Tuesday, December 31, 2013


Wasn’t the world supposed to have ended by about now?

Seriously Mayans, you suck at keeping things in check. At least when it comes to predicting global apocalypses and managing the Spanish influenza.

For full effect, download “This Will Be Our Year” by The Zombies, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

So…we’re to the end of another one? Already? You’re joking, right? This is ludicrous I know, but let’s face the facts people. We are getting old. We are turning gray. We are becoming a generation of old farts that will get caught listening to what is now classified as “oldies” when in our minds it’s just the smash hit from Weezer in 1994. Time really is just slipping into the future, as the Steve Miller band so eloquently put, and there is nothing we can do about it.

Another year has come and gone, and yes, there may be some sort of heartwarming message massaged throughout this post, but hear me out. I’m just sitting here on a lazy Tuesday afternoon trying to recount a year of highs and a year of lows. A year of growth, and a year of setbacks. I came, I saw, and I conquered. That’s the phrase people use when trying to describe a triumph isn’t it?

2013 was a year flexing my muscles like an overinflated beach bum in a speedo, and a year laying in the fetal position weeping like a damaged child on depressants. It was a year of broken hearts and broken dreams, countered with euphoric smiles and giant bear hugs. It was a year of races, and a year of French toast. A year of birdies and bogies, mortgage payments and violations. A year stoked with long hikes, late nights, emergency rooms, and scars I will never tell my family about.  

It was a year spent on the road, and a year spent in my first home. A year where I lived, breathed, and choked giving out the same 15-second response to students all over the Western United States. 2013 was spent in classrooms, wetsuits, gyms, hotels, frontseats, backseats, swimming pools, movie theaters, cheap restaurants, airplanes, tents, warehouses, empty living rooms and Sin City. A year spent on basketball courts, golf courses, boring treadmills and blind dates with serial killers.  

This was a year spent alone. And a year surrounded with characters you can’t imagine even if you’re intoxicated. Characters I have ran with, dined with, golfed with, biked with, boarded with, covered for, lied to (for good reason), learned from, edited with, suited up, pickled with, sang to, cheered for, passed by, cried over, cried, with, and cried for (different emotions involved in all three of those). Characters I have lost, found, cursed, smelled, swiped, bumped, set, spiked, missed, blogged, mourned, taught, shot, slapped and groped accidentally in public (more on that later).

2013 was life lessons over cheap Mexican food, and church basketball games with $100 friends. It was fancy steak dinners alone in 5-star Hotels in the Pacific Northwest, and a face full of hot coolant from broken radiators. 2013 holds the record for the four longest road trips I have ever endured, and the humbling moment where my manly wall crumbled and I gave into Pinterest. It was a year signing my life away for the next 30 years, and a year where I was handed the most beautiful niece wrapped up in a blanket just after 2 am.

2013 was the year where I discovered I was made out of Iron.

Well, at least half of me is anyway…

2013 was the best year I have had thus far in my life, and I don’t mean that in an embellished sense by any means. This truly was one of the best years I have ever had the chance to witness, endure, and celebrate. It was a year that changed who I am as a person.

And I hope to everything holy it did the same thing for you.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Your Two Cents

You’re a funny audience to read, you know that?

For full effect, download “Two Weeks” by Grizzly Bear and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I know I say this blog is for my future kids, an online recording that holds the tales and the opinions of the grumpy old man they call their Dad. However, I must say that for the time being as I post these clusterfests on the Internet and showcase them using my Facebook feed, this blog really is for you. For all of you classy gents and ladies out there who take five minutes out of your day to read something that hopefully has a sarcastic enough punchline/moving message at the end that will put a smile on your face and push you to compliment me in the milk aisle at Wal-Mart.

Thomas: “Dude, I love your blog!”

Me: “Dude, I love your guts. Now let’s go eat Jell-O.”

When I say you’re a funny audience, I mean that I don’t know how to please you. And please, do not read that last sentence with a Ron Burgundy frame of mind, because that is not the direction I’m headed with this post. When I say I don’t know how to please you, I mean I don’t know what will keep you coming back and reading this meager chunk of the Internet I’ve been using for the last three years and counting.

That was of course, until last week.

Over the course of the last fourteen days I have seen two of my highest-rated posts come to fruition on this site. And thanks to Blogger analytics, they are two of the highest-read posts I have ever witnessed. Coincidentally, those two posts were a war of words between two very passionate people standing on both sides of the fence when it comes to relationships.

Now there is no reason to divulge how many of you knuckleheads took time out of your day to scroll down this page and read my thoughts, however, I must say that I was flattered, nay, floored, nay, shocked and awed at the number and variety of people who came out of the woodworks to voice their opinion on why people are married, and why people are not.

And when I say variety, I mean everyone.

Friends, enemies, random drunks, next door neighbors, old Sunday School teachers, BFF’s, Not-so-BFF’s, complete strangers, high school crushes, movie stars, students, ex-girlfriends, coaches, heck, my dead Aunt Barbara visited me in some spooktacular Russian nightmare to throw her own opinion at me on the pitfalls of not having a spouse. All of you came out of nowhere to toss your two cents my way on why I should be single, and why I shouldn’t.

And I appreciate that.

Really, I do. I am grateful that every one of you takes time out of your day to click on links I post with an attached .gif of Neil Patrick Harris. I am thankful to have people such as yourself who don’t just skim over my blog and treat it as spam clogging up your Facebook feed. Fortunate isn’t the right word to describe how I feel when this page is shared and takes a mini-viral swing amongst you. I am lucky. And I thank you for that.

However, all of this hoopla about random subjects leads me back to the original observation I had at the beginning of this blog. I repeat, the past two posts were some of the most widely read/highest rated creations I have ever pasted on the Internet, and interestingly enough, they were both dealing with my love life. Coincidentally, going over the top 100 highest-read posts I have ever written and published on Randomity, 57 of them were about my love life. 57 posts were about my bad dates, my life as a bachelor, and about my quest to find my own girl with a yellow umbrella.

57 posts were about my battle with the L-word.

Now I know at times I come off as a narcissist who likes to poke fun at the fact that I’m still living the single life, and at the same time do enjoy recounting to you my bad breakup stories and philosophical impressions regarding the concept of marriage. But with that being said, all of this data, and the likes, and the shares, and the comments, and the high volume of readership, and the late-night compliments on the milk aisle in Wal-Mart lead me to wonder one simple question.

Why is my relationship status so entertaining?

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

I Love Lamp

We all have different holiday traditions. Whether it's opening up a new set of pajamas the night before Santa arrives, gorging ourselves on raspberry Jell-O and Lil' Smokies all day long, or going out for Mexican and watching the latest Christmas Blockbuster. Whatever your tradition may be, I think we can all agree on the same thing every time the annual Festivus rolls around.

In the words of the legendary weatherman Brick Tamland, "We love lamp".

Merry Christmas everybody. 

Sunday, December 22, 2013

This Is Why You Are Not Married

Last week I posted a rant that in the history of my blogging career was one of the highest rated and most popular posts I have ever written. To sum it up in a short sentence, you freaking loved it.

If you were single.

If you were married…well, you had different thoughts as to who was right and who was wrong, and you all voiced your opinions very passionately. I appreciate that. One of the most notable voices in this feedback was a married friend of mine, Marshall Perkins, who asked to be a guest blogger on behalf of the married community and share his thoughts on what is wrong with being single in today's world. Out of respect for him, and those who felt disgruntled after last week’s post, I granted him full access to rip our single lives to shreds. 

This is what he had to say: 

Dear Single People, 

I don’t get you. Seriously. You make no sense in my mind. At least when it comes to finding any kind of justification as to why you aren't wearing a metal band on your finger. 

By the way I am not going to ask for some type of background music to accompany this post that Brock usually adds for the "full effect" because frankly I want utter silence to be the backdrop as to what I have to say. 

What do you think Marriage is? Do you think it's some nonstop romantic getaway where all we do is sit around and confess our love to each other? Do you think it is some six-day romp of sexual fantasies, or romantic getaways/skiing trips to Park City, squeezing weeklong cruises to the Bahamas in between all of this? Do you think it is one gigantic vacation of love from start to finish? Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's not that at all. 

Marriage is tough. Marriage is hard. I know those aren't the two adjectives you are looking to hear from someone who technically is pushing through the "Seven-Year Itch" phase in his own marriage, but I'm being brutally honest with you. Marriage is the most difficult, most enduring, most frustrating event that will ever take place in your entire history, and more often than not will leave you speechless and looking for answers. Sorry to burst your bubble, but welcome to real life. 

I think a problem you have is that you are on some kind of quest to find the "perfect spouse", or "The One"; someone who has absolutely no flaws whatsoever. But spoiler alert, there is no perfect person. There is no “one” that you are supposed to be with. There are no 10's, or 9's. Heck, 8's are few and far between. The chances of you ending up with someone who cooks, cleans, communicates, has no anger issues, and has a body that Erin Andrews is jealous of are nearly impossible. You think you’re going to find a perfect ten? Ha! Good luck!

On the flip side, what makes you think you deserve a ten when you're probably only a 6.5 at best? Sorry to speak the truth, but you are average. I know that word sounds harsh and cruel, but I am just telling it like it is. You are not some hidden gem with untapped good looks, ridiculously intelligent conversation skills, a six-figure salary, and the ability to 
shut down Orrin Hatch in a public debate. You are mediocre, you are adequate, you are ordinary just like everyone else. So get off of your own cloud nine, and face the realistic/unpretentious facts.

May I ask, are you sitting back waiting for God, or Allah, or whatever spiritual being you believe in to just place a perfect spouse in your lap? Are you waiting for the stars to align somehow that will allow you to make eye contact with that one girl across the room, and sparks will fly and yada yada yada you will finally have that epic romantic event to tell your kids? That’s a load of crap! If you want some swan song/love story to tell your kids about the day your met your spouse then fine, go hire a movie producer and live the rest of your life alone, because the chances of that actually happening are about as good as Lebron James coming to play for the Jazz.  

I think a lot of you blame your culture as an excuse to why you're not married. When really it's not the culture at all. The bottom line is that you are just too scared to commit to somebody. You are scared to open up your life to another person. You are scared to have arguments with someone you share a bed with over finances, or career options, or ways to raise a child. You are petrified with fear and you hide that terror by blaming the culture you live in as the reason why you haven’t “settled down” just yet.  

Why can’t you commit? What is the problem with “settling down”? Why do you have to think the grass is always greener on the other side? Because the bottom line is that the grass is pretty dang green right where you're sitting. You think this amazing person is somewhere out there and that your paths just haven’t crossed yet? Ha! Quit pretending to be Fivel and face the facts that they are probably sitting right in front of you this very minute and you're too dumb to look at them and realize they are actually the one you've been waiting for. 

I have single friends ask me all the time what marriage is. And I always rehearse the same lines right back to their confused faces. Marriage is pain. Marriage is hard. Marriage is disagreements over behavior, and restless nights on the couch. Marriage is farting contests, and burnt pizza, and sinks full of dishes. Marriage is realizing that I am not the most important person in the world, and coming to the glorious realization that my wife is. Marriage is a massive concoction of long hugs, flat tires, fresh cut flowers, dirty laundry, chick flicks, back massages, blood, sweat and tears all rolled into one legal document we both signed seven years ago.

And to be perfectly honest, I’ve loved every second of it.

Yours truly,

Marshall. A happily chained-up man.  

Sunday, December 15, 2013

This Is Why We Are Still Single

Normally this space is reserved for some comical story I’m reciting to my kids that for the most part is exaggerated just to make them laugh. You’ve pretty much got the gist of how this blog is run, don’t you? However, this week things are different. This week, this post is for me. And for Chris Thompson. And for Gabe Phillips. And for everyone else out there who is sick and tired of married individuals treating us like we are the scum of the earth. 

This post is for all the single people.

For full effect, download "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

It seems that in our culture if you are older than 25 years of age and do not have a spouse, a fiancé, or a steady dating partner for a solid six months, you are automatically condemned to the outer darkness of social interaction. A place where obese Aunts and Uncles shake their heads in disgust during family reunions. A place where there are an unending number of attempts to be set up with that one 43-year old schizophrenic lady down the street who owns a shelter for abandoned cats.

If we have graduated with a six-year Bachelor’s degree in hand and still haven’t found someone to take to the altar, in your eyes, we are dead.

Married people, why do you treat us single folks this way? Why do you feel we are “lost causes” who are so far off the beaten path that we might as well sign up for the nearest vasectomy? Why are we viewed in the same light as Hepatitis B? Why are the first words out of your mouths to us after the initiatory greeting, “So when ya gettin’ hitched?”

In your eyes, our single life is as valuable as the dead goldfish you just flushed down the toilet.

It's as if there is a war between our two sides. The married couples against the bachelors and bachelorettes. The ones with eternal partners versus the ones with gym memberships they actually use. Those with rings, against those without. And you just can’t wait to convert us all to the ways of married life.

You want us to join your club of couples who are legally in L-word and have the vows on tape to prove it. You want us to know what it’s like to have your "best friend" with you at all times, and can look into one another's eyes and sing Kenny Chesney songs over a bottle of wine late into the night. You really don't care who we end up with, as long as we can have those cheese-tasting parties with you on Wednesday nights and complain about our kids painting the walls with their own poo, because that's married life, right?

But you see, there’s a big problem with that last sentence.

You don't care.

You don’t care who we decide to be with for the rest of our lives, or at least until one of us gets sick of the other and turns into an axe murderer or calls an attorney. You don’t care who we bring home for the holidays, as long as we are bringing home someone at all. Because in your mind, you are content with the fact that we aren’t alone, and we have finally fallen in L-word and have found that someone that gets us into the secret club of people who can post phony photos of their glorious wedding day every single TBT. 

Well you know what, and for the record I’m speaking for all the single people out there with as much pent up frustration you can imagine, the reason we aren’t married just yet, is because marriage to us sounds miserable. If you were to poll a group of single people and ask what we think marriage is, the majority of us would come up with the same blanket concept.

Marriage is a game.

Marriage to us is a competition of tactical strategies to try and prove your point over miniscule arguments. Marriage is picking your battles and figuring out if you want to fight over whose turn it is for laundry, or whether or not you can go golfing with your buddies. Marriage is cooking dinner and buying your wife a new dress only hoping with your shaking fingers crossed under the table that she will consent to have sex with you for the first time in three months.

Am I wrong? Because at the sound of that last paragraph, I think I’m ready to go join a monastery.

Now I know I’m just picking the ugly side of the equation here, and I’m sure there are dozens of married folk out there reading this who are chomping at the bit ready to chastise my foolishness and write a rant about how blogs like this are the reason I’m still single and that I have a snowball’s chance in Hell at ever finding a woman who can put up with my egotistical vocabulary, and that married life is so much better than I will ever be able to imagine.

But the thing is, I’m making these presumptions based off watching all of you. And hearing how the world mocks the way a married couple treats one another. And seeing the look in your 19-year old eyes when you realize the honeymoon wasn’t as exciting as you thought and now you’re attached to a creep you can’t stand.

And you wonder why all single people are classified as having “commitment issues”. 

I’m speaking the truth when I say that myself, and Chris, and Gabe, and every other single creature out there does not want to be content with someone who we’re only proud of on certain days of the month. And to answer your question, as to why we are still single, why we haven’t settled down yet, and why we are still holding out for that “twue wove” as The Princess Bride minister with a speech impediment so eloquently put.

It’s because we want something different. We don’t want to just be “content”. 

I’m not stupid. I know relationships change and everyone is not always going to be on that euphoric cloud nine every single waking second in a fantasy world of romance. I get that those things fade away with time, and that there are going to be ups and downs along the way as married couples grow older together.

But I don’t want to get caught in a philosophical staredown with myself in the mirror and question whether the bond I have with my wife is really worth it in the long run. I don’t want to wonder about what might have happened had I held out just a bit longer in that crazy dating world to actually find my best friend. I don’t want to question whether I, or the girl I share rings with, have honestly “settled”.

Those are the reasons we are all still single.

And they’re pretty damn good ones too.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

The Legend Of The Rhinestone Cowboy

I know in multiple instances on this blog I have told tales that included a legendary figure known as The Rhinestone Cowboy. This is a man who has had an illustrious career in higher education thus far, and is someone who Bear Grylls would ultimately tip his cap to. We have had our golden ages together as college recruiters, however things have changed considerably over the years since the distinguished Rhinestone Cowboy became my friend.

Because when I first met the guy, he sure was a prick.

For full effect, download “Coyotes”, by Don Edward, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. You can even howl along with the man on the chorus if you want, I won’t judge.

Kids, when I first rubbed shoulders with the legend from Texas, we shared a Small Group Communication class taught by a decrepit creature who once bawled his eyes out while watching an episode of “The Office”. The ancient teabag known as Wayne Shamo.

For the record, I may or may not have donned a Mohawk for a good five weeks that semester, mainly because I thought the shock value alone would impress women around campus to date me. However, due to the fact that it’s been nearly seven years since Shamo’s class, and that I am still as single as Stinson, I must say that hairstyle didn’t do wonders for me like I imagined.

At the time of Shamo’s excuse of higher education, the Cowboy and I sat a little over 15 feet from one another. We never talked, never joked, never recounted the weekend’s college football scores. The only thing I knew about the Rhinestone Cowboy was that he had a stare of death. Like a fat woman on a Jenny Craig diet burning a hole through the skin of the waiter that just took away her dessert menu. He had a look that would make Simon Cowell wet his pants. And I had to see it every single day.  

For a long period of my young college career, I was actually scared of making eye contact with him, fearing that his maleficent staredown would make me want to force myself into a seizure into oncoming freeway traffic. It was that intimidating.  Here he was, a stereotypical jock clothed in Texas Longhorn gear from the hat on his head, to his embroidered thong underneath, staring a Mohawk wearing seizure-boy down like I was the scum of the earth.

Yeah, our relationship got off to a rocky start.

Cue intramural sports at Dixie State College over the next few semesters, where I was then forced to endure a series of beat downs by Team Texas, which was a group of typecast douchebags that used to recruit former college athletes to play with them, just so they could win a free shirt that displayed the word “Champions”.  Every touchdown they would score, every three-pointer they would make, every win they would tally, all of their athletic triumphs they would rub in the faces of the minions they stomped over. And you know who was their captain? The notorious Rhinestone Cowboy himself.

For a long period of my life I hated this creature that had good looks, rippling pecs, athletic talent, Hell, for all I know he probably pissed greatness for breakfast. On the surface I labeled him as a pompous fool that had no social skills whatsoever and was more vain than the entire Kardashian family combined.

But then I had an actual conversation with the man, and our lives have changed ever since.

Guys, have I ever told you about the real Rhinestone Cowboy? A man who has the ability to stroll into the hood of Las Vegas and make gangsta thugs fall in L-word with getting a college education. A man that can track, shoot, gut, and mount a buck all without breaking a sweat. A man who once finished an Ironman triathlon at a semi-pro pace. A man who loves his family more than he loves his own life, and dedicates every minute to being the best husband and father around? Have I told you about this colossal character who is the epitome of awesome?

Yeah, that’s the real Rhinestone Cowboy, and I will always thank the man upstairs for giving me the privilege of calling him my friend.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

My Date With A Serial Killer

“Is there any way we could change it to some place that I know? What if this restaurant you’re talking about doesn’t exist? And how do I know you’re not just going to kill me?”

Were the first words my blind date texted me on Friday night.  

For full effect, download “Midnight Rambler” by The Rolling Stones, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Before I begin, I would like to issue a formal apology on the delay of this post. For some reason my hometown of St. George decided to go into complete shut down mode when the big man upstairs sent down a few snow flurries. You would think a city with over 100,000 people would know how to shovel a sidewalk and not feel they have reached the actual apocalypse. It is because of this geriatric catastrophe, and the 15-hour disruption in my travel schedule, that caused this interruption.

For the record, I would also like to say that although a week ago I went on an independent splurge talking about how I am not ready to be a Father, ranting about the torturous road of what raising a child must be like, a key word to remember is, “yet”. Because in all reality, one day I’m actually going to be a real Father raising a handful of kids, and telling them the 9-season long story of How I Met Their Mother.

And that is what this blog is about. Telling my kids the stories of bad dates I had when women who aren’t their Mother mistook me for being a serial killer.

It is somewhat of a kick in the manhood to have an elementary school teacher put me in the same category as Ted Bundy. Are we all engineered to be defensive about someone who asks for our number and drives a few hours to take us to dinner? Maybe all women do in fact think that men are the devil. For all I know, this girl probably thought I was a Satan worshipper as she nervously walked in to Zupa’s holding pepper spray and a switchblade behind her back.

“Hi, I’m …” she said with a plastic smile on her face.

It was at this point when I realized that I was the one whose life might be at risk.

… was hands down one of the most entertaining girls I have ever taken out. And when I say entertaining, I don’t mean my heart was captured with a rush of emotions entranced by her beauty. I mean entertaining like a six-year old with ADD that you keep feeding spoonfuls of paint, while you sit back with a bag of popcorn and laugh at the show they put on.

I could recount to you the entire one-hour, nine-minute meal we shared, but I think her top three quotes of the night could sum everything up.

… “I think you just have to draw the line at AIDS.”

… “Don’t tell anyone this, but when I was a freshman at the Y, in multiple instances I went past the chastity line that they have in apartments. I even went back into a boy’s bedroom once!”

… “My girlfriend made the statement that everyone is different. They all have a different lid. There are the circle lids, the square lids, the triangle lids, and the star lids. And that’s what he is. You have to agree that a guy who dresses up as a ninja for fun is a star lid kind of guy.”

I must say that last quote sums up our date. Everyone is different.  

As I walked her to her car in normal serial killer fashion, I knew there would not be a second date between the two of us. She was funny, she was sweet, she was the best show that a $15 dinner at Zupa’s could buy. But the bottom line is that I am not the kind of man she is looking to spend the rest of her life with. In her own lunatic words, I’m just not the lid that will fit her jar.

And so I’ll keep looking. I’ll keep testing the waters. I’ll keep asking complete strangers out. I’ll keep agreeing to go on blind dates with elementary school Zoobies who accuse me of being a man who murders innocent people as a hobby.

Because after all, every serial killer needs a lover, don’t they?

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

To Jeremiah Rawson!

If I were sitting with Will Ferrell, John Goodman, and Alec Baldwin, doing an SNL skit about drunk people celebrating the Birthday of one of the most legendary men of all time, this is what our conversation would sound like. (By the way, Google “Bill Brasky” and you’ll know the direction I’m heading with this.)

Me: “Have I ever told you about the great, Jeremiah Rawson?”

JG: “Yeah, I know Rawson. Isn’t he the one who once caught a cobra with his bare hands, and used it as a lure to catch great white sharks in the Pacific Ocean?”

AB: “That’s the guy. Rawson’s a helluva man, ain’t he? In fact, one time I saw him eat 37 tacos in one sitting. After that, he ran a 5K backwards, and naked.”

WF: “Did I ever tell you about the time Rawson once harpooned the Sea Shepherd with the spine of a blue whale, just to spite them?”

Me: “Last I checked, Rawson grates cheese on his abs, and can iron his pants on his pecs.”

AB: “Did you know that he doesn’t check in with Facebook? Instead, Facebook checks in with him!”

JG: “I’ve heard that when he dies, they’re going to use his blood to replace fossil fuels, and his ribs as the new gates to Heaven.”

WF: (Raising a glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson!”


AB: “Did I ever tell ya about the time Rawson shook my hand after beating me in a game of H-O-R-S-E? When I went home that night, I listed it on my resume as one of my lifetime achievements.”

WF: “Animal Planet has an entire week dedicated solely to his beard. In fact, I heard the last time he shaved he had to put Band-Aids on the end of his razor.”

Me: “I once saw him win a game of Tic Tac Toe, with only two moves.”

JG: “17. That’s the number of women Rawson will have kissed by the time I finish this sentence.”

WF: “You remember back when Rawson found a full-grown Grizzly Bear in the wilderness and taught him how to play fetch with a bowling ball?”

Me: “When Rawson was in the fifth grade he once won a spelling bee.  By counting to five.”
JG: “Last I checked, back in the 2008 Presidential Election, both McCain, and Obama voted for him to win.”
AB: (Raising a glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson!”


Me: “Y’know, Rawson sure is a helluva guy. In fact, I bet if you were to look on the bottom of the country of China, it would say ‘Made by him’.”

JG: “I remember when he once used the wing of a 747 jetliner as a snowboard.”

AB: “I heard that every year the Pope drives out to his house in Logan and confesses his sins to him.”

WF: “If blind people were to use Rawson’s nipples as Braille, it would read “Where’s the Beef?”

JG: “Rawson once lost his front tooth when he was six. When he woke up, the tooth fairy had left him her phone number.”

Me: “On my iPhone when Siri doesn’t know something, she asks Rawson.”

WF: “I heard that his bottled sweat was the fourth-best selling cologne in all of North America.”

AB: “Did you know that a camouflage beanie he only used to wipe his face once is now on display at the Smithsonian?”

JG: “Rawson never has to lick stamps. Instead, he just stares at them until they wet themselves in fear.”

Me: (Raising my glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson. One of the only men who could beat up Chuck Norris without blinking, and one of the craziest friends I’ll ever meet.”