It's Gonna Be Legen, Wait For It...

Tomorrow night, part of me is going to die.

For full effect, download "Hey Beautiful" by The Solids, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Tomorrow night, a part of my life is ending. Over. No mas. A decade of my life that has been filled with laughs, tears, blue French horns, red cowboy boots, duck ties, goats and rabbits, is finally complete. Tomorrow night, the curtain for How I Met Your Mother finally comes to a close.

I've never really had an attachment to a show as much as I have for How I Met Your Mother. Don't get me wrong, there have been shows I have enjoyed and binge watched for days, shows like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when I was a kid, News Radio and Star Trek growing up, Breaking Bad and Community over the last few years, but no show in the history of my nearly thirty year-existence has had as much of an influence on my life as How I Met Your Mother.

I think the reason this show has had such an impact is because it is the most realistic, most relatable show I have ever seen; relatable because it is real to me. For instance, I don't know what it's like to be a reptilian creature morphed by ooze living in the sewers fighting crime, or a Klingon weapons manager getting beamed from one planet to another. Heck, there is no way in the world I know what it's like to be a chemistry teacher who sells meth and kills people just to pay for the chemo bills my cancer is racking up.

But I know what Robin Scherbatsky feels like when she has to tell someone she doesn’t love them. I know how Lily Aldrin feels when she debates the direction her career is headed. I know what it’s like to have friends like Barney Stinson who always offer you the highest of fives. I know how Marshall Erickson felt when he said goodbye to his Dad for the last time. I know how Ted Mosby feels when he wanders along aimlessly looking for his future wife.

And that’s the thing that has made this show so fantastic. The characters, the moments, the life lessons, everything that this show has produced over the last decade are moments that every one of us can relate to. They are memories that all of us have. They are people that have influenced us on so many levels. They are the deep conversations we have had at MacLaren’s Pub at 2 am.

So tomorrow, we say goodbye. Goodbye to the suits. Goodbye to Canada. Goodbye to a lawyer. Goodbye to a teacher. Goodbye to a yellow umbrella. Goodbye to five best friends whose lives have essentially been ours for the last nine years.

Tomorrow, we say goodbye to a show that has been Legen-wait for it-Dary.  

I'm With Stupid

Remember how I’m still a little bit twerked about the condition that humanity is in? And yes, I did just use a Miley Cyrus dirty dance move to describe the animosity of my current mental state.

Remember how I ranted about the world we live in being motivated by recycled electronic devices we hold in our hands?

Remember how I said on Sunday that this would be a two-part blogpost?

Well here you go, the second half of my twerking session.

For full effect, download “Wake Up” by Arcade Fire and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. By the way, is anyone out there actually finding these songs on YouTube, or iTunes, or Napster and coordinating their reading session with background music that I am specifically researching, or is the musical element that I’m suggesting all just a waste of a paragraph?

You tell me you lazy sucker. 

Brothers and Sisters, we are in need of some help. And yes, I just addressed you as a congregation of neighbors born and raised in Hazelhurst, Georgia, only to show you how emphatic I’m trying to stress today’s post. You’re listening to Southern Baptist Preacher Brock, who is 6^th all-time on the coolest Brock’s list right in between “accidentally drunk on Nyquil Brock” and “Duckface Brock”. This character brings a whole new perspective into play, no doubt.

We are in perilous times my fellow brothers and sisters, there is no doubt in my mind that is certain. Times that make me want to find a VHS copy of the movie Homeward Bound, hold it in my arms and cry myself to sleep while Christmas carols fade out in the background. I am in need of some comfort. I am in need of some assurance. I need to know that things are going to turn out alright in the end, because at the rate we’re going, that is not looking like our final destination.

My fear is contingent on the fact that our world is changing. The world we live in, the world we contribute to, the world we adore and bless, praise and worship, that world, is getting dumber by the day.

Can I get an Amen from the congregation?

As the 1963 film title so accurately predicted, it is a mad, mad, mad, mad world out there, it truly is. Mad as in crazy. Mad as in lunatic. Mad as in we are so curse-wording stupid it’s not even funny. We as a general body of people have reached the point where we have abandoned learning, we have turned our backs on self-improvement, we have traded in our mental capacity only to be handed back a marathon of Honey Boo Boo episodes on TLC. That is the eye-rolling point of no return we have now reached.

Our world is dumb. And if you disagree with me on this, go ahead and open up your social media and look at some of the most trending topics we are all Tweeting over this very second. What’s that? Nick Young celebrated a missed three-point shot and EVERYONE wants to bash him for it? Kim Jong-Un is requiring ALL men to get haircuts? Wu-Tang Clan is only going to sell a SINGLE COPY of their latest album? WTF?! OH THE HUMANITY!

Now hold on a second, I must be blowing things out of proportion here. Let me just log on to CNN.com, the real anchors of our intelligent universe, they must have something more intellectual for me to wrap my mind around. I’m sorry, what was that? Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin are possibly getting a DIVORCE! You have LIVE FOOTAGE of a Doberman Pincher who sneakily rolls around on his owner’s bed? You know the answer to who has the BEST BUTT on prime-time TV?!

Say that again please, you have a report that breaks down the beauty of fictional characters’ ass cheeks, and this is a lead story on CNN?

Brothers and Sisters I recently watched a lecture from one of the most intelligent, most brilliant people this world has ever known, Neil Degrasse Tyson. And in this clip he began unraveling how there is only a 1% difference in the structure of our DNA compared to the modern chimpanzee. Only 1%! That tiny percentage of a difference was a deep chasm in comparison to the greatest achievements on both sides. For example, a chimp has the ability to recognize the color red, and we have the ability to send a 25,000-pound camera into space and have it orbit the Earth and send us back pictures of galaxies thousands of light years away. That 1% makes all the difference. It is the separation between brilliance and idiocracy.  

But as the days roll on and time goes by, and I turn on the TV, or log on to my Facebook account, and see the uneducated slander that gets recycled and stockpiled with no end in sight, it’s at this point when I must ask:

Is it really, just 1%

Disconnect To Connect

My name is humanity, and I have a problem.

For full effect, download "This Place Is A Prison" by The Postal Service and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

For the record, this will be a two-part blog about the dumbing down of today's society, the shallowness of our relationships, and the issues we face because of an influx of digital technology, social media, and just flat out laziness. #extremefirstworldproblems #thesystemisdown #grandpaisashamed.

A few weeks ago a very lovely girl and great friend of mine who shall remain anonymous for sake of respect made a vow she would trade in her iPhone. She would give up all the apps, all the Instagram photos, all the Flappy Bird high scores, she would trade all of those in for a $10 flip phone she bought at Target. A rather daunting task, I know. But do you want to take a guess at how long she lasted?

Less than 12 hours.

I don't tell you this to demolish the character of a rather amazing girl, because honestly she is one of the best people I know, and a person who Chuck Norris would more than likely respect. I tell you this to prove that no matter how remarkable anyone of us may be; we are all bound by the electronic shackles that have been placed upon us. We, as a society, are all addicts.

That's a fair statement to make, is it not? Can I safely say that every one of us has an addiction? I know that sounds rather harsh, but isn't it the truth? Think about it, every single day we check our Facebook feeds and laugh at the .gif our friend posted mocking peoples underwear choice in Wal-Mart, we pin the updated chicken pillow with cashews recipe to our public boards, we have a smorgasbord of shallow dialogue using only our thumbs with faces we are not even looking at, we are bound by the digital devices we recharge every single night.

Why is this?

Why must we pay more attention to the most upvoted post on Reddit than to our little sister who wants to go get Swig on a Thursday afternoon? Why do we care more about Instagramming a spectacular picture of a sunset on a Saturday night than we do about taking a few seconds to witness the creator working his magic on Earth’s canvas itself? Why do we think the devices we hold in our hands are more important than face-to-face conversations with long lost high school friends, friends who meant something to us before we were bombarded with the outbreak of this digital disease?

I don't know. I really don't know. And the fact that I'm detached from a Sunday school lesson this very second typing this blog is a fine example. I have not disconnected. I, just like you, am an addict.

We have a problem my friends, a big one that gets swept under the rug and lost in the commotion of Twitter feeds and Foursquare check-ins. A problem that has yet to be diagnosed, or confronted, or attacked, a problem that a 600-word blogpost is not going to solve by any means. We have become a legion of drones whose lives are not defined by the quality of our interpersonal relationships; rather, rated by the number of followers we have online. We need to be better people. We need to wake ourselves up. We need to confront our addictions.

My name is Brock, and I have a problem. 

I'm A Man

When I was four years old I parked my bike on the grass, sat on my next-door neighbor's porch, and had an intimate moment with the world around me, with the surrounding grandeur of life's creation, with the glory of the universe. I paused for a brief moment, looked up to the skies with a humble heart and thanked the big man upstairs for giving me a penis. 

For full effect, download “The Big Payback” by James Brown, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

It's been a long time since that lazy summer afternoon on my neighbor’s porch with many years passing me by. In fact it’s been nearly 25 years since that wiener-realizing moment and my life has been chock full of women. Sisters, girlfriends, mothers, crazy stalkers, you name ‘em, I've known ‘em. These are women who have taught me lessons I would never be able to duplicate, and they are also the women who have confirmed in my head why I love being a man. 

Here are just a few reasons. 

6. We don't have to sit down to pee. People, we spend over a year of our life in bathroom stalls, no exaggeration, no embellishment, one year from our life can be subtracted expending waste materials into a plumbing system. And the greatest part about the way men dispose of ourselves is that we can pee standing up. No problems, no issues, if we get lost in the woods while camping we don’t have to squat on an open log just to go number one. That alone should be the single greatest reason why being a man rocks.

5. We can fart. Anywhere, anytime, anyplace, our masculine heritage gives us that right. Taking it one step further, we can make jokes about those farts and people don't think we are the crudest creatures imaginable. One step even further, we can light those farts on fire and have a case of the shnigglefits at 3 am. You can’t tell me scout camp was not packed with some of the most memorable experiences lighting ourselves on fire.

4. We are not emotional. Guys, back me up on this. We don't start fights, we don't complain about our pant size being depressing. We can actually get into an argument with another person and not hold a grudge for 17 years before speaking with them again. We are simple folk who don't let emotions run rampant in our lives and drive us to pure madness. 

3. We don't have to paint a picture on our face every creaking morning so that when we go out in public people will somehow find us attractive. Makeup itself justifies having a noodle, heck it's an entire blog by itself. On a side note, what if you're not creative at all and have really poor artistic skills? Does that mean you're bound to look like a clown for the rest of your life? Trust me, some girls just can't pull off those caked on layers of blush. 

2. How do I say this in the most proper form possible, part of me doesn't shed off and die once a month from the ages of 14-55 with 9-month vacations tossed around a few times here and there. Yeah, enough said on that subject. 

1. No wait, not enough said on that subject. Hypothetically speaking, let's say I have to pass a kidney stone through my appendage. And let's just say that kidney stone actually isn't the size of an M&M, but more the size of a Cornish game hen. Once that sucker tears up my manhood, do I have to nurture that kidney stone? Do I have to let it suck on my pecs twice a day for a few months? I don't have enough patience to L-word a kidney stone like that. Ladies, I can't fathom how much you have to go through all so you can pass a freaking kidney stone.

Ladies will fight this, blogposts will argue this and femininity will reign supreme in the comments with females everywhere pointing out why being a woman is liberating, joyful, and they have privileges men will never appreciate. But when it comes down to it do you want to know the bottom line why I am grateful to have a Y-chromosome kick in when it did? Do you want to know the absolute numero uno reason why I'm glad to be a guy? 

Because I have the ability to write my own name in the snow.  

I rest my case. 

That's A Crying Shame

I think I found something I hate more than black jelly beans or the initial 17-second brain freeze you get from your first gulp of a Slurpee.

Baseball.

For full effect, download “Never Again” by Nickelback, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I know I have written rants before on my passion against America’s pastime. I know I hate it more than Canada hates Justin Beiber, but for some reason I gave it one last chance, I went outside my element and drove 110 miles south to Las Vegas, paid $43.50 just so I could watch an actual baseball contest live, in person, at an official spring training game between the Chicago Cubs and the New York Mets.

Richard Briggs: “Of course you’re going to hate it bro, it’s a spring training game between the Cubs and the Mets. Who wouldn’t hate that?”

Valid point my friend, this isn’t really a battle between two powerhouse clubs with multi-million dollar superstars batting runs in left and right with the audience applauding their athletic achievements, it’s a game between two of baseball’s worst cellar-dwellers filled with a roster of scrubs who don’t even deserve having their last names sewn into their jerseys. But I’m not going because of the athletes, I’m going for the experience. And as anyone wearing a Red Sox cap has said to me, “I can’t knock baseball until I see a Major League game in person.”

Logan Bentley: “When you go to a game, you always gotta get a good ol’ hot dog at the concessions. Baseball ain’t the same unless you got a nice Brät with ya.”

Good point buddy, I most certainly agree. Yes, I’ll have a regular-sized, plain hot dog with no toppings, hold the relish. I’m sorry, what? Say that again? $9? Are you curse-wording serious? No, I don’t want it to be a combo, I haven’t received my tax return yet, how the crap am I supposed to pay for anything at this place?

Random drunk guy behind me: "One of the best parts about this games is the seventh ribbing stretch…hiccup… Where we all get up, stretch upup our legs and elbows, and I...sing together one of Murica’s greatestestest songs, "Take me out to the ball".

Oh, you mean the part where your drunk sextet spills beer down the back of my shirt and makes more dirty jokes about the lyrics than Dane Cook can say in his entire standup act? You mean a song that an off-key lunatic who for some reason is wearing an oversized leprechaun hat is butchering into a broken sound system? That song? That will help me enjoy this game even more? That will help me fully appreciate this experience to its highest degree?

You want to talk about experience? You want to talk about memorable? You want to talk about a sunburnt moment of my life that gets put in the same category as my first physical? I paid $40 to plant myself on bleachers more uncomfortable than a Helen Keller joke and listen to a drunk audience say commentary that would make Peter Griffin blush, meanwhile I’m forced to take out a second mortgage just so I can add some relish to a regurgitated piece of pork, and you want to tell me it’s all about the experience?

I kind of feel let down, deflated, betrayed. I went into this daytime shindig with higher expectations than I had for Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. I was looking forward to being proved wrong and be forced to write a 700-word retraction, taking back all of the unkind words I have ever written about America’s pastime. I wanted an experience unlike any other, something that would in fact be worthy of a journal entry. I wanted to weep for joy at discovering my newest addiction. You hear that? I wanted to bawl my eyes out in happiness, knowing that baseball truly was a gift from the heavens! 

But, as Tom Hanks so eloquently said in A League Of Their Own, “There’s no crying in baseball.”

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

You want something motivational? You want something that is inspiring? You want something that will make you feel all warm and fuzzy and push you to give a homeless man a hug when you’re out and about?

For full effect, download the acoustic version of “Where Is My Mind” by Maxence Cyrin and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

A lazy man’s solution would be to upload a video of my cuter than Care Bears 10-month old niece Raleigh, and have you smile at the way her bum jiggles when she break dances to Bob Marley music in her Mom’s living room. But I think I owe it to you to do a little bit more.  

When I was eight years old my sisters and I would hop on our Huffys with a handful of quarters in our overall pockets and bike the 3-mile marathon from the house my Dad built with his own two hands in Nibley, all the way to Bob’s gas station next to the Methodist church on Main Street. It was summer and the world smelled like fresh cut grass and barbecued corn on the cob. We biked next to the canal with ambitions of sugar rushes pushing us to keeping our legs peddling, and once we achieved our goals, once we traded in our sacred $1.25 in change, we would sit around in abandoned fields sucking back on Wonka Fun Dip and Big Hunk candy bars.

Those were some of the best times of my life. Those bike rides were moments where I was the most happy.

When I was 15 I got a part-time job mowing lawns and pulling weeds for my Grandpa. Once a week I would drive over to his house and sweat out a slightly below average amount of yard work for the minimum wage of $5 an hour. When I was finished and the beat up equipment had been laid to rest in the garage, my Grandpa would drive me to a run-down 50’s-themed burger joint sitting next to a Laundromat called One Man Band, and there we would eat Eggs Benedict and Chicken Fried Steak while the old man told me tales of scoring touchdowns wearing no facemask for the University of Utah, and proposing to his wife through a letter while he was away at basic training, and taking pictures of Vietnam in his F-4 Phantom 106 more times than he should have done. We sat in a deflated booth with an Elvis clock swinging his hips away in the background and runny eggs soaking up our plates and I would listen to him tell me the tales of his life.

Those were some of the best meals I ever ate. Those are the moments where I felt the happiest with another person.

One Friday night when I was 19, my buddy and his girlfriend walked in to my apartment toting along a third wheel showing off her legs in a sequined mini skirt. I sat on the couch wearing worn out gold basketball shorts, slurping away my fourth consecutive bowl of Lucky Charms watching reruns of The Simpsons. For a few minutes we joked about obviously different circumstances, and we laughed over the idea of a stranger walking into my living room to get some action. A ten-minute dialogue ensued to the point where neither of us were willing to back down from our physically intimate threats. And then in one of the boldest, yet most bizarre 47 seconds of my life, I walked out to the doorway where she was standing and kissed her. Without thinking. Without permission. We stood in a stairwell while my porch light flickered not even listening for the director to call cut and end the scene. For 47 seconds of our lives, the two of us were in L-word.

Kissing a stranger on my porch was one of the most defining moments of my young adult life. It was a moment where I felt pure happiness.

When I was 25, a group of obnoxious college grads bought tickets to a midnight showing of Inception. All seven of us piled into my 5-seat Nissan Rogue, and as we pulled out of my driveway the shuffle on my iPod rotated Queen’s "Bohemian Rhapsody" into the speakers. And we sang. All seven of us. For the 5-minute, 58-second drive from my front porch to the parking lot of Stadium 8 Theaters we blew out Freddy Mercury’s notes doing our best impersonation of the characters in Wayne’s World. As my Rogue came to a stop we all bowed our heads in unison and agreed that our lives were headed “Any way the wind blows” with the percussion cymbals bowing out the song in perfect sync with the halting of our vehicle. You can’t paint a better traveling karaoke group than that.

Without question that was one of the best moments of my life. That musical ride was some of the happiest 5 minutes and 58 seconds I have ever witnessed.

Last night I pulled my laundry out of the dryer and jumped into a freshly made bed with sheets that still smelled like the fabric softener marketed by a Teddy Bear. I closed my eyes and let the nine-year old inside me fall asleep with the Daily Show rambling on in the background.

And that made me happy.

This cluster of stories means absolutely nothing to you, I know that. And the bottom line is that my paragraph’s description of happiness only gives you a handful of what those experiences were like. But you have your own feel good stories when you were a kid, a teenager, an adult; you too have moments that make you smile and feel all warm and fuzzy when you relive them in your head.

This life is a stunning chain of events, dotted with experiences of happiness that litter the calendars of our lives. There are the great moments we reminisce over when daydreaming at work, and then there are the smaller moments, the minor details, like the smell of new carpet in our homes, a person hugging us back tighter than we are expecting, watching our dogs drool out the windows on the freeway, feeling the cold side of the pillow, or watching your niece dance her bum off in a YouTube video.

These are the things that keep smiles on our faces. These are the moments that make sure we stay happy.

The Locks of Lunacy

I talked to an old college roommate this past week who told me he made a vow with God that he would not cut his long, shaggy brown hair until he finally found his wife. 

And all of you thought I was crazy. 

For full effect, download "Vengeance" by Blue Oyster Cult and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I'm being serious, this sponge of a man thought in order to find the girl of his dreams all he needed to do was give the big man upstairs an ultimatum that if this maiden was not placed in his path with no questions asked, he would then be forced to go on a haircutting strike for the rest of his life and would end up looking like the hippie drummer from Three Dog Night.  

Now if you're the creator of the entire known universe what is your response to this challenge?

God: "Well, out of the seven billion people dealing with ailments such as murder, rape, disease, poverty, sickness, starvation, ethnic crimes, physical, mental, and emotional abuse, Communism, and watching reruns of Jersey Shore, I'm going to put everyone else on hold and focus solely on you. Just so I can gift-wrap a female companion on your doorstep and make sure your barber doesn't go broke."

I bet my allegiance to the Ohio State University that isn't what the big guy is saying.

We live in a world that is shrugging off responsibility faster than 80's fashion. The concept of being responsible for your actions is something only our Grandparents seem to understand, with every single one of us inching closer to the concept of placing blame on someone else for our calamities. We live in a world that thrives on not pushing our own personal envelopes, that thinks it is improper to be held accountable for anything.  

We live in a world where we are comfortable with being mediocre. 

I say comfortable because we are a lazy society as a whole. We don’t want to take a stand for the decisions that we do or do not make. We are force-fed the false doctrine of always taking the easiest route possible in life. And the easiest route in my dear old chap’s existence is blanking at the thought of asking a girl out to dinner every once in a while and putting all the ownership on the shoulder of the man who he feels created him. 

And that’s why on a daily basis I’m sure he gets mistaken for a homeless panhandler who doesn’t believe in using scissors.

You may say that lazy is such a strong term to be using, but the bottom line is that slothful word defines us to the T. We are lazy about the choices we make. We are lazy about the relationships we nurture. We are idle, we are unmotivated, lethargically waiting for Karma or good fortune or whatever paranormal superpower we believe in to conveniently position people in our lives that will be stuck with us until we live out our days on this porn-infested planet.

And that’s the way of life my old roommate is living by. Blaming a religious figure as to why he looks like a bum and can’t find a girl to put up with him.

Maybe he'll get his wish. Maybe the God he believes in will keep his end of the pathetically engineered bargain. Maybe he’ll finally cross paths with the girl of his dreams who has a fetish for unwashed locks that are longer than hers. And maybe, just maybe, he will finally be able to walk out of Varsity Cuts looking like a man born in the 20^th century. It’s a long shot I know, but maybe the stars will align and this will be a benchmark event in his existence bearing witness to how we as human beings should live our lives, by making wagers with a higher power on the basis of poor hygiene.

And all of you thought I was crazy. 

Rules To Surviving A Marriage

It’s been how long since I’ve blogged about relationships? What's that? Two weeks? Alright, cue background music. Here we go.

For full effect, download “Story Of My Life” by One Direction and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Married people are funny creatures to observe. I say this because you are more fascinating to watch than the latest season of “Ink Masters”. You are a unique batch of characters who whine and complain, praise and admire the people you said “I Do” to at an altar. You adore your married life, and you detest the way it functions, and nearly every day you toss a few pieces of advice to a single guy hoping that in whatever Bizzaro future world I end up in, I won’t have to endure the perils of a bad marriage.

And so I gathered up all your advice. I asked you to give me every single tip, pointer, and law I need to abide by in order to create the most idealistic, utopian relationship possible with whoever has the patience and lack of sanity to settle down with me.

And these are the rules that you gave me:

Although you may not think they’re attractive or sexy, earplugs may become your best friend. You’ll come to find out that he has a genetic snoring problem pretty quick, and you don’t want to suffer the consequences of being woken up every single night by his nostrils.

When you're making love and she calls out the name David, and your name is actually Eric, answer anyways. Consider it role-playing.

Date once a week. And I'm not talking about the cliche dinner and a movie routine that every boring mid-40’s couple stagnantly does on cue, I mean actual fun dates that engage both of you in some sort of activity that you either enjoy, or pushes your envelope. Don’t get lost in the shuffle of being complacent.

Go into massive amounts of debt only for a King-sized mattress. Anything else isn't even worth it.

There are no pre-determined roles, i.e., She should be in charge of cleaning. He should be in charge of being the breadwinner. Creating those roles is only going to destroy the expectations that bring down a relationship.

Do not get a cat.

If you really want to know if your wife is a legitimate woman who cleans, check the microwave. People can put on fronts and disguises, but a microwave, that is the window to how clean their soul is.

Let her sleep on the side of the bed that is closest to the bathroom.

Don't sweat the small stuff. And by small stuff, I mean don't care about the way the toilet paper goes on the holder, or the fact that she has not been taught how to use a hamper, or that toast is a mandatory side dish for every meal that you eat. Are you ever going to care about these small details in the long run?

Do whatever you can to make the woman happy. I know this phrase usually comes on stereotypical signs that Martha Stewart markets to weirdos, but "Happy Life, Happy Wife" is a true story.

The master bathroom is her bathroom. Both vanities, both sinks, the drawers underneath, the floor of the shower, everything is hers. She needs space for her makeup, perfume, jewelry, lotions, shampoos, conditioners, fancy soaps and random pieces of underwear. The four square inches in the corner are yours. Just accept this.

Costco memberships are a hidden gem.

Acknowledge the fact that girls can fart too. And poop.

Sometimes you just need to shut your mouth. Being able to listen is an art, not a priority.

Your wife does not want you to solve her problems. Shut your face and listen to her complain about the fact that she has had one of the most grueling, enduring days of her life when her mascara ran out mid swipe.

Shopping is a stress relief for a wife. It makes her feel occupied and important. Kind of like the girls in Clueless.

Football is a stress relief for a husband. It makes him feel confident reliving the memories of sitting the bench his senior year of high school. Kind of like Uncle Rico in Napolean Dynamite.

When she says she wants to be alone, leave her alone. When she asks you if she can be alone, do not respond by saying, "That's fine, just take the kids and go somewhere."

And last but not least, the mother of all rules that seemed to be the consensus cardinal regulation that everyone needs to remember, obey, and abide if they are hoping to have any type of meaningful marriage that lasts beyond six months: No matter what happens in any situation, in any circumstance, in any argument, if the foundations of physics, logic, emotion, and the very voice of our creator is pointing against her, be that as it may, the woman is always right.

Awkward In The Air

Awkward. That is the single best word I can use to describe the 57-minute flight I recently walked off of. 

For full effect, download “Hope You’re Happy” by Dashboard Confessional and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Airlines in today’s society are designing trips for passengers in the most uncomfortable way possible. Awkward. Nothing but. They initiate your trip in that manner from the very beginning as you are removing your belt, shoes, watch, earrings, glasses, necklaces, fillings, pacemakers, chainmail lace panties, and metal plates from the left side of your head before you pass through the doorway of death and its annoying beep, pointing you out to the rest of the airport that you could possibly have a handgun made out of tinfoil gun wrappers.

Awkward. Yes, I know. 

This continues on as you are then awarded the 18 inches of cubic space that they call your seat. I honestly don’t know how some people fit in those things, myself included. As you try and proportion your body into some difficult yet random position you have an upset Grandmother giving dirty looks from behind as you keep bumping her seat, meanwhile a drop dead gorgeous girl laughs at your clumsiness in the seat next to you. 

Move to facing the front of the plane while the stewardess babbles on a hundred words a second of instruction into the microphone that no one on the entire plane including the pilot himself has any clue what she just said about keeping your table in the upright position with your seatbelt fashioned as we take off. Or did she say please label tight possums with a deep welt in passions sake? Is this flight getting even more awkward?

Try and shift your focus to a more positive direction than in your crammed position, pull out the SkyMall magazine in hopes of finding some kind of neat gadget or device that can entertain hopes of purchasing for at least seven minutes. While thumbing through the pages you only feel more and more awkward looking at things such as a neon-light underwater children’s keyboard, and an atomic world time watch that can even pass the LSAT along with telling time. Of course I can’t afford 17 payments of $99.99 to purchase things like that or a voice-activated R2-D2 robot designed specifically to keep ice cream from melting!

There is something even more awkward about sitting on an airplane; opening up to the person next to you. It is beyond me why you do not care one bit about personal seclusion and privacy while on a flight. For some reason every single awkward individual imaginable wants to tell the most tiny and unimportant life stories to you while in the air. So thank you Gail, from Nibley, who lives on a farm with llamas and alpacas, while her husband with 12 fingers works on writing a book about the history of the toothpick. My life is more enriched now because of that information. 

Awkward. That is all there is to it. Between the handfuls of peanuts, the cramped layout of bathrooms, and the annoyance of two-year olds sitting on their mom’s laps the entire time screaming that they want a fruit roll up all flight long, I have come to the conclusion that anything about flying puts a sour taste in my mouth even if it cuts any travel time in half. 

However, I must say that the most awkward thing about the entire trip was as the pilot was making introductions about the flight to myself and the rest of the other passengers, when he made the actual statement:

Pilot: “I’m going to turn the time over to your smoking hot flight attendant Sammy right now.”

I looked up from where I was sitting anticipating what the pilot had previewed, when as I did, I stared right back into Sammy’s eyes gazing longingly into mine. 

Sammy was a guy.