Hump Day...

Hump day. That’s what one of my friends called Wednesdays. Hump Days. I had never heard the term before, so I was a bit confused. Does today feel like a hump day to you? I’m not so sure. And so I started thinking about all of this.

Actually, this blog was inspired by a “Seinfeld” episode where Jerry, Kramer and Newman are sitting in a car discussing how different days of the week have a feel.

I think the most depressing of all days has got to be Monday. You have to agree with me on that. Every Monday people around the world awake with a groan emanating from their stomachs, shaking their head in a nauseated fashion, saying to themselves, “Why? Why does this day have to exist? Why do I have to awaken to the understanding that my life is being poured down a massive depressing toilet called Monday? CURSE ALL MONDAYS!” Awakening to a Monday is about as enjoyable as drinking two cups of maple syrup. Everyone cries to the heavens in vain wishing it could just stay the weekend.

The weekend itself is the complete opposite feeling of how Mondays devastatingly drain you of all joy and happiness. And it all starts on Friday. Friday has to come with one of the best feelings in the whole world. Nothing can bother you on Friday. The world is your oyster, whatever that old timer’s phrase means. On Friday you can have stacks and stacks of work, school and other priorities piling up on you, but who cares, you’re taking the boat out this weekend. Friday is like finding a wrinkled $20 bill in an old pair of pants, or waking up at 4:17 a.m. and realizing you have three and a half more hours of sleep left. Friday is the highest of joys in the world…

… which then carries into Saturday. My usual time of awakening on a Saturday comes roughly just after the noon hour, and I’m perfectly fine with that. On Saturday you forget about words such as responsibilities, homework and study groups, and replace them with hot tubs, road trips and “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” Saturday is reserved for football games, late night movies and let’s have a bag of Skittles for dinner. Saturdays are the world’s excuse to act like a kid and get away with it.

Sunday is just about as good itself. Nap time. Relaxation. Let’s all just sit back and see how much procrastination we can accomplish. I think that’s an oxymoron, but not to worry, it’s Sunday, let’s just take it easy today. Sunday is the calm before the storm. Monday is light-years away as we relax and think about how effective we can be at doing absolutely no tasks whatsoever. Sundays are reserved totally and 100 percent for nothing.

Tuesdays have a similar feel to the Sunday feel. You are still depressed and forlorn at Monday's recent occurence. However, you don’t want to do anything extra special or work too hard. Tuesday is a day for monotony to take place at work and you to drone the day away, wishing you were further on in the week.

Further on, like you were at Thursday. Now that has a promising feel to it. Let’s not forget about that. Thursday is the faint glimmer of hope that the joyous weekend is in sight. On Thursday you still have all of the workload piled on you, but at the same time your thoughts drift off to “I wonder what ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ is going to be like tonight,” or “maybe we should go camping tomorrow night at Sand Hollow.” On Thursday you’re in both worlds. Work is still on top of you, but hey, the weekend is almost here, so there’s hope.

And now we are here on Hump Day, halfway between the tedious drudgery that is the beginning of the week and the jubilant euphoria that is the weekend. And so I sit staring blankly at a computer screen watching the digital clock tick on. Will this day get over? Am I over the hump yet? Who knows? I don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel any time soon.

My Tattoo...

So I’ve been thinking about why I don’t have a tattoo.

To me, tattoo’s are absolutely fascinating depictions of art that are displayed on the human body.

It is estimated that 36% of people aged 18-29 have at least one tattoo on their bodies. So why am I not a part of that 36%?

Here are a few reasons. Also known as tattoos that I will never get.

First. I will never get a Japanese Kanji tattoo. Why do guys get them in the first place? Am I more masculine if I get the word “Strength” or “Honor” in a completely different language tattooed to my shoulder, which is the typecast appendage where the ink is placed. No, I am still a moron. How in the heck do I know that he’s putting on the motivating words I asked for? The guy is probably writing the words “booger” or “fart smeller” instead.

Along with the dipstick Kanji tattoos that compensating guys my age get, there is also the arm band that will never grace my biceps. Originally created as the barbed wire arm band, this “tough-guy” line has gotten bigger, and wider, and tougher, and dumber. You take a few steps up the douchebag scale by getting this.

Girls can be placed on the douchebag scale by getting the “I’m-a-piece-of-white-trash” mark, also known as the tramp stamp. Now the tramp stamp is usually a butterfly logo just above their buttcrack. This is a symbol of disgrace. Notifying us of their pathetic qualities. Why a girl places this stigma on their backsides has no logicality in it whatsoever.

If I were going to get a tattoo, I would get veer away from these types of stereotype stains that have been smeared to their skin in a sickening fashion. I would be original. I would be unique. I would get something that meant something to me, but also was something that would keep me chuckling 70 years from now.

Here are a few good ideas:

• I could turn my entire front torso into a face. Put the eyeballs over my nipples, put the nose on my sternum, and make my belly button the gaping open mouth.
• I could put a blue stripe and a red stripe on my calf’s imitating the idea that I have knee-high socks on.
• I could get the entire Virginia Richmond Mission boundaries tattooed to my chest. Right next to my CTR shield. (For the record, if you do this, you are the epitome of a dimwitted schlemiel.)

There are plenty of different skin stains I can get, but I think the absolute best tattoo, would be about 6 inches below my belly button, a simple picture of a guy mowing a lawn.

Side view.

Buying New Glasses an Ordeal

Would you like to know about one of the most agonizing procedures ever known to man? Something about as frustrating as trying to chew on a piece of cotton candy? Something as irritating as a 2-year old nephew the day after Halloween? Well, I’ll tell you: Trying to pick out a new pair of glasses. 



Oh, the pain that ensues is worse than getting your armpit hair waxed by a group of savage females. I don’t think I would wish this curse upon anyone. And sadly enough, I had to go though this. 



You see, I “broke” my 21⁄2-year-old pair of glasses a few years back by snapping them in half after my beloved Ohio State Buckeyes lost a second consecutive national championship to the University of Florida Gators. I put off the process of actually getting a new pair because I knew what pain and suffering it would cause. 



Having a pair of glasses doesn’t really bother me. I actually enjoy having them. At times I feel very professional with them on, like I am accomplishing something in the world. And the fact that my 10-year-old little sister wears them and calls the two of us twins is another sweet benefit of them as well. 



So it’s not the actual wearing of the glasses that irritates me. And it’s not the eye exam that is the problem. Well, sort of. It gets kind of annoying having the eye doctor go through a million frames with that giant headdress-looking machine strapped to your face asking the question, “Now, which can you see out of better, this one, or this one?” about as many times that you want to grab the doc and scream, “FOR GOSH SAKES WOULD YOU JUST PICK A PRESCRIPTION BEFORE I ASK YOU WHICH SET OF PLATE-GLASS WINDOWS YOU CAN SEE OUT OF BETTER THAT I THROW YOU THROUGH!!!” 



Those aren’t the real issues at hand. The torture begins when they unleash you on the endless barrage of frames and say, “All right, go ahead, pick out your new face,” with a smile plastered on their mug about as fake as Pamela Anderson’s… I’ll just stop right there. That’s where the real anguish begins. 



It’s probably because there are so many options that make it difficult to begin with. And you feel like you have to try on every single one in the entire store because you don’t want to miss out on some pair that could make you the dynamo you really are. 

It is a truly complicated and grueling decision to make. If you think about it, it’s like picking out a new part of your face, sort of like if you were at a nose store, and you were going to buy a new nose. This is something that is going to be with you every single day, all the time, something that everyone is going to see. 

How tough is that? It’s like choosing which child you love more.

It’s a decision that is impossible to make. 

You start going through them all: the classic frames, the old-school frames, the clown-looking frames, the professional frameless frames, it never ends. And then you’re reminded of a pair of glasses that the one kid in my English class has, that are so good looking, and I want to wear those too. And then you find them, put them on, and you look like an absolute doofus wearing them. 



Another aspect that is so difficult about this decision-making process is that they have to match your personality as well. A wild, sanguine, happy-go-lucky individual with no regard for anything with the word serious in front of it has no business putting on the professional, stoic, frameless frames, and vice versa. So not only does this new face that you’re going to be wearing have to look good on you physically, it has to match the way you act around other people. This tormenting just never seems to end.



After a few days of poking around the store, I finally just closed my eyes and grabbed the first pair that I could get my hands on. It seemed about as reasonable as the previous 72 hours of time I had wasted in the store prior.

Do I look good? I have no idea. For some reason some old lady at a retirement home thinks I stole her old pair. I guess I turned into George Costanza.

I am a sinner

We are all bad people. All of us. Especially me.

I say this because we all have a knack for doing bad things. Taking candy from a baby, taking second glances at the porn carpet in Vegas, or cheering on the University of Michigan football team. Yes, we have all done bad things. And none of us are proud of our closet skeletons.

I, do bad things on an almost continual basis. A non-stopping occurrence. Things that happen over and over again, I should just about book my front-row seats on the shores of Hell as soon as the sand runs out on my physical existence. I have screwed up a lot. And I take the blame on everything that I’ve messed up.

Now screwing up in everyday life is one thing. But screwing up in church, that’s even worse. As I found out today.

So I was having a nonchalant conversation with two very intriguing members of the opposite sex; Whitley Davis, a star soccer player for Dixie State, and the very well-known/infamous Paige Conrow.

We were jawing about random things, candy for breakfast, life in Montana, and the visual image of my face when under pressure from constipation. Yes I know, it was an interesting conversation. The jabber shifted to where I was asked to speak in church next week with Whitley, and I was trying to convince Whitley that we would both do a great job.

I wish I had a way with words to express the physical motions that then occurred as I reached out my hand to give Whitley confidence that she would do a great job speaking next week.

As my hand stayed elevated at a certain elevation, in cupping shape I might add, an unknown Double-D female walked a thousandth of an inch away from my possible groping. Pulling my hand back, I was shocked, stunned, stunted at what had almost just happened.

I didn’t know what to say, what to do. Did she think that I was a pervert, a sexual predator in the hallway? Should I have apologized over and over again, or should I have said that I hoped it was as good for her as it was for me?

I didn’t know. I felt, what’s the word, embarrassed? Cheated? Disgusting? I don’t know. Meanwhile Paige and Whitley were literally on the floor laughing their kidneys out at the fact that I was at a mix between pleasure and pain with yet another sin on my shoulders. Bishop was motioning that I should have a seat in his office for a confession and discussion about repentance.

Hey, nobody’s perfect. Anyone who reads this blog knows for a fact that I’m not.

The (Almost) Perfect Season

One of the biggest failures in organized sports history has just occurred. And I am furious about it!

Over the past few weeks, I have been playing in a very intense softball league on the fields of St. George. And oh has it been an amazing season. Almost.

The Naked Gadgets, as our team has been called, was going to go down in history as one of the most recognized, legendary, and illustrious squads to ever take the field. As Ned Nedrlander, one of the notorious Three Amigo’s said, “In-Famous is when you’re MORE than famous. El-Guapo, he’s not just famous, he’s In-Famous.” We were In-Famous. We were the El Guapo’s.

We were going to be the only unblemished team in the St. George City Recreational Softball league. By unblemished, I meant that there would be a big “0” on our record. We would be spotless.

But that was all ruined this past Monday night on an atrocity that absolutely infuriated me.

Leading by two runs in the bottom of the third inning, one of our elite players hit a 2-run bomb to give us an 11-7 lead. The moron behind the plate said that we had just hit our third homerun of the game, when in actuality we had only hit two. (For the record, a team is only allowed three homeruns per game. Any homerun after that counts as an out.)

Everyone knew that we had only hit two homeruns. We knew it. The opposing team knew it. MLB Commissioner Bud Selig knew it. My buddy Niels’ wife’s little sisters dog knew it. And yet the jerk behind the plate stood his prideful ground and told our team that we had hit three.

This enraged our team captain Jake Butler, whose temper gets flared up just by not having enough sprinkles on his cupcake, and he decided to take it out on the ump, letting him know how brainless his logic was and how feeble his counting skills were.

Jake getting thrown out was the breaking point that led to our utter and complete downfall, and ruined our ‘perfect’ season. After that, we could not do a thing to save our reputation. We started hitting balls, making outs, playing like an organized team. For a few moments that night, the Naked Gadgets actually looked like a rag-tag band of athletes for three innings. We took a 21-8 lead going into the 5th inning and things were looking terrible!

Now we had dealt with this problem before. We had accepted defeat when we had the smell of victory in our nostrils. We once had a ten-run lead and the team came back to beat us 18-17. But no, tonight was just not our night, as the opposing team grounded out for two outs, and then hit a pop fly to left field to end the game.

Sadly, our record was now, 1-11.

From that moment on, we were not the ‘defeated’ team. We were no longer perfect. We would never ever be In-Famous. I was saddened after having got the first win of the season. Our team’s glory was tarnished, and we could never again be achieved.
The Naked Gadgets would no longer be known as the El Guapo’s.

For some reason that last sentence can be misinterpreted as a Sex Toy.

I am an Indentured Servant

Why we pay attention to the depressing and disputing decades of generations past is something that I have no interest in whatsoever. And as a sophomore student, I would sit in a dull and dreary History class Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings from 8:00-8:50 every week of my spring semester, I couldn’t help but lose track of my thoughts that were supposed to be directed in the path of the American Revolution, or the War of 1812.

As I stared at the pages of a textbook who knew how many centuries old, and long as well, I did however come to the conclusion of something that was similar in my life, as well of in hundreds, if not thousands of Americans from years past.

I am an indentured servant.

Being defined as someone who was under contract to a differing employer for a certain number of years, usually three to seven, an indentured servant was someone who received food, clothing, shelter, transportation, and anything else they needed for a period of time, when in fact, they would then be in debt to whomever they had signed a contract with for a number of years following. There were even legal contracts regarding being an indentured servant. It wasn’t an oral agreement just saying that you would work for someone for a period of time. This in fact, was an ultimate pinky promise, with you committing yourself to work, and signing at the bottom, all so that one day, you could be released and try to start a new life on your own.

Wasn’t that what I was? An indentured servant? As a student, I almost fell into the exact same category as those tough guys from the past. By signing a written, formal contract with FAFSA and Wells Fargo, I received the funds, through a student loan, to pay for my food, clothing, shelter, possible transportation, late night Dr. Pepper runs, cheap couches, bowling in Mesquite on the weekends, and anything else that a college student lives off of.

Subsidized interest rates being my friend is a benefit, and the contract not really taking effect until six months following my graduation, I would then be asked to repay the $13,455 dollars that the Government had loaned me for all of those late night cramming sessions, grilled cheese and ranch sandwiches, and tutoring sessions that I would store away for future memories.

With the economy being the way that it is, and the job market being something difficult for a Communication major to just pull a six-figure income out of nowhere from, I would be in debt to Wells Fargo for another 3-7 years, depending on how fast that I could pay off the subsidized student loan. Would that not in fact make me an indentured servant? Heck, I could have been harvesting tobacco in Richmond, Virginia as a Scottish immigrant in the early 1800’s for the same price if I had the chance.

And so as the paint dried slowly on the wall of Room 102, while I stared vacantly at professor who-gives-a-crap using polysyllabic words such as quixotic and sesquipedalian, to describe the settling of the original 13 American colonies, I often wondered if in fact I had any backdoor out of this grand scheme of modern indentured servitude that had been cast on me from Day One that I enrolled in college.

Maybe they did have some kind of stress relief back in the day for individuals who were in a very similar, semi-ridiculous situation as I was. But I really wouldn’t have gotten my stress relief if the only thing I could have done was throw sticks or chase after random dogs. That and kill the redcoats too.

Lie to Me: Part II

So I lie. A lot. Is that a problem?

As seen from my last blog, ya’ll have been a witness to my adventures in deception and dishonesty. But it continues, at a consistent rate that I didn’t even know existed until the fabrications are spinning faster out of my mouth than Usain Bolt in a 100-meter dash.

Why do I lie? I really don’t know. I don’t have issues really. Well, besides the fact that I am a secret-schizophrenic (even that is a lie!). I’m not really trying to compensate for anything. Yes, my Dodge Caliber has a bigger engine than your Ford F-350. I really don’t know why I do it. All the time. And sometimes, it does indeed backfire.

Take for instance last night. So my dear friend Mark Roberts and I decided to go to dinner at Samurai 21, while a threesome of his dear girl friends tagged along. They were nice, sweet, physically attractive, and oh did I mention about as smart as a West Virginian eggplant? Yes, add that to their qualities.

I tried to make conversations. I tried to be nice. I asked one of the three what her plans were for the summer.

“Oh, I have cheer camp.” She said.

“Wow, that’s cool that you’re going to be a cheerleader for Dixie. Are you an incoming freshman?”

“No, I’m a junior.”

“Wow! That’s pretty neat. You look pretty young for a junior at Dixie State College.”

“No, no, no,” she cut me off. “I’m a junior at Dixie High School.”

I instantly paid more attention to the folds in my napkin than I did to the pre-pubescent creature tagging along.

I woke up a few minutes later from my ignoring phase as the blondes started asking me questions about my life, where I’m from, what I’m doing. This was where the lies started to unfold.

I told them that I had just moved into St. George the night before and met Mark at a party. I moved cross-country from Virginia Beach, Virginia. I didn’t really know much about the area or city. (May I note that I was wearing a Dixie State 2009 Homecoming T-shirt as I said this) I told them that I was working for the VDOT back east, and had received a job to work for UDOT over here.

“It’s because I like vowels better than consonants.” I said. The eggplants gave me blank stares back.

The cock-and-bull story continued as I asked them what a “Mormon” was. I had heard a few things about the religion when I was growing up in Virginia Beach and didn’t really know anything about them. I, of course, was a born and raised agnostic, and didn’t really care about any religion in the first place.

Their stares only got more blank as the deceitful vocabulary poured from my lips.

I kept the charade going for around 20 minutes asking them about “Mormonism” and who John Smith was, and why they all had 10 wives. This was all ruined when our dear hostess, the infamous Paige Conrow approached the table and put me to shame.

“Hey, do you have Tiana Heid’s phone number?” She said. “I need to get a hold of her so I can drop off the manual. She’s teaching Relief Society this Sunday and I have to get it back to her.”

From across the table the blonde eggplants blank stares turned into malicious glares as my fallacy unraveled and I looked like a complete buffoon.

Curse you Paige Conrow. Curse you!

Lie to Me

Is lying to someone necessarily a bad thing?

In certain situations, I wouldn’t think so.

We have all lied before. Every one of us. Those who say that they have never lied before are no doubt lying through their teeth proclaiming that.

Lying is an art. Women do it about their weight, senior citizens about their age, jerk’s do about their bench press max, heck, I lie about the masculine scar on my chin that I got from my wild days as an extra in the movie “Fight Club.”

With that being said, for those who read my “M-word” rant a few weeks ago, understand my frustration with the Utah Mormon culture stating that if you don’t have a spouse by the age of 25, then you are a menace to society.

By that definition, I am that menace.

Enter into the equation my dear old Uncle Scott Watterson. Now I love this man. He’s a great influence, and has helped me through a lot of ups and downs in my life. But I want to clobber the man’s molars out of the back of his head with a wooden boat paddle every time I see him. Simply because every other word out of his mouth is stressing about how I need to find my “eternal companion.”

Besides that we’re best friends.

Here is just one of the many stories that will help you understand my feelings, as well as see the magnificence of fabrication.

Last night I was at a family get-together and within the first 26 seconds that I had greeted my great Uncle Scott, he had already brought up the point that I was still single and should still be looking.

I had already checked out of the evening’s conversation.

After around 45 minutes of continual barraging from his side, and after he had asked me to go get yet another girls number, I turned to him and said,

“Well the thing is, Uncle Scott, the reason why I don’t want to go over and talk to that girl is because, well, I’ve actually been dating a girl now for about three weeks, and I just didn’t really want to be put on the spot.”

“Really?” He said. Shocked, chagrined, overwhelmingly pleased. “Tell me about her.”

“Well, her name is Paige Conrow, (yet another reference) she’s an RN from Murray, I met her at an appointment I had about 3 weeks ago for my seizures, and things have been going well ever since.” I said as my snake-like tongue shriveled back and forth in deception.

“That’s great!” He said. “I’m so happy for you! That is wonderful. You’ll have to keep me posted on how things keep going with her.”

“Of course I will.” I said.

If you ask me, this was not such a bad usage of deceptive vocabulary. I had pleased his attempts at my pursuit of a wife, as well as shut him up for the night. Is it a sin? Was it wrong? Should I be punished for my errors in honesty?

Last night though, I don’t think I was the only one who was lying. As the great Homer Simpson said, “It takes two to lie. One to lie, and one to listen.”