lee ( adj.) me

By Invitation Only

2012-01-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

In a letter written from the Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King Jr. scribed, "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." Today, I experienced the stinging blow of segregation. The justice that I once lived for, fought for, slept with; was stripped away from me like Anthony Weiner's dignity. Perhaps it was the hue of my skin, the girth of my thighs or the Buick that I drove that erected an invisible barricade between me and the rest of the population. I will never know why I was blocked out, but in a flash of spandex I was pushed aside by a film crew recording an exercise video at my gym.

Apparently this workout video was a "by invitation only" segment featuring awesome people having an awesome time drinking awesome shooters and then sitting around and soaking up each other's awesomeness. I was not up to their awesome-esque standard obviously and did not receive an invitation to participate in the sweaty soiree. Poor choice.

I proceeded to place myself in the background of every shot of said movie. Whether it was a graceless pair of cartwheels or the walk-by-body-scratch, I found every opportunity to make my mark on the silver screen. A floundering foot found its way into the ranks of the steamy society, accidentally tripping into an outlying female. Grunting became the name of the game as I clamoured on top of a near by treadmill to adjust the overhead fan. Next, the sultry songs of Neil Diamond began pouring from my pouted lips. When they motioned for me to be quiet, I held my hand up to my ear and mouthed the words, "I can't hear you, sorry buddy." The most glorious part of this engagement was that I did not have earphones in. Oh the price one pays when Lee Cannon is not invited to play.

I have a dream that one day I will be featured in the foreground of a low budget exercise video. Today, that dream was fulfilled. I took justice into my own hands and handed the crew my contact information, letting them know where they can send the invitation for our next perspiring production.

Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

2011-11-18T09:58:00.001-08:00

When the high priest Moses ascended the slope of Mount Siani he was in search of an answer. 40 days and 40 nights later he found his way back with the Ten Commandments. While I am thankful for the crisp clarity of the milenia old damning guidelines, I place confidence in the fact that the centuries have erased the fingered disclaimer scrawled in short hand upon the tablets. The said disclaimer allows us to cheat on a commandment or two when we are in a life threatening situation, of course.

I found myself on the same life threatening threshold that the Lawgiver found himself on while hillside: toilet paperless. The past 13 days I have been without toosh tissue. Every time I drop off a deposit, I am reminded that I hate buying potty paper and have forgotten to once again pick up an illusive roll.

The only solution to this moral dilemma: take a shower. I have never had 13 consecutive days filled with so much soapy nudity. Two or three times I day, I find myself pleasantly surprised by yet another burst of hot water cascading down over my body. This fine solution became a highlight in my toilet paper conservation program until house guests began asking to use my restroom. To their surprise, I invited them to stroll across the street to the local convenience store where they could poop freely and use the sandpaper-esque toilet paper.

Finally, on the 13th day of my Mount Siani, I found myself in a public restroom delivering my digested product to the porcelain god. There was an extra roll of toilet tissue perched along side the throne. It seemed to call to me in ways no other inanimate object ever has. "Take me. Wipe thy tender bum and be free of thy burden," it chanted. In a moment surely to cause the Parter of the Red Sea grief, I stole that roll of wonderful wiping weave.

A commandment may have been broken, but I feel that the long lost disclaimer applies to such languished lavatory laments. Forgive me, for I have sinned.

Period Preaching

2011-10-18T00:50:00.001-07:00

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It is a festivity for all the major social groups: couples, single individuals, and those with eating disorders. For many around the world it is a time to celebrate those who have passed from this life, but for everybody else it is a time to wear the least amount of clothes possible and try to avoid frost bite. Whether it is an overly exposed abundance of flesh or a creepy costume, nothing will scare me this Halloween compared to my recent rendezvous with religion.

I found myself in an unfamiliar chapel for church services. Several laymen expressed their devotion to God and the Holy Writ. The mood was believing and canonical until she made her way to the pulpit.

The slender framed ginger with a forceful chin stood upon the podium and declared, "I became a woman this week." I glanced around to see if anyone else thought that this was a bizarre statement for a 15 year old to be making, but found most of the congregation drooling. She continued.

"I didn't understand why I was bleeding," she announced. I wanted to dissolve into the cushioned pew in horror, shock and awe as she proceeded to inform the throng of innocent worshipers about her loss of vital fluids through the meridional escape route. Panic terrorized my anxiety as an extensive personal account of this young lady's female functions was unfurled and compared to the crimson suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane. I must exclude many of her poignant sentences in fear of being struck by lightening, but the finale came in a spin-chilling aphorism, "He bled for me."

This was by far the spookiest moment of my Halloween holy day.

Amen.

Was Blind, But Now I See

2011-09-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

The blind have always held a very special spot in my heart. It was my pleasure to raise two Guide Dogs for the Blind in my youth. Seeing the immense help they gave to their sightless counterparts gave me insight to a world I could never understand. But it was a universe that I decided to explore on Saturday at the Jiffy Lube.

I parked my Buick along side the Jiffy Lube on 5400 South. After taking a deep breath, calming my nerves, I exited the Buick and began stumbling toward the brick building. Groping for the entrance, my fingers touched the door handle and I shuffled into the lobby of the garage. One of the grease monkeys approached me and asked if he could help me. I let him know that I had parked my car on the west side of the building and that I needed him to change my oil. With that, I handed him my keys and felt my way to a chair.

Reverently, quietly, I waited for the man to come back. He opened the door and beckoned for me to follow him. I, of course, ignored him because I was blind. Clearing his throat he muttered, "Mr. Cannon, your car is ready. I'd like to go over what we did today." I stood up and waited for him to come over and escort me, arm in arm, to the computer screen. Keeping my lazy glazed eyes loosely glued to his face, I began tearing up as he said, "You can read here what we changed on your car today." Swallowing every nerve to giggle, my voice quivering I said, "I can't see."

The poor man who was waiting on me shrank when he realized his blunder against the blind. Reading each and every word on the screen took the articulately challenged man an eternity and I soaked up each and every moment of it! Finishing the check list, I took his arm and let him guide his visionless patron to the awaiting Buick.

"Are you sure you don't need some help? Someone to drive you home?" he repeatedly asked. To which I assured him, "I do this all the time."

Feeling my way into the car, I slid my body into the driver's seat with the grace of a sightless swan and buckled up. Pushing on the gas and break one after another, the sedan lurched forward with amazing gumption for such an old girl. "HEY STOP!" screamed the lube man, but it was too late. I slammed on the gas, spun the steering wheel and the tired screamed as I barreled away from that Jiffy Lube and onto amaurotic freedom.

Tropical Storm Lee

2011-09-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

Tropical Storm Lee has ravaged the shores of Louisiana as Mother Nature continues her bizarre menstruation cycle this summer. Chaos ridden and draped with washed up seaweed, the relief efforts have begun to clean up Lee's wake. But there is another Lee that strikes fear in the hearts of the innocent, the peaceful office staff and pocket sized pygmies throughout the Rocky Mountain West.

We recently installed a new printer in the office where I pretend to work. The genius tech guy decided that it would best suit the office staff to place the over sized paper producer directly outside of my office door. Poor choice.

As I briskly exited my luxury suite, I always walk quickly and with purpose so that onlookers think I am occupied and unapproachable, my wide set hips clipped the fancy font fabricator and flung the five folder trays through the air. The whole office stopped and starred as I froze mid-mishap.

In my best angry voice I said, "This junk is always getting in my way!" With a sheepish tone that would have swooned Little Bo Peep, Hellewell said, "Sorry, I will have the printer moved." To which I promptly replied, "No, no I was talking about my bum."

Looks like our own Lee tempest has hit the office coast line: Please evacuate the area and avoid airborne articles previous attached to printers.

The "Right" Song

2011-08-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

I was recently asked to perform at my little brother Stinky' wedding. With all the sincerity of my heart I began searching for just the "right" song to capture the love of this developing duo of devotion. The following paragraph is littered with links to my failed list of possible pieces:

The Police's magic melody of "Every Breath You Take" is a popular early 80's tune that might appear appealing as an aria for the wedding of a creepy stalker. If stalking isn't your flavor, perhaps "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion will be able to capture the essence of death and love. And if for some bizarre reason you don't want a funeral piece performed at your nuptial ceremony, perhaps the ulta romantic lines of "When I'm 64" by the Beatles will suit your ceremony better.

And then I found it: The perfect hymn to encapsulate the passion, the purity, the eternal pining for each other's heart. Like a cherry atop a mount of heavy whipped cream, like the chipotle jalapeno relish upon a greased up hot dog, like a large bird turd on a newly washed Buick, "Like A Virgin" by Madonna is the finale to a life of celibacy for these two stalwart saplings. Thank you Madonna for providing me with this beautiful ballad and thank you Stinky for providing me with such a fabulous captured audience to croon to.

The Secret of Life

2011-07-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

Four steps to achieving the secret of life:

1) Click on this link :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
2) Watch this video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
3) Comment on the YouTube video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
4) Share this video with everyone you know :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o

Haunting Scars of Our Youth

2011-04-26T09:43:00.000-07:00

When did Donald Trump first acquire his bouffant hair style? Is it reminiscent of his awkward adolescence? When did Lady Gaga first acquire her desire to wear meat? Is it a shadow of an overly carnivorous father figure? When did Adolph Hitler first acquire his square shaped mustache? Is it in memory of his overly masculine mother?

These inquires become the hinge on our window of memory that, when opened, allows us to see the haunting scars of our youth. What moment defined who we would be for the next 20, 40, or 80 years? Was it an epic failure that rocketed you into a successful career as a social worker? Or, perhaps you experienced a life changing success in your junior year of high school that, like Billy Ray Cyruss, left you with an impressive mullet? I recently witnessed this inspiring junction in the life of a young man.

While tutoring at a local elementary school, I watched the throng of 2nd graders bustling about in their microcosm of playground politics and classroom crushes. Each jockeying for their own chance to shine, one boy stood out. He was a sturdy chap with the flash of fire in his eyes and the smell of chocolate cake on his breath. Wearing an adult XL sized Cub Scout shirt busting at the seems, he paraded around his peers with the pomp of a perfectly plumed peacock. He looked hungry for an adventure, starving for a thrill, famished for fun. And then his eyes landed upon the bent over view of the student teacher Ms. Bells: his target was found.

With the stealth of a bloated walrus, he clamored his way atop the nearest work table. I could see the momentum building in his stocky body has he began a great squatting movement on the shaking desk. With one strenuous heave of his hefty human Ho Ho, this proud Cub launched himself skyward. The frail frame of the momentarily stationary student teacher did not stand a chance against the rotund mass of the airborne child.

The look of triumph rested on his glistening face as he stood over his flattened victim. This was his moment, his formalizing announcement to the world that he would be someone special: the next Rock, the next Hulk Hogan, the next President of the United States of America. His future was cemented for him in one glorious body thrust that took an authority figure to the ground. This 8 year old became king of his own mountain. What future will be haunted by this scar of his youth? Only time will tell.

My Tale

2011-04-10T13:24:00.000-07:00

Charles Dickens penned, "I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and by into our lives." Long hours have I sat, listening, listening to a thunderous throng of thespians soaking up each other's excitement to a level of saturation. And for that abundance of life, I would like to thank each of the individuals who have added to the synergy of my Tale.

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature in constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other." Listening to each of your words, listening to each of your actions, and most importantly, listening to each of your love has been a treasured secret and mystery for me to explore. Through the secret places of our hearts, we have shared the vulernabilities that allow for pure understanding to occur. Your love has been the key to opening the door to this story, to our story. Thank you for letting me listen.

Dickens wrote that Dr. Manette would often lapse back into memory and experience things "incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away." I already find myself craving your "shadow" that you cast upon me. No one outside of our production can understand the culminating adventure that we took together. Your shadow is a comfort, a safe place in my life. Thank you for letting me be in your shadow.

Together we wrote our own Tale these past few months. Each line was written by the laughter, the tears, the drama, the hard work and the passion each of us have given freely. Freely is a poor word choice; not a single one of us can walk away from this family without acknowledging our investment in each other. The price we have paid through listening and loving each other will be an unremitting shadow in our lives.

Thank you for being mine.

Excuse Me?

2011-02-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

A trio of recent events can be categorized under the title: Excuse Me?

The first Excuse Me? is brought to you by my fleshy friend, Brenda. Brenda and I met in a tragic treadmill accident involving her passing out, flying off the belt, denting the wall and me hyperventilating due to laughter. The cementing of our friendship occurred when Brenda positioned herself behind me during a squatting exercise. A low grunt escaped her pursed lips as she looked at my rump and said, "Your bum makes me crave cinnamon rolls!"

How does one respond to such a carnal statement? Excuse Me?

A second Excuse Me? came onto the scene during a recent filming of a flash mob. I was dressed as an innocent janitor who was called in to clean up the popcorn that had been thrown by an angry couple. Erupting into song, I bellowed through my part as the unsuspecting patrons were confused and delighted. At the end of the number, the performers dispersed back into the crowd and I moved several tables over and began nonchalantly sweeping again. At this point a senior member of the softer sex waved at me and said, "Will you clean this crap up?" motioning to the disarray of Diet Coke, french fries and crumpled napkins. I stared at her blankly. Why in the world would I clean up her mess? Following my confused silence the second question came, "Do you speak English?"

How does one respond to such a racist statement? Excuse Me?

Lastly, the third Excuse Me? exploded onto the stage this very night. It is my pleasure to perform at a professional theater nestled between the freeway and low income housing developments. I have been plagued by fairly abusive bowel issues as of late and made a mad dash off stage, through the empty lobby of the theater and into the abandoned restroom in hopes to avoid any soiled skivvies. The bass release that occured was of epic earth moving proportion somewhere in the key of B minor. As I opened my eyes after the reverbaration had passed, I saw through the crack of the stall the owner of the theater standing at the sink washing his hands. His was a look of awe and horror.

How does one respond to such a startled look? Excuse Me?

Gluteus Maximus Pile Driver

2011-01-30T17:12:00.000-08:00

The United States led an international conversation on Sunday to force President Hosni Mubarak to listen to the Egyptian people's demands for democracy. But there was little indication that the wrinkled dictator would budge, at least for now.

With all this confusion plaguing the pyramid strewn country, I feel that it is my duty to give the people of Egypt credit for their courage and dancing style. Thank Ra and Orsis that the Egyptians created the "Egyptian" dance move. If only I had followed in Pharaoh's footsteps and done the "Egyptian" this weekend, then an innocent life would have been left unmarred.

The scene unfolds as I was dancing on a VIP party platform several feet above the club dance floor. Please do not misinterpret that statement by painting a picture of me dancing atop a table, thank you. When the song "Apple Bottom Jeans" exploded through the sound system, my body took flight into what one may call modern art, a mating dance, or straight up booty dancing.

Unknown to me was the distance between my feet and the edge of the stage. As my body reacted to the intense beat of the song, it did a fairly common dance move, The Drop It Like It's Hot. As my rear end descended downward in a swift dropping motion it collided with a very solid object. Startled, I turned to find a large black woman laying on the ground directly under my bum. My fanny had flattened this female to the floor!

It was a run by rumping. Booty bump, tush push, rump thump, hindquarter sneak attack, it does not matter what you call it; I took that poor girl out with one gluteus maximus pile drive!

So when life gets dark and dreary in Egypt or wherever you may be, don't forget that some crazy white boy might plop his fanny down on your unsuspecting head. Hey, maybe the Rump Thump can be the dance move that gets President Hosni Mubarak out of office!

Somnambulism: A friend maker

2011-01-09T16:43:00.000-08:00

Today, I am prepared to reveal an extremely personal piece of information. According to the National Sleep Foundation, I, Lee P.Cannon, suffer from a behavioral disorder. Now this may not come as a huge shock to those of you who have had the pleasure of being exposed to my disorder, but to the innocent reader who believes that I am merely a victim of awkward experiences, this may shake your confidence in my mental stability. I am a survivor of somnambulism.

Somnambulism is a behavior disorder that originates during deep sleep and results in walking or performing other complex behaviors while sleeping. In layman terms, I am a sleep walker.

Now sleepwalking might seem like a great theme for a 1940's horror film, in which the male antagonist butchers his lover Lucille with the blunt end of a plunger while "sleepwalking". It has also been the rationalization for many sex-capades throughout history (see http://www.sleepsex.org/ for more details). But for me, sleepwalking is simply a way of life.

Recently, I have taken to stripping my body down to the prenatal state while sleeping and then taking adventures beyond the bedroom. When I wake, instead of being in my plush pillow top queen bed, I will find myself sprawled out in the arm chair, snuggled in the tub, or sitting on my kitchen floor: always naked. This nude awakening has always been a welcome surprise until it became a public affair.

The last time my tired eyes opened to find my exposed body in an odd location I was propped up against the railing of my patio. Some patios might be prime locations for nude nocturnal narratives, but my patio is down town Salt Lake City. Located 36 inches away from a fairly busy street lay bare the Lee Cannon modern art exhibit.

I have no excuse for my public display of flesh, but only good has come of the event. I was expecting a phone call from the police informing me that I would be appearing before a judge to be sentenced for my indecent exposure ticket. But instead, I received 16 friend requests on Facebook that day. Sixteen complete strangers from Salt Lake City happen to add me in the wee hours of the morning during and after my most recent au naturel stroll. Thank you Somnambulism, you truly are the best friend maker.

Ending 2010 On A High Note

2011-01-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

In the light of the season of goals, lifestyle change and over eating, I ventured into the world of retail therapy to rehabilitate my need for radiant raiment. Little did I know that on this innocent outing I was to be visited by own Ghost of Christmas Past, much like Charles Dickens' classic character Ebenezer Scrooge.

The spirit came to me in the form of a store clerk. A young man in his late teens with fairly poor hygienic qualities, the Ghost of Christmas Past looked at me with a quizzical excitement. When I acknowledged his eagerness for social intercourse he bleated out, "Are you Lee Cannon?" This caught me off guard, but my affirmative answer led him to explain, "I was you for Halloween last year!"

Normal children dress up as vampires, monsters, Hilary Clinton or mummies on Halloween night, but this pimpled adolescent chose to get gussied up as Lee Cannon. I could not decide if I should be flattered or offended at his outward adoration for the LeeLee of my youth. The high road was taken, and I graciously accepted his declaration with a hesitant, "Thanks?"

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I am proud to support future generations using this photo as the raw material for a spectacular Lee Cannon Halloween costume. Thanks 2010 for ending on a high note!

P.S. My favorite reaction to this piece so far has been from Claudia Bigler, "I can't think of another local mortal that this would happen to. Infamy has reached our little world."

Middle Aged Mishaps

2010-10-27T19:40:00.001-07:00

I don't know how they find me, but they do. The few and far between freaks find me. I am convinced that at some point I forgot to uncheck the little box of an online survey that allowed Nancy Pelosi and the DNC to distribute all my private information to the mentally ill, maniacs and middle aged women of America. Now, I enjoy a thrilling adventure as much as the next young business professional, but honestly, the barrage of bizarre busty beauties is taking its toll on my sanity. I offer three brief examples of this recent onslaught of the middle aged women mania.

The Date: I was innocently casual dating this woman who I thought to be in her late 20's. After our third outing I received a call from a girl who said, "Lee, I am getting engaged! And since you are seeing my mother, I thought I would ask you to sing at my reception!" Seeing your mother?! Thank you Middle Aged Woman #1, I have now acquired an age limit in all aspects of dating.

The Party: I was innocently attending a costume party over the holidays. Without warning a very large middle aged woman wearing cheetah print teetered over me. As her 400 pound frame collapsed upon me, I could not move. The crowded room could not hear my muffled screams for help. Thank you Middle Aged Woman #2, I have now acquired a fear of inflatable toys.

The Store: I was innocently shopping for nutrients the other day when an unsolicited middle aged woman approached me. She greeted me with a smile and said, "You look like Jude Law . . . only fatter." This is not socially acceptable. No one should be allowed to comment on complete stranger's excess body fat. Thank you Middle Aged Woman #3, I have now acquired an eating disorder.

I am fully prepared for a break in the middle aged mishaps. Please, if you see me being followed by a middle aged woman, no matter how friendly or innocent she may appear, scream bloody murder and tell me to RUN!

My Own Bathsheba

2010-08-28T08:11:00.000-07:00

David of Old, he who pummeled the vertical over achiever, Goliath, found himself king of all Israel. One night, Dave was strolling about his lofty palace rooftop and "from the roof he saw a woman washing herself, and the woman was very beautiful to look upon." (2 Samuel 11:2) This yummy morsel was known as Bathsheba. One thing led to another and soon Bath was heavy with Davey's baby.

Current pop culture would have us believe that you must have been spotted fornicating upon a rooftop to be anybody now a days in Hollywood. However, in my recently acquired hobby of installing steel roofs, I do not recommend doing any strenuous activity upon any rooftop. In fact, I, like my fellow psalm writer, have spied my own Bathsheba from atop a roof.

My Bathsheba must have forgotten to read her Old Testament, as she came out onto the adjacent porch in nothing but a skimpy bikini clinging to her 93 year old not-so-beautiful body. I tried to categorize her body type as she waved at me, her arm flab flapping in the wind. She did not fit the ectomorph, mesomorph or endomorph body types, but instead mastered the old pear body type featuring fairly small shoulders that descend into well rounded out hips and a rotting bottom.

The sun reflecting off her glowing white skin caught my eyes like the flashes of the paparazzi cameras documenting the lusty rooftop affair. I was stunned by the public display of wrinkled flesh. But to relieve your churning stomach, I withstood my Davidic temptations, as strong as they were, and giggled my way down the ladder. With each downward step I lost any chance to getting my name in the headlines, but at least there won't be a chapter in 2 Samuel describing my adultry with that aged angel.

Public Restrooms: Turd Terrorism

2010-08-15T18:03:00.000-07:00

Public restrooms were created as a center for those seeking sanctuary from the pressures of their bowels. Dating back to the early Babylonian empire, public restrooms are an important piece of our hygiene history. Though they have relieved the heavy burdens of our bowels, public restrooms have never been given a great place of reverence in our society's heart. Dr. Bindeswar Pathak, Ph.D., D.Litt. presented the following explanation of poop's unpopular position at the International Symposium on Public Toilets held in Hong King, "Unlike body functions like dance, drama and songs, defecation is considered very lowly."

Thanks to Dr. Pathak, we now know that pooping, like dancing and singing, is an under appreciated talent. From the first few moments on the stage of life to our closing acts before the curtain falls, poop is a part of us. However, like any athletic activity, pooping requires skill and a life time of practice. The public restroom system, unfortunately, has become the practice field for pooping.

We have all rushed into a restroom with nothing but a prayer in our heart that an empty stall awaits us. But when we find that chance vacant porcelain throne, 9 out of 10 times, an amateur performer has previously plundered the purity of the potty. In essence, you cannot use the soiled, clogged or moist rimmed toilet without fear of getting a rare butt fungus.

I was feeling adventurous recently and, risking a communicable disease, I walked into a small public restroom located in the heart of the Beehive State. As I pushed through the loose hinged door, a picture was painted before my eyes that I will never forget. Balanced on the edge of the urinal sat a young boy, pooping. I was in shock. For a few seconds I stood, confused, before I burst into laughter.

My robust giggling may have caught the youngster off guard, but his perched pooping did more than catch me off guard, it left me searching for air. His dismount from the lofty urinal ledge was graceful beyond his years. This young boy defied the words of Dr. Brindeswar Pathak, Ph.D., D.Litt., when he brought defecation out of lowly obscurity and threw a funny finesse to fecal firing.

10 Pet Peeves of the Week

2010-08-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

10. Exposed Thongs: Whenever I see an exposed thong, I get the urge to use it like an elastic band, slapping the exposed tender skin. For you own safety, put it away.

9. Food in Facial Hair: How long has it been there? Are you saving it for later?

8. Over Eager Contributors: We all know them; the self proclaimed experts. We cannot afford your two cents worth.

7. Obese Bikinis: Great that you are comfortable with your 500 pound body, but the rest of the world just isn't. If you are looking to purchase a bikini in an extended size, please, reconsider.

6. Shushers: When someone "shushes" me, it is by far louder than any conversation I was having at the moment.

5. Midget Obsession: When others do not share my passion for little people.

4. Global Warming Propaganda: If I hear one more weather man talk about the proof of global warming every time the temperature gets above 90 degrees, then I will go out and produce more greenhouse gas.

3. Butt-Crack Parts: It is not natural to part one's hair straight down the middle. The two hemispheres divided by the great crevasse does not lend itself to beauty in any form.

2. Eating Loudly: Smacking of the lips, chonking on gum, or slurping cereal deserves corporeal punishment.

1. Public Fingernail Clipping: Clipping one's nails is a private matter. I do not want to hear the cutting of your germ infested keratin.

If You Feel Pain

2010-08-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

The room is dark; shadows shield the faces of those sitting in the vulnerable circle. Each individual has come to admit their addiction, their fault. Admitting to the addiction is the first step in the recovery process.

"My name is Lee, and I am a recovering fatty."

Over the past two years, I have dropped a significant amount of weight. I hate to run, but it is the only way I can fit into my pants! I am a firm believer that running was created as God's punishment for fat people. And I am one of them.

But today, as I ran, I found a passage on the holy script of the treadmill. It read, "Cease to exercise if you feel pain, faint, dizzy or short of breath." I feel pain, faint, dizzy and short of breath EVERY time I am on the treadmill!

It was like a prayer had been answered. I can now walk guilt free away from evil that is running with a clear conscious.

Please, Do Rain On My Parade

2010-07-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

The stunning musical theatre hall of fame melody Don't Rain On My Parade, from Isobel Lennart's Funny Girl, featuring Barbra Streisand's spectacular voice, will make any heart want to take up a flag, march or ride on a float. If you do, I am afraid I cannot be your friend. Parades are society's worst forms of public torture and I, as a responsible citizen, will not support such cruelty.

I would rather attend a funeral any day than go to a parade. Funerals celebrate the lives of deceased loved ones with song and praise. Parades celebrate the lives of the living with hurling candy and horse droppings.

The numb bum, product of sitting uncomfortably for hours watching ancient couples polka dancing in pastel fringe on passing floats, is only one of the many negative side effects of parade goers. A sweaty brow and a cherry sunburn accompany the numb bum in the Parade Watchers Package.

If you do choose the low road and attend a parade, please keep your eyes peeled for the large balloon cartoon charaters. Though the gigantic caricature might seem colorful and a short term shade source, these monsterous choking hazards, if set free, could be devastating to migratory birds and passing aircraft.

Ms Streisand, you might have had it right when you sang about the bruising life candy and the sun being a burning ball of butter. But, please, do rain on my parade. That way I won't have to attend the inhumane community affliction of any more parades.

Sunburn: The Other Red Meat

2010-07-18T20:28:00.000-07:00

I love meat. When the craving for a steak hits me at 2 a.m., I must bend to the urge. Perhaps it is a primal instinct to kill? A sticky iron deficiency situation? Or I could be entering the third trimester of my pregnancy? Just like many hankerings, my meat fixation is unexplainable, irrational and consuming.

This need for red meat overcame me the other day. It was coupled with a second desire: to sun bathe. In a moment ignorant of logic, I stripped down and began grilling a juicy steak. Barbecue grills are very hot metal objects, much like the molten balls of flaming gas that pop off sizzling meat. Between the heat of the beef, the BBQ and the blazing sun, my body became a roasted chunk of charred flesh.

I do not recommend BBQ-ing in the nude. I cannot endorse this act of culinary adventurism. The products of this unfortunate event were a perfectly browned tenderloin, a lobster red body, and one of the most awkward situations on a date.

My skin was beginning the annual post burn flaking process when my date asked if she could peel my skin off. I was startled, confused and shocked by her proposal and simply staring at her. She took this silence as the green light and eagerly began striping my body of its top layer of skin.

This is not socially acceptable.

I may have bizarre cravings for delicious meats and to have the tanned sun-kissed look, but peeling a person's skin on a first date is a desire that should never be shared or acted upon.

The Rapunzel Dilema

2010-07-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy golden hair," has been chanted at every child's bedside by weary eyed mothers since the turn of the 18th century. Long, thick, beautiful hair has been given princess status now for over 300 years. Even pop goddess, Lady Gaga, paid tribute to the lush locks of the towered dame when she dressed as Rapunzel in her 2009 Monster Ball Tour version of "Paparazzi". My own desire to run my fingers through an entangled mane of hair follicles was completely destroyed when I saw a woman with such hair exiting a public restroom.

The little voice inside my head questioned, "What doe she do with that while she poops?"

From that moment on I became a supporter of the short female hair cut. I do not want to run my fingers through any hair that has been brushed along the backside of a toilet or has had the possibility of being dragged through fecal matter. Rapunzel, I do not care how golden thy hair may be, please, cut it!

Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation

2010-07-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

Thank you for calling Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation, this is Thelma speaking. Here at Adopt-A-Dwarf, we seek to fulfill the dreams of individuals with smaller than normal statures and those average sized Americans who wish to adopt said little folk.

Today, we have three options of compact companions for your viewing pleasure.

Please press the #1 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our sturdy Mountain Midget.

Thank you for pressing #1. The Mountain Midget is a pocket sized champion of the hills. With sturdy legs, the Mountain Midget is perfect for long backpacking adventures and carrying heavy equipment. Backpack not included.

Please press the #2 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our exotic African American Midget.

Thank you for pressing #2. The African American Midget is a perfectly proportioned person built for display. With flashy or elaborate jewelry, the African American Midget is a perfect fit for those seeking a teensy-weensy conversation starter. Bling Bling not included.

Please press the #3 button on your telephone key pad if you are interested in our international Irish Midget.

Thank you for pressing #3. The Irish Midget is an undersized ginger friend for all occasions. Often mistaken for a leprechaun, the Irish Midget is known for being lucky, liking potatoes and performing traditional Riverdance routines. Jig not included.

These three options of lovable flesh nuggets can be yours by simply filling out an on-line application. Your application will be reviewed by members of the Adopt-A-Dwarf Foundation and Little People of America board members. If selected, you will become a candidate to making a little person's dreams come true.

Thank you for calling Adopt-A-Dwarf.

A Jazzy Pandemic

2010-06-02T18:01:00.000-07:00

The H1N1 virus outbreak of 2009 introduced a recent pandemic to the world. Joining the long list of historic pandemics, H1N1's 30,000 victims are overshadowed by the 400,000 deaths each year caused by smallpox in the 1700's , the Black Plague that wiped out 75 million souls, and the 350 million cases of malaria annually in the modern era. However, a new pandemic is on the rise. One that is often preventable. One that clogs the shopping aisles of the grocery store. One that entices the youth of today. A Jazzy Pandemic.

The Jazzy, an elite power chair, has wheeled its way into the lives of many America's. At first, a tool for rehabilitation, adding a motorized mobility for its users, the Jazzy seems like a kind bedfellow. But as the pandemic has spread, I fear that the Jazzy is taking over our society.

In the greater Brigham City, Utah area, 19 Jazzy sitings have been reported to the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance in the past week. This is up 190% from the previous year's statistical reporting. Such a drastic increase in maneuverable chairs has been noted by the World Health Organization as a level 5 pandemic. This heightened attention to high-performing Jazzy models leads me end this issue with the following Jazzy etiquette statements:

If you are strapped onto a Jazzy, please acknowledge the speed your pedestrian friends are traveling at. Do not run down(technically it should be wheel down not run down) the innocent people around you.

If you are going to offer rides on your Jazzy to family members, friends or small children, please remember that safety comes first. Always wear a helmet.

If you are not a Jazzy junky, but you see an abandoned Jazzy, DO NOT jump on board and take the Jazzy for a spin. They are highly addictive.

America's Sport

2010-05-18T19:21:00.000-07:00

The Bees, Utah's Minor League Baseball team, hosted a barrage of prepubescent fans today in their victory over the Albuquerque Isotopes. This textual intercourse that we are about to engage in was not subject to the approval of the National Association of Professional Baseball Leagues or its clubs.

Two concerns surface in this introduction to Minor League Baseball: exposure of young child to the indecencies of white trashism and why anyone would select the isotope as their mascot.

Save the Children: 15 elementary schools in the greater Salt Lake City area bused their delicate minds to the stadium to be exposed to "America's favorite past time", baseball. In their attempt to inflict culture upon the vulnerable hearts of America's youth, these educators exposed our children to the impurity of white trashism.

If Nascar fans were to be challenged for the nation's most decorated veterans of the white trash movement, they would find a rival in the ranks of the die hard Minor League Baseball cheer section. Mixed within the K-5 children, the mullets cascaded out from under the sweat stained ball caps to block the sun from the necks of the baseball fanatics. Our kids were next serenaded by the man wearing cut off denims, belching "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" with the expertise of a seasoned beer guzzler. To tap not only our sense of sight and hearing, the aroma of mustard slathered chicken strips and intoxicating beverages left the stomach with a desire to empty its contents into the nearest garbage reciprocal.

As the leaders of tomorrow were staring blankly at the bizarre mess of human anomalies, the question could be seen flashing through their eager young eyes, "What is an isotope?"

At this point, I make the following plea to the National Minor League Baseball Association: Please choose mascots that are animals, humans and or mythical creatures. (To choose which mythical creature best fits your team's goals, dreams and aspiration see Lee Cannon a Mythical Creature, what?) Chemical elements, nuclides and nuclear reactors are not appropriate characters to form a franchise around. Be considerate of our children, they are already exposed to so much in this world of Minor League Baseball.

One Vicious Mint

2010-05-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

I am an avid feminist. I really enjoy women and find them to be much superior to men in so many ways. Men have a long list of disadvantages in life. We are blood thirsty, driven by monetary gains and completely ignorant to the world of women.

This ignorance became all too apparent in my life when I asked my friend Jessica for a small favor. We had been out to eat, our breaths coated with the tangy flavors of the meal, and I noticed she had a small white container filled with little pills. Being a hopeless man, I asked, "Can I have one of those?"

"NO!" Jessica's abrupt answer took me off guard. All I wanted was a breath mint to help tackle the monster stench in my mouth. But she refused to give me the relief I begged for.

"This is my birth control," she exclaimed after seeing my instant reaction.

I do not know what insane reactions my body would have had to taking a dose of sterility meant for ovaries. I can imagine a few of the hormonal catastrophies that could take place in my body and I think I will stick with being a feminist, not a female.

Birth Control: One Vicious Mint

Thump. Thump.

2010-01-31T18:05:00.000-08:00

The sun was shining as I walked peacefully to class. I was admiring the beauty of the Earth when I heard a pair of heavy feet quickly approaching me.

Thump. Thump.

Without warning, a large glob of human body hurled into mine. The force of this flesh knocked me to my knees. With the momentum of a adolescent elephant participating in a track and field event, the flailing female rolled over my bent shoulders. The rolling continued until her Ug boots managed to grip enough traction on the cold cement to stop herself. My eyes eagerly searched her almond eyes for signs of what had caused this sneak attack, my own personal Pearl Harbor.

No words were said. A simple confused look was the only answer I received before the assailant ran away. And when I say ran, I exaggerate, it was more of a quick trot.

The next time you hear a wide set thump thump behind your rump, please remember: jump or hide behind a stump, but you cannot escape the woman baring the thump thump.

The Semi Annuals of My Life

2009-12-09T23:57:00.000-08:00

This is a short list of Semi Annuals of My Life:

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?

Multi-Denominational Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T11:39:00.000-08:00

Since my childhood, my mother has given each of her children a pair of Pilgrims and Indians to color. The small paper cut outs are glued to toothpicks and used to adorn the tables, candy dishes and amuse the children.

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.

I Promise This Won't Hurt

2009-11-20T12:10:00.000-08:00

I will not write about our trembling bodies in the gray dawn, calm and awake as trees. I will not mention the tremendous event that happened in the sky as the sun rose that morning.

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.
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.

Walter and Pussyfoots

2009-10-30T11:57:00.000-07:00

WARNING: The National Humane Society advises all cat lovers to leave this blog post immediately. The following feline encounter is rated PG-13 for Violence, Language and Teen Partying. Some material may be inappropriate for young children.

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!

How a Tattoo Made Do

2009-10-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

A tattoo is a decorative pattern of ink infused into layers of skin to change the pigment of the cells. Some cultures use this method of marking to symbolize bravery, others to denote criminal activity and Cupid has found his way onto many muscle bound arms in the form of a heart. In my recent adventure series of life, I have found more and more interesting tattoos attached to delightfully bizarre people.

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.

The Betrayal

2009-10-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

The north and south walls in my bedroom are painted a light mint green. On the western wall, deep chocolate brown paint covers the plaster. The east wall highlights the minty freshness of the green with the smooth richness of the brown in a vertical stripe pattern. The room is decorated in my style, with my things and is mine. This room cannot betray me.

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?

Lee Cannon a Mythical Creature, What?

2009-10-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

Often times I ponder what mythical creature I would be. A noble Pegasus? A proud phoenix? Possibly a dragon, a unicorn or a lucky leprechaun? To solve this life long dilemma, I turned to Google.com to help me discover the truth of my mystical beast within. To my utter delight, I found 84,300 sites dealing with mythical creature quizzes.

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 bigfoot@mythicalcreatures.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.

Personal Bubble

2009-09-29T19:39:00.000-07:00

Human beings possess a beautiful sphere of comfort, a bubble. In western culture, we do not feel that people should invade that private space. It is mine, it is yours. But we do not share. Our mothers would be ashamed to know we did not learn to share, but society tells us it is simply unacceptable to invite oneself into an other's personal bubble.

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!

Wendell the Burger King

2009-07-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

The clock strikes eleven on a handcrafted grandfather clock that sits upon ancient gold shag carpet. As feet shuffle across the dated floor coverings, sparks of static energy prob the feet. Thus begins the daily epic adventure of Wendell, the Burger King.

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.

The Chortage

2009-06-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

A sensation fills the mouth, a unique sensation that brings pleasure and question. Long and thick both describe the foreign Spanish Castile horn that is playing games in your mouth. A ridged crust is caressed with sweet natural sugars and filled with a delicious gew. Welcome to the Churro.

In my recent travels I have experienced a great variety of cuisine. From exotic Indian curries to Hungarian gulyas, but the Churro has captured my heart. Upon extensive research and with the help of arguably the best legal team in the city of Duchesne, I have come to the conclusion that there is a major Churro shortage in the state of Utah. This pandemic is of grave concern to the Obama administration and has been labeled: The Chortage.

To further the extent of the Chortage travesty, the Administration has reportedly channeled 13.5 million dollars of the stimulus package to the ailing Churro industry of Utah. Though it will not create any addition jobs and will install a new tax on the usage of public restroom toilet paper, this blank check will guide the failing Churro market through a government controlled bankruptcy. We, as citizens of the Beehive state, are promised 1/3,000,000 of the Churro market's current value due to our loyalty to the government.

With this encouraging economic outlook, the patrons of Utah's Churro establishment are encouraged to go to the only major location in the state that hosts the Churro - Lagoon. The entrance fee is a riveting $240.93 (tax included) simply to enter the great establishment. You will then discover the hard to find Churro located at three inconvenient locations throughout the park. Be prepared to pay $13.00 (tax not included) for a 3 inch Churro, it is a delicacy.

Upon biting the tubed pastry, please remember to call Senator Orrin Hatch at 1-800-CHU-RROS and let him know that you support the stimulus spending to secure our endangered Churro population and that you are thrilled to pay the $0.78 per square of public toilet paper tax to ensure the continual protection of our Churros in this the Chortage.

The Unifier

2009-06-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

The huge parking lot presents rows of parked cars. Thousands of dollars have been spent on these cars, each unique. These vehicles represent many walks of life. Wal-Mart, the great unifier of Cadillac and Nissan.

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.

BMD's

2009-05-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

We have all experienced it. The date from hell. Your caring sister has deemed it her calling in life to set you up with her roommate's best friend's step sibling because you two are "perfect" for each other. The destruction of the date has already began before you two even meet.

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.

The Art of an Ugly Face

2009-05-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

It is an activity, it is an art. A piece of history that only you as a unique individual can provide to mankind. Creased folds of twisted skin ensures a glimpse of the cartoon within each of us. A skewed set of visual orbs build a comical muse. All in all, the ugly face is a choice one makes and all can enjoy.

The Ugly Face: It is an activity - It is an art.

The Smolterin' Temptress

The Summery Irish Dancer

The Blue Ribbon Bull

The Auburn Aszony

The Beautiful Brown Bonnie Lass

The Innocent Young Man

My Large Blonde Dove

The Masta'

The unique ugly ultimately unites fellow uglies in a bond of hideous humor.

The Ugly Face: It is an activity - It is an art.

The Ugly Baby

2009-04-17T13:41:00.001-07:00

A dear friend of mine recently gave birth to a baby. In many cultures this event is a cause for celebration and thanksgiving. Upon looking at the child, I decided that I never want to have children.

New born babies are butt ugly. The squished face of a newborn resembles a warped potatoe. There is nothing cute about pleated folds of flaming red skin and blood curdling screams. We may try to put decorative hats upon our newborns to disguise their unnaturally smeared faces, but the truth of the matter is: It is a miracle that any of us survived this ugly stage of life.

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?!"

Lost in the Bathroom

2009-04-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

John Lackstrom

Height: 5'2

Hair Color: Bald

Age: 102 years old

Hobbies: Resembles a turtle

Welcome to History of Linguistics, the slowest most boring class to take the stage in my collegiate career. Meet John Lackstrom, an enchanting professor who chuckles at his own jokes without moving his lips.

This is the setting for my Monday afternoon. While suffocating through descriptions of phonetics and colloquialisms, my bladder suddenly awoke to a fairly arousing realization that, yes, I had to urinate.

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.

To my horror I could not find him. The convenient flap that protects said member of the body was no where to be found! I could not find an opening in my underwear. The urgency of my overflowing bladder was causing me to dance the familiar Celtic Piddle Dance.

All of this was superseded by the older gentleman waiting not so patiently behind me. His foul smell and encouraging clearing of his throat distracted me long enough to give up trying to find the elusive critter. I simply undid my entire package: belt, button and zipper. The river flowed free and life was good.

The problem that not even John Lackstrom could for see with all his knowledge of language families and Russian eggs was this: I not only had my underwear on inside out... I also had it on backwards!

Hunter's Education Meets Lee Cannon

2009-04-08T14:44:00.000-07:00

April 4, 2009, marked a day in history never to be forgotten: Lee Cannon ventured his way into the realm of the hunter.

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.

World's Largest

2009-03-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

We all love the super sized option at McDonald's. Our culture is fascinated by large things. Throw in a disproportionately large body part, a freakishly tall appendage or any other bizarrely shaped bulge and people will flock to you. Following that same theory here are some really zany, overly huge things.

The world's largest burrito was made by Burrito Real in Mountain View, California. This gigantic gastro-nightmare weighed in at 4,500 pounds and was 3,578 feet long. It was officially dubbed the world's largest burrito by the Guinness Book of World Records in 1997. What a great accomplishment that has changed the future of man kind.

The world's longest earlobes belong to Beaula Wilson Parson from Preston, Idaho. Beaula enjoys jell-o, bingo and polka dancing. Known for her naturally extensive ear lobes, Beaula has taken on a prominent role in the international non-profit organization FLEL.

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.

Passed Some Gas: Global Warming

2009-03-22T19:54:00.000-07:00

Today Al Gore wrote me a personal email addressing the dramatically important issue of global warming. The email was sent to Lee Cannon and 300 million other Americans each individually addressed by former Vice President Gore, the man who is better with plants than with politics.

Increasing global temperature will cause sea levels to right and will change the amount and pattern of precipitation, likely including an expanse of the subtropical desert regions. This sounded so fascinating that I decided to eat and entire bag of a chemically enriched, enhanced, engaged, embellished Cool Ranch Doritos.

The most frightening piece of information said, "other likely effects include arctic shrinkage". Arctic Shrinkage?! In my vast knowledge of temperature change and its influential impact upon the male genitalia, I make the motion that arctic shrinkage is the true villain within the global warming fiasco.

When asked about my feelings describing the emanate danger of global warming I have one response: Save a tree. Eat a beaver. My larger concern is not global warming, but how in the world did Al Gore get my email address?

St. Patrick's Day: Not Okay

2009-03-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

In honor of the 5th century Catholic bishop, Maewyn Succat, more generically known by common folk as St. Patrick, I write this post.

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?

Side Burns

2009-03-02T11:34:00.000-08:00

Side Burns.
I wear my side burns down to mid-lobe. A decent length, neatly trimmed and groomed.

Side Burns.

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.

The Job of the Century!

2009-02-26T12:58:00.000-08:00

As I pondered the meaning of life a few questions arose. Where I am going to be in a month, this summer, next year, next decade? Who will I be? What will I be?

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?

Some would shout, "Be a plumber! You have the crack for it!" And others would encourage me to explore the fields of engineering, finance or medicine. But to address that trio of careers I have a well constructed sentence: If I built a building the foundation would crumble shortly before my financing would go bankrupt due to my illegal doses of prescription medicine.

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.

During that adventurous quarter of a year I met some of the most bizarrely delightful people in my life! I acquired an adoptive mother, an older lover, a gaggle of fans and a rather odd obsession with washing my hands.

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...

Body Acceptance Fair

2009-02-25T14:01:00.001-08:00

Utah State University held the annual Body Acceptance Fair today. Located on the lush foothills of the Rocky Mountains, USU Health and Wellness Center chose to focus on fad diets, eating disorders, fashion tips and stress management. These four areas, when focused on correctly, will force you to accept your body for what it is. Because of the USU Body Acceptance Fair, I, Lee Patrick Cannon, have accepted my body today for what it is: a pear.

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!

The Thing That Should Have Ended With Puberty

2009-02-21T12:57:00.001-08:00

Puberty is the most awkward stage of any organism's life. The body is growing at an extremely rapid rate and the raging hormones make us do outrageously stupid things. Taking this combination of lanky limbs and unbalanced chemical levels into consideration, it is a miracle that we have a growing global population.

Webster says puberty is a time when boys’ and girls’ bodies begin to develop and change. Well, Webster, when is this change going to end?!

Most aspects of my puberty have ended:

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.

Puberty vs. Post-Puberty

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."

Tribute to the Woman of My Life

2009-02-16T00:34:00.000-08:00

Memories are the only reality to the past. Great nations of old were built upon the memories of their people, the dreams of their rulers. Memories mold the lives of individuals and form the culture of the populace. The power of recollection sheds light on the enigma of memory and the post requisite necessity of reflection.

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.

The Dutchess is luxury, she is my woman.

She made me the man I am today.

I would never trade my Dutchess for any flashy sports car or mini van.

She is the Woman of My Life.

Lee in his Dutchess lovin' her strong.

The Most Influential Pigeon In My Life

2009-02-13T09:18:00.001-08:00

Pigeons. Webster's Dictionary has the following definition for the pigeon: (n) flying international pest of the most evil type, known for rapid fire pooping. On an ecclesiastical adventure to Hungary, I came into contact with many of these predators. The following memory comes to us from my journal.

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

Fat Pants

2009-02-10T15:07:00.001-08:00

It is my social duty as a public servant to write this posting. The FDA (Federal Drug Administration) would have me write this as a warning on the label of all pants: jeans, slacks, running pants, sweats, etc. "Do not wear fat pants."

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.

Hannah My Asian

2009-02-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

My dearest friend Hannah is currently living in England. She wrote a poem that was dedicated to me. I wish all to partake.

http://nannersh2.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-is-full-of-unexpected-twists-and.html

Jeremiah 4:19

2009-02-08T11:23:00.000-08:00

Religion has brought about great things. Faith, hope, charity and the Crusades: The mainstays of religion. Today religion proved once again to motivate my emotions and change my life.

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?

The Uncircumsized

2009-02-06T16:46:00.001-08:00

Folded.

Folded pleats of silken clothe,

Folded flap, away from moth.

The Uncircumsized

Tucked.

Tucked rows of wrinkled leather,

Tucked cap, away from weather.

The Uncircumsized

Fold upon fold, tuck upon tuck.

The fleshy fabric cascades down

to cover one's duck.

Crease upon crease, prune upon prune.

A comfort for its owner to clean

and to swoon.

Creased.

Creased crevices of gentle form

Creased, Creased, Folded, Tucked.

The innocence of an uncircumsized shawl collar
sweater.

My Anthem Problem

2009-02-02T21:49:00.000-08:00

Everyday has an anthem. Today my anthem was Neil Diamond's immortal Forever in Blue Jeans. The sweet tune and medicinal lyrics of the song acted as a guide to my weary heart. Anthems enter our lives at very random moments much like Madonna songs or childhood memories of Sesame Street.

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.

Super Bowl vs. Contraceptives

2009-01-30T10:00:00.000-08:00

Millions of men, women and children ... well men, will be taking part in a historically testosterone driven event today: 2009 Super Bowl Sunday. This highlight of manhood and grunting symbolizes the power professional sports has upon the culture of mankind. "Who doesn't love to watch 300 lb men smash each other to bits," commented 44th President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama II. Perhaps in this brilliant piece of legislation called the "stimulus package", an appendage should be added to refund all Super Bowl parties as charitable donations to the middle class. That would make perfect sense and be a brilliant companion to the proposed $128 million dollar allocation to producing contraceptives. It is a proven fact that America needs more contraceptives and more Super Bowl parties to stimulate our economy.

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?

12 Hours

2009-01-28T01:28:00.000-08:00

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.

7 Layer Dip - 7 Layer Outfit

2009-01-26T12:06:00.001-08:00

Fashion is my passion. What you wear defines so many aspects of who you are. Each social occassion is accompanied by an equally appropriate outfit.

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.

My Spanish Abilities

2009-01-24T01:36:00.000-08:00

I love communicating. The art of expressing thoughts, emotions, passion, ideas and concepts through words and actions is the complex structure that binds our society together. Every culture is linked and intertwined within itself through communication. Communication marks us as who we are.

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.

Hope you enjoy!

500 Days of Summer

2009-01-22T14:19:00.000-08:00

Last night I attended the SunDance Film Festival in Park City, UT. As part of the Delta Airlines private screening, I was thrilled to view 500 Days of Summer. The large popcorn with extra butter and a large Dr. Pepper for $453.00 served as the entertainment for Natalie Mutt Nyman and I while we waited for the movie to start.

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.

Fleeting Life

2008-02-01T11:07:00.000-08:00

“2 Mormon boys found dead with Russian vodka.”

A screeching set of tires accompanied by a generous amount of horn honking announced the arrival of our long awaited associate. With a grin, Sándor beckoned us to sit in the front seat of his van with him. As I closed the door the incredible sensation of fear struck my heart, I would never be the same after this ride with a Russian.

The undeniable aroma of Russian vodka spoiled the air all ready polluted by the haze of cigarettes. Russian pop music exploded from the speakers in an attempt to overpower the thunderous thumbing of my heart. We set out in this brazen state towards Sándor’s home. The city limits of Budakeszi approached and then passed, leaving us on an unknown forested road. As I looked over at our chauffeur's un-zipped vinyl black vest that exposed his hairy naval, a headline flashed through my weary mind: “2 Mormon boys found dead with Russian vodka.”

The fast paced rhythm of the Russian pop music became the companion to my racing heart beat. Our winding pathway soon found an inlet to the main freeway and all thoughts of vodka murder left my mind. A new curtain of terror closed upon my window of life as we began gathering speed. Cars began to slide from in front, to beside, to behind us in an alarming rate. At 150 kilometers per hour the music was enhanced in quantity by Sándor's slightly slurred voice singing in complete ignorance of the melody. At 160 kilometers per hour my companion's hand found mine. The condensation produced through perspiration and anxiety pooled in our white knuckled palms. At 170 kilometers per hour the passing cars only seemed to be blurred in the ever increasing prospect of death. My mind swam through the swift currents of thought, forcing myself to question the validity of being in this car on this strange path. I was an American missionary living in Hungary, a misfit. Sándor was a Russian immigrant living in Hungary, a misfit. He and I shared the title of foreigner in this ancient country. We were the cultural discrepancy, a salad bowl of cultures, beliefs and backgrounds. Yet, we were hurdling down an unfamiliar road together. I found myself hanging onto the hinge of memories. Death had found me in this unexpected time and place. Regrets, embarrassing moments, lost dreams coupled with laughter, singing, achievements, familiar faces and peace invaded my vulnerable mind. All the while the taunting question, “Do you like the music boys?” came from the Russian's nicotine infested lips over and over and over.

A swift turn of the wheel and a sudden squeal of rubber found us once again on a forest path. Re-occurring terrors of newspaper obituary clippings flashed through our defenseless minds. Our all-consuming panic escaped us when we came to an abrupt halt next to a beautiful park. Russia’s modern melodies blasting, the windows rolled down and with a delighted smile, Sándor watched two young people enjoying the savory taste of each other's lips. In this moment of love all thoughts of horror left us as our captor reveled in his vacation from the rational mind. Smiles replaced the wrinkles of fear on our faces as the prospect of death passed.

The chaos of his driving stopped the moment we crossed the threshold of his humble home. Upon arriving, Sándor introduced us to his wife, Zsuzsa, a pure Hungarian. Zsuzsa injected yet another ingredient to this international recipe. Their lives were filled with turmoil, fast-paced events and uncertainty. They traveled the highway of life much like Sándor drove. “I left Russia to find peace,” Sándor explained to us. “But life is hectic and I cannot find the peace that I have searched for.” Looking into the eyes of these two individuals while expressing the convictions of my heart, I saw a spark. A dormant ember was being fanned and it took life. The glow that I myself had found years ago began to burn brightly in their eyes. “I came to this country to meet you. I came to this country to spread this peace that you feel,” I concluded at the end of our meeting. Our fleeting lives crossed paths for a few precious hours. All people are different, but similar chords can be struck between them that have eternal resounding echoes. If the veils of heaven could be pushed aside and the expansive volumes of life could be viewed, we would see the eternal ripple of each moment, each individual and each memory that defines who we have become. Cultures fade as hearts are opened and lives are touched.

And so it happened, we survived the Russian vodka, the Russian pop-music and the wreck less Russian driving. I will never be the same after this ride with a Russian and neither will he. The unknown road will never be as bleak or abandoned if we find peace. The power of peace preserves the defining moments of the past, gives us guidance in the present, and hope for the future.