Another Front Porch Couple

Sometimes on road trips I get all liquored up on Nyquil to combat my body’s decision to build an abundantly large dam of mucus in my nasal cavity. This of course affects the quality of the post you are about to read. On behalf of my semi-drunk subconscious, I do apologize.

For full effect, download “Kiss From A Rose” by Seal, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. I would also like to add that song was in fact the most heralded song of my childhood. Only to be preceded by “I Swear” by All-4-One, and followed by, “Tubthumper” by Chumbawamba.

Road trips do silly things to my head. When the highlight of my evening will be a podcast about Prohibition while I drive 118 miles into the darkness, you know I’ve been around the block. And after claiming my home address to be the front seat of a Nissan Rogue for the past three years and counting, I will admit I have seen the world. Especially when that crazy world I’m talking about is Twin Falls, Idaho.

Historically, Twin Falls and I have not been on the best of terms. In my not too distant history, trips to Twin Falls have included cheering on my buddy’s psychotic ex-girlfriend’s cousin in a backyard boxing match, and a witch doctor telling me the reason I black out and drool on myself in epileptic fashion is not from severe head trauma as a child, but actually from a 15-foot tapeworm growing on my small intestine. 

Yes, I’ve met some crazy ones up here. 

But last night was different. Last night I sat with two lovebirds and dined over the most expensive meal Applebee’s could offer, and we talked late into the night about everything from masterful habits, to dirty jokes, to life-altering career changes. Last night I spent the evening with two people who passed my “Front Porch Test”.

Kids, you may remember about a year ago when I was able to spend time on a road trip with another classy couple, a couple that I could see myself talking to when we’re all old and wrinkly. I’m referring to people in my life who, as Lily Aldrin so eloquently put, “pass the front porch test”. These are the people who I want to be on the front porch of my retirement home playing Bridge with. These are the people who I want to be a part of my life when I can’t control my bowels anymore.

You have people like this in your own life, don’t you? They may be high school teammates, college roommates, or a new co-worker who you instantly became AFFTNSMAL with. And for those of you who aren’t fluent in high-school acronyms, that last one meant Adequate Friends For The Next Six Months At Least. Everyone has people in their lives that they want to enjoy life with for the next five decades, and pray to high heaven that their future posterity dates, courts, and marries each other. Now that would be ideal.

So last night as I stuffed down another helping of a Blondie Ice Cream Sundae, I realized that this is another couple I can see myself playing Bridge with on my own front porch. This is a couple I would go on a cruise to the Bahamas with. This is a couple that I more than likely am going to name one of my firstborn children after. I’m sorry kids, if you don’t like the names Derek or Kendra, I just had to do it.

I L-word people like this. They play a small but significant role in the reason I get up every morning. Friends like this you can’t write into a Hollywood screenplay, they’re just that amazing.

As the night wound down and I began to load my fat body into my car, my buddy’s wife turned to me and said, “You know, I just wish you lived closer to us. We would have so much fun talking and hanging out. It would be awesome!”

“It would be a great threesome.” I replied, joking about the fact that I am still living the single life in a culture that is damning me for my age. She was right though. Derek and Kendra, myself and my wife, the four of us sitting on a front porch playing Bridge, you can't paint a better picture. 

“Well that’s it then.” she said. “Just go get a wife that we approve of, and it will be perfect.”

It will be. As soon as I find her.  

The Murtaugh List

There are some days of my life where I feel old. Old enough to buy a life insurance policy, but not old enough to start drinking Metamucil.

For full effect, go watch “How I Met Your Mother” season four, episode 19, entitled, “The Murtaugh List” and enjoy at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

For those of you who don’t have Netflix, The Murtaugh List is a list of activities that the unsung hero Ted Mosby put together of things that he will not do once he broke into his 30’s. For example, he will not get an ear pierced, or die his hair pink. As his best friend Marshall puts it in a Danny Glover tone of voice, “Riggs, I’m too old for that stuff.”

Now we all have our own “Murtaugh Lists” or things that we have given ultimatums to now that we have reached the ripe old age of 28 ½. We all have activities that we deem inappropriate for someone of our stature to complete.  Go ahead and pause for a moment, tilt your head slightly to the left and think about what’s on your own Murtaugh List. In the meantime, I’ll go ahead and relay what I have come up with on my own Murtaugh List, as a pretty girl on an abandoned golf course last night so eloquently asked me about. Here are the things I will never do again:

Watch a single episode of Duck Dynasty.

Drink Mt. Dew after 3:30 in the afternoon.

Play the board game, “Settlers of Katan”.

Dance in a public setting.

Eat a Little Caesar’s Hot & Ready Pizza in one sitting.

Play Guitar Hero until four in the morning.

Use an emoticon in a text message.  

Enjoy a movie with Drew Barrymore in it.

Eat anything from 1 Hott Grill.

Tell my story about faking as a schizophrenic on a blind date.

Put an unframed picture on my wall using only thumbtacks to hang it up.

Only tuck my shirt into the front of my pants.

Shave my entire face except for the flavor saver below my lower lip.

Write a Facebook status with something witty that I stole from Google.

Go to Mesquite at 1 am to bowl.

Eat a bowl of ice cream for breakfast.

Watch an episode of “Glee”.

Wear an athletic jersey of a team I support outside of my own bedroom.

Take a girl who is still in her teens out to dinner.

Watch MTV.

Listen to anything sung by “Nickleback”.

Eat at Denny’s past 11 pm.

Go shopping for longer than three hours.

Play in a ball pit.

And last but not least, Never break up with a girl using a text message.  

Grouplove

Me: “Have you ever been involved in a group of friends, a group so tightly woven that you were all besties? A group that could literally have a giant sleepover and there would be no sexual harassment charges filed whatsoever?”

M: “No, I’m not really into the whole ‘group’ thing. The majority of my friendships are scattered all over the place. I’ve never really been a part of a ‘group’.

Me: “I see. So you’re the jerk no one invited because your parents forgot to buy you deodorant as a child?”

For full effect, download “Lean on Me" by Bill Withers, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

This semester I have had the privilege of teaching a handful of people how to communicate in small group settings. I know this sounds like an honorable privilege that takes a substantial amount of time and effort to attain, but don’t be confused. Because apparently the rest of the world thinks that absolutely anybody has the skill to teach in the field of communication. In my class we talk about groups. The groups we have now, the groups we have had before, groups like families, co-workers, sports teams, and one of the most important, groups of friends. Which brings me back to last night’s conversation with M about the different groups I have been lucky enough to know.

Me:  “Groups of friends are awesome. They are the people that get me through life.”

M: “Honestly, I think groups of friends are kind of overrated, not gonna lie.”

Me: “Hey! M! It looks like your leggings are starting to catch on fire.”

M: “No really! Groups of friends aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I just don't think they're worth all the time that people invest in them."

Me: “Seriously M, I think your nose is getting an erection.”

Groups of friends are the best. They’re the people that pull you through all of the ups as well as all of the downs you go through in this jumbled mess we call life. They’re the ones who you play Guitar Hero with at 3 in the morning getting crunk on Monsters, or the people that take you to a chocolate-covered buffet when you find out that your 6-month boyfriend has been cheating on you from Day One. Groups of friends are the people who get you from Point A to Point B every single day.

Now I’ve had a couple groups of friends that certainly made sure I never went off the beaten path in my own life. First, there was the Band of Brothers back in high school. A ragtag group of ten Bros who practically invented the code. Bros who were jocks, nerds, choirboys, car tools, game junkies and every other masculine stereotypical character you can think of all rolled into one. We came, we saw, we conquered Roy High School back in the day, and didn’t give a rat's dead body about what anyone else thought of us.

Next, there were the Raintree friends. The scrappy handful of kids from all over who decided to not smoke pot and try to get a college education in the tiny corner of Southern Utah. We L-worded each other more than Roseanne L-words Twinkies. And living in some of the most ghettofabulous apartments with moral standards that would make a Catholic Bishop sick to his stomach, we racked up a slew of memories that to this day bring a tear to my eye. 

Then there was the Guy Council. Which was actually a tangent group to the Raintree friends consisting of all the male members of that group. For years we were known to meet up at Denny’s on the Boulevard every Sunday night and talk about all of our weekly vanquishing's of the fair maidens in the land. Yes, those weren’t some of the most gentlemanly of discussions, but they could practically be looked as an addendum tradition to the hallowed Bro Code.

And as for now? Well, at this moment I am surrounded by one of the all-time best groups I have ever had the privilege to be a part of in my short 28-year existence. And not one of us seems to fit the role of a stereotypical friend. We are that different and diverse. We have a Mexican nurse, a raccoon-hunter, an Instagrammer, a steak-hater, a Good Samaritan, a Southern Belle, a Robin, a loyalist, a tooth-flosser, a ginger, a black bastard, a regular bastard, a scripture-seller, and an Asian. The timing for our roles may be a bit unconventional, yes, but I think we're all doing a hell of a job with our performance in this particular act of the play. 

M: “See the sad thing is, one day that group is going to fizzle out and the good times you’re having are going to be forgotten and you’re all just going to move on.”

Yes, that is a sad thing to take in. She is right. This group will eventually take their last curtain call and become a memory only held up by a refrigerator magnet, just like the rest of the other groups have quietly faded into. But until that day comes I’m gonna love the Hell out of the cast of characters on the stage of my own life at this very moment. 

And you should do the same.

Turn That Off!

So I’m sitting in my front room with five very intelligent people talking about the economy, the debt ceiling, and nuclear fallout. Deep issues, I know. But as the clock strikes just after midnight, I must say that one of the hottest topics we have discussed is a very controversial subject in my own book, and is something that I think is one of the biggest issues we are all facing in today’s world.

Women’s sports.

For full effect, download “Electric Feel” by MGMT, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I know you may get to the end of this post and boldly say with a disgusted look on your face, “I can see now why this kid isn’t married.” But hold on for a second, hear me out. There are other reasons why I’m not married, and being a hater on women’s sports is not the main one.

Regardless of your gender, just stop for a moment and think about the last time you got that sudden rush of butterflies in your stomach after watching a woman’s sporting event on TV.  Was it:

A.     When Lisa Leslie became the first woman to dunk a basketball in a professional competition.

B.     When Brandi Chastain ripped off her shirt after scoring the game-winning penalty kick in the 1999 World Cup.

C.     When Keri Strugg nailed her landing on the vault in the 1996 Summer Olympics.

D.    None of the above.

If you didn’t answer D, you are shamefully lying to your own conscience. And you know I’m right.

Women’s sports are like eating bad Chinese food next to a fat guy with gas. It gives you a bad taste in your mouth on multiple levels. I say this very critically after watching an engaging nine hours of intense college football, and then accidentally stumbling upon a women’s rowing contest on KBYU. For a few split seconds I was confused at the unorganized chaos on my screen, but then I realized I was watching women play sports. And I just swallowed back the vomit about to come up.

The funny part is you may think that I’m on some sexist kick with some personal vendetta against feminists due to the fact that I was force fed estrogen by the members of my immediate family. But that’s not it at all. This topic was actually suggested and promoted to me by all you ladies yourself.  You hate watching yourself in any type of physical sport. Here are just a few of the quotes you passed my way that showed me how you feel.

Jane Doe #1: “Watching women’s sports is an embarrassment. Why do we think that sweating all over each other in a heated competition shows us off? It’s insulting.”

Jane Doe #2: “I hate watching girls play sports.  It’s so awkward, and boring. You almost feel bad that the girls playing have no self-esteem.”

Jane Doe #3: “Women shouldn’t be showcased on TV playing sports at all. They should really just get their big butts back in the kitchen where it belongs.”

Ok that last quote may or may not have been from an extremely sexist man, but either way, you still get the gist of what you, me, and all you other angry females out there are trying to say right?

I know it’s Sunday morning and you were probably looking for me to write some motivational post about how the underdog Rudy Ruettigers having a fighting chance at surviving life, or hear me serenade about my “twue wove” being somewhere out there waiting for the two of us to finally cross paths. But that’s not the biggest issue that’s facing me today. With it now being nearly 2 AM, and our discussion has spanned multiple topics and depths, I think all five of us can agree that one fact rings true.

Absolutely no one likes watching girls play sports. 

So You Think You Can Sing?

What’s the nicest way to tell someone that they should not open their mouth when a song is playing in the background?

Let me rephrase that, how do you tell someone in a nice way that they suck Arabian Donkey Tuna when it comes to singing?

For full effect, download “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. You may ask why I’ve selected that epic masterpiece. Simply put, no matter where you are or what you are doing, when you hear Freddie Mercury’s glorious tenor voice proclaiming that he just killed a man, you damn well better join in on the chorus.

But seriously though, how do I tell someone that they are piss-poor awful at trying to harmonize? It’s one thing to sing along with the latest song and be able to keep up pace, rhythm and tune, it’s another thing to brutally butcher the chorus to a Miley Cyrus song, that already sounds bad to begin with, by using your monotone garble that sounds like it’s coming from your nostrils.

I know we are not talented in every single facet of life, that’s a common fact. For example, I am not a skilled dancer whatsoever. I knew this from the ripe old age of 11 when I used the sweet moves of Elaine Benes as my only example. From there it only got worse. I hit puberty, I grew a foot and a half taller, I realized I was white; all of these played contributing factors in me never developing any sort of natural beat that allowed me to move my body in a way that made sense to the music that was playing.

But see, I know I’m not a good dancer. If a beat comes on over the radio and I see some “hunnies” start “shakin’ their thang”, I will immediately grab my cup of punch and take my place holding up the south wall of the cultural hall. I am not a dancer. I have accepted this cruel, harsh fact of life and I’m fine with it. God loves me regardless of whether or not I can get my groove on.

Now I’ve recognized my flaws as a public dancer, I know my inconsistencies. Please explain to me how someone that Simon Cowell would stab with a flaming javelin at an audition, not know that they just plain suck?

Case and point. A few days ago I went on a mini road trip with some friends. And on this enjoyable excursion one of the main people in the van decided to sing along with the iPod we had on shuffle. 

And so there he sat.

For an hour.

Singing all by himself.

Sounding like Helen Keller with a lisp.

And I didn’t know how to tell him in the nicest way possible that he needed to stop his caroling, because every time he finished a song I think a demented Chucky doll punched out a fairy’s voice box.

Joe Schmo: “That was a great song guys! I love me some Taylor Swift! Don’t you think I sound just like her?”

Me: “Well if by her, you’re meaning the mating call of a brain-injured hippopotamus, then yes, you’re a perfect fit.”

For the sake of common courtesy none of us said a thing to him. We just sat there in our ignorant bliss, listening to the closest replica of every adult figure in Charlie Brown’s life pump out song after song, meanwhile part of our musical glamour died inside. And for 67 minutes of pure vocal Hell, none of us had the decency, or Spanish word for testicles to tell him to stop. FOR THE LOVE OF EVERY BROKEN NAIL SCRAPING DOWN A CHALKBOARD, STOP TRYING TO SING!!!  

And so what did I do instead? Pulled out my phone and wrote one heck of a venting blogpost about it, simply for your own entertainment. 

Somewhere out there, my musically-gifted Grandmother is shaking her head in disgust at how tone-deaf people can be.  

It Was That Bad

“So this one time I took this girl out, one thing led to another, yada yada yada, and to sum it up, it was the absolute worst date I have ever been on in my entire life.”

Is something every single one of us has told a group of friends. 

For full effect, download “Another Saturday Night” by Sam Cooke, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I would also like to give a shout out to the wonderful Jordan Del Toro for being the co-contributor and brainchild behind this blogpost. Her inspiring words recounting the time when she was taken out on a first date by a schmuck wearing a hockey jersey who tried to describe the size of his penis to her was some true inspiration for your entertainment this beautiful Sunday morning.

We all have bad, terrible, piss-poor awful dating stories. Go ahead and dig into your memory bank to retrieve some of yours, because they exist. You know they do. I love hearing bad date stories. They can make your stomach hurt and eyes water with uncontrolled laughing fits.  And last night when a roomful of twenty-somethings sat together getting drunk on hot chocolate started pulling out all of the stops to describe the worst dates we have ever been on, things began to get interesting.

Here are just a few of the highlights.

“And so there I sat at 2:30 in the morning, waiting out in the boonies for my Mom to come pick me up, meanwhile the girl I took to prom was back at the cabin getting frisky with her boyfriend on the pool table.”

“Who in their right mind would think taking a girl to a double-feature matinee was a good idea? This guy.”

“He sort of just leaned over and had his mouth open.  It didn’t turn out well from there.”

“When I picked her up I thought she looked a little bit familiar, and then after she told me how old she was, I put two and two together and realized when I was finishing up my practicum, I had taught this girl as a 7^th grader.”

“Pretending to be a schizophrenic is never a good way to entertain someone.”

“And so we sat there in his house, watching the most racist independent movie about African-American profiling I have ever seen.  Never mind the fact that I’m half black.”

“His name was Harold.”

“In her eyes, she probably thought we were making out.  In my eyes, I felt like I was getting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a plunger.”

We sat around telling tall tales one right after another trying to one-up each other with the worst dates that we had ever been on in our entire life. When after the dust had settled one of the guys pulled out the ultimatum of bad date stories that put a hush on the room that no one could even compete with.

“To sum things up, after spending $800 to fly out to Delaware and meet this girl, the only contact I had with her was the hug welcoming me off the airplane, and a 20 minute dinner conversation.  That was it.  I basically just hung out with her Dad instead for 4 days. Worst. Weekend. Ever.”

Yeah, anyone who flies 2,500 miles to take a girl out to dinner and gets the shaft, ultimately has the worst dating story ever.  But at that point in our conversation, a valid perspective was brought into play.

“Can you just picture her at a cabin somewhere in Delaware, telling all of her friends the story about that one guy who was a creep, who flew across the country to take her out? In her eyes, you’re probably the worst date she’s ever had."

And that’s when it hit me.  We have all been someone’s absolute worst date of all time. Yes that’s right. We have all been creeps. We have all been awkward. We have all been stars of someone else’s story describing to all of their own friends about the worst date they ever had. We can try our best to deny that fact in our own heads, but the bottom line is plain and simple. You, and me, and everyone else has been the instigator of an awful, terrible, piss-poor date.  And there is nothing any of us can do about that.

 So enjoy it. Tell the stories, relive the bad memories, have a laughing seizure fit remembering that one awkward doorstep scene.  Just remember one thing.  Somewhere out there, some random stranger that you have probably forgotten at this point in your life is sitting in a cabin with their friends, retelling the story of that one ridiculously bad date that they had with you.

Conversations With Midgets

“Brock, can I ask you what is the secret to life?” The midget asked me on our ride out to Staheli Farms.

“Hmm… I would have to say the number 42.” I replied.

For full effect, download “Start Shootin’” by Little People and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Coincidentally, this song started playing on my Pandora account seconds after I came up with the catchy title. Add that to the list of little things that keeps a smile on my face every day.

I’ve been asked repeatedly what the secret to life is by a whole slew of people, and the majority of the time I respond back quickly with a reference to Douglas Adams’ epic “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Why people are asking a 28-year old Swamp Thing who still plays the penis game in public with his best friends what the secret to life is I have no idea. But when a midget in a cowboy hat posed the question to me on Monday night, I had to take the high road and come to a conclusion of what my true secret to life is.

The secret to life must be completely different if you’re a midget. Your goals, your ambitions, the things you set your sights on are probably polar opposite from someone who stands taller than five feet.  I mean that both figuratively, and literally. For example, my goal as a 6 foot 5 behemoth may not be to finally reach the height limit and be able to ride Space Mountain. Whereas, someone who can be a stunt double for an Oompa Loompa is probably not looking to slam dunk a basketball on a regular size hoop without using a trampoline any time in their immediate future.

But regardless of our size, I think every one of us has mid-life crisis moments where we repeatedly question the lessons we have learned thus far, and wonder about what sage pieces of advice we want to have engraved on our tombstones.  And as the midget stared back at me, flexing his pointy ears and licking his buck teeth, I gave him one of the most monumental strings of counsel to have ever fallen from my own lips.

“The secret to life is being uncomfortable.” I said.

Cue puzzled look from the midget’s face as the oversized cowboy hat dwarfed his skull.

“Uncomfortable? What do you mean by uncomfortable?” He asked me. “I’d rather be comfortable.”

“No, that’s the thing.” I replied. “Everyone is comfortable. Comfortable with their jobs, with their education, with their bodies, with their entire lives altogether. And that’s what messes them up. When people are comfortable, they are lazy. When they are lazy, they don’t grow.  When they don’t grow, they waste away into nothing, plain and simple. If you want to end up on top in this life, you need to be uncomfortable.”

Cue “mind=blown” look come across his face as he took his hat off and scratched his avocado-sized noggin. Followed by the famous airheads Bill & Ted doing their simultaneous “Whoa, dude” in my own head as our truck came to a stop.

Yeah, I can’t believe a kid who was once chased down a set of railroad tracks buck naked by the cops could say something as profound as that.

Every single day of our lives we look to get to the point where things aren’t uncomfortable anymore.  We starve to find out what our “norms” will be in every given circumstance, and we push ourselves to reach the point where we fit in with the rest of the world. Well you know what? I don’t want to fit in. I don’t want to be “ok” or “fine” or “average” with the way my life is going. I don’t want to turn into a lethargic vegetable wearing wife beaters and sweat pants who isn’t growing at all. I want to do things I don’t know how to do, and continue to push myself to the point where my self-esteem takes a hit and only keeps on rebuilding. I want to be uncomfortable every single day for the rest of my life.  

And so should you.

Feel The Burn

Running a marathon is like sex. A lot of confusion among sweaty bodies, euphoric feelings being stirred for brief moments that really can’t be described in words whatsoever, and an extreme amount of chafing. That’s pretty much what I was exposed to yesterday when I pulled myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 4:15 a.m. and packed myself on to a bus full of people using Icy Hot as perfume.

For full effect, come over to my house and download the playlist “Hippocratic Addiction” from my iTunes account that includes many motivating songs from Linkin Park, the Foo Fighters, the Rolling Stones, and of course my favorite band Muse, and play all 108 songs at maximum volume for exactly 3 hours, 54 minutes and 27 seconds.

By the way, don’t judge me if I’ve been laying naked in my bed curled up in the cramping fetal position for the last 36 hours. I absolutely have a right to this honor.

What possessed me to run a marathon you may ask? Who did I lose a bet to that forced me to sign up for this madness? How much alcohol did I consume while drooling over the application process online? I have no idea. All I can say is that for some strange reason the logical side of my head decided to throw in the towel six months ago, forcing my preparation to run to Hell and back, all so I could give you an entertaining blogpost the first weekend in October.

Whoever actually does decide to run a marathon at some point in their life must have received some form of brain injury. If we think that abusing our bodies in the manner that we do for 26.2 miles, combined with the hundreds of hours of training beforehand is worth the plastic medal we get while crossing the finish line, we must have experienced some type of severe head trauma as children. The fact that I have a 78-year old geezer with unkempt nosehairs talking smack to me epitomizes that.

Braided Nosehairs: “How’s it goin’ sonny? You liking this race?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s been great. Yourself?”

Braided Nosehairs: “I’m doin’ fine.  You like the fact you’re getting passed by old farts like me? See you later, ya sissy!”

Along with the demented noggins, runners are also a pretty gross group of people if you think about it. And marathons bring out their ugly extremes one mile marker after another. There are the snot rockets, the salt stains, the bloody nipples. Yes kids, you read that correctly, if a runner foolishly forgets to tape up his chest before the starting gun goes off, you will see him about three hours in with an entire outfit covered in caked-on blood from nipples sliced open by his sweaty shirt. That’s the kind of pain we sacrifice ourselves to go through in order for the glory of finishing the race.

We are that crazy.

As far as my lapse in sanity is concerned, I probably looked like a lunatic to any given bystander yesterday. I was singing half the time, I had probably two fistfuls of Vaseline shoved down my shorts that made it look like I was running around with a dirty diaper. Never mind the part of the run where I found a little white salt capsule laying on the ground and randomly popped it into my mouth to combat the cramping in my legs. To anyone else I would have looked like an escaped drug addict who didn’t know how to change his own diaper, but in my mind I was running a marathon, and that’s all that mattered.

Again don’t ask me why we do this, and don’t ask me what demon filled out the online application and reduced my pocket book by $100 six months ago, all so I could be surrounded by a bunch of poncho-wearing, booger-blowing, wall-hitting nutcases asking for Icy Hot rubdowns at every aid station. They say that running a marathon gives you a feeling of accomplishment. I say it gives you a burning sensation in your crotch that turns you into a hobbling gimp for the following three days.  

I guess if you’re looking for a reason why people run marathons, I would say it’s the emotional rush that you get.  As Boston would say, it’s more than a feeling. To cross the finish line in a dead sprint, with your entire hometown fan base screaming their faces off, meanwhile Cake’s “Going The Distance” chorus starts playing on cue. Yeah, I’ll endure 26.2 miles of physical torture just to know what those last 10 seconds feel like.

Chafed nipples and all.   

On The Road Yet Again

Road trips do funny things to your head. 

Especially when you’re sitting next to a man who is a complete and total opposite person as you are.

For full effect, download “West Coast” by Coconut Records and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

By the way, might I add that I expect this blogpost to not get nearly the amount of traffic that say a blogpost about the L-word would get. You're a funny audience, you know that? You're driven to read my material only if the title is catchy, or envelope-pushing enough. For example, some of my highest trafficked posts have titles hinting at a sarcastic rant about my disbelief in the L-word. You people ache to hear me rant about being single. Or when I give you my virgin perspective on the act of love-making. You all remember the ever popular "Week of Sex" posts don't you? Those were some of the highest trafficked posts I have ever seen.  And for that, I thank you. 

Perverts. 

Kids, it’s that time of year again.  A time when the number of miles I log on my car every month is higher than my yearly salary, or when my belt starts to tug at its strings because my breakfast of a Mt. Dew, Laffy Taffy and Apple Fritters was the only thing I could find at the buffet table. Yes, this is life on the road. Been doing it for over three years now, and you can bet your little sister on the fact that I’m pretty dang good at it.

Road trips are fun.  Especially when you’re with someone who you can bounce hypothetical questions off of for hours on end and have meaningless discussions about whether or not Obamacare is going to push us to a Zombie apocalypse.  Currently I’m seated next to the infamous Keith Tronic, whose nickname is going to go down in folklore like the great Heisenberg. We’re on a quick 48-hour run to California and back in hopes that our salesmanship will win us over a few more kids, and you wouldn’t believe some of the crap we’ve started talking about. 

Me: "So off the top of your head, what are the top three songs sung by Queen?"

Keith: "Well number one would have to be 'Bohemian Rhapsody' without question."

Me: "Ha! I knew it! Drew thinks it's 'We Are The Champions.' Tell him to stick that in his pipe and smoke it!" 

Or...

Keith: "Listen to this glorious R&B. I had this kind of music as my intro song for the softball league I played in."

Me: "You had an intro song for a city softball league? Who are you?!"

And...

Me: I HATE HOW CALIFORNIANS WERE NEVER TAUGHT THE CONCEPT OF SLOWER TRAFFIC SHOULD MERGE TO THE RIGHT! AAAAHHH!!!"

Keith: "Do you get a bad case of road rage?"

Me: "Only when I'm driving through this state."

When you're on the road, your true colors start to come out. This is going to be a quick 48 hours.