A Pair of Doughy, Cheesy Jugs

On February 13^th, five or six years ago, I ordered a pizza for dinner. It was a delicious, pepperoni pizza – Papa Johns if I’m not mistaken. At this point in my life, I had been dating Wife for a year or two, but she didn’t live with me. I lived with my friend, Dickmar, who was out working in the oil fields. For some reason the next day, Valentine’s Day, I was home alone and not at work. I don’t think it was a weekend. It could have been one of the weird random holidays teachers get off work like Bastille Day or maybe I just took the day off simply because I felt like it. Regardless, I was sitting in my apartment watching Sportscenter when a pizza man came to my door. 

Pizza man (A middle eastern man – and before you start reading this in an Apu (from The Simpsons, yeah, that Apu) voice, I wrote MIDDLE EASTERN man): Here is your pizza.

Me (adjusting my shorts because I just put them on): Uh, I didn’t order a pizza.

Pizza man: This pizza is for you.

Me (confused look on my face): I ordered a pizza last night. I ate it already.

Pizza man (somehow patient): This is a new pizza for you. Sign here (he hands me a credit receipt).

Me: I ordered a pizza last night! I already ate it. I don’t want another one.

Pizza man (shoves the pizza into my arms and walks off)

Me: I better not get charged again or my girlfriend will call your manager!

I brought the pizza in and decided to make the best out of a bad situation. I opened the box and noticed that the pizza was misshapen; it looked like a naughty cake, like an ass or a pair of breasts, and I thought, What the hell? They just brought a misshapen pizza to my apartment. What’s going on? I hope there is nothing wrong with it, as I swallowed my first bite.

Soon thereafter, my phone buzzed and it was Wife (I hope this isn’t confusing to you – she was Girlfriend then). She asked what I was up to, and I told her about my zany adventures with the pizza man coming again today. I told her that I told him that my girlfriend would sure let him have it if he charged me twice. She said in her usual, peppy voice, “Happy Valentine’s Day! You got the pizza I ordered for you!”

It all made sense now. Duh, she got the pizza for me because she knows how much I enjoy eating. What a nice girlfriend! After we laughed about my confusion, I told her how they messed up the pizza and how it was shaped like a pair of doughy, cheesy jugs. She said, “Really? It was supposed to be shaped like a heart.”

I spun it around. Oh, yeah, it does look like a heart. 

Huh.

Neck Cricket

I’ve had a tough past five days because I can’t get rid of a crick in my neck. This stiffness has caused me to walk around like Frankenstein’s monster. I have to turn my whole body to look behind me, which is a problem because I’m an overly observant person. I have to know what’s going on at all times.  Unfortunately, I can’t take quick glances; there are only quick, 90 degree turns where I use my shoulders and back to turn my head to look to side of me. It’s kind of menacing because I’m a fairly big guy, and if you’re to the side of me, I’ll turn my whole body like I’m pouncing – like I goaded you to the side of me and now I’m going to get you. No, I’m not going to get you; I was just taking a sudden glance. Don’t be frightened.

On the list of annoying, low-level body ailments, the neck crick has to be up there. The worst minor body annoyances are as follows: hiccups, neck crick, canker sore, burnt palate from eating hot pizza too fast, belly hurting from wearing pants that used to fit but are too tight now. That’s the order, right there. Hiccups are the worst, and luckily, for most people they go away. I remember when I was a kid reading the Guinness Book of World Records (the book I bought annually at the school book fair because I needed to know if someone had broken the record for most underwater pogo jumps. Phew, Ashrita Furman still has the record.), that someone had the hiccups for 97 years! He hiccuped up to, like, 30 times a minute his whole life. How do you not kill yourself? I know that sounds bad, but that’s an effin nightmare. 

Wake up. Hiccup. 

“Will you – hiccup – marry me?” 

“I’m going to – hiccup – be a father?”

“Can I – hiccup – buy that – hiccup – shotgun?” 

“No – hiccup – just one – hiccup – bullet.”

I’m just kidding! He didn’t kill himself; he lived to be 97. He saw all sorts of great things throughout his life, but he hiccuped the whole time.

I don’t know about you, but the reason why these annoyances are so bad is because I constantly mess with them. When I have a canker sore, I rub my tongue across it even if it makes my eyes water. Same thing goes with a burnt palate. I play with the little piece of dead skin hanging down from the roof of my mouth until it falls off and goes down to my tummy. Even today, I stretched my neck, not to soothe, but to remind myself where it hurts. I was even chopping at different parts of my neck to find all the places it hurt. I found it, and I’ve been poking it ever since. I’m going to poke and chop it out of my freakin’ neck. 

An Open Letter to Teens

Teenagers-

To start, will you take the earbuds out of your ear? You can listen to whatever crappy, empty, soulless music you’re listening to later. I mean, what’s your problem? You’re listening to it like it’s going away. The music will still be there when you come back to it later. That’s the beauty of an iPod – the music stays inside of it; they have a built in dam that keeps the music from seeping away. Also, if I see one more of you listening to your iPod at a restaurant while you’re eating dinner with your parents, I’m going to lose it. You can’t take them out for an hour to talk to your parents? I was a teenager once and I understand what it’s like to not be overly social with your parents, but listening to music while you eat is just disrespectful. If I see one of you doing that again, I’m going to walk over to your table, rip the earbuds from your ears, and put your Caesar Salad on top of your dipshit, Justin Beiber haircut – I will also stuff the rest of your food in mouth and politely bow to you parents. 

I don’t think that you get how anti-social it makes you all look. You can’t carry on a conversation without one? I see you all at school with one earbud in, trying to carry on a conversation with someone else who has one earbud in. Do you not see how freakin’ ridiculous this is? I doubt either of you can understand each other. One of you is trying to sell the other some crystal meth and the other is trying to coordinate a group burglary. Get on the same page people – these crimes won’t commit themselves! (Ok, I know not all kids are criminals, so here is a revised line for the good kids. One of you is trying to sell some magazine subscriptions to get enough money to join the big soap box derby and the other is trying to set up a carpool to go to Young life. Get on the same page people – these random acts of cuteness won’t just happen themselves!) 

Teens, lets rap. You don’t have to want to hang out with your parents, but they paid for that damn dinner. You at least owe them the courtesy of not talking to them while not listening to music. You can just stare down at your plate, answer the questions with monosyllabic grunts, and just continue to dress like an overall teen dipshit. No, no, no, don’t talk. Interjecting any of your own political beliefs into the conversation would be terrible because you don’t have any educated thoughts. You’ve been listening to your iPod in social studies. If the conversation turns to wearing your gym shorts 24/7 or UFC, you can pipe in. You’re just like Eliza Dootlittle the first time Henry Higgins brought her… er… oh yeah, iPod in English class, too. 

I hope you have a better sense of who you are now. At some point in your life, you will takes those earbuds out and probably reflect on your youth and feel slightly embarrassed. It’s ok – I was a jerk, too. I’m just trying to help you out. Just think about it. We’d love for you to join our little society here if you would just take the earbuds out first. Until those earbuds come out, you will be looked at with the intense fury of a thousand suns by the likes of me and everyone else who isn’t a teen.

Warm Regards,

Johnny Utah

P.S. Here's you, mouth agape and all:

Nerd

In my last year of college, I lived in a tiny apartment complex with most of my best friends.  My friend who had scabies was my next door neighbor, and the front door of his apartment was no more than six feet from mine. Luckily for us all, his scabies were a distant memory. Because that friend and I were the only people who woke up early on the weekends, I could count on the fact that he’d be available to hang out with at 8:00 a.m. I walked into his apartment and there he with legs propped up on his desk in his tightie whities, drinking a (probably) warm Dr. Pepper, playing EverQuest. As I began asking inane question after inane question about the game (“What’s your character’s name? How many dwarves have you killed this morning? Which one is your girlfriend?”), his annoyance with me grew to a boiling point. “You know, you’re probably nerdier than I am. Playing fantasy football is way gayer. You and [other friends] talk about it all the time and in public, no less. I might play this in my own house but that stuff permeates into your social life. And Golden Tee golf… that’s worse,” he said rolling his eyes.

This is the moment when I realized that I was really nerdy, too – just in different ways. I can’t tell you how many times my friends and I were at a party discussing fantasy sports while everyone else was inside having fun. I remember specifically sitting with my friend, Dickmar, outside a party trying to see who could name Major League Baseball relief pitchers for more teams. Everyone else was inside talking to girls and meeting people, and I was naming the order of the bullpen rotation for the 2001 Toronto Blue Jays. Fantasy sports took up so much of our time and was actually the cause of real arguments and fights. When I reflect back, it might be one of the dorkiest things in which I’ve ever partaken. I still do by the way.

Once, Dickmar and I were at a bar playing Golden Tee when two attractive girls came up and started talking to us. Basically, Dickmar and I switched off talking to them while the other took his turn rearing back and pounding the ball with all his might. The girls invited us to the bar to take a shot with them. We told them we just started and had 11 holes left. Sorry. Dickmar and I weren’t exactly swashbuckling ladies men, so these girls talking to us was a pretty isolated incident. Meeting girls, period, was amazing and having them come to us was astounding. Sadly for us, we blew it, and I’m sure we played another round even after that. They probably just wanted us to buy them a shot anyways – or at least I told myself that to prevent tears from forming.

This leads to where I am now. I’m happily married and comfortable in my own lameness. As I reflect upon my life, I realize that I was always in denial about the things I enjoyed doing but was ashamed to admit. I’m going to admit my dorky pleasures right here and now.

I have over 500 comic books and at least 100 graphic novels. 90% of what I watch is comic book cartoons. When people get into conversations about the last good book they read, I always interject with, “Have you read The Walking Dead or Invincible? Robert Kirkman is one of the best writers I’ve read in a long time. His ability to go into the depths of men’s psyches, where other writers are afraid or not allowed to, amazes me.”

“Well, uh, yeah, he DOES add words to pictures.”

 I was on my high school diving team. Yes, I wore a speedo and I did sloppy, subpar flips – I was never flexible enough to hold the pike position. I got 4^th in my district and was extremely unsuccessful at the next level, regionals (in fact, I failed a dive and the meet official gave me a thumbs down to indicate I failed a dive like a Roman emperor giving the execute signal – that thumbs down would become the symbol of my diving career and the subject of much fun between my friends and I). My two friends and I who dove all separately felt ashamed about it in college, and while I wouldn’t ever bring it up in conversations, I would begrudgely admit it. Now, I proudly admit: I was a DIVER, and my speedo was extra small, too! My nungs – the part of one’s ass that hangs out when one wears Daisy Dukes, for example – hung out with pride.

I don’t know how to end this. Nerd is a term for high school kids, and it’s silly for a 30 year old to address it. Regardless, I’m doing things that I love, and I’m happy to do them. I’m sure there are other, countless nerdy things I do to this day that I don’t even know about, but I’m just curious: what’s the nerdiest thing about you? I don’t like ending blogs in questions because I desperately need the positive feedback to be my tiny, blogging ego and answering this question would detract from that. I will take one for the team – this time.

Random Notes II

Today, a student offered a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup to me, and without even thinking, I accepted. I know him well; he behaves, works hard, and is always polite, so I wasn’t worried that it was a laxative or had staples pushed up inside of it waiting to puncture my palate. The only problem with the piece of candy was that it was really warm. I had this moment of hesitation because I could imagine it in his pants the whole day. What a gross thought. The warmth radiating from the piece of candy was from his loins.

I ate it anyway. It was warm yet delicious going down my throat.

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My wife and I were watching International l House Hunters the other day, and when the buyer met the real estate agent for the first time, they exchanged simple pleasantries.

Buyer: It’s great to meet you.

Agent: It’s good to meet you.

Does the agent not really want to meet this potential buyer? Does she feel like she’s met better clients? Isn’t it awkward when it’s great to meet someone, but they’re only slightly interested to meet you (at least by their greeting)?

“It’s good to meet you, but the last lady was much more attractive. God, you’re so… unattractive.”

“It’s good to meet you, but the last lady brought some Werther’s Originals.”

“It’s good to meet you, but the last lady offered to wash my hair for free. I took the offer, and I still feel like I’m walking on air.”

“It’s good to meet you, but the last lady was a war vet. What have you done?”

When people meet each other, they need to use the same degree of excitement. If the second person one-ups the first person then person two looks like a jerk, as well.

Same degree of excitement, people!

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I referenced this in the booger post but didn’t really get into it. Aren’t there variances on the word so?

He went to the store, so she waited for him in the bushes. 

He went to the store, and she was so tired of waiting for him in the bushes.

Wouldn’t this follow the pattern of to and too (sort of)? Too can be a degree. So can be a degree.  How tired are you? Too tired. So tired. I think we need to complicate our already clunky language and add soo to the English lexicon.

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I think if I were dating these days, I would use someone’s DVR to determine whether or not they were actually date-able. Or better yet, I’d have them look at my DVR to see if they really want to spend their time dating me. Here is what is on the DVR at my house: Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, Wolverine and the X-Men, Young Justice, American Dad!, and Pardon the Interruption. For any of you grown-ups or non-nerds, those are mostly cartoons with a touch of sports. Luckily, DVR hadn’t been invented when I was in college because I’m not sure if I would have found a match. 

Maybe there should be a dating website based on DVR recordings. However, I doubt there would be too many male suitors for my wife and her shows (Millionaire Matchmaker, Real Housewives of ______, The Bachelor, etc.), and I think the men that watch those shows wouldn’t be too interested in my wife. Maybe this would be a better friend matcher. “Oh, you like to watch South Park? Me too. Let’s be friends.”

 (The as instead of is is a weird, mutant Canadian thing)

Rubber Bands: Man's Greatest Enemy

A couple of years ago, I was in my classroom, sitting at my desk, and chatting with a student for a minute or two while we waited for the dismissal bell to ring. As I was talking to her, I was playing around with a rubber band – stretching it with the fingers on one hand the whole time we chatted. At some point, I was stretching it from my thumb to my pinky finger. It slipped off and hit this poor, sweet girl on the cheek. She looked at me, shocked, as if to say, “What the hell was that for, you stupid idiot!?!” I obviously begged for her forgiveness and explained the accident. I doubt she every truly forgave me. She’s probably in college now somewhere plotting a complex, rubber band themed revenge. She’s just sitting in a dark dorm room practicing her aim with her homemade rubber band gun crafted from a rifle shaped block of wood and a wooden clip. Well, there is nothing I can do about that. If I sat around worrying about all of the students to whom I mildly annoying, I’d be a paranoid… er… I’d be even more paranoid.

What’s the deal with rubber bands anyways? If I got a rubber band and stretched it out to capacity and shot it at someone, it wouldn’t even slightly hurt them. The only way it hurts is if you directly apply it to someone’s skin, but that’s a different story. The next time you think about it, pick up a rubber band and play around with it around someone. Stretch it out and pretend like you’re going to shoot something not even close to that person. As you do this, keep your conversation about anything else. While you chat, watch that person’s eyes. I guarantee you that their eyes will be glued to that rubber band like a pug’s eyes to a Snausage. I think growing up and going to school has conditioned Americans to fear rubber bands. It’s a Pavlovian response: we see a rubber band being stretched and we wet ourselves. Maybe cops could use one as a means of intimidation (Cop walks into an interrogation room and lays a rubber band on the table in front of the suspected criminal – criminal begins to squirm but not allowing his eyes to break away from the rubber band. Cop says, “Do you want me to use this? I can, you know. I can point at your face! Where did you hide all of the cotton candy you stole?”).

The equivalent of this is popping a balloon. For some reason, people freak out when a balloon gets popped even when they know it’s going to happen. I get that a loud noise can be startling, but people get all weird if it happens at all. I popped 15 balloons or so yesterday, and my students flinched, screamed, and covered their ears every time (we’re talking about high school kids here). I, admittedly, felt uneasy and pre-flinched every time I popped one. Maybe it’s the symbolism of a balloon popping that is so off-putting: something that is supposed to represent happiness and celebration being destroyed in an instant moment of a slightly loud noise and rendered an impotent, piece of garbage. Regardless, I can’t think of two more harmless things that create so much anxiety and fear. Then again, I’m not one to sound tough; The Dark Crystal and Return to Oz both still give me nightmares.

Weight Control Problem VIII

Since junior varsity swimming ended, I’ve been going to the gym regularly. I’ve lost a few pounds, gotten a little stronger and feel better about myself. I’ve gotten my weight down to my previous heaviest from last year, which is sadly an accomplishment. My big boy problems are still quite persistent: shirts are too tight and the ass-seams in my pants are still ripping – even my new pants. On a good note, I’ve been eating less fast food and following Life’s Highway’s suggestion of subtracting one fatty thing from what I normally eat (i.e. no sour cream on tacos, no French fries, etc.).

My new problem is that my thighs chafe when I run. While I don’t run far, I’m run-walking for 45 minutes. Between my stupid Shuffle ear buds falling out of my ears and my gut hitting the stop button on the treadmill, I don’t need an uncomfortable stinging between my legs to boot. (By the way, the second to newest iPod Shuffle is the biggest scam in the world. The only way it works is if you have THEIR headphones… er… earbuds. Also, what’s the difference between the old Shuffle and this one? The shape is the only difference. I hope Apple starts reading my blog, so they know how annoyed I am with them.) It’s like the cosmos are plotting against me by throwing every obstacle known to man at me. Next thing you know, I’ll have to run on a treadmill with no TV playing what I want to watch or, even worse, have to run next to that guy that always talks to me.

As I was having a beer and watching the football games two weekends ago, it crossed my mind: football players have big legs. How do they avoiding this annoyance? And then it hit me: eureka! Their pants are slippery! The next day I went to the gym eager to try out my new slippery plan. I applied a copious amount of lotion between my thighs to create the needed viscosity. It worked for a minute or two but quickly became slightly uncomfortable and then really uncomfortable. It felt like the lotion was creeping into off limit crevasses. So I went home and actually looked it up on the internet. Apparently, people wear things called compression shorts when they run. Compression shorts became my new obsession. I researched and researched and found the right pair. When I put them on, it felt like a whole new, funky world had just been opened up to me. My legs were touching but they slid right by each other as I ran – as if in perfect harmony. Some people call them bicycle shorts, but my wife is just immature. Now instead of the uncomfortable pain of chafing, my legs just make a smooth sound like a spandex grasshopper preparing to make love.

My compressor shorts are most prized possession now, and I treat them delicately. I refuse to wash and dry them with my inferior other clothes, so I wash them separately. My wife has graciously showed me how she washes her brassieres (wow, spelled that right on the first try – everything has been coming up Johnny lately!). Now, when I go to bed, I create nice, little hot bath for my compressor shorts in the sink and wash them with the tenderness of a mother using special bra soap.