Press the Magic Button

Sometimes I like to click the "Next Blog" AKA Magic Travelific Time Dissolving Interuniversal Magic button on the top of my blog. The blogs I discover are usually good for a laugh (but not on purpose). I found this artist's blog. Her paintings are pretty awesome I think.

I clicked the magic button today and here is the profile of the poetic weirdo named the One and Only Blogger that came up (really the one and only?):

"Once upon a time, there was a young lady living in a planet called EARTH .
She laugh as a storm and cry as a river. Sleep was her food and love was her drink. Shopping and movies as her snacks to make her happy. Looking in the mirror is her hobby. "Stop dreaming and start living" will be her words for the rest of her life."

Yikes. Wait there's more. Here is her wish list:

♥ Wishlist

You know you ♥ me xoxo

I wish to have a nice rug.
I wish to have a 3 in 1 cushion.
I wish to have a BRADA laptop support.
I wish to earn more money.
I wish to become a lawyer ♥.
I wish to have double eyelid.
I wish to have a dream shoes.
I wish I can have more dresses and clothes.
...oh, I wish to have about a thousand things.

Seriously who doesn't want a nice rug, double eyelids, a 3 in 1 cushion, and a dream shoes?

Burning Rickety Bridges

So you remember that scene from Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom where they try crossing this crappy bridge at the end of the film. Baddies are approaching from both sides. Below are some alligators. Then Indy cuts the rope. Things turn out well for everyone but the rope and the bad guys. It was one of my very favorite scenes from any Indie flick.

Remember the Bridge Over the River Kwai? You probably don't but let me tell you that thing blew up big time. I think films tend to lend this philosophy: bridges need to be destroyed. Obliterated in fact.

So yesterday I burnt a very rickety bridge. This is a metaphor of course. Remember the utter crappiness of a repair job performed by the Jiffy Rubes on our broken windshield?

Well step 4 went as planned (Deny all responsibility for damage caused by criminal negligence).

Step 5 was only half complete (as usual). Lazies didn't even bother striking me with their hammer.

So when I returned to Jiffy Rubes, they came up with all sorts of excuses. The crack was fixed (no you're looking at a previous crack fixed properly by Carmax: I am talking about the 11 inch crack that was less than a centimeter when you "fixed" it). This isn't a rock chip (it was you greasy monkey; I was there!). No mechanic anywhere guarantees rock chip repairs (well you do because it says so on the back of this receipt).

I proceed to read the guarantee of parts and labor to the greased monkey. At which point the greased up monkey reiterates that rock chips are not covered by the guarantee.

This is where negations went south. I said, "Then you need to get some new [explicative rhyming with luck + ing] lawyers, because that's not what it says on the back of the receipt."

At which point he says not to use that kind of language. He then tells me to leave and walks away to join a group of lingering monkey grease stains. I guess Jiffy Rubes are really protective of their lawyers. . .

Of course at this point reconciliation is impossible (without some sort of "apology" [whatever that is]). The only hope I have is in angering the monkey grease to finish step 5 and win a battery lawsuit.

So I of course use the invective about several dozen more times.

"Nice [beeping] customer service."

"No wonder you [something something-ers] have such a bad reputation."

"[PUCK] Jiffy Lube!"

Rachel wasn't there but I told her what happened. For some reason, she wished I hadn't cursed the tender-eared grease primate.

What an odd conscience to have: he can rip people off but can't handle one simple curse word? Expletive that! That is a bridge worth burning.

P.S. don't tell my bishop I used naughty language.

Delivery “People”

So today was the big day. Our second piece of furniture arrived. Well, fifth if you count bookcases and an ottoman. Anyway I had to work at bed today in order to be here when it arrived. It was supposed to be here between 10 and 11. Apparently 11:30 is between then. They probably meant between 10am and 11pm.

So a lady called to confirm the appointment at 10:30. The stupid phone never gets reception down in the basement so I got the message and called her back at 10:45. The message confirmed the wrong address. It also mumbled something about ". . .of course. . .drop off but not [move or carry or something?]." She didn't mention this when I called her back. She did mention that I needed to pay them in cash. She said they'd be there within 15 minutes. Within 15 minutes after what exactly?

I ran to Chevron to get cash and bought an Almond Joy for $1.29?! Only to find out they don't do cash back. I ran to Smiths and bought gum. I got 3 twenties before realizing the movers and shakers probably wouldn't carry change (to get a big tip) and weren't getting a tip from me. So I bought a Coke to break up a twenty. Barely made it back within 15 minutes, as if it mattered.

So I tricked a friend into coming over to my place before going to lunch. When the delivery "truck" showed up (a tiny SUV with a dinky trailer), an old lady and some little kid were the delivery personnel. Luckily my unsuspecting friend showed up in time to help me move the couch into my place. It was tough. I can't believe we got it in. I also can't believe my face isn't permanently shattered after being repeatedly crushed by it.

Did I mention the moving people were an old lady and some kid (probably her great-grandson)? Did I also mention one of the reasons we paid to have it delivered was because I recently injured my back. . .

Hammer Time

So like last Wednesday I got a nice little rock chip because of all the GD construction being done on the 15 (I-15 if you don't know what I am talking about). I blame Obama. Stimulus my bottom (that doesn't sound right). Anyway it didn't grow at all for a couple days but I still knew I had to get is sealed before it got any bigger.

I went to the good folks at Jiffy Lube. By good people I mean common street thugs. I am about 100 percent sure they hire felons exclusively. "No white collar criminals please."

They have a terrible rep but I have never really had any problems there. They're quick and cheap.

I also needed new light bulbs for the headlights and an oil change. I got those and I assumed the chip fixed.

After half an hour after leaving Jiffy Lube, I noticed the half centimeter crack had now doubled. I thought oh it must have not shown until after they put the goop in. But the next day it had grown another 3 inches. By Sunday morning it was 11 inches. Just in case you're wondering no windshield places or Jiffy Lubes are open on Sunday afternoon.

Idiots!

Here are the directions for fixing a tiny rock chip from Jiffy Lube's training literature.

Step 1 Remove one's own brain

Step 2 Pour the glue you didn't manage to sniff into chip (if any)

Step 3 Strike repeatedly with hammer

Step 4 Deny all responsibility for damage caused by criminal negligence

Step 5 If necessary call the customer a liar and strike him with hammer

OK I am only on step 3 but I anticipate steps 4 and 5 tomorrow when I go into Jiffy Lube and use profanity to calmly scream myself dizzy at these morons for their idiocy.

I of course can relate to their stupidity. This is because I am obviously stupid for going there in the first place. I don't know what they will say or how difficult this will be to correct but from what I've read from the anti-Jiffy Lube websites, I can expect an epic struggle that makes the nine year Trojan war look like a picnic on the beach.

They will assume I got another rock chip in the exact same spot after they fixed it. They will claim I should have come in sooner despite the fact that they were closed. They will say I made this up to scam them. They will say it's not covered under some loophole. They will say they were not asked to perform such an operation despite what this possibly forged receipt claims. They will claim I was driving under the influence.

Wish me luck. No, wish me one of them thinking organs.

Worst of State

Recently Woo Goo took home the Best of State award for education. Pretty sweet. But today Rachel and I earned awards of our own.

So I take home the prize for worst husband of state. I took Rachel to the Arches National Park today. One of Rachel's sisters (AKA the precious cargo) joined us. The precocious sister couldn't make the trip because she ran out of barf bags (true story, not making it up). Arches is pretty cool if you've never been. So cool it inspired ugly licence plates.

"You have to actually touch the Delicate Arch to fully appreciate it," says I. In order to accomplish this I tell her we just need to take a short little stroll through the desert. What's that? It's the longest trail in the park? The park's pamphlet calls this hike "strenuous"? Nah, I've done it before [in October]. No big deal.

It's only 97 degrees. It's only a windy, hot desert. It's only uphill both ways. There was no shade. It was sandy and gravely. And her hands swelled up like summer sausages for some reason. Oh and they were salty sausages (trust me I know). Ugh the whole ordeal was just awful (for Rachel [I loved it]).

After about 100 meters, I realize I am now hiking with Darth Vader. Not because of the evil but because of the labored breathing. She also refuses to wear sunblock because it's slimy. And she is the whitest thing this side of Canada.

Rachel has special hiking needs. She is beyond slow. Cautious is an understatement: she worries every step could be her last (even when walking on an even sidewalk). And she must take a 13 minute rest break every 45 feet.

It's because of these reasons that my little love muffin takes home the award for worst hiker of state. The end.

Creepy Coincidence

So yesterday I blogged this.

Then today I watched this.

While watching, they had a surprising character, Chuckles the Clown. Say wah! It was surprising because 1) he was possibly the only character not in any of the adverts 2) I just blogged about my own psycho Chuckles the Clown just yesterday and 3) he was really creepy.

Creepy coincidence or just something to chuckle about? Or bad omen? I decide, then report. I mean er-I report then I decide. Or something like that. I think I decide for you then report.

Chuckles the Prenupt Clown

In light of what Rachel calls our 1/6 anniversary today, I present the subject of our prenuptial agreement.

A few years ago my boss bequeathed to me a generous gift he received from a white elephant (what a noble creature to impart such treasures). It was a painting of a clown inexplicably holding a wee doggy in his giant clown hands. What's he doing with that doggy? He is going to strangle it of course but my guess is that he is going to take a big bite of it' face first. He is for sure gonna eat that pup. Yep, for sure. The only question is whether the doggy will be alive though any of that.

Gruesome. Anyway for the last few years since it came into my possession, it has been my honor to display the piece-o-art in my bathroom beside a mirror. Nothing wakes you up better than a morning staring into those playful eyes. Wanna play?! They seem to ask with a gentle guffaw.

There is a little info on the back including year painted. 1967, a great year for murderous psychedelic clown puppy stranglers. The artist is Joyce L. Jeffress. And the subject is "Story book clown." I think I am familiar with this particular story book, It by Stephen King. He recently adopted the name Chuckles. It fits accordingly.

Before my official nuptials a mere two months ago, I had only one prenuptial agreement: the clown stays in the bathroom. Sounds like the perfect beginning to a horror flick. Do you think I could convince Rachel I can hear Chuckles laughing? Do you hear him, Rachel? Do you hear the mad laughter of Chuckles the Clown?

It was my only deal breaker. She could shoot me, murder me in my sleep, steal all my money (if I had any), or do pretty much anything. The deal breaker is the clown art.

She agreed. Obviously since we're married.

Rachel must have thought I was kidding because she was shocked to see him looking up from the sink. She wasn't having that because it supposedly blocked the mirror. Who needs mirrors? Did she forget what her face looked like? Nonetheless the monstrosity sits above our toilet now perched above his dark dominion. I do enjoy basking in his good humor. Always good for a laugh, that Chuckles.

If you listen close, you can hear him muttering to the puppy. What's he saying? Why is he laughing?

King Jong

Warning: the following blog is not funny at all. Apologies.

 

On the elevator ride up today, someone was stopping on the third floor. I was going to my baby-sized cubicle (cribicle) on the eighth floor (the end of the line). A fellow ele-rider said "we can't all work on the penthouse."

I said in pretend humor, "it's not as glamorous as you think." Then he said something about letting his imagination do something. Basically he had the idea (humorously) that the top floor must be pretty sweet. Like we have a pool and spa and someone to feed us grapes. MMMMmm grapes.

I have some weird peeves, one of them being that I am placed undeservedly on the highest floor of the building. TV and movies have led me (and elevator guy) to believe that the best jobs are always located skyward. That is to say that upward mobility is literally upward in a company. I don't really work for a company: I work for a school. But it feels like a company because we never see any students. WGU has like four or more floors of an office building with its name on top in big letters. Pretty spiffy huh. Not as cool as having a giant white letter on the side of a mountain but at least we get three full letters.

Here is the thing though. I work on the eighth floor. This can't be right. This is my first out of college job, even though technically I am still trying to finish my last couple classes and I may never actually get out of college (every time I try to get out they keep pulling me back in!). It bothers me somewhat that they have this all wrong. I shouldn't be here. It's a serious oversight. I am trying to figure out how to correct this. It's only down from here.

Idea 1. Transfer to another lowly department that is lower on the building totem pole. Except I don't think I am technically "qualified" to teach people how to be nurses or whatever these people do. How hard could that be?

Idea 2. Try to work at home. Since I live in a basement it seems like the perfect fit. But for some reason only the most senior editors get to stare at computers at home. The rest of us need to stare at computers in close proximity to each other high above the earth.

Idea 3. Realize that the eighth floor is usually not that great in real scrapers of the sky. For example if I worked on the eighth floor of a 32nd story building, then I would be esteemed as a nobody, or worse tech support.

Idea 4. I don't know, start feeling an overinflated self-worth and take satisfaction in how awesome I am for earning a seat in the big leagues. Look at me on the top floor, baby. King of the world, ma! Just like a giant gorilla! How does that story end? The monkey has a short stint as a CEO with a beautiful office on the top floor of the Empire State Building before plummeting to death after the stock market crash? I am a little fuzzy on the details but I think he gets slapped for being fresh with a blonde.

I am gonna do that last one but without the blonde (I can get fresh with Rachel). King Jong, they will call me. Sucks to be the peons beneath me. They look like ants on the street. Ants for me to crush! And there will be dinosaurs for some reason.

No Country for Old Tacos

Here is a story similar to No Country for Old Men except instead of stumbling upon lots of Mexican cash, I find lots of Mexican food. It too ends in ambiguous tragedy. But no one dies.

OK so at work, groups often get free catered foods then afterward there are some leftovers. Usually the receptionist sends out an email to the 5.1 million employees here and a free for all ensues. An orderly stampede if you will. There is enough for like a dribble of ranch on a leaf for everyone!

But sometimes if you are lucky no email will be sent and the food will sit there unclaimed. Yesterday I overheard some talk of brownies. I like brownies (der!). So I went brownie hunting.

Then I stumbled upon the bonanza of Rubio's taco fixings in the break room. Enough to retire on. Holy moly. What do I do?! I thought to myself what would Hurley do in this situation? Hoard it of course.

I started with a taco and a plate. But what are plates to rocks and mountains of meat? (Vague Pride and Prejudice reference anyone?) So I filled one of those to-go boxes. Then I thought forget that. I am going for the motha-load. I sealed up the giant (giant!) container filled with a pile a steak and a mountain of chicken and an ocean of fresh pico and cheese. Then I loaded up the to-go box with tortillas and lettuce and and and and. Then where do I put all this?!

I hide it very sneaky like on the bottom shelf of the break room fridge until it was safe to travel with it. I can't trust anyone with this clandestine feast. I couldn't let anyone see me with it. Mostly because they would judge me (just as you are judging me right now).

The day came to an end. I went to the break room. There was some guy there. When his back was turned I went in for my stash. But it was gone. Somebody made off with my bonanza! I found a jar of chicken and some pico and took my humble to-go box and went home.

I was diverted from taking my bag of prizes to our apartment fridge by a super giant monster twice as big as the last one we encountered and 41 times as alive. After slaying the beast I forgot to put the food in the fridge and had to throw it out in the morning.

What is the point of this story? Just like No Country for Old Men, it has no point. I like tacos.

Church Is a Quagmire

Yesterday at church the high councilman ended his talk with this little gem:

"You know the saying, when you are sent to drain a swamp and you are hip deep in alligators, it's easy to ask why you're there."

No, I didn't know the saying but now that I know it, I wish I didn't.

I think he was comparing draining a swamp to attending church. Like you are supposed to be wondering "what the heck! This sucks, why am I here? I am all muddy and alligators are biting me."

I guess that would make the speaker an alligator. Or is everyone around me an alligator? Those are bad right?

Am I supposed to get rid of him or do you leave alligators when you drain swamps? Or am I the alligator? Am I supposed to drain the church of something? Not literally of course but what does draining imply?

I must purge the chapel of sinners!

Is this before or after an oil spill?

This metaphor is drowning me! Wait I've got it. Church = dangerous quagmire.

Maybe I should stay home? Is that what he is trying to tell me?

I Really Texted That In

You know the saying, he phoned it in, meaning he didn't put any effort in to it. I assume that this comes from some older person describing someone lazy who uses one of those telephony devices instead of getting on his horse and riding "it" into wherever he is lazily calling.

I think it is kind of funny how the older generation of any time period always thinks the new technology is just a way for slackers to slack off slackerly. Like when they invented the wheel some old man said, "in my day we carried things on our backs. Lazy young Methuselah."

They say "the old ways are the best ways." Um if that were true then the old ways would still be the ways. I may or may not have ranted about something similar to this. If I don't remember then I am sure you don't so I'll continue.

I bet sure as goose feathers fall faster than bullets that when the telephone came out, old people were calling these things useless dumdum doohickeys. Telephones are the wave of the future! techno gurus promised.

Then came long distance, person to person, car phones (haha cars made out of phones: what were they thinking?), wireless phones that allowed you to listen in on your neighbors discussing their snoopy neighbors, then the original 12 lb cellular telephone (only 1.99 per minute!). These are all waves of the past. Now cells are thimble sized computers. Texting is the wave of the present, gramps.

Texting allows you to communicate with multiple people while working, skiing, sleep driving, piloting a hovercraft through uncharted desert in search of dinosaur gold, murdering a family in their sleep, or you know whatever.

Anyway, calling is a nice quaint feature of a cell. It can calculate tips too. But really phones are for texting. And the inter-nets. And music or directions to the mall or digital photography or blogging or whatever you "need" right then that second.

I suspect one day I'll be complaining to my grandkids in the old folks home how life was better when we had to use our fingers to text. "Telekinesis is a waste of time," I'll say. Then some punk little kid will say, "you mean you have to use your hands? It's like a baby's toy."

I'll string that little gibberer's scrawny neck. But it will be OK because senile people are expected to attack smart mouthed children. Of course I won't live past 50 but this exact situation will occur at least 100 times a day somewhere.

That's all I have to say. This blog post is kind of dull. I guess I really texted it in.

If You Like Facebook Then You May Like Polar Bears

So Facebook thinks that I should like the Notebook because I like Wedding Crashers and a lot of people that like Wedding Crashers like the Notebook. Despite the fact that the Notebook is a bunch of crap that appeals to chicks (also known in the cinema biz as a chick flick) and Wedding Crashers is a dude comedy that appeals oddly enough to dudes, Facebook's computer logarithms or algorithms (I have no idea what either are or what the difference is) somehow drew the conclusion that I would like the Notebook.

Nice logic Facebook. Well I bet a lot of people like candy that like unicorns so I should like unicorns. Good guess. I hate you.

A lot of people who like windsurfing also like marijuana. I don't like windsurfing so I also don't like marijuana. Good thing!

Lots of dogs smell bottoms. If I liked dogs I would smell people's bottoms. Good thing I don't like dogs because I hate sniffing bottoms (probably).

A rat likes cheese. I like cheese. I must be a rat.

Poop smells bad. I poop. I smell bad.

Everybody poops (I read it in a book). Everybody must smell like poopy.

Poop jokes are immature. I am immature. Therefore, I am a poop joke.

If you think like Facebook then you may have been struck in the face by a book.

Diets to Die for

I am gonna let you in on a secret. I am overweight. It's a secret so don't tell anyone. So I decided there's too much of me to love. So once my stupid back is all healed up I am gonna exercize. Dieting is supid but I am gonna eat healthier again. Anyway so I was thinking of ways to do that. As if it requires any real thought to eat vegatables and not candy.

Seriously why are there so many diets out there? So I thought I'd jump on the diet making up bandwagon. Statistics show that whichever one you choose doesn't really matter in the end anyway so feel free to pick one at random.

I am positive that they would be successful for anyone. I base this on absolutely no research. These are some good ways to thin out that herd. Many are designed to reduce your desire to eat. Try the slap diet and you'll see what I'm talking about.

The Carrot Diet Not what you're thinking. Or maybe it is. Eat whatever you normally eat (unless its straight butter). But here's the catch, you have to have a carrot stick before each bite. Carrot stick, bite of pizza. Carrot stick, bite of pizza. You get the idea. Hopefully you'll be so sick of carrots that you won't eat much.

The Chain Diet You need a helper for this one. Your lover/friend/worst enemy chains you up to a device and brings you only healthy food. This works best for people that work at home. This could also be the trapped in the basement diet for more freedom to exercise.

The Sucker Punch Diet When you have had enough to eat but don't know you've had enough, either punch yourself in the gut or have a "friend" do it for you. You won't want seconds.

The Slap Diet this is a variation of the sucker punch diet. Instead of getting sucker punched after firsts, you get slapped for ever non healthy thing you eat. Is that brownie worth it? Either way it's gonna end in tears.

The Sprint Diet Before any meal you have to sprint around a track until you feel like vomiting. You won't eat too much after that. It also helps to think about how many sprints you'll have to do in order to burn off those stupid French fries, fatty.

The Water Diet Before eating anything, drink a whole bottle of water. It takes up a bunch of space. Simple and easy to follow. Plus it has lots of added water drinking benefits. I have nothing funny to say about this diet but you should try it anyway.

Passion without Hilarity

Spoiler alert: If you like President Obama Yo Mama a bit too much, then you may hate me for this blog post.

So after defending Rachel's rare Facebook political comment from besmirching in response to my apparently political charged status update about the unnecessary vilification of the oil industry, I totally disaffected my wife's uncle. I was also called condescending; now can you tell me something I don't know? (Notice my subtle way of making a condescending remark in a humorous way that dumb people won't get?)

So I learned a few things. Or rather I am now acknowledging things I pretty much just ignored in the past.

First, I see now why Rachel keeps her political views off Facebook. She loves her family too much: I don't really have that issue so much. Secondly, people do not take well to my casual yet passionate yet ridiculous style of debate. I often insert absurd arguments that require too much interpretation to understand. Sometimes I just insert ridiculous arguments. I.e., you know how the saying goes: when people make terrible incorrect assumptions it turns me into a democrat. I guess I like meeting ridiculousness in kind.

People also don't appreciate subtle insults such as Papa Obama. Apparently it is condescending to refer to Obama as a papa. Boy I bet these libs hate when people refer to Papa Smurf or Papa Elf that way (again with the absurdity!).

People take great offense to the phrase "Papa Obama." The funny thing is that if they knew how I coined the term they would have good cause but ironically they don't so why are they so offended? Beats me.

Which brings me to my next point. Jokes do not belong in an angry debate. Sorry that was redundant to say angry debate. Somehow I will never learn my lesson on this one; though I do enjoy it so.

And then they hold me to my own standards. When I said I prefer level headed debates I meant, I prefer listening to them not participating. Also that was just a joke. And so is what is just said. And this. This is also a joke. It never ends!

Seriously though, just because we don't see eye to nose, doesn't mean you can't take a joke. Besides level headedness does not have a place on Facebook. That's why I hate having church in a basketball court: it's out of place.

Facebook is for funny. When I want to act like a stuffed shirt I'll visit boring old Capitol Hill. I was just being humorish by pointing out your twenty-five superfluous exclamation points. Now I should end by doing something ironic!!!!!

I have to admit I started to feel bad and almost apologized for being a condescending jerk. Then I regained lack-of-conscience thought (as in not having a conscience not like I was unconscious). All this explains why I have no friends.

Also I like to use my blog post titles in each blog post for some reason. I also prefer them to be the conclusion when possible. Let's see if I can work this in. Something something blah blah passion without hilarity.

My Marxists

Here is a list of some of my most favorite Marxists.

Leon Trotsky Famous for being portrayed as a cute lil piggy in a cartoon and live action film called Animal Farm. Based on some book by some guy. Babe has nothing on Snowball. Stabbed to death by an ice pick. That's gangsta!

Frida Kahlo Famous for her sweet moustache and unibrow. She also painted when not in full body cast.



Diego Rivera Made murals popular in Mexico. No seriously. That's a big deal.

Salvador Allende Famous for sporting Buddy Holly glasses until Nixon broke them. He was also Preseidente of Chile. I guess that's some kind of country.

Pablo Neruda Famous for being quoted by Lisa Simpson one time. Chilean senator who stood up for freedom. Author and poet.

Always

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!

Barack Hussein Obama Mmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Famous for being African American and also President. Just kidding, he shouldn't be on this list. He isn't one of my favorite Marxists.

That is all for now.

Jonafatty Needs to Become Jonathin

On Friday at lunch I went looking for a Subway and found a KFC buffet. I made room for seconds at my work's ice cream social. Then for dinner I had a slice of pizza, a couple pulled pork sandwiches, like 3 mint brownies, and about a dozen cream puffs. Something wrong here.

So two years ago I said to a friend randomly "I think I might want to get married one day. I'm gonna lose 100 pounds." And I meant it. I began eating Subway everyday for lunch. I started using an elliptical machine, then a treadmill, then graduated to a track then eventually running long distances and longer and longer distances. One week I ran 37 miles. A year went by and I only lost 75 pounds. Lame I know. 75 out of 100 is only a C.

Anyway I kept it off for a long while. Then I kept getting hurt and couldn't run. And I was so sick of Subway. I couldn't eat it anymore. I remembered again the taste of desserts. I met Rachel. We ate out a lot during our courtship. We had lots of yummy treats. Now that we are married we have delectable goodies all the time around the house, within reach. I simply roll over and grab me handfuls of sugary yum yums. Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie!

So long story short I gained a bunch of the weight back. Basically I went from being Jonafatest to Jonathinner than back to Jonafat. I think I want to be Jonathin or even Jonareallythin but am unmotivated. I blame extreme happiness and contentment and unconditional love from my wife. If her love was more conditional like say the condition of skinniness, then I would be more motivated. Rachel, if you really love me you'll stop loving me until I'm skinny.

Also I am too happy. I need to start being unhappy with my roundage. Maybe if people made more cruel jokes I would be motivated. I guess I don't want to die at age 50 but then again what is life without six cinnamon rolls for breakfast and a handfull of tasty bacon?

Ice Cream Socially Awkward

So I didn't get a WHOLE lot of sleep last week. I had to get up at 6:03am every day so Rachel can be a super spy or whatever she does and can't divulge, under penalty of death. And I know I can't fall asleep before 1am. That is why the following happened.

Anyway so at my work's ice cream social, the department is sitting around a large conference room. Our boss' boss comes in and goes around asking everyone what they're having while everyone says funny one-liners. She gets to me, "oh looks like Jonathan's finished his." Haha good one. Yeah I'm fat and scarfed it down lickety-split. Then she asked one of my coworkers across the room what she had. Her reply was "I just have toppings." Someone says something funny about it. I am in some kind of zombie daze from lack of sleep.

For some reason the next thought I had skipped the internal dialogue portion and leapt right out of my mouth loud enough for the whole room to hear. "You forgot the bottoms!" then I thought a second, or bottomings? Wait that's no good. Why did I just say that!

Total silence for like three to five seconds. I literally covered my face in shame. Then normal conversation broke out in groups while the other editors began laughing at my humiliation with fiendish delight while I wished the windows of the 8th floor conference room could open so I could take a mercy leap into the welcoming sidewalk below. I swear I would have taken a nose dive right through that glass if I hadn't been absolutely sure it would have ended with me embarrassingly bouncing off it.

Dear Abby: Shut It

Dear Abby (if that is your real name),

I read your letter/response from Not Laughing (see below), if that is her real name. I have a feeling my wife is secretly writing letters to a pseudo polymath about my hilarious pranks. Who doesn't enjoy sneaking up on an unsuspecting crazy person and scaring the beejibbies out of them? She consulted a doctor for some reason and wants me to hear him tell me to play nice even though he has real doctoring to do. Please dear Abby help. Why is this happening?! I need her to stop calling me immature and sadistic. She called me hostile. Whoever gave her this advice to treat me like a child is ruining our marriage.

[DEAR ABBY: My husband thinks it's hilarious to sneak up and scare the daylights out of me. I have told him repeatedly that I don't think it's funny and it triggers anxiety attacks, but he won't listen. I enjoy his playful personality, but the startling has to stop. Any suggestions? -- NOT LAUGHING IN GREENVILLE, N.C.

DEAR NOT LAUGHING: Just this: What he's doing is immature and sadistic. Humor at the expense of others isn't "playful" -- it is hostile. Because it is causing anxiety attacks, consult your doctor and let the doctor explain to your husband the reason that what he's doing is a bad idea.]

Just kidding dearest Abby. You can shut it, because you smell. How's that for immature. Now I am gonna scare my wife extra good until she screams bloody murder. How's that for sadistic. Then I am gonna prank call you and call you mean names. How's that for hostile?

Anyway, we're doing great here. Hope all is well with you. Man I can never think of good segues when writing letters. Take luck.

Sincerely,

NOT A DEAR ABBY FAN IN PROVO, UT

Hot over the Water

So our dumb apartment manager has gotten us a little steamed over our nonfunctioning water heater. Sorry, saying dumb apartment manager is redundant. It sort of goes with the territory. But they aren't always dumb per se. Sometimes they are just lazy, irresponsible, and uncaring.

Oh and scatterbrained. Like our current landlady. She seems nice enough. They always seem nice enough when dangling a contract in front of you. Then once they have that signature (and a load of money in their claws), they vanish for like forever into a noxious cloud, while only a devilish smirk lingers and faint guffaw tingles in your ear. Liking dealing with Beelzebub. So it goes.

Anyway so our hot water stopped coming on Friday. We talked to our upstairs neighbor about it Saturday. He mentioned he was having problems with his and would come by on Sunday to take a look since we both have water heaters in the basement where Rachel and I reside. He came by and prodded and poked a little. Mind you he isn't a plumber so I wouldn't expect much here but he did say he was going to talk to the landlady on Monday and he would let them know ours wasn't working. Good man. He did as promised.

Monday came. No word from landlady. Tuesday came. Nothing. I confirmed with our neighbor that he did indeed tell the apartment manager about our issue. I called first thing Wednesday morning. The lady said, "oh is it still not working after you turned it up?" Yes of course because our neighbor was the one who turned it "up" on Sunday the day before speaking with you. Blagh! So she says she will call the plumber. Great! Is it OK for a maintenance person to enter our home? Uh yes that's why I called.

Thursday came. Rachel has the fortitude to call landlady again to make sure she called someone since no one came yesterday. Maybe they were too busy saving princesses in magical mushroom kingdoms but would be here soon. Landlady says to check to make sure the pilot light is on first. What. The. Frigging. Beep. Are you kidding? Why would you wait for us to call you back before telling us that when we are expecting a professional plumber to come take a gander at the ol water heat making machine?

I checked with neighbor who said he didn't know if it was on but thought it would give off a peculiar smell if it wasn't. I am familiar with this smell and would have noticed if it were emitting gas. Well whatevs. Just to be sure we waited until we got home to double check that the pilot light was lit. Incidentally our heater of air works and is gas powered.

So we checked and called her that night. We couldn't find the pilot. We couldn't follow the instructions to relight it (which I think weren't written with us in mind). She said she would send somebody over first thing to fix it. We came home the next night at 10pm from a long day in SLC. No hot freaking water.

I called that lady, who is something I can't say in front of the kids, and left a lengthy message. Here are some of the things I remember saying, "I don't know if you treat all your tenants this way but, we don't deserve this kind of shabby treatment. This is completely unprofessional. We haven't had hot water for over a week now. This is unacceptable. Twice you said you would send somebody to fix our water heater. We can't be expected to fix it ourselves. I don't care if it's the weekend. We can't shower. We can't wash our dishes. You need to have somebody fix it right away."

What is it about apartment managers that makes them suck so terribly, terribly hard? Every manager I have had was either totally incompetent or unreliable. Oh and greedy. This job must really attract people who can't even manage doing the simplest easiest labor possible. Or maybe the power over the comfort of others corrupts people easily. It must stem from total inhibitionless power-crazed madness. We are talking about a lack of consequences and repercussions here people. If they are managing our apartments who is managing them? That's not a rhetorical question. The answer is nobody. They answer to no one. Did I mention she's the owner's wife?

The Revenge Flash of a Lifetime

They don't have this concept in Utah, but in California if you're driving in the left lane and someone is speeding a lot more than you, they flash their brights at you and you have to get over. Apparently Californians think they're on the Autobahn. That's cool. So I was speeding a comfortable 9 over on our way back to Provo (they won't pull you over for 10 and under). This car who is like barely, barely going faster than me flashes me. Now that's bull because I was following a guy in front of me who is not going any faster than I.

So I change lanes to let this knucklehead through. Then he moves up a bunch then resumes his same speed. What is that all about! Then I say no way this is ending like that with him driving 100 yards ahead of us this whole time. It's car stalking time. You're dead to me, black Mazda 3.

Rachel asks me not to get us killed. I have seen Mad Max: Road Warrior too many times for that to happen. I whisper, "this is going to be the revenge flash of a lifetime."

Rachel of course doesn't seem to understand that my manhood is at stake here. So I make my way this way and that until I am just barely, barely going faster than black Mazda 3. I am so close. I got this. Then a stupid red something crappy gets between me and my pray. Like everyone knows, it's not wise to get between a Nazgul (or me) and its prey. Finally I get wedged through and I am behind black Mazda 3. He never knew what was coming. I relished the sweetest victory man can know: road domination.

I flashed and he danced. He moved right over. That's right black Mazda 3, center lane is for losers.

Then Rachel says, "are you sure that's the same car?" She points out that he looks totally oblivious to his wonton defeat.

"Don't ruin this for me."

Nothing can take this away, not even Mazda 3's happy-go-lucky expression.

Domestically Disturbed or Aack! Our Backs!

So Rachel frequently "falls" down. These are what we call accidentals. Don't ask questions or you'll find yourself "falling" down some real ugly staircase. Anyway so Rachie "falls" a lot. For example last Wednesday she was trying to escape me outside ye olde yogurt shoppe, when I stepped on her shoe and she kissed the sidewalk. Serves her right: no one leaves me. Just kidding, lots of people leave me.

Last Thursday she fell down the stairs and hurt her bum something fierce. So as a good husband who wasn't the cause of this fall (or any if you know what's good for you) I ran to help her up and make sure she was as OK as she could be after falling backward while going down the stairs. If you need a diagram just imagine the most awkward walker bumping her bottom on the bottom stair.

So like I was saying, I ran to help her up. I hardly laughed at all. But as I pulled her up, my back broke in twain, maybe thrice (but who's counting?). So I worked through the pain and lifted her half way up before wincing like a little baby duckling being smooshed by a big black boot (possibly worn by an obese gorilla). Good thing she is used to drops 'cause I dropped her good!

I made it about six steps into the living room and sorta felt the sudden need to hug the ground for like 12 hours straight. So yeah that sucked. Anyway so that's basically it. Then I spent the next few days on my back. That was fun. Oh did I mention it only hurts now when I sit and I sit for 8 hours a day at work. That's cool. That's the story for which I will currently stick with.

Do I deserve this for making Rachel kiss the sidewalk. Two-timer!

There's another part to this story that will be blogged about real soon so stay tuned kids. It's the funniest/grossest/life alteringest part.

Baby Back Bees Do It for the Queen

I was reading about karoshi today after seeing the above Dilbert cartoon. Karoshi, not to be confused with Yoshi, sushi, or karate, is a Japanese phenomenon. If you have never heard of karoshi, it's basically the dumbest thing you've never heard of. It means death by overworking.

I was reading on the all-knowing Wikipedia that it began after WWII and results from a communitarianism ideology (think bees). So it's communicable? That explains a lot. Really though, self induced slavery for the good of the hive mentality creates this epidemic. That's totally stupid. I'd rather spend my free time having no life.

So these Japanese men work their brains and muscles to dust for big corporations out of iunno, loyalty or honor or some such nonsense and what do they get for their extra unpaid labor? A heart attack at age 29 or stroke at 26. No wonder Americans are falling behind in education and productivity. We are sniffing roses while they're pollinating them.

Maybe I should stab my stomach with a pen right now for my dishonorable failure.

Nah I'm an American: we don't give in to authority like a baby back bee. I do what I want, bee!

To Rachel with Math

Dear Rachel J Reddoch,

I am going to speak in the language of mathematics to show you how much I love thee.

I love you to the nth degree. I don't know what the n stands for but it's gotta be pretty big.

In the case that you think you love me more than I love you please refer to the following algebraic expressions:

x + 1 = my love for you, where x = the amount of love you have for me.

i > u

i = my love for you

u = your love for me

∞ times ∞ = the number of years I will love you

Jonathan + Rachel = Ronathel

Succinctly,

Your husband

101th Bloggy Spectacular!

So yesterday I hit a milestone, my 100th blog post. Yippee! So in lieu of balloons and faux champagne, I thought hey why not blog about it! I know no better way to celebrate. I really don't sadly.

'K so I don't know what else to say. Here are some of milestones thus far:

First time feeling even a little bloggy:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/02/feeling-just-lil-bloggy.html

First time making Rachel cry in a blog:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/02/blog-post_08.html

First time blogging about making Rachel cry in a bad way (won't be the last neither):

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/03/i-need-redemption-from-shawshank.html

First time stalking my readers:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/04/heres-looking-at-you-creepily.html

My first bachelor's party:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/04/beer-bongs-stripping-sweet.html

First blog spinoff:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/05/jonathan-reddoch-university-is-open-for.html

First time I wanted to blog but came up empty:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/05/not-feeling-so-bloggy.html

First guest blogger:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/06/guest-blogger.html

101th post:

http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/2010/06/101th-bloggy-spectacular.html

Guest Blogger

Well, since I wrote a story for Josh and Rachel, I guess it's time to write one for Jonathan. Told you I was in high demand. And in case you don't read Rachel and Josh's blogs and have no idea who this crazy person talking is, it's Jonathan's sister-in-law Kristina. So here goes nothing. And by nothing I actually mean a story.

Ronathel

By Kristina Bohman

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl named Rapunzel. She had long gorgeous hair, got locked up in a tower, and then let her handsome prince climb up and save her using her hair as a rope. Yeah yeah yeah. That's my sister. I'm Ronathel, Rapunzel's younger sister by one year. Sometimes it can be kind of annoying, always being overshadowed like that. But I'm not bitter about it. I mean, she really is very beautiful. But kinda dumb. I mean, really, just because some old witch stuck her in a tower, she thinks she has to stay there forever, pining away for her Prince Charming or whatever. But don't let her hear me call him that. She insists I call him Prince Edmund, even though we all know Edmund is just a middle name, and Charming is his first name. Rapunzel says it's feeding a bad stereotype, though. As if she isn't, by being the poor defenseless damsel in distress waiting for some guy to come along and save her? Don't get me wrong, I love chivalry and guys standing up for girls, but come on girls! You can do some stuff for yourself once in a while! Of course, I'm rather biased, because of my own experience with girl power or whatever it is you want to call it. You see, I didn't grow up in a tower, so I actually got out and had some adventures...

The whole time I was growing up, it was an accepted fact that my sister was stuck in some tower. In fact, I thought that was where all big sisters went. It made me wonder, though, why she never even seemed to try and get out. We visited her every third Tuesday of the month, under the witch's supervision of course, and Rapunzel always seemed perfectly content to stay where she was. Sitting there and knitting isn't exactly what I'd be doing, but she seemed happy enough, so why bother her about it? It'd just make her mad at me. But I guess it wasn't all knitting or crocheting or whatever. She also took a couple hours every day washing, drying, and doing her hair. Even stuck in a tower, she can be so vain sometimes! She also painted, when she could get the supplies for it. But did I mention she's vain? Yeah, almost everything she painted was a portrait of herself.

So I had a picture of her when I went to go work at the palace. After all, my parents wasted all their time trying to bargain with the witch to give Rapunzel back, so it was up to me to earn money for the family. And hey, what girl wouldn't mind going to a castle and maybe meeting the prince? I got a job in the kitchen and soon they all realized what a great cook I was.

Then came that fateful day. Prince Char-uh, I mean, Prince *Edmund* came into the kitchens to get a snack or something, and ran into me! He asked if I was the one who had made his delicious breakfast that morning, and I told him indeed I was. He didn't seem very interested, though, as he kept looking around. That's when he noticed my painting of Rapunzel. He was smitten as soon as he saw it. What does that say about me? He actually meets me in real life, and could care less, then sees a badly painted picture of Rapunzel and falls in love? Am I really that hideous? I'm not. Rapunzel just has that effect on people.

Anyways, he immediately wrote a letter to her. Of course I didn't read it, but you could tell by the way he blushed when he gave it to me to deliver that it was pretty mushy. Delivering it was no small matter, though. That crazy witch guards her tower really well. I had to sneak over in the middle of the night (and that witch is a master sneak, so she's really suspicious about other sneaks, so I had to swim up to the tower through the swamp next to it), climb up the tower (with her whining the whole time about how much it hurt her poor head), deliver the message, then sneak back out. And the next night I had to do the same thing to go get her message for him!

Anyways, one day I brought the prince there. He's the worst sneak that ever snuck! First of all, he whined about going in the swamp in his nice clothes. I warned him beforehand that he'd be getting dirty! Then he stumbled over one of the sleeping guard dogs! It was a huge vicious rottweiler, and I was certain I'd die, but that's where we jumped back into the swamp. No living creature in its right mind would go in that thing, so we were safe. But obviously not in our right minds. Anyways, he finally got to meet Rapunzel in person. She hardly complained at all when HE climbed up using her hair, even though I'm sure he weighs at least 50 pounds more than me. Not that he's fat or anything. Just really, really tall.

So that's the real story of how Rapunzel ended up with her love. I introduced them, scoped out ways for that bumbling prince to get to her, and practically had to hold his hand the whole way there. It may not be much of an adventure, but it would take too long to write down the time of when I defeated the dragon, so this is what you get instead. So next time you hear about Rapunzel, just remember that none of it would have been possible without me, Ronathel.

Global Warming Kills Marriages

So the Gore's split up after 4 decades of cold love. Remember that one time they kissed? Like watching a robot manhandle a pig struggling for air. That's too bad that the romance ended (sarcmark).

Here's the best (saddest?) part. ABC News is wondering if Al was too successful. That's the question on my mind. Thanks for asking it, 123 News.

http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/Media/gore-split-defies-odds/story?id=10809713&page=1

Yeah that's the problem. If there is one thing that destroys a 40 year marriage it's career success. Good thing he was merely vice president before. Good thing he didn't get elected president. His limited political success kept that marriage alive (remember the kiss? Blech I do).

But once he got the Oscar for douchiest environmentalism, boy his marriage was shattered. If only we hadn't ruined the ozone, he would have no success at all in life and the Gores would be happily married still. If only Gorbot worked in a factory assembling cars instead of fighting against his robot kin's efforts to pollute the earth. If only!

It is inconvenient but true that global warming destroys families. Kills 'em dead.

Prejudice Can Be a Real Time Saver OR Not a Fan of the Fan Fiction

So I had a dream about Serenity. I thought maybe I could turn it into a short story.

My story involved a big husky robot controlled by a tiny girl. The episode would be called "Dues Ex Machina." The plot would revolve around the girl striking a deal with Mal to let her pull a few jobs with them so she could make a name for herself. Maybe the machine goes haywire and River puts it down or something. Maybe the girl double crosses them. I don't know. But at some point Mal says the phrase dues ex machine and Jayne says something crude like, "captain, speaking from personal experience, I don't think this thing would make a very good sex machine." Awful right? But so Jayne.

Basically I woke up and thought I could turn my dream into fan fiction. I must have been drowsy still.

Fact: fan fiction sucks.

I was pretty confident the Firefly fan fiction would be extra bad (since the show is cancelled and the browncoats are crazy into it). But before prejudging the "quality" of said fan fiction which I assumed would be atrocious, I decided I would peruse it myself.

Have you seen this poop? George Lucas can write better. Actually maybe not better per se but close enough. If you have seen "Firefly" or Serenity you would know that River and Jayne would never get married and have kids. What. The. Beep. There's a lot of dumb feces like that in there. In summary: not a fan of the fan fiction.

I learned my lesson about prejudging: prejudice can be a real time saver.

Not Feeling So Bloggy

OK so I am all out of blogger juice. It's been days since writing any new blog posts. My bloggy creativeness is running on fumes now. But we had a good run didn't we? Or at least a nice leisurely stroll. We had a few laughs, a few tears, I guess. So I have a few options. Call it a day. Call it even. Call it in the air. Call my agent. Or call it quits.

Maybe tomorrow I will have something funny to write about. After all it has been a whole three days almost without writing anything "good." I am not feeling so bloggy right now.

I am gonna call Rachel.