The Perfect Ending

Today I’m teaching a girl how to break up with a guy.

That got you hooked didn’t it? If you’ve been keeping tabs on my life thus far, you know that I haven’t been the best at ending relationships. Of course I am referencing the infamous text-gate blunder of ’11, which put a sour taste in everyone’s mouth. This link might refresh your memory if you don’t remember that pathetic gaffe that I made.

Despite that courting error, I do fancy myself to be someone that can offer insight and perspective on how people work, and what they will respond to. I’m fascinated with human behavior and why we do certain things in our lives; what kind of responses will be given in conflicting situations between men and women who are just beginning or ending a relationship.

With that being said, I developed a break-up formula that in my opinion is foolproof, cannot be beaten, and will withstand anything when put to the test. For the sake of my friend in dire straits, I even decided to do a 24-hour run through to help her get accustomed to what was going to be happening to her once the curtains were raised. (A little background info, my dear friend The Italian RN, who by the way is awesome, has been on-again/off-again with a specimen we shall call Saul. He’s a loser, she’s better than he is, they need to go their separate ways, especially because long-distance relationships never work out well).

And with that, I give you what is known as the dating decimation process, or what is also called, “The Perfect Ending”.

Step 1/The Warm-Up: For a period of 45 minutes minimum, the Italian RN and her roommate need to go through and discuss all of the irregularities and moronic tendencies that Saul has. His laziness, his obsession with Wookie outfits, the fact that he hasn’t brushed his teeth and that giant black bean is STILL stuck to his right incisor, all of these give evidence to break up with someone. Yeah, I know, he’s a loser. This discussion will give her the emotional reasoning that he’s not worth her time (which he’s not), and that she’s better than him (which she is), and that she needs to find a guy who actually brushes his teeth.

Step 2/The Cut: This is the make or break/most important part of the entire process. This consists of a phone call that needs to stay under three minutes max, in which she delivers the final blow telling him that she’s just not that into him. The longer the call, the more time that doubt has to play a role in reversing one’s decision. It has to be quick, painless, and to the point, like a circumcision. This will leave him hanging (pun intended) and grief-stricken over what has happened. Following the deliverance, a third party must play a role in calling her attention away from him; a call waiting, or a doorbell. Something has to lure her away from him. Once it does, the call ends and the hard part is over.

Step 3/The Rebuttal: Following the blow, Saul will be looking to counter her delivery. This consists of phone calls, voicemails, novel-sized text messages, heartfelt songs about their relationship, angry tirades at 1:30 in the morning about how he’s better than she is, (which he’s not), all of these in an attempt to win her back. Once someone ends a relationship with another person, the victim goes through a grief cycle that consists of remorse, attention, and anger. Rinse and repeat. The delivering party must hold their ground, not give in to any forms of communication, and hold their heads high.

Step 4/The Grieving: This is where rocky road ice cream, BFF’s, and chick flicks all come into play. No matter how lame the opposite end of a companionship is, both sides do miss them. The quirks and unique traits about them are all focused on. She will miss the good things, not the bad things. So what if he’s obsessed with Star Wars and hasn’t been to the dentist since he was 11, he had such a sweet smile, and was a great kisser. It’s at this point when replacement stimulants such as sugar and booty calls play an integral role in forgetting the other person.

Step 5/Moving on: There are always greener fish in the sea, that’s what they all say. Someone else is out there looking for you and fits you perfectly Italian RN, so don’t fall victim to the “what are we?” conundrum that millions of couples surrender to after giving up hope (any Royal out there remembers the Megan Zito-Bryan Hutzley debacles that littered our senior year). Move on, find someone new, and get on with your life.

And that kids, is the formula for a perfect breakup. Think you have a better recipe?

Fast Times at Roy High

Took a stroll down memory lane this morning, that's right kids, I went back to my old stomping grounds, a place that all of my co-workers know how much I cherish and adore. I'm talking about good old Roy, Utah.

For full effect, download any song from the Blink-182 album "Take Off Your Pants and Jacket" and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Those were the tunes that Scott Buxton and I would enjoy while sluffing class in his Ford Explorer. Wait, forget Scott Buxton. What mature human being holds grudges for a break-up that's a decade old? Curse word you, Scott.

Today I had the privilege? Yeah, I'll use that word for the sake of alumni reading this. To go back to my alma mater, a place where the great ghost Mabel lives and dwells. Don't believe me, ask Mark Wilson. He'll tell you everything about that ghastly spirit who sits there in her red high heels and torn dress haunting the large auditorium. Trust me, she's there.

For the record, find me one person who knows every word to the fight song "Go, Royals Go" and I will give them $20. Nobody knows the words to that song, nobody, you hear? For all we know it goes," Go Royals, Go. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na, Na-na-na." At least that's how I remembered it sounded like.

Roy is actually a pretty good place to go to school I must say. You've got some great teachers like Cheri Bryan, Candace Thurgood, and Herr Adams. Also, there's "The Hole" just up the street, which is the local breakfast club hangout spot in town. Yeah, so there may have been a minor bomb scare last spring. But don't let an attention-starved teenager's immature actions mar the greatness of the Apple fritters that Roy has to offer.

The Royals that I recruited today were some of the best students that I've seen in a long time, in fact probably the best group of kids I've talked to this entire year so far. They had so much school pride, especially for their football team; who by the way is 4-2 so far, which is the most wins they've had since my senior season when we went 4-7. Let's just keep our fingers crossed that they destroy Bonneville tonight for Homecoming. Man, we hate those Lakers.

They sure were great today though. They described to me what the hip slang for the word "cool" is. Which, I was told is the word "ill". They explained to me the concept of what a hashtag is. I got to meet Adam Watts' little brother, (yes, I'm an old man.) Also, I was told how a student shows sarcasm in a text message. Who would've thought that's possible? #HA.

Good times, I must say. I did get a little sentimental sniffing the hallways as I walked through my old home turf. And yeah, so what if I can't remember all the words to the fight song "Go, Royals Go." Deep down, I guess I still bleed black and gold.

Life Lessons

Since my favorite show is back on the air, I thought I would share this image that a fellow Redditor made that sums up everything that we need to know about life. In the meantime I will keep my eyes open for that girl with the yellow umbrella. She's out there somewhere.

Life in Provo

Today kids, we will be privileged to hear from a guest blogger, a dear friend who has decided to take her talents to one of the scariest places on Earth; Happy Valley. Both she and her husband will be greatly missed as they move on to a place that's more creepy than a West Virginian family reunion of gingers. And so, without further ado, I give you the great Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson.



In my humble opinion,

I am nervous to move to Provo, UT. I've never lived near the infamous city nor ever had a desire. However, JDawgs and the BYU creamery called and said they are excited to see me regularly. Then Gold's gym called, after talking to JDawgs and the creamery, and guilted me into visiting regularly too. With a land full of Mormons I am legitimately praying that I don't come to any realization that the Baptists and Obama campaign are right and we really are a cult. But if so, I guess it's too late now.

Not only am I nervous about moving to Provo, I am trembling about living in student housing at the Lord's college. I once again am pleading on my knees that no one from the Relief Society befriends me with carrot red jello. If the Relief Society President was a true Mormon she would drive off campus and buy me a good 32 oz. Diet Coke to start welcoming me to the 1,231 Provo Ward. (Diet Coke is my water).

I am also looking forward to this conversation with Provo residents,

Zoobie: "Did you go to BYU?"

Me: "No, I graduated from Dixie"

Zoobie: "Ohhhh......................................And you're exiled. Beginning now."

I would love to follow up with a reminder in an "I'm joking but not joking" tone that I paid for their school through tithes and that I would appreciate a little gratitude. But we can only hope I grow the balls to breathe those words.

And dear Utah County, whose idea was it to do construction on 98.67% of the roads? That was just poor planning on your part. I should be the City planner. Consider it.

Lastly, I'm dreading the fact that I have been married for more than three months and I don't have kids. I think I'll get a lecture at least within the first 72 hours I'm living there. LOOKING FORWARD TO IT!!

Sincerely,

Me.

The Best Meal I Never Ate

“Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They both should be changed regularly.”
-Anonymous

Yesterday morning I was randomly selected to witness one of the largest, most distinguished political events to ever happen in the great Beehive state of mine. This by far trumped the Democratic Pepsi Dumping of 1978, or even the Shakespeare/Moody recall of ’03. Yesterday I had the chance to rub shoulders with, wait, scratch that…go head to head, no, that doesn’t sound right either…lick the heels of some of the snootiest, most egotistical Republican bastards this side of the Colorado.

For full effect, download a sound clip from the Glenn Beck and/or Rush Limbaugh talk show and play at full volume throughout the duration of this post.

Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a blog to bash the party that uses an elephant for a mascot. (By the way, what buddy of Ben Franklin who was probably sky high on some form of colonial shrooms decided to pick an elephant for the Republican’s mascot? That makes no sense to me). I am not knowledgeable, nor active enough, nor do I actually care that much about awful debates to write a blogpost about the political issues that our country is facing these days. I’m no Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd or anything.

Back to the story.

Yesterday morning I was cordially invited by my ridiculously affluent Uncle to attend the Mitt Romney campaign fundraiser luncheon. Yes kids, you read that right, I was at a political brownnosing orgy held at the Grand America hotel in downtown Salt Lake. I would have been able to feast upon the glories of a thousand dollar a plate lunch, but for some reason my ride didn’t get the memo that the secret service wanted us to show up early.

I had no business being there. I’m not rich, have no political ties to the man, have never actually voted in a public election, heck, the only grasp I have to anything related to politics is my late-night catch up sessions on “The Daily Show”, which in my personal opinion is the most true form of objective journalism itself. That Jon Stewart would put Walter Cronkite to shame, right Liz?

I was out of my league I tell you, a speck of plankton in the political Pacific Ocean. I was but a mere pit-stain on the wife beater of the work shirt of the 14-year old zit-covered teenager that mows the lawn for all of the bigwigs and fancy farts strolling in and out of that hall. The donors and supporters that lined the walls of that auditorium will more than likely have higher value for their urine than what my cumulative lifetime salary will end up being.

“I piss excellence.”
-Ricky Bobby

We came. We sat. We watched the nominee deliver a rhetoric thanking the aristocrats for their money. Sitting in an 800-seat auditorium with 1100 people groveling at the Governor’s words, trying to zoom their iPhones on a figure that they’ll brag about to countless nobodies on their Facebook posts was one of the highlights of my week. Yeah, he didn’t answer questions about health-care reform, immigration, or the stumbling economy, but so what? A guy running for President of the country paused his political pissing to wave his platformed palm in Utah. We should all be grateful.

Yes kids, politics is an art. It’s a world within itself. Fast-talkers and issue-switchers stroll down the red carpet of public admiration and glamour only to be bombasted by Anderson Cooper or the host of “Red Eye”. I know nothing about this battle that Romney will be facing over the next few months. So what if the guy uses floss made of pure silk, watching him do his dance on the podium in person was sure worth a meager 45 minutes of blogging.

Even if he was full of crap.

Back In The Day

Found this photo in the bottom of a cardboard box in my storage unit. Think you can tell which one of these awkward adolescents is me?

We're Going Numb

Technology is a crazy thing isn't it? Every day there is some newfangled invention created to make our lives easier, more relaxed. The world I grew up in filled with analog receivers, rabbit ear televisions and Sony Walkmans has evolved into digital waves, plasma screen HDTV’s and iPad 3's. 



For full effect, download "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Things are getting digitally out of control. Take for instance the new iPhone 5. Wow, is that thing amazing. I don't think there is anything that phone cannot do: pictures, music, video, e-mail, heck the thing could probably change a dirty diaper while composing a Tony-award winning musical it is so advanced. 



The unique thing about the iPhone 5 is that it can perform just about any task in the entire world. The brains behind the phone back at Apple have made it one of the most premiere creations ever manufactured. It seems like year after year they are coming out with a new phone that can do more than the previous models. I bet one year they will make a phone that is so state-of-the-art, so distinguished, so upgraded, that it can do just about every single task imaginable, yet it won't be able to make a regular phone call.



But then again who cares about making a phone call anymore? Nobody has a conversation these days except through text messaging. Acronyms like JK, LOL or IDK my BFF Rose, have replaced the normal everyday conversation fodder that was once commonplace among everyone. It's getting out of control I tell you, I mean, WTF?! 



The “digital age” has gotten so bad that recently I had a conversation with my little sister, and when I asked her what was her favorite book. Her jokingly semi-serious response was, “Books? Wait, what are those? Are those the paper things with words on them? Come on, Brock, get with the program. We don't use those things anymore.”

Oh, excuse me for being a little bit old school. 



“We use e-books now, Brock,” she continued. “That’s a lot easier than actually reading a real, live, hard-cover, page-infested book.” E-this and e-that, the e-world gets bigger and bigger every day. Pretty soon we will have e-libraries and e-relationships. All the guys are going to have e-girlfriends. Which pretty much is just a digital inflatable doll.

The great mind Albert Einstein once predicted that World War III would be fought with slingshots because of the constant advancement in battlefield technology. If that be the case then all of us will be raising our families in caves, communicating with smoke signals, and protecting ourselves with homemade bows and arrows. A realistic version of the Hunger Games I tell you. That's all right; I think I would be a decent hunter/gatherer due to the fact that I was ridiculously good at the game “Oregon Trail” as a little kid. 



I can't sit and bash the super wave of technology that is taking over the world, though. I'd be a hypocrite if I did, for I'm writing, editing and submitting this blogpost directly from my own iPhone 4 (Siri not included). Forget typewriters or WordPerfect; they don't hold a candle to this thing. 



Growing up I never thought we would make it to the age of “The Jetsons” with flying cars and talking robot maids, but the future is here. We may not be that advanced… yet, but we're getting there. All we can do is sit back and enjoy the digitally enhanced, high definition, virtual plasma screen e-ride.

On The Road Again

I’m sitting in the best three-legged chair that the Fresno City library has to offer; meanwhile my forearms keep getting adhered to the sticky substance left on this profanity-scratched table. This is however the most comfortable seat that I could find in a place that I believe is uninhabitable for cockroaches.

Yes kids, that’s right, I’m on the road again. Destination: Mexifornia. Or what some people believe to be the most liberal state in our country (And no, this isn’t a political blogpost). On the expedition so far I have traveled 553 miles, had a broken Spanglish conversation with a Grandma wondering where her donkey was (at least I think that’s what she said), been attacked by a colony of fire ants, and have eaten two of the most delicious platters of sushi that I have ever had the privilege of ordering. That’s Mexifornia in a nutshell.

It really hasn’t been that bad since I’ve been out here. Aside from the 97-degree temperature, the lack of drivers’ knowledge of the turn signal, and every other FM radio station playing the same Spanish quartet hit from 1997 over and over and over again. Now I’m not completely sold on this place just yet, this isn’t the type of atmosphere that I would raise my kids in. However, this isn’t nearly as disgusting of a place as say, Ogden, or even Roy.

Pause for upchucking of this morning’s room service.

The only real complaint that I have about this world once led by the Terminator is their drivers. Oh for the love of everything that is holy I hope and pray that the next person who takes office in this state will decide to completely restructure the Department of Motor Vehicles system and work on actually teaching their pupils how to not recklessly drive their cars, because in the four days that I’ve been on the roads here, I have almost met my maker not one, not two, not three, not four, but five separate times.

Statistically speaking, 8.3% of all accidents that occur on a monthly basis nationwide involve a driver with a Mexifornia driver’s license. True story.

I wouldn’t know where to begin if I were going to start listing the complaints that I have with their behind the wheel deficiencies. It could be their misinterpretations that a Ford F-350 does not fit in the same space as a Mazda Miata, the fact that they have never been told of the rule that slower traffic should merge to the right lane of the freeway, or again the usage of that little lever next to their steering wheels that informs the vehicles surrounding them which direction they plan on turning. Any of these would improve driving conditions in the great state of Mexifornia.

Aside from those blunders this has been a pretty interesting road trip, and has added yet another layer of thickness to my skin. Amidst the romantic dinners for one, the abundance of these new gadgets called ‘parking meters’, and the fact that my forearms seem to now be permanently stuck to this library table, I have enjoyed the few days in this great state. Whether or not I’ll be back, well that depends on if the Governator teaches these folks how to drive.

The Game of Life

90's Mating Rituals

Anyone born in the 1980’s should get that nostalgic rush of excitement from seeing the picture above.

For full effect, download “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. That beat spent seven weeks at the top of the charts in 1995, becoming one of the most overused 90’s songs available.

Hypothetically speaking, if an alien civilization were to come down and try to take over the planet Earth in the mid-90’s, much like the attempted invaders that did in the hit film “Independence Day”, what would have happened when they came across a group of sixth-graders sitting on the pavement at recess throwing a piece of weighted metal at a stack of cardboard lids?

Alien #1: “OGS%NDOG#EWG1O1P4^SHW)EGOWEG?” (What are these human beings doing?)

Alien #2: SDIB}SD?IUW!H23ASFASFIl$397AOF#NSDFGSDGI!” (I have no idea. This appears to be a mating ritual, a messed-up one at that. Let’s get the curse word out of here!)

Pogs were one of the dumbest trends to have ever graced our hands, almost as bad as the pet rock, but not quite as awful as Giga Pets. I know that I am signifying my seniority by this paragraph alone. Keep in mind, I was never moronic enough to purchase a piece of stone that I named, bathed, and fed. However I was mentally challenged enough to buy stock in a company that was created from the lids of Pineapple Orange Guava juice containers (hence the acronym POG).

Back in the day I was a very average pog player. I was an extremist when it came to the collecting and purchasing of pogs, however my skills were very dismal when it came to pounding the slammer down on someone else’s collection. Wow, I’m getting that rush of 90’s euphoria by just saying the phrase “pounding the slammer”. Don’t judge. It was the cool thing to do.

In my prime I would often get obliterated on the playground of Municipal Elementary while the bigger kids’ slammer swiped away my stash. This was just one of the many nightmares that I dealt with in my time as an elementary student, along with being tied to a chair with jump ropes and duct tape for my teacher’s birthday. And yes, that’s a true story that still haunts me to this day.

Pogs literally are the definition of how dim-witted our society was during the 1990’s. Sure we had many mistakes that littered our generation; JNCO jeans, soul patches, a scandalous President, scrunchies, bowl cuts, Pamela Anderson’s STD’s, Pepsi Crystal, and Pauly Shore all made us look like an in-bred group of buffoons. But pogs, come on now! You’ve got to be kidding me! What would possess a 10-year old boy to think that it was fun and exciting to stack a handful of 8-ball decorated lids on top of each other, and throw a rubber cased weight on top of them? We were terrible!

We often criticize the rising generation for their idiotic behaviors. We say that they are brainless for living through a tiny electronic device, and communicating solely through text messages and 140-character Tweets. But what would they think if they were to be planted on our playgrounds back in the day and be forced to watch all of their older siblings and/or parents try and knock over a stack of juice container lids painted with skulls all over them.

They would probably think we had some messed up mating rituals.

The 17%

Driven by the motivation to increase my social interactions, as well as by the amount of time I can stand in front of a mirror naked and not feel bashful, I have recently become a steady member of a tri-athlete society that looks to push ourselves to the physical extremes day in and day out. Joined by my fellow comrades The Rhinestone Cowboy and The Glee President, I have been attempting to push myself just that much harder in hopes that one day my efforts will be rewarded by a faster time crossing the finish line.

Being involved in a triathlon is an entirely new culture itself, which almost suggests a hint of lunacy by the participants. Scientific research has actually shown that 83% of those training for a triathlon have deranged/bloodthirsty traits as well as subconscious waves bordering on mental psychosis.

True story.

However, there is that minority group of individuals, the 17%, who participate in triathlons for an entirely different reason; the approval of those around them.

Insert Officer Muffintop.

Over the past two weeks, a group of fellow tri-athletes have been getting together at a near reservoir and have been training ourselves to perform the open swim. We show up in the evening, sporting wetsuits and goggles, hoping to get just a little bit better at beating the waves, and shaving a little more time off of our swim. It’s a fun group to be a part of, a group that all has the same reason to be there. We all want to get just a little bit better.

Except for Officer Muffintop. He’s the 17%.

This evening after a rather long and dizzying swim across the reservoir and back, we all huddled on the shore, toweled off, and tossed back and forth random chit-chat about different training methods and races that we would be a part of. And then, there was the almond poppyseed deputy who had to one-up all of us.

RK Master: “That was a great swim guys, I think we all did really well.”

Officer Muffintop: said in California surfer/single digit IQ accent “Yeah it was. I feel good, gettin’ ready for the Phoenix Tri, which is right before the Color Me Rad 5K I’m doin in October, which is followed up by the Polar Bear Tri in North Dakota. Yeah man, all of this just preppin’ me for the Ironman 70.5 in May. Of course, there’s the Gunlock, Summer Games, Tebow 10K, and the Seattle Slew that are all in between. But you know, just gotta keep this sexy body movin’.”

For a moment I was rather impressed at the grueling lifestyle that the Muffintop was enduring week in and week out, when suddenly I paused, and glanced over at the pastry-shaped silhouette waddling out of his wetsuit.

Officer Muffintop: “Yeah man, since I’ve got into Crossfit and training like this, I’ve just been doin’ so much better at the Tri. My times on the bike, the run, the swim, even my transitions have all been so much smoother. It’s just the way to live. “

Now that I think about it, you only swam roughly 200 meters total today. While the rest of us were working our tails off, crawling across the reservoir aiming to better ourselves stroke by stroke, you were just lollygagging at the first buoy talking up your 8th place finish at the Farmington Free Run/Fruit Pie/Spartan Dancing Expo. Shame on you sir, I say shame on you.

Sad to say, officer Muffintop wasn’t there for physical exercise, or the testing of his own endurance, he was there to prove to a bunch of other athletes that he is the man, a real athlete. For the record, we all cared more about the fish turds we were swimming in than the crap that was coming out of his mouth.

I hope I’m not a Muffintop. I hope that I won’t turn into a Muffintop. I hope that this blog, which is basically a day-by-day recounting of my awesomeness doesn’t signal me as a Muffintop. We all have our own reasons for the choices that we make, why we go to the gym, why we don’t eat certain foods, why we memorize the lyrics to that one Justin Beiber song. But when all is said and done, keep it to yourself and let your actions do the talking, rather than your inflated, overblown, wannabe diatribes you use to try and impress those around you.

Don’t be the 17%.