Teen Pregnancies / Bear Attacks

I caught this article a couple of days ago and I realized something. If teenagers would look at sex the same way they look at hungry angry bears, there wouldn’t be nearly as much teen pregnancy in our fair nation.

For the unfamiliar, bears are nasty. Some facts about bears:

1) Bears weigh between 400 and 3,000 lbs.
2) The average bear stands 14’ tall.
3) Bears can outrun a Ford Focus.
4) Bears can climb trees. The trees are not safe.
5) Bears eat beets.
6) When not eating beets, bears eat people.
7) A bear can devour a fully-grown man in less than 60 seconds.
8) A bear can tear a person’s head off, just with its growl.
9) The bear is the only member of the Animal Kingdom that stands a chance toe to toe vs. Chuck Norris.
10) 80% of statistics are made up on the spot.

Given these terrifying facts, would you knowingly put yourself in any geographic area remotely close to bears? Hopping in the sack with a hormone-enraged teenage boy is like plucking snout hairs from a starving grizzly bear. It’s just a matter of time before the bear gets annoyed and eats your face, just as it’s only a matter of time before the chick in the sack has a fetus to feed.

“But we use protection!” Would you nuzzle up to a rabid bear in a medieval suit of armor? Eventually the bear will discover the weaknesses in the steel and will exploit them. Or what about an equipment malfunction where the leather strap holding your breastplate up snaps, exposing your ribs. Or what if the wily bear patiently waits for you to take your helmet off for a quick breath of fresh air then swallows your head? Not dissimilar to the myriad things that can go wrong with “protection” when rocking the back seat of a Chevy Malibu.

Adolescent sexed-up males cannot be trusted. Dressing overly sexy at a frat kegger is like wearing a pot roast hat to the bear exhibit at the zoo. Dancing with any form of sexy grinding friction at a club is like crawling into a momma bear’s den and smacking her little bear cub babies around. You will die painfully and quickly. Even showing yourself in public carries some sort of risk to the debauchery of morally depraved dudes.

No, young hotties, the only way to keep yourselves safe is to just never leave your house. I’m not familiar with many stories of elderly people in Hoboken being munched by bears while showering in the locked, windowless bathrooms of their 4th story apartments. If you want to avoid the vicious bite of the brutal bear, don’t put yourself in any situation with the remotest infinitesimal possibility of seeing one. If you want to preserve and protect your young virgin womb from the would-be ravaging of filthy piggish neanderboys, don’t put yourselves in any situation with the remotest infinitesimal possibility of being loved up by one.

Just as sure as bears are dangerous, men are pigs. All of us.

Trampoline Face

Sherri and I discovered a fascinating natural scientific phenomenon a few days ago that we plan on submitting to the World Science Foundation or possibly Nobel. The phenomenon is the affect that gravity has on facial tissue at the lowest possible point of a gnarly trampoline bounce. Imagine the massive strength of the earth's gravitational pull holding onto your jowels like a vice grip as your body hurls upward with incredible force. The effect, known as "Facies Tripudium" or "Trampoline Face" causes the subject to appear to age 80 years or, in some cases, take on physical characteristics of mild retardation.

We present to you Test Subject 1A at the height of his bounce, showing hardly any signs of facial abnormality, excluding teeth of course:



And now Test Subject 1A at the lowest point of his bounce, just as the trampoline springs tighten and the fabric begins to hurl him upward. Note the obvious distortion of facial tissue and possible muscle atrophy:



Test Subject 1A is being constantly monitored for evidence of further, unanticipated effects from the battery of tests. At this point we cannot rule out aggression, laziness, attitude, or hypersensitivity as possible side effects. Inversely, Test Subject 1A could also experience extreme and heightened intelligence, politeness, stunning attractiveness, and general studliness.

We are in the process of planning similar studies with other test subjects. We will keep you informed of our findings. We will also notify everyone when our thesis is published in World Science Weekly and will start another blog documenting our journey to the Nobel Prize, entitled "Going to the Show: Our Journey to the Big House."

Big Love - No Big Thang

I typically avoid religion-themed pieces like the plague, but...

Most of the free world by now knows that the HBO series “Big Love”, a show about a fundamentalist polygamous “Mormon” family, aired scenes depicting highly sacred and allegedly secretive ceremonies that are performed within the walls of the temples of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS.) The LDS community is wigging. I’m here to tell you not to. There’s no sense in it. As a fiercely proud and loyal active member of the LDS church, I find it comical that our ranks are calling for boycotts and shouting at the evil HBO network with skinny fists raised like antennas to heaven.

1) This is nothing new. The church has been persecuted since its inception. Have we forgotten that it was freaking legal to shoot and KILL Mormons in Missouri until only a few years ago? The spirits of our beloved late brethren and sisters that have been expelled from homes, tarred and feathered, publicly humiliated, spat upon, raped, and even murdered, are shaking their heads in disbelief that we are making such a fuss over a television show. How would Joseph Smith react to this unbearable debacle? He’d smile, wink, smack your shoulder, and tell you not to fret.

2) It is OUR responsibility to keep our beliefs sacred. We cannot control what other people do, say, think, or show on television. Just because it is known, does not make it less sacred and special. Maybe less secret; but certainly not less sacred.

3) Big Love relied upon information given from FORMER members of the LDS faith for their show. No temple-worthy, current member of the church would ever give specifics of temple ceremonies. The entire show is suspect and cannot be viewed as accurate. I used to be a boy scout. You don’t see me teaching knot-tying clinics. I pity the fool that would rely on one of my knots.

4) By many accounts from what I’ve read, and I’ve read a lot, the scenes from the temple ceremony added absolutely nothing to the plot of the show, essentially negating the producers’ claim that it was integral to the episode. Let’s use our brains here. A spade is a spade. This blatant disregard for and disrespect of sacred LDS temple rites is nothing more than a hate-filled act of vengeance for “the church’s” involvement in the passing of Proposition 8 in California. Both producers/creators of the show, Mark V. Olsen and Will Scheffer, are openly gay and likely have a bone to pick with those that supported Prop 8. That is fine. I have no problem with a response to those involved with the passing of the proposition. Unfortunately, they have decided to exact revenge by disquieting LDS folk globally, many of which (like me) don’t exactly share the general LDS opinion on gay marriage.

Mr. Olsen and Mr. Scheffer, I feel sorry for you. I feel pity and I feel compassion. Your lives must be full of sorrow and pain. I sincerely hope that you find some form of happiness in your lives. But please know that your desperate attempts to make us hurt as you hurt are fruitless. They are empty. They are feeble uppercuts to the mighty stone jaw of the happy, informed, secure membership of the LDS faith. Your kung fu is not strong. Your voodoo is powerless. Your bark has no bite and your smoke has no fire. Try as you may, you will not bring us down. You point the finger and wag the tongue, accusing the world of “hate” when it benefits you, but you are blind to your own hateful actions of intolerance.

I love the temple. I respect and revere it. Please know that there is nothing you can do to tarnish its spirit. You can tag its walls, infiltrate its halls, sacrifice farm animals, urinate on the couches, swing like monkeys from the chandeliers, finger paint lewd images on the carpet, flood the toilets, and tear it apart stone-by-stone and brick-by-brick. I’ll be bummed about it, but not hurt. So bring it on. Bring the pain. Because you’ve got nothing. You’ve brought a plastic butter knife to a bazooka battle. And I pity you both.

I have gazed into the bowels of hell and they eat Olive Garden

I learned an important lesson this past weekend. Just because something is free doesn’t mean you should actually take, or in this case, ingest it. If you were walking down the corridors of the mall and saw a kiosk that said “free kicks to the groin”, would you allow your nards to be pummeled simply because the service was gratis? If you saw a bin full of “Liberace Plays Barry Manilow” 8-track tapes at Wal-Mart with a red sign that said “FREE”, would you take one, even though you don’t own an 8-track player and any machine you borrowed would spontaneously melt and explode from embarrassment at having housed something so heinous?

We are in the throes of a brutal recession flirting with full depression status. I had a $25 gift card to Olive Garden that I “won” (a debatable term) at my company’s Christmas party. Sherri and I needed a night out. Friday night + babysitter + $25 for food = CHEAP DATE. I knowingly compromised my standards, bit the shotgun shell, took an imaginary shot of make-believe scotch, and departed for Olive Garden. We showed up around 7:00 and there was barely a place to stand. The hostess said the wait was 70 minutes. Are you bloody freaking kidding me?! People actually WAIT for this place? I quickly mastered my nerves and allowed my highly logical Pearson brain to take over, rationalizing the fact that 70 minutes in Restaurantland actually meant 30 minutes in the real world. 67 minutes later we were seated.

Next to the county fair and Wal-Mart on a Saturday, Olive Garden provides the best people-watching experience known to mankind. We saw squirrely-looking prom dates, jaded lesbians, hood-rat gangstas, and a woman whose obnoxious knockers were being contained by a polyester stretchy shirt four sizes too small. I swear if that behem’ho had twisted to one side at the wrong angle, one of those monsters would have sprung out with wicked force, knocking her (or any bystander within three feet) unconscious. Oddly enough, I don’t think the freak show waiting in the lobby would have even noticed. Just another night at Olive Garden for them.

Why my aversion to Olive Garden? Because it is trash. It is terrible food. Granted, I lived in Italy for two years and am a little pickier toward Italian cuisine, but not overly so. Their processed sauces and mushy pastas are just BAD. You will find better Italian food at Fazzolis, Pizza Hut, and in Chef Boyardee cans. Do these people not know there is a Macaroni Grill right across the freaking street that actually serves good Italian food for roughly the same price?!

By the time we were seated I was already angry. Angry that I had to wait 67 minutes for inevitably bad food. Angry that I had to watch knocker-lady bounce and flit around the freak show lobby. And angry that we were seated next to the family with the autistic redheaded heavy girl that yelled out “basagna classico!” every 90 seconds and continuously asked for crackers for her soup.

When the waitress asked us for our order I said, “I really don’t like this restaurant, but it’s been years since I’ve been here. What would you recommend that might change my opinion?” I don’t remember what she offered partially due to her bad answer, but mostly due to the high-pitched squeal of the steam pouring out of my ears. I knew my only hope was to order the most bizarre thing possible, with potent cheeses or sauces, hoping to mask the overall gnarliness of Olive Garden food. I went with the Steak Gorgonzola-Alfredo. And, naturally, I hated it. I ate the steak off the top and went Doberman on the salad and breadsticks.

The moral to this story is twofold. Free does not necessarily mean good. And, most importantly, Olive Garden sucks. That is all. Boom goes the dynamite.