I'm Taken...For Now

It’s true. After months of heartache, hopelessness, and occasional binges involving cottage cheese, I am no longer listed as “single” on Facebook. And we all know that Facebook, along with Wikipedia and YouTube, are the only remaining websites that can be trusted in this cauldron of deceit that we live in today. Although Facebook and YouTube are unquestionably above reproach, countless college students were ushered into a state of panic and emotional upheaval when the veracity and credibility of Wikipedia was called into question by some guy named Kurt. That’s right, Kurt with a K, which not coincidentally is the first consonant in “Killer of Freedom” and “King of Anarchy,” among other unmentionable titles. After a tense few weeks in which actual scientific journals and peer-reviewed articles were cited in essays, the slanderous reports of a supposed “factual error” on Wikipedia were ultimately discredited, and the perpetrator was tarred and feathered while being forced to eat marshmallow peeps. Needless to say he did not survive, and the reign of terror was effectively truncated. But anyway, I am now listed as “In a Relationship” on my Facebook profile, which should raise some eyebrows, normally implying that I have selected a female companion worthy of my affections. Upon closer inspection, however, one will notice that I am in a relationship with My Hair. Yes, having temporarily lost all hope in suitable female companionship, I created a Facebook profile for the frock of delinquent follicles that currently reside on my scalp. This actually proved to be more of a challenge than anticipated, as My Hair needed an email address, and I had already used my other email addresses creating fake profiles for the use of seducing pathetic on-line love-seekers. But, with the indomitable spirit of a midget that is at first not allowed to ride the go-karts but eventually creates a diversion by starting a small, containable grease fire and sneaks into one of the cars undetected…and help from my friend Ty, I created a Gmail account for My Hair, further proving my perseverance, quality of life, and affinity for productive uses of time. I’ve made a commitment, and I’m not ashamed to tell the world that, for better or for worse until I get sick of it, I am growing my hair out. I may resemble an 80s Spanish soap opera star, and my hair may occasionally be mistaken for a paralyzed muskrat that collapsed on my head, but for now, that’s enough, and I couldn’t be happier. Although we are currently not registered anywhere, all well-wishes, best regards, congratulatory remarks, and shampoo products would be appreciated.

Happy New Year!

So as I sat in the living room of some people’s house waiting for the advent of 2009, I was able to make some keen observations of the hullabaloo and superfluous histrionics that celebrate the inexorable march of time.

-Dick Clark, despite being on the brink of death, has an infinitely more pleasant voice than the Jonas Brothers. This is one instance in which lip-syncing should be encouraged; listening to the cacophony of strident whines intermingled with moaning befitting of a humpback whale made me nostalgic for the tight harmonies and even tighter choreography of authentic boy bands like the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block. The only thing tight about the Jonas Brothers is their jeans, and if the female demographic from ages 8-13 suddenly sank into the Mariana Trench, the rest of the world would be spared from Ryan Seacrest making certifiably untrue comments about their talent, charm, and ability to end world hunger.

-Speaking of hunger and Ryan Seacrest, that guy is getting fat. Rumor has it that he and former American Idol Ruben Studdard (widely referred to as “Fat Joe with soul”) have been spending lots of time together deep-fat frying the various wildlife that lurk outside Paula Abdul’s condo, and it shows. At least he still has the most charmed existence in the universe, raking in a lucrative salary for his mere presence at functions that most people spend ludicrous amounts of money to attend. If he were a gambling man, he would be almost like an NBA referee…

-If Taylor Swift proposed to me, I believe I’d have to accept.

-Robbie Knievel’s daredevil stunt was like telling a kid for months that you’re going to Disneyland and then instead giving the kid a Donald Duck temporary tattoo, placing the child in an old wheelbarrow with a small amount of water gathered in the bottom, and then refusing to give the kid a towel to dry off the embarrassing wet spot on his butt. Seriously, from the way everyone was talking it up, it seemed like there was virtually no chance that Robbie would not be incinerated in the volcano. Then, in the moment of truth, which lasted a grand total of about 3 seconds, Robbie rode his bike at a moderate speed, which generated enough momentum to cross a narrow chasm containing the “volcano,” which turned out to be a hazelnut-scented PartyLite candle that somebody briefly lit after he went airborne. I’ve seen more dramatic jumping in a women’s basketball game. Then the Ryan Seacrest-wannabe who was offering invaluable commentary of the whole escapade gushed about how relieved the Knievel family must be that he overcame such insurmountable odds and lived through such a hellish ordeal. The Knievel family also cited blinking, breathing, and movement of his left leg as feats accomplished by Robbie that have historically brought them relief and comfort…

-There are some truly awful kissers in Times Square, and camera footage does an admirable job of zooming in on these incorrigible delinquents of liplock. One guy in particular appeared to be polishing his teeth on his girlfriend’s chin while mechanistically bobbing his head in a longitudinal manner. In his defense, she seemed to have a nice chin…

-And finally, when the clock actually struck midnight, I braced myself for the inevitable flood of text messages telling me “Happy New Year!” in the indefatigable spirit of happiness, resolution, and utter redundancy. Nice work! You essentially just informed everyone in your contacts list of the date, and while it was a nice gesture, under the Tools section on most cellular devices is a nifty Calendar feature that accomplishes the same function. Next time, you might as well cut the crap and just send a Christmas card and a check to your cell phone provider.

-I’ve resolved to be more positive this year, and I’m off to a great start so far! Happy New Year!

Even in Stygian Conditions, Brilliance and Innovation Can Thrive

I was recently exiled to the abyss euphemistically known as Gooding, Idaho for a couple days, which gave me a refreshing perspective on how much I’m thankful to not live there. Going outside is not an option unless you want to undergo instant exfoliation from the gale-force winds, and the carcasses of hummingbirds permanently frozen to the deceptively homey feeding apparatuses are ominous reminders that “living things are not welcome here.” Except flies, which my grandpa seems to cultivate. You know how most places get snow, and it makes you gaze in wonder at the exquisite symmetry and sheer pulchritude of each flake? And if you’re feeling especially roguish, you might even stick your tongue out and let one tickle the tip? In Gooding, lethal stalactites roughly equivalent in size to walrus tusks fall from the sky, necessitating hardhats and medieval armor for every foray out the front door. Furthermore, in an effort to compensate for the Antarctic conditions, my grandpa keeps the interior of the house at roughly 350 degrees. Celsius. The local natives call it “Marvin’s Inferno,” and aside from the courageous souls known as “relatives” and high school wrestlers who need to cut weight, no one dares venture inside.

My grandpa does, however, have Cable TV, so we decided to share some valuable family time sweating and watching Dish network. Dehydrated and most likely somewhat delirious while watching Sportscenter, I was jarred out of my hallucinogenic state by banshee-like screams and numerous images of entities with abnormal quantities of body hair. A Geico commercial, perhaps? No! A preview for the movie Underworld: Revenge of the Lycans. Apparently it’s about some conflict between vampires and werewolves, so essentially throw Chewbacca into Twilight, maybe mix in some nudity, plenty of scary dark hallways, and Gothic teenagers with tongue rings, and see what happens. I know, I just spoiled the entire movie, but as an individual with a diverse background in Biology, the title intrigued me and gave me a brilliant idea for a similarly titled, yet undoubtedly higher-quality film: Undergrowth: The Rise of the Lichens. This family-friendly film would depict the shocking transformation of a desolate Arctic environment into a bastion of biotic activity made possible by the symbiotic relationship between a fungus (Katie Holmes) and a photosynthetic algae (Tom Cruise). The fungus would be completely unable to grow, think, or fend for itself, but thanks to the algae, the two fuse together into one organism, capable of slight growth over time and a meager, if not meaningless existence. The lichens, largely ignored by the rationally thinking world, are eventually joined by several other fungus-algae unions including the Travolta family, and the lichens collectively thrive on the frozen tundra, unnoticed, ostracized, and occasionally derided by everyone else during rough periods when the media has nothing else to do.

I’m a genius. Star-studded cast, obvious moral undertones, and educational at its very core. The one potential criticism is its length, which was condensed from 87 hours to a more reasonable 9 ½, but it is an epic piece that I’m sure will be embraced by the public. Besides, it’s still shorter than Lord of the Rings, and that ended up doing fairly well at the box office…

Nuggnuts: Don't Let It Happen to You

As I was flipping through channels the other day desperately hoping for a Flavor of Love rerun, I was jolted out of my state of lethargy by what seemed to be an obscenity flashing across the screen. After gasping and some involuntary secretions of my thyroid gland, I calmed myself and realized that “nuggnuts” was actually McDonald’s latest attempt at an advertising slogan, implying that people go “nuts” over their chicken “nuggets.” Still skeptical of the meaning of this term, I did some research and found multiple definitions for “nuggnuts.” The results are as follows:

Definition 1: An antibiotic-resistant venereal disease transmitted by Ronald McDonald characterized by fungal lesions resembling the gross little onion flecks on a typical McDonald’s hamburger.

Definition 2: A juvenile insult of high vitriol content typically employed by males ages 12-14 during tests of valor, which generally include dodgeball, football, or Smear-the-Queer (or Fillet-the-Gay in some cultures).

Definition 3: A traditional Nepalese tribal competition in which two Sherpas mounted on pregnant yaks engage in a crude form of tug-o-war (nugging) while maintaining balance on the animal without a saddle or other technological advances that could possibly facilitate groin comfort (nutting).

Definition 4: An obsolete ethnic slur formerly directed towards the indigents of Trinidad and Tobago.

Definition 5: An ancient Bolivian strategy for pain infliction developed on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Although arguably analogous to the American “noogie,” the serrated edge of a pistachio is ground into the victim’s skull instead of the more benign knuckle implemented by less savage societies.

As you can see, the “nuggnut” is almost unanimously associated with devastation, anguish, corruption, and terrorism. I suggest McDonald’s stick with “I’m Lovin’ It” or something catchy like, “As long as I induce vomiting after eating here I’ll be ok aside from esophageal corrosion, electrolyte imbalance, and nasty teeth.” Because deep down, no one wants to be a nuggnut, be called a nuggnut, have a nuggnut, or be the next nuggnut victim.

FM Radio Could Possibly Lead You to Commit Federal Crimes

Recently, I’ve been listening to the radio, which has been an exercise in auditory masochism and has continually tested my intestinal fortitude. If I truly wanted to enjoy myself, I would put in Journey’s Greatest Hits or repeatedly watch the music video to Taylor Swift’s Love Story. I’m about 99% confident that Viagra and Cialis would have to file for bankruptcy if her music video was shown in place of their ads. Same effect, and you don’t even have to ask your doctor for permission to get on YouTube. But anyway, my real motivation behind scraping the dust off the FM dial is to increase my pop culture IQ. Knowledge is power, and without the occasional foray into the radiowaves, I would have no idea that I could kiss a girl and like it or legally stuff sunshine into my pocket. There is no paucity of embarrassingly horrible songs on the radio, but one especially caught my ear and hung on like a parasitic leech, and not the kind used for blood coagulation in primitive surgical procedures. The opus I speak of is Pink’s So What? The song commences with these nuggets of lexical erudition: “Na na na na na na na, na na na na na na,” and these may be the most insightful lyrics in the whole song. Uttered in a grating, sing-song manner, these “words” provoked in me painful memories of the countless miscreants in elementary school who chastised me with similar vexatious jargon, only to regret their decision to be incorrigibly annoying children as I chased them down and flagellated them with a modern mace I had constructed after ripping off a tether ball from its pole with only my baby teeth. The first actual words used in the song were also of ample shock to my system, as Pink croons, “I guess I just lost my husband.” Husband? Pink? If there were such thing as a lesbian-flavored snow cone, you’d just call it “The Pink.” (If you disagree or are thinking, “How could a person be a snow cone?” you are wrong, as this picture should cast aside all doubt). Pink, in a vindictive state of mind that would make any feminist well up with pride, then decides to show her husband the error of his ways by “having fun” and “starting fights,” a truly mature response that begs for some additional comment.

1. If concealed firearms were included at any point in this song, it could easily be the theme song for the National Football League.
2. An eternal optimist could perhaps conclude that the moral of this song is “the best revenge is living well.” I tried this once. Some guy punched me in the face, and after the copious quantities of blood had dried, I went out and bought a new plasma HD TV. I really showed him.
3. Pink’s rallying cry of “So what, I’m still a rockstar” carries about as much weight as an O.J. Simpson plea of innocence or any of the bilge that happens to trickle out of Tim McCarver’s mouth. Some of you may be unfamiliar with Tim McCarver; he is the senile baseball analyst who helps viewers out by explaining arcane concepts such as, “a change-up is slower than a fastball,” and perpetually mis-identifying pitches. Case in point: pitcher throws a 76 mph, looping curveball on the outside corner. McCarver: “It appears as if he just threw a cut fastball in on the batter’s hands.” McCarver has also reportedly identified Pink’s music as “good,” “family-friendly,” and “not humiliating to her family.”

At one point in the song Pink makes some obscure reference to Jessica Simpson. Check that: “Jessica Simps” is actually what she says. Apparently, Pink is so cool that, not only can she start fights, she can truncate the names of other celebrities and wax monosyllabic whenever she feels like it. I guess this ability would come in handy if she had to serve any jail time with former Illinois Governor Blagojevich. "Gov Blag" is a lot easier to say…

I’m getting stupider writing this. And I can’t tolerate music that’s so demeaning to men. So I’m going to put on my headphones, clip on my fake stud earrings, and listen to T.I. That’s one guy you know will always act with integrity, class, and several dozen loaded weapons…

My Night of Minor League Hockey

The other day I had the opportunity to attend a marquee minor-league hockey match-up between the Idaho Steelheads and Bakersfield Condors, and I was pleasantly surprised at the quantity of enjoyment I derived from this experience. Because Americans stopped caring about hockey about the time the United States seceded from Canada in the late 19th century (citation needed), I’ll spare you the actual details regarding the game itself and give you only the pure, unadulterated particulars that made the night worthwhile.

About midway through the first period, I became afflicted with a profound urge to drain the proverbial dragon. After the deed was done and I was pondering whether or not the highly viscous pink substance I had just smeared all over my hands was soap or a pureed urinal cake, some guy walked in and, with the wild look in his eye suggestive of a man who had just strangled a kitten, asked me, “Is this the men’s room?” Initially amused by the man’s ostensible attempt at humor but slightly nervous that he may have been packing a bayonet, I said, “Gosh, I’m not quite sure,” as I noted the five other guys in the room, the row of urinals (which are traditionally a defining characteristic of male restrooms), and the multiple signs emblazoned with the appellation “MEN” around the entrance. Apparently he wasn’t sure either, because he walked out. Or maybe he was supposed to meet the chain-smoking hottie in the Calgary Flames jersey at the ladies room…

For those who care about such trivial matters like the score of the game, there is a massive scoreboard keeping track of the goals scored by both teams located in a prominent place in the arena. This is helpful in determining a winner at the game’s conclusion. However, if one is blessed with the eyesight of a ravenous osprey, like my friend Greg, you can sometimes, just barely, if the lights reflect ideally off of the Papa Murphy’s Pizza stand, make out a smaller scoreboard without the aid of an electron microscope keeping track of shots-on-goal. So about 3 minutes into the game, Greg commented, “Wow, we’re already way ahead.” The rest of our posse, having observed zero goals and corroborating our keen visual data collection by looking at the non-microscopic scoreboard, simultaneously stared at Greg with identical looks similar to that of the guy in the men’s room. After my other buddy whipped out a pair of binoculars he had used on a recent Safari expedition to Tanzania, we realized the source of Greg’s confusion and proceeded to satirize the moment the rest of the night even when it really wasn’t funny anymore.

It happened to be Family Friendly Friday night at Qwest Arena, which is not only a quaint exercise in advertising alliteration, but also an opportunity for discounted group rates and a venue for little kids to wear their hockey jerseys. Or soccer jerseys with your personalized nickname on the back, or Michael Vick jerseys if you’re really lucky and your parents enjoy taking advantage of your ignorance to amuse themselves. With this cozy atmosphere in place, I was a little surprised to hear Akon’s “Smack That” repeatedly blaring from the loudspeakers throughout the game. They at least should have played something with a positive message, like 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” or Juvenile’s “Slow Motion.” “Smack That,” that’s just tasteless.

At a critical juncture in the action in which testosterone burbled over like the hailstones of saliva that are ejected every time Bill Walton says a word containing the letter S, some guy with the last name Chernobyl unleashed a haymaker on an unsuspecting Steelhead. The crowd roared with delight as the grappling continued and eventually Chernobyl bit the other guy’s ear off before one ref intervened. Then, right as the ref appeared to have everything under control and Ian Johnson showed up to crochet the Steelhead player’s ear back on, the other ref leaped into the melee, knocking the cluster back to the ice, and commenced vigorously rubbing against the other referee. Somewhere, former Senator Larry Craig was smiling.

The Steelhead is a colloquial slang moniker for a species of rainbow trout. Knowing this, it makes perfectly logical sense that the Steelhead mascot is…a bear in a blue sweater. In related college news, Boise State University has concluded that the longstanding Buster Bronco mascot is “too mainstream” and “squelches the innovation and ingenuity spawned by the institution’s academic programs.” To remedy this, the Bronco athletic program is in the final stages of ushering in a mascot that they feel more accurately represents the people and culture of Boise State’s student body. There is strong speculation that the staff is leaning toward Pat the Androgynous Armadillo for the new face of Bronco Athletics, borrowing strongly from the Idaho Steelheads “bear with blue sweater” prototype. Rumor has it the armadillo will wear a fuchsia leotard and volunteer regularly at the Boys and Girls Club.

So that’s basically it for the night. If you follow minor league hockey and want to know who actually won the game, I’m sure they’ll have a website up with that information within the next few years. If you want to know who had more shots-on-goal, I’d be happy to give you my friend Greg’s phone number. And if you’re not sure if you’re in the men’s room, just ask. I’m sure someone will be able to help you out.