Werther's Originals - The Sweetest Crime

My wife and I were at the store recently and I noticed an older, pony-tailed gentleman complete with faded forearm tattoos pushing carts into the store. I mentioned to my wife that he was probably an ex-convict – nothing wrong with that. Wife vehemently disagreed with me; she thinks the old guys at grocery stores are all guys who just want to get out of their homes and see people – even bastard customers. She has this idea that they're all lonely and in need of human contact. In her eyes, after they get home from work, they sip a nice glass of chocolate milk while rubbing a cross between their thumb and index finger reminiscing about all the fine people they helped that day. Nice, sweet, pitying wife.

Here is my conspiracy theory on the subject. The supermarkets across the nation have arranged programs with the prison system to hire anyone who isn’t a murderer or rapist. By the way, I haven't seen Shawshank Redemption in a while but that is probably what planted the idea in my head. Regardless, it seems like a reasonable explanation.

A man has a hard life as a teen, and ends up in and out of jail until he starts committing bigger crimes – some light stalking and maybe mail fraud. After serving his time, he emerges from prison a reformed man. Secretly, he’s just biding his time, waiting for the right time to hit that damn Kroger hard, but he’s too cowardly plus the gritty food in prison destroys his dentures. Don’t even get him started on that food and what it does to his ulcers! In the mean time, he sacks groceries with a huge chip on his shoulder as he tries to mentor his teen colleagues in the ways of a criminal, but they don’t listen. All they care about is their rap music and doing the minimum amount of work in order to not get in trouble. Well, he’ll stick it to the system – every day, one pack of Werther’s Originals. “It’ll add up,” he tells himself, “The sweetest crime.”

I’m not sure who’s right here. My wife has a nice opinion; you know, that intrinsic optimistic viewpoint about the goodness in people. She doesn’t know people like I do. For you see, I grew up on the streets. While she worked a cushy job in the mall – yeah, the MALL – I toiled away on the food assembly line at Pizza Hut. While she rode horses as a youth, I was forced to play sharks and minnows at my neighborhood pool. She attended the lavish Communication College at the University of Texas, and I went to the lowly Liberal Arts College at the University of Texas.

She doesn’t know the working class like I do. Life is all cupcakes and ponies to her. If she only knew the muffin and butterfly life that I lived, she’d have a better understanding of this situation.

Science, it was a Good 30 Years

This is John Larroquette. It'll make sense later.

I don't know how most things in the world work, and I don't care. I don’t get why helium is accessible in its natural state (why doesn’t it float away?), how human consciousness exists, or how a motherboard works. I’m certain that I could come up with reasonable (though incomplete and possibly incorrect) answers to these questions, and I’m sure many of you who are smarter could tell me for sure. Well, I don’t want you to tell me anything.

When I took science classes in high school and college, I must have spent most of the time daydreaming or drawing pictures of eyeballs (hey, I don't know why either) because I only have vague memories of what I learned. To be honest, I earned good enough grades, so I must have memorized the material, regurgitated it for the test, and quickly cleaned my memory’s slate; I felt like the lyrics to Sure Shot by the Beastie Boys were slightly more important.

I have a couple of friends who work as engineers, and they often get into discussions that involve scientific knowledge. Now, I'm not saying I'm stupid and can't figure the obvious things out, but needing to know is not a priority for me. I liken it to people who don't pay attention to politics. Some people just aren't interested or care about all the minutiae of our government. Some people aren’t interested in comic books. Some people aren’t interested in Haruki Murakami, Ernest Hemingway, or David Cross. Some people aren’t interested in physical fitness. Well, science is like that to me. Why do I care that plants use photosynthesis to make food? How would that ever have any importance in my life? Frankly, it's trivial knowledge to me, and I'd rather use the RAM in my brain to remember other trivial knowledge. For example, did you know the comedian Louie Anderson was relieved from his Family Feud hosting duties for soliciting a male prostitute who happened to be an undercover cop? Do you know why that information is better than knowing about photosynthesis? The latter is funny to me. I can't tell any funny stories or jokes about photosynthesis. Watch: Do plants ever absorb sunlight and think, Sun again? I had that yesterday. I'm in hell here: I can’t move or have variety in my diet and bees are rubbing their wieners all over me (as is my understanding of pollination). See, not funny.

I want to emphasize that the pursuit of knowledge is a fantastic thing, and I’ll promise not to forget the science basics I’ll need to survive (i.e. turning the steering wheel hard in a random direction will usually have grave results). Also, people should try to learn as much about science as they can – preferably to make pants with an ass that even that damned Hulk couldn’t shred. We also need new, fancier cell phones. My iPhone doesn’t do enough and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait more than 2 seconds for a page to load up.   Seriously, I read as much as I can but I'm just saying I've gotten to a point where I'm done with trivial science knowledge. I will accept that planes fly even though I don't really get it. Why does it matter? I never wanted to be a plane maker any way. On the other hand, I will spend my time working on my writing skills, teaching English to high school kids, being a good husband (and dad one day), keeping the cast’s names from Night Court memorized, and working on my Paul Lynde impression. Really, I think we can all agree that the scientific community would much rather have me making a John Larroquette reference as Uncle Arthur from Bewitched than working on a longer lasting boner pill.

Note: Thanks to my dad for writing the blog for me while I was in Las Vegas. He did a fantastic job, and I think he had some fun. Maybe a Daddy Johnny Ute blog will be in the works? Is mom next?


You're always welcome to write a guest post, dad!

Young Johnny Utah

I had intended to write an anonymous guest blog for Johnny Utah while he was away, but after he mentioned the guest blogger was his Dad, I was flooded with a request to tell a story about him. So, here goes.

My unbiased opinion of Johnny is that he was one of the world’s greatest kids. However, partially as a result of my imperfect parenting, he did go through a period of spoiled behavior. His mother and I had a tendency to let him get a little something whenever we took him anywhere. Nothing much. Something like a piece of candy, or a small toy.

When it got to the point that he would throw a fit if we said no, we decided we would have to do something about it. So we began to cut back on the times we would let him get something when he was out with us running errands. We did not stop cold turkey, we just eased back.

One day Johnny’s mom took him with her on a trip to the hardware store/nursery. I have no memory whatever of what she needed to get, but she got it and went to the checkout stand. Johnny had asked for one thing after another while they had shopped, and his mom had said no each time.

In the rack of things the store displays at the checkout stand, hoping customers will see something at the last minute they need, Johnny found just such an item. Making a last ditch effort to get something, he asked if he could have it. His mom looked at it and then said no. He began to pout. He had the most pitiful look on his face. The kind of look that melts a loving parent’s heart. Tears began to well up.

Johnny’s mom took it from him and looked at it more closely, and asked, “do you know what this is?” He looked at her a little sheepishly, and said “what?”

It was a small package of “Jobe” plant food stakes. After she explained what it was for, he said “oh”. He was a little less disappointed about not getting it.

I am proud to say that Johnny grew into a man who never buys anything if he cannot tell what it is.

Las Vegas

Johnny Utah would like to be here writing his blog today, but he would like to be having fun in Las Vegas even more. So, I am writing a blog for him (since he did not invite me to go).

Las Vegas sounds like a lot of fun. I have been to Nevada, but I have never been to Las Vegas, so I am basing my opinion on what I have heard other people say. Everyone I have ever heard talk about their trip to Las Vegas said they came out ahead, or at least broke even. It is amazing those big casino hotels stay in business.

The only person I know who has a story about losing a lot of money in Vegas is my friend Ted. His story is not about him losing money though, it is about his brother losing money. He said that a few years back when he and his brother were both single they went there for a weekend. They discussed strategy ahead of time, and decided they should set a limit on what they were willing to lose. They agreed on $2000 each. Ted said he played different games, winning some and losing some. He said his brother hit a bad streak and lost all of his cash, and then got an extra $500 out of an ATM. He then handed his card to Ted and asked him to hold it for him, and not to give it back, no matter what, until they got home. Ted agreed and put the card in his pocket. They went their separate ways.

Later that night, Ted’s brother found him, and said he lost the extra $500. He needed more money. He wanted his ATM card back. Being a good brother, Ted would not give it to him. The brother insisted. Ted held firm. He walked out of the building with his brother hot on his heels pleading and cursing. Ted walked faster. His brother kept pace. Ted then broke into a run. He ended up being chased several times around his car and mugged by his brother.

My own experience comes from a car trip through Nevada. My wife and I stopped for lunch in a small town, and afterward she wanted to try a slot machine. Next door to the restaurant there was a small casino (you cannot throw a stone in Nevada without hitting one). She selected an interesting looking machine and fed it a twenty dollar bill. The machine had a display that kept track of how much credit the player had. As she played, the amount went down a little, then up a little, then down… (you get the picture). It took less than 10 minutes to lose twenty dollars.

She turned to me and said, “Hand me another $20”.

So Johnny Utah, do not be misled by what everyone says. I have no doubt, money can be lost in Las Vegas.

Going to Vegas!

Look at Professor X’s wheelchair. I find it funny that there is an “X” on the wheel of the wheelchair. I can imagine him going to some wheelchair fabricator asking to get his chair pimped. “Yo, I need some gangsta shit if I’m going to be the leader of the X-men. Know what I’m sayin’? How will people know who’s boss if I’m just rollin’ in a normal wheelchair? I’m willing to spend up to $3000 for you to pimp my ride.”

Who would have thought that Professor X was that vain?

On a different note, I’ll be going to Las Vegas with my wife and a couple of other couples tomorrow. I have asked my father to guest post for me while I am gone. I have absolutely no idea what he’s going to write, so I will be checking my blog religiously while I’m gone to see what he writes – maybe a little history about the Great Wall of China or perhaps a tale of my nieces and nephew. Who knows! Good luck, dad!

Germ-X, Mints, and Water

I went to the store today to buy some things I thought I might need for the beginning of the upcoming school semester. As I went down the aisles, I made an internal list of items I would need to purchase in my head. First and foremost, I went straight for the Germ-X. I could horrify even the most vulgar of men with my tales of high school boys – even the girls can be disgusting. A girl once asked me (without showing me, mind you) if the ever-growing sore on the back of her upper leg could be from sitting directly on the toilet seat. I’ve even taught holding back the vomit forming in the back of my throat desperately trying not to notice as a boy picked his nose for no less than 10 minutes. I’ve seen things – awful things.

Next on my list were some breath mints. I’m not vain enough to believe that I can’t be gross as well. While I don’t pick my nose or let porcelain touch my skin, I can imagine on a bad day that maybe there might be a piece of a rotting something stuck between my molars. In middle school, I had a male teacher that was pretty notorious for having a mean case of coffee breath throughout the day. It didn’t smell like normal coffee though; it smelled like it came from the half digested pinto variety rather than coffee beans. As a student, I knew when he needed something from me because he’d get within four inches of my face and hold me hostage. As blood starting dripping from my tear ducts and the pores on my face began to sizzle from his dragon breath, I’d have chewed off all the gum underneath the desks had he asked. I would have done anything for him to just move two more feet away from me. When he finally moved away, it was like coming out of some stupor or trance. There would be this overwhelming feeling of What did he just make me do? Did I quack like a duck? As one would imagine, I only remember three things about him, which is more than I can say for most of my middle school teachers so maybe it’s a backhanded compliment. He taught me the conjunctions (the Russian dogsled Captain Andor Fornorbut and his dogs So and Yet), his dog-with-several-rotting-teeth breath, and his name was Mr. Fuchs (comically, like a cuss word – giggle, giggle).

The last thing I picked up was part of my weight loss initiative: bottled water. Surprisingly, I don’t mind drinking water, but in the past, the inconvenience of the whole thing has bothered me. For example, the squirt bottle I bought initially for this purpose several years ago just sat in my room. Eventually, the water inside must have collected dust and became stagnant (I’m sure). The idea of stagnant water sickens me. I imagine there are little mosquito nests forming inside and little maggots crawling up the sides just waiting to slither down my throat. 

The other option is to go to the water fountain, which isn’t that bad. The problem with this is that the one right outside of my room only shoots up high enough so that I can’t help but have my lip touch the actual metal. I have quite a bit of experience in drinking from fountains but the teenagers in my school don’t. I can just imagine a kid’s lips completely engulfing the spout as he uses his tongue to lap the water down (Yeah, I’m imagining a boy doing this). The fountain that shoots up high enough is too far away, so – you know.

This leaves me with the last option – bottled water. I’m pretty cool with this idea because I have twenty four bottles before I’ll need to reload; that’s a month of school days. I suppose I could just use a bottle and refill it until I eventually lose the bottle. I’ve thought this whole process through; I figure I could just drink the contents of the bottle and at the end of the day, put it next to my computer. I could come in the next morning and just fill it up. This was a perfect plan until the idea crossed my mind that the janitors would probably drink from my bottle. I could just see them all hanging out in my room, eating some student’s half eaten, discarded food from my garbage can, laughing it up, and sipping on some of my sweet water. Well, I’m not a fan of this, so I’ll stay with the conservative one bottle a day idea.

I think I’m ready for tomorrow, but who knows? It seems like the cosmos are against me in every way, shape and form. I just have to accept there is nothing I can do.

I've Got the Sunglasses...

Every male in my immediate family is practically blind. If I don’t have my contacts or glasses on, I can’t see something 5 feet in front of me. Lots of things suck about being semi blind and having to wear glasses. I’m always worried my glasses are going to break when I travel. I have to use my hands to feel around for my glasses when I wake up in the morning (I have no control over my strength so them getting smashed is a constant worry). Sometimes when my wife and are going to bed, I’ll take my glasses off to roll over to go to sleep while she continues to watch TV, and I hear something that piques my interest and have to ask my wife what’s happening on the TV. I don’t think it registers to her that I can’t see, so she kind of ignores me because she thinks I am joking around with her. By the way, she is correct for doing this because I joke around with her quite a bit. She has an innate button that allows her to know when she should listen to me and when she should just go on with what she’s doing. I talk a lot. Like, you can’t imagine how much I talk. Odd for someone who is anti-social, right?

Once the TV was still on Sportscenter and I had already taken off my glasses while she was reading, and I heard a newsflash about a trade as I began to doze off. I popped up and asked her who was on the screen. “What’s the person’s name on the screen?!?” I asked. She just kind of ignored me and kept on reading. “I can’t see, [Wife]; who are they talking about?” I said in a sad, pathetic voice. She benevolently let me in on the news.

This got me to thinking: I’d be a horrible blind man. First, I’m not self-sufficient enough as I am. I rely on my wife for more than a grown man should. I don’t know how to use my health insurance or when to pay bills. I imagine if I were blind, I’d just become ultra-dependent on her. She’d need to feed me and walk me to the bathroom. You know when you see blind people with canes and dogs helping them move around? I don’t think I could do that; I’d need an electric wheelchair. I’d get a wheelchair with bumpers on the front and back and just bonk into things to find my way around. My way of getting around would be to run into something and then process for a moment, hmmm… there is a wall in front of me. How about moving my wheelchair controller a tad to the left? Bonk!

I’d also stop doing the things I don’t want to do anyway. (I can’t see the damn toothbrush! How am I supposed to brush my teeth?) The shower would be another problem. I’d just have to cart my wheelchair outside and have my wife hose me off like a circus animal. Maybe we could go to a do-it-yourself car wash where people put quarters into a machine and they get soap, water pressure, wax, etc. I would be like my dogs that get washed every few weeks.

Well, hopefully, I don’t go blind because I don’t think my wife could take this. I mean, I might as well be a vegetable, right? I could just be put in a bed with some good Justin Townes Earle in the background and just ride out my life.*

*By the way, this is in no way meant to be disparaging to blind people. I have the utmost respect for them and the difficulties they have to go through on a daily basis. I just mean that I am a lazy, inept person who couldn’t possibly be as inspiring as they are. Seriously, I used to get teary eyed when I was in college and I saw this guy who had a seeing eye dog go to the gym every day. I couldn’t do that. One of my dogs is a pug who would get tired after 30 yards of walking, and the other is a pug/terrier mix who would be all over the place.