A Modest Proposal

It’s good to be back. For the past several weeks all my energy has been focused on FoxNews, but now I’m more open minded than ever and ready to share my thoughts.
After watching the past couple of elections closely I get the sense that Ohio and Florida think they’re better than they really are. Each election cycle all eyes turn to these two over privileged states. Other than their population they really don’t deserve this attention. We can be honest here, no one really cares about Ohio, and Florida has proved time and time again that they are grossly incompetent in anything that doesn’t involve singing animatronic midget children from all across the world.
It’s time for a change, Iowa. We can be one of those pampered states on the receiving end of all that undeserved political attention. Last January we got a taste of it during the caucus, but even the star power that came from being the first caucus is beginning to fade. Candidates opt out of campaigning here in order to spend more time in New Hampshire. Tell me one good thing New Hampshire has ever done. Iowa, we can do better. You better believe that if Ohio held the first primary politicians would flock to that state, performing the political equivalent of fellatio on all those buckeyes.
What do we lack? What would it take for Iowa to become a political juggernaut? People. We need sheer numbers. Multitudes of people. Bumbling, slobbering, idiotic people. That’s all it takes. Every so often the United States redistributes the number of representatives per state. There are only 435 to go around and the allocation is based proportionately on state population. Our voice in this election was limited to 7 lousy electoral votes, and it’s about time we get our grubby paws on some more. Ohio has 20 total electoral votes, Florida with 27. My friends it is time to have our voices heard.
What comes next? I’m not sure how to put this politely… It’s time to get dirty Iowa. If we want to be pampered like divas we’ve got to screw like Paris Hilton. We need to start pumping out colossal numbers of babies. Tonight we can start on our path to the top. In nine months we can increase our population by roughly 30%. Every nine months, repeat. The next time those census takers are released onto our state they’ll be knee deep in toddlers. Iowa’s population in 2006 was 2,982,085. In 2012 we could be up to 8 million, just a couple million away from Ohio. Don’t worry we’ll be there by 2018, and ladies it will only get easier.
Some of us who start out on this journey may not live to see the day when Iowa truly gets the representation we deserve. Don’t get discouraged. I assure you we will overcome, and please, think of the children. The millions upon millions of children. The multitudes of starving children out in the streets all crawling on top of each other. They deserve to have their voices heard.

THANKS!

A Belated Tribute

Yes, this blog is a day late, but it is no less important. Yesterday a great American hero celebrated his 23rd birthday. A man who, at the age of 19, had already earned the reputation of “old balls” and “fun hater” is now one year older. It’s hard to describe such a complicated individual but I’ll give it a try.
First and foremost I think most people would call Tim an “ass hole.” This label is not fully accurate. Sure Tim hate’s most people, and sure he can’t stand being in a romantic relationship for more than four days, and yeah he’ll give the cold shoulder to a girl who is infatuated with him, pretending like he doesn’t even know her, but… Ok so maybe he’s an ass hole, but with good reason.
Tim has been involved with more crazy people in 23 years than most of us will encounter in our entire life. Girls escape from the Mental Health Hospital in Independence just to show up at his door step the next day. Some of the most cunning and scandalous girls I’ve ever met have used their wily tactics on him only to leave him in a suicidal stupor for months on end.
The thing about Tim is that he bounces back. Most people would seek professional help after an entire winter break spent sleeping all day, going on long dark night runs, and coming down with frost bite, but all it took Tim to shake himself out of his depression was a swift wall punch and one famous quote, “F*** this I’ve got B****es I can get on!” And so he did, of course they all ended up being crazy too, but he was used to it by then.
Some of the best dates I’ve ever had, have been with Tim. I consider him a heterosexual life partner. Whether we’re going to SoHo to practice ordering sushi so we can take a real girl there someday and impress them with our “worldliness” or just staying in and watching a Matthew McConaughey romantic-comedy, it’s always time well spent.
Tim is a guy who lives by his own rules. For instance, this year he decided to swear off girls and focus entirely on track and school. Odds are he’ll end up in a couple week long affairs, study minimally, and come down with some kind of chronic illness that keeps him from running. But really I hope the best for him this year. He’s a great friend and deserves to come out on top.
Happy Birthday

A List of Grievances

There are a few things that I don’t like about Wal-Mart. Don’t get me wrong. The place isn’t entirely bad. If I want to feel as rich as a filthy Rockefeller I go to Wal-Mart, where I can buy 1000 Christmas bulbs for 99 cents just so I can smash them with a baseball bat out in an empty parking lot somewhere. If I want to ride around in an electric shopping cart, I go to Wal-Mart, where all it takes is a couple of my roommates walking casts, and in no time I’m jetting around at 3 miles per hour and beeping when I back up. But there are some things that really cheese me when I go to Wal-Mart.

Old people in the express checkout line:
I go to the express checkout line because I want to get the hell out of Wal-Mart as fast as I possibly can. It never fails though. As I step up to the e.c. (express checkout) to buy my candy cigarettes and triple A batteries, the crypt keepers wife has beat me there. I don’t know how she did it, but I’m pretty sure she was there the last time too, maybe still working on the same order. This lady has 400 things in her cart. Apparently none of these items have a bar code because each item needs to be rung up separately by the one cashier who already hates his life, but does so even more now because he has to walk 10 feet over to the express c. to help this lady, who is still working on that same order since he started his shift 3 hours ago. Finally she finishes her order. She just has to pay and then I’m up. Swipe, Swipe, Debit, pin pin pin pin, no cash back, ok, receipt, gone! This shouldn’t be too hard right? Wrong! Old Mother Hubbard here starts writing out a flippin’ check. First she has to dig through her purse to find her check writing glasses. She finds those, but now she has to dig through her purse to find the case for her grocery shopping glasses. She finds that. Ok, so she writes her check. The next step for any normal person would be to rip it up and use your debit card, but this is not a normal person. As of last week, this lady purchased her first dial phone. For fifty years she had been using a classic rotary and now, on top of the understandable level of anxiety she is already experiencing from switching phones, she’s trying to conquer the express check out. I do feel a bit sorry for her. Things were simpler in her time. The grocers smiled. The bag boy was that nice young man from down the block, you know, the Thompson boy. Cigarettes didn’t cause cancer. Simpler times. Anyway, the disgruntled teenage cashier makes his way over to our checkout for the 80th time and sees that she wants to pay with a check. He consults the employee hand book then process the check. She’s done. I realize I left my wallet at home and curse the day I was born.

Employees complaining about working/ telling me they “only have 30 more minutes” then they’re out of here:
Dude I don’t want to hear it. I know you’re not proud of your job. I don’t care. I need you to do this job, and get paid crap for it, so I can buy my candy cigarettes and triple A batteries for 35 cents. And besides, making fake conversation with the Wal-Mart employees is hard enough, now you’ve gone ahead and made it even more awkward by getting all emotional on me. What do you want me to say? “Thirty minutes huh? When you get off we should totally hang out?” No. What I feel like saying is “Thirty minutes huh? You know, I would be just as happy if you never had to work and you were all replaced by express checkouts. At least then I would never have to talk to you.” It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s that I absolutely hate trying to carry on a fake conversation. I’m not really interested. There just isn’t much to say when you run into someone at Wal-Mart. Everyone is there for the same reason: cheap junk. The couple times I’ve run into people at Wal-Mart and maybe actually had something to say to them, (when I was driving around in a electric cart with walking casts on both of my legs, or when I was buying a puzzle at 2:30 on a Thursday morning) I still didn’t want to talk. Something about Wal-Mart just sucks the life out of you. I understand you, complaining employee. You hate this place and just want to get out of here as fast as you can, me too, that’s why I don’t want to talk to you.

Boxes that are mangled beyond recognition:
It never fails. If I need to buy something “important” from Wal-Mart, a fan, maybe a small camping grill, or a waffle iron, every box on the shelf appears to have been torn apart by wolverines then tapped back together by a troop of chimpanzees. You can never trust these packages. There’s always a crucial piece of the innards missing. It’s too easy to steal from Wal-Mart, that’s way. They don’t care. You can buy a waffle iron, take it home, rip apart the box, take out the waffle iron, stuff all the foam and plastic back into the box, take back the box filled with just foam and plastic, and they’ll give you your money back. Then I come along, wanting a waffle iron and what I end up getting is an empty box. I buy the mangled box because a) it’s the only choice I have and b) the guy up front tells me some lie about how this wasn’t a returned item it’s just shipped in a special way. It really flips my switch because now I have to make another trip back to Wal-Mart just to return this thing which means I’ll end up buying 25 dollars worth of crap because that’s what you do when you go to Wal-Mart. You intend on getting one little thing and you end up seeing the 5 dollar DVD section. You buy Rambo II. Then you buy some air freshener for your car. It’s only 87 cents. Then you sniff the scented candles for about a half an hour. After that you’re so high you can’t remember what you did, but when you get home the roof of your mouth is torn up from eating a box of sour IceBreakers and you’ve got a 3-pack of thong underwear you’re afraid to open.

The parking lots:
Parking lots are normally like a jungle; only the strong survive, but that sense of danger is heightened tenfold when you realize that 90% of the people in a Wal-Mart parking lot are NASCAR fans. So I’m driving down a lane. I know I’m going the right way because the “car butts” are point towards me. Then all of a sudden I’ve got Jeff Gordon in a Ford Windstar coming out of nowhere. He’s cutting through lanes, swerving around abandoned shopping carts. He doesn’t care which way the car butts are pointing. All J Gordon in a Ford Windstar sees is the white taillights of a car in slot meaning someone is about to pull out. And why is that all he sees? Because every inch of his rear and side windows are covered with NASCAR decals. He’s got a huge American flag flying from his antenna, he has a couple of those fake bullet holes slapped on the doors, and he’s even got gold ol’ Calvin pissin’ on a Chevy symbol too. So he slingshots off a Toyota Camry, clips the back tire of an Oldsmobile Auroa, sending it crashing into side wall, and takes the lead in the lane I’m in. What happens after all this excitement? We sit. Jeff Gordon in a Ford Windstar isn’t going anywhere until that car he saw, the car that started this all, backs out. But apparently someone in that car forgot to pick something up inside so the driver sits in the slot, geared in reverse, doesn’t take his foot off the break, and waits that way until that person gets back. We wait there 20 minutes. The person we’ve been waiting for finally returns with their waffle iron. I know what they’re plan for that waffle iron is. Bastards. Jeff Gordon in a Ford Windstar gets his precious spot. I circle around for a while. As I’m circling I come across another delay, same guy, different way of causing havoc in the parking lot. Jeff Gordon is no longer in a Ford Windstar now it’s Jeff Gordon walking down the middle of the lane. I pull up behind him. He has to know I’m there. He doesn’t stray from his set path down the middle of the lane. His wife is walking right next to him. I think she even looks back at me but she doesn’t budge. She doesn’t even tug on the sleeve of his 1985 letterman’s jacket to move him over. They eventually get inside and I eventually get my spot, but it’s back home, where I don’t have to deal with this mess.

THANKS

On Being Sick

When I become sick I suffer from more than the common physical symptoms (i.e. body aches, fever, runny nose, and congestion). I suffer from symptoms that affect the way I function and in ways these symptoms can become far more dangerous. While I am sick there is a separation of my mind from my physical surroundings. I am no longer an active participant in the world, rather a distanced observer, from my own little planet. On this planet, the normal rules of society do not apply and every day little things are mesmerizing. Spoken words are heard without comprehension, written word is seen without understanding, and the motions of my body are performed without thought.
Let’s discuss some of the situations I found myself in yesterday in order to shed more light on these non-physical symptoms. During class my professor spoke to a room full of nearly 100 students. All I could do to keep from falling out of my chair and curling up into the fetal position on the floor was to stare at the yellow words and the purple background that was projected onto the professor’s face as he passed in front of the screen which displayed his power point presentation. There were brief glimpses of reality as I would, after long periods of zoning out, realize that I hadn’t listened to single word the professor said and if I were to be called on I would have nothing to say. As this horrific possibility passed through my head I came to believe that what would happen if I were to be called on would be a swift projectile vomit followed by a collapse to the ground on which I would then violently seize. These thoughts passed as I eventually slipped back into my detached state, staring, without comprehension, at the words on my professor’s face.
As I said before, when I’m sick my actions are performed without thought. It is amazing how much of a day I can get through without trouble solely based on 23 years of muscle memory. And even if things don’t fully work out there is usually little consequence, like when I spent about a minute turning my key in the wrong mail box without realizing why it wouldn’t open. All of that is fine and dandy, but things become more dangerous during this “distanced observer” phase when crucial rules are not processed. I mean here, the rules of the road.
Driving home from Hy-Vee, where I purchased a gallon of Tropicana orange juice, two boxes of Kleenex tissue with lotion, and some Alka-Seltzer cold tabs, determined to beat this cold, I noticed a bug on the inside of my driver’s side window. I became very concerned for this bug so I rolled down my window a crack as to free it from my stuffy truck. The bug crawled up the window, up over the top of the window, and sat there, just barely over the edge of the window. He was in a position that would surely cause him to be crushed if I rolled the window back up, something I wanted to do in order to stop the cold air from blowing against my chapped nose and sore throat. I couldn’t role it up though because of my overwhelming concern for this bug’s happiness. I started to think that rolling the window down was a bad idea. As I began to pick up speed I could see the wind blowing his tiny little wings back while he struggled to hold on. It worried me that he could blow away and become lost, so far from his home, which I had now decided was my truck. I talked to the bug, telling him to hold on. “All we have to do is make it to a stop light and I’ll pull you back in,” I said. That wouldn’t work. He was losing strength, I could tell. I stuck my finger out the crack, wrapping it down the other side of the window. He was supposed to climb onto my finger and I would pull him back in the truck to safety. Instead, I knocked him loose and he blew away. I felt like pulling over the truck and crying. Pull over. Truck. I was driving. For the first time in about three quarters of a mile, I realized that I had been driving. No one was yelling at me from the other lanes and I saw no flashing lights. Apparently I snuck by without causing a serious accident. Still, that bug was gone, and for the first time that day, I felt truly sick.
THANKS

A Jackass Move

When I’m at a bar or in any other crowded situation I always feel as if I’m in the way of everyone there. I try to make myself as small as possible by concaving my chest, sucking in my stomach, and keeping my arms pinned flat either to my sides or, by dropping my shoulders, in front of me. It’s really a depressing position to be in, and despite my intentions of avoiding contact with others, allowing them to freely move about, I end up getting bounced around like a pin ball. To further demonstrate this phenomenon, let me describe a reoccurring situation. I am walking through a crowed bar with my friends. Because space is limited, we are walking in a single file line, trying to stay as close as possible. Sooner or later we come across another group of friends doing the same thing. If their group is trying to cross the bar, and our group is in the way, creating a sort of T-bone situation, their group will inevitably cross in front of me, separating me from the rest of the group. I can only assume that they choose to cut in front me because of the essence of total submissiveness that I exuberate through my body language. These situations and others like it make me feel very uncomfortable in bars, but I have recently come to terms with that. I decided that crowed bars are just not the place for me, and that is ok. But despite this enlightenment I still find myself at these bars on occasion. This is when things can go bad, as they did this last Saturday.
I was hanging out with some friends at a local bar. As the bar began to pick up business I began to grow increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually I heard the bouncer tell the bartender that they had reached “one-in-one-out,” the pinnacle of crowed bar scenarios. I knew the night was about to take a turn for the worse. I could sense it in the air. All it would take was a simple twist of fate, and like a Greek tragedy things would feel just right before they all came crashing down. So it happened. I see a friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen since high school, come in the bar, I caught her eye and we were both surprised to see each other. We exchanged a quick hug and began to go into small talk. It couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds of conversation before it all came crashing down. I’m still not sure how it happened, but it did and that’s really all that matters. Maybe I didn’t have full control of my body because of the anxiety I was feeling in the bar, or maybe I was just excited to talk with her, but somehow, while moving my arms around when I was talking, I managed to elbow her in the face. Hard. A solid swing that connected my pointy elbow squarely to her mouth. I didn’t know what to do and she was not impressed. I’m not sure if her lip swelled up, but I would assume it did. That was it. Now I’d be surprised if she’d be happy to see me in another four years.
THANKS

A YouTube Link

Here's a link to a video I made and put up on the greatest webpage ever made. The "Typical Day" post was nice, I'll be the first to admit that, but it lacked something... visuals. So here you go:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVrA6XathS8

So You Think You Can Dance?

For those of you who know me now as Kevin the man, I would like to share with you a bit of my dark and chilling past, a part of my life I call Kevin the Junior High-teen. It may shock many of you who have recently met me and have been swept off your feet by my charm and grace, but I, like many of you, was once an awkward pimply confidence lacking teenager. Before I could drive, I would stomp through the snow with my two left feet to the local junior high school where my voice cracked when called on in class and where talking to girls without sweating was harder than physical education. One experience in particular has seared a memory so troubling into my brain that I am just now, nearly 10 years later, overcoming its effects.
My first Junior High dance was going to be the most amazing night of my life. Nate and I prepared for this night since 6th grade when we had heard that “junior high chicks were hot and would put out”. (At this time we didn’t know what “put out” meant but we had heard older kids say it and thought it was cool.) This attitude and hope would carry with us throughout our educational years. As 9th graders we were eager to meet all the hot high school ladies who were no doubt just as excited to meet us, and as seniors we couldn’t wait to peruse about the scandalous college women we were bound to run into at all kinds of “Animal House-esq” parities the next year. So, the night of our first junior high dance I pulled out all the stops. Wearing my buttoned up short sleeved plaid shirt that my mom bought me from American Eagle and my best and lightest colored khaki shorts I made my way over to Nate’s. There we would cover every inch of ourselves with Tommy Hilfiger cologne. The ladies would love us. After Nate’s mom dropped us off at the school and she was out of site, I unbuttoned my American Eagle shirt and exposed the cutoff-t I had underneath. Sorry girls, resistance is futile. As the event progressed we saw some of the older kids dancing in a rather provocative manner. Now I had heard rumors of something called “grinding” but had never imagined it would look so awesome. A mess of hips and legs swirled around me. In my head I could hear Patrick Swayze telling me not to be afraid and to try this new kind of “dirty dancing”, but I was too scared. This was all too new and I had to wait it out. Slowly, one by one, my more outgoing friends found themselves on the dance floor with girls, grinding, and eventually it was just me, against the wall drowning my sorrows in a paper cup of Mt. Dew. I never wanted anything more in my whole life than to dance with someone like the 9th graders were. Finally, a girl friend of mine approached me, my heart raced along with the fast beat of the song. She asked me if I wanted to dance. It didn’t take much thinking; Swayze rang out in my mind. “Nobody buts baby in a corner”, and I walked onto the floor with her. With interlocking legs we began to dance, like the 9th graders were. I was so proud of myself for getting out on that floor and glad that I could help make the night of this special girl a little brighter by sharing some good old fashion dirty dancing with her. It was not me that was controlling my body, it was the music. My friend and I danced for what was apparently no more than 10 seconds before she stopped, took a step back and said to me, “you’re joking right?” Now it dawned on me what I had been doing during our short dance together. I was, to put it nicely, humping her leg, just moving my pelvis back and forth to the beat. I learned that night that that is not how you dance. I told her that I was joking. I wasn’t. I forced a laugh and walked away. Watching the older kids dance was a mess. I couldn’t tell what the hell they were doing and I was just trying my best. After that night I refused to dance for about 5 years. Even in college I would pass up opportunities to hang out with my friends and to spend time with crushes if I knew there was a chance that a dance floor would be involved.
This is not a tragedy though. This is a triumph. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, over the past couple years I have learned to overcome my fear of dancing only to share with the world some of the sickest moves ever seen. I now can dance in a crowded bar without fear of being laughed at, not just because I am confident that I am one of the best dancers this side of the muddy Miss but more importantly because I don’t care what the others think. All I need is a hot track and 2 square feet of floor and I will teach you a valuable lesson: Don’t take yourself so seriously.
THANKS.

Please enjoy:

A Typical Day

This is my typical day. In no way is this intended to be funny as my typical days are typically not funny.

8:20 - My phone alarm goes off. A piercing sound called "single tone 8". I reach out from the covers and hit some button that makes the sound go away. I roll over and shut my eyes.

8:22 - I wake up to the sensation of sand paper rubbing against my face. My first reaction is anger because I realize that this is Mo, my cat, who disrupted my sleep throughout the previous night by laying on my head or biting my back. As my thoughts become more clear I understand that I have slept past my alarm and that Mo has saved me from oversleeping my class. I thank Mo and feel proud to have a cat as smart as Lassie.

8:28 - I start to make breakfast. This morning it's a cheese omelet with hash browns, an apple and coffee. Mo claws at my leg during the whole process. The hash browns burn as I'm digging around in the refrigerator for the sliced ham which I decide is no longer fresh. (I had previously made a ham and cheese omelet with ham that was past it's expiration date. It tasted like alcohol. Now I am very paranoid about the freshness of my ham.) I throw out the ham.

8:35 - Breakfast is served. With enough pepper and ketchup I can make the hash browns taste good. I turn on the t.v. and watch MSNBC. Some jagoff is telling me about what Hilliry Clinton has to talk about at the Democratic National Convention. I hope she was watching.

8:43 - I wash the dishes and pans. Mo falls out of the window by pressing on the screen which is apparently not secured. I rush outside and find him sitting below the window, stunned. It was only a two foot fall, so he's fine.

9:00 - Shower, brush my teeth... shave? No, not today, or for the next 5 days.

9:24 - Getting dressed is an important part of my day now that I'm at law school. What I wear sends a message which can distinguish me from my fellow students. A gray t-shirt and jeans will do.

9:26 - Sit on the couch and relax. Mo chews on my toes.

9:30 - I leave for my first day of 9:40 class. It's about a three minute walk so I'll be there with plenty of time to get a good seat.

9:35 - I walk into class. There has to be a seat in there somewhere. Not paying attention to faces, only looking for that last empty spot I head to the back row and find it.

9:40-11:00 - Class begins. I'm the guy with the runny nose and no kleenex.

11:10 - I get home and watch some T.V. This is my first experience of watching John Hagee. He tells me that "Jesus wasn't no limp wristed peace lover," to make a point that he would support the war in Iraq. I don't know if it's his words or the thousands of people in his mega church nodding along with a smile, but I think I hate John Hagee.

11:25 - I make a turkey sandwich. The turkey is still fresh.

11:30-12:20 - T.V.

12:21 - I leave for class. This time I'm not making the same mistake. This time I'm getting a good spot.

12:30 - I get a good spot

12:40-3:10 - Class. I get to tell my story of how Evan and I went to a Bob Dylan concert with Richard the Hobo.

3:15-6:33 - Reading in the library. I'm pretty sure that the squeaks and rumbles coming from my stomach as it is still trying to digest my turkey sandwich are annoying everyone on the same floor.

6:45 - Supper. Mac a Roni and Cheese with peanut butter bread. Delicious.

7:07 - Surf the tubes. Mindlessly refresh and flip through facebook pages. I listen to the Johnny Cash "At Folsom Prison" album. He was pretty bad ass. I track my package. It's in Lexington.

7:55 - I play with Mo. He could chase that feathery yellow thing on the end of a stick all day. But I can't shake it as long. My arm gets tired.

8:06 - I watch some speeches on C-SPAN. No one actually present at the speech is paying attention. Some dude is taking pictures of his surroundings with a camera phone. Others are gathered in circles talking amongst themselves. I don't blame them. This lady sucks.

9:01 - I receive/send a text from/to Tim. Everything is running smoothly back home.

10:00 - The Daily Show

10:30 - The Colbert Report

10:35 - Not feeling it. I go to bed
THANKS

A Tireless Search

What makes the perfect campus bathroom? There are many factors that must be considered and only an expert on the issue, one who has dedicated a majority of their energies during their four years of college in pursuit of such an elusive, often believed to be mythical, entity, to properly answer this important question. Luckily for you I am that expert. For three years and one semester I scoured the campus of my institution for that illusive bathroom, and after three years and one semester I found such a bathroom, giving myself one full semester of blissful excretion. This is an issue that means a great deal to me. Having respectable stomach and digestive problems, it is of grave importance for me to find a quiet and peaceful place to call home for 10 minutes after lunch on campus. But, as grateful as I am to have found the perfect bathroom at my previous school I can’t emphasize enough how important the journey is. In everything you do, whether it’s paint a picture, run a marathon, or find the perfect public bathroom, the journey, the opportunity for growth and revelation should never be forgotten. It’s so easy to get lost in the search and to focus solely on the end product that you lose sight of what truly matters. I can’t tell you exactly what you’ll find on your quest, for no one path is the same, but I can tell you that if you keep an open mind along the way you’ll be rewarded with more than just a nice place to sit and pass the time. For me, a better understanding of human nature lay ahead of me. While experiencing as many bathrooms as I could it occurred to me that no matter what bathroom you use, whether it is the 1st floor library, 3rd floor library, basement of the Union, or the law building in another city, people will write stupid things on the walls. The random swear word is typical. Sometimes we get more creative and write a raunchy poem. We may get political stating that a particular candidate is a “fag”. I’m almost positive that if I were to visit a bathroom outside the court room of the United State Supreme Court I would be delighted to find that, “Sandra Day O’Connor was here”. This journey is so important to me that I have only shared with a select few the location of that special bathroom I had found at my previous institution.
But I digress. What makes a perfect restroom? For me traffic must be minimal, meaning that the chances of someone walking into the bathroom while I use it are low. I would say that if someone walks in on me 1 out of 30 times I happen to be using that bathroom then there is too much traffic and I must advance my search. The issue of automatic hand sanitation is a complicated one but one that can weigh quite heavily on my attitude towards a bathroom. Automatic sinks, a negative, automatic foam soap dispensers, a huge positive, automatic air dyers, huge negative, automatic paper towel dispensers, big positive, if, with one pass of my hand I am given an amount of paper that equals one and a half normal paper towels. Location is vital. A good centralized location, one which I can access easily in my ten minute break between class, can make all the difference. All of these things though can be just right and it still may not be the bathroom for you. You cannot underestimate the power of the “it” factor when selecting a washroom. If you don’t feel comfortable, if you don’t feel at home in this bathroom, then this is not a place where you will want to invest a large portion day. But after all is said and done, if your stomach is like mine and is the primary reason you embarked on this long and arduous search for the perfect bathroom, if the noises that come from your stall can be heard from even the most remote location, then the words “there’s no place like home” may ring truer than any phrase ever uttered before.
THANKS

A Predictable Disappointment

I, like many others, consider myself to be an amateur Big Foot hunter. I keep an eye out for him. Last week I was ecstatic to hear that a Big Foot had been found. If you hadn’t heard about this yet here is the short New York Times article dealing with this controversial issue:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/15/us/15bigfoot.html?scp=4&sq=big%20foot&st=cse
and here is a FoxNews report giving this story the time and recognition it truly deserves:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z76h6ltDh2c

The story goes that two Georgians (the American kind) who run a part time Big Foot tour through the woods of Georgia, found a Big Foot carcass and while removing the body from the woods they saw a couple more living Sasquatches closing in on them. This spotting was not rare as the two men have said to have seen hundreds of Big Foots while walking the Georgian woods. The picture that had been circulating around the internet was of the hairy carcass in a cooler on ice. Although the picture itself was not conclusive the two men along with Tom Biscard, a respectable scientist and world renowned Big Foot hunter, agreed to hold a press conference in which DNA evidence would be presented and once and for all prove the existence of a missing link between man and ape. Only a couple days were needed to prep the body.
Now, as a friend of mine put it, “how hard can it be to prove if it’s real? Cut it open and if it’s not full of packing peanuts then you’ve got an animal.” I agreed, it shouldn’t have been so hard to get to the bottom of this issue. Why was I putting my hopes and dreams into the hands of these backwoods crackpots?
Like all other Big Foot discoveries this too turned out to be a hoax:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/16/us/16brfs-BIGFOOTREMAI_BRF.html?scp=3&sq=big%20foot&st=cse
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/20/us/20brfs-001.html?_r=1&sq=big%20foot&st=cse&adxnnl=1&oref=slogin&scp=1&adxnnlx=1219421109-CS9AuFlTakCaZydHBcMLnw

The body was mostly a mixture of rubber and animal parts. The DNA was a mixture of human and opossum. My heart was a mixture of broken and sadness. My life was a mixture of spiral and downward. I had wanted this so bad. If Big Foots were real it would have been so awesome to just punch one in the stomach or something. Now my only relief was that these fools, who were only interested in their own financial gain and not the radical scientific ramifications of such a creature, will not be ultimately credit for the biggest discovery since the polio vaccination. There were plenty of truly scientific things that could have been done with this body. The DNA could have been used to clone these hairy monsters which then could be hunted for fun, or because of their subpar human intelligence but exceptional animal intelligence, used as household servants. A Sasquatch in an apron baking cookies and tucking children into bed, haha, science is silly.
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An Embarrassing Situation

If there is one thing I hope to accomplish through this blog, it’s to help someone. By writing about my insecurities maybe someone will find inspiration to overcome their own, and in turn help me. Many times I find myself in situations where I would be expected to assert myself and many times I fail to meet those expectations. For example, most people, while dining at a restaurant would return their meal if what was placed in front of them wasn’t what they ordered. I find it much easier to avoid the conflict and choke down whatever chance meal I was given. It doesn’t matter if I ordered a hamburger and received a chicken wrap. Sacrificing my own desires for convenience I go with the chicken wrap.
The other day I was standing in line at the Hy-Vee meat counter. I was planning on buying a boneless chicken breast while all of a sudden the man in front of me ordered two boneless “mesquite marinated” chicken breasts. I didn’t see the mesquite option earlier and now that they had been brought to my attention they were all I could think about. I had to have one. There was only one problem. The guy who just ordered what I now wanted was still standing by me. Surely I couldn’t order the same thing as him. He would think I was weird. The meat counter guy started wrapping up the original marinated guys chicken breast. Ah ha! Once the chicken guy gets his package from the meat counter guy he’d start walking away. I could stall my order until I was sure he was out of hearing range then I could whisper my order, just to be safe, to the employee and no one would be the wiser. A flawless plan, foiled only by a second meat counter guy. While “mesquite marinade” was still getting his chicken wrapped up, Johnny Come Lately comes lately out of left field and asks to take my order. I didn’t see him earlier. I was not prepared for this. I panicked. That day I left Hy-Vee with two bratwurst, two organ meat casings of disappointment.
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A Holiday Favorite

Another story from my troubled past. December 2006, I was asked to perform a task for the City Recreation Division. I thought nothing of it since I had been working odd jobs for the Rec. for about a year and a half. Coaching baseball, t-ball, basketball, football, senior citizen volleyball, kickball, I had done pretty much everything I figured that the Rec. could have me do. I was wrong. I was asked to help out with a program called “Santa Calls” and would be paid a flat rate of $20. With no additional information, I agreed to help out, besides it was the holidays. Later I showed up at the Rec. Division office where I was given a manila envelope that I would say weighed around 15 lbs. I was told that this envelope contained page after page of children’s names, phone numbers, and various other information you would find on a letter to Santa (e.g. gift ideas, whether or not you’ve been good or bad). My job was to call these kids pretending that I was Santa Claus who had just received these letters, and that I was checking in with the kids to see if everything was in order. Apparently the man that normally does this was ill. I can only assume his voice is much better than mine.
Immediately I was horrified. How could I get out of this? No kid would believe that I’m the voice of St. Nick. Maybe I could pretend I’m an elf and tell the children that Santa was sick and couldn’t speak on the phone. No, that’s wrong. I had no choice. I had to save Christmas. On my way home I began thinking of how much flack I was going to take from my roommates when they heard me on the phone, shut away in my room, talking to little kids with a fake low booming voice. My house was not an option. My parents’ house was not an option. I wouldn’t be able to explain. Is there an appropriate explanation that doesn’t involve demonstrating a clear criminal record with no prior counts of sexual misconduct? I decided to drive away in my truck to a poorly lit and empty, gravel parking lot, which seemed like the best option. Later I would understand this made me a ideal guest star for the hit Dateline series “To Catch a Predator”. There I sat in the driver’s seat with the dome light on and began calling child after child.
“HO HO HO! Hi Billy, this is Santa! How are you!?”
Fear was the usual response, dark paralyzing fear. Most kids said nothing.
“Do you still want a Gameboy ™ this year!? HO HO HO!”
Silence.
This went on for about three hours and, finally, after explaining to numerous parents why their kids’ Santa sounded like an underdeveloped 20 year old boy instead of a grizzled 60 year old man, and swiftly following that with an apology, I was done. Wiping the sweat from my brow, and the fog off the windows, I drove home and pretending like nothing had ever happened.

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For a list of sexual offenders in your area please visit this website:
http://www.familywatchdog.us/Default.asp
Here's a couple of party animals that live by me:
http://www.familywatchdog.us/ViewOffenderConvictions.asp?oID=NC002645S11&aid=148434806&at=1&sp=1
http://www.familywatchdog.us/ViewOffenderConvictions.asp?oID=IA652341&aID=148538911&at=1&sid={58AF4994-2887-46A2-9F5B-E1A5AA5A9E11}&lat=41.653516&long=-91.540368&clr=%2300ff00&rm=0
http://www.familywatchdog.us/ViewOffenderConvictions.asp?oID=IA30452191&aid=148537041&at=1&sp=1

An Early Morning Scare

Welcome readers. Before I begin I would like to say you are all in for a treat. By request from a good friend of mine I decided to start this blog in order to stay in touch with everyone back home. You may be wondering, "what makes this guy so special that he feels he, above anyone else, deserves to post on the internet?!". Please calm down, I understand your concern. I undertand that typically this position is reserved for only the best and brightest, and I will invest all my energies to best uphold the honor and dignity that the title of online blogger entails. I would not even think about writing on the intertubes if I wasn't fully convinced I had something worth sharing and could share it in a respectful manner.
So here it is, the premise of my blog. Being an extraordinarily awkward person I often find myself in awkward situations, or normal situations that I turn awkward through a total lack of self confidence or a simple misuse of my already minimal social skills. I take great delight in sharing these situations with my friends who are usually receptive and later pleased. Now that I have decided to move away for a while to a strange new place I am likely to experience many more sticky situations. Like I said before a good friend of mine, who understood this better than anyone, told me I should consider starting a blog so I could share my adventures with everyone who wants to hear them. I considered. I am now writing.

(Warning: This post is rated PG-13 for adult language. If you have not taken 6th grade sexual education I advise you to check out this website http://kidshealth.org/parent/emotions/feelings/sex.html then read further for a continued educational experience)
Well, about 3 weeks ago I woke up around 3:45 a.m. totally convinced that my testicles were not in the correct spot. Males, typically have two testicles, a right and a left. I believed, with more conviction than anything I have ever believed in my entire life, that my right and left had become my left and right. In a cold sweat I shot up from my pillow. This would be my last quick movement for I could feel my testicles laying vertically on top of each other. Like a hostage negotiator I had to play it cool. Quickly and calmly I surveyed the situation. Being somewhat of mathematician I came to the grave realization that I had a 50/50 chance of my parts falling back into the correct spot (i.e. the right to the right and the left to the left). I wasn't sure which one was on top and which was on bottom at this point so I flipped the coin and rolled over letting the chips fall as they may if you will. Sleep didn't come easy the rest of the morning. I couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't in the right position. Images of bull castration passed through my mind. The way they used rubber bands to cut off the circulation in effect leaving the testicles dead, eventually, I assume, falling off. I gave myself about a week before mine too fell off. I asked friends if what I described was possible. They said yes but attempted to quell my fears by telling me, with a few chuckles, that I would be in much more pain than I seemed to be if my testicles had actually switch places. I kept thinking that "testicle swap", as I had began calling it, is no joke, and how did they know I wasn't in pain. I had 3 days left. Anything I could find on the Internet about this silent killer would help. Web MD yielded these results after a simple symptom checker check list of "pain and discomfort in the genitalia, specifically testicles". Syphilis, erectile dysfunction, hernia... and there it was, I had seen the name before and now after seeing it on Web MD I knew it was fate, my disorder, "testicular torsion". Wikipedia has this to say about TT:
Torsions are sometimes called "winter syndrome". This is because they often happen in winter, when it is cold outside. The scrotum of a man who has been lying in a warm bed is relaxed. When he arises, his scrotum is exposed to the colder room air. If the spermatic cord is twisted while the scrotum is loose, the sudden contraction that results from the abrupt temperature change can trap the testicle in that position. The result is a testicular torsion.
Had someone been in my room that fateful night? The description was so accurate. The page was last updated on July 18th, 2008. My head began to spin. One day left. I decide to wait it out. There wasn't much I could do at this point anyway. The hours turned to minutes, the minutes to slightly less than a couple minutes. Eventually the rest of the night slipped away after checking around the floor and retracing my steps through the house, looking for my dead testicles, I concluded that they were still attached and I had not contracted testicular torsion. A final obvious check and I was slightly more convinced. Now it's only a matter of time until I'm sure everything is functioning correctly and I can concern myself with bigger problems like my crippling glucose allergy or my over active sweat glands.
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