Costco is Slowly Killing Us

Deep down, I think we all know that Costco is slowly strangling us to a suffocating state of sloth-related behavior.

Honestly, just pause for a good 45 seconds and think about the concept of Costco. Sit back in your double-stuffed office chair while stretching out your 42-waste barbecue sauce-stained sweatpants, meanwhile placing your right hand in cupping position on your chin, while looking at the ceiling above you at a nice 60-degree angle to replicate the deep thought process. Just take a moment to inhale the magnificence of this corporate deathstar that has monopolized our inner sense of self-control.

For full effect, download "Monster" by Lady Gaga and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

No seriously, stop what you're doing this very moment, go to iTunes, download the cross-dressing diva's ballad and really turn it on. The lyrics help accentuate the point that I'm trying to make here.

It's ok... I can wait for you.













The other day, the Rhinestone Cowboy and myself were down in Sodom and Gomorrah prepping to help students move on to higher education. To accomplish this we had to make a trip for supplies at the local Costco, or as others refer to it as, Stuff-Mart. By the way, 10 bucks to whoever can tell me what I am referencing in that last sentence. While we were walking around the warehouse of groceries and patio furniture, we simply awed at the grandiose culture that we could be apart of if we only took advantage of the products being shoved down our tracheas.

$4.99 for a 3-pound bag of cheese-packed tortellini? Get out of town! $15.57 for an ergonomically-stuffed thigh pillow? You bet your left nut I need one of those. Only $1,340 for a neon green go-cart with a four-cylinder engine on it? Where have you been all my life? Get your leather-strapped chassy into this shopping cart right now! We walked all over the store admiring all of the new and exciting ways that we could improve our lives for just the small fee of $49.99 a year. This store must be some kind of shopping utopia. How can women hold back those purchasing urges inside these walls? It makes no sense!

Then there were the samples. Oh the glorious 3-inch paper plates filled with spoonfuls of deliciousness that I am convinced Mary Poppins stirred up in her basement of delectable goodness. I'm talking about the whole wheat crackers with Nutella spread across them. Or the chicken lasagna with a hint of basil nestled into its Italian flavor. And across from that, the bacon wrapped sausage fresh off the grill. And trust me, everything is better with bacon. Rock Steady knows about this.

Amidst the smorgasbord orgy of an elaborate lifestyle concocting in my sample-stuffed subconscious, I was suddenly struck with an epiphany.

Dustin Hoffman: "I think you mean an apostrophe." (LTT)

The piece of wisdom intermingled between the powdered-sugar glazed graham crackers, and three-dozen tube socks for $4.99, is that Costco is secretly killing us off. One by one. And there is nothing that we can do about it. You see, Costco makes us want things. Things that have no importance or value in the necessities of life. Things that we have never thought about before we saw them advertised at the lowest bulk price possible. And so we want them. We need them. As I have stated in the rules of Brocktrine before, we always want what we can't have. When we see that inflatable dining room set for $18.55, we have to have it. We need to have it.

There's no escaping Costco either. Once you sign the dotted line for a membership, you are hooked for life. You might as well try and sell your soul to a VooDoo witch doctor from Jamaica, because you're never getting out of that contract at all. And even if you did try and void your deal with them, you know that they have a stay-at-home mother of 17 kids hiding in the back who would intimidate the heck out of you with her coupon book and platter of deviled eggs samples.

Conniving Costco Rep: "Are you sure you want to leave Costco? If you leave, you won't have access to this Ninja blender for only $79.99. Here, take a look at this meanwhile having this Chicago-style Meatloaf that I just grilled up. It's to DIE FOR!"

There's not way out. We're all hooked for life. But I don't care. This is an addiction that I have no shame in admitting. Forget trying to join a Costco self-help group that meets on Tuesday nights and wallows in each others confessions of overdraft charges on our credit cards for the recent purchase of the Yin Yang polyester throw rug. Just sit back, enjoy the advertised intoxication, and shove a chocolate almond-covered ice cream bar down your throat for only $1.62.

Your name is America, and you have a problem.

How I Met Your South Park

Saw this on Reddit the other day, and thought whoever came up with this mash up is genius.

The Status

Yes, I’m going to vent a little bit about a minute issue in our lives that has nothing important to do with the way that our society functions as a whole.

That’s what I always do.

Since the inception of Facebook, (and yes, I only used that word because of a popular Leonardo DiCaprio movie) there has been a plague among us that has done more damage than the SARS virus did. I’m talking about the way that we all tell the world about the pointless escapades that we’re involved in ranging from burnt toast to parking tickets. Yes kids, that’s right I’m referring to the Facebook status.

For full effect, cue awkward repetitive playing of Chopsticks in the background by a street band of athletes/wannabe musicians trying to impress the ladies at the student center that I’m in.

From its initial posting, the Facebook status was designed so that everyone else would know about the pointless activities that we were involved in, or about the opinions that we had on current issues. However, there is one aspect of it that is driving me mad! That makes me want to vomit up last night’s Sweet and Sour chicken over and over again.

Cue background music of “Kung-Fu Fighting” because the town that I’m currently situated in, has not graduated to 90’s music.

Whoever first started up the motivational song lyric Facebook posting, you sir, need to be strapped before the Spanish Armada and fired upon at close range. It’s because of you, that my dear and beautiful sister decides to post inspirational Justin Bieber quotes on a repeated basis. And no, I never thought it would be possible that Justin Bieber and inspirational quotes could be used in the same sentence.

“Baby, baby, baby…” Yes, those are the limits of his intelligence.

What are you trying to accomplish Facebook user as you post song lyrics about your life? What is the true meaning behind this action? Do you want sympathy? Do you want us to realize that you have trials in your life that are more difficult for you to bear, and that we should bake you a giant Better Than Sex cake so you can lay in your bed and eat while the world wallows in your pitiful lifestyle?

Insert bold proclamation about the love that we have for our spouse/significant other meanwhile we share the same Facebook account.

Yes, I know that you L-word the one cuddled up next to you, but it almost sounds like there is a heightened level of insecurity in your tone of keyboard voice if you must make sure that all 968 of your shallow relationships know that you publicly acknowledge your passions for them. What happens when the two of you get in a fight? Is it alright then for you to talk trash to the world on that shared account? Do you see the pointless nature of your status?

Cue 20-something mother of four children declaring that her two-year old just learned how to take a poo.

Really? We need to hear that? Congratulations on the successful bowel movement, but a status update such as that intermingled with song lyrics and statements of love make me want to delete my Facebook account altogether and focus my efforts on building actual relationships with real people. And yes, believe it or not, that is possible.

And I might in fact be a hypocrite for posting the link to this blog on my own Facebook account, but at least I’m not doing it in association with my bathroom schedule or meaningless lyrics. Besides, how else are you going to hear about the greatest blog ever written anyway? Facebook is free marketing if you ask me.

One day our lives perhaps might not be governed by the approval of those around us. But until then, keep posting the most pointless pieces of information possible. How else am I supposed to come up with blogpost topics?

Never Have I Ever

It's a sad day now that the cherished Richard Briggs has moved on to better places. And by better places I mean a small town in the middle of New Mexico. But hey, he is now in essence, the editor-in-chief of a regularly publishing newspaper. How many of you can say that was your first starting gig right out of college? Yeah, that's what I thought.

For full effect, download "Crazy Life" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

For "The" Richard Briggs' farewell, a substantially large (no pun intended) group of individuals gathered at our casa to celebrate his life and enjoy one another's company. Games were played, jokes were made, apples were gathered and taken amongst ourselves, all the meanwhile some peculiar drunkard kept bellowing out the phrase, "More Wine". It was all good times, and then the activity of 'Never Have I Ever' was suggested.

Now kids, the game Never Have I Ever consists of holding out your hand and making a statement of something that you have never completed in your life before, i.e. "Never have I ever sniffed a large quantity of paint on a road trip". If someone in the circle of people competing has actually done that activity, they must then lower one of their fingers admitting guilt for that activity. Secrets come out, stories get told, and some of the wildest tactics of exposing one's enemies get brought to the table as everyone is attempting to be the last finger standing.

I will admit, there were some outlandish statements made in the game that we played.

D.B. "Never have I ever assisted in the delivering of a child."

Unnamed Source: "Never have I ever had a seizure in a parking lot."

Unnamed Source: "Never have I ever farted in public."

Of course, gender and/or sexual related statements can in fact lead to the raciness of a party, however for this session, we decided to eliminate those right from the start.

After a while, a trend started to emerge from the multiple games that we played. There were a handful of people who made it down to the last few rounds, with their fingers still waving to the rest of us who were forced to admit our guilt on past activities and/or transgressions. Those select few were the same four people every time. And had to go to great lengths to point out things that they had never done in their lives.

At first I felt a bit ashamed that I was not one of those select few that had made it down to the last few fingers. But then I realized that the reason myself and the majority of the rest of the people there had been cast out of the game was because we had lived our lives to its fullest. We had done so much more in our lives than we expected.

When someone said, "Never have I ever gone skinny dipping". You're absolutely right I did that, and it was one of the funniest nights of my high school career. Again, "Never have I ever punched a kitty?" Dang straight I have, that thing was eyeballing me up and down and deserved it. Or what about "Never have I ever walked around my house naked". Are you kidding me? That's every Saturday morning until 11:00. Don't act like you're not impressed (LTT).

The point is, even though there were a select few who triumphed at the game "Never have I ever" and were still holding up their fingers by the end of the night, honestly I wonder what kind of enjoyment they have truly experienced in their lives if all of these funny memories and activities and late-night stories were just words on paper to them, and not actual life events. In this case, at least I can say, "Never have I had the most boring life ever."

It's ok, you last four remaining, you can now put your fingers down on that one.

Day 5

It’s 11:16 at night and my own guts hate me for the smorgasbord of processed food that has been jam packed down my throat for the past four days. I think for every appetizer that has been ordered on this trip, a marathon runner has died in its behalf. Moments like tonight make me wish deep down that I were a closet bulimic. And no, I don’t read minds Derek Zoolander.

For full effect, download “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

It is the end of a long, long, long week. And I’m having a difficult time stomaching the thought of my eyes even being open this late. It almost feels like the ending of the film, Ocean’s 11, as a group of rag-tag comrades stare at the glamorous fountain of the Bellagio, and hear Clair de Lune strumming away in the background. In this case it’s a handful of farting vagabonds trapped inside a box of methane, rolling south on I-15, meanwhile hearing the same three notes of a Matt Nathanson song whistled by Keith Tronic.

Don’t ask any of us how we got into this mess.

Quote of the day: Delivered so eloquently by the wise sage known as the Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson. “You know it’s bad when holy water is easier to get than a Wi-Fi connection.”

In the seat behind me, Average-Sized Applegate and the Rhinestone Cowboy are nestling up to each other watching “The Grey”. One of them is still making rhythmic belching gestures after licking clean his Dulce de leche cheesecake plate. The other is still pissed off at the rest of the group deciding that the deficiency in his salt nutrients should be replenished in his glass of water every time that he steps away from the table. We got you good. Four times and you know it!

In the seat behind them, the Taylorsville 12-ouncer stares out the window and dreams about one day stealing Tom Brady away all for herself. That seems like a sensible blogalias don’t you think? I was going to call her the 12-ounce tickler, but that sounds like she is probably pursuing a career at Southern Exposure. Nothing wrong with that, a girl’s gotta pay the rent doesn’t she?

Have I mentioned before that I have an addiction to telling lies? We all have problems, I know. I would like to issue a formal apology to a few of the people that we ran into this afternoon. First there was the snazzy blonde saleswoman decked out in exercise gear who was trying to weasel us into buying a vibrating earpiece. No, I’m not actually from Germany. And when I said, “Nein, Ich bin ein Berliner.” I was actually pointing out that I am in fact a jelly donut.

Second, was the trio of shaving sales reps who were victims of the elaborate concoction that I fabricated when asked what we were doing in Salt Lake all the way up from Dixie State College. Of course we’re not judges for the regional junior high dance competition going on just down the street. And no, we’re not that interested in your son taking up ballet this upcoming fall while he’s in high school. Come on lady, who do you think us four ridiculously good-looking chaps are? We judge competitive team dancing, none of that Black Swan garbage. Geez!

Rules of R.O.A.D.S. for the day: 1. The word “both” does not include the letter L in it. 2. If you go to Cheesecake Factory twice in the same week, you cannot order the same meal. That includes you, Rhinestone Cowboy. Broaden your horizon and quit ordering the Louisiana Pasta.

We’re just passing through Nephi, and I just popped back an aspirin dug up from my local drug dealer. For some reason, my whole body hurts. Every last muscle. I think what hurts me the most is my torn labia. That’s the muscle that’s in your shoulder right? Labia, labrum, whatever. Maybe I should have taken a human anatomy class just to make sure I’m not confusing things.

It has been a long, long, long journey on the road, and my eyes are sagging even heavier than they were an hour ago. In the back of my mind I sometimes wonder if this is all worth that extra $65 a month. But then Keith Tronic asks in an inbred voice to stop one more time at the local Maverick, followed by the Royal Jericho mimicking the sound of a bird in the backseat because it’s after ten p.m. Average-Size Applegate bites a hole in his tongue trying to win that $50 bet, while the Rhinestone Cowboy talks to random strangers in trench coats lighting cigarettes. The Taylorsville 12-ouncer orders another salad while the Dixie Bo Jackson couple provide comedic relief asking to play the game charades with clues being two pointer fingers and a dribbling basketball motion. All of this goes on while I make B-list movie references and drop F-bombs in public.

Man, I L-word this job. There will never be anything like this ever again.

Day 4

Yeah so what if those are bags underneath my eyes. And quit hating me if I have eaten 3,000+ calories in the last 8 hours. Don't judge, that's just how I roll. (Pun intended)

I would like to give a shout out to Average-size Applegate and Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson for joining me in the "I-shall-not-swear-from-this-moment-forward" pledge. Hopefully we can keep this mother-****ing vow up.

For full effect, download "The way I Am" by Eminem and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Quote of the day: "It looked like period throw up. But I flushed it away."

Don't ask me how that came into our conversation at 9:57 am, ten minutes after we had gotten back on to the road. And don't judge J. Black Hairpiece just because his voice cracks every tenth word. He's probably more manlier than you are.

R.O.A.D.S. rule of the day: one can only order chili from a restaurant if the temperature is lower than 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Texas Longhorn chili in the spring with a near-80 degree temp outside, no bueno.

Another reason why you don't eat chili? Is because the methane outbursts exploding from your piehole are not making the scent of this van very appealing. Someone needs to start serving us Pepto Bismol for breakfast.

It's just after 10, and I don't know how our engines are still running after being on the road for what seems like the past 17 months. It has been a good trip though, intermingled with Denny's runs and hot tub visits. There sure is nothing better than the crew I'm running with these days, I swear.

Every damn day.

Day 3

Wait, wait, let me get this straight, it's only Tuesday? It feels like November right now this week has been such a marathon. Is this what a marathon feels like Rhinestone Cowboy? If so, I want my money back.

For full effect, download "You Make My Dreams" by Hall and Oates and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. That one's for you Mr. Dixie Bo Jackson.

Quote of the day-There's actually two, both of which proclaimed by the Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson:

"That's a buttload. I mean honestly, how many of those do you think you can fit up your butt?"

"This wouldn't really happen if I had a penis."

And the fourth rule of R.O.A.D.S. stated by THE Rhinestone Cowboy-One can never state that their favorite waiter is someone that they are related to. And man, Dustin was amazing. I would be willing to have his baby. That just might take some penis basketball though.

For some reason today feels like the second day of my two-year extended stay across the country. This morning that we spent in Wasatch seems like a decade ago. And for some reason both my voice box and heels have gone numb.

For the record, please shed a tear for the Miss Piggy. I had been looking forward to seeing my dearest lover after months of separation, when at the last moment she was snatched from my grasp. Life goes on I guess. One day we will meet again.

Today has been overloaded with swearing and farting. I know, that's a very odd combination. But this is day three of the road trip. And we're losing our sanity. Especially when we've mentioned that the Kennecott copper mine can be seen from space, three days in a row. Yeah, we're losing our minds if conversations are covering topics like that.

That, and penis basketball.

Day 2

Its 9:56 and I've already zoned out. Don't ask me why, all I can say is that I was a few moments away from eloping to the nearest bar for my virgin escapade into raging alcoholism.

For full effect, download "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. The Rhinestone Cowboy sings a good rendition of that. So does Keith Tronic, just an octave higher.

It has been a long Monday. One that has worn me thin both physically, and mentally. But so what? Who cares? It's a road trip. The best and worst comes out of all of us.

For the record, the human pogo stick is seated at a table across the restaurant lamenting his loss to the Spurs. Tough season. Being a Jazz fan has syndicated the term "There's always next year."

On a side note, if I poke my two index fingers together in a rhythmic motion back and forth, and then pat the air two feet off of the ground, I'm referring to same-sex midget relationships correct?

In other news, the Rhinestone Cowboy has added another segment to the Rules of the R.O.A.D.S.

4. You should never be able to pull into a Cabela's outlet store while having a donut tire on your car.

And so what if I'm not an outdoors kind of guy. There's nothing wrong with paddling an oar into the air pretending that I'm on the high seas. A kids got to have an imagination right? And no, Royal Jericho, I can't do the worm. I'm white.

Quote of the day: "I walk in there and she's wearing a Levi mumu and orange crocs. I mean, for crying out loud, she's sewed some buttons to the back of a shower curtain it seems like."

It's been a good day. A long day. I think I'm losing my sanity, and I sound like a sailor. But I L-word my job, and the people I work with. I hope they feel the same.

Now lets go get busy at Bob's fruit dance.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Week of R.O.A.D.S.

I’m plopped in the passenger seat of an 11-butt cheek imprint Ford E-350, surrounded by some of the finest individuals that I have ever had the privilege of meeting in my short 27-years on the Lord’s green earth.

Yes, I am back on the road. And this may be one of the most entertaining weeks of my life.

Being on a road trip conjures up some of the most outlandish, left-field, WTF aspects of your personality. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never understood how it works. Some of the most random factoids and conversation topics get brought to the table as you stare out the window and make fun of the poser who has the douchebag Ragnar sticker on the back of his ’94 Corolla.

He probably got it off of eBay.

For full effect, download “On The Road Again” by Willie Nelson and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

You talk about some of the most bizarre subjects while being on the road. Especially when you’ve been in the car just over three and a half hours. Here are just some of the examples.

Average-size Applegate: “Look, I can eat eggs if I want to. So what if I fart on the road. You can’t tell me what I can’t eat.”

The Royal Jericho: “So I went out and ran a mile in under six minutes, and then came home and ate an entire box of cereal. True story.”

Unnamed source: “Yeah, they’re probably quoting Klingon while they’re making love. Either that or they’ve never actually attempted the act of spawning children.”

And those are just the tips of the iceberg.

Somewhere around dinnertime the great Rhinestone Cowboy began expressing his views on what he thought should be rules in all of our lives. Now you may remember the blogposts that I have written about what I feel are the truths in our lives, what I call Brocktrine:

1. You always want what you can’t have.
2. Whoever has the least amount of interest in a relationship has the most control in that relationship.
3. The rain in Spain will never cause a strain.
4. Audrey Hepburn is ridiculously good looking.

As discussed at dinner, there are some rules that the Rhinestone Cowboy feels that we should all abide by in our lives. This list will more than likely expand over the course of this week, therefore, I feel that they will be called The Rules of the R.O.A.D.S.”

1. Never order spaghetti at a restaurant.
2. If you are older than 16 years of age, thou should never bring a glove to a live baseball game.
3. If you are of Polynesian descent, and you are currently residing in the United States, do NOT greet the audience with the word “Aloha” when you are about to bear your testimony in church.

Yes they’re random, but they make sense. And if abided by will generate success in one’s career and personal endeavors. This may be one of the most entertaining weeks of my life, and there certainly is more to come in the next few days. I sure hope we get to the hotel sometime soon. Because somebody’s eggs are about to burst.

We Are All Douchebags

We’ve all seen them before. Watched them from a distance at Friday night parties. Listened to bragging rants about their bicep workouts at Golds Gym earlier that day while they flex to point the direction of the gym. Yes, you all know who I am talking about. The bleached-tipped, popped-collared, pink-shirted creatures that are also known as douchebags.

For full effect, download any song by Kanye West and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

If you look up the word douchebag in the dictionary, you will see a picture of three young guys standing in douchebag poses, wearing douchebag clothes. All three will have the douchebag bleached-tipped hair, and would be brushing off the dirt from their douchebag matching shoes. It is a hideous douchebag picture that would make any other normal person embarrassed about what they had gotten themselves into if that picture had ever seen the light of day. These types of boners are the extreme epitome of a carrier that injects fluid into the feminine area.

They are all over the place. They surround us like obese individuals at a fried doughnut festival. They are the walking urethras that wear sunglasses inside movie theatres or long after the midnight hour. You know them. Douchebags are everywhere.

It is not difficult to spot a douchebag. First, you have to go by their apparel. A pink collared shirt is a simple notification that a douchebag is on the premise. The creature receives even more douchebag points if the collar on that pink shirt is popped up, only indicating his moronic behavior and douchebag style. His outfit moves even higher up on the douchebag scale if that shirt is actually tucked into a belt buckle the size of Delaware.

Their headwear can also be douchebag clothing. It is one thing for someone to wear a baseball hat in support of the squad that they’ve been cheering on for years. It is another thing for them to have a straight-brimmed New York Yankees cap turned at an angle, with the size and authenticity stickers still adhered on it. This headwear only increases their douchebag validity.

Moving on from the clothes that they are wearing to the body that they are trying to cover up. Fake tans combined with those pink popped collars show more of their douchebag character. Add to that the concept of a flavor-saver piece of facial hair. Yes, you know what I’m talking about, that tiny little patch of triangle-shaped pubes right below their lower lip. Those are douchebag whiskers, no question. Combine the Ryan Seacrest bleached tipped haircut, and you just about have yourself a prime douchebag.

On the basketball court, these types of individuals are the mutton-munchers at the gym that bring the shallow, airhead trophy-girls to their games every night, just to “impress” them with their masculinity and toughness on the court. They are the kinds of guys who wear barely any kind of shirt, just so they could show off their upper bodies, and their “rippling pectorals” as Megara says. They are the cocky pricks who after every other play, wipe the bottoms of their shoes to try and prove that they are athletic, while at the same time, check their hair if it had the possibility of getting a little bit messed up when they drove the lane on that last play.

They are the pinnacle of penis lovers. The height of buffoon behavior. The summit of stupidity. And they are everywhere. Out to get us. You know them. In fact, you are them. We all are. The pride inside of us has given way to at least one or two douchebag characteristics at some point in our lives.

As the great Fishmitts once said, “In one way or another, we’re all douchebags.” That is true. With that being said there is no way in frozen Hell that you will ever catch me in a pink popped-collared shirt tucked into my belt buckle covering up my fake tan.

Oh, and don’t forget the flavor-saver either.