The Loo

Before you judge me for writing another "Office Place Bathroom" story, just think of all the non-office place bathroom stories I've written. Focus on those (but still read this).

9:51am--I sit down for my morning massage. That's what I call my morning visit to the john. Not really sure what massage has to do with it, though--maybe it comes from the motion my innards employ to expel the gray matter. That's right--gray.

I am in the second stall, the handicap stall, because the first stall is occupied. I saw on an Oprah episode that, on average, the first stall is the least used because everyone thinks it's the most frequently used since it's the closest to the bathroom door, so they all move on to the next stalls. Makes sense. So I always shoot for the first stall. If it's taken, however, the handicap stall isn't a bad consolation. It's so spacious. If I end up in the handicap stall, I pretend that I'm in a bathroom in Dubai and that there are beautiful naked dolphins outside waiting to wash my hands by spewing clean, clear water out of their mouths (not out of their blow holes like you probably expected) once I come out.

As I sit there, I see a man (my worries that I might have accidentally entered the wrong bathroom are a put to rest) 's feet walk to the sink that is directly in front of my stall. At the same time, the latch on my stall's door somehow comes undone and the door slowly and smoothly swings wide open, stopping at the end of the arc. Being in the spacious handicap stall, the door is much too far away for me to lunge at. The stranger turns and looks at me. We make eye contact, him on his feet and I on my stool.

Rather than quickly turn away in shame, something amazing happens. No words are spoken, but we have a conversation with our eyes, man to man. He understands the potential humiliation I might be suffering as physics cruelly exposes my highthighs to all outside of my mis-assumed sanctuary, and I in turn comprehend deeply his need to be able to walk to the sink without being forced by the terrible humor of the universe to watch another man shart. The mutual understanding is immediately and profoundly felt, and we are both calmed. My new friend gives me a wise nod, then closes the door for me. As it connects, I lean forward and close the latch, this time making sure it goes all the way in, a little worried that I might drop a loose doodgie on my ankled pants. But I return with honor and without droppage to my porcelain chair, grateful for the power of the unspoken word, and for the innate desire of men to bond in the bathroom.

Voulez-vous Manger la Mangue?

The first time I ever ate a mango I was in Mexico. I had never seen one before. I knew it was a tropical fruit, but I didn't understand the difference between mango, papaya, passion fruit, Richard Simmons, or guava. I knew they were all exotically fruity, but had no idea what they looked or tasted like. It's not that I had never had mango juice or guava juice or whatever--I'm sure I had had it throughout my life whenever I drank Ocean Spray or Capri Sun. It's just that I didn't recognize it for the specific fruit that it was. Rather, I just understood it was tropical and that's as far as I cared to think about it.

When a lady in Mexico gave me my first mango, I took it in my hand and stared at it, not knowing exactly what to do with it. How was I going to eat this slightly almondy-shaped, softball-sized food? It was covered in a thick skin, but by the feel of it I felt I could easily penetrate it without the help of a knife. What did it look like inside? Was it full of hundreds of tiny seeds? What color would it be? But my time for wondering was up. This nice woman had so generously offered me of her substance, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was very eager for me to partake. My strong sense of not wanting to offend (I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Hasen, not wanting to offend? Then what's up with all those dirty jokes and obscene gestures he does in public?" Hey, why don't you just keep focused on the story and quit tryin' to ruin it for everyone, huh?) compelled me to take action.

I bit into that mango like John Candy biting into a huge steak, cooked or raw. The skin was tough, but I had resolved to eat the whole thing in front of this lady, so it didn't deter me. Imagine Godzilla breaking through a roadblock of a couple of small wooden sawhorses. I chomped, slurped, and tore my way through the skin, through the fruity meat, all the way down to the large single seed in the center, where I stopped. It was obvious I wasn't supposed to eat the seed.

That mango was delicious. I had never had anything like it. I had never heard of anything like it. Until that point, the best tasting fruit I knew about was peaches in Wheaties. I looked up at the generous woman who had shared her fruit with me (there's no metaphor there, in case you were looking) and she just kind of stared back in wonder, eyes wide, then an awkward smile crooked itself across her face. I thanked her for the gift, and left. When we were out of earshot of her front door, my friend named Elder, in very broken English, asked me why in the good name of gospel gumption did I do that.

"Do what?" I replied.

"Eat the skin of the mango."

Sleeping On the Job

I was so tired at work yesterday that I decided to take a nap. I work in a standard office, you know. There's no place to lay down. So I decided to put on my sunglasses, slouch down in my chair, put my hand on my mouse (no penis jokes please, this is a family friendly website), and pointed my face towards my computer screen. I then zonked out for about 15 or 20 minutes. The funny thing about it is that I share a desk with someone (it's a big desk). She sits about a foot and a half away from me, right smack dab next to me, and she never noticed I was sleeping. I think I've stumbled onto something great.

Memorial Day at the Salt Flats

This was one harkuva weekend. Vaccuum tossing, nudie races, corpse carrying, salt licking.

The Future

Have you ever stared the future straight in the eyes and said "Listen here, you son of a gun, there's not room enough in this world for the both of us," and then waited to see what the future said? I have, and let's just say that I'm still here and the future isn't.

David Archuleta Seeks Advice From Sensitive Ned

As you might know, I write an advice column for the Regal Seagull, an online news publication. This week's edition was entirely focused on David Archuleta. Archuleta actually wrote in asking me for advice on how to deal with his heartbreaking loss on American Idol.

Ask Sensitive Ned: Almost a Winner

Dear Sensitive Ned,

Where did I go wrong? How could I have failed? I’m miserable and don’t know what to do. I’m considering running away to Ogden, joining a gang, and becoming an alcoholic. Save me from myself.

David Archuleta


Dave,

You’re pathetic. You disgust me. When Art Garfunkel was fired by Paul Simon and left to fend for himself in this cold, dark world, did he give up hope? No! Well, maybe for a little while, but then about eight years ago I saw this cartoon where all the characters are little mole-looking creatures (not sure exactly what they are, but they look like moles), and they were visited by a wise, wandering troubadour that sounded just like Art, but also looked like a mole, but with an afro. Not that black people look like moles, I’m just saying he had a big round poofy hair-do. I suspect that the traveling sage was actually Art Garfunkel. He even says, “Hi, I’m Art Garfunkel,” which is one of the reasons I’m almost positive it was him. Art didn’t give up.

When Michael Bolton was mocked by millions for decades because of everything about him, did he quit? No! Why the hell not? Nobody knows. Michael, if you’re reading this, PLEASE END THE MISERY! Not yours—ours.

When most of the other Beatles died (probably poisoned by Yoko Ono, including John, but I can’t prove it), did Ringo throw in the towel? No way! He joined up with one of the greatest television shows ever made—Shining Time Station. He was The Conductor, and he helped bring beautiful songs and real toy trains with claymation faces to kids and adults across the country and parts of northern Mexico and southern Canada that were picking up US television waves. But then he was replaced by George Carlin because a judge ordered Carlin to perform one thousand hours of community service for saying the f-word to a whole kindergarten class full of Down’s syndrome kids. But Ringo never quit.

David, you listen to me. Suck it up. Wipe those tears off of your baby-face and look to the future. Life has fed you a mouth-full of New England Patriots pie, and you need to spit it out. Clean your vessel. Purge the pain and drop all that crazy talk about going to Ogden to end your life. Though you have lost the battle, you can still win this harsh war called life. Now get back on your prancing pony and ride.

I hope that got you pumped,

Sensitive Ned

* If you are starving for advice, attention, food and water, or underage you-know-what, feel free to write to Sensitive Ned at SensitveNed@RegalSeagull.com. He reads everything anyone sends him, even stuff in other languages (he’s VERY smart). If he deems your question worthy of an answer, he’ll reply with wisdom and knowledge beyond his years (he’s 12). If not, it was probably a very stupid question.

Dances With Wolves, the Extended Version

How awesome is the extended version of Dances With Wolves? People don't give it the recognition it deserves, and that is totally messed up big time. Why do we feel the need to tear down Shumani Tutonka Owashee? Why is it that when we are at the video store trying to figure out what to rent and I suggest the extended version of Dances With Wolves, everyone makes that look that you get when you take a big swig out of the milk jug only to discover it is old and chunky and long-expired? Some people even have the ignorant gall to comment "The regular-length version is bad enough."

I am here to knock some sense into humanity. DWW-TEV offers something to every audience, and I'm about to prove it. Action: the opening Civil War scene where the North and South are at the battle field, and John Dunbar is about to get his leg amputated. Violence: The Sioux fill that fat guide with arrows and eat his pickled eggs. Comedy: "Somebody poked me in the butt--was that you?" Romance: "I go where you go, John Dunbar." Drama: The part of the buffalo hunt where the Sioux come up over the hill and see a field full of dead, skinned buffalo. Sex: John Dunbar is sleeping in the Chief's tent and wakes up in the middle of the night to see Chief and Squaw gettin' jiggy wid it.

If the proof is in the pudding, then this blog is a six-pack of Jell-O Snack Packs. And as if the plot, script, and cinematography didn't seal the deal, recall the amazingly inspirational soundtrack. I listen to that John Williams masterpiece before playing basketball and then I go out on the court and play ball like I live my life: I pretend that I'm John Dunbar and I'm riding that beautiful horse Cisco around the Great Plains saving Indian tribes from the white man, from other bad Indian tribes, and from buffalo gone crazy with Mad Buffalo Disease.

The world needs more Dances With Wolves, the Extended Versions. Personally, I am anxiously awaiting extended versions of The Princess Bride and Mr. Mom. They may never come, but if they do, I'll be ready. And if you haven't been totally absorbed in a world of dark hatred and World of Warcraft brainwash, maybe you'll get ready, too.

More Wall Art, Less Wal-Mart

I don't want to hear about anyone getting their panties in a twist because I'm posting another video. I know you come here to read funny stories of all the weird stuff that happens to me, but this next one is truly worth your time. It is a stop-motion video made by some crazy loco coco in Buenos Aires, and I wouldn't post it here if I didn't think it would make you a better person. Or, in Matt Cline's case, a better robot.


MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Most Inspirational Video on the Web Today

Give me five minutes of your time. These are five minutes that you'll never get back, but they are also five minutes you'll never forget. Generally I don't care too much for extreme sports videos--they're usually full of obnoxious music and mediocre moves. But this is different. It's not only different, it's amazing. Turn your sound up--no, better yet, put on some really sweet-sounding headphones--maximize the screen, and enjoy. You can thank me later.

Winning isn't everything. Sharing is.

What I'm about to tell you is true. No names have been changed to protect nobody. Anybody that went to Utah State Uni-fur-city (I included that because I dream of one day visiting a place called Fur City--I read about it a long time ago in an Orson Scott Card book. Not the really famous one, but some other one he wrote that never got published. Actually, it was a screenplay.) knows that each and every semester without fail, ASUSU sponsors a bingo night where thousands of people fill the ball room on campus and the largest bingo game this side of the Jordan River goes down. Tables are lined up end to end to end to...the point is that when all is said and done, one table is about as long as watching General Conference without falling asleep.

Everyone took their seat at one of the huge tables. We were all lined up staring down at our bingo cards. We looked like Asian women at a Nike sweatshop, focusing on our work in front of us, looking neither right or left. The prizes were serious. An old school Nintendo, a lava lamp, gift cards to local hotspots such as Hastings Video, the USU Bookstore, and Somebody's Attic. Everyone there was in it to win it, especially me.

I haven't won a lot of stuff in my life, but I know several people who have. One time I was sitting next to Jesse at a Warren Miller movie screening, and he won a season pass to Beaver Mountain. One time Andrew Cazier lent Phil a dollar to buy a raffle ticket at the Banff Film Festival, and Phil won the grand prize--an old-style beach cruiser with new school flare and pizazz. Another time Phil was sitting right next to me when his number was called to win a brand new pair of fancy twin-tip skis. Once I got in a car wreck with a guy that had just won the lottery. He got out of his vehicle and said, "You know what, don't worry about it. In fact, you can just keep my car." I didn't. I actually fled the scene because I was driving an unlicensed, unregistered car. I was outta there.

So when I win something, I get excited. I was sitting at the far end of one of the longest tables, seemingly miles away from the emcee that was calling the numbers. "B-11. G-42." Come on, baby, just one more. "N-30." Yes! I slammed my crayola crayon down on the table and yelled, "BINGO!" The victory music came on (I think it was Cher's Do You Believe In Life After Love) and I jumped up onto my chair, then onto the table. Instead of running down the aisle The Price Is Right style, I ran along the entire table top, kicking crayons and losing bingo cards out of the way. One girl yelled, "Hey, you broke my phone!" I ignored her because how dare somebody try to ruin my moment. I got to the end of table and in one perfect gazelle-like leap I jumped over the kid in the wheelchair that was sitting at the head of the table, and landed gracefully on the stage. People were cheering. Some were booing, I'm not sure if it was because they wanted to win, or because I accidentally barely nicked that wheelchair kid in the head with my foot when I jumped over him and there was a tiny itsy bitsy bit of blood by his eye now. Man, what is up with people trying to steal happy moments from someone that just won? Some folks are so selfish.

I was caught up in the moment. I was filled with energy and adrenaline. I grabbed the microphone from the emcee and said, "I just want to thank everybody for supporting me. I love you all. When this is all over tonight, I'm taking everyone that's interested to KFC!" The crowd erupted. I was a hero. I then got the entire audience to start chanting, "KFC, KFC, KFC." For that moment, I was loved by everyone. Even the cell phone girl and the wheelchair kid were on their feet (I know, it was a milagro de Jesus) chanting and cheering and crying.

I don't remember much of what happened right after that. I eventually claimed my carwash kit prize (2 sponges, 3 different kinds of Armor-all, and a few of those smelly cardboard trees that you hang from your rearview mirror, or if you're really desperate for scent, you stick them in your heater vents) and exited the stage. Later that night some friends and I really did go to KFC, we got there right before closing time. I ordered a bag full of Chicken Snackers and gave them out to the three other people I was with. Right as we were about to get into the car to leave, another vehicle pulled up to us. "Hey, you're the KFC guy. Did you mean what you said earlier," the boy in the passenger seat asked. "You bet I did," I responded. I then pulled the last two Chicken Snackers in all of Logan out of the bag and handed one each to the couple in the car. That's when I recognized them--it was the cell phone girl and the wheelchair kid. Together. A warm feeling washed over me and I felt a tear in my eye. "Thanks man," said the boy as they slowly pulled away. "No, thank you," I thought to myself. "Thank you." And that's when I realized that winning isn't everything. Sharing is.

The Regal Seagull, Utah's #1 News Source

I'd like to take a moment for some shameless self-promotion. I write for a new Utah news publication called The Regal Seagull. It focuses on Utah-related culture, events, and politics. If you care about me or about orphans who have had to fight through life the hard way, pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps (bootstrap bootstrap), battling hunger, hatred, and loneliness, then you will please take a quick second to jump over to RegalSeagull.com and check it out. As I write this, the site isn't completely finished, but it's functional enough to navigate, and it doesn't look half bad.

More blogs to come in the future, but in the meantime, please visit RegalSeagull.com. Or die. Don't worry, it's just a metaphor. For death.

Young Chap, part 2: Rear entry at the Trapp Door

I know what you're thinking: Not another "Hasen's gay bar adventures" post. Well, what did you expect? Huh? Another boring lecture about air pollution? Or maybe more b-ball action? Well, too bad. It's gay bar story time. If you don't like it, go read this blog instead: http://katielovie.blogspot.com. Still here? Ok, let's get started. Once again I was invited to the gay bar. This time it was to the Trapp Door to watch Miss Gay Utah relinquish her crown. The night consisted of different drag queens going up on stage, dressed like the girl from katielovie.blogspot.com, and lip-syncing to songs like Strangers in the Night and some gay-oriented parody of Barbie Girl. The set ended with Miss Gay Utah getting up and knocking the crowd out with some well-choreographed dance to a european-sounding song with a beat that would make Dick Cheney want to dance. If he wasn't a robot. An evil robot dressed in the skin of some poor human farmer that he murdered just to "get in his pants" (that isn't a sex joke, it's a robot crawling into a dead human's skin joke).

After the show, staff cleared the tables and chairs and an enjoyable night at the theater soon became a thrashing throbbing dance-a-thonic supersonic beat-bustin' melee of night children dancing to survive. Bodies spun and leapt, sweat rained from every direction, people yelped as they thrust their bodies into Michael Jackson moves that would have impressed even the King of Pop himself (for those of you born after 1991, MJ is the King of Pop, not Bono--while I'm in parenthesis, if any of you have had enough, you are welcome to visit this blog instead: http://luhmanfamily.blogspot.com, or this one: http://hardwaredelpc.blogspot.com/). I must say, it's been years since I was so infected with the dance dengue fever. I lost myself. Soul left body and I became the music, the energy, the sweat. Gender took a back seat to passion and everyone was immediately beautiful--dancing because they didn't know what else to do, didn't know if there was anything else. In that moment, dancing became breathing became life.

That's when my pants split. Yup, wiiiiiiide open. My legs were spread wide--someone had just finished diving under them and disappearing into the pulsating crowd--and I lunged down to slap the ground with both hands. As I came up, I thrust my derriere straight back, intending to follow with my upper body in a slithery motion. In that instant of perfect fluid motion--I'm telling you, I was like hot water--I felt, and heard, the seat of my pants totally tear from tippety top to buttocksy bottom. It felt as if the record player came to a screeching halt. I stood straight up, wide-eyed, drop-jawed, no longer a mass of flowing liquid energy twisting through the crowd like a ribbon, but now a rigid tinman with unbending knees or elbows, terrified and confused, reeling in shock. As I froze, the room spun around me. Eternities passed in a second. And then, from somewhere deep within my unmoving corpse, came a voice. I could barely hear it the first time, didn't understand what it said. But then it got louder: "Dance" it told me. I couldn't move. "Dance" it said again, this time bolder. I was still frozen. But then something happened. Deep in my stomach I felt something churning--like an ocean in turmoil. Its intense warmth began to spread up into my chest, and down into my loins. Then it filled my throat, my shoulders, my thighs. In one final surge the ocean of energy filled my entire body and the voice screamed a third time: "DANCE!" I instantly exploded into a hurricane of flame and ecstacy, shaking it like it has never been shook before. I became a sudden Lord of the Dance, a moving work of art, a celestial body unconfined by lesser laws of physics. And I danced.

Pitbulls and Me: There's not enough room on my front lawn for both of us.

The other day I got home from work, got out of my car, and started walking towards my front porch, when out of hell or somewhere a Pitbull came charging at me across my front lawn. It was screaming bloody dog-bark murder at me. I saw fire and Dick Cheney in its eyes and would have wet my pants in fear if any of my bodily systems worked. At the last second, instinct kicked in and I shouted, "NO!", with a quick raising of my arms. The sudden motion startled the raging demon-train of dog, causing it to jump back. That bought me just enough time to leap up my stair case and run inside, slamming the door like a bank vault behind me. I leaned back across my door for a moment, catching my breath. After the feeling of pure fear subsided a bit, I was suddenly filled with intense anger, realizing that most likely that dog belonged to someone out there, probably someone who was out there right then. Maybe they even witnessed the whole thing. I assumed they must know the personality of their dog, and I got madder and madder that they would let it outside with other people, including women and children and the elderly and people who seriously believe that G."WTF"B. has done a pretty good job, walking around. That they would recklessly release their weapon of mass destruction in my peaceful neighborhood did upset me so. I opened my door (more like just barely cracked it enough to fit my mouth out) and yelled into the dark night, "Hey! Keep that thing on a leash!" Man, Sugarhouse is a dangerous place.

Prodigious Child

Overdraft Protection

I don’t want to mention any names, but Wells Fargo Bank sucks. I’m signed up for overdraft protection in case I spend more than I have—I mean, does anyone really keep absolute track of all their spending when they always use their debit card? Please, that’s for suckers who still use check books. The problem is that when I do overdraw, the amount comes in from my credit card—all fine and good, that’s the whole point of the thing—but I still get charged around $15 for every overdrawn transaction. And I’m already paying for overdraft protection. So my question to you, Smells Fartgo, is WHERE THE HELL IS THE OVERDRAFT PROTECTION!? I posed the polite question to a banker at the unspecified bank (it’s Wells Fargo) and his response was, “Well at least you’re not paying the $30 fee those without overdraft protection are paying.” I asked another banker at another branch of the same bank which shall go nameless as to not deface any institution’s reputation (it’s Wells Fargo, they suck…I hope every single branch simultaneously burns down, but all the workers safely escape because they are just trying to earn a living, and they are too weak or scared or desperate for cash to tell their evil money-guzzling employer beast to shove it) and he told me the exact thing, almost verbatim. It immediately became apparent that they had been coached by a standardized higher authority on how to deflect potentially hostile questions like mine and quickly divert my attention to another topic, like “Would you like to sign up for a platinum credit card?”

At that moment I leapt across the counter, grabbed Chad by the tie, and shoved the end of his silky neck knot into the paper shredder. He screamed in terror as it pulled his face closer and closer to the spinning blades. Despite his best efforts to escape, his face was pulled in and shredded into tiny strips, leaving a headless teller. I was amazed that he didn’t die, though. At that point I realized that he was a robot. He stood up and went about his teller duties with a mess of blood and wires pouring out the stump where his head used to be.

“No, I don’t want another credit card,” I replied and walked out, vowing to move all of my business to a credit union. “Have a nice day,” I heard Robo-Chad say as the door closed behind me.