Escape to Escalante

The next four days I will be in the slot canyon capitol of the world. I am horribly out of shape and will probably keel over from exhaustion within the first few miles. My back has been giving me trouble, but to hell with it, I am going anyway. After the summer that I've had I need to enjoy myself, even if it ends up killing me. There's nothing like telling people that you are off to venture into Little Death Hollow for a bit of R&R.

A bit of the random for ye:

I have an idea for something that would serve as an energy source and as a fashion statement: the photosytheshirt. When you wear this shirt you will get all your energy needs via sunlight. The downside is that birds and squirrels will nest in you and try to gather your nuts, even if you don't have them. On the plus side, sort of, dogs will really like you and hippies will hug you.

I was digging around my parent's storage unit to see if I could find my high school yearbooks and I found my trusty BB gun from way back when. Upon handling it, I had the sudden urge to visit my old neighborhood and shoot out the windows of all the homes of the people that were dicks. Good sense prevailed and I just went up in the hills and shot beer bottles and grasshoppers.

Dogs know the secret of steel. They don't tell anyone the secret because they can't stop thinking about bacon.

See yous laters!

Nunch Tyne!!!

Have any of you seen that Evander Holyfield Taco Bell commercial yet? It is freakin' hi-larious. It's good to see this partially-functioning, punch-drunk former bruiser making a few more million as the taco ambassador to the world. I can't get enough of this commercial. You can barely understand a word this man is saying, plus you get to see him in "old lady" drag. About his speech, hell, I don't even think it is an offshoot of some bastardized form of Ebonics. It's more like a deaf Buckwheat walking into an alien ship and muttering random shit to the little gray dudes kind of language. I have been riffing a bit on this commercial and here is my version of how it goes:

Counter Girl: Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order?

EH: I hadda two hanga pangdoh tacknos peaze!

Counter Girl: Usually, a man your size can only eat one of those.

EH (pointing over to an old lady drag version of himself): Bud I pa-tadda na mama puh nunch!

The End.

I think there should be a sequel to this commercial where Mike Tyson sits down next to Evander in the Taco Bell and just stares at his ear, licking his lips, then takes takes a long sip from his Baja Blast. Evander could just say this line: "Oh no, potado!" Good advertising doesn't have to make any sense so long as it is funny as hell.

Fact

I'm all Mountain and no Dew.

Creepy as hell, but I finally found it

I have been looking around SLC cemetery for some years for this legendary gravestone. I was beginning to believe that it was only an urban legend. I wonder what one has to have happen to them in order to warrant this kind of epitaph?
There's a few places in this cemetery that have epic levels of bad juju going on. My grandparents on my mom's side are buried in this cemetery. This is a pretty cool place to take a walk, especially around dusk on a Sunday, no less.

Btw, thanks for your kind support on my previous post. I will be taking a couple of days off this week to drive them and attend their hearing this week in Steamboat, Colorado. Hopefully, there won't need to be any time served, but it is very possible. Wish us luck.

Update: The hearing has been postponed till next week.

Blog?

While it may not be for some, a couple of weeks without blogging is an eternity for me. Since the end of February I have been going through some real difficult stuff with somebody close to me. In this past month I was pretty sure that things were going to end badly. I've gone through some really bizarre, frightening, and heart wrenching shit in my life, but this current ordeal really stands out as a contender for the title of "shit that sucks" in my life. I am so stressed out from one week to the next that I don't keep track of the days much now. I don't think it will be over for a while, either. But things did change for the better this weekend. It didn't come easy and I really thought that I had failed and had to accept the fact that I would lose this person forever to alcoholism. But, as I mentioned, things are looking up.

Thanks for supporting me through all of my weirdness. I hope to have something wacky to post in the near future.

Adventures in Public Restroom Patronage #712

Have you ever entered a public restroom and wondered to yourself if this is what gorilla sex smells like?

I asked myself that question today. Only, I also wondered if this smell that I experienced was gorilla sex mixed with the aftermath of taco Tuesday at some hole-in-the-wall joint in the "ethnic" part of town. Whatever it was it was bad. The type of bad smell that curls up in-between your teeth and gums and takes a nap. Man, it was B.O. and human waste. Not only that but I think the person responsible made the room hotter and more humid somehow. I think scientists should follow this person around and collect samples of their droppings and other various products. There might be some value towards discovering an alternate fuel or energy source there.

I need to go brush my teeth now.

Barely Barly

Therapist~The rapist.

Justice was served~Just ice was served.

And now...

Long John Silver stuck a coin up his ass and sang a song--a sea shanty--with a spider in his ear and a girl on his knee.

I don't have anymore. Lame.

God's own pratt

Have you ever met somebody and decided that you were put on this earth to mess with them? I have. This guy thinks it is his purpose in life to be exacting in everything that he does and then proceeds to enforce this upon everyone that he comes across. I, having a deeply buried malevolence towards this type of individual, decided that this was just great. Why? Because I need a break from being benevolent every once in awhile.

The best way to mess with someone like this is to approximate things all of the time. Never get anything right on the money. However, bust them hard and remind them constantly of their failures to be thorough and precise. Also, with philosophical matters, strictly adhere to a loose "spirit" of the law and not blind observance. Plus, if they are religious zealots, like this guy, plan on coming out as a witch during one of their visits. The look on his face is going to be priceless.

I have also thought of telling this man that I believe him to be a prophet, or even one step further, one of the Three Nephites. Better yet, I think I should convince this man to write that religious book that he has always been meaning to write and to finally make his move to the Holy Land. There are many ways that one could play this. What things would you do?

State

I don't feel like I used to feel.

I used to write songs all the time and now I don't.

I am not sad.

I am not full of glee.

I haven't played my guitar in months for any decent length of time.

I don't spend much time thinking about people anymore, just a select few.

I don't feel like there is anything wrong with this.

I know that this isn't permanent, so I am just gonna go with it and see what happens.

Question

I think I may have brought this subject up before but I wanted to do it again.

The scenario:

Imagine that you are sweeping a floor with a typical broom. Just for kicks, you stick the broom between your legs like a witch would. To your amazement you begin to fly.

The questions:

1. Where would you fly to first? (Ideally)
2. Where do you think you'd really fly to, considering that this might all be a fleeting phenomenon?
3. If you found out that this was not a fleeting power, what would you do with this power besides flying around like a dipwad?
4. Would you dress any differently as a result of your new found power and if so what kind of attire would it consist of?
5. Would you use your powers for good, evil, or indifference? Explain.
6. Would you take the opportunity to crap on newly washed vehicles?
7. Would you just waste this power trying to see how it could get you laid?
   

Meesa Jus Wanna Sing!

Jar Jar Binks is teaming up with Randy Jackson and Danger Mouse to lay down an album's worth of slow jams and Calypso tunes. It's totally true because an angel of God visited me in my room three times in a row and told me to stop abusing my brain with drain cleaner, that the Celts are the primary ancestors of the indigenous peoples of New Guinea --and btw, Jar Jar Binks is making a comeback!

Some of the leaked song titles include:

• "Oh, Annie Man Will Do! (Show Me Your Darkside)"
• " It's Da BBI (Binks Bitches Inc.)"
• "Say Da Mana Cuz I Don Have Time, Walter (WTF???)"
• "Tally My Banana, Oh!"
• "The Ballad of Qui-Gon Jinn (with Gordon Lightfoot)"
• "My Sith in a Box"
• "Yousa Mine. Meesa Yous"
• "Obi, Don Cry"
  
• "Meesa Jus' Wanna Sing!"

Really.

What does it mean?

I had this dream last night about an old friend of mine that I haven't seen in years. In this dream he was single, but in real life he is married. The other part of the dream was that he had used condoms strewn about his pad and a huge assortment of sex toys. Now, I think you might now where this is going, but wait, there's a big wtf twist! The dream became focused on a pet of his: a magical cat. This guy hates cats in real life, so why in hell did the dream include this? The cat was magical, though. It knew how to make its own Fancy Feast dinners appear out of thin air, balls of yarn would just fly about the place, and it would even talk in a weird cat voice.

So, Kenny, is it true? Are you now single, creepy with sex implements, and own a magical pet cat? I'll be waiting for your answer.

Re-onion and udder things

I went to a family reunion last Friday. It was my mom's side of the family. I've never had a family reunion on my dad's side of the family because my dad and his half-sister are just barely acknowledging each other. While I find my father's side of the family more interesting, in a clinical way, I do get along better with my mom's side of the family. It was a good get together and I got to have some face time with my cuz Brett (formerly, The Incorrigible Vagabond) who inspired me to start blogging in the first place. I just wish all of my sisters were there. I wish I could get more into that, but I said that I wouldn't.

The other things: went off roading, bought a cowboy period-style piece for target shooting, pulled a nearly overturned truck out of a culvert with my truck, slashed my wrist while trying to roll up a window in my damned truck when the handle broke and the jagged left overs dug a nice trench in me. That gas station attendant was real spot on with her getting me first-aide supplies. I spent my Sunday asking God "why" and avoided people. I think it's the manses. Anyway, it was a full weekend.

What'd you get up to?

My Imagination, Part One

My imagination gets all the chicks. I hate it. Even if I have a woman my imagination goes out and gets a better one. I can't compete.

The other thing I hate about my imagination is that it conspires with my memory recall to bring up weird nudity that I've seen over the years, and places it right in the silver screen of my mind at the most inappropriate times. For example, I am talking to a woman about her new grand kid and Tara Reid's Frankennipple pops into my mind. Things resembling sea monsters eating nachos, shaved voles, and rude vegetables compete for my attention constantly in crucial times. This is why I am not the CEO of Dairy Queen right now. The real kicker is that in times of loneliness and arousal my imagination leaves me and can only think about stuff like how good an actor George C. Scott was. I mean, Patton...are you kidding me? That guy is a national treasure.

The thing about nudity and my imagination is that it can only do one body part at a time accurately. If my imagination tries to create a whole composite, then things start to get a bit strange. Let's try this for example, if I were to imagine a whole nude woman and then bring that creation to life in the real world, she would resemble Salvador Dali's "The Bather". The cruelty of my imagination is unending.

This is not totally about my imagination, but I was at my friend's house this Saturday. It was sad because they got a replacement pet for their elderly blue healer: a cute black lab puppy. Nothing says "You're gonna make great mulch for the rose garden" to your old dog like having it train the replacement. I could tell that old Blue was pretty depressed about it all because she didn't even bother telling the pup where to go bathroom--it just peed all over the floor inside. I mean, how can you do your job when your morale is low? The bonus part of training your replacement is that you can train them wrong. Take that, master's shoe! Okay, that part involved imagination.

I'm tired now. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Living Cereal

There are certain kinds of cereal that I believe to be alive when you prepare them for consumption. I'm talking about the floaty kind of cereal. You pour the milk on them and the little bits of cereal try to escape, jumping off the edge of the bowl in hopes that an ant will whisk them away to freedom. If they are smart the bits will choose the most opportune moments to jump, like when you are moving your bowl from the counter to the coffee table. It's there that the cereal bit can drop on the floor and become undesirable for human consumption, banking on there not being any dogs or babies to eat them. The other places that cereal can drop are in sofa/recliner cushions, baby seats, and in the folds of the morbidly obese.

There's also the kinds of cereal that comes into play: being the type that mom buys and you don't want to eat, kids. That cereal goes on to live an exciting life of adventure in the waste facilities of the world. I think that, in this case, I'd want to be generic, sugar-free raisin bran or anything that involves natural ingredients--the cereals that are made up entirely of delicious poison and cut the roof of your mouth don't stand a chance.

It's unfortunate, however, that the liberated bit of cereal really does nothing with its freedom other than watch feet nearly crush them to death. The anxiety of being free cereal must be great, but so too is the need to not be eaten.

Thoughts.

Randamonium

Time machines would be great. But there is something that I would do with that technology to make all of our lives kick tits: The "Just In Time" Machine (patent pending). This works great for hitting those historical or personal events that you want to relive, witness, or fuck with the space-time continuum just so you can make sure that your mother-doesn't-marry-someone-better-than-your dad-so-you-can-exist kind of thing, because we all know that you get an awesome Toyota 4x4 truck that you can take your girlfriend to the lake in and you can screw her all night and she won't get pregnant kind of "new" present life. Longest sentence ever! But wait...there's more!!! The Just In Time Machine (patent pending) really shines in future travel. It is perfect for nailing the perfect spots for witnessing natural disasters, accidents, assassinations, celebrity wardrobe malfunctions, and even Jesus Christ himself!

Dogs need to get jobs, buy things, and learn how to drive. It's the only way we can fix this economy.

I went in for my quarterly cancer examination today. Things checked out great with one exception: my hemoglobin is low. I asked my doctor why it was low and she couldn't say. This got me thinking about possible causes. I came to the conclusion, after much thought, that I was raped in the night by the Hemogoblin. I made this deduction from the fact that my ass hurt when I woke up this morning and rose petals were stuffed in my shoes. True story.

Fun Fact: Work is slowly robbing you of your will to live.

Have a good weekend!

The mountain trail is the new "bath house"

So, I was going on my Sunday evening hike and I came across these two men on the trail. We all stopped a bit to talk about the canyon and I asked them how far up the trail went and so forth. Anyway, the "leader" of the two starts asking me a lot of personal questions and then introduces himself with a hand shake. The quiet one looks me directly in the eye, and with no irony says, "They call me Hawk." Besides the obvious question of who "they" was, I was tempted to just come right out and say that I wasn't interested in being raped in the forest.

I think I need to start carrying mace.

My interests

My activity on this blog has been in decline (for me, at least). Ever since I got back from my vacation awhile back it has been hard for me to focus on certain things. Since it has been a whole week (!) since my last post I have decided to share with you some of my new-found passions: fun, lobster racing, snipe awareness, touching my nose with my_______, making dirty thoughts pop into people's heads without doing anything dirty, dust bunny rancher, likes a wide variety of hats (does not wear hats), bonsai tree liberation, taco cart maintenance, fish bowling, star gazing with Bob (imaginary mentor--I'm all grown up now).

Aside from these new pursuits and hobbies, I have been busy deconstructing my milieu. See, I had this dream. In this dream I was involved in an activity where the adult men and young men were gathered into a gymnasium. We were told to bring a gun. When we were all present, the leader told us to stand apart from each other a certain distance and then to fire our guns in turns. I kept asking the leader why we were doing this. He told me that it was better to be obedient and assured me that no one would die or get hurt badly. I was rather nervous in the dream because I was only ten feet away from a boy pointing a double-barrel shotgun at me. I pretty much knew that I would be wasted with one shot. I persisted in questioning every grownup in the group and everyone seemed to ignore me now, instead laughing with each other and acting rather casual--this was all going to be fun. End dream.

This impressed upon me the futility of warning a body/group of the foolishness that they are engaged in. A group is an organism. It will do many things to protect itself.

I've been thinking about the collective state of mind versus the individual: happiness. I really believe that a member of the collective will sacrifice their individual self for their collective self out of the need for security and comfort over autonomy and truth. The collective will rarely, if ever, truly listen to an individual who threatens the state of the collective; whereas, the individual can become completely absorbed by the collective.

Collective/group reality seems to be just as subjective and prone to credulity as that of the individual, if not more. Group think is prone to depersonalization as well as a lack of critical thinking. The responsibility of scrutiny is dispersed completely. It is no wonder that large groups of people have taken in claims, concepts and myths in confidence from jugglers of perception and emotion.

This all takes me back to the days when I was studying social psychology. It is nice to shut the brain down and make everybody happy, but I don't think that they understood what it was that made me unhappy. The more I think, the more it seems to unravel who I am. My real interest in life is thinking. I am a thinker. Speaking in general, if what I think about makes you feel uncomfortable, then that is tough shit. I am a big enough person to handle your mind garbage, why not you mine?

PS. I love my blog and my bloggies.

They happen in threes

R.I.P

• Farrah
• Ed
• Michael

Of Farrah:

My older brother had "the" poster with the magic nipples in it. I was an avid watcher of Charlie's Angels reruns, but was more devoted to Wonder Woman. I will remember her for her character of "Blond Girl" in Logan's Run and for her paintings, using her nude body as a brush. This is proof that Texans are different from the rest of us and that is why we like them. Mostly, though, I will think about another fellow being that lost their battle with cancer and how fortunate I am to have survived my battle with that disease.

Of Ed:

I was lucky enough to have spent many nights of my youth watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I would sometimes crash my parents' room and watch this with my dad while my mom was busy doing mom stuff. There was something about Ed that made you like him, or fear him. You just knew that if you met him in the right circumstances that he might "heyo" you to death. Ed was one of the few people that could put "Trademark Laugh" on a resume and it would get him the job. At least he and Johnny can do the show again.

Of Michael:

Pop genius, pure and simple. I really got into my brother's 45's of the Jackson 5 and his early solo stuff. I wasn't even ashamed to like him when he released Thriller, then things started getting weird...Howard Hughes meets Elvis weird. From hyperbaric chambers to Elepant Man skeletons, and the occult to Bubbles the Chimp. Throw in Brooke Shields, Webster, Neverland Ranch, and a bunch of young boys and you have only a grain of sand on an entire bizzaro world beach. He seemed only to be visiting this planet, anyway. Somehow, I am happy for him. As tragic as his death may be, I really didn't want to see what advanced age would do to him. I found it painful to watch him make attempts at becoming "adult", having kids and canned marriages. He just could never be old--he needed to exist elsewhere, away from normality. Maybe he really was Peter Pan. There won't be anybody nor anything like him again.

Catch 22

You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. So, the best thing is to say that you are always thinking about it, whatever "it" is, and hang out with good people.