Not That There's Anything Wrong With That...

Let me state even before this post comes to fruition one simple fact. I am not gay.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I will however in this sub-500 word post recount to you what happened in my life last night. Please, don't judge me. We all have moments that we are not proud of. Moments that are embarrassing. Moments when we slap our hands to our foreheads and say, 'What was I thinking?' Yeah, it happens.

Life began to get interesting around 19:00, when a show magically appeared on my television screen at home, while I was conveniently sitting on the greased sofa in front of it. Alright not magically or conveniently, it just so happens that on Tuesday nights at 8/7 Mountain time, one of my favorite shows hits the air; Glee.

Again, I have to emphasize that I am not gay for being a fan of this show. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

It was a re-run. Sadly I know this because I have seen all 38 episodes thus far. Please don't judge.

My interest in Glee comes strictly from the fact that as a child I have been fascinated with singing. I sang in the elementary and junior high school choirs. I was in Chamber Choir in High School. (Go Royals, Go) I have enjoyed singing and protruding my voice as loudly as possible. There's nothing wrong with that is there? I can be a guy and love to sing? Can't I? There are alot of manly men who like singing. Uh, Dexter? He was in Broadway musicals. He's as manly as they get! Or what about uh...Ewan McGregor. He sang his own part in Moulin Rouge, and wielded a light saber for 3 horrible episodes of Star Wars.

All I'm saying is that there is nothing wrong with singing, and being drawn to Glee. Not like I'm Kurt or anything, I just enjoy watching Sue Sylvester rip New Directions kids to shreds, and to watch Quinn, Britney and Santana in their cheerleader outfits. Dang they are smoking hot.

Anyway, this post isn't about Glee. It's about the theme of the night. Following the re-run of Sectionals, I had to make a pit stop at a local store to pick up some tools for an art project I'm working on. That's ok isn't it? Art is manly isn't it? Isn't it? (Waiting for some confirmation while crickets chirp in the background...)

The store was Michael's and all I was going there for was to just pick out some pens. That's all. Nothing else! No flower arrangements. No woven baskets. Nothing else but pens. I'm not that artsy fartsy, I promise.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Picking out a pen is hard however.

Giggity... Sorry, lost focus there for a moment. But just because I had those two words highlighted, and was shopping at an arts and crafts store, does not mean that I don't enjoy the company of girls. Not that there's anything wrong if you do, don't enjoy the company of girls. This post is getting somewhat confusing. I need to wrap it up and go kill a deer or something.

The whole night was summarized by the time I got to the register, and our cashier Shayla assumed that I was the president of the relief society.

This is where the grieved forehead slap occurred. I was going to hit on her, but she would have thought I was trying out my pick-up lines for a member of the opposite sex.

Look, the point of this entire post is just to let all of you know that we have our moments. In my own opinion, I am as masculine as they come. I religiously watch sports. I grow a beard. I burp and fart in public. Just because I watch Glee and shop at Michael's does not mean that I prefer the company of men.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Digital Date-Night

This is long overdue.

After taking the above picture, the following conversation occurred between the digital date-night duo.

Male whose only other date was with someone inflatable: "Serious? Why can't you just knock over that last pig? You suck Angry Bird?!"

Female who rivals Meg from Family Guy for least amount of interpersonal cross-gender contact: "215! Dang, I should have sliced that pineapple instead of that bomb to keep my run on Fruit Ninja going!"

Asian hostess who zips through her seating arrangements faster than Simon Cowell through awful American Idol contestants: "iPhoneapp, party of 2? iPhoneapp, party of two?"

Male: "My hands hurt. I think I'm getting carpal tunnel from holding this device in the same locked position for 3 hours. Oh well, I have to press on."

Female: "All I have to do is slice one more cantaloupe and I will finally top 300! Almost there, almost there."

The fact that there were 9 other phones out and in use while this pic was taken makes this couple less guilty. Heck, I am wearing the scarlet letter for having my own phone out, taking a pic and writing my own notes. However, was this a date? Probably not. It's sad to see Angry Birds and Fruit Ninja take priority over a couple interacting face to face.

Ho-made Pies.

Confused by the title of my blog? I'm not trying to sound dirty, that is the name of the restaurant that I made a pit-stop at this afternoon. And yes, it does exist.

* This blog is directly inspired by my dear cousin Megan Jensen, who came up with 53% of this post. I will give her due credit for her humor brilliance. So with that, thank you dear.

Ho-made pies. Yes, this is real.

Ok, the actual name of this place is the Thunderbird Restaurant, located in Mt. Carmel Junction, Utah. Mt. Carmel Junction is 289 miles south of Nowhereville. It's off on it's own little dirt path to the middle of a cloud of dust. The population is smaller than Backwardsville.

On a relaxing Sunday drive this afternoon, myself, my aunt Korilyn, and her dear daughter Megan came to the intersection where this podunk pie palace was located. We had to try it out. We had to experience it. We had to be a part of the in-bred Hooters. I didn't want to be lying on my death-bed, have my grandchildren stare into my eyes and say, "Did you accomplish everything that you wanted to in this life?" I didn't want to give them a deathly gaze back and say, "I wish I would have had my ho-made pies..."

Fade to black.

The prositutional pie-feast was a happening joint we saw as we walked in. The only other customer besides us, was a 79-year old pickle carrying a nice little black lab in her arms. Or was the black lab carrying her? I can't remember. Service wasn't as quick and easy (no pun intended) as I expected for that dunghole. 37 out of the 38 tables were vacant, with their being seven servers goosing each other in the back kitchen.

Our server wasn't a ho. It was a he. Maybe their, pimp-daddy? Possibly.

While waiting for our desserts. We entertained ourselves by reading "Dorothy's collection of Quips and Quotes and Good Clean Jokes."

A hand-made conglomeration of some wise-old sages metaphors and Deep Thoughts. Jack Handy was insulted by this. The first one that I glanced at said, "If you think dropping an atomic bomb will make an explosion, try dropping a girlfriend." Ouch Dorothy, ouch! You know me too well. And no I'm not sitting naked on a bean bag eating Cheetos.

In the background songs by Eminem and Queen were playing. Somewhat humorous as one artist refers to all of the ho's he's had, the other never had a ho in his life. They could have had 50-Cent and John Mayer as well. And maybe Prince, too.

Our pies were served, and I must say I was a little disappointed in our fresh-out-of-the-storage-freezer dessert. I was almost expecting a scantily-clad stripper midget to pop out of my coconut cream concoction. The ho's didn't do me justice. In all honesty, the pie wasn't that bad. For a ho-made pie one would think that the key ingredients would be used condoms and cigarette butts. But that was not the case.

Megan made a brilliant business jest in saying that Ho-Made Pies would make a lot more money if it had a better location, such as Colorado City. They would have to re-name it though. It would be called "Sister Ho-made Pies" instead. Add to that, you would probably receive 9 pies every time you ordered. Yes Mom, 9 Pies!

All in all, it was an entertaining experience, a fun drive. I didn't turn to the waiter after I got done and ask him if it was as good for him as it was for me. Probably should have. The most comical thing I took from this I would have to say, was finding out where Ho-made pies is located geographically.

Right on the banks of the Virgin River.

Location:Mt. Carmel Junction, UT

Visually Impaired Drive-Thru's

Is it cruel for me to laugh at the above sign posted at the drive-thru of my local McDonalds? Or is it even more cruel for the dipstick managers to have this sign posted period?

After The Dust Has Settled...

Whew! I had no idea that making a post about my digital malfunction was going to cause such an uproar with all 16 of my followers. I haven't stirred up this much online controversy since I told a Canadian I didn't like hockey. You may think that I would print a retraction. Nope. I'm not like that.

I will however, issue a formal apology to those who I may have offended or upset with my last post. I can see the miscommunication that occurred with my posting. For the record, the posting of my awkward text message was not to jab and poke at someone else's delicate feelings. It was to point out that I am an absolute moron. I know this. I am now in the club with Nonchalant and Barefoot Bob. I am ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag. Jo is so much better off without me. She is amazing. Incredible. She is smart, beautiful, tough, feisty, and worth so much more. Honestly, I can't figure out why she stuck with me for six months. She deserves a man so much better than a shallow bastard such as myself. I had no intention of upsetting anyone with my self-inflicted technological mishaps. However, I would still like to clear the air and apologize for offending or upsetting anyone with my diatribe. Again, to Jo and all of her anonymous friends, I am truly sorry.

With that being said, my Dad told me a quote from Brigham Young when I was a boy that has helped me in many ways. "He who takes offense when intended is a fool. He who takes offense when not intended is twice the fool." If you don't like what you see on my blog, then here's a solution:

Don't read it.

Now, on to other things. I was driving home last night I thought about what keeps me sane. (Oh and by the way Clan of Jo, you may stop reading now. The rest of this post is just so that I can hear the sound of my own voice.) The last ten days have been themed "gloomy" should I say? Frustrating? Depressing? Half-empty? Those all count as synonyms for the direction of my life. It's not like I don't have my act together, it has just been a thought provoking enigma for the last little while. How have I coped with it? Good question. For some people it's Ben & Jerry's. Others Vicodin. Some people even get on a plane and fly away. Whatever it is, we all have a way of dealing with difficult times in our lives. Mine involves a hardwood floor, a rubber ball, and lots of sweat.

Basketball. Since I was a kid, I have been addicted to this sport as much as a five-year old is to candy. It has been a refuge. A Mecca. A place for me to get away from anything and everything for a good two and a half hours. I first understood this my sophomore year of college when my best friend Niels Hendrickson would go to the Old Gym with me on campus and shoot until the wee hours of the morning. Niels was my therapist as we talked and shot. A three-pointer from the top of the key was as good to me as lying on a leather couch and confessing my troubles to a man with a clipboard. It got me through my seizures. It got me through my Dad's suicide. It got me through my mission. And it will still get me through the rest of my life.

Basketball is my flight away. It's my Vicodin. It's my Ben & Jerry's. It's the crutch that will help me from checking in to Arkham Asylum. It's a 15-foot bank shot from the left wing. It's blocking a point guard's attempted layup into the stands. It's a no-look pass to a cutter in the paint. It's my relief. And we all have something similar to this game that keeps us from losing our sanity. So to that, thank you Dr. Naismith. I am eternally in debt to your peach basket.

The Most Awkward Break-Up

You want to hear about the most awkward thing since Carl Lewis tried singing the National Anthem? Here's something for you to take a gander at. The break-up between my girlfriend and I last week.

For the record, it's a good thing that she has de-followed my blog. She has probably tried to evaporate any scrap of my existence from her life. And I don't blame her for that. To protect her identity, her name will only be Jo. No blogalias's

Last week I spent alot of time on my knees and on my feet wondering whether she and I should stay together. The final answer seemed to be no. Therefore, I went up to Ogden to deliver a formal, and respectful departation. Let me paint the scene for you...

Picture me in my Sunday best and Dane Cook persona, on a spring afternoon sitting in front of Jo's house at 3:45 waiting for her to return home so that we could talk about going our separate ways. I was getting antsy and impatient while the minutes ticked on like hours with her not being there. This was something I was not looking forward to doing, but it had to be done.

Out of nowhere, a dear friend who shall not be named text messaged me and asked what I was currently doing. I replied that I was just about to break up with Jo. My mind was elsewhere as I sent her that information. Much to my chagrin and stupidity, Jo then sent me a text message informing me that I had sent my last message to the wrong person, who in fact was her. See the below image to recount our conversation.

Have I done many moronic things in my life? You bet. I have struck out in slow pitch softball. I have ran naked down a set of railroad tracks. I have watched Dumb and Dumberer. This I think, tops them all.

By the time she had gotten home her defense was already up. I knew it was coming. The folded arms, the head fixed upward, the aviator sunglasses on to shield her eyes. She was done. Didn't want to listen to a thing I said. And I don't blame her. My lack of paying attention to the receiver of text messages must have felt like a rusty blade in a re-opened gash. But, life moves on. As it always will.

I am a storyteller, always have been, always will. And yes, this is a story that will more than likely erupt volumes of laughter from recipients as we recount our most embarrassing moments of all time. But for now, it just sucks. From both sides. And there's nothing we can do about it.

Location:S 500 E,St George,United States

A Pisces Horoscope

My buddy Dwayne Bright posted some eerily accurate Daily Horoscope for those who are Pisces. It read:

Pisces horoscope for Mar 16 2011
A chapter in your life is closing, Pisces. It wasn't a particularly happy chapter, but you will miss aspects of it nonetheless. That's because there was a certainty to it. A warm and comfortable distress, you might say. It was what you were used to. Now, though, a new chapter is opening up. It's still a mystery to you. And mysteries can be scary. But you need to trust that what lies ahead will be even better than you can now imagine. Say goodbye to what is ending, and keep whatever good came from it. It's time to embrace a whole new wonderful time.

That's crazy stuff! I was almost convinced that the nutcases who composed it were somewhat stalking me, until I realized that I am no longer a Pisces. I am an Aquarius.

Curse you, new Zodiac calendar...

In the middle of B.F.E.-ville.

Day two of my journey to the center of inbred families and back. I am to the point of losing any micron of sanity out here in B.F.E. In the 17 hours that I've been here, I have experienced the following:

* I was turned away from the Holiday Inn Express at 11:30 at night. I was told all of the rooms are full because of a town "rock convention". No lie!

* I am currently watching a table of seven people impersonating "The Breakfast Club" with one leaning down the table and saying, "I have a knock-knock joke but you have to start it." The funny part is, she doesn't know how to respond when the proposed victim actually says, "knock-knock".

* If you have been familiar with previous posts in hick country you will understand my confusion with painted rocks as the schools mascot. There is a giant boulder with a baseball painted on it advertising for a local spirit event.

I think in this town, paper hasn't been invented yet.

* A 91-year old great great grandpa with coke bottle glasses is driving a Datsun pickup that was made the year he was born. Datsun? Come on now!

I think fashion, style, technology, and outright development halted here in 1993. I say this because of a Bette Middler song playing in the background while a mullet-haired chimp waltzes around in socks and Teva sandles. They are not going for a 'retro' look here, this is state of the art fashion. This is brand new to them. They are hip. Why can't they just pop collars here? Why can't they wear pink shirts and tuck the front of their t-shirts into their huge belt buckles? I would almost prefer douchebags in my presence rather than the numbnuts around me who are just figuring out what pog's are.

Four Characters

Call me half-empty. Call me negative. Call me Brett Schwartz for all I care. Call me what you will. I may be in a bad mood as I sit in the middle of Nowhereville again. (For the record, Nowhereville, is next to Backwardsville, just about 147 miles south.) Anyway, I'm losing my sanity, so to keep from bouncing off the padded walls in a hug-myself jacket, I will just vent a bit about four characters to which I would love to backslap with a trombone. Four characters who without question are on my blacklist. Four characters whose middle names are douchebag, jerkface, dipstick, and I-suck-big-time, respectively.

"The Moocher"

This character was invented after a late night run to Roberto's Mexican where I picked up a nice batch of Carne Asada Nachos. At one in the morning, I don't want anyone touching my nachos. They're my nachos! Stay the swear word away from them! When out of the blue, "the moocher" comes strolling in and decides to harvest his appetite on my chips and salsa. This character's blogalias shall be, Apple Gardner Bookstore. There are only a few who know of whom I am speaking of. As I open my container, AGB politely poses the following question.

"Hey bro, you mind, if I uh...have a nacho?" He is actually versing in girlspeak here, to which he really means, "Hey dude, I'm gonna sit on this couch and eat 72% of the nachos in that styrofoam box because I'm too lazy to get a job and buy my own styrofoam box of carne asada nachos. That cool with you? Good, cause I don't care what you say. I'm gonna mooch off you regardless."

AGB lost all respect from my end as I got a whopping 7 chips and a sniff of my freshly cooked steak and chips at 1 a.m. Mr. Moocher, you suck big time.

"The One-Upper"

This character was introduced to me one late night at Guy Council. (Check past blogs to know what Guy Council is.) We shall name his blogalias, Denny Tallahassee. The "one-upper" comes from the fact that he always has to outdo you, always has to one-up you. No matter what you say, he has to best your accomplishments. For instance, this conversation occurred between myself and Denny Tallahassee.

Me: "Man, I'm so tired, I went to bed at like one last night. I got in late."

Denny: "Oh yeah, I didn't go to sleep till two! I got in later than that!"

Me: "I think the bad part came from the fact that I had to get up early at 6 a.m. to go to work."

Denny: "Oh yeah, I had to get up at 5:30. My boss called me in so early. I got way less sleep than you did."

It doesn't matter what facts you state to this idiot, he will top you. He will beat you. He will outdo you. It could be your new car's engine, the reps that you bench press, or your penis size, he will beat you. He will one-up you. He is better than you are. Just accept that.

"The Yelper"

This character comes from a pick-up basketball game in the Old Gym many years ago. His blogalias shall be Talbot Wannabe57. In the game of basketball you play offense and defense. However, there are some piss-poor idiots who decide that rather than play defense, they will scream and yell at the top of their lungs at a high-pitch volume to hopefully distract you from making that shot, from bouncing that pass, from cross-over dribbling right past them.

I think it's the fact that they have come to the realization that they are not athletically fundamental, or gifted, or whatever enough to be able to stay on their feet for longer than 30 seconds at a time. So to combat their un-coordination, they will use annoying yelps to somehow mess you up when you have the ball. For the sake of the game yelpers, shut up.

"The Serenader"

Technically this character fits into the "douchebag" classification, but he is on my list of buttholes this morning. He was introduced to me many years ago as I was at a party trying to meet girls, when he pulled out his guitar and started singing a Garth Brooks cover to try and impress the ladies. Actually, I'm staring at this same character as I type, while he is sitting on the other side of the Snow College commons hoping that some babes will swoon in admiration at his genius in swiping a G-chord and roaring out badly matched country lyrics.

I think out of the four numbskulls that I've been venting about for the last hour or so, the serenader tops the charts of stupidity. He is the one that I wish would have Edward Norton do a curbside kick to, as in American History X. He is as dense, and as shallow as you can get. I would only imagine that in his own mind, he has the following quote regurgitating his confidence. "That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I keep getting older, they stay the same age." Come on Erik, take a shot on this one.

All in all, these are four characters that I despise. That I loathe. That I can't share the same fecal flushers with. But then again, I probably fit into someone else's character list of guys that they can't stand. "The sweater" "The Dixie kid" "The bastard" "The double-dipping two-timer-who-can't-commit-jerkoff". We all piss someone off in our lives. At least I'm not serenading a one-upped song while mooching nachos.

Before & After Alcohol

The great Homer Simpson once said, "Alcohol; the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems." Half of that statement is true. Let me illustrate a scene from my life in the past 36 hours.

Following work Monday afternoon, a great friend of mine named Fishmitts, (that is his blogalias for this recounting. And yes, I did just make up the word blogalias. I will most likely use it in future reference to protect the identity of future morons.)

Fishmitts waltzed in the door and we began to recount the many joyous occasions we have had in our past over the course of our friendship. Fishmitts is quite a character. A man who once used a snowboard to sled down a hill. A man who hit four homeruns in a slow-pitch softball game while half-sober. A man who once looked into the eyes of a girl as he was leaning in for a kiss and said, "This one's for Brock Bybee." An accomplished gentleman. Someone who has the Dos Equis advocate and Norm from 'Cheers' in pure envy.

After a mere 47 seconds of friendship bonding, he pulled out a rather large orange bottle of suds and started to have a sip of old Grandpappy's cough medicine. Another character entered the scene and yelled,

"Gimme that booze you pumpkin-pie hair-cutted freak!"

Ok, I lied. Not that same line. However, once the cap was popped on his Bud Light Orange XT something something, two more fellows emerged to participate in the act which they call "drinking." (For the record their blogalias's shall be Whojagger and Benedict Marsh.)

After a few had been kicked back and the buzz was starting to evolve in their slowly burning subconscious, the following conversation must have occurred. I will recount what I can imagine this dialogue would have sounded like.

Fishmitter: Let's play a drinking game.

Benedict Marsh: Yeah man, we should!

Whojagger: I don't know guys, I gotta work in the mornin'

Fishmitter: Oh shutup. You can take it.

Awkward Pause...

Benedict Marsh: Well what are we gonna play?

Fishmitter: How about the one where we spin a quarter on the table, and before it stops we have to drink some beer. If we can grab the quarter, the next person has to drink. If the quarter falls, then they lose, and they have to try and do it again.

Benedict Marsh: That sounds awesome! I'll go get the case of 30 Miller Lights out of my truck!

Whojagger: Yeah man, and get some Funions too! And lots of water man, yeah! (Alright, I made that last line up, but I doubt anyone knows what movie I quoted.)

I remained downstairs while the alcoholic orgy ensued. All I could hear was loud bangings, laughter, and chairs scraping on the floor. Within a half hour, this game erupted onto my dining room table. Only the picture can give it justice as to what was going on.

For reference, Fishmitts, Whojagger, and Benedict Marsh all asked to be removed from this photo because of copyright infringement purposes. That or they were embarrassed and ashamed that their ugly mugs would appear on this blog. Either way, I didn't care as they sat in the background and drooled helplessly out of their mouth similar to a Zombie BYU-coed. And yes I hate BYU that much Grandma.

All of this brings me to the title of this entire blog. Alcohol changes people. In a grotesque Peter Griffinesque fashion. Fishmitts was no longer Fishmitts. He was a completely different redneck numbskull. A kid who didn't care that a massive diarrhea donation had been given a few hours earlier to the toilet he was vomiting uncontrollably in. A kid who got confused between the cup he was drinking from, and the cup he was spitting his chewing tobacco discharge into; to the point where he spit beer and drank his own Copenhagen Saliva. A kid who is a member-in-training of AA. A kid who I didn't even know anymore.

They may have had fun, they may have enjoyed getting wasted, they may have not even remembered playing the game they call 'Minefields', who knows? All I can say is that alcohol completely changes people. Changes them to creatures that would make Charlie Sheen look like the town mayor. Changes them to people that I don't even know.

To edit Homer Simpsons quote, I think it rings true. "Alcohol, the cause of, and uh...., well cause of, all of life's problems."

What I've Done

Thank you Linkin Park for lyrically inspiring the theme of this post.

Call me superficial, call me cocky, call me a sweat-stained bastard for all I care, but as I lay here in bed staring at the ceiling recounting the past 26 years of my life, I wonder what I have accomplished, what I have achieved, what I have done in my life. So here's a list of all of the great and mountain-topping glories I have celebrated in my time on this planet. Cue Chester Bennington.

* I hold the record at the Virginia Beach Fuddruckers for fastest time completing the Two Pound Challenge.

* I have won consecutive Stake Championships in the epic athletic brawl known as Church Ball.

* I can sing verbatim the entire Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." All the way from 'Jacob and Sons' to 'Any Dream Will Do.'

* I have still remained heterosexual after accomplishing the previous feat.

* I have seen all 60 episodes of the brilliantly written show "Dexter."

* I have successfully defeated 'The Dynasty' in multiple battles of Beer Pong. For the record, it was Dew Pong for me.

* I have solved a Rubik's Cube all the way to step five, and gave up because of hysterical confusion about trying to understand the fish on top.

* I have been Microsoft-free since 2002.

* I am the only known student at Municipal Elementary to have been duck-taped and jump-rope tied to a folding chair on my teachers 37th birthday.

* I once memorized "The Lion King" word for word and serenaded at a swimming pool.

* I did have a stuffed animal club when I was 7 years old, and would hold nightly meetings.

* I have once driven to the St. George Wal-Mart and back using only my knees.

* I have kissed a Ginger.

* I have understood the Pre-Menstrual Syndrome Cycle after living in an estrogen-encrusted home for 12 years.

* I have still remained heterosexual after accomplishing the previous feat.

* I have defeated Super Mario Bros. 1, 2, 3, and World.

* I have never watched more than 45 consecutive seconds of 'American Idol'

In all reality, I have lived one incredible life. Have done as much as I could so far in these first 26 years, and who knows what will happen in the next 26. As humble as this sounds, one can compare me to that noble comrade from the Dos Equis commercials.

Stay thirsty my friends...