Chicks Dig Vampires

I think I need to turn into a vampire to become more popular.

Do you know where I’m coming from? Have you not seen the pathetic obsession with "Breaking Dawn" that has mothers and daughters tossing their panties at the giant silver screen premiering?

What is it about the whole Twilight series, or vampires in general that makes every single creature with estrogen obsessed with? I have no clue. Is it the pointed teeth? Is it being alive for a few hundred years? Is it not having a reflection in any mirror and having a massive allergy to garlic overall? What makes women these days want a boyfriend from Transylvania?

Girls always say that the transparent glitter creature named Edward is this handsome, dreamy freak of nature that make them want to melt into his arms. I kind of see what girls mean about how vampires may be romantic, but you have to agree with me, after getting involved with one and dealing with their physical love aspects, vampires have to give one monstrously violent hickey.

Vampires are one type of fictional character that causes women’s heart to skip a few beats, but what is it about this Edward dude from “Breaking Dawn” that in essence makes all women want to break up with their current boyfriends/fiance’s/husbands?

They brag about how he's protective, strong, how he would do anything for the girl that he's with, but is he really that suave of an individual that elevates him so high in female’s eyes? Or is it the fact that he can only be awake and seen after the sun has gone down that makes women want him even more? I tried to get a better understanding of Edward/vampires in general so that I could get a few hints and suggestions as to how to become a more appealing guy.

In “Interview with a Vampire” rather than kill people and become a threat to those around him, Brad Pitt suggested he suck the blood of rats and mice to survive. I don’t know if women would appreciate my new cologne being created by rodents frolicking from the sewer, but hey, he’s a vampire. Chicks dig it right?

Or what about in “Van Helsing”? The main Count Vladislaus Dracula in the film has a trio of female vampires that he treats like garbage and then makes it up to them later on by going to bed with them. And by going to bed, I mean transforming the group of them into a stone statue.
I don’t get it! I really don’t understand it one bit at all. I wish that I could for some reason grasp the concept of what makes girls all across the country want to exchange the man in their current relationship for some pointed teeth monster whose hates anything religiously related including crucifixes and holy water? Why would girls rather cuddle up next to the undead in a coffin than to anyone else whose heart actually beats normally?

Speaking of the physical nature of vampires, I gauged from the previews of "Breaking Dawn" that the chick in it is supposed to be having Edward's baby. Someone please explain this to me. If a vampire is incapable of having blood in their system, thus making them immortal, how in the world are they supposed to create a child? I'm almost positive that blood is crucial in the erecting of an offspring.

Giggity.

There must be something about the fangs, or the odd-shaped eyes, or even the werewolf with a tattoo who needs to pull off his shirt every ten minutes on screen that gets chicks all hot and bothered about this obsession. Maybe the reason that I'm still single is because I haven't found someone that can give me that massively noticeable hickey.

The Last Step

In the room next to me a woman is dying.

Yeah, that’s a depressing way to start a post, but the shock value alone triggered you to keep reading into this next sentence. Your disapproval and agitation with the shock value will keep you reading this current sentence. Followed by the fact that your envelope has been pushed to the point that you are willing to read this entire post to gauge my own personal feelings about life in general.

Don’t worry now, I’m not depressed or anything. I’m not sad either. Chagrin seems to be the word of the day as I vacantly stare at the freshly mopped talcum-colored floor and intoxicate myself with my sterile surroundings. This hospital isn’t foreign territory anymore. It’s been the bunker for my Grandpa for the past 74 straight days plus. And we don’t know how much longer he’s going to need room service here.

In the room next to me a brittle elderly woman is softly moaning to the nurses that her chest hurts. She’s been here almost as long as the colonel has been. The only difference is, she’s not progressing anymore. She’s getting ready to go knocking on heaven’s door. It’s going to happen soon enough.

Outside in the hallway a handful of red-eyed family members sits in limbo as to what is going to happen in the next ten minutes, next half hour, next nursing shift. They wait. Waiting for something traumatically relieving to happen. Waiting for their hallowed yet delusional mother, aunt, grandma, sister, friend, be relieved of her difficulties. The difficulties of her physical body not being able to regenerate itself anymore. The difficulties of balancing pro-life and pro-death decisions. The difficulties of letting go.

Yes, that certainly is the most difficult piece of life to chew on.

Deep down we all are afraid of dying. Afraid of what lies ahead. Afraid that our faith in the afterlife will be shaken and stirred once our hearts have given up their last beats. Death is one of the most constant uncertainties that we all have to face at some point in our lives, rather, at the end of our lives. Death is there. It’s always with us. Sooner or later we will have to come to terms with the impending closure of our lungs, or the ceasing of neurons transmitting in our brains. Our clocks continue to cycle down until the last granules of sand have passed through the hourglass. Sooner or later, that day will come.

Disturbing? Yeah, probably. But as the woman in the room next to me pants out the phrase, “just let me go” over and over again, with her supporting cast wiping away tears and hesitantly embracing the next step in all of their lives, I can only wonder about the inevitable future of the man lying in the bed two feet before me.

In the room next to me, the last step is being taken.

Dear Rhinestone Cowboy...

Dear Rhinestone Cowboy,

This post is for you.

We have come along way in the years that we’ve known each other. There was the awkward small group communication class that we wasted away our lives in listening to the old geezer Shamo. There were the countless intramural beatdowns I received by the loathed Team Texas. And of course, there was the highlight of my life (along with leaving Roy) the day that you and I were introduced to Miss Piggy, my jezebel ham sandwich princess.

Yes we have had some good times Rhinestone Cowboy a.k.a. B.E.P. Longhorn a.k.a. Robin’s Bob Cracthit (I give you that third blogalias for this post alone). With those nicknames being said, I will say their needs to be an intervention in our relationship. Something has to change. A compromise must occur if you and I are ever going to remain friends, even on Facebook.

For full effect tune in to FM100.3 on your radio any time of the day from November 1-January 10 and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. It is the tunes being strummed on those airwaves that lead me to this attempted intrusion.

Rhinestone Cowboy, we all know that I’m a grumpy bear (at least that’s what the Glee President calls me these days.) I am the walking bah humbug who scowls whenever the holiday marqueed by the fat man in a red jump suit rolls around. I am not the biggest fan of gingerbread houses, awkward caroling, and insightbowl.com games littering ESPN. The holiday season just isn’t my holiday.

Don’t ask me why this is. Maybe it’s because I had some traumatic events as a child around this time of the year. Maybe it was the lumps of coal that anchored my stockings. Maybe it was the fact that because I lived in an estrogen-encased habitat I received Maxi-Pads instead of baseball cards for presents. Maybe my biological father is actually Ebenezer Scrooge. For all I know this just isn’t my favorite few months, and I try to get through them as swift as possible.

With that being said, I ask you, no, I plead with you. Nay, I bow before you on my knees with my hands in prayerful position, puppy-saucer eyes watering, mouth corners drooping, and beg for your mercy to please, for the love of everything that is sacred to the ethical treatment of humanity, please stop playing your Christmas music on Pandora.

I know that I am 327 miles away from our grandeur of an office right now, but honestly Rhinestone Cowboy, I can hear the swan song serenades drifting northbound I-15 all the way into my subconscious earlobes nearly 24 hours a day, and it’s all because of the tradition that you tried to instill in our office last November 1, when you tuned into that festive Pandora station just for some holiday gratification.

Honestly, the Christmas season is a great time to share memories, repair relationships, and enjoy the company of friends, family, and fruitcake, but just because those events are just around the corner doesn’t mean that we have to listen to Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas is You” over and over again. I really am purged to madness when I hear “Feliz Navidad” playing on November 8th. And trust me, I can only take one more verse of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” or else I might go ballistic on those rodents.

Look, I know that you have taught me a lot in our years together. I developed a respect for the Cowboy that you knew in south Texas. I have taken your advice to pay off my medical debts. I really have felt a strong connection as I have thrown some monstrous outlet passes to you during noon ball. And one day, if I ever find the Mrs., we might even “hang out” with you and Mrs. B.E.P. Longhorn after work. But please, oh dear Rhinestone Cowboy my friend, please for the love of my departure into an asylum, change your Pandora station to something else, at least until December 1st.

Respectfully yours,

Ebenezer Swamp Thing

The Good Times of Guy Council

There are a large number of traditions that have created a conglomeration of memories for me to reflect upon and remember all of the good times that I had. Looking back on this my life, there has been a hoard of things I think I have thoroughly enjoyed. Amidst all the great traditions and events that have defined my life, I would say that one of the greatest things I have ever enjoyed in my life, is the tradition of Guy Council. 



Never heard of it? Why, you have to be missing out. Guy Council is one of the most ingenious, exciting events that has ever occurred in St. George. An event that Chuck Norris would even respect. Since its creation in the fall of 2001, Guy Council was a forum where manly men got together for a few hours each week and discussed the truly important things in life: cars, sports, and above all, girls. 



Kyle Mellen, co-founder of the Guy Council: "It was a chance for us poor guys to share experiences about our love life and gain insight from one another."

Oh, this is not an exaggeration, mind you. I am being totally and completely honest about this. Every Sunday night at midnight, a group of guys would get together at Denny's to reminisce about the week’s events. Call me crazy, but it was been one of the most refreshing weekly traditions I was ever a part of in my years. 



You may ask how it all got started and what kind of ideas were being thrown around to get a midnight dining crew created. 



Randy Bates, co-founder of the Guy Council: "We did it for a simple reason: because basically we were just a bunch of hungry guys. We also did it so we could talk about our dating problems, and things just went well from that point." 



Forget the dances, forget the pageants, forget all of the formal traditions that have been done year after year. None of them even comes close to the memories that were instilled as our group discussed whether we should commit to a serious relationship over a nice fat platter of Moons Over My Hammy. 



There have been some pretty funny stories to go along with our midnight meetings as well. Like the time we were harassed by a self-proclaimed cowboy as to how to reach the female sex, or when our waitress Susan tried to set us up with her daughter, a 21-yead old prostitute from Las Vegas. (I am completely serious about those two events.)



Randy Bates: "All of our ladies would get mad and upset because we would leave them to talk about them, and it was never to get back to them what we said."



By all means, that was the code to our Guy Council. The words that were spoken over the midnight breakfast are for the six of us alone, and no one else. 

Yeah, so maybe at times our ladies did get upset at us, but hey, all we had to do to settle them down was bring them a movie with Heath Ledger in it and buy them some form of chocolate. 



In the four years I was a student on the sacred DSC grounds I was a witness to some of the finest traditions and memories that have ever been, but nothing beat the Guy Council meetings. Now, if I could only find a lady to talk about...

I Am Not A Cowboy

I have an old buddy named Chet who is through and through a cowboy. The guy epitomizes what being a country boy is. For instance, he had a steel roping dummy named Clark that we tried to rope in our parking lot. I tried to lasso his metallic hind legs, but God didn’t grace me with those kinds of skills.

Chet lived a lifestyle that is completely foreign to me, one he called being a “country cowboy.” I don’t understand country culture one bit. It confuses me like a colorblind person trying to match his clothes. Yet, there are hundreds and thousands of people who proclaim their country roots.

One thing that really confuses me is the music. Chet would swear up and down that country music is one of the greatest things ever created, that the lyrics, tunes and songs of country music are some of the most divine.

I have tried listening to country music, and I’ve concluded that all country songs are about one of three things: 1. The classic I lost my job, my girlfriend left, my truck died, my dog ran away, isn’t-my-life-a-tragedy-poor-me swan song. 2. It’s the end of the day, and I need to find a bar so we can sit around and talk about how great it is to get plastered. 3. I’m a woman, and I want everyone else to know about my independence and autonomy by belting out songs proclaiming my femininity.

Country music continues to be a hit regardless. Ask just about any girl what her favorite type of music is, and she’ll reply anything by Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw or George Strait.

Another aspect about it is the movies. Every Western movie has to have three ingredients: a scene in a bar, a gunfight, and a massive load of horses running all over the place. The plotlines seem to revolve around the same types of stories. There’s the bad guy who’s chasing the girl. The girl is in love with a rebel cowboy, whom her parents don’t approve of. And the rebel cowboy in search of his identity finds it through the love of a wild woman… and his horses. One can almost always predict how a Western film is going to play out nearly every time you watch one: Smoky-eyed rebel meets a girl, gets in a gun fight, chases him on a horse, and wins the woman over.

Horses are another part of country that just never appealed to me. Now I have nothing against the great animals, but what is it about them that associates them with cowboys? I have no idea. When you think of horses, you instantly think of cowboys. Does that at all seem fair? I don’t think so. What if I want to ride a horse, but I don’t want to be a cowboy? Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

It seems that the cowboy form of recreation is another aspect of country culture that is enigmatic to me. I’m referring to that which is called the rodeo. The rodeo is something that never made much sense to me. When will we as individuals ever have to sit on a violently moving object and keep our balance for at least eight seconds? Or ever have to rope a cow that has gotten loose in an urban pasture? I don’t think those skills are ever going to be of use to us, yet the rodeo continues to be one of the most crowd-pleasing fun-loving events all across the country.

I think the real issue at hand is that I’m not cultured enough to live the country lifestyle. If there’s one thing that I can say about Chet is that he’s one of the most laid-back, relaxed, have-a-good-time individuals I’ve ever met. Nothing seems to rattle the kid. Maybe it’s his cowboy culture that helps him stay so comfortable and tranquil about life. I don’t know what it is that makes him feel so good, but whatever it is, I want some. It’s just too bad I don’t fit the part of a very good cowboy. A 6-foot-5-inch lanky kid wearing a cowboy hat just doesn’t make that much sense. Oh well, though. I’ll stick to what I’m good at… not liking country.

I Need This Shirt

If you know who I am, and you know how I sweat, then you know that I need this for my wardrobe. I will be accepting this as a donated Christmas present.