It's A Bad Bad Bad Bad World

Let’s just say my neighbor is lucky her daughter isn’t living next to a pedophile. 

For three years I used to live across from an eighty-year old widow who would drop off a weekly loaf of homemade bread, and often ask if I could turn my TV volume down after six p.m.  Sadly those days had a deadline, and that delicate Grandmother decided to give in to a stroke to go hang out with her husband upstairs, only to be replaced by a family who would be considered “high-class” in West Virginia.

When I say “high-class”, I mean they have a streaming feed of the Maury Povich show running 24-hours a day in their living room, meanwhile their five-year old daughter wearing the same dirty clothes every morning rolls laps around our street every waking minute on her razor. 

Sometimes I actually do miss that old Grandma.

Saturday afternoon I pulled into my driveway transporting a load of grocery bags, gym clothes, golf clubs and a bicycle into my house, only to find that crust-covered five-year old doing her usual routine on the scooter, not caring about anything in the world whatsoever, as the majority of most five year olds do.  Ignoring the girl I began to unload my car, when out of nowhere the dirt-smudged little Cindy Lou Who stopped me in my tracks.

Cindy Lou: “You have some pretty flowers on your lawn.”

Me: “Uh…yep.  They’re called dandelions.  You can pick as many of them as you want.”

For a moment I was a bit nervous about even responding to this little tyke.  After all, isn’t the NUMBER ONE rule of parenting to NEVER talk to strangers? And here I was, talking to a little girl I didn’t know at all! I was going to be in so much trouble if my Mom ever found out. 

Grabbing a handful of weeds, she then walked over to my open doorway and poked her head into my house as I unloaded my groceries.       

Cindy Lou: “Your house is different than mine.  Your house is clean.”

Ok, now I’m a little freaked out.  I have never before made eye contact with this little girl, and now she is analyzing the layout of my front room.  Where did I put my pepper spray?

Cindy Lou: “Can I come in your house?”

This is the part where I look up from my paper bags and pause for station identification with a confused/perplexed/WTF look on my face.  Something isn’t right about this.  She’s a little “too” comfortable than most five-year olds are with their giant big kid neighbors who wear beards.  Is this is a setup? Why the heck would Chris Hansen and a camera crew be hiding out in the bushes trying to fool potential pedophiles? And who the curse word thought it would be a good idea to shoot “How To Catch A Predator” in St. George, Utah?

Me: “No, Cindy Lou. You go on home now, you hear?”

Cut to yesterday afternoon as The Rhinestone Cowboy and myself were strolling down Fremont Street in old Las Vegas, killing time before a college fair. To my left were a handful of muffintop baldies walking into a gentlemen’s club holding giant margaritas.  To my right was a set of bike cops asking a beggar why he thought stealing Crown Royal was such a good idea. In front of me a young woman wearing nothing but leather chaps and a napkin danced on the main stage while a horny Grandma in a wheelchair whistled at her. On the ground were pamphlets full of naked women who thought putting stars over their nipples was a great career move.   

A dirty beard smelling like marijuana and Jack Daniels bumped into me.    

“Heya man, 62 cents man, that’sa all I need. 62 cents.  You wanna helpa brotha out?”

The humanitarian inside me reached into my pocket.  The AA President inside me ignored the man and kept walking. 

The world some of us live in is a bubble.  A giant, protected, confined, misconstrued, I-just-won-the-lottery-for-living-locations bubble. A bubble that the majority of the time is ungratefully forgotten because of the sheltered set of blinders being placed over our eyes.  Anyone want to take a gander at what the “real world” looks like? Just take a quick road trip to the modern-day Sodom 110 miles south of my house; population: a hell of a lot more than the 600-1200 who got turned into salt back in the Bible.   

Had the dirt-smudged Cindy Lou Who gone poking her head into some random stranger’s house down there, well, lets just say that Chris Hansen would have had plenty of clients for the next few episodes. 

It’s a bad bad bad bad world out there kids, I tell you.  And sometimes it runs chills down the back of my legs to think the big man upstairs made every single disrespectful, ugly, drug-addicted, porn-smothered, booze-ingested, filth-covered human being that dots this giant ball we all live on. 

What’s even more unnerving, is that I think he loves them all too.   

Real Men Don't Beg At The Pulpit

We now return you to your regularly scheduled dating blunder programming. 

Normally this is where I come in and let my fingers do the recounting of an awkward blind date with a girl who shows up wearing sweatpants and has 13 cats, but I’m going to hold on to that gem just a bit longer. 

Instead, today you will be treated to hear from a magnificent guest blogger.  Who this morning traded stories with me across the state about how the guys in our culture are absolute buffoons.  With tears in my eyes shaking uncontrollably with laughter, I have to agree with him.  This story is why hundreds and thousands of girls out there are afraid of talking to any unmarried guy older than 27.  This kid is a disgrace to the Bro code, to the art of being manly, and to any eligible bachelor out there.  This kid is why women are afraid to commit. 

And it is for this kid that I apologize on behalf of my gender.  I know too many of him exist.  

Having said that, I now turn this post over to the ever-popular, the ever-dangerous, the ever sexy-getting man who I would give up a left nut for if he were being held hostage by Celtic fans. The one, the only, the great Chief Kent.   

"Up until this point in my life, singles wards haven’t been as cliché as I thought they would be. That was until one fateful Sunday on April 28, 2013 in Salt Lake City.

A sad gentleman in his late 20’s got up to give a talk on this day, and his topic centered around dating and marriage. Note to bishoprics: If you want to give the marriage and dating talk to your ward, do not pick the saddest person in the ward to give the talk.

He opened his talk by saying, “Note to self: Don’t ask to give a talk.” OK then, if you didn’t want to give a talk, why did you volunteer yourself? Of course, no one in the congregation laughed, so this poor fellow became even sadder right on the spot.

He went on talk about his topic and said how much difficulty he’s had in that area, and it’s made him discouraged over the years.

Depressed Klingon: “How can I assure the sisters around me that I’m a charismatic and jovial guy once you get to know me? How can I assure the sisters that I’m the husband that they are hoping for?”

Chief Kent: *Bites lower lip to keep from laughing, and when that doesn’t work, sticks head between legs*

Suddenly I noticed out of the corners of my eyes that the other brethren in the congregation started to do the same thing. Some were making fun of him, some were laughing, but most were sticking their heads between their legs while trying not to laugh. The sisters continued listening to Depressed Klingon, so I don’t really know if they were intrigued by or embarrassed for him.

So Depressed Klingon continued on with his talk, and I don’t remember many of the other details as, of course, I had started texting Swamp Thing during this ordeal.  The main message I heard from it was that sisters need to stop reading Cosmopolitan and brothers need to stop reading Men’s Health. Or something like that. I think he was trying to say that sisters should stop chasing after bad guys. Here’s the last quote that I remember.

Depressed Klingon: “Sisters, don’t you want a husband who will treat you tenderly?”

A good message, but you made your audience suffer and laugh through the first 10 minutes of your talk, so this question doesn’t carry as much weight as it could have.

Look, I feel bad for the guy. I really do. We’ve all been in singles ward situations where we were a little depressed and wondered why we haven’t met our Monica Geller (Chandler Bing for the girls), Juliet O’Hara (Shawn Spencer for the girls), or the girl with the yellow umbrella (Ted Mosby for the girls). But I don’t think giving an entire talk with the purpose of trying to get the sisters to feel bad for you is the answer.

When he ended his talk, the brethren lifted their heads simultaneously as if attending a session of midnight mass at Juan Diego High School. Deep down inside, I’m sure one of the seven timeline versions of us would have done the same thing, but this is the prime timeline. And in the prime timeline, Depressed Klingon was the one who crossed the barrier.

I have one piece of advice for Depressed Klingon, and the advice came from my mission president.

Chief Kent (quoting the Colorado Hospital Millionaire): “If you want to be enthusiastic, you have to act enthusiastic.”

Act it, don’t say it, bro."

As Manly As I Can Be

Most of the time you expect the tough cynic I am to publish a rant on the errors of social media, the terrors of running a marathon, or a slam on the culture I live in demanding that I find a spouse within the next 24 hours.

But sometimes at two o'clock in the morning, when little sisters hand me over a niece, gift-wrapped in a polka dot blanket; all of that gets pushed aside, and the Uncle inside me comes out to play.  

You Have A Trendy Addiction

I think everybody openly has an unhealthy dependence on the feed that pops up every time they open their Facebook page.

For full effect, download “D is for Dangerous” by Arctic Monkeys, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

Over the past few days I have been tossing texts back and forth with a good friend announcing to each other what we have learned from Facebook, more so, what rules and laws make up the Facebook world that you are all governed by.  You see, neither one of us is actually enslaved to the Facebook popularity gratification like the rest of you are.  I use it only to promote my blog, while he, well, come to think of it, he hasn’t posted in over three years.  Now that’s a first. 

Having said that, these are some of the ultimatums/points of doctrine that we have come to discover through all of the content you idiots are supplying us with on this desert island of a website.  These are the things we have LEARNED while being on Facebook. 

1.     People have now decided that every time they eat something they MUST post the recipe.  Why yes, in my spare time I LOVE making Frozen Peanut Butter Cheesecake, Hawaiian Ham N Cheese Sliders, and Crescent Roll Tacos, now give me the directions so I can put them in a folder I will NEVER open.

2.     It’s more fun to make fun of people when you are sharing the criticism with others.  Heaven forbid that person’s self esteem get shriveled by just one derogatory comment on their new profile pic, let’s see if we can get everyone else involved in modern day internet bullying.  

3.     If Morgan Freeman died, Facebook would break. 

4.     After a barrage of posts every hour by one of our mutual friends about his impending marriage and the excitement and elation he was feeling to be with his one true love for the rest of eternity, he has since only posted twice in four months. Neither of them having anything to do with his wife. Coincidence?

5.     If a child is abducted, goes missing, forgets to come home after school, just share the photo of her with all of your online friends.  That way you’ll get a shallow feeling of accomplishment that you contributed to the betterment of society as a whole.  How is anyone going to find her if they’re all glued to their monitors? WHO CARES? You shared it. 

6.     Puppy and kitten pics can be both the funniest, and the saddest things one will ever witness. 

7.     Yesterday was Earth Day.  How the curse word did we know that? Because of Facebook.  Did anyone do anything about that? Of course not.  Recycling is for Lame-O’s!  

8.     During finals week EVERYONE feels an obligatory response to make hourly updates on how many tests they have taken, and how many tests they have remaining, just so the kids at home keeping score will be able to keep their tally marks in order on how close everyone is to being done this semester. 

9.     One can put a motivational quote as their status, to change your perspective of them from a toothless moron, to a wise sage. 

10. One can also misspell just one word in that motivational quote, thus sending them right back to toothless moron. 

11. #Imgonnagoaheadandputahashtagonthis #eventhoughfacebookdoesnotsupporthashtags #andnoonewouldeversearchthenovelimwritingafterit #dontyouthinkimreallywittynowafterreadingthis?

12. Don’t you think this black and white picture of me and my fiancé staring off into the art gallery is SOOOOO precious?

13. Everybody really hates Windows 8 for some reason. 

Finally, everyone was somehow affected by the Boston Marathon bombing.  For someone to do such a cruel and disgusting action such as planting a bomb is a disgrace to humanity, that is the honest truth.  So you’re going to show how loyal you are to the runners, to the police squads at MIT, and to the city of Boston by posting a status of the sorrow you feel for the three who were killed and the 260 who were injured.

Oh wait, you didn’t know any of those people? 

That’s alright. At least you’re being dedicated by standing up online against all of the shocking disasters that mankind faces on a daily basis; for instance, the explosion in West Texas that probably killed over 60 people and turned a nursing home into a 93-foot crater.  Oh you didn’t hear about that?  That’s alright, you probably heard about the earthquake in China that killed over 189 people didn’t you? Oh, you haven’t heard about that either?  Is that because those weren’t trending as “popular tragedies” to support on Facebook that all of your friends were joining; therefore you don’t care one single cent about them whatsoever?

Oh. That makes sense. 

Actually, no.  No it doesn’t. 

The $100 Friends

Over the course of my life I have made many ridiculously stupid decisions; decisions Carrot Top would be ashamed to admit.  Now you may say, "Oh Brock, we all do dumb things. You're not the only one." To which I’ll reply, "Have you ever pretended to be a schizophrenic on a blind date? Or have run away from the cops down a set of railroad tracks completely buck naked?" No! That would be the moron writing this blog.

Last week though, I may have added yet another story to my ever increasing list of stupidity.

At least that's what you'll probably say.

For full effect, download "Tongue Tied" by Grouplove and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

If my family is reading this, and I hope to high heaven they’re not, because if so, they may hunt me down, slice open my kidneys and leave me bleeding out and abandoned in a backcountry woodshed in Western Kentucky. At least that’s what most women do when you cross their path.  I'm just going to pray that my sister's expanding uterus will keep their attention diverted and steer them away from this blog for the week.

Last weekend I took a last minute, spur-of-the-moment, what-the-curse word-is-he-thinking, four-hour road trip from the sunny skies in St. George to the cloudy boogers of Layton and back, all of this in under a day’s time.  Usually spending $100 on gas roundtrip there must be something of extreme importance pushing you, like incoming nieces, spring sales at Nordstrom’s, or tickets to a Justin Bieber concert.  But do you want to know what got me in the car and pushed me 647 miles last Friday night?

A church basketball game.

This is the part where the judging can begin. Yes kids, this guy drove from St. George to Layton and back all within 17 hours simply to play in a church basketball game. But it wasn't just ANY church basketball game, it was the first round of the West Weber County 28 and over Family Ward Church Basketball Regional Championship. Come on now, that's reason enough isn't it?

This is the part where most of you will slap your foreheads dramatically, and shake your heads in disgust.

But before you go and toss my character to the side and burn any shreds of respect you once had for me at least at some point in your life, please hear me out. The reason I went on this excursion wasn't for the game, it was for the guys I was playing with.  And in my mind, they were reason enough.

For the last three years of my life I have lived extensively on the road. (If you read this blog consistently you of course know this). And I will admit that using the backseat of my Nissan Rogue as an address can add severe stress, almost to the point of welcoming a strait jacket with open arms. The one thing however that has helped keep my sanity in check is the married ward church basketball league I've been playing in every year, and that same handful of guys who have been in the lineup with me as well.

Yep, that’s right.  A three-point shooter from Wyoming, a rotund janitor, one of my best friends from high school, and a blind kid were my reasoning for getting in my car last Friday night.  And that’s justification enough for me. 

You see, I didn't actually care if we won the game last Saturday. I didn't make the trip for that at all. I made the trip just to be with those guys who stuck with me over the last three years of my life. And who were the best therapists I could find on a wood floor throwing outlet passes. It wasn't about the title, or the bragging rights, heck, it’s church basketball for crying out loud. That last-second spree was about being loyal to those four guys who have been on my side.  And in my mind, they're worth the $100 road trip. They are my $100 friends.

So go ahead, laugh at me. Demolish any mental ounce of respect you may have once had for me.  Stereotype me as an unconventional loser who doesn’t know how to budget.  But before you close the browser window and move on to the next amusing piece of Sunday pie lining up your Facebook feed, let me ask you something that may toss you into a stupor for a good solid seven minutes; how many $100 friends do you think you actually have in your own life?

More importantly, and this is what may throw your self-esteem for a giant loop, how many of the people you call "friends" do you think would have made that same $100 trip for you? 

For The Love Of The Game

In 40 years, if some punk kid thinks it's funny to take a picture of a rag-tag group of old farts wandering around a gym, and if I am actually one of the old farts that he's making fun of; well then, I would have to say my life is complete. 

At Least My Kid Ain't Ugly

I think I need to go steal a three-year old in order to fit in with the rest of the world.

For full effect, download "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by The Giggleberries from iTunes, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

As time has passed and all of us who were raised by social media have somewhat progressed, our Internet lives have evolved from one narcissistic subject to another.  First it was the dating escapades; complaining about awkward doorbell scenes with some guy who wouldn't floss, or the fact that you and your three-week old boyfriend just had the DTR.  Then it changed to the barrage of corny engagement pictures where all couples misconstrued the idea that standing in a rusty barn dressed to the tens, staring off into the distant sunset was some "new" style that no one else had ever thought of.  

Correction, all of you thought of doing that, and simply fed off each others Photoshopped stupidity.  

Then there were the "We're Pregnant" pics that littered Facebook and Instagram left and right, with everyone trying to one-up each other by posing in a creative way that hinted at the fact they would soon be punching their spouses teeth out, and screaming bloody murder at the doctor to give them an epidural.  Every woman out there thought that holding a ballon with a due date on it was a cute way to say you would soon be having a little monster crawl out from your insides.  

Those fads have now faded, and now we as a society are adopting (pun intended) the stockpile of trendy pictures you're taking, and posting might I add, of all your little boogers ages 1-5.  

Now I don't mind the whole "you-should-take-pride-in-my-child-because-he's-in-the-98th-percentile-of-forehead-size-for-his-age" mentality that so many of you have become addicted to.  I understand that the pictures you're posting are of little "yous".  And therefore you are beaming with joy every time they take a naked poo on the back porch, or fall asleep next to your black lab, and you're able to capture that heartwarming moment and broadcast it to the rest of us.  I'm fine with that.  In fact, keep posting those pictures every day.  There's only one stipulation that I ask you to uphold:

Just make sure your kid isn't ugly.   

That's the problem with some of these pictures that our generation is streaming into the social media world.  They've got kids that really aren't that appealing to look at. In fact, they've just been downright beaten behind a shed with the nasty stick.  Call me insensitive, sure.  But you have to admit that some of these creatures that are being used as unpaid models for their parents Facebook pages really aren't that attractive at all.  Let's just say I would rather look at a live picture of actual boogers, than a picture of who you are calling "your" little booger.  

On the flip side, some of you actually do have some adorable looking offspring.  Take for instance the picture I posted of my nephew at the top of this blog.  Seriously, go back and look at that chocolate-covered three-year old's face and tell me you don't want to go adopt a kitten from the local animal shelter.  He's got a smile that would melt down North Korea, and he rightfully deserves to be showcased on this blog, on his parent's page, and on the mainstream Internet until he reaches puberty and develops a self-esteem issue for being used as a social media pawn of narcissism.   

If he wasn't cute, then I wouldn't post.  And I think that's the standard my generation needs to uphold. 

It really doesn't matter how long I rant about this, all of you are still going to post your little boogers until my Newsfeed is buried to the sky in ugly mucus.  And I'm fine with that.  So go right ahead, take those pictures, upload them to your accounts, put a sepia tone over the top of it, and write some play on words as the caption just so the rest of the world can give you a digital thumbs up.  

In the meantime, I'm off to go adopt the first kid I can find.  Heck, if you can't beat 'em, might as well join 'em.   

The Best Band In Town

Biscuits and gravy by yourself doesn't really taste the same.

For over a decade my Grandpa and I would go and enjoy monthly brunches at a small diner in Layton called One Man Band. I'm sure you've eaten at one of those slop-infested joints before.  A place that hasn't seen a vacuum since the Nixon Administration, doesn't have a single set of matching silverware, and whose napkins come out as giant poofs of air.  Yeah, I'm talking about a hole in the wall that most homeless people would classify as a dump.

But that dump known as One Man Band was our hole in the wall.

The great thing behind One Man Band was that there was literally only one man that ran the entire show. He took your orders, he cleaned up your tables, he undercooked your pancakes, everything. Heck, to place orders we had to pick up the phone in our booth and "call-in" what we wanted. So what if that one man was standing ten feet away from us in the open kitchen, making the usage of the phone a complete waste of time, it was all about the experience. And that's what made me L-word the place.

Those brunch sessions were ours, no one else's. My little sister once got jealous when my Grandpa politely declined her request to tag along. One Man Band wasn't for her, it was just for us. It was the place where he would tell me about the time he won the YMCA basketball National Championship with four of his fellow Air Force recruits. Or when he was claimed to be the luckiest reconnaissance pilot in Vietnam who flew an extra 106 missions than he was supposed to. Or when he played golf on a course made of nothing but sand traps while working security in Saudi Arabia.

Those stories certainly made our meals so much better.

I miss that tradition. I miss the cream cheese omelets and plastic-tasting tap water. I miss the clock shaped like Elvis that would hang on the wall above us, his hips swinging in motion to count down the seconds. I miss asking my Grandpa when he first realized that his high school girlfriend was the one he was going to marry, and then recounting the stories of his life to me over ketchup-covered hash browns and English muffins.

The harsh truth is that those memories aren't happening anymore. They are in the past. They have ended. Stopped. Deceased. One Man Band down the street was bought out by some C-average pizza chain, and diabetes decided to shut my Grandpa's body down a little over a year ago. But that's life I guess. All great things we cherish have a terminal shelf life.  

Yesterday while driving down the same Interstate I have lived on for the last three years of my life, I spotted that old hole in the wall on the side of the road in Nephi. It was dusty, it was 50's themed, and it had the same Elvis clock hanging on the wall whose hips were shaking on cue.  And so I decided to pick up that phone and order a plate of scrambled eggs and French toast, in an attempt to recreate those memories with my Grandpa once more.

But it wasn't the same. And you know why?

Because he wasn't there.

I understand those meals with my Grandpa at One Man Band really don't mean a single thing to you, that's fine. But then again, you've had meals with someone else, or card games, or road trips, or workout sessions, or anything else that means something to you and means diddly squat to everyone else. And those are some of the most important things you hold on to when times get tough. At least that's what those meals at One Man Band mean to me.

One day I'll have a grandson. And one day I'll have a grime-infested diner to go to like One Man Band. And one day I'll share stories with the kid about the time I killed a dragon, the time I wore a mohawk, the time I sliced my head open, and the time I met his Grandmother.

And one day those roles will change again.  And a young man I helped raise will be sitting with his own grandson.  Telling his own stories.  In his own One Man Band.

Wrong Sport

Sometimes, after a long day at work, when my brain has checked out of any type of organized labor, and in a giant cloud of exhaust I collapse on to my couch and turn on good old ESPN to help nurse me back into good health and consciousness, I find that they're broadcasting the World Series of Poker, and in the middle of tossing a kitchen stool through my 42" LED screen, I ask myself in a rage, "Who in this cursed world thinks that playing cards is a sport?!"

The Doctrine of Women

“In the forty years that I’ve been married, I’ve only apologized to my husband once.”

A 67-year old Grandmother who used to make a living by beating the teeth out of disruptive inmates at the point of the mountain told me that yesterday, and who was I to correct her? 

For full effect, download “Throwin’ Down” by Psychostick and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

In the 12 short years that I was raised in a household of estrogen; a household composed of 10 sisters, one Mother, and one vulnerably feminine Father whose eyes would water on cue during most Nike commercials, I was fortunate enough to learn the many rules and regulations that make up the way women work.  Granted, I was surrounded in a household full of mental disorders and unorganized menstrual cycles, but still, I think I got the gist of understanding the mechanics behind a woman’s way of thinking. 

How many men do you know can honestly say that with a straight face?

One of the ultimate truths I gathered from my fellow female inmates, this being separate from the decrees that black pants and brown shoes are a fashion no-no, and that if a woman asks if you think she is fat you should immediately buy her chocolate, the most crucial rule I was told is that a woman, under any given set of circumstances, is never, ever, wrong.  

This puzzled me at first, of course I was only five years old and had that mindset brainwashed into my face from my newest set of stepsisters, how was I to put up a fight?  But over the next few years I had a hard time grasping the idea that regardless of logical, emotional, or physical evidence blatantly proving that a woman was wrong, she wasn’t. And you shouldn’t dare tell her that she was wrong, unless you wanted a broken toaster heaved at your front teeth. 

Why is that? 

Seriously ladies, can any of you reading this please explain to me why you are always correct, no matter what the circumstances are, no matter how illogical your testimony may be, no matter if you’re standing over the tub with a bloody, double-headed axe in your hand, with your spouse lying face first before you, his spinal column gashed wide open, meanwhile a video camera recording every split second of that horrific massacre stands in the corner, why after all of that are you still never wrong? 

This is the part where all of you ladies out there smile at your monitors and say to yourself, ‘It’s because we’re women Brock, and a woman is always right’. After which you’ll unclench your boyfriend’s man jewels and ask him to go buy you some Ben & Jerry’s when he’s done DVR-ing “The Voice”.  But come on, put down your female pride torches and answer me one question, why are you ALWAYS right, and why is a man ALWAYS wrong? 

Don’t ask me why it’s taken me two decades to pose this question to the opposite sex, because honestly, I have no idea whatsoever.  Maybe the fact that I’m 328 miles away from my nearest relative with Tampax in her bathroom played a part in this blogpost, but regardless, I have finally built up the balls to stand up to all of you and demand respect.  

And so what if I’m hiding behind this blogpost for protection rather than confronting you face-to-face, that’s not the point here.  I just want to know for the sake of humanity, why are you always right even if the Supreme Court has ruled against you?  And why do the men always have to be the ones who sleep on the couch after you come home three hours late from your Mary Kay parties, and why after being married for almost 40 years, this 67-year old former prison guard finally told her husband for the very first (and probably last) time in their lives that she was the one in the wrong?

Do you wonder why I’m 28 years old and still single?

Everybody

A Thousand Words

I often criticize technology for dumbing down the future generation.  I think this picture says it best.   

You're Missing The Point

You must forgive my tardiness in posting this.  It seems the holiday known to us as April Fools Day drove me away from social media all together.  Honestly people, do you think any of us will believe any status you post on April 1^st?  I mean come on Christian Spitzenberger, come up with something more original than “We’re having a baby!”

And yes kids, I know someone with the last name of Spitzenberger.  That sounds like a German breath mint, but you’ll always remember it.

For full effect, download “Running on Empty” by Jackson Browne and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.  While you’re at it, go watch the last hour of Forrest Gump and tell me you don’t get chills on the back of your neck. 

This post is not designed to applaud the efforts of all of the health freaks out there who are dedicating their lives to a disciplined diet and a hardcore training schedule.  This post is designed to dismantle all of the trendy bandwagon jumpers and seven-year itch parents with low self-esteem that think running a 5k is now the “in” thing to do.  It’s because of you that I don’t want to go to the gym anymore.     

Trendy running is a scam I say. You hear me? A scam! This trendy running pandemic is the annoying little brother who thinks it’s funny to put gum in your armpits. It’s the carpet stain from your bloody nose that just won’t go away no matter how hard you keep scrubbing.  People who think 5 and 10k’s are basically speedwalking social events, are the same pieces of crap that Shooter McGavin eats for breakfast.   

Anyone with low self-esteem using Facebook: “Oh, hey, you should totally do the Color Me Rad 5k run with me this weekend.  Everybody starts running, and then all of the supporters throw buckets of neon chalk all over the place.  It’s like a giant running rainbow Woodstock!”

Anyone using logic: “Wait, but are you going for a certain time on your 5k?

Anyone with low self-esteem using Facebook: “No, not really. It’s all about the experience of people throwing chalk at you and getting covered in it so you can have a really unique profile pic online.  Besides, I’m only going to be running about a quarter of it anyway!”

Anyone using logic: “And that’s why your nickname will forever be ‘Muffintop’.”

The sad thing is that it doesn’t stop at the speed-chalk challenge either.  Trendy 5k’s are sweeping across our diabetic nation in any unhealthy shape possible. There’s the “Run For Your Lives Zombie 5k” the “Midnight Run Glow-in-the-Dark 5k” or even the “Naked Foot 5k”. That’s right, naked foot.  A couple thousand weirdos comfortable in their nudeness dance around for a little over three miles and claim it as exercise. 

What is wrong with us people?  Why do we depend so much upon what everyone else is doing to be cool?  Didn’t we give up the idea of cliques and social classes when we walked out of the Dee Events Center with our high school diplomas?  Walking a 5k splashed in paint and then treating yourself to a stuffed crust pizza and half-gallon of Rockie Road ice cream as a reward will not make the pounds go away.  It’s an insult to the concept of physical fitness. 

In a few hundred years, once mankind has been completely obliterated from planet Earth either from Kim Jong-un’s nuclear attacks, or from the onslaught of obesity, heart problems, and diabetes, I think aliens may come back and do an analysis on why we didn’t survive the ultimate race.  At the heart of their research there will be the confusing wonder that E.T.’s across the galaxy will forever be mystified by; did we as human beings not fully grasp the concept of actual exercise, or did we think that rolling around in chalk for an hour was the equivalent of a solid workout?

Sadly, right now the majority of the world agrees with the latter end of that question.