The BAMF Biker

This story is long overdue, I just thought I would catch up and give you a quick laugh for the day. Paint this picture in your mind:

The sun is setting last Wednesday night and I am jumping in my manly as possible Nissan Rogue, which J. Black Hairpiece has duly named the “Silver Bullet”. My Rogue tries to be as tough and intimidating as a Coors Light can that’s used to kill werewolves. I don’t think it got picked on at Nissan Elementary. My speakers are blaring with Queen’s “Somebody to Love”. That’s manly isn’t it? It was either the great Freddy Mercury or Elton John.

I am donning the collared shirt, dress slacks, parted hair, business professional look that I am usually sporting at any of the recruiting visits I attend. Intimidating, I know. This was the backup look that Brad Pitt was going to be sporting in the movie “Fight Club”. However they thought that no shirt, no shoes, was a little bit more “tough”.

Heading southbound on I-15, I am feeling as masculine and intimidating as any other collared-shirted, flaming music listening, mid-size SUV punk would ever feel. William Wallace might have backed away from me on the plains of Scotland if he saw me. Either that or fed my pink-lined ovaries to the female dogs that he used to scrape up the flakes of men that tried to be tough, but in all reality weren’t even close.

As I am speeding away into the night, I see something to my right that makes me swallow my man-producing parts and feel like I’m going to need another pair of panties. It is the BAMF Biker. For the record, if you do not know what the acronym BAMF stands for, look it up on urbandictionary.com.

This was one tough dude. This man had chest hair on his chest hair. He had a black bandana and a matching moustache that put Burt Reynolds to shame. His polished silver Harley Davidson roared away going 80, while his leather chaps, tight skull and crossbones t-shirt were about to get torn off his body by his bulging biceps. For a moment, I thought I was going to get beat up by this man’s exhaust alone.

For a split second I turned and looked at the BAMF Biker, letting him know that I would give him my lunch money without him even asking, when unexpectedly and out of nowhere he does the ‘nod-and-wink’.

Wait, what? Did he just do what most stereotypical creatures in his clan’s facial structures aren’t physically capable of doing? The head nod of respect, and have-a-nice-day-sonny wink with his left eye? Did I see that correctly? There had to have been something wrong with the world. Something was awry, didn’t make sense. Was this National Don’t Beat Up Weaksauce Recruiters Day? How could this stand-in for The Hulk give me the nod-and-wink?

With that, the BAMF Biker sped off into the sunset as I sat perplexed in the passing lane at what had just happened. I started wiping the petrified sweat from my forehead, and reached into my bag for my third pair of undies that ride home alone. I will never know what initiated the nod-and-wink from that dangerous and hard-hitting Hell’s Angel. All I know is, after that I found that even the toughest guys have a soft spot for Glee watchers such as myself.

Bent Objects

This has become one of my newest favorite artistic sites. Terry Border is a genius in creativity. I would strongly advise visiting Bent Objects for a few hours of simple laughter.

Baconalia!

Yes, I did just eat what is seen in the above picture. With the ingredients vanilla ice cream, maple syrup, and yes that's right, bacon. Now I have eaten some unique and/or nasty items. The Double Down from KFC. The 2-pound challenge from Fuddruckers. I will say that this wasn't as grotesque as it may look. Give it a try. You may want to add Rolaids as a chaser though.

I Am Not Compassionate; Part II

I received an interesting response from a mission buddy last night in regards to yesterday's post, "I Am Not Compassionate". For the record, his blogalias shall be VRM Arch Deluxe. In his response he wrote:

"Women have a completely different view of compassion than men do, and you didn't ask any of your male friends if they felt that you were truly the Hitlerite that women believed you to be. How about tomorrow you give us some insight from the other gender?"

Well thanks good pal of mine. Thanks so much for not throwing me under the bus like my Grandma and sister did. I appreciate the love. Because of this, I did ask and text all of the male buddies that I could find the following question:

"I'm having an argument with my sister. Help me out if you don't mind. Am I a compassionate person?"

Here is what I received in just over 45 minutes. Of course their names have been changed to fit their blogaliases.

"God made the doctor's remove the part of your brain that makes you care." -M. Brave Aurelius

"You are more compassionate than Hitler." -VRM Layton Rocker

"You are probably the most insensitive person I've ever met." -Johnny Trojan

"You were very liberal with your lips skills, and always made sure to give all our dates goodnight kisses. I'd say that's compassionate." - Y. Jazz Junkie

"I remember sitting in a conference and when a kid tried to sit down at our table, and you looked at him dead serious and said, 'Who said you could sit at this table?' I still feel bad his face was so sad." -VRM Mt. Pleasant Baker

"You are such a compASSionate person." - The Ogling Thunder

"You're as compassionate as Santa Claus the week after Christmas." -Chief Kent

"I think you would kill a man for a Klondike bar. That's being compassionate for you, I would say." -VRM Pete Banker

"It was so compassionate of you, to NEVER tell any of the girls that you broke up with them. You thought that to just stop talking to them seemed to fit." -The Swede

"No." -B.F.F. Circleville

"Compassion? HA! You're the kind of guy that would kick Shirley Temple in the ovaries and laugh while she sobbed." -VRM Bald Canuck

"Not really. You're more honest with me. Even it gets my feelings hurt and I turn into an emo." -Rock Steady

"Well, compassion is such a broad term. Would you pick up a bird that was hurt? Yes. But after that it's a little shady." - The Crimson Walker

"You appear to be compassionate because you watch shows like Glee. But in all reality, you watch it so that you can model your life after Sue Sylvester." -Fishmitts

"You are manly compassionate, but highly informed by virtue of your education. You can fully understand the need for female compassion, but are ultimately a "shit or get off the pot" cold-blooded logical male." -VRM Garth Shiftyeyes

"My wife and I have been trying to think of a time in your life when we knew you were compassionate... nothing comes to mind." -The Hairbrush Aggies

"Well, if I had to compare your compassionate attributes to that of an animated character. I would say you rival Cartman from South Park's compassion. I can't count how many girls I have seen you make cry." -Phat Kid

"I would assume that your form of compassion includes curse words." -VRM Seattle Sub

"The only time I've ever seen you be compassionate is when you're horny or spiritual. You always tell someone to their face when they're being stupid." -Steak Style Balloon

"OH, HELL NO!!!" -VRM Pink Sputnik

"In a word, No." -Goodyear Scotchsketcher

"Brock Bybee in my opinion shows compassion to many things in life, the other things not so much. Now, what those things are that he has compassion for, I have no idea." -Half Empty Buffalo

"You're basically Scrooge McDuck. You know, minus the feathers and the tower full of gold." -Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd.

Wait, what? I was fishing for compliments here guys, compliments! Can't you back a brother up? In less than an hour I sat stumped, chagrined, bamboozled, at the betrayal of my Testosteronian comrades for their replies as to whether or not I have compassion. But then again, they're probably right. Maybe I don't have compassion at all. Maybe my heart really is three sizes too small. I would say that one of the last responses that I got pretty much sums up my non-compassionate persona, in which he said:

"You are so compassionate that if someone ever knocked on our apartment door for help, you would just quietly lock the door." -Arizona Weezer.

I Am Not Compassionate

Two nights ago, slouching in a sadistic position playing cards across from my Grandmother, I was accused of something that I never thought I was guilty of. Envision if you may the beautiful soulless creature being demolished by her Grandson at Pinochle. I don't know if it was the frustrated 4,000-point defeat talking, or if it was her Grandmotherly wisdom, but here is the cattle prodding that she gave me.

Grandma: "You know something Brock?"

Me: "I know some things, but not all."

Grandma: "You are not compassionate. At all."

Me: Confused/bewildered/guilted/WTF/look across my face. "I'm not? Is this because I'm beating you?"

Grandma: "Nope, you're just not compassionate. That's all."

I sat there stunned at the delicate demon slicing my soul in the barstool across from me. What? I'm not compassionate? She had to be venting because of yet another colossal defeat in cards, adding yet another tally mark to my win streak. However, I was really wondering if these were vendetta-induced comments, or if the wise old sage had one or two last truthful remarks up her sleeve. Therefore I asked my dear little sister, who's blogalias shall be Lunchboox, which I might add is the nickname I gave her when she was 10. (If anyone can name the movie where the nickname is from, I'll pass along 5 bucks. That means you LTT.)

Sitting across from her at Zupa's yesterday I asked my dear Lunchbox the same question that I had been asking myself ever since the personal attack was started by my dear Grandmother.

Me: "Lunchbox, am I...compassionate?"

Lunchbox: Without blinking or looking up from the next forkful of chicken caesar salad. "No."

Me: Confused/bewildered/guilted/WTF/look across my face. "What do you mean, no?"

Lunchbox: Annoyed/rolling her eyes/'Are you kidding me big bro?'/look across her face. "I mean, no. You're not. Is it that hard to understand?"

Me: "Actually yeah! I think I'm compassionate. I think I care about people! I think I wouldn't take away candy from a baby!"

Lunchbox: Seriously, what the heck is your problem look across her face. "No, you don't. You're the kind of person that if something bad happens, you just forget about it and move on. Rather than feel sympathy or compassion you just say, 'Oh well, S*** happens! Let's keep going.' There's nothing wrong with that, you just have no soul. Either that or it's buried in three feet of solid concrete. I still love you despite the fact that your heart is blacker and smaller than the Grinch's was on Christmas Eve in Who-ville."

Cut back to her Caesar Salad.

Ouch! I have no heart? I'm meaner than the Grinch? My soul is buried in three feet of concrete? What do you people think I am, a cardboard box of a human being who feels no emotions at all?

Yes. Yes they do.

Just because my childhood heroes were Yosemite Sam, Ebeneezer Scrooge, Ivan the Terrible, The Big Bad Wolf, Nero, and 'The Brain' who's cage mate was Pinky, does not mean that I have no compassion. And so what if I secretly have a Dove soap bar carved to be 1/16th the size of Simon Cowell. That does not mean that I have no soul. I just like the guy. And dove soap. Does the fact that I have watched Titanic, The Green Mile, The English Patient, Braveheart, and Road to Perdition all in one sitting and still have a set of dry eyes afterward mean that I'm heartless?

Yes. Yes it does.

Am I supposed to feel sympathetic for women who call me up at one in the morning to confess that they think their parents are getting a divorce, or girls who text message me saying that they coughed up blood, or women who ask for emotional help because their garage doors just won't open all the way, am I supposed to be compassionate then? Am I supposed to be oozing with sympathy for crying women who have drank $100,000 down the hole and can't find the courage to quit pouring one more shot of vodka?

No. No I won't.

Maybe I don't have a soul. Maybe I am a cardboard box with a pop-up head posing as a human being. Maybe I make the Dad from 'That 70's Show' look like an angelic saint. Maybe I have a heart that's small, three sizes too small. Oh well, that's just who I am. And yes, my dear Lunchbox was right, S*** happens; let's keep going, may be my tattooed motto for how to handle life. But it's gotten me through the first 26 years, I think I'll stick with it.

The Rapture

You're still here right? Right? At least I know I am. And since my Grandpa, who has his picture in the dictionary next to Ghandi and the Apostle Paul, is still in his back room watching Matlock and Perry Mason re-runs from his La-Z-Boy, then I guess that "The Rapture" never happened.

Frustrating right? I will admit, I was a little disappointed after I had sold my Nissan Rogue, given all my possessions away to charity, euthanized my pet goldfish Sally, deleted all the saved episodes of 'Glee' from my DVR, and sat in a Motel 6 with my Bible opened up facing the heavens waiting to be raptured. Boy was I let down with a ton of bricks.

Around 3:58 MST I was getting antsy. A little too antsy. Maybe I thought that God would be the first one to arrive at the party. When it clicked to 4:00 and nothing happened that's when my hopes and dreams started to crash and burn. Once the hands on my watch clicked to 4:02, I was feeling disheartened, saddened. Was my blog of sex really the reason I was left behind? I waited out until 4:15, hoping and praying that maybe God would take me up on Mormon Standard Time, but to no avail I was left in a cheap motel 6, let down like the other 6 billion people who thought that this day was going to arrive.

Ok, I will admit I wasn't in a dirty motel waiting to be taken up into heaven Saturday afternoon, if you recall, I was sitting with The Hairy Trojan in a grungy Greek bar listening to odd ducks spout off on 'The Vampire Diaries'. I don't know which was worse, that or not being Raptured.

I am slightly amused at all of the fuss that is going into this. A self-proclaimed 88-year old prophet on an AM radio station prophesying the end of the world. That's almost as entertaining as watching Kirstie Alley on Dancing With the Stars. (Insert sarcasm here). Why do people get caught up in ludicrous foresights into the future evolution of mankind's existence? Why can't they just live in the moment, and try to do their best every day regardless? Are they listening to Europe play 'The Final Countdown' as background music?

Harold Camping has now adjusted his time clock for when the world will end. Saying he was "flabbergasted" with The Rapture not happening this past weekend, he stated that he was 5 months off on his calculations, and that it will actually happen on October 21. Whew! That makes me feel so much better! I guess I'll go call the Motel 6 again and make reservations for The Rapture; Part Deux!

The 26-Year Old Virgin

Whew! It's finally over. I and all 32 of my readers can finally stop thinking about sex! I'll pose the same question as I have in the past, and what I'm told you're supposed to say once you get out of the hot tub; was it as good for you as it was for me? I hope so. I'll try to keep you as entertained as possible in the future.

Interesting point to consider regarding the week of sex. Don't think that I wrote the past 7 blogs because I'm a horny kid looking for some type of gratification. Rather, I wrote these to correspond with my Master's thesis on what draws people to blogs, subject and content-wise. An interesting number to chew on, is this: 55%. That is the percentage increase in post views this week alone, compared to my average viewing. Meaning that I have more than doubled the amount of views on my blog simply because of the dirty three letter word. Props to all of you readers, thanks for being as perverted as I am.

With that being said, I will address one of the most frustrating things that my beliefs and my culture have made me into; the 26-year old virgin. And no I'm not Steve Carrell. I am Jill's nipple. (LTT) I'm not angry or upset that I'm a virgin, but I am getting a little bit behind times as I think I am the only "normal" 26-year old who hasn't tied the knot and/or doinked.

I am Jack's medulla oblongata.

I would like to paint a picture that I would like to use to dovetail into my next monthly topic of the M-word, which I will be addressing next month. Picture me this morning in my Grandparent's church, biding my time, enjoying a spiritual uplifting, when out of the blue a random patron who shall be called Mother Dick Fighter, comes up and approaches me. The following conversation ensued:

MDF: "Hi Brock, how's the love life?"

Pause for nearly slapping Mother Dick Fighter in the face for her initial inquiries. By the way I may add that this woman has tried to set me up with not only her daughter, but also a Portugese exchange student who did not speak a lick of English.

Myself: Veins bulging, sitting on clenched fists, and through gritted teeth. "I'm fine, how are you doing?"

MDF: "You dating anyone?"

Pause for 3 milliseconds while I debated asking about her sex life and her pursuit of spawning the world with little Dick Fighter's everywhere, or why she gives a rats who I settle down with solely because of my pursuit of changing my Facebook status from "Virgin" to "is now getting his freak on".

Myself: "Nope. Thanks though."

Putting my head down on my knees I ignored the rest of the rantings from Mother Dick Fighter's dating service. She has failed miserably the last two times, and I'm not looking forward to getting set up with some foreign diplomat who's looking to push kids out from between her legs quicker than Lady Gaga delivered a half pound of sparkles last night on SNL. Thanks anyway, Mother Dick Fighter, I've got my own inflatable Russian mail order bride to worry about, so you can just shut your pie hole.

I am Bob's overwhelming rage.

The point of this whole story is that I am fine with being a 26-year old virgin enveloped by a culture that views me as some kind of menace to society who has "issues" now that I'm not married. I can now see the frustrations that my cousin Eric, my Uncle Brett, and Uncle Scott all went through being 27, 28, and 35 before they tied the knot. They were all lost causes in many people's eyes.

I enjoy the fact that I am still in the V-club. There is much more to life than just sex alone, and I understand that it is an important part of life and procreation, and progression, and all of that other positive stuff, but just because I'm a single guy who's not looking to tie the knot any time soon does not mean I'm a porn-viewing, filth-encrusted pervert who watches "Two Girls, One Cup" on a nightly basis. I am fine with sticking it out until she comes around, and when that day finally arrives I'll take all of the feedback and advice that I've been given this week and try to give her the best hot tub ride of her life.

I am Brock's single penis.

Sex for Old People

Have you been taken up in the rapture just yet? I haven't. I guess my blog this week alone kept me from being saved. So I sit here in a run-down Greek bar in Ogden (yuck!) with two dear family members; Aunt Soup Widow, and her daughter the Hairy Trojan. Nice blogalias's eh? It's the Soup Widow's work party and rather than get lost in the inside jokes of EMT response calls, I will jump to my digital haven known as blogging.

You would do the same thing if you had to sit with four-eyed curse word with a middle part rambling on about his red-headed step child. It's either listen to him or stare at the name tag of our waitress Chelsey, who has strategically placed her tag directly below her low cut salmon blouse exposing her B-cup bosoms. No thank you, I have given up low-class porn.

Back to the assigned topic. Please don't think I'm a pervert for this post. But then again after all that I've posted this week one would think that I'm bum buddies with Ron Jeremy. This post comes from a disturbing thought that I have wondered about at 3 am; When will be the last time that I have sex? I mean that in regards to how often old people do the dirty? Tell me you haven't wondered that before.

I have two dear friends in Virginia Beach who shall be called the Salem Scarlet Rabbits. An amazing couple who are proud parents and grandparents, and are growing old together. However, these are two of the horniest people I have ever met, and they often professed to me how and when they were getting their freak on.

And they loved it. Every minute of it. For a pair of growing old grandparents, they make love more than Tosh.0 delivers racist jokes on Comedy Central.













Sorry, I was interrupted by Grannie Duke Shindig recounting her 12-minute adventure of visiting the set of "The Vampire Diaries". Cue my nods and smiles while the Hairy Trojan and I listened to her pointless ramblings.

Back to the question at hand. Whenever that day finally happens, and years from now after my kids have moved out and grown up, am I going to be as happy and horny as the Salem Scarlet Rabbits? I desperately hope so. I understand that physically, my wife with her wrinkles and her greying, thinning hair and her brittle bones will not be as physically attractive as she was in the peak of her carnal beauty, but will I still want to be as aggressive as I was the night that we first got in the hot tub? Or will I refrain from doinking because she's just not that flexible anymore?

I have no idea the answer to this question. I really don't. But then again, why on earth should I be wasting time and energy and blogposts about crippled coitus when I can't even find a wife in the first place? Good question.

I remember one night I was talking to my Grandpa about his marriage, and he turned to me and said, "Y'know, I've been married for 50 years, but the woman that I see is not this old, decrepit Great-Grandma. I still see my high school sweetheart." It was then when I understood a fraction of "True L-word."

Maybe that's what it is for old people then. Rather than have sex, do the dirty, play in the mud, jump between the sheets, or doink, maybe old people sex is the epitome and definition of "making L-word".

One day I might make L-word too.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Andy's Greek Restaurant

Odd-Shaped Sex Parts

T.G.I.F. Aren't we all in agreement on that? Are you sexed out yet from reading this blog? I am almost out of juice. Please, no giggity...

Let me paint a dirty picture for you. Jump back 12 years to the summer of 1999. I was a young lad, a 14-year old pre-pubescent sophomore football player getting beat up on the practice field of Ernest F. Durbano stadium in triple digit temperatures. Those were long days of sweat, 15 lbs of pads, concussions, and anything else associated with a classic pastime.

After practice one day we were getting dressed and razzing each other like normal teenage boys do, when out of nowhere a defensive lineman named Jake Campbell looked at our offensive tackle, whose name I shall not release, and the following conversation ensued.

Jake: "Dude, have you ever looked at your chest in the mirror?"

OT: perplexed, yet frightened look "Umm....No? Why?"

Jake: "You have some really, odd-shaped nipples. I mean those are pretty large."

OT: Violently folding his arms "Shutup, no I don't."

Jake, "Yeah, yeah you do. They're kind of like pepperoni. That's it. You've got pepperoni nipples. Check it out guys, his nipples are bigger than what I had on my Little Caesar's Hot 'n Ready last night!"

It was in that moment when the nickname of Pepperoni Nipple was born, and a stud of a lineman was branded with the nickname emphasizing his Pizza Hut areola's. Every once in a while that memory gets consciously regurgitated, and it is this story that I will use to introduce the sex topic of the day; odd shaped sex parts.

Thinking about it from a non-sexual perspective, why are guys drawn to breasts? Aren't breasts just lumps of fat hanging from a woman's body? Lumps of fat with a little tip, right? Why am I drawn to those? Why are they so attractive? Am I going to be blown away (figuratively) the night that my wife shows me her lumps of fat with tips?

Or what about the other part of her body that is so appealing, or as Cuba Gooding Jr. once emphatically stated, "The VA-GIN-A" (LTT). What makes me want to see that? An organ of the body that from what I've heard of is just a gaping hole with bits of flesh and possibly teeth. I think I saw that in "Return of the Jedi" when Luke Skywalker was about to get tossed into Jabba the Hutt's sand creature. That's what a vagina looks like, right?

On the flip side, what draws someone to a penis? I mean its really just a one-eyed oversized worm attached to a man's pelvic area. Sometimes I get grossed out by my own dangling dingo. I think the fact that I have to roll mine up. That might be the problem...

As perverted and medical as this all sounds, I propose the reason that we are drawn to these flesh-coated physical features is because of a doctrine that I have believed in since I was first given the two letter rejection of "no";

We always want what we can't have.

Whenever we are told no to something, it makes us want it even more. Whether it's a bag of skittles, a new car, an iPhone, or in this case a set of fat lumps and a gaping sci-fi creature named Sarlacc. We always want what we cannot have. And that decline of receiving those things only makes us want them more.

And so with a tribute to Pepperoni Nipple wherever he is, I will forever stay perplexed by this conundrum, and will constantly be attracted to those lumps of fat and gaping Sarlacc's all around me. I'm a guy, don't hold it against me.

Location:Gallivan Center

Getting Married for Sex

Last night I was confronted by a group with an awkward question from a fellow associate. For this post, I shall give her the blogalias of Smooth Girl Scout Cookie, even though I doubt she reads my blog. She fronted me with a question regarding my faith and my desire to wed, in which she asked, "How antsy were you to get married right after you got off of your LDS mission?" For those who aren't LDS, a mission is a time period of two years in which young men, just reaching their sexual prime go and preach the gospel. They cannot touch, speak, listen to, smell, or even think about a member of the opposite sex for fear that it will distract them from their assigned tasks.

My reply to Smooth Girl Scout Cookie; "For the first 9 months after I got home I wanted to get married so bad. In hindsight it wasn't because I wanted a companion in life, but because I wanted to have sex. That's how the majority of returned missionaries think."

This immediately broke up the group conversation as they looked at me shocked and horrified, but deep down they knew I was right, and deep down their darkest thoughts confirmed that I was speaking the truth.

Somewhat embarrassed for ruining a discussion I walked away, but bashfully a couple of the conversation participants came over and acknowledged that what I was saying was as true as George Washington's admittance to the chopping of the cherry tree. Guys are horny, and at 21 years old they have one thing on their mind. How will they legally be able to "jump a girls bones" without having to pay the penalty for it? Oh that's easy, just get married!

This is an epidemic that from a personal perspective I think is infecting people's judgment and thought process. Many in our "Mormon Culture" get married for the wrong reasons. I understand that I'm no Dr. Phil a.k.a. glorious relationship evaluator of the universe as my Grandma calls him, however I have witnessed and still see on a constant basis, people getting married for the wrong reasons. The number one reason being that they want to doink. Which I might add, is my favorite slang word for the act of sexual intercourse. Say it out loud and it grows on you.

It is a travesty in my opinion that is littering divorce courts left and right. Guys getting off their mission, wearing goggles, (for the record, goggles are subconscious lenses that are placed over a guys eyes in which the appeal of a woman is greater than she actually is worth. This is caused by avoidance of women for 720 straight days), dating a girl for 3 weeks, thinking that she is "the one", dropping to one knee, saying "I do", dropping their pants, then hating life. It is a constant cycle because our culture pushes us, urges us, mentally abuses us to find an eternal companion. And if we don't do it by the time that we're 25, we are then menaces to society. (Which I am)

Again, I am no Dr. Phil, but isn't their more to a marriage then doing the dirty? Shouldn't my wife be worth more to me than a good humping session? And what if our sex life sucks? (Which I hope it doesn't) What then? Do I jump ship like 50% of the other couples are doing? That is the curse that is haunting us now more than the Christmas Ghosts haunted Ebeneezer Scrooge. I can give you a list off the top of my head of 10 people I know who proposed after 3 weeks and who are now going through massive marital stress because of the sexual difficulties they are facing when they realized that between the sheets wasn't as cracked up to be as they thought, and was the wrong reason to make lifetime ties. They are now getting out of the hot tub, and wanting to get out of much much more.

We need to stop getting hitched so we can hump like rabbits. Quit making promises and covenants so we can hit the hanky panky. Stop making life-long and eternal decisions just because we can't stop from spilling our own seed. From the feedback that I've been receiving from the readers sex is a great thing. A glorious thing. But it should not be the sole reason that we tie the knot. We need to start using our minds. As Tom Hanks said, That's the lump that's three feet above our a**. LTT

Some of the best advice that I have ever received was from my high school football coach Guy Andersen in which he said, "In life you need to think with your head, not with your head." I just hope I'm using the right one.

Sex Messaging

Disclaimer: this post is littered with dirty words and phrases. For the sake of the reader I would like to let you know that if you feel uncomfortable seeing any words associated with sex, it would be best to stop reading. If not, then enjoy.

This world is addicted to text messaging. They are also addicted to sex. Why not combine both of them to write one of the most monumental posts in the history of weblogs? Alright, don't mind if I do.

First of all, I would just like to take a moment to address the awkwardness of sex words. Honestly, whoever initially scribed the English language thought up the most awkward sounding nouns and verbs possible.

Think about it; Vagina? Penis? Orgasm? Testicles? Menstruation? Are you not turning red just reading them on this screen? I'm blushing just typing these words. What about erection? Or areola? Don't tell me you don't feel embarrassed by the word masturbation. That one almost tops them all. Second only to the infamous "C-word". If you don't know what I'm talking about, Jerry Seinfeld's dirty named girlfriend rhymes with the C-word. And no, her last name isn't Hunt.

Dirty words put people in a squirming position whenever they try to say them. But typing them? That's a completely different ballpark. People will text message some things that they wouldn't be caught dead delivering orally. (Not THAT kind of oral delivery, get your mind out of the gutter.)

At one point or another I think every single one of us has sent a dirty text message to a member of the opposite sex. And here's why; the receiver of the message can't read your nonverbal cues to tell how serious you are with the message sent via text.

For example:

Guy text message: "I want to lick your nipples and run my hands all over your body. I am so hard right now thinking of you."

The woman then has two ways of responding.

Female Response #1: "Eww you sick perv, what is wrong with you?"

The man then responds with: lol, : ), hahaha, sorry my friend took my phone to play a mean joke lol : )

Following his message the man loses interest because she's not as dirty as he thought she was and therefore, he's wasting his time. He will now go look somewhere else where he may try to cast out his next dirty text.

Female Response #2: "Oh yeah big boy? I wanna feel you all over me. Big dick and all!"

The two then proceed to have "text sex" which involves staying awake until 6 in the morning sending the most crude, dirty, foul-filled photos possible, and losing their digital virginity.

You may be shaking your head in disgust at the last 150 words, but deep-down in the lowest unlit corners of your soul you know this is true because you have witnessed it firsthand. We all have.

The whole point of this dirty discourse is to just state the obvious that no one dares to state. We as a world love text and we also love sex. We all know what happens when the two are mixed. A sexual social media frenzy to which teenagers are currently addicted to.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Salt Lake Community College

Ashley Madison.com

So how is this "Week of Sex" treating you? Is it as good for you as it is for me? That is a question that you ask the other person once you get out of the hot tub isn't it? At least I think that's what they say in the movies.

As I was sifting through the topics for Day 3 of "Week of Sex" I came across a website that has absolutely stunned me. You may in fact have heard of this website if you are married and have looked online for a way to meet people who will have an affair with you. That's right, I am referring to the jezebel of .coms, the pernicious digital hooker who rampages solid relationships, the harlot made up of 1's and 0's, THE Ashley Madison.

If you are unfamiliar with what Ashley Madison is, check out this banned Super Bowl commercial that explains everything in 31 seconds.

Yeah I know, right? Is this not the most perverted thing since Hugh Hefner's conception? Started in 2002, this site claims to have over 9 million anonymous members. That's 9 million registered affairs on the internet! It is here when the acronym WTF gets put to good use. Not only do they talk about the discreet and secret love that gets made, they have a 100% affair guarantee. Let me understand this correctly, if I join Ashley Madison that means there's a 100% chance that I will be a dishonest, cheating, selfish, insincere, prick with a penis, who is more two-faced than Tommy Lee Jones in "Batman Forever"?

Yes. That is correct.

Our culture is so obsessed and drawn to sex, that we have created absolutely any way possible to destroy relationships, even if that means an online affair site. Heck, for better P.R. they should have free divorce coupons you can print off along with your registered affair. The founders of this site undoubtedly have a place reserved in Hell right next to Hitler, and the two mayors of Sodom and Gomorrah.

It's never going to end. The fanbase will continue to grow at a blazing pace. They'll probably get a Facebook fan page in the next few months. Oh that's right. They already have one. If you like them, you are a pervert and need to give your spouse more attention. I know I will. I am never going to cheat on my Russian mail-order inflatable bride doll. She just doesn't deserve it.

Better Than Sex Cake

After reading the title and staring at the delectable goodness above tell me that your mouth isn't watering at the one dessert that you're craving this very moment. And no, I did not mean anything dirty in that last line.

Better than sex cake is something that we've all come to love and appreciate following a heavy potluck. The chocolate cake, mixed with caramel, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with bits of toffee. Yes that is a recipe for something that makes the fourth course all hot and heavy.

But where did this name come from? All wikipedia had for me was the recipe. No background info or anything. I tried typing "better than sex" in the google search bar, and for some reason the first 16,488,370 results were strictly porno sites. I would strongly suggest avoiding any of those sites for cake recipe's. They weren't as helpful in bakery needs as I had hoped for. I first had heard about this cake from my Aunt Michele, but then again there is no way I was going to call her and ask for information regarding this. A little awkward, I must say.

Where did it come from? Back in the day, did Betty Crocker concoct this delicacy, then look across the table at her husband Orville Redenbacker and say "Wow honey, this is much better than that sweet love you gave me last night!" What an insult to the popcorn king for his romantic antics. For the record, I as a child did indeed believe, and still do, that Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher were husband and wife. Please don't shatter my dreams with your statistical correction. That means you Ryan "Ted" Rarick.

I mean is this cake actually better than sex? If you read my previous post, then all this cake has to be better than is a nice dip in the hot tub. But I think it tastes so much better than that. Besides, it's not as messy and dirty, and there's not a lot of cleanup after you get done eating it. Unless of course you have a seizure mid-bite, which I have in fact done on multiple occasions with this tasty goodness.

I'm posing questions here that I really have no idea what is the correct answer to. This cake is so delicious that I could sit down and eat an entire trough of it in one sitting. But how am I supposed to know that it is actually better and more pleasurable than the act of sexual intercourse? I don't! I'd probably have to rename the cake to something else like "Better than playing with yourself cake".

That fits the 26-year old virgin.

The Sex Lunch

The title of this blog sounds like a porno. With that being said, I shall pose the same question that I asked a few weeks ago regarding the title of this post; how many of you clicked on this link from Facebook simply because you saw the word "Sex" in the title? Come on, admit it. I certainly would have. Now that you are all blushing in shame at the double-click misdeed, I will continue on in my discourse.

As stated last month, I have a 2-liter bottle full of subject topics to choose from in which I will express my thoughts and feelings about. This week however, I will unload to you my thoughts and ideas regarding the topic of sex. Granted, these are thoughts and feelings from a 26-year old virgin who doesn't look like will be hopping between the sheets any time soon. However I would like to begin the week of sex, which this shall be called, by telling you about a conversation I had with three wonderful friends.

To protect their identities from possible scrutiny, I shall be identifying them with my classic blogalias's. First there is Goodyear Scotchsketcher. Second, B.E.P. Longhorn. And finally, one who has already been given a blogalias, J. Black Hairpiece. All three of them were seated with me at a popular restaurant in St. George a few months back on a day when we had the infamous "sex lunch."

Granted, all three of these studs are married men. Married to beautiful women. They are all classy, loyal, honest. The list could go on and on with positive adjectives to describe how great these three men are. My respect for them cannot be described. It was on this day when all three of these great men attempted to educate me about the topic of sex.

"See, it's not what everyone thinks that it is." one of them said. "It's actually kind of messy, dirty."

"Yeah." another of them agreed. "There certainly is a lot of cleanup to be done once the whole shibang is over with."

The third one agreed. "Seriously, that first night, you get something completely different than what you were expecting. The movies show it being all heated and romantic, when its not even close to what really happens."

It took my mind a few minutes to try to comprehend what these three were explaining to me. Dirty? Messy? A lot of cleanup? That's not what I was thinking! One of them then tried to use an analogy to help me understand this physical act.

"Picture sex as if you're hot tubbing." he said with a wry grin on his face. "At first you jump in the hot tub, and you're like 'Oh yeah! This is fun, I haven't felt this good in a while!' And then after a while you start to kind of feel like 'eh, it's not as fun as it was when I first jumped in.' And then you get out. That's a good way to look at sex. And then there's the cleanup after."

Wait, was he referring to sex in a hot tub? Or that sex is the hot tub? And what do you mean by cleanup? Do you mean figuratively? Or literally? It was at this point when one of them shattered my hopes and dreams with a very logical/business point of view.

"Look, sex is fun and all, but it's not this painted picture that everyone thinks it is. Sex is love and romance, but it's also completely different than you think. When you're laying there in your hotel on the night of your honeymoon, you're gonna find that sex is completely overrated, and different from what everybody says it is."

Overrated? Umm...thank you for kicking my hopes and ambitions in the gonads and throwing them out like rotten milk.

This had to be one of the most entertaining lunches I have ever been a part of. And granted, these three fine gents have much more experience than I do in the art of love-making. But whenever that day finally happens for me, and I'm laying in a hotel somewhere in a foreign country, am I going to look at my girl and say, "That was kind of like being in a hot tub ya know?"

I just hope she doesn't look back and say, "It was more like a luke-warm bath for me."

Mortal Kombat!

At 1:27 in the morning, I was being sucked into my soft couches being pulled into a semi-comatose Mormon hangover induced by Tylenol PM and 5 hours of sleep. Flipping through the fuzzy HD channels, I came across one of the greatest films ever to be adapted from the video game industry; Mortal Kombat.

No question, I can quote the entire film from start to finish. I'm sure you can too LTT. From the opening scene where Shang Tsung defeats Liu Kang's little brother, to the last hurrah as the Lord Shao Khan comes to face the tournament winners, and all of the glorious fight scenes in between. This movie is right up there with "Enter the Dragon" and "The Matrix Reloaded" for its brutality and martial arts. And to think it all stems from the best hand to hand combat game ever made.

You can't be reading this and tell me that you don't respect Ed Boon and John Tobias for their epicness. And yes, I did just use the word epicness. Those two deserve it for bringing forth the greatest violent platform game in our history. I remember how hooked I was to Mortal Kombat when it was released in 1992. As a seven-year old, the blood and guts and fatalities to such characters as Scorpion, Sub-Zero, and Johnny Cage mesmerized me, and I have been a fan ever since. Heck, I've even liked them on Facebook I appreciate them that much.

The characters in this game go down as some of the most brutal and intimidating in all video game creation. These are characters that would put Zelda to shame. That would beat up the gunmen from Contra without blinking an eye. Characters that even a tag team of Alice from Resident Evil, and Lara Croft couldn't take down. Bad guys such as Reptile and Motaro. Good guys like Jax and Kung Lao. Heck, the baddest of them all I was proud to have been named after. The razor-toothed, hand-bladed creep show known as Baraka. Tell me you don't have to change undies after seeing his pic.

I knew all of the phrases, all of the code words, all of the hidden characters that could be brought out of the works. Fifty rounds in a row in MK2 and you could bring forth Noob Saibot. Down, back, B, and either the frozen block of ice, or harpoon would be launched from the Lin Kuei brothers. "Get over here" would be yelled as Scorpion would launch your body across the screen. Epicness I tell you, epicness!

These childhood memories of mine drifted across the screen and my mind last night as I watched terrible acting and poor dialogue in a film that has been stamped into my memory bank. I will always love this film and game. I will always be a Mortal Kombat character in my own mind. I will always suit up to fight Kano, or Sonya Blade, or Goro. I will always wait for Shang Tsung to look me in the eye after throwing a nasty uppercut to my jaw knocking me to the mat, and say, "Your soul is mine!".

My soul certainly is.

American Idol?

So while I sit here roasting my Grandma at Canasta, (and yes that is the highlight of my trip to Ogden) she asks if she can change the television in the background to "American Idol".

"Do you watch 'American Idol'?" she asks.

What?! Are you kidding me? I may watch re-runs of Glee and shop at Roberts Arts & Crafts but there is no way I would be caught dead watching that primetime blah that is wasting away hundreds of hours of pathetic Americans hopes and ambitions.

I remember when "American Idol" had their first season. (Not proud to admit that.) I never thought it would last. Heck, I thought that "From Justin to Kelly" would curse the series. I only wish it had.

Since that piss-poor pioneering season, we as an American Culture has had to sit through countless losers hoping to pursue a musical career. And why do we do this? Why do we text message our choices thinking that we can help shape someone's music life? Why do we have to watch a D-list celebrity such as Ryan Seacrest bathe in the attention? I have no idea.

It hooks everyone. One of the manliest men that I know, a Texan football stud who if I were starting an imitation band of 300 Spartan soldiers, I would pick to be the role model, my co-worker C.J. Ferguson, has been snatched up by this Fox network Beelzebub. This is a guy who could probably beat up Anderson Silva, and yet he tunes in on Thursday nights to see who's been voted off. It makes no sense.

And so as the swan songs drag on as another 15 minutes of fame has just been booted off, I will sit back and beat up my Grandma at cards and get on Hulu later so I can watch re-runs of Glee.

That's manly isn't it?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Church St,Layton,United States

B.F.E. Ville Conversations

Alright, I am back to nothingness. I am sitting in the middle of oblivion. I have front row seats to a blank screen and I'm clawing at the armrests to get out of this joint. That's right. I am back in B.F.E.Ville.

There is NOTHING to do here! Nothing at all. And yet, people love it here. Let me tell you what conversations I have been exposed to in the last 78 minutes and counting.

I must be curteous and respectful to the people that I come in contact with in places such as this. However, when the mix of their dialogue includes discussion about the diagramming of a chicken hotel, it is then when I want to hold my breath until blackouts occur.

Thing 1: "Well, ya see, I been runnin' a chick'n hotel for upward uh 10 years now. It's been a fine run for me.

Thing 2: "Yeah, you should see the layout of the hotel that they live in. It's got to be somethin' like 50 square feet. It's HUGE!"

Thing 1: "I have over 30 chickens, and I named em all. I even have a differ'nt whistle for each of em."

Thing 2: "And like, there's a nice roof and place where the chickens check in. It's so extravagant. Like, there's even a place for them to check in and everything!"

Thing 1: "Sometimes, I lay in bed at night, and I do a certain whistle, and that chicken will come and lay with me in my bed. It don't get any better.

Thing 2: "You can get like, 8 eggs a day per chicken. I mean, think of the money you can make with organic chicken eggs."

Thing 3 (me): "I'm sorry, I've been holding my breath in hopes of a blackout. Say again?"

Why I listen to possible pyramid schemes with egg marketing and chicken hotel schematics is beyond me. It is conversations like this that make me never want to live in B.F.E.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Somewhere I'm not proud of...

Words With Friends Part II

Forgive me for rubbing it in, but I temporarily need to feast upon this glorious Words With Friends victory. I heart Jflounder a.k.a. Jeremiah Rawson, but this 99 point score, was the highlight of my day.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Whew!

After a 22 page final paper, and the completion of the A to Z challenge, I will admit that I have been a bit wiped out this week. To the whopping 30 people that tune in to this blog on a regular basis, forgive me for lacking on my writing skills this week. I have much needed that 6-day break. However, I will stay consistent to your needs and continue to work on putting a smile on your face every once in a while.

With that being said, I have a question that I don't think anyone can answer;

Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?

I doubt I am the only person who watched this PBS hit growing up. It was something that every kid wanted to participate in. We all wanted to put the flags on the countries. We all wanted to listen to Rockapella serenade. We all wanted to take orders from "The Chief". We all wanted to find, Carmen Sandiego.

I even had the computer game "Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego?" on my family's ghettofabulous old school PC, which I would play for hours on end. I came close, but no cigar in trying to locate the most wanted fugitive known to fictional history. She's right up there with Dr. Richard Kimble and Mona Simpson.

Trying to find this jezebel villain is about as easy as locating where Jack Bauer uses the restroom. She is the invisible Waldo. The one that always got away. The one that drunken recounts get told about in bars late at night when "I was this close to finding her, and she slipped between my fingers."

In a realistic sense, we all have our own Carmen Sandiego's, or we are Carmen Sandiego's to someone else out there. Either way, I'll still listen to Rockapella sing their jukebox harmony of the background music used to catch this crimson criminal, and always wonder where she is.

And so I pose this question to my contingency of 30 viewers; Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Do you know where she is?