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The Op

2005-02-23T02:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the night that Trevor, Nephi, and I dropped a HealthRider from our third floor Liberty Square apartment. We had originally intended to donate the device to Deseret Industries but quickly reconsidered. After all, it inevitably would have been hurled out of its new owner’s living room window, and this being Provo and all, odds were the window wouldn’t have been any higher than our own. If anyone could have fun chucking this thing, it would be us.

I ran point man on the ground, ensuring that no other flying exercise machines invaded our airspace during the operation. HealthRider thudded into the soft, muddy grass in a ridiculously anticlimactic fashion, and we proclaimed ourselves losers.

Nephi and Trevor recovered our fallen comrade and made way for the dumpster down the block. HealthRider never quite made it to the trash. On their way, the two decided to leave the contraption in the bed of a pickup truck which was conveniently parked near the bin. This was, in their opinion, a good deed, owing to the fact that they effectively cut out the middleman work that DI would have had to do to get the HealthRider into the hands of the vehicle’s owner. Evidently, charity still never faileth.

No Wonder They Didn't Find Him Sooner

2004-11-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

BBC Photo of the Week Archive: "Members of the Iraqi National Guard arrest a petrol black marketeer in the capital, Baghdad." Oh really? The capital of Iraq is Baghdad? I hadn't turned on the news in the last 15 years. Didn't it used to be Constantinople? This is what I love about the BBC. They tell you what the American news outlets either don't know or don't want you to know. The Iraqis don't use oil or gasoline, for example, they use petrol. Also, most likely in an effort to avoid generating sympathy among Americans for their country's assault on a nation of peace-loving Jawas neither CNN nor anyone else in this hemisphere accurately portrays the size of Iraqis with respect to Americans. It seems our plain-clothed American pistolero just pulled up in his Dodge Ram to help a couple of Oompa Loompas make the arrest. Later reports indicated that this black marketeer was actually a couple of Bedouin Mini Me's standing atop one another's shoulders beneath a large trenchcoat. No wonder the rest of the world thinks we're bullying these people around.

Dern Book Learned Folks

2004-11-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

I love the smell of custodial's industrial-strength Windex in the early morning as much as the next man, but from now on I'm not coming in to open the library until around noon-thirty or so. I've watched too many college students roll into our hallowed HBL of L at the butt-crack of dawn to study, well, their butt cracks off, really, and they're beating the sheezie out of me academically. As I sit and watch these brainiacs waltz in for pre-dawn preparation to nuke my GPA, my only consolation comes from the certainty that none of them have a clue as to what it's like to be kissed by a woman under 50.

Perhaps my day needs a scholarly shot in the arm. I tried to read yesterday's Daily Herald but never advanced beyond the intriguing headline "Bush taps Rice." Sure, if he wants to, I guess. Hadn't pegged her as his type but then again I've yet to peg anyone as mine either. Touché.

So the newspaper is out. Time to wait for someone to turn in a copy of Mommy, Mommy, What's The Potty For? The Juvenile section poses a challenge closer to my current abilities, plus I would undoubtedly find it an informative read. Aw forget it. I'm aiming for even smaller goals. Baby steps, like learning to stamp a few books between the lines. What? The stamp has to be right-side-up too? Shoot me.

Hey, Nobody's Forcing You To Be A Janitor

2004-05-21T17:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I wandered in to the company bathroom while the janitor was about to finish up his cleaning. Dilemma. It really makes me feel like a jerk to stand in a man's presence and begrime his pride and joy. "Great," he's gotta be thinking, "only a mere 4.8 seconds after I just sweat out 20 minutes on all fours sanitizing the porcelain enough to accommodate a freshly tossed garden salad." Way to instill a sense of efficacy and satisfaction in the man's occupation. Yeah, you know what I think of your work, eh, buddy? (zip) That's what! Sure, you think I'm taking this too far, but listen, the next time someone strolls in and nonchalantly does his business on your desk, it might leave doubts in your mind as to how much he truly appreciated the work you were doing. On the other hand, I needed to make use of the facilities. No emergency or anything, but I was there for a reason, you know, and it wasn't going to take care of itself... Oh well.

Halo, My Name Is §åû®µ$

2004-03-26T01:58:00.000-07:00

The Siren Song of a twelve player Halo brawl lured Ninja4Hire, Gargamel, and I over to the ritzy Belmont Condos last night. If you haven't seen this thing, it's one of those shoot 'em up video games that's more addictive than heroin. I mean, after 24 to 36 hours without playing I have to swing past the methadone clinic on the way home from the grocery store, and on top of that, I'm knocked out of ketosis for a week. The days of simple Nintendo are long gone. Halo controls require a mastery of twelve stinking buttons and knobs, too. Had I dedicated comparable hours to a musical instrument over the last two months I'd be busting Rachmaninoff's 3rd on all your trashes right now instead.

Yeah, I know. You're thinking that I'm the world's biggest nerd. Hey, I for one am sick and tired of everyone letting the Covenant jerk us around, dangit. Take a lesson from The Blood Gulch Chronicles. It's about Pride, it's about saving planet Earth, and I'd give my life for it... well, Master Chief's life anyway. Crap, I need a life...

But let's not end this with a tone of regret. On the contrary, friends, the godsend is that I've been meaning to make a few bucks on the side, and suing the crap out of Microsoft for the filthiest case of Carpal Tunnel Sydrome on record will at least cover my iTunes bill for next quarter. Maybe.

March MADNESS

2004-03-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

Some of my lady friends (including Jules) have asked, "What's this March Madness stuff all about?" Before answering I'm going to do two things just for fun. First, I'm putting Sandstorm by Darude on repeat so I can get in a freaky dance "zone". Secondly, I'm going to imagine you all as, like, really hot babes.

Now, hunnies, lie back and count backwards from 10. By the time you get to 1 you will be completely relaxed and ready to visualize. Fancy yourself in a world with... Spring Break. Next, imagine that world in 1997 - so kinda change the hairstyles a tad, and put Vans or Tevas, knee-high socks, hemp necklaces, and fake mirrored Oakleys on everyone you envision there. Oh, and make some of them Mexican, too, cause that's where we're going.

Ordinarily, memories of my excursions to Puerto Peñasco include days of four-wheeling, pounding tacos made from who knows whose dog, basking in the south-of-the-border sun, and perpetrating a bunch of stuff that isn't legal in the US. '97 was even sweeter, though, because that was my first really fun experience with March Madness. Each night we commandeered a sattelite dish to watch AZ fight it's way closer to the Final Four and, later, the 'ship at the expense of three number one seeds. You too can have a first memorable March Madness experience if you let yourselves get into it. If you choose not to let yourselves get into it, for the love of all that's good and holy, gurls, at least keep on being hotties.

Upsets, unpredictability, Cinderella teams, buzzer beaters, and a whole bunch of other factors combine for some of the best spectatin' you'll have all year. Anything crazy can happen at any time, I mean, UAB can beat Kentucky and McNamara can have the friggin game of his life to upset the Cougs' upset in round one. Simply MADNESS, I tell you.

Bowling Nite

2004-03-24T23:50:00.000-07:00

Although ostensibly lameness is no respecter of persons it does seem to have a predilection for bowlers. It all dawned on Ninja4Hire and I during this week's Wednesday night bowling extravaganza. It starts, of course, with having to don those lame shoes wherein before you untold thousands of lame feet sweated out the world's lamest frames. Next come the sweetly lame thrift store clothes, which, no matter how well washed, still allow you to experience the former owner's last cigarette if you bury your nose into the fabric. And finally, the nappiest lame facial hair you've ever seen. But all that's part of the indispensable generic bowling lameness ambience, and I'm down with it. Matter of fact, I thrive on it.

Also, one of those amazingly lame bowler chicks graced us with her presence, you know, the type who throws her ball and then, as if she were an actress overcome with stage fright, turns and scurries back toward her seat without even caring to check how many pins she knocked down. Outta my way, girl, I'm trying to break 100 here. Lame bowler chicks also tend to use a ball so light that it almost completely stops before making it all the way through the pins. Bugs like a 7-10 split . A potential future spouse would have to be REALLY HOT in order for me to overlook that, man.

What The Crapper?

2004-03-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

I wonder what I did to displease the porcelain gods. It HAS been a while since we sacrificed a virgin to the crapper, come to think of it. Which must explain my difficulties this afternoon during my attempt to install a new TP to the roller. My fumbling hands dropped the sucker right into the toilet... before I had flushed the vile sludge that was already festering therein. Oh Crap. Literally. At least I didn't drop Uncle John's Giant Bathroom Reader in there. Indespensible reading material.

Ah, yes, the john, the commode, the loo, Mr. Potty, the thinking chair. Whether you're reading a magazine, doing a crossword puzzle, talking on the phone, or just contemplating the mysteries of the universe, we're all royalty during our few daily moments atop the porcelain throne. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who really was John Crapper? Fact? Fiction? Myth? Legend? Here are some facts to ponder during your next visit with your little flushy friend.

Yes, a man named John Crapper was born circa September 1836 as far as we can tell, and he did run a successful plumbing company for over 40 years before it, um, went down the drain in 1904. After John retired that year, his associates actually continued operating the business under the Crapper name until it closed forever in 1966. Sorry though, he didn't invent the toilet but he did have four patents for improvements on drains, three for water closets, and one each for manhole covers and pipe joints. Nice work, John, you'll always be Number 2 in my book.

Take care, go with the flow, and remember to put the seat down.