Week of ****

This may be the most bizarre, screwed up "Week of's" that you handful of readers are ever going to witness and take in. I'm not writing any of this for sympathy, pathetic warm reassuring shoulders, or awkward moments of silence. I'm writing this because writing is my personal therapy. It's how I handle life. One keystroke after another.

Four months ago, I had no idea what the outcome of my life would be in January of 2012. And I will admit it is interesting how rather than life throwing you a curveball, the Karma pitcher that we all face intentionally throws a high fastball at your head to keep you guessing. Thank you my hypothetical lunatic Roger Clemens for keeping me on my toes.

For full effect, download "Gunga Din" from iTunes and play in the background throughout the entire week as you read these posts.

Honestly I don't really know how to write down the mass jumbling of thoughts parading in and out of my noggin right now. It's a screwed up world out there you know? A world that I don't think any of us has ever, or will ever fully comprehend and figure out. One minute you think you're on top of the world, with nothing holding you back, leaning over the edge of a monstrous White Star Line ocean cruiser with a plump Kate Winslet wrapped up in your arms. And then in a blink of an eye, a giant iceberg pops out of nowhere and dooms 1503 passengers.

Plump Kate Winslet: "I'll never let go Jack, I'll never let go."

Lines like that do not give me the emotional stability to live my life to it's fullest.

Again, this week's posts are not a cry for help or an appeal for family prayers in my behalf, or any other type of dramatic B.S that you can think of. I'm as tough as nails, and don't need a scalloped potato casserole or a chocolate covered chick flick to keep me going. I just use my blinking cursor to motivate me as I transcribe to you the events that have happened, and will happen in my life.

I am Jack's pissed off, tear-coated corneas.

At Night

Saw this pic on Reddit the other day, and it sums up my other white meat past time that keeps me from losing my sanity from November to April. That's right B.E.P. Longhorn, I love to have some gnarly shred's.

Who put the "Fun" in Funeral?

Seated in a chapel surrounded by people who are all dressed in black, with mascara-coated tissues hanging out of their pockets is one of the most awkward places to be. We've all been here at one point in our lives. Curse this cruel existence that we call life. And since it's now over for one of us, let us all get dressed to the nines and reminisce about our loved one's greatest accomplishments.

On average it costs over $10,000 to die in this lifetime. Over 10 grand just to be pumped full of formaldehyde, shoved into a titanium box and planted six feet in the ground surrounded by a bunch of other decaying carcasses. That is one expensive hotel in the dirt if you ask me. For the record, whenever my mortal existence comes to an end, donate my body to science. I do not want to be a victim of what I sadly view is a monopoly upon people's prideful proclamations of how they want others to view their lives.

For full effect, go rent "Old School" and fast forward to the scene where Will Ferrel sings "Dust in the Wind" at Blue's burial. Play that at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

In front of me stands an elderly couple offering their pathetic non-emotional condolences to the family standing in front of their mother's casket. Then again, why have we made it a tradition to stand in front of a dead body? Psychologically, doesn't that sound a little bit disturbing? We as a culture sure are bizarre. And I'm not just talking about Mormon's here.

Awkward Elderly Couple: "We are so sorry for your loss. How are you doing?"

The Hairy Trojan: "HOW AM I DOING?! WHAT KIND OF A QUESTION IS THAT?! HOW DO YOU THINK I'M DOING? THIS IS AWFUL! TERRIBLE! WHY AM I FORCED TO STAND IN THIS STUPID LINE AND TALK TO IDIOTS LIKE YOURSELF?!" Is what she should have said.

The Hairy Trojan: "I'm doing alright. Thank you for asking."

Man, there are some total putzes out there.

The conversation between the Hairy Trojan and the Awkward Putz couple has died down, however they can't move along down the concession line because the people in front of them haven't finished up their conversation with a mourning relative. This is why conversation lines at both funerals and weddings are the most pointless thing created since the TV show "Workaholics". They make no sense at all. It FORCES you to talk to people that you don't even care about, and vice versa.

Awkward Putz Couple: "So...uh...how's, school going for you these days?"

The Hairy Trojan: "It's uh...good. Yeah."

Cue confused shuffle side-stepping and random staring in opposite directions. This is where a dialogue including the weather should be brought into practice. I'm telling you, it has saved my life on multiple occasions.

Once all of this is over, we will all meet back up at the church to gorge ourselves on a Mormon heritage culinary tradition of boiled ham and cheesy potatoes, a.k.a. funeral potatoes. We've all had them before, and don't tell me that they're not your favorite festival concoction. Hashbrowns, sour cream, cheese, topped with corn flakes, tell me that's not a recipe for beauty.

Today hasn't been the most enjoyable day. It's been a morning of mourning. An occasion where family and friends are situated together to celebrate the life of a loved one whom we have all admired and adored. A day where everyone seated in the chapel takes a moment to reflect about which direction all of their lives are going at this point in time. A funeral is a festival of what is lost. A glorious debacle marqueeing this life, which in the grand scheme of things is just a fart in the wind.

The life of the woman in front of me is one I will never forget. Thank you Aunt Barbara. You are one of the greatest women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:A cemetery in Kaysville

Grandpa's Ipad

For a long time I have been an advocate of how technology is cheapening our human existence. Yes, we rely upon status updates and twitter feeds to keep our days revolving at what we think is the right speed. And I think at some point in all of our lives we let the internet relationships overpower the interpersonal relationships that we all have. Heck, I'm blogging at a 9th grade girls basketball game surrounded by screaming mothers living vicariously through their 14-year old daughters. I am guilty. But then again, I'm not a psychotic demon parent yelling about a missed 3-second call. I will never be that big of a douchebag.

Psychotic Demon Parent: REF! BLOW THE WHISTLE! SHE'S BEEN CAMPED OUT IN THE PAINT FOR TEN MINUTES! YOU SUCK!

Swamp Thing: 'And you've probably been camped out on your La-Z-Boy since 1982 watching re-runs of Matlock on a diet of Pepsi and Twinkies.'

Alright, I am a douchebag.

Amidst the dark cloud of techno-blunders that are taking over our social lives, I will admit that there has been a slight silver lining that I stumbled upon yesterday afternoon from a person who I last expected to join the throng of technology. It was a text message, one that I will always remember. For some reason text messages have a unique place in my heart. You all remember the infamous "Text-Gate" scandal last March? If not, just call up Mrs. Brown and ask her about it.

No, don't do that. She just might send you a Christmas card too.

My best friend and Grandfather has been cooped up in hospitals and re-hab centers for the past four months of his life. His daughter tried brightening his mood by getting him an iPad 2. And this gesture seemed all in vain as I spent an hour trying to teach the old guy how to turn the device on. But all of the time that I thought was spent in vain actually turned out pretty nice yesterday, when I got the most memorable social media gift in my entire life.

Best. Christmas Present. Ever.

Location:Some junior high in Layton

The Rain in Spain

I thought I would be a little bit more consistent with my blogging escapades, seeing as how my life is revolving around it this semester. And yes, I’ll give a shout out to all of you dedicated bloggers who post about things more important than 6-month life updates, and penny-pinching coupon festivals. Yes, you know who you bloggers are.

The Buffoon: “See, bloggers are all just a buncha narcisstic pompous, good-for-nothin’s.”

Swamp Thing: “Well, they’re good for a few things here and there.”

The Buffoon: “No they’re not. There’s so much better things to be doin’ than just sittin’ at a computer typing away meaningless stories about your life that no one cares about.”

Swamp Thing: “You mean like updating your Twitter saying you love the Kardashian’s? Or trying to get the highest score imaginable on your iPhone version of Angry Birds? Those are more meaningful?”

Cue awkward silence.

For full effect, download “The Rain in Spain” from the soundtrack of My Fair Lady and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I chose that song for two reasons, first, because isn’t My Fair Lady one of the best musicals of all time? I mean, in her prime Audrey Hepburn could easily have been in my top 5. And secondly, that song seems to be the theme of my life, a life on the road, a life talking to people that I don’t really give a rat’s hindquarters for, and vice versa.

I see plenty of people on a daily basis that I am no more than distant acquaintance’s with. And because of my job, my future career, and long-forgotten bloodlines between us, I am forced to make up some type of conversation on short notice, to avoid even more awkward pauses such as the one initiated between myself and my pompous relative above.

Cue the discussion of weather.

Honestly, talking about the rain in Spain will get you further in life than being able to find out what the exact square root of pi is. Discussions about temperature differences, approaching cold fronts, and possibilities of snow in the near future seems to be the most calming, and non-confrontational discussion topic that there is. You cannot go wrong with it!

You may say, ‘But Swamp Thing, the weather is so boring. Why don’t you talk about something more meaningful in life, like sports, or religion, or politics?’

WTHSF? Are you NUTS?! (For the record, that exclamatory acronym stands for WHAT THE **** **** ****) If there is one thing that my Dad taught me it was to never, and he meant NEVER bring up any one of those three controversial topics at any point in time with a person who you proxemically categorize as a casual acquaintance. Come on now, I don’t want to get shot bringing up someone like Tim Tebow, The Pope, or Newt Gingrich, I just want to play it safe and discuss how this winter is surprisingly drier than last winter, that is the safest road to travel.

If I were to write down things in my life that I know for sure are absolutely 100% true, points that I have previously categorized as “Brocktrine” they are these:

1. We always want what we cannot have
2. Whoever has the least amount of interest in a relationship has the most control in that relationship.
3. The Rain in Spain will never cause a strain.
Oh and 4. Audrey Hepburn is ridiculously good-looking.

What's Your Fantasy?

Wow. Has it been an entire week since I last posted on this site? You would think that I would be more dedicated to blogging in the year 2012, seeing as how it is the subject of my Master’s Thesis combined with how everyone has those wishy-washy weeklong tributes called “resolutions”. One would only think that, however I have somewhat gone in the opposite direction. Hopefully I can pull a U-turn with this posting.

On a side note, Gold’s Gym nationwide is 40% higher on 2-year contract sales this week compared to every other week throughout the year. Are you proud of that America? And just think, in another 10 days, all of those obese overcommittments are going to be back home watching “The Big Bang Theory” on Monday nights instead of doing crunches. Our society is slowly but surely rolling downhill.

For full effect, download “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. To any Royals out there reading, this song was the theme music to our pre-game warm ups at Ernest Durbano field. Sad, but true.

I chose those vibes because of a new obsession that I have taken over in the last month or so. An obsession that the Half-Empty Buffalo has roped me into. And yes, he went to Jared. Congratulations buddy, I’m happy for you. Kids, the obsession that I’m talking about isn’t cheesy diamond ring commercials, rather it’s the geek’s way of playing into real life contact athletics. I’m talking about fantasy sports.

Please, don’t judge.

Back when this number-crunching phantasm appeared on all of our computer monitors, I laughed at the dorks who were crazed over the statistics that drooled out of every single athletic competition that they didn’t know squat about. For the record, a dork is a whale’s penis. I don’t know why I’m giving the Webster’s definition of that derogatory term, but as I see how I typed it, I remember the rebuking The Colonel once gave me for saying that word.

The Colonel: “Do you know what a dork is?”

14-year old Swamp Thing: hesitating “Umm….no?”

The Colonel: “It’s a whale’s penis! Now is your history teacher a whale’s penis?”

14-year old Swamp Thing: “Umm….no.”

The Colonel: “That’s right. Now don’t call people dorks!”

Verbatim, that was the stern discussion that he had with me. But then again, what does a whale’s penis have anything to do with Fantasy Sports? Back to live action…

I used to mock these dweebs and think that they were missing the bigger picture of athletes duking it out night after night. While they were crossing their fingers that their team would numerically defeat a fellow online opponent, they were missing the glories that make up sports such as historical rivalries, landmark trophies, and jaw-dropping replays.

But then one afternoon the Half-Empty Buffalo turned me on to an NBA Fantasy Sports league, and I have become invested in this addicting pastime. Now when I watch games, I don’t watch it to root for one team or another, I want the players on my team to rack up stats so that I can possibly defeat my opponents, and become that champion of “The Homeless Looking Europeans” league. (Yes, that is our name, don’t judge.)

I now think that I have gotten to the point where it has taken over my life. I’ve been talking trash to other participants, I’m calculating season projections on assist-to-turnover ratios for free agent point guards. Heck, I now know who Zaza Pachulia is. Zaza Pachulia! It is that bad!

Am I wrong for being embezzled in a growing online trend that keeps wannabe’s and has-been’s still connected with the sports that we all once had fantasies about becoming great in? I don’t think so. After all, it’s just a hobby, a pastime, a friendly online competition where we get to revel in other people’s accomplishments on the hardwood. And I must accept the fact that I am now one of them, I am now a giant stat-counting dork.

If that’s the case, I will sure enjoy the time I spend being a whale’s penis.