Let's Blow Stuff Up

You want me to write a response about how ashamed I am that an 81-year old billionaire tosses out racist comments like a neo-Nazi?

Don’t get your hopes up.

For full effect, download “I Am So Sad, So Very, Very, Sad” by Crash and the Boys, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

You want me to write a blogpost slamming an egotistical bigot who still lives in a time where there were two different types of water fountains in public? You want me to take a stance on a prick no one even heard of until TMZ blasted his reputation all over social media this past weekend, a man that the majority of us when asked about this event replied with “Donald Who?” You want me to rip his reputation to shreds and stand united with a world that does not stand for any type of racial discrimination whatsoever, I mean, because that’s what is trending right now, isn’t it?

Don’t get me wrong, the guy’s an insensitive jackass. For saying the cruel words he did about people who aren’t the same skin color, that is a terribly shameful act indeed. But do you want me to get all hot and bothered and throw a social media tissy fit ranting about the state of the American people and toss out hashtags left and right slamming his character and toting how this man should be burned at the stake? I mean, is that something you think should be a priority in every single one of our lives?

Because if you don’t think it is, well you’re as bad as the leader of the KKK, you racially insensitive prick. 

We live in a world that makes catastrophes out of things that don’t really matter. You have to admit that statement is true. As soon as those recordings were leaked on to the web it became the biggest nightmare since Watergate and the reputation for a human being was tarred and feathered like an upstart Mormon. Heck, this man was banned for life from an organization that he helps fund in the first place all because he made a few inappropriate comments to a girl he thought he trusted, comments that he made in his own living room of all places. Not at a podium, not in a press release, not broadcast in an on-air interview, he said these words while sitting on his couch in a pair of billion-dollar sweatpants tipping back his Metamucil. But nevertheless, he said them, and he should be banned for life!

Does anyone else feel this situation makes absolutely no sense whatsoever? Have their not been worse atrocities committed in the history of sports that have yielded lighter punishments? Remember when Ron Artest ran up into the stands in Detroit and beat the lights out of a handful of fans because they threw beer on him? He literally knocked people unconscious in a flat-out brawl. And then there was Brett Favre sending voicemails and taking pictures of his manhood and sending them to New York Jets reporter Jenn Sterger in an attempt to have an affair. Or what about how one of Boxing’s biggest promoters, Don King, was convicted of murder? TWICE! This frizzy-haired nutcase killed two different people and he is praised inside the ring! 

And yet the world we live in blows up when an 81-year old blowhard makes publically incorrect statements inside his own living room.

You would think we would look at the bigger picture, turn the other cheek and become better people, because we as a society have advanced haven’t we? We are better than that, are we not? We target bigger issues at hand such as solving world hunger, discovering cures for cancer, and ending violence in the Middle East.

HA! Are you kidding? We all want to jump on the bandwagon. We all want those 15 seconds of glorified social media fame. We praise the Miami Heat for turning their jerseys inside out to support a mild protest despite the fact that they don’t even play for the Los Angeles Clippers whatsoever. We listen to after game press conferences where the main topic of discussion is not the lack of defense or poor field goal percentage, but rather, how emotionally jarred the players felt when they walked on the court. We write blogposts about issues that six months from now won’t have a single ounce of value whatsoever.

You want to end racial discrimination in today’s society? You want moral and ethical values to be raised and faith in humanity to be restored once again?  You want the world we live in to become a better place for our posterity to survive?

Good luck. Because at the rate we’re trending, that’s never going to happen. 

For My Parents. Well, Sort Of...

A few weeks back I bumped into an old fire chief and his sweet wife in the bike store. Conveniently, this sweet couple are the parents of a girl I used to date back in high school. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen either of them.

Cue sudden rush of emotions.

For full effect, download “Walk Home” by Thomas Newman and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, at least I think that’s what Hilary Clinton said somewhere in a best-selling novel a few years back. The phrase is cliché and overused, but the bottom line is no matter what family we come from, the biological parents are not the only people responsible for a boy turning into a man. Go ahead and nod your head in agreement with me on that last statement, because you know just as well as I do that there’s a list of honorable Moms and Dads floating around your history somewhere. Moms and Dads you meet in random bike shops, like the Ritchies. 

Kids, I know you’ve heard my claims that the village of Southern Utah is the place that helped me become a man. With that being said, there is no way I will ever forget the village that took care of me as a boy. That village was a place I’m not known in my professional career for praising very often, but at the same time, it is where I truly came into my own, with the help of quite a few people along the way.

As an A.D.D. driven creature playing with pogs and watching Saturday morning cartoons, you could say I was a “special” kind of kid. And I don’t mean special as in, “this-kid’s-gonna-go-far-because-of-his-ability-to-solve-calculus-problems-in-Spanish”, I mean special as in “why-is-that-drooling-weirdo-putting-grape-jelly-on-his-pizza?” I was out of control, unorthodox, and had pop culture icons like Jim Carrey and David Spade influence my annoying social skills. I was a rambunctious monster, and luckily, my childhood was postmarked with outstanding people such as the Ritchies, who came in to make sure I didn’t go too far off the deep end.

There are a quite a few parents I owe credit for voluntarily raising me over the years. On the south side of my house I had the Nelsons, who were kind enough to let me shovel off the basketball court in their own backyard and shoot hoops night after night. On the other side were the Willards, the classic next-door neighbor couple who were some of the best personal chaperones and guest cooks you could find. I had Larry and Kathy Mower, the former teaching me the art of detailing a car, the latter showing me the secret to decorating a cake. There was my former employer, Bruce Foust, a man that taught me the skill of keeping up a yard. And Pat Patterson, a wise sage who I stole bits and pieces from the way he delivered a speech.

I am grateful to have had these people in my life. I'm grateful for the Chuggs being patient with me as I exchanged blows with their son Cody over the years. I'm grateful for Darren Albright for not throwing me into traffic after I accidentally burnt a hole in the front seat of his car with a cigarette lighter. I'm grateful to Deanne Sheridan for teaching me how to play the piano. I'm grateful to Kim Robinson and Brad Ostler for being the best scoutmasters west of the Mississippi, and not torching my friends and I when we scratched the words "Kim Sucks" all over White Canyon. I'm grateful to Chris and Kathy Davis for being the hug I needed the night my Dad passed away.

The list could go on and on, I know that. But since our modern day attention span can only focus on blogposts that are under four minutes in length, I have to keep it short. One thing I will say is that I am grateful for the number of parents that put up with me over the years, and had the patience to not lose their sanity as life came our way. If I didn’t have them to keep me in line, who knows where I would be at this point?

As I stood in the bike shop with my old girlfriend’s parents, we talked, we laughed, we caught up on old times, we hugged in the aisle and then went our separate ways. Who knows when I’ll see them again? In fact, who knows if there will ever be another lucky coincidence that will have me meet up with any of my proxy parents again in a bike shop? It's been almost 12 years since I left Roy as an immature, foolish, naïve, six-foot-four punk, and not a day goes by I don’t thank the big man upstairs for blessing me with the collage of parents that raised me. 

And maybe, in the years ahead, I’ll be lucky enough to bump into a few more of them while standing in line at random bike shops. 

Swiiiiiiing, And A Miss...

When I was eleven years old I wanted to be Johnny Knoxville. This was evident by the hysterical number of gags I would pull on my friends and sisters that always ended as brutally as season nine of “Scrubs”.

And this is where I learned the principle of being grounded.

For full effect, download “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” by Harry Caray, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

After my shenanigans, my parents would banish me to the windowless cell that I called my room, a cell lined with posters of NBA superstars and those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars we all used to stick to our ceilings with secondhand gum. There I would lay on my bed in the dark, pull out my vintage Audiovox cassette player, position the antennae at just the right angle, play around with the wheel on the front that would be targeted for 1320 KFAN, and I would listen to Steve Klauke, the baritone voice of the Salt Lake Buzz, broadcast games long into the night.

That was the best therapy I ever had for being grounded as a kid.

Now I know in the past I have blogged about my loathing for the sport of baseball. But before you roll your eyes in disgust and think this will be just another rant about the most mundane physical activity created since curling or test cricket, hold on just a second, take a deep breath, and hear me out as I relive my childhood memories through a 700-word blogpost.

You see, there once was a point in my life where baseball meant something to me, it had value in my eyes; or, in my ears, actually. On those lonely nights when I was banished to the basement for putting chicken seasoning in the showerhead of my sisters’ bathroom, or throwing a basketball at my neighbor’s little brother's face, the only thing to keep me company was the sure and steady monologue of Steve Klauke, giving me a play-by-play recap of my favorite minor league baseball team.

Those were the nights I tell ya. Back when dusk smelled like recycled barbecues and there was no such thing as a bedtime, those were the nights. And baseball, well, that was my asylum. Minor league baseball was my Christmas in summer as I would lay in bed and listen to my hometown Salt Lake Buzz engage in heated battles with teams like the Albuquerque Dukes, the Tucson Toros, and the squad who I thought was their arch-rival at the time, the Tacoma Rainiers.

And you see, I was a fan. Not some Robert De Niro-going-to-stalk-Wesley Snipes kind of guy, although I’m sure hardly any of you caught that reference to the absurdly dark film about a lurking baseball freak, no, I was a loyal Salt Lake Buzz fan, through and through. I could tell you the E.R.A. for LaTroy Hawkins, or the batting average of Chris Latham, to this day I know how many errors Denny Hocking made in 1996, that’s how devoted I was as an eleven-year old kid.

As a kid, minor league baseball was pure happiness. It was the extra scoop of rainbow sherbet you would sneak into your mouth when your parents had their backs turned after dinner. It was better than using a Game Genie to get unlimited spread fire and cheat your way to beating Contra. As a kid, those hours spent with a radio broadcast of a minor league team were better than Home Alone 2 and Space Jam combined. They were priceless.

It’s been years since those glory nights of summertime baseball, and you know what, every now and then I do get a little bit sentimental thinking about the Great American Pastime being transmitted to grounded little kids in the basement. Last week on a road trip up north I was surfing through the airwaves of AM radio and heard a familiar voice, a voice calling out phrases I haven’t heard since the Clinton Administration.

Steve Klauke: “Here’s the pitch, line drive to center field, Chavez back at the track, it’s up there, it’s out there, and it’s gone!”

Those were the nights, I tell you. Those were the nights.

Let Me Take A Selfie

I don't always take selfies. But when I do, I prefer to take them with a ridiculously good looking girl sitting on my lap. 

And Then Life Gets Better

Life does a great job of running us into the ground, doesn't it?

For full effect, download "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I mean that opening line with all sincerity, and not in a semi-depressed/glass half empty perspective. I mean it in regards that sometimes this thing we wake up to every single morning wears on us. It slows us down. Tires us out. In between car payments, work deadlines, crying children, unfolded loads of laundry, prescription refills, dirty dishes, broken shoelaces, divorced pairs of socks, and everything else that remains unchecked on our to-do lists, this life can be a taxing time of survival. 

Life is tiring. Again, I'm not saying this from a gloomy point of view, only from a point of view that's so bushed I don't even want to leave the comfort of my work chair to face the 10-minute commute home. People, we get worn down. 

Spent. 

Drowsy. 

Drained of our energy that we give in to the powers of Mt. Dew at 9:17 in the morning just to keep our eyes open. Aged to where eating a bacon cheeseburger after 8:00 at night becomes a cardinal sin. Fatigued to the point where we can't come up with a unique topic to blog about so we just scramble together a few paragraphs and tie a rude joke in at the end just to make everyone happy. 

Yes, that is the point I have now reached. And sadly, it's only Wednesday.

Times like this can leave me shaking my head, but you know what always pulls me out of my funk? I come home, sit down on my couch in a meditative state with the white noise of silence as my background music. I close my eyes in a hypnotic rhythm and ask myself one simple question, one philosophical question that I am grateful a wise man once asked me when I was a boy. I ask myself, "What is funnier than kicking a midget?"

Nothing. 

And then I laugh. 

And then everything gets better. 

The Big "5-0-0"!

I have now reached the ripe old age of 500 blogposts, it's ok. Hold your applause.

For full effect, download "Soldier's Poem" by Muse, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Usually when people hit a monumental moment in their careers, it causes a moment of reflection where they can look back on the highs and the lows, the best and the worst, they place a set of rose-colored glasses over their eyes as they reflect on the moments of their past.

But blogging is not a career. Actually, it is more of a journal. And I've told you that before. These posts aren't for you, they are for my kids. They are posts written to see how their dad grew up. How he changed. How he experienced joy, and how he screwed up. These posts are written so they can understand how he became the man who raised them.

With that being said, I have kept a written journal since I was six years old. That sounds ludicrous, I know. Keep in mind there have been times here and there where I haven't been very consistent. But since my senior year of high school, I've been keeping this habit every single night. And so, to commemorate my 500th post, I'll share with you some entries from those pages. If you like it, that's great. If you think I'm selfish and narcissistic, I really don't care. Because remember, these words are not for you.

October 1, 1991: I went to ropes course. It was fun. I climed a ladder. My favorite part of my body is my back. It’s strong. I like ninja turtles. they’re cool. This is my journal.

June 24, 1994: Dear Journal, This is something I would never tell another human being=I actually think Kasey Critchfield is pretty. She’s a !babe! I think she actually thinks I’m cute. She’s the babe in the class.

May 19, 1995: Dear Journal, I like this girl named Krystle Bailey. I told Drew and he called her and told her I liked her. So my life is over.

January 1, 1997: DJ, I Brock Bybee have made a few New Years resolutions. 1. To be more mature. 2. To not drink pop. 3. To be more nice. 4. To write more. Come on in “97”!

June 26, 1999: I hate it when you see a girl, and you know you can’t get over her. It makes me sick. Oh well, as High Adventure says, “Deal With It”.

October 27, 2001: I’ve always thought it would be good to start writing in my journal again.

October 28, 2001: See, you’re doing better. Just keep doing this for the rest of your life every night, and you’ll be fine.

February 22, 2002: Well, my career in high school basketball is over. We lost to Lone Peak tonight. Man it hurts. After the game we were all bawling. It sucks. I can’t believe it’s over. We have laid a great foundation for the future and it’s sad to go.

June 2, 2004: …And so it begins. My journey as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints has begun. I’m on my way.

March 7, 2005: Hey. P-Day. Today was good. I got hit by a car today. Yeah, that wasn’t the best. I’ll tell you what, Virginia drivers suck. The lady didn’t even look both ways when she came to a stop. It blew me away. It’s all good though. I put a couple dents in her car.

July 22, 2005: I feel like Satan is standing in front of me and kicking me in the nuts. Yeah, crazy. This heat is killing me. I sweat like a mother on the doors. People all the time say, “Stay out of the heat.” Oh, okay. We’ll try! Yeah, stupidity runs rampant.

June 2, 2006: Now that’s a date I never thought I would write in this journal. Well at least make it to. It’s seemed so far away for so long. But now it’s come and gone and life continues to move forward. Pretty crazy though, to think 2 years ago what I was doing. I still read that first entry and see how young and naïve I was.

January 1, 2008: In my mind, I kind of think New Year’s Resolutions are a joke. Why do you have to wait until January 1, to start making changes? But as I sit here late at night pondering the outcome of my life, I have to wonder who I will become at this same time next year. Who will I be at the end of this book? I need to be someone to look up to, to rely on. Whether it’s a brother, a friend or a son, it doesn’t matter. I need to improve.

May 17, 2008: I am really at the end of my rope with these seizures. They seriously are making it so I am unreliable in a time of my life when a lot of people are looking up to me for help. Yeah it sure ticks me off. Dr.’s keep giving me thr run that just covers it all. It just warms me all out. *** It is what all is true and what will help *** me. L uckily my Grandpa is there is the man to help the most here. I swear, if I didn’t have a man which *** worked so had. S*uch as hm, Who know what I would do. I am grateful to have in *** my life.

May 18, 2008: The above journal entry is how confused and lost I am after having a seizure. I had one while writing and tried to piece together my thoughts.

June 20, 2009: I got up and Grandpa and I went to breakfast at our restaurant, One Man Band. Good times…

June 8, 2010: I got the call from H.R. today letting me know about the recruiting job, which I did get. Which I’m stoked for! It will be awesome!

September 9, 2010: I feel like a bloated cow. Cleaned the sink at Angie’s tonight. All by myself. Which means I ate one freaking sink of ice cream. It’s gonna take a while to work this off.

March 13, 2011: And it’s finally over. I did the deed of breaking up with Jo today. Somewhat of an awkward text was accidentally sent in advance, but hey, what can you do? She was upset. I don’t blame her. Life goes on. Laura asked me if I’m afraid of getting married. I don’t think so…

January 20, 2012: I don’t know where to begin. Grandpa died this morning. One of the most harrowing, yet beautiful moments I have ever witnessed. I’m in shock right now and it’s hard to understand what life will be like now. Life is strange, so very strange. And my life will be different now that my best friend is somewhere else.

June 4, 2013: So I bought a house today. Yes kids, you read that entry right. Kind of crazy, I know.

July 12, 2013: I'm almost to the point where I’m in, I’m settled, I can sleep in my new house. I must say I am fortunate to have people like Brett and C.J. and Quin, and Jonathan to be in my life and to help me out as much as they do. Friendships like those are what make life great.

Take my journals out of my life and you’ve got my entire documented history on paper. However, these entries may just be words on a screen to you because these are not points in YOUR life. You don’t understand what my life has been like. And likewise, I have no stinking clue what yours has been like either. But remembering moments like these and holding on to them, well, that’s something no one can take from you.  

Why You Should Steal A Baby

The following blogpost has been submitted by a fellow meathead blogger at the gym, who thought it would be nice to go out of his way and tell me the secret to finding a chick. For full effect, download "New Slang" by The Shins, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Going to the gym is actually the fourth most popular way that is not associated with the Internet and social media to meet a chick in today’s world. The third being going to the nearest Barnes & Noble and browsing over the love and relationships section for a few minutes until a girl stops by who A. does not have a wedding band chained to her finger, or B. has smears of mascara wiped away on the upper sides of her cheeks, thus indicating she is on the rebound. More than likely there is a carton of Ben & Jerry’s stowed within 50 feet of Type B girls in this scenario.

            

The second most popular way to find a girl is the age-old, “head to the bar” method, which surprisingly is one of the oldest methods out there, however does not lead to more successful relationships than it does to one-night stands. Statistically speaking, alcohol turns people's brain functions off as the night continues to drag on and no one has hit on them, and/or vice versa, they haven’t found anyone worth tossing lines at. But it is a proven method that the later you are out, the more intoxicated you become, the more appealing that single chick wearing a turtleneck that doesn’t fit over her love handles becomes Kate Beckinsale, and before you know it you’re doing the walk of shame.

            

It’s ok buddy, join the club.

            

The previous three all have merit and all have proven success rates if used with proper caution and planning, however the number one way to meet a chick in these modern times is to steal a child and go for a walk in the park. And when I say steal a child, I don’t mean create drastic situations that will be aided by milk cartons, I do mean monopolize on all of your married friends who can’t keep their hands off each other and offer up your services as a blue-ribbon babysitter. Within seconds you will have a newborn placed in your lap with a diaper that needs to be changed, all so the parents of that lovely child can have the privilege of taking a nap longer than three minutes.

            

It's a rather bold statement to say that parents hate their children, but oddly enough, that is the nearest emotion I can think of to describe how all of my married friends view their physical offspring. Maybe not hate, how about, loathe with unfathomable comprehension? Yeah, that sounds better. I say this because anytime I offer my services to watch their kids, the child is offered up like a human sacrifice, tossed out the door like a form of terminal cancer. They want to rid their house of this pestilence for as long as they can, just so they can get a small taste of what it was like to be an actual human being, and not a parent.

            

And I’m telling you that kid works wonders. Take him anywhere you want and you’ll find women following you around like Justin Beiber groupies. The grocery store, the mall, Wal-Mart, the best place out of them all is to take them for a walk in the park on a Sunday morning. You’ll have more girls flocking to you than the salmon of Capistrano.

            

The kid is your weapon, your warhead, your secret form of artillery that takes down stone fortresses and melts girls’ hearts like warm butter. And the best part is that he behaves. He doesn’t know you, he’s not used to the way you act, he’s unsure how to handle you. All he knows about you is that you show up once every six months to pat him on the head, and your face may or may not show up on his refrigerator around Christmas. That’s it. You’re not a stranger, so he doesn’t go into an atomic tantrum because you didn’t buy him candy like his parents always do. He’s on his best behavior, and little does he know he’ll get you a girl’s number before it’s nap time.

And that my friend, is the reason why you should steal a baby the next chance you get. 

         

This Is What I Know...

Hold your breath, I’m about to get a little bit religious on ya.

For full effect, download “The Stable Song”, by Gregory Alan Isakov, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

If you were to ask me what are the two most influential factors that have shaped my current character the answer would be simple: The Gospel of Jesus Christ, and How I Met Your Mother.

Now before you put on your rage face and rip into the fiber of my writing, thinking this is going to be a repeat post from last week lamenting the loss of my all-time favorite television show, just take a moment, hold your breath, count to ten, and keep reading on through the next paragraph. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. 

With that being said, on a semi-serious/semi-half drunk on four hours sleep note, I would like to tell you about some of the principles and beliefs I have come to accept as laws that govern my life, laws in my head I categorize as “Brocktrine”. Yes, I know that is a witty way of using my name as a synonym for law, but all jokes aside, I want to tell you about things in my life that I know with absolute certainty to be true…

I know that there is a God, and that he’s a pretty cool guy, and that he wants us to talk to him every once in a while and fill him in on the details of our lives. He cares about us. He L-words us. He wants us to disclose information to him, like our worst fears, our passions, our secrets, our questions. And if we do, he’ll throw us his two cents. We may not like his answers, but he’ll give us the facts, and that’s just one of the things that makes him The Almighty.

I know that the high five is the purest sign of friendship between two parties. There are different kinds of high fives we can use: the phone five, the relapse five, the word play five, the condolence five, the break up five, and on the rarest, most important occasions, the high six. All of these show a level of friendship that cannot be duplicated.

I know that the best stories are told for an ultimate purpose: to teach us something. When we hear of legends in the Old Testament being swallowed by giant whales, or Prophets spending entire days on their knees in prayer, or our Dads recounting to us the night of their 31^st Birthday when they wrestled a goat, the main purpose for this is to teach us a lesson. Yes, some of the details may be slightly askew because of a storyteller’s use of exaggeration, but that’s not what is important. What matters the most is the lesson these stories are trying to teach us. 

I know that we need to be patient in this life. We may not have the answers to our questions, or the solutions to our problems in the exact moment we want, but they will come. Sooner or later, they will show up. Think about it, if everything was gifted to us the very second we needed it, how in the curse word would we grow as human beings? We wouldn’t. We would be as shallow and one-dimensional as MTV. Good things come to those who wait. Even if we feel that girl with the yellow umbrella is never going to show up. If we’re patient, and we wait, things will work out in the end.  

I know that people are placed in our lives for a reason. Now don’t be confused, I’m not going all pre-destination/soulmate on you here, all I am saying is there are certain people in our lives who we cross paths with that will have an impact on who we are now, that will change the way we behave, and will alter who we become in the long run. Whether it’s Barney, or Robin, or a pair of young teenage boys wearing white shirts and ties knocking on our doorstep, there are people placed in our paths not randomly, not by chance, but for a reason.

And lastly, I know that none of us are perfect, however, despite our foul ups we can still love each other whole-heartedly. Yes, I know I just spelled out the L-word, but I really mean this. Every single one of us has flaws, has faults, makes mistakes, screws up, but those aren’t the things that should matter. What should really matter is that we should love every screw up we bump shoulders with. Ted Mosby summed it up best when he said:

“See here’s the secret kids, none of us can vow to be perfect. In the end, all we can do is promise to love each other with everything we’ve got. Because love, is the best thing we do.” 

April F***'s Day

Oh, you’re pregnant? Really? With twins? And you just won the lottery and are moving to Costa Rica? What’s that? April Fools? Oh yeah? Well f*** you! 

For full effect, download “Take A Walk” by Passion Pit and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I would like to issue a formal apology to my Grandmother, my little sisters, and any future employers who feel offended by my use of the letter F and three asterisks for dramatic effect, but I felt it appropriate to show you how angry I turn when the rest of the world uses a Pagan holiday as an excuse to lie about events that we all know are false.

That includes you Scott Bingham, you selfless bastard.

Here are just a few of the examples I collected while rolling my eyes in bed last night scrolling down my waste of a social media connection.

Jane Does #1-318: “Can you believe it guys, we’re expecting a baby! I think today’s the day to finally break the news to everyone!”

You’re having a baby? Didn’t see that one coming. Why don’t you use the oldest and most overrated gag in the history of this holiday as an excuse to get more people to like your status? I think the correct verbiage should read, “Can you believe it guys, we are not an original couple! I think today’s the day to finally break the news that I have a really low self-esteem!”

Jane Does #319-589: “OMG everyone, … and I have finally agreed to tie the knot. We’re getting married!”

Now I haven’t heard that one before. I can see you either used this to trick your social media circles into thinking you are comfortable going to sleep alone every single night, or you are trying to spark some sort of jealousy with an ex. Either way, when your name gets put on the registry at Bed Bath and Beyond next fall I’m going to go ahead and purchase a heaping pile of cow sh** to be shipped to your front door you unoriginal buffoons.

By the way, thank you asterisk for letting me swear publicly on my blog.

John/Jane Does #590-715: “Did you see Jabari Parker can serve a full-time mission in whatever city he gets drafted to?” “Hey guys, have you seen the new MTC application you need to fill out in order to serve a mission?” “Hey check out this real, authentic pic of Snoop Dogg holding a Book of Mormon.”

Statements like these make me embarrassed to claim the LDS faith as my own. Of course I saw that “press release” letting Jabari serve a mission in Milwaukee. That makes perfect sense after he finishes a triple-OT thriller on Sunday afternoon to change into a suit and go tracting. How ignorant do you think I am? Snoop Dogg turning to religion? This guy is the mascot for the movie Half Baked, you think he’s turning his life to the big man upstairs? Come on people, you’re making our culture look pathetic.

Scott Bingham: “I have decided cycling is not my thing! I am selling my bike for $750. I paid $2,600 for it and recently put $900 wheels on it! Killer deal! Message me…”

You sonofabeech! You know what Scott Bingham, I got all excited about new wheels, and you ruined that, you selfish prick! THIS IS WHY PEOPLE FROM ROY DON’T TALK TO EACH OTHER OUTSIDE OF TEN YEAR REUNIONS WHERE WE ALL GET DRUNK! Thanks for destroying my hopes of an upgrade. I hope Karma comes out of nowhere and hits you with a VW bug on your next ride. That’s right, A VW bug!

Screw this holiday. Screw social media. Screw your malicious pranks, and screw you Scott Bingham.

Yeah…said that.