America's Sport

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.