Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I dye my hair semi annually.
I crave hot dogs semi annually.
I buy cologne semi annually.
I watch The Ten Commandments with my mommy semi annually.
I cry hysterically during finals week semi annually. It is 1:13 a.m. and I am sitting in the Taggart Student Center Computer Lab frantically writing a paper and studying for my last final. The days of no sleep and weeks of stressing finally exploded as the tears erupt from my tired eyes.
The poor girl next to me leaned over and handed me a tissue. No words were exchanged, just an understanding that we all have semi annuals that we simply cannot avoid.
Anybody up for a frankfurter and some Charlton Heston?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
This year, I decided to bring diversity to the Thanksgiving dinner. What better way to do succeed in such a task, than to make my pilgrims into German Jewish pilgrims?
I feel that the Jews typically are forgotten on this day of cornucopias and harvest. I, for one, am extremely thankful for three Jews in particular.
Albert Einstein, patriarch of relativity theories, father of modern physics, and a non-observant Catholic Jew, gains my gratitude for saying, "Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love."
Neil Diamond, the 3rd most successful Adult Contemporary Artist ever according to the National Billboard Chart, high school sweet heart of Barbara Streisand (another member of my Top 10 Favorite Jews list), and Orthodox Polish Jew, acquires my adoration for singing, "I'd like to say, we'd do OK, Forever in Blue Jeans babe!"
Jesus, the God of the Old Testament, the Lord of the New Testament, and my Savior. He lived His life as a format of perfection, a path to serenity and peace. A teacher who talked the talk and walked the walk, Christ was a proven hero in His life. His Atonement is infinite and incredible. Universal and uncomprehendable. Magnificent and merciful. I am thankful for Jesus.
Friday, November 20, 2009
No, No, the words echo through the empty halls of life.
No, No, comes my plea as I lay, prostrate to the world, fear cutting my hearty like a knife.
"I promise this won't hurt," assured his soft voice.
No, No, a gentle touch of his finger, one, now two, three, his whole hand working.
No, No, comes my plea as I lay, my innocence invaded by those thick fingers, working, lurking.
"I promise this won't hurt," calmed his deep voice.
No, No, my heart races as my eyes take in his extensive equipment.
No, No, comes my plea as I lay, feeling the drugs surging through my veins, I am losing control.
"I promise this won't hurt," soothed his melodic voice.
A heavy pulsation is enveloping my body. Power has taken my frail frame in his stride.
No, No sometimes means yes, oh yes.
I feel the pressure release and he pulls away. My pain is residing, the escalated throbbing is finally flowing from my body.
Again, I am at peace with myself. His voice, assuring, calm, soothing, lets me know that my cavity has been filled and our oral adventure has come to a close.
"No, no, I think Thursday at noon will be great for my next appointment," I assured the receptionist as I left the dentist office.
Friday, October 30, 2009
It was a cool autumn evening as the Buick rolled down 600 East, Logan, UT, 84322. The pressures of the day had vanished and the night was fast approaching. As I turned the grandma-esque steering wheel towards my driveway, a sickening buh-buh met my ears. It felt like someone had put a small speed bump in my driveway. I thought nothing of it until I got out of the car and saw Walter, my neighbor's cat, sprawled out like a kitty cat shaped pancake.
Not knowing what to do, I simply got a shovel and loaded poor Walt into my garbage can. It was a short ceremony, a few kind words were said and off I went with no intention of telling my neighbor of Walt's passing.
Days passed and it was time to go to the gym. While rubbing my eyes and yawning, I crept out of bed at 6:00 a.m. and warmed the Buick for another heroic voyage to the Nielson Fieldhouse. As I began backing up, I felt the ever too familiar buh and decided to check what I was running over. I opened my door to find the neighbor's other cat stuck underneath my tire, still flailing. Obviously in pain, I weighed my options and took the only moral route : I put the Buick into a back and forth motion to ensure the quick and painless passing of Pussyfoots.
Two days later, I received this flier:
My dear neighbor is missing her cats! What am I supposed to do!?
The solution that my mind has settled upon is to search the National Humane Society's website along with local animal shelters until I find at least one cat that closely resembles either Walter or Pussyfoots. So far my search has been in vain, but I am not opposed to dying a few hairs to get the results I need. I may be terrified to tell my neighbor how I decreased her population of tabbies, but I am not above a little creativity in reincarnation!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Last night I was at dinner my black friend, Twevor J. Witcha. I do not label him for the color of his skin, nor his choice to drive an Asian car, I simply think of him as my equal opportunity friend. Like an employer, I feel it is my ethical and moral responsibility to have friends of many cultural, religious and racial backgrounds, including peoples with disabilities. My best friend Petra, for example, is a mixture of Norwegian and Native American along with being lactose intolerant. She highlights my understanding of cross-cultural tattoo-ing, a theory developed through extensive research by Dr. Jose Rodrigez Flores Juanito Pereria of Pocatello, Idaho.
Cross-cultural tattoo-ing is the process of imprinting an individual's culture upon the heart of another. When someone steps into your life, they bring with them all the necessary tools to make their lasting mark, whether good or bad. For an example, please, let me tell you the story of Stephanie.
Stephanie was our waitress at the aforementioned dinner. She was fairly delightful as an individual and soon disclosed to us that she has 10 tattoos on her rather heavy set frame. A set of stars adorn both of her creased wrists and a gigantic MOISES is branded across her chest. Feeling pressure to reveal something unique about myself to Stephie, I explained the very sensual tattoo I had engraved upon the tender flesh of my behind: a potato. She and Twevor both paused in utter bewilderment at my vegetable shaped skin stamp before my giggling exposed my little fib. The laughter that erupted from all three of us is a phenomenal example of a cross-cultural tattoo-ing tool that writes upon our hearts.
Therefore, as an equal opportunity friendship provider, I ask you to give heed to the ancient Mantuaian proverb "Laugh long is the ingredient to live long." Laughter enables any awkward activity to transform into an fabulously fun function! If you can't think of anything to laugh about, take a page from the Lee Cannon Play Book and tell your guests about your potato tattoo.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Often times in life, a heart is opened and the content of a soul is exposed. This happens when we share treasured memories, guarded weaknesses, intimate relations and laugh ourselves into tears. In this vulernable state is when betrayal plunges its twisted shameless dagger in. Once the ugly blade has been inserted, please expect an eternal barage of hurt. This hurt is the product of all the treasured memories, guarded weaknesses, intimate relations and laughter that you share with someone you trusted.
Is it worth leaving the comfort of this room? I painted each of these walls, cultivating this place into a haven. Much like a relationship is hand selected and nutured, this room has been crafted for security. Is is worth leaving this room to be betrayed by someone you thought loved you?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The site I chose, http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/, greets thousands of Lord of the Rings fans daily. Many of the patrons of this website are individuals very familiar to my readers.
Think back to the awkward years of pubescent explosions, junior high school. Now travel with me to the lunch time cafeteria where hundreds of greased teenagers jockey for attention with their braced teeth and uncomfortably misproportioned bodies. To your right, on the far end of the last table, you will find the pimpled gang of motley individuals playing Magic, the epic card game. Yes, these are they that understand the power of labeling humans as mythical creatures. We all now know who writes the mythical creature quizzes that so often get sent
The long awaited verdict is here. The following is what was generated in response to an extensive questionnaire. You are a Griffin! Bold and adventurous, you live in the now, but secretly wish things for the future. Very brave, your friends probably admire your apparent fearlessness, and wish they could be just like you.
So next time you receive an email from email@example.com asking you to take a quiz highlighting your strengths as an abominable snowman or centaur, remember the special Magic card playing kid in your Math class. He not only wrote the quiz, but also creepily requested your friendship on Facebook.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Today I write about two desperately misrepresented forms of bubbletry: the awkward bubble pop and embracing one's true bubble.
The Awkward Bubble Pop. Often times a person will go their entire life without a stranger invading their personal place of refuge. I feel this is a travesty. I remember when I lost my bubble virginity to Mr. Oreme in the 6th grade. I never even knew I could feel the way he made me feel. With his beady eyes and mouse like features he exploded my innocent bubble by simply standing too close.
Until one loses his or her bubble virginity many of life's most basic adventures become uncomfortable. Sitting too close to someone on public transportation can lead to early popping. A very friendly over sized woman at church who feels it is her duty to hug and squeeze you can be a causation of bubble rape. One's bubble is a prized possession that should be guarded and treasured to ensure that no STD's (Sud Transmitted Disease) are transferred. Always use protection when popping a stranger's personal bubble, you never know what type of emotional backlash you might receive.
And lastly, embrace your true bubble. Never feel inadequate to let others see your bubble for what it is. Today in my class, I was selected to demonstrate how uncomfortable people become when their bubbles are intruded upon. Seeing how I have no personal bubble, I was excited to make the young lady across from me squirm in front of the whole class. Upon my arrival at the normal uncomfortable level, I found she did not even flinch. Instead, she swiftly aligned her whole body with mine in a perfect bubbless form of modern art. Thus our true bubble, or lack thereof, was found.
Remember, keep your bubbles clean and do as your mother taught you, SHARE!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Meet a man seasoned in years and experience. Wendell is not only a veteran of the United States Air Force, but he is a veteran of the 90th South Burger King. Upon his arrival at said fast food facility, the hired staff begins a fairly unfrantic preparation of the same exact order. Junior Whooper with bacon and extra onions next to a senior Diet Coke; the menu has not changed in 16 years.
I will now combine all my experiences with our saga's hero into a single event with minor filters.
The Buick came to her usual resting place as two heavy set women exited the building. Wendell turned to me and said, "What were they doing?" To this I replied, "I think they were eating Grandpa." In pure honesty his rebuttal came, "Well, I hope their is some food left for us."
Walking to the door Wendell holds my hand to stabilize his shaky stride. "How do my hands feel? Good as a girl's?" Laughing, I agreed that his hand was in fact very soft. "I used lotion this morning, just for you," snickered Wendell.
The facial hair upon my chin was brutally tugged by Wendell's one hand. His aged voice questioned, "Why are you cultivatin' that on your chin? That stuff grows wild on my toosh!"
And finally, "You're looking good, queer bate." And thus ends a day with Wendell, the Burger King.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Upon entering the finger printed sliding doors, a gust of warm hits the face. It is not a natural smell that accompanies the warmth, but one filled with electricity and manufactured purity. A friendly woman with a wrinkled face, lopsided pink rimmed glasses, and a plastered on smile greets all those who enter. This woman is an unbiased intermediary and equalizer between the Cadillac drivers and the Nissan owners.
The entry way rugs are filthy and damp from the hundreds of slush covered shoes or sweaty thonged feet. A bright yellow stand up sign warned patrons of the slippery floors. The floors of the store look cleaner and more white the farther one proceeds into the store. Towers of boxes are flanked by row upon row of merchandise. The items for sale are only half as interesting as those who are purchasing them.
Individuals of all walks of life, brought to one center of society where they are all equals.
Equals. The woman in an over sized t-shirt and pajama pants stands next to the middle-aged man in a crisp business suit smelling of rum. One box of cereal was taken by a Caucasian, the next a Hispanic. A random Asian will catch the same communicable disease that his neighboring obese white child will contract. The lover, the hater. The blind, the deaf. The academic, the infant. They all stand together in a long checkout line waiting to drive home in their Cadillac or Nissan.
Wal-Mart, the great unifier, equality of life.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
This person, who is perfect for you, has all the tendencies and attributes that drive you wild. Wild is a relative term. Some dates may cause you to become like unto a young wild horse who gallops and whinnies at the sounds, site or smell of the opposite sex.
This endeavour, however, brings out a wild that could fall under the category of wild murderer, not a playful pony. Before you make the headlines of the local, state and national news for decapitating the above mentioned fiasco of a dating partner, please let me explain what you are experiencing.
You were not feeling IT. Instead, you were feeling: too warm, pressure, and uncomfortable? My friend you have officially experienced a BMD: Bowel Movement Date. BMD's cause excess sweating, due to unwanted pressure from the a fore mentioned individual ending in severely uncomfortable wasted time. These emotions accompany two events in our lives: awkward dates and the passing of waste from our bodies.
The next time your brother's cousin's Aunt Nancy begins the ever awkward perfect-person-for-you-to-date conversation with you, run. Run and never look back. Never again will you question why you feel the way you do, it is simply a BMD.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Smolterin' Temptress
The Summery Irish Dancer
The Blue Ribbon Bull
The Auburn Aszony
The Innocent Young Man
My Large Blonde Dove
The unique ugly ultimately unites fellow uglies in a bond of hideous humor.
The Ugly Face: It is an activity - It is an art.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Poop. Babies poop. Cry. Babies cry. Babies cry while pooping. There is a placid yellow paint colored substance that can only be produced by an infant. This is something I never want to experience again. When babies wear diapers we think it is cute. I guarantee all those reading this, that when I begin wearing diapers again you will most definitely not think it is cute.
Therefore, I declare that if I see your baby and it is not cute I will not mask my feelings. The honest truth must be told. I will simply say, "Your child is so ... um ... how about I crotchet him a nice decorative hat?!"
Monday, April 13, 2009
It was an emergency. A flash flood was about to be realized within my trousers. I began my epic marathon to the nearest restroom, the third floor lavatory. Upon skidding into the tiled sanctuary of the weary hearted, I took the short cut and simply unzipped my zipper to fish out the appropriate appendage.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The massive head of a taxidermy bull moose stared at me as I passed through the doors. His glassy eyes followed my every move. An overwhelming sense of not belonging blanketed my body.
My purpose that day was to become hunter certified, my goal that day was to simply survive.
I was wearing a delicious argyle sweater with pin striped slacks as I entered the classroom to meet my fellow Hunter's Education classmates. Each of the nine fellows matched the man next to him: camouflage, a beard, a hat and the scent of deer urine on their boots. I must have missed the memo.
The written test seemed to be tailored to my extensive knowledge of hunting. Questions were asked such as: What is the most effective weapon to harvest an animal with: a) a butter knife b) a Lego pirate ship c) a rifle d) a bottle of Windex.
The jeers and fairly pointed jests made from my bearded peers in regards to my "prissy city boy" appearance seemed to escalate as we entered the shooting range. "Do you know how to shoot that thing?" questioned Melbourne, a stalky pot-bellied man. I replied by swinging the gun around and asking, "Kind of like this?" The quick movement sent everybody searching for cover.
Our targets hung, guns loaded, and safety goggles on, we began shooting. The constant trash talking around me would have shaken many, but I was focused on proving the Neanderthals wrong. I pulled the trigger 45 times and prayed that my shots would save me from a barrage of ridicule from my ever fashionable shooting buddies.
The pulleys began retracting our targets, my heart stood still. I needed 30 of my 45 shots to be within a certain section of the illustrated rabbit target. To my udder delight, 41 of my 45 shots decorated the bull's eye!
"Damn, I thought you was queer!" roared Roger, the massive gunman, as he tore the paper target out of my finger's grasp. "But you shoot real nice. I am gonna take you huntin' with me and we are puttin' your name in for a mule tag!" I tried to explain that I am much too loud and prone to singing to be taken hunting, but Roger, Melbourne, Ron and Bruce all agreed that I will be their future hunting buddy.
Please forgive me if I begin wearing camouflage or acquire the scent of a large game animal's bodily fluids on my shoes, I am simply trying to fit into my new crowd of friends.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
FLEL, Freakishly Long Ear Lobers, has begun an global campaign to eradicate the attached lobe. "It is a plague of our day. More lobes need to be set free and released from their attached form," said Parson.
A 7-DVD set is provided by FLEL directing viewers on proper technique of lobe stretchage. In 12 short weeks Parson, the main star of the DVD series, promises to pull, stretch, squeeze, twick, tug, and yank even the most embarrassingly small earlobes into the lobes that you have only dreamed of.
For all those teaming readers who wish to know more about FLEL please call 1-800-BIG-LOBE for more information. And everybody else can join me in Mountain View California for a burrito eating contest.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The history of St. Patrick's Day stems back to early Irish myth and legend. The swirls of memory and ancestral here say have created the three major contenders in the 2009 St. Patrick's Day Mascot Show Down Showcase.
1) The Shamrock: A three leafed greenery known for its low height and ability to spread quickly. The Shamrock is an icon of Ireland dating back to 1510 when Lord Byron of Grattan wore it on his lapel to a royal function. The then Queen of England, Elizabeth I, declared it a "fabulous fashion phenomena" and knighted Lord Byron on the spot. The Shamrock is definitely a runner up in the official St. Patrick's Day Mascot Showcase Show Down.
2) The Color Green: A mixture of two primary pigment colors, blue and yellow, green screams nature. Green is classy and ready for any occasion.
The Color Green reminds me of only one thing: That green M&M's make Mr. Reeder, my 7th grade science teacher... horny.
The nomination of the Color Green as a mascot for any international holiday is, however, completely ridiculous. How can a color embody the emotional roots of St. Patrick's Day? Let's simply wear the darn color once a year to stop Auntie Paula from pinching us on March 17th and throw this mascot out.
3) The Leprechaun: A Celtic fairy of unsurpassed creepiness has haunted the dreams of children for decades. With his cocked hat and leather apron, the mini-sized male would pass as a pedophile in 49 of the 50 states within the Union. (There are plenty of odd shaped shorties in Idaho)
The Leprechaun is the perfect mascot for St. Patrick's Day due to his link with the national group Little People of America. Midgets, little people, nubbin's, dwarfs and hobbits are all names given to the genetically enhanced individuals that Ireland has labeled: Leprechaun, the official winner of the 2009 St. Patrick's Day Mascot Showcase Show Down.
Let us forget the forgotten reasons we celebrate St. Patrick's Day and replace them by wearing cocked hats, leather aprons, green thongs and growing our facial hair out. Anybody up for a trip to Boise?
Monday, March 2, 2009
I wear my side burns down to mid-lobe. A decent length, neatly trimmed and groomed.
Thick, lush, greased down side burns. A horrendous length, overgrown and unkempt.The second example is what I was forced to view today. I was an innocent by standard that was disturbed to see these wispy critters growing down the cheek of my peer. Being Lee Cannon, I reached forward to inform this poor soul that the length, girth and hygienic habits of the above mentioned sideburns were inappropriate. In my eagerness to help with this hairy problem I did not notice that the victim of this indecency was: female.
Genetics is playing a horrible trick on a handful of women in this world. It must be terribly embarrassing to have a 5 o'clock shadow by noon when society expects you to be smooth, clean and hairless. I send my emotional sympathy to each woman plagued with this trial in life.
With that said, I am not okay with women who do not keep their facial hair trimmed. It is not okay to let that bush grow wild! A wonderful creation, sent from above, was given to mankind: wax. In just 30 short seconds, one can completely remove unwanted hair. It might be slightly painful, but who doesn't love a good sting?
Women of my life, and men for that matter, please consider the general population of the world and keep your facial hair decent. If your hair is becoming a living ecosystem, then it is time for you to prune your hedge.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
I have all ready passed through one quarter life crisis and am not ready for another emotional roller coaster anytime soon. So what job would be best for me?
No, the professional world is not for me. I found my home at a place only few have ever had the opportunity to work. I spent three months of my life working at the Deseret Industries.
I feared every day that I would contract some type of communicable disease. The things I saw come through that thrift store were both amazing and disturbing. Some of my favorite donations that came to that center of antique trash include: a bag of poop, a home enema kit (used), a golden size 68 Double E bra, a pair of doggy diapers labeled "For Bitches in Heat", and two pairs of breast implants. It was never a dull moment at the Brigham City D.I.!
As Libby Mae Brown said in the epic monologue from Waiting For Guffman, "I will always have have a home at the D.Q." I will always have a home at the D.I. I will always have a place to go if I can't become that engineer doctor money man thingy...
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The coveted V-shaped male body is overrated. What woman wants a man with hips smaller than hers? She would not have anything to grab onto! No, I say, give me a little junk in the trunk. I love my extra wide load. When I back up the semi-truck warning comes on, "beep" "beep". Just a little cushion for the pushin'!
Second of all, the stereotype that women must look like Barbie. Folks, she is not real. If somehow Barbie and her creepy-eyed love interest, Ken, were to be human sized she would be roughly 6'7 and weigh 94 lbs. The legs on that critter would be over 4 feet long! We must not let society tell us that our legs should be 4 feet long nor the circumference of our waist be 5 inches. Not only would she be a freak of nature in real life form, but she would look something like a bad combination of a pre-pubescent girl and a giraffe.
Let us stand tall, but not as tall as Barbie, for whatever shape our bodies are! Pear, pumpkin, squash or banana, we are beautiful! Accept that!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
1) I have lost my desire to be part of a boy band, preferably N'SNYC.
2) I have pulled out of a fairly mild voice change without major social scaring.
3) My lithe lanky limbs have finally acquired enough muscle to pass for a man instead of a spider monkey.
However, I still have one perplexing issue. Today, I woke to find Mount Tittycocka erupting from my left cheek. Definitely a zit of monumental size and girth, Mount Tittycocka cast a shadow on half of my face. I was told by Webster that puberty is a time for change and development, I am ready for the developing volcano upon my face to be done! Why is this pimple pest the perpetuating problem in the puberty process?!
As I walked through life on this sunny day with my swollen growth, women cringed, children screamed and small woodland critters ran away from my monstrous moist bulge. I pondered puberty and its proven problems, all the while thinking to myself, "Wow, I would give up this zit any day to be in a boy band ... I wonder if N'SYNC is looking for a back up singer."
Monday, February 16, 2009
One woman has given me more memories than the sands of the sea.
Native American legends have been passed down from generation to generation through the memories of the seasoned elders of the tribe. The culture of a tribe hangs on the hinge of memory. Each personal identity is formed through experiences that are continually being connected to throughout life. All people are different, but similar chords can be struck between them that have eternal resounding echoes.
I am who I am today because of one woman who plucked the chords of my heart. They say that you can tell a lot about a man by the kind of car he drives. I drive a 1989 Buick Park Avenue with maroon velvet seats. What does that say about me? Luxury.
Lee in his Dutchess lovin' her strong.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sept. 17: It all began on Monday when the person next to me was pooped on by a pigeon. A little chunk splashed from off her hair and hit my shoulder. I had a terrible feeling that I was next.
I looked up just in time to see a rather plump pigeon deliver a deposit over the ledge directly above my head. I did what any sensible person would do: I calmly screamed bloody murder and ran away. Luckily, many years of practicing similar reactions saved my white shirt from spoilage.
My sudden vocal eruption and physical spazing caused many of the passerbyers to become onlookers. This was their fatal mistake! The pigeons took aim and acting as one deadly body fired at five old men who were laughing at me. Their joyful teasing was replaced by hoots of disgust as their bodies were pelted by pigeon poop.
On Wednesday, I stepped out onto my balcony to clip my fingernails in the mist of the morning. I looked over the enchanting inner court yard of my apartment and began the clipping process. I then noticed a large flock of pigeons gazing at me from the roof of the building across the way. To my utter horror and dismay they took flight and headed in my direction. I still had a whole hand of unclipped nails left, I clipped faster!
The pigeons saw the panic in my eyes and increased the speed of their attack. My fingers flew over the uncut nails as the sound of their winged devilry hit my ears. I did not think that I could escape their wrath, my time had come. The tiled balcony was completely smothered one second later as the pigeons reached their target. Of course I slipped inside and defied the raunchy birds once again from defecating on me.
I felt that the sudden attraction that pigeons possessed for me was wearing off after a two day cease fire. Oh how I was wrong! I was waiting in line for an ice cream cone when, without even the warning of fluttering wings, a 6-inch streak of white, black and green bird blah cascaded down the back of my hair.
Identifying the pigeon as a common grey foul, I followed him with my eyes for the next five minutes abandoning my desire for ice cream. When the criminal finally landed on the ground I stealthily approached from behind.
In a moment of brilliance, I made a swift appointment with the bird and my foot. In an equally quick manner I found out that pigeons are "protected wildlife" in Hungary. The police have a special unit of officers, whom it was my pleasure to meet, that patrol the streets to ensure the pigeons' safety.
After paying a several thousand Forint fine for not respecting the most influential pigeon in my life, I contemplated the story of the Three Little Pigs. I felt much like the Big Bad Wolf in the book he wrote about what really happened with those little porkers. But fear not, that pigeon will always remember that the score is tied...
Pigeon: 1 Lee:1
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Fat Pants. Call it a fashion fiasco. Call it a social suicide. I call it a disease. The indecency of fat pants includes inflicting pain upon the eyes of society by wedging overly large bodies into pants that would only fit on 6 inch tall Barbie figurines.
In fact, many leading doctors in the United States and Sweden have diagnosed individuals with what is called TPS. TPS, Tight Pants Syndrome, is a leading cause of poor circulation, low sperm counts, allergic reactions to leather and an increase in public vomiting. Dr. Patrick Agyu, a noted Hungarian obstetrician and gynecologist, was recently quoted stating, "When pants are worn too tightly and the lower back is pushed upward in an uncomfortably awkward position, fat pants is my diagnosis."
There you have it, a professional's medical opinion. When you feel your butt creeping up your back, it is time to change your pants. Please check all of your current articles of clothing to ensure that you do not have the FDA recalled, fatal labelled pants known as: FAT PANTS.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
As I sat upon a padded chair pondering the great questions of life, I noticed a young couple sitting in front of me. Obviously infatuated with each other, the two giggled, cuddled and caressed the entire meeting.
The physical attention grew increasingly distracting and the young lady leaned forward in her seat. At that particular moment, straining her body in a forward motion, a rather large release of pressure occurred. The release was located near the south end of her body. It was not a petite fluff, nor was it a manly exhaust, but a clearly audible trumpeting toot.
A second eruption then pillaged the back row of the chapel, my uncontrollable laughter. Though silent, the rhythmic pulsing of my laughter caused me to bounce in a hyperventilating state for several minutes.
Having turned the color of a raspberry, I noticed the young couple had begun writing notes to each other. I quickly glanced over Spenc... I mean the young man's shoulder to read the note. It read as follows:
Man: This will go down in history as the most awkward Sacrament meeting ever.
Woman: Why? Because you think my farts are cute?
This set off my second volley of diaphramatic pain. A scripture quickly came to my head. I felt the need to share this Old Testament passage with the young lady who had fouled the air with her unexpected contribution of pollution. Writing upon a scrap of parchment from the ever lovely program, I shared with her Jeremiah 4:19, the scripture that changed my life:
"My bowels, my bowels! I am pained at my very heart; my heart maketh a noise in me; I cannot hold my peace, because thou hast heard, O my soul, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war."
This woman maketh a noise, the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war. After depositing the note into the purse located to the left of the young man, I gained composure. My good deed for the day had been done. I was at peace once more, until I saw her rummage through a second purse on her right. The message of comfort had been planted in the wrong bag!
With the reaction speed of an awkward deacon, I quickly made an identical note. Waiting until the final prayer, I leaded forward to slip the newly forged note into the correct hand bag. As my hand entered the bag I glanced up to confirm the closure of her eye lids. I found a pair of very not closed, very open eyes. Uninhibited, I stowed the note and joined the prayer with a giggle.
Experiences such as this change lives. Religion changes lives. Jeremiah 4:19 has changed my life. I hope that both notes that were strategically placed today change lives. Anybody up for a crusade?
Friday, February 6, 2009
A comfort for its owner to clean
The innocence of an uncircumsized shawl collar
Monday, February 2, 2009
I feel that the popular Irish mega star rock band U2 created a few perfect anthem songs. Hold Me, Thrill Me, Touch Me, Kill Me is the anthem of choice after any and every relationship break up. The ever popular With or Without You will go down in history as the classic stalker's anthem. Written in D major, "Every move you make, every breath you take, very step you make, every vow you break... I'll be watching you!" should creep out any female ranging in age from 11 to 67. And who could forget the other 1987 Joshua Tree rock n' roll staple I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, wherein Bono teaches us all seek out the perfect mate and to never afraid to be picky. Perhaps pickier than President Barack Hussein Obama II was in picking Tom Daschle and his $134,000 in non-paid taxes to be our Secretary of Health and Human Services.
Another anthem that needs addressing in our Nation's anthem. The Star Spangled Banner is a brilliantly difficult piece of music. Despite the extreme skill level required to successfully sing our nation's memoir, individuals across this country feel it is their right to slaughter the song of our heritage. The runs, trills, hiccups, spastic pop screams and slides that have become the "norm" are nothing more than sloppy belches.
The following clip is a masterpiece dedicated to all of you who think you are the American Idol of your own world. After watching this clip you will lose all desires to ever perform in public. If that doesn't work maybe Bono could write you a song, an anthem of your own.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Super Bowl parties and contraceptives have a few things in common.
1) They both prevent the human population from expanding for a short period of time.
2) A fair amount of alcohol can be associated with both items.
3) More individuals viewing the Super Bowl should use contraceptives to stimulate our economy.
Super Bowl parties are occassions that would destroy the regular digestive track of a full grown male African elephant. And yet, every year the little smokeys, peanuts, festive sausage balls, chips, salsa, guacamole, and cheese curds are chased down with a couple liters of Coke. One might argue that the Super Bowl is a contraceptive. The elation created by a winning team sends a man into a spinning spiral of uncontrolable bliss as if he had actually played in the game himself. This sudden explosion of excitement creates a hormonal influction that renders all males sterile for 24 hours. Cardnials, please, keep this in mind today.
As an avid advocate of Orbit Sweet Mint chewing gum, I feel it is my further duty to admonish the Senate Democrats and Republicans to join together in a historical bipartisan adventure to reconstruct the stimulus package. The current draft only allows spending for traditional contraceptives and should have a face lift to add SBPBR's (Super Bowl Party Budget Refund) as a source of renewable energy research program awarding each party host with a $5,500 tax refund. Who needs conraceptives when you have the Super Bowl. Bratwurst anyone?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
12 Hours. It has been 12 hours now since I was exposed. 12 hours since I was left speechless and uncomfortable. 12 hours since my body literally had no strength to function. 12 Hours since I was forced to ask myself: Who I was? Where was I? How I got there? What was happening?
Trapped. I could not force myself to pull out. Cornered. The suffocating feelings of anxiety enclosed upon my innocent heart. Vulnerable. The much too familiar feeling of QBH washed over my body. For the unaware or naive person, QBH stands for Quivering Butt Hole. QBH is the puckering sensation that occurs when something very awkward, frightening or surprising happens to you. It is a common reaction and everyone has experienced it. If you think you are QBH free, then you are simply denying the truth of physiological reality. Think about your physical reaction to experiences, whether conscious or unconscious, QBH is a part of your life.
The causation of my emotional and mental paralysis was a song. It is fair to say that it was more than a song, more than a melody, more than words: it was a collage of ugly. I was unprepared for the power this song would have upon me. I feel that the world deserves to experience this moment of my life.
12 hours ago Abi chose to express herself. 12 hours ago she chose to render me helpless. 12 hours ago the QBH was constant. 12 hours ago my life changed.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Food is my passion. What you eat defines so many aspects of who you are. Each social occassion is accompanied by an equally appropriate dish.
Weight gains and losses are a part of life. I gained 45 lbs after my high school graduation. I ate my way through stress, through relationships, through exams. I could eat my way through a full grown beef and still have enough stress to eat an entire Nancy's Famous Cherry-Berry pie! My passion for fashion has changed my relationship with food.
I did not have a prayer to fit into my wardrobe after the 45 lb disaster. This caused me to jump into action. Fad diet after fad diet I simply could not get out of my rut. I had what I call an "old milk" body- white and chunky. The time had come to throw away the curdled Lee.
I began doing 30 minutes of cardiovascular 3 times a week. I felt like I had been raped by a buffalo after the first time going-I was so extremely sore. But each time got easier. I cut my calorie intake in half and slowly worked my way up to daily cardiovascular. I have now lost 36 lbs and feel amazing. I know that anybody can do the simple things I have done to lose weight and feel great.
Now that I have slimmed down I can fit into my fairly extensive collection of clothing again. This is a blessing because as you know fashion is my passion. Whether it is a 7 layer dip for a party or a 7 layer outfit for a night on the town, 7 layers of personality define who we are. Passion is power. Power is truth. Truth is life. And Life is all about wearing seven layers of beautiful clothing while eating seven layers of divine dip.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Spanish. I do not do Spanish. When I say I do not do Spanish it does not mean that I do not respect peoples who do speak Spanish. It simply means that my Spanish language skills are about as pathetic as a spanked piglet. It is one of my favorite games as of late to use my limited and very greengo Espanol to drive Spanish speakers crazy. Some of my favorite sayings are: Yo tengo uno frijole ( I have one bean), yo estoy el queso grande ( I am the big cheese), ¿Has oído el caso de ese fugitivo que secuestró un autobús de turistas japoneses? (Have you heard about the case of that fugitive who held hostage a busload of Japanese tourists?), La policía tiene 5.000 fotos suyas (The police have 5,000 pictures of him.)
I was introduced to a great YouTube clip by Natalie Mutt Nyman, a victim of my fairly attrocious Spanish language skills. She keeps trying to convince me that it is incorrect to call oneself "the big cheese" or that you cannot have just one bean (frijole) or one pant (pantelone). I just shrug my shoulders, laugh and continue my endless blathering of useless phrases. I am simply trying to communicate and employ that structured art form of society in my life! It's who I am.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
This movie is a love story, but not a love story. Two dynamic performances from Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and Summer (Zooey Deschanel) have shaped this film into more than the fairy tale love story that Hollywood so often perscribes to us. It explores the relationships within our society through the microscope of one relationship. The beauty of this plot lies in the unfolding of a story 500 days in length and thousands of pages in depth.
Marc Webb's brilliant directing took me into the lives of Tom and Summer, simple greeting-card writers. I took part in the initial flirting, the budding romance, the hate and depression of a break up. I listened to the story of Tom's heart as he tried to define, label, or simply discover what his role was in Summer's life. The adventures of these two perfectly developed characters are so relatable to me that it is almost frightening. I will not give details of the show, because I think that everybody should see it without too much foreshadowing involved.
The concept that I took from this movie is the power of our minds to change reality. We are immersed inside our memories and forget the naked truth. Often times a fleeting memory of bliss is our emotional defense against remebering the pangs of hurt that really occured. Our minds create a wall, a block, a safe place to guard our hearts from the tremendously destructive power of love.
What is love? Only through letting down our filters of safety can we realize the brutal lies that ours lives are or discover the refreshing truth that yes, we are real. Real, honest, and ourselves. That is love.