An Evil Woman!

You want to hear about the most malicious, serpent-tongued, vile creature known to man since Queen Medusa? I'll tell you. She's a delicate deceptionist who's dainty demeanor is nothing but a façade. She is a Mr. Hyde, Benedict Arnold, Genghis Khan, and Benito Mussolini all rolled into one. She's a creature who has a devil on both sides of her shoulders.

Don't be fooled by her outward appearance. She may paint a picture of what is a supposed sweet old Grandmother who bakes loaves of cinnamon-raisin bread, concocts homemade lemonade, and cross-stitches sunshine pattern sweaters for her posterity. That is not this woman. She is deceiving. She is deep-down cruel. She has a heart that makes Charles Manson look like a Care Bear.

Let me explain. Every other day or so she sets out a few decks of cards on the counter in hopes that I will battle her in a game called Hand and Foot, her favorite pastime. It is then when she begins her sinister actions of attempting to blow one out of the water with as high of a score as possible, hoping that her opponent is pushed to weeping at the difference in scores. She gloats over a runaway win. And then she wants to demolish you again. She is the devil's shuffling little sister.

Case and point. A year and a half ago I was recovering from brain surgery. I had been out of the hospital only a few days when she pulled out the cards and proposed a friendly game between the two of us. The biggest mistake of my life was getting off the couch and agreeing to play. Two hours later I was holding my head in throbbing pain meanwhile she gloated at the 4000 point victory over an injured Tiny Tim Cratchit impersonator holding his recently operated on skull. This woman takes candy from a one-armed baby, while setting a wasps nest in the stroller as she kicks it down a hill. She is evil.

She has chased off her husband, my Grandpa, from ever playing Hand and Foot with her ever again. She proudly displays her scores on the fridge so that all of the world can see her triumphs. This is a madame who loves the group Il Divo more than she loves her own grandson. Heck for spite, this gruesome grannie bought me a broken nosehair trimmer for Christmas. Can you see what I have to deal with?!

After all that has been said and done, I still love this pernicious lady. The former Miss Tooele. The president of the freshman class at BYU. The sweet old lady who puts up with the fact that I mock her for being born in 1763. A lady who I joke about for eating two peas, a macaroni noodle and a saltine cracker for lunch every day. A lady who lives off of Dr. Phil and Oprah every day. A lady who has a musical talent capable of leading the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in spectacular harmony. A lady who I will still sit and play cards with every chance that I get. A lady who amazes me on a daily basis, and who I feel blessed to have been apart of her life. Even if she wallows in my sorrow, I gotta love this witchy woman.

You probably would too.

Location:Utah 203,Ogden,United States

Backwardsville Part II

Here are two reasons why I would never, ever, EVER live in Backwardsville, Utah.



The local speed limit sign on the town's busiest freeway. Which in fact is a one-way dirt road.



The town mayor. He, by the way is still stuck on what a juxtaposition is with Ten-Gallon Ted.

The 324-mile, 22 and a half hour escapade was something that I will lock deep away into the "holy-crap-I'm-not-proud-to-admit-that-portion-of-my-life-occurred" vault of my subconscious. A non-stop blizzard, a gigantic rock as the local high school's mascot, and the fact that I felt even more vile, putrid and foul-smelling after going through three separate showers at my literal hole in the wall excuse of a motel will make me never want to live in a limited inside the box mindset town such as that.

The final straw that helped break my camel's back? Simple. As I pulled in to ******** High School to do my recruiting, the flickering neon marquee displayed the following messages.

Message 1: Friday, February 25, 10:37 A.M.

Message 2: Women's Softball Tryouts-3/2/11 After School

Message 3: Seniors, Be Through with Chew!

Lord save us all...

Backwardsville

If my body is found in the next few days right next to nowhere, at least this post will give you some idea where on God's green earth I have been banished for an eternally long 24 hours.

I am sitting on a dog-eared edifice of plywood, padding, and polyester in what is the most happening joint in all of town, Cowan's Home Cooking; Est. 1933. A massive crowd of one sly dog in a 10-gallon Wyatt Earp hat is sitting across the restaurant slaving away over iced tea and his own mustache. Rather than lose my sanity by reading the expired sugar packets to my left, dig a bigger hole in the seat padding to my bottom, or count the vacant chairs to my right, I have decided to transcribe what could possibly be my last will and testament via my iPhone. For future reference, smartphones have not yet been discovered in this Hellhole, they still use what are called “walkie-talkie’s” and have just come across what is called a “dial-up” Internet connection.

Back to the tale at hand. I don’t know what is the ‘most-dead’ thing to eat in this prime establishment, therefore I asked Bertha, the spherical server what is the best thing on the menu. The following conversation ensued. And this is not an exaggeration.

Bertha: “Well, there’re alotta things you might wanna try. ‘Cept the only thing we can’t give ya is no steak.”

Me: “No steak? Shoot, that’s actually what I was hoping for.”

Bertha: “Sorry hun, the thing is, we ain’t shot our prized heifer yet. She’s still out in the pasture grazin’ as we speak. Once spring hits, that’s when we start slicin’ her up.”

Me: Vacant look of surprise/horror/repulsion/bewilderment/nausea.

Bertha: “Oh, and stay away from the chicken soup, it’s been sittin’ there long enough, it’s gone bad too.”

I took a whopping leap of faith and ordered the fish and chips. Ten minutes later and out comes my “home-cooked” salmon filet’s. Or as someone else might describe as Hungry Man TV dinner fish and chips. For crying out loud Bertha, my first bite tells me that my ice water is warmer than the insides of these undercooked cod. What is happening here! Ten-gallon Ted is snickering into his iced-tea and ungroomed facial clutter. What’s so funny old man? You’re lucky I don’t walk over there and say a five-syllable juxtaposition that would keep you and the town mayor in an unbounded conundrum. You two would be lost for weeks.

Back to live action. Wait, what’s this? Another customer strolling into Cowan’s curbside crap-dishers? An entire four people? This place is bringing home the big bucks tonight. And it’s not even Rodeo or Demolition Derby Weekend! The second that they walk in, I realize my entertainment for the evening has just been seated. As they open their mouths, this quatro-collection of twenty-somethings is giving me a free show.

Moron 1: “I can’t wait to get me a chicken-fried chicken.”

Moron 2: “Is that real chicken now?”

Moron 3: “What’s another phrase for takin’ a poo?”

Moron 4: “Oh look, a bendi-straw. I love bendi-straws!”

They then as a group pull out the following synonyms such as taking a duke, dropping off the kids at the pool, ridin’ the Hershey Highway, drownload a brownload, and going to have a talk with Mr. Hanky, while moron #2 mimics the latest Bud Light commercial by keeping on his sunglasses at night. Bertha comes up to take their drink orders.

Bertha: “What can I get ya’ll?”

Moron 1: “I want some hot chocolate. But do you do free refills?”

Bertha: “No, sorry hun, if we gave you a free refill on hot chocolate than we would have to give everyone else in here a free refill too.” (All of the empty chairs in the restaurant just had their hopes and dreams crashed and burned.)

Moron 1: “That’s no fair. I’ll just have a water then.”

Moron 2: “Water.”

Moron 3: “Water.”

Moron 4: “Can I have another bendi-straw?”

I have to get out of here and get back to my fecal-encrusted, jockstrap-reeking 20 x 20 prison cell with who knows how many types of wasted bodily fluids stained into the carpet, bed, sheets, wallpaper, dresser drawers, doorknob, bottled soap, mirror reflections, ice cube trays, ceiling fans, toilet paper, and images on the television. Why on earth did I forget to bring my jumbo-can of Lysol and backpack filled with ammonia? If I die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to send anywhere but here. Jumping into my car I see the single-digit I.Q. foursome’s car in front of me with the bumper stickers “I love drilling!” and “I love B.J.’s!” on the back.

In the restaurant, ten-gallon Ted and Bertha are still trying to figure out the word juxtaposition. My sanity is barely clinging on to dear life.

Location: In the middle of B.F.E.

Justifiable Lies

"Thou shalt not bear false witness."

-Exodus 20:16

"Thou shalt bear false witness, in certain circumstances or situations in which you might offend someone or piss off an ornery woman about her weight."

-Brockiticus 20:6

My girlfriend Jo and I have had an ongoing battle since our very first date. She hates lying, and often chastises me for my sporadic yet constant barrage of untruths being spun from the web of my own mouth.

I on the other hand have often justified my dishonest vocabulary. I am a storyteller. I love to weave minute yet monstrous details into the fabric of everyday plots that constantly happen. I also feel that there are multiple instances where someone has to lie, someone needs to lie, someone is forced to lie rather than get their manly organs violently removed from their scrotum. Here are certain examples that I think validate my reasoning to lie. (Many if not all of these have occurred in my own life, in which lying proved to be my sanctuary.)

When a cliche woman with a broken zipper clinging by its scrappy teeth asks if this dress makes her look fat, ones response should always be, "No dear, you look great." It doesn't matter if she had a hard time sliding into the polyester jumpsuit greased in crisco. A woman never looks fat.

When a romantic married couple is off to make whoopee (the 70's term for having sex), and their children ask 'Where are you two going?' A correct response may be "We're just going upstairs to watch a really violent, loud movie." Rather than, "We are going to do the dirty."

When your girlfriend asks about where you have been for the last 12 hours, a response should not be, "I was in a car driving 12 hours to retrieve your birthday present that I am going to surprise you with." Why ruin this moment? You have the right to say that you were abducted by aliens.

On that same note, when your future fiancé asks you to swear on the holy bible that you didn't buy her an engagement ring, it is in that moment where you can double cross the ultimate ultimatum by saying, "Of course I didn't dear. I'm not ready for that step." He had a right to lie Kendra, you have to agree with me.

When an overbearingly awkward friend from the past calls you up to do lunch, it is perfectly alright to say straightforward to their ear, "Sorry buddy I can't, I'm moving to Paris next week."

When a member of the opposite sex (who you are ashamed of entertaining a relationship with) asks why you don't want to show more PDA (public displays of affection) it is ok to say "No dear, I'm just allergic to your skin tones and don't want to give you an STD (sexually transmitted disease) that I contracted by riding a tractor."

Whenever your Grandma spends hours slaving away in the kitchen on a dishload of funeral potatoes, they always taste good and you always want more, even if you feel like making multiple trips to the bathroom in hope that vomit will bring you true satisfaction.

There are always reasons to lie. And as long as we see the greater picture, our dishonesty will pay off in the end. And remember, a girl is always right.

Now there's another justifiable lie...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:S 1100 W,Syracuse,United States

Honky Tonk Women

There’s a song by Mick Jagger that gets to me. A song about drinking binges and paid-for pleasure on the streets of Memphis and New York City. The song is called “Honky-Tonk Women” and every time that it parades the airwaves, a flood of memories comes rolling back through my mind.

Let me take you back to the time I was introduced to this prostitution ballad. I was 16, and working on the permit hours for my driver’s license. My Dad and I took a trip up to the Idaho border to bond, book hours, and bloat over junk food. In the early moments of our excursion he threw a Rolling Stones CD in, and started jamming out in the passenger seat. Here is the conversation that followed.

Me: This is an interesting song Dad, what’s it about?
Dad: Um…(awkward pause) It’s about uh...love and romance.
Me: Love and romance between a man and his wife?
Dad: Well, a guy and uh… (longer awkward pause) No, more like uh…women who uh…
Me: Women who what Dad?
Dad: Never mind. We’re turning this off. (Extended awkward pause)

I miss those conversations. A lot. It’s been nine years since that happened, and a day doesn’t go by when I wish for more dialogue between the two of us.

I am not a man for dates. Anniversaries, birthdays, annual celebrations are all a jumbled mix in the 3-5% of cognitive understanding that I utilize every day. One date stands out though for me, and has had a cloudy lining around the calendar box each year it comes around.

February 20th 2004, was a day that woke me up to what life really was. A day that in a matter of seven seconds changed everything about who I would be. A day that felt about as good as A-Rod doing batting practice to my kneecaps. I still remember when Chris Davis sat me down and told me that my Dad had put a short-barreled shotgun in his mouth while sitting in the parking lot of a storage unit facility and splattered his life all over the inside of his silver PT Cruiser. Seven years later and this is one day that I will never forget.

I miss him. Everything about him. I miss his on-target scripture references on the spur of the moment. I miss the Ohio State camaraderie that we had while watching Buckeye games. I miss the recounting of his Mormon panty-raid at Ricks College, or the miffed swan dive/belly flop while in competition. I miss his floodgates of tears while telling mission stories, talking to his family, or watching Nike commercials.

I miss his corny jokes. I miss his friendly demeanor. I miss his purple suit. I miss his Rush Limbaugh ties. I miss his testimony. I miss his tenor voice resonating in ward choir. I miss everything about the man. I miss the day that we sat at the top of the Copper Mill restaurant and he told me that I could call him Dad. I miss that man.

This is not a pathetic attempt for sympathy from anyone who is still reading this. This is just a memoir transcribed from all of my memories that come back every time the scar gets re-opened a little bit more every February 20th. I wonder what my life would be like had he not pulled the trigger that day. But there is nothing I can do. Time moves on, it always does, and I will forever thank Mick Jagger and Keith Richards for serenading about the Honky Tonk Women in their lives. And one day I hope that I can introduce my Dad to the Honky Tonk Woman in my life.

One day…

People Watching

I enjoy people watching. It's the one pastime keeping me sane while I sit in Backwardsville and watch stalwart Wal-Marters scamper in and out of ******* High School. Here's an example of the few yokels that have walked past...

A curly-headed acne-trampled senior in high school who is latched on to his mother almost in a PDA technique.

A recruiter for an unnamed branch of the military who subtly picked and ate his own booger.

A Humpback whale in tight pants and a hoodie, I'm shocked that he hasn't been speared yet.

A nearly bald woman in pajamas and a pearl necklace eating a bag of Orville Redenbacher popcorn.

Bilbo Baggins' Uncle.

A fiery mom with overbleached hair in fancy slacks, shoes, and a Steve-O t-shirt.

A junior in high school who's braces are wearing braces.

A behemothly overweight mother who is wearing what I would describe as a beer belly shirt, her midriff hanging proudly.

A Charlie Brown look-a-like who has just farted for the 7th time thinking that no one can hear or smell.

A bluetooth bozo who quite possibly may have married his older sister.

And finally the three women in the picture above. One owns 19 cats, one has a hairstyle from the 1860's and one asked if she was 32 would I go out with her.

Yes I'm a jerk. I know this. People probably look at me and scoff saying "Look at that goofy tall bastard who's pits are wetter than Niagra Falls. He's a swamp thinged freak!"

True, but I don't eat my boogers...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:S 3600 W,Salt Lake City,United States

The Man List

I'm currently half-sober. In a Mormon way.

For some reason I was up until 3:45 this morning and had my 8:00 a.m. alarm screw everything up. With that being said, I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. Therefore to accomplish this task I shall be creating yet another list. Hope y'all enjoy.

I am extremely heterosexual. Yes, I watch Glee. Yes I see musicals. Yes I have 11 sisters. So what! I can repeat back the rosters of the last 10 NBA Champions. I can go to the gym and lift manly dumbbells. I can grunt. I can be that Gaston.

Keep that in mind as you glance over these names. This is a list of men who I admire, respect, and give my full attention to. This is a list of guys who if I were a male seahorse, I would have their babies.

Kobe Bryant-The 2nd greatest basketball player to ever walk on a court.
Brad Pitt-An incredible actor. Fight Club, Inglorious Basterds, Burn After Reading. The man.
Conan O'Brien-The greatest talk show host of all time.
Daniel Tosh-A comedian who holds no bounds and appeals to anyone and everyone.
Anthony Hopkins-A legendary man of Hollywood.
John Stockton-The greatest Point Guard of all time.
Peter Forsberg, Joe Sakic, & Patrick Roy. Call it the Avalanche Threesome.
Jeff Bridges-True Grit, Tron, and his greatest of all time, The Big Lebowski gave me my crush.
Ben Folds-A talented pianist who inspired me to get back on the keys.
Robbie Morrison-A stud of a friend who sat by my hospital bed the night of his honeymoon.
Clive Owen-Children of Men. Plain and simple.
General Maximus & Leonidus-Characters who left me flexing as I walked out of the theater.
Guy Andersen & Brian Berrong-Two coaches that stuck with me through all my problems.
Clint Merrill-Another stud of a friend who I have always admired.
Dave Grohl-Nirvana and the Foo Fighters. Need I say more?
Ray Bradbury-A writer who keeps my dreams afloat of being published.
Ray Allen-The classy Huskie who now holds the NBA record for 3-pointers.
Michaelangelo-Both the artist, and the Ninja Turtle.
John Schmidt-Yet another inspiring pianist.
James Naismith-The creator of the greatest game ever.
Chris Cornell-One heck of a voice.
Rivers Cuomo-Dilligent, and keeps Weezer going.
Paul Millsap-The pseudo-Karl Malone who still works his tail off.
Steve Jobs-It's because of him that I am allowed to write this blog so conveniently.
Chuck Palahniuk-Another demented writer who pushes me to keep typing.
John C. Reilly & Dexter-Both are studs. One had cancer, the other kills bad guys.
Jonathan Morrell-My pseudo-father who has done more for me than almost anyone.
Derek Lloyd-Kendra's a lucky girl. He has always been the one I look up to.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Greatest Creation

Would you like to hear about the greatest thing created since SPAM?

Let me reminisce for a few moments to paint a picture for you.

The year was 1994, I was a young 9-year old lad, just coming into blossom into the sports world. I had recently been introduced to the characters descended from Mount Olympus, that donned a Utah Jazz jersey and waltzed the hardwood floor at the Salt Palace; THE Stockton and Malone duo. To pass time, I had created a semi-professional backboard out of cardboard and permanent markers in which I hung from the doorway and would bounce the ball of the wall for hours on end. My sisters got sick of me for this.

While dreaming of glory days of NBA superstars in my basement, a video game was spawned that would keep me zombied for hours on end at the local Nickelcade in Riverdale. That game was called NBA Jam.

Anyone who has held a Sega Genesis in their hands knows about what I'm referring to. The high-flying dunks, the balloon-headed players, the Stay in School logo that would appear before every contest. THE NBA Jam! Three shots and you were on fire. 75-foot game winners if you were lucky, cheats, codes, and back doors given to you by what was called Game Genie, and you had the time of your life. It was the best.

Flash forward 17 years and the greatest game of all games is now reborn. For my iPhone.

This is a dream above all dreams. In the palm of my hand. I came across it yesterday while browsing through the App Store. It was almost as if the Game Genie had granted me one of my favorite wishes. And now its here, on my phone. And I am a junkie. I know this because I was up until 4:30 this morning playing game after game after game. NBA Jam is here to stay, and I will be an addict from here on out.

Somewhere, my sisters are shaking their heads in disgust.

So long, Coach.

I'm at a loss of words for what has happened in the last 24 hours.

One of the greatest minds in all of basketball, the raging John Deere inferno, with a whiteboard and dry erase marker on the sideline has stepped down, A man who has four-letter words littering his vocabulary. A man who I have seen smile only twice. A man as cold as stone, yet who had a heart that could take on the world. A man who has been the only coach of the team that I have been cheering on for the last 23 years, or for as long as I have understood the concept of a bouncing rubber ball on a hardwood floor.

A man who took a team to the NBA Finals with a roster of nobody's and has-been's alongside two of the greatest players of all time. You want to try and have a winning team with a lineup of Antoine Carr, Howard Eisley, Greg Foster, Chris Morris, and Adam Keefe? Adam Keefe for crying out loud! I don't think so.

A man who kept showing up for work meanwhile his wife was diagnosed, fought valiantly, and died from her bouts with cancer. This is a man who still came to work the next day after that. You try and check back in to your day job when your companion of 41 years loses her own battles.

A man who helped shape and form the most beloved NBA franchise by its fans. A team that could have been shipped to Kansas City, Charlotte, St. Louis, or half a dozen other bigger markets, yet he helped create the foundation for a team that will never leave the Delta Center. (And yes, that's what I still call it.)

A man who is one of a handful of individuals to have his number retired as a player by one team, and will soon have another jersey hanging from the rafters for another team as a coach. A man who was inducted into the National Basketball Association Hall of Fame in the Fall of 2009.

A man who has the third most coaching victories in the history of the NBA. He may not have won a title, but there is probably not a team in the world who could have beaten the 96-98 Chicago Bulls. Not the '01 Lakers. Not the '86 Celtics. Not the '70 Knicks. Not the 20?? Miami Heat. Nobody. Bad luck it seems. But he still kept pushing.

A man who never won coach of the year. He came close in 2004, but was edged out by then Memphis Grizzlies flavor-of-the-week Hubie Brown, who even said in the opening of his acceptance speech, that he felt there were others more deserving of the award. The Coach of the Year Trophy should be NAMED the Jerry Sloan Award, that's how much he deserves it.

A man who showed up to work every day for the past 23 years. That's right, longer than any other coach in sports. More than Red Auerbach, Scotty Bowman, Jeff Fisher, Bill Walsh, or any other professional coach with the same team. A man right up there with Coach K and John Wooden for being the most perseverant and dedicated to one organization.

A man that will be missed. A man that 20 years from now will be glorified as a legend. A titan. A leader of leaders. One of the best coaches of all time. A man that I will tell stories about to my children as one of the greatest of all time.

We will miss you Jerry.