A Complete Idiot's Guide

I Wish I Was As Invisible As You Make Me Feel

2008-10-31T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today is halloween.

It's another day out of the year that I pity the non-existant self respect and moral integrity of almost every girl that I see. Every girl that dressed up today dressed as a stripper, as per halloween tradition. It's like the mardi gras in the fall. Why does this bug the crap out of me? First off, it's only once a year. Can't we have a costume party in march or something? Second, it pretty much back tracks whatever progress that females had made in women's rights and equality in trying to break the stereotype that women are mostly around for the enjoyment of waste of life jocks at clubs. That's right. I said it. You're part of the problem, not the solution.

However, I digress. For this year, I dressed as the most shameful, embarassing, socially degrading character that I could think of.

An emo kid.

My costume rules. Denise was nice enough to do my guyliner for me, which I'm suprised she subjected herself to. Unfortunatley, I'm too tall for her girl pants. Those would have been sweet. I'm sportin the fauxhawk and have about 438 peices of flair on my arms. I've been complaining about my ex-girlfriends all morning and keeping smudging my guyliner because of the bitter tears from the oppression of my upper class suburban parents. I even cut my wrists to see if anyone would notice me.

The best part of my costume is passing by real emo kids. Look, I'm you for halloween!! The only thing I'm missing is the obligaroty guy-guy kiss and the worst freaking music that's ever been released in the history of crappy music. There's not a price you could pay me to listen to the new Aiden record. And I called no-homo.

The thing that kind of scares me is that 100% of my costume was in my apartment already. I didn't have to buy anything. These emo kids need to stop cramping my style.

Suck it in '08

2008-10-28T11:57:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

A few months ago I went to go see a band called Anti-Flag. I like them. I've been following them for a few years, since like 1999 or so. They played for almost an hour, and though I may someday forget the blatant, useless f-words, over utilized "whoa oh ohs" and most of their songs which were all introduced as "this song's about President Bush. Ehf that guy," I do remember this one rant they screamed out telling me that the biggest threat to this world isn't poverty, communism, racism, or some president. It's our own APATHY. To which I yelled "shut up and play Die for Your Government. No new crap. Die for Your Government, right now. GO! Skip to the agent orange part!" Maybe he's right about apathy. I hope not. Not that I care.

I'm ready for the world to shut its freaking pie hole already.

This election has turned the world black and white. I know that Bush started that "with us or against us" malarkey, but both sides took that and ran with it. Voting no on prop 2? Animal killer. Voting yes on prop 8? Homophobic bigot. Voting for Obama? You hate America. Voting for McCain? Racist, close minded Jesus freak. I stopped caring about politics the night of the 2000 election that kept the nation on the edge of their seats for almost month, and kept the rest of the world ROFLing ever since.

Politics = pathetic, so I can't help but be apathetic. I restrict my political commentary to the divine truth that is The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, so I am very well informed. When I read one of my friend's blogs about changing their babysitter due to a Yes on 8 sign on their lawn to avoid bigotrous indoctrination upon their children or read about neighbors feuding and vandalizing after Obama signs were stolen from lawns, I can't help but observe that people take themselves way too seriously. To the point where I just laugh. I guess its now conventional wisdom to be civil only to those who align with you politically.

Dave Chappelle once joked that white people keep their political affiliations a closely guarded secret. I do it just keep friends. Why would I throw away a perfectly good friendship just by uselessly blabbing why I'm voting for whatever guy it is I'm voting for? My friend might work at Chili's and I love discounted chicken tacos.

When I vote on November 4th, I'm voting for Tom Delonge.

Don't know who that is? This guy rules. He used to be a punk rocker fronting Blink 182. Not anymore. Now, he's the self proclaimed second coming of Jesus fronting Angels and Airwaves, the self-righteously self-titled greatest rock band in the history or rock and roll, writing the best songs anyone's ever heard that will change the life of everyone who listens to it. This guy doesn't need to whisper. He's going to start the machine and absolve our sins, save the world, and sell you a 25 dollar t-shirt.

As Woody says: "Suck it in '08"

What we do is secret...

2008-10-10T10:41:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

People who keep secrets.

I've become privy to the single most incredible, unbelievably juicy gossip in the history of human existance. This is seriously the greatest thing ever. EVER. But I don't play the gossip game. I'm, like, better than that. I'm a vault.

But when this bomb goes off, you'll know it, and I just want you all to know that I was privileged to be one of the first to know, and therefore I'm a better person that I was just last monday.
That is all.

Oh manomanomanomanoman this good.

Adventures in Kansas

2008-10-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

Apparently I'm not just ripping off the Family Guy when I open my blogs with that line. I'm ripping off an journalist from Kansas who has a features column in a small newspaper in the middle of nowhere, who was ripped off by the Family Guy. Can you believe that? This guy gets paid to do what I've been doing for free for two years. Weak sauce. Speaking of Kansas...

When I was serving my LDS mission, I was living in Colby, Kansas, a no horse town that is being completely economically sustained by a Wal-Mart and a truck stop which suckers hungry travelers driving between Denver and Kansas City into buying their ishh since they're the only worth stopping for in a 300 mile span. That place rules. It has a Sonic Burger, so I would move there in a second.

You live in a small town for more than a day, and you pretty much meet everyone. We were like celebrities, as everyone in town was always moving from one rented apartment to the next, and who better to help them move their never-even-unpacked boxes each time they got evicted? Missionaries. Luckily we didn't have a truck, or things would have got out of hand. Want to make a fortune? Dress in a shirt and tie and start a moving business. MoneyCashHos.

While I lived there, one of our biggest fans was a Ruth Reed, a sweet half hippie, half redneck who lived in a trailer with her son Jon Paul, who we'd always refer to JohnaPaul, just gimme tha liiiiiightt. We fit right in. So Ruth loved to give her missionaries nicknames. Elder Skousen, the typical bean pole super tall missionary was dubbed "Stretch." She was clever. She took a couple of weeks, but she eventually came up with a doozie for her favorite missionary: Snowball. Hiyoooooooooooooo!

She was awesome. She made some bomb BBQ sauce, and fed her 3 year old, 35 pound Beagle nothing but fresh McDonald's Cheeseburgers. Every time we went to her trailer, she had rearranged the furniture. She was basically your run of the mill redneck, and I mean that in the nicest, sweetest way.

So one day she had us over for BBQ hot dogs and potato salad, and we got to talking about what we would do with a bazillion dollars. I, of course, would muscle Al Davis away from the Raiders and commit the team to a Davis-free excellence. Her ambitions were a little odd. She got a little teary, and said she would buy a new trailer, and buy a trailer for me and my then-future wife, and another trailer for my then sidekick Elder Hampshire, a short, whiter than white Canadian break dancing rap star who grew up on Vanuatu. We'd have our own little block in her trailer park. Seriously.

Even in this lady's wildest dreams where money is no object and the sky is the limit, she would still live in a trailer with her dog and son!!

I really miss that place. Life was simple, as was Ruth. She could probably fulfill her dreams buy selling her car and her TV, whereas I am still scheming on how to make my first billion to start the machine and take over the Raiders. I guess you really can learn lessons from anyone. Even Ruth Reed.

The Betrayal Five: Al Davis sucks

2008-09-30T13:16:00.000-07:00

I've got a theory...

I do think that I'm on to something. Something big, and something that I think pretty much 100% of all slightly educated persons would agree upon. I suppose I should withhold judgment until some clinical test can support the overwhelming majority opinion. My theory?

Al Davis is retarded, incompetent, delusional, and completely insane. And he's a San Diego Chargers fan.

Seriously. This morning he fired our own Lane Kiffin, the best head coach we've had since Jon Gruden. Lane basically rebooted the team and undid the damage done by Davis and Art Shell the season before. Davis runs the Raiders like an abusive alcoholic stepfather. He must have some leaky shoes for all the times that he's shot himself in the foot. What has he done since like, 1990? He's had seven head coaches in a little over ten years. He basically positions the head coach like the Queen or something, as they have no real power anyways since Davis makes every decision for the team, top to bottom.

So where are the old Raider coaches that were apparently not good enough for her majesty Ms. Ally Davis? Let's take a look.

Well, first off, Bill Callahan was booted by Davis and now is the assistant head coach for the New York Jets where he's currently leading Brett Farve and his offense to a mostly guaranteed post season campaign.

Jon Gruden was basically traded by Davis to Tampa Bay, where Jon immediately led the Bucs straight to the Superbowl against the Raiders and embarrassed Al Davis.

Mike Shanahan was fired by Al Davis in 1989 for what must have been inredible competence, as Mike has since led the Denver Broncos to two back to back superbowls and recently stuck it to Al Davis on the season opening Monday Night Football, beating Al Davis 41-14.

And most notably, Norv Turner was dropped by Davis right after Callahan, and was swooped by the San Diego Chargers. So basically, Al Davis threw San Diego a bone and supplied them with a head coach that took them to the playoffs last season, and continues San Diego's routine of serving Al Davis twice per season, every season. Al Davis may be the Chargers biggest fan.

My hope is that Lane Kiffin gets a job coaching the Kansas City Chiefs. That would mean that all three opposing teams in the AFC West have Davis's former coaches. And then I hope that Al Davis immediately dies of natural (or unnatural) causes. For then the power will be restored to the people, the Raiders can dignify their existence with a respectable front office, and we in the Raider Nation can rep our football team without having to associate ourselves with a retarded waste of life Charger fan like Al Davis.

Oh yeah, and Mount Davis sucks. Move the A's to Fremont.

Storytime!

2008-09-17T10:51:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

Introductions that have absolutely no relevance or connection to a writer's main idea. It's the worst. It's like a literary game of syke. Or an episode of the Family Guy. I hate shows that pull away from the story for some bullcrap.

So I thought that I would treat everyone to the picturebook fairytale that was one of my first dates with Denise. The setting is the year 2006, on a brisk saturday evening in January. I was at the time a fresh off-the-plane return missionary for my LDS church, spending two years in the backalleys of Colorado's finest one horse towns. I haven't had a date in 25 months. I haven't flirted with a girl in forever, and at this point I'd hardly been working at Lexus for a month and it was post Christmas, so I was broke as a joke. I borrow money from my dad, as well as his luxury Hyundai XG300, otherwise known as a glorified Sonata. I'm a little nervous.

So I also was supplied by my dad two tickets to the Fremont Symphony Orchestra. Yes, THE Fremont Symphony Orchestra. Originally I was instructed by my dad to take my sweet mother out to the show, but when he met Denise and was made aware of a schedule conflict the night of the show, the tickets were offered in an attempt to land them a sweet daughter-in-law. What kind of respectable girl doesn't like the Symphony?

So I pick up Denise and take her to the most hip, upscale, trendy dining establishment that I can think of/afford. China Chilis. Can Chinese food get any better? Probably not, but ignorance is bliss. We have a nice table for two near the player piano, and I'm pretty much playing my cards exactly right. Sweet car, expensive food, and I was wearing a tie.

Just when I think things couldn't get any better, I look to the door and see my hopes and dreams of a hot massage therapist mormon girlfriend pretty much shatter: My dad walks through the doorway, walking right towards us. Of all the gin joints in all the world. He apparently went through the trouble of making Denise and I a map to Ohlone College where the concert will take place. I'd been going to Ohlone for five semesters by now, but just in case I didn't know my way around, he drew a sketch of the parking lot and let us in on a little secret VIP parking spot close to the Smith Center. I'm in panic.

I have no idea what Denise is thinking, but all I can think is, man, this is going to be an EXPENSIVE last date.

We finish dinner and follow my dad's handdrawn map, which actually did give us a sweet parking spot. We made it through about 2 and half songs until we'd had our fill, and we bounced. Upon returning to my dad's car in my dad's private parking spot, we discovered a love letter from a member of Ohlone's police force. My dad's parking spot resulted in a parking ticket, because he had us park in the middle of a loading zone!

Any normal floozie would have dropped me like a bad habit, but somehow Denise's mom caught us making out on her driveway later that night. Give me a high five!

A Generic, Hate-Filled Rant Regarding Community College

2008-09-17T07:58:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

In order to eventually provide my very deserving wife her wildest dreams of being a housewife to our 8 kids at our luxurious Colorado estate whilst driving (regrettably) a BMW, I have to presently invest a certain amount of money and effort into a specific degree of education. The first step in the route that we've designated for my destination of "hot shot lawyer of some kind:" community college.

The light signifying the end of my twelve semester, triple AA degree, 4 rejected-major tunnel is in sight, and in the fall of 2009 I finally get to enter the prestigious, exclusive club of real college students, most of whom are now kids born in 1990 who have never know a life without AOL, cell phones, and gas cheaper than $1.15/gallon. I'm very excited.

I accepted the fact that the cost of my education will exponentially increase following my acceptance to whatever prestigious University blesses me with admission, and this doesn't bother me as much because I recently discovered that my credit rules and can look forward to the joys of a student loan, complete with a life (mostly) devoid of the burdens of a job.

This semester, however, I'm taking an accounting class, whose book weighs almost 4 pounds. Just the sight of the book on the bookstore shelf made my stomach almost implode. The price? 225 dollars. Plus Tax. Holy ishhh. Learning is expensive. My equal and opposite reaction was a quick google search to get the same textbook used for about 85 bucks. There's just one thing I forgot. This place sucks.

To pass the course, I have to complete a very small number of assignments from the book ONLINE through some interactive website. The only way to get access? Buy the book new. The book is bundled with non-transferable access codes to generic internet assignments which have absolutely no value in and of themselves, and whose sole purpose and creation was simply to nickel and dime poor starving college students and con us into buying a brand new book which we won't be able to sell back to anyone, as the book is useless without a code. Freakin ghey. I haven't even started my higher education and yet this semester my books are more expensive than my car.

This is community college. Quit it. You know you're going to hell for this?

Someday when I'm some kind of hot shot lawyer I'm going to start the revolution and liberate my people.

London Calling...

2008-06-21T01:15:00.000-07:00

You know what really grinds my gears?

International keyboards. Where the fonz is my ampersand? And for that matter, my -at- sign? And how do I generate quotes?? This thing is teh sux, quote unquote. My shift key is the smallest key on the keyboard. I hope no one likes apostrophes. European keyboards are essentially worthless. Anyways, I guess this could use some explaination...

I'm in London. And I just discovered my apostrophe, thank you. Thank you. Don't ask me why I'm here, unless you've got about a half a day to listen to a sordid tale about gifts and curses, camping trips, the mentally insane, standby tickets, stimulus checks and the job that just wouldn't fire me. If you can wait, we're submitting the screenplay to pre-production, and this epic comedy will be hitting theaters in early December. I'll make a long story a little less long. Denise and I are en route to the Madeira Islands of Portugal to visit the land of her Forebearers. Through a really bizarre chain of events we ended up with a 3 night stay in London, which thus far we have milked for just about all it's worth.

The best part of the trip, however, was the fact that Denise and I are on seprate flights, she possesing an actual legit ticket, and me with a Employee 1st class standby ticket out of Oakland, by way of Denver and Chicago, booked about a week ago. Apparently I'm not the only one traveling this summer, as I was bumped from my first 3 flights starting at five in the morning, barely squeezed onto a flight to Denver, and took my chances on non-stop London flight leaving late that night. They weren't expecting me to get on, as every flight out of Denver for the next 3 days were oversold by almost 10 people each. United = Awesome. Let me tell you, that marks the second time that I have spent 9+ hours in the Denver Airport. That place rules.

Well, thanks to a freak thunderstorm causing mass landing delays, I made my flight no sweat. 1st class would have been sweet if I'd only been told of the dress code for those on employee tickets, and thus I was bumped to coach due to my shameful brand new Converse Chucks.

Meanwhile, Denise is FREAKING OUT because we can't communicate while she's in London due to a lack of international calling plans from verizon, so she's imagining this horrible catastophe where I arrive in London two days after she flys to Portugal, where I would get to enjoy two weeks here with no hotel, and no money.

But, as always, the universe revolves around me, and therefore Denise also. So I land in London just about an hour after she landed. We met up at the border, played good cop/bad cop the the border patrol officer, and lived happily ever after.

In the end: Denise has a heart attack, Arnold gets 4 hours sleep in 3 days, and the trip couldn't have worked out better thus far.

No Matter What a Stripper Tells You...

2007-10-31T12:02:00.000-07:00

I've got a theory...

I woke up this morning to the soothing sounds of a band called Reggie and the Full Effect, which means I recieved a text message from one of my dear, dear friends. What the freak could possibly be so important at 8:30 a.m. on my day off?

Happy Halloween!!

What is this, my birthday? I've been texted by 9 different people already. I didn't know we celebrated it like this. No one every sends me crap like that on Columbus Day, or Flag Day. It seems like Halloween has changed just a little bit since when I was a lad. It used to be about candy, masks, and having the weirdest, most random costume that no one else in the world would possibly be. Hence, one year I was a hybrid pirate/ninja/zombie, and another year I was a dead soccer player. It's a whole different ball game today. It sucks being an adult on halloween. No candy. Unless I borrow my little nephew and tax his loot, I pretty have to buy my own candy. This day is weak. So anyways, my theory on the evolution of Halloween...

No matter what a girl claims her costume is, she's dressed as a stripper.

No exceptions. Halloween has become the one day where girls can dress up like the floozies they've always dreamed about being and not have to worry about the backstabbing words of their best friends. But seriously, who's kidding who? No one believes you when you say you're dressed as a cop. You're a stripper. The only people I've ever seen dressing up like that were strippers. Wearing that silly helmet does not make you a fire fighter. You're not wearing a shirt, how you gonna fight a fire like that? You're a stripper. Stop lying to yourself. Only strippers wear big 'ol heels while almost completely nekid. And if you're dressed up like Jenna Elfman from Can't Hardly Wait... yeah, you're an Angel. An Angel stripper

Not that there's anything wrong with your costume. Just, you know, start dancing.