dance movement of America, or as we are also called, "So I Don't Think I Can Dance". Of course I was criticized for not joining in the Ke$ha/Gomorrah dance party with a slew of "grinding", and "bumping", and "booty-shaking" with people prodding, "Come on, Brock! You just have to feel the music and the beat to fully appreciate this!"

No. No I don't.

Somewhere I think the Raging Royal, Meredith Millville, and the Hairy Trojan are shaking their heads at my refusal to rhumba.