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.