Violence

Caution! This video contains gruesome footage, excessive violence, and images of children playing hockey without sticks, pucks, or nets.

F#%@!ng Nader!

I want Ralph Nader to be our next president. O’Cain and McBama both suck in my eyes (but how did they get in my eyes?). They are puppets of big business—they owe major corporations so many favors that they have become slaves. But in order for Nader to make a run at it, he needs a powerful strategy. Real powerful. That’s where the F-word comes in. The F-word gets things done. When you use the F-word, people listen. Sometimes when I’m ordering a number 4 combo meal with Diet Coke, I use the F-word just so the old lady taking my order understands that I mean business. When my mom wants us to wash our hands before Sunday dinner, she uses the F-word. You think we show up to the table folding dirty arms after that? No. So Nader, if you love America and want to beat the two lying idiots who also happen to be the major candidates from the two major parties (which are both corporations themselves, by Brian the Todd way Williams), you need to wash your mouth with mud and start F-ing around.

I Love Quitting Jobs

I love quitting jobs. It's the best feeling in the world. I do it all the time and I think more people should quit their jobs. In fact, I think most people should quit their jobs. Work is a good thing, unless it sucks your soul and makes you unhappy.

The idea of working for the sake of work is insane to me. Before the age of plastic surplus and invisible money in which we live, there existed fewer mind-numbing jobs, I think. More people worked the land, built from the hand and from the heart, made with pride and a sense of ownership and responsibility. Less people answered phone calls that were for somebody else, put plastic sleeves on conveyor-belted products before they entered the heat-shrinking oven, paid someone else's taxes with that someone else's money, babysat the emotionally lost children of irresponsible parents, sewed a replica button in a replica location on a replica shirt a thousand times a day. More people felt connected to the work they did, felt it was important and beneficial, and it was. Now the majority of people in the world work so that the wealthy can have unnecessary conveniences like bright plastic lawn ornaments, all-wheel drive installed with DVD player and satellite positioning system petroleum slurping vehicles, a number 4 combo meal with Diet Coke, 88 channels of commercial advertisements, high speed pornography, perkier boobs, and cellular phony communication devices.

Most people should quit their jobs because most people aren't happy at their jobs. It's depressing the entire world. What if we all did jobs that we loved? Because it doesn't pay enough? Then sell your moneypit car, move into a cheaper home, stop buying crap and other fecal products, and do what you love. It's not always easy to find that thing, but it's easy to tell when you've found something that ISN'T that thing. Every time you quit a job you hate, you've progressed closer to a job you love and you've also taken a little bit more control of your life and your happiness.

I love quitting jobs. I love dropping out of school. I love realizing that if something is stealing my happiness, I DON'T HAVE TO DO IT. It's empowering, it's responsible, and it benefits humanity.

The Rockin' Moroccan

I used to live with a guy named Ahmed al-Shandoudi from Oman (it’s by Saudi Arabia) and his mom would call at three o’clock in the morning to talk to him. He nor I had cell phones, and the phone jack was in my room so I’d answer and she would say whatever it was she would say, and I would know that it was his mom calling for him. On a piece of paper I kept by the phone, he wrote down how to say “I will go get Ahmed for you.” in Arabic. He did it phonetically and helped me practice the pronunciation so that when the time came I could nail it. It was awesome.

He used to hang out with this girl from Morocco that my man-friends and I would see around campus and refer to as the Rockin’ Moroccan because she was so freaking hot. I asked him to set me up with her and he informed me that:

A) She already had a boyfriend, and

B) She only dates Arabic dudes, and

C) Him and his friends could waste any of me and my friends in soccer any day. He was right, those guys whaled.

I miss Ahmed. We became pretty good friends that year and even though he never hooked me up with the Rockin’ Moroccan, he wore awesome white robey pajamas that brought a great vibe to the apartment.

The Big Red Idiot

It can be kind of fun working in Park City sometimes. The drive really isn’t that bad—about twenty-five minutes from my home in Sugarhouse to my office at Kimball Junction—and since I ride in the company vanpool, I never actually have to do the driving. I pay thirty bucks a month and get chauffeured to and from work everyday, saving a ton of mon from not having to buy gas. Being in the mountains invigorates and relaxes, and escaping the overstuffed beehive of the city minimizes stress.

I work with some cool people up here, and we have a good time shootin’ the breeze together on the drive up and down, or when we go out to lunch. Now here’s the story you’ve probably come for:

Sometimes I wear all red. Shirt, pants, and shoes. It started a few years back in college, Halloween actually. When dress up time came, I was stumped for a costume so I just wore all red. When people asked what I was, I responded “Big Red Idiot—isn’t it obvious?” I really liked how it felt to wear all red. It’s fun. Not as fun as wearing all white, but fun nonetheless.

The other day some of us goats went into Park City for lunch—some sort of teriyaki place. The place was packed, with a line of people running from the register out the door and onto the sidewalk. You’d think they were handing out free iPod mini-Nanos pre-installed with each “book-on-tape” of the Twilight book series about Mormon vampires who don’t suck blood out of their victims because it’s against the vampire word of wisdom, so they just suck out the water.

I got to the front of the line, ordered my meat and noodles, then found a standing place in the crowded restaurant to wait until they called number 43, which matched the plastic plaque in my hand. After a moment I felt a whap on my butt and heard a child’s voice say something. I turned around, wearing all red, and saw a little kid looking up at me with a mad look on his face.

“Huh?” I responded, not understanding what he had said.

“MOVE!” he replied. And by the look on his face I could tell that he meant business.

I laughed and stepped away, not wanting to make a little kid cry. His dad gave him this look like What’s wrong with you?

The boy looked at his father and said, talking about me, “He might kill me.”

I almost swallowed the ice cube I was sucking on—it was that funny. I wondered if the kid had just seen the new Batman movie (which is totally freaking awesome times a billion) and thought that I was some sort of costumed bad guy. The Big Red Idiot doesn’t really sound like your normal bad guy name, but then again, I’m not your normal bad guy.