Pitbulls and Me: There's not enough room on my front lawn for both of us.

The other day I got home from work, got out of my car, and started walking towards my front porch, when out of hell or somewhere a Pitbull came charging at me across my front lawn. It was screaming bloody dog-bark murder at me. I saw fire and Dick Cheney in its eyes and would have wet my pants in fear if any of my bodily systems worked. At the last second, instinct kicked in and I shouted, "NO!", with a quick raising of my arms. The sudden motion startled the raging demon-train of dog, causing it to jump back. That bought me just enough time to leap up my stair case and run inside, slamming the door like a bank vault behind me. I leaned back across my door for a moment, catching my breath. After the feeling of pure fear subsided a bit, I was suddenly filled with intense anger, realizing that most likely that dog belonged to someone out there, probably someone who was out there right then. Maybe they even witnessed the whole thing. I assumed they must know the personality of their dog, and I got madder and madder that they would let it outside with other people, including women and children and the elderly and people who seriously believe that G."WTF"B. has done a pretty good job, walking around. That they would recklessly release their weapon of mass destruction in my peaceful neighborhood did upset me so. I opened my door (more like just barely cracked it enough to fit my mouth out) and yelled into the dark night, "Hey! Keep that thing on a leash!" Man, Sugarhouse is a dangerous place.

Prodigious Child

Overdraft Protection

I don’t want to mention any names, but Wells Fargo Bank sucks. I’m signed up for overdraft protection in case I spend more than I have—I mean, does anyone really keep absolute track of all their spending when they always use their debit card? Please, that’s for suckers who still use check books. The problem is that when I do overdraw, the amount comes in from my credit card—all fine and good, that’s the whole point of the thing—but I still get charged around $15 for every overdrawn transaction. And I’m already paying for overdraft protection. So my question to you, Smells Fartgo, is WHERE THE HELL IS THE OVERDRAFT PROTECTION!? I posed the polite question to a banker at the unspecified bank (it’s Wells Fargo) and his response was, “Well at least you’re not paying the $30 fee those without overdraft protection are paying.” I asked another banker at another branch of the same bank which shall go nameless as to not deface any institution’s reputation (it’s Wells Fargo, they suck…I hope every single branch simultaneously burns down, but all the workers safely escape because they are just trying to earn a living, and they are too weak or scared or desperate for cash to tell their evil money-guzzling employer beast to shove it) and he told me the exact thing, almost verbatim. It immediately became apparent that they had been coached by a standardized higher authority on how to deflect potentially hostile questions like mine and quickly divert my attention to another topic, like “Would you like to sign up for a platinum credit card?”

At that moment I leapt across the counter, grabbed Chad by the tie, and shoved the end of his silky neck knot into the paper shredder. He screamed in terror as it pulled his face closer and closer to the spinning blades. Despite his best efforts to escape, his face was pulled in and shredded into tiny strips, leaving a headless teller. I was amazed that he didn’t die, though. At that point I realized that he was a robot. He stood up and went about his teller duties with a mess of blood and wires pouring out the stump where his head used to be.

“No, I don’t want another credit card,” I replied and walked out, vowing to move all of my business to a credit union. “Have a nice day,” I heard Robo-Chad say as the door closed behind me.

An Irish Limerick for St. Patty's Day

Ann and CJ had another awesome party last night. Ann is, dare I say, obsessed with all things Irish. Her family hails from the Isle of Man, and she also loves Lord of the Rings, which was filmed in Ireland. Everyone had to bring a song or poem or story connected to Ireland. I hurriedly wrote and presented this limerick. Beau recited in spoken word the first verse of The Cranberries' Do You Have to Let it Linger. When you get to the singing parts (in italics), you'll need to come up with your own slow and pretty Irish-sounding tune, otherwise you'll lose the effect that the music is supposed to have. Now, without any further ado:

I once knew a man named Farney
Worked double time as a Carney
He painted sheep
To help him sleep
‘n sang songs ‘bout the legend of Blarney

A woman named Jenny O’Swill
Fell near death and stormily ill
Red spots on her face
And all over the place
Made her cry “’f God don’t take me, who will?”

Both lived alone, alone, alone
Both lived alone, alone

One day at the Carnival camp
Old Farney lit up his oil lamp
He said with a chuckle
As he tightened his buckle
“With a woman, I’d be a new man”

Sweet Jenny was lyin’ in bed
So white that she could’ve been dead
Her mother came in
Reaking of gin
“I’ll take you to doctor” she said

So she hoisted Jen up on the cart
Grunting away from the start
Wheeled ‘er through town
And spotted a clown
Who was buying a Guiness and tart

“What’s that clown doing here?” Jenny asked
Her mum took a chug from the flask
And replied with a whine
“It’s carnival time,
Now I’ve got to move you, and fast”

And Jenny felt so alone alone
Yes Jenny felt all alone

As they wheeled past the carnival camp
Jenny, she spotted the lamp
And from inside the tent
Came a tune, and it went
Just like this, in the voice of a man:

It went:
The stars they are reminders of
The people of the land
Their flashing is a hand that waves
The sky is like a man

If no one tilts their head to look
The stars they flash in vain
And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name

And man is left without a friend
To call him by his name

Now Jenny, she heard every word
Of the song that was sung like a bird
Tears filled her eyes
And to mother’s surprise
She stood up and walked ‘cross the yard

And sitting alone by the flame
Was a man, and she asked him his name
"I’m Farney, sweet miss”
Then she gave him a kiss
Said “I was sick, now I’m better again”

“There never was doctor nor nurse
Held medicine inside their purse
That healed who was sick
As whole or as quick
As your voice when it sang out in verse”

Sing:
Now time has rolled on like a fog
The days and years have past
And Farney’s love grows more and more
For Jenny, his sweet lass

And Jen loves Farney in return
He saved her in her cart
He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart

He healed her sickness with his song
She healed his lonely heart

Basketball

When I was a kid, I used to play basketball obsessively. Every day. In the summer, at least twice a day, sometimes three times a day, sometimes just once but it lasted all day. It was all I ever wanted to do…well, that and try to see down girls’ shirts. I remember my first time playing basketball. I was in the sixth grade and had just transferred to a new school where I hardly knew anybody. I was quickly adopted by the nerds (which is very typical of my life—don’t get me wrong, the nerds are great, it’s just that when you’re in elementary school your worst dream is either to poop your pants in the middle of gym class, or to be a nerd). We went outside for recess and someone had a basketball, so we started playing. I had never played before—I come from Texas where kids play football or just stand around punching each other—but I seemed to pick it up pretty quick. I soon became one of the best players among the nerds. That’s not very hard, because the whole reason they were nerds is because they weren’t very good at playing sports. Some people think the easiest way to climb the social ladder is to be good-looking. Wrong—it’s to be good at sports, at least in elementary school and if you are a boy. In elementary school none of the girls are “hot” yet, and most of the boys and girls look the same anyway, except for hair length. So the way to be a popular boy is to be good at sports.

And another thing—I never considered myself a nerd. I always considered myself cool, but I just had to hang out with the nerds because none of the other cool kids knew that I was cool yet. It was just a matter of time until they found out, and then I would assume my deserved place in the social hierarchy of the public school system. I always felt that I was on the verge of breaking into coolness. I felt that way in 6^th grade, 7^th, and 8^th. By 9^th I realized that I had made it all the way through middle school without getting into the cool group, so I started to give up, but then I went to a new high school in a different area and my “I’m cool, they just don’t know it yet, but when they find out…oh baby” theory came back full force. 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th grades passed with no change in status.

But from 6^th grade all the way through 12^th, basketball was the most important thing in my life. Once I graduated high school and moved away, I no longer hung out with kids that played ball. My new friends were skiers and granolas and hippies and musicians and other non-hoopsters, so I basically dropped my obsession. I had no one to share it with...

...Until 2 days ago. Beau and I spontaneously decided to go play with his church basketball team. The team hadn’t won a single game all year. We walked into the gym and saw them. They were a sorry-looking bunch of ragamatags, droopy and beaten down by life’s hardships. Especially one of the guys was really droopy, and he was pretty tall so it made him look even droopier. Beau and I arrived with fresh energy and optimism. We were Tornado and Goose (though we never figured out which one of us was Tornado and which one was Goose), the dynamic duo come to resurrect the dead and breathe the hot and heavy (and slightly beef stewy—I had just eaten dinner before going over there) breath of life into these sweaty, shiny, droopy potato-looking players.

The game was incredible. We juked, we jived, we ran, we slid, we pushed ourselves and our team, we came out after three minutes because we were so tired and out of shape. But when it was all over and we had won, I felt as if a part of me had returned. My love for the game was back. My purpose in life restored. I am a new man, a basketball man. I am Tornado…or Goose, I’m still not sure.

Utter Fear

The bathroom at work doesn't have a lock on it. I use the sit down part of the bathroom at least once a day, usually sometime in the morning before 10:30. I always experience a little bit of difficulty b-moving because I know that any second my boss could come busting through that door and totally see my nevis (to find out more about the nevis, see previous blog entry entitled Give the Young Chap Your Number), which faces the door directly when I'm using the sit down part of the bathroom. Why is there no lock on the door? Is it a simple error from when they built the bathroom and ordered the wrong door handle? Maybe they just assumed there would be a lock on the handle when they purchased it, when indeed there was none. I would file a complaint, but I've already filed a bathroom complaint with this company, so people might start to think I'm obsessed with the bathroom, and that could hurt my move-up-the-ladder potential. If you were a boss and you had an employee that was always filing bathroom complaints, would you consider him first in a long line of other potential employees that weren't always thinking about the bathroom? That's a question I hope none of us are ever faced with, because it's impossible to answer.