Chicks Dig Vampires

I think I need to turn into a vampire to become more popular.

Do you know where I’m coming from? Have you not seen the pathetic obsession with "Breaking Dawn" that has mothers and daughters tossing their panties at the giant silver screen premiering?

What is it about the whole Twilight series, or vampires in general that makes every single creature with estrogen obsessed with? I have no clue. Is it the pointed teeth? Is it being alive for a few hundred years? Is it not having a reflection in any mirror and having a massive allergy to garlic overall? What makes women these days want a boyfriend from Transylvania?

Girls always say that the transparent glitter creature named Edward is this handsome, dreamy freak of nature that make them want to melt into his arms. I kind of see what girls mean about how vampires may be romantic, but you have to agree with me, after getting involved with one and dealing with their physical love aspects, vampires have to give one monstrously violent hickey.

Vampires are one type of fictional character that causes women’s heart to skip a few beats, but what is it about this Edward dude from “Breaking Dawn” that in essence makes all women want to break up with their current boyfriends/fiance’s/husbands?

They brag about how he's protective, strong, how he would do anything for the girl that he's with, but is he really that suave of an individual that elevates him so high in female’s eyes? Or is it the fact that he can only be awake and seen after the sun has gone down that makes women want him even more? I tried to get a better understanding of Edward/vampires in general so that I could get a few hints and suggestions as to how to become a more appealing guy.

In “Interview with a Vampire” rather than kill people and become a threat to those around him, Brad Pitt suggested he suck the blood of rats and mice to survive. I don’t know if women would appreciate my new cologne being created by rodents frolicking from the sewer, but hey, he’s a vampire. Chicks dig it right?

Or what about in “Van Helsing”? The main Count Vladislaus Dracula in the film has a trio of female vampires that he treats like garbage and then makes it up to them later on by going to bed with them. And by going to bed, I mean transforming the group of them into a stone statue.
I don’t get it! I really don’t understand it one bit at all. I wish that I could for some reason grasp the concept of what makes girls all across the country want to exchange the man in their current relationship for some pointed teeth monster whose hates anything religiously related including crucifixes and holy water? Why would girls rather cuddle up next to the undead in a coffin than to anyone else whose heart actually beats normally?

Speaking of the physical nature of vampires, I gauged from the previews of "Breaking Dawn" that the chick in it is supposed to be having Edward's baby. Someone please explain this to me. If a vampire is incapable of having blood in their system, thus making them immortal, how in the world are they supposed to create a child? I'm almost positive that blood is crucial in the erecting of an offspring.

Giggity.

There must be something about the fangs, or the odd-shaped eyes, or even the werewolf with a tattoo who needs to pull off his shirt every ten minutes on screen that gets chicks all hot and bothered about this obsession. Maybe the reason that I'm still single is because I haven't found someone that can give me that massively noticeable hickey.

The Last Step

In the room next to me a woman is dying.

Yeah, that’s a depressing way to start a post, but the shock value alone triggered you to keep reading into this next sentence. Your disapproval and agitation with the shock value will keep you reading this current sentence. Followed by the fact that your envelope has been pushed to the point that you are willing to read this entire post to gauge my own personal feelings about life in general.

Don’t worry now, I’m not depressed or anything. I’m not sad either. Chagrin seems to be the word of the day as I vacantly stare at the freshly mopped talcum-colored floor and intoxicate myself with my sterile surroundings. This hospital isn’t foreign territory anymore. It’s been the bunker for my Grandpa for the past 74 straight days plus. And we don’t know how much longer he’s going to need room service here.

In the room next to me a brittle elderly woman is softly moaning to the nurses that her chest hurts. She’s been here almost as long as the colonel has been. The only difference is, she’s not progressing anymore. She’s getting ready to go knocking on heaven’s door. It’s going to happen soon enough.

Outside in the hallway a handful of red-eyed family members sits in limbo as to what is going to happen in the next ten minutes, next half hour, next nursing shift. They wait. Waiting for something traumatically relieving to happen. Waiting for their hallowed yet delusional mother, aunt, grandma, sister, friend, be relieved of her difficulties. The difficulties of her physical body not being able to regenerate itself anymore. The difficulties of balancing pro-life and pro-death decisions. The difficulties of letting go.

Yes, that certainly is the most difficult piece of life to chew on.

Deep down we all are afraid of dying. Afraid of what lies ahead. Afraid that our faith in the afterlife will be shaken and stirred once our hearts have given up their last beats. Death is one of the most constant uncertainties that we all have to face at some point in our lives, rather, at the end of our lives. Death is there. It’s always with us. Sooner or later we will have to come to terms with the impending closure of our lungs, or the ceasing of neurons transmitting in our brains. Our clocks continue to cycle down until the last granules of sand have passed through the hourglass. Sooner or later, that day will come.

Disturbing? Yeah, probably. But as the woman in the room next to me pants out the phrase, “just let me go” over and over again, with her supporting cast wiping away tears and hesitantly embracing the next step in all of their lives, I can only wonder about the inevitable future of the man lying in the bed two feet before me.

In the room next to me, the last step is being taken.

Dear Rhinestone Cowboy...

Dear Rhinestone Cowboy,

This post is for you.

We have come along way in the years that we’ve known each other. There was the awkward small group communication class that we wasted away our lives in listening to the old geezer Shamo. There were the countless intramural beatdowns I received by the loathed Team Texas. And of course, there was the highlight of my life (along with leaving Roy) the day that you and I were introduced to Miss Piggy, my jezebel ham sandwich princess.

Yes we have had some good times Rhinestone Cowboy a.k.a. B.E.P. Longhorn a.k.a. Robin’s Bob Cracthit (I give you that third blogalias for this post alone). With those nicknames being said, I will say their needs to be an intervention in our relationship. Something has to change. A compromise must occur if you and I are ever going to remain friends, even on Facebook.

For full effect tune in to FM100.3 on your radio any time of the day from November 1-January 10 and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. It is the tunes being strummed on those airwaves that lead me to this attempted intrusion.

Rhinestone Cowboy, we all know that I’m a grumpy bear (at least that’s what the Glee President calls me these days.) I am the walking bah humbug who scowls whenever the holiday marqueed by the fat man in a red jump suit rolls around. I am not the biggest fan of gingerbread houses, awkward caroling, and insightbowl.com games littering ESPN. The holiday season just isn’t my holiday.

Don’t ask me why this is. Maybe it’s because I had some traumatic events as a child around this time of the year. Maybe it was the lumps of coal that anchored my stockings. Maybe it was the fact that because I lived in an estrogen-encased habitat I received Maxi-Pads instead of baseball cards for presents. Maybe my biological father is actually Ebenezer Scrooge. For all I know this just isn’t my favorite few months, and I try to get through them as swift as possible.

With that being said, I ask you, no, I plead with you. Nay, I bow before you on my knees with my hands in prayerful position, puppy-saucer eyes watering, mouth corners drooping, and beg for your mercy to please, for the love of everything that is sacred to the ethical treatment of humanity, please stop playing your Christmas music on Pandora.

I know that I am 327 miles away from our grandeur of an office right now, but honestly Rhinestone Cowboy, I can hear the swan song serenades drifting northbound I-15 all the way into my subconscious earlobes nearly 24 hours a day, and it’s all because of the tradition that you tried to instill in our office last November 1, when you tuned into that festive Pandora station just for some holiday gratification.

Honestly, the Christmas season is a great time to share memories, repair relationships, and enjoy the company of friends, family, and fruitcake, but just because those events are just around the corner doesn’t mean that we have to listen to Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas is You” over and over again. I really am purged to madness when I hear “Feliz Navidad” playing on November 8th. And trust me, I can only take one more verse of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” or else I might go ballistic on those rodents.

Look, I know that you have taught me a lot in our years together. I developed a respect for the Cowboy that you knew in south Texas. I have taken your advice to pay off my medical debts. I really have felt a strong connection as I have thrown some monstrous outlet passes to you during noon ball. And one day, if I ever find the Mrs., we might even “hang out” with you and Mrs. B.E.P. Longhorn after work. But please, oh dear Rhinestone Cowboy my friend, please for the love of my departure into an asylum, change your Pandora station to something else, at least until December 1st.

Respectfully yours,

Ebenezer Swamp Thing

The Good Times of Guy Council

There are a large number of traditions that have created a conglomeration of memories for me to reflect upon and remember all of the good times that I had. Looking back on this my life, there has been a hoard of things I think I have thoroughly enjoyed. Amidst all the great traditions and events that have defined my life, I would say that one of the greatest things I have ever enjoyed in my life, is the tradition of Guy Council. 



Never heard of it? Why, you have to be missing out. Guy Council is one of the most ingenious, exciting events that has ever occurred in St. George. An event that Chuck Norris would even respect. Since its creation in the fall of 2001, Guy Council was a forum where manly men got together for a few hours each week and discussed the truly important things in life: cars, sports, and above all, girls. 



Kyle Mellen, co-founder of the Guy Council: "It was a chance for us poor guys to share experiences about our love life and gain insight from one another."

Oh, this is not an exaggeration, mind you. I am being totally and completely honest about this. Every Sunday night at midnight, a group of guys would get together at Denny's to reminisce about the week’s events. Call me crazy, but it was been one of the most refreshing weekly traditions I was ever a part of in my years. 



You may ask how it all got started and what kind of ideas were being thrown around to get a midnight dining crew created. 



Randy Bates, co-founder of the Guy Council: "We did it for a simple reason: because basically we were just a bunch of hungry guys. We also did it so we could talk about our dating problems, and things just went well from that point." 



Forget the dances, forget the pageants, forget all of the formal traditions that have been done year after year. None of them even comes close to the memories that were instilled as our group discussed whether we should commit to a serious relationship over a nice fat platter of Moons Over My Hammy. 



There have been some pretty funny stories to go along with our midnight meetings as well. Like the time we were harassed by a self-proclaimed cowboy as to how to reach the female sex, or when our waitress Susan tried to set us up with her daughter, a 21-yead old prostitute from Las Vegas. (I am completely serious about those two events.)



Randy Bates: "All of our ladies would get mad and upset because we would leave them to talk about them, and it was never to get back to them what we said."



By all means, that was the code to our Guy Council. The words that were spoken over the midnight breakfast are for the six of us alone, and no one else. 

Yeah, so maybe at times our ladies did get upset at us, but hey, all we had to do to settle them down was bring them a movie with Heath Ledger in it and buy them some form of chocolate. 



In the four years I was a student on the sacred DSC grounds I was a witness to some of the finest traditions and memories that have ever been, but nothing beat the Guy Council meetings. Now, if I could only find a lady to talk about...

I Am Not A Cowboy

I have an old buddy named Chet who is through and through a cowboy. The guy epitomizes what being a country boy is. For instance, he had a steel roping dummy named Clark that we tried to rope in our parking lot. I tried to lasso his metallic hind legs, but God didn’t grace me with those kinds of skills.

Chet lived a lifestyle that is completely foreign to me, one he called being a “country cowboy.” I don’t understand country culture one bit. It confuses me like a colorblind person trying to match his clothes. Yet, there are hundreds and thousands of people who proclaim their country roots.

One thing that really confuses me is the music. Chet would swear up and down that country music is one of the greatest things ever created, that the lyrics, tunes and songs of country music are some of the most divine.

I have tried listening to country music, and I’ve concluded that all country songs are about one of three things: 1. The classic I lost my job, my girlfriend left, my truck died, my dog ran away, isn’t-my-life-a-tragedy-poor-me swan song. 2. It’s the end of the day, and I need to find a bar so we can sit around and talk about how great it is to get plastered. 3. I’m a woman, and I want everyone else to know about my independence and autonomy by belting out songs proclaiming my femininity.

Country music continues to be a hit regardless. Ask just about any girl what her favorite type of music is, and she’ll reply anything by Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw or George Strait.

Another aspect about it is the movies. Every Western movie has to have three ingredients: a scene in a bar, a gunfight, and a massive load of horses running all over the place. The plotlines seem to revolve around the same types of stories. There’s the bad guy who’s chasing the girl. The girl is in love with a rebel cowboy, whom her parents don’t approve of. And the rebel cowboy in search of his identity finds it through the love of a wild woman… and his horses. One can almost always predict how a Western film is going to play out nearly every time you watch one: Smoky-eyed rebel meets a girl, gets in a gun fight, chases him on a horse, and wins the woman over.

Horses are another part of country that just never appealed to me. Now I have nothing against the great animals, but what is it about them that associates them with cowboys? I have no idea. When you think of horses, you instantly think of cowboys. Does that at all seem fair? I don’t think so. What if I want to ride a horse, but I don’t want to be a cowboy? Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

It seems that the cowboy form of recreation is another aspect of country culture that is enigmatic to me. I’m referring to that which is called the rodeo. The rodeo is something that never made much sense to me. When will we as individuals ever have to sit on a violently moving object and keep our balance for at least eight seconds? Or ever have to rope a cow that has gotten loose in an urban pasture? I don’t think those skills are ever going to be of use to us, yet the rodeo continues to be one of the most crowd-pleasing fun-loving events all across the country.

I think the real issue at hand is that I’m not cultured enough to live the country lifestyle. If there’s one thing that I can say about Chet is that he’s one of the most laid-back, relaxed, have-a-good-time individuals I’ve ever met. Nothing seems to rattle the kid. Maybe it’s his cowboy culture that helps him stay so comfortable and tranquil about life. I don’t know what it is that makes him feel so good, but whatever it is, I want some. It’s just too bad I don’t fit the part of a very good cowboy. A 6-foot-5-inch lanky kid wearing a cowboy hat just doesn’t make that much sense. Oh well, though. I’ll stick to what I’m good at… not liking country.

I Need This Shirt

If you know who I am, and you know how I sweat, then you know that I need this for my wardrobe. I will be accepting this as a donated Christmas present.

I Am Terminally Ill

It’s the last stop on this long, long Week of __________ and for some reason I don’t even know what day it is.

For full effect, download “Mama I’m Comin’ Home” by Ozzy Osbourne from iTunes and play and maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Honestly, I have lost track of almost everything at this point in my life. It’s all just a blur to me now. So please excuse me if I have forgotten your name, where you’re from, or who you even are. Everything at this point is just one jumblemuck glob of electronic scanners, continental breakfasts, rental car receipts, and a salesman’s motif of attempting to convince students to come to my institution.

Red Robin Waitress: “What can I get you this afternoon sir?”

Swamp Thing: “Well, the thing that’s great about my college is that we’re very personalized, we’re very affordable, and there are so many things to do in St. George. Do you know what you want to go into for your major?”

Red Robin Waitress: Confused/Perplexed/WTF look across her face “Uh…sir, you’re at a restaurant. Are you sure that you’re doing ok today?”

Yes, that was my life this afternoon. I am an ox, and a moron.

Cut to 37,600 feet in the air where the stewardess has just reminded us over the intercom to keep our seatbelts on throughout the duration of the flight. Seatbelts on an airplane have always bewildered me. Why in the curse word do we have to wear them anyway? It’s not like they are going to actually save our lives if we crash and burn into the ground. Absolutely not they won’t! They in fact would only keep us strapped into our seats while the plane combusted at a violent pace. What do they think happens in the skies anyway? Do we wear seatbelts in case a gigantic 747 pulls out in front of us at the last second and we rear end the monstrous airplane? If that’s the case, I’m unbuckling my cloth strap and going belt-free the rest of the way home.

Pilot: “Whoa! Did you see that jerk? He just pulled out into the turning lane without even signaling! Those Delta pilots, always causing a ruckus up here. My insurance company is going to have a fit with this little fender bender.”

Note: There are no fender-benders 37,600 feet up in the air. For the record, a person is statistically more likely to be killed by a donkey’s back kick to the head than they are to be killed in an airline crash. However, I think we all look like jackasses when we buckle up in the clouds hoping that it might save our lives when gravity has its way with an ailing airplane.

I am Jack’s psychotic medulla oblongata.

Next to me the Monday morning gym rats are flipping through the pages of the Skymall catalog wondering what they’re next pyramid scheme-esque purchase will be once the flight lands.

Mrs. Monday Morning Gym Rat: “Ooh! Look honey, a BBQ branding iron, you can trademark your mediocre medium-rare porterhouse with your initials. How sweet is that?”

What she meant to say is, “How stupid do I have to be to pay $79.95 to inscribe my initials on a piece of meat for roughly 90 seconds? Am I that vain of an individual to get the initials LTT burned into a filet mignon just so my friends will see how rich and pompous I am?

Yes. Yes you are.

Skymall is the floating catalog for high-roller douchebag Mike to have a rewards card with. Honestly some of the things in this catalog make me shake my head in disbelief and wish that the aliens from Mars Attacks would come and wipe out our planet. I mean we’ve got things like the oscillating table tennis trainer, or the 15-foot high skateboard sailboat. Heck, for just one low payment of $49.95, you can change the water coming from your showerhead into seven different colors!

Mrs. Monday Morning Gym Rat: “Ooh, dear, look at this, it’s a bowl within a bowl! You can separate the milk from the cereal in the same piece of plastic. We’re never going to eat soggy cheerios ever again!”

Cut to furry jackass kicking Mrs. Monday morning in the temple removing her from the face of this earth. I have to get off this plane and crawl into a bed that feels familiar to me tonight, if not, I’m going to say an excited greeting to my friend Jack on the other side of the plane and hope that they take me away in cuffs and jacket.

I am Jack’s withered subconscious understanding of real life.

Everyone Has A Nose Ring

For full effect, download “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5 from iTunes and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

At least I think that it’s Sunday morning. This entire trip has morphed the continuously running clock/calendar that is supposed to be on track in my head into a giant blob. Add Daylight Savings Time into the equation, and I don’t even know where I am. Somewhere my body is floating through the space/time continuum.

If you live on the west coast, I think one of the requirements to do so is that you must get a nose ring. That of course is attached to your Starbucks. Figuratively, not literally. I haven’t figured this hip jewelry out yet. Teens have them, moms have them, dads have them, grandmas have them, some lady was walking around with her pet pug who had a giant nose ring flaring from its nostrils. These things are everywhere. Taking over the National College Fair world that I’ve been trapped in for the past, I think week or so?

A plump Peter with a scratched up suitcase and hideous tie flaring 80’s fashion walks by and stares me up and down. In his head, plump Peter is disgusted that I am not holding a Starbucks. In his head, plump Peter thinks that I don’t fit in with this high-class group of salesmen because I am from Utah. In his head, plump Peter laughingly mocks me for not wearing my faux-emerald glittering stump nose ring on the right side of my face. In his head, plump Peter is the Genghis Khan of academia, traveling the country eating up students’ requests left and right.

In my head, plump Peter is a muffin top munchkin who eats his own boogers.

Next to me a ginger recruiter from a Michigan school flaunting her cleavage is recounting how she hit on a cop last night to get out of a 30+ mph speeding ticket. The Shallow Hal pretentious tool is interrupting her 30+ mph monologue to remind her about the triceps extensions that he was pumping out this morning at 24-hour fitness. Ron Burgundy would be proud of this conceited bastard.

The bell has rung, the nose rings have started to flutter in, time to put on my game face and be the zoo marquee salesman that attracts kids to a place called Utah. A lumberjack flaunting a beard that would intimidate Grizzly Adams walks by and stares me down. Portland is much more different than Seattle.

The fair has ended, I’m off for a walk down the streets of Portland, off to get some kind of magic donut that my boss praises. I must admit, Portland is a much more dirty city than I thought it would be. Every ten steps I can smell a hint of marijuana in the air. Not that I know what marijuana smells like anyway. After about a mile of my walk of weed, I come across the infamous joint that is surrounded by homeless musicians and cardboard boxes offering prostiutional favors (I kid you not). A place called Voo Doo Donuts.

This hometown bakery has some of the most sexually promiscuous named donuts I have ever heard of before. Donuts that I, Swamp Thing the blogger with no class whatsoever refuses to reveal to my readers in my blog, and these X-rated baker’s treats are just a play on words to make more money from promiscuous customers. Our world is one big brothel, I tell you what.

Stepping up to the counter, I order what appears to be a giant joke. I step aside from the dirty donut names, and ask for what is called the Maple Bacon Bar (See picture above). The only reason I get this is because my boss praised this like it was the greatest thing ever created, almost like a mix between Fergie and TiVo. And I will admit, the man was right, I was in shock and awe from the very first bite to the point where I was licking the grease and frosting off of my fingers. It was divine. That was such a succulent sweetness, I would rank it right up there with Better Than Sex cake.

But then again, I’m a 26-year old virgin, how would I know if this donut is better than intercourse?

The Suicide That Is Seattle

For full effect, download "Heart-Shaped Box" by Nirvana and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

0.01% of the American population will at some point in their lives attempt or commit suicide. Substantially larger, 10% of anyone who is diagnosed with schizophrenia is statistically prone to swallow the pills or pull the trigger as well.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I'm a scizophrenic,
And so am I.

Seattle is the most depressing city in the entire country. Statistically. More people are on anti-depressant medication per capita in Seattle than any other city in America. In relation, there are more suicide attempts in Seattle than anywhere else. Perhaps its the 300 days of overcast and rainy weather that monopolizes on people's depression.

Professionally, the number one career for suicide in the country is dentistry. No, not an undertaker, or drug dealer, but a guy who pulls teeth and fills cavities for a living. With that being said, if you're a schizophrenic dentist who's hometown is Seattle, you might as well book a spot on top of the Space Needle ready to jump off. The numbers are clearly not in your favor.

Aside from the suicidal statistics and initiatives, I will say that Seattle is actually a nice place. I really don't mind the hustle and bustle. And the fact that my career is headed down the path of higher education, and not down a persons throat with floss, makes me think that I might survive up here after all. I also deem the fact that I don't have any hysterical delusions or hallucinations floating through my consciousness as a benefit to my survival.

The fair is dying down as the recruiters around me have started to pack up shop and board the trains for the next fair starting up in less than 24 hours. Next to me, Samara's psychotic mother keeps humming the same four random notes over and over again. This lady is definitely, the definition of insanity.

Just watching the kids pass by I am amused at how many of them are toting a Starbucks. I mentioned this yesterday, but this drink seems to be the water and lifeblood that they survive with. I've never tasted coffee in my life before, but I will say that the fragrance of coffee is divine, an aroma that I think would be as marketable as Cosmo Kramer's "The Beach". Heck, it smells so good, I might just make some coffee in the morning to wake up.

Awkward commercial trio: "The best part of waking up, is the smell of Folger's in your cheapened roadside motel."

At least I think that's how the commercial jingle went.

I have a three-hour drive ahead of me down to a place called Portland? I think that's what it's called. Before I hit the road I might run down to the fisherman's market on Pike Street and watch them famously toss halibut and salmon back and forth while Asian tourists hold up their smartphones and get 24-second video clips that they'll laugh about later with their relatives. It's still a sight to see though as the vendors swarm you with freshly snagged shrimp the size of your fist.

The lights start to turn off as a meager student approaches my booth, the last kid that I'll talk to here at this fair.

Meager Student: "So what kind of programs does your college offer?"

Swamp Thing: "Well it depends, what do you want to do with your life? I always tell every student that I talk with to do what they love, do what they have a passion for. Do you know what you want to do?"

Meager Student: "Well, I've gone back and forth, but I think that I really want to be a dentist."

Cut to blank stare from Swamp Thing. I think I should book an early appointment for this kid with Dr. Frasier Crane.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Seattle/Portland

I think...Day 4?

The days are slowly morphing into one giant blob by this point. It's a little after 5:30 a.m. and I am seated in the terminal waiting my flight to Seattle. There's no reason why I should be awake at this curse word hour. My job is personifying the phrase "Red Eye" at this very moment. Hey, if I'm lucky maybe I'll be seated next to Rachel McAdams. (LTT)

For full effect, download "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I will say I am happy to be getting the heck out of Dodge... I mean Boise. I have enjoyed my stay here, but the colors bright blue and orange have started giving me a migraine-esque headache. These Boise State fans are nuts! It's almost as if there is nothing else besides Bronco football in these parts.

Swamp Thing: "Yeah, I'll have a bacon cheeseburger with a large Mt. Dew.

Nutcase Hostess: "Alright sir, did you know Kellen Moore is about to break the record for most career touchdown passes thrown? GO BOISE STATE! WOOH!"

Cue my insertion of metal spoon into temple of Nutcase Waitress to keep me from losing my own personal sanity.

Last night was good though, I did catch up with VRM Garth Shiftyeyes and his wife Mrs. Quxrepdra Shiftyeyes, a couple that I can see myself playing shuffleboard with on Caribbean cruises when we're all old and wrinkly. We talked over burnt lemonade and a meager salad (just a salad? just a salad? LTT) while the server commented that Quxrepdra should grow a neck beard, I'm telling you, these Idaho people are CRA-ZY! Either way it was good to reminisce with 'em, I sure do L-word them both...




...So far Seattle is leaving a semi-sour taste in my mouth. This is one dog eat dog big city, where everyone is grasping on to a Starbucks 32 oz. styling styrofoam flask. Even the infants that are being toted around on their mothers backs at the fair that I'm at has a gerber baby bottle with a cappuccino in it. These people are also some of the worst drivers ever. I don't care if it rains 366 days out of the year here, that doesn't mean that we all need to go slower than a snail's pace on the freeways. Maybe my outside perspective here isn't the best, but so far I don't understand this city.

I will say this though, as busy as this city is it kinda grows on you. Almost like mold. Despite the fact that everyone here is either metro, mocha, or mooching a Marlboro, I think I could live here. Either that or make an extended pit stop. Now that the fair is over, I'm not quite sure what is on the agenda for the rest of the day. I might take a drive out to some random island and see if I can find the body of Samara from "The Ring".

She had better not be a Boise State fan though, because if she is, I'll probably throw her corpse back down the well.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location: The Boise Airport/Seattle

Day 3

I'm up in Twin Falls, ID currently. For those of you who aren't familiar with the geography of Idaho (then again what normal person actually is?) it is about two hours southeast of Boise. And believe me, trying to get here last night on only 5 hours sleep at 11:00 at night was not my best decision. It's just another example of how Mt. Dew has saved my life. That sperm-reducing yellow liquid seems to be my lifetime companion.

Currently I am seated in the town's Applebee's just wrapping up a very, VERY late lunch. My eating and workout habits have gone down the toilet since I got this job. Living on the road can sure mess with that. Seated to my left at the bar is a flannel-shirt downing Appletini's like there's no tomorrow. I would wager at the rate that he's getting wasted he'll have a date with his own toilet by mid-next week.

For full effect download "Going Up The Country" by Canned Heat and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. The only real reason why is because it's the background music for this meager piehole on the west side of I-93.

I will back up and give you a glimpse of my life the last time I was up in this neck of the woods. I used to have seizures. Really nasty ones. And I tried every form of therapy that I could think of to get rid of them. I even tried freakshow WTF was I thinking therapy up here in Twin Falls by a doctor who was the crypt keepers uncle. And it was suggested by a dear friend, VRM Garth Shiftyeyes.

VRM Garth Shiftyeyes: "This guy may seem kinda weird, but honestly, my family swears by him. His practice is kinda bizarre, but then again, what do you have to lose?"

Swamp Thing (then Seizure Boy): "Oh I don't know, a couple hundred dollars in travel expenses, the temporal lobe of the left side of my brain, my virginity? What the heck, I'll give him a whirl."

And with that, the crypt keeper strapped some kind of magnetic device to my head and knees and started humming some hypnotic rhythm through his nostrils, meanwhile adjusting my coccyx to it's primal position. And no that last part was not dirty. No giggity intended. Go ahead, look up the word coccyx. You'll be surprised when adult entertainment is not what you're rewarded with you sick pervert.

Did his witch doctor schemes help me out with my epilepsy? Absolutely not. And I would go over to the old geezer's house and kick him in the coccyx if he was still alive. But from what VRM Garth Shiftyeyes has informed me, he is now literally a crypt keeper.

I have now made the journey to the local high school/zoo where I am awaiting the next group of students to entertain and inform about higher education. I hope that my partners Barnum and Bailey show up tonight. They better bring the elephant with them. To my left is a graceful woman who was born in 1845, representing I-Have-No-Idea State College. We'll see how well she turns out. To my right is a mix between Criss Angel, Captain Hook and Alice Cooper. (See the above picture) I can only assume that his fashion and hairstyle make him the poster child for the cosmo college he's coaxing kids into joining.

Kitty-corner from me I see another cosmetology school setting up their booth. Uh-oh, does this mean that Criss Angel's crosstown competitors are looking to corral some high schoolers their way? I turn to the rep next to me asking if there is some bad blood between the two of them.

Criss's Assistant: "Not really, we just know that we're better than them."

Swamp Thing: "Better like you give more stylish bikini waxes or what?"

Criss's Assistant: scoffing "They don't really belong in the same room as us."

I cross my fingers that an epic hairspray walk-off is going to get thrown down between these two schools. And sadly yes, I did just overuse the word "epic" yet again. I'm sorry Travis Kester, don't hate.

I look across the gym at one of the other Utah recruiters and receive a blank stare in return. His nonverbal glare says it all. This job really does suck the life out of you. I do love it though. Kids start to shuffle in, I had better put on my game face. Next to me Criss Angel has started practicing his levitation moves to wow the kids. He had better be legit though.

If not, I'm going to kick him in his coccyx.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location: Twin Falls, ID

Week of ________ Day 2

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What? Sorry, I was just waking up from a quick power nap in the middle of the hotel's lobby. Let me wipe up the pool of drool on the green-checkered cloth pillow next to me. The valet across the hall is giving me a dirty look for my slumber. I will say that it has been a long day already. And yes, I do believe in the concept of power naps. They have gotten me through many long drawn out days in the past. It's amazing what 15 minutes of R.E.M. sleep will do for you.

For full effect, download "First Of The Month" by Bone Thugz N Harmony and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. That seems to fit the best for obvious reasons. And because the opening line is "Wake up, wake up..." which is exactly what I'm doing right now.

The picture above represents the cloth that I was donning as I got out of the shower last night. The hotel that I'm staying at is one of those prestigious fancy-pantsy places. I thought, 'what the heck, how many times do I get to wear a bathrobe in my life anyway?'.

This is a pretty high class hotel I must say. I would be surprised if high-roller douchebag Mike walks around the corner any minute now. I mean, it has everything. Fancy mints on the pillow, a barrage of the latest select porn flicks for only $6.99 a view, heck, this place even has order in breakfast which I abused to the fullest. I think at least one time in their lives, everyone needs to have room service. It makes you feel elite.

The reason that I'm up here is for academic college recruiting fairs, trying to get students to come to my Alma Mater to get a degree. I've said it before, I'm a traveling salesman. But at least I believe in the product that I'm marketing. One of the other recruiters put it best when he said that we're almost like creatures at a zoo, with the crowds going by and wondering what we have to offer.

High school admissions counselor: "And on the left kids, we have the University of Alaska-Anchorage with many bachelor degrees and a ferocious sports program."

Cue high school kids oohing and aahing.

High school admissions counselor: "And up here on the right, we have the Dixie State College representative. Careful though, he's a pretentious bastard."

Yep, that's all I am to these kids, just a talking display box that says what my school has for them to experience and enjoy. I may be a little bit ferocious at times, but if you just scratch behind my right ear and give me a handful of salted cashews, I'll play nice. And I'll tell you what my school has for your benefit. I am a traveling zoo patron who makes a living out of the presentation that I put on for adolescents all across the country.

After five hours of repetitive questions, handing out of brochures, and a few awkward gawking glances from odd-looking students, I pack up my bags and head to the lobby.

College Fair Organizer: "For all of the college reps, we have provided a light dessert in the foyer."

What? A dessert? You're feeding us animals now? This is great! After your excuse for a tomato veggie lettuce wrap I was handed with a bottle of luke-warm tap water at lunch, I'll take anything.

College Fair Organizer: "Please indulge in our delightful ice cream potatoes."

Cue perplexed/confused/WTF look by Swamp Thing the Zoo creature. A dessert potato? I know I'm in Idaho and that is your state vegetable/flower/animal/song. Heck, I'm sure Miss Potato Head is your annual candidate for the Miss America pageant and everything, but a desert potato? Where the heck have I traveled to?

After one glance at the above picture, I dropped my refreshment in the trash and collapsed on the 1% couch in the lobby. Fade to black as my eyelids seem to gain weight with each blink. In a few hours I'll be put back on display for crowds and people of all ages to stare at and ask questions to. Followed by a 2 1/2 hour drive to Twin Falls

With my luck they'll probably have dessert potatoes there too.

Location: In an academic zoo

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Week of __________

I don't know what to specifically call this Week of __________. Too many descriptive nouns and adjectives ran through my head. Heck, due to the picture above, It could be the Week of Putzes. But then again, I need to work on being more positive don't I? Whatever you want to call it, the upcoming Week of __________ will be following my recruiting trip to the Pacific Northwest. Hope it keeps you entertained.

For full effect, download "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. That seems like the theme song for the day, even if I have used it in past posts. I was going to pick something like "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" By John Denver, but that just sounds too cliche'.

Let me back track an hour. Wait, hold on a second, let me recognize the greatness of our technology for a quick paragraph. Currently I am 29,460 feet up in the air transcribing my thoughts to all of you via my mi-fi connection. I am communicating my sarcastic subconscious and witty words from a floating metal box in the sky hundreds of miles away from you. I am beaming my updated blog status to a fart bleeping satellite in the sky and then sending it to you so that you can stay mildly pleased for 180 seconds.

Our world is a freakshow, I must say.

Back to the Putz. The fella in the picture is donning the classic douchebag high-roller businessman pinstriped suit with a haircut from his own private salon. He has a fancy leather briefcase and fancy leather gloves, and a fancy looking scarf to go with it. Who in their right mind wears scarves these days anyway? His state of the art iPhone 4S starts to ring.

High-roller douchebag: "This is Mike."

Yes there's a reason high-roller douchebag Mike that I give you that blogalias. Anyone who answers the phone second-person deserves a swift kick to their shrunken dangling participles. Amidst this imitation of a businessman's entire facade, he gives his tomfoolery away by leaning over to his muffin top co-worker and shows how he just bested his score on Angry Birds.

Wait, WTF? High roller douchebag Mike, you;re out on a business trip getting ready to do a high-profile power point presentation about the revenue gained last quarter by your integrated software upgrade in the Western region and you want to talk about your high score on Angry Birds to your co-worker? For crying out loud, you are one of the prime examples that our country is getting dumber by the minute. I'm a Communication major and could impersonate a better douchebag businessman than you're doing right now. Heck, I've already got the douchebag part down pat.

Back to 29,460 feet. The stewardess is walking down the aisle handing out cups of ice with a spitwad of liquid wrapped around them. The delightful botoxian airness named Cheryl smiles and hands me a ginger ale. Don't ask me why I always get that drink on flights. Maybe because ginger ale makes me feel a little more prestigious, almost like I'm an Englishman with a snooty nose and the heir to the Grey Poupon fortune.

Cheryl the Stewardess: "Can I get you something to drink sir?"

Swamp Thing: "Why yes, I'll have a ginger ale."

Cheryl the Stewardess: "Certainly sir, please take one of our complimentary hot towels for your face as well."

That sounds accurate doesn't it? Prestigious snoots who are heirs to mounds of mustard money get offered hot face towels all the time don't they?

The plane is beginning its descent meanwhile two puberty poppers behind me are arguably agreeing that Boise State is the best football team ever made, no question. Oh, you sheltered bandwagon jumpers. Shaking my head, I look up a few rows at high-roller douchebag Mike who is slouching in his chair like a spoiled six-year old clutching his iPhone and tapping the screen ever so slightly to get just the right velocity on his pissed off cardinal to knock over the elevated pigs. He raises his hang in the air in victory and proclaims to the rest of the plane his triumph.

High-roller douchebag Mike: "O'Doyle Rules!" (LTT)

This will most certainly be a long trip.


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Location: Up in the ****ing air!