Mini-Me

I’m sitting at a refurnished rotund table in the middle of the Grand County library. I know that’s not a catchy way to start a blog post, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all the time. I’m sitting here alone, by myself, isolated, the way I usually sit when I’m on the road. No worries though, I’m used to this solitary lifestyle by now.

You’ve heard me talk about people watching in the past. I have mocked a trio of mothers whose fashion was spawned by the 1930’s. I have mentally argued with a plastered cowboy donning a ten-gallon hat. I have laughed at the angelic grandmother who beats me at cards in a devilish way. But I think I have a one-upper to all of those folks as a young kid has just sat down at the desk in front of me.

For full effect, download “Clones (We’re All)” by Alice Cooper, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Seated before me is an average-sized, average-looking chap wearing a blue striped shirt, modestly fitting jeans, and a hybrid pair of cross country/mountain climbing boots. He has light brown hair that has a uniform part down the right side of his head, both sides brushed evenly. Every couple of minutes he randomly blurts out pre-pubescent phrases to his friend next to him in a sarcastic tone meanwhile his face is glued to the computer monitor in front of him with fantasy world graphics donning the screen. This kid looks really familiar, almost like I’ve seen him before or something, or maybe this kid is…is me?

No way, I must need some more sleep if I’m looking at what appears to be an actual replica of who and what I was 15 years ago. But wait, he has a cowlick on the back of his head, so do I. He just made a jokingly rude comment to the girl on the other side of the table, I do that too. He just picked his nose and then looked around to see if anyone was going to watch him eat his booger! Ok, maybe I didn’t do that, but this kid looks like, sounds like, and acts like me! Me when I was 11 years old.









Sorry, I lost focus there, some random hippy with a shaved head plus a snow-white braid poking out of the back of his noggin, a braid that matched his scraggly beard just walked by in a Hawaiian nightgown. You could smell him for miles. For some reason he gave me a stare down as he rambled on through the hallway. I may have that disturbing image glaring at me when I crawl into bed tonight.

Back to my clone. Across the table, the young girl who is surrounded by what we would call “nerds” makes a proclamation that she is having difficulties on her homework, and if any of them knew how to help her. Rather than come to her aid, my clone mutters another sarcastically rude remark across the table at her, voice cracking and all. You see back in the day, and even recently I thought that semi-humorous, semi-arrogant comments would get you the ladies. Turns out I was wrong. And still am wrong.

The redheaded girl is gingerly attracting these boys’ attention due to the fact that she is all dressed up. It’s at this stage in life when the all the other boys at the table realized that the female gender did not actually have cooties, and therefore “crushes” began to be developed. Not me though, and not my clone, he puts his headphones on and starts bouncing to what probably is a semi-techno cartoon beat. Yeah, so, I liked that kind of music. Don’t be hatin’.

While the other boys romance the ginger, he continuously blurts out non-amusing ridiculously stupid statements in hopes of getting everyone else’s attention. Man this kid won’t shut up. Almost like he’s a combination of Carrot Top, Jack Black, and Jim Carrey. A concoction like that would make any comedian shudder in disgust. But hey, that was me! I was that disgusting concoction!

This kid is elbow-deep in his online game, which is probably a cover for the fact that he’s going to slink away and find old copies of “The Babysitters Club” series and read them in the girl’s bathroom. There, I admitted it, finally got that off my chest. He sits there muttering out random comments to himself about how smart he is. Dang, he has an ego. But wait, so did I. I guess I still do for all that matters. And as I sit here typing away on my MacBook, semi-eerily watching this kids movements, nonverbal actions, and random statements that pop out of his mouth every two or so minutes, I get somewhat creeped out at who I was, and who I’ve become.

The funny part is that this kid has no idea, and will never know about this blogpost. He is off in his own little world mumbling words that don’t even make sense yet aren’t even funny, and he has no clue that I devoted an entire hour and a half of my life typing away at who I think is my mini-me. An interesting point of view if you ask me. But then again for all I know, the funky-haircutted Hawaiian nightgown who walked by may have given me the stare down because he saw what was him, 40 years earlier.

This town is starting to give me the creeps. Cross your fingers that I don’t turn into a hippy.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

“I saw her today at the reception,
A glass of wine in her hand.
I knew she was going to meet her connection,
At her feet was a footloose man.”

Back to live action

I will admit last week’s monthly topic was a little bland. You’ll have to forgive me for slacking in my writing responsibilities. I could throw out the excuses such as school starting, work picking up, and lack of sleep, but I shouldn’t let you as a reader down. Forgive my laziness and I’ll do a better job of keeping a smile on your face every other day.

Currently I am buckled down on the bed of a semi-classy Best Western hotel in Moab, as I begin my second season of trying to talk high school students to come to my beloved alma mater, Dixie State College. We’ll see how good of a salesman I am in months to come on the road. Amidst the 5½ hour drive from point A to point B, I did have some semi-humorous, semi-deep thought content dribble through my brain.

For full effect, download “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” from iTunes, and play at full volume throughout the duration of this post. Either that or watch a random episode of “House” online, that ballad has seemed to be the background music for his antics.

There are a few points of unwritten laws that I have come to understand and appreciate in my short 26-year span on this orbiting pile of rock. We’ll call them Brocktrine for the sake of this post. These are truths that I have found to be absolutely 100% accurate without question. First and foremost, the girl is always right. Learn that rule, and your life can be made so much easier. It’s because of this rule that I have found out that the adjective unflexible is actually a legitimate word. Go ahead, look it up.

Second, and almost as equally important as the first, we always want what we can’t have.

Think about that last one for a brief moment or two. When something is off limits, inaccessible, or has a giant “NO” plastered upon it, we as humans naturally want that item more. Whether it’s a ridiculously attractive girl, a recently released risqué film in the theatres, or a fresh batch of cookies cooling off on the counter, if we can’t have it, we want it.

Cue Mick Jagger’s belting out the chorus in A-major to support my argument.

I haven’t been able to fully understand this truth yet, and maybe after years of countless rejections for things that I truly want will I come to a firm realization of its certainty. All I can say is that when I can’t have something, I want it more. Not that I’m a greedy individual at all, I think that we have that rage instilled in all of us. And yes Chief Kent that indeed was a Mortal Kombat v. DC Universe reference. Laugh it up buddy.

Even if we actually don’t want something, even if it’s the most hideous, disgustingly grotesque creation to have ever been placed before us, if we can’t have it, that only drives us to want it more.

Used Car Salesman: “Well you see, the Ford Pedsel is actually a combination of the Pinto, and the Edsel, and has actually never been sold before. It is such an awfully bad car that I would rather be towed around in a chariot pulled by worms than have this as my transportation.”

John Doe: “That bad eh? Well is it on the market?”

Used Car Salesman: “Actually no, we’re getting ready to crush and destroy the last model and bury its remains in the Gobi Desert?”

John Doe: “So what you’re saying is, that I can’t have it?”

Used Car Salesman: “Well, yeah, I guess.”

John Doe: “I want it! I’ll take it! Here’s a blank check, and you can fill in the remaining blank spot for the dollar amount, I have to have that car!”

You may chuckle to yourself right now and say, ‘Oh come on Swamp Thing, that situation would never happen’, but then again if someone told you that you couldn’t have a Ford Pedsel, how much would you pay to retrieve it? That repulsive roadster would instantly become your Klondike Bar.

Why is this characteristical flaw instilled into all of us? Why do we all want what we can’t have? Why when someone says no, is a burning desire generated to reverse that decree into a yes? I have no idea. All I can say is that I hope no one ever calls me up and says that I can never ever listen to a Justin Beiber song for the rest of my life.

I hope and pray that phone call never arrives.

Sunday

With Sunday being the day of rest, I think that this sentence sums up the overall feel for the day. I've got to get back to my nap.

Saturday!

AAAHHH! Isn’t today just a breath of lazy fresh air blowing in our faces all day long?

For full effect, download "Saturday Night" by Earth Wind & Fire and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Although they don’t necessarily rank on the list as my personal favorites, Saturday has a whole truck-load of goodies piled into it. Saturday’s are garage sales. They’re football-packed fall seasons where guys stay planted in their La-Z-Boy’s from sun up to sun down. They’re when diets get put on the backburner while people indulge in oversized bags of Skittles.

On the flip side Saturdays are also yard work, pulling weeds, cleaning out storage units, moving queen sized beds and dressers from the upstairs to the downstairs and vice versa. Saturdays still have a semi-sour taste in my mouth from the mountain load of chores my parents forced me to endure throughout the majority of my childhood.

Saturdays are where laziness gets its name from. Heck, that's why this post is so short. Any other day of the week and I would have spent more than ten minutes pounding this thing out. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to the College Gameday preview.

Location: A man cave?

FRIDAY!

Are you as happy as I am that this day has finally arrived? I think we all have a breath of fresh air rush through our lungs the second that our alarm clocks go off on a Friday morning.

For full effect download “Glorious Day” by Weezer and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend. Thank you Loverboy for providing such an inspirational chorus for all of us to belt out once the 5:00 workweek clocks out. T.G.I.F. And it’s not just the late-night TV block of “Step by Step,” “Boy Meets World,” and “Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper” although, I do miss those instant ABC classics more than I miss pogs. And man do I miss me a good pogging session.

On Friday there is a spark in the air. We all are happy to be alive. Forget about factoring fractions, history lectures, and car insurance payments. All of that is thrown into some black hole of storage and we’ve obliterated the key for another 72 hours. All that we care about on Friday is any type of recreational activity that will dominate our time, ranging from sleeping in, to weekend campouts, to Back to the Future Marathons.

That’s just the way that Friday is. Kind of a feeling of accomplishment exists among us. As if we have just captured the Golden Fleece of Big Kidology 101, and thrown it into the Argo with brute force and strength. We have jumped through the hoops, done this, did that, and who cares what happens to us over the next two-day slot that has been given the sacred name of ‘weekend.’ And if we wake up from a drunken stupor Monday morning, who cares what has happened in Vegas, or at the concert, or with six guys, a raccoon, a torch, and a cube of Mt. Dew? None of that matters, because Friday is our day of celebration.

Casual Friday is something that we all look forward to. Especially my dear buddy J. Black Hairpiece who enjoys casual Fridays a bit too much. But that’s another blogppost entirely. Everything is casual though on Friday. Our decision-making prowess has taken a leave of absence whenever someone decides to confront us with anything complicated.

Panicked son: “You have to help me get this check mailed out to my mom before 5:00 p.m. If it doesn’t get in the mail before that hour, she is going to be trapped in a stuffed gorilla manufacturing factory in Juneau, Alaska!”

U.S. Mail employee: “Yeah, yeah, just put it on my desk, I’ll take care of it on Monday, now leave me alone so I can finish up playing Farmville online.”

Responsibility seems to take a quick exit stage left once the Friday virus occupies all of our minds. Well at least it does for me, a single guy who doesn’t have any dependents relying on me aside from being the designated chauffeur for my fellow roommates on our lunch dates, but hey, what do I care? It’s FRIDAY!!!

Friday is the day when we get un-grounded from a week of punishment from our subliminal parents.

Subconscious mind: “You can now pass GO, you can now collect $200!”

Conscious mind: “Whew! I was glad to get out of that last four-day mess!”

Friday is the banana split in all of our lives. It’s when the vending machine accidentally gives us two packs of starburst for the price of one. It’s when we find out that a paper isn’t actually due for another week and we stayed up all night wrapping it up. It’s the six-letter word that we all look forward to with another four-letter acronym.

Somewhere in Alaska, a terrified mother is still trapped in a stuffed gorilla manufacturing factory.

T.G.I.F.

Thursday

Almost there.

For full effect, download “Thursday’s Child” by David Bowie and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Or, if you’re tired of listening to humdrum music that has a chorus focused on a day of the week, then perhaps try out “Rhinestone Cowboy” by Glen Campbell. In honor of the noble Rhinestone Cowboy himself, or as he is also known as B.E.P. Longhorn. Man, this guy looks good in green. You can hear this fine tune by clicking the following link.

On to the weekly topic about today that we’re all sitting through right now. Thursday is something that would be defined as a Drone’s Day. The monotony, the repetitive routine of everyone showing up with looks on their faces like, ‘I just can’t wait till this week will be over.’ Or ‘One more day, that’s all, I can make it.’

Thursday is the day in which you are just about committed to a serious relationship. You have gotten past the hand-holding, the awkward doorstep scenes, the meet the folks, and are just about ready to update your Facebook relationship status. But not just yet. Almost as if you are saying, ‘Hi honey, I know it’s been a long week, my homework is stacking up, I ran out of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I have a Math test tomorrow as soon as the sun comes up, but for you, and only you am I going to walk into this gym and give it my all. That’s how much you mean to me.’ Ok, that’s how gym rats look at it, but then again, we are not all rats of the gym.

Homer J: “Gym, what’s a gym? Oh…A gym.”

Thursday is, it is, blah? Yeah, that seems to fit the day’s image very well. In fact, if you discuss this matter with Webster himself, there is actually a picture of blah right underneath the boldly Times New Roman 18-point font stamped word Thursday. Yes, that is a fact. Don’t doubt me.

The Thursday inside all of us makes us want to be freed from the chains of computer screen bondage that we are indentured to from a 9-5 daily period. We want to give our best effort, even if that means that we twitter and browse Reddit for 4 hours, but hey, at least our bosses know that we’re working as hard as we can right?

Thursday is so blah that I’m staring at a black and white screen trying to figure out what will fill up the next paragraph. My mind is that blank.

“Thursday is frustrating because it’s so complicated to abbreviate.” Said the Rhinestone Cowboy. “Think about it, all the rest of the days have three letter abbreviations. Mon, Tue, Wed, Fri, Sat, Sun, but then Thursday, you can’t just say, Thu, or Thr, it makes no sense.”

He has a very valid point here, Thursday is just a mass of frustration from a literary standpoint as it’s the one day that doesn’t fit in with the rest of them.

Sesame Street Chorus: “One of these days is not like the other ones, not like the other ones, not like the other ones!”

In fact the name Thursday, is like a knock-off of Tuesday. Almost as if the creators of calendars ran out of ideas as to what to name it.

Thermopoles: “What do we call this day that follows Wednesday and previews Friday, each of the other days have a different letter to start with, and we only have five consonants?!”

Agamemmnon: “I don’t know, just scramble that other thing we made up, Tuesday, add a a letter or two and let’s call it a day. I’m meeting up with Apollo for some ambrosia at 7.”

Thus we were given the day that doesn’t matter. The most un-unique day that there is in the week. The day that blah’s away from 12:01 to 11:59 on a seven-slot cycle. If all of the other days can be compared to Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie Twins, then Thursday is the leftover runt known as Danny Devito.

And so it continues on. As we count down the seconds on our analog watches and upvote the posts we surf through on reddit, Thursday is the day in which we are almost there. Almost checked out of responsibility, almost packed up for a road trip to Cali, almost splurging on a french toast buffet at 9 in the morning.

Almost there.

Wednesday

Wednesdays. Hump days. The best, and or worst, of both worlds. Wednesdays are when guys walk into the gym half drunk from Math tests and half sober from free throws. Wednesdays are staring down a dark tunnel and barely seeing that speck of light also known as the train coming at you, or the day also known as Friday. But that’s too far away at the moment. You’ve got things to take care of before you board that weekend retreat off into no man’s lack of responsibility land where everyone is pining to get to sooner or later on Hump Day.

For full effect download Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Wednesday does have a promising feel to it. Let’s not forget that. Wednesday is the faint glimmer of hope that the joyous weekend is in sight. On Wednesday you still have all of the workload piled on you, but at the same time your thoughts drift off to “I wonder what ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ is going to be like tonight,” or “maybe we should go camping this weekend at Sand Hollow.” On Wednesday you are in both worlds. Work is still on top of you, but hey, the weekend is not too far away, so there is hope.

They say that out of the five weekdays, the most work gets done on Wednesday. That is the time when most guys buckle down and focus on getting at least something, anything accomplished. Heck, half of the blog posts that I have ever written were probably banged out on Wednesday.

Workload Wednesday is when the boys stay the latest at the gym, when games go into the late night for what seems like hours on end. When we are all trying to keep our sanity from all of the pencils, scantrons, Top Ramen popsicles and everything else that people are obsessed with in the college world.

Wednesdays are little things in a basketball game. Wednesdays are the calling out of screens on both sides. They are the pump-fake bounce passes into the big guys to prevent a turnover. They are the not jumping in the air on a pump fake from the perimeter.

Wednesday’s are me typing at this very moment just to break 400 words.

Tuesday

On to day two. The dreaded, the feared, the slightly less than evil from what we just forced ourself through 24 hours earlier. The one and only Tuesday! Please, hold your applause.

Tuesday is a whole new ballpark to suit up for. Thank you Barney Stinson for that glorious two-word phrase by the way. If you are a Monday fellow and you actually stay committed to your previous day’s resolution on a Tuesday, it opens a few eyes, but not many. Tuesday is saying that you are ready for some type of commitment, but not the full-out onslaught of a serious relationship. You will give her your number and go out a few times, but you’re not going to move in together or say that you are actually “dating.”

Tuesdays are the tuna sandwich at Subway

For full effect download “Ruby Tuesday” by The Rolling Stones and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Showing up on Tuesday means that that we actually took in the realization that this week is already steamrolling across the calendar, and we have to face the facts and be men, and show up for all of our “big-kid” responsibilities. The majority of the Tuesday-ers are in fact Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday-ers as well, but not all of them are. There are a few Monday chums that show up on Tuesday. But they can’t be stocked in the Tuesday classification, because deep down they don’t have the resolve or motivation or the pride to move on to Wednesday.

I say that we are more gobbled up by big-kid priorities on Tuesday because for some reason that’s when the little kids inside of us get stuffed into the closet and hidden away until the end of the week. On Tuesday we are focused more on our chemistry tests than our potential ice cream sundae contests, our quarterly budgets, more than our potentially funny knock-knock jokes. Tuesday makes us realize that there is more to life than just liking someone’s status, or having a Mario Kart battle. We actually have to go back and read the 47 pages of Chapter 5 of our Art History book dealing with Romanticism in the 14th century. Our student loans do in fact have subsidized interest rates that we have to pay back whenever we decide to grow up and oh wait, we did I forget to pay my wireless bill and take out the trash? Where are my priorities? That too is on Tuesdays.

Tuesdays have a similar feel to the Monday ambiance. You are still depressed and forlorn at Monday's recent occurrence. However, you don’t want to do anything extra special or work too hard. Tuesday is a day for monotony to take place at work, at school, at the gym, on dates, in life, as one drones the day away wishing they were further on in the week.

I hate tuna sandwiches. I think most of us do.

Monday, Monday

Every individual 24-hour period has its own little feel or niche about it that makes everyone realize what day of the week it is without even looking at the calendar. Monday without question is the principal prime example of this theory.

For full effect download “Monday, Monday” by the Mama’s and the Papa’s and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Monday is the day that everyone hates with an extreme passion. It is the day when people wake up and realize the magnitude scale of work and responsibilities that lay in store for them only as soon as they have the guts to roll over and hit more than just the snooze button for the umpteenth time. Mondays make you want to vomit uncontrollably and avoid having to take a swan dive into that pool of accountability that is waiting at the office or classroom. Monday is the Fran Drescher of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models.

Along with the negativity of Monday itself, Monday is also a day of new beginning, a day where everyone tells themselves that they are going to go out and accomplish those acts and deeds that they always talk themselves into doing.

“I’m going to finish that mid-term essay and bathe a vagabond poodle while degreasing my bike chain.” They often tell say. But how often does that bike chain stay greasy? How often does that vagabond poodle stay dirty? How often do they actually put procrastination on the backburner and crank out that mid-term essay? Every day but Monday, that’s for sure.

Monday’s are Garfield’s Goliath.

The parking lot at Golds Gym is always jam packed on Mondays from 5 a.m. to midnight. Monday is the day that people persuade themselves that they are going to start losing that beer belly or massive thighs, and start working out this time on a more “consistent” basis. Mondays are time for them to get going before they waste away into nothing.

I can’t help but admit that I am always wound just a tad bit tighter on Mondays. I want to accomplish as much as I can, cross off as many things as possible on my “To-Do” list. For some reason I don’t feel like I have worked as hard as I could have unless I have scaled Mt. Kilimanjaro blindfolded and crocheted a blanket for the entire city of Ogden all in a single Monday time period. Somewhere I feel that the ghosts of Mondays past are shaking their heads in disappointment.

Mondays are the days when we send the most e-mails out, answer the most phone calls at work, spend the least amount of time on Facebook, and watch the minimum hours of television. If it wasn’t for Monday Night Football and House at 7 p.m. on Fox, I wouldn’t touch the ON/OFF button on my Vizio!

As Monday comes to an end, and the overwhelming demolishment starts to sink into our bodies and minds, that is when we all start to realize that accomplishing something in our lives is going to take a lot more than just a Monday’s worth of effort and persistence. While we all set our alarms and crawl into bed, we should understand that some people just won’t be back tomorrow, for tomorrow isn’t Monday. Tomorrow is a lot more than that. Tomorrow is committing your self to even more of a serious relationship, and some people just can’t handle it. And as they walk out the door to their Monday cars we can all wish the Monday chaps farewell on the one day a week that they show up and try and do something more than just watch American Idol or conquer a Call of Duty level. In an ironic way, the Monday community will always be there for us.

At least that one day of the week they will.

Week of Days

Before you click on the X in the upper right hand corner, or the backwards arrow in the upper left, hear me out on this week's topic, despite the fact that the title sounds redundantly boring and potentially could make you face plant into your evening bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios because of its lack of excitement.

Laying in bed yesterday at around 1:47 p.m. I thought to myself how it really felt like a Saturday morning. Being nestled in my blanky still at that hour was a major influence upon my thoughts, and yes I did just use the word blanky. Somewhere Linus is giving me an air-high five.

Jerry Seinfeld played a major role in my mental process as I caught the tail end of a conversation between him, Newman, and Kramer about how each day has its own "feel".

Kramer: What's today?

Newman: It's Thursday.

Kramer: Really? Feels like Tuesday.

Newman: Tuesday has no feel. Monday has a feel, Friday has a feel, Sunday has a feel....

Kramer: I feel Tuesday and Wednesday...

Jerry: All right, shut up the both of you!

Cue John Lennon and Paul McCartney singing "8 Days a Week" and play at maximum volume to get full effect.

Every day does indeed have its own feel to it. Some days we hate, some days we love, and some days we plow through with a glazed look across our faces not knowing if we'll be able to get through the entire 24-hour cycle. However when push comes to shove their are days that we look forward to and days that we hate that make up the rotating weekly circuit.

These are their stories.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location: My house

Does Your Face Hurt?

I thought I was having a fun time last night enjoying the atmosphere among friends as a fellow comrade had returned home from working all summer. I thought I was enjoying the atmosphere on a hot summer evening as the sun set and pulled pork sandwiches dripped from my mouth. I thought I was logging sentimental memories as myself and a few pals were having a replica dunk contest on a 7-foot tall basketball hoop.

But then a feisty yellow jacket came out of nowhere, stung me right on the forehead and ruined all of that last replicated paragraphic chorus of a Kenny Chesney song.

Yes that's right kids, a yellow jacket. A nasty one at that. The little nasty creature with a needle sticking out of its butthole whose blogalias might as well be Beelzebub for all I care decided to protect its home and plant its derriere 5 centimeters above the middle of my left eyebrow. All while I was going up for a windmill throw down dunk on the right side of the hoop. My manliness was instantly compromised.

Beelzebub: "Oh no you don't. This is MY house! MY HOUSE!"

Swamp Thing: "AAAAAHHHH! OWWWWW! SON OF A MOTHER GOAT LICKING DOUCEHBAG ON FIRE!!! AAAAAAHHHHH! CURSE WORD! YOU HEINOUS LITTLE PUNK!"

It was probably the greatest blocked shot in the history of the game of basketball. Yao Ming wishes he could have had that effect on some of the scorers that rose up against him. And to think that this despicable demon did it all with one foul swoop of his hindquarters. Totally unfair!

Yao Ming: Confused/Perplexed/WTF look across his face "So what you're saying is all I have to do is build a nest in base of the actual basketball hoop and when a scorer comes in, I just have to plant my butt on his face and he'll run away screaming in agony."

Beelzebub: "Yep, that's how it works. Not as tough as you'd think it would be."

Yao Ming: "And to think I've tried standing in the middle of the paint with my hands above my head for my entire career, when all I had to use was my booty!"

This insignificant raunchy conspirator sure left a mark on my forehead, a mark that I doused with ice throughout the remainder of the evening. A mark that has been itching and burning all day today. A mark that left such a dent in my life that I decided to blog about it. Yeah, this little bugger had such an impact in my life that I've given him a blogalias. Not everyone gets one of those!

The Royal Queen made a point though this afternoon as she sympathized with my pain and pointed out the ramifications of what happened last night, helping me come to the realization that he gave his life in trying to protect his paper thin home in the hoop.

The Royal Queen: "Well, that's karma for ya."

Yeah, he may be dead, but his forehead doesn't still hurt 24 hours later. Props to him though, it will still go down as the greatest blocked shot of all time.

The Governor's Ball

My roommates play games. I'm used to this by now. I play pickup basketball and intramural 3 on 3. They play Halo, Black Ops, and Madden 2012. Nothing wrong with that at all. Different strokes for different folks.

Giggity.

They have however gotten involved in a new game that has enveloped them every other week now. That has taken over their creative energies in a group setting. This is a game that is a spin-off of Dungeons & Dragons. A much cooler version mind you.

May I state a disclaimer at the beginning of this post that I was a third-party witness to this game, and had a very naive perspective in regards to how this contest functioned. Right off the bat both myself, and Mollybakes were bewildered as to how the entire game functioned, or what were the rules and regulations.

"So what is this game?" Mollybakes asked.

"It's a generic RPG." said the GM

"This game is a way to act out your imagination with a bunch of guys, and keep your clothes on." said Kadeem.

"This game has no limits. No boundaries. I can do whatever I want in my head in this game." said Ruger.

"It's incredibly geeky, which is why you can't be here." said Malcom Ignatious Machiavelli as he gave her the stare of death from across the room. Heck, the man intimidated me with his harsh gaze that I almost had to change into a new pair of fantasy underwear.

From that point Mollybakes was escorted from the basement, or removed from the dog days of summer out in the Caribbean. The fact that I am a closet Trekkie made it possible for me to sit on the couch and be a spectator to this fantasy charade. The two robots from Mystery Science Theater 3000 were seated next to me for sarcastic subliminal comments.

Forgive me for failing to introduce their characters at this point. Each of them created a specific fantasy identity to which they then figuratively morphed into. There was Kadeem, Malcom Ignatious Machiavelli, Doubting Thomas, Ruger, Shades, and the GM, short for Game Master. Don't ask me where all these names came from. All I knew was that Kadeem was a Hatian servant who kept quoting Chappelle's Show.

"I'm a witch doctor." Kadeem says to me. "I rip the blood out of people. And I'm the weird guy."

The scene was that they were a group of Pirating outlaws in the middle of the 1700's out pillaging away in the Caribbean. It's a world within a world. A fantasy land foundation formed in one's basement. It's a mock-Inception. With cards, poker chips, and a 35-sided die to rule the decisions that are made.

"Our main goal in this game is to fight skeletons, evil spirits, and be piratically awesome." Ruger explained to me. "That and we defeat bad guys, take loot, and get alot of booty."

Hmm...If I recall you just removed the only real live booty from our basement. But hey, to each his own.

The strategic head games had me going early on when the GM wondered what I was doing as a spectator on the side.

"Are you blogging?" he asked. "Is that one of those iPad things you're doing it on?"

For a split second I thought that this guy was a noob, but then again, he's the GM, and I'm the noob in this crowd. Silently he chuckled to himself. Well played GM. Well played.

From this point on, the GM began to tell a story. A story that he made up. A story that he scrapped together from his memory, an online synthesized storyline and from Johnny Depp movie scenes.

"This is sort of like a mix between a rhetoric and an improv scene." the GM said, "Lord bless Ryan Stiles."

The scene blossomed from the start as they landed and met a tailor who helped make the clothing and weaponry that they would be donning at the Governor's ball the next evening. Hence the title for this blog. Amidst all of the thickening plot's they were speaking in proper English accents and challenging one another to duels. That and pronouncing some of the most random facts that I had no idea of the relevancy to.

"Since we've been traveling I think my bananas have went bad." Shades said to me in a Rastafarian tone. Your bananas? Is that an inside joke? Do you mean real bananas? Or are you throwing out a line from Chappelle's show as well? I'm so confused.

After roughly an hour or so of bantering, the real story came into play when they were ambushed by hiding guards of the Governor in his mansion, about to be manslaughtered before a host of waltzing guests. That's when things got interesting.

Cue ballads by Flogging Molly and Rammstein as the background music for the fight scene. Keep in mind the fight scene was a charade of rolling dice left and right to determine the actions that each character makes in combat. That sounds pussy I know, but I just witnessed Malcom Ignatious Machiavelli beat down three guards with his secret swords by rolling over six three straight times. Yeah, he is one BAMF. True story.

"You'll find this out about RPG's is they love to brag about things ghat never actually happened." Ruger commented to me. "Like the time that Shades shot down a stalagtite and killed 3 people. Never happened."

"Hey that was legit and awesome!" the Cool Runnings accent defended.

A few minutes later, I threw out a WTF inquiry.

"Wait what happens when you die." I interjected amid the battle scene.

"Well your spirit leaves your body and returns back to our Heavenly Father." Kadeem wittily responded.

A round of laughs was followed by the GM praising him for conducting humorous missionary work in the middle of a heated conflict and awarded him a bennie. Apparently a "bennie" is like a freebie second chance at correcting a misroll. For example, if I roll a four and needed a five, I could quirk out a sarcastically humorous comment about religion and would have been awarded another bennie to give it another shot. That's how real life works isn't it?

It took the Pirates an hour and a half to play out a scene that in reality played out in under 30 seconds, but hey I was entertained for those 90 minutes, surrounded by English accents, exploding magic funnels and Dave Chappelle quotes. I'm pretty sure pirates in the 1700's were die hard Chappelle's Show junkies, right?

Around 11:30 I started losing track of what was actually going on before me. Maybe it was the mix of my depressant Tegretol kicking into effect combined with a smorgasbord of phrases such as blind potion, D12, clubbed to death, smoking snuff, magic blood potion, nasty gashes, and screw you kid, that made me somewhat lost in translation meanwhile the pirate story continued on. May I remind you that this is just chapter two of what I would classify as the Neverending Story. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted on the adventures that this gang continues to pioneer through. All of the bad guys that they kill, the loot that they take, and all of the booty that they uh...uh...umm...

Heck, what do I know, they're getting more booty than I am even if it is imaginary. Props to you pirates!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
D

Location: My basement in the Caribbean

Hello, My Name is Inigo Montoya

Saw this today on Reddit, and immediately started quoting in my head the line that was burned into my brain the day that I first saw The Princess Bride. Whatever creative artist put this collage together, I tip my hat to him.

I am an Ogre

There are times when I don't like being a gigantic creature.

On the basketball court, it's something to be proud of. Snatching rebounds away from smaller runts, or using my weight to push big men out of the paint while defending, but when my focus isn't about tossing a spherical ball into a hoop, my size is not one of my most satisfying qualities.

When I was in junior high, there would be times when my rowdy friends and I would keep our mouths jabbing like your classic annoying little punks. Only after so much banter, my 7th grade gym teacher, a bulky monster whose claim to fame was that he had played third-string quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys back in the day when football had just been created would bark out,

“Hey! Do you boys have a problem?”

Hesitantly we would all shake our heads back in fear to him.

“Well you’re gonna have one in a minute that’s 6’3” and 280 pounds if you don’t shut up!” he would yell back.

And yes, at the time I could only imagine what kind of problem it would be if the mammoth would unleash his terror upon us. But as I grew up emotionally, physically, and literally, I have come to realize what the much bigger problem is (pun intended); managing the size that I am, much similar to my gigantic gym teacher of ages back.

Balance is probably one of the main things that I struggle with being as big as I am. I remember the first few times that I made futile attempts at conquering what the world calls snowboarding. I cannot describe how embarrassed I was when my 15-year old little sister was beating me down the slopes as I stumbled, tripped, and rolled down the hill in a massive snowball. I kept my balance about as well as Charlie Sheen stays out of trouble. For being as big as I was it made it difficult to stay on my feet longer than 4.7 seconds, meanwhile little Lunchbox sat in the snow a few feet below me shaking her head in disgust. The divots would get larger and grander while my butt cheeks got number and raw.

Lunchbox: “You know you’re pretty big when you have to put snow back in the hole that your butt makes when you fall.”

I said thanks and then felt even bigger as she zoomed down the hill even faster in front of me without falling.

One of the main issues with my size however is how I don't fit anywhere. Front seats, back seats, movie seats, on bicycles, around campfires, in embryos, heck, I don't even fit in my own bed. I look like the character in ‘One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish’ whose feet hang off the end while his cranium pokes through the headboard. People mock me for being an anti-midget. I pray that an incredibly large self-esteem comes with the physically issued body I have.

Yes, I can change light bulbs without standing on four chairs, and no I don't have to sit on a phonebook or two when parking at the dinner table, so maybe being as big as I am really isn't as bad as it sounds. But when I am on a date and have to bend over, while the girl I'm with has to stand on four chairs and an encyclopedia just to get a goodnight kiss, yeah, I would say that is the epitome of awfulness of being Goliath.

I just hope that she's going in for a kiss rather than trying to slay me with a slingshot.

Crawdiddling

Here I sit beside a campfire as my compadres and I revel in Mother Nature's arena. Yes my friends, that's right. I am an outdoors fella enjoying the great outdoors. Minus John Candy and Dan Akroyd.

Amidst the surrounding serenity a disturbing event has just happened. An event that will make PETA activists campaign heavily against if they ever catch wind of this blogpost. I hope that this won't put a twist in any of your panties. Please forgive me if it does.

Rock Steady and Whojagger have just walked up with a silver pot in hand, and grins from ear to ear.

"You won't believe what we just caught." Rock Steady hollers over.

"A case of Gonnosyphaherpecrabs?" Chief Kent smirks.

"Well yeah, but along with that, take a look at these!" Whojagger replies.

Setting the pot on the table, we look inside and see some of the most disgustingly beautiful creatures that own the bottom of Baker Reservoir. These little varmints I'm referring to are crawdads. Some of the meanest 6-inch long creatures that have claws attached to them.

"And we're gonna boil these suckers for dinner." Rock Steady proclaims. Somewhere, Sarah McClaughlin is tossing and turning in her goose feather stuffed mattress.

Call us disturbed, call us cruel, call us hungry, whatever. These suckers would be dinner. Filling up the pot with fresh water, we tossed them on to the fire waiting for the H2O to heat up and end their lives.

Is that disturbing? Is it ethically incorrect? Whatever it is, we all stood around the fire and watched them scuffle as their metal home turned from a jacuzzi to a cauldron in under 5 minutes.

"I feel that this would be a good Disney movie.". Chief Kent proclaimed. "Doesn't this seem like the butcher serenading as he's about to toss Sebastian into the cooker?" And from that point on we all started singing in unison a handful of our cartoon heroes musical numbers.

They fought, they scuffled, they panicked as they saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and we all sat there and watched.

"What if we grab one of them, and just toss him into the lake." I suggested. "It would be like a life changing moment for him and he would start parading all over Baker Reservoir about his near-death experience."

"Either that or he'll be traumatized for life." Whojagger commented.

"Look at that one." Chief Kent said. "He's like, staring at me. Almost like he wants me to save him from his impending death." Chief Kent will probably have that little buggers face engraved into his subconscious for the next five years.

As the last bubbles of life were being popped from their Crustacean bodies, we all removed our hats for a moment of silence. Rock Steady began quoting a Latin funeral service. I began whistling "Taps". And in one fowl swoop we all began singing "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas. Hey, at least we gave them an honorable discharge as they were being prepped for a full course meal.

"What if they turn into zombies?" Chief Kent asked.

Well they were the best tasting zombie crawdads that we've ever met. Zombie Crawdads that will haunt us in our sleep once the fire dies down tonight.

Man I love camping.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location: Baker Reservoir

The Miss Piggy

A wise figure in my life commented to me this past week that I should try and be more positive in my writings, in my blogposts. He is right I must admit. At times I am a cynical punk with Ebenezer Scrooge-like characteristics; pre-Jacob Marley hallucination, mind you.

“Really Brock, you’re an ornery bugger with a 36-year old mid-life crisis head on your shoulders who has to vent about anything you can.” Chief Kent said to me last week as we discussed failed dating attempts. Hey, I take offense to that. I only have 98.4 percent of a head on my shoulders, and my mid-life crisis was 8 years ago. So take that!

Taking those two wise comments into consideration, I will attempt at being more positive and more amusingly uplifting in future posts. There will more than likely be random rantings about feeble forced attempts at motivational conferences that are as productive as counting the hairs on the back of an albino gerbil. But with that being said, I will try and turn my frown upside down in future posts.

For full effect, download and play at full volume, “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. Either that or “MmmBop” by Hanson. Those two choruses rank one and two on some random happy song poll via the Interweb.

On a side note, B.E.P. Longhorn has requested a second blogalias. From this point forward he shall be known as The Rhinestone Cowboy. For some reason he and J. Black Hairpiece/Keith Tronic are trying to expand their blogalias selection to more than just one identity.

The Rhinestone Cowboy however does in fact play a part in today’s post. For that nickname was coined during the business retreat that was mentioned earlier. That nickname was coined as we sat down at a hometown café and dined on some ghettofabulous grub, and yes I did just use the word ghettofabulous. That nickname was coined while I fell in L-word with the most divine creation ever to tickle the tenders of my taste buds. A creation that the Earl of Sandwich would be tipping his cap to in great respect.

My friends, I am talking about Miss Piggy. The greatest mix of mutton to be slapped between two slices of bread. The best sandwich I think I have ever eaten in my life.

Period.

Close your eyes and envision this supreme treat while I attempt to describe to you its goodness. For even further effect, pause the Hanson brothers Mmmmbopping and begin playing Canon in D at full volume.

The Miss Piggy is a creation all in itself that makes Kermit’s mouth begin to water from the very get go. Invented at Heber’s Spin Café, it could be emblazoned in gold for all eternity. At first it appears to be your ordinary grilled cheese sandwich. But don’t let looks deceive you. American, Cheddar, and Provolone Cheese are combined for this succulent satisfier on lightly toasted sourdough bread. The main topping is the mustard soaked-pulled pork; a hearty dishing that satisfies any of the raging cravings for a slab of meat. Add my own secret ingredient, three thick slices of smoked ham, and my friends you have now been given access to the greatest thing that could ever be concocted from a backhouse kitchen.

“The Miss Piggy is something that words cannot describe of its goodness. This is a sandwich that fell from Mount Olympus to dwell with us as peasants, only so that we could have a sliver of a glimpse of what immortality can taste like.” Said The Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson. And yes, that is your new blogalias.

Honestly, it had to be one of the most delectable, most delicious, most OMGWTF-just-happened-in-the-last-15 minutes-I-think-I-need-to-towel-off kind of enjoyments that I have ever been privileged to partake of. It was so good I had it twice in 24 hours. The waitress JoJo asked me if I wanted a frequent diner card at the Spin Café. For a split second I did take into consideration the cost of commute, lodging, and other travel expenses just so I could eat this on a daily basis.

This meal was one of the finer things in life that I have ever been blessed with. It ranks up there with the Razzdango at creations that I will revel in telling my posterity about in years to come. I will admit that I did shed a tear as I pulled out of Heber, not knowing when I would be able to see my sweet Miss Piggy again.

One day I will. One day. Until then, she will only be the girl of my dreams.

Wasting my life away

Now that the Week of Social Media has come to an end, I will go back to the normally assigned randomly cynical topics that I usually delve into every other day. You may now go back to your regularly scheduled reading.

All 36 of you.

In honor of my Grandpa, I have been trying to be more positive, more uplifting. But I don't think that is possible at all for what I am currently enduring.

I am currently sitting next to B.E.P. Longhorn at a very, how do you put it... waste of a three-day conference? Yeah, that seems to describe this feeble attempt at a team-building 72-hour exercise that I have been strapped into for work purposes. Michael Scott is off in the corner rejoicing at how motivating this retreat is.

I will give you a little background of my profession at this point. I work as a traveling salesman, in essence, a salesman who looks to help students pursue an education higher than just wrapping up their high school diploma and throwing in the white towel. That's a satisfactory description of my job. And today, all of the sales representatives across the entire state have gathered together to organize our schedules and see how we can improve.

Now don't get me wrong, I like my job. No, let me rephrase that, I L-word my job! Every single thing about it. I believe in my product. I L-word my boss, my co-workers, my supervisors, anything and everything about what I do. However, I despise walking around the room with 80 other people and having a smiling contest with another sales rep with the mindset that this will improve my interpersonal communication as a salesman.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Yes that's right kids, this "business conference" is doing absolutely NOTHING to help me improve as a salesman. So far we have listened to a Screenwriting major teach us the secrets of doing "improvisation". Wait, what? I didn't know that the secret to my job is landing a spot on "Who's Line is it Anyway."

It's not.

What else have we been doing you may ask? Well, we have played a game called "pass the clap" where we stood in a giant circle and clapped one with another. We have walked around for 5 minutes pointing at random objects and naming them. i.e. "Carpet! Lightbulb! Chair! Mirror! Douchebag!" We have sang a childhood quirky song about Grandma and Grandpa sharks. We have been playing an imitation of the hit game show "Minute To Win It." For crying out loud, they might as well have us sit around and rub fingers with each other calling it a pinky dance. Oh wait, that's right. We did that last year.














Sorry for the break, I had to stand up and do the hokey pokey in the middle of the last presentation. True story.

"I think I could skip everything in this entire conference, and still do a better job than everyone else in here." says B.E.P. Longhorn. He says this meanwhile we are watching a power point presentation with Miss South Carolina totally flopping on an interview question. Why are we watching this YouTube clip? I have no idea.

You may ask what I have been doing amidst all of the stupidity that is rolling along to keep my sanity. Oh sending emails, answering work-related questions, adjusting my sales presentation, being as productive as possible while the rest of the representatives go through an initiatory fire-walking ritual with a Native American drum beating. I might as well have been watching "The Bachelorette" instead! Props to you J.P.

"If the director of the conference is sporting tie-dye t-shirt you know this is a load of s***." says J. Black Hairpiece.

You're absolutely right. Now I've gotta run and participate in a group relaxation technique. Because that's really gonna help me do my job better.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location: In a canyon. Far, far away.