Saturday, July 2, 2011

I'm Glad I Don't Speak Latin

Everyone wants to think they are different, but I feel that I have found the reason why I am. I don't think I know how to explain myself adequately when any person inquires after facts about me based upon opinion. I have always felt that I'm allowed to know what I do and don't like. This feeling extends to others and their likes/dislikes. As the latin maxim teaches us: De gustibus non est disputandum, which is to say: Don't taste the people you argue with. I think this is the reason why I was perceived as a shitty missionary. For two entire years, I would knock on doors and ask people if they wanted to talk about Jesus. When they would politely tell me, "No thanks, we're happy with our faith and how we live it", I would thank them for their time and walk away with a genuine feeling of happiness for their contentment. So when someone asks me about personal information, I always assume they are curious about who I am so they might get to know me better. What I say is, " I am a Mormon and a Democrat who dislikes eating Fig Newtons, mayonnaise and listening to country music." Based upon their reaction, what THEY hear me say is, "YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!" And a terrific assault upon my feelings and beliefs ensues. I wish people would stop talking to me.

Friday, June 24, 2011


I have been plagued by severe dry skin my entire life, and there is no relief to be found. In our society, and this is a scientific fact, there is no appropriate way for a man to apply lotion to any part of his anatomy in either a public or private setting. The only way I need to prove this is to have you, dear reader, imagine one of your male colleagues sitting in his cubicle applying any ammount of lotion to his person. You either just laughed out loud or threw up a little. Point. Now, in private, I can't even OWN lotion. Don't even think about it sitting out in the open, that's just shameful. If I had lotion sitting next to an unfilled perscription for hydrocortisone in a safe set into my foundation and my home was buried under a rain of hot pumice only to be uncovered four thousand years later, the archeologists would say, "Well, it appears they were a civilization of perverts." Society, you're an ass.

Thursday, June 23, 2011


Heterosexual men can't make new friends. One year ago I moved to a different state knowing not a soul, and this became quite obvious to me. There were some really cool guys at work and church, my only social outlets (loser), but I never spent any of my free time with them. This is because straight men don't know how to ask other men out on dates. Asking women out is easy because if I'm rejected, that's just proof that she's a lesbian to the male psyche. But if I ask a guy from work if he wants to see the new explosions shooting boobies movie, and HE rejects me, then that means he's still straight for saying no and I'M gay for asking. This is what happens in our heads, as dudes. Men are usually willing to spend their whole adult lives without a single close friend to avoid the awkward situation of being turned down for a man-date. So the best thing to do is wait outside a guys house on a friday night and follow him when he goes out to the bar and then walk in ten minutes later and act like you just ran into him. Then it's not weird. You're welcome, world.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Political Definition

I've always felt secure in the fact that I know what I believe politically and that those beliefs are what is defined as liberal. But then I was grocery shopping yesterday and realized that instead of jellied fruit, I prefer a jam made of stewed whole fruit in sugar. I have also recently gone to great lengths to make sure we use less water in our home and create less trash. Am I really a Conservative? Then I did my taxes and noticed that my charitable contributions were actually quite generous considering my paltry income. Within minutes of this discovery, my children asked me for some toast with Nutella. Although this ambrosiac spread is costly, I love my kids and therefore put a large portion on each slice. Ok then, I'm Liberal. But.... I have green eyes and my heritage is mostly Irish, should I ally myself to the Green Party? I am also, in theory, a grown man who feels that he can make his own decisions and wear big boy pants. So I guess that I'm a Libertarian. If any person reading this has a degree in political science, please help me with my definitions as I fear that I MIGHT be a little off in my understanding. My time for musing is short as I've just told my 2 year old that I will attend her Tea Party.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

We few; we happy few

We band of brothers. We must be vigilant and stand together in these trying times. Although there are many things in our society that would strip us of our courage and sense of righteous purpose, I may have found the source of my souls potential destruction. This has naught to do with the political or religious sphere as you might assume; even my constant battle with the scales is put on the backburner. I fear I may, ultimately, be brought down by: Homeless People w/ Puppies. These assholes are brilliant! Homeless people with kids are annoying, but at least you can convince yourself that the child is involved in the life of crime portrayed by the 1991 documentary Curley Sue; which makes you exempt from guilt for keeping your window rolled up at the stoplight while they cry for change. But puppies, even homeless puppies, are nothing but cute and pathetic and they tug mercilessly at my wallet. I pull up to the intersection, glance to my left and in the median is a dejected looking dirty person who didn't even bother to write a misspelled sign. They are casually holding a puppy and smiling because they know that the only thing I now hear is Sarah Mclachlichlan's "Arm's of an Angel" pulsing in my ears remixed with the sounds of a hungry puppy. We must keep these animals out of the hands of the homeless. So please, PLEASE, spay or neuter your pets. (Bob Barker just hacked my blog but I've decided to leave this up because he makes an excellent point.)

Friday, February 11, 2011


I'll bet Barack has really good bedside manner. Personally, I find it comforting that we have a president that cares enough for us that he will come to our house to heal us when we are ill. AND that he won't charge us too much. I'm not really sure how he'll find the time to be a good doctor when he has to spend all that time maintaining his sniper rifle and finding fresh sagebrush for his helmet. This is how I assume he'll be operating as leader of the Death Squads. I don't know how we missed this during the elections, though, since it is so similar to Hitlercare. But I get all of my information from my neighbor, Jim, and I guess he forgot to mention it. I know he had his reasons for it, I trust Jim. He watches Glen Beck, like, EVERY night.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I Talk Good

Get it? I am of an elite group of people that talk gooder than you. Truth. To be completely honest, I've studied the rules of the written form of english only so that I may crush these rules in the art of the literary orgy. I am not one of these dicks that will correct your grammar so that I may feel superior; it doesn't bother me at all when people use the phrases and words outlined below. I merely point them out because some people (my employees) might like to know why I smile when they are used. I enjoy thinking up definitions for things like:

exspecially: used to be special or recently made common
for all intensive purposes: only do these things when you are contemplating shark wrestling or base jumping.
laundry mat: something you sit on to fold towels.
added bonus: an infinite number of additional subjects.
right of passage: permission to travel through a specified geographical area.
organic foods produced w/out chemicals: the miraculous growth of plant life completely without the use of water (a chemical known as dihydrogen oxide).
a tad bit: when matter is introduced to anti-matter and made redundant.
The Ukraine: accept no substitutes. I despise all lesser ukraines.
by far and away: the location you seek is close to my favorite binocular store, Far and Away.
unchartered: when you leave your house in a hurry and forget to call a cab.

As I have shared a tad bit of my existing list, more will come at a later date. I am accepting of any additions you may have.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Articulate Children

Those of you without offspring, I must let you know that kids are the best pets ever. They eventually learn to feed themselves, they will go and get you soda while you're watching football and they even figure out speech. I, personally, have procreated 3 times and have been involved in the initial act of procreation at LEAST seven times (the jr. high version of me will be most happy to learn). My kids are hilarious. For instance:

Sohvi (yeah, that's how you spell it. My wife is Finnish; deal with it.)

"Your kidneys are in your butt."
"Jesus wants me for a birthday cake."
"Grandma, are you sooo pissed off?"
"You're the best mommy ever, sometimes."
"I don't like fat people very much."
After hearing the story of David and Goliath, "So if people are mean to us, we will throw rocks at them!"
"Do pumpkins poop?"


"The wind blowed my muscles away."
"I farted in my mouth." (burped)
"How do you spell 'Penis'?"
"My PRETEND cat is named 'Eyeballs'."
"Light bastards?" This is after I noticed that my favorite salad dressing was only available in its lite form, causing me to curse the Hidden Valley family.


Actually, everything this kid says is hilarious. If you're a communist.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


When I was a child, my family had little money to spare. I'm not trying to bemoan my youth spent in abject poverty like every parent in the world is obliged to do, it is just a simple fact. This is brought up to illustrate the fact that extravagance was not a part of our lives, including lavish vacations. My father REALLY enjoyed telling me that if i could run down to the end of the driveway and back before he counted to ten, then we would pack up the car right now and the whole family would go to DISNEYLAND. I would be the picture of intense concentration as I stood at the mark waiting for Dad's signal. The fate of my younger siblings' happiness rested in my hands (or feet, rather), and this was going to make me a hero in their eyes. Dad said "Go" and I was off like a prepubescent club-footed cheetah. I was always too focused on my potential glory to ever quite realize that the rate of speed counting up to ten increased as I got closer to finishing the task. Dad would always manage to say "Ten!" just as I was mere inches away from the finish line. My very soul would be crushed, but I always managed to wear a face of stoicism as my father (laughing) would say
"Oh no! And you were so close, we would have actually gone too! Well......maybe next time."
You'll notice that my word choices indicate that this happened more than once so, yes, I am as stupid as my dad is an asshole. But, Daddy Dearest was born 57 years ago today and I love him more than any little boy has ever loved his father. This is my tribute to you, and Happy Birthday Bob.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Social Formulation

I live in a definitive college town, meaning that many of the individuals that I meet want desperately to prove how intellectual they are. I happen to really enjoy movies and if you were to ask me what kind, and I respect you, I would answer truthfully that I like to watch any blockbuster that involves explosions and/or fart jokes. Now, if you have on a woolen cap pulled rakishly to the side with your long hair sticking out all sides and are wearing a short, thin scarf that could not possibly serve any purpose, then compliment the ensemble with some form of a cardigan and you're in your twenties and NOT my grandfather: then I answer you according to this formula which I have created.
The following responses MUST not have been thought of beforehand or it ruins the brilliance of yourself. Just stick to the formula.
Smarter-Than-You-College-Student: "Oh, you like movies do you? Well, who are some of your favorite directors?"
You will have a total of three examples.
Example 1: Any russian-sounding name.
"Well, I was moved by Villinofsky's earlier work...."
Example 2: Any jewish-sounding name.
"I've just recently fallen in love with anything by Bernbaum."
Example 3: Any male first name.
"But my all time favorite is Ted......"
And just as any wierd kind of look strikes snottysmarty's face, jump in with the kicker,
"And don't you dare correct me, I know that they pronounce it differently in FRENCH, but I'm an american and I don't want to butcher it."
I've had the opportunity to use this formula twice recently, and every time the other party nods and smiles knowingly and usually manages to out-gush me over the brilliance of each director. EVERY. TIME.

I was told there would be no math.

Ok, go with me on this. If I were Supreme Leader of the Hegemony of Random Collection of Persons ( SLOT-HORCOP ) then everything would be so rad. We'd have Diet MTN Dew coolers in all offices, National XBOX Championships where the winner gets to kick whomever he wants - in the shins - for three months, doughnut trees, higher taxes and socialized healthcare. Whenever I think about things like this, I am made to feel happy because it is MY dreamworld. But obviously, some people would hate to live there ( namely the anti-carbonation non-coordinated dieting republicans ). So, this being said, let me iterate the fact that I am a religious-minded man following the theology that God is allowed to be a real and true individual thus giving Him an actual personality. I've realized how nervous this should make us because what if He created heaven according to what He thinks is awesome? Scenario: I die tomorrow after my brain explodes because the car in front of me refuses to use his damn turn signal. I get to heaven ( of course ) and God is there.
"Potter!" says he and goes for the fist bump (don't worry, His collar isn't popped because He is NOT a douchebag). God then holds out a plate for me. "Before I show you around, do you want some Fig Newtons?"
"Gross. No."
"What? HA! Potter, you're hilarious. Come this way and I'll show you where we all hang out." And we come upon a large door guarded by cherubim and seraphim which opens into an arena full of school desks circa 1985. Nearly every desk has someone sitting hunched over scratch-paper and textbooks. Arms spread wide, God proclaims, "MATH CLASS!!! This was my favorite subject, and now we can all solve complex algorithms FOREVER! We don't need to take breaks because we don't need food or water in heaven, so it's like the ultimate problem-solving puzzle! Heaven, right?"
These are the things that I think about whenever I need to justify my sinful behavior. Maybe I won't want to go to heaven anyway, right? But it is then that I remind myself that I already know what HELL will be like, and it's the same for everyone. You spend eternity sitting in a club which only serves cream soda, watching girls with collagen lip injections sing karaoke versions of Toby Keith songs. I don't want any part of that.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

I need to lose weight

Seriously. I'm not going to be featured on an A&E special or anything, but my infatuation with food is getting out of control. I can't even blame it on a cool freudian idea like an "oral fixation" (awesome). I don't know what my stapler tastes like, nor will I be able to write prose based on the joys of masticating sagebrush (these last two words are not intended to create images of a Proper Noun). No, I just really like good food. One might argue that this does not make me unique. Ok, have you ever been caught talking to your food? Do you hum italian arias while chewing? Have you opened up a seperate checking account from your wife so that she isn't able to see how often you purchase meals from restaurants? Have you ever been so ashamed of how much money you've been spending on food that you fake a heroin addiction? These are just a few things about me that those who follow my blog might not be aware of. This is the get-to-know-you segment, even though it's none of your damned business. So please smack any kit kat covered waffles out of my hand if you see me and care about me enough to keep me from my inevitable 35 year old heart attack. If you will do this, I will blog more.