It just so happens that I feel a “call to action” a lot more frequently than most people who aren’t currently incarcerated or leading a conspiracy-laden internet crusade (stay tuned on that one).  It also just so happens that these “calls” are generally of the most immature and petty nature… possible.  For example:

     When it comes to active people, whether it be fine-tuned athletic machines like myself (I bench-pressed 115 lbs last week, six times) or the casual pick-up gamer, everyone is looking for some form of an advantage.  One of the most popular sport enhancing products over the years has been Gatorade®, which boasts itself as the premier re-hydrating beverage for athletes.  The total sales of the product seem to indicate that there is some truth to their claims.  Like with most popular items in America, Gatorade has been forced to reinvent itself to satisfy the ever-changing market.  In 2000, Gatorade rolled-out its newest innovation: “Propel Fitness Water,” a new drink that featured the same benefits of Gatorade while avoiding the high amounts of sugar and carbohydrates.  As it turned out it was a good innovation.  Propel became the first “enhanced-water” product to reach the $100 million mark, and it happened in only two short years. 

(a resounding endorsement from an authentic woodsmen)

     Personally, I don’t care if it has less sugar or carbs than Gatorade; it tastes great.  I buy Propel more often than any other Gatorade product because it tastes better than any other Gatorade product.  Unfortunately, I suspect that most people who frequently indulge in buying large amounts of Propel Fitness Water do so because they believe:

•  Propel is water
•  Propel is good for you
•  Propel will make you fit’er

Propel is not water.  Yes, it is clear.  Yes, it says water on the label.  No, that does not make it water.

Propel is not good for you.  Yes, it has vitamins in it.  Yes, it has less sugar than soda and other sports drinks.  No, that doesn’t mean Propel will make you live a longer, healthier life.  It’s certainly not better for you than actual water.

Propel will not make you physically fit.  Yes, it has electrolytes.  Yes, it will hydrate you while participating in sports.  No, that doesn’t mean it is the ticket to defined pectoral muscles.

     If Propel is water, then I am clearly missing the definition.  Back in 10^th grade Biology, we defined it as two atoms of Hydrogen and one atom of oxygen.  It looked something like this:

As far as the Gatorade Corporation is concerned, Water now apparently looks more like this:

     If we are supposed to consider Propel as “enhanced-water,” then I have to ask: what the hell isn’t enhanced-water?  Don’t most drinks start with water and add other ingredients?  Hell, doesn’t every drinkable liquid in the known universe contain water?  Eggnog has water in it, but you don’t see people running around a track with nog-holsters strapped to their chest. Maybe sport-nog isn’t such a bad idea? It has water in it, right?

mmmmm…. fitness.

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Have you ever taken the time to look at the ingredients on the back of a Propel bottle?  Shut up because I’m going to do it for you…

Water…

Hey, the first ingredient, and it’s capitalized!  So far we’re looking good!

…sucrose syrup, citric acid, natural flavors…

Ok, so it’s just slightly flavored water.

… sodium citrate , potassium citrate, sucralose, ascorbic acid, vitamin E acetate, niacinamide, calcium disodium EDTA, calcium panthothenate, pyridoxine hydrochloride, acesulfame potassium, vitamin B-12…

Ok, so it’s just slightly sodicitpotsurasvitaniacaldispanpy-hydroacepot’ed water.  It’s still water right?

     …No.  It has water in it, but when you add stuff to it (especially that much stuff) it is no longer water.  It’s just water mixed with stuff; just like cola, milk, beer, spit, and urine.  There aren’t any cola-milk-beer-spit-urine executives out there trying to hock their products as water, and neither should you.  It is a delicious sport-beverage, but it isn’t water, no matter how transparent you make it.  I’m sure a lot of the stuff added to propel is good for you, but it’s not water.  If the real stuff had an ingredient list, I think it would look something like this:

Thanks Sammy.  I think Ben agrees.  I think we all agree.  Good.  I think a toast is in order.

I should get more celebrity endorsements.  It seems to make my rants more credible; Especially when it involves Samuel L. Jackson yelling at white people.

First order of business:

Thanks to those of you who sent me encouraging emails/comments about the last entry.  I never would have imagined that my most popular post-to-date would be related to poop & pee… perhaps there is hope for this world after all?

____________________________________________

Before we embark on our next magic-filled journey, I need to take a quick survey.

Note:  This is a more physically demanding survey than most of you are used to.  It is strongly recommended that before beginning, you put on a sturdy pair of shoes and clear all passages that may block you from going outdoors.

Note pt. 2:  Once you have answered “No” to any of the following questions in the sequence, you may stop participating and continue with the article.

Ready?

It’s Blast-off time.

____________________________________________

1. Do you live within the range of a New-Rock/Alternative Top 40 type radio station?   
   If yes, please raise your right hand. 
   
2. Have you ever listened to this radio station (or one similar to it) for more than ten consecutive minutes? 
   If yes, please raise your left hand.
   
3. Do you own any albums from the following artists?  Linkin Park, Staind, Hinder, Seether, Nickelback… etc.  You know the type.  
   If yes, then please stand up and exit the room you are in.  Go Outside.  (Feel free to find some shade; I know it’s like 90 degrees outside)  
   
4. Did you buy any of these albums within the last 24 months?  
   If yes, then please take both hands (they should still be in the air) and place them firmly on each of your corresponding butt-cheeks.  Make sure to get a good grip.
   
5. Do you consider any of them to be your favorite band?  Perhaps one of your favorites? 
   If yes, please walk to the nearest street (keeping your hands firmly attached to your buttocks) and stand on the sidewalk.  Face the direction that flows with the heaviest amount pedestrian traffic.  While standing with your legs about shoulder-width apart, bend your upper torso over (at least a 120 degree angle).  You will experience a slight spread between your buttocks.  Don’t worry, this is to be expected.
   
6. Lastly, do you have the sneaking suspicion that the remainder of this article is going to be focused on ridiculing some of your favorite music? 
   If yes, begin making fart noises with your mouth… the wetter the better.  When a person approaches you, make sure your butt is pointing squarely at them.  If they attempt to avoid you, try your best to ram your backside into their abdomen.  Between mouth-farts, repeat the following mantra:  “THIS IS WHERE MY MUSIC COMES FROM!!!  IT IS VERY PRETTY!!!  UH OH, HERE COMES THE GUITAR SOLO!!!   PTTHHHPPTTTTPTPTT!!!!!!  (fart noise)”

… or something to that effect.

Survey= complete.

____________________________________________

     For those of you who did not make it to the end of the survey, have no fear: It’s a good thing.  Consider yourself on my “Not to Kill” list; congratulations.  For those of you who found yourself on the sidewalk, bringing down your own property value one mouth-fart at a time, consider yourself in deep trouble.  

     Now, before some of you “hard-rockers” who disagree with me start angrily moshing around in your bedroom, just give me a moment to state my case.  Ask yourself something, (I realize I’m making you do a lot today… bear with me) who do you think of when I say the phrase: “Forefathers of Rock and Roll?”  Zeppelin?  Beatles?  Floyd?  Nirvana?

     Okay, so put yourself in their shoes.  What do you think they would say about most of the music being played on today’s “newrockalternativetop40hitzradio” stations?  Do you think they would acknowledge it as an improvement on the foundation they laid?  If you say yes, then I am willing to bet you are one of those with your hands still on your ass.  Please feel free to replace your hands with my Size 11½ foot.

(this is where I stop asking questions and start telling you what’s right)

     The fact is, music considered to be “Rock & Roll” by today’s standards is a far cry from the mainstream music that was popular in the “glory days.”  In the 60s, rock was about life, freedom, expression, and protest.  In the 70s it was pretty much all about drugs, but hey… that led to some pretty cool innovations.  In the 80s rock went on vacation for about ten years, but at least we can all enjoy the hilarious Monster Ballads commercial that comes on late at night.  The 90s were about rebellion against mainstream culture, and anger.  It’s past the halfway mark of the current decade, and I can’t help be feel that rock has been a big flop.

     Sure, boybands died-off a few years ago, but does it really matter?  Was it really that big a of a deal?  At least they knew what they were.  I’m willing to bet that boys of N’sync and Backstreet probably hated the music, the dances, and the carefully coordinated outfits as much as I did, but they were in the business of making pre-pubescent girls throw their training bras on demand; and business was good.  Deep down inside, they knew they sucked, but that was the nature of their business.  It was grown men singing about how their parents are really mean, or how their girl(boy)friends were “tearin’ up their hearts.”  It sucked, but at least I could avoid it.  The radio stations I frequented didn’t play that particular brand of music.

    It’s been years since I’ve seen or heard a boyband, but I can’t seem to shake the image of them from my head.  Anyone else having that problem?  Ever wonder what that 12-15 year-old female demographic listens to now? 

Answer:  They listen to Top 40 Rock.

     On the surface, this doesn’t seem to be a bad thing.  I like rock.  I like loud.  I like doing the little “rock-on” hand signal.  However, I can’t help but wonder if the shift in the Rock & Roll market has caused record companies to change what type of acts they put-out on their label… hmmmm.

Naive Music Idealist:  “No way man!  Rock and Roll is too awesome to be manipulated by the industry leaders!  If some big business guy tried to walk into Linkin Park’s studio and change their music for the sake of satisfying a large new group of pre-teen fans, they would probably get their heads exploded by a flying rock-kick!!!!  Nobody messes with THE PARK!!!”

Bitter Music Realist:  (This is me)  “How old are you?”

Naive Music Idealist:  “Well… my mom told me not to give out any information over the internet.”

Bitter Music Realist:  (Still me)  “Oh okay… rock on.”

     Face it, man.  Boybands never died, they just put on some black t-shirts and a little more eye-liner.  Those same teenage angst crap-filled half-assed sentimental garbage songs are now being performed by today’s most popular “Hard Rock” acts all over the world.  Bands that look like this:

and this:

are singing songs that sound like they have been written by this:

and this:

     But this time around it’s even more infuriating.  At least Boybands had the decency to look and act like they were trolling for twelve year-olds.  This new breed of teeny-bop pop is trying to pass it off as tough, gritty, rock… and people are actually buying it… literally and figuratively.

Not convinced?  Alright, let’s play a game then.

____________________________________________

The following is a list of ten excerpts that I have selected.  About half are lyrics from popular rock bands today, many of which are currently listed as part of Billboard Magazine’s Top 25.  The remaining are excerpts from poems I have selected from the Young Teen/Adult section of authorsden.com.  I will only select poems that are written by young girls. 

Your job is to try and distinguish the “teen girl” poetry from the “Hard Rock” lyrics written by 38 year-old men.  Should be easy, right?

Of course not.  Then I wouldn’t have a point now would I?  Do it anyways.

____________________________________________

Game, and, Go.

Excerpt #1:

The clouds above move closer
Looking so dissatisfied
And the ground below grew colder
As they put you down inside
But the heartless wind kept blowing, blowing
So now you’re gone, and I was wrong
I never knew what it was like, to be alone,

On a Valentine’s Day.

________________________________

Excerpt #2:

And tell my parents that I’m dead,
And hope to hell I’m never found,
You can steal me the keys
to your daddy’s Cadillac,
You can tamper with the brakes,
Call it a mistake
And pray I’m never coming back.

________________________________

Excerpt #3:

I guess we never really moved on
It’s really good to hear your voice say my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel.

________________________________

Excerpt #4:

I was waiting
for the day you’d come around.
I was chasing,
And nothing was all I found.
From the moment you came into my life,
You showed me what’s right.
And it feels like tonight.
I can’t believe I’m broken inside.
Can’t you see that there’s nothing that I want to do,
But try to make it up to you?
And it feels like tonight.

________________________________

Excerpt #5:

I can’t seem to fight these feelings
I’m caught in the middle of this
And my wounds are not healing
I’m stuck in between my parents
I wish I had someone to talk to, someone I could confide in
I just want to know the truth…

I know my mother loves me
But does my father even care if I’m sad or angry?
You were never ever there when I needed you
I hope you regret what you did
I think I know the truth, your father did the same to you
Did the same to you …
I’m crying day and night now
What is wrong with me?

________________________________

Excerpt #6:

And then I find you here
Through your eyes
Everything’s clear
And I’m home
Inside your arms,
But I’m alone for now.

________________________________

Excerpt #7:

What could you possibly want from me?
Can’t you see I’m already gone?
Everything we thought we’d be,
I still don’t feel sorry for this loss.
I will not waste a moment thinking these thoughts,
Forgetting comes easy,
I never cared at all,
Hurt became hate now I’m feeling the strain,
There’s just too much pain.

________________________________

Excerpt #8:

Well now I found myself
Wish I was someone else
My hands are stained with love
Wish I could take it away
I hid behind the shell
In time the pain will melt
My heart is stained with love

________________________________
Excerpt #9:

When did this crowded room get so lonely?
And everyone keeps looking at me.
I’m tired of faking my life
I’m so tired, I don’t want to feel this way.

I don’t want to let you down,
But I can’t even pick up myself.
I only wanted to make you proud,
But I don’t think I can do this anymore.

________________________________

Excerpt #10:

The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You’re never going to fit in much, kid
But if you’re troubled and hurt
What do you got under your shirt?
Will make them pay for the things that they did.

GAME OFF!!!

____________________________________________

Ok, now before I get to the answers, I’d like to take this time to apologize. 

First, I am sorry to have to subject you to all of that bad writing in one setting.  Don’t worry; you won’t have to endure any more of that for the remainder of this article (except for my own). 

Second, I want to apologize for lying to you about the nature of this game…

The truth is: Every single one of the excerpts was written and performed by men who are at least in their 30s. 

Grown men who look like this:

And this:

Not like this:

     Men who shave every day and pee while standing.  Men who have tattoos, and wear lots of black to match their skull tattoos.  Men who party all night and drink hard liquor with breakfast every morning.  Rock stars. 

…Rock Stars?

These Rock Stars:

(Answers from above)

1. “Valentines Day” by Linkin Park
2. “Follow You Home” by Nickelback
3. “Lips of an Angel” by Hinder
4. “Feels Like Tonight” by Daughtry
5. “Broken Home” by Papa Roach
6. “Safe Place” by Staind
7. “Already Gone” by Crossfade
8. “Hang On” by Seether
9. “Let You Down” by P.O.D. (Payable on Death) 
10. “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance

(All ten bands have occupied the top spot on Billboard at least once.  All ten have had at least one platinum album, and I have a sneaking suspicion that all have had a multi-platinum album as well)

     I realize that by only including the lyrics from the bands I am trying to condemn is a dirty trick, but it was nessecary to develop my point.  Even those of you who will continue to defend these groups have to admit that at some point even you considered that at least one of these excerpts was more than likely written by a 13 year old girl who won a poetry contest. 

     Mainstream Rock is a tough cookie to crumble.  Before rock went lame, you could walk up to any young girl wearing an NSYNC t-shirt, and tell her that Lance Bass came out of the closet.  Hopes crushed, she’d turn around immediately and run home crying; quick and easy.  Today, if you tried walking up to a girl wearing a Nickelback shirt, you will soon find out that the reliable old battle strategy no longer works.  It is the same crappy songs from 1999, but masquerading a much grittier/tougher form that gives them a less-penetrable defense of their music.  Almost like a mutated version of a disease we thought we got rid of years ago, but this one spreads faster and is harder to kill.  It is a music epidemic that I don’t foresee going away any time soon.

     Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that there isn’t a place for that type of music.  I know every bit of music isn’t supposed to be tailored to what I desire.  I just wish this new wave of teen-bop wouldn’t try to pass itself off as rock… anything but rock!  Rock and Roll was my baby; emphasis on was.  It seems like they forgot to change its diaper for about seven years.  Now it’s all smelly, and I don’t like it anymore.

     I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a little time to discuss an issue that has bothered me my entire life.  My memory is a little fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure this was my very first complaint; the first in a long line of complaints that will eventually become the basis of my writing.  (By the way, spare me the: “taking the time to write about it will just further empower it man” speeches.  Nine times out of ten I would completely agree, but when it comes to this particular issue, the “empowered-ness” is already out of control.)  Of course, I’m talking about the oldest and most insanely brainless battle that has gone on since the Romans invented aqueducts: Toilet Seat-up vs. Toilet Seat-down.

     Let me preface my approaching rant by saying that I know that whatever arguments I make, nothing will ever change.  I am aware of that.  I’m not operating under the delusion that I can change the world with one meaningless essay that will be read by a few people on their lunch-break.  Besides, this ongoing struggle between man and toilet seat goes WAY back.  All the way back to the beginning of time:

 _______________________________________________

Excerpt from Genesis 3:17-20 (KJV)

The Fall of Man

17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;  18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;  19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.  20  Oh yeah, and alsoeth, thou shalt have to deal with really annoying requests from all women ye encountereths, like putting the toilet seat down after you pee; even though God (me) knows that it is just a really annoying control-thing that has nothing to do with whatever ridiculous reasons she will tell you otherwise.

Thus spake the lord.

 _______________________________________________

     With that in mind, the following is not persuasive in intent, but merely a long overdue bitch session over the lamest relational institution in human history…

1,2,3… Go.

     To quote Sigmund Freud: “Despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, I have not been able to answer… the great question that has never been answered: what does a woman want?“  Well, the main reason why he and countless other men have continually failed to answer that question is because there is no single answer.  In my opinion, the closest-to-being-right answer is: “lots of things;” just make sure that most of those “things” are somehow related to the toilet seat being down.

     It is truly an amazing phenomenon.  You could fill a phonebook with the ways people from different cultures disagree on issues, but if you were to pick two random women from opposing countries (assuming both have regular access to toilets), I promise you they would both agree that: The toilet seat must be down at all times, and it is imperative that the man of the house takes full responsibility for anything otherwise.  For an entire planet of females to be so unified on a single issue, I can’t help but be curious: why are you so insistent that the seat has to be down?  Furthermore, why is it so important that the male has to be the one to do it?  In other words, if you have to use the bathroom, why can’t you put the seat down yourself?!?!!

     To answer my question, I consulted what I consider to be the foremost center of knowledge and understanding of the human condition: eHow dot com.*  After a few quick keystrokes, I found a nifty little gem of an article called: “How to get the Men in Your Household to Put the Seat Down.“  In case you can’t tell by the title, it represents the end opposite my side of the argument.  For the benefit (entertainment) of my readers as well as any concerned females, I have decided to spend the next section of this entry carefully dissecting some of the finer points of the ehow article.  It shouldn’t be hard considering that after 63 comments, it has received a 1.5/5 rating.

 _______________________________________________

Let’s begin…

Introduction

Sitting down in the middle of the night on a sticky, narrow toilet bowl rim is an experience no one should have to endure. So make the effort to train the men in your house to leave that seat down!

 _______________________________________________

     This will be the only time you will read the following statement for the remainder of this tirade:  I agree.  That is, I agree with the first sentence of the introduction.  It’s a pretty safe bet that if given the choice between sitting on the wet rim of an open toilet and drinking an ice-cold Pepsi, 9 out of 10 people will choose the Pepsi (1 out of 10 people are really hard core Coke drinkers).  Last time I checked, smearing a mixture of water and errant urine on your ass was still near the bottom of any normal human being’s wish list. 

     I do however take issue with the second sentence: “So make the effort to train men in your house to leave that seat down!“  Are they honestly implying that the only way to avoid taking an ass-backwards plunge into the depths of the toilet is if by God’s grace their husband (or anyone, as long as it’s a male) remembers to lower the seat?  Oh no… oh dear God no, you poor child!  What a burden it must be to have to live in such fear… not knowing what to do in a stressful (and dangerous) situation involving an upright toilet seat!!!

     For your benefit, as well as anyone else who is currently suffering from your-uh, condition-please feel free to use any or all of the following tips to avoid falling into the toilet:

• Break bad habits early: start making yourself look at the toilet at least once before flailing your naked body backwards at it. You never know when your thoughtless husband might’ve mistakenly left the seat up!

• Make sure to turn on the lights and remove all blindfolds before entering your bathroom. This way, it makes it more difficult for the toilet to sneak up on your butt.

• If you enter the bathroom and suspect that your husband has left the seat up, feel free to relieve yourself in the sink or bathtub. Don’t worry, nobody will make fun of you for being extra-safe. If there is a mess, your husband will be happy to clean it up for you!

• If after a visual inspection you still cannot determine if the seat is up or down, try crying loudly until the nearest male can come to your aid. Play your cards right and you might even get a courtesy-wipe.

• If you are able to determine that the seat is up (so help you God), leave the bathroom immediately. This is not a situation that can be remedied at the time. Check in to the nearest hotel and make sure the concierge has your toilet prepared for you before your enter the room. It is recommended that you stay away from your home for a minimum of ten days, giving the police sufficient time to defuse the situation.

(This is where I stop being sarcastic for a little while)

     Or… you can pull your hand out of the back of your pants for five seconds, reach down, and flick the top of the seat.  Don’t worry, gravity will do the rest. 

     My point is, if the main argument for training your husband to put the seat down is because you don’t want to fall into the toilet, then please consider the possibility of putting it down for yourself from time to time… or kill yourself.  Either option is fine with me.

 _______________________________________________

The next section was comprised of eight simple tips to help mold your caveman of a husband into a seat-manipulating machine!  (Don’t worry, I will keep these next few short)

(My response is in bold)

Step One

Begin by mentioning – casually and calmly – that it’d be nice if he would put the toilet seat back down after each use. Make vague references to sanitary conditions.

I think by “vague references to sanitary conditions” they mean “made-up references to sanitary conditions.”  For instance, you can say something like: I read in Science and Truth Magazine that if you don’t keep the seat down on the toilet, everyone in the family will get facial cancer.  (Note:  Using the term “Facial” instead of “Face” makes it sound like a real’er cancer)

Step Two

Up the ante if strategy one doesn’t work: Speak at length about urine-soaked toilet bowls. Be graphic if you think it will help you get your way.

And if your husband replies with something like: “what does the seat being down have to do with urine-soaked toilet bowels?  Doesn’t the urine go down the drain when you flush it?  Did you remember to take your pill this morning…etc,” just tell him that the gyroscope in the toilet doesn’t spin correctly unless the seat is down.  If he continues to question your logic, threaten him with a knife.

 Step Three

Explain that the up position is not, contrary to what he may argue, the neutral position: Toilets are made to be kept closed, lid and all, between uses.

Yes.  If the goblins that made toilets found out that we actually opened them on occasion to deposit our waste, they would begin a world-wide killing rampage.  Toilets were made to be kept closed!!!  Think of the children.

Step Four

Point out that you never miss the bowl and that it’s his job to cover up his misses.

That’s true.  (A male has yet to receive a medal at the Toilet Target events since the sport was added to the Olympics in 1952 (Helsinki))  If he asks if you are implying that he should leave the seat down at all times, covering it in his own urine, just tell him that you’d rather sit in his pee than have to operate the seat (it’s true).

Step Five

Consider going on strike if you’re the one who cleans the bathroom. If the male in question is likely to be less irked by a dirty bathroom than you are, consider striking on something that’s more near and dear to him: Dinner? Shopping? Sex?

It is mostly likely that he will not be influenced by the cleaning strike.  Men are disgusting beasts.  I would say that taking away his shopping privileges would be most effective.  Men cannot survive without their weekly mall-fix.   

Step Six

Enlist the support of other, more mannerly men. Encourage them to explain to the man you live with why they treat the toilet seat correctly.

These “more mannerly men” are also known as “the local mob.”  They will usually accept payment over installments with a reasonable interest rate.  For an additional fee, the mannerly men will dispose of your husband’s body in the river of your choice.

Step Seven

Be relentless in your efforts – training can take time. Don’t be afraid to try whatever you think might work: pouting, anger, threats, badgering or even silence. Avoid taking your mind off the goal.

Let the toilet seat issue consume your entire life until it is solved.  Luckily, grown men usually respond very favorably to pouting, anger, threats, badgering, and silence.  Expect results fast.  Once you have taken care of the toilet problem, start using the same techniques to get other things you want.  This is the secret to a long and happy marriage.

Step Eight

Solicit strategies and advice from friends if you’re at wit’s end.

Disregard everything you have read in this article up to this point.  It was formatted in a series of steps, which means the logical progression was to try everything in the prescribed order, then arrive at step eight, where you will immediately cease all activity and just bitch to your friends.  Weeeee!

 _______________________________________________

     The remainder of the article was filled with a few tips & strategies, but they were basically just regurgitated lines from the beginning and middle sections.  If you’d like to read it for yourself, you can view it by clicking here.  I’m sure the ehow editors will enjoy your spirited emails. 

     I don’t mean to sound like such a callous jerk (yes I do), but I just find it to be completely ridiculous to place the sole responsibility of the toilet seat on men.  I don’t mind putting the seat + lid down, (It keeps my roommate’s annoying dog from drinking out of it) but on occasion I might forget to put it down.  If this happens, I do not want to hear a five minute speech about how it’s my fault for ruining your life.  It’s not.  Men are not the only ones who use the toilet.  Men don’t use the seat as often as women do.  It is a two person job.  Instead of going through scores of elaborate schemes and exercises to train your husband to put the seat down, it’s probably a lot less effort to JUST PUT THE SEAT DOWN YOURSELF.  It won’t kill you.  The day I read a story about a woman dying from touching a toilet seat, I will immediately publish a retraction of this entire post.

* What I meant to say is: the foremost center of useless garbage; this blog being a close second.

I would apologize, but it is really hard to remain humble now that I have laser-hands.

Anyways… 

     This summer I have been spending almost every other weekend visiting my girlfriend while she works in Tampa.  During this time I’ve been able to see pretty much everything the bay area has to offer, at least the sort of stuff advertised in the Entertainment section of the St. Pete Times.  Downtown Tampa, Ibor City, the Tampa Theatre, the surrounding metro areas: there are a lot of places within a thirty-mile radius to have fun.  But like most things in life, nothing is as good as it seems.  This past weekend confirmed that when I visited Tampa’s local haven for line dancing enthusiasts: The Dallas Bull.

That’s right… I said line dancing. 

     My girlfriend and I were going to take our tax paying, flipflop wearing, full-sets-of-teeth having, housebroken asses to a country western bar in what I can only describe as a “severely underdeveloped” part of rural Tampa.  Why?  Well, I wanted to meet some of her Tampa friends, and one of them happened to be celebrating her birthday at The Bull that evening.  Of course, I was expecting the worst, but I was delighted that nobody felt the urge to yell “Git-R-Dun” in my face while straining to remember the parts to their four-step dance.  That was the only moment of my evening that I can truly say I was “delighted.”  Was I ever amused?  Yes, on some sick level, a lot of it was quite funny.  (not fun, fun-ny)  Was I scared?  Well, not in the sort of, “man I think im going to get beat-up” kind of way.  It was more like the, “man I really wish i’d never seen the movie Deliverance,” kind of way.

     The building was in the shape of a large barn complete with a gift shop (I was shocked too).  There were multiple levels, large projector screens, two dance floors, and the top level has a large opening in the center so you can watch people dance in the main area.  If I hadn’t known that it was the local country bar, I might have been impressed.

     However, it was a local country bar, perhaps the localiest, countriest, barriest local country bar in the history of local country bar-ery!

     After entering, I would guess it took about five minutes to confirm every single pre-conceived notion I ever held about “southern fried” culture.  We found a couple of stools upstairs, and I managed to scribble down a few words and phrases that came to mind while surveying the bottom level of The Bull:

• Big Belt Buckles

• Skinny Legs

• Segregation?

• “This is a good place to pick up pregnant women.”

• Skoal.

• Tassels… on a shirt.

• “They shouldn’t let that big guy ride the mechanical bull!  He’s going to break it!”

• “…That’s a girl?”

     It was like a museum to every shameful white accomplishment in the last two hundred years.  I saw a man sip a beer on the left side of his mouth while holding a cheek-full of chewing tobacco in the right.  I witnessed a 200 pound woman seductively ride a mechanical bull on what had to be the slowest setting.  I saw two very pregnant women at the same counter ordering drinks between songs.  I stared at a man who was twice my size and twice my body hair fit into jeans that were too small for me to wear.

     In fact, that was one really common trait of all the burly Marlboro men that stomped around the bar that night: tight jeans… extremely tight jeans.  Jeans that defied everything physicists had previously stated about the universe.  I’m pretty sure that when they took them off after a long night of hoot-nannying, there were deep imprints left on their boots from the cuff pressing into them.  Most of the people who rode the mechanical bull that night had to have help getting on, because they couldn’t manage to separate their legs past shoulder width.  It was a spectacle.

     I didn’t really read to far into the situation, at least past the thought that these people just had really odd/uncomfortable fashion sense.  It wasn’t until I got home that I started heavily theorizing, but before I get into that I have to tell you a short story…

While sitting high above in our perch, we watched the crowd beneath us engage in what I assume was really high-quality linedancing. They seemed to know what they were doing. For those of you who have never seen it in person (and I pray to God that is the case), it is highly structured, and really has very little to do with the music that is playing. (I suppose that is alright, considering that the music that was playing wasn’t worth the blotch of tobacco stuck to the bottom of my shoe) It usually consists of a few legs kicks and foot positions while the upper body remains completely useless. People generally stare straight at the ground, and do not engage in any activity with anyone else around them. It might be the most anti-social dance ever invented. However, there is one tiny portion of linedance etiquette that exists outside of the normal structure.

Every now and then (and I assume this is only attempted by the most advanced dancers in the world), A person will randomly spin in place during a change in facing, and then immediately fall back into the proper step-order. It seems to be up to that individual when and how this event takes place. The best I can guess is that this is how a young man or woman can signal to the opposite sex that they are special. “Hey, I spun in place during the dance… I’m edgy. The others aren’t like me. I have skills… dangerous skills. Why don’t you come by the ranch and we can make some babies.”

     Getting back to my original point, the people who frequent the Dallas Bull were some of the biggest, clumsiest, oafs I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life.  These people breed strong.  They could have probably built a pyramid in half the time the aliens took to do it, but I doubt a single person in that room could tell you how many sides it has.  However, I couldn’t help admiring the sheer grace that some of these men and women demonstrated while they spun their way into my heart.  Some of them made professional figure skaters looks like total hacks.  Maybe it looked so lovely because each beautiful and precise twirl was surrounded by a legion of cavemen, but these bastards had finesse.

     One that really stood out was a man dressed in a black shirt & jeans, along with black boots, a black cowboy hat, a black bolo tie, and I’m willing to bet a silky black thong.  We dubbed him, “The Gunslinger.”  He was the best spinner of the night, in fact, he probably spun more than anyone else.  As a result, it created some sort of vortex that drew in all of the available vaginas in the immediate area.  Needless to say, he had skills… dangerous skills.  I couldn’t figure out how he could revolve so effortlessly, and so lightning-fast.  This thought is what led me to my theory.

     As I stated before, the jeans these people wore were tighter than anything Spandex had ever dreamed of.  They were basically leg-girdles.  I don’t even want get into my theories on what they did with their penises to pacify the Wrangler Vice-Grip Crotches.  At first, I just passed it off as a silly fad, but after some hard thinking I think it might hold the key to their magical spinnability.

When you think of the best spinners in the world, what do you think of?  

     The first thing I thought of was a tornado.  It’s a funnel-shaped whirling wind mass that is powerful enough to destroy anything… but not exactly graceful.  My next immediate thought was a spinning top.  A timeless plaything favored by children around the world.  It takes little effort, but can spin forever on a dime.  Now we’re getting somewhere…

     According to 4physics.com, “The way this all works through is described by Newton’s Laws of Rotation. While this can get pretty complicated in detail, there are some circumstances where the object will spin in a very simple manner. The object’s spin about the rotation axis gives it an angular momentum, which will remain constant until some outside torque works on it.”

Here’s a nice picture that illustrates the point…

So… if a top’s shape is ideal for Newton’s Law of Rotation, then something mimicking it’s shape should be almost as good right?  Like perhaps, a fat guy with really skinny legs?!?!?!

The similarities in dimension and shape are astonishing. 

Here is an updated model that I have already sent the editors of 4physics.com along with a copy of this article:

I guess to summarize my theory, it all boils down to the old Darwinian Survival of the Fittest; or in this case, fattest.  It has allowed for only the best spinners (most “top-like”) to breed within the linedancing species. 

There… I’ve cracked the conspiracy.  I’ll make sure to post a photo of my Pulitzer when it arrives in the mail.

Jesus, that was a long tangent…

     Anyways, we didn’t spend much time in the bar.  The drinks were really expensive (especially considering the $10.00 cover charge), the music was bad, and the whole freak-show aspect wore off after about an hour.  The Dallas Bull is not fun.

     I would apologize to those whom I might have offended, considering the amount of jabs I took at the country western culture.  However, I doubt any of them made it down this far.  (They would have had to read about a thousand words before the first picture came up)

Expect another entry after this weekend… Yeehaw!!!

However, in the summer of 2004 a movie called “Harold & Kumar go to White Castle” would go on to rejuvenate a once hung-over genre.  Sure, there were plenty of fart jokes and one-liners; enough to keep the 18-24 demographic in stitches for eighty-eight glorious minutes, but it also had a great plot… silly, but great.  As sophomoric as it is, this is by far one of my favorite comedies of all time.  I do not use marijuana or even find the drug all that appealing, but there is something about the romanticized quest for the holy-grail being reduced to a stumbling adventure for bite-sized burgers that makes me wet my pants with laughter every time.  Three years after its release, the movie has truly become a modern comedy cult classic on par with other favorites like Office Space and Wayne’s World. 

Nevertheless, this is not is not a dissertation on the history and impact of classic stoner artwork.  This is a tale of personal triumph…  

Two weekends ago, I was sitting at my friend Charles’ house, discussing some hypothetical travel plans. 

Through some merciful act of God, I managed to get an entire week off from both work and summer classes, and I wanted to get out of town.  After quickly tossing out the standard beach and camping trip ideas, my associate and I agreed that we wanted to do something unorthodox.  After much deliberation and several bags of snacks, we were ready to give up on thinking for the night, but in the grand tradition of my previously brilliant moments I was struck with divine inspiration while sitting on the toilet in his downstairs bathroom (though any toilet will usually do the trick). 

I was so excited; I didn’t even take the time to finish the article I was reading.  Upon returning to the living room, Charles could already tell by the wild look on my face that I had solved our travel dilemma.   

Me:  Dude, I have an amazing idea.

Charles:  Alright, what is it?

Me:  We are going to White Castle. 

Notice that I didn’t state my idea in question form.  It wasn’t necessary.  This was a sleeping giant that had been destined to awaken ever since we laid eyes on Harold and Kumar’s epic adventure several years before.  We just didn’t know it… until now.           

It took only a few seconds for him to declare: “Dude, you’re so right… we have to go.”  I don’t think the pause was because he was weighing his options, but rather to fully grasp the gravity of discovering our destiny.  We planned our route and set the date.            

One week later, we were ready to embark on our life-changing journey.  Perhaps you are reading this and thinking, “What the hell is so major about going to a stupid fast food restaurant?”  Well, I think it is important to note two things:

1)     The nearest White Castle is located in Tennessee which is approximately five-hundred miles from our home in Florida.

2)     We were actually considering spending our precious free-time (and precious money) in the armpit of Appalachia.  

Still, we didn’t let those minor issues of “common sense” get in our way.  Like I said, we were realizing our destiny.  The night before we left, I had visions of Slyders © dancing in my head. 

Like on most college-aged road trips, a lot of really fun and unexpected events occurred, but for the sake conserving time I will try to focus mainly on the events surrounding White Castle.  However, I think it’s important to take a moment and reflect on the many awe-inspiring features of our great country, or at least Alabama.  On the way up we had an opportunity to bear witness to some of mankind’s greatest achievements…

…like a giant chicken made out of old bumpers…

…a water tower sized peach…

…interested in rocket science?  Alabama will not dissappoint….

…Hey everybody!  It’s an enormous metal cow!  God bless America….

…note that they felt it was important to include the genitalia…

…Oh, that silly Satan…

The trip up to Tennessee took about eight hours.  Experiencing the gorgeous landscape and rich culture of the Deep South had absolutely intoxicated us, almost to the point of forgetting about our original desination.  Once we entered the metro area of our destination (Nashville), the winding streets and hustled traffic also contributed to temporarily forgetting our goal.  It took us several moments to realize as we sat at a traffic stop coming off of I-40, that we were literally parked on the threshold of our fate… 

…There it stood on a plateau, perched high above, surveying its vast domain…

I’d like to say that we were so moved that we remained in silent awe of our Burger Camelot, but unfortunately we were slightly less composed than we would’ve liked.  The exchange went something like:

“DUDE!!!!  DUUUUUUDEEEE!!!!!  LOOK-IT’S-RIGHT-THERE!!!  Oh God-dude—I know!!!  I can’t believe it, this is awesome!  …I know! AHHHHH!!!!  Why won’t the red light turn green?!?!  I don’t know!!!  Dude I’m so hungry right now!  I’m going to eat like a hundred!  Oh S—, the light turned, GO!!!  Oh S—, dude you almost hit that car!” 

Not exactly Shakespeare, but whatever.  We were excited. 

We purposefully didn’t eat anything the entire day just so we would have big enough appetites to merit our mammoth order.  I don’t recall the cute name they gave it, but Charles and I ordered the largest meal they offer: Twenty Slyders, Four Fries, and Two drinks.  If it were up to me I’d call it the “Ass-Tornado” or the “Backfire,” but I doubt the White Castle marketing firm would go for it. 

While we were waiting for them to cook our feast, the manager said to me, “Man, you boys must hungry.  I can only eat about four or five of these things.”  I chuckled a little, keeping my cool.  I didn’t want to give away anymore signals as to what was actually going on.  I mean, who would actually drive five-hundred miles to eat a few carelessly crafted hamburgers?

“So which one of you is Harold, and which is Kumar?” 

I froze for a moment, but the old man caught me and I started to slowly let out a laugh that would last a good three minutes.  I guess we weren’t pioneers after all. 

A man, covered in griddle grease, made the entire trip worth it with one ball-busting statement.

“I guess I’m Harold,” I replied between laughs. 

“Hey, I’m the one with a real job and I drove, so that makes me Harold,” Charles rebutted. 

I agreed (I like Kumar better anyways).   

Moving on to the gorge-fest, Charles and I dove into those twenty little delights like a couple of baby sharks in a chum-bucket.  Our long awaited climax took only about twenty minutes from the time the trays were set down ‘til the last soggy belch. 

…A picture is worth a thousand words, and four-thousand calories…

I can proudly declare that those twenty minutes were some of the most satisfying of my lifetime.  I know that is pathetic, but so is television.  I bet you didn’t see a giant metal chicken on television today.   

We ended up spending only a little bit of time in Nashville (not even 24 hours), mostly at the local hostel.  I’m sure it’s a great city, but everything seemed sort of mundane after we conquered White Castle.  Plus, after consuming 4,160 calories, 3800 milligrams of sodium, 476 grams of Carbohydrates, and 200 grams of fat, our stomachs were in no condition to “take-in” the local sights… or anything for that matter.  When we got back into town at around 1:00 am, I was still feeling the effects.  I’d like to think that having severe intestinal discomfort for 24 hours after a bowel-shattering meal as a hilarious exclamation to a fun adventure, but at the time it wasn’t.  However, I am now a week removed from it, and I can’t help but look back upon my thousand-mile hamburger escapade with fondness. 

I know I’m a fool.  I made peace with that a long time ago.

I really like that quote. 

This blog has nothing to do with Stephen King or his particular tenets about the art of writing, but I think that philosophy can be applied to a wide variety of different subjects.  Writing should be to the point, with a low percentage of bullshit.  I’m not saying that I won’t have fun with the things I write, but I think it’s important to be thoughtful while doing so.  It is what separates most good humorists from total hacks like Larry the Cable Guy and Carlos Mencia.

This is not my first attempt at self-published internet dribble.  Many of the people who will read this weblog are familiar with my past projects.  Be warned, I still haven’t grown-up.  For those of you who don’t know me, I will spare you from any long-winded, uninteresting autobiographies.  If you really want to know more about me, feel free to visit the about section found in the top right corner (it’s brief). 

I find that a lot of blogs, even popular ones, tend to be more about self-promotion than good writing.  I’ll try to stay away from that.  If you feel like I ever start getting too full of myself (or the aforementioned bullshit), please feel free to dedicate a hate-site to me… or you can just shoot me an email.  Generally, I will not have commenting available on posts due to the uncanny ability of blogs to attract spammers.  I read my email every day, and I encourage any reader to email me… especially if you think it’l make me laugh.*

If you consider yourself an open-minded person, I doubt you will find much wrong with what I write (aside from the lack of quality).  If you consider sarcasm, crudeness, or irony as something you’d rather avoid, then I am quite sure that you will find a lot wrong with what I write (especially the lack of quality).  I make it a habit to employ them as well as any related terms in all of my daily activities. 

Not convinced?  Here is an example of everything I have written so far in this entry with a special filter I have developed…

 Any word or phrase that uses sarcasm, crudeness, irony, or any related terms will appear orange:

——————————————————————————–

I know, I was suprised too.

Anyways, I think that will be a sufficient introduction.  I promise the next entry will be a lot less informative… and orange.