Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Christmastime was here

So I've been getting complaints from a select few followers of my blog (who shall remain nameless: Tricia). These anonymous fans have made clear their disconent of the impersonal nature of the content contained herein. So... here's me... personalizing.

This is (in order of appearance) cuz Alisa, Uncle Dave, ME and Aunt Steph in a yearly ritual of 'One-on-One Hoops'. It's a card game that is played like the real game of basketball. (It is also known as 'Church Ball'.) My Uncle Dave (the one in the red shirt) invented it. Yeah we still can't believe he actually thought of something. Anyways... notice the smiles on my and Alisa's face.

Well... unfair Uncle Dave put in a sub in the second half. They made a furious come-back... and he nailed a three at the buzzer to win the game. Needless to say (and honestly, I'd really rather not say it...) we were stunned.

My widdle Bubsy and I got matching Santa tatoos. (They're not gay.)

And I'm not sure why we're laughing. But this is what happens during the traditional White Elephant gift exchange.

I then arm wrestled my Aunt Peggy. There is no need to inform my readers of the identity of the winner.
I soon thereafter cut my hair (and my bangs... haha Janet).

This week we had a 'The Office' party. I am Jim.

This is the rest of the crew.
So I've made an executive decision (because I do that when I blog) and I will update this post until I no longer feel the need. EnJoY!

Sunday, December 21, 2008

BYU's 'Heads-up' Coaching

The following post is rated PG-13. It is not suitable for readers under the age of "I-think-BYU-sports-are-the-best-in-the-Nation". If you believe such non-sense... stop reading. Reader discression is advised. ... Seriously. You might cry.

Now that all that political correctness is out of the way... I've been waiting some time to write this. But as the new year is upon us... I shall wait no longer. (It's kind of a new years resolution. Oh and the title of this post almost symbolic. Or maybe I just confused the word 'symbolic' with the word 'graphic'.)

Let's start with the BYU Men's Basketball team. Dave Rose has done a good job with this club. They love to run in transition and can shoot three's like it's nobody's business. But you know what they say... live by the three... die by the three. They aren't going to be able to rely on the trey-ball all year, and they don't really have anyone to go to inside. Their big guys play okay defense, but are not a factor in the offense. This is going to be a problem come tournament time. Oh and by the way, good job convincing Trent Plaisted to stay for his senior year instead of declaring NBA draft eligibility. Smart move. (That last little bit was completely sarcastic. Plaisted, who averaged almost 16 pts 8 reb, is in Europe somewhere, lost in basketball detention.)

So I've been to a few games and overall the team is exciting to watch. A lot of energy, steals, and three pointers. But Coach Rose is anything but classy. Usually when you're up 20 points with a couple minutes left in the game, you put in your scrubs, your reserves, your benchwarmers. Not Coach Rose. Okay, so maybe 20 isn't as 'safe' as it used to be. But 30+, yeah, now you can put in the freshmen to finish out the game. Not Coach Rose. Well, how about 40+... you're as safe as you can get, right? Up 40 with 5 minutes to go? Not Coach Rose.

Against Rice, Weber State, and Boise State, Coach Rose left his starters in almost the whole game. These guys were still running and gunning, bombing threes and throwing alley-oops. The average margin of victory: 34 points. That's right. The opposition will remember the day they played the Cougars. Stay classy Coach Rose.

Now, lets change gears here. I think the BYU Football team's motto for next year should be 'Quest to fire Bronco Mendenhall'. Only 3 big games this year and they lost every one of them. All the blame goes to him for the shelacking TCU gave them... and after a byeweek... seriously Bronco? What are you concentrating on for those two weeks prior? Firesides?

The Utah game wasn't all Mendenhall's fault. Max Hall had the worst game of his career with 5 INTs and a fumble. But after the third interception you'd think Bronco would realize Max wasn't up to the task. As a coach, you want to show your team you trust your guy... but Bronco should have shown some sort of fire, some sort of indication that that game was important. Chew him out. Throw your headset. Do something for crying out loud! Football players feed off each other. They're like a pack of rabid velosa raptors. But if Mama raptor is indifferent on whether they have chicken fried stegasaurus or beer battered triceratops, then the baby raptors won't care either! In other words, passion is an admirable quality in a leader.

Now the AZ game. Yay for the Las Vegas Bowl, again. ... Awesome. We just lost to a 7-5 football team... oh wait 8-5, my bad. BYU was complaining all year that they weren't getting enough love from ESPN and the BCS. We would have been DESTROYED by any other ranked team. How do I know this? Because we just got owned by Arizona.

Give AZ credit. They're a good team. Us getting pounded by them means we're less than good. It probably didn't help BYU any that Max Hall, Austin Collie, and Dennis Pitta were playing pick-up ball on campus during the few weeks before the 'Big Game'. (I played with Max and am convinced he made a smart move by choosing football over basketball.) But honestly, Bronco, that's a smart coaching move: "Yeah, guys... go play basketball on campus with all the washed-up married guys, 18 year old spazzes, and uncoordinated exchange students. Don't worry about the fact that our next game is nationally sponsored and that if we win we all get Nintendo Wii's for the 3rd year in a row. Just don't get hurt." (Did anyone notice Dennis Pitta's knee injury? Wonder how that happened?) Enjoy your Nintendo Wii's Wildcats!

And seriously... he named his kids Breaker, Raider, and Cutter. Some might call that cute, I'd call it child abuse.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

It Snowed.

Bailey: We made a balloon that was supposed to be you today... just fyi.

Bart: That's awesome... did I have my book and nametag too?

Bailey: Nope... well, I guess technically you did have your name tag. We put a peice of paper on the balloon that said 'Bart'.

Bart: So, you're saying I got partial attendance points?

B: I'm gonna guess that, no, not only did you not get partial points, but that you probably got negative.

B: So... I did get points?

B: Sure. Negative ones, but sure.

B: Awesome! Hey points are points no matter how you look at 'em.

B: Well, not really. Negative points would actually count against you and... oh nevermind. But you seem like you'd be into negative things so thats right up your alley.

B: Oh yeah... well... Watch out! I might be up your alley tonight... wearing all black while swinging a billy club in my hand.

Bailey: Is that a sexual inuendo? I hope so.

Bart: A six-paned window? wha..?

Bailey: No. An in-u-end-o. Oh, forget it. I'm off to meet with a group for school...you remember school right? Where you study to get grades to pass college and get a degree? Yep, I'm off to do that. See you later... in my alley.

Oh. One more thing. I'm always worried you'll post more of our conversations in your blog. So if you do, please mention that I am extremely attractive. For the hell of it.

Bart: You're extremely attractive.

Bailey: No, not now. When you write your blog. Ugh... I give up.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

A Ninja in Embryo

My know-it-all-roommate Dan and I have funny conversations. (To find out more about Dan, please click the 'Dan' label at the bottom of this post.) Sometimes they're really funny. But mostly they're a complete waste of time, kind of like this blog. Sometimes when I'm upstairs and he's downstairs we'll chat screen-to-screen rather than face-to-face.

Dan: Holy cow, I want a ninja sword. You should come watch this Time Warp. Hurry. They are going to chop pig flesh.

Bart: What in the world makes you think I want to watch pig flesh chopping?

Dan: 'Cause it is awesome! Holy cow! It cut clean through the bone!

Bart: Don't you mean holy sow?

Dan: Wow. He chopped a raw egg without cutting the yoke. I am so getting a sword. I have often needed to chop a raw egg without damaging the yoke and have never had the proper tool...

Bart: ...or skills.

D: Whatever. I am obviously a ninja.

B: Just because you have a ninja sword doesn't mean you have ninja skills. And vice versa.

D: Ping pong skills translate directly to sword swinging... and ninja skills.

B: Which translate directly to killing skills?

D: Well... yes, but I wouldn't need to do any killing with my sword. That's what handguns are for.

B: But what about embryonic chicken feti?

(feti is the plural for fetus. Other examples of this type of pluralization include but are not limited to the following: focus-foci, radius-radii, cactus-cacti, octupus-octupi, alumnus-alumni, platypus-platupi, fungus-fungi, hippopotamus-hippopotami, preying mantis-preying manti, mattress-mattri, Barticus-Barticai, etc.)

D: They are already dead from the cryonics.

B: They are already crying from the death.

D: Well... stuff happens. I'm done bugging you now.

B: Good. Because I'm done letting you bug me.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008


Yeah, that's right. Frienemies. You know, the kid who says he's gonna pick you first because you picked him first yesterday (he gets to be a captain because he brought his football), but you don't even end up in the top five. The ones that promise they'll trade their Jason Kidd rookie card for your Penny Hardaway rookie, but don't. Your pal who says you'll be best buds forever, and then moves away after 8th grade never to be heard of again. And yes, the people who act like your friends when you're right in front of them, but talk about you behind your back.

We all know people like this. My roommate Garlan has had recent experience with one: the Seattle Supersonics. (His once beloved Sonics recently moved to Oklahoma City and are now the Thunder.) The sad thing for Garlan is that now the Sonics don't exist. Future NBA fans will never experience the joy of watching their favorite team destroy the likes of Gary Payton, Shawn Kemp, or Detlef Schrempf again.

Of course Garlan is upset. But how would you feel if your favorite team moved halfway accross the country and changed their team name only slightly (Supersonics to Thunder, both really loud nosies, Thunder is obviously the lesser of the two sounds), making sure you know that they used to be your team. (It would be like the Suns moving to Nashville and becoming the Moons. Or the Jazz moving to St. Louis and becoming the Oldies. Yeah. Like that.) But that will never happen, because our teams are actually GOOD.

The Seattle Mariners were the second worst team in baseball this year going 61-101. (The only other team to lose 100 games was the Washington Nationals, no surprise, but that's how bad the Mariners were.) The Seattle Seahawks are currently 2-9. So... if they win the last 5 games this season... they still won't make the playoffs. His beloved University of Washington Huskies are 0-11. They had a chance to beat Washington State (a team that is 2-10 and actually worse than U double-U) in OT... but couldn't do it. Now, HIS Seatt... er, uh, Oklahoma City Thunder are 1-13. The worst record in the NBA. At this rate, by the end of the season they will have won 6 games.

But Garlan won't let that keep him down. He has other activities to occupy his time: grilling Polish sausages and burgers, admiring all films featuring Jason Statham, arguing Ray Allen's case as the best shooter in NBA history and this years MVP, and growing/cutting his hair. I've neglected to state that Garlan is kind of white trash. Some might say a redneck. Actually, he's more than a white trash redneck. He's a red trash whiteneck.

But Garlan really is a nice guy. He likes going on blind dates. He volunteers a lot of his time at church. And his favorite TV show is Paris Hilton's My New BFF. Can you blame him? Anyone who can show you how to go 'from Frienemies to Bikini Besties' is worth watching. 'We love you Paris!'

At the end of each show one of the girls gets eliminated from the running to become Paris' new 'best friend forever'. Nothing beats elimination time. On the most recent episode, Paris decides to put all the girls up for elimination. The scene: the jacuzzi. (If you're a guy and you weren't watching the show, you are now.)

I think I may have commented something along the lines of: That Brittany is a hottie but I'm pretty sure she's a psycho-hose-beast-wench. And Shelley is a doll, but she's way too quiet for a girl like Paris."

Garlan replied (with a wry smile), "It's not about the body. It's about the girl inside the body."

And that's exactly why all of those girls are on the show. 'We love you Paris!'

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Freudian Slip

The other day I baked some stinkin’ cookies. They were stinkin’ good. In fact, they were so good they lasted about 13 minutes. Well, my friend Adriana had the audacity to tell me that her cookies are better than mine. I disagreed. Snicker doodles vs Peanut Butter Chocolate Chunk. Seriously? There’s no competition.

Adriana said, “Bart, my love for baking is equal to the love you feel for your own mother… or Steve Nash. It's my favorite pastime."

I chuckled slightly.

Adriana: Telling me that you can make better cookies than me is like telling Tiger Woods you could beat him in a round of golf.

(The mere fact that she was using Tiger Woods as a comparison of herself was very impressive. But it would take a lot more than a sports reference to deter me from winning yet another pointless argument. And this would be a pointless argument because I consider opening a package of pre-mixed dough, slapping it on a cookie sheet, and sliding it into the oven as 'baking'.)

Bart: Oh, so now you're the Tiger Woods of baking?

Adriana: I'm better than the Tiger Woods of baking… but I cant think of a better person to liken it to without being offensive.

(Had she likened herself to, lets say, Giada De Laurentiis then, yes, I would have been offended. But if she compared her talent of baking to Rosanne’s talent of eating… well, I can’t imagine anyone being offended by that.)

Bart: You’re obviously very confident in your so-called ‘skills’... but can you make cinnamon rolls?

Adriana: (With a deliberate laugh) Ha Ha Ha. Is that a serious question?!?
I can bake a variety of cinnamon rolls.

Bart: Well my mom’s cinnamon rolls are the best... no one even comes close. When we visit long-time friends or relatives, usually the first words out of their mouths are: ‘Did you bring cinnamon rolls?’

A: We will just have to agree to disagree on that one.

B: Well I disagree that we have to agree to disagree. You see… you can say you are the best all you want... but until it is proven with hard evidence, all you're saying is words. Words that carry no meaning.

A: Ask my roommates. I bake for them all the time and they LOVE me for it.

B: As far as I know, your roommates come from non-baking homes and their opinion of you could be extremely biased because they've never had baked goods before.

A: Well Bart, you could have been the benefactor of some amazing cookies… but you chose the game. Big mistake. Especially because your team lost.

(Suns vs Jazz… and OF COURSE I chose the game. And don’t get me started on how those idiotic refs called 5 fouls on Steve Nash midway through the 3rd quarter. Honestly?)

A: Okay. that was below the belt. I feel bad. Sorry for the last comment. I like the Suns.

B: I see what you’re doing. You crossed the line and now you're trying to get back in my good graces.

A: I’m not trying to get back in your grace. But, nobody should kid about the Suns or basketball. Its a matter of morals.

(She had a valid point. No one should kid about the Suns or basketball. But I refuse to let her think I recognize that she made a point.)

B: And you are obviously without morals.

A: Listen Wyoming, I know you can’t admit it, because of your ego, but you and I both know that I bake better than you do.

B: Like I said... you're just saying words until you can prove it.

A: Well, there are naked goods over here all the time! I'm not going to deliver them to you like your little servant! If you want to see what everybody else sees and comes over here for, you'll just have to come yourself!

(Ha ha! I was literally on the ground from laughter. She hadn’t caught what she had said… and maybe you as a reader didn’t either. But I did. And I couldn’t help myself… )

B: You wish I’d let you deliver your ‘goods’.

A: I wish you’d let me?!? Ha! As if! My goods are in high demand! I don’t have time for your demands too!

B: I won't argue that... but do you have time to realize your mistake?

(She then realized what she had said and tried to cover it as a “Freudian Slip”. This reminded me of a joke I once heard. It is my all time favorite. It always makes me smile. But beware, I’m a guy.)

Two men are talking in the bar sharing their sob stories.

One man says, "I had the worst Freudian Slip the other day."

The other man responds, "What is a Freudian Slip?"

"You know, it's when you mean to say one thing, but you say something else that reveals what you are really thinking about. Like the other day, I was at the airport and this really beautiful lady was helping me. Instead of asking her for 'two tickets to Pittsburgh', I asked her for 'two Pickets to Tittsburgh."

The second replies, "Oh, now I know what you are talking about. It's like the other day when I was having breakfast with my wife. I wanted her to pass me the Orange Juice, and instead I said, "YOU STUPID WENCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE!"

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

I'm a Try Athlete

My flag football team lost in the playoffs… again. Now, normally I would care a whole lot because I’m a competitive person and I HATE losing. But this time, I didn’t really have any expectations for the team, and so I shrug my shoulders and continue on. The only problem is that when I actually shrug my shoulders, I have a sharp pain in my chest. I think I may have dislocated a rib… from my sternum. (The last time I checked, that’s not normal.)

Anyone that knows me knows that I like sports. I like the thrill of competition. I like the excitement that comes with success. I like the anticipation that I just might see something that has never been done before.

Anyone that knows me also knows that my affinity for sports endows me with a magnetism for injury. Sprained wrists, pulled hamstrings, twisted ankles… bumps, bruises, scars… jammed fingers, dislocated ribs, strained ligaments… concussions, fat lips, and a broken nose. You name it, I probably hurt it.

But I, like many others, keep coming back for more. Are we athletes? We think we are. Are we idiots? Maybe. Are we quitters? Most definitely not. (Should we quit? We shouldn’t have even started.) As a tribute to all of you who almost won the State Title in high school, to all of you who played JV ball as seniors, and to all of you who ever tripped before crossing the finish line, I offer a way to erase all the disappointing yesterdays and once again hope for a promising tomorrow. Three words: Full-contact triathlons.

For those of you who don’t know what a triathlon is, (stop reading this, get into your Toy Story sheets, and tell your mom via text message that you’re ready to be tucked in. If she brings you cookies and milk, it will be the greatest achievement of your life.) it is an endurance sports event that includes swimming, cycling and running various distances. The standard "Olympic Distance" is 1.5 km swim, 40 km bike, and 10 km run. (For those of you uneducated in the metric system, that is the equivalent of 0.93 mile swim, 24.8 mile bike, and 6.2 mile run.)

My friend recently completed one last month. He said, “It is super lame. No one even got tackled. And when you try to tackle someone you get DQ'd.” (That’s ‘disqualified’ not ‘Dairy Queened’.) So all of us here at Barttimesnow (which is basically… me, myself, and I) have decided to help evolve the often boring triathlon world by creating the very first full-contact triathlon.

Although the total distance may vary between the “Olympic Distance” and the “Sprint Distance” (which is half of the “Olympic Distance”), the race will be just like any other triathlon… except now every competitor will be armed with a bucket of tennis balls. This will incorporate the ‘dodging’ element. Every competitor hit with a tennis ball will get 5 seconds added to their total time.

Some members of the Barttimesnow Alliance of Revamping Triathlons, aka the B.A.R.T., had reservations about allowing full-contact in the swimming portion of the race. (Okay, even I’m still laughing at that acronym.) Here is a sneak peak of their Alliance meeting:

I said, “How much contact is allowed? We definitely don’t want anyone drowning.”

Me responded with, “There is no room for sissies when forging ahead with a new sport.”

Myself scratched his head.

And after several minutes of silence, Me caved in. “Okay, fine. Water contact will be limited to leg pulling, kidney punches and dunking.”

I: Good... now on to the cycling. I think tire slashing should be allowed… but only if the slashing is done by organic/natural items found within the racing boundaries.

Me: Oh! I know you are itchin’ to wedge some sticks in some spokes!

I: Oh you know it... I also think we should make it mandatory that all cyclists have 'baseball card motorcycle noise makers' attached to the rear of the bike. If the noise makers fall off, they have to let Nitro, from American Gladiators, put them in an Ultimate Death Scorpion Headlock for 1 minute and 23 seconds.

Myself stopped scratching his head.

Me: Absolutely. The competitors have to keep track of their baseball card noise making devices or pay the price. Also I want that Michael Buffer guy who announces the wrestling matches to MC. And I want fireworks.

The B.A.R.T. has also decided that if this is going to be the sport of the future it must be the ultimate challenge. It will also test the mental abilities as well as the emotional stability of each contestant. To enter you must have family and friends compile a list of your most embarrassing moments and then as you race you will be taunted by an old man who will be given the list (and by ‘old man’ I mean Major Payne). You must also recite the Bill of Rights and do some basic mathematics after you complete the swim, but before you cross the finish line. (Upon further review we have decided to rotate from the Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, and the Emancipation Proclamation... so every race you will have to recite something different.)

Now all we need is funding and some on call medics... (aka a plethora of paramedics).

If anyone has connections to the following companies/sponsors, please notify the B.A.R.T. as soon as possible: Nike for Women, Budweiser, and Oprah… Fisher-Price, Kellogs, and Miley Cyrus. Implementation will begin as soon as funding is received.

Dick and Rick Hoyt

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Launching the Past

I recently ran into an old friend of mine, Jordan Schultze. He is a year older than me, which made my one year of school at Fairview Elementary the Dali-lama of school years. Jordan and I had been friends for a long time. We liked sports (mostly Bo Jackson... and the Raiders), super fast-dubbed cassette tapes, Weird Al Yankovic, firecrackers, and trampolines. I figured entering the 5th grade at Fairview wouldn’t be so bad if the J-man was around. You see, my parents had bought some land and built a house and so I had to transfer schools. Kinda freaky for a 10/11 year old kid.

I had NO idea how good Fairview would be to me. I remember the first day of school, getting off the bus, and walking on the playground. There were two swings, one slide, and no jungle-gym. The playground consisted of cement, little pebbles, and goat-heads. There was a game of football going on and they needed one more guy. I volunteered myself knowing that my fate depended on my play. We huddled up, the quarterback, Brandon Myrick, told me he was going to throw me the ball. (Good thing I had my thinly-clothed gloves that had the sticky grips on the palms.) The ball was hiked, I made a move, got open, and caught the ball. I sprinted left, then right. Only one kid to beat: the unusually large latino, Nathan Vigil. (The kid had a mustache.)

I spun, then stopped, and zipped by his outstretched hands into the open field. I felt like the Road Runner as I ran, rocks flying from the soles of my shoes. I touched the fence. I scored! But… there wasn’t a celebration in the end zone. Everyone was pointing and laughing at Nathan, who was now near midfield. Brandon ran over to me and said in unbelief, “You just outran Nate Vigil. You outran the Nate-Dawg!” Never in his life had Nate been unable to catch a fellow student. Never in my life would I forget this day.

Instantly, I became a 5th grade celebrity. A star, a hero, a legend. Because Fairview didn’t have any equipment, kids played sports. (I was blazing fast and could catch and throw.) I was picked first. And kids let me cut in the lunch line. I was even recruited by the 6th graders to play with them during recess instead of with the 5th graders. I had friends in the 4th, 5th and 6th grades (Fairview only had those grades as its sister school, Lebhart, had the K - 3rd graders). In other words, I was the David Duchovny of 5th graders (that was the year he dated Madonna).

I mentioned before that I was only at Fairview for a year. The School District made me transfer to Dildine Elementary because it was closer to my house, thus robbing me of any positive experiences I could have had in 6th grade. (I hated 6th grade and I hated Mrs. Harju and I hated Dildine.) But talking to Jordan again brought back so many wonderful memories.

Jordan: You wouldn't be Bart Badbury Son of Lyle and Kathy, Brother to Brett and Blake, and former Wyoming Herford Ranch 2-on-2 baseball champ, would you?

Bart: Oh I would be... and I am... You wouldn't be Jordan Schultze... son of Don and Cathy, Brother to Josh and Cate, owner of one super water balloon launcher used to pelt Natalie Hales, extreme non-padded tackle football champion, and former Oriole GREAT... would you? (Jordan and I played little league. I was on the Dodgers/A’s… he was on the Orioles.)

Jordan: Bartholomew Air Gadbury! Well I can't comment on any alleged involvement in any fiasco(s) involving Natalie Hales or this possibly fictitious water balloon apparatus, but yes all those other accomplishments are mine. It's a crying shame we have not had the privilege of mopping the floor with any sports competitors in probably close to a decade.

Bart: Well you should comment on the aforementioned 'apparatus' because any connection to said item, whether imagined or real, brings back some of the fondest memories of my childhood. (Now, honestly, it is probably one of the greatest stories EVER) And now that I think about it... the Wilmarths were some of the most fierce sixth graders I knew... but if we were to have a reunion of our little clan, I'm sure we would do the same mopping we did ten years ago... except with a different scent... maybe more lemony fresh? Go BO JACKSON AND THE RAIDERS! (The Wilmarths, Matt and Aaron, were Jordan’s 6th grade buddies. Almost every weekend we would play tackle football with our little clan of 10. We OWNED the Wilmarths!)

Jordan: While I can neither confirm nor deny any involvement in certain shady water balloon dealings, nor can I confirm or deny the existence of any improvised latex-based h2o projectile accelerating apparati, or any such implements for that matter, I will say that if I ever require decisive action to be taken towards the stoppage a front bike tire from spinning on it's axis, you are the man I will call.

Bart: Hey... so you know how we loved the Raiders in elementary school... well if you don't, Bo knows.

Jordan: I know Bo knows. Bo knows Baseball. Bo knows football. Bo knows the pump has got the airbag. Bo might even know who shot JFK... Let's start a business and or sports team together. It'll be fun! Plus with our combined power we will be able to crush anyone who stands in our way!

Bart: Honestly... how about the PSA... Professional Softball Association... I really think we could go somewhere with that. Seeing as how we have baseball skills out the wazoo. Speaking of... remember when you were the Orioles and I was the Athletics and we beat your trash? Also... nothing makes me happier than thinking of the Wilmarth beatdowns on the gridiron... no one could touch me I was too blazing fast. Oh... business idea: we sell your old inhalers. Or we could be hired as hitmen... except we use water ballons and your launcher. And we could partner up with Natalie Hales look-alikes and put on a real show (please tell me what you remember of that blessed day) Or we could high-speed-dub Peter Cetera and have people jump on the trampoline. They would pay big bucks.

Jordan: AH hahah the infamous water balloon incident! Man we booked it outta there so fast it was inhuman! I was thinking we could have slam dunk contests off your bed using a door-mounted nerf hoop, with intermissions to taunt Blake. I like the softball idea. i haven't played that in years, but I'm betting we could still work Josh and Brett pretty hard, and most likely all the Willmarths too. Yeah I remember when you were the A's and I was the orioles. Yeah I literally WAS the orioles. Dad blasted retards.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Tagged! I'm it!

I finally got tagged. (Mostly because I forced people to tag me.) So this is for all of you kids who didn't want me to share anything with you. This is the 4th pic in my 4th folder. (That's what you do when you're tagged, right? Share the 4th pic from the 4th folder?)

Last Christmas I went on a Humanitarian Aid trip to Mexico. It was with dental students from BYU-Idaho, Utah State, and other universities. (No, I'm not a dental student. But my roommate, Casey, was and he convinced Eric and I to go. Casey is squatting in the black jacket and Eric is in the middle with the lime-green hoodie, you can't miss him. Oh... and I'm front row, right.) Eric and I found out that we could do construction while all the dental kids cleaned teeth. (No, I'm not a Construction Management major... I just liked the idea.)

The charity we went with was the Charity Anywhere Foundation. We drove down from Idaho, picking people up on the way, and stayed in Mexico for a week. This pic is right outside the abandoned hospital where we stayed. No hot water and no heat! It was awesome! (If you want to see more pics, click here.) The main man, Gordon Carter, organizes trips like this every semester... my friend Rachelle (third girl in from the right) is also going to the Dominican Republic. And I'm looking at going to Africa in 2009. So if you want to have a great experience click the Foundation's link above!

I tag... Brettox, Garlan, Will-boy, and Tia-face.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

My Mane Man

A friend of mine recently commented on how long my hair is. I then proceeded to look at myself in a mirror. “Hmmm… that is pretty long.” I’d even say it’s reaching its limit in lengthiness. (Well, at least its previous limit. Usually I just grow it out until I get sick of it, and usually I have Kristin around to cut it. She's the best!) But now I have a sort of affinity towards it. It could be due to the fact that my hair is about the same length as Tim Lincecum’s. (Tim Lincecum (18-5) recently won the National League Cy Young award. He was definitely the most dominant pitcher in the league despite throwing for a team that went 72-90. I loved watching him pitch this year.) My hat goes off to him, literally.

My gay roommate, Cameron, commented on how he wishes his hair was as long and full as mine. But he keeps cutting it. Every two days. (I was about to continue writing without clarifying, but in order to clarify… I must write. … Huh?) By ‘gay’ I mean ‘coming into his own’ and by ‘his own’ I mean ‘manhood’.

For example: One day Cameron and I were watching a basketball game. He didn’t understand shooting fouls. I explained to him that if a player is in the act of shooting, the defender isn’t allowed to touch him, otherwise it’s a foul. He then said, “Wow. I’ve learned more about sports in the last few months than I have my entire life. Thanks to you, I really am on my way to becoming a man. There’s nothing more belittling than asking a girl about the rules… he has such broad shoulders.”

Last weekend we watched the Iowa Hawkeyes beat the then 3rd ranked team, Penn State. I explained pass interference and ineligible receivers. He said, “Okay, yeah, I can see how that works… man, he has a really big butt.” I laughed for a while. You see, Cameron has a way of pointing out things that normal, sports minded guys don’t even think about.

When watching the World Series: “Did his pants just rip off?”

Watching athletic trainers tend to an injured football player, who's not moving: “That job makes me wonder. You run on the field and rub people’s necks. ‘How does that feel? Kootchy kootchy koo!’”

I assure you that Cameron is very much a man. Sure, he eats a whole pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream every other night. And sure, he wanted to watch ice skating instead of football (Can you blame him?). But you can’t discount the fact that his favorite Arrested Development character is Tobias Funke. Well, maybe you can. But at least Cameron has a lot of hair. A lot of hair equals a lot of testosterone. (He came into my room the other night and lifted his shirt to show me he had shaved his chest and stomache hair. I believe his exact words were: Burn that image into your mind.)

Now, we all know that there is a lot more to being a man than chest hair (and in Cameron’s case, chest AND back hair). Like sports knowledge/enjoyment, grilling steak, and power tools. But hair identification is a great way to find out what type of man you are. Are you carpeted? Splotched? A naturally barren rock quarry? (That’s me… bulging, hairless muscles, rippling through all material/matter.)

So what really makes us men? The ability to mask manly odor around females is considered, by many experts, one of the top signs that boys have stepped from their awkward, self-indulged worlds and into the realms of manhood. The Gadbury men are known for their pleasing scentistry. (Yeah, kinda made up another word.)

Bret has a natural just-from-the-shower aroma. I use Old Spice body wash and deodorant, (my most recent and successful fragrance: Swagger) and Tide with Febreeze (the purple cap) to keep my clothes fresh. And Blake is Captain Cologne. (The guy smells so good it makes Michael Jackson want to have his old nose back.)

We are complimented often… and we like it. Cameron borrowed one of my pearl-snap shirts: “Oh! Wow! I don’t know what it is, but you smell divine!” I remind you, he’s not really gay. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Proof That Robots Rule the World

Well, at least Dan’s world. And because I am partially in Dan’s world (like right now, for example, because we are in the same room and semi-coversating with one another) I would be considered a part of his world. And all of you who have ever been a part of my world are also considered to be a part of Dan’s world, because you make up part of my world which makes up part of Dan’s world. In other words, we are all inter-partially connected to Dan and his world.

Dan, the know-it-all-roommate (to find out what I mean by know-it-all, please refer to the Oct. 29 post of 2008 entitled Make Like a Banana… ) was once a carefree, innocent boy. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. He slept late, ate a lot of fast food, and played table tennis at least 3 times a week. Dan was happy.

One day, a package arrived at his door. “Where did this come from?” laughed the hot-haired Dan. The package was more than small, and contained quite the surprise.

Little did he know that the surprise was an evil, manipulating, 21st centurion ping pong robot sent to rule the world. His name: Robo-pong.

So, Dan, still clueless, set up Robo-pong in the basement of a nearby apartment complex, Miller. After 15 minutes of pure jubilation, Dan was hooked. Like a kid with crack, or a junkie with candy (hmmm… or is it the other way around?), Dan was no longer his own man. He was the man of an evil, manipulating, 21st centurion ping pong robot named Robo-pong that was sent to rule the world.

Dan, thinking of Robo-pong as a means to end (that ‘end’ being Ping Pong Perfection), rather than an endlessly, mean tyrant, continued to serve him and care for him. Nearly every day, Dan would set him up on the end of a ping pong table, make sure he had his safety net, and feed him ping pong balls for hours on end. (Robo-pong especially likes the orange ones. They taste like burning.) Endearing feelings for Robo-pong increased. Dan was elated.
Then, on a crisp, autumn afternoon, Robo-pong felt Dan’s attentions were drifting. One Stephanie, two Stephanies, maybe even a third… “Something must be done,” snickered Robo-pong.

He referred to his copy the coveted New York Time’s Bestseller, How to Rule the World: a handbook for evil, manipulating, 21st centurion ping pong robots sent to rule the world. (For any of you who have dictator/tyrannical robots at home, Christmas is coming up and this is a great gift for any robot searching for ways to enslave the human race and destroy your life! Only $19.95 at Amazon.com. Get it today!) For the next several days, Robo-pong tried every suggestion in the book: backspin, topspin, sidespin, oscillation, and even rapid fire. He knew time was running out. So he made Dan buy him his own table (ten dollars on Craigslist).

Dan, still in a state of oblivion, asked me to help him transport the table. After a short consultation with Prime (to find out who Prime is, please refer to the Nov. 2, 2008 post entitled, Robots in Disguise.) I decided I would help him. The poor sap was nearly at wits end. (Well, not really. But for the sake of the story…) Tears were in his eyes. There was a slight shakiness to his voice.

I helped Dan negotiate the price. (It was listed at $10 on Craigslist, we wouldn’t pay a penny less.) I helped dust and sand and smooth. I even helped find a place in our house for Robo-pong’s new ‘throne’.
I’ll admit, I knew Robo-pong was an evil, manipulating, 21st centurion ping pong robot sent to rule the world from the start (some robots just have that vibe), and that Dan was in grave danger for his life, but I was extremely fascinated by the whole situation. And I was kinda curious to see where it was all going. Would Dan find out that he was being brainwashed? Would Dan snap and go crazy and kill me, thinking I was Robo-pong’s sidekick?

Would Dan… “Oh, hey Dan! Back from the store? I’m almost finished with my new post. It’s kinda about you. … Why are you breathing so heavy? Did you go skating? … Why do you have that extra vein popping from your forehead? You usually only get that when you’re really upset. …

“What are you doing running at me with that extremely large, sharp looking war scythe… ….”

Monday, November 3, 2008


At this time I think it is worth it to have a disclaimer. This is my blog so I can do whatever I feel like, gosh!

Disclaimer: Everything found on, in, or that is directly linked through this blog is the author's doing. (That's me.) Any videos, pictures, or proper nouns (or quotes by proper nouns) contained herein are used for entertainment purposes only. I have the right to edit, change, discard, add to, and/or withdraw any information I deem necessary. Also, any direct reference to American Gladiators is merited/desired/needed by all.

It is not my intent to be offensive or inaccurate in any way. (Except for when I make up words. But then I’ll tell you what it means, thus accurately canceling out the inaccuracy.) But it is important to know that the situations, persons, and/or affiliations referred to might possibly, kind of, be real, maybe... or they might not be. It is neither my responsibility, nor is it my desire to discern between the two. The reader can do that for himself/herself. My aim is to approach all events, ideas, thoughts, and/or happenings as they occur, occurred, or will occur from my perspective/outlook. Yes, I might talk about you. Yes, I might slight you... slightly. If you feel that any of the events about you are inaccurate or belittling, I would suggest that you address the author, me, and I will think about considering your opinion. If you receive no response from me, the author, within 1256 hours, I would suggest pretending that you are not real and that the events you are addressing never happened.

Also, to enhance the blogging experience/entertainment for all persons reading/following this blog, it is highly recommended/suggested that you actually say 'slash' whenever presented with the / symbol.

I will now proceed to amend my disclaimer because I know what that means and because I can.

Amendment 1, Article XXV, Section 3, Number 13 - No one will in any way, shape, or form downgrade, depreciate, run down, rip up, roast, slight, belittle, diss, denigrate, befoul, besmirch, spatter, stain, sully, malign, asperse, bad mouth, blacken, blister, calumniate, decry, defame, disparage, give black eye to, impugn, knock, libel, mudsling, put down, revile, scandalize, slander, tear down, traduce, and/or vilify the name, image, characteristics, play, and/or person of one, Steve Nash. Any person or persons found in violation of the afore mentioned Amendment 1 will be cut a million times with a small razor and left in the Sahara, most likely to die while a bazillion grains of sand fester your infected wounds. Well, I can't really do that. So you'll just be blocked and all comments will be removed.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Robots in Disguise

Someone once asked me: What’s the name of your truck? At first, I was a little confused. At second, I was still scratching my head. But somewhere in between second and third someone explained it to me. ‘Sometimes people give their car a name. Kind of as a describer.’ Now, I don’t know when my friends and I started to do this… but now that I’ve long crossed home plate, it’s out of control. (I really don’t know why I used the ‘Rounding the Bases’ metaphor. It really has no place in this subject matter. But it makes me sound like a freaking genius.)

Whitey is a white Ford Aerostar, once owned by my parents, currently owned by my cousin Willie. Brownie is a big, brown, 1 ½ ton Chevy pickup, known for its gas guzzling and ,‘smooth’ ride. Then there’s Rusty, Sunny, The Rollerskate, The Ranger, The Smurfmobile, and Optimus Prime.

Now, Opti (or if you prefer, Prime) is my Nissan Frontier. Named long before the current Transformers movie, he has battled beyond his years without any major wounds or injuries. (I even have an Optimus Prime Tranformer inside Optimus Prime. Thanks Bret and Emily.) He gets washed every once in a while and has a sweet, custom made, hardshell tanu cover. (Thanks Bret and myself.)

But this makes me think: If we give our vehicles names, and coddle them, and buy them stuff (basically treat them as we would a girlfriend or boyfriend, or a pet), do they eventually take on those personality traits we make up for them? I argue that Yes, yes they do. And in a way, though lifeless and innate objects, they become an idea of life and nate-ness. (What did I just say?) Kind of like robots. (Scraps of metal and plastic molded together into some odd shape, you put a spark to them and all of a sudden they have some sort of purpose or design. Some move and act like humans, actually… we make them to move and act like humans so we don’t have to move and act like humans. We’re lazy.)

When I think of Robots, my mind is automatically drawn to R2D2 and C3P0. They are the future of robots. (Yes, even though Star Wars was made in the 80’s, it takes place in the future.) They are the stereotype for robots. And I disapprove. Now, I’m not exactly sure what ‘future us’ is thinking by making robots that have limited mobility. We are idiots! Future us needs to take a note to make more agile, street smart robots. (In other words, everything C3P0 is not. My robot will have rocket jet packs and have the exact physical abilities of Bruce Lee.)

Robots are supposedly smart. But R2D2 can’t even speak English. C3P0 has to translate everything he says. What if C3P0 gets lightsabered? Then what, R2? You’ll beep yourself crazy! Plus, humans do the programming. And in C3P0’s case, a little kid by the name of Anakin. To me, a smart robot would be able to build and program other robots. (I’ll get back to this in a sec)

Robots have lame names. Ex: R2D2 and C3P0. Remember, C3P0 was made by a kid. What about naming him Steve or Larry? I would have even accepted something as childish and simple as Rob. Rob the Robot. Why? Because we want the robots (now an army of self multiplication) to feel like one of the guys, a member of the gang, part of the fam. If we don’t, Rob and his Robo Buddies will kill us all.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Make Like a Banana...

So right now I’m stuck in the middle of relationship battle between my roommate, Dan, and our new acquaintance as of this semester, who will remain nameless. Well... she kinda needs a name, so I will call her Sarah. ... Oh crap. Her name really is Sarah. Oh well. ... Dan is formerly known in this blog as the ‘know-it-all roommate’ (This is not at all derrogitory. He really does know it all. And by 'all' I mean a lot of things. And by 'a lot' I mean one thing. He knows how to banter.) and there is a rather dapper picture of the guy somewhere among the September posts.

(Also, Sarah may also be referred to as Shara… simply because she wanted to make sure we all know her name is Sara with an H. Kinda like Bret with two T’s or Jenny with an I. Or Caroline with a K… and a double R… and a double L… and a Y… and then, guess what, a double N. Seriously? Karrollynn? Why not just make it easy for us all and double up all the letters. That way the vowels don’t feel left out. Kkaarroollyynn. And then add a silent E on the end just to screw us all up again. I just found the name for my 14th daughter. )

Long story short: they hit it off, she made the first move, he was turned off because she made the first move, I was dragged along as the 5th wheel (aka the odd man out, the spare tire, the baker’s dozen [the box only has room for 12 donuts… why in the world would the baker make 13 and call it his dozen?]), she got mad because he didn’t respond favorably. He was passive, she was aggressive, and I was apprehensive. He wanted to make things normal, she wanted to make out, and I wanted to make like lightning and bolt.

This has gone on for several weeks… basically, she wants to vex my roommate. (Now, I bring this slight variation from a line in Kate and Leopold… mostly because I like that movie. And I really hope that one day, when I jump off a bridge to my assured icy doom, the swirling, cold blackness turns into a time-bending vortex that sends me to another place in time. Like Canada in the late 1800’s. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t care if I carried a midget around in my backpack. I’d cut little holes in the bottom for his little legs and I’d call him Tyrell and feed him Maria cookies. )

Anyways… so I’m dragged along on their little excursions (which have included the movie theater… and the movie theater). Which is fine. Because I can, for about an hour and half, forget that I’m even there. So after Hancock and Wall-e (oh and… Shara paid for my Wall-e ticket because I only had a dollar… in change. Dan didn’t want to break his twenty) we come to a recent conversation between Shara and me. She had previously commented on how Wall-e was our first date. (I’m so glad that I treat all unfamiliar or uncomfortable comments as sarcasm. One of my best defense mechanisms to date.)

Shara -Well, how's life eeevaaa?

Bart -Why am I Eva?

Shara-Would you rather be walle? or the fat president?

Bart-Eva is a girl. Why in the world would I want to be a girl robot?

Shara-Girls are way rad, that's why. Besides, i would let you call me walllleee.

Bart-But I'm not a girl... and why would I call you walle? You're not a boy. Walle is obviously a boy robot.

S-Eva is way hotter so i assigned you the name. That's all.

B-So… when you think of me... you think of a sleek, sexy girl robot?

S-Well, yes. Is that a bad thing?

B-I guess that depends on who you ask. If you ask me... I'd say YES.
Does that not even seem slightly backwards to you?

S-nahhh. i'm just being silly. i don't think of you as a girl.

B-Are you sure?

S-Yeah i'm almost positive.

B-Are you HIV positive?

S-ha ha...how did you know?

B-It's one of those things you just notice... eye boogers, peed pants… HIV.

S-Crap i hope i don't have all three of those...

B-Plus its really hard to hide the fact you have HIV when you're sitting right next to someone... especially in movie theaters... people with HIV seem to glow in the dark.

S-Oh yeah? I'm sure that made you uncomfortable...

B-Well you know how you said it was our first date? It was actually our second.
It was you and Dan's first.

S-it was our second? How so?

B-If you look at two factors... body placement and conversational dialogue. I sat next to you at both movies and participated in small talk/chatter both times. Dan didn’t sit by you the first time, and didn’t really talk to you. Remember how you got mad for two weeks because of that?

S-ooooh yeah...

B-Plus, I was scammed into going to both movies... so i really think of our time together as forced togethernessism.

S-how were you scammed into it? he didn't tell you i would be there or something?

B-I’m a guy. When a roommate asks me: do you want to go to a movie? I automatically know there is some ulterior motive for such a question… usually it’s a girl. So, by default, I'm automatically assigned the role of backup or wingman... whether I want to go or not.

And to think I was in the middle of a baseball game.

S-Wow i wonder if you could say anything else to make me feel any better about the whole situation. I don't really see why he needs a backup, but i guess i am pretty mean and terrifying.

B-From what i can tell...

I don't know about you, but all of this has inspired me to continue my non-existent journey to nowhere in no time with no one. I think the semi-correct approach will be to go backwardsly onward and downsidedly upward in my socially inept hiatus of anything that could be considered 'constructive relationship building'. And to think I was in the middle of a baseball game.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I Hate Halloween

Now why in the world would I do something like that? For a whole evening I get to be whatever I want to be. A pirate. A ninja. Pee Wee Herman's bike. (Really. I would be the coolest kid on the street if I had his bike... but to actually be his bike... that would be beyond any kids wildest dreams. I would be able to fly. And I'd have streamers.)

Then I get to walk around outside... past my bed time... to houses that have their porch lights on. I knock on the door and say 'Trick or Treat?'. And then people give me candy.

When I was a kid, candy was used as a reward for having the 'cleanest room of the week' (pick any full-size candy bar). Sweets were used as a prize for completing my chore chart (Little Debbie, anyone?). And snacks were used as incentives for spending a day in the public education system and surviving an hour and a half bus ride home (graham crackers and frosting!).

And now that I think about it, even our public schools bribed kids with food. Our school district used a free Personalized Pan Pizza from Pizza Hut to get kids to read books. If you read the most pages in your class during the month, you win. I won... a lot.

Junk food was so valuable that I had a personal stash of candy bars that I kept in a plastic, green pencil box. I hid my green box of loot in the box spring of my bed.

I kept this box full. Twix, Snickers, Reese's. It was neatly organized with several layers of chocolatey goodness. Sometimes, part of my $20/month allowance was spent replenishing its contents. (Mostly it was spent on baseball cards. Occasionally, on G.I. Joes.) I'd buy two bars. One for the ride home, and one for my box.

This was, of course, after making sure I had enough for a pack of smok-- ing hot, brand new cards. Packs costed anywhere between $1.50 - $3.00, depending on the quality and number of cards. Some packs had 6 cards. Some packs had a Sam's Club inside. aka enough cards to be considered 'buying in bulk'. I usually saved up to buy the 50-100 card Jumbo multi-packs. My thinking: Why settle for a one in six chance of getting a silver-plated, holographic, Fleer Ultra Upper Deck Nolan Ryan, when you can get six identical, brown, paper-back, Donruss Tony Penas? The more cards you have, the cooler you are. Quantity versus quality isn't taught until 11th grade. I'm ten.

So when I go out candy hunting this year, and fill my pillow case with 12 cavities, I'm going to try and avoid all the girls who use this holiday as an excuse to be a skank. You, girls, are my enemies in war. I will plunder. I will pillage. And your booty will be my spoils. (Still talkin' candy here.)

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

We Are But Men... ROCK!

Football: a sport of grit, strength, and speed. A game of passion, determination, and perspiration. Starting with Friday Night Lights and continuing though Monday Night Football, you’ll never find four consecutive days with more hard-hitting, body-crunching, bone-splitting action than you will during autumn weekends on the grassy, green gridiron.

It’s a man’s sport. (Which man? Where is that man? What makes him a man? Or a man a man? Am I a man? What about He-man, merman, or woman? Man! ) You don’t just wake up one day and decide to play football. You have to be a man. A manly man.

Or you could be a wannabe man and wake up in your bed, alone (just like yesterday… and the day before… for the last 25 years), and tell your skinny, white, boney reflection that it's time to become a man. But without having the advantage of big, grumbly American Gladiators around, you decide to take matters into your weak, feeble, can-barely-lift-ten-pounds hands. You will search for your manhood.

After a scrumptious meal of eggs and toast, you put on your jacket and thank your mom as she ties your hood. You almost coolishly stroll out to your ’81 Honda (‘almost’ because you really don’t know what coolishly means, you think you heard Nicolas Cage use that word in Gone in 60 Seconds, but you’re not sure of that either because you’re not allowed to watch PG-13 movies) and run your hand across the hail-damaged hood. You then proceed to putter out of your neighbor-hood with the windows down blaring Boyz N da Hood.

From Main Street to University Avenue you scour the freshly mowed lawns and littered parks in search of man-life. (Is that Robin Hood?) And then you see it. You had only faintly heard of such a place before today… (mostly in chat rooms and blogs) but this was beyond anything any video game designer could… well… uh… design. The University intramural fields. (No, but really… Robin Hood wears tights, right? ‘Cause I swear… )

You never thought the uncoordinated and unathletic would one day share the same field as the speedy and agile. But somehow, in this magical world of flag football, the competition is leveled out. There are fat, old married guys, washed-up ex-high school ‘All-Americans’, and cocky, eighteen year old punks.

And there you stand… one of the uncoordinated and unatheletic, about to continue your journey from wannabe man to man. Your path: Football. (this wasn’t quite football… kind of pansyish actually, especially with the ‘no contact’ rule…) And, in your eyes, nothing could be more manly than prancing around like a fairy with a colorful belt around your waist playing grab-a**. (I mean, uh… grabbing flowers… uh, er… flags).

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Black Michael Phelps

You know him as Shaq, The Diesel, Daddy, and Shaq Fu. The Big Cactus, The Big Shaqtus, The Big Galactus. Wilt Chamberneezy, The Big Baryshnikov, and Shaq Albert. Yes, Shaquille O’Neal is a man of many names. But my personal favorite, which just barely edged out the runner-up Kazaam, (and if you haven’t seen the movie Kazaam, you MUST) is also the most recent: The Black Michael Phelps.

I’ll have to admit, I laughed pretty hard when I first heard it. But as it rolled around in my head for a few minutes, the thought kept coming back to me: MTV Deathmatch: Shaquille O’Neal vs Michael Phelps. Lets get it on! No, but really… comparing them seems absurd.


First of all, ‘The Big Aristotle’ is black. This automatically separates them by eons and schwartamuhranacks (This is a word I just made up. It means: lots more than ‘a lot’.) Everyone knows black people are better athletes, better dancers, and better singers. In his prime, ‘The Big Elvis’ could probably sing, dance, run, and jump among the best of them. And even though Michael had a lot of practice singing the National Anthem in Beijing this summer, I don’t see him coming out with an album anytime soon.

‘Big Shaq Daddy’, on the other hand, has been rapping since 1993 and has released five albums (not counting compilations or soundtracks). Two of which were Gold certified by the RIAA. What’s even more amazing is that more than one million people bought his debut album, Shaq Diesel. One million plus! That’s right, ‘Osama Bin Shaq’ has gone platinum. Hey, Mike… call me the next time you win a Platinum medal.

Now, obviously, Michael Phelps is the best swimmer in the world, galaxy, universe… um, ever. (This includes past, present, and future swimmers, from other galaxies and universes, and spans accross all time continuums and the intergalactical existence of space. He's that good.) I was among the millions jumping and shouting at the TV during his come-from-behind victory in the 100m butterfly for his 7th gold. (Not to overshadow Jason Lezak’s improbable run-down of the Aussie, Alain Bernard, in the anchor leg of the 4X100 m freestyle relay, which kept Phelp’s hopes for 8 gold alive.) And never have I witnessed a more rigorous domination than what I saw from him in swimming those 17 events in 9 days. Truly it was an awe-inspiring, gutsy performance by one of our generations greatest atheletes. So how will the greatest Olympian of all time fare in a 100 meter race against ‘M.D.E. (most dominant ever)’?

Yeah, um, never mind. I’ve decided that there’s really no need to even attempt to put on such a spectacle. The only way 'The Land Shark’ could beat Phelps swimming, is if the pool was only ten feet long. One full extension from the 7’1” ‘Big Fella’ and the race is over. Hmmmm… that gives me an idea.

Shaq Attack vs. Phelps: a best-of-three, winner-take-all series. It will take place in a neutral arena, (We’ll say Mexico because Canada would give ‘The Big Deporter’ an advantage. He could get tips from Steve Nash.) and the two competitors will wager twenty-three items of extreme importance and value.

Phelps will put his 21 gold medals and 2 bronze medals, from the ’04 and ‘08 Olympics and the ’07 World Championships, up against ‘The Yellow Submarines’:
4 NBA Championship rings,
1 NBA MVP award,
1 NBA Rookie of the Year award,
3 NBA Finals MVP awards,
2 All-Star MVP awards,
1 FIBA World Championship gold medal,
1 Olympic gold medal,
1 High School state title ,
1 framed Bachelor’s degree,
1 online Masters in Business Administration,
5 RIAA gold certified albums,
1 RIAA Platinum* certified album,
and 1 gold-plated, honorary, U.S. Deputy Marshall's badge.

(*According to the Barttimesnow Gold, Platinum, and Other Fine Artifacts Committee, the platinum album is the equivalent of 4 Olympic gold medals. Thus, compensating for any perceived ‘lack of value’ of ‘Dr. Shaq’s high school state title, bachelor’s degree, and master’s degree. Thus, keeping the bet even at 23 items per contestant.)

The three events will take place in this order: the 100 meter freestyle, the 10 foot freestyle, and the 5 bazillion meter backstroke in a pool of Jello. May the best Superman win.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Thirsty for Thursday?

Thursday- the precursor for the weekend. As a general rule, if you have a good Thursday, you’re bound to have a good weekend. But Thursday usually flexes its I’m-still-a-week-day muscle, while staring you down like ‘Nitro’ from American Gladiators. There’s nothing that dampens your weekend-fever like a dose of Thursday to remind you that you still have eight hours of Friday to deal with before that five o’clock whistle.

It looks like this Thursday is turning out to be a clone of the previous two: a five dollar foot-long from Subway and the company of Thursday night basketball on TNT. As you’re about to settle into your usual crease in the couch, you remember that last week a girl invited you to a fondue party. Your know-it-all roommate thinks you should go. His suggestion brings two thoughts to your mind: will there be food? And will there be a girl? (And yes, you really asked yourself those two questions).

The apartment is spewing people out onto the balcony and down the stairs. Already sweating from boarding twelve blocks to get there, (you thought it might look cool if you walked into the party with a long-board in your hand, and now that you think about it, you could have driven and then walked in with a long-board in your hand, mostly because you don’t board) you step up to the muddled entry way. The heat from the sardinely packed bodies oozes against your face. You take one last breath of fresh air and step in.

Like an eel navigating the murky deep, you make your way past unfamiliar faces and damp bodies to plant yourself in a power stance in the center of the room. (Okay, so you’re slightly off-centered. But a quick step to the right will change all that.) A friend introduces you to a friend of a friend's friend. You can’t quite catch her name because of all the noise, but as you lean in to reassert your ears, you notice: she’s not too tall, not too short (both of which are extremely intimidating in their own respect), she has long, dark hair and dark eyes, and there is something intoxicating about that smile.

The conversation staggers itself between continual traffic and ongoing introductions. You decide that the guy with her is either a relative or a recent acquaintance. (Relative because of the reassuring, comforting gestures and glances that could only be given by a brother or cousin in the midst of an unfamiliar crowd, and acquaintance because of the mutually absent dedication to keep the others’ attention. And honestly, he's got nothin' on you.) After a few brief moments of awkward silence in a less than silent room, you decide it’s finally time...

(I wanted to apologize for two things: first, for not having finished this story. Its really kinda lame because (spoiler alert!) I end up hitting it off with this girl but don't get her number. Maybe I'm a pansy... or I really am that much of an idiot. And second, for constantly referring to American Gladiators. Well maybe not. I like Nitro.)

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Fly vs Pop Fly

In little league, there are three positions that every kid knows are the ‘cool’ positions: pitcher, short-stop, and center field. If you play any of these, you are cool. These are the kids that get almost every play and actually get to throw the ball. But guess what…

You’re the kid who got stuck in right field. Not because you’ve never played before… but mostly because you suck at baseball. But you don’t know that. With all the positive reinforcement during and after practices, you think your basic skills of fielding, throwing, and hitting are what won you the job. But, you soon find out that right field is boring. So every week you’re hoping that maybe, just maybe, you might get switched to left field. Or that there’s a freak accident and Kyle breaks his cool, auto-shading glasses, leaving him artificially blind until he can get a new pair.

But until then, you’re stuck chasing bugs and singing the ‘Dandelion Song’, (You grab a dandelion and say in a tone of rhyme, “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.” You then slide your thumb under the ‘head’ of the flower and pop it off, leaving it for dead. Kind of a gruesome picture compared to a girl grabbing the dead, unplucked weed and gently blowing the seeds into the wind while skipping around in a pink dress, humming and giggling) because no one hits anything to right field. You’re in the middle of the mental debate of which flavor of Laffy Taffy to get after the game, strawberry or watermelon, (strawberry is the flavor you can never be disappointed with, but watermelon is multi-colored, with little black candy seeds.) when all of a sudden the coach is yelling your name!

A little dazed at first, you wipe the day-dream slobber off your chin and begin to frantically search the cloudless sky for that little white sphere. You stick your glove high in the air and take a few steps backwards. Still no ball. You glance at Jessica, who’s sprinting towards you from center field, (yes, she’s a girl and yes, she’s better than you) just to make sure you’re in the right area. As you drag your eyes back to the sky, it appears, and it’s hurtling towards you like a heat-seeking missile. The words “I got it!” come barging through your clenched teeth. It’s too late to back down now. And you brace yourself for impact.

Fifteen years down the road, you’re in college sitting with a group of friends trying to figure out why ‘Timber Tower’ was made as a cheaper version of ‘Jenga’ when it has an obvious design flaw: the lip that doesn’t quite let you slide the tower out of its tin container. (It’s also not a perfect 3:1 width ratio, which allows for spaces between blocks, which could in turn affect game-play performance.) Your attention is slightly drawn from the riveting conversation as a small, black fly buzzes around the room. A sly smile appears across your mug and you begin to think of the events about to occur: the fly will casually make its way to your side of the room, its nonchalant manner will infuriate you, and you will be forced to retaliate.

The fly DOES make his way towards you. You tighten the muscles in your hand to a karate-chop position. And you wait… perfectly still… hardly breathing… staring into space… heightening your peripheral vision. Out of the corner of your eye you see it! Your right hand springs into action and you feel a small nick on the back of your hand!

“I got it!” you exclaim proudly. Responses of ‘You did?’, ‘No way!’, and ‘What’d you get?’ simultaneously fill the room.

“No, you didn’t”, replies your always-gotta-be-right roommate, Dan. “See, it’s right there. You didn’t get it.” He points to a little black spec still buzzing around the room.

“But I did get it,” you defend. “I felt it.”

“So if you got it, why is it still there?” comes the inquiry.

“I got it. Just because I got it, it doesn’t mean I demolished or obliterated it. I hit it. Thus, getting it.”

“You obviously didn’t get it, because if you would have gotten it, it would be got.”

“The got I’m referring to isn’t the ‘got’ when catching a pop fly. Everyone who calls ‘I got it!’, while chasing a pop fly, fully determine to catch the pop fly. Anything less is not considered getting it. I’m referring to the ‘I got it!’ used when achieving something extremely rare. ... Like hitting a fly with the back of your hand.”

The others in the room laughingly comment about the pointlessness of the conversation, but you contend that a conversation is only pointless if nothing is learned. The subject quickly changes and you’re left to ponder the unsettled question: Did you get it? Your mind refers to the Count of Monte Cristo: (the movie, because you don't read books) when Edmond Dantes is trapped on the island prison Chateau d'If with the old man. He tries to pass his hand through the dripping water without getting it wet. When he finally does, he could rightly exclaim, ‘I got it!’

Your train of thought is slightly derailed by a buzzing noise. For a second time your hand tightens, and a forceful movement with the right arm follows. You nearly jump to your feet as you boast, “I got it again!”

And the small, black insect continues its wary flight around the room.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

YoYo- Ma or Yo kidz Mama?

A recent conversation between my buddy Dan and I while enjoying some instrumental music on a Sunday evening:

Dan: If I could find a girl that played like this…(referring to the skill level of YoYo-Ma) I would marry her on the spot.

Bart: What is she playing?

Dan (responding in a more forceful way, thinking I didn’t hear him the first time) If… I…could… ….

Bart: I know, I know!... But what is she playing??

D: The cello.

B: So why don’t you find someone who can play the cello?

D:(With the most serious, disgruntled face imaginable) Cause I don’t want to get married on the spot!

(At this point I’ve rolled over laughing, and he continues to explain while starting to laugh himself) Because if I did meet her, I’d have to marry her right there. I’d be obligated.

B: Because she's masterful at playing the cello?

D: Yes.

PS. I’ve recently found out that in Mormon society, about 80% of the guys date 20% of the girls.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Conspiracy Theory of the Worst Kind

So it’s my friend’s birthday today. It is a day that is anticipated and celebrated, by at least one person, every year. A day that would be respected and commemorated anywhere in the world. A day of old memories and new beginnings. A day that was randomly pulled from a hat.

When someone tells me it’s their birthday, I’m always kind of suspicious. I’m thinking, “Prove it.” Lets be honest. We’ve all gone to Applebee’s and claimed it’s our birthday for a sweet-action blondie brownie a la mode. But when they pull out their drivers license (or even their birth certificate), to me it’s just a plastic card with some numbers on it. Antics like this are pulled off every day.

1) Kids with fake ID’s. Ex: Teenager Zack Morris sneaking into a club to be with his ‘college-aged’ girlfriend.

2) Kids with fake ID’s. Ex: High schoolers getting booze for a party.

And did I mention…

3) Kids with fake ID’s. Ex: Little Chinese girls running and jumping after shiny, sparkly things.

Think about this for a second. Does anyone remember that ‘first’ day in the hospital? If they tell you they do, they’re lying. I can hardly remember Jr. High, let alone those first moments in my parents’ arms. So the next thing I know, I’m a six year old being forced to memorize my ABC’s, my name, and my birthday, all while trying not to spill my Superman lunchbox while chasing after the morning bus. (I actually carried my lunch in a brown paper bag that my mom stapled shut so the food wouldn’t fall out. But that’s beside the point.)

Who is she to tell me when my birthday is? Just because she left notes in my lunches and tied my hood on really tight doesn’t mean she knows when my birthday is… does it? I mean, she was there. Supposedly.

The bottom line is: no one really knows. It can’t be proven. I can’t just cut my friend in half and count how many rings he has. Mom can say she had that child. But did she really? Babies could’ve been mixed and matched in the maternity ward. The doctor could’ve written random dates on that birth certificate... if he was really a doctor. Dad could’ve taped someone else in labor.

So to my friend I say, Happy Theoretical Birthday.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

One month 'till sanity returns...

(This is a slightly serious e-mail to my cousin who is an avid Jazz fan...)

So I just found out the Suns picked up your favorite player from the free agency pond. Matt Barnes from Golden State. The dude is a hustler! And seeing as how Grant Hill isn't the most dependable anymore… I think Barnes is a really good pick up. Especially if you think about him and Raja Bell D-ing up the opposition. If they can get Dragic from Europe to back up ol' Steve, I think they might be legit. (I used to be legit. In fact I was too legit. I was too legit to quit. But now, I'm not legit. You could say I'm unlegit. And now, I must quit.)

You know, the Suns have made some serious strides to make a run in the playoffs this year… what about the Jazz? Who'd they get to improve their team? Brevin Knight? Are you serious? Unless Okur has seriously worked on his layups during this offseason, I'm afraid the Jazz are going to end up worse off than last year. D-Will can only do so much… and Boozer has a LOT to prove after last years melt-down (not to mention the disappointing showing during the Olympics)… So yeah… just wondering your take… Oh and bring on Oct 9!

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I really hope my teacher HAS to read this.

Congratulations to me for creating a blog. I was hoping that my wife would be the blogger of the family. But seeing as how she hasn't met me yet (aka I'm still single and living the dream) and that this is worth like 75 percent of my grade for class... I basically got suckered into doing something I would have rather not. Kind of like dance class and piano lessons. In other words... Enjoy. :)

So I told my friend Josh that I was 'ailing from a condition known as foosbackdeathedness'. He then asked me what foosbackdeathedness is. I was surprised he didn't know. This was my response: (and if you notice Josh spelled with an H thats okay... just a nickname)

I'm glad you asked Hosh. With symptoms that have puzzled health professionals for years, foosbackdeathedness has now been labeled by various doctors and surgeons around the world as "The most overrated disease known to mankind". Some even suggest it's not even a disease at all... just 'lower back pain' caused by playing three hours of ridiculous foosball. But as one who currently suffers from foosbackdeathedness I can tell you that if anything compares to ebola, this is it.

And to prove this blog really will be about nothing... Exibit A: a conversation with a classmate.

Bailey- My American Gladiator name is Death. Try and beat Death. Try.
Bart- Have you ever met Resurrection. He's one tough cookie in 'Assault'.
Bailey-but the thing is..he hasnt come yet. so for right now, im numba 1.
Bart-yes, he has
Bailey-not the 2nd time
Bart-so... people are still resurrected
he came the first time, he will come the second time, and he will be the ultimate champion
Plus, after he gets done with you, you wont exist
Bailey-i dont think you care that much about whatever it is im talking about as long as you make me lose lol
Bart-no but really... you said try and beat death... well death can be beaten
Bart-its like paper scissors rock... but like ultimate paper scissors rock... so it would be called death--jesus--ressurrection
Bailey-do you think i dont know these things?
Bart-death kills jesus, jesus creates ressurrection, ressurrection obliterates death
Bailey-congratulations for beating death