18% Gay

I hope everyone sees this for what it is.  Satire.  Stereotypes will abound and, hopefully, so will the chortles.  We need to be able to laugh at ourselves.

I believe that you are either born gay, or born straight.  That’s a controversial opinion, given my theological and political circles, but I believe it nonetheless.  That said, I believe that straight dudes are at least a little gay and gay guys are partially straight. 

The following is a list of 30 yes/no questions with assigned point values.  Straight folks tally your princess points.  To my gay homies, count up your butch points.  Ask yourselves each question and find out how gay you are.  Or straight.  Sorry for excluding you ladies, but I’m simply not qualified to make any list from a female perspective.  I’ve placed an asterisk next to my own princess points.

Princess Points

Can you tell the difference between yellow and “sunflower?”  +1*

Have you seen Cats more than once?  +2*

Do you maintain your cuticles?  +1

Do you apply Chap Stick on a regular basis?  +1

Have you ever watched Dirty Dancing by yourself, or without a female present?  +5*

Have you ever read Little Women or Pride and Prejudice?  +2

Do you know who Jerome Robbins is?  +2*

Can you identify Bob Fosse choreography?  +2*

Did you cry at any time during Steel Magnolias?  +1*

Have you ever paid more than $300 for eyeglass frames or sunglasses?  +1*

Can you bake any pastry or bread item without the help of a recipe?  +2*

Have you ever made freezer jam alone or with another guy?  +3

Do you apply lotion every day?  +1

Do you own a Liza Minnelli album?  +5

Do you tweeze your eyebrows?  +2  (Extreme uni-brows are exempt)

Do you consider a scarf an “accessory?”  +2

Does your belt buckle have to match your watch?  +2

Have you ever watched a bodybuilding competition?  +3

Have you ever worn a cravat?  +5

Do you watch “Real Housewives of _____?”  +2

Can you name at least 4 of the men chosen as “The Bachelor?”  +1*

Have you ever filed your feet?  +1

Do you think Matthew McConaughey is a good actor?  +5

Can you properly fold a napkin?  +1

Can you tell the difference between a dessert fork, dinner fork, and salad fork?  +1*

Do you check a bag for a trip of three days or less?  +1

Do you own a dinner jacket?  +3

Do you shave your chest?  +1

Do you pay more than $17 for a haircut?  +1

Have you ever bought furniture at Pottery Barn?  +2

Butch Points

Do you ever tear your toenails instead of clipping them?  +1

Have you ever worn brown shoes with a black belt?  +3

Do you own less than 3 pair of black shoes?  +2

Do you deer hunt?  +2

Do you fish?  +1

Do you own any garment made by Carhartt?  +3

Do you drive a truck that runs on diesel fuel?  +2

Would you like a BBQ-scented Yankee Candle burning regularly in your home?  +1

Do you think the Blue Collar Comedy Tour is funny?  +1

Do you follow NASCAR?  +3

Have you ever worn a bolo tie?  +1

Do you own duck waders?  +2

Do you have chums attached to your sunglasses?  +1

Can you change the oil in your own car?  +1

Do you snort and swallow instead of blowing your nose?  +2

Do you own an official jersey of your favorite NFL, NBA, or Baseball team?  +2

Do you like Charles Bronson movies?  +3

Can you wear a shirt in public that has an obvious stain on it?  +1

Do you insist on grilling over charcoal?  +1

Do you own and fill a “ghetto mug” with a beverage from a service station?  +1

Would you shop at K-Mart with coupons?  +3

Can you name 3 John Wayne movies?  +2

Would you skin and gut an animal that someone else killed?  +5

Do you know what “hitting for the cycle” means?  +3

Do you play violent shooter-type video games?  +2

Can you name two albums by Rush?  +2

Have you arm-wrestled more than 5 times in your life?  +1

Do you own more than two different types of hammers?  +2

Do you polish off a T Bone steak by picking it up with your hands and gnawing the remaining meat off the bone?  +4

Have you ever served a store-bought cheese ball?  +1

Add it up folks.  Report!

Revenge of the Nerds

Online social networking has been a fascinating and highly entertaining experience for me for a variety of reasons. First, it’s interactive. It isn’t “read only.” I can actually speak with or share things with people I know. Or knew. Or figure I should know since we share 85 friends but can’t remember who the hell they actually are. Secondly, it exposes people’s nuances, intricacies, weaknesses, and talents. I never knew I had so many friends that were brilliant artists, gifted writers, angry activists, and political soapboxers. I know who is grammatically challenged. Some have aged well. Others have done something to piss off Father Time. I have a bone to pick with that grey-bearded bastard.

More than anything, though, I think online networking gives insight into the nature of karma and/or the chaotic, natural flow of life. Let’s face it….we are all pinballs in the wizard’s game, knocked hither, thither, and yon. Where we end up is pure chance. Or luck. Or is it? Is there some element of karma involved? Are hard work, perseverance, and difficult patience through formative years rewarded with glory, riches, and love later in life? On the other side, have the cruel and indifferent been punished with misery and woe?

Throughout time there have been legendary battles between fierce rivals. Palestine and Israel. Green Bay and Minnesota. Fire and Rain. Cake and Pie. Age and Cher. Plastic Surgery and Kenny Rogers. Hippies and Metalheads. Jocks and Nerds. Some rage on, i.e. Palestine and Israel. Others have been tragically but emphatically decided, i.e. poor Kenny Rogers. And lately the Jocks suffered a crushing blow, much like Kenny’s face, which ended their war. The Nerds have prevailed, courtesy of Fantasy Football.

Look, I’m a sports guy. I’ve played several sports and was pretty decent at a few of them, so I can identify with the jocks. I’ve also bumped pocket protectors with the nerds. Hell, I have hundreds Phish concerts on CD, meticulously labeled and cataloged chronologically on Japanese-only compact discs, stored such that no man or child could possibly reach or damage them. I played EverQuest for years, spending hours of my day as Rutherforrd Gnarlyarmour….barbarian warrior in Norrath. THAT is nerdy. But, my friends, nothing I have ever done in my life on earth has been as nerdy as playing fantasy football this year.

My neighbor Jeb invited me to play Fanasy Football with him and some of his friends. I was loathe to do it, but I saw myself slowly (through little fault of my own) becoming “that guy”….the one that always has an excuse to not participate in anything he’s invited to do. I like Jeb so I reluctantly agreed. How involved could it be, right? I just get a few players and let them rack up points for playing well. No? HELL-tutha-no.

I knew I was in trouble when I went to Jeb’s brother’s house for “draft day” and we sat around in a group of 12 with spreadsheets and expert forecasts as to who would be the best players to pick. We went through 16 individual rounds of a draft. By pick #9 or so I’d had it. My butt was sore from sitting and I had no clue who the remaining players were. We rushed through the last hour, taking the total to THREE, and finally finished the draft.

That was the easy part.

There’s no sitting on your laurels in fantasy football. Each week you have to look at projections, compare stats, and manage your lineup. There are complex algorithms involved in calculating points after a performance. (Catches+Receiving Yards) – Dropped Balls / Yards After Contact x Touchdowns. Or some nonsense.

Did you see that, jocks? I just said “calculating” and “algorithm” in a paragraph that is talking about YOU. You all have triumphantly BECOME the NERDS!

Memo to FF-playing jocks. You are nerdy. Professional cup stackers think you are nerds. Anime manga collectors wouldn’t be seen with you in public. Star Trek conventions would ban you from the premises. You can retire the jersey and don the hammer pants because you are nerds. Sheldon Cooper is jealous. And he can build Tesla Coils and speak KLINGON. And I don’t want to hear, “it’s not even the same dude, we’re talking about sports!” No you’re not. You’re talking about MATH. True football fans are the ones that lock themselves in their man caves and violently cheer for their team to beat the bloody hell out of whoever dares line up across the ball from them. They don’t cheer for Brett Favre to throw touchdowns just because he is on their fantasy team. They know he’s a filthy loser and want him to throw countless interceptions before having his knee folded back by Julius Peppers. Hoping enemy players do well goes against the grain of logic and is foreign to the lifeblood of the true sports fan. Bottom line, the word “fantasy” should clue you in that you are in nerd territory. Do you know what lives in fantasy? Hobbits. Dragons. Unicorns. Spiderman. The Easter Bunny. Beautiful women in fur bikinis that fan you with palm fronds and grill a mean steak. And YOU if you think you are anything but a nerd. A true fantasy team would have Juggernaut at tailback, Legolas and The Flash at receiver, a Minotaur kicker, Darth Vader at tight end, an offensive line of Golems, and Moses under center.

The circle is now complete.

Nerds-1 \\\///Jocks-DONE

Dead Animals and Football

This week I visited one of my Farmers Insurance agents. Farmers is generally pro-Safelite. We have a corporate program with them and treat their policy holders like greek gods. I was hired to replace an area sales manager that had been covering his area for just shy of 30 years and was very well-liked. When I met this particular agent's staff, they were quite sad that their old rep wasn't around anymore. After some friendly banter that lessened the tension, the girl at the front said "well as long as you like huntin' fishin' and football, you'll do just fine" in her mild Texas drawl.

Uh oh.

I get the feeling that I'm not dealing with people that can discuss the artistic brilliance of Wade Robson's contemporary piece from Wednesday. Likely no debate as to which traveling cast of Wicked is best. Maybe we can swap intricate theories about the Dharma Initiative and the Shepherds' connection to The Others. No? HELL-tutha-NO.

Football
I'm a sports guy. I dig football. I admit, I've slacked a little on my college football prowess, but that's mostly because I'm so bloody fed up with the lunatic fans in Utah and their retarded Holy War. But I've historically been able to rap with the best about conferences, BCS absurdity, and all other general specifics pertaining to the pigskin. I'm even MORE dangerous in the pro arena. I know my Packers and I have a general grasp of what's going on in the NFL.

But I pale in comparison to these Texans. Everyone in this city (and I assume state), whether man woman or child, knows football. Not just if their team won on Saturday, or even what conference stats were, but they know everything that happened on gameday. They know who won and lost and what implications they had on their beloved Longhorns and the BCS race in general. They know current stats and glorious facts from the days or yore when they were playing in leather helmets. There are Longhorn propa-promo items everywhere. Every other house has a burnt orange flag flying and there are Longhorns logos everywhere. These people LOVE their football. Age and gender mean nothing. Everyone knows it. They live it.

Hunting
I hate it. I can't do it. It's not so much an ethical issue for me as an issue of complete boredom and lack of respect for the "sport." Please...for the love of the bearded holy One on high, do not tell me that hunting is sport. It is not. Unless you are strapping on a loincloth, fashioning your own recurve and arrows from saplings with a Rambo knife, and stalking your prey in the wild, you are not impressive. You are killing animals with a freaking rocket launcher that is better suited for hunting dragons. Go kill those. If you can ice an elk from 1500 yards across a ravine from the back of your truck, you are not impressive. If you are speaking to ducks in their native tongue through a device you bought for $30 at Gart's, luring it to your masterfully camouflaged "blind" with an exact replica of the duck's likely-dead wife, you are not impressive. Anyone that actually pays to hunt "game" that is stocked or placed on a stamp of land for the sole purpose of being clipped by YOU is beyond unimpressive. Before long you'll be able to luxuriously waste animals from the comfort of your own home, courtesy of XBOX's new "REAL Big Game Hunter." If you want to impress me, wax your animals with a sling. Or a rope. Or your bare hands. Wrestle a bear or a gator. That's manly.

BE HONEST. Call it what it is. You like to kill crap. It's bloodlust. You get a rush by snuffing the life from animals. It is instinctual. The thrill of the kill is still engrained in most humans from thousands of years of surviving in nature. We don't all love it, but you hunters do. I will accept any reasonable explanation for traditional hunting. Like the meat? Fine. Environmentally conscious population control? Cool. Revenge for the tragic goring death of your great grandfather at the horns of a crazed buffalo? Groovy. You can even quote the bible and tell me that God put animals here for the benefit of man and we're just fulfilling our end of the covenant and thanking Hod for His bountiful gifts by capping beasts. Just don't say it's for the sport. It's insulting.

Fishing
"It's ok to eat fish, 'cause they don't have any feelings." - Kurt Cobain, "Something in the Way."

I've fished, but I've never liked it. There's nothing more disturbing than yanking a swallowed hook from a writhing trout's stomach to find that your power bait has been joined by the fish's liver and spleen. I know, I know...I'm doing it wrong. I should be fly fishing. And a TRUE fisher"man" will hook the fish by the lip where there are no nerve endings AND ultimately releases the fish anyhow so....no harm done.

Ok, let's follow that line of logic. Assuming you are actually qualified to instruct on the anatomy of Salvelinus Fontinalis, and fish indeed cannot feel the barb of the hook, I'm pretty sure the fish doesn't enjoy the sensation of being ripped from its aquatic home. Nemo endures many agonizing long seconds or minutes of fighting against this unseen, PAINLESS, force slowly pulling it from the sanctuary of liquid bliss, to be pulled into suffocating weightlessness and blinding light, handled and measured by a hideous pink beast, then tossed back into the depths. Only for it to happen again and again and again until someone mercifully bashes it over the head with a screwdriver and eats it for breakfast. I know the fishie's brain can't be that big, but I can't bring myself to believe that it just randomly swims around and occasionally gets caught, enjoys the ride, then forgets about it when it's tossed back in. These are Nemos. Not Dorys.

Let me be clear. I don't have issues with people that hunt or fish. Once that animal is dead I'll gut it, cook it, and eat it. I just don't enjoy the process of getting it to that point and I don't agree with 90% of the ideas of people that do.

This limits my ability to connect to these Texas folk. I complimented someone today on their "antlers" that were hung on the wall of the office of a very nice lady in her mid 40s. I was pretty sure I shouldn't call them a "rack" or a "set" given the situation, so I went with antlers. I was immediately exposed as A) a yankee, and B) a non-hunter because they are not antlers. They are HORNS. I refrained from informing her that horns are found in cars and on unicorns.

So I need to become a hunter, fisher, and football fanatic. I'm in sales. Pretending is part of my job.

Care for a Healthy Hotdog?

A couple of weeks ago I had the fantastical experience of meeting a fictitious character I created in one of my first ever blog posts in actual real live flesh and bone. It was like a scene out of Inkheart (not a bad flick by the way) where an author gets to see the physical manifestation of an emotional creation of his imagination. My ink-seed, however, was not a tortured soul from a faraway kingdom with magical powers that allowed him to conjure and control flame whilst battling the evil Shadow and searching for his beloved family. No, no, no. I met the creepy Armenian hotdog vendor.

I have nothing against Armenians. In fact, I’ve met a handful of tremendous people from that heritage and actually from that country (*wink* Hi Zabel *wink*.) But the creepy hotdog vendor in my mind’s eye had Armenian features. Dark and brooding with a forest of thick black hair and matching eyebrows. Think of a much older, thinner, creepier Serj Tankian with less teeth and a top hat.

I was representing my company at the annual School Nutrition Association food show in Las Vegas two weeks ago. While never an overly productive show, it is far and away the best people-watching experience of the year. It still boggles my mind how registered dieticians whose sole purpose in life is to analyze and recommend healthy, nutritious food for consumption, can weigh 380 lbs. and look like they swallowed three small goats, a vat of yogurt, and a down pillow. There’s no way I could take such a person seriously. Do you allow a dentist with crooked, rotting teeth to work on your grill? I am fascinated as I watch the stampeding herd of giddy hippos waddling from booth to booth, gorging their maws with fat and sugar, collecting several bags worth of swag and snacks “for the plane trip home”, aka the hotel later that night. I’m certainly in no place to criticize. I’m not paid to be a nutritionist either.

I digress.

I had the unique once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have the Armenian fruit of my imaginative loins in the booth space right next to me selling “healthy hotdogs” from a small cart emitting green steam, covered by a tiny black and red umbrella. His name was John and he was about 5’8” tall, in his 50s, with thick black hair trimmed short, two big bushy black eyebrows with about 5/32” separation between them, and an upturned lopsided nose that allowed me to see into his skull from one nostril. He wore Tommy Bahama tropical shirts tucked into too-tight Dockers that seemed to contain all his fat, as if he squeezed his upper body like a tube of toothpaste toward his pelvis and quickly cinched his belt to keep it all in one odd compact bubble. But I didn’t care. I was a proud figurative father.

Now, let’s address the concept of “healthy hotdogs.” Like hot snowballs, large midgets, unicorns, and free lunches, healthy hotdogs just don’t exist. What makes it healthy? Do you change the ratio of sphincters and lips from 3:1 to 6:1? Do you substitute bovine reproductive organs with healthier turkey parts? One universal constant is that hotdogs are magical because we specifically DO NOT think about what is in them. The knowledge of the existence of a healthy hotdog causes me to dangerously dwell. “Healthy? What makes it healthy? And if it’s healthy, does that mean my beloved Bar-S dogs are UNhealthy? What would make it unhealthy? I wonder what’s in a hotdog. I always assumed it was grade A top choice beef. No? You mean it’s got lips and butts and bone and eyeballs and fecal matter and hair and ears and….lips and butts?! OH THE HUMANITY!” Then I crawl in the fetal position and scrub my tongue with a wire brush. Some things in life just shouldn’t be scrutinized. We don’t ask who created God. Likewise we should not question what hotdogs are made of and just enjoy their juicy goodness in blissful ignorance.

Further, the bastard son of my twisted mind was unwittingly advertising his hotdogs as being healthy when HE was causing them not to be. He wore the same plastic gloves through three days of show. He would grab the healthy dog, cut it up, serve it to the fat dieticians, and then scratch his head, handle papers, and eat cookies before grabbing another dog for his next victim. I actually watched him violently sneeze into both gloved hands, then wheel around and ask the crowd “anyone care for a healthy hotdog?” He never once changed gloves.

But I don’t care. Like any loving father, I can look past my Armenian man’s faults. He may look like a poorly drawn cartoon character and have no knowledge of restaurant etiquette, but he’s my boy. And I love him for who he is…not what he isn’t.

Fear The Grammar Nazi

I am a Grammar Nazi. I have issues with spelling and punctuation as well, but poor grammar makes me want to hurl baby rabbits from tall buildings. I can’t help myself. I wasn’t born this way, but a relentless corrective father and competitive siblings molded and beat me into the hardcore zealot that I am today. In all my years in sports and music, in all competition of every kind, from Pinewood Derby to piano quartets to all star baseball championships, I have never tasted victory so sweet as catching my old man in a grammatical blunder. It is seraphic nectar.

Vocabulary was also a big thing around the house. If you wanted to impress dad, you paid less attention to home runs, goals, or buzzer-beaters. Instead, you would casually drop “indolent” instead of lazy, “odoriferous” in place of smelly, or the word “dilatory” in conversation.

With age has come intolerance. Things that merely drew a haughty snicker years ago actually bother the hell out of me today. If you want to agitate me, hammer me with a double negative. If you want to really draw my wrath, add an apostrophe to the possessive “its.” If you want me to wildly thrash around as if possessed by the unholy, pestiferous Satan himself, improperly use personal pronouns in conversation. I see celebrities, journalists, orators, anchorpeople, religious leaders, and politicians screw this one up every single day. It is inexcusable.

I fully understand that my rigid stance puts a great and spacious target on my own back. The haughtier they are, the harder they fall. I’m sure I make grammatical errors from time to time and I accept that. So if you see it, call it. I can take the heat. Though I'll cry while I burn.

There are ridiculously simple rules for sentences involving personal pronouns, i.e. him, he, she, her, I, me, etc. Any time a phrase contains two or more people, where one or more is a personal pronoun, simply extract all but one subject and repeat the sentence. Here are is an example:

“Would you like to catch a movie with David and me?” or “Would you like to catch a movie with David and I?”

Oftentimes people automatically assume that “David and I” is correct. Somehow the personal pronoun “me” has become the pronoun parriah. The easiest way to determine which is correct is to back David out of the phrase:

“Would you like to catch a movie with me?” or “Would you like to catch a movie with I?” Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? The obvious answer is “me”, therefore the correct sentence is “Would you like to catch a movie with David and me?”

Another easy rule involving personal prounouns is "finish the sentence." For example:

"Brutus is way fatter than him." or "Brutus is way fatter than he."

Just further finish the sentence. Which sounds better? "Brutus is way fatter than him is." or "Brutus is way fatter than he is." Duh.

These rules work for all instances of sentences involving personal pronouns. One other fairly hard fast rule is that any sentence where “I” or “me” is present with another personal pronoun or name, “I” or “me” comes last. “David, Heather, and I” or “Heather, David, and me.” FEW exceptions.

Naturally, all of you possum readers are brilliant and grammatically gifted, so this doesn’t apply to you at all. But I call upon you to be crusaders for light and justice. It is time to rise against the ignorant or well-intentioned cretins. Spread the word. Feed the sheep. Set the donkey wheel back on its axis. Save the cheerleader, save the world. Together we can make a difference. Amen.

Lobot the Lame

There are certain products sold to the public that have one singular appropriate use. For example, fanny packs are for hiking. End of story, goodbye. There is no other appropriate circumstance for rocking a fanny pack. I don’t care if it is the most convenient place to store your crap; wearing a fanny pack anywhere but on a mountain trail is not only a bullet to the brain of fashion, but a crime against humanity worthy of Nuremberg tribunals. If you wear a fanny pack in public, you are a loser.

My detest for fanny packers has given way lately to the increasingly alarming populous of idiots and their Bluetooth headsets. Like the fanny pack, the Bluetooth accessory has one singularly appropriate purpose…keeping drivers from killing people. The End. Unless you are operating a vehicle, hands-free cell phone gadgets make you a lameass wannabe Lobot.

I am a child of the 80s. Like any other human male child of the 80s with the faintest trace of a beating American heart, I am a Star Wars fan. Other than all things Biblical, never has there been a more epic and gripping saga than that told by the first three…err, second three Star Wars films. The trilogy is a microcosm of life. It gracefully touches on themes of faith, love, hate, and hope. The relationships are enormous and the characters are the strongest ever written. Han Solo! Luke Skywalker! Ben Kenobi! Yoda! Chewy! LOBOT!

You know, Lobot…the mute half-cyborg assistant to Cloud City’s administrator Lando Calrissian and unsung hero of The Empire Strikes Back? He had that really cool bald head and walked like a broom was crammed 29” up his “dang-near-killed-‘um.” Raddest of all was the ginormous Bluetooth headset permanently drilled into his cranium that constantly and directly linked his brain to the entire city’s mainframe!

There’s a reason why we 80s kids have never heard the phrase, “hey, no fair! You always get to be Lobot!” when playing Star Wars in the basement with pool cues and cardboard tubes as light sabers. It’s because Lobot was lame and we didn’t even know who he was. Everyone wants to be Han Solo because he’s the ultimate badass, in any galaxy. No one wants to be Lobot. According to Star Wars lore, his name is “a corruption of ‘lobotomy’.” Who the hell wants to be THAT guy?

You Bluetooth abusers are all Lobots. Nobody wants to BE YOU. There is no reason to have your cell phone strapped to your face. Sure, you can eat barbecued possum more efficiently and you can bowl, drink beer, AND talk on the phone at the same time. And you’re still a retard. I have seen Lobots everywhere. I see them at grocery stores, restaurants, shopping malls, street corners. I’ve seen 14-year-old Lobots on skateboards. I saw a Lobot at Sam’s Club carrying a bulk pack of Ramen Noodles talking about his off-shore accounts. What kind of millionaire yuppie buys the cheapest food item known to man at the cheapest bulk store in the most impoverished area of the Salt Lake Valley?

There is even a 78-year-old Lobot in my Sunday church congregation. I mean seriously, if you get a phone call in the middle of the holy sacrament, are you going to answer it? Memo to all Church-Service-Lobots: I’m relatively confident that God doesn’t communicate via Bluetooth. The omnipotent and omniscient Alpha and Omega doesn’t need freaking cell towers to carry his digitized voice. When God wants to speak to you he’ll go Moses, lighting shrubbery on fire and aging you 40 years. No headset required.

Lobots of the world, do us all a favor and keep your Bluetooth in the car where it belongs. The glowing blue plastic thingy protruding from your ear does not make you cool. It does not make you important. It does not make you rich. It simply reveals your lameness to the masses.

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.

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.

Inappropriate Adjectives - Andrew Bird is Retarded

Marty: Whoa, wait a minute. Doc, are you telling me that my mother has got the hots for me?
Doc: Precisely.
Marty: Whoa, this is heavy.
Doc: There's that word again - heavy. Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the Earth's gravitational pull?

Have you ever wondered how certain, often inappropriate, adjectives found their way into colloquial English? For example “bad”, as in “dude, that is one bad lookin’ sofa.” English would suggest that the sofa is ugly. Or uncomfortable. Or even malevolent. But we know that term actually means the sofa is good. Bad = good. Or how about “cool?” At what point did something of a lower temperature become good? Have you ever eaten cool meat loaf? It’s anything but good. And how can “cool” and “hot” be interchangeable? “Have you seen Mike’s new Ferrari? That car is hot.” Or is it cool? Logic suggests that it can’t be both. And you can’t physically measure something’s coldness anyhow since temperature is calculated by heat, implying that a state of “coolness” is simply a partial absence of heat.

Nowadays the Ferrari would be “sick.” But sick isn’t interchangeable with “gross.” Apparently the hot/cool rule doesn’t apply to nausea. Skilled athletes can be “filthy” or “nasty.” So, to be clear, I’m to understand that poor hygiene is considered good in sports? I played ball with Italians that smelled like week-old onions and carcass farms, definitely putting them in the filthy/nasty categories, but they sucked monkey butt at basketball. Maybe the filthy/nasty rule only works in America. Lame Europeans.

Speaking of lame, when did the word “gay” all of a sudden mean “lame” and when did “lame” score pariah status? Stephen Hawking can’t walk, but I’m pretty sure he’d work me at a spelling contest. And I have some alternate-lifestyle friends that likely take offense to “gay” meaning something negative, especially after the word used to mean HAPPY.

And how about “sweet?” How do you know your gorgeous new LCD television is sweet? Did you freaking lick it? Oh, maybe you mean the OTHER kind of sweet…like it massaged your shoulders and gave you a hug after remembering your birthday.

As odd as these words are, I use them often and heavily. Gnarly, rad, sweet, hot, smokin’, rockin’, wicked, hard, badass, insane, filthy, uber, and wild are all WIN.

The mother of all inappropriate adjectives, likely the most offensive, and naturally my personal favorite is “retarded.” Meaning so good that it’s beyond insane. It’s beyond filthy nastiness and wicked uber gnarlihood. It’s so awesome that it’s RETARDED. Example? Sure. “Wednesday night’s Andrew Bird concert was off the charts. I mean, the way he uses digital loops and sonic layering is utterly retarded.” See following video…

Ryan Seacrest - 100 Million Percent Suspect

American Idol is a guilty pleasure. I’m a self-admitted music snob, but there’s something about Idol that draws me in. I’ve loved watching young passionate people from all different walks of life put their lives on hold and risk public scrutiny and nationally televised rejection for a shot at the top. I love me some Idol.

I’ve been extremely entertained so far with the new season. The added judge, Kara, is a welcome change. Paula isn’t lit out of her gourd on muscle relaxers…yet. And the editing has been brilliant. By far the best use of humor, effects, and music out of all AI seasons to date. But what the hell is the deal with Seacrest?

Stuff Magazine calls Seacrest “the American poster boy for metrosexuality.” So how then do we explain the outfit featured Tuesday night? If that is the future of fashion then I’m resigning myself to full frumptitude here and now. Dude looked like every IT guy I’ve ever worked with, plaid green shirt tucked into very ill-fitting blue jeans.

There’s always been media speculation as to whether or not Ryan Seacrest is gay. For some that may be as silly a question as whether or not Richard Simmons putts from the rough. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck. But I think Seacrest fears what an outing would do to his career. He has never publicly said that he is gay. But I don’t think he has to. Bikini Girl spared him that effort on Tuesday night when she stalked and kissed him.

Let’s be honest…bikini girl isn’t ugly. I’m a happily married man with an eye single to the glory of my smokin’ hot bride, but bikini girl isn’t exactly impossible to look at. Judging by Seacrest’s face, however, you’d think that a leprous boil-covered three-eyed alien life-sucker was stalking his way to wrap its tentacles around his grill and impregnate him with an evil seed that would result in the destruction of humankind. The dude actually back-peddled. The actual kiss was incredibly awkward. In fact, the only more awkward kiss caught on film was between Michael Scott and Oscar in accounting. Memo to Seacrest: I fully understand that you may be gay. I fully understand that you may be acting like a metrosexual man that still digs chicks, and that act may be hard. But you’ve got to sell it better than that my man! When a hot chick in a small bikini wants to kiss you on national television, sack up and pretend you enjoy it. Imagine it’s Rupert Everett or Daniel Craig or Brian Dunkelman’s lips you are sucking on.

There is one other thing that has always driven me nuts on American Idol. These judges have no understanding of math and the practical application of percentages. You just can’t have more than 100% of something. If you put a strawberry rhubarb pie (my favorite) in front of my face and tell me to eat it, the absolute best I can manage is to eat every single atom of the pie, or 100%. I can’t manage 120% of the pie. I can’t magically conjure more pie than what is in front of me, no matter how badly I want to. And trust me….I want to. So when big dawg Randy Jackson says, “duuuude dawg, you can blow! Absolutely on this guy, 100 million percent. Good lookin’ out dude, welcome to Hollywoooood!” he’s really just showing that he’s an idiot. If you absolutely loved dawg and dawg had zero room to impress you further, then you could only be 100% in favor of the guy moving to the next round of competition. Not 200%. Not 6000%. And certainly not "a hundred million %." To illustrate my point, here are two of my favorite first auditions of all time on Idol. I’m a sucker for hippie blues:

Bad Randy (@3:00)

Good Randy (@1:37)

Sorry to disappoint you coach, but you can stop flipping out and chewing on my bleeding ass. I can’t give you the 150% you’re screaming for. There is no such thing as >100%. End of discussion, period. Laws of potential and kinetic energy dictate that my potential energy and motion will eventually translate to a measurement that equals 100%. It is physically freaking impossible for me to give you more than that potential when converted to action. It’s time for a new phraseology here…one that doesn’t involve math. Let’s use quantities of fruit.

*AI contestant auditions and kills it*
Randy: Wow, I didn’t expect that.
Paula: Yeah, that was really *twitch* awesome.
Simon: I thought it was really ratha’ karaoke if I’m being ‘onest.
Paula: Simon, you’re such a *twitch* rude jerk.
Simon: Enough, let’s get on with it shall we, I’m going to ‘ave to say no.
Paula: Whatever, I think you’ve got talent and a really nice tone to your voice. And I like you. You have a very *twitch* special aura. I say yes. Randy?
Randy: I say absolutely, 100 million satchels of bananas baby, welcome to Hollywooood!

Two Thoughts at 4:20

Facebook has murdered the exclamation point. How many of those buggers do you think you need to slap onto the end of a sentence to make us understand that you REALLY mean what you are saying? Half the time it looks like a freaking bar code and I half expect to see a price at the end, i.e. “Josephine McSquiggly is having a super fun day!!!!iii!!!III!!!!!iiiI!, $19.95.” Sometimes there are several sentences on the wall post or status update that all end with an exclamation point. “Hey Tyler! Great to see you! You look so svelte!!! Are you working out?!!! Wicked beard! Facebook is so sweet!! Well, busy day! Gotta run!!! YAY!!!!” When I read that I picture that little squirrel from Over the Hedge that is so full of energy or caffeine that he can’t control himself. I see someone physically shaking and cutting himself, crying and laughing hysterically while he attempts to get his emotion onto the screen. Memo to Facebookers everywhere: There is no need to go postal with punctuation. Periods are fine. Commas are good. And a SINGLE exclamation point lets me know that your sentence means business.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I saw Gran Torino with a very good friend. It was likely one of the best 5 movies I’ve ever seen…lifetime, but that’s not really what I want to talk about. Nearly 1 minute before show time, a man and his wife quickly walk into the theater and sit down to watch the show. Incidentally this man is a public figure, an acquaintance of my friend, and holds a leadership position in their mutual LDS ward. Additionally this person is allegedly “preachy” and not terribly friendly. Big deal? No, not really. But the following day at the beginning of Sunday’s priesthood section, the guy stands up and says, “My wife and I went to a movie last night. We saw 'Marley and Me.' Pretty sad…the dog dies. But I’d recommend it.” Then sits down. Doubleyou-Tea-EFF.

To be fair I’ll list out the possibilities as I see them, followed with my own opinion:

1) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. It’s not important whether they did or didn’t expect standard Clint Eastwood profanity and brilliance. At some point they walk out of the theater due to content and see Marley and Me instead.
2) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. Even though we don’t notice it, they recognize my friend. They walk out of the picture at some point and see Marley and Me. Dude decides to make it known in church so my friend knows he didn’t sit through the entire picture and left on principle.
3) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. They did or did not like it, but watched the whole thing. They never see my friend. Afterward, they decide to also see Marley and Me. Dude announces it in church because he genuinely enjoyed it and is recommending it.
4) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino, fully understanding what they were getting into. They never see my friend but possibly bump into other members of the flock. Or perhaps he makes a blanket statement in church because he doesn’t want anyone that may have seen him at Gateway to know he’d just seen a flawlessly awesome Eastwood movie replete with language and racial slurs.

My friend has his own opinion but also insists that I consider all possibilities. However, I heavily lean toward #4 due to the fact that Dude is “preachy”, unfriendly, and never ever talks about unchurchy things in church. The announcement was completely bizarre and totally out of his character. So why the lie? The encounter sparked a fascinating debate that I would like to touch on here and now.

Question: Why do people do the things they do in our local society/culture, and why do they feel they need to hide or lie about their behaviors or unpopular decisions? Does it come down to the individual’s choice, character, behavior, and history? Or is it a general societal pressure and guilt engrained by the culture itself?

Let’s take Dude as an example. He is married with a family. He is a public figure, easily recognizable by many people. He holds a leadership position in a religious organization that openly frowns on many activities and behaviors, including watching Gran Torino.

Assuming the worst for Dude, why does he feel that he needs to lie about going to the movie? Is it because as a public figure he feels that he needs to maintain a certain persona? Is it in his character to do one thing, and then hide it out of shame? Does the shame come from something particular within his self? Is dishonesty and sneakiness just part of his persona? Or was all of that learned and influenced by our strict, conservative, social system?

Let’s face it…there are many people in our Utah communities that are held to very specific and aggressive standards that, to the majority of the civilized world, are ridiculous and unreasonable. From very young ages we are taught to not do X X X X X and Y and Z and if any of those things are done then there is a very specific acknowledgment and penance process. The intent is to shape people to become obedient, worthy people full of principle and character. But once those people become adults, and start to make decisions as responsible grown-ups, shouldn’t the stigma surrounding choices and consequences change? Ultimately there is really only ONE person to answer to when all decisions are made and all is said and done. The judgments and opinions of others really don’t mean anything.

I don’t necessarily think those two options are mutually exclusive. But I can honestly say that I am so grateful to be comfortable in my skin and open with my decisions and actions. I am who I am. I do what I do and watch what I watch. I would have ZERO issue discussing Gran Torino with the bishop and I’d happily burn him my favorite Phish songs or pirated copy of Twilight. SHOULD I have watched the movie? Perhaps not. But it was an adult decision that I own and don’t hide from. I have no problem with folks telling me I shouldn’t have seen it…that’s their decision and their perspective and I highly respect it. I would hope for mutual acceptance and respect, but I don’t necessarily need it.

I can’t imagine living a life of lingering shame and constant secrecy.

Discuss…

"Sink or Swim!" sayeth the Pirates of Cydonia

Hi, my name is Wounded Possum…and I am a pirate. YAAARRRR! Like it or hate it, I’m an avid rabid downloader. So let’s first address the elephant in the room and lay out the ethical dilemma behind music piracy:

True or False? Piracy = Theft
My answer? False, as illustrated in the diagram shown below.

Not only do I feel that piracy is not theft, but I believe music file sharing is the ultimate free advertising tool available to all artists…everywhere. A) It is no secret that the large majority of revenue from CD sales is never seen by artists and instead is gobbled up by record companies. Lyle Lovett has never seen a single red cent from an album sale through his Universal record deal inked out in 1985 (link). Those that DO actually profit from record sales see very little cash. B) There are several studies that show that record sales have greatly benefitted from The Piracy Era. The graphs shown here illustrate incredible spikes in album sales in the late 90s and early 00s, in the absolute height of the download age. Side note…I’ve never managed to win this argument against designers or artists. Their views on “intellectual property” are entirely different than anyone else’s. So if you are in this camp…I’m sorry.

After the initial boom and mass hysteria brought on by Napster and other early P2P file sharing services, the music industry panicked. Instead of indentifying the wave of the future, waxing its board, and hanging 10 straight to Profitsville, it decided to defiantly wade into the sea, beat its head against swells, and try to sue the wave. The mass foot-stamping chaos created by the music industry, and a VERY select few musicians, resembled a three-year-old rich kid going full-on Smeagol on the living room floor because his toy truck was Hasbro and not Tonka. It’s still a freaking truck…the source might be different, but the trucks are equally rad.

We, the people, saw the tantrum and reacted. Instead of using P2P as a new vehicle to preview and find music, we decided to snub the record label suits and pirate their product en masse. And by “we” I mean “I.” Bottom line, if I want to support an artist directly I’ll buy a ticket to their show. Or if it’s an indie artist on an indie label I’ll absolutely buy the disc. Indie labels take care of their people. A good percentage of my favorite bands are all taper-friendly anyhow and fully dig the digital revolution.

“Come and gather ‘round people wherever you roam and admit that the waters around you have grown, and accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone. If your time to you is worth savin’, then you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone, for the times they are a-changin’.” -- Bob Dylan

Everyone was slow to change, but those that have are reaping the benefits. iTunes, Amazon.com, Last.FM, Pandora, Napster, and shrewd individual musicians have all adopted ways to help experience music inexpensively or free. The times are a-changin’, and only the quick and open-minded will stay afloat.

I found this article today on Comcast.net news that addresses a new industry shift, thanks to the Guitar Hero and Rock Band franchises. It’s no secret…I’m a gamer and a fake-plastic-instrument junkie. Last May I was in Chicago for the National Restaurant Association food show. This is the “who’s who” for any self-respecting industry player in the food business. Coca Cola had a ginormous booth with a couple dozen sales reps floating in the area, handing out frosty beverages. Additionally, they had set up a 50ish” flat screen television and an XBOX 360 with Guitar Hero. I walked past the booth and saw two fellow industry professionals battling out to “School’s Out” on medium difficulty and they were tanking. Hard. “Bong, bing, dang, crash, bonk.” Note after note. So I weaseled my way up toward the front of the small crowd that had formed and watched. As the song ended, one of the suits handed me the guitar and said, “Give it a shot, it’s kind of fun.” “Ok, I’ll give it a try.” I fired up “Knights of Cydonia” on expert difficulty and shredded my way to a 5-star, 94% finish. By the time the song was over I had a gallery of spectators that would rival Tiger Woods putting for the win on the 18th at Augusta. I handed the controller back to the guy, whose jaw was to his knees, “what, do you play this for a LIVING?” “Nope. I have a 6-year old kid that plays.” And I walked away.

Thirty something business professionals play video games. Guitar Hero is the new squash.

Musicians are now starting to greatly benefit from the fake plastic rocker (FPR) games. That article, again linked here, suggests some incredible statistics:

• Many songs' sales have more than doubled after release in one of the games through individual download sales.
• Bands control revenue, NOT labels, due to image likeness and licensing deals that apply to FPRs.
• FPR sales more than doubled this year, $1.9 billion in 12 months.
• Aerosmith made more money off the June release of "Guitar Hero: Aerosmith" than either of its last two albums.
• EXPOSURE is huge.
• Artists from Nirvana to the Red Hot Chili Peppers have seen sales of their music more than double after being released on the games.
• FPRs protect artists that release music straight to the games. You actually have to buy the music through the console instead of ripping and burning.
• Users have downloaded game-playable songs more than 55 million times, some free but most around $1.99 each, since the games launched, and new titles come out each week.
• Promoters have brought the game into the real world with a "Rock Band Live" concert tour. Concert tracking magazine Pollstar said 2,900 fans paid $25 to $36 each to rock the Event Center at San Jose State.

A fine display of change and ingenuity. The music industry has almost fully completed its shift from CDs to more interesting and accessible forms of product dissemination. The waters have grown. There will be many-a-sunken stone, but those that have started swimmin’ will remain dry, popular, and rich.

The Heroic Goat, Blades FTW, Dust Mite Madness, and Homeless Sven

Max Hall is a hero. A win for Utah meant roughly $40 million dollars to the conference, $4 million of which would go to BYU. A win for BYU would kill the deal. So Mad Max, in his infinite wisdom, decided to deliberately throw the ball to red shirts instead of white ones. FIVE TIMES. Then fumble for good measure. And botch handoffs. Seriously, Cougars, what happened to your nards? Did the defense decide to load up on Ambien before the game? Max, my man, what is the deal with your helmet? Can you really see with it pulled down to your chin? You look like a weak, timid, pasty Darth Vader out there. You could have put me at quarterback, Collie at receiver, Unga at tailback, and our accounting department in the rest of the positions and we’d have done as well. Tricia in accounts receivable could have put more pressure on Johnson. Disgraceful.

I think wars should be fought with medieval weaponry. No more guns, tanks, Apaches, anti-aircraft missiles, or big red buttons. Let’s go back to the days of sword and shield, catapults, trebuchets, and archers. Too many people can die in the blink of an eye in this technology age. Let’s bring back the cavalry charge, the battlefield skirmishes, and the expendable French mercenaries. While we’re at it, let’s replace all existing guns in the country with bladed weapons and amend the constitution to have the “right to bear blades.” There would be far fewer hunting accidents and I wouldn’t expect to ever see the headline that reads “8-Year-Old Boy Tragically Killed by Errant Claymore at the Semi-Annual ‘Blade and Buckler’ Show.” It’s a lot harder to conceal a broadsword. Drive-bys would be much harder to pull off. There has to be something cold and impersonal about shooting someone. You have the luxury of distance and emotional disconnect. It’d be a different story if you had to get within 36” inches of the guy and best him with your rapier.

Did you know that 80% of the world’s population suffers NO allergy at all whatsoever? Naturally I have no statistical data to support this claim. In fact I found data that suggests that 54.6% of the US population tests positive to one or more allergens. I’d imagine that once you factor in the Chinese with their dietary standards and magical mystical zen-culture, that global number may drive down to the 20% suggested by my allergist. In any event, I’m malfortunate enough to be in the 1/100th percentile that suffers from EVERY allergy imaginable…year round including, but not limited to, grasses, trees, dust, dogs, cats, and sagebrush. Incidentally I am also allergic to green vegetables and work.

A teacher hands out completed term-end exams to her class. Bobby notices that he got a 75% on his test. This is a bit below his typical mark, but he’s ok with it since it was a gnarly test. He glances over at Sven’s sheet and sees the same 75% inked out in red. He’s a bit baffled. On the rare occasion that Sven is actually in class, he’s inhaling cigarette lighter fumes and trying to breathe fire while the teacher lectures. As Bobby looks around the room he notices that everyone in the class has the same 75% score. They begin to compare sheets and notice that their answers and scores are nowhere near equal, but they all had the same grade. “What’s the deal with this Mrs. Tidwell?” “Well, I averaged out your scores from low to high and came up with a mean score of 75%. This is part of our newly adopted ‘redistribution of grades’ initiative.” Mrs. Tidwell was drilled with over a dozen letters from angry parents.


Further, this anecdote was pulled from this blog:

===============

In a local restaurant my server had on a “Obama 08″ tie, again I laughed as he had given away his political preference–just imagine the coincidence.

When the bill came I decided not to tip the server and explained to him that I was exploring the Obama redistribution of wealth concept. He stood there in disbelief while I told him that I was going to redistribute his tip to someone who I deemed more in need–the homeless guy outside. The server angrily stormed from my sight.

I went outside, gave the homeless guy $10 and told him to thank the server inside as I’ve decided he could use the money more. The homeless guy was grateful.

At the end of my rather unscientific redistribution experiment I realized the homeless guy was grateful for the money he did not earn, but the waiter was pretty angry that I gave away the money he did earn even though the actual recipient deserved money more.

I guess redistribution of wealth is an easier thing to swallow in concept than in practical application.

===============

Personally, as a homeless “Sven”, I’m all about redistribution of wealth. Bring on the benjamins baby!

Dead Duck Delivery, Godzilla Snow Havoc, Unstoppable vs. Immovable, and Iocaine Tea.

I think it would be awesome if a tasty animal would occasionally die of natural causes in my back yard. I don’t have the machismo required to actually go out in the wild and whack the animals myself, but it sure would be neat if they would naturally travel to my back yard to die. I’d also wish they would show up already gutted and plucked/skinned, but I have tough-guy friends that I could probably talk into doing that for me in trade for a case of cookies, and I don’t want to get carried away anyhow. And if I really wanted to shoot for the stars I’d hope to have the dead animal gutted, plucked, filleted, seal-packed, and magically placed in my freezer. But hey, if you shoot for the stars and miss you might just hit the moon. I’d settle for the fresh dead animal.

What in the ever-loving holy hell is wrong with Utah drivers this time of year? People, we live in a state where it snows EVERY FREAKING YEAR. In a matter of months you tardlets have managed to completely forget how to operate an automobile in rain or snow. The first snowfall is as if Godzilla has set upon our city and mass hysteria breaks out. “What is this? *gasp* Oh no. NOOOOOO! Wetness is falling from the sky?! Lord in heaven, let it not be so. AAAAARRRRGGHHHH! God is weeping over our impending deaths! Drive dammit! Drive for your liiiivvveeesss!” And cars start maniacally swerving and spinning out of control. Then magically, one week after the first heavy rain or snowfall, people adapt and start driving normally again. Folks, this phenomenon we call “precipitation” happens every…single…year in our state. The rules and safe-driving practices that applied in January also apply in November. May through October shouldn’t be a sufficient period of time to make you forget what snow is.

Ever since "The Dark Knight" I’ve been giving an awful lot of thought to the concept of The Unstoppable Force and the Immovable Object. By definition, an unstoppable force is just that…unstoppable. Nothing, no matter what, in any circumstance can keep that force from continuing on its path. Likewise, an immovable object is equally impossible to manipulate. No matter what force collides with that object, the object will remain unmoved. So what would happen if the unstoppable force were to meet the immovable object? Would it be an epic battle worthy of Neo and Agent Smith in the final Matrix movie where the shockwave and subsequent fallout of the event would destroy everything in its path? Would the entire Universe collapse onto itself? Would an alternate reality spawn from the epicenter, creating a bizarre yet familiar existence with purple skies, orange seas, and razor-edged cliffs on all sides? Or what if the event were entirely anticlimactic and absolutely nothing happened? This is the kind of spacey concept that can keep me thinking (and drooling) for hours… a force that can’t be stopped meeting an object that can’t be moved. One would have to win, effectively negating the entire existence of the other. Or would it?

I’ve also been thinking a lot about the familiar analogy of the half-full or half-empty glass. We optimists tend to look at the glass as half full. Every cloud has a silver lining. You pessimists see the glass as half empty. Every silver lining has a touch of grey. But how do we know the glass even exists? And what if the glass were full of iocaine powder juice and a large enough swallow would kill you right where you sat? All of a sudden the optimist becomes the pessimist and the pessimist the optimist. Less is more and more is less. But regardless of outlook, pessimist or optimist, never get involved in a land war in Asia and never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

Random Thoughts on Election Day

I voted today and it was the most anticlimactic experience of my life. For more than two years we as a nation have been upended over this election. I’ve learned there is nothing more divisive than a presidential election. I’ve seen candidates’ religions, ethnicities, families, character, age, judgment, and fashion called into question. Seriously folks…who the holy freaking hell cares about Sara Palin’s wardrobe? I realize John McCain can’t lift his arms past his chest. Yes, I know Obama’s middle name is Hussein. Mitt Romney is a Mormon? Where are his horns then? He must file them down. We’re told to get out and vote because the future of humanity relies on our voice. It is our god-given right and DUTY to vote and American civilization depends on our hitting the polls. The universe will collapse on itself if it doesn’t happen! Yet such a crucial event consists of giving my last name to the guy in the flannel shirt and handlebar moustache, taking my voter card from the lady with the glass eye and floral-print mumu, and touching a computer screen for 90 seconds. The culmination of two years of irrational arguing and mudslinging was a grand total of 4 minutes of my time.

Dell Schanze ran for governor on the Libertarian ticket. Somewhere in the galaxy a star has imploded, a baby seal was clubbed, or an angel had its wings ripped off. This man is hardly fit to BELONG to a society, much less govern one. It's ironic that the only person in the state that craves media attention and photo op moments more than Superdell is our current governor, Huntsman. Bring back Norm Bangerter dammit.

I’ve decided once and for all that I WILL NOT read Twilight. I know I know, ladies, I told you that I would. I bought into your whole, “you can’t bash a book you’ve never read” bit. I figured I would read the book with a highlighter in one holster and a .357 in the other one (in case I actually started to like it) and would call it “research.” This author was being compared to Jane Austen and even Dickens in one discussion I had. But the more I think of it, the more I know that I most certainly do not have to experience something firsthand in order to understand it. I’ve never swallowed shards of broken glass, but I’m pretty sure it would be bad for me. I’ve never lit my head on fire, but I’m relatively confident it would suck. Likewise, I don’t have to read Twilight to know that it is a book for women. It totally misrepresents the true nature of vampires and werewolves and insults their ferocity and hatred for humans. And that freaking Edward is making it impossible for millions of men worldwide to meet the new expectations of their lovers. No, no, no, no. I’m sticking to my guns and moral compass on this one.

All rules are off when driving alone in a car. Propriety and decency mean nothing. A 90-year-old Asian woman just cut you off? Let the bird fly. The more lush and flowery the vocabulary the better. Frustrated? Put in some Tool and bang that head or fire up Dr. Dre’s “The Chronic” and let loose the F bombs. If you’re with someone else, normal societal rules apply and you need to be courteous to your fellow auto drivers with the gentle tones of Karen Carpenter soothing your soul. But when alone, give in to your inner badass.

Taco Bell boycott begins today. I have resolved to not touch my lips to Bell food for one year, starting right now. A very large group of us went there for dinner on Halloween night and the Mexican teenagers running the joint must have wanted to trick us instead of treating. Orders were messed up and the food was terrible. “No duh” you might be saying, but I’m not comparing TB to other (better) GhettoMex restaurants. I’m simply holding them to their own standards. I usually know what to expect when I walk through those doors, but on this particular night they really went out of their way to make our experience suck. Tables were sticky, floors were dirty, chips were uber-stale, meat tasted like cat, etc. Barf.